‘Nay, be my trouth,’ seid Litull John,
‘So shalle hit never be;
But lat me be a felow,’ seid Litull John,
‘No noder kepe I be[1008].’
LXXXI
Thus John gate Robyn Hode out of prison,
Sertan withoutyn layn;
Whan his men saw hym hol and sounde,
Fforsothe they were full fayne.
LXXXII
They fillèd in wyne, and made hem glad,
Under the levys smale,
And yete[1009] pastès of venyson,
That gode was with ale.
LXXXIII
Than wordè came to oure Kyng
How Robyn Hode was gon,
And how the Scheref of Notyngham
Durst never loke hym upon.
LXXXIV
Then bespake oure cumly Kyng,
In an angur hye:
‘Litull John hase begyled the Schereff,
In faith so hase he me.