45. ‘Tell me one worde,’ sayde Robyn, ‘And counsel shal it be; I trowe thou wert made a knyght of force, Or ellys of yemanry. 46. ‘Or ellys thou hast been a sori husbande, And lyved in stroke and strife; An okerer, or ellis a lechoure,’ sayde Robyn, ‘Wyth wronge hast led thy lyfe.’ 47. ‘I am none of those,’ sayde the knyght, ‘By God that madë me; An hundred wynter here before Myn auncetres knyghtes have be. 48. ‘But oft it hath befal, Robyn, A man hath be disgrate; But God that sitteth in heven above May amende his state. 49. ‘Withyn this two yere, Robyne,’ he sayde, ‘My neghbours well it knowe, Foure hundred pounde of gode money Ful well than myght I spende. 50. ‘Nowe have I no gode,’ saide the knyght, ‘God hath shapen suche an ende, But my chyldren and my wyfe, Tyll God yt may amende.’ 51. ‘In what maner,’ than sayde Robyn, ‘Hast thou lorne thy rychesse?’ ‘For my greate foly,’ he sayde, ‘And for my kyndënesse. 52. ‘I hade a sone, forsoth, Robyn, That shulde have ben myn ayre, Whanne he was twenty wynter olde, In felde wolde just full fayre. 53. ‘He slewe a knyght of Lancashire, And a squyer bolde; For to save him in his ryght My godes beth sette and solde. 54. ‘My londes beth sette to wedde, Robyn, Untyll a certayn day, To a ryche abbot here besyde Of Seynt Mari Abbey.’ 55. ‘What is the som?’ sayde Robyn; ‘Trouth than tell thou me.’ ‘Sir,’ he sayde, ‘foure hundred pounde; The abbot told it to me.’ 56. ‘Nowe and thou lese thy lond,’ sayde Robyn, ‘What shall fall of thee?’ ‘Hastely I wol me buske,’ sayd the knyght, ‘Over the saltë see, 57. ‘And se where Criste was quyke and dede, On the mount of Calverë; Fare wel, frende, and have gode day; It may no better be.’ 58. Teris fell out of hys iyen two; He wolde have gone hys way; ‘Farewel, frende, and have gode day, I ne have no more to pay.’ 59. ‘Where be thy frendës?’ sayde Robyn: ‘Syr, never one wol me knowe; While I was rych ynowe at home Great boste than wolde they blowe. 60. ‘And nowe they renne away fro me, As bestis on a rowe; They take no more hede of me Thanne they had me never sawe.’ 61. For ruthe thanne wept Litell Johnn, Scarlok and Much in fere; ‘Fyl of the best wyne,’ sayde Robyn, ‘For here is a symple chere. 62. ‘Hast thou any frende,’ sayde Robyn, ‘Thy borrowe that woldë be?’ ‘I have none,’ than sayde the knyght, ‘But God that dyed on tree.’ 63. ‘Do away thy japis,’ than sayde Robyn, ‘Thereof wol I right none; Wenest thou I wolde have God to borowe, Peter, Poule, or Johnn? 64. ‘Nay, by hym that me made, And shope both sonne and mone, Fynde me a better borowe,’ sayde Robyn, ‘Or money getest thou none.’