158. ‘Shalt thou never ete ne drynke’ saide the stuarde, ‘Tyll my lorde be come to towne.’ ‘I make myn avowe to God,’ saide Litell John, ‘I had lever to crake thy crowne.’ 159. The boteler was full uncurteys, There he stode on flore; He start to the botery And shet fast the dore. 160. Lytell Johnn gave the boteler suche a tap His backe went nere in two; Though he lived an hundred ier, The wors shuld he go. 161. He sporned the dore with his fote; It went open wel and fyne; And there he made large lyveray, Bothe of ale and of wyne. 162. ‘Sith ye wol nat dyne,’ sayde Litell John, ‘I shall gyve you to drinke; And though ye lyve an hundred wynter, On Lytel Johnn ye shall thinke.’ 163. Litell John ete, and Litel John drank, The while that he wolde; The sherife had in his kechyn a coke, A stoute man and a bolde. 164. ‘I make myn avowe to God,’ said the coke, ‘Thou arte a shrewde hynde In ani hous for to dwel, For to aske thus to dyne.’ 165. And there he lent Litell John Godë strokis thre; ‘I make myn avowe to God,’ sayde Lytell John, ‘These strokis lyked well me. 166. ‘Thou arte a bolde man and hardy, And so thinketh me; And or I pas fro this place Assayed better shalt thou be.’ 167. Lytell Johnn drew a ful gode sworde, The coke took another in hande; They thought no thynge for to fle, But stifly for to stande. 168. There they faught sore togedere Two mylë way and well more; Myght nether other harme done, The mountnaunce of an owre. 169. ‘I make myn avowe to God,’ sayde Litell Johnn, ‘And by my true lewtë; Thou art one of the best sworde-men That ever yit sawe I me. 170. ‘Cowdest thou shote as well in a bowe, To grene wode thou shuldest with me, And two times in the yere thy clothinge Chaunged shuldë be; 171. ‘And every yere of Robyn Hode Twenty merke to thy fe.’ ‘Put up thy swerde,’ saide the coke, ‘And felowes woll we be.’ 172. Thanne he fet to Lytell Johnn The nowmbles of a do, Gode brede, and full gode wyne; They ete and drank theretoo. 173. And when they had dronkyn well, Theyre trouthes togeder they plight That they wolde be with Robyn That ylkë samë nyght. 174. They dyd them to the tresoure-hows, As fast as they myght gone; The lokkes, that were of full gode stele, They brake them everichone. 175. They toke away the silver vessell, And all that thei might get; Pecis, masars, ne sponis, Wolde thei not forget. 176. Also they toke the godë pens, Thre hundred pounde and more, And did them streyte to Robyn Hode, Under the grene wode hore. 177. ‘God thee save, my dere mayster, And Criste thee save and se!’ And thanne sayde Robyn to Litell Johnn, ‘Welcome myght thou be.