178. ‘Also be that fayre yeman Thou bryngest there with thee; What tydyngës fro Notyngham? Lytill Johnn, tell thou me.’ 179. ‘Well thee gretith the proude sheryf, And sendeth thee here by me His coke and his silver vessell, And thre hundred pounde and thre.’ 180. ‘I make myne avowe to God,’ sayde Robyn, ‘And to the Trenytë, It was never by his gode wyll This gode is come to me.’ 181. Lytyll Johnn there hym bethought On a shrewde wyle; Fyve myle in the forest he ran, Hym happëd all his wyll. 182. Than he met the proude sheref, Huntynge with houndes and horne; Lytell Johnn coude of curtesye, And knelyd hym beforne. 183. ‘God thee save, my dere mayster, Ande Criste thee save and se!’ ‘Reynolde Grenelefe,’ sayde the shryef, ‘Where hast thou nowe be?’ 184. ‘I have be in this forest; A fayre syght can I se; It was one of the fayrest syghtes That ever yet sawe I me. 185. ‘Yonder I sawe a ryght fayre harte, His coloure is of grene; Seven score of dere upon a herde Be with hym all bydene. 186. ‘Their tyndes are so sharp, maister, Of sexty, and well mo, That I durst not shote for drede, Lest they wolde me slo.’ 187. ‘I make myn avowe to God,’ sayde the shyref, ‘That syght wolde I fayne se.’ ‘Buske you thyderwarde, my dere mayster, Anone, and wende with me.’ 188. The sherif rode, and Litell Johnn Of fote he was full smerte, And whane they came before Robyn, ‘Lo, sir, here is the mayster-herte.’ 189. Still stode the proude sherief, A sory man was he; ‘Wo the worthe, Raynolde Grenelefe, Thou hast betrayed nowe me.’ 190. ‘I make myn avowe to God,’ sayde Litell Johnn, ‘Mayster, ye be to blame; I was mysserved of my dynere When I was with you at home.’ 191. Sone he was to souper sette, And served well with silver white, And when the sherif sawe his vessell, For sorowe he myght nat ete. 192. ‘Make glad chere,’ sayde Robyn Hode, ‘Sherif, for charitë, And for the love of Litill Johnn Thy lyfe I graunt to thee.’ 193. Whan they had soupëd well, The day was al gone; Robyn commaunded Litell Johnn To drawe of his hosen and his shone; 194. His kirtell, and his cote of pie, That was fured well and fine, And toke hym a grene mantel, To lap his body therein. 195. Robyn commaundyd his wight yonge men, Under the grene-wode tree, They shulde lye in that same sute That the sherif myght them see. 196. All nyght lay the proude sherif In his breche and in his schert; No wonder it was, in grene wode, Though his sydës gan to smerte. 197. ‘Make glad chere,’ sayde Robyn Hode, ‘Sheref, for charitë; For this is our ordre i-wys Under the grene-wode tree.’