391. ‘Here is a wonder semely sight; Me thynketh, by Goddës pyne, His men are more at his byddynge Then my men be at myn.’ 392. Full hastely was theyr dyner i-dyght, And therto gan they gone; They served our kynge with all theyr myght, Both Robyn and Lytell Johan. 393. Anone before our kynge was set The fattë venyson, The good whyte brede, the good rede wyne, And therto the fyne ale and browne. 394. ‘Make good chere,’ said Robyn, ‘Abbot, for charytë; And for this ylkë tydynge, Blyssed mote thou be. 395. ‘Now shalte thou se what lyfe we lede, Or thou hens wende; Than thou may enfourme our kynge, Whan ye togyder lende.’ 396. Up they stertë all in hast, Theyr bowes were smartly bent; Our kynge was never so sore agast, He wende to have be shente. 397. Two yerdes there were up set, Thereto gan they gange; By fyfty pase, our kynge sayd, The merkës were to longe. 398. On every syde a rose-garlonde, They shot under the lyne: ‘Who so fayleth of the rose-garlonde,’ sayd Robyn, ‘His takyll he shall tyne, 399. ‘And yelde it to his mayster, Be it never so fyne; For no man wyll I spare, So drynke I ale or wyne; 400. ‘And bere a buffet on his hede, I-wys ryght all bare’: And all that fell in Robyns lote, He smote them wonder sare. 401. Twyse Robyn shot aboute, And ever he cleved the wande, And so dyde good Gylberte With the Whytë Hande. 402. Lytell Johan and good Scathelocke, For nothynge wolde they spare; When they fayled of the garlonde, Robyn smote them full sore. 403. At the last shot that Robyn shot, For all his frendës fare, Yet he fayled of the garlonde Thre fyngers and mare. 404. Than bespake good Gylberte, And thus he gan say; ‘Mayster,’ he sayd, ‘your takyll is lost; Stande forth and take your pay.’ 405. ‘If it be so,’ sayd Robyn, ‘That may no better be, Syr abbot, I delyver thee myn arowe, I pray thee, syr, serve thou me.’ 406. ‘It falleth not for myn ordre,’ sayd our kynge, ‘Robyn, by thy leve, For to smyte no good yeman, For doute I sholde hym greve.’ 407. ‘Smyte on boldely,’ sayd Robyn, ‘I give thee largë leve’: Anone our kynge, with that worde, He folde up his sleve, 408. And sych a buffet he gave Robyn, To grounde he yede full nere: ‘I make myn avowe to God,’ sayd Robyn, ‘Thou arte a stalworthe frere. 409. ‘There is pith in thyn arme,’ sayd Robyn, ‘I trowe thou canst well shete.’ Thus our kynge and Robyn Hode Togeder gan they mete. 410. Robyn behelde our comly kynge Wystly in the face, So dyde Syr Rycharde at the Le, And kneled downe in that place. 411. And so dyde all the wylde outlawes, Whan they se them knele: ‘My lorde the kynge of Englonde, Now I knowe you well.’