426. ‘So God me helpë,’ sayd our kynge, ‘Thy game is nought to lere; I sholde not get a shote of thee, Though I shote all this yere.’ 427. All the people of Notyngham They stode and behelde; They sawe nothynge but mantels of grene That covered all the felde. 428. Than every man to other gan say, ‘I drede our kynge be slone; Come Robyn Hode to the towne, i-wys On lyve he lefte never one.’ 429. Full hastëly they began to fle, Both yemen and knaves, And olde wyves that myght evyll goo, They hyppëd on theyr staves. 430. The kynge loughe full fast, And commaunded theym agayne; When they se our comly kynge, I-wys they were full fayne. 431. They ete and dranke, and made them glad, And sange with notës hye; Than bespake our comly kynge To Syr Richarde at the Lee. 432. He gave hym there his londe agayne, A good man he bad hym be; Robyn thanked our comly kynge, And set hym on his kne. 433. Had Robyn dwelled in the kyngës courte But twelve monethes and thre, That he had spent an hondred pounde, And all his mennës fe. 434. In every place where Robyn came Ever more he layde downe, Both for knyghtës and for squyres, To gete hym grete renowne. 435. By than the yere was all agone He had no man but twayne, Lytell Johan and good Scathelocke, With hym all for to gone. 436. Robyn sawe yonge men shote Full fayre upon a day; ‘Alas!’ than sayd good Robyn, ‘My welthe is went away. 437. ‘Somtyme I was an archere good, A styffe and eke a stronge; I was compted the best archere That was in mery Englonde. 438. ‘Alas!’ then sayd good Robyn, ‘Alas and well a woo! Yf I dwele lenger with the kynge, Sorowe wyll me sloo.’ 439. Forth than went Robyn Hode Tyll he came to our kynge: ‘My lorde the kynge of Englonde, Graunte me myn askynge. 440. ‘I made a chapell in Bernysdale, That semely is to se, It is of Mary Magdaleyne, And thereto wolde I be. 441. ‘I myght never in this seven nyght No tyme to slepe ne wynke, Nother all these seven dayes Nother ete ne drynke. 442. ‘Me longeth sore to Bernysdale, I may not be therfro; Barefote and wolwarde I have hyght Thyder for to go.’ 443. ‘Yf it be so,’ than sayd our kynge, ‘It may no better be; Seven nyght I gyve thee leve, No lengre, to dwell fro me.’ 444. ‘Gramercy, lorde,’ then sayd Robyn, And set hym on his kne; He toke his leve full courteysly, To grene wode then went he. 445. When he came to grene wode, In a mery mornynge, There he herde the notës small Of byrdës mery syngynge. 446. ‘It is ferre gone,’ sayd Robyn, ‘That I was last here; Me lyste a lytell for to shote At the donnë dere.’