"Now, and thou lese thy londe," sayd Robyn, "What shall fall of the?" "Hastely I wyll me buske," sayd the knyght, "Over the salte see, "And se where Cryst was quycke and deed 225 On the mounte of Caluarè: Fare well, frende, and have good daye, It may noo better be."[L228] Teeres fell out of his eyen two, He wolde haue gone his waye: 230 "Farewell, frendes, and have good day, I ne have more to pay." "Where be thy friendes?" sayd Robyn:[L233] "Syr, never one wyll me know;[L234] Whyle I was ryche inow at home, 235 Grete bost then wolde they blowe. "And now they renne awaye fro me, As bestes on a rowe; They take no more heed of me Then they me never sawe." 240 For ruthe then wepte Lytell Johan, Scathelocke and Much in fere:[L242] "Fyll of the best wyne," sayd Robyn,[L243] "For here is a symple chere. "Hast thou ony frendes," sayd Robyn, 245 "Thy borowes that wyll be?" "I have none," then sayd the knyght, "But god that dyed on a tree." "Do waye thy japes," sayd Robyn, "Therof will I right none; 250 Wenest thou I wyll have god to borowe, Peter, Poule, or Johan? "Nay, by hym that me made, And shope both sonne and mone; Fynde a better borowe," sayd Robyn, 255 "Or mony getest thou none." "I have none other," sayd the knyght, "The sothe for to say, But yf it be our dere lady, She fayled me never or this day." 260 "By dere worthy god," sayd Robyn, "To seche all England thorowe, Yet founde I never to my pay A moch better borowe. "Come now forthe, Lytell Johan, 265 And goo to my tresourè, And brynge me foure hondred pounde, And loke that it well tolde be." Forthe then wente Lytell Johan, And Scathelocke went before, 270 He tolde out foure houndred pounde, By eyghtene score.[L272] "Is this well tolde?" said lytell Much. Johan sayd, "What greveth the? It is almes to helpe a gentyll knyght 275 That is fall in povertè." "Mayster," than said Lytell Johan, "His clothynge is full thynne; Ye must gyve the knyght a lyveray To lappe his body ther in.[L280] 280 "For ye have scarlet and grene, mayster, And many a ryche aray; There is no marchaunt in mery Englònde, So ryche, I dare well saye." "Take hym thre yerdes of every coloure, 285 And loke that well mete it be:" Lytell Johan toke none other mesure But his bowe tre.