Much was redy with a bolte, Redly and anone, He set the monke to fore the brest, 75 To the grounde that he can gone. Of fyfty two wyght yonge men[L77] There abode not one, Saf a lytell page, and a grome, To lede the somers with Johan.[L80] 80 They brought the monke to the lodge dore, Whether he were loth or lefe, For to speke with Robyn Hode, Maugre in theyr tethe. Robyn dyde adowne his hode, 85 The monke whan that he se; The monke was not so curteyse, His hode then let he be. "He is a chorle, mayster, by dere worthy god," Than said Lytell Johan: 90 "Thereof no force," sayd Robyn, "For curteysy can he none. "How many men," sayd Robyn, "Had this monke, Johan?" "Fifty and two whan that we met, 95 But many of them be gone." "Let blowe a horne," sayd Robyn, "That felaushyp may us knowe;" Seven score of wyght yemen, Came pryckynge on a rowe. 100 And everych of them a good mantell Of scarlet and of raye; All they came to good Robyn, To wyte what he wolde say. They made the monke to washe and wype, 105 And syt at his denere, Robyn Hode and Lytel Johan They served him bothe in fere.[L108] "Do gladly, monke," sayd Robyn. "Gramercy, syr," said he. 110 "Where is your abbay, whan ye are at home, And who is your avowè?" "Saynt Mary abbay," sayd the monke, "Though I be symple here." "In what offyce?" sayd Robyn: 115 "Syr, the hye selerer." "Ye be the more welcome," sayd Robyn, "So ever mote I the: Fyll of the best wyne," sayd Robyn, "This monke shall drynke to me. 120 "But I have grete mervayle," sayd Robyn, "Of all this longe day; I drede our lady be wroth with me, She sent me not my pay." "Have no doute, mayster," sayd Lytell Johan, 125 "Ye have no nede I saye; This monke it hath brought, I dare well swere, For he is of her abbay." "And she was a borowe," sayd Robyn, "Betwene a knyght and me, 130 Of a lytell money that I hym lent, Under the grene wode tree. "And yf thou hast that sylver ibroughte, I pray the let me se; And I shall helpe the eftsones, 135 Yf thou have nede of me."[L136] The monke swore a full grete othe, With a sory chere, "Of the borowehode thou spekest to me, Herde I never ere." 140 "I make myn avowe to god," sayd Robyn, "Monke, thou art to blame; For god is holde a ryghtwys man, And so is his dame.