"Thou shouldest have had a knight's fee; Seeing thy asking hath been so bad, Well granted it shall be." But Little John heard his master speak, Well he knew that was his steven; "Now shall I be loosed," quoth Little John, "With Christ's might in heaven." But Robin he hied him towards Little John, He thought he would loose him belive: The sheriff and all his company Fast after him did drive. "Stand aback, stand aback," said Robin, "Why draw you me so near? It was never the use in our country, Ones shrift another should hear." (_steven_, voice. _belive_, quickly.) But Robin pulled forth an Irish knife, And loosed John hand and foot, And gave him Sir Guy's bow in his hand, And bade it be his boot. But John took Guy's bow in his hand, His arrows were rusty by the root: The sheriff saw Little John draw a bow, And fettle him to shoot. Towards his house in Nottingham He fled full fast away, And so did all his company, Not one behind did stay. But he could neither so fast go, Nor away so fast run, But Little John with an arrow broad Did cleave his heart in twin. OLD ROBIN OF PORTINGALE |God let never so old a man Marry so young a wife, As did old Robin of Portingale; He may rue all the days of his life. (_fettle_, make ready.) For the mayor's daughter of Lynn, God wot, He chose her to his wife, And thought to have lived in quietness, With her all the days of his life. They had not in their wed-bed laid, Scarcely were both on sleep, But up she rose, and forth she goes, To Sir Gyles, and fast can weep. Says, "Sleep you, wake you, fair Sir Gyles? Or be you not within? [Sleep you, wake you, fair Sir Gyles, Arise and let me in."] "But I am waking, sweet," he said, "Lady, what is your will?" "I have unbethought me of a wile How my wed lord we shall spill. "Four and twenty knights," she says, "That dwells about this town, E en four and twenty of my next cousins Will help to ding him down." With that beheard his little footpage, As he was watering his master's steed; [And for his master's sad peril] His very heart did bleed. (_ding_, knock.) He mourned, sighed, and wept full sore; I swear by the holy rood, The tears he for his master wept Were blend water and blood. With that beheard his dear master As [he] in his garden sat: Says, "Ever alack, my little page, What causes thee to weep? "Hath any one done to thee wrong, Any of thy fellows here? Or is any of thy good friends dead, Which makes thee shed such tears? "Or, if it be my head cook's-man, Grieved again he shall be: Nor no man within my house Shall do wrong unto thee." "But it is not your head cook's-man, Nor none of his degree: But, for to-morrow ere it be noon You are deemed to die: