“Now, good syr abbot, be my frende, For thy curteysè, And holde my londes in thy honde Tyll I have made the gree ; And I wyll be thy true servaunte, And trewely serve the, Tyl ye have foure hondred pounde Of money good and free.” The abbot sware a full grete othe, By god that dyed on a tree, Get the londe where thou may, For thou getest none of me. By dere worthy god, then sayd the knyght, That all this worlde wrought, But I have my londe agayne Full dere it shall be bought ; {22} God, that was of a mayden borne Lene us[142] well to spede ! For it is good to assay a frende Or that a man have nede. The abbot lothely on hym gan loke And vylaynesly hym gan ‘call ;’[143] Out, he sayd, thou false knyght, Spede the out of my hall ! Thou lyest, then sayd the gentyll knyght, Abbot in thy hal ; False knyght was I never, By god that made us all. Up then stode that gentyll knyght, To the abbot sayd he, To suffre a knyght to knele so longe, Thou canst no curteysye ; In joustes and in tournement Full ferre than have I be, And put myselfe as ferre in prees As ony that ever I se. What wyll ye gyve more ? sayd the justyce, And the knyght shall make a releyse ; And elles dare I safly swere Ye holde never your londe in pees. {23} An hondred pounde, sayd the abbot. The justyce said, Gyve him two. Nay, be god, sayd the knyght, Yet gete[144] ye it not soo : Though ye wolde gyve a thousande more, Yet were ‘ye’[145] never the nere : Shall there never be myn eyre, Abbot, justyse, ne frere. He sterte hym to a borde anone, Tyll a table rounde, And there he shoke out of a bagge Even foure hondred pounde. Have here thy golde, syr abbot, sayd the knyght, Which that thou lentest me ; Haddest thou ben curteys at my comynge, Rewarde sholdest thou have be. The abbot sat styll, and ete no more, For all his ryall chere, He caste his hede on his sholdèr, And fast began to stare. Take me my golde agayne, sayd the abbot, Syr justyce, that I toke the. Not a peny, sayd the justyce, By god, that dyed on a tree. {24} “Syr abbot, and ye men of lawe, Now have I holde my daye, Now shall I have my londe agayne, For ought that you can saye.” The knyght stert out of the dore, Awaye was all his care, And on he put his good clothynge, The other he lefte there. He wente hym forthe full mery syngynge, As men have tolde in tale, His lady met hym at the gate, At home in ‘Wierysdale.’[146] Welcome, my lorde, sayd his lady ; Syr, lost is all your good ? Be mery, dame, sayd the knyght, And praye for Robyn Hode, That ever his soule be in blysse, He holpe me out of my tene ; Ne had not be his kyndenesse, Beggers had we ben. The abbot and I acordyd ben, He is served of his pay, The good yeman lent it me, As I came by the way. {25}