This knyght than dwelled fayre at home, The soth for to say, Tyll he had got foure hondreth pounde All redy for too paye. He purveyed hym an hondred bowes, The strenges [were] welle dyght, An hondred shefe of arowes good, The hedes burnyshed full bryght, And every arowe an elle longe, With pecocke well ydyght, Inocked all with whyte sylvèr, It was a semly syght. He purveyed hym an hondreth men, Well harneysed in that stede, And hymselfe in that same sete,[147] And clothed in whyte and rede. He bare a launsgay in his honde, And a man ledde his male, And reden with a lyght songe, Unto Bernysdale. As he went at a brydge ther was a wrastelyng, And there taryed was he, And there was all the best yemèn, Of all the west countree. {26} A full fayre game there was upset, A whyte bull up ipyght ;[148] A grete courser with sadle and brydil, With golde burneyshed full bryght ; A payre of gloves, a rede golde rynge, A pype of wyne, in good fay : What man bereth him best, I wys, The pryce shall bere away. There was a yeman in that place, And best worthy was he, And for he was ferre and frend bestad, Islayne he sholde have be. The knyght had reuth of this yemàn, In place where that he stode, He said that yoman sholde have no harme, For love of Robyn Hode. The knyght presed into the place, An hondred folowed hym ‘fre,’[149] With bowes bent, and arowes sharpe, For to shende that company. They sholdred all, and made hym rome, To wete that he wolde say, He toke the yeman by the honde, And gave hym all the playe ; {27} He gave hym fyve marke for his wyne, There it laye on the molde, And bad it sholde be sette a broche, Drynke who so wolde. Thus longe taryed this gentyll knyght, Tyll that playe was done, So longe abode Robyn fastynge, Thre houres after the none. THE THYRDE FYTTE. Lyth and lysten, gentyll men, All that now be here, Of Lytell Johan, that was the knyghtes man, Good myrthe ye shall here. It was upon a mery day, That yonge men wolde go shete,[150] Lytell Johan fet his bowe anone, And sayd he wolde them mete. Thre tymes Lytell Johan shot about, And alway cleft[151] the wande, The proude sheryf of Notyngham By the markes gan stande. {28} The sheryf swore a full grete othe, By hym that dyed on a tree, This man is the best archere That yet sawe I me. Say me now, wyght yonge man, What is now thy name ? In what countre were thou[152] born, And where is thy wonnynge wan ? “In Holdernesse I was bore, I wys all of my dame, Men call me Reynolde Grenelefe, Whan I am at hame.” “Say me, Reynaud Grenelefe, Wolte thou dwell with me ? And every yere I wyll the gyve Twenty marke to thy fee.” I have a mayster, sayd Lytell Johan, A curteys knyght is he, May ye gete leve of hym, The better may it bee.