The sheryfe gate Lytell Johan Twelve monethes of the knyght, Therfore he gave him ryght anone A good hors and a wyght. {29} Now is Lytel Johan the sheryffes man, He gyve us well to spede, But alway thought Lytell Johan To quyte hym well his mede. Now so god[153] me helpe, sayd Lytel Johan, And be my trewe lewtè, I shall be the worste servaunte to hym That ever yet had he. It befell upon a wednesday, The sheryfe on hontynge was gone, And Lytel Johan lay in his bed, And was foryete at home. Therfore he was fastynge Tyl it was past the none, Good syr stuard, I pray the, Geve me to dyne, sayd Lytel Johan, It is to long for Grenelefe, Fastynge so long to be ; Therfore I pray the, stuarde, My dyner gyve thou me. Shaly thou never ete ne drynke, sayd the stuarde, Tyll my lord be come to towne. I make myn avowe to god, sayd Lytell Johan, I had lever to cracke thy crowne. {30} The butler was ful uncurteys, There he stode on flore, He sterte to the buttery, And shet fast the dore. Lytell Johan gave the buteler such a rap, His backe yede nygh on two, Tho he lyved an hundreth wynter, The wors he sholde go. He sporned the dore with his fote, It went up wel and fyne, And there he made a large lyveray Both of ale and wyne. Syth ye wyl not dyne, sayd Lytel Johan, I shall gyve you to drynke, And though ye lyve an hondred wynter, On Lytell Johan ye shall thynk. Lytell Johan ete, and Lytell [Johan] dronke, The whyle that he wolde. The sheryfe had in his kechyn a coke, A stoute man and a bolde. I make myn avowe to god, sayd the coke, Thou arte a shrewde hynde, In an housholde to dwel, For to ask thus to dyne. {31} And there he lent Lytel Johan, Good strokes thre. I make myn avowe, sayd Lytell Johan, These strokes lyketh well me. Thou arte a bolde man and an hardy, And so thynketh me ; And or I passe fro this place, Asayed better shalt thou be. Lytell Johan drewe a good swerde, The coke toke another in honde ; They thought nothynge for to fle, But styfly for to stonde. There they fought sore togyder, Two myle way and more,[154] Myght neyther other harme done, The mountenaunce of an houre. I make myn avowe to god, sayd Lytell Johan, And be my trewe lewtè, Thou art one of the best swerdemen, That ever yet sawe I me. Coowdest thou shote as well in a bowe, To grene wood thou sholdest with me, And two tymes in the yere thy clothynge Ichaunged sholde be ; {32} And every yere of Robyn Hode Twenty marke to thy fee. Put up thy swerde, sayd the coke, And felowes wyll we be. Then he fette to Lytell Johan The numbles of a doo, Good brede and full good wyne, They ete and dranke therto. And whan they had dronken well, Ther trouthes togyder they plyght, That they wolde be with Robyn That ylke same day at nyght.