All nyght laye that proud sheryf, In his breche and in his sherte, No wonder it was in grene wode, Tho his sydes do smerte. Make glad chere, sayd Robyn Hode, Sheryfe, for charytè, For this is our order I wys, Under the grene wood tre. This is harder order, sayd the sheryfe, Than ony anker or frere ; For al the golde in mery Englonde I wolde not longe dwell here. All these twelve monethes, sayd Robyn, Thou shake dwell with me ; I shall the teche, proud sheryfe, An outlawe for to be. Or I here another nyght lye, sayd the sheryfe, Robyn, nowe I praye the, Smyte of my hede rather to-morne, And I forgyve it the. {37} Lete me go, then sayd the sheryf, For saynt Charytè, And I wyll be thy best frende That ever yet had the. Thou shalte swere me an othe, sayd Robyn, On my bryght bronde, Thou shalt never awayte me scathe, By water ne by londe ; And if thou fynde ony of my men, By nyght or by day, Upon thyne othe thou shalt swere, To helpe them that thou may. Now have the sheryf iswore his othe, And home he began to gone, He was as full of grene wode As ever was hepe of stone. THE FOURTH FYTTE. The sheryf dwelled in Notynghame, He was fayne that he was gone, And Robyn and his mery men Went to wode anone. {38} Go we to dyner, sayd Lytell Johan. Robyn Hode sayd, Nay ; For I drede our lady be wroth with me, For she sent me not my pay. Have no dout, mayster, sayd Lytell Johan, Yet is not the sonne at rest, For I dare saye, and saufly swere, The knyght is trewe and trust. Take thy bowe in thy hande, sayd Robyn, Let Moch wende with the, And so shall Wyllyam Scathelock, And no man abyde with me, And walke up into the Sayles, And to Watlynge-strete, And wayte after ‘some’[159] unketh gest, Up-chaunce ye may them mete. Whether he be messengere, Or a man that myrthes can, Or yf he be a pore man, Of my good he shall have some. Forth then stert Lytel Johan, Half in tray and tene, And gyrde hym with a full good swerde, Under a mantel of grene. {39} They went up to the Sayles, These yemen all thre ; They loked est, they loked west, They myght no man se. But as ‘they’[160] loked in Bernysdale, By the hye waye, Than were they ware of two blacke monkes, Eche on a good palferay. Then bespake Lytell Johan, To Much he gan say, I dare lay my lyfe to wedde, That these monkes have brought our pay. Make glad chere, sayd Lytell Johan, And frese our bowes of ewe, And loke your hertes be seker and sad, Your strynges trusty and trewe. The monke hath fifty two men, And seven somers full stronge, There rydeth no bysshop in this londe So ryally, I understond. Brethern, sayd Lytell Johan, Here are no more but we thre : But we brynge them to dyner, Our mayster dare we not se. {40}