Bende your bowes, sayd Lytell Johan, Make all yon[161] prese to stonde, The formost monke, his lyfe and his deth Is closed in my honde. Abyde, chorle monke, sayd Lytell Johan, No ferther that thou gone ; Yf thou doost, by dere worthy god, Thy death is in my honde. And evyll thryfte on thy hede, sayd Lytell Johan, Ryght under thy hattes bonde, For thou hast made our mayster wroth, He is fastynge so longe. Who is your mayster ? sayd the monke. Lytell Johan sayd, Robyn Hode. He is a stronge thefe, sayd the monke, Of hym herd I never good. Thou lyest, than sayd Lytell Johan, And that shall rewe the ; He is a yeman of the forèst, To dyne he hath bode the. Much was redy with a bolte, Redly and a none, He set[162] the monke to fore the brest, To the grounde that he can gone. {41} Of fyfty two wyght yonge men,[163] There abode not one, Saf a lytell page, and a grome To lede the somers with Johan.[164] They brought the monke to the lodge dore, Whether he were loth or lefe, For to speke with Robyn Hode, Maugre in theyr tethe. Robyn dyde adowne his hode, The monke whan that he se ; The monke was not so curteyse, His hode then let he be. He is a chorle, mayster, by dere worthy god, Than said Lytell Johan. Thereof no force, sayd Robyn, For curteysy can he none. How many men, sayd Robyn, Had this monke, Johan ? “Fyfty and two whan that we met, But many of them be gone.” Let blowe a horne, sayd Robin, That felaushyp may us knowe ; Seven score of wyght yemen, Came pryckynge on a rowe, {42} And everych of them a good mantèll Of scarlet and of raye, All they came to good Robyn, To wyte what he wolde say. They made the monke to wasshe and wype, And syt at his denere, Robyn Hode and Lytel Johan They served ‘him’[165] bothe in fere. Do gladly, monke, sayd Robyn. Gramercy, syr, said he. “Where is your abbay, whan ye are at home, And who is your avowè ?” Saynt Mary abbay, sayd the monke, Though I be symple here. In what offyce ? sayd Robyn. “Syr, the hye selerer.” Ye be the more welcome, sayd Robyn, So ever mote I the. Fyll of the best wyne, sayd Robyn, This monke shall drynke to me. But I have grete mervayle, sayd Robyn, Of all this longe day, I drede our lady be wroth with me, She sent me not my pay. {43} Have no doute, mayster, sayd Lytell Johan, Ye have no nede I saye, This monke it hath brought, I dare well swere, For he is of her abbay. And she was a borowe, sayd Robyn, Betwene a knyght and me, Of a lytell money that I hym lent, Under the grene wode tree ; And yf thou hast that sylver ibroughte, I praye the let me se, And I shall helpe the eftsones, Yf thou have nede of[166] me. The monke swore a full grete othe, With a sory chere, Of the borowehode thou spekest to me, Herde I never ere.