I make myn avowe to god, sayd Robyn, Monke, thou arte to blame, For god is holde a ryghtwys man, And so is his dame. Thou toldest with thyn owne tonge, Thou may not say nay, How thou arte her servaunt, And servest her every day : {44} And thou art made[167] her messengere, My money for to pay, Therfore I cun the more thanke, Thou arte come at thy day. What is in your cofers ? sayd Robyn, Trewe than tell thou me. Syr, he sayd, twenty marke, Al so mote I the. Yf there be no more, sayd Robyn, I wyll not one peny ; Yf thou hast myster of ony more, Syr, more I shall lende to the ; And yf I fynde more, sayd Robyn, I wys thou shalte it forgone ; For of thy spendynge sylver, monk, Therof wyll I ryght none. Go nowe forthe, Lytell Johan, And the trouth tell thou me ; If there be no more but twenty marke, No peny that I se. Lytell Johan spred his mantell downe, As he had done before, And he tolde out of the monkes male, Eyght hundreth pounde[168] and more. {45} Lytell Johan let it lye full styll, And went to his mayster in hast ; Syr, he sayd, the monke is trewe ynowe, Our lady hath doubled your cost. I make myn avowe to god, sayd Robyn, Monke, what tolde I the ? Our lady is the trewest womàn, That ever yet founde I me. By dere worthy god, sayd Robyn, To seche all Englond thorowe, Yet founde I never to my pay A moche better borowe. Fyll of the best wyne, do hym drynke, sayd Robyn ; And grete well thy lady hende, And yf she have nede of[169] Robyn Hode, A frende she shall hym fynde ; And yf she nedeth ony more sylvèr, Come thou agayne to me, And, by this token she hath me sent, She shall have such thre. The monke was going to London ward, There to holde grete mote, The knyght that rode so hye on hors, To brynge hym under fote. {46} Whether be ye away ? sayd Robyn. “Syr, to maners in this londe, Too reken with our reves, That have done moch wronge.” “Come now forth, Lytell Johan, And harken to my tale, A better yeman I knowe none To seke a monkes male.” How moch is in yonder other ‘cofer ?’[170] sayd Robyn, The soth must we see. By our lady, than sayd the monke, That were no curteysye, To bydde a man to dyner, And syth hym bete and bynde. It is our olde maner, sayd Robyn, To leve but lytell behynde. The monke toke the hors with spore, No lenger wolde he abyde. Aske to drynke, than sayd Robyn, Or that ye forther ryde. Nay, for god, than sayd the monke, Me reweth I cam so nere, For better chepe I myght have dyned, In Blythe or in Dankestere. {47} Grete well your abbot, sayd Robyn, And your pryour, I you pray, And byd hym send me such a monke, To dyner every day. Now lete we that monke be styll, And speke we of that knyght, Yet he came to holde his day Whyle that it was lyght.