[Illustration: _E. Buckman sc._ ROBIN HOOD AND THE LADY.] [Illustration: _E. Buckman sc._ ROBIN HOOD AND THE LADY] {59} The sheryf there fayled of Robyn Hode, He myght not have his pray, Then he awayted that gentyll knyght, Bothe by nyght and by daye. Ever he awayted that gentyll knyght, Syr Rychard at the Lee ; As he went on haukynge by the ryver syde, And let his haukes flee, Toke he there this gentyll knyght, With men of armes stronge, And lad hym home to Notyngham warde, Ibonde both fote and honde.[184] The sheryf swore a full grete othe, By hym that dyed on a tre, He had lever than an hondrede pounde, That Robyn Hode had he.[185] Then the lady, the knyghtes wyfe, A fayre lady and fre, She set her on a gode palfrày, To grene wode anon rode she. When she came to the forèst, Under the grene wode tre, Founde she there Robyn Hode, And all his fayre meynè. {60} “God the save, good Robyn Hode,[186] And all thy company ; For our dere ladyes[187] love, A bone graunte thou me. Let[188] thou never my wedded lorde Shamfully slayne to be ;[189] He is fast ibounde to Notyngham warde, For the love of the.” Anone then sayd good Robyn, To that lady fre, What man hath your lorde itake ? The proude shirife, than sayd she.[190] [The proude sheryfe hath hym itake] Forsoth as I the say ; He is not yet thre myles, Passed on ‘his’[191] waye. Up then sterte good Robyn, As a man that had be wode : “Buske you, my mery younge men, For hym that dyed on a rode ; {61} And he that this sorowe forsaketh, By hym that dyed on a tre, And by him that al thinges maketh, No lenger shall dwell with me.”[192] Sone there were good bowes ibent, Mo than seven score, Hedge ne dyche spared they none, That was them before. I make myn avowe to god, sayd Robyn, The knyght wolde I fayn se, And yf I may hym take, Iquyt than shall he[193] bee. And whan they came to Notyngham, They walked in the strete, And with the proud sheryf, I wys, Sone gan they mete. Abyde, thou proud sheryf, he sayd, Abyde and speake with me, Of some tydynges of our kynge, I wolde fayne here of the. This seven yere, by dere worthy god, Ne yede I so fast on fote, I make myn avowe to god, thou proud sheryfe, ‘It’[194] is not for thy good. {62} Robyn bent a good bowe, An arrowe he drewe at his wyll, He hyt so the proud sheryf, Upon the grounde he lay full styll ; And or he myght up aryse, On his fete to stonde, He smote of the sheryves hede, With his bryght bronde. “Lye thou there, thou proud sheryf, Evyll mote thou thryve ; There myght no man to the trust, The whyles thou were alyve.” His men drewe out theyr bryght swerdes, That were so sharpe and kene, And layde on the sheryves men, And dryved them downe bydene.