Two yerdes there were up set, There to gan they gange ; By fifty pase, our kynge sayd, The merkes were to longe. {71} On every syde a rose garlonde, They shot under the lyne. Who so fayleth of the rose garlonde, sayd Robyn, His takyll he shall tyne, And yelde it to his mayster, Be it never so fyne, For no man wyll I spare, So drynke I ale or wyne. And bere a buffet on his hede I wys[203] ryght all bare. And all that fell in Robyns lote, He smote them wonder sare. Twyse Robyn shot aboute, And ever he cleved the wande, And so dyde good Gylberte, With the whyte[204] hand. Lytell Johan and good Scathelocke, For nothyng wolde they spare, When they fayled of the garlonde, Robyn smote them full sare. At the last shot that Robyn shot, For all his frendes fare, Yet he fayled of the garlonde, Thre fyngers and mare. {72} Than bespake good Gylberte, And thus he gan say : Mayster, he sayd, your takyll is lost, Stand forth and take your pay. If it be so, sayd Robyn, That may no better be ; Syr abbot, I delyver the myn arowe, I pray the, syr, serve thou me. It falleth not for myn order, sayd our kynge, Robyn, by thy leve, For to smyte no good yemàn, For doute I sholde hym greve. Smyte on boldely, sayd Robyn, I give the large leve. Anone our kynge, with that worde, He folde up his sleve, And sych a buffet he gave Robyn, To grounde he yede full nere. I make myn avowe to god, sayd Robyn, Thou arte a stalworthe frere ; There is pith in thyn arme, sayd Robyn, I trowe thou canst well shote. Thus our kynge and Robyn Hode Togeder than they met. {73} Robyn behelde our comly kynge Wystly in the face, So dyde syr Richarde at the Le, And kneled downe in that place ; And so dyde all the wylde outlawes, Whan they se them knele. “My lorde the kynge of Englonde, Now I knowe you well.” Mercy, then Robyn sayd to our kynge, Under your trystyll tre, Of thy goodnesse and thy grace, For my men and me ! Yes, for god, sayd Robyn, And also god me save ; I aske mercy, my lorde the kynge, And for my men I crave. Yes, for god, than sayd our kynge, Thy peticion I graunt the, With that thou leve the grene wode, And all thy company : And come home, syr, to my courte, And there dwell with me.[205] I make myn avowe to god, sayd Robyn, And ryght so shall it be ; {74} I wyll come to your courte, Your servyse for to se, And brynge with me of my men Seven score and thre. But me lyke well your servyse, I come agayne full soone, And shote at the donne dere, As I am wonte to done. THE EIGHTH FYTTE. Haste thou ony grene cloth, sayd our kynge, That thou wylte sell nowe to me ? Ye, for god, sayd Robyn, Thyrty yerdes and thre. Robyn, sayd our kynge, Now pray I the, To sell me some of that cloth, To me and my meynè.