Yes, for god,[206] then sayd Robyn, Or elles I were a fole ; Another day ye wyll me clothe, I trowe, ayenst the Yole. {75} The kynge kest of his cote then, A grene garment he dyde on, And every knyght had so, I wys, They clothed them full soone.[207] Whan they were clothed in Lyncolne grene, They kest away theyr graye. Now we shall to Notyngham, All thus our kynge gan say. Theyr bowes bente and forth they went, Shotynge all in-fere, Towarde the towne of Notyngham, Outlawes as they were. Our kynge and Robyn rode togyder, For soth as I you say, And they shote plucke-buffet, As they went by the way ; And many a buffet our kynge wan Of Robyn Hode that day ; And nothynge spared good Robyn Our kynge in his pay. So god me helpe, sayd our kynge, Thy game is nought to lere, I sholde not get a shote of the, Though I shote all this yere. {76} All the people of Notyngham They stode and behelde, They sawe nothynge but mantels of grene That covered all the felde ; Than every man to other gan say, I drede our kynge be slone ; Come Robyn Hode to the towne, I wys, On lyve he leveth not one.[208] Full hastly they began to fle, Both yemen and knaves, And olde wyves that myght evyll goo, They hypped on theyr staves. The kynge loughe[209] full fast, And commanded theym agayne ; When they se our comly kynge, I wys they were full fayne. They ete and dranke, and made them glad, And sange with notes hye. Than bespake our comly kynge To syr Rycharde at the Lee : He gave hym there his londe agayne, A good man he bad hym be. Robyn thanked our comly kynge, And set hym on his kne. {77} Had Robyn dwelled in the kynges courte But twelve monethes and thre, That he had spent an hondred pounde, And all his mennes fe. In every place where Robyn came, Ever more he layde downe, Both for knyghtes and for squyres, To gete hym grete renowne. By than the yere was all agone, He had no man but twayne, Lytell Johan and good Scathelocke, Wyth hym all for to gone. Robyn sawe yonge men shote, Full fayre[210] upon a day, Alas ! than sayd good Robyn, My welthe is went away. Somtyme I was an archere good, A styffe and eke a stronge, I was commytted[211] the best archere, That was in mery Englonde. Alas ! then sayd good Robyn, Alas and well a woo ! Yf I dwele lenger with the kynge, Sorowe wyll me sloo. {78} Forth than went Robyn Hode, Tyll he came to our kynge : “My lorde the kynge of Englonde, Graunte me myn askynge. I made a chapell in Bernysdale, That semely is to se, It is of Mary Magdalene, And thereto wolde I be ; I myght never in this seven nyght, No tyme to slepe ne wynke, Nother all these seven dayes, Nother ete ne drynke. Me longeth sore to Bernysdale, I may not be therfro, Barefote and wolwarde I have hyght Thyder for to go.”