A ferly strife fel them betwene As they went bi the way ; Litulle Johne seid he had won v shyllyngs, And Robyn Hode seid schortly nay. With that Robyn Hode lyed litul Jone, And smote hym with his honde, Litul John waxed wroth therwith, And pulled out his bright bronde. Were thou not my maister, seid litulle Johne, Thou shuldis by hit ful sore, Get the a man where thou wilt, Robyn, For thou getes me no more. {373} Then Robyn goes to Notyngham Hymselfe mornynge allone, And litulle Johne to mery Scherewode, The pathes he knowe alkone. Whan Robyn came to Notyngham, Sertenly withoutene layne, He prayed to god and myld Mary To brynge hym out saue agayne. He gos into seynt Mary[s] chirche, And knelyd downe before the rode, Alle that euer were the churche within Beheld wel Robyne Hode. Besyde hym stode a gret hedid munke, I pray to god woo he be, Ful sone he knew gode Robyn [Hode] As sone as he hym se. Out at the durre he ran Ful son and anon, Alle the zatis of Notyngham He made to be sparred euerychone. Rise vp, he seid, thou prowde schereff, Buske the and make the bowne, I haue spyed the kynges felone, For sothe he is in this towne. {374} I haue spyed the false felone As he stondes at his masse, Hit is longe of the seide the munke, And euer he fro vs passe. This traytur[s] name is Robyn Hode, Vndur the grene wode lynde, He robbyt me onys of a C pound, Hit shalle neuer out of my mynde. Vp then rose this prowd schereff, And zade towarde hym zare ; Many was the modur son To the kyrk with hym can fare. In at the durres thei throly thrast With staves ful gode ‘ilkone’[353] Alas, alas, seid Robyn Hode, Now mysse I litulle Johne. But Robyne toke out a too-hond sworde That hangit down be his kne, Ther as the schereff and his men stode thyckust Thidurward wold he. Thryes thorow at them he ran, Ther for sothe as I yow say, And woundyt many a modur sone, And xii he slew that day. {375} His sworde vpon the schireff hed Sertanly he brake in too ; The smyth that the made, seid Robyn, I pray god[354] wyrke hym woo. For now am I weppynlesse, seid Robyne, Alasse agayn my wylle ; But if I may fle these traytors fro, I wot thei wil me kylle. Robyns men to the churche ran Throout hem euer ilkon, Sum fel in swonyng as thei were dede, And lay still as any stone. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Non of theym were in her mynde But only litulle Jon. Let be your rule, seid litulle Jon, For his luf that dyed on tre, Ze that shulde be duzty men Hit is gret shame to se. Oure maister has bene hard bystode, And zet scapyd away Pluk up your hertes and leve this mone, And herkyn what I shal say. {376} He has seruyd our lady many a day, And zet wil securly, Therfore I trust in her specialy No wycked deth shal he dye.