Therfor be glad, seid litul Johne, And let this mournyng be, And I shall be the munkes gyde With the myght of mylde Mary. And I mete hym, seid litull Johne, We wille go but we too . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Loke that ze kepe wel oure tristil tre Vndur the levys smale, And spare non of his venyson That gose in thys vale. Forthe thei went these zemen too, Litul Johne and Moche onfere, And lokid on Moche emys hows The hyeway lay fulle nere. Litul John stode at a window in the mornynge And lokid forth at a stage, He was war wher the munke came ridynge, And with hym a litul page. {377} Be my feith, seid litul Johne to Moche, I can the tel tithyngus gode ; I see wher the munk comys rydyng, I know hym be his wyde hode. Thei went into the way these zemen bothe, As curtes men and hende, Thei spyrred tithyngus at the munke As thei hade bene his frende. Fro whens come ze, seid litul Johne, Tel vs tithyngus I yow pray Off a false owtlay [called Robyn Hode] Was takyn zisturday. He robbyt me and my felowes bothe Of xx marke in serten ; If that false owtlay be takyn, For sothe we wolde be fayne. So did he me, seid the munke, Of a C pound and more ; I layde furst hande hym apon, Ze may thonke me therfore. I pray god thanke yow, seid litulle Johne, And we wil when we may, We wil go with yow with your leve, And brynge yow on your way. {378} For Robyn Hode hase many a wilde felow, I telle yow in certen, If thei wist ze rode this way, In feith ze shulde be slayn. As thei went talkyng be the way, The munke and litulle Johne, Johne toke the munkes horse be the hede Ful sone and anone. Johne toke the munkes horse be the hed, For sothe as I yow say, So did Muche the litulle page, For he shulde not stirre away. Be the golett of the hode Johne pulled the munke downe, Johne was nothynge of hym agast, He lete hym falle on his crowne. Litulle John was ‘sore’[355] agrevyd, And drew out his swerde in hye, The munke saw he shulde be ded, Lowd mercy can he crye. He was my maister, seid litulle Johne, That thou base browzt in bale, Shalle thou neuer cum at oure kynge For to telle hym tale. {379} Johne smote of the munkes hed, No longer wolde he dwelle, So did Moche, the litulle page, For ferd lest he wold tell. Ther thei beryed hem both In nouther mosse nor lynge, And litulle Johne and Muche infere Bare the letturs to oure kynge. . . . . . . . . . . . He kneled down vpon kis kne, God zow saue, my lege lorde, Jesus yow saue and se. God yow saue, my lege kyng, To speke Johne was fulle bolde ; He gaf hym the letturs in his hond, The kynge did hit unfold. The kynge red the letturs anon, And seid so mot I the, Ther was neuer zoman in mery Inglond I longut so sore to see.