Lytyll Johan let it lye full styll, And went to his mayster full lowe. What tydynge Johan ? sayd Robyn. “Syr, the knyght is trewe inough.” Fyll of the best wyne, sayd Robyn, The knyght shall begynne ; Moch wonder thynketh me Thy clothynge is so thynne. Tell me one worde, sayd Robyn, And counsell shall it be ; I trowe thou were made a knyght of forse, Or elles of yemanry ; Or elles thou hast ben a sory housband, And leved in stroke and stryfe ; An okerer, or elles a lechoure, sayd Robyn, With wronge hast thou lede thy lyfe. I am none of them, sayd the knyght, By god that made me ; An hondreth wynter here before, Myne aunsetters knyghtes have be. But ofte it hath befal, Robyn, A man hath be dysgrate ; But god that syteth in heven above May amend his state. {11} Within two or thre yere,[127] Robyn, he sayd, My neyghbores well it ‘kende,’[128] Foure hondreth pounde of good money Full wel than myght I spende. Now have I no good, sayd the knyght, But my chyldren and my wyfe ; God hath shapen such an ende, Tyll god ‘may amende[129] my lyfe.’ In what maner, sayd Robyn, Hast thou lore thy rychès ? For my grete foly, he sayd, And for my kindenesse. I had a sone, for soth, Robyn, That sholde have ben my eyre, When he was twenty wynter olde, In felde wolde juste full feyre ; He slewe a knyght of Lancastshyre,[130] And a squyre bolde ; For to save hym in his ryght My goodes beth sette and solde ; My londes beth set to wedde, Robyn, Untyll a certayne daye, To a ryche abbot here besyde, Of Saynt Mary abbay. {12} What is the somme ? sayd Robyn, Trouthe than tell thou me. Syr, he sayd, foure hondred pounde, The abbot tolde it to me. Now, and thou lese thy londe, sayd Robyn, What shall fall of the ? Hastely I wyll me buske, sayd the knyght, Over the salte see, And se where Cryst was quycke and deed, On the mounte of Caluarè. Fare well, frende, and have good daye, It may noo[131] better be―― Teeres fell out of his eyen two, He wolde haue gone his waye― Farewell, frendes, and have good day, I ne have more to pay. Where be[132] thy friendes ? sayd Robyn. “Syr, never one wyll me know ;[133] Whyle I was ryche inow at home Grete bost then wolde they blowe, And now they renne awaye fro me, As bestes on a rowe ; They take no more heed of me Then they me never sawe.”[134] {13} For ruthe then wepte Lytell Johan, Scathelocke and Much ‘in fere.’[135] Fyll of the best wyne,[136] sayd Robyn, For here is a symple chere. Hast thou ony frendes, sayd Robyn, Thy borowes that wyll be ? I have none, then sayd the knyght, But god that dyed on a tree. Do waye thy japes, sayd Robyn, Therof wyll I right none ; Wenest thou I wyll have god to borowe ? Peter, Poule or Johan ? Nay, by hym that me made, And shope both sonne and mone, Fynde a better borowe, sayd Robyn, Or mony getest thou none.