232 ‘Do gladly, monke,’ sayd Robyn. ‘Gramercy, syr,’ sayd he. ‘Where is your abbay, whan ye are at home, And who is your avowë?’ 233 ‘Saynt Mary abbay,’ sayd the monke, ‘Though I be symple here.’ ‘In what offyce?’ sayd Robyn: ‘Syr, the hyë selerer.’ 234 ‘Ye be the more welcome,’ sayd Robyn, ‘So euer mote I the; Fyll of the best wyne,’ sayd Robyn, ‘This monke shall drynke to me. 235 ‘But I haue grete meruayle,’ sayd Robyn, ‘Of all this longë day; I drede Our Lady be wroth with me, She sent me not my pay.’ 236 ‘Haue no doute, mayster,’ sayd Lytell Johan, ‘Ye haue no nede, I saye; This monke it hath brought, I dare well swere, For he is of her abbay.’ 237 ‘And she was a borowe,’ sayd Robyn, ‘Betwene a knyght and me, Of a lytell money that I hym lent, Under the grëne-wode tree. 238 ‘And yf thou hast that syluer ibrought, I pray the let me se; And I shall helpë the eftsones, Yf thou haue nede to me.’ 239 The monke swore a full grete othe, With a sory chere, ‘Of the borowehode thou spekest to me, Herde I neuer ere.’ 240 ‘I make myn avowe to God,’ sayd Robyn, ‘Monke, thou art to blame; For God is holde a ryghtwys man, And so is his dame. 241 ‘Thou toldest with thyn ownë tonge, Thou may not say nay, How thou arte her seruaunt, And seruest her euery day. 242 ‘And thou art made her messengere, My money for to pay; Therfore I cun the morë thanke Thou arte come at thy day. 243 ‘What is in your cofers?’ sayd Robyn, ‘Trewe than tell thou me:’ ‘Syr,’ he sayd, ‘twenty marke, Al so mote I the.’ 244 ‘Yf there be no more,’ sayd Robyn, ‘I wyll not one peny; Yf thou hast myster of ony more, Syr, more I shall lende to the. 245 ‘And yf I fyndë [more,’ sayd] Robyn, ‘I-wys thou shalte it for gone; For of thy spendynge-syluer, monke, Thereof wyll I ryght none. 246 ‘Go nowe forthe, Lytell Johan, And the trouth tell thou me; If there be no more but twenty marke, No peny that I se.’ 247 Lytell Johan spred his mantell downe, As he had done before, And he tolde out of the monkës male Eyght [hondred] pounde and more. 248 Lytell Johan let it lye full styll, And went to his mayster in hast; ‘Syr,’ he sayd, ‘the monke is trewe ynowe, Our Lady hath doubled your cast.’ 249 ‘I make myn avowe to God,’ sayd Robyn— ‘Monke, what tolde I the?— Our Lady is the trewest woman That euer yet founde I me. 250 ‘By dere worthy God,’ sayd Robyn, ‘To seche all Englond thorowe, Yet founde I neuer to my pay A moche better borowe. 251 ‘Fyll of the best wyne, and do hym drynke,’ sayd Robyn, ‘And grete well thy lady hende, And yf she haue nede to Robyn Hode, A frende she shall hym fynde.