402 Lytell Johan and good Scathelocke, For nothynge wolde they spare; When they fayled of the garlonde, Robyn smote them full sore. 403 At the last shot that Robyn shot, For all his frendës fare, Yet he fayled of the garlonde Thre fyngers and mare. 404 Than bespake good Gylberte, And thus he gan say; ‘Mayster,’ he sayd, ‘your takyll is lost, Stande forth and take your pay.’ 405 ‘If it be so,’ sayd Robyn, ‘That may no better be, Syr abbot, I delyuer the myn arowe, I pray the, syr, serue thou me.’ 406 ‘It falleth not for myn ordre,’ sayd our kynge, ‘Robyn, by thy leue, For to smyte no good yeman, For doute I sholde hym greue.’ 407 ‘Smyte on boldely,’ sayd Robyn, ‘I giue the largë leue:’ Anone our kynge, with that worde, He folde vp his sleue, 408 And sych a buffet he gaue Robyn, To grounde he yede full nere: ‘I make myn avowe to God,’ sayd Robyn, ‘Thou arte a stalworthe frere. 409 ‘There is pith in thyn arme,’ sayd Robyn, ‘I trowe thou canst well shete:’ Thus our kynge and Robyn Hode Togeder gan they mete. 410 Robyn behelde our comly kynge Wystly in the face, So dyde Syr Rycharde at the Le, And kneled downe in that place. 411 And so dyde all the wylde outlawes, Whan they se them knele: ‘My lorde the kynge of Englonde, Now I knowe you well. 412 ‘Mercy then, Robyn,’ sayd our kynge, ‘Vnder your trystyll-tre, Of thy goodnesse and thy grace, For my men and me!’ 413 ‘Yes, for God,’ sayd Robyn, ‘And also God me saue, I askë mercy, my lorde the kynge, And for my men I craue.’ 414 ‘Yes, for God,’ than sayd our kynge, ‘And therto sent I me. With that thou leue the grenë wode, And all thy company; 415 ‘And come home, syr, to my courte, And there dwell with me.’ ‘I make myn avowe to God,’ sayd Robyn, ‘And ryght so shall it be. 416 ‘I wyll come to your courte, Your seruyse for to se, And brynge with me of my men Seuen score and thre. 417 ‘But me lykë well your seruyse, I [wyll] come agayne full soone, And shote at the donnë dere, As I am wonte to done.’ THE VIII. FYTTE. 418 ‘Haste thou ony grenë cloth,’ sayd our kynge, ‘That thou wylte sell nowe to me?’ ‘Ye, for God,’ sayd Robyn, ‘Thyrty yerdës and thre.’ 419 ‘Robyn,’ sayd our kynge, ‘Now pray I the, Sell me some of that cloth, To me and my meynë.’ 420 ‘Yes, for God,’ then sayd Robyn, ‘Or elles I were a fole; Another day ye wyll me clothe, I trowe, ayenst the Yole.’ 421 The kynge kest of his colë then, A grene garment he dyde on, And euery knyght also, i-wys, Another had full sone. 422 Whan they were clothed in Lyncolne grene, They keste away theyr graye; ‘Now we shall to Notyngham,’ All thus our kynge gan say.