At this speech the Cook looked up and down, scratching his head in doubt, for he loved good feasting. At last he drew a long breath and said to Little John, "Well, good friend, I like thy plan right well; so, pretty boy, say I, let us feast, with all my heart, for one of us may sup in Paradise before nightfall." So each thrust his sword back into the scabbard and entered the pantry. Then, after they had seated themselves, Little John drew his dagger and thrust it into the pie. "A hungry man must be fed," quoth he, "so, sweet chuck, I help myself without leave." But the Cook did not lag far behind, for straightway his hands also were deeply thrust within the goodly pasty. After this, neither of them spoke further, but used their teeth to better purpose. But though neither spoke, they looked at one another, each thinking within himself that he had never seen a more lusty fellow than the one across the board. At last, after a long time had passed, the Cook drew a full, deep breath, as though of much regret, and wiped his hands upon the napkin, for he could eat no more. Little John, also, had enough, for he pushed the pasty aside, as though he would say, "I want thee by me no more, good friend." Then he took the pottle of sack, and said he, "Now, good fellow, I swear by all that is bright, that thou art the stoutest companion at eating that ever I had. Lo! I drink thy health." So saying, he clapped the flask to his lips and cast his eyes aloft, while the good wine flooded his throat. Then he passed the pottle to the Cook, who also said, "Lo, I drink thy health, sweet fellow!" Nor was he behind Little John in drinking any more than in eating. "Now," quoth Little John, "thy voice is right round and sweet, jolly lad. I doubt not thou canst sing a ballad most blithely; canst thou not?" "Truly, I have trolled one now and then," quoth the Cook, "yet I would not sing alone." "Nay, truly," said Little John, "that were but ill courtesy. Strike up thy ditty, and I will afterward sing one to match it, if I can. "So be it, pretty boy," quoth the Cook. "And hast thou e'er heard the song of the Deserted Shepherdess?" "Truly, I know not," answered Little John, "but sing thou and let me hear." Then the Cook took another draught from the pottle, and, clearing his throat, sang right sweetly: THE SONG OF THE DESERTED SHEPHERDESS "_In Lententime, when leaves wax green, And pretty birds begin to mate, When lark cloth sing, and thrush, I ween, And stockdove cooeth soon and late, Fair Phillis sat beside a stone, And thus I heard her make her moan: 'O willow, willow, willow, willow! I'll take me of thy branches fair And twine a wreath to deck my hair.