When they had their bows i-bent, Their tackles[865] feather’d free, Seven score of wight young men Stood by Robin’s knee. CCLXXXIX When they came to Nottingham, The butts were fair and long; Many was the bold archèr That shot with bowè strong. CCXC ‘There shall but six shoot with me, The other shall keep my heed, And stand with good bowès bent That I be not deceived.’ CCXCI The fourth outlaw his bow gan bend, And that was Robin Hood, And that beheld the proud Sheriff, All by the butt he stood. CCXCII Thrice Robin shot about, And alway he sliced the wand, And so did good Gilbert, With the white hand. CCXCIII Little John and good Scathelock Were archers good and free; Little Much and good Reynold, The worst would they not be. CCXCIV When they haddè shot about, These archers fair and good, Evermore was the best, For soothè, Robin Hood. CCXCV Him was deliver’d the good arròw, For best worthy was he; He took the gift so courteously, To greenè-wood would he. CCXCVI They crièd out on Robin Hood And great horns gan they blow: ‘Woe worth thee[866], treason!’ said Robin, ‘Full evil thou art to know. CCXCVII ‘And woe be thee, thou proud Sheriff, Thus gladding thy guest; Otherwise, thou behotè[867] me In yonder wild forèst. CCXCVIII ‘But had I thee in greenè-wood, Under my trystell-tree, Thou shouldest leave me a better wed[868] Than thy true lewtè.’ CCXCIX Full many a bowè there was bent, And arrows let they glide; Many a kirtle there was rent, And hurt full many a side. CCC The outlaws’ shottè was so strong That no man might them drive. And the proudè Sheriff’s men They fled away full blive[869]. CCCI Robin saw the bushment[870] broke, In green-wood he would be; Many an arrow there was shot Among that company. CCCII Little John was hurt full sore, With an arrow in his knee, That he might neither go nor ride; It was full great pity. CCCIII ‘Master,’ then said Little John, ‘If ever thou lovest me, And for that ilk Lordès love, That died upon a tree, CCCIV ‘And for the meeds[871] of my service, That I have servèd thee, Let never the proud Sheriff Alive now findè me; CCCV ‘But take out thy brown sword, And smite all off my head And give me wounds dead[872] and wide, No life on me be left.’ CCCVI ‘I would not that,’ said Robin, ‘John, that thou were slawe, For all the gold in merry England, Though it lay now on a rawe[873].’ CCCVII ‘God forbid,’ said little Much, ‘That died on a tree, That thou shouldest, Little John, Part our company.’ CCCVIII