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The Seconde Fytte

Now is the knight gone on his way:
This game hym thought full gode;
Whanne he loked on Bernesdale
He blessyd Robyn Hode.

And whanne he thought on Bernysdale,
On Scarlok, Much, and Johnn,
He blyssyd them for the best company
That ever he in come.

Then spake that gentyll knyght,
To Lytel Johan gan he saye,
“To-morrowe I must to Yorke toune,
To Saynt Mary abbay.

“And to the abbot of that place
Foure hondred pounde I must pay;
And but I be there upon this nyght
My londe is lost for ay.”

The abbot sayd to his covent,
There he stode on grounde,
“This day twelfe moneth came there a knyght
And borrowed foure hondred pounde.

“He borrowed foure hondred pounde,
Upon all his londe fre;
But he come this ylke day
Dysheryte shall he be.”

“It is full erely,” sayd the pryoure,
“The day is not yet ferre gone;
I had lever to pay an hondred pounde,
And lay downe anone.

“The knyght is ferre beyonde the see,
In Englonde ryght,
And suffreth honger and colde,
And many a sory nyght.

“It were grete pyté,” said the pryoure,
“So to have his londe;
And ye be so lyght of your consyence,
Ye do to hym moch wronge.”

“Thou arte ever in my berde,” sayd the abbot,
“By God and Saynt Rychere.”
With that cam in a fat-heded monke,
The heygh selerer.

“He is dede or hanged,” sayd the monke,
“By God that bought me dere,
And we shall have to spende in this place
Foure hondred pounde by yere.”

The abbot and the hy selerer
Sterte forthe full bolde,
The justyce of Englonde
The abbot there dyde holde.

The hye justyce and many mo
Had take in to theyr honde
Holy all the knyghtes det,
To put that knyght to wronge.

They demed the knyght wonder sore,
The abbot and his meyné:
“But he come this ylke day
Dysheryte shall he be.”

“He wyll not come yet,” sayd the justyce,
“I dare well undertake.”
But in sorowe tyme for them all
The knyght came to the gate.

Than bespake that gentyll knyght
Untyll his meyné:
“Now put on your symple wedes
That ye brought fro the see.”

They put on their symple wedes,
They came to the gates anone;
The porter was redy hymselfe,
And welcomed them everychone.

“Welcome, syr knyght,” sayd the porter;
“My lorde to mete is he,
And so is many a gentyll man,
For the love of the.”

The porter swore a full grete othe,
“By God that made me,
Here be the best coressed hors
That ever yet sawe I me.

“Lede them in to the stable,” he sayd,
“That eased myght they be.”
“They shall not come therin,” sayd the knyght,
“By God that dyed on a tre.”

Lordes were to mete isette
In that abbotes hall;
The knyght went forth and kneled downe,
And salued them grete and small.

“Do gladly, syr abbot,” sayd the knyght,
“I am come to holde my day.”
The fyrst word the abbot spake,
“Hast thou brought my pay?”

“Not one peny,” sayd the knyght,
“By God that maked me.”
“Thou art a shrewed dettour” sayd the abbot;
“Syr justyce, drynke to me.

“What doost thou here,” sayd the abbot,
“But thou haddest brought thy pay?”
“For God,” than sayd the knyght,
“To pray of a lenger daye.”

“Thy daye is broke,” sayd the justyce,
“Londe getest thou none.”
“Now, good syr justyce, be my frende,
And fende me of my fone!”

“I am holde with the abbot,” sayd the justyce,
“Both with cloth and fee.”
“Now, good syr sheryf, be my frende!”
“Nay, for God,” sayd he.

“Now, good syr abbot, be my frende,
For thy curteysé,
And holde my londes in thy honde
Tyll I have made the gree!

“And I wyll be thy true servaunte,
And trewely serve the,
Tyl ye have foure hondred pounde
Of money good and free.”

The abbot sware a full grete othe,
“By God that dyed on a tree,
Get the londe where thou may,
For thou getest none of me.”

“By dere worthy God,” then sayd the knyght,
“That all this worlde wrought,
But I have my londe agayne,
Full dere it shall be bought.

“God, that was of a mayden borne,
Leve us well to spede!
For it is good to assay a frende
Or that a man have need.”

The abbot lothely on hym gan loke,
And vylaynesly hym gan call:
“Out,” he sayd, “thou false knyght,
Spede the out of my hall!”

“Thou lyest,” then sayd the gentyll knyght,
“Abbot, in thy hall;
False knyght was I never,
By God that made us all.”

Up then stode that gentyll knyght,
To the abbot sayd he,
“To suffre a knyght to knele so longe,
Thou canst no curteysye.

“In joustes and in tournement
Full ferre than have I be,
And put my selfe as ferre in press
As ony that ever I se.”

“What wyll ye gyve more,” sayd the justice,
“And the knyght shall make a releyse?
And elles dare I safly swere
Ye holde never your londe in pees.”

“An hondred pounde,” sayd the abbot;
The justice sayd, “Gyve hym two.”
“Nay, be God,” sayd the knyght,
“Yit gete ye it not so.”

“Though ye wolde gyve a thousand more,
Yet were ye never the nere;
Shall there never be myn heyre
Abbot, justice, ne frere.”

He stert hym to a borde anone,
Tyll a table rounde,
And there shoke oute of a bagge
Even four hundred pound.

“Have here thi golde, sir abbot,” saide the knight,
“Which that thou lentest me;
Had thou ben curtes at my comynge,
Rewarded shuldest thou have be.”

The abbot sat styll, and ete no more,
For all his ryall fare;
He cast his hede on his shulder,
And fast began to stare.

“Take me my golde agayne,” saide the abbot,
“Sir justice, that I toke the.”
“Not a peni,” said the justice,
“Bi God that dyed on tree.”

“Sir abbot and ye men of lawe,
Now have I holde my daye;
Now shall I have my londe agayne,
For ought that you can saye.”

The knyght stert out of the dore,
Awaye was all his care,
And on he put his good clothynge,
The other he lefte there.

He wente hym forth full mery syngynge,
As men have tolde in tale;
His lady met hym at the gate,
At home in Verysdale.

“Welcome, my lorde,” sayd his lady;
“Syr, lost is all your good?”
“Be mery, dame,” sayd the knyght,
“And pray for Robyn Hode,

“That ever his soule be in blysse:
He holpe me out of tene;
Ne had be his kyndenesse,
Beggers had we bene.

“The abbot and I accorded ben,
He is served of his pay;
The god yoman lent it me,
As I cam by the way.”

This knight than dwelled fayre at home,
The sothe for to saye.
Tyll he had gete four hundred pound,
Al redy for to pay.

He purveyed him an hundred bowes,
The strynges well ydyght,
An hundred shefe of arowes gode,
The hedys burneshed full bryght;

And every arowe an elle longe,
With pecok wel idyght,
Inocked all with whyte silver;
It was a semely syght.

He purveyed hym an hundreth men,
Well harnessed in that stede.
And hym selfe in that same sete,
And clothed in whyte and rede.

He bare a launsgay in his honde,
And a man ledde his male,
And reden with a lyght songe
Unto Bernsydale.

But at Wentbrydge ther was a wrastelyng,
And there taryed was he,
And there was all the best yemen
Of all the west countree.

A full fayre game there was up set,
A whyte bulle up i-pyght,
A grete courser, with sadle and brydil,
With golde burnyssht full bryght.

A payre of gloves, a rede golde rynge,
A pype of wyne, in fay;
What man that bereth hym best i-wys
The pryce shall bere away.

There was a yoman in that place,
And best worthy was he,
And for he was ferre and frembde bested,
Slayne he shulde have be.

The knight had ruthe of this yoman,
In place where he stode;
He sayde that yoman shulde have no harme,
For love of Robyn Hode.

The knyght presed in to the place,
An hundreth folowed hym in fere,
With bowes bent and arowes sharpe,
For to shende that companye.

They shulderd all and made hym rome,
To wete what he wolde say;
He toke the yeman bi the hande,
And gave hym al the play.

He gave hym fyve marke for his wyne,
There it lay on the molde,
And bad it shulde be set a broche,
Drynke who so wolde.

Thus longe taried this gentyll knyght,
Tyll that play was done;
So longe abode Robyn fastinge,
Thre houres after the none.

The First Fytte

Lythe and listin, gentilmen,
That be of frebore blode;
I shall you tel of a gode yeman,
His name was Robyn Hode.

Robyn was a prude outlaw,
Whyles he walked on grounde:
So curteyse an outlawe as he was one
Was nevere non founde.

Robyn stode in Bernesdale,
And lenyd hym to a tre,
And bi hym stode Litell Johnn,
A gode yeman was he.

And alsoo dyd gode Scarlok,
And Much, the millers son:
There was none ynch of his bodi
But it was worth a grome.

Than bespake Lytell Johnn
All untoo Robyn Hode:
“Maister, and ye wolde dyne betyme
It wolde doo you moche gode.”

Than bespake hym gode Robyn:
“To dyne have I noo lust,
Till that I have som bolde baron,
Or som unkouth gest.

“Here shal come a lord or sire
That may pay for the best,
Or som knyght or squyer,
That dwelleth here bi west.”

A gode maner than had Robyn;
In londe where that he were,
Every day or he wold dyne
Thre messis wolde he here.

The one in the worship of the Fader,
And another of the Holy Gost,
The thirde of Our dere Lady,
That he loved allther moste.

Robyn loved Oure dere Lady:
For dout of dydly synne,
Wolde he never do compani harme
That any woman was in.

“Maistar,” than sayde Lytil Johnn,
“And we our borde shal sprede,
Tell us wheder that we shal go,
And what life that we shall lede.

“Where we shall take, where we shall leve,
Where we shall abide behynde;
Where we shall robbe, where we shal reve,
Where we shall bete and bynde.”

“Therof no force,” than sayde Robyn;
“We shall do well inowe;
But loke ye do no husbonde harme,
That tilleth with his ploughe.

“No more ye shall no gode yeman
That walketh by grene wode shawe,
Ne no knyght ne no squyer
That wol be a gode felawe.

“These bisshoppes and these archebishoppes,
Ye shall them bete and bynde;
The hye sherif of Notyingham,
Hym holde ye in your mynde.”

“This worde shalbe holde,” sayde Lytell Johnn,
“And this lesson we shall lere;
It is fer dayes, God sende us a gest,
That we were at oure dynere!”

“Take thy gode bowe in thy honde,” sayde Robyn;
“Late Much wende with the:
And so shal Willyam Scarlok,
And no man abyde with me.

“And walke up to the Saylis,
And so to Watlinge Strete,
And wayte after some unkuth gest,
Up chaunce ye may them mete.

“Be he erle, or ani baron,
Abbot, or ani knyght,
Bringhe hym to lodge to me;
His dyner shall be dight.”

They wente up to the Saylis,
These yeman all thre;
They loked est, they loke weest;
They myght no man see.

But as they loked in to Bernysdale,
Bi a derne strete,
Than came a knyght ridinghe,
Full sone they gan hym mete.

All dreri was his semblaunce,
And lytell was his pryde;
His one fote in the styrop stode,
That othere wavyd beside.

His hode hanged in his iyn two;
He rode in symple aray,
A soriar man than he was one
Rode never in somer day.

Litell Johnn was full curteyes,
And sette hym on his kne:
“Welcom be ye, gentyll knyght,
Welcom ar ye to me.

“Welcom be thou to grene wode,
Hende knyght and fre;
My maister hath abiden you fastinge,
Syr, al these oures thre.”

“Who is thy maister?” sayde the knyght;
Johnn sayde, “Robyn Hode.”
“He is gode yoman,” sayde the knyght,
“Of hym I have herde moche gode.

“I graunte,” he sayde, “with you to wende,
My bretherne, all in fere;
My purpos was to have dyned to day
At Blith or Dancastere.”

Furth than went this gentyl knight,
With a carefull chere;
The teris oute of his iyen ran,
And fell downe by his lere.

They brought hym to the lodge door,
Whan Robyn hym gan see,
Full curtesly dyd of his hode
And sette hym on his knee.

“Welcome, sir knight,” than sayde Robyn,
“Welcome art thou to me;
I have abyden you fastinge, sir,
All these ouris thre.”

Than answered the gentyll knight,
With wordes fayre and fre:
“God the save, goode Robyn,
And all thy fayre meyné.”

They wasshed togeder and wyped bothe,
And sette to theyr dynere;
Brede and wyne they had right ynoughe,
And noumbles of the dere.

Swannes and fessauntes they had full gode,
And foules of the ryvere;
There fayled none so litell a birde
That ever was bred on bryre.

“Do gladly, sir knight,” sayde Robyn;
“Gramarcy, sir,” sayde he,
“Such a dinere had I nat
Of all these wekys thre.

“If I come ageyne, Robyn,
Here by thys contré,
As gode a dyner I shall the make
As that thou haest made to me.”

“Gramarcy, knyght,” sayde Robyn,
“My dyner whan that I it have;
I was never so gredy, bi dere worthy God,
My dyner for to crave.

“But pay or ye wende,” sayde Robyn;
“Me thynketh it is gode ryght;
It was never the maner, by dere worthi God,
A yoman to pay for a knyght.”

“I have nought in my coffers,” saide the knyght,
“That I may profer for shame.”
“Litell Johnn, go loke,” sayde Robyn,
“Ne let nat for no blame.

“Tel me truth,” than saide Robyn,
“So God have parte of the.”
“I have no more but ten shelynges,” sayde the knyght,
“So God have part of me.”

“If thou hast no more,” sayde Robyn,
“I woll nat one peny,
And yf thou have nede of any more,
More shall I lend the.

“Go nowe furth, Littell Johnn,
The truth tell thou me:
If there be no more but ten shelinges,
No peny that I se.”

Lyttell Johnn sprede downe hys mantell
Full fayre upon the grounde,
And there he fonde in the knyghtes cofer
But even halfe pounde.

Littell Johnn let it lye full styll,
And went to hys maysteer lowe;
“What tidynges Johnn?” sayde Robyn;
“Sir, the knyght is true inowe.”

“Fyll of the best wine,” sayde Robyn,
“The knyght shall begynne;
Moche wonder thinketh me
Thy clothynge is so thin.

“Tell me one worde,” sayde Robyn,
“And counsel shal it be:
I trowe thou warte made a knyght of force,
Or ellys of yemanry.

“Or ellys thou hast bene a sori husbande,
And lyved in stroke and stryfe,
An okerer or ellis a lechoure,” sayde Robyn,
“Wyth wronge hast led thy lyfe.”

“I am none of those,” sayde the knyght,
“By God that made me;
An hundred wynter here before
Myn auncetres knyghtes have be.

“But oft it hath befal, Robyn,
A man hath be disgrate,
But God that sitteth in heven above
May amende his state.

“Withyn this two yere, Robyne,” he sayde,
“My neghbours well it wende,
Foure hundred pounde of gode money
Ful well than myght I spende.

“Nowe have I no gode,” saide the knyght,
“God hath shaped such an ende,
But my chyldren and my wyfe,
Tyll God yt may amende.”

“In what maner,” than sayde Robyn,
“Hast thou lorne thy rychesse?”
“For my greate foly,” he sayde,
“And for my kyndnesse.

“I hade a sone, forsoth, Robyn,
That shulde have ben myn ayre,
Whanne he was twenty wynter olde,
In felde wolde just full fayre.

“He slewe a knyght of Lancaster,
And a squyer bolde;
For to save hym in his ryght
My godes beth sette and solde.

“My londes beth sette to wedde, Robyn,
Untyll a certayn day,
To a ryche abbot here besyde
Of Seynt Mari Abbey.”

“What is the som?” sayde Robyn;
“Trouth than tell thou me.”
“Sir,” he sayde, “foure hundred pounde;
The abbot told it to me.”

“Nowe and thou lese thy lond,” sayde Robyn,
“What woll fall of the?”
“Hastely I wol me buske,” sayde the knyght,
“Over the salte see,

“And se where Criste was quyke and dede,
On the mount of Calveré;
Fare wel, frende, and have gode day;
It may no better be.”

Teris fell out of hys iyen two;
He wolde have gone hys way.
“Farewel, frende, and have gode day;
I ne have no more to pay.”

“Where be thy frendes?” sayde Robyn.
“Syr, never one wol me knowe:
While I was ryche ynowe at home
Great boste than wolde they blowe.

“And nowe they renne away fro me,
As bestis on a rowe;
They take no more hede of me
Thanne they had me never sawe.”

For ruthe thanne wept Litell Johnn,
Scarlok and Muche in fere;
“Fyl of the best wyne,” sayde Robyn,
“For here is a symple chere.

“Hast thou any frende,” sayde Robyn,
“Thy borowe that wolde be?”
“I have none,” than sayde the knyght,
“But God that dyed on tree.”

“Do away thy japis,” than sayde Robyn,
“Thereof wol I right none;
Wenest thou I wolde have God to borowe,
Peter, Poule, or Johnn?

“Nay, by Hym that me made,
And shope both sonne and mone,
Fynde me a better borowe,” sayde Robyn,
“Or money getest thou none.”

“I have none other,” sayde the knyght,
“The sothe for to say,
But yf yt be Our dere Lady;
She fayled me never or thys day.”

“By dere worthy God,” sayde Robyn,
“To seche all Englonde thorowe,
Yet fonde I never to my pay
A moche better borowe.

“Come nowe furth, Litell Johnn.
And go to my tresouré,
And bringe me foure hundered pound,
And loke well tolde it be.”

Furth than went Litell Johnn,
And Scarlok went before;
He tolde oute foure hundred pounde
By eightene and two score.

“Is thys well tolde?” sayde litell Much;
Johnn sayde, “What greveth the?
It is almus to helpe a gentyll knyght,
That is fal in poverté.

“Master,” than sayde Lityll John,
“His clothinge is full thynne;
Ye must gyve the knight a lyveray,
To lappe his body therin.

“For ye have scarlet and grene, mayster,
And many a riche aray;
Ther is no marchaunt in mery Englond
So ryche, I dare well say.”

“Take hym thre yerdes of every colour,
And loke well mete that it be.”
Lytell Johnn toke none other mesure
But his bowe-tree.

And at every handfull that he met
He leped footes three.
“What devylles drapar,” sayid litell Muche,
“Thynkest thou for to be?”

Scarlok stode full stil and loughe,
And sayd, “By God Almyght,
Johnn may gyve hym gode mesure,
For it costeth hym but lyght.”

“Mayster,” than said Litell Johnn
To gentill Robyn Hode,
“Ye must give the knight a hors,
To lede home this gode.”

“Take hym a gray coursar,” sayde Robyn,
“And a saydle newe;
He is Oure Ladye’s messangere;
God graunt that he be true.”

“And a gode palfray,” sayde lytell Much,
“To mayntene hym in his right.”
“And a peyre of botes,” sayde Scarlock,
“For he is a gentyll knight.”

“What shalt thou gyve hym, Litell John?” said Robyn;
“Sir, a peyre of gilt sporis clene,
To pray, for all this company,
God bringe hym oute of tene.”

“Whan shal mi day be,” said the knight,
“Sir, and your wyll be?”
“This day twelve moneth,” saide Robyn,
“Under this grene-wode tre.

“It were greate shame,” sayde Robyn,
“A knight alone to ryde,
Withoute squyre, yoman, or page,
To walke by his syde.

“I shall the lende Litell John, my man,
For he shalbe thy knave;
In a yemans stede he may the stande,
If thou greate nede have.”