,
To dyne he hath bode thee.'

223.
Much was redy with a bolte,
Redly and anone,
He set the monke to-fore the brest,
To the grounde that he can gone.

224.
Of two and fyfty wyght yonge yemen,
There abode not one,
Saf a lytell page and a grome,
To lede the somers with Lytel Johan.

225.
They brought the monke to the lodge-dore,
Whether he were loth or lefe,
For to speke with Robyn Hode,
Maugre in theyr tethe.

226.
Robyn dyde adowne his hode,
The monke whan that he se;
The monke was not so curteyse,
His hode then let he be.

227.
'He is a chorle, mayster, by dere worthy God,'
Than sayd Lytell Johan.
'Thereof no force,' sayd Robyn,
'For curteysy can he none.

228.
'How many men,' sayd Robyn,
'Had this monke, Johan?'
'Fyfty and two whan that we met,
But many of them be gone.'

229.
'Let blowe a horne,' sayd Robyn,
'That felaushyp may us knowe.'
Seven score of wyght yemen,
Came pryckynge on a rowe.

230.
And everych of them a good mantell
Of scarlet and of raye;
All they came to good Robyn,
To wyte what he wolde say.

231.
They made the monke to wasshe and wype,
And syt at his denere.
Robyn Hode and Lytell Johan
They served him both in fere.

232.
'Do gladly, monke,' sayd Robyn.
'Gramercy, syr,' sayd he.
'Where is your abbay, whan ye are at home,
And who is your avowe?'

233.
'Saynt Mary abbay,' sayd the monke,
'Though I be symple here.'
'In what offyce?' said Robyn:
'Syr, the hye selerer.'

234.
'Ye be the more welcome,' sayd Robyn,
'So ever mote I the!
Fyll of the best wyne,' sayd Robyn,
'This monke shall drynke to me.

235.
'But I have grete mervayle,' sayd Robyn,
'Of all this longe day;
I drede Our Lady be wroth with me,
She sent me not my pay.'

236.
'Have no doute, mayster,' sayd Lytell Johan,
'Ye have no nede, I saye;
This monke hath brought it, 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 grene-wode tree.

238.
'And yf thou hast that sylver ibrought,
I pray thee let me se;
And I shall helpe thee eftsones,
Yf thou have nede to me.'

239.
The monke swore a full grete othe,
With a sory chere,
'Of the borowehode