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 p[ro]ude outlaw
[Whyles he walked on grounde;
So curteyse an outlawe] as he was one
Was neuer 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 go[d]e Scarlok
And Much, the mil[l]er's son;
There was none ynch of his bodi
But it was worth a grome.

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

Than Bespake hym gode Robyn:
To dyne haue I noo lust,
Till that I haue som bolde baron
Or som vnkout[h] gest;

[Till that I haue som ryche abbot]
That may pay for the best,
Or som knyght or [som] squyer
That dwelleth here bi west.

A gode maner than had Robyn;
In londe where that he were,
Euery 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 loued all ther moste.

Robyn loued Our dere Lady;
For dout of dydly synne
Wolde he neuer do compani harme
That any woman was in.

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

Where we shall take, where we shall leue,
Where we shall abide behynde,
Where we shall robbe, where we shal reue,
Where we shal bete and bynde.

Therof no force, than sayde Robyn,
We shall do well inowe;
But loke ye do no husbonde harme
That tillet[h] 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 an these archebishoppes,
Ye shall them bete and bynde;
The hye sherif of Notyingham,
Hym holde ye in your myn[d]e.

This worde shalbe holde, sayde Lytell Johnn,
And this lesson we shall lere;
It is fer dayes, God sende vs 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 vp to the Saylis
And so to Watlinge Stret[e],
And wayte after some vnknuth gest;
Vp 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 vp to the Saylis,
These yeman all thre;
They loked est, they loke[d] 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 wauyd beside.

His hode hanged in his iy[e]n two,
He rode in symple aray;
A soriar man than he was, one
Rode neuer 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 [a] gode yoman, sayde the knyght,
Of hym I haue herde moche gode.

I graunte, he sayde, with you to wende,
My bretherne, all in fere;
My purpos was to haue 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 dore;
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 haue abyden you fastinge, sir,
All these ouris thre.

Than answered the gentyll knight
With wordes fayre and fre;
God the saue, goode Robyn,
And all thy fayre meyne.

They wasshed togeder and wyped bothe
And sette to theyr dynere;
Brede and wyne they had right ynough[e]
And noumbles of the dere.

Swannes and fe[s]sauntes they had full gode,
And foules of the ryuere;
There fayled none so litell a birde
That euer was bred on bryre.

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

If I come ageyne, Robyn,
Here by thys contre,
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 haue,
I was neuer so gredy, bi dere worthy God,
My dyner for to craue.

But pay or ye wende, sayde Robyn;
Me thynketh it is gode ryght;
It was neuer the maner, by dere worthi God,
A yoman to pay for a kny[g]ht.

I haue 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 [haue] parte of [th]e:
I haue no more but [ten] shelynges, sayde the knyght,
So God haue parte of me.

If thou hast no more, sayde Robyn,
I woll nat one peny;
And yf thou haue 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 vpon the grounde,
And there he fonde in the knyghtes cofer
But euen halfe [a] 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 clot[h]ynge is so thin[n]e.

Tell me [one] worde, sayde Robyn,
And counsel shal it be;
I trow thou warte made a knyght of force
Or ellys of yemanry.

Or ellys thou has bene a sori husbande
And lyued in stro[k]e 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 haue [be].

But oft it hath befal, Robyn,
A man hath be disgrate;
But God that sitteth in heuen aboue
May amende his state.

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

Nowe haue I no gode, saide the knyght--
God had 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 kynd[e]nesse.

I hade a sone, forsoth, Robyn,
That shulde hau[e] ben myn ayre,
Whanne he was twenty wynter olde
In felde wolde iust full fayre.

He slewe a knyght of Lancaster
And a squyer bolde;
For to saue hym in his ryght
My godes both sette and solde.

My londes both sette to wedde, Robyn,
Vntyll 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, sayd the knyght,
Ouer the salte see,

And se w[h]ere Criste was quyke and dede
On the mount of Caluere;
Fare wel, frende, and haue gode day,
It ma no better be.

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

Where be thy frendes? sayde Robyn:
Syr, neuer 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 neuer 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 haue none, than sayde the knyght,
But God that dyed on tree.

Do away thy iapis, than sayde Robyn,
Thereof wol I right none;
Wenest thou I wolde haue 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 haue none other, sayde the knyght,
The sothe for to say,
But yf yt be Our dere Lady--
She fayled me neuer or thys day.

By dere worthy God, sayde Robyn,
To seche all Englonde thorowe,
Yet fonde I neuer to my pay
A moche better borowe.

Come nowe furth, Litell Johnn,
And go to my tresoure,
And bringe me foure hundered pound[e],
And loke well tolde it be.

Furth than went Litell Johnn
And Scarlok went before;
He tolde oute foure hundred pounde
[By eight and twenty] score.

Is thys well tolde? sayde [litell] Much;
Johnn sayde, What gre[ue]th the?
It is almus to helpe a gentyll knyght
That is fal in pouerte.

Master, than sayde Lityll John,
His clothinge is full thynne;
Ye must gyue the knight a lyueray
To [lap]pe his body therin.

For ye haue scarlet and grene, mayster,
And man[y] a riche aray;
Ther is no marchaunt in mery Englond
So ryche, I dare well say.

Take hym thre yerdes of euery colour
And loke well mete that it be;
Lytell Johnn toke none other mesure
But his bowe tree.

And at euery handfull that he met
He leped footes three;
What deuylles drapar, sayid litell Muche,
Thynkest thou for to be?

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

Mayster, than said Litell Johnn
To gentill Robyn Hode:
Ye must giue the knig[h]t 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 grant that he be true.

And a gode palfray, sayde lytell Much,
To mayntene hym in his right;
And a peyre of botes, said Scarlok,
For he is a gentyll knight.

What shalt thou gyue 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 twelue moneth, saide Robyn,
Vnder this grene wode tre.

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

I shall the lende of Litell John, my man,
For he shalbe thy knaue;
In a yema[n]'s stede he may the stande
If thou greate nede haue.
The Seconde Fytte

Now is the knight gone on his way;
This game hym thought full gode;
Whanne he loked on Berne[sd]ale
He blessyd Robyn Hode.

And whanne he thought on Bernysdale,
On Scarlok, Much, and Johnn,
He blyssyd them for the best company
That euer 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 vpon this nyght
My londe is lost for ay.

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

[He borowed 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 leuer to pay an hondred pounde
And lay downe anone.

The knyght is ferre beyonde the see,
In Englonde [is his] right,
And suffreth honger and colde
And many a sory nyght.

It were grete pyte, said the pryoure,
So to haue his londe;
An ye be so lyght of your consyence
Ye do to hym moch wronge.

Thou art euer in my berde, sayd the abbot,
By God and Saynt Rycharde!
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 haue to spende in this place
Foure hondred pounde by yere.

The abbot and the hy selerer
Sterte forthe full bolde;
The [hye] iustyce of Englonde
The abbot there dyde holde.

The hye iustyce and many mo
Had take in to they[r] honde
Holy all the knyghtes det,
To put that knyght to wronge.

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

He wyll not come yet, sayd the iustyce,
I dare well vndertake;
But in sorowe tyme for them all
The knyght came to the gate.

Than bespake that gentyll knyght
Untyll his meyne:
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 euerychone.

Welcome, syr knyght, sayd the porter:
My lorde to mete is he,
And so is many a gentyll man
For the loue of the.

The porter swore a full grete othe:
By God that made me,
Here be the best coresed hors
That euer 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,
Has thou brought my pay?

Not one peny, sayd the knyght,
By God that maked me.
Thou art a shrewed dettour, sayd the abbot;
Syr iustyce, 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 iustyce,
Londe getest thou none.
Now, good syr iustyce, be my frende,
And fende me of my fone!

I am holde with the abbot, sayd the iustyce,
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 curteyse,
And holde my londes in thy honde
Tyll I haue made the gree!

And I wyll be thy true seruaunte
And trewely serue the[e]
Tyl ye haue foure hondred pounde
Of money good and free.

The abbot sware a full grete othe:
By God that dyed on a tre,
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 haue my londe agayne
Full dere it shall be bought.

God that was of a mayden borne
Leue vs well to spede!
For it is good to assay a frende
Or that a man haue nede.

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 hal;
False knyght was I neuer,
By God that made vs all.

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

In ioustes and in tournement
Full ferre than haue I be,
And put my selfe as ferre in prees
As ony that euer I se.

What wyll ye gyue more, sayd the iustyce,
And the knyght sall make a releyse?
And elles dare I safly swere
Ye holde neuer your londe in pees.

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

Though ye wolde gyue a thousand more,
Yet were ye neuer the nere;
Shall there neuer be myn heyre
Abbot, iustice, ne frere.

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

Haue here thi golde, sir abbot, saide the knight,
Which that thou lentest me;
Had thou ben curtes at my comynge
Rewarded shuldest thou haue 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 iustice, that I toke the.
Not a peni, said the iustice,
Bi Go[d, that dy]ed on tree.

Sir [abbot, and ye me]n of lawe,
Now haue I holde my daye;
Now shall I haue 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 haue 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 euer his soule be in blysse:
He holpe me [out of] tene;
Ne had be his kyndenesse,
Beggers had we bene.

The abbott and I accorded ben,