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somer, when the shawes be sheyne, And leves be large and long, Hit is full mery in feyre foreste To here the foulys song: To se the dere draw to the dale, And leve the hilles hee, And shadow hem in the lev s grene, Vnder the grene-wode tre. Hit befel on Whitsontide, Erly in a May mornyng, The son vp feyre can shyne, And the briddis mery can syng. 'This is a mery mornyng,' seid Litull John, 'Be hym that dyed on tre; A more mery man then I am one Lyves not in Cristiant . 'Pluk vp thi hert, my dere mayster,' Litull John can sey, 'And thynk hit is a full fayre tyme In a mornyng of May.' 'Y+Oe, on thyng greves me,' seid Robyn, 'And does my hert mych woo; thatI may not no solem day To mas nor matyns goo. 'Hit is a fourtnet and more,' seid he, 'Syn I my sauyour see; To day wil I to Notyngham,' seid Robyn, 'With the myght of mylde Marye.' Than spake Moche, the mylner sun, Euer more wel hym betyde! 'Take twelue of thi wyght y+oemen, Well weppynd, be thi side. Such on wolde thi selfe slon, thattwelue dar not abyde.' 'Of all my mery men,' seid Robyn, 'Be my feith I wil non haue, But Litull John shall beyre my bow, Til that me list to drawe.' 'thou shall beyre thin own,' seid Litull Jon, 'Maister, and I wyl beyre myne, And we well shete a peny,' seid Litull Jon, 'Vnder the grene-wode lyne.' 'I wil not shete a peny,' seyd Robyn Hode, 'In feith, Litull John, with the, But euer for on as thou shetis,' seide Robyn, 'In feith I holde the thre.' Thus shet thei forth, these y+oemen too, Bothe at buske and brome, Til Litull John wan of his maister Fiue shillings to hose and shone. A ferly strife fel them betwene, As they went bi the wey; Litull John seid he had won fiue shillings, And Robyn Hode seid schortly nay. With that Robyn Hode lyed Litul Jon, And smote hym with his hande; Litul Jon waxed wroth therwith, And pulled out his bright bronde. 'Were thou not my maister,' seid Litull John, 'thou shuldis by hit ful sore; Get the a man wher thou w[ilt], For thou getis me no more.' en Robyn goes to Notyngham, Hym selfe mornyng allone, And Litull John to mery Scherwode, The pathes he knew ilkone. Whan Robyn came to Notyngham, Sertenly withouten layn, He prayed to God and myld Mary To bryng hym out saue agayn. He gos in to Seynt Mary chirch, And kneled down before the rode; Alle that euer were the church within Beheld wel Robyn Hode. Beside hym stod a gret-hedid munke, I pray to God woo he be! Fful sone he knew gode Robyn, As sone as he hym se. Out at the durre he ran, Fful sone and anon; Alle the y+oatis of Notyngham He made to be sparred euerychon. 'Rise vp,' he seid, 'thou prowde schereff, Buske the and make the bowne; I haue spyed the kynggis felon, Ffor sothe he is in this town. 'I haue spyed the false felon, As he stondis at his masse; Hit is long of the,' seide the munke, 'And euer he fro vs passe. 'this traytur name is Robyn Hode, Vnder the grene-wode lynde; He robbyt me onys of a hundred pound, Hit shalle neuer out of my mynde.' Vp then rose this prowde shereff, And radly made hym y+oare; Many was the moder son To the kyrk with hym can fare. In at the durres thei throly thrast, With staves ful gode wone; 'Alas, alas!' seid Robyn Hode, 'Now mysse I Litull John.' But Robyn toke out a too-hond sworde, thathangit down be his kne; theras the schereff and his men stode thyckust, Thedurwarde wolde he. Thryes thorowout them he ran then, For sothe as I yow sey, And woundyt mony a moder son, And twelue he slew that day. His sworde vpon the schireff hed Sertanly he brake in too; 'e smyth that the made,' seid Robyn, 'I pray to God wyrke hym woo! 'Ffor now am I weppynlesse,' seid Robyn, 'Alasse! agayn my wylle; But if I may fle these traytors fro, I wot thei wil me kyll.' Robyn in to the church ran, Throout hem euerilkon, * * * * Sum fel in swonyng as thei were dede, And lay stil as any stone; Non of theym were in her mynde But only Litull Jon9 'Let be your rule,' seid Litull Jon, 'Ffor his luf that dyed on tre, Y+Oe that shulde be duy+oty men; Het is gret shame to se. 'Oure maister has bene hard bystode And y+oet scapyd away; Pluk vp your hertis, and leve this mone, And harkyn what I shal say. 'He has seruyd Oure Lady many a day, And y+oet wil, securly; therforI trust in hir specialy No wyckud deth shal he dye. 'therfor be glad,' seid Litul John, 'And let this mournyng be; And I shal be the munkis gyde, With the myght of mylde Mary. . . . . 'We will go but we too; And I mete hym,' seid Litul John, . . . 'Loke that y+oe kepe wel owre tristil-tre, Vnder the levys smale, And spare non of this venyson, thatgose in thys vale.' Fforthe then went these y+oemen too, Litul John and Moche on fere, And lokid on Moch emys hows, e hye way lay full nere.