|Share page||Visit Us On FB|
422 THE PLATE OF KOBTN HODE.
Yelde the, fryer, in thy long cote.
I beshrew thy hart, knave, thou hurtest my throt.
I trowe, fryer, thou beginnest to dote;
Who made the so malapert and so bolde,
To come into this forest here, »
Amonge my falowe dere ?
Go louse the, ragged knave.
If thou make mani wordes, I will geve the on the eare,
Though I be but a poore fryer.
To seke Robyn Hode I am com here,
And to him my hart to breke.
Thou lousy frer, what wouldest thou with hym ? He never loved fryer, nor none of freiers kyn.
Avaunt, ye ragged knave!
Or ye shall have on the skynne. oo
Of all the men in the morning thou art the worst, To mete with the I have no lust; For he that meteth a frere or a fox in the morning, To spede ill that day he standeth in jeoperdy. Therfore I had lever mete with the devil of hell, (Fryer, I tell the as I thinke,) Then mete with a fryer or a fox In a mornyng, or I drynk.
Avaunt, thou ragged knave, this is but a mock;
If thou make mani words thou shal have a knock. ro
64, ell, C.
70, Tou, you, C.