"Sith ye will not dine," said Little John,
"I shall give you to drink,
And though ye live an hundred winter,
On Little John ye shall think!"
Little John ate, and Little John drank,
The whil-e that he would.
The sheriff had in his kitchen a cook,
A stout man and a bold.
"I make mine avow to God," said the cook,
"Thou art a shrewd-e hind,
In an household to dwell,
For to ask thus to dine."
And there he lent Little John,
Good strok-es three.
"I make mine avow," said Little John,
"These strok-es liketh well me.
Thou art a bold man and an hardy,
And so thinketh me;
And ere I pass from this place,
Assayed better shalt thou be."
Little John drew a good sword,
The cook took another in hand;
They thought nothing for to flee,
But stiffly for to stand.
There they fought sor-e together,
Two mile way and more,
Might neither other harm don,
The mountenance of an hour.
"I make mine avow," said Little John,
"And by my true lewt-e,
Thou art one of the best swordmen
That ever yet saw I me.
Couldest thou shoot as well in a bow,
To green wood thou shouldest with me,
And two times in the year thy clothing
I-changed should-e be;
And every year of Robin Hood
Twent-y mark to thy fee.
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