I.

THE PLAYE OF ROBYN HODE

is printed by Copland at the end of his edition of the “Mery Geste,” &c., inserted in the present volume. It seems to be composed, certainly with little improvement, partly from the ballad of “Robin Hood and the Curtall Frier” (see before, p. 209), or rather, perhaps, some still older piece on the same subject, and partly from the ancient poem of “Robin Hood and the Potter” (see p. 81). The whole title runs—“Here beginnethe the playe of Robyn Hoode, very proper to be played in Maye games.” It has here received a few corrections from White’s edition, 1634.

ROBYN HODE.

Now stand ye forth, my mery men all, And harke what I shall say ; Of an adventure I shal you tell, The which befell this other day. {342} As I went by the hygh way, With a stout frere I met, And a quarter-staffe in his hande, Lyghtely to me he lept, And styll he bade me stande ; There were strypes two or three, But I cannot tell who had the worse, But well I wote the horeson lept within me, And fro me he toke my purse. Is there any of my mery men all, That to that frere wyll go, And bryng him to me forth withall, Whether he wyll or no ?

LYTELL JOHN.

Yes, mayster, I make god avowe, To that frere wyll I go, And bring him to you, Whether he wyl or no.

FRYER TUCKE.

_Deus hic, deus hic_, god be here ! Is not this a holy worde for a frere ? God save all this company ! But am not I a jolly fryer ? For I can shote both farre and nere, And handle the sworde and bucklèr, And this quarter-staffe also. If I mete with a gentylman or yemàn, {343} I am not afrayde to loke hym upon, Nor boldly with him to carpe ; If he speake any wordes to me, He shall have strypes two or thre, That shal make his body smarte. But, maisters,[333] to shew you the matter, Wherefore and why I am come hither, In fayth I wyl not spare : I am come to seke a good yeman, In Bernisdale men sai is his habitacion, His name is Robyn Hode. And if that he be better man than I, His servaunt wyll I be, and serve him truely ; But if that I be better man than he, By my truth my knave shall he be, And leade these dogges all three.

ROBYN HODE.

Yelde the, fryer, in thy long cote.

FRYER TUCKE.

I beshrew thy hart, knave, thou hurtest my throt.

ROBYN HODE.

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 ? {344}

FRYER.

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.

ROBYN HODE.

Thou lousy frer, what wouldest thou with hym ? He never loved fryer, nor none of freiers kyn.

FRYER.

Avaunt, ye ragged knave ! Or ye shall have on the skynne.

ROBYN HODE.

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[334] 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.

FRYER.

Avaunt, thou ragged knave, this is but a mock, If thou make mani words thou[335] shal have a knock. {345}

ROBYN HODE.

Harke, frere, what I say here, Over this water thou shalt me bere, The brydge is borne away.

FRYER.

To say naye I wyll not, To let the of thine oth it were great pitie and sin, But up on a fryers backe, and have even in.

ROBYN HODE.

Nay, have over.

FRYER.

Now am I, frere, within, and thou, Robin, without, To lay the here I have no great doubt. Now art thou, Robyn, without, and I, frere, within, Lye ther, knave ; chose whether thou wilte sinke or swym.

ROBYN HODE.

Why, thou lowsy frere, what hast thou done ?[336]

FRYER.

Mary, set a knave over the shone.

ROBYN HODE.

Therfore thou shalt abye. {346}

FRYER.

Why, wylt thou fyght a plucke ?

ROBYN HODE.

And god send me good lucke.

FRYER.

Than have a stroke for fryer Tucke.

ROBYN HODE.

Holde thy hande, frere, and here me speke.

FRYER.

Saye on, ragged knave, Me semeth ye begyn to swete.

ROBYN HODE.

In this forest I have a hounde, I wyl not give him for an hundreth pound, Geve me leve my horne to blowe, That my hounde may knowe.

FRYER.

Blowe on, ragged knave, without any doubte, Untyll bothe thyne eyes starte out. Here be a sorte of ragged knaves come in, Clothed all in Kendale grene, And to the they take their way nowe. {347}

ROBYN HODE.

Peradventure they do so.

FRYER.

I gave the leve to blowe at thy wyll, Now give me leve to whistell my fyll.

ROBYN HODE.

Whystell, frere, evyll mote thou fare, Untyll bothe thyne eyes stare.[337]

FRYER.

Now Cut and Bause ! Breng forth the clubbes and staves, And downe with those ragged knaves !

ROBYN HODE.

How sayest thou, frere, wylt thou be my man, To do me the best servyse thou can ? Thou shalt have both golde and fee, And also here is a lady free, I wyll geve her unto the, And her chapplayn I the make, To serve her for my sake.

FRYER.

Here is a huckle duckle, an inch above the buckle ; {348} She is a trul of trust,[338] to serve a frier at his lust, A prycker, a pauncer, a terer of shetes,[339] A wagger of buttockes[340] when other men slepes. Go home, ye knaves, and lay crabbes in the fyre, For my lady and I wil daunce in the myre, for veri pure joye.

ROBYN HODE.

Lysten to [me], my mery men all, And harke what I shall say ; Of an adventure I shall you tell, That befell this other daye. With a proude potter I met, And a rose garlande on his head,[341] {349}

The floures of it shone marvaylous freshe ; This seven yere and more he hath used this waye, Yet was he never so curteyse a potter, As one peny passage to paye. Is there any of my mery men all That dare be so bolde To make the potter paie passage, Either silver or golde ?

LYTELL JOHN.

Not I, master, for twenty pound redy tolde, For there is not among us al one That dare medle with that potter man for man. I felt his handles not long agone, But I had lever have ben here by the, Therefore I knowe what he is. Mete him when ye wil, or mete him whan ye shal, He is as propre a man as ever you medle withal. {350}

ROBYN HODE.

I will lai with the, Litel John, twenti pound so read, If I wyth that potter mete, I wil make him pay passage, maugre his head.

LYTELL JOHN.

I consente therto, so eate I bread, If he pay passage maugre his head, Twenti pound shall ye have of me for your mede.

THE POTTERS BOYE JACKE.

Out alas, that ever I sawe this daye ! For I am clene out of my waye From Notyngham towne ; If I hye me not the faster, Or I come there the market[342] wel be done.

ROBYN HODE.

Let me se, are thy[343] pottes hole and sounde ?

JACKE.

Yea, meister, but they will not breake the ground.

ROBYN HODE.

I wil them breke, for the cuckold thi maisters sake ; And if they will not breake the grounde, Thou shalt have thre pence for a pound.[344] {351}

JACKE.

Out alas ! what have ye done ? If my maister come, he will breke your crown.

THE POTTER.

Why, thou horeson, art thou here yet ? Thou shouldest have bene at markèt.

JACKE.

I met with Robin Hode, a good yemàn, He hath broken my pottes, And called you kuckolde by your name.

THE POTTER.

Thou mayst be a gentylman, so god me save, But thou semest a noughty knave. Thou callest me cuckolde by my name, And I swere by god and saynt John Wyfe had I never none. This cannot I denye, But if thou be a good felowe, I wil sel mi horse, mi harneis, pottes and paniers to, Thou shalt have the one halfe and I will have the other ; If thou be not so content, Thou shalt have stripes if thou were my brother.

ROBYN HODE.

Harke, potter, what I shall say : This seven yere and more thou hast used this way, {352} Yet were thou never so curteous to me, As one penny passage to paye.

THE POTTER.

Why should I paye passage to thee ?

ROBYN HODE.

For I am Robyn Hode, chiefe governoure Under the grene woode tree.

THE POTTER.

This seven yere have I used this way up and downe, Yet payed I passage to no man, Nor now I wyl not beginne, so do[345] the worst you can.

ROBYN HODE.

Passage shalt thou pai here under the grene-wode tre, Or els thou shalt leve a wedde[346] with me.

THE POTTER.

If thou be a good felowe, as men do the call, Lay awaye thy bowe, And take thy sword and buckeler in thy hande, And se what shall befall.

ROBYN HODE.

Lyttle John, where art thou ?

LYTELL [JOHN].

Here, mayster, I make god avowe. {353} I tolde you, mayster, so god me save, That you shoulde fynde the[347] potter a knave. Holde your buckeler fast in your hande, And I wyll styfly by you stande, Ready for to fyghte ; Be the knave never so stoute, I shall rappe him on the snoute, And put hym to flyghte.