Here Robin checked his steed. "Good friends," quoth he,
My daughter Gillian suggesteth:
Gill: That's rather good,
But, still, I should
In prose prefer the rest;
For if this fytte
Has love in it,
Prose is for love the best.
All ord'nary lovers, as every one knows,
Make love to each other much better in prose.
If, at last, our Sir Pertinax means to propose,
Why then--just to please me,
Father, prose let it be.
Myself: Very well, I agree!
Then said Robin, quoth he:
"Good friends, here are we safe!" And, checking his steed within this
pleasant shade, he dismounted.
"Safe, quotha?" said Sir Pertinax, scowling back over shoulder. "Not so!
Surely we are close pursued--hark! Yonder be horsemen riding at speed--ha,
we are beset!"
"Content you, sir!" answered Robin. "Think you I would leave behind good
booty? Yonder come ten noble coursers laden with ten goodly armours the
same won a-jousting to-day by this right wondrous Fool, my good gossip--"
"Thy gossip, forsooth!" snorted Sir Pertinax.
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