In merry Mansfield, on a wrestling day,
Prizes there were, and yeomen came to play;
My brother Scarlet and myself were twain.
Many resisted, but it was in vain,
For of them all we won the mastery,
And the gilt wreaths were given to him and me.
There by Sir Doncaster of Hothersfield
We were bewray'd, beset, and forc'd to yield,
And so borne bound from thence to Nottingham,
Where we lay doom'd to death till Warman came.
ROB. H. Of that enough. What cheer, my dearest love?
MUCH. O, good cheer anon, sir; she shall have venison her bellyful.
MAT. Matilda is as joyful of thy good
As joy can make her: how fares Robin Hood?
ROB. H. Well, my Matilda, and if thou agree,
Nothing but mirth shall wait on thee and me.
MAT. O God, how full of perfect mirth were I
To see thy grief turn'd to true jollity!
ROB. H. Give me thy hand; now God's curse on me light,
If I forsake not grief, in griefs despite.
Much, make a cry, and, yeomen, stand ye round:
I charge ye never more let woful sound
Be heard among ye; but whatever fall,
Laugh grief to scorn, and so make sorrow small,
Much, make a cry, and loudly: Little John.
MUCH. O God, O God! help, help, help! I am undone, I am undone!
LIT.
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