Judas answered first, With "Master, is it I?" Hang not thy head! What say'st thou to this charge?
Why, Friar Tuck Can answer for me. Do you think he cares Less for a woman's lips than I?
Cares less, Thou rotten radish? Nay, but a vast deal more! God's three best gifts to man,--woman and song And wine, what dost _thou_ know of all their joy? Thou lean pick-purse of kisses?
Take him out, Friar, and let him pack his goods and go, Whither he will. I trust the knave to thee And thy good quarter-staff, for some five minutes Before he says "Farewell."
Bring him along, Give him a quarter-staff, I'll thrash him roundly.
[_He goes out. Two of the FORESTERS follow with the prisoner. Others bring the ABBOT before ROBIN._]
Ah! Ha! I know him, the godly usurer Of York!
We saw a woman beg for alms, One of the sufferers by the rule which gave This portly Norman his fat priory And his abundant lands. We heard him say That he was helpless, had not one poor coin To give her, not a scrap of bread! He wears Purple beneath his cloak: his fine sleek palfrey Flaunted an Emperor's trappings!
Ay, look at it! There is your dignity! And you must wear Silk next your skin to show it. But there was one You call your Master, and He had not where To lay His head, save one of these same trees!
Do you blaspheme! I pray you, let me go! There are grave matters waiting. I am poor!
I have five marks In all the world, no more. I'll give them to you!
[_They pour a heap of gold out of his purse._]
Five marks, Indeed! Here's, at the least, a hundred marks in gold!
That is my fees, my fees; you must not take them!
The ancient miracle!--five loaves, two small fishes; And then--of what remained--they gathered up Twelve basketsful!
Abbot, I chance to know how this was wrought, This miracle; wrought with the blood, anguish and sweat Of toiling peasants, while the cobwebs clustered Around your lordly cellars of red wine. Give him his five and let him go.
The King Shall hear of this! The King will hunt you down!
Beseech you, sir, to rest, Your wound will--
What, another friend! Another master of broad territories. How many homes were burned to make you lord Of half a shire? What hath he in his purse?
Five loaves! And yet, of what remained, they gathered up Twelve basketsful. The bread of human kindness Goes far! Oh, I begin to see new meanings In that old miracle! How much? How much?