Tudor ap Rhice, quoth his roundelay; She said that one widow for so many was too few, And she bade the Welshman wend his way. But then next came a yeoman, a yeoman of Kent , Jollily singing his roundelay; He spoke to the widow of living and rent, And where was the widow could say him nay? Both So the knight and the squire were both left in the mire, There for to sing their roundelay; For a yeoman of Kent, with his yearly rent, There never was a widow could say him nay.
“I would, Wamba,” said the knight, “that our host of the Trysting-tree, or the jolly Friar, his chaplain, heard this thy ditty in praise of our bluff yeoman.”
“So would not I,” said Wamba—“but for the horn that hangs at your baldric.”
“Ay,” said the Knight—“this is a pledge of Locksley’s goodwill, though I am not like to need it. Three mots on this bugle will, I am assured, bring round, at our need, a jolly band of yonder honest yeomen.”
“I would say, Heaven forefend,” said the Jester, “were it not that that fair gift is a pledge they would let us pass peaceably.”
“Why, what meanest thou?” said the Knight; “thinkest thou that but for this pledge of fellowship they would assault us?”
“Nay, for me I say nothing,” said Wamba; “for green trees have ears as well as stone walls. But canst thou construe me this, Sir Knight—When is thy wine-pitcher and thy purse better empty than full?”
“Why, never, I think,” replied the Knight.
“Thou never deservest to have a full one in thy hand, for so simple an answer! Thou hadst best empty thy pitcher ere thou pass it to a Saxon, and leave thy money at home ere thou walk in the greenwood.”