ROB.  H. Away, away! 
Forbear, my love; all this is but delay.

FITZ.  Come, maiden daughter, from my maiden son,
And give him leave to do what must be done.

ROB.  H. First, I bequeath my soul to all souls Sav’our,
And will my body to be buried
At Wakefield, underneath the abbey wall;
And in this order make my funeral. 
When I am dead, stretch me upon this bier! 
My beads and primer shall my pillow be;
On this side be my bow, my good shafts here;
Upon my breast the cross, and underneath
My trusty sword, thus fasten’d in the sheath. 
Let Warman’s body at my feet be laid,
Poor Warman, that in my defence did die. 
For holy dirges sing me woodmen’s songs,
As ye to Wakefield walk with voices shrill. 
This for myself.  My goods and plate I give
Among my yeomen:  them I do bestow
Upon my sovereign Richard.  This is all. 
My liege, farewell! my love, farewell, farewell! 
Farewell, fair Queen, Prince John, and noble lords! 
Father Fitzwater, heartily adieu! 
Adieu, my yeomen tall.  Matilda, close mine eyes. 
Friar, farewell! farewell to all!

MAT.  O, must my hands with envious death conspire
To shut the morning gates of my life’s light!

FITZ.  It is a duty and thy love’s desire! 
I’ll help thee, girl, to close up Robin’s sight.[287]

KING.  Laments are bootless, tears cannot restore
Lost life, Matilda; therefore weep no more: 
And since our mirth is turned into moan,
Our merry sport to tragic funeral,
We will prepare our power for Austria,
After Earl Robert’s timeless burial. 
Fall to your wood-songs, therefore, yeomen bold. 
And deck his hearse with flowers, that loved you dear: 
Dispose his goods as he hath them dispos’d. 
Fitzwater and Matilda, bide you here. 
See you the body unto Wakefield borne: 
A little we will bear ye company,
But all of us at London ’point to meet: 
Thither, Fitzwater, bring Earl Robin’s men;
And, Friar, see you come along with them.

FRIAR.  Ah, my liege lord! the Friar faints,
And hath no words to make complaints: 
But since he must forsake this place,
He will await, and thanks your grace.

    Song.

    Weep, weep, ye woodmen, wail,
    Your hands with sorrow wring;
    Your master Robin Hood lies dead,
    Therefore sigh as you sing.

Here lie his primer and his beads,
His bent bow and his arrows keen,
His good sword and his holy cross: 
Now cast on flowers fresh and green;

And as they fall, shed tears and say,
Wella, wella-day! wella, wella-day: 
Thus cast ye flowers and sing,
And on to Wakefield take your way_.

[Exeunt.

FRIAR.  Here doth the Friar leave with grievance;
Robin is dead, that graced his entrance,
And being dead, he craves his audience
With this short play they would have patience.[288]