d kind, let me tell thee,
for it can only be gotten by boiling down a quart of moonbeams in a
wooden platter, and then one hath but a pinch. But tell me, now, thou
witty man, what hast thou gotten there in that pouch by thy side and in
that pottle?"

At these words the Cobbler looked down at those things of which merry
Robin spoke, for the thoughts of the golden bird had driven them from
his mind, and it took him some time to scrape the memory of them back
again. "Why," said he at last, "in the one is good March beer, and in
the other is a fat capon. Truly, Quince the Cobbler will ha' a fine
feast this day an I mistake not."

"But tell me, good Quince," said Robin, "hast thou a mind to sell those
things to me? For the hearing of them sounds sweet in mine ears. I will
give thee these gay clothes of blue that I have upon my body and ten
shillings to boot for thy clothes and thy leather apron and thy beer and
thy capon. What sayst thou, bully boy?"

"Nay, thou dost jest with me," said the Cobbler, "for my clothes are
coarse and patched, and thine are of fine stuff and very pretty."

"Never a jest do I speak," quoth Robin. "Come, strip thy jacket off and
I will show thee, for I tell thee I like thy clothes well. Moreover, I
will be kind to thee, for I will feast straightway upon the good things
thou hast with thee, and thou shalt be bidden to the eating." At these
words he began slipping off his doublet, and the Cobbler, seeing him so
in earnest, began pulling off his clothes also, for Robin Hood's garb
tickled his eye. So each put on the other fellow's clothes, and Robin
gave the honest Cobbler ten bright new shillings. Quoth merry Robin,
"I ha' been a many things in my life before, but never have I been an
honest cobbler. Come, friend, let us fall to and eat, for something
within me cackles aloud for that good fat capon." So both sat down and
began to feast right lustily, so that when they were done the bones of
the capon were picked as bare as charity.

Then Robin stretched his legs out with a sweet feeling of comfort within
him. Quoth he, "By the turn of thy voice, good Quince, I know that
thou hast a fair song or two running loose in thy head like colts in a
meadow. I prythee, turn one of them out for me."

"A song or two I ha'," quoth the Cobbler, "poor things, poor things, but
such as they are thou art welcome to one of them." So, moistening his
throat with a swallow of beer, he sang:

"_Of all the joys,