As they sat at her methe,
With a nobell cher,
Two of the screffes men gan speke
Off a gret wagèr,
Was made the thother daye,
Off a schotyng was god and feyne,
Off forty shillings, the soyt to saye,
Who scholde thes wager wen.
Styll than sat thes prowde po,
Thos than thowt he;
“As y am a trow Cerstyn man,
Thes schotyng well y se.”
Whan they had fared of the best,
With bred and ale and weyne,
To the bottys they made them prest,
With bowes and boltys full feyne.
The screffes men schot foll fast,
As archares that weren godde;
Ther cam non ner ney the marke
Bey halfe a god archares bowe.
Stell then stod the prowde potter,
Thos than seyde he;
“And y had a bow, be the rode,
On schot scholde yow se.”
“Thow schall haffe a bow,” seyde the screffe,
“The best that thow well cheys of thre;
Thou semyst a stalward and a stronge,
Asay schall thow be.”
The screffe commandyd a yeman that stod hem bey
Affter bowhes to wende;
The best bow that the yeman browthe
Roben set on a stryng.
“Now schall y wet and thow be god,
And polle het op to they ner;”
“So god me helpe,” seyde the prowde potter,
“Thys ys bot rygzt weke ger.”
To a quequer Roben went,
A god bolt owthe he toke;
So ney on to the marke he went,
He fayled not a fothe.