"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."200
To a quequer Roben went,
A god bolt owthe he toke;
So ney on to the marke he went,
He fayled not a fothe.
All they schot abowthe agen,205
The screffes men and he;
Off the marke he welde not fayle,
He cleffed the preke on thre.
The screffes men thowt gret schame,
The potter the mastry wan;210
The screffe lowe and made god game,
And seyde, "Potter, thow art a man;
Thow art worthey to ber a bowe,
Yn what plas that thow [gang]."
"Yn mey cart y haffe a bowe,215
Forsoyt," he seyde, "and that a godde;
Yn mey cart ys the bow
That [I had of Robyn Hode]."
"Knowest thow Robyn Hode?" seyde the screffe,
"Potter, y prey the tell thou me;"220
"A hundred torne y haffe schot with hem,
Under hes tortyll tree."
"Y had lever nar a hundred ponde," seyde the screffe,
And swar be the trenitè,
["Y had lever nar a hundred ponde," he seyde,]225
That the fals owtelawe stod be me.
"And ye well do afftyr mey red," seyde the potter,
"And boldeley go with me,
And to morow, or we het bred,
Roben Hode wel we se."230
"Y well queyt the," kod the screffe,
And swer be god of [meythe];
Schetyng thay left, and hom they went,
Her scoper was redey deythe.
Upon the morow, when het was day,235
He boskyd hem forthe to reyde;
The potter hes carte forthe gan ray,
And wolde not [be] leffe beheynde.