Tille the day was gon and evesong paste, That thai shulde reckyn thaire skot and thaire counts caste: 20 Perkyn the potter in to the prees paste, And seid, "Rondill the refe, a dozter thu haste, Tibbe thi dere. Therfor fayne wete wolde I,[L24-27] Whether these felows or I, 25 Or which of alle this bachelery, Were the best worthy to wed hir to his fere." Upsterte the gadlyngs with thaire lang staves, And seid, "Rondyll the refe, lo, this lad raves; How prudly among us thy dozter he craves; 30 And we ar richer men then he, and more gode haves, Off catell and of corne." Then seid Perkyn, "To Tibbe I have hyzt, That I will be alle wey redy in my rizt, With a fleyle for to fyght, this day seven nyzt,[L35-36] 35 And thouz hit were to morne."[L36] Then seid Rondill the refe, "Ever be he waryd That aboute this carpyng lenger wolde be taryd: I wolde not my dozter that she were myskaryd, But at hir moost worship I wolde she were maryd. 40 [Ther]ffor the turnament shalle begynne[L41] This day seven nyzt, With a flayle for to fyzt: And he that is moste of myzt Shalle brok hir with wynne. 45 "He that berys hym best in the turnament, Him shal be grauntid the gre be the comyn assent,[L47] Ffor to wynne my dozter with duztynesse of dent, And Coppull, my brode hen, that was brozt out of Kent, And my donned cow. 50 Ffor no spence will I spare, Ffor no catell wille I care; He shalle have my gray mare, And my spottyd sowe." Ther was mony a bolde lad theire bodys to bede: 55 Than thei toke theire leve and hamwarde thei zede, And alle the weke afterward thei graythed her wede, Tille hit come to the day that thei shulde do thaire dede. Thei armyd theym in mattes, Thei sett on theire nolles 60 Gode blake bolles, Ffor to kepe theire pollis Ffor batteryng of battes. Thei sewed hem in schepe skynnes, for thei shuld not brest, And everilkon of hem a blac hatte in stidde of a crest,[L65] 65 A baskett or a panyer before on thaire brest, And a flayle in theire honde; for to fyzt prest, Forth con thei fare. Ther was kid mycull fors, Who shulde best fend his cors; 70 He that hade no gode hors, Borowyd hym a mare.[L72]