The screffes men schot foll fast, As archares that weren godde, Ther cam non ner ney the marke Bey halfe a god archares bowe. {90} 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 : Thow semyst[242] a stalward and a stronge, Asay schall thow be. The screffe comandyd 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 pottèr, 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. All they schot abowthe agen, The screffes men and he, Off the marke he welde not fayle, He cleffed the preke on thre. {91} The screffes men thowt gret schame, The potter the mastry wan ; 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.’[243] Yn mey cart y haffe a bowe, Forsoyt, he seyde, and that a godde ; Yn mey cart ys the bow That ‘I had of Robyn Hode.’[244] Knowest thow Robyn Hode ? seyde the screffe, Potter, y prey the tell thou me. “A hundred torne y haffe schot with hem, Under hes tortyll tre.” Y had lever nar a hundred ponde, seyde the screffe, And swar be the trenitè, [Y had lever nar a hundred ponde, he seyde,] 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. {92} Y well queyt the, kod the screffe, And swere be god of meythe.[245] Schetyng thay left, and hom they went, Her scoper was redey deythe. Upon the morow, when het was day, He boskyd hem forthe to reyde ; The potter hes carte forthe gan ray, And wolde not [be] leffe beheynde. He toke leffe of the screffys wyffe, And thankyd her of all thyng : “Dam, for mey loffe, and ye well thys wer, Y geffe yow her a golde ryng.” Gramarsey, seyde the weyffe, Sir, god eylde het the. The screffes hart was never so leythe, The feyr forest to se. And when he cam ynto the foreyst, Yonder the leffes grene, Berdys ther sange on bowhes prest, Het was gret goy to sene. Her het ys merey to be,[246] seyde Roben, For a man that had hawt to spende : Be mey horne ‘we’[247] schal awet Yeff Roben Hode be ‘ner hande.’ {93} Roben set hes horne to hes[248] mowthe, And blow a blast that was foll god, That herde hes men that ther stode, Fer[249] downe yn the wodde. I her mey master, seyde Leytyll John : They ran as thay wer wode. Whan thay to thar master cam, Leytell John wold not spar : “Master, how haffe yow far yn Notynggam ? Haffe[250] yow solde yowr war ?”