Part 52

“Y grant therto,” seyde the potter, “Thow schalt feynde me a felow gode; But thow can sell mey pottes well, Come ayen as thow yode.”

“Nay, be mey trowt,” seyde Roben, “And then y bescro mey hede Yeffe y bryng eney pottes ayen, And eney weyffe well hem chepe.”

Than spake Leytell John, And all hes felowhes heynd, “Master, be well war of the screffe of Notynggam, For he ys leytell howr frende.”

“Heyt war howte,” seyde Roben, “Felowhes, let me alone; Thorow the helpe of howr ladey, To Notynggam well y gon.”

Robyn went to Notynggam, Thes pottes for to sell; The potter abode with Robens men, Ther he fered not eylle.

Tho Roben droffe on hes wey, So merey ower the londe: Heres mor and affter ys to saye, The best ys beheynde.

WHEN Roben cam to Netynggam, The soyt yef y scholde saye, He set op hes horse anon, And gaffe hem hotys and haye.

Yn the medys of the towne, Ther he schowed hes war; “Pottys! pottys!” he gan crey foll sone, “Haffe hansell for the mar.”

Foll effen agenest the screffeys gate Schowed he hes chaffar; Weyffes and wedowes abowt hem drow, And chepyd fast of hes war.

Yet, “Pottys, gret chepe!” creyed Robyn, “Y loffe yeffell thes to stonde;” And all that saw hem sell, Seyde he had be no potter long.

The pottys that wer werthe pens feyffe, He sold tham for pens thre; Preveley seyde man and weyffe, “Ywnder potter schall never the.”

Thos Roben solde foll fast, Tell he had pottys bot feyffe; On he hem toke of his car, And sende hem to the screffeys weyffe.

Therof sche was foll fayne, “Gramarsey, sir,” than seyde sche; “When ye com to thes contre ayen, Y schall bey of they pottys, so mot y the.”

“Ye schall haffe of the best,” seyde Roben, And swar be the treneytè; Foll corteysley she gan hem call, “Com deyne with the screfe and me.”

“Godamarsey,” seyde Roben, “Yowr bedyng schalle be doyn;” A mayden yn the pottys gan ber, Roben and the screffe weyffe folowed anon.

Whan Roben ynto the hall cam, The screffe sone he met; The potter cowed of corteysey, And sone the screffe he gret.

“Loketh what thes potter hayt geffe yow and me; Feyffe pottys smalle and grete!” “He ys fol wellcom,” seyd the screffe, “Let os was, and go to mete.”

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.

All they schot abowthe agen, The screffes men and he; Off the marke he welde not fayle, He cleffed the preke on thre.