“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 wager,

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.

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.”

“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.”

“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 tree.”

“Y had lever nar a hundred ponde,” seyde the screffe,
And swar be the trenite,
["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.”

“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,
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.”