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THE PLATE OF ROBTN HODE. 425
She is a trul of trust, to serve a frier at his lust,
A prycker, a prauncer, a terer of shetes,
A wagger of buttoekes when other men slepes.
Go home, ye knaves, and lay crabbes in the fyre,
For my lady and I wil daunce in the myre, 120
For veri pure joye.
Lysten, to [me], my mery men all,
And harke what I shall say;
Of an adventure I shall yon tell,
That befell this other daye.
With a proude potter I met,
And a rose garlande on his head,
The floures of it shone marvaylous freshe;
This seven yere and more he hath used this waye,
Yet was he never so curteyse a potter, iao
As one peny passage to paye.
Is there any of my mery men all
That dare be so bolde
To make the potter paie passage,
Either silver or golde'?
Not I master, for twenty pound redy tolde,
For there is not among us al one
That dare medle with that potter, man for man.
I felt his handes not long agone,
But I had lever have ben here by the, 110
Therfore I knowe what he is.
Mete him when ye wil, or mete him whan ye shal,
He is as propre a man as ever you medle withal.
I will lai with the, Litel John, twenti pound so read,
117, shefes, C.
118, ballockes, C.