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Mekyll and littill, olde and yynge,
Herkyns all to my talkynge
Of whaym I will yow kythe.
Jhesu fadir of heven kynge,
Gyff us all thy dere blyssynge
And make us glade and blythe.
For full sothe sawis I will yow synge,
Off whaym the worde full wyde gan sprynge, 1
And ye will a stownde me lythe.
In the bukes of Rome als it es tolde
How byfelle amange oure eldyrs olde,
Full ofte and fele sythe.
Somtym byffell ane aventure,
In Rome ther was ane Emperoure,
Als men in romance rede.
He was a man of grete favoure
And levede in joye and grete honoure
And doghety was of dede.
In tornament nor in no fyghte
In the werlde ther ne was a better knyghte,
No worthier undir wede.
Octovyane was his name thrughowte;
Everylke man hade of hym dowte
When he was armede one stede.
Ane Emprice he hade to wyffe,
One of fayreste that was one lyffe,
Thus thies clerkes sayne us so;
Seven yeres had thay samen bene
With joy and gamen tham bytwene,
And other myrthis moo;
The seven yere were comen and gone,
Bot child togedir had thay none
Getyn bytwene tham two,
That after tham thair land moghte welde,
When that thay drewe till elde:
And forthi tham in hert tham was full woo.
And als the Emperoure satt appon a daye,
In his chambir hym to playe
With his lady bryghte,
He byhelde hir faire lyre,
Was whyte so blossome on the brere,
That semly was of syghte.
A sorow than to his herte ther ranne
Forthi that thay childir hade nanne
Thaire landis to rewle one ryghte.
And by his lady so als he satte,
For sorowe his chekes wexe all wate,
That was so hende a knyghte.
Bot when the lady that gan aspye,
All chaunged than hir bryghte blyee
And scho syghede full sore.
Scho felle hir lorde one knees agayne,
And of his sorow scho gan hym frayne,
And of hs mekyll care.
"Sir," scho sais, "if it were your will
Youre concelle for to schewe me till
And of your lyffes fare,
Ye wote I ame youre werldes fere,
Opyn your herte unto me here,
Youre comforthe may be the mare."
Than in his armes he gan hir folde
And all his sorow he to hir tolde
And all his hertis wonde.
"Now hafe we seven yere sammen bene
And hafe no chylde us bytwene,
For fay we sall hythen fownde,
And I ne wote how this land sall fare
Bot lyfe in werre and in kare
When we are broghte to grownde.
Therefore I hafe so mekyll thoghte
That when I am to bedde broghte
I slepe bot littill stownde."
And than answerde that lady bryghte,
"Sir I kan rede yow full ryghte,
Gyffe yow nothynge ill.
A ryche abbaye schall ye do make
For oure swete lady sake,
And landis gyffe theretill,
And scho will pray hir Son so fayre
That we may samen gete an ayere,
This land to welde with skyll."
An abbaye than he gerte wyrke so
And sone he gatt knave childire two,
Als it was Goddis will.
With childe thane yode that lady thore;
Full grete scho wexe with paynnes sore,
That was so faire and free.
Till the tym felle that it was soo,
The lady hade knave childir two
That semly weren to see.
Tythande come to the Emperoure
There he laye in his ryche towre;
A full glade man was hee.
Two maydynes hym the bodworde broghte -
Withowttyn gyftes yede thay noghte:
Aythire hadde townnes three.
The Emperoure rosse with mylde mode
And till his chambir he hym yode
And thankes God His sande.
Erly are the daye gan sprynge,
He did a pryste his messe to synge;
His modir thore he fande.
"Sone," scho said, "I am full blythe
That the Empryse sall haf hyre lyfe
And lyffe with us in lande,
Bot mekyll sorowe dose it me
That Rome sall wrange ayerde bee
And in uncouthe hande."
"Modir," he sayse, "why saye ye soo?
Haffe I noghte knave-childir two?
I thanke it Goddes will."
"Nay certis" scho said, "sone myn,
Wete thou wele thay are noghte thyn,
And that lykes me full ill.
For thou myghte no childir have,
Scho hase takyn thy kokes knave;
I will it prove thurgh skyll."
A sorowe there to his herte gan goo
That wordis moghte he speke no moo
But yod awaye full still.
Till his chapelle forthe he yode;
Full sory at his messe he stode
Als man that was in kare.
His modir iwhils garte calle a knave
And highte hym grete gyftis to hafe,
A thowsande pownde or mare.
To the chambir bothe thay tuk the waye
There the Empryce in childbed laye;
All slepede that were there,
For scho had wakyd ryghte longe
In paynes and in thoghte full strange
Or scho delyvered ware.
Than said that lady to that knave,
"Hye the faste, the golde to hafe;
Thou schall be rewarde this nyghte.
Haste the tyte with all thi myghte,
Prevely that thou were dyghte
And that thou were unclede.
Softely by hir thou in crepe
That scho ne wakyn of hir slepe,
For full seke es scho bystadde."
Whatte for lufe and whatt for drede,
Into the ladyes beedd he yede;
He dyd als scho hym badd.
Bot ever he droghe hym ferre awaye
For the rechese that scho in laye,
Full sore than was he drade.
The Emperours modir away yode than
And till hir son full tite scho wan
There he att his messe stode.
"Son," scho saide, "thou trowed noghte me;
Come forthe, thou sall the sothe now see."
With hir to chambir he yode.
Bot when the Emperoure sawe that syghte,
For sorowe no worde speke he ne myghte,
For he wexe nerhande wode.
A scharpe baselarde owte he droghe;
That giltles knave there he sloghe -
Alle was byblede with blode.
Ay lay that lady faste and slepee
A dolefull swevenynge gan scho mete;
Scho was a wofull wyghte.
Hir thoghte scho was in wyldyrnes,
In thornes and in thyknes,
That scho myghte hafe no syghte.
And ther come flyande over the strande
A dragon all full bryghte birnande,
That all schone of that lyghte.
In his palmes alle byrnand so
Up he tuke hir childir two
And away he tuke his flyghte.
Therewith the lady bygan to wake,
A dolefull gronyng gan scho make
And scho syghede full sare.
The Emperour to the knave wente;
The hede up by the hare he hente
And caste it till hir thare.
The lady blyschede up in the bedde;
Scho saw the clothes all byblede -
Full mekyll was hir care.
Scho bygan to skryke and crye
And sythen in swonynge for to ly;
Hirselfe scho wolde forfare.
Wordis of this were spoken no mo
To that lady to the kirke solde go,
Als the lawe was in that lede.
The Emperoure made a full riche feste
Of kynges and dukes that were honeste,
Of many and dyverse stede.
The kynge of Calabre, allas,
That the lady fadir was,
Thedir than gan he bede.
Alle were thay sampnede appon a daye
With grete solace and mekill playe;
To the kyrke that lady yede.
And there duellyn the kynges samen
With joy and myrthe and mekill gamen
At that mawngery,
With gud myrthis tham emange,
Harpes, fethils and full faire songe,
Cytoles and sawtrye,
Till the sevenyghte was gone,
With alkyn welthis in that wone
Of myrthis and mynstralsye.
Was never so riche a gedirynge
That hadd so sary a partynge,
I sall yow tell for why.
Grete dole forsothe it es to telle,
Oppon the haghten daye byfell;
Herkyns and ye may here.
The Emperoure to the chambir yode,
All the lordes abowte hym stode
With full mery chere.
The Emperoure said, "I undirstande
Swylke an awnter fell in this lande
By a lady to yere
That was overtaken with swylk a treson.
I aske juggement of this with reson
Of hir whate worthy were."
When the Emperoure his tale hade tolde,
The kyng of Calabire answere wolde,
He ne wyste whate it bement.
He said: "It es worthi for hir sake,
Withowtten the ceté a fyre to make
With rightwyse juggement,
And when the fyre es byrnand faste,
Hir and hir childir in it to caste,
Till thay to the dede be bryntte."
The Emperoure answeres to hym sone,
"Thyn awen dogheter hase it done,
I holde to thyn assent."
There was dole and grete peté;
A fyre thay made withowtten the ceté,
With brondes byrnande bryghte.
To the fyre thay ledde that lady thare;
Two sqwyers hir childir bare,
That semly weren of syghte.
In a kirtyll of sckarlett rede
Into the fyre to take hir dede
All redy was scho dyghte.
The kynge of Calabire made evyll chere,
He ne myghte for sorowe stande hir nere.
Bothe wepede kynge and knyghte.
The lady than, the sothe to telle,
Byfore hir lorde one knees scho felle
And bothe hir handes uphelde.
Scho sayde, "My lorde, for Jhesu sake,
Graunt me ane orysoune to make
Till Hym that alle sall wellde,
And then of me ye do youre wyll,
The dede that I am ordeynede till
Therto I will me yelde."
The Emperoure graunted hir righte so,
Ilke a man than was full woo
That were that day in the felde.
Than the lady hir one knes there sette,
Till Jhesu Cryste full sore scho grette;
No wondir thoghe hir ware wo.
"Now Lorde," scho sayd, "of hevens blysse,
This day thou me rede and wysse,
And heven qwene also.
Mary, mayden and modir free,
My prayere make I to the
For my childir two:
Als thou lete tham be borne of me
Helpe that thay crystoned may be,
Or that thay to the dede goo."
Than lordis that abowte hyr ware
And laydes felle in swonyng thore,
And knyghttes stode wepande.
The Emperoure stode by hyr full nere;
The teris trykylde one his lyre
That wele nere ne myghte he stande.
Than spake he wordis of gret peté
And sayde, "Thi dede will I noghte see,
With herte nor yitt with hande."
The Emperoure gafe hire leve to goo
And take with hir hir childir two,
And flemed hir of his lande.
The Emperoure gafe hir fowrty pownde
Of florence, that were riche and rownde,
In romance als we rede.
And he bytaghte hir knyghtes two
And bad that thay solde with hir goo
Owt of his lande to lede.
Two sqwyers hir childir bare
In stede ther thay were never are,
And intill uncouthe thede.
When scho was flemyd that was so gent,
Ilke a lorde to hys lande es went,
For sorow thaire hertes gan blede.
When this lady was in a wyldirnes
That full thyke of wylde bestes bysett was,
And all wylsom it semed to syghte.
Thay hir bytaghte hir childir two,
Gafe hir hir golde and bad hir go;
A stye ther laye full ryghte.
They bade hir holde the hye strete,
For drede with whilde bestes to mete,
That mekill weren of myghte;
And agayne thay went with sory mode,
And allone that lady, forthe scho yode,
Als a full wafull wyghte.
Scho hade so wepede ther byforne
That scho the ryghte way hase sone forlorne,
So mekill was hir thoghte.
And into a wode, was ferly thykke,
There dales weren depe and cleves wykke;
The ryghte waye fonde scho noghte.
In a greve undir ane hill
Scho found a welle full faire and schille,
And ane herbere therby was wroghte.
With faire trees it was bysette,
The lady sett hir down and grette,
For ferrere scho ne moghte.
Bot by the welle scho sett hir down;
Scho gret and cryede with sory sown,
For scho was lefte allone.
"Now Lorde," scho said, "if it be Thi will,
In this wode late me nott spylle
For full will I am of wone.
Mary mayden, qwene of heven,
I pray the herkyn to my steven
And mend my carefull mone.
So full I am of pyn and wo
That thre dayes es gon and mo,
That mete ne ete I none."
And by that scho had hir childir dyghte,
By that than wexe it even myrk nyghte
Als scho satt by the welle.
So in that herbere down scho laye
Till it was lyghte on the tother day,
That fowlles herde scho than synge and yelle.
Thare come an ape to seke hir pray;
Hir one childe scho bare awaye
Up heghe appon ane hyll.
What wondir was yif hir were wo
When hir child was fro hir so?
In swonynge doun scho felle.
And in all the sorow that scho in was,
Ryghte so com rynnande a lyones
Of wode als scho wolde wede.
In swonynnge als the lady laye,
Hyr other childe scho bare awaye,
Hir whelpes with to feede.
Whate wonndir was thofe hyr were wo,
Awaye were borne hir childir two;
In swoghe scho lay for drede.
Bot for it was a kynge sone iwysse,
The lyones moghte do it no mys,
Bot forthe therwith scho yede.
There come a fewle full faire of flyghte,
A gryffone, sayse the buke, he hyghte,
Over those holtes so hare.
The fewle than was so mekill of myghte,
That esyly myghte he bere a knyghte
Alle armed thofe he ware.
The lyones with the childe tuke he,
And intill ane ile of the see
The gryffone bothe tham bare.
The child slepid in the lyones mouthe,
Of wele ne wo it ne kouthe,
Bot God kepid it fro kare.
And whane the lyones gatt fote on lande,
Full styfly than gan scho up stande,
Als beste bothe stronge and whilde.
The gryffone thurgh Goddis grace scho sloghe,
And of that fewle scho ete ynoghe
And layde hir by that childe.
The childe sowkyde the lyones,
Als it Goddis will was,
When it the pappes felide.
The lyones gan it wake
And lufe it for hir whelpes sake
And was therwith full mylde.
With hir feet scho made a dene,
That lyttill childe in broghte scho then
And kepede hym day and nyghte.
And ay, when hir hungirde sore,
Scho yode and ete of the gryffone more,
That are was mekill of myghte.
And thus, als it was Goddis will,
The lyones byleves thore styll
With that barne so bryghte.
The lady that was leved allone,
To Jhesu Criste scho made hir mone
Als a full wofull wyghte.
Scho sais, "Jhesu, kyng of alle,
With carefulle herte to the I calle,
That thou be my socoure.
Als I was kyngis dogheter and qwene
And Emprice of Rome hase bene
And many a riche towre.
And thorowe the lessynges es one me wroghte
Till mekill sorow thus am I broghte,
And owte of myn honoure.
This werldes blysse hafe I forlorne,
And my two childir er fro me borne;
This lyfe may I noghte dowre!
"This sorowe, Lorde, that I am in,
Full wele I wote, es for my syn;
Welcome be alle Thi sande.
To the werlde will I me never gyffe,
Bot serve The, Lorde, whills I may lyfe,
Into the Holy Londe."
And over an hille the waye scho name
And to the Grekkes se scho came
And welke appon the strande.
And byfore hir an haven scho seghe
And a ceté with towris full heghe;
A redy waye ther scho fand.
Whan the lady com than to that town,
A schipe scho fond all redy bowne
With pylgremes for to fare.
Scho badd the schipmen golde and fee
In that schipp that scho moghte be,
If that thaire willes it were.
A bote thay sente appone the flode
To the lady right ther scho stode,
A wyghte man in hir bare.
And by the maste thay badde hir sytt,
There myghte no man hir sorowe wete
And ay scho wepede sare.
The schippe come sayland by an ile syde,
The mayster badd that thay sold byde,
"For fresche water hafe we nane."
Bysyde tham was a roche on hye,
A welle streme thare thay see
Come rynnande over a stone.
Two men to the lande thay sent,
Heghe upe ovir that roche thay went;
The welle thay found anone.
The lyones laye in hir dene
And was full blythe of tho two men,
And full son scho hade tham slayne.
So lange one ankir gan thay ryde,
Thies two men for to habyde,
Till none was of the daye.
Than gan twelve men tham dyghte
With helme and with hawberke bryghte,
And till the lande wente thay.
The lyones fonde thay in hir dene,
A knave childe laye sowkand hir then
And gan with the lyones to playe.
Umwhile the childe sowkede hir pappe,
Umwhile gan thay kysse and clappe;
For drede thay fledde awaye.
Thay tolde the wondir that thay seghe,
And that thay fonde on the roche on heghe
A lyones in hir den.
A knave childe ther in laye,
Therewith the lyones gan hir playe,
And dede were bothe thaire men.
Than spake that lady so mylde,
"Mercy, syrris, that es my childe -
One land ye late me rynn."
A bote thay sett appon the flode,
The lady unto the lande ther yode,
Full sore wepide thay then.
When scho com on that roche on heghe,
Scho ran ywhils that scho myght dreghe
With full sory mode.
The lyones thurgh Goddis grace,
When scho sawe the lady face,
Full debonorly up sche stode.
Thurgh the myghte of Mary mylde
Scho sufferd that lady to tak hir childe
And scho forthe with hir yode;
Bot when the schippmen the lyones seghe,
The land durste thay noghte com neghe;
For drede thay were nere wode.
Sum hent an ore and som a sprete,
The wylde lyones for to mete,
And thaire chippe for to werre.
The lady intill thair chippe thay hente;
Thritty fote after the lyones sprent -
Durste no man in hir bere.
There was than bot lyttill glee,
For many lepped into the see,
So ferde of hir thay were;
Bot by the lady downe scho laye
And with the childe bygan to playe
And to no man wolde scho dere.
They droghe up saile of riche hewe,
The wynd tham owte of haven blewe
Over that wan streme.
The fyrste lande than that thay seghe,
Was a ceté with towres full heghe
That hyghte Jerusalem.
Als blythe were thay than of that syghte
Als es the fowlles, when it es lighte,
Of the dayes gleme.
When it was ebbe and no flode,
The lady to the lande than yode,
Into that riche rewme.
Over all the ceté wyde and longe
Of that lady the worde than spronge,
That thore one lande was lente,
And how scho hade a lyones
Broghte owte of wyldirnes.
The kyng after hir sente;
He bad scho solde lett for no thynge
And the lyones with hir brynge.
To the castelle es scho went.
When scho byfore the kynge ther come,
He kende hir for the Emprice of Rome
And by the hande he hir hente.
The kyng than frayned of hir fare;
Scho tolde hym of hir mekill care
And of hir grete unryghte.
He garte hir duelle with the qwene stille,
Scho hadd maydyns redy to will
To serve hir bothe daye and nyghte.
The childe that was so faire and fre,
The kyng did it crystened for to be.
Octovyane it highte.
When the childe was of elde
That he couthe ryde and armes welde,
The kyng dubbede hym to knyghte.
The lyones that was so wilde,
Belefte with the lady and the childe;
Hir comforthe was the more.
The lady byleved with the qwene
With joye and blysse tham bytwene,
To covyre hir of hir care.
Ilke man hir plesyde day and nyghte
To make hir glade with alle thair myghte,
Unto hir better were.
In Jerusalem thus gan scho duelle;
Of hir other childe now will I telle,
That the ape away bare.
Now comes the ape that was wilde
Thurgh the forest with the childe
Over the holttis so hare.
Als the ape come over a strete,
With a knyghte so gan scho mete,
Als scho the childe bare.
Thore faghte the knyght wondirly longe
Agayne the ape styffe and stronge,
His swerde so brake he there.
The ape leved the childe and away ran,
The knyght the child son up wan
And with it forthe gan fare.
Forthe with the child the knyght went than,
In the wode mett he owtlawes tene,
That mekill weryn of myghte.
Yitt was never the knyghte so wo,
For his swerde was brokyn in two,
That he myghte nothyng fyghte.
If all the knyghte were kene and thro,
Those owtlawes wan the child hym fro,
That was so swete a wyghte.
The knyghte was wondid, forsothe to saye,
Unnethes his horse bare hym awaye,
So dulefully was he dyghte.
Those outlawes sett tham on a grene,
The child thay laide tham bytwene,
And it faste on tham loghe.
The mayster owtlawe spake then,
"Grete schame it were for hardy men,
If thay a childe sloghe.
I rede we bere it here besyde
To the se with mekill pride,
And do we it no woghe;
It es comyn of gentill blode;
We sall hym selle for mekill gude,
For golde and sylver enoghe."
Two owtlawes than made tham yare,
To the Grekkes se thay it bare;
Thay couthe the way full ryghte.
It was no man that it seghe
That thay ne wepid with thaire eghe
So faire it was of syghte.
A burgesse of Pareche com than nere
Had bene a palmere seven yere;
Clement the Velayne he hyghte.
"Sirris," he said, "will ye this child selle,
The golde will I for hym telle,
Florence bothe brode and bryghte."
For fourty pound hym selle thay wolde.
He said, "Full lange may ye hym halde,
Are ye hym so selle may.
Gode men," he said, "be my hode,
I trowe ye kan ful littill gude,
Swilke wordis for to saye!
Golde and silver es me bot nede,
Bot twentty pownd I will yow bede
And mak yow redy paye."
The childe thay unto Clement yolde,
And twentty pownde he tham tolde
And went forthe one his waye.
Clement hase the childe boghte,
A payneyere did he to be wroghte,
The childe in forthe to lede.
A noresche gatt he hym also,
Into Fraunce with hym to go,
That yong childe for to fede.
Home he tuke the way ful ryghte
And hastede hym with all his myghte,
And unto Paresche he yede.
The burgesche of Paresche wer ful fayne,
Full many went Clement agayne;
A slavyne was his wede.
Thay haylsest Clement and kyssed hym alle
And broghte hym till his awen haulle.
His wyfe was glade and blythe.
Scho hym fraynede the ryght dome
How he to the childe come;
He tolde hir also swythe:
"In the Holy Lond I hym gatt,
And thore I wold hym noghte lett,
The sothe I will the kythe."
His wyfe ansuerde with herte mylde,
"He sall be myn awen childe."
Scho kyste hym ful ofte sythe.
Clement saide to his wyfe tho,
"Sen the childe es getyn so
In the hethen thede,
And now es it to this land broghte,
I pray the, dame, that thou greve the noghte,
And riche sall be thi mede."
"Sir," scho said with wordis free,
"Full welecom es it unto me.
Full faire sall I hym fede
And yeme hym with oure awen child,
To that he come of helde,
And clothe tham in one wede."
Clement was therof full blythe,
He garte crysten the child ful swythe;
It was not duellid that nyghte.
And als it es in romance tolde,
The right name that thay it callde,
Florent the child hyghte.
And when the child was seven yere olde
He was bothe wysse, faire, and bolde,
The man that redis righte.
Alle the rewme wyde and longe
Worde of the childe spronge,
So was he faire to syghte.
Ever the burgesse and his wyfe
Loffed the childe als thaire lyfe,
With tham he was full dere.
When he was tuelve yere olde and more,
He sett his owun son to the lore 2
To be a chawndelere.
And Florent bytaughte he oxen two
And bad hym over the bryge go
Unto a bouchere,
To lere his crafte for to do.
Als hym was never of kynd therto,
To use swylke mystere.
Als Florent over the brygge gan go,
Dryvand on his oxen two,
A semely syghte sawe he:
A sqwyere bare, als I yow telle,
A gentill fawcon for to selle,
That semly was to see.
Florent to the sqwyere yede
And bothe his oxen he gan hym bede
For that fowle so fre.
The sqwyere therof was full glade,
He tuke the oxen als he hym bade,
Florent was blythe in ble.
The squyer therof was full gladd
When he tho oxen taken had
And hyed owt of syght.
And Florent to fle was full fayne -
He wende he wolde have had hys hawk agayne
And ranne wyth all hys myght.
Home he toke the ryght way
To Clements hows as hyt lay,
And yn he wente full ryght.
He fedde the hawke whyll he wolde,
And sythen he can hys fedurs folde
As the squyer had hym teyght.
Clement came yn full sone;
"Thefe, where haste thou my oxen done,
That Y the begyfte?"
Grete dele myght men see thore;
Clement bete the chylde sore,
That was so swete a wyght.
"Wyth odur mete shalt thou not leve
But that thys glede wyll the yeve,
Neythur day ne nyght."
As sore beton as the chylde stode,
Yyt he to the fawcon yode,
Hys fedurs for to ryght.
The chylde thoght wondur thore
That Clement bete hym so sore,
And mekely he can pray.
"Syr," he seyde, "for Crystys ore,
Leve and bete me no more,
But ye wyste well why.
Wolde ye stonde now and beholde
How feyre he can hys fedurs folde,
And how lovely they lye,
Ye wolde pray God wyth all your mode
That ye had solde halfe your gode,
Soche anodur to bye."
The burgeys wyfe besyde stode,
Sore sche rewyd yn hur mode
And seyde, "Syr, thyn ore.
For Mary love, that maydyn mylde,
Have mercy on owre feyre chylde
And bete hym no more.
Let hym be at home and serve us two,
And let owre odur sonys go
Eche day to lore.
Soche grace may God for the chylde have wroght,
To a bettur man he may be broght
Than he a bocher were!"
Aftur all thys tyme befelle
Clement forty pownde can telle
Into a pawtenere.
Clement toke hyt chylde Florent
And to the brygge he hym sente,
Hys brothur hyt to bere.
As the chylde thorow the cyté of Parys yede,
He sye where stode a feyre stede,
Was stronge yn eche werre.
The stede was whyte as any mylke,
The brydyll reynys were of sylke,
The molettys, gylte they were.
Florent to the stede can gone;
So feyre an hors sye he never none
Made of flesche and felle.
Of wordys the chylde was wondur bolde
And askyd whedur he schoulde be solde,
The penyes he wolde hym telle.
The man hym lovyd for thirty pownde,
Eche peny hole and sownde,
No lesse he wolde hym selle.
Florent seyde, "To lytull hyt were,
But never the less thou schalt have more."
Forty pownde he can hym telle.
The merchaund therof was full blythe
For to take the money swythe,
And hastyd hym away.
Chylde Florent lepe up to ryde,
To Clementys hows wyth grete pryde
He toke the ryght way.
The chylde soght noon odur stalle,
But sett hys stede yn the halle
And gave hym corne and haye.
And sethyn he can hym kembe and dyght
That every heer lay aryght
And nevyr oon wronge lay.
Clement comyth yn full sone:
"Thefe," he seyde, "what haste thou done?
What haste thou hedur broght?"
"Mercy, fadur, for Goddys peté
Wyth the money that ye toke me,
Thys horse have y boght."
The burges wyfe felle on kne thore,
"Syr, mercy," sche seyde, "for Crystys ore,
Owre feyre chylde bete ye noght.
Ye may see, and ye undurstode,
That he had never kynde of thy blode
That he these werkys hath wroght."
Aftur thys hyt was not longe,
In Fraunce felle a werre stronge,
An hundred thousande were there ylente.
Wyth schyldys brode and helmys bryght,
Men that redy were to fyght,
Thorowowt the londe they went.
They broke castels stronge and bolde,
Ther myght no hye wallys them holde,
Ryche townys they brente.
All the kyngys, ferre and nere,
Of odur londys that Crysten were,
Aftur were they sente.
Octavyon, the Emperour of Rome,
To Parys sone he come
Wyth many a mody knyght.
And othur kynges kene wyth crowne,
All they were to batell bowne
Wyth helmys and hawberkys bryght.
In Parys a monyth the oost lay,
For they had takyn a day
Wyth the Sowdon moche of myght.
The Sowdon wyth hym a gyaunt broght;
The realme of Fraunce durste noght
Agenste hym to fyght.
The Sowdon had a doghtur bryght,
Marsabelle that maydyn hyght,
Sche was bothe feyre and fre;
The feyrest thynge alyve that was
In crystendome or hethynnes,
And semelyest of syght.
To the kynge of Fraunce the maydyn sende
To lye at Mountmertrous there nerehonde,
From Parys mylys thre.
At Mountmertrous besyde Borogh Larayn,
That stondyth over the banke of Sayne,
For aventours wolde sche see.
The kyng of Fraunce the maydyn hyght,
As he was trewe kyng and knyght,
And swere hur be hys fay
That she must savely come therto;
Ther schulde no man hur mysdo
Neythur be nyght ne day.
The mayde therof was full blythe;
To the castell sche went swythe
And seven nyghtes there sche lay.
For sche thoght joye and pryde
To see the Crystyn knyghtes ryde,
On fylde them for to play.
. . . . .
"Merveylle therof thynkes mee,
If thou and alle thi men will blyn,
I will undirtake to wynn
Paresche, that stronge ceté;
Bot Mersabele than weedde I will."
Sayd the Sowdanne, "I halde thertill
With thi, that it so bee."
Arageous, appon that same daye
To the Mount Martyn ther the lady laye,
The waye he tuke full ryghte.
And hir hade lever dede to hafe bene
Than hym in hir chambir to hafe sene,
So fulle he was of syghte.
He sayse, "Leman, kysse me belyve,
Thy lorde me hase the graunte to wyefe,
And Paresche I hafe hym hyghte.
And I hete the witterly
The kynges hevede of Fraunce, certanely,
Tomorowe or it be nyghte."
The mayden sayse with mylde mode
To the geaunte, ther he stode,
And gaffe hym this answere:
"The kynges hevede if thou me brynge,
Than sall thou hafe thyne askynge,
For full lefe to me it were."
Thane armede the geaunt hym ful wele
Bothe in iryn and in stele,
With helme and schelde and spere.
It was twenty fote and twoo
Bytwyxe his crown and his too,
There myghte none horse hym bere.
The geaunte tuke the ryghte waye
Unto Paresche that ilke daye,
With hym wente no moo.
He lenede hym over the towne walle,
And thus he spake the folke withalle
Wordis kene and throo.
He badde thay solde send owte a knyghte
That myghte hym fynde his fill of fyghte,
Ore he that londe wolde overgoo.
Therin solde he nother leve one lyffe,
Beste ne man, childe ne wyffe,
That he ne sold tham bryne and sloo.
Than all the folke of that ceté
Rane the geaunte for to see,
At the bretage thare he stode.
Bot als ferre als thay myghte hym se or ken,
Faste awaywarde gan thay ryn;
For ferde thay were nere wode.
There wente owte armede knyghtes fyve
And sayd thay wolde aventure thair lyfe;
The geaunt thoghte it gode.
Full hastyly he hase tham slayne.
Skapede never one qwykke agayne,
That owte unto hym yode.
When he had slayne the knyghtes fyve,
Agayne to the walles gan he dryve
And over the bretage gan lye.
"Kynge Dagaberde of Fraunce," he sayde,
"Come thiselfe and fyghte abrayde
For thi curtasye!
For I will with none other fyghte:
Thi hevede I hafe my leman highte;
Scho salle me kysse with thi.
And if thou ne will noghte do so,
Alle this ceté I will overgo;
Als dogges than sall thay dy!"
Grette dole it was than for to see
The sorowe that was in that ceté,
Bothe with olde and yonge.
For ther was nother kynge ne knyghte
That with that geaunt than durste fyghte,
He was so foulle a thynge.
And ay iwhills Arageous with his staffe
Many a grete bofete he gaffe
And the walles downe gan he dynge.
And than gane alle the pepille crye
Unto God and to mylde Marye
With sorowe and grete wepynge.
Florent than askede his fadir Clement
Whate alle that spetous noyes than ment,
And whedir the folke so faste ren.
Clement saide: "My dere sone,
A geaunte to the walles es wonne,
Hase slayne fyve of oure men.
Oure kynges hede hase he highte
The Sowdan dogheter that es so bryghte,
For scho solde kysse hym then.
There es no man dare with hym fyghte;
Forthi my dere sone, hase he tyghte
This ceté to breke and brynne."
"Now fadir," he sayde, "I hafe a stede,
Wanttes me no thynge bot wede -
Nowe helpes that I were dyghte.
A, lorde, why ever thus many men hym drede?
Me thynke I myghte do alle his nede
And I were armed ryghte."
Sayse Clement, "And thou therof speke,
I trow I sall thyn hede breke,
For had thou of hym a syghte,
For all this ceté nolde thou habyde,
Bot faste awaywarde wold thou ryde,
He es so fowle a wyghte!"
"A, fadir," he said, "takes to none ille,
For with the geaunt fighte I wille,
To luke, if I dare |