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Syrs, he feyde, wythowt fayle,

Yf ye wyl do be my counfayle,

Grete worfchyp schulde ye wynne.

Knowe ye the erle of Tollous ?
Moche harme he hath done us,

Hys bofte y rede we blynne;
Yf ye wyll do aftur my redd,
Thys day he fchall be dedd,

So god me fave fro fynne.

That oon knyght Kamiters, that odur Kaym 430

Falfer men myght no man rayme,

Certys then were thoo;

Syr Trylabas was the thrydde,

Hyt was no mystur them to bydd

Aftur the erle to goo.

At a brygge they hym mett,

Wyth harde strokes they hym befett,

As men that were hys foo; The erle was a man of mayn,

Fafte he faght them agayne,

And foone he flew twoo.

The thrydd fledd, and blewe owt faste,
The erle ovyrtoke hym at the laste,

Hys hedd he clofe in three;

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The cuntrey gedyrd abowte hym faste,
And aftur hym yorne they chaste,

An hundurd there men myght fee.
The erle of them was agafte,

At the lafte fro them he paste,

Fayne he was to flee;

From them he went into a waste,

To refte hym there he toke hys cafte,

A wery man was hee.

All the nyght in that forefte

The gentyll erle toke hys refte,

He had no nodur woon;

When hyt dawed he rose up foone,

And thankyd god that fyttyth in trone,

That he had fcapyd hys foon.
That day he travaylyd many a myle,
And ofte he was in grete parylle,

Be the way os he can gone,
Tyll he come to [a] fayre caftell,
There hym was levyft to dwelle,

Was made of lyme and stone.

Of hys comyng, hys men were gladd,
Be ye mery, my men, he badd,

For nothyng ye spare;

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The emperour, wythowte lees,

Y trowe wyll let us be in pees,

And warre on us no mare.
Thus dwellyd the erle in that place,
Wyth game myrthe and grete folafe,

Ryght os hym levyst ware.
Let we now the erle alloon,
And speke we of dame Beulyboon,
How fche was cafte in care.

The emperour lovyd hys wyfe,

Al fo moche os hys own lyfe,

And more yf he myght;

He chose two knyghtys that were hym dere,

Whedur that he were ferre or nere,

To kepe hur day and nyght. That oon hys love on hur caste, So dud the todur at the laste,

Sche was feyre and bryght; Nothyr of othyr wyfte ryght noght, So derne love on them wroght,

To dethe they were nere dyght.

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Methynkyth thou fadyfte all away,

Os man that ys clongyn in clay,
So pale waxeth thy blee.

Then feyde that other, Y make a vowe,
Ryght fo methynkyth fareste thou,

Why fo evyr hyt bee;

Telle me thy caufe, why hyt ys,

And y

fchall telle the myn, y wys,
My trouthe y plyght to thee.

Y graunte, he feyde, wythowt fayle,
But loke hyt be trewe counfayle.

Therto hys trowthe he plyght.

He feyde, My lady the emperes,
For love of hur y am in grete dyftreffe,
To dethe hyt wyll me dyght.

Then feyde that othyr, Certenly,
Wythowte drede, so fare y

For that lady bryght;

Syn owre love ys on hur fett,

How myght owre bale befte be bett?

Canfte thou rede on ryght?

Then feyde that othyr, be feynt John,
Bettur counfayle can y noon

Methynkyth then ys thys;

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Y rede that oon of us twoo

Prevely to hur goo,

And pray hur of hur blys ; Y myfelfe wyll go hur tylle, Yn cafe y may gete hur wylle,

Of myrthe fchalt thou not mys;
Thou fchalt take us wyth the dede,
Leste thou us wrye fche wyll drede,
And graunte thy wylle, y wys,

Thus they were at oon asfent,
Thys falfe thefe forthe wente,

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Lady, he feyde, that durfte y noght.

For all the gode that evyr was wroght,

Be grete god invyfybylle;

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