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The yonder knyghtes to chawmbur ye lede, Of all thynge that they have nede

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Serve them at ther wylle;
They are fyr Garcys mefsengerys,
And go we to owre cowncell perys,
And leve them bydyng stylle,
To loke what befte ys for to doo,
Soche tythyngys ys comyn us too,
Loke whedur we wyll fulfylle."

The emperowre hys doghtur be the hande hent,
And to a chaumbur they wente,

Hys cowncell aftur hym yede,

And afkyd yf fche wolde fent ther-tylle,

For to be at fyr Garcyes wylle,

And sche feyde, Jhefu forbede!

Sche feyde, Be god, that boght me dere,
Me had levyr the warfte bachylere

In all my fadurs thede,

Then for to lye be hys brefyd boones,
When he coghyth and oldely grones,
I can not on hys lede.

Hur fadur lykyd hur wordys wele,
So dud hys cowncell every dele,
And blefsyd hur for hur fawe.

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They feyde, Yf that Garcy come,

In evyll tyme he hedur nome

Hedurward for to drawe.

The garfons be not fo doghtye,

But mony of them foone fchall dye,

Yf we togedur plawe;

Go we hens, owre redd ys tane,

Odur cowncell kepe we nane,

Be ryght nodur be lawe.

The emperowre came into the halle,
The messengerys had etyn all,

And ftode to byde an anfware:

He feyde, Syrs, wendyth hame,
For here fchall ye have no game,
God forbede hyt fo ware!
Take the trefowr that ye broght,
But my doghtur gete ye noght,

For all yowre boftefull fare;
We fchall ftonde owre chawnce unto,

Whedur he come, or not fo do,

Full mekyll we fchall not care.

Then Acurye can fay,

In the begynnyng of Maye,

My lorde will buske hym to ryde,

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And take the fomer before hym clene,

And dystroye thy londys all be deene,

Who ys he that fchall hym byde? Then anfweryd fyr Egraveyne,

We fchall founde to knok ageyne,

For all hys grete pryde.

The emperowre comawndyd no man fchulde do

Harme the messengerys unto,

They toke ther leve that tyde.

Then the messengerys all togedur,

Wyth the trefow re that they browght thedur,

Went home agayne.

Al fo tyte as fyr Garcy fawe,

Wyt ye well he lyfte not to lawe,

But mornyd in mode and mayne;

Alther furfte he toke hym come

To fpere the estyrs of Rome,

To telle hym Acurye was fayne:

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Syr, hyt ys feyre bygged with halles and bowrys, We tolde the feven hundurd towrys,

So Cryfte me fave and fayne;

And ther lorde fyr Otes the graunt,

Wyth mekyll worfchyp they hym avaunt,

Of curtefye he ys the welle;

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And therto trewe as any stele,
For thy, fir, men love hym wele,
Mony wyth hym to dwelle;

He

ys bothe ware and wyfe,

And gevyth them gyftys of pryce,

The certen fothe to telle;

And hys doghtur, the feyreft thynge,
That ever was feen wolde or yynge,

Made of flesche and felle.

Thogh a man fate on a wyght palfraye

All the longe fomers-day,

Avyfyd myght he be

For to ryde Rome abowte,

And come yn wher he wente owl,

Hyt were a grete yurnè.

Every day in the yere

The feyre ys there lyke playnere,

Amonge the folke fo free;

Syxty dewkys are calde hys perys,

And twenty thousande bachyleres

Longyth to that cytè.

Of the emperors pales y wyll yow say,
Ther ys no foche in the worlde to-day

Stondyng undur hevyn;

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The pyllers that stonde in the halle,

Are dentyd wyth golde and clere crystalle,

And therto feyre and evyn.

They are fyllyd wyth fylver, as Crifte me cover,
And ther ys peynted wythynne and over,

The dedly fynnes fevyn;

There was peyntyd wyth thynges fere,

That men myght mewfe on many a yere,
Or he hyt fcryed wyth stevyn.

There comyth watur in a condyte,
Thorow a lyon rennyth hyt,

That wroght ys all of golde,

And that standyth in the myddys of the halle;

A hundurd knyghtes and ladyes fmalle

Myght wasche there and they wolde

All at ones on that stone;

Many other waturs come thorow the town,

That frefche are upon folde;

In myddys the cyté ys oon rennande,

Tyger hyt hyght, y undurftande,

As men there us tolde,

The effect of Rome y have yow tolde,

And of the best barons bolde,

That lygge there-wythynne;

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