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The emperoure was full gladd,
Fette me the monke, anon he badd,

Why wente he fo awaye ?
A byschoperyke y wyll hym geve,
My helpe, my love, whyll y leve,

Be god that owyth thys day..


The abbot knelyd on hys knee,
And feyde, Lorde, gone ys hee

To hys owne londe ;
He dwellyth wyth the pope of Rome,
He wyll be gladd of hys come,

Y do yow to undurstonde.
Syr, quod the emperoure,
To me hyt were a dyshonoure,

Soche wordes y rede thou wonde;
Anone yn haste that y hym see,
Or thou fchalt nevyr have gode of me,

And therto here myn honde.


Lorde, he seyde, fythe hyt ys foo,
Aftur hym that y mufte goo,

Ye mufte make me fewrtè,
Yn case he have byn youre foo,
Ye schall not do hym no woo,

And then, al fo mote y thee,

Aftur hym y wyll wynde,
So that ye wyll be hýs frende,

Yf youre wylle bee.
Yys, feyde the emperoure full fayne,
All my kynne thogh he had slayne,

He ys welcome to mee.


Then fpake the abbot wordys free,
Lorde, y tryfte now on thee,

Ye wyll do os ye sey;
Hyt ys fyr Barnard of Tollous,
A nobyll knyght and a chyvalrous,

That hath done thys jurney.
Now certys, seyde the emperoure, ,
To me hyt ys grete dyshonoure ;

Anon, fyr, y the pray,
Aftur hym that thou wende,
We schall kysse and be gode frende,

Be god that owyth thys day.
The abbot seyde, Y assente ;
Aftur the erle anon he wente,

And seyde, Syr, go wyth mee ; My lorde and ye, be seynt John, Schull be made bothe at oon,

Goode frendys for to bee.

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Thereof the erle was full fayne,
The emperoure came hym agayne,

And sayde, My frende fo free,
My wrath here y the forgeve,
My helpe, my love, whyll y leve,

Be hym that dyed on tree.


Togedur lovely can they kysle,
Therof all men had grete blysse,

The romaunfe tellyth foo;
He made hym steward of hys londe,
And sefyd agayne into hys honde

That he had rafte hym froo.
The emperoure levyd but yerys thre,
Be alexcion of the lordys free

The erle toke they thoo,
They made hym ther emperoure,
For he was styffe yn ftoure,

To fyght agayne hys foo.

He weddyd that lady to hys wyfe,
Wyth yoye and myrthe they ladd ther lyfe,

Twenty yere and three;
Betwene them had they chyldyr fyftene
Doghty knyghtys all bedene,

And semely on to fee.


Yn Rome thys geste ys cronyculyd, y wys, A lay of Bretayne callyd hyt ys,

And evyr more schall bee. Jhesu Cryfte to hevyn us brynge, There to have owre wonnyng: Amen, amen, for charytee !


It was a fquyer of lowe degré
That loved the kings doughter of Hungrè.
The squir was curteous and hend,
Ech man him loved and was his frend;
He served the kyng, her father dere,
Fully the tyme of seven yere;
For he was marshall of his hall,
And set the lords both great and smal.
An hardy man he was, and wight,
Both in batayle and in fyght;
But ever he was styll mornyng,
And no man wyste for what thyng ;
And all was for that ladý,
The kynges doughter of Hungry.



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