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The emperoure was full gladd,

Fette me the monke, anon he badd,

Why wente he fo awaye?

A byfchoperyke 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 undurftonde.

Syr, quod the emperoure,

To me hyt were a dyshonoure,

Soche wordes y rede thou wonde;

Anone yn hafte that y hym fee,

Or thou fchalt nevyr have gode of me,
And therto here myn honde.

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

Ye mufte make me fewrtè,
Yn cafe he have byn youre foo,
Ye fchall not do hym no woo,
And then, al fo mote y thee,

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1160

Aftur hym y wyll wynde,

So that ye wyll be hys frende,

Yf youre wylle bee.

Yys, feyde the emperoure full fayne,

All my kynne thogh he had slayne,

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Then spake the abbot wordys free,

Lorde, y tryfte now on thee,

Ye wyll do os ye fey;

Hyt ys fyr Barnard of Tollous,

A nobyll knyght and a chyvalrous,
That hath done thys jurney.
Now certys, feyde the emperoure,
To me hyt ys grete dyshonoure;
Anon, fyr, y the pray,

1170

Aftur hym that thou wende,

1180

We schall kyffe and be gode frende,

Be god that owyth thys day.

The abbot feyde, Y asfente;
Aftur the erle anon he wente,

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

Goode frendys for to bee.

Thereof the erle was full fayne,

The emperoure came hym agayne,

1190

And fayde, 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 kysse,
Therof all men had grete blyffe,

The romaunfe tellyth foo;

He made hym steward of hys londe,
And fefyd agayne into hys honde

That he had rafte hym froo.

1200

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 ftyffe yn stoure,

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 femely on to fee.

1210

Yn Rome thys gefte ys cronyculyd, y wys,

A lay of Bretayne callyd hyt ys,

And

evyr more schall bee.

Jhefu Cryfte to hevyn us brynge,

There to have owre wonnyng:

Amen, amen, for charytee!

THE SQUYR OF LOWE DEGRE.

IT

was a fquyer of lowe degrè

That loved the kings doughter of Hungrè.

The fquir was curteous and hend,

Ech man him loved and was his frend;
He ferved the kyng, her father dere,
Fully the tyme of feven yere ;

For he was marshall of his hall,

And fet the lords both great and smal.

An hardy man he was, and wight,
Both in batayle and in fyght;

But ever he was ftyll mornyng,

And no man wyfte for what thyng;

And all was for that lady,

The kynges doughter of Hungry.

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