I wyll forfake both lande and lede,

And become an hermyte in uncouth stede;
In many a lande to begge my bread,
To feke where Chrift was quicke and dead;
A staffe i wyll make me of my spere,
Lynen cloth i fhall none were;
Ever in travayle i shall wende,

Tyll i come to the worldes ende;
And, lady, but thou be my bote,

There shall no fho come on my fote;
Therfore, lady, i the praye,

For hym that dyed on good frydaye,
Let me not in daunger dwell,

For his love that harowed hell.

Than fayd that lady, milde of mode,

Ryght in her closet there she stode,

By hym that dyed on a tre,

Thou shalt never be deceyved for me;
Though i for thee fhould be flayne,

Squyer, i fhall the love agayne.

Go forth, and ferve my father the kynge,

And let be all thy ftyl mournynge;

Let no man wete that ye were here,

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If ever ye wyll come to your wyll,
Here and fe, and holde you styll.
Beware of the stewarde, i you praye,
He wyll deceyve you and he maye;
For, if he wote of your woyng,
He wyl bewraye you unto the kynge;
Anone for me ye shall be take,
And put in pryfon for my fake;
Than muft ye nedes abyde the lawe,
Peraventure both hanged and drawe;
That fyght on you i would not se,
For all the golde in Christentè.
For, and ye my love should wynne,
With chyvalry ye must begynne,
And other dedes of armes to done,
Through whiche ye may wynne your shone;
And ryde through many a peryllous place,
As a venterous man to seke your grace,
Over hylles and dales, and hye mountainės,
In wethers wete, both hayle and raynes,
And yf ye may no harbroughe fe,
Than muft ye lodge under a tre,
Among the beastes wyld and tame,
And ever you wyll gette your name;

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And in your armure must ye lye,

Every nyght than by and by;
And your meny everychone,
Til feven yere be comen and gone;
And paffe by many a peryllous fee,
Squyer, for the love of me,
Where any war begynneth to wake,
And many a batayll undertake,
Throughout the land of Lumbardy,
In every cytie by and by;

And be avifed, when thou shalt fight,
Loke that ye stand aye in the right;

And, yf ye wyll take goode hede,

Yet all the better fhall ye fpede;
And, whan the warre is brought to ende,
To the Rodes then muft ye wende;
And, fyr, i holde you not to prayes,

But ye there fyght thre good frydayes;

And if ye paffe the batayles thre,
Than are ye worthy a knyght to be,
And to bere armes than are ye able,
Of gold and goules fete with fable;
Then shall ye were a shelde of blewe,
In token ye fhall be trewe,

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With vines of golde fet all aboute

r

Within your fhelde, and eke without,

Fulfylled with ymagery,

And poudred with true loves by and by.

In the myddes of your sheld ther fhal be fet

A ladyes head, with many a frete,

Above the head wrytten shall be

A reafon, for the love of me,

Both O and R shall be therin,

With A and M it shall begynne.

The baudryke, that shall hange therby,
Shall be of white, fykerly,

A croffe of reed therin fhall be,

In token of the trynytè.

Your basenette shall be burnyffhed bryght,

Your ventall fhal be well dyght,

With ftarres of gold it shall be set,

And covered with good velvet.

A coronall clene corven newe,

And oyftryche fethers of dyvers hewe.

Your plates unto your body shal be enbraste,
Sall fyt full femely in your wafte.

Your cote armoure of golde full fyne,

And poudred well with good armyne.

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Thus in your warres fhall you ryde,

With fyxe good yemen by your fyde,

And whan your warres are brought to ende,
More ferther behoveth to you to wende,
And over many perellous ftreme,

Or ye come to Jerufalem,

Through feytes, and feldes, and foreftes thicke,

To feke where Chrifte were dead and quycke;
There muft you drawe fwerde of were,

your

To the fepulchre ye must it bere,

And laye it on the stone,

Amonge the lordes everychone;

And offre there florences fyve,

Whyles that

ye are man on lyve;

And offre there florences thre,

In tokenyng of the trynytè;

And whan that ye, fyr, thus have done,
Than are ye worthy to were your shone;
Than may ye fay, fyr, by good ryght,
That you ar proved a venturous knyght.
I fhall you geve to your rydinge
A thousande pounde to your spendinge;
I fhall you geve hors and armure,
A thousande pounde of my treasure;

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