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They toke theyr ynnes in good intente,
And to theyr supper foone they wente.
Whan he was set, and served at meate,
Than he fayd he had forgete
To take leve of that lady fre,
The kynges doughter of Hungre.
Anone the fquyer made him ayre,
And by hym felfe forth can he fare,
Without strength of his meynè,
Unto the castell than went he.
Whan he came to the posterne-gate,
Anone he entred in thereat,
And his drawen (werd in his hande,
There was no more with him wolde stande:
But it stode with hym full harde
As ye shall here nowe of the stewarde.
He wende in the worlde none had be
That had knowen of his pryvitè,
Alas ! it was not as he wende,
For all his counsayle the stewarde [kende].
He had bewrayed him to the kyng
Of all his love and his woyng;
And yet he laye her chambre by,
Armed with a great company,
And beset it one eche fyde,
For treason walketh wonder wyde.
The squyer thought on no mystrufte
He wende no man in the worlde had wyfte,
But yf he had knowen, ne by faynt John
He had not come theder by his owne;
Or yf that lady had knowen his wyll,
That he should have come her chamber tyll,
She would have taken hym golde and fe,
Strength of men and royaltè;
But there ne wyst no man nor grome
Where that fquyer was become;
But forth he went hymfelfe alone
Amonge his servauntes everychone.
Whan that he came her chambre to,
Anone, he sayde, Your dore undo!
Undo, he fayde, nowe, fayre lady!
I am beset with many a spy.
Lady, as whyte as whalës bone,
There are thyrty agaynst me one.
Undo thy dore ! my worthy wyfe,
I am besette with many a knyfe.
Undo your dore ! my lady swete,
I am beset with enemyes great;
And, lady, but ye wyll aryse,
I shall be dead with myne enemyes.
Undo thy dore ! my frely floure,
For ye are myne and i am your.
That lady with those wordes awoke,
A mantell of golde to her she toke;
She fayde, Go away, thou wicked wyght,
Thou shalt not come here this nyght;
For i wyll not my dore undo
For no man that cometh therto.
There is but one in Christente
That ever made that forwarde with me;
There is but one that ever bare lyfe,
That ever i hight to be his wyfe;
He shall me wedde, by Mary bryght,
Whan he is proved a venterous knyght;
For we have loved this seven yere,
There was never love to me so dere.
There lyeth on me both kyng and knyght,
Dukes, erles, of muche might.
Wende forth, squyer, on your waye,
For here ye gette none other praye;
For i ne wote what ye should be,
That thus besecheth love of-me.
I am your owne squyr, he fayde,
For me, lady, be not dysmayde.
Come i am full pryvely
To take my leave of you, lady.
Welcome, she fayd, my love fo dere,
Myne owne dere heart, and my squyer ;
I shall you geve kysses thre,
A thousande pounde unto your fe,
And kepe i shall my maydenhede ryght
Tyll ye be proved a venturous knyght.
For yf ye should me wede anone,
My father wolde make see you soone.
I am the kynges doughter of Hungrè,
And ye alone that have loved me,
And though you love me never so fore,
For me ye shall never be lore.
Go forth, and aske me at my kynne,
And loke what graunt you may wynne;
Yf that ye gette graunte, in faye,
Myselfe therto shall not say nay;
And yf ye may not do so,
Otherwyse ye shall come to.
Ye are bothe hardy, stronge, and wight,
Go forth, and be a venterous knight.
I pray to god, and our lady,
To send you the whele of Victory,
That my father so leve he be
That wyll profer me to thee.
I wote well it is lyghtly fayd,
Go forth, and be nothyng afrayde.
A man of worshyp may not do fo,
He must have what neds him unto;
He must have gold, he must have fe,
Strength of men and royaltè.
Golde and fylver spare ye nought,
Tyll to manhode ye be brought ;
To what batayll soever ye go,
Ye shall have an hundreth pounde or two;
And yet to me, fyr, ye may faye,
That i woulde fayne have you awaye,
That profered you golde and fe,
Out of myne eye-fyght for to be.
Neverthelesse it is not fo,
It is for the worshyp of us two,
Though you be come of symple kynne,
Thus my love, fyr, may ye wynne,
Yf ye have grace of victory,
As ever had fyr Lybyus, or fyr Guy,