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Whan the dwarfe, and mayde Ely,

Came to Arthoure kyng fo fre,

As a kyng of great renowne

That wan the lady of Synadowne.

Lybius was graunted the batayle tho,
Therfore the dwarfe was full wo,

And fayd, Arthur, thou art to blame;
To bydde this chylde go fucke his dame,
Better hym femeth, fo mote i thryve,

Than for to do these batayles fyve,
At the chapell of Salebraunce.

These wordes began great distaunce,

They fawe they had the victory,

They kneled downe and cryed mercy;
And afterward, fyr, verament
They called hym knyght abfolent.
Emperours, dukes, knyghtes, and quene,
At his commaundement for to bene,
Suche fortune with grace now to you fall,
To wynne the worthyeft within the wall,
And thynke on your love alone,

And for to love that ye chaunge none.
Ryght as they talked thus, in fere,

Theyr enemyes approched nere and nere,

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630

Foure and thyrty, armed bryght,

The steward had arayed hym to fyght.
The steward was ordeyned to fpy,

640

And for to take them utterly.

He wende to death he should have gone,
He felled seven men agaynst hym one;
Whan he had them to grounde brought,
The ftewarde at hym full fadly fought,
So harde they fmote together tho,
The ftewardes throte he cut in two,
And fone he fell downe to the grounde,

As a traitour untrewe with many a wound.

650

The fquyer fone in armes they hente,

And of they dyd his good garmente,

And on the stewarde they it dyd,

And fone his body therin they hydde,

And with their fwordes his face they share,
That the fhould not knowe what he ware,
They caft hym at her chambre-dore,

The stewarde that was styffe and store.

Whan they had made that great affraye,

Full pryvely they stale awaye ;

In arme they take that fquyer tho,

And to the kynges chambre can they go,

660

Without wemme or any wounde,

Before the kynge bothe hole and founde.
As foone as the kynge him spyed with eye,
He fayd, Welcome, fonne, fykerly;
Thou haft caft thee my fonne to be,
This seven yere i shall let thee.

Leve we here of this fquyer wight,
And fpeake we of that lady bryght,
How she rofe, that lady dere,
To take her leve of that fquyer;
Al fo naked as fhe was borne,
She ftod her chambre-dore beforne.
Alas! the fayd, and wealeaway!
For all to long now have i lay;
She fayd, Alas! and all for wo!
Withouten men why came ye fo?
Yf that ye wolde have come to me,
Other werninges there might have be.
Now all to dere my love is bought,
But it fhall never be loft for nought;
And in her armes fhe toke hym there,
Into the chamber the dyd hym bere;
His bowels foone fhe dyd out-drawe,
And buryed them in goddes lawe.

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She fered that body with fpecery,
With wyrgin waxe and commendry;

And clofed hym in a mafer-tre,
And fet on hym lockes thre.
She put him in a marble-stone,

With quaynt gynnes many one;
And fet hym at hir beddes head,
And every day she kyft that dead.
Soone at morne, whan she uprose,
Unto that dead body the gofe,

Therfore wold she knele downe on her kne,
And make her prayer to the trynite,

690

And kyffe that body twyfe or thryfe,

And fall in a fwowne or fhe myght ryfe.

700

Whan fhe had fo done,

To chyrche than wolde she gone,

Than would the here mafses fyve,

And offre to them whyle the myght lyve:
"There fhall none knowe but heven kynge
For whom that i make myne offrynge."

The kyng her father anone he fayde
My doughter, wy are you dysmayde?

So feare a lady as ye are one,

And fo femely of fleshe and bone,

710

Ye were whyte as whales bone,

Nowe are ye pale as any stone;

Your ruddy read as any chery,
With browes brent, and eyes full mery ;
Ye were wont to harpe and fyng,

And be the meriest in chambre comyng;
Ye ware both golde, and good velvet,
Clothe of damafke, with faphyres fet;
Ye ware the pery on your head,

With ftones full oryent, whyte, and read;

Ye ware coronalles of golde,

With diamoundes fet many a foulde;

And nowe ye were clothes of blacke,
Tell me, doughter, for whofe fake?
If he be fo poore of fame,

That ye may not be wedded for fhame,
Brynge him to me anone ryght,

I fhall hym make fquyer and knight;
And, yf he be fo great a lorde,
That your love may not accorde,
Let me, doughter, that lordynge fe,
He shall have golde ynoughe with thee.
"Gramercy, father, fo mote i thryve,
For i mourne for no man alyve.

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