Ther is no man, by heven kyng, That shal knowe more of my mournynge.” But he kept it in counsele: And ryde, my doughter, in a chare, 740 It fhal be covered with velvet reede, And clothes of fyne golde al about your hed, With damaske white, and asure blewe, Wel dyapred with lyllyes newe; Your pomelles shal be ended with gold, Purpyl palle, and armyne fre; Jennettes of Spayne, that ben fo wyght, Both algrade, and respice eke, Antioche, and bastarde, Pyment, alfo, and garnarde; 750 Wyne of Greke, and muscadell, Both claré, pyment, and Rochell. 760 The reed your stomake to defye, And pottes of ofey fet you by. You shall have venifon ybake, The best wylde foule that may be take. That herte and hynde shall come to your fyst. To here the bugles there yblow, With theyr begles in that place, And fevenfcore raches at his rechase. Homward thus fhall ye ryde, On haukyng by the ryvers fyde, With goshauke, and with gentyll fawcon, Whan you come home, your men amonge, With tenours and trebles among; 770 780 Threfcore of copes, of damafke bryght, Full of perles they shal be pyght; Your aulter clothes of taffata, Your quere nor organ fonge fhall wante, With countre note, and dyscant, With yonge chyldren full fare fyngyng. A cloth of golde abought your heade, All maner delightes to bryng you till. Shall fynge you notes both even and morne. An hundreth knightes, truly tolde, Shall play with bowles in alayes colde, Your diseafe to drive awaie, To fe the fiffhes in poles plaie ; 790 800 And then walke in arbere up and downe, To fe the floures of great renowne, To a drawbrydge than shall ye, The one halfe of stone, the other of tre; 810 A barge shall mete you, full ryght, The fwefteft that on water may goo, Than fhall ye, doughter, afke the wyne, Gentyll pottes with genger grene, With dates and deynties you betwene. At your brydges to brynge you lyght. 820 830 Into your chambre they shall you brynge, Your costerdes covered with whyte and blewe, And dyapred with lylés newe. Your curtaines of camaca, all in folde, Your felyoles all of golde. Your fefter pery at your heed, Curtaines with popinjayes white and reed. That whan ye slepe the taste may come. And yf ye no rest may take, All night minstrelles for you shall wake. "Gramercy, father, fo mote i the, For all these thinges lyketh not me." 840 850 |