Ther is no man, by heven kyng,

That shal knowe more of my mournynge.”
Her father knewe it every deale,

But he kept it in counsele:
"To-morowe ye fhall on hunting fare,

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,
Your chaynes enameled many a folde;
Your mantel of ryche degre,

Purpyl palle, and armyne fre;

Jennettes of Spayne, that ben fo wyght,
Trapped to the ground with velvet bright;
Ye fhall have harp, fautry and fonge,
And other myrthés you amonge;
Ye fhall have rumney and malmefyne.
Both ypocraffe, and vernage wyne,
Mount rofe and wyne of Greke,

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.
A lefe of grehound with you to ftryke,
And hert and hynde and other lyke,
Ye fhal be fet at fuch a tryst

That herte and hynde shall come to your fyst.
Your dysease to dryve you fro,

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,
With eglehorne, and merlyon.

Whan you come home, your men amonge,
Ye shall have revell, daunces, and fonge;
Lytle chyldren, great and fmale,
Shall fyng, as doth the nyghtyngale.
Than fhall ye go to your evenfong,

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,
The other halfe on orgayns playeng,

With yonge chyldren full fare fyngyng.
Than fhall ye go to your fuppere,
And fytte in tentes in grene arbere,
With clothes of aras pyght to the grounde,
With faphyres fet and dyamonde.

A cloth of golde abought your heade,
With popinjayes pyght with pery reed,
And offycers all at your wyll,

All maner delightes to bryng you till.
The nightingale fitting on a thorne,

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,
With twenty-four ores full bryght,
With trompettes and with claryowne,
The freshe water to rowe up and downe.
Than fhall ye go to the falte fome,
Your maner to fe, or ye come home,
With eighty shyppes of large towre,
With dromedaryes of great honour,
And carackes with fayles two,

The fwefteft that on water may goo,
With galyes good upon the haven,
With eighty ores at the fore staven.
Your maryners fhall fynge arowe
Hey how and rumby lowe.

Than fhall ye, doughter, afke the wyne,
With spices that be good and fyne,

Gentyll pottes with genger grene,

With dates and deynties you betwene.
Forty torches, brenynge bryght,

At your brydges to brynge you lyght.

820

830

Into your chambre they shall you brynge,
With muche myrthe and more lykyng.

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.
Your hyllynges with furres of armyne,
Powdred with golde of hew full fyne.
Your blankettes fhall be of fustyane,
Your fhetes fhall be of clothe of rayne.
Your head-fhete fhall be of pery pyght,
With dyamondes fet and rubyes bryght.
Whan you are layde in bedde fo fofte,
A cage of golde shall hange alofte,
With longe-peper fayre burnning,
And cloves that be fwete fmellyng,
Frankenfence, and olibanum,

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