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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 shall on hunting fare,
And ryde, my doughter, in a chare,
It shal 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 Ahal 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 shall have harp, fautry and fonge,
And other myrthés you amonge ;
Ye shall have rumney and malmesyne.
Both ypocrasse, and vernage wyne,
Mount rose and wyne of Greke,
Both algrade, and respice eke,
Antioche, and bastarde,
Pyment, also, and garnarde;
Wyne of Greke, and muscadell,
Both claré, pyment, and Rochell.
The reed your stomake to defye,
And pottes of osey set you by.
You shall have venison ybake,
The best wylde foule that may be take.
A lese of grehound with you to stryke,
And hert and hynde and other lyke,
Ye shal be set at such a tryft
That herte and hynde shall come to your fyft.
Your dysease to dryve you fro,
To here the bugles there yblow,
With theyr begles in that place,
And sevenfcore raches at his rechase.
Homward thus shall 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 longe;
Lytle chyldren, great and smale,
Shall fyng, as doth the nyghtyngale.
780 Than Mall ye go to your evenfong, With tenours and trebles among;
Threscore of copes, of damaske bryght,
Full of perles they shal be pyght;
Your aulter clothes of taffata,
And your ficles all of taffetra.
Your senfours hal be of golde,
Endent with asure many a folde.
Your quere nor organ fonge shall wante,
With countre note, and dyscant,
The other halfe on orgayns playeng,
With yonge chyldren full fare fyngyng.
Than fhall ye go to your suppere, .
And lytte in tentes in grene arbere,
With clothes of aras pyght to the grounde,
With faphyres set 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 disease to drive awaie,
To se the fishes in poles plaie ;
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;
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 fweftest that on water may goo, . : 820
With galyes good upon the haven,
With eighty ores at the fore staven.
Your maryners shall fynge arowe
Hey how and rumby lowe.
Than fhall ye, doughter, afke the wyne, isid
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. 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 fester 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 shall be of fustyane,
Your fhetes shall be of clothe of rayne.
Your head-lhete shall be of pery pyght,
With dyamondes set 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 swete smellyng,
Frankensence, and olibanum,
That whan ye llepe the taste may come. • 850
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."