"Doughter, let be all thy mournynge,
Thou shalt be wedede to a kynge."
"I wys, father, that shall not be
For all the golde in Christentè;
Nor all the golde that ever god made
May not my harte glade."
My doughter, he fayde, dere derlynge,
I knowe the cause of your mournyng:
Ye wene this body your love should be,
It is not fo, fo mote i the.
It was my stewarde, fyr Maradofe,
That ye fo longe have kept inclofe.
"Alas! father, why dyd ye fo?"
"For he wrought you all thys wo;
He made revelation unto me,
That he knewe all your pryvytè;
And howe the fquyer, on a day,
Unto your chambre he toke the way,
And ther he should have lyen you bi,
Had he not come with company;
And howe ye hyght hym golde and fe,
Strengthe of men and royaltè;
And than he watched your chambre bryght,
With men of armes hardy and wyght,
have loved this seven yere ;
But as the stewarde ftrong and ftout
Befeged your chambre rounde about,
To you your love came full ryght,
All alone about mydnight,
And whan he came your dore unto,
Lady, he fayde, undo;
And foone ye bade hym wende awaye,
For there he gate none other praye:
And as ye talked thus in fere,
Your enemyes drewe them nere and nere,
They fmote to him full foone anone,
There were thyrty agaynft hym one:
But with a baslarde large and longe
The fquyer prefed into the thronge;
And fo he bare hym in that ftounde,
His enemyes gave hym many a wounde.
With egre mode and herte full throwe,
The stewardes throte he cut in two;
And than his meyné all in that place
With their swordes they hurte his face,
And than they toke him everichone
And layd him on a marble stone
Before your dore, that ye myght fe,
Ryght as your love that he had be ;
And fone the fquier there they hent,
And they dyd of his good garment,
And did it on the stewarde there,
That ye wift not what he were:
Thus ye have kept your enemy here
Pallyng more than seven yere :
And as the fquyer there was take,
And done in pryfon for your fake,
And therfore let be your mourning,
Ye fhal be wedded to a kyng,
Or els unto an emperoure,
With golde and fylver and great treasure.
"Do awaye, father, that may not be, For all the golde in Chrystentè.”
Alas! father, anone she fayde,
Why hath this traytour me betraid?
Alas! fhe fayd, i have great wrong
That i have kept him here fo long.
Alas! father, why dyd ye fo?
Ye might have warned me of my fo;
And ye had tolde me who it had be,
My love had never be dead for me;
Anone fhe tourned her from the kyng,
And downe she fell in dead fownyng.
The kyng anone gan go,
And hente her in his armes two;
Lady, he fayd, be of good chere,
Your love lyveth and is here;
And he hath bene in Lombardy,
And done he hath great chyvalry;
And come agayne he is to me,
In lyfe and health ye shall him fe.
He shall you wede, my doughter bryght,
I have hym made fquier and knyght;
He fhal be a lorde of great renowne,
And after me to were the crowne.
Father, fhe fayd, if it fo be,
Let me foone that squyer fe.
The fquyer forth than dyd he brynge,
Full fayre on lyve and in lykynge.
As fóne as the fawe him with her eye,
She fell in fownyng by and by.
The fquyer her hente in armes two,
And kyfsed her an hundreth tymes and mo.
There was myrth and melody
With harpe, getron and fautry,
With rote, ribible and clokarde,
With pypes, organs and bumbarde,
With other mynftrelles them amonge,
With fytolphe and with fautry fonge
With fydle, recorde, and dowcemere,
With trompette, and with claryon clere,
With dulcet pipes of many cordes,
In chambre revelyng all the lordes,
Unto morne that it was daye,
The kyng to his doughter began to faye,
Have here thy love and thy lyking,
To lyve and ende in gods blefsinge;
And he that wyll departe you two,
God geve him forow and wo.
A trewer lover than ye are one
Was never fleshe ne bone;
And but he be as true to thee,
God let him never thryve ne thee.
The kyng in herte he was full blithe,
He kissed his doughter many a fithe.
With melody and muche chere,
Anone he called his mesfengere,
And commaunded him foone to go
Through his cities to and fro,
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