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But of the feyrenes of the maye
I can not telle mony a day,

Ne noght y wyll begynne,"
But, fir, he seyde, al fo mote y the,
Thyn eyen mon fche never see,

To welde yyt nodur to wynne.
Full grete othys Garcy hath sworne :
“ Many a thousand schall dye therforne,

Or y of my brethe blynne ;


Or thre monythys and a halfe be gone,
I schall dystroye hys landys everychon,

And wynne hys doghtur with were.
Then he made to fende owt wryttes wyde,
In hys londe on every fyde,

Messengerys can them bere ;
And Florence fadur at hame
Ordeygned hys men on the fame,

With armowre, schylde, and spere: And thus begynneth a bale to brewe, Many a man therfore myght rewe,

And wemen hyt dud grete dere.

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They set up seylys, and forthe they rode, And ay hymfelfe, wythowten bode,

The formaste forthe can fownde.
Systy myle fro Rome ryved they,
Hyt went nere on the thrydd day,

Ther was not oon drowned;
They tyght ther pavylons in a stede,
The brode felde waxe all redd,

So glemed golde on the grownde.

The medowe was called Narumpy,
The water of Tyber rennyng by,

There Garcyes pavylon stode :
All the clothys were of fylke,
The ryche ropys were ryght swylke,

The boofys were redd as blode.
Ther was no beest that yede on fote
But hyt was portreyed there, y wote,

Nor fysches swymmyng in flode ; Fyftene pomels of golde there schoon, An egyll and a charbokull stone, .

Wyde the lýghtnes yode.

The emperowre of Rome lay on his walle, And hys doghtạr gente and small, Florence the feyre fche hyght;



And sye the garsons assay ther stedys,
Sterne men in stele wedys,

The medow all can lyght.
He seyde, Y have golde ynogh plentè,
And fowdears wyll come to me,

Bothe be day and nyght;
Now schall y never my golde spare,
But faste upon thys warre hyt ware,

God helpe me in my ryght.

The kynge of Hungary that tyme was dedd,
And lefte hys fonnes wylde of redd,

Syr Mylys and fyr Emere;
Ther modur was weddyd to a stedd,
Agenste all the baronage redd,

As ye schall further here,
To a lorde that wonnyd thereby,
Syr Justamownde of Surry,

That sterne was to stere.
The kynge of Naverne toke thes chyldur two,
And made them knyghtys bothe tho,

And manhode can them lere;

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Syr Emere bare in hys schylde
A whyte dowve, whoso behelde,

A blakk lyon befyde:
The whyte dowve sygnyfyed
That he was full of knyghthedd,

And mekenes, at that tyde;
The lyon, that he was ferse and felle,
Amonge hys enmyes for to dwelle,

And durste beste in batell byde.


A wery palmer came them by,
And seyde, Syrrys, y have ferly

That ye wyll not fare.
I have bene at grete Rome,
To seke seynte Petur, and thens y come,

Straunge tythyngys harde y thare.
Ther ys an emperowre, that hyght Garcy,
Is logyd in the Narumpy,

Wyth fyxty thousande and mare,
He feyth the emperowre of Rome schall not leve
But yf he to hym hys doghtur geve, 440

That ys so swete of sware.

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Than fyr.Mylys, and fir Emere,
Toke wyth them forty in fere,

That were comyn of gentyll kynne,

To grete Rome evyn they rode,
And at a burges hows abode,

And there they toke ther ynne.
They speryd of ther ofte and ther oftès,
Of ther tythyngys more and lesse,

Or evyr they wolde blynne.
They fownde hyt as the palmer tolde,
They seyde with Otes dwelle they wolde,

Whedur hyt were to lose or wynne.


Fyve thousande on the morne Garcy sent
Of hys men verament,

Wele arayed in ther gere;
As nere as they durste for dowte,
Fyfty of them yssewed owte,

For to juste in werre.
That sawe fyr Mylys and Emere,
W’yth ther ferys bothe in fere,

They thoght them for to feere ;
They passyd owt at a pofterne,
Os men that schoulde of batayle lerne,

Wyth armowre fchylde and spere.

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Thes fyfty had forjusted soone,
And Newe them down withowten mone,

All that wolde abyde ;

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