The Greky's had fyred hym abowte, That he myght on no fyde owte, Evyll quytt he hym hys mede, For Mylys was the falfyft lede That evyr levyd in lande. When he had rescowde hys broder Mylon, Of hys fomen camen thretty bowne, Stelyng on hym stylle; All ther sperys on hym they fett, And Mylys fledde to an hylle. He feyde, Brodur, al fo mote y the, Mylys, he feyde, where ys thy brodur? I trowe befte that he bee. 720 730 He ys belefte wyth fyr Garcy He myght geve more then ye. The emperowre lykyd hyt ylle, Forthe then lokyd the emperowre, He ftroke the stede with the spurrys, All that he abowte hym fonde He and hys men broght to grownde, That nevyr oon up rofe; And lofte all hys gode lofe, Than Emere toke harte hym too, Full doghtely then can he doo, Florence hym behelde, 740 750 And tolde hur maydyns bryght of ble, In the felde befte doyth he, Wyth the whyte dowve yn hys fchylde, And therto the black lyoun. Sche cryed to hym, wyth grete fowne, Thou be my fadurs belde, And thou fchalt have all thy defyre, Me, and all thys ryche empyre, When he harde the maydyn bryght, The wedur waxe full hate; 760 Hur fadur nere hande can talme, Soche a fweme hys harte can fwalme, 770 For hete he waxe nere mate. And thorow the hed hym fmate, They fende aftur the pope Symonde, And he fchrofe hym and hofelde on that grounde, And asfoyled hym, wel y wate. As foone as the emperowre yyldyd the gaft, A prowde garfon came in haste, Syr Synagote hyght hee, 780 And broght an hundurd helmes bryght And many oon made he for to cowre, And knyghtes kene wolde hym have slayne, "Unto fyr Garcy have hym feen, How they on a bere hym dyght, Wythowten belle or procefcoun, Hyt was a drery syght. 790 They layned hyt fro ther enmyes whyll they myght, And fro Florence that worthy wyght, Hys own dere doghtur bryght. Soone the standard yn they dud lede, And baners bryght that brode dud fprede, The Romans lykyd ylle. 800 And feyde they schulde upon the morne That hyely was on hylle. And hur maydyns, as y yow telle, That was curtes of wylle; 810 They feyde men brynge yn a bere, And that wyth a full mornyng chere, But all was hofcht and stylle. Then can feyre Florence fayne, And a knyght in handys leede, Then all chawngyd hur chere. Sche and hur maystres Awdygon Went into the halle allone, Allone wythowten fere, And cafte up the clothe, then was hyt fo, The lady fwowned, and was full woo, Ther myght no man hur ftere. Allas, fche feyde, that y was borne! 820 |