I wylle wedde the yonge bryde,
He flepyd nevyr be hur fyde,

Nor hath hur not by layne.

All that wyll asfent to me
Grete lordys fchall they bee:

To graunt hym they were fayne.
Sampfon feyde, That wyll y never doo,
Falfehedd my lorde unto;
The fame feyde Egravayne.

All they asfentyd but they two,
The todur parte was the moo,

And that was there well feen.

Soche wordys among them can falle,

They prefyd abowte fyr Sampfon all,

And flewe hym in that tene.

They made fyr Egraveyne to fwere foon,

Or they wolde wyth hym the fame have done,
To wote wythowten wene;

Sone a bere have they ordeygned,

And the dedd corfe theron leyde,

The forte was falfe and kene;

And fethyn to Rome they hym broght,
And tolde Florence worthyly wroght,

That Emere laye there dedd;

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When that sche had fwowned twyes,
And thereaftur fyghed thryes,

Sche wepyd in that stedd.

Mylys feyde, My lady fre,

Thy cowncell wyll that y wedde the,
Hyt was my brodurs redd.

Sche feyde, Y wyll weddyd bee

To a lorde that never fchall dye,

1100

That preeftys fchewe in forme of bredd.

Furfte then was my fadur flayne,

And now my lorde ys fro me tane,

Y wyll love no ma,

But hym that boght me on the rode,

Wyth hys fwete precyus blode,

To hym y wyll me ta.

Then Mylys made seven armed knyghtes

To kepe the pales day and nyghtes,

Sche myght not come them fra,

And alfo fwythe fyr Egravayne,
Went to the pope, the fothe to fayne,

To telle he was full thra,

How that Emere was ovyr the fee,
Chafyng Garcy to hys cuntre,

And Mylys wolde have hys wyfe,

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He had a hundurd to hys asfent,

And hyght them londys, lythys, and rente;

But Sampfon hath lofte hys lyfe, And broght hym home upon a bere, And tolde Florence hyt was Emere, All Rome he hath made ryfe; And certys y am fworne them too; Holy fadur, what fchall y do,

That turned were all thys ftryfe?

Then the pope was not lothe
To asfoyle hym of hys othe,

For hyt to falfehed can clyne:

"Syr, y fchall teile the a fekyr tale, Hyt ys bettur brokyn then hale,

I fet my fowle for thyne."

Than he gart arme of the fpyrytualte,
And of the feculors hundurdys thre,
Or evyr wolde he blynne;

To the palés he made them to brynge,
For to dyftroye that falfe weddyng,

The matrymony was not fyne,

All that they wyth falfe Mylys fonde

They bonde them bothe fote and honde,

But they wolde flee not anę;

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Mylys fet hys backe to a pyllere,

And feyde all fchulde dye that came hym nere;

But fmartely was he tane,

And put in an hye towre,

Be the reverence of the emperowre,
That was made of lyme and stane;
And twenty of thes odur ay in a pytt,
In ftrokkes and feturs for to fytt,

Or evyr pope Symonde blanne.

Than the pope and Egravayne
To telle the lady were full fayne
Hur lorde was on the fee,
To Coftantyne the nobull ftrekk;
All the laffe can fche recke,

Tho all bryghtenyd hur blee.

They went to the bere wythowten wone,

And cafte up the clothe and fye Sampfon,

That femely was to fee;

They dud wyth hym as wyth the dedd,

They beryed hym in a ryall ftedd,

Wyth grete folempnytè.

All thys whyle was fyr Emere

Chafyng Garcy, as ye fchall here,

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But Garcy had getyn hys palés before,

And vetaylyd hyt wyth warme store,

Hys wylys were full olde.
Syr Emere fet hys fege therto,
Full doghtely there can he doo,

That hardy was and bolde,
Wyth men of armes all abowte,
That he myght on no fyde owte,

But hamperde hym in hys holde :

And thus they fegyd Garcy wyth strenkyth,
In hys palés large of lenkyth,

The Romaynce had ther wylle

Of Coftantyne the nobull cytè

In ther pofcefcon for to bee,

That many oon lykyd ylle.

Syr Emere comawndyd every man

To brooke wele the trefur that they wan,

So myght they ther cofurs fylle.

When fyr Garcy fawe all yede to schame,

He callyd to Emere be hys name,

Downe at a wyndowe stylle:

Syr, he feyde, al fo mote y the,

Thou holdyft full wele that thou hyghtyft me,

When y let the goo,

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