University of Virginia Library

FLORIS AND BLAUNCHEFLUR.

Ne thurst men neuer in londe
After feirer Children fonde.
Þe Cristen woman fedde hem þoo,
Ful wel she louyd hem boþ twoo.
So longe sche fedde hem in feere
þat þey were of elde of seuen ȝere.
Þe kyng behelde his sone dere,
And seyde to him on this manere,
Þat harme it were muche more
But his sone were sette to lore
On þe book letters to know,
As men done, both hye and lowe.
“Feire sone,” she seide, “þou shalt lerne,
Lo þat þou do ful ȝerne.”
Florys answerd with wepyng,
As he stood byfore þe kyng;
Al wepyng seide he,
“Ne schal not Blancheflour lerne with me?
Ne can y noȝt to scole goone
With-out Blanchefloure,” he seide þane.
“Ne can y in no scole syng ne rede
With-out Blancheflour,” he seide.
Þe king seide to his soone,
“She shal lerne for þy loue.”
To scole þey were put;
Boþ þey were good of wytte.
Wonder it was of hur lore,
And of her loue wel þe more.
Þe Children louyd to-geder soo,
Þey myȝt neuer parte a twoo.
When þey had .v. ȝere to scoole goone
So wel þey had lerned þoo,
Inowȝ þey couþ of latyne,
And wel wryte on parchemyne.
Þe kyng vnderstod þe grete Amoure
Bytwene his sone and Blanchefloure,
And þouȝt when þey were of Age
Þat her loue wolde noȝt swage;
Nor he myȝt noȝt her loue withdrawe
When Florys shuld wyfe after þe lawe.
Þe king to þe Queene seide þoo,
And tolde hur of his woo,
Off his þouȝt and of his care,
How it wolde of Floreys fare.
“Dame,” he seide, “y tel þe my reede,
I wyl þat Blaunchefloure be do to deede.
When þat maide is y-slawe,
And brouȝt of her lyf dawe,
As sone as Florys may it vnder ȝete,
Rathe he wylle hur forȝete.
Þan may he wyfe after reede.”
Þe Queene answerde þen and seide,
And þouȝt with hur reede
Saue þe mayde fro þe deede.
“Sir,” she seide, “we auȝt to fonde
Þat Florens lyf wit menske in londe,
And þat he lese not his honour
For þe mayden Blauncheflour.
Who so myȝt þat mayde clene,
Þat she were brouȝt to deþ bydene,
Hit were muche more honour
Þan slee þat mayde Blancheflour.”
Vnneþes þe king g[ra]unt þat it be soo.
“Dame, rede vs what is to doo.”
“Sir, we shul oure soone Florys
Sende into þe londe of Mountargis.
Blythe wyl my suster be
Þat is lady of þat Contree.
And when she woot for whoom
Þat we have sent him vs froom,
She wyl doo al hur myȝt,
Boþ by day and by nyȝt,
To make hur loue so vndoo
As it had neuer ben soo.
And, sir,” she seide, “y rede eke
Þat þe maydens moder make hur seek.
Þat may be þat other resoun
For þat ylk enchesoun,
Þat she may not fro hur moder goo.”
Now ben þese Children swyþ woo,
Now þey may not goo in fere
Drewryer þinges neuer noone were.
Florys wept byfore þe kyng,
And seide, “Sir, with-out lesyng,
For my harme out ȝe me sende,
Now she ne myȝt with me wende.
Now we ne mot to-geder goo,
Al my wele is turned to woo.”
Þe king seide to his soone aplyȝt,
“Sone, withynne þis fourtenyȝt,
Be her moder quykke or deede,”
“Sekerly,” he him seide,
“Þat mayde shal come þe too.”
“Ȝe, sir,” he seid, “y pray ȝow it be soo.
Ȝif þat ȝe me hur sende,
I rekke neuer wheder y wende.”
Þat þe Child graunted þe kyng was fayne,
And him betauȝt his Chamburlayne.
With muche honoure þey þeder coome,
As fel to a ryche kynges soone.
Wel feire him receyuyd þe Duke Orgas,
Þat king of þat Castel was,
And his Aunt wiþ muche honour;
But euer he þouȝt on Blanchefloure.
Glad and blythe þey ben him withe;
But for no ioy þat he seith,
Ne myȝt him glade game ne gle,
For he myȝt not his lyf see.
His Aunt set him to lore
Þere as other Children wore,
Boþ maydons and grome;
To lerne mony þeder coome.
Inowȝ he sykes, but noȝt he lernes;
For Blauncheflour euer he mornes.
Yf enyman to him speke
Loue is on his hert steke.
Loue is at his hert roote
Þat no þing is so soote:
Galyngale ne lycorys
Is not so soote as hur loue is,
Ne nothing ne none other.
So much he þenkeþ on Blancheflour,
Of oo day him þynkeþ þre,
For he ne may his loue see.
Þus he abydeth with muche woo
Tyl þe fourtenyȝt were goo.
When he saw she was nouȝt ycoome,
So muche sorow he haþ noome,
Þat he loueth mete ne drynke,
Ne may noone in his body synke.
Þe Chamberleyne sent þe king to wete,
His sones state al y-wrete.
Þe king ful sone þe waxe to-brake,
For to wete what it spake:
He begynneth to chaunge his moode,
And wel sone he vnderstode,
And with wreth he cleped þe Queene,
And tolde hur alle his teene,
And with wraþ spake and sayde,
“Let do bryng forþ þat mayde!
Fro þe body þe heued shal goo.”
Þenne was þe Quene ful woo.
Þan spake þe Quene, þat good lady,
“For goddes love, sir, mercy.
At þe next hauen þat here is,
Þer ben chapmen ryche y-wys,
Marchaundes of babyloyne ful ryche,
Þat wol hur bye blethelyche.
Than may ȝe for þat louely foode
Haue muche Catell and goode.
And soo she may fro vs be brouȝt,
Soo þat we slee hur nouȝt.”
Vnneþes þe king graunted þis;
But forsoþ so it is,
Þe king let sende after þe burgeise,
Þat was hende and Curtayse,
And welle selle and bygge couth,
And moony langages had in his mouth.
Wel sone þat mayde was him betauȝt;
An to þe hauene was she brouȝt.
Þer haue þey for þat maide ȝolde
xx. Mark of reed golde,
And a Coupe good and ryche,
In al þe world was none it lyche.
Þer was neuer noone so wel graue;
He þat it made was no knave.
Þer was purtrayd on, y weene,
How Paryse ledde awey þe Queene;
And on þe Couercle a-boue
Purtrayde was þer both her love;
And in þe Pomel þerone
Stood a Charbuncle stoone.
In þe world was not so depe soler,
Þat it nold lyȝt þe Botelere,
To fylle boþ ale and wyne,
Of syluer and golde boþ good and fyne.
Enneas þe king, þat nobel man,
At Troye in batayle he it wan,
And brouȝt it in-to Lumbardy,
And gaf it his lemman, his Amy.
Þe Coupe was stoole fro king Cesar;
A þeef out of his tresour hous it bar.
And sethe þat ilke same þeef
For Blaunchefloure he it ȝeef.
For he wyst to wynne suche þree,
Myȝt he hur bryng to his contree.
Now þese Marchaundes saylen ouer þe see,
With þis mayde, to her contree.
So longe þey han vndernome,
Þat to Babyloyne þey ben coome.
To þe Amyral of Babyloyne
Þey solde þat mayde swythe soone;
Rath and soone þey were at oone.
Þe Amyral hur bouȝt Anoone,
And gafe for hur, as she stood vpryȝt,
Seuyne sythes of golde her wyȝt,
For he þouȝt without weene
Þat faire mayde haue to Queene;
Among his maydons in his bour
He hur dide with muche honour.
Now þese merchaundes þat may belete,
And ben glad of hur byȝete.
n Ow let we of Blauncheflour be,
And speke of Florys in his contree.
Now is þe Bu[r]gays to þe king coome
With þe golde and his garysone,
And haþ take þe king to wolde,
Þe seluer and þe Coupe of golde.
They lete make in a Chirche
As swithe feire graue wyrche.
And lete ley þer-vppone
A new feire peynted stone,
With letters al aboute wryte
With ful muche worshippe.
Who-so couth þe letters rede,
Þus þey spoken, and þus þey seide:
“Here lyth swete Blaunchefloure
Þat Florys louyd Paramoure.”
Now Florys haþ vndernome,
And to his Fader he is coome.
In his Fader halle he is lyȝt,
His Fader him grette anoone ryȝt,
And his moder, þe Queene, also,
But vnneþes myȝt he þat doo,
Þat he ne asked where his Lemman bee;
Nonskyns answere chargeþ hee.
So longe he is forth noome,
In to Chamber he is coome.
Þe maydenys moder he asked ryȝt,
“Where is Blauncheflour, my swete wyȝt?”
“Sir,” she seide, “forsothe ywys,
I ne woot where she is.”
She beþouȝt hur on þat lesyng
Þat was ordeyned byfoore þe king.
“Þou gabbest me,” he seyde þoo,
“Þy gabbyng doþ me muche woo.
Tel me where my leman be.”
Al wepyng seide þenne shee,
“Sir,” shee seide, “deede.” “deed!” seide he.
“Sir,” sche seide, “for sothe, ȝee.”
“Allas, when died þat swete wyȝt?”
“Sir, withynne þis Fourtenyȝt
Þe erth was leide hur aboute,
And deed she was for thy loue.”
Flores, þat was so feire and gent,
Sownyd þere verament.
Þe cristen woman began to crye
To ihesu crist and seynt Marye.
Þe king and þe queene herde þat crye;
In to þe Chamber þey ronne on hye.
And þe Queene herde her byforne
On sowne þe Childe þat she had borne.
Þe kinges hert was al in care,
Þat sawe his sone for loue so fare.
When he a-wooke and speke moȝt,
Sore he wept and sore he syȝt,
And seide to his moder ywys,
“Lede me þere þat mayde is.”
Þeder þey him brouȝt on hyȝe;
For care and sorow he wolde dyȝe.
As sone as he to þe graue com,
Sone þere behelde he þen,
And þe letters began to rede,
Þat þus speke and þus seide:
“Here lyth swete Blauncheflour,
Þat Florys louyd paramoure.”
Þre sithes Florys sownydde nouth;
Ne speke he myȝt not with mouth.
As sone as he awoke and speke myȝt,
Sore he wept and sore he syȝt.
“Blauncheflour!” he seide, “Blauncheflour!”
So swete a þing was neuer in boure.
Of Blauncheflour is þat y meene,
For she was come of good kyne.
Lytel and muche loueden þe
For þy goodnesse and þy beaute.
Ȝif deþ were dalt aryȝt,
We shuld be deed boþ on oo nyȝt.
On oo day borne we were;
We shul be ded boþ in feere.”
“Deeþ,” he seide, “ful of enuye,
And of alle trechorye,
Refte þou hast me my lemman.”
“For soth,” he seide, “þou art to blame.
She wolde haue leuyd, and þu noldest,
And fayne wolde y dye, and þu woldest.
After deeþ clepe nomore y nylle,
But slee my self now y wille.”
His knyf he braide out of his sheth;
Him self he wolde haue doo to deth.
And to hert he had it smetene
Ne had his moder it vnder ȝetene.
Þen þe Queene fel him vppone,
And þe knyf fro him noome.
She reft him of his lytel knyf,
And sauyd þere þe Childes lyf.
Forþ þe Queene ranne, al wepyng,
Tyl she come to þe kyng.
Þan seide þe good lady,
“For goddes loue, sir, mercy!
Of .xii. children haue we noone
On lyue now but þis oone.
And better it were she were his make,
Þan he were deed for hur sake.”
“Dame, þou seist soþ,” seide he;
“Sen it may noone other be,
Leuer me were she were his wyf,
Þan y lost my sonnes lyf.”
Of þis word þe Quene was fayne,
And to her soone she ran agayne.
“Floryes, soone, glad make the,
Þy lef þou schalt on lyue see.
Florys, sone, þrouȝ engynne
Of þy Faders reed and myne,
Þis graue let we make,
Leue sone, for þy sake.
Ȝif þou þat maide forgete woldest,
After oure reed wyf þou sholdest.”
Now euery worde she haþ him tolde,
How þat þey þat mayden solde.
“Is þis soth, my moder dere?”
“For soth,” she seide, “she is not here.”
Þe rowȝ stoone adoune þey leyde,
And sawe þat was not þe mayde.
“Now, moder, y þink þat y leue may.
Ne shal y rest nyȝt ne day,
Nyȝt ne day ne no stounde,
Tyl y haue my lemmon founde.
Hur to seken y woll wende,
Þauȝ it were to þe worldes ende.”
To þe king he goþ to take his leue,
And his Fader bade him byleue.
“Sir, y wyl let for no wynne;
Me to bydden it it were grete synne.”
Þan seid þe king, “seth it is soo,
Seþ þou wylt noone other doo,
Al þat þe nedeþ we shul þe fynde;
Ihesu þe of care vnbynde.”
“Leue Fader,” he seide, “y telle þe
Al þat þou shalt fynde me.
Þou mast me fynde, at my deuyse,
Seuen horses al of prys,
And twoo y-charged vppon þe molde
Boþ with seluer and wyþ golde,
And two ycharged with monay
For to spenden by þe way,
And þree with clothes ryche,
Þe best of al þe kyngryche,
Seuen horses and seuyn men,
And þre knaues without hem,
And þyne owne Chamburlayne,
Þat is a wel nobel swayne.
He can vs wyssh and reede,
As marchaundes we shull vs lede.”
His Fader was an hynde king,
Þe Coupe of golde he dide him bryng,
Þat ilke self Coupe of golde
Þat was Blauncheflour for ȝolde.
“Haue þis, soone,” seide þe king,
“Herewith þou may þat swete þing,
Wynne so may betyde,
Blauncheflour with þe white syde,
Blauncheflour, þat faire may.”
Þe king let sadel a Palfray,
Þe oone half so white so mylke,
And þat other reed so sylk.
I ne can telle nouȝt
How rychely þat sadel was wrouȝt.
Þe Arson was of golde fyne,
Stones of vertu stode þeryne,
Bygone aboute wit orfreys.
Þe Queene was kynde and curtays,
Cast hur toward þe kyng
And of hur fynger she brayde a ryng:
“Haue now þis ylke ryng:
While is it þyne, douȝt no þyng
Of fire brennyng ne water in þe See;
Ne yren ne steele shal dere thee.”
He took his leue for to goo;
Þer was ful muche woo;
Þey made him noon other chere
Þan her soon were leide in bere.
Furþ he went with al his mayn;
With him went þe Chamberlayn.
So haue þey her hauyn nome
Þat þey ben to þe hauyn come
Þere Blaunchefloure was alnyȝt,
Wel rychely þey ben dyȝt;
Þe lord of þe ynne was welle hende;
Þe Child he sette next þe ende,
In al þe feirest seete
Alle þey dronken and al þey ȝete:
Ete ne drynke myȝt he nouȝt;
On blauncheflour was al his þouȝt.
Þe lady of þat vnderȝat
Þat þe Childe mornyng sat,
And seide to her lord with styl dreme,
“Sir, nyme now goode ȝeme
How þe Child mournyng syttes:
Mete and drynke he forȝetes:
Lytel he eteþ, and lasse he drynkeþ;
He is a marchaund, as me þynkeþ.”
To Flores þen seide she,
“Al ful of mournyng y the see.
Þer sate þer þis sender day,
Blauncheflour, þat swete may.
Heder was þat mayde brouȝt
With Marchaundes þat hur had bouȝt;
Heder þey brouȝt þat mayde swete;
Þey wold haue solde hur for byȝete;
To Babyloyne þey wylle hur brynge,
Boþ of semblant & of mornynge.”
When Florys herd speke of his lemman,
Was he neuer so glad a man,
And in his hert bygan to lyȝt;
Þe Coupe he let fulle anoon ryȝt:
“Dame,” he seide, “þe fessel is þyne,
Boþ þe Coupe and þe wyne,
Þe wyne and þe gold eke,
For þou of my leman speke:
On hur y þouȝt, for hur y syȝt;
I ne wyst where I hur fynde myȝt;
Wynde ne weder shal me assoyne,
Þat y ne shal seche hur in Babyloyne.”
Now Florys resteþ him al a nyȝt.
At morne, when it was day lyȝt,
He dide him in-to þe wylde flood.
Wynde and weder with him stood;
Sone so Florys come to londe,
Þere he þanked goddes sonde
To þe londe þer his lyf ynne is:
Him þouȝt he was in paradyse.
Sone to Florys tydyng men tolde
Þat þe Amyral wold Fest holde;
His Erls, Barons, comyn sholde,
And al þat wold of him lond holde,
For to herkyn his hest
And for to honoure his Feest.
Glad was Florys of þat tydyng;
He hoped to come to þat gestyng,
Ȝif he myȝt, in þat halle,
His lemman see among hem alle.
OW to þat Citee Florys is come;
Feire he hath his ynne y-noome
At a palaise; was none it lyche;
Þe lord of þat ynne was fulle ryche;
He hadde ben ferre and wyde.
Þe Childe he set next his syde,
In al þe feirest seete.
Alle þey dronken and ete,
Al þat þerynne were,
Al þey made good chere,
Þey ete and dronke echoon with other;
But Florys þouȝt al another,
Ete ne drynke he myȝt noȝt,
On Blauncheflour was al his þouȝt.
Þan spake þe Burgays
Þat was hende and Curtays:
“Ow, child, me þynkeþ welle
Þat muche þou þynkest on my catelle.”
“Nay, sir, on Catel þenke y nouȝt,”
(On Blauncheflour was al his þouȝt,)
“But y þynke on al wyse
For to fynde my marchaundise;
And ȝit it is þe most woo,
When y it fynd, y shal it forgoo.”
Þan spak þe lord of þat ynne,
“Þis sender day, þer sate hereyne
Þat faire Maide Blauncheflour,
boþ in halle and in boure.
Euer she made mornyng chere,
And bement Florys, her lyf fere;
Ioye ne blis made she noon,
But for Florys she made her moon.”
Florys toke a Coupe of syluer clere,
A mantyl of Scarlet with menyuere:
“Houe þis, sir, to þyn honour;
Þou may þonke it Blauncheflour.
He myȝt make myn hert glade,
Þat couþ me tel wheder she is ladde.”
“Child, to Babyloyne she is brouȝt;
Þe Amyral hur haþ bouȝt:
He gaf for hur, as she stood vpryȝt,
Seuen sithes of gold hur wyȝt;
For he þenkeþ with-out weene,
Þat faire may haue to Queene.
Among his maydons in his toure
He hur dide, with much honoure.”
Now Flores resteþ him þere al nyȝt,
Tyl on þe morrow þe day was lyȝt;
He roos on þe morownyng,
He gaf his Ost an hundryd shelyng,
To his ost and to his Ostesse,
And toke his leue, and feire dide kysse;
And ȝerne his ost he besouȝt,
Þat he him help, ȝif he myȝt ouȝt,
Ȝif he myȝt, with any gynne,
Þat feire may to him wynne.
“Childe,” he seide, “to a brygge þou shalt come,
The Senpere fynde at hoome:
He woneth at þe brygges ende;
Curtays man he is, and hende;
We arn bretheren, and trouthes plyȝt:
He can þe wyssh and rede a-ryȝt;
Þou shalt bere him a rynge
Fro my-self to tokenynge,
Þat he help þe in boure and halle
As it were my self befalle.”
Florys takeþ þe ryng, and nemeþ leue,
For long wold he nouȝt beleue.
By þat it was vndern hyȝe,
Þe Brygge come he swyth nye.
Þe Senperes name was Darys.
Florys gret him wel feire ywys,
And he him þe ryng arauȝt,
And ful feire it him betauȝt.
Þrouȝ þe token of þat ilk ryng
Florys had ful faire gestnyng
Off Fyssh and flessh and tender breed,
Of wyn, both white and reed:
And euer Florys sate ful colde,
And Dares bygan þe Childe beholde:
“Leue Child, what may þis be,
Þus þouȝtful as y the see?
And þou nouȝt al in feere,
Þat þou makist þus sory chere,
Or þou lykkest noȝt þis yn?”
Þan Floreys answered him:
“Ȝis, sir, by goddes ore,
So good ne had y mony day ȝore:
God let me abyde þat daye
Þat y þe quyte wel may:
But y þenke on al wyse
Most vppon my marchaundyse;
And ȝit it is most woo,
When y hit Fynde, y shal it forgoo.”
“Childe, woldest þou telle me my gryf,
To hele þe, me were ful lyf.”
Euery word he haþ him tolde,
How þe mayde was fro him solde,
And how he was of Spayn a kynges sone,
For grete loue þider y-come,
To fonde, with quantyse and with gyn,
Blauncheflour for to wynne.
“Now,” seith Dares, “þou art a Folt,—
And For a Foole þe Childe he halt,—
“Now y woot how it gooth,
Þou desirest þyn own death.
Þe Amyral haþ to his Iustinges
Oþer half hundred of ryche kinges;
And þe Alder-rychest king
Durst not begynne suche a þing.
Ȝif Amyral myȝt it vnderstonde,
He shulde be drawe in his owne londe,
A-bout Babyloyne, y wene,
Six longe myle and tene;
At euery myle is a walle þerate,
Seuen sithes twenty ȝate;
And .xx. toures þer ben ynne,
Þat euery day chepyng is ynne;
Euery day and nyȝt þrouȝ-out þe ȝere
Þe Chepyng is y-lyche plenere;
And þauȝ al þe men þat ben bore,
Had on hur lyf swore
To wynne þat maide feire and free,
Al shul þey die, so moot y the.
In þat bour, in mydward pyȝt,
Stondeþ a toure, y the plyȝt,
An hundryd fathum it is hye,—
Who-soo beholdeþ hit, fer or nere,
An hundred fathum it is y-fere;—
It is made with-out[en] pere,
Of lyme and of Marbulstone;
In al þis world is suche noone.
Now is þe morter made so wele,
Ne may it breke, iren ne steele.
Þe Pomel þat aboue is leide,
It is made with muche pride;
Þat man ne þar in þe Tour berne
Nouther torcher ne lanterne;
Suche a pomel was þer bygone,
Hit shyned a nyȝt so doþ þe soone.
Now arn in þat ilk Tour
Twoo and fourty nobell boure;
Wel were þat ilke man
Þat myȝt woone in þat oon!
Ne durst him neuer more ywys
Couete after more blysse.
Naw arn þer Seriauntes in þat stage
Þat seruen þe maydons of hyȝe parage;
But no serieaunt may serue þerynne
Þat bereþ in his breche þat gynne
To serue hem day and nyȝt,
But he be as a Capoun dyȝt.
At þe gate is a ȝateward;
He is not a Coward;
He is wonder proude with alle;
Euery day he goþ in ryche palle.
And þe Amyral haþ a wonder woon,
Þat he þat is come of cristendome,
Euery ȝere to haue a new wyf,
Þen he loueþ his Queene as his lyf.
Then shul men brynge doun of þe Toure
Al þe Maidens of grete honour,
And brynge hem into an Orchard,
Þe feirest of al mydlerd:
Þeryn is mony fowles song;
Men myȝt leue þeryn ful long:
About þe Orchard is a walle,—
Þe fowlest stone is Cristalle,—
And a well spryngeþ þerynne,
Þat is made with muche gynne;
Þe wel is of muche prys,
Þe stremes com froo Paradyse;
Þe grauel of þe ground is precious stoones,
And al of vertu for þe noones.
Now is þe well of muche auȝt;
Ȝif a woman com þat is for-lauȝt,
And she be doo to þe streeme
For to wesshe her honndes clene,
Þe water wylle ȝelle as it were wood,
And bycome red as blood.
On what maide þe water fareþ soo,
Sone she shal to deþ be doo.
Þoo þat ben maidens clene,
Þey may wesshe þeryn, y wene;
Þe water woll stonde feire and clere;
To hem makeþ it no daungere.
At þe walles hed stondeþ a tree,
Þe feirest þat on erthe may be;
It is cleped þe tree of loue:
Flowers and blossomes spryngen aboue;
Þen þey þat maydons clene bene,
Þei shul be brouȝt vnder þe trene,
And which so falleþ þe floure,
Shal be queene with muche honour.
Ȝif any mayden þer is
Þat þe Amyral telleþ of more pris,
Þe flour shal be to her sent
Þrouȝ art of enchauntement.
Þe Amyral cheseþ hem by þe flour,
And euer he herkeneþ after Blauncheflour.
Thre sithes Flores sownyd anoon
Riȝt byfore hem euerychoon:
When he awoke, and speke myȝt,
Sore he wept, and sore he syȝt,
And seide, “Dares, y worth now deed,
But þat y hope of þe som reed.”
“Leue soon, wyl ȝe see
Þat þy trust is muche on me;
Þen is þe best reed þat y can—
Other reed ne can y noon—
Wende to-morn to þe toure
As þou were a good gynoure;
Take on þy honde squyer and scantlon
As þou were a free mason;
Behold þe tour vp and doun,
Þe porter is cruel and Feloun;
Wel sone he wyl come to the,
And aske what maner man þou be,
And bere on þe, Felonye,
And sey þou art come to be a spye.
And þow shalt answere swetlyche,
And sey to him myldelyche,
Sey þou art a gynoure,
To beholde þat feire Toure,
For to loke and for to fonde
To make suche another in þy londe.
Wel sone he wyl com þe nere,
And wyl byd þe play at þe chekere.
When þou art at cheker brouȝt,
Without seluer [be] þou nouȝt;
Þou shalt haue redy with the
XX. Marke beside þy knee;
Ȝif þou wynne ouȝt of his,
Þow tel þerof lytel prys;
And yf he wynne ouȝt of þyn,
loke þow leue it with hym;
So þou shalt, al with gynne,
Þe porters loue forsoth wynne,
Þat he þe help on þis day:
But he þe helpe, no man may.
Wel ȝerne he wyl þe bydde and pray
Come anoþer day to playe:
Þou shalt seye þou wylt soo;
Þou shalt take with þe suche twoo;
Þe þrydde day take an hundred pound,
And þy Coupe hool and sound:
Ȝeue him markes & poundes of þy male;
Of þy tresour tel þou no tale;
Wel ȝerne he wyl þe bydde and pray
To lay þy Coupe, and to play.
Þou shalt answere alþerfirst,
Lenger to play þe ne lyst.
Ful muche he wylle for þe Coupe bede,
Ȝif he myȝt þe better spede;
Þou shalt it blethly ȝeue him
Ȝif it be of gold fyne;
And he wol ful moche loue þe,
And to þe bowe also, parde,
Þat he wyl falle to þy foote,
And become þyn, ȝif he moote.
And homage þou shalt fonge,
And þe trouþ of his honde.”
As he seide, he dide ywys;
And as he ordeynd, so it is:
Þe Porter ys Florys man bycome,
For his gold and his warysone.
Florys seide, “now art þou my moon,
Al my trust is þe vppon;
Now my consel y wyl þe shewe;
Rede me ryȝt, ȝif þou be trew.
Now euery word he haþ him tolde,
How þe mayde was fro him sholde,
And how he was of Spayn a kynges soon,
For grete loue þeder ycoom
To fonden, with some gynne,
Þat feire mayde for to wynne.
Þe Porter þat herde, and sore syȝt,
And seide, “y am betrayde aryȝt;
Þrouȝ þy Catel, y am dismayde;
Þerfore y am wel euyl a-payde
Now y woot how it gooþ;
For þe shal y suffre deth;
I shal þe faile neuer moo,
Þe while y may ryde and goo;
Þy forwardes shal y holde alle,
What-so-euer may befalle.
Wynde now hoom to þyn ynne
While y beþenke me of sum gynne;
Bytwene þis and þe þrydde day.
Fonde y shal, what y do may.
Flores spake and wept amonge
And þouȝt þe terme al to longe.
Þe Porter þouȝt þe best reed,
And let geder floures in a meed;
He wist it was þe maydons wylle.
To lepes he lete of floures fylle:
Þat was þe best reed, as him þouȝt þoo,
Floures in þat oon lep to doo.
Twoo maydens þe lepe bore;
So heuy charged neuer þey wore,
And bade god ȝeue hem euyl fyne;
To mony floures he dide þerynne.
To Blaunchefloures Chamber þey shulde tee;
Þey ȝede to anoþer, and let þat be:
Þey shuld haue gone to Blauncheflour,
And ȝede to swete Clarys boure,
And cursed him so fele brouȝt to honde;
Þey ȝede hoom, and lete hem stonde.
Clarys to þe lepe come wolde,
Þe Flores to hondel and to be-holde;
Florys wende it hadde be his swete wyȝt;
Of þe lepe he stert vpryȝt;
And þe mayde, al for drede,
Bygan to shrelle and to grede.
When he sawȝ it was not shee,
In-to þe lepe aȝen stert he,
And held him betrayde clene;
Of his lyf tolde he not a beene.
Þer come maydons, and to Clarys lepe
by ten, by twelf, on an heepe
And þey asked what hur were,
And why she made suche a bere.
Clarys byþouȝt hur anooneryȝt
Þat hit was Blauncheflour þe white,
And gaue þe Maydons answere anoon,
Þat to her Chamber were goon,
Þat to þe lepe come she wolde,
Þe Flowres to hondel and to beholde;
“And, or y it ere wyst,
An Otter fleyȝ a-geynst my brest:
I was so soore a-drad þan,
Þat y loude crye can.”
Þe Maydons þerof hadden glee,
And turned hem, and lete hur be.
As sone as þe maydons were gon,
To Blauncheflour she ȝede anoon,
And seide boldly to Blauncheflour,
“Felow, come and see a feire Flour!
Suche a flour þe shal wel lyke,
Haue þou it sene a lyte.”
“Awey, Clarys!” quod Blauncheflour;
“To scorne me, it is none honoure.
I here, Clarys, without gabbe,
Þat þe Amyral wyl me to wyf habbe;
But þat day shal neuer be,
Þat he shal euer haue me,
Þat y shal be of loue so vntrewe,
Ne chaunge my loue for no newe;
For no loue, ne for noon aye,
Forsake Florys in his Contraye.
Now y shal swete Florys mysse,
Ne shal noon other of me haue blysse.”
Clarys stood and beheld þat rewth,
And þe trewnesse of hur trewth,
And seide, “lady Blaunchefloure,
Goo we see þat ilk floure.”
To þe lepe þey went both.
Ioyful man was Florys þoo,
For he had herde al þis.
Of þat lepe he stert y-wys:
Wel sone Blauncheflour chaunged hewe;
Ayther of hem other knewe:
Withoute speche togeder þey lepe,
And klippt and kyst wonder swete.
Clarys beheld al this,
Her countenaunce and her blysse,
And seide þen to Blaunchefloure,
“Felow, knowist þou auȝt þis flour?
She shul konne ful muche of Art
Þat þou woldest þerof geue part.”
Now Blauncheflour and Florys,
Boþ þese swete þinges ywys,
Cryen her mercy, al wepyng,
Þat she ne wrey hem to þe king.
“Ne douȝt no more of me in alle,
Þan it were myself byfalle.
Wete ȝe wel weturly,
Heele y wyl ȝoure drury.”
To a bedde þey ben brouȝt,
Þat is of palle and of sylke wrouȝt;
And þere þey sette hem doun
And drouȝ hem self al a room:
Þer was no man þat myȝt radde
Þe ioye þat þey twoo madde.
Florys þen to speke bygan,
And seide, “lord þat madest man,
I it þonke goddes sone
Þat al my care I haue ouercome;
Now my leue I haue y-founde,
Of al my care y am vnbounde.”
Clarys hem seruyd al at wylle,
Boþ dernlyche and stylle.
Larys with þe white syde
Rose vp on morne tyde,
And cleped after Blaunchefloure
To wende with him in to þe Toure:
She seide “y am commaund”;
But her answere was slepaund.
Þe Amyral had such a woone,
Þat euery day shulde come
Twoo maydons of hur bour
Vp to him in to þe Toure,
With water and clooth, and basyn,
For to wesshe his hondes ynne:
Þat day þey seruyd him feire;
Anoþer day come another peire;
But most were wonyd into þe Toure,
Clarys and Blauncheflour.
Clarys come þenne aloon:
Þe Amyral asked a-noon,
“Where is Blauncheflour so free?
Why comeþ she not heder with þe?”
“Sir,” she seide anoon ryȝt,
“She haþ wakyd al þis nyȝt,
And y-cryde and y-loke
And y-redde on hur booke,
And y-bede to god her orysoun
Þat he geue þe his benysoun,
And þat he holde long þy lyf;
And now þe mayde slepeþ swyth;
She slepeþ so fast, þat mayde swete,
Þat she may not com ȝete.”
“Certes,” seide þe kyng,
“Now is she a swete þing:
Wel auȝt me ȝerne her to wyf,
Þat so preyeth for my lyf.”
Anoþer day Clarys erly Aryst;
Þat Blauncheflour well wyst,
And seide, “y come anoon,”
When Clarys her clepe bygan,
And fel in a slepe newe.
Sone after it made hem to rewe:
Clarys to þe Pyler cam;
A basyn of gold in hond she nam,
And Cleped after Blaunchefloure
To wende with hur in to þe Toure.
Þe Amyral asked after Blauncheflour,
“What! is she not come ȝet?
Now she me douteþ al to lyte.”
Forþ he cleped his Chamburlayn,
And bade him wende with his mayn
To wete why she wyl not come
As she was wonyd to doon.
Þe Chamburlayn is forth noom;
In to Chambre he is coom,
And stondeþ byfore hur bedde,
And fyndeþ þere, nebbe to nebbe,
Nebbe to nebbe, and mouþ to mouþ.
To þe Amyral it was sone couþ;
Vp in to þe Toure he steyȝ,
And told his lord al þat he seyȝ.
Þe Amyral late him his swerd brynge,
For wete he wolde of þat tydynge:
He went to hem þere þey lay:
Ȝit was she a-slepe þere ay.
The Amyral lete þe clothes doun cast
A lytel by-nethe hur brest,
And sone he knew anoon
Þat oon was woman, & þat oþer groom.
He quaked for tene þere he stood;
Hem to sloon was in his mood;
Ȝit he þouȝt, or he hem quelde,
What þey were, þey shuld him telle,
And seth he wyl with dome hem done.
Þe Children wakyd swyth soone,
And saw þe swerde ouer hem drawe;
Þey ben adrad, and in awȝe.
Þan seide Florys to Blauncheflour,
“Of oure lyf is no socour.”
But þey cryde him mercy swyth,
For to length her lyue.
Vp he bade hem sytte booth,
And do on boþ her cloþ;
Seþ he dide hem bynde fast,
And in prison lete hem be cast.
Now haþ he after his Barons sent,
To wreke him after Iugement,
Now han þe Barons vndernome,
And to þe Amyral þey ben coome.
He stood vp a-monge hem al,
With semblant wroþ withalle,
And seide: “Lordynges, with much honour,
Ȝe herde speke of Blauncheflour,
Þat y bouȝt hur dere a plyȝt
For seuen sithes of golde hur wyȝt;
For y wende with-out wene
Þat feire mayde to haue had to Quene.
Among my maydons in my Toure
I hur dide, with muche honoure;
Byfore her bedde my self y coom;
I fonde þeryn a naked man.
Þan were þey to me so looþ,
I þouȝt to haue sleyn hem booþ,
I was so wroþ and so wood.
Ȝit y withdrowȝ myn hoot blood
Tyl y haue sende after ȝow, by assent,
To wreke me with Iugement.
Now ȝit ȝe woot how it is goon,
Wreke me soon of my foon.”
Þan spake a kyng of þat londe,
“We haue herd al þis shame and shonde;
But, or we hem to deth deme,
Lat vs hem see, ȝif it þe Queeme,
What þey wolde speke or sygge,
Ȝif þey wyl auȝt ageyn vs legge:
Hit were nouȝt ryȝt iugement,
Without answere make acoupement.
Til þis is herde of more and lasse,
What myster is, to bere wytnesse?”
After þe Children haue þey sent,—
To brenne hem was his entent;—
Two serieauntes hem gan brynge
Toward hur al wepynge.
Drery booþ þese children goo;
Ayther bemeneþ oþeris woo.
Þan seide Florys to Blauncheflour,
“Of oure lyf is no socour:
Yf kinde of man it þole myȝt,
Twyes y shuld dye with ryȝt,
Oones for my self, anoþer for the,
For, þy deeþ þou hast for me.’
Blauncheflour seyde þoo,
“Þe gylt is myn, of oure woo.”
Florys drouȝ forþ þat ryng
Þat his moder him gaff at her partyng:
“Haue þis ryng, lemman myne;
Þou shalt not dye while it is þyne.”
Blaunchefloure seide þoo,
“So ne shal it neuer goo,
Þat þis ryng shal help me,
And þe deed on þe see.”
Florys þat ryng hur rauȝt,
And she it him agayn betauȝt,
Nouther ne wyl other deed seene;
Þey let it falle hem bytwene;
A king com after; a ryng he fonde,
And brouȝt it forth in his honde.
Þus þe Children wepyng com
To þe fire and hur doom.
Byfore þe folk þey were brouȝt;
Drery was her bothes þouȝt;
Þere was noon so sterne man
Þat þe Children loked oon,
Þat þey ne wolde, al wel fawe,
Her iugement haue withdrawe,
And with grete Catel hem bygge,
Ȝif þey durst speke or sygge;
For Flores was so feire a ȝonglyng,
And Blaunchefloure so swete a þing,
Þer wyst no man whor hem were woo,
For no semblaunt þat þey made þoo.
Þe Admyral was so wood,
Ne myȝt he nouȝt kele his hoot blood;
He bade þe Children fast be bound,
And in to þe fire slong.
Þat ilke king þat þe ryng fond,
To Amyral he spake and round,
And wolde hem saue to þe lyf,
And told how for þe ryng þey gon stryf.
Þe Amyral lete hem ageyn clepe,
For he wolde here hem speke,
And asked Florys what he heete:
And he tolde him ful skeete:
“Sir,” he seide, “yf it were þy wylle,
Þou ne getest not þat maide to spylle;
But, good sir, quel þou me,
And lete þat maide on lyue be.”
Blauncheflour seide byne,
“Þe gilt of oure dedes is moyne.”
Þe Admyral seide þoo
“I-wys ȝe shul dye boo.”
His swerd he breide out of his sheeth,
Þe Children to haue done to deeth.
Blaunchefloure put forþ hur swire,
And Florys dide her agayn to tyre,
And seide, “I am man; I shal byfore,
With wrong hast þou þy lyf loore.”
Florys forth his swerd putte,
And Blauncheflour agayn him tytte.
Þe king seide, “dredry mot ȝe be,
Þis rouþ by þis Children to see.”
Þe king þat þe ryng hadde,
For routh of hem sone he radde,
And at þe Amyral wyl he spede,
Þe Children fro þe deþ to lede.
“Sir,” he seide, “it is lytel prys,
Þese Children for to slee y-wys;
And it is wel more worship,
Florys counsel þat ȝe weete,
Who him tauȝt þat ilke gynne,
Þy toure for to come ynne,
And who him brouȝt þare,
And other, þat ȝe may be ware.”
Þan seide þe Amyral, “as god me saue,
Florys shal his lyf haue,
Ȝif he me telle who him tauȝt þerto,
Of Florys, þat shal y neuer doo.”
Now þey bydden al y-wys
Þat þe Admyral graunted þis,
To forȝeue þat trespas
Ȝif Florys told how it was.
Now euery word he haþ him tolde,
How þat maide was for him solde,
And how he was of spayn a kynges sone,
For grete loue þeder y-come,
For to fonde, with sum gynne,
Þat feire maide for to wynne,
And how þe porter was his man bycome,
For his gold and for his warysoun,
And how he was in þe Florys borne.
Alle þe lordinges lowȝ þerforne:
Now þe Admyral wol him tyde;
Florys setteþ next his syde,
And efte he made him stonde vpryȝt,
And dubbed him þere knyȝt,
And bade he shulde with him be,
Þe furthermost of his meyne.
Florys falleþ doun to his feet,
And prayeþ geue him his sweet.
Þe Amyral gaf him his lemman:
Al þat þere were, þankyd him þanne.
To a Chirche he let hem brynge,
And dede let wed hem with a rynge.
Boþ þese twoo swete þinges y-wys
Fel his feet for to kysse;
And þrouȝ consel of Blauncheflour,
Clarys was fet doun of þe Toure,
And Amyral wedded hur to queene.
Þere was fest swythe breeme;
I can not telle al þe sonde,
But rycher fest was neuer in londe.
Was it nouȝt longe after þan,
Þat to Florys tydyng cam,
Þat þe king his Fader was deed.
Þe Baronage gaf him reed
Þat he shuld wende hoom,
And fonge his feire kyngdoom.
At þe Amyral þey toke leue,
And he byddeþ þem byleue.
Home he went with royal array,
And was crownyd with-in a short day.