University of Virginia Library

Mekely, lordyngis gentyll and fre,
Lystene a while and herken to me:
I shall you telle of a kynge,
A dowghty man, with owte lesynge;
In his tyme he was full bolde,
A worthy man and wele of tolde;
Feyre he was on fote and hand
And wele belouyd in all that lande;
Off body he was styffe & stronge,
And to no man he wold do wronge.
Of Poyle-lond lord was he,
Gold and syluer he had plente,
Hye and low louyd hym alle,
Moche honoure to hym was falle.
Hys name was kynge Ermones,
He hated wronge & louyd pees.
His quene was bothe bryght and shene;
Moche goodnesse was hem bytwene.
To god they preyd after an eyre:
He sent theym one, bothe good & feyre;
Feyre he was of flesshe and blode,
They thangkyd god with myld mode;
To chyrche they bare the chyld thonne
And crystenyd hym Ipomydon;
Till a noryce they dyd hym take
And for þat chyld grete joy they make;
Many ladyes toke they, hym to ȝeme,
That serued all þat chyld to queme.
The childe was feyre and waxe with all
And playd in chamber & in halle;
The kynge of hym had joy plente:
A feyrer child myght no man see.
He lette calle a knyght full trew,
That namyd was syr Tholomew;
He was a knyght of grete þouste
And well bylouyd in that contre
Bothe of more & of lesse,
For hym folowyd all goodnesse;
Curteyse he was and hend of mouthe,
Of norture, iwys, myche he couthe,
That lordys vsyd in there halle
And ladyes in chamber, grete & smalle.
Hermones sayd in his manere:
“I haue a sonne, þat me ys dere,
That shall be eyre of all my lande:
I wille, ye haue hym to vndyrstand
And to teche hym in all manere,
Lyke as he thyne owne were!”
“Sir,” quod þis knyght myld of speche,
“Wold god, I cowthe your sonne teche
Thyng, that myght torne hym to prow!”
Ipomydon resseyueth he now;
Tholomew, a clerke he toke,
That taught the child vppon þe boke
Bothe to synge and to rede,
And after he taught hym other dede,
Aftirward to serve in halle
Bothe to grete and to smalle,
Before the kyng mete to kerve,
Hye and low feyre to serve,
Bothe of howndis & haukis game;
Aftir he taught hym all & same
In se, in feld and eke in ryuere,
In wodde to chase the wild dere
And in the feld to ryde a stede,
That all men had joy of his dede.
All þat lond of hym spake good,
For he was so myld of mode,
Hende he was, curteyse & fre,
A godelyer man myght no man see;
They preysed hym, bothe more & lesse,
Bothe man & woman, as I gesse;
All lovyd hym, þat were hym by,
For he bare hym so curtessely.
Now is he waxen a goodly man,
To all godnesse he yaff hym than;
He ys a myghty man for the nonys
And wele ishape with grete bonys.
In all that contre was there none,
To hym myght cast þe tre ne stone.
The kyng of hym grete joy had,
For all folke of hym were glad.
Every yere the kyng wold
At whytsontyde a fest hold;
Off dukis, erlis and barouns
Many there come frome dyuers townes;
Ladyes, maydens, gentill & fre,
Come thedyr frome ferre contre,
And grete lordis of ferre lond
Thedyr were prayd byfore the hand.
When all were come to gedyr than,
There was joy of many a man;
Full riche, I wote, were hyr seruice,
For better myght no man devyse.
Ipomydon þat day servyd in halle,
All spake of hym, bothe grete & smalle,
Ladies & maydens byheld hym on:
So godely a man they had sene none;
His feyre chere in halle theym smert,
That many a lady smote throw the hert,
And in there hertis they made mone,
That there lordis ne were suche one.
Aftyr mete they went to pley,
All the peple, as I you sey,
Somme to chambre and som to boure
And somme to the hye towre,
And somme in the halle stode
And spake, what hem thought gode.
Men, that were of that cyte,
Enquered of men of other contre,
Of Calabre-lond who was kynge,
And som answerd to this askynge:
“He ys dede sythe many a day,
And by hynde he lefte a feyre may,
That ys his doughter & his eyre:
In all þat lond is non so feyre,
And so sayne all, þat hyr do see,
She is þe feyreste, þat may bee:
For, thoughe a man wold all þis day
Hyr beaute discryve, he coude not sey
All hyr worshyp ne hyr porture;
She is a lady of grete honoure;
In all þis world is non so wyse,
That hir goodnesse kan devyse;
Kynges and dukes comethe, hyr to seke,
And so done emperoures eke
And wold haue þat mayde to wyfe,
But she will non, þat is on lyffe,
But he doughtyeste be of hande,
That suche on is non lyvande.”
This word sprange wyde with all
Bothe in chambre & in halle
Of the eyre of Calabre, þat feyre may.
Ipomydon, he herkenyd ay:
Bothe in chambre and in boure
Men spake þat lady grete honowre;
There was none, þat speke couthe,
But they the lady had in mouthe.

Ipomydon drew hym nye tho
And ofte he herkenyd to & fro;
When he herd of hir so speke,
Hym thought, his herte wold tobreke,
But if he myght se þat mayde,
To wete, if she were, as they seyde;
Off hyr he had suche a thoght,
That in mornyng he was broght,
And so he mornythe nyght & day,
But yit to no man wold he sey.
By than come forthe syr Tholomew,
That was hys master good and trewe:
“Gode syr,” he sayd, “for charyte,
Telle me, who hathe grevyd the,
And why thou makyst þis mornynge:
I swere by Jesu, heuyn kynge,
He shall abye on somme manere,
But if it be thy fader dere!”
“Nay, master,” he sayd, “not soo!
I shalle you telle, or that I go;
But if I haue the helpe of the,
Joye thou getest neuyr of me,
For now to you, syr, I will sey:
Myne hert ys sette vppon a may,
That she may nevir oute of my thoght,
But I hyr se, I worthe to noght:
The eyre of Calabre, for sothe, it is,
That men speke of so myche blysse;
But if I may þat lady serve,
For care & sorow my hert wille sterve!”
Tholomew sayd: “Lette be this wille!
Thynke ye now youre selfe to spille?
Ye ar the kynges son and hys eyre
And may haue maryages gode & feyre;
There ys no man in crystente,
Þat richer maryages may haue, þan ye!”
“Master, these wordis avaylethe noght;
But if I do, as I haue thoght,
And to hyr go, as I you saye,
I dye for hyr, with oute deley!”
Sir Tholomew sayd: “Sythe it is so,
That ye may not hyr forgo,
I shall go vnto the kynge
And gete you leve, with oute lettynge,
That ye may go, sir, at your wille
And se the mayden all youre fille!”
Sir Tholomew forthe gan goo,
And to þe kynge he went tho;
Vppon his knees he hym sette
And the kyng full feyre he grette:
“Sir, of one thyng I you prey,
Besechyng you, to sey not nay,
Off your sonne Ipomydon,
For he thynkith to be a mon:
Off youre courte and youre norture
He hathe wele lernyd, I you ensure;
He wold wend in to strange contre,
More in service for to bee;
So that ye take it not at greffe,
Full feyne he wolde prey you of leffe,
And I shall make me redy,
To wend with hym in companye
And serve hym as his owne knyght
And honoure hym with all my myght!”
Than seyd Hermones, the kynge:
“Iff this be his owne desyrynge,
I am well payed of his wille,
For his askyng I hold skille,
And now I wote, thou arte my frend,
Sithe þat thow wilt with hym wend,
Take you inough of all thynge
And loke, ye wante no spendynge!”
Sir Tholomew forthe gan goo,
And to Ipomydon come he tho
And sayd: “Syr, with oute lesynge,
Your fadir hathe grantid youre askynge;
He bad, þat ye no thyng shuld spare,
And my self shall with you fare!”
“I pray god thanke you, master dere!
That ye me love, I may se here.”
Than they busked theym to goo,
Horse they toke and harnesse also;
Off all thynge they wantid none.
Now to his fader the child is gone;
On knees he felle byfore the kynge
And prayd hym of his dere blissynge:
“That blissyng haue þou, my sonne trew,
That Marye gaff hyr sonne Jesu!”

Now they go forthe on hir way;
Ipomydon to hys men gan sey,
That ther be none of hem alle
So hardy, by hys name hym calle,
Where so they wend, ferre or nere
Or ouer the strange ryuere:
“Ne man telle, what I am,
Where I shall go ne whens I cam!”
All they granted his comandement,
And forthe they went with one assent.
Ipomydon and Tholomew
Robys had on and mantillis new
Off the richest, þat myght bee,
There was none suche in that contre,
For many was the ryche stone,
That the mantillis were vppon.
So longe there weys they haue nome,
That to Calabre they ar come;
They come to the castelle yate,
Þe porter was redy there at;
The porter to theyme they gan calle
And prayd hym go in to þe halle:
“And say thy lady gent and fre,
That comen ar men of ferre contre,
And if it plese hyr, we wold hyr prey,
That we myght ete with hyr to day!”
The porter sayd full cortessly:
“Your erand to do, I am redy!”
The lady to hyr mete was sette,
The porter come and feyre hyr grette:
“Madame,” he sayd, “god you saue!
Atte your gate gestis ye haue,
Strange men, as for to see;
They aske mete for charyte!”
The lady comaundith sone anon,
Þat the gates were vndone:
“And bryng theym all byfore me,
For wele at ese shall they bee!”
They toke hir pagis, hors & alle.
Þese two men went in to þe halle;
Ipomydon on knees hym sette
And the lady feyre he grette:
“I am a man of strange contre
And pray you, yff your wille be,
That I myght dwelle with you to yere,
Of your norture for to lere!
I am come frome ferre lond,
For speche I herde byfore the hand,
That your norture and your servise
Ys holden of so grete empryse.
I pray you, þat I may dwelle here,
Somme of your seruyse for to lere!”
The lady byheld Ipomydon,
Hym semyd wele a gentilmon;
She knew non suche in hyr londe,
So goodly a man & wele farand;
She saw also by his norture,
He was a man of grete valure.
She cast full sone in hyr thoght,
That for no seruyce come he noght,
But it was worship hyr vnto,
In feyre seruyce hym to do;
She sayd “Syr, welcome ye be
And all, þat comyn be with the!
Sithe ye haue had so grete travayle,
Of a service ye shall not fayle:
In thys contre ye may dwelle here
And at youre wyll for to lere;
Of þe cuppe ye shall serue me,
And all your men with you shal be;
Ye may dwelle here at youre wille,
But your beryng be full ylle!”
“Madame,” he sayd, “grantmercy!”
He thankid the lady cortesly;
She comandyth hym to þe mete,
But, or he satte in any sete,
He saluted theym, grete & smalle,
As a gentillman shuld in halle;
All they sayd sone anone,
They saw neuyr so goodly a man
Ne so light ne so glad
Ne none, þat so ryche atyre had.
There was non, þat sat nor yede,
But they had mervelle of hys dede
And sayd, he was no lytell syre,
That myght shew suche atyre.
Whan they had ete and grace sayd
And þe tabyll away was leyd,
Vpp þan aroos Ipomydon,
And to þe botery he went anon
And his mantille hym aboute;
On hym lokyd all the route
And euery man sayd to other there:
“Will ye se þe proude squeer,
Shall serue my lady of þe wyne
In his mantell, þat is so fyne!”
That they hym scornyd, wist he noght,
On othyr thyng he had his thoght:
He toke þe cuppe of þe botelere
And drew a lace of sylke full clere,
Adowne than felle hys mantylle by;
He prayd hym for his curtessy,
That lytelle yifte þat he wold nome,
Tille efte sone a better come.
Vp it toke the botelere,
Byfore the lady he gan it bere
And prayd the lady hertely,
To thanke hym of his cortessye.
All, that was tho in the halle,
Grete honowre they spake hym alle
And sayd, he was no lytelle man,
That suche yiftys yiffe kan.
There he dwellyd many a day
And servid the lady wele to pay;
He bare hym on so feyre manere
To knyghtis, ladyes and squyere,
All louyd hym, þat were hym by,
For he bare hym so cortesly.
The lady had a cosyne, þat hight Jason,
Full wele he louyd Ipomydon;
Where þat he yede in or oute,
Jason went with hym aboute.
The lady lay, but she slept noght,
For of the squyere she had grete thoght,
How he was feyre and shape wele,
Body and armes and euery dele;
Ther was non in all hir land
So wele besemyd, doughty of hand;
But she kowde wete for no case,
Whens he come ne what he was,
Ne of no man cowde enquere
Other, than he het the strange squyere.
She hyr bythought on a queyntyse,
If she myght know in ony wyse,
To wete, where of he were come;
Thys was hyr thoght all & somme;
She thought to wode hyr men to tame,
That she myght know hym by his game.
On the morow, whan it is was day,
To hyr men than gan she say:
“To morow, whan it is daylyght,
Loke ye be all redy dight
With youre houndis more and lesse,
In the forest to take my grese,
And there I will my selfe be,
Youre game to byhold and see!”
Ipomydon had houndis thre,
That he broght frome his contre;
When they were to þe wodde gone,
This lady and hyr men ichone,
And with hem hyr howndis ladde,
All, that euyr any howndis had,
Sir Tholomew, foryate he noght,
His mastres howndis thedyr he broght,
That many a day ne had ronne ere;
Full wele he thoght to note hem there.
Whan they come to þe laund on hight,
The quenys pavylon there was pight,
That she myght se of the best
All þe game of þe forest.
The wandlessours went prow þe forest
And to þe lady brought many a best,
Herte and hynde, buk and doo
And othir bestis many moo.
The howndis, þat were of grete prise,
Pluckid downe dere all at a tryse,
Ipomydon with his houndis thoo
Drew downe bothe buk and doo;
More he toke with howndis thre,
Than all þat othyr compaigne.
There squyers vndyd hyr dere,
Iche man on his owne manere;
Ipomydon a dere yede vnto,
Full konnyngly gan he it vndo,
So feyre þat veneson he gan to dight,
That bothe hym byheld squyere and knyght;
The lady lokyd oute of hyr pavyloun
And saw hym dight the venyson;
There she had grete deynte,
And so had all, þat dyd hym see.
She sawe all þat he downe droughe,
Of huntyng, she wist, he cowde inoughe,
And thoght in hyr herte than,
That he was come of gentill men.
She bad Jason, hyr men to calle;
Home þay passyd, grete & smalle,
Home they come sone anone.
This lady to hyr mete gan gone
And of venery had hyr fille,
For they had take game at wille.
Ipomydon serued, as I vndirstand,
As he was wonte done byfore hand.
“Sir,” she sayd, “sanz fayle,
Ye haue bene in grete travayle:
Anothyr man, as I you say,
Shall serue me at mete þis day;
Go to ȝoure mete sone on hye,
My cosyn Jason shall sytte you by!”
The ladyes hert was on hym cast
And she byheld hym wondir-fast,
Euer on hym she kest hyr eye,
Ipomydon full wele it sye,
Anone it gaff hym in his thoght,
To loke ageyne, lette wold he noght,
Nor no more coward thoght he to be
Off his lokyng, than was she.
The lady parseyued it full wele,
Of all his lokyng euery dele,
And there with bygan to shame,
For she myght lightly falle in blame;
If men parseyued it ony thyng,
Bytwyxe hem two suche lokynge,
Than wold they sey all bydene,
That somme loue were hem bytwene,
Þan shuld she falle in deshonoure
And lese myche of hyr honoure.
She thoght, to werne hym preuely
By hyr cosyn, þat sat hym by:

“Jason,” she sayd, “pou art to blame,
And ther with the ought to shame,
To byhold my mayd Imayne:
Euery man to othyr wille seyne,
That bytwyx you ys somme synne:
Of thy lokyng, I rede, þou blynne!”
Ipomydon hym bythoght anone,
How þat she blamyd Jason
With oute deservyng euerydele,
But the encheson he parseyued wele;
Downe he lokyd and thoght grete shame,
That Jason bare for hym þat blame;
Stille he satte and sayd no more,
He thoght to dwelle no lenger thore.
As the lady hyr chambre had tone,
Byfore hyr come Ipomydon
And sayd: “Madame, god yeld it the,
The grete honoure, þou haste done me!
Haue good day, now wille I fare
In to þe contre, that I was are!”
“Felaw,” she sayd, “chese at þi wille,
Whether þou wilt wend or abyde stille!”
He went anone in to the halle
And toke his leue of grete and smalle,
Bothe at lesse and at more,
And they thoght there of ryght sore.
To Jason he wendith anone ryght
And takith hys leve with hert vnlyght;
Than sayd Jason on hye:
“Leve syr, leve this folye
And with my lady þou dwelle here,
She louythe the in all manere:
Iff thow wende forth in this wille,
For sorow she wille hyr self spylle!”
“Jason, felow, lett be thy thoght:
Lenger dwelle here ne wille I noght,
For I shall wende home to my kynge
And leve you here with all joyinge!”
“My dere frend, sythe it is so,
That thou wilt algatis goo,
Yeve me leve, with the to wend,
Into what contre þat þou wilt lend,
I wold full fayne do it, in dede!”
“Grantmercy, syr, god yif the mede!
With me hedyr come ye noght:
Ne shall with me but that I broght!”
He toke hys leve at Jason there
And went forthe ellys where.
Whan the lady wist, þat he was gone,
A sory woman þan was she oon;
Vppon hyr bedde she gan hyr ley
And to hyrself than gan she say:
“There is not suche a man in lande,
If he be doughty of his hand,
As he is of body to see,
Of what lond that euyr he bee!
“Allas,” she sayd, “and welle away,
That for a word he went away!
Had men sought all mankynde.
A feyrer body shuld no man fynde!”
This lady, þat was of ryche blode,
That nyght she cowde but lytell gode,
That she shuld suche mone make
For a strange mannys sake,
That no man wist, what he was,
But yit she sayd ofte: “Allas,
For suche ys none in crystente,
Full wele hym semeth, a knyght to be!”
Thus she comforted hyr amonge
And ofte she felle in mornyng stronge.
Ipomydon went, as ye may here,
By hynde he lefte a messyngere,
For to brynge hym tythyngis newe,
Iff there were any, that he knewe;
What they were, he shuld hym brynge,
And that anon, with oute lettynge.
The land of Poyle he hathe nome
And to þe kyng, his fader, ys come
And to þe quene, his modyr dere,
For hym they made ryght glad chere.
Curteyse he was, bothe stoute and bolde,
And myche in land he was of tolde;
All men hym louyd, suche was his grace.
Of chyld Ipomydon here is a space.

They were to gedyr many yere
With myche myrth & game in fere;
The kyng his sonne knyght gan make
And many another for his sake.
Justes were cryed, ladyes to see,
Thedyr come lordys grete plente,
Turnementis atyred in the felde,
A Ml. armed with spere and shelde.
Knyghtis bygan to gedir to ryde,
Somme were vnhorsyd on euery syde.
Ipomydon þat day was victoryus
And there he gaff many a cours,
For there was non, that he mette
And his spere on hym wold sette,
That not aftir with in a lytell stounde
Hors and man bothe went to ground.
The heraudes gaff þe child þe gree,
A Ml. pownd he had to fee.
Mynstrellys had yiftes of golde,
And fourty dayes þys fest was holde.
Off the eyre of Calabre here will I telle
And of hyr baronage fayre & well,
How that they had at counselle bene
And of assent was theym bytwene,
Þat here lady shuld take an husband,
To gouerne theyme and all there land,
By cause she was of yong age.
To hyr come all hyr baronage
And sayd: “Madame, we wille you pray,
That we myght oure will sey!
Youre lond thynkyth, ye do theyme wronge,
With owte kyng to dwelle so longe,
That myght gouerne þis land so feyre,
And bytwyxe you gete an eyre
And hold þis land in right blode!”
The lady answerd with myld mode:
“Your counseyle ys gode euerychone,
But husband yit will I haue none!”
They toke leve and wente here way
And bytaught the lady gode day.
To counselle new than gon they gone
And full sone they were at one,
To kyng Melliager, hyr eme, they went
And told hym of the ladyes entent:
For an husband þey had bene at herre,
And she yaff theym lyght answere.
Furthe they went with oute lettyng,
To the land, there he was kynge.
Kynge Melliagere sone they found
And anone they knelyd to ground,
Praying hym, as lord dere,
That he wold here prayere here;
They told hym all to gedyr nowe,
What þat they had done and howe,
And suche answere she yaffe theyme tylle,
Husband to haue she had no wille:
“Where fore, lord, we wold you prey,
For we wote wele, þat ye best may,
Councelle wele oure lady nowe,
As best may be the remes prowe!”
“Lordyngis,” he sayd, “with outyn fayle,
I assent vnto your concaylle,
For to my cosyn will I goo
And make hyr, or I wend hyr fro,
Me to graunt, husband to take,
Or clene my love she shall forsake!”
Than they thankyd the kynge so free
And went home to theyre contre.
Kyng Mellyager to his cosyn ys gone,
And she hym welcomyd feyre anon,
And of his comyng she was glad,
And moche joye of hym she made.
Whan they had take hyr sporte in halle,
The kynge to counselle gan hyr calle
And sayd: “Dere cosyn, here my wille:
An husband must ye take you tylle,
The whiche may of þis land by kynge
And gouerne it in all thynge;
For no woman may take on hand,
Wele to gouerne suche a land!”
“Sir,” she sayd, “ye be of my blode,
I hold your counselle feyre & good
And aftir it feyne wold I doo,
As most worship may be me to:
But, sythe þat I haue husband shalle,
Do make crye vndir þis castell walle
Justes, there thre dayes to laste,
And who þat there may bere hym best
And that doughtyest ys of hande,
Shall welde me and all this lande!
Syr, loke, ye crye, with oute delaye,
By halfe yere afore the day,
That it be know ferre and nere,
On what day it shall be here!”
Now thynkith this feyre may
On the strange squyere nyght & day:
“If he be suche, as I hym holde,
Also doughty and so bolde,
For me than he wille be here
And wynne me in all manere!”
Heraudes were callyd in hye,
Thrughe the land to make the crye;
This crye was knowen ouer all,
In all the land grete and smalle.
Ipomydons messyngere, anone
Home to Poyle gan he gone;
The crye he vndyrstode wele
And told his maister euery dele.
Ipomydon in hert was full glad,
Whan that he the tythyngis had;
He callyd his maister Tholomewe,
That euer was full gode and trewe,
And sayd: “Syr, make vs redy,
For in to Calabre now will I!”
He purveyd hym III noble stedis
And also thre noble wedys;
That one was white as any mylke,
The trappure of hym was white sylke;
Þat other was rede, bothe styffe and stoure,
The trappure was of þe same coloure;
Blake þan was þat othir stede,
The same coloure was his wede;
Thre greyhondis with hym he ladde,
The best, þat his fader had,
Rede and whyte and blake they were.
Whan he was dight in this manere,
With hym he toke a feyre may
And went forthe on his jorney;
Into Seseney the wey they nome.
With in the lond whan þat he come,
He bad Tholomew take his stedys,
All his men and all his wedys:
“And take your inne in the cyte
By nyght, þat no man you see!
Lette no man se theyme nyght ne day,
But them, þat shall here mete ley!”
Hys owne wey forthe he nome,
Vnto a forest tyll þat he come;
There huntyd kyng Mellyager in þat forest
Atte hert & hynd and wyld beste;
Ipomydon mette with a knyght
And askyd hym anone right,
Who that grete lord was,
That in the forest made þe chase;
The knyght sayd: “Yff ye will here,
It ys the kynge Mellyagere,
That thus huntithe here be syde!”
Ipomydon vnto þe kynge gan ryde
And saluted hym as a kynge dere,
He welcomyd hym on feyre manere;
He prayd the kynge, if it were his wille,
A lytelle stounde to stonde stille
And here the speche of a knyght;
The kynge hym grauntid anone right.
“I am a knyght, as ye may see,
And come I am frome ferre contre;
For nobley of you I haue herd telle,
All my desyre ys, with you to dwelle,
In youre contre to be here,
The manere of þis land to lere!”
The kynge byheld þe knyght than,
Hym thoght, he was a godely man:
‘In all this land, bothe ferre & nere,
Ys none so feyre a bachelere!”
“Sir knyght,” he sayd in feyre manere,
“Gladly shall ye dwellyn here!”
Ipomydon sayd: “I shall you telle,
At this couenant wold I dwelle:
Full fayne I wold be redy bowne,
To lede your quene bothe vp & downe,
Fro hyr chambre to hyr halle,
& my lemman I wold hyr calle;
My mayden, þat is of honoure,
Shall dwelle in þe quenys boure;
At euery terme, þat I hyr lede,
A kusse of þe quene shall be my mede:
I will no more for my servyse!”
The kyng anone, with oute avyse,
Thoght, he come for othyr thynge,
And grantyd hym his askynge.
Anone the kyng lefte his game,
Home they rode bothe in same
And to þe quene þe covenantys seyd.
“As ye haue done, I hold me payd!”
There he dwellyd many a day
With myche myrthe, game & play;
Full feyre he dyd his servyse
And servyd þe quene at hyr devyse;
Where þat she went, in boure or halle,
The quene his lemman dyd he calle.
So it befelle vppon a day,
That to þe justes men dyd them araye;
Thedyr wold kyng Mellyagere
With all the knyghtis, þat with hym were:
Sir Campanyus, þat good knyght,
In all þat lond was none so wight,
And sir Caymys, þe kyngis steward,
A doughty knyght and no coward.
The kynge sayd to sir Ipomydon,
That callyd was the quenys lemmon,
As he mette hym in the halle:
“The tyme ys come, þat juste we shalle:
Dight you now, go we oure way,
I wote, ye thynke, to wynne þe may!”
And he answerd with myld chere:
“Who shuld þan serve my lady dere?
For, certis, of justes can I noght,
To serve my lady is all my thoght;
If I hyr lefte for other dede,
I were not worthy, to haue my mede!”
The kynge hym turnyd þan away
And to his knyghtis gan he say:
“So feyre a body, as bereth hee,
Allas, a coward þat he shuld be!”
Campanyus and all, þat stode hym by,
Bymenyd that knyght curtesly;
They toke there leve at þe quene
And wente forthe all bydene;
Vnto Calabre they toke þe way,
There they shuld just þat other day.

Leve me theyme at þe justynge
And talke we now of other thynge,
Off Ipomydon & þe lady shene,
That was at home with þe quene.
Whan tyme come, þey shuld to mete,
Ipomydon brought hir to hyr sete;
In to the halle whan he hyr broght,
To take hys cusse forgate he noght.
Whan she had etyn, to chambre she wente,
Ipomydon, to the quene he mente:
“To morow, madame, I wold you pray,
With leve of you, whan yt is day,
Go to þe forest, to take a dere:
My greyhondes ranne not þis quartere;
Whyle my lord ys at þe justynge,
My greyhoundis I wold feyne se rennynge.
O thyng, madame, I wold you pray:
If I come not be tyme of day,
Whan ye se tyme, to mete ye wend,
For I wote neuyr, how long I lend!”
“Sir,” she sayd, “god you spede!”
He kyssyd hyr and forthe he yede.
Ipomydon callyd his master than,
Sir Tholomew, that noble man:
“To my hostage ye go by nyght,
My white stede, loke, he be dight,
And with the armure hedyr ye brynge
To morow, or the day sprynge!
Hye you oute at þe castelle yate
And frome all syght kepe you all gate!”
Ipomydon went to þe portere
And prayd hym, if his wille were,
The yate myght by opyn or day;
Þe porter grantyd hym & toke hym þe key,
And at þe fryst cokke roose hee;
Furthe he went with greyhondis thre,
In a lesshe he dyd hem do
And blew a grete horne also;
He blew lowde and shoke it wele,
That it ronge, all þe castelle.
The maydenys to þe quene gan say:
“Youre lemman gothe, to wynne þe may!”
The quene answerd with oute lettynge:
“All men konne not of justynge:
Thoughe he kanne not of suche dedys,
He may be gode at other nedis!”
Ipomydon is to Tholomew gone
And toke hym hys houndis euerychon,
He prayd hym, as his maister dere,
To note theyme wele in all manere
And with the flesshe kepe theym in place,
There þat theyre stevyn sette was.
He sayd: “God spede þe, lord dere!
There to I shall do my deuere.”
Ipomydon went forthe and his page,
Till he came to an ermytage;
He lokyd forthe and byheld,
Many a knyght he saw in feld;
Iche to other fast gan ryde
With grete sperys on iche syde.
He toke his spere anone ryght
And lepte on his stede so light;
In he come amonge hem alle,
Throw the clowdis as he had falle;
The fryst knyght he gan to ryde
With a spere, þat wold abyde,
In myddis the sheld he sette his spere,
That hors and man he gan downe bere.
Anothir knyght he mette also,
That his bakke tobrast in two;
The thryd he sloughe, with oute lettynge,
The fourthe wente in to þe same rynge.
There was no knyght, þat he mette,
Þat wold hys spere on hym sette,
But if his spere all tobrakke,
He wold hym to þe ground shake.
The lady lay ouer þe castell walle
And byheld þe justis alle;
She sent speres white and blake
To all men, þat wold hem take;
Jason she sent vnto þe knyght,
That in white harneise was dight,
To bere hym sperys at his nede;
She thoght hym worthiest of dede,
And every man till othir gan saye,
He was þe manlyest there þat day.
Than all þe peple homeward went
And Jason to þe knyght hym bente,
Praying hym: “As lord dere
Come home here to thyne owne manere,
For wele I wote, thou shalt be kynge,
The whiche is gretly to my lykynge!”
“Jason,” he sayd, “god þe foryelde
Thy grete servyce to day in þe felde,
That þou hast done me in þis place!”
Jason merveyled of þat case:
“Sir,” he sayd, “for charyte,
What man be ye, þat knoweth me?”
“It were merveile, but I þe knew:
Somme tyme þou were my felow trewe!
I am,” he sayd, “þe strange squyere,
That servyd my lady þis endris yere;
Grete hyr wele on all manere:
This day for hyr I haue bene here,
But lenger dwelle here may I noght,
Suche tithyngis to me is broght
Home frome myne owne contre,
And forth I most, as I telle the!”
“A, sir,” he sayd, “art thou he?
For god, þat dyed vppon a tree,
Come now & with my lady speke,
Or ellis I wote, hyr herte will breke,
For, and she knew, þou went away,
She lyveth nevir to morow day!”
“Thou shalt, Jason, vndirstond:
I wold not tarye for all þis land!”
He toke his leve and went his way.
Jason to þe quene gan say
Word for word euery dele:
“The strange squyer grette you wele:
He was þat ylke whyte knyght,
That in þe feld so richely was dight!”
This lady to hyr chambre ys gone;
A sory woman was she one,
Vppon hyr bedde she gan downe falle
On swoune afore hyr maydens alle,
And whan she roos of swounynge,
Hir handis fast gan she wrynge:
“Allas,” she sayd, “what I was wode,
A witteles thyng, and cowde no goode:
My witte myght haue seruyd me,
That suche a man doughty most be!”
But yit she trowyd in hyr thoght,
So lightly wold he leve hyr noght;
That was hyr comfort most in care,
And ellis she had hyr self forfare.
Ipomydon to his maister camme,
He found hym and his houndes anone;
Plente of flesshe had he caught,
Hors and harneyse he hym bytaught,
And eyther passyd to hyr inne.
Ipomydon the flesshe toke with hym,
Byfore the quene he ganne it bere,
As she was sette at hyr sopere.
“Madame,” he sayd, “my lord, þe kynge,
Hathe not þus sped with hys justynge!”
All the halle, that þere were in same,
At hym they loughe & had game.
Ipomydon went to his mete,
Faste he brake & faste he ete,
For he had fasted all þat day,
Suche a lykynge he had in pley.
As they satte as there sopere,
In comythe the kyngis messyngere;
Vppon his knee he hym sette
And þe quene feyre he grette.
To hyr sent word hyr lord, þe kynge,
How they had done at þe justynge;
Tho askyd þe quene anone right:
“Was there any, with Campanyus dyd fight,
That was so doughty in þe feld,
Outher with spere or with shelde?”
“Ya, madame, so mot I thee,
Ther was oone, worthe suche thre:
In white armure he was dight,
In all þe feld was none so wight,
But if it were my lord, þe kynge,
For he is passand in euery thynge!”
The quene asked: “What was hee?”
The messyngere sayd: “So mot I the,
At þat tyme knew hym no mon!”
Than byspake Ipomydon
And sayd: “Messyngere, I the pray,
Vnto my lorde, þe kyng, þou saye,
That my good whyte greyhound
Hathe sleyne more dere and broght to ground,
Than wold hys haue done to daye!”
Ipomydon to þe quene gan saye,
Praying, he moste þe kyng somme bere,
To wete, þat he was no lyere.
The quene ys to hyr chambre gone,
Thedir ledithe hyr Ipomydon;
He prayd leue, on þe morow to play,
As he had done þat othir day.
The quene hym grauntyd curtessly;
To hys maister he dyd hym hye
And prayd hym, sone and anone
To his ostage þat he shuld gone
And brynge hym his rede stede,
Foryete noght þe same wede,
In the place, þat they were ere,
And þat he shuld be erly there.
Full erly roose Ipomydon,
His horne, hys greyhond, he toke þon,
He blew it lowde & wele gan shake,
That all þe maydens þo gan awake;
Than sayd all, þat were þere inne:
“Your lemman gothe, þe mayd to wynne!”
The quene answeryd, as she dyd ere:
“He may more wynne, þan he were þere!”
The kyngis messengere forthe went
And toke hym hole his present;
Euery word þe kynge he tolde,
Than seyd þe knyghtys, þat were bolde:
“Allas, þat suche a knyght shuld leve,
But he to manhode wold hym yeve!”
Ipomydon to his maister wente,
His armure & his stede he hent,
Þe rede greyhound he toke hym right;
That day he prayd hym do his myght
And in þat place kepe þe fleshe
With þe greyhoundis in þe lesshe.
Forthe he went in þat stounde
And to þe ermytage he came sound,
In to þe feld he lokyd þanne,
He saw many an armyd man,
Hym he armyd and forthe gan ryde;
Faste they justyd on euery syde,
And euyr byheld þe lady bryght,
If she myght se þe whyte knyght;
For she on hym non eye myght caste,
She thoght, hyr hert wold tobreste.
Jason þat day was made knyght
And richely in þe feld was dight;
Ipomydon, this case he sawe,
Þat Jason was knyght, his owne felawe;
To hym he prekyd faste in hye;
Whan he shulde mete, he rode hym by:
That day he taught hym, so to done,
That worthely he wanne his shone.
But Ipomydon, as I you saye,
Many a knyght he fellyd þat day,
So many sperys he brakke on sondre,
That all folke on hym had wondere;
They sayd, there nas in all þat lande
Noon so manly man of hande,
For all they sayd þo full tyte,
The rede was better, þan þe white,
And so he bare hym þat daye,
That knyghtys wexe wery of his playe.
Whan euery knyght to hys inne gan ryde,
Sir Jason dyd with hym abyde
And sayd: “Syr knyght, god þe foryelde
Thy grete helpe to day in þe felde!
Thrughe the the more loue I wanne,
That more desyre I ne canne.
I wote, þou shalt be lord here,
For I know noon, þat is þi þere,
Saffe yistyrday the whyte knyght,
But he is owte of lond dight!”
“Nay, Jason, my trew fere,
Thou shalt se, þat I am here!
But grete wele my lady dere,
For hyr to day haue I bene here,
The whiche, I say, with outen fayle,
Will me torne to grete travaile,
And many an hors ryde to dede,
Or I come there, þat me most nede;
For all my lond I lese for ay,
But I be there by a certeyne day!”
Jason sayd: “Syr, mercy,
And thynke vppon my lady,
For, & ye passe hyr þus froo,
For sorow she wille hyr selfe slo!”
Ipomydon sayd: “By heuyn kynge,
At this tyme I will not lynge,
But grete hyr wele & haue gode day,
And I shall come, whan þat I may!”
Sir Jason passyd forthe in hye
And this tale tolde to the lady:
“The rede knyght and þe whyte ys one,
But, for sothe, now ys he goon!”
Than sory was that swete thynge
And efte she felle in mornynge;
But she bethought hyr, as she dyd are,
And ellis she had hyr selfe forfare.
Ipomydon to his maister yede
And toke his armure and his stede,
He toke the flesshe and þe greyhound
And gan to go toward the towne;
His hors he had and his huntyng wede,
Anone in to þe halle he yede,
Byfore þe quene the flesshe he leyd:
“Here ys my dayes jorney!” he sayde;
At hym they loughe and made glad chere,
The quene went to hyr sopere
And hyr leman sat hyr by;
The kynges messengere come in hye
And sayd, þe kyng grete hyr wele;
The justis he told hyr euerydele.
The fryst word þe quene gan say:
“Come þe white knyght there to day?”
“Nay,” he sayd, “by god allmyght,
But there was a noble rede knyght,
The whiche all men, þat gan hym see,
Said, þat he was bettir þan hee.”
Ipomydon sayd to þe messengere:
“Recomand me to my lord so dere
And say, that Gager, my rede greyhounde,
Moche dere hathe broght þis day to ground:
I had more joye at hys rynnynge,
Than to stand & stare, to se þe justynge!
Madame,” he said, “so god me amend,
Of youre game, I rede, ye hym send!”
“Sir,” she said, “as ye thynke beste!
Fare wele, for now I go to reste!”
Vnto hyr chambre she went þon,
Byfore hyr come Ipomydon;
Ones of leue he wold hyr praye,
He wold not hunte after many a day.
She hym grantyd of his bone,
To his master he went sone;
He yede and fette, with oute lakke,
Stede and harnesse, þat was blakke;
He knew þe way at þe beste,
Where they shuld mete in þe foreste.
The messyngere come vnto þe kynge,
Hys present feyre he dyd hym brynge;
What he shuld sey, forgatte he noght;
The kynge of hym wondir thoght
And in his hert had grete pyte,
So goodly a man, as was hee,
That euyr he was so lytell of prise
And ther to full of cowardise.
What euyr they thoght in here hert,
Many of them he made to smerte.
Latte hym go, god hym spede,
Till efte sone we of hym rede!

Ipomydon rose erly there,
As he was wonte to done ere;
Forthe he rode blowyng his horne,
That all the maydens gan hym scorne
And sayd: “Your leman gothe to playe,
For he wille wynne vp all to daye!”
The quene hem blamyd wondir-faste,
Hyr hert to hym was somwhat caste.
To hys master he went in hye
And prayd hym full hertely,
To take more dere, yf he myght,
Than he dyd þe tother day light.
Anone his hors he gan dighte
And rode to þe feld forthe ryght,
Armure blak lyke the stede.
To þe ermytage forthe he yede;
Anone his stede he bestrode,
Amonge hem all in he rode;
He was sone warre of a knyght,
That in rede atyre was dight [OMITTED]
“This rede knyght was here yisterday,
He justid for þat feyre may:
There was none, bore hym so feyre,
Of Calabre he wille wynne þe eyre!”
The lady lay on toure on hye
The reed knyght full sone she see,
She wende, it were þe strange squyere,
Þat she hopid shuld be hyr fere.
Her purpos was, to hym to wende,
Whan the justes come to ende,
And brynge hym home with feyre manere,
To hyr was none so leffe ne dere.
Right as the quene in thoght stode,
The rede knyght anone in rode;
The blake toke a spere in honde,
To just with hym, he thoght in londe,
And eyther with othyr sone they mette,
In myd the sheld the stroke they sette.
The blak knyghtes spere was stiffe and stronge,
And there with he gan fast thronge
The knyght and stede with in a stounde,
That they lay bothe vppon the ground.
Ipomydon toke þe rede stede,
To hys men he gan hym lede.
Than come forthe syr Caymys,
A proude knyght & a daynous;
Just he wold with þe blak knyght,
But all to lytelle was hys myght;
With a spere, þat welle wold laste,
Knyght and hors downe he caste.
Sir Caymys horse he toke in hye,
The rede knyghtes he sette hym bye.
Sir Campaynus hym faste byhelde,
He thoght, to just with hym in felde;
Hys thoght was, to wynne þe maye,
But he fayled foule of his praye.
Forthe they rode to gedyr faste,
That there sperys a sondre braste;
Bothe they were stiffe and stronge,
Þey luste to ryde, þey taryed not longe,
And eyther of theym toke a spere;
Campaynus þoght, hym downe to bere.
In mydde þe place þe knyghtes mette,
Ipomydon so Campanus grette,
That knyght and stede in þat case
Felle on hope in mydde þe place.
The blake knyght toke hys stede goode,
The kynge there of began to wode,
That his knyghtes bore downe were;
He folowyd þe knyght with a spere;
He had thoght, to done hym harme,
For he smote hym throw þe arme.
Ipomydon with þat stroke abrayde
And to þe kynge þus he sayde:
“As þou arte kynde, gentille and free,
Abyde and juste a cours with me,
And I foryiffe þis vilanye!”
The kynge sayd: “Therto grant I!”
Full fayne he wold haue bene away,
But for shame he sayd not nay.
The kynge and he, in place þey mette,
The blake knyght suche a stroke hym sette,
That kynge and hors downe he caste,
That hym thoght, hys nekke tobraste.
The kynges stede he ledde away,
Þat euery man to other gan saye:
“He may wele be kynge of londe
For the doughtyeste man of hand,
That any man sawe euer ere!”
And so sayd all, þat there were,
They gaffe hym þe gre of felde
For þe doughtyest vndyr shelde.
Herawdis discryued hys arme blake
And sayd, in þe world was not his make,
And they sayd, with oute lettynge,
He was worthy to be kynge.
Whan euery man homeward gan draw,
Jason went to his felawe:
“Come home, syr, I you pray,
To youre owne, I darre wele say:
Ye shal be made kynge of lond
For þe doughtiest man of hand!
Thou hast no pere, I darre wele say:
So sayd all, þat were here to day.”
“Jason,” he sayd, “god yeld it the,
The grete honoure, þou proferist me!”
Jason sayd: “If your willis bee,
What ar ye, þat knowis me?”
“Somme tyme I was þi felaw dere,
Þat callyd was þe strange squyere;
I haue bene here þese thre dayes,
But now no lenger dwelle I maye!”
“For goddis loue,” sayd Jason thare,
“Come brynge my lady oute of care
And comforte hyr in all thynge,
And thynke also, ye shal be kynge!”
He sayd: “Jason, þi wordis þou spare:
That wold me torne to myche care;
I haue dwellyd here to longe,
The whiche will cause me travaile stronge.
Recomaund me to hyr anone righte,
For I must travaile day & nyght!”
He toke hys leve & forthe ganne fare;
Jason tornyd home full of care,
& whan he come in to the halle,
He tolde þe lady, what was byfalle,
The blak knyght was þe squyer stronge,
That had dwellyd with hyr so longe,
And how he wanne hyr with his hand:
“But he is passid oute of þis lande!”
The lady mornyd & was full woo
And thoght, hyr hert wold brest on two,
But yit she trowed in hyr thoght,
So lightly wold he leve hyr noght,
Sithe þat he had, with oute fayle,
For hyr loue so grete travaile.
Ipomydon forthe is goone
With his stedis euerychone;
He fonde his master with flesshe inoughe
Hovynge vndir the grene wodde boughe;
He toke hym þe stedis euerychone
And to his inne he bad hym gone;
He toke his houndis & his horne
And leyd the flesshe hym beforne;
Byfore the quene he it leyd
And in his game þus he sayd:
“Know ye any, at þe justynge
Hathe wonne halfe so myche thynge?”
The quene, as she was wonnt to done,
To hyr soper she went sone,
And hyr leman hyr byforne;
Scantly had þey the mete corvyn,
Þat in comyth þe kyngis messyngere
And grette þe lady in thys manere:
“Wele you gretiþe my lord, þe kynge:
He byddythe you for any thynge,
That ye be to morow erely
At þe chalenge of þe lady!”
The quene than ganne saye:
“Hathe the rede knyght wonne hyr to day?”
“I say, madame, so god me spede,
The rede knyght hathe lost his stede,
My lord þe kyng hathe his also,
Campaynus, Caymes and other mo;
The blakke knyght hathe wonne hem alle,
Mvche honoure to hym ys falle!”
Than byspake Ipomydon:
“Bettyr is on huntynge goone
In the forest, so god me spede,
Than þus lyghtly to lese a stede,
Wherefore, messyngere, I þe pray,
In my byhalfe þat þou say,
When þou comyst to þe kynge,
Grete hym wele in all thynge
And say, my blak greyhound Gilmyn
To day hathe bore hym welle & fyne,
For he hathe take many a wild best,
The grettest, þat was in þe foreste,
And therefore, madame, if youre wil be,
Sithe we haue so grete plente,
Send hym somme, while we may:
He wille it quyte another day!”
Ipomydon was travailed sore
In the gamys, þat he had pore;
Hys arme vnstoppid, þe blode gan falle
Vppon the tabyll afore hem alle;
Than sayd þe quene: “My leman dere,
How ar ye hurt, on what manere?”
“For sothe, madame, I shall you say:
I lette renne at a dere to daye
My palfrey, I prekid aftir so faste,
That he stumblyd and me downe caste;
At þat tyme I toke this harme,
A stubbe smote me prow þe arme,
And þat was, for I shuld saye,
The gree of þe feld I had to daye!”
So they laughyd at hym þat nyght,
That somme myght not sytte vpryght;
The quene sayd: “My leman hende,
To morow wille we to gedyr wende
And see, who hathe wonne þe may!”
Ipomydon answerd and sayd: “Naye,
Sithe I was not at þe justynge,
I wille not be at þe chalengynge;
But one thynge, madame, I you pray:
Delyuere my mayde to me þis day,
For suche tithyngis is come to me,
That I muste home to my contree,
And I shall be, bothe day and nyght,
While þat I lyffe, your owne knyght!”
The quene sayd: “Dwelle here stille!”
To lette hym go, sho had no wille.
He toke his leve at þe lady
And at þe maydens, þat stode hyr by;
His owne mayde, þat was so bryght,
To his ostage she went right,
There she nyver come byfore,
Sithe his stedis herborowed pore;
He sette hym downe in þe halle,
Hys oste to hym he lette calle;
In to þe stable he hym ledis,
There as stonde his goode stedis,
And sayd to hym: “My frend dere,
I wolde þe pray on þis manere,
That þou my word vndirstand
& this message take on hande:
Thou haste herd speke of þe justynge,
That hathe be for the lady yinge,
And also of þe white knyght,
The fryst day þat justyd ryght:
I was þat knyght, þat stondythe þe by,
And on this white stede rode I.
Of þe rede knyght þou herd sey,
Þat justed on þat othir daye:
That same knyght, for sothe, I was,
This rede stede I had in place.
Vppon the prydde day þou herd telle,
Of a blak knyght how it byfelle:
On this blak stede þat day I satte
And all þese othyr on hym I gatte;
Therefore, good syr, I the pray,
That þou do, as I the saye:
Aryse vp in the mornynge
And go to þe maydens chalengynge!
Take this same white stede
And a man dight in þe same wede,
Vnto my lord, the kynge, þou wende
And grete hym wele as lorde hend,
Sey, þe quenys leman, hys owne knyght,
Sent hym þis stede and armour bryght;
The fryste day he rode there on there,
He wote wele, how he hym bare;
And say, þat wele wouchesaffe I hym wolde,
Thoughe euery here were syluer and golde!
Take þe rede stede with þe armore clere
And grete wele my lady dere;
And say, hyr leman & hyr knyght
Sent hyr þis stede & armour bryght!
Take þe armour and þe blak stede,
To sir Campanus þou hym lede!
Take here þe kyngis owne stede,
To the eyre of Calabre þou hym lede!”
And all to gedyr he gan hym saye,
How he shuld present þe fayre may:
“Campanus stede þou take anone
And lede hym to sir Jason!
This othir rede stede, with oute drede,
I to þe yeve for thy mede,
On hym þou shalt before ryde,
And all these othyr be þi syde!”
He taught hym, or he went a way,
On what wise þat he shuld say,
And for the herbegage of his stedys
He yaff hym XX L to medes.
The burgeyse held vp his hond
And thankyd god, þat he hathe fond:
“Of Calabre, I wote, who shall be kynge,
Now am I glad of my herbowrynge:
I shall make youre presente
Right gladly with good entente!”
The burgeise toke þe stedys þanne,
On euery stede he sette a man,
On the thre, þat þe knyghtes were,
Men armyd in all hyr gere.
Forthe they went, with oute lesynge,
Toward þe maydens chalengynge;
Sone they come to þe cyte,
There lordis were grete plente.
Sone the lordis dyd theyme see,
There they satte in companye,
They had wondyr of þe stedys
And of þe men in dyverse wedis;
The kynge knew þe burgeyse at alle,
Anone to hym he lette hym calle:
“Whose be those stedis, þat be so stronge?
Myne I know welle hem amonge!”
“Sir, with youre leue, stille ye sytte,
& the troughe ye shall wyte:
The quenys leman, syr, iwis,
Gretythe þe wele with joy & blysse
And sendithe the this whyte stede,
& with hym þe same wede,
That he rode on the fryste day:
Hym to take, he wolde you praye:
Wouche hym saffe on you he wolde,
Thowȝ every here were syluer & golde;
He prayd god, kepe you hole & sounde
For þe beste lord, þat euyr he fownde!”
To þe quene he wendithe there:
“Wele you gretith youre leman dere!
This rede stede, þat is so swyfte,
He prayeth you, take hym of his gifte.
On you he wouchep saff, be seynt Martyn,
Though euery here were syluer & gold fyne,
For his lady gode and trewe
And þe curteyseste, þat euer he knewe!”
To syr Campanus forthe he went:
“The quenys leman, syr, you sente
This blak stede with þe atyre, I say,
Þat he rode on þe laste day;
He prayes you, ye wold hym take
For a doughty knyght, by goddis sake!”
To þe mayde he wente there
And grete hyr on this manere:
“The strange squyer hathe you sent
Thys ilke stede to present;
He stale hym nat, he bad me say,
He wanne hym vppon the light day,
And if ye leve hym not bydene,
He bad yow, axe þe kynge, youre eme,
And hold vp, that ye haue hight,
To take no man, but he were wight!”
The kynge sayd: “I felt full wele,
How he bare hym, euerydele;
Of his dedis I am full sore,
Suche a stroke I bare neuer are.
I darre wele say, by goddis myght,
That he is a doughty knyght,
With oute boste, stalworth of hand:
A queynter knyght is not in land!”
Sir Campanus spake wordis þan
And sayd: “He is a doughty man:
To juste, he lette, as he were ferd,
But foule he hathe oure eyne bleryd!”
The burgeyse to Jason sayd þus:
“This stede aught sir Campanus;
He sent hym the for hys fere,
To loke wele to his lady dere!”
To sir Caymes gan he say:
“He gretyth þe wele by me to day;
He wold haue sent you stedis mo,
But he had none, he myght forgo.
This rede stede he gaffe to me,
Hys messyngere for to bee,
And for the harbegage of his stedis
He yaff me XX L to medis.”
All they sayd, there they stode,
He was come of gentill blode.
Than sayd þe eyre of Calabre bright:
“Help, to gete me þat gentill knyght!
But I hym haue, þat in feld me wanne,
For sothe, I shall nevir haue man!”
Anone gan sir Caymes say:
“His he stolyn thus away
And broke my ladyes boure, þe quene,
And ledde a way hyr mayden shene,
Worthe I nevir glad ne fayne,
But I brynge theym bothe agayne!”
The kynge was bothe curteyse & gente,
Full goodly he reseyved his present;
Hertely he thankid þe gentill knyght
And sayd, in lond was none so wight.
He yaff þe burgeyse for his message
An C L to herytage.

But Ipomydon forth is gone
And his men euerychone;
His messyngere he lefte stille there,
To brynge hym tithyngis, if any were,
In suche manere, as they felle;
What they were, he shuld hym telle.
Ipomydon come by a foreste,
A while he thoght there to rest,
He was forwakyd & all werye;
To hys men he sayd on hye:
“Slepe I muste, with oute fayle,
For I am wery for travayle!”
He layd his hede on his mayden barme
And felle on slepe; he thoght no harme.
He had not slepyd but a while,
Not the space of a myle,
The mayden sawghe forthe comynge
An armyd knyght, faste rydynge;
She woke hyr lord & bad hym ryse,
For hyr hert bygan to gryse.
Than come forthe Caymys full stoute;
To hym he spake wordis proute:
“Traytour,” he sayd, “pou dydist dishonour,
Whan thou brakkist þe quenys boure
And toke hyr mayden and my stede:
Agayne to courte I will þe lede.
Aryse, traytour, I byd the,
To court þou shalt agayne with me!”
Ipomydon hym answerd now:
“To courte I darre as wele as thou,
But for the torne I nylle,
Not, bot at myne owne wille.
For his loue, þat vs dere bought,
Sithe I haue haste, lette me noght!”
Caymys than gan to hym sayne:
“Wilthow, nyllthow, þou shalt agayne,
Or right here þou shalte abyde!”
Ipomydon sterte vp that tyde,
Anone he worthyd vppon his stede,
They rode to gedyr with good spede;
Ipomydon vnhorsyd Caymys tho,
That his arme braste in two.
He bad hys men, take his stede
And lette a wors hors hym lede;
In his sadille þey sette hym bakwarde
And bound hym faste with a cord:
To the tayle was turnyd his visage,
They bad hym lerne a new vsage.
Thus Caymys rode toward þe towne,
Whan he had lost all his renowne;
His hors hyeth hym, homeward to fare,
The master also with moche care;
His hors to þe courte hym broght.
The kynge euyr on Caymys thoght
And sayd, he wold not go to bedde,
Tille he wiste, how þe knyght spedde.
The hors broght Caymys to þe yate,
The porter lette hym in there atte;
Jason the hors in gan brynge
And ledde the knyght byfore þe kynge;
The kynge askyd, by goddis payne,
Iff he had brought the knyght agayne.
Anone he answerd to the kynge
And tolde hym hys myslykynge:
“Thoughe all þe knyghtis in the halle
Come to hym, bothe grete and smalle,
He wold of theyme yiff no thynge,
But if it were of you, syr kynge!”
Than they loughe all in same
And at his harme had good game;
There was none in that place,
But they were glad of þat case.
Thus Caymys hathe his seruyce quytte,
And of Ipomydon here is a fytte.

Ipomydon held forthe his way,
Full glad he was of his jorney;
He saw grete folke agayn hym ryde,
The whiche had sought hym wondir-wyde,
For to brynge hym new tidynge,
That dede was his fadir, the kynge,
Of whiche tithyngis he was wo,
But he may not agayne god do.
Throughe his lond he went rydynge;
All they honoryd hym as kynge,
And whan he come in to þat stede,
That the kynge, his fadyr, was dede,
Throghe that land he lette crye,
That all men shuld thedir hye,
Prestis and klerkis of euery towne,
Byschoppis, erlys and barowne.
There he made an entyrement
With many messes, with good entente.
An ersbyschope beryed his fadir dere,
Prechynge there was of many a frere;
Pore men, þat sat vppon þe ground,
Were delyd of many a pownde.
A grete feste there was dight
For erlys and for many a knyght;
All men, þat wold there of take,
Had mete there for goddis sake.
Whan this feste was brokyn vp,
Euery man his leve tuke
And went hyr way, as I you telle;
Ipomydon thoght, at home to dwelle.
His modir and he dwellyd in same
With moche myrthe, joye and game,
Tille it befelle vppon a day,
The quene to hyr sonne gan saye
In pryuyte and in counsaylle:
“Thou hast a brother, with outen fayle,
Preuely goten was me vppon,
Or I was weddyd to any man;
But hastely he was done fro me;
I note, yf he a lyffe bee,
But he me sent þis endyr yere
A riche rynge of gold full clere:
And euyr he any brother had,
I shuld yeffe it hym, he bad,
Þat, where he come amonge hye or lowe,
By that rynge he shuld hym knowe.
Take thys rynge, my sonne, of me:
In what contre that he bee,
Who that knowith this ylk rynge,
He ys thy brothyr, with oute lesynge!”
The rynge he toke of his modyr
And trustid wele, to know his brothir.
Thus they partid in þat place,
But aftir with in a shorte space
To hym come his baronage,
That were men of grete parage;
There entente is, to crowne hym kynge,
But his thoght was on other thynge,
For crowne wold he none bere;
He wold be more assayed ere
In othir londis, ferre and nere,
Of his strenghe and his powere.
He had an eme, was stiffe and stronge,
Of myddille age, to lyve longe;
Sir Pers of Poyle was his name,
Men he distroyed, that dyd shame.
Byfore his baronage, I vndirstand,
Ipomydon sesyd hym in his lande
And yaffe hym the profyte for his sake,
Tylle þat he the crowne wold take.
Turne we now all the matere
And speke we of Calabre the eyre!
A duke dwellythe Calabre be syde,
A stoute man and of grete pryde:
He was myghty and of grete powere,
Men dred him, bothe ferre and nere;
His name was duke Geron,
Of Sesseny-lond he was baron.
This doughty duke herd saye,
The eyre of Calabre was suche a may;
Messengeris he sent anon,
Vnto Calabre for to gone;
He sayd, he wold haue hyr to wyffe,
If she wold, with outen stryffe:
“And in case she wold not soo,
I shall make hyr moche woo;
For I shall distroye hyr landis alle,
Hyr men sle, bothe grete and smalle,
Hyr castelle breke and hyr toure,
With strenghe take hyr in hyr boure,
Lesse than she may fynde a knyght,
That for hyr loue with me darre fight!”
Forthe went the messyngere
And told þe lady this matere;
The lady answerd ryght sone
And sayd, she wold neuyr haue none,
“But hym, þat me wanne, so god me saffe,
Othyr husband wille I none haue!”
This messyngere his erand gan sayne
And homeward he went agayne;
He tolde the duke of his answere
And anone he bygan grete werre,
For grete power gadryd he,
To wynne þis mayde, þat was so free.
Ipomydon his messyngere herde,
Of this tithyngis how it ferde;
To his master he went sone
And told hym bothe all and somme.
Whan he that herde, Ipomydon,
Than was he a sory mon,
That he ne myght with that duke fight,
The whiche was holden so noble a knyght;
Right vnsemely on queynte manere
He hym dight, as ye shalle here:
A barbor he callyd, with outen more,
And shove hym bothe byhynd & byfore,
Queyntly endentyd oute and in,
And also he shove halfe his chynne;
He semyd a fole, þat queynt syre,
Bothe by hede and by atyre.
Armure he toke, þat was rusty,
And horsyd hym on an old rouncy;
An helme, as blak as any þanne,
A crokyd spere he toke hym than.
Whan þat he was thus dight,
He semyd ylle a doughty knyght;
To Sesseyn he went, as ye may here,
Vnto the kynge Mellyagere
And in his halle brak his spere,
Ryght as he wode were,
The tronchoune felle vppon þe bord;
He faryd, as he had bene wode.
The kynge and quene laughed light
And sayd, he was a fole welle dight:
“Fole, go to mete!” þe kyng gan say;
The fole answerd and sayd: “Nay!
For yit I wille not ete with the,
But thou a bone will grant mee:
The fryste dede of armys I wille haue,
Þat any man of þe wille craue!”
“Fole, go to mete!” sayd þe kynge,
“I grant the thyne askynge!”
The fole yede to mete in hye
And tyed his hors fast hym bye,
But, or he rose fro þe borde,
Many men laughyd at his word.
In to þe halle come rydynge a may,
Oute of Calabre, sothe to say,
On a white mule byfore þe kynge,
A dwerffe with hyr come rydynge.
“Sir kyng, my lady gretis wele the
And prayeth the for charyte,
To helpe hyr in this mystere
Agayne the dukis powere:
He hathe distoyed hyr landis alle
Right vnto hyr castelle walle,
And bot if she haue helpe of the,
She wille leue hyr landis & flee!”
The kynge answeryd anone
And sayd: “All my knyghtes ar gone,
Campanus and other full bolde;
Helpe my cosyn fayne I wolde,
But they be all at a dede,
To helpe a lady oute of drede;
In this world wote I no knyght,
That durst his one with hym fyght.”
Vp sterte the fole anone,
To the kynge he sayd full sone:
“Loo, I am here all redy dight,
That darre with hym allone fighte!”
“Sitte downe, fole!” the mayd gan saye,
“Vs list to speke of no pleye:
Dryve thy folye, where thow wille,
For no joye haue I there tille!”
The fole sayd: “Be þou wrothe or glad,
Suche promyse of the kynge I had,
That I shuld haue þe fryst dede!”
The mayde turnyd and forthe yede.
The fole stert vp with oute delaye
And sayd: “Syr kynge, haue good day!”
He lepyd on his hors there
And sayd: “Fare welle and haue gode yere!”
Somme sayd, he was a fole welle dight,
Somme sayd, he semyd a knyght,
That is come fro ferre contre,
By cause he wald not knowyn be.
He prekyd his hors wondir-faste,
The mayde he saw at the laste.
As they rode by the way,
The mayde to the dwerfe gan saye:
“Vndo my tente and sette it faste,
For here a while y wille me ryste!”
Mete and drynke bothe they had,
That was fro home with them lad;
Bothe they dranke there of and ete,
But euyr the fole with oute sete;
One morselle they nold hym caste,
Thoughe he shuld for hungre brest;
Þe dwerfe sayd: “We ar to blame:
Yiff þe fole somme mete for shame!”
“Not one morselle!” she gan say,
“For hungre shall dryue hym away!”
With that there come rydyng a knyght
To hyr tente anone ryght:
“Come forthe with me!” to hyr he bed,
“I haue the spyed, sythe þou oute yede:
Thou arte my lemman, as I haue thoght!”
The fole sayd: “Þat leve I noghte:
She ys myne, I wille hyr haue,
Fro the I hope hyr wele to saue!”
The knyght sayd: “Fole, leve thy folye,
Or ellis þou shalt dere abye!”
The fole sterte to a tronchoune,
Þat bare vp the maydens pavilloun,
And smote the knyght on the crowne,
That sterke-dede he felle to ground.
He yaffe the dwerffe þe knyghtes gere,
To hym selfe he toke the spere.
Vp they rose and forthe yede,
Till efte to ryste they had nede;
They toke mete & made them glad,
To þe mayd the dwerf bad:
“Yif the fole somme mete for shame:
He hathe sauyd you fro blame,
And thynke, ye shuld haue be shent,
Had he be oute of youre present!”
The mayde answeryd hym anone:
“Byfore god, mete getteth he none:
It was but foly, I prayse it noght,
I wold, he were fro vs broght!”
With that there come another knyght,
The mayd he chalengid anone ryght
And sayd: “Come forth, my leman dere!”
The fole sayd: “Þou haste none here:
She is myne, and longe hathe bene!”
With that þe knyght bygan to tene
And sayd: “Fole, thou shalt abye,
Yff þou speke more of þis folye!”
The fole sayd: “I will not blynne:
If thou hyr haue, þou shalt hyr wynne!”
With that he lepte on his hors lyght,
And eyther to other ganne hem dight;
The fole hym metithe with a spere,
That throughe the body he ganne hym bere;
The knyght was dede throughe þat dede,
To the dwerffe he yaff his stede.
Forthe they buskyd hem anone,
To a place they thought to gone,
There they wold haue bene al nyght;
Þey myght no ferther for lak of light;
They toke them mete and drynke gode spede,
Vnnethe they wold þe fole any bede.
Right as they satte and made hem glad,
There come a knyght, as þe deville hym bad;
He was the dukis brother Geron,
All was blak, þat he had on,
Bothe his hors & his wede;
To þe mayde he gan hym spede
And sayd: “Sythe I fynd you here,
Ye shall be my leman dere!”
The fole sayd: “Nay, not so:
Anothir she hathe tane hyr too:
That am I, that þou seest here:
If thou hyr bye, she is to dere!”
“Fole,” he sayd, “pou bourdist grete:
With my spere I shall the bete!
Hyr tyme foule had she spedde,
If she shold lye with þe in bedde.”
The fole sayd: “Twyse I hir bought:
With thy chydynge þou gettest hyr noght.
Iff thou hyr haue, þou shalt hyr bye
A peny derrere, þan euer dyd I!”
There was no lenger to abyde,
But eyther of theym to othyr gan ryde;
The fole mette þe knyght soo,
That his bak braste on twoo;
With that stroke he hym sloughe
And his armure of he droughe;
Anone he toke þe knyghtis stede
And armyd hym in his wede.
Whan the fole was wele dight,
The mayde he semyd a godely knyght,
And trowyd wele, fole was he none,
By the dedis, þat he had done.
They layde hem downe, to take hyr reste;
The dwerf fulle sone slepyd faste,
But the mayde wakynge laye
And on the fole thynkith ay;
She demyd, he was a doughty knyght,
Wherefore to hym she gan hyr dight:
“Sir knyght,” she sayd, “slepe ye nowe?
Ye ar no fole, þat wele I knowe:
Ye be a knyght, doughty of hand,
I know none suche in all þis land,
And þe same knyght, so trow I,
Þat somme tyme wanne my lady,
I trow full wele, þat thou be he:
Wilt thou hyr leve and wed me?
Thou shalt be of grete powere:
I am as ryche, as is the eyre
Off Calabre-lond, with oute doute!”
The knyght lokyd fast aboute
And euyr more stille he lay
And herde hyr speke, as I you say,
& whan þat she had all sayd,
He sterte vp in a brayde
And bygan for to rese,
As he wold take hyr by the nese;
Euyr the fayrer þat she spake,
The fouler braydes gan he make;
Thus he wrawled & wroth a way,
One word to hyr he nolde not say.
Whan she saw, it wold not be,
“Sir knyght,” she sayd, “for charyte,
Trowest thou, þou shalt not fayle,
To helpe my lady in þis batayle
And with the duke Geron to fyght,
As þou kynge Melliager hight?
What shall I to my lady say,
Whethyr will ye come or nay?”
“To morow, whan I þe duke see,
Par auntur in suche plyte I may bee,
That I wille the bataille take,
And so it may falle, I wille it forsake,
For I am holdyn no thynge you tille,
Noght but at myne owne wille!”
The mayden turnyd homeward & thoght,
To his answere she coude sey noght;
She bad þe knyght haue good day,
And he bad: “Fare wele, fayre maye!”
In at a preuy posterne gate
By nyght she stale in there ate,
And to þe lady she told sone,
What the fole had for hyr done,
And that he comythe for hyr to fight.
This lady was a sorowfull wight,
For on the morow þe duke with pryde
Vnto the castelle gate gan ryde,
But they were stokyn hym agayne;
With lowde voyse he gan to sayne:
“Come owte, leman, on feyre manere:
I wille no lenger tarye here,
Or ellys a knyght ye oute sende,
With me to fight, you to deffende!”
And as he stode þus talkynge,
He saw a knyght come rydynge;
A glad man tho was he,
His brothir, he wende, it had be:
It was not he, as ye shall here,
He answerid þe duke on this manere:
“What art thou, that makist þis crye
And at this gate so grete mastrye?”
“I am,” he sayd, “lord of here inne,
For I am sekir, þis mayde to wynne,
And will so do, or I hens will gone,
That othir husband gettyth she none!”
Ipomydon saide: “Þat thou shalt mysse,
For all myne owne that lady ys,
And full longe she hathe be soo,
There fore I rede the hens goo:
I wille hyr deffend frome all men!”
The duke answerd bitterly then:
“Traytour,” he sayd, “pou art anothir;
I wende, thou haddist bene my brothir:
His stede thou hast, his armour, loo,
Thow hast hym slayne, I trow, also!”
“That I hym slow, I gaynesay noght:
The so to serue haue I thoght!”
With that word, with oute lye,
Fast to gedir gan they hye,
That there sperys all tobrast;
They drowghe swerdis and faught faste.
The lady lay in an hye toure
And saw bytwene theym all þe stoure,
But she ne wist, whiche for hyr did fight,
For they in lyke wede were dight.
Gretter bataille myght none be,
For neyther wold for othyr flee;
They faught to gedyr wondir-longe,
Þe bataille was bothe stiff & stronge,
That of there lyves neyther rought.
Ipomydon than hym bythoght,
He was in poynte, to lese there,
That he had bought wondir-dere;
Hys swerd in bothe handis he toke,
It was sharpe, as saythe þe boke,
And hertely he dyd it vp lyfte,
Amyd the crowne he yaff hym swifte,
Thrughe helme & bassenet it raught,
Hys crowne was shavyn at one draught.
The duke felt hym hurt full sore,
He prayed þe knyght, to smyte no more:
“I am nye dede, I may not stande,
I yelde me here vnto thyn hande
And shall be thyne owne knyght,
At thy wille bothe day & nyght;
I shall restore in to this lande
More good, þan euyr I here fonde,
And euyr more, while þat I lyve,
A thousand pownd I wille þe yiffe!”
Ipomydon sayd: “I grant þe here,
So þat thou do on this manere,
Thow come not nye this pavilloun,
But hye the faste oute of þis town!”
The duke hym grantyd hastely,
Oute of the towne for to hye.
He and all, þat with hym come,
Homeward they hyed hem full sone.
Ipomydon rode to þe pavillon,
Right as it were duke Geron.
Be syde þe castelle, where in was þe eyre,
Rennethe a ryuer longe & feyre
With shippis & sayles many folde;
There stremes were of fyne golde.
This lady sayd, she wold flee,
Iff that the duke wan þe gre.
These shippis where stuffyd with vytayle,
Þat with this lady sholde sayle;
She lokyd oute in to the towne
And saw one come to þe pavilloun;
She wende, þe duke had wonne þe gre,
Where fore she busked hyr to flee.
Ipomydon to þe yates wente,
Than the lady helde hyr self shent:
“Come forthe,” he sayd, “my leman dere,
For I haue wonne þe now here!”
The lady herde hym make suche crye,
To hyr shyppe she gan hyr hye;
They plukkyd vp sayles & forthe þey passe,
She & hyr men, bothe more & lasse.

Turne we now anone ryghtes
And speke of kyng Melliagere knyghtes,
That, whan hyr jorney was done,
They hem buskyd home full sone,
Campanus and his felows full bolde,
But the tydynges were hem tolde
Off þe eyre of Calabre, þe fayre may,
And of þe duke, as I you say,
And how she sent aftir sokoure
The preuyest mayden in hyr boure,
And how a fole hathe take on hond,
To fight with hym in þat londe.
Sir Campanus buskid hym to fare,
To bryng this lady oute of care,
And all the power, þat had þe kynge,
Buskyd theyme to þat fyghtynge,
In all the hast, þat they myght,
With the duke for to fight.
Toward Calabre as they rode,
Þey saw shippis in þe flode;
Anoon they callyd to theyme there
And askyd hem, of whens they were.
The shippemen sayd: “Of Calabre-londe:
A duke hathe wonne it with his hand;
Here ys þe lady, as ye may see,
She hathe forsake hyr owne contre.”
Campanus prayd þe lady, to dwelle
And somwhat of hyr greffe to telle.
She herd, they were hyr eme knyghtes
And tornyd ayeyne anon ryghtes
And tolde the knyghtes all in hye
Off þe duke, þat was so doughty,
And how the fole had hym borne
Off good poyntis there beforne,
And how þe duke hathe hym slayne,
“& comyn ys to my yates agayne!”
Campanus sayd anone ryght:
“I darre ley, it was þe same knyght,
Was comyn oute of hys owne londe,
For he was doughty of his hand:
Madame, I rede, we torne agayne,
And we shall see, who is slayne,
& than we shalle þis dede awreke,
Iff we haue grace, with hym to speke,
That all þis land shall there of here,
And ellys honge me be the swyre,
But I his hede vnto you brynge!”
All they grantyd, with oute lesynge.
This lady turnyd hyr shippe anon
And with sir Campanus forthe gan goon.
When she come þe castelle nye,
As ferre as euyr she myght see,
In that place she wold abyde,
Tille she wist, how it wold tyde.
Campanus all his men lette calle
And to þe castelle they went alle;
They saw a knyght in blak atyre,
They wend full wele, þe duke it were,
Þat had distroyed þe land aboute;
To hym they hyed, all þe route.
Campanus sayd in þis manere:
“What art þou, that standis here?
Tell me, why þou makist þis dynne
And what þou woldist haue here in!”
He sayd: “My leman, þat I wanne,
I wille not leue hyr for no man!”
Sir Campanus sayd: “Þou getist hyr noght;
I rede, frome hyr thou change þi thoght
And go home to thy contre,
Or ellis, for sothe, þou shalt dede be:
Where fore hens fast thou hye
With owte any more vylany,
And ellis I swere, by god almyght,
We shall all ageynst þe fight!”
Ipomydon sayd: “What may this bee?
Is this the maner of this contre?
Yif any of yow haue better right,
Than I haue, to þis lady bryght,
Come forthe & prove yt with your hand,
One for one, while I may stand!”
Campanus answerd to þe knyght:
“Chese, whether þou wilt go or ellys fight!”
Ipomydon sayd: “Sythe it is soo,
That I shall hyr thus forgoo,
Rather I wille þe bataille take
And lese my lyffe for hyr sake
And put it all in goddis hond!”
Agayne hem all he thoght to stond;
All at ons at hym they layd,
Ipomydon hys swerd oute brayd
And many a man he fellys downe ryght;
He faught with many a doughty knyght,
That many a stroke vppon hym layd:
“Yeld the, traytour!” “Not yit!” he sayd.
The knyghtes, that were of grete pryde,
Faste they faught on yche syde;
Ipomydon saw non othyr wone,
But socouryd hym at a walle of stone,
And they pursewyd aftir faste,
Þat many vnto þe dethe he caste.
So longe ageynste them he gan stand,
They hewyd the gloves of his hand;
All bare-handyd faught þis knyght,
They saw neuyr are non so wight.
Sir Campanus, as I vndirstande,
Saw the rynge on his hand,
That he yaffe his modyr, þe quene:
Many a yere are he ne had it sene.
Campanus prayd hym stand stille,
While he askyd hym a skyle.
The knyght answerd & bad hym sey,
For all they were wery of there play;
“Sir knyght,” he sayd, “telle me this thynge:
Where had ye that ilke rynge?”
Ipomydon answerd, as he thought,
And sayd: “For sothe, I stale it noght:
For þou coueytes, to haue þis rynge,
I swere by Jesus, heuyn kynge,
Or þou it haue with mystrye,
With sore strokis þou shalt it bye!”
Sir Campanus prayd hym with feyre chere,
To telle hym on feyre manere,
Where he had þat ylke rynge,
And say the sothe, with oute lesynge.
Ipomydon sayd: “So god me spede,
Y wille not telle þe for no drede!
But telle me, why þou doste enquere,
And I shalle yeve the an answere!”
“This rynge,” he sayd, “þat is so fyne,
For sothe, somme tyme it was myne:
Now, as ye are a gentill man,
Telle me, where ye þat rynge wanne!”
“The quene,” he sayd, “of Poyle-land
Yaff me this rynge, ye shall vndirstand!
She ys my modyr good and fayre,
Off all þat land I am þe eyre.”
“Sir knyght,” he sayd, “yit abyde:
What sayd she more to you þat tyde?”
“She sayd, I had a brother on lyve,
Was gotyn, or þat she was wyffe,
And sayd, who þat knew this rynge,
Was my brother, with oute lesynge!”
Sir Campanus sayd: “By god allmyght,
I am thy brother, þou gentill knyght!”
They felle downe bothe in þat stound,
At onys fallynge to þe ground;
Men caught hem vp & wakyd hem bothe,
They were full glad & no thynge lothe.
Ipomydon enqueryd of his brothyr,
What was his name, for none knew othyr;
He sayd: “Syr Campanus I hight,
That gaynste þe dyd fyght,
With kynge Melleager dwelle I!”
“Som tyme we were in company:
Knew ye nevyr the quenys lemman,
That som tyme this mayd wan?”
“A, brother,” he sayd, “be ye he?”
There was joye grete plente.
Ipomydon sayd: “I bare þe shelde,
That wanne þe lady in þe felde;
Stedis I had þere þat day in place,
Þe sothe ye know, þat it so was,
Whyte and rede & blak also:
Wele ye wote, þat it was so.
And there I wanne throw goddis grace
The beste stedis þat day in place,
Þe kynges stede and thyne also,
And of myne owne I sent you two,
And youres I sent to other men:
Ye wote wele, it was so then.
I toke my leve of þe quene,
With me went my mayden shene
Home toward myne owne lond.
Sir Caymes sayd, I vndirstand,
That he wold feche vs bothe agayne,
Or ellis þat he wold be slayne;
He sayd, I went with oute leve:
All ye wist, how it dyd preue;
And therfore, brother, as I haue sayd,
I am best worthy, to haue þe mayd!”
They saw, it was þe same knyght;
Þan all there hertes began to light.
Euere as they went, they gan hym kysse,
There was joye and moche blisse.
Messengeris afore gan thrynge,
To bryng þe lady good tythynge;
When she saw, þey come so fast,
Than þe lady was agast,
She wende, þey had scomfyted be;
Þis lady bad, draw sayle & flee.
The messyngers cryed, as þey were wode,
Whan they saw hyr go with þe flode,
They sayd: “Madame, drede you noght:
The strange squyer hathe you sought!”
Whan she herd of hym speke,
She thought, hyr hert wold tobreke,
But she myght se hym with syght,
That hyr wanne in grete fight.
They tornyd þe shippis to þe land,
To gedyr they mette at þe sond.
Whan þe lady of hym had syght,
She comaundyd a bote forthe ryght,
For at þe lond fayne wold she bee,
That she myght þe knyght see.
She lepyd oute of þe bote in hye
In to þe water, þe knyght stode bye,
And he in aftir also faste,
Þat vp he gatte hyr at þe last.
Whan þey come vnto þe lond,
Ipomydon toke hyr by þe hond
And told hyr þere, with outen fayle,
Hyr love had causyd hym grete travaile:
“Sythe fryst þat I with you dyd dwelle,
Half my sorow can I not telle,
And how ye blamyd your cosyn Jason
For þat I loked you vppon,
And fro I toke my leve and went,
Tille I herd of youre entente,
How þat ye wold haue a knyght,
That of his hand was most wight;
Thedyr I drew, when I it herde,
All ye wote, how þat it ferd:
I seruyd your eme longe with alle,
The quenys lemman þey dyd me calle;
And aftir I justed dayes thre,
Many men ther dyd I see,
And there I wan stedis good,
Somme were rede as any blode,
And also wisely god me amend,
The kyngis stede to you I send;
But sone after, I vndirstand,
I went in to myn owne lond,
Tille I herd vppon a day
Of þe duke, þat made outray;
I busked me in queynt manere,
Right as I a fole were,
And went ageyne to þe kynge:
He knew me not, for no thynge;
And thedyr come frome you a mayd,
And to þe kynge þese wordis she sayd,
That he muste you socoure sende,
Fro þe duke you to deffend;
But þe kyng you of help forsoke
And I the bataile to me toke;
Forthe with þe mayd gan I gone
And there I kepte hyr frome hyr fone;
Thre knyghtes of hyr lyffes I lete,
And now þe duke I haue scomfyte:
I darre wele say, by goddis sond,
I haue you wonne with my hond!”
Whan þe lady herd, how it was,
She felle on swounyng in þe place;
He toke hyr vp with good spede,
His mouthe to hyrs he gan bede,
They kyssyd to gedyr with good chere,
For eyther was to othyr dere.
I lette you wete, with oute delay,
Halfe there joye I can not say.
Forthe they went to þe castelle,
There this lady byfore dyd dwelle;
All that nyght they were in same
With moche myrthe, joy and game.
On the morow the clerkis were bowne,
To wryte lettres of grete renowne
To the kynge of Seseny-lond,
That was hyr eme, I vndyrstand;
To þe emperoure, I dare wele say,
Were wrytte lettres of grete nobley,
To ershebisshoppes & bysshopis of þe land:
Prestes & clerkis, þat were at hand,
Dukis, erlys and barons also,
Knyghtis and squyers shuld thedyr go.
Messyngeris were sent euery where,
For pore and ryche, all shold be there;
And whan these lordis tythyngis herd,
They hyed hem fast thedyrward.
Þis fest was cryed longe byfore,
Fourty dayes it shold laste, with oute more;
Metis were made grete plente,
For many a man þere shuld bee;
With the emperoure come to þe feste
An hundreth knyghtes at þe lest,
And with the kynge, hyr eme, also
Two hundreth hors, with oute mo;
Sir Piers of Poyle thedyr came
And with hym knyghtes of grete fame,
That doughty were, of þat land,
In bataile preuyd, I vndirstand.
On the morow, whan it was day,
Thay busked theyme, as I you say,
Toward þe chirche with game & glee,
To make þat grete solempnyte;
The archebisshopp of þat land
Weddyd theyme, I vndirstand.
Whan it was done, as I you say,
Home they went with oute delay.
By þat they come to þe castelle,
There mete was redy euery dele;
Trumpes to mete gan blow tho,
Claryons & other menstrellis mo;
Þo they wasshe and yede to mete,
And euery lord toke his sete;
Whan they were sette, all þe route,
Menstrellis blew than all aboute,
Tille they were seruyd with pryde
Of the fryst cours þat tyde;
The seruyce was of grete aray,
That they were seruyd with þat day.
Þus they ete and made hem glad
With suche seruyce, as they had.
Whan they had dyned, as I you say,
Lordis and ladyes yede to play,
Somme to tablis & somme to chesse,
With othir gammys, more and lesse.
Ipomydon gaff in þat stound
To mynstrellis V C. pound,
And othyr yiftes of grete nobley
He yaff to other men þat day.
Thus this fest, as it was told,
Fourty dayes it was hold.
Ipomydon his brother lette calle,
There he stode in the halle,
And yaff hym all Poyle-land,
But on erledom, I vnderstond,
And of that land made hym kyng,
And afftyr hym hys offspryng.
He thankyd god and hym with mode,
And euery man spak of hym good.
Syr Camppanus forthe ys gon on sond
To the kyng of Sesanay-lond,
There he was in hys chamber,
Talkyng with the ladyes on fere.
He told of the yefftes fayre,
Off Poyle-land how he was eyre;
The ladyes answerd all on one:
“Souche a man in the world ys non!”
Ipomadon, there he stod in hall,
Tholomew he lette to hym call
And yaff hym an erledom fre
And a mayde, hys leff to bee,
That was with hym in Pole-lond,
With the quene, I vnderstond.
Syr Tholomew tho gan say:
“I thanke yow, lord, for thys may
And for yowre yefftes many on,
That ye hawe yewen me here befforne!”
Tho passyd he forthe, as I yow say,
There he lyked best to play.
Ipomadon, in hall there he stod,
Bethowght hym of myld mode.
Of hys felaw, syr Jason,
How he was a worthy mon;
To hym he gaff bothe ferre & nere
Grete londes, as ye may here,
To hys wyff a fayre may,
That he had louyd many a day,
And other yiftes he yaff also
Tille other men many moo.
Whan this feste was comyn to þe end,
Euery man busked hem, home to wend.
On the morow, with oute lesynge,
The emperoure went vnto þe kynge,
His leve to take, gan he gone,
And with hym lordis many on;
At þe takynge of his leve
Halfe þe joye I can not discryve,
That there was hem amonge
Off ladies and of knyghtis stronge.
The emperoure his leve hathe tone
At þe kynge Ipomydon
And at þe quene fayre and free,
So dyd many mo than hee.
Thus the lordes fayre & hend
Homeward all þey gan to wend,
Euery lord to his contre
Or where them lyked best to be,
And lefte them there bothe in same
With myche myrthe, joye and game,
There to dwelle for euyr more,
Tille theyme departyd dethe sore.
Ipomydon and his lady dere
To gedyr were many yere
With all joye, þat men myght see;
In world so moche neuer myght be,
As was euere þem amonge,
Till dethe þem departid, þat was stronge.
And whan they dyed, I trow, iwis,
Bothe they yede to heuyn blysse,
There as non other thynge may bee,
But joye and blisse, game & glee:
To þat blysse god bryng vs alle,
That dyed on rode for grete & smalle!