 | Ipomedon |  |
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Here begynnyth a good tale of IPOMADON.
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Off love were lykynge of to lereAnd joye tille all, that wol here,
That wote, what love may mene;
But who so have grette haste to love
And may not com to his above,
That poynte dothe louers tene.
Fayre speche brekyth never bone,
That makythe these lovers ilkone
Ay hope of better wene
And put them selffe to grete travayle,
Wheddyr it helpe or not avayle:
Ofte sythes this hathe be sene.
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Be this poynte well may I prese,That of his love was lothe to lese
Fro tyme that he began;
Thereffore in þe world where euer he went,
In justys or in turnamente,
Euer more the pryce he wan.
But a stravnge lover he was one:
I hope, ye haue harde speke of non,
That euer god made to be man,
Ne lother knowen for to be;
No whedure a better knyght þan he
Was no levand than.
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In Cessyle sumtyme wonyd a kyng,That holden was wyth old and ynge
Off poynttes wythe owten þere;
He was worthy, were & wyse,
Ouer all he wan losse and pryce,
Men callyd hym Mellyagere;
He had bovnden to his hande
In Fraunce & many other lande
Douȝty dukes and dere;
He gatte neuer chyld, his eyre to be,
But a brother son had hee,
That was his newov nere.
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That chyld he þouȝte to make his eyre;In all this world was non so fayre,
I darre welle wittnes thus.
Large he was of leme and lythe
And wonder-well he wex there wyth,
Men callyd hym Cabanus.
How he was gotton, I can not sayne;
Yff ye wille witte, wyth oute layne,
Further spyre you bvs.
His brother to the kyng hym sent:
“And prayeth hym ofte wyth goode intente,
For the love, he owe tyll vs,
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That he wille kepe well my son!”He sayd: “Fro tyme he kepe tham con,
My landes I shall hym take!”
Begge he wex of bonne & blode,
There wyth so handsum & so goode,
That all men hym worshipe spake;
He was a derlynge to the kynge,
Hym lovyed above all oþer þinge
For his brothere is sake.
Whanne Cabanus was comyn to elde,
That he cowde ryde & armus welde,
Knyghte he gan hym make.
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A systur hadde kynge Melyagere,That was chaste & mylde of chere,
The feyrest, that on fote myght goo.
There come many a ryall kynge,
For to wowe that lady yinge,
And other prynces moo.
The kyng of Calabrye thedur paste
And at her brother he here aste
And sayd betwene them tow,
His systur gyffe hym yf he wolde,
Of hym shold he his landes holde,
And in acorde made soo.
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Wyth worshipe he that lady wedeAnd to Calabur he her lede
Wyth game & grette lykynge;
He made his omage, or he yede,
Tyll hym, that douȝty was in dede,
Syr Mellyagere, the kynge.
They levyd to geddur but yers ten;
A chyld they gatte betwene them þen,
A doughtter fayre & yinge,
That aftur them ther ayre shuld be.
The elevenyth yere bothe she & he
Dyede, wyth oute lesynge.
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The may was younge & tender of age,And therefore all her baronage
Emonge them toke there rede,
The moste worthely man & wyse
Shuld kepe this lady, mekyll of pryse,
And teche hur womanheede;
Off bewte and of grette bovnte
Sho was the beste in all degre,
That euer on erthe myghte trede.
Be that she was XV yere of elde,
She toke hyr selffe her londes to welde,
To gouerene in that stede.
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She was blyth and bryȝte of hewe,All men callyd her, that her knewe,
Of Calabere the fere,
Visibyll and vertuyvs,
Meke, mylde and mervelus,
Chaste and fayre of chere;
Fro she come to here above,
That may wax so provde of love,
Her thought no prynce her pere;
Yf she were semelyeste vnder schrovde
Of other poyntes, she was namyd prowde
But of love to lere.
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She sayd the fyrste day, I vnderstonde,That she toke sesyn in her lande,
That fayre as flowre in felde:
“Now here to god a vowe I make,
I shall never man for riches take,
In youthe ne in elde;
For welle or woo, whether it be,
Man, that is of lowe degre,
Shall never to wyffe me helde,
But yf he be the best knyghte
Of all this world in armus bryghte,
Assayde vnder his shelde.
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There at all her lordes lowghAnd sayd: “This vowe ys grette rowe
For anny, that euer were borne!
Thou spake, as has don other moo:
Some of them saye not so,
Though it were a skorne!”
Nowghte she covthe of love amowre
And held hur howse wyth so grette honoure
Of welthe, of wyne and corne,
And dyd so worthely and so well,
All prayd god gyffe her happe & sell,
That come that fre beforne.
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In Brettayne, Fraunce & Lvmbardy,The word sprange in to Araby,
What howse that laydy helde,
In Cypres and in many a soyle;
The same tyme in the lond of Poyle
A noble kynge ther dwelld,
That was callyd Ermagynes:
Yf anny man wold agayne hym ryse,
Euer more his foos he feelld;
A worthy wyghte he had to wyffe,
A sone she bare hym in her lyffe,
As I haue harde betelde.
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Men keppyd hym, tille he reasone knewe,And they betoke hym to Talamewe,
That worthy was all waye;
In the world was emperoure ne kynge,
But he cowde in all thynge
Have seruyd hym well to paye;
Fyrste he leryd the chylde curtessye,
And sethe the chasse and chevalrye,
To weld in armys gaye.
He waxed worthely, ware and wyse,
Of hvntynge also he bare the pryce,
The sertayne sothe to saye.
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This was he holdyn in his dayesComely, kynde and curtayes
Bothe wyth kynge and quene,
Hende and happy ther wyth all;
He seruyd in his faders hall
And had never forther ben;
His name was Ipomadon:
A fayre chyld than he was one,
Ye haue but selden sene,
Of all ken fetowre and of face,
Ther wyth god gyaff hym grace,
They louyed hym all bedene.
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His fader was a noble man,Well his landys he governyd than,
Bothe fare and nere;
His meyne louyd hym moste & leste,
And on a tyme he made a feeste
To men, that worthy were;
When they wer set & seruyd all,
The worde spronge in the hall
Of Calabrye the fere;
Than sayd a knyghte of bewte:
“So fayre, so good at all degre
Was non levand to her!
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As worthy a corte she holdes an,As ys fro Ynde to þe Oxlyane,
This darre I warande welle!”
Ipomadon servyd in the hall
And herde the knyghttes wordes all
Of that damysell;
So grette good of her he spake,
Hym thoughte, hys hertte asvnder brake
Wyth syghynge and vnsele;
No thyng he sayd, what so he thoughte,
But stode stille and answeryd nought,
But thynkyd ylka dell.
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Whene he to his mette was sett,He myghtte nother drynke ne ete,
So mekyll on her he thoughte;
He wax wan and pale off hewe,
That sawe his maystur Talamewe
And he parsayuyd yt nought.
Hym þouȝte full longe, þat þey had ettyn;
Talamewe had not forgettyn,
But to the chyld he sought,
He sayd: “Sone, me mervayls mekyll of þat,
So thoughtfull at your mette ye sate:
Ys anny þinge mysse-wroghtte?”
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He sayd: “Dere maystur Thalamewe,Ye haue byn to me trusty & trewe,
Sethe fyrste your faythe was fest!
Here I lye as bere in denne
And come neuer amonge no men,
Nother este ne weste;
Who lovys ay at home to wonne,
Lyttill gode shall he conn,
Of bewete whan he ys beste:
To seke my seruys will I gange,
Here, me thynke, I dwell ouer-longe,
It rewys me ro & reste!
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I haue harde speke of contreys straunge,The whiche it makyth my hertte to chaunge,
Mekell more it mone;
The wyse man and the boke seys:
In a cowrte who so dwell alweys,
Full littill good shall he con;
I will you swere, mayster, ya,
I trowe, ye will wyth me ga,
Suche frenshipe in you I fonde.
Me alone forther yf I wende,
Here I woll not lengur lende,
As se I syghtte of sonne!
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And therfor, mayster, y you praye,That ye will to my fader saye
And to my moder fre,
Me were full lothe, I shuld them greue,
Therefore I praye you, axe them leve,
Grythe for you and me;
And yf they will not lett me goo,
Myselffe at mydnyght leve shall ta,
Thowȝ I shullde barfote bee;
Whethur they be foo or frend,
Tyll vncovth contreys will I wende,
The maner wille I see!”
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And when he had þis tale tolde,His mayster stode & hym behylde,
Awonderd as he ware:
“Dere sone Ipomadon,
Syn thou arte purposyde here vpon,
Wheddur wille ye fare?”
“Maystur”, he sayd, “ye harde full wele
Of that dereworthy damysell,
The knyght spake of langare:
The semely fere of Calabyre,
The way thethur will I spere,
To se the maner thare.
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And, sertes, yf ye will helpe me nowe,For euer I shall be holden to you,
As I haue euer mekyll bene;
But, maystur, & ye leve behynde,
I not, where I sholde frenshipe fynde,
Ne to home I myghte me mene!”
His maystur stode & lowde gan lowȝe
And sayd: “Sone, þis pleses me well inowe,
To wette, wyth owten wene;
To leve behynde, me were full lothe,
I shall aske leve for vs both,
And that shall sone be sene!”
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His mayster made no tarynge,But sought, tille he fande the kynge,
And thus to hym sayd thanne:
“In a courtte who ay soioyrons so
And se the maner of no moo,
Of no mo they can:
Leve, I rede, that ye hym geve,
For, yf god will lett hym leve,
He will be a noble man!
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Syr, a poynte I you praye:Gravnte me leve, as I saye,
For wyth hym wynde I wolde!”
The kynge þought, he sayd but skylle;
The quene chambyr he went tille
And her thus purpos tolde.
His moder had full mekyll care,
Her sone so fere shuld fro her fare
And she ne wyste, whedder he sholde;
She graunte hym leffe at the laste
And wyth a sorowfull hert he aste
Her blessynge vppon molde.
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When they had getton leve to goo,In hertt full joyfull were they tow,
They made no tarrynge.
The kynge to Thalamew bekende,
Gold and syluer inowghe to spende
For ys sone so yinge;
Ayther hade a palffraye,
Tow somers for the chyldys araye
And eke for his spendynge,
Tow men and no mo mene,
That chyldes currure for to be,
Tythandys to bere and brynge.
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His leve he toke at kynge and queneAnd sethen at all the courte bedene;
His moder sighed sare.
They travayllyd day be day fro home,
In to Calabyre that they come,
They wold no spendynge spare.
They speryd aftur that bryght of ble,
Men tolde them in a ryche citte,
And thedyr can they fare.
Att the beste ynne of all the towne
Talamewe is lyght adowne
And toke them herbowre thare.
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In the world was kynge ne emperoure,That he ne myghte wyth grette honoure
Have holden his howse wyth ynne
Wyth bankers brodyrd all abowte,
The dosers steynyd, wyth oute dowte,
Wyth fowle and fyshe well fyne.
His oste vpon the chylde gan loke
And in his cuntenavnce vndertoke,
He was full hye of kynne;
The burgays cowth of curtessye
And at his wolle full worthely
He purveyd hym that inne.
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Talamewe sayd: “I the praye,Ordayne for vs corne and heye
And loke, that we well fare,
Off mette and drynke grette plente,
The beste wyne of thus contre,
Fayne wold I wette, where ware!
Thou artte wythe thy neybors kende:
Brynge it in, we haue inow to spende,
And god shall send vs mare!
But, maystur, to the covrtte wille we wynde:
To make you mery, that levys behynde,
God forbede, that ye spare!”
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The chyld wolde no lengur to abyde,But arayde hym ryally to ryde
And to the courte gan cayre;
Talamewe wyth hym gan fare.
Alssone as they come thare,
They were resseuyd full fayre.
The courte was plenere all that day
Off worthy lordes, the sothe to say,
And other grette repeyre;
A duke had doone an other wronge,
Att grette debatte had byn longe
For holdynge of an ayre.
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That day the fere hade made hem frendeAnd broughte that grette debate to ende,
So ys she ware and wyce.
Ladyes wote, that she will nat
Abowtte hur suffyr no debatte,
So grette goodenes in her lyse;
Her meyny lovy her euer ilke one.
In to the hall comys Ipomadon
Amonge thes lordes of price;
An even pase forthe he paste,
Nother to softe ne to faste,
But at his owne devyce.
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Lordes, laydes, in the hallLokes on hym, men and all,
And grette mervaylle they þought,
He was large of lyme & lythe,
And made so wonder them wythe,
Of fetter faylyd hym nought.
A llyttell wax he rede for shame,
Full welle that coloure hym became,
Before that high he sowghtte;
His dobelett was of red welvet.
Off bryght golde botuns ibete,
That worthely was wrovghte.
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His mantell was of skarlett fyne,Furryd wyth good armyne,
Ther myght no better been,
The bordoure all of red sendell;
That araye became hym wele,
To wete, wyth outen wene.
A noble countenavnce he hade,
A blyther and a better made
Before they had not sene.
Also bryght his coloure shone,
All hym lovyd, that lokyd hym one,
Bothe lord and lady shene.
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And longe hym beheldes the fere,But no thynge chaunges her chere
For carpynge of the crowde;
Her hertte is sett so mekyll of wyte,
Wyth love it is not dauntyd yte,
Thowȝe she be shene in scherovde;
But aftur sore it bande the fre,
And so I wold, that all ye shuld be,
That is of love so prowde!
The chyld before her knelys than
And to the lady he began
To tell his tale on lowde;
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He sayd: “Dereworthy damysell,Grette god kepe the in hele
And all thy fayre mene!
Vnder heyvyn is holdyn none
So worthy a lady, as thow arte on,
Ne of so grette bewete:
Ofte sythes this haue I harde saye:
A nobler courte, then thyne allwaye,
There may non holdyn bee;
The to serve haue I thowghte,
Thereffore haue I hedyr sought
Oute of farre contre.
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What as thou wilte, put me tow:That longes a gentill man to doo,
Gladlye I wille do;
Thereffore I praye the me tell,
Whedur thow will I wyth the dwell
Or wynde, thedyr I come froo!
On asay now shall I see,
Yff it be, as men say of the
In countreys many and moo!”
The lady satt and hym behylde,
And lykyd full wele the tale, he tolde,
When she hym hard say soo,
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That he wold hur servand be;She behyldes his grette bewte
And in her hertt she thought,
That he myghte wyth grette honoure
Haue seruyd kynge or emperoure,
He was so worthy wroughte;
A thynge in her hert gan ryse,
That she shuld lyke wele hys seruyce,
Forgoo hym wold she nought;
She answeryd hym full curtesly:
“Thou arte welcome, belamye,
I thanke hym, that the browghte!
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Syn thou to seruys will be sett,What ys thy name, þou stravnge valete,
Anon that thou tell mee!”
“I was callyd at home by the same name,
And borne I was in ferre contre:
Forther wotte ye not for me,
Wheddyr ye blysse or blame!”
The lady att his wordys lough,
She sayd: “Sone, this holde I good inowe,
It is a noble name,
And thou artte welcome securly!”
His mayster sayd, that stode hym by:
“Gravnte mercy, madame!”
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The lady callyd hur botelere:“This cupe of gold þou shalte take here
And gyff hit to younde man,
To buttrey dore lede hym wyth the,
Ther wyth of wyne to serue me:
We shall se, yf he can!”
The butteler hym the cuppe betoke,
And he was fayne & not foresoke,
To the chylde sayd he thanne:
“It ys my ladyes prayere,
That thou off wyne shall serue here!”
In covrte thus he began:
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Rightte in his mantell, as he stode,Wyth the botteler forthe he yode,
The cupe on hande he bare;
All that lovyd þat chyld beforne,
For that dede lovghe hym to skorne,
Bothe the lesse and the more;
Yff that he shuld serue one,
It were semande, they sayd ilkone,
Away his mantell ware;
But littill knewe þey his entente:
To the buttery dore he went
And offe he caste hit yare.
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To the boteler than went hee:“Syr, this mantell gyff I the,
As I haue happe or sele:
And thow wilte take þis sympull gyfte,
It shall be mendyd, be my thryfte,
Wyth efte so good a wille!”
The butteler thankyd hym curtesly
And sayd: “Gentyll syr, gramercy
Off this frenshipe I felle,
And in owght þat I can do or saye,
Be grette god, that oweth this day,
It shall be quytte full wele!
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For this VII yere, be my thryfte,Was not gevyne me suche a gyfte!”
The mantyll he toke hym tille.
All them, that thowght skorne before,
Thought them selfe folys therefore,
They satt and held them stille
And sayden, it was a gentill dede:
“There may no man, so god vs spede,
Other wyse say be skylle!”
All they spake in prevyte:
“A hundyrd men may a man se,
Yet wott not one his wille!”
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This dede saw the lady clere,How he gaffe to the butelere
That gyfte of grette bewete;
Tille her selffe she sayd for thy:
“Younde dede ys doon full gentilly,
Be god and be my lewte!
Where he euer come or what he is,
He can of convenence, iwys,
Be younde full wele I see!”
She sayd to hem, þat by her stode:
“This chyld is comyn of gentille blode,
It may no nother weye bee!”
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The cope he brought before hyr syneAnd seruyd the fre wyth the wyne
So worthely alweys,
Tille III yere ende were comyn & gon.
The lady, she thought, she saw neuer one,
So mekyll to halde to prayse;
And in the courtte now he es
Louyd bothe wyth more and lesse,
So gydyde hym in his dayes.
But a condycyon havys he,
That I shall say, sore rewys me,
All ladyes to love it lays.
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Covarde be countennaunce he semyd,To hardenes nothynge he yemyde,
To melle hym there wyth all:
When knyghttes yede to turnement,
There to wold he take no tente,
Nother grette ne smalle;
Of dedes of armus when they spake,
Ipomadon wolde turne his bake
And hye oute of the hall;
He wold here of no chevalrye;
Prowde men of the cowrte for thy
Cowarde gan hym call.
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By syde ther was a fayre foreste;Huntynge lovyd he alder beste,
To see his grehoundes rinne;
Gamen of houndes was all his thought,
Be dede of armys sett he noughte,
That was parsauyd hym in,
Of chevalry wold he not here;
Grettly that myslyked the fere,
He wold no worshippe wynne:
“Allas”, she sayd, “so mekyll fayrenes
Ys loste on hym wyth outen proves:
Yt is a sory synne!
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Allas, that euer so grette gentryseYs loste on hym for cowardise,
Woo worthe destone,
Syn he is so fayre of face,
That god had not gevyn hym that grace,
Of hertt hardy to bee!
For, were he a man of hardynes,
As bovnte semys & bewte es,
Be god and be my lewte,
On lyve I know non lewand nowe,
That cordes so well to myn avowe
In all this world, as hee!”
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Thus she monys the stravnge valete;To love hym yf her hertte be sett,
It makys here lekyng lake,
That he sett be no chevallrye;
To euery he spendys so largely,
That all good of hym spake.
Then sum men of his huntyng lowe,
Sum therefore was wrothe inow,
That harde behynde his bake.
Thow the lady hym wolde not chyde;
For hym in herte many a tyde
Her thovght asunder wold breke.
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In somer seson it befell,When flovrys were sprong, swete of smell,
And fowlys songe bedene,
The fre bethought her at þat tyde,
That she wold on huntyng ryde
In to the foreste grene;
She bad her men, the sothe to saye,
They shuld be redy the VIII day
Amonge the schawes schene:
“In to the foreste wyll we fare,
To hunte at the herte full yare,
That longe has soveryd been!”
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Her meyne made them redy faste,On the VIII day to wood they paste,
As was her comaundemente.
Vppon a lavnde fayre and wyde
Be a rennande reuer syde
They sett that ladyes tente;
There was there dere won,
When they were wery for rwne
Wythe baynge on the bente,
Or any reysyd oute of araye,
Grette herttes, to byde the bay,
To the watter wente.
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Logys and pavelons they pyghteFor erle, baron, & for knyghte,
That huntyd in that foreste.
Ipomadon was not the laste,
His horne abowte his halse he caste
And went in to the weste.
[In to the depe foreste.]
How so they dothe of other thynge,
Of justus or of tvrnaynge,
Huntynge lovyde hee beste;
Thowȝe he set be no chevalrye,
Moste he couthe of venarye,
There on his hert was feste.
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For she schuld moste of solas see,On the lavnde they set þat bryght of ble,
And many a man her wythe;
Hunters blewe there hornys þat stovnde,
Caste of and oncowpelyd ther hounde,
Foundes in to the frythe;
Dyueres weys went her men,
To reyse the dere oute of there denne,
Lyght of lyme and lythe;
For bugelys blaste & brachys crye
Wyth oppon mowthe full veralye
There myght no best haue grythe.
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Hym besyed faste Ipomadon,For why he cowthe inowgh þerone,
Lowde his horne he blewe;
Wyth hym he toke a lytill rache,
The dere oute of there kyth to cache,
The coste full wele he knewe;
That was a brachet of thee beste,
That euer wold trewly queste
And securly pursewe;
He hyes hym oute of all the prece,
Thre greyhoundes he lade in lese,
His maystur Tholamewe.
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Hornys blewe and houndus ranneWyth oppyn mowthe full mery than
And many bugels blaste;
A noble noyse it was to here,
In hertte full wele yt lykyd the fere,
There houndes fell to so faste [OMITTED]
Ipomadon, a hertte he chase,
His hounde so gladely to hym gos;
This grette hertte at the laste.
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So wery was for ron that day,That, on the bent to byde the bay,
21
The littell hounde nyghed hym so nere,
In myddys of the lavnde before the fere
For feyntes fell he downe;
Forther myghte he go no foote,
So had þis hertt be holdyn hoote
Wyth that brache browne;
The hounde also myghte renne no more,
For feyntenes fell downe before
That lady fayre off facyown.
55
So wery for renne wer they tow,A foote further myghtte noþer goo,
But fell before the fere;
A littill fro hym þis hounde lay,
Att the grette hertte questyde aye,
That saw that lady clere;
Att the brachet lowde she lowȝe:
“Now, sertes, he can of fete inowȝe,
That þus his hounde gan lere:
Hym selffe comys sone, he is not ferre!”
Ipomadon drawythe nere,
Where he is hounde gan here.
56
As a hunter all in greneHe come before that bryght & shene,
And on his foote he lyghte;
His kyrtell covyrd not his kne,
To that grette hertte gon is hee
And seruyd hym full right;
He lacys the slowche, to fede the hounde,
Then sayd the lady in the stovnde
Tille her maydens bryghte:
“Folowe me, for I wille wende,
To se younder curteys chyld & hende,
How he younder dere gan dyghte!
57
More helpe ne hade he noughte,But the hounde, that hym to bay brouȝte,
22
Ipomadon, in a thrawe
Aftur his maystur he wendes to blowe
Welle forthe on the playne.
The brachett by the hertte lay stylle,
He wold not let no man come hym tille,
The sothe ys not to layne,
Ne sertes he wold not takyne be,
This hounde, of no man, till he se,
His maystur was comyn agayne.
58
And when he sawe his maystur thore,He dyd his besynes the more,
It shulde the better bee;
The hedde he corvde wonder well,
And sethe vndyd euery dele
Full fayre before that fre.
All, that she sawe of oþur men,
Tille hym she held but fablis then,
So deyntely dede hee;
Agayne in to her tent she turnys,
In hertte for hym full mekyll she mornys
And cursyd his destone,
59
That in so mekyll fayrenes forȝete,That ne hade poynte of prowes sete:
“For suche a noþer know I no,
So fayre, so curteys, as he es,”
But for he louyd no hardenes,
The lady was full woo;
She thynkys to haue Ipomadon,
And thought agayne: “Thynke not there on!”
Thus turnythe she tow & fro.
“Att the laste of love drewry
Dystrwes defawte of chevallrye:
Alas, why ys it so?
60
For hym to love, yf I had thoughte,To myne avowe acordes he nought:
23
That prowde sory vowe, that I
Made be my grette folye,
Now makyth me wrynge & wrythe!”
Wyth hur owne hete, thus she thowght
That amys, that she wroughte,
And sykynge sayde sythe:
“I shall love neuer no knyghte,
But he be man of myghte,
His costes for too kythe!
61
For louyde I hym sekyrlye,All men ther of wold haue envy
And praye, god shuld them wreke;
They wold saye: ‘Be oure lady, nowe
She hathe well sett her grette avowe
On a febyll freke!’
I trowe, that tyme shall com above,
That I mvn fynde a knyght to love,
That wele a schafte can breke:
But, sertes, my love is so isete,
That hym to love I may no lette,
What so euer they speke!”
62
Ipomadon hym bysyes faste [OMITTED]Wondere-wele hym bare;
That day he brought to quary tenne,
Moo than dyde all other men,
Of noble herttes, that were.
The sonne beganne to drawe downe,
They hyed them to pavelyown
Before þat wyse off lare;
Ipomadon lowde blewe,
Full well that fere his horne knewe,
That she hade herde it are.
63
His maystur Thalamewe & heBlowes aftur mo mene,
24
Sevyn heddes he brought to present,
She rose and gayne hym wente,
Vppon them to beholde.
So grette heddes, as they were,
The lady thoughte, she sawe neuer ere,
That made were on molde.
64
In a stody full stylle she stode:I hope, here lokynge dyd here goode,
Be god and my lewte!
The righte, I trowe, who vndertoke,
She had more luste, on hym to loke,
Then any herttes hedde to see.
Whenne erlys & baronys asemblyde wore,
All they gaffe, bothe lasse and more,
Before that bryghte of ble
The pryce to that straunge valet,
That came alone wyth his brachet,
And sayd: “Beste worthy ys he!”
65
A cosyn had that lady bryghte,A noble chyld, that Jason highte,
Ryghtte bygge of bone & blode,
And fro he had Ipomadon sene,
They lovyd, as they brethryn been,
To gedder ay they yode.
In a swtte they bothe were clade,
Grette joye of them the ladye hadde,
They were so fayre and goode;
So semely chyldern, as they tow,
In all the curte was no moo,
Ne mylder of there mode.
66
The tow wyshe and to supper yede;Ipomadon toke good hede,
His cope forgate he noughte,
To the bottry went he syne
25
And to the borde it browghte;
Here lokynge hade she not forgetton:
“Say, valett”, she sayd, “has thow etton?
To day thou haste welle wroughte!”
“Damysell”, he sayd, “not yete
Drynke I dranke ne mete I ete,
Fro bale as I be broughte!”
67
“Syr, that ys to longe, be skyll,My cosyn Jason call the tille,
For suppud, I wold, ye hadde,
In the flore before me sett ye adowne!”
They bothe were att her byddyng bown
And dyd, as she them badde.
There was berlyde at þat suppere
Drynke, that sethyn was bought full dere
Wyth many a syghyng sade,
And lyke brethryne they toke them thore,
That aftur rewyde sum full sore,
Ofte sythes to gamen onglade.
68
Whate myghte þat be, but derne love,That all ways wyll be above
To them, that shall it havnte?
All othere thynges men davnte may,
But, sertenly, be no waye
Love wille not be davnte!
Who presus ofte to serue hytte,
Worse schall have his gurdovn quyte,
For he be loves seruante.
Who entrys in to lovys scolys,
The wyseste is holdyn moste foolys,
Fro that they haue graunte.
69
How so it be, this lady yingeMakythe many a love-lokynge,
But foly thoughte sche non,
26
That full wele vnderstode
The chyld Ipomadon;
He caste her many a lovely loke,
Full well that lady vndertoke,
That he wyth love was tone;
She drede, that it shuld ryse þorow chaunse,
Sum slavnder thorow countenavnce,
He lokyd so here vppon.
70
For in a stodye styll he sate,That mete and drynke clene he forgate,
So mekyll on hur he þoughtte;
There att the fere began to smyle
And bethought hur on a wyle,
How sche hym schastys moughtte;
In hertte sche thynkes so to devyce,
Be hyr owne cosyn hym to chastyce,
That other parcevyde yt noughte.
“Jason”, “sche sayd, “for goddes payne,
Why lokys thow so vpon Imayne?
What has my mayden mys-wroughte?
71
What ayles the man, for god avowe?Say, damysell, ys this for yowe,
That Jason lovys so haate?”
Rede for shame wexyd that may
And sayd: “Certes, madame, naye,
Not that I of watte!”
Jason ofte she turnyd vntille:
“Whate weneo thou, fole, þat ladyes wille,
Her love be on the latte,
On the to lay for curtesye?
Nay, in feythe, sekyrlye,
Then loste they there estate!
72
Be thou neuer of so grette bewte,Trowes thou this lady bryght of ble
27
For fayrehedde or for any largenesse,
But thow were man of proves?
I say the shortely: naye!
Yf thou wylte love of laydes wynne,
On othere wysse þou mvste begynne;
Syr, for thy good I saye!
Gyff the to justes or to turnaynge,
Or els lett be thy nyce lokynge,
For helpe the not maye!”
73
These brethellys now, the soth to tell,Be they be crepte oute of the schell,
Yet mvste they laydys love,
Yff they cowthe neuer of chevalrye!
Nay, syr, I say the securly,
Thou comyste not so above!”
Jason, in a stody he sate,
That mete & drynke he forgatte,
So drede hym that reprove,
Hym thought, for tene his hert wold brest.
Ipomadon full wele wyste,
She sayd for his behove;
74
He sayd: “Jason, broþer, be þou stylle,And that thou take it at no ille,
I praye the specyallye:
Yff she haue gevyn the þis vmbrayde,
It ys for good, that she hathe sayde,
Greve the not for thy!”
But welle wyst Ipomadon,
The wordes were sayd for hym ychone,
Spokyne of that ladye,
And therefore was he shamyd full sore,
That on hur durste he loke no more,
She toke good hede ther by.
75
All dropyng downe held he his heued,All lykynge love fro hym is reued,
28
When the sopper was all done,
To chambyr went that lady sone;
Her lordes, wyth ovten lette,
Toke leve and to there innys ys goone;
Before hyr knelyd Ypomadon
And hur full godely grette:
“Have good nyghte, damysell, for I mvst wende!”
What meanys this? þought þe lady hende,
This dyde her mechyll unsete.
76
But neuer the lesse, for parseyvyng sakeCountenaunce of love she wolde non make,
But gravntyd hym leve to goo,
And that repent her syth full ille;
The dore tille he was comyn tille,
Here eye come never hym fro;
For love she myghte stonde þer no langer,
The lady thaught, for pure angur
Here herte wold braste in tow;
To her chambyr sche her spede,
Tomblyd downe vp on her bede
Wyth wrythyng and wyth woo.
77
She callyd Imayne, here mayden fre,And bade, hyr bed shuld redy be,
That sche myght bye there inn;
No thynge sche slepyd all the nyght,
But ofte tymes turnyd and sadely syghte,
Her gerdyll waxit thyn,
And sayd: “Dere god, wherefore & why
And wethyr thou thus sodaynly
TO love hym schall begynne,
So worthy lordes, as þou haste sene,
Prynces and many dukes bedene,
And kyngges of noble kinne?
29
78
Never the les yt saw I neuer noneSo godely, so fayre of flesche and bonne,
So kynde ne so curtays:
A fole, so thynkys thee!
Trowyste thou, þat þer any oþer bee,
Here loue so one hym layese?
Nay! I trowe serttes this,
Ellys were þey ill avysed, iwys,
He ys so good all wayes;
Luffe hym mvste I nedys doo,
Syn thou, hertte, ledys me there too,
What so any man sayes!
79
I may not do! Sertes, I maye!Be grette god, that made me, nay,
I may not do ther too,
For thou, hertte, ys so on hym sett,
Þat hym to love þou wylt not lette,
For oughte, that I may doo!
Are they not sorow worthy be lawe,
That willfuly will ouer hem sorow drawe?”
Thus tyll her selffe sayd scho.
“Cursyd pryde, woo mot thou be!
Thou bryngys me to lowe degre
And reves me reste and ro!
80
It hathe byn sayd in lest of love,That aftur pryde comythe grette reprove,
Of the wysest yet that was:
Prowde in hertte ay haue I been,
Therefore I haue afalle, I wene,
It nedys no helpe to asse.
Euer more worthe ys sempylte,
Then ouer-provde or fers to be,
For ay that poynte wille passe!
Had never man so grette reprove,
As I gaffe hym this nyght fore love;
Why dyd I so, alas?
30
81
I myghte haue had hym, when I wolde,And all my purpos to hym tolde:
A, wetles wreche, lett bee!
Alas, foule, what haste thou sayde?
Reson wolde, þat thou were prayde,
Thou shuld not praye, par de!
A lord, what I haue ben fers:
I thought no kynge ne prynse my pers
Ne no man in no degre,
And now thys lythe belerte I am
Of love, and I wott not, wyth whame,
Ne wott not, what ys hee.
82
Ne, sertes, his name know I nought,Ne in what londe he shuld be sought,
And he were fro me goone:
Me nedyd not to love for thy
The kyng of Pers or of Araby,
And now my hert ys tane,
Yet me mvst love att lowere degre,
But, sertus, a fayre one than hee
Was neuer of blode ne bone,
A kyndere nor a curtysure,
Thorow this world thowȝ men shuld spere:
That makys me make this mone!
83
So fayre, so good in all thynge,He come neuer lowere than of a kynge,
This dare I savely saye!
Who, so thynkes the, foll, & no moo:
Hopys thou, þat all other thynke hym soo?
I say the, securly, naye!
Trowes thou any other ther bee,
That lokes on hym wyth suche an ee,
As thou haste done all waye?
Nay, I hope, as I haue roo!
Yes, in faythe, I hope thei doo,
Ellys ille avyssud were they!
31
84
For there ys nother old ne yinge,But they mvst love hym ouer all thynge,
He ys so fayre and goode:
Yesturnyghte settynge by Jason
Full swettely lokyd he me vppon,
That mynges thus all my mode;
But more of huntynge, I hope, he thoughte,
Thenne anye loue in hertte was wroghte,
That blythe of bon and blode!
Nay, that trowe I not, par de:
Why lokyd he so faste on mee,
But he love vnderstoode?
85
He toke his leve, whon he shuld fare,And, sertes, so dydde he neuer are,
Syn fyrste that I hym kende!
That was to his inn to goo!
Nay, in faythe, I trowe not soo:
It was, his weye to wende!
Nay, I hope! Yes, in faythe,
Yestur nyght thou lokyd on hym so laythe,
No wonder, thowȝ he wold wende!
Yf he goo, then mvste I dye,
Or els in care belefte am I
For euer wyth owtyne ende!
86
Alas, whye he þus parte awey?Be god of hevyn, I hope, naye!
Yes, in fayth, he will!
Thou cowde not hold thy peas, but chyde,
He were a foule, and he wold byde,
Me thynkes be prove & skylle!
Yf he goo, wonder the nought:
Yesturnyght so grette shame þou hym wrought,
Alas, þou dyd full ylle!
He may goo wyth an lawghyng herte,
And thou, thy selffe hit gertte,
Shalte leve in mornynge stille.
32
87
But yf he to morow abyde,I shall hym shewe no poynte of pride,
Yff god will geve me grace;
Curtesly I wyll hym call
And wyth good wille tell hym all
My covncell of þus casse.
Ressone wille, it is not to layne,
He shuld not love, but he be lovyd agayne,
He ys so fayre of face;
Bettur were me, suche ane to haue,
Then anny tow, so god me save,
Me thynkes, on ground þat gaase.”
88
Wyth hyr owne hertt þis she strave,That rest that nyght she cowde non haue,
That for hur selffe was bad,
That she shuld entur so farre in love,
Hit shuld hur doo sum grett reprove,
She was so streytly stadde;
Wyste she, on morowe how it shuld fare,
Her grette sorowe doblyde ware,
And yet inowgh she had;
Her mynde was not but for to morne.
Agayne to hym will I retorne,
That nyght what lyffe he ladde.
89
When the chyld his leve had tane,To his in he is ganne
Wyth sorowys & sykynge sare;
He saw right nought, þat was hym leffe,
All thynge, he þought, dyd hym greffe
In ye, bothe lesse and more.
His maystur Thelamewe he prayed,
That his bedde were redy arayde:
“There in, I wold, I wore!”
Off all the nyght he slepyd no þinge,
But lay wyth many a sore sykynge
And mornyethe aye more & more.
33
90
Alas, foule, what alysse the,Soo farre oute of thy owne contre
Heddur for to come?
Thou dyd, as many haue done are,
Come to seke sorye care,
And ther of hathe þou som.
Thou myghttes no man, but þi selffe, blame:
Thyne owne wille made þe come fro hame,
Thereffore no man wille the moone.
As euer haue I happe or skelle,
That makes þou, lady, euery dele,
Yet love makes me so dome.
91
Be god of heyvyn, now I wott well,That she parcevys hit euery dele,
How I wyth love was tane,
And thoo she gyffe me wyth vpbrayde,
Hit was for gode, þat she me sayde,
Thowȝe I toke hit wyth none;
Therefore spake she all þat þinge,
To make me leve my longe lokynge,
That I caste hur vppon [OMITTED]
92
There att, I wotte welle, she gave tene,Yet be hur owne cosyn, as I wene,
She blamyd me for thye
And sayd, it was a skorne, parde,
That anny suche brothels as we
Anny ladyes love shuld thye,
That nought þinkyth for to thryve
Nor neuer gyffys in oure lyve
To no chevalrye;
But ther was an oþur þinge:
On me she cast an longe lokynge,
I toke good hede there bye.
93
A, dere god, what myghte þat mene?I shall the tell all bedene:
34
In fayth, she holdythe me but a foole,
That shuld me melle of lovys scole,
That neuer wanne losse ne price;
Now, sertes, þat trowe I well for thy,
She lokyd and spake so angurlye
And callyd vs euer full nyce:
Of helle yt is the hottest payne,
To love and be not lovyd agayne,
There on no wysdome lyese.
94
Now, hertte, I praye the, lett hur be!Nay, þat maye I not, parde,
Yf thow wylte, I were slayne!
Yes! Nay, in faythe, I,
For thou, hertte, artte sett so sodenly,
Thou wilte not turne agayne.
Why? I wotte neuer, whereffore,
But dede, I had leuer, I wore,
Then longe to dryve this payne;
Dyd neuer love man so deyre:
Had she parte, yet rovghte I neyre,
In faythe, then were I fayne!
95
We, leef, what dyd thou in this londe?I came to seke and I hur fonde,
That aye wille do me dere.
He fallythe, that puttes hym selfe so farre,
That all his lyffe louythe to warre,
Thus darre I savely swere!
Yet is ther non, that wotte that,
Ne whens I come ne what I hatte,
So prevely I am here;
Shalte thou tell them? Sertes, naye [OMITTED]
And gette the schyld and spere,
96
And wen the price, & þen may þouAcordynge be to her avowe,
35
Yet in her cowrte there ys none,
That so mekyll of bowrdyng can
Ne of all gamus, that goose,
Bothe wyth schyld and schafte to ryde,
But so, that lorne ys all thy pryde,
Thereffore all men be thy foos:
In erthe ys none so worthy a knyght,
But yf his dede be shewyde in syght,
Men will no good sopose.
97
And vnder pryde so arte thow hyde,That for a cowarde art thou kyde
Bothe wyth lesse and mare,
And yf thou now thy selfe schuld rose,
Men wold say: All this he dos,
His spendyng for to spare;
Of suche dedes have we not sene,
As he awauntes hym of bedene,
Hym semes of bownte bare!
Therefore thy way I rede the gange:
In faythe, and thou dwell here lange,
It moo the sorow full sare!
98
Foole, wille thou lyghttly gooFro thy love, and lovys her soo?
Be god, I may not byde!
May thou goo? Sertes, naye!
Yes, in faythe, I hoope, I maye!
Suche harmys in hertte I hyde.
To morowe thou goos, yf þou haue querte!
Yea, and thou haue anny hertte,
Thou turnys not that tyde!
Here has thou take thy leve for aye,
That nedys behovys the love all way,
Where thou shalte goo or ryede!
99
And here shall thou wynne no þinge,But many a skorne of old and yinge:
36
Who so maye be nere hys love,
Sumtyme love, it comys above,
Be they neuer so slee,
And fere there fro yf he be browghte,
Then shall no man witte his thought,
But his hertte and hee.
On thynge ys, yf he take kepe:
Sore is he bett, that darre not wepe,
Be god and be my lewte!
100
He hathe no myghte, þat mornynge gas,Ne no ese, that sorowe hase,
This darre I trewly telle!”
Thus lythe he wrynggyng tow & fro
Wyth many a sory syghyng so
And mewsus ay in mell;
A while to go he ys in wille,
Anoþur stovnde to hold hym stille
Wyth þat gay damysell.
To hym selfe he told þis tale:
“Might I byde, I were all hale!
Be god, I may nought dwell!
101
For love my herte hathe bovnde so faste,That euer more love will wyth me last
To tyme, that I shall dee;
It ys full swete, to enter in love,
But ay more & more it brynges above
To sorowe, & that I se.
Who so euer ys takyne þer wyth,
Or wythe inne hem he lythe,
Full sore schall bovnden be.
Wyth a sorovfull hertte I mon wynde,
And sche in quarte mon leve behynde
And haue no maynde on me!”
102
Where he was, well he ne weste,In towne or in wylde foreste,
37
But aye was the last ende,
He toke his purpose hole to wende,
And byde ne wold he noughte.
No thynge he slept of all þe nyght,
And when the day daved lyght,
Vp fro his bede he soughte.
In come his maystur Thelamewe
And sawe, he was pale of hewe,
So grette wo love hym wroughte.
103
His maystur than began to spereAnd sayd: “I praye you tell me, sere,
Ayels you awoght but good?
Of all this nyght ye had no reste,
But many a gresly grone ye vp caste,
That grettly menges my moode!”
“Thowȝe I myght for sorow synke,
Maystur, ye wold no wonder thynke,
And ye wyst, how hit stode!”
The sothe to tell hym wold he nought,
For no thyng, that he cowde owghte,
[But faynyd hym seke]
That he nouȝte vnder-yode.
104
“Mayster, I schall tell þe now ryghte:A wonder dreme I dremed to nyghte,
Vnglade that gars me goo;
The sothe fro you I will not hyede:
Me thought, my fader had loste a syde,
My moder another also,
And therby darre I well warrande,
They ar bothe dede or ellys nyhande,
That warkes me all this woo.
In to my contre wille I ryde,
Here wille I no lengur byde,
For frenshipe nor for foo!
38
105
And, maystur, me thynkes, it were the beste,We wend in to younder thyk foreste
And made vs redy thare;
For be god, that ys but one,
Of oure wendyng, he ys non,
I wold, the wyser ware!”
Welle wend his maystur Thalamewe,
The tale, he told hym, had byn trewe,
And thedyr gan they fare;
Sone were chargyd the somors towe,
Wyth sorowfull hertt forthe they goo
And many a syghyng sare.
106
He for her love hym selffe lysteAnd she for hym, & no þing wyste
His maystur Thelamewe;
Yf they cowde neuer so mekyll of arte,
Love them betwene well ys parte,
For bothe one draught they drewe.
Thowȝe grette loste of love hit garte,
Ayther of them hath oþers herte,
Ye trowe this tale for trewe! [OMITTED]
107
Thowȝe this chyld his way gan fare,His hertte he levys in ostage þare,
So mekyll of hur he thought,
And hyrres away he beyrethe,
That brethen hym full littill deryþe,
For why he knewe hit noughte;
He hathe the tonne & she þe tother,
But noþer of them comfortyd oþer,
So warely they wroughte;
Betwene them burgenyd such a bravnche,
That in þer lyves schall neuer stavnche,
Tille they on bere be brought.
108
Ipomadon went his wayeSythen forther on the day,
39
In the forest gan they fare,
At the herttes to hounte þare,
Wyth many a bugell-blaste;
A way traversyd come Jason
And mett wyth Ipomadon,
Hyinge wonder-faste,
His hors trussud wyth his harnes;
Jason grettly wonderd wes
And of his purpose aste:
109
“Whedur, broþer, whedder arte þou bovn?Shall þu not wyth vs to the towne?”
“Sertes, Jason, nay!
Suche a dreme I dremyd to nyght,
That here to dwell I haue no myghte,
For noughte þat you can saye:
In to my contre mvste I goo!”
“Then schall I wyth the wend also,
Be god, þat owth this day!”
“Nay, brother, so may it not be,
But I schall come agayne to the
Here after, while I may!”
110
“Hathe anny man for the mys-doone?”“Nay, be hym, þat made the mone!”
“Why shuld thou wend thanne?
Ys none so grette in all this londe,
That ye dyd greue, I vnderstonde,
That bargynne myght he banne!
So grette right in my lady lyese,
And wyth her artte þou holdyn a pryce,
Moste of anny man:
Therefore turne agayne wyth me,
Or, sertes, I shall wend wyth the,
For any crafte, thou can!”
111
“Jason, this ys not to tell,Here may I no lenger dwell:
40
That I mvst nede wend my waye!”
“Be grette god, that oweth þis day,
Then schall I wend wyth the!”
“Nay, turne agayne, brother dere,
And on my behalve grette welle the fere
And serue to hande that free!
Syn thou wold wynde wyth me so fayne,
Now, in faythe, I come agayne,
When it may better bee!”
112
“Now, syn l shall behynde þe dwelle,Thy name, I praye the, thow me tell,
And where I may the fynde!”
“Nay, Jason, that do I nought,
Be hym, that made vs boþe of noughte,
All this world to wynne!”
“Alas, brother, what may þis bee?
Ye doo but skorne me, now I see,
All frenshipe levythe behynde!
Be the grette god, þat all hath wrought,
Now se I wele, ye love me nought!”
Wyth that he waxyd nere blynde.
113
Wythe a sorowfull hertte sayd he þan:“Yt is full ille, to know a mon,
For no thyng ye me love!”
“Jason, brother, wyth oute blame,
Yf I shuld tell the my name,
Yt turnyd to no behove;
Kys me therefore and haue good day:
Be the grette god, þat oweth þis day,
I do it for no reproffe!” [OMITTED]
114
Ipomadon this is way is paste,And Jason, thorow the forest faste
He hyeth hym wyth good spede;
Wythe sorowfull herte & stille mornynge
41
But to the tentes he yede.
In the mornyng yerlye þat lady rose,
Oute of her pavelyone on she goos,
Abowte her she toke good heede,
Yf sche sawe oughte the straunge valet;
To love hym thowgh hur hertte be sette,
Euyre more has she dredde,
115
That he shuld be frome hur went;So come her cosyne ouer the bent
And on his foote he lightte.
“What tydynges, Jasone, I the praye!”
“Madame, yf I the sothe schall saye,
No wors be they ne myghte!”
“How soo, cosyne, be god alonne?”
“Your valette, damysell, ys agoone,
Ofte grette you wele that wyghte!”
“Whiche?” sche sayd; “Þe valet straunge:
Ye of hym schall haue chalenge
Nether be day ne nyght!”
116
“Ys he goone?” “Madame, yea!”“Whotte thow oghte, why?” “Madame, na,
As haue I joye or blis!”
“Dyd anny man hym aught but righte?”
“Nay, but a dreme, he dremyd to nyghte,
Hathe made hym wend, iwys!”
She hard neuer tydynges ore,
That sche was halffe so sory fore,
But he pursevyd not this;
She answeryd, thow sche were woo:
“Ye, cosyne, lett hym goo,
Good aventure mut be his!
117
But has he trussyd his harnys?”“Ye, and his maystur also his!”
Then was she woo all weye;
42
The contrary in hur hertte sche þouȝte,
For sorowe mornyd þat maye:
“Jason, now thy selfe maye se,
That þou wyth me ne I wyth the
May not won all waye,
And ofte ys sayd in old saw:
Lett hym goo, he was a felowe!
Good cosyn, I the praye!”
118
Jason turnyd wyth mekyll payne;The lady callyd hym efte agayne:
“Syr, spyrd thou not his name?”
“Ye, but he wold not me tell!”
“Alas, that ys a payne of helle!
Why dyd he so for schame?”
“Thow my hertte wold barste in tow,
I ne myght of hym haue moo,
I haue told you the same!”
Jason wepte & fro her turnyd,
And sche in to her tente, & mornyd,
And faste her selffe gan blame:
119
“Lo foule, what sayd I the?Now hath þou lost thy love, parde,
For euer, that wotte I wele!
Fole, thou haste thy fayrehedde fylyd
And wyth eye thy selffe haste gylyde,
Thou wotte hit ilke a dele!”
She tomblyd downe vpon her bedde
And sonyde thryse, or sche myȝte steede,
Wyth syghyng and onskelle.
Be that sche was in state comyn agayne,
Wyth that come hyr maydon Imayne
And spake to that damysell
120
And sayd: “Damysell, for god avowe,For goddis loue, what aylys you,
43
Tell me, lady fayre & fre,
Yf there myghte anny comforte be
Of thy sore syghynge!
Ofte sythe it dothe men good, nought wers,
To trewe felowe a tale to rehersse,
For covnsell askyth suche a thynge!”
“Alas, Imayne, that I was borne,
My pryde wille make me be forlorne
And to my dede me brynge!”
121
“Whate pryde, lady, for god avowe?That hard I speke neuer or nowe
Of no man leuynge ore!”
“What pryde? Ye, of love!
That brynges me vnder & not above,
Wyth many a syghyng sore.”
“Leve lady, whome love yee?”
“In faythe, I can not tell thee,
Shuld I be dede þerfore,
Where he ys ne ys name nat;
And wette thou well thy selfe, for þat
My mornynge is the more!”
122
“I praye you tell me, good madame:That ye so love, what ys his name,
Whennes he be here abovte?”
She sayd: “It is the straunge valett!”
But syghyng made þe word in tow breke,
She myght not bryng it owtte.
And aftur that bydyng of a brayde
Another tyme efte sche sayde,
It made her low to lowte:
“Ymayne, do the‘v’ to ‘alete’
And sythyn the wordes to gether set
And there ye have no dowte!”
123
Ymayne sayd: “Be my lewte,To witte, what his name myght be,
44
For att the fyrste word sayd ye ‘va’,
And sethyn afturward ‘a’,
‘Alet’ ther come behynde;
And yf I them to geddur sett,
Then it was the straunge valet,
Or els ye wantyde wynde!”
“Ya, systur, ther wantyd a lacke:
For syghynge the word in sonder brake,
In bale, me thought, I wynde!
124
When I shuld althur beste have spokynne,Syghynge it hathe asonder brokyne,
Thate oute it myghte not gette;
And therefore do, as I the bydde:
Leve the syghyng in the myde
And them to geddur sett,
And thare the not fayle of þat,
To wytte his righte name & whatte he hate,
That me wythe greve hathe grete!”
Ymayne parcevyd it euery deell
And sayd: “Now, lady, wot I wele,
That is the straunge valet!”
125
“Yea, Ymayne, he ys goone,And I am lefte here alone
Wythe herte as hevy as ledde:
I se hym neuer, so wot I well,
Therfore thys syghynge & vncell
Wille drawe me to my dede!
Yestur nyghte I ouer-mekell toke on me,
When I spake to you, parde,
Thate garte you be so redde,
And to Jason, that no colpe hade,
I toke in good kepe, what I sede,
That made me ofte sythe grede.
126
He lokyd on me full lovely,Wyth wrong blamyd I you for thy:
45
Ymayne sayde: “I toke goode tente,
But I wyste not, what it ment,
Be god, that owthe þis day!
Now I wot, I am apayde,
Well was euer that word sayde,
For savely I darre saye,
Wyth inne fortenyghte ye schall hym see,
The beste of all knyghttes, þat may be,
My lyff, þat darre I well lay!”
127
“Why, dere systur, trows þou so?”“Ye, in fayth, þat made hym goo,
I darre welle warrand þis:
So fayre, so curtes, as he es,
Was neuer wyth outen proves;
But hopyng ay was hys,
He cordyd not to your avowe,
That, wotte I welle, hathe made hym now
Wende his way, iwys,
For to gette hym loos and pryce;
So ys he worthy, ware and wysse,
As haue I joye and blysse!
128
And for the, lady fayre & fre,For goddis love, of better comforte be ye
And lette this greve ouer-gange!
When he haue provyd hym selffe a knyghte
Of all other moste of myghte,
He dwellythe not fro you longe!”
Full welle þat lady vnderstoode,
The worddus of Ymayne dyd her good,
Syghynge sche sayd amonge:
“My dere syster, blessud mut thou be,
For righte wele haste þou comforte me
Of thoughttes, þat on me thronge!
129
But, Ymaynne, be the heyvyn one,Lord, but hym, wille I haue none,
46
This comfortyd hur þe lady gent. —
Ipomadon his way ys went
Wyth many a sory syghyng;
Stravngly in his herte he mornythe
And full ofte sythes ageyne he tornyþe
Wyth full longe lokynge;
A while he is in wille to byde,
A nother stovnde forthe to ryde,
Suche þoughttes vppon hym thringge.
130
Thus of love he lernythe the artte,And well I trowe, he hathe his parte,
Where euer he goo or ryde,
And hur suche dere it does,
Her thar not of her parte make no ros,
Yf sche in bowre abyde.
His maystur Thalamewe vndertoke
And hevely he sawe hym loke,
And mercy to hym he cryedde;
He sayd: “Tell me ilke a dele,
For be your covntenavnce wotte I well,
Grette hevynes ye hyde!”
131
“Maystur, so haue I nede of messe,For ouer-mekyll love it es,
I may no lengur layne!”
“Whome love ye, syr, be god avowe?”
“Therefore, maystur, I telle it you:
She dothe me all this payne!”
He tolde hym all her love-lokyng,
And how sche made hur chastenyng
Be Jason and Ymayne,
And all the purpose to the ende;
His maystur sayd: “So god me mend,
Sone, here of am I fayne!
132
Who so louythe, schall lykynge haue,Worschipe to wynne, so god me saue,
47
For ofte sythes pryde of paramowers
Makes men to payne them to grette honoures
And hold them in battayle,
Lett them be never lengur badde,
But knyghttes anon that they were made —
And put you in travayle,
Wend euer more fro londe to londe,
To gette you pryce & loos wyth hande,
Where knyghttes will oþur assayle!
133
Ye wotte well, sche hathe made avowe,Sche may take no man for her prowe,
But yf it be the beste:
Soo wynne you pryce, and then maye ye
To that avow acordyd bee,
That to weld wyth peas and reste!
Fro hit come to the ladyes ere,
In feld how boldely ye you bere
And holdyn be the worthyeste,
I darre say savely for her sake,
Lorde, but you, sche wille none take,
Her fayethe vppon to reste!
134
Syr, louers euer more besy es,To gette them loos and worthynes,
Belouyd for they wolde bee;
Yf he before was neuer not worthe,
Fro tyme he louys, he puttes hym selffe forthe
And sythes waxes he
The wyser & the worthyer all way!”
“Maystur, sothe ys, that you say,
Be god and by my lewte!
And he wille gyffe me grace þer too,
My besynes schall I doo,
And that schall ye well se!”
135
He comforte hym & forth gan ryde,But sone wyth in a littill tyde
48
Welle forthe on the day
Saw they come be the waye
A chylde full faste rennande;
A messyngere, it semyd, he were,
For be his syde a box he bare,
A schorte spere in his hande;
And when they were to geddur mette,
The chyld them full gladlye grette,
Stone-stille they stande.
136
Ipomadon sayd: “I praye the,Fro when come þou and what contre,
And wheddur wilte þou fare?”
“Certes, syr, I come oute of Poyll,
I have travelyd many a soyle
Wyth sorowys and syghynge sare;
Thes XII monthe oute but III dayes
I haue goone many dyueres wayes,
Where þorowe I wery sare,
For to seke a straunge valett,
And for I haue not wyth hym mette,
My mornynge ys the mare!”
137
“What ys his name?” “Ipomadon!”Syr, for god, that is but one,
What were thy wille wyth hym?”
“In faythe, syr, when I toke my waye,
Sore seke his modur lay,
Takynne in lyethe and lymme!”
“Lo, mays ur”, quod Ipomadon,
“Come never sorow be it one,
But there come mo full gryme;
I wotte never, what happe I hadde,
Of the dreme when I the lesynge made!”
Wythe that his eyne wax dymme.
49
138
In sowunynge downe he tomblyd swythe;There of his mayster was vnblythe
And fro his hors he lyghte;
In armus he toke hym vp agayne
And comfortted hym wyth all his mayne,
But full sore he syghte:
“Now, dere sone, lett thys gronyng ouer-goo:
I wold not se the sowune soo,
Fore good, men gyff me myghte!”
Whan he myghte of sorow slake,
The way in to Poyle they take;
Yet lyves his moder brightte.
139
To the citte of Barlett comyn ar they,There his modere seke laye
Wythe many a grevous peyne;
Downe before hyr gan he knele,
And to comfortte her he thought full wele,
There of sche was full fayne:
“Dere sonne, welcome mot thou be!
A counsell wille I telle to thee,
No lengur I may it layne:
Of my fynger þou take a rynge
& kepe it well, for any þinge,
Wyth myghte and all thy mayne!
140
Ipomadon, thou has a brother,But loke, thou telle it to no noþure,
I warne the off that welle,
For, certes, thy fader wot yt nought
Ne none, in erthe þat euer was wroughtte,
Notte passynge thre ymelle;
Whate man in erthe þat euer he be,
That knoweth þis ringe, thy broþer is he,
I do the to witte welle;
Parte nott ther wyth for thy,
Thy brother schall the know there by,
Yf ever god wolle, þat ye melle!
50
141
He gaffe hit me at oure departyng,Hit was oure laste tokenynge:
The tharre not farther asse!”
Then was Ipomadon glade
And as grette sorowe in hertte hadde,
He syhyde and sayd: “Alas!”
Joyefull he was, that he had a broþur,
And well more sory of that othere,
He wyste never, where he was.
His moder gaffe hym hyr blessynge
And dyede wyth oute more tareynge
And fro this world can passe.
142
Ryghte sory was Ipomadon,And so was all the courte eche chone,
For his moder was dede;
Women wepte and colovre caste,
They sayd, for sothe, sche was þe best,
That euer on erthe myghte trede.
All that hyr seruyde before,
Grette gyftes sche gave, bothe lasse & more,
Of syluer & gold so redde.
More to say it is ryght noughte;
To her beryinge they here broughte
Wyth hertte as hevy as lede.
143
Ipomadon wolde no lenger abyde,But prayed his fader at that tyde,
To graunt hym the order of knyght;
And he assent wyth noble chere:
Abowte his sonne, that hym was dere,
He gyrdythe a bronde full bryght;
The order of his fader he tas,
That kepes he welle, were he gas,
Ryghte yt wolde wyth all his myghte.
Thyrty chyldorne, wyth owten moo,
He made knyghttes for his sonnus sake also,
That worthy were & wyghte.
51
144
Fayne wolde Ipomadone,His maystur had the ordure tone;
He sayd schortely nay,
For he knew noþer be northe nor sowthe
Non, so welle that hym serue covthe,
As he dyd nyghte and day,
And levere hym were his seruaunt be,
Thanne to be made a knyghte of fee:
“So haue I louyd the aye!”
He sayd: “I haue byn your mayster,
And yf ye fynde any treyster,
Then wille I wynd my waye!”
145
“Nay, dere maystur Thalamewe,Ye haue byn to me trusty & trewe
In all werkes, that ye haue wroughte;
Therefore a gyfte I schall you gyffe:
Whylys god send me grace to leve,
Fayle you schall I nought!
A, maystur, who seruys longe,
Me thynke, men dyd hym mekyll wronge,
When the laste to the ende were broughte,
Yff he his seruys longe schold lose;
He myght thynke, as I sopose,
All to sone he thedyre sowghte!”
146
Ipomadon thus is a knyghte made,All that he wold, to wille he hadde,
Of hors and noble armowre.
There he wold no lengur byde,
But toke his leve, & forthe gan ryde,
Att kyng and berde in bowre;
He travellyd euer fro land to lande,
To wynne his los and price wyth hande,
Where styff men were & stoure;
In Brettayne, Fraunce & Lumbardy,
In Allmayne and in Arabye
They hylde hym for the floure.
52
147
Where euer he came at any werre,Euer more the price away he bere,
So boldely he hym bare;
He wex so worthy a man of hande,
Agayne his stroke myght no man stonde,
He set them so sade & sare.
But so prowd was Ipomadon,
What he was, there wyste no mon,
Nother lesse ne more;
And also his men comaundyd he,
They schuld tell no man of no degre,
Off whens ne whatte they ware.
148
Men covthe not calle hym, there he came,But the worthy knyghte, þat had no name,
In cuntres fere and nere;
In suche londes, where he come inne,
Bothe love and los he gan to wynne
Of lordes and ladys clere,
Los of lordes and love of ladyes,
Of gentille damysellys & wys,
That grette and worthy were;
But euer more in his hert he þouȝte,
That love be reson myghte he nowghte
No woman, but the fere.
149
And also thynkes this bryght of ble,Knyght in erthe, but it were hee,
Shuld neuer to wyff her wedde.
But noþer wyste of othere wille,
But ovthere suffyrd grette ille,
Ryght longe this lyff they leede.
Ipomadon now leve we here,
And speke we of that lady clere,
That is strangely stede [OMITTED]
150
Tow yere felt yt, that after sete,That went was þat straunge valet,
53
In Calabur grett warre þer rosse,
Eche man on othere gosse
And mekyll blod they spylle.
The grette them gedyrs on a day,
Eche man to othere gan saye:
“Oure lady dothe full ylle,
That she will not take a lord,
To mayneteyne vs in good acord:
We will goo witte hur wille!
151
For folly makyth she wyth her pride:Oure lordes be storde on yche a syde,
There of she maye thynke synne!”
There they went to that lady hende
And told hyr all the tale to þe ende,
What care that they were ynne;
They sayd, but she a lord take,
That they shuld þer omage make
To kynges of other kynne.
Well more sorowe then she hadde,
These tydynges makythe here vnglad,
Here hertte for bale wold brynne.
152
She sayd: “Lordes, bothe more & lesse,Wille I witte, sothe it es,
This tale, ye haue me told!
But of o poynte I you praye,
Of respyte tille the XVIII day:
Your will fayne werke I wold!”
There wyth grochyees boþe old & yinge
And sayd: “In oure longe tareynge
Comes greves monyefold!”
Vp startte an erle, syr Dryas,
A worthy man of warre he was,
And spekes wordes bolde;
153
He sayd: “Be gode, that syttes above,Ye shew your lady lyttille love,
54
The strengyste theeff, þat euer myȝte leve,
Be the lawe ye muste hym gyffe
Respytte VIII dayes!”
Yche man þouȝte, he sayd but skylle,
They lett this lady haue hure wille;
It was hyr woo all wayes.
To hyr chambure gan she gonge
Wepyng, and hure handes wrange
And on here bedde hur layes.
154
Wythe that come hyr mayde YmayneAnd sayd: “Madame, hit is not to layne,
Ye can not haue your pesse!”
“Imayne systur, woo ys me!
My lordys will make me weddyd be,
That makes my sorowes incresse,
For me were better all to leesse,
Anoþur loue then I shuld chese [OMITTED]
Yf þou wylt, syster, that I leve,
Sum good counsell þou mvste me geve,
How I may make them sesse!”
155
Imayne sayd: “By my lewte,And yff ye will do after me,
It shall turne to no skathe:
Suche rede, I hope, I shall you geve,
That yt shuld be, while we bothe leve,
A lykynge for vs bathe:
Wyth fayre wordes ye shall them answere,
There wyth all there ynne to blere,
Yff they be neuer so wrathe;
And yff they all there lyff chyd,
Tille that ye wille, ye shall abyde,
Whethere they be leefe ore lathe.
156
The kyng of Sissille ys your eme,And welle they wotte, ye haue your reme
55
Off the kyng of Sissille haue they drede,
Ageynste hym dare they not rede.
But yff they bydde warre [OMITTED]
And yf they will haue it at annye ende,
Messengers behouythe them sende
To kynge Malengere,
157
The wordyste of the barons svn,And yf the kyng will hedur come,
Then shall ye not wythstonde;
When he ys in þis contre,
At his will well ye maryede be,
Ellyes forsytte youre londe;
And in that tyme ye maye gette
Sum tydynges of your straunge valette,
Yff he be oughte nere hande,
Or els caste anoþur wile,
How ye maye farther them begyle,
Thus to be taryande!”
158
“Imayne, sister, wyth outyn fayle,Thus is a full good counsayll,
Wherefore blessud mot þou bee!”
Here barons come the XVIII day
And sayd: “Ladye, the sothe ye vs saye,
Your will fayne wete wold wee,
Whome ye wold to husbond haue!”
She sayd: “Lordes, so god me save,
Alse wille as I witte ye,
That all my londes, farre or nere,
I hold of kynge Melangere,
And also my eyme ys hee;
159
And yf I werke agayne his wille,He will take it to grette ille
And where vpon me bynde;
Therefore, yf ye will wynd hym too,
56
Be þe leeffe on the lynde!”
There wyth grogydde boþe all & sum
And sayden: “In long tarying will come
Grette noyse, and that we fynde!”
Yff one or too þerof was payde,
Othere III. or IIII. sayd:
“Oure happe comythe euer behynde!”
160
A noble erle startte vp anon,His name was syr Amphyon,
A bigge man and a bold,
And was wyse, wyth oute leasse,
He hatyd warre and louyde peasse,
For why he was full olde;
Moste he cowthe of awncyente layes;
Wythe angrye hertte he sayes:
“Be hym, that all shall wolde,
Vs may thynke it ille sett of ilke a syde,
That be oure lady wyth her pryde
Thes be we hare beholde!
161
Thus maye she dryve vs to delayeThis fyve yere euery daye,
While she full sore maye site;
But sorowe haue I, I saye for me,
And hangyd by I on a tre,
And I suffyre ite;
But she will a lord take,
That maye peas amonge vs make,
I do you welle to witte [OMITTED]
Be the troughe of my right hand,
Right sone she shall be quyte!
162
More, than I haue, maye I not coste,Nee lesse more, then I haue loste:
My londes arre fro me tone;
Full lykkely lordys she myghte haue had,
That off her wold be full glad,
57
In Poyle, where noble kynges ar kend!”
He sayd wel sother, then he wend,
Be that, þat ys but one:
Many doughtty wold her haue,
But none so fayne, so god me save,
As wold Ipomadon!
163
He sayd sothe and wyste it noughte,And als the lady in her hertte þoughte,
She wold haue hym full fayne.
Amphyvn was grevyd full sore,
For angur he myghtte speke no more,
But sette hym downe agayne.
Syr Drias strette vp anone
And sayd: “Me wondyrs, syr Amphyon,
As be I sauyd fro payne,
That þou nedys te medull maste:
Syr, yff þou wilte vowe the chaste,
Me thynkythe, wyth all thy mayne
164
Thou shuldys werke, as thy lady wold;But welle I wite, þou artte so wold,
Thou yrkys of armore clere;
Wyth in this XXti yere & towe
Thou wold, or thou had sayd soo,
To haue byne layd one bere;
Thou artte of old auncetrye
And wythholdon, cecurlye,
A grette foys wyth the fere;
Thou ovghte to fyght for hyr sake,
Yff she no husbond wold take
Off all this VII. yere!
165
Bothe clerke and bold baroneSawe, she askyd but resone,
And sothe it is, that she sayes:
Ageynste his wille & we haue done,
The kynge for ille wille take hit sone
58
Thow shalte goo, syr Amphyon,
And off thy felowes I shall be one,
That shall passe on this weyes;
Lette se, of all this comynte
Who shall wend wyth the and mee!”
This word no thynge hym payes.
166
Amfyon waxyd nye wood for wrotheAnd to Dryas swore his othe:
“Bee god in maygeste,
Were I of strenghe, as I haue bene,
Thy skornynge wordes all bedene,
Dere boughte sholde they bee!
In feythe, or I frome the yode,
I shuld se thy hertte blod,
Elys I hange full hee!”
Dreas wax nere woode for thy
And sayd: “Old favelard, I the defye,
That thou maye do to mee!
167
Thow artte old and dotyste faste,And welle I wotte, þou artte agaste,
Thow lyste not to fyghtte!
Yett was þou neuer sete in feld
So harde ware I feld vnder shelde,
No be day ne be nyghtte!
Ille thow kythes, & that is sene,
Off thy wordynes, þat þou haste done, I wene,
Be grette god moste of myghtte!
But wylle I wotte, this is thy thoughte,
Thow woldeste haue vs, þat know it novȝte,
Wen, thow hade ben lyghte!
168
For wee ar younge & thow arte olde,Thou woldyste lede vs, as thou wolde,
Than wold thou thynke it welle;
Att thy wille thou woldyste vs haue:
59
Sorowe shalte thowe feelle!
Here ys none, that onyes the þanke,
Then the kynge had forfete by brym & banke
Here landes euery delle;
Yff thou goo waylond, wood for woo,
On this message shall thow goo,
Be god and seynt Myghell!”
169
Full wele the barons vnderstode,Dryas reasone was trewe & goode,
For in ther hertte they þought,
Yff they wrought agaynste his wille,
The kyng wold grettly take it to ille,
Where vpon them broughte [OMITTED]
Syr Dryas and syr Amfyon,
The thryd hight syr Madon,
Thre better knewe they noughte.
170
They trayveld so day by day,That in to Sesille come they
To Melyaȝer, the hende.
They told there message all & sum,
Why his nece prayed hym to come,
Righte as hure faythefull frende;
And when the kynge wyst all to geder,
Whereffore they were come thedyre,
He sayd: “Serys, home ye wend!
I shall come be a sertayne day
And helpe to bryng, yf þat I maye,
Your grette debate to ende.”
171
The messyngers were full gladOf that answere, that they had,
To spede them home ageyne;
Whanne þey come to þe lady clere,
What euer she þouȝte, she made good chere
And lete, as she were fayne;
But she ne rekkyd, wheder he come or nouȝt:
60
To trappen hym wyth a trayne.
Kyng Melyngere wold not forgeete:
The same day, that he had sette,
He came wyth all his meyne.
172
His young knyghttes all levythe at home,The oldyste wyth hym thedur come,
That wyse were all waye.
They trayueld so be see & sonde,
That in to Calabur-londe
At the last come they,
To Canders, that riche citte —
In erthe ther myghte no bettur be —
Ther that lady laye;
When she hard tell, hyr eyme was come,
To welcome hym, the waye she nome
In a riche araye.
173
The lady of her eyme was glad,Att there metynge grette myrthe þey made,
In to a towre they yede;
Ioyfull was that lady clere
Off syr Gabanus, hyr cosyn dere,
That he was stalleworthy on stede;
Wyth myrthe they draw to ende þat nyȝte;
On morowe, whane day was lyghte,
Kynge Melangere toke hede:
In to an erber fayre and grene
The kynge youde wyth his knyghttes kene,
That doughtty was off dede.
174
There lighttes he downe, kynge Melangere;Sone aftur comythe that lady dere
Wyth many a worthy wyghte;
XXXti maydons all bedene,
The sympelyste semed to be a quene,
Off ble they were so bryghte.
Formeste she hur selff was,
61
Kyng, baron and knyghte;
They sayd: “No wounder, yf she be daungerus,
To take an onworthy spowsse,
Be grette god, moste of myȝte!”
175
There was no man than on lyve,Thate myghtte her bewte dyscryve,
So made off blode and bone;
Had Ipomadone þan here sene,
I trowe, full lothe hym wold haue bene,
Hyr love to haue forgoone.
Also there was in place
A chyld, that full witti was,
Hys cosyn Egyon,
That he hym selff had sent thedure,
To spere and to herkyne all to gedyr,
Whedur she had lord or none.
176
Hur eyme, she full godely hym grette,He roosse and by his syde hure sette,
That ferlye fayre off face;
Bothe barons & bachelers
And laydys and squyers,
They presyd in to place,
Whome she wold to lord take,
That so mony hathe forsake
Off worthy men, that was;
Vp roosse syr Amphion
And spake before them euery chone,
Trewe in hertte he was:
177
“Syr kyng, all þis comeneBe one assent sent after the,
To witte þis ladyes wille,
Whome she wold take to husbonde,
To maynteyne vs & hyr lond,
Oure stryffe to stabull and stille.
Righte godely she is beuoyed,
62
That maye vs lyke full ylle;
Many worthy wold here haue,
But þer is non, so god me save,
Yet þat she will corde tille.
178
There is þe kynges sonne of Spayne;I wotte, he wold haue hyr full fayne,
Right bold and full hardy!”
Vp then startte syr Dryas,
That rede for angur wax is face,
And sayd: “Faylard, fye!
I praye to god, ille mot þou lyke,
For I am no eratyke,
I meyne for my ladye:
Be the grette god, þat all hathe wrouȝte,
All men maye see, þou louyste her nouȝte,
Well I wotte there bye!
179
There shall neuer eretyke, as I haue roo,Worshipe to no woman doo,
They are so wykkyd and ille;
For leuer they hadde wyth lassis to loure,
Than to joye wyth byrdes in bowre.
That ladye loues be skylle
Bettur one, that she chesse hure selff,
Than she shuld do off oþur twellffe,
That men constrayns hyr tille:
Syr kynge, yff she a lord shall haue,
I rede, she chesse hym, soo god me save,
Be hur owne good wille!”
180
All this harde kynge Malengere,He goos to that lady clere
And sayd: “Nese, what seye ye?
Yff ye will acorde there too,
Me wold thynke, hit were to doo,
In peas then myghte ye be!”
In a stody stille she satte
63
“Syr, be my lewte,
I wille werke after þe wille of yours,
But for to loue paramowers,
I haue chosyne thre!
181
One is the kynge of Rosy,An other the dukes sonne of Normandy,
The thryd, of Irelond he es;
I wott neuer, by the holy goste,
Whiche of hem thre I loue moste,
As I haue mede off bless!
Thereffore a poynte I you praye
Off ryspyte tille the morowe day,
That I in hertte maye gesse,
Wheche of them thre I love beste!”
To gar them bydde, this wile she keste;
They graunte, bothe more and lesse.
182
Wythe myrthe þat day þey dreve to ende,In to hyr chambyr þat lady wende
And Imayne to hure calld:
“A, dere systyr, wo ys mee!
How maye I now excuse me?
My care is manyfald!
For me had leuer all forgoo,
Another love or I shuld too:
Right now dye I wald!
Be god, þat ordeyned all þinge,
Langeyre I made a lowde lesynge,
That tale, that I them tald,
183
That I hadde chosyne thre:There shall non haue my herte, but hee,
Whatte that euer I sey;
But, Imayne, wyth outen fayle,
Ye mvste geve me sum good counseyle,
64
For me were leuer all forsake,
Then oþur loue I shuld take,
Be hym, that owethe þis daye!”
“I not,” she sayd, “be my lewte,
I not in erthe, what best maye be,
My lyff yf I shuld laye!
184
Synne ye hadde leuer all forgoo,Then lese your love, ye saye euer so,
I rede, so god me save!”
“Whate seyste þou, syster? Alas, lett bee!
Then wold all men saye, parde,
I were in poynte to rave;
So proude avowe, as I haue made,
Yll sett, men wold saye, I had,
That now shuld loue a knave:
He dyd neuer prouys, that men dyd se,
And I wott neuer, of whens is hee,
Nor where I shuld hym crave!
185
But yf þu wilte acorde hit tille,A bettur counsell sey I wille,
How I may garre hem byde:
I shall praye him, for my sake
A turnament that he wold make
Off knyghttes, that wele gan ryde,
That it maye be lastynge dayes thre,
And what man, on erthe that he be,
In all þis world so wyde,
That maye beyre the pryce awey,
Shall wyld me & my londes for aye,
To lay me by his syde!
186
And yff my love be levandeAnd maye here tell, I vnderstond,
Thus turnament yare,
Yff he haue any þoughte on me,
Or anny provys in hym bee,
65
Yff he love me, I suppose,
Hee will his loue not lyghttly loose:
Yff he doo, wronge it ware;
Whedyr hit turne to wele or woo,
His loue and I shuld forgoo,
Off blis I were full bare!”
187
Then Ymayne, lowde she loughe,And sayd: “Thus is good inowghe,
Be god, that all hathe wroughte!
Myghte non in erthe haue better sayd,
Euyll or wele whedur he be payd,
This counsell nyghe ye noughte!” —
On the morowe, when þe sonne was bryghte,
Kynge Melangere wyth many a knyghte
In to the erbere soughte;
Sone after come the lady gent,
The kyng by the hand hyr hent
And tille a sete hyr broughte.
188
Beefore them all spake Amfyon:“Syr kynge, your barons ychone
Wille specially you praye,
As thou artte our faythefull frend,
Brynge our grette bale to ende,
For best, we trowe, ye maye!”
The lady at his wordes wax tene
And sayd: “Amphivn, yt is sene,
Be god, that owes þis daye,
That ye no þinge hold wyth mee,
But full ageynste me, syr, ye bee,
And so ye haue byne aye!
189
Yow nede not hye you halff so faste;For all the wyles, that ye caste,
In faythe, ye gette me noughte!
I corde no thynge for your estate,
66
For grette god, that you wroughte!”
She callyd to hyr syr Dryas
And other, that nere of her counsell was,
And told them all her thought;
She sayd: “Lordynges more & lesse,
A matter to meve there es,
That me in bale hathe brouȝte!
190
Yff it were done be grette folye,A vowe amys, for sothe, made I
A longe while here beforene,
That me shuld neuer wedde no wyȝte,
But yff he were the beste knyghte,
That in his tyme was borne;
And yff I shuld now that vow breke,
All that therof hard speke,
Wold laughe me to skorne;
Take I anny but the beste,
They myghte sey, so haue I reste,
My grette pryde were forlorne! [OMITTED]
191
Ye will lett sett a turnament,That myghte last dayes thre;
Whedyr he come frome est or weste,
Man in erthe, þat berythe hym beste,
Shall wyld my londes and me.
Yff ye thynke, I sey resone nowe,
Thus, me thynke, my riche avowe,
Efte hit myghte holdyn be!”
The yong knyghttes euerychone
Sayd: “Be god, þat is but one,
Here off full fayne ar wee!”
192
All men tho the kyng besoughte,That he shuld graunte and groche it noughte,
To sette this turnament:
“Thus beste your vow maye be hold!”
67
Wynne þat lady gente!”
Manlengere wold not lette,
Fowre monethes after þat day was sett
Be all the lordes assent;
Knyghttes, that were off farre contre,
Myghte here and come to þat semble,
That wele durste byde one bente.
193
Vnder Canders, that riche citte,Men sayd, this turnament shuld be,
In a full fayre mede.
When this sertayne day was sett,
Euery man toke leve, wyth oute lette,
And to there contrey yede;
The lady to her bowre ys goon;
Full wondyr woo was Amfyon,
That they had done this dede.
The damysell now leve we thore,
And of hur louer speke we more,
That leuythe in mekyll drede.
194
A cosyn had Ipomadon,A noble chyld, Egyon,
The same tyme in the place,
That hard there wordes allbedene
And knewe ther purpose white & clene,
But none wyste, what he was.
He sogarende not nyghte ne daye,
But in to Poyle he toke the waye
And to Barlet he gaase
And told Ipomadon, the hende,
Eche word to the ende;
Thereoff grette joye he has.
195
He told hym also, so god me save,How they a lord wold make hur haue:
“Syr, this is there caste;
68
Prayd hem of a turnament,
That thre dayes oute myghte laste.
The knyghttes, þat were of huncouthe lond,
Mighte redely them vnderstonde,
And thedur myghte hye them faste.”
Ipomadon, he was so glad,
Therefore grette joye he made,
Off laughynge oute he braste.
196
His mayster Tholamewe he calldAnd all his purposse hym tald,
Sayd: “Syr, what ys your rede?
Be worthynes nowe mvste me chese,
And, mayster, or I my love shuld lese,
In faythe, I wille be dede!”
Whan Thalamewe hard þis tydynge,
He sayd wyth hertte full well lauȝhyng:
“Now darre I lay my hedde,
That god will haue hit brouwghte above,
That ye shall wyth worshipe wynne your love
Off stronge men in that stede!
197
Now shall ye worke, as dothe the wyse,Hyue you there to and gette þe pryce
Be worthynes off hande!”
“Ye, mayster, and I were there,
So non wyste, what I were,
I wold be wel lycande!
But I shuld presse, to put me forthe:
Gyf I of dedys were holdyn worthe,
For love wyth hur I fande;
For euer more, mayster, thynkes mee,
That lovers shold well leynand be,
For mekyll I preyse that wande,
198
That brekes not and will well bowe;Righte so it farythe be them, I trowe,
69
In few wordes ys curtesye:
Lette his dedes bere wittenes, why
He shuld be louyde agayne!
In suche place men may hym dyscure,
Hym were better, to hold hym sure,
For ofte that poynte dothe payne;
In fele wordis be reson ys lyes,
And ay the moste man of price
The leyste of them selff wille sayne!
199
I wille not wende in to the pres,My love to wynne, wyth oute lesse,
Mastyr, so hastely;
To pasande poyntes that men may say,
That I am best worthy all way,
To weld that wyghte for thy,
Oute of this contre wynde I wille,
To serue the kynge of Cesille,
Ys eme to that fayre lady;
I wotte welle, he wil be at hit,
And so shall I, that no man witte
Ne know, þat it is I.
200
Lett god do wyth me, what hym lyste,Were I there, þat no man it wyste,
I gaff no fors, in faye;
Therefore, mayster, for charyte,
That hors and harnes redy bee,
For goddes loue I you praye!”
“Syr, I shall do your comaundement!”
Wyth good wille his mayster went
And ordeyned his araye;
His leve toke Ipomadon
Att fader and frendes ilkone;
Wyth hym he ledde a maye,
201
His syster doghttur, sib ful nere,70
Lufflye of chynne and cheke,
Grette hors many wyth his harneys,
And also III sware palffreys
Toke he wyth hym eke,
Greyhondes wyghte wyth small brachettes,
Nobill hawkys and yonge valettes,
That were bothe myld and meke;
Wyth hem he ledde stedes thre:
In erthe þer myȝtte no better bee,
Thorowe all þus world to seke.
202
An as white as anny mylke,The sadull couered in white sylke,
Was neuer non better seene;
There on satte a chyld in white,
That syght to se was grette dylyte
To them, þat there had ben;
Abowte his neke a white scheld,
A white spere in his hand he helde,
The pensell white, I wene;
That was the best stede of them thre,
Furþermoste on the grounde gothe he,
And all was white bedene.
203
Efte come another stede,On grounde neuer a better yede,
And that was rede-sore,
Redde sadull, shyld & spere,
Redde was all his oþur gere,
And shone as gold ycore,
A chyld in rede there on sittande
Wyth a rede spere in his hand,
The pensell red there fore,
As bryght as the sonne beme,
Or lyghter then the sterres leme,
That stede was sum dele more.
71
204
A blake stede come after hym,So well made of lythe and lym,
That in hym was no lake;
The whyghttest of hem all was þat,
And there vpon a chyld satte,
Ryche and a mykylls make;
A blake sheld aboute his halsse,
Blake was all his armur alse,
That he bare on his bake,
Cole-blake sadull and conysance;
The chyld bare on his launse
A pensell all off blake.
205
Was non off them oþur lyke,But in þat tyme þer were non slyke,
This dare I savely saye;
Eyther before oþur goose,
Syn after comen in rose
Wythe in a littill way
Men wyth haukes and houndes harde,
Tholemewe come afterwarde,
Righte in good aray
Vppon a chesour noble & wyghte;
Lyke an hunter he was dyght,
Ryght well to his paye.
206
A grette horne aboute his hals,Be hynde hym bowes & arrowes alse
He bare for drede of gille;
Sethen after come Ipomadon,
And the mayden, þat he had wyth hym tone,
This rode they many a myle;
They held þem wele be hynde þe rowte,
For they durst not drawe aboute
Nere the dust, þere clothyng shuld fyle.
So long they rode in this araye,
That at the last come they
In to þe lond of Cesille,
72
207
In to a foreste feyre and grene,Ther foulys song al bedene
On bowes, bothe lesse & mare,
The frithe was full of swete flouris:
Who lyst to love paramowres,
Grette lykyng had byn thare.
Ipomadon forgettys nouȝte,
To haue his leman in his thoughte,
That made hym sigh full sare;
And also he rode in his thynkynge,
A songe of loue he gan to syng:
,For her ay mys I fare.‘
208
Lyghttly was he clade to ryde,In a mantell panyd wyth pryde,
And semys sette grette plente,
He loysyd his mantell band for hete
And downe fro his neke he it lete,
It covyrd ouer his kne;
Hose he had of clothe of Ynde,
Suche shull no man now fynde,
To seke all crystyante.
Spurrys of gold he had vpon,
Was neuer kyng, better weryd none,
Ne no mon in no degre.
209
Rychely was that maydon clade,And on his righte hond he here ledde,
To geddyr forthe they ride,
Bothe þorow frythe & ferne
Toward the sitte of Palerne
The way they toke þat tyde,
There the kyng & þe quene lay;
The kyng huntyd all þat day
In foreste there be syde;
His meyne had hym loste ychone,
All but Cabanus alonne,
In hert ys nouȝte to hyde.
73
210
They too percevyd a grette hertte,A littill in the way yt sterte,
A nobull dere at assaye;
They folowyd on the chasse so faste,
Thate they were warre at the laste
Of men come by the waye,
Rydyng money wyth fayre harnes,
There of the kyng hym selff wes
Right in a grette affraye:
He wend, for they come soo,
His londys they wold take hym fro,
And this he stode dismayde.
211
The custum was not in þo dayes,Knyghttes to ryde wyth suche harnays:
The more he was in dowte;
He, that boldyste durste abyde,
Hym alone he was wont to ryde
And wyth hym lede no rowte;
To seke auntrys when knyȝttes yede,
Hym selff was wonte his geyre to lede,
Were he neuer so stowte;
For thy the bokes tellyth ychone,
The fyrste man was Ipomadon,
That harnes ledde aboute.
212
The kyng seyd to Cabanus:“What meanes, þat these meyne come þus
Wyth horsse and harnes bryghte?
This fyftte wyntur & II monethe stille
Kyng haue I byn in Cesile,
I saw neuer suche a syghte,
So money stedes hernes bere:
Hit semeth as they come for werre,
To robbe vs off our ryghte!
Cabanus, goo witte þer wille,
Whethere they come for good or ille:
Younder semythe a knyghte!
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213
I praye the spyrre on feyre manere,Wyth suche araye what dothe they here,
Wyth armoure, spere and sheld!”
Att his byddyng forthe he yode,
And in there waye stille he stode
A longe while and behelde
Bothe stedes and palfrayes,
Grette horse and good harneys,
The chyldorne bothe yong & eld,
The havkes & the houndes ychone:
Fayrer saw he neuer none,
Syn he is witte cowde weld.
214
Ipomadon can after ryde,His cosyn ledand by his syde,
That he fro home had broughte;
Cabanus wyth laughyng chere
Haylyd þem in fayre maynere,
And sythe he the knyȝt besought:
“Syr, the kyng of Sissille huntythe here by
Wyth a ryall company
Off knyghttes, that wele hathe wrouȝte;
He send me, for to witte your wille,
Whedur ye come for good or ille,
To warre yf ye thought!”
215
“Nay, syr,” quod Ipomadon,“Warre in þis lond ne seke I non,
To do no man no dere;
But as off kyng Melyngere,
Men speke of hym boþe farre & nere,
Hys worthynes of werre!”
“Ye, in faythe”, quod Cabanus,
“Syr, for goddis loue shewe ye vs
My eronde to hym here
And say, here is a knyghte, sertayne,
That will speke wyth hym right fayne,
No þing me so dere!”
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Good syr, goo, witte his wille,Whedur I shuld come hym tille
Or here hym to abyde!
To hym wyth you wold I fare
Sothely, ne this maydon ware,
That houythe by my syde!”
Cabanus to the kyng is goone
And told hym all tho poyntes ychone,
And how ryally they ryde:
“Syr, synne I was of my moder borne,
I sawe neuer suche a syghte beforen
In this world so wyde!
217
So fayre stedys, so fayre palfreys,So fayre hors, so fayre harneys,
Wyth chyldur so fayre & yinge,
So fayre haukes, so fayre hovndes,
So fayre racchis, goynge on groundes,
To se, ys grette lykynge,
So fayre knyghttes, so fayre a maye,
So fayre and so good araye,
But yff it were a kynge.
Hit semyth, he hath no wordes to waste,
To speke wyth you he comys maste,
Ouer all oþer thynge.
218
To yow had he comyn wyth me,But a lady ledys hee,
That hym is lothe to leve;
Thereffore he prayes you herttly,
That ye wold come to hym for thy,
He bydys you be younde younder greve!”
The kyng sayd: “Be my levte,
His riche araye will I see,
Gyf it be so to preve!”
The kyng is to þe way goon,
Then see hym come Ipomadon
And vp his hand gan heve.
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219
He seyd: “God loke þe, Melengere!In all þis world, farre and nere,
Ys holdyn non so good
Off kyndenes ne of curtessy,
In dede of armus, of cheualrye,
So bigge of bone and blode!
Oft sythes thus haue I herde saye,
That made me hedyr take the waye,
Frome whome when I yode:
In erthe ys non in all degre,
That me deynes, but it were ye,
To serue, be my hode!
220
So grett good men spekythe of the,That I wold thy seruant be:
This made me hedyr to ryde;
Fro fere contreys I haue soughte,
My cosyn wyth me haue I brought,
That hovis be my syde:
In faythe, she is a mayden clene,
And she, I wold, shuld dwell wyth þe quene,
In erthe is nouȝte to hyde!
But, syr, yf þou my seruyce take,
A comnaunte wyth the must I make,
Ellys will I not byde!
221
Now shall I se in littill wayes,Yff it be of the, as men sayes
In cuntreys here and thare!”
The kyng lokythe on the knyght
And sayd: “Syr, all, that is righte,
Shall þou haue, & mare!”
He was full lothe, to lese hym soo:
“Cabanus, wyth hym goo,
And to the citte ye fare,
To the beste inne þou hym lede:
Goo wyth hym, so god þe spede,
That þou no þing spare!”
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222
Be þat his folke were comyn ychone,Forthe to gedder ar they goone
To Palerne, the riche citte,
And at the best innes of all þe towne
Cabanus lyght is adowne
And sayd: “Syr, here shall we be!”
Wysse inowthe was Tholamewe,
Ful wele his mayster he knewe:
There dyner ordeyns hee;
Ipomadon sayd at þat tyde
To Cabanus: “Ye shall abyde,
Syr, and dyne wyth me!”
223
He wyst, the kyng it wolde,For after hym comen he nold,
Thereffore he dwellyþe stille.
Ipomadon and Cabanus
On benche to geddur sett ar thus,
And Tholamewe wyth good wille
Ryche mettes before hem brought,
Off all welthes they wantyd nouȝte;
Cuppis sythe gan they fylle
Off pyment and of riche wyne,
In cuppis, that were off gold fyne,
On hand he browght them tille.
224
At the laste was browght forthe for þe nonysA cupe, sett wyth precyous stonys,
Wyth cassidoins, þat were clere;
The cupe was good and precious,
The stonys good and vertuous,
And dyamovndes, þat were dere,
The crapet and the sersolitte,
The emeraud and the ametite,
The ruby and the safere,
Perle, topyas and mony claspys,
And on fowre sydes were dyueres haspis,
That queynte and sotell were,
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225
Tweyne of syluer and twayn of gold,So prevy, þat non them know shold,
Where the openyng myghte be;
In the pomell a stone, wyth outen moo,
That wold anny syluer sloo,
That euer was sene wyth eȝe.
The cuppe toke Ipomadon,
Cabanus he lokyd vppon
And sayd: “Syr, herkyns mee:
The on halff her of shalt þou drynke,
The other deyle my selff; I thynke,
The cuppe to gyff to the
226
In the begynnyng of our company;Thereffore I praye the specyally,
Frendely it to fonge;
As I shall frenshipe fynde in þe,
This sympull gyfte þou take of me,
I wille mend it, or it be longe!”
Cabanus on fayre manere
Thankys hym wyth lauȝhand chere
And sayd wyth myrthe amonge:
“Syn thou this cuppe haste gevyn to me,
My selffe holly I gyff to the,
Or els I dyd the wronge!
227
In that, þat I may in my lyff,Betwene vs too shall neuer be stryffe,
Yff god wille gyff me grace!”
Wyth myrthe they dreve to ende þat day;
At evyn the kyng, the sothe to saye,
Fro huntynge comen was;
Cabanus to the courte ys goone
And wyth hym leydes Ipomadon,
That frely fayre of face;
So semely knyghttes, as they were II,
In all the courte ys no moo,
That þe kyng wyth hym hasse.
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228
Ipomadon comys in to þe hallClothed in a syrket off palle,
Purfelyed wyth ermyne,
Bend abowte wyth orfrayes:
All the folke of that pays
Hade neuer no bettur sene;
A visage he had bothe stoute & bold,
A godely countenavnce to behold,
Ther was joye off all wyne;
In handes to geddur com they twoo,
Knyghttes gaffe them rome & lett them goo,
Cabanus wold not fyne;
229
To Melenger, the kyng, bothe ar goon:“Syr kyng,” quod Ipomadon,
“Thy wylle fayne witte I wold!
But, yf I shuld thy seruante be,
A comnavnte muste I make wyth the,
Langere as I the told;
I do the welle to vnderstand:
But yf þou fullfyll my comnande,
I byde not, be þou bolde!
Yff it be so, now shall I see,
As I haue herde speke of þe
In contreys manyfold!”
230
The kyng stoode in a stody stilleAnd sayd: “Syr, all þat thy reason wille,
Thou shalte not be begylde;
I hyre the, for syluer ne gold
Thy company forgoo I nolde!”
And ther wyth all he smylde.
To þat answerd Ipomadon:
“Nay, syr, gold ne syluer kepe I none,
No where in towne ne fylde;
I haue inovghe in my contre,
I thanke grette god, þat sent it mee,
That moste is meke and mylde!
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231
But, and it be, as men say of the,Thou groge not, but graunt it me,
That I shall to þe sey,
My askyng, syr, al bedene,
That I mvste dwell wyth þe quene,
That worthy is all way,
And also, syr, I say to you:
I wille be callyd þe quenes dru
Bothe wyth man and may;
The therd poynt ys, þat no man shall gon
After the quene, but I allonne,
To chambyr ilke a day.
232
Tille her mette I wille her setteAnd serue her, when she is set;
Yet mvste thou graunt me thys,
That I maye lede hur vp agayne
Beffore her bedes syde, sertayne,
Att eche a tyme her kys;
And yf thou graunte me, as I saye,
I shall serue hur well to paye,
Worthely, iwys,
Wyth huntynge & haukyng bathe;
But thou not drede þe for no skathe,
As haue I joye and blis!
233
Syr kyng, now wost þou all my wille,Whereffore and why I come þe tille:
Holdeste þou the here of payde?”
The kyng at his wordes lovȝh:
“Me thynkys, and mekyll were inowgh,
Largely haste thow seyde;
Whate myster man arte thou?
Thou haste me grevyd, for god avowe!”
There to god he leyde:
“Why? Yf þou wilte not graunte it me,
Have good day, syr, I goo fro the,
I am no þinge dysmayde,
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234
That I shall gette lordes inowe,To serve, syr, as welle as thou;
Fare well, for now I goo!”
Melengere waxt nere wrothe,
To leue the knyght, he was full lothe,
That he shuld parte frome hym soo.
“Alas, syr,” quod Cabanus,
“For euer it is a shame to vs,
And he þus fro you goo!”
Then sayd bothe erle and barone:
“Syr, yede he for so lutill chesone,
We wold be full woo!”
235
The kyng saw, it myght no better be,All the barons grauntyd hee,
He shuld beleve there stille,
The knyght & the lady gente;
To the quene is he sente,
To serue hyr att hyr wille;
The quene lokyd on hym and þoughte,
That message myslykis her noughte,
For he was comen her tille;
He dyd his seruyce full diligentlye
And swetely kyste that lady,
His forward to fullfyll.
236
She louyd hym wondur-wele þerfore:And he had axed her any more,
In hope he myght haue bene,
But of foly he ne roughte,
An other loue was in his thoughte,
Than on that lady shene; [OMITTED]
Yet is there noman, þat wottis it,
Off all the folke bedene;
Eche man callyd hym the drewlereyne,
That ys as moche for to sayne,
As: leman to the quene.
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237
In the courte he hym so bare,That all men louyd hym, les & more,
Wyth in a littill stounde,
Two monethys thus led his lyff,
Cauȝtte dere and fovlys ryff,
Bothe wyth hauke and hounde.
When kynges spake of werryng,
Ipomadon spake of huntynge,
How he in forest founde;
When euery knyght regyd hym to juste,
To kepe there armowr fro the ruste,
No thynge he wyth hem bounde.
238
Whan barons in gay aray ȝede,Ipomadon to the foreste grede,
To hunte & to haukynge;
Whan knyghtes spake of stedes rounde,
He spake of a fayre grayehounde
And of no nother thynge.
Knyghttes of the courte, boþe lesse & more,
To skorne louȝhen hym þerfore,
That was his grette lykynge.
He parcevyd the warnynges full well
And lykyd the doyng ilk a dell,
Bothe of knyght and kyng.
239
So longe they levyd in þis talent,The tyme is comyn of turnament,
That they before had sett;
Kyng Melengere, forgett it he nolde,
His promys to kepe, that he shold,
Betwene the II sees he fett
[To hold that he had hyght]
II Ml. knyghttes good,
That were hy-borne of blode,
The best, that he myght gette;
Thedere wyth hym went þe quene
And all his othere meyne bedene;
Thus many a myle they mett,
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240
Tille they come in to Calaber,Mekyll folke wyth hem there,
That wyse and worthy wore;
They wold not to Candores goo,
But in a castell, a myle þer fro,
The quene shuld soioyrne thore,
Whiles they were at the turnament,
And wyth hyr many a lady gent;
Hyr comeforte was the more.
That holde stode in the foreste,
That Ipomadon knewe alþer best;
Full well hym lykyd therefore.
241
Many tymes he had huntyd þer ine,The fyrste was not then to begynne,
For there beganne his payne.
That thike foreste lastyd all way
To Candires, there the lady lay,
There of he was full fayne.
Knyghttes dyd þer besynes,
Horse and harnes for to dres,
All louȝhen at drewlerayne:
He did but, as he was wonte,
On the mornynge erly went to hunte,
At eve come home agayne.
242
And grette wonder hade Cabanus,When he his felow saw thus,
And lyghttly to hym yede;
“Syr,” he sayd, “well wayte ye,
To morowe shall þis turnament be:
Why raye ye not your wede?
Ye haue hors & noble harneys:
Cast you, to be there all wayes,
As god in heyvyn you spede!
Dresse you, syr, and go we thedyre,
We too shall all way be to geddur
And ayther helpe othere at nede!”
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243
When he off turnament spake so,Hee lokyd right, as he were woo,
And sayde: “So haue I sele,
Now se I well, I fynd it nought,
Full frenshipe in þe, as I haue sought,
For grette hevynes I fele;
Thou hard thy self, wyth out lesyng,
I made a comnaunte wyth þe kyng,
To serue my lady well:
It is noþur my wille ne myn entent
Wyth justis ne wyth turnamente [OMITTED]
244
Ne boke to ende in all his lyff,The warkes, that there were dyȝte;
And a bell stode þer on off gold,
That was wysely made on mold:
When wayttes shuld blow on nyȝtte,
It wold ringe a long while,
That men myȝte it here more þen a myle,
To comfort kyng and knyght.
245
In this belle a stone stoode,A charebokyll ryche & good;
Lyght as the mone it shone.
The tent was white as anny mylke,
The bordures all of clene sylke,
In þe werld was bettur non;
There Malengere abydythe stille
Wyth wyne and ale at all þer wille
And knyghttes as trewe as stone;
On ilke a syde they reysud þen
For lordes and for gentilmen
Tenttes monye one.
246
By þat was sett, come oþer grett plente,Dyueresse lordes of ferre contre,
That worthy were and wyghte;
Syr Monestus, I vnderstond,
85
That new was dubbyd knyȝte;
He had seruyd Malengere,
In hope to have þat lady clere,
A longe while day & nyghte;
Tow C knyghttes of hert thro
He browght hym wyth & many mo,
In armure burneshed bryghte.
247
For all þe power, that he brouȝte,I trowe, that lady gettes he nouȝte,
So mot I euer thryve!
Then come the riche duke of Breytayne,
That also her wold haue full fayne,
Wyth fyftye skore knyghttes & fyve;
But he myght wynne þat lady hende,
He þought, or all were brouȝte to ende,
Wyth stalworthy men to stryve;
All this travell lesythe hee;
While sum men on lyve is, parde,
He weldys her not to wyff!
248
Then come the duke of NormandyWyth noble knyghttes a companye
Well L and a skore,
To haue þat lady, as he þought;
But, in faythe, he gettys her nouȝte:
His name was syr Astore.
The kyng of Denmarke come after thanne,
Wyth hym many a noble man,
Right welle arayd þerffore,
Off Skottelond & off Norwaye,
Off Irelond and of Orkeney,
Yet spede they neuer þe more.
249
The woode was full of pavelyone,Wyth oute them, that lay in the towne,
Ten thousand and moo;
86
They harbured them in the foreste,
They wold no farthere goo.
Be than was come þe kyng of Spayne
Wyth II C knyghttes of mayne,
That were of hertte full thro,
The lady to have, that hathe hym forsakyn,
Amfyon hathe he wyth hym takyn,
And thought to wakyn þem woo.
250
The better spede he not þerffore:His name was syr Antymore,
A styffe man and a stere.
Amfyon had provde pensell,
That wrought was of a damsyll
Was in the feres chambere;
But þer off wyst the lady nought,
Syr Ottymore to feld it brought,
That bought he sythe full dere.
Syr Dayres come after thenne,
The riche duke of Loren,
He þought to wynne Calabere.
251
To haue that lady was his cast,But yet he faylyd at the laste,
Were she neuer hym so dere.
The erle of Flaunders come in feld
Wyth II C vnder sheld,
Off worthy men that were;
He brought in his companye
Noble knyghttes oute off Russye,
To wynne that lady clere;
Syr Dryseus was his name,
Yet fayls he, or he come home,
To gett hur to his fere.
252
Provde Semyon, of AlmayneThe emperours sone, was not to layne,
87
Cam theder wyth many a douȝtty knyghte,
And yf he were neuer so wyghte,
Yet fayls he hur to fonnge.
Many other come be than,
Well more, then I rekynne can,
But I shuld byde ouer-longe;
Some were wyth oute & sum were wyth in.
On the morowen the turnament shuld begyn,
Whan that a bell had ronge.
253
Leve we now this folke thoreAnd off the knyght speke we more,
That dwellys wyth the quene;
To serue hur, welle he did his tente,
No semblaunte made he to turnament,
There at was ladyes tene.
The maydons hym to skorne louȝgh,
There off had he joye inowgh,
For he the sothe had sene.
The quene to hur mete he sett
And seruyd hyr, when she was sett,
Right worthely, I wene,
254
And sythen agayne vp her ledde,And kyssyd that lady before her bedde,
To speke he gan hym spede:
“Madame, lett thy turnay to morn,
I will hunte wyth hounde & horne
And bryng vs home a bred:
I hold it better amonge þe okys,
Then in turnament to take strokes,
I kepe no blod to blede!”
The maydons hym to skorne lough
And seyd: “Loo, madame, your drew
Spekys off doughtty dede!”
255
The quene cursyd his desteny,Wyth oute prowes þat he shuld be,
88
But sothe ys sayd in olde sawe,
Whedur þat euer love will drawe,
Lake no lettyng mase:
She louyd hym well for his service,
But oþur damysels of pryse
Grette skorne at hym hase;
To there skorne toke he no hede,
But toke his leve & forth he yede,
To the porter he gaase.
256
He gaf the porter a grette goldryngeAnd he sayd: “Syr, I love huntyng
At rayne-dere and at roos,
And as welle wott thow as I,
He, that ys not there erlye,
His best tyde mvst he lose;
Therefore of o thyng I þe praye:
Lett me forthe before the daye!”
“In faythe, syr, I sopposse,
Whyles this offyce shall be myn,
Entre & issue shall be thyne,
For frenshipe or for foos!”
257
Ipomadon to bede goosAnd in the mornyng erly he roosse,
Or day began to sprynge;
He gerte aray his whyȝte stede
And all his armore, that hym was nede,
Belyve he lett vp brynge;
Sonne was covpled all his houndes,
Wyth lowde blowyng forthe he foundes;
That wakyd ladys yinge;
They sayd: “Lo, madame, your drewe
Wyth horne and hounde se ye may now:
He hyes to turnaying!”
258
The quene þer to wold take no kepe,But laye in bedde, purposyd to slepe,
89
That he ne was man of prowes;
Whedur she loved hym neuer the lesse,
In hertt she it hyde.
In the thykest place of all þat woode,
A ermytage, he wyst, þer stode,
And thedur gan he ryde;
There he gert araye hym tyte,
His stede and hym all in white,
He wold no lengur byde.
259
“Mayster”, quod Ipomadon,“To day on huntynge moste ye goone:
For goddis love I you praye,
Yff god will send you any dere,
Agayne the nyght abyde me here,
I shall come, while I maye!”
Fro then vnto the justyng plase
A full depe dale ther was
In a deerne waye:
Couyrd-heddyd myght men ryde,
No man myght se hym on no syde,
Yf it were lyghte of day.
260
His mayster dyd his comaundement;Ipomadon his waye is went
Thorow the thike woode;
No man take wyth hym he lyst,
But a chyld, þat he on tryste,
Whiche was bothe fayre & goode,
Of his lond a barons sone,
That wele hym serue con
And ofte in stedde by hym stoode;
The semely chylde Egyon
Was cosyn to Ipomadon,
Right nere sib of his blode.
261
In the mornynge erlyHe passyd thorow the derne sty,
90
He hovis before that fayre castell,
The wynd wavyd his whyght pensell,
And waytes began to blawe,
And ouer the walle þey behylde
And sawe hym hove in the feld,
As whyȝte as any snawe.
He cryed: “Wake, lady bryghte,
For sothe, younder hovis a knyghte,
The feyrest, that euer I sawe!
262
His stede and he is all in whyȝte,That syght to se is grette delyȝte,
Fro bale as I be broughte!”
The lady weyndis to a wyndowe
And saw hym hove as white as snowe;
In grette care is she broughte.
So ne she wyst at that day,
On whome she shuld her love laye,
For in hur hertte she thought,
She wold not the valet chaunge
For emperoure nor for kyng stronge,
Gette hym & she movghte.
263
She beholdys the knyght in whyte,But what he was, she wot but lite,
The more care had the maye;
The sonne was vp on lofte be thenne,
All the feld was full of men,
There armys to assaye.
The kynge of Spayne, syr Ottynore,
Sawe the white knyght hove thore
In armys good and gaye;
To all his folke he sayde syne:
“The fyrste juste to day is myne,
And I hold comnaunte aye!”
264
Wyth hym was syr Amfyon;The kyng comaundyd hys men ilkone,
91
He sayd: “Younder is for the feres love
A kyng in white, wele dothe hove,
And to hym will I ryde!”
A grette spere in honde he nome,
Ipomadon was ware, he come,
And blemesshyd on anoþur syde.
Ayther on other brake þer speris,
Ipomadon behynde hym beris
Twenty foote þat tyde.
265
The kyng laye waltrand in his wede,Egyon of his hors toke hede
And lyghttly lepte þer one;
For all the strengh, þat he weldyþe,
The riche kyng of Spayne hym ȝeldyþe
To Ipomadon.
Joyfull was þat lady clere,
How she ordayned, now shall ye here,
Hyr owne cosyne Jasone,
That he shuld serue þere of speres,
To what man that best hym beres,
To the III dayes were goone;
266
And þerfore trewly she hym highte,The thryd day he shuld be knyghte,
His good dedys to alowe.
A spere to Ipomadon he bare,
As he hadde neuer sene hym are,
He sayd: “Syr, what artt thou?”
“I am the laydes cosyn, syr,
That thus is ordayned here be hur,
Trewly for to trowe,
That I shall serue here of speris
Two what man that hym best beris,
And, sertus, that I hold you,
267
For the man, that was of grettest boste,And hym, that my lady hatyd moste,
92
For wele he wyst, it was reson,
But he knewe not Ipomadon,
To geddur that they had dwellde;
But it was long beffore;
Ipomadon likyd the more
The tale, that he hym telde,
And he sayd: “Syr, so god me spede,
My presonere to thy lady lede,
I wold, þat she hym helde!
268
Thou shalt haue to þi lady gentHis hors, & saye, þat I hit sent,
The kyng to hur presone!”
Syr Attynore than sorow hade,
But vp he wanne, as he hym bade,
And rydythe forthe wyth Jasone.
Whan he came to þat lady bryȝte,
“Madame,” he sayd, “younde white knyȝte,
That berythe all oþur downe,
The kyng off Spayne takyn hath he,
And he send hym for to bee
Att your byddyng bowne!”
269
Whereffore was þat lady fayne,But eft she sayd to Imayne:
“For ought þat I gan see,
Alas, this is a grett myscheffe,
For welle I wott, þat my leeff
Ys not in this contre!
Certenly, had he byn here,
Jasone hym knewe, þat was his fere,
Now wotte I well, par de,
That othere failes hym manhede
Or he is dede, so god me spede,
Thereffore full woo is me!
270
Younde knyght to myne avowe will corde,And yff I take hym to my lorde,
93
Wonder-woo was Amfyon,
That syr Attynore was tone,
Oute off the prece hym gas,
He thought to wyne that riche kyng;
Ipomadon saw his comynge,
His spere all redy was;
He sette syr Amfyon so hard,
That neuer afterward
He nede prest to asse.
271
His hors threwe þe mayster downe,Wyth a spere come Jasone
And lyghttly to hym wanne;
Before Ipomadon he gan hym lede
And sayd: “Syr, loo here a stede,
That owethe a wykkyd man;
Was none, my lady louyd lesse;
A better stede non þer es
Frome hethen to flem Jurdanne.
Thus endyrs-daye he hyght it me,
Agayne that I shuld dubbyd bee,
I shuld haue had hym thanne!”
272
Ipomadon sayd wyth myld mode:“Syr, syn thou knowest hym for so good,
To stabull all our stryffe,
Off my myght thou hym take,
I vouche saff, for my lady sake,
Were he worthe suche fyve!”
Jasone thankyd hym herttly
And sayd: “Syr, gramercye!”
And vp he hathe hymgive.
Hee ledde hym to þe lady bryght:
“Jasone”, she sayd, “be goddis myȝte,
Ye begynne to thryue!
273
Who so wynnes & who so los,Me thynke, not wyth out gift þou goos,
94
“Madame, þe knyght, þat gaff me þis,
Wold god off heyven, ye were his,
For noble inowghe is hee!”
Syr Amfyon is men wer full woo,
That her lord was slayne soo,
To hym come grett plente;
Tille a temple they hym bare
And beryed hym, wyth oute more;
Hit lykyd that lady fre;
274
For he had done her grette dyssesseAnd littill hym cast, hur to please,
The whilis he was on lyve.
In world was neuer a curteyser knyght,
Then he wold, & he myghte,
Have wedde hur to wyffe.
That knew not Ipomadon,
All woo was hym, þat he was slone,
But sonne was stynt þat stryffe.
Jason in towre wold not abyde,
To the whyȝte knyȝt he hym hyde
Wyth shaftes IIII or fyve,
275
And serued hym worthely off sperys,Many a bold man downe he beres,
That preces into þe place.
There was non, þat he hit,
That lengur myȝte in sadull sitt,
But to the grounde he gaas.
Stronge waxid þat turnament,
Ipomadon þer haubrakes rente
And brekes many a brace;
He hew in sounder helme & shyld
And feld many knyghttes in þe feld,
That wyght and worthy was.
276
Prowde Isomyon off Allmayne,Mekill folke he put to payne
95
He was holdyn moste of myghte
Off all next the whyte knyght,
So dyd hym mekill dere.
That parceuyd Cabanus,
A kene knyght & a corayous,
In hand he hent a spere;
To the emperoure he rode,
And he to hym, wyth oute bode,
Eyther oþur downe gan bere.
277
Lyghttly vp agayne hem stertte,Pulde oute there swerdes wyth eygure hertte,
To fyght they wold not fyne.
The emperoure wyth a brond full bright
Hit Cabanus on þe helme on hight,
That nygh had done hym pynne;
Before his visage the dent yede downe,
Nere hand he had fallen in sowen,
The emperoure saw hym lyand syne:
“What, wenyst þou, prowde knyght, þou be
At Palerne now, thy riche citte,
Drynkand pyment or wyne?
278
Naye, thou art in turnamente!”Cabanus þerto toke good entent
And was nere wood for wrathe;
Wyth a styff swerd in þat stoure
He smote of the eyre of þe emperoure
And his lyfte arme bathe:
“In turnament, I wene, I be,
That sore, I hope, forþynkes the,
Thy skornynge doth the skath:
Now may thou skorne, wyne to drynke,
But wher euer þou goo, here on thynke,
Thou levythe a wedde off wathe!”
279
Grette sorowe made the duke DayresFor his cossyn germayn, iwis,
96
So hard Cabanus on the helme he hitt,
That vnnethe a loft he myȝte sitt,
So stroke he in that stoure;
He was so stonyed þer wyth all,
Hus swerd oute of his hand gan fall,
But sone come to hym succoure;
Ipomadon þer to toke heede,
To reskewe Cabanus he yede,
That bought þe duke full soure.
280
Ipomadon wyth a swerd thenneStroke the duke of Lorene
Thorowe oute the good ventayle,
That downe he fell as a stone;
Off þat stroke they wondyrd ychone,
So breste he many a mayll.
On bothe sydes they turneyed faste,
Blode oute off the brenniys braste,
Be that the day gan fayle.
All praysud the whyte knyght maste.
Wyth outen dowte, he toke a shafte:
One com, hym to assayle.
281
In a turnynge of his bakeThe duke off Breten a spere brake,
That all to peces it yode.
Ipomadon turnethe hym agayne
And stroke the duke off Breteyne
Wyth a swerd full good;
On lofte myght he no lengur sitte,
On the shulder he hym hitte,
Benethe the ribbus it yode.
His stede to the lady he sent:
That day it was the last present;
All that aboute hym stode
97
282
Sayd, for sothe, he was the bestOff knyȝtes, þat come fro est or weste;
Thus graunt they hym the gre.
Be þat the turnament gan twyn,
Yche man drawethe to his inne,
To towne and to citte.
To the towne lokes Ipomadon,
Soo was he warre off Jasone,
And lowde on hym cryes he:
“A, Jasone, brother, I the praye,
Abyde, swette syr, yf þou maye,
A while, and speke wyth me!”
283
The tothere sayd: “Be goddes myghte,Syr, how wiste ye, how I highte?”
“Yes, Jasone, I the kenne:
Thynkys þou not off the strange valett,
Att the super be the was sette?
Thou wotte wele, where & whenne!
That tyme I went of this contre,
I sayd, I shuld come speke wyth the:
Now I hold, that I hight thenne!”
“A, mercy, syr, for god avowe,
My lady to love has schosyn you
Off all other men!”
284
“Nay, Jasone, þat may not be:I mvste to my contre,
I maye no lengur abyde;
But a thousand tymes þou here grette,
For efte synes maye we mete!”
And frome hym gan he ryde.
Ipomadon prekyd in to the presse,
Josane hym loste, wyth oute lesse,
And sawe hym on no syde.
Wyth sorowffull hertt, the sothe to say,
He wyndythe home, where þe lady laye,
Chaungynge hewe and hyde.
98
285
“Jasone,” she sayd, “what ayls the,Off so hevy chere to be?”
“Right so may ye, madame:
To day haue ye lorne
The best knyght, þat euer was borne,
Yet know I not his name!”
The lady sayd: “For goddis myghte,
What was he? The white knyght?”
“Ye, be god, the same!”
Why, wyste þou, Jasone, what he was?”
“Ye, þerfore we may say: alas,
As god me spede fro blame!”
286
“Why, dere cosyn, know I hym ovght?”He sayd: “Lady, vyse ye nought
Off þe straunge valet,
That was my felow þis oþur yere?
In þe foreste before you at suppere
To geddur were we sett.
When he went fro this contre,
That he shuld come & speke wyth me,
Trewly he me het;
That is he, þat juste so well þis day
In whyte, but he is goon for aye:
Me rewes, that euer we mett!
287
He ys goon now for euer,Whedyr, I wot neuer,
That sore forthynkes me!
A Ml. tymes he grettes you well,
But I hope, as I haue sell,
We shall hym neuer see!”
To chambyr went þat lady, I wene,
And then she þought, for pure tene
Her hert wold breke in thre.
Jasone to her gan she calle:
“Loke hym, cossyn, ouer all,
Yff he may foundyn bee!”
99
288
Then hur sorow dobelyd was,The lady syȝhed and sayd: “Alas!”
And on hur bedde gan fall:
“Cursyd pryde, woo worthe þe aye!
Off all women so may I say,
And more, I hope, I shall;
Dothe he þus, he dothe grette synne!”
Imayne, that all hur trust is in,
To her gan she call:
“Dere systur, þat was my loue, I say,
That justed so well in white to day
And bare downe ouer all.
289
But he is gone: wo ys me!”Imayne sayd: “Be me lewte,
Thanke god off heyven ye may:
Now wott ye well, he is alyve,
Yet shall he weld you to his wyff,
My lyff there on I lay!
Ye shall weld hym att your wille
Her after, and ye will hold you stille,
For this not helpe you maye.”
Jasone sekyth hym farre & nere,
And so dyd kyng Melengere,
But fynd hym not can they.
290
They wyth oute was full woo,And so was them wyth in also,
That he was forthe gone;
Euery man spake off his prowes,
They sett all oþur off worthynes
But at a chery stone. —
Ipomadon his way is rydden,
At the ermytage hathe hym bidyn
His cosyn Egyon.
His mayster had huntyd full well þat day:
In the foreste, the sothe to sey,
Thre grette herttes hade he slon.
100
291
Ipomadon in his hert was fayne,That his mayster had this herttes slayne;
When he the sothe had sene,
Off he kyst his armore bright
And as an hunter he hym dyght
In a gowne off grene,
A grette horne aboute his halse,
His horse wyth his harnes alse
Lede Egyon, I wene.
To the citte by anoþer way
Wyth lowde blowyng and grette bay
He rydythe home to the quene.
292
Before the gates lowde he blew,The maydens hym to skorne lowȝ
And to the quene þey sayde:
“Madam, now comyth your derlyng
Wyth hounde & horne fro turnaynge;
As swythe ye shall be payde
Off noble stedys, þat he you brynges,
That he hathe wonne off riche kynges,
On grounde when he them layde.
Suche on is worthy þanne,
To be a quenis leman!”
She bydythe all þat vnbrayde.
293
She lett them say, what þem lyst;Thowe she wold, þat no man wyst,
She louythe hym neuer þe lesse.
The knyghte wendythe into þe halle,
Thre hedys he present her wyth all,
That high and hathel es.
There is now but knyghttes fone,
That hathe so douȝtty dedes done,
So haue I mede of messe,
That wold so lyght his lose have lefte;
But he dyd, for he thought eft
To wynne more worthynes.
101
294
To þer skorne toke he no hede;The quene to hyr soper yede,
Ipomadon toke good tent,
To serue hur well wyth all his mayn.
Sone come the kynges chamburlayn
Fro the turnament;
Before the borde downe gan he knele:
“Madame, the kyng gretes you wele,
He hathe me hedur sent!”
The quene sayd: “Thoas, þou art welcome:
Syr, off thy tydandis tell vs sum,
Who durst best byde on bent!”
295
“In fayth, madame, þat can I nought,To tell you, who most worthy wrought
Of all, that were comen thedur!”
The quene sayd: “Fye for shame,
In faythe, syr, þou art to blame,
Whereffore come þou home hedur,
But þou sum tythynges covth haue told?
Me had leuer, that thou wolde
Gon, where þou neuer went nedur!”
He sayde: “Lady, be this daye,
I shall, as farforthe as I may,
Tell yow all to geddur!
296
Madame, syn all þis world began,That any tydynges tell can,
Noþur be frythe ne be feld
Was neuer a fayrer turnament
Off knyghttes, þat wele durst byde on þe bent,
Bothe wyth spere & shyld;
My lord hathe borne hym well to day,
May non hym blame, þe soth to say,
That euer yet couthe weld;
He feld downe knyȝttes in the feld,
Me þought grette joye to beheld,
As I hovyd & behylde.
102
297
Certes, madam, CabanusAnd of Irelond Manastus,
Full boldly þey gan hem bere,
So dyd Astore & syr Dryas;
But a knyght in white þer was,
That welle couth weld hys gere;
All þat we speke off yitt,
Ys but fabuls to hit:
Be worthynes off werre
Wonder þey karpe of hym, is non
So worthy a knyght, as he is one,
Thus darre I savely swere!
298
The riche kyng of Spayne toke heAnd sent hym to the lady fre,
To presoune at hur wille;
The emperoure, be dent off hand
On the land he left hym lyand,
Lykyd hym neuer so ille.
The duke of Lorayne has he slayn,
In feld the riche duke of Bretayn
Left he lyand still,
And the provde erle Amfyon
He hath made to his bereyng to be done,
That hardy was on hill.
299
Hade not the white knyghte þer be sene,Cabanus had takyn bene,
The sothe is not to layne [OMITTED]
To be wyth sheld or schaft spent
And brokyne arme, ore they went [OMITTED]
300
Grette hym well, syr, I þe praye!All my houndes, thou may hym say,
To day hathe done full well,
Bothe Blokan and Nobillet
Hathe ronne a right & gon wel bet,
And also dyd Redel;
103
To day the white hath borne hym best,
As I haue happe or selle!”
301
Then lowȝe all, both lesse & more;The quene off his wordes shamyd sore,
And þat was his lykyng;
The more off oþur þing she spake,
That no man þerto tent shuld take,
Nother elde ne yinge;
He sayd: “I praye you, good madame,
Off the venesone, that we brouȝte hame,
Lett send parte to the kyng!
Then may he se, I serue you right
Wyth my power & my myȝte,
Right well in all kyne þinge!”
302
Then lowde lawȝed þe chamburlayn,He gas & wyth hym leydes agayne
A noble dere off gresse;
When he come in to the hall,
The kyng he present þer wyth all,
As he sett on the desse;
Sethen he tellyd ilke a dele
Off Nobilled & off Rydell,
How they were lossyd off þe lesse,
And how the white hounde bare þe price;
The kyng lewȝ and held hym nyce
And sayd: “A noble folle he es!”
303
When they all hard þus reasone,Bothe lewȝe erle & barone,
And all the folke bedene;
But no thyng lowȝ Cabanus,
Full woo hym was, þat he wroȝte þus,
To witte wyth outyn wene.
When the quene suppud had,
Hyr loue her to chamber ledde
104
He toke leve & to his in yede,
To reste hym selff, he had grett nede,
For sore bette had he been.
304
Ipomadon, the sothe to say,Rosse before the spryng off day
And taryd not that tyde;
His redde stede he dyd forthe take,
His redde armore redy make,
He wold no lengur abyde;
Wyth lowde blowyng forth he foundes,
His brachettes & his oþur houndes
Cowpled by hys syde;
All that hym hard, lowde lowȝ,
They sayd: “Þer is the quenes drewe,
Will to the justyng ryde!”
305
When he comythe afore þe quenes castell,Then blewe he lowde & well,
That made the ladyes wake;
Att his noyese was full tene,
All they cryed on the quene
And a grette sportte gan make:
“Low, madame, your love ys goone,
That rest for hym we may haue none,
So he hyes hym for your sake
To turnament: yff he may leve,
For you grett strokes will he geve
In forest vnder an ake!”
306
The quene lay still as anny stone,Word wold she speke none,
But had full mekyll care,
Syne he is so fayre all wyce,
That no prowes on hym lysse,
Thereffore she syghyd full sare.
Wythe ovte any more abyde
105
And garte araye hym thare,
His stede & hym all in rede;
He sayd: “Mayster, in that stede
On huntyng mvste ye fare!
307
For goddis loue, do ye your myghte,Abydes me here agayne the nyghte,
I pray you specyally!”
His mayster hies on huntyng faste,
Ipomadon his way is paste,
Be that derne stye;
The way prevely he nome,
As he had oute off the citte come,
That no man shuld hym spye;
As a worthy knyght he workes yare,
To helpe than, þat he hyede thare,
Was his encheson, whye.
308
At the fyrst day wyth inn was he,Wyth oute thought he than to be,
For they, dysconfyte, ware
Wyth grette reddoure fled awaye,
Off his strokes, the sothe to seye,
So they were sad & sare.
The kyng was on the inner syde,
Thereffore wyth hym nold he abyde,
He þought, non to spare
That day, noþur kyng ne knyght
Ne no man, were he neuer so wyght
And bryme as any bare.
309
He hovis and heyes vp his lavnce,Wyth the wynd wevys þe conisaunce;
Be that shewyd the day;
The wayttes on the wallys were
And sawe the redde knyghte hove þere
In armoure good and gaye,
106
The turnamente for your sake
Begennythe, the sothe to say:
Fyrste his power forto prove,
A knyght in rede younder I se hove
Righte in a good araye!”
310
“Waytes,” she sayd, “for goddys myght,Sees ye oughte the white knyght,
That yesterday justyd here?”
“Nay, madame, as ette I brede,
But younder hovys a knyght in rede,
That semys off grette powere!”
The lady wendes in to the wall
And lokes aboute here ouer all
Wyth a full sympull chere;
In agayne hur hedde she drowe,
To chambyr she went wyth sorowe inowȝe,
Then sonyd that lady clere:
311
“Curst pryde & wykkyd vysse,Woo worthe thy grette malisse!
I may so say hardely:
Thrugh pryde forsakes me now my love,
Pryde brynges me vnder & not above
Wyth many a carefull crye;
Be my pryde I am dystroyde
And be my pryde grettly noyed:
He hathe enchosone, why!
Wyse men saye be sent Sykasbas:
‘Who hes them selff, þat belive is las’:
In good faythe, that am I!
312
My þought was euer so mekyll on pryde,Myne owne worde me now chyde,
And, trewly, that is right:
For he above, as god wolde þere,
For his pryde fell Lusyfere
107
I haue byn ay ouer-proude in hertt:
Movnt ouer-hye that hathe me gerte,
And now full lowe I lyghte,
My selff till ouer-mekyll shame;
Now forsakes me the same,
That I to love had tyȝte.
313
Jasone went to the walleAnd sawe the feld ouer all,
Wher many a standerd stoode;
To the chambre sone he went
And bad come se þat lady gent
The justes fayre & good.
“Doway, Jasone, for thy lewte,
Off that justyng nothyng ys me,
Be god so myld of mode,
For why my leman is not here!”
So comforttes he þat lady clere,
To the wallys she yode.
314
Syr Manastus of Irelonde,Was newe dubbyd, I vnderstond,
He knelyd to Melengere
And praydd hym worthely, iwis,
The fyrst juste myght be his:
“Full joyfull þen I were!”
I can not tell you all bedene:
Sum men sayd, he louyd the quene,
For euer he was hir nere.
The kyng hathe grauntyd, what he aste,
He made his harnes redy faste,
He thynkes to wynne the fere.
315
His conisaunce was so good & gay,He lepus on a stede baye,
Oute of the tent he rade.
Still stode Ipomadon,
108
But hovyd & abade;
His eye to the wall he kest
And saw hure there, þat louyd best,
To juste then joye he hade.
He stroke syr Manastus so sore,
That hors & man boþe downe he bare,
The speris on sundyr brak.
316
Or any succure was to hym come,Ipomadon hath his sewrance nome
Betwene þem too alonne;
Jasone come to feld be þenne
Wyth noble speres IX or X;
Hym knewe Ipomadon,
But he lette, as he hym neuer see,
He sayd: “Good syr, of whens ar ye?”
The tother answered anon:
“A cosyne nere to the fere!”
“Noble speres haue ye here:
For goddis loue, lend me one!”
317
He sayd: “Syr, so god me save,Off the best shall ye haue:
Chosse at your owne avyce,
For worthely ye gan þem welde!
Here haue ye feld in the feld
A venture off ladyes:
Off the quene hathe he made mekill rose
But love hym, hope I, not she dos,
That womon ys so wyse;
Yet has he nothyng þe bett for þat,
To rose him of her, thar he sat,
The more I hold hym nyce!”
318
“Syr, synne he hath done þat dede,To thy lady þou hym lede,
Wyth outen wordes moo,
109
Att hur will to make amendes,
That he hathe trespassid so;
He is wyse, that workes þus!”
Sythe he sayd to Manastus:
“Syr, wyth hym muste ye goo!”
The knyghtte þer fore grette mornyng made,
But wyth Jasone forthe he rade,
Whedyr he were well or woo.
319
Blyth she was in blod & boone,That yong knyght was soget þan,
But woo was Cabanus,
That Manastas hym yeldun has;
A grette spere in hand he taas
And rydythe to syr Dreseus,
The erle off Flaunders, a noble man;
These too on werre to geddur ranne
For tene off Manastus;
The erle to þe grounde he bare,
His hors by the brydull toke he þere,
Awayward ledes hym thus.
320
The whiles was IpomadonIn a stronge stoure wyth on,
The duke off Normandye;
Ayþer on oþur the speres had brokyn,
They þought, þey shuld be better wrokyn,
They drew þer swerdes on hye;
Ipomadon layd on so faste,
The duke yolde hym at þe last,
He hadde a cawce, why,
For þorowe the sheld was he shent;
To the lady he hym sent,
Joyfull was she for thy.
321
Ipomadon saw in þat stondeThe erle off Flaunders ly on þe grounde,
110
Cabanus awayward his hors lede,
He thought full welle, he shuld hym stede,
And lovde on hym he cryede:
“Lett goo that hors, syr, if þat ye maye,
In faythe, ye lede hym not away,
Well faster yff ye ryde!”
Cabanus no worde answered,
But forthe he rede, as he not herde;
Ipomadon after hym hyde.
322
When Cabanus saw hym come,An hevy swerd in hond he nome,
To fyght he made hym bowne;
Ipomadon his swerd drawen bare
And strake Cabanus so sore,
In swounyng fell he down.
More to hym wold he not doo,
His hors he broughte þe erle too
And sett hym in the arsoune.
Ilke a man to oþer sware,
Suche a dede saw thei neuer are,
Bothe erle and bold baroun.
323
They sayd, þer was non so mekyll off mayne;When Cabanus was recouered ageyn,
Vppon his fote he stertte;
He sware be god & sent Myghell:
“Thus dede shall be venged full wele,
Yff god will gyff me querte!
Hee wyste not, where þe rede knyȝt was,
Sone he metes syr Dreas,
That herdy was off hertte;
The banere of red wyth ovten he bare,
Thereffore Cabanus wold not spare,
Wyth clene love he hym gret.
324
He bare hym down, wyth oute lesse;111
And saw, how he had done;
All woo he was for syr Dreas,
To rescew hym, grette haste he has
And to hym wan full sone;
He horsyd hym eft for his sake
And gaffe so many a sterne strake,
That byde hym durste but fone;
All seyd, that his dedis myghte see,
A better knyght myȝte non be
This day vnder sonne.
325
Hys dedis sawe the lady clere,Imayne callyd to her the fere
And told hyr ilke a delle:
“Syster, sythe þou younde knyghte,
In the rede harnes þat is dyghte,
How he hathe doone so well?
Yesturday, so haue I blis,
Off dede was not a poynte to þis,
Be ovght, that I gan tell!
But my love & Cabanus,
Me thought, dyd halff dele thus,
As haue I hape & sele!
326
Were not for losynge off my love,Younde knyght to love were not reprove,
Fro bale as I be broght!”
A spere be Jasone she hym sent,
Wyth her owne fyngeris gent
The pensell had she wrouȝte.
Off thes spere fayne was hee
And dyd hym well, þer her selff myȝte see,
How many to grounde he brought.
That saw a knyght, Cananeus,
Steward off the kynges howse,
Oute off a syde he soughtte.
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327
A nobull man off werre he was,But a condycion he hase,
That mevis all my mode:
Was non that tyme so worthy wetyn,
Than he covthe haue wyth hym fletyn,
Hadde he ben neuer so good.
Some men sayd, as haue I sell,
That he louyd the quene well,
But in no stede hit stoode;
A seker stede he rydethe vppon,
That mekyll hathe covetyd Ipomadon,
And to hym sone he rode.
328
He stroke Canoneus soo,Tope ouer tayle he garte hym goo,
That bargyn myght he banne;
The stede by the brydull caught,
All men saw, he stale hym nought,
But worthely he hym wanne.
He lede hym syne to Egyon,
To the forest wyth hym is he gone,
O the feter full well he can.
Kyng Melengere all þis behyld,
Worthely he gan his wepons wyld,
On Lyard lepythe he þanne.
329
The kyng waxe nye wood for tene,That he smot downe his knyȝttes kene,
And to hym rydis on werre;
Emyddis the shyld he stroke hym so,
That þorow the soket he gert goo,
And braste his oþur gere;
Vnder-nethe the lyght pappe
The dent yede, be cause it was happe,
& dyd but littill dere;
Ipomadon wex red for tene,
He stroke the kyng ageyne, I wene,
That downe he gan hym bere.
113
330
His shild myght no lenger laste,The naylis off his haubreke braste,
That worthely was wrouȝte;
Be his nakyd syde þe soket glad,
A littill tynde, hurte hym it had,
But the wors was he nought [OMITTED]
Ipomadon Lyard ledis a waye
And to his squyere hym brought,
And in to þe forest he hym ledde;
Melengere was stretlye stede,
But sade men to hym soughte
331
And socurryd hym, wyth oute wene,Els had þe kyng takyne bene;
In hertte is not to hyde.
The vttereste syde was full fayne,
They sawe the kyng lye on þe playn,
And lowde þerfore they cryde.
Wyth the banner prekys in to þe place
The noble erle, syr Deras,
His folke to hym relyd.
Ipomadon full wele hym bare,
His strokes were full sad & sore,
Durste non that day hym byde.
332
So longe laste the turnament,The nyghte ys comyn, the day is went,
The sonne drawethe downe.
The inner syde wyth grett honoure
Was drevyne to dyscomfettoure,
They toke þer pavelyons.
Bothe lord & lady brightte
Seyd, for sothe, the redde knyght
Moste was off renowne.
The seconde day this is comen to ende,
And as Ipomadon to the wood shuld wende,
So metis he wyth Jasone.
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333
“Jasone broþur, lo here thy launce!There on is yet the conysaunce,
As thou thy selff may see.
Grette that lady, as god me save,
And saye, wyth me I will it haue
In to myn owne contre!
For her sake I shall þis spere
In well sharpe stowres bere,
Thou sey to the bryght of ble!”
Jasone sayd: “Syr, who is that,
That wat so well, what I hat?
Grettly it mervels mee!”
334
“Yes, Jasone, cecurlye,I know the well inowe for thy,
Felowes onys we ware!
Yesturday juste I here in white,
To day in rede, ys not to hyde,
So may I do no mare!”
“A, mercy, syr, for Crystes pitte,
My ladye dyes for love of the,
And you will fro her fare?”
“Nay, Jasone, I may not dwell,
All my folke vnder younde hill
Abydys me hoveand thare!
335
Ryght now to me tydynge come,That me behovys to go home,
And þerfore, syr, good day!
A Ml. tymes grette her well
And saye, I shall, as I haue sell,
Speke wyth hur, when I maye!”
Lowde mercy he hym cryde;
“Fare well, I may no lenger byde!”
Wyth that he went his wey.
In the pres Jasone loste hym has,
Wyth sorofull hertt home he gaas,
Where that the lady laye.
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“Jasone,” quod that lady clere,“Tell me, what ails thy chere? [OMITTED]
“Madame, wepe I moste,
For to day haue I loste
The best knyght, þat euer was wroght!”
“Whiche, cosyn? Þat knyght in rede?”
“Yea, he dryues me to dede!”
“Why, what he was, wyst ye oughte?”
“The same, that yester day I mett!”
“Whiche? He, þat was the straunge valet?”
“In faythe, the same, me þought!”
337
“Alas!” quod the lady thanne,“I trowe, he be no erthely man,
Be god & sent Myghell!”
“Why, what trow ye than, þat he be?”
“Sum off the fayre is he,
In faythe, that hope I wele!
Dye, I wot welle, me bus,
Trewly, & he goo fro me þus,
My care will neuer kele!”
The kyng & Jasone both hym sought,
But all þer travell is noȝt,
So have I happe or sele!
338
To the ermytage anonComyn is Ipomadon,
That in his hert was fayne.
His mayster had huntyd of the best:
That day in the thyke foreste
Thre grette herttes had he slayn.
Off he kest his armore shene,
And as a hunter all in grene
He rays hym selff agayne.
Home he rydes wyth lowde blowyng,
Than lowȝe & seyd both old & ying:
“Now comythe the drewlerayne
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339
Wyth nobull stedes many oneAnd ryall knyghttes, þat he hath tane
In the turnamente:
He may have gevyn amonge þe okes
Knyghttys so mony grette strokes,
That nygh hym selff is shent!”
Egyon by other weyes
Wyth his hors & his harneys
Ys to the citte wente,
And that noble stede also,
That he wanne Gananeus fro,
Wyth hym has he sente,
340
And also Lyard of the kynge;Wyth outen any parseuynge
He broughte þem to þat citte.
The yattis when he come before,
Lowde his horne blewe he thore,
His houndes questyd grette plente.
The knyght, in to the hall he gas
And to þe quene a present mase
Off herttes hedis thre;
The lady lokyd on þe hornes,
Maydons gaff hym many skornys,
Thereoff grette joye hadde hee.
341
To supper þey went after that,Her leff be her on the benke sat,
As shuld hur own drew;
Full littill had he slept þat nyȝte,
The quene lokyd on the knyghte
And saw hym pale off hewe;
“Syr,” she sayd, “it is sene,
At ouer-mekyll in travell has þou bene,
To day erlye ye blewe:
Put your huntyng to respyte,
There in ye haue ouer-mekyll delyte,
And thou thy selff it knewe!”
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,Ther to, madame, I darre not graunte:Ouer-mekyll than were I recreaunte!”
Then lowȝ the maydons on hye
And sayd: “Whedur þou hunte or non,
A coward we hold the euerychone
And littill thanke worthy!”
Thereoff had he joye inowgh,
That they hym so to skorne lowȝe,
He toke no hedde þer bye.
Sone come the kynges chamburlayne
Wyth tydynges to the quene agayne,
The turnament to dyscrye.
343
Hee knelys downe on his knee;“Welcome, Thoas, so mot thow bee!”
Quod that worthy in wede;
“Swette syr, who dyd best to day?
What man hath borne þe price awey?”
“Madame, so god me spede,
Yester day, as haue I blis,
Off dedis were not a poynt to þis,
Haluendell, who so toke hede;
To day þer was a knyȝte in rede,
That sterd hym so in þe stede,
That all off hym þey dred.
344
That knyght of worthynes of hondeToke Manastus of Irelonde
And sent hym to the fere holde;
Sethen he stroke downe Cabanus
And rescued the erle Dreus,
Hellys had his care byn cold;
He vencust the erle of Normandy
And reskewed Dares, securly,
So was he bryme & bold.
Syx dyd not yester-day, I say,
Ne X so mekill, as he to daye,
And all the trewgh myȝte be told!”
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345
“Why, syr, wherefore shuld ye spare?I praye god, gyff you sorow & care,
The sothe but yff ye saye!”
“Madame, that doughtty vnder sheld
My lorde, the kynge, hathe feld in feld
And Lyard ledde awaye!”
She axte, that all myȝte here,
Yff þe kyng hurtte were,
And he sayd shortely: “Naye!”
Then sayd þe quene on her lawȝinge:
“Lord, syr, who durst fell þe kyng?”
“I not, be my faye!
346
Had hym not come better succoure,He had byn takyne in that stoure
Wyth that noble knyghte!
Cananeus, your owne steward,
He stroke downe off his horse bakewarde,
That all men saye in sighte,
His hors he hathe, þe sothe to saye;
Whan all was done, he went his way
A littill before the nyght.
The kyng hathe sought hym farre & nere,
And so hathe done þat lady clere,
But fynd hym can no wyghte.”
347
“Ys he goone?” “Madame, ye!”“Wotte no man whether? I say, shew me!”
“That can no man tell!”
“Syr, where is the white knyght,
That yester day was so mekyll of myght?”
“As I be sauyd, madame, fro hell,
In the feld he was not sene,
To day the rede knyght best haþe ben,
So thyke he dyd them fell!”
Shoo lokyd on hym, þat be here satte,
The whyte & the rede boþe she forgatte,
The comelye vnder pelle.
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348
When they hadde spokyn of chevalrye,Ipomadon spoke off his foly
Hyly in that hall
And sayd: “Younde knyȝttes be folys at will,
To take suche strokes ille,
And rennes ay, to þat þey fall!
Syr, say the kyng þus, I praye þe,
He had byn better at home wyth me,
The sothe say yff I shall;
I trow, the red knyght shuld have spard,
To haue ledde away Lyard!”
Then lowȝ the maydons all.
349
“Syr, grette hym wele & say hym ytt,He myghte haue redden on hym yit,
Hadde he byn wyth mee!”
The quene of his wordes shamed es,
But þerfore sayd he neuer the les,
But to her spekis he,
On benche be her þer he satt:
“Madame, off þe veneson, þat we gatte,
A parte to the kyng send yee,
And ye may say, as I haue sell,
To day my houndes hath renne right wele,
Be god & be my lewte!
350
Rydell ran at devyse,To day my red hounde berythe þe pryce,
And þer off am I glade!”
Then lowȝe the chamburleyne,
He toke his leve & went agayne,
A grette hertte wyth hym ladde.
He made his present to the kynge
And told hym all, wyth oute lesynge,
The tale, as he hym bade,
How that Bloncan and Nobilet
Hathe renne right & goon well bett,
And how the price Rydall hade,
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351
And how the rede knyȝt shuld haue sparde,To haue lede away Lyard,
And he had wyth hym been.
There att all men lowȝ there fille,
But Cabanus lykyd full ille,
His hertte brest nere for tene.
When the soper tyme was done,
Ipomadon after sone
To chambyr ledde þe quene
And kyste her wyth mowthe still,
Full well he wyst þe quenes will,
To reste she went, I wene.
352
His leve toke Ipomadon,To his inne is he goone;
Before the day he rase;
Wyth oute more tareynge
His blake stede he dyd forth brynge
And his blake harnas;
Sone was copled all his houndes,
As he þorowe þe citte foundes,
An hedeowes noyce he mase;
Hit was non, þat slept so faste,
That they ne wakyd at the laste
And sayd: “Now the quene leman gase!”
353
When he come, þer the quene laye,He blowythe as lowde, as euer he maye,
Thereffore was ladyes wrathe;
They cursude & bannyde hym euery chone,
Seyd: “Reste for hym we may haue none,
His blewyng is so brathe!”
To the ermytage gan he fare,
In blake he made hym redy thare
And his steede bathe;
Then Ipomadon gan saye:
“For goddis love, mayster, I you praye,
On huntyng high you rathe!”
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His mayster dothe, as he hathe hym byden,Ipomadon ys way ys reden,
His stede & he in blake.
The same tyme in Gresse-londe
A duke ther wonnyde, I vnderstonde,
That grett maystryes covde make;
His name was syr Aryus,
A bolde man and a bountevous,
Off dedys nothyng to lake.
A dyuynere wyth hym had hee,
That be the sterres gret plente
Cowde grette insamble take.
355
Hys name was syr Anferas,He told hym mekyll, þat he asse,
Off devynyte, that cowd he.
The same nyghte, at þe turnament
Was sett be the comen assente,
He went, the sterres to see,
And be the planettes well hath he founde,
That þer shuld grette worshipe be wonne
Off knyght of that asemble;
But off the best he was onwyse,
Off hym, þat bare awey the pryce,
His termes wrong toke he.
356
He dyd his lord to vnderstonde,What he be the sterres fonde.
He made hym redy faste,
Two hundyrd knyghttes off grette araye
Sayles on the flode so graye:
To semble was his caste.
The thryd day he ryse yare;
Whedyr syde wars ware,
A bachelere he aste.
All men told hym at þat tyde,
They on the inner syde
Was dyscomfett laste.
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357
He þyȝtte his pavelyon, þat stouȝte,To helpe them, þat were in douȝte,
Wyth all the myghte, he maye.
The riche duke sware, iwis,
That, yff he myȝte, it shuld be his,
The fyrste juste þat daye.
Ipomadon wyste well all to geder,
The riche duke, was comyne thedyr
On a ryche araye,
That on þe inner syde wold he bee,
Thereffore wyth outen bydythe hee:
That boughte he sothen, I saye.
358
Ipomadon hovyd before the towne,The wayte hym sawe, þat lokyd abowne,
And he callyd on the fere,
He sayd: “Awake, lady bryghte,
Younder hoves a blake knyghte
In armys good & clere!”
“Wayte,” she sayd, “for Crystys dede,
Sees thou auȝte the knyght in rede,
That yester day justyd here?”
“Nay, madame, but no lake
Younder hoves a knyght in blake
Wyth a noble chere!”
359
The way to the walles she toke,After the rede knyght gan she loke
And sawe hym on no syde;
In sonyng fell she downe agayne,
To chambur leydes hur Imayne
And her comforttes þat tyde.
The duke off Gresse wyth grette boste
Comaundythe swythe to all his oste,
That none shuld to hym ryde,
But yff they se abowte hym mo
Knyghttes, þen oþer one or two,
That bolddly durste abyde.
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He rydes vp on a red stede [OMITTED]Toward the blake knyght,
In rede sadull, sheld & spere,
And red was all his oþur gere,
Hit shone as beymes bryghte.
On the lady cryes Imayne:
“Madame, as I be kept frome payne,
Here may ye se wyth syght,
Your avncyante knyght, arayde in rede,
Agayne the blake nyed in that stede
And forses hym to fyghte!”
361
So joyfull was she neuer ere,She wend, the knyght in rede were,
Hee had hur leman beene.
In the mornynge, erly, as she myghte,
Jasone she dubbyd knyght
In armore good and clene;
She gyrdythe hym wyth a swerd above
And XXXti other for his love,
That herdy were & kene.
A younge squyere gan she byde:
“Serue oure of speris, as Jasone dyd
The tother to dayes bedene!”
362
For well wend þat lady bright,The redde had byn her own knyȝte,
When she saw hym there.
To gedder are these knyghttes gone,
The duke strake Ipomadon
Wyth a stallworthe spere,
That his shild flo fram his halse,
Nerehande had he falen alse;
Be worthynes off werre
Ipomadon fayled nought,
He sawe here þer, that he on þoughte,
The duke downe gan he bere.
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Egyon wyst, what shuld be done,On Adyrus stede he lepus sone,
The lady hovis & beheld;
In sonynge fell þat lady clere,
She wend, þat it hur leman were,
That so was fallon in feld.
Thee duke full dulfully was dyȝte,
That vp to ryse he had no myȝte,
His swerd he gan hym yelde.
He proferd hym to his raunsome
Castelles riche & many a towne
And mekyll gold to welde.
364
“Nay, syr,” quod Ipomadon,“Off thy castelles kepe I none,
Be god & myn lewte,
But on thy trewght here shall þou swere,
To day þou shalt no armys were,
Wyth yȝen that men may see!”
He cryed: “Gentill syr, mercy!
To this turnament comyn am I
Oute off ferre contre:
Grettly there on haue I coste,
And yff I thus my travell loste,
It were grette shame to me!”
365
“Syr, synne thou wylt juste nede,Thou shalte caste off thy rede wede,
And sythen goo, do thye beste!”
Trewly his trewght þer to he plyȝte;
To his tente youde the knyghte
And off that armore keste.
Ipomadon saw oute of the castell
A chyld come, he knew full well,
A littell þer be weste;
But he knewe not Ipomadon,
A noble spere he brouȝte hym one,
To take hit, he was full preste.
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He sayd: “Syr, take thus rede stedeAnd to thy lady thou hym lede,
For no man that þou spare!
The whyȝte knyght, þou may her say,
Ne the rede had not goon awey,
Hadde I come anny are;
And I trowe to day to be sene,
Her leffe is strekyne down, I wene,
For all his freshe fare;
In her presonne shall he not be,
Ne, sertus, she shall hym not see
To day juste no mare!
367
Swythe shall he wend in to þe westeThe man, I trowe, þat she louythe beste,
And also þou her saye!
Yff he beffore the gre haue wonne,
Here he hathe his felow founde,
Yche myghte se, where he laye.
I trowe, here leman had a squate:
Goo be lyve & tell hur that,
Good syr, I the praye!”
The chyld dyd, as he hym badde;
So mekyll sorowe þen she made,
In sonyng fell þat maye:
368
“A god, þat made bothe old & yinge,Thus is no wonder þinge,
That makythe me fowle to fade:
On the fyrrste day was sent to me
The riche kyng off Spayne, parde,
Suche happe my leman hadde;
Syne Manastus off Irelonde
And many other weldande
In feld wyth brondes brade.
But what is me of all þo?
Righte nought, synne I my love forgoo,
Be grette god, that me made!”
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So faste she grett & gaff her ille,That ner she is in poynte to spille,
And to hur sellff gan saye:
“Loste thus and my leman be,
Shall þer neuer man haue of me,
As farreforthe as I maye!”
The stoure wyth outen waxed stronge,
Ipomadon in to the thekyste thronge
And dyd full welle that day [OMITTED]
Men on horsse faste they wynne,
And many, an lond they laye.
370
They wyth oute gadyrd myghte,Faste forses they to fyghte
Bothe wyth spere & shilde;
So harde ychane on oþer layde,
Stedes stode stakerand stoneyde,
There maysturs fellt in feld.
Dreas lokyd hym aboute
And blewe & creyd after his rowte,
The banere vp he helde.
Ipomadon þere sone cryed,
III C. knyghttes to hym relyd,
That cowde þer wepons welde.
371
Sone come the kyng off Skottelonde,His swerd bolddly in his hande,
And strykes Ipomadon,
That nere hand to þe grounde he yoode;
He þought to yeld hym as good;
The kynge he lyghtt vpon,
His body evyn in to he cleue,
The noble swerd, or it wold leeffe,
Ys þorow the sadull goone.
His stede & hym bothe hath he slayne
Wyth that stroke mekyll off mayne;
Men wonderd euery one!
127
372
Now off Jasone shall ye here:The blake knyght he holdythe nere
In armore burneshede bright;
That lyked Ipomadon full well,
And sayd: “Syr, so haue I sell,
Younder comythe a knyght;
Dought hym not, þowȝ he be grym,
Goo ryde & juste wyth hym,
Littill thou artte not off myghte!”
“Gramercy, syr, so haue I roo,
As ye me bydde, so shall I doo,
Be he neuer so wyghte!”
373
Jasone wold no lengur byde,To the knyght can he ryde,
He knewe his conusaunce;
He strake hym so in myde þe shyld,
That flate he feld hym in þe feld,
To shevers went the lavnce.
Be the brydull he toke þe stede,
But þe knyght coueryd & away yede;
Ipomadon lykyd that chaunce;
He sayd: “Be god and my lewte,
A bettur knyght of his tyme, þen he,
Ys not froo hens to Fraunce!
374
Now shall ye se a wonder casOff the noble erle, syr Dreas,
He had a brother dere
Wyth the kynge of Irelonde;
New dubbyd, I vnderstond,
The tother day bothe they were;
For he was stalworthe vnder stel,
The stought kynge louyd hym wele
And gaff hym armys clere [OMITTED]
375
Dreas was wyth outen þat day,And he wyth in, the sothe to saye,
128
That saw Dreas, securly,
Off his dedis hadde grette envye,
Oute of that syde he sought.
Dryas rydes vnto his broþer,
Noþer knowlegge had of oþere,
To juste they bothe had þoughte.
Cavdor smote his broþer Dreas
Thorow shild of gold & his harnas;
Yet, sertis, he hurte hym nought.
376
Dreas stroke his broþer CavdorWyth a spere sadde & sore
Thorow oute all his armore
In at his brest, oute at his bake,
The chyne-bone asonder brake [OMITTED]
Dede off his brothers hande,
And that was grett doloure;
He gaff hym suche a spetuous falle,
In sunder brast the lachettes all,
That shuld his helme socoure.
377
His basnette flew off þare;When Dreas sawe his visage bare,
Wonder-woo he was;
When he sawe his broþeres face,
In sonynge fell Dreas
Syghand, and sayd: “Alas,
Dere broþer, woo ys mee,
That euer I thy bane shuld bee,
Mercy I the asse!”
He lokyd vpe & lokyd hye,
His eyne closude, & gan to dye,
His soule away gan passe.
378
Then hadde Dreas mekill care,He rent his clothes & drewe his hare,
And oute a swerd drawethe he;
129
He swere by god, that is good:
“Myne noune bane shall I bee!”
To hym prekkythe Ipomadon,
His swerd oute of his hond hathe tone
And sayd: “Benedycyte!”
“Alas, syr, for sorowe & payne:
It is my broþer, that haue I slayne,
Therefore full woo ys mee!”
379
“Ye, syr, lette this greffe ouergoo,For better is oo man dede, þen tow,
This is þe sothe, I saye!
Ye, so there is no more to kepe,
Agayne vp on your stede ye lepe
And for his soule do praye!”
Dreas dyd, as he hym bade,
The body to an churche þey hade,
In beryall they hym laye,
Yff they hadde neuer so mekyll care;
Thus Dreas leves his broþur thare
And wendythe forthe on his waye.
380
The stowre lettyd no þing for þis,But many a worthy man, iwis,
Was boldely borne downe.
Yche of them sheverd oþeres shyld
And feld many a knyghte in feld,
That were of grette renoune.
On noþer syde was not to lake,
But euer more the knyght in blake
To the beste is bowne.
So worthely wroght Ipomadon,
That the vtter syde ilkone
Yaffe hym thare benysowne.
381
One, Segamvs, made a frayeAnd grette boste all þat daye,
130
A knyght of the kynges mene,
He louyd the quene in fayth, parde,
As I haue harde seyde yare;
Till Ipomadon he chese,
And he to hym, wyth outen leesse,
Two nobull knyghttes þey ware;
Eyther on oþur þer speres brake,
Bvt still on ther hors bake
They bothe heyld them thare.
382
Sygamus hys swerd hathe toneAnd stornely strykes Ipomadon
Vppon the stelyne hatte;
Ipomadon his swerd hathe drayn
And strake Segamus agayne,
That to þe ground fell he flatte;
His swerd he yeldes to hym þere,
Vp on his trought he made hym swere,
He shuld not leve for that,
That he ne shuld ryde home to þe quene
And yeld hym to that lady shene,
In chambur where she satte:
383
“And say, a knyght in armys blakeHas for that ladyes sake
Forgevyne the thy ravnsom!”
He rydys home to þat lady hende
And told hur his tale to ende,
When he was come home;
Then lowȝe the quene in preuyte
And sayd: “Lord, what man was hee,
That durste beyre you downe?”
“A blake knyght, madame, þat I not know,
But well I wott, down he me slow
And sent me to your presone!”
384
Hit was neuer, syn god þis world began,131
Off men, that worthy ware.
The fere all way had in sighte
The dedis off the blake knyghte,
How boldly he hym bare;
So doughtly he dang them abowte,
That all men off his dentes had dowte,
So warre they bothe sadde & sore.
Hit drewe to the nyght faste:
The inner syde att the laste
Was ouercome thare.
385
On the chasse folowed Ipomadon,Cabanus turrned & lokyd hym on,
Toward hym rydythe hee;
Was neuer knyghte, sithe þus world began,
Better belouyd, thanne he was þanne
Amonge the comynalte.
Ipomadon west full well,
Cabanus was stallworthe vnder stele,
And lothe he was to flee,
And lothe he was his love forgoo
And his travell also
Off this dayes thre.
386
In feuter ayther castes a spere,Sethen to gedder ryddes there
Wyth all the myghte, they maye;
There sheldes all in sounder brake,
They bothe, noþer were to lake,
Behynde þer horsse they laye.
Cabanus sett his strokes so faste,
Ipomadons sheld asunder breste,
The serten sothe to seye.
Vndernethe the lyfte pappe
Thorowe all his hernes, þis was his hape,
The sokett glasyd away.
132
387
Nere hand brest his hertte for tene,He wend, he shuld a knowen ben,
Or he hadde paste that playne;
The blake stede toke Egyon
And broughte hym to Ipomadon
And horsud hym efte agayne,
And sethyne to Cabanus stede he wan,
In to the foreste he ledes hym thane,
And off that freyght was fayne.
Then waxed Cabanus nere hand wood,
& he sterte vp wyth egur mode,
As he wold hym aslayne.
388
He sowre: “Be god & my lewte,This dede shall well avenged be,
Yff god will gyff me querte!”
Ipomadon will stryke hym no more,
But wyth his hors brest down hym bare,
And sore forthought it in hertte,
Soo godde a knyght wold hym not yeld;
Kynge Mellengere all þis beheld
And on a stede he stertte.
He prekes to Ipomadon,
A spytuos stroke he gaff hym one,
That right sore dyd smerte,
389
On the righte arme in þe braune, I wene;Full faste the blod ranne down bedene,
That many a man myghte it see;
He says; “Thus shall be vengyd well!”
And oute he takes a bronnde of stele
And lyfte hit vp on he;
There to the kyng good hede toke;
When he sawe hym so gremly loke,
Righte sore aferd was hee;
I darre not sey, the kyng fled þat tyde,
But for his dent he durst not byde,
Be god and be my lewte!
133
390
The inner syde was sore agasste,The kyng awayward heed hym faste,
To fle they toke that tyde,
Some to towne and sum to tente.
Thus endyd the turnamente:
In faythe, it is not to hyde.
The blake knyght was off dedes beste [OMITTED]
And boldyste durste abyde.
Be that hit drew to þe nyȝte,
To wodward hyed that blake knyght,
As faste as he myȝte ryde.
391
By syde hym lokyd Ipomadon,Soon was he warre of Jasone,
On hym lowde gan he crye:
“Abyde, Jasone, & speke wyth me!”
The other sayd: “How may þis be,
So grette mervell haue I,
That ye so well woste, what I hight?”
“Yes, Jasone, be goddes myghte,
I haue a grette cause, whye!
Felows, I wot well, onys we were,
Att a supper, thou wotte well, where,
When I was sett the by!
392
Thus thre days I haue juste here,And euery day, broþer dere,
In dyueres colours sene.
I thanke hym, that all made off noughte,
That he soo fayre for me hathe wroghte
Amonge the knyghttes kene.
Grette well thy lady bright of ble [OMITTED]
A gyfte I shall hur gyff,
Euer more, while I leeff,
Too wytte wyth outen wene!
393
Thus maye thou, þat wyth me spake,When I was whyte, rede & blake;
134
A Ml. tymes I praye thee,
Grette well that lady brighte of ble,
Righte as my faythefull frend!
I shall here after, when god will,
Att leyser speke wyth her my fille,
So saye to that lady hende!”
He cryede lowde: “Mercy, ser,
Trewly, goo ye thus fro here,
My lady her selff shall shend:
394
For you she suffyrs mekyll care!”“Naye, Jasone, lett be thy fare,
Me mvste in to my londe!
Fare well, till eftsones þat we mete,
And as oftyne tymes þou her grette,
As gresses þer be groande!”
In to the thykyste prese he paste
And Jasone loste hym att the laste,
In no syde he hym fonde.
Wyth sorofull hertte & grette mornyng
Wepand he gothe home to þat lady yinge,
Sorowfull, & wrange his hande.
395
“Jasone,” quod that lady thanne,“Why makyste þou suche mornynge, man,
Who may haue grevyd thee?”
“Alas, madame, that I was borne,
For to day haue we lorne,
The beste knyghte, that maye be!”
“Why, cosyn, the knyght in blake?”
“He makyth me all þis mornynge make!”
“Why wyste thou, what he be,
He, that will brynge me to my dede?”
“The same, that juste in whyte & rede,
To day in blake was hee!”
396
Then had she thrys so mekyll care,She tare hyr clothes & drewe hure hare
135
“Thow dethe, thou come to me to day
And helpe, be lyve, that I were slaye,
I praye the specyallye!
Wyth tene & turmente I am take
And shamefully I am forsake:
He hathe a grette cause, why!
Foole, when þou myghte, þou wold not,
Now thow wylt, now shalt þou not,
In faythe, no fores for thy!
397
A, thou dethe, lett for no ryches,For bewte or for worthynes,
But helpe, that I were slayne!
In all this world, securly,
Ys not so pore a wyghte, as I,
The sothe it not to layne!
They ar riche att þer above,
That at þer will may haue þer love:
Whedur he comythe neuer agayne!”
In sonyng fell þat lady bright,
They comfortyd her wyth all þer myȝte,
Bothe Jasone & Imayne.
398
Jasone sayd: “Madame, be stille:Wyth in shorte tyme he comythe you tille,
Lanyere as he me hight;
And, trewly, comythe he not, þat hende,
Froo lond to lond shall I wend,
To seke hym day & nyghte,
Tille the tyme, that he may founde be!”
Those wordes comfordyd þat lady fre,
But full sore she syhte.
The kyng dyd seke hym fare or nere
And so dyd that lady clere,
But fynde hym can no wyghte.
399
Ipomadon, in a littill stageComyn he is to the ermytage,
136
Off his armore castes hee. [OMITTED]
His wondes was wonder-sore;
His mayster stuppyd his hurtes, I wene,
And sythe aryesse hym all in grene,
A hunter as he wore.
Whome he rydyþe wyth lowde blowynge,
To wyndowes rennythe boþe old & yinge,
They cursyd hym, bothe lesse & more.
400
When he come att the castell yate,Lowde his horne he blewe þer ate,
The houndes queyre þo he brought,
The maydons hym to skorne lowȝe;
Thereffore the quene was wrothe inowȝe,
For in hurt she thoughte,
That she louyd hym neuer the lesse;
To the durre ageyne hym comyn she es,
For lakkyng lett she nought;
The knyght be the honde she hent,
In to the hall wyth hym she went,
To supper sithe they sought.
401
As they at supper sett wyth inne,The kynges chamburleyne come inne
And knelyd downe on his kne;
“Welcome, Thoas!” quod the quene,
“Telles, this day who best hathe bene!”
“Madame, be my lewte,
The tothere too dayes, before be past,
Was not a poynte to this laste,
Be oughte, that I cowde see:
A knyght in blake þer was to daye,
That paste all oþer, I darre welle saye,
Þat euer was sene wyth ee!”
402
Segamvs be the quene satte:“Madame, the same knyght was þat,
137
That was no velony for mee,
For why all oþer downe strake hee,
So was he wondur-whyȝte!”
The chamburleyn sayd: “I darre wel saye,
Bettur then hee hath done to day,
I trowe, dyd neuer non knyght!
Madame, he hathe so mony stedes,
That all men wonders off his dedes,
Be grette god moste off myghte!
403
And euer more to þe lady he sentBothe hors and man to presente,
Fro tyme he had them wonne!”
“Syr, where is þe white knyght
And the rede, so mekyll of myghte?”
“The white wolle not be founde;
A rede þer was to day at morne,
That sone oute of his sadell was borne
At the rysyng of the sonne,
And sithe couthe no man hym se:
Dede, full well I trowe, he be,
Or els in presone bounde.
404
Madame, to day was non to lake,But, sekyrly, a knyght in blake
Off bovnte berethe the bell:
The trought yf I shall tell in towne,
The fyrste off our syde bare he downe,
Soo was he fers & fell!”
“Who whas þat? My lord, þe kynge?”
“Ye, madame, wyth oute lesynge,
As I be savyd fro hell,
And also Cabanus, the kene,
There off þe kyng was so tene,
He wold no lenger dwell;
405
To rescewe Cabanus, he yodeAnd strake the knyȝte, I sawe the blode
138
He was wonder-wrothe for thy,
The kyng sawe hym loke so gremly,
He tornyde hym the bake þat tyde!”
“Why, fled the kyng?” “Nay, madame,
But, as god sheld me fro shame,
Vnder his dent he durste not byde!
Off all, that come fro este or weste,
To day the blake hathe borne hym beste,
In erthe it is not to hyde!
406
Madame, on the kynges behalffe I saye,That to morowe erlye as day
Redy ye you make:
Com to Canders, þat riche citte,
There the grette semble shall be
For that ladyes sake,
To loke, wyth myrthe who shall hyre marye!
Here I maye no lengur tarye,
To god I you betake!”
Be the quene sittythe Ipomadon,
The chamburleyn he callys vpon,
And off his foly spake:
407
“Syr, sey the kyng, I praye þe,Off venysone this dayes thre
He hathe not ben begilld:
He turneyd all þus day,
I haue had fayre game & playe
Bothe be frythe & filde.
Now hathe he tome, at home to byde,
Hym selfe may on huntyng ryde
Amonge the woddes wyld:
Lede hym venysone wyth þe
And say, he gettes no more off me,
Be grette god, me can wyld!
408
Thou maye say, so haue I sell,139
The sothe is not to leyne:
In Beymovnde cowde I fynde no lake,
To day hathe borne hym best þe blake,
And þeroff am I fayne!
Say hym, syr, I praye thee,
As I haue huntyd, now hunte hee,
For I haue done my payne
For venysone, tell hym, well good onne!”
The chamburleyne his leve hathe tane
And to the kyng wendes agayne.
409
He present hym wyth venesone,Sithe told hym all this nyce resone,
How the blake hounde beste hathe bene;
All lough, save Cabanus, þer atte.
The knyghte, that be the quene satte,
Was weri and woundyd, I wene.
A shortte of sylke had on hee,
The knyghtte bled so grett plente,
He waxe bothe wanne and grene;
The quene toke good hede þer tille
And in hur hertte she mornyde stille,
Fro she the sothe had sene,
410
How pale & how wanne he satte;Ipomadon parseuyd thate
And he had full mekyll care;
He wend, he shuld haue knowen ben,
For he trowed, that the quene
Wyste, that he was hurt sare,
And lyghttly he waxe red þanne,
Thus wounde strayned, þe blode oute rane
Dowene evyn by his gare;
He hyde hit be his manttell noke,
There to the quene, good hede she toke
And sayd: “For goddes are,
140
411
Whoo hurte you, syr? I se, you blede!”“Madame, so god me spede,
The sothe saye yf I shall,
As I rode after an hert to day,
My hors me gaff a store outeraye
And a full spetuous fall
On a sharpe stoke of a thorne,
That thorow the arme hit hathe me borne!”
Then lowȝe the maydons all:
“That was a dede off chevallrye:
Ys he not beste worthye for thy,
To haue yon hende in hall?
412
Thus is a man off grette renovne:To day he hathe strekyne downe
Knyghttes grette plente;
For he hathe hym so boldly borne,
He shall haue to mede to morne
Yon lady fayre & free!”
When the quene supped had,
To hur chambyr he hur ladde
And kyste that bryghte off ble;
The lady to hym spekes þanne,
She sayd: “To morne, my dere leman,
Erlye ryse mvste yee,
413
To the citte of Candres me to lede!”“Madame, so god of heyven me spede,
Wyth oute any tareynge,
To morne to hunte haue I þouȝte,
Att the citte of Candres come I noughte
For lady ne for my lord, the kyng;
Off my merthes will I not fayle:
Why, whatt ys me off þer sposayll?
Be grette god, nothynge!”
Off them all his leve toke he;
The quene cursyd his destone
Wyth sorowe & grette mornynge,
141
414
For in hym was proves none.The knyghte is to his inne goone,
As faste as he myghte hye.
Egyone to his nese sent hee
And sayd, that she shuld redy bee
Att mydnyght prevelye.
He sent hur word on all wyse,
She shuld take no leve off no ladyes,
Thus was the cause, whye:
“My way at nyghte will I goo
Wyth outen knowlege off any moo!”
The mayde was all redye.
415
To bedde went Ipomadon,But littill reste had he þer onne,
Before þe day rosse hee;
All his stedys he dyd forthe take,
Bothe rede, whyte & blake,
Wyth oþur grette plente,
That he be dede of armus wanne;
The burges calles to hym þanne
All alonne in prevyte:
“To the I will my counsell saye,
But þou moste swere me on thy faye,
That hit shall counsell be!
416
A long while haue I dwellyd hereAnd seruyd the quene, my lady clere,
As thow thy selff hathe sene;
But what I am, yet wot not one,
Ne non ne shall, till I be goone
Oute off this contre clene!”
The burges sayd: “Syr, will ye goo?”
“Ye, certes, frend, it muste be soo,
To wete wyth oute wene!”
The burges sayd: “Be my lewte,
That ye will wynd, forþinkes me,
For good frend haue ye been!
142
417
But what sum euer ye me tell,I shall hit kepe all, whiles ye wille,
And þer to here my hand!”
“Vpon yound stede, þat þou may see,
I haue justyd this dayes thre,
In dyvers colours fande,
The fyrste in whyte, in rede þe oþere,
The thryd in blake, it was no noþere,
Thow maye see, where they stonde:
I kepe no rose þer off to make,
Alas, off me that euer they spake!
I thanke god off his sonde,
418
That he so fayre for me hathe wroȝte,But what I am, yet wotte they nouȝtte,
And ther off am I fayne:
On the day I justed as a knyghte,
As a hunter I come home at nyghte,
To serue the quene agayne.”
The burges sayd: “Was þat yee,
That justed so well these dayes thre?”
“Ye, serttes, but loke, þou it layne!”
The burges lowgh and sayd sone:
“Syr, better myghtte no man haue done,
As I be savyd frome payne!”
419
“Thus turnamente is at ende,Thereffore my way will I wende,
I kepe not yet to wyff:
I maye here after many a yere
All be tyme take a fere,
To lede wyth all my lyff.
Wynde I will to ferre contre,
Deddes off armus for to see,
And where stalleworthe men will stryff.
To the citte off Candres muste ye fare,
Mekely to do my message thare,
Wyth stedes fowre or fyve!
143
420
There shall you fynd my lord, þe kyng,The quene and also the lady yinge,
That all this fare is fore,
Worthy lordes off grette renowne,
Duke, erle and baroune,
Other bothe lesse & more;
To the kyng hym selff, it is not to nyte,
This stede thou shalt geve hym, þat is white,
And syn this rede sore
Present to my lady, the quene,
For suche a frend, as she hathe ben,
Ys good to kepe in store.
421
Her awne drewe, thow may her say,Sendis her this red palfreye,
And say, as haue I sell,
And he were chargyd wyth rede gold,
Wovche save him on hyr I wold,
Be god & seynt Mighell!
Thus blake stede þou shalt geve Cabanus,
— And I praye the do my message thus —
That in no feyntes fell,
And say, I know not, be my lewte,
No knyght vnder the hevyn so he,
He myghte be set on so well!
422
Syr, here is Lyard, wyth oute drede,That was the kynges owen stede:
Hym shall þou geve the fere;
Praye the kyng wyth good wille,
That he take hit to no ille:
And he dyd, grette wronge it were;
Well he wott, how I hym wanne,
A thousand on vs lokyd thanne,
The sonne shone wel clere;
Pray her take hym for my sake:
144
To that myld off chere!
423
And thou may say, þat þe straunge valet,Onys att sopper that was sett
Before her in the foreste,
He grettes her well a thousand fold
And besekes her, that she holde
The forward, that she feste;
Off an vowe I harde her speke
And praye hur, þat she neuer it breke,
Nother be est nor weste,
That she take no man off no degre,
But off grette bewntenes þat he bee
And holdyn the wortheeste!
424
Amonge them tell thy tale on hightTyll her, that is off ble as bryght,
As sonne, that shynes prow glasse;
But yet, syr, here is a stede,
That ye muste to Jasone lede,
To Cabanus he was;
They well wot, I stale hym nought,
I wanne hym, thovgh he well wrought,
Wythout he there novght gas.
Grete Cabanus fro mee:
A bettur knyhte thare þere non be;
My self a way mvste passe!”
425
“Alas, syr, what is thy thoughte,A man, that these werkes hathe wrouȝte?
For goddes loue, dwell ye stille
And weddes to wyff younde lady clere:
All Callabur, fare and nere,
Ye may weld att your will!”
He sayd: “Syr, nay, so mot I thryve,
I kepe not yet so sone to wyffe,
I shall shew the skille:
145
That takes them wyffes so hastly,
Repentes it sithe full ill!
426
And þerffor I will wend my way,To gette me more worshipe, yff I may,
Where men in stowre be stedde;
I kepe not yet, at home to leve,
I maye here after all be live
A wyff wyth worshipe wedde.
As thou will euer haue frend off me,
Done that my message bee,
These stedes to Callabre lede,
Meke thy present plenerly,
They know the well, I wott, for why
The thare not be adrede!”
427
“That ye thus sodenly shall goo,”The burgesse sayd, “I am full woo,
Ellys byde I neuer daye!
But, bee god and seynt Myghell,
Your message shall be doone full well,
As fareforthe, as I maye!”
“Syr, yet is here a stede,
That thy selff shall have to mede,
Wythe that þou wend thy waye;
A noþur will I haue wyth mee,
Cananeus his own was hee,
And here off I the praye,
428
Bid hym take it to no ille,Thowȝ it were ageynst his will,
He wat well, þat I hym wanne;
That I hym stale, he may not saye,
I wanne hym on a clere day,
A thousand lokyd on thanne;
Wyth outen stede may I not goo,
Hym will I haue & no moo,
146
To the grette god take I the!”
On his stede lepus hee,
To wepe the oste beganne.
429
The burges mvrnyd, lefte be hynde,Ipomadon his way gan wynde,
His cosyne by his syde;
Many a thought on hym thronge,
Whedur that he were best to gange
Other still þere for to byde;
But euer more was þe last thoughte,
Turne agayne wold he novght,
For thyng, that myghte betyde;
Yff that he goo, yet levys he thare
The þyng, that he louyd, nothyng more
In all this world so wyde.
430
There is but fewe knyghttes now,That had done so mekyll, I trowe,
Be god and my lewtee,
That fro so grette price wold haue gone,
So well as myghte Ipomadon
Have had that bright off ble;
But euer more in his herte he þought,
Yet till her avow cordede he nowght,
Here husbond for to bee;
That made hym oftyn tymes fro her fare.
Now off this burges speke we mare,
That went to that citte.
431
There the courte was full plenereOff lordes and off ladyes clere,
The kyng and eke the quene,
The fayre, that was full stravngely stede;
Yonge cheldorne the stedes ledde,
Arayd were wele and clene.
In herte grette mervayll had sum,
147
That they knewe all bedene;
The lady on the stedes gan loke,
For very feyre hur hert qwoke
And tremelyd for very tene.
432
A thousand tymes after thatShe chaungyd colovres, þer she satte,
And on hur leman thoughte;
“There are the III stedes,” she says,
“My love juste on these III dayes,
Be god, that all hathe wroughte!”
Grettly marvelyd was þe kynge,
When he saw, wyth oute lesynge,
The stedes, that the burgays brought;
His owne and Cabanus well he knew,
But, yff ye thynke, this tale be trewe,
The tothere knewe he nowghte.
433
The burgays to hym gan he call:“Syr, where had ye this stedes all?”
He knelys downe on his kne:
“In faythe, syr, I shall not layne,
He, that was the drewlarayn,
Them heder sent be mee;
That man, that he made him, was he novght,
I trowe, ye knewe, how he hathe wroght
Befor on this dayes thre!”
When they tho wordes vnderstode,
The maydons lowryd vnder þere hode
And sayd: “Lord, wheyþer þat was he?”
434
“Ye, in faythe,” the burgas gan say,“But this nyght ys he went his weye
On Cabanus ys stede;
To you herttly he besovghte,
Witnes wyth hym, he stale hym novght,
But wan hym be dovȝtty dede:
148
Wheþer that ye blys or banne,
Wyth hym he will hym lede.
Syr kyng, this trew tale to trowe,
Thus white stede he sendes yow,
As god off hevyn me spede!
435
On hym he justyd the fyrste day,But how he dede, me thare not say!”
The kynge a lawghtter lough
And in a stody stille he satte,
And he sayd a long while after that:
“In faythe, syr, well inowgh!
Better, I trowe, dyd neuer no man,
That was borne, sithe þis world beganne,
Wyth blysse vnder this bovgh!”
The burgays hade well nortouryd ben,
Boldely he turnethe hym to þe quene
And nere hand her he drough;
436
He sayd: “Madame, your owne dru,Thus redde stede he sendes yowe,
The he juste on the seconde day;
And he were chargyd wyth gold,
Wovche saffe hym on you he wold,
Be god off heyvyn, that all maye!
Ye have harde, me thare novght tell,
Fayre or fowle whedyr hym befell,
So well he dyd, I hard saye
Wyttnes off my lord, the kyng!”
He toke vp a lowde lavghynge:
“Yea, that felte I well, in faye!”
437
The bvrgas turned to CabanusAnd sayd: “Trewly, syr, it is thus,
This blake stede send he you:
He justed on hym the thryd day,
How he dyd, me thare not saye,
149
“Sertus, syr, me owethe to wete,
For, in faythe, I fele yt yette,
That sore it dothe me sowe,
And we on þis wyse have him lorne;
Right prevely he hathe hym borne,
That make I god a vowe!
438
But, dere syr, speryd þou ovght þat,Where he was borne & what he hatte,
Or whenne he comythe agayne?”
“Ya, syr, and more myghte I gette,
But he, that was the straunge valet,
That was the drew lerayne,
He sayd, a better knyght, than ye,
Ys not vnder the heyvyn so hee,
The sothe is not to layne!”
“Ya, what so I am, sekyrlye,
Inoughe he can off chevallrye,
And þeroff am I fayne!
439
A wortheer knyght, þen he is one,Vnder the cope of heyven is none,
Ne sekyrer at assaye:
Alas, foule, where was thy þought?
His dedes why parsevyd thou nought?
That shall thow rewe for aye!
Be hym, that made bothe yong & old,
I myght haue wyst, yf I wold,
He was full wyse al weye;
So kynd, so curtes, so fayre, so free,
Myghte neuer wyth oute proves be,
Sertes, that is no nay!”
440
The burgays wyth an laughand chereKnelys downe to the fere,
Be Mellengere þer she satte:
“This Lyard, lady, he sendes to you,
150
On what wysse he hym gatte!”
The kyng þeratte lowde lovgh
And sayd: “Ya, in feythe, well inovgh,
There helpud noþur helme noþere hatte:
I hym loste & he hym wanne,
On the londe he lafte me lyande þanne,
I may not gaynsaye that!
441
Good lord god, whether þat were hee?”The burgayes sayde: “Syr, ye, parde,
Now, trewly, he ys wyce!
There was neuer knyght, I darre savely swere,
That more prevely covthe hym bere,
That wanne so mekill pryce!”
All that euer to skorne hym lovgh,
Off them selff thought skorne inovgh
And sayden on ther avyce:
“Off a straunge man in vncovthe place,
In them, that moste skornyng mas,
Leste off norture lyse!”
442
The burgays covthe off curtasye,He knelyd downe to that lady:
“Madame, be you blythe off chere!
A thousande tymes he well you grette
And sayd, he was the stravnge valett
That gon full thre yere:
I trowe, you mende your sellff of that,
At sopper how that he satte, [OMITTED]
He harde you onys speke a vowe
And prayes you well, to kepe it nowe,
That nether farre nor nere
443
Ye take non, but he be the beste!”The lady satte and coloure keste
And euer mornyd stille;
She fadyd ofte, but she her feynde,
151
That none parcevyd her wyll;
She sayd: “Syr, as haue I sell,
There on I am avysud well;
Therefore I say be skille,
I shall take non, that men may nevyn,
As ferre forthe, as god in hevyn
Will graunt me grace þere tille,
444
But I may weld hym, þat me wanne!”The burgays turnythe to Jasone þan
And sayd: “Syr, securlye,
This stede to you hee sent by me,
Cabanus, I trowe, was hee:
Lordynges, leve ye this for thy:
He stale hym novght, ye may be graythe!”
Cabanus seyd: “Syr, no, in feythe,
That well wyttnes I!
He lefte me þare, the sothe to saye,
On lond, when he ledde hym away,
On fotte, full verely!”
445
The burgays this euery deallHathe done his message wonder-well
Before all, that there ware:
“Lordynges, yet is here a stede,
That gaff me to my mede
That fre, when he shuld fare,
Wyth that, þat I shuld do his message
Before all þis boronage
And laydes wyse of lare!”
The burgays toke his leve & yede,
All men marveld of his dede,
Lordes bothe lesse & mare.
446
The kyng in a stody he satte,The quene tremeld after þat
And to hyr selff she told:
152
But they, that woll not, when þey maye,
They shall not, when þey wolde!”
She sayd: “Lordynges lesse & more,
Ye wytte well inowȝe, wherefore
This turnament was holde;
To you I haue forward feste,
What man in erthe bare hym beste,
My londes brode shuld wold.
447
Now here you, who moste worthely hathe wrought,But where is he, yet wott ye novghte,
Thowȝe he his happe hath hadde:
Fynde you hym, yff that ye may,
And I shall swere you, be my faye,
There ys no lenger bade,
That I shall take hym wyth good will!”
Euery man thought, she sayd but skille,
And forthought, þat þey sayd had,
That he was so his gates goone,
They sayd: “So worthy a knyght was non
In all this world so brade!”
448
There was no man, for her sakeWold covnsaylle hyr, oþur lord to take,
But bad, that she shuld byde
Tille tyme, that he myght fovnden be;
Thus partyd that grett semble
And euery man gan home ryde.
The lady in Candres boode,
The kyng to the castell rode
And the quene went by his syde,
Wyth sorofull hertte makyng her moone,
That he was so his gates goone,
Hyr herte nere braste that tyde.
449
To chambyr she went sore sighande,And when she come, þer she fonde
153
That Ipomadon hade theder broughte;
In a stody she stode & thoughte,
What waye beste myghte been,
That he to her were brought agayne;
Might no þing make her so fayne, [OMITTED]
450
Thus dare I savely saye,As women, what þey will haue wrought,
To do ther lykyng, lett they noughte,
Come after, what sum maye:
“The knyght, that all these dedys dydde,
Ill his curtasy here has kyde,
My mayde he hath lede away,
451
Whiles I was at þe grette semble,And but I þeron vengyd bee,
Hard is my behove;
I maye in romaunce & in ryme
Ellys say in sorye tyme,
That I haue lorn my love
On many worthy bachelere,
That wonnand is wyth Mellengere,
Yff I take this reprove!
Yll hathe he shewyd his curtasye,
That he shuld doo me this velonye,
Be god, that sitteth above!”
452
Cananeus, wyth hardy hertteBeffore all oþur vp he stertte
And sayd: “Madame, be stille!
Gyff ye off longe tyme have lovyd me,
Now it shall well yoldone bee!”
“Syr, god graunt the grace þer tille,”
The quene sayd, “syr steward, loo,
Thou haste matter good þer too,
Be many dyueres skille,
154
For why thy stede away ledes hee,
I trowe, agayne thy wille.
453
Thereffore, syr, so god the spede,Do feche my maydyn & thy stede,
Yff god will graunte þe grace!”
So that he were to hur broughte,
On what wyse, she ne rovght,
So grette desyr she hase.
“Gyf I maye this, is not to layne,
I shall bryng theme bothe agayne!”
And to his inne he gase;
He armys hym in noble wede,
Sithen he leppis vpon his stede
And folowed on the tras.
454
Ipomadon was wonder-sare;As he gan thorow the foreste fare,
He lyght vnder a tre,
There flovris were spryngand, swete of smell;
Forwery on slepe he fell
On his cosyns knee.
The maydon hard at the laste
Horsse come rennand wyth bryduls faste,
But no man covthe she see;
The damysell full witty was,
A littill she tovchis his face,
And þer wyth wakyd hee.
455
Vp he lepe full lyuerlye,Armyde well and all redy,
On his helme he hente;
Wyth that he sawe þe high steward
In the way come prekand harde
Wyth grette ire ouer the bent;
And when he saw hym hy so faste,
He thoughte, hit was the quenes caste,
155
When he saw hym come precande soo,
He wyste full wele, þat her was woo,
That he was so awey went.
456
The steward to hym rydes þanne,To speke spettuesly he began
And lenys hym on his shafte:
“Why haste thou done, belamye,
The quene so grette velonye,
Her maydone when þou her rafte?
Syr, I say the by my thryfte,
My lady will the peche off thefte,
Thy nvrture þer thou lefte;
Goo, lede agayne that maydon gent,
Or thou shalt suffur jugmente,
That fallys for thevys crafte!
457
Ye bothe forgatte your curtasye,To stele away so prevelye
Agayne my ladyes wille,
And noþer off you toke no leve:
Ye myghte well witte, it wold her greve
Ouer-grettly be that skille,
And also, syr, my selff hath knowen,
Thou toke wyth the more, þan thyne owen,
Or euer hadeste resone tille:
Thow ledys a stede, that is not thyne,
Thou shalt abyde & leve me myne,
Lyke thow neuer so ille!
458
Thy dedis shall þou by full dere,But neuer the lesse, yf þou wilt here,
Become my lege man
And sweftely on my swerd swere,
Neuer me nor non of myn to dere,
Yet wyll I save the thanne!
I am strong wyth the kyng,
156
In all, that euer they can,
And I shall praye my lady, the quene,
She shall forgeve þe all quarels clene:
That bargayn myght I banne!”
459
“Syr,” quod Ipomadon,“Your wordes I vnderstond ichone,
Thow ye speke angurlye:
To so worthy a knyghte, as you,
That says more, thane he may avowe,
Ys verry grett velanye,
For, syr, so god off heyven me spede,
Off this maydon, that I misdede,
Off other thynges know not I;
But ofte I haue hard saye, by skille,
A woman to take be hyr own wille,
Ys thefte of curtessy.
460
And, syr, as I se sonne or mone,That I haue to this maydon mysdone,
Me thare neuer shewe in shryfte;
But, be god & my lewte,
Me thynkyth, ille avysud be yee,
That ye wold me peche of thefte:
That I haue to þe quene done wronge,
I wyll amende it or owght longe
Right gladly, be my thryfte!
Be god, that all hathe wrought,
Thus stede noþere I ne boughte
Ne hadde hym off no gyfte!
461
I wanne hym of a noble knyght,That saw a thousand men in sight
And mo, yff mo myghte bee;
I know hym not, so haue I sell,
But be all tokens I may wit well,
Sothely, that it is yee;
157
I wend, I myght haue gone in peas
To myne owne covntre.”
“Why, wylt þou do no more but soo?”
“No, not, & ye will lett me goo!”
“In faythe, here covntre will wee!”
462
“I graunt, syr!” quod Ipomadon;A good stedde he leppus vpone,
In hande he toke a spere.
The steward was a noble man,
Off dedes off armus right well he cane,
And he had full secur gere.
Ipomadon was not to lake;
These too knyghttes, on þe stedes bake
To geddur they rydde on were.
The justes betwene them was full fayre,
Cananeus wyth a grett eyre
A shafte to hym gan bere.
463
He hit hym so the myddes the sheld,A quarter fle in to the feld,
Thow it were neuer so good.
So stravnglye stroke he at þat tyde,
Thorowe all his harnes be the syde
Evyn the spere in yode
Vndernethe the lyfte pappe;
But, as god gaff hym happe,
The spere, it drew no blode.
Ipomadon was wrothe wyth þat,
Stone-stille in his sadull satte
And was þer wythe nere woode.
464
He strake the steward so sore agayne,The vasell fley in to the playne,
He gaff hym suche a batte;
So sternly he gan hym stryke,
That nose & cheke was bothe lyke,
158
Were his gorgede neuer so good,
The swerde thorowe the hawbreke yode,
In sadull where he satte.
He brake his right shulder bone,
That to the grounde is he goone
Tope ouer tayle wyth that.
465
The stuard lyethe on the grounde,Grevously lay gronande in þat stounde
And hathe full mekyll care;
His shulder bone was brokyne so,
That dyd hym twys so mekyll woo,
That he myght juste no mare.
“Syr,” quod Ipomadon,
“Syr, ye myght a lette me goone
And byn in peas langare.
He that moste ys manasand,
Hym selff hathe cause, I vnderstond,
Febly yf he fare!
466
Now shall thou ryde home to þe queneAnd yeld the to the lady shene:
I wott, thou arte her dere;
But, as god of heyven me spede,
Thus mayden wyth the shall þou not lede,
Ne noȝte ellys, that ys here.
A stede I hadde of thy broþer,
In fayth, now will I haue anoþur,
To kepe hem all this yere.
But say, I lede no more off thyne!”
“Nay, syr, be the trovthe off myne,
Dede I, wrong it were!
467
I wyght the nought, yf it be þus,Thus vnhape nedes haue me bus,
Thereffore wo worthe destonye!”
“Syr, thou shalt haue a littill hackeney,
159
Twesse so essely.
I wotte well, thou arte wondyd ille,
That hackeney, mayster, bryng hym tille,
This other you might ouer-hye,
So for an hurte man þer on to ryde,
And yf þou wilt thy lyff sheyde,
The better gothe wyth mee!”
468
“Certus, syr, I wyte the noughte,So worthy werkes as þou hathe wrought
Before this thre dayes;
I myght haue witten well inowgh,
Wyth sory grace I hedur drowgh,
That poynte no þinge me pays!
I myghte haue byn in peas langore,
Now laydes love grevythe me sore,
So dothe it hym, þat on hem layes;
My longe travayle is now in veyne,
They love, and but they be louyd ageyne [OMITTED]
469
I haue boughte her loue to dere,Me rewis the tyme, þat I come here,
So mot I borowed bene!”
Ipomadon sayd: “Syr, I praye the,
A thousand tyme recomaunde me,
When thou comyste to the quene,
And all, that I haue done wyth ille,
It shall be amendid at hur will,
Thou say so to þat lady shene!”
In his sadull they hym sett,
Whome he rode, wyth outen lette,
There fewe men wold hym meene.
470
The quene was euer more lokyng oute,But in hur herte euer had she dowte,
He shuld not come agayne.
So was she warre at the laste,
160
Alone on the playne.
His arme hyng waginge be his syde,
The blod ranne down fro his wondes wyde,
As hit was droppus off rayne.
“What, how now, syr?” quod the quene,
“Be your semblant it is sene,
Ye haue mett wyth drewlerayne!”
471
He sayd: “Certes, ye, madame!Mee had ben bytter, byne at hame,
That make I god avowe:
In a sory tyme for my behove
Youde I, to juste for my ladyes love,
Euer more that will me rowe!
Fro me he ledus younder mayden bright:
So wold he do for any knyght,
That dwelland is wyth you,
So worthy a man, as he is one:
Brokyne he hathe my shulder bone,
Full sore that greuythe me nowe!”
472
Grette worship spake he off hym pare,So dyd he neuer off no man are,
Syne he was borne to man;
To his chambyre sithen he went,
The quene in herte her sore repent
And wordes she began to banne,
Synne he was at her owne will,
That she ne had shewed hym þanne here will,
How will she louyd hym þanne;
Mornyng in hur hertte she bode.
Ipomadon his way forthe rode
Wyth the worship, he wanne.
473
Home to Poylle he þynkes to ryde,His cosyn ledynge be his syde,
Wyth outen anny tareynge;
161
Fowre barons off his land he mett,
Yche was a grett lordyng,
That many a day had hym sought
And straunge tydynges to hym brought,
That lykyd hys hertte right no thinge;
A tale to hym they beganne,
That dede was his fadur þanne,
Ermogynes, thee kyng.
474
When they saw Ipomadon,The barons were glad euery chone
And wyth hym turnes ageyne.
When he was comyn in to his londe,
Men send hym many a fayre presand,
And of hym they were full fayne;
Att Barlett, that riche citte,
Men brought hym omage & fewte,
The sothe is not to layne,
Right as they shuld do to þer lord;
He and his barons were sone acorde,
Knyght, squyere and swayne.
475
Ipomadon thynkes, it is no witte,In worshipe is not he growon yit,
Be aught, that he couthe see;
Farther þinkes he for to goo,
Aventurs for to seke moo
In many dyueres contre.
He þought, þat tyme shuld come above,
That he wyth worshipe shuld wyne love,
When it myght better bee.
Att home he wold no lengur abyde;
For to kepe his londes wyde,
A warden ordeyns hee.
476
In Fraunce, hard he say, was werre,Ipomadon dyd make redy his gere,
Thedur for to wende.
162
Was neuer knyght, sithe þis world beganne,
A more faythefull frend.
He badde his cosyne Egyone,
In to Callabre that he shuld goone,
To herkyne after that hende:
“In to Fraunce will I fare,
Thus twelffemonythe shalt þou fynd me þare,
Yff any man will her shend!”
477
Egyon wyndes to Callaber,Prevely after the fere to spere,
Ipomadon in to Fraunce,
Wythe hors & hernes grette plente,
And wyth hym went knyȝttes three,
He toke no more retenaunce,
Neyther lyke kyng ne emperoure,
But he rydythe lyke a sodyoure
Wyth armore, shyld and lavnce.
Where any dede off armys were,
The gre he wynnes euery where;
Betyde hym many a chaunce.
478
Att home he wold no lengur abyde.In Fraunce dwellyd a kyng that tyde,
That callyd was Catryus;
A younger broþer hadde he thenne,
That lord was off Lorene,
The storye wettnes thus;
That tyme men callyd hym kyng Dayre,
Off Loreayne he had weddyd the ayre,
The doughttur off Dryseus.
Att hym his broþer hadde envye,
Grette werre betwene them was, trewlye,
Defende hym nedes hym bvs.
479
She is dede, that was his wyff;Thereffore stabuld they not þere stryffe,
But gadurd grette powere.
163
And well his landes he gouerend þanne,
Bothe farre and nere;
His broþur wrought hym mekyll woo,
And grette parte off his landes also
Wyth warre he wanne þat yere,
And off his castels II or thre
He stuffud & held it wyth grett plente
Off men, that worthy were.
480
The kyng off Fraunce, in Paris he laye,Ipomadon that hard saye
And thedur gan he ryde;
He made his dwellyng wyth þe kyng,
Gladder was he neuer of þinge
In all thys world so wyde.
Wyth grette honoure there was hee,
The kyng beholdes his knyghttis thre
And all his folke that tyde;
Many off them he hadde sene before,
But he knewe them neuer þe more;
The glader he was to byde.
481
The kyng sent after his barons boldAnd bad them, counsell to hold,
To loke, how beste myghte bee
For his brothere, þat on hym werred,
And all hys londys grettly dered
Wyth knyghttes off grette bovnte;
And as they at the covnsell standes,
To Catryus came new tydandes,
That chaungyd all his ble:
His brother wyth XXXti thousand knyghttes,
Welle armyd att all righttis,
Were come before the ryche citte.
482
The kyng had many a noble man,But not halff so many, as he had þanne,
Therefore he was in dovte.
164
Sethyne oute of the citte þey paste,
A full ryall rowte.
Ipomadon was full glad & blythe,
Hym self dyd hym aray swythe
Vppon a stede full stovte;
He was the fyrste, that toke feld,
Clenly couered vnder shyld,
And bolde men hym abowte.
483
A nobull knyght, wyth owten les,To Ipomadon he hym chesse,
That was on Dayres syde;
Wythe a spere he to hym sought,
The sheld was good & faylyd novght,
There in the soket plyde.
Ipomadon strake to hym so faste,
The spere thorowe the sheld paste
Wyth a stroke, was vnryde;
The hawberke vnder was good & sovnde,
He bare hym streyte to the grovnde
Wyth manly herte that tyde.
484
Or any socur to hym ys comyn,Ipomadon had his suravns nomyn,
Thow he grette rewthe hade;
Wyth owten reskew off any man
The knyght to hym yeldis hym thanne,
Where of he was full glade;
Ipomadon saythe to hym fayre,
Sethen he sent hym to kyng Dayre:
“Goo tell thy lord,” he bade,
“The blake knyght now he maye se here,
That justyd in Calabyre for the fere,
That made hym onys vnglad!”
485
The kyng off Fraunce & all his menTrewly was awonderd þenne,
When they had sene that sight;
165
Off tresone dred they them than for thy,
Them thowght, he ded not righte:
There was neuer knyghte, sithe þis world began,
That better wrought, then he dyd than,
He forsyd hym so to fyghte.
The kyng off Fraunce, in armys clere
Ipomadon he heldythe hym nere,
He saw, he was so wyghte.
486
The kyng Dayre had mekill care,When he wyste the blake knyghte þare,
Wyth sorow in hertte his he wovnde,
For wele he thought, & it not for hym be,
He shuld off Fraunce have grette plente
That day wyth sworde haue wonne.
Wonder-stronge was þat store,
There dyed many a man sore
Be rysynge of the sonne,
And gevyn was many a stroke vnryde:
What knyght off Dayres durste abyde,
He hathe his felowe founde.
487
Dayres was a noble man off werre,He dyght hym lyghttly in his gere
And in to the pres gan pryke,
And wyth hym many a well good knyght,
The frenshe folke, wyth mekyll myghte
In thwerte wyles they were wyke.
Ipomadon so worthely wroughte,
That bothe sydys grett wondur þought,
So styff men gan he stryke;
Where he went on any syde,
Was none, that durst his dent abyde,
So was he wonder-wyke.
488
There was non, that peryd to Ipomadon,Inwerre he was so wyce a mon,
Todo hit euery deell;
166
Bothe to ryde wyth shyld & spere
And to weld a swerde off stele.
So many off Dayres men he slowe,
That the kyng wepte & had sorow inowe
Wyth sykyng and vnsele;
He layde on faste on euery syde,
All his folke had fled that tyde,
But that he dyd so welle.
489
The kyng Dayre had þere be sydeA castell stovffed in Fraunce þat tyde,
And thedur he can hym drawe;
Two hundyrd knyghttes there fovnde oute,
Ipomadon met so wyth that rowte,
That many he layd full lawe.
This nobull knyght, as he well covthe,
An olywhantes horne he sett to mowthe
And lowde began to blawe;
The knyghttes, that were strowyd wyde,
To hym drawes on euery syde
Redy and on a rawe.
490
Barons vnder stedys fettLay hevely gronynge on the grete,
And many there lyvys had lorne,
Ryche hawberkes all torente,
Barnys bledand on the bente,
There shuldurs on sovnder shorne;
They presud to gedyr so grette repayre,
That at the laste kyng Dayre
Vnto the erthe was borne;
His stede agayne was to hym fette;
Tho he was in the sadull sette,
Wyght men hathe hym worne.
491
Ipomadon wroughte full worthely,There at Dayre had grett envye
And lyghttly to hym wanne;
167
That bothe plate & hawbrake brake,
By his syde the sokett ranne,
But no harme in the fleshe it dyde,
God wold not, that it betydde.
So strettly he stroke hym þanne:
Ipomadon, to the grounde hym bare,
That wors hap betyde hym neuer yare,
Sethe he was fyrste a man.
492
That was no thynge long on hym,Vp he sterte wyth hertte grymme
And oute his swerd he drowghe,
Wyth the tone hand his brydull he toke,
And wyth the tother hand, as tellyþe the boke,
He fendyd hym well inovghe.
The prese aboute hym come so faste,
His horse brake fro hym at the laste
And goos vp on a clowgh;
The chyld, that shuld hym serue thare,
Therefore he had so mekyll care,
That nere he fell in swoughe.
493
Ipomadon favghte so faste,The blode thorow the browes braste,
Off all the riche raye,
Knyghttes full thyke abowte hym wendes,
And he grettly them defendes,
The sertayne sothe to say;
There was non, þat he hitt,
That longe myght in his sadull sitt,
He sterryd as bere at baye;
He smote so steffly hym abowte,
Off his strokys they hadde suche dowete,
That many on fled away.
494
Grette sorow his chyld had,That his mayster on foote was stade,
Fyghttand wonder-faste;
168
And in the feld wyth playne fors
He toke hym att the laste;
Glader was he neuer of dede,
To his mayster he dyd hym lede,
A lowde crye vp he caste.
Ipomadon drawys to hym warde,
He hew on there helmes harde,
That the blod thorowe the browes braste.
495
Ipomadon was neuer so fayne,As when his stede was brought agayne,
Lyghtly vp he lepe.
Fresly fendes hym assayled now,
Off his steropus, as I trowe,
He toke but littull kepe:
Suche strokys þen he sette,
The moste myghtty as he mett,
He made there wyffes to wepe.
Knyghttes in the feld lay strewed,
There neke bonys in sundere hewed
Wyth many a wounde full depe.
496
His felowes was sory euery chone,That tyme they wend, Ipomadon,
He hadde byn loste them froo;
The presse aboute hym was so thyke,
There wend noo wyghte, he had byn quyke,
Therefore they were full woo.
The rowte, to reskewe hym, wolde ryde;
So stravnge was that stoure that tyde,
They myghte not to hym goo;
When they saw hym fyrste agayne,
The kyng of Fraunce was full fayne
And many othere moo.
497
Mervelys you not for thy,Thow Ipomadon was wery,
So harde he gan hym to melle!
169
Harder besette, then were thare,
That darre I trewly tell.
Many a man in feld laye slone,
But off them all Ipomadon
Off bounte bare the bell.
Dayres blew an horne that tyde,
His knyghttes relyd on euery syde,
That were bothe fers and fell.
498
There at Ipomadon was wrothe,Thow he were wery, there he gothe,
He crakes many a crowne;
The inner syde euery dell
Was comfortyd of hym wonder-well,
As bere ay was he boune;
He hewe in sunder helme & schelde
And feld many worthy knyghttes in feld,
That were off grette renowne,
Many swonyd and lay in sweme;
Kynge Dayre, hym selff that tyme
Efte sonys he was borne downe.
499
Knyghttes, to reskew hym, wold thyder ryde,They prekyd many a stede that tyde
Spetowsly wyth sporys;
Ther is no other þing to ax,
But he, that moste worthy waxe
And moste off bounte beres; [OMITTED]
Wyth mekyll woo wele they weste,
To the kyng they socourde at þe leste
Wyth strokes, that many a man deris.
500
Dayres folke wyth grette doloureWere turnyd to dyscomfetture,
Oute of the feld they flede.
The kyng of Fraunce folowyd faste
And made many a man full gaste,
Before that day wer neuer adred.
170
Slayne there was many a noble man,
That Dayres thedyr ledde.
They speryd the gates, þat were wyth in,
To sege wyth oute they begynne;
Thus Dayres men bale they brede.
501
They pyght pavelyons off pryde,To kepe that hold on euery syde,
That non shuld essu oute;
Ipomadon wyth good chere
Sett his tent the kyng nere,
Well borderyd all abowte.
So worthely wrought he þat daye,
Dayres, that wyth in laye,
Off hym hade mekill dowte.
Righte wyse he was, wyth outen lesse,
To be his mesengeres, he chesse
Stille men and not stovte,
502
Off his barons many one,He sent them to Ipomadon,
As he, that wold be frende:
“And specyally ye shall hym praye,
He helpe, to brynge, as he, þat may,
This grette debate to ende;
And on that comnaunte I will hym gyff
Halff my kyngdome, while I leve,
My doughtter fayre & hende!”
The mesengers were full wyse,
They waytyd, where the knyght lyse,
And to his tent they wende.
503
They dyd there message welle & fayre,They tolde hym all of the kyng Dayre,
That them thedyr sente;
They prayed hym, that he wold be frend
And sythen to the kyng of Fraunce wend
Be rightwys jugemente
And helpe, to make a good acorde
171
That no men were shent:
“On that comnaunte he hight þe þe fayre,
Here, that he thynkes to make his ayre,
His doughtter bothe fayre & gent.”
504
Right wyse was Ipomadon;He sayd to the barons ychone:
“His doughtter were me dere:
Syr, to yowre lorde graunt mercy,
That he wold shewe me þat curtessy,
Worthy yf that I were;
But never the lesse say hym agene,
All Fraunce yf he wille quyte clene,
Bothe towne & castell in fere,
And to the kyng omage make,
This message I vndertake
Wyth a noble chere.
505
His doughttur gladly have I wold,Grette good of her I haue hard told:
That is to me but a trayne!”
“Nay, syr,” sayd the mesengere,
“That dare we boldely hight you here,
As we be sauyd frome payne,
On bookys & sawters for to swere,
Neuer after to do you dere,
Fro that they be frendes agayne!”
Ipomadon to the kyng gan wend
And told hym all þat tale to ende;
Thereof was he full fayne.
506
The mesengers was full gladOff the answers, that þey hadde,
They foundyd on the felde;
When they come to the castell
And to there lord this tale can tell,
They sayd: “Syr, this berys you belde [OMITTED]
Kyng Dayre, on the morne
172
And omage gan hym yelde.
507
Brode bokes were brought oute thanne,To swere the kyng Dayre began
Wyth many a barone bolde,
That he shuld neuer stere ne stryve;
No more he dyd in all his lyve,
For the trouthe had he tolde.
This acorde is made fayre,
Ipomadon shuld wedde his eyre
Wyth halff his lond in wolde.
Joyefull was that maydon fre,
But I trowe, by my lewte,
That comnaunde will not holde.
508
Off hym the damysell was glade,For in the towre sene she hadde,
How dowȝttly he dydde.
He gaff so many a grette strake,
She wend, hit had byn for hyr sake,
That suche maystres he kyde;
There by she thought, he louyd here well:
To wedde hyr thought he neuer a dell,
For oftyne tymes has bytydde
And sayd off long tyme agoone,
That on the bushe bettes one,
A nothere man hathe the bryde.
509
Then the kyng of Fraunce thankyd hym thanOff the grette worshipe, þat he hym wanne,
And sayd: “Be god alonne,
Better, than ye dyd yestyrday,
Dydde neuer no man, I dare wel say,
That was made of blode & bonne!
In the reame of Fraunce I will the geve
Lond inowȝe, there on to leve,
And castels styff of ston,
For, as I haue happe or sell,
173
Hym thankyd Ipomadon.
510
Sethe after, when they suppud hadeAnd euery man was blyth & glad,
The kyng began to spere,
Where he was borne & what he hatte:
“I wold right gladly witte that,
I praye you, tell me, ser!”
“Sertes, that may I not do yet,
But here aftur shall you witte,
Synne ye this matter stere!”
The kyng saw, he began to layne,
He wold no farþer of hym frayne,
He was the curtysere.
511
Whan that the lordes leve hathe tane,Ipomadon to his inne is gone;
The nyght comythe nere.
His mayster Thalamewe he callde
And all his matter he hym talde
Wyth a full sympull chere:
“Mayster, I haue hight the kyng Dayre,
To wedde his doughtter & his eyre [OMITTED]
Be grette god, that hathe me wroughte,
Love be reysone may I noughte
No woman but the fere!
512
And þerfore, what so euer any man says,Hors and harnes makes redy all weys
For goddes love, I you praye!
My waye att mydnyȝte will I wend:
But yff I shuld bryng þis to an ende,
Hit wold me rewe for aye!”
His mayster dyd his comaundement;
Ipomadon his way is went
Beffore the sprynge of day,
The kyng he left & all his folke bedene.
174
The knyght was clene awaye.
513
When this was told to the kyng,So sorye was he neuer off thyng
Syne the tyme, that he was borne.
The mayden sighed & sayd alas [OMITTED]
That she so hyr love had lorne;
This long day no tome I had,
To tell the sorow, that they made,
When they hym myssyd on þe morne;
Off all them moste mornyd the maye,
That Ipomadon was þus went away
Bothe wyth hounde & wyth horne.
514
Thus tede hym þare a sely chaunce:Att the essuynge oute of Fraunce
He mettes wythe Egyon,
That come walkynge hym agayne,
His herte lepud vp for fayne,
When he sawe Ipomadon;
Well he thought, tydynges he brought,
But what they were, it wyst he nouȝte,
Euyne to hym is he goone;
His mayster fayre haylyd hee:
“Welcome, cosyne, mot thou bee,
Be god, þat is but one!”
515
“Egyone, what saye ye, ser?When come ye oute of Calebere?”
“There haue I byn to yere!”
“What tydynges þere, so mot þou goo?”
“Sum ar good & sum not soo!”
“Why, how faris the fere?
Telle me how it stondythe wyth here:
Hathe she an husbond?” “Nay, ser,
And she had, wrong it were!”
“I trow, she hathe!” “I say you, nay!”
“How is it thanne?” “I shall you saye!”
“Tell on good, now lett here!”
175
516
“Off body she is in querte,But grett sorowe she hathe in hertte,
I say you securlye!”
“Alas, cosyn, why is it soo?”
“For one is comyne, that workes hir woo,
Wyth a rewde companye:
Her barons grettly hathe byn noyede,
On euery syde her landes stroyede
Wythe warre & wyth grette envye;
He hathe suerly sworne his othe,
He wylle hyr wedde, be hyr leff or lothe,
And haue that fayre ladye.
517
Before Candres, that riche towne,There hathe he pyght his pavelyon,
And there he thynkes to byde,
Tille he haue wyth good or ille
Wonne that lady to his will,
Or waste he wille her londys wyde,
Or whether he may take in hand,
Sone to conquere all her lande,
So is his rowte vnryde;
But so mekyll he truste hym selvyn in,
That man for man he will her wynne.
Thus is on lowde dyscryde.
518
The knyght stode in a stody stille,Men wyste nere hand noþur good ne ille,
So grette sygh on hym soughte.
A long while no worde he spake,
He thought, hys herte asonder brake
For the tydynges, that were broughte.
Thow hit were wekely, at the laste
Wyth a worde oute he braste:
“Fro whens he come, wot þou ought?”
“Certes, syr, oute of Ynde Mayore,
He is the sonne of Alamadure,
That wonderffull werkes hathe wroght!”
176
519
“Egyon, hard thow ought betold,Whedur that he is young or old?”
“Nay, syr, he is but yinge!”
“Ys he fayre?” “Nay, certes, he,
A fowler man ther may non be
Ne more vncomely thyng:
Hys hed ys row wyth feltred here,
Blake brysteld as a bore,
His browys full they hynge
Wyth longe tethe, I warand yow,
Euery lype, I dare avowe,
Hyngyth lyke a blode puddynge!
520
This dare I sauerly make a sethe,His nose towchys on his tethe,
His mothe wrythis all way,
Blake as any peche hys face,
As two dobelers euery eye he hathe,
Wyth gorget gret & gray;
His berde as pyche ys blake,
His body hathe an euyll smake,
The vesnamy fovle, I saye,
Neke as an ape, nebe as an owle:
In all this worlde ys none so fovle,
This dare I sauerly say!
521
Tyll he hyre haue, he will not fyne!”“What it his name?” “Syr Lyolyne:
No man of myȝte ys more;
In all Calabyre is not a knyȝht,
That agayne hym onys dare fyght,
Grett sorow hathe sche therefore;
He hathe sworryn, so god hym saue,
That ouer wyth hym he will here haue
In to Ynde Maiore!”
“In faythe, than wolde I be full woo,
I truste to god, þat he schall goo,
Blakkere more then a bore.
[Ded I, grette wronge it were.]
177
522
“But, Egyon, may I come be tyme?”“Ye, syr, and ye wille nott lyne,
That wotte I well, ye maye!”
“Ye, dere cosyn, trowyst thou so?”
“Ye, syr, for betwene them twoo
Ys sett a sartayne daye,
That other she mvste fynde a knyght,
To kepe hyr fro that cursyd wyght,
Or wyth hym goo her waye!”
Ipomadon askyd wyth egur wille:
“How longe, Egyon, is þer tille?”
“A monethe, syr, I saye!”
523
He callyd his mayster ThalameweAnd told hym all his tale for trewe:
“Hit is wars, thenne I wende!
Mayster, there is but one to chese,
My loue to wynne or to lesse
For euer wyth outen ende:
Glade be I neuer in my lyff,
Yeff he shuld wedde hyr to wyff;
But I there that fere defende,
Hit will turne me to ouer-mekill care;
But well were me, & I were thare,
That none in erthe me kend!
524
Hit is not long, sithe I there juste,And wynde I thether, nedes I mvste
Be knowen wyth the fere.
In Cesille, there byn nobull knyghtes be kende,
I wotte wele, they will thedyr send
To kyng Mellengere,
For sum man to do this rayne:
Might I hit gett, I wold be fayne,
To saue that lady clere!
Agayne I will in to Cesille,
But we mvst cast vs of sum while,
That we ne knowen were!”
178
525
“Syr, that were right good to doo!”“Grette mystur of socoure hathe sho
And I wold helpe hur fayne!”
Wyth oute any more abode
In to Cesille forthe þey rode
The gates, þat moste were gayne.
Wyth oute the citte of Palerne
They lyght adowne in a dale so derne,
The sothe is not to layne.
Ipomadon sayd: “Be my lewte,
A fole may welle I be,
To begile them wyth a trayne!”
526
He made his mayster to cotte his hore,Hye behynde & lowe before,
Wondyr-ille faringlye;
A blake, soty sheld he gate,
VII yere before, I wott well þat,
Hit had hange vp to drye;
An old, rustye swerd he hadde,
His spere was a plowgh gade,
A full vnbryght brynie;
Vpon the to legge a brokyn bote,
A rente hose on the other foote,
Two tatrys hangyng bye.
527
His helme was not worthe a bene,His hors myght vnnethe goo for lene,
Hit was an old crokyd mere;
An vncomely sadull behynde seker.
His brydull was a wrethe wekyr,
Off othere rekkes he nere:
“Mayster, ye muste to the citte fare
And prevely take youre inne thare,
That no man wit, what ye ere!”
Thalamewe dyd his comaundement,
Ipomadon to the courte is went,
Ille farand was hys gere.
179
528
The kyng was newly sett to mette,The quene and other ladyes grette
And knyghttes many one;
Ipomadon amonge them all
Come rydyng in to the hall
His crokyd mere vppon;
So shortte his steroppus leddurs wore,
His knes stode halff a foote & more
Abovyn his horsis mane;
Crokand wyth his backe he raade,
Off his attyre wonder they hade,
Knyghttes bigge off bonne.
529
His horsse was wondyr-harde of lere,Wyth sporres and wand he stroke the mere,
He beyttys on her bonys,
And euer the fastur that he dang,
The more softlye wold she gange,
She wold not stere on the stonys.
There knyves oute of there handes gan fall,
Wyth so good will lowȝe they all,
That were wyth in that wonis;
To lawȝing made he no semblande,
There was non, a coppe myght hold in hand,
So lowȝe they all att onys.
530
Abowte hem he began to stareIn euery hyrone here and thare,
Halff wood as he were;
Knyghttes att his attyre lowȝe
And sum off them was ferd inowgh,
Ladyes chaungyd þere chere.
Thowȝ it were long, yet at þe laste
A worde of fowlie oute he caste:
“God loke the, Mellengere!
I am the best knyght vnder shild,
There no man better comythe in the feld,
That bought þou onys full dere!”
180
531
“When was that?” quod the kyng.“Wotte þou not?” “Naye, no thynge!”
“Syr, no more wott I!”
Then all men vp a lavȝtter caste,
That nere there herttes asounder breste,
Bothe on benche & bye.
Ipomadon sayd after thate
To the quene, there she satte:
“God loke you, fayre lady!
Madame, that haue ye sene,
That ye wold full blyth haue bene,
To kys vs curteslye!”
532
The quene wax rede for shame,The kyng sayd: “Is it thus, madame?”
“Syr, I sawe hym neuer are!”
“Foule,” quod Cananeus thanne,
“I praye the, were was þat & whanne?”
“A, syr, are ye thare?
I can nott tell, verelye, what day,
But on the lond, I hope, ye laye
And loste your hors euery hare!”
“When was that? I wott no why!”
“No, in faythe, no more wott I!”
Then lewgh bothe lesse & more.
533
“Syr kyng, yff it be thy wille,I praye the, make these folke be stille,
That janglys thus lyke a gaye!
So worthy, as I am one,
Vnder heyven, I trowe, is none,
Where freke men fleys awaye.
I hate pease and louye the werre:
Thou may see be my glyttrand gere
And be my riche araye!
So good, as I, maye no man bee,
And yff thou wylte wythhold mee,
Herke, whatt I shall seye!
181
534
Iff I dwell, wyth outen fayle,Thow mvste graunte me the fyrste battayle,
That is askyde off thee,
And yff me lykys, I will fighte,
And yff me lykes not, be þus lyght,
Turne my bake & flee!”
The kynge to laughe myght not fyne:
“I shall the graunt the fyrste deryne,
And thow wylte byde and bee!”
Ipomadon sayd: “Syr, it is but lawe!”
Then all men lewȝ & sayd þer sawe:
“A noble foule is he!”
535
He faryd, as he were wrothe inowȝhe,That they hym to skorne lewȝe,
And he sayd in that halle:
“I praye god, gyff you all myschaunce,
When ye makythe any destaunce
Or foule shuld me call,
But the kyng, wyth outen dowte;
In faythe I take no mo wyth oute,
Not one among you all,
But yff it be my lady, the quene,
For the grette love, that betwen vs hath bene!”
Then lowȝe bothe grette & small.
536
“Syr,” quod Canoneus thanne,“I redde, you wythhold this man,
I shall say you, for why:
So noble a foule, as þus is,
Among men dothe good, iwys,
When herttes byne ofte hevye!
Att there wordes is mekyll merthe,
Many tyme they slake the wrethe:
Wythhold hym for thye!”
Ipomadon sore angurd was,
But neuer the lesse he lett it passe,
That none parsevyd there bye.
182
537
“Cananeus, att my skole,In faythe, ye held me for no fole,
When ye laye on the lande!”
“When was þat, I yow praye?”
“I can not verely tell the daye,
Whedur hit were pul or pande!
That tyme the quene louyd me wele
And I agayne her neuer a dele,
In faye, yff she me faunde!”
They lowȝe all, bothe lesse & more,
They sayd: “To wette, when þat it wore,
Ys righte a good demaunde!”
538
Syr Segamus sayd: “When was þat?”“A, syr, when ye had a squate,
I am avysud nowe;
What day it was, I am not graythe!”
Segamus sayd: “Syr, no, in faythe,
No more am I, I trowe!”
“Syr kyng, where is Cabanus?
Serttes, I were not taryd thus,
Had he byn here wyth yowe:
And he wyste what I wore,
I trowe, it wold myrthe hym more,
Than oþere oxe or cowe.
539
For onys I made hym adred,That fro my handes faste he fled,
But I wott neuer, what daye!”
There all men lovghe on hee
And sayden: “In faythe, no more wot wee,
Savely darre we saye!”
“Good syr, when?” quod Maunstus;
“Sen me nedis tell you bvs:
On the lande when ye laye,
And I my sellff downe you bare!”
Then lowȝe bothe lesse and more,
They sayd: “That ys no naye!”
183
540
Cabanus, the sothe to sey,Was on huntyng all that daye
And wyste no thyng off thys.
“Have done, syr kyng, I praye the,
Yff thou wilt wythhold mee,
Ellis I dwell not, iwis!
Wyste þou, what maystres I covthe make,
My service wold thou not forsake,
As haue I joye and blis!
Lordes, knyghttes, praythe for me nowe:
What deell, is þer no helpe at yowe?
Why sayes none off you yis?”
541
Lowde he cryde on the quene:“In faythe, madame, that day hathe been,
Ye wold for me haue prayed,
And so I trow, ye wold doo yett,
But all a far fro þe am I flyte,
That makythe you all afrayde!”
At hym they all had joye inowȝe,
The quene at his wordes lough
And to the kynge she sayd:
“Syn I have louyd hym, I moste
Praye for hym nedes coste,
Yff ye wold hold you payde!”
542
All men prayes for hym so faste,The kyng hym grauntyd at þe laste;
Then at the fyrste he lyghte:
“My hors my sellff kepe I will!”
He sayd: “Come hedyr to me, gille!”
Then loughe they all arighte.
He shovyd the waykyr wyth his arme,
Euery man sayd: “It were grett harme,
And we had forgone this sighte!”
Emydys the floure he made his sete;
Wyth trenchours & wyth brokyne mete
They sayld that noble knyghte!
184
543
Thus is he kept, for his folyeMore, then for his chevalrye,
Thowe he were breme as bore;
Were he neuer off hertte so bold,
A foule amonge them they hym hold,
His plesure was the more.
But ofte is sayd be men of skole,
Many man callys anoþer a foole,
Well sought yff it wore,
Hym sellff in suche a chaunce myȝte be,
He is twys so moche foule as hee:
In faythe, so fell it thore!”
544
Hee satte and fedde hym faste inowȝe,Att his araye lowde they lowȝe,
The knyghttes all beedene;
Syn that he was so noble a man,
Wyth sobur hert suffyrd he thanne,
For loue hys care ys kene.
Yff he shuld his love forgonge,
Me thynke, men dyd hym mekill wronge,
So mot I borowed been!
As he satte etand in the floore,
Come rydyng in at the dore
A worthy wyghte, I wene.
545
Apon a palfreye white as mylke,In a sadull all off sylke,
The sege off rewell bone,
The trapoure well ordayned þere,
Frette aboute wyth gold so dere,
In the world was better non.
Here gyte was velvet to her feete,
Hyr syrkote, syngell it was for heete,
Besett wyth many a stone;
Her mantell all of red sendell;
That araye become her well,
As the sonne hyr coloure shone.
185
546
They thought, was non of ble so bryght,Here beheld bothe kynge & knyght,
And in there herttes they þoughte,
That thay myghte have slepte her bye
The wynturs nyghte vtterlye,
Yff too in one were broughte.
The maydon wysse and witty was,
Before the hye bord she gaas,
To othere lyght she noughte;
A yard of gold in hand she bare.
As sone as she come thare,
Off socure she besoughte.
547
She sayd: “Þou worthy kyng of price,In whome grette witte & wysdome lyse,
Herkyne, whate I shall saye:
Your nece of Calabyre, that lady clere,
Ys bovnden wyth a fendes fere,
That wastythe here landes all way;
She besekes you off youre grace,
That ye will helper in this casse
Wythe sum man, that maye [OMITTED]
548
Syr, she hathe not in her handWyth oute Candres a foote of land,
A fend it hathe dystroyed.
In all Calabere is knyght non,
That darre fyght wyth hym alonne,
So is the fende vnryde;
He hathe sworne, so god me save,
Till his wyff he will heere haue,
Soo hathe that sot porveyde;
But she maye fynde a knyghte kende,
Fro that fende her to defende,
She is vtterly dystroyde.
549
The kyng sayde to þat mayden syne:“What is his name?” “Syr Lyolyne,
186
For he hathe sworne, so god hym save,
That hom wyth hym he will her haue
In to Ynde Mayore.
A fortenyght hens the day is sette,
That she mvste fynde wyth owten lette
A man, to fyghte here fore!”
Off all them, that satt at the borde,
Was non, that answerd a word,
Nothere lesse ne more.
550
There off the kyng asorowed was,The maydon syghed & sayd: “Alas,
Why says non off you novght?
So worthy knyghttes, as here ben manye,
Syr, shall I haue helpe off anye?
In bale ellys be we broughte!”
Was there none, a worde answerde þer till,
The mayden wepte and gaff hyr ille,
She sayd: “Nowe I se vnsoughte,
My travayle hedyr is all in vayne!”
Full well Ipomadon knew Imayne,
To helpe hur hathe he thoughte.
551
He stertte vp att the lasteAnd wordis off foly forthe he caste:
“In faythe, now I am fayne!
Syr kyng, as I haue happe or selle,
My comyng hedyr me lykythe well,
For this is my denare bayne:
Thow graunte me before hande
The fyrste poynte, that fell in þat londe,
The sothe is not to layne;
And syr, yf thou saye, I leȝ,
Have here my hand, to fyght wyth þe!”
Hym beholdys Imayne.
552
“Do away, foole, for god avowe,It is no tyme, to jape, nowe,
187
“No, damysell, goo forthe thy waye,
In faythe, I shall be there þat day,
How so euer I come thedur!”
“Alas, I turne,” sche sayd to Melengere,
“Sertes, and I gette no helpe here,
To goo, I wot neuer, whedyre!”
Thowȝe she made neuer so muche moone,
They satte all stille, as anny stone,
The kynge and all to gedur.
553
“Allas, syr kyng, why do ye thus?Where is gentill Cabanus,
That is so mekill a knyght?
Hadde he byn here, so god me save,
Some helpe of hym yet shuld I have,
As he my lady hathe hight!”
There was non, a worde answerd agayne,
Here hors hedde turned Imayne
And wepand went þat wyght
Streghte oute off the hall dore;
Ipomadon knelythe downe in the flore
Before them all in syght:
554
“Graunte me this reyne, I the praye!”The kyng sayd: “Foule, goo forthe thy waye,
I se the holden no man!”
“Syr, haue her my hande, I will!”
He sayd: “Come heder to me, gyll!”
And lyghttly vpe he wanne;
To his inne is he goone,
A better coote he dyd vpone,
Thanne euer his dame hym spanne,
Better shyld & better spere,
An helme, his hedde wyth to were,
A stede he lepe on thanne.
555
A thredbare tabard full of raggis,An old hoode revyn wyth jagges
188
For all men hym a fole shuld hold,
Thow he off hertt was neuer so bold,
Hym thought, hit was the best.
A sotye sheld on his shulder he bare,
His spere, as a raste it were,
There on a soket feste.
Vnder was he armyd well,
Aboven ill farande euery dell,
As wyttenesse here be weste.
556
He sent his hors & harneysTo Calabyr another wayes,
His mayster and his page,
His knyghttes & all his oþer meyne:
“Goo, byde me, mayster, for charyte,
Att the ermytage!
So prevely ye you bere,
That non other witte, whate ye were,
I dwell but littull stage!”
Right as he bad, his mayster dyd,
Wyth in the thyke wood they them hyde,
Wyth oute any more owterage.
557
So faste hyes Ipomadon,The maydon he hathe ouertone,
Mornand euer she rade;
A dwarffe kepythe her in þe wayes
Bothe hyr hors & hur harneys,
Att the towne end hur bade,
And whan he saw, she wept so faste,
Wyth sorofull countenaunce he her aste,
What answere that she hadde.
“In faythe, syr, helpe gett wee none here:
Allas, that euer kyng Mellengere
My ladye so mekyll of hathe made!
558
When I had all my tale told,There was non, that answere wold,
189
But an old naturall fole
Sterte vp, when he se me make suche dole,
And carpud wordes kene;
He sayd, thus battayle shuld be his:
So fayre a fole, so haue I blysse,
Haue I but seldone sene!
Loo, where he comys, now may ye see!”
The dwarff sayd: “For gode, yound he be?”
“Ye, the same, that I off mene!
559
I praye the, byd hym turne agayne!”“Nay, in trowthe, Imayne,
Than fayle I curtassye!
Thow he be not all the wyseste wyght,
I wold, he myghte ouercome the knyght
Bee his grette folye!
Lett hym come & hold his cowrsse,
The waye is his as well as ours:
What grevythe vs, he ryde vs bye?
Why shuld I lett hym of his gate?”
The maydone began to chyde þer at
And wendyth forthe for thy.
560
Hur owne hors hedde agayne she droweAnd cryde on hym long inowȝe
Wyth a sterne stevyne:
“Turne agayne, þou, belamye,
I kepe not of thy companye,
Nothere for to deye nor to levyn!”
“Maydone,” quod Ipomadon,
“I praye þe, lett thy wordes alonne,
For his love, that sittes in hevyn,
For wele thou wottes, & þou wylt say,
The fere hathe louyd me many a day,
But that is not to nevyn!”
561
Imayne to the dwarffe sayd:“Now may thou see, þou art payd
190
“Ye, for to gette them losse & prise,
Men make them folys, that byn wyse
And off full grette renowene:
Lett hym come, he may do well!”
“Wyth me be god & sent Myghell,
He shall not truse of towne!
I wold be drowned in a pole,
Or I ouer land shuld ledde a fole,
Be god, that sittis abovne!”
562
“Well ye wot, damysell,The fere of long hathe lovyd me well,
Thow it not knowen bee!”
“I praye god, send hym sorowe vnsought,
That wot, whether she love þe or not;
Syr, I say for mee;
Well I trowe, fro she þe knowe,
Lyttill love she will the shewe!”
“Yes, damysell!” quod he,
“She lovythe me more, so mot I thryve,
Then all the men, that ar on lyve,
Synne the laste tyme she me see!”
563
“When was that, syr, I the praye!”“I can not, verely, tell that day,
Madame meke & mylde!”
Wyth oute any more abode
To gedyr flytand forthe they rode,
Bothe be fyrthe & fild.
Wounder-hoote shonne þe sonne,
Imayne hathe an while fonde
And thought hym to haue begyld;
Fro hur palfray she lyght downe,
The dwarff pyght hyr pavelyoun,
Ipomadon hovyd & smyld.
564
Syne he lyght a littell þer bye,The dwarffe cowthe of curtessye
191
Therefore was Imayne wrothe inowȝhe;
A littell fro hym to a bovgh
He raynd his stede;
His helme of for heet he toke
And as a fole his hedde he shoke
And sayd: “So mot I spede,
Iff me be happe, lyff to haue,
I shall the quyte, so god me save,
All this grette foredede!”
565
The dwarff prayes the maydon bryght,That she wold to her calle the knyght,
That semys bold to bene;
“I praye god, fowle mot me befall,
Yf I a fole shuld to me calle,
Whatte! We dotte, I wene!”—
Go we now to Lyelyne,
That hathe a knyght to his cosyn,
That wyde is knowe for kene;
Many a tyme he gan hym payne,
To praye his lord for Imayne,
That maydon bright & shene.
566
He prayes so herttly & so faste,He grauntes hym Imayn at the laste;
Thus man, that hight Maugis,
Welle he wyste, that maydon clere
Off messavge was to Mellengere,
There on he hadde good spyes.
He waytyd hyr homwardes the way,
And he come rydand, sothe to say,
Evyn where Imayne lyes;
The maydon was wery & slept faste,
But wyth a grett noyse at the laste
She woke and vp gan ryse.
567
“Well fovnde, mayde Imayne,Vpon your palffrey ye lepe agayne
192
For, trewly, lady, ye are myne,
Gyvyn off my lord, syr Lyolyne!”
Than was Imayne woo:
“Syr, that were grett outerage,
Gyff I were mayd of my message:
For goddes loue, lette me goo!”
“It nedes not, to make þis mone:
Whether ye lyke or none,
In faythe, it shall be soo!”
568
Then as an aspleff she quoke,Vppon the dwarff gan she loke
Wyth angur and syghyng syne;
Ipomadon sittes and lokes them two:
“Syr, what wylte thou wyth þat maydon doo?
In faythe, she bees not thyne!
Lette hyr sitte there by syde
And home agayne, I rede the, ryde
To syr Lyolyne,
And byde that lord, in oþure wyse
Reward the for thy long seruyce,
For, in faythe, thou shalt here tyne!”
569
His brokyne wede behelde he fasteAnd sayd full lygttly at the laste:
“Thou nyce fole, sitt stille!
Yff thou will foors, her to defende,
For euer thou shalt fele my hende,
Have here my trough there till!”
“Syr, off a cause I cowpe thee,
A fole now thou calyste mee:
That shall thou lyke full ille!
The more foule of vs to shall
Wyth in a shorte whyle have a falle!”
His helme he takyth hym tille.
570
His shylde in cavtell kyst he þanAnd lyghttly on his stede he wane,
193
Wyth oute any more abode
Thus II knyghttes to geddyr rode
Be worthenes of werre.
Maugis sett his stroke so faste,
The spere þorow the shyld paste,
But vnder it dede no dere;
So sternely stroke Ipomadon,
In two he stroke his shulder bone,
And downe he gan hym bere.
571
Ipomadon lefte not þat knyght,Tille he hadde trewly his trovthe plyght,
Though hym were lothe there too,
That he shuld ryde home to Lyolyne:
“And say, the mayden ys not thyne,
In peas for the may she goo,
Wyth joye they heldyn forthe þer jorneye!
And also, syr, thou shalt hym saye,
As thow haue reste or roo:
The fere wyth oute grette battayle
Shall not come to his spousayle,
For nought, that he can doo!
572
But, syr, so god of hevyn me spede,Behynde the thow shalt leve thy stede,
I wyll the say, for why:
Wetly wondyd, I trow, thou bee,
But thou shall haue, to bere the,
Thus lyttill lowe rouncy!”
In his sadull they hym sett,
He rewes, that euer she wyth hym mette,
His arme hynge babelyng bye;
Thus hathe he toke his leve and ys gone.
To the dwarff sayd Ipomadon:
“I have made grette maystrye,
573
Gevyn away thy littill hors,But neuer the lesse mak þerof no fors,
194
I praye the, thow be not stravnge,
I gyff the this for the better chavnge,
So god of hevyn me spede!”
The dwarffe was neuer ere so fayne:
“Damysell,” he sayd to Imayne,
“Have ye not sene this dede?
That man was neuer vnder þe mone,
That more dowtly myghte have done!”
“Ye, syr, well worthe ys he of mede!”
574
“Hade ye langeare agayn hym drevyn,We shuld wyth this knyght have strevyn
Right nowe, this ys no naye!
Then shulde ye not this VII yere
Have done this message to the fere:
That wolde have greuyd vs aye!”
To the dwarffe heft sonys sayd sho:
“I se well, gyftes may mekyll doo,
Be hym, that all welde maye! [OMITTED]
He was full lyght, be my thryfte,
This dare I savely saye!
575
Trowest thou, be any grett prowesHe brought the knyghte to this destres?
We nay, be god, syr, he!
He dyd it be his grette folye
And nothyng be his chevalrye,
Therefore this wordes lett bee!”
Thee hette was well ouercome þanne,
Agayn vpon þer hors they name
And forthe they rode all thre;
Att evyn till an inne they came,
Ipomadon harboryd at the same,
The mayde, all awaye drew she.
576
The dwarffe hym seruyd to fote & hande,Imayne was wrothe, I vnderstonde,
195
Att morowe they rose & went þer way,
There thorowe a forest þer way laye,
The mayde rode in a thoughte.
Att hye pryme they fonde a well,
Joyefull was that damysell,
Downe fro her hors she sovghte;
The dwarffe pyght her pavelyone,
Wyne and bakyne venysone
Before that berde he brought.
577
Ipomadon lyght a lytell her fro,The dwarffe to his hors gan goo
And raynd hym to a boughe
And prayd the mayde wyth good will,
The knyght she wold calle here till;
The wyth she was wrothe inowgh:
“I praye god, I bide neuer yole,
That I to me shuld calle a foole!”
Ipomadon satte and lovgh;
He lykyd hur wordes full well,
He sayd: ”Þat day hathe ben, damysell,
We fro youre dalentes drowgh,
578
But I ne wotte, what tyme ne where!”Imayne to the dwarff sayd there:
“Now thou may here take hede,
How younde foole begynnythe to rave,
And yet thou wold, so god me save,
Ouer land I shuld hym lede!”
As they satte spekyng alther beste,
A knyght come rydyng thorowe the foreste,
Syttand on a stede.
Imayne say and syghed sore
And thought on the tother day before,
How she hadde byn in drede.
196
579
That knyght was cosyn to Mawgis,He mekill hathe wonne of losse & prise
In Ynde and Palestyne;
He was Lyolyne suster sonne;
When he had Imayne fovne,
He sayd: “Dere leman myne,
Vppon your palffraye leppe ye,
For to reward hathe you gevyn mee
My cossyn, syr Lyolyne!”
Thereffore had Magis be full wrothe,
For he had gyffner to them bothe:
As fayre a gyfte they tyne.
580
Toward the foole gan she lokeAnd as an aspenleff she shoke,
She was so sore aferde.
“Syr,” than quod Ipomadon,
“Goo forthe thy wey & lett hure goone,
Fro wyghtes I have here werde:
Be my faythe, thow getyste here nowght,
But yff it be wyth bofetes bovghte,
Thowȝe thou byght on thy berde!”
His eye on his sheld he caste
And sayd deyrnely at the laste:
“Syt still, thow foole moserd!”
581
“Ye, yff I be a foole,” quod hee,“The sadder shall my strokes bee,
Right sone þat maye ye witte!
A fooll wott neuer, where he shall stryke,
But euer more lay on thyke,
Where he may lyghttly hytte:
So grette god of heyvyn me spede,
The mayde away thou shalt not lede,
I do the well to wytte,
But yff thou her in werre may wyne!”
This battayle boldely to begynne,
A cowenaunte have they knytt.
197
582
Ipomadon of his spere toke hedeAnd lyghttly gatte vppon his stede,
In cautell kyst his shylde.
The knyghttes name was Greon,
A worthyer knyght, then he was one,
Nede neuer be sene in feld.
That tyme they wold no lengur byde,
On werre to geddur gan they ryde,
So worthely they them welde.
These knyghttes, þat were conyng of craftes,
To shevers wente bothe þere shaftes;
Imayene satt and behelde.
583
Ipomadon smot hym wyth his spere,Thurghe shylde and all his oþer gere,
A lyttill above the thee;
Thereffore was Greon wrothe inovgh,
A noble swerd oute he drowgh
And att his hedde lette flee;
In his hand hit turnyd wyth that
And on his hedde hit fell all flatte,
Ellys hadde he slayne that fre.
Imayene had full mekyll care,
When she saw hym smytte so sare,
Nere swovned that lady fre.
584
Ipomadon was not thyng payde,That he was so sore stonayd,
He drew his swerd that stovnde;
Soo wyghttly he weldes hym in his geyre,
That off he smythe syr Greon eyre;
Wyth that he fell to grounde:
“Longe have ye callyd me but a foole,
Leve syr, now, how lyke ye my skole?
I holde you wyghttly wounde.
Ye may be orderde, when ye wille:
Syr, have here my trowthe þer tille,
Thow arte shavyne rownde!”
198
585
He bade the dwarff: “Go take the stede,The maydons harnes there on to leede,
Thy somere hors thow hym make!”
A chylde wyth hym Greon hade,
That in the woode syde hym abade,
Ryghte sorye for his sake;
He saw his mayster woundyd ille,
Another hors he brought hym till,
Vp they gan hym take.
Alofte wettly wondyd was hee,
Ipomadon sayd: “I hope, ye be
Ill stonyd off a strake!
586
Att this tyme ye gett not Imayne,To Lyolyne ryde home agayne
And say, wyth outen fayle:
Ye, for ought, that he can doo,
To his weddyng come not sho
Wyth oute grette battayll!”
Wyth sorowe hertt he hyed hym hame,
As Magis had told, he told the same,
How a man cled in mayle
Had ouercome them bothe in fyghte:
“In all this world is non so wyghte
Ne so sekyr to assayle!”
587
Imayne att hur deynere sattAnd grettely mervelayd was off þat,
That he had done so dovghtily;
Her hertte a littill bowed es:
“Hade it be done be worthynes,
He were grette thanke worthy;
There is no man fro hens to Roome,
Mighte have done better, be my doome,
Ne yett hens to Normandye;
And he ne were right mekyll of myghte,
He hadde neuer ouercome this knyghte;
I se full well there bye,
199
588
In battell can he well endureBothe be witte and be mesure,
So haue I happe or sell;
How so he farithe wyth folye,
His dedis byn off grette chevalrye,
Be god and sent Myghell!
There is a Ml. knyghttes of skole,
That holdes this man but a fole
Wyth in the land off Cesile,
That Mallenger fedes wyth honoure,
Halff so strong be not in stowre,
Cowde not haue done so well!
589
For a fole they hold hym thare,And pure foly is all his fare,
But bold is his dereynes;
As fole he comys, as folle he gas;
As fole all his matters masse,
As a fole he hym demeynes:
As a fole he lawghis, as a fole he lyes,
As a fole he sittes, as a fole he rysis,
As a fole all way he covnteynes,
Be god & sent Myghell,
He fyghttes so worthely & so well,
I hope, he dothe but faynes!”
590
She bad the dwarrfe prevely:“Goo, byd yound knyght come sit me by,
Loke, yf hym lyste wyth us to dyne!
Sethe þou haste so faste for hym prayed,
Lett hym come, I hold me payde!”
There of they novghte tyne:
The dwarffe was glad & to hym he gaas
And herttly prayed hym he has,
To come and drynke a drawȝt of wyne:
“And ye shall dyne of the wylde,
And wyth you shall younde maydon mylde
Make a sufficiante fyne!”
200
591
As he were halff wood, he faris,And on the dwarff sternly he staris,
That for feyre he quake:
“Nay, I praye to god, I lesse my witte,
By none suche rapokys will I sitt,
For all the fare, ye make!
For hyr prowde wordes too
Now wott I well, she will me sloo,
Downe for I theme strake.
For all your trappyng & your trayne,
There wyth shull ye bothe agayne
The devyll off hell you take!”
592
Then had the dwarff sorow inovgh,Sorofully agayne he drowe,
So sore aferde was hee.
Imayn harde euery dele,
She sayd: “Syr, so haue I sell,
For thou trowest nouȝte me
Off the tale, that I the tolde,
Be the grette god, thy selff I hold
A more fole then hee!
Hit farythe by the, as dothe be moo:
Ye know not, that ye here also,
Ye beleve not, that ye see!
593
Men makythe them folis, þat ar wyse,And witte them, þat non in lyese,
So fayreth of them playne!”
The dwarff was angurd sore
And wrothely spake to hyr þerfore:
“Lett be thy fare, Imayne!
In poynte of dethe we bothe hathe ben,
He hathe vs savyd, and þat is sene,
The sothe is not to layne!
To spere hym self dyd hym orde,
Off you he myghte gette neuer a worde
For his godenes agayne!
201
594
Syne the fyrste tyme, þat ye mett,A mery word myght he non gett,
Thereffore, wyth outen fayle,
He, that seruys thanke aye,
May thynke well set, I darre well say,
Att the laste his longe travayll.
Right as ye say, hit farithe be you,
That ye se, ye will not trowe:
This myghtty man vnder mayle,
Full worthely wrought hathe hee,
And þerof ye will not knowe bee,
What so euer ye aylle!”
595
The dwarff mett to hym bare,Full egurly he ettes there;
Imayne on hym can loke.
When they had dyned, forthe they rode,
Right as a fole, wyth outen bode,
Euer more his hedde he shoke.
Hit drew to the nyghte faste,
They saw a towne at the laste
Stondyng on the syde of a broke.
Hit was but a meane velage,
So littill was the harburage,
That both one inne they toke.
596
The inne was so streyte, for thyThey bothe mvst in a chambur lye;
Imayne grogyd noughte,
In her hertte she thynkes sone,
Ouer-mekyll amys has she done,
To amend it, she hathe thought.
He put of his armore euery dele,
The dwarffe hym seruyd wonder-well,
A mantill to hym he broughte,
Blake wyth in and red wyth oute;
He wrapud hym worthely abowte,
That richely was iwroughte.
202
597
Off sylke he hade one a serkeWrought of a wondyr werke,
Sowyde bothe well & clene,
A kyrtyll and a crochett fyne [OMITTED]
Full wele idyght all bedene.
Imayne hym behyldes on the face:
A fayrer knyght, thanne he was,
Her thought, she hade not sene:
“Ys this a fole? Nay, certes, hee!
In hertte sore forthynkes mee,
So straunge that I have been!”
598
Imayne repentes, that she hathe done,And in her hertte she thynkes sone,
To amend hit mekyll more.
A womon is bothe warre & wyse,
Grette loue & lykyng in them lyse,
Who lyste, to lere at there lore;
There they haue byn most straunge,
All att onys then will they chaunge,
Yff they be not sought ouer-sore,
And love twyse so herttly syne:
Godes dere blessyng and myne
Muste they have therefore!
599
Imayne sayd: “So haue I blis,That I so mekill have done amys,
Sore forthynkes mee:
Syr, forgyff me, that I haue done ille,
And I shall amend me at your will,
Be god & be my lewte!”
The dwarff was neuer so glad in hertte,
Then lyghttly vp he stertte
And sayd: “Syr, for charyte,
As ye be curtayse knyght & hend,
Eysythe you and be this maydes frend,
That desyrythe hit off thee!
203
600
And I shall be hyr borowe, syr,That ye shall fynde no more in hyr
Forfettynge vnto yowe!”
Ipomadon this sewraunce toke
And as a fole his hedde he shoke
And kest downe wyth the browe.
Syne they were to supper sett,
Imayne may not hyr hert lett,
In love to dure nowe.
The more she lokes on þat knyght,
The more hyr loue is on hym lyȝte,
This is she fayne to vowe.
601
When they had suppud, they went to bede,Imayne was so streytly stede
And prykyd wyth a payne;
Trobelyng too and fro she lyes,
Waltryng on a woofull wyse;
All syghyng sayd Imayne:
“In a sory tyme it wase,
Oute of the chambyre when I did pase;
The sothe is not to layne:
So wyse, as I was holden þerin,
Off me my lady shall haue synne,
Gyff I come neuer agayne!
[How hit is, I can not wytte,
But well I wott as yet:
In faythe, I haue grette payne!]
602
Alas, folle, why seyste thou soo?She is not cause off thy woo,
That to bewitt, iwys:
Yff she the sent on her message,
She bade the do no suche outerage,
Thy body to ly be his!
Thou haste thyne owne hert to constreyne,
The blame ys thyne owne, Imayne, [OMITTED]
204
603
That love dothe the so mekyll payne,Woundes wyth outen spere!
Nay, it is turment, as men tellis!
Hit is love—what is hit ellys? —
That peas hathe turnyd to werre!”
Vp she ryses and downe she fallis,
And on love playnly she callys:
'Why doste thou me this dere?’
604
I wyght the it neuer a dell,Though my lady loue hyr lemon well,
That is so good a knyght,
When I thus wyth a fole is taked,
That among all lordes is lakyd
For on so vnresnable a wyght!
Nay, be my faythe, he is no fole,
He is a noble knyght of skole,
Who so hade sene hym wyth syght.
Thowgh I allther wyseste be,
His manlynes and gret bewte
Makyth my loue on hym to lyght!
605
Ye, wheder it turne to well or woo,To know his will, I will goo!”
Her mantell she toke her tille,
To his beddes syde she yode,
Anoþer while there she stode
In a stody full stylle;
She sayd: “Alas, fole, what is thy þought?
In bale for euer thou haste the broughte,
This foly yf thow fullfyll!
But yf thou of þis foly blynne,
Imayne, thou shamest all thy kynne,
In faythe, than dos thou ille!”
606
Stille lay Ipomadon,And, how she made þis mekill mone,
He hard euery dell;
205
And lay right, as he dyd slepe,
What she mend, he wyst full wele,
That love full sore hyr bovndyn hase;
To his bedde syde she gas
Wyth sighyng and vncele;
Softely at his clothes she drowe
And sayd: “Syr, ye haue slept inowe,
Be god and sent Myghell!
607
Awake a while and speke wyth me!”Grewosly vp starte hee
And sayd: “What devill art þou?”
In his mowthe her hande he gate,
Right as he wolde haue eyton þat;
“Mercy!” she cryed nowe,
“For love I maye not lengur layne,
And, sertes, it is Imayne,
That is comyn to you,
Off all, þat I haue done wyth ille,
To make amendes at your wille:
Trewly, ye may me trowe!
608
Syr, I am a dukes doughttur dere,As grette a lady, as the fere,
But neuer the lesse for thy,
Love will lett me haue no peas:
Syr, after my faders dysseace
Off Burgayne ayre am I;
Lett this alone, and goo we theder,
Ye shall be lord off all togeddyre,
Bothe of bowre and bye!
I shall you make, so haue I ro,
As grett a lord, as euer myghte sho,
I say yow securlye!”
609
Ipomadon stille layAnd hard all þat she wold saye;
206
“Damysell, so god me save,
To morow thy leyser þou may haue,
To say, what is thy lyste;
To nyght thou gettes no more of me,
Goo to thy bedde, I comaunde the,
And lett me haue my reste!”
A, littill comforte þou haste, Imayne!
Vnto hyr bedde she went agayne,
But no thynge slepe she lyst.
610
At morow they rose & went þer way;There way thorow a forest lay,
The fowlys song merely & swette.
Off love, that is the grettest payne,
Soo mekyll then had Imayne,
Hyr dynere she forgette.
The dwarff sayd to the damysell:
“Here be syde is a fayre well,
And þere I red you sitte:
A morsell to dyne, I wold, ye had!”
There of was the maydon glad,
She lyght adowne on hyr fete.
611
By syd hyr lyght Ipomadon,To hym streyght is Imayne gone
And sett her hym be syde;
Bakone venysone & wyne
The dwarff before them brought ful fyne,
In erthe is not to hyde.
As they at þere dyner satt,
A knyght come prykyng after þat,
As faste, as he myghte ryde.
Whan he saw the mayden there,
So joyefull was he neuer yere
In all þis world so wyde.
207
Ofte sythes had he done his payne,
To praye his lord for Imayne,
That maydyn fayre & clere;
He graunte hym lyghtly, & so he mowȝte,
The thyng, þat neuer coste hym nouȝte,
A fayre thyng in forty yere;
Duke he was of grett Tesayle
And Lyolynes broþer, wyth outen fayle,
His name was Leyvnder.
He rydythe streyght to the well
And sayd: “Dereworthy damysell,
Well be you foundyn here!
613
Leppis on youre palffray & comyþe wyth me,The duchesse off Tessayle I shall make þe,
I have covetyd the longe!”
Ipomadon, wyth hardy hertte
Lyghttly vpon his stede he sterte
And sayd: “Syr, fals ye sang:
Yff thou so large gyff thy gyfte,
Thou gettes nan here, be my thryfte,
Me thynkes, than dydyste thou wronge!”
The tother sayd: “What arte thou,
That so nycely answeris nowe?
Sitt doune, the devill the hange!
614
Hold thy peas!” quod Lyvnder,“Or, fole, thow shalt abye full dere
Thy foley wordes fell!”
Ipomadon sayd: “Be my lewte,
The moste fole here hold I the,
I make that no counsell!”
The knyght houys & lokes hym on
And wenys, he is in poynte to fonne;
He sayd: “So haue I sele,
Yf thou be the fole onwyse,
That skomfyght Cryon & Magis,
Wyth the I have to dele!”
208
615
“Certes, syr, ye may asaye!”In werre to geddyr ryde they,
To lett them, non they fynde.
Ipomadon through þe body hym bare
Byhynde his bake a fote and more,
The hedde lokyd oute behynde:
“Off Imayne, syr, now may ye fayle,
To make hyr duchesse of Tessayle,
Though ye be wrathe as wynde!”
When they had dynyd, forthe they rode,
The knyght on the lond abode
Dedde vnder the lynde.
616
A squyer had syr Leyvnder,That made grett sorowe & ill chere,
And lyghttly to hym he soughte;
“Alas,” he sayd, “woo is mee,
That euer I shuld leve after the!”
A bere he had to hym brought;
Lordynges, beleve, it was no noþer:
They bare hym vnto his broþer,
He was wroughte as he mowghte.
The knyghttes were sory euery chone,
That Lyvnder was so slone;
They sayd: “Good syr, who has that wrought?”
617
“I wott neuer, so god me spede,But to the place I can yow lede,
There he was levand laste:
A folelyche knyght had hym slayn,
That ledes a mayde, þat hat Imayne,
And forthe he is way is paste!”
Now Lyolyne sayd: “I wott well,
That is the feres damysell:
I know, what is her caste.
618
In massage, I wot, þat she hathe beneAnd wyth hyr bryngyth a knyght kene,
209
As a fole he is dyghte,
But he is a man of mekyll myght,
The sothe is not to layne:
He skomfett Magis & Cryon,
And now he hathe my brothere slone [OMITTED]
619
In peas ye lett hym goo & come:I wold not for this towne,
That no man myschef to hym dyde,
In feld or wee come & batayle have!”
Leyvnder they leyd in grave
And for his soule dyd byde [OMITTED]
620
She paste thorow a derne stye,Ipomadon folowes prevelye,
That was so curteys & kynde [OMITTED]
621
Hit drew faste to the nyghte,Wyth his swerd a logge he dyght,
For forthere myght they nought.
The dwarff downe his harnes tas
And to eche of them a bede he mas
Wyth the clothes, that he had brought.
Onarmyd was Ipomadon,
And syne to supper ar they goone;
Imayne no davnger thoughte,
But wonder-nere the knyȝte she satte,
Grette lyste of loue makys that,
Whiche in hyr herte was wroughte.
622
Love is so mekyll off myghte,That it will davnte bothe kyng and knyght,
Erle and bold barowne;
They, that wyseste is of witte,
Fro tyme they be takyne wyth it,
Hit takythe fro them there reasowne.
Love may save, love may spille,
210
And turne all vp and downe.
After, when they suppud had
And they were all blythe & glad,
To bedde they made them bovne.
623
Imayne hadde so mekyll thought,That, for sothe, slepe she ne movȝte
For wrythyng & for woo;
On her lessone she thynkes more,
That she lernyd on the nyght before,
When she was turmentyd soo.
Her mantell eft she toke her tille;
Another tyme to witte his will,
She makys her redy, to goo.
Vp she rosse and downe she sitt,
She sayd: ‘Alas’, that euer she wyth hym mett:
“A, looffe, I praye the, hoo!
624
In faythe, Imayne, thou was a fole,That euer this thou enterde in lovys skole,
This dare I savely saye;
Willfully thow lesis thy witte,
That euer thou shuld so medull wyth hyt,
Full sore the tyme banne thou maye!
As folis we mette, as folys we goo,
As folys we are bothe two,
And as folys we werke all wey;
Folys we are and folys we ware,
Foly is owre bothes fare!—
Be god of heyven, naye!
625
It is no folye, love it es,That bryngis me to this dystresse,
I darre it say hardely;
But I of love sum bravnche haue,
Hit will me bryng in to my grave,
I fele full wele ther bye!
211
For love yf I my selff sloo,
The cause of my dethe am I;
To me it were a grette reprove,
Wyth outen swettnes off my love
This sodenly to dye [OMITTED]
626
Then in his armys two;And yff he worove the as tyte,
The thare not, but thy selff, it witt,
Serttes, Imayne, noo!
But fro he wet it a woman be,
Thane I hope, right sone that we
That shall softely settyll soo!”
Forthe she goos and turnythe agayne,
And at the laste sittes hyr downe Imayne
His bedde a littill froo.
627
A lyttyll she tovchyd his face thore;He lep vp as bryme, as any bore,
And drew his swerd so kene:
“Be hym, that weldyth heyven on hight,
What in erthe that euer there be wyght,
That dothe me all this tene,
But yff thou hygh the hens tyt,
Have here my trowthe, I shall smyte
Thy hedde off quyte & clene!”
The mone shone wonder-lyght,
Away went that byrde so bryght,
As she there neuer hadde bene.
628
But so love delys wyth Imayne,That nedes mvst she go ageyne,
Therfore yff she shuld dye,
But tovche she durst hym neuer more,
But sett hyr downe his bedde before
And mercy can hym crye:
“But yff thou wake & speke wyth me,
212
I say the securlye!
My hertte ys euer in poynte to breke;
But yf ye softlye wyth me speke,
No lengur leve maye I!”
629
Ipomadon laye full still,He wyste full well, she was grevyd yll,
That lygaunce mvste she have:
“What art thow, for thy lewte,
That on this wyse turmentes me,
As god off heyvyne me save?”
“A, syr, hit is Imayne,
That for the suffers muche payne,
Nere hand in poynt to rave:
I love the so, wyth outen fayle,
That, yff I lesse my travayle,
I shall be layde in grave!
630
To Burgone turnethe agayn wyth meAnd lett this grett battayle be,
I rede the, so mot I spede!
It ys worthe two off Calaber,
My lande and me ye shall have, ser,
Wyth oute battayle or dede!”
Mekley he answers there two:
“Imayne, that may I not doo
For all this world to mede!
Am I not comen hedyr to fyght?
And yf I leve, I nolde so lyght,
Thy lady were in drede.
631
Then myght all men savely say,That I for ferde were fled away,
That wold me shame & shende!
VII yere after, be thow bolde,
Thy selff wold me a coward holde,
When thou ovghte at me tende!”
213
I shall love you neuer the lasse
And be a faythefull frende!”
“Well, Imayne, syster, that were rewthe,
But I shulde swer the be my trovthe,
Fro this be broughte to ende,
632
And grette god will me þat grace geve,After this jurnaye þat I may leve,
And I have don this fyghte,
And thou and she have ovght knoven me,
At your bothe willis will I be,
For ye will do but right!”
“Dere syr, may I truste there too?”
“Ye, here my hand, loo,
To hold, that I have hight!”
Twyse kyst hym Imayne,
And to hyr bede she gos agayne,
Well comfortyd of that knyght.
633
In the mornyng vp he rose,Ipomadon to Ymayne goos,
The dwarrf he callyd hym till:
“Ye two shall ryde home to the fere
And I behynde will byde here!”
Thane lykyd Imayne ill.
“Say no more, when ye come thedyre,
But a fole folowyd you hydder:
,He grettes you well be skyll,
And yff hym lyste, fyght will he,
And yf hym lyste not, turne will he!’
For, sertes, so I wille!”
634
Wyth his sporris he strake his stede,In to the foreste fro hem he yede
And coverys hym wyth a bovgh,
Till he come to the ermytage,
There his mayster and his page,
214
Imayne rydythe whome to the fere,
They mett hyr wyth a symple chere,
Nothere no thyng they lovgh:
“What tydynges, Imayne?” “Madame, full yll!”
“Why, sendes myne eyme non helpe me till?”
“Me rewys now, I thedyr drovgh!”
635
“How so, systure, I wott neuer!”“That I there come, me rewys euer!”
Be allmyghtty god she swere.
“It was told me yestur day,
A knyght come wyth you be the way,
That was off grett powere;
He skomfyght Mawgis & Greon,
And Leyvnder he hathe slone,
Lyolyne brothere dere!”
“Madame, II C. knyghttes I sawe,
And mo, I trowe, sett on a rowe
In the howse of Mellengere.
636
When I hadde off my battayle tolde,Was non, a word that answere wold,
But an fole vnwyse;
He stert vp among them all, iwis,
He sayd, this battayle shuld be his,
Before this knyghttes off pryce;
Was there non, a word answerd þer till,
He folowed forthe ageyne my wille,
Ther no man was amys.
He skomfete by his grette foly,
And no thyng by his chevalrye,
Bothe Greon and Mawgis;
637
Be foly he slow Lyondere!”Then wept that fayre lady clere
For that knyght so bolde:
“Where ys he, Imayne?” “What wot I?
215
Att hym is littill holde:
In the forest he is lefte behynde,
And, sertes, when he fro vs twynde,
A nyce tale he vs tolde;
He bade: ,say to the fere, when ye come home,
Say, a fole wyth you hedyr come,
That a thousande folde
638
Grette well that lady bryght,And yff he lyke, than will he fyght,
And yff he wolle nott, he will fle’.
What wordes were this off chevalrye?
Madame, I saye yow, sekerlye,
No nothere wyse helpe will hee!”
“Allas, it is wors, thane I wende:
Will my eme no socoure me sende?”
“No, lady, be my lewtee!”
“Me hade leuer a Ml. folde,
Have yene traytur or I sholde,
Goo drowne me in the see!”
639
She bade, her men shuld botes takeAnd on the sesyde redy make,
That Lyolyne not it wyste:
“Put me forthe in to the flode,
Lett god, that ys of myghtes gode,
Do wyth me, what hym lyste!
He may send me lande and lythe,
So have I leuere a thousand sythe,
His mowthe, onys ore I it kyste.
Now wott I wele, so god me spede,
My love is dede, wyth outen drede:
A, hartte, when wilte thou breste?
640
Este and weste, northe and sowtheThis werre is in euery mannys mowthe,
As I here, be my hoode!
216
He had byn here, so mot I thryue,
Or all this to havoke yode!”
A C. bottes, wyth outen fayle,
They stuffyd well wyth good vetaylle,
Yff that hyr nede bestodde.
Men, that were of semblent sade,
Shuld her put, or he her had,
Forthe in to the flode.
641
After this the day was come,That Lyolyne had þe battayle nomme;
He wold no lengur byde,
But made araye hym all in blacke,
A stede off the same colour he dyd take,
He taryd not that tyde,
Blake pendavnt, shyld & spere,
Blake was all his oþur gere,
He rydes hym forthe in pryde,
Before the towne, to saye his stede;
The lady of hym hade grette drede,
And lowde on hyr he cryde.
642
After this IpomadonCalde his cosyne Egyon:
“Goo, loke be lyve!” he sayde;
“Hyde the wyth the grene woode tre,
Lyolyne till thou may see,
Off what wysse he is arayde
And whethur he be blake or white:
Come agayne & tell me lyte!”
There on his lyff he layde,
Egyone, forthe he went,
To do his maysteris comaundement;
Then were he well payde.
643
He hyde hym wyth the grene holyne,And att the laste he see Lyolyne,
217
Before the citte boldly,
As all had byn his owne for thy,
Castell, towre and towne.
The lady in a cornere stode
And wept as faste, as she were wood,
That fayre was of facyowne;
Hit was grette dulle, sekyrlye,
To here that hedovs noyse & crye
Off burgays & barowne.
644
Wedovs wept, þat men myght rewe,Wyffes and maydons chavngyd þer hewe,
Laydes there coloure caste
And sayd: “Yf we shuld sodaynly here
Yelde vs to younde fendes fere,
For euer oure joye is paste!”
They cursyd Lyolyne euery chone.
Grette sorow had Egyone,
He hard men wepe so faste.
To his mayster hyed hee,
And as sone, as he hym see,
Egyrly he hym aste:
645
“What tydynges?” quod Ipomadon;“Full febull, syr!” quod Egyon,
Be myghttifull god he swore:
“Syr Lyolyne rides vp and downe
Boldely before the towne,
As all his owne wore:
It is grette doll, to here þat dynne,
The hedovs noyse, they make wyth inne,
So ar they syghand sore.
The lady is in so grett dystresse,
That nere to yeld her in poynt she es:
God forbede, it wore!”
646
“Egyon, saw thou Lyolyne?”218
Well harnessyd in the feld!”
“How is he arayd?” “All in blake!”
“The same will I my selff take,
Pendavnte, spere and sheld!”
Ipomadon sayd: “I worke wrange,
Here may I dwell no lange,
My leman may hur yelde!”
In blake he arayde hym thore:
“Glade shall I be neuer more,
Yf he hur to wyff welde!”
647
A blake spere takythe Ipomadon,A blake stede he leppus vpon,
To long, he thynkes, he byde;
He comaundyd, all his men for thy
Shuld be hym nere prevely,
What happe so hym betyde.
As he bade, his men dyde,
In the woode they them hydde,
Hym selff frome them dyd ryde.
When they saw this knyght come,
Joyefull they were all & sum,
All men prayed god hym spede.
648
Wyste non, what he was, sertayne,Allone but the maydon Imayne,
She knew hym by his stede,
That he hadde wone of Lyonder,
But she wold not tell the fere,
The dwarff she gan forbede,
What he was, he shuld not tell;
The dwarff sayd: “Nay, damysell!”
Off hur he hade suche drede
And wyste not, wyth oute dowte,
To tell his name covde he novght,
The sothe to say in dede.
219
649
“Imayne,” sayd the lady bright,“Syster, younder is a semely knyght,
Right bygge of blode and bone:
This is the same, I trowe,
That yester day folowyd you,
But no fole semys hym one!”
“Nay, madame, it is not hee,
For he, be god and my lewte,
Suche armore hadde he none!”
Imayne was to blame therfore,
She made hyr lady morne the more
And terys to wepe goode woone.
650
Imayne parcevyd euery dell,That it was he, she wyst it wele,
Yet tolde she not the fere.
He made hym aray all in blake,
That she no hedde to hym shuld take,
For chavngyng off no chere [OMITTED]
That he wold kepe and say younde knyght:
Be his owne will he comythe to fyght,
Fro harmes to kepe the fere.
651
Thow he sufferd neuer so muche pyne,He was lothe, his love to tyne,
And therefore dyd he soo;
He was armyd in blake harnes,
As Lyolyne hym selff wes
Evyn fro tope to tow,
In feld to gedur when they drafe,
That she shuld no knowlege haue,
Whedyr of them were here foo:
Hit wold ouer-mekill sorowe haue brede,
And she sawe hym strayte stede,
He wyst, she wold be woo.
652
Full well Imayne knew þat dere,But ȝet she wold not tell the fere,
220
Lyolyne hovyd as still as stone,
To hym rydes Ipomadon,
As breme as any bore;
Lyolyne sayd: “Thou, syr knyght,
Art thou come, wyth me to fyghte?”
“Ya!” “That shall thou sorow full sore:
As I be kepte frome carys colde,
Euer more I will the holde
The more fole þerfore!”
653
“What devill of hell reke I?” quod he,“The more fole thou holdest me,
The sorer shalt thou sowe!”
“Why, of my kynrede art þou novght?”
“No, be god, that all hathe wrought,
Now sayste thou sothe, I trowe:
I ame of hight and þou arte lowe!”
Lyolyne answerd to that sawe:
“Why, off what kynne art thou?”
“My fadyr was a kyng, I saye!”
“Arte thou a bastarde?” “I sey the, nay,
But what were that for you?”
654
“For I wold witte all bedene!”“In faythe, my moder was a quene,
In spousehode borne was I!”
“Ser, where had þou þat stede, I see?”
“What devill off hell is þat for the?
How thynkes the there by?”
“He was my brothers, I dare lay!”
“In faythe, sothe is, þat thou saye!”
Than hade he grette envye:
“Ouercome ye hym?” “Sertes, yo,
But wyth o stroke, I saw no moo,
And kepe thy self for thy!”
655
“Why, what thynkes thou to do?”221
Nowe sone, syr, witte mowe ye:
For, as the grete god me save,
Hym, that þou on settis, I thynke to haue,
Do way, for thy lewte!”
“Thynkes thou, to haue my nobull stede?”
“Ye, so god of hevyne me spede!”
“Thow dottyst, I trowe!” quod hee;
“Ouer-mekill ado shuld be thynne,
Or thou gettes this stede of myne;
In fayth, that will not be!
656
But one thyng shall I tell the, frend,Home agayne I rede the wende
Wyth that thou wonne hase;
For, be god and my lewte,
To sle the, it were grette pitte,
Thow art so fayre of face!
That thou hast wrought agayne skill,
Slayne my brothere & done so ille,
Yet shall I graunte the grace:
Wette thou well, that þe fere
Hathe me louyd many a yere,
For me vnglad she gaas!
657
Full oftesythes she hath sent me till,That I shuld come & have my will!”
“In faythe, that beleve I novght:
She hade wel leuer, as I the tell,
Se the at the devill of hell!”
“A, man, what is thy thoughte?”
“I myghte haue hade her long or nowe,
But well I wyll, she hold her vowe,
Therefore I hedyre soughte,
To loke, yf any man durste so bold be,
That wold come and fyght wyth mee,
In erthe that euer was wrovghte.”
222
658
“Therefor a fole hold I the, syr,Yff thou be come, to fyght for hyr,
Thou art in poynte to rave!”
Ipomadon sayd: “Wele I fynde,
That many wordes wastes wynde,
Inowȝe of them I have:
Ye have hovynd youndere, I see,
Well too C. knyghtes or thre,
And, syr, so god me save,
I am here al alonne:
What worship is to all yonne,
To bere me to my grave?
659
They will the helpe, yf þou haue nede,And, syr, soo god of heyuen me spede,
That is no curtessye,
For ofte ys sayd be wyse of werre:
Tow ageynst one man here,
There in lyethe no chevalrye!”
“Hangyd be I on a tree,
Yff any man shall fyght wyth þe
Of all my men, but I!”
Wyth oute any more abode
To his men be lyve he roode
And comaundyd them for thy:
660
“Ageyne to the wood ȝe fare:Vpon lyffe & lyme ye hold you thare,
Whedyr I fare well or ille!”
His knyghttis dyd, as he hem badde,
To come ageyne, grette haste he hadde,
Ipomadon spekes he tille:
“I redde the, ryde forth to the towne!”
“I was neuer at thy byddyng bowne
Ne hope not yet, I will:
I say, syr, wyth outen fayle,
Thow gettes not hyr wyth outen battayle,
Eyrste shall thou fight thy fylle!”
223
661
Then euery knyght toke þer renke,They maydon no semblent to blente,
There speres in fewtur they keste;
There stedes so strake them on the grounde,
There speris in sheldes rebownde
And braste, there they were feste.
Yff they were neuer so sekyr of mayle,
Hedes made them breke and fayle,
As wyttnes her be weste;
Thorowe all there harnes be þere syde
Euyne bothe her sperys dyd glyde
And brake, that sure was fest.
662
Thowȝe they were neuer so strounge þat stounde,Bothe they tombled on the grounde,
But nothere woondyd wore.
This knyghtes, that hardy were of herte,
Agayne vp on there stedes they sterte,
As bryme as any bore.
Wyth speris eftesonys they met to gaddyr,
There strokes made there stedes to stakyre,
So were they sad & sore;
There speris all to peces breste,
They swang to geddyrs at the laste. [OMITTED]
663
So manly they to gedyr fyghte,That battayle to deskrye no man myȝte,
The strokes, that were them be twene;
The sparkels frome the helmes flowe
As fer, that lemys in lowe,
They share the gresse on the grene;
The folke sayd, that beheld them,
A gretter fight be twayne men
Before was neuer seene;
Might no man vnder the heyvyn lyght
Know, whiche shuld the better fyght,
So bygge men bothe they bene.
224
664
Lyolyne was a nobull mon,He strykis to Ipomadon,
That on his helmet hit lyght;
Nerehand he made hym fall,
His stede stakyrd there wyth all,
Was he neuer so wyghte;
He was so stonyed in þat stounde,
On knes he knelyd on the grounde,
Imayne cryed lowde on highte
And sayd wyth many a sighand sore:
“Thou, that has made bothe lesse & more,
Kepe and save younde knyghte!”
665
The fere Imayne can asse:“Why, wot ye, syster, what he was?”
“I say you: nay, madame,
I wott neuer, what he es,
But younde strokes of dystresse
Makes my herte full tame!”
Imayne wyste well, it was hee,
That wold she not tell the fre,
The more she was to blame;
To love hym hath hyr selff thought,
That, in trought, it avayles her nouȝte,
As god me kepe frome shame!
666
Full wele hard Ipomadone,How they dyd make þis mekill mone
And to hym drewe hertte;
Be that his stede wyth myght & mayne
Haue gotton his myghte right wele agayne,
Vpon his fete he sterte;
Grevossly in agayne he gett,
And in that stowre so he hym hitt
Wyth sterne strokes and smerte,
All, that lokyd on, þought grette skathe:
Thorow helme & browe bathe
The blod oute braste he gerte.
225
667
Ipomadon was a nobull knyghtAnd mekyll he cowde of fyght,
He stroke tho Lyolyne,
A quarter of his helme away,
Downe by his shulders, sothe to sey,
The nakyd swerd youde inne;
But wold to god, it had gone nere,
I trowe, hit shuld a hit hym there;
The blow he cowde not fyne,
Tille hit had clovyn his sadull in two,
And of his noble stede also
Insonder smote the chyne.
668
Tho fell Lyolyne to the grounde,He stert vp lyghttly in that stounde
And sawe his owne blode;
A swerd in hand hathe he tone
And rennethe toward Ipomadon,
As he were nerehand wood.
Ipomadon saw hym so fare
And wyth his hors he hym downe bare,
Though he were neuer so wood.
Vp he starte bothe pale & wanne,
To Ipomadon his stede thane
Eygurly he yode.
669
Betwene two rybbis he smote his stede,The swerd in to his body yede
Evyn to his hertte;
There wyth all to grounde he yode;
Ipomadon saw his stedis blode,
Oute of his sadull he sterte,
He swore be god and be sent Myghell:
“My stede shall be venged well,
And god will gyf me querte!”
So strong betwene them was the stowre,
Hit was grette wondyr, they myȝt indowre,
Bothe þer strokes were so smerte.
226
670
The fyght betwene them was so long,A while to rest bothe they gang
And on there swerdes they lenys;
Lyolyne crabbyd spekes nowe:
“Hye devyll, what fole art thou,
That this thy dedys demenys?
As fole thou comyst & fole þou gas,
As a fole all thy matters mas,
As a fole thou contenes!
Wyth me thou may not deyle for thy:
Where is so bold a body, as I,
In all the world þat regnes?
671
So worthy a knyght, as I am one,I say to the, that þere ys none,
Wonnand in all this werd,
Off body grette, of lymmes lyghte,
That may thy selff say, syr knyght,
Thow knowest, how I haue ferd
Wyth many a knyght in dyueres lond,
A Ml. haue I hewen wyth my hand,
That neuer worde after herde.
There is none of them, that maye,
And sone so will thy selff saye,
Fro thow my lawys haue herde.
672
And thou art littill man, felawe,And vnderstondyste no lawe,
As I be sauyd frome payne;
In warre thou art warre & wyse
And of bewte mekyll of price:
Thou aught to be full fayne,
To yeld the, while thou may leve,
All thy gylte I shall forgeve
And be thy frend agayne,
And to the Ynde, syr, come wyth me,
Thre good castels I shall geve the
And to thy wyff Imayne!”
227
673
The other sayd: “So mot I thryve,I will non of thy gyfft to wyfe,
Thy castells I defye;
I sent the neuer, for me to wowe,
I cowde gette me wyffes inowe,
And thow were hangyd hye!
Yff thow in wronge be neuer so wyght,
God is euer more wyth the right,
I say the securlye:
Thorowe helpe of hym, þat made the mone,
That thow to younde lady has done,
Full dere thou shalt hit bye!
674
But, syr, wyth outyn othe to swere,Me thynkes in my herte, ye ere
Right ille avysud off this,
That this dystrowys þis fayre contre,
And ye thynke to wyffe, þat louys not the,
Ne neuer more will, iwis:
Be my faythe, she louythe þe nought,
She made no fors, what werke she wrought,
Thy mowthe or she wold kys:
Yff thou were all the devill be kende,
Agayne the I shall hyr defende,
As I haue joye and blis!”
675
Lyolyne then for angur shakes,His swerd in hande he takes
And coueryd hym wyth his sheld;
Full wrothe was thanne Ipomadon,
His geyre to hym has he tone,
Right well he cowde hit weld;
So hard they hewe on helmus bright,
The fyre flew oute as candyll lyght,
Folke houyd and behelde:
There wold noþere a foote frome thens,
So harde a sawte and grette defens
Was fowndyn in that feld.
228
676
They crasse mayles thrugh þer caste,Blode oute of there browes braste,
So harde on helmus they hewed;
They shevyrd shaftes & sondurde shyldes,
The helmus, that they on hedde weldes,
As flowres in feld they strewed;
So freshely they faught at þat tyde,
The blod ranne downe on euery syde;
Then sayde bothe leryd and lewede,
There was neuer a better battayle sene;
To hym selff sayd Lyolyne:
“This is a skornyng shrewed!”
677
A mastry he thought to make:Ipomadon on helme he strake,
Away a quarter clene;
So well he kid hym in that werke
Thorow all his harnes by his serke
The stroke went downe bedene;
On the arme he stroke hym to the bone,
But harme wyth inne hit dyd hym none:
Godes forbode, that it hade ben!
As god gaff hym grace that tyde,
The swerd in his hand turnethe be syde,
Or els he had be slayne, I wene.
678
Ipomadone was angred sore,He was as wode as any bore,
When he had sene his blode.
On the ring can he loke,
That his moder hym toke,
To dede when she yode;
He towchyd the wounde wyth the ston,
Off bledyng was he stavnchyd sone,
So was the vertu good,
The knyght was wonder-glad for thy;
Lyolyne spekes full skornefullye:
“How lykes you in your mode?
229
679
Ye ar wyttly wondyd, I trowe;That ye come her, sore rewis yowe:
Will ye haue any more?
Lokes on youre arme and rede þat letter!
I trowe full well, ye hade better
Byn in peas langore!
Thus grevos worde now shall þou graunt
And to me yeld the creaunte,
Thowe thow were wode as bore:
But yet, in peas and thou wilt be
And yeld the, I will rewe on the;
To sle the, synne it wore!
680
Thow haste noþer myght ne mayne,To fyght no more me ageyne,
Thy selff now well may witte!”
Ipomadon sayd: “In fayth, syr knyght,
For non, that I se here in sight,
I will not yeld me yitt!
As grette god of heyven me save,
For any hurte yet, that I haue,
Shall stroke for stroke be hit!
Or I shall yeld me this to the,
Slayne in the feld fyrste shall I be
And onys for aye be quyte!”
681
Ipomadon grette wondur hadde,That he shuld be so streyttly bestadde
Wyth o man euery dell:
So hard sayd as he hathe ben,
That o man shuld do hym þat tene
Wyth a swerd off stele.
He bethoughte hym on the fere,
How he had louyde hyr many a yere;
He sayd: “So haue I sele,
I slepe not, or it youlden bee!”
His swerd in hand grypus hee
And thynkythe, to venge hym well.
230
682
Thowe he were sore woundyd, I wene,That tyme hit was forgotton clene;
As a bere thane was he bowne.
His strokes was so sadde & many,
The tother wyst not, when he myght gyf any,
So thyke came they downe;
Lyolyne begynethe to chasse
Vp and downe in the place;
That sawe they in the towne.
But when they had slayn the stedes bo,
Wyst no man, whiche was oþeres foo,
That made them all knele downe.
683
But, neuer the lesse, Lyolyne esA man off grett worthynes
And manly faught ageyne;
Bothe there strokes were so good,
The erthe quakyd, as they stode,
The sothe is not to layne.
Att the last Ipomadon wex kene,
He strykes to syr Lyolyne
A stroke of muche mayne;
His helme he clave in two,
Thrugh hate & heryne þan also
He slave hym to the brayne.
684
“Long, syr, haue ye skornyd me,The worste, I trowe, your owne bee,
For you be grettly wounde;
A monke ye may be, when ye will,
For ye be shavynne wile þer till,
And right wele be ye crownde:
Goo take youre abbyte on be tyme
And helpe to syng bothe oure & pryme,
For ye be shavyne rownde!
But, be god and my lewte,
In erthe ther is no leche so sle,
I hope, maye make you sownde!”
231
685
“No, in faythe,” quod Lyolyne,“All the moste greffe is myne,
My owne witte I wyte;
Therefore my swerd I yeld to thee,
The fere and all this fayre contre,
Here I make me quyte.
You now right wele may she hold
Wyth worshipe, and ye wowe her wold;
She myght haue grett delyte,
To loue you wyth all hure myght:
In erthe there is non suche a knyght!”
Wyth that he sonyd astyte.
686
When he had getton myght & mayn,Whittly he gettes hym vp agayne
And syghyng hym besought,
On lyve he wold lette hym goo
And wyth hym haue his knyghttes also,
That he hadde thedyr brought:
“And on this swerd I shall the swere,
Neuer after this land to dere,
Be hym, that all hathe wrought!”
Ipomadon sayd: “Syr, I assent,
And leve me no thyng but thy tent:
Off thyne more kepe I noughte!”
687
There off was Lyolyne fayne,To his men he went agayne
And toke the shippus that tyde;
A myle wyth in the Grekes see
Swythely thane sweltes hee,
The sothe is not to hyde.
On felde hovyd Thalamewe,
Be tokyns well he hym knewe,
On foote he saw hym byde;
A good stede he brought hym tille,
Vp he lepe wyth egur wille,
To the tent gan he ryde.
232
688
Thalamewe had byn oftyn þat dayGlad & sorowe bothe, in faye,
For syghttes, that he had sene,
For they wyste neuer, whiche better was;
Oute off the citte durste no man passe
For the knyght, syr Lyolyne.
In to the tent when they sawe hym ryde
And no man trubled hym that tyde,
There herttes brest nere for tene;
A blake baner forthe toke he thore,
And there wend both lesse & more,
It had ther enemye been.
689
He wold no lengur byde,To the wallys gan he ryde
And cryed lowde on hight:
“Haue done and dight you, damysell,
Now maye ye se your selff full well,
That Lyolyne ys wyght!
Wete ye well, I am hee,
To morowe in to Yndde ye shall wyth me,
For I haue slayne youre knyght!”
All that wyth in the citte wore,
Wrang there handes & sighed sore,
Bothe lordes & ladyes brighte.
690
Ipomadon thynkes ayePrevely to wynd his waye,
That no man shuld hym knawe,
For euermore in his hert he thought:
“Till her vowe corde I novght,
Therefore I will wythdrawe!”
Lordes hade care and many a knyght,
In sownyng fell that layde bright,
So stode they in mekyll awe
Off hym, that made wyth oute the crye;
To god she playns hyr petteweslye
Wyth many a syghyng sawe:
233
691
“Wyth Lyolyne yf I gangeAnd loos, that I haue louyd so longe,
That wold me lyke full ille;
Then myghte I sighe & savely saye,
That I haue louyd many a day,
Were I in poynt to spyll!”
To hir burges sayd sho:
“Syr, that shall I neuer doo,
Haue here my trowth þer till!
I se, it may no better bee:
Make vs redy to the see,
Lett god do, what he will!”
692
Barons & burges were full woo,Wyffes, weddows & maydons also
Wept, as they were woode;
As fast the lady drewe hir hare,
For here was þer moste care,
Wyth Imayne hard it stode.
Euery man made them redy fast
And sythen oute of the posturne paste
And to there shippus yode.
The lady sayd wyth sighyng sore:
“Have good day, Calabere, for euer more!”
She flettes forthe in the flode.
693
Ipomadon, wyth outen any abodeAgayne to the tente he rode
And off his hors he lyght,
Caste of his harnes euery dele,
Went hym selff and coled hym well
And his woundes dyght.
When he had eyton & slept inowe,
His harnes agayne to hym he drowe,
Bothe shyld & armowre bright.
Ipomadon leve we thus
And turne agayne to Cabanus,
That was so good a knyght.
234
694
The tyme Imayne in Cesille was,At Melengere helpe to asse,
Thow sum men better ware,
Cabanus, the sothe to saye,
Was an huntyng all þat day
And wist not of that fare,
Tille at evyn, that he come home;
Knyghttes told hym, when he come,
How Imayn had byn thare
After helpe att Melyngere,
To fight for that lady clere,
That was of blis full bare.
695
They told hym all, how Imayne sayde,That a sege to here was layde
Vppon a grette araye,
And how Imayne prayed for a knyght,
To fyght wyth that cursyd wyght,
That wastythe that lady awaye:
“Off all oure knyghttes were there none,
There to a worde answerde on,
Be god, that moste best maye,
But a fole, that than come inne
And stonyd all men wyth his dyne,
Before vs can he saye,
696
That he hadde gevyn vs all a fall,Cabanus there wyth all,
And them there levyd on the playne,
Segamus and Manestus,
And, trewely, syr, that fole is thus
Folowyd forthe Imayne.
Hadde ye se, how he was arayde,
Ye wold haue byn the better payd,
That is not to layne!”
The knyght stode in a stody still;
He sayd: “I darre lay my lyff þer till,
It was the drewlerayne!”
235
697
Cabanus, wyth sory chereHe knelys downe to Mellengere
Wyth wrythyng & wyth woo:
“My nesse off Calabyre, that fre,
Glade ne blythe shall I neuer be,
And she be turmented soo:
To reskewe hyr I wold be glade!”
Thereoff the kyng grette joye hade
And grauntyd hym leve to goo.
That tyme wyth inne Cessyle lande
Was sone sembled to his hand
V C. knyghttes and moo.
698
Cabanus, the sothe to saye,In to Calabyr toke the waye,
No lenger bydys he thare;
Ryally this knyght roode
Wyth shaftes and wyth shyldes brode
And breny burnysshed bare.
This they come be the see,
They sawyn shippus grett plente,
And women wepte full sare;
In hertte they hade grette sorowe to some,
When they sawe so many come,
All they had muche care.
699
Downe in sownyng fell the fere,Well wend that lady clere,
It had byn Lyolyne,
That hade hur waytyd on the waye,
Here men to sloo, the sothe to saye,
And to sett hyr selff thine.
“Dere god, as thou arte lorde off peas,
Shall neuer this grette sorowe seas,
That hathe so long byne myne?
I wende haue lefte all care behynde,
Ille I fle & worse I fynde,
My lyff now mvste me tyne!
236
700
I wende haue flede dede fro,Dethe me folowythe, where I goo:
A, lord, what care I fele!
Of me take care: wyth sempull chere
Ayens you, good god, I made no dere,
In you lyethe eueri dell;
Ye nede but byde, and it woll bee [OMITTED]
My cursyd pryde will me forfare,
I am worthy mekyll mare,
As I haue happe or sell!”
701
Cabanus on the banke abadeAnd harde the mornyng, þat they made,
He sayde: “So mote ye spede,
What are ye the schepys wyth inne,
That makythe this grette noyse & dynne?
It semys, ye be in drede!”
The teyres hade made þer chekes wete,
The lady stode vppon her fete
And wepte, as she wolde wede:
“I am a sympull woman, syr,
That yester day owght Calaber;
To day I am in drede;
702
For all the lond, that there was myne,Is now in hand of Lyolyne,
And I well a way the while!”
Cabanus sight and sayd: ‘alas’;
When he wyst, what the lady was,
Hym lyst but littill to smylle:
“Dere cosyne of blode,” quod hee,
“Come to land and speke wyth me,
Drede you for no gile:
I am your cosyne Cabanus,
That for socoure comythe thus
Oute of the lande of Cesille!”
237
703
Then was the lady fayne inowgh,There bottis to the lande they drowe,
Wyth mekill mone they mette;
Cabanus began to asse;
When she had told hym, how it was,
Bothe there chekys was wete:
“Syr, all Calaber, my lande,
Now Lyolyne hathe in his hande,
For no man wille he lette,
Where hym lyst to ryde or goo:
And I am, frend, yflemyd therefro,
Neuer foote there I gette!
704
Wythe Imayne heder come a knyght,That for me vndertoke the righte,
As gryme as any bare;
But whens he was, wot we nought,
There was neuer man, more worthely wrought,
Boore of woman aare;
In battayle was he styf and stronge,
Weryng wonder-well and longe
Wyth sade strokis and sare;
All way dyd he well inovgh,
But Lyolyone at the last hym slovgh:
That kyndelyd all my care!”
705
Cabanus sayd: “So byd I yole,I haue herd speke of a fole,
Be god and be my lewte,
That frome vs folowyd Imayne!”
“Syr, as I be sauyd fro payne,
That very same was hee!”
Cabanus sayde: “Be godes myght,
In all this world I know no knyght
Vnder heyvyn so hee,
That cowthe couer hym so, sertayne,
But yf it were the drewlerayne!”
“In fayth, syr, well may be!”
238
706
“That thynke I now, be my lewte,And, sertenly, yff it were hee,
Me thynke, grette harme it ware,
For more worthely, than he wrought,
Dyd neuer no knyght, as me thought,
Borne of any woman are!”
Cabanus sayd: “Lady dere,
Your selff shall abyde here,
No forther shall ye fare!
Wheder it turne to good or ille,
In faythe, to the feld go I will,
To here tydyngis thare!
707
My folke shall wyth you byde;To Lyolyne my selff will ryde,
To witt, what right he hase,
Here to werke so muche woo!”
Off V C. knyghtes and moo
But ten he wyth hym tas;
Oute of the thyke woode gan he pas,
In to the feld, where the battayle was,
He come wyth in shorte space.
Be thane was Ipomadon
A well good stede lepte vppon,
Awaywarde faste he gaase.
708
He rode downe thurgh a depe valey,For non shuld know hym, soth to saye,
But yett sayd Cabanus,
Till his ten knyght sayd he syne:
“Serys, younder lyethe Lyolyne,
I wott well, it is thus!
Awayward faste hyed hee,
And yf he shall ouertakyn be,
Spede vs faste vs bvs!”
Wyth sporys they stroke there stedis aright,
Cabanus cryed: “Howe, syr knyght,
Abyde and speke withe us!
239
709
Where were ye borne & in what contre?”The tother sayd: “What is that for the?”
He made, as he was tene:
“Wett thou well, I am Lyolyne:
I maye ryde here, the londe is myne,
The fere and all bedene;
I wanne her wyth my hand right nowe;
But tell me lighttly, what art thou,
That spekis this wordis kene
And of my way dystrobelyst me thus?”
“In fayth, my name is Cabanus
And many a day hathe bene!”
710
“Arte thou Cabanus?” “I say the, yaa!”“Syr, forthe thy way I rede the gaa,
For drede off mornyng more!”
“Nay, be god, that made the mone,
Sore shalt thou by, that þou hast done,
Wyth sade strokys and sore!”
Ipomadon wiste full wele,
That Cabanus was bolde vnder stele,
And he was wonded sore:
“And he were as lyght in lythe & lymme,
Or that I were beknowen wyth hym,
To fight well leuer me wore!”
711
Cabanus sayd: “Syr, we shall preve here,That thou hade neuer right to the fere,
Nother be nyght nor day!”
Ipomadon saw, that nedys hym mvste;
He made hym redy to juste
Wythe all the myght, þat he may.
Eythere knyght on othere founde
Wythe sperys, that were sharpe grovnde,
The sertayne sothe to saye.
There shaftis sheverd hevyn wyth that,
But stone-stille in there sadyll they satte,
So bygge men were they.
240
712
Ipomadon was wovndyd sore,Yett thowȝe he neuer so wery were,
No thynge, that hym sterde,
In eerthe there myght non better be;
Then he hade wyth hym knyghtis thre,
Hym selff was the ferde.
Cabanus hade knyghttis X,
The elewenthe was hym self thenne,
And euery man drew his swerd.
Ipomadons knyghttes, wyth oute les,
Echone his felowe ches
And bare them to the erthe.
713
To them presud other moo,And of Ipomadons knyghttis thoo
Two was smerttly slayne;
Thanne was hym selff nere-hande woode,
Fowre of Cabanus knyghttis goode
He claffe in to the brayne;
The fyfte in to the forhedde stroke he so,
That to the grounde he made hym goo,
And sithe he ros agayne;
A swerd in hand he grypus than
And to Ipomadons stede he ranne,
Bothe wyth myght and mayne.
714
He smot his stede, that was so wyght;Ipomadon, on his foote he lyght,
Fighttyng wonder-faste;
Thow he neuer so wery wore,
His strokis were so sade & sore,
That blode, through mayle itt brast.
That in the stowre before hade byn
So harde bestadde wyth Lyolyne,
Wonder it was, that he myght last;
Ipomadon wyth hardy herte
Ouer a dyke fro them he sterte;
To rest hym, was his caste.
241
715
He lenyd his bake till an okeAnd gaff many a sory stroke,
That all had of hym dowght;
His thre knyghttis were thane slone,
All they presud to Ipomadon,
They weryd hym abowte;
And he had not be woundyd so sore,
He had them skomfete thore,
All that riall rowte [OMITTED]
716
Helme & shyld he hewis in sounderAnd othere harnes, that was þer vnder,
That right sekyr was are,
Was there neuer knyght, sethe this world began,
I trowe, that more worshipe wanne,
Werry yff that he ware.
At the laste one away smate
The halfe of his glove of plate
And made his hande all bare;
A ringe on his fyngur shone,
Cabanus lokyd on the stone,
He syghyd wonder-sare.
717
When Cabanus the ring sawe,Hym thought, he shuld it knowe,
A littill he drew abake;
He comaundyd his men for thy,
They shuld them wythdraw a party,
And to the knyght he spake,
He sayd: “Syr, for thy lewte,
Abyde a while and speke wyth me,
For thow arte not to lake:
As thou be sauyd be heyven kyng,
On what wyse come thou to þat ring?
But to no greffe ye it take!”
718
When he hard hym speke of the ring,Ipomadon, in a stodeynge
242
Wordis in his hert ranne,
That his moder had spokyn before þanne,
To dethe when she yode,
What man dothe this ring know,
He shuld be his brother trowe;
That grettly mengyde his mode.
Cabanus grette hast hadde,
To aske hym more, he was gladd;
He sayd: “Syr, for the love of god,
719
I aske the not for no reprove,But for her sake, that ye best love,
What so euere she bee,
As where ye had that ring & howe:
I haue knowen hit or nowe,
Be aught, that I gan see!”
Ipomadon hard hym all in haste
Speke of that thyng, þat he covytte maste,
And he was lothe to lee,
To the tother sayd: “Be this day,
Synne I shall the sothe saye,
My moder, she gaff hit mee!”
720
“Who was your moder, for your lewte?”“The quene of Poyle, in faythe,” quod hee,
“I make hit no counsele!”
“And sayd she you ought, so god you save?”
“Ye, that I shuld a brother haue,
I trowe that tale be lele!”
“But, sir, be the trought of thyne,
Saye me, arte thou aught Lyolyne?”
“Nay, so haue I happe or selle!
I kepe no lengyr to layne wyth you:
I feld and skoumfett hym right nowe,
That wyth hym was moche to dell!”
721
“Dere syr,” quod Cabanus,243
In what lond was ye borne?”
Whens ye come & whedyr ye shall,
I praye you, good syr, tell me all:
Where haue ye dwellyd beforne?”
“Syr, synne, als þou the sothe will asse,
The kyngis sone of Poylle I was,
That had grett welthe of corne;
Syn come I heder, so haue I sell,
To serve younde worthy damysell,
And there had I many a skorne!
722
When men to dede of armus drough,I went to the grene wood bovgh,
A huntere as I ware;
Lordis and ladyes, lesse & more,
To skorne lowde loughe they me þerfore,
My joye was mekill the mare.
Off a wowe I hard hyr speke,
That wold I nought, she shuld it breke,
That made me fro her fare.
Synne I dwellyd wyth your eyme, þe kyng,
And seruyd the quene, my lady yinge;
That tyme I sawe you thare.
723
Sethe just y here dayes thre,In white, in rede, in blacke, parde,
I trowe, this knowe ye well!
The thryd nyght I went my waye,
And that I wan, the sothe to saye,
I sent you euery dell;
Yf ye be aught avysyd of this?”
“Sertes,” Cabanus sayd, “yiis,
For me thynkis, yet I fele
Your strokis, that were bothe sade & sore,
That I my selff that tyme was thore,
I know it, so haue I sell!”
244
724
This twelffe monethe oute wyth spere & lawnseI haue byn wythe the kyng of Fraunce,
Catryus the kene;
There herde I tell all to gedder,
How she was bestadde, & I come heder
And haue slayne Lyolyne;
And euer more in my hert I thought,
To hyr vowe I corded nowghte,
Away I wold haue ben;
Now am I spyed, right well I se,
And that sore forthynkes me,
My hertt nere brast for tene.
725
A longe tyme haue I louyd the fre,And so, I trowe, she hathe done mee,
For no thyng wold she wette!
Syre, younde blythe of blode & bone,
Tille thre yere was comyn & gone,
I was hyr straunge valett!
I kepe no lengur to layne:
Syne I was the drewlerayne,
Ye wott, onys when we mett;
And as a fole now haue I been,
For no thyng ellys, wyth outen wene,
But the deroye to gette.”
726
“Telle me, syr, what is your name?”“Ipomadon, wyth outen blame,
That no man hathe done wrangur!”
“Is this Ipomadon, my brother?”
“I trowe full well, it be non nothere,
I kepe hit to layne no langur!”
“Alas, brother,” quod Cabanus,
“Why haue ye fare wyth vs thus?
In stowre were neuer non strangere!
Be grette god, that owethe this day,
Had ye this wyse gone awaye,
It wold a wrought grette angure!
245
727
Why, dere brother Ipomadon,That thou thus prevely wold haue goone,
Grettly mervels mee:
Was neuer man borne of woman ere,
Me thynkis, that bettur worthy were,
To haue younde bright of ble!”
Ipomadon sayd wyth lawynge chere:
“Welcome be you, brother dere,
Be god and be my lewte!”
Then were they bothe glad & blythe,
Eyther toke other in armys swythe,
Hit was grette joye to see.
728
Be the ring of grette valeweFor brether ayther oþer knewe,
Her swerdes fell frome tham thane;
More joye was neuer eyre sene,
Then was the two brethryne betwene,
Syn gode this world began.
This herde & sawe syr Prynsyus,
One of the knyghttis of Cabanus,
And to a stede he ranne;
Thrugh the thyke wode he gan pas,
And to the lady, there she was,
Lyghttly he hym wanne.
729
The lady was full sore agaste.When she sawe hym come so faste,
She hade mekyll drede:
“Lordynges, younder comythe a knyght,
That semys wele, he hath takyn flyght,
He hyes hym a grette spede!
I wotte well trewly, it is thus,
Slayne is my cosyne Cabanus!”
She wepte as she wold wede;
“Lordes and knyghttes, armes you,
Your mayster to socovre nowe,
As god of hevyne me spede!
246
730
And he be slayne for my sake,Here to god a vowe I make,
That weldythe heyven on hee:
I shall neuer ette of lyues foode
Ne drynke, that shall do me good,
But drowne me in the see!”
Euery man made hym redy thus;
Be then was comyn syr Pryncyous
And knelys downe on his kne.
“What tydyngis?” quod that lady bright;
He sayd: “Madame, be goddis myghte,
There may no better bee!
731
Gladder tydynges, as I trowe,Was neuer in this world brought you
Ne to no lady hore!”
“Then is dede syr Lyolyne?”
“Ye, lady, be trouthe myne,
He shall noye ye no more!”
“And lyves my cosyn Cabanus?”
“Ye, madame!” quod Pryncyvs,
“And ellis grette rewth it wore!”
“Now, dere syr, who hathe done þat dede?”
“He was, madame, so god me spede,
Slayne, or we come thore!”
732
“Witt any man, who hym slow?”“Yee, madame, well inowe,
Be god & be my lewte:
One of the preveyst knyght,
That euer was borne, be day or nyght;
When he had slayne that sle,
Awaywarde he hyed hym fast!”
Shee thought and trymblyd at þe last,
More prevely done hathe he;
She sayd wyth many a sighyng sore:
“Imayne, & yf that my lemon wore,
Lorde god, wele were mee!
247
733
But, dere syr,” quod the lady thanne,“Telle me, yf thou can,
Whens come he, wot ye aught?”
“He is the kyngis sone of Poyle,
He traveld hathe thorowe many a soyle,
For your love aventurs sought:
For your love he made kytte his here,
For your love he made hym fole euery where,
For your love grette wonder wrought,
For your love hathe sufferd payne
And for your love Lyolyne hathe slayne
And to the grounde hym brought.
734
All your frendship myght be glade,To wyffe and he you weddyd had,
For suche on is there none;
The blake baner hathe brought you blis!”
“O, what is his name?” “Madame, iwis,
He hight Ipomadone!
He was so lothe, knowen to be,
That fought wyth vs all hath he,
Fowre of oure knyghttes slone;
He had made vs all to rewe,
But Cabanus be a ring hym knew,
That mendyd bothe there mone.”
735
“And is he saht to Cabanus?”“Ye, madame,” quod Pryncyous,
“Be god and be my lewte,
Was neuer two borne of woman yare,
To my dome, that louyd more,
Gladder thane may non bee,
Brother were they, when they mett.
Madame, he was your straung valett,
Then goone is yeris thre,
And thanne he was the drewlerayne!”
“Yes, I am loveles,” quod Imayne,
“Be oughte, that I can see!
248
736
Ya, no fors, so god me save,She is more worthy, hym to haue,
Then euer were ye, Imayne!
For her love he hathe suffyrd woo,
And, sertus, she for hym also,
Bothe they hadde full mekyll payne.
A full nobull knyght is hee,
Blythe they may now bothe bee,
The sothe is not to layne!
Imayne, littill to do thou hadde,
This endurs day when thou badde,
So frowardely torne agayne!
737
All when he folowyd me,I cowde neuer wit, þat it was he,
Soo wonderly he wrought!
Madame, now dare I savely swere,
That mekyll beholdyne to god ye ere:
He sendythe you, that ye haue sought;
You now right wele may you holde!”
“Ya, Imayne, suster, hade I that bolde,
Of no thyng ellys I ravght!
God graunte, if that his will be,
That he will not forsake mee,
Whiche made vs bothe of nought!”
738
When Ipomadon and CabanusThere fille to geddyr hade spokyne þus,
Vppon there steddis lepte they;
To geddur lawȝing forth they rode;
To Cander, wythe oute bode,
They toke the redy waye.
When they were come in to the citte,
They sent after the bright of ble;
She come in good araye.
He spendithe well his long travayle,
That at the laste, wyth outen fayle,
His love gette maye!
249
739
The fere in to the citte yede;Ipomadon, when she come, toke hede
And met hyr curtesly;
The lady he full goodely grete,
Wyth kyssynge to geddyr ar they mett,
They tremblyd bothe for gree,
As lovers maners hathe bene,
That long while no noþer hathe sene,
Ye maye well witt there by:
Wyth myrthe they ar mett ageyne,
There herttes will quake bothe for fayne
Be way off drewry.
740
A long while no worde he spake,Bott at the last they both out brake,
Thowȝ they were neuer so wrathe:
“God save you, damysell!” quod hee;
She sayd: “Syr, welcome mot ye be!”
Ther herttes quakyd bathe.
All the cowrte was full fayne,
That Lyolyne was so slayne,
That hade theme wrought gret lathe.
When they had sene Ipomadon,
All they thankyd god alonne,
That he skapyd that skathe.
741
Cabanus, wyth good intentLetturs to the kyng he sent
And told hym euery deell,
How hit was the drewlerayne,
That had Lyolyne so slayne
And wonne that lady lel.
Mellengere wold no lengur abyde,
But thedyre he rayud hym to ryde
Wyth styff men vnder stele [OMITTED]
742
The kyng sayd: “Lordes, wyth outen wene,Long wyth oute a kyng haue we bene,
250
Now god hathe sent you here a knyght,
That will you mayneteyne in youre right:
Was there neuer a better wroughte!”
All prayden the kyng: “For goddis sake
“Helpe ye, that maryage for to make,
That it be taryde noughte!”
743
Ipomadon sayd: “Securlye,So mekill of price winne wolde I,
That I am not krowened yit;
I love your nece, so mot I thryve,
More, thanne all the women of lyve:
I reke nere, who it witte!
Will my love asent there tille,
Home in to Poyle, ser, wend I will
And neuer more forther flytte,
Wyth worshipe crownyd for to be
And there to wedde my lady fre,
And ye will acorde to hitte!”
744
The kyng sayd: “So god me save,Here of we grette lykyng haue,
Be hym, that owethe this daye!”
Euery man made them redy faste,
The waye in to Poyle they paste,
To Berlett comyn ar theye.
There hathe he weddyd that lady hend
And brought there long love to ende;
They crowyned them bothe, I saye,
Hym for kyng & hur for quene;
The seventhe day they toke there leyve bedene,
Bothe kyng and maye.
745
Ipomadon gave to Tholamewe,That to hym was euer good & trewe,
To his wyff Imayne
Wyth landes, that was long & brade;
251
The sothe is not to layne;
And to Jasone he gaff the fayre,
The kynges doughttur of Lorayne & his eyre,
There of she was full fayne;
And to his cosyne Egyone [OMITTED]
Bothe castell & demayne
746
To geddyr ar this louers two,Was there neuer non, that louyd so,
Borne of womon yett.
Betwene them to was neuer no proffe,
So wonder-grett delyte of love
In bothe there herttes was sett.
Fro the tyme, that they beganne,
Right wele they had rekynd tille thanne,
For no thyng wold they lett,
But euer there love alyke was haate,
Betwene them two was neuer no bate,
Fro the tyme, that they were mette.
747
All, that had seruyd the fere ore,He warysound, both lesse & more,
Euery man in there degre.
To gedyr gan this louers dwell,
But, how long, I can not tell,
Be god and be my lewte!
So merely they ledde ther lyff,
Betwene them two was neuer stryff,
That man myght here or see.
In hyr tyme she bare hym sonys two,
The fayrest, that on ground myȝt goo,
No godelyer myght non bee.
748
Cawnus was the oldest brothere,Portusalus was the tothere,
That after hym was bryme & bold,
And aftur his fader, wyth oute lesynge,
252
As herytage hit wolde.
And Portusalus of Calabere
Was crownyd, for why it come of hyr,
The modere mylde of molde.
She toke hit hym be heritage,
For hit was hyr in maryage,
And nother hit was bought ne sold.
749
He was a full nobull kyng,Lyke to his fader in all thynge,
That was so wonder-wighte,
Of kyndnes and of curtessye,
Off armvre and of chevalrye,
Off semelynes be sight.
Off the fader haue ye now harde:
At the citte off Tebes how so he farde,
There dyed that nobull knyght;
And when that to the fere was told,
Neuer aftur ette ne drynke she wold,
For pure love dyed that wight.
750
Aftur Mellengers dyssesCabanus, wyth outen lesse,
Off Cessyle crownyd was kyng;
He was a full nobull man,
His burgayes and his barons þanne
Off hym had grette lykyng;
A worthy lady he weddyd to wyff,
Wythe joye and blys they led ther lyff,
He and that lady yinge.
They were full good at all degre,
But wyth his brothere dyed hee,
They bothe had one endynge.
751
Ipomadon hathe sent his sondeTo lovers, that leve in londe,
His messyngere makythe he me;
253
To lovys wounde ye lay no salue,
But poynttis of grette pette.
Where right loue was in herte brought,
That for a littill lette ye noughte:
Sertes, no more dyd hee.
This endythe Ipomadon, iwis.
That good lorde bringe vs to his blis,
That bought vs on the rode tre!
And that ye shall for louers pray
To hym, that made bothe nyght & day.
[To brynge vs to the blysse, that lestis aye.]
AMEN for charyte.
255
THE LYFE of IPOMYDON
257
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.
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
258
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;
259
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,
260
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.
261
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!”
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,
262
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;
263
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:
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,
264
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;
265
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,
266
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.
267
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;
268
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,
269
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.
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:
270
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.
271
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.
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,
272
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,
273
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
274
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!”
275
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;
276
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:
277
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!
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!
278
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,
279
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,
280
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,
281
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.
282
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,
283
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;
284
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.”
285
“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.
As he was wonte to done ere;
Forthe he rode blowyng his horne,
That all the maydens gan hym scorne
286
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.
287
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,
288
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.
289
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:
290
“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,
291
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,
292
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
293
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,
294
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:
295
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.
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,
296
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;
297
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.
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,
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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
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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,
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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,
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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,
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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
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“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,
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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
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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,
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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,
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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,
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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.
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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!
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,
310
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?
311
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?”
312
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,
313
“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.
314
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,
315
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;
316
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,
317
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.
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“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.
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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!
Amen.
Explicit Ipomydon.
| Ipomedon | |