Lines 349–696

A boot he fond by the brym.
And a glysteryng theryn,
Therof they had ferly,
They went forth on the sond,
To the boot y untherstond,
And fond theryn that lady.
She hadde so longe meteles be.
That hym thowht dele to se,
She was in poynt to dye.
They askede her what was her name,
She chaunged hit ther anone.
And sayde she hette Egare.

Syr Kadore hadde gret pyte.
He toke up the lady of the see,
And horn gan he lede ;
She hadde so longe meteles be.
She was wax lene as a tre.
That wordy unther wede.
Into hys castell when she came.
Into a chawmbyr they her namm.
And fayr they gann her fede,
Wyth all delycyus mete and drynke,
That they myghth hem on thynke,
That was yn all that stede.

When that lady, fayr of face,
With mete and drynke kevered was,
And had colour agayne.
She tawghte hem to sewe and marke
All maner of sylkyn werke.
Of her they wer full fayne.
She was curteys yn all thyng,
Bothe to olde and to yynge,
I say yow for certeyne ;
She kowthe werke all maner thyng,
That fell to emperour or to kyng,
Erie, barown, or swayne.

Syr Kadore lette make a feste.
That was fayr and honeste,
Wyth hys lorde the kynge,
Ther was myche menstralse,
Trompus, tabors, and sawtre,
Bothe harpe and fydyllyng.
The lady, that was gentyll and small.
In kurtull alone served yn hall,
Byfore that nobull kyng.
The cloth upon her shone so bryghth.
When she was theryn ydyghth,
She semed non erdly thyng.

The kyng loked her upon,
So fayr a lady he sygh never non.
His herte she hadde yn wolde.
He was so anamered of that syghth,
Of the mete non he myghth,
But faste gan her beholde ;
She was so fayr and gent,
The kynges love on her was lent.
In tale as hyt ys tolde ;
And when the mete-whyle was doun,
In to the chamber he wente soun.
And called his barouns bolde.

Fyrst he called syr Kadore,
And other knyghtes that ther wore,
Hastely come hym tyll,
Dukes and erles, wyse of lore,
Hastely come the kyng before.
And askede what was his wyll.
Then spakke the ryche yn ray.
To syr Kadore gan he say,
Wordes fayr and stylle :
Syr, whenns ys that lovely may,
That yn the halle served this day?
Tell me yyf hyt be thy wyll.

Then sayde syr Kadore, Y untherstonde,
Hyt ys an erles thowghter of ferre londe,
That semely ys to tene,
I sente after her, certeynlye,
To teche my chylderen curtesye,
In chambur wyth hem to bene.
She ys the konnyngest wommon,
I trowe that be yn Crystendom,
Of werk that y have sene.
Then sayde that ryche raye,
I wyll have that fayr may,
And wedde her to my quene.

The nobull kyng, verament,
After his modyr he sent.
To wyte what she wolde say.
They browght forth hastely
That fayr mayde Egarye,
She was bryghth as someres day.
The cloth on her shon so bryght.
When she was theryn dyght,
And her self a gentell may.
The olde qwene sayde anon,
I sawe never wommon
Halvendell so gay.

The old quene spakke wordes unhende,
And sayde, Sone, thys ys a fende,
In this wordy wede.
As thou lovest my blessynge.
Make thou never this weddynge,
Cryst hit de forbede !
Then spakke the ryche ray,
Modyr, y wyll have this may.
And forth gan her lede.
The olde quene, for certayne,
Turnede with ire hom agayne.
And wolde not be at that dede.

The kyng wedded that lady bryght,
Grete purvyance ther was dyghth,
In that semely sale,
Grete lordes wer served aryght,
Duke, erle, baron and knyghth,
Both of grete and smale.
Myche folke for sothe ther was.
And thereto an huge prese.
As hit ys tolde in tale,
Ther was all maner thyng.
That fell to a kynges weddyng.
And mony a ryche menstrall.

When the mangery was done,
Grete lordes departed sone,
That semely were to see.
The kynge be laste with the qwene,
Moch love was hem betwene.
And also game and gle ;
She was curteys and swete.
Such a lady herde y never of yete ;
They loved both with herte fre.
The lady that was both meke and mylde,
Conceyved and wente with chylde,
As god wolde hit sholde be.

The kyng of France, yn that tyme.
Was besette with many a Sarezyne,
And cumbered all in tene ;
And sente after the kyng of Galys,
And other lordys of myche prys,
That semely were to sene.
The kyng of Galys, in that tyde,
Gedered men on every syde.
In armour bryght and shene ;
Then sayde the kyng to Syr Kadore,
And other lordes that ther wore,
Take good hede to my qwene.

The kyng of Fraunce spared none,
But sent for hem everychone,
Both kyng, knyghth, and clerke ;
The stiward, bylaft at home.
To kepe the qwene whyte as fome.
He com not at that werke.
She wente with chylde, yn place,
As longe as goddes wyll was,
That semely unther serke ;
Thyll ther was of her body
A fayr chyld borne, and a godele,
Hadde a dowbyll kynges marke.

They hit crystened with grete honour,
And called hym Segramour,
Frely was that fode ;
Then the steward syr Kadore,
A nobull letter made he thore.
And wrowghte hit all with gode.
He wrowghte hit yn hyghynge.
And sente hit to his lorde the kynge,
That gentyll was of blode ;
The messenger forth gan wende.
And with the kynges moder gan londe.
And yn to the castell he yode.

He was resseyved rychely,
And she hym askede hastyly,
How the qwene hadde spedde ;
"Madame, ther ys of her yborne
A fayr man chylde, y tell you beforne.
And she lyth yn her bedde."
She yaf hym, for that tydynge,
A robe and fowrty shylynge,
And rychely hym cladde :
She made hym dronken of ale and wyne ;
And when she sawe that hit was tyme,
Tho chambur she wole hym lede.

And when hef was on slepe browght,
The qwene that was of wykked thowght,
Tho chambur gan she wende ;
Hys letter she toke hym fro.
In a fyre she brente hit do,
Of werkes she was unhende.
Another letter she made with evyll.
And sayde the qwene had born a devyll,
Durst no mon come her hende.
Thre heddes hadde he there
A lyon, a dragon, and a beere,
A fowll feltred fende.

On the morn, when hit was day.
The messenger wente on his way,
Bothe by stye and strete,
In trwe story as y say,
Tyll he come ther as the kynge laye,
And speke wordes swete.
He toke the kyng the letter yn honde.
And he hit redde, y untherstonde.
The teres down gan he lete.
And as he stode yn redyng,
Downe he fell yn sowenyng,
For sorow his herte gan blede.

Grete lordes that stonde hym by,
Toke up the kyng hastely.
In herte he was full woo ;
Sore he grette and sayde, Alas!
That y ever man born was.
That hit ever so shullde be ;
Alas! that y was made a kynge,
And sygh wedded the fayrest thyng
That on erthe myght go ;
That ever Jhesu hymself wolde sende,
Such a fowle lothly fende.
To come bytwene us too !

When he sawe hit myght no better be,
Another letter then made he.
And seled hit with his fele ;
He commanded yn al thynge,
To kepe well that lady yynge,
Tyll she hadde her hele ;
Bothe gode men and ylle
To serve her at her wylle,
Bothe yn wo and wele :
He toke this letter of his honde,
And rode thorow the same londe,
By the kynges modur castell.

And then he dwelled ther all nyght,
He was resseyved and rychely dyght,
And wyste of no treson ;
He made hym well at ese and fyne,
Bothe of brede, ale, and wyne,
And that berafte hym his reson.
When he was on slepe browht,
The false qwene his letter sowghte.
In to the fyre she kaste hit downe ;
Another letter she lette make,
That men sholde the lady take.
And lede her out of towne.

And putte her ynto the see.
In that robe of ryche ble,
The lytyll chylde her wyth ;
And lette her have no spendyng.
For no mete, ny for drynkyng,
But lede her out of that kyth.
Upon payn of chylde and wyfe
And also upon your owene lyfe
Lette her have no gryth ;
The messenger knew no gyle.
But rode hom mony a myle,
By forest and by fryth.

And when the messenger come home.
The steward toke the letter sone,
And bygan to rede ;
Sore he syght and sayde, alas !
Sertes this ys a fowle case.
And a defull dede.
And as he stode yn redyng.
He fell downe yn swounynge.
For sorow his hert gan blede ;
Ther was nother olde ny yynge,
That myghte forbere of wepynge,
For that worthy unther wede.

The lady herde gret dele yn halle,
On the steward gan she calle,
And sayde. What may this be
Yyf any thyng be amys,
Tell me what that hit ys.
And lette not for me.
Then sayde the steward verament,
Lo her a letter my lorde hath sente,
And therfore woos ys me :
She toke the letter and bygan to rede,
Then fonde she wryten all the dede
How she moste ynto the see.

Be stylle, syr, sayde the qwene,
Lette syche morynge bene,
For me have thou no kare ;
Loke thou be not shente.
But do my lordes commaundement,
God forbede thou spare ;
For he weddede so porely.
On me a sympull lady,
He ys ashamed sore ;
Grete well my lord fro me.
So gentyll of blode yn Crystyante,
Gete he never more.

Then was ther sorow and myche woo.
When the lady to shype shulde go,
They wepte and wronge her honde ;
The lady that was meke and mylde,
In her arme she bar her chylde
And toke leve of the londe.
When she wente ynto the see.
In that robe of ryche ble,
Men sowened on the sonde ;
Sore they wepte, and sayde, Alas !
Certes this ys a wykked kase.
Wo worth dedes wronge !

The lady and the lytyll chylde,
Fleted forth on the water wylde,
With full harde happes ;
Her surkote that was large and wyde,
Therwith her vysage she gan hyde,
With the hynther lappes.
She was aferde of the see,
And layde her gruf upon a tre,
The chylde to her pappes ;
The wawes that were grete and strong,
On the bote faste they thronge,
With mony unsemely rappes.

And when the chyld gan to wepe,
With sory hert she songe hit aslepe.
And put the pappe yn his mowth.
And sayde, Myghth y ones gete lond,
Of the water that ys so stronge,
By northe or by sowthe !
Wele owth y to warye the see,
I have myche shame yn the.
And ever she lay and growht ;
Then she made her prayer,
To Jhesu and his moder dere.
In all that she kowthe.

Now this lady dwelled thore
A full sevene nyght and more.
As hit was goddys wylle ;
With karefull herte and sykyng sore,
Such sorow was her yarked yore.
And she lay full stylle.
She was dryven toward Rome,
Thorow the grace of god yn trone,
That all thyng may fulfylle :
On the see she was so harde bestadde
For hunger and thurste allmoste madde.
Wo worth chawnses ylle!

A marchaunte dwelled yn that cyte,
A ryche mon of gold and fee,
Jurdan was hys name ;
Eevery day wolde he.
Go to playe hym by the see.
The ever for to tane.
He wente forth yn that tyde,
Walkynge by the see sythe,
Alle hym selfe alone :
A bote he fonde by the brymme,
And a fayr lady therynne,
That was ryght wo-bygone.