Lines 697–1035

The cloth on her shon so bryth
He was aferde of that syght.
For glysteryng of that wede ;
And yn his herte he thowghth ryght,
That she was non erdyly wyght ;
He sawe never non shuch yn leede.
He sayde, What hette ye, fayr ladye ?
Lord, she sayde, y hette Egarye,
That lye here yn drede :
Up he toke that fayre ladye,
And the yonge chylde her by,
And horn he gan hem lede.

When he come to his byggynge,
He welcomed fayr that lady yynge,
That was fayr and bryght ;
And badde his wyf yn all thynge,
Mete and drynke for to brynge
To the lady ryght.
What that she wyll crave.
And her mowth wyll hit have,
Loke hit be redy dyght :
She hath so longe meteles be.
That me thynketh great pyte,
Conforte her yyf thou myght.

Now the lady dwelles ther.
With alle mete that gode were
She hedde at her wylle :
She was curteys yn all thyng,
Bothe to olde and to yynge,
Her loved bothe gode and ylle.
The chylde bygan for to thryfe,
He wax the fayrest chyld on lyfe
Whyte as flour on hylle;
And she sewed sylke werk yn bour,
And tawghte her sone nortowre,
But evyr she mornede stylle.

When the chylde was seven yer olde,
He was bothe wyse and bolde,
And wele made of flesh and bone ;
He was worthy unther wede,
And ryght well kowthe prike a stede,
So curtays a chylde was none.
All men lovede Segramowre,
Bothe yn halle and yn bowre,
Whersoever he gan gone.
Leve we at the lady clere of vyce,
And speke of the kyng of Galys,
Fro the sege when he come home.

Now the sege broken ys,
The kyng come home to Galys,
With mykyll myrthe and pride ;
Dukes and erles of ryche asyce,
Barones and knyghtes of mykyll pryse,
Come rydynge be hys syde.
Syr Kodore his steward thanne,
Ayeyn hym rode with mony a man.
As faste as he myght ryde ;
He tolde the kyng aventowres.
Of his halles and his bowres,
And of his londys wyde.

The kyng sayde, By goddys name,
Syr Kadore, thou art to blame
For thy fyrst tellynge ;
Thou sholdest fyrst have tolde me
Of my lady Egare,
I love most of all thyng,
Then was the stewardes herte wo,
And sayde, Lorde, why sayst thou so?
Art not thou a trewe kynge ?
Lo her the letter ye sente me,
Yowr owene self the sothe may se,
I have don your byddynge.

The kyng toke the letter to rede,
And when he sawe that ylke dede,
He wax all pale and wanne ;
Sore he grette and sayde, Alas !
That ever born y was,
Or ever was made manne !
Syr Kadore, so mot y the,
Thys letter come never fro me,
I tell the her anone.
Bothe they wepte and yaf hem ylle ;
Alas ! he sayde, saf goddys wylle,
And both they sowened than.

Grete lordes stode by,
And toke up the kyng hastyly.
Of hem was grete pyte ;
And when they both kevered were,
The kyng toke hym the letter ther,
Of the heddys thre.
A lord, he sayde, be goddes grace,
I sawe never this letter in place,
Alas ! how may this be ?
After the messenger ther they sente,
The kyng askede what way he wente ;
"Lord, be your moder fre."

Alas! then sayde the kynge.
Whether my moder was so unhende,
To make thys treson ;
By my krowne she shall be brent,
Withowten any other jugement.
That thenketh me best reson.
Grete lordes toke hem betwene,
That they wolde exyle the qwene,
And berefe her hyr renowne ;
Thus they exiled the false qwene.
And byrafte her hyr lyflothe clene,
Castell, towre, and towne.

When she was fled over the see fome,
The nobull kyng dwelled at hom,
With full hevy chere ;
With karefull hert and drury mone,
Sykynges made he many on,
For Egarye the clere :
And when he sawe chylderen play,
He wepte and sayde, Well awey !
For my sone so dere.
Such lyf he lyved mony a day,
That no mon hym stynte may,
Fully seven yere.

Tyll a thowght yn hys herte come.
How his lady, whyte as fome,
Was drowned for his sake :
"Thorow the grace of gode yn trone,
I woll to the pope of Rome,
My penans for to take."
He lette ordeyne shypus fele.
And fylled hem full of wordes wele,
Hys men mery with to make ;
Dolys he lette dyghth and dele,
For to wynnen hym sowles hele.
To the shyp he toke the gate.

Shypmen, that wer so mykyll of price,
Dyght her takull on ryche acyse,
That was fayr and fre ;
They drowgh up sayl, and leyd out ore.
The wynde stode as her lust wore
The wether was lythe on le.
They sayled over the salt fome,
Thorow the grace of god in trone.
That moste ys of powsti ;
To the cyte when they come,
At the burgeys hous his yn he nome,
Ther as woned Emarye.

Emare called her sone,
Hastely to here come,
Wythoute ony lettynge ;
And sayde, My dere sone so fre,
Do a lytull aftur me.
And thou shalt have my blessynge.
To-morowe thou shall serve yn halle,
In a kurtyll of ryche palle,
Byfore this nobull kyng :
Loke sone so curteys thou be,
That no mon fynde chalange to the,
In no manere thynge.

When the kyng ys served of spycerye,
Knele thou downe hastylye.
And take his hond yn thyn ;
And when thou hast so done,
Take the kuppe of golde sone,
And serve hym of the wyne :
And what that he speketh to the.
Cum anon and tell me,
On goddes blessyng and myne.
The chylde wente ynto the hall,
Amonge the lordes grete and small,
That lufsume were unther lyne.

Then the lordes that wer grete,
Wysh and wente to her mete,
Menstrelles browght yn the kowrs.
The chylde hem served so curteysly,
All hym loved that hym sy.
And spake hym gret honowres.
Then sayde all that loked hym upon.
So curteys a chyld sawe they never non,
In halle ny yn bowres.
The kynge sayde to hym yn game,
Swete sone, what ys thy name ?
Lord, he seyd, y hyghth Segramowres.

Then that nobull kyng
Toke up a grete sykynge,
For hys sone hyght so.
Certys, withowten lesynge,
The teres out of his yen gan wryng,
In herte he was full woo.
Neverthelese he lette be.
And loked on the chylde so fre,
And mykell he lovede hym thoo.
The kyng sayde to the burgeys anone,
Swete syr, ys this thy sone ?
The burgeys sayde, Yoo.

Then the lordes, that were grete,
Whesshen ayeyn aftyr mete,
And then com spycerye,
The chyld, that was of chere swete,
On his kne downe he sete.
And served hym curteyslye.
The kynge called the burgeys hym tyll
And sayde, Syr, yf hit be thy wyll,
Yyf me this lytyll body ;
I shall hym make lorde of town and towr,
Of hye halles and of bowre.
I love hym specyally.

When he had served the kyng at wylle,
Fayr he wente his modyr tyll,
And tellys her how hyt ys.
"Soone when he shall to chambur wende.
Take his hond at the grete ende.
For he ys thy fadur, y wysse,
And byd hym come speke with Emare,
That changed her name to Egare,
In the lond of Galys."
The chylde wente ayeyn to halle,
Amonge the grete lordes alle.
And served on ryche asyse.

When they wer well at cse afyne,
Bothe of brede, ale, and wyne,
They rose up more and myn ;
When the kyng shulde to chambur wende.
He toke his hond at the grete ende.
And fayre he helpe hym yn ;
And sayde, Syr, if your wyll be.
Take me your honde, and go with me,
For y am of yowr kynne.
Ye shull come speke with Emare,
That changed her nome to Egare,
That berys the whyte chynne.

The kyng yn herte was full woo,
When he herd mynge tho
Of her that was his qwene ;
And sayde, Sone, why sayest thou so ?
Wherto umbraydest thou me of my wo :
That may never bene.
Nevertheles with hym he wente,
Ayeyn hem come the lady gent,
In the robe bryght and shene.
He toke her yn his armes two.
For joy they sowened both to.
Such love was hem bytwene.

A joyfull metyng was ther thore.
Of that lady goodly unther-gore,
Frely in armes to folde ;
Lorde ! gladde was syr Kadore,
And other lordes that ther wore,
Semely to beholde.
Of the lady that was put yn the see,
Thorow grace of god in trinite,
Thar wes kevered of cares colde.
Leve we at the lady whyte as flour.
And speke we of her fadur the emperour,
That fyrste the tale of ytolde.

The emperour her fadyr then
Wast woxen an olde man,
And thowght on hys synne ;
Of hys thowghtyr Emare,
That was putte ynto the see.
That was so bryght of skynne.
He thowght that he wolde go,
For his penance to the pope tho,
And heven for to wynne ;
Messengeres he sente forth sone,
And they come to the kowrt of Rome,
To take her lordes inne.

Emare prayde her lorde the kyng,
Syr, abyde that lordys komyng,
That ys so fayr and fre ;
And, swete syr, yn all thyng,
Aqweynte you with that lordyng,
Hit ys worshyp to the.
The kyng of Galys seyde than,
So grete a lord ys ther nan
In all crystyante.
" Now, swete syr, whatever betyde,
Ayayn that grete lord ye ryde,
And all thy knyghtys with the."

Emare thawghte her sone yynge,
Ayeyn the emperour komynge.
How that he sholde done :
Swete sone, yn all thyng.
Be redy with my lord the kyng.
And be my swete sone.
When the emperour kysseth thy fadyr so fre,
Loke yyf he wyll kysse the,
Abowe the to hym sone ;
And bydde hym come speke with Emare,
That was putte ynto the see,
Hymself yaf the dome.

Now kometh the emperour of pryse,
Ayeyn hym rode the kyng of Galys,
With full mykull pryde ;
The chyld was worthy unther-wede,
And satte upon a nobyll stede.
By his fadyr syde :
And, when he mette the emperour.
He valed his hode with gret honour,
And kyssed hym yn that tyde ;
And other lordys of gret valowre.
They also kessed Segramowre ;
In herte ys not to hyde.

The emperours herte anamered gretlye
Of the chylde that rode hym by,
With so lovely chere.
Segramowre he sayde his stede,
Hys owene fadyr toke good hede,
And other lordys that ther were.
The chylde spake to the emperour,
And sayde, Lord, for thyn honour.
My worde that thou wyll here ;
Ye shall come speke with Emare,
That changede her name to Egare.
That was thy thowghthur dere.

The emperour wax all pale,
And sayde, Sone, why umbraydest me of bale,
And thou may se no bote ?
" Syr, and ye wyll go with me,
I shall the brynge with that lady fre,
That ys lovesom on to loke."
Neverthelesse with hym he wente,
Ayeyn hym come that lady gent,
Walkynge on her fote ;
And the emperour alyghte the.
And toke her yn his armes two.
And clypte and kyssed her fote.

Ther was a joyfull metynge
Of the emperour and of the kynge.
And also of Emare ;
And so ther was of syr Segramour,
That aftyr was emperour,
A full gode man was he.
A grette feste ther was holde,
Of erles and barones bolde,
As testymonyeth thys story.-

Thys ys on of Brytayne layes,
That was used by olde dayes,
Men callys playn the garye.
Jhesu, that settes yn thy trone,
So graunte us with the to wone
In thy perpetuall glorye !