Lines 418–813

Anon he callyd two knyghtys,
Hardy men at all syghtys,
Bothe were of hys kynne ;
Syrs, he seyde, wythowt fayle,
Yf ye wyl do be my counsayle,
Grete worschyp schulde ye wynne.
Knowe ye the erle of Tollous ?
Moche harme he hath done us,
Hys boste y rede we blynne ;
Yf ye wyll do aftur my redd,
Thys day he schall be dedd,
So god me save fro synne.

That oon knyght Kamiters, that odur Kaym
Falser men myght no man rayme,
Certys then were thoo ;
Syr Trylabas was the thrydde,
Hyt was no mystur them to bydd
Aftur the erle to goo.
At a brygge they hym met,
Wyth harde strokes they hym besett,
As men that were hys foo ;
The erle was a man of mayn,
Paste he faght them agayne,
And soon he slew twoo.

The thrydd fledd, and blewe out faste,
The erle ovyrtoke hym at the laste,
Hys hedd he clofe in three ;
The cuntrey gedyrd abowte hym faste,
And aftur hym yorne they chaste,
An hundurd there men myght see.
The erle of them was agaste,
At the laste fro them he paste,
Fayne he was to flee ;
From them he went into a waste,
To reste hym there he toke hys caste,
A wery man was hee.

All the nyght in that foreste
The gentyll erle toke hys reste,
He had no nodur woon ;
When hyt dawed he rose up soone.
And thankyd god that syttyth in trone,
That he had scapyd hys foon.
That day he travaylyd many a myle,
And ofte he was in grete parylle,
Be the way os he can gone,
Tyll he come to [a] fayre castell,
There hym was levyst to dwelle,
Was made of lyme and stone.

Of hys comyng, hys men were gladd,
Be ye mery, my men, he badd,
For nothyng ye spare ;
The emperour, wythowte lees,
Y trowe wyll let us be in pees,
And warre on us no mare.
Thus dwellyd the erle in that place,
Wyth game myrthe and grete solase,
Ryght As hym levyst ware.
Let we now the erle alloon,
And speke we of dame Beulyboon,
How sche was caste in care.

The emperour lovyd hys wyfe,
Al so moche os hys own lyfe,
And more yf he myght ;
He chose two knyghtys that were hym dere,
Whedur that he were ferre or nere,
To kepe hur day and nyght.
That oon hys love on hur caste,
So dud the todur at the laste,
Sche was feyre and bryght ;
Nothyr of othyr wyste ryght noght,
So derne love on them wroght,
To dethe they were nere dyght.

So hyt befelle upon a day
That oon to that othyr say,
Syr, al so muste y thee,
Methynkyth thou fadyst all away,
As man that ys clongyn in clay,
So pale waxeth thy blee.
Then seyde that other, Y make a vowe,
Ryght so methynkyth fareste thou,
Why so evyr hyt bee ;
Telle me thy cause, why hyt ys,
And y schall telle the myn, y wys,
My trouthe y plyght to thee.

Y graunte, he seyde, wythowt fayle.
But loke hyt be trewe counsayle.
Therto hys trowthe he plyght.
He seyde, My lady the emperes.
For love of hur y am in grete dystresse,
To dethe hyt wyll me dyght.
Then seyde the othyr, Certenly,
Wythowte drede, so fare y
For that lady bryght ;
Syn owre love ys on hur sett,
How myght owre bale beste be bett ?
Canste thou rede on ryght

Then seyde that othyr, be seynt John,
Bettur counsayle can y noon
Methynkyth then is thys ;
Y rede that oon of us twoo
Prevely to hur goo,
And pray hur of hur blys ;
Y myselfe wyll go hur tylle,
Yn case y may gete hur wylle,
Of myrthe schalt thou not mys ;
Thou schalt take us wyth the dede,
Leste thou us wrye sche wyll drede.
And graunte thy wylle, y wys,

Thus they were at oon ascent,
Thys false thefe forthe wente,
To wytt the ladyes wylle ;
Yn chaumbyr he founde hyr so free,
He sett hym downe on hys knee,
Hys purpose to fulfylle.
Than spake that lady free,
Syr, y see now well be the.
Thou haste not all thy wylle ;
On thy sekenes now y see,
Tell me now thy prevyte,
Why thou mornyst so stylle.

Lady, he seyde, that durste y noght.
For all the gode that evyr was wroght,
Be grete god invysybylle ;
But on a booke yf ye wyll swere,
That ye schull not me dyskere,
Then were hyt possybyll.
Then seyde the lady, How may that bee,
That thou durste not tryste to mee ?
Hyt ys full orybylle :
Here my trowthe to the y plyght,
Y schall heyle the day and nyght,
Al so trewe as boke or belle.

"Lady, in yow ys all my tryste,
Inwardely y wolde ye wyste,
What payne y suffur you fore ;
Y drowpe, y dare, nyght and day,
My wele, my wytt, ys all away,
But ye lene on my lore,
Y have yow lovyd many a day,
But to yow durste y nevyr say,
My mornyng ys the more ;
But ye do aftur my rede,
Certenly y am but dede,
Of my lyfe ys no store."

Than answeryd that lovely lyfe,
Syr, wele thou wottyst y am a wyfe,
My lorde ys emperoure.
He chase the for a trewe knyght,
To kepe me bothe day and nyght,
Undur thy socowre.
To do that dede yf y assente
Y were worthy to be brente,
And broght in grete doloure ;
Thou art a tray tour in thy sawe,
Worthy to be hanged and to-drawe,
Be Mary that swete floure,

A, madam, seyde the knyght,
For the love of god almyght,
Hereon take no hede,
Yn me ye may full wele tryste ay,
Y dud nothyng but yow to affray,
Al so god me spede,
Thynke, madam, your trowthe ys plyght,
To holde counsayle, bothe day and nyght.
Fully wythowte drede ;
Y aske mercy for goddys ore,
Hereof yf y carpe more
Let drawe me wyth a stede.

The lady seyde, Y the forgeve,
Al so longe os y leve,
Counsayle schall hyt bee ;
Loke thou be a trewe man,
In all thyng that thou can,
To my lorde so free,
" Yys, lady, ellys dyd y wronge,
For y have servyd hym longe,
And wele he hath qwytt mee."
Here of spake he no mare,
But to hys felowe can he fare.
There evyll must they the.

Thus to hys felowe ys he gon,
And he hym frayned anon,
Syr, how haste thou spedd ?
Ryght noght, seyde that othyr,
Syth y was borne, lefe brothyr.
Was y nevyr so adredd.
Certys hyt ys a boteles bale
To hur to touche soche a tale,
At borde or at bedde.
Then sayde that odur, Thy wytt ys thynne,
Y myselfe schall hur wynne,
Y lay my hedd to wedde.

Thus hyt passyd ovyr, os y you say,
Tyl aftur, on the thrydde day,
Thys knyght hym bethoght,
Certys, spede os y may,
My ladyes wylle that ys so gay,
Hyt schalle be thorowly soght.
When he sawe hur in beste mode.
Sore syghyng to hur he yode,
Of lyfe os he ne roght :
Lady, he seyde, wythowte fayle,
But ye helpe me wyth yowre counsayle,
Yn bale am y broght.

Sche answeryd full curtesly.
My counsayle schall be redy,
Telle me how hyt ys.
When y wott worde and ende,
Yf my counsayle may hyt mende,
Hyt schall, so have y blysse.
Lady, he seyde, y undurstonde
Ye muste holde up yowre honde
To holde counsayle, y wys.
Yys, seyde the lady free,
Thereto my trouthe here to the,
And ellys y dude amys.

Madam, he seyde, now y am in tryste.
All my lyfe thogh ye wyste,
Ye wolde me not dyskere ;
For you y am in so grete thoght,
Yn moche bale y am broght,
Wythowte othe y swere :
And ye may full wele see
How pale y am of blee,
Y dye nere for dere ;
Dere lady, graunt me youre love,
For the love of god that sytteth above,
That stongen was wyth a spere.

Syr, sche seyde, ys that youre wylle ?
Yf hyt were myne then dyd y ylle ;
What woman holdyst thou me ?
Yn thy kepeyng y have ben.
What haste thou herde be me or sene
That touchyth to any velanye ?
That thou in herte art so bolde,
As y were a hore, or a scolde :
Nay that schall nevyr bee.
Had y not hyght to holde counsayle.
Thou schouldest be honged, wythowt fayle,
Upon a galowe-tree.

The knyght was never so sore aferde,
Syth he was borne in myddyllerd,
Certys os he was thoo :
Mercy, he seyde, gode madam !
Wele y wott y am to blame,
Therfore myn herte ys woo
Lady, let me not be spylte,
Y aske mercy of my gylte,
On lyve ye let me goo.
The lady seyde, Y graunte wele
Hyt schall be counseyle every dele,
But do no more soo.

Now the knyght forthe yede,
And seyde, Felowe, y may not spede,
What ys thy beste redd ?
Yf sche telle my lorde of thys.
We be but dedd, so have y blys,
Wyth hym be we not fedd :
Womans tongue ys evell to tryste,
Certys and my lorde hyt wyste,
Etyn were all owre bredd.
Felow, so mote y ryde or goo,
Or sche wayte us wyth that woo,
Hur selfe schall be dedd.

How myght that be? that othur sayde,
Yn herte y wolde be wele payde,
Myght we do that dede.
Yys, syr, he seyde, so have y roo,
Y schall brynge hur wele thertoo,
Therof have thou no drede ;
Or hyt passe dayes three
In mekyll sorowe schall sche bee,
Thus y schall qwyte hur hur mede.
Now are they bothe at oon assente,
In sorow to brynge that lady gente ;
The devell mote them spede !

Sone hyt drowe toward nyght,
To soper they can them dyght.
The emperes and they all.
The two knyghtys grete yapys made,
For to make the lady glade,
That was bothe gentyll and small ;
When the soper tyme was done,
To the chaumbyr they went soone,
Knyghtys cladd in palle.
They daunsed and revelyd os they noght dredd
To brynge the lady to hur bedde,
There foule must them falle.

That oon thefe callyd a knyght.
That was carver to that lady bryght,
An erleys sone was hee,
He was a feyre chylde, and a bolde.
Twenty wyntur he was oolde,
In londe was none so free.
" Syr, wylt thou do os we the say ?
And we schall ordeygne us a play,
That my lady may see ;
Thou schalt make hur to lagh soo,
Thogh sche were gretly thy foo,
Thy frende schuld sche bee."

The chylde answeryd anon ryght,
Be the ordur y bere of knyght,
Therof wolde y be fayne ;
And hyt wolde my lady plese,
Thogh hyt wolde me dysese,
To renne yn wynde and rayne.
" Syr, make the naked, save thy breke,
And behynde the yondur curtayn thou crepe,
And do As y schall sayne ;
Then schalt thou see a yoly play."
Y graunte, thys yong knyght can say,
Be god and seynt Jermayne.

Thys chylde thoght on no ylle,
Of he caste hys clothys stylle,
And behynde the curtayn he went ;
They seyde to hym, what so befalle,
Come not owt tyll wee thee calle ;
And he seyde, Syrs, y assente.
They revelyd forthe a grete whyle,
No man wyste of ther gyle,
Save they two veramente ;
They voyded the chaumber sone anon,
The chylde they lafte syttyng alone,
And that lady gente.

Thys lady lay in bedd on slepe,
Of treson toke sche no kepe.
For therof wyste sche noght ;
Thys chylde had wonder ever among
Why these knyghtys were so longe,
He was in many a thoght :
" Lorde, mercy, how may thys bee
Y trowe they have forge ton me
That me hedur broght ;
Yf y them calle sche wyll be adredd,
My lady lyeth here in hur bedde,
Be hym that all hath wroght."

Thus he sate stylle as any stone.
He durst not store, nor make no mone,
To make the lady afryght ;
Thes false men, ay worthe them woo ?
To hur chambur can they goo,
And armyd them full ryght.
Lordys owte of bedd can they calle,
And badd arme them grete and smalle;
"Anone that ye were dyght ;
And helpe to take a false traytour,
That with my lady, in hur boure,
Hath playde hym al thys nyght."

Sone they armyd everychone,
And with these traytours can they gone,
The lordys that there wore ;
To the emperes chaumber they cam ryght,
Wyth torchys and wyth swerdys bryght.
Brennyng them before.
Behynde the curtayne they wente,
The yong knyght, verrament,
Nakyd found they thore ;
That oon thefe wyth a swerde of were
Thorow the body he can hym bere,
That worde spake he no more.

The lady woke, and was afryght,
Whan sche sawe the grete lyght.
Before hur beddys syde,
Sche seyde, Benedycyte !
Syrs, what men be yee ?
And wonder lowde sche cryedd.
Hur enemyes mysansweryd thore,
We are here, thou false hore,
Thy dedys we have aspyedd ;
Thou haste betrayed my lorde.
Thou schalt have wonduryng in thys worde,
Thy loos schall sprynge wyde.

The lady seyde, Be seynte John,
Hore was y nevyr none.
Nor nevyr thoght to bee.
Thou lyest, they seyde, thy love ys lorne,
The corse they leyde hur beforne ;
Lo here ys thy lemman free :
Thus we have for the hym hytt,
Thy horedam schall be wele qwytte,
Fro us schalt thou not flee.
They bonde the lady wondyr faste,
And in a depe preson hur caste,
Grete dele hyt was to see,

Leve we now thys lady in care,
And to hur lorde wyll we fare,
That ferre was hur froo :
On a nyght, wythowt lette,
In hys slepe a swevyn he mett,
The story telleth us soo :
Hym thoght ther come two wylde berys,
And hys wyfe al to-terys,
And rofe hur body in twoo ;
Hymselfe was a wytty man,
And be that dreme he hopyd than
Hys lady was in woo.