Lines 1–272

Ne thurst men neuer in londe
After feirer Children fonde.
Þe Cristen woman fedde hem þoo,
Ful wel she louyd hem boþ twoo.
So longe sche fedde hem in feere
þat þey were of elde of seuen ȝere.
Þe kyng behelde his sone dere,
And seyde to him on this manere,
Þat harme it were muche more
But his sone were sette to lore
On þe book letters to know,
As men done, both hye and lowe.
“Feire sone,” she seide, “þou shalt lerne,
Lo þat þou do ful ȝerne.”
Florys answerd with wepyng,
As he stood byfore þe kyng;
Al wepyng seide he,
“Ne schal not Blancheflour lerne with me?
Ne can y noȝt to scole goone
With-out Blanchefloure,” he seide þane.
“Ne can y in no scole syng ne rede
With-out Blancheflour,” he seide.
Þe king seide to his soone,
“She shal lerne for þy loue.”
To scole þey were put;
Boþ þey were good of wytte.
Wonder it was of hur lore,
And of her loue wel þe more.
Þe Children louyd to-geder soo,
Þey myȝt neuer parte a twoo.
When þey had .v. ȝere to scoole goone
So wel þey had lerned þoo,
Inowȝ þey couþ of latyne,
And wel wryte on parchemyne.
Þe kyng vnderstod þe grete Amoure
Bytwene his sone and Blanchefloure,
And þouȝt when þey were of Age
Þat her loue wolde noȝt swage;
Nor he myȝt noȝt her loue withdrawe
When Florys shuld wyfe after þe lawe.
Þe king to þe Queene seide þoo,
And tolde hur of his woo,
Off his þouȝt and of his care,
How it wolde of Floreys fare.
“Dame,” he seide, “y tel þe my reede,
I wyl þat Blaunchefloure be do to deede.
When þat maide is y-slawe,
And brouȝt of her lyf dawe,
As sone as Florys may it vnder ȝete,
Rathe he wylle hur forȝete.
Þan may he wyfe after reede.”
Þe Queene answerde þen and seide,
And þouȝt with hur reede
Saue þe mayde fro þe deede.
“Sir,” she seide, “we auȝt to fonde
Þat Florens lyf wit menske in londe,
And þat he lese not his honour
For þe mayden Blauncheflour.
Who so myȝt þat mayde clene,
Þat she were brouȝt to deþ bydene,
Hit were muche more honour
Þan slee þat mayde Blancheflour.”
Vnneþes þe king graunt þat it be soo.
“Dame, rede vs what is to doo.”
“Sir, we shul oure soone Florys
Sende into þe londe of Mountargis.
Blythe wyl my suster be
Þat is lady of þat Contree.
And when she woot for whoom
Þat we have sent him vs froom,
She wyl doo al hur myȝt,
Boþ by day and by nyȝt,
To make hur loue so vndoo
As it had neuer ben soo.
And, sir,” she seide, “y rede eke
Þat þe maydens moder make hur seek.
Þat may be þat other resoun
For þat ylk enchesoun,
Þat she may not fro hur moder goo.”
Now ben þese Children swyþ woo,
Now þey may not goo in fere
Drewryer þinges neuer noone were.
Florys wept byfore þe kyng,
And seide, “Sir, with-out lesyng,
For my harme out ȝe me sende,
Now she ne myȝt with me wende.
Now we ne mot to-geder goo,
Al my wele is turned to woo.”
Þe king seide to his soone aplyȝt,
“Sone, withynne þis fourtenyȝt,
Be her moder quykke or deede,”
“Sekerly,” he him seide,
“Þat mayde shal come þe too.”
“Ȝe, sir,” he seid, “y pray ȝow it be soo.
Ȝif þat ȝe me hur sende,
I rekke neuer wheder y wende.”
Þat þe Child graunted þe kyng was fayne,
And him betauȝt his Chamburlayne.
With muche honoure þey þeder coome,
As fel to a ryche kynges soone.
Wel feire him receyuyd þe Duke Orgas,
Þat king of þat Castel was,
And his Aunt wiþ muche honour;
But euer he þouȝt on Blanchefloure.
Glad and blythe þey ben him withe;
But for no ioy þat he seith,
Ne myȝt him glade game ne gle,
For he myȝt not his lyf see.
His Aunt set him to lore
Þere as other Children wore,
Boþ maydons and grome;
To lerne mony þeder coome.
Inowȝ he sykes, but noȝt he lernes;
For Blauncheflour euer he mornes.
Yf enyman to him speke
Loue is on his hert steke.
Loue is at his hert roote
Þat no þing is so soote:
Galyngale ne lycorys
Is not so soote as hur loue is,
Ne nothing ne none other.
So much he þenkeþ on Blancheflour,
Of oo day him þynkeþ þre,
For he ne may his loue see.
Þus he abydeth with muche woo
Tyl þe fourtenyȝt were goo.
When he saw she was nouȝt ycoome,
So muche sorow he haþ noome,
Þat he loueth mete ne drynke,
Ne may noone in his body synke.
Þe Chamberleyne sent þe king to wete,
His sones state al y-wrete.
Þe king ful sone þe waxe to-brake,
For to wete what it spake:
He begynneth to chaunge his moode,
And wel sone he vnderstode,
And with wreth he cleped þe Queene,
And tolde hur alle his teene,
And with wraþ spake and sayde,
“Let do bryng forþ þat mayde!
Fro þe body þe heued shal goo.”
Þenne was þe Quene ful woo.
Þan spake þe Quene, þat good lady,
“For goddes love, sir, mercy.
At þe next hauen þat here is,
Þer ben chapmen ryche y-wys,
Marchaundes of babyloyne ful ryche,
Þat wol hur bye blethelyche.
Than may ȝe for þat louely foode
Haue muche Catell and goode.
And soo she may fro vs be brouȝt,
Soo þat we slee hur nouȝt.”
Vnneþes þe king graunted þis;
But forsoþ so it is,
Þe king let sende after þe burgeise,
Þat was hende and Curtayse,
And welle selle and bygge couth,
And moony langages had in his mouth.
Wel sone þat mayde was him betauȝt;
An to þe hauene was she brouȝt.
Þer haue þey for þat maide ȝolde
xx. Mark of reed golde,
And a Coupe good and ryche,
In al þe world was none it lyche.
Þer was neuer noone so wel graue;
He þat it made was no knave.
Þer was purtrayd on, y weene,
How Paryse ledde awey þe Queene;
And on þe Couercle a-boue
Purtrayde was þer both her love;
And in þe Pomel þerone
Stood a Charbuncle stoone.
In þe world was not so depe soler,
Þat it nold lyȝt þe Botelere,
To fylle boþ ale and wyne,
Of syluer and golde boþ good and fyne.
Enneas þe king, þat nobel man,
At Troye in batayle he it wan,
And brouȝt it in-to Lumbardy,
And gaf it his lemman, his Amy.
Þe Coupe was stoole fro king Cesar;
A þeef out of his tresour hous it bar.
And sethe þat ilke same þeef
For Blaunchefloure he it ȝeef.
For he wyst to wynne suche þree,
Myȝt he hur bryng to his contree.
Now þese Marchaundes saylen ouer þe see,
With þis mayde, to her contree.
So longe þey han vndernome,
Þat to Babyloyne þey ben coome.
To þe Amyral of Babyloyne
Þey solde þat mayde swythe soone;
Rath and soone þey were at oone.
Þe Amyral hur bouȝt Anoone,
And gafe for hur, as she stood vpryȝt,
Seuyne sythes of golde her wyȝt,
For he þouȝt without weene
Þat faire mayde haue to Queene;
Among his maydons in his bour
He hur dide with muche honour.
Now þese merchaundes þat may belete,
And ben glad of hur byȝete.
Now let we of Blauncheflour be,
And speke of Florys in his contree.
Now is þe Burgays to þe king coome
With þe golde and his garysone,
And haþ take þe king to wolde,
Þe seluer and þe Coupe of golde.
They lete make in a Chirche
As swithe feire graue wyrche.
And lete ley þer-vppone
A new feire peynted stone,
With letters al aboute wryte
With ful muche worshippe.
Who-so couth þe letters rede,
Þus þey spoken, and þus þey seide:
“Here lyth swete Blaunchefloure
Þat Florys louyd Paramoure.”
Now Florys haþ vndernome,
And to his Fader he is coome.
In his Fader halle he is lyȝt,
His Fader him grette anoone ryȝt,
And his moder, þe Queene, also,
But vnneþes myȝt he þat doo,
Þat he ne asked where his Lemman bee;
Nonskyns answere chargeþ hee.
So longe he is forth noome,
In to Chamber he is coome.
Þe maydenys moder he asked ryȝt,
“Where is Blauncheflour, my swete wyȝt?”
“Sir,” she seide, “forsothe ywys,
I ne woot where she is.”
She beþouȝt hur on þat lesyng
Þat was ordeyned byfoore þe king.
“Þou gabbest me,” he seyde þoo,
“Þy gabbyng doþ me muche woo.
Tel me where my leman be.”
Al wepyng seide þenne shee,
“Sir,” shee seide, “deede.” “deed!” seide he.
“Sir,” sche seide, “for sothe, ȝee.”
“Allas, when died þat swete wyȝt?”
“Sir, withynne þis Fourtenyȝt
Þe erth was leide hur aboute,
And deed she was for thy loue.”
Flores, þat was so feire and gent,
Sownyd þere verament.
Þe cristen woman began to crye
To ihesu crist and seynt Marye.
Þe king and þe queene herde þat crye;
In to þe Chamber þey ronne on hye.
And þe Queene herde her byforne
On sowne þe Childe þat she had borne.
Þe kinges hert was al in care,
Þat sawe his sone for loue so fare.
When he a-wooke and speke moȝt,
Sore he wept and sore he syȝt,
And seide to his moder ywys,
“Lede me þere þat mayde is.”
Þeder þey him brouȝt on hyȝe;
For care and sorow he wolde dyȝe.
As sone as he to þe graue com,
Sone þere behelde he þen,
And þe letters began to rede,
Þat þus speke and þus seide:
“Here lyth swete Blauncheflour,
Þat Florys louyd paramoure.”
Þre sithes Florys sownydde nouth;
Ne speke he myȝt not with mouth.
As sone as he awoke and speke myȝt,
Sore he wept and sore he syȝt.
“Blauncheflour!” he seide, “Blauncheflour!”
So swete a þing was neuer in boure.