Lines 273–544

Of Blauncheflour is þat y meene,
For she was come of good kyne.
Lytel and muche loueden þe
For þy goodnesse and þy beaute.
Ȝif deþ were dalt aryȝt,
We shuld be deed boþ on oo nyȝt.
On oo day borne we were;
We shul be ded boþ in feere.”
“Deeþ,” he seide, “ful of enuye,
And of alle trechorye,
Refte þou hast me my lemman.”
“For soth,” he seide, “þou art to blame.
She wolde haue leuyd, and þu noldest,
And fayne wolde y dye, and þu woldest.
After deeþ clepe nomore y nylle,
But slee my self now y wille.”
His knyf he braide out of his sheth;
Him self he wolde haue doo to deth.
And to hert he had it smetene
Ne had his moder it vnder ȝetene.
Þen þe Queene fel him vppone,
And þe knyf fro him noome.
She reft him of his lytel knyf,
And sauyd þere þe Childes lyf.
Forþ þe Queene ranne, al wepyng,
Tyl she come to þe kyng.
Þan seide þe good lady,
“For goddes loue, sir, mercy!
Of .xii. children haue we noone
On lyue now but þis oone.
And better it were she were his make,
Þan he were deed for hur sake.”
“Dame, þou seist soþ,” seide he;
“Sen it may noone other be,
Leuer me were she were his wyf,
Þan y lost my sonnes lyf.”
Of þis word þe Quene was fayne,
And to her soone she ran agayne.
“Floryes, soone, glad make the,
Þy lef þou schalt on lyue see.
Florys, sone, þrouȝ engynne
Of þy Faders reed and myne,
Þis graue let we make,
Leue sone, for þy sake.
Ȝif þou þat maide forgete woldest,
After oure reed wyf þou sholdest.”
Now euery worde she haþ him tolde,
How þat þey þat mayden solde.
“Is þis soth, my moder dere?”
“For soth,” she seide, “she is not here.”
Þe rowȝ stoone adoune þey leyde,
And sawe þat was not þe mayde.
“Now, moder, y þink þat y leue may.
Ne shal y rest nyȝt ne day,
Nyȝt ne day ne no stounde,
Tyl y haue my lemmon founde.
Hur to seken y woll wende,
Þauȝ it were to þe worldes ende.”
To þe king he goþ to take his leue,
And his Fader bade him byleue.
“Sir, y wyl let for no wynne;
Me to bydden it it were grete synne.”
Þan seid þe king, “seth it is soo,
Seþ þou wylt noone other doo,
Al þat þe nedeþ we shul þe fynde;
Ihesu þe of care vnbynde.”
“Leue Fader,” he seide, “y telle þe
Al þat þou shalt fynde me.
Þou mast me fynde, at my deuyse,
Seuen horses al of prys,
And twoo y-charged vppon þe molde
Boþ with seluer and wyþ golde,
And two ycharged with monay
For to spenden by þe way,
And þree with clothes ryche,
Þe best of al þe kyngryche,
Seuen horses and seuyn men,
And þre knaues without hem,
And þyne owne Chamburlayne,
Þat is a wel nobel swayne.
He can vs wyssh and reede,
As marchaundes we shull vs lede.”
His Fader was an hynde king,
Þe Coupe of golde he dide him bryng,
Þat ilke self Coupe of golde
Þat was Blauncheflour for ȝolde.
“Haue þis, soone,” seide þe king,
“Herewith þou may þat swete þing,
“Wynne so may betyde,
Blauncheflour with þe white syde,
Blauncheflour, þat faire may.”
Þe king let sadel a Palfray,
Þe oone half so white so mylke,
And þat other reed so sylk.
I ne can telle nouȝt
How rychely þat sadel was wrouȝt.
Þe Arson was of golde fyne,
Stones of vertu stode þeryne,
Bygone aboute wit orfreys.
Þe Queene was kynde and curtays,
Cast hur toward þe kyng
And of hur fynger she brayde a ryng:
“Haue now þis ylke ryng:
While is it þyne, douȝt no þyng
Of fire brennyng ne water in þe See;
Ne yren ne steele shal dere thee.”
He took his leue for to goo;
Þer was ful muche woo;
Þey made him noon other chere
Þan her soon were leide in bere.
Furþ he went with al his mayn;
With him went þe Chamberlayn.
So haue þey her hauyn nome
Þat þey ben to þe hauyn come
Þere Blaunchefloure was alnyȝt,
Wel rychely þey ben dyȝt;
Þe lord of þe ynne was welle hende;
Þe Child he sette next þe ende,
In al þe feirest seete
Alle þey dronken and al þey ȝete:
Ete ne drynke myȝt he nouȝt;
On blauncheflour was al his þouȝt.
Þe lady of þat vnderȝat
Þat þe Childe mornyng sat,
And seide to her lord with styl dreme,
“Sir, nyme now goode ȝeme
How þe Child mournyng syttes:
Mete and drynke he forȝetes:
Lytel he eteþ, and lasse he drynkeþ;
He is a marchaund, as me þynkeþ.”
To Flores þen seide she,
“Al ful of mournyng y the see.
Þer sate þer þis sender day,
Blauncheflour, þat swete may.
Heder was þat mayde brouȝt
With Marchaundes þat hur had bouȝt;
Heder þey brouȝt þat mayde swete;
Þey wold haue solde hur for byȝete;
To Babyloyne þey wylle hur brynge,
Boþ of semblant & of mornynge.”
When Florys herd speke of his lemman,
Was he neuer so glad a man,
And in his hert bygan to lyȝt;
Þe Coupe he let fulle anoon ryȝt:
“Dame,” he seide, “þe fessel is þyne,
Boþ þe Coupe and þe wyne,
Þe wyne and þe gold eke,
For þou of my leman speke:
On hur y þouȝt, for hur y syȝt;
I ne wyst where I hur fynde myȝt;
Wynde ne weder shal me assoyne,
Þat y ne shal seche hur in Babyloyne.”
Now Florys resteþ him al a nyȝt.
At morne, when it was day lyȝt,
He dide him in-to þe wylde flood.
Wynde and weder with him stood;
Sone so Florys come to londe,
Þere he þanked goddes sonde
To þe londe þer his lyf ynne is:
Him þouȝt he was in paradyse.
Sone to Florys tydyng men tolde
Þat þe Amyral wold Fest holde;
His Erls, Barons, comyn sholde,
And al þat wold of him lond holde,
For to herkyn his hest
And for to honoure his Feest.
Glad was Florys of þat tydyng;
He hoped to come to þat gestyng,
Ȝif he myȝt, in þat halle,
His lemman see among hem alle.
Now to þat Citee Florys is come;
Feire he hath his ynne y-noome
At a palaise; was none it lyche;
Þe lord of þat ynne was fulle ryche;
He hadde ben ferre and wyde.
Þe Childe he set next his syde,
In al þe feirest seete.
Alle þey dronken and ete,
Al þat þerynne were,
Al þey made good chere,
Þey ete and dronke echoon with other;
But Florys þouȝt al another,
Ete ne drynke he myȝt noȝt,
On Blauncheflour was al his þouȝt.
Þan spake þe Burgays
Þat was hende and Curtays:
“Ow, child, me þynkeþ welle
Þat muche þou þynkest on my catelle.”
“Nay, sir, on Catel þenke y nouȝt,”
(On Blauncheflour was al his þouȝt,)
“But y þynke on al wyse
For to fynde my marchaundise;
And ȝit it is þe most woo,
When y it fynd, y shal it forgoo.”
Þan spak þe lord of þat ynne,
“Þis sender day, þer sate hereyne
Þat faire Maide Blauncheflour,
boþ in halle and in boure.
Euer she made mornyng chere,
And bement Florys, her lyf fere;
Ioye ne blis made she noon,
But for Florys she made her moon.”
Florys toke a Coupe of syluer clere,
A mantyl of Scarlet with menyuere:
“Houe þis, sir, to þyn honour;
Þou may þonke it Blauncheflour.
He myȝt make myn hert glade,
Þat couþ me tel wheder she is ladde.”
“Child, to Babyloyne she is brouȝt;
Þe Amyral hur haþ bouȝt:
He gaf for hur, as she stood vpryȝt,
Seuen sithes of gold hur wyȝt;
For he þenkeþ with-out weene,
Þat faire may haue to Queene.
Among his maydons in his toure
He hur dide, with much honoure.”
Now Flores resteþ him þere al nyȝt,
Tyl on þe morrow þe day was lyȝt;
He roos on þe morownyng,
He gaf his Ost an hundryd shelyng,
To his ost and to his Ostesse,
And toke his leue, and feire dide kysse;
And ȝerne his ost he besouȝt,
Þat he him help, ȝif he myȝt ouȝt,
Ȝif he myȝt, with any gynne,
Þat feire may to him wynne.
“Childe,” he seide, “to a brygge þou shalt come,
The Senpere fynde at hoome:
He woneth at þe brygges ende;
Curtays man he is, and hende;
We arn bretheren, and trouthes plyȝt:
He can þe wyssh and rede a-ryȝt;
Þou shalt bere him a rynge
Fro my-self to tokenynge,
Þat he help þe in boure and halle
As it were my self befalle.”
Florys takeþ þe ryng, and nemeþ leue,
For long wold he nouȝt beleue.
By þat it was vndern hyȝe,
Þe Brygge come he swyth nye.
Þe Senperes name was Darys.
Florys gret him wel feire ywys,
And he him þe ryng arauȝt,
And ful feire it him betauȝt.
Þrouȝ þe token of þat ilk ryng
Florys had ful faire gestnyng
Off Fyssh and flessh and tender breed,
Of wyn, both white and reed:
And euer Florys sate ful colde,
And Dares bygan þe Childe beholde:
“Leue Child, what may þis be,
Þus þouȝtful as y the see?
And þou nouȝt al in feere,
Þat þou makist þus sory chere,
Or þou lykkest noȝt þis yn?”
Þan Floreys answered him:
“Ȝis, sir, by goddes ore,
So good ne had y mony day ȝore:
God let me abyde þat daye
Þat y þe quyte wel may:
But y þenke on al wyse
Most vppon my marchaundyse;
And ȝit it is most woo,
When y hit Fynde, y shal it forgoo.”
“Childe, woldest þou telle me my gryf,
To hele þe, me were ful lyf.”
Euery word he haþ him tolde,
How þe mayde was fro him solde,
And how he was of Spayn a kynges sone,
For grete loue þider y-come,
To fonde, with quantyse and with gyn,
Blauncheflour for to wynne.