Lines 545–816

“Now,” seith Dares, “þou art a Folt,”--
And For a Foole þe Childe he halt,--
“Now y woot how it gooth,
Þou desirest þyn own death.
Þe Amyral haþ to his Iustinges
Oþer half hundred of ryche kinges;
And þe Alder-rychest king
Durst not begynne suche a þing.
Ȝif Amyral myȝt it vnderstonde,
He shulde be drawe in his owne londe,
A-bout Babyloyne, y wene,
Six longe myle and tene;
At euery myle is a walle þerate,
Seuen sithes twenty ȝate;
And .xx. toures þer ben ynne,
Þat euery day chepyng is ynne;
Euery day and nyȝt þrouȝ-out þe ȝere
Þe Chepyng is y-lyche plenere;
And þauȝ al þe men þat ben bore,
Had on hur lyf swore
To wynne þat maide feire and free,
Al shul þey die, so moot y the.
In þat bour, in mydward pyȝt,
Stondeþ a toure, y the plyȝt,
An hundryd fathum it is hye,--
Who-soo beholdeþ hit, fer or nere,
An hundred fathum it is y-fere;--
It is made with-outen pere,
Of lyme and of Marbulstone;
In al þis world is suche noone.
Now is þe morter made so wele,
Ne may it breke, iren ne steele.
Þe Pomel þat aboue is leide,
It is made with muche pride;
Þat man ne þar in þe Tour berne
Nouther torcher ne lanterne;
Suche a pomel was þer bygone,
Hit shyned a nyȝt so doþ þe soone.
Now arn in þat ilk Tour
Twoo and fourty nobell boure;
Wel were þat ilke man
Þat myȝt woone in þat oon!
Ne durst him neuer more ywys
Couete after more blysse.
Naw arn þer Seriauntes in þat stage
Þat seruen þe maydons of hyȝe parage;
But no serieaunt may serue þerynne
Þat bereþ in his breche þat gynne
To serue hem day and nyȝt,
But he be as a Capoun dyȝt.
At þe gate is a ȝateward;
He is not a Coward;
He is wonder proude with alle;
Euery day he goþ in ryche palle.
And þe Amyral haþ a wonder woon,
Þat he þat is come of cristendome,
Euery ȝere to haue a new wyf,
Þen he loueþ his Queene as his lyf.
Then shul men brynge doun of þe Toure
Al þe Maidens of grete honour,
And brynge hem into an Orchard,
Þe feirest of al mydlerd:
Þeryn is mony fowles song;
Men myȝt leue þeryn ful long:
About þe Orchard is a walle,--
Þe fowlest stone is Cristalle,--
And a well spryngeþ þerynne,
Þat is made with muche gynne;
Þe wel is of muche prys,
Þe stremes com froo Paradyse;
Þe grauel of þe ground is precious stoones,
And al of vertu for þe noones.
Now is þe well of muche auȝt;
Ȝif a woman com þat is for-lauȝt,
And she be doo to þe streeme
For to wesshe her honndes clene,
Þe water wylle ȝelle as it were wood,
And bycome red as blood.
On what maide þe water fareþ soo,
Sone she shal to deþ be doo.
Þoo þat ben maidens clene,
Þey may wesshe þeryn, y wene;
Þe water woll stonde feire and clere;
To hem makeþ it no daungere.
At þe walles hed stondeþ a tree,
Þe feirest þat on erthe may be;
It is cleped þe tree of loue:
Flowers and blossomes spryngen aboue;
Þen þey þat maydons clene bene,
Þei shul be brouȝt vnder þe trene,
And which so falleþ þe floure,
Shal be queene with muche honour.
Ȝif any mayden þer is
Þat þe Amyral telleþ of more pris,
Þe flour shal be to her sent
Þrouȝ art of enchauntement.
Þe Amyral cheseþ hem by þe flour,
And euer he herkeneþ after Blauncheflour.
Thre sithes Flores sownyd anoon
Riȝt byfore hem euerychoon:
When he awoke, and speke myȝt,
Sore he wept, and sore he syȝt,
And seide, “Dares, y worth now deed,
But þat y hope of þe som reed.”
“Leue soon, wyl ȝe see
Þat þy trust is muche on me;
Þen is þe best reed þat y can--
Other reed ne can y noon--
Wende to-morn to þe toure
As þou were a good gynoure;
Take on þy honde squyer and scantlon
As þou were a free mason;
Behold þe tour vp and doun,
Þe porter is cruel and Feloun;
Wel sone he wyl come to the,
And aske what maner man þou be,
And bere on þe, Felonye,
And sey þou art come to be a spye.
And þow shalt answere swetlyche,
And sey to him myldelyche,
Sey þou art a gynoure,
To beholde þat feire Toure,
For to loke and for to fonde
To make suche another in þy londe.
Wel sone he wyl com þe nere,
And wyl byd þe play at þe chekere.
When þou art at cheker brouȝt,
Without seluer be þou nouȝt;
Þou shalt haue redy with the
XX. Marke beside þy knee;
Ȝif þou wynne ouȝt of his,
Þow tel þerof lytel prys;
And yf he wynne ouȝt of þyn,
loke þow leue it with hym;
So þou shalt, al with gynne,
Þe porters loue forsoth wynne,
Þat he þe help on þis day:
But he þe helpe, no man may.
Wel ȝerne he wyl þe bydde and pray
Come anoþer day to playe:
Þou shalt seye þou wylt soo;
Þou shalt take with þe suche twoo;
Þe þrydde day take an hundred pound,
And þy Coupe hool and sound:
Ȝeue him markes & poundes of þy male;
Of þy tresour tel þou no tale;
Wel ȝerne he wyl þe bydde and pray
To lay þy Coupe, and to play.
Þou shalt answere alþerfirst,
Lenger to play þe ne lyst.
Ful muche he wylle for þe Coupe bede,
Ȝif he myȝt þe better spede;
Þou shalt it blethly ȝeue him
Ȝif it be of gold fyne;
And he wol ful moche loue þe,
And to þe bowe also, parde,
Þat he wyl falle to þy foote,
And become þyn, ȝif he moote.
And homage þou shalt fonge,
And þe trouþ of his honde.”
As he seide, he dide ywys;
And as he ordeynd, so it is:
Þe Porter ys Florys man bycome,
For his gold and his warysone.
Florys seide, “now art þou my moon,
Al my trust is þe vppon;
Now my consel y wyl þe shewe;
Rede me ryȝt, ȝif þou be trew.”
Now euery word he haþ him tolde,
How þe mayde was fro him sholde,
And how he was of Spayn a kynges soon,
For grete loue þeder ycoom
To fonden, with some gynne,
Þat feire mayde for to wynne.
Þe Porter þat herde, and sore syȝt,
And seide, “y am betrayde aryȝt;
Þrouȝ þy Catel, y am dismayde;
Þerfore y am wel euyl a-payde
Now y woot how it gooþ;
For þe shal y suffre deth;
I shal þe faile neuer moo,
Þe while y may ryde and goo;
Þy forwardes shal y holde alle,
What-so-euer may befalle.
Wynde now hoom to þyn ynne
While y beþenke me of sum gynne;
Bytwene þis and þe þrydde day.
Fonde y shal, what y do may.
Flores spake and wept amonge
And þouȝt þe terme al to longe.
Þe Porter þouȝt þe best reed,
And let geder floures in a meed;
He wist it was þe maydons wylle.
To lepes he lete of floures fylle:
Þat was þe best reed, as him þouȝt þoo,
Floures in þat oon lep to doo.
Twoo maydens þe lepe bore;
So heuy charged neuer þey wore,
And bade god ȝeue hem euyl fyne;
To mony floures he dide þerynne.
To Blaunchefloures Chamber þey shulde tee;
Þey ȝede to anoþer, and let þat be:
Þey shuld haue gone to Blauncheflour,
And ȝede to swete Clarys boure,
And cursed him so fele brouȝt to honde;
Þey ȝede hoom, and lete hem stonde.
Clarys to þe lepe come wolde,
Þe Flores to hondel and to be-holde;
Florys wende it hadde be his swete wyȝt;
Of þe lepe he stert vpryȝt;
And þe mayde, al for drede,
Bygan to shrelle and to grede.
When he sawȝ it was not shee,
In-to þe lepe aȝen stert he,
And held him betrayde clene;
Of his lyf tolde he not a beene.
Þer come maydons, and to Clarys lepe
by ten, by twelf, on an heepe
And þey asked what hur were,
And why she made suche a bere.
Clarys byþouȝt hur anooneryȝt
Þat hit was Blauncheflour þe white,
And gaue þe Maydons answere anoon,
Þat to her Chamber were goon,
Þat to þe lepe come she wolde,
Þe Flowres to hondel and to beholde;
“And, or y it ere wyst,
An Otter fleyȝ a-geynst my brest:
I was so soore a-drad þan,
Þat y loude crye can.”
Þe Maydons þerof hadden glee,
And turned hem, and lete hur be.
As sone as þe maydons were gon,
To Blauncheflour she ȝede anoon,
And seide boldly to Blauncheflour,
“Felow, come and see a feire Flour!
Suche a flour þe shal wel lyke,
Haue þou it sene a lyte.”
“Awey, Clarys!” quod Blauncheflour;
“To scorne me, it is none honoure.
I here, Clarys, without gabbe,
Þat þe Amyral wyl me to wyf habbe;
But þat day shal neuer be,
Þat he shal euer haue me,
Þat y shal be of loue so vntrewe,
Ne chaunge my loue for no newe;
For no loue, ne for noon aye,
Forsake Florys in his Contraye.
Now y shal swete Florys mysse,
Ne shal noon other of me haue blysse.”
Clarys stood and beheld þat rewth,
And þe trewnesse of hur trewth,
And seide, “lady Blaunchefloure,
Goo we see þat ilk floure.”
To þe lepe þey went both.
Ioyful man was Florys þoo,
For he had herde al þis.
Of þat lepe he stert y-wys:
Wel sone Blauncheflour chaunged hewe;
Ayther of hem other knewe:
Withoute speche togeder þey lepe,
And klippt and kyst wonder swete.
Clarys beheld al this,
Her countenaunce and her blysse,
And seide þen to Blaunchefloure,
“Felow, knowist þou auȝt þis flour?
She shul konne ful muche of Art
Þat þou woldest þerof geue part.”
Now Blauncheflour and Florys,
Boþ þese swete þinges ywys,
Cryen her mercy, al wepyng,
Þat she ne wrey hem to þe king.