Lines 1318–1755

Then came Egravayne, wythowten lees,
Faste prekynge into the prees,
The sothe he wolde have tolde,
But Mylys owte wyth a swyrde kene,
And wolde Egravayne tene,
But he a mantell can folde
Ofte sythys abowte hys arme.
And kepyd hym wele fro any harme,
That hardy was and bolde.
The emperowre bad put them in sondur.
And of yow schall bye thys blundur
Whych hath the wronge in holde.

Syr Egravayne seyde, Syr, now y schall
Tell yow a full sekyr tale.
And ye wyll here hyt wele.
Syr, when he went unto the sec,
Ye lefte an hundurd men, and us thre,
Armed in yron and stele,
To kepe Florence tyll ye came agayne ;
And that made my brodur Sampson slayne,
And wroght hath myn unhele.

Unnethe were ye on the sec
When Mylys seyde, here standyth he,
That ye for evyr were gone.
He seyde he wolde be emperowre,
And wedde yowre lady whyte as flowre,
That worthy ys yn wone ;
He had an hundurd at hys assente,
And hyght them londys and ryche rente ;
That made syr Sampson slone :
And broght him home on a bere-tree,
And tolde Florence that hyt was ye,
Thon made sche full grete moone ;

And when he wolde hur have wedde,
Faste away fro hym sche fledde,
And wolde have stolyn awaye.
Then Mylys made to arme twelve knyghtes,
To kepe the place day and nyghtys,
And watch abowte hur lay
And certys y was to them sworne,
And ellys had my lyfe be lorne,
The certen sothe to saye.
I went to the pope and tolde hym sa
And he assoyled me a pena et culpa
Wythowtyn any delay.

Then he gart arme an hundurd clerkys,
Doghty men and wyse of werkys,
To the pales he can them brynge,
They bonde the false bothe hond and fote,
And in pryson caste them, god hyt wote,
And ther yn can them thrynge ;
And Florence let owt Mylys nowe,
For to wende agenste yow,
Be Jhesu, hevyn kynge ;
Thys wyll wytnes pope Symond,
He wolde not for a thousand pownde,
Telle yow a lesynge ;

Ye schall come home, as y yow say,
Be to-morne that hyt be day,
And thys was at the none.
The emperowre in thys whylys,
Drewe a swyrde to syr Mylys,
But lordys helde hym soone ;
He badd, False traytur, flee !
That thou nevyr thy brodur see,
For wykkydly hast thou done,
Evyn to Rome ageyne he rode,
Hastely wythowten bode,
Or evyr he wolde awey gone,

To feyre Florence can he saye,
A lesying that hur wele can paye,
My lorde byddyth that ye schall
Come agayne hym in the mornynge.
Blythe therof was that maydyn yynge.
And trowed hys false tale.
Sche sente to the pope over nyght.
And bad he schulde be tymely dyght,
Wyth mony a cardynale ;
And sche ordeygned hur meyne als,
And went wyth hym that was false.
And passyd both downe and dale,

When they came wythowte the cyte
Mylys seyde, My lady free,
We two muste ryde faste,
And let the pope and hys meyne
Come behynde the and me,
For thus then ys my caste ;
That thou may speke wyth my lorde thy fylle,
And wyth Garcy wykkyd of wylle,
And be nothynge agaste.
For when the emperowre the pope can see,
Mekyll speche wyll ther bee,
And that full longe wyll laste.

Mylys, sche seyde, god yylde hyt the,
That y soone my lorde may see,
Thou makyst me full fayne.
The ryght wey lay evyn este.
And he lad hur sowthe-weste,
And thus he made hys trayne,
Tyll they came downe in a depe gylle ;
The lady seyde, We ryde ylle,
Thes gates they are ungayne ;
I rede we lyght unto the grownde,
And byde owre fadur the pope a stownde.
He seyde, Nay, be goddys payne,
Thou schalt hym see nevyr mare,
Tho the lady syghed wondur sare,
And felle off on hur palfray.

He bete hur wyth hys nakyd swyrde,
And sche caste up many a rewfull rerde,
And seyde ofte Wele a saye !
Schall y nevyr my lorde see ?
No, be god that dyed on tre,
The false traytur can saye.
Up he hur caste, and forthe they rode,
Hastely wythowten any abode,
Thys longe somers day.

They were nyghted in a wode thyck,
A logge made that traytur wyck,
Undurnethe a tree.
Then he wolde have layn hur by,
And sche made hur preyer specyally,
To god and Mary free,
Let nevyr thys false fende
My body nodur schame nor schende,
Myghtfull in mageste !
Hys lykyng vanysched all away.
On the morne, when it was day,
Ther horsys bothe dyght hee.

Up he hur caste, and forthe they rode,
Thorow a foreste longe and brode,
That was feyre and grene.
Tyll eyder odur mekyll care,
The lady hungurd wondur sare,
That was bryght and schene ;
She had levyr a lofe of bredd
Then mekyll of the golde redd
That sche before had seen.
So hyt drewe to the evenynge,
Then they herde a belle rynge,
Thorow the grace that godd can lene,

A holy armyte fownde he there,
To greve god full lothe hym were,
For he had servyd hym aye.
Thedur they wente to aske mete.
The armyte seyde, Soche as y ete
Ye schall have, dere damysell, y say,
A barly lofe he broght hur too.
And gode watur : full fayne was scho,
That swete derworthe maye.
Therof the yonge lady ete,
Sche thoght never noon so swete,
Be nyght nodur be day.

Mylys ete ther of als,
He seyde, Hyt stekyth in my hals,
I may not gete hyt downe.
Chorle, god yf the schames dedd,
Brynge us of thy bettur bredd.
Or y schall crake thy crowne.
Be god, he seyde, that boght me dere,
I had no bettur thys seven yere.
The wykkyd man tho made hym bowne,
In at the dore he hym bete,
And sethyn fyre upon hym sete,
Ferre fro every towne.

The holy armyte brente he thare,
And lefte that bygly hows full bare,
That semely was to see.
The lady beganne to cry and yelle,
And sayde, Traytur, thou schalt be in helle,
There evyr to wonne and bee.
He made the lady to swere an othe,
That sche schoulde not telle for lefe nor lothe,
Nevyr in no cuntre,
Fro whens thou came, nor what thou ys,
Nor what man broght the fro thy blysse,
Or here y schall brenne the.

To make that othe the lady was fayne,
And there he wolde by hur have layne.
But she preyed god to be hur schylde ;
And ryght as he was assaye
Hys lykyng vanyscht all awaye,
Thorow the myght of Mary mylde.
Tymely as the day can dawe,
He led her thorow a feyre schawe,
In wodes waste and wylde ;
Evyn at undurne lyghtyd he
Downe undur a chesten tre,
That feyrest in that fylde.

He seyde, Thou haste wychyd me,
I may not have to do with the,
Undo or thou schalt abye.
She answeryd hym wyth mylde mode,
Thorow grace of hym that dyed on rode,
False traytur, thou schalt lye.
He bonde hur be the tresse of the heere,
And hangyd hur on a tre there,
That ylke feyre bodye ;
He bete hur wyth a yerde of byrke,
Hur nakyd flesche, tyll he was yrke,
Sche gaf many a rewfull crye,

There was a lorde that hyght Tyrry
Wonned a lytyll there by,
In a foreste syde,
Thedur was he comyn that day,
Wyth hawkys and howndys hym for to play,
In that wode so wyde.
He harde the crye of that lady free,
Thedur he went and hys meyne,
Al so faste as they myght ryde ;
When Mylys was warre of ther comying,
He lepe on hys hors and forthe can spryng,
And durste no lenger byde.

The feyrest palfrey lefte he there,
And hurselfe hangyd be the heere,
And hur ryche wede,
Hur sadull and hur brydull schone,
Set wyth mony a precyus stone,
The feyrest in that thede.
Sche was the feyrest creature,
And therto whyte as lylly flowre,
In romance as we rede ;
Hur feyre face hyt schone full bryght,
To se hyt was a semely syght,
Tyll hur full faste they yede.

Then they lowsyd hur feyre faxe,
That was yelowe as the waxe,
And schone also as golde redd.
Sche myght not speke, the romance seyde,
On a lyter they hur leyde,
And to the castell hur ledd.
They bathyd hur in erbys ofte,
And made her sore sydes softe,
For almoste was sche dedd :
They fed hur wyth full ryche fode,
And all thyng that hur nede stode,
They servyd hur in that stedd.

The lorde comawndyd hys men everychon
That tythynges of hur they shulde sper noon,
Nor ones aske of whens sche were.
Unto the stabull they ledd hur stede,
And all hur odur gere they dud lede,
Unto a chaumbur dere.
The lorde had a doghtur feyre
That hyght Betres, schulde be hys heyre,
Of vysage feyre and clere ;
To Florence they can hur kenne,
To lerne hur to behave hur among men,
They lay togedur in fere,

In bedd togedur, wythowte lesynge,
Florence that was feyre and yynge,
Yf any man hur besoght
Of love, sche gaf them soche answare
That they wolde never aske hur mare,
That was so worthely wroght.
Sche preyed to god that boght hur dere,
To sonde hur sownde to syr Emere,
That hur full dere had boght.
Be that he was comyn to Rome,
He thoght hyt a full carefull come,
Where sche was he wyste noght.

Off Garcy y wyll telle yow mare,
That was cawser of hur evyll fare,
And cawsyd hur fadur to be slayne,
Emere vengyd well hys dedd,
And broght hym fro hys strenkyth full stedd,
To grete Rome agayne.
There lykyd hym noght to bee.
And soone there-aftur dyed he,
The sothe ys not to layne ;
Sche sawe hym never wyth hur eye,
That cawsyd hur all that sorowe to drye,
Of hur have we to sayne.

Wyth syr Turry dwellyd a knyght
That hardy was, and Machary he hyght,
He was bolde as any bare :
To hys lemman he wolde have had that bryght,
And spyed hur bothe day and nyght,
Therof came mekyll care.
Tyll hyt befelle upon a day,
In hur chaumbur stode that maye,
To hur than can he fare ;
He leyde hur downe on hur bedd,
The lady wepyd sore for dredd,
Sche had no socowre thare.

Before hur bedd lay a stone,
The lady toke hyt up anon,
And toke hyt yn a gethe,
On the mowthe sche hym hyt,
That hys for tethe owte he spytt,
Above and also benethe.
Hys mowthe, hys nose, braste owt on blood,
Forthe at the chaumbur dore he yode,
For drede of more wrethe ;

And to his chaumber he hyed hym ryght,
And dwellyd forthe a fowrtenyght,
And then he came agayne,
And tolde hys lorde that he was schent,
Evyll betyn in a turnement,
The sothe ys not to layne :
The tethe be smetyn owt of my mowthe,
Therfore my sorowe ys full cowthe,
Me had levyr to be slayne.
He wolde have be vengyd of that dede,
Florence myght full sore hur drede,
Had sche wetyn of hys trayne ;
A scharpe knyfe he had hym boght,
Of yron and stele well ywroght,
That bytterly wolde byte.

And evyn to hur chaumbur he yode,
And up behynde a curten he stode,
Therof came sorowe and syte ;
When he wyste they were on slope
To Betres throte can he grope,
In sonder he schare hyt tyte.
And yyt the thefe, or he wolde leeve,
He put the hafte in Florence neeve.
For sche schulde have the wyte.

Forthe at the chaumber dore he yode,
And Betres lay burlyng in hur blode,
And Florence slepyd faste.
Hur fadur thoght in a vysyon,
Hys doghtur schulde be strekyn downe,
Wyth a thonder blaste ;
And as a thyck leyghtenyng aboute hur ware :
Up he starte wyth mekyll care,
And a kyrtell on he caste ;
A candyll at a lawmpe he lyght,
And to hur chaumber reykyd he ryght,
Thorowly on he thraste ;

And fonde Betres hys doghtur dedd,
The bedd was full of blode redd,
And a knyfe in Florence hande.
He callyd on Eglantyne hys wyfe,
Knyghtys and ladyes came belyfe,
Wondur sore wepeande ;
Gentyll wemen sore dud wepe,
And evyr can feyre Florence slepe,
That was so feyre to fande.
Sche glyste up wyth the hedeows store,
A sorowfull wakenyng had she thore,
Soche a nodur was nevyr in lande ;

Abowte the bedd they presyd thyck,
Among them came that traytur wyck,
The whych had done that dede.
He seyde, Syr, y schall fet a stake.
Wythoute the towne a fyre to make,
And Florence thedur lede.
Ye myght see, be hur feyre clothyng,
That sche was no erthely thynge,
And be hur grete feyre-hede.
But some false fende of helle
Ys comyn thy doghtur for the qwelle,
Let me quyte hur hur mede.

They dyght hur on the morne in sympull atyr,
And led hur forthe unto the fyre,
Many a oon wyth hur yede ;
Sche seyde, God, of myghtys moost,
Fadur and sone, and holy goost,
As y dud nevyr thys dede,
Yf y gyltles be of thys,
Brynge me to thy bygly blys,
For thy grete godhede.
All that ever on hur can see,
Wrange ther hondes for grete pyte,
And farde as they wolde wede.

The lorde, that had the doghtur dedd,
Hys herte turned in that stedd,
To wepe he can begynne.
He seyde, Florence, al so mote y the,
I may not on thy dethe see,
For all the worlde to wynne.
To hur chaumbur he can hur lede,
And cled hur in hur own wede,
And seyde, Y hold hyt synne.
They set hur on hur own palfraye,
In all hur nobull ryche arraye,
Or evyr wolde he blynne ;

And gaf hur the brydull in hur hande,
And broght hur to the wode ther he hur fande,
And than he lefte hur thare.
And betaght hur god and gode day,
And bad hur wende on hur way,
And then she syghed sare ;
Syr, sche seyde, for charyte,
Let none of thy men folowe me
To worche me no more care.
Nay for god, he seyde, noon schulde
For nyne tymes thy weyght of golde :
Home then can he fare.

Thorow the foreste the lady rode,
All glemed there sche glode
Tyll sche came in a felde.
Sche sawe men undur a galows stande,
Thedur they ledd a thefe to hange,
To them then sche helde ;
And haylesed them full curteslye.
They askyd fro whens sche came in hye,
That worthy was to welde.
Sche seyde ye schall wete of me no mare
But as a woman dyscownfortyd sare
Wythowten bote or belde ;

No levyng lefe wyth me y have,
Wolde ye graunt me to be my knave,
The thefe that yee thynke to hynge.
The more buxum wyll he bee,
That he were borowyd fro the galow tree,
I hope be hevyn kynge.
Then ther councell toke thay,
They were lothe to seye hur nay,
Sche was so feyre a thynge.
They gaf hym to hur of ther gyfte,
He was full lothe to leeve hys thefte ;
Sche thankyd them olde and yynge,

Sche seyde, Wolde thou serve me wele,
I schulde the quyte every dele.
He seyde to hur, Yaa,
Ellys were y a grete fole,
And worthy to be drowned in a pole,
The galow se thou delyvyrd me fra.
Sche thynkyth, Myght y come ovyr the see,
At Jerusalem wolde y bee,
Thedur to ryde or ga ;
Then myght y spyr tythandes of Rome,
And of my lordys home come ;
But now wakenyth hur waa,

A burges that was the thefys reyset,
At the townes end he them mett,
The lady rode ovyr an hylle,
I wende thou hadyst be hangyd hye,
And he twynkylde wyth hys eye,
As who seyth, holde the stylle :
Thys gentyll woman hath borowed me,
For y schulde hur knave bee,
And serve hur at hur wylle ;
And sythyn he rowned in his eere,
I behete the all thys ryche gere.
Thy hows y wyll brynge hur tylle.