Stanzas XLI–LX

The kyng ansuerde the knyghte thane,
" Wondir I hafe that any smethymane
In werre was ever so wyghte."
The kynge bad that he solde hafe mete and drynke,
And alle that he wolde after thynke,
Tille he hade coverde his myghte ;
And thane by his crowne the kyng sware,
That whenne he were coverde of his care,
That he wolde dubbe hym knyghte.
And at a nunrye the knyght was levede,
To hele the wondes in his hevede,
That he had in the fyghte.

The nonnes of hym thay were fulle fayne,
For that he hade the Sarazenes slayne,
And those haythene houndes ;
And of his paynnes sare gunne thame rewe,
like a daye thay made salves newe,
And laid thame tille his wondes.
Thay gafe hym metis and drynkis lythe,
And helid the knyghte wondir swythe;
And within a lyttille stownde,

The knyghte purvayed bothe slavyne and pyke,
And made hymselfe a palmere lyke,
And thoghte that he wolde wende.
His leve he tuke, withowttyne lesse,
And thankede mekille the pryores,
And alle hir nunnes hende.
The righte waye thane takes he
To a havene of the Grekkes see,
Als Jhesu Cryste hym sende.
A schippe he fonde alle redy ȝare,
With a marynere alle bowne to fare,
In Acris gunne thay lende.

Whenne thay in that havene lenede,
With wery bones the knyghte up-wenede
In to that haythene stede ;
And sevene ȝere he was fully thore,
With hungre, and thriste, and bones sore,
In storye thus als we rede.
Fulle weryly thane ȝode he thore aye,
And wrechidly one nyghttis he laye
In his povre wede,
Goddes werkkes for to wyrke,
To serve Gode and haly kyrke,
And to mende hir are mysdede.

So it by-felle hym sonne onone,
That alle a syde of a cunntre he hase thurgh gone,
Bot mete ne drynke couthe he gete none,
Ne house to herbere hyme inne ;
Withowttene the burghe of Bedeleme,
He layde hym downe by a welle streme,
Fulle sore wepande for pyne.
And als he laye, abowte mydnyghte
Thare come an angelle faire and bryghte,
And broghte hym brede and wyne.
" Palmere," he sayse, " welcome thou bee,
The kynge of hevene wele gretis the,
Forgyffene erre synnes thyne !

" And welecome," he sais, " Syr Ysambrace !
Forgeffene es the alle thi tryspase,
For sothe als I the sayne !
And wele the gretis now oure hevens kynge,
And grauntes the nowe his dere blyssynge,
And byddes the torne agayne."
The knyghte knelide thane appone his knee,
Jhesu Criste thane thankede hee,
He wepide so was he fayne :
Bot wyste he never whedirwarde to gonne,
For had he nowre no wonnynge wone,
Bot aye to walke in payne.

Sevene kynges landes hase he gone thurgh,
Untille he come tille a riche burgh,
Thare als a castelle inne stode ;
Thenne herde he telle ther wonned a qwene,
That was a lady fayre and schene,
And grete worde of hir ȝode,

That everylke a daye scho gyffes at hir ȝate,
To povre mene that golde wille take,
Fulle many fand scho there ;
Ilkone hade a florence, noghte to layne ;
Sir Ysambrace was never so fayne,
Hym hungrede never so sare !
Of povre mene that myghte ille goo,
Thay tuke inne welle a sexty or moo,
Of thame that sekeste were ;
And in thay tuke syr Ysambrace,
At myschefe thay sawe wele that he was,
And of hym thame rewede sare.

The riche qwene in haulle was sett,
Knyghttes hir serves to handes and fete,
Were clede in robis of palle ;
In the floure a clothe was layde,
" This povre palmere," the stewarde sayde,
" Salle sytt abowene ȝow alle."
Mete and drynke was forthe broghte,
Sir Ysambrace sett and ete noghte,
Bot luked abowte in the haulle.
So mekille he sawe of gamene and glee,
And thoghte what he was wonnt to be,
And terys lete he falle.

So lange he satt and ete noghte,
That the lady grete wondir thoghte,
And tille a knyghte gane saye,
" Bryng a chayere and a qwyschene,
And sett ȝone povre palmere ther-in,
That he to me telle maye
What tydans that he hase herde and sene
In haythynenes, whare he hase bene
In many a wilfulle waye."
A riche chayere than was ther fett,
This povre palmere ther-in was sett,
He tolde hir of his laye.

And so nobilly he hase hir tolde,
That scho myghte frayne hym what scho wolde,
To whils that he there sett ;
" Now, palmere," scho said, " I salle the gyffe
Evermare whils I may lyfe,
Thou salle hafe clothe and mete,

" And a mane to serve the daye and nyghte,
And a chambir faire and bryghte
Withinne the castelle walle."
The palmere thankes that lady free,
And in hir courte thare thus duellys he,
And thankes God of alle.
He duellid there fulle many a ȝere,
Tille that he was bothe hale and fere,
And servede in that haulle ;
He was mane bothe fayre and heghe,
Alle had wondir that hym see,
So stylle he was with-alle.
And when knyghtes went to put the stane,
Twelve fote over thaym everylke ane,
He keste it als a balle ;
Therefore at hym thay hade envy ;
A tornament than did thay crye,
Thay thoghte to do hym quede,
And schames dede with-alle.
That daye the tournament solde be stede,
Thay horsede hym on ane olde crokede stede,
And ȝitt for- thoghte thame alle.

Bot by syr Ysambrace hade redyne thurgh the felde,
There was none that undir schilde
Durste mete his crokede stede,
That he ne gafe hym swylke a clowte,
That bothe his eghne stode one strowte ;
Wele a sevene score garte he blede !
And some he keste into a slake,
That bothe braste neke and bakke,
And many flede for drede :
The qwene hirselfe at hym faste loghe,
And sayd, " My palmere es styffe enoghe,
He es wele worthi to fede !"

And so it byfelle ones appone a daye,
The palmere wente to the wode to playe,
Als it was are his kynde;
The palmere sawe a neste one heghe,
A rede clothe therinne he seghe
Owte-wappande with the wynde ;
And to the neste thane gane he wynne,
His awene golde he sawe therinne,
His mantille thare gane he fynde.
With eghne whenne that he sawe the golde,
That his wyfe was fore solde,
His sorowe bygane to mene.

The golde unto his chambir he bare,
And hyd it fulle prevaly thare,
And wepande he went awaye ;
And aye whenne he gunne the golde see,
He grette fulle sare for his lady,
And to pyne tornes alle his playe !
So lange the palmere lede that lyffe,
That with knyghtes it wexe fulle ryffe,
And to the lady thay gane it saye.

And so it felle appone a daye,
The palmere went to the wode to playe,
His myrthis for to mene ;
The knyghtes brake up his chambir dore,
And fande the golde right in the flore,
And bare it unto the qwene ;
And als sone als scho saw it with syghte,
In swonyng than felle that swete wyghte,
For scho had are it sene !
Scho kyssede it, and sayde, " Alias !
This golde aughte syr Ysambrace,
My lorde was wonte to bene !"

Than scho to the knyghtes tolde,
How scho was for that golde solde,
And hir lorde was wondide sore ;
" Bot faste whenne ȝe the palmere see,
Dose hyme swythe to speke with me,
Aftir hym me langes fulle sore."
The knyghtes gane brynge hym to the haulle,
The lady gane hym to concelle calle,
And fraystes at hym there,
" Was thou ever gentylle mane ?
Whare and howe that thou this golde wanne ?"
His sorowe thane wexe the mare !

With dulefulle mode and herte fulle sare,
He gafe the lady ane ansuare,
And one his knee hym sett ;
And a fulle nobille tale ther tille hir he tolde,
" My wyfe was for this golde solde,
Myselfe was fulle sare bett !"
And downe than knelide the lady byfore his face,
And sayde, " Welecome, my lorde syr Ysambrace !"
Fulle grete joye scho hade in herte.

Thane aythir of other were so fayne,
That thay myghte no lengere layne,
Bot to the knyghtes it tolde ;
Thane crownnede he was with riche gyfte,
And made hym kynge, that are was knyghte,
Over alle those knyghttes bolde.

And whenne he was kynge and bare the crowne,
He sent his sande fra towne to towne,
Tille ylke a ryche cete,
And he gerte krye in borowes bolde,
Riche and povre, bothe ȝonge and olde,
That alle solde crystende bee ;
And thay that wolde noghte do swaa,
He wolde thame bathe brynne and slaa,
Solde nothynge for thaire lyfe gaa,
Silvere, golde, nor fee !