Lines 1–378

It was a squyer of lowe degre
That loved the kings doughter of Hungre.
The squir was curteous and hend,
Ech man him loved and was his frend ;
He served the kyng, her father dere,
Fully the tyme of seven yere ;
For he was marshall of his hall,
And set the lords both great and smal.
An hardy man he was, and wight,
Both in batayle and in fyght ;
But ever he was styll mornyng,
And no man wyste for what thyng ;
And all was for that lady.
The kynges doughter of Hungry,
There wyste no wyghte in Christente
Howe welle he loved that lady fre.
He loved her more then seven yere,
Yet was he of her love never the nere.
He was not ryche of golde and fe,
A gentyll man forsoth was he.
To no man durst he make his mone,
But syghed sore hym selfe alone.
And evermore, whan he was wo,
Into his chambre would he goo ;
And through the chambre he toke the waye,
Into the gardyn, that was full gaye ;
And in the garden, as i wene,
Was an arber fayre and grene,
And in the arber was a tre,
A fayrer in the world might none be ;
The tre it was of cypresse,
The fyrst tre that Jesu chese ;
The sother-wood, and sykamoure,
The reed rose, and the lyly-floure,
The boxe, the beche, and the larel-tre,
The date, also the damyse,
The fylbyrdes hangyng to the ground,
The fygge-tre, and the maple round,
And other trees there was many one,
The pyany, the popler, and the plane,
With brode braunches all abowte.
Within the arbar, and eke withoute ;
On every braunche sate byrdes thre,
Syngynge with great melody,
The lavorocke, and the nyghtyngale.
The ruddocke, the woodwale,
The pee, and the popinjaye,
The thrustele sange, both nyght and daye,
The marlyn, and the wrenne also,
The swalowe whippynge to and fro,
The jaye jangled them amonge,
The larke began that mery songe,
The sparowe spredde her on her spraye.
The mavys songe with notes full gaye,
The nuthake with her notes newe,
The sterlynge set her notes full trewe,
The goldefynche made full mery chere,
Whan she was bente upon a brere,
And many other foules mo,
The osyll, and the thrusshe also ;
And they sange wyth notes clere,
In confortynge that squyere ;
And evermore, whan he was wo,
In to that arber wolde he go,
And under a bente he layde hym lowe,
Ryght even under her chambre wyndowe ;
And lened hys backe to a thorne,
And sayd, Alas, that i was borne !
That i were ryche of gold and fe.
That i myght wedde that lady fre !
Of golde good, or some treasure.
That i myght wedde that lady floure !
Or elles come of so gentyll kynne,
The ladyes love that i myght wynne !
Wolde god that i were a kynges sonne,
That ladyes love that i myght wonne!
Or els so bolde in eche fyght,
As was syr Lybius that gentell knyght,
Or els so bolde in chyvalry,
As syr Gawayne, or syr Guy !
Or els so doughty of my hande
As was the gyaunte syr Colbrande !
And [it] were put in jeoperde,
What man shoulde wynne that lady fre,
Than should no man have her but i,
The kinges doughter of Hungry.
But ever he seyde, Wayleawaye !
For poverte passeth all my paye !
And, as he made thys rufull chere,
He sowned downe in that arbere,
That lady herde his mournyng all,
Ryght under the chambre wall ;
In her oryall there she was,
Closed well with royall glas,
Fulfylled it was with ymagery,
Every wyndowe by and by,
On eche syde had there a gynne,
Sperde with many a dyvers pynne.
Anone that lady, fayre and fre,
Undyd a pynne of yvere,
And wyd the wyndowes she open set,
The sunne shone in at her closet,
In that arber fayre and gaye
She sawe where that squyre lay.
The lady said to hym anone,
Syr, why makest thou that mone ?
And whi thou mournest night and day ?
Now tell me, squyre, i thee pray ;
And, as i am a true lady,
Thy counsayl shall i never dyscry;
And, yf it be no reprefe to thee,
Thy bote of bale yet shall i be :
And often was he in wele and wo,
But never so well as he was tho.
The squyer set hym on hys kne,
And sayde, Lady, it is for thee,
I have thee loved this seven yere,
And bought thy love, lady, full dere.
Ye are so ryche in youre aray,
That one word to you i dare not say,
And come ye be of so hye kynne,
No worde of love durst i begynne.
My wyll to you yf i had sayde.
And ye therwith not well apayde,
Ye might have bewraied me to the kinge,
And brought me sone to my endynge.
Therfore, my lady, fayre and fre,
I durst not shewe my harte to thee ;
But I am here, at your wyll,
Whether ye wyll me save or spyll ;
For all the care i have in be
A worde of you might comfort me ;
And, yf ye wyll not do so,
Out of this land i must nedes go ;
I wyll forsake both lande and lede,
And become an hermyte in uncouth stede ;
In many a lande to begge my bread,
To seke where Christ was quicke and dead ;
A staffe i wyll make me of my spere,
Lynen cloth i shall none were
Ever in travayle i shall wende,
Tyll i come to the worldes ende ;
And, lady, but thou be my bote,
There shall no sho come on my fote ;
Therfore, lady, i the praye,
For hym that died on good frydaye,
Let me not in daunger dwell,
For his love that harowed hell.
Than sayd that lady, milde of mode,
Ryght in her closet there she stode,
By hym that dyed on a tre,
Thou shalt never be deceyved for me ;
Though i for thee should be slayne,
Squyer, i shall the love agayne.
Go forth, and serve my father the kynge,
And let be all thy styl mournynge ;
Let no man wete that ye were here,
Thus all alone in my arbere ;
If ever ye wyll come to your wyll,
Here and se, and holde you styll.
Beware of the stewarde, i you praye,
He wyll deceyve you and he maye ;
For, if he wote of your woyng,
He wyl bewraye you unto the kynge ;
Anone for me ye shall be take,
And put in pryson for my sake ;
Than must ye nedes abyde the lawe,
Peraventure both hanged and drawe ;
That syght on you i would not se,
For all the golde in Christente.
For, and ye my love should wynne,
With chyvalry ye must begynne,
And other dedes of armes to done,
Through whiche ye may wynne your shone
And ryde through many a peryllous place,
As a venterous man to seke your grace.
Over hylles and dales, and hye mountaines,
In wethers wete, both hayle and raynes,
And yf ye may no harbroughe se,
Than must ye lodge under a tre,
Among the beastes wyld and tame,
And ever you wyll gette your name ;
And in your armure must ye lye,
Every nyght than by and by ;
And your meny everychone,
Til seven yere be comen and gone ;
And passe by many a peryllous see,
Squyer, for the love of me,
Where any war begynneth to wake,
And many a batayll undertake,
Throughout the land of Lumbardy,
In every cytie by and by;
And be avised, when thou shalt fight,
Loke that ye stand aye in the right ;
And, yf ye wyll take gode hede,
Yet all the better shall ye spede ;
And, whan the warre is brought to ende.
To the Rhodes then must ye wende ;
And, syr, i holde you not to prayes,
But ye there fyght thre good frydayes ;
And if ye passe the batayles thre.
Than are ye worthy a knyght to be.
And to bere armes than are ye able,
Of gold and goules sete with sable ;
Then shall ye were a shelde of blewe,
In token ye shall be trewe,
With vines of golde set all aboute
Within your shelde, and eke without,
Fulfylled with ymagery,
And poudred with true loves by and by.
In the myddes of your sheld ther shal be set
A ladyes head, with many a frete,
Above the head wrytten shall be
A reason, for the love of me,
Both O and R shall be therin,
With A and M it shall begynne.
The baudryke, that shall hange therby,
Shall be of white, sykerly,
A crosse of reed therin shall be.
In token of the trynyte.
Your basenette shall be burnysshed bryght,
Your ventall shal be well dyght.
With starres of gold it shall be set,
And covered with good velvet.
A coronall clene corven newe,
And oystrychet fethers of dyvers hewe.
Your plates unto your body shal be enbraste,
Sail syt full semely in your waste.
Your cote armoure of golde full fyne,
And poudred well with good armyne.
Thus in your warres shall you ryde,
With syxe good yemen by your syde,
And whan your warres are brought to ende,
More ferther behoveth to you to wende,
And over many perellous streme,
Or ye come to Jerusalem,
Through feytes, and feldes, and forestes thicke,
To seke where Christe were dead and quycke;
There must you drawe your swerde of were.
To the sepulchre ye must it bere,
And laye it on the stone,
Amonge the lordes everychone ;
And offre there florences fyve,
Whyles that ye are man on lyve ;
And offre there florences thre,
In tokenyng of the trynyte ;
And whan that ye, syr, thus have done,
Than are ye worthy to were your shone ;
Than may ye say, syr, by good ryght,
That you ar proved a venturous knyght.
I shall you geve to your rydinge
A thousande pounde to your spendinge ;
I shall you geve hors and armure,
A thousande pounde of my treasure ;
Wherethrough that ye may honoure wynn,
And be the greatest of your kynne.
I pray to god and our lady,
Sende you the whele of vyctory,
That my father so fayne may be,
That he wyll wede me unto thee,
And make the king of this countre,
To have and holde in honeste,
Wyth welth and wynne to were the crowne,
And to be lorde of toure and towne ;
That we might our dayes endure
In parfyte love that is so pure ;
And if we may not so come to,
Otherwyse then must we do ;
And therfore, squyer, wende thy way,
And hye the fast on thy journey,
And take thy leve of kinge and quene,
And so to all the courte bydene.
Ye shall not want at your goyng
Golde, nor sylver, nor other thyng.
This seven yere i shall you abyde,
Betyde of you what so betyde ;
Tyll seven yere be comen and gone
I shall be mayde all alone.
The squyer kneled on his kne,
And thankyd that lady fayre and fre ;
And thryes he kyssed that lady tho,
And toke his leve, and forth gan go.
The kinges steward stode full nye,
In a chambre fast them bye,
And hearde theyr wordes wonder wele,
And all the woyng every dele.
He made a vowe to heaven kynge,
For to bewraye that swete thynge,
And that squyer taken shoulde be,
And hanged hye on a tree ;
And that false stewarde full of yre,
Them to betraye was his desyre ;
He bethought hym nedely,
Every daye by and by,
How he myght venged be,
On that lady fayre and fre,
For he her loved pryvely.
And therfore dyd her great envye.
Alas ! it tourned to wroth her heyle
That ever he wyste of theyr counsayle.
But leve we of the stewarde here,
And speke we more of that squyer,
Howe he to his chambre wente,
Whan he past from that lady gente.
There he araied him in scarlet reed,
And set his chaplet upon his head,
A belte aboute his sydes two,
With brode barres to and fro ;
A home about his necke he caste ;
And forth he went, at the last,
To do hys office in the hall,
Among the lordes both great and small.
He toke a white yeard in his hande,
Before they kynge than gane he stande,
And sone he sat hym on his knee,
And served the kynge ryght royally,
With deynty meates that were dere,
With partryche, pecoke, and plovere,
With byrdes in bread ybake,
The tele, the ducke and the drake,
The cocke, the curlewe, and the crane,
With fesauntes fayre, theyr were no wane.
Both storkes and snypes ther were also,
And venyson freshe of bucke and do,
And other deyntes many one,
For to set afore the kynge anone :
And when the squyer had done so,
He served the hall to and fro,
Eche man hym loved in honeste,
Hye and lowe in theyr degre,
So dyd the kyng full sodenly,
And he wyst not wherfore nor why.
The kynge behelde the squyer wele,
And all his rayment every dele,
He thought he was the semlyest man
That ever in the worlde he sawe or than.
Thus sate the kyng and eate ryght nought,
But on his squyer was all his thought.
Anone the stewarde toke good hede,
And to the kyng full soone he yede,
And soone he tolde unto the kynge
All theyr words and theyr woynge ;
And how she hyght hym lande and fe,
Golde and sylver great plentye,
And how he should his leve take,
And become a knight for her sake :
"And thus they talked both in fere,
And i drewe me nere and nere,
Had i not come in, verayly,
The squyer had layne her by,
But whan he was ware of me,
Full fast away can he fle ;
That [this] is sothe here my hand
To fight with him while i may stand."
The kyng sayd to the steward tho,
I may not beleve it should be so ;
Hath he be so bonayre and benynge,
And served me syth i was yynge,
And redy with me in every nede,
Bothe true of word, and eke of dede,
I may not beleve, be nyght nor daye,
My doughter dere he wyll betraye.
Nor to come her chambre nye,
That fode to longe with no foly ;
Though she would to hym consente.
That lovely lady fayre and gente,
I truste hym so well, withouten drede,
That he would never do that dede ;
But yf he myght that lady wynne,
In wedlocke to welde withouten synne,
And yf she assent hym tyll,
The squyer is worthy to have none yll.
For i have sene that many a page
Have become men by mariage ;
Than it is semely that the squyer
To have my doughter by this manere,
And eche man in his degre,
Become a lorde of ryaltye,