O ladye, I am thy own true knighte,
Thy hests for to obaye:

And mought I hope to winne thy love!

No more his tonge colde say.

The ladye blushed scarlette redde,

And fette a gentill sighe:

Alas! syr knight, how may this bee,

For my degree's soe highe?

But sith thou hast hight, thou comely youth,

To be my batchilere,

Ile promise if thee I may not wedde,

I will have none other fere.

Then shee held forthe her lilly-white hand

Towards that knighte so free:

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From that daye forthe that ladye fayre
Lovde syr Cauline the knighte:
From that daye forthe he only joyde

Whan shee was in his sight.

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Yea and oftentimes they mette

Within a fayre arbòure,

Where they in love and sweet daliaunce
Past manye a pleasaunt houre.

In this conclusion of the First Part, and at the beginning of the Second, the reader will observe a resemblance to the story of Sigismunda and Guiscard, as told by Boccace and Dryden: see the latter's description of the lovers meeting in the cave, and those beautiful lines which contain a reflection so like this of our poet, "everye white," &c. viz.—

"But as extremes are short of ill and good,
And tides at highest mark regorge their flood;
So Fate, that could no more improve their joy,
Took a malicious pleasure to destroy.
Tancred, who fondly loved," &c.

PART THE SECOND.

EVERYE white will have its blacke,
And everye sweete its sowre:

This founde the ladye Christabelle
In an untimely howre.

For so it befelle as syr Cauline

Was with that ladye faire,

The kinge her father walked forthe

To take the evenyng aire:

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And into the arboure as he went

To rest his wearye feet,

He found his daughter and syr Cauline
There sette in daliaunce sweet.

The kinge hee sterted forthe, i-wys,

And an angrye man was hee:

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Nowe, traytoure, thou shalt hange or drawe, 15 And rewe shall thy ladìe.

Then forthe syr Cauline he was ledde,
And throwne in dungeon deepe:

All woe-begone was that gentil knight
To parte from his ladyè;

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And cast a wistfulle eye:

Faire Christabelle, from thee to parte,
Farre lever had I dye.

Fair Christabelle, that ladye bright,
Was had forthe of the towre;

But ever shee droopeth in her minde,
As nipt by an ungentle winde

Doth some faire lillye flowre.*

And ever shee doth lament and weepe

To tint her lover soe:

Syr Cauline, thou little think'st on mee,

But I will still be true.

Manye a kinge, and manye a duke,
And lords of high degree,

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Did sue to that fayre ladye of love;

But never shee wolde them nee.

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When manye a daye was past and gone,

Ne comforte she colde finde,

The kynge proclaimed a tourneament,

To cheere his daughters mind:

And there came lords, and there came knights,

Fro manye a farre countryè,

To break a spere for theyr ladyes love

Before that faire ladyè.

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And many a ladye there was sette

In purple and in palle:

But faire Christabelle soe woe-begone

Was the fayrest of them all.

Then manye a knighte was mickle of might
Before his ladye gaye;

But a stranger wight, whom no man knewe,
He wan the prize eche daye.

His acton it was all of blacke,

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His hewberke, and his sheelde,

Ne noe man wist whence he did come,

Ne noe man knewe where he did gone,

When they came out the feelde.

And now three days were prestlye past
In feates of chivalrye,

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When lo upon the fourth morninge

A sorrowfulle sight they see.