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Sir, quoth the dwarffe, and louted lowe,

Behold that hend Soldàin!
Behold these heads I beare with me!

They are kings which he hath slain.


The Eldridge knight is his own cousine,

Whom a knight of thine hath shent:
And hee is come to avenge
And to thee, all thy knightes among,

Defiance here hath sent,

his wrong,


But yette he will appease his wrath

Thy daughters love to winne:
And but thou yeelde him that fayre mayd,

Thy halls and towers must brenne.


Thy head, syr king, must goe with mee;

Or else thy daughter deere;
Or else within these lists soe broad

Thou must finde him a peere.


The king he turned him round aboute,

And in his heart was woe:
Is there never a knighte of my round table,

This matter will undergoe?

Is there never a knighte amongst yee all

Will fight for my daughter and mee? Whoever will fight yon grimme soldàn,

Right fair his meede shall bee.


For hee shall have my broad lay-lands,

And of my crowne be heyre ;
And he shall winne fayre Christabelle

To be his wedded fere.


But every knighte of his round table

Did stand both still and pale ;
For whenever they lookt on the grim soldàn,

It made their hearts to quail.


All woe-begone was that fayre ladyè,

When she sawe no helpe was nye :
She cast her thought on her owne true-love,

And the teares gusht from her eye.


Up then sterte the stranger knighte,

Sayd, Ladye, be not affrayd :
Ile fight for thee with this grimme soldàn,

Thoughe he be unmacklye made.

And if thou wilt lend me the Eldridge sworde,

That lyeth within thy bowre, I truste in Christe for to slay this fiende 125

Thoughe he be stiff in stowre.

Goe fetch him downe the Eldridge sworde,

The kinge he cryde, with speede :
Nowe heaven assist thee, courteous knighte;
My daughter is thy meede.


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The gyaunt he stepped into the lists,

And sayd, Awaye, awaye:
I sweare, as I am the hend soldàn,

Thou lettest me here all daye.


Then forthe the stranger knight he came

In his blacke armoure dight:
The ladye sighed a gentle sighe,

“ That this were my true knighte!"


And nowe the gyaunt and knighte be mett

Within the lists soe broad;
And now with swordes soe sharpe of steele,

They gan to lay on load.

The soldan strucke the knighte a stroke,

That made him reele asyde;
Then woe-begone was that fayre ladyè,

And thrice she deeply sighde.


The soldan strucke a second stroke,

And made the bloude to flowe:
All pale and wan was that ladye fayre,

And thrice she wept for woe.


The soldan strucke a third fell stroke,

Which brought the knighte on his knee:
Sad sorrow pierced that ladyes heart,

And she shriekt loud shriekings three.


The knighte he leapt upon his feete,

All recklesse of the pain :
Quoth hee, But heaven be now my speede,

Or else I shall be slaine.

He grasped his sworde with mayne and mighte, And spying a secrette part,

160:He drave it into the soldan's syde,

And pierced him to the heart.

Then all the people gave a shoute,

Whan they sawe the soldan falle: The ladye wept, and thanked Christ,

That had reskewed her from thrall.


And nowe the kinge with all his barons

from offe his seate,
And downe he stepped intò the listes,

That curteous knighte to greete.


But he for payne and lacke of bloude

Was fallen intò a swounde,
And there all walteringe in his gore,

Lay lifelesse on the grounde.

Come downe, come downe, my daughter deare, 175

Thou art a leeche of skille;
Farre lever had I lose halfe my landes,

Than this good knighte sholde spille.


Downe then steppeth that fayre ladyè,

To helpe him if she maye;
But when she did his beavere raise,
It is my life, my lord, she sayes,

And shriekte and swound awaye.


Sir Cauline juste lifte up his

eyes When he heard his ladye crye, O ladye, I am thine owne true love;

For thee I wisht to dye.

Then giving her one partinge looke,

He closed his eyes in death,
Ere Christabelle, that ladye milde,

Begane to drawe her breathe.


But when she found her comelye knighte
Indeed was dead and

She layde her pale cold cheeke to his,

And thus she made her moane.


O staye, my deare and onlye lord,

For mee thy faithfulle feere; 'Tis meet that I shold followe thee,

Who hast bought my love so deare.


Then fayntinge in a deadlye swoune,

And with a deep-fette sighe,
That burst her gentle heart in twayne,

Fayre Christabelle did dye.

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