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, Defiance here hath sent. But yette he will appease his wrath And but thou yeelde him that fayre mayd, 85 90 Thy head, syr king, must goe with mee; 95 Or else within these lists soe broad The king he turned him round aboute, And in his heart was woe: 100 Is there never a knighte of my round tablè, This matter will undergoe? Is there never a knighte amongst yee all 105 For hee shall have my broad lay-lands, And he shall winne fayre Christabelle To be his wedded fere. But every knighte of his round tablè For whenever they lookt on the grim soldàn, All woe-begone was that fayre ladyè, She cast her thought on her owne true-love, Up then sterte the stranger knighte, Sayd, Ladye, be not affrayd: Ile fight for thee with this grimme soldàn, And if thou wilt lend me the Eldridge sworde, That lyeth within thy bowre, I truste in Christe for to slay this fiende Goe fetch him downe the Eldridge sworde, The kinge he cryde, with speede : 110 115 120 125 130 The gyaunt he stepped into the lists, I sweare, as I am the hend soldàn, Then forthe the stranger knight he came The ladye sighed a gentle sighe, 135 "That this were my true knighte!" And nowe the gyaunt and knighte be mett 140 And made the bloude to flowe: All pale and wan was that ladye fayre, The soldan strucke a third fell stroke, Sad sorrow pierced that ladyes heart, And she shriekt loud shriekings three. 150 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. 155 And nowe the kinge with all his barons And downe he stepped intò the listes, 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. 170 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 180 Sir Cauline juste lifte up his eyes 185 O ladye, I am thine owne true love; O staye, my deare and onlye lord, Then fayntinge in a deadlye swoune, 200 |