Or are you returned backe againe Glasgèrion fwore a full great othe, By oake, and afhe, and thorne ; Ladye, I was never in your chambère, 75 Sith the time that I was borne. O then it was your lither foot-page, He hath beguiled mee. Then fhee pulled forth a little pen-knìffe, 80' Sayes, there fhall never noe churlès blood Within my bodye spring: No churlès blood fhall eer defile The daughter of a kinge. Home then went Glafgèrion, And woe, good lord, was hee. Sayes, come thou hither, Jacke my boy, If I had killed a man to night, 85 Jacke, I would tell it thee: 90 But if I have not killed a man to night Ver. 77. little. MS. And Throw the falfeneffe of that lither ladd, 100 Ver. 100. werne all. MS. ? VIII. OLD SIR ROBIN OF PORTINGALE. From an ancient copy in the Editor's MS collection. L ET never again foe old a man Marrye foe yonge a wife, As did old fir' Robin of Portingale ; Who may rue all the dayes of his life. For the mayors daughter of Lin, god wott, They scarce were in their wed-bed laid, fhe rofe, and forth thee goes, To the steward, and gan to weepe. Sleepe you, wake you, faire fir Gyles? Or be you not withinn ? Sleepe you, wake you, faire fir Gyles, O, I am waking, fweete, he faid, I have bethought me of a wyle How my wed-lord weell spille. Twenty-four good knights, shee fayes, Even twenty-four of my near cozèns, He mourned, fighed, and wept full fore: I fweare by the holy roode The teares he for his master wept Were blent water and bloode. 10 20 25 30 VOL. III E All Ver. 19. unbethought. MS. Ver. 32. blend, MS. All that beheard his deare mastèr Sayes, Ever alacke, my litle foot-page, Hath any one done to thee wronge Any of thy fellowes here? Or is any one' of thy good friends dead, 2 Or if it be my head bookes-man, For no man here within my howse, 35 40 EA If it be not true, my dear mastèr, No good death let me die.. If it bee not true, thon litle footipage, A dead corfehalt thou lie. I 55 O call Ver 4. or. MS. 48. deemed. MS. V. 56. bec, MS. O call now downe my faire ladye, O call her downe to mee: Downe then came his ladye faire, 60 What is your will, my owne wed-lord ? 65 O fee, my ladye deere, how ficke, And like to die I bee. And thou be ficke, my own wed-lord, Soe fore it grieveth mee: But my five maydens and myfelfe Will make the bedde for thee: 70 And at the waking of your firft fleepe, And at the waking of your first fleepe, 75 Your forrowes we will flake. He put a filk cote on his backe, And mail of manye a fold: And hee putt a fteele cap on his head, 80 |