"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 cousìne,
Whom a knight of thine hath shent:
And hee is come to avenge his wrong,
And to thee, all thy knightes among,
Defiance here hath sent.
"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 knight; 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 save 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
Thoughe he be stiff in stowre."