Ne descreeve his counsayl to no man,
But deerlye he lovde this may.
Till on a daye it so beffell,
Great dill to him was dight;
The maydens love removde his mynd,
To care-bed went the knighte.
One while he spred his armes him fro,
One while he spred them nye:
"And aye! but I winne that ladyes love,
For dole now I mun dye."
And whan our parish-masse was done,
Our kinge was bowne to dyne:
He sayes, Where is Syr Cauline,
That is wont to serve the wyne?
Then aunswerde him a courteous knighte,
And fast his handes gan wringe:
"Sir Cauline is sicke, and like to dye
Without a good leechinge."
"Fetche me downe my daughter deere,
She is a leeche fulle fine:
Goe take him doughe, and the baken bread,
And serve him with the wyne soe red;
Lothe I were him to tine."
Fair Christabelle to his chaumber goes,
Her maydens followyng nye:
"O well, she sayth, how doth my lord?"
"O sicke, thou fayr ladyè."
"Nowe ryse up wightlye, man, for shame,
Never lye soe cowardlee;
For it is told in my fathers hall;
You dye for love of mee."
"Fayre ladye, it is for your love
That all this dill I drye
For if you wold comfort me with a kisse,
Then were I brought from bale to blisse,
No lenger wold I lye."
"Sir knighte, my father is a kinge,
I am his onlye heire;
Alas! and well you knowe, Syr knighte,
I never can be youre fere."
"O ladye, thou art a kinges daughter,
And I am not thy peere,
But let me doe some deedes of armes
To be your bacheleere."