This were a popet in an arme to enbrace
For any woman, smal and faire of face.
He semeth elvish by his contenance,
For unto no wight doth he daliance.
Say now somwhat, sin other folk han saide; Tell us a tale of mirthe and that anon. Hoste, quod I, ne be not evil apaide, For other tale certes can I non,
But of a rime I lerned yore agon.
Ye, that is good, quod he, we shullen here
Som deintee thing, me thinketh by thy chere.
THE RIME OF SIRE THOPAS.
LISTENETH, lordinges, in good entent,
And I wol tell you verament
Of mirthe and of solas,
Al of a knight was faire and gent
In bataille and in turnament,
His name was sire Thopas.
Yborne he was in fer contree,
In Flandres, al beyonde the see,
At Popering in the place,
His father was a man ful free,
And lord he was of that contree,
As it was Goddes grace.
Sire Thopas was a doughty swain,
White was his face as paindemaine,
His lippes red as rose.
His rudde is like scarlet in grain,
And I you tell in good certain
He had a semely nose.
His here, his berde, was like safroun,
That to his girdle raught adoun,
His shoon of cordewane;
Of Brugges were his hosen broun;
His robe was of ciclatoun,
That coste many a jane.
He coude hunt at the wilde dere,
And ride on hauking for the rivere
With grey goshauk on honde:
Therto he was a good archere,
Of wrastling was ther non his pere,
Ther ony ram shuld stonde.
Ful many a maide bright in bour
They mourned for him par amour,
Whan hem were bet to slepe;
But he was chaste and no lechour,
And swete as is the bramble flour,
That bereth the red hepe.
And so it fell upon a day,
Forsoth, as I you tellen may,
Sire Thopas wold out ride;
his stede gray,
And in his hond a launcegay,
A long swerd by his side.
He priketh thurgh a faire forest,
Therin is many a wilde best,
Ye bothe buck and hare,
And as he priked North and Est,
I telle it you, him had almeste
Betidde a sory care.
Ther springen herbes grete and smale,
The licoris and the setewale,
And many a cloué gilofre,
And notemuge to put in ale,
Whether it be moist or stale,
Or for to lain in cofre.
The briddes singen, it is no nay,
The sperhauk and the popingay,
That joye it was to here,
The throstel cok made eke his lay,
The wode dove upon the spray
He sang ful loude and clere.
Sire Thopas fell in love-longing
Al whan he herd the throstel sing,
And priked as he were wood;
His faire stede in his priking
So swatte, that men might him wring,
His sides were al blood.
Sire Thopas eke so wery was
For priking on the softe gras,
So fiers was his corage,
That doun he laid him in that place
To maken his stede som solace,
And yaf him good forage.
A, Seinte Mary, benedicite,
What aileth this love at me
To binde me so sore?
Me dremed all this night parde,
An elf-quene shal my lemman be,
And slepe under my gore.
An elf-quene wol I love ywis,
For in this world no woman is
Worthy to be my make || in toun,
All other women I forsake,
And to an elf-quene I me take
By dale and eke by doun.
Into his sadel he clombe anon,
And priked over stile and ston
An elf-quene for to espie,
Til he so long had ridden and gone,
That he fond in a privee wone
The contree of Faerie.
Wherin he soughte North and South,
And oft he spied with his mouth
In many a forest wilde,
For in that contree n'as ther non,
That to him dorst ride or gon,
Neither wif ne childe.
Til that ther came a gret geaunt,
His name was Sire Oliphaunt,
A perilous man of dede,
He sayde, Child, by Termagaunt,
But if thou prike out of myn haunt,
Anon I slee thy stede || with maceHere is the Quene of Faerie,
With harpe, and pipe, and simphonie,
Dwelling in this place.
The child sayd, Al so mote I the,
To morwe wol I meten thee,
Whan I have min armoure,
And yet I hope par ma fay,
That thou shalt with this launcegay
Abien it ful soure; || thy mawe—
Shal I perce, if I may,
Or it be fully prime of the day,
For here thou shalt be slawe.
Sire Thopas drow abak ful fast;
This geaunt at him stones cast
Out of a fel staffe sling:
But faire escaped child Thopas,
And all it was thurgh Goddes grace,
And thurgh his faire bering.
Yet listeneth, lordings, to my tale,
Merier than the nightingale,
For now I wol you roune,
How Sire Thopas with sides smale,
Priking over hill and dale,
Is comen agein to toune.
His mery men commandeth he,
To maken him bothe game and gle,
For nedes must he fighte,
With a geaunt with hedes three,
For paramour and jolitee
Of on that shone ful brighte.
Do come, he sayd, my minestrales
And gestours for to tellen tales
Anon in min arming,
Of romaunces that ben reales,
Of popes and of cardinales,
And eke of love-longing.
They fet him first the swete win,
And mede eke in a maselin,
And real spicerie,
Of ginger-bred that was ful fin,
And licoris and eke comin,
With suger that is trie.
He didde next his white lere
Of cloth of lake fin and clere
VOL. II.
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