Sore he looked on king Estmere, And sore he handled the ryng, Then opened to them the fayre hall yates, He lett for no kind of thyng. King Estmere he stabled his steede Soe fayre att the hall bord; The froth, that came from his brydle bitte, Light in kyng Bremors beard. Saies, Stable thy steed, thou proud harper, Saies, Stable him in the stalle; It doth not beseeme a proud harper To stable 'him' in a kyngs halle. My ladde he is no lither, he said, He will doe nought that's meete; And is there any man in this hall Were able him to beate Thou speakst proud words, sayes the king of Spaine, Thou harper, here to mee: There is a man within this halle Will beate thy ladd and thee. O let that man come downe, he said, A sight of him wold I see; And when hee hath beaten well my ladd, Then he shall beate of mee. Downe then came the kemperye man, And looketh him in the eare; For all the gold, that was under heaven, He durst not neigh him neare. And how nowe, kempe, said the Kyng of Spaine, And how what aileth thee? He saies, It is writt in his forhead All and in gramaryè, That for all the gold that is under heaven I dare not neigh him nye. Then Kyng Estmere pulld forth his harpe, And plaid a pretty thinge: The ladye upstart from the borde, And wold have gone from the king. Stay thy harpe, thou proud harper, For Gods love I pray thee, For and thou playes as thou beginns, Thou'lt till my bryde from mee. He stroake upon his harpe againe, And playd a pretty thinge; The ladye lough a loud laughter, As shee sate by the king. Saies, Sell me thy harpe, thou proud harper, And thy stringes all, For as many gold nobles 'thou shall have' As heere bee ringes in the hall. What wold ye doe with my harpe,' he sayd,' If I did sell itt yee? "To playe my wiffe and me a fitt, When abed together wee bee." Now sell me, quoth hee, thy bryde soe gay, As shee sitts by thy knee, And as many gold nobles I will give, As leaves been on a tree. And what wold ye doe with my bryde soe gay, Iff I did sell her thee? More seemelye it is for her fayre bodye To lye by mee then thee. Hee played agayne both loud and shrille, And Adler he did syng, "O ladye, this is thy owne true love; Noe harper, but a kyng. "O ladye, this is thy owne true love, As playnlye thou mayest see; And He rid thee of that foule paynim, Who partes thy love and thee." The ladye looked, the ladye blushte, And blushte and lookt agayne, While Adler he hath drawne his brande, And hath the Sowdan slayne. Up then rose the kemperye men, And loud they gan to crye: Ah; traytors, yee have slayne our kyng, And therefore yee shall dye. Kyng Estmere threwe the harpe asyde, And swith he drew his brand; And Estmere he, and Adler yonge Right stiffe in slodr can stand.