Listeneth, lordings, in good entent, And I wol tell you _verament_ Of mirth and of solás, All of a knight was fair and gent In battle and in tournamént, His name was Sir Thopás. Yborn he was in far countree, In Flanders, all beyond the sea, At Popering in the place, His father was a man full free, And lord he was of that countree, As it was Goddés grace. Sir Thopas was a doughty swain, White was his face as paindemaine His lippés red as rose. His rudde is like scarlét in grain, And I you tell in good certain He had a seemly nose. His hair, his beard, was like saffroun, That to his girdle raught adown, His shoon of cordewaine; Of Bruges were his hosen brown; His robé was of ciclatoun, That costé many a jane. He could hunt at the wildé dere, And ride on hawking for the rivere With grey goshawk on hand: Thereto he was a good archere, Of wrestling was there none his peer, Where any ram should stand. Full many a maiden bright in bower They mournéd for him _par amour_, When them were bet to slepe; But he was chaste and no lechóur, And sweet as is the bramble flower, That beareth the red hepe. And so it fell upon a day, Forsooth, as I you tellen may, Sir Thopas would out ride; He worth upon his stedé gray, And in his hand a launcegay, A long sword by his side. He pricketh through a fair forést, Therein is many a wildé beast, Yea bothé buck and hare, And as he prickéd North and Est, I tell it you, him had almest Betid a sorry care. There springen herbés great and smale, The liquorice and the setewale, And many a clove gilofre, And nutémeg to put in ale, Whether it be moist or stale, Or for to lain in cofre. The birdés singen, it is no nay, The sparhawk and the popingay, That joy it was to hear, The throstel cock made eke his lay, The wodé dove upon the spray He sang full loud and clear. Sir Thopas fell in love-longíng All when he heard the throstel sing, And pricked as he were wood; His fairé steed in his prícking So swatté, that men might him wring, His sidés were all blood. Sir Thopas eke so weary was For pricking on the softé gras, So fierce was his couráge, That down he laid him in that place To maken his stedé som solace, And gave him good foráge. Ah, Seinte Mary, _benedicite_, What aileth this love at me To bindé me so sore? Me dreaméd all this night pardé, An elf-queen shal my leman be, And sleep under my gore. An elf-queen will I love ywis, For in this world no wóman is Worthy to be my make In town,-- All other women I forsake, And to an elf-queen I me take By dale and eke by down.