Into his saddle he clomb anon, And prickéd over stile and stone An elf-queen for to espie, Till he so long had ridden and gone, That he found in a privee wone The contree of Faerié. Wherein he soughté North and South, And oft he spiéd with his mouth In many a forest wild, For in that contree n'as ther non, That to him durst ride or gon, Neither wife ne child. Till that there came a great geaunt, His namé was Sir Oliphaunt, A perilous man of deed, He saidé, Childe by Termagaunt, But if thou prick out of mine haunt, Anon I slay thy stede With mace. Here is the Queen of Faerie, With harp, and pipe, and symphonie, Dwelling in this place. The Childe said, All so mote I thee, To morrow wol I meten thee, When I have min armóur, And yet I hopé _par ma fay_, That thou shalt with this launcegay Abien it full soure; Thy mawe Shal I perce, if I may, Or it be fully prime of the day, For here thou shalt be slawe. Sir Thopas drew aback full fast; This geaunt at him stonés cast Out of a fell staff sling: But faire escapéd Childe Thopás, And all it was through Goddes grace, And through his fair bearíng. Yet listeneth, lordings, to my tale, Merrier than the nightingale, For now I will you roune, How Sir Thopás with sidés smale, Pricking over hill and dale, Is comen again to toune. His merry men commandeth he, To maken him bothe game and glee, For needés must he fight, With a geaunt with heades three, For paramour and jolitee Of one that shone full bright. Do come, he said, my minestrales And gestours for to tellen tales Anon in mine armíng, Of romauncés that ben reáles, Of popés and of cardináles, And eke of love-longíng. They fet him first the sweté wine, And mead eke in a maseline, And regal spicerie, Of ginger-bread that was full fine, And liquorice and eke cummine, With sugar that is trie. He diddé next his whité lere Of cloth of laké fine and clere A breche and eke a sherte, And next his shert an haketon, And over that an habergeon, For piercing of his herte. And over that a fine hauberk, Was all ywrought of Jewes werk, Full strong it was of plate, And over that his cote-armoure, As white as is the lily floure, In which he would debate. His shield was all of gold so red, And therein was a boarés hed, A carbuncle beside; And there he swore on ale and bread How that the geaunt shuld be dead, Betide what so betide. His jambeux were of cuirbouly, His swordés sheth of ivory, His helm of latoun bright, His saddle was of rewel bone, His bridle as the sonné shone, Or as the moné light.