Florence and Blanchflor, loveliest maids, Within a summer grove, Amid the flower-enamelled shades Together talked of love. A clerk sweet Blanchflor’s heart had gain’d; Fair Florence loved a knight: And each with ardent voice maintained She loved the worthiest wight. Sweet Blanchflor praised her scholar dear, As courteous, kind, and true! Fair Florence said her chevalier Could every foe subdue. And Florence scorned the bookworm vain, Who sword nor spear could raise; And Blanchflor scorned the unlettered brain Could sing no lady’s praise. From dearest love, the maidens bright To deadly hatred fell, Each turned to shun the other’s sight, And neither said farewell. The king of birds, who held his court Within that flowery grove, Sang loudly: “’Twill be rare disport To judge this suit of love.” Before him came the maidens bright, With all his birds around, To judge the cause, if clerk or knight In love be worthiest found. The falcon and the sparrow-hawk Stood forward for the fight: Ready to do, and not to talk, They voted for the knight. And Blanchflor’s heart began to fail, Till rose the strong-voiced lark, And, after him, the nightingale, And pleaded for the clerk. The nightingale prevailed at length, Her pleading had such charms; So eloquence can conquer strength, And arts can conquer arms. The lovely Florence tore her hair, And died upon the place; And all the birds assembled there Bewailed the mournful case. They piled up leaves and flowerets rare Above the maiden bright, And sang: “Farewell to Florence fair, Who too well loved her knight.” Several others of the party sang in the intervals of the dances. Mr. Chainmail handed to Mr. Trillo another ballad of the twelfth century, of a merrier character than the former. Mr. Trillo readily accommodated it with an air, and sang: THE PRIEST AND THE MULBERRY TREE. Did you hear of the curate who mounted his mare, And merrily trotted along to the fair? Of creature more tractable none ever heard; In the height of her speed she would stop at a word, And again with a word, when the curate said Hey, She put forth her mettle, and galloped away. As near to the gates of the city he rode, While the sun of September all brilliantly glowed, The good priest discovered, with eyes of desire, A mulberry tree in a hedge of wild briar, On boughs long and lofty, in many a green shoot, Hung large, black, and glossy, the beautiful fruit.