"You have a daughter," sayd Adler yonge, "Men call her bright and sheene; My brother wold marrye her to his wiffe, Of Englande to be queene." "Yesterdaye was att my dere daughter 45 The king his sonne of Spayn; And then she nicked him of naye; I feare sheele do youe the same." "The kyng of Spayne is a foule paynim, And 'leeveth on Mahound, 50 And pitye it were that fayre ladye Shold marrye a heathen hound." "But grant to me," sayes kyng Estmere, "For my love I you praye, That I may see your daughter dere 55 Before I goe hence awaye." "Althoughe itt is seven yeare and more Syth my daughter was in halle, She shall come downe once for your sake, To glad my guestès alle." 60 Downe then came that mayden fayre, With ladyes lacede in pall, And halfe a hondred of bolde knightes, To bring her from bowre to hall, And eke as manye gentle squieres, 65 To waite upon them all. The talents of golde were on her head sette, Hunge lowe downe to her knee; And everye rynge on her small finger Shone of the chrystall free. 70 Sayes, "Christ you save, my deare madame," Sayes, "Christ you save and see:" Sayes, "You be welcome, kyng Estmere, Right welcome unto mee. "And iff you love me, as you saye, 75 So well and hartilee, All that ever you are comen about Soone sped now itt may bee." Then bespake her father deare, "My daughter, I saye naye; 80 Remember well the kyng of Spayne, What he sayd yesterdaye. "He wold pull downe my halles and castles, And reave me of my lyfe: And ever I feare that paynim kyng, 85 Iff I reave him of his wyfe." "Your castles and your towres, father, Are stronglye built aboute; And therefore of that foule paynim Wee neede not stande in doubte. 90 "Plyght me your troth nowe, kyng Estmere, By heaven and your righte hande, That you will marrye me to your wyfe, And make me queene of your land." Then kyng Estmere he plight his troth 95 By heaven and his righte hand, That he wolde marrye her to his wyfe, And make her queene of his land. And he tooke leave of that ladye fayre, To goe to his owne countree, 100 To fetche him dukes and lordes and knightes, That marryed they might bee. They had not ridden scant a myle, A myle forthe of the towne, But in did come the kynge of Spayne, 105 With kempès many a one: