Fourteenth Century Verse & Prose

English literature -- Middle English, 1100-1500; Great Britain -- History -- 14th century -- Sources
Þei we nouȝt welcom no be,
      Ȝete we mot proferi forþ our gle.'
        Bifor þe king he sat adoun,                      435
      And tok his harp so miri of soun,
      And tempreþ his harp, as he wele can,
      And blisseful notes he þer gan,
      Þat al þat in þe palays were
      Com to him for to here,                            440
      And liggeþ adoun to his fete,
      Hem þenkeþ his melody so swete.
      Þe king herkneþ and sitt ful stille,
      To here his gle he haþ gode wille;
      Gode bourde he hadde of his gle,                   445
      Þe riche quen also hadde he.
        When he hadde stint his harping,
      Þan seyd to him þe king:
      'Menstrel, me likeþ wele þi gle.
      Now aske of me what it be,                         450
      Largelich ichil þe pay.
      Now speke, and tow miȝt asay.'
      'Sir,' he seyd, 'ich biseche þe
      Þatow woldest ȝiue me
      Þat ich leuedi, briȝt on ble,                      455
      Þat slepeþ vnder þe ympe-tre.'
      'Nay,' quaþ þe king, 'þat nouȝt nere!
      A sori couple of ȝou it were,
      For þou art lene, rowe, and blac,
      And sche is louesum, wiþouten lac;                 460
      A loþlich þing it were forþi
      To sen hir in þi compayni.'
        'O sir,' he seyd, 'gentil king,
      Ȝete were it a wele fouler þing
      To here a lesing of þi mouþe,                      465
      So, sir, as ȝe seyd nouþe,
      What ich wold aski, haue y schold,
      And nedes þou most þi word hold.'
      Þe king seyd: 'Seþþen it is so,
      Take hir bi þe hond, and go;                       470
      Of hir ichil þatow be bliþe.'
        He kneled adoun, and þonked him swiþe;
      His wiif he tok bi þe hond,
      And dede him swiþe out of þat lond,
      And went him out of þat þede,—                     475
      Riȝt as he come þe way he ȝede.
        So long he haþ þe way ynome,
      To Winchester he is ycome,
      Þat was his owhen cité;
      Ac no man knewe þat it was he.                     480
      No forþer þan þe tounes ende
      For knoweleche <he> no durst wende,
      Bot wiþ a begger y<n> bilt ful narwe,
      Þer he tok his herbarwe,
      To him and to his owhen wiif,                      485
      As a minstrel of pouer liif,
      And asked tidinges of þat lond,
      And who þe kingdom held in hond.
      Þe pouer begger in his cote
      Told him euerich a grot:                           490
      Hou her quen was stole owy
      Ten ȝer gon wiþ fairy;
      And hou her king en exile ȝede,
      Bot no man nist in wiche þede;
      And hou þe steward þe lond gan hold;               495
      And oþer mani þinges him told.
        Amorwe, oȝain nonetide,
      He maked his wiif þer abide;
      Þe beggers cloþes he borwed anon,
      And heng his harp his rigge opon,                  500
      And went him into þat cité,
      Þat men miȝt him bihold and se.
      Erls and barouns bold,
      Buriays and leuedis him gun bihold.
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Fourteenth Century Verse & Prose

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