The King and Archbishop being served, his Highness’s cup and spice-plates were again covered, but not so the Archbishop’s. Then were the spice and cup carried to Prince Edward and the Earl of Cornwall, by the knights; to the bishops by the esquires of the household, and to the other estates by the esquires also. Which being done, his Highness forthwith departed for “all night,” the trumpets blowing before him. Then, were three healths drank, one to the King, one to the Queen, and one to the Prince Edward; after which it were not meet, that the assemblage should remain, and straight the great chamber was avoyded of all there present. The Queen, that night, sat in her bower with all her ladies. There were mynstrelsy and dancing to the harp and viol. The Lady Barbara was the marveil of all, that beheld her moving to the sound of viols like unto some sprite, rather than to a poor mortal. Prince Edward danced with her a round, and the Queen often honoured her with her pleasing speech. Sir Gaston, though he beheld her, showed not his wonted joy. He stood apart looking on, and, when her Highness spoke to him, he seemed nigh to senseless of the honour. The dancing being ended, Pierre, a Norman and the Queen’s chief minstrel, apparelled in the guise of his country, sang some of his ballads on the harp, in his own tongue, which, albeit, they were not esteemed like unto Maister Henry’s, yet did they not displease. The first tuning was in words which have been thus rendered into English by one, who had learned much of the new speech, not then familiar, except with some few. THE BRIDAL. Lightly, lightly, bounded the roe, The hind o’er the forest was fleeing; The small birds tuned on every bough, In sun and shade their gleeing. And purple cups, and silver bells From the green leaves were peeping; The wild-rose smiled in the mossy dells: Nought but the thorn was weeping. And so bright in the sun its tears did shine, They showed like tears of pleasure; And the airs of May, through the budding spray, Breathed joyance, without measure. For this was Isabel’s bridal morn Who loved each bud and flower, The wild-wood shade, the mountain head, The deep vale’s mead and bower. And now was her festival gaily kept By hagled brook and fountain, From the low green bank, where the violet slept, To the blue hill-top and mountain. And lightly, lightly, bounded the roe, His footstep wing’d with pleasure, And small birds sang from every bough, Welcomes beyond all measure.