Bot floyres onswerede him, “Nay, sire, bi godes ore, So god nadde [I] wel ȝore. God lete me abide þane day Þ{a}t ich hit þe ȝelde May. [Sidenote: Floris tells him, in veiled words, his real trouble.] But y þenke on al wyse Most vppon~ my marchaundyse; [_No gap in MS._] And ȝit it is most woo, When y hit Fynde, y shal it forgoo.” 536 Ihc þenche, sire, on fele wise Nu vpon mi marchau{n}dise, Last ine finde noȝt atte frume Þ{a}t þing for whi ihc am hider icume. 180 And þeȝ ihc hit finde hit is mi wo Lest ihc schulle hit forgo.” Ac ich þenche on alle wise Vppon mine Marchaundise Ware vore ich am hider icome, Lest ich ne feynde hit ate frome, {and} þ{a}t is ȝet mi meste wo, Ȝif ich hit finde {and} hit forgo. [Sidenote: Daris bids him speak plainly, and Floris speaks out.] [_No gap in MS._] “Childe, woldest þ{o}u telle me my gryf~, To hele þe, me were ful lyf~.” Þo sede daris, þe freo burgeis, Þ{a}t was wel hende {and} curteis, 184 “Fain ihc wolde þe rede {and} lere, Þ{a}t þu muche þe bet{er}e were, Ȝef þu toldest me þi gref, To rede þe me were lef.” 188 Child, woldest þou telle me of þi gref To helpe þe me were lef. [Headnote: _Floris tells his story to Daris._] Eu{er}y word he haþ him tolde, How þe mayde was fro him solde, 540 And how he was of~ Spayn~ a kynges son{e}, For grete loue þider y-com{e}, To fonde, w{i}t{h} quantyse and w{i}t{h} gyn~, Blauncheflo{ur} for to wynne. 544 Þo floriz bigan his consail schewe, {And} to daris beon iknewe. Ord {and} ende he haþ him told, Hu blau{n}cheflur was isold, 192 And hu he was a kinges sune, For hire luue þider icume, To fonde þureȝ sume cu{n}nes ginne His le{m}ma{n} blau{n}cheflur biwinne. 196 And now floyres hi{m} haueþ itold Hou þ{a}t mayd from him wa sold, {and} hou he was of spayne one kinges sone, Vor hire loue þider icome. [Headnote: _Daris begins to tell of the Admiral and the city._] [Sidenote: Daris takes him to be a fool, and proceeds to tell the strength of the Admiral and the size of the city.] “Now,” seith Dares, “þ{o}u art a Folt,”-- And For a Foole þe Childe he halt,-- “Now y woot how it gooth, Þ{o}u desirest þyn~ own~ death. 548 Þe Amyral haþ to his Iustinges Oþ{er} half~ hundred of ryche kinges; And þe Alder-rychest king~ Durst not begynne suche a þing~. 552