_Guendolen! Guendolen! One lock of hair!_ GUENDOLEN. I am so glad, for every day He kisses me much the same way As in the tower: under the sway Of all my golden hair. KING SEBALD. We rode throughout the town, A gold crown on my head; Through all the gold-hung streets, Praise God! the people said. THE WITCH. _Gwendolen! Guendolen! Lend me your hair!_ GUENDOLEN. Verily, I seem like one Who, when day is almost done, Through a thick wood meets the sun That blazes in her hair. KING SEBALD. Yea, at the palace gates, Praise God! the great knights said, For Sebald the high king, And the lady's golden head. THE WITCH. _Woe is me! Guendolen Sweeps back her hair._ GUENDOLEN. Nothing wretched now, no screams; I was unhappy once in dreams, And even now a harsh voice seems To hang about my hair. THE WITCH. WOE! THAT ANY MAN COULD DARE TO CLIMB UP THE YELLOW STAIR, GLORIOUS GUENDOLEN'S GOLDEN HAIR. CONCERNING GEFFRAY TESTE NOIRE CONCERNING GEFFRAY TESTE NOIRE And if you meet the Canon of Chimay, As going to Ortaise you well may do, Greet him from John of Castel Neuf, and say All that I tell you, for all this is true. This Geffray Teste Noire was a Gascon thief, Who, under shadow of the English name, Pilled all such towns and countries as were lief To King Charles and St. Denis; thought it blame If anything escaped him; so my lord, The Duke of Berry, sent Sir John Bonne Lance, And other knights, good players with the sword, To check this thief, and give the land a chance. Therefore we set our bastides round the tower That Geffray held, the strong thief! like a king, High perch'd upon the rock of Ventadour, Hopelessly strong by Christ! It was mid spring, When first I joined the little army there With ten good spears; Auvergne is hot, each day We sweated armed before the barrier; Good feats of arms were done there often. Eh? Your brother was slain there? I mind me now, A right good man-at-arms, God pardon him! I think 'twas Geffray smote him on the brow With some spiked axe, and while he totter'd, dim About the eyes, the spear of Alleyne Roux Slipped through his camaille and his throat; well, well! Alleyne is paid now; your name Alleyne too? Mary! how strange! but this tale I would tell: For spite of all our bastides, damned Blackhead Would ride abroad whene'er he chose to ride, We could not stop him; many a burgher bled Dear gold all round his girdle; far and wide