The villaynes dwelt in utter misery 'Twixt us and thief Sir Geffray; hauled this way By Sir Bonne Lance at one time; he gone by, Down comes this Teste Noire on another day. And therefore they dig up the stone, grind corn, Hew wood, draw water, yea, they lived, in short, As I said just now, utterly forlorn, Till this our knave and blackhead was out-fought. So Bonne Lance fretted, thinking of some trap Day after day, till on a time he said: John of Newcastle, if we have good hap, We catch our thief in two days. How? I said. Why, Sir, to-day he rideth out again, Hoping to take well certain sumpter mules From Carcassonne, going with little train, Because, forsooth, he thinketh us mere fools; But if we set an ambush in some wood, He is but dead: so, Sir, take thirty spears To Verville forest, if it seem you good. Then felt I like the horse in Job, who hears The dancing trumpet sound, and we went forth; And my red lion on the spear-head flapped, As faster than the cool wind we rode north, Towards the wood of Verville; thus it happed. We rode a soft pace on that day, while spies Got news about Sir Geffray: the red wine Under the road-side bush was clear; the flies, The dragon-flies I mind me most, did shine In brighter arms than ever I put on; So: Geffray, said our spies, would pass that way Next day at sundown: then he must be won; And so we enter'd Verville wood next day, In the afternoon; through it the highway runs, 'Twixt copses of green hazel, very thick, And underneath, with glimmering of suns, The primroses are happy; the dews lick The soft green moss: 'Put cloths about your arms, Lest they should glitter; surely they will go In a long thin line, watchful for alarms, With all their carriages of booty; so, Lay down my pennon in the grass: Lord God. What have we lying here? will they be cold, I wonder, being so bare, above the sod, Instead of under? This was a knight too, fold Lying on fold of ancient rusted mail; No plate at all, gold rowels to the spurs, And see the quiet gleam of turquoise pale Along the ceinture; but the long time blurs Even the tinder of his coat to nought, Except these scraps of leather; see how white The skull is, loose within the coif! He fought A good fight, maybe, ere he was slain quite. No armour on the legs too; strange in faith! A little skeleton for a knight, though: ah! This one is bigger, truly without scathe His enemies escaped not! ribs driven out far; That must have reach'd the heart, I doubt: how now, What say you, Aldovrand, a woman? why?' Under the coif a gold wreath on the brow, Yea, see the hair not gone to powder, lie,