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The day of weddyng cam, but no wight can
I wol no thing, ye be my lord so deere;
“Yit wol I," quod this markys softely,
And in the chamber, whil thay were aboute
No wonder is though that sche were astoned,
“Grisyld,” he sayde, “ye schul wel understonde, It liketh to your fader and to me, That I yow wedde, and eek it may so stonde, As I suppose ye wil that it so be; But these demaundes aske I first," quod he, " That sith it schal be doon in hasty wyse; Wol ye assent, or elles yow avyse?
“I say this, be ye redy with good hert
THE MARRIAGE OF PATIENT GRISSEL.
And eek whan I say ye, ye say not nay,
Wondryng upon this word, quakyng for drede,
"This is y-nough, Grisilde myn," quod he. And forth goth he with a ful sobre chere, Out at the dore, and after that cam sche, And to the pepul he sayd in this manere: “This is my wyf," quod he, “that stondith heere. Honoureth hir, and loveth hir, I yow pray, Who so me loveth; ther is no more to say.”
And for that no thing of hir olde gere
This marquis hath hir spoused with a ryng Brought for the same cause, and than hir sette Upon an hors snow-whyt, and wel amblyng, And to his palys, er he lenger lette, (With joyful poeple, that hir ladde and mette) Conveyed hire, and thus the day they spende In revel, til the sonne gan descende.
So cruel prison how could betide, alas !
As proud Windsor, where I in lust and joy, With a king's son, my childish years did pass,
In greater feast than Priam's sons of Troy.
Where each sweet place returns a taste full sour;
The large green courts, where we were wont to hove, With eyes cast up into the maidens' tower, And easy sighs, such as folk draw in love.
HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY.
The stately seats, the ladies bright of hue,
The dances short, long tales of great delight; With words and looks, that tigers could but rue,
Where each of us did plead the other's right.
The palm-play, where, despoiled for the game,
With dazed eyes oft we by gleams of love
To bait her eyes, which kept the leads above.
The gravelled ground, with sleeves tied on the helm,
On foaming horse, with swords and friendly hearts; With chere, as though one should another whelm,
Where we have fought, and chasèd oft with darts.
With silver drops the mead yet spread for ruth,
In active games of nimbleness and strength, Where we did strain, trained with swarms of youth,
Our tender limbs, that yet shot up in length.
The secret groves, which oft we made resound
Of pleasant plaint, and of our ladies' praise ; Recording oft what grace each one had found,
What hope of speed, what dread of long delays.
The wild forest, the clothed holts with green;
With reins availed, and swift y-breathed horse, With cry of hounds, and merry blasts between,
Where we did chase the fearful hart of force.
The void walls eke, that harboured us each night;
Wherewith, alas! reviveth in my breast