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As he thorow the cyté went,
But therof roght he noght.
The people to the wallys can go

To see the batelle betwene them two,
When they were togedur broght:
Clement, hys fadur, wo was he

Tylle he wyste whych schulde maystyr be;
Gladd was he noght.

The chylde came to the yatys sone,
And bad the portar them on-done,

And opyn them fulle wyde.
Alle that abowt the chylde stode,
Laghed as they were wode,

And skornyd hym that tyde.
Every man seyde to hys fere,
"Here comyth an hardy bachelere,
Hym besemyth welle to ryde;
Men may see be hys breme bryght,
That he ys an hardy knyght

The gyaunt to abyde !"

The gyaunt upryght can stonde,

And toke hys burdon yn hys honde,
Of stele that was un-ryde;

To the chylde smote he so,

That the chyldes shylde brake yn two,

And felle on every syde.

The chylde was never 3yt so wo,

That hys schylde was brokyn yn two,

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More he thoght to byde;

To the gyaunt he smote so sore,
That hys ryzt arme flye of thore,
The blode stremyd wyde.

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Clement on the wallys stode,

Fulle blythe was he yn hys mode,

And mende can hys chere:

"Sone, for that y have seene
Thy noble stroke that ys so kene,

To me art thou fulle dere;

Now me thynkyth yn my mode,
Thou haste welle be-sett my gode,

Soche playes for to lere.

Jhesu that syttyth yn Trynyté,

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Blesse the fadur that gate the,

And the modur that the dud bere!"

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Chylde Florent, yn hys feyre wede,

Sprange owt as sparkylle on glede,
The sothe y wylle yow say;
He rode forthe wyth egur mode
To the gyaunt there he stode,

There was no chyldys play!

The gyaunt to the chylde smote so,
That hys hors and he to grounde dud go,

The stede on kneys lay;

Clement cryed wyth egur mode,

"Sone, be now of comfort gode,

And venge the, yf thou may."

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As evylle as the chylde farde,

When he Clementes speche harde,

Hys harte beganne to bolde; Boldely hys swyrde he lawght,

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To the gyaunt soche a strok he raght,

That alle hys blode can colde.

He hytt the gyaunt on the schouldur boone,

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That to the pappe the swyrde ranne,

To grounde can he folde!

Thus hyt was, thorow Goddys grace,

The gyaunt swownyd yn that place,
In geste as hyt ys tolde.

The kyngys on the wallys stode.
Whan the gyaunt to grounde yode,

Alle gladd they were ;

Alle the people at the chylde loghe,
How he the gyauntes helme of droghe,

And hys hedd he smote of there.
The chylde lepe upon hys stede,
And rode awey a gode spede,

Wyth them spake he no more. The chylde toke the ryght way

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To Mountmertrous, there the mayde lay,

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And the hedd with hym he bare.

When he came to the maydyns halle,
He fonde the boordys covyrde alle,
And redy to go to mete;

The maydyn that was so mylde of mode,

In a kyrtulle there sche stode,

And bowne sche was to sete.

"Damyselle," he seyde, "feyre and free,

Welle gretyth thy lemman the,

Of that he the be-hete;

Here an hedd y have the broght,

The kyngys of Fraunce ys hyt noght,

Hyt ys evylle to gete."

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The byrde bryght as golde hye,
When sche the gyauntes hedd sye,
Welle sche hyt kende.

"Me thynkyth he was trewe of hete,
The kynges when he myght not gete,
Hys own that he me sende."

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"Damyselle," he seyde, "feyre and bryght, 1015 Now wylle y have that thou hym hyght,"

And ovyr hys sadulle he leynyd;

Ofte sythys he kyste that may,
And hente hur up and rode away,

That alle the brygge can bende!

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Crye and noyse rose yn the towne,
Sone ther was to batelle bowne

Many an hardy knyght,

With sperys longe and schyldys browne;
Florent let the maydyn adowne,

And made hym bowne to fyght.

Hur skarlet sleve he schare of then,

He seyde, "Lady, be thys ye shalle me ken,

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When ye me see by syght."

Soche love waxe betwene them two,

That the lady wepte for wo,

When he ne wynne hur myght.

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Chylde Florent yn on-feyre wede

Sprange owt as sparkylle on glede,

The sothe for to say:

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Many hethen men that stownde,
In dede he broght to the grounde,

There was no chyldys play.
When Florent beganne to fownde,
Wythowt any weme of wownde,

To Parys he toke the way;

The hethyn men were so for-dredd,

To Cleremount with the mayde they fledd,

There the Sowdon lay.

In hur fadur pavylon,

There they let the maydyn downe,

And sche knelyd on knee;

The Sowdon was fulle blythe,
To hys doghtur he went swythe,

And kyssyd hur sythys thre.
He set hur downe on a deyse,
Rychely, wythowt lees,

Wyth grete solempnyté :

Sche tolde hur fadur and wolde not layne,

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How Araganour, the gyaunt, was slayne;
A sory man was he!

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