No lenger wolde he byde. When he was redy forthe to fou[nde], "Be-leve there," he seyde, "ye hethen h[ounde], For ye have lorne yowre pryde." 1485 Clement toke the ryght way Into Parys, as hyt lay, Fulle blythe was he that tyde! "Florent, sone, where art thou? That y the hyght, y have hyt [now], I wylle the quyte thy mede. 1490 1495 Yf hyt so poverly myght sprede." 1500 To the pales the stede was ladde, And alle the kyngys were fulle gladd Theron for to see. The emperour before hym stode, Ravyschyd herte and blode, So wondur feyre was he. Then spekyth the chylde of honour To hys lorde the emperour, 1505 Alle that abowte the chylde stode, Aftur thys the day was nomyn, Agenste the Sarsyns to fyght; Wyth trumpys and with moche pryde, As men moche of myght! A schyppe he hath hym dyght; Fro Mountmertrous there the lady lay, Ne wyste hyt kynge ne knyght. 1510 1515 1520 That whyle was moche sorowe yn fyzt, 1525 When the batelle began to smyght With many a grymme gare; Wyth woundys wondur sore. The batelle venquyscht they thore. 1530 1535 Florent was of herte so gode, He rode thorow them [as] he was wode, As wyght as he wolde wede. Ther was no Sarsyn so moche of mayn, That myst hym stonde with strenkyth agayn, Of Florent there was dele y-now, And he to grounde yede. 1540 1545 Bothe Emperour, kynge, and knyght, Wyde the worde sprange of thys chawnce, How the Sowdon was yu Fraunce To warre agenste the ryght; 1560 In Jerusalem, men can hyt here, How the Emperour of Rome was there 1565 Wyth many an hardy knyght. Than spekyth Octavyon the 3yng, Fulle feyre to hys lorde the kyng, As chylde of moche myght: "Lorde, yf hyt were yowre wylle, I wolde wynde my fadur tylle, And helpe hym yn that fyght." Than spekyth the kyng of moche myzt, Sore hys herte can blede. "Sone, thou schalt take my knyghtes fele, Of my londe that thou wylle wele, That styffe are on stede, Into Fraunce with the to ryde, Wyth hors and armys be thy syde, To helpe the at nede; When thou some doghtynes haste done, Then may thou shewe thyn errande soone, He bad hys modur make hur yare, Into Fraunce with hym to fare, He wolde no lenger byde. Wyth hur she ladd the lyenas That sche brozt owt of wyldurnes, Rennyng be hur syde; There men myght see many a knyght, With helmys and with hawberkys bryght, Forthe yn-to the strete. 1570 1575 1580 1585 1590 Forthe they went on a day, The hethyn ooste on the way By the baners that they bare, Ageyn them can they ryde: They hewe the flesche fro the bone, Soche metyng was never none, Wyth sorow on ylke syde! Octavyon, the yong knyght, Thorow the grace of God Almyght, The lyenas that was so wyght, When she sawe the yong knyght Into the batelle fownde, Sche folowed hym with alle hur my3t, And faste fellyd the folke yn fy3t, Many sche made on-sownde! Grete stedys downe sche drowe, Wyth-ynne a lytulle stownde! The hethyn were brost to grownde ! 1595 1600 1605 1610 1615 1620 |