Читать книгу Burlesque Plays and Poems - Various - Страница 5

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Listeneth, lordings, in good entent,

And I wol tell you verament

Of mirth and of solás,

All of a knight was fair and gent

In battle and in tournamént,

His name was Sir Thopás.

Yborn he was in far countree,

In Flanders, all beyond the sea,

At Popering in the place,

His father was a man full free,

And lord he was of that countree,

As it was Goddés grace.

Sir Thopas was a doughty swain,

White was his face as paindemaine

His lippés red as rose.

His rudde is like scarlét in grain,

And I you tell in good certain

He had a seemly nose.

His hair, his beard, was like saffroun,

That to his girdle raught adown,

His shoon of cordewaine;

Of Bruges were his hosen brown;

His robé was of ciclatoun,

That costé many a jane.

He could hunt at the wildé dere,

And ride on hawking for the rivere

With grey goshawk on hand:

Thereto he was a good archere,

Of wrestling was there none his peer,

Where any ram should stand.

Full many a maiden bright in bower

They mournéd for him par amour,

When them were bet to slepe;

But he was chaste and no lechóur,

And sweet as is the bramble flower,

That beareth the red hepe.

And so it fell upon a day,

Forsooth, as I you tellen may,

Sir Thopas would out ride;

He worth upon his stedé gray,

And in his hand a launcegay,

A long sword by his side.

He pricketh through a fair forést,

Therein is many a wildé beast,

Yea bothé buck and hare,

And as he prickéd North and Est,

I tell it you, him had almest

Betid a sorry care.

There springen herbés great and smale,

The liquorice and the setewale,

And many a clove gilofre,

And nutémeg to put in ale,

Whether it be moist or stale,

Or for to lain in cofre.

The birdés singen, it is no nay,

The sparhawk and the popingay,

That joy it was to hear,

The throstel cock made eke his lay,

The wodé dove upon the spray

He sang full loud and clear.

Sir Thopas fell in love-longíng

All when he heard the throstel sing,

And pricked as he were wood;

His fairé steed in his prícking

So swatté, that men might him wring,

His sidés were all blood.

Sir Thopas eke so weary was

For pricking on the softé gras,

So fierce was his couráge,

That down he laid him in that place

To maken his stedé som solace,

And gave him good foráge.

Ah, Seinte Mary, benedicite,

What aileth this love at me

To bindé me so sore?

Me dreaméd all this night pardé,

An elf-queen shal my leman be,

And sleep under my gore.

An elf-queen will I love ywis,

For in this world no wóman is

Worthy to be my make

In town—

All other women I forsake,

And to an elf-queen I me take

By dale and eke by down.

Into his saddle he clomb anon,

And prickéd over stile and stone

An elf-queen for to espie,

Till he so long had ridden and gone,

That he found in a privee wone

The contree of Faerié.

Wherein he soughté North and South,

And oft he spiéd with his mouth

In many a forest wild,

For in that contree n'as ther non,

That to him durst ride or gon,

Neither wife ne child.

Till that there came a great geaunt,

His namé was Sir Oliphaunt,

A perilous man of deed,

He saidé, Childe by Termagaunt,

But if thou prick out of mine haunt,

Anon I slay thy stede

With mace.

Here is the Queen of Faerie,

With harp, and pipe, and symphonie,

Dwelling in this place.

The Childe said, All so mote I thee,

To morrow wol I meten thee,

When I have min armóur,

And yet I hopé par ma fay,

That thou shalt with this launcegay

Abien it full soure;

Thy mawe

Shal I perce, if I may,

Or it be fully prime of the day,

For here thou shalt be slawe.

Sir Thopas drew aback full fast;

This geaunt at him stonés cast

Out of a fell staff sling:

But faire escapéd Childe Thopás,

And all it was through Goddes grace,

And through his fair bearíng.

Yet listeneth, lordings, to my tale,

Merrier than the nightingale,

For now I will you roune,

How Sir Thopás with sidés smale,

Pricking over hill and dale,

Is comen again to toune.

His merry men commandeth he,

To maken him bothe game and glee,

For needés must he fight,

With a geaunt with heades three,

For paramour and jolitee

Of one that shone full bright.

Do come, he said, my minestrales

And gestours for to tellen tales

Anon in mine armíng,

Of romauncés that ben reáles,

Of popés and of cardináles,

And eke of love-longíng.

They fet him first the sweté wine,

And mead eke in a maseline,

And regal spicerie,

Of ginger-bread that was full fine,

And liquorice and eke cummine,

With sugar that is trie.

He diddé next his whité lere

Of cloth of laké fine and clere

A breche and eke a sherte,

And next his shert an haketon,

And over that an habergeon,

For piercing of his herte.

And over that a fine hauberk,

Was all ywrought of Jewes werk,

Full strong it was of plate,

And over that his cote-armoure,

As white as is the lily floure,

In which he would debate.

His shield was all of gold so red,

And therein was a boarés hed,

A carbuncle beside;

And there he swore on ale and bread

How that the geaunt shuld be dead,

Betide what so betide.

His jambeux were of cuirbouly,

His swordés sheth of ivory,

His helm of latoun bright,

His saddle was of rewel bone,

His bridle as the sonné shone,

Or as the moné light.

His speré was of fin cypréss,

That bodeth war, and nothing peace,

The head full sharp yground.

His stedé was all dapple gray,

It goeth an amble in the way

Full softély and round

In londe—

Lo, Lordes mine, here is a fytte;

If ye wol ony more of it,

To tell it wol I fond.

Now hold your mouth pour charité,

Bothé knight and lady free,

And herkeneth to my spell,

Of bataille and of chivalrie,

Of ladies love and druerie,

Anon I wol you tell.

Men speken of romauncés of pris,

Of Hornchild, and of Ipotis,

Of Bevis, and Sir Guy,

Of Sir Libeux, and Pleindamour,

But Sir Thopás, he bears the flour

Of reál chivalrie.

His goodé steed he all bestrode,

And forth upon his way he glode,

As sparkle out of brond;

Upon his crest he bare a tower,

And therein sticked a lily flower,

God shield his corps fro shond.

And for he was a knight auntrous,

He n'olde slepen in none house,

But liggen in his hood,

His brighté helm was his wangér,

And by him baited his destrér

Of herbés fine and good.

Himself drank water of the well,

As did the knight Sir Percivell

So worthy under weede,

Till on a day————

"No more of this for Goddés dignitee,"

Quod ouré hosté, "for thou makest me

So weary of thy veray lewédnesse,

That all so wisly God my soulé blesse,

Min erés aken of thy drafty speche.

Now swiche a rime the devil I beteche;

This may wel be rime dogérel," quod he.

"Why so?" quod I, "why wolt thou letten me

More of my talé than an other man,

Sin that it is the besté rime I can?"

"Thou dost nought ellés but dispendest time.

Sir, at one word, thou shalt no longer rime."