The talents of golde were on her head sette,
Hanged low downe to her knee;
And everye ring on her small fingèr
Shone of the chrystall free.
Saies, God you save, my deere madam;
Saies, God you save and see.
Said, You be welcome, kyng Estmere,
Right welcome unto mee.
And if you love me, as you saye,
Soe well and hartilye,
All that ever you are comin about
Sooner sped now itt shal bee.
Then bespake her father deare:
My daughter, I saye naye;
Remember well the kyng of Spayne,
What he sayd yesterday.
He wold pull downe my hales and castles,
And reeve me of my life.
I cannot blame him if he doe,
If I reave him of his wyfe.
Your castles and your towres, father,
Are stronglye built aboute;
And therefore of the king of Spaine
Wee neede not stande in doubt.
Plight me your troth, nowe, kyng Estmère,
By heaven and your righte hand,
That you will marrye me to your wyfe,
And make me queene of your land.
Then kyng Estmere he plight his troth
By heaven and his righte hand,
That he wolde marrye her to his wyfe,
And make her queene of his land.
And he tooke leave of that ladye fayre,
To goe to his owne countree,
To fetche him dukes and lordes and knightes,
That marryed the might bee.
They had not ridden scant a myle,
A myle forthe of the towne,
But in did come the kyng of Spayne,
With kempès many one.
But in did come the kyng of Spayne,
With manye a bold barone,
Tone day to marrye kyng Adlands daughter,
Tother daye to carrye her home.
Shee sent one after kyng Estmere
In all the spede might bee,
That he must either turne againe and fighte,
Or goe home and loose his ladye.
One whyle then the page he went,
Another while he ranne;
Tull he had oretaken king Estmere,
I wis, he never blanne.
Tydings, tydings, kyng Estmere!
What tydinges nowe, my boye?
O tydinges I can tell to you,
That will you sore annoye.
You had not ridden scant a mile,
A mile out of the towne,
But in did come the kyng of Spayne
With kempès many a one:
But in did come the kyng of Spayne
With manye a bold barone,
Tone daye to marrye king Adlands daughter,
Tother daye to carry her home.
My ladye fayre she greetes you well,
And ever-more well by mee:
You must either turne againe and fighte,
Or goe home and loose your ladyè.
Saies, Reade me, reade me, deere brother,
My reade shall ryde at thee,
Whether it is better to turne and fighte,
Or goe home and loose my ladye.
Now hearken to me, sayes Adler yonge,
And your reade must rise at me,
I quicklye will devise a waye
To sette thy ladye free.
My mother was a westerne woman,
And learned in gramaryè,
And when I learned at the schole,
Something she taught itt mee.
There growes an hearbe within this field,
And iff it were but knowne,
His color, which is whyte and redd,
It will make blacke and browne:
His color, which is browne and blacke,
Itt will make redd and whyte;
That sworde is not in all Englande,
Upon his coate will byte.
And you shall be a harper, brother,
Out of the north countrye;
And He be your boy, soe faine of fighte,
And beare your harpe by your knee.
And you shal be the best harpèr,
That ever tooke harpe in hand;
And I wil be the best singèr,
That ever sung in this lande.
Itt shal be written on our forheads
All and in grammaryè,
That we towe are the
