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And many a ladye there was sette
In purple and in palle:
But faire Christabelle soe woe-begone
Was the fayrest of them all.

Then manye a knighte was mickle of might
Before his ladye gaye;

But a stranger wight, whom no man knewe,
He wan the prize eche daye.

His acton it was all of blacke,

His hewberke, and his sheelde,

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Ne noe man wist whence he did come,
Ne noe man knewe where he did gone,
When they came out the feelde.

And now three days were preftlye past
In feates of chivalrye,

When lo upon the fourth morninge
A forrowfulle fight they fee.

A hugye giaunt stiffe and starke,
All foule of limbe and lere;
Two goggling eyen like fire farden,
A mouthe from eare to eare.

Before him came a dwarffe full lowe,
That waited on his knee,

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And at his backe five heads he bare,
All wan and pale of blee.

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Sir,

Sir, quoth the dwarffe, and louted lowe,
Behold that hend Soldàin !
Behold these heads I beare with me!

They are kings which he hath flain.

The Eldridge knight is his own cousine,
Whom a knight of thine hath shent:
And hee is come to avenge his wrong,
And to thee, all thy knightes among,
Defiance here hath fent.

But yette he will appease his wrath

Thy daughters love to winne:

And but thou yeelde him that fayre mayd,
Thy halls and towers must brenne.

Thy head, fyr king, must goe with mee;
Or else thy daughter deere;
Or else within these lifts foe broad

Thou must finde him a peere.

The king he turned him round aboute,

And in his heart was woe:

Is there never a knighte of my round tablè,
This matter will undergoe?

Is there never a knighte amongst yee all
Will fight for my daughter and mee?
Whoever will fight yon grimme soldan,
Right fair his meede shall bee.

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For hee shall have my broad lay-lands,
And of my crowne be heyre;
And he shall winne fayre Christabelle
To be his wedded fere.

But every knighte of his round tablè
Did stand both still and pale;

For whenever they lookt on the grim soldan,
It made their hearts to quail.

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All woe-begone was that fayre ladyè,
When she sawe no helpe was nye :
She caft her thought on her owne true-love,
And the teares gusht from her eye.

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Up then sterte the stranger knighte,

Sayd, Ladye, be not affrayd:
Ile fight for thee with this grimme soldan,

Thoughe he be unmacklye made.

And if thou wilt lend me the Eldridge sworde,
That lyeth within thy bowre,

I truste in Christe for to slay this fiende

Thoughe he be ftiff in stowre.

Goe fetch him downe the Eldridge sworde,

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The kinge he cryde, with speede :

Nowe heaven afsist thee, courteous knighte;

My daughter is thy meede.

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The gyaunt he stepped into the lifts,
And fayd, Awaye, awaye:

I sweare, as I am the hend soldàn,
Thou lettest me here all daye.

Then forthe the stranger knight he came
In his blacke armoure dight:
The ladye fighed a gentle fighe,

"That this were my true knighte!"

And nowe the gyaunt and knighte be mett
Within the lifts foe broad;

And now with swordes foe sharpe of steele,
They gan to lay on load.

The foldan strucke the knighte a stroke,
That made him reele afyde;
Then woe-begone was that fayre ladyè,
And thrice she deeply fighde.

The foldan ftrucke a second stroke,

And made the bloude to flowe:
All pale and wan was that ladye fayre,
And thrice she wept for woe.

The foldan ftrucke a third fell stroke,
Which brought the knighte on his knee:
Sad forrow pierced that ladyes heart,
And she shriekt loud shriekings three.

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Quoth hee, But heaven be now my speede,
Or else I shall be flaine.

He grasped his sworde with mayne and mighte,

And spying a secrette part,

He drave it into the foldan's fyde,

And pierced him to the heart.

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Then all the people gave a shoute,
Whan they fawe the foldan falle:
The ladye wept, and thanked Chrift,
That had reskewed her from thrall.

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And nowe the kinge with all his barons
Rose uppe from offe his seate,
And downe he stepped into the liftes,
That curteous knighte to greete.

But he for payne and lacke of bloude
Was fallen intò a swounde,

And there all walteringe in his gore,

Lay lifelefsse on the grounde.

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Come downe, come downe, my daughter deare, 175

Thou art a leeche of skille;

Farre lever had I lose halfe my landes,

Than this good knighte sholde spille.

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