"This giaunt hym toke, wo he be ! ffor his love he gevith hym me, He wold none other thinge." fforth she brought bred and wyne, ffayn he was for to dyne. This knyght made noble chere, With the geaunt strong; Sir Torrent dwellid no longer thare, Than he myзt away fare, 66 Now, Jeshu, that made helle, Send me on lyve to Desonelle, That I my trouth to plight!" Tho sye they be a forest syde, Men of armes ffaste ride, 1710 1720 "He is so long of bone and blood, He is the geaunt, be the rode, 66 Som seith he riduth uppon." Nay," said the Kyng, " verament, It is the knyght that I after sent, I thanke God and seynt John! "ffor the geaunt slayn hath he, Wott ye welle, with joy and blis As doughty man of dede. The kyng and other lordys gent, Into this uncouth lond!" Into a state they hym brought, They said, "so God hem spede! "Were there no lyve but ane, The lady wist not or than, That he was hurt, that gentilman, E 1820 1830 1840 She sought his woundus, and said thare, "Thou shalte lyve and wel fare, Yf the nothing evylle; My lord the kyng hath me hight, "Damyselle, loo here my hond! And I take eny wyffe in this lond, It shalle be at thy wylle." Gendres was that ladyes name, The geauntes hede he brought hame, And the dragons also. Mene myght here a myle aboute, How on the dede hedys they did shoute, 1850 ffor the shame that they had hem wrought; Both with dede and with tong, ffyfte on the hedys dong, That to the ground they sought. Sir Torrent dwellid thare Twelfe monythis and mare, That ffurther my3t he nought; The kyng of Norway said, "nowe, ffals thevis, woo worth thou, fferly sotelle were ye. 1860 "Ye said the knyght wold not com; Swith oute of my kingdome, Or hangid shalle ye be !" His squiers that fro hym fled, And there they drenchid every man, And woo begone is he; The child to lond that God sent, In a riche town. That hath hight be her day, 1870 Byfore the kyng he hym sett, 1880 ffulle welle thy men, lord, they grett, And in the see are they drowned. Desonelle said, "where is Torent?" "In Norway, lady, verament:" On sownyng felle she down; As she sownyd, this lady myld, Sterying on her right syde. Gret ruth it was to telle, How her maydens on her felle, Her to cover and to hide; Tho the kyng said, "my doughter do way, Spousage wylle thou none lede! "Therefore thou shalt into the see, And that bastard within the, To lerne you ffor to ride." Erlis and barons that were good, Byfore the kyng knelid and stode, ffor that lady free. The quene her moder on knees felle, "ffor Jeshu is love, that haroed helle, Lord, have mercy on me! That ylke dede that she hath done, Riche man i-nough is he. "And yf ye wylle not let her lyve, Right of lond ye her yeve, Tille she delyvered be." This lady dwellith there, 1890 1900 1910 |