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.