"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, syr king, must goe with mee,95
Or else thy daughter deere:
Or else within these lists soe broad,
Thou must finde him a peere."
The king he turned him round aboute,
And in his heart was woe:100
"Is there never a knighte of my round table
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,105
Right fair his meede shall bee.
"For hee shall have my broad lay-lands,
And of my crowne be heyre;
And he shall winne fayre Christabelle
But every knighte of his round table
Did stand both still and pale;
For, whenever they lookt on the grim Soldan,
It made their hearts to quail.
All woe-begone was that fayre ladye,115
When she sawe no helpe was nye:
She cast her thought on her owne true-love,
And the teares gusht from her eye.
Up then sterte the stranger knighte,
Sayd, "Ladye, be not affrayd;120
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,125
Thoughe he be stiff in stowre."