XXII
‘Your castles and your towres, father,
Are stronglye built aboute,
And therefore of the Kyng his sonne of Spaine
Wee neede not stande in doubt.
XXIII
‘Plight me your troth, nowe, Kyng Estmere,
By heaven and your righte hand,
That you will marrye me to your wyfe,
And make me queene of your land.’
XXIV
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.
XXV
And he tooke leave of that ladye fayre,
To goe to his owne countree,
To fetche him dukes and lordes and knightes,
That marryed they might bee.
XXVI
They had not ridden scant a myle,
A myle forthe of the towne,
But in did come the Kyng of Spayne,
With kempès[296] many one.