XLVII
Then they pulled out a ryng of gold,
Layd itt on the porter’s arme:
‘And ever we will thee, proud portèr,
Thow wilt saye us no harme.’
XLVIII
Sore he looked on Kyng Estmere,
And sore he handled the ryng,
Then opened to them the fayre hall yates,
He lett for no kind of thyng.
XLIX
Kyng Estmere he stabled his steede
Soe fayre att the hall-bord;
The froth that came from his brydle bitte
Light in Kyng Bremor’s beard.
L
Saies, ‘Stable thy steed, thou proud harpèr,’
Saies, ‘Stable him in the stalle;
It doth not beseeme a proud harpèr
To stable his steed in a kyng’s halle.’
LI
‘My ladde he is so lither[300],’ he said,
‘He will doe nought that’s meete;
And is there any man in this hall
Were able him to beate?’