But then answer’d a curteous knight
Fast his hands wringìnge:
‘Sir Cawline’s sicke and like to be dead
Without and a good leechìnge[35].’
IX
‘Feitch ye downe my daughter deere,
She is a leeche full fine;
Ay, and take you doe and the baken bread,
And [drinke he of] the wine soe red,
And looke no daynty’s for him too deare,
For full loth I wo’ld him tine[36].’
X
This ladye is gone to his chamber,
Her maydens following nye;
‘O well,’ she saith, ‘how doth my lord?’
‘O sicke!’ againe saith hee.
XI
‘But rise up wightlye[37], man, for shame!
Ne’er lie here soe cowardlye!
Itt is told in my father’s hall
For my love you will dye.’—
XII
‘Itt is for your love, fayre ladye,
That all this dill I drie;
For if you wo’ld comfort me with a kisse,
Then were I brought from bale to bliss,
No longer here wo’ld I lye.’—