CXXIX
‘Madame, sith it is your desyre,
Your askyng graunted shal be;
But I had lever have geven you
Good market-townès thre.’
CXXX
The Quenè was a glad woman,
And sayde, ‘Lord, gramarcy!
I dare and undertake for them
That true men shal they be.
CXXXI
‘But good lord, speke som mery word,
That comfort they may se.’—
‘I graunt you grace,’ then sayd our Kynge;
‘Washe, felows, and to meate go ye.’
CXXXII
They had not setten but a whyle,
Certayne without lesynge,
There came messengers out of the north
With letters to our Kynge.
CXXXIII
And whan they came before the Kynge,
They knelt downe on theyr kne;
And sayd, ‘Lord, your officers grete you well,
Of Carleile in the north countrè.’