Part 1 / Book 2 — 53. Old Robin of Portingale

I God! let never soe old a man Marry soe young a wife As did old Robin of Portingale! He may rue all the days of his life. II For the Mayor’s daughter of Lin, God wot, He chose her to his wife, And thought to have lived in quietnesse With her all the dayes of his life. III They had not in their wed-bed laid, Scarcely were both on sleepe, But up she rose, and forth she goes To Sir Gyles, and fast can weepe. IV Saies, ‘Sleepe you, wake you, faire Sir Gyles? Or be you not within? [Or hear you not your true love That tirleth at the pin?’]— V ‘But I am waking, sweete,’ he said, ‘Lady, what is your will?’— I have unbethought[362] me of a wile How my wed lord we shall spill. VI ‘Four and twenty knights,’ she sayes, ‘That dwells about this towne, E’en four and twenty of my next cozens Will help to ding[363] him downe.’ VII With that beheard his little foot-page, Was watering his master’s steed; Soe [sore a hearing it was to him] His very heart did bleed. VIII He mournèd, sikt[364], and wept full sore; I swear by the Holy Rood The teares he for his master wept Were blent water and bloude. IX With that beheard his dear mastèr As he in his garden sate; Sayes, ‘Ever alack, my little page, What causes thee to weepe? X ‘Hath any one done to thee wronge, Any of thy fellowes here? Or is any of thy good friends dead, What makes thee shed such teares? XI ‘Or if it be my head-cookes-man Griev’d againe[365] he shall be, Nor noe man within my house Shall doe wrong unto thee.’— XII ‘But it is not your head-cookes-man, Nor none of his degree; But or tomorrow, ere it be noone You are deemèd[366] to die. XIII ‘And of that thanke your head-steward, And, after, your ladie fair.’— ‘If it be true, my little foot-page, Of my land I’ll make thee heir.’— XIV ‘If it be not true, my deare master, God let me never thye[367].’— ‘If it be not true, thou little foot-page, A dead corse shalt thou be.’ XV He callèd down his head-cookes-man In kitchen supper to dress; ‘All and anon, my deere master! Anon at your request!’— XVI [‘Let supper be drest, and of the best Let it preparèd be] And call you downe my faire lady, This night to supp with mee.’ XVII And downe then came that fair lady, ’Was clad all in purple and palle[368]; The rings that were upon her fingers Cast light thorrow the hall. XVIII ‘What is your will, my owne wed lord, What is your will with mee?’— ‘’Tis I am sicke, fayre lady, Sore sicke and like to dye.’— XIX ‘But an you be sicke, my owne wed lord, Soe sore it grieveth mee; But my five maidens and my selfe [Will bedd you presentlye]. XX ‘And at the waking of your first sleepe You shall have a hott drinke made, And at the waking of your next sleepe Your sorrowes will have a slake.’ XXI He put a silk cote on his backe ’Was thirteen inches folde, And put a steele cap upon his head ’Was gilded with good red gold. XXII And he layd a bright browne sword by his side, And another at his feete, And full well knew Old Robin then Whether he shold wake or sleepe. XXIII And about the middle time of the night Came twenty-four Knights in; Sir Gyles he was the foremost man, Soe well he knew that ginne[369]. XXIV Old Robin with a bright browne sword Sir Gyles’ head he did winne, Soe did he all those twenty-four, Ne’er a one went quicke[370] out [agen]; XXV None but one little foot-page Crept forth at a window of stone; And he had two armes when he came in And [when he went out he had one]. XXVI Upp then came that ladie light, With torches burning bright; Shee thought to have brought Sir Gyles a drinke, But shee found her owne wed Knight. XXVII And the first thing that shee stumbled upon Was of Sir Gyles his foote; Sayes, ‘Ever alacke, and woe is me, Here lies my sweet hart-roote[371]!’ XXVIII And the second thing shee stumbled upon Was of Sir Gyles his head; Sayes, ‘Ever alacke, and woe is me, Here lyes my true-love deade!’ XXIX He cut the papps beside her brest, And bade her wish her will; And he cutt the eares beside her heade, And bade her wish on still. XXX ‘Mickle is the men’s blood I have spent To doe thee and me some good’; Sayes, ‘Ever alacke, my fayre lady, I thinke that I was woode[372]!’ XXXI And he shope[373] the cross on his right sho’lder Of the white flesh and the redd, And he went him into the Holy Land, Wheras Christ was quicke and deade.