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' He wold pull downe my halles and castles,
And reave me of my lyfe ; I cannot blame him if he doe,
If I reave him of his wyfe.'—
' 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.
' Flight 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.'
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.
And he tooke leave of that lad ye fay re,
To goe to his owne countree, To fetche him dukes and lordes and knightes,
That marryed they might bee.
They had not ridden scant a myle,
A myle forthe of the towne, But in did come the Kyng of Spayne,
With kempes many one.