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248 SIB ALDINGAR. |
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" And here I will make mine avowe, 10s
And with the same me binde, That never will I return to thee,
Till I some helpe may finde."
Then forth she rode on a faire palfraye,
Oer hill and dale about; no
But never a champion colde she finde, Wolde fighte with that knight so stout.
And nowe the daye drewe on apace, When our good queene must dye ;
All woe-begone was that fair damselle, i« When she found no helpe was nye.
All woe-begone was that faire damselle, And the salt teares fell from her eye;
When lo ! as she rode by a rivers side,
She met with a tinye boye. 120
A tinye boy she mette, God wot,
All clad in mantle of golde ; He seemed noe more in mans likenesse,
Then a childe of four yeere olde.
" Why grieve you, damselle faire ? " he sayd, us> " And what doth cause you moane ? "
The damsell scant wolde deigne a looke, But fast she pricked on. |
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