VII

Now wyl I of hor seruise say yow no more,

For vch wyȝe may wel wit no wont þat þer were;

An oþer noyse ful newe neȝed biliue,

Þat þe lude myȝt haf leue lif-lode to cach.

For vneþe watȝ þe noyce not a whyle sesed,

& þe fyrst cource in þe court kyndely serued,

Þer hales in at þe halle dor an aghlich mayster,

On þe most on þe molde on mesure hyghe;

Fro þe swyre to þe swange so sware & so þik,

& his lyndes & his lymes so longe & so grete,

Half etayn in erde I hope þat he were.

Bot mon most I algate mynn hym to bene,

& þat þe myriest in his muckel þat myȝt ride;

For of bak & of brest al were his bodi sturne,

Bot his wombe & his wast were worthily smale,

& alle his fetures folȝande, in forme þat he hade,

ful clene;
For wonder of his hwe men hade,
Set in his semblaunt sene;
He ferde as freke were fade,
& ouer-al enker grene.