departed.—Overwise for our pleasure May the rhyme be perchance; but rightly we knew not How to change it and fashion it fresh into fairness. And once more, your Graces, we pray your forgiveness For the boldness Love gave us to set forth this story; And again, that I say, all that Pharamond sought for, Through sick dreams and weariness, now have ye found, Mid health and in wealth, and in might to uphold us; Midst our love who shall deem you our hope and our treasure. Well all is done now; so forget ye King Pharamond, And Azalais his love, if we set it forth foully, That fairly set forth were a sweet thing to think of In the season of summer betwixt labour and sleeping.

Fair Master Mayor, and City well beloved, Think of us twain as folk no little moved By this your kindness; and believe it not That Pharamond the Freed shall be forgot, By us at least: yea, more than ye may think, This summer dream into our hearts shall sink. Lo, Pharamond longed and toiled, nor toiled in vain, But fame he won: he longed and toiled again, And Love he won: 'twas a long time ago, And men did swiftly what we now do slow, And he, a great man full of gifts and grace, Wrought out a twofold life in ten years' space. Ah, fair sir, if for me reward come first,     Yet will I hope that ye have seen the worst Of that my kingcraft, that I yet shall earn Some part of that which is so long to learn. Now of your gentleness I pray you bring This knife and girdle, deemed a well-wrought thing; And a king's thanks, whatso they be of worth, To him who Pharamond this day set forth In worthiest wise, and made a great man live, Giving me greater gifts than I may give.

And therewithal I pray you, Master Mayor, Unto the seeming Azalais to bear This chain, that she may wear it for my sake, The memory of my pleasure to awake. [Exit MAYOR.

Gifts such as kings give, sweet! Fain had I been To see him face to face and his fair Queen, And thank him friendly; asking him maybe How the world looks to one with love left free:     It may not be, for as thine eyes say, sweet, Few folk as friends shall unfreed Pharamond meet. So is it: we are lonelier than those twain, Though from their vale they ne'er depart again.

Shall I lament it, love, since thou and I By all the seeming pride are drawn more nigh? Lo, love, our toil-girthed garden of desire, How of its changeless sweetness may we tire, While round about the storm is in the boughs And 

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