FYTTE 3     

   Tell'th how Duke Jocelyn of love did sing, And haughty knight in lily-pool did fling. 

   Upon a morn, when dewy flowers fresh-waked Filled the glad air with perfume languorous, And piping birds a pretty tumult made, Thrilling the day with blended ecstasy; When dew in grass did light a thousand fires, And gemmed the green in flashing bravery—   Forth of her bower the fair Yolanda came, Fresh as the morn and, like the morning, young, Who, as she breathed the soft and fragrant air, Felt her white flesh a-thrill with joyous life, And heart that leapt responsive to the joy. Vivid with life she trod the flowery ways, Dreaming awhile of love and love and love; Unknowing all of eyes that watched unseen, Viewing her body's gracious loveliness:   Her scarlet mouth, her deep and dreamful eyes, The glowing splendour of her sun-kissed hair, Which in thick braids o'er rounded bosom fell Past slender waist by jewelled girdle bound. So stood Duke Jocelyn amid the leaves, And marked how, as she walked, her silken gown Did cling her round in soft embrace, as though Itself had sense and wit enough to love her. Entranced he stood, bound by her beauty's spell, Whereby it seemed he did in her behold The beauty of all fair and beauteous things. 

   Now leaned she o'er a pool where lilies pale Oped their shy beauties to the gladsome day, Yet in their beauty none of them so fair As that fair face the swooning waters held. And as, glad-eyed, she viewed her loveliness, She fell to singing, soft and low and sweet, Clear and full-throated as a piping merle, And this the manner of her singing was:    “What is love? Ah, who shall say? Flower to languish in a day, Bird on wing that will away. Love, I do defy thee!    “What is love? A toy so vain   'T is but found to lose again, Painful sweet and sweetest pain; Ah, love, come not nigh me.    “But, love, an thou com'st to me, Wert thou as I'd have thee be, Welcome sweet I'd make for thee, And weary of thee never.    “If with thy heart thou could'st endure, If thou wert strong and thou wert sure, A master now, and now a wooer, Thy slave I'd be for ever.”    Thus sang she sweet beside the lily-pool, Unknowing any might her singing hear, When rose another voice, so rich, so full As thrilled her into rapt and pleasing wonder; And as she hearkened to these deep-sung words, She flushed anon and dimpled to a smile:    “What is love? 'Tis this, I say, Flower that springeth in a day, Bird of joy to sing alway, Deep in the 

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