were the Tombs, a beer hall in a cellar below the 1789

"What?" quoth Aucassin. "Ha, knowest thou not it was I that took thee?"

"Yea, sir," quoth the Count Bougars.

"God help me never, but I will make thy head fly from thy shoulders, if thou makest not troth," said Aucassin.

"In God's name," said he, "I make what promise thou wilt."

So they did the oath, and Aucassin let mount him on a horse, and took another and so led him back till he was all in safety.

When the Count Garin doth know That his child would ne'er forego Love of her that loved him so, Nicolete, the bright of brow, In a dungeon deep below Childe Aucassin did he throw. Even there the Childe must dwell In a dun-walled marble cell. There he waileth in his woe Crying thus as ye shall know.

"Nicolete, thou lily white, My sweet lady, bright of brow, Sweeter than the grape art thou, Sweeter than sack posset good In a cup of maple wood! Was it not but yesterday That a palmer came this way, Out of Limousin came he, And at ease he might not be, For a passion him possessed That upon his bed he lay, Lay, and tossed, and knew not rest In his pain discomforted. But thou camest by the bed, Where he tossed amid his pain, Holding high thy sweeping train, And thy kirtle of ermine, And thy smock of linen fine, Then these fair white limbs of thine, Did he look on, and it fell That the palmer straight was well, Straight was hale--and comforted, And he rose up from his bed, And went back to his own place, Sound and strong, and full of face! My sweet lady, lily white, Sweet thy footfall, sweet thine eyes, And the mirth of thy replies. Sweet thy laughter, sweet thy face, Sweet thy lips and sweet thy brow, And the touch of thine embrace. Who but doth in thee delight? I for love of thee am bound In this dungeon underground, All for loving thee must lie Here where loud on thee I cry, Here for loving thee must die For thee, my love."

Then say they, speak they, tell they the Tale: