Bothe knight and lady fre,
And herkneth to my spelle;
Of batail and of chivalry,
Of ladys love drewery,
Anoon I wol yow telle.
Men speken of romauns of pris,
Of Horn child and of Ypotis,
Of Bevys and sir Gy,
Of sir Libeaux, and Pleyndamour;
But sir Thopas bereth the flour
Of real chivalry.
His goode steede he bistrood,
And forth upon his way he glood,
As sparkeles out of the bronde;
Upon his crest he bar a tour,
And therin stiked a lily flour:
God schilde his corps fro schonde!
And for he was a knyght auntrous,
He nolde slepen in noon hous,
But liggen in his hood.
His brighte helm was his wonger,
And by him baytith his destrer
Of herbes fyne and goode.
Him self drank water of the welle,
As dede the knight sir Percivelle
So worthy under wede,
Tille it was on a daye,
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