* * * * *
XXVII.
Of her array the form if I shall write,
Toward her golden hair, and rich attire,
In fret-wise couched with pearlis white,
And greate balas[8] lemyng[9] as the fire;
With many an emerald and fair sapphire,
And on her head a chaplet fresh of hue,
Of plumes parted red, and white, and blue.
* * * * *
XXIX.
About her neck, white as the fair amaille,[10]
A goodly chain of small orfeverie,[11]
Whereby there hang a ruby without fail
Like to a heart yshapen verily,
That as a spark of lowe[12] so wantonly
Seemed burning upon her white throat;
Now if there was good, perdie God it wrote.
XXX.
And for to walk that freshe Maye's morrow,
A hook she had upon her tissue white,
That goodlier had not been seen toforrow,[13]
As I suppose, and girt she, was a lite[14]
Thus halfling[15] loose for haste; to such delight
It was to see her youth in goodlihead,
That for rudeness to speak thereof I dread.
XXXI.
In her was youth, beauty with humble port,
Bounty, richess, and womanly feature:
(God better wot than my pen can report)
Wisdom, largess, estate, and cunning[16] sure,
* * * * *
In word, in deed, in shape and countenance,
That nature might no more her child advance.
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