Leaving her doth thee advance
Thy plumèd cap of maintenance.'


XIV.

'She is white, as white snow flake,'
Quoth the king; 'a man shall make
Bargains with her and not sin.'
'Ay,' she saith, 'but an he win,
Let him look the right be done
Else the rue shall be his own.


XV.

No more words. The stars are bright,
For the feast high halls be dight
Late he coucheth. Night--'t is night.

_The dead king lying in state in the Minster holy._
Fifty candles burn at his head and burn at his feet,
A crown and royal apparel upon him lorn and lowly,
And the cold hands stiff as horn by their cold palms meet.

Two days dead. Is he dead? Nay, nay--but is he living?
The weary monks have ended their chantings manifold,
The great door swings behind them, night winds entrance giving,
The candles flare and drip on him, warm and he so cold.