A dien Sire, seide oure lordis alle, For there they wolde no longer lende: They token there leve, bothe grete and smalle, And hom to Ingelond they gum wende; And thanne they sette the tale on ende, All that the Dolfyn to them gon say; I schal hym thanke thanne, seyde our kynge, Be the grace of God if that y may. _Wot ye right well, &c._
The kyng of Fraunce that is so old, Onto oure kyng he sente on hy, And prayde trews that he wolde hold For the love of seynt Mary. Oure Cherlys of Fraunce gret well, or ye wende, The Dolfyn prowed withinne his wall, Swyche tenys ballys I schal hym sende As schall tere the roof all of his all. _Wot ye right well, &c._
Oure kyng ordeyned with all his myght, For to amende that is amys, And that is all for Engelond ryght, To geten agen that scholde ben his; That is, al Normandie forsothe y wys, Be right of eritage he scholde it have, Therof he seith he wyll nought mys, Crist kepe his body sounde and save. _Wot ye right well, &c._
Oure kyng at Westmenster he lay, And his bretheren everych on; And other many lordes that is no nay, The kyng to them seyde anon, To Fraunce y thenke to take the way, Sires, he seyde, be swete seynt John; Of good counsaill y will yow pray, Wat is youre will what y shall don? _Wot ye right well, &c._
The duk of Clarence, thanne seyd he, My lord it is my right full will, And other lordys right manye, We hold it right reson and skyll, To Fraunce we wolde yow redy bryng, With gladder will than we kon say. Gramercy, sires, seide our kyng, I schall yow qwyte if that y may. _Wot ye right well, &c._
I warne yow he seyde bothe olde and yonge, Make yow redy withoughte delay; At Southampton to mete youre kynge, At Lammas on seynt Petrys day; Be the grace of God ant swete Mary Over the see y thenke to passe: The kyng let ordeyn sone in hy, What y mene ye knowe the casse. _Wot ye right well, &c._
After anon, with right good chere, Hyse gret gonnys and engynes stronge, At London he schipped them alle in fere, And sone fro Westmenster then sprongye, With alle hyse lordys, sothe to saye: The mair was redy and mette hym there, With all the craftes in good araye, It is ful soth what nede to swere. _Wot ye right well, &c._
Heyl, comely kyng, the mair gan say, The grace of God now be with the, And speed the well in thy jornay, Almyghti God in Trinite, And graunt the evermore the degre, To felle thin enemys bothe nyght and day; Amen, seyde alle the comunalte, Graunt mercy, sire, oure kyng gan say. _Wot ye right well, &c._
