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She turns her face; her scarce raised eyes behold The unhelm'd head shine with its curls of gold. Sir knew his rival. What! so slight, So young, would he dare cope with him in fight? Their blades flash out, but only one is red; Rolls on the ground the traitor's felon head, The dust around with his life-blood is dyed, And darts to his maiden's side. Her lip is red, her eyes with tears are dim, But she is safe, and she is saved by him.

My tale is told. May minstrel words express The light at noon, or young love's happiness? Enow, I trow, of that sweet dream can tell Without my aiding. Gentles, fare ye well.