Embroudirid wondirly riche,
As though thei werin not iliche:
But nought will I, fo mote I thrive,
Be now aboutin to difcrive
All these armis that there yweren
That thei thus on ther cotis weren,
For to me were impoffible,
Men might make of 'hem a Bible
Full twentie fote thicke as I trowe,
For certain who so coud it knowe
Ymight there all the armis fene
Of famous folke that er had bene
In Affrike, Europe, and Afie,
Of it, and rofe, and flore withall,
Was platid halfe a fotè thicke
Of golde, and that ne was not wicke,
But for to provin in all wife
As fine as ducket in Venise,
Of whiche to lite all in my pouche is;
And thei were fet as thicke of ouchis
Fine, of the finist stonis faire
That men reden in the lapidaire,
Or as graffis growen in a mede;
But it were all to long to rede
The namis, and therefore I pace.
But in this luftie and riche place,
That Fam'is Hall ycallid was,
Full mochil pres of folke there n'as,
Ne crouding, for to mochil pres;
But all on hie above a des
Satte in a fe imperiall
That with her fete fhe th' erthe yreight,
And with her hedde fhe touchid heven,
There as fhinith the fterris feven;
And thereto yet, as to my wit,
I fawin a grete wondir yit,
Upon her eyin to beholde,
But certainly' I 'hem nevir tolde,
For as fele eyin haddin she
As fethirs upon foulis be,
Of othir thing to tellin you.
Tho fawe I ftande on th' other fide,
Streight doune unto the doris wide,
From the dees many a pillere
Of metall that fhone not full clere,
But though thei were of no richesse
Yet were thei made for grete nobleffe,
And in 'hem was there grete fentence,
And folke of hie and digne reverence,
Of which to tellin will I fonde.
Upon a pillir fawe I ftonde,
Alderfirst there I yfie,
Upon a pillir ftonde on hie,
That was of lede and iron fine,
Hym of the fectè Saturnine,
The Ebraike Jofephus the old,
That of the Jewis gestis told,
And he bare on his fhuldirs hie
All the fame up of the Juric;
And by hym ftodin othir feven,
Full wife and worthie for to neven,
To helpe hym berin up the charge,
It was fo hevie and fo large;
And for thei writtin of battailes
As well as of othir marvailes,
Therefore ywas, lo! this pillere,
Of the whiche I you tellin here,
Of lede and iron bothe iwis,
For iron Mart'is metall is,
Whiche that the god is of Battaile,
And eke the lede withoutin faile
Is, lo! the metall of Saturne,
That hath ful largè whele to turne,
To ftandin forthe on eithir rowe
Of 'hem whiche that I could yknowe,
Though I by ordir 'hem not tell,
To makin you to long to dwell.
Thefe, of the whiche I gan to rede,
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