"Sir Knight of Tong," said she, "'tis told thou'rt of nimble tongue and a
maker of songs, so we bid thee sing if thy song be of Love--for Love is
a thing little known and seldom understood these days. Here be very many
noble knights wondrous learned in the smiting of buffets, but little else;
here be noble dames very apt at the play of eyes, the twining of fingers,
the languishment of sighs, that, seeking True-love, find but its shadow;
and here also grey beards that have forgot the very name of Love. So we bid
thee sing us of Love--True-love, what it is. Our ears attend thee!"
"Gracious lady," answered the Knight, "gladly do I obey. But Love is
mighty and I lowly, and may speak of Love but from mine own humility. And
though much might be said of Love since Love's empire is the universe and
Love immortal, yet will I strive to portray this mighty thing that is
True-love in few, poor words."
Then, plucking sweet melody from his lute, the Knight sang as here
followeth:
"What is Love? 'Tis this, I say,
Flower that springeth in a day
Ne'er to die or fade away
Since True-love dieth never.
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