A chronicle of London, from 1089 to 1483; written in the fifteenth century, and for the first time printed from mss. in the British museum: to which are added numerous contemporary illustrations, consisting of royal letters, poems, and other articles descriptive of public events, or of the manners and customs of the metropolis.

GOD that all this world gan make And dyed for us on a tre, Save Ingelond for Mary sake, Sothfast God in Trinyte; And kepe oure kyng that is so free, That is gracious and good with all, And graunt hym evermore the gree, Curteys Crist oure kynge ryall.

Oure kyng sente into France ful rathe, Hys bassatours bothe faire and free; His owne right for to have, That is, Gyan and Normande; He bad delyvre that his schulde be, All that oughte kyng Edward, Or ellys tell hym certeynle, He itt gette with dynt of swerd. Wot ye right well that thus it was, Gloria tibi Trinitas.

And than answerde the dolfyn bold To oure bassatours sone ageyn, Me thinke youre kyng he is nought old, No werrys for to maynteyn; Grete well youre kyng, he seyde, so yonge That is bothe gentill and small; A tonne of tenys ballys I shall hym sende, For to pleye hym with all. Wot ye right well, &c.

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.

To seynt Poulys he held the way; He offred there full worthyly: Fro thens to the quen that same day, And tok his leve ful hendely; And thorugh out London thanne gan he ryde; To seynt George he com in hye, And there he offred that iche tyde, And other lordys that weren hym bye. Wot ye right well, &c.

And fro thens to Suhthampton, unto that strond, For sothe he wold no longer there dwell: XV hundryd shippys redy there he fond, With riche sayles and heye topcastell. Lordys of this lond, oure kyng gan there sell, For a milion of gold as y herd say, Therfore there truayle was quyte them full well, For they wolde a mad a queynte aray. Wot ye right well, &c.

Therfore song it was wailaway; There lyvys they lost anon right in hast: And oure kyng with riall aray, To the se he past. And landyd in Normandye, at the water of Sayn, At the pyle of Ketecaus, the sothe y yow say, On oure lady even, the assumpcion, the thirdde yer of hys rayn, And boldely hys baner there he gan display. Wot ye right well, &c.

And to the town of Harflew there he tok the way, And mustred his meyne faire before the town, And many other lordys I dar well say, With baners brighte and many penoun: And there they pyght there tentys a down, That were embroudyd with armys gay; First, the kynges tente with the crown, And all othere lordes in good aray. Wot ye right well, &c.

My brother Clarence, oure kyng gan say, The tother syde shull ye kepe, With my doughter and hire maydyns gay, To wake the Frensshmen of there slepe. London he seyde shall with here mete, My gonnys shall lyn upon this grene, For they shall play with Harflete, A game at tynes as y wene. Wot ye right well, &c.

Mine engynes that bethe so kene, They shull be sett be syde this hill, Over all Harflewe that they may sene, For to loke if they play well. Go we to game be Godys grace, Myne children ben redy everych on, Every greet gonne that there was, In his mouth he hadde a ston. Wot ye right well, &c.

The Capteyn of Harflewe sone anon To oure kyng he sente on hy, To wyte what was his wille to don That he was come with his navy; Delivere me this toune, oure kyng gan say; Nay sire, he seyde, be seynt Denys; Thanne shall y it gete, if y may, Be the grace of God and myn devys. Wot ye right well, &c.

Myne pleyers that y have hedyr brought, Their ballys beth of stonys round, Be the helpe of hym that me dere bought, They shall youre wall have to ground. The Frensshmen cried 'Amound,' 'Amound;' This toun, they seyde, us moste kepe. The kyng, seith he, will nought fro this grour Or he have yolde this toun Harflete. Wot ye right well, &c.

Tenys seyde the grete gonne, How felawes go we to game, Among the houses of Harflewe roune, It dide the Frensshmen right gret grame; Fyftene before, seyd London, tho His ball wol faire he gan it throwe, That the stepyll of Harflete and bellys also, With his breth he dide down blowe. Wot ye right well, &c.

XXX^ti is myn, seyd Messagere, And smartly went his way; Ther wallys that were mad right sure, He brast them down the sothe to say. The kynges doughter, seyde here, how thei p Herkenyth myne maydenys in this tyde; Fyve and forty that is no nay, The wallys wente doun on every syde. Wot ye right well, &c.

The engynes seide, to longe we abyde, Let us gon to ben on assent; Wherevere that the ball gan glyde, The houses of Harflew they all to rent. An Englyssh man the bulwerk brent, Women cryed alas! that they were bore, The Frensshmen seide now be we shent, From us this toun now it is lore. Wot ye right well, &c.

It is best now that we therfore, That we beseche the kyng of grace, That he asayle us now no more, For to dystroye us in this place; For but the Dolfyn us reskewe, This toun to delivere wyl we sikerly, Messagers thei let make newe, And to the kyng they come in hy. Wot ye right well, &c.

The lord Gaucourt certeynly, For he was capteyn in that place, And Gilliam Bocher com hym by, And othere also bothe more and lasse; To fore the kyng whan they com was, I wot they sette them on there kne; Heil comely kyng, thei seyde, in this plas, The grace of God now is with the. Wot ye right well, &c.

Of trews we wolde beseche the, Unto it be Sounday atte non, And but it thanne reskewyd be, We shall to yow delyvere this toun: The kyng thanne seyde to them ful son I graunte you grace al this tyde, Somme of yow go forth anon, The remenaunt with me shall abyde. Wot ye right well, &c.

The capteyn hied hym with al his myght, Unto Roon for to ryde, He wende the Dolfyn have founde there right But he was goon, durst he nought abyde. Of helpe the capteyn besowte that tyde, Harflew from us is lost for ay, The wallys ben doun on every syde, We may no longere it kepe, be God verray. Wot ye right well, &c.

Of good counsaill I wolde yow pray, What is youre will what shall y don, Bataill us moste thene be Soneday, Or ellys delivere hym the toun. The lordys of Roon togydere gon rown, And bad he sholde the town up yelde, The kyng of Ingelond is fers as lyon, We wil noughte mete hym in the felde. Wot ye right well, &c.

The capteyn went agen withoute lettyng, Before the kyng on kneys gan fall, Heyl, he seyde, comely kyng, Most worthy prynce in this world riall, Here y have brought yow the keyes alle, Of Harflew that faire toun, All is youre owne both towr and halle, At your will Lord and at your croun. Wot ye right well, &c.

I thanke God, thann eseyde oure kyng, And Mary his modir that is so fre; Myn uncle Dorset withoute lettyng, Capteyn of Harflewe schall ye be. And al that is in that toun, Wot stille shall abyde, To maken up that is adoun, That hath ben fellyd on every syde. Wot ye right well, &c.

Meyne, I now shall with yow ride, To se the toun there overall, Wyff no child lett non abyde, But have them ought bothe grete and small; And let stuffe the toun overall, With Englysshmen thereinne to be. They left no Frenssh blod withinne the wall, But hadde all oute the comunalte. Wot ye right well, &c.

Four hundred women and children men myght se, Whanne they wenten out sore gon they wepe; The grete gonnes engynes to the trewle, They were brought into Harflete, Oure kyng unto the castell yede, And restyd hym there as his will was Sire, he seyde, so God me spede To Caleys warde I thenke to pas Wot ye right well that thus it was, Gloria tibi Trinitas.