Served within his sumptuous tent,
Looks the king in quiet wise,
Till this fair queen yield the prize
To the bravest; but when day
Falleth to the west away,
Unto her i’ the silent hour,
While she sits in her rose-bower.
Come,‘ O love, full oft,’ quoth she,
‘ I at dawn have prayèd thee
Thou would'st tell o’ the weird to me,
Sith I might some counsel find
Of my wit or in my mind
Thee to better.’‘ Ay, e'en so,
But the telling shall let thee know,’
Quoth the king,‘ is neither scope
For sweet counsel nor fair hope,
Nor is found for respite room,
Till the uttermost crack of doom.