is like scarlét in grain, And I you tell in good certáin He had a seemly nose. His hair, his beard, was like saffroún, That to his girdle reach’d adown, His shoes of cordëwane: 3865 Of Bruges were his hosen brown; His robë was of ciclatoún, 3866 That costë many a jane. 3867 He couldë hunt at the wild deer, And ride on hawking for rivére 3868 With gray goshawk on hand: Thereto he was a good archére, Of wrestling was there none his peer, Where any ram 3869 should stand. Full many a maiden bright in bow’r They mourned for him par amour