Iii

Sir Gawain sprang up amid laces and curls: Kisses are not wasted pearls:- What clung in his arms? O, a maiden flower, Burning with blushes the sweet bride-bower, Beauty her dower! Breathing perfumingly; Shall I live bloomingly, Said she, by day, or the bridal hour? Thereat he clasped her, and whispered he, Thine, rare bride, the choice shall be. Said she, Twice blest is Courtesy!