There woned a knight, hight Cassamen, {93d}
As bold as Isenbras:
Fell was he and eager bent
In battle and in tournament
As was good Sir Topas.

He had, as antique stories tell,
A daughter cleped Dowsabell,
A maiden fair and free.
And for she was her fathers heir,
Full well she was yconned the leir {93a} {93b}
Of mickle courtesie.

The silk well couth she twist and twine,
And make the fine marche pine, {93c}
And with the needle work;
And she couth help the priest to say
His matins on a holiday,
And sing a psalm in kirk.

She ware a frock of frolic green
Might well become a maiden queen,
Which seemly was to see;
A hood to that so neat and fine,
In colour like the columbine,
Inwrought full featously.

Her features all as fresh above
As is the grass that grows by Dove,
And lithe as lass of Kent.