I Sir Tristram lay by a well, Making sad moan; Fast his tears tell, For wild the wood through, Stricken with shrewd Sorrow, he ran, When he deemed her untrue -- La Beale Isoud! For he loved her alone.
II So as he lay, Wasted and wan, Scarce like a man, Pricking that way His lady-love came, With her damsels around, And her face all a-flame With the breezes of May; While a brachet beside her Still bayed the fair rider, Still leaped up and bayed her; A small scenting hound That Sir Tristram purveyed her.
III So she rode on; But the brachet behind Hung snuffing the wind, Till seeking and crying Faster and faster, Beside the well lying She found her dear master! Then licking his ears And cheeks wet with tears, For joy never resting Kept whining and questing.
IV Isoud (returned Seeking her hound) Soon as she learned Tristram was found, Straightway alighting, Fell in a swound.
V Won by her lover Thence to recover, Who shall the greeting Tell of their meeting? Joy, by no tongue E'er to be sung Passed in that plighting!
VI Thus while they dallied, Forth the wood sallied An horrible libbard, and bare The brachet away to his lair!
