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Updated: June 22, 2025
Young Lisaro, as on they go, his bonnet doffeth he, Between its folds a sprig it holds of a dark and glossy tree; That sprig of bay, were it away, right heavy heart had he Fair Zayda to her Zegri gave that token privily. And ever as they rode, he looked upon his lady's boon.
Four horsemen good, of the Zegri blood, with Lisaro go out; No flashing spear may tell them near, but yet their shafts are stout; In darkness and in swiftness rides every armed knight The foam on the rein ye may see it plain, but nothing else is white.
Now stoop thee, lady, from thy stand, and the ring of price bestow Upon Gazul of Algava, that hath laid Harpado low. Of all the blood of Zegri, the chief is Lisaro, To wield rejón like him is none, or javelin to throw; From the place of his dominion, he ere the dawn doth go, From Alcala de Henares, he rides in weed of woe.
"God knows," quoth he, "what fate may be I may be slaughtered soon; Thou still art mine, though scarce the sign of hope that bloomed whilere, But in my grave I yet shall have my Zayda's token dear." Young Lisaro was musing so, when onward on the path, He well could see them riding slow; then pricked he in his wrath.
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