The Thornton romances. The early English metrical romances of Perceval, Isumbras, Eglamour, and Degrevant. Selected from manuscripts at Lincoln and Cambridge. / Ed. by James Orchard Halliwell. Halliwell-Phillipps, J. O. (James Orchard), 1820-1889, ed. 257 pages, ca. 288 kb University of Michigan Library Ann Arbor, Michigan 2018 CME00026 00587838 ACM9296 sdr-hvd001432411

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 The Thornton romances. The early English metrical romances of Perceval, Isumbras, Eglamour, and Degrevant. Selected from manuscripts at Lincoln and Cambridge. Ed. by James Orchard Halliwell. Halliwell-Phillipps, J. O. (James Orchard), 1820-1889, ed. Isumbras. Eglamour. Thornton, Robert, fl. 1440. comp. lvi, 312 p. 23 x 17 cm. London, Printed for the Camden society, by J. B. Nichols and son, 1844. "Descriptions of the Cambridge and Lincoln manuscripts": p. [xxv]-l. Mode of access: Internet.

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 English, Middle (1100-1500) Findern manuscript. Cambridge University Library. -- Manuscript. -- Ff. II. 38. Lincoln Thornton manuscript Romances, English. English poetry -- Middle English, 1100-1500 5-25-16lattajMURPAdded TEMPHEAD, checked ID, and added TYPEs to DIVs in order to validate. Checked for N=""s. Checked for GROUP tags. Proofed title page; removed a P; added FIGURE description. Checked s. Reviewed structure; changed some HEADs to OPENERs, removing DIV2s; changed folio NOTEs to MILESTONEs; changed TRAILER to L; changed HEAD to BYLINE; changed TRAILER to CLOSER; changed some Ps to TRAILERs. Checked placement and completeness of PBs. Checked for damage GAPs, #s, @s, --s, and UNCLEARs. Corrected [dollar]s. Checked for &cs with incorrect spacing. Checked for LBs. Checked for startqs and endqs, abq's, oes, qs, Ae's, and Qs. Checked proofsheets and made corrections. Checked italic I / J and U / V. Checked for missing page GAPs. Checked for EPIGRAPHs and ARGUMENTS. Checked CLOSERs, OPENERs, SIGNEDs, SALUTEs, TRAILERs, BYLINEs. Checked decorated initials. Checked FIGUREs. Sample: 2 minutes. Proofing: 0 minutes. Tag review and corrections: 50 minutes. DONE.
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The Thornton Romances.

THE EARLY ENGLISH METRICAL ROMANCES OF PERCEVAL, ISUMBRAS, EGLAMOUR, AND DEGREVANT.

SELECTED FROM MANUSCRIPTS AT LINCOLN AND CAMBRIDGE.

EDITED BY JAMES ORCHARD HALLIWELL, ESQ. F.R.S., HON. M.R.I.A., HON. M.R.S.L., F.S.A., ETC. CORRESPONDING MEMBER OF THE COMITE DES ARTS ET MONUMENTS.

Camden Society printer's device with portrait of William Camden

LONDON: PRINTED FOR THE CAMDEN SOCIETY, BY JOHN BOWYER NICHOLS AND SON, PARLIAMENT STREET.

M.DCCC.XLIV.

 THE ROMANCE OF SIR PERCEVAL OF GALLES. Here bygynnes the Romance off Syr Perecyvelle of Gales. I. Lef, lythes to me Two wordes or thre Off one that was faire and fre, And felle in his fighte; His righte name was Percyvelle, He was fosterde in the felle, He dranke water of the welle, And ȝitt was he wyghte! His fadir was a noble-mane, Fro the tyme that he begane, Miche wirchippe he wane, Whenne he was made knyghte; In kyng Arthures haulle Beste by-luffede of alle, Percyvelle thay gane hym calle, Who so redis ryghte. II. Who that righte cane rede, He was doughty of dede, A styffe body one a stede Wapynes to welde; Thare-fore kyng Arthoure Dide hym mekille honoure, He gaffe hym his syster Acheflour, To have and to holde; Fro thethyne tille his lyves ende, With brode londes to spende, For he the knyght wele kende, He bytaughte hir to welde; With grete gyftes to fulfille, He gaffe his sister hym tille, To the knyght at ther bothers wille, With robes in folde. III. He gaffe hym robes in folde, Brode londes in wolde, Mony mobles untolde, His syster to take; To the kirke the knyghte ȝode For to wedde that frely fode, For the gyftes that ware gude, And for hir ownne sake; Sythene, withowttene any bade, A grete brydale thay made, For hir sake that hym hade Chosene to hir make; And after, withowttene any lett, A grete justyng ther was sett, Off alle the kempes that he mett Wolde he none forsake. IV. Wolde he none forsake, The rede knyghte ne the blake, Ne none that wolde to hym take With schafte ne with schelde; He dose als a noble knyghte, Wele haldes that he highte, Faste preves he his myghte, Deres hym none elde. Sexty schaftes I say Syr Percyvelle brake that ilke day, And ever that riche lady lay One walle and byhelde; Thofe the rede knyghte hade sworne, Oute of his sadille is he borne, And almoste his lyfe forlorne, And lygges in the felde. V. There he lygges in the felde, Many mene one hym byhelde, Thurgh his armour and his schelde Stoneyde that tyde. That arghede alle that ther ware, Bothe the lesse and the mare, That noble Percyvelle so wele dare Syche dynttys habyde; Was ther nowthir more ne lasse Off alle those that ther was, That durste mete hym one the grasse, Agaynes hyme to ryde; Thay gaffe syr Percyvelle the gree, Beste worthy was he, And hamewardez thanne rode he, And blythe was his bryde. VI. And thofe the bryde blythe be That Percyvelle hase wone the gree, ȝete the rede knyghte es he Hurte of his honde; And therfore gyffes he a gyfte, That if he ever covere myghte, Owthir by day or by nyghte, Inne felde for to stonde, That he scholde qwyte hym that dynt, That he of his handes hynte; Salle never this travelle be tynt, Ne tolde in the londe, That Percyvelle in the felde Schulde hym schende thus undire schelde, Bot it scholde agayne be ȝolden, If that he were leveande! VII. Now than are thay leveande bathe, Was noȝte the rede knyghte so rathe For to wayte hym with skathe, Er ther the harmes felle; Ne befelle ther no stryffe, Tille Percyvelle had in his lyffe A sone by his ȝonge wyffe, Aftir hym to duelle. Whenne the childe was borne, He made calle it one the morne, Als his fadir highte byforne, ȝonge Percyvelle: The knyghte was fayne, a feste made For a knave childe that he hade, And sythene, withowttene any bade, Offe justyngez thay telle! VIII. Now of justyngez thay telle; Thay sayne that syr Percyvelle, That he wille in the felde duelle, Als he hase are done. A grete justynge was ther sett Of alle the kempes that ther mett, For he wolde his sone were gette In the same wonne; Theroff the rede knyghte was blythe, Whenne he herde of that justynge kythe, And graythed hym armours ful swythe, And rode thedir riȝte sone: Agayne Percyvelle he rade With schafte and with schelde brade, To holde his heste that he made Of maistres to mone. IX. Now of maistres to mone, Percyvelle hase wele done For the love of his ȝonge sone, One the firste day. Ere the rede knyghte was bownne, Percyvelle hase borne downne Knyght, duke, erle, and baroune, And vencusede the play! Right als he hade done this honour, So come the rede knyghte to the stowre, Bot "wo worthe wykkyde armour!" Percyvelle may say; For ther was syr Percyvelle slayne, And the rede knyghte fayne, In herte is noȝte for to layne, Whenne he went one his way! X. Whenne he went one his way, Durste ther no mane to hym say, Nowther in erneste ne in play, To byd hym habyde; For he had slayne riȝte thare The beste body at thare ware, Syr Percyvelle with woundez sare, And stonayed that tyde. And thanne thay couthe no better rede, Bot put hym in a prevee stede, Als that mene dose with the dede, In erthe for to hyde. Scho that was his lady Mighte be fulle sary, That lorne hade siche a body, Hir aylede no pryde! XI. And now is Percyvelle the wighte Slayne in batelle and in fyghte; And the lady hase gyffene a gyfte, Holde if scho may, That scho schalle nevermare wonne In stede with hir ȝonge sonne, Ther dedez of armez schalle be donne, By nyghte ne be daye; Bot in the wodde schalle he be, Salle he nothyng see Bot the leves of the tree, And the greves graye: Schalle he nowther take tent To justez ne to tournament, Bot in the wilde wodde went With bestez to playe. XII. With wilde bestez for to playe, Scho tuke hir leve and went hir waye, Bothe at barone and at raye, And went to the wodde. Byhynde scho leved boure and haulle; A maydene scho tuke hir withalle, That scho myȝte appone calle, Whenne that hir nede stode: Other gudez wolde scho nonne nayte; Bot with hir tuke a tryppe of gayte, With mylke of thame for to bayte To hir lyves fode; Off alle hir lordes faire gere Wolde scho noȝte with hir bere, Bot a lyttille Scottes spere, Agayne hir sone ȝode. XIII. And whenne hir ȝong sone ȝode, Scho bade hym walke in the wodde, Tuke hym the Scottes spere gude And gaffe hym in hande; "Swete modir," sayde he, "What manere of thyng may this bee, That ȝe nowe hafe takene mee? What calle ȝee this wande?" Thanne byspakke the lady, "Sone," scho sayde, "sekerly It es a dart doghty; In the wodde I it fande." The childe es payed of his parte, His modir hase gyffene hym that darte, Therwith made he many marte In that wodde lande. XIV. Thus he welke in the lande With hys darte in his hande; Under the wilde wodde wande He wexe and wele thrafe: He wolde schote with his spere Bestes and other gere, As many als he myghte bere; He was a gude knave! Smalle birdes wolde he slo, Hertys, hyndez also; Broghte his moder of thoo, Thurte hir none crave; So wele he lernede hym to schote, Ther was no beste that welke one fote, To fle fro hym was it no bote, Whenne that he wolde hym have. XV. Evene whenne he wolde hym have; Thus he wexe and wele thrave, And was reghte a gude knave With-in a fewe ȝere; Fyftene wynter and mare He duellede in those holtes hare, Nowther nurture ne lare Scho wolde hym none lere: Tille it byfelle on a day, The lady tille hir sone ganne say, "Swete childe, I rede thou praye To Goddez sone dere, That he wolde helpe the, Lorde, for his poustee, A gude mane for to bee, And longe to duelle here!" XVI. "Swete moder," sayde he, "Whatkyns a Godd may that be, That ȝe nowe bydd mee That I schalle to pray?" Thenne byspakke the lady evene, "It es the grete Godd of hevene, This worlde made he with-in sevene Appone the sexte d[a]y." "By grete Godd," sayde he thanne, "And I may mete with that manne, With alle the crafte that I kanne Reghte so schalle I pray!" There he levede in a tayte Bothe his modir and his gayte, The grete Godd for to layte, Fynde hyme whenne he may. XVII. And as he welke in holtes hare, He sawe a gate as it ware, With thre knyghtis mett he thare Off Arthrus inne; One was Ewayne fytz Asoure, Another was Gawayne with honour, And Kay the bolde baratour, And alle were of his kynne. In riche robes thay ryde; The chylde hadd nothyng that tyde, That he myȝte inne his bones hyde, Bot a gaytes skynne; He was burely of body and therto riȝt brade, One ayther halfe a skynne he hade, The hode was of the same made Juste to the chynne. XVIII. His hode was juste to his chynne, The flesche halfe tourned with-inne, The childes witt was fulle thynne Whenne he scholde say oughte; Thay were clothede alle in grene, Siche hade he never sene, Wele he wened that thay had bene The Godd that he soghte! He said, "Wilke of ȝow alle three May the grete Godd bee, That my moder tolde mee That alle this werlde wroghte?" Bot thanne ansuerde syr Gawayne, Faire and curtaisely agayne, "Sone, so Criste mote me sayne, For swilke are we noghte!" XIX. Thanne saide the fole one the filde, Was comene oute of the woddez wilde, To Gawayne that was meke and mylde And softe of ansuare, "I salle sal ȝow alle three, Bot ȝe smertly now telle mee Whatkyns thyngez that ȝe bee, Sene ȝe no Goddes are!" Thenne ansuerde syr Kay, "Who solde we thanne say That hade slayne us to day In this holtis hare?" At Kayes wordes wexe he tene, Bot he a grete bukke had bene, Ne hadd he stonde thame bytwene, He hade hym slayne thare! XX. Bot thanne said Gawayne to Kay, "Thi prowde wordes pares ay, I scholde wynne this childe with play, And thou wolde holde the stille." "Swete sone," thanne said he, "We are knyghtis alle thre, With kyng Arthoure duelle wee That hovyne es on hylle." Thenne said Percyvelle the lyghte, In gayte skynnes that was dyghte, "Wille kyng Arthoure make me knyghte, And I come hym tille?" Thanne saide syr Gawayne riȝte thare, "I kane gyffe the nane ansuare, Bot to the kynge I rede thou fare To wete his awenne [wille]." XXI. To wete thus the kynges wille, Thare thay hovene ȝitt stille, The childe hase takene hym tille For to wende hame. And als he welke in the wodde, He sawe a fulle faire stode Offe coltes and of meres gude, Bot never one was tame; And sone said he, "Bi seyne John, Swilke thynges as are ȝone Rade the knyghtes apone, Knewe I thaire name; Als ever mote I thryffe or thee, The moste of ȝone that I see Smertly schalle bere mee Tille I come to my dame!" XXII. He saide, "Whenne I come to my dame, And I fynde hir at hame, Scho wille telle the name Off this ilke thynge." The moste mere he thare see Smertly over-rynnes he, And saide, "Thou salle bere me To morne to the kynge." Kepes he no sadille gere, Bot stert up one the mere; Hamewarde scho gunne him bere Withowttene faylynge: The lady was never more sore bygone, Scho wiste never whare to wonne, Whenne scho wiste hir ȝonge sonne Horse hame brynge!" XXIII. Scho saw hym horse hame brynge, Scho wiste wele by that thynge That the kynde wolde oute-sprynge, For thynge that be moughte. Thanne als sone saide the lady, "That ever solde I sorowe dry For love of thi body, That I hafe dere boghte!" "Dere sone," saide scho [hym to], "Thou wirkeste th[ise]lfe mekille unroo, What wille thou with this mere do, That thou hase hame broghte?" Bot the boye was never so blythe, Als whenne he herde the name kythe Of the stode-mere stythe, Of na thyng thanne he roghte! XXIV. Now he calles hir a mere, Als his moder dide ere; He wened alle other horsez were, And hade bene callede soo. "Moder, at ȝonder hille hafe I bene, Thare hafe I thre knyghtes sene, And I hafe spokene with thame, I wene, Wordes in throo; I have highte thame alle thre Before thaire kyng for to be, Siche one schalle he make me As is one of tho!" He sware by grete Goddez myȝte, "I schalle holde that I hafe highte, Bot if the kyng make me knighte To morne I salle hym sloo!" XXV. Bot thanne by-spakke the lady, That for hir sone was sary, Hir thoghte wele that scho myȝt dy, And knelyde one hir kne; "Sone, thou has takyne thi rede To do thiselfe to the dede, In everilke a strange stede Doo als I bydde the! To morne es forthirmaste ȝole day, And thou says thou wille away To make the knyghte if thou may, Als thou tolde mee; Lyttille thou cane of nurtoure, Luke thou be of mesure Bothe in haulle and in boure, And fonde to be fre!" XXVI. Than saide the lady so brighte, "There thou meteste with a knyghte, Do thi hode off, I highte, And haylse hym in hy!" "Swete moder," sayd he thenne, "I saw never ȝit no menne; If I solde a knyghte kenne Telles me wharby." Scho schewede hym the menevaire, Scho had robes in payre, "Sone, ther thou sees this fare In thaire hodes lye." "Bi grete God," sayd he, "Where that I a knyghte see, Moder, as ȝe bidd me Righte so schalle I!" XXVII. Alle that nyȝte tille it was day The childe by the modir lay, Tille on the morne he wolde away, For thyng that myȝte betyde. Brydille hase he righte nane; Seese he no better wane, Bot a wythe hase he tane, And kenylles his stede. His moder gaffe hym a ryng, And bad he solde agayne it bryng, "Sonne, this salle be oure takynnyng, For here I salle the byde." He tase the rynge and the spere, Stirttes up appone the mere, Fro the moder that hym bere Forthe ganne he ryde! Here is a Fytt of Percyvelle of Galles. XXVIII. One his way, as he ganne ryde, He fande an haulle ther besyde, He saide, "For oghte that may betyde, Thedir inne wille I." He went inne withowttene lett, He fande a brade borde sett, A bryghte fire wele bett Brynnande therby; A mawnger ther he fande, Corne therin lyggande, Therto his mere he bande With the withy. He saide, "My modir bad me That I solde of mesure bee, Halfe that I here see Stylle salle it ly." XXIX. The corne he pertis in two, Gaffe his mere the tone of thoo, And to the borde ganne he goo Certayne that tyde. He fande a lofe of brede fyne, And a pychere with wyne, A mese of the kechyne, A knyfe ther besyde; The mete ther that he fande He dalte it evene with his hande, Lefte the halfe lyggande A felawe to byde! The tother halfe ete he; How myȝte he more of mesure be? Faste he fonded to be free, Thofe he were of no pryde. XXX. Thofe he were of no pryde, Forthirmore ganne he glyde Tille a chambir ther besyde, Moo sellys to see; Riche clothes fande he sprede, A lady slepande on a bedde, He said, "Forsothe, a tokyne to wedde Salle thou lefe with mee." Ther he kyste that swete thynge, Of hir fynger he tuke a rynge, His awenne modir takynnynge He lefte with that fre. He went forthe to his mere, Tuke with hym his schorte spere, Lepe one lofte as he was ere, His way rydes he. XXXI. Now on his way rydes he, Moo selles to see; A knyghte wolde he nedis bee Withowttene any bade. He come ther the kyng was Servede of the firste mese, To hym was the maste has That the childe hade; And thare made he no lett At ȝate, dore ne wykett, Bot in graythely he gett, Syche maistres he made! At his first in comynge, His mere withowttene faylynge Kyste the forhevede of the kynge, So nerehande he rade! XXXII. The kyng had ferly thaa, And up his hande ganne he taa, And putt it forthir hym fraa The mouthe of the mere. He saide, "Faire childe and free, Stonde stille besyde mee, And telle me wythene that thou bee, And what thou wille here." Thanne saide the fole of the filde, "I ame myne awnne modirs childe Comene fro the woddez wylde Tille Arthure the dere; ȝisterday saw I knyghtis three, Siche one salle thou make mee On this mere by-for the, Thi mete or thou schere!" XXXIII. Bot thanne spak syr Gawayne, Was the kynges trenchepayne, Said, "Forsothe, is noȝte to layne, I ame one of thaa; Childe, hafe thou my blyssyng For thi feres folowynge, Here hase thou fondene the kynge, That kane the knyghte maa!" Thanne sayde Percyvelle the free, "And this Arthure the kyng bee, Luke he a knyghte make mee, I rede at it be swaa!" Thofe he unborely were dyghte, He sware by mekille Goddes myȝte, "Bot if the kyng make me knyghte, I salle hym here slaa!" XXXIV. Alle that ther werene, olde and ȝynge, Haddene ferly of the kyng, That he wolde suffre siche a thyng Of that foulle wyghte. On horse hovande hym by, The kyng byholdez hym one hy; Thanne wexe he sone sory, Whenne he sawe that syghte! The teres oute of his eghne glade, Never one another habade, "Allas!" he sayde, "that I was made Be day or by nyghte! One lyve I scholde after hym bee, That methynke lyke the, Thou arte so semely to see, And thou were wele dighte!" XXXV. He saide, "and thou were wele dighte, Thou were lyke to a knyghte That I lovede with alle my myghte, Whilles he was one lyve; So wele wroghte he my wille In alle manere of skille, I gaffe my syster hym tille For to be his wyfe; He es moste in my mane, Fiftene ȝere es it gane Sene a theffe hade hym slane Abowte a littille stryffe! Sythene hafe I ever bene his fo, For to wayte hym with wo, Bot I myȝte hym never slo, His craftes are so ryfe!" XXXVI. He sayse, "his craftes are so ryfe, Ther is no mane apone lyfe, With swerde, spere, ne with knyfe, May stroye hym allane, But if it were syr Percyvelle sone; Who so wiste where he ware done, The bokes says that he mone Venge his fader bane." The childe thoghte he longe bade That he ne ware a knyghte made, For he wiste never that he hade A fader to be slayne; The lesse was his menynge, He saide sone to the kynge, "Syr, late be thi jangleynge, Of this kepe I nane!" XXXVII. He sais, "I kepe not to stande With thi jangleyns to lange, Make me knyghte with thi hande, If it salle be donne!" Thanne the kyng hym hendly highte That he schold dub hym to knyghte, With thi that he wolde doune lyghte And ete with hym at none. The kyng biholdez the vesage free, And evermore trowed hee That the childe scholde bee Syr Percyvelle sonne: It ranne in the kynges mode, His syster Acheflour the gude, How scho went in to the wodde With hym for to wonne. XXXVIII. The childe hadde wonnede in the wodde, He knewe nother evylle ne gude, The kynge hym-selfe understode He was a wilde manne; So faire he spakke hym withalle, He lyghtes doune in the haulle, Bonde his mere amonge thame alle, And to the borde wanne! Bot are he myghte bygynne To the mete for to wynne, So commes the rede knyghte inne Emangez thame righte thanne, Prekande one a rede stede, Blode rede was his wede, He made thame gammene fulle gnede, With craftez that he canne. XXXIX. With his craftez ganne he calle, And callede thame recrayhandes alle, Kynge, knyghtes in-with walle, At the bordes ther thay bade; Fulle felly the coupe he fett Before the kynge that was sett, Ther was no mane that durste hym lett, Thofe that he ware fadde. The couppe was filled fulle of wyne, He dranke of that that was ther-inne: Alle of rede golde fyne Was the couppe made; He tuke it up in his hande The coupe that he there fande, And lefte thame alle sittande, And fro thame he rade! XL. Now fro thame he rade, Als he says that this made; The sorowe that the kynge hade Mighte no tonge telle. "A! dere God," said the kyng thanne, "That alle this wyde werlde wanne, Whethir I salle ever hafe that manne May make ȝone fende duelle; Fyve ȝeres hase he thus gane, And my coupes fro me tane, And my gude knyghte slayne, Mene calde syr Percyvelle; Sythene takene hase he three, And ay awaye wille he bee, Or I may harnayse me In felde hym to felle!" XLI. "Petir!" quod Percyvelle the ȝynge, "Hym thanne wille [I] downe dynge, And the coupe agayne brynge, And thou wille make me knyghte." "Als I am trewe kyng," said he, "A knyghte salle I make the, For-thi thou wille brynge mee The coupe of golde bryghte!" Up ryses syr Arthoure, Went to a chamboure To feche doune armoure The childe in to dyghte; Bot are it was doune caste, Ere was Percyvelle paste, And on his way folowed faste That he solde with fyghte. XLII. With his foo for to fighte; None other gates was he dighte Bot in thre gayt skynnes, righte A fole als he ware; He cryed, "How, mane, on thi mere, Bryng agayne the kynges gere, Or with my dart I salle the fere, And make the unfere!" And after the rede knyghte he rade Baldely, withowttene bade, Sayd, "A knyght I salle be made For some of thi gere!" He sware by mekille Goddez payne, "Bot if thou brynge the coupe agayne, With my dart thou salle be slayne, And slongene of thi mere." The knyghte byhaldez hym in throo, Calde hym fole that was hys foo, For he named hyme soo The stede that hym bere; XLIII. And for to see hyme with syghte, He putt his umbrere on highte, To byhalde how he was dyghte That so tille hym spake; He sayde, "Come I to the, appert fole, I salle caste the in the pole, For alle the heghe days of ȝole, Als ane olde sakke!" Thanne sayd Percyvelle the free, "Be I fole or whatte I bee, Now sone of that salle wee see Whose browes schalle blakke!" Of schottyng was the childe slee, At the knyghte lete he flee, Smote hym in at the eghe And oute at the nakke. XLIV. For the dynt that he tuke, Oute of sadille he schoke, Who so the sothe wille luke, And ther was he slayne. He falles downe one the hille, His stede rynnes whare he wille: Thanne saide Percyvelle hyme tille, "Thou art a lethir swayne!" Then saide the childe in that tyde, "And thou woldeste me here byde, After thi mere scholde I ryde, And brynge hir agayne. Thenne myȝte we bothe with myȝte Menskfully togedir fyghte, Ayther of us as he were a knyghte, Tille tyme the tone ware slayne." XLV. Now es the rede knyghte slayne, Lefte dede in the playne, The childe gone his mere mayne After the stede; The stede was swifter than the mere, For he hade no-thynge to bere But his sadille and his gere, Fro hym thofe he ȝede. The mere was bagged with fole, And hir-selfe a grete bole, For to rynne scho myȝte not thole Ne folowe hym no spede; The childe saw that it was soo, And tille his fete he ganne hym too, The gates that he scholde goo Made he fulle gnede. XLVI. The gates made he fulle gnede, In the waye ther he ȝede, With strenght tuke he the stede And broghte to the knyghte; "Methynke," he sayde, "thou art fele, That thou ne wille away stele, Now I houppe that thou wille dele Strokes appone hyghte! I hafe broghte to the thi mere, And mekille of thyne other gere, Lepe on hir as thou was ere, And thou wille more fighte!" The knyghte lay stille in the stede, What sulde he say whenne he was dede? The childe couthe no better rede, But downe gunne he lyghte. XLVII. Now es Percyvelle lyghte To unspoyle the rede knyghte, Bot he ne couthe never fynd righte The lacynge of his wede; He was armede so wele In gude iryne and in stele, He couthe not gett of a dele For nonkyns nede. He sayd, "My moder bad me, Whenne my dart solde brokene be, Owte of the irene brenne the tree, Now es me fyre gnede!" Now he getis hym flynt, His fyre-irene he hent, And thenne withowttene any stynt He kyndilt a glede. XLVIII. Now he kyndils a glede, Amonge the buskes he ȝede, And gedirs fulle gude spede Wodde a fyre to make; A grete fyre made he thanne, The rede knyghte in to brenne, For he ne couthe nott kenne His gere off to take. Be thanne was syr Gawayne dyght, Folowede after the fyghte Betwene hym and the rede knyghte, For the childes sake. He fande the rede knyght lyggand, Slayne of Percyvelle hande, Besyde a fyre brynnande Off byrke and of akke. XLIX. Ther brent of birke and of ake Gret brandes and blake,— "What wylt thou with this fyre make?" Sayd Gawayne hym tille; "Peter!" quod Percyvelle thenne, "And I myghte hym thus kenne, Out of his irene I wolde hym brenne Righte here on this hille." Bot thenne sayd syr Gawayne, "The rede knyghte for thou has slayne, I salle unarme hym agayne, And thou wille holde the stille!" Thanne syr Gawayne doun lyghte, Unlacede the rede knyghte, The childe in his armour dight At his awnne wille! L. Whenne he was dighte in his atire, He tase the knyghte bi the swire, Keste hym reghte in the fyre The brandes to balde: Bot thenne said Percyvelle one bost, "Ly stille therin now and roste, I kepe nothynge of thi coste Ne noghte of thi spalde." The knyghte lygges ther on brede, The childe es dighte in his wede, And lepe up apone his stede, Als hym-selfe wolde. He luked doune to his fete, Saw his gere faire and mete, "For a knyghte I may be lete, And myghte be calde." LI. Thenne sayd syr Gawayne hym tille, "Goo we faste fro this hille, Thou hase done what thou wille, It neghes nere nyghte!" "What! trowesthou," quod Percyvelle theȝynge, "That I wille agayne brynge Untille Arthoure the kynge The golde that es bryghte? Nay, so mote I thryfe or thee, I ame als grete a lorde als he, To day ne schalle he make me None other gates knyghte! Take the coupe in thy hande, And mak thiselfe the presande, For I wille forthire in-to the lande Are I doune lyghte!" LII. Nowther wolde he doune lyghte, Ne he wolde wende with the knyght, Bot rydes forthe alle the nyghte, So prowde was he thanne! Tille one the morne at forthe dayes, He mett a wyche, as mene says; His horse and his harnays Couthe scho wele kenne. Scho wende that it hade bene The rede knyghte that scho hade sene, Was wount in those armes to bene To gerre the stede rynne. In haste scho come hym agayne, Sayde, "It is not to layne, Mene tolde me that thou was slayne With Arthours mene! LIII. "Ther come one of my mene, Tille ȝonder hille he gane me kenne, There thou sees the fyre brene, And sayde that thou was thare." Ever satt Percyvelle stone stille, And spakke nothynge hir tille, Tille scho hade sayde alle hir wille, And spakke lesse ne mare. "At ȝondere hille hafe I bene, Nothynge hafe I there sene Bot gayte skynnes I wene, Siche ille farande fare." "Mi sone, and thou ware thare slayne, And thyne armes of drawene, I couthe hele the agayne Als wele als thou was are!" LIV. Than wist Percyvelle by thatt, It servede hym of somwhatt The wylde fyre that he gatt, Whenne the knyghte was slayne; And righte so wolde he thare That the olde wiche ware, Oppone his spere he hir bare To the fyre agayne; In ille wrethe and in grete He keste the wiche in the hete, He sayde, "Ly stille and swete Bi thi sone, that lyther swayne!" Thus he leves thayme twoo, And one his gates gane he goo; Siche dedis to do moo Was the childe fayne. LV. Als he come by a wodd syde, He sawe tene mene ryde, He said, "For oughte that may betyde, To thame wille I me." Whenne those tene saw hym thare, Thay wende the rede knyghte it ware, That wolde thame alle for-fare, And faste gane thay flee; For he was so gates cledde, Alle belyffe fro hym thay fledde, And ever the faster that thay spedde The swiftlyere sewed hee, Tille he was warre of a knyghte, And of the menevaire he had syght, He put up his umbrere one hight, And said, "Syr, God luke thee!" LVI. The childe sayde, "God luke the!" The knyght said, "Now wele the be! A! lorde Godd, now wele is mee, That ever was I made!" For by the vesage hym thoghte The rede knyȝte was it noȝte, That hade theme alle by-soughte, And baldely he bade; It semede wele bi the syghte That he had slayne the rede knyȝt, In his armes was he dighte And one his stede rade. Sone sayde the knyghte tho, And thankede the childe fulle thro, "Thou hase slayne the moste foo That ever ȝitt I hade!" LVII. Thenne sayde Percyvelle the free, "Wherefore fledde ȝee Lange are, whenne ȝe sawe mee Come rydande ȝow by?" Bot thanne spake the olde knyghte, That was paste out of myghte With any mane for to fyghte, He ansuerde in hy; He sayde, "Theis childrene nyne, Alle are thay sonnes myne, For ferde or I solde thame tyne, Therfore fledd I. We wende wele that it had bene The rede knyȝte that we hade sene; He walde hafe slayne us by-dene With-owttene mercy. LVIII. "Withowttene any mercy He wolde hafe slayne us in hy; To my sonnes he hade envy Moste of any menne. Fiftene ȝeres es it gane Syne he my brodire hade slane, Now hadde the theefe undirtane To sla us alle thenne; He was ferde lesse my sonnes sold hym slo, Whenne thay ware eldare and moo, And that thay solde take hym for thaire foo, Where thay myȝte hym kenne; Hade I bene in the stede Ther he was done to the dede, I solde never hafe etyne brede Are I hade sene hym brenne!" LIX. "Petir!" quod Percyvelle, "he es brende, I haffe spedde better thanne I wend." Ever at the laste ende The blythere wexe the knyghte! By his haulle thaire gates felle, And ȝerne he prayed Percyvelle That he solde ther with hym duelle, And be ther alle that nyghte. Fulle wele he couthe a geste calle, He broghte the childe in-to the haulle, So faire he spake hym with-alle That he es doune lyghte; His stede es in stable sett, And hymselfe to the haulle fett, And thanne, withowttene any lett, To the mette thay thame dighte. LX. Mete and drynke was ther dighte, And mene to serve thame fulle ryghte, The childe that come with the knyghte Enoghe ther he fande; At the mete as thay beste satte, Come the portere fro the ȝate, Saide a mane was theratte Of the Maydene-lande; Saide, "Syr, he prayes the Off mete and drynke for charyté, For a messagere es he, And may nott lange stande." The knyght badde late hym inne, For he sayde, "It es no synne, The mane that may the mete wynne To gyffe the travellande." LXI. Now the travellande mane The portere lete in thane, He haylsede the knyghte as he cane, Als he satt on dese; The knyghte askede hym thare, Whase mane that he ware, And how ferre that he walde so fare, Withowttene any lese. He saide, "I come fro the lady Lufamour, That sendes me to kyng Arthoure, And prayes hym, for his honoure, Hir sorowes for to sesse; Up-resyne es a sowdane, Alle hir landes hase he tane, So by-seges he that womane That scho may hafe no pese." LXII. He sayse that scho may have no pese, "The lady, for hir fayrenes, And for hir mekille reches, He wirkes hir fulle woo; He dose hir sorow alle hir sythe, And alle he slaes doune rythe; He wolde have hir to wyfe, And scho wille noȝte soo. Now hase that ilke sowdane Hir fadir and hir eme slane, And hir brethir ilkane, And is hir moste foo; So nere he hase hir now soughte, That tille a castelle es scho broghte, And fro the walles wille he noghte Ere that he may hir too. LXIII. "The sowdane sayse he wille her ta; The lady wille hir-selfe sla, Are he that es hir maste fa Solde wedde hir to wyfe! Now es the sowdane so wyghte, Alle he slaes doune ryghte, Ther may no mane with hym fyghte, Bot he were kempe ryfe." Thane sayde Percyvelle, "I the praye That thou wolde teche me the waye Thedir als the gates laye, Withowttene any stryfe; Mighte I mete with that sowdane, That so dose to that womane, Al-sone he solde be slane, And I myȝte hafe the lyfe!" LXIV. The messangere prayed hym mare That he wolde duelle stille thare, "For I wille to the kynge fare Myne erandez for to say." "For thenne mekille sorowe me betyde, And I lenger here habyde, Bot ryghte now wille I ryde Als so faste als I may!" [T]he knyghte herde hym say so, ȝerne he prayes hyme to-too His nyne sonnes with hym to goo; He nykkes hyme with nay. Bot so faire spekes he, That he takes of thame three In his felawchipe to be, The blythere were thay! LXV. Thay ware blythe of ther bade, Busked thame and forthe rade, Mekille myrthes thay made, Bot lyttille it amende; He was paste bot a while The montenance of a myle, He was by-thoghte of a gyle, Wele werse thane thay wende. Thofe thay ware of thaire fare fayne, Forthwarde was thaire cheftayne; Ever he sende one agayne At ilke a myle ende, Untille thay ware alle gane; Thane he rydes hym allane, Als he ware sprongene of a stane, Thare na mane hym kende. LXVI. For he walde none sold hym kene, Forthe rydez he thenne, Amangez uncouthe mene His maystrés to make. Now hase Percyvelle in throo Spokene with his emes twoo, Bot never one of thoo Took his knawlage: Now in his way es he sett, That may hym lede, withowttene lett, Thare he and the sowdane salle mete, His browes to blake. Late we Percyvelle the ȝynge Fare in Goddes blessynge, And untille Arthoure the kynge Wille we agayne take. LXVII. The gates agayne we wille tane, The kyng to Carebedd es gane, For mournynge es his maste mane, He syghes fulle sore. His wo es wansome to wreke, His hert es bownne for to breke, For he wend never to speke With Percyvelle no more. Als he was layde for to ly, Come the messangere on hy With lettres fro the lady, And schewes thame righte thare. A fote myȝte the kyng noȝt stande, Bot rede thame thare lyggande, And sayde, "Of thyne erande Thou hase thyne answare." LXVIII. He sayde, "thou wote thyne ansuare, The mane that es seke and sare, He may fulle ille ferre fare In felde for to fyghte." The messangere made his mone, Saide, "Wo worthe wikkede wone! Why ne hade I tournede and gone Agayne with the knyghte?" "What knyghte es that," said the kyng, "That thou mase of thy menynge? In my londe wot I no lordyng Es worthy to be a knyghte." The messangere ansuerd agayne, "Wete ȝe his name es for to layne, The whethir I wolde hafe wetene fayne What the childe highte. LXIX. "Thus mekille gatt I of that knyght, His dame sonne he said he hight; One what maner that he was dight Now I salle ȝow telle: He was wighte and worthly, His body bolde and borely, His armour bryghte and blody, Hade bene late in batelle: Blode rede was his stede, His aktone and his other wede, His cote of the same hede, That tille a knyghte felle." Thane comanded the kyng Horse and armes for to brynge,— "If I kane trow thi talkynge, That ilke was Percyvelle!" LXX. For the luffe of Percyvelle To horse and armes thay felle, Thay wolde no lengare ther duelle, To fare ware they fayne; Faste forthe gane thay fare, Thay were aferde fulle sare, Ere thay come whare he ware The childe wolde be slayne. The kyng tase with hym knyghtis thre, The ferthe wolde hym-selfe be; Now so faste rydes hee, May folowe hym no swayne. The kyng es now in his waye, Lete hym come whenne he maye, And I wille forthir in my playe To Percyvelle agayne. LXXI. Go we to Percyvelle agayne. The childe paste oute on the playne, Over more and mountayne, To the Maydene-lande; Tille agayne the evene tyde, Bolde bodys sawe he byde, Pavelouns mekille and unryde Aboute a cyté stonde; On-huntyng was the sowdane, He lefte mene many ane, Twenty score that wele kane, Be the ȝates ȝemande; And ellevene score one the nyghte, And tene one the daye lighte, Wele armyde at alle righte, With wapyns in hande. LXXII. With thaire wapyns in thaire hande, There wille thay fight ther thay stande, Sittande and lyggande Ellevene score of mene. In he rydes one a rase, Or that he wiste where he was, In-to the thikkeste of the prese Amanges thame thanne; And up stirt one that was bolde, By-gane his brydille to holde, And askede whedire that he wolde Make his horse to rynne. He said, "I ame hedir come For to see a sowdane; In faythe righte sone he salle be slane, And I myghte hym kene! LXXIII. "If I hym oghte kene may, To morne, whenne it es lighte daye, Then salle we togedir playe With wapyns unryde." They herde that he had undirtane For to sle thaire sowdane; Thay felle aboute hym everilkane To make that bolde habyde. The childe sawe that he was fade, The body that his bridille hade, Evene over hym he rade In gate there bisyde: He stayred about hym with his spere, Many thurgh gane he bere; Ther was none that myȝt hym dere Percevelle that tyde. LXXIV. Tide in townne who wille telle, Folkes undir his fete felle, The bolde body Percevelle He sped thame to spille; Hym thoghte no spede at his spere, Many thurgh gane he bere, Fonde folke in the here Feghtyng to fille; Fro that it was mydnyghte Tille it was evene at daye lighte, Were thay never so wilde ne wighte, He wroghte at his wille. Thus he dalt with his brande, There was none that myght hym stande Halfe a dynt of his hande, That he stroke tille! LXXV. Now he strykes for the nonys, Made the Sarazenes hede bones Hoppe, als dose hayle stones, Abowtte one the gres; Thus he dalt thame on rawe Tille the daye gunne dawe, He layd thaire lyves fulle law, Als many als there was. Whenne he hade slayne so many mene, He was so wery by thenne, I telle ȝow for certene He roghte wele the lesse Awther of lyfe or of dede, To-medis that he were in a stede, Thar he myghte riste hym in thede A stownde in sekirnes! LXXVI. Now fonde he no sekirnes, Bot under the walle ther he was A faire place he hym chese, And downe there he lighte. He laide hym doune in that tyde, His stede stode hym besyde, The fole was fayne for to byde, Was wery for the fyght. Tille one the morne that it was day, The wayte appone the walle lay, He sawe an uggly play In the place dighte: ȝitt was ther more ferly, Ther was no qwyk manne left therby; Thay called up the lady For to see that sighte. LXXVII. Now commes the lady to that sight, The lady Lufamour the brighte, Scho clambe up to the walle one hight Fulle faste to beholde; Hedes and helmys ther was, I telle ȝow withowttene lese, Many layde one the gresse, And many schelde brode; Grete ferly thaym thoghte Who that wondir had wroghte, That had thame to dede broghte, That folke in the felde: And wold come none innermare, For to kythe what he ware, And wist the lady was thare Thaire warysonne to ȝelde. LXXVIII. Scho wold thaire warysone ȝelde; Fulle faste forthe thay bihelde, If thay myghte fynde in the felde Who hade done that dede: Thay luked undir thair hande, Sawe a mekille horse stande, A blody knyghte liggande By a rede stede. Then said the lady so brighte, "ȝondir ligges a knyghte That hase bene in the fighte, If I kane righte rede; Owthir es ȝone mane slane, Or he slepis hym allane, Or he in batelle es tane, For blody are his wede!" LXXIX. Scho says, "Blody are his wede, And so es his riche stede, Siche a knyght in this thede Saw I never nane; What so he es and he maye ryse, He es large there he lyse, And wele made in alle wyse, Ther als mane salle be tane." Scho calde appone hir chaymbirlayne, Was called hende Hatlayne, The curtasye of Wawayne He weldis in wane; Scho badd hym wende and see, "ȝif yone mane one lyfe be, Bid hym com and speke with me, And pray hym als thou kane." LXXX. Now to pray hym als he kane Undir the wallis he wane, Warly wakend he that mane, The horse stode stille; Als it was tolde un-to me, He knelid downe one his kne, Hendely hailsed he that fre, And sone said hym tille,— "My lady, lele Lufamour, Habyddis the in hir chambour, Prayes the for thyne honour To come, ȝyf ȝe wille." So kyndly takes he that kyth, That up he rose and went hym wyth, The mane that was of myche pyth, Hir prayer to fulfille. LXXXI. Now hir prayer to fulfille He folowed the gentilmans wille, And so he went hir untille, Forthe to that lady. Fulle blythe was that birde brighte, Whenne scho sawe hym with syghte, For scho trowed that he was wighte, And askede hym in hy; At that fre gan scho frayne, Thoghe he were lefe for to layne, If he wiste who had thame slayne Thase folkes of envy. He sayd, "I soghte none of tho, I come the sowdane to slo, And thay ne wolde noghte late me go; Thaire lyfes there refte I!" LXXXII. He sayd, "Belyfe thay solde aby!" And Lufamour, that lele lady, Wist fulle wele ther-by The childe was fulle wighte. The birde was blythe of that bade, That scho siche an helpe hade, Agayne the sowdane was fade With alle for to fighte. Faste the lady hym byhelde, Scho thoght hym worthi to welde, And he myghte wyne hir in felde With maystry and myghte. His stede thay in stabille set, And hymselfe to haulle was fet, And than, with-owttene any let, To dyne gunne thay dighte. LXXXIII. The childe was sett one the dese, And served with reches, I telle ȝow with-owttene lese, That gaynely was get; In a chayere of golde, Bi-fore the fayrest to byholde, The myldeste maydene one molde, At mete als scho satt; Scho made hym semblande so gude, Als thay felle to thaire fude, The maydene mengede his mode With myrthes at the mete: That for hir sake righte tha, Sone he gane undir-ta The sory sowdane to sla, Withowttene any lett. LXXXIV. He sayd, "Withowttene any lett, When the sowdane and I bene mett, A sadde stroke I salle one hym sett His pride for to spylle!" Then said the lady so free, "Who that may his bon be, Salle hafe this kyngdome and me, To welde at his wille!" He ne hade dyned bot smalle, Whenne worde come in-to the haulle, That many mene with-alle Were hernyste one the hille; For tene thaire felawes were slayne, The cité hafe thay nere tane; The mene that were with-in the wane, The comone belle gunne knylle. LXXXV. Now knyllyne thay the comone belle. Worde come to Percevelle, And he wold there no lengere duelle, Bot lepe fro the dese; Siche wilde gerys hade he mo, Sayd, "Kinsmene, now I go, For alle ȝone salle I slo Longe are I sese!" Scho kiste hym withowttene lett, The helme one his hede scho sett; To the stabille fulle sone he gett, There his stede was. There were none with hym to fare; For no mane thenne wolde he spare, Rydis furthe withowttene mare Tille he come to the prese. LXXXVI. Whenne he come to the prese, He rydes inne one a rese, The folkes that by-fore hym was Thaire strenght hade thay tone: To kepe hym thane were thay ware, Thaire dynttis deris hym no mare, Thenne who so hade strekyne sare One a harde stone: Were thay wighte, were thay woke, Alle that he tille stroke, He made thaire bodies to roke, Was ther no better wone. I wote he sped hym so sone, That day by heghe none With alle that folke hade he done, One lefe lefte noghte one! LXXXVII. Whenne he had slayne alle tho, He loked forthir hyme fro, If he myghte fynde any mo With hym for to fyghte: And als that hardy bihelde, He sese ferre in the felde Fowre knyghtis undir schelde Come rydand fulle righte. One was kyng Arthour, Anothir Ewayne the floure, The thirde Wawayne with honoure, And Kay the kene knyghte. Percevelle saide withowttene mare, "To ȝondir foure wille I fare, And if the sowdane be thare, I salle holde that I highte!" LXXXVIII. Now to holde that he hase highte, Agaynes thayme he rydis righte, And ay lay the lady brighte One the walle, and byhelde How many mene that he had slane, And sythene gane his stede mayne Foure kempys agayne, Forthir in the felde. Then was the lady fulle wo, Whenne scho sawe hym go Agaynes foure knyghtys tho, With schafte and with schelde. They were so mekyl and unryde, That wele wende scho that tyde, With bale thay solde gare hym byde, That was hir beste belde. LXXXIX. Thofe he were beste of hir belde, As that lady byhelde, He rydes forthe in the felde Evene thame agayne. Then sayd Arthoure the kyng, "I se a bolde knyghte owt spryng, For to seke feghtyng Forthe wille he frayne; If he fare forthe to fighte, And we foure kempys agayne one knyght, Littille menske wold to us lighte, If he were sone slayne." They fore forthward right faste, And sone kevelles did thay caste, And evyr felle it to frayste Untille syr Wawayne. XC. Whenne it felle to syr Wawayne To ryde Percevelle agayne, Of that fare was he fayne, And fro thame he rade; Ever the nerre hym he drewe, Wele the better he hym knewe Horse and hernays of hewe, That the childe hade. "A! dere God," said Wawayne the fre, "How gates may this be, If I sle hym, or he me, That never ȝit was fade? And we are sister sones two, And aythir of us othir slo, He that lifes wille be fulle wo That ever was he made!" XCI. Now no maistrys he made, Syr Wawayne there als he rade, Bot hovyde stylle and habade, His concelle to ta. "Ane unwyse mane," he sayd, "am I, That puttis myselfe to siche a foly, Es there no mane so hardy That ne anothir es alswa? Thogfe Percevelle hase slayne the rede knyght, ȝitt may another be als wyghte, And in that gere be dyghte, And takene alle hym fra! If I suffire my sister sone, And anothir in his gere be done, And gete the maystry me appone, That wolde do me wa! XCII. "It wolde wirke me fulle wa, So mote I one erthe ga, It ne salle noghte be-tyde me swa, If I may righte rede; A schafte salle I one hym sett, And I salle fonde firste to hitt; Thenne salle I kene be my witt Who weldys that wede." No more carpys he that tyde, Bot sone to-gedyr gone thay ryde, Mene that bolde were to byde, And styff appone stede; Thaire horse were stallworthe and strange, Thair scheldis were un-failande, Thaire speris brake to thaire hande, Als thame byhoved nede. XCIII. Now es brokene that are were hale, And thane by-gane Percevale For to telle one a tale, That one his tonge laye. He sayde, "Wyde whare hafe I gane, Siche anothir sowdane In faythe sawe I never nane, By nyghte ne by daye! I hafe slayne, and I the kene, Twenty score of thi mene, And of alle that I slewe thenne, Me-thoghte it bot a playe; Agayne that dynt that I hafe tane, For siche one aughte I never nane, Bot I qwyte two for ane, Forsothe and I maye!" XCIV. Then spake syr Wawayne, Certanely is noghte to layne, Of that fare was he fayne, In felde there thay fighte; By the wordis so wylde At the fole one the felde, He wiste wele it was the childe, Percevelle the wighte! He sayse, "I ame no sowdane, Bot I am that ilke mane, That thi body bygane In armours to dighte; I giffe the prise to thi pyth, Unkyndely talked thou me with, My name es Wawayne in kythe, Who so redys righte." XCV. He sayse, "Who that wille rede the aryghte, My name es Wawayne the knyghte." And than thay sessene of thaire fighte, Als gude frendes scholde. He sayse, "Thynkes thou noghte whenne That thou woldes the knyghte brene, For thou ne couthe noghte kene To spoyle hym alle colde." Bot thenne was Percevelle the free Als blythe als he myghte be, For thenne wiste he wele that it was he, By takens that he tolde. He dide thenne, als he gane hym lere, Putt up hys umbrere, And kyste togedir with gud chere Those beryns so bolde. XCVI. Now kissede the beryns so bolde, Sythene talkede what thay wolde; Be thenne come Arthour the bolde, That there was knyghte and kyng, Als his cosyns hadd donne, Thankede God also sone, Off mekille myrthis thay mone At thaire metyng. Sythene, withowttene any bade, To the castelle thay rade With the childe that thay hade, Percevelle the ȝynge. The portere was redy thare, Lete the knyghtis in fare, A blythere lady thane . . . . XCVII. "Mi grete socour at thou here sende, Off my castelle me to diffende, Agayne the sowdane to wende, That es my moste foo." Theire stedis thay sett in the stalle; The kyng wendis to haulle, His knyghtis ȝode hym with-alle, Als kynde was to go: Thaire metis was redy, And ther-to went thay in hy, The kyng and the lady, And knyghtis also. XCVIII. Wele welcomed scho the geste With riche metis of the beste, Drynkes of the derreste Dightede by-dene, Thay ete and dranke what thay wolde; Sythene talked and tolde Off othir estres fulle olde, The kyng and the qwene. At the firste by-gynnyng, Scho frayned Arthour the kyng Of childe Percevelle the ȝyng, What life he had in bene? Grete wondir had Lufamour He was so styffe in stour, And couthe so littille of nurtour, Als scho had there sene. XCIX. Scho had sene with the childe Nothyng bot werkes wylde, Thoghte grete ferly one filde Of that foly fare. Then said Arthour the kyng Of bold Percevelle techyng, Fro the firste bygynnyng, [Ti]lle that he come thare. [Whenne that] his fadir was slayne, [Thenne his modi]r to the wode gane, . . . . . here hir allane, [In the holtis hare] Fully feftene ȝere To play hym with the wilde dere, Littille wonder it were Wilde if he ware!" C. When he had tolde this tale To that semely in sale, He hade wordis at wale To thame ilkane. The[n] said Percevelle the wighte, "ȝif I be noghte ȝitt knyghte, Thou salle halde that thou highte For to make me ane." Than saide the kyng fulle sone, "Ther salle other dedis be done, And thou salle wynne thi schone Appone the sowdane." Then said Percevelle the fre, "Als sone als I the sowdane see, Righte so salle it sone be, Als I hafe undirtane." CI. He says, "Als I hafe undirtane For to sla the sowdane, So salle I wirke als I kanne That dede to bygynne." That day was ther no more dede With those worthily in wede, Bot buskede thame and to bedde ȝede, The more and the mynne; Tille one the morne erely Comes the sowdane with a cry, Fonde alle his folkes hym by Putt unto pyne! Sone asked he wha That so durste his mene sla, And wete hym one lyfe gaa, The maystry to wynne? CII. Now to wynne the maystry; To the castelle gane he cry If any were so hardy The maistry to wynne, "A man for ane, Thoghe he hadd alle his folke slane, Here salle he fynde Golrotherame To mete hym fulle ryghte; Appone siche a covenande, That ȝe hefe up ȝour hande, Who that may the better stande And more es of myghte, To bryng that other to the dede, Browke wele the londe on brede, And hir that is so faire and rede, Lufamour the brighte!" CIII. Thenne the kyng Arthour, And the lady Lufamour, And alle that were in the towre, Graunted ther-with. Thay called Percevelle the wight, The kyng doubbed hym to knyghte; Thofe he couthe littille in sighte, The childe was of pith: He bad he solde be to prayse, Therto hende and curtayse, Syr Percevelle the Galayse Thay called hym in kythe! Kyng Arthour in Maydene-lande Dubbid hym knyghte with his hande, Bad hym ther he his fo fande, To gyff hym no grythe! CIV. Grith takes he nane; He rydes agayne the sowdane That highte Gollerotherame, That felle was in fighte. In the felde so brade No more carpynge thay made, Bot sone togedir thay rade Theire schaftes to righte! Gollerotheram, thofe he welde wede, Percevelle bere hym fro his stede Two londis one brede, With maystry and myghte! At the erthe the sowdane lay, His stede gunne rynne away, Thane said Percevelle one play, "Thou haste that I the highte!" CV. He sayd, "I highte the a dynt, And now methynke thou hase it hynt, And I may als I hafe mynt, Thou schalt it never mende!" Appone the sowdane he duelled To the grownde ther he was felled, And to the erthe he hym helde With his speres ende: Fayne wolde he hafe hym slayne This uncely sowdane, Bot gate couthe he get nane, So ille was he kende! Thane thynkes the childe Of olde werkes fulle wylde, "Hade I a fire now in this filde, Righte here he solde be brende!" CVI. He said, "Righte here I solde the brene, And thou ne solde never more thenne Fighte for no wymmane, So I solde the fere!" Thenne said Wawayne the knyghte, "Thou myghte and thou knewe righte, And thou woldes of thi stede lighte, Wynne hym one were." The childe was of gamene gnede, Now he thynkes one thede, "Lorde! whethir this be a stede, I wende had bene a mere!" In stede righte there he in stode, He ne wiste nother of evylle ne gude, Bot then chaunged his mode, And slaked his spere. CVII. Whenne his spere was up tane, Then gane this Gollerothiram, This ilke uncely sowdane, One his fete to gete. Than his swerde drawes he, Strykes at Percevelle the fre, The childe hadd no powsté His laykes to lett: The stede was his awnne wille, Saw the swerde come hym tille, Leppe up over an hille Fyve stryde mett: Als he sprent forby, The sowdane keste up a cry, The childe wanne owt of study, That he was inne sett. CVIII. Now ther he was in sett; Owt of study he gett, And lightis downne withowttene lett, Agaynes hym to goo. He says, "Now hase thou taughte me How that I salle wirke with the." Than his swerde drawes he, And strake to hym thro: He hitt hym evene one the nekk-bane, Thurgh ventale and pesane, The hede of the sowdane He strykes the body fra! Then fulle wightly he ȝode To his stede there he stode; The milde maydene in mode Mirthe may scho ma! CIX. Many mirthes then he made, In-to the castelle he rade, And boldly he there habade With that maydene brighte; Fayne were thay ilkane That he had slane the sowdane, And wele wonne that wymmane With maystry and myghte! Thay said Percevelle the ȝyng Was beste worthy to be kyng, For wele, withowttene lesyng, He helde that he highte. Ther was no more for to say, Bot sythene appone that other day, He weddys Lufamour the may, This Percevelle the wighte! CX. Now hase Percevelle the wight Wedded Lufamour the bright, And is a kyng fulle righte Of alle that lande brade. Thane kyng Arthour in hy Wolde no lengare ther ly, Toke lefe at the lady,— Fro thame than he rade; Left Percevelle the ȝyng Off alle that lande to be kyng, For he had with a ryng The maydene that it hade. Sythen, appone the tother day The kyng went on his way, The certane sothe als I say, Withowttene any bade. CXI. Now thane ȝong Percevelle habade In those borowes so brade, For hir sake that he hade Wedd with a ryng. Wele weldede he that lande, Alle bewes to his honde, The folke that he byfore fonde Knewe hym for kyng. Thus he wonnes in that wone Tille that the twelmonthe was gone, With Lufamour his lemmane, He thoghte on no thyng: Now on his moder that was, How scho levyde with the gres, With moste drynke and lesse, In welles there thay spryng. CXII. Drynkes of welles ther thay spryng, And gresse etys withowt lesyng, Scho liffede with none othir thyng In the holtes hare. Tille it byfelle appone a day, Als he in his bedd lay, Tille hymselfe gunne he say, Syghande fulle sare, "The laste ȝole day that was, Wilde wayes I chese, My modir alle manles Leved I thare!" Thane righte sone saide he, "Blythe salle I never be, Or I may my modir see, And wete how scho fare." CXIII. Now to wete how scho fare, The knyght busked hym ȝare, He wolde no lengare duelle thare For noghte that myghte bee; Up he rose in that haulle, Tuke his lefe at tham alle, Bot at grete and at smalle, Fro thaym wendis he. Faire scho prayed hym evene thane, Lufamour his lemmane, Tille the heghe dayes of ȝole were gane With hir for to bee. Bot it served hir of nothyng: A preste he made forthe bryng Hym a messe for to syng, And aftir rode he. CXIV. Now fro thame gunne he ryde: Ther wiste no mane that tyde Whedirwarde he wolde ryde, His sorowes to amende; Forthe he rydes allone, Fro tham he wolde everichone, Mighte no mane with hym gone, No whedir he wolde lende. Bot forthe thus rydes he ay, The certene sothe als I ȝow say, Tille he come at a way By a wode ende; Then herde he faste hym by, Als it were a womane cry, Scho prayed to mylde Mary Som socoure hir to sende. CXV. Scho sende hir socour fulle gude, Mary that es mylde of mode! As he come thurgh the wode A ferly he fande; A birde brighteste of ble Stode faste bondene tille a tre, I say it ȝow certanly, Bothe fote and hande. Sone askede he who, Whenne he sawe hir tho, That had served hir so, That lady in lande. Scho said, "Syr, the blake knyghte, Solde be my lorde with righte, He hase me thus gates dighte Here for to stande!" CXVI. Scho says, "Here mone I stande, For a faute that he fande, That salle I warande Is my moste mone! Now to the I salle say, Appone my bedd I lay Appone the laste ȝole day, Twelve monethes es gone: Were he knyghte, were he kyng, He come one his playnge, With me he chaungede a ryng, The richeste of one! The body myght I noghte see, That made that chaungyng with me, Bot what that ever he be, The better hase he tone!" CXVII. Scho says, "The better hase he tane, Siche a vertue es in the stane, In alle this werlde wote I nane Siche stone in a rynge; A mane that had it in were, One his body for to bere, There scholde no dyntys hym dere, Ne to the dethe brynge." And then wiste syr Percevale Fulle wele by the ladys tale, That he had broghte hir in bale Thurgh his chaungyng. Thane also sone sayd he To that lady so fre, "I salle the louse fro the tre, Als I ame trewe kyng!" CXVIII. He was bothe kyng and knyght; Wele he helde that he highte, He loused the lady so brighte, Stod bowne to the tre. Downe satt the lady, And ȝong Percevalle hir by, For-waked was he wery, Rist hym wolde he: He wende wele for to ryst, Bot it wolde nothyng laste; Als he lay althir-best His hede one hir kne, Scho putt on Percevelle wighte, Bad hym fle with alle his myghte, "For ȝonder comes the blake knyghte, Dede mone ȝe be!" CXIX. Scho sayd, "Dede mone ȝe be, I say ȝow, syr, certanly, ȝonder out comes he That wille us bothe sle!" The knyghte gane hir answere, "Tolde ȝe me noghte lang ere, Ther solde no dynttis me dere, Ne wirke me no woo?" The helme on his hede he sett, Bot or he myght to his stede get, The blak knyght with hym mett His maistrys to mo. He sayd, "How! hase thou here Fondene now thi playfere? ȝe schalle haby it fulle dere Er that I hethene go!" CXX. He said, "Or I hethyn go I salle sle ȝow bothe two, And alle siche othir mo, Thaire warysone to ȝelde." Than sayd Percevelle the fre, "Now sone thane salle we see, Who that es worthy to bee Slayne in the felde!" No more speke thay that tyde, Bot sone togedir gane thay ryde, Als mene that wolde were habyde, With schafte and with schelde. Thane syr Percevelle the wight Bare downe the blake knyght; Thane was the lady so bright His best socour in telde. CXXI. Scho was the beste of his belde; Bot scho had there bene his schelde, He had bene slayne in the felde Right certeyne in hy; Ever als Percevelle the kene Sold the knyghtis bane hafe bene, Ay went the lady by-twene, And cryed, "Mercy!" Than the lady he forbere, And made the blak knyghte to swere Of alle evylles that there were Forgiffe the lady: And Percevelle made the same othe, That he come never undir clothe To do that lady no lothe, That pendid to velany. CXXII. "I did hir never no velany; Bot slepande I saw hir ly, Than kist I that lady, I wille it never layne; I tok a ryng that I fande, I left hir, I undirstande, That salle I wele warande, Anothir ther agayne." Thofe it were for none other thyng, He swere by Jhesu hevene kyng, To wete withowttene lesyng, And here to be slayne! "And alle redy is the ryng, And thou wille myne agayne bryng, Here wille I make the chaungyng, And of myne awnne be fayne!" CXXIII. He saise, "Of myne I wille be fayne." The blak knyghte ansuers agayne, Sayd, "For sothe it is noghte to layne, Thou come over late; Als sone als I the ryng fande, I toke it sone off hir hande, To the lorde of this lande I bare it one a gate; That gate with grefe hafe I gone, I bare it to a gude mone, The stalwortheste geant of one That any mane wate: Es it nowther knyghte ne kyng, That dorste aske hym that ryng, That he ne wolde hym downe dyng With harmes fulle hate!" CXXIV. "Be thay hate, be thay colde," Thane said Percevelle the bolde; For the tale that he tolde He wex alle tene! He said, "Heghe one galous mote he hyng, That to the here giffes any ryng, Bot thou myne agayne brynge, Thou haste awaye gevene; And ȝif it may no nother be, Righte sone thane telle thou me The sothe whilke that es he, Thou knawes that es so kene! There es no more for to say, Bot late me wynne it, ȝif I may, For thou hase giffene thi part of bothe away, Thof thay had better bene." CXXV. He says, "Thofe thay had better bene." The knyghte ansuerde in tene, "Thou salle wele wete withowttene wene, Wiche that es he: If thou dare do als thou says, Sir Percevelle de Galays, In ȝone heghe palays Therinne solde he be! The riche ryng with that grym, The stone es bright and nothyng dym, For sothe ther salle thou fynd hym, I toke it fro me; Owthir with-in or with-owt, Or one his play ther abowte, Of the he giffes littille dowte, And that salle thou see!" CXXVI. He says, "That salle thou see, I say the fulle sekirly." And than forthe rydis he Wondirly swythe. The geant stode in his holde, That had those londis in wolde, Saw Percevelle that was bolde, One his lande dryfe. He calde one his portere, "How gate may this fare? I se a bolde mane ȝare One my lande ryfe! Go reche me my playlome, And I salle go to hym sone; Hym were better hafe bene at Rome, So ever mote I thryfe!" CXXVII. Whethir he thryfe or he the, Ane iryne clobe takes he; Agayne Percevelle the fre He went than fulle right. The clobe wheyhed reghte wele, That a freke myght it fele, The hede was of harde stele, Twelve stone weghte! There was iryne in the wande, Ten stone of the lande, And one was by-hynde his hande, For holdyng was dight. Ther was thre and twenty in hale, Fulle evylle myght any mene smale, That mene telles nowe in tale, With siche a lome fighte. CXXVIII. Now are thay bothe bowne, Mett one a more browne, A mile withowt any towne, Boldly with schelde. Thane saide the geant so wight, Als sone als he sawe the knyght, "Mahowne, loved be thi myght!" And Percevelle byhelde. "Art thou hym that," saide he thane, "That slew Gollerothirame? I had no brothir bot hym ane, Whenne he was of elde." Than said Percevelle the fre, "Thurgh grace of God so salle I the, And siche geantez as ȝe, Sle thaym in the felde!" CXXIX. Siche metyng was seldom sene, The dales dynned thaym by-twene, For dynttis that thay gaffe by-dene, Whenne thay so mett: The gyant with his clobe-lome Wolde hafe strekyne Percevelle sone, Bot he ther-under wightely come A stroke hym to sett. The geant missede of his dynt, The clobe was harde as the flynt; Or he myght his staffe stynt, Or his strengh lett, The clobe in the erthe stode, To the midschafte it wode; Then Percevelle the gode, Hys swerde owt he get. CXXX. By then hys swerde owt he get, Strykes the geant withowttene lett, Merkes evene to his nekk, Reght evene there he stode; His honde he strykes hym fro, His lefte fote also, With siche dyntis as tho Nerre hym he ȝode. Then sayd Percevelle, "I undirstande Thou myghte with a lesse wande Hafe weledid better thi hande, And hafe done the some gode; Now bese it never for ane The clobe of the erthe tane, I telle thi gatis alle gane, Bi the gude rode!" CXXXI. He says, "By the gud rode! As evylle als thou ever ȝode, Of thi fote thou getis no gode, Bot lepe if thou may!" The geant gan the clobe lefe, And to Percevelle a dynt he ȝefe In the nekk with his nefe, Sone neghede thay. At that dynt was he tene, He strikes off the hande als clene As ther hadde never none bene, That other was alwaye: Sythen his hede gane he off hafe; He was ane unhende knave A geant berde so to schafe, For sothe als I say! CXXXII. Now, for sothe als I say, He lete hym ly there he lay, And rydis forthe one his way To the heghe holde. The portare saw his lorde slayne, The kayes durste he noght layne, He come Percevelle agayne, The ȝatis he hym ȝolde. At the firste bygynnyng, He askede the portere of the ryng, If he wiste of it anythyng; And he hym than tolde. He taughte hym sone to the kiste, Ther he alle the golde wiste, Bade hym take what hym liste Of that he hafe wolde. CXXXIII. Percevelle sayde hafe it he wolde, And schott owtt alle the golde; Righte there appone the faire molde The ryng owte glade. The portare stode besyde, Sawe the ryng owt glyde, Sayde ofte, "Wo worthe the tyde That ever was it made!" Percevelle answerde in hy, And asked where-fore and why He banned it so brothely, Bot if he cause hade? Thenne alsone said he, And sware by his lewté, "The cause salle I telle the, Withowttene any bade!" CXXXIV. He says, "Withowtten any bade, The knyghte that it here hade, Theroff a presande he made, And hedir he it broghte; Mi mayster tuke it in his hande, Ressayved faire that presande; He was chefe lorde of this lande, Als man that mekille moghte! That tyme was here fast by Wonnede a lady, And hir wele and lely He luffede, als me thoghte; So it byfelle appone a day, Now the sothe als I salle say, Mi lorde went hym to play, And the lady bysoghte. CXXXV. "Now the lady byseches he That scho wolde his lemane be, Fast he frayned that free For any kyns aughte. At the firste bygynnyng, He wolde hafe gyffene hir the ryng, And whenne scho sawe the tokynyng, Thenne was scho unsaughte. Scho gret and cried in hir mone, Sayd, "Thefe, hase thou my sone slone, And the ryng fro hym tone That I hym bitaughte?" Hir clothes ther scho rafe hir fro, And to the wodd gane scho go; Thus es the lady so wo, And this is the draghte! CXXXVI. "For siche draghtis als this, Now es the lady wode i-wys, And wilde in the wodde scho es Ay sythene that ilke tyde: Fayne wolde I take that free, Bot alsone als scho sees me, Faste away dose scho flee, Wille scho noghte abyde!" Then sayde syr Percevelle, "I wille assaye fulle snelle To make that lady to duelle, Bot I wille noghte ryde: One my fote wille I ga That faire lady to ta; Me aughte to bryng hir of wa, I laye in hir syde!" CXXXVII. He sayse, "I laye in hir syde; I salle never one horse ryde Tille I hafe sene hir in tyde, Spede if I may! Ne none armoure that may be Salle come appone me, Tille I my modir may see Be nyghte or by day! Bot reghte in the same wode That I firste fro hir ȝode, That salle be in my mode, Aftir myne other play; Ne I ne salle I never mare Come owt of ȝone holtis hare, Tille I wete how scho fare, For sothe als I saye. CXXXVIII. "Now for sothe als I say!" With that he helde one his way, And one the morne, whenne it was day, Forthe gonne he fare. His armour he leved therin, Toke one hym a gayt skynne, And to the wodde gane he wyne Among the holtis hare. A sevenyght long hase he soghte, His modir ne fyndis he noghte, Of mete ne drynke he ne roghte, So fulle he was of care! Tille the nynte day byfelle, That he come to a welle Ther he was wonte for to duelle, And drynk take hym thare. CXXXIX. When he had dronkene that tyde, Forthirmare gane he glyde, Than was he warre hym besyde Of the lady so fre: Bot whenne scho sawe hym thare, Scho byganne for to dare, And sone gaffe hym answare, That brighte was of ble. Scho bigan to calle and cry, Sayd, "Siche a sone hade I!" His hert lightened in hy Blythe for to bee. Be that he come hir nere, That scho myght hym here, He said, "My modir fulle dere, Wele byde ȝe me!" CXL. Be that so nere getis he, That scho myghte nangatis fle, I say ȝow fulle certeynly Hir byhoved ther to byde; Scho stertis appone hym in tene, Wote ȝe wele withowttene wene, Had hir myghte so mekille bene, Scho had hym slayne that tyde: Bot his myghte was the mare, And up he toke his modir thare, One his bake he hir bare, Pure was his pryde. To the castelle, withowttene mare, The righte way gone he fare, The portare was redy ȝare, And lete hym inne glyde. CXLI. In with his modir he glade, Als he sayse that it made; With siche clothes als thay hade, Thay happed hir forthy. The geant had a drynk wroghte, The portere sone it forthe broghte, For no mane was his thoghte, Bot for that lady; Thay wolde not lett long thone, Bot lavede in hir with a spone, Then scho one slepe felle also sone, Reght certeyne in hy. Thus the lady there lyes Thre nyghttis and thre dayes, And the portere alwayes Lay wakande hir by. CXLII. Thus the portare woke [by], Ther whills hir luffed s[icurly], Tille at the laste the lady Wakede, als I wene. Thenne scho was in hir awenne [wate], And als wele in hir gate, Als scho hadde nowthir arely ne late Never ther owte bene. Thay sett thame downe one thaire kne, Thanked Godde alle three, That he wolde so appone thame see, As it was there sene. Sythene aftir gane thay ta A riche bathe for to ma, And made the lady in to ga, In graye and in grene. CXLIII. Thane syr Percevelle in hy Toke his modir hym by, I say ȝow than certenly, And home went hee; Grete lordes and the qwene Welcomed hym al-bydene, Whenne thay hym one lyfe sene, Than blythe myghte thay bee! Sythen he went into the Holy Londe, Wanne many cités fulle stronge, And there was he slayne, I undirstonde, Thus gatis endis hee. Now Jhesu Criste, hevens kyng, Als he es Lorde of alle thyng, Grante us alle his blyssyng! Amene for charyté! Quod Robert Thorntone. Explicit Syr Percevelle de Gales. Here endys the Romance of Syr Percevelle of Gales, cosyne to Kyng Arthoure. THE ROMANCE OF SIR ISUMBRAS. Here begynnes the Romance off Syr Ysambrace. I. JHESU Crist, Lorde of hevene kynge, Graunte us alle his dere blyssynge, And hevene unto oure mede! Now, hende in haule, and ȝe wolde here Of eldirs that by-fore us were, That lyffede in arethede, I wille ȝow telle of a knyghte, That bothe was stalworthe and wyghte, [And worth]ily undir wede: His name was hattene syr Ysambrace, Swilke a knyghte als he was Now lyffes nowrewhare in lede. II. He was mekille mane and lange, With schuldirs brode and armes strange, That semly were to see; So was he bothe faire and heghe, Alle hym loffede that hym seghe, Se hende a mane was hee! He luffede glewmene wele in haulle, He gafe thame robis riche of palle, Bothe golde and also fee; Of curtasye was he kynge, Of mete and drynke no nythynge, One lyfe was none so fre. III. Als fayre a lady to wyefe had he Als any erthly mane thurte see, With tunge als I ȝow nevene; Knave childire had thay thre, Thay were the faireste that myghte be Undir the kynge of hevene! Bot in his hert a pride was broghte, Of Goddis werkes gafe he noghte, His mercys for to nevene; So longe he reyngned in his pride, That God wolde no lenger habyde, To hym he sent a stevene. IV. It felle so appone a daye, The knyghte went to the wode hym to playe, His foreste for to see; And als he come by a derne sty, A fowle herde he synge one hy Fulle heghe upone a tree, And said, "Welcome, syr Ysambrace, Thou hafes forgetyne whate thou was, For pride of golde and fee! The kyng of hevene gretis the soo, Werldes wele the bus for-goo, In elde or ȝouthe thou salle dry woo, Chese whethir es lever to thee!" V. With carefulle herte and sygheyngez sare, The knyghte felle on his knes al bare, And bothe his handis uphelde:— "Werldes wele I wille for-sake, And to Goddes mercy I me bytake, To hym my saule I ȝelde! In ȝouthe I maye bothe ryde and goo, When I ame alde I may nott so, My lymmes wille waxe unwelde; Now, Lorde, ȝif it thi wille bee, In ȝowthede penance send thou mee, And welthe appone myne elde!" VI. The foule thane toke ane heghe flyghte, Alle-one he leved that drery knyghte, And sone he went awaye; And whenne he of the fowle had no syghte, His stede, that was bothe stronge and wyghte, Sone dede downe undir hym laye. His hawkes and his howndis bothe, Wente to the wode, als thay were wrothe, Ilkone a dyverse waye. Whate wondir was thofe hym ware wo, One fote now moste hym nedis goo, To pyne turnes alle his playe! VII. And als he wente by a wod schawe, Thare mett he with a lyttille knave Come rynnande hym agayne; And wele wers tythynges he hym tolde, Brynned were alle his byggynges bolde, His bestes werene alle slayne! "A! Lorde, ther es no thyng lefte one lyfe Bot thi thre childir and thi wyfe, The sothe es noghte to layne!" The knyghte thane ansuerde with herte so vey, "With thi that I may one hir see, My wyfe and my childire thre, ȝitt was never mane so fayne." VIII. Bot als he wente by hym allone, His hirde-mene mett he everylkone, With a fulle drery swoghe, And saide thaire fee was fro thame revede, "Certis, syr, us es noghte levyde A stotte unto ȝoure plowghe!" Thay wepede sare and gaffe thame ille; The knyghte bad thay solde be stylle, "I wytte ȝow noghte this woghe; God that sent me alle this woo, Wele hase he sent me also, And ȝitt may send y-noghe!" IX. A dolefulle syghte the knyghte gane see Of his wyfe and his childir three, That fro the fyre were flede; Alle als nakede als thay were borne Stode togedir undir a thorne, Braydede owte of thaire bedd. Bot changede never the knyghttes blee, To he sawe thame so nakede bee He levyde so comly clede. The lavedy bade hir childir be blythe, "I see ȝoure fadir ȝondir one lyve, For nothynge that ȝe drede!" X. They wepede alle and gafe thame ille, The knyghte bad thay solde be stylle, "And wepe ȝe noghte so sore; For alle the sorowe that we aryne inne, It es ilke dele for oure syne, We ware worthi wele more! Bot we kane nonekyns werkes wyrke, Owre frendis of us wille sone be irke, Of lande I rede we fare; Of my-selvene hafe I no thoghte, Bot I may helpe my childir noghte, For thame es alle my kare!" XI. The knyghte offe his mantille of palle, And over his weyfe he lete it falle With a fulle drery mode; His riche surcote i-wysse schare he, And gafe his pore childir thre, That nakede byfore hym stode. "Now salle ȝe alle," he said, "do my rede, To seke thare God was qwike and dede, That done was one the rode; For Jesus Criste so hende es he, That who so sekes hym with herte fre, He sendis thame lyves fode." XII. And with a knyfe son gerte he schare A crose appone his schuldir bare, In storye als I ȝowe saye; Alle those that there his frendis ware, They wepid alle and syghede sare, Thayre sange was waylawaye! The knyghte and his lady hende Toke lefe at thaire dere frendes, And made thaire fondynge daye; For thame weped bothe olde and ȝynge, Thare was a carefulle departynge, And sythene thay went thaire waye. XIII. With thame tuke thay fulle littille gude That myghte helpe tham to thaire lyves fode, Nowther golde ne fee; Bot in the lande to begge thaire mete, Were so that thay myghte any gete For saynte charité. Fyve wokes thus them gunne thay over-passe, Als it Jhesu Cristes wille was, With thaire childir three; Tho that are was wonte to wele and wyne, The myschevous poverte that thay were inne Grete dole it was to see! XIV. ȝitt in a wode thay were gone wylle, Towne ne myghte thay none wyne tille, Als wery als thay were; Bot whenne thre dayes tille ende was gane, Mete ne drynke ne hade thay nane, Thay weped for hungre sore! Nothynge sawe thay that come of corne, Bot the floures of the thorne, Up-one those holtes hore; Thay entirde thane to a water kene, The bankes were fulle ferre bytwene, And watirs breme als bare. XV. The knyghte his eldeste sone tase there, And over the water he hym bare, And sett hym one the bryme; And sayde, "Luke, my sone, that thou be stylle, To whils I feche thi brother the tille, And playe the with the blome." The knyghte that was bothe hend and gude, Agayne swythe over the water he wode, His medille sone over to brynge; So come a lyonne with latys un-mylde, And in hir pawes scho hent the childe, And to the wode faste gane rynne. XVI. Thane with carefulle herte and syghynge sare, His medilmaste sone ȝit lefte he thare, [And went wepynge aweye.] Thus with sorowfulle chere and drery mode, Agayne over the water he wode, To pyne tornes alle his playe! A labarde ther come and tuk that othir, To the wode he bare hym to his brother, Wyghtly he wente awaye! The lady grette and gafe hir ille, Nere scho wolde hir-selvene spille One lande righte whare scho laye. XVII. The knyghte mase dole and sorowe y-noghe, Nerehand he hym-selvene sloghe Are he come to the banke; And the lady grett and gafe hir ille, Nowther of tham myghte other stille, Thaire sorowe it was fulle ranke! Thay sayd, allas that thay were borne, "Felle werdes es layde us by-forne, That are were wele and wanke!" The knyghte bad scho sulde be stille, And gladly suffir Goddes wille, "Us awe hym alle to thanke!" XVIII. Littille wondir thofe thame wo were, For bothe thaire childir leve thay there, [Hys lovely sonnes two. Hys wyfe thane toke he there,] And over the water he thane bare His ȝongeste sone also. And thurgh a foreste ȝode thay three, And entred in towardeȝ the Greckes see, Thare thay sawe stormes bloo: And appone the lond thus als thay stude, Thay sawe come saylande over the flode A thowsand schippes and moo. XIX. And als thay stode so appone the lande, And lokede in-to the see strande, Those schippes sawe thay ryde With toppe-castelles sett one lofte, Of riche golde thame semed wroghte, Stremours fro thame ferre gane glyde. The sowdanne hym-selfe was therinne, That Cristendome was commene to wynne, Thare wakkyns woo fulle wyde! The knyghte thoghte that he wolde wende In-to that havene at ferrere ende, A littille ther bysyde. XX. Those schippes landed by that land syde, The folke come up with mekille pryde, ȝaa moo thene I kane nevene; The knyghte thane karpede to the lady free, "What maye thiese ferly folkkes bee?" He spake with lowde stevene: "In this foreste lange hafe we gane, Mete ne drynke myghte we gete nane More thane thiese dayes sevene; Aske we thiese folkes of thaire mete, And luke ȝife we maye any gete For Goddis lufe of hevene!" XXI. Untille a galaye thus gane thay wynne, There the sowdane of those Sarazenes was inne, That fulle richely was wroghte; Thay askede hym some lyves fode For His lufe that dyede on the rode, And made this worlde of noghte! The Sarazens said he was a spye, Whenne that thay herde hym swa gates crye, That thaire schippes had soghte; The sowdane bade do hym awaye, "For thay lefe nott on owre laye, Loke that ȝe gyffe hym noghte!" XXII. A knyghte saide to the sowdane kynge, "Now certis, syr, it es a wondir thynge ȝone pore mane for to see; For he es bothe lange and heghe, The faireste mane that ever I seghe, A knyghte hym semes to bee. His wyfe es whitte as walles bone, Hir lyre es als the see fome, And bryghte als any blee." The sowdane than gret rewthe thoghte, And command that thay solde be broghte, He wolde hymselfe thame see. XXIII. Whenne he hir sawe, hym rewed sare, So semly als thay bothe ware, If thay were robed riche. The sowdane byddes hym gold and fee, "If thou wille duelle and be with me, And helpe me to my fyghte; If thou be doghty mane of dede, Thou salle be horssede on a stede, My-selfe salle dube the knyghte!" XXIV. Fulle stille thane stode syr Ysambrace, A Sarazene he sawe wele that he was, And sone he sayde hym naye: "Certis, that salle I never mare Agayne Crystyndomme fyghte no fare, And lefe appone thi laye. Now in this foreste hafe we gane, Mete ne drynke we myghte gete nane, This es the sevent daye; I aske ȝow some lyves fode For His lufe that dyed on rode, And late us wende oure waye." XXV. The sowdane sawe that lady thare, Hym thoghte als scho an angelle ware, That ware commene owte of hevene. He saide, "Wille thou selle thi wyffe to me? And I wille gyff the golde and fee, ȝaa more than thou kane nevene: I salle the gyffe tene thowsand pownde Of florence that bene rede and rownde, And gud robes sevene; And scho salle be lady of alle my lande, And alle salle bowe hir to fote and hande, And noghte withstande hir stevene." XXVI. Sir Ysambrace sayd thane schortly, "Naye, My wyfe wille I nott selle awaye, Bot mene me for hir slaa; I wedded hir in Goddes laye, To halde hir to myne endyng daye, ȝaa bothe in wele and waa." The gold thane on his mantille thay talde, And tille hyme-selfene thay gane it falde, His wyefe thay tuke hym fraa; And appone the lande thay hym kaste, And bett hym tille his rybbis braste, And made his flesche fulle blaa! XXVII. The littille childe one lande was sett, And sawe how mene his fadir bett, He wepid and was fulle waa. The lady grete and gafe hir ille, Unnethes thay myght halde hir stille, That ne scho hir-selve walde slaa. Hir armes scho sprede and lowde gane crye, And ofte scho cryed one oure lady, "Salle we departe in two? Allas! for salle I never blythe be, My weddede lorde salle I never see, Now wakyns alle my woo!" XXVIII. Whenne the wounded knyght myght up-stande, He tok his childe by the hande, Wepande awaye went hee. A riche schippe was dighte righte ȝare, The sowdane bad that lordes solde fare With that lady so free; The sowdane with his ownne honde Crownned hir qwene of alle his londe, And sent hir to his conntré: A chartir was mad fulle wele farande, The sowdane selide it with his hande, That thofe he never come in his lande, That scho solde qwene bee. XXIX. When the lady in schippe was ȝare, Ever scho weped fulle selly sare, And knelis byfore the kynge. "Sir kynge," scho sayde, "I pray the A bowne that thou wille graunt to me, Now at oure parttynge; Mete and drynke thou gare tham gyfe, A sevenyghte that thay myght with lyfe, That littille childe and he." The sowdane grauntes, scho was fulle fayne; [Scho callyd hir lorde to hir agayne,] A rynge was thaire takynnyng. XXX. The lady was curtayse and mylde, Scho blyssede hir lorde and hir childe, And felle downe one hir knee. Thay drewe up sayle of ryche hewe, The wynde thame sonne owte of havene blewe With that lady so free. The wonded knyghte hym downe sett, And for his wyfe fulle sare he grett, Whils he thaire schipe myghte see. And whenne the knyght myghte upstande, He toke his childe by the hande, And awaye thane faste went hee. XXXI. Sythene sett he hym downe undir a tree, Unnethes myghte he with ehgne see, So had he wepede sare! Mete and drynke forthe he droghe, He gafe his childe at ete y-noghe, His hert thane was fulle sare; In his mantille of skarlet rede Y-mange his golde he did his brede, And with hyme he it bare. XXXII. The knyghte come to a banke fulle drye, And thare byhoves hym al nyghte to lye, For ferrere myghte noghte he; There come in the mournynge an egle flyande, And sone the knyghtes mantille he fande, And awaye therwith gane flye. The knyghte folowed that egle to the see; And that same tyde come an unycorne, His ȝongeste sone away hase he borne, Swylke sorowe that knyghte gane dree! XXXIII. Ofte was that knyghte bothe wele and woo, Bot never ȝitt als he was thoo; He sett hym one a stone. With carefulle mode and drery stevene, Unto the heghe kyng of hevene Made he thane his mone. "A! Lorde," he saide, "fulle wo es me, So faire childir als I hafede thre, And nowe ame I lefte allone! Now Gode, that beres the heghe crowne, The waye he wysse me to some towne, For fulle wille I ame of wone!" XXXIV. Bot als the knyghte went thorow a lawe, Smethymene thore herde he blawe, And fyres thore bryne and glewe; He askede tham mete for charyté, And thay bade hym swynke, "And swa do we, Hafe we none other ploghe." "For mete," he sayde, "I wold wyrke fayne," The knyghte ansuerde fulle sone agayne, "Bathe bere and drawe y-noghe." Thane mete thay gafe hym fulle gud wone, And thay garte hym bere iryne and stone Owte of a sory sloghe. XXXV. And thus bare the knyght iryne and stone Unto the sevene wyntter were alle gone, And wroghte hym-selvene fulle woo; And untille that he couthe make a fyre, And than thay gafe hym ȝomans hyre, Wele more he wroghte thane twoo! A smethymane thus was he thore Fully sevene ȝere or more, And blewe thaire belyes bloo; And by that he hade hym-selfene dyghte Alle the atyre that felle to a knyghte, Bot that he was noghte horsed ryghte To batelle whenne he solde goo. XXXVI. Alle those sevene ȝere, I undirstande, The sowdane werreyede in Cristene lande, And wakkenede woo fulle wyde; The Crystene kynges hase fledde so lange, To thay hafe getyne tham powere strange, Those Sarazenes for to byde. A daye of batelle than was sett, That Cristyne and haythene samene solde mete A littylle ther besyde. Sir Ysambrace hym umbithoghte Appone a horse that coles broghte That he wolde thedir ryde. XXXVII. Bemes thane herde he blowe fulle lowde, [And sawe knyghtes and beryns prowde,] And swerdes drawene one lofte. He sett hym downe appone his kne, To Jhesu Criste than prayes he, And enterely hym bysoghte: "Nowe, Lorde," he saide, "thou lene me grace in this felde, ȝone heythene sowdane that I may ȝelde The woo he hase me wroghte!" XXXVIII. The knyghttes herte it was fulle gude, And forthe he went with hardy mode, And thryse he gonne hym sayne For no wapene wolde he stynt; There lyffede none that hent his dynt, Tille that his horse was slayne. Than the knyghte to the grownde soughte, A Crystyne erle hym helpede one lofte, And owte of the batelle he hym broghte Untille an heghe mountayne; And stoppede his wondis that gunne blede, And sythene he horsede hym one a stede, And thane he soghte agayne. XXXIX. Bot whenne he was horsede on a stede, He sprange als any sparke one glede With grymly growndyne gare; The beryns he hitt appone the hode, Thorowe the breste-bane it wode, And ȝit es sene whare his horse stode, And salle be evermare! Thane rode he up at ane heghe mountayne, And thare the sowdane hase he slayne, And many that with hym were; Thre dayes and thre nyghttes Agaynes the Sarazenes helde he fyghttes, And the batelle ve[n]queste he thare. XL. And whenne the Sarazenes were alle slayne, The Crystene kynges were fulle fayne, Thay made thame gamene and glee. The kyng thane askede after that mekille knyght, That hase done so doghetyly in this fyghte, That I may never hym see: Erles and baronns thay hafe hym soghte, And byfore the kynge thay hafe hym broghte, A fulle sare wondide mane was hee! The kyng his name faste fraynes thane, "Sir," he saide "I am a smethymane, Whate es ȝour wille with me?" XLI. The kyng ansuerde the knyghte thane, "Wondir I hafe that any smethymane In werre was ever so wyghte." The kynge bad that he solde hafe mete and drynke, And alle that he wolde after thynke, Tille he hade coverde his myghte; And thane by his crowne the kyng sware, That whenne he were coverde of his care, That he wolde dubbe hym knyghte. And at a nunrye the knyght was levede, To hele the wondes in his hevede, That he had in the fyghte. XLII. The nonnes of hym thay were fulle fayne, For that he hade the Sarazenes slayne, And those haythene houndes; And of his paynnes sare gunne thame rewe, Ilke a daye thay made salves newe, And laid thame tille his wondes. Thay gafe hym metis and drynkis lythe, And helid the knyghte wondir swythe; And within a lyttille stownde, XLIII. The knyghte purvayed bothe slavyne and pyke, And made hymselfe a palmere lyke, And thoghte that he wolde wende. His leve he tuke, withowttyne lesse, And thankede mekille the pryores, And alle hir nunnes hende. The righte waye thane takes he To a havene of the Grekkes see, Als Jhesu Cryste hym sende. A schippe he fonde alle redy ȝare, With a marynere alle bowne to fare, In Acris gunne thay lende. XLIV. Whenne thay in that havene lenede, With wery bones the knyghte up-wenede In to that haythene stede; And sevene ȝere he was fully thore, With hungre, and thriste, and bones sore, In storye thus als we rede. Fulle weryly thane ȝode he thore aye, And wrechidly one nyghttis he laye In his povre wede, Goddes werkkes for to wyrke, To serve Gode and haly kyrke, And to mende hir are mysdede. XLV. So it by-felle hym sonne onone, That alle a syde of a cunntré he hase thurgh gone, Bot mete ne drynke couthe he gete none, Ne house to herbere hyme inne; Withowttene the burghe of Bedeleme, He layde hym downe by a welle streme, Fulle sore wepande for pyne. And als he laye, abowte mydnyghte Thare come an angelle faire and bryghte, And broghte hym brede and wyne. "Palmere," he sayse, "welcome thou bee, The kynge of hevene wele gretis the, Forgyffene erre synnes thyne! XLVI. "And welecome," he sais, Syr Ysambrace! Forgeffene es the alle thi tryspase, For sothe als I the sayne! And wele the gretis now oure hevens kynge, And grauntes the nowe his dere blyssynge, And byddes the torne agayne." The knyghte knelide thane appone his knee, Jhesu Criste thane thankede hee, He wepide so was he fayne: Bot wyste he never whedirwarde to gonne, For had he nowre no wonnynge wone, Bot aye to walke in payne. XLVII. Sevene kynges landes hase he gone thurgh, Untille he come tille a riche burgh, Thare als a castelle inne stode; Thenne herde he telle ther wonned a qwene, That was a lady fayre and schene, And grete worde of hir ȝode, XLVIII. That everylke a daye scho gyffes at hir ȝate, To povre mene that golde wille take, Fulle many fand scho there; Ilkone hade a florence, noghte to layne; Sir Ysambrace was never so fayne, Hym hungrede never so sare! Of povre mene that myghte ille goo, Thay tuke inne welle a sexty or moo, Of thame that sekeste were; And in thay tuke syr Ysambrace, At myschefe thay sawe wele that he was, And of hym thame rewede sare. XLIX. The riche qwene in haulle was sett, Knyghttes hir serves to handes and fete, Were clede in robis of palle; In the floure a clothe was layde, "This povre palmere," the stewarde sayde, "Salle sytt abowene ȝow alle." Mete and drynke was forthe broghte, Sir Ysambrace sett and ete noghte, Bot luked abowte in the haulle. So mekille he sawe of gamene and glee, And thoghte what he was wonnt to be, And terys lete he falle. L. So lange he satt and ete noghte, That the lady grete wondir thoghte, And tille a knyghte gane saye, "Bryng a chayere and a qwyschene, And sett ȝone povre palmere ther-in, That he to me telle maye What tydans that he hase herde and sene In haythynenes, whare he hase bene In many a wilfulle waye." A riche chayere than was ther fett, This povre palmere ther-in was sett, He tolde hir of his laye. LI. And so nobilly he hase hir tolde, That scho myghte frayne hym what scho wolde, To whils that he there sett; "Now, palmere," scho said, "I salle the gyffe Evermare whils I may lyfe, Thou salle hafe clothe and mete, LII. "And a mane to serve the daye and nyghte, And a chambir faire and bryghte Withinne the castelle walle." The palmere thankes that lady free, And in hir courte thare thus duellys he, And thankes God of alle. He duellid there fulle many a ȝere, Tille that he was bothe hale and fere, And servede in that haulle; He was mane bothe fayre and heghe, Alle had wondir that hym see, So stylle he was with-alle. And when knyghtes went to put the stane, Twelve fote over thaym everylke ane, He keste it als a balle; Therefore at hym thay hade envy; A tornament than did thay crye, Thay thoghte to do hym quede, And schames dede with-alle. That daye the tournament solde be stede, Thay horsede hym on ane olde crokede stede, And ȝitt for-thoghte thame alle. LIII. Bot by syr Ysambrace hade redyne thurgh the felde, There was none that undir schilde Durste mete his crokede stede, That he ne gafe hym swylke a clowte, That bothe his eghne stode one strowte; Wele a sevene score garte he blede! And some he keste into a slake, That bothe braste neke and bakke, And many flede for drede: The qwene hirselfe at hym faste loghe, And sayd, "My palmere es styffe enoghe, He es wele worthi to fede!" LIV. And so it byfelle ones appone a daye, The palmere wente to the wode to playe, Als it was are his kynde; The palmere sawe a neste one heghe, A rede clothe therinne he seghe Owte-wappande with the wynde; And to the neste thane gane he wynne, His awene golde he sawe therinne, His mantille thare gane he fynde. With eghne whenne that he sawe the golde, That his wyfe was fore solde, His sorowe bygane to mene. LV. The golde unto his chambir he bare, And hyd it fulle prevaly thare, And wepande he went awaye; And aye whenne he gunne the golde see, He grette fulle sare for his lady, And to pyne tornes alle his playe! So lange the palmere lede that lyffe, That with knyghtes it wexe fulle ryffe, And to the lady thay gane it saye. LVI. And so it felle appone a daye, The palmere went to the wode to playe, His myrthis for to mene; The knyghtes brake up his chambir dore, And fande the golde right in the flore, And bare it unto the qwene; And als sone als scho saw it with syghte, In swonyng than felle that swete wyghte, For scho had are it sene! Scho kyssede it, and sayde, "Allas! This golde aughte syr Ysambrace, My lorde was wonte to bene!" LVII. Than scho to the knyghtes tolde, How scho was for that golde solde, And hir lorde was wondide sore; "Bot faste whenne ȝe the palmere see, Dose hyme swythe to speke with me, Aftir hym me langes fulle sore." The knyghtes gane brynge hym to the haulle, The lady gane hym to concelle calle, And fraystes at hym there, "Was thou ever gentylle mane? Whare and howe that thou this golde wanne?" His sorowe thane wexe the mare! LVIII. With dulefulle mode and herte fulle sare, He gafe the lady ane ansuare, And one his knee hym sett; And a fulle nobille tale ther tille hir he tolde, "My wyfe was for this golde solde, Myselfe was fulle sare bett!" And downe than knelide the lady byfore his face, And sayde, "Welecome, my lorde syr Ysam∣brace!" Fulle grete joye scho hade in herte. LIX. Thane aythir of other were so fayne, That thay myghte no lengere layne, Bot to the knyghtes it tolde; Thane crownnede he was with riche gyfte, And made hym kynge, that are was knyghte, Over alle those knyghttes bolde. LX. And whenne he was kynge and bare the crowne, He sent his sande fra towne to towne, Tille ylke a ryche ceté, And he gerte krye in borowes bolde, Riche and povre, bothe ȝonge and olde, That alle solde crystende bee; And thay that wolde noghte do swaa, He wolde thame bathe brynne and slaa, Solde nothynge for thaire lyfe gaa, Silvere, golde, nor fee! LXI. A riche kynge was syr Ysambrace, In mare welthe thane ever he was Of haythene landes thare; Crystene lawes to kepe in that tyde, Sandes he sente fulle ferly wyde To thame that haythene ware. Bot thay turnede alle tille ane assent, That schortly there-to thay ne wolde conscent, Bot to a batelle fare. Thay sayde, and thay myghte hym hent, That he solde come to thaire perlement, And there be bothe hangede and brynt, And alle that with hym were. LXII. A daye of batelle thus was ther sett, And alle the haythene ther was mett Sir Ysambrace to slaa; Fele Sarazenes semblede that tyde, Fra fele ferre costes to that batelle thay ryde With knyghtes many and maa. Sir Ysambrace was fulle of care, He hade no mene with hym to fare, His mene awaye gane gaa: The Sarazenes faylede hym at that nede, Be he was horsede one his stede Thay were alle flede hym fraa. LXIII. Sir Ysambrace was thane fulle waa, He kyssede his lady and wolde furthe gaa With sorow and hert fulle sare; A dolefulle worde thane gunne he saye, "Nowe, certis, lady, hafe now gud daye, For nowe and evermare!" "A! lorde," scho sayd, "helpe that I were dyghte In armours, als I were a knyghte, And with the wille I fare; And God that made bothe see and lande, My saule I wyte into thy hande, For I kepe to lyffe no mare!" LXIV. Sone was the lady dyghte In armours, als thofe scho were a knyghte, And had bothe spere and schelde; Agaynes thrytty thowsandez and maa Come there nane bot thay twaa, Nyne hundrethe sone hafe thay slayne! And righte als thay solde hafe takene bee, There come rydande knyghttes three Appone thre bestes wylde; One on a lebarde, another on a unycorne, And one on a lyone he come by-forne, That was thair eldeste childe! LXV. In angells wede were thay alle clede, An angelle thame to the batelle lede, That semely was to sene: Thay slewe the haythene knyghttes swa, And of the Sarazenes many alswa, ȝa twentty thowsandez and thre. Sir Ysambrace prayed the knyghtes swaa, Hame with hym that thay walde gaa, And be of his menȝé; Thay ansuerde, als the angelle tham kende, "For the were we to the batelle sende, Thyne awenne sonnes are wee!" LXVI. Ofte was syr Ysambrace wele and woo, Bot never ȝitt als he was tho, One knees than he hym sett; He grett, and sayde wyth mylde stevene, "Thankede be the heghe kyng of hevene, My bale thane hase he bett!" Sir Ysambrace and that lady free Kyssed alle thaire childir three, Ilkane for joye thay grett; Mare joye myghte never no mane see, Thane men myghte one thame see, In armes whenne thay were mett. LXVII. A ryche ceté was there besyde, And syr Ysambrace byfore gane ryde His sonnes hame for to lede; Chambirs fande thay faire and bryghte, Robys faire and redy dyghte, And thare thay chaunged thaire wede; Riche metis wantted thame nane, Nowther of wylde nor of tame, Nor no riche brede. Fyve landis thus gunne thay wynne, And stabylde Crystyndome thame inne, In storyes thus als we rede. LXVIII. A fulle riche kynge thane was syr Ysambrace, And coverde he hase alle his myscas, He lyffes nowe fulle richely; Ilkane of his sonnes he gafe a lande, Durste na mane agayne thame stande, Whare so that thay solde fare. Thay lyffede and dyed with gud entent, And sythene alle tille hevene thay went, Whenne that thay dede ware. Praye we now to hevenes kynge, He gyffe us alle his dere blyssynge Nowe and evermare! Amene. Amene. Explicit Syr Ysambrace. THE ROMANCE OF SIR EGLAMOUR OF ARTOIS. I. Jhesu Lorde oure hevyn kynge, Graunt us alle thy dere blessynge, And bylde us in thy bowre! And yf ye ony yoye wylle here Of them that beforne us were, That leved in grete honowre, Y schalle telle yow of a knyght, That was bothe hardy and wyght, And stronge in eche a stowre; Of dedes of armys there ye may here, He wynnyth the gree with yurney clere, And in the fylde the flowre. II. In Artas he was geton and borne, And thus he holdyth hym beforne, Lystenyth, y schalle yow say. To dedes of armes he ys wente, Wyth the Erle of Artas he ys lente, He faylyth hym not nyght nor daye. Syr Prynsamowre the erle hyght, Syr Egyllamowre men calle the knyȝt, That was evyr and aye; Whylle the erle had hym in holde, Of dedes of armes he was bolde, For no man seyde he naye. III. The erle had never chylde but oon, That was a maydyn as whyte as fome, That hys ryght heyre schulde bee; The maydenys name was Crystyabelle, A feyre thynge of flesche and felle, Ther was none soche in Crystyanté. Syr Egyllamowre so hym bare, That above alle erthely thynges sche lovyd hym mare, That lady bryght of blee; Certenly bothe day and nyght, So dud he hur that nobylle knyght, That was the more peté! IV. The knyght was bothe bolde and stronge, Therfore the lady lovyd hym longe, Lystenyth, y schalle yow telle. Ther come lordys of ferre londe, For to assay hur, y undurstonde, Wyth ferse folke and felle. Syr Egyllamowre he dud to crye Of dedes of armys utturly, For the love of Crystyabelle. What maner of man that hur wolde have, So sore strokes he them gave, For evyr he dud them to dwelle! V. Tylle hyt befelle upon a day, The knyght to hys squyer can say, Yn hys chaumbur there he was at reste, "Belamye, and thou cowdyst hyt layne, A cownselle y wolde to the sayne, Thou walkyst bothe est and weste." "ȝys, syr, permafay, What some ever that ye to me say, Y schalle hyt nevyr owte caste." "The erlys doghtyr, so God me save! The love of hur but y have, My lyfe dayes be at the laste!" VI. The squyer seyde, "So muste y the, Ye have tolde me yowre prevyté, Y schalle gyf yow an answere; Ye are a knyght of lytylle londe, Take hyt not at evelle, y undurstonde, For mekylle wolde have mare. Yf y to that lady thys telle for thy sake, Peraventour on-henely sche wolde hyt take, And lyghtly let me fare." "Dere frende, y prey the that thou me behete, That thou wylt that lady in thys maner grete, What some ever happe to be hur answere." VII. "Syr, than umbe-thenke on thys thyng, Ther woweth hur emperours and kynges, Erlys and barons done alsoo; ȝyt wylle sche not have of thoo, But in godenes hur holdyth so, The whych y trowe ys for thy love and no mo. Sche wolde never a kynge forsake, And soche a sympulle knyght to take, But yf thy love were in hur herte wroght; Y swere be God, heven kynge, Wyste hur fadur of soche a thynge, Fulle dere hyt schulde be boght!" VIII. The knyȝt answeryd with wordes mylde, "My squyer, evyr syth thou were a chylde, Thou haste byn lente wyth me; At dedes of armes in many a stowre, Where wvste me ever have dyshonoure? Say on, so God save thee!" "Nay, syr, be Jhesu Cryste bryght, Ye are a nobylle knyght As any ys knowyn in Crystyanté! Yn dedes of armes, be God on lyve! Ye are countyd worthe odur v., God a mercy, syr!" seyde hee. IX. The knyȝt answeryd and seyde, "Allas!" Mornyng to hys bedd he gays, That rychely was y-wroght. Bothe hys handys he caste up sone, To Jhesu Cryste he made a boone, That Lorde that us hath boght; "The erlys doghtyr, that swete thynge, So mote hyt be at my ȝernynge, On hur ys alle my thoght, That y myȝt wedde hur to my wyfe, And sethen reches in my lyfe, Owt of care then were y broght!" X. Upon the morowe the maydyn smalle, Sche wente before hur fadur in halle, Amonge hur byrdys bryght; Of alle gentyls semyth none to hur but he, The lady seyde, "For Goddys peté, Where ys myn owne knyght?" Hys squyer answeryd with sympulle chere, "He ys syke and dedd fulle nere, He preyeth yow of a syght, For he ys caste in soche a care, But ye hym helpe he wylle forfare, He levyth not oon sevenyght!" XI. The erle to hys doghtyr spake, "Doghtur," he seyde, "for hys sake, Lystenyth, y schalle yow say; Aftur mete do ye as hynde, To hys chaumbur loke ye wynde, He hath servyd us many a day Fulle trewly in hys entente; Yn yustynge ne in turnament He seyde us nevyr nay. Alle dedes of armes that he may of here, He wynnyth the gree with jurney clere, And my worschypp aye." XII. Aftur mete the lady gente Dede hur fadurs commaw[n]demente, Scho takyth hur wey to wynde; Tylle hys chaumbur can sche goo, With hur sche toke but maydenys two, There the knyght can lende. Then seyde that lady whyte as flowre, "How faryth my knyght syr Egyllamowre, That doghty was evyr and hende?" His squyer seyde, "Make gode chere, Here comyth the erlys doghtyr dere, Y pray God that ye parte gode frende!" XIII. Then seyde thys lady whyte as lely flowre, "How faryth my knyght syr Egyllamowre, That doghty ys ever and ware?" "Damycelle," he seyde, "as ye may see, Thus y am caste in care for love of the, In anger and yn care." "Syr," the maydyn seyde, "so mote y thee, And ye had ony care for me, Myn herte wolde be fulle sore!" "And y myght turne to my lyfe, Y wolde wedde yow to my wyfe, Yf that yowre wylle were." XIV. The lady sweryd be Crystys myght, "Syr, ye are a nobylle knyght, And comyn of gentylle blode; And ever trewly undur the schylde, Thou wynnyst the gre in ylke a felde Worschypfully, be the rode! Y wylle avyse me as tyte, And at my fadur wylle y wete, Gyf that hys wylle be goode; As y am lady feyre and gente, When my fadur and y be at assente, Y wylle not fayle the, be the rode!" XV. The knyght kepte no more blys, When he had geton graunt of thys, But made hur fulle gode chere; He commawndyd a squyer for to go, And take an hundurd pownd or two, And gyf hur maydenys clere. "Damycelle," he seyde, "so God me save! Thys to yowre maryage schalle ye have, Thys ys the fyrste tyme that ever ye come here." Sche thanked hym anon-ryght, Sche toke hur leve and kyssyd the knyght, And seyde, "Farewelle, my fere." XVI. Crystyabelle hath takyn hur way To hur fadurs chaumbur there he lay, Was made of lyme and stone; And he seyde, "Welcome, as whyte as flowre! How faryth thy knyȝt, syr Egyllamowre?" Sche answeryd hym anone, "Grete othys to me he sware, That he was botyd of mekylle care, And gode comfort to hym hath tane; He tolde me and my maydenys hynde, To-morowe he wolde over the rever wynde Wyth hys hawkys ylke a oon." XVII. The erle seyde, "As mote y the, Doghtyr, y schalle ryde to see them flee, For comforte of that knyght." The erle buskyd and made hym yare For to ryde ovyr the revere, To see that semely syght. Alle the day he made gode chere; A wrath felle, as ye may here, Anone betwene them twoo, Or hyt nyghed the myȝt fulle nere, That made them of stryvys were, And afturward dud them woo! XVIII. As he rode homeward be the way, The knyght can to the erle say, Gode lorde, wylle ye me here?" "Ye," he seyde, "so mote y the, What some ever thou seyst to me, Hyt ys to me leve and dere; For oon the beste knyghtes art thou, That in thys londe ys levyd now, Awnturs ferre or nere." "Gode lorde, for charyté, Crystyabelle, yowre doghtur fre, When schalle sche have a fere?" XIX. The erle seyde, "So God me save, Y knowe no man that hur schalle have, Sche ys so bryght of blee!" The knyght can to the erle pray, "Lorde, y have servyd yow many a day, Vowche-safe ye hur on mee!" "Ye," he seyde, "be Crystys payne, Yf thou wynne hur, as y schalle ye sayne, In dedes of armes three, Broke hur wele, my doghtyr dere, And alle Artas ferre and nere, Y holde ther-to," seyde hee. XX. The knyght sweryd, "As mote y thee, At my jurney wolde y bee, And y wyste evyr whare." The erle seyde, "Here be weste Ther dwellyth a yeaunt in a foreste, Soche oon thou nevyr sayste are; Cypur treys there growe owte longe, Grete hertys there walke them amonge, The fayreste that on fote may fare: Go thedur and fett me oon away; Syr knyght, than dare y hardely say That thou haste byn thare." XXI. Be Jhesu swere the knyght than, "Yf he be ony Crystyn-man, Y schalle hym nevyr forsake. Holde wele my lady and my londe." "ȝys," seyde the erle, "here myn honde!" Hys trowthe to hym he strake. XXII. Aftur mete, os y yow telle, He takyth hys leve of Crystyabelle, Hys leve then takyth hee. "Damycelle," he seyde anon than, "For thy love y have undurtane Dedes of armys thre." "Syr," sche seyde, "make yow gladd, For an hardere fytt never ye had, Be God in no cuntré! Or that yurney be over passyd, For my love ye schalle sey fulle ofte allas! And so schalle y for thee. XXIII. "Syr knyght, when thou an-huntyng fowndes, Y schalle gyf the two greyhowndys, As wyght as any roo; As y am trewe gentylwoman, Ther was never beste that on fote ran Awey fro them myght goo. A fulle gode swerde y schalle geve the, Seynt Poule fonde hyt in the Grekes see, Of soche knowe y no moo. Ther was never helme of yron nor stele, And thou have to hytte hyt wele, But hyt wylle thorow hyt goo!" XXIV. He seyde, "God ȝylde yow, lady gente!" He takyth hys leve and forthe he wente, Hys way now hath he tane; A brode wey he helde forthe faste Tylle he come to a foreste, Soche oon sawe he nevyr none; Cypur treys were growyn owte, The wode was wallyd abowte, And wele corvyn wyth ryche ston. Forthe he wente, y undurstonde, Tylle a brode yate that he fonde, Ther-ynne the knyght ys gone. XXV. He blewe hys horne in that tyde; Hertys reson on eche a syde, Wythowtyn any lesynge: Then hys howndys began to baye, That harde the jeant there he laye, And he rysyth fro hys restynge. "Me thynkyth howndys that y here, Yondur ys a thefe to stele my dere, He were welle bettur to be at the see! Be hym that lett me be geton and borne, Yn werse tyme blewe he never hys horne, Neythur hys bowe bende in no manys fee." XXVI. Anon the jeant hath take hys way To the ȝate there he lay, Hys bakk he sett ther tylle. Then had syr Egyllamowre don to dedd A grete herte, and tan the hedd, The pryce he blewe fulle schylle! He come where the yeant was, And seyde, "Gode syr, let me passe, Yf hyt be yowre wylle." "Nay, thefe traytur, thou art tan! My chefe herte thou haste slayn, That schalt thou lyke fulle ylle!" XXVII. The yeant to the knyȝt ys gon, A clobb of yron in honde hathe tan, That was mekylle and fulle unwelde; Grete strokys the yeant gafe, And to the erthe fley hys stafe Two fote on every syde. "Thefe traytur, what dost thou here Yn my foreste to stele my dere? Here, thefe, thou schalt abyde!" Syr Egyllamowre hys swerde owt drowe, And to the yeant he gafe a sowe, And blyndyd hym in that tyde! XXVIII. That lorelle had loste hys syght, ȝyt he fyghtyth with that knyght Alle that day fulle yare; Tylle on the todur day abowte prime, Syr Egyllamowre waytyd hys tyme, And to herte hym bare! He thanked God that weldyth thys worlde, And at the yeant he smote harde, The thefe began to rore! Sythen he mett hym, os y say, Upon the grownde there he lay, He was xl. fote and more. XXIX. He thankyd God and hys knyfe, Therwith he berevyd the jeaunt hys lyfe; He thanked God hylye! Syr Egyllamowre wente hys way Wyth the yeauntes hedd, os y yow say, To a castelle of stone there-by. XXX. The contré come hym abowte, To see the hedd that was grete and stowte, Soche a hedd sawe they never none. Before the erle he hyt bare, "Lo! lorde, y have byn thare, And that bare ye wytnesse echon." Make we mery, so have we blys, Thys ys the furste fytt of thys That we have undurtane. XXXI. "What!" seyde the erle, "Yf thys be done, Thou getyst anodur jeaunt sone, Buske the forthe to fare; In Sydon, in that ryche cuntré, There dar no man abyde nor bee For drede of a wylde bare. Beste and man alle sleyth hee, That ever he may wyth eye see, And grevyth them wondur sore; Hys toschys passen a fote longe, The flesche that fastenyth them amonge They kever hyt nevyr more." XXXII. That nobylle knyȝt he seyde not naye; Upon the morowe, when hyt was day, Hys leve then takyth hee. Forthe he wendyth, y understonde, A fowrtenyght jurney on the londe, And also mekylle on the see, Tylle ageynys the none-tyde, Yn a foreste there he can ryde Where the bore had wonte to bee; Tydyngys of hym sone he fonde, Slayne men on every honde, That grymly was to see! XXXIII. Syr Egyllamowre restyd hym undur an oke; Tylle on the morowe that he can wake, The sonne rose hye and schon; Swythe further in the foreste he drowe, On the see he harde a sowe, And thedurward the knyght ys gon. Bryght helmes he fonde strawed wyde, As men of armys had loste ther pryde, That wyckyd bore had them slayne! To a clyfe of ston than rydyth hee, And say the bore come fro the see, Hys morne-drynke he had tane. XXXIV. The bore say hym there as he stode, And whettyd hys tuschys as he were wode, And to hym come asyde; Syr Egyllamowre wened welle to do, And wyth a spere rode hym too As faste as he myght ryde. Gyf he rode nevyr so faste, Hys gode spere in sonder braste, The hedd wolde not in hym glyde; He come to hym wyth a swowe, Hys gode stede undur hym he slowe, On fote the knyght muste abyde. XXXV. Tylle a banke he sett hys syde, Was undur a roche large and wyde, Hys herte hyt was fulle sore. Hys nobylle swerde he drowe owte tho, And fyghtyth with the wylde swyne with woo Thre dayes and more; Tylle on the iiijthe day abowte noon, He thoght hys lyfe dayes were y-done, For fyght wyth that wylde bore. The knyght cowde no bettur redd, But stroke faste on the swynes hedd, Hys tuschys he brake thore. XXXVI. He thankyd God that ylke stownde, And gaf the bore hys dethys wound, The boke of Rome thus can telle. The kyng of Sydon an-huntyng ys gon Wyth men of armys mony oon, The bore then harde he ȝelle. He comawnded a squyer for to fare, "Some man ys fyghtyng with that bore, Y trowe fulle wele there he schalle dwelle." The squyer rydyth to a clefe of ston, And say a knyght ley hym on Wyth a swerde scharpe and felle. XXXVII. The squyer hovyd and behelde them two, And ageyne to the kyng he can go, And seyde, "Lorde, the bore ys slayne!" "Seynt Mary!" seyde the kyng, "who myȝt hyt bee?" "ȝys, syr, a knyght y see, To God y trowe be fulle bayne! He beryth of golde a fulle feyre syght, A stede of aser and a knyght, Alle armyd for to gone. That bryght upon hys hedd hyt ys A lady of golde in hur ryches, Hys sperys of sabulle everychone." XXXVIII. The kyng swere, "So mote y thee, Hys gentylle armys wylle y see." And thedur he takyth hys way. Be that had syr Egyllamowre Ovyr-come alle hys styffe stowre, And to reste hym down he lay. The kyng seyde, "God reste with the!" "Lorde, welcome mote yow bee, Of pese y yow pray; Y have so foghtyn with the bore, That be my feyth y may no more, Thys ys the fourthe day!" XXXIX. The kynge seyde, "Be Goddys myght, Here schalle no man with the fyght, Grete synne hyt were the to tene! Thou haste ben ferre and wyde-where, And now haste slayn the wylde bore, That many a mannys bane hath bene. Worschypfully undur the schylde, Thou haste slayn thy foo and wonne the fylde, That we alle have seyn. Y have wetyn, syth y was man of aray, He hath slayne syxty on a day, Welle armyd men and clene!" XL. Ryche metys forthe he broght, The ryche wyne forgetyth he noght, And clothys there were spradd. The kynge swere, "So mote y thee, Y wylle dyne for love of thee, Thou haste byn strongly stadd." "Ye," he seyde, "permafay, Now hyt ys the fyrste day That evyr oon fote y fledd." The kynge preyd that gentylle knyght For to be wyth hym alle nyght, And reste hym in a ryche bedd. XLI. Aftur mete, as y yow say, The kynge can to the knyght pray Of what londe that he was. He seyde, "My name ys syr Awntour, Y dwelle with syr Prynsamowre, The erle of Artas." Knyghtys nere the kynge they drowe, "Yondur ys he that Arrok slowee, The yeauntys brodur Maras!" The kynge preyed the knyght so free, Two dayes wyth hym to be, Or that he schoulde forthe passe. XLII. "Ther ys a jeaunt here besyde, That sorowe doyth ferre and wyde On us and odur moo, That y dar no way ryde owt, But men of armys me abowte, Fulle seldone have y thus sene soo. Thys wylde bore that thou haste slayne here, He hath fedd hym xv. yere, Crystyn men for to sloo! Now ys he wente with care ynogh To berye hys brodur that thou slogh, That evyrmore be hym woo!" XLIII. To splatt the bore they wente fulle tyte, Ther was no knyfe that wolde hym byte, So harde of hyde was hee. "Syr Awntour," seyde the kynge, "thou hym slowe, Y trowe thy knyfe be gode y-nogh, Gyf that thy wylle bee." The knyght to the bore ys gon, And clevyth hym be the rugge-bone, That grete yoye hyt was to see. "Lorde," seyde the knyght, "y dud hym falle, Gyf me the hedd and take thou alle, Thou wottyst wele hyt ys my fee." XLIV. Aftur cartys can they sende, Ageyn none home with that they wende, The cyté was them nere; Alle the cuntré was fulle fayne That the wekyd bore was slayne, They made hym fulle gode chere. The quene seyde, "God schylde us fro schame, When the jeaunt ys comyn home, Newe tydyngys gete we sone; For he ys stronge and stowte, And therof y have mekylle dowte That he wylle do us grete dere or we have done." XLV. Syr Egyllamowre, that nobylle knyȝt, Was sett with the kynges doghtyr bryght, For that he schoulde be blythe; The maydenys name was Organata so fre, Sche preyeth hym of gode chere to bee, And besechyd hym so many a sythe. Aftur mete sche can hym telle How that geant wolde them quelle: The knyght began to lagh anone. "Damyselle," he seyde, "so mote y thee, And he come whylle y here bee, Y schalle hym assay sone!" XLVI. Ageyne the evyn the kyng can dyȝt A bath for that nobylle knyght, Of ȝerbys that were fulle gode; And alle the nyght ther-in he lay Tyl on the morowe that hyt was day, That men to mete yode. Be the kynge he herde hys masse, The wekyd geant comyn was, And cryed as he were wode. "Syr kynge," he seyde, "sende thou to me Organata thy doghtur free, Or thou schalt spylle thy blode!" XLVII. Syr Egyllamowre, that nobylle knyght, Armyd hym anon-ryght, And to the wallys wendyth hee. The borys hedd he made forthe to bere, And sett hyt upon a spere, That Maras myght hym see. The jeant lokyd upon the hedd, "Allas! my bore, art thou dedd? My tryste was mekylle on the! Be that lay that y leve ynne, My lytylle spote hoglyn, Dere boght thy dethe schalle bee!" XLVIII. The yeant on the walle dange, At eche stroke the fyre owt sprange, For nothyng wolde he spare! Yn-to the cyté he caste a crye, "Thevys, trayturs, ye schalle abye For sleyng of my bore! Thys stone walle y schalle down dynge, And with myn hondys y schalle yow hynge Or that y hens fare!" With the grace of God, or hyt were nyght The yeant had hys fulle of fyght, The boke seythe some dele more! XLIX. "Syr Awntur," seyde the kynge than, "Y rede we arme us ylke-oon, Thys fende wylle felly fyght." The knyght swere be the rode, "Y schalle assay hym, thogh he were wode, Fulle mekylle ys Goddys myght!" Syr Egyllamowre was not agaste, Of the helpe of God was alle hys tryste, And of hys swerde so bryght; He rode a course to assay hys stede, He toke hys leve and forthe he yede, And alle prayed for that knyght. L. Syr Egyllamowre the felde hath tane; The geant say and tylle hym came, And seyde, "Art thou comyn, my fere? Y trowe thou halpe to sle my bore, Thou schalt abye trewly therfore, Hyt schalle be boght fulle dere!" Syr Egyllamowre wened welle to do, And wyth a spere rode hym too, As man of armes clere; The yeant buskyd and made hym bowne, Hors and man he stroke alle downe, The knyght was dede fulle nere. LI. The knyght cowde no bettur redd, When hys nowbylle stede was dedd, But to hys fote he hath hym tane; Sethen so nere he can hym goo, Hys ryght arme he stroke hym froo, Faste be the schouldur-bone. Thowe the lorelle had loste hys hande, Alle day stondyth he faste fyghtande Tylle the sonne to reste was goon; Then was he so wery he myȝt not stonde, The blode ran so faste fro hym on every honde, That lyfe dayes hadd he nevyr oon. LII. When the thefe began to rore, Alle that in that cyté wore For yoye the bellus can rynge. Edmonde was the kynges name, "Awnturs," he seyde, "be seynt Jame, Here schalt thou be kynge! To-morowe schalle y crowne the, And thou schalt wedd Organata, my doghtur fre, Wyth a fulle ryche rynge." The knyȝt answeryd with wordes mylde, "Syr, yf you yoye of yowre chylde, For here may y not lende." LIII. "Syr knyght, for thy nobylle dede, Y schalle geve the a nobylle stede, Also redd as ony roone; Yn yustyng ne in turnement, Thou schalt never soffur dethys wound, Whylle thou syttyst hym upon." Seyde Organata that swete thynge, "Y schalle geve the a gode golde rynge, Wyth a fulle ryche stone; Whedur that ye be on water or on londe, And that rynge be upon yowre honde, Ther schalle nothyng yow slon." LIV. He seyde, "God ȝylde yow, lady clere." "Syr, y schalle abyde yow thys xv. yere, Yf that ye wylle me wedd. Worschypfully, so God me save, Kyng nor dewke schalle me not have, Thowe he be comely cladd." The knyght answeryd, "Permafay, Withyn thys xv. yere ye schalle here say How that y have spedde." The knyght takyth hys leve and farys, Wyth the geauntys hedd and the borys, The weyes owre Lord wylle hym lede. Thys ys the seconde fytt of thys, Make we mery, so have we blys, For ferre have we to rede. LV. Into the londe of Artas Syr Egyllamowre can passe, There the erlys were; Alle that cuntrey was fulle fayne, That he homeward was comyn ageyne, Alle tho that he fonde there. Crystyabelle herde telle of hys comyng home, Ageyne the knyght then ys sche gone, Sche buskyd and made hur ȝare. "Syr," sche seyde, "how have ye faryn?" "Damycelle, wele, and in travelle byn To brynge us bothe owt of care." LVI. There he kyssyd the lady gente, And to halle they wente, The erle there-wyth to tene. The hedys to hym there he down layde, "Lo! lorde," the knyght sayde, "In Sydon have y bene." Therfore was the erle fulle woo, "Y trowe ther wylle no develle the sloo, Be Cryste, syr, so y wene; Thou art abowteward, y undurstonde, To wynne alle Artas of myn honde, And wynne my doghtyr schene." LVII. The knyght seyde, "So mote y the, Noght but y worthy bee, Helpe God that ys beste!" The erle seyde, "ȝyt hyt schalle falle, That oon schalle come and pay for alle, Thowe thou be nevyr so preste." The knyght preyed the erle so free, "xij. wekys that ye wylle geve me, My boonys for to reste." LVIII. Aftur soper, as y yow telle, He wendyd to chaumbur with Crystyabelle, There laumpus were brennyng bryght; That lady was not for to hyde, Sche sett hym on hur beddys syde, And welcomyd home that knyght. "Damycelle," he seyde, "so have y spede, With the grace of God y schalle the wedd;" Therto ther trowthys they plyght. So gracyously he come hur tylle, Of poyntes of armys he schewyd hur hys fylle, That there they dwellyd alle nyȝt. LIX. Be xij. wekys were comyn and gone, Crystyabelle as whyte as fome, Alle pale was hur hewe! Sche prayed hur gentylle women so fre, That they wolde layne hur privyté, "To me that ye be trewe!" The erle brennyth for sorow and care, "Have doo, syr knyȝt, and make the yare, Thy jurnay comyth alle newe." When Crystyabelle herde ther-of say, Scho mornyd for hym bothe nyȝt and day, That sone myght hur rewe. LX. "Syr, at grete Rome, as y the telle, Ther lythe a dragon ferse and felle; Herkenyth, y schalle yow say. The fende ys of so grete renowne, Ther dar no man come nere the town Be xv. myle of way. Arme the, syr knyȝt, and thedur wende, And loke thou slee hym with thyn honde, Or ellys thou sey me nay." "Syr, that was never my purpos For to leve oon soche a trase, Be nyght nor be day. LXI. "With the grace of God Almyght, Wyth the worme ȝyt schalle y fyght, Thowe he be nevyr so wylde." Afturward, as y yow telle, He takyth hys leve of Crystyabelle, As fayre as floure in felde: "Damycelle," he seyde, "a poynt of armys ys ondone, Me be-hovyth to wende and come fulle sone, Wyth the helpe of Mary mylde! A golde rynge y schalle geve the, Kepe hyt wele, my lady free, Yf Cryste sende the a chylde." LXII. Forthe he wendyth, as y yow say, To grete Rome he takyth the way To seke the worme so bolde; Tokenynges sone of hym he fonde, Slayne men on every honde, Be hunderdes he them tolde. Yf he were never so bolde a knyght, Of that worme when he had a syght Hys herte began to folde; Hyt was no wondur thoghe he were wrothe, He stroke hym and hys stede bothe To the grounde so colde! LXIII. The knyȝt rose and hys schylde up sett, That wyckyd worme ther-with mett Wyth byttur dynte and felle; He schett fyre ryght sore, Evyr nere the nyght the more, As the develle of helle. Syr Egyllamowre, for sothe to say, Halfe the tonge he stroke away, That fende began to ȝelle! And with the stompe that hym was levyd, He stroke the knyght in the hedd A depe wounde and a felle. LXIV. The knyght seyde, "Now am y schente!" Nere that wyckyd worme he wente, Hys hedd he stroke away; And sythen so nere ys he gone, He clevyd hym by the rugge-bone, The felde he wan that day. The emperoure stode in hys towre, And say the fyght of syr Egyllamowre, And to hys men can say, "Do to crye in Rome the worme ys slayne, That hathe a knyȝt done hym selfe allone, Pertly be my fay!" LXV. Yn grete Rome they dyd to crye, Every offycer in hys bayly, "The dragon hath tan hys ȝynde." The emperoure hath tan the way To the knyght, there as he lay Besyde the dylfulle thynge; And alle that ever myght ryde or goo Come syr Egyllamowre unto, And wyth blysse home can hym brynge. They were so fayne the worme was slayn, Wyth procescions hym comyng ageyn, They dydd the bellus to rynge. LXVI. The emperoure hath a doghtyr bryght, Hath undurtane to hele that knyght, Hur name ys Dawntowre; Scho savys hym fro the dedd, And with hur handys sche helyth hys hedd A twelmonyth in hur bowre. LXVII. The ryche emperoure of Rome, He sende aftur the dragon sone That in the felde was leyde; Hys syde was herde as any bras, Hys whyngus grene as any gras, Hys hedd as fyre was redd. Hys body gretter then a tunne; The nobylle knyȝt the felde hath wonne, And slayn hym in that tyde; The emperoure was mekylle of pryde, And made to bete hym bak and syde, Ryght thorowe hys owne rede. LXVIII. When they sye that grete beste, Mony a man was of hym agaste, And fro hym flewe fulle sone; Ther mett hym thre hundurd and moo, The emperoure badd they schulde hym take tho, Hys wylle to be done. To seynt Laurens kyrke they hym bare, There schalle he lye for evyrmare, That fowle worme withowten wone. When they remevyd that fowle thynge, Mony a man felle in dede swownyng, For stynke that fro hym come. LXIX. Then come letturs to Artas, That the worme in Rome slayn was, A knyght then hath hym sloon. So longe at leche-crafte can he dwelle, A man-chylde had Crystyabelle, As whyte as whallys boon. The erle had made to God a vowe, "Doghtur, in-to the see schalt thou Yn a schypp allone; And that bastard that to the ys dere, Crystyndome schalle he non have here!" Hyr maydenys wepte everychon. LXX. Thowe sche were never so feyre a wyght, ȝyt was a schypp fulle redy dyght, That sche in forthe schulde fare. Sche lokyd on hur sone with hur eye, "Sone," sche seyde, "now schalle we dye, Thy fadur schalle see us no mare!" Hur chaumbur women that be hur can stonde, They weptyn faste and wrang ther hande, They had fulle mekylle care. When they wyste that sche schoulde forthe passe, Then they cryed and seyde, "Allas! Now are we lafte fulle bare." LXXI. Thys lady was in care cladd, To a schypp they have hur ladd, Alle and hur frely fode. Sche seyde, "Feyre fadur, y yow pray, Let a preste me a gospelle saye For fendys on the flode." Sche preyd hur gentylwomen so free, "Grete wele my lorde, whan ye hym see." They weptyn as they were wode. Hur chaumbur women in swownyng dud falle, And so dud hur frendys alle, That wolde hur ony gode. LXXII. The lady syghed with herte so sore, A wynde rose and to a roche hur bare, And there-up can sche londe. Sche was fulle fayne, y undurstonde, Sche wende there had be a kende londe, And thedurward can sche wende. Nothyng ellys fonde sche thare, But fowlys mony that wylde ware, Faght faste on every honde; A grype come in alle hur care, Hur yonge sone awey he bare Yn-to a cuntré unkende. LXXIII. Than that lady seyde, "Allas! That ever y woman borne was, My chylde ys thus rafte me froo!" Yn the londe of Ysraelle can he lyght, A gryffon seythe the boke he hyght That wroght the lady woo. The kyng of Israelle an-huntyng ys wente, And say where the grype was lente, And thedurward can he goo; He stroke on the chylde with hys bylle, And the chylde cryed lowde and schylle, And he rose and levyd the chylde soo. LXXIV. A squyer to the chylde can passe, Yn a scarlet mantelle fowndyn he was Wyth a fulle a ryche pane; Yn a scarlet mantelle woundyn, And with a goldyn gyrdylle bowndyn, Hys eyen grey as crystalle stone. Alle they sweryn be the rode, "Thys chylde ys comyn of gentylle blode, Where that ever that he was tane." For that he fro the gryffon felle, They namyd the chylde syr Degrabelle, That welsome was of wone. LXXV. The kyng lafte huntyng at that tyde, And home with the chylde can he ryde, That fro the grype was hente. "Dame," he seyde to the qwene, "Mekylle of solas have we sene, To day God hath me sente." Therof he was bothe glad and blythe, He sende aftur a norse swythe, Hys sydes were bothe large and gente. Kepe we thys chylde of mekylle honowre, And speke we of hys modur whyte as flowre, What weyes oure Lord hath hur lente. LXXVI. Alle nyght in the roche sche laye, A wynde rose ageynys day, And fro the londe hur dryvys. Sche had neydur reste then odur, But eche storme gretter then odur, On God fulle faste scho cryes. As the boke of Rome says, Sche was meteles vj. dayes, For care hur herte clevyth. Be the vij. day abowte none, Jhesu sende hur socowre sone, Yn Egypt forthe sche ryvyth. LXXVII. The kyng of Egyp stode in a towre, He say that lady whyte as flowre, Was wrekyd on the sonde; He comawndyd a squyer for to go to the see, And loke what in the yondur schyp may be, The wynde hath drevyn hur to the londe. To that schypp he come fulle tyte, Upon the syde then can he smyte, Than sche up can stonde. For feyntnes sche myght not speke a worde, The lady leynyd hur on the borde, And made sygnys wyth hur hande. Make we mery for Goddys est, Thys ys the thrydd fytt of owre geste, That dar y take an hande. LXXVIII. The squyer wyste not what she mente, Ageyne to the kyng he went, And knelyd downe on hys kne. "Lorde, in the yondur schyp nothyng ys, But a woman in lyknes, Sche rose and lokyd on me. A fayrer thyng say y never none, That ever was made of flesche and bone, But hyt were Mary free! Sche makyth me sygnes with hur honde, As sche were of an unknowen londe Beyonde the Grekys see." LXXIX. Be Jhesu swere that gentylle kynge, "Y wylle se that gentylle thynge," And thedur he goyth apase. To the schyp he come anon; Ageyne the kyng sche rose sone, That lady that was so feyre of face: That damycelle that was so mylde, So sore had gret for hur chylde, Sche was wexyn alle horse. To a chaumbur they hur ladd, Dylycyus metys they hur badd, Wyth gode wylle sche them tase. LXXX. Aftur mete hur frayneth the kyng, "Of whens art thou, my swete thyng, For thou art bryght of blee?" Sche seyde, "Y was borne in Artas, Syr Prynsamowre my fadur was, The lorde of that cuntré. Sythen hyt befelle upon a day, Y and my maydenys went to play Be the syde of the see. There was a lytylle bote stode, Y and my squyer ther in yode, Un-Crystynman was hee. LXXXI. "On londe y lafte my maydenys alle, My squyer on slepyng can falle, A mantelle y ovyr hym drewe." The kyng seyde, "Make gode chere, Thou art my brothurs doghtyr dere." For yoye on hym sche logh. Kepe we thys lady whyte as flowre, And speke we of syr Egyllamowre, Now comyth to hym care y-nogh. LXXXII. When syr Egyllamowre was hole and sounde, And wele recovyrd on hys wounde, He buskyd and made hym yare; He thankyth the emperoure of thys, Hys doghtur and the emperes, And alle that evyr ware thare. Crystabelle was in hys thoght, The dragonys hedd forgeteth he noȝt, Upon hys spere he hyt up bare; Be xij. wekys were comyn to ȝende, Yn the londe of Artas can he londe, And to hym come letturs of care. LXXXIII. The cuntré herde telle, y undurstonde, That syr Egyllamowre was come to londe; Grete yoye they made in dede. A squyer wente ageyne hym sone, "Lo! lorde, what the erle hath done! Fayre Crystyabelle ys dedd! A man-chylde had sche with hur borne, The erle hath hys lyfe forlorne, He was bothe whyte and rede; Yn a schypp on the see he dud them two, And wyth wyndys let them goo!" The knyght swownyd in that tyde. LXXXIV. "Lorde God!" seyde the knyght so free, "Where ever the gentylle women bee, Yn chambur that wyth hur was?" The squyer answeryd hym fulle sone, "Lorde, when sche to the see was done, Ylke oon toke ther wey to passe." Unto the halle than can he fare, Among the lordys that were thare Be the erle of Artas: "Have thou here thy dragonys hedd, Alle ys myn that here ys levydd, Thou syttyst in my place." LXXXV. A grete rewthe hyt was to here, How he callyd Crystyabelle hys fere, And seyde, "Art thou gone to the see? God that dyed on crosse verye, On thy soule have mercy, And on thy yong sone so free!" And for fere of syr Egyllamowre, The erle rose up and toke a towre, There evyr more wo hym bee! "Gentylle men, so God me save, Alle that ordre of knyght wylle have, Ryse up and take hyt at me." LXXXVI. The gentyls that come hym tylle, Then they were fulle fayne to do hys wylle, He gave them ordurs sone; Yn the halle that he there hadd, V. and thretty knyghtys he madd, Be that odur day abowte none; And he that was the porest of them alle, He gaf for Crystyabellys soule Londys to leve upon. A thousand, as y undurstonde, He toke with hym, and went into the Holy Londe, There God on cros was done. LXXXVII. Syr Egyllamowre, as ye may here, He dwellyd in the Holy Londe xv. yere, The hethen men amonge; Fulle doghtyly he hym bare, There ony dedes of armys ware, Ageyne them that levedd wronge. Be the xv. yerys were comyn and gone, The chylde that the grype hath tane Waxe bothe bolde and stronge; Yn yustyng ne yn turnament, Ther myȝt no man with-sytt hys dynte, But he to the erthe them thronge. LXXXVIII. Syr Degrabelle was wyse and wyght, The kyng of Ysraelle hath made hym knyȝt And prynce wyth hys honde. Lystenyth, lordyngys, leve and dere, What armys that thys chylde bere, And ye wylle undurstonde. LXXXIX. He bare, Aserre, a grype of golde, Rychely beton on the molde, Yn hys clothys hangyng A chylde in a skarlet mantelle bounde, As he was broght to londe Thorowe that grype, withowt lesynge. XC. The kyng of Ysraelle waxe fulle olde, To Syr Degrabelle hys sone he tolde, "Y wolde thou haddyst a wyfe; For y trowe thou art me dere, When y am dedd, thou getyst no pere, Of ryches thou art so ryfe." A messengere come before the kyng, "Yn Egypt wonnyth a swete thyng, The feyrest that evyr bare lyfe; The kyng hath soche othys sworne, No man schalle have hur that ys borne, But he wynne hur wyth stryfe." XCI. The kynge swere, "And sche be gode, Therfore we wylle not let be the rode, Have done sone and buske the swythe." And he comawndyd a messengere to gon, To bydd hys knyghtys everychon That they were there belyve. They buskyd them wyth ryalle fare, And to the see they went fulle yare, And passyd the watur lythe; Be th[r]e wekys were comyn to ȝende, Yn the londe of Egypt can they wende, Ther forsus for to knowe swythe. XCII. A messengere wente before to telle, "Here comyth the kyng of Ysraelle Wyth mony a man semelé; The prynce hys sone with many a knyȝt, For to wowe yowre doghtur bryght, Yf that yowre wylle bee." He seyde, "Be God, y hope y schalle Fynde redy yustyng for them alle, They be welcome to me; And yf they come on gode array, To ther mete y schalle them pray, As mote y thryve or the." XCIII. Trumpus in the topp-castelle rose, The ryche kyng to the londe gose Wyth hys knyghtys clad in palle; The chylde, that was of xv. yere, Gothe them among, as ye may here, A fote above them alle; The kyng of Egypt ageyn hym wente, And sythen be the honde hym hente, And bad hym to the halle. "Y prey the thou gyf me a syght Of Crystyabelle, yowre doghtur bryght, As whyte as bone of whalle." XCIV. Owt of a chaumbur was sche broght, With mannys hondes as sche were wroght, Or corvyn on a tree; By rome some stode and hur behelde, "Wele were hym that hur myght welde," To hym-selfe seyde hee. The kyng of Ysraelle that lady can asche, Yf she myght the see ovyr-passe, Hys sonnys wyfe for to bee. Tho seyde sche, "Yf he may Gete me with hys schafte to-morowe at day, Thy askyng grawnte y the." XCV. Grete lordys were at the assent; Waytys blewe, to mete they wente Wyth a fulle ryalle chere. Two kynges the deyse began, Syr Degrabelle and Crystyabelle than, Thowe they were sybbe fulle nere. Kynges wente to sytt y-wys, Ylke squyer in hys offyce To serve hys lorde fulle dere; Aftur mete than seyde they Deus pacis, clerkys cunne seye Yn the halle there men may hyt here. XCVI. At morne when day sprange, Gentyl men to haruds thrange, Syr Degrabelle was dyght; Trumpus in the felde rose, Eche lorde to odur goys, That was a semely syght. Grete lordys made to crye, "What maner of man ys hee, That beryth the grype so bryght?" Harowdes of armes conne them telle, "That ys the prynce of Ysraelle, Be war, for he ys wyght!" XCVII. The kyng of Egypt hath take a schafte, The chylde satt and nere hym raght, Thogh he be nevyr so kene; Ageyn the kyng the chylde can fare, Hors and man he bare downe thare Strongely on the grene. The kynge seyde, "So God me save, Thou art beste worthy hur to have." Thus seyn they alle-be-dene. Lordys they justyd there that day, The squyers on the morne, withowt nay, Doghty men and kene. XCVIII. Two kynges have there trowthe plyght To Crystyabelle that was so bryght, To the churche they conne hur lede. Thus gracyously he hath spedd, Hys owne modur he hath wedd, Thus harde y a clerke rede. XCIX. Hys armes they bere hym beforne, Sche thenkyth how hur chylde was awey borne, And grete sorow she made in thoght. "Lorde, in thyn armes a fowle y see, That sometyme rafte a chylde fro me, A knyght fulle dere hym boght." The kynge swere be Goddys myght, "In my foreste can he lyght, A grype to londe hym broght." He comawndyd a squyer for to wende, And aftur hys cofur he hym sende, Ther in hyt was leyde so softe; There y wot he toke owte thare The mantelle and the gyrdylle bothe, That rychely was be-wroght. C. The lady seyde, "Fulle wo ys me, They were rafte fro me in the see!" On-swownyng downe sche brayde. "How longe sethen?" the kyng can say. "xv. yere, syr, permafay!" They grauntyd alle that sche sayde. CI. "Gode Lorde, we alle thou wys and rede, A sybbe maryage thys day have we made In the spryngyng of the mone; Y rede ye loke, so God me save, What maner of man that hur schalle have, That hyt were done full sone." "Ye, ffadur, y trowe, hyt be gode, And so dothe my modur, be the rode! But y weddyd hur before none; Therfore ther schalle no man have hur, be seynt Mary, But he hur wynne os doghtyly, As y myselfe have done." CII. Grete lordys conne to odur saye, "For hur love we wylle turnay, Wyth swerdus in owre honde; He that wynnyth that lady clere, He schalle wedd hur to hys fere, There hym lovyth beste to lende." Harowdes of armes than they wente, For to dyscrye thys turnayment In eche londys ȝende; Syr Egyllamowre was in that cuntré sone, And herde telle of thys grete renowne, And thedurward can he wende. CIII. For Crystyabelle was put in-to the see, Now soche armes beryth he, Lystenyth, y wylle yow dyscrye. He bare of Aser, a schyp of golde, A lady as sche dye schoulde, And a chylde lay hur bye; Hys maste of sylvyr and of golde, The chylde was but of oon nyght olde, And evyr in poynte to dye; And of redd golde was hys fane, Hys gabulle and hys ropys everechone Was portrayed verely. CIV. Gentylmen that herde of thys crye, Thedur come they redylye, Tho that doghty were; The kyng of Sydone came fulle sone Wyth mony knyghtys herde of bone, That yoly colourys bare. Schaftys they made in the felde, That grete lordys myght them welde, Fulle faste they turnayed thare; Syr Egyllamowre, thogh he come laste, ȝyt was he not awey caste, The knyght was cladd in care. CV. Crystyabelle, that lady smalle, Was broght to a corner of the walle, There the crye was made. The chylde that was of xv. yere elde, Was aventurs in the felde, And yn a stowre he rode; When he began to smyte, Fro hys handys they went not that tyde, Ther wolde none hys dyntys abyde; He sende a knyght anon fulle stylle Unto syr Egyllamowre, to wyt hys wylle, And seyde, "Wylle ye not ryde?" CVI. He seyde, "Syr recreawntes, I am fer comyn owt of hethennes, Grete synne hyt were me to tene!" Hys owne sone seyde, "So mote y the, Than schulde ye not have armyd be, More worschyp had hyt bene." CVII. The knyght answeryd, and on hym logh, "Haste thou not ȝyt askyd me y-nogh, But thou on me more praye?" "Syr, y am aventurs in thys stowre For a lady whyte as flowre, To wynne hur yf y may." "Be Jhesu," seyde the knyght then, "Y wylle loke yf y can For hur love onythyng turnay; Be God, sometyme have y sene, In as herde aventurs have y bene, And wonne fulle wele away." CVIII. Grete lordys with weponys longe, Gentylmen to horsus spronge, Doghty men echone; And syr Egyllamowre turnyd hys swerde flatt, And gafe hys sone soche a patte, That to the erthe he ys gone. Alle they sweryd upon the molde, "He that beryth the schylde of golde Hath wonne hur hymselfe allone." The lady seyde, "Be Goddys peté, My sone ys dedd! fulle wo ys me! That kene knyght hath hym slone!" CIX. Harowdes of armes swore owt than, "Yf ther be ony gentylman, To make hys body gode." These grete lordys seyde now, "Beste worthy, syr knyght, art thou To wedd thys frely fode." To onarme hym the knyght goys, In cortyls, sorcatys and schorte clothys, That doghty weryn of dede. Two kyngys the deyse began, Syr Egyllamowre and Crystyabelle than, Jhesu us alle spede! CX. Sche askyth be what chesone he bare A schyp of golde, bothe maste and ore; He tolde hur, as he was hynde. He seyde, "For in the see was done My lemman and my yongest sone, And there they made ther ȝende." That lady lettyd for no schame, "Gode syr, what ys yowre name?" He tolde hur in that stownde, "Men calle me, there y borne was, Syr Egyllamowre of Artas, That with the worme was woundyd." CXI. There was many a robe of palle, The chylde servyd in the halle At the fyrste mete that day. Prevély scho to hym spake, "ȝondur ys thy fadur that the gate!" A grete yoye hyt was to see ay! When he knelyd downe on hys kne, There was mony an herte soré, Be God that dyed on a tree! Hyt ys sothe seyde, be God of heven, Mony metyn at on-sett stevyn; And so befelle hyt there! CXII. The kyng of Israelle can hym telle How he fonde syr Degrabelle, Knyghtys lystenyd ther-to than. Syr Egyllamowre knelyd on hys kne, "A! Lorde God, ȝylde hyt the, Thou haste made hym a man!" The kynge seyde, "Y hym geve Halfe my kyngdome whylle y leve, My sone as whyte os swan." The kynge of Sydon seyde also, "And my doghtur Organata y gyf hym to, For my londys hys fadur wan." CXIII. Syr Egyllamowre prayed these lordys hynde, Home to Artas that they wolde wynde, At hys weddyng to bee. They grauntyd alle that there ware; They buskyd them with ryalle fare, And sone come ovyr the see. CXIV. Schyppus lay wrekyd on the sonde, Eche lorde toke odur be the honde, Pagys ther horsys conne dryve; Thys behelde syr Prynsamowre, He felle bakward ovyr a towre, And brake hys nekk belyve! A messengere come before to telle, What maner aventurs there befelle: Wyth God may no man stryve! Alle the nyght there they laye, Tylle on the morowe that hyt was day, To wedd that lady whyte belyve. CXV. Ther was many a lorde of pryde, A kynge ladde hur on eche a syde, Hyt was a semely syght; Sythen a byschop can them wedde, Than thanked they God they had so spedd, And Mary mekylle of myght! Sethen to wedde them can they goo, Syr Degrabelle and Organata tho, He was a fulle feyre knyght. There was throwyn golde in that stounde, The mowntans of a thousand pounde, Gete hyt who so myght. The mynstrels that were of ferre londe, They had mony robys, y undurstonde, And mony a ryche gyfte. Sythen to the castelle they wente, To holde brydale they hente, Hyt lastyd a fourtenyght. CXVI. When the brydale was alle y-done, Eche oon toke ther leve to gone, There they were levest to lende. Mynstrels that there were in that stounde, Ther gyftys were worthe iij. c. pounde, The bettur myght they spende. In Rome thys geste cronyculd ys; Jhesu brynge us to that blys, That lastyth withowten ende! Amen. Here endyth syr Egyllamowre of Artas, and begynneth syr Tryamowre. THE ROMANCE OF SIR DEGREVANT. Sire Degrevvaunt, and theynke and thanke. I. Lord Gode in Trynité, Yeff home hevene ffor to se, That lovethe gamene and gle, And gestys to ffede. Ther ffolke sitis in ffere, Shullde mene herkene and here Off gode that beffore hem were, That levede on arthede; And y schalle karppe off a knyght, That was both hardy and wyght, Sire Degrevaunt that hend hyght, That dowghty was of dede. Was nevere kyngh that he ffond, In ffraunce ne in Englond, Myght sette a schafft of hys hond One a stythe stede! II. Wyth kyng Arrtor, y wene, And wyth Gwennor the quene, He was knowun ffor kene, That comelych knyght; In Hethenesse and in Spayne, In ffraunce and in Bryttayne, Wyth Persevalle and Gawayne, ffor herdy and wyght! He was dowghty and dere, And ther nevew ffulle nere, Ther he of dedys myght y-here, By days or by nyght. ffor-thy they name hem that stounde A knyght of tabulle round, As maked is in the mappe-mound, In storye ffull ryght. III. He was ffayre mane and ffree, And gretlech yaff hym to gle, To harp and to sautré, And geterne ffull gay; Well to play in a rote, Off lewtyng, welle y wote, And syngyng many suet not, He bare the pryes aey. Yet gamenes hade he mere, Grehoundes ffor hert and hare, Both ffor bokes and the bare, Be nyght and be day; ffelle ffaukons and ffayre, Haukes of nobulle eyre, Tylle his perke ganne repeyre, By sexxty, y dar say. IV. He wold be upp or the day To honte and to revay, Gretly yaff hem to pley Eche day to newe; Tho here hys mas or he went, Trewly in gode entaunt, And seththe to bowe into the bente, There games inne grewe. Now to fforest he ffounde, Both wyt horne and with hound, To breyng the deere to the grond Was hys most glew; Certus wyff wold he none, Wench ne lemone, Bot as an anker in a stone He lyved evere trew. V. There was sesyd in hys hand A thousand poundus worth off land, Off rentes well settand, And muchlle delle more; An houndered plows in demaynus, ffayere parkes in-wyth haynus, Grett herdus in the playnus, Wyth muchelle tame store. Castelos wyth heygh wallus, Chambors wyth noble hallus, ffayer stedes in the stallus, Lyard and soore; Wher he herd of anny cry, Evere he was redy, He passede never fforth by In lond where they were. VI. He lovede welle almos-dede, Powr men to cloth and ffede, Wyth menske and manhede, Offe met he was ffre; And also gestes to calle, And mensteralus her in halle, He yaff hem robes off palle, Off gold and off ffee. In ych place whaer he comme, When he wente ffram heme, They hade halowed hys name Wyth gret nobullé; In ych lond where he wentt, So many mene he hadd schennt, In justus and on tornament He whan evere the gre! VII. There wonede an eorl him be-syd, ȝe a lord off mochelle pryd, That hadd viij. fforestes fful wyd, And bowres ffulle brode; He hade a grete spyt of the knyght, That was so hardy and wyght, And thought howe he best myght That dowghty to grode. He was sterne and stoute, And rode in a gay route, And brak hys parkes about, The best that he hade; Ther-inne he made a sory pley, The ffattest he ffeld in ffey By sexty one a day, Suche maystries he made! VIII. He drowhe reveres with ffysh, And slogh hys forsteres y-wys. The knyght wyste not of thys, ffor soth y yow say; ffor he was in the holy lond, Dede of armes for to ffond, The hethenemene with hys hond He ffeld hem offten in ffey. Hys steward hadd a lettre y-sent, A mesyngere hath hyt hent, And forth hys wey ys y-went, As ffast as ever he mey: When he tylle hys lord come, The lettre in hys hand he nome, He sey, "Alle ȝoode to schome!" And went one hys wey. IX. Wyth the knytht was none abad, He buskyd hyme fforth and rade ffram the ffrount of the garnad, As ffaste as he myght; Sone he pased the see, He and hys meney, And come in-to hys contré By the twelthe nyght. Tyll hys maner he went, A ffeyre place he fond schent, Hys husbondus that yaf rent Was y-heryȝed dounryght: His tenauntrie was alle done, The best in every tone; His ffayre perkes wer comene, And lothlych by-dyght! X. He closed hys perkes ayene; His husbondus they were ff[a]yene, He lent hem oxone and wayne Of his owne store, And also sede for [to] sowe, Wyght horse for to drow, And thought werke be lawe, And wyth none other schore. ffor-thi a lettre has he dyght To this eorl opo[n] myght, He preyd hem to do him ryght, Ar telle hyme whereffore; And wyth sqwere he him sent, Off an honderd pond of rent, And fforth hys wey ys he went To wytt hys answere. XI. The squiere nolde nat downe lyght, Bot haylis this eorl opone hyght, And sethes bowrone and knyght, With wordes fulle wise; He held the lettre by the nooke, And to the eorle he hit toke; And he there-one gane loke, And seyde his avys, And spake to the squiere, "Ne were thow a messengere, Thow shuld abey ryght here, Undere this wode rys! I wulle ffore thy lordes tene, Honte hys fforesstus and grene, And breke his perkes bydene, Proudeste of prys!" XII. Thanne the squiere seyde sone, "Syre, that is nat well done, Ye have lefft hyme bot whone In herde is nat to hyde: He that seyth that hit is ryght, Be he squiere othere knyght, Here my glove one to ffyght, What chaunce so be-tyde! Syr, yeff hit be youre welle, Thenkes that ye han done ylle, Y rede ye amend to schkylle, ffor wothes is ever wyde!" The eorl answeryd y-wyse, "Y wolle nat amend that mese, Y counte hyme nat at a cres ffor alle hys mechelle pryd!" XIII. Than the eorl wax worth, And swore many a gret owth, He schold be messaggere lothe But he hys wey wente! He toke his leve with-outen nay, And wendus fforth one his way, As ffast as ever he may, Over the brode bent. He come home at the none, And told how he hade done; The knyght asked him as sone, What answer he sent. "Sir, and he may as he ment, His game wolt he never stent, Thyself and he may the hent, I telle the, for y-schent." XIV. Than syr Degrevvaunt syght, And byheld the hevene up-an hyght, "Jhesus, save me in my ryght, And Maré me spede! And y schalle yeff Gode a vow, Some of us schalle hyt row! Hyt schalle not be for his prow, And y may right rede!" Anone to armus they hom dyght, As fast as evere they myght, Both squier and kynyght, Wys under wede; Ther was armed one hye Tene score knythis redy, And iij. hondred archerus by, ffulle goode at here nede. XV. Anone to the forest they found, There they stotede a stound; They pyght pavelouns round, And loggede that nyght. The eorle purveyede him an ost, And com in at another cost, Wyth his brag and his bost, Wyth many a fferres knyght; He uncouplede his houndus With-inne the knyghtus boundus; Bothe the grene and the groundus They halowede an hyght: Thus the forest they fray, Hertus bade at abey; One a launde by a ley These lordus dounne lyght. XVI. Sextene hertus wase y-slayne, And wer brought to a pleyne, Byfore tho cheff cheventene Y-leyd wer y-ffere. Thane seys the dukes on the land, "Wher ys now sir Degrevvaund? Why wol not come this gyant To rescow his dere? Hys proud hertes of grese Bereth no chartur of pes; We schalle have som ar we sese, Y wold he wer here! Trewely, are he went, He schuld the game repent, The proud lettre that he sent By hys sqwere." XVII. Syre Degrevvaunt was so nere, That he the wordes can here; He seyd, "Avaunt banere, And trompes apone hyght!" Hys archerus that were thare, Both lase and the mare, As swythe were they thare, To shote were they dyght. Thane the eorle was payd, Sone his batelle was reyde, He was nothyng afreyd Off that feris knyght; Now ar they met one a feld, Both with spere and sheld, Wyghtly wepenes they weld, And fersly they ffyght! XVIII. And whan the batelle enjoined, With speres ferisly they foynede, There myght no sege be ensoynd, That faught in the ffeld; Wyth bryght swerdus one the bent Rych hawberkes they rent, Gleves gleteryng glent Opone geldene scheldus. They stykene stedus in stoure, Knyghtus thorow her armere, Lordus off honore, Opone the hethene heldus; Thenne ffoughtene so ferisly, Ther weste non so myghty, Who schold have the victory, Bot He that alle weldus. XIX. The doughty knyght sure Degrevaunt Leys the lordes one the laund, Thorw jepun and jesseraund, And lames the ledes: Schyre scheldus they schrede, Many dowghty was dede, Ryche maylus wexen rede, So manye bolde dedus. Thus they fowghtene one frythe, Kene kyneghus in-with kyth, Wo wrekes thare wryth, These doughty one dede! Burnes he hadde y-borne doune, Gomes wyth gambisoune Lyes opone bent broune, And sterff undere stede. XX. Sire Degrevaunt, the gode knyght, Br[i]ghtenes the basnettus bryght; Hys fferis ferysly they fyght, And ffelles home to grond: The knyghtus of the eorlus hous, That were y-halden so chyvalrous, And in batelle so bountyveus, They deydene alle that stond! The eorl hovede and beheld, Both with spere and with scheld, How they ffayre in the ffeld, And syght un-sound; The best mene that he ledde, He hadd y-lefft home to wedde, With ffyffty spers is he ffledd, And wodelech was y-wounded. XXI. Syr Degrivvant and his mene ffeld home ffaste in the fene, As the deere in the dene To dethe he thame denges! Wyth scharpe exus of stelle He playtede here basnetus welle, Many a knygh gart he knelle In the morny[n]g. Sire Degrevvant was fulle thro, Deperted her batelle a-two; The eorl sley and was wo, One a stede cane he spryng: He laf slawe in a slak fforty score on a pak, Wyd opene one here bake, Dede in the lyng. XXII. Syre Degrevvant gat a sted, That was gode in ilk a ned; Many a side grat he bled, Thorow dent of his spere, And schased the eorl within a whylle, More then enleve mele. Many bold gert he syle, That byfore dud hym dere! He come schygynge ayene, And of hys folk was fyene, And fond nevere one slayne, Ne worse be a pere. He knelyde doune in that place, And thankyd God of his grace; And alle wend that there was Tylle his feyre manere. Here endyth the furst fit. Howe say ye? will ye any more of hit? XXIII. Bleve to soper they dyght, Both squiere and knygh[t]; They daunsed and revelide that nyght, In hert were they blythe. And whane the eorl come hame, He was wonded to schame; The lady ses he was lame, And swouned fulle swyth! Offte she cryed, "Alas! Have ye nat perkus and chas? What schuld ye do a this place, Swych costus to kythe?" "Dame," he seys, "y was thare, And me rews now fulle sare, Y take m[y] leve for evere mare Swych wornges to wrythe!" XXIV. One the morow sire Degrevva[n]t Dyght him at is avennaunt, On a sted fferraunt Y-armed at ryghtes. To the castelle he rad, With folkys that he had; At the barnekynch he abad, And lordelych doune lyght, And axed yef ther eny were, That wold hyme delyvere him ther Off thre corses of wer, Hym and xij. knythus; He prayd the portere ffor to bene his mesengere, And to wit an answere, And anone he him hytus. XXV. The portere went to the halle, And to the eorl he cane calle, "Her is comen to thus walle, Y-armed apone a sted, Sire Degrevvant the gode knygt, With hey helmes bryght, Many bold mene and wyght, Wyse undere wede; He axit justes of were, And prays the of answere: He mad me his mesager To walk one his ned." The eorl answerd an hy, "Here is none redy." Hit semes as that dowghty Sire Degrevaunt drede. XXVI. The contase wendes to the halle, And hure doughter withalle; Sche was jentelle and smalle, And lovesome to seyght. She lokyd one that aunterous, And seygh, "Sire kynghtes, Thou art a mane marvelus, My troth y the plyght! Yeff Gode hath lent the grace, That thou hast vencoust thy foos, Ne sekes nat at oure ples Be day ne be nynght." The knyght spekes to that free, "Maydame, wytes nat me, Muchelle mawgré have he That chalangeth unryght!" XXVII. He sais, "My perkes ar stroyed, And reveres endreyde; Y gretly ame anoyde, ffor south as y yow say! Whyle y wared in Spyane, He made my londes barreyne, My wodes and my warreyne, My wylde ys away! Y shalle do yow withowtene dred, He that dede me that dede, Y schalle quite heme his mede, Y telle yow in ffay, Yeff y dey in the pleyne! That my fosteres hath slayne, He shalle award home eyane, As sone as y may!" XXVIII. Thane spekes that wis in-with wane, "Ye have welle good mene y-slayne, Y rede ye be at ane Or there dey any moo." The knyght answeres an hy, "He schalle that bargayne aby, That dede me this v[y]lany, As evere mote y goo! Madame, yef hit be youre welle, Y pray yow take hit not to ille, Y ame holdene ther-tylle To fyght on my ffoo; Y telle yow trewly, Hyt leyves not so lyeghtly, Many dowghty schalle dey Or hyt ende soo!" XXIX. The knyth hoves in the feld Bothe weth ax and with sheld; The eorlus doughdere beheld That borlich and bolde, ffor he was armed so clene, With gold azoure ffule schene, And with his trewe-loves bytwene, Was joy to behold. She was comlech y-clade, To ryche banrettes hur lade, Alle the beut[é] sche hade That frely to folde; Wyth love she wendus the knyȝt, In hert trewly he hyeght, That he shalle love that swet wyȝt, Acheve how hit wold. XXX. How as evere hit cheve; The knyght takes his leve, "Madame, takes not a-greve A thyng that y yow say; Gret welle the eorl they lord, And sey we shalle not acord, Tylle my thyng be restored, That he hath done awey. Here afore myght he eyth Sone have made me aseyth; Nowe schalle he, magré his tyeth, For alle is grete arey! Trewly y undertake, Were hit not for youre sake, Y schalle hym wynly wake Or to-morow it were day! XXXI. "Y lette ffor my gentriose To do swych roberyse, ffor seche ffayre laydés, There casteles to ffray; Sene y mey do no mare, Tylle his freth wyle y fare, Y wolle no wyld best spare ffor soth alle this day!" Anone to forest they founde, Both with horne and with hound, To breng the dere to the grond Alaund ther they lay: Thus this games he begane, Rachis reyally rane; Sexti bockes, ar he blane, Hadde he felde in ffay. XXXII. Sire Degrevant, ar he reste, Temede the eorl one the beste, And hontede his forste Wyth bernus fulle bolde; His depe dychys he drowe, Hys whyght swannes he slow, Grete luces y-nowe He gat home wold. Now hyme lykys no pley, To honte ne to revey, ffor mayd Melidore the may His care wax alle cold! As he hounted in a chas, He told his squier his case, That he loved in a place A frely to ffolde. XXXIII. "My love is leliche y-lyeght One a worthly wyeght, There is no berelle so bryght, Ne cristalle so clere; She is waré and wyse, Rode ronne hit ys, As the rose in the ris, Wyth lylye in lere. She ys precious and palle, ffere feyrest of alle, Y say hure ones one a walle, Y neyȝed hure so nere; Y hade leve she were myne Thane alle the gold in the Reyne, ffausoned one florene, She is myne so drere!" XXXIV. His squier answered y-wyse, "Lat me wyte what she is, And y wol syker the this, In payne of my lyff, That y wolle do that y mey, Both be nyght and be day, Yef y cane be any way Wyn hure to youre wyf; And here y shalle the ensure, Thi conselle nevere descure, Whylle my body may endure, Wyth swerd and wyth knyef That y shalle faythly fyeght, Both in worng and in ryght, Or he be squier or knyght, Ayenese the wolle streff." XXXV. "Melydore ys hure naume, Whyegh as the seys ffame; My bolde burnes wold me blame, What bot is that y ley? That I shoulde wow in a stede, Aȝeyn alle mene rede, And bothe my lyff and my dede Ys loken in hur tye; ffor she is frely and fair, And the eorlus owne eyer, I wolde nothing off their, Broche ne bye. I wolde aske tham na mare But hyr body all bare, And we frendes for evermare, What doel that I drye!" XXXVI. That sqwyer seyde hys avyse, "Think that ȝe ere enemys; Lat some wye that ys wys Walk one thus nede, ffor I dare saffly swere, Gyff he take the in werre, Alle Englond here Wold spek of thi dede, And say hyt ys a ffolly, ffor to love thin enemy, Gyf thou gett a vylony, But maugré to mede; Other ladyes wolde say, Myȝthe no womman the apay Bete maiede Mylder the may, Vlonkest on wede?" XXXVII. Then saide syr Degrivaunt, "Thou shal not mak thin avaunt That I shall be recreaunt, ffor frende ne for foo! Thou woldest halde me ful made, ffor the erle ful rade; Troust I be so made To leve my love so? At even arme the well Bothe in yren and in stel, And we shullen to the castel Bytwyx us owne two; Sertenly this ylke nyȝth, I wylle see hyr with syȝth, And spek with that byrde bryȝth, ffor wel or for wo!" XXXVIII. Tow ryche cou[r]sers thei hente, And forthe here weys thei wente; Undir a lynd or thei lente, By a launde syde. Whyle hyt dawed lyȝth day, The eorle buskede on hys way, Out at a posterne to play With knyȝth of pryde. Sir Degrivaunt helde hym styll, Whyle the eorle passyde the hyll, And seid hys squier hym tyll Pryvaly that tyde, "I rede we hye us ful ȝerne In at the ȝond posterne, And let us halde us in derne The burde tyll abyde." XXXIX. Syr Degrivaunt tok non hede; In at the posterne he ȝede. The porter hade ben in drede, Hadd he ben thare. He that the ȝatt schulde kepe, He was go for to slepe; In at an orcherd thei lepe, Y-armede as thei ware. The knyȝt and the squiere Resten in a rosere, Tylle the day wex clere, Undurne and mare; Whyle that hurde thei a bell Ryng in a chapell; To chyrche the gay dammisel Buskede hyr ȝare. XL. Sche come in a vyolet, With whyȝthe perl overfret, And saphyrus therinne i-sett On everyche a syde; All of pall work fyn, With miche and nevyn, Anerlud with ermyn, And overt for pryde. To tell hure botenus was toore, Anamelede with azoure; With topyes and trechoure Overtrasyd that tyde, Sche was recevyd a spanne Of any lyvand manne; Off rede golde the rybanne Glemyd hure syde. XLI. Hyr here was hyȝthtyd on hold With a coronal of golde; Was never made upon mold A worthelyche wyȝth. Sche was frely and fair, And well hyr semed hyr geyr, With ryche boses a payr, That derely were by-dyȝth With a front endent, With peyrl of orient, Out of Syprus was sent To that burd bryȝth; Hur kerchevus was curyus, Hyr vyssag ful gracious. Sir Degrivaunt that amerus Had joye of that syȝth. XLII. By that the masse was i-seid, The halle was ryaly areyd; The eorlle hadd i-revayd, And in hys ȝerd lyȝthus: Trompers tromped to the mete, They weshen and went to sette, So duden all the grete, Ladyes and knyȝttus. When the lordys were drawin, Ladyes rysen, was not to leyn, And wentten to chaumbur aȝeyne, Anon thei hom dyȝthus; Dame Mildore and hyr may Went to the orcherd to play, Ther syr Degrivaunt lay Thei com anon-ryȝthus. XLIII. Syr Degrivaunt withouten lett In an aley he hyr mete, And godlyche he hyr gret, That worthelyche wyȝth, And seyd, "Certys, lady and fre, Jhesu save the and see, Thi servaunt wold I be, My trouȝth I the plyȝth! I wold spek, hadd I space, Privély in a place; My lyff ys loken in thi grace, Thou worthilyche wyȝth!" The byrd was gretely affraid, But natheles hoo was wel paid, He was so ryally arayd, That commolyche knyȝth. XLIV. The byrd answerus on hyȝth, "Whethur thou be squier or knyȝth, Me thenkus thou not dost ryȝth, Sothely to say; That thou commyst armid on werre, To maydenus to afferre, That walkes in here erbere Privély to play. By God and by Sent Jame, Y know not thi name, Thou erte gretely to blame, I tell the in fay!" The knyȝt kneled hyr tyll, "Medame, yf hit be ȝoure wyll, I graunt I have done yll, I may not ageyn-say. XLV. "As God save me of synne, I myȝth with non other gynne Tyl ȝour spech for to wynne, By day ne be nyȝthe; ffro I telle the my name, I am not for to blame, And yf hit turne me to grame, I shal anon-ryȝth: Hyt ys I, syre Degryvaunt! And hit were ȝoure avenaunt, I wold be ȝoure servaunt, As y am trew knyȝth!" Sho seyd, "Tratur, lat be the, Be Hym that dyed on tre, My lord hymself shal the see Hanged on hyȝth!" XLVI. Than syr Degrivaunt louȝh, As he stod under the bow, "Madame, ȝe wyteth me with wouȝh, Gyf hyt be ȝoure wyll! I had never no gylt, Of al that blod that was spylt, That wyll I prove, as thou wylt, Above the ȝondur hyll: Corteys lady and wyse, As thou arte pervenke of pryse, I do me on thi gentryse, Why wolt thou me spyll? And I be slayn in this stede, Thou shalt be cause of my dede; ȝet wolt thou rew that rede, And lyke hyt ful yll!" XLVII. Sche said, "Tratur, thou shalt bye! Why were thou so hardye To do me this vylanye, By day ar by nyȝth? For oure folk that thou hast slayn, Thou shalt be honged and drawyn, Therof my fadyr wol be fayn To see that with syȝth!" The knyȝt spak to this fre, "Seththe hyt may no bettur be, Go feche all hys many With me for to fyȝth; And here my trouȝth er I leton, The geyest of hem shal gron, Gyf ther come fourty for on, My trouȝth I the plyȝth! XLVIII. "And her my trouȝth I the plyȝthe, Tho that lepeth now ful lyȝth Shal be ffay, and we ffyȝth, ffor all here michel pryde!" The stout man was astered, Hys squiere rauȝth hym hys swerd; Thanne the borlych berde No lenger durst byde. Tyl hyr chaumbur sche went, And swore the knyȝth shulde be schent. The mayde hur hood of hoe hent, And knelyd that tyde; "Meydame, oppon ȝowlus nyȝthe My waryson ȝe me hyȝth; Y ne axe the bote ȝonde knyȝth To slep by my syde!" XLIX. Blyve the burde gat a blame, But sche ne let for no schame, That sche ne asked the same, Sothly to say. "Damesel, go do thi best, I pray the let me have my rest; Go and glad thi gest, In all the devyl way! ffor as ever Gode me save, Haddest thou asked a knave, The symplust that I have, Hadd be more to my pay: I swere the by Goddus grace, Come he never in this place, He passed never syche a pace, By nyȝthe ne by day!" L. "Maydame," sche seid, "gramercy Of thi gret cortesy." Blyve a chaumbur ther-by Busked was ȝare, And in sche feches the knyȝth, Prevaly withouten syȝthe, As wymmen conn mychel slyȝthe, And ther wylles ware. Sche dyȝt to hys sopere The foules of the ryvere, Ther was no deyntethus to dere, Ne spyces to spare. The knyȝt sat at hys avenaunt, In a gentyl jesseraunt; The mayd mad hym semblaunt, And hys met schare. LI. Of all the met that she schare, The knyȝt ete never the mare; Whan he syȝthe ful sare, The mayden gan smyle. Sone aftyr he seys, "What useth the eorl a-dayes? Hontes he ar revayes? What does he this whyle?" The burd answerus agayn, "Seththe hys chyvalry was slayn, He passed never out on the playn Halvendel a myle; Hys hurtus has hym so y-deryd, He has byn gretely afferyd: The ȝatus has byn ay y-speryd ffor dred of thi gyle!" LII. "Or hys ȝatis be y-speryd, I shal mak hym afferyd, I shal schak hym by the berd The nexte tyme we mete! But I let for hur sake, That I have chosen to my mak, Sche doys me unwynly to wak, With wongus ful wete! I had levere sche were sauȝthe, Then all the golde in hys auȝthe, And I in armus hade y-lauȝthe That commely and swete. Thane durste I saffly syng, Was never emporoure ne kyng More at hys lykyng, And honde I the hete." LIII. The mayd answerus aȝeyn, "Me think thou travelus in vayn, Thou hast oure kunred y-slayn, How myȝt hit so be? I swere the by Godus myȝthe, Com thou ever in hur syȝth, Thou bes honged on hyȝthe Hyie one a tre! Hyr preferrys par-amoure Both dukes and emperoure; Hyt were hyr disonowre For to taken the: The duke of Gerle for hir has sent, That he wol have a tornament, Hyt ys my lordys assent, Withynne for to be. LIV. "Tho duke comes of so gret arey To juste and to tornay; Thou comes nat at that play By counsayl of me. Hyt is my lordys ensent, Come thou to that torniment, Sertaynly thou be schent And all thi meynye!" "Damesele, withouten drede, Thou hast warnyd me of this dede; Of this gret gentyl rede God for-ȝelde the! And y swere be Sent Luke, I shal juste with that duke, Or I gete a rebuke, How ever that hyt be! LV. "And, damesel, for thi chere, And for my god sopere, Thou shalt have my squiere, Lok yf the paye; Here i-gyf I ȝow be band An c. pownd worth of land, To tak hyr by the hond, And do as y the saye." Whan here trouthus were plyȝthe, Sone torches were i-lyȝthe, And gaff hym ordyr of knyȝthe, For sothe as I say. "Recumaunde, for Godys pyne, To my lady and thinne, As thou wolt that I be thin, To my dethus day! LVI. "Recumaund me pryvaly To that fayre lady, Or hur thonke lyȝtherely That I am pore; Ther shal emporoure ne kyng, That shal hyr to bed bryng, That I shall make a lettyng, I sey the tho sothe. Here my trouth I the plyȝthe, Seyn fyrst I see hyr with syȝthe, I sleped never o nyȝthe Halvendel an houre! Pray that corteys and hende That sche wold be my frend, And some socoure me send ffor hyr mychel honowre." LVII. The maid seis, "I take on hand, That I shal do thyn errand, Or I be flemyd out of lond, Y lete for no dred; I shall teche the a gyn Out of this castel to wyn, And how thou shal come in Thyn erond to spede. Ther ys a place in the wall, Bytwyne the chaumbur and the hal, Thor lyȝthe a mychel watur-wal Of fourty feyt brede: Ther shalt thou come in a nyȝthe Prevaly withouten syȝth, And here thi chaumbur shal by dyȝt, And I can ryȝth rede." LVIII. "Damesel, for Godus grace, Teche me to that ylke place." The maid prevaly apace Passes byfore, And ledes hym out at a gate, In at a watur-ȝate, Ther men vytayled by bate That castel with cornes. "At ebbe of the see, Thou shalt not wad to the kne." The knyȝt kyst that fre. Erly at the morow ffayir thei passed that flode, To tho forest thei ȝoud, And toke here stedus where thei stod Undur the hawthrone. LIX. Syre Degrivaunt ys whom went And aftyr hys reten sent; To that gret tornament Thei busked hem ȝare. But leve we now that gentyl knyȝt, And spek we of that byrd bryȝt; How thei gestened that nyȝt Carp wyll we mare. Erly one the mowroun The lady louȝh hyr to scorne, Sche seys, "Thi maydynhed is lorne, God gyf the care!" "Maydame, gyff hyt so be, Hyt deres no man but me! I fouchesaff on that fre, And hyt so ware." LX. Tho lady louȝhwes uppon hyȝt, "Damesele, for Godys myȝt, How peyis the that knyȝt, As evere mote thou the?" "I dare make myn avaunt ffor my lord syre Degrivaunt, Corteys and avenaunt, I know non so fre! Sertaynly this ylke nyȝthe, Hys squier ys mad knyȝthe, He and I ys trouthe plyȝthe My housbond to be; And he hath gyf us by band, An c. pownd worth of land: Here the chartur in thi hand, Thiself may hyt see!" LXI. Than that lady was glad By sche that chartur had rad, "Had thou syre Degrivaunant had, Then had thou wel i-gon." "Nay, meydame, so mot I thryve, Ther ys now lady on lyve, That he wol wed to wyff, But only the allone. Y warne the of o thing, Ther shall be emporoure ne kyng, That shal the to bede bryng, I owttake none, That hee wol make a lettyng; He sendys the syche a gretyng, Lo! here ys a rede gold ryng, With a ryche stone." LXII. The lady loked on that ryng, Hyt was a gyfte fore a kyng, "This ys a merveylous thing! Wenus thou I be wode To do syche a ffoly, To love my lordys enemy, Thow he were to so dowȝty? Nay, by the rode! Y do the wele for to wyte, Y nel non housbond have ȝyte: Seye the knyȝthe whan ȝe mete, I wol hym no gude! The duk of Gerle hase i-hyȝt That he wol soupe here this nyȝt, And gyf my chaumbur were i-dyȝt, Nothing for-ȝeed." LXIII. The duk ys comen over the see With a ful grete meyné; The eorl cortays and fre ffayre hym gan praye To dwel at hys costage, At bouche and court and wage, With knyȝt, squiere, and page, Tyl the tent day. A thousaund hors and thre Of the dukus meyné Ylke nyȝt tok lyveré Off cowrne and off hay; The ryche duk whan he eet, The eorle hertely hym hete, And with mayd Myldore the swet, To have hyre for ay. LXIV. The k[n]yȝthus of the eorles house Held the duk so chyvalrous, ffor he was gay and amorous, And made hyt so tow. The eorl tol[d] hym anon, What armes he hadde cone, And how hys chyvalré was slone Undir the wod bowe. "The baneret that wonnes here by Wol asayl the cry, He wroȝthe me this vylany, And dud me this wouȝhe!" The duk answerus on hyȝthe, "Here my trouth I the plyȝthe, Whedur he wol tornay of fyȝthe, He shal have i-now!" LXV. The duk answerus on hyȝthe, "Wherby k[n]owus thou the knyȝthe?" The eorle tauȝth hym ful ryȝthe, With wordys, I wene. "He beres in cheef of azour, Engrelyd with a satur, With doubule tressour, And treweloves bytwene; Hys bagges this blake, ffor he wol no man forsake, A lyoun tyed to an ake Off gold and of grene: An helme ryche to behold; He beres a dolfyn of gold, With trewelovus in the mold, Compasyd ful clene. LXVI. "He ys a lyoun in feld, When he ys spred undur scheld! Hys helme shal be wel steled, That stond shal as stak: He ys so stalloworth in stoure, By seynt Martyn of Toure, Couthe he love paramoure, I k[n]ew never hys mak! All the londes that I welde, Wold I gyf in my ȝelde, To se hym falde in the feld, Ho wold hyt undurtake." The duk louȝh hym to scorune, Hys othe heyly has i-swrun, "He shal abye to mowrun, Syre, for thi sake!" LXVII. And on morow the duk hym dyȝthe, Also fast as he miȝthe, The eorl hardy and wyȝthe, Cruel and kene. The sonne schonne en clere, They uschen in with banere, v. hunderyd knyȝtus in fere, I-armed ful clene, And the servitourus by-syde: All that contray so wyde Come thedur that tyde, That solas to sene. Sire [D]egrivaunt out of the west Brouȝth out of the fforest Thre hundred knyȝttus of the best, Was greythed al on grene. LXVIII. Ther was non so hardy, That durst asayl the cry; The held this duk so douȝty, ffor hys mychel pryd. But when thei se syre Degrivans Com armed up a ferauns, Thei thonked Gode of here shaunce, All that other syde! Then thei drowe hym ful nere, Baneret and bachelere, To ben undur hys banere, To tornay that tyde, With trompe and with nakere, And the scalmuse clere; ffolke frouschen in fere, In herd ys not to hyde. LXIX. And when the renkus gane mete, ffele was fouled undur fete, Knyȝthus strewed in the strete, Stonyȝed with stedys; With swerdus smartely thei smyt, The temes sadely ful tyte, Ther was no lengur delyte, These worthely in wedus! Baronus syttys on the bent With shuldrys shamly shent; Bryȝthe browus and bent Brodelyche bledus! Manye harmes has thei hent, That was never at hore asent, To come to that tornament, To do suche dedus. LXX. Syre Degrivaunt, withouten les, Prykkus fast therow the pres; To the cheventayn he ches, And rauȝth hym a strok: The duk dotered to the ground, On erthe swyfftly he swouned, Syre Degrivaunt, within a stound, He wan hys sted blak. He was stalworȝth in stoure, ffor he loved paramoure; The lady lay in the toure That shuld be hys mak. Syre Degrivaunt, are he blan, This sey many a man, Syxty stedus he wan, And brouȝth to stak. LXXI. Syre Degrevaunt every day, The sertayn soth for to say, Al the prys of the play Was put on that fre; Sone that douȝty undur sheld Had y-venkessyd the feld, Many a man hym byheld, So hardy was he! Ladyes seyden al-bydene, Bothe contasse and qwene, "ȝond gentyl knyȝt on grene Hath deservyd the gre!" Bryȝthe burdus in ther boure Loved that knyȝth paramoure, Gret ladyes of honoure, And that hym seyen. LXXII. The duk was horsed agayn, And prycked fast thorw the playne; The eorl and he with a trayn To the castel gan fare: Thane an heroud gon crye, And prayd al the chyvalrye To soupe at the maungerye, Gyff ther wyllus ware. The good knyȝt syre Degrivaunce, He had y-made repurveaunce ffor al hys retenaunce, Fourty days and mare, In the syde at a fel, At a wel feyre castel, Whyle hym was lefte for to dwel, ffor to sle care. LXXIII. The sterne knyȝthus and the stout, Whylk that tornyment without, Ryden away in hys rout, Thre hundred and mo; And c. pound and a stede He send the mynstralus to mede, Off gyffte was he never gnede, ffor wele nor for wo! Tyl hys castel he rade, A ryal maungerye he made, Alle the bold ther abade, Ther scapyd non hym fro. At even seyd syr Degrivauns, "I wol se the countenauns Of the chyvalrye of Frauns, As ever mote I go!" LXXIV. Syr [D]egrivaunt at evyn-lyȝthus Armed hym at al ryȝthus, And callyd to hym tolly knyȝthus, That pryvest were ay; "Have dyȝt ȝow on stedus In two damysel wedus, ffor I wol found in my nedus As fast as I may. Tak ether of ȝow a spere, Bothe of pes and of were, Greyth myn hors on hore gere, And lok that thei be gay; That they be trapped a get, In topteler and in mauntolet, In a fyn vyolet, And makes non delay." LXXV. And whan here hors were held, Thei toke ther sperus and there scheldus, And prycked fast over the felde, No lenger wolde thei dwel; And sy[th]en thei ryden even west Thorw a fayr forest, With two trompess of the best, That range as a bell. On an hull he gan hym rest, Thei gaf hym hys helm in hys rest, He was the sternest gest ffro heven to helle! Syr Degrivaunt, withouten abad, To the eorlus castel he rade, He found the ȝat so brad, Swyche hap hym felle. LXXVI. And rydes up to the des, As thei were servid of here mes, To mayd Myldor he ches, And chalangys that fre! The duk sterte up an hyȝt, "Here my trouthe y the plyȝt, I shal delyver the this bryȝt, To-morow shalt thou se, Bytwene undurne and prime; Loke at thou come at that tyme, Other swowne shal i[n] sweme, The lady shall i-se. And trewly, withouten les, Thou shalt be servid, or I sess, Bothe of werre and of pess, Of ayther cours thre." LXXVII. The knyȝth was so dressé, Hytt was gret joye to se, So fayre an hors-man as he Seye thei never are; Some loked one hys stede, And some on hys rych wede, And some the resone gan rede What the knyȝthe bare. He loutes down to them alle, Bothe to the [riche] and to the smalle, And rydys out of the halle, And buskys hym ȝare. Of all that loked one the knyȝt, Was non that knew hym with syȝt, Bot mayden Myldor the bryȝt, Of all that ther ware. LXXVIII. Hammard he rydes ryȝth, And as fast as he myȝth, On the mowro he hym dyȝth Ryȝth as he dude are; And fyndys the duk in the feld, Bothe with spere and with sche[l]d: The eorl hoved and byheld, Brem as a bare! Than seid the duke one the land, "Whare ys now this geand? He wol hald no covenand, ffor alle hys gret fare!" But when he say syre Degrivaunt Come armed up a fferauns, Hys hert wex recreaunt, And syȝth ful sare! LXXIX. The duke send a squiere To wytt what hys wyll were, To juste o pesse or off were, So sore he hym dredus! The knyȝt answerd ther-tyll, Bothe with resone and with skyll, "Hyt shal be at hys wyll, Tak hap what ledus!" Then the douȝthy hym dyȝth As faste as thei myȝth, Thei set helmus on hyȝth, Thes douȝty on dedus: To gret sperus of pese Bothe these lordes hem chese, And prikes fast thorw the prese Opon stout stedus. LXXX. Ther stedes styrres hom faste, The knyȝthus jusset or thy cast, Ther good speres al to-brast, That weren gode at nede; Syr Degrivaunt, as he had ment, And gaf the duk swych a dynt, That bothe styroppus he tynt, And hond I the hete. The duke rekyvered aȝyne, Hys frenchepys were fayn, The proford hym payn-mayn, Vernage and Crete; The duk swore by gret God of hevene, "Wold my hors so evene, ȝet wold I sett all one seven ffor Myldor the swet!" LXXXI. Tow gret sperus ha they ton, And gerd there stedus whyll the gron! Wytt ȝow wel that many on Lokede on them two; The douȝty knyȝthus of pryde, Thorw the renckus gon thei ryde, Bote they myssede at that tyde, Thorw hap hyt fell so. The good knyȝth, syre Auntorus, Come in at the thryd cours, ffor he loved paramours, In hert that he was thro, And strykus the duk thorw the scheld, Wyd opon in the feld; The eorl hoved and byheld, In hert he was wo! LXXXII. The damessel toke the stede, And thorw the renkus gone hym lede, And seys, "Have this for thi mede, Tyl thou gete mo." ȝet she spekys a word of pride, "On this stede wol I ryde By my lemmanus syde, I[n] lond whare I go." That knyȝt dressyd hym in hys gere, Hys felawe rauȝth hym a spere, A scharpe wepon of were, The duk for to slo; And seis, "Syre duke avenaunt, I pray the hold couvenaunt, ȝondur ys a knyȝthe erraunt, Why taryest thou hym so?" LXXXIII. The duk lay on the grownd, On erthe swyftely he swound, He was stonyed that stownd, Trewely that tyde; And ȝit she cryes upone hyȝth, "ȝondur ys armed a knyȝth, All redy and y-dyȝth, Thi comes for to abyde." The duke answerd ther-tyle, Bothe with reson and skyle, "I am y-hurte ful yle, In herd is not to hyde! Pray hym tak hit nat a-greff, He ses I am at myscheff, Y hathe nat y my lyff, So sore ys my syde!" LXXXIV. Syre Degrivaunt toke hys stede, And gaff the mynstrallus to mede, And to forest thei spede As faste as the may; The duke that was this y-dyȝt, He toke his leve that ylk nyȝt Bothe with baroun and with knyȝt, And went one hys way. Sire Degrivaunt on the morwoun Com aȝé to the thorun, Ther hys stede stod by-forun, And lenges all that day; Privayly at the nyȝth He come in with hys knyȝth, To spek with Myldore the bryȝth, Spede yf he may. LXXXV. The mayde wyst by a gyne, That the knyȝth was comen in; The lady of heye kyne Perseved the thouȝth. "Damesele, so have I rest, Thou hast geton the a gest Off wylde men of the west, Delayne thou hom nouȝth; Privayly withouten syȝth Do me carp with that knyȝth, Here my trouȝth y the plyȝth, Hee has dere y-bouȝth!" Thanne the mayden was glade, Sche dude as the lady bade, And up at the grese hoe him lade, And to chaumbur hym brouȝth." LXXXVI. The lady of honowre Metes the [knyȝt] in the doure, Knelyd doun in the floure, And fel hym to feet; ffrek as fuyre in the flynt He in armes had hyre hynt, And thrytty sythes, are he stynt, He kyst that swet! "Welcome, syre Aunterous, Me thenkus thou art mervelous; Wyst my lord of this hous, With grame [he] wolde the gret!" Swythe chayres was i-sete, And quyschonus of vyolete, Thus this semely was i-sete With mouth for to mete. LXXXVII. "Damesele, loke ther be A ffuyre in the chymené, ffagattus of fyre tre, That fetchyd was ȝare." Sche sett a bourd of yvore, Trestellus ordeyned therfor, Clothus keverede that over, Swyche seye thei never are! Towellus of Eylyssham, Whyȝth as the seeys fame, Sanappus of the same, Thus servyd thei ware; With a gyld salere, Basyn and ewere, Watyr of everrose clere, They wesche ryȝth thare. LXXXVIII. Paynemayn prevayly Sche brouȝth fram the pantry, And served that semely, Same ther thei seet. Sche brouȝt fram the kychene A scheld of a wylde swynne, Hastelettus in galantyne, An hand y ȝow hete. Seththe sche brouȝt hom in haste, Ploverys poudryd in paste, Ther ware metus with the maste, I do ȝow to wytte; ffatt conyngus and newe, ffesauntus and corelewe, Ryche she tham drewe Vernage and Crete. LXXXIX. To tell here metus was tere, That was served at here sopere, Ther was no dentethus to dere, Ne spyces to spare; And evere sche drow hom the wyn, Bothe the Roche and the Reyn, And the good Malvesyn, ffelde sche hom ȝare. And evere Myldore sche sete Harpyng notus ful swet, And other whyle sche et, Whan hur leveste ware; Songe ȝeddyngus above, Swyche murthus they move, In the chaumbur of love Thus thei sleye care! XC. Ther was a ryall rooffe In the chaumbur of loffe, Hyt was buskyd above With besauntus ful bryȝth All off ruel bon, Whyȝth oger and parpon, Mony a dere wrothe stone, Endentyd and dyȝthe. Ther men myȝth se, ho that wolde, Arcangelus of rede golde, ffyfty mad of o molde, Lowynge ful lyȝth; With the Pocalyps of Jon, The Powlus Pystolus everychon, The Parabolus of Salamon Payntyd ful ryȝth. XCI. And the foure gospellorus Syttyng on pyllorus; Hend, herkeneth and herus, Gyf hyt be ȝoure wyll. Austyn and Gregory, Jerome and Ambrose, Thus the foure doctorus Lystened than tylle: There was purtred in ston The fylesoferus everychon, The story of Absolon, That lyked ful ylle; With an orrelegge one hyȝth To rynge the ours at nyȝth, To waken Myldore the bryȝth, With bellus to knylle. XCII. Square wyndowus of glas, The rechest that ever was, Tho moynelus was off bras Made with menne handus; Alle the wallus of geete, With gaye gablettus and grete, Kynggus syttyng in ther sete Out of sure londus. Grete Charlus with the crounne, Syre Godfray the Boyloune, And Arthur the Bretoune, With here bryȝt broundus. The floure was paned over-al With a clere crystal, And overe keveryd with a pal, A-fflore where she stondes. XCIII. Hur bede was off aszure, With testur and celure, With a bryȝt bordure Compasyd ful clene; And all a storye as hit was Of Ydoyne and Amadas, Perreye in ylke a plas, And papageyes of grene. The scochenus of many knyȝt Of gold and cyprus was i-dyȝt, Brode besauntus and bryȝt, And trewelovus bytwene; Ther was at hur testere The kyngus owne banere: Was nevere bede rychere Of empryce ne qwene! XCIV. ffayre schetus of sylk Chalk-whyȝth as the mylk, Quyltus poyned of that ylk, Touseled they ware; Coddys of sendall, Knoppus of crystal, That was mad in Westfal With women of lare. Hyt was a mervelous thing To se the rydalus hyng, With mony a rede gold ryng, That home up bare; The cordes that thei one ran, The duk Betyse hom wan, Mayd Medyore hom span Of meré maydenus hare. XCV. Ryȝt abouȝt mydnyȝt, Seyd syre Degrivaunt the knyȝt, "When wolt thou, the worthely wyȝt, Lysten me tyll? ffor love my hert wyl to-brest, When wylt thou bryng me to rest? Lady, wysse me the [best], Gyf hyt be thi wyll." The burde answered [ffulle ȝa]re, "Nevene thou that eny mare, Thou schalt rew hit ful sare, And lyke hit ful ylle! Sertes tho thou were a kyng, Thou touchest non swych thing, Or thou wed me with a ryng, And maryage fulfylle! XCVI. "Leff thou well, withouten lette, The ferste tyme y the mette, Myn hert on the was sette, And my love on the lyȝth! I thouȝthe never to have non Lord nothur lemman, Bot onely the allon; Caysere ne knyȝth, Kyng ne non conquerour, Ne no lord of honour, And gyff hit were the emperour, Most proved of myȝth! ffor-thy, syre, hald the stylle, Whyle thou get my fadyr wylle." Tho knyȝt sentus ther-tylle, And trouthus thei plyȝth. XCVII. And whan here trouthus was plyȝt, Than here hertus were lyȝt, Was never faukons off flyȝt So fayn as thei ware! Thai lay doun in ther bede, In ryche clothus was spred, Wytte ȝe wel, or thei were wed, Thei synnyd nat thare. Than spekus tho burd bryȝth To syre Degrivaunt the knyȝth, "Swet syre, come ylke nyȝth, And loke how we fare." And the bold bachylere Toke the damysele clere; This thei dured that ȝere, Thre [qua]rterus and mare. XCVIII. At [mis]somere in a nyȝth, The [mo]ne schone wondur bryȝt, S[ire De]grivaunt and hys knyȝt [Bu]sked to wend. [The] douȝty knyȝthus so fre [L]yȝth doun by a tre; A prout fostere gane tham se A-laund ther thei lende, And folewes hom thorw the wode, Alle the weyes that thei ȝode, And how thei passed the flode, The knyȝthus so hende: So dud the weyt one the walle, The eorlus owne mynstralle, Sey tham wende to the halle, And wyst nevere what hyt mende. XCIX. The pypere haldus hys pays, Tyl no man he hyt says; Mynstralus shuld be cortays, And skyl that thei ben. The foster tolde anone-ryȝthus To the eorle and hys knyȝthus, How thei come armede a-nyȝthus, As he hadde y-sen. The styward was chyvalrous, Syre Eymour the kayous, With offycyrus of that hous, Cruel and kene, A gret buschement hadde he [sette], Ther the fostere hom mette, And thouȝth syre Degrivaunt lette The wayes ful grene. C. The stywarde heylé hath swornne, "And he come be thi[s thor]nne, We bryng hys he[d on th]e mornne, And non othur mede!" Dame Myldor w[ist righte no]uȝth What al this folkys [had th]ouȝth, She wende no man that ha[d ben]e wrouȝth Hadde wyten of hore [dede]; And syre Degrivaunt hadde y-[hiȝt]h, Ryȝth as he was trew knyȝth, To speke with Myldore that nyȝth, And lette for no drede. God, as ȝe are muchel of myȝt, Save syre Degrivaunt the knyȝt, And lene hym grace in that fyȝt Wel for to spede! CI. Syre Degrivaunt at evene-lyȝth Armede hym and hys knyȝth, And toke on privayly for syȝth Two gownes off grene; Nothur schelde ne spere, Ne no wepen of werre, Bot twey swerdus thei berre Off Florence ful kene. Whan thei come to the slac, The bolde buschament brac, .......nte opone stedus bac [Ar]mede ful clene. [Si]re Degrivaunt, ys nat to layne, [B]lyve hys swerde had y-drayne, He that come formast was slayne In the schaw schene! CII. Whan thei syre Degrivaunt mett, Sevene sperus one hym y-sett Evene in hys bassonett Brasten a-two. Some bare hym thorw the gowne, Some brast one hys haberjowne; Hys sqwyere was borne downe, Hys swerd cast hym fro! Then syre Degrivaunt lyȝth, And rescowede hys knyȝth, And cryed to hym an hyȝth, "Why wolt thou lyen so?" The beste stedes that thei hade By the scholders he them scharde, He was never so hard y-stade ffor wele ne for wo! CIII. The styward syre Eymere Com a lytyl to nere, Hys hede by the colere He kerves away! The body syttys opon the hors, Hyt was uncomely to the cors, The stede stert over a fosse, And strykys a-stray; Y wyst never how hyt ferde. He betus hom fast to the erthe; With hys two-honde swerde He made swyche paye, That syxty lay one the feld, Bothe with spere and with schelde, That never wepen myȝth [welde] Sen that ylke day! CIV. The panter, the botelere, The eorlus cheff sqwyere, They lyes slay y-fere In the schawe schene! Than the remenaunt fles On the sort that thei sees, And some lorkus undur tres In slowes unshene. Thonkede be Godes grace, He has venkest hys face, And made a chyvalrous chace, That crewel and kene! Nouȝth fourty fot fram the wal, He slowe the marchal of the hal, And other gode sqwyers with-al, Mo then fyftene! CV. By that hyt dawed ney day, By that he hade endyd this play, Some scaped away, And many one was slayne. Than sayd syre Degrivaunt the knyȝt, "Here my trouthe y the plyȝt, I shal speke with Myldore to nyȝt, To dey in the payne." Thei set here stedus ther thei stode, And fayre passede the flode, To the eorlus castel the[i] ȝode The gatus ful gayn: Than the lady so bryȝth, ffayre she welcomed the knyȝth; She had nat hard [of] hore fyȝth, Therof were thei fayn. CVI. She had wondur in hyr wyt, Why here clothus ware to-slyt, As thei in holtus had byn hyt With dyntus of spere: [The]re gay gownus of grene [We]re ful schamely be-sene; "[Le]ve syre, where have ȝe bene, [ȝoure] clothus to tere?" The knyȝth sat semely, And seide tyl hyre prevely, "We sey [never selly] That sh[oulde us] auȝth dere; But as [we came] by a thorne, Thus [wer ou]re gownus to-torne; We sh[alle] have new to-morne, We [cownt]e hyt not a payre." CVII. The kniȝ[th] had fouȝten as a bare, [Therfore h]ym fersted ful sare; [The m]ayde brouȝth hym ful ȝare [The s]pyces and the wyn. Dyverse spices thei ete, And ofte with mowthus thei mete; Sche brouȝthe hem Vernage and Crete, And wyne of the Reyne. He toke his leve at the day At mayde Myldore the may, ȝet wyste ho note of the fray That she hard sethȝne. The knyȝth one wendys his way, Ther the dede men lay, And seyde soufft one his play, "ȝondur was stout hyne!" CVIII. Thei brouȝthe home on bere The stywarde syre Eymere, And other gode sqwyere, Off fryththus unfayne; And cryide out over alle, Both gret and smalle. The mayde wyndus to the halle Tythyngus to frayne. The ȝorle spekus to that fre, "Y wytt syr Degrivaunt and the The slauȝthtur of my mené; This is ȝowre false treyne! By Hym that dyede one tre, This day shall thou [dede] be! I wat welle hit [es he] That hase the be[layne!]" CIX. The mayde answer[d agayne], And seis, "Peter! I [am f]ayne And that knyȝth be [not slay]ne; What bote is that I lye? Sene he was chosene my fy[rst] make, Shall I hym never forsake, What dethe that I take, Or dool that I drye!" Thane the ȝorle wax wode, And swore be bonus and blode, "Mete ne drynk shall do me gode, Ar I se the dye!" The contasse knelyd tho anone, "Gode schylde, syr, that he be slone, We hade never chyl[d] but hyr one!" And cryid ful hye. CX. The contasse cryed, "Alas! ȝe have ben to longe foas; Wycked tonge hit mas, God ȝif them shame! I dare savely say, The knyȝth went one his way, [O]wre men by-sett hym the way, [He] was not to blame. [W]as not his fosteres slayne While he werred in Spayne? Hys woddys and hys waryne, ȝe made hem alle tame! Y rede ȝe sauȝthle with the knyȝt, That is so hardy and wyȝth, And graunte hym Myldore the bryȝt, By hyr ryȝth name!" CXI. Than spekus Myldore the bryȝth, "Ther was but he and a knyȝth, I spake with hym this nyȝth, Why shulde I spare? He is my love and my lorde, Myne hele and my counforde, Hyt is gode ȝe be a-corde, And ȝowre wyllus ware: And giff ȝe holde us a-gret, Shall I never ete mete." The ȝorl for angur gane swet, And syȝthe ful sare; "Damesele, ar thou be spylte, I forgiff the the gylte, Hit is alle as thou wylte; I cane say na mare!" CXII. Bylyve a lettur ho sent, Thorw the ȝorlus comandment; A messengere has hit hent, With tythingus ful newe. She bad hym cume prively With hys best chyvalry, As he was gode and douȝty, And holdene for trewe; And hoe shuld make swych acord Bytwene hym and hur lorde, That shulde be a coumforde Tyl alle that hym ever knewe. ȝet syr Degrivant hym drade, Syxty knyȝthus he clade, Tyl the ȝorlus castel he spede By the day dewe. CXIII. The ȝorle metus hym withoute, With sterne knyȝthus and stoute, Wonder low gane he loute, And haylus that hende; And says, "Syr, by Goddys grace, Welcome to this place, We have ben to longe fase, Now wyl I be thi frende." Prively that no man wyste, Alle wrongus was redressyde, The ȝorle and he hade keste, And to chaumbur thei wende. Withoutyne more rehersynge Made was the sauȝthlynge, And grauntyd hym Myldore the ȝinge Tille hys lyves ende. CXIV. Was never sych a purvyaunce In Englond ne in Fraunce, As was at sir Degrivaunce And Myldore the schene; Ther com tyl hir weddyng An emperoure and a kyng, Erchebyschopbz with ryng Mo then fyftene! The mayster of hospitalle Come over with a cardinalle, The gret kyng of Portyngalle, With knyȝthus ful kene; Alle the lordys of that lond War holy at that offorand, And ladyes, y undyrstond, Emperyce and qwene! CXV. One the Trinité day, Thus in romance herd y say, He toke hyr in Godus lay Tylle hys lyvys ende. Solempnely a cardinal, Revescyd with a pontifical, Sang the masse ryal, And wedded that hend. And the ryche Emperoure Gaff [hyre] at the kyrke dore, With w[orschy]p and honoure, As f[or hi]s owne frend; And [sa]w gold in that stonde, W[elle] a thowsand pounde, Lay glyterynge in the gronde, By the way as thei wende! CXVI. Thane the semelede the sale, Kyng and cardynale, And the emperoure ryale, With barnus ful bolde; So dud ladies bydene, Both contasse and qwene, Bryȝth burdys and schene, Was joye to beholde! ffro the mangery bygane, Wyne in condyt rane Redy tyll ylke mane, Take ho so wolde. Ther com in a daunse IX. doseperus of Fraunce, Methowȝth syche a countynaunce Was joye to beholde! CXVII. I knewe never mane so wys, That couth telle the servise, Ne scrye the metys of prys Was servyd in that sale; Mynstrallus hade in halle Grete gyftys withalle, Ryche robus of palle, With garnementus hale. Ylke day that fourtynyȝth Justyng of seryd knyȝthus, To revele ho best myȝth, With wyne and with ale; And one the fyftethe day, Thus in romaunce h[erd I] say, They toke here leve and [wen]t here way, Thys worthely to w...... CXVIII. Al thei maketh ther avaunt Off the lord syre Degrivaunt, Cortays and avenaunt, Ladyes and knyȝthus. He gaff stedus that stound Worth a thousand pound, Withouten haukes and hound, And faukun of flyȝthus! The ȝorle dyede that same ȝere, And the contasse clere; Bothe hore beryelus y-ffere Was gayly bydyȝth. Syr Degrivaunt bylefte ther eyre, With brod londus and faire, Was never perus myȝth hym peyre By resone ne ryȝth. CXIX. Thrytty wyntur and mare Thei lyvede to-gydur without care, And sevene chyldur she hym bare, That worthly in wede; And sene sche dyed, y undurstond, He seysed hys eyre with hys hond, And went into the Holy Lond, Hevene be hys mede! At Port-gaff was he slone, ffor-justyd with a Soudone: Thus to Gode is he gone, Thus douȝty in dede! Lord Gode in Trinité Gyff hem Heven for to see, That loves gamene and gle, And gestus to fede!