Lines 1–435

Now grett glorious Godd, thurgh grace of hym selvene,
And the precyous prayere of hys prys modyr,
Schelde us ffro schamesdede and synfulle werkes,
And gyffe us grace to gye, and governe us here,
In this wrechyd werld, thorowe vertous lywynge,
That we may kayre til hys courte, the kyngdome of hevyne,
Whene oure saules schalle parte and sundyre ffra the body,
Ewyre to belde and to byde in blysse with hyme selvene;
And wysse me to werpe owte some worde at this tyme,
That nothyre voyde be ne vayne, bot wyrchip tille hyme selvyne;
Plesande and profitabille to the pople þat theme heres.
ȝe that liste has to lyth, or luffes for to here,
Off elders of alde tyme and of theire awke dedys,
How they were lele in theire lawe, and lovede God Almyghty,
Herkynes me heyndly and holdys ȝow stylle,
And I salle telle ȝow a tale, þat trewe es and nobylle,
Off the ryealle renkys of the rowunde table,
That chefe ware of chevalrye and cheftans nobylle,
Bathe ware in thire werkes and wyse mene of armes,
Doughty in theire doyngs and dredde ay schame,
Kynde mene and courtays, and couthe of courte thewes.
How they whanne wyth were wyrchippis many,
Sloughe Lucyus þe lythyre, that lorde was of Rome,
And conqueryd that kyngryke thorowe craftys of armes;
Herkenes now hedyrwarde, and herys this storye.
Qwene that the kynge Arthur by conqueste hade wonnyne
Castelles and kyngdoms, and contreez many,
And he had coverede the coroune of the kyth ryche
Of alle that Uter in erthe aughte in his tyme,
Orgayle and Orkenay, and alle this owte iles,
Irelande uttirly, as occyane rynnys;
Scathylle Scottlande by skylle he skystys as hym lykys,
And Wales of were he wane at hys wille,
Bathe fflaundrez and ffraunce fre til hym selvyne;
Holaund and Henawde they helde of hyme bothe,
Burgoyne and Brabane, and Bretayne the lesse,
Gyane and Gothelande, and Grece the ryche;
Bayone and Burdeux he beldytt fulle faire,
Turoyne and Tholus with toures fulle hye;
Off Peyters and of Provynce he was prynce holdyne,
Of Valence and Vyenne, off value so noble;
Of Eruge and Anyone, thos erledoms ryche,
By conqueste fulle cruelle þey knewe hym fore lorde;
Of Naverne and Norwaye, and Normaundye eke,
Of Almayne, of Estriche, and oper ȝnowe;
Danmarke he dryssede alle by drede of hym selvyne,
Fra Swynne unto Swether-wyke, with his swrede kene!
Qwenne he thes dedes had done, he doubbyd hys knyghtez,
Dyvysyde dowcherys and delte in dyverse remmes;
Mad of his cosyns kyngys ennoyntede,
In kyth there they covaitte crounes to bere.
Whene he thys rewmes hade redyne and rewlyde the pople,
Then rystede that ryalle and helde þe Rounde Tabylle;
Suggeourns þat sesone to solace hyme selvene,
In Gretayne þe braddere, as hym beste lykes;
Sythyne wente into Wales with his wyes alle,
Sweys into Swaldye with his snelle houndes,
For to hunt at þe hartes in thas hye laundes,
In Glamorgane with glee, thare gladchipe was evere;
And thare a citee he sette, be assentte of his lordys,
That Caerlyone was callid, with curious walles,
On the riche revare þat rynnys so faire,
There he myghte semble his sorte to see whenne hym lykyde,
Thane aftyre at Carlelele a Cristynmese he haldes,
This ilke kyde conquerowr, and helde hym for lorde,
Wyth Dukez and dusperes of dyvers rewmes,
Erles and erchevesqes, and oper ȝnowe,
Byschopes and bachelers, and banerettes nobille,
þat bowes to his banere, buske whene hym lykys:
Bot on the Cristynmesdaye, whene they were alle semblyde,
That comlyche conquerowr commaundez hym selvyne
þat ylke a lorde sulde lenge, and no lefe take,
To the tende day fully ware takyne to þe ende.
Thus one ryalle araye he helde his rounde table,
With semblant and solace and selcouthe metes;
Whas never syche noblay, in no manys tyme,
Mad in mydwynter in þa Weste marchys!
Bot on the newȝere daye, at þe none evyne,
As the bolde at the borde was of brede servyde,
So come in sodanly a senatowr of Rome,
Wyth sextene knyghtes in a soyte sewande hym one.
He saluȝed the soverayne and the sale aftyr,
Ilke a kynge aftyre kynge, and mad his enclines;
Gaynour in hir degre he grette as hym lykyde,
And syne agayne to þe gome he gaffe up his nedys:
“Sir Lucius Iberius, the Emperowr of Rome,
Saluȝ the as sugett, undyre his sele ryche;
It es credens, syr kyng, with cruelle wordez,
Trow it for no trufles, his targe es to schewe!
Now in this newȝers daye with notaries sygne,
I make the somouns in sale to sue for þi landys,
That on Lammesse daye thare be no lette ffoundene,
þat thou bee redy at Rome with alle thi rounde table,
Appere in his presens with thy price knyghtez,
At pryme of the daye, in payne of ȝour lyvys,
In þe kydd capytoile before þe kyng selvyne,
Whene he and his senatours bez sette as them lykes,
To ansuere anely why thow ocupyes the laundez,
That awe homage of alde tille hym and his eldyrs;
Why thow has redyne and raymede, and raunsound þe pople,
And kyllyde doune his cosyns, kyngys ennoynttyde;
Thare schalle thow gyffe rekkynynge for alle thy round table,
Why thow arte rebelle to Rome, and rentez theme wytholdez!
ȝiff thow theis sommons wythsytte, he sendes thie thies wordes,
He salle the seke over þe see wyth sextene kynges,
Bryne Bretayne þe brade, and bryttyne thy knyghtys,
And brynge the bouxsomly as a beste with brethe whare hym lykes,
That thow ne schalle rowte ne ryste undyr the hevene ryche,
þofe thow for reddowr of Rome ryne to þe erthe!
ffor if thow flee into Fraunce or ffreselaund owþer,
Þou salle be feched with force, and oversette for ever!
Thy fadyr mad fewtee, we fynde in oure rollez,
In the regestre of Rome, who so ryghte lukez:
With-owttyne more trouflyng the trebute we aske,
That Julius Cesar wane wyth his jentille knyghttes!”
The kynge blyschit one the beryne with his brode eghne,
þat fulle brymly for breth brynte as the gledys;
Keste colours as kyng with crouelle lates,
Luked as a lyone, and on his lyppe bytes!
The Romaynes for radnesse ruschte to þe erthe,
fforde ferdnesse of hys face, as they fey were;
Cowchide as kenetez before þe kynge selvyne,
be-cause of his contenaunce confusede theme semede!
Thene coverd up a knyghte, and criede ful lowde,
“Kynge coronnede of kynd, curtays and noble,
Misdoo no messengere for menske of þi selvyne,
Sen we are in thy manrede, and mercy þe besekes;
We lenge with syr Lucius, that lorde es of Rome,
That es þe mervelyousteste mane þat on molde lengez;
It es lefulle tille us his likynge tille wyrche;
We come at his commaundment; have us excusede.”
Then carpys þe conquerour crewelle wordez,—
“Haa! cravaunde knyghte! a cowarde þe semez!
Þare some segge in this sale, and he ware sare grevede,
Thow durste noghte fulle alle Lumberdye luke one hym ones.”
“Sir,” sais þe Senatowr, “so Crist mott me helpe,
þe voute of thi vesage has woundyde us alle!
Thow arte þe lordlyeste lede þat ever I one lukyde;
By lukynge, with-owttyne lesse, a lyone the semys!”
“Thow has me somond,” quod þe kyng, “and said what þe lykes;
Fore sake of thy Soveraynge I suffre the þe more;
Sen I coround in kyth wyth crysume enoyntede,
Was never creature to me þat carpede so large!
Bot I salle tak concelle at kynges enoyntede,
Off dukes and duspers and doctowrs noble,
Offe peres of the perlement, prelates and oper,
Off þe richeste renkys of þe rounde table;
þus schalle I take avisemente of valiant beryns,
Wyrke aftyre the wytte of my wyes knyghttes:
To warpe wordez in waste no wyrchipp it were,
Ne wilfully in þis wrethe to wrekene my selvene.
For-þi salle þow lenge here, and lugge wyth þise lordes,
This sevenyghte in solace, to suggowrne ȝour horses,
To see whatte lyfe þat wee leede in thees law laundes.”
ffor by þe realtee of Rome, þat recheste was evere,
He commande syr Cayous, take kepe to thoos lordez,
To styghtylle þa steryne mene as theire statte askys,
That they bee herberde in haste in thoos heghe chambres;
Sythine sittandly in sale servyde ther-aftyr;
That they fynd na fawte of fude to thiere horsez,
Nowthire weyne ne waxe, ne welthe in þis erthe;
Spare for no spycerye, bot spende what þe lykys,
That there be largeste one lofte, and no lake foundene;
If þou my wyrchip wayte wy be my trouthe,
Þou salle have gersoms fulle grett, þat gayne salle þe evere!
Now er they herberde in hey, and in oste holdene,
Hastyly wyth hende mene with-in thees heghe wallez;
In chambyrs with chympnes þey chaungene þeire wedez,
And sythyne the chauncelere þeme fetchede with chevalrye noble;
Sone þe senatour was sett, as hyme wele semyde,
At þe kyngez ownne borde; twa knyghtes hym servede,
Singulere sothely, as Arthure hym selvyne,
Richely on þe ryghte haunde at the rounde table;
Be resoune þat þe Romaynes whare so ryche holdene,
As of þe realeste blode þat reynede in erthe.
There come in at þe fyrste course, befor þe kynge selvene,
Barehevedys þat ware bryghte, burnyste with sylver,
Alle with taghte mene and towne in togers fulle ryche,
Of saunke realle in suyte, sexty at ones;
fflesch fluriste of fermysone with frumentee noble
Ther-to wylde to wale, and wynlyche bryddes,
Pacockes and plovers in platers of golde,
Pygges of porke despyne, þat pasturede never;
Sythene herons in hedoyne, hyled fulle faire;
Grett swannes fulle swythe in silveryne chargeowrs,
Tartes of Turky, taste whane þeme lykys;
Gumbaldes graythely, fulle gracious to taste;
Seyne bowes of wylde bores with þe braune lechyde,
Bernakes and botwres in baterde dysches,
Pareby braunchers in brede bettyr was never,
With brestez of barowes, þat bryghte ware to schewe,
Seyne come þer sewes sere, with solace þer-after,
Ownd of azure alle over and ardant þem semyde,
Of ilke aleche þe lowe launschide fulle hye,
Þat alle ledes myghte lyke þat lukyde þeme apone;
þane cranes and curlues craftyly rosted,
Connygez in cretoyne colourede fulle faire,
ffesauntez enflureschit in flammande silver,
With darielles endordide, and daynteez ȝnewe;
þane clarett and Creette, clergyally rennene,
With condethes fulle curious alle of clene silvyre;
Osay and algarde, and oper ȝnewe,
Rynisch wyne and Rochelle, richere was never;
Vernage of Venyce vertuouse and Crete;
In faucetez of fyne golde, fonode whoso lykes;
The kyngez cope-borde was closed in silver,
In grete goblettez overgylte glorious of hewe;
There was a cheeffe buttlere, a chevalere noble,
Sir Cayous þe curtaise, þat of þe cowpe servede;
Sexty cowpes of suyte offore the kyng selvyne,
Crafty and curious corvene fulle faire,
In ever-ilk aperty pyghte with precyous stones,
That nane enpoysone sulde goo prevely þer undyre,
Bot þe bryght golde for brethe sulde briste alto peces,
Or ells þe venyme sulde voyde thurghe vertue of þe stones,
And the conquerowr hymselvene, so clenly arayede
In colowrs of clene golde, cleede wyth his knyghttys,
Drissid with his dyademe one his deesse ryche,
ffore he was demyd þe doughtyeste þat duellyde in erthe.
Thane þe conquerour kyndly carpede to þose lordes,
Rehetede þe Romaynes with realle speche,
“Sirs, bez knyghtly of contenaunce, and comfurthes ȝourselvynes,
We knowe noghte in þis countre of curious metez;
In thees barayne landez, bredes none oper,
ffore-thy wythowttyne feynyng, enforce ȝow þe more
To feede ȝow with syche feble as ȝe be-fore fynde.”
“Sir,” sais þe Senatowr, “so Criste motte me helpe!
There rygnede never syche realtee with-in Rome walles!
There ne es prelatte ne pape, ne prynce in þis erthe,
That ne he myghte be wele payede of þees pryce metes!”
Aftyre theyre welthe þey wesche, and went un-to chambyre,
þis ilke kydde conquerowr with knyghtes ȝnewe;
Sir Gaywayne þe worthye Dame Waynour he hledys;
Sir Owghtreth on þe toper syde of Turry was lorde.
Thane spyces unsparyly þay spendyde there-aftyre,
Malvesye and muskadelle, þase mervelyous drynkes,
Raykede fulle raythely in rossete cowpes,
Tille alle þe riche on rawe, Romaynes and oper.
Bot the soveraigne sothely, for solace of hym selvene,
Assignyde to þe senatowr certaygne lordes,
To lede to his levere, whene he leve askes,
With myrthe and with melodye of mynstralsy noble.
Thane þe conquerowr to concelle cayres there aftyre,
Wyth lordes of his lygeaunce þat to hymselfe langys;
To þe geauntes toure jolily he wendes,
Wyth justicez and juggez, and gentille knyghtes.
Sir Cador of Cornewayle to þe kynge carppes,
Lughe one hyme luffly with lykande lates;
“I thanke Gode of þat thraa þat us þus thretys!
ȝow moste be traylede, I trowe, bot ȝife ȝe trett bettyre:
Þe lettres of syr Lucius lyghttys myne herte!
We hafe as losels liffyde many longe daye,
Wyth delyttes in this land with lordchipez many,
And forelytenede the loos þat we are layttede:
I was abaischite, be oure Lorde, of oure beste bernes,
Fore gret dule of deffuse of dedez of armes!
Now wakkenyse þe were! wyrchipide be Cryste!
And we salle wynne it agayne be wyghtnesse and strenghe!”
“Sir Cador,” quod þe kynge, “thy concelle es noble,
Bot þou arte a mervailows mane with thi mery wordez!
ffor thow countez no caas, ne castes no forthire,
Bot hurles furthe appone hevede, as thi herte thynkes;
I moste trette of a trew towchande þise nedes,
Talke of thies tythdands þat tenes myne herte;
Þou sees þat þe Emperour es angerde a lyttille;
Þat semes be his sandismene þat he es sore grevede;
His senatowr has sommonde me, and said what hym lykyde,
Hethely in my halle, wyth heynȝous wordes,
In speche disspysȝede me, and sparede me lyttille;
I myght noghte speke for spytte, so my herte trymblyde!
He askyde me tyrauntly tribute of Rome,
That tenefully tynt was in tyme of myne elders;
There alyenes, in absence of alle mene of armes,
Coverd it of commons, as cronicles telles;
I have tide to take tribute of Rome,
Myne ancestres ware emperours, and aughte it þeme selvene,
Belyne and Bremyne, and Bawdewyne the thyrde,
They ocupyede þe empyre aughte score wynttyrs,
Ilkane ayere aftyre oper, as awlde mene telles;
Thei coverde þe capitoile, and keste doune þe walles;
Hyngede of þeire heddys-mene by hundrethes at ones;
Seyne Constantyne, our kynsmane, conquerid it aftyre,
þat ayere was of Ynglande, and Emperowr of Rome,
He þat conquerid þe Crosse be craftez of armes,
That Criste was on crucifiede, þat kyng es of hevene;
Thus hafe we evydens to aske þe Emperour þe same,
That þus regnez at Rome, whate ryghte þat he claymes.”
Than answarde kyng Aungers to Arthure hym selvyne,
“Thow aughte to be overlynge over alle oþer kynges,
ffore wyseste, and worthyeste, and wyghteste of haundes,
The knyghtlyeste of counsaile þat ever corone bare;
I dare saye fore Scottlande, þat we theme schathe lympyde,
Whene the Romaynes regnede, þay raunsounde oure eldyrs,
And rade in theire ryotte, and ravyschett oure wyfes,
With-owttyne resone or ryghte refte us oure gudes;
And I salle make myne avowe devotly to Criste,
And to þe haly vernacle vertuus and noble,
Of this grett velany I salle be vengede ones
On ȝone venemus mene, wyth valiant knyghtes!
I salle the forthire of defence fosterde ȝnewe
ffifty thowsande mene, wyth-in two eldes,
Of my wage for to wende, whare so the lykes,
To fyghte wyth thy ffaa mene, þat us unfaire ledes.”
Thane the burelyche beryne of Bretayne þe lyttylle
Counsayles syr Arthure, and of hyme besekys
To ansuere þe alyenes wyth austerene wordes,
To entyce the Emperour to take overe the mounttes.
He said, “I make myne avowe verreilly to Cryste,
And to þe haly vernacle, þat voide schalle I nevere,
ffor radnesse of na Romayne þat regnes in erthe;
Bot ay be redye in araye, and at areste ffoundene,
No more dowte the dynte of theire derfe wapyns,
þan þe dewe þat es dannke, whene þat it doune ffalles;
Ne no more schowme fore þe swape of theire scharpe suerddes,
Then fore þe faireste flour þatt on the folde growes!
I salle to batelle the brynge, of brenyede knyghtes
Thyrtty thosaunde be tale, thryftye in armes,
Wyth-in a monethe daye in-to whatte marche,
Þat þow wylle sothelye assygne, whene thyselfe lykes.”
“A! A!” sais þe Walsche kynge, “wirchipid be Criste!
Now schalle we wreke fulle wele þe wrethe of oure elders!
In West Walys i-wysse syche woundyrs þay wroghte,
þat alle for wandrethe may wepe, þat one þat were thynkes.
I salle have the avanttwarde wytterly my selvene,
Tylle þat I have venquiste þe Vicounte of Rome,
þat wroghte me at Viterbe a velanye ones,
As I paste in pylgremage by the Pounte Tremble;
He was in Tuskayne þat tyme and tuke of oure knyghttes,
Areste theme oonryghttwyslye, and raunsound þame aftyre;
I salle hym surelye ensure, þat saghetylle salle we never,
Are we sadlye assemble by oure selfene ones,
And dele dynttys of dethe with oure derfe wapyns!
And I salle wagge to þat were of wyrchipfulle knyghtes,
Of Wyghte and of Walschelande, and of þe Weste marches,
Twa thosande in tale, horsede one stedys,
of þe wyghteste wyes in alle ȝone Weste landys!”
Syre Ewane fytz Uryenee þane egerly fraynez,
Was cosyne to þe conquerowr, corageous hym selfene,
“Sir, and we wyste ȝour wylle, we walde wirke þer-aftyre;
ȝif þis ȝowrnee sulde halde, or be arouwede forthyre,
To ryde one ȝone Romaynes and ryott theire landez,
We walde schape us there-fore to schippe whene ȝow lykys.”
“Cosyne,” quod þe conquerour, “kyndly þow asches;
ȝife my concelle accorde to conquere ȝone landez,
By the kalendez of Juny we schalle encountre ones,
Wyth fulle creuelle knyghtez, so Cryste mot me helpe!
There-to make I myne avowe devottly to Cryste,
And to the holy vernacle vertuous and noble,
I salle at Lammesse take leve, to lenge at my large
In Lorayne or Lumberdye, whethire me leve thynkys;
Merke un-to Meloyne, and myne doune þe wallez,
Bathe of Petyrsande, and of Pys, and of þe Pounte Treble,
In þe Vale of Viterbe vetaile my knyghttes,
Suggourne there sex wokes and solace my-selfene;
Send prekers to þe price toune, and plaunte there my segge,
Bot if þay profre me þe pece be processe of tyme.”
“Certys,” sais syr Ewayne, “and I avowe aftyre,
And I þat hathelle may see ever with myne eghne,
That ocupies thine heritage, the empyere of Rome,
I salle auntyre me anes hys egle to touche,
þat borne es in his banere of brighte golde ryche,
And raas it frome his riche mene, and ryste it in sondyre,
Bot he be redily reschowede with riotous knyghtez;
I salle enforsse ȝowe in þe felde with fresche mene of armes,
ffyfty thosande folke apone faire stedys,
On thi ffoo mene to foonde there the faire thynkes,
In ffraunce or in ffriselande, feghte whene þe lykes!”
“By oure Lorde,” quod syr Launcelott, now lyghttys myne herte!
I love Gode of þis love þis lordes has avowede!
Nowe may lesse mene have leve to say what theme lykes,
And hase no lettyng be lawe, bot lystynnys þise wordez;
I salle be at journee with gentille knyghtes,
On a ramby stede fulle jolyly graythide,
Or any journee begane to juste with hym selfene,
Emange alle his geauntez genyvers and oper,
Stryke hym styfflye fro his stede, with strenghe of myne handys,
ffor alle þa steryne in stowr, þat in his stale hovys!
Be my retenu arayede, I rekke bot a lyttille
To make rowtte into Rome, with ryotous knyghtes!
With-in a sevenyghte daye, with sex score helmes,
I salle be seene on the see, saile when þe lykes.
Thane laughes syr Lottez, and alle one lowde meles,
“Me likez þat syr Lucius launges aftyre sorowe;
Now he wylnez þe were, hys wandrethe begynnys,
It es owre weredes to wreke the wrethe of oure elders!
I make myne avowe to Gode, and to þe holy vernacle,
And I may se þe Romaynes, þat are so ryche haldene,
Arayede in þeire riotes on a rounde felde,
I salle at þe reverence of þe rounde table
Ryde thrughte alle þe rowtte, rerewarde and cher,
Redy wayes to make, and renkkes fulle rowme,
Rynnande on rede blode, as my stede ruschez!
He þat folowes my fare, and fyrste commes aftyre,
Salle fynde in my fare waye many ffay levyde!”
Thane þe conquerowr kyndly comforthes þese knyghtes,
Alowes þame gretly theire lordly a-vowes,—
“Alweldande Gode, wyrchip ȝow alle!
And latte me nevere wanntte ȝow, whylls I in werlde regne;
My menske and my manhede ȝe mayntene in erthe,
Myne honowr alle owt utterly in oper kyngys landes;
My wele and my wyrchipe, of alle þis werlde ryche,
ȝe have knyghtly conqueryde, þat to my coroune langes;
Hym thare be ferde for no faees, þat swylke a folke ledes,
Bot ever ffresche for to fyghte, in felde whene hym lykes.
I acounte no kynge þat undyr Criste lyffes,
Whilles I see ȝowe alle sounde, I sette be no more.”
Qwhene they tristily had tretyd, thay trumppede up aftyre,
Descendyd doune with a daunce of dukes and erles;
Thane þey semblede to sale, and sowpped als swythe,
Alle þis semly sorte, wyth semblante fulle noble.
Thene the roy realle rehetes thes knyghttys,
Wyth reverence and ryotte of alle his rounde table,
Tille seven dayes was gone: þe senatowr askes
Answere to þe Emperour with austeryne wordez,
Aftyre þe Epiphanye, whene þe purpos was takyne
Of peris of þe parlement, prelates and oper.
The kyng in his concelle, curtaise and noblee,
Utters þe alienes, and ansuers hyme selvene:—
“Gret wele Lucius, thi lorde, and layne noghte þise wordes;
Ife þow be lygmane lele, late hyme wiet sone
I salle at Lammese take leve, and loge at my large
In delitte in his laundez, wyth lordes ȝnewe
Regne in my realtee, and ryste whene me lykes,
By þe reyvere of Reone halde my rounde table,
ffaunge the fermes in fatthe of alle þa faire rewmes,
ffor alle þe manace of hys myghte, and mawgree his eghne!
And merke sythene over the mounttez in-to his mayne londez,
To Meloyne the mervaylous, and myne doune the walles;
In Lorrayne ne in Lumberdye lefe schalle I nowthire
Nokyne lede appone liffe, þat þare his lawes ȝemes;
And turne in-to Tuschayne, whene me tyme thynkys,
Ryde alle þas rowme landes wyth ryotous knyghttes;
Byde hy[m] make reschewes for menske of hyme selvene,
And mette me fore his manhede in þase mayne landes!
I salle be foundyne in Fraunce, fraiste whene hym lykes,