Lines 1306–1740

That here are semblede in sale, unfawghte mott ȝe worthe!
And þe fals heretyke, þat emperowr hym callez,
That ocupyes in erroure the empyre of Rome,
Sir Arthure herytage, þat honourable kynge,
That alle his auncestres aughte bot Utere hyme one,
That ilke cursynge þat Cayme kaghte for his brothyre,
Cleffe over the cukewalde, with croune ther thow lengez,
ffor the unlordlyeste lede þat I on lukede ever!
My lorde mervailles hym mekylle, mane, be my trouthe,
Why thow morthires his mene, þat no mysse serves,
Commons of þe contré, clergye and oþer,
Þat are noghte coupable per-in, ne knawes noght in armez;
ffor-thi the comelyche kynge, curtays and noble,
Comandez þe kenely to kaire of his landes,
Ore elles for thy knyghthede encontre hyme ones;
Sen þow covettes the coroune, latte it be declarede!
I hafe dyschargide me here, chalange whoo lykez,
Be-fore alle thy chevalrye, cheftaynes and oper:
Schape us an ansuere, and schunte þow no lengere,
Þat we may schifte at þe schorte, and schewe to my lorde.”
The emperour ansuerde wyth austeryne wordez,
“ȝe are with myne enmy, Sir Arthure hyme selvene!
It es none honour to me to owttray hys knyghttez,
Þoghe ȝe be irous mene, þat ayres one his nedez;
Bot say to thy soveraygne, I send hyme thes wordez,
Ne ware it for reverence of my ryche table,
þou sulde repent fulle rathe of þi ruyde wordez!
Siche a rebawde as þowe rebuke any lordez,
Wyth theire retenuz arrayede, fulle realle and noble!
Here wille I suggowrne, whilles me lefe thynkes,
And sythene seke in by Sayne with solace þer-aftere;
Ensegge all þa cetese be the salte strandez,
And seyne ryde in by Rone, þat rynnes so faire,
And of alle his ryche castelles rusche doune þe wallez;
I salle noghte lefe in Paresche, by processe of tyme,
His parte of a pechelyne, prove whene hyme lykes!”
“Now, certez,” sais syr Wawayne, “myche wondyre have I,
Þat syche an alfyne as thow dare speke syche wordez!
I had lever thene alle Fraunce, that hevede es of rewmes,
ffyghte with the faythefully one felde be oure one.”
Thane answers syr Gayous fulle gobbede wordes,—
Was eme to þe emperour, and erle hyme selfene,—
“Evere ware þes Bretons braggers of olde!
Loo! how he brawles hyme for hys bryghte wedes,
As he myghte bryttyne us alle with his brande ryche!
ȝitt he berkes myche boste, ȝone boy þere he standes!”
Thane grevyde syr Gawayne at his grett wordes,
Graythes to-warde þe gome with grucchande herte;
With hys stelyne brande he strykes of hys hevede,
And sterttes owtte to hys stede, and with his stale wendes!
Thurghe þe wacches þey wente, thes wirchipfulle knyghtez,
And fyndez in theire fare waye wondyrlyche many;
Over the watyre þey wente by wyghtnesse of horses,
And tuke wynde as þey walde by þe wodde hemes:
Thane folous frekly one fote frekkes ȝnewe,
And of þe Romayns arrayed appone ryche stedes,
Chasede thurghe a champayne oure chevalrous knyghtez,
Tille a cheefe forest, one schalke white horses:
Bot a freke alle in fyne golde, and fretted in salle,
Come forþermaste on a fresone, in flawmande wedes;
A faire floreschte spere in fewtyre he castes,
And folowes faste one owre folke, and freschelye ascryez.
Thane syr Gawayne the gude appone a graye stede,
He gryppes hym a grete spere, and graythely hyme hittez;
Thurghe þe guttez in-to the gorre he gyrdes hyme ewyne,
That the groundene stele glydez to his herte!
The gome and þe grette horse at þe grounde lyggez,
ffulle gryselyche gronande, for grefe of his woundez.
Þane presez a preker ine, fulle proudely arayede,
That beres alle of pourpour, palyde with sylver:
Byggly on a broune stede he profers fulle large;
He was a Paynyme of Perse þat þus hyme persuede.
Sir Boys un-abaiste alle he buskes hyme a-gaynes,
With a bustows launce he berez hyme thurghe,
Þat þe breme and the brade schelde appone þe bente lyggez!
And he bryngez furthe the blade, and bownez to his felowez.
Thane syr Foltemour of myghte, a man mekylle praysede,
Was movede one his manere, and manacede fulle faste;
He graythes to syr Gawayne graythely to wyrche,
ffor grefe of syr Gayous, þat es one grounde levede.
Thane syr Gawayne was glade; agayne hyme he rydez,
Wyth Galuth his gude swerde graythely hyme hyttez;
The knyghte one þe coursere he clevede in sondyre,
Clenlyche fro þe croune his corse he dyvysyde,
And þus he killez þe knyghte with his kydd wapene!
Than a ryche mane of Rome relyede to his byerns,—
“It salle repent us fulle sore and we ryde forthire!
ȝone are bolde bosturs, þat syche bale wyrkez;
It befelle hym fulle foule, þat þame so fyrste namede.”
Thane þe riche Romayns retournes þaire brydilles
To þaire tentis in tene, telles theire lordez
How syr Marschalle de Mowne es on þe monte lefede,
ffore-justyde at that journee, for his grett japez.
Bot thare chasez one oure mene chevallrous knyghtez,
ffyve thosande folke appone faire stedes,
ffaste to a foreste one a felle watyr,
That fillez fro þe falow see fyfty myle large.
Thare ware Bretons enbuschide, and banarettez noble,
Of þe chevalrye cheefe of þe kyngez chambyre,
Seese theme chase oure mene, and changene þeire horsez,
And choppe doune cheftaynes, that they moste chargyde;
Thane þe embuschement of Bretons brake owte at ones,
Brothely at banere, and Bedwyne knyghtez,
Arrestede of þe Romayns, þat by þe fyrthe rydez,
Alle þe realeste renkes þat to Rome lengez;
Thay iche on þe enmyse and egerly strykkys,
Erles of Inglande, and Arthure ascryes,
Thrughe brenes and bryghte scheldez, brestez they thyrle,
Bretons of the boldeste with theire bryghte swerdez;
Thare was Romayns over redyne, and ruydly wondyde,
Arrestede as rebawdez, with ryotows knyghttez!
The Romaynes owte of araye removede at ones,
And rydes awaye in a rowtte, for reddoure it semys!
To þe senatour Petyr a sandes-mane es commyne,
And saide, “Syr, sekyrly, ȝour seggez are supprysside!”
Than tene thowsande mene he semblede at ones,
And sett sodanly one oure seggez, by þe salte strandez;
Than ware Bretons abaiste, and grevede a lyttille,
Bot ȝit the banerettez bolde, and bachellers noble,
Brekes that battailles with brestez of stedes;
Sir Boice and his bolde mene myche bale wyrkes!
The Romaynes redyes þane, arrayez þame better,
And al to-ruscheez oure mene withe theire ryste horsez,
Arestede of the richeste of þe rounde table,
Over-rydez oure rerewarde, and grette rewthe wyrkes!
Thane þe Bretons on þe bente habyddez no lengere,
Bot fleede to þe foreste, and the feelde levede;
Sir Berylle es borne downe and syr Boice takene,
The beste of oure bolde mene unblythely wondyde;
Bot ȝitt oure stale one a strenghe stotais a lyttille,
Alle to-stonayede with þe strokes of þa steryne knyghtez;
Made sorowe fore theire soveraygne, that so þare was nomene,
Be-soughte Gode of socure, sende whene hym lykyde!
Than commez syr Idrus, armede up at alle ryghttez,
Wyth fyve hundrethe mene appone faire stedes,
ffraynez faste at oure folke freschely þare aftyre,
ȝif þer frendez ware ferre, þat one the felde foundide.
Thane sais syr Gawayne, “so me God helpe!
We hafe bene chased to daye, and chullede as hares,
Rebuyked with Romaynes appone þeire ryche stedez,
And we lurkede undyr lee as lowrande wreches!
I luke never one my lorde þe dayes of my lyfe,
And we so lytherly hyme helpe, þat hyme so wele lykede!”
Thane the Bretons brothely brochez theire stedez,
And boldly in batelle appone þe bent rydes;
Alle þe ferse mene be-fore frekly ascryes,
fferkand in þe foreste, to freschene þame selfene;
The Romaynes thane redyly arrayes theme bettyre,
One rawe on a rowm-felde, reghttez theire wapyns,
By þe ryche revare, and rewles þe pople;
And with reddowr syr Boice es in areste haldene.
Now thei semblede unsaughte by þe salte strandez;
Gladdly theis sekere mene settys þeire dynttez,
With lufly launcez one lofte they luyschene to-gedyres,
In Lorayne so lordlye on leppande stedes;
Thare ware gomes thurghe girde with grundyne wapynes,
Grisely gayspande with grucchande lotes!
Grete lordes of Greke greffede so hye;
Swyftly with swerdes, they swappene there-aftyre,
Swappez doune fulle sweperlye swelltande knynghtez,
That alle swelltez one swarthe, that they over swyngene,
Se many sweys in swoghe swounande att ones!
Syr Gawayne the gracyous fulle graythelye he wyrkkes,
The gretteste he gretez wyth gryeslye wondes;
Wyth Galuth he gyrdez doune fulle galyarde knyghtez,
ffore greefe of þe grett lorde so grymlye he strykez!
He rydez furthe ryallye and redely there-aftyre,
Thare this realle renke was in areste haldene;
He ryfez ye raunke stele, he ryghttez þeire brenez,
And reste theme theryche mane, and rade to his strenghes,
The senatour Petur thane persewede hyme aftyre,
Thurghe þe presse of þe peple, wyth his pryce knyghttes;
Appertly fore þe prysonere proves his strenghes,
Wyth prekers the proudeste that to þe presse lengez;
Wrothely one the wrange hande syr Gawayne he strykkes,
Wyth a wapene of were unwynely hyme hittez;
The breny one þe bakhalfe he brystez in sondyre!
Bot ȝit he broghte forthe syr Boyce, for alle þeire bale he biernez!
Thane þe Bretons boldely braggene þeire tromppez,
And fore blysse of syr Boyce was broghte owtte of bandez,
Boldely in batelle they bere doune knyghtes;
With brandes of broune stele they brettened maylez;
þay stekede stedys in stoure with stelene wapynes,
And alle stowede wyth strenghe, þat stode theme agaynes!
Sir Idrus fitz Ewayne þane Arthur ascryeez,
Assemblez one þe senatour wyth sextene knyghttez,
Of þe sekereste mene þat to oure syde lengede;
Sodanly in a soppe they sette in att ones,
ffoynes faste att þe fore breste with flawmande swerdez,
And feghttes faste att þe fronte freschely þare aftyre;
ffelles fele on þe felde appone þe ferrere syde,
ffey on þe faire felde by þa fresche strandez;
Bot syr Idrus fytz Ewayne anters hyme selvene,
And entters in anly, and egyrly strykez,
Sekez to þe senatowr and sesez his brydille,
Unsaughtely he saide hyme these fittande wordez,—
“ȝelde þe, syr, ȝapely, ȝife þou þi lyfe ȝernez,
ffore gyftez þat þow gyffe may, þou ȝeme now þe selfene;
ffore dredlez dreche þow, or droppe any wylez,
Thow salle dy þis daye thorow dyntt of my handez!”
“I ascente,” quod þe senatowr, “so me Criste helpe!
So þat I be safe broghte before the kynge selvene;
Raunsone me resonabillye, as I may over reche,
Aftyre my renttez in Rome may redyly forthire.”
Thane answers syr Idrus with austeryne wordez,
“Thow salle hafe condycyone, as the kynge lykes,
Whene thow comes to þe kyth there the courte haldez;
In caase his concelle bee to kepe the no langere,
To be killyde at his commandment his knyghttez be-fore.”
þay ledde hym furthe in þe rowte, and lached ofe his wedes,
Lefte hym wyth Lyonelle, and Lowelle hys brothire,
O-lawe in þe launde þane, by þe lythe strandez.
Sir Lucius legge-mene loste are fore ever!
The senatowr Petur es prysoner takyne!
Of Perce and of Porte Jaffe fulle many price knyghtez,
And myche pople wyth alle, perischede þame selfene!
ffor presse of þe passage, they plungede at onez!
Thare myghte mene see Romaynez rewfully wondyde,
Over-redyne with renkes of the round table!
In þe raike of þe furthe they rightene theire brenys,
þat rane alle one reede blode redylye alle over;
They raughte in þe rerewarde fulle ryotows knyghtez,
ffor raumsone of rede golde and realle stedys;
Radly relayes, and restez theire horsez,
In rowtte to þe ryche kynge they rade al at onez.
A knyghte cayrez be-fore, and to þe kynge telles,—
“Sir, here commez thy messangerez with myrthez fro þe mountez,
þay hafe bene machede to daye with mene of þe marchez,
ffore-maglede in þe marras with mervailows knyghtez!
We hafe foughtene in faithe, by ȝone fresche strandez,
With þe frekkeste folke that to þi foo langez;
ffyfty thosaunde one felde of ferse mene of armez,
Wyth-in a furlange of waye, fay ere by-lefede!
We hafe eschewede þis chekke, thurghe chance of oure Lorde,
Of tha chevalrows mene that chargede thy pople!
The cheefe chaunchelere of Rome, a cheftayne fulle noble,
Wille aske þe chartyre of pesse for charitee hym selfene;
And the senatowr Petire to presone es takyne.
Of Perse and of Porte ȝaffe Paynymmez ȝnewe
Comez prekande in the presse, with thy prysse knyghttez,
With poverte in thi presone theire paynez to drye;
I be-seke ȝow, sir, say whate ȝowe lykes,
Whethire ȝe suffyre theme saughte, or sone delyverde:
ȝe may have fore þe senatowr sextie horse chargede
Of silver be Seterdaye, fulle sekyrly payede,
And for þe cheefe chauncelere, þe chevalere noble,
Charottez chokkefulle charegyde with golde;
The remenaunt of þe Romaynez be in areste haldene,
Tille thiere renttez in Rome be rightewissly knawene.
I be-seke ȝow, sir, certyfye ȝone lordez,
ȝif ȝe wille send þame over þe see, or kepe þame ȝour selfene:
Alle ȝowr sekyre mene forsothe sounde are by-levyde,
Save syr Ewayne fytz Henry es in þe side wonddede.”
“Crist be thankyde,” quod the kynge, “and hys clere modyre,
That ȝowe comforthede and helpede be crafte of hyme selfene;
Skilfulle skomfyture he skiftez as hym lykez,
Is none so skathlye may skape, ne skewe fro his handes;
Desteny and doughtynes of dedys of armes,
Alle es demyd and delte at Dryghtynez wille!
I kwne the thanke for thy come, it comfortes us alle!
Sir knyghte,” sais þe conquerowr, “so me Criste helpe!
I ȝif the for thy thyȝandez Tolouse þe riche,
The tolle and þe tachementez, tavernez and oper,
The towne and the tenementez with towrez so hye,
That towchez to the temperaltee, whilles my tyme lastez:
Bot say to the senatour I sende hyme þes wordez,
Thare salle no silver hym save, bot Ewayne recovere;
I had lever see hym synke one the salte strandez,
Than the seegge ware seke, þat es so sore woundede;
I salle dissevere that sorte, so me Criste helpe!
And sett theme fulle solytarie, in sere kyngez landez:
Salle he never sownde see his seynowres in Rome,
Ne sitt in þe assemblé, in syghte wyth his feris;
ffor it comes to no kynge þat conquerowr es holdene,
To comone with his captifis fore covatys of silver:
It come never of knyghthede, knawe it ȝif hyme lyke,
To carpe of coseri, whene captyfis ere takyne;
It aughte to no prisoners to prese no lordez,
Ne come presens of pryncez, whene partyes are movede:
Comaunde ȝone constable, þe castelle þat ȝemes,
That he be clenlyche kepede, and in close haldene;
He salle have maundement to morne or myddaye be roungene,
To what marche þay salle merke, with mangere to lengene.”
Þay convaye this captyfe with clene mene of armez,
And kend hym to þe constable, alles þe kynge byddez;
And seyne to Arthure þey ayre, and egerly hym towchez
The answere of þe emperowr, irows of dedez.
Thane syr Arthure one erthe, atheliste of oþere,
At evene at his awene borde avantid his lordez,—
“Me aughte to honowr theme in erthe over alle oper thyngez,
þat þus in myne absens awnters þeme selfene;
I salle theme luffe whylez I lyffe, so me our Lorde helpe!
And gyfe þeme landys fulle large, whare theme beste lykes;
Thay salle noghte lesse, one þis layke, ȝif me lyfe happene,
þat þus are lamede for my lufe be þis lythe strandez.”
Bot in þe clere daweyng, þe dere kynge hyme selfene
Comaundyd syr Cadore with his dere knyghttes,
Sir Cleremus, sir Cleremonde, with clene mene of armez,
Sir Clowdmur, syr Clegis, to convaye theis lordez;
Sir Boyce and syr Berelle with baners displayede,
Sir Bawdwyne, syr Bryane, and syr Bedwere the ryche,
Sir Raynalde and syr Richere, Rawlaundes childyre,
To ryde with þe Romaynes in rowte wyth theire feres.
“Prekez now prevalye to Paris the ryche,
Wyth Petir the pryssonere and his price knyghttez;
Be-teche þam þe proveste, in presens of lordez,
O payne and o perelle þat pendes there too,
That they be weisely wachede and in warde holdene,
Wardede of warantizez with wyrchipfulle knyghttez;
Wagge hyme wyghte mene, and woonde for no silvyre;
I haffe warnede þat wy, be ware ȝife hyme lykes!”
Now bownes þe Bretones, als þe kynge byddez,
Buskez theire batelles, theire baners displayez;
To-wardez Chartris they chese, these chevalrows knyghttez,
And in the champayne lande fulle faire þay eschewede:
ffor þe emperour of myghte had ordande hym selfene
Sir Utolfe and sir Ewandyre, two honourable kyngez,
Erles of þe Orient, with austeryne knyghttez,
Of þe awntrouseste mene þat to his oste lengede,
Sir Sextynour of Lyby and Senatowrs many,
The kynge of Surrye hym-selfe with Sarazynes ȝnewe,
The senatowr of Sutere wyth sowmes fulle huge,
Whas assygnede to þat courte be sent of his peres,
Traise to-warde Troys þe tresone to wyrke,
To hafe be-trappede with a trayne oure travelande knyghttez,
That hade persayfede þat Peter at Parys sulde lenge,
In presonne with þe provoste, his paynez to drye.
ffor-thi they buskede theme bownne with baners dis-playede,
In the buskayle of his waye, on blonkkes fulle hugge;
Planttez theme in the pathe with powere arrayede,
To pyke up þe presoners fro oure pryse knyghttez.
Syr Cadore of Cornewalle comaundez his peris,
Sir Clegis, syr Cleremus, syr Cleremownde þe noble,
“Here es þe close of Clyme with clewes so hye;
Lokez the contree be clere, the corners are large;
Discoveres now sekerly skrogges and oper,
That no skathelle in þe skroggez skorne us here aftyre;
Loke ȝe skyste it so þat us no skathe lympe,
ffor na skomfitowre in skoulkery is skomfite ever.”
Now they hye to þe holte, thes harageous knyghttez,
To herkene of þe hye mene to helpene theis lordez;
ffyndez theme helmede hole and horsesyde on stedys,
Hovande one þe hye waye by þe holte hemmes.
With knyghttly contenawnce Sir Clegis hym selfene
Kryes to þe companye, and carpes thees wordez,—
“Es there any kyde knyghte, kaysere or oþer,
Wille kyth for his kynge lufe craftes of armes?
We are comene fro the kyng of þis lythe ryche,
That knawene es for conquerowr, corownde in erthe,
His ryche retenuz here alle of his round table,
To ryde with þat realle in rowtte where hyme lykes;
We seke justynges of werre, ȝif any wille happyne,
Of þe jolyeste mene a-juggede be lordes;
If here be any hathelle mane, erle or oper,
That for þe emperour lufe wille awntere hym-selfene.”
And ane erle þane in angerd answeres hym sone,—
“Me angers at Arthure, and att his hathelle bierns,
That thus in his errowr ocupyes theis rewmes;
And owtrayes þe emperowr, his erthely lorde!
The araye and þe ryalltez of þe rounde table
Es wyth rankow rehersede in rewmes fulle many;
Of oure renttez of Rome syche revelle he haldys,
Ne salle ȝife resoune fulle rathe, ȝif us reghte happene,
That many salle repente that in his rowtte rydez,
ffor the reklesse roy so rewlez hym-selfene!”
“A!” sais syr Clegis þane, “so me Criste helpe!
I knawe be thi carpynge a cowntere þe semes!
Bot be þou auditoure or erle, or emperour thi-selfene,
Appone Arthurez by-halve I answere the sone:
The renke so realle, þat rewllez us alle,
The ryotows mene and þe ryche of þe rounde table,
He has araysede his accownte, and redde alle his rollez,
ffor he wylle gyfe a rekenyng that rewe salle aftyre,
That alle þe ryche salle repente þat to Rome langez,
Or þe rereage be requit of rentez þat he claymez!
We crafe of ȝour curtaisie three coursez of werre,
And claymez of knyghthode, take kepe to ȝowr selfene!
ȝe do bott trayne us to daye wyth trofelande wordez!
Of syche travaylande mene trecherye me thynkes!
Sende owte sadly certayne knyghtez,
Or say me sekerly sothe, for sake ȝif ȝowe lykes.”
Thane sais þe kynge of Surry, “Alls save me oure Lorde!
ȝif þow hufe alle þe daye, þou bees noghte delyverede,
Bot thow sekerly ensure with certeyne knyghtez,
Þat þi cote and thi breste be knawene with lordez,
Of armes of ancestrye entyrde with londez.”
“Sir kyng,” sais syr Clegys, “fulle knyghttly þow askez:
I trowe it be for cowardys thow carpes thes wordez:
Myne armez are of ancestrye enveryde with lordez,
And has in banere bene borne sene syr Brut tyme;
At the cite of Troye þat tymme was ensegede,
Ofte seene in asawte with certayne knyghttez,
ffro þe Borghte broghte us and alle oure bolde elders,
To Bretayne þe braddere, with-in chippe-burdez.”
“Sir,” sais syr Sextenour, “saye what þe lykez,
And we salle suffyre the, als us beste semes;
Luke thi troumppez be trussede, and trofulle no lengere,
ffor þoghe þou tarye alle þe daye, the tyddes no bettyr!
ffor there salle never Romayne, þat in my rowt rydez,
Be with rebawdez rebuykyde, whills I in werlde regne!”
Thane syr Clegis to þe kynge a lyttille enclinede,
Kayres to syr Cadore, and knyghtly hym tellez,—
“We have foundene in ȝone firthe, floreschede with leves,
Þe flour of þe faireste folke þat to þi foo langez,
ffifty thosandez of folke of ferse mene of armez,
þat faire are fewteride on frounte undyr ȝone fre-bowes;
They are enbuschede one blonkkes, with baners dis-playede,
In ȝone bechene wode appone the waye sydes;
Thay hafe the furthe forsette alle of þe faire watyre,
That fayfully of force feghte us byhowys;
ffor thus us schappes to daye, schortly to telle,
Whedyre we schone or schewe, schyst as þe lykes.”
“Nay,” quod Cadore, “so me Criste helpe!
It ware schame þat we scholde schone for so lytylle!
Sir Lancelott salle never laughe, þat with þe kyng lengez,
That I sulde lette my waye for lede appone erthe;
I salle be dede and undone ar I here dreche,
ffor drede of any dogge-sone in ȝone dyme schawes!”
Syr Cador thane knyghtly comforthes his pople,
And with corage kene he karpes þes wordes,—
“Thynk one þe valyaunt prynce þat vesettez us ever,
With landez and lordscheppez, whare us beste lykes;
That has us ducheres delte, and dubbyde us knyghttez,
Gifene us gersoms and golde, and gardwynes many;
Grewhoundes and grett horse, and alkyne gamnes,
That gaynez tille any gome, that undyre God benez;
Thynke one riche renoune of þe rounde table,
And late it never be refte us fore Romayne in erthe;
ffeyne ȝow noghte feyntly, ne frythes no wapyns,
Bot luke ȝe fyghte faythefully, frekes ȝour-selfene;
I walde be wellyde alle qwyke, and quarterde in sondre,
Bot I wyrke my dede, whils I in wrethe lenge.”
Than this doughtty duke dubbyd his knyghttez,
Joneke and Askanere, Aladuke and oþer,
That ayerez were of Esexe, and alle þase este marchez;