Lines 2176–2610

Þat braste at þe brawlyng, and brake in þe myddys.
Sir Kayous knewe wele, be þat kyde wounde,
That he was dede of þe dynte, and done owte of lyfe.
Than he raykes one arraye and one rawe rydez,
One this ryalle his dede to revenge;
Cleves hym wyth his clere brande clenliche in sondire!
“Kepe the, cowarde,” and calles hym sone,
“Hadde thow wele delte thy dynt with thi handes,
I hade forgeffene þe my dede, be Crist now of hewyne!”
He weyndes to þe wyese kynge, and wynly hym gretes,
“I am wathely woundide, waresche mone I never!
Wirke nowe thi wirchipe, as þe worlde askes,
And brynge me to beryelle, byd I no more!
Grete wele my ladye þe qwene, ȝife þe werlde happyne,
And alle þe burliche birdes þat to hir boure lengez;
And my worthily weife, þat wrethide me never,
Bid hire fore hir wyrchipe wirke for my saulle!”
The kyngez confessour come, with Criste in his handes,
ffor to comforthe the knyghte, kende hym þe wordes;
The knyghte coueride on his knees with a kaunt herte,
And caughte his Creatoure þat comfurthes us alle!
Thane remmes þe riche kynge fore rewthe at his herte,
Rydes in-to rowte his dede to revenge;
Presede in-to þe plumpe, and with a prynce metes,
That was ayere of Egipt in thos este marches;
Cleves hym with Collbrande clenlyche in sondyre!
He broches evene thorowe þe byerne, and þe sadille bristes,
And at þe bake of þe blonke þe bewelles entamede!
Manly in his malycoly he metes anoþer,
The medille of þat myghtty, þat hym myche grevede;
He merkes thurghe the maylez the myddes in sondyre,
That the myddys of þe mane on þe mounte fallez,
Þe toþer halfe of þe haunche on þe horse levyde.
Of þat hurte, alls I hope, heles he never!
He schotte thorowe þe schiltrouns with his scharpe wapene,
Schalkez he schrede thurghe, and schrenkede maylez;
Baneres he bare downne, bryttenede scheldes,
Brothely with browne stele his brethe he þare wrekes:
Wrothely he wryththis by wyghtnesse of strenghe,
Woundes þese whydyrewyns, werrayede knyghttes,
Threppede thorowe þe thykkys thryttene sythis,
Thryngez throly in the thrange, and chis evene aftyre!
Thane sir Gawayne the gude, with wyrchipfulle knyghttez,
Wendez in the avawewarde be tha wodde hemmys;
Was warre of syr Lucius, one launde there he hovys,
With lordez and ligge mene, that to hyme-selfe lengede.
Thane the emperour enkerly askes hym sonne,
“What wille thow, Gawayne, wyrke with thi wapyne?
I watte be thi waveryng, thow willnez aftyre sorowe;
I salle be wrokyne on thi wrethe, for alle thi grete wordez?”
He laughte owtte a lange swerde, and luyschede one ffaste,
And syr Lyonelle in the launde lordely hym strykes,
Hittes hym on þe hede, þat þe helme bristis;
Hurttes his herne-pane an haunde-brede large!
Thus he layes one þe lumppe, and lordlye þeme served,
Wondide worthily wirchipfulle knyghttez!
ffighttez with Florent that beste es of swerdez,
Tille þe fomande blode tille his fyste rynnes!
Thane þe Romayns relevyde, þat are ware rebuykkyde,
And alle to-rattys oure mene with theire riste horsses;
ffore they see þaire cheftayne be chauffede so sore,
They chasse and choppe doune oure chevalrous knyghttes!
Sir Bedwere was borne thurghe, and his breste thyrllede,
With a burlyche braunde, brode at þe hiltes;
The ryalle raunke stele to his hertte rynnys,
And he rusches to þe erthe, rewthe es the more!
Thane þe conquerour tuke kepe, and come with his strenghes
To reschewe þe ryche mene of þe rounde table,
To owttraye þe emperour, ȝif auntire it schewe,
Ewyne to þe egle, and Arthure askryes.
The emperour thane egerly at Arthure he strykez,
Awkwarde on þe umbrere, and egerly hym hittez!
The nakyde swerde at þe nese noyes hym sare,
The blode of bolde kynge over þe breste rynnys,
Beblede at þe brode schelde and þe bryghte maylez!
Oure bolde kynge bowes þe blonke be þe bryghte brydylle,
With his burlyche brande a buffette hym reches,
Thourghe þe brene and þe breste with his bryghte wapyne,
O-slante doune fro þe slote he slyttes at ones!
Thus endys þe emperour of Arthure hondes,
And all his austeryne oste þare-of ware affrayede!
Now they ferke to þe fyrthe, a fewe þat are levede,
ffor ferdnesse of oure folke, by þe fresche strandez!
The floure of oure ferse mene one fferant stedez
ffolowes frekly on þe frekes, thate ffrayede was never.
Thane þe kyde conquerowr cryes fulle lowde,—
“Cosyne of Cornewaile, take kepe to þi-selfene,
That no captayne be kepyde for none silver,
Or syr Kayous dede be cruelly vengede!”
“Nay,” sais syr Cador, “so me Criste helpe!
Thare ne es kaysere ne kynge, þat undire Criste rygnnes,
Þat I ne schalle kille colde dede be crafte of my handez!”
Thare myghte mene see chiftaynes, on chalke whitte stedez,
Choppe doune in the chaas chevalrye noble;
Romaynes þe rycheste and ryalle kynges,
Braste with ranke stele theire rybbys in sondyre!
Grayves fore-brustene thurghe burneste helmes,
With brandez for-brittenede one brede in þe laundez;
They hewede doune haythene mene with hiltede swerdez,
Be hole hundrethez on hye, by þe holte eynyes!
Thare myghte no silver theym save, ne socoure theire lyves,
Sowdane ne Sarazene,— ne senatour of Rome!
Thane relevis þe renkes of the rounde table
Be þe riche revare, that rynnys so faire;
Lugegez thaym luflye by þa lyghte strandez,
Alle on lawe in þe lawnde, that lordlyche byernes:
Thay kaire to þe karyage, and tuke whate them likes,
Kamelles and sekadrisses, and cofirs fulle riche,
Hekes and hakkenays, and horses of armes,
Howsynge and herbergage of heythene kyngez;
They drewe owt of dromondaries dyverse lordes,
Moyllez mylke whitte, and mervaillows bestez,
Elfaydes, and Arrabys, and olyfauntez noble,
Þer are of þe Oryent, with honourable kynges.
Bot syr Arthure onone ayeres þer-aftyre
Ewyne to the Emperour, with honourable kyngis;
Laughte hym upe fulle lovelyly with lordliche knyghttez,
And ledde hyme to þe layere, thare the kyng lygges.
Thane harawdez heghely, at heste of the lordes,
Hunttes upe the haythemene, that on heghte lygges,
The Sowdane of Surry, and certayne kynges,
Sexty of þe cheefe senatowrs of Rome.
Thane they bussches and bawmede þaire honourliche kynges,
Sewed theme in sendelle sexti faulde aftire,
Lappede them in lede, lesse that they schulde
Chawnge or chawffe, ȝif þay myghte escheffe;
Closed in kystys clene un-to Eome,
With theire baners abowne, theire bagis there-undyre,
In whate countre þay kaire that knyghttes myghte knawe
Iche kynge be his colowrs, in kyth whare lengede.
Onone one the secounde daye, sone by þe morne,
Twa senatours ther come, and certayne knyghttez,
Hodles fro þe hethe, over þe holte eynes,
Barefote over þe bente, with brondes so ryche,
Bowes to þe bolde kynge, and biddis hym þe hiltes,
Whethire he wille hang theym or hedde, or halde theyme on lyfe:
Knelyde be-fore þe conquerour in kyrtilles allone;
With carefulle contenaunce þay karpide þese wordes,—
“Twa senatours we are, thi subgettez of Rome,
That has savede oure lyfe by þeise salte strandys;
Hyd us in þe heghe wode, thurghe þe helpynge of Criste!
Besekes the of socoure, as soveraygne and lorde!
Grante us lyffe and lyme with liberalle herte,
ffor his luffe that the lente this lordchipe in erthe!”
“I graunte,” quod gude kynge, “thurghe grace of my-selfene;
I giffe ȝowe lyffe and lyme, and leve for to passe,
So ȝe doo my message menskefully at Rome,
That ilke charge þat I ȝow ȝiffe here be-fore my cheefe knyghttez.”
“ȝis,” sais the senatowrs, “that saile we ensure,
Sekerly be oure trowhes thi sayenges to fullfille;
We salle lett for no lede þat lyffes in erthe,
ffore pape ne for potestate, ne prynce so noble,
That ne salle lelely in lande thi letteres pronounce,
ffor duke ne fore dussepere, to dye in þe payne!”
Thane the banerettez of Bretayne broghte þeme to tentes;
There barbours ware bownne, with basyns one lofte,
With warme watire i-wys they wette theme fulle sone;
They schovene this schalkes scharpely ther-aftyre,
To rekkene theis Romaynes recreaunt and ȝoldene;
ffor-thy schove they theme to schewe, for skomfitte of Rome.
They coupylde þe kystys on kamelles be-lyve,
On asses and arrabyes, theis honourable kynges;
The emperoure for honoure, alle by hym one,
Evene appone ane olyfaunte, hys egle owtt overe;
Be-kende theme the captyfis the kynge dide hym-selfene,
And alle byfore his kene mene karpede thees wordes,—
“Here are the kystis,” quod the kyng, “kaire over þe mownttez;
Mette fulle monee þat ȝe have mekylle ȝernede,
The taxe and þe trebutte of tene schore wyntteres,
That was tenefully tynte in tyme of oure elders:
Saye to the senatoure, þe cété þat ȝemes,
That I sende hyme þe somme, assaye how hyme likes!
Bott byde theme nevere be so bolde, whylles my blode regnes,
Efte for to brawllee þeme for my brode landez,
Ne to aske trybut ne taxe be nakyne tytle,
Bot syche tresowre as this, whilles my tyme lastez.”
Nowe they raike to Rome the redyeste wayes,
Knylles in the capatoylle, and comownes assembles,
Soverayngez and senatoures, the cété þat ȝemes;
Be-kende theme the caryage, kystis and oper,
Alls þe conquerowr comaunde with cruelle wordes.
“We hafe trystily trayvellede þis tributte to feche,
The taxe and þe trewage of fowre score wynteris,
Of Iglande, of Irelande and alle þir owtt illes,
That Arthure in the occedente ocupyes att ones:
He byddis ȝow nevere be so bolde, whills his blode regnes
To brawle ȝowe fore Bretayne ne his brode landes,
Ne aske hyme trebute ne taxe be nonkyns title,
Bot syche tresoure as this, whills his tyme lastis.
We haffe foughttene in ffrance, and us es foule happenede,
And alle oure myche faire folke faye are by-levede!
Eschappide there ne chevallrye, ne cheftaynes noþer,
Bott choppede downne in the chasse, syche chawnce es be-fallene!
We rede ȝe store ȝowe of stone, and stuffene ȝour walles:
ȝow wakkens wandrethe and werre; be-ware, ȝif ȝow lykes!”
In the kalendez of Maye this caas es be-fallene:
The roy ryalle renownde, with his rownde table,
One the coste of Constantyne by þe clere strandez,
Has þe Romaynes ryche rebuykede for ever!
Whene he hade foughttene in Fraunce, and the felde wonnene,
And fersely his foomene fellde owtte of lyfe,
He bydes for þe beryenge of his bolde knyghtez,
That in batelle with brandez ware broughte owte of lyfe.
He beryes at Bayone syr Bedwere þe ryche;
The cors of Kayone þe kene at Came es belevefede,
Koveride with a crystalle clenly alle over;
His fadyre conqueride þat kyth knyghtly with hondes:
Seyne in Burgoyne he bade to bery mo knyghttez,
Sir Berade and Bawdwyne, sir Bedwar þe ryche,
And syr Cador at Came, as his kynde askes.
Thane syr Arthure onone, in þe Auguste þer-aftyre,
Enteres to Almayne wyth ostez arrayed;
Lengez at Lusscheburghe, to lechene hys knyghttez,
With his lele ligge-mene, as lorde in his awene:
And one Chrispofre daye a concelle he haldez,
Withe kynges and kaysers, clerkkes and oper,
Comandez them kenely to caste alle þeire wittys,
How he may conquere by crafe the kythe þat he claymes.
Bot the conquerour kene, curtais and noble,
Karpes in the concelle theys knyghtly wordez,—
“Here es a knyghte in theis klevys, enclesside with hilles,
That I have cowayte to knawe, be-cause of his wordez,
That es Lorayne þe lele, I kepe noghte to layne;
The lordchipe es lovely, as ledes me telles:
I wille that Ducherye devyse, and dele as me lykes,
And seyne dresse wyth þe duke, if destyny suffre:
The renke rebelle has bene un-to my rownde table,
Redy aye with Romaynes, and ryotte my landes!
We salle rekkene fulle rathe, if resone so happene,
Who has ryghte to þat rente, by ryche Gode of hevene!
Thane wille I by Lumbardye lykande to schawe,
Sett lawe in þe lande, þat laste salle ever.
The tyrauntez of Terkayne tempeste a littylle,
Talke with þe temperalle, whilles my tyme lastez;
I gyffe my protteccione to alle þe pope landez,
My ryche penselle of pes my pople to schewe:
It es a foly to offende oure fadyr undire Gode,
Owþer Peter or Paule, þa postles of Rome.
ȝiff we spare the spirituelle, we spede bot the bettire;
Whilles we have for to speke, spille salle it never!”
Now they spede at þe spurres, with-owttyne speche more,
To þe Marche of Meyes, theis manliche knyghtez,
That es Lorrayne alofede, as Londone es here;
Pety of þat seynȝowre, that soveraynge es holdene.
The kyng ferkes furthe on a faire stede,
With ferreraunde ferawnte, and oþer foure knyghtez;
Abowte the cete þa sevene, thay soughte at þe nextte,
To seke theme a sekyre place to sett withe engeynes;
Thane they beneyde in burghe bowes of vyse,
Bekyrs at þe bolde kynge with boustouse lates,
All-blawsters at Arthure egerly schottes,
ffor to hurte hyme or his horse with þat hard wapene:
The kynge schonte for no schotte, ne no schelde askys,
Bot schewes hym scharpely in his schene wedys;
Lenges alle at laysere, and lokes one the wallys,
Whare þey ware laweste the ledes to assaille.
“Sir,” said syr fferere, “a ffoly thowe wirkkes,
Thus nakede in thy noblaye to neghe to þe walles,
Sengely in thy surcotte, this cété to reche,
And schewe þe with-in, there to schende us alle.
Hye us hastylye heynne, or we mone fulle happene,
ffor hitt they the or thy horse, it harmes for ever!”
“Ife thowe be ferde,” quod the kyng, “I rede thow ryde uttere,
Lesse þat þey rywe the with theire rownd wapyne!
Thow arte bot a fawntkyne, ne ferly me thynkkys!
Þou wille be flayede for a flye þat one thy flesche lyghttes!
I ame nothynge agaste, so me Gode helpe!
Þof siche gadlynges be grevede, it greves me bot lyttille!
Thay wyne no wirchipe of me, bot wastys theire takle!
They salle wante or I weende, I wagene myne hevede!
Salle never harlotte have happe, thorowe helpe of my Lorde,
To kylle a crownde kynge with krysome enoynttede!”
Thane come þe herbarjours, harageous knyghtez,
The hale batelles one hye harrawnte ther-aftyre;
And oure forreours ferse, appone fele halfes,
Come flyeande be-fore one ferawnt stedes;
fferkande in arraye theire ryalle knyghttez,
The renkez renownde of þe rownnd table:
Alle þe frekke mene of Fraunce folowede thare aftyre,
ffaire fittyde one frownte, and one the felde hovys.
Thane the schalkes scharpelye scheftys theire horsez,
To schewene them semly in theire scheene wedes;
Buskes in batayle with baners displayede,
With brode scheldes enbrassede, and burlyche helmys,
With pennons and penselles of ylke prynce armes,
Appayrellde with perrye and pretious stones:
The lawnces with loraynes, and lemande scheldes,
Lyghtenande as þe levenynge, and lemand al over.
Thane the price mene prekes, and proves þeire horsez,
Satilles to þe cété, appone sere halfes;
Enserches the subbarbes sadly thare-aftyre,
Discoveris of schotte-mene, and skyrmys a lyttille;
Skayres þaire skottefers, and theire skowtte waches,
Brittenes theire barrers with theire bryghte wapyns;
Bett downe a barbycane, and þe brygge wynnys,
Ne hade the garnysone bene gude at þe grete ȝates,
Thay hade wonne that wone be theire awene strenghe!
Thane with-drawes oure mene, and drisses theme bettyre,
ffor dred of þe drawe-brigge dasschede in sondre;
Hyes to þe harbergage, thare the kynge hovys
With his battelle one heghe, horsyde on stedys;
Thane was þe prynce purvayede, and þeire places nomene,
Pyghte pavyllyons of palle, and plattes in seegge.
Thane lenge they lordly, as þeme leefe thoghte,
Waches in ylke warde, as to þe werre falles,
Settes up sodaynly certayne engynes;
One Sonondaye be þe soone has a fleche ȝoldene.
The kynge calles one Florente, þat flour was of knyghttez,—
“The Fraunche-mene enfeblesches, ne farly me thynkkys!
They are un-fondyde folke in þa faire marches,
ffor theme wantes þe flesche and fude that theme lykes.
Here are fforestez faire appone fele halves,
And thedyre feemene are flede with freliche bestes!
Thow salle foonde to þe felle, and forraye the mountes;
Sir fforawnt and syr Florydas salle folowe thi brydylle;
Us moste with some fresche mette refresche our pople,
That are feedde in þe fyrthe with þe froyte of þe erthe.
Thare salle weende to þis viage sir Gawayne hym-selfene,
Wardayne fulle wyrchipfulle, and so hym wele semes:
Sir Wecharde, syr Waltyre, theis wyrchipfulle knyghtes,
With alle wyseste mene of þe Weste marches:
Sir Clegis, syr Clarybalde, syr Clarymownde þe noble,
The capytayne oo wardyfe clenlyche arrayede.
Goo now, warne alle þe wache, Gawayne and oþer,
And weendes furthe on ȝour waye withowttyne moo wordes.”
Now ferkes to þe fyrthe thees fresche mene of armes,
To þe felle so fewe, theis fresclyche byernes,
Thorowe hopes and hymlande hillys and oþer,
Holtis and hare woddes with heslyne schawes,
Thorowe marasse and mosse and montes so heghe;
And in the myste mornynge one a mede falles,
Mawene and un-made, maynoyrede bott lyttylle,
In swathes sweppene downe fulle of swete floures:
Thare unbrydilles theis bolde, and baytes þeire horses,
To þe grygynge of þe daye, that byrdes gane synge;
Whylles the surs of þe sonne, þat sonde es of Cryste,
That solaces alle synfulle, þat syghte has in erthe.
Thane weendes owtt the wardayne, syr Gawayne hym-selfene,
Alles he þat weysse was and wyghte, wondyrs to seke;
Thane was he warre of a wye wondyre wele armyde,
Baytand one a wattire banke by þe wodde eynis,
Buskede in brenyes bryghte to be-halde,
Enbrassede a brode schelde on a blonke ryche,
With birenne ony borne, bot a boye one
Hoves by hym on a blonke, and his spere holdes;
He bare sessenande in golde thre grayhondes of sable,
With chapes a cheynes of chalke whytte sylver,
A charbocle in þe cheefe, chawngawnde of hewes,
And a cheefe anterous, chalange who lykes.
Sir Gawayne glystes on the gome with a glade wille!
A grete spere fro his grome he grypes in hondes,
Gyrdes ewene overe the streme one a stede ryche
To þat steryne in stowr, one strenghe þare he hovys!
Egerly one Inglisce Arthure he askryes,
The toþer irouslye ansuers hyme sone
On a launde of Lorrayne with a lowde stevene,
That ledes myghte lystene þe lenghe of a myle!
“Whedyr prykkes thow, pilour, þat profers so large?
Here pykes thowe no praye, profire whene þe lykes!
Bot thow in þis perelle put of the bettire,
Thow salle be my presonere, for alle thy prowde lates!”
“Sir,” sais syr Gawayne, “so me Gode helpe!
Siche glaverande gomes greves me bot lyttille!
Bot if thowe graythe thy gere, the wille grefe happene,
Or thowe goo of þis greve, for alle thy grete wordes!”
Thane þeire launces they lachene, thes lordlyche byernez,
Laggene with longe speres one lyarde stedes;
Cowpene at awntere be brastes of armes,
Tille bothe þe crowelle speres broustene att ones!
Thorowe scheldys þey schotte, and scherde thorowe males,
Bothe schere thorowe schoulders a schaftmonde large!
Thus worthylye þes wyes wondede ere bothene;
Or they wreke þeme of wrethe a-waye wille þey never!
Than they raughte in the reyne and a-gayne rydes,
Redely theis rathe mene rusches owtte swordez,
Hittes one hellmes fulle hertelyche dynttys,
Hewes appone hawberkes with fulle harde wapyns!
ffulle stowttly þey stryke thire steryne knyghttes,
Stokes at þe stomake with stelyne poynttes,
ffeghttene and floresche withe flawmande swerdez,
Tille þe flawes of fyre flawmes one theire helmes.
Thane syr Gawayne was grevede, and grythgide fulle sore;
With Galuthe his gude swerde grymlye he strykes!
Clefe þe knyghttes schelde clenliche in sondre!
Who lukes to þe lefte syde, whene his horse launches,
With þe lyghte of þe sonne men myghte see his lyvere!
Thane granes þe gome fore greefe of his wondys,
And gyrdis at syr Gawayne, as he by glentis;
And awkewarde egerly sore he hym smyttes;
An alet enamelde he oches in sondire,
Bristes þe rerebrace with the bronde ryche,
Kerves of at þe coutere with þe clene egge,
Anetis þe avawmbrace vrayllede with silver!
Thorowe a dowble vesture of velvett ryche,
With þe venymous swerde a vayne has he towchede!
That voydes so violently þat alle his witte changede!
The vesere, the aventaile, his vesturis ryche,
With the valyant blode was verrede alle over!
Thane this tyrante tite turnes þe brydille,
Talkes un-tendirly, and sais, “Þow arte towchede!
Us bus have a blode bande, or thi ble change,
ffor alle þe barbours of Bretayne salle noghte thy blode stawnche!
ffor he þat es blemeste with þis brade brande, blyne schalle he never.”
“ȝa,” quod syr Gawayne, “thow greves me bot lyttille!
Thowe wenys to glopyne me with thy gret wordez!
Thow trowes with thy talkynge þat my harte talmes!
Thow betydes torfere or thowe hyene turne,
Bot thow telle me tytte, and tarye no lengere,
What may staunche this blode þat thus faste rynnes.”
“ȝife I say þe sothely, and sekire þe my trowthe,
No surggone in Salarne salle save þe bettyre;
With-thy þat thowe suffre me, for sake of thy Cryste,
To schewe schortly my schrifte, and schape for myne ende.”
“ȝis,” quod syr Gawayne, “so me God helpe!
I gyfe þe grace and graunt, thofe þou hafe grefe servede!
With-thy thowe say me sothe what thowe here sekes,
Thus sengilly and sulayne alle þi-selfe one;
And whate laye thow leves one, layne noghte þe sothe,
And whate legyaunce, and whare þow arte lorde.”
“My name es syr Priamus; a prince es my fadyre,
Praysede in his pertyes with provede kynges;
In Rome thare he regnes he es riche haldene;
He has bene rebelle to Rome, and redene theire landes,
Werreyand weisely wyntters and ȝeres,
Be witt and be wyssdome, and be wyghte strenghe,
And be wyrchipfulle werre his awene has he wonne.
He es of Alexandire blode, overlynge of kynges,
The uncle of his ayele, syr Ector of Troye;
And here es the kynredene that I of come,
And Judas and Josue, þise gentille knyghtes:
I ame apparaunt his ayere, and eldeste of oper;
Of Alexandere and Aufrike, and alle þa owte landes,
I am in possessione, and plenerly sessede.
In alle þe price cetees that to þe porte langes,
I salle hafe trewly the tresowr and the londes,