Lines 2611–3045

And bothe trebute and taxe whilles my tyme lastes;
I was so hawtayne of herte, whilles I at home lengede,
I helde nane my hippe heghte undire hevene ryche;
ffor-thy was I sente hedire with sevene score knyghttez,
To asaye of this werre, be sente of my fadire;
And I am for Cyrus witrye schamely supprisede,
And be awtire of armes owtrayede for evere!
Now hafe I taulde the þe kyne that I ofe come,
Wille thow for knyghthede kene me thy name?”
“Be Criste,” quod syr Gawayne, “knyghte wys I never!
With þe kydde conquerowr a knafe of his chambyre:
Has wroghte in his wardrope wyntters and ȝeres,
One his longe armour that hym beste lykid;
I poyne alle his pavelyouns þat to hym-selfe pendes,
Dyghttes his dowblettez for dukes and erles,
Aketouns avenaunt for Arthure hym selfene,
That he usede in werre alle this aughte wyntter!
He made me ȝomane at ȝole, and gafe me gret gyftes,
And c. pound and a horse, and harnayse fulle ryche;
Gife I happe to my hele that hende for to serve,
I be holpene in haste, I hette the for-sothe!”
“Giffe his knafes be syche, his knyghttez are noble!
There es no kynge undire Criste may kempe with hym one!
He wille be Alexander ayre, þat alle þe erthe lowttede,
Abillere þane ever was syr Ector of Troye.”
“Now fore the krisome þat þou kaghte that day þou was crystenede,
Whethire thowe be knyghte or knaffe, knawe now þe sothe:
My name es syr Gawayne, I graunt þe forsothe,
Cosyne to the conquerour, he knawes it hyme selfene:
Kydd in his kalander a knyghte of his chambyre,
And rollede the richeste of alle þe rounde table!
I ame þe dussepere and duke he dubbede with his hondes,
Deynttely on a daye be-fore his dere knyghtes;
Gruche noghte, gude syr, þofe me this grace happene;
It es þe gifte of Gode, the gree es hys awene!”
“Petire!” sais Priamus, “now payes me bettire
Thane I of Provynce warre prynce, and of Paresche ryche!
ffore me ware levere prevely be prykkyd to þe harte,
Than ever any prikkere had siche a pryse wonnyne!
Bot here es herberde at handes, in ȝone huge holtes,
Halle bataile one heyghe, take hede ȝif the lyke!
The duke of Lorrayne the derfe, with his dere knyghtes,
The doughtyest of Dolfmede, and Duchemene many,
The lordes of Lumbardye that leders are haldene,
The garnysone of Godarde gaylyche arrayede,
The wyese of þe Westvale, wirchipfulle biernez,
Of Sessoyne and Surylande Sarazenes enewe;
They are nowmerde fulle neghe, and namede in rollez
Sexty thowsande and tene for-sothe of sekyre mene of armez;
Bot ȝif thow hye fro þis hethe, it harmes us bothe,
And bot my hurtes be sone holpene, hole be I never!
Tak heede to þis hausemene, þat he no horne blawe,
Are thowe heyly in haste beese hewene al to peces;
ffor they are my retenuz to ryde whare I wylle,
Es none redyare renkes regnande in erthe;
Be thow raghte with þat rowtt, thow rydes no forþer,
Ne thow bees never rawnsonede for reches in erthe!”
Sir Gawayne wente or þe wathe come, whare hym beste lykede,
With this wortheliche wye, that wondyd was sore;
Merkes to þe mountayne there oure mene lenges,
Baytaynde theire blonkes þer on þe brode mede;
Lordes lenande lowe one lemande scheldes,
With lowde laghttirs one lofte for lykynge of byrdez,
Of larkez, of lynkwhyttez, þat lufflyche songene,
And some was sleghte one slepe with slaughte of þe pople,
That sange in þe sesone in the schenne schawes,
So lawe in þe lawndez so lykande notes.
Thane syr Whycher whas warre þaire wardayne was wondyde,
And went to hym wepand, and wryngande his handes;
Sir Wychere, syr Walchere, theis weise mene of armes,
Had wondyre of syr Gawayne, and wente hyme agayns:
Mett hym in the mydwaye, and mervaile theme toghte
How he maisterede þat mane, so myghtty of strenghes!
Be alle þe welthe of þe werlde, so woo was þeme never!
“ffor alle our wirchippe i-wysse awaye es in erthe!”
“Greve ȝow noghte,” quod Gawayne, “for Godis luffe of hevene;
ffore this es bot gosesemere, and gyffene one erles;
þoffe my schouldire be schrede, and my schelde thyrllede,
And the wielde of myne arme werkkes a littille,
This prissonere syr Priamus, that has perilous wondes,
Sais þat he has salvez salle softene us bothene.”
Thane stirttes to his sterape sterynfulle knyghttez,
And he lordely lyghttes and laghte of his brydille,
And lete his burlyche blonke baite on þe flores;
Braydes of his bacenette and his ryche wedis,
Bownnes to his brode schelde and bowes to þe erthe,
In alle the bodye of that bolde es no blode leved!
Than preses to syr Priamous precious knyghtes,
Avyssely of his horse hentis hym in armes;
His helme and his hawberke thay takene of aftyre,
And hastily for his hurtte alle his herte chawngyd;
Thay laide hyme downe in the lawndez, and laghte of his wedes,
And he levede hym one lange, or how hym beste lykede;
A ffoyle of fyne golde they fande at his gyrdille,
Þat es fulle of þe flour of þe foure welle,
Þat flowes owte of Paradice whene þe flode ryses,
That myche froyt of fallez, þat feede schalle us alle;
Be it frette on his flesche, þare synnes are entamede,
The freke schalle be fische halle with-in fowre howres.
They uncovere þat cors with fulle clene hondes;
With clere watire a knyghte clensis theire wondes,
Keled theyme kyndly, and comforthed þer hertes.
And whene þe carffes ware clene, þay clede them aȝayne;
Barelle ferrers they brochede, and broghte theme the wyne,
Bothe brede and brawne, and bredis fulle ryche;
Whene þay hade etene anone they armede after.
Thane tha awntrende men as armes askryes,
With a claryoune clere, thire knyghtez to-gedyre,
Callys to concelle, and of this case tellys:—
“ȝondyr es a companye of clene mene of armes,
The keneste in contek þat undir Criste lenges;
In ȝone okene wode an oste are arrayede,
Undir takande mene of þiese owte londes;
As sais us syr Priamous, so helpe seynt Peter!”
“Go, mene, quod Gawayne, and grape in ȝoure hertez,
Who salle graythe to ȝone greve to ȝone gret lordes;
ȝif we gettlesse goo home, the kyng wille be grevede,
And say we are gadlynges, agaste for a lyttille:
We are with syr Florente, as to-daye falles,
Þat es floure of ffraunce, for he fleede never;
He was chosene and chargegide in chambire of þe kynge,
Chiftayne of þis journee with chevalrye noble;
Whethire he fyghte or he flee, we salle folowe aftyre,
ffore alle þe fere of ȝone folke forsake salle I never!”
“ffadyre,” sais syr Florent, “fulle faire ȝe it telle!
Bot I ame bot a fawntkyne, unfraystede in armes;
ȝif any foly be-falle, þe fawte salle be owrs,
And freindly o Fraunce be flemede for ever!
Woundes noghte ȝour wirchipe, my witte es bot symple;
ȝe are owre wardayne i-wysse, wyrke as ȝowe lykes;
ȝe are at the ferreste noghte passande fyve hundrethe,
And þat es fully to fewe to feghte with theme alle,
ffore harlottez and hausemene salle helpe bott littille;
They wille hye theyme hyene for alle þeire gret wordes!
I rede ȝe wyrke aftyre witte, as wyesse men of armes,
And warpes wylily a-waye, as wirchipfulle knyghtes.”
“I grawnte,” quod syr Gawayne, “so me Gode helpe!
Bot here are galyarde gomes þat of þe gre servis,
The kreuelleste knyghttes of þe kynges chambyre,
That kane carpe with the coppe knyghtly wordes;
We salle prove to daye who salle the prys wyne.”
Nowe ferriours fers un-to þe fyrthe rydez,
And foungez a faire felde, and on fotte lyghttez;
Prekes aftyre þe pray, as pryce mene of armes.
fflorent and Floridas, with fyve score knyghttez,
ffolowede in þe foreste, and on þe way fowndys,
fflyngande a faste trott, and on þe folke dryffes.
Than felewes fast to our folke wele a fyve hundreth
Of freke mene to þe fyrthe, appone fresche horses;
One syr Feraunt be-fore, apone a fayre stede,
(Was fosterde in Famacoste, the fende was his fadyre)
He flenges to syr Florent, and prystly he kryes,—
“Why flees thow, falls knyghte? þe fende hafe þi saule!”
Thane syr ffiorent was fayne, and in fewter castys;
One fawnelle of ffryselande to fferaunt he rydys,
And raghte in þe reyne on þe stede ryche,
And rydes to-warde the rowte, restes he no lengere!
ffulle butt in þe frounte he flysches hyme evene,
And alle dysfegowres his face with his felle wapene!
Thurghe his bryghte bacenette his brayne has he towchede,
And brustene his neke-bone, þat all his breste stoppede!
Thane his cosyne askryede, and cryede fulle lowde,
“Thowe has killede colde dede þe kynge of alle knyghttes!
He has bene fraistede on felde in fyftene rewmes;
He fonde never no freke myghte foghte with hym one!
Thow schalle dye for his dede with my derfe wapene,
And all þe doughtty for dule þat in ȝone dale hoves!”
“ffy,” sais syr fforidas, “thow ffleryande wryche!
Thow wenes for to flay us, ffloke-mowthede schrewe!”
Bot fforidas with a swerde, as he by glenttys,
Alle þe flesche of þe flanke he flappes in sondyre,
That alle the filthe of þe freke and fele of þe guttes
ffoloes his fole fotte, whene he furthe rydes!
Than rydes a renke to reschewe þat byerne,
That was Raynalde of þe rodes, and rebelle to Criste,
Pervertede with Paynyms þat Cristene persewes;
Presses in prowdly, as þe praye wendes,
ffore he hade in Prewsslande myche pryce wonnene;
ffor-thi in presence thare he profers so large!
Bot thane a renke syr Richere of þe rounde table,
One a ryalle stede rydes hym aȝaynes;
Throwe a rownnde rede schelde he ruschede hym sone,
That the rosselde spere to his herte rynnes!
The renye relys abowte and rusches to þe erthe,
Roris fulle ruydlye, bot rade he no more!
Now alle þat es fere and unfaye of þes fyve hundreth
ffalles on syr fflorent, a ffyve score knyghttes;
Be-twyx a plasche and a flode, appone a flate lawnde,
Oure folke fongene theire felde, and fawghte theme aȝaynes.
Than was lowde appone lofte Lorrayne askryede,
Whene ledys with longe speris lasschene to-gedyrs,
And Arthure one oure syde, whene theyme oghte aylede.
Than syr fflorent and Floridas in fewtyre þey caste,
ffruschene one alle þe ffrape, and biernes affrayede;
ffellis fyve at þe frounte thare they fyrste enteride,
And, or they ferke forthire, fele of þese oþere!
Brenyes browddene they briste, brittenede scheldes,
Bettes and beres downe the best þat þeme byddes;
Alle þat rewlyde in the rowte they rydene awaye,
So rewdly they rere theys ryalle knyghttes!
When syr Priamous þat prince persayvede theire gamene,
He hade pété in herte þat he ne durst profire;
He wente to syr Gawayne, and sais hym þese wordes,—
“Thi price mene fore thi praye putt are alle undyre,
They are with Sarazenes over-sette mo þane sevene hundreth
Of þe Sowdanes knyghtes owt of sere londes;
Walde þow suffire me, syr, for sake of thi Criste,
With a soppe of thi mene suppowelle theym ones.”
“I grouche not,” quod Gawayne, “þe gree es þaire awene!
They mone hafe gwerddouns fulle grett graunt of my lorde!
Bot the freke mene of Fraunce fraiste theme selfene,
ffrekes faughte noghte þeire fille this fyftene wyntter!
I wille noghte stire with my stale half a stede lenghe,
Bot they be stedde with more stuffe thane one ȝone stede hovys.”
Thane syr Gawayne was warre with-owttyne þe wode hemmes,
Wyes of þe Westfale appone wyght horsez,
Walopande wodely, as þe waye forthes,
With alle þe wapyns i-wys that to þe werre longez;
The erle Antele the olde the avawmwarde he buskes,
Ayerande one ayther hande heghte thosande knyghtez;
He pelours and pavysers passede alle nombyre,
That ever any prynce lede purvayede in erthe!
Than þe duke of Lorrayne dresesse thare aftyre,
With dowbille of þe Duche-mene, þat doughtty ware holdene;
Paynymes of Pruyslande, prekkers fulle noble,
Come prekkande be-fore with Priamous knyghttez.
Than saide the erle Antele to Algere his broþer,—
“Me angers ernestly at Arthures knyghtez!
Thus enkerly one an oste awnters þeme selfene;
They wille be owttrayede anone, are undrone rynge,
Thus folily one a felde to fyghte with us alle!
Bot thay be fesede in faye, ferly me thynkes!
Walde they purposse take, and passe one theire wayes,
Prike home to theire prynce, and theire pray leve,
They myghte lenghene theire lyefe, and lossene bott littille!
It wolde lyghte my herte, so helpe me oure Lorde!”
“Sir,” sais syr Algere, “thay hafe littille usede
To be owttrayede withe oste; me angers þe more!
The fayreste schalle be fulle feye, þat in oure floke ryddez,
Alls fewe as they bene, are they the felde leve!”
Thane gud Gawayne, gracious and noble,
Alle with glorious gle he gladdis his knyghtes;
“Gloppyns noghte, gud mene, for gleterand scheldes,
ȝofe ȝone gadlyngez be gaye one ȝone gret horses!
Banerettez of Bretayne, buskes up ȝour hertes!
Bees noghte baiste of ȝone boyes, ne of þaire bryghte wedis!
We salle blenke theire boste for alle theire bolde profire!
Als bouxome as birde es in bede to hir lorde,
ȝeffe we feghte to daye, þe felde schalle be owrs!
The fekille faye salle faile, and fallssede be distroyede!
ȝone folk is one ffrountere, unfraistede theyme semes;
Thay make faythe and faye to þe fend selvene!
We salle in this viage victoures be holdene,
And avauntede with voycez of valyant biernez;
Praysede with pryncez in presence of lordes,
And luffede with ladyes in dyverse londes!
Aughte never siche honoure none of oure elders,
Unwynne ne Absolone, ne none of theis oþer!
Whene we are moste in destresse, Marie we mene,
That es oure maisters seyne, þat he myche traistez;
Melys of þat mylde qwene, that menskes us alle;
Who so meles of þat mayde, myskaries he never!”
Be þese wordes ware saide, they ware noghte ferre behynde
Bot the lenghe of a launde, and Lorayne askryes;
Was never siche a justynge at journe in erthe,
In the vale of Josephate, as gestes us telles,
Whene Julyus and Joatalle ware juggede to dy,
As was whene þe ryche mene of þe rownde table
Ruschede in-to þe rowte one ryalle stedes!
ffor so rathely þay rusche with roselde speris,
That the raskaille was rade, and rane to þe grefes,
And karede to þat courte as cowardes for ever!
“Peter!” sais syr Gawayne, “this gladdez myne herte!
That ȝone gedlynges are gone, that made gret nowmbre!
I hope that thees harlottez salle harme us bot littille,
ffore they wille hyde theme in haste with-in ȝone holte enis!
Thay are feware one felde þan þay were fyrste nombirde,
Be fourrty thousand in faythe, for alle theyre faire hostes.”
Bot one Jolyan of Jene, a geante fulle howge,
Has jonede one syr Jerant a justis of Walis;
Thorowe a jerownde schelde he jogges hym thorowe,
And a fyne gesserawnte of gentille mayles!
Joynter and gemows he jogges in sondyre!
One a jambe stede þis jurnee he makes;
Thus es þe geante for-juste, that errawnte Jewe,
And Gerarde es jocunde, and joyes hym þe more!
Than the genatours of Genne enjoynes att ones,
And frykis one þe frowntere welle a fyre hundreth;
A freke highte syr ffederike, with fulle fele oþer,
fferkes one a frusche, and fresclyche askryes
To fyghte with oure fforreours, þat one felde hovis;
And thane the ryalle renkkes of þe rownde table
Rade furthe fulle ernestly, and rydis theme agaynes,
Mellis with the medille warde, bot they ware ille machede;
Of siche a grett multytude was mervayle to here.
Seyne at þe assemble the Sarazenes discoveres
The soveraynge of Sessoyne, that salvede was never;
Gyawntis for-justede with gentille knyghtes,
Thorowe gesserawntes of Jene jaggede to þe herte!
They hewe thorowe helmes hawtayne biernez,
Þat þe hiltede swerdes to þaire hertes rynnys!
Than þe renkes renownde of the rownd table
Ryffes and ruyssches downe renayede wreches;
And thus they drevene to þe dede dukes and erles,
Alle þe dreghe of þe daye, with dredfulle werkes!
Thane syr Priamous þe prynce, in presens of lordes,
Presez to his penowne, and pertly it hentes;
Revertede it redily, and a-waye rydys
To þe ryalle rowte of þe rownde table;
And heyly his retenuz raykes hym aftyre,
ffor they his resone had rede on his schelde ryche.
Owte of þe scheltrone þey schede, as schepe of a folde,
And steris furth to þe stowre, and stode be þeire lorde!
Seyne they sent to þe duke, and saide hym þise wordes,—
“We hafe bene thy sowdeours this sex ȝere and more;
We forsake þe to daye be serte of owre lorde!
We sewe to oure soveraynge in sere kynges londes;
Us defawtes oure feez of þis foure wyntteres;
Thow art feble and false, and noghte bot faire wordes;
Oure wages are werede owte, and þi werre endide,
We maye with oure wirchipe weend whethire us lykes!
I red þowe trette of a trewe, and trofle no lengere,
Or þow salle tyne of thi tale ten thosande or evene.”
“ffy a debles!” saide þe duke, “the develle have ȝour bones!
The dawngere of ȝon dogges drede schalle I never!
We salle dele this daye, be dedes of armes,
My dede and my ducherye, and my dere knyghtes!
Siche sowdeours as ȝe I sett bot att lyttille,
That sodanly in defawte for-sakes theire lorde!”
The duke in his schelde and dreches no lengere,
Drawes him a dromedarie, with dredfulle knyghtez;
Graythes to syr Gawayne with fulle gret nowmbyre
Of gomes of Gernaide, that grevous are holdene;
Thas fresche horsesede mene to þe frownt rydes,
ffelles of oure fforreowrs be fourtty at ones!
They hade foughttene before with a fyve hundrethe;
It was no ferly in faythe, þofe they faynt waxene.
Thane syr Gawayne was grefede, and grypys his spere,
And gyrdez in agayne with galyarde knyghttez;
Metes þe maches of mees and melles hym thorowe,
As man of þis medille erthe, þat moste hade grevede:
Bot on Chastelayne, a chylde of þe kynges chambyre,
Was warde to syr Wawayne of þe weste marches,
Cheses to syr Cheldride, a cheftayne noble,
With a chasyng spere he chokkes hym thurghe!
This chekke hyme eschewede be chauncez of armes;
So þay chase þat childe, eschape may he never!
Bot one Swyane of Swecy, with a swerde egge,
The swyers swyre-bane he swappes in sondyre!
He swounande diede, and on þe swarthe lengede,
Sweltes ewynne swiftly, and swanke he no more!
Than syr Gawayne gretes with his gray eghne;
The guyte was a gude mane, begynnande of armes:
ffore the charry childe so his chere chawngide,
That the chillande watire one his chekes rynnyde!
“Woo es me,” quod Gawayne, “that I ne wetene hade;
I salle wage for that wye alle þat I welde,
Bot I be wrokene on that wye, that thus has hym wondyde!”
He dresses hym drerily, and to þe duke rydes,
Bot one syr Dolphyne the derfe dyghte hym agaynes,
And syr Gawayne hym gyrd with a grym launce,
That the groundene spere glade to his herte!
And egerly he hente owte, and hurte anoper,
An haythene knyght, Hardolfe, happye in armes;
Sleyghly in at the slotte slyttes hyme thorowe,
That the slydande spere of his hande sleppes!
Thare es slayne in þat slope, be elagere of his hondes,
Sexty slongene in a slade of sleghe men of armes!
Þofe syr Gawaynne ware wo, he wayttes hym by,
And was warre of þat wye that the childe wondyde,
And with a swerde swiftly he swappes him thorowe,
That he swyftly swelte, and on þe erthe swounes!
And thane he raykes to þe rowte, and ruysches one helmys;
Riche hawberkes he rente, and rasede schyldes;
Rydes one a rawndoune, and his rayke holdes;
Thorow owte þe rerewarde he holdes wayes,
And thare raughte in the reyne this ryalle þe ryche,
And rydez in-to the rowte of þe rownde table.
Thane oure chevalrous men changene theire horsez,
Chases and choppes downe cheftaynes noble!
Hittes fulle hertely on helmes and scheldes,
Hurtes and hewes downe haythene knyghtez!
Ketelle hattes they cleve evene to þe scholdirs!
Was never siche a clamowr of capitaynes in erthe!
Thare was kynges sonnes kaughte, curtays and noble,
And knyghtes of þe contre, that knawene was ryche;
Lordes of Lorayne and Lumbardye bothene.
Laughe was and lede in with our lele knyghttez;
Thas þat chasede that daye, theire chaunce was bettire,
Swiche a cheke at a chace eschevede theyme never!
When syr fflorent be fyghte had þe felde wonene,
He fferkes ine before with fyve score knyghttez;
Theire prayes and theire presoneres passes one aftyre,
With pylours, and pavysers, and pryse mene of armes.
Thane gudly syr Gawayne gydes his knyghttez,
Gas in at þe gayneste, as gydes hym telles,
ffore greffe of a garysone of fulle gret lordes
Sulde noghte gripe upe his gere, ne swyche grame wurche:
And thare raughte in the reyne this ryalle þe ryche,
ffore-thy they stode at the straytez, and with his stale hovede,
Tille his prayes ware paste the pathe that he dredis;
Whene they the cete myghte see that the kyng seggede,
Sothely the same daye was wit asawte wonnene,
An hawrawde hyes before, the beste of the lordes,
Hom at þe herbergage, owt of tha hyghe londes;
Tornys tytte to þe tente, and to the kynge telles
Alle the tale sothely, and how they hade syede;—
“Alle thy forreours are fere, that forrayede with-owttyne,
Sir fflorent, and syr ffloridas, and alle thy ferse knyghtez:
Thay hafe forrayede and foghtene with fulle gret nowm-byre,
And fele of thy foo-mene has broghte owt of lyffe!
Oure wirchipfulle wardayne es wele eschevyde,
ffor he has wonne to-daye wirchipp for evere!
He has Dolfyne slayne, and þe duke takyne!
Many dowghty es dede by dynt of his hondes!
He has presoners price, pryncez and erles,
Of þe richeste blode þat regnys in erthe!
Alle thy chevallrous mene faire are eschewede,
Bot a childe Chasteleynne myschance es befallene.”
“Hawtayne,” sais þe king, “harawde be Criste!
Thow has helyd myne herte, I hete the for-sothe!
I ȝife the in Hamptone a hundreth pownde large.”
The kynge þan to assawte he sembles his knyghtez,
With somercastelle and sowe appone sere halfes;
Skystis his skotiferis,, and skayles the wallis,
And iche wache has his warde with wiese mene of armes.
Thane boldly þay buske, and bendes engynes,
Payses in pylotes and proves theire castes;
Mynsteris and masondewes they malle to þe erthe,
Chirches and chapelles chalke whitte blawnchede.
Stone tepelles fulle styffe in þe strete ligges,
Chawmbyrs with chymnes, and many cheefe inns;
Paysede and pelid downe playsterede walles;
The pyne of þe pople was pete for to here!
Thane þe duchez hire dyghte with damesels ryche,