Lines 3481–3915

Qwhylles þis werlde es o werre, a wawhte I it holde!
Here es ane enmye with oste, undire ȝone vynes;
And they see the for-sothe, sorowe the be-tyddes;
Bot ȝif thow hafe condethe of þe kynge selfene,
Knaves wille kille the, and keppe at thow haves;
And if þou halde þe hey waye, they hente the also,
Bot if thow hastyly hafe helpe of his hende knyghttes.”
Thane karpes syr Cradoke to the kynge selfene,
“I salle for-gyffe hym my dede, so me Gode helpe!
Onye grome undire Gode, that one this grownde walkes!
Latte the keneste come, that to þe kyng langes,
I salle encountire hyme as knyghte, so Criste hafe my sawle!
ffor thow may noghte reche me, ne areste thy selfene,
Þoffe thou be richely arayede in fulle riche wedys;
I wille noghte wonde for no werre, to wende whare me likes,
Ne for no wy of this werlde, þat wroghte es one erthe!
Bot I wille passe in pilgremage þis pas unto Rome,
To purchese me perdonne of the pape selfene;
And of paynes of purgatorie be plenerly assoyllede;
Thane salle I seke sekirly my soverayne lorde,
Sir Arthure of Inglande, that avenaunt byerne!
ffor he es in this empire, as hathelle men me telles,
Ostayande in this oryente with awfulle knyghtes.”
“Fro qwyne come þou, kene mane,” quod þe kynge thane,
“That knawes kynge Arthure, and his knyghttes also?
Was þou ever in his courte, qwylles he in kyth lengede?
Thow karpes so kyndly, it comforthes myne herte!
Well wele has þou wente, and wysely þou sechis,
ffor þou arte Bretowne bierne, as by thy brode speche.”
“Me awghte to knowe þe kynge, he es my kydde lorde,
And I calde in his courte a knyghte of his chambire;
Sir Craddoke was I callide, in his courte riche,
Kepare of Karlyone, undir the kynge selfene;
Nowe am I cachede owtt of kyth, with kare at my herte,
And that castelle es cawghte with uncowthe ledys.”
Than the comliche kynge kaughte hym in armes,
Keste of his ketille-hatte, and kyssede hyme fulle sone,
Saide, “welcome, syr Craddoke, so Criste mott me helpe!
Dere cosyne of kynde, thowe coldis myne herte!
How faris it in Bretaynne, with alle my bolde berynes?
Are they brettenede, or brynte, or broughte owte of lyve?
Kene þou me kyndely whatte caase es be-fallene;
I kepe no credens to crafe, I knawe the for trewe.”
“Sir, thi wardane es wikkede, and wilde of his dedys;
ffor he wandreth has wroghte, sen þou awaye passede;
He has castelles encrochede, and corownde hym selvene,
Kaughte in alle þe rentis of þe rownde tabille;
He devisede þe rewme, and delte as hym likes;
Dubbede of þe Danmarkes, dukes and erles,
Disseveride þeme sondirwise, and cites distroyede;
To Sarazenes and Sessoynes, appone sere halves,
He has semblede a sorte of selcouthe berynes,
Soveraynes of Surgenale, and sowdeours many,
Of Peyghtes and Paynnyms, and provede knyghttes
Of Irelande and Orgaile, owtlawede berynes;
Alle thaa laddes are knyghttes þat lange to þe mowntes,
And ledynge and lordechipe has alle, alles theme selfe likes;
And there es syr Childrike a cheftayne holdyne,
That ilke chevalrous mane, he chargges thy pople;
They robbe thy religeous, and ravichse thi nonnes,
And redy ryddis with his rowtte to rawnsone þe povere;
ffro Humbyre to Hawyke he haldys his awene,
And alle the cowntré of Kentt be covenawnte entayllide;
The comliche castelles that to the corowne langede,
The holtes, and the hare wode, and the harde bankkes,
Alle þat Henguste and Hors hent in þeire tyme;
Att Southamptone on the see es sevene skore chippes,
ffrawghte fulle of ferse folke, owt of ferre landes,
ffor to fyghte with thy ffrappe, whene þow theme assailles.
Bot ȝitt a worde witterly, thowe watte noghte þe werste!
He has weddede Waynore, and hir his wieffe holdis,
And wounnys in the wilde bowndis of þe weste marches,
And has wroghte hire with childe, as wittnesse telles!
Off alle þe wyes of þis worlde, woo motte hym worthe,
Alles wardayne unworthye womene to ȝeme!
Thus has syr Modrede merrede us alle!
ffor-thy I merkede over thees mowntes, to mene þe the sothe.”
Than the burliche kynge, for brethe at his herte,
And for this botelesse bale alle his ble chaungide!
“By þe rode,” sais þe roye, “I salle it revenge!
Hym salle repente fulle rathe alle his rewthe werkes!”
Alle wepande for woo he went to his tentis;
Unwynly this wyesse kynge, he wakkenysse his berynes,
Clepid in a clarioune kynges and othire,
Callys theme to concelle, and of þis cas tellys,—
“I am with tresone be-trayede, for alle my trewe dedis!
And alle my travayle es tynt, me tydis no bettire!
Hym salle torfere betyde, þis tresone has wroghte,
And I may traistely hym take, as I am trew lorde!
This es Modrede, þe mane that I most traystede,
Has my castelles encrochede, and corownde hyme selvene,
With renttes and reches of the rownde table;
Has made alle hys retenewys of renayede wrechis,
And devysed my rewme to dyverse lordes,
To sowdeours and to Sarazenes owtte of sere londes!
He has weddyde Waynore, and hyr to wyefe holdes,
And a childe es eschapede, the chaunce es no bettire!
They hafe semblede on the see sevene schore chippis,
ffulle of ferrome folke, to feghte with myne one!
ffor-thy to Bretayne the brode buske us by-hovys,
ffor to brettyne the berynne that has this bale raysede!
Thare salle no freke men fare, bott alle one fresche horses,
That are fraistede in fyghte, and floure of my knyghttez:
Sir Howelle and syr Hardolfe here salle be leve,
To be lordes of the ledis that here to me lenges;
Lokes in-to Lumbardye, that thare no lede chaunge,—
And tendirly to Tuskayne take tente alles I byde;
Resaywe the rentis of Rome qwene þay are rekkenede;
Take sesyne the same daye that laste waste assygnede,
Or elles alle þe ostage withowttyne þe wallys,
Be hynggyde hye appone hyghte alle holly at ones!”
Nowe bownes the bolde kynge with beste knyghtes,
Gers trome and trusse and trynes forth aftyre;
Turnys thorowe Tuskayne, taries bot littille,
Lyghte noghte in Lumbarddye bot whene þe lyghte failede;
Merkes over the mowntaynes fulle mervaylous wayes,
Ayres thurghe Almaygne evyne at the gayneste;
fferkes evynne in-to fflawndresche with hys ferse knyghttes;
Within fyftene dayes his flete es assemblede,
And thane he schoupe hyme to chippe, and schownnes no lengere,
Scherys with a charpe wynde over þe schyre waters;
By þe roche with ropes he rydes one ankkere,
Thare the false mene fletyde, and one flode lengede,
With chefe chaynes of chare chokkode to-gedyrs,
Charggede evyne cheke-fulle of chevalrous knyghtes;
And in þe hynter one heghte, helmes and crestes,
Hatches with haythene mene hillyd ware thare undyre,
Prowdliche prutrayede with payntede clothys,
Iche a pece by pece prykkyde tylle oper,
Dubbyde with dagswaynnes dowblede they seme;
And thus þe derfe Danamarkes had dyghte alle theyre chippys,
That no dynte of no darte dere theme ne schoulde:
Than the roye and þe renkes of the rownde table
Alle ryally in rede arrayes his chippis;
That daye ducheryes he delte, and doubbyde knyghttes,
Dresses dromowndes and dragges, and drawene upe stonys;
The toppe-castelles he stuffede with toyelys, as hyme lykyde,
Bendys bowes of vys brothly þare aftyre,
Tolowris tentyly takelle they ryghttene,
Brasene hedys fulle brode buskede one flones,
Graythes for garnysones gomes arrayes;
Gryme gaddes of stele, ghywes of iryne,
Stirttelys steryne one steryne with styffe mene of armes;
Mony lufliche launce appone lofte stoundys,
Ledys one leburde, lordys and oþer,
Pyghte payvese one porte, payntede scheldes,
One hyndire hurdace one highte helmede knyghtez.
Thus they scheftene fore schotys one thas schire strandys,
Ilke schalke in his schrowde, fulle scheene ware þeire wedys.
The bolde kynge es in a barge and a-bowtte rowes,
Alle bare-hevvede for besye with beveryne lokkes;
And a berynne with his bronde, and ane helme betyne,
Mengede with a mawncelet of maylis of silver,
Compaste with a coronalle, and coverde fulle ryche;
Kayris to yche a cogge, to comfurthe his knyghttes:
To Clegys and Cleremownde he cryes one lowde,—
“O Gawayne! O Galyrane! thies gud mens bodyes.”
To Loth and to Lyonelle fulle lovefly he melys,
And to syr Lawncelot de Lake lordliche wordys,—
“Lat es covere þe kyth, the coste es owre ownne;
And gere theme brotheliche blenke, alle ȝone blod-hondes!
Bryttyne them with-in bourde, and brynne theme þare aftyre!
Hewe downe hertly ȝone heythene tykes!
They are harlotes halfe, I hette ȝow myne honnde!”
Than he coveres his cogge, and caches one ankere,
Kaughte his comliche helme with þe clere maylis;
Buskes baners one brode, betyne of gowles,
“With corowns of clere golde clenliche arraiede;
Bot þare was chosene in þe chefe a chalke-whitte maydene,
And a childe in hir arme, þat chefe es of hevynne:
Withowttene changynge in chace, thies ware þe cheefe armes
Of Arthure þe avenaunt, qwhylles he in erthe lengede.
Thane the marynerse mellys, and maysters of chippis,
Merily iche a mate menys tille oþer;
Of theire termys they talke, how þay ware tydd,
Towyne tresselle one trete, trussene upe sailes,
Bot bonettez one brede, bettrede hatches;
Brawndeste browne stele, braggede in trompes;
Standis styffe one the stamyne, steris one aftyre;
Strekyne over þe streme, thare stryvynge be-gynnes.
ffro þe wagande wynde owte of þe weste rysses,
Brethly bessomes with byrre in berynes sailles;
With hir bryngges one burde burliche cogges,
Qwhylles þe bilynge and þe beme brestys in sondyre;
So stowttly þe forsterne one þe stam hyttis,
Þat stokkes of þe stere-burde strykkys in peces!
Be thane cogge appone cogge, krayers and oþer,
Castys crepers one crosse als to þe crafte langes:
Thane was hede-rapys hewene þat helde upe þe mastes;
Thare was conteke fulle kene, and crachynge of chippys!
Grett cogges of kampe crasseches in sondyre!
Mony kabane clevede, cabilles destroyede!
Knyghtes and kene mene killide the braynes!
Kidd castelles were corvene with alle theire kene wapene,
Castelles fulle comliche, þat coloured ware faire!
Upcynes eghelynge þay ochene þare aftyre,
With þe swynge of þe swerde sweys þe mastys;
Ovyre-fallys in þe firste frekis and othire,
ffrekke in þe forchipe fey es bylevefede!
Than brothely they bekyre with boustouse tacle,
Bruschese boldlye one burde, brynyede knyghtes
Owt of botes one burde was buskede with stonys,
Bett downe of þe beste, brystis the hetches;
Som gomys thourghe gyrde with gaddys of yryne,
Comys gayliche clede englaymous wapene!
Archers of Inglande fulle egerly schottes,
Hittis thourghe þe harde stele fulle hertly dynnttis!
Sonne hotchene in holle the heþenne knyghtes,
Hurte thourghe þe harde stele, hele they never!
Than they falle to þe fyghte, ffoynes with sperys,
Alle the frekkeste one frownte þat to þe fyghte langes;
And ilkone frechely fraystez theire strenghes,
Were to fyghte in þe flete with theire felle wapyne:
Thus they dalte þat daye thire dubbide knyghtes,
Tille alle þe Danes ware dede, and in þe depe throwene!
Than Bretones brothely with brondis they hewene,
Lepys in up one lofte lordeliche berynes;
When ledys of owt londys leppyne in waters,
Alle oure lordes one lowde laughene at ones!
Be thane speris whare spronngene, spalddyd chippys,
Spanyolis spedily sprentyde over burdez;
Alle þe kene mene of kampe, knyghtes and oþer,
Killyd are colde dede, and castyne over burdez!
Theire swyers sweyftly has þe swete levyde,
Heþene hevande on hatche in þer hawe ryses,
Synkande in þe salte see sevene hundrethe at ones!
Thane syr Gawayne the gude he has þe gree wonnene,
And alle þe cogges grete he gafe to his knyghtes,
Sir Geryne, and syr Grisswolde, and othir gret lordes;
Garte Galuth a gud gome girde of þaire hedys!
Thus of þe false flete appone þe flode happenede,
And thus þeis feryne folke fey are belevede!
ȝitt es þe traytour one londe with tryede knyghttes,
And alle trompede they trippe one trappede stedys;
Schewes theme undir schilde one þe schire bankkes;
He ne schownttes for no schame, bot schewes fulle heghe!
Sir Arthure and Gawayne avyede theme bothene
To sexty thosandez of mene, þat in theire fyghte hovede;
Be this the folke was fellyde, thane was þe flode passede;
Thane was it slyke a slowde in slakkes fulle hugge,
That let þe kyng for to lande, and the lawe watyre;
ffor-thy he lengede one laye for lesynnge of horsesys,
To loke of his lege mene, and of his lele knyghtes,
ȝif any ware lamede or loste, life ȝife they scholde.
Thane syr Gawayne þe gude a galaye he takys,
And glides up at a gole with gud mene of armes;
Whene he growndide for grefe, he gyrdis in þe watere,
That to þe girdylle he gos in alle his gylte wedys:
Schottis upe appone þe sonde in syghte of þe lordes,
Sengly with hys soppe, my sorowe es the more!
With baners of his bagys beste of his armes,
He braydes up-on the banke in his bryghte wedys;
He byddys his baneoure, buske þow belyfe
To ȝone brode batayle that one ȝone banke hoves;
And I ensure ȝow sothe I salle ȝowe sewe aftyre;
Loke ȝe blenke for no bronde, ne for no bryghte wapyne,
Bot beris downe of þe beste and bryng theme o-dawe!
Bees noghte abayste of theire boste abyde one þe erthe;
ȝe have my baneres borne in batailles fulle hugge;
We salle felle ȝone false, þe fende hafe theire saules!
ffightes faste with þe frape, þe felde salle be oures;
May I þat traytoure overtake, torfere hyme tyddes,
That this tresone has tymbyrde to my trewe lorde!
Of siche a engendure fulle littylle joye happyns,
And þat salle in this journee be juggede fulle evene!”
Now they seke over þe sonde þis soppe at gayneste,
Sembles one þe sowdeours, and settys theire dyntys;
Thourghe þe scheldys so schene schalkes þey towche,
With schaftes scheveride schorte of þas schene launces;
Derfe dynttys they dalte with daggande sperys;
One þe danke of þe dewe many dede lyggys,
Dukes, and duszeperis, and dubbide knyghttys;
The doughttyeste of Danemarke undone are for ever!
Thus thas renkes in rewthe rittis theire brenyes,
And rechis of þe richeste unrekene dynttis;
Thare they thronge in the thikke, and thristis to þe erthe
Of the thraeste mene thre hundrethe at ones!
Bot syr Gawayne for grefe myghte noghte agayne-stande,
Umbegrippys a spere, and to a gome rynnys,
Þat bare of gowles fulle gaye, with gowces of sylvere;
He gyrdes hym in at þe gorge with his gryme launce,
Þat þe growndene glayfe graythes in sondyre!
With þat boystous brayde he bownes hym to dye!
The kynge of Gutlande it was, a gude mane of armes.
Thayre avawwarde than alle voydes þare aftyre,
Alles venqueste verrayely with valyant berynes;
Metis with medilwarde, that Modrede ledys!
Oure mene merkes theme to, as theme myshappenede—
ffor hade syr Gawayne hade grace to halde þe grene hille,
He had wirchipe i-wys wonnene for ever!
Bot þane syr Gawayne i-wysse, he waytes hym wele
To wreke hyme on this werlaughe, þat þis werre movede;
And merkes to syr Modrede amonge alle his beryns,
With the Mownttagus, and oper gret lordys.
Þan syr Gawayne was grevede, and with a gret wylle
ffewters a faire spere, and freschely askryes,—
“ffals fosterde foode, the fende have thy bonys!
ffy one the, felone, and thy false werkys!
Thow salle be dede and undone for thy derfe dedys,
Or I salle dy this daye, ȝif destanye worthe!”
Thane his enmye, with oste of owtlawede berynes,
Alle enangylles abowte oure excellente knyghttez,
That the traytoure be tresone had tryede hym selvene;
Dukes of Danemarke he dyghttes fulle sone,
And leders of Lettowe, with legyons inewe,
Umbylappyde oure mene with launcez fulle kene,
Sowdeours and Sarazenes owte of sere landys,
Sexty thosande mene semlyly arrayede,
Sekerly assembles thare one sevenschore knyghtes,
Sodaynly in dischayte by tha salte strandes.
Thane syr Gawayne grette with his gray eghene,
ffor grefe of his gud mene that he gyde schulde;
He wyste that thay wondyde ware, and wery for-foughttene,
And what for wondire and woo, alle his witte faylede.
And thane syghande he saide, with sylande terys,—
“We are with Sarazenes be-sett appone sere halfes!
I syghe noghte for myselfe, sa helpe oure Lorde;
Bot for to us supprysede, my sorowe es the more.
Bes dowghtty to-daye, ȝone dukes schalle be ȝoures!
ffor dere Dryghttyne this daye dredys no wapyne.
We salle ende this daye alles excellent knyghttes,
Ayere to endelesse joye with angelles unwemmyde.
Þofe we hafe unwittily wastede oure selfene,
We salle wirke alle wele in þe wirchipe of Cryste.
We salle for ȝone Sarazenes, I sekire ȝow my trowhe,
Souppe with oure Saveoure solemply in hevene,
In presence of þat precious prynce of alle oþer
With prophetes, and patriarkes, and apostlys fulle nobille,
Be-fore his freliche face that fowrmede us alle!
ȝondire to ȝone ȝaldsones, he þat ȝeldes hyme ever,
Qwhylles he es qwykke and in qwerte unquellyde with handis;
Be he never mo savede, ne socowrede with Cryste,
Bot Satanase his sawle mowe synke in-to helle!”
Than grymly syr Gawayne gryppis hys wapyne,
Agayne þat gret bataille he graythes hym sone;
Radly of his riche swerde he reghttes þe cheynys,
In he schokkes his schelde, schountes he no lengare;
Bot alles unwyse wodewyse he wente at þe gayneste,
Wondis of thas werdirwyns with wrakfufle dynttys,
Alle wellys fulle of blode, thare he awaye passes;
And þofe hym ware fulle woo, he wondys bot lyttille,
Bot wrekys at his wirchipe þe wrethe of hys lorde!
He stekys stedis in stoure, and sterenefulle knyghttes,
That steryne mene in theire sterapes stone dede þay lygge!
He rybys þe ranke stele, he rittes þe mayles;
Thare myghte no renke hym areste, his resone was passede!
He felle in a fransye for fersenesse of herte,
He feghttis and fellis downe þat hyme be-fore standis!
ffelle never fay mane siche fortune in erthe!
Into þe hale bataile hedlynge he rynnys,
And hurtes of þe hardieste þat one the erthe lenges!
Letande alles a lyone, he lawnches theme thorowe,
Lordes and ledars, that one the launde hoves!
ȝit syr Gawayne for wo wondis bot lyttille,
Bot woundis of thas wedirwynes with wondirfulle dyntes,
Alls he þat wold wilfully wastene hyme selfene;
And for wondsome and wille alle his wit failede,
That wode alles a wylde beste he wente at þe gayneste;
Alle walewede one blode, thare he awaye passede;
Iche a wy may be-warre, be wreke of anoþer!
Than he moves to syr Modrede amange alle his knyghttes,
And mett hyme in þe myde schelde, and mallis hyme thorowe;
Bot the schalke for the scharpe he schownttes a littille,
He schare hyme one þe schorte rybbys a schaftmonde large!
The schafte schoderede and schotte in the schire beryne,
Þat the schadande blode over his schanke rynnys,
And schewede one his schynbawde, þat was schire burneste!
And so they schyfte and schove, he schotte to þe erthe;
With þe lussche of þe launce he lyghte one hys schuldyrs,
Ane akere lenghe one a launde, fulle lothely wondide.
Than Gawayne gyrde to þe gome, and one þe groffe fallis;
Alles his grefe was graythede, his grace was no bettyre!
He schokkes owtte a schorte knyfe schethede with silvere,
And scholde have slottede hyme in, bot no slytte happenede:
His hand sleppid and slode o-slante one þe mayles,
And þe toþer slely slynges hym undire:
With a trenchande knyfe the traytoure hym hyttes,
Thorowe þe helme and þe hede, one heyghe one þe brayne:
And thus syr Gawayne es gone, the gude man of armes,
With-owttyne reschewe of renke, and rewghe es þe more!
Thus syr Gawaynne es gone, that gyede many othire;
ffro Gowere to Gernesay, alle þe gret lordys
Of Glamour, of Galys londe, þis galyarde knyghtes,
ffor glent of gloppynyng glade be they never!
Kyng ffroderike offres fraythely þare aftyre,
ffraynes at the false mane of owre ferse knyghte;
“Knew thow ever this knyghte in thi kithe ryche,
Of whate kynde he was comene, be-knowe now þe sothe;
Qwat gome was he this with the gaye armes,
With þis gryffoune of golde, þat es one growffe fallyne;
He has grettly greffede us, sa me Gode helpe!
Gyrde downe oure gude mene, and grevede us sore!
He was þe sterynneste in stoure that ever stele werryde,
ffore he has stonayede oure stale, and stroyede for ever!”
Than syr Mordrede with mouthe melis fulle faire;
“He was makles one molde, mane be my trowhe;
This was syr Gawayne the gude, þe gladdeste of othire,
And the graciouseste gome that undire God lyffede,
Mane hardyeste of hande, happyeste in armes,
And the hendeste in hawle undire hevene riche;
Þe lordelieste of ledynge qwhylles he lyffe myghte,
ffore he was lyone allossede in londes i-newe;
Had thow knawene hym, syr kynge in kythe thare he lengede,
His konynge, his knyghthode, his kyndly werkes,
His doyng, his doughtynesse, his dedis of armes,
Thow wolde hafe dole for his dede þe dayes of thy life!”
ȝit þat traytour alles tite teris lete he falle,
Tumes hym furthe tite, and talkes no more,
Went wepand awaye and weries the stowndys,
Þat ever his werdes ware wroghte siche wandrethe to wyrke:
Whene he thoghte on þis thynge, it thirllede his herte;
ffor sake of his sybb blode sygheande he rydys;
When þat renayede renke remembirde hym selvene,
Of reverence and ryotes of þe rownde table.
He rennyd and repent hyme of alle his rewthe werkes,
Rode awaye with his rowte, ristys he no lengere,
ffor rade of oure riche kynge, ryve þat he scholde;
Thane kayres he to Cornewaile, carefulle in herte,
Because of his kynsemane that one the coste ligges:
He taries tremlande ay, tydandis to herkene.
Than the traytoure treunted þe Tyseday þar-aftyre,
Trynnys in with a trayne tresone to wirke,
And by þe Tambire þat tide his tentis he reris,
And thane in a mette-while a messangere he sendes,
And wraite un-to Waynor how the werlde chaungede,
And what comliche coste the kyng was aryvede,
One floode foughtene with his fleete, and fellyd theme olyfe;
Bade hir ferkene so ferre, and fflee with hir childire,
Whills he myghte wile hyme awaye, and wyne to hir speche,
Ayere in-to Irelande, in-to þas owte mowntes,
And wonne thare in wildernesse with-in tha wast landys;
Than cho ȝermys and ȝee at ȝorke in hir chambire,
Gronys fulle grysely with gretand teres,
Passes owte of þe palesse with alle hir price maydenys,
Towarde Chestyre in a charre thay chese hir þe wayes,