Lines 3916–4347

Dighte hir ewyne for to dye with dule at hir herte;
Scho kayres to Karelyone, and kawghte hir a vaile,
Askes thare þe habite in þe honoure of Criste,
And alle for falsede, and frawde, and fere of hir loverde!
Bot whene oure wiese kynge wiste þat Gawayne was landede,
He al to-wrythes for woo, and wryngande his handes,
Gers lawnche his botes appone a lawe watire,
Londis als a lyone with lordliche knyghtes,
Slippes in in the sloppes o-slante to þe girdylle,
Swalters upe swyftly with his swerde drawene,
Bownnys his bataile and baners displayes,
Buskes over þe brode sandes with breth at his herte,
fferkes frekkly one felde þare þe feye lygges;
Of the traytours mene one trappede stedis,
Ten thosandez ware tynte, þe trewghe to acownt,
And certane on owre syde sevene score knyghtes
In soyte with theire soverayne unsownde are belevede!
The kynge comly over-keste knyghtes and othire,
Erlles of Awfrike, and estriche berynes
Of Orgaile and Orekenay, þe Iresche kynges,
The nobileste of Norwaye, nowmbirs fulle hugge,
Dukes of Danamarke, and dubbid knyghtes;
And the enchede kynge in the gay armes
Lys gronande one þe grownnde, and girde thorowe evene!
The riche kynge ransakes with rewthe at his herte,
And up rypes the renkes of alle þe rownde tabylle;
Ses theme alle in a soppe in sowte by theme one,
With þe Sarazenes unsownde enserchede abowte;
And syr Gawayne the gude in his gaye armes,
Umbegrippede the girse, and one grouffe fallene,
His baners braydene downe, betyne of gowlles,
His brand and his brade schelde al blody be-rovene;
Was never oure semliche kynge so sorowfulle in herte,
Ne þat sanke hyme so sade, bot þat sighte one.
Than gliftis þe gud kynge, and glapyns in herte,
Gronys fulle grisely with gretande teris;
Knelis downe to the cors, and kaught it in armes,
Kastys upe his umbrere, and kysses hyme sone!
Lokes one his eye-liddis, þat lowkkide ware faire,
His lippis like to þe lede, and his lire falowede!
Þan the corownde kyng cryes fulle lowde,—
“Dere kosyne o kynde, in kare am I levede!
ffor nowe my wirchipe es wente, and my were endide!
Here es þe hope of my hele, my happynge of armes!
My herte and my hardynes hale one hym lengede!
My concelle, my comforthe, þat kepide myne herte!
Of alle knyghtes þe kynge þat undir Criste lifede!
Þou was worthy to be kynge, thofe I þe corowne bare!
My wele and my wirchipe of alle þis werlde riche
Was wonnene thourghe syr Gawayne, and thourghe his witte one!
Allas!” saide syr Arthure, “nowe ekys my sorowe!
I am uttirly undone in myne awene landes!
A dowttouse derfe dede, þou duellis to longe!
Why drawes þou so one dreghe, thow drownnes myne herte!”
Than swetes the swete kynge and in swoune fallis,
Swafres up swiftely, and swetly hym kysses,
Tille his burliche berde was blody be-rowne,
Alls he had bestes britenede, and broghte owt of life;
Ne had syr Ewayne comene, and othire grete lordys,
His bolde herte had broustene for bale at þat stownde!
“Blyve,” sais thies bolde mene! “thow blondirs þi selfene,
þis es botles bale, for bettir bees it never!
It es no wirchipe i-wysse to wryng thyne hondes,
To wepe als a womane it es no witt holdene!
Be knyghtly of contenaunce, als a kyng scholde,
And leve siche clamoure for Cristes lufe of hevene!”
“ffor blode,” said the bolde kynge, “blyne salle I never,
Or my brayne to-briste, or my breste oþer!
Was never sorowe so softe that sanke to my herte!
Itt es fulle sibb to myselfe, my sorowe es the more!
Was never so sorowfulle a syghte seyne with myne eghene!
He es sakles supprysede for syne of myne one!”
Downe knelis þe kynge, and kryes fulle lowde;
With carefulle contenaunce he karpes thes wordes,—
“O rightwis riche Gode, this rewthe thow be-holde!
Þis ryalle rede blode ryne appone erthe;
It ware worthy to be schrede and schrynede in golde,
ffor it es sakles of syne, sa helpe me oure Lorde!”
Downe knelis þe kyng with kare at his herte,
Kaughte it upe kyndly with his clene handis,
Keste it in a ketille-hatte, and coverde it faire,
And kayres furthe with þe cors in kyghte þare he lenges.
“Here I make myn avowe,” quod the kynge thane,
“To Messie, and to Marie, the mylde qwene of hevene,
I salle never ryvaye, ne racches un-cowpylle
At roo ne rayne dere, þat rynnes apponne erthe;
Never grewhownde late glyde, ne gossehawke latt flye,
Ne never fowle see fellide, þat flieghes with wenge;
ffawkone ne formaylle appone fiste handille,
Ne ȝitt with gerefawcone rejoyse me in erthe;
Ne regnne in my royaltez, ne halde my rownde table,
Tille thi dede, my dere, be dewly revengede!
Bot ever droupe and dare, qwylles my lyfe lastez,
Tille Drightene and derfe dede hafe done qwate theme likes!”
Than kaughte they upe þe cors with kare at theire hertes,
Karyed [it] one a coursere with þe kynge selfene;
The waye unto Wynchestre þay wente at the gayneste,
Wery and wandsomdly, with wondide knyghtes;
Thare come þe prior of the plas, and professide monnkes,
Apas in processione, and with the prynce metys;
And he be-tuke þame the cors of þe knyghte noble,—
“Lokis it be clenly kepyd,” he said, “and in þe kirke holdene,
Done for derygese, as to þe ded fallys;
Menskede with messes, for mede of þe saule:
Loke it wante no waxe, ne no wirchipe elles,
And at þe body be bawmede, and one erthe holdene.
ȝiff thou kepe thi covent, encroche any wirchipe
At my comyng agayne, ȝif Crist wille it thole;
Abyde of þe beryenge tille they be broughte undire,
Þat has wroghte us this woo, and þis werre movede.”
Than sais syr Wychere þe wy, a wyese mane of armes,
“I rede ȝe warely wende, and wirkes the beste;
Soiorne in this cete, and semble thi berynes,
And bidde with thi bolde mene in thi burghe riche:
Get owt knyghttez of contres, that castelles holdes,
And owt of garysons grete gude mene of armes,
ffor we are faithely to fewe to feghte with them alle,
Þat we see in his sorte appone þe see bankes.”
With krewelle contenance thane the kyng karpis theis wordes,—
“I praye the kare noghte, syr knyghte, ne caste þou no dredis!
Hadde I no segge bot myselfe one undir sone,
And I may hym see with sighte, or one hym sette hondis,
I salle evene amange his mene malle hym to dede,
Are I of þe stede styre halfe a stede lenghe!
I salle hym in his stowre, and stroye hyme for ever,
And þare-to make I myne avowe devottly to Cryste,
And to his modyre Marie, þe mylde qwene of hevene!
I salle never sojourne sounde, ne sawghte at myne herte,
In cete ne in subarbe sette appone erthe,
Ne ȝitt slomyre ne slepe with my slawe eyghne,
Tille he be slayne þat hym slowghe, ȝif any sleyghte happene:
Bot ever pursue the Payganys þat my pople distroyede,
Qwylles I may þare theme and pynne, in place þare me likes.”
Thare durste no renke hym areste of alle þe rownde table,
Ne none paye þat prynce with plesande wordes,
Ne none of his lige-mene luke hym in the eyghne,
So lordely he lukes for losse of his knyghttes!
Thane drawes he to Dorsett, and dreches no langere,
Derefulle dredlesse with drowppande teris;
Kayeris in-to Kornewayle with kare at his herte,
The trays of þe traytoure he trynys fulle evenne:
And turnys in be þe Treynte þe traytoure to seche,
ffyndis hym in a foreste þe Frydaye there aftire;
The kyng lyghttes one fott, and freschely askryes,
And with his freliche folke he has þe folde nomene!
Nowe isschewis his enmye undire þe wode eynys,
With ostes of alynes fulle horrebille to schewe!
Sir Mordrede the malebranche, with his myche pople,
ffoundes owt of the foreste appone fele halfes,
In sevene grett batailles semliche arrayede,
Sexty thowsande mene, the syghte was fulle hugge,
Alle fyghtande folke of þe ferre laundes,
ffaire fettede one frownte be tha fresche strondes!
And alle Arthurs oste was amede with knyghtes
Bot awghtene hundrethe of alle, entrede in rolles;
This was a mache un-mete, bot myghttis of Criste,
To melle with þat multitude in þase man londis.
Than the royalle roy of þe rownde table
Rydes one a riche stedes, arrayes his beryns,
Buskes his avawmwarde, als hym beste likes;
Syr Ewayne, and syr Errake, and othire gret lordes,
Demenys the medilwarde menskefully thare aftyre,
With Merrake and Menyduke, myghty of strenghes;
Idirous and Alymere, þire avenaunt childrene,
Ayers with Arthure, with sevene score of knyghtes;
He rewlis þe rerewarde redyly thare aftyre,
The rekeneste redy mene of þe rownde table,
And thus he fittis his folke, and freschely askryes,
And syene comforthes his mene with knyghtlyche wordes—
“I beseke ȝow, sirs, for sake of oure Lorde,
That ȝe doo wele to daye, and dredis no wapene!
ffighttes fersely nowe, and fendis ȝoure selvene,
ffellis downe ȝone feye folke, the felde salle be owrs!
They are Sarazenes ȝone sorte, un-sownde motte they worthe!
Sett one theme sadlye, for sake of oure Lorde!
ȝif us be destaynede to dy to daye one this erthe,
We salle be hewede un-to hevene, or we be halfe colde!
Loke ȝe lett for no lede lordly to wirche;
Layes ȝone laddes lowe be the layke ende!
Take no tente un-to me, ne tale of me rekke,
Bes besy one my baners with ȝoure brighte wapyns,
That they be strenghely stuffede with steryne knyghtes,
And holdene lordly one lofte ledys to schewe;
ȝif any renke theme arase, reschowe theme sone.
Wirkes now my wirchipe, to daye my werre endys!
ȝe wotte my wele and my wo, wirkkys as ȝow likys!
Crist comly with crowne comforthe ȝow alle,
ffor þe kyndeste creatours that ever kynge ledde!
I gyffe ȝow alle my blyssyng with a blithe wille,
And alle Bretowns bolde, blythe mote ȝe worthe!”
They pype upe at pryme tyme approches theme nere,
Pris mene and priste proves their strenghes;
Bremly the brethemen bragges in troumppes,
In cornettes comlyly, whene knyghttes assembles,
And thane jolyly enjoynys þeis jentylle knyghttes;
A jolyere journé a-juggede was never,
Whene Bretones boldly embraces theire scheldes,
And cristyne encroyssede theme, and castis in fewtire!
Than syr Arthure oste his enmye askryes,
And in they schokke theire scheldes, schontes no lengare;
Schotte to þe schiltrones, and schowttes fulle heghe,
Thorowe scheldis fulle schene schalkes they touche!
Redily thas rydde mene of the rownde table
With ryalle raunke stele rittys theire mayles;
Bryneys browddene they briste, and burneste helmys,
Hewes haythene mene downe, halses in sondre!
ffyghtande with fyne stele, þe feye blod rynnys
Of þe frekkeste of frounte, unfers ere be-levede.
Ethyns of Argayle and Irische kynges
Enverounes oure avawmwarde with venymmos beryns;
Peghttes and paynymes with perilous wapyns,
With speres disspetousely disspoylles our knyghttes,
And hewede downe the hendeste with hertly dynttys!
Thorow the holle batayle they holdene theire wayes;
Þus fersly they fyghte appone sere halfes,
That of þe bolde Bretones myche blode spillis!
Thare durste non rescowe theme, for reches in erthe,
Þe steryne ware þare so stedde, and stuffede wit othire:
He durste noghte stire a steppe, bot stodde for hyme selvene,
Tille thre stalis ware stroyede be strenghe of hyme one!
“Idrous,” quod Arthure, “ayre the byhoves!
I see syr Ewayne over-sette with Sarazenes kene!
Redy the for rescows, arraye thee sone!
Hye þe with hardy mene in helpe of thy ffadire!
Sett in one the syde, and socoure ȝone lordes;
Bot they be socourrede and sownde, unsawghte be I never!”
Idrous hyme ansuers ernestly þare aftyre,—
“He es my fadire in faithe, for-sake salle I never!
He has me fosterde and fedde, and my faire bretherene,
Bot I for-sake this gate, so me Gode helpe,
And sothely alle sybredyne bot thyselfe one;
I breke never his biddynge for beryne one lyfe,
Bot ever bouxome as beste blethely to wyrke!
He commande me kyndly, with knyghtly wordes,
That I schulde lelely one þe lenge, and one noo lede elles;
I salle hys commandement holde, ȝif Criste wil me thole!
He es eldare than I, and ende salle we bothene;
He salle ferkke be-fore, and I salle come aftyre:
ȝiffe hyme be destaynede to dy to daye one þis erthe,
Criste comly with crowne take kepe to hys saule!”
Than remys the riche kynge with rewthe at his herte,
Hewys hys handys on heghte, and to þe hevene lokes,—
“Qwythene had Dryghttyne destaynede at his dere wille,
Þat he hade demyd me to daye to dy for ȝow alle,
That had I lever than be lorde alle my lyfe tyme,
Off alle þat Alexandere aughte qwhilles he in erthe lengede.”
Sir Ewayne and syr Errake, þes excellente beryns,
Enters in one þe oste, and egerly strykes;
The ethenys of Orkkenaye and Irische kynges,
Þay gobone of þe gretteste with growndone swerdes,
Hewes one þas hulkes with þeire harde wapyns,
Layed downe þas ledes with lothely dynttys;
Schuldirs and scheldys þay schrede to þe hawnches,
And medilles thourghe mayles, þay merkene in sondire!
Siche honoure never aughte none erthely kyng
At theire endyng daye, bot Arthure hyme selvene!
So þe droughte of þe daye dryede theire hertes,
That bothe drynkles they dye, dole was þe more!
Now mellys oure medille-warde, and mengene to-gedire.
Sir Mordrede þe Malebranche with his myche pople,
He had hide hyme be-hynde with-in thas holte eynys,
With halle bataile one hethe, harme es þe more!
He hade sene þe conteke al clene to þe ende,
How oure chevalrye chevyde be chaunces of armes!
He wiste oure folke was for-foughttene, þat þare was feye levede;
To encowntere þe kynge he castes hyme sone,
Bot the churles chekyne hade chaungyde his armes;
He had sothely for-sakene þe sawturoure engrelede,
And laughte upe thre lyons alle of whitte silvyre,
Passande in purpre of perrie fulle ryche,
ffor þe kynge sulde noghte knawe þe cawtelous wriche!
Because of his cowardys he keste of his atyre;
Bot the comliche kyng knewe hym fulle swythe,
Karpis to syr Cadors þes kyndly wordez,—
“I see the traytoure come ȝondyr trynande fulle ȝerne;
ȝone ladde with þe lyones es like to hyme-selfene!
Hym salle torfere betyde, may I touche ones,
ffor alle his tresone and trayne, alles I am trew lorde!
To day Clarente and Caliburne salle kythe theme to-gedirs,
Whilke es kenere of kerse, or hardare of eghge!
ffraiste salle we fyne stele appone fyne wedis:
Itt was my derlynge dayntevous, and fulle dere holdene,
Kepede fore encorownmentes of kynges enoynttede
One dayes when I dubbyde dukkes and erlles;
It was burliche borne be þe bryghte hiltes;
I durste never dere it in dedis of armes,
Bot ever kepide clene, be-cause of myselvene;
ffor I see Clarent unclede, þat crowne es of swerdes:
My wardrop of Walyngfordhe I wate es distroyede;
Wist no wy of wone bot Waynor hir-selvene,
Scho hade þe kepynge hirselfe of þat kydde wapyne,
Off cofres enclosede þat to þe crowne lengede,
With rynges and relikkes, and þe regale of ffraunce,
That was ffowndene one syr ffrolle, whene he was feye levyde.”
Than syr Marrike in malyncoly metys hyme sone,
With a mellyd mace myghtyly hym strykes;
The bordoure of his bacenett he bristes in sondire,
Þat þe schire rede blode over his brene rynnys!
The beryne blenkes for bale, and alle his ble chaunges,
Bot ȝitt he byddys as a bore, and brymly he strykes!
He braydes owte a brande bryghte als ever ony sylver,
Þat was syr Arthure awene, and Utere his fadirs,
In þe wardrop of Walyngfordhe was wonte to be kepede;
Þare with þe derfe dogge syche dynttes he rechede,
Þe toþer with-drewe one-dreghe and durste do none oþer!
ffor syr Marrake was mane merrede in elde,
And syr Mordrede was myghty, and his moste strenghes;
Come none with-in the compas, knyghte ne none oþer,
With-in þe swyng of swerde, þat ne he þe swete levyd:
Þat persayfes oure prynce, and presses to faste,
Strykes into þe stowre by strenghe of hys handis;
Metis with syr Mordrede, he melis unfaire,—
“Turne, traytoure untrewe, þe tydys no bettyre;
Be gret Gode thow salle dy with dynt of my handez!”
Þe schalle rescowe no renke ne reches in erthe!
The kyng with Calaburne knyghtly hym strykes,
The cantelle of þe clere schelde he kerfes in sondyre,
In-to þe schuldyre of þe schalke a schaftmonde large,
Þat þe schire rede blode schewede one þe maylys!
He schodirde and schrenkys, and schontes bott lyttile,
Bott schokkes in scharpely in his schene wedys;
The ffelonne with þe ffyne swerde freschely he strykes,
The ffelettes of þe fferrere syde he flassches in sondyre,
Thorowe jopowne and jesserawnte of gentille mailes!
The freke fichede in þe flesche an halfe fotte large,
That derfe dynt was his dede, and dole was þe more
That ever þat doughtty sulde dy, bot at Dryghttyns wylle!
ȝitt with Calyburne his swerde, fulle knyghttly he strykes,
Kastes in his clere schelde, and coveres hym fulle faire;
Swappes of þe swerde hande, als he by glenttis,
Ane inche fro þe elbowe, he ochede it in sondyre,
Þat he swounnes one þe swrathe, and one swym fallis;
Thorowe brater of browne stele, and the bryghte mayles,
That the hilte and þe hande appone þe hethe ligges!
Thane frescheliche þe freke the ffente upe rererys,
Brochis hym in with the bronde to þe bryghte hiltys,
And he brawles one the bronde, and bownes to dye.
“In faye,” says þe feye kynge, “sore me for-thynkkes
That ever siche a false theefe so faire an end haves.”
Qwene they had ffenyste þis feghte, thane was þe felde wonnene,
And the false folke in þe felde feye are by-levede!
Tille a fforeste they fledde, and felle in the grevys,
And fers foghtande folke folowes theme aftyre;
Howntes and hewes downe the heythene tykes,
Mourtherys in the mowntaygnes syr Mordrede knyghtes;
Thare chapyde never no childe, cheftayne ne oper,
Bot choppes theme downe in the chace, it chargys bot littylle!
Bot whene syr Arthure anone syr Ewayne he fyndys,
And Errake þe avenaunt, and oper grett lordes,
He kawghte up syr Cador with care at his herte,
Sir Clegis, syr Cleremonde, þes clere mene of armes,
Sir Lothe, and syr Lyonelle, syr Lawncelott and Lowes,
Marrake and Meneduke, þat myghty ware ever;
With langoure in the launde thare he layes theme to-gedire,
Lokede one theyre lighames, and with a lowde stevene,
Alles lede þat liste noghte lyfe and loste had his myrthis;
Than he stotays for made, and alle his strenghe faylez,
Lokes upe to þe lyfte, and alle his lyre chaunges!
Downne he sweys fulle swythe, and in a swoune fallys!
Upe he coveris one kneys, and kryes fulle oftene,—
“Kyng comly with crowne, in care am I levyde!
Alle my lordchipe lawe in lande es layde undyre!
That me has gyfene gwerdones, be grace of hym selvene,
Mayntenyde my manhede be myghte of theire handes,
Made me manly one molde, and mayster in erthe;
In a tenefulle tyme this torfere was rereryde,
That for a traytoure has tynte alle my trewe lordys!
Here rystys the riche blude of the rownde table,
Rebukkede with a rebawde, and rewthe es the more!
I may helples one hethe house be myne one,
Alles a wafulle wedowe þat wanttes hir beryne!
I may werye and wepe, and wrynge myne handys,
ffor my wytt and my wyrchipe awaye es for ever!
Off alle lordchips I take leve to myne ende!
Here es þe Bretones blode broughte owt of lyfe,
And nowe in þis ȝowrnee alle my joy endys!”
Thane relyes þe renkes of alle þe rownde table,
To þe ryalle roy thay ride þam alle;
Than assembles fulle sone sevene score knyghtes,
In sighte to þaire soverayne, þat was unsownde levede;
Than knelis the crownede kynge, and kryes one lowde,—
“I thanke þe, Gode, of thy grace, with a gud wylle;
That gafe us vertue and witt to vencows þis beryns;
And us has grauntede þe gree of theis gret lordes!
He sent us never no schame, ne schenchipe in erthe,
Bot ever ȝit þe overhande of alle oþer kynges:
We hafe no laysere now þese lordys to seke,
ffor ȝone laythely ladde me lamede so sore!
Graythe us to Glaschenbery, us gaynes none oþer;
Thare we may ryste us with roo, and raunsake oure wondys
Of þis dere day werke, þe Dryghttene belovede,
That us has destaynede and demyd to dye in oure awene.”
Thane they holde at his heste hally at ones,
And graythes to Glasschenberye þe gate at þe gayneste;
Entres þe Ile of Aveloyne, and Arthure he lyghttes,
Merkes to a manere there, for myghte he no forthire:
A surgyne of Salerne enserches his wondes,
The kyng sees be asaye þat sownde bese he never,
And sone to his sekire mene he said theis wordes,—
“Doo calle me a confessour, with Criste in his armes;
I wille be howselde in haste, whate happe so be-tyddys;
Constantyne my cosyne he salle the corowne bere,
Alles be-commys hym of kynde, ȝife Criste wille hym thole!
Beryne, fore my benysone, thowe berye ȝone lordys,
That in baytaille with brondez are broghte owte of lyfe;
And sythene merke manly to Mordrede childrene,
That they bee sleyghely slayne, and slongene in watyrs;
Latt no wykkyde wede waxe, ne wrythe one this erthe
I warne fore thy wirchipe, wirke alles I bydde!
I foregyffe alle greffe, for Cristez lufe of hevene!
ȝife Waynor hafe wele wroghte, wele hir be-tydde!”
He saide In manus with mayne one molde whare he ligges,
And thus passes his speryt, and spekes he no more!
The baronage of Bretayne thane, bechopes and othire,
Graythes theme to Glaschenbery with gloppynnande hertes,
To bery thare the bolde kynge, and bryng to the erthe,
With alle wirchipe and welthe þat any wy scholde.
Throly belles thay rynge, and Requiem syngys,
Dosse messes and matyns with mournande notes:
Relygeous reveste in theire riche copes,
Pontyficalles and prelates in precyouse wedys,
Dukes and dusszeperis in theire dule cotes,
Cowntasses knelande and claspande theire handes,
Ladys languessande and lowrande to schewe;
Alle was buskede in blake, birdes and othire,
That schewede at the sepulture, with sylande teris;
Whas never so sorrowfulle a syghte seene in theire tyme!
Thus endis kyng Arthure, as auctors alegges,
That was of Ectores blude the kynge sone of Troye,
And of syr Pryamous the prynce praysede in erthe;
ffro thythene broghte the Bretons alle his bolde eldyrs
In-to Bretayne the brode, as þe Bruytte tellys.