Stanzas I–XV

He that made vs on the mulde,
And fair fourmet the folde,
Atte his wille, as he wold ;
The see, and the sande ;
Giffe hom joy, that wille here,
Of duȝti men, and of dere,
Of haldurs, that be-fore vs were,
That lifd in this londe.
One was Arther the kinge,
With-owtun any letting,
With him was mony lordinge,
Hardi of honde ;
Wite and war ofte thay were,
Bold vndur banere,
And wiȝte weppuns wold were,
And stifly wold stond.

This is no fantum, ne no fabulle,
ȝe wote wele of the Rowuntabulle,
Of prest men, and priueabulle,
Was holdun in prise ;
Cheuetan of chiualry,
Kyndenesse of curtesy,
Hunting fulle warly,
As wayt men and wise,
To the forest tha fare,
To hunte atte buk, and atte bare,
To the herte, and to the hare,
That bredus in the rise ;
The king atte Carlele he lay,
The hunter cummys on a day,
Sayd, " Sir, ther walkes in my way,
A welle grim gryse !

He is a balefulle bare,
Secheon seghe I neuyr are !
He hase wroȝte me myculle care,
And hurte of my howundes ;
Slayn hom downe slely,
With feȝting fulle furcely,
Wasse ther none so hardi,
Durste bide in his bandus.
On him spild I my spere,
And myculle of my nothir gere,
Ther mone no dintus him dere,
Ne wurche him no wowundes ;
He is masly made,
Alle of fellus that he bade,
Ther is no bulle so brade,
That in frithe foundes.

He is heȝer thenne a horse,
That vn-cumly corse,
In fayth, him faylis no force,
Quen that he schalle feȝte ;
And ther-to, blake as a here,
Feye folke will he fere ;
Ther may no dyntus him dere,
Ne him to dethe diȝte.
Quen he quettus his tusshes,
Thenne he betas on the busshes ;
Alle he riues and he russhes.
That the rote is vnryȝte ;
He hase a laythelyche luffe,
Quen he castus vppe his stuffe ;
Quo durst a-bide him a buffe,
I-wisse he were wiȝte !"

He sais, in Ingulwode is hee,
The tother biddus lette him bee !
We schalle that Satnace see,
Giffe that he be thare.
The king callut on knyȝtis thre;
Him seluun wold the fuyrthe be ;
He sayd, " There schalle o mo mene
Wynde to the bore."
Bothe Kay and Sir Gauan,
And Bowdewynne of Bretan,
The hunter and the howundus-squayn,
Hase ȝarket hom ȝare ;
The kinge hase armut him in hie,
And tho thre biurnes him bie,
Now ar thay fawre alle redie,
And furthe conne thay fare.

Vn-to the forest thay weynde,
That was hardy and heynde,
The hunter atte the northe ende,
His bugulle con he blaw ;
Vn-coupult kenettis as he couthe,
Witturly thay soȝte the southe,
Raches with opon mouthe,
Rennyng on a raw,
Funde fute of the bore,
Faste folutte to him thore,
Quen that he herd, he hade care,
To the denne conne he draw ;
He sloȝe hom downe slely,
With feȝting fulle fuyrsly,
But witte ȝe, Sirs, witturly,
He stode butte litulle awe.

Thay held him fast in his hold,
He brittunt bercelettus bold,
Bothe the ȝunge and the old,
And raste hom the rest ;
The raches comun rengnyng him by,
And bayet him fulle boldely,
Butte ther was non so hardy,
Durste on the fynde fast.
Thenne the hunter sayd lo him thare,
"ȝaw thar suche him no mare,
Now may ȝe sone to him fare,
Lette see quo dose beste ?
jaw thar suche him neuyr more,
Butte sette my hed opon a store,
Butte giffe he flaey ȝow alle fawre,
That griseliche geste !

Thenne the hunter turnes home a-gayn,
The king callut on Sir Gauan,
On Bawdewin of Bretan,
And on kene Kay ;
He sayd, " Sirs, in ȝour cumpany
Myne a-vow make I,
Were he neuyr so hardy,
ȝone Satenas to say,
To brittun him, and downe bringe,
With-oute any helpinge,
And I may haue my leuynge,
Her tille to-morne atte day ;
And now, Sirs, I cummaunde ȝow,
To do as I haue done nowe,
Ichone make ȝour a-vowe ;"
Gladdely grawuntutte thay.

Then vnsquarut Gauan,
And sayd godely a-gayn,
" I a-vowe to Tarnewathelan,
To wake hit alle nyȝte."
"And I a-vow," sayd Kaye,
" To ride this forest or daye ;
Quo- so wernes me the waye,
Hym to dethe diȝte !"
Quod Baudewyn, " To stynte owre strife,
I a-vow, bi my life,
Neuyr to be jelus of my wife,
Ne of no birde bryȝte ;
Nere werne nomon my mete,
Quen I gode may gete,
Ne drede my dethe for no threte,
Nauthir of king ner knyȝte."

Butte now thay haue thayre vowes made,
Thay buskutte hom, and furthe rade,
To hold that thay heȝte hade,
Ichone sere way ;
The king turnus to the bore,
Gauan, with any more,
To the tarne con he fore,
To wake hit to day.
Thenne Kay, as I conne roune,
He rode the forest vppe and downe,
Boudewynne turnes to toune,
Sum that his gate lay ;
And sethun to bed bownus he,
Butte carpe we now of ther othir thre,
How thay preuyd hor wedde-fee,
Tho sothe for to say.

Furst to carpe of oure kinge,
Hit is a kyndeliche thinge,
Atte his begynnyng,
Howe he dedde his dede ;
Tille his houndus con he hold,
The bore with his brode schilde,
Folut hom fast in the filde,
And spillutte on hom, gode spede,
Then the kinge con crye,
And carputte of venerie,
To make his howundus hardi,
Houut on a stede ;
Als sone as he come thare,
A-ȝaynus him rebowndet the bare ;
He se neuyr no syȝte are
So sore gerutte him to drede.

He hade drede and doute,
Of him that was stirrun, and stowte,
He be-gan to romy and rowte,
And gapes and gones ;
Men myȝte noȝte his cowche kenne
For howundes and for slayn men,
That he hade draun to his denne,
And brittunt alle to bonus.
Thenne his tusshes con he quette,
Opon the kinge for to sette,
He liftis vppe, with-outun lette,
Stokkes and stonis ;
With wrathe he be-gynnus to wrote,
He ruskes vppe mony a rote,
With tusshes of iij. fote,
So grisly he gronus !

Thenne the kinge spanos his spere,
Opon that bore for to bere,
Ther may no dyntus him dere,
So sekir was his schilde !
The grete schafte that was longe,
Alle to spildurs hit spronge,
The gode stede that was stronge,
Was fallun in the filde !
As the bore had mente,
He gaue the king suche a dinte,
Or he myȝte his bridulle hente,
That he myȝte euyr hit fele ;
His stede was stonet, starke ded,
He sturd neuyr owte of that sted,
To Jhesu a bone he bede,
Fro wothes hym weylde !

Thenne the king in his sadul sete,
And wiȝtely wan on his fete,
He prays to Sayn Margarete,
Fro wathes him ware !
Did as a duȝty knyȝte,
Brayd oute a brand bryȝte,
And heue his schild opon hiȝte,
For spild was his spere.
Sethun he buskette him ȝare,
Squithe with-outun any mare,
A-ȝaynus the fynde for to fare,
That hedoes was of hiere ;
So thay cowunturt in the fild,
For alle the weppuns that he myȝte weld,
The bore brittunt his schild,
On brest he conne bere.

There downe knelus he,
And prayus tille him that was so fre,
" Send me the vittore,
This Satanas me sekes !"
Alle wrothe wex that sqwyne,
Blu, and brayd vppe his bryne,
As kylne other kechine ;
Thus rudely he rekes.
The kynge myȝte him noȝte see,
Butte lenyt him doune bi a tree,
So nyȝe discumford was hee,
For smelle other smekis ;
And as he neghet bi a noke,
The king sturenly him stroke,
That bothe his brees con blake,
His maistry he mekes.