Lines 1–311

Herknet to me, gode men,
Wiues, maydnes, and alle men,
Of a tale þat ich you wile telle,
Wo so it wile here, and þer-to duelle.
Þe tale is of hauelok i-maked;
Wil he was litel he yede ful naked:
Hauelok was a ful god gome,
He was ful god in eueri trome,
He was þe wicteste man at nede,
Þat þurte riden on ani stede.
Þat ye mowen nou y-here,
And þe tale ye mowen y-lere.
At the beginning of vre tale,
Fil me a cuppe of ful god ale;
And y wile drinken her y spelle,
Þat crist vs shilde alle fro helle!
Krist late vs heuere so for to do,
Þat we moten comen him to,
And wite þat it mote ben so!
Benedicamus domino!
Here y schal biginnen a rym,
Krist us yeue wel god fyn!
The rym is maked of hauelok,
A stalworþi man in a flok;
He was þe stalworþeste man at nede,
Þat may riden on ani stede.

IT was a king bi are dawes,
That in his time were gode lawes
He dede maken, an ful wel holden;
Hym louede yung, him louede holde,
Erl and barun, dreng and kayn,
Knict, bondeman, and swain,
Wydues, maydnes, prestes and clerkes,
And al for hise gode werkes.
He louede god with al his micth,
And holi kirke, and soth, ant ricth;
Ricth-wise man he louede alle,
And oueral made hem forto calle;
Wreieres and wrobberes made he falle,
And hated hem so man doth galle;
Vtlawes and theues made he bynde,
Alle that he micthe fynde,
And heye hengen on galwe-tre;
For hem ne yede gold ne fe.
In that time a man þat bore
Wel fyfty pund, y woth, or more,
Of rede gold up-on hijs bac,
In a male with or blac,
Ne funde he non that him misseyde,
Ne with iuele on him hond leyde.
Þanne micthe chapmen fare
Þuruth englond wit here ware,
And baldelike beye and sellen,
Oueral þer he wilen dwellen,
In gode burwes, and þer-fram
Ne funden he non þat dede hem sham,
Þat he ne weren sone to sorwe brouth,
An pouere maked, and browt to nouth.
Þanne was engelond at hayse;
Michel was svich a king to preyse,
Þat held so engelond in grith!
Krist of heuene was him with.
He was engelondes blome;
Was non so bold lond to rome,
Þat durste upon his menie bringhe
Hunger, ne here wicke þinghe.
Hwan he felede hise foos,
He made hem lurken, and crepen in wros:
Þe hidden hem alle, and helden hem stille,
And diden al his herte wille.
Ricth he louede of alle þinge,
To wronge micht him no man bringe,
Ne for siluer, ne for gold:--
So was he his soule hold.
To þe faderles was he rath,
Wo so dede hem wrong or lath,
Were it clerc, or were it knicth,
He dede hem sone to hauen ricth;
And wo so diden widuen wrong,
Were he neure knicth so strong,
Þat he ne made him sone kesten,
And in feteres ful faste festen;
And wo so dide maydne shame
Of hire bodi, or brouth in blame,
Bute it were bi hire wille,
He made him sone of limes spille.
He was te beste knith at nede,
Þat heuere micthe riden on stede,
Or wepne wagge, or folc vt lede;
Of knith ne hauede he neuere drede,
Þat he ne sprong forth so sparke of glede,
And lete him knawe of hise hand-dede,
Hw he couþe with wepne spede;
And oþer he refte him hors or wede,
Or made him sone handes sprede,
And “louerd, merci!” loude grede.
He was large, and no wicth gnede;
Hauede he non so god brede,
Ne on his bord non so god shrede,
Þat he ne wolde þorwit fede,
Poure þat on fote yede;
Forto hauen of him þe mede
Þat for vs wolde on rode blede,
Crist, that al kan wisse and rede,
Þat euere woneth in ani þede.

¶ Þe king was hoten aþelwold,
Of word, of wepne he was bold;
In engeland was neure knicth,
Þat betere hel þe lond to ricth.
Of his bodi ne hauede he eyr
Bute a mayden swiþe fayr,
Þat was so yung þat sho ne couþe
Gon on fote, ne speke wit mouþe.
Þan him tok an iuel strong,
Þat he wel wiste, and under-fong,
Þat his deth was comen him on:
And seyde, “crist, wat shal y don!
Louerd, wat shal me to rede!
I woth ful wel ich haue mi mede.
W shal nou mi douhter fare?
Of hire haue ich michel kare;
Sho is mikel in mi þouth,
Of me self is me rith nowt.
No selcouth is, þou me be wo;
Sho ne kan speke, ne sho kan go.
Yif scho couþe on horse ride,
And a thousande men bi hire syde;
And sho were comen intil helde,
And engelond sho couþe welde;
And don hem of þar hire were queme,
An hire bodi couþe yeme;
No wolde me neuere iuele like
Me þou ich were in heuene-riche!”

Quanne he hauede þis pleinte maked,
Þer-after stronglike he quaked.
He sende writes sone on-on
After his erles euere-ich on;
And after hise baruns, riche and poure,
Fro rokesburw al into douere,
That he shulden comen swiþe
Til him, that was ful vnbliþe;
To þat stede þer he lay,
In harde bondes, nicth and day.
He was so faste wit yuel fest,
Þat he ne mouthe hauen no rest;
He ne mouthe no mete hete,
Ne he ne mouchte no lyþe gete;
Ne non of his iuel þat couþe red;
Of him ne was nouth buten ded.

Alle þat the writes herden,
Sorful an sori til him ferden;
He wrungen hondes, and wepen sore,
And yerne preyden cristes hore,
Þat he wolde turnen him
Vt of þat yuel þat was so grim!
Þanne he weren comen alle
Bifor þe king into the halle,
At winchestre þer he lay:
“Welcome,” he seyde, “be ye ay!
Ful michel þanke kan y yow
That ye aren comen to me now!”

Quanne he weren alle set,
And þe king aueden i-gret,
He greten, and gouleden, and gouen hem ille,
And he bad hem alle ben stille;
And seyde, “þat greting helpeth nouth,
For al to dede am ich brouth.
Bute nov ye sen þat i shal deye,
Nou ich wille you alle preye
Of mi douther þat shal be
Yure leuedi after me,
Wo may yemen hire so longe,
Boþen hire and engelonde,
Til þat she mowe winan of helde,
And þa she mowe yemen and welde?”
He ansuereden, and seyden an-on,
Bi crist and bi seint ion,
That þerl Godrigh of cornwayle
Was trewe man, wit-uten faile;
Wis man of red, wis man of dede,
And men haueden of him mikel drede.
“He may hire alþer-beste yeme,
Til þat she mowe wel ben quene.”

Þe king was payed of that Rede;
A wol fair cloth bringen he dede,
And þer-on leyde þe messebok,
Þe caliz, and þe pateyn ok,
Þe corporaus, þe messe-gere;
Þer-on he garte þe erl suere,
Þat he sholde yemen hire wel,
With-uten lac, wit-uten tel,
Til þat she were tuelf winter hold,
And of speche were bold;
And þat she covþe of curteysye,
Gon, and speken of luue-drurye;
And til þat she louen þoucte,
Wom so hire to gode thoucte;
And þat he shulde hire yeue
Þe beste man that micthe liue,
Þe beste, fayreste, the strangest ok:--
Þat dede he him sweren on þe bok.
And þanne shulde he engelond
Al bitechen in-to hire hond.

Quanne þat was sworn on his wise,
Þe king dede þe mayden arise,
And þe erl hire bitaucte,
And al the lond he euere awcte;
Engelonde eueri del;
And preide, he shulde yeme hire wel.

Þe king ne mowcte don no more,
But yerne preyede godes ore;
And dede him hoslen wel and shriue,
I woth, fif hundred siþes and fiue;
An ofte dede him sore swinge,
And wit hondes smerte dinge;
So þat þe blod ran of his fleys,
Þat tendre was, and swiþe neys.
And sone gaf it euere-il del;
He made his quiste swiþe wel.
Wan it was gouen, ne micte men finde
So mikel men micte him in winde,
Of his in arke, ne in chiste,
In engelond þat noman wiste:
For al was youen, faire and wel,
Þat him was leued no catel.

Þanne he hauede ben ofte swngen,
Ofte shriuen, and ofte dungen,
“In manus tuas, louerde,” he seyde,
Her þat he þe speche leyde.
To ihesu crist bigan to calle,
And deyede biforn his heymen alle.
Þan he was ded, þere micte men se
Þe meste sorwe that micte be;
Þer was sobbing, siking, and sor,
Handes wringing, and drawing bi hor.
Alle greten swiþe sore,
Riche and poure þat þere wore;
An mikel sorwe haueden alle,
Leuedyes in boure, knictes in halle.

Quan þat sorwe was somdel laten,
And he haueden longe graten,
Belles deden he sone ringen,
Monkes and prestes messe singen;
And sauteres deden he manie reden,
Þat god self shulde his soule leden
Into heuene, biforn his sone,
And þer wit-uten hende wone.
Þan he was to þe erþe brouth,
Þe riche erl ne foryat nouth,
Þat he ne dede al engelond
Sone sayse intil his hond;
And in þe castels leth he do
Þe knictes he micte tristen to;
And alle þe englis dede he sweren,
Þat he shulden him ghod fey baren;
He yaf alle men, þat god þoucte,
Liuen and deyen til þat him moucte,
Til þat þe kinges dowter wore
Tuenti winter hold, and more.

Þanne he hauede taken þis oth
Of erles, baruns, lef and loth,
Of knictes, cherles, fre and þewe,
Justises dede he maken newe,
Al engelond to faren þorw,
Fro douere into rokesborw.
Schireues he sette, bedels, and greyues,
Grith-sergeans, wit longe gleyues,
To yemen wilde wodes and paþes
Fro wicke men, that wolde don scaþes;
And forto hauen alle at his cri,
At his wille, at his merci;
Þat non durste ben him ageyn,
Erl ne baron, knict ne sweyn.
Wislike for soth, was him wel
Of folc, of wepne, of catel,
Soþlike, in a lite þrawe
Al engelond of him stod in awe;
Al engelond was of him adrad,
So his þe beste fro þe gad.

Þe kinges douther bigan þriue,
And wex þe fayrest wman on liue.
Of alle þewes was she wis,
Þat gode weren, and of pris.
Þe mayden Goldeboru was hoten;
For hire was mani a ter igroten.

Quanne the Erl godrich him herde
Of þat mayden, hw wel she ferde;
Hw wis sho was, w chaste, hw fayr,
And þat sho was þe rithe eyr
Of engelond, of al þe rike:--
Þo bigan godrich to sike,
And seyde, “weþer she sholde be
Quen and leuedi ouer me?
Hweþer sho sholde al engelond,
And me, and mine, hauen in hire hond?
Daþeit hwo it hire thaue!
Shal sho it neuere more haue.
Sholde ic yeue a fol, a þerne,
Engelond, þou sho it yerne?
Daþeit hwo it hire yeue,
Euere more hwil i liue!
Sho is waxen al to prud,
For gode metes, and noble shrud,
Þat hic haue youen hire to offte;
Hic haue yemed hire to softe.
Shal it nouth ben als sho þenkes,
‘Hope maketh fol man ofte blenkes.’
Ich haue a sone, a ful fayr knaue,
He shal engelond al haue.
He shal ben king, he shal ben sire,
So brouke i euere mi blake swire!”