Lines 2404–2698

Hwan godard herde þat þer þrette,
With þe neue he robert sette
Biforn þe teth a dint ful strong.
And robert kipt ut a knif long,
And smot him þoru þe rith arum:
Þer-of was ful litel harum.

Hwan his folk þat sau and herde,
Hwou robert with here louerd ferde,
He haueden him wel ner browt of liue,
Ne weren his two breþren and oþre fiue
Slowen of here laddes ten,
Of godardes alþer-beste men.
Hwan þe oþre sawen þat, he fledden,
And godard swiþe loude gredde:
“Mine knithes, hwat do ye?
Sule ye þus-gate fro me fle?
Ich haue you fed, and yet shal fede,
Helpe me nu in þis nede,
And late ye nouth mi bodi spille,
Ne hauelok don of me hise wille.
Yif ye id do, ye do you shame,
And bringeth you-self in mikel blame.”
Hwan he þat herden, he wenten ageyn,
And slowen a knit and a sweyn
Of þe kinges oune men,
And woundeden abuten ten.

The kinges men hwan he þat sawe,
Scuten on hem, heye and lowe,
And euerilk fot of hem slowe,
But godard one, þat he flowe,
So þe þef men dos henge,
Or hund men shole in dike slenge.
He bunden him ful swiþe faste,
Hwil þe bondes wolden laste,
Þat he rorede als a bole,
Þat he wore parred in an hole,
With dogges forto bite and beite:
Were þe bondes nouth to leite.
He bounden him so fele sore,
Þat he gan crien godes ore,
Þat he sholde of his hend plette,
Wolden he nouht þer-fore lette,
Þat he ne bounden hond and fet:
Daþeit þat on þat þer-fore let!
But dunten him so man doth bere,
And keste him on a scabbed mere,
Hise nese went un-to þe crice:
So ledden he þat fule swike,
Til he was biforn hauelok brouth,
Þat he hauede ful wo wrowht,
Boþe with hungre and with cold,
Or he were twel winter old,
And with mani heui swink,
With poure mete, and feble drink,
And with swiþe wikke cloþes,
For al hise manie grete othes.
Nu beyes he his holde blame:
‘Old sinne makes newe shame:’
Wan he was brouht so shamelike
Biforn þe king, þe fule swike,
Þe king dede ubbe swiþe calle
Hise erles, and hise barouns alle,
Dreng and thein, burgeis and knith,

And bad he sholden demen him rith:
For he kneu, þe swike dam,
Euerildel god was him gram.
He setten hem dun bi þe wawe,
Riche and pouere, heye and lowe,
Þe helde men, and ek þe grom,
And made þer þe rithe dom,
And seyden unto þe king anon,
Þat stille sat al so þe ston:
“We deme, þat he be al quic slawen,
And siþen to þe galwes drawen,
At þis foule mere tayl;
Þoru is fet a ful strong nayl;
And þore ben henged wit two feteres,
And þare be writen þise leteres:
‘Þis is þe swike þat wende wel,
Þe king haue reft þe lond il del,
And hise sistres with a knif
Boþe refte here lif.’
Þis writ shal henge bi him þare;
Þe dom is demd, seye we na more.”

Hwan þe dom was demd and giue,
And he was wit þe prestes shriue,
And it ne mouhte ben non oþer,
Ne for fader, ne for broþer,
Þat he sholde þarne lif;
Sket cam a ladde with a knif,
And bigan Rith at þe to
For to ritte, and for to flo,
And he bigan for to rore,
So it were grim or gore,
Þat men mithe þeþen a mile
Here him rore, þat fule file.
Þe ladde ne let no with for-þi,
Þey he criede ‘merci! merci!’
Þat he ne flow him eueril del
With knif mad of grunden stel.
Þei garte bringe þe mere sone,
Skabbed and ful iuele o bone,
And bunden him rith at hire tayl
With a rop of an old seyl,
And drowen him un-to þe galwes,
Nouth bi þe gate, But ouer þe falwes;
And henge him þore Bi þe hals:
Daþeit hwo recke! he was fals.

Þanne he was ded, þat sathanas,
Sket was seysed al þat his was
In þe kinges hand il del,
Lond and lith, and oþer catel,
And þe king ful sone it yaf
Vbbe in þe hond, wit a fayr staf,
And seyde, “her ich sayse þe
In al þe lond, in al þe fe.”
Þo swor hauelok he sholde make,
Al for grim, of monekes blake
A priorie to seruen inne ay
Ihesu crist, til domesday,
For þe god he haueden him don,
Hwil he was pouere and iuel o bon.
And þer-of held he wel his oth,
For he it made, god it woth!
In þe tun þer grim was grauen,
Þat of grim yet haues þe name.
Of grim bidde ich na more spelle.--
But wan godrich herde telle,
Of cornwayle þat was erl,
(Þat fule traytour, that mixed cherl!)
Þat hauelok was king of denemark,
And ferde with him strong and stark,
Comen engelond with-inne,
Engelond al for to winne,
And þat she, þat was so fayr,
Þat was of engelond rith eir,
Þat was comen up at grimesbi,
He was ful sorful and sori,
And seyde, “Hwat shal me to raþe?
Goddoth! i shal do slou hem baþe.
I shal don hengen hem ful heye,
So mote ich brouke mi Rith eie!
But yif he of mi londe fle;
Hwat? wenden he to desherite me?”
He dide sone ferd ut bidde,
Þat al þat euere mouhte o stede
Ride, or helm on heued bere,
Brini on bac, and sheld, and spere,
Or ani oþer wepne bere,
Hand-ax, syþe, gisarm, or spere,
Or aunlaz, and god long knif,
Þat als he louede leme or lif,
Þat þey sholden comen him to,
With ful god wepne ye ber so,
To lincolne, þer he lay,
Of marz þe seuentenþe day,
So þat he couþe hem god þank;
And yif þat ani were so rang,
That he þanne ne come anon,
He swor bi crist, and bi seint Iohan,
That he sholde maken him þral,
And al his of-spring forth with-al.

Þe englishe þat herde þat,
Was non þat euere his bode sat,
For he him dredde swiþe sore,
So Runci spore, and mikle more.
At þe day he come sone
Þat he hem sette, ful wel o bone,
To lincolne, with gode stedes,
And al þe wepne þat knith ledes.
Hwan he wore come, sket was þe erl yare,
Ageynes denshe men to fare,
And seyde, “lyþes me alle samen,
Haue ich gadred you for no gamen,
But ich wile seyen you forþi;
Lokes hware here at grimesbi,
Hise uten-laddes here comen,
And haues nu þe priorie numen;
Al þat euere mithen he finde,
He brenne kirkes, and prestes binde;
He strangleth monkes, and nunnes boþe:
Wat wile ye, frend, her-offe Rede?
Yif he regne þus-gate longe,
He Moun us alle ouer-gange,
He moun vs alle quic henge or slo,
Or þral maken, and do ful wo,
Or elles reue us ure liues,
And ure children, and ure wiues.
But dos nu als ich wile you lere,
Als ye wile be with me dere;
Nimes nu swiþe forth and raþe,
And helpes me and yu-self baþe,
And slos up-on þe dogges swiþe:
For shal i neuere more be bliþe,

Ne hoseled ben, ne of prest shriuen,
Til þat he ben of londe driuen.
Nime we swiþe, and do hem fle,
And folwes alle faste me,
For ich am he, of al þe ferd,
Þat first shal slo with drawen swerd.
Daþeyt hwo ne stonde faste
Bi me, hwil hise armes laste!”
“Ye! lef, ye!” couth þe erl gunter;
“Ya!” quoth þe erl of cestre, reyner.
And so dide alle þat þer stode,
And stirte forth so he were wode.
Þo mouthe men se þe brinies brihte
On backes keste, and late rithe,
Þe helmes heye on heued sette;
To armes al so swiþe plette,
Þat þei wore on a litel stunde
Grethet, als men mithe telle a pund,
And lopen on stedes sone anon,
And toward grimesbi, ful god won,
He foren softe bi þe sti,
Til he come ney at grimesbi.

Hauelok, þat hauede spired wel
Of here fare, eueril del,
With al his ferd cam hem a-geyn,
For-bar he noþer knith ne sweyn.
Þe firste knith þat he þer mette,
With þe swerd so he him grette,
For his heued of he plette,
Wolde he nouth for sinne lette.
Roberd saw þat dint so hende,
Wolde he neuere þeþen wende,
Til þat he hauede anoþer slawen,
With þe swerd he held ut-drawen.
Willam wendut his swerd vt-drow,
And þe þredde so sore he slow,
Þat he made up-on the feld
His lift arm fleye, with the swerd.

Huwe rauen ne forgat nouth
Þe swerd he hauede þider brouth,
He kipte it up, and smot ful sore
An erl, þat he saw priken þore,
Ful noblelike upon a stede,
Þat with him wolde al quic wede.
He smot him on þe heued so,
Þat he þe heued clef a-two,
And þat bi þe shuldre-blade
Þe sharpe swerd let he wade,
Þorw the brest unto þe herte;
Þe dint bigan ful sore to smerte,
Þat þe erl fel dun a-non,
Al so ded so ani ston.
Quoth ubbe, “nu dwelle ich to longe,”
And leth his stede sone gonge
To godrich, with a god spere,
Þat he saw a-noþer bere,
And smoth godrich, and Godrich him,
Hetelike with herte grim,
So þat he boþe felle dune,
To þe erþe first þe croune.
Þanne he woren fallen dun boþen,
Grundlike here swerdes ut-drowen,
Þat weren swiþe sharp and gode,
And fouhten so þei woren wode,
Þat þe swot ran fro þe crune
To the fet rith þere adune.

Þer mouthe men se to knithes bete
Ayþer on oþer dintes grete,
So þat with alþer-leste dint
Were al to-shiuered a flint,
So was bi-twenen hem a fiht,
Fro þe morwen ner to þe niht,
So þat þei nouth ne blunne,
Til þat to sette bigan þe sunne.
Þo yaf godrich þorw þe side
Vbbe a wunde ful un-ride,
So þat þorw þat ilke wounde
Hauede ben brouth to þe grunde,
And his heued al of-slawen,
Yif god ne were, and huwe rauen,
Þat drow him fro godrich awey,
And barw him so þat ilke day.
But er he were fro godrich drawen,
Þer were a þousind knihtes slawen
Bi boþe halue, and mo y-nowe,
Þer þe ferdes to-gidere slowe.
Þer was swilk dreping of þe folk,
Þat on þe feld was neuere a polk
Þat it ne stod of blod so ful,
Þat þe strem ran intil þe hul.
Þo tarst bigan godrich to go
Vp-on þe danshe, and faste to slo,
And forth rith also leuin fares,
Þat neuere kines best ne spares,
Þanne his he gon, for he garte alle
Þe denshe men biforn him falle.
He felde browne, he felde blake,
Þat he mouthe ouer-take.
Was neuere non þat mouhte þaue
Hise dintes, noyþer knith ne knaue,
Þat he felden so dos þe gres