Lines 1133–1416

Haue her cloþes myne,
And tak me þi sclauyne.
Today i schal þer drinke,
Þat some hit schulle ofþinke.”
His sclauyn he dude dun legge,
And tok hit on his rigge.
He tok horn his cloþes,
Þat nere him noȝt loþe.
Horn tok burdon and scrippe,
And wrong his lippe.
He makede him a ful chere,
And al bicolmede his swere.
He makede him vn bicomelich;
Hes he nas neuremore ilich.
He com to þe gateward,
Þat him answerede hard.
Horn bad undo softe,
Mani tyme and ofte.
Ne miȝte he awynne
Þat he come þerinne.
Horn gan to þe ȝate turne,
And þat wiket vnspurne.
Þe boye hit scholde abugge;
Horn þreu him ouer þe brigge,
Þat his ribbes him to brake;
And suþþe com in atte gate.
He sette him wel loȝe,
In beggeres rowe.
He lokede him abute,
Wiþ his colmie snute.
He seȝ Rymenhild sitte
Ase heo were of witte,
Sore wepinge and ȝerne;
Ne miȝte hure noman wurne.
He lokede in eche halke;
Ne seȝ he nowhar walke
Aþulf his felawe,
Þat he cuþe knowe.
Aþulf was in þe ture,
Abute for to pure
After his comynge,
Ȝef schup him wolde bringe.
He seȝ þe se flowe,
And horn nowar rowe.
He sede vpon his songe,
“Horn, nu þu ert wel longe.
Rymenhild þu me toke,
Þat i scholde loke.
Ihc habbe kept hure eure;
Com nu oþer neure.
I ne may no leng hure kepe;
For soreȝe nu y wepe.”
Rymenhild Ros of benche,
Wyn for to schenche,
After mete in sale,
Boþe wyn and ale.
On horn he bar anhonde,
So laȝe was in londe.
Kniȝtes and squier
Alle dronken of þe ber;
Bute horn al one
Nadde þerof no mone.
Horn sat vpon þe grunde;
Him þuȝte he was ibunde.
He sede, “quen so hende,
To meward þu wende.
Þu ȝef vs wiþ þe furste;
Þe beggeres beoþ of þurste.”
Hure horn heo leide adun,
And fulde him of a brun,
His bolle of a galun,
For heo wende he were a glotoun.
He seide, “haue þis cuppe,
And þis þing þer vppe.
Ne saȝ ihc neure, so ihc wene,
Beggere þat were so kene.”
Horn tok hit his ifere,
And sede, “quen so dere,
Wyn nelle ihc, Muche ne lite,
Bute of cuppe white.
Þu wenest i beo a beggere,
And ihc am a fissere,
“Wel feor icome bi este,
For fissen at þi feste.
Mi net liþ her bi honde,
Bi a wel fair stronde.
Hit haþ ileie þere
Fulle seue ȝere.
Ihc am icome to loke
Ef eni fiss hit toke.
Ihc am icome to fisse;
Drink to me of disse.
Drink to horn of horne,
Feor ihc am i orne.”
Rymenhild him gan bihelde;
Hire heorte bigan to chelde.
Ne kneu heo noȝt his fissing,
Ne horn hymselue noþing;
Ac wunder hire gan þinke,
Whi he bad to horn drinke.
Heo fulde hire horn wiþ wyn,
And dronk to þe pilegrym.
Heo sede, “drink þi fulle,
And suþþe þu me telle
If þu eure isiȝe
Horn vnder wude liȝe.”
Horn dronk of horn a stunde,
And þreu þe ring to grunde.
Þe quen ȝede to bure,
Wiþ hire maidenes foure.
Þo fond heo what heo wolde,
A ring igrauen of golde,
Þat horn of hure hadde.
Sore hure dradde
Þat horn isteue were,
For þe Ring was þere.
Þo sente heo a damesele
After þe palmere.
“Palmere,” quaþ heo, “trewe,
Þe ring þat þu þrewe,
Þu seie whar þu hit nome,
And whi þu hider come.”
He sede, “bi seint gile,
Ihc habbe go mani Mile,
Wel feor bi ȝonde weste,
To seche my beste.
I fond horn child stonde,
To schupeward in londe.
He sede he wolde agesse
to ariue in westernesse.
Þe schip nam to þe flode,
Wiþ me and horn þe gode.
Horn was sik and deide,
And faire he me preide,
‘Go wiþ þe ringe,
To Rymenhild þe ȝonge.’
Ofte he hit custe,
God ȝeue his saule reste.”
Rymenhild sede at þe furste,
“Herte, nu þu berste,
For horn nastu namore,
Þat þe haþ pined þe so sore.”
Heo feol on hire bedde
Þer heo knif hudde,
To sle wiþ king loþe,
And hure selue boþe,
In þat vlke niȝte,
If horn come ne miȝte.
To herte knif he sette;
Ac horn anon hire kepte.
He wipede þat blake of his swere,
And sede, “Quen so swete and dere,
Ihc am horn þinoȝe;
Ne canstu me noȝt knowe?
Ihc am horn of westernesse;
In armes þu me cusse.”
Hi custe hem mid ywisse,
And makeden Muche blisse.
“Rymenhild,” he sede, “ywende
Adun to þe wudes ende.
Þer beþ myne kniȝtes,
Redi to fiȝte,
Iarmed vnder cloþe.
Hi schulle make wroþe
Þe king and his geste
Þat come to þe feste.
Today i schal hem teche,
And sore hem areche.”
Horn sprong ut of halle,
And let his sclauin falle.
Þe quen ȝede to bure,
And fond Aþulf in ture.
“Aþulf,” heo sede, “be bliþe,
And to horn þu go wel swiþe.
He is vnder wude boȝe,
And wiþ him kniȝtes Inoȝe.”
Aþulf bigan to springe
For þe tiþinge.
After horn he arnde anon,
Also þat hors miȝte gon.
He him ouertok ywis;
Hi makede suiþe Muchel blis.
Horn tok his preie,
And dude him in þe weie.
He com in wel sone,
Þe ȝates were vndone,
Iarmed ful þikke
Fram fote to þe nekke.
Alle þat were þerin,
Biþute his twelf ferin
And þe king Aylmare,
He dude hem alle to kare
Þat at þe feste were.
Here lif hi lete þere.
Horn ne dude no wunder
Of ffikenhildes false tunge.
Hi sworen oþes holde,
Þat neure ne scholde
Horn neure bitraie,
Þeȝ he at diþe laie.
Hi Runge þe belle,
Þe wedlak for to felle.
Horn him ȝede with his,
To þe kinges palais.
Þer was brid and ale suete,
For riche men þer ete.
Telle ne miȝte tunge
Þat gle þat þer was sunge.
Horn sat on chaere,
And bad hem alle ihere.
“King,” he sede, “þu luste
A tale mid þe beste.
I ne seie hit for no blame,
Horn is mi name.
Þu me to kniȝt houe,
And kniȝthod haue proued.
To þe king men seide
Þat iþe bitraide;
Þu makedest me fleme,
And þi lond to reme.
Þu wendest þat iwroȝte
Þat y neure ne þoȝte,
Bi Rymenhild for to ligge,
And þat i wiþsegge.
Ne schal ihc hit biginne,
Til i suddene winne.
Þu kep hure a stunde,
Þe while þat i funde
In to min heritage
And to mi baronage.
Þat lond i schal ofreche,
And do mi fader wreche.
I schal beo king of tune,
And bere kinges crune.
Þanne schal Rymenhilde
Ligge bi þe kinge.”
Horn gan to schupe draȝe,
Wiþ his yrisse felaȝes.
Aþulf wiþ him his broþer;
Nolde he non oþer.
Þat schup bigan to crude,
Þe wind him bleu lude.
Biþinne daies fiue
Þat schup gan ariue,
Abute middelniȝte.
Horn him ȝede wel riȝte.
He tok aþulf bi honde,
And vp he ȝede to londe.
Hi founde vnder schelde,
A kniȝt hende in felde.
Þe kniȝt him aslepe lay
Al biside þe way.
Horn him gan to take,
And sede, “kniȝt, awake.
Seie what þu kepest,
And whi þu her slepest.
Me þinkþ, biþine crois liȝte,
Þat þu longest to vre driȝte.
Bute þu wule me schewe,
I schal þe to hewe.”
Þe gode kniȝt vp aros;
Of þe wordes him gros.
He sede, “ihc haue, aȝenes my wille,
Payns ful ylle.
Ihc was cristene a while,
Þo i com to þis ille
Sarazins blake,
Þat dude me forsake.