Lines 1–384

Herkneth now, bothe olde and yyng,
For Maries love, that swete thyng,
How a werre bigan
Bitwene a god Cristene kyng.
And an hethene heyhe lordyng
Of Damas the soudan.
The kyng of Taars hedde a wyf,
The feireste that mighte here lyf,
That eny mon telle can ;
A doughter thei hadde hem bitween.
That heore rihte heir scholde ben,
White so fether of swan.

Chaast heo was and feir of chere,
With rode red so blosme on brere,
Eyyen stepe and graye,
With lowe schuldres, and whyte swere,
Hire to seo was gret preyere
Of princes pert in play.
The word of hire sprong ful wyde
Feor and ner, bi uche a syde,
The soudan herde say,
Him thoughte his herte wolde breke on five
Bot he mihte have hire to wyve.
That was so feir a may.

The soudan ther he sat in halle,
He sente his messagers faste withalle
To hire fader the kyng,
And seide hou so hit ever bifalle,
That maide he wolde clothe in palle,
And spousen hire with his ryng : '
"And elles I swere, withouten fayle,
And schul hire winnen in pleyn batayle,
With mony an heih lordyng."
The messagers ben forth iwent,
To don heor lordes comaundement,
Withouten eny dwellyng.

Whon the kyng this understood,
For wraththe neih he waxeth wood,
And seyde al in his sawe.
Be hym that dyyed on the rod,
Rather wolde I spille my blod,
And in batayle ben slawe ;
And al the lond that is myn,
Ar heo scholde wedde a Sarazyn,
The devil him er to drawe;
But heo wolle bi hire goode wille
Wend to him hireself to spille,
Hire thoughtes nouht I knawe.

That schul ye witen ar ye pase.
His doughter com forth in that place,
Tofore hire fader blyve.
Doughter, he seide, the soudan of Damas
Desyreth for to seo thi fas.
And have the to wyve.
Doughter wolt thou for eny tresour
Forsake Crist ur saveour,
That soffrede woundes fyve ?
The mayde onswerde, with mylde mood.
To hire fader ther he stod.
Nay, lord, so mot I thryve.

Jhesu, thai dyyed on the tree,
Let me nevere that day isee
A tiraunt for to take.
For Marie love that mayden freo,
god and persones threo,
Arst yif him wan and wrake.
Doughtur, he seide, beo now stille,
Thow schalt never he weddet him tille
For bost that he con make ;
I schal him seende such wordes to seyn,
That al his thought schal turne to veyn,
For thou hast him forsake.

Bi theos same messagers,
That Cometh from the soudan fers,
Theos wordes to him he sent :
Heo nolde not leeven on his maneers,
To god heo made hire preyers,
That lord omnipotent ;
And bad him take another thought.
For hire ne scholde he wedde nouht,
For gold, selver, ne rent.
Whon the messagers this herde seyn
Soone thei tornede hem ayeyn.
And to the soudan went.

The Soudan sat at his des,
Iserved of his furste mes.
Thei comen into the halle,
Tofore the prince proud in pres,
Heore tale thei tolden withouten lees.
And on heore knees gunne falle :
And seide. Sire, the kyng of Tars
Of wikkede wordes nis not scars,
Hethene hound he doth the calle,
And er his doughter be yive the tille,
Thyn herte blod he wod spille,
And thi barouns alle.

Whon the soudan this iherde
As a wod mon he ferde,
His robe he rente adoun,
He tar the her of hed and herd, loo
And seide he wolde hir wive with swerd,
Beo his lord seynt Mahoun.
The table adoun riht he smot,
In to the flore foot hot.
He lokede as a wylde lyon ;
Al that he hitte he smot doun riht,
Both sergaunt and kniht,
Erl and eke baroun.

So he ferde forsothe a pliht
Al a day and al a niht,
That no mon mihti hym chaste ;
A morwen, whon hit was day-liht,
He sent his messagers ful riht
After his barouns in haste :
[That thai com to his parlement,
For to heren his jugement,
Bothe lest and mast ;
When the parlement was pleyner.
The bispact the soudan fer,
And seyd to hem in hast:]

Lordynges, he seith, what to rede ?
Me is don a gret misdede,
Of Taars the Cristene kyng ;
I bed hem bothe lond and lede,
To have his douhter in worthli wede,
And spouse hire with my ryng :
And he seide, withouten fayle,
Arst he wolde me sle in batayle,
And mony a gret lordyng ;
Ac sertes he schal be forswore,
Or to wrote hele that he was bore,
Bote he hit ther to bring.

Therfore, lordinges, I have after ow sent,
For to come to my parliment.
To wite of yow counsayle ;
And alle onswerde, with good entent,
Thei wolde be at his comaundement
Withouten eny fayle.
And, whon thei were alle at his heste,
The soudan made a wel gret feste,
For love of his batayle;
The soudan gederet an ost unryde,
With Sarazins of muchel pryde,
The kyng of Tars to assayle.

Whon the kyng hit herde that tyde
He sente aboute on uche a syde
Alle that he mihte of seende ;
Gret werre tho bigon to wrake,
For the mariage ne moste be take
Of that mayden heende.
Batayle thei sette uppon a day,
Withinne the thridde day of May,
No lengor nolde thei leende ;
The soudan com with gret power.
With helm briht, and feir baneer,
Uppon that kyng to wende.

The soudan ladde an huge oft.
And com with muche pruyde and bost,
With the kyng of Tars to fihte,
With hym mony a Sarazin seer,
Alle the feldes feor and neer
Of helmes leomede lihte.
The kyng of Tars com also,
The soudan batayle for to do,
With mony a Cristene kniht ;
Eyther ost gon other assayle,
Ther bigon a strong batayle.
That grislych was of siht.

Threo hethene ayein twey Cristene men.
And falde hem doun in the fen,
With wepnes stif and goode ;
The steorne Sarazins, in that fiht,
Slowe ur Cristene men doun riht,
Thei fouhte as heo weore woode.
The soudan oft in that stounde
Feolde the Cristene to the grounde,
Mony a freoly foode ;
The Sarazins withouten fayle
The Cristene culde in that batayle,
Nas non that hem withstode.

Whon the kyng of Tars sauh that fiht,
Wedde he was for wraththe apliht.
In hond he hent a spere.
And to the soudan he rod ful riht,
With a dunt of muche miht,
Adoun he gon him bere.
The soudan neigh he hedde islawe,
But thritti thousent of hethene lawe,
Coomen him for to were.
And broughten him ayeyn uppon his steede,
And holpe him wel in that nede,
That no mon mihte him dere.

Whon he was brouht uppon his stede,
He sprong as sparkle doth of glede.
For wraththe and for envye ;
Alle that he hutte he made hem blede.
He ferde as he wolde a wede,
Mahoun, help ! he gan crye.
Mony an helm ther was unweved.
And mony a bacinet to-cleved,
And sadeles mony emptye ;
Men mihte se uppon the feld
Moni a kniht ded under scheld,
Of the Cristene cumpaignye.

When the king of Tars saugh hem so ryde,
No lengor there he nolde abyde,
Bote fleyh to his oune cite ;
The Sarazins that ilke tyde
Slough adoun bi uche a side
Ur Cristene folk so fre.
The Sarazins that tyme faunz fayle
Slowe ur Cristene in batayle,
That reuthe hit was to se ;
And on the morwe for heore sake
Truwes thei gunne togidere take,
A moneth and dayes thre.

As the king of Tars sat in his halle,
He made ful gret deol withalle,
For the folk that he hedde ilore ;
His douhter com in riche palle,
On kneos heo gon biforen him falle,
And seide with syking sore :
Fader, heo seide, let me beo his wyf,
That ther be no more strif
Then hath ben her bifore ;
For me hath be much folk schent,
Slawen and morthred, and to-rent.
Alias, that I was bore !

Fader, ichulle him serve at wille,
Erli and late, loude and stille,
And leeven on god almiht ;
Bote hit be so he wol the spille.
And al thi londes take hym tille.
In batayle and in fiht.
Certes, I nul no lengor drye
That Cristene men schul for me dye,
Thorw grace of god almiht ;
Then was the kyng of Tars ful wo
Anon he onswerde tho
To his doughter briht.

Douhter, he seide, blessed thou be
Of god that sit in trinitie
The tyme that thou were bore,
That thou wolt save thi moder and me
Thi preyere now I graunte the
Of that thou bede before.
Fader, heo seide, pur charite.
And for Crist in trinite,
Blyve that ich weore thore,
Ar eny more serwe arere,
That ye ne my moder dere
For me beo nought forlore.

The kyng tho, with good entent.
In to his chaumbre hath isent
Aftur his qween so hende,
Whon heo was comen in present.
Dame, he seide, ur doughter hath ment
To the soudan for to weende.
Dame, he seid, counseyle me,
Her beoth no mo bote we thre
Icomen of Cristene kende.
The qween onswerde, withouten fayle,
Therto schal I nevere counsayle
Ure douhter for to schende.

Thenne was the doughter wo,
Merci heo criyede hire moder tho,
With a reuthful stevene:
" Moder, hit nis not longe a gon
That ther wer for me slon
Threo thousent men and sevene ;
And certes I nul no lengor drye
That Cristen men schul for me dye,
Thorwgh grace of god in hevene."
Weore thai wel, weore thei wrothe.
The doughter dude overcome hem bothe
Beo riht reson and evene.

Whon thei weoren thus aton
Messageres he sente anon
To the proude soudan,
To make frendes that weore fon,
No mo folk thei wolde slon,
His doughter he graunted him than.
Whon the messagers thus herde seyn
Smartliche thei tornede ayeyn,
To the soudan swart and wan ;
Whon he herde heore lettres rade
Then was he bothe blithe and glad,
And murie as eny man.

Aud seide, Ichul ben at his wille,
Erly and late, loude and stille,
And help him at his neode ;
No mo folk nul I now spille :
The kyng anon he sende tille
And thonkede him of that dede.
The kyng and qwene in chaumbre were tho,
In care and serwe and muche wo.
In stori as we rede ;
Wei hem was withoute les
That the soudan wolde make pes
With Cristen felaurede.

This fel in mid-somer tyde
The soudan nolde no lengor byde.
To the kyng of Tars he sent,
With Sarazins, and with muche pryde.
With mony a juwel, is nought to huyde.
To make him a present.
Forth thei went that ilke tyde.
To the kyng of Tars thei gan ryde.
That was bothe freo and gent;
Thei welcomed the messagere,
Of gret reuthe ye may here,
Whon thei to chaumbre went.

In chaumbre kyng and qwene was tho.
In serwe and care and muche wo.
For heore doughter hende ;
Heor doughter can bifore hem go,
And bad hem bi hire counseil do,
To save Cristene kende.
The doughter ther with wordes stille
Brought hem bothe in beter wille,
And in to halle gunne wende.
And welcomede the messagers,
That come fro the soudan fers.
With wordes feire and hende.

Then seide the qwene after than,
Hou fareth yor lord the soudan.
That is so noble a kniht ?
The messagers onswere gan,
He fareth as wel as eny man,
And is yor friend apliht.
The qweene onswerde, with mylde mod,
To the messagers ther thei stod.
And swor thenne anon riht,
Ich fouchesaf on him my blod.
To him heo nis not to good,
Thaugh heo weore ten so briht.

The messagers weore glad and blythe,
With knihtes fele and stedes stythe
Thei brouhte hire to chare;
The kyng and qwen weoren unblithe,
Heore sorwe couthe no mon kithe.
To seon hire from hem fare.
Thei seye hit mihte non other go
The kyng and the qwene also
Thei custe heore douhter thare,
Bitaughten hire god for evermo :
Hem self ayeyn thei tornede tho.
Of blisse thei weore al bare.

Nou lete we of that mournyng.
And speke we of that maiden ying,
To the soudan heo is ifare ;
He come with mony an heigh lordyng
For to welcome that swete thing
Ther heo com in hire chare.
He custe hire wel mony a sithe,
His joye couthe no mon kithe,
Awei was al hire care ;
In to chaumbre heo was led.
With riche clothes heo was dede,
Hethene as thaugh heo ware.

The soudan ther he sat in halle,
He comaundede his knihtes alle
That maiden for to fette ;
In cloth of riche purpel palle,
And on hire hed a comeli calle,
Bi the soudan heo was sette.
Unsemely was hit for to se
Heo that was so briht of ble
To habbe so foul a mette,
Thaugh heo made merthe and solas.
The serwe at hire herte was,
Ne mihte no mon hit lette.

When hit com to the niht,
Leve heo tok that buirde briht,
To chaumbre for to wende,
With hire wente moni an hethen kniht,
A riche bed ther was idiht
For that maiden hende.
Whon hit was al redi wrought,
The soudan nolde therin come nouht,
For fo ne for frende ;
But he mihte make that may
To leeven uppon his false lay.
That com of Cristene kende.