Lines 442–885

Than syr Mylys, and sir Emere,
Toke wyth them forty in sere.
That were comyn of gentyll kynne,
To grete Rome evyn they rode,
And at a burges hows abode,
And there they toke ther ynne.
They speryd of ther oste and ther ostes,
Of ther tythyngys more and lesse,
Or evyr they wolde blynne.
They fownde hyt as the palmer tolde,
They seyde with Otes dwelle they wolde,
Whedur hyt were to lose or wynne.

Fyve thousande on the morne Garcy sent
Of hys men verament,
Wele arayed in ther gere
As nere as they durste for dowte,
Fyfty of them yssewed owte,
For to juste in werre.
That sawe syr Mylys and Emere,
Wyth ther ferys bothe in fere,
They thoght them for to feere ;
They passyd owt at a posterne,
As men that schoulde of batayle lerne,
Wyth armowre schylde and spere.

Thes fyfty had forjusted soone,
And slewe them down withowten mone,
All that wolde abyde ;
Oon came prekyng owt of the prees,
To syr Emere evyn he chese,
But soone was fellyd hys pryde.
Syr Emere reysyd hys spere on hyght,
Thorow the body he bare the knyght,
And downe he felle that tyde.
Than they faght hand ouyr hedd,
Many oon there ther lyvys levydd,
That came on Garcyes syde.

The emperowre of Rome lay on hys wall,
And hys doghtur gent and small,
Florence feyre and free ;
Sche seyde, Fadur, with mylde stevyn,
To us ys comyn helpe fro hevyn,
Fro god in mageste ;
Yondur ys a nobull knyght,
That styrryth hym styfly in the fyght,
Beholde and ye may see ;
Wyth the whyte dowve and the blak lyon,
The beste that cometh he stryketh down,
Helpe that he rescowde bee.

The emperowre calde syr Egravayne,
And syr Sampson, that was hym gayne,
Armed well and ryght,
A hundurd men with them he toke,
Up they lepe, so seyth the boke,
On stedys stronge and wyght.
All that were lefte onslayne,
Fledd unto ther strenkyth agayne,
Hyt was a semely syght.
Then swere Garcy, in full grete yre,
That he wolde brenne all Rome with fyre,
On the morne yf that he myght.

Then syr Mylys and syr Emere,
Wyth ther forty felows in fere,
Come the emperowre beforne ;
They salutyd hym full ryally,
And hys doghtur that stode hym by :
He askyd where they were borne.
They answeryd hym full curteslye,
We were the kynges sonnes of Hungary,
Owre fadur hys lyfe hath lorne,
And hedur are we come to the,
As sowdears, yf mystyr bee ;
We speke hyt not in skorne.

God, and seynt Petur of Rome,
Yylde yow yowre hedur-come,
The emperowre can sey ;
So doghtely as ye have begonne,
Was never men undur the sonne
So lykyng to my paye.
Then the maydyn thankyd them efte,
He them wythhelde with them they lefte.
To mete then wente thay ;
The emperowre set syr Mylys hym by,
Emere cowde more of curtesye,
And he ete with the maye.

Sche thoght hym a full curtes knyght,
Feyre, yonge, semely, and wyght,
Hur harte to hym can yylde,
Syr Mylys seyde the emperowre too,
And ye wolde at my councell doo,
Ye schoulde not fyght in fylde,
But close the yatys, and the brygges up drawe,
And kepe us clene owt of ther awe,
And owre wepons wyghtly welde :
And kepe the town bothe nyght and day,
Tyl they be wery and wende away :
Syr Emere hym behelde.

Emere seyde Mylys unto,
So myght a sympull grome do,
Kepe an holde wythynne ;
But we wyll manly to the felde,
And syr Garcy batell yelde,
To morne or that we blynne.
Then they made crye thorow the cyte,
That no man schoulde so hardy bee,
That waryson wolde wynne.
But folowe the standard wher hyt goys,
And freschly fyght upon owre foys,
Bothe the more and the mynne.

Than syr Garcy, wyth mekyll pryde,
Made to crye the same on hys syde,
Amonge the barons bolde
The kynge of Turkay he seyde than,
Thou art a fulle madde man,
And fayleste wyt for elde ;
Syr Otes the graunt hath noght gylte,
Let therfore no blode be spylte,
For hym that all schall welde ;
Nay he warnyd me hys doghtur schene,
And that hath tymberde all my teene,
Full dere hyt schall be selde.

A Roman stode besyde and harde,
To the towne full soone he farde,
And tolde the emperowre ;
The maydyn mylde up sche rase,
With knyghtes and ladyes feyre of face,
And wente unto a towre.
There sche sawe ryght in the feldys
Baners brode and bryght scheldys
Of chevalry the flowre,
They nowmberde them forty thousand men,
And a hundurd moo then hur fadur had then,
That were ryght styffe in stowre.

Alas! seyde that maydyn clere,
Whedur all the yonde folke and there
Schoulde dye for my sake,
And y but a sympull woman !
The terys on hur chekys ranne,
Hur ble beganne to blake,
"Put me owt to olde Garcy,
Yf all thes men schulde for me dye,
Hyt were a dolefull wrake."
Hur fadur seyde hyt schulde not bee ;
Hors and armowre askyd hee,
And soone hys swyrde can take.

He lepe on hys stede Bandynere,
And in hys honde he hente a spere,
And rode abowte all nyght.
To the lordys of the towne,
And bad they schulde be redy bowne,
Tymely to the fyght.
They set ther standard in a chare,
And feele folke with hyt can fare,
That hardy were and wyght,
Syxe lordys and syr Egravayne
To be all ther chefetayne,
And kepe hyt well and ryght.

The standarde was of whyte yvore,
A dragon of golde ordeygned therfore,
That on the ovyr ende stode ;
That sygnyfyed that Otes ware
In the felde as bolde as any bare,
And a Sterne man of mode.
The vawe-warde and the myddyll soone,
And the rere-warde owte of Rome
The grete oost removyd and yode ;
Be then had Garcy takyn hys place.
And soone wythynne a lytyll space,
Ranne bowrnes all on blode.

Than syr Otes the graunt can calle
On herawde and hys knyghtys all.
In myddys of the prees,
Whoso beryth hym beste to-day,
Ageyne syr Garcy, as y yow say,
That wyrkyth me thys unpees,
I schall geve hym a feyre flowre,
Of grete Rome to be emperowre,
Aftur my dyssees,
And wedde Florens my doghtur bryght,
As y am trewe crysten knyght,
Certen wythowtyn lees.

Syr Emere askyd hys lorde the kynge,
Yf he myght have the furste rydynge,
And he grauntyd hym tylle.
Owt of Garcyes oost came oon,
A prowde garson, hyght Bresebon,
A wykkyd man of wylle ;
When syr Emere with hym mett,
A stronge dynte on hym he sett,
Thorow hys armowre stylle.
He fonde no socowre at hys schylde,
But dedd he felle downe in the fylde,
Hys harte blode can owte spylle.

Be that the grete oost began to sembyll,
Trumpes to blowe, and stedys to trembyll,
Harde togedur they yede.
Ryche harburgens all to-rusched,
And stele helmes all to-dusched,
And bodyes brake owt to blede ;
Hedys hopped undur hors fete,
As haylestones done in the strete,
Styckyd was many a stede.
For Florence love, that feyre maye,
Many a doghty dyed that day,
In romance as we rede.

Then syr Garcy, with mekyll pryde,
Made knyghtys on hys own syde,
Syxty yonge and feyre ;
The warste of ther fadurs were barons.
And oght bothe towres and townes,
And all were they ryght heyre.
When Emere and hys men with them mett,
Stronge dyntys on them he sett,
Among them can they store ;
At the furste wynnyng of ther schone,
So tyte of lyvys were they done,
That all deryd not a pere.

Then Garcy yede nere wode for yre,
And arayed hys batels in that here,
And fared as he wolde wede ;
He bad ther dyntes schulde be wele wared,
That no Roman on lyve be spared,
Thowe they wolde rawnsome bede.
Ageyne hym came syr Oces the graunt,
A doghty knyght and an aveaunt,
On Bondenore hys stede ;
When Garcy sye that hyt was hee,
He seyde, Syrrys, al so mote y the,
We two muste do owre dede.

Thou art wele strekyn in age, y trowe,
But y am ferre elder then thou,
We two muste juste in werre
Hyt ys sethyn y armyd ware
Sevyn yere and some dele mare :
And eyther toke a spere.
So harde togedur can they ryde,
Out of ther sadyls they felle besyde.
And graspyd to odur gere ;
With scharpe swyrdys faght they then,
They had be two full doghty men,
Gode olde fyghtyng was there,

Garcy hyt Otes on the helme,
That upon hys hedd hyt can whelme,
Hyt sate hym wondur sare.
"Syr, with thys dynte y chalenge Rome,
And thy doghtur bryght as blome,
That brewyd hath all thys care.
When that y have leyn hur by,
And done hur schame ane vylenye,
Then wyll y of hur no mare,
But geve hur to my chaumburlayne."
Tho wordys made Otes unfayne,
And tyte he gaf an answare :

God and seynt Petur of thys towne.
Let never Rome come in thy bandoune,
And save my doghtur sownde ;
Owre fyghtyng ys not endyd yyt.
On the helme Garcy he hyt.
That he felle to the grownde.
There had syr Garcy bene tane,
But ther came garsons many oon.
And rescowd hym in that stownde.
Syr Emere horsyd hys lorde agayne,
And loovyd god he was not slayne,
And faste to fyght they sownde.

Syr Emere lokyd a lytyll hym fro,
And sawe hys brodur suffer woo,
In a stowre fyghtande :
The Grekys had fyred hym abowte,
That he myght on no syde owte,
But styfely can he stande.
He rescowde hym full knyghtly ;
Many a doghty made he to dye,
That he abowte hym fande ;
Evyll quytt he hym hys mede,
For Mylys was the falsyst lede
That evyr levyd in lande.

When he had rescowde hys broder Mylon,
Of hys fomen camen thretty bowne,
Stelyng on hym stylle ;
All ther sperys on hym they sett,
He drewe hys swyrde, wythouten let,
And Mylys fledde to an hylle.
He seyde, Brodur, al so mote y the,
Thou schalt not be rescowde for me,
Loke whedur that he dud ylle.
But stryked yn at a nodur stowre,
And mett hys lorde the emperowre,
Layeng on wyth gode wylle.

Mylys, he seyde, where ys thy broder?
At the devyll, quod the todur,
I trowe beste that he bee.
He ys belefte wyth syr Garcy
Ageyn yow, he tolde me why,
He myght geve more then ye.
Be god, he seyde, that all may,
He ys false, that dare y lay,
Trewly trowe ye me.
The emperowre lykyd hyt ylle,
And leyde upon with gode wylle,
Tyll he myght the sothe see

Forthe then lokyd the emperowre,
And saw syr Emere in a stowre,
Fyghtyng agenste hys foys ;
He strode the stede with the spurrys,
He spared noder rygge nor forows,
But evyn to hym he goys ;
All that he abowte hym fonde
He and hys men broght to grownde,
That nevyr oon up rose ;
And there was Mylys prevyd false,
Wyth hym and odur lordys alse,
And loste all hys gode lose.

Than Emere toke harte hym too,
Full doghtely then can he doo,
Florence hym behelde,
And tolde hur maydyns bryght of ble,
In the felde best doyth he,
Wyth the whyte dowve yn hys schylde,
And thereto the black lyoun.
Sche cryed to hym, wyth grete sowne,
Thou be my fadurs belde,
And thou schalt have all thy desyre,
Me, and all thys ryche empyre,
Aftur my fadur to welde.

When he harde the maydyn bryght,
Hys hedd he lyfte upon hyght.
The wedur wax full hate ;
Hur fadur nere hande can talme,
Soche a sweme hys harte can swalme,
For hete he wax nere mate.
When that they had so done,
A quarell came fleying soone,
And thorow the hed hym smate,
They sende aftur the pope Symonde,
And he schrove hym and hoselde on that grounde,
And assoyled him, wel y wate.

As soone as the emperowre yyldyd the gast,
A prowde garson came in haste,
Syr Synagote hyght hee,
And broght an hundurd helmes bryght
Of hardy men that cowde well fyght,
Of felde wolde never oon flee.
Emere stroke in to that stowre,
And many oon made he for to cowre,
And slewe them be two and thre ;
Soone theraftur was he tane,
And knyghtes kene wolde hym have slayne,
But ther sovereygn bad let bee,

" Unto syr Garcy have hym seen,
I trowe his lyfe he wyll hym leen,
He ys so feyre a knyght."
Leve we syr Emere in the stowre,
And speke more of the emperowre,
How they on a bere hym dyght,
And how they broght hym to the towne,
Wythowten belle or procescoun,
Hyt was a drery fyght.
They layned hyt fro ther enmyes whyll they myght,
And fro Florence that worthy wyght,
Hys own dere doghtur bryght.

Soone the standard yn they dud lede,
And baners bryght that brode dud sprede,
The Romans lyked ylle.
And seyde they schulde upon the morne
Fyght wyth Garcy yf he had sworne,
That hyely was on hylle.
Florence lay in a Cornell,
And hur maydyns, as y yow telle,
That was curtes of wylle ;
They seyde men brynge yn a bere,
And that wyth a full mornyng chere,
But all was hoscht and stylle.

Then can feyre Florence sayne,
Yondur ys be gonne an evyll bargayn,
Y see men brynge a bere,
And a knyght in handys leede,
Bondynowre my fadurs stede.
Then all chawngyd hur chere.
Sche and hur maystres Awdygon
Went into the halle allone,
Allone wythowten fere,
And caste up the clothe, then was hyt so,
The lady swowned, and was full woo,
There might no man hur stere.

Alas, sche seyde, that y was borne !
My fadur for me hys lyfe hath lorne,
Garcy may have hys wylle,
All my brode landys and me,
That y welde yn Crystyante !
Ther myght no man hur stylle.
Lordys and ladyes that there ware
Tyll hur chambur can they fare,
Lorde that them lykyd ylle ;
Knyghtes and squyers that there was
Wrange ther hondys and seyde, alas !
For drede sche schulde hur spylle.

Dewkys and erles ther hondys wronge,
And lordys sorowe was full stronge,
Barons myght have no roo :
" Who shall us now geve londes or lythe,
Hawkys, or howndes, or stedys stythe,
As he was wont to doo ?"
Syr Garcy went crowlande for fayne,
As rampande eyen do in the rayne,
When tythynges came hym too,
He bad hys men schulde make them bowne,
And hastelye go stroye up the towne,
" My byddyng that ye doo :

Slo them down where ye them mete,
And fyre fasten in every strete,
Loke now that taste :
I shall wyrke, as have y yoye,
As kyng Maynelay dud be Troye,
And stroye hyt at the laste."
When they harde that were wythynne,
To the yatys can they wynne,
And barryd them full faste,
And they wythowte yngynes bende,
And stones to the walles they sende,
And quarels wyth alablaste.

They wythynne wolde have gone owte,
Ther sovereygn marred them for dowte,
And made them to kepe ther holde,
They sygned to the yatys of the towne,
An hundred men in armes bowne,
That hardy were and bolde.
The pope came wythowten delyte,
And entered the emperowre tyte,
They wepte both yonge and olde.
The boke seyth, god that us boght
Many myrakyls for hur he wroght,
Many a oon and thyck folde.

So longe logyd the sege there,
That they wythynne nere famysched were,
Evyll lyfe can they lede ;
They were not ordeygned therfore,
They had golde in warme store,
But mete was them full nede.
All they cowncelde Florence to take
Oon of thes lordys to be hur make,
That doghty were of dede ;
For to mayntene and upholde
Agayne syr Garcy that burne bolde,
The towne levyth all in drede,