Lines 1–480

Jhesu Cryst, our savyour.
And hys modyr, that swete flowr,
Helpe hem at her nede
That harkeneth of a conquerour,
Wys of wytte and whyght werrour,
And doughty man in dede.
Hys name was called Geynleyn,
Beyete he was of syr Gaweyn,
Be a forest syde ;
Of stouter knyght, and profytable,
Wyth Artour of the rounde table,
Ne herde ye never rede.

Thys Gynleyn was fayr of syght,
Gentyll of body, of face bryght.
All bastard yef he were ;
Hys modyr kepte hym yn clos,
For douute of wykkede loos.
As doughty chyld and dere.
And for love of hys fayr vyys,
Hys modyr clepede hym Bezufys,
And no nothyr name ;
And hymself was full nys.
He ne axede naght, y wys.
What he hyght, at hys dame.

As hyt befelle upon a day.
To wode he wente, on hys play,
Of dere to have hys game ;
He fond a knyght whar he lay,
In armes that wer stout and gay,
Isclayne, and made full tame.
That chyld dede of the knyghtes wede.
And anon he gan hym schrede,
In that ryche armur ;
Whan he hadde do that dede,
To Glastynbery he yede,
Ther ley the kyng Artour.

He knelede yn the halle.
Before the knyghtes alle,
And grette hem with honour ;
And seyde, Kyng Artour, my lord,
Graunte me to speke a word,
I pray the pur amour.
Than seyde Artour the kyng,
Anoon without any dwellyng.
Tell me thyn name uplyght,
For sethen y was ybore,
Ne fond y me before
Non so fayr of syght.

That chylde seyde, Be seynt Jame,
I not what ys my name,
I am the more nys ;
But, whyle y was at hame.
My modyr, yn her game,
Clepede me Beaufyz.
Than seyde Artour the kyng,
Thys ys a wonder thyng.
Be god and seynt Denys,
Whanne he that wolde be a knyght,
Ne wat noght what he hyght,
And ys so fayr of vys.

Now wyll y yeve hym a name,
Before yow alle yn same.
For he ys so fayr and fre ;
Be god, and be seynt Jame,
So clepede hym never hys dame,
What woman that so hyt be.
Now clepeth hym alle yn us
Lybeaux desconus.
For the love of me ;
Than may ye wete a row
The fayre unknowe,
Sertes so hatte he.

Kyng Artour anon ryght
Made hym tho a knyght.
In the selve day ;
And yaf hym armes bryght,
Hym gertte wyth swerde of myght,
For sothe as y yow say.
And henge on hym a scheld,
Ryche and over gold
Wyth a griffoun of say ;
And hym betok hys fader Gaweyn,
For to teche hym on the playne,
Of ech knyghtes play.

Whan he was knyght imade,
Anon a bone there he bad,
And seyde. My lord so fre.
In herte y were ryght glad,
That ferste fyghte yf y had.
That ony man asketh the.
Thanne seyde Artour the kyng,
I grante the thyn askyng,
What batayle that so hyt be ;
But me thyngeth thou art to ying.
For to done a good fyghtynge.
Be awght that y can se.

Wythoute more resoun,
Duk, erl, and baroun,
Whesch and yede to mete ;
Of all manere fusoun,
As lordes of renoun,
Ynowgh they hadde ete.
Ne hadde Artour bote a whyle,
The mountance of a myle,
At hys table ysete,
Ther com a mayde ryde,
And a dwerk be here syde,
All beswette for hete.

That mayde was clepede Elene,
Gentyll, bryght, and schene,
A lady messenger ;
Ther nas contesse, ne quene,
So semelych on to sene,
That myghte be her pere.
Sche was clodeth in Tars,
Rowme and nodyng skars,
Pelvred wyth blauner ;
Her sadell and her brydell, yn fere,
Full of dyamandys were,
Melk was her destrere.

The dwerk was clodeth yn Ynde,
Before and ek behynde,
Stout he was and pert ;
Among alle Crystene kende,
Swych on ne schold no man fynde,
Hys surcote was overt.
Hys herd was yelow as ony wax.
To hys gerdell henge the plex,
I dar well say yn certe ;
Hys schon wer with gold ydyght,
And kopeth as a knyght,
That semede no povert.

Teandelayn was hys name.
Well swyde sprong hys fame,
Be north and be southe ;
Myche he couthe of game,
With sytole, sautrye yn same,
Harpe, fydele and crouthe.
He was a noble dysour,
Wyth ladyes of valour,
A mery man of mouthe ;
He spak to that mayde hende,
To telle thyn erynde,
Tyme hyt were nouthe.

That mayde knelede yn halle,
Before the knyghtes alle.
And greet hem wyth honour,
And seyde, A cas ther ys yfalle.
Worse wythyn walle
Was never non of dolour.
My lady of Synadowne
Is broght yn strong pryson.
That ys greet of valour,
Sche prayd the sende her a knyght,
With herte good and lyght.
To Wynne her with honour.

Up start the yonge knyght,
Hys herte was good and lyght.
And seyde, Artour, my lord,
I schall tho that fyght,
And Wynne that lady bryght,
Yef thou art trewe of word.
Than seyde Artour, That ys soth,
Certayn withoute noth,
Thereto y here record ;
God grante the grace and myght,
To holde up that lady ryghte,
Wyth dente of thy sword.

Than gan Elene to chyde
And seyde, Alas that tyde
That y was hyder ysent !
Thys word schall spryng wyde,
Lord kyng now ys thy threde
And thy manhod yschent.
Whan thou schalt sende a chyld
That ys wytles and wylde.
To dele thoghty dent,
And hast knyghtes of mayn,
Launcelet, Perceval, and Gaweyn,
Prys yn ech turnement.

Lybeaus desconus answerde
Yet was y never aferde
For doute of mannys awe.
To fyghte wyth spere or swerd,
Some dell y have ylerde,
Ther many men were yslawe.
He that fleth for drede,
I wolde, be way or strete,
Hys body wer to-drawe ;
I wyll the batayle take,
And never on forsake,
As hyt ys Artours lawe.

Than seyde Artour anon ryght,
Thou getest none other knyght.
Be god that boghte me dere,
Yef the thyngyth hym not wyght,
Go gete the on wher thou myght.
That be of more powere.
That mayde, for wreththe and hete,
Nolde neydyr drynke ne ete,
For alle tho that ther were.
But satte down all thys mayd,
Tyll the table was ylayd,
Sche and the dwerke yn fere.

Kyng Artour yn that stounde,
Hette of the table rounde.
Four the beste knyhtes.
In armes hole and sounde.
The beste that myghte be founde,
Arme Lybeaus anoon ryghtes.
And seyde, thorgh helpe of Cryst,
That in the flome tok baptyste,
He schall holde all hys heghtes, '
And be good champyoun
To the lady of Synadoun,
And holde up alle her ryghtes.

To army thir knyghtes wer fayn,
The ferste was syr Gaweyn,
That other syr Percevale,
The thyrthe syr Eweyn,
The ferthde was syr Agrafrayn ;
So seyth the Frenzsch tale.
They caste on hym a scherte of selk,
A gypell as whyte as melk,
In that semely sale ;
And syght an hawberk bryght,
That rychely was adyght,
Wyth mayles thykke and smale.

Gaweyn hys owene syre
Heng abowte hys swyre
A scheld with a gryffoun,
And Launcelet hym broght a sper,
In werre with hym well to were,
And also a fell fachoun.
And syr Oweyn hym broght a stede,
That was good at everych nede,
And egre as lyoun.
And an helm of ryche atyre,
That was stele, and noon yre,
Percevale sette on hys croun.

The knyght to hors gan spryng,
And rod to Artour the kyng,
And seyde, My lord hende,
Yef me thy blessynge,
Anoon wythoute dwellynge.
My wyll ys for to wende.
Artour hys hond up haf,
And hys blessynge he hym yaf.
As korteys kyng and hende ;
And seyde, God grante the grace,
And of spede space,
To brynge the lady out of hende.

The mayde, stout and gay,
Lep on her palfray.
The dwerk rod hyr besyde :
And tyll the thyrde day
Upon the knyght alwey
Ever sche began chyde.
And seyde, Lorell and kaytyf,
They thou wher worth swyche fyfe,
Ytynt now ys thy pryde ;
Thys pase before kepeth a knyght.
That wyth ech man wyll fyght,
Hys name ys spronge wyde.

Wylleam Celebronche,
Hys fyght may no man staunch,
He ys werrour so wyth ;
Thorugh herte, other thorugh honche,
Wyth hys sper he wyll launche
All that ayens hym ryghtte.
Than seyd Lybeaus desconus.
Is hys feghtynge swych vys ?
Was he never yhytte ?
Whatsoever me betyde.
To hym y wyll ryde.
And loke how he sytte.

Forth they ryden all thre,
Wyth merthe and greet solempnyte,
Be a castell aunterous,
And the knyght they gon yse,
larmeth bryght of ble,
Up on the Vale perylous.
He bar a scheld of grene,
Wyth thre lyouns of gold schene,
Well prowde and precyous,
Of wych lengell and trappes
To dele ech man rappes
Ever he was fous.

And whan he hadde of hem syght
To hem he rod full ryght,
And seyde. Welcome, beaufrer.
Ho that rydyght her day other nyght
Wyth me he mot take fyght,
Other leve hys armes here.
Well, seyde Lybeaus desconus,
For love of swete Jhesus,
Now let us passe skere ;
We haveth for to wende,
And beth fer from our frende,
I and thys meyde yn fere.

Wylleam answerede tho.
Thou myght not skapy so,
So god gef me good reste.
We wylleth er thou go
Fyghte bothe two
A forlang her be-weste.
Than seyde Lybeaus, Now y se
That hyt nell non other be,
In haste tho dy beste.
Thou take thy cours wyth schafte,
Yef thou art knyght of crafte,
For her es myn all preste.

No lengere they nolde abyde,
Togedere they gonne ryde,
Wyth well greet randoun ;
Lybeaus desconus that tyde
Smot Wylleam yn the syde
Wyth a sper feloun.
And Wylleam sat so faste,
That hys styropes to-braste,
And hys hynder arsoun ;
Wylleam gan to stoupe
Mydde hys horses kroupe
That he fell adoun.

Hys stede ran away,
Wylleam ne naght longe lay,
But start up anoon ryght ;
And seyde, Be my fay,
Before thys ylke day
Ne fond y non so wyght.
Now my stedf ys ago,
Fyghte we a fote also,
As thou art hendy knyght.
Tho seyde Lybeau desconus,
Be the love of Jhesus,
Therto y am full lyght.

Togedere they gone spryng,
Fauchouns hy gonne out flyng.
And foghte fell and faste ;
So harde they gonne drynge
That feer, without lesynge.
Out of har helmes braste.
But Wylleam Selebraunche
Lybeau desconus gan lonche
Thorghout that scheld yn haste,
A kantell fell to grounde,
Lybeau that ylke stounde
In hys herte hyt kaste.

Thanne Lybeaus wys and whyght
Before hym as a noble knyght,
As werrour queynte and sclegh,
Hawberk and krest yn fyght
He made fle doun ryght
Of Wylleames helm and hegh.
And wyth the poynt of hys swerd
He schavede Wylleam ys berd.
And com by flessch ryght neygh ;
Wylleam smot to hym tho,
That hys sword brast a-two,
That many man hyt seygh.

Tho gan Wylleam to crye,
For love or Seynt Marye,
Alyve let me passe ;
Hyt wer greet vylanye
To tho a knyght to deye
Wepeneles yn place.
Than seyde Lybeaus desconus,
For love of swete Jhesus,
Of lyve hast thou no grace,
But yef thou swere an oth,
Er than we two goth,
Ryght her before my face.

In haste knele adoun,
And swor an my fachoun
Thou schalt to Artour wende,
And sey, Lord of renoun,
As overcome and prysoun,
A knyght me hyder gan sende.
That ys yclepede yn us
Lybeaus desconus,
Unknowe of keth and kende.
Wylleam on knees doun sat,
And swor as he hym hat,
Her forward word and ende.

Thus departede they alle,
Wyllyam to Artours halle
Tok the ryghte way ;
As kas hyt began falle
Knyghtes proud yn palle
He mette that selve day.
Hys susteres sones thre
Wher the knyghtes fre,
That weren so stout and gay,
Whann they sawe Wyllyam blede,
As men that wolde awyede,
They made greet deray :

And seyde, Eem Wylleam,
Ho hath doun the thys scham.
That thou bledest so yerne ?
He seyde. Be seynt Jame,
On that naght to blame,
A knyght stout and sterne.
A dwerk ryght her before,
Hys squyer as he wore,
And ek a well fayr wyght ;
But othyng grevyth me sore.
That he hath do me swore.
Upon hys fawchon bryght.

That y ne schall never more,
Tyll y come Artour before,
Sojourne day ne nyght.
For prisoner y mot me yeld.
As overcome yn feld.
Of hys owene knyght.
And never ayens hym bere
Nother scheld ne spere;
All this y have hym hyght.
Thanne seyde the knyghtes thre.
Thou schalt full well awreke be.
For sothe wythout fayle ;

He alone ayens us thre
Nys naght worth a stre
For to holde batayle.
Wend forth, eem, and do thyn othe.
And the traytour, be the rothe.
We schull hym asayle ;
Right, be godes grace,
Ther he thys forest passe
Thaugh he be dykke of mayle.
Now lete we Wylyam be,
That wente yn hys jorne,
Toward Artour the kyng ;

Of these knyghtes thre
Hearkeneth, lordynges fre,
A ferly fayr fyghtynge.
They armede hem full well,
Yn yren and yn stel,
Wythout ony dwellyng,
And leptede on stedes sterne.
And after gon yerne,
To sle that knyght so yenge.
Herof wyste no wyght
Lybeaus the yonge knyght.
But rod forth pas be pas ;

He and that mayde bryght
Togydere made all nyght
Game and greet solas.
Mercy hy gan hym crye
That hy spak vylanye.
He foryaf here that trespas.
De dwerke was her squyer.
And servede her fer and ner.
Of all that nede was.
A morn, whan that hyt was day.
They wente yn har jornay
Toward Synadowne,

Thanne saw they knyghtes thre,
In armes bryght of ble,
Ryde out of Karlowne.
All yarmed ynto the teth,
Everych swor hys deth,
And stedes baye browne,
And cryde to hym full ryght,
Thef, turne agayn and fyght,
Wyth the we denketh roune.
Lybeaus desconus tho kryde,
I am redy to ryde
Ayens yow all ysame.

He prikede, as pryns yn pryde,
Hys stede yn bothe syde,
In ernest and yn game.
The eldest brother gan here
To syr Lybeaus a spere,
Syr Gower was hys name,
But Lybeaus hym so nygh.
That he brak hys thegh.
And ever ofte he was lame.
The knyght gronede for payne,
Lybeaus wyth myght and mayne,
Felde hym flat adownn ;