Lines 1441–1920

For love of a woman.
That of sorcery kan,
Thou doost greet dyshonour ;
The lady of Synadowne
Longe lyght in prisoun.
And that is greet dolour.
Lybeaus herd her so speke,
Hym thought hys hert wold breke,
For sorow and for schame ;
And at a posterne unsteke
Lybeaus gan out-breke
Fram that gentyll dame ;

And tok wyth hym hys stede,
Hys scheld, and hys ryche wede,
And ryde forth all ysame ;
Her styward stout and sterne,
He made hys squyere,
Gyfflet was hys name :
And ryde, as fast as they may,
Forth yn her jornay,
On stedes bay and browne ;
Upon the thyrdde thay
They saw a cyte gay,
Me clepeth hyt Synadowne.

Wyth castell heygh and wyde.
And palys prowd yn pryde,
Werk of fayr fassoune ;
But Lybeaus desconus
He hadde wonder of an uus
That he saw do yn toune.
For gore, and fen, and full wast.
That was out ykast,
Togydere they gadered y wys ;
Lybeaus axede yn hast.
Tell me, mayde chast.
What amounteth thys.

They taketh all that hore,
That er was out ybore,
Me thyngeth they don a mys.
Thanne seyde mayde Elene,
Syr, wythouten wene,
I schalle the telle how yt ys.
No knyght for nessche ne hard,
They he schold be forfard,
Ne geteth her non ostell.
For love of a styward.
Men clepeth hym syr Lambard,
Constable of thys castell.

Ryde to that est gate,
And axede thyn in therate,
Bothe fayre and well ;
And er he bete thy nede,
Justes he wyll the bede.
By god and seynt Mychell.
And yf he beryth the doun,
Hys trompys schull be boun,
Har hemes for to blowe ;
And thorughout Synadowne,
Bothe maydenes, and garssoun,
Fowyll fen schull on the throwe :

And thanne to thy lyves ende.
In whett stede that thow wende.
For coward werst thou knowe.
And thus may kyng Artour
Lese hys honour,
Thorugh thy dede slowe.
Than seyde Lybeaus al so tyt,
That wer a greet dyspyt,
For any man alyve ;
To the Artour profyt,
And make the lady quyt,
To hym y wyll dryve.

Syr Gyfflette, make the yare ! —
Thyder we wyllyth fare,
Hastely and blyve.
They ryde thy ryght gate,
Even to the castell-yate,
Wyth fayre schaftes fyfe.
And at the fayr castell
They axede her ostell,
For aunterous knyghtes ;
The porter, fayre and well,
Lette ham yn al so snell,
And axede anon ryghtes :

Ho ys yowre governowre ?
They seyde, Kyng Artour,
That ys man most of myghtes ;
And welle of curtesye.
And flowr of chyvalrye.
To felle hys son yn fyghtes.
The porter profytable,
To hys lord the constable
Thus hys tale tolde.
And wythoute fable,
Syr, of the rownde table
Beth come knyghtes bolde ;

That beth armed sure.
In rose-reed armure,
Wyth thre lyouns of gold ;
Lambard therof was fayn,
And swore oth certayn.
Wyth hem juste he wolde.
And bad hem make yare.
Into the feld to fare,
Wythoute the castell gate ;
The porter nold naght spare.
As grehound doth the hare.
To ham he ran full wate

And seyde anon ryghtes.
Ye aunterous knyghtes,
For nothyng ye ne late ;
Loketh your scheldes be strong.
Your schaftes good and long.
Your saket and faunplate.
And rydeth ynto the feld,
My lord, wyth sper and scheld,
Cometh wyth yow to play.
Lybeaus spak wordes bold.
That ys a tale ytold.
Well lykynge unto my pay.

Into the felde they ryde,
And hovede and abyde,
As best broght to bay ;
The lord of sente hys stede,
Hys scheld, hys ryche wede,
Hys atyre was stout and gay.
Hys scheld was of gold fyn,
The bores heddes therinne,
As blak as brond ybrent ;
The bordur of ermyne,
Nas non so queynte of gyn,
From Karlell ynto Kent.

And of the same paynture
Was lyngell and trappure
Iwroght well fayre and gent ;
Hys schaft was strong wythall,
Theron a stef coronall,
To dely doghty dent.
And whane that stout styward,
That hyghte syr Lambard,
Was armede at all ryghtes,
He rood to the feld ward,
Lyght as a lybard,
Ther hym abyde the knyghtes.

He smote his schaft yn grete.
Almost hym thought to late,
Whanne he seygh hem wyth syghte ;
Lybeaus rood to hym thare,
Wyth a schaft all square,
As man most of myghte.
Eyther smot other yn the scheld,
The peces fell ynto the feld,
Of her schaftes schene ;
All tho that hyt beheld,
Ech man to other teld.
The yonge knyghte ys kene.

Lambard was aschamed sore,
So nas he never yn feld before,
To wyte and naght to wene ;
He cryde. Do come a stranger schaft,
Yyf Artours knyght kan craft,
Now hyt schall be sene.
Tho he tok a schaft rounde,
Wyth cornall scharp ygrounde.
And ryde be ryght resoun ;
Ayder provede yn that stounde
To yeve other dedys wounde,
Wyth fell herte as lyoun.

Lambard smot Lybeaus so
That hys scheld fell hym fro,
Into the feld adoun ;
So harde he hym hytte,
Unnethe that he myghte sytte
Upryght yn hys arsoun.
Hys schaft brak wyth gret power,
Lybeaus hytte Lambard yn the launcer
Of hys helm so bryght ;
That pysane, aventayle, and gorgere,
Fell ynto the felld fer.
And syr Lambard upryght

Sat, and rokksde yn hys sadell,
As chyld doth yn a kradell,
Wythoute mannys myght ;
Ech man tok other be the hod.
And gonne for to herye good
Borgays, baroun, and knyght.
Ayen to ryde Lambard thought.
Another helm hym was brought,
' And a schaft unmete :
Whan they togydere mette,
Ayder yn other scheld hytte,
Strokes grymly greete.

Syr Lambardys schaft to-brast,
And syr Lybeaus sat so faste
In sadelys as they setten,
That the styward, syr Lambard,
Fell of hys stede bakward.
So harde they two metten.
Syr Lambard was aschamed sore,
Than seyde Lybeaus, Wyltow more?
And he answerede. Nay ;
Never seythe y was ybore,
Ne sygh ycome her before
So redy a knyght to my pay.

A thoghth y have myn herte wythinne.
That thou art com of Gawenys kynne,
That ys so stout and gay ;
Yef thou schalt for my lady fyght,
Well come to me, syr, thou knyght,
In love and sykyr fay.
Lybeaus answerede sykyrly,
Feyghte y schall for a lady.
Be heste of kyng Artour ;
But y not wherfore ne why,
Ne who her doth swych vylany,
Ne what ys her dolour.

A mayde, that ys her messengere,
And a dwerke me brought her.
Her to do socour ;
The constable seyde, Well founde
Noble knyght of the table rounde,
Iblessed be seynt Savour.
Anon that mayde Elene
Was fette wyth knyghtes ten,
Before syr Lambard ;
Sche and the dwerk y mene
Tolde seven dedes kene,
That he dede dydyrward ;

And how that syr Lybeaus
Faught wyth fele schrewys,
And for no deth ne spared ;
Lambard was glad and blythe.
And thonkede fele syde,
God and seynt Edward.
Anon, wyth mylde chere.
They sete to the sopere,
Wyth moch gle and game ;
Lambard and Lybeaus, yn fere,
Of aventurs that ther wer,
Talkede bothe yn same.

Than seyde Lybeaus, syr Constable,
Tell me wythout table,
What ys the knyghtes name.
That halt so yn prisoune
The lady of Synadowne,
That ys so gentyll a dame.
" Nay, syr, knyght ys he non.
Be god and be seynt Jon,
That dorst away her lede ;
Two clerkes beth her fon,
Well fals of flessch and bon.
That haveth ydo thys dede.

Hyt beth men of maystrye,
Clerkes of nygremansye,
Hare artes for to rede ;
Syr Maboun hatte that other,
And syr Irayn hys brother,
For wham we beth yn drede.
Thys Yrayn and Maboun
Have imade of our toun
A palys queynte of gynne ;
Ther nys knyght ne baroun,
Wyth herte harde as lyoun.
That thorste come therinne.

Thys ys be nygremauncye,
Ymaketh of fayrye.
No man may hyt wynne ;
Therinne ys yn prysoun,
The lady of Synadowne,
Ys come of knyghtes kynne.
Ofte we hereth hyr crye,
But her to se wyth eye
Therto have we no myghte ;
They doth her turmentrye,
And all vylanye.
Be dayes and be nyght.

Thys Maboun and Irayn
Haveth swor deth certayn.
To dethe they wyll her dyghte ;
But sche graunte hym tylle
To do Mabounnys wylle.
And yeve hem all her ryght.
Of alle thys dukdom feyr
That ylke ladyys eyr ;
And come of knghtes kenne ;
Sche ys meke and boneyre,
Therfore we beth in despeyre,
That sche be dyght to synne.

Than seyde Lybeaus desconus.
Be the grace of Jhesus,
That lady y schall wynne
Of Maboun and Yrayn ;
Schame y schall, certayne.
Hem bothe wythout and wythinne.
Tho toke they har reste.
In lykynge as hem leste.
In the castell that nyght ;
A morow Lybeaus hym prest
In armes that wer best
And fressch he was to fyght;

Lambard ladde hym forth well whate,
And broghte hym at the castell gate.
And fond hyt open ryght,
No ferther ne dorste hym brynge,
For soth'wythout lesynge,
Erll, baroun, ne knyght.
But turnede hom agayn,
Save syr Gylet hys swayn
Wolde wyth hym ryde ;
He swor his oth serteyn,
He wold se hare brayn,
Yf they hym wold abyde.

To the castell he rod
And hovede and abod.
To Jhesu bad and tolde,
To sende hym tydynge glad
Of ham that longe had
That lady yn prysoun holde.
Syr Lybeaus knyght certeys
Rod ynto the palys,
And at the halle alyghte ;
Trompes, schalmuses,
He seygh be for the hyegh deys
Stonde yn hys syghte.

Amydde the halle flore
A fere stark and store
Was lyght and brende bryght,
Nere the dore he yede,
And ladde yn hys stede,
That wont wasehelpe hym yn fyght.
Lybeauus inner gan pace,
To se ech a place,
The hales yn the halle.
Of mayne mor ne laffe
Ne sawe he body ne face
But menstrales yclodeth yn palle.

Wyth harp, fydele, and rote,
Orgenes, and mery note.
Well mery they maden alle ;
Wyth sytole, and sawtrye,
So moch melodye
Was never wythinne walle.
Before ech menstrale stod
A torche fayre and good,
Brennynge fayre and bryght ;
Inner more he yode,
To wyte wyth egre mode
Ho scholde wyth hym fyghte.

He yede ynto the corneres.
And lokede on the pylers,
That selcouth wer of syghte.
Of jasper, and of fyn crystall,
Swych was pylers and wall,
No rychere be ne myghte.
The thores wer of bras,
The wyndowes wer of glas,
Florysseth wyth imagerye,
The halle ypaynted was,
No rychere never ther nas,
That he hadde seye wyth eye.

He sette hym an that deys,
The menstrales wer yn pes.
That were go good and trye.
The torches that brende bryght
Quenchede anon ryght,
The menstrales wer aweye.
Dores and wyndowes alle
Beten yn the halle,
As hyt wer voys of thunder ;
The stones of the walle
Over hym gon falle,
That thought hym mych wonther.

That deys began to schake,
The erthe began to quake,
As he satte hym under;
The rof abone unlek,
And the faunsere ek,
As hyt wolde asonder.
As he sat thus dysmayde,
And held hymself betrayde,
Stedes herde he naye.
Thanne was he bette ypayd,
And to hymself he sayd,
Yet y hope to playe.

He lokede ynto a feld,
Ther he sawe, wyth sper and scheld,
Come ryde knytes tweye ;
Of purpur Inde armure
Was lyngell and trappure,
Wyth gold garlandys gay.
That on rod ynto the halle,
And ther he gan to kalle,
Syr knyght aunterous,
Swych cas ther ys befalle,
Thaugh thou be proud yn palle,
Fyghte thou most wyth us.

Queynte thou art of gynne,
Yf thou that lady wynne,
That ys so precyous.
Tho seyde Lybeaus, anon ryght,
All fressch y am to fyght,
Thorugh help of swete Jhesus.
Lybeaus wyth goodwyll
Into hys sadell gan skyll,
And a launce yn hond he hent ;
Quyk he rod hem tyll,
In feld hys son to fell,
Therto was hys talent.

Togedere whan they mette
Upon har scheldes they sette
Strokes of thoughty dent :
Mabounys schaft to-brast,
Tho was he sore agast,
And held hymself yschent.
And wyth that strok feloun
Lybeaus bar hym adoun
Over hys horses tayle,
For hys hynder arsoun
To-brak and fyll adoun
In that feld saunz fayle.

And neygh he hadde hym sclayn,
Wyth that come ryde Yrayn
Wyth helm, hauberke, and mayle,
All fressch he was to fyght,
He thought wyth mayn and myght
Syr Lybeaus for to asayle.
Lybeaus of hym was war,
And sper to hym he bar,
And lette hys brother stylle ;
Swych dent he smot dar
That hys hauberke to-tar,
And that lykede Yrayn ylle.

Har launces they brak atwo,
Swerdes they through out tho,
Wyth herte grym and grylle.
And gonne for to fyghte,
Eyder prevede hys myghte
Other for to spylle.
As they togedere hewe
Maboun the mare schrewe
In feld up aros ;
He sawe and well knew
That Yrayn smot dentys fewe,
Therfore hym grym agros.

To Yrayn he ran ryght,
To helpe sle yn fyght
Lybeaus that was of noble los ;
But Lybeaus faught wyth hem bothe,
Thaugh they wer never so wrothe,
And kepte hymself yn clos.
Whan Yrayn saw Maboun,
He smot a strok feloun
To syr Lybeaus wyth yre,
Before [hys] forther arsoun
Als sket he karf adoun
Of Lybeaus stede swyre.

But Lybeaus was werrour slegh,
And smot of hys theygh,
Fell, and bone, and lyre ;
Tho halp hym naght hys armys
Hys chauntement, no hys charmys,
Adoun fell that sory syre.
Lybeaus adoun lyght,
Afote for to fyghte,
Maboun and he yn fere ;
Swych strokes they gon dyghte,
That sparkes sprong out bryght
From scheld and helmes clere.

As they togedere sette,
Har swerdes togedere mette,
As ye may lythe and lere ;
Maboun, that more schrewe,
To-karf that sworde of Lybeawe,
A twynne quyt and skere.
Lybeaus was sore aschamed,
An yn hys herte agramede.
For he hadde ylore hys sworde ;
And hys stede was lamed,
And he schulde be defamed.
To Artour kyng, hys lord.