Fitt I

Jhesu Lorde oure hevyn kynge,
Graunt us alle thy dere blessynge,
And bylde us in thy bowre !
And yf ye ony yoye wylle here
Of them that beforne us were,
That leved in grete honowre,
Y schalle telle yow of a knyght,
That was bothe hardy and wyght,
And stronge in eche a stowre ;
Of dedes of armys there ye may here,
He wynnyth the gree with yurney clere,
And in the fylde the flowre.

In Artas he was geton and borne,
And thus he holdyth hym beforne,
Lystenyth, y schalle yow say.
To dedes of armes he ys wente,
Wyth the Erie of Artas he ys lente,
He faylyth hym not nyght nor daye.
Syr Prynsamowre the erle hyght,
Syr Egyllamowre men calle the knyȝt,
That was evyr and aye ;
Whylle the erle had hym in holde,
Of dedes of armes he was bolde,
For no man seyde he naye.

The erle had never chylde but oon,
That was a maydyn as whyte as fome,
That hys ryght heyre schulde bee ;
The maydenys name was Crystyabelle,
A feyre thynge of flesche and felle,
Ther was none soche in Crystyante.
Syr Egyllamowre so hym bare,
That above alle erthely thynges sche lovyd hym mare,
That lady bryght of blee ;
Certenly bothe day and nyght,
So dud he hur that nobylle knyght,
That was the more pete !

The knyght was bothe bolde and stronge,
Therfore the lady lovyd hym longe,
Lystenyth, y schalle yow telle.
Ther come lordys of ferre londe,
For to assay hur, y undurstonde,
Wyth ferse folke and felle.
Syr Egyllamowre he dud to crye
Of dedes of armys utturly,
For the love of Crystyabelle.
What maner of man that hur wolde have,
So sore strokes he them gave,
For evyr he dud them to dwelle !

Tylle hyt befelle upon a day,
The knyght to hys squyer can say,
Yn hys chaumbur there he was at reste,
" Belamye, and thou cowdyst hyt layne,
A cownselle y wolde to the sayne,
Thou walkyst bothe est and weste."
" Ȝys, syr, permafay,
What some ever that ye to me say,
Y schalle hyt nevyr owte caste."
" The erlys doghtyr, so God me save !
The love of hur but y have,
My lyfe dayes be at the laste !"

The squyer seyde, " So muste y the,
Ye have tolde me yowre prevyte,
Y schalle gyf yow an answere ;
Ye are a knyght of lytylle londe,
Take hyt not at evelle, y undurstonde,
For mekylle wolde have mare.
Yf y to that lady thys telle for thy sake,
Peraventour on-henely sche wolde hyt take,
And lyghtly let me fare."
"Dere frende, y prey the that thou me behete,
That thou wylt that lady in thys maner grete,
What some ever happe to be hur answere."

" Syr, than umbe-thenke on thys thyng,
Ther woweth hur emperours and kynges,
Erlys and barons done alsoo ;
Ȝyt wylle sche not have of thoo,
But in godenes hur holdyth so,
The whych y trowe ys for thy love and no mo.
Sche wolde never a kynge forsake,
And soche a sympulle knyght to take,
But yf thy love were in hur herte wroght;
Y swere be God, heven kynge,
Wyste hur fadur of soche a thynge,
Fulle dere hyt schulde be boght !"

The knyȝt answeryd with wordes mylde,
" My squyer, evyr syth thou were a chylde,
Thou haste byn lente wyth me ;
At dedes of armes in many a stowre,
Where wyste me ever have dyshonoure ?
Say on, so God save thee !"
" Nay, syr, be Jhesu Cryste bryght,
Ye are a nobylle knyght
As any ys knowyn in Crystyante !
Yn dedes of armes, be God on lyve !
Ye are countyd worthe odur v.,
God a mercy, syr !" seyde hee.

The knyȝt answeryd and seyde, " Alias !"
Mornyng to hys bedd he gays,
That rychely was y-wroght.
Bothe hys handys he caste up sone,
To Jhesu Cryste he made a boone,
That Lorde that us hath boght ;
" The erlys doghtyr, that swete thynge,
So mote hyt be at my ȝernynge,
On hur ys alle my thoght,
That y myȝt wedde hur to my wyfe,
And sethen reches in my lyfe,
Owt of care then were y broght !"

Upon the morowe the maydyn smalle,
Sche wente before hur fadur in halle,
Amonge hur byrdys bryght ;
Of alle gentyls semyth none to hur but he,
The lady seyde, " For Goddys pete,
Where ys myn owne knyght ?"
Hys squyer answeryd with sympulle chere,
" He ys syke and dedd fulle nere,
He preyeth yow of a syght,
For he ys caste in soche a care,
But ye hym helpe he wylle forfare,
He levyth not oon sevenyght !"

The erle to hys doghtyr spake,
" Doghtur," he seyde, " for hys sake,
Lystenyth, y schalle yow say ;
Aftur mete do ye as hynde,
To hys chaumbur loke ye wynde,
He hath servyd us many a day
Fulle trewly in hys entente ;
Yn yustynge ne in turnament
He seyde us nevyr nay.
Alle dedes of armes that he may of here,
He wynnyth the gree with jurney clere,
And my worschypp aye."

Aftur mete the lady gente
Dede hur fadurs commaw[n]demente,
Scho takyth hur wey to wynde ;
Tylle hys chaumbur can sche goo,
With hur sche toke but maydenys two,
There the knyght can lende.
Then seyde that lady whyte as flowre,
" How faryth my knyght syr Egyllamowre,
That doghty was evyr and hende ?"
His squyer seyde, " Make gode chere,
Here comyth the erlys doghtyr dere,
Y pray God that ye parte gode frende !"

Then seyde thys lady whyte as lely flowre,
" How faryth my knyght syr Egyllamowre,
That doghty ys ever and ware ?"
" Damycelle," he seyde, " as ye may see,
Thus y am caste in care for love of the,
In anger and yn care."
" Syr," the maydyn seyde, " so mote y thee,
And ye had ony care for me,
Myn herte wolde be fulle sore !"
" And y myght turne to my lyfe,
Y wolde wedde yow to my wyfe,
Yf that yowre wylle were."

The lady sweryd be Crystys myght,
" Syr, ye are a nobylle knyght,
And comyn of gentylle blode ;
And ever trewly undur the schylde,
Thou wynnyst the gre in ylke a felde
Worschypfully, be the rode !
Y wylle avyse me as tyte,
And at my fadur wylle y wete,
Gyf that hys wylle be goode ;
As y am lady feyre and gente,
When my fadur and y be at assente,
Y wylle not fayle the, be the rode !"

The knyght kepte no more blys,
When he had geton graunt of thys,
But made hur fulle gode chere ;
He commawndyd a squyer for to go,
And take an hundurd pownd or two,
And gyf hur maydenys clere.
" Damycelle," he seyde, " so God me save !
Thys to yowre maryage schalle ye have,
Thys ys the fyrste tyme that ever ye come here."
Sche thanked hym anon-ryght,
Sche toke hur leve and kyssyd the knyght,
And seyde, " Farewelle, my fere."

Crystyabelle hath takyn hur way
To hur fadurs chaumbur there he lay,
Was made of lyme and stone ;
And he seyde, " Welcome, as whyte as flowre !
How faryth thy knyȝt, syr Egyllamowre ?"
Sche answeryd hym anone,
" Grete othys to me he sware,
That he was botyd of mekylle care,
And gode comfort to hym hath tane ;
He tolde me and my maydenys hynde,
To-morowe he wolde over the rever wynde
Wyth hys hawkys ylke a oon."

The erle seyde, " As mote y the,
Doghtyr, y schalle ryde to see them flee,
For comforte of that knyght."
The erle buskyd and made hym yare
For to ryde ovyr the revere,
To see that semely syght.
Alle the day he made gode chere ;
A wrath felle, as ye may here,
Anone betwene them twoo,
Or hyt nyghed the nyȝt fulle nere,
That made them of stryvys were,
And afturward dud them woo !

As he rode homeward be the way,
The knyght can to the erle say,
" Gode lorde, wylle ye me here ?"
" Ye," he seyde, " so mote y the,
What some ever thou seyst to me,
Hyt ys to me leve and dere ;
For oon the beste knyghtes art thou,
That in thys londe ys levyd now,
Awnturs ferre or nere."
" Gode lorde, for charyte,
Crystyabelle, yowre doghtur fre,
When schalle sche have a fere ?"

The erle seyde, " So God me save,
Y knowe no man that hur schalle have,
Sche ys so bryght of blee !"
The knyght can to the erle pray,
" Lorde, y have servyd yow many a day,
Vowche-safe ye hur on mee !"
" Ye," he seyde, "be Crystys payne,
Yf thou wynne hur, as y schalle ye sayne,
In dedes of armes three,
Broke hur wele, my doghtyr dere,
And alle Artas ferre and nere,
Y holde ther-to," seyde hee.

The knyght sweryd, " As mote y thee,
At my jurney wolde y bee,
And y wyste evyr whare."
The erle seyde, " Here be weste
Ther dwellyth a yeaunt in a foreste,
Soche oon thou nevyr sayste are ;
Cypur treys there growe owte longe,
Grete hertys there walke them amonge,
The fayreste that on fote may fare :
Go thedur and fett me oon away ;
Syr knyght, than dare y hardely say
That thou haste byn thare."

Be Jhesu swere the knyght than,
" Yf he be ony Crystyn-man,
Y schalle hym nevyr forsake.
Holde wele my lady and my londe."
" Ȝys," seyde the erle, " here myn honde !"
Hys trowthe to hym he strake.

Aftur mete, os y yow telle,
He takyth hys leve of Crystyabelle,
Hys leve then takyth hee.
" Damycelle," he seyde anon than,
" For thy love y have undurtane
Dedes of armys thre."
" Syr," sche seyde, " make yow gladd,
For an hardere fytt never ye had,
Be God in no cuntre !
Or that yurney be over passyd,
For my love ye schalle sey fulle ofte alias !
And so schalle y for thee.

" Syr knyght, when thou an-huntyng fowndes,
Y schalle gyf the two greyhowndys,
As wyght as any roo ;
As y am trewe gentylwoman,
Ther was never beste that on fote ran
Awey fro them myght goo.
A fulle gode swerde y schalle geve the,
Seynt Poule fonde hyt in the Grekes see.
Of soche knowe y no moo.
Ther was never helme of yron nor stele,
And thou have to hytte hyt wele,
But hyt wylle thorow hyt goo !"

He seyde, " God ȝylde yow, lady gente !"
He takyth hys leve and forthe he wente,
Hys way now hath he tane ;
A brode wey he helde forthe faste
Tylle he come to a foreste,
Soche oon sawe he nevyr none;
Cypur treys were growyn owte,
The wode was wallyd abowte,
And wele corvyn wyth ryche ston.
Forthe he wente, y undurstonde,
Tylle a brode yate that he fonde,
Ther-ynne the knyght ys gone.

He blewe hys home in that tyde ;
Hertys reson on eche a syde,
Wythowtyn any lesynge :
Then hys howndys began to baye,
That harde the jeant there he laye,
And he rysyth fro hys restynge.
" Me thynkyth howndys that y here,
Yondur ys a thefe to stele my dere,
He were welle bettur to be at the see !
Be hym that lett me be geton and borne,
Yn werse tyme blewe he never hys home,
Neythur hys bowe bende in no manys fee."

Anon the jeant hath take hys way
To the ȝate there he lay,
Hys bakk he sett ther tylle.
Then had syr Egyllamowre don to dedd
A grete herte, and tan the hedd,
The pryce he blewe fulle schylle !
He come where the yeant was,
And seyde, " Gode syr, let me passe,
Yf hyt be yowre wylle."
" Nay, thefe traytur, thou art tan !
My chefe herte thou haste slayn,
That schalt thou lyke fulle ylle !"

The yeant to the knyȝt ys gon,
A clobb of yron in honde hathe tan.
That was mekylle and fulle unwelde ;
Grete strokys the yeant gafe,
And to the erthe fley hys stafe
Two fote on every syde.
" Thefe traytur, what dost thou here
Yn my foreste to stele my dere ?
Here, thefe, thou schalt abyde !"
Syr Egyllamowre hys swerde owt drowe,
And to the yeant he gafe a sowe,
And blyndyd hym in that tyde !

That lorelle had loste hys syght,
Ȝyt he fyghtyth with that knyght
Alle that day fulle yare;
Tylle on the todur day abowte prime,
Syr Egyllamowre waytyd hys tyme,
And to herte hym bare !
He thanked God that weldyth thys worlde,
And at the yeant he smote harde,
The thefe began to rore !
Sythen he mett hym, os y say,
Upon the grownde there he lay,
He was xl. fote and more.

He thankyd God and hys knyfe,
Therwith he berevyd the jeaunt hys lyfe ;
He thanked God hylye !
Syr Egyllamowre wente hys way
Wyth the yeauntes hedd, os y yow say,
To a castelle of stone there-by.

The contre come hym abowte,
To see the hedd that was grete and stowte,
Soche a hedd sawe they never none.
Before the erle he hyt bare,
" Lo ! lorde, y have byn thare,
And that bare ye wytnesse echon."
Make we mery, so have we blys,
Thys ys the furste fytt of thy s
That we have undurtane.