Fitt II

" What !" seyde the erle, " Yf thys be done,
Thou getyst anodur jeaunt sone,
Buske the forthe to fare ;
In Sydon, in that ryche cuntre,
There dar no man abyde nor bee
For drede of a wylde bare.
Beste and man alle sleyth hee,
That ever he may wyth eye see,
And grevyth them wondur sore ;
Hys toschys passen a fote longe,
The flesche that fastenyth them amonge
They kever hyt nevyr more."

That nobylle knyȝt he seyde not naye;
Upon the morowe, when hyt was day,
Hys leve then takyth hee.
Forthe he wendyth, y understonde,
A fowrtenyght jurney on the londe,
And also mekylle on the see,
Tylle ageynys the none-tyde,
Yn a foreste there he can ryde
Where the bore had wonte to bee ;
Tydyngys of hym sone he fonde,
Slayne men on every honde,
That grymly was to see !

Syr Egyllamowre restyd hym undur an oke ;
Tylle on the morowe that he can wake,
The sonne rose hye and schon ;
Swythe further in the foreste he drowe,
On the see he harde a sowe,
And thedurward the knyght ys gon.
Bryght helmes he fonde strawed wyde,
As men of armys had loste ther pryde,
That wyckyd bore had them slayne !
To a clyfe of ston than rydyth hee,
And say the bore come fro the see,
Hys morne-drynke he had tane.

The bore say hym there as he stode,
And whettyd hys tuschys as he were wode,
And to hym come asyde ;
Syr Egyllamowre wened welle to do,
And wyth a spere rode hym too
As faste as he myght ryde.
Gyf he rode nevyr so faste,
Hys gode spere in sonder braste,
The hedd wolde not in hym glyde ;
He come to hym wyth a swowe,
Hys gode stede undur hym he slowe,
On fote the knyght muste abyde.

Tylle a banke he sett hys syde,
Was undur a roche large and wyde,
Hys herte hyt was fulle sore.
Hys nobylle swerde he drowe owte tho,
And fyghtyth with the wylde swyne with woo
Thre dayes and more ;
Tylle on the iiijthe day abowte noon,
He thoght hys lyfe dayes were y-done,
For fyght wyth that wylde bore.
The knyght cowde no bettur redd,
But stroke faste on the swynes hedd,
Hys tuschys he brake thore.

He thankyd God that ylke stownde,
And gaf the bore hys dethys wound,
The boke of Rome thus can telle.
The kyng of Sydon an-huntyng ys gon
Wyth men of armys mony oon,
The bore then harde he ȝelle.
He comawnded a squyer for to fare,
" Some man ys fyghtyng with that bore,
Y trowe fulle wele there he schalle dwelle."
The squyer rydyth to a clefe of ston,
And say a knyght ley hym on
Wyth a swerde scharpe and felle.

The squyer hovyd and behelde them two,
And ageyne to the kyng he can go,
And seyde, "Lorde, the bore ys slayne !"
"Seynt Mary!" seyde the kyng, "who myȝt hyt bee ?"
"Ȝys, syr, a knyght y see,
To God y trowe be fulle bayne !
He beryth of golde a fulle feyre syght,
A stede of aser and a knyght,
Alle armyd for to gone.
That bryght upon hys hedd hyt ys
A lady of golde in hur ryches,
Hys sperys of sabulle everychone."

The kyng swere, " So mote y thee,
Hys gentylle armys wylle y see."
And thedur he takyth hys way.
Be that had syr Egyllamowre
Ovyr-come alle hys styffe stowre,
And to reste hym down he lay.
The kyng seyde, " God reste with the !"
" Lorde, welcome mote yow bee,
Of pese y yow pray ;
Y have so foghtyn with the bore,
That be my feyth y may no more,
Thys ys the fourthe day !"

The kynge seyde, " Be Goddys myght,
Here schalle no man with the fyght,
Grete synne hyt were the to tene !
Thou haste ben ferre and wyde-where,
And now haste slayn the wylde bore,
That many a mannys bane hath bene.
Worschypfully undur the schylde,
Thou haste slayn thy foo and wonne the fylde,
That we alle have seyn.
Y have wetyn, syth y was man of aray,
He hath slayne syxty on a day,
Welle armyd men and clene !"

Ryche metys forthe he broght,
The ryche wyne forgetyth he noght,
And clothys there were spradd.
The kynge swere, " So mote y thee,
Y wylle dyne for love of thee,
Thou haste byn strongly stadd."
" Ye," he seyde, " permafay,
Now hyt ys the fyrste day
That evyr oon fote y fledd."
The kynge preyd that gentylle knyght
For to be wyth hym alle nyght,
And reste hym in a ryche bedd.

Aftur mete, as y yow say,
The kynge can to the knyght pray
Of what londe that he was.
He seyde, " My name ys syr Awntour,
Y dwelle with syr Prynsamowre,
The erle of Artas."
Knyghtys nere the kynge they drowe,
" Yondur ys he that Arrok slowee,
The yeauntys brodur Maras ! "
The kynge preyed the knyght so free,
Two dayes wyth hym to be,
Or that he schoulde forthe passe.

" Ther ys a jeaunt here besyde,
That sorowe doyth ferre and wyde
On us and odur moo,
That y dar no way ryde owt,
But men of armys me abowte,
Fulle seldone have y thus sene soo.
Thys wylde bore that thou haste slayne here,
He hath fedd hym xv. yere,
Crystyn men for to sloo !
Now ys he wente with care ynogh
To berye hys brodur that thou slogh,
That evyrmore be hym woo ! "

To splatt the bore they wente fulle tyte,
Ther was no knyfe that wolde hym byte,
So harde of hyde was hee.
" Syr Awntour," seyde the kynge, " thou hym slowe,
Y trowe thy knyfe be gode y-nogh,
Gyf that thy wylle bee."
The knyght to the bore ys gon,
And clevyth hym be the rugge-bone,
That grete yoye hyt was to see.
" Lorde," seyde the knyght, " y dud hym falle,
Gyf me the hedd and take thou alle,
Thou wottyst wele hyt ys my fee."

Aftur cartys can they sende,
Ageyn none home with that they wende,
The cyte was them nere ;
Alle the cuntre was fulle fayne
That the wekyd bore was slayne,
They made hym fulle gode chere.
The quene seyde, " God schylde us fro schame,
When the jeaunt ys comyn home,
Newe tydyngys gete we sone ;
For he ys stronge and stowte,
And therof y have mekylle dowte
That he wylle do us grete dere or we have done."

Syr Egyllamowre, that nobylle knyȝt,
Was sett with the kynges doghtyr bryght,
For that he schoulde be blythe ;
The maydenys name was Organata so fre,
Sche preyeth hym of gode chere to bee,
And besechyd hym so many a sythe.
Aftur mete sche can hym telle
How that geant wolde them quelle :
The knyght began to lagh anone.
" Damyselle," he seyde, " so mote y thee,
And he come whylle y here bee,
Y schalle hym assay sone ! "

Ageyne the evyn the kyng can dyȝt
A bath for that nobylle knyght,
Of ȝerbys that were fulle gode ;
And alle the nyght ther-in he lay
Tyl on the morowe that hyt was day,
That men to mete yode.
Be the kynge he herde hys masse,
The wekyd geant comyn was,
And cryed as he were wode.
" Syr kynge," he seyde, " sende thou to me
Organata thy doghtur free,
Or thou schalt spylle thy blode ! "

Syr Egyllamowre, that nobylle knyght,
Armyd hym anon-ryght,
And to the wallys wendyth hee.
The borys hedd he made forthe to bere,
And sett hyt upon a spere,
That Maras myght hym see.
The jeant lokyd upon the hedd,
" Alias ! my bore, art thou dedd ?
My tryste was mekylle on the !
Be that lay that y leve ynne,
My lytylle spote hoglyn,
Dere boght thy dethe schalle bee ! "

The yeant on the walle dange,
At eche stroke the fyre owt sprange,
For nothyng wolde he spare !
Yn-to the cyte he caste a crye,
" Thevys, trayturs, ye schalle abye
For sleyng of my bore !
Thys stone walle y schalle down dynge,
And with myn hondys y schalle yow hynge
Or that y hens fare ! "
With the grace of God, or hyt were nyght
The yeant had hys fulle of fyght,
The boke seythe some dele more !

" Syr Awntur," seyde the kynge than,
" Y rede we arme us ylke-oon,
Thys fende wylle felly fyght."
The knyght swere be the rode,
" Y schalle assay hym, thogh he were wode,
Fulle mekylle ys Goddys myght ! "
Syr Egyllamowre was not agaste,
Of the helpe of God was alle hys tryste,
And of hys swerde so bryght ;
He rode a course to assay hys stede,
He toke hys leve and forthe he yede,
And alle prayed for that knyght.

Syr Egyllamowre the felde hath tane ;
The geant say and tylle hym came,
And seyde, " Art thou comyn, my fere ?
Y trowe thou halpe to sle my bore,
Thou schalt abye trewly therfore,
Hyt schalle be boght fulle dere ! "
Syr Egyllamowre wened welle to do,
And wyth a spere rode hym too,
As man of armes clere ;
The yeant buskyd and made hym bowne,
Hors and man he stroke alle downe,
The knyght was dede fulle nere.

The knyght cowde no bettur redd,
When hys nowbylle stede was dedd,
But to hys fote he hath hym tane ;
Sethen so nere he can hym goo,
Hys ryght arme he stroke hym froo,
Faste be the schouldur-bone.
Thowe the lorelle had loste hys hande,
Alle day stondyth he faste fyghtande
Tylle the sonne to reste was goon ;
Then was he so wery he myȝt not stonde,
The blode ran so faste fro hym on every honde,
That lyfe dayes hadd he nevyr oon.

When the thefe began to rore,
Alle that in that cyte wore
For yoye the bellus can rynge.
Edmonde was the kynges name,
" Awnturs," he seyde, " be seynt Jame,
Here schalt thou be kynge !
To-morowe schalle y crowne the,
And thou schalt wedd Organata, my doghtur fre,
Wyth a fulle ryche rynge."
The knyȝt answeryd with wordes mylde,
" Syr, yf you yoye of yowre chylde,
For here may y not lende."

" Syr knyght, for thy nobylle dede,
Y schalle geve the a nobylle stede,
Also redd as ony roone ;
Yn yustyng ne in turnement,
Thou schalt never soffur dethys wound,
Whylle thou syttyst hym upon."
Seyde Organata that swete thynge,
" Y schalle geve the a gode golde rynge,
Wyth a fulle ryche stone ;
Whedur that ye be on water or on londe,
And that rynge be upon yowre honde,
Ther schalle nothyng yow slon."

He seyde, " God ȝylde yow, lady clere."
" Syr, y schalle abyde yow thys xv. yere,
Yf that ye wylle me wedd.
Worschypfully, so God me save,
Kyng nor dewke schalle me not have,
Thowe he be comely cladd."
The knyght answeryd, " Permafay,
Withyn thys xv. yere ye schalle here say
How that y have spedde."
The knyght takyth hys leve and farys,
Wyth the geauntys hedd and the borys,
The weyes owre Lord wylle hym lede.
Thys ys the seconde fytt of thys,
Make we mery, so have we blys,
For ferre have we to rede.