Lines 1–264

BE doughty Artours dawes,
That held Engelond yn good lawes,
Ther fell a wondyr cas,
Of a ley that was ysette,
That hyght Launval, and hatte yette ;
Now herkeneth how hyt was.
Doughty Artour som whyle
Sojournede yn Kardeuyle,
Wyth joye and greet solas ;
And knyghtes that wer profitable,
With Artour of the rounde table,
Never noon better ther nas.

Sere Persevall, and syr Gawayn,
Syr Gyheryes, and syr Agrafrayn,
And Launcelott Dulake,
Syr Kay, and syr Ewayn,
That well couthe fyghte yn plain,
Bateles for to take.
Kyng Ban-Booght, and kyng Bos,
Of ham ther was a greet los,
Men sawe tho no wher her make ;
Syr Galafre, and syr Launfale,
Wherof a noble tale
Among us schall awake.

With Artour ther was a bacheler,
And hadde ybe well many a yer,
Launfal for soth he hyght,
He gaf gyftys largelyche,
Gold, and sylver, and clodes ryche,
To squyer and to knyght.
For hys largesse and hys bounte,
The kynges stuward made was he,
Ten yer, y you plyght ;
Of alle the knyghtes of the table rounde
So large ther was noon yfounde,
Be dayes ne be nyght,

So hyt be fyll, yn the tenthe yer,
Marlyn was Artours counsalere,
He radde hym for to wende
To king Ryon of Irlond ryght,
And sette him ther a lady bryght,
Gwennere hys doughtyr hende.
So he dede, and home her brought,
But syr Launfal lyked her noght,
Ne other knyghtes that wer hende ;
For the lady bar los of swych word,
That sche hadde lemannys unther her lord,
So fele ther nas noon ende.

They wer ywedded, as y you say,
Upon a Wytsonday,
Before princes of moch pryde,
No man ne may telle yn tale
What tolk ther was at that bredale,
Of countreys fer and wyde.
No nother man was yn halle ysette,
But he wer prelat, other baronette,
In herte ys naght to hyde,
Yf they fatte noght alle ylyche,
Har servyse was good and ryche,
Certeyn yn ech a syde.

And whan the lordes hadde ete yn the halle,
And the clothes wer drawen alle,
As ye mowe her and lythe,
The botelers fentyn wyn,
To alle the lords that wer theryn,
With chere both glad and blythe.
The quene yaf gyftes for the nones,
Gold and selver, precyous stonys,
Her curtasye to kythe,
Everych knyght sche yaf broche, other ryng,
But syr Launfal sche yaf no thyng,
That grevede hym many a sythe.

And whan the bredale was at ende
Launfal tok his leve to wende
At Artour the kyng,
And seyde a lettere was to hym come,
That deth hadde hys fadyr ynome,
He most to his beryynge.
Tho seyde king Artour, that was hende,
Launfal, if thou wylt fro me wende,
Tak with the greet spendyng,
And my suster sones two,
Bothe they schull with the go,
At horn the for to bryng.

Launfal tok leve, withoute fable,
With knyghtes of the rounde table,
And wente forth yn his journe,
Tyl he come to Karlyoun,
To the meyrys hous of the toune,
Hys servaunt that hadde ybe.
The meyr stod, as ye may here,
And saw hym come ride up anblere,
With two knyghtes and other mayne,
Agayns hym he hath wey ynome,
And seyde, Syr, thou art well come,
How faryth our kyng? tel me.

Launfal answerede and seyde than,
He faryth as well as any man,
And elles greet ruthe hyt wore ;
But, syr meyr, without lesyng,
I am thepartyth fram the kyng,
And that rewyth me sore :
Ne ther thar noman benethe ne above,
For the kyng Artours love,
Onowre me never more ;
But, syr meyr, y pray the pur amour,
May y take with the sojour ?
Som tyme we knewe us yore.

The meyr stod, and bethogte hym there,
What myght be hys answere,
And to hym than gan he sayn,
Syr, seven knyghtes han her har in ynome,
And ever y wayte whan they wyl come,
They arn of Lytyll-Bretayne.
Launfal turnede hymself and lowgh,
Therof he hadde scorn inowgh,
And seyde to his knyghtes tweyne,
Now may ye se swych ys service,
Unther a lord of lytyll pryse,
How he may therof be fayn.

Launfal awayward gan to ryde,
The meyr bad he schuld abyde,
And seyde yn thys manere,
Syr, yn a chamber by my orchard-syde,
Ther may ye dwell with joye and pryde,
Yf hyt your wyll were.
Launfal anoon ryghtes,
He and hys two knytes,
Sojournede ther yn fere,
So savagelych hys good he besette,
That he ward yn greet dette,
Ryght yn the ferst yere.

So hyt befell at Pentecost,
Swych tyme as the holy gost
Among mankend gan lyght,
That syr Hugh and syr Jon,
Tok her leve for to gon
At syr Launfal the knyght.
They seyd, Syr, our robes beth to-rent
And your tresour ys all yspent,
And we goth ewyll ydyght.
Thanne seyde syr Launfal to the knyghtes fre,
Tell yd no man of my poverté,
For the love of god almyght.

The knyghtes answerede and seyde tho,
That they nolde him wreye never mo,
All thys world to wynne.
With that word they wente hym fro.
To Glastyngbery bothe two,
Ther kyng Artour was inne.
The kyng sawe the knyghtes hende,
And ayens ham he gan wende,
For they wer of his kenne ;
Noon other robes they ne hadde
Than they out with ham ladde,
And tho wete to-tore and thynne.

Than seyde quene Gwenore, that was fel
How faryth the proud knight Launfal ?
May he hys armes welde ?
Ye, madame, sayde the knytes than,
He faryth as well as any man,
And ellys god hyt schelde.
Moche worchyp and greet honour,
To Gonore the quene and King Artour,
Of syr Launfal they telde ;
And seyde, He lovede us so,
That he would us evermo,
At wyll have yhelde.

But upon a rayny day hyt befel,
An huntynge wente syr Launfel,
To chasy yn holtes hore,
In our old robes we yede that day,
And thus we beth ywent away,
As we before hym wore.
Glad was Artour the kyng,
That Launfal was yn good lyking,
The quene hyt rew well sore ;
For sche wold, with all her myght,
That he hadde be, bothe day and nyght,
In paynys mor and more.

Upon a day of the trinite,
A feste of greet solempnite
In Carlyoun was holde,
Erles and barones of that countre.
Ladyes and borjaes of that cite,
Thyder come bothe yongh and old.
But Launfal for hys poverté
Was not bode to that semble,
Lyte men of hym tolde ;
The meyr to the feste was of sent,
The merys doughter to Launfal went,
And axede yf he wolde

In halle dyne with her that day.
Damesele, he sayde, nay,
To dyne have i no herte ;
Thre dayes ther ben agon
Mete ne drynke eet y noon,
And all was for povert.
To-day to cherche y wold have gon,
But me fawtede hosyn and schon,
Clenly brech and scherte ;
And for defawte of clodynge,
Ne myghte y yn with the peple thrynge,
No won ther dough me smerte

But othyng, damesele, y pray the,
Sadel and brydel lene thou me,
A whyle for to ryde,
That y myghte comfortede be.
By a launde unther thys cyte,
Al yn thys undern-tyde.
Launfal dyghte hys courser,
Without knave other squyer,
He rood with lytyll pryde ;
Hys hors slod, and fel yn the fen,
Wherfore hym scornede many men,
Abowte hym fer and wyde.

Poverly the knyght to hors gan sprynge,
For to dryve away lokynge,
He rood toward the west ;
The wether was hot the undern-tyde,
He lyghte adoun, and gan abyde,
Under a fayr forest :
And for hete to the wedere,
Hys mantell he feld togydere,
And sette hym doun to reste ;
Thus sat the knyght yn symplyte,
In the schadowe unther a tre,
Ther that hym lykede best.

As he sat yn sorrow and sore,
He sawe come out of holtes hore
Gentyll maydenes two,
Har kertoles wer of Inde sandel,
Ilased smalle, jolyf and well,
Ther myght noon gayer go.
Har manteles wer of grene felwet,
Ybordured with gold, right well ysette
Ipelvred with grys and gro ;
Har heddys wer dyght well withalle,
Everych hadde oon a jolyf coronall,
Wyth syxty gemmys and mo.

Har faces wer whyt as snow on downe,
Har rode was red, her eyn wor browne,
I sawe never non swyche ;
That oon bar of gold a basyn,
That other a towayle whyt and fyn,
Of selk that was good and ryche.
Her kercheves wer well schyre,
Arayd wyth ryche gold wyre,
Launfal began to syche ;
They com to hym over the hoth,
He was curteys, aud ayens hem goth,
And greette hem myldelyche.

Damesels, he seyde, god yow se !
Syr knyght, they seyde, well the be !
Our lady, dame Tryamour,
Bad thou schuldest com speke with here,
Gyf hyt wer thy wylle, sere,
Wythoute more sojour.
Launfal hem grauntede curteyslyche,
And wente wyth hem myldelyche,
They wheryn whyt as flour ;
And when they come in the forest an hygh,
A pavyloun yteld he sygh,
With merthe and mochell honour.