Lines 793–1044

Therfor they seyden alle,
Hyt was long on the quene, and not on Launfal,
Therof they gonne hym skere ;
And yf he myghte hys lemman brynge,
That he made of swych yelpynge,
Other the maydenes were
Bryghtere than the quene of hewe,
Launfal schuld be holde trewe,
Of that yn all manere ;
And yf he myghte not brynge hys lef,
He schud be hongede as a thef,
They seyden all yn fere.

Alle yn fere they made proferynge,
That Launfal schuld hys lemman brynge :
Hys heed he gan to laye.
Than seyde the quene, wythout lesynge,
Yyf he bryngeth a fayrer thynge,
Put out my eeyn gray.
Whan that wajowr was take on honde,
Launfal therto two borwes fonde,
Noble knyghtes twayn,
Syr Percevall, and syr Gawayn,
They wer hys borwes, soth to sayn,
Tyll a certayn day.

The certayn day, i yow plyght,
Was twelve moneth and fourtenyght,
That he schuld hys lemman brynge ;
Syr Launfal, that noble knyght,
Greet sorow and care yn hym was lyght,
Hys hondys he gan wrynge.
So greet sorowe hym was upan,
Gladlyche hys lyf he wold a forgon,
In care and in marnynge ;
Gladlyche he wold hys hed forgo,
Everych man therfore was wo,
That wyste of that tydynge.

The certayn day was nyghyng,
Hys borowes hym broght befor the kyng,
The kyng recordede tho,
And bad hym bryng hys lef yn syght,
Syr Launfal seyde that he ne myght,
Therfore hym was well wo.
The kyng commaundede the barouns alle,
To yeve jugement on Launfal,
And dampny hym to sclo.
Than sayde the erl of Cornewayle,
That was wyth ham at that counceyle,
We wyllyd naght do so :

Greet schame hyt wor us alle upon
For to dampny that gentylman,
That hath be hende and fre ;
Therfor, lordynges, doth be my reed,
Our kyng, we wyllyth another wey lede,
Out of lond, Launfal schall fle.
And as they stod thus spekynge,
The barouns sawe come rydynge
Ten maydenes bryght of ble,
Ham thoghte they were so bryght and schene
That the lodlokest, wythout wene,
Har quene than myghte be.

Tho seyde Gawayn, that corteys knyght,
Launfal, brodyr, drede the no wyght,
Her cometh thy lemman hende.
Launfal answerede, and seyde Y wys,
Non of ham my lemman nys,
Gawayn, my lefly frende.
To that castell they wente ryghte,
At the gate they gonne alyght,
Befor kyng Artour gonne they wende,
And bede hym make a redy hastyly
A fayr chamber for her lady,
That was come of kinges kende.

Ho ys your lady ? Artour seyde.
Ye schull y wyte, seyde the mayde,
For sche cometh ryde.
The kyng commaundede, for her sake,
The fayryst chaunber for to take,
In hys palys that tyde.
And anon to hys barouns he sente,
For to yeve jugemente
Upon that traytour full of pryde ;
The barouns answerede, anoon ryght,
Have we seyn the madenes bryght,
Whe schull not longe abyde.

A newe tale they gonne tho,
Some of wele, and some of wo,
Har lord the kyng to queme,
Some dampnede Launfal there,
And some made hym quyt and skere,
Har tales wer well breme.
Tho saw they other ten maydenes bryght,
Fayryr than the other ten of syght,
As they gone hym deme,
They ryd upon joly moyles of Spayne,
With sadell and brydell of Champayne,
Her lorayns lyght gonne leme.

They wer yclodeth yn samyt tyre,
Ech man hadde greet desyre
To se har clodynge.
Tho seyde Gaweyn, that curtayse knyght,
Launfal, her cometh thy swete wyght,
That may thy bote brynge.
Launfal answerede, with drery doght,
And seyde, Alas, y knowe her noght,
Ne non of all the ofsprynge.
Forth they wente to that palys,
And lyghte at the hye deys,
Before Artour the kynge.

And grette the kyng and quene ek,
And oo mayde thys wordes spak,
To the kyng Artour,
Thyn halle agrayde and hele the walles,
Wyth clodes and wyth ryche palles,
Ayens my lady Tryamour.
The kyng answerede bedene,
Well come, ye maydenes schene,
Be our lord the savyour.
He commaundede Launcelot du Lake to brynge hem yn fere,
In the chamber ther har felawes were,
Wyth merthe and moche honour.

Anoon the quene suppose gyle
That Launfal schulld yn a whyle
Be ymade quyt and skere,
Thorugh hys lemman that was commynge,
Anon sche seyde to Artour the kyng,
Syre, curtays yf [thou] were,
Or yf thou lovedest thyn honour,
I schuld be awreke of that traytour,
That doth me changy chere,
To Launfal thou schuldest not spare,
Thy barouns dryveth the to bysmare.
He ys hem lef and dere.

And as the quene spak to the kyng,
The barouns seygh come rydynge
A damesele alone,
Upoon a whyt comely palfrey,
They saw never non so gay,
Upon the grounde gone.
Gentyll, jolyf, as bryd on bowe,
In all manere fayr inowe,
To wonye yn worldly wone,
The lady was bryght as blosme on brere,
Wyth eyen gray, wyth lovelych chere,
Her leyre lyght schoone.

As rose on rys her rode was red,
The her schon upon her hed,
As gold wyre that schynyth bryght ;
Sche hadde a croune upon her molde,
Of ryche stones and of golde,
That lossom lemede lyght.
The lady was clad yn purpere palle,
Wyth gentyll body and myddyl small,
That semely was of syght ;
Her mantyll was furryth with whyt ermyn,
Ireversyd jolyf and fyn,
No rychere be ne myght.

Her sadell was semyly sett,
The sambus wer grene felvet,
Ipaynted with ymagerye,
The bordure was of belles,
Of ryche gold and nothing elles,
That any man myghte aspye.
In the arsouns, before and behynde,
Were twey stones of Ynde,
Gay for the maystrye ;
The paytrelle of her palfraye,
Was worth an erldome, stoute and gay,
The best yn Lumbardye.

A gerfawcon sche bar on her hond,
A softe pas her palfray fond,
That men her schuld beholde ;
Thorugh Karlyon rood that lady,
Twey whyte grehoundys ronne hyr by,
Har colers were of golde.
And whan Launfal sawe that lady,
To alle the folk he gon crye an hy,
Both to yonge and olde,
Her, he seyde, comyth my lemman swete,
Sche myghte me of my balys bete,
Yef that lady wolde.

Forth sche wente ynto the halle,
Ther was the quene and the ladyes alle,
And also kyng Artour,
Her maydenes come ayens her ryght,
To take her styrop whan sche lyght,
Of the lady dame Tyramour.
Sche dede of her mantyll on the flet,
That men schuld her beholde the bet,
Wythoute a more sojour,
Kyng Artour gan her sayre grete,
And sche hym agayn, with wordes swete,
That were of greet valour.

Up stod the quene and ladyes stoute,
Her for to beholde all aboute,
How evene sche stod upryght ;
Than wer they wyth her also donne,
As ys the mone ayen the sonne,
A day whan hyt ys lyght.
Than seyde sche to Artour the kyng,
Syr, hydyr i com for swych a thyng,
To skere Launfal the knyght,
That he never, yn no folye,
Besofte the quene of no drurye,
By dayes ne be nyght.

Therfor, syr kyng, good kepe thou myne,
He bad naght her, but sche bad hym,
Here lemman for to be ;
And he answerede her and seyde,
That hys lemmannes lothlokest mayde
Was fayryr than was sche.
Kyng Artour seyde, wythoute nothe,
Ech may yse that ys sothe,
Bryghtere that ye be.
Wyth that dame Tryamour to the quene geth,
And blew on her swych a breth,
That never eft myght sche se.

The lady lep an hyr palfray,
And bad hem alle have good day,
Sche nolde no lengere abyde ;
Wyth that com Gyfre all so prest,
Wyth Launfalys stede out of the forest,
And stod Launfal besyde.
The knyght to horse began to sprynge,
Anoon wythout any lettynge,
Wyth hys lemman away to ryde ;
The lady tok her maydenys achon,
And wente the way that sche hadde er gon,
Wyth solas and wyth pryde.

The lady rod dorth Cardevyle,
Per ynto a jolyf ile,
Olyroun that hyghte ;
Every yer upon a certayn day,
Me may here Launfales stede nay,
And hym se with syght.
Ho that wyll there axsy Justus,
To kepe hys armes fro the rustus,
In turnement other fyght ;
Dar he never forther gon,
Ther he may fynde justes anoon,
Wyth syr Launfal the knyght.

Thus Launfal, wythouten fable,
That noble knyght of the rounde table,
Was take yn to the fayrye ;
Seththe saw hym yn thys lond no man,
Ne no more of hym telle y ne can,
For sothe, wythout lye.
Thomas Chestre made thys tale,
Of the noble knyght syr Launfale,
Good of chyvalrye.
Jhesus, that ys hevene kyng,
Yeve us alle hys blessyng,
And hys modyr Marye !