Stanzas I–XX

Lef, lythes to me
Two wordes or thre
Off one that was faire and fre,
And felle in his fighte;
His righte name was Percyvelle,
He was fosterde in the felle,
He dranke water of the welle,
And ȝitt was he wyghte!
His fadir was a noble-mane,
Fro the tyme that he begane,
Miche wirchippe he wane,
Whenne he was made knyghte;
In kyng Arthures haulle
Beste by-luffede of alle,
Percyvelle thay gane hym calle,
Who so redis ryghte.

Who that righte cane rede,
He was doughty of dede,
A styffe body one a stede
Wapynes to welde;
Thare-fore kyng Arthoure
Dide hym mekille honoure,
He gaffe hym his syster Acheflour,
To have and to holde;
Fro thethyne tille his lyves ende,
With brode londes to spende,
For he the knyght wele kende,
He bytaughte hir to welde;
With grete gyftes to fulfille,
He gaffe his sister hym tille,
To the knyght at ther bothers wille,
With robes in folde.

He gaffe hym robes in folde,
Erode londes in wolde,
Mony mobles untolde,
His syster to take;
To the kirke the knyghte ȝode
For to wedde that frely fode,
For the gyftes that ware gude,
And for hir ownne sake;
Sythene, withowttene any bade,
A grete brydale thay made,
For hir sake that hym hade
Chosene to hir make;
And after, withowttene any lett,
A grete justyng ther was sett,
Off alle the kempes that he mett
Wolde he none forsake.

Wolde he none forsake,
The rede knyghte ne the blake,
Ne none that wolde to hym take
With schafte ne with schelde;
He dose als a noble knyghte,
Wele haldes that he highte,
Faste preves he his myghte,
Deres hym none elde.
Sexty schaftes I say
Syr Percyvelle brake that ilke day,
And ever that riche lady lay
One walle and byhelde;
Thofe the rede knyghte hade sworne,
Oute of his sadille is he borne,
And almoste his lyfe forlorne,
And lygges in the felde.

There he lygges in the felde,
Many mene one hym byhelde,
Thurgh his armour and his schelde
Stoneyde that tyde.
That arghede alle that ther ware,
Bothe the lesse and the mare,
That noble Percyvelle so wele dare
Syche dynttys habyde;
Was ther nowthir more ne lasse
Off alle those that ther was,
That durste mete hym one the grasse,
Agaynes hyme to ryde;
Thay gaffe syr Percyvelle the gree,
Beste worthy was he,
And hamewardez thanne rode he,
And blythe was his bryde.

And thofe the bryde blythe be
That Percyvelle hase wone the gree,
ȝete the rede knyghte es he
Hurte of his honde;
And therfore gyffes he a gyfte,
That if he ever covere myghte,
Owthir by day or by nyghte,
Inne felde for to stonde,
That he scholde qwyte hym that dynt,
That he of his handes hynte;
Salle never this travelle be tynt,
Ne tolde in the londe,
That Percyvelle in the felde
Schulde hym schende thus undire schelde,
Bot it scholde agayne be ȝolden,
If that he were leveande!

Now than are thay leveande bathe,
Was noȝte the rede knyghte so rathe
For to wayte hym with skathe,
Er ther the harmes felle;
Ne befelle ther no stryffe,
Tille Percyvelle had in his lyffe
A sone by his ȝonge wyffe,
Aftir hym to duelle.
Whenne the childe was borne,
He made calle it one the morne,
Als his fadir highte byforne,
ȝonge Percyvelle:
The knyghte was fayne, a feste made
For a knave childe that he hade,
And sythene, withowttene any bade,
Offe justyngez thay telle!

Now of justyngez thay telle;
Thay sayne that syr Percyvelle,
That he wille in the felde duelle,
Als he hase are done.
A grete justynge was ther sett
Of alle the kempes that ther mett,
For he wolde his sone were gette
In the same wonne;
Theroff the rede knyghte was blythe,
Whenne he herde of that justynge kythe,
And graythed hym armours ful swythe,
And rode thedir riȝte sone:
Agayne Percyvelle he rade
With schafte and with schelde brade,
To holde his heste that he made
Of maistres to mone.

Now of maistres to mone,
Percyvelle hase wele done
For the love of his ȝonge sone,
One the firste day.
Ere the rede knyghte was bownne,
Percyvelle hase borne downne
Knyght, duke, erle, and baroune,
And vencusede the play!
Right als he hade done this honour,
So come the rede knyghte to the stowre,
Bot "wo worthe wykkyde armour!"
Percyvelle may say;
For ther was syr Percyvelle slayne,
And the rede knyghte fayne,
In herte is noȝte for to layne,
Whenne he went one his way!

Whenne he went one his way,
Durste ther no mane to hym say,
Nowther in erneste ne in play,
To byd hym habyde;
For he had slayne riȝte thare
The beste body at thare ware,
Syr Percyvelle with woundez sare,
And stonayed that tyde.
And thanne thay couthe no better rede,
Bot put hym in a prevee stede,
Als that mene dose with the dede,
In erthe for to hyde.
Scho that was his lady
Mighte be fulle sary,
That lorne hade siche a body,
Hir aylede no pryde!

And now is Percyvelle the wighte
Slayne in batelle and in fyghte;
And the lady hase gyffene a gyfte,
Holde if scho may,
That scho schalle nevermare wonne
In stede with hir ȝonge sonne,
Ther dedez of armez schalle be donne,
By nyghte ne be daye;
Bot in the wodde schalle he be,
Salle he nothyng see
Bot the leves of the tree,
And the greves graye:
Schalle he nowther take tent
To justez ne to tournament,
Bot in the wilde wodde went
With bestez to playe.

With wilde bestez for to playe,
Scho tuke hir leve and went hir waye,
Bothe at barone and at raye,
And went to the wodde.
Byhynde scho leved boure and haulle;
A maydene scho tuke hir withalle,
That scho myȝte appone calle,
Whenne that hir nede stode:
Other gudez wolde scho nonne nayte;
Bot with hir tuke a tryppe of gayte,
With mylke of thame for to bayte
To hir lyves fode;
Off alle hir lordes faire gere
Wolde scho noȝte with hir bere,
Bot a lyttille Scottes spere,
Agayne hir sone ȝode.

And whenne hir ȝong sone ȝode,
Scho bade hym walke in the wodde,
Tuke hym the Scottes spere gude
And gaffe hym in hande;
"Swete modir," sayde he,
"What manere of thyng may this bee,
That ȝe nowe hafe takene mee?
What calle ȝee this wande?"
Thanne byspakke the lady,
"Sone," scho sayde, "sekerly
It es a dart doghty;
In the wodde I it fande."
The childe es payed of his parte,
His modir hase gyffene hym that darte,
Therwith made he many marte
In that wodde lande.

Thus he welke in the lande
With hys darte in his hande;
Under the wilde wodde wande
He wexe and wele thrafe:
He wolde schote with his spere
Bestes and other gere,
As many als he myghte here;
He was a gude knave!
Smalle birdes wolde he slo,
Hertys, hyndez also;
Broghte his moder of thoo,
Thurte hir none crave;
So wele he lernede hym to schote,
Ther was no beste that welke one fote,
To fle fro hym was it no bote,
Whenne that he wolde hym have.

Evene whenne he wolde hym have;
Thus he wexe and wele thrave,
And was reghte a gude knave
With-in a fewe ȝere;
Fyftene wynter and mare
He duellede in those holtes hare,
Nowther nurture ne lare
Scho wolde hym none lere:
Tille it byfelle on a day,
The lady tille hir sone ganne say,
"Swete childe, I rede thou praye
To Goddez sone dere,
That he wolde helpe the,
Lorde, for his poustee,
A gude mane for to bee,
And longe to duelle here!"

"Swete moder," sayde he,
"Whatkyns a Godd may that be,
That ȝe nowe bydd mee
That I schalle to pray?"
Thenne byspakke the lady evene,
"It es the grete Godd of hevene,
This worlde made he with-in sevene
Appone the sexte d[a]y."
"By grete Godd," sayde he thanne,
"And I may mete with that manne,
With alle the crafte that I kanne
Reghte so schalle I pray!"
There he levede in a tayte
Bothe his modir and his gayte,
The grete Godd for to layte,
Fynde hyme whenne he may.

And as he welke in holtes hare,
He sawe a gate as it ware,
With thre knyghtis mett he thare
Off Arthrus inne;
One was Ewayne fytz Asoure,
Another was Gawayne with honour,
And Kay the bolde baratour,
And alle were of his kynne.
In riche robes thay ryde;
The chylde hadd nothyng that tyde,
That he myȝte inne his bones hyde,
Bot a gaytes skynne;
He was burely of body and therto riȝt brade,
One ayther halfe a skynne he hade,
The hode was of the same made
Juste to the chynne.

His hode was juste to his chynne,
The flesche halfe tourned with-inne,
The childes witt was fulle thynne
Whenne he scholde say oughte;
Thay were clothede alle in grene,
Siche hade he never sene,
Wele he wened that thay had bene
The Godd that he soghte!
He said, "Wilke of ȝow alle three
May the grete Godd bee,
That my moder tolde mee
That alle this werlde wroghte?"
Bot thanne ansuerde syr Gawayne,
Faire and curtaisely agayne,
"Sone, so Criste mote me sayne,
For swilke are we noghte!"

Thanne saide the fole one the filde,
Was comene oute of the woddez wilde,
To Gawayne that was meke and mylde
And softe of ansuare,
"I salle sla ȝow alle three,
Bot ȝe smertly now telle mee
Whatkyns thyngez that ȝe bee,
Sene ȝe no Goddes are!"
Thenne ansuerde syr Kay,
"Who solde we thanne say
That hade slayne us to day
In this holtis hare?"
At Kayes wordes wexe he tene,
Bot he a grete bukke had bene,
Ne hadd he stonde thame bytwene,
He hade hym slayne thare!

Bot thanne said Gawayne to Kay,
"Thi prowde wordes pares ay,
I scholde wynne this childe with play,
And thou wolde holde the stille."
"Swete sone," thanne said he,
"We are knyghtis alle thre,
With kyng Arthoure duelle wee
That hovyne es on hylle."
Thenne said Percyvelle the lyghte,
In gayte skynnes that was dyghte,
"Wille kyng Arthoure make me knyghte,
And I come hym tille?"
Thanne saide syr Gawayne riȝte thare,
"I kane gyffe the nane ansuare,
Bot to the kynge I rede thou fare
To wete his awenne [wille]."