Stanzas XXI–XL

To wete thus the kynges wille,
Thare thay hovene ȝitt stille,
The childe hase takene hym tille
For to wende hame.
And als he welke in the wodde,
He sawe a fulle faire stode
Offe coltes and of meres gude,
Bot never one was tame;
And sone said he, "Bi seyne John,
Swilke thynges as are ȝone
Rade the knyghtes apone,
Knewe I thaire name;
Als ever mote I thryffe or thee,
The moste of ȝone that I see
Smertly schalle here mee
Tille I come to my dame!"

He saide, "Whenne I come to my dame,
And I fynde hir at hame,
Scho wille telle the name
Off this like thynge."
The moste mere he thare see
Smertly over-rynnes he,
And saide, "Thou salle here me
To morne to the kynge."
Kepes he no sadille gere,
Bot stert up one the mere;
Hamewarde scho gunne him here
Withowttene faylynge:
The lady was never more sore bygone,
Scho wiste never whare to wonne,
Whenne scho wiste hir ȝonge sonne
Horse hame brynge!"

Scho saw hym horse hame brynge,
Scho wiste wele by that thynge
That the kynde wolde oute-sprynge,
For thynge that be moughte.
Thanne als sone saide the lady,
"That ever solde I sorowe dry
For love of thi body,
That I hafe dere boghte!"
"Dere sone," saide scho [hym to],
"Thou wirkeste th[ise]lfe mekille unroo,
What wille thou with this mere do,
That thou hase hame broghte?"
Bot the boye was never so blythe,
Als whenne he herde the name kythe
Of the stode-mere stythe,
Of na thyng thanne he roghte!

Now he calles hir a mere,
Als his moder dide ere;
He wened alle other horsez were,
And hade bene callede soo.
"Moder, at ȝonder hille hafe I bene,
Thare hafe I thre knyghtes sene,
And I hafe spokene with thame, I wene,
Wordes in throo;
I have highte thame alle thre
Before thaire kyng for to be,
Siche one schalle he make me
As is one of tho!"
He sware by grete Goddez myȝte,
"I schalle holde that I hafe highte,
Bot if the kyng make me knighte
To morne I salle hym sloo!"

Bot thanne by-spakke the lady,
That for hir sone was sary,
Hir thoghte wele that scho myȝt dy,
And knelyde one hir kne;
"Sone, thou has takyne thi rede
To do thiselfe to the dede,
In everilke a strange stede
Doo als I bydde the!
To morne es forthirmaste ȝole day,
And thou says thou wille away
To make the knyghte if thou may,
Als thou tolde mee;
Lyttille thou cane of nurtoure,
Luke thou be of mesure
Bothe in haulle and in boure,
And fonde to be fre!"

Than saide the lady so brighte,
"There thou meteste with a knyghte,
Do thi hode off, I highte,
And haylse hym in hy!"
"Swete moder," sayd he thenne,
"I saw never ȝit no menne;
If I solde a knyghte kenne
Telles me wharby."
Scho schewede hym the menevaire,
Scho had robes in payre,
"Sone, ther thou sees this fare
In thaire hodes lye."
"Bi grete God," sayd he,
"Where that I a knyghte see,
Moder, as ȝe bidd me
Righte so schalle I!"

Alle that nyȝte tille it was day
The childe by the modir lay,
Tille on the morne he wolde away,
For thyng that myȝte betyde.
Brydille hase he righte nane;
Seese he no better wane,
Bot a wythe hase he tane,
And kenylles his stede.
His moder gaffe hym a ryng,
And bad he solde agayne it bryng,
"Sonne, this salle be oure takynnyng,
For here I salle the byde."
He tase the rynge and the spere,
Stirttes up appone the mere,
Fro the moder that hym here
Forthe ganne he ryde!

One his way, as he ganne ryde,
He fande an haulle ther besyde,
He saide, "For oghte that may betyde,
Thedir inne wille I."
He went inne withowttene lett,
He fande a brade borde sett,
A bryghte fire wele bett
Brynnande therby;
A mawnger ther he fande,
Corne therin lyggande,
Therto his mere he bande
With the withy.
He saide, "My modir bad me
That I solde of mesure bee,
Halfe that I here see
Stylle salle it ly."

The corne he pertis in two,
Gaffe his mere the tone of thoo,
And to the borde ganne he goo
Certayne that tyde.
He fande a lofe of brede fyne,
And a pychere with wyne,
A mese of the kechyne,
A knyfe ther besyde;
The mete ther that he fande
He dalte it evene with his hande,
Lefte the halfe lyggande
A felawe to byde!
The tother halfe ete he;
How myȝte he more of mesure be?
Faste he fonded to be free,
Thofe he were of no pryde.

Thofe he were of no pryde,
Forthirmore ganne he glyde
Tille a chambir ther besyde,
Moo sellys to see;
Riche clothes fande he sprede,
A lady slepande on a bedde,
He said, "Forsothe, a tokyne to wedde
Salle thou lefe with mee."
Ther he kyste that swete thynge,
Of hir fynger he tuke a rynge,
His awenne modir takynnynge
He lefte with that fre.
He went forthe to his mere,
Tuke with hym his schorte spere,
Lepe one lofte as he was ere,
His way rydes he.

Now on his way rydes he,
Moo selles to see;
A knyghte wolde he nedis bee
Withowttene any bade.
He come ther the kyng was
Servede of the firste mese,
To hym was the maste has
That the childe hade;
And thare made he no lett
At ȝate, dore ne wykett,
Bot in graythely he gett,
Syche maistres he made!
At his first in comynge,
His mere withowttene faylynge
Kyste the forhevede of the kynge,
So nerehande he rade!

The kyng had ferly thaa,
And up his hande ganne he taa,
And putt it forthir hym fraa
The mouthe of the mere.
He saide, "Faire childe and free,
Stonde stille besyde mee,
And telle me wythene that thou bee,
And what thou wille here."
Thanne saide the fole of the filde,
"I ame myne awnne modirs childe
Comene fro the woddez wylde
Tille Arthure the dere;
ȝisterday saw I knyghtis three,
Siche one salle thou make mee
On this mere by-for the,
Thi mete or thou schere!"

Bot thanne spak syr Gawayne,
Was the kynges trenchepayne,
Said, "Forsothe, is noȝte to layne,
I ame one of thaa;
Childe, hafe thou my blyssyng
For thi feres folowynge,
Here hase thou fondene the kynge,
That kane the knyghte maa!"
Thanne sayde Percyvelle the free,
"And this Arthure the kyng bee,
Luke he a knyghte make mee,
I rede at it be swaa!"
Thofe he unborely were dyghte,
He sware by mekille Goddes myȝte,
"Bot if the kyng make me knyghte,
I salle hym here slaa!"

Alle that ther werene, olde and ȝynge,
Haddene ferly of the kyng,
That he wolde suffre siche a thyng
Of that foulle wyghte.
On horse hovande hym by,
The kyng byholdez hym one hy;
Thanne wexe he sone sory,
Whenne he sawe that syghte!
The teres oute of his eghne glade,
Never one another habade,
"Alias!" he sayde, "that I was made
Be day or by nyghte!
One lyve I scholde after hym bee,
That methynke lyke the,
Thou arte so semely to see,
And thou were wele dighte!"

He saide, "and thou were wele dighte,
Thou were lyke to a knyghte
That I lovede with alle my myghte,
Whilles he was one lyve;
So wele wroghte he my wille
In alle manere of skille,
I gaffe my syster hym tille
For to be his wyfe;
He es moste in my mane,
Fiftene ȝere es it gane
Sene a theffe hade hym slane
Abowte a littille stryffe!
Sythene hafe I ever bene his fo,
For to wayte hym with wo,
Bot I myȝte hym never slo,
His craftes are so ryfe!"

He sayse, "his craftes are so ryfe,
Ther is no mane apone lyfe,
With swerde, spere, ne with knyfe,
May stroye hym allane,
But if it were syr Percyvelle sone;
Who so wiste where he ware done,
The bokes says that he mone
Venge his fader bane."
The childe thoghte he longe bade
That he ne ware a knyghte made,
For he wiste never that he hade
A fader to be slayne;
The lesse was his menynge,
He saide sone to the kynge,
"Syr, late be thi jangleynge,
Of this kepe I nane!"

He sais, "I kepe not to stande
With thi jangleyns to lange,
Make me knyghte with thi hande,
If it salle be donne!"
Thanne the kyng hym hendly highte
That he schold dub hym to knyghte,
With thi that he wolde doune lyghte
And ete with hym at none.
The kyng biholdez the vesage free,
And evermore trowed hee
That the childe scholde bee
Syr Percyvelle sonne:
It ranne in the kynges mode,
His syster Acheflour the gude,
How scho went in to the wodde
With hym for to wonne.

The childe hadde wonnede in the wodde,
He knewe nother evylle ne gude,
The kynge hym-selfe understode
He was a wilde manne;
So faire he spakke hym withalle,
He lyghtes doune in the haulle,
Bonde his mere amonge thame alle,
And to the borde wanne!
Bot are he myghte bygynne
To the mete for to wynne,
So commes the rede knyghte inne
Emangez thame righte thanne,
Prekande one a rede stede,
Blode rede was his wede,
He made thame gammene fulle gnede,
With craftez that he canne.

With his craftez ganne he calle,
And callede thame recrayhandes alle,
Kynge, knyghtes in-with walle,
At the bordes ther thay bade;
Fulle felly the coupe he fett
Before the kynge that was sett,
Ther was no mane that durste hym lett,
Thofe that he ware fadde.
The couppe was filled fulle of wyne,
He dranke of that that was ther-inne:
Alle of rede golde fyne
Was the couppe made;
He tuke it up in his hande
The coupe that he there fande,
And lefte thame alle sittande,
And fro thame he rade!

Now fro thame he rade,
Als he says that this made;
The sorowe that the kynge hade
Mighte no tonge telle.
"A! dere God," said the kyng thanne,
"That alle this wyde werlde wanne,
Whethir I salle ever hafe that manne
May make ȝone fende duelle;
Fyve ȝeres hase he thus gane,
And my coupes fro me tane,
And my gude knyghte slayne,
Mene calde syr Percyvelle;
Sythene takene hase he three,
And ay awaye wille he bee,
Or I may harnayse me
In felde hym to felle!"