Stanzas LXI–LXXX

Now the travellande mane
The portere lete in thane,
He haylsede the knyghte as he cane,
Als he satt on dese;
The knyghte askede hym thare,
Whase mane that he ware,
And how ferre that he walde so fare,
Withowttene any lese.
He saide, "I come fro the lady Lufamour,
That sendes me to kyng Arthoure,
And prayes hym, for his honoure,
Hir sorowes for to sesse;
Up-resyne es a sowdane,
Alle hir landes hase he tane,
So by-seges he that womane
That scho may hafe no pese."

He sayse that scho may have no pese,
"The lady, for hir fayrenes,
And for hir mekille reches,
He wirkes hir fulle woo;
He dose hir sorow alle hir sythe,
And alle he slaes doune rythe;
He wolde have hir to wyfe,
And scho wille noȝte soo.
Now hase that ilke sowdane
Hir fadir and hir erne slane,
And hir brethir ilkane,
And is hir moste foo;
So nere he hase hir now soughte,
That tille a castelle es scho broghte,
And fro the walles wille he noghte
Ere that he may hir too.

"The sowdane sayse he wille her ta;
The lady wille hir-selfe sla,
Are he that es hir maste fa
Solde wedde hir to wyfe!
Now es the sowdane so wyghte,
Alle he slaes doune ryghte,
Ther may no mane with hym fyghte,
Bot he were kempe ryfe."
Thane sayde Percyvelle, "I the praye
That thou wolde teche me the waye
Thedir als the gates laye,
Withowttene any stryfe;
Mighte I mete with that sowdane,
That so dose to that womane,
Al-sone he solde be slane,
And I myȝte hafe the lyfe!"

The messangere prayed hym mare
That he wolde duelle stille thare,
"For I wille to the kynge fare
Myne erandez for to say."
"For thenne mekille sorowe me betyde,
And I lenger here habyde,
Bot ryghte now wille I ryde
Als so faste als I may!"
[T]he knyghte herde hym say so,
ȝerne he prayes hyme to-too
His nyne sonnes with hym to goo;
He nykkes hyme with nay.
Bot so faire spekes he,
That he takes of thame three
In his felawchipe to be,
The bly there were thay!

Thay ware bly the of ther bade,
Busked thame and forthe rade,
Mekille myrthes thay made,
Bot lyttille it amende;
He was paste bot a while
The montenance of a myle,
He was by-thoghte of a gyle,
Wele werse thane thay wende.
Thofe thay ware of thaire fare fayne,
Forthwarde was thaire cheftayne;
Ever he sende one agayne
At ilke a myle ende,
Untille thay ware alle gane;
Thane he rydes hym allane,
Als he ware sprongene of a stane,
Thare na mane hym kende.

For he walde none sold hym kene,
Forthe rydez he thenne,
Amangez uncouthe mene
His maystres to make.
Now hase Percyvelle in throo
Spokene with his ernes twoo,
Bot never one of thoo
Took his knawlage:
Now in his way es he sett,
That may hym lede, withowttene lett,
Thare he and the sowdane salle mete,
His browes to blake.
Late we Percyvelle the ȝynge
Fare in Goddes blessynge,
And untille Arthoure the kynge
Wille we agayne take.

The gates agayne we wille tane,
The kyng to Carebedd es gane,
For mournynge es his maste mane,
He syghes fulle sore.
His wo es wansome to wreke,
His hert es bownne for to breke,
For he wend never to speke
With Percyvelle no more.
Als he was layde for to ly,
Come the messangere on hy
With lettres fro the lady,
And schewes thame righte thare.
A fote myȝte the kyng noȝt stande,
Bot rede thame thare lyggande,
And sayde, "Of thyne erande
Thou hase thyne answare."

He sayde, "thou wote thyne ansuare,
The mane that es seke and sare,
He may fulle ille ferre fare
In felde for to fyghte."
The messangere made his mone,
Saide, "Wo worthe wikkede wone!
Why ne hade I tournede and gone
Agayne with the knyghte?"
"What knyghte es that," said the kyng,
"That thou mase of thy menynge?
In my londe wot I no lordyng
Es worthy to be a knyghte."
The messangere ansuerd agayne,
"Wete ȝe his name es for to layne,
The whethir I wolde hafe wetene fayne
What the childe highte.

"Thus mekille gatt I of that knyght,
His dame sonne he said he hight;
One what maner that he was dight
Now I salle ȝow telle:
He was wighte and worthly,
His body bolde and borely,
His armour bryghte and blody,
Hade bene late in batelle:
Blode rede was his stede,
His aktone and his other wede,
His cote of the same hede,
That tille a knyghte felle."
Thane comanded the kyng
Horse and armes for to brynge,
"If I kane trow thi talkynge,
That ilke was Percyvelle!"

For the luffe of Percyvelle
To horse and armes thay felle,
Thay wolde no lengare ther duelle,
To fare ware they fayne;
Faste forthe gane thay fare,
Thay were aferde fulle sare,
Ere thay come whare he ware
The childe wolde be slayne.
The kyng tase with hym knyghtis thre,
The ferthe wolde hym-selfe be;
Now so faste rydes hee,
May folowe hym no swayne.
The kyng es now in his waye,
Lete hym come whenne he maye,
And I wille forthir in my playe
To Percyvelle agayne.

Go we to Percyvelle agayne.
The childe paste oute on the playne,
Over more and mountayne,
To the Maydene-lande;
Tille agayne the evene tyde,
Bolde bodys sawe he byde,
Pavelouns mekille and unryde
Aboute a cyte stonde;
On-huntyng was the sowdane,
He lefte mene many ane,
Twenty score that wele kane,
Be the ȝates ȝemande;
And ellevene score one the nyghte,
And tene one the daye lighte,
Wele armyde at alle righte,
With wapyns in hande.

With thaire wapyns in thaire hande,
There wille thay fight ther thay stande,
Sittande and lyggande
Ellevene score of mene.
In he rydes one a rase,
Or that he wiste where he was,
In-to the thikkeste of the prese
Amanges thame thanne;
And up stirt one that was bolde,
By-gane his brydille to holde,
And askede whedire that he wolde
Make his horse to rynne.
He said, "I ame hedir come
For to see a sowdane;
In faythe righte sone he salle be slane,
And I myghte hym kene!

"If I hym oghte kene may,
To morne, whenne it es lighte daye,
Then salle we togedir playe
With wapyns unryde."
They herde that he had undirtane
For to sle thaire sowdane;
Thay felle aboute hym everilkane
To make that bolde habyde.
The childe sawe that he was fade,
The body that his bridille hade,
Evene over hym he rade
In gate there bisyde:
He stayred about hym with his spere,
Many thurgh gane he bere;
Ther was none that myȝt hym dere
Percevelle that tyde.

Tide in townne who wille telle,
Folkes undir his fete felle,
The bolde body Percevelle
He sped thame to spille;
Hym thoghte no spede at his spere,
Many thurgh gane he here,
Fonde folke in the here
Feghtyng to fille;
Fro that it was mydnyghte
Tille it was evene at daye lighte,
Were thay never so wilde ne wighte,
He wroghte at his wille.
Thus he dalt with his brande,
There was none that myght hym stande
Halfe a dynt of his hande,
That he stroke tille!

Now he strykes for the nonys,
Made the Sarazenes hede bones
Hoppe, als dose hayle stones,
Abowtte one the gres;
Thus he dalt thame on rawe
Tille the daye gunne dawe,
He layd thaire lyves fulle law,
Als many als there was.
Whenne he hade slayne so many mene,
He was so wery by thenne,
I telle ȝow for certene
He roghte wele the lesse
Awther of lyfe or of dede,
To-medis that he were in a stede,
Thar he myghte riste hym in thede
A stownde in sekirnes!

Now fonde he no sekirnes,
Bot under the walle ther he was
A faire place he hym chese,
And downe there he lighte.
He laide hym doune in that tyde,
His stede stode hym besyde,
The fole was fayne for to byde,
Was wery for the fyght.
Tille one the morne that it was day,
The wayte appone the walle lay,
He sawe an uggly play
In the place dighte:
ȝitt was ther more ferly,
Ther was no qwyk manne left therby;
Thay called up the lady
For to see that sighte.

Now commes the lady to that sight,
The lady Lufamour the brighte,
Scho clambe up to the walle one hight
Fulle faste to beholde;
Hedes and helmys ther was,
I telle ȝow withowttene lese,
Many layde one the gresse,
And many schelde brode;
Grete ferly thaym thoghte
Who that wondir had wroghte,
That had thame to dede broghte,
That folke in the felde:
And wold come none innermare,
For to kythe what he ware,
And wist the lady was thare
Thaire warysonne to ȝelde.

Scho wold thaire warysone ȝelde;
Fulle faste forthe thay bihelde,
If thay myghte fynde in the felde
Who hade done that dede:
Thay hiked undir thair hande,
Sawe a mekille horse stande,
A blody knyghte liggande
By a rede stede.
Then said the lady so brighte,
"ȝondir ligges a knyghte
That hase bene in the fighte,
If I kane righte rede;
Owthir es ȝone mane slane,
Or he slepis hym allane,
Or he in batelle es tane,
For blody are his wede!"

Scho says, "Blody are his wede,
And so es his riche stede,
Siche a knyght in this thede
Saw I never nane;
What so he es and he maye ryse,
He es large there he lyse,
And wele made in alle wyse,
Ther als mane salle be tane."
Scho calde appone hir chaymbirlayne,
Was called hende Hatlayne,
The curtasye of Wawayne
He weldis in wane;
Scho badd hym wende and see,
"ȝif yone mane one lyfe be,
Bid hym com and speke with me,
And pray hym als thou kane."

Now to pray hym als he kane
Undir the wallis he wane,
Warly wakend he that mane,
The horse stode stille;
Als it was tolde un-to me,
He knelid downe one his kne,
Hendely hailsed he that fre,
And sone said hym tille,
"My lady, lele Lufamour,
Habyddis the in hir chambour,
Prayes the for thyne honour
To come, ȝyf ȝe wille."
So kyndly takes he that kyth,
That up he rose arid went hym wyth,
The mane that was of myche pyth,
Hir prayer to fulfille.