Stanzas CI–CXX

He says, "Als I hafe undirtane
For to sla the sowdane,
So salle I wirke als I kanne
That dede to bygynne."
That day was ther no more dede
With those worthily in wede,
Bot buskede thame and to bedde ȝede,
The more and the mynne;
Tille one the morne erely
Comes the sowdane with a cry,
Fonde alle his folkes hym by
Putt unto pyne!
Sone asked he wha
That so durste his mene sla,
And wete hym one lyfe gaa,
The maystry to wynne?

Now to wynne the maystry;
To the castelle gane he cry
If any were so hardy
The maistry to wynne,
"A man for ane,
Thoghe he hadd alle his folke slane,
Here salle he fynde Golrotherame
To mete hym fulle ryghte;
Appone siche a covenande,
That ȝe hefe up ȝour hande,
Who that may the better stande
And more es of myghte,
To bryng that other to the dede,
Browke wele the londe on brede,
And hir that is so faire and rede,
Lufamour the brighte!"

Thenne the kyng Arthour,
And the lady Lufamour,
And alle that were in the towre,
Graunted ther-with.
Thay called Percevelle the wight,
The kyng doubbed hym to knyghte;
Thofe he couthe littille in sighte,
The childe was of pith:
He bad he solde be to prayse,
Therto hende and curtayse,
Syr Percevelle the Galayse
Thay called hym in kythe!
Kyng Arthour in Maydene-lande
Dubbid hym knyghte with his hande,
Bad hym ther he his fo fande,
To gyff hym no grythe!

Grith takes he nane;
He rydes agayne the sowdane
That highte Gollerotherame,
That felle was in fighte.
In the felde so brade
No more carpynge thay made,
Bot sone togedir thay rade
Theire schaftes to righte!
Gollerotheram, thofe he welde wede,
Percevelle here hym fro his stede
Two londis one brede,
With maystry and myghte!
At the erthe the sowdane lay,
His stede gunne rynne away,
Thane said Percevelle one play,
"Thou haste that I the highte!"

He sayd, "I highte the a dynt,
And now methynke thou hase it hynt,
And I may als I hafe mynt,
Thou schalt it never mende!"
Appone the sowdane he duelled
To the grownde ther he was felled,
And to the erthe he hym helde
With his speres ende:
Fayne wolde he hafe hym slayne
This uncely sowdane,
Bot gate couthe he get nane,
So ille was he kende!
Thane thynkes the childe
Of olde werkes fulle wylde,
"Hade I a fire now in this filde,
Righte here he solde be brende!"

He said, "Righte here I solde the brene,
And thou ne solde never more thenne
Fighte for no wymmane,
So I solde the fere!"
Thenne said Wawayne the knyghte,
"Thou myghte and thou knewe righte,
And thou woldes of thi stede lighte,
Wynne hym one were."
The childe was of gamene gnede,
Now he thynkes one thede,
"Lorde! whethir this be a stede,
I wende had bene a mere!"
In stede righte there he in stode,
He ne wiste nother of evylle ne gude,
Bot then chaunged his mode,
And slaked his spere.

Whenne his spere was up tane,
Then gane this Gollerothiram,
This ilke uncely sowdane,
One his fete to gete.
Than his swerde drawes he,
Strykes at Percevelle the fre,
The childe hadd no powste
His laykes to lett:
The stede was his awnne wille,
Saw the swerde come hym tille,
Leppe up over an hille
Fyve stryde mett:
Als he sprent forby,
The sowdane keste up a cry,
The childe wanne owt of study,
That he was inne sett.

Now ther he was in sett;
Owt of study he gett,
And lightis downne withowttene lett,
Agaynes hym to goo.
He says, "Now hase thou taughte me
How that I salle wirke with the."
Than his swerde drawes he,
And strake to hym thro:
He hitt hym evene one the nekk-bane,
Thurgh ventale and pesane,
The hede of the sowdane
He strykes the body fra!
Then fulle wightly he ȝode
To his stede there he stode;
The milde maydene in mode
Mirthe may scho ma!

Many mirthes then he made,
In-to the castelle he rade,
And boldly he there habade
With that maydene brighte;
Fayne were thay ilkane
That he had slane the sowdane,
And wele wonne that wymmane
With maystry and myghte!
Thay said Percevelle the ȝyng
Was beste worthy to be kyng,
For wele, withowttene lesyng,
He helde that he highte.
Ther was no more for to say,
Bot sythene appone that other day,
He weddys Lufamour the may,
This Percevelle the wighte!

Now hase Percevelle the wight
Wedded Lufamour the bright,
And is a kyng fulle righte
Of alle that lande brade.
Thane kyng Arthour in hy
Wolde no lengare ther ly,
Toke lefe at the lady,
Fro thame than he rade;
Left Percevelle the ȝyng
Off alle that lande to be kyng,
For he had with a ryng
The maydene that it hade.
Sythen, appone the tother day
The kyng went on his way,
The certane sothe als I say,
Withowttene any bade.

Now thane ȝong Percevelle habade
In those borowes so brade,
For hir sake that he hade
Wedd with a ryng.
Wele weldede he that lande,
Alle bewes to his honde,
The folke that he byfore fonde
Knewe hym for kyng.
Thus he wonnes in that wone
Tille that the twelmonthe was gone,
With Lufamour his lemmane,
He thoghte on no thyng:
Now on his moder that was,
How scho levyde with the gres,
With moste drynke and lesse,
In welles there thay spryng.

Drynkes of welles ther thay spryng,
And gresse etys withowt lesyng,
Scho liffede with none othir thyng
In the holtes hare.
Tille it byfelle appone a day,
Als he in his bedd lay,
Tille hymselfe gunne he say,
Syghande fulle sare,
"The laste ȝole day that was,
Wilde wayes I chese,
My modir alle manles
Leved I thare!"
Thane righte sone saide he,
"Blythe salle I never be,
Or I may my modir see,
And wete how scho fare."

Now to wete how scho fare,
The knyght busked hym ȝare,
He wolde no lengare duelle thare
For noghte that myghte bee;
Up he rose in that haulle,
Tuke his lefe at tham alle,
Bot at grete and at smalle,
Fro thaym wendis he.
Faire scho prayed hym evene thane,
Lufamour his lemmane,
Tille the heghe dayes of ȝole were gane
With hir for to bee.
Bot it served hir of nothyng:
A preste he made forthe bryng
Hym a messe for to syng,
And aftir rode he.

Now fro thame gunne he ryde:
Ther wiste no mane that tyde
Whedirwarde he wolde ryde,
His sorowes to amende;
Forthe he rydes allone,
Fro tham he wolde everichone,
Mighte no mane with hym gone,
Ne whedir he wolde lende.
Bot forthe thus rydes he ay,
The certene sothe als I ȝow say,
Tille he come at a way
By a wode ende;
Then herde he faste hym by,
Als it were a womane cry,
Scho prayed to mylde Mary
Som socoure hir to sende.

Scho sende hir socour fulle gude,
Mary that es mylde of mode!
As he come thurgh the wode
A ferly he fande;
A birde brighteste of ble
Stode faste bondene tille a tre,
I say it ȝow certanly,
Bothe fote and hande.
Sone askede he who,
Whenne he sawe hir tho,
That had served hir so,
That lady in lande.
Scho said, "Syr, the blake knyghte,
Solde be my lorde with righte,
He hase me thus gates dighte
Here for to stande!"

Scho says, "Here mone I stande,
For a faute that he fande,
That salle I warande
Is my moste mone!
Now to the I salle say,
Appone my bedd I lay
Appone the laste ȝole day,
Twelve monethes es gone:
Were he knyghte, were he kyng,
He come one his playnge,
With me he chaungede a ryng,
The richeste of one!
The body myght I noghte see,
That made that chaungyng with me,
Bot what that ever he be,
The better hase he tone!"

Scho says, "The better hase he tane,
Siche a vertue es in the stane,
In alle this werlde wote I nane
Siche stone in a rynge;
A mane that had it in were,
One his body for to bere,
There scholde no dyntys hym dere,
Ne to the dethe brynge."
And then wiste syr Percevale
Fulle wele by the ladys tale,
That he had broghte hir in bale
Thurgh his chaungyng.
Thane also sone sayd he
To that lady so fre,
"I salle the louse fro the tre,
Als I ame trewe kyng!"

He was bothe kyng and knyght;
Wele he helde that he highte,
He loused the lady so brighte,
Stod bowne to the tre.
Downe satt the lady,
And ȝong Percevalle hir by,
For-waked was he wery,
Rist hym wolde he:
He wende wele for to ryst,
Bot it wolde nothyng laste;
Als he lay althir-best
His hede one hir kne,
Scho putt on Percevelle wighte,
Bad hym fle with alle his myghte,
"For ȝonder comes the blake knyghte,
Dede mone ȝe be!"

Scho sayd, "Dede mone ȝe be,
I say ȝow, syr, certanly,
ȝonder out comes he
That wille us bothe sle!"
The knyghte gane hir answere,
"Tolde ȝe me noghte lang ere,
Ther solde no dynttis me dere,
Ne wirke me no woo?"
The helme on his hede he sett,
Bot or he myght to his stede get,
The blak knyght with hym mett
His maistrys to mo.
He sayd, "How! hase thou here
Fondene now thi playfere?
ȝe schalle haby it fulle dere
Er that I hethene go!"

He said, "Or I hethyn go
I salle sle ȝow bothe two,
And alle siche othir mo,
Thaire warysone to ȝelde."
Than sayd Percevelle the fre,
"Now sone thane salle we see,
Who that es worthy to bee
Slayne in the felde!"
No more speke thay that tyde,
Bot sone togedir gane thay ryde,
Als mene that wolde were habyde,
With schafte and with schelde.
Thane syr Percevelle the wight
Bare downe the blake knyght;
Thane was the lady so bright
His best socour in telde.