Stanzas CXXI–CXL

Scho was the beste of his belde;
Bot scho had there bene his schelde,
He had bene slayne in the felde
Right certeyne in hy;
Ever als Percevelle the kene
Sold the knyghtis bane hafe bene,
Ay went the lady by-twene,
And cryed, "Mercy!"
Than the lady he forbere,
And made the blak knyghte to swere
Of alle evylles that there were
Forgiffe the lady:
And Percevelle made the same othe,
That he come never undir clothe
To do that lady no lothe,
That pendid to velany.

"I did hir never no velany;
Bot slepande I saw hir ly,
Than kist I that lady,
I wille it never layne;
I tok a ryng that I fande,
I left hir, I undirstande,
That salle I wele warande,
Anothir ther agayne."
Thofe it were for none other thyng,
He swere by Jhesu hevene kyng,
To wete withowttene lesyng,
And here to be slayne!
"And alle redy is the ryng,
And thou wille myne agayne bryng,
Here wille I make the chaungyng,
And of myne awnne be fayne!"

He saise, "Of myne I wille be fayne."
The blak knyghte ansuers agayne,
Sayd, "For sothe it is noghte to layne,
Thou come over late;
Als sone als I the ryng fande,
I toke it sone off hir hande,
To the lorde of this lande
I bare it one a gate;
That gate with grefe hafe I gone,
I bare it to a gude mone,
The stalwortheste geant of one
That any mane wate:
Es it nowther knyghte ne kyng,
That dorste aske hym that ryng,
That he ne wolde hym downe dyng
With harmes fulle hate!"

"Be thay hate, be thay colde,"
Thane said Percevelle the bolde;
For the tale that he tolde
He wex alle tene!
He said, "Heghe one galous mote he hyng,
That to the here giffes any ryng,
Bot thou myne agayne brynge,
Thou haste awaye gevene;
And ȝif it may no nother be,
Righte sone thane telle thou me
The sothe whilke that es he,
Thou knawes that es so kene!
There es no more for to say,
Bot late me wynne it, ȝif I may,
For thou hase giffene thi part of bothe away,
Thof thay had better bene."

He says, "Thofe thay had better bene."
The knyghte ansuerde in tene,
"Thou salle wele wete withowttene wene,
Wiche that es he:
If thou dare do als thou says,
Sir Percevelle de Galays,
In ȝone heghe palays
Therinne solde he be!
The riche ryng with that grym,
The stone es bright and nothyng dym,
For sothe ther salle thou fynd hym,
I toke it fro me;
Owthir with-in or with-owt,
Or one his play ther abowte,
Of the he giffes littille dowte,
And that salle thou see!"

He says, "That salle thou see,
I say the fulle sekirly."
And than forthe rydis he
Wondirly swythe.
The geant stode in his holde,
That had those londis in wolde,
Saw Percevelle that was bolde,
One his lande dryfe.
He calde one his portere,
"How gate may this fare?
I se a bolde mane ȝare
One my lande ryfe!
Go reche me my playlome,
And I salle go to hym sone;
Hym were better hafe bene at Rome,
So ever mote I thryfe!"

Whethir he thryfe or he the,
Ane iryne clobe takes he;
Agayne Percevelle the fre
He went than fulle right.
The clobe wheyhed reghte wele,
That a freke myght it fele,
The hede was of harde stele,
Twelve stone weghte!
There was iryne in the wande,
Ten stone of the lande,
And one was by-hynde his hande,
For holdyng was dight.
Ther was thre and twenty in hale,
Fulle evylle myght any mene smale,
That mene telles nowe in tale,
With siche a lome fighte.

Now are thay bothe bowne,
Mett one a more browne,
A mile withowt any towne,
Boldly with schelde.
Thane saide the geant so wight,
Als sone als he sawe the knyght,
"Mahowne, loved be thi myght!"
And Percevelle byhelde.
"Art thou hym that," saide he thane,
"That slew Gollerothirame?
I had no brothir bot hym ane,
Whenne he was of elde."
Than said Percevelle the fre,
"Thurgh grace of God so salle I the,
And siche geantez as ȝe,
Sle thaym in the felde!"

Siche metyng was seldom sene,
The dales dynned thaym by-twene,
For dynttis that thay gaffe by-dene,
Whenne thay so mett:
The gyant with his clobe-lome
Wolde hafe strekyne Percevelle sone,
Bot he ther-under wightely come
A stroke hym to sett.
The geant missede of his dynt,
The clobe was harde as the flynt;
Or he myght his staffe stynt,
Or his strengh lett,
The clobe in the erthe stode,
To the midschafte it wode;
Then Percevelle the gode,
Hys swerde owt he get.

By then hys swerde owt he get,
Strykes the geant withowttene lett,
Merkes evene to his nekk,
Reght evene there he stode;
His honde he strykes hym fro,
His lefte fote also,
With siche dyntis as tho
Nerre hym he ȝode.
Then sayd Percevelle, "I undirstande
Thou myghte with a lesse wande
Hafe weledid better thi hande,
And hafe done the some gode;
Now bese it never for ane
The clobe of the erthe tane,
I telle thi gatis alle gane,
Bi the gude rode!"

He says, "By the gud rode!
As evylle als thou ever ȝode,
Of thi fote thou getis no gode,
Bot lepe if thou may!"
The geant gan the clobe lefe,
And to Percevelle a dynt he ȝefe
In the nekk with his nefe,
Sone neghede thay.
At that dynt was he tene,
He strikes off the hande als clene
As ther hadde never none bene,
That other was alwaye:
Sythen his hede gane he off hafe;
He was ane unhende knave
A geant berde so to schafe,
For sothe als I say!

Now, for sothe als I say,
He lete hym ly there he lay,
And rydis forthe one his way
To the heghe holde.
The portare saw his lorde slayne,
The kayes durste he noght layne,
He come Percevelle agayne,
The ȝatis he hym ȝolde.
At the firste bygynnyng,
He askede the portere of the ryng,
If he wiste of it anythyng;
And he hym than tolde.
He taughte hym sone to the kiste,
Ther he alle the golde wiste,
Bade hym take what hym liste
Of that he hafe wolde.

Percevelle sayde hafe it he wolde,
And schott owtt alle the golde;
Righte there appone the faire molde
The ryng owte glade.
The portare stode besyde,
Sawe the ryng owt glyde,
Sayde ofte, "Wo worthe the tyde
That ever was it made!"
Percevelle answerde in hy,
And asked where-fore and why
He banned it so brothely,
Bot if he cause hade?
Thenne alsone said he,
And sware by his lewte,
"The cause salle I telle the,
Withowttene any bade!"

He says, "Withowtten any bade,
The knyghte that it here hade,
Theroff a presande he made,
And hedir he it broghte;
Mi mayster tuke it in his hande,
Ressayved faire that presande;
He was chefe lorde of this lande,
Als man that mekille moghte!
That tyme was here fast by
Wonnede a lady,
And hir wele and lely
He luffede, als me thoghte;
So it byfelle appone a day,
Now the sothe als I salle say,
Mi lorde went hym to play,
And the lady bysoghte.

"Now the lady byseches he
That scho wolde his lemane be,
Fast he frayned that free
For any kyns aughte.
At the firste bygynnyng,
He wolde hafe gyffene hir the ryng,
And whenne scho sawe the tokynyng,
Thenne was scho unsaughte.
Scho gret and cried in hir mone,
Sayd, "Thefe, hase thou my sone slone,
And the ryng fro hym tone
That I hym bitaughte?"
Hir clothes ther scho rafe hir fro,
And to the wodd gane scho go;
Thus es the lady so wo,
And this is the draghte!

"For siche draghtis als this,
Now es the lady wode i-wys,
And wilde in the wodde scho es
Ay sythene that ilke tyde:
Fayne wolde I take that free,
Bot alsone als scho sees me,
Faste away dose scho flee,
Wille scho noghte abyde!"
Then sayde syr Percevelle,
"I wille assaye fulle snelle
To make that lady to duelle,
Bot I wille noghte ryde:
One my fote wille I ga
That faire lady to ta;
Me aughte to bryng hir of wa,
I laye in hir syde!"

He sayse, "I laye in hir syde;
I salle never one horse ryde
Tille I hafe sene hir in tyde,
Spede if I may!
Ne none armoure that may be
Salle come appone me,
Tille I my modir may see
Be nyghte or by day!
Bot reghte in the same wode
That I firste fro hir ȝode,
That salle be in my mode,
Aftir myne other play;
Ne I ne salle I never mare
Come owt of ȝone holtis hare,
Tille I wete how scho fare,
For sothe als I saye.

"Now for sothe als I say!"
With that he helde one his way,
And one the morne, whenne it was day,
Forthe gonne he fare.
His armour he leved therin,
Toke one hym a gayt skynne,
And to the wodde gane he wyne
Among the holtis hare.
A sevenyght long hase he soghte,
His modir ne fyndis he noghte,
Of mete ne drynke he ne roghte,
So fulle he was of care!
Tille the nynte day byfelle,
That he come to a welle
Ther he was wonte for to duelle,
And drynk take hym thare.

When he had dronkene that tyde,
Forthirmare gane he glyde,
Than was he warre hym besyde
Of the lady so fre:
Bot whenne scho sawe hym thare,
Scho byganne for to dare,
And sone gaffe hym answare,
That brighte was of ble.
Scho bigan to calle and cry,
Sayd, "Siche a sone hade I!"
His hert lightened in hy
Blythe for to bee.
Be that he come hir nere,
That scho myght hym here,
He said, "My modir fulle dere,
Wele byde ȝe me!"

Be that so nere getis he,
That scho myghte nangatis fle,
I say ȝow fulle certeynly
Hir byhoved ther to byde;
Scho stertis appone hym in tene,
Wote ȝe wele withowttene wene,
Had hir myghte so mekille bene,
Scho had hym slayne that tyde:
Bot his myghte was the mare,
And up he toke his modir thare,
One his bake he hir bare,
Pure was his pryde.
To the castelle, withowttene mare,
The righte way gone he fare,
The portare was redy ȝare,
And lete hym inne glyde.