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‘Amis,’ quaþ Gij, ‘god ȝeld it te:
To long schuld ich here be.
Ȝif ich orn on him so þou speke,
To late ich worþ of him awreke.
For drede of deþ nille y fle.
Hastiliche ichil awreken be.’
Al a day he bileft þare,
His hert was in michel care:
Amis emforþ his miȝt
Confort him boþe day and niȝt.’

Of him he toke his leue þo,
Toward Paui he is y-go.
Amis wiþ him gon wold,
Ac he seyd þat he no schold.
Amis bileft, þat was sori,
& often to god he bad for Gij,
Þat for his swete moder loue
Leue him harmeles oȝain come.

Gij him diȝt in a-queyntise,
& com to Paui in squier wise.
An vnement purchast he
Þat made his visage out of ble:
His here, þat was ȝalu and briȝt,
Blac it bicome anon riȝt.
Nas no man in þis world so wise of siȝt
Þat afterward him knowe miȝt.
Now to Paui y-comen he is:
Of no man aferd he nis.
Þe douk Otus he fond þere,
& gret him as ȝe may here:
‘Sir douk Otus,’ he seyd, ‘god loke þe:
Al so ich it wold so mot it be.
A man icham o fer cuntre:
Hider ich come to seche þe.
Ich haue þe brouȝt here a stede,
In þis world is better non at nede.
Noris it dede a Sarazin,
And me it ȝaf, min owen cosyn:
In alle þe world is so swift a best,
Libard no ro, in no forest,
No dromedarie no is þer non
So swiþe goand so is he on.
No þarf þe drede non arme of þe se,
And tow opon þis stede be.
Ȝif ȝe nille þerof me leue
Ichil þat ȝe it asey ar eue.
Ac on maner haþ þat hors,
Þerfore mani haþ fare þe wors:
In þe world nis man þat ney him come
Þat he no wold him slon wel sone,
Bot þe man þat loked it.
Þer-fore y loue it out of witt.’
Quaþ þe douk, ‘mow gramerci.
Þis is a fair ȝift, sikerly.
Wiþ þat hors ichil at-hold þe,
& make þe riche of gold & fe.
To swiche an hors ich hadde nede,
Þat ich might þe better spede.
Of min fomen ich wold ben awreke,
& som in min prisoun ben y-steke,
Ac on of hem is schaped fro me.
Now wold god, þat alle may se,
Þat he were now in þis halle:
Wel iuel him schuld sone bifalle.
Wel sone he schuld an-honged be
Wiþ gode riȝt, y telle it te.’
‘Sir,’ quaþ Gij, ‘who [may] þat be?
In gret periil now is he.’
‘Ichil þe telle,’ quaþ þe douk þo:
‘Gij of Warwike, þat is mi fo.
Siker no be ich neuer mo
Þe whiles þat he oliues go.
Ich wold now he stode þe bi.’
‘Sir,’ quaþ he, ‘y knowe wele Gij:
He slouȝ on of mi neye kin;
Þer-fore ich am riȝt wroþ wiþ him,
& wiþ þerl Tirri also:
He is mi dedliche fo.
Þurch felonie mi fader he slouȝ,
Mi broþer he deserited wiþ wouȝ.
God lete me neuer ded be
Er ich him to mi wille se.’
‘Mi dere frende,’ seyd þe douk Otoun,
‘Ichaue Tirri in mi prisoun.
Now ich-il þou loke him to,
And alle schame þou him do.’
‘Sir,’ quaþ he, ‘gramerci,
And y þe sigge sikerly
Þat alle his liif ichil wende
Er þan come seuen niȝtes ende.’
Þe douke doþ him þe keyes take,
Maister iaioler he doþ him make.