University of Virginia Library

Dresse will I duly to dem of my werkes,
How thai wenton to werre, tho worthy to-gedur.
Er þai turnyt fro Tenydon, & token þe se,
Palomydon, the proude kyng, presit into hauyn,—
That was Naulus son þe noble, & his next aire,—
With xxxti shippes full shene, shot full of pepull
ffull onest & abill of his owne lond.
At wose come all the kynges kyndly were fayn,
Þat were heuy to hym for houyng so longe
With anger at Attens, þere all were assemblit;
And he excuset the skathe, þat hym selfe þolet.
ffor sore sickenes & sad, þat hym selfe polet.
Þis Palomydon was pert mon, & prise of his dedis,
He was grete with the Grekes, & godely honourit;
ffor he was most full of men, & mighty of londes,
Bothe of fuersnes of fight & of fre counsell,
And of Riches full Rife, & rankist of knightes.
Þai prayet þat prinse, all þo prise kynges,
To be close in hor cause for his clene wit,
And he grauntid full godely all with glad chere.
All thonkid hym þo thristé, þroly to-gedur.
Then the grete of the Grekes gone into counsell,
How þai best might in batell þe burgh to assaile.
And þen þai purpast hom plainly, in the pure night
ffor to dresse for þat dede, er þa day sprange.
But the ffreickes were ferd of hor fre shippes,
ffor to caire by the coste, & knew not the waches;
Or to remeve fro rode for rokkes in þe se,
Or to wyn to þe walles, wachid, hom thoght,
ffor los of hor lyues and hor lefe knightes:
And so þai put of þat purpas, & past to another.

THE COUNSELL OF DYAMEDE TO STIRRE TO ÞE CITE.

When all counsels were kyde and carpit to end,
Þai didyn after Dyamede, & demyt hit þe best,
Þat said hom full sadly all in softe wordes:—
“Ye worthy to wale, wonder me thinke,
Of our dedis so dull why we dure here!
Now is ȝepely a yere yarket to end,
Syn we light in this lond & logget our seluyn,
And neuer dressid, ne drogh, to no dede ferre;
Ne so hardy, fro þis hauyn to hale on our fos,—
ffor to turne vnto Troy, ne on þe toun loke.
What dede haue we don, or dryuen to an end;
Or þe farrer in our fare fortherit our seluyn?
But ertid our Enmys, & angert hom noght;
Made hom wiser of werre, ware of our dedys,
And by compas to caste to conquere vs all.
We sothely haue sene, & our selfe knowen,
Syn we come to þis coste & cairet no ferre,
The Troiens haue atiret hom with myche tor strenght,
Þaire Cité to saue, and hom selfe alse,
With new wallis vp wroght, water before,
And pals haue þai pight, with pittis and caves,
And other wilis of werre wroght for our sake,
That may hast vs to harme, & hindur our spede
With all fare þat may forthir, & filsyn our seluyn.
Þai holdyn vs vnhardy hom for to negh,
Or with note for to noye now at þis tyme:
And ay the ferrer þat we fay our fare opon longe,
The more we procure our payne & our pure shame.
Þis I hope in my hert & holly beleue,
Hade we sailit all somyn to þe Cité euyn,
In our course as we came, & cast vs þerfore,
We shuld lightlier haue laght þe lond at our wille:
Or any we hade ben warre, wonen of ship
Withouten hurt other harme to haue in the dede,
Or any lede to be lost, or hor lyue tyne.
Now are the war of our werkes, wetyn vs at hond,
Vs will gayne mykell greme er we ground haue:
And ay the ser þat we sit our sore be þe harder.
Therfore, sothely me semys, yf ye so wille,
Þat we dresse to our dede when þe day sprynges;
All redy to rode, aray for our shippes,
Iche wegh in his wede, as hym well likes,
All boune vnto batell on his best wise.
Row forthe in a rape right to the banke,
Tit vnto Troy, tary no lengur;
And monly with might meve vnto londe,
The ground for to get, gaynis vs non other.
If the Troiens with tene turne for to fight,
We wynnyt not of water but with wight strokes;
And with fightyng full fell with a fuerse pepull,
To set vp on yche syde vppon sere haluys.
Þerfor, lause of our lyuys, leng we not here;
Put of all purpos, prese on our gate!
This bus duly be done, dem we non other,
Syn we wyn to our wille be no way ellis.”
All plesit the prinse with his prise wordes,
And the dom, þat he dulte, duly was kept.
When the derke was done, and the day sprange,
All the renkes to row redyn hor shippes,
Halit out of hauyn to the hegh see,
There plainly thaire purpos putto an end.
Who fare shuld be-fore, of þo felle kynges,
And wo kepit his cours for to caire after,
Thus demyt thes dukes on the depe water:—
A hundrith of hede shippes to hale on before,
Sadly to saile on þe salt waghes,
With baners o brede bret for þe werre;
The forcastels full of fuerse men of armys,
With shot & with shildis shalkes to noy.
Anoþer hundrith, anon, negh sone aftur,
With sailes vp set on þe same wise,
All wroght for the werre & wight men þerin.
Þen folowet all the flete fast oponon,
Euyn kepyn hor course, as þai kend were,
Turnet euyn to þe toune, tariet no lengur,
Till o sithen þai segh þe Cité at hond,
And the bonkes aboute to þe bare walles.
Then þai turnyt hor tacle tomly to ground,
Leton sailes doun slide, slippit into botes,
Launchet vp to the lond lyuelé bedene,
Buernes buskit vnto bonke; bold men in hast,
Thoght þe ground for to gete, & no grem suffer.

THE HARD ARIVALL OF THE GREKES.

But the Troiens, truly, þes tourfer beheld,
How the fflete of þere fos fell to þe bonke,
And armyt hom [at] all peces abill to fight;
Lepon vpon light horses, lappit in stele;
Withouten leue of the lege, or þe leffe prince,
Bowet euyn to þe banke or þai bide wold;
Out of rule or aray raungit on lenght.
The Grekes in the gret shippes graidly beheld,
Segh the pepull so plaintiouse, presaund in armes,
The bonke to forbede, bold men ynow:
Thai hade meruell full mekyll in hor mynd all,
To se the gouernaunce graithe, & the grete chere,
How wisely þo werriours wroghten vndur shild.
There was no Greke so grym, ne of so gret wille,
Durst abate on þo buernes, ne to bonke stride;
Ne afforse hym with fight to ferke out of ship.
But for hom gaynet no ground to get at þe tyme,
But þurghe strenght of strokes, & of strong fight,
And with batell full big on a breme wise,
Þai armyt hom at all peces all the ost well,
Wonyn to þere weppons wyghtly by-dene,
And girdyn vp to þe ground with hor grete shippes.
Prothessalon the proude, of Philace was kyng,
He was formast on flete with the first hundrith,
Þat boldly to bonke braidis to fight.
But his shippes were shent with a sharpe wynd,
Gird on the ground with so grym wille,
Till þai rut on a Rocke, & rent all to peses,
Þat mony was mard & the men drownet:
Vne sunkyn in þe se mony sure knightes.
And who, þat lacchit the lond with the lyf þen,
Were takon with the Troiens & tyrnet to dethe,
Martrid & murthrid, manglit in peses.
Þen the fight wex fell þo fuerse men amonge,
With shot fro the shippes and the shire banke.
Of Arowes & Awblasters þe aire wex thicke,
And dynnyt with dyntes, þat delte were þat tyme.
The rynels wex red of the ronke blode,
Þat were slayne in the slicche, & in slym lightyn.
There sothely was sene what sorow & pyne,
And how balfull & bittur the banke was to wyn.
How the grekes were gird vnto grym dethe,
Neuer red was in Romanse with no renke yet,
That any weghes in the world, þat to werre yode,
With soche baret, fro þe bote vnto bank wan,
As hit happit here with so hard fight.
But the secund sort sothely, þat sewet hom aftur,
Were graither of gouernaunce, grippet hor sailes,
And light vnto lond lyuely and sound.
More wisely þai wroght purgh warnyng before.
Þai preset vp proudly with panys in hond,
In refut of hor felowes, þat were foule mart;
And the Troiens tyt turnyt hom agayne,
ffor-bode hom the banke with mony bale dintes.
Þai braid to þere bowes, bold men in hast,
With alblastis also atlet to shote,
With big bowes of brake bykrit full hard,
Lacchet on þe ledis, þat on lofte stode,
Hurt hom full hidiously, hurlet hom abake.
There were ded of þo dyntes, mony derfe knightes.
The shalkes for þe shot shont fro þe banke,
And the grekes vp gird in a gret nowmber,
ffell fuersly to fight, & hor felowes halpe,
Þo þat left vpon lyue, þof þai lyte were.
Þen gird þai to-gedur with a grym fare!
ffull fell was the fight with þo fuerse troiens.
Prothesselon, þe prise kyng, preuyt his strenght,
There wonderfully wroght his weghis to helpe;
Mony Troiens with tene tyrnyt to ground,
Thurgh swap of his sword swaltyn belyue!
Mony doughty were ded with dynt of his hond,
And myche fortherit his feris in hor fell angur!
Hade not the freike ben so fuerse with his fell dyntes,
All the grekes hade ben gird vnto grym dethe,
And all brittnet yche ben, þat were to banke comyn.
But what fortherit his fight, þof he fell were,
With seven thowsaund þro men þrongen to-gedur,
Þere a hundrith hole were on a hepe somyn
All triet men of Troy þat hom tene wroght?
Mony dynttes full dedly delt were anon!
The Grekes were gird doun, & on ground lay,
Mony swonyng, & swalt, & in swym felle.
The grekes were so greuyt, & to grem broght,
Þai wold fayn haue ben forthe, fled on hor way,
But no wise might þo weghis wyn into ship;
Ne to lepe fro þe lond into þe low se,
Hit was not holsom for hom, so hard was the stour!
Hom was leuer on þe lond leng at hor aunter,
And be brittnet in batell, þen burbull in the fold.
Þai fell fuersly to fight, þo few þat þere were,
And put all þere pouer, pynyt hom sore.
The Troiens dong hom doun in the depe slithe,
Mony lost hor lyues, & light in the water,
And were ded in the depe withouten dyn more.
The might was so mekyll of þo mayn Troiens,
Þai hade no strenght to withstond, ne hor stid holde,
But all borne were þai backe to þe buerne syde,
And hade deghit by-dene with dynttes of hond;
But Archelaus in armys auntrid to banke,
And fell vnto fight his feris to helpe.
Now batell on bent þo buernes betwene,
The grevans was gret þo grekes among;
Assemblit were sone þe same in þe fight,
And restorit full stithly þe stuff of þe grekes.
ffell was the fight & fuerse hom agaynes,
And mony degit with dynt of þo derfe pepull:
Mony harmys þai hent er hor helpe come.
Þen Nestor anon neghit to lond,
With his shippis full shene, & sharpe men of armys,
Hard hastid to helpe with heturly wille,
And sodainly with his sort soght into batell!
Speiris into sprottes spronge ouer hede;
Arowes vp in the aire ysshit full þicke;
Swordis, with swapping, swaruyt on helmes;
The dede, vnder dynttes, dusshit to ground;
Cloudis with the clamour claterit aboue,
Of the dit & þe dyn, þat to dethe went!
Prothenor the prise kyng, & proud Archelaus,
Mony tolke of þe Troiens tyrnyt to dethe.
Þen Ascalus & Alacus auntrid to lond,
And aryuen full rad with þere rank shippes:
With þere pouer full prist past fro þe water,
Brusshet into batell, & myche bale wroght.
So felly in fere foghtyn þo two,
Obacke went the batell of þe burghe folke;
But þere were fele other fresshe, þat no fight touchit,
Þat gird into the grekes with a grym will,
And all backward hom bere to þe buerne side,
Þat fer from þe flode might no freke wyn.
Then Vlexes come vp vne with his folke,
Wan out of þe water & his weghis all,
And braid into batell with a brem wille.
Sharpe was the shoure the sheltrun [amonge]!
The Grekes geton hor ground, þat [graidly was lost],
And myche comford hom the co[m of þat kene knight]:
Mony woundes þai wroght, [and warpit to dethe]!
Vlixes with vtteraunse vnder [his shild],
Mony stithe in stoure stroke on [þere helmes];
Launsit, as a lyoun, þat were [lengen aboute],
And of the ffrigies fell with [his fuerse dinttes]:
Sum he stroke in the stoure streght to þe erthe;
Sum dange to the dethe, & derit full mykyll.
The proud kyng of Pafligon persayuit his dede,—
One Philmene, a freike of the ferre halue,—
He gird hym to ground with a grym speire;
And he fell vppon fote, faght with the kyng.
And Philmene the fuerse, with a fell dynt,
Vttrid Vlixes vne in the place,
Þat hit shot þrough the shilde & þe shire maile,
To þe bare of þe body, þat the blade folowet;
And he gird to þe ground with a grym hurt,
Hade no strenght for to stond, ȝet he stert vp,
And frusshit at Philmene with a fyn launse.
With all the might & the mayn, þat the mon hade,
He hit hym so hetturly on hegh on the shild,
Þat he breke þurgh the burd to the bare throte;
Hurlet þurghe the hawbergh, hurt hym full sore;
The gret vayne of his gorge gird vne ysondur,
Þat the freike, with the frusshe, fell of his horse,
Halfe ded of the dynt, dusshet to ground.
The Troiens for þat tulke had tene at hor hert;
Kayron euyn to the kyng, caght hym belyue;
Harlet hym fro horsfet, had hym away.
[He] for ded of þe dynt was drest on his shild,
[And bou]rne on the burde to þe burgh hom;
[For the de]the of þis duke doll was ynogh
[That trublit þe] Troiens with tene, trist ye no nother
[Myche harm to þem] happit here at þis tyme!
[The Grekes were] so grym þat were to ground comyn,
[Mony dukes were] ded of þe derfe Troiens.
[Þan Toa]x of Toilé Telemon the kyng,
[Agamynon, &] Aiax, & all oþer shippis,
[Come launchond to] lonnd and hor lordes all:
And Menelaus the mighty, & his men hole,
ffull radly arofe, raiked to lond;
Halet vp horses, highet olofte;
And fellon vnto fight þere feres to helpe,
Þat were strongly be-stad in a stoure hoge.
To the Troiens þai turnyt & mekill tene wroght!
The frusshe was so felle, þo fuerse men betwene,
Crakkyng of cristis, crusshyng of speiris,
The clynke & þe clamour claterit in the aire,
And with dynttes, of derfe men dynnet the erthe;
Mony Troiens with tene were tyrnyt to ground,
Sum ded of þo dynttes, sum depe woundit;—
Restoret the stithe batell strongly anon,
And mony dongen to dethe of the derfe Troiens.
Then Prothessalon þe prise kyng, þat preset to lond
ffirst in the forward, þat his folke lost,
He was wery for-wroght, & woundet full sore,—
Hade laburt so longe, hym list for to rest,—
And bowet fro the batell to þe bonke side,
ffor to beld hym on þe bent, & his brethe take.
And o sithen he soght to þe se euyn,
Þere þe fight was first, & the folke drounet;
Þen he plainly persayuit his pepull were ded,—
Þat no lede of þat lordes vppon lyue was.
Soche a sorowe of þat sight sanke to his hert,
Þat his wedis wex wete of his wan teris,
And he, stithely astonyt, stert into yre;
More breme to þe batell his baret to venge,
Of his folke þat were fallyn vnto fell dethe,
Hard highet vnto horse with a hert þro,
fforto felle of þe ffrigies felly he þoght.
Onon with a naked sword neghit to batell,
Vne wode of his wit as a wild lyon,
Mony breme on þe bent brittoned to ground.
Mony kild the kyng in his clene yre!
Myche tene þe Troiens tid of his hond!
Then Perses the proude kyng prise mon of ynde,
With a batell of bowmen fro the burgh come,
And with a fernet fare fell to þe stoure.
At whose come the cuntre-men comford were all,
And restoret the stithe fight stuernly agayn;
As fresshe to þere fos as at the first tyme,
Gird to the Grekes, & moche grem wroght;
Woundit hom wikkedly, walt hom to ground,
Oppresset hom with pyne, put hom abake,
All the batell to þe bonke, & mony buerne slogh.
Þere the grekes hade ben grymly gird vnto dethe,
Ne hade Palomedon, the prise kyng, preset to lond,
With fele fightyng folke of fuerse men of armys;
Halet vp horses hard out of bote,
Wonyn on wightly, wentyn to batell,
His folke to refresshe with a fyn wille.
The assembly was sorer o þe se banke;
Mony deghit full dernly, dole to be-holde!
Then the grekes agayne geton þere hertes,
And myche comford kaght of his come þen.
This Palomydon paynyt hym pepull to slee,
And mony woundys he wroght in his wild yre.
He soght to on Symagon, a sad mon of armys,—
Kyng Merion þe mighty was his met brother,
Þat fele had confoundit of the fuerse grekes;—
He bere to þe bold with a big sworde,
And rof þurgh the Ribbes right to þe hert,
Þat he fell of his horse flat to þe ground,
Deghit of þe dynt, & deiret no moo.
Palomydon preset furth into þe prise batell;
Mony tulke out of Troy tyrnyt to dethe;
Mony knight don cast to þe cold erthe.
All were ferd of þe freike, fled of his way;
Durst no buerne on hym bate for his bold dedis.
Myche clamour & crye was kyde in þe ost,
Þat the Troiens for tene might tary no lengur;
But with prise of Palomydon put all abake,
And fer in the fight fell hom the worse,
Vne boun fro þe batell busket to fle,
Vntill Ector eris hit entrid belyue
The great noise of þe noy, þat in note was.
He lepe on a light horse lyuely enarmyt,
And soght to þe se banke to socur his pepull;
Wode in his wrathe wynnys into batell!
All shone his shilde & his shene armur,
Glissenond of gold with a glayre hoge:
Thre lions the lord bare all of light goulis,
Þat were shapon on his shild, shalkes to beholde.
He gird to the grekes with a grym yre;
In the brest of the batell, þere buernes were thicke,
He ffrusshet so felly freikes to ground;
Made wayes full wide þe weghis among;
Shot thurgh the sheltrons, shent of þe pepull.
To Prothesselon he preset, þat pepull hade slayn,
And myche wo had wroght on þe wild troiens.

THE DETHE OF PROTHESSOLON BY ECTOR SLAYN.

He swappit at hym swithe with a swerd felle;
Hit on his hede a full hard dynt;
Clefe þurghe the criste & the clene maile;
Slit hym down sleghly thurghe the slote euyn,
Bode at the belt stid, and the buerne deghit.
Then leuet he the lede, launchet on ferre,
Mony dange to the dede with dynt of his hond:
Who happit hym to hitte harmyt nomo.
Mony brem in the batell britnet to dethe,
Sundrit the soppis vnsarkonly with hondes:
All gird of his gate, gevyn hym the way.
Iche freike of þat furse fraynit at other,
Þat our folke þus felly flynges to ground:
Þen þai knowen by course of his clene shap,
Þat it was Ector the honerable, eddist knightes.
Thai fled fro the fase of his felle dynttes,
So bold was no buerne his bir to withstond,
Ne þe caupe of his kene sword kast hom to mete.
Whill he bode in the batell, þe buerne with his honde
Mony grekes with grem he gird to the dethe.
All failit þere forse, feblit þere herttes,
The batell on backe was borne to þe se.
Then wery he wex, & of his werke hote,
Bowet fro the batell, & his buernes leuyt.
The sun in his sercle set vndurnethe;
The light wex las, he leuyt the fild,
Soght to þe Cité soberly & faire,
Left his feris in þe fild fightyng full hard.
Then grekes agayne getton þere herttes,
ffrushet þe ffrigies felly to ground;
So hit tid hom tensiche betymys þat day.
But þe Troiens full tore turnyt agayne,
ffoghten so felly, frunt hom o backe,
Kyld mony knightes, cacchit on hard,
Greuyt so the grekes, þai graithet to fle,
Were borne to þe banke with baret ynogh.
Then Achilles the choise cheuyt to land,
With his shippes in a sheltrun, & skalkes within;
Gird vp to þe ground with a grym fare,
With þre thowsaund þro men þristé in armys;
ffell to þe fight on a fuerse wise.
Myche tene the Troiens tid of his hond!
The grekes keuriyt for comford by comyng of hym.
ffell was the fight þo frekes betwene!
Mony gird to þe ground, and to grym dethe;
Mony lede out of lyue light on the erthe!
The stoure was so stithe þo strong men among,
That full mekull was the murthe, & mony were ded.
The Troiens full tyte were tyrnit to ground:
Thurghe Achilles chiualry hom cheuyt the worse.
Mony fell þat freike with his fuerse dynttes!
Myche blode on the bent, bale for to se;
Of myrthe & of murnyng thurgh might of hym one.
Then the last of þo lefe shippis launchit to bonke,
And all the fighting folke fell to þe lond;
Gyrdyn in grymly into grete batell.
The multitude was so mykyll at þe mene tyme,
Of the grekes vppon ground, & of grym folke,
The Troiens for tene tyrnyt the backe,
ffleddon in fere, & the filde leuyt;
All somyn to the Cité soghten by-dene,
With myche clamur & crie for care of hor dethe.
Mony warchond wound, and weré at all,
Mony chivalrous Achilles choppit to dethe:
All his wedis were wete of þaire wan blode!
As þai flaghe in the filde, þe freke with a grym sword,
So he gird hom to ground with a grym sword,
To þe Cité forsothe, cessit þai noght.
Moche angre at the entré auntrid to falle,
To the Troiens with tene, er þai toun entred.
Myche slaghte in the slade, & slyngyng of horse!
Mony derfe þere deghit, was dole to beholde!
ffull myche was the murthe, & more hade þere bene,
Hade not Troilus the tene turnyt to fight,
And Paris the prise with pepull ynogh,
With Deffebus the derfe, of dedis full felle,
Þat fell to þe frusshe of þe fuerse grekes;
Issuet out egurly, angret full mony,
And so sesit the suet, soghtyn no ferre.
The night was so nigh, noye was the more,
The day was done, dymmet the skyes.
The Troiens full tite tyrnyt the ȝates,
Barret hom bigly with barres of yrne.
Achilles with his chiualers chefe to þe bonke,
All the grekes agayn Agamynon vnto.
The Emperoure hym owne selfe ordant onon,
fforto bilde vp tenttes, tariet no lengur.
Sithen hym selfe assignet the gret
Placis of pauylions, for the prise kynges
Grete tenttes to graide, as þaire degre askit;
Logges to las men, with leuys of wod.
Iche buerne, on his best wise, busket to lenge,
ffor the night was so neghe, noyet hom all.
Stablit vp hor stedis & hor stithe horses,
On suche maner as þai might, for the mene tyme;
And all necessaries for þe night, þat þai naite shuld,
ffecchit fro the flete, & ferkit to bonke.
Thaire shippis in sheltrons shotton to lond,
Knyt hom with cables & with kene ancres,
And bound hom full bigly on hor best wise.
As Agamynon the grete the gomys commaundyt,
Brode firis & brem beccyn in þe ost,
Torchis and tendlis the tenttes to light,
That yche freike in the fild his felow might know,
Alse light on to loke, as þe leue day.
Other feris opon fer the freikes withoute,
With skowte wacche for skathe & skeltyng of harme.
The Troiens with tene, þat in the towne were,
Neghit hom not negh, ne no noy did,
But closit the clene yates, keppit hom within.
This Agamynon, the grete, gaynit no slepe.
Bisé was the buerne all the bare night,
To ordan for his Enmyes, as I er saide,
ffolke opon fer, the firis withoute,
ffor to wacche and to wake for wothis of harme,
With qwistlis, & qwes, & other qwaint gere,
Melody of mowthe myrthe for to here;
And men of armys full mony made for to stond,
In soppes on sere halfe the sercle to kepe;
The ost out of angur & auntur to were,
Wacche wordes to wale, þat weghis might know;
Sore men & seke soundly to rest,
Þat were feblet in fight, & hade fele woundes,
To lie in hor lodges a littell at ese.
Armet were all men for auntur to come,
Till the derke was don, & the day sprange,
And the sun in his sercle set vppo lofte.
This fight was the first þo felons betwene,
Syn thay light on the lond:—lord giffe vs ioye!