University of Virginia Library

THE DETHE OF CELIDIS THE KYNG BY POLIDAMUS.

Kyng Celidis, forsothe, semliest of knightes,
All folke in þat filde, of fairhed he past,
Of whom Daries, in his dytyng, duly me tellus
All the shap of þat shene, in his shire boke:
The qwene of femyné þat freike so faithfully louyt,
More he sat in hir soule þen hir-selfe ay.
This Celidis, forsothe, fought with a speire,
Polidamas to put doun, & his pride felle;
And he, wode of his wit for þe wale dynt,
Corve euyn at the kyng with a kene sword,
Hurlit þurghe the helme & the hed bothe,
That he braid ouer backward & on bent light.
Honerable Ector, euer vppon-one
ffell of þo fuerse men, & þurgh the fild rode:
Mony batels he broke, buernes he slough,
And made wayes full wide þurgh the wale ost.
Þen he soght to a syde, þere salamé folke
Were fightyng full fell with the fuerse troiens,
With Thessall the tried kyng, & hor true hede,
That was lord of þe lond, & the ledes aght.
This Thessall, in the toile myche tene wroght,
Tyrnit doun Troiens with mony toure dynttes:
Mony woundit the wegh, & warpit to ground,
Myche dere he hom did with dynttes of hond.
Þen Teuser, with tene turnyt to Ector,
Sparrit to hym with a speire spitusly fast;
Woundit hym full wickedly in his wild yre;
Hurt hym full hidiously, hastid away.
Ector richit his reyne, the Renke for to mete,
ffor to wreike of his wound, & the wegh harme;
But the freike for ferd fled of his gate,
ffrusshet þurgh the folke forth of his sight.
Then for wrath of his wound, & for wild shame,
He gird to a greke, þat was a grym syre,
With a swyng of his sword swappit hym of lyue,
And mony other martrid at the mene tyme.
A gret nowmber of grekes gedrit hym vmbe,
Hym tyte for to take, or tyrne vnto dethe.
Among all the meny was mighty Teseus,
Þat onestly to Ector þus esely said:—
“Sir, buske fro the batell er you bale worthe,
Lest you happyn with hond here to be slayne:
Of soche a mon were a mysse þurgh the mekyll world.”
Ector full onestly þat onerable þanket:
And yet the batell on bent was breme to behold!
The Troiens with tene turnyt to the grekes.
Polidamas, with prise, prestly can fight,
With his Enmeis full egurly, euer vpon-one.
Menelay the mighty, in the mene tyme,
And Telamon, the tore kyng, tally to-gedur:
To Polidamas þai preset all in pure angur,
The freike for to felle, & ferke out of lyue.
Telamon hym tacchit on with a tore speire,
Bare hym downe backward with a bir hoge,
Preset hym with payne, & with proude strokes,
Tokyn hym full tyte, þof hym tene thoght.
Brokon was the blade of his big sword,
His helme of hurlit, & his hed bare.
Þai led hym furth lightly, þof hym loth thught,
To the tentes full tomly, þaire entent was.
But Ector, as aunter fell, euyn was beside,
Segh the grekes with þat gome gedrit full þicke;
The prise knight put doun the pepull among,
Takon with torfer, hym tenyt full euyll.
He hurlet forth vnhyndly, harmyt full mony,
Of þe ledis, þat hym led, luskit to ground;
Made waies full wide, wan to the knight,
And xxx in the throng thrucchit to dethe;
The remnond full radly rid hym the gate,
fflagh all in fere, and the freike leuyt.
He highit of þere hondes, and his horse toke,
Wan on hym wightly, & of woche past.
The kyng Bisshop the bold, byg Menelaus,
And Thelamon the tore kyng, with theire tite batels,
All assemblit on a sop in a sad hast,
And fell to the frigies in a fuerse wille.
Þai foghton so felly with the freikes þen,
Derit hom with dynttes, delt mony woundes,
Hurlet hom on hepis, hurt of hor knightes,
fferket hom to flight fuersly by-dene.
All-þof Ector was on, þat odmony slogh,
And wonderfully wroght with wepyn at the tyme,
Hym-selfe might not suffise to þat soume hoge.
His horse, in þat hete, was hurlit to dethe,
And he foght vpon fote with þo felle grekes,
Wore hym full wightly, & myche wo did:
Was non so bold in þat batell, of þo buernes all,
fforto deire hym with dynt, ne þe Duke touche,
Ne negh hym with noy, for nolpis of his hond.
His nobill brether naturile nemly persayuit,
Þat þe troiens in the toile had turnyt þe backe,
And segh not þere souerain, þaire sorow was þe more,
Wend þere lord hade ben lost, or of lyue broght.
Þai assemblit on a sop sone vpon-one,
ffrusshet to þe fight, þe freike for to laite.
ffull bremly þurgh the batels þe buernes can pas,
And wan to þat worthy, þat in woche stode;
Telamon, the tore kyng, þai tenfully woundit,
Gird mony to þe ground of the grekes felle.
Dynadron, a derf knight of his dere brother,
Preset to Polexuma, þat hade a proude stede,
Gird hym euyn to þe ground, grippit his horse,
Raght to þe Reynes, ricchit hom belyue,
Broght hym his brother, þe best vpon erthe,
And he launchit o lofte with a light wille.
All the nobill anon,—þo naturill brether,—
Wonderfully wroght with wepyn in hond,
Gird doun of the grekes vnto grym dethe,
And stird hom in the stoure stightly vnfaire.
Then Deffibus drogh negh with a derfe pepull,
Þat by ordynaunse of Ector was etlit to hym;
The prise folke of Poyeme presit hym after,
Bowmen of þe best, big in hor armys,
Myche greuaunce & grem to þe grekes did.
Mony woundit þo weghis & warpit to ground,
Mony shalke þurgh shot with þere sharpe gere,
And myche hyndrit the hepe with þere hard shot.
Deffibus the doughty, with a derfe wepyn,
Tachit vpon Teutro, a full tore dynt,
Vne fourme in the face foule to behold.
Þen the troiens, full tite, tokyn þere hertes
ffelly vnto fight, þat were fled er.
ffull stithe was þe stoure for þe striffe new;
Mony bold on the bent brytont to dethe;
Mony lyue of lept with lasshyng of swerdis!
As Theseus, the tore duke, the troiens anoyet,
And mony fell of þe folke, with his fuerse wepon,
On of Ector owne brether, þat I erst neuenyt,
And Modernus, the mayn kyng, on þe mon set.
Theseus þai toke, þof hym tene þoght,
And wold haue slayn hym in þe slade sleghly anon;
But Ector aurthwart þis auntrid to se,
Bade hom leue of lightly, let hym pas forth,
Withouten hurt owþer harme, hast hym agayn:
And so he kyd hym counsell of kyndnes before.
At biddyng of þe bold, þe buerne was rescewet,
He launchit furth lightly, & þe lede þonket,
Gird furth to þe grekes with a glad chere,
And Ector euer more egerly þonket.
Then þe kyng of Calsidon com into batell,
Toax, a tide mon of þat oþer side,
And Philote, a fuerse kyng, with a fell power,
A grete nowmber of grekes with a grym fare.
Toax, in his tene, with a tore speire,
Caupit to Cassibilan, þe kynges son of Troy,—
On of Ector aun brether, þat I er said;
And þe lede on lokond, hym launchit to dethe:
ffor whose dethe the Duke moche dole þolit.
As wode in his wit as a wild bore,
Gird euyn to the grekes in his gret yre,
And mony knight doun kyld in his kene hate.
Sum wondit full wide, walt to þe ground;
Sum hurlit to þe hard yerth, & on hede light;
Sum þe lymes of lop, sum þe lyf tynt;
And myche wo in his wodenes wroght at þe tyme.
So fuersly he fore in his fight þen,
With other helpe þat he hade, his harmys to venge,
Þat þe grekes gyuen bake, & the ground leuyn,
And were forsit to þe fight or þai fay worthit.
Þen gird in on þe grekes half with a grym fare,
Nestor, the noble duke, with a new batell
Of v thousaund fuerse men, & felle to þe stour,
Þat mony warchand wound wroght on hor fos.
ffull tyte fro þe toun turnyt hym agayne,
Philon, a felle kyng, & his fere Esdras,
Þat shot þurgh þere sheltruns & shent mony knightes.
This Philon, in fight, mony freike slogh.
Þen the grekes with grym gedirt hym vmbe,
Wold haue kyld the kyng with a kant wille;
But on Iacomas, a Ioly mon, as the gest tellis,
To Esdras, in ernyst, egirly saide:—
“Se Philon, the fre kyng, is with his fos takon:
High we vs hastely, help hym away!
Let vs reskew the Renke, refe hym his fos!”
Þen the Troiens, with tene, tidely þai faght;
Sore greuit the grekes, gird hom abacke;
Wonen to þe wale kyng, & away toke,
Withouten hurt, other harme, in a hond while.
Þen Ector Eftersones entrid agayne,
With the noble men, þat I neuenyt, his naturill brether,
And Deffebus the Duke, dughty of hond;
Polidamus, the pert knight, preset in als.
Thes wonderfully wroght in hor wale strenght,
With þere company clene of kyd men of Troy,
Þat the grekes, of þe ground, gird were anon,
fflagh fro the frekes, & the fild leuyt;
But Menelay the mighty, & the mayn Telamon,
So sturnly withstod with þaire strenkyth holl,
Þat þe troiens tite tynt of hor purpos,
And were foghtyn with felly, folut no lengur.
Þen entrid Eneas, egur to fight,
With the comyns full clene in a close batell,
Þat were led by the lede, þat I lefe saide,—
Euformus the fuerse, þat was a fyn sqwier.
With þes, Ector & other, so odly þai foght,
That the grekes gaf bake, & þaire ground leuyt.
Þat Aiax the auntrus, þat angardly wroght,
With mekill sorow þis segh in his sad yre.
He lokit back on þe bent, þere þe buernes were,
Segh soppes of sad men in a soum hoge,
Þat neghit no note, ne no noy feld,
With baners on brede, & bold men of armys,
Þere all þe grete of þe grekys, & þe grym knyghtys,
And þe chose of hor chyualry, was chargit to lenge.
Þen he said to þo souerans, þat þe saut lefte;—
“Abide, buernys, on þis bent, buskys vs ferre;
Here seches vs socoure in a sad haste!”
Þen gird in þe grekys with a grete wyll,
Restoret þe stithe fight stalwertly þen.
Eneas to Aiax angarely rode,
And he keppit hym cantly with a kene spere,
Þat bothe were þai bakeword borne to þe grene.
Þen gyrd in þe grekys syde with a grym pupull,
Philothetes, a freke, with a freshe batell,
Þat kyng was of Calsidon,—a kid mon of were,—
With iij M. þro knyghtis þronge into prese.
Þe troiens to þis tyme tyd ay þe bettur,
And þe fairer of þe fyght in þe feld had;
But þes batels so big, þat þe buerne led,—
Philoc þe freke, þat I first saide,—
Tenyt the troiens with mony tore dintes,
And to put hom fro purpos, pynyt hym sore.
Þe freke, with a felle spere frunt vnto Ector,
Þat hit shok alto schyuers, & þe schalk holl:
But Ector Aurthewert hym Auntrid to hyt,
Þat he frunt of hys fol flat to þe ground,
Half ded of þe dynt, derit no mo.
Þen Henex, with hese men, happit to come,
Gird in with grekys, as a grym syre;
Vlixes also, with angarely mony
Of tulkis of Traci, tor men of strenkyth;
Humelius with hast highit hom after,
And all þe kyngis clene, þat comyn out of grice,
With X. M. þro knyghtis, þristiest of all:
Þes bounyt vnto batell & to bent droghyn.
Wat schall tyde of þes troiens to þes tore pupull,
Þat so were wroght of weghis before,
And so bysy in batell er þo bold come?
Þen Paris aprochyt, þe Percians hym with;
Radli on þe right syde Rakit he furth,
And bounet into batell with a brym will.
Vnto Frigie, þe fell kyng, he frusshit anon,
With þe strenkyth of his stroke & his store arme,
Þat þe kyng, to þe cold erthe, cayrs out of lyue.
Þen þe grekys, for greme of þe gay kyng,
Miche dyn & dol for þat deth made.
Vlixes, his aune cosyn, angrit full sore,
To venge of þat vilany vili dissirit:
He put hym to Paris with a proude will,
Sparrit at hym with a spere spitusly fast.
He myst of þe mon with his mayn dynt,
But he hit on his horse, hurt hym full sore,
Þat he deghit of þe dynt, dusshit to ground,
And Paris, in þe plit, pight vppon fote.
Troiell, þat tyme, was truly besyde,
Segh þe bold at his brother boun for to strike;
He swapt at hym swyth with a sword fell.
Hit brake thurgh þe basnet to þe bare hed,
And frunt hym in þe fase a full fel wond,
Þat þe blod out brast, & on his brest lyght.
Þe lede, for þat laith dynt, leuyt not hys horse,
But sound in his sadill, he his sete held,
Turnyt vnto Troilus, þat hym tenyt had,
And wondyt hym wickydly in hys wale fase.
Þen þe troiens full tite had turnyt þe bak,
Had not honerable Ector, & his aune brethir,
Deffibus þe doughti, & þe derf Troilus,
And þe nobill brethir naturill, þat naitli withstod.
All þe day, with outyn doute, to þis du tyme,
Ector was Euermore Eger in fyght:
His aune batell full breme vppon bent leuyt,
Hym selfe liuely o þe launde launchit aboute.
Þen he segh þat þe soume of þe saide grekys,
Were þe stithir in þe stoure, & strongur of pupull:
He bounet to his batell, bode he no lengur,
Þat fayn were in fere of þaire fre prinse,
Þat þai had hym at hond & in holl qwert.
Then the lord to his ledis vpon lond said:—
“Now, bold men in batell, buske ye to fight,
Haue mynd of þe malis, & the mykell harme,
Þat vs wold happon to haue in a hond while,
And the grekes may vs gripe, & to ground bryng!
Therfore, feris, bes fell, fraistes your strenght,
Let your hertes be hoole, hold you to-gedur!
Bes frike on your fos, fell of your dynttes,
Settes hom full sadly, sekir for to hit
With all þe might & þe mayn of your mekill strenght!”
Þen he led hom forth lyuely by a law vale,
Raiked in full radly on þe right side,
There deghit mony derfe of þe due grekes;
Miche slaght in þat slade of þo slegh knightes.
Hit is wonder to wete of þe wode stoure,
What knightes were kild vnto cold dethe!
Toax þat tyme þurght the toile rode,
Þat Cassibilan had kyld, the kyngis son of Troy:
He fell of þe frigies with his fuerse dynttes,
And myche wo with his weppon wroght at þe tyme.
Cassibilan kynd brether þen þe kyng segh,
Wonyn to þe wegh in hor wode hate,
Vmset hym full sone in a sop hole,
And gird hym euyn to þe ground in a gret Ire.
Brokyn was the blade of his bright swerd,
Hade no wepyn hym to weire fro þere wild harmys;
The haspes of his helme were hurlit in sonder;
All bare was the buerne aboue on his hed.
He hade lelly ben lost & of lyue done,
Ne hade þe derfe Duke of Athens drawen hym to
With fuerse men in fight, & fell to þe stoure.
To Qwintilion the quem he qwithit a dynt,
Woundit hym wickidly, warpit hym to ground,
Dressit hym with dere to dele with another.
Þen Paris, þe prise knight, with a pile sharp,
Rut hym in thurgh þe rybbis with a roid wond,
Þat þe duk for þe dynt derit hym but a littell.
Toax in þe toile out of tene broght,
Wan hym wightly away wondit full sore.