University of Virginia Library

At hiȝ midday þe king Iuore,
To Beues he smot a dent ful sore,
Þat sercle of gold & is crestel
Fer in to þe mede fel.
Doun of þe helm þe swerd gan glace
And karf riȝt doun be-fore is face,
Doun riȝt þe viser wiþ is swerd
And half þe her vpon is berd.
Ac þourȝ þe help of godes grace
His flesch noþing atamed nas.
Þo cride þe Sarasins al at ones:
‘Þis Beues wiþ his grete bones
Ful sone worþ imaked tame!’
Þo wex Beues in gret grame
And þouȝte wel wiþ Morgelay
Ȝelden his strok, ȝif þat he may.
To king Yuor he gan areche
Anon wiþ oute more speche
Vpon þe scholder in þat tide,
Þat half a fot hit gan in glide.
For smertte Yuor in þat stounde
Fel a knes vnto þe grounde,
Ac vp he sterte in haste þan
& in wraþþe to Beues ran
& þouȝte han Beues aqueld;
And Beues keppte him wiþ is scheld,
And Yuore wiþ þe strok of yre
Made fle in to þe riuere
A large quarter of his scheld,
Þat neuer nas atamed in feld.
Or Yuor miȝte his hond wiþ-drawe,
Beues, þe kniȝt of cristene lawe,
Wiþ Morgelay a smot him þo,
Þat his scheld he clef ato,
And his left hond, be þe wrest
Hit fleȝ awei þourȝ help of Crist.
Whan Yuor hadde his hond lore,
He fauȝt, ase he wer wod þer fore,
And hew to Beues in þat tide,
No strok ne moste oþer abide.
Þo Beues seȝ is strokes large,
He kepte his strokes wiþ is targe;
Þo Beues to Yuor gan flinge
And þourȝ þe miȝt of heuene king
His riȝt arm & is scholder bon
He made fle to gronde anon.
Wiþ þat strok Yuor þe Mombraunt
Cride: ‘Merci, Teruagaunt,
Mahoun, Gouin and Gibiter,
Reseue now me saule her,
For wel ich wot, ich am dede!’
Þo Beues herde him so grede,
He seide: ‘Yuor, let be þat cri
And clepe to god and to Mari,
And let þe cristen, er þe deie,
Or þow schelt go þe worsse weie
And wiþ outen ende dwelle
In þe stronge peine of helle!’
‘Nay,’ queþ Yuor, ‘so mot y þen,
Cristene wile ich neuer ben,
For min is wel þe beter lawe!’
Þo Beues herde þat ilche sawe,
A felde him doun, wiþ outen faile,
And vnlacede his ventaile,
And tok him be þe heued anon
And strok hit fro þe scholder bon,
And on his spere he hit piȝte.
And þo þe cristen siȝe þat siȝte,
Þai þankede god in alle wise,
Þat Beues hadde wonne þe prise.
Þanne al þe Sarasins lasse & more,
Þat was ycome wiþ king Yuore,
Þai siȝe her lordes heued arered,
Sore þai weren alle afered;
To-ward Mombraunt þei wolde fain,
Ac Saber made hem terne again,
And sire Beues and sire Terry,
And sire Miles and sire Gii
Slouȝ hem doun riȝtes þore,
Þat þer ne scapede lasse ne more.