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Wharto schuld ich tale telle?
Þe soudan lepe on hors ful snelle.
Gret onde he hadde to Gyoun,
& to Herhaud, his compaynoun,
For hij han slawe so fel of his.
He sat on an hors of pris,
Wiþ gret hete he smot to Gij,
Opon his helme, sikerly,
Þat he feld þat o quarter.
To Gij he seyd a bismer:
‘Y-sestow, lord? bi Apolin,
Þat was a strok of a Sarrazin!’
Gij to þe soudan smot þo,
His helme no was him worþ a slo:
Resares euen forþ þe breyn
Helme & flesse he carf wiþ meyn.
Þan he seyd to him a bismer:
‘Mahoun halp þe litel þer!
Bodi & soule no nouȝt þer-of
No is nouȝt worþ a lekes clof.
Hou so it go of mi wounde,
Of Mahoun þou hast litel help y-founde.
Er þou scorndest me,
Of mi wounde þou madest þi gle:
Leche gode schal ich haue,
Þat mi wounde schal to hele drawe;
Þou hast a croun schauen to þe bon;
Tomorwe þou miȝt sing anon.
Wele þou þouȝtest to ben a prest,
When þou of swiche a bischop order berst!’
Now biginneþ þat gret fiȝt;
Bi þre, bi four, adoun riȝt,
Þe Sarrazins ben ouer-come,
Oway fleinde þai ben some.
Þe niȝt comeþ, þe day is go,
Þe Sarrazins han ful michel wo;
For so mani y-slawe þer be
(So seyd þe folk of þat cuntre),
Þat men miȝt wade ouer þe scho hem
In þe blod þat of hem kem.
So miche folk þer was y-slawe þo,
Þat fiftene forlong men miȝt go,
Þat þei he kept him neuer so,
He most nedes opon men go,
Oþer on fot, oþer on hond,
Oþer opon arm coruen wiþ brond.

Wiþ þat come an amiral prikeinge,
Newe dubbed he was, wiþ-outen lesing;
To þe soudan he is y-come,
Þurch þe bodi he haþ woundes some.
‘Sir,’ he seyd, ‘hennes we go:
No sestow al our folk slo?
Bi þousendes þou sest hem to deþ ligge;
Our godes ous hateþ, for soþe to sigge.
Þou sest Mahoun ne Apolin
Be nouȝt worþ þe brestel of a swin.
Anon riȝtes wiþdrawe þou þe,
& to þi pauiloun þou fle;
Alle þe wounded þou do wiþ þe lede;
Ȝete þai may þe help & rede.
Þi rereban þou do of-sende;
To awreke [þe] þou haue in mende.’
Anon þai hem wiþdrawe and ben ouer-come;
Sori þai ben alle & some.
Þe soudan dede biforn him bring
Alle his godes, wiþouten lesing:
Toward hem he is wel wroþ,
Do he wil hem harm & loþ:
‘A ȝe fals godes vnwreste!
Sone ȝou tit a liþer feste.
Oȝain ous ȝe ben of wicked mode:
Schame ȝe don ous & no gode.
Ȝe don ous alder-werst to spede
When þat we han mest nede.
Fy, fy,’ he seyd, ‘on [þe], Apolin!
Þou schalt haue wel iuel fin,
& þou, Ternagaunt, also:
Michel schame schal com ȝou to;
& þou, Mahoun, her alder lord,
Þou nart nouȝt worþ a tord!
Þer-fore þou it schalt abigge
Wiþ staues gret opon þi rigge.’

So he gan his godes to cloute,
Þat þe erþe dined aboute.
Her armes & legges he to-tiȝt,
& cleped hem wroches anon riȝt:
‘Godenes in ȝou nas neuer y-founde,
No more miȝt þan in an hounde.’
Bi þe fet he hem out drouȝ,
And dede hem schame riȝt anouȝ.