 | Guy of Warwick |  |
When Tristor hadde y-seyd þis,
Wiþ-outen ani oþer abod y-wis,
Þer nas nouȝt on, litel no miche,
Þat durst speke sikerliche.
Gij of Warwike vp arist:
‘Sir emperour, bi mi Lord Iesu Crist,
Þis message ichil afo,
& it þurch godes help do.’
Seyd þemperour, ‘þat schaltow nouȝt:
Þider to go haue þou no þouȝt;
Ich it dede mine men to fond,
To whom ich miȝt trust in mi lond.’
Þan answerd Gij wel snelle,
‘For soþe, sir, leten y nille,
Þat ich þe message wil do,
To dye er ich þennes go.’
Wiþ þat he went out of þe halle.
Þe Gregeys siked among hem alle,
‘God! what Gij is noble baroun!
Iesu, þat suffred passioun,
Saue him fram cumberment,
& him oȝain bring in sauement.’
Gij cam to his in in a stounde,
His felawes droupeing he founde.
‘Lordinges,’ he seyd, ‘hou is it now?
Almiȝti god y bi-teche ȝou.’
‘Sir,’ quaþ Herhaud, ‘ich-il go
Bi þine wille wiþ þe also.’
Gij answerd, ‘so no schal it be.
Icham y-go: biddeþ for me.’
He oxed his armes hastiliche,
And men es him brouȝt sikerliche.
Hosen of iren he haþ on drawe,
Non better nar bi þo dawe.
In a strong hauberk he gan him schrede,
Who so it wered, þe ded no þurt him drede.
An helme he haþ on him don:
Better no wered neuer kniȝt non;
The sercle of gold þer-on was wrouȝt,
For half a cite no worþ it bouȝt:
So mani stones þer-in were,
Þat were of vertu swiþe dere.
Seþþe he gert him wiþ a brond
Þat was y-made in eluene lond.
His scheld about his nek he tok,
On hors he lepe wiþ-outen stirop,
On hond he nam a spere kerueinde,
Out of þe cite he was rideinde.
Alle þat weren of þat cite
For him wel sori weren he;
No wene þai neuer his ȝain-cominge,
Alle þai wene þer his endinge.
Now is Gij in þe riȝt way
Toward þe Sarrazins, y say,
Wele y-armed on his stede,
A launce he bar gode at nede.
Smerteliche he dede him in þe ways,
Ouer þe dounes & þe valeys
To the Sarrazins y-comen he is,
& her pauilouns he seþ y-wis.
A real pauiloun he þer seye
Wiþ an eren of gold an heye.
Þat was þe soudans pauiloun:
Haue he Cristes malisoun!
In-to þe pauiloun Gij him wond,
& an hast þer he fond
Alle atte mete þat þer was,
& nouȝt michel noise þer nas.
At þe heye bord eten kinges ten,
Þat alle were Gyes fomen.
Wiþ-outen ani oþer abod y-wis,
Þer nas nouȝt on, litel no miche,
Þat durst speke sikerliche.
Gij of Warwike vp arist:
‘Sir emperour, bi mi Lord Iesu Crist,
Þis message ichil afo,
& it þurch godes help do.’
Seyd þemperour, ‘þat schaltow nouȝt:
Þider to go haue þou no þouȝt;
Ich it dede mine men to fond,
To whom ich miȝt trust in mi lond.’
Þan answerd Gij wel snelle,
‘For soþe, sir, leten y nille,
Þat ich þe message wil do,
To dye er ich þennes go.’
Wiþ þat he went out of þe halle.
Þe Gregeys siked among hem alle,
‘God! what Gij is noble baroun!
Iesu, þat suffred passioun,
Saue him fram cumberment,
& him oȝain bring in sauement.’
Gij cam to his in in a stounde,
His felawes droupeing he founde.
‘Lordinges,’ he seyd, ‘hou is it now?
Almiȝti god y bi-teche ȝou.’
‘Sir,’ quaþ Herhaud, ‘ich-il go
Bi þine wille wiþ þe also.’
Gij answerd, ‘so no schal it be.
Icham y-go: biddeþ for me.’
222
And men es him brouȝt sikerliche.
Hosen of iren he haþ on drawe,
Non better nar bi þo dawe.
In a strong hauberk he gan him schrede,
Who so it wered, þe ded no þurt him drede.
An helme he haþ on him don:
Better no wered neuer kniȝt non;
The sercle of gold þer-on was wrouȝt,
For half a cite no worþ it bouȝt:
So mani stones þer-in were,
Þat were of vertu swiþe dere.
Seþþe he gert him wiþ a brond
Þat was y-made in eluene lond.
His scheld about his nek he tok,
On hors he lepe wiþ-outen stirop,
On hond he nam a spere kerueinde,
Out of þe cite he was rideinde.
Alle þat weren of þat cite
For him wel sori weren he;
No wene þai neuer his ȝain-cominge,
Alle þai wene þer his endinge.
Now is Gij in þe riȝt way
Toward þe Sarrazins, y say,
Wele y-armed on his stede,
A launce he bar gode at nede.
Smerteliche he dede him in þe ways,
Ouer þe dounes & þe valeys
To the Sarrazins y-comen he is,
& her pauilouns he seþ y-wis.
A real pauiloun he þer seye
Wiþ an eren of gold an heye.
Þat was þe soudans pauiloun:
Haue he Cristes malisoun!
In-to þe pauiloun Gij him wond,
& an hast þer he fond
224
& nouȝt michel noise þer nas.
At þe heye bord eten kinges ten,
Þat alle were Gyes fomen.
| Guy of Warwick | |