University of Virginia Library

Sir Gij to his in is y-go,
& areliche amorwe he aros þo:
Into Inglond he went, god itot,
Ac when þemperour þat soþe wot,
Þat Gij þe curteys is y-go,
At his hert him was ful wo;
So was Blauncheflour þe schene:
For his loue sche þoled tene.
Toward Inglond is Gij y-drawe,
& wiþ him Herhaud, his gode felawe.
Swiþe hastiliche þai gun ride,
Þe weder was hot in somers tide.

In May it was also ich wene,
When floures sprede & springeþ grene:
Into a forest sir Gij is go
Neye a cite, nouȝt fer þer-fro.
Þan seyd Gij to his meyney:
‘Wendeþ swiþe wel an heye,
Mine in to nim in þe cite;
Ich wil a while here pleye me,
For to here þe foules singe.’
Þer-in was þo his likeinge.
His folk he doþ fram him go,
Alon bileft sir Gij þo:
Hadde he noiþer knaue no grome,
Seriaunt no squier non.
Selcouþe it was for to here:
In priue stede stode Gij þere;
So michel he herd þo foules sing,
Þat him þouȝt he was in gret longing.
So mani þinges he of þouȝt,
Þat out of his riȝt way him brouȝt.
So long forþ he is rideing,
In his weye forþ secheing,
Þat o groning fram fer he herd:
He of-list, & thider he ferd.
Þe mening seyd, ‘allas, allas,
Þat ich was born for swiche trespas!
Ac now is me iuel bifelle:
Deþ, whi wiltow so long duelle?’
Þiderward sir Gij him drouȝ,
And loked vnder an hawe-þorn bouȝ.
Þe bodi he seye of a kniȝt:
Þerof he hadde wonder, apliȝt.
Feir & michel he him seþ:
Gij þenkeþ michel, & nouȝt no seyþ.
Þat hors he prikeþ, & forþ he goþ:
Þat bodi he bihalt inliche forsoþ.
His barbel first adoun he deþ,
Wiþ-outen colour his neb he seþ
For þe blod he hadde for-lore,
Þat of his bodi he hadde forþ bore.
Y-girt he was wiþ a gode swerd,
Þat was wele kerueand doun to þe uerd.
Wele he was y-armed gentilliche.
Gij of him hadde reuþe miche:
His name he asked sweteliche,
Who him biseye so reweliche.
‘What is þi name? where wer þou bore?
& who haþ y-wounded þe so sore?
Ich þe bidde þatow say me,
& for soþe y pliȝt þe
For me schaltow harm haue non.
Who haþ þe þus iuel bi-gon?’
He answerd, ‘þat wille y nouȝt.
In mine hert is swiche sorwe brouȝt,
Þat y dar schewe þe no speche.
Lete me dye, y þe biseche.
So michel sigge y þe, sir kniȝt,
Ȝif þou wilt pliȝt me anon riȝt
Þi treuþe in hond mine,
Siker þou be þat al mi pine
& alle mine estris ichil telle þe;
Elles no wostow it nouȝt for me.’
His treuþe sone he him pliȝt,
His liif he teld him anon riȝt.