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Þan biþought him sir Gij,
To awreke him he hadde gret hye.
Þe douke he seyleþ þere,
& of his helme he carf a quarter.
He made him a croun brod þere
As a monke þat orderd were.
Gij him smot so wiþ his fest,
Þat his nek-bon to-brest.
Wiþ þat come anoþer kniȝt
Of Fraunce y-bore, Amori he hiȝt:
Douke Otus soudour was he,
For his warisoun wiþ him to be.
‘Gij,’ he seyd, ‘now ȝeld þou þe,
Al sikerliche, now to me.
Þe no tit harm litel no miche.’
‘Y nil,’ quaþ Gij, ‘sikerliche.
Ȝete no drede y nouȝt alle ȝou.
Sey me, wreche, what seistow?’
Wiþ þat come Herhaud prikeinde,
& in his hond a swerd wele kerueinde;
He it brouȝt to gode Gyoun.
Þerwiþ he him werd as a lyoun.
Gij was socourd swiþe wel,
When he hadde þe brond of stiel.
Neuer þer nas non so hardi,
Þat enes durst com him bi.
Wharto schuld ich held long tale,
And michel speke about dualle?
Ac sigge ich-il soþeliche
Wiþ fewe wordes simpeliche,
Gij, & Herhaud, & Tirri þe fre
Wiþ her felawes, þat gode be,
Han ouercomen þe batayle
Atte nende, wiþouten faile:
Alle þe Lombard ben ouer-come,
Oway y-flowen þer be some.