University of Virginia Library

Of all thes kene conquerours to carpe it were kinde;
Of fele feghting-folk ferly we finde;
The Turnament of Tottenham have we in minde:
It were harme sich hardiness were holden bihinde—
In story as we rede—
Of Hawkin, of Herry,
Of Tomkin, of Terry,
Of them that were doughty
And stalworth in dede.

It befell in Totenham, on a dere day,
Ther was mad a shurting be the hyway.
Theder com all the men of the contray—
Of Hyssyltoun, of Hygate, and of Hakenay,
And all the swete swinkers.
Ther hopped Hawkin,
Ther daunsed Dawkin,
Ther trumped Tomkin—
And all were trewe drinkers . . .

Till the day was gon and evin-song past,
That they shuld rekin ther scot and ther contes cast.
Perkin the potter in to the press past
And said, “Rondol the refe, a doghter thou hast,
Tyb the dere.
Ther-for wit wold I
Which of all this bachelery
Were best worthy
To wed hur to his fere.”

Up stirt thes gadelings with ther long staves
And said, “Randal the refe, lo! this lad raves!
Baldely amang us thy doghter he craves
And we er richer men then he and more good haves
Of catel and corn.”
Then said Perkyn, “To Tybbe I have hight
That I shall be alway redy in my right,
If that it shuld be this day sevenight,
Or ellis yet to-morn.”

Then said Randolfe the refe, “Ever be he waried
That about this carping lenger wold be taried!
I wold not that my doghter that sho were miscarried,
But at hur most worship I wold sho were married.
Ther-for a turnament shall begin
This day sevenight
With a flail for to fight
And he that is of most might
Shall brouke hur with winne.

“Whoso beris him best in the turnament,
Him shall be granted the gree, be the comon assent,
For to winne my doghter with dughtiness of dent
And Coppeld, my brode-henne, was broght out of Kent,
And my donnid cowe.
For no spens will I spare,
For no catel will I care.
He shall have my gray mare
And my spottid sowe.”

Ther was many bold lad ther bodies to bede.
Than they toke their leve and homward they yede
And all the woke afterward they graithed ther wede,
Till it come to the day that they shuld do ther dede.
They armed ham in mattis;
They set on ther nollis
For to kepe ther pollis
Gode blake bollis
For battring of battis

They sowed tham in shepe-skinnes for they shuld not brest;
Ilkon toke a blak hat insted of a crest,
A harrow brod as a fanne aboune on ther brest
And a flaile in ther hande for to fight prest.
Furth gon they fare.
Ther was kid mekil fors
Who shuld best fend his cors.
He that had no gode hors,
He gat him a mare.

Sich another gadring have I not sene oft!
When all the gret cumpany com ridand to the croft.
Tyb on a gray mare was set upon loft,
On a sek full of seedis, for sho shuld sit soft . . .
And led hur to the gap.
For crieng of all the men
Forther wold not Tyb then
Till she had hur gode brode-hen
Set in hur lap.

A gay girdil Tyb had on, borrwed for the nonis,
And a garland on hur hed, full of rounde bonis,
And a broche on hur brest full of safer stonis—
With the holy rode tokening was wrethin for the nonis.
No catel was ther spared!
When joly Gyb saw hure thare,
He gird so his gray mere
That she lete a faucon-fare
At the rereward.

“I vow to God,” quod Herry, “I shall not leve behende!
May I mete with Bernard, on Bayard the blinde,
Ich man kepe him out of my winde!
For whatsoever that he be befor me I finde
I wot I shall him greve!”
“Wele said,” quod Hawkyn.
“And I avow,” quod Dawkyn,
“May I mete with Tomkyn,
His flail him reve.”

“I vow to God,” quod Hud, “Tyb, sone shall thou see
Which of all this bachelery grant is the gree!
I shall scomfet thaim all, for the love of thy.
In what place so I come, they shall have dout of me,
Min armes are so clere.
I bere a reddil and a rake,
Poudred with a brennand drake
And three cantell of a cake
In icha cornare.”

“I vow to God,” quod Hawkyn, “if I have the gout,
All that I finde in the felde presand here about,
Have I twies or thries redin thurgh the route,
In icha stede ther they me see, of me they shall have doute
When I begin to play.
I make a vow that I ne shall,
But-if Tybbe will me call,
Or I be thries doun fall,
Right onis com away.”

Then said Terry and swore by his crede,
“Saw thou never yong boy forth his body bede,
For when they fight fastest and most are in drede,
I shall take Tyb by the hand and hur away lede.
I am armed at the full.
In min armis I bere wele
A dough trough and a pele,
A sadill withouten a panel
With a fles of woll.”

“I vow to God,” quod Dudman, “and swor be the stra,
Whils me is left my mere, thou getis hur not swa!
For sho is wele shapen and light as the ro.
Ther is no capul in this mile befor hur shall ga!
She will me noght begile;
She will me bere, I dar wele say,
On a lang someris day,
Fro Hyssyltoun to Hakenay,
Noght other half mile!”

“I vow to God,” quod Perkyn, “thou spekis of cold rost!
I shall wirch wiselier, withouten any bost!
Fif of the best capullis that ar in this ost,
I wot I shall thaim winne and bring thaim to my cost;
And here I graunt tham Tybbe.
Wele, boyes, here is he
That will fight and not flee;
For I am in my jolyté.
With yo forth, Gybbe!”

When they had ther vowes made, furth gan they hye,
With flailes and hornes and trumpes made of tree.
Ther were all the bacheleris of that contré;
They were dight in array as thamselfe wold be.
Their banners were full bright,
Of an old roten fell;
The cheverone, of a plow-mell
And the shadow of a bell,
Poudred with mone-light.

I wot it is no childer-game whan they togedir met!
When icha freke in tha feld on his felay bet
And laid on stifly; for nothing wold they let!
And faght ferly fast till ther horses swet,
And fewe wordis spoken.
Ther were flailes all to-slatred,
Ther were sheldis all to-clatred,
Bollis and dishes all to-shatred,
And many hedis brokin.

Ther was clinking of cart-sadellis and clattiring of cannes;
Of fele frekis in the feld, brokin were ther fannes;
Of sum were the hedis brokin, of sum the brain-panes;
And ill ware it be sum or they went thens,
With swipping of swepillis.
The boyes were so wery for-fught
That they might not fight mare oloft,
But creped then about in the croft
As they were crooked crepils.

Perkyn was so wery that he began to loute;
“Help, Hud! I am ded in this ilk route!
A hors for forty pens, a gode and a stoute,
That I may lightly come of my noye out!
For no cost will I spare.”
He stirt up as a snaile
And hent a capul be the taile
And raght Dawkyn his flaile
And wan ther a mare.

Perkyn wan fif and Hud wan twa
Glad and blithe they ware that they had don sa;
They wold have tham to Tyb and present hur with tha.
The capull were so wery that they might not ga,
But still gon they stand.
“Allas!” quod Hudde, “my joye I lese!
Me had lever then a ston of chese
That dere Tyb had all these
And wist it were my sand.”

Perkyn turnid him about in that ich thrange;
Among thes wery boyes he wrest and he wrang.
He threw tham doun to the erth and thrast thaim amang,
When he saw Tyrry away with Tyb fang,
And after him ran.
Of his hors he him drogh
And gaf him of his flail inogh.
“We, te-he!” quod Tyb and lugh,
“Ye er a dughty man.”

Thus they tugged and rugged till it was nere night;
All the wives of Tottenham come to see that sight,
With wispes and kexis and rishis ther light,
To fech hom ther husbandes that were tham trouth-plight.
And sum brought gret harwes
Ther husbandes hom for to fech;
Sum on dores and sum on hech,
Sum on hirdillis and sum on crech,
And sum on welebarraws.

They gaderid Perkyn about, everich side.
And graunt him ther the gre; the more was his pride.
Tyb and he, with gret merthe homward con they ride,
And were all night togedir till the morn-tide;
And they in fere assent:
So wele his nedis he has sped
That dere Tyb he has wed;
The prise folk that hur led
Were of the turnament.

To that ilk fest com many, for the nones.
Some come hyp-halt and sum trippand on the stonis;
Sum a staf in his hand and sum two at onis.
Of sum were the hedis to-broken and sum the shulderbonis.
With sorrow com they thedir!
Wo was Hawkyn, wo was Herry,
Wo was Tomkyn, wo was Terry,
And so was all the bachelary,
When they met togedir.

At that fest they were servid with a riche array:
Every fif and fif had a cokenay.
And so they sat in jolyté all the lang day;
And at the last they went to bed, with full gret deray.
Mekil mirth was them amang.
In every corner of the hous
Was melody delicious,
For to here precious,
O six menis sang.

Lithe and listenithe the lif of a lord riche,
The while that he livid was none him liche,
Nether in boure ne in halle;
In the time of Arthoure this adventure betid,
And of the great adventure that he himself did,
That king curteis and royalle.
Of alle kinges Arture berithe the flowir,
And of alle knightod he bare away the honour,
Where-so-evere he went.
In his contrey was nothing but chivalry
And knightes were belovid by that doughty,
For cowardes were everemore shent.
Nowe wille ye list a while to my talking,
I shalle you telle of Arthoure the king,
Howe ones him befelle.
On hunting he was in Ingleswood,
With alle his bold knightes good;
Nowe herken to my spelle!
The king was set at his trestille-tree
Withe his bowe to sle the wilde veneré
And his lordes were set him beside;
As the king stode, then was he ware
Where a great hart was and a faire,
And forthe fast did he glide.
The hart was in a braken ferne,
And hard the groundes, and stode fulle derne.
Alle that sawe the king.
“Hold you stille, every man,
And I wolle go myself, if I can
With crafte of stalking.”
The king in his hand toke a bowe
And wodmanly he stoupid lowe
To stalk unto that dere.
When that he cam the dere fulle nere,
The dere lept forthe into a brere,
And evere the king went nere and nere.
So King Arthure went a while,
After the dere, I trowe, half a mile,
And no man withe him went.
And at the last to the dere he let flye
And smote him sore and sewerly;
Such grace God him sent.
Doun the dere tumblid so deron,
And felle into a great brake of feron;
The king followid fulle faste.
Anon the king bothe ferce and felle
Was withe the dere and did him serve welle.
And after the grasse he taste.
As the king was withe the dere alone,
Streighte ther cam to him a quaint grome,
Armid welle and sure,
A knighte fulle strong and of great mighte
And grimly wordes to the king he said,
“Welle y-met, King Arthour!
Thou hast me done wrong many a yere
And wofully I shalle quitte thee here.
I hold thy life days nighe done;
Thou hast gevin my landes in certain
With great wrong unto Sir Gawen.
Whate sayest thou, king alone?”
“Sir Knight, whate is thy name withe honour?”
“Sir King,” he said, “Gromer Somer Joure,
I telle thee nowe withe righte.”
“A, Sir Gromer Somer bethink thee welle,
To slee me here honour getist thou no delle,
Bethink thee thou art a knight;
If thou slee me nowe in this case,
Alle knightes wolle refuse thee in every place,
That shame shalle nevere thee fro;
Let be thy wille and followe wit
And that is amiss I shalle amend it,
And thou wolt, or that I go.”
“Nay,” said Sir Gromer Somer, “by hevin king!
So shalt thou not skape withoute lesing,
I have thee nowe at availle.
If I shold let thee thus go withe mockery,
Anoder time thou wolt me defye;
Of that I shalle not faille.”
Now said the king, “So God me save,
Save my life, and whate thou wolt crave,
I shalle now graunt it thee;
Shame thou shalt have to slee me in veneré,
Thou armid and I clothid but in grene, perdé.”
“Alle this shalle not help thee, sekirly,
For I wolle nother lond ne gold truly;
But if thou graunt me at a certain day
Such as I shalle set, and in this same arraye.”
“Yes,” said the King, “lo, here my hand.”
“Ye, but abide, King, and here me a stound;
First thou shalt swere upon my sword broun
To shewe me at thy coming whate wemen love best in feld and town;
And thou shalt mete me here witheouten send
Evin at this day twelve monethes end;
And thou shalt swere upon my swerd good
That of thy knightes shalle none com with thee, by the rood,
Nouther frende ne freind.
And if thou bring not answere witheoute faille,
Thine hed thou shalt lose for thy travaille—
This shalle nowe be thine othe.
What sayst thou, King? Let see, have done!”
“Sir, I graunt to this, now let me gone;
Thoughe it be to me fulle lothe,
I ensure thee, as I am true king,
To com again at this twelve monethes end
And bring thee thine answere.”
“Now go thy way, King Arthure;
Thy life is in my hand, I am fulle sure;
Of thy sorrowe thou art not ware.
Abide, King Arthure, a litelle while;
Loke not today thou me begile,
And kepe alle thing in close;
For and I wist, by Mary milde,
Thou woldist betray me in the feld,
Thy lif first sholdist thou lose.”
“Nay,” said King Arthure, “that may not be;
Untrewe knighte shalt thou nevere finde me;
To dye yet were me lever.
Farwelle, Sir Knighte, and eville met,
I wolle com, and I be on live at the day set,
Thoughe I shold scape nevere.”
The king his bugle gan blowe;
That hard every knighte and it gan knowe;
Unto him can they rake;
Ther they fond the king and the dere,
Withe sembland sad and hevy chere,
That had no lust to laik.
“Go we home nowe to Carlylle;
This hunting likis me not welle,”
So said King Arthure.
Alle the lordes knewe by his countenaunce
That the king had met withe sume disturbaunce.
Unto Carlylle then the king cam,
But of his hevinesse knewe no man;
His hart was wonder hevy.
In this hevinesse he did abide
That many of his knightes mervelid that tide,
Tille at the last Sir Gawen
To the king he said than,
“Sir, me marvailithe righte sore,
Whate thing that thou sorrowist fore.”
Then answerid the king as tighte,
“I shalle thee telle, gentille Gawen knighte.
In the forest as I was this daye,
Ther I met withe a knighte in his arraye
And sertain wordes to me he gan sain
And chargid me I shold him not bewraine;
His councelle must I kepe therfore,
Or els I am forswore.”
“Nay, drede you not, lord, by Mary flower,
I am not that man that wold you dishonour
Nother by evin ne by moron.”
“Forsothe I was on hunting in Ingleswood;
Thowe knowest welle I slewe an hart, by the rode,
Alle myself alon;
Ther met I withe a knighte armid sure;
His name he told me was Sir Gromer Somer Joure:
Therfor I make my mone.
Ther that knighte fast did me threte
And wold have slain me withe great heat,
But I spak faire again.
Wepins withe me ther had I none;
Alas, my worship therfor is nowe gone.”
“What thereof?” said Gawen,
“What nedis more I shalle not lye;
He wold have slain me ther witheoute mercy—
And that me was fulle lothe.
He made me to swere that at the twelve monethes end
That I shold mete him ther in the same kinde;
To that I plighte my trouithe.
And also I shold telle him at the same day
Whate wemen desiren moste in good faye;
My life els shold I lese.
This othe I made unto that knighte,
And that I shold nevere telle it to no wighte;
Of this I mighte not chese.
And also I shold com in none oder arraye,
But evin as I was the same daye;
And if I failid of mine answere,
I wot I shall be slain righte there.
Blame me not thoughe I be a wofulle man;
Alle this is my drede and fere.”
“Ye, Sir, make good chere;
Let make your hors redy
To ride into straunge contrey;
And evere wheras ye mete outher man or woman, in faye,
Ask of theim whate they therto saye.
And I shalle also ride anoder waye
And enquere of every man and woman and get what I may
Of every man and womans answere;
And in a boke I shalle theim write.”
“I graunt,” said the King as tite,
“It is welle advised, Gawen the good,
Evin by the holy rood.”
Sone were they bothe redy,
Gawen and the king witterly.
The king rode on way and Gawen anoder
And evere enquired of man, woman, and other,
Whate wemen desired moste dere.
Somme said they lovid to be welle arrayd,
Somme said they lovid to be faire prayed;
Somme said they lovid a lusty man
That in their armis can clipp them and kisse them than;
Somme said one; somme said other;
And so had Gawen getin many an answere.
By that Gawen had geten whate he maye
And come again by a certain daye.
Sir Gawen had goten answeris so many
That had made a boke great witterly.
To the courte he cam again.
By that was the king comin withe his boke
And either on others pamplett did loke.
“This may not faile,” said Gawen.
“By God,” said the King, “I drede me sore,
I cast me to seke a litelle more
In Ingleswood Forest;
I have but a monethe to my day set,
I may happen on somme good tidinges to hit—
This thinkithe me nowe best.”
“Do as ye list,” then Gawen said,
“Whatesoevere ye do I hold me paid;
Hit is good to be spyrring;
Doute you not, lord, ye shalle welle spede;
Sume of your sawes shalle help at nede,
Els it were ille liking.”
King Arthoure rode forthe on the other day,
Into Ingleswood as his gate laye
And ther he met withe a lady.
She was as ungoodly a creature
As evere man sawe witheoute mesure.
King Arthure mervailid securly.
Her face was red, her nose snotid withalle,
Her mouithe wide, her teethe yallowe overe alle,
Withe blerid eyen gretter then a balle;
Her mouithe was not to lak;
Her teethe hing overe her lippes;
Her cheekis side as wemens hippes;
A lute she bare upon her back.
Her neck long and therto great;
Her here cloterid on an hepe;
In the sholders she was a yard brode;
Hanging pappis to be an hors lode;
And like a barelle she was made;
And to reherse the foulnesse of that lady,
Ther is no tung may telle, securly;
Of lothinesse y-noughe she had.
She sat on a palfray was gay begon,
With gold beset and many a precious stone.
Ther was an unsemely sighte;
So foulle a creature witheoute mesure
To ride so gayly, I you ensure,
It was no reason ne righte.
She rode to Arthoure and thus she said,
“God spede, Sir King, I am welle paid
That I have withe thee met;
Speke withe me, I rede, or thou go,
For thy life is in my hand, I warn thee so;
That shalt thou finde, and I it not let.”
“Why, what wold ye, lady, nowe withe me?”
“Sir, I wold fain nowe speke withe thee
And telle thee tidinges good.
For alle the answeris that thou canst yelpe,
None of theim alle shalle thee helpe
That shalt thou knowe by the rood.
Thou wenist I knowe not thy councelle;
But I warn thee I knowe it every dealle.
If I help thee not, thou art but dead.
Graunt me, Sir King, but one thing,
And for thy life, I make warraunting,
Or elles thou shalt lose thy hed.”
“Whate mean you, lady, telle me tighte,
For of thy wordes I have great dispite;
To you I have no nede.
What is your desire, faire lady?
Let me wete shortly
Whate is your meaning
And why my life is in your hand;
Telle me and I shalle you warraunt
Alle your own asking.”
“Forsothe,” said the lady, “I am no qued.
Thou must graunt me a knighte to wed—
His name is Sir Gawen.
And suche covenaunt I wolle make thee,
But thorowe mine answere thy lif savid be,
Elles let my desire be in vaine.
And if mine answere save thy lif,
Graunt me to be Gawens wif.
Advise thee nowe, Sir King.
For it must be so, or thou art but ded;
Chose nowe, for thou maiste sone lose thine hed.
Telle me nowe in hying.”
“Mary,” said the king, “I maye not graunt thee
To make warraunt Sir Gawen to wed thee;
Alle lyethe in him alon.
But and it be so, I wolle do my labour
In saving of my life to make it secour;
To Gawen wolle I make my mone.”
“Welle,” said she, “nowe go home again
And faire wordes speke to Sir Gawen,
For thy lif I may save.
Thoughe I be foulle, yet am I gaye;
Thourghe me thy life save he maye
Or sewer thy dethe to have.”
“Alas!” he said, “nowe wo is me
That I shold cause Gawen to wed thee,
For he woll be lothe to saye naye.
So foulle a lady as ye ar nowe one
Sawe I nevere in my life on ground gone,
I not whate I do may.”
“No force, Sir King, thoughe I be foulle;
Choise for a make hathe an owlle.
Thou getest of me no more.
When thou comist again to thine answere,
Righte in this place I shalle mete thee here
Or elles I wot thou art lore.”
“Now farewelle,” said the King, “Lady.”
“Ye Sir,” she said, “ther is a bird men calle an owle . . .
And yet a lady I am.”
“Whate is your name, I pray you telle me?”
“Sir King, I highte Dame Ragnelle, truly,
That nevere yet begilid man.”
“Dame Ragnelle, now have good daye.”
“Sir King, God spede thee on thy way!
Righte here I shalle thee mete.”
Thus they departid faire and welle
The king fulle sone com to Carlylle,
And his hart hevy and great.
The first man he met was Sir Gawen,
That unto the king thus gan sain,
“Sir, howe have ye sped?”
“Forsothe,” said the King, “nevere so ille!
Alas, I am in point myself to spille,
For nedely I most be ded.”
“Nay,” said Gawen, “that may not be!
I had lever myself be dead, so mot I thee.
This is ille tidand.”
“Gawen, I met today withe the foulist lady
That evere I sawe sertenly.
She said to me my life she wold save . . .
But first she wold thee to husbond have.
Wherfor I am wo begon—
Thus in my hart I make my mone.”
“Is this alle?” then said Gawen;
“I shalle wed her and wed her again,
Thoughe she were a fend,
Thoughe she were as foulle as Belsabub,
Her shalle I wed, by the rood,
Or elles were not I your frende;
For ye ar my king withe honour
And have worshipt me in many a stoure.
Therfor shalle I not let.
To save your life, lorde, it were my parte,
Or were I false and a great coward;
And my worship is the bet.”
“Y-wis, Gawen, I met her in Ingliswood.
She told me her name, by the rode,
That it was Dame Ragnelle.
She told me but I had of her answere,
Elles alle my laboure is nevere the nere;
Thus she gan me telle.
And but if her answere help me welle,
Elles let her have her desire no dele:
This was her covenaunt;
And if her answere help me, and none other,
Then wold she have you, here is alle togeder,
That made she warraunt.”
“As for this,” said Gawen, “it shalle not let:
I wolle wed her at whate time ye wolle set;
I pray you make no care.
For and she were the most foulist wighte
That evere men mighte see withe sighte,
For your love I wolle not spare.”
“Gramercy, Gawen,” then said King Arthor;
“Of alle knightes thou berest the flowre
That evere yet I fond.
My worship and my lif thou savist forevere;
Therfore my love shalle not frome thee dissevir,
As I am king in lond.”
Then within five or six days
The King must nedis go his ways
To bere his answere.
The King and Sir Gawen rode oute of toun . . .
No man withe them, but they alone,
Neder ferre ne nere.
When the King was withein the forest:
“Sir Gawen, farewelle, I must go west,
Thou shalt no furder go.”
“My lord, God spede you on your jorney,
I wold I shold nowe ride your way,
For to departe I am right wo.”
The king had ridden but a while,
Litelle more then the space of a mile
Or he met Dame Ragnelle.
“A, Sir King, ye are nowe welcum here,
I wot ye ride to bere your answere;
That wolle availle you no dele.”
“Nowe,” said the King, “sithe it wolle none other be,
Telle me your answere nowe, and my life save me;
Gawen shalle you wed.
So he hathe promised me my lif to save
And your desire nowe shalle ye have,
Bothe in bowre and in bed.
Therfor telle me nowe alle in hast.
Whate wolle help now at last;
Have done, I may not tarry.”
“Sir,” quod Dame Ragnelle, “nowe shalt thou knowe
Whate wemen desiren moste of highe and lowe;
From this I wolle not varaye.
Summe men sayn we desire to be faire;
Also we desire to have repaire
Of diverse straunge men;
Also we love to have lust in bed
And often we desire to wed,
Thus ye men not ken.
Yet we desire anoder manner thing,
To be holden not old, but freshe and yong,
Withe flattring and glosing and quaint gin,
So ye men may us wemen evere win
Of whate ye wolle crave.
Ye go fulle nise, I wolle not lye;
But there is one thing is alle oure fantasye,
And that nowe shalle ye knowe.
We desiren of men above alle manner thing
To have the sovereinté, withoute lesing,
Of alle, bothe highe and lowe.
For where we have sovereinté alle is ouris,
Thoughe a knighte be nevere so feris,
And evere the mastry winne;
Of the moste manliest is oure desire:
To have the sovereinté of suche a sire;
Suche is oure crafte and ginne.
Therfore wend, Sir King, on thy way,
And telle that knighte, as I thee saye,
That it is as we desiren moste;
He woll be wrothe and unsoughte
And curse her fast that it thee taughte,
For his laboure is lost.
Go forthe, Sir King, and hold promise,
For thy life is sure nowe in alle wise;
That dare I well undertake.”
The king rode forthe a great shake,
As fast as he mighte gate
Thorowe mire, more, and fenne
Wheras the place was signid and set then.
Evin there withe Sir Gromer he met.
And stern wordes to the King he spak withe that,
“Com of, Sir King, nowe let see
Of thine answere whate it shall be,
For I am redy grathid.”
The King pullid oute bokes twaine;
“Sir, ther is mine answer, I dare sayn,
For somme wolle help at nede.”
Sir Gromer lookid on theim everychon;
“Nay, nay, Sir King, thou art but a dead man;
Therfor nowe shalt thou blede.”
“Abide, Sir Gromer,” said King Arthoure,
“I have one answere shalle make alle sure.”
“Let see,” then said Sir Gromer,
“Or els, so God me help, as I thee say,
Thy dethe thou shalt have with large paye,
I telle thee nowe ensure.”
“Now,” said the King, “I see, as I gesse,
In thee is but a litelle gentilnesse,
By God that ay is helpand.
Here is oure answere, and that is alle,
That wemen desiren moste specialle,
Bothe of free and bond.
I saye no more, but above all thing
Wemen desire sovereinté, for that is their liking;
And that is ther moste desire;
To have the rewlle of the manliest men,
And then ar they welle, thus they me did ken,
To rule thee, Gromer Sire.”
“And she that told thee nowe, Sir Arthoure,
I pray to God, I maye see her bren on a fire,
For that was my suster, Dame Ragnelle.
That old scott, God geve her shame,
Elles had I made thee fulle tame;
Nowe have I lost moche travaille.
Go where thou wolt, King Arthoure,
For of me thou maist be evere sure.
Alas, that I evere see this day!
Nowe, welle I wot, mine enime thou wolt be.
And at suche a prick shalle I nevere get thee;
My song may be welle-awaye!”
“No,” said the King, “that make I warraunt;
Some harnis I wolle have to make me defendaunt,
That make I God avowe!
In suche a plighte shalt thou nevere me finde,
And if thou do, let me bete and binde,
As is for thy best prouf.”
“Nowe have good day,” said Sir Gromer;
“Farewell,” said Sir Arthoure, “so mot I thee,
I am glad I have so sped.”
King Arthoure turnid his hors into the plain,
And sone he met withe Dame Ragnelle again,
In the same place and stede.
“Sir King, I am glad ye have sped welle,
I told howe it wold be every delle;
Nowe hold that he have highte.
Sin I have savid your lif, and none other,
Gawen must me wed, Sir Arthoure,
That is a fulle gentille knighte.”
“No, lady, that I you highte I shalle not faille;
So ye woll be rulid by my councelle,
Your wille then shalle ye have.”
“Nay, Sir King, nowe wolle I not so,
Openly I woll be weddid, or I parte thee fro.
Elles shame welle ye have.
Ride before, and I wolle com after,
Unto thy courte, Sir King Arthoure;
Of no man I wolle shame;
Bethink you howe I have savid your lif.
Therfor withe me nowe shalle ye not strife,
For and ye do, ye be to blame.”
The king of her had great shame;
But forthe she rood, thoughe he were grevid,
Tille they cam to Carlyle forthe they mevid.
Into the courte she rode him by
For no man wold she spare, securly.
It liked the king fulle ille.
Alle the contraye had wonder great,
Fro whens she com, that foule unswete;
They sawe nevere of so foulle a thing.
Into the halle she went, in certen.
“Arthoure, King, let fetche me Sir Gaweyn,
Before the knightes, alle in hying,
That I may nowe be made sekir;
In welle and wo trowithe plighte un togeder
Before alle thy chivalry.
This is your graunt, let see, have done.
Set forthe Sir Gawen, my love, anon,
For lenger tarrying kepe not I.”
Then cam forthe Sir Gawen the knighte,
“Sir, I am redy of that I you highte,
Alle forwardes to fulfille.”
“Godhavemercy,” said Dame Ragnelle then,
“For thy sake I wold I were a faire woman,
For thou art of so good wille.”
Ther Sir Gawen to her his trouthe plighte
In welle and in wo, as he was a true knighte;
Then was Dame Ragnelle fain.
“Alas!” then said Dame Gaynor;
So said alle the ladies in her bower
And wept for Sir Gawen.
“Alas!” then said bothe king and knight,
That evere he shold wed suche a wighte,
She was so foulle and horrible.
She had two teethe on every side
As boris tuskes, I wolle not hide,
Of lengthe a large handfulle;
The one tusk went up and the other doun;
A mouthe fulle wide and foulle y-grown.
With grey heris many on.
Her lippes laye lumprid on her chin;
Neck forsothe on her was none y-seen—
She was a lothly on!
She wold not be weddid in no maner
But there were made a crye in all the shire,
Bothe in town and in borrowe.
Alle the ladies nowe of the lond,
She let cry to com to hand
To kepe that bridalle thorowe.
So it befille after on a daye
That married shold be that foulle lady
Unto Sir Gawen.
The daye was comin the daye shold be;
Therof the ladies had great pitey.
“Allas!” then gan they sayn.
The queen prayd Dame Ragnelle sekerly
To be married in the morning erly . . .
“As privaly as we may.”
“Nay,” she sayd, “by Hevin King,
That wolle I nevere for no thing,
For oughte that ye can saye.
I woll be weddid alle openly,
For withe the king such covenaunt made I.
I put you oute of doute,
I wolle not to churche tille highe masse time
And in the open halle I wolle dine,
In middis of alle the route.”
“I am greed,” said Dame Gaynour,
“But me wold think more honour
And your worship moste.”
“Ye, as for that, lady, God you save,
This daye my worship wolle I have,
I telle you withoute boste.”
She made her redy to churche to fare
And alle the states that there ware,
Sirs, withoute lesing.
She was arrayd in the richest maner,
More fresher than Dame Gaynour;
Her arrayment was worthe three thousand mark
Of good red nobles stiff and stark,
So richely she was begon.
For alle her rayment she bare the belle
Of foulnesse that evere I hard telle—
So foulle a sowe saw nevere man.
For to make a short conclusion,
When she was weddid, they hyed theim home;
To mete alle they went.
This foulle lady began the highe dese;
She was fulle foulle and not curteis,
So said they alle verament.
When the service cam her before,
She ete as moche as six that ther wore;
That mervailid many a man.
Her nailes were long inchis three;
Therwithe she breke her mete ungoodly;
Therfore she ete alone.
She ette three capons and also curlues three,
And great bake metes she ete up, perdé.
All men therof had mervaille.
Ther was no mete cam her before,
But she ete it up lesse and more,
That praty foulle dameselle.
Alle men then that evere her sawe
Bad the deville her bonis gnawe,
Bothe knighte and squire.
So she ete tille mete was done,
Tille they drewe clothes and had washen
As is the gise and manner.
Meny men wold speke of diverse service,
I trowe ye may wete y-noughe ther was,
Bothe of tame and wilde;
In King Arthours courte ther was no wont
That mighte be gotten withe mannis hond,
Noder in forest ne in feld.
Ther were minstralles of diverse contrey.

“A, Sir Gawen, sin I have you wed,
Shewe me your cortesy in bed;
Withe righte it may not be denied.
Y-wise, Sir Gawen,” that lady said,
“And I were faire ye wold do anoder braid,
But of wedlock ye take no heed.
Yet of Arthours sake kisse me at the leste;
I pray you do this at my request,
Let see howe ye can spede.”
Sir Gawen said, “I wolle do more
Then for to kisse, and God before!”
He turnid him her untille.
He sawe her the fairest creature
That evere he sawe withoute mesure.
She said, “What is your wille?”
“A, Jhesu!” he said, “whate are ye?”
“Sir, I am your wif, securly;
Why ar ye so unkinde?”
“A, lady, I am to blame;
I cry you mercy, my faire madame—
It was not in my minde.
A lady ye ar faire in my sighte
And today ye were the foulist wighte
That evere I sawe withe mine ie.
Wele is me, my lady, I have you thus”;
And brasid her in his armis and gan her kisse
And made great joye sicurly.
“Sir,” she said, “thus shalle ye me have;
Chese of the one, so God me save,
My beauty wolle not hold:
Wheder ye wolle have me faire on nightes
And as foulle on days to alle men sightes
Or els to have me faire on days
And on nightes on the foulist wife,
The one ye must nedes have.
Chese the one or the oder.
Chese on, Sir Knighte, whiche you is levere,
Your worship for to save.”
“Alas!” said Gawen, “the choise is hard.
To chese the best it is froward.
Wheder choise that I chese,
To have you faire on nightes and no more,
That wold greve my hart righte sore
And my worship shold I lese.
And if I desire on days to have you faire,
Then on nightes I shold have a simple repaire.
Now fain wold I chose the best,
I ne wot in this world what I shall saye,
But do as ye list nowe, my lady gaye.
The choise I put in your fist.
Evin as ye wolle, I put it in your hand,
Lose me when ye list, for I am bond.
I put the choise in you.
Bothe body and goodes, hart, and every dele,
Is alle your own, for to by and selle—
That make I God avowe!”
“Gramercy, corteis knighte,” said the lady;
“Of alle erthly knightes blissid mot thou be,
For now am I worshippid.
Thou shalle have me faire bothe day and nighte
And evere while I live as faire and brighte;
Therfore be not grevid.
For I was shapen by nigramancy,
Withe my stepdame, God have on her mercy,
And by enchauntement,
And shold have bene oderwise understond,
Evin tille the best of Englond
Had weddid me verament.
And also he shold geve me the sovereinté
Of alle his body and goodes, sicurly;
Thus was I disformid;
And thou, Sir Knighte, curteis Gawen,
Has gevin me the sovereinté sertein,
That wolle not wrothe thee erly ne late.
Kisse me, Sir Knighte, evin now here,
I pray thee, be glad and make good chere,
For welle is me begon.”
Ther they made joye oute of minde,
So was it reason and cours of kinde,
They two theimself alone.
She thankid God and Mary milde
She was recovered of that that she was defoilid;
So did Sir Gawen.
He made mirthe alle in her boure
And thankid of alle oure Savioure,
I telle you, in certain.
With joye and mirthe they wakid tille daye
And than wold rise that faire maye.
“Ye shalle not,” Sir Gawen said;
“We wolle lie and slepe tille prime
And then let the king calle us to dine.”
“I am greed,” then said the maid.
Thus it passid forth till middaye.
“Sirs,” quod the king, “let us go and assaye
If Sir Gawen be on live.
I am fulle ferd of Sir Gawen,
Nowe lest the fende have him slain;
Nowe wold I fain preve.
Go we nowe,” said Arthoure the king.
“We wolle go see their uprising,
Howe welle that he hathe sped.”
They cam to the chambre alle in certain.
“Arise,” said the king to Sir Gawen;
“Why slepist thou so long in bed?”
“Mary,” quod Gawen, “Sir King, sicurly,
I wold be glad, and ye wold let me be,
For I am fulle welle at eas.
Abide, ye shalle see the dore undone!
I trowe that ye wolle say I am welle gon;
I am fulle lothe to rise.”
Sir Gawen rose and in his hand he toke
His fair lady and to the dore he shoke
And opinid the dore fulle faire.
She stood in her smock alle by that fire;
Her her was to her knees as red as gold wire.
“Lo, this is my repaire!
Lo!” said Gawen Arthoure untille,
“Sir, this is my wife, Dame Ragnelle,
That savid onis your life.”
He told the king and the queen hem beforn
Howe sodenly from her shap she did torne,
“My lord, nowe by your leve.”
And whate was the cause she forshapen was
Sir Gawen told the king both more and lesse.
“I thank God,” said the queen,
“I wenid, Sir Gawen, she wold thee have miscaried;
Therfore in my hart I was sore agrevid;
But the contrary is here seen.”
There was game, revelle, and playe
And every man to other gan saye,
“She is faire wighte.”
Than the king them alle gan telle
How did held him at nede Dame Ragnelle,
“Or my dethe had bene dighte.”
Ther the king told the queen, by the rood,
How he was bestad in Ingleswood
Withe Sir Gromer Somer Joure
And whate othe the knighte made him swere
“Or elles he had slain me righte there
Withoute mercy or mesure.
This same lady, Dame Ragnelle,
From my dethe she did help me right welle
Alle for the love of Gawen.”
Then Gawen told the king alle togeder
Howe forshapen she was withe her stepmoder
Tille a knighte had holpen her again;
Ther she told the king faire and welle
Howe Gawen gave her the sovereinté every delle
And whate choise she gave to him.
“God thank him of his curtesie;
He savid me from chaunce and vilony
That was fulle foulle and grim.
Therfore, curteis knighte and hend Gawen,
Shalle I nevere wrathe thee sertain,
That promise nowe here I make;
Whiles that I live I shall be obaisaunt;
To God above I shalle it warraunt,
And nevere with you to debate.”
“Garamercy, lady,” then said Gawen,
“With you I hold me fulle welle content,
And that I trust to finde.”
He said, “My love shalle she have;
Therafter nede she nevere more crave,
For she hathe bene to me so kinde.”
The queen said (and the ladies alle),
“She is the fairest nowe in this halle,
I swere by Saint John!
My love, lady, ye shalle have evere,
For that ye savid my lord Arthoure,
As I am a gentilwoman.”
Sir Gawen gat on her Gyngolyn,
That was a good knighte of strengthe and kin
And of the Table Round.
At every great fest that lady shold be.
Of fairnesse she bare away the bewtye,
Wher she yed on the ground.
Gawen lovid that lady Dame Ragnelle;
In alle his life he lovid none so welle,
I telle you withoute lesing.
As a coward he lay by her bothe day and night.
Nevere wold he haunt justing arighte;
Therat mervailed Arthoure the king.
She praid the king for his gentilnes,
“To be good lord to Sir Gromer, y-wisse,
Of that to you he hathe offendid.”
“Yes, lady, that shalle I nowe for your sake,
For I wot welle he may not amendes make;
He did to me fulle unhend.”
Nowe for to make you a short conclusion,
I cast me for to make an end fulle sone
Of this gentille lady.
She livid withe Sir Gawen but yeris five;
That grevid Gawen alle his life,
I telle you securly.
In her life she grevid him nevere;
Therfor was nevere woman to him lever.
Thus leves my talking.
She was the fairest lady of alle Englond,
When she was on live, I understand;
So said Arthoure the king.
Thus endithe the adventure of King Arthoure,
That oft in his days was grevid sore,
And of the wedding of Gawen.
Gawen was weddid oft in his days;
But so welle he nevere lovid woman always,
As I have hard men sayn.
This adventure befelle in Ingleswood,
As good King Arthoure on hunting yod;
Thus have I hard men telle.
Nowe God as thou were in Bethleme boren
Suffer nevere her soules be forlorne
In the brinning fire of helle!
And, Jhesu, as thou were borne of a virgin,
Help him oute of sorrowe that this tale did devine,
And that nowe in alle hast,
For he is beset withe gailours many,
That kepen him fulle sewerly,
With wiles wrong and wraste.
Nowe God, as thou art veray king royalle,
Help him oute of daunger that made this tale,
For therin he hathe bene long.
And of great pety help thy servaunt,
For body and soulle I yeld into thine hand,
For paines he hathe strong.

Here endithe the wedding of
Sir Gawen and Dame Ragnelle
For helping of King Arthoure.

1

Lystonnyth, lordyngus, a lyttyll stonde
Of on that was sekor and sounde
And doughty in his dede.
He was as meke as mayde in bour
And therto styfe in euery stour,
Was non so doughtty in dede.
Dedus of armus wyttout lese
Seche he wolde in war and pees
In mony a stronge lede.
Sertaynly, wyttoutyn fabull,
He was wytt Artter at the Rounde Tabull,
In romans as we reede.

2

His name was Syr Gawene;
Moche worschepe in Bretten he wan,
And hardy he was and wyghte.
The yle of Brettayn icleppyde ys
Betwyn Skotlond and Ynglonde iwys,
In storry iwryte aryghte.
Wallys ys an angull of that yle;
At Cardyfe soiornde the kynge a whylle
Wytt mony a gentyll knyghte
That wolde to Ynglonde to honte,
As grete lordys dothe and be wonte,
Wytt hardy lordys and wyghte.

3

Kinge Arttor to his lordis gan saye
As a lorde ryall that well maye,
“Do vs to have a masse;
Byschope Bawdewyn schall hit don;
Then to the forrest woll we gon,
All that evyr her ys,
For nowe ys grece-tyme of the yeer
That baruns bolde schulde hont the der,
And reyse hem of her reste.”
Wondor glad was Syr Mewreke,
So was the knyght Sir Key Caratocke,
And other mor and lase.

4

Glad was Launccelet de Lacke,
So was Syr Percivall, I vndortake,
And Lanfalle, I wene,
So was Syr Eweyn the Vyttryan
And Syr Lot of Laudyan,
That hardy was and kene,
Syr Gaytefer and Syr Galerowne,
Syr Costantyn and Syr Raynbrown,
The knyght of armus grene.
Syr Gawen was stwarde of the halle;
He was master of hem all
And buskyde hem bedenne.

5

The kyngus vncull Syr Mordrete
Nobull knyghtus wytt hym gan lede,
In romans as men rede.
Syr Yngeles, that genttyle knyghte,
Wytt hym he lede houndys wyght
That well coude do her dede.
Syr Lebys Dyskoniis was thare
Wytt proude men les and mare
To make the donne der blede;
Syr Petty Pas of Wynchylse,
A nobull knyght of cheualré,
And stout was on a stede.

6

Syr Grandon and Syr Ferr Vnkowthe,
Meryly they sewyde wytt mouthe,
Wytt houndys that wer wyght;
Syr Blancheles and Ironsyde,
Monny a doughty that day con ryde
On hors fayr and lyghte.
Irounsyde, as I wene,
Gat the knyght of armus grene
On a lady bryght,
Sertenly, as I wnderstonde,
The fayr may of Blanche Lonnde,
In bour that louely wighte.

7

Ironsyde, as I wene,
I-armyd he wolde ryde full clene,
Wer the sonn nevyr so hoot;
In wyntter he wolde armus bere,
Gyanttus and he wer euer at were
And allway at the debate.

8

Fabele Honde hyght ys stede,
His armys and his odir wede
Full fayr and goode hit was.
Of asur for sothe he bare
A gryffyn of golde full feyr
Iset full of golde flourrus.

9

He coude mor of venery and of wer
Then all the kyngus that wer ther;
Full oft asay hem he wolde.
Brennynge dragons hade he slayn
And wylde bullus mony won
That gresely wer iholde.
Byge barrons he hade ibonde,
A hardyer knyght myght not be fonde,
Full herdy he was and bolde.
Therfor ha was callyd, as I hard say,
The kyngus fellowe by his day,
Wytt worthy knyghttus itolde.

10

A lyon of golde was his creste;
He spake reyson out of reste;
Lystynn and ye may her.
Whereuer he went, be est or weste,
He nold forsake man nor best
To fyght fer or ner.

11

Knyghttus kene fast they rane;
The kynge followyd wytt mony a man,
V C and moo, I wene.
Folke followyd wytt fedyrt flonus,
Nobull archarrus for the nons,
To fell the fallow-der so cleyn.

12

Barrons gan her hornnus blowe,
The der cam reykynge on a rowe,
Bothe hert and eke heynde.
Be that tyme was pryme of the day
V C der dede on a lond lay
Alonge vndur a lynde.

13

Then Syr Gawen and Syr Key
And Beschope Bavdewyn, as I yow say,
After a raynder they rode.
Frowe that tym was prym of the day
Tyl myde-vndur-non, as I yow saye,
Neuer styll hit abode.
A myst gan ryse in a mor,
Barrons blowe her hornis store;
Meche mon Syr Key made,
The reyneder wolde not dwelle.
Herkon what aventer hem befelle;
Herbrow they wolde fayn haue hade.

14

Then sayde the gentyll knyght Syr Gawen,
“All this labur ys in wayne,
For certen trowe hit me.
The dere ys passyde out of our syght;
We mete no mor wytt hym to-nyght,
Hende herkon to me.
I reede that we of our hors alyght
And byde in this woode all nyght
And loge vndur this tree.”
“Ryde we hens,” quod Keye anon,
“We schall haue harbrowe or we gon;
Dar no man wern hit me.”

15

Then sayd the Beschope, “I knowe hit well,
A Carle her in a castell
A lyttyll her ner honde.
The Karl of Carllyll ys his nam,
He may vs herborow, be Sent Iame,
As I vndurstonde.
Was ther nevyr barnn so bolde
That euer myght gaystyn in his holde
But evyll harbrowe he fonde.
He schall be bette, as I harde say,
And yefe he go wytt lyfe away
Hit wer but Goddus sonde.

16

Nowe ryde we thedyr all thre.”
Therto sayd Key, “I grant hit the,
Also mot I well far;
And as thou seyst, hit schall be holde.
Be the Carle neuer so bolde,
I count hym not worthe an har
And yeyf he be neuer so stovte,
We woll hym bette all abowt
And make his beggynge bar.
Suche as he brewythe, seche schall he drenke,
He schall be bette that he schall stynke
And ayenst his wyll be thar.”

17

Syr Gawen sayd, “So hav I blyse,
I woll not geystyn ther magré ys,
Thow I myght neuer so well,
Yefe anny fayr wordus may vs gayn
To make the larde of vs full fayn
In his oun castell.
Key, let be thy bostfull fare;
Thow gost about to warke care,
I say, so haue I helle.
I woll pray the good lorde, as I yow saye,
Of herborow tyll to-morrow daye
And of met and melle.”

18

On her way fast they rode;
At the castell yat they abode;
The portter call they schulde.
Ther hynge a hommyr by a cheyn;
To knocke therat Syr Key toke dayn,
The hommyr away he wold have pold.
The portter come wytt a prewey fare
And hem fonde he ther;
He axid what they wolde.
Then sayd Gawen curttesly,
“We beseche the lorde of herbory,
The good lorde of this holde.”

19

The portter answerd hem agayn,
“Your message wold I do full fayn;
And ye have harme, thanke hyt not me.
Ye be so fayr, lyme and lythe,
And therto comly, glad therwytt,
That cemmely hyt ys to see.
My lorde can no corttessye;
Ye schappyth notte wyttout a wellony,
Truly trow ye mee.
Me rewyth sor ye came this waye;
And ar ye go, so woll ye say,
But yefe mor grace be.”

20

“Portter,” sayde Key, “let be thy care;
Thow sest we mey no forther fare;
Thow iappyst, as I wene.
But thou wolt on our message gon,
The kyngus keyis woll we tane
And draw hem doun cleyn.”
The portter sayde, “So mot I thryfe,
Ther be not thre knyghttus alyve
That dorst do hit, I wene.
Wyst my lorde your wordys grete,
Some your lyvys ye schold forlete
Or ellus full fast to flen.”

21

The portter went into the hall,
Wytt his lord he mett wyttall,
That hardy was and bolde.
“Carl of Carllhyll, God loke the,
At the yatt be barnnus thre,
Semley armus to welde,
To knyghttus of Arterys in,
A beschope, and no mor men,
Sertayn, as they me tolde.”
Then sayd the Carle, “Be Sent Myghell,
That tythingus lykyth me ryght well,
Seyth thei this way wolde.”

22

When they came befor that syr,
They fond iiij whelpus lay about his fyer,
That gresly was for to see:
A wyld bole and a fellon boor,
A lyon that wold bytte sor—
Therof they had grete ferly.
A bege ber lay louse vnbounde,
Seche iiij whelpus ther they founde
About the carllus kne.
They rose and came the knyghttus agayn,
And soun thei wold hem haue slayn;
The Carle bade hem let bee.

23

“Ly doun,” he sayd, “my whelpys four.”
Then the lyon began to lour
And glowyd as a glede,
The ber to ramy, the boole to groun,
The bor he whett his toskos soun
Fast and that good spede.
Then sayd the Carle, “Ly style, hard yn!”
They fell adoun for fer of hyme,
So sor they gan hyme drede.
For a word the Carle gan say
Vnder the tabull they crepyd away;
Therof Syr Key toke hede.

24

The Carle the knyghttus can beholde,
Wytt a stout vesage and a bolde;
He semyd a dredfull man:
Wytt chekus longe and vesage brade,
Cambur nose and all full made,
Betwyne his browus a large spane,
Hys moghth moche, his berd graye,
Ouer his brest his lockus lay
As brod as anny fane;
Betwen his schuldors, whos ryght can rede,
He was ij tayllors yardus a brede.
Syr Key merweld gretly than.

25

IX taylloris yerdus he was hyghtht,
And therto leggus longe and wyghtht,
Or ellus wondor hit wer.
Ther was no post in that hall,
Grettyst growand of hem all,
But his theys wer thycker.
His armus wer gret wyttoutyn lese,
His fyngeris also, iwys,
As anny lege that we ber.
Whos stoud a stroke of his honde,
He was not wecke, I vndurstond,
That dar I safly swer.

26

Then Syr Gawen began to cnele.
The Carle sayd he myght be knyght wylle
And bad hyme stond vpe anon.
“Lett be thy knellynge, gentyll knyght;
Thow logost wytt a Carll to-nyght,
I swer, by Sennt Iohnn.
For her no corttessy thou schalt have,
But carllus cortessy, so God me save,
For serttus I can non.”
He bad brynge wyn in gold so der;
Anon hit cam in coppus cler,
As anny sonn hit schon.

27

IIII gallons held a cop and more;
He bad brynge forthe a grettor:
“What schall this lyttyll cope doun?
This to lyttyll a cope for me
When I sytt by the fyr onn hy
By myself aloun.
Brynge vs a gretter bolle of wynn;
Let vs drenke and play sethyn
Tyll we to sopper goun.”
The butteler brought a cope of golde
(IX gallons hit gane holde)
And toke hit the Carle anon.

28

IX gallons he hyld and mare;
He was not weke that hit bare
In his won honde.
The knyghttus dronkon fast about
And sethe arose and went hem out
To se her hors stond.
Corne and hey thei had reydy;
A lyttyll folle stod hem bye
Wytt her hors fast ettand.
The besschope put the fole away:
“Thow schalt not be fello wytt my palfray
Whyll I am beschope in londe.”

29

The Carll then cam wytt a gret spede
And askyde, “Who hathe doun this dede?”
The beschope seyd, “That was I.”
“Therfor a bofett thou schalt have,
I swer, so God me sawe,
And hit schall be sett wytterly.”
“I ame a clarke of ordors hyghe.”
“Yett cannyst thou noght of corttessyghe,
I swer, so mott I trye.”
He yafe the besschope a boffett tho
That to the ground he gan goo;
I sonynge he gann lyghe.

30

Syr Key came in the same cas
To se his stede ther he was;
The foll fond he hym by.
Out att the dor he drof hym out
And on the backe yafe hym a clovt.
The Carle se that wytt hys yghe.
The Carll yafe hym seche a boffett
That smertly onn the grond hym sett;
In sonynge gan he lyghe.
“Euyll-tavght knyghttus,” the Carl gan sey;
“I schall teche the or thou wend away
Sum of my corttessye.”

31

Then they arose and went to hall,
The beschope and Syr Key wyttall,
That worthy was iwroght.
Syr Gawen axyd wer they had byne.
They seyd, “Our horssys we have sene
And vs sor forthoght.”
Then ansswerd Gawen full curttesly,
“Syr, wytt your leyf then wyll I.”
The Carll knewe his thought.
Hett reynnyd and blewe stormus felle
That well was hym, be bocke and belle,
That herborow had cavght.

32

Wyttout the stabull dor the foll gan stond;
Gawen put hyme in agayn wytt his hond;
He was all wett, I wene,
As the foll had stond in rayne.
Then keueryd he hym, Sir Gawene,
Wytt his manttell of grene.
“Stond vpe, fooll, and eette thy mette;
We spend her that thy master dothe gett,
Whyll that we her byne.”
The Carle stode hym fast by
And thankyd hym full curtteslye
Manny sythis, I wene.

33

Be that tyme her soper was redy dyght,
The tabullus wer havfe vpe an hyght;
Icowert they were full tyte.
Forthwytt, thei wolde not blynne:
The besschope gan the tabull begynne
Wytt a gret delytte.
Syr Key was sett on the tother syde
Ayenst the Carllus wyfe so full of pryde,
That was so feyr and whytte:
Her armus small, her mydyll gent,
Her yghen grey, her browus bente;
Of curttessy sche was perfette.

34

Her roode was reede, her chekus rounde,
A feyrror myght not goo on grounde,
Ne lowelyur of syghte.
Sche was so gloryis and soo gay
I can not rekon her araye;
Sche was so gayly dyghte.
“Alas,” thought Key, “thou lady fre,
That thou schuldyst this ipereschde be
Uytt seche a foulle weghtht!”
“Sytt styll,” quod the Carl, “and eete thy mette;
Thow thinkost mor then thou darst speke;
Sertten I the hyght.”

35

I do yow all well to wette
Ther was noo man bade Gawen sitte,
But in the halle flor gann he stonde.
The Carle sayde, “Fellowe, anoun,
Loke my byddynge be well idoun!
Go take a sper in thy honde
And at the bottre-dor goo take thy passe
And hitt me evyn in the face;
Do as I the commande.
And yeyfe thou ber me ayenst the wall,
Thow schalt not hort me wyttalle,
Whyll I am gyaunt in londe.”

36

Syr Gawenn was a glade mann wytt that;
At the bottre-dor a sper he gatte
And in his honde hit hente.
Syr Gawen came wytt a gret ire.
Doun he helde his hede, that syre,
Tyll he hade geue his dentte.
He yafe the ston wall seche a rappe
That the goode sper all tobrake;
The fver flewe out of the flente.
The Carl sayde to hym ful soune,
“Gentyll knyght, thou hast well doune.”
And be the honde hyme hente.

37

A cher was fette for Syr Gawene,
That worthy knyght of Bryttayne;
Befor the Carllus wyfe was he sett.
So moche his love was on her lyght
Of all the soper he ne myght
Nodyr drynke nor ette.
The Carle sayde, “Gawen, comfort the,
For synn ys swete, and that I se,
Serten I the hete.
Sche ys myn thou woldyst wer thynn.
Leve seche thoghttus and drenke the wynne,
For her thou schalt nott geytt.”

38

Syr Gawen was aschemmyde in his thowght;
The Carllus dovghtter forthe was brovght,
That was so feyr and bryght.
As gold wyre schynyde her here.
Hit cost a M li and mar,
Her aparrell pertly pyghte.
Wytt ryche stonnus her clothus wer sett,
Uytt ryche perllus about her frete,
So semly was that syghte.
Ouyr all the hall gann sche leme
As hit were a sonbeme—
That stonnus schone so bryght.

39

Then seyde the Carle to that bryght of ble,
“Uher ys thi harpe thou schuldist have broght wytt the—
Uhy hast thou hit forgette?”
Anon hit was fett into the hall
And a feyr cher wyttall
Befor her fador was sett.
The harpe was of maser fyne;
The pynnys wer of golde, I wene,
Serten wyttout lett
Furst sche harpyd and sethe songe
Of love and of Artorrus armus amonge,
How they togeydor mett.

40

Uhen they hade sovpyde and mad hem glade,
The Beschope into his chambur was lade,
Uytt hym Syr Key the kene.
They toke Syr Gawen wyttout lessynge
To the Carlus chamber thei gan hym brynge,
That was so bryght and schene.

41

They bade Syr Gawen go to bede,
Uytt clothe of golde so feyr sprede,
That was so feyr and bryght.
Uhen the bede was made wytt wynne,
The Carl bade his oun lady go in,
That loufesom was of syghte.
A squyer came wytt a prewey far
And he vnarmyde Gawen then;
Schaply he was vndyght.
The Carle seyde, “Syr Gawene,
Go take my wyfe in thi armus tweyne
And kys her in my syghte.”

42

Syr Gawen ansswerde hyme anon,
“Syr, thi byddynge schall be doune,
Sertaynly in dede,
Kyll or sley or laye adoune.”
To the bede he went full sone,
Fast and that good spede.
For softnis of that ladys syde
Made Gawen do his wyll that tyde;
Therof toke the Carle goode hede.
Uhen Gawen wolde haue doun the prevey far,
Then seyd the Carle, “Whoo ther.
That game I the forbede.

43

But, Gawen, sethe thou hast do my byddynge,
Som kyndnis I most schewe the in anny thinge,
As fer forthe as I maye.
Thow schalt have wonn to so bryght
Schall play wytt the all this nyghte
Tyll to-morrowe daye.”
To his doughtter chambur he went full ryght
And bade her aryse and go to the knyght
And wern hym nott to playe.
Sche dorst not ayenst his byddynge doun,
But to Gawen sche cam full sone
And style doun be hyme laye.

44

“Now, Gawen,” quod the Carle, “holst the well payde?”
“Ye, for Gode, lorde,” he sayde,
“Ryght well as I myghte!”
“Nowe,” quod the Carle, “I woll to chambur go;
My blessynge I geyfe yow bouthe to,
And play togeydor all this nyght.”
A glad man was Syr Gawen
Sertenly, as I yowe sayne,
Of this lady bryght.
Serten, sothely for to say,
So, I hope, was that feyr maye
Of that genttyll knyght.

45

“Mary, mercy,” thought that lady bryghte,
“Her come neuer suche a knyght
Of all that her hathe benne.”
Syr Key arose vppon the morrown
And toke his hors and wolde a goune
Homwarde, as I wenne.
“Nay, Syr Key,” the Beschope gann seye,
“Ue woll not so wende our waye
Tyll we Syr Gawen have sene.”
The Carll arose on morrow anon
And fond his byddynge reddy doune:
His dyner idyght full cleyne.

46

To a mas they lett knelle;
Syr Gawen arose and went thertyll
And kyst that lady bryght and cler.
“Maré, marcé,” seyde that lady bryght,
“Uher I schall se enny mor this knyght
That hathe ley my body so ner?”
Uhen the mese was doune to ende,
Syr Gawen toke his leve to wende
And thonkyde hym of his cher.
“Furst,” sayde the Carle, “ye schall dynn
And on my blessynge wende home syne,
Homward al yn fere.”

47

“Hit is xx wynter gon,” sayde the Karle, “nowe
That God I maked a vowe,
Therfore I was fulle sad:
Ther schulde neuer man logge in my wonys
But he scholde be slayne, iwys,
But he did as I hym bad.
But he wolde do my byddynge bowne,
He schulde be slayne and layde adowne,
Whedir he were lorde or lad.
Fonde I neuer, Gawen, none but the.
Nowe Gode of heuyn yelde hit the;
Therfore I am fulle glade.”

48

“He yelde the,” sayde the Carle, “that the dere boughte,
For al my bale to blysse is broughte
Throughe helpe of Mary quene.”
He lade Gawen ynto a wilsome wonys
There as lay x fodir of dede menn bonys
Al yn blode, as I wene.
Ther hynge many a blody serke,
And eche of heme a dyuers marke;
Grete doole hit was to sene.

49

“This slowe I, Gawen, and my helpis,
I and also my foure whelpis,
For sothe, as I the say
Nowe wulle I forsake my wyckyd lawys;
Ther schall no mo men her be slawe, iwys,
As ferth forthe as I may.
Gawen, for the love of the
Al schal be welcome to me
That comythe here by this way.
And for alle these sowlys, I vndirtake,
A chauntery here wul I lete make,
X prestis syngynge til domysday.”

50

Be that tyme her dyner was redy dyghte,
Tables wer hovyn vp an hyghte,
Ikeuerid thei were fulle clene.
Syr Gawen and this lady clere,
They were iseruyd bothe i fere;
Myche myrthe was theme bytwene.
Therfore the Carle was full glade.
The Byschop and Syr Kay he bad
Mery that thei scholde bene.
He yafe the bischop to his blessynge
A cros, a myter, and a rynge,
A clothe of golde, I wene.
He yaf Syr Kay, the angery knyght,
A blode-rede stede and a whight;
Suche on had he neuer sene.

51

He yaf Syr Gawen, sothe to say,
His doughter and a whighte palfray,
A somer ichargid wyth golde.
Sche was so gloryous and so gay
I kowde not rekyn here aray,
So bryghte was alle here molde.
“Nowe ryde forthe, Gawen, on my blessynge,
And grete wel Artyr, that is your kynge,
And pray hym that he wolde,
For his loue that yn Bedlem was borne,
That he wulle dyne wyth me to-morne.”
Gawen seyde he scholde.

52

Then thei rode syngynge away
Wyth this yonge lady on here palfray,
That was so fayre and bryghte.
They tolde Kynge Artir wher thei had bene,
And what wondirs thei had sene
Serteynly in here syght.
“Nowe thonkyd be God, cosyn Gawyn,
That thou scapist alyve vnslayne,
Serteyne wyth alle my myght.”
“And I, Syr Kynge,” sayd Syr Kay agayne,
“That euer I scapid away vnslayne
My hert was neuyr so lyght.
The Carle prayde you for his love that yn Bedlem was borne
That ye wolde dyne wyth hym to-morne.”
Kynge Artur sone hym hyght.
In the dawnynge forthe thy rade;
A ryalle metynge ther was imade
Of many a ientylle knyght.

53

Trompettis mette hem at the gate,
Clarions of siluer redy therate,
Serteyne wythoutyn lette;
Harpe, fedylle, and sawtry,
Lute, geteron, and menstracy
Into the halle hem fett.

54

The Carle knelyd downe on his kne
And welcomyd the kynge wurthyly
Wyth wordis ware and wyse.
When the Kynge to the halle was brought,
Nothynge ther ne wantyd nought
That any man kowde deuyse.
The wallys glemyd as any glasse,
Wyth dyapir colour wroughte hit was

55

Of golde, asure, and byse,
Wyth tabernacles the halle aboughte,
Wyth pynnacles of golde sterne and stoute;
Ther cowde no man hem preyse.
Trompettys trompid vp in grete hete;
The kynge lete sey grace and wente to mete
And was iseruyde wythoute lette.
Swannys, fesauntys, and cranys,
Partrigis, plouers, and curlewys
Before the Kynge was sette.

56

The Carle seyde to the Kynge, “Dothe gladly.
Here get ye no nothir curtesy,
As I vndirstonde.”
Wyth that come yn bollys of golde, so grete
Ther was no knyght sat at the mete
Myght lyfte hem wyth his on honde.
The Kynge swore, “By Seynte Myghelle,
This dyner lykythe me as welle
As any that euyr Y fonde.”
A dubbyd hym knyght on the morne;
The contré of Carelyle he yafe hym sone
To be lorde of that londe.

57

“Here I make the yn this stownde
A knyght of the Table Rownde,
Karlyle thi name schalle be.”
On the morne when hit was daylyght
Syr Gawen weddyid that lady bryght,
That semely was to se.

58

Than the Carle was glade and blythe
And thonkyd the Kynge fele sythe,
For sothe, as I you say.
A ryche fest had he idyght
That lastyd holy a fortenyght
Wyth game, myrthe, and playe.
The mynstrellis had yeftys fre
That they myght the better be,
To spende many a day.
And when the feste was broughte to ende,
Lordis toke here leve to wende
Homwarde on here way.

59

A ryche abbey the Carle gan make
To synge and rede for Goddis sake
In wurschip of oure Lady.
In the towne of mery Carelyle
He lete hit bylde stronge and wele;
Hit is a byschoppis see.
And theryn monkys gray
To rede and synge tille domysday,
As men tolde hit me,
For the men that he had slayne, iwis.
Iesu Cryste, brynge vs to thy blis
Aboue in heuyn, yn thy see. Amen.