University of Virginia Library

The Secund day suyng, sais me the lyne,
Þe Troiens full tymli tokyn þe feld;
All boun vnto batell on hor best wyse,
And þe grekis home agayn gyrdyn with yre.
Brem was þe batell vpon both haluys!
Mony gyrd to þe ground and to grym deth;
Mony stoute þere was storuen vnder stel wedis;
And mony britnet on bent, & blody by-ronnen!
That day was full derke, dymmyt with cloudes,
With a Ropand Rayne rut fro the skewes;
A myste & a merkenes in mountains aboute,
All donkyt the dales with the dym showris.
Yet the ledis on the land left not þerfore,
But thrappit full throly, thryngyng thurgh sheldis,
Till the bloberond blode blend with the rayn.
And the ground, þat was gray, gret vnto red.
Mony knightes were kyld of þe kene grekes;
Mo were þere mart of þe mayn troiens.
Then Troiell, full tite, turnyt vnto batell
With a company cleane of cant men of armys.
The freike was so fuerse, & fell of his dynttes,
There was no buerne on the bent his birre to withstond,
But fled hom in fere, ferd of hor dethe,
Turnit to þere tenttes, tenyt full euyll,
Thurgh the rug, & the rayn, þat raikede aboue,
All wery for wete, & for wan strokes;
And ay the troiens with tene tyrnyn hom doun,
ffelly with fauchons folowet hom after,
Dang hom to dethe in the dym water,
Pursewit hom with pyne vnto þere pure tenttes,
There leuit thay laike, and the laund past:
ffor the wedur so wete, and the wan showres,
Soght vnto the Citie soberly & faire,
And entrid full easely, euyn as hom liked.

The next day full naitly, the noble men of Troy
ffore euyn to þe fight, & the fild toke;
And the grekes hom agayne, with a grym fare
Launchit furth to þe laund, lepon to-gedur.
Speires vnto sprottes sprongyn ouer heddes;
Sheldis thurgh shot with the sharpe end;
Swyngyng out swerdes, swappyn on helmys,
Beiton þurgh basnettes with the brem egge.
Mony derf þere was ded and to dole broght!
Troiell, in þat tyme, turnyt to batell
With a folke, þat was felle, fightyng men all.
He gird doun the grekes with so grym fare,
Þat no buerne vpon bent his buffettes might thowle.
Mony knyghtes he kyld, comyns by-dene:
Barons of the best, and of the bold vrles,
Deghit þat day with dynt of his weppyn.
Thus macchit þose men till the merke night;
The store was full stith, þen stynt þai for late,
And aither syde, after sun, soght to þere holde.
Then vij dayes euyn þai semblit in þe felde,
With strong batell & brem till the bare night,
And yche day was þere dede mony derfe hundrith.
Þen hit greuit the grekes of the gret murthe,
Of the bodies on bent brethit full euyll;
The corses, as caryn, corit hom with stynke,
ffor the murthe was so mykull in þe meane tyme.
Þan to Priam, the prise kyng, prestly the sent
ffor a tru to be takon of a tyme short,
Two monythes, & no more, þaire men for to bery,
And to frete hom with fyre, þat were fey worthen.
Hit was grauntid agayn by grement with-in,
And affirmyt with faith the frekes betwene.

Within the tyme of the tru, as þe trety says,
Agamynon the gret full gredly did send
Nestor, the noble duke, another—Vlyxes—
And Dyomede, the derfe Kyng, to doghty Achilles,
Prayond hom full prestly by þo prise kynges,
ffor to buske hym to batell, & þo buernes helpe
In offence of hor fos, and hor fuerse socour,
Thurgh might of his monhode & his mayn strenght.
When þai comyn to þe kyng, þo kyde men in fere,
He welcomyt þo worthy with a wille faire,
And solast hom somyn syttyng with hym.
The first of þo fre, þat to þe freike said,
Was Vlyxes, the lord, with his lythe wordes:—
“Ne was hit not your wille, & your weghes all,
With other kynges in company, & kyde men of worship,
ffro our prouyns to passe, and our prise londes,
With a pouer full preste on Priam to venge;
His body to britton, & his burgh take;
All his stid to distroy, and his stith holdis?
What will is þere waknet in your wild hert,
Or what puttes you in plite þis purpos to leue,
To enclyne to þe contrary, & no cause haue,
Syn hit happis vs suche harmes to haue now, alace:
Oure kynges bein kylde, and our kyd dukes;
Oure bachelors on bent brittynet full thicke;
Oure tenttes to-torne, takyn oure godes;
Oure barges brent vnto bare askes,
And other harmes full hoge hent in a whyle?
Hit was hopit full hertely of oure hegh pepull,
Thurgh prowes of your person, & your prise dedis,
Þat vs hap shuld the herhond haue of our fos,
Syn ye honerable Ector auntrid to sle,
That all the Troiens trust truly was in.
And now Deffibus is dede, deires no more,
Þat furse was in fight, and oure folk sloght;
So (happeth) þaire hope is in hard deth,
And febill in hor fight, faynt in hor hertis.
Syn ȝe alosit ar, of longtym, lusti in armys,
And oure folke has defendit with ȝour fyn strenkith,
With þe blode of ȝour brest thurgh þe bright maille,
And oft reskewet oure renkes, or þai ruth þolit;
If hit like you now, lell sir, lyft vp your hertte,
Mayntene youre manhode & your men helpe,
ffaris into fight your folke to releue,
Þat with-outyn helpe of your hond happis the worse.
Therfore hent vp your hert & your high wille,
Meue you with monhode to mar of your fos;
To wyn vs oure worship, & our wille haue:
And þat hope we full hertely thurgh helpe of your one.”

THE ANSWARE OF ACHILLES TO VLYXES THE KYNG.

To þat honerable onestly answaret Achilles,
With wordis full wise in his wit noble:—
“If vs auntrid, Vlyxes, thurgh angard of pride,
To þis kith for to come, & oure kyn leue,
Hit was folly, by my faith, & a fowle dede.
Masit were our myndes & our mad hedis,
And we in dotage full depe dreuyn, by faith,
ffor the wille of a woman, & no whe ellis,
All our londes to leue, & to laite hedur,
Oure kynges be kild, & oure kide dukes,
All oure londes to lose, and oure lyf als,
In a cuntre vnkynd to be cold ded.
Hade not Palomydon, the prise kyng, provet the bettur,
To haue lengit in his lond, & his lyf hade,
And haue deghit in his Duché, as a duke noble,
Then be britnet on bent with a buerne strang:
And fele other fre kynges frusshet to dethe,
Þat might haue leuyt as lordes in þere lond yet?
Syn the worthiest of þe worle, to wale hom by-dene,
Are assemblit to þis sege in a sad ost,
If hit happyn hom here with hond to be slayn,
And þaire londis to lose lightly for ay,
All þe world shall haue wondur of hor wit febill;
And Carles þaire cuntre cacht as þaire aune,
To weld all þe worchip þo worthy men aght.
Was not honerable Ector, oddist of knightes,
In this batell on bent britnet to deth;
And lightly his lif lost in a stound:
ffor all his fursnes, in faith, had a febill end?
Þe sam to my-self, sothli, may happyn,
Þat am febiller be fer þen þe fre prinse,
Both of myght, & of makyng, & of mayn strenkith.
Þis trauell is tynt, I tel you before,
Me to preve with your praier prestly to feld,
Or any troien to tene, trist ȝe non other.
Hit is playnly my purpos neuer in plase efte,
ffor to boun me to batell þer buernes schal fight,
Ne þer as doute is of deth, ffro þis day efte.
Me is leuer for to lyue with losse þat I haue,
Þen ani person be put vnto pale deth.
Hit is wit soche wildnes wayne out of mynd,
And pas ouer a purpos enparis at þe end.”

Þen Diamed, þe derf kyng, and the Duke Nestor,
Tretid hym trietly, all with tru wordis,
ffor to turne his entent & his tyme kepe;
But all þaire wordis þai wast, & þaire wynd alse.
Noght stird hym þo stith in his stalle hert,
Ne the prayer of the prinse, þat the prise hade,
Agamynon the gret, þat the gomes sent,
Noght meuyt his mynd for no myld speche,
Ne put of his purpos ffor prayer ne other.
Þan laght þai hor leue, þo lordes, in fere,
Ayryn to the Emperoure angardly fast,
All þai toldyn hym (tite), as þai tide euyn,
Of þaire answare, in ordur, those od men to-gedur.
Agamynon full graidly gedrit all somyn,
Dukes, and derfe Erles, doughty of hond,
Caght hom in councell, and the cause told,
The authwart answares of Achilles the kyng,
And the prayer of the prinses, þat prestly were sent,
By assent of hym-selfe, þe soueraine vnto;
And how he counceld the kynges to kayre into grece,
With the Troiens to trete, & tene hom no more;
All hor lond for to leue, & hor lyue saue.
“Lakys now, ledys, what you lefe think,
And what ye deme to be done at this du tyme.”

When the souerain hade said, sone opponon,
Menelay meuyt vp, & with mouthe saide:—
“fforto trete with the troiens ys no tyme now,
Ne no worship, I-wis, but a wit feble.
Syn Ector ded is of dynt, & Deffibus the knight,
And other kynges ben kyld, þat cleane were of hond,
The Troiens full truly trusten no bettur,
But dernly to degh: þai demyn non other.
I am sekir, for-sothe, and sadly beleue,
Withouten helpe of þat hathell vs hastis an end.”
Then Nestor þe noble duke, another—Vlixes,
Saidon to the souerayn sadly agayn:—
“Þof þow wylne to þe wer, wonders vs noght,
Syn þi hert is holly the harmys to venge;
Thy wyf for to wyn, þat þou well loues,
And to grefe hom agayne, yf þou grace hade:
But yet trust not þat Troy will titly be wonyn,
Þof derfe Ector be dede, and Deffibus alse.
There is another als noble & nait of his strenght,
& als wondurly werkes in wer vppon dayes;
That is Troilus the triet, þat tenes vs full euyll,
And fuersly in fight fellis our pepull.
Þof Ector were eftsones ordant alyue,
He kylles our knightes, kerues hom in sonder:
And Paris, a prise man, pert of his dedis;
Was neuer Deffibus so doughty & derfe of his hondes.
Therefore, sirs, vs semyth sothely the best,
With the Troiens to trete & turne to our londes,
With the harme, þat we haue, of our hede kynges,
In sauyng of our-selfe & our sure knightes.”
Then Calcas the curset, þat was the kyde traytour,
The Bysshop of the burgh, þat I aboue said,
Negh wode of his wit, walt into sorow,
Brast out with a birre & a bale noise.
“Ah! noble men of nome, nayet of your werkes,
Worthiest in worde, wanttis no hertte!
What! thinke ye so þroly this þrepe for to leue;
Your goddis to greue, þat graunttes you an end?
Leuys hit full lelly, the laike is your avne,
And the prise of the play plainly to ende,
Thurgh the graunt of your goddes, & no grem þole.
What! thinke ye so þroly þis þrepe for to leue?
Heyue vp your herttes, henttes your armys;
Wackyns vp your willes, as worthy men shuld;
Bes fuerse on your fos to the ffer end,
And lette no dolnes you drepe, ne your dede let;
ffares with no faintyng till your fors lacke!
Tristis me full truly, you tydes the bettur,
Yonder won for to wyn, and your wille haue;
And þerfore greue not your goddes for grem þat may folow.”
At the wordes, I-wis, of this wickyde traytor,
All the grekes with grem gedret þere herttes,
Noght charget Achilles, ne his choise helpe,
But were frekir to þe fight þen at the first tyme;
And þus in Rigour þos Renkes Restyn tyll efte.