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Sir Tristrem

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SIR TRISTREM.

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“Over gestes it has the steem,
Over all that is or was.”
—Robert Mannyng of Brunne.

SIR TRISTREM.

I was a . . . . .
Wiþ tomas spak y þare;
Þer herd y rede in roune
Who tristrem gat and bare,
Who was king wiþ croun,
And who him forsterd ȝare,
And who was bold baroun,
As þair elders ware.
Bi ȝere
Tomas telles in toun
Þis auentours as þai ware.

Þis semly somers day,
In winter it is nouȝt sen;
Þis greues wexen al gray,
Þat in her time were grene.
So dos þis world, y say,
Y wis and nouȝt at wene,
Þe gode ben al oway
Þat our elders haue bene.
(To abide)
Of akniȝt is þat y mene,
His name, it sprong wel wide.

Wald morgan þole no wrong,
Þei morgan lord wes;
He brak his castels strong,

His bold borwes he ches,
His men he slouȝ among
And reped him mani ares.
Þe wer lasted so long
Til morgan asked pes
Þurch pine.
For soþe wiþ outen les,
His liif he wende to tine.
Pus þe batayl, it bigan
(Witeþ wele it was so)
Bitvene þe douk morgan
And rouland þat was þro,
Þat neuer þai no lan
Þe pouer to wirche wo.
Þai spilden mani aman
Bitven hem seluen to
In prise:
Þat on was douk morgan,
Þat oþer rouland rise.

Þe kniȝtes þat were wise,
A forward fast þai bond
Þat ich aman schul ioien his
And seuen ȝer to stond;
Þe douke and rouland riis
Þer to þai bed her hond
To heiȝe and holden priis,
And foren till inglond
To lende;
Markes king þai fond
Wiþ kniȝtes mani and hende.

To marke þe king þai went
Wiþ kniȝtes proude in pres
And teld him to þende
His auentours as it wes.
He preyd hem as his frende
To duelle wiþ him in pes.

Þe kniȝtes, þai were hende
And dede wiþ outen les
In lede:
A turnament þai ches
Wiþ kniȝtes stiþe on stede.

Glad aman was he,
Þe turnament dede crie
Þat maidens miȝt him se
And ouer þe walles to lye.
Þai asked who was fre
To win þe maistrie,
Þai seyd þat best was he,
Þe child of ermonie,
In tour.
For þi chosen was he
To maiden blaunche flour.

Þe maiden of heiȝe kinne
Sche cald hir maisters þre:—
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Bot ȝiue it be þurch ginne,
A selly man is he;
Þurch min hert wiþ inne
Ywounded haþ he me
So sone:
Of bale bot he me blinne,
Mine liif days ben al done.”

He was gode and hende,
Stalworþ, wise and wiȝt;
In to þis londes ende
Y not non better kniȝt,
Trewer non to frende,
And rouland riis he hiȝt.
To batayl gan he wende,
Was wounded in þat fiȝt
Ful felle.

Blauncheflour þe briȝt,
Þe tale þan herd sche telle.

Sche seyd:—“wayleway!”
When hye herd it was so;
To hir maistresse sche gan say
Þat hye was boun to go
To þe kniȝt þer he lay.
Sche swouned and hir was wo,
So comfort he þat may,
A knaue child gat þai tvo,
So dere;
And seþþen men cleped him so:—
Tristrem þe trewe fere.

Þe trewes þat þai hadde tan
And stabled in her þouȝt
Þan brak þe douk morgan,
He no wald held it nouȝt.
Rohand, trewe so stan,
A letter he þer wrouȝt
And sent to rouland o nan,
As man of socour souȝt
In kare
To help what he mouȝt,
Or lesen al þat þer ware.

Rouland riis in tene
Tok leue at markes king
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Or þou wilt wende wiþ me.”
“Mi duelling is hir ille,
Bihold and tow may se.
Mi rede is taken þer tille,
Þat fare y wille wiþ þe
And finde
Þi fair folk and þi fre
O lond þer is þi kinde.”

Þai busked and maked hem boun,
Nas þer no leng abade;
Þai lefted goinfainoun,
And out of hauen þai rade
Til þai com til atoun,
A castel rohant had made.
Her sailes þai leten doun,
And kniȝt, ouer bord þai strade
Al cladde.
Þe kniȝtes þat wer fade,
Þai dede as rohand bade.

Rohand, riȝt he radde:—
“Þis maiden schal ben oure,
Roulandriis to wedde,
At weld in castel tour,
To bring hir to his bedde
Þat briȝtest is in bour.
Nas neuer non fairer fedde
Þan maiden blauncheflour
Al bliþe.”
After þat michel anour
Parting com þer swiþe.

In hird nas nouȝt to hele
Þat morgan telles in toun,
Mekeliche he gan mele
Among his men to roun;

He bad his kniȝtes lele
Com to his somoun
Wiþ hors and wepenes fele
And rered goinfaynoun,
Þat bold.
He rode so king wiþ croun
To win al þat he wold.

Of folk þe feld was brade,
Þer morgan men gan bide;
Þo rouland to hem rade,
Oȝain him gun þai ride;
Swiche meting nas neuer made
Wiþ sorwe on ich aside.
Þer of was rouland glade,
Ful fast he feld her pride.
Wiþ paine
Morgan scaped þat tide
Þat he nas nouȝt slain.

Morganes folk cam newe
Of rouland riis þe gode,
On helmes gun þai hewe,
Þurch brinies brast þe blod;
Sone to deþ þer drewe
Mani a frely fode.
Of rouland was to rewe,
To grounde when he ȝode,
Þat bold:
His sone him after stode,
And dere his deþ he sold.

Rewþe mow ȝe here
Of roulandriis þe kniȝt:
Þrehundred he slouȝ þere
Wiþ his swerd briȝt,
Of al þo þat þer were
Miȝt non him felle in fiȝt,
Bot on wiþ tresoun þere

Þurch þe bodi him piȝt.
Wiþ gile
To deþ he him diȝt—
Allas þat ich while!

His hors o feld him bare
Alle ded hom in his way;
Gret wonder hadde he þouȝt þare
Þat folk of ferly play.
Þe tiding com wiþ care
To blauncheflour, þat may.
For hir me reweþ sare:
On child bed þer sche lay
Was born
Of hir tristrem þat day,
Ac hye no bade nouȝt þat morn.

A ring of riche hewe
Þan hadde þat leuedi fre;
Sche toke it rouhand trewe,
Hir sone sche bad it be:—
“Mi broþer wele it knewe,
Mi fader ȝaf it me;
King markes may rewe,
Þe ring, þan he it se,
And moun.
As rouland loued þe,
Þou kepe it to his sone.”

Þe folk stode vnfain
Bifor þat leuedi fre:—
“Rouland, mi lord, is slain,
He spekeþ no more wiþ me.
Þat leuedi, nouȝt to lain,
For soþe ded is sche.
Who may be ogain?
As god wil, it schal be,
Vnbliþe.”
Sorwe it was to se,

Þat leuedi swelted swiþe.

Geten and born was so
Þe child, was fair and white.
Nas neuer rohand so wo,
He nist it whom to wite.
To child bed ded he go
His owhen wiif al so tite
And seyd he hadde children to,
On hem was his delite
Bicrist!
In court men cleped him so:—
Þo tram bifor þe trist.

Douk morgan was bliþe
Þo roulandriis was doun;
He sent his sond swiþe
And bad al schuld be boun
And to his lores liþe,
Redi to his somoun.
Durst non oȝain him kiþe,
Bot ȝalt him tour and toun
So sone:
No was no king wiþ croun,
So richeliche hadde y done.

Who ȝaf broche and beiȝe?
Who bot douke morgan?
Cruwel was and heiȝe,
Oȝaines him stode no man.
To conseil he calleþ neiȝe
Rohand trewe so stan,
And euer he dede as þe sleiȝe
And held his hert in an,
Þat wise.
It brast þurch blod and ban
Ȝif hope no ware to rise.
Now haþ rohand in ore
Tristrem and is ful bliþe.

Þe child he set to lore
And lernd him al so swiþe;
In bok, while he was þore,
He stodieþ euer, þat stiþe.
Þo þat bi him wore
Of him weren ful bliþe.
Þat bold,
His craftes gan he kiþe
Oȝaines hem when he wold.

Fiftene ȝere he gan him fede,
Sir rohand þe trewe;
He tauȝt him ich alede
Of ich maner of glewe
And euerich playing þede,
Old lawes and newe;
On hunting oft he ȝede,
To swiche alawe he drewe
Al þus,
More he couþe of veneri
Þan couþe manerious.

Þer com aschip of norway
To sir rohandes hold
Wiþ haukes white and gray
And panes fair y fold.
Tristrem herd it say,
On his playing he wold
Tventischilling to lay.
Sir rouhand him told
And tauȝt;
For hauke siluer he ȝold,
Þe fairest men him rauȝt.

A cheker he fond bi a cheire,
He asked who wold play.
Þe mariner spac bonair:—
“Child, what wiltow lay?”
“Oȝain an hauke of noble air

Tventi schillinges, to say.
Wheþer so mates oþer fair
Bere hem boþe oway.”
Wiþ wille
Þe mariner swore his faye:—
“For soþe ich held þer tille.”

Now boþe her wedde lys,
And play þai bi ginne;
Ysett he haþ þe long asise
And endred beþ þer inne.
Þe play biginneþ to arise,
Tristem deleþ atvinne;
He dede als so þe wise:
He ȝaf has he gan winne
In raf.
Of playe ar he wald blinne,
Sex haukes he ȝat and ȝaf.

Rohand toke leue to ga,
His sones he cleped oway;
Þe fairest hauke he gan ta
Þat tristrem wan þat day;
Wiþ him he left ma
Pans for to play.
Þe mariner swore also
Þat pans wold he lay
An stounde.
Tristrem wan þat day
Of him an hundred pounde.

Tristrem wan þat þer was layd.
A tresoun þer was made:
No lenger þan þe maister seyd,
Of gate nas þer no bade.
As þai best sat and pleyd,
Out of hauen þai rade
Opon þe se so gray,
Fram þe brimes brade

Gun flete.
Of lod þai were wel glade,
And tristrem sore wepe.

His maister þan þai fand
A bot and anare.
Hye seyden: “ȝond is þe land,
And here schaltow to bare.
Chese onaiþer hand
Wheþer þe leuer ware
Sink or stille stand;
Þe child schal wiþ ous fare
On flod.”
Tristrem wepe ful sare,
Þai louȝ and þouȝt it gode.

Niȝen woukes and mare
Þe mariners flet on flod,
Til anker hem brast and are
And stormes hem bistode;
Her sorwen and her care
Þai witt þat frely fode;
Þai nisten hou to fare,
Þe wawes were so wode
Wiþ winde.
O lond þai wold he ȝede,
Ȝif þai wist ani to finde.

A lond þai neiȝed neiȝe,
A forest as it ware,
Wiþ hilles þat were heiȝe
And holtes þat weren hare.
O lond þai sett þat sleiȝe
Wiþ al his wining ȝare,
Wiþ broche and riche beiȝe,
A lof of brede ȝete mare,
Þat milde.
Weder þai hadde to fare,
A lond þai left þat childe.

Winde þai had as þai wolde,
A lond bilaft he;
His hert bigan to cold,
Þo he no miȝt hem nouȝt se;
To crist his bodi he ȝald,
Þat don was on þe tre:—
“Lord, mi liif me bihold,
In world þou wisse me
At wille;
Astow art lord so fre,
Þou lete me neuer spille.”

Þo tomas asked ay
Of tristrem, trewe fere,
To wite þe riȝt way
Þe styes for to lere.
Of a prince proude in play
Listneþ, lordinges dere.
Who so better can say,
His owhen he may here
As hende.
Of þing þat is him dere
Ich man preise at ende.

In o robe tristrem was boun
Þat he fram schip hadde brouȝt.
Was of ablihand broun,
Þe richest þat was wrouȝt,
As tomas telleþ in toun.
He no wist what he mouȝt,
Bot semly sett him doun
And ete ay til him gode þouȝt;
Ful sone
Þe forest forþ he souȝt
When he so hadde done.

He toke his lod vnliȝt,
His penis wiþ him he bare;
Þe hilles were on hiȝt,

He clombe þo holtes hare;
Of o gate he hadde siȝt,
Þat he fond ful ȝare;
Þe paþ he toke ful riȝt,
To palmers mett he þare
On hand;
He asked hem whennes þai ware,
Þai seyd:—“of yngland.”

For drede þai wald him slo,
He temed him to þe king;
He bede hem pens mo,
Aiþer ten schilling,
Ȝif þai wald wiþ him go
And to þe court him bring.
“Ȝis” þai sworen þo
Bi þe lord ouer al þing
Ful sone.
Ful wel biset his þing,
Þat raþe haþ his bone.

Þe forest was fair and wide,
Wiþ wilde bestes y sprad.
Þe court was ner bi side,
Þe palmers þider him lad.
Tristrem hunters seiȝe ride,
Les of houndes þai ledde;
Þai token in þat tide
Of fat hertes y fedde
In feld.
In blehand was he cledde,
Þe hunters him biheld.
Bestes þai brac and bare,
In quarters þai hem wrouȝt,
Martirs as it ware
Þat husbond men had bouȝt.
Tristrem þo spac þare
And seyd wonder him þouȝt:—

“Ne seiȝe y neuer are
So wilde best y wrouȝt
At wille.
Oþer,” he seyd, “y can nouȝt,
Or folily ȝe hem spille.”

Vp stode aseriaunt bold
And spac tristem oȝain:—
“We and our elders old,
Þus þan haue we sain.
Oþer þou hast ous told:
Ȝond liþ abest vnflain,
Atire it as þou wold,
And we wil se ful fain
In feld.”
In lede is nouȝt to lain,
Þe hunters him biheld.

Tristrem schare þe brest,
Þe tong sat next þe pride;
Þe heminges swiþe on est
He schar and layd bi side;
Þe breche adoun he þrest,
He ritt and gan to riȝt;
Boldliche þer nest
Carf he of þat hide
Bidene;
Þe bestes he graiþed þat tide,
As mani seþþen has ben.

Þe spande was þe first brede,
Þe erber diȝt he ȝare,
To þe stifles he ȝede
And euen ato hem schare;
He riȝt al þe rede,
Þe wombe oway he bare,
Þe noubles he ȝaf to mede.
Þat seiȝen þat þer ware
Al so.

Þe rigge he croised mare,
Þe chine he smot atvo.

Þe forster for his riȝtes
Þe left schulder ȝaf he,
Wiþ hert, liuer and liȝtes
And blod tille his quirre;
Houndes on hyde he diȝtes,
Alle he lete hem se;
Þe rauen he ȝaue his ȝiftes,
Sat on þe fourched tre,
On rowe;
‘Hunters, whare be ȝe?
Þe tokening schuld ȝe blowe.”

He tiȝt þe mawe on tinde
And eke þe gargiloun;
Þai blewen þe riȝt kinde
And radde þe riȝt roun.
Þai wist þe king to finde
And senten forþ to toun
And teld him vnder linde
Þe best, hou it was boun
And brouȝt.
Marke, þe king wiþ croun,
Seyd þat feir him þouȝt.

Þe tokening when þai blewe,
Þer wondred mani aman;
Þe costom þai nouȝt knewe,
For þi fro bord pai ran;
No wist þai nouȝt hou newe
Þai hadde hunters þan.
It is amaner of glewe
To teche hem þat no can
Swiche þing.
Alle bliþe weren þai þan
Þat ȝede bifor þe king.
Pe king seyd:—“where were þou born?

What hattou, belamye?”
Tristrem spac biforn:—
“Sir, in hermonie.
Mi fader me haþ for lorn,
Sir rohand, sikerly
Þe best blower of horn
And king of venery
For þouȝt.”
Þe lasse ȝaf mark for þi,
For rohand he no knewe nouȝt.

Þe king no seyd no more,
Bot wesche and ȝede to mete;
Bred þai pard and schare,
Ynouȝ þai hadde at ete;
Wheþer hem leuer ware
Win or ale to gete,
Aske and haue it ȝare,
In coupes or hornes grete
Was brouȝt;
Þer, while þai wold, þai sete;
And risen when hem gode þouȝt.

An harpour made alay,
Þat tristrem, aresound he.
Þe harpour ȝede oway:—
“Who better can, lat se.”
“Bot y þe mendi may,
Wrong þan wite y þe.”
Þe harpour gan to say:—
“Þe maistri ȝiue y þe
Ful sket.”
Bi for þe kinges kne
Tristrem is cald to set.

Bliþe weren þai alle,
And merkes gun þai minne,
Token leue in þe halle.
Who miȝt þe child winne?

Mark gan tristrem calle,
Was comen of riche kinne;
He ȝaf him robe of palle
And pane of riche skinne
Ful sket;
His chaumber he liþ inne
And harpeþ notes swete.
Now tristrem lat we þare,
Wiþ marke he is ful dere.
Rohand reweþ sare
Þat he no miȝt of him here;
Ouer londes he gan fare
Wiþ sorwe and reweful chere,
Seuen kingriche and mare
Tristrem to finde þere
And souȝt;
His robes riuen were,
Þer fore no leued he nouȝt.

Nouȝt no semed it so
Rohand, þat noble kniȝt;
He no wist whider to go,
So was he brouȝt omiȝt;
To swinke men wold him to
For mete and robes riȝt.
Wiþ oþer werkmen mo
He bileft al niȝt
In land;
Of þe palmers he hadde asiȝt
Þat tristrem first fand.

His asking is euer newe
In trauail and in pes.
Þe palmer seyd he him knewe
And wiste wele what he wes:—
“His robe is of anhewe,
Blihand wiþ outen les;
His name is tristrem trewe,

Bifor him scheres þe mes,
Þe king.
Y brouȝt him þer he ches,
He ȝaue me tenschilling.”

“So michel wil y ȝiue þe,”
Quaþ rohand, “will ȝe ta?
Þe court ȝe lat me se.”
Þe palmers seyd:—“Ȝa.”
Bliþe þer of was he
And redily ȝaf him sa
Of wel gode mone
Ten schilinges and ma
Of gayn:
Tristrem was ful þra
Of tristrem for to frain.

In tristrem is his delit,
And of him spekeþ he ay.
Þe porter gan him wite
And seyd:—“Cherl! go oway,
Oþer y schal þe smite.
What dostow here al day?”
A ring he rauȝt him tite
—Þe porter seyd nouȝt nay—
In hand.
He was ful wise, y say,
Þat first ȝaue ȝift in land.

Rohand þo tok he
And at þe gate in lete;
Þe ring was fair to se,
Þe ȝift was wel swete.
Þe huscher bad him fle:—
“Cherl, oway wel sket,
Or broken þine heued schal be,
And þou feld vnder fet
To grounde.”
Rohand bad him lete

And help him at þat stounde.

Þe pouer man of mold
Tok forþ anoþer ring,
Þe huscher he ȝaf þe gold,
It seemed to a king;
Formest þo in fold
He lete him in þring;
To tristrem trewe in hold
He hete he wold him bring,
And brouȝt;
Tristrem knewe him no þing,
And ferly rohand þouȝt.

Þei men tristrem had sworn,
He no trowed it neuer in lede
Þat rohand robes were torn,
Þat he wered swiche awede.
He frained him biforn:—
“Child, so god þe rede,
How were þou fram rohand lorn?
Monestow neuer in lede?”
Nouȝt lain
He kneled better spede
And kist rohand ful fain.

“Fader, no wretþe þe nouȝt,
Ful welcom er ȝe!
Bi god, þat man haþ bouȝt,
No þing no knewe y þe;
Wiþ sorwe þou hast me souȝt,
To wite it wo is me!”
To mark þe word he brouȝt:—
“Wil ȝe mi fader se
Wiþ siȝt?
Graiþed y wil he be,
And seþþen schewe him as kniȝt.”

Tristrem to mark it seyd,
His auentours, as it were,

Hou he wiþ schipmen pleyd,
Of lond hou þai him bere,
Hou stormes hem bi stayd,
Til anker hem brast and are.
“Þai ȝolden me þat y layd
Wiþ al mi wining ȝare
In hand;
Y clambe þe holtes hare
Til y þine hunters fand.”

A baþ þai brouȝt rohand inne,
A barbour was redi þare;
Al rowe it was, his chinne,
His heued was white of hare;
A scarlet wiþ riche skinne
Ybrouȝt him was ful ȝare.
Rohand of noble kinne,
Þat robe ful fair he bare,
Þat bold;
Who þat had seyn him þare
A prince him miȝt han told.

Fair his tale bi gan
Rohand, þei he com lat;
Tristrem, þat honour can,
To halle led him þe gate.
Ich man seyd þan
Nas non swiche, as þai wate,
As was þe pouer man
Þat þai bete fram þe gat
Wiþ care;
Nas non þat wald him hate,
Bot welcom was he þare.

Water þai asked swiþe,
Cloþ and bord was drain
Wit mete and drink liþe
And seriaunce þat were bayn
To serue tristrem swiþe

And sir rohand ful fayn;
Whasche, when þai wald rise,
Þe king ros him oȝain
Þat tide;
In lede is nouȝt to layn,
He sett him bi his side.

Rohand, þat was þare,
To mark his tale bi gan:—
“Wist ȝe what tristrem ware,
Miche gode ȝe wold him an.
Ȝour owhen soster him bare,”
—Þe king liþed him þan—
“Y nam sibbe him na mare,
Ich auȝt to ben his man,
Sir king.
Knowe it ȝiue ȝe can,
Sche tauȝt me þis ring

When roulandriis þe bold,
Douke morgan gan mete.”
Þe tale when rohand told,
For sorwe he gan grete.
Þe king biheld þat old,
Hou his wonges were wete;
To mark þe ring he ȝold,
He knewe it al so sket,
Gan loke:
He kist tristrem ful skete
And for his nevou toke.

Þo þai kisten him alle,
Boþe leuedi and kniȝt
And seriaunce in þe halle
And maidens þat were briȝt.
Tristrem gan rohand calle
And freined him wiþ siȝt:—
“Sir, hou may þis falle?
Hou may y proue it riȝt?

Nouȝt lain?
Tel me for godes miȝt
Hou was mi fader slayn.”

Rohand told anon
His auentours al bidene,
Hou þe batayle bi gan,
Þe werres hadden y ben,
His moder hou hye was tan
And geten hem bi tvene.
“Slawe was rouland þan
And ded blaunche þe schene.
Nauȝt les,
For dout of morgan kene
Mi sone y seyd þou wes.”

Tristrem, al in heiȝe,
Bifor þe king cam he.
“Into ermonie,
Sir, now longeþ me;
Þider fare wil y,
Mi leue y take of þe
To fiȝt wiþ morgan in hy,
To sle him oþer he me
Wiþ hand;
Erst schal no man me se
Oȝain in ingland.”
Po was mark ful wo,
He siȝt sore at þat tide.
“Tristrem, þi rede þou ta
In inglond forto abide.
Morgan is wick to slo,
Of kniȝtes he haþ gret pride;
Tristrem, þei þou be þro,
Lat mo men wiþ þe ride
On rowe.
Take rohand bi þi side,
He wil þine frendes knawe.”

To armes þe king lete crie
Þe folk of al his land
To help tristrem: for þi
He made kniȝt wiþ his hand.
He dede him han on heye
Þe fairest þat he fand,
In place to riden him by,
To don him to vnder stand
So swiþe.
Sorwe so tristrem band
Miȝt no man make him bliþe.

No wold he duellen aniȝt,
Þer of nas nouȝt to say.
Ten hundred þat were wiȝt
Wenten wiþ him oway.
Rohand, þe riche kniȝt,
Redy was he ay;
To his castel ful riȝt
He sailed þe seuenday
On rade.
His maister he gan pay,
His sones kniȝtes he made.

His frendes, glad were þai
—No blame hem noman for þi—
Of his coming, to say,
Al in to ermonie,
Til it was on aday
Morgan was fast by,
Tristrem bi gan to say:—
“Wiþ morgan speke wil y
And spede.
So long idel we ly,
Miself mai do mi nede.”

Tristrem dede as he hiȝt.
He busked and made him ȝare
Hi fiftend som of kniȝt,

Wiþ him ȝede na mare.
To court þai com ful riȝt
As Morgan his brede schare;
Þai teld þo bi siȝt
Ten kinges sones þai ware;
Vn souȝt
Heuedes of wild bare
Ichon to presant brouȝt.

Rohand bi gan to sayn,
To his kniȝtes þan seyd he:—
“As woman is, tviis for lain,
Y may say bi me.
Ȝif tristrem be now sleyn,
Yuel ȝemers er we.
To armes, kniȝt and swayn,
And swiftly ride ȝe
And swiþe!
Til y tristrem se,
No worþ y neuer bliþe.”

Tristrem speke bi gan:—
“Sir king, god loke þe
As y þe loue and an
And þou hast serued to me!”
Þe douke answerd þan:—
“Y pray, mi lord so fre,
Wheþer þou blis or ban,
Þine owhen mot it be,
Þou bold!
Þi nedes tel þou me,
Þine erand, what þou wold.”

“Amendes! Mi fader is slain,
Mine hirritage hermonie!”
Þe douke answerd ogain:—
“Certes, þi fader þan slouȝ y.
Seþþen þou so hast sayd,
Amendes þer ouȝt to ly.

Þer fore, prout swayn,
So schal y þe, for þi
Riȝt þan
Artow comen titly
Fram marke þi kinsman.

Ȝongling, þou schalt abide!
Foles þou wendest to fand!
Þi fader þi moder gan hide,
In horedom he hir band.
Hou comestow wiþ pride?
Out, traitour, of mi land!”
Tristrem spac þat tide:—
“Þou lext, ich vnder stand
And wot!”
Morgan wiþ his hand
Wiþ a lof tristrem smot.

On his brest adoun
Of his nose ran þe blod.
Tristrem swerd was boun,
And ner þe douke he stode.
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
Wiþ þat was comen to toun
Rohand wiþ help ful gode
And gayn.
Al þat oȝain hem stode
Wiȝtly were þai slayn.

To prisoun þai gun take
Erl, baroun and kniȝt;
For douke morgan sake
Mani on dyd doun riȝt.
Schaftes þai gun schake
And riuen scheldes briȝt,
Crounes þai gun crake
Mani, ich wene, apliȝt.
Saunfayl,

Bitvene þe none and þe niȝt
Last þe batayle.

Þus haþ tristrem þe swete
Yslawe þe douke morgan.
No wold he neuer lete
Til mo castels wer tan;
Tounes þai ȝold him skete
And cites stiþe of stan.
Þe folk fel to his fet,
Aȝaines him stode þer nan
In land.
He slouȝ his fader ban,
Al bowed to his hand.

Tvo ȝere he sett þat land,
His lawes made he cri.
Al com to his hand
Almain and ermonie,
At his wil to stand
Boun and al redy.
Rohand he ȝaf þe wand
And bad him sitt him bi,
Þat fre.
“Rohand lord make y
To held þis lond of me.

Þou and þine sones fiue
Schul held þis lond of me;
Þer while þou art o liue,
Þine owhen schal it be.
What halt it long to striue?
Mi leue y take at te,
Til inglond wil y riue,
Mark, mi nem, to se
Þat stounde.”
Now boskes tristre þe fre
To inglond for to founde.

Bliþe was his bosking,

And fair was his schip fare.
Rohand he left king
Ouer al his wining þare.
Schipmen him gun bring
To inglond ful ȝare.
He herd anewe tiding,
Þat he herd neuer are;
On hand
Mani man wepen sare
For ransoun to yrland.

Marke schuld ȝeld vnhold,
Þei he were king wiþ croun,
Þre hundred pounde of gold
Ich ȝer out of toun,
Of siluer fair y fold
Þre hundred pounde al boun,
Of mone of amold
Þre hundred pounde of latoun
Schuld he;
Þe ferþ ȝere, (aferly roun!)
Þre hundred barnes fre.

Þe truage was com to to
Moraunt, þe noble kniȝt;
Yhold he was so
A neten in ich afiȝt.
Þe barnes asked he þo
Als it war londes riȝt.
Tristrem gan stoutely go
To lond þat ich niȝt
Of rade;
Of þe schippe þai hadde asiȝt
Þe day þai dede obade.

Mark was glad and bliþe
Þo he miȝt tristrem se;
He kist him fele siþe,
Welcom to him was he.

Marke gan tidinges liþe,
Hou he wan londes fre.
Tristrem seyd þat siþe:—
“Wat may þis gadering be?
Þai grete.”
“Tristrem, y telle it þe,
A þing, is me vnswete.

Þe king of yrlond,
Tristrem, ich am his man.
To long ichaue ben hir bond,
Wiþ wrong þe king it wan.
To long it haþ y stond,
On him þe wrong bigan;
Þer to ich held min hond.”
Tristrem seyd þan
Al stille,
“Moraunt þat michel can
Schal nouȝt han his wille.”

Marke to conseyl ȝede
And asked rede of þis.
He seyd:—“Wiþ wrong dede
Þe raunsoun y taken is.”
Tristrem seyd:—“y rede
Þat he þe barnes mis.”
Þo seyd þe king in lede:—
“No was it neuer his
Wiþ riȝt.”
Tristrem seyd:—“y wis,
Y wil defende it as kniȝt.”

Bi al markes hald
Þe truwage was tan.
Tristrem gan it wiþhald
As prince proude in pan.
Þai graunted þat tristrem wald,
Oþer no durst þer nan;
Nis þer non so bald

Ymade of flesche no ban,
No kniȝt.
Now haþ tristrem y tan
Oȝain moraunt to fiȝt.

Tristrem him self ȝede
Moraunt word to bring,
And schortliche seyd in lede:—
“We no owe þe noþing.”
Moraunt oȝain sede:—
“Þou lexst afoule lesing!
Mi body to batayl y bede
To proue bi for þe king
To loke.”
He waged him aring,
Tristrem þe batayl toke.

Þai seylden in to þe wide
Wiþ her schippes tvo;
Moraunt bond his biside,
And tristrem lete his go;
Moraunt seyd þat tide:—
“Tristrem, whi dos tow so?”
“Our on schal here abide,
No be þou neuer so þro,
Y wis!
Wheþer our to liue go,
He haþ anouȝ of þis.”

Þe yland was ful brade
Þat þai gun in fiȝt;
Þer of was moraunt glade,
Of tristrem he lete liȝt.
Swiche meting nas neuer non made
Wiþ worþli wepen wiȝt;
Aiþer to oþer rade
And hewe on helmes briȝt
Wiþ hand.
God help tristrem þe kniȝt!

He fauȝt for ingland.

Moraunt wiþ his miȝt
Rode wiþ gret raundoun
Oȝain tristrem þe kniȝt
And þouȝt to bere him doun.
Wiþ alaunce vn liȝt
He smot him in þe lyoun,
And tristrem, þat was wiȝt,
Bar him þurch þe dragoun
In þe scheld.
Þat moraunt bold and boun
Smot him in þe scheld.

Vp he stirt bidene
And lepe opon his stede;
He fauȝt, wiþ outen wene,
So wolf þat wald wede.
Tristrem in þat tene
No spard him for no drede;
He ȝaf him awounde y sene,
Þat his bodi gan blede.
Riȝt þo
In morauntes most nede
His stede bak brak on to.

Vp he stirt in drede
And seyd:—“tristrem, aliȝt;
For þou hast slayn mi stede.
A fot þou schalt fiȝt.”
Quaþ tristrem:—“so god me rede,
Þer to icham al liȝt.”
Togider þo þai ȝede
And hewen on helmes briȝt.
Saunfayl,
Tristrem as akniȝt
Fauȝt in þat batayle.

Moraunt of yrland smot
Tristrem in þe scheld,

Þat half fel fram his hond
Þer adoun in þe feld.
Tristrem, ich vnder stond,
Anon þe strok him ȝeld
Wiþ his gode brond;
Moraunt neiȝe he queld,
Þat kniȝt.
Marke þe batayl bi held
And wonderd of þat fiȝt.

Moraunt was vnfayn
And fauȝt wiþ al his miȝt;
Þat tristrem were y slayn
He stird him as akniȝt.
Tristrem smot wiþ main,
His swerd brak in þe fiȝt
And in morauntes brain
Bileued apece briȝt
Wiþ care;
And in þe haunche riȝt
Tristrem was wounded sare.

A word þat pended to pride
Tristrem, þo spac he:—
“Folk of yrland side,
Zour mirour ȝe may se.
Mo þat hider wil ride,
Þus grayþed schul ȝe be.”
Wiþ sorwe þai drouȝ þat tide
Moraunt to þe se
And care.
Wiþ ioie tristrem þe fre
To mark, his em, gan fare.

His swerd he offred þan
And to þe auter it bare.
For markes kinsman
Tristrem was loued þare.
A forward þai bi gan,

Þer to þai alle sware:
For þat lond fre he wan,
Þat king he schuld be þare,
To say,
Ȝif he oliue ware
After sir markes day.

Þei tristrem liȝt þenke,
He is wounded ful sare;
Leches wiþ salue and drink
Him comeþ wide whare.
Þai lorn al her swink,
His pain was ay þe mare;
No man no miȝt for stink
Com þer tristrem ware
Als þan;
Ich man forsoke him þare
Bot gouernayl, his man.

Þre ȝer in carebed lay
Tristrem, þe trewe he hiȝt,
Þat neuer no douȝt him day
For sorwe he hadde oniȝt.
For diol no man no may
Sen on him wiþ siȝt;
Ich man, for soþe to say,
For soke þo þat kniȝt
As þare;
Þai hadde don what he miȝt,
Þai no rouȝt of his fare.

Til it was on aday
Til mark he gan him mene.
Schortliche, soþe to say,
Þis tale was hem bitvene:—
“In sorwe ich haue ben ay
Seþþen ich aliue haue ben.”
Marke seyd:—“Wayleway
Þat ich it schuld y sene,

Swiche þing!”
Tristrem, wiþ outen wene,
A schip asked þe king.

“Em,” he seyd, “y spille.
Of lond kepe y namare:
A schip þou bring me tille,
Mine harp to play me þare,
Stouer ynouȝ to wille
To kepe me, son ȝou ȝare.”
Þei marke liked ille,
Tristrem to schip þai bare
And brouȝt.
Who wold wiþ him fare?
Gouernayle no lete him nouȝt.

Tristremes schip was ȝare,
And asked his benisoun;
Þe hauen he gan outfare,
It hiȝt carlioun.
Niȝen woukes and mare
He hobled vp and doun.
A winde to wil him bare
To a stede þer him was boun
Neiȝe hand:
Deluelin hiȝt þe toun,
An hauen in irland.

A winde þider him gan driue,
Schipmen him seiȝe neiȝehand;
In botes þai gun him stiue
And drouȝ him to þe land.
A wounded man aliue
In þe schip þai fand;
He seyd bisiden aride
Men wounded him and band
Vnsounde.
No man miȝt bi him stand
For stinking of his wounde.

Gouernail gan hem frain
What hiȝt þe se strand.
“Deuelin,” þai seyd o gayn,
Þe schipmen þat him fand.
Þo was tristrem vnfain
And wele gan vnder stand,
Hir broþer hadde he slain
Þat quen was of þe land
In fiȝt.
Tristrem he gan doun lain
And seyd tramtris he hiȝt.

In his schip was þat day
Al maner of gle
And al maner of lay
In lond þat miȝt be.
To þe quen þo seyd þay,
Morauntes soster þe fre,
Ywounded swiche a man lay
Þat sorwe it was to se
And care:—
“A miriman were he
Ȝif he o liue ware.”

Sche was in deuelin,
Þe fair leuedi, þe quene,
Louesom vnder line
And sleiȝest had y bene,
And mest couþe of medicie;
Þat was on tristrem sene:
Sche brouȝt him of his pine,
To wite and nouȝt at wene,
To say,
Sche sent him aplaster kene
To cast þe stink oway.
A morwe when it was day,
Þe leuedy of heiȝe priis
Com þer tristrem lay

And asked what he is.
“Marchaund ich haue ben ay,
Mi nam is tramtris.
Robbers, for soþe to say,
Slouȝ mine felawes, y wis,
In þe se;
Þai raft me fowe and griis,
And þus wounded þai me.”

An heye man he was like,
Þei he wer wounded sare;
His gles weren so sellike
Þat wonder þouȝt hem þare.
His harp, his croude was rike,
His tables, his ches he bare.
Þai swore bi seyn patrike,
Swiche seiȝe þai neuer are
Er þan:
“Ȝif he in hele ware,
He wer amiri man.”

Þe leuedi of heiȝe kenne,
His woundes schewe .. he lete,
To wite his wo vnwinne;
So grimli he gan grete,
His bon brast vnder skinne,
His sorwe was vnsete.
Þai brouȝt him to an inne,
A baþ þai made him sket
So liþe
Þat tristrem, on his fet
Gon he miȝt swiþe.

Salues haþ he soft
And drinkes þat er liþe;
Þai no rouȝt hou dere it bouȝt,
Bot held him al so swiþe.
He made his play aloft,
His gamnes he gan kiþe;

For þi was tristrem oft
To boure cleped fele siþe
To sete;
Ich man was lef to liþe,
His mirþes were so swete.
Pe king had adouhter dere
Þat maiden ysonde hiȝt,
Þat gle was lef to here
And romaunce to rede ariȝt.
Sir tramtris hir gan lere
Þo wiþ al his miȝt
What alle pointes were,
To se þe soþe in siȝt,
To say.
In yrlond nas no kniȝt
Wiþ ysonde durst play,

Ysonde of heiȝe priis,
Þe maiden briȝt of hewe
Þat wered fow and griis
And scarlet þat was newe.
In warld was non so wiis
Of craft þat men knewe
Wiþ outen sir tramtris,
Þat al games of grewe
On grounde.
Hom longeþ tramtris þe trewe,
For heled was his wounde.

Sir tramtris in irlond
Duelled al aȝere.
So gode likeing he fand
Þat hole he was and fere.
Þe quen to fot and hand
He serued dern and dere;
Ysonde he dede vnder stand
What alle playes were
In lay.

His leue he asked at here
In schip to founde oway.

Þe quen þat michel can,
To tramtris sche gan say:—
“Who so fet vncouþe man,
He foundeþ euer oway.”
His hire þai ȝolden him þan,
Gold and siluer, y say;
What he wold he wan
Of ysonde for his play
Saunfail.
He bi tauȝt hem god and gode day,
Wiþ him went gouernail.

Riche sail þai drewe,
White and red so blod;
A winde to wil hem blewe,
To carlioun þai ȝode.
Now hat he tristrem trewe
And fareþ ouer þe flod.
Þe schip þe cuntre knewe,
It þouȝt hem ful gode.
As þare
Of wrake þai vnder stode,
For on þai leten him fare.

Þai tolden to þe king
Þat þe schip had sain;
Neuer of no tiding
Nas mark þe king so fain.
To toun þai gun him bring,
Þe king ros him o gayn;
Bliþe was her meteing,
And fair he gain him frain
Þat stounde:
“Tristrem, nouȝt to lain,
Heled is þi wounde?”

His em answer he ȝeld

Þat litel he wald wene;
Of bot sche was him beld
Þat moraunt soster had bene.
Hou fair sche haþ him held,
He told hem al bidene;
And seþþen tristrem haþ teld
Of ysonde þat was kene,
Al newe,
Hou sche was briȝt and schene,
Of loue was non so trewe.

Mark to tristrem gan say:—
“Mi lond bi take y þe
To han after mi day;
Þine owhen schal it be.
Bring þou me þat may
Þat ich hir may y se.”
Þis was his maner ay,
Of ysonde þan spekeþ he,
Her prise,
Hou sche was gent and fre,
Of loue was non so wise.

In inglond ful wide
Þe barouns hem bi þouȝt
To fel tristremes pride
Hou þai fairest mouȝt;
Þe king þai rad to ride,
A quen to him þai souȝt
Þat tristrem miȝt abide
Þat he no were it nouȝt,
No king:
Þai seyd þat tristrem mouȝt
Ysonde of irlond bring.

A brid briȝt þai ches
As blod opon snoweing:
“A maiden of swiche reles
Tristrem may to þe bring.”

Quaþ tristrem:—“It is les,
And troweþ it forlesing;
To aski þat neuer no wes,
It is a fole askeing
Bi kinde;
It is a selli þing,
For noman may it finde.

Y rede ȝe nouȝt no striue;
A swalu ich herd sing:
Ȝe sigge ich wern mi nem to wiue,
For y schuld be ȝour king.
Now bringeþ me atte riue
Schip and oþer þing.
Ȝe se me neuer oliue
Bot ȝif ich ysonde bring,
Þat briȝt.
Finde me min askeing,
Mine fiftend som of kniȝt.”

Kniȝtes þo chosen þai
Þat were war and wise,
Al þat mest may
And heiȝest weren of priis;
A schip wiþ grene and gray,
Wiþ vair and eke wiþ griis,
Wiþ alle þing, y say,
Þat pende to marchandis,
In lede.
Þai ferden of þis wise
In til yrlond þede.

In his schip was boun
Al þat mister ware;
Out of carlioun
Riche was his schip fare.
Þai rered goinfaynoun,
A winde to wille hem bare.
Deuelin hat þe toun,

To lond þai comen þare,
Þe best;
Þe king present þai bare
And asked leue to rest.

Þe king present þai brouȝt,
Anoþer to þe quene;
Ysonde forȝat þai nouȝt,
To wite and nouȝt at wene.
To schip when þai hem þouȝt
Þat at þe court hadde bene,
—Swiche mayde nas neuer wrouȝt
Þat þai euer hadde sene
Wiþ siȝt—
Þe cuntre alle bidene
Þai seiȝe fle ful riȝt.

Out of deuelin toun
Þe folk wel fast ran
In awater to droun,
So ferd were þai þan.
For doute of o dragoun,
Þai seyd, to schip þai wan
To hauen þat were boun;
No rouȝt þai of, what man
In lede
Þat may him sle or can,
Ysonde schal haue to mede.

Tristrem, bliþe was he,
He cleped his kniȝtes stiþe:
“What man he is, las se,
Þat take þis bataile swiþe.”
Alle þai beden lat be,
Durst non him seluen kiþe.
“For nede now wo is me!”
Seyd Tristrem þat siþe
Riȝt þan.
Listen now, who wil liþe

Al of an hardi man.

A stede of schip þai drewe,
Þe best þat he hadde brouȝt;
His armes weren al newe,
Þat richeliche were wrouȝt.
His hert was gode and trewe,
No failed it him nouȝt.
Þe cuntre wele he knewe,
Er he þe dragoun souȝt
And seiȝe.
Helle fere, him þouȝt,
Fram þat dragoun fleiȝe.
Asaut to þat dragoun
Tristrem toke þat tide
As aloþely lioun
Þat bataile wald abide;
Wiþ a spere feloun
He smot him in þe side;
It no vailed o botoun,
Oway it gan to glide,
His dent;
Þe deuel dragouns hide
Was hard so ani flint.

Tristrem, al in tene,
Eft þat spere tok he;
Oȝain þat dragoun kene
It brast on peces þre.
Þe dragoun smot bi dene,
Þe stede he gan sle;
Tristrem, wiþ outen wene,
Stirt vnder atre
Al stille
And seyd:—“god in trinite,
No lat þou me nouȝt spille.”

Oȝain þat fende dragoun
A fot he tok þe fiȝt;

He fauȝt wiþ his fauchoun
As adouhti kniȝt;
His neþer chauel he smot doun
Wiþ astroke of miȝt;
Þo was þe dragon boun
And cast fere ful riȝt
And brend;
His armes þat were briȝt,
Schamliche he haþ hem schent.

Swiche fer he cast oȝain
Þat brend scheld and ston.
Now liþ his stede y slain,
His armes brent ichon.
Tristrem rauȝt his brain
And brak his nek bon;
No was he neuer so fain
As þan þat batail was don;
To bote
His tong haþ he ton
And schorn of bi þe rote.

In his hose next þe hide
Þe tong oway he bar.
No ȝede he bot ten stride,
His speche les he þar;
Nedes he most abide
Þat he no may ferþer far.
Þe steward com þat tide,
Þe heued oway he schar
And brouȝt
And tok it ysonde þar
And seyd dere he hadde hir bouȝt.

Þe steward wald ful fain
Han ysonde, ȝif he mouȝt.
Þe king answerd ogain,
Fair þe bataile him þouȝt.
Ysonde, nouȝt to lain,

Of him no wil sche nouȝt;
Þere þe dragoun was slain,
Hye and hir moder souȝt
Al so
Who þat wonder wrouȝt,
Þat durst þat dragoun slo.

“Dede þe steward þis dede?”
“Certes,” quaþ ysonde, “nay.
Þis ich brende stede
No auȝt he neuer aday,
No þis riche wede
Nas neuer his, soþe to say.”
Forþer als þai ȝede,
A man þai founde whare lay
And drouȝ:
“Certes,” þan seyd þai,
“Þis man þe dragoun slouȝ.”

His mouþe opened þai
And pelt treacle in þat man.
When Tristrem speke may,
Þis tale he bi gan
And redyli gan to say
Hou he þe dragoun wan:—
“Þe tong y bar oway,
Þus venimed he me þan.”
Þai loke.
Þe quen þat michel can
Out of his hose it toke.

Þai seiȝen he hadde þe riȝt,
Þe steward hadde þe wouȝ,
And ȝif he durst fiȝt
Wiþ him þe dragoun slouȝ,
Tristrem spak as akniȝt,
He wold proue it anouȝ;
So noblelich he hem hiȝt,
Þer of ysonde louȝ

Þat tide;
To his waraunt he drouȝ
His schippe and al his pride.
Pe quen asked what he is,
Þat durst þe dragon abide.
“Marchaunt icham, y wis,
Mi schip liþ here bi side.
He seyt he haþ don þis;
Prouen ichil his pride
Er he ysonde kisse.”
Oȝaines him wald he ride
Wiþ miȝt.
Ysonde seyd þat tide:—
“Allas þat þou ner kniȝt!”

Her chaumpioun þat day
Richeliche gun þai fede,
Til hem þink þat he may
Don adouhti dede.
His armes, long were þai,
His scholders large on brede.
Þe quen, for soþe to say,
To a baþ gan him lede
Ful gayn,
And seþþen hir self sche ȝede
After adrink of main.

Ysonde briȝt of hewe
Þouȝt it tramtris ware.
His swerd, sche gan it schewe,
And broken hye fond it þare;
Out of a cofer newe
Þe pece sche drouȝ ful ȝare
And sett it to þat trewe:
It nas lasse no mare,
Bot riȝt.
Þo þouȝt ysonde wiþ care
To sle tristrem þe kniȝt.

Ysonde to tristrem ȝode
Wiþ his swerd al drain.
“Moraunt, mi nem þe gode,
Traitour, þou hast slain;
For þi þine hert blode
Sen ich wold ful fain.”
Þe quen whende sche were wode,
Sche com wiþ adrink of main
And louȝ:
“Nay, moder, nouȝt to layn,
Þis þef mi broþer slouȝ.

Tristrem, þis þef is he,
Þat may be nouȝt for lain;
Þe pece þou miȝt her se
Þat fro mi nem was drain.
Loke þat it so be,
Sett it euen o gain.”
As quik þai wald him sle
Þer, tristrem, ful fain;
Soþ þing,
In baþ þai hadden him slain,
No were it for þe king.

And euer tristrem louȝ
On swete ysonde, þe briȝt:—
“Þou miȝt haue slain me ynouȝ
Þo þat y tramtris hiȝt;
Ȝe witeþ me wiþ wouȝ
Of moraunt, þe noble kniȝt;
Y graunt wele ichim slouȝ
In batayl and in fiȝt,
Nouȝt lain;
Ȝif he hadde had þe miȝt,
So wold he me ful fain.

Þo y tramtris hiȝt,
Y lerld þe play and song,
And euer wiþ al mi miȝt

Of þe y spac among
To marke, þe riche kniȝt,
Þat after þe he gan long.”
So swore he day and niȝt,
And borwes fond he strong
Bidene,
Amendes of al wrong,
Þat ysonde schuld be quen.

Tristrem swore þat þing;
Þai seyd it schuld stand
Þat he schuld ysonde bring
—Þai token it vnder hand—
To mark, þe riche king,
Oliue ȝif þai him fand,
And make hir wiþ his ring
Quen of ingeland,
To say;
Þe forward fast þai band
Er þai parted oway.
Pe steward for soke his dede
Þo he herd he tristrem hiȝt;
Þe king swore, so god him spede,
Þat boþen schuld haue riȝt;
Þe steward seyd wrong þer ȝede,
For þi nold he nouȝt fiȝt.
Tristrem to his mede
Þai ȝolden ysonde þe briȝt;
To bring
To prisoun þat oþer kniȝt
Þe maiden bisekeþ þe king.

No asked he lond no liþe,
Bot þat maiden briȝt;
He busked him al so swiþe,
Boþe squier and kniȝt.
Her moder about was bliþe
And tok adrink of miȝt,

Þat loue wald kiþe,
And tok it brengwain þe briȝt
To þink:
“At er spouseing aniȝt
Ȝif mark and hir to drink.”

Ysonde briȝt of hewe
Is fer out in þe se.
A winde oȝain hem blewe
Þat sail no miȝt þer be.
So rewe þe kniȝtes trewe,
Tristrem, so rewe he,
Euer as þai com newe—
He on oȝain hem þre—
Gret swink.
Swete ysonde þe fre
Asked bringwain adrink.

Þe coupe was richeli wrouȝt,
Of gold it was, þe pin;
In al þe warld nas nouȝt
Swiche drink as þer was in.
Brengwain was wrong bi þouȝt,
To þat drink sche gan win
And swete ysonde it bi tauȝt;
Sche bad tristrem bigin,
To say.
Her loue miȝt no man tvin
Til her endingday.

An hounde þer was biside,
Þat was y cleped hodain;
Þe coupe he licked þat tide
Þo doun it sett bringwain;
Þai loued al in lide
And þer of were þai fain;
To gider þai gun abide
In ioie and ek in pain
For þouȝt:

In iuel time, to sain,
Þe drink was y wrouȝt.

Tristrem in schip lay
Wiþ ysonde ich niȝt,
Play miri he may
Wiþ þat worþli wiȝt
In boure niȝt and day.
Al bliþe was þe kniȝt,
He miȝt wiþ hir play;
Þat wist brengwain þe briȝt
As þo;
Þai loued wiþ al her miȝt,
And hodain dede al so.

Tvai wikes in þe strand
No seyl þai no drewe;
Into inglond
A winde to wille hem blewe.
Þe king on hunting þai fand;
A knaue þat he knewe,
He made him kniȝt wiþ hand
For his tidinges newe,
Gan bring.
Ysonde briȝt of hewe
Þer spoused mark þe king.

He spoused hir wiþ his ring,
Of fest no speke y nouȝt.
Brengwain, wiþ outen lesing,
Dede as hye had þouȝt;
Sche tok þat loue drink,
Þat in yrlond was bouȝt.
For ysonde to þe king
Brengwain to bed was brouȝt
Þat tide;
Mark his wille wrouȝt
On bed brengwain biside.

When mark had tint his swink,

Ysonde to bed ȝede;
Of yrlond-hye asked drink,
Þe coupe sche gan hir bede,
Biside hir sche lete it sink;
Þer of hadde sche no nede,
Of non maner þing
Oȝain tristrem, in lede,
As þo;
No miȝt no clerk it rede,
Þe loue bitven hem to.

Þai wende haue ioie anouȝ,
Certes, it nas nouȝt so.
Her wening was al wouȝ
Vntroweand til hem to;
Aiþer in langour drouȝ,
And token rede to go;
And seþþen ysonde louȝ
When tristrem was in wo
Wiþ wille.
Now þenkeþ ysonde to slo
Brengwain and hir to spille.

Sche þouȝt: “y may be wroþ:
Sche lay first bi þe king,
For y bi hiȝt hir cloþ,
Gold and riche wedding;
Tristrem and y boaþe
Beþ schent for our playing:
Better is þat we raþe
Hir o liue bring
Al stille.
Þan doute we for no þing
Þat we ne may han our wille.”

Þe quen bad her biside
To werkemen on aday;
Sche told hem at þat tide
What was her wille to say:—

“Ȝe moten slen and hide
Bringwain, þat miri may.”
Sche seyd:—“Ȝe schal abide
Riche to ben ay
In lede:
No lete ȝe for no pay
Þat ȝe no do þat dede.”

Into a grisly clouȝ
Þai and þat maiden ȝode;
Þat on his swerd out drouȝ,
Þat oþer bihinde hir stode.
Sche crid merci anouȝ
And seyd:—“for cristes rode!
What haue y don wouȝ?
Whi wille ȝe spille mi blode?”
“Nouȝt lain,
Ysonde, þe leuedi gode,
Haþ hot þou schalt be slain.”

Brengwain dernly
Bad hem say þe quen:—
“Greteþ wele mi leuedy,
Þat ai trewe haþ ben.
Smockes hadde sche and y,
And hir was solwy to sen,
Bi mark þo hye schuld ly;
Y lent hir min al clen
As þare;
Oȝain hir, wele y wen,
No dede y neuer mare.”

Þai nold hir nouȝt slo,
Bot went oȝain to þe quen;
Ysonde asked hem to:—
“What seyd hye ȝou bitven?”
“Hye bad ous say ȝou so:
Ȝour smock was solwy to sen,
Bi mark þo ȝe schuld ly;

Y lent hir min al clene
Þat day.”
Þo asked ysonde þe ken:—
“Whare is þat trewe may?”

Þo seyd ysonde wiþ mode:—
“Mi maiden ȝe han slain.”
Sche swore bi godes rode
Þai schuld ben hong and drain;
Sche bede hem ȝiftes gode
To fechen hir o gain.
Þai fetten hir þer sche stode;
Þo was ysonde ful fain,
To say;
So trewe sche fond brengwain
Þat sche loued hir wele ay.

Made was þe sauȝtening
And alle forȝeue bi dene.
Tristrem, wiþ outen lesing,
Played wiþ þe quen.
Fram irlond to þe king
An harpour com bi tven;
An harp he gan forþ bring,
Swiche no hadde þai neuer sen
Wiþ siȝt;
Him self, wiþ outen wen,
Bar it day and niȝt.

Ysonde he loued in are,
He þat þe harp brouȝt;
About his hals he it bare,
Richelich it was wrouȝt;
He hidde it euer mare,
Out no com it nouȝt.
“Þine harp whi wiltow spare,
Ȝif þou þer of can ouȝt
Of gle?”
“Out no comeþ it nouȝt

Wiþ outen ȝiftes fre.”

Mark seyd, “lat me se
Harpi hou þou can,
And what þou askest me
Ȝiue y schal þe þan.”
“Bleþely,” seyd he;
A miri lay he bigan.
“Sir king of ȝiftes fre,
Her wiþ ysonde y wan
Bidene.
Y proue þe for falsman,
Or y schal haue þi quen.”

Mark to conseyl ȝede
And asked rede of þo to:
“Lesen y mot mi manhed
Or ȝeld ysonde me fro.”
Mark was ful of drede,
Ysonde lete he go.
Tristrem in þat nede
At wode was, dere to slo,
Þat day;
Tristrem com riȝt þo
As ysonde was o way.

Þo was tristrem in ten
And chidde wiþ þe king:
“Ȝifstow glewemen þi quen?
Hastow no noþer þing?”
His rote, wiþ outen wen,
He rauȝt bi þe ring;
Þo folwed tristrem þe ken
To schip þer þai hir bring
So bliþe;
Tristrem bigan to sing,
And ysonde bigan to liþe.

Swiche song he gan sing
Þat hir was swiþe wo;

Her com swiche louelonging,
Hir hert brast neiȝe ato.
Þerl to hir gan spring
Wiþ kniȝtes mani mo
And seyd, “Mi swete þing,
Whi farestow so,
Y pray?”
Ysonde to lond most go,
Er sche went o way.

“Wiþin astounde of þe day
Y schal ben hole and sounde;
Ich here amenstrel, to say,
Of tristrem he haþ asoun.”
Þerl seyd, “daþet him ay
Of tristrem ȝif þis stounde!
Þat minstrel for his lay
Schal haue an hundred pounde
Of me,
Ȝif he wil wiþ ous founde,
Lef, for þou louest his gle.”

His gle al for to here
Þe leuedi was sett onland
To play bi þe riuere;
Þerl ladde hir bi hand;
Tristrem, trewe fere,
Mirie notes he fand
Opon his rote of yuere,
As þai were on þe strand;
Þat stounde
Þurch þat semly sand
Ysonde was hole and sounde.

Hole sche was and sounde
Þurch vertu of his gle;
For þi þerl, þat stounde
Glad a man was he;
Of penis to hundred pounde

He ȝaf tristrem þe fre;
To schip þan gun þai founde,
In yrlond wald þai be
Ful fain,
Þerl and kniȝtes þre
Wiþ ysonde and bringwain.

Tristrem tok his stede
And lepe þer on to ride;
Þe quen bad him her lede
To schip him bi side;
Tristrem dede as hye bede,
In wode he gan hir hide.
To þerl he seyd, “in þat nede
Þou hast y tent þi pride,
Þou dote!
Wiþ þine harp þou wonne hir þat tide,
Þou tint hir wiþ mi rote.”

Tristrem wiþ ysonde rade
Into þe wode oway.
A loghe þai founden made,
Was ful of gamen and play;
Her blis was ful brade,
And ioieful was þat may.
Seuen niȝt þai þare abad
And seþþen to court com þai.
“Sir king,”
Tristrem gan to say,
“Ȝif minstrels oþer þing.”

Meriadok was aman
Þat tristrem trowed ay;
Miche gode he him an,
In o chaumber þai lay.
Tristren to ysonde wan
A niȝt wiþ hir to play;
As man þat miche kan,
A bord he toke oway

Of her bour.
Er he went, to say,
Of snowe was fallen aschour.

A schour þer was y falle,
Þat al þe way was white;
Tristrem was wo wiþ alle,
Wiþ diol, and sorwe site.
Bitven þe bour and þe halle
Þe way was naru and lite.
Swiche cas him was bi falle
As we finde in scrite.
Ful sket
A siue he fond tite
And bond vnder his fete.

Meriadok wiþ his miȝt
Aros vp al bi dene;
Þe way he went riȝt
Til he com to þe quen;
Þe bord he fond of tviȝt,
To wite and nouȝt at wene.
Of tristrem kertel þe kniȝt
He fond a pece grene
Of tore;
Meriadok þe kene
Wondred þer fore.

A morwe he tolde þe king
Al þat he seiȝe wiþ siȝt.
“Lord, wiþ outen lesing,
Wiþ ysonde lay tristrem to niȝt.
Þou schalt do swiche a þing,
Aske who her ȝeme miȝt.
Þe croice to ierusalem bring
Say þou hast y hiȝt,
Ȝif þou may.
Tristrem þe noble kniȝt,
Þe quen hir self wil say.”

Þe king told þe quen,
A bed þo þai ware,
“Dame, wiþ outen wene,
To ierusalem y mot fare;
Loke now ous bi tvene,
Who may þe kepe fram care?”
“For al oþer bidene
Tristrem,” sche seyd þare,
“For þan
Y loue him wele þe mare,
He is þi kinsseman.”

Al þat mark hir told
A morwe hye told bringwain,
“Of lond wil þis bold:
Now we may be ful fain.
Tristrem þe court schal hold
Til he com oȝain.”
Brengwain answere ȝolde,
“Ȝour dedes han ben sain
Wiþ siȝt.
Mark þi self schal frain
Al oþer loker to niȝt.

Wite þou wele his wille,
To wende wiþ him þou say,
And ȝif he loueþ þe stille,
Þou do tristrem oway.
Biseche him he se þer tille,
Þi fo is tristrem ay.
Þou dredest he wil þe spille,
Ȝif he þe maistrie may
Aboue;
Þou louedest him neuer aday
Bot for þi nemes loue.”

Ysonde þe nexst niȝt
Crid, “mark, þi nore!
Mi fo þou hast me hiȝt,

On me þou sinnes sore.
Gode ȝif þou hadde me hiȝt
Of lond wiþ þe to fare,
And sle tristrem þe kniȝt,
Ȝif loue of þe no ware
Þis day;
For mani man seyt ay whare
Þat tristrem bi me lay.”

Mark is bliþe and glad,
For al þat trowed he;
He þat him oþer tald,
He ne couþe him bot maugre.
Meriadok him answere ȝald,
“In toun þou do him be.
Her loue laike þou bi hald
For þe loue of me.
Nouȝt wene,
Bi resoun þou schalt se
Þat loue is hem bitvene.”

Mark departed hem to
And dede tristrem oway;
Nas neuer ysonde so wo
No tristrem, soþe to say.
Ysonde her self wald slo,
For sorwe tristrem lay.
Ysonde morned so
And tristrem niȝt and day
For dede.
Ich man it se may,
What liif for loue þai lede.

Tristrem was in toun,
In boure ysonde was don.
Bi water he sent adoun
Liȝt linden spon.
He wrot hem al wiþ roun;
Ysonde hem knewe wel sone;

Bi þat tristrem was boun,
Ysonde wist his bone
To abide.
Er amorwe none
Her aiþer was oþer biside.

Quaþ meriadok, “y rede
Þine hunters þou bid ride
Fourtenniȝt at þis nede
To se þine forestes wide.
Tristrem þou hem bede,
Þi self þou here abide,
And riȝt at her dede
Þou schalt hem take þat tide
In þe tre.
Here þou schalt abide,
Her semblaunt þou schalt se.”

In orchard mett þai inne,
Tristrem and ysonde fre;
Ay when þai miȝt a winne,
Þer playd ysonde and he.
Þe duerwe y seiȝe her ginne
Þer he sat in þe tre.
Mark of riche kinne
He hiȝt to don him se
Wiþ siȝt
And seyd, “sir, siker ȝe be,
Þi self schal se þat riȝt.”

His falsnesse for to fille
Forþ þo went he;
To tristrem he com wiþ ille
Fram ysonde þe fre,
“Mileuedy me sent þe tille,
For icham priue,
And praieþ þe wiþ wille
Þat þou wost hir se
Wiþ siȝt:

Mark is in oþer cuntre,
Priue it schal be diȝt.”

Tristrem him bi þouȝt:
“Maister, þank haue ȝe.
For þou me þis bode brouȝt
Mi robe ȝiue y þe;
Þat þou no lete it nouȝt
Say þat leuedy fre.
Hir wordes dere y bouȝt,
To marke hye bileiȝe me,
Þat may:
To morwe y schal hir se
At chirche, for soþe to say.”

Þe duerwe toke þe gate,
And mark he told bidene:
“Bi þis robe y wate
Þat michel he loueþ þe quene.
Ysame we nouȝt no sat,
He douteþ me bi tvene;
It semeþ by his lat
As he hir neuer had sene
Wiþ siȝt:
Y wot wiþ outen wene
He comeþ to hir to niȝt.”

Sir mark sat in þe tre
Þer metten þai to.
Þe schadowe tristrem gan se
And loude spac he þo,
Þat ysonde schuld mark se
And calle tristrem hir fo:
“Þou no auȝtest nouȝt here to be,
Þou no hast nouȝt here to go,
No þing:
Wiþ riȝt men schuld þe slo,
Durst y for þe king.

Ysonde, þou art mi fo,

Þou sinnest, leuedi, on me;
Þou gabbest on me so,
Mi nem nil me nouȝt se;
He þreteneþ me to slo.
More menske were it to þe
Better for to do,
Bi god in trinite,
Þis tide;
Or y þis lond schal fle
Into wales wide.”

“Tristrem, for soþe to say,
Y wold þe litel gode,
Ac y þe wraied neuer day,
Y swere bi godes rode!
Men said þou bi me lay,
Þine em so vnder stode.
Wende forþ in þi way,
It semes astow were wode,
To wede:
Y loued neuer man wiþ mode
Bot him þat hadde mi maidenhede.”

“Swete ysonde, þi nare!
Þou preye þe king for me,
Ȝif it þi wille ware
Of sake he make me fre.
Of lond ichil elles fare,
Schal he me neuer se.”
Markes hert was sare
Þer he sat in þe tre
And þouȝt:
“Vn giltles er ȝe
In swiche a sclaunder brouȝt.”

“Þou seyst y gan þe wrie,
Men seis þou bi me lay,
Ac þei ich wende to dye,
Þine erand y schal say.

Marke þi nem his heiȝe,
Anouȝ he þe ȝiue may;
No reche y what y liȝe,
So þat þou be o way
Wiþ wille.”
Marke þo þouȝt ay,
“Ȝete he schal duelle stille.”

Tristrem o way went so,
Ysonde to boure, y wis;
Nas neuer mark so wo,
Him self he herd al þis.
Al sori mark gan go
Til he miȝt tristrem kisse,
And dedely hated he þo
Him þat seyd amis.
Al newe
Þer was ioie and blis,
And welcom tristrem trewe.

Now haþ ysonde her wille,
Tristrem constable is heiȝe.
Þre ȝere he playd stille
Wiþ ysonde briȝt so beiȝe;
Her loue miȝt no man felle,
So were þai boþe sleiȝe.
Meriadok wiþ ille
Waited hem ful neiȝe
Of her dede:
Ȝif he miȝt hem spille,
Fain he wald spede.

Meriadok wrayeþ ay,
To þe king þus seyd he
“Her folies vsen þai ay,
Wel ȝore y seyd it þe.
Loke now on aday
And blod lat ȝou þre;
Do as y þe say,

And tokening þou schalt se
Ful sone:
Her bed schal blodi bene,
Ar he his wille haue done.”

Blod leten was þe king,
Tristrem and þe quene;
At her blod leteing
Þe flore was swopen clene;
Meriadok dede floure bring
And strewed it bi tvene,
Þat go no miȝt no þing
Bot ȝif it were sene
Wiþ siȝt.
Þritti fet bi dene
Tristrem lepe þat niȝt.

Now tristrem willes is
Wiþ ysonde for to play;
He no may hir com to kisse,
So ful of floure it lay.
Tristrem lepe, ywis,
Þritti fete, soþ to say.
As tristrem dede þis,
His blod bende brast oway
And bled;
And seþþen oȝain þe day
He lepe fram hir bedde.

Þritti fete bitvene
He lepe, wiþ outen les;
Sore him greued his vene,
As it no wonder nes.
Mark her bed hadde sen,
And al blodi it wes.
He told þo brengwain
Tristrem hadde broken his pes
Bitvene.
Anon of lond he ches

Out of markes eiȝe sene.

Tristrem was fled oway,
To wite and nouȝt to wene.
At londen on a day
Mark wald spourge þe quen.
Men seyd sche brak þe lay;
A bischop ȝede bi tvene;
Wiþ hot yren, to say,
Sche þouȝt to make hir clene
Of sake.
Ysonde said bidene
Þat dome sche wald take.

Men sett þe merkes þere
At westeminster ful riȝt,
Hot yren to bere
For sir tristrem þe kniȝt.
In pouer wede to were
Tristrem com þat niȝt
— Of alle þe kniȝtes here
No knewe him non bi siȝt
Bidene —
To swete ysonde briȝt,
As forward was hem bitvene.

Ouer temes sche schuld ride,
Þat is an arm of þe se:
“To þe schip side
Þis man schal bere me.”
Tristrem hir bar þat tide
And on þe quen fel he
Next her naked side,
Þat mani man miȝt y se
San schewe.
Hir queynt abouen hir kne
Naked þe kniȝtes knewe.

In water þai wald him sink
And wers, ȝif þai may.

“Ȝe quite him iuel his swink.”
Þe quene seyd to hem ay.
“It semeþ mete no drink
Hadde he nouȝt mani aday;
For pouerte, meþenk,
He fel, for soþe to say,
And nede:
Ȝeueþ him gold, y pray;
He may bidde god me spede.”

Gold þai ȝouen him þare,
Þe constori þai bi gan.
Swete ysonde sware
Sche was giltles woman:
“Bot on to schip me bare,
Þe kniȝtes seiȝe wele þan;
What so his wille ware,
Ferli neiȝe he wan,
Soþe þing;
So neiȝe com neuer man
Bot mi lord þe king.”

Swete ysonde haþ sworn
Hir clene, þat miri may;
To hir þai had y corn
Hot yren, y say.
Þe kniȝtes were bi forn,
For hir þo praiden þai.
Þe yren sche hadde y born,
Ac mark forȝaue þat day
And dede:
Meriadok held þai
For fole in his falshede.

Ysonde is graunted clene
Meriadok, maugre his;
Neuer er nas þe quen
So wele wiþ mark, y wis.
Tristrem, wiþ outen wene,

Into wales he is;
In bataile he haþ ben
And fast he fraines þis
Riȝt þare:
For he ne may ysonde kisse,
Fiȝt he souȝt ay whare.

In wales þo was aking
Þat hiȝt triamour,
He hadde adouhter ȝing,
Was hoten blauncheflour.
Vrgan wiþ gret wering
Biseged him in his tour
To winne þat swete þing
And bring hir to his bour
Wiþ fiȝt.
Tristrem wiþ gret honour
Bicom þe kinges kniȝt.

Vrgan gan wales held
Wiþ wrong, for soþe to say;
Oft and vnselde
Of triamour tok he pray.
Triamour to tristrem teld
Opon asomersday,
Wales he wald him ȝeld,
Ȝif he it winne may
Riȝt þan.
Tristrem, wiþ outen nay,
Wiþ were wales wan.

Tristrem mett vrgan
In þat feld to fiȝt;
To him seyd he þan
As adouhti kniȝt:
“Þou slouȝ mi broþer morgan
At þe mete ful riȝt.
As y am douhti man,
His deþ þou bist to niȝt,

Mi fo.”
Tristrem seyd: “apliȝt!
So kepe y þe to slo.”

Tvelue fete was þe wand
Þat vrgan wald wiþ play,
His strok may no man stand,
Ferly ȝif tristrem may!
Tristrem vantage fand,
His clobbe fel oway,
And of þe geauntes hand
Tristrem smot þat day
In lede;
Tristrem, for soþe to say,
Þe geaunt gert he blede.

Vrgan, al in tene,
Fauȝt wiþ his left hand
Oȝain tristrem kene;
A stern stroke he fand
Opon his helme so schene,
Þat to þe grounde he wand;
Bot vp he stirt bidene
And heried godes sand
Almiȝt;
Tristrem wiþ his brand
Fast gan to fiȝt.

Þe geaunt aroume he stode,
His hond he tint, y wis;
He fleiȝe as he were wode,
Þer þat þe castel is.
Tristrem trad in þe blod
And fond þe hond þat was his;
Oway sir tristrem ȝode.
Þe geaunt com wiþ þis
And souȝt
To hele his honde þat was his;
Salues hadde he brouȝt.

Vrgan, þe geaunt vnride,
After sir tristrem wan;
Þe cuntre fer and wide
Ygadred was bi þan;
Tristrem þouȝt þat tide:
“Y take þat me gode an.”
On abrigge he gan abide,
Biheld þer mani aman;
Þai mett:
Vrgan to tristrem ran,
And grimli þere þai gret.

Strokes of michel miȝt
Þai delten hem bi tvene,
Þat þurch her brinies briȝt
Her boþer blod was sene;
Tristrem fauȝt as akniȝt,
And vrgan, al in tene,
Ȝaf him astroke vnliȝt;
His scheld he clef bi tvene
A tvo;
Tristrem, wiþ outen wene,
Nas neuer are so wo.

Eft vrgan smot wiþ main
And of þat stroke he miste;
Tristrem smot ogayn
And þurch his body he þreste;
Vrgan lepe vnfain,
Ouer þe bregge he deste.
Tristrem haþ vrgan slain,
Þat alle þe cuntre wist
Wiþ wille;
Þe king þo tristrem kist
And wales þo ȝeld him tille.

Þe king, a welp he brouȝt
Bifor tristrem þe trewe;
What colour he was wrouȝt

Now ichil ȝou schewe.
Silke nas non so soft,
He was rede, grene and blewe.
Þai þat him seiȝen oft
Of him hadde gamen and glewe,
Y wis.
His name was peti crewe,
Of him was michel priis.

Þe king triamour
Ȝaf him tristrem þe hende,
For he brouȝt out of dolour
Him and al his kende
Tristrem wiþ gret honour
Kidde þat he was hende:
He ȝaf to blauncheflour
Wales wiþ outen end
Bidene,
And peticrowe he gan sende
To dame ysonde þe quene.

Ysonde, wiþ outen les,
Þo hye þe welp had sain,
Þat sche had made his pes
Sche sent word ogayn.
Mark herd hou it wes
Þat vrgan had he slain;
Messangers he ches
Tristrem for to frain,
Þat fre.
Mark was ferly fain,
And tristrem kist he.

Mark gan tristrem calle
And toke him al bidene
Cites, castels alle,
Steward as he hadde bene.
Who was bliþe in halle
Bot ysonde þe quene?

Hou so it schuld bi falle,
Þai playden ai bitvene,
Þo tvo;
So long of loue þai mene
Þat mark seiȝe it was so.

Mark seiȝe hou it is,
What loue was hem bitvene;
Certes, þis þouȝt was his,
Ful wele awreken to ben;
He cleped tristrem wiþ þis
And bi toke him þe quene,
And flemed hem boþe, y wis,
Out of his eiȝe sene
Away.
Bliþer, wiþ outen wene,
Neuer ere nar þay.

A forest fled þai tille,
Tristrem and ysonde þe schene.
No hadde þai no won to wille
Bot þe wode so grene.
Bi holtes and bi hille
Fore tristrem and þe quene;
Ysonde of ioie haþ her fille
And tristrem, wiþ outen wene,
As þare:
So bliþe al bi dene
Nar þai neuer are.

Tristrem and þat may
Wer flemed for her dede;
Hodain, soþ to say,
And peti crowe wiþ hem ȝede.
In on erþe hous þai lay,
Þo raches wiþ hem þai lede.
Tristrem hem tauȝt o day
Bestes to take at nede
An hast.

In þat forest fede
Tristrem hodain gan chast.

Tristrem wiþ hodain
A wilde best he slouȝ;
In on erþe house þai layn,
Þer hadde þai ioie y nouȝ.
Etenes bi old dayn
Had wrouȝt it, wiþ outen wouȝ.
Ich niȝt, soþ to sain,
Þer til þai boþe drouȝ
Wiþ miȝt.
Vnder wode bouȝ
Þai knewen day and niȝt.

In winter it was hate,
In somer it was cold;
Þai hadden adern gat,
Þat þai no man told.
No hadde þai no wines wat,
No ale þat was old,
No no gode mete þai at:
Þai hadden al þat þai wold
Wiþ wille.
For loue ich oþer bi halt,
Her non miȝt of oþer fille.

Tristrem on an hille stode,
As he biforn hadde mett;
He fond awele ful gode,
Al white it was, þe grete;
Þer to tristrem ȝode
And hende ysonde þe swete.
Þat was al her fode,
And wilde flesche þai ete
And gras:
Swiche ioie hadde þai neuer ȝete
Tvelmoneth þre woukes las.

Tristrem on aday

Tok hodain wel erly,
A best he tok to pray
Bi adern sty;
He diȝt it, wiþ outen nay,
And hom it brouȝt an heiȝe.
A slepe ysonde lay,
Tristrem him layd hir bi,
Þe quen.
His swerd he drouȝ titly
And laid it hem bi tvene.

An hert mark at ran
Opon þat ilke day;
His hunters after wan,
A paþ þo founden þai.
Tristrem seiȝen hye þan
And ysonde, soþe to say.
Seiȝe þai neuer swiche man
No non so fair a may
Wiþ siȝt;
Bitven hem þer lay
A drawen swerd wel briȝt.

Þe huntes wenten riȝt
And teld mark bi dene.
Þe leuedi and þe kniȝt
Boþe mark haþ sene;
He knewe hem wele bi siȝt,
Þe swerd lay hem bi tvene;
A sonne bem ful briȝt
Schon opon þe quen
At a bore
On her face so schene,
And mark rewed þer fore.

His gloue he put þer inne
Þe sonne to were oway,
Wreþe mark gan winne,
Þan seyd he, “wel ay!

Ȝif þai weren in sinne,
Nouȝt so þai no lay.
Lo hou þai liue atvinne!
Þai no hede nouȝt of swiche play,
Y wis.”
Þe kniȝtes seyden ay,
“For trewe loue it is.”

Þo waked tristrem þe trewe
And swete ysonde þe schene
Þe gloue o way þai drewe
And seyden hem bi tvene;
For markes þai it knewe,
Þai wist he had þer bene.
Þo was her ioie al newe,
Þat he hem hadde y sene
Wiþ siȝt;
Wiþ þat com kniȝtes kene
To feche þo to ful riȝt.

To court were comen þo to
Þat in þe forest were,
Mark kist ysonde þo
And tristrem trewe fere.
Forȝeuen hem was her wo,
No were þai neuer so dere.
Tristrem þe bailif gan to
Swiftly for to stere
A stounde.
Of loue who wil lere,
Listen now þe grounde.

So bi fel bi dene
Opon asomers day
Tristrem and þe quen
Stalked to her play.
Þe duerwe hem haþ sene,
To mark gan he say,
“Sir king, wiþ outen wene,

Þi wiif is now oway
And þi kniȝt:
Wende fast as þou may,
Of take hem, ȝif þou miȝt.”

Mark king after ran,
Þat þai boþe y se.
Tristrem seyd þan,
“Ysonde, schent er we.
For þouȝtes þat we can
For hole no may it be.”
Nas neuer so sori man,
Tristrem, þan was he,
Þat hende:
“For dout of deþ y fle,
In sorwe and wo y wende.

Y fle for dout of deþ,
Y dar no leng abide
In wo mi liif to lede
Bi þis forestes side.”
A ring ysonde him bede
To tokening at þat tide.
He fleiȝe forþ in gret drede
In wode him for to hide
Bidene;
To seken him fast þai ride,
Þai founden bot þe quene.

Tristrem is went oway,
As it nouȝt hadde y bene;
For þi þe kniȝtes gan say
Þat wrong markes had sen.
For her þan prayd þai
Þat mark for ȝaf þe quene.
Tristrem wiþ ysonde lay
Þat niȝt, wiþ outen wene,
And wok
And plaiden ay bitvene.

His leue of hir he tok.

Tristrem is went oway
Wiþ outen coming oȝain,
And sikeþ, for soþe to sain,
Wiþ sorwe and michel pain.
Tristrem fareþ ay
As man þat wald be slain,
Boþe niȝt and day,
Fiȝtes for to frain,
Þat fre;
Spaine he haþ þurch sayn,
Geauntes he slouȝ þre,

Out of spaine he rade
Rohande sones to se,
Gamen and ioie þai made,
Welcom to hem was he;
As lord he þer abade,
As gode skil wald be.
Þai boden him landes brade
Þat he wan hem fre.
He þouȝt;
He seyd, “þank haue ȝe.
Ȝour londes kepe y nouȝt.”

Into bretein he ches,
Bi come þe doukes kniȝt;
He set his lond in pes,
Þat arst was ful of fiȝt.
Al þat þe doukes wes
He wan oȝain wiþ riȝt.
He bede him, wiþ outen les,
His douhter þat was briȝt
In land.
Þat maiden ysonde hiȝt
Wiþ þe white hand.

Tristremes loue was strong
On swete ysonde þe quene;

Of ysonde he made a song,
Þat song ysonde bi dene.
Þe maiden wende al wrong
Of hir it hadde y bene.
Hir wening was so long,
To hir fader hye gan mene
For nede.
Ysonde wiþ hand schene
Tristrem to wiue þai bede.

Tristrem a wil is inne,
Has founden in his þouȝt:
“Mark, mi nem, haþ sinne,
Wrong he haþ wrouȝt;
Icham in sorwe and pine,
Þer to hye haþ me brouȝt.
Hir loue, y say, is mine,
Þe boke seyt it is nouȝt
Wiþ riȝt.”
Þe maiden more he souȝt,
For sche ysonde hiȝt.

Þat in his hert he fand,
And trewely þouȝt he ay;
Þe forward fast he band
Wiþ ysonde, þat may
Wiþ þe white hand,
He spoused þat day.
O niȝt, ich vnder stand,
To boure wenten þai
On bedde.
Tristrem ring fel oway,
As men to chaumber him ledde.

Tristrem bi held þat ring,
Þo was his hert ful wo:
“Oȝain me swiche aþing
Dede neuer ysonde so;
Mark, her lord, þe king,

Wiþ tresoun may hir to.
Mine hert may no man bring
For no þing hir fro,
Þat fre.
Ich haue tvinned ous to,
Þe wrong is al in me.”

Tristrem to bedde ȝede
Wiþ hert ful of care.
He seyd, “þe dern dede,
Do it y no dare.”
Þe maiden he for bede,
Ȝif it hir wille ware.
Þe maide answerd in lede,
“Þer of haue þou no care.
Al stille
Y nil desiri na mare
Bot at þine owen wille.”

Her fader on aday
Ȝaf hem londes wide
Fer in þat cuntray
Markes were set bi side.
Bitvene þe douke þai had ben ay
And a geaunt vn ride;
No most þer no man play,
Þat he no dede him abide
And fiȝt;
Lesen he schuld his pride,
Were he king or kniȝt.

“Tristrem, y þe for bede
For þe loue of me,
No hunte þou for no nede
Biȝond þe arm of þe se.
Beliagog is vn rede,
A stern geaunt is he;
Of him þou owest to drede,
Þou slouȝ his breþer þre

In fiȝt:
Vrgan and morgan vn fre
And moraunt, þe noble kniȝt.

Ȝif þine houndes an hare wele hayre
And comen oȝain to þe fre,
Al so be þou bonaire,
When his houndes comen to þe.”
Þe forest was wel faire
Wiþ mani aselly tre.
Tristrem þouȝt repaire,
Hou so it euer be,
To bide:
“Þat cuntre will y se,
What auentour so bi tide.”

Tristrem on huntinge rade,
An hert chaci bigan;
Þer þe merkes were made
His houndes, ouer þai ran;
Þe water was blalc and brade,
Tristrem com as aman;
Þer þe douke was fade
Fast he folwed þan,
Riȝt þare;
He blewe priis as he can
Þre mot oþer mare.

Beliagog com þat tide
And asked wat he is.
“An hunting þer y ride,
Tristrem ich hat, y wis.”
“O! þou slouȝ moraunt wiþ pride.
Tristrem artow þis?
And seþþen vrgan vnride—
Vnkinde were ous to kis
As kenne:
Mendi þou most þat mis,
Now þou mi lond art inne.”

“Y slouȝ vrgan, y þe telle.
So hope y þe to sla.
Þis forest wil y felle
And castel wil y ma;
Her is miri to duelle,
For þi þis lond y ta.”
Þe geaunt herd þat spelle,
For þi him was ful wa
Vn wise.
So bitven hem tva
Þe cuntek gan arise.

Dartes wel vn ride
Beliagog set gan.
Tristremes liif þat tide
Ferly neiȝe he wan.
Bitvene þe hauberk and side
Þe dart þurch out ran.
Tristrem bleynt bi side,
God he þonked þan
Almiȝt.
Tristrem, as aman
Fast he gan to fiȝt.

Beliagog þe bold,
As afende he fauȝt;
Tristrem liif neiȝe he sold,
As tomas haþ ous tauȝt;
Tristrem smot, as god wold,
His fot of at adrauȝt;
Adoun he fel y fold,
Þat man of michel mauȝt,
And cride:
“Tristrem, be we sauȝt,
And haue min londes wide.

Ouer comen hastow me
In bataile and in fiȝt.
Helden oȝaines þe

No wil y neuer wiþ riȝt.”
His tresour lete he se
Tristrem, þe noble kniȝt.
Tristrem knewe him fre;
Beliagog in hiȝt,
Nouȝt lain,
An halle to maken him briȝt
To ysonde and bringwain.

Þe geaunt him gan lede
Til he fond an hald;
Þe water about ȝede,
It was his eldren hald.
Þe geaunt bad tristrem belde
Wiþ masouns þat were bald.
Beliagog in þat nede
Fond him riche wald
To fine:
Ysonde haue þere he wald
Luffsum vnder line.

Þe geaunt him tauȝt þat tide
A ford þer it was ȝare,
Þere he miȝt wele ride
When his wille ware.
In þe hold he gan him hide,
Seyd he nouȝt he was þare;
Nold he nouȝt long abide,
Oȝain þo gan he fare,
Þat fre.
At þe castel forþer mare
His werkmen wald he se.

Oȝain went tristrem þan,
Beliagog had masouns souȝt.
Tristrem, þat michel can,
A werk hem haþ y brouȝt;
Nas þer neuer ȝete man
Þat wist what oþer wrouȝt;

Arere when þai bi gan,
Swiche awerk nas nouȝt
At nede;
Þei al men hadde it þouȝt,
It nas to large no gnede.

At his des in þe halle
Swete ysonde was wrouȝt;
Hodain and pencru, to calle;
Þe drink hou brengwain brouȝt;
Mark y clad in palle
And meriadok ful of þouȝt;
— So liifliche weren þai alle
Ymages semed it nouȝt,
To abide —
And tristrem, hou he fauȝt
Wiþ beliagog vnride.
So it bifel acas
In seyn matheus toun
Þat afair fest was
Of lordes of renoun.
A baroun, þat hiȝt bonifas,
Spoused aleuedi of lyoun.
Þer was miche solas
Of alle maner soun
And gle
Of minestrals vp and doun
Bifor þe folk so fre.

Þe riche douke florentin
To þat fest gan fare,
And his sone ganhardin,
Wiþ hem rode ysonde þare.
Her hors apolk stap in,
Þe water her wat ay whare;
It was a ferly gin,
So heye vnder hir gare
It fleiȝe.

Þe leuedi louȝ ful smare,
And ganhardin it seiȝe.

Ganhardin, vn bliþe
His soster þo cald he:
“Abide now, dame, and liþe.
What is þer tidde to þe?
Do now telle me swiþe,
Astow louest me,
Whi louȝ þou þat siþe.
For what þing may it be?
Wiþ outen oþ
Þi frendschip schal y fle,
Til y wite þat soþ.”

“Broþer, no wraþe þe nouȝt.
Þe soþe y wil þe say.
Mine hors þe water vp brouȝt
Of o polk in þe way.
So heiȝe it fleiȝe, me þouȝt,
Þat in mi sadel it lay.
Þer neuer man no souȝt
So neiȝe, for soþe to say,
In lede:
Broþer, wite þou ay
Þat y louȝ for þat dede.”

Quaþ ganhardin, “y finde
Þat schamely schent ar we;
To wiue on our kinde
Heþeliche holdeþ he.
Þer he gan treuþe binde,
Fain y wald it se;
For alle þe gold of ynde
Ybroken no schal it be
To bete.
His frende schip wil y fle;
Our on schal tine swete.”

Wroþ is ganhardin

And þat tristrem y ses;
What þouȝt he is in
Fast he askeþ, y wis:
“Þou hast bi ysonde lin,
While þi wille is.
Whi nas hye neuer þine?
Tristrem, tel me þis
In lede:
What haþ hye don amis?
What wites þou hir of dede?”

“Ȝif it hir wille ware,
For hole it miȝt haue be;
Sche haþ y told it ȝou ȝare,
Quite sche is of me.
Of hir kepe y namare,
A ȝift y ȝeue þe.
To a leuedi wil y fare,
Is fairer þan swiche þre,
To frain.”
Ganhardin longeþ to se
Þat leuedi, nauȝt to lain.

Ganhardin þe fest fles,
He bi com tristremes frende;
He seyd his liif he les,
Bot he wiþ tristrem wende;
Quaþ tristrem, “ȝif it so bes
In inglond þat we lende,
No say nouȝt what þou ses,
Bot hold, astow art hende
And hele:
Lay it al vnder hende,
To steuen ȝif þai it stele.”

Ganhardin his treuþe pliȝt,
To ben his broþer he bede,
To ben atrewe kniȝt
In al tristremes nede.

Boþe busked þat niȝt
To beliagog in lede.
Ganhardin seiȝe þat siȝt
And sore him gan adrede:
“To brink
To sle þou wilt me lede,
To beliagog, me þink.”

“Ganhardin, wrong haue þou alle.
Wel, whi seistow so?
Maugre on me falle
Ȝif y þe wold slo!
Þe geaunt is my þralle,
His liif þei y wil to.”
Tristrem þo gan him calle;
On astilt he com þo
Ful swiþe:
“Lord, þi wille to do
Þar to ar we blithe.”

“Beliagog, go þare
And loke it boun be;
Ganhardin and y wil fare
Þe leuedi for to se.”
Swiche castel fond he þare,
Was maked of ston and tre.
Ganhardin wist nou are,
Þer duelled tristrem and he,
To liþe,
Ysonde for to se
In halle briȝt and bliþe.

To ysonde briȝt so day
To halle gun þai go;
Ysonde þo seiȝe þai
And bringwain, boþe to,
Tristrem, for soþe to say,
And beliagog al blo.
As ganhardin stert oway,

His heued he brac þo,
As he fleiȝe.
Ganhardin was ful wo,
Þat he com ysonde so neiȝe.

Ganhardin schamed sore,
His heued ran on blod.
Ysonde he seiȝe þore
And brengwain fair and gode.
Brengwain þe coupe bore;
Him rewe þat frely fode,
He swore bi godes ore.
In her hond fast it stode
Al stille.
“Tristrem, we ar wode
To speken oȝain þi wille.

Nis it bot hert breke,
Þat swiþe wele finde we,
And foly ous to speke
Ani worde oȝaines þe.
Mi wille ȝif y miȝt gete,
Þat leuedi wold y se:
Mine hert hye haþ y steke,
Brengwain briȝt and fre,
Þat frende;
Bliþe no may ich be,
Til y se þat hende.”

Tristrem and ganhardin,
Treuþe pliȝten þay,
In wining and in tin
Trewe to ben ay,
In ioie and in pin,
In al þing, to say,
Til he wiþ brengwain haue lin,
Ȝif þat tristrem may,
In lede.
To inglond þai toke þe way,

Þo kniȝtes stiþe on stede.

Sir canados was þan
Constable, þe quen ful neiȝe;
For tristrem ysonde wan,
So weneþ he be ful sleiȝe
To make hir his leman
Wiþ broche and riche beiȝe.
For nouȝt þat he do can
Hir hert was euer heiȝe
To hold
Þat man hye neuer seiȝe
Þat bifor tristrem wold.

Tristrem made asong,
Þat song ysonde þe sleiȝe
And harped euer among;
Sir canados was neiȝe;
He seyd, “dame, þou hast wrong,
For soþe, who it seiȝe.
As oule and stormes strong,
So criestow on heye
In herd.
Þou louest tristrem dreiȝe,
To wrong þou art y lerd.

Tristrem, for þi sake
For soþe wiued haþ he.
Þis wil þe torn to wrake:
Of breteyne douke schal he be.
Oþer semblaunt þou make,
Þiseluen ȝif þou hir se:
Þi loue hir dede him take,
For hye hiȝt as do ȝe
In land:
Ysonde men calleþ þat fre,
Wiþ þe white hand.”

“Sir canados, þe waite.
Euer þou art mi fo.

Febli þou canst hayte,
Þere man schuld menske do.
Who wil lesinges layt,
Þarf him no ferþer go.
Falsly canestow fayt
Þat euer worþ þe wo.
For þi
Malisoun haue þou also
Of god and our leuedy!

A ȝift ich ȝiue þe:
Þi þrift mot þou tine!
Þat þou asked me,
No schal it neuer be þine.
Y hated al so þou be
Of alle þat drink wine!
Hennes ȝern þou fle
Out of siȝt mine
In lede.
Y pray to seyn katerine
Þat iuel mot þou spede.”

Þe quen was wratþed sore,
Wroþ to chaumber sche ȝede:
“Who may trowe man more,
Þan he haþ don þis dede?”
A palfray asked sche þere,
Þat wele was loued in lede;
Diȝt sche was ful ȝare,
Hir pauilouns wiþ hir þai lede
Ful fine.
Bifore was stef on stede
Tristrem and ganhardine.

Ful ner þe gat þai abade
Vnder afiger tre;
Þai seiȝe where ysonde rade
And bringwain, boþe seiȝe he
Wiþ tvo houndes mirie made,

Fairer miȝt non be.
Her blis was ful brade,
A tale told ysonde fre,
Þai duelle.
Tristrem þat herd he
And seyd þus in his spelle:

“Ganhardin, ride þou ay,
Mi ring of finger þou drawe,
Þou wende forþ in þi way
And gret hem al on rawe;
Her houndes praise þou ay,
Þi finger forþ þou schawe.
Þe quen, for soþe to say,
Þe ring wil sone knawe,
Þat fre.
Aski sche wil in plawe,
And say þou comest fro me.”

Þo rode ganhardin kene
And ouer takeþ hem now;
First he greteþ þe quen
And after brengwain, y trowe.
Þe kniȝt him self bi dene
Stroked þe hounde pencru;
Þe quen þe ring haþ sene
And knewe it wele ynouȝ,
Þat fre.
Hye seyd, “say me, hou
Com þis ring to þe?”

“He þat auȝt þis ring
To token sent it to þe.”
Þo seyd þat swete þing:
“Tristrem, þat is he!”
“Dame, wiþ outen lesing,
He sent it ȝou bi me.”
Sche sayd, “bi heuen king,
In longing haue we be,

Nauȝt lain:
Al niȝt duelle we,”
Seyd ysonde to bringwain.

Þai wende þe quen wald dye,
So sike sche was bi siȝt.
Þai sett pauilouns anheye
And duelled, clerk and kniȝt.
Ysonde bi held þat lye
Vndhr leues liȝt;
Tristrem hye þer seyȝe,
So dede brengwain þat niȝt
In feld.
Ganhardine treuþe pliȝt
Brengwain to wiue weld.

Tvo niȝt þer þai lye
In þat fair forest;
Canados hadde a spie,
Her pauilouns he tokest;
Þer come to canados crie
Þe cuntre est and west.
Gouernayl was for þi
Þer out, as it was best,
To abide.
He seyd tristrem prest,
“Now it were time to ride.”

Gouernayl, his man was he,
And ganhardine his kniȝt.
Armed kniȝtes þai se
To felle hem doun in fiȝt.
Gouernaile gan to fle,
He ran oway ful riȝt;
Þo folwed bond and fre
And lete þe loge vn liȝt
Þat tide.
Oway rode tristrem þat niȝt
And ganhardine biside.

Sir canados þe heiȝe,
He ladde þe quen oway;
Tristrem of loue so sleiȝe
No abade him nouȝt þat day.
Brengwain briȝt so beiȝe,
Wo was hir þo ay;
On canados sche gan crie
And made gret deray
And sede:
“Þis lond nis worþ anay,
When þou darst do swiche adede.”

Ganhardine gan fare
In to bretaine oway,
And tristrem duelled þare
To wite what men wald say;
Coppe and claper he bare
Til þe fiftenday,
As he amesel ware;
Vnder walles he lay,
To liþe;
So wo was ysonde, þat may,
Þat alle sche wald to wriþe.

Tristrem in sorwe lay,
For þi wald ysonde awede,
And brengwain þretned ay
To take hem in her dede.
Brengwain went oway,
To marke, þe king, sche ȝede
And redily gan to say
Hou þai faren in lede:
“Nouȝt lain,
Swiche kniȝt hastow to fede,
Þi schame he wald ful fain.

Sir king, take hede þer to:
Sir canados wil haue þi quen.
Bot þou depart hem to,

A schame þer worþ y sene.
Hye dredeþ of him so,
Þat wonder is to wene;
His wille forto do
Hye werneþ him bitvene
Ful sone.
Ȝete þai ben al clene;
Haue þai no dede y done.”

Marke, in al þing
Brengwain þanked he.
After him he sent an heiȝeing,
Fram court he dede him be.
“Þou deseruest for to hing,
Miseluen wele ich it se.”
So couþe brengwain bring
Canados for to fle,
Þat heiȝe.
Glad was ysonde þe fre
Þat bringwain couþe so liȝe.

Þan to hir seyd þe quen:
“Leue brengwain þe briȝt,
Þat art fair to sene.
Þou wost our wille bi siȝt.
Whare haþ tristrem bene?
Nis he no douhti kniȝt?
Þai leiȝen al bi dene
Þat sain he dar nouȝt fiȝt
Wiþ his fo.”
Brengwain bi held þat riȝt,
Tristrem to bour lete go.

Tristrem in bour is bliþe,
Wiþ ysonde playd he þare;
Brengwain badde he liþe:
“Who þer armes bare,
Ganhardin and þou þat siþe
Wiȝtly oway gun fare.”

Quaþ tristrem, “crieþ swiþe
A turnament ful ȝare
Wiþ miȝt:
Noiþer of ous nil spare
Erl, baroun no kniȝt.”

A turnament þai lete crie,
Þe parti canados tok he;
And meriadok sikerly,
In his help gan he be.
Tristrem ful hastilye
Of sent ganhardin þe fre;
Ganhardin com titly
Þat turnament to se
Wiþ siȝt.
Fro þe turnament nold þai fle
Til her fon were feld doun riȝt.

Þai com into þe feld
And founde þer kniȝtes kene,
Her old dedes þai ȝeld
Wiþ batayle al bi dene.
Tristrem gan bi held
To meriadok bi tvene;
For þe tales he teld
On him he wrake his tene
Þat tide;
He ȝaf him awounde kene
Þurch out boþe side.

Bitvene canados and ganhardin
Þe fiȝt was ferly strong;
Tristrem þouȝt it pin
Þat it last so long;
His stiropo he made him tine,
To grounde he him wrong.
Sir canados þer gan lyn,
Þe blod þurch brini þrong
Wiþ care.

On him he wrake his wrong,
Þat he no ros na mare.

Her fon fast þai feld,
And mani of hem þai slouȝ;
Þe cuntre wiþ hem meld,
Þai wrouȝt hem wo y nouȝ.
Tristrem haþ hem teld
Þat him to schame drouȝ.
Þai token the heiȝe held
And passed wele anouȝ
And bade.
Vnder wode bouȝ
After her fomen þai rade.

Þer tristrem turned oȝain
And ganhardin stiþe and stille.
Mani þai han y slain
And mani ouer comen wiþ wille.
Þe folk fleiȝe vnfain
And socour criden schille;
In lede nouȝt to layn,
Þai hadde woundes ille
At þe nende.
Þe wraiers þat weren in halle,
Schamly were þai schende.
Pan þat turnament was don,
Mani on slain þer lay.
Ganhardin went sone
Into bretaine oway.
Brengwain haþ her bone:
Ful wele wreken er þay.
A kniȝt þat werd no schon
Hete tristrem, soþe to say;
Ful wide
Tristrem souȝt he ay,
And he fond him þat tide.

He fel to tristremes fet

And merci crid he:
“Mi leman fair and swete
A kniȝt haþ reued me,
Of loue þat can wele let,
So crist hir sende þe!
Mi bale þou fond to bet
For loue of ysonde fre!
Nouȝt lain,
Seuen breþern haþ he
Þat fiȝteþ me o gain.

Þis ich day þai fare
And passeþ fast biside.
Y gete hir neuer mare,
Ȝif y tine hir þis tide.
Fiftene kniȝtes þai are
And we bot to, to abide.”
“Daþet who hem spare!”
Seyd tristrem þat tide,
“Þis niȝt
Þai han y tint her pride
Þurch grace of god almiȝt.”

Þai gun hem boþe armi
In iren and stiel þat tide;
Þai metten hem in asty
Bi o forestes side.
Þer wex akene crie,
To gider þo þai gun ride.
Þe ȝong tristrem, for þi
Sone was feld his pride
Riȝt þore.
He hadde woundes wide,
Þat he no ros no more.

Þus þe ȝong kniȝt
For soþe y slawe was þare.
Tristrem, þat trewe hiȝt,
Awrake him al wiþ care.

Þer he slouȝ in fiȝt
Fiftene kniȝtes and mare;
Wel louwe he dede hem liȝt
Wiþ diolful dintes sare,
Vnsounde;
Ac anaruwe oway he bare
In his eld wounde.