The Story of England by Robert Manning of Brunne, A.D. 1338. Edited from mss. at Lambeth Palace and the Inner Temple, by Frederick J. Furnivall |
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De crudelitate fortissimi belly inter Arthurum &
Inperatorem. |
 | The Story of England |  |
De crudelitate fortissimi belly inter Arthurum & Inperatorem.
He smot his stede, & forþ to go,Romayns to felle, Romayns to slo;
Þo þat hit seye, myght hit wel seye,
So mykel folk for hym gan deye,
So many helmes for hym þorow dryuen,
Scheldes clouen, hauberks ryuen,
Þat Caliborne hadde þorow byten,
Hedes, armes, legges, of smyten;
I may nought seye al, ne how,
482
As þe lyon for hunger snacches
& sleþ þe best þat he first lacches,
So ferd Arthur wyþ ilkon,
Many hors, men, a lyue left non;
Wham-so he myghte reche or smyte,
Þough he hym wounded neuere so lyte,
Leche craft couþe hym nought seye;
ffor any medisine, nede most he deye:
As þe wolf chaseþ þe schep,
He dide þe Romayns by-fore hym lep;
And als Arthur after þem schok,
Sertor of Lubye he ouer-tok;
His hed he smot of at o dynt,
ffor non armure þe swerd ne stynt;
Seide Arthur þen to þo þer ware,
“Schame þe tyme þou armes bare!
“& þat þou come me so ney,
“Caliborne to make blody!”
Arthur ouer-gat in anoþer pres
Þe kyng of Bythayne, Pollydetes,
Of a lond of Payenye:
A wonder strok Arthur let flye!
By þe schuldres þe hed of plat;
Þe hed fel doun, þe body vp sat.
Þorow Arthures wordes & dedes trayst,
Þe Bretons bolded, & Romayns abaischt;
483
Ageyn þe Bretons stifly rod,
& foughten as þey were wod,
Wiþ gret strengþe a-geyn þem stod.
ffor Arthur saw þey wolde nought scurne,
He gaf þem strokes wyþ Caliborne.
Þemperour þenne taried nought,
On Arthures folk ful sore he sought,
But þemperour ne Arthur þe kyng
Mighte nought mete for no þynge;
Mikel was þe pres, ful þykke þe þro,
Þey myghte nought mete; Arthur was wo.
Wel faught þe Breton, & wel þe Romayn;
A þousand wyþynne a þrowe were slayn;
Might noman wyte ho schulde ȝut wynne,
Ne whiche of hem wer oute ne inne;
Þer was þe flour of boþe partis,
& neyþer side bar ȝit þe pris.
Moreont, of Gloucetre cheftayn,
Meoued aboue vpon þe montayn;
He sey þe bataille was ful long,
Ne non ne fledde out of þe þrong;
He hadde a legion of folk þat wex
Sex þousand, sex hundred, sexti & sex;
And alle knyghtes wyþ helm on stede;
& þoughte þat Arthur hadde nede;
He sey non þat hym ne gaf þe feld,
& til þe Bretons þer owen held;
He þoughte þorow help of a lite
Þey scholde þe Romayns desconfite,
& for to venge Arthures tene,
484
He com doun al pryuely,
Þat non ne herde noyse ne cry;
Byhynde þe bank he cam al hot,
& on þe Emperours side he smot,
& his bataille perced þorow out.
Þen gon þey baysche þat er wer stout,
Þe Romayns þenne no lenger byden,
Þe Bretons folewed, & þem ouer ryden,
& al fleynge lightly þem slow,
& spoyled hem, & al to-drow;
Syn had þey no grace to stande,
Ne myghte relye, but euere fleande.
Þer was þemperour slayn of chaunce
Þorow-out þe body wiþ a launce;—
Y can nought seye ho dide hym falle,
But sire Wawayn, men seide hit alle;
Y þe laste bataille þat in sprong,
He was slayn þer among;
Þe certeyn can þer noman ame,
But sire Wawayn bar þe name;—
Among þe dede þey hym founde,
& wiþ a spere was his wounde.
Þe Romayns alle faste þey fledde,
& þe Payens for drede spredde;
Whilk of þem þat swyþest nam,
Þe Bretons kept þem as þey cam;
Þey were wery alle to slo,
ffor wery, manion let þey go;
Þe blod ran þer as water stremes
485
Gode stedes & palfrays
ȝede o stray, ilk his ways.
Arthur was glad þat þorow here dome
Had so abated þe pride of Rome;
ffor byforn, seyden alle þe Romayns,
Þat non myght standen þem ageyns;
Þerfore þanked Arthur God Almyght,
Þat gaf hym þe maistri of hem þorow fight.
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