The Story of England :: :: University of Virginia Library

Goffar swor he schold hym venge:
Of mikel folk he made a renge
ffor to falle on Brutes ost;
& Brutus aspied on what cost,
& sente vntil his fflute on flod,
þat raskayl to þe schip al ȝod,

And þer vitaille wyþ hem lede
Tyl þey wyste how þey schold spede:
“Ne comes nought out, y ȝow forbede,
“Tyl þat y come, for doute & drede.”
Hys men of armes þat wiþ hym war,
Þey went a-geyn þe kyng Goffar.
Þer hostes sone to-gydere mette,
Wyþ spere & swerd to-gedere sette;
Þe Peyteuynes wel on þeym sought,
Þe Trogens stode, þey failled nought,
Þey stoden wel a gret party,
Non wyste ho schold haue þe maystri.

Coryneus for tene wax al wod
þat þe Peyteuyns so wel stod.
Out of þe renge he ȝede biside,
& ches him folk þat dirste abyde,
& trauersed þe Peyteuynes bataille.
Þenne bygan þey mykel to faille;
Þorow þe host he made hem weye,
On ilk a side he dide þem deye.
Corineus þer his swerd he lees;
An ax he wan sone yn þat pres,
(As auenture fel, hit cam til hande,)
Agaynes þat mought þer noman stande,
Neyþer byhynde ne byforn;
þat he ouer-rought, þe lif was lorn.
þe Peyteuines stode & byhelde
How Coryneus faught in þe felde;

þey saye his grete hardinesse,
& his strokes þat were ay fresche;
Byfore hym, euerylkon þey fleyghe,
ffor drede of his hand to deye.
Whan he sey þat þey turned bak,
He folewed fast, & to þem spak:
“ffalse folk! why fle ȝe?
“ffle ȝe alle for drede of me?
“I am al one, Coryneus,
“& for me one ȝe fle þus!
“Turn a-geyn! what haue ȝe þought?
“ffende ȝour lond, & fles nought!
“Turn a-gayn, & comes blyue,
“By two, by þre, by foure or fyue,
“& fend ȝour land as men hardy;
“þer folewes non bot onelyk y!”

Swerd, a knyght of þe kynges host,
Herde his pride & his bost;
Wiþ two hundred knyghtes & swayn
On Coryneus turned ageyn;
On alle halue abouten hym þey ȝede,
Bot he ne fled hem for no drede;
Wyþ þat ax he hym bywent,
Sire Swerd a strok he lent,
Wiþ þat strok his body clef,
In-to þe erthe his ax dref.
Þe oþer alle had no foysoun
Þan had þe lomb ageyn þe lyoun.

Þenne cam Brutes y þat stounde,
Many on he slow & leide to grounde;
Wiþ þe Trogens was no feyntise,
Bot Swerd was slayn, & alle hyse;
Vneþes ascaped þe kyng wiþ chaunce,
He ȝed to seke hym help in ffraunce;—
Hit highte nought Fraunce, þe name was Galle,
Galle hit was cald þat tyme of alle;—
þe twelue dosze-peres of pris
departed þe lond in twelf partys;
Ilkon of þes, Goffare þey hight,
‘Wyþ þe Troiens for hym to fight,
& do þem alle to fle þe lond,
Or do þem deye wiþ dint of hond.’
Goffar þanked þem alle twelue,
& ilkon gadered an ost hym selue.

Brutus & hys men of Troye,
ffor þeyr wynnynge þey mad gret ioye,
& desconfyted þeyr enemys;
A castel þey dide make of pris
In þe contre als þey nam;
On a fair hil þey rested þam,
A castel þey maden to haue rescet,
Byfor hand was þer non set,
Toun ne castel þat non may wyten;
Bot als yn olde story ys wryten,
Þorow þat makyng þat þey dide same,
Tours hadde þey gyuen hit þe name;

Tours was cald, þat wyde ys kyd,
Þorow a knyght a ded bytyd.
When þe castel was mad & set,
& þer godes þerto yfet,
Bot two dayes sithen hit was dight,
Com Goffar wiþ alle his myghte,
On þe Troiens to gyue bataille,
& þer castel þey gonne assaille,
Bot whan þe kyng saw þat hil,
Tyl his men he seide his skyl:
“Lo! þey haue y-mad a Tour
“ffor to abesen our honour.
“Sorewe in herte wil me slo
“Bot y be venget or þey go!
“Þerfore, lordes, y preye ȝow alle,
“Helpes now þat hit may falle.
“Arme vs swyþe al redy,
“Assaille we þem doughtyly!”
Þey armed þeym alle, baron & knyght,
In twelue batailles redy to fyght;
To gyue assaut, al wer þey bone.
Þey of þe castel com on ful sone,
& smyten to-gyder al so smert
Wyþ ful egre wyl of hert.
Þat bataille was nought a lyte,
So felonly þey gon to smyte;
At þassemble, in þe fi[r]ste tyde
Þe Troiens had þe bettere side;

ffor vnto twey þousand or mo
Þe Troiiens slowen sone of þo.
Þo twelue batailles þe Troiens brak,
& dide þe ffrensche arere hem bak.
Þe ffrankysch þenne cast a cry,
Þerfore men drowe to þeym ney,
& stode ageyn, & smyten sore,
& þeir folk wax ay more,
Þey come ay fresche, & stoden wel,
& drof þe Troiens to þer castel.
Þen had þe ffrankysche þe fairer ende,
Þat ded hem wyþ force a-geyn to wende;
Alle a day þey held hem fight
Tyl hem failled dayes lyght;
Þey wyþ-drowen, to logges þey ȝede,
Þe nyght was come, þey moste nede.
Þe Troiens þat had ben yn turpel,
At midnight tok þey conseil,
Þat Coryneus out scholde go
Wiþ his owen ost, & no mo,
& busche hym in a wode byside:
“Þe frankisch ost ȝe schul here bide,
“& whan þer ost ys al comen,
“& ȝe haue a-geyn þem nomen,
“Þan schol þey se þat ȝe ar fo,
“Þey schol nought drede on ȝow to go.

“& take non auisement,
“ffor ȝe ar fewe, þey schol nought tent,
“& ȝe schal abate ȝow hardely,
“ffor atte here bak y come redy;
“Þe maistrie schal oures be,
“ffor coward elles hald þou me.”
Coryneus he dighte hem ȝerne,
& went out at þe day[e] sterne,
& busched þem on a rowe
þat þe Frensche moughte þem nought knowe.
þe Peyteuyns comen atte morwen tyde,
þe Troiens a-geyn þem gon ride
Turynus a knyght, Brutus cosyn,
He parted þe host of [þe] Peyteuyn,
& rod þer host al þorow out,
Might noman bere his strokes stout;
Merueyloslike was he hardy,
His hardinesse was foly;
In al þe host ne hadde he pere,
Of no strengthe þat men myght here,
(Bot þe geaunt, sire Coryne,
Ȝit was he al so strong as he:)
He triste to mykel on his myght;
Ouer fer he ȝede on hem to fight:
He had slayn, þe story seys,
Six hundred Peyteuyns & Fraunceys;
Siþen com alle þe frankische route,
& closed hym yn al aboute.