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Thomas takes the Iuell,—and Ihesus thankis,—
Þat comyne was to hume fro his Ientyll moder.

Als bekat bad at his messe, now has a boy stone
Þe brydylle of his blonke hede, agayne he buske shulde.
Þai turnyt to Thomas, and hume þis tale taulde.
“Love barnes,” quod beket, “go by me ane oþer;
For the falssede sall fayr, Sasell sall fall to the erth,
And salbe al to-Rokked wyth Rude wederys Ruth to þe grounde;
Forthy wende we on oþir ways, and hime no more wroth;
For all þar wroke sall ende wyght þam selwne.”

Thus he windes on his way, (wysse hume our lorde!)
Twelff days Iurnay, as the buke tellys;
At the last he landes in ane noþer lande, þer avyoune standis.
Thomas knelyde downe on his kne, and kessed the grunde,
And gat vp A glowe full of that grunde wyth glayde hartis,
And sayde to þerles sone of waryn, “it is worth all, and mekyll ȝelde,”
“Be my saule,” he sayde, “þat war a Selly, þat ar Riall and Rewme,”
“Yis,” says thomas, els war a Selly,[OMITTED]
For her Sall þe pope of Rome sett, and his See halde.
Þis caytiwe auoyoune, þat na man now kepis,
Heder sall kyng and clerk cayr for helpe;
And full fayne be to feche fude for þar Saulys;
Þe vernycle of Rome sall full anerly be wyde.
Þis sall be tane for A towne, and nocht be tentyde,
And þen sall ferlis feell fall on þe warlde.
He þat is Rewler of resone sall neuer Reke of it,
Bot lat Rewmes and Ryche lordes Rusche to geþer;
All for faute of A fader sall feell folk dye.”

Thomas passis furthe, ande A passe haldis,
Tyll he come to payters throw perlyhous wais.
He buskis tyll A burges house, quhar hime best thocht,
And set tyll hime tyll his Super wyth vj. lordis childer;
He hayd no power in his purs to pay for lyk clerkis,
Bot wyth þe waryn and þe wake hamwerde he wendis;
For þai fand hime at the courte, þai kend hime better;
A porer prelet thane thomas was passede neuer of Englonde.
Thomas askede þe husbande wytht full hende wordis;
“And ser, and þi wyll war, wete wald I fayne,
Qwha is maystr of yhon werk þat is tyll A tour merkyt;
Me think it is harme, be hewine, that it no helpe has;
For war it byggod up,” quod beket, “your towne war the better,
For ony way that mycht happine, on yon west halfe.”
“Sir clerk,” sayis the cleyn burges, “be cryst I sall the tell:
Kyng charles our cheiffe chesyde him selwen,
He walde haue tried vp A toure, gyff ony tuyll Rase;
Þen was þer Suilk A Selly sewne in þe same time,
Þai fand A fayr letter on A stone fast,
Þat it wonderrede all the werkmen þat þe werk wroght;
It sayd, ‘masterles men, yhe this tour make;
A Bayre sall come out of Berttane wytht so brode tuskis,
He sall trauyll up yhour towre, and your towne þer efter,
And dycht his den in þe derrest place þat euer aucht kynge charl[es.]’
This foulkes had ferly þeroffe, and the [freke] fechede;
He herd it full Rathly, and Rewyde sone efter.
He kest the stone in þe watter, & bad it waa worghe;
And sayde, ‘Masouns, be sant mary, no mor sall yhe make.
Bot what wy þat it wynnis, ger werk yt hime sellwyn.’
For-thy it is grathly grathede, and þe ground þus lewyde;
And we hynge in A hop, for drede of the bayre.”

And þon knelys thomas downe, & call tyll our lady;
“Der lady, latte me witt, (and thy wille were,)
Qwheþer of berttaine þat is braide, sall þis ber Ryse.”
The blessyt lady bounnede hyme to, and blessed hime for euer;
“Beket,” scho sayde, “be balde, þi buke it tell the best;
It is the gretter of my morow gyft, throw grace of my sone;
Þis bere in his barnhede sall byde mony noyes.”

And þen thomas semblise sone seyue skore masons;
And feche fre stane out of A fer erthe.
“I sall bygge it,” quod beket, “agayne the bere Ryse;
If he hynttis ony harme as he hydder wendis,
At he may Rest þerin, wyth his Rethe tuskis.
Þat man sall be makleß, for mercy hime folows.”

And þus is thomas toure mayde, þe mare is his myrthte;
Of his masons was mony wytht, he thame qwhittis.
He fayris in A fayre felde, and his folke hime folowys;
And walkis be A wodesyde, and wonderly he spekis:
“Masons, for Sant mary lufe, helpe at your mythttis,
That here were A fayre crosse founded on this grunde;
And downe in yhon depe dale dythtis ane oþer;
And on yhone banke, whare yhone vynes growis, makis þe thride.
Fore the kynge of france wyste qwhat wonder sulde be wrothte,
He walde þat A watter, or a well, hayd wecht it away.
At þis crosse þat is cleyn, is croune salle he losse;
And all fraunce vn to Sexty wynter efter.
Þat so wonderfull wyes, and soe fewe þat þer is,
Þat all the warlde swlde wyte be the wyll of our lorde.
At yhon secunde croß þat I of say schall,
Byschopis, Arsbischopis, abbottis, and priouris,
And preloettis of haly kyrke, sall þar lyffis loß.
At yhone thride crosse, þen thripis all my shillis,
Þe sonne sall forsake þe fadre; and þat is a Selly;
And the croune be kelede to þe erthe wytht a knyghte;
A batell of berdles barnes bring sall it oure.”
Þone lawghis þe erlys sonne of Waryne, & Iwis sweris,
“Was neuer wye of þis warlde þat durst wakin slike bourdis,
Her to Feght, no to feche the fayr honour of Fraunce.
Qwha durst busk to Bolane, wytht ony brycht helmis?
Or care on to calase, wytht ony cleyne cheldis?
Ilk a lorde in the lande hume fore þe cheffe haldis.”
Thomas grewes at the gome, all if he gret were;
“Þow gaffe me lytyll, be our lorde; leys the to say.
It is trew, and no truffle, þat þis buk tellys;
For A tuske of this bore sall tumble vp þis lande;
And a body sall byde in A burghe, þat londyn is hattene,
And nocht bryst A brisse of his bare Rygge.
Serttes,” says thomas, “her is a mor Selly!
He says he sall to the see, wytht A sadde pepill;
And wrotte emong walles, and werke feell wonderys;
And pasture hime propirly on proude lordis bodyes.
Þar salbe no hatell, þat at hume huntis,
Þat wythtoutyne hurte salle chape.
He sall lewe of his layke, so lell sal be his hert;
Bot he sall clayme his comonys throw out all fraunce.
All cretoye sall haue care, when he furth caryes;
And be the watter of sayne sall Sellyes be seyne.
Wyld wyis of wales sall wyrk feell wonderys;
And gomes of gourlande sall get vp þar baneris,
And styss knychtis strek doune þar stremys.
Abfyle for his bost sall balfully be brunt;
And ledys lose þar lyffis þat to þat toune langis.
And in A forest I fynde sall feell knychtis de;
Ande the best of beein sal by, when þe bayr buskes,
Fra his tuskis begynnes to tuyll, his tene salbe þe lesse;
He sall grynne quhar he gase, & grace sall him folowe;
Ande þe fays put to þe flycht, þat þe floure berys,
And do hime draw to Sant denyse, for drede of þe bare.
This ber salbe buskede in A banke syde,
Ande nocht ster A bresse for all þare stern werdis.
Ande þen may Mount Joys murne, ande oþer moo ceteses;
Perty properly put downe for euer.
Cane ande calyse kepe þi turne, for þan þi care Ryses!
Hogge sall full carfully be cast to the grunde;
Valoys, wythtoutyne fale, sall fall to the erth.
In quhyte sande the ledene sal be, ‘no houß lewyde.’
Þe bare sall busk to calyse, wyth his brode brysses,
Ande dere Inglande dyght þe, ande kepe well þi brisses!
A noyntede kynge sall come fro the North,
Ande noy hyme Ryght Ryght[OMITTED]
Ande Ryde in the bares Royalme, þogff he no Rycht have.
Bot he salbe hynte wyth a handfull; his herme salbe þe more,
And claughte on A clerke laide, þat Cutbert is [called],
And salbe lede to lond, þogh lothe thinke
Þat Renk to Rest hime þar Rycht mony yheris;
Þat neuer was of this warlde sall wete qwhare he worthede.
Bot as A slomerande slepe war slongyn in his Erys,
Un-tyll his grysly tuskis be so grete growene,
Þat all the dukis wnder dryghtene sall drede hime allone.
He salbe waknede wyth A burghe that Berowyck hatte;
And wander in A winter tyme wyth full wale knychtis.
Þis kene wythtoutyne counter sall agayne care,
And syne be comforth wyth A crowne, as cristis wyll Is.
He sall grise tyll hime his grym grisses, grathly hym selwene,
Ande stable his stiffe Roailme wyth sterne knyghtis,
Ande nyghe tyll A nawy, his enmyse to noye;
Ilka sarsyne may haue syte quhen he to schipe gangis.
At bolane sall byd hume A battell fulle hugge;
Ande fyftyne hundreghe helmes þer salbe hewene.
A byrde wytht two bekis bring sall full mony;
Fyfty thowsande of fere pepyll sall folow his tayll,
To meke mary, ande a ber þat mekyll mercy folowys,
Fro the bryde ande the bere be busked in A felde;
Syne sall come mony Sope, or els war ferly.
Benedicite!” sayde beket, ande blessyt hime thr[i]sse,
“That euer sall A bare (as þis buk tellys),
Skippe so sleistly, and he A swyne lyk,
Qwhile lyonis, vnicorns, and liberdis Regnis!
Þan may ceteis haue cete, as the buk says,
For the bere in lande haue laykede hime A stounde.
Þai sall bane, that hime bydes, þat euer he was borne;
For he to paryche passe, wytht his Rout nobyll,
He sall tuche his tuskes tyll A stone, þat mekyll strenth folow[ys],
And þai sall cast hime the keys our the clene yhattis;
He sall Ryde throuch the Rych towne, Rewylle it hym selvine;
And brode bukis on brestis agaynis hume sall þai brynge.
It no wonder, Iwis, and ilka wye wyste
Qwhat sall worth of his werkis, wythtin few yheris.
For hime behowes Semble, forsuth, þat lange has beyne sund[er],
Þo crounie, ande the thre nalles, & A spere Rycht.
For all the blysse of þat burghte, byde wyll he nocht,
Bot efter þe byrde wytht tw[o] bekis he wyll busk.
Fray this bayre wytht his brysses be buskede in a feylde,
Þar beys na byerde wytht twa bekis, nor best þat hede berys,
So hardy to lyght on þat lande, þar the ber Restis.
Þis byrde thar noȝt trest on no tre, & he be anes turnede,
No perk hime on no proper perk wytht no proude pales,
For the Ryche bare wytht his tuskes wyll Rywe þame in sonder,
Ande he sall [fight] fersly xiiij. days in diuerse places,
All gyffe he be wery, Iwis, and his wyes all.
Then shall he cast vp his croune to the blessyt mary,
Ande besek hyr of helpe, helle of all succure:
He sall be ware in the west whare A wye comes,
A lefe knyght & A lene, wytht two long sydis;
He salbe hardy, ande hathell, and her of hime selwyne;
Lacede iij. liberttis, ande all of golde lyke,
Wytht A labell full lele, laide ewene our;
A Rede schelde wytht A quhyt lyoune sall cum fra the felde.
Melane, mak yow no myrth, for murne may yow swyth;
And lumberdy lely sall lene tyll hume soun.
Þen sall þis berde in his bek bringe thre crouns,
Ande bynde þame to this bare, best of alle othire;
Þane þis bare sall busk tyll A brade watter,
And on to sant Nycholaß bowne hume fulle Soune ewine;
& Redy his schippis, he that the soth tellys,
Wyth his pawelȝounis that is proper, and his prowude folkis,
To wende our the wane watter, (& wysse hume our Lorde!)
And sall fayr to Famagoste, for-lyes to seke,
And saill furth be cipres, as the buk tellis,
Ande Rynne up at Ryche Jaffe, (Joys to þame all!)
To convert the cateffes þat noȝtt one Crystis lewys.
He is my contre-man, my comforth is the mor,
For he sall lewe his trouth on crystis owyne grawde.”

Þen þerle sone off w[a]ryn to thomas wendis,
“Þar sall I feght fenely, be my fader saule.”
“Þow swerys wonder Swyftly, & Swyppe may it euer;
Þat time of the ȝere, ande A tyde forþer,
May þow be laid full law, and all thi leue Armes;
So þat no wy of this warlde sall were þame on shulder.”
“Þat war a wonder,” says the wak Rycht.
“Lytyll landis lelely,” says thomas, “salbe levyde.
Als leffe as þow þame thinkis,[OMITTED]
Þow salbe laide full law, and þow na lorde hade.”
Þe gentyll says, ”be Sant mary! þat war gret murnyng,
Þat suilk lordis of landis swld so law be layde;
And no cosine vnder cryst þar castels to welde.”
Then says thomas, “In fathte, ferly is it none;
Þi land may far be famales, in so Fer ȝeris;
Or þar may a pestellaunce proper fall in all landis,
Þat may ger sexty cosins part wytht-in vij. wekis,
And may mak mony Sorowles lykes, & joyles brydyles;
And mak halykyrke to-trowlede, for tenyng of maryage;
And plewes to lygge wpon ley, þe larke lorde wax;
And cateffis vnkyndly sall welde mekyll gudis;
Þai sall forgette cryste and his cleyne moder
Qwhen thar Is no wye þat þis warld weldis.
Þen sall come A Snyll Snappyng to Swithe in þer hornes;
Hunger and hate warldles, I hythe þe for suche,
A wodenes to walk our þe landis, and þame wa wyrke,
Bernes bundyn on to buredis and braydis full ȝarne,
Tyll þai have knawyng of cryst and his blessed moder.
He sall passe his courß, and þat salbe well kennede,
Ande do haly kyrke to heylde, I say the for suthe,
To wend out our the wan watterys, as þar none ware;
It Sall Ryne Rede in the est, and Rewth it is the mor.
And þen salbe wanttynge of wode, and wanyng of Irne;
Suilk wonderys salbe wroucht whar the ber wendis.”
Edmound of abyndoun, þat Baroune all blessede,
Says, “my lorde, lelyli lythe me A stounde:
The Sonne walkes west, ande the day wendis;
Þow tellys þame tales, þat trowys thame full lytyll.”
Ane angell bowed doune to beket in a blew wede,
And sayde, “binde vp thy buk, my lady the byddis.”
And þen he hewed vp his handis, als he as he mycht,
And lowes our lorde and his der moder
Off the talle that scho hume tould in the meene tyme.
Þen the buk was borne vp to þe blysse off our lorde;
And beket to burgone buskes hume full Evine.