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Incipit Sir Eglamour off in Artas/Incipit Sir Eglamour of Artasse

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LINCOLN 91

Ihesu, þat es heuens Kyng,
Gyff vs alle his blyssyng
And beyld vs in his boure;
And giff þam ioye þat will here
Of eldirs þat byfore vs were,
Þat lyued in grete honoure.
I will ȝow telle of a knyghte
Þat was bothe hardy and wyght,
And stythe in ilk a stoure:
Whare dedis of armes were, fere or nere,
Þe gre he wynnes wyth iornaye clere,
And euir in felde þe floure.
In Artasse was getyn and borne,
And his eldirs hym byforne—
Herkyn! I will ȝow saye.
For dedis of armes whare he went
Wyth þe erle es he lent,
In derenes nyghte and daye.
Sir Pryncesamour þe erle hight;
Sir Eglamour men callys þe knyght,
Þat curtase was nyght and daye.
For þe erle hym had in walde
Of dedis of armes was he balde:
Wyth no man sayde he naye.
4

The erle had na child bot ane:
Þat was a doghetir white als fame
Þat his ayere sold bee.
Cristabelle þan was hir name:
A fayrere lady of flesche ne bane
Was nane in Cristyante.
Sir Eglamour sa hym bare
Þat alle þis werlde he loued na mare
Þan þat lady so free;
Sertanly, bothe day and nyght,
Sa dose scho þat gentyll knyght—
It was þe more pete!
The knyghte es hardy and bold in stele:
Þarefore þe lady loued hym wele,
For sothe, als I ȝow telle.
Lordis come of ilk a lande
Hir to aske, I vndirstande,
Wyth many folkes and felle.
Sir Eglamour, he garte crye
Dedis of armes wittirly
For þe lufe of Cristabelle:
What manere of man come hir to hafe,
Swylke bofetes he þam gaffe
For euir he dyde þam duelle.
Till it byfelle, appon a daye,
Till his sqwyere gun he saye,
In chambir whare þay ryste:
‘Belamy, couthe þou layne
Of a thyng þat I wolde to þe sayne—
In the es alle my trayste . . . .’
6

‘Ȝa, maystir, per ma faye:
What thyng þat ȝe will to me saye
Ȝow thare noght be abayste!’
‘Þe er..s doghetir, so God me saue,
Þe lufe of hir bot I may haue
My lyfe þan hafe I loste.’
‘Ȝa,’ he sayd, ‘maystir free,
Ȝe hafe me told ȝoure priuate:
I sall ȝow gyff answare.
Takis it not to ill: I vndirstande
Ȝe are a knyghte of lyttill lande
And mekill wolde hafe mare;
If I wende and say hyr sa,
In a skorne scho will it ta
And lightly late me passe.
Maystir, þe man þat hewes ouir hey
The chyppis fallis in his eye:
Thus fallis it now and ay was.
‘Sir, vmbythynk ȝow of all thynge:
Þat hir wowes emperour and kynge
And dukes þat are bolde;
Erlis, barons hir dose also—
And ȝitt ne will scho none of tho
Bot in gudnes hir holde.
Wist hir fadir, by heuens Kynge,
Þat hir were profirde swylke a thyng
Ful dere it mond be solde;
8

Now ne wold scho neuir kyng forsake
And til a sympill knyght hir take,
Bot if þaire lufe were olde.’
Þan sayd þe knyght þat was so mylde,
‘Sqwyare, sen þou was a childe
Þou hase bene aye wyth mee:
In dedis of armes or any stowre
Whare herde þou euir my dyshonoure?
Saye forthe, sa God saue the!’
‘Nay, maystir, by God of myghte!
Ȝe ere þe nobileste knyghte
I knawe in Cristyante:
In dedis of armes, be God on lyue,
Ȝour body es worthe oþir fyve!’
‘Gramercy, sir,’ sayse he.
Þe knyght syghede and sayd na mare,
Bot to his bedd þan ȝode he þare,
Þat richely was wroghte.
To Criste his handis he lyfte vp sone:
‘Lorde, ȝe grant me my bone,
On þe rode als þou me boghte.
The erlis doghetir, faire and free,
Þat scho myght myn bee—
Þat maste es in my thoghte.
Þat I myght hafe hir to my wyfe,
And reioyse hir all my lyfe,
To blysse þan ware I broghte.’
Appon þe morne þe mayden smalle
Byfore hir fadir ete in þe haulle
Amang þe beryns bryghte.
10

Ilke man semblede in bot he.
Þe lady sayde, ‘For Goddis pete,
Whare es Sir Eglamour, my knyght?’
His sqwyere ansuerd with febill chere,
‘Madame, he lyes seke and dede full nere,
Bysekis ȝowe of a syghte;
For he lyes castyn in swylk a care,
Bot if ȝe mende hym of his fare
He leuys noghte þis seuenyghte.’
The erle to his doghetir spake:
‘Damesele, for Goddis sake,
Herkyn whate I will saye:
Aftir mete dose als þe hende—
Luke þou to his chambyr wende;
He hase seruede vs many a daye;
Trewly in his entent
In batelle ne in tournament
He nytyde vs neuir wyth naye.
In dedis of armes ferre or nere
Þe gre he wynnes wyth iournaye clere,
Oure menske for euir and aye.’
Eftir mete this lady gent
To do hir fadir coma[n]dment
Scho buskede hir to wende;
And wyth hir tuke scho maydyns twa
To his chambir for to ga,
Þat curtase was and hende.
12

For na man ne wald scho spare
Till his chambir for to fare,
Whare þat he gan lende.
Þe sqwyere sayd, ‘Maystir, ma gud chere:
Here commes þe erls doghetir dere—
Cryste len þat ȝe part frende!’
Than sayd þe lady, þat was bryght,
‘How faris Sir Eglamour, my knyght,
Þat doghety es euir aywhare?’
‘Dameselle,’ he says, ‘als ȝe may see,
Lyes bowndyn for þe luf of the
In langynge and in care.’
Than sayd þe lady, fayre and free,
‘If ȝe be angrede for þe luffe of mee
It greues me wondir sare!’
‘Dameselle, myghte I torne vnto my lyfe
I wolde wedd ȝow to my wyfe,
If þat ȝour will it ware!’
Þe lady sayd, ‘So God me see,
Þou arte a gud knyght and a fre,
And comen of gentill blode;
And doghetily vndir þi schelde
Hase wonne þe gre in ilke a felde,
Full menskfully, by þe rode!
I sall avyse me of it,
And at my fadir I rede ȝe witt
If þat his will be gude;
And als I am mayden trewe and gent,
If ȝe be bothe at one assent
I fayle the for na fude!’
14

The knyghte he kepis no more of blysse,
Now he hase getyn grant of this:
He made full ryalle chere.
He comand his sqwyere for to gaa,
Of golde a hundreth pownd to taa
To gyff hir maydyns clere.
‘Damesels, so God me saue,
To ȝoure maryage þis sall ȝe haue,
For ȝe come neuir are here.’
Scho thankes hym anone righte,
And tuke hir leue and kyssede þe knyght,
And sayde, ‘Farewele, my fere!’
Agayne þe lady tase þe waye
Þe erle hir fadir for to saye,
Laye in a holde of stane.
‘Welcome, doghetir, whit als floure!
How faris my knyghte, Sir Eglamour?’
Scho ansuerde hym onane:
‘Grete athes he gun me suere,
Þat he es couerde of his sore,
Slyke comforthe hase he tane.
He tolde me and my maydyns hende,
To-morne he wolde on reuere wende
Wyth his hawkis ilkane.’
Þe erle sayd þan, sekirly,
‘And I will wend to see þam fly
For commforthe of the knyghte!’
16

Appon þe morne, when it was daye,
Sir Eglamour tase þe waye
Till a reuere full ryght;
The erle buskede and mad hym ȝare,
And bothe þay went on ryuare
To se þat semly syghte.
Alle þe daye þay made gud chere;
A wrethe byganne, als ȝe may here,
Be þat it neghede to nyghte.
Als þay went hamward by þe waye
Þe knyghte vnto þe erle gun saye,
‘Lord, will ȝe me here?’
‘Ȝaa,’ he sayd, ‘So mot I the—
What kyn thynge þou says to mee
It es me leue and dere;
For þe beste knyght arte þou
Þat in my lande lyues nowe,
Owþir ferre or nere.’
‘Gud lorde, I ȝow praye, pur charyte,
Cristabelle, ȝour doghtir free,
When schall scho hafe a fere?’
Þe erle sayde, ‘So God me saue,
I knawe na man my doghtir sall haue,
Þat es so bryghte of blee!’
‘Ȝis, gud lorde, I ȝow praye:
I hafe ȝow seruede many a daye—
Ȝe voche hir safe on me!’
The erle sayde, ‘By Goddis payne,
Will þou hir wyn als I the sayne
Wyth dedis of armes three,
18

And I sall þe gyff þe maydyn clere,
And alle Artasse bothe ferre and nere—
I halde þerto,’ sayd hee.
The knyght sayd, ‘So mot I the,
At my iournaye wolde I bee!’
He buskede and mad hym ȝare.
‘Bot a lyttill here by weste
A geant hase a forest—
Slyke sawe þou neuir are:
Wyth syprese trees growand lang;
Gret hertis walkes þam amange,
Þe fayrest on fote may fare.
And þou bryng me an awaye,
Sir knyght, þan dare I safely saye
Þat þou hase bene thare.’
‘Petir!’ sayde þe knyght than,
‘Iff þou be a Cristyn man
Hald þat þou hase hyghte!
Kepe wele my lady and my lande.’
Þarto þe erle held vp his hande:
To hym his trouthe he plyght.
Aftir mete, als I ȝow saye,
Sir Eglamour he tase þe waye
To telle þat lady free.
‘Dameselle,’ he sayde onane,
‘For þi lufe hafe I vndirtane
Dedis of armes thre.’
20

‘Sir,’ scho said, ‘make þe blythe and glade,
For hardare iournayes neuir þou hade,
Neuir in no contree!
Be þou fra þose iournayse passe
For my luffe sall þou say “allas”,
And I wele more for the.
‘Sir, sen ȝe sall on huntynge fownde,
I sall ȝow gyffe twa gud grewhundis,
Are donnede als any doo;
Als I ame trewe gentyllwoman,
Þer es no beste on erthe þat ranne
On fote þay will hym to.
And a gud swerd I sall gyff the,
Was fonden in the Grekkes see—
Of þam knawe I no moo:
And ȝe hafe happe to heue it wele
Þar es no helme of iryn ne stele
Þat ne it will cleue it in two.’
The knyght kyssede þat lady gent;
He tuke his leue and forthe he went,
His waye þan hase he tane.
An heghe strete he helde faste
Till þat he come till a forest—
Slyke sawe he neuir nane:
Wyth syprisse bowes lyes owte;
Þe wodd was walled alla abowte
And keruede of riche stone.
Fothirmare þan gan he fare;
A brade ȝate þan fonde he þare—
Þarein þe knyghte es gane.
22

He blewe his horne in þat tyde;
Þe hertis rase one ylka syde:
A nobill dere he chese.
The hundis at þe dere gun baye:
Þat herde þe geant þer he laye,
And repid hym of his resse.
He said, ‘Þer es som thefe comen here
In my foreste to stele my dere—
Hym were wele bettir cesse!
By hym þat werede þe crown of thorne,
In warre tym blewe he neuir his horne
Ne darrere boghte no mese!’
Than þe geant tase the waye
To þe forest ȝatt als it laye:
His bakk he sett þertill.
Syr Eglamour hase done to dede
A grete herte and tane þe heuede:
Þe prysse he blewe full schill.
When he come ware þe geant was,
‘Gude sir,’ he sayd, ‘Þou latt me passe,
If þat it be thi will.’
‘Nay, traytour! Þou arte tane!
My chefe herte hase þou sla..e—
Þat sall þe lyk full ill!’
To þe knyght þe geaunt gun gaa;
An iryn clube he gan hym taa,
Was mekill and vnryde.
Grete strakis he hym gaffe:
In þe erthe he strake his staffe
A fote on ylke a syde.
24

He sayd, ‘Traytour, whate dose þou here
In my foreste to stele my dere?
Here sall þou habyde!’
Sir Eglamour his swerde owt drowthe,
And in his eghne it keste a swoghe
And blynddid hym þat tyde.
Bot allþoghe he had lost his syghte
Ȝit faghte he wyth þat nobill knyght
Alle þat daye full ȝare,
Vnto þe morne þat it was pry[m]e,
Þat Sir Eglamour sawe his tyme
And to þe hert hym bare.
Thorow þe strenghe of God þat mad man
To þe erthe he bare þan:
Þat fende bygane to rare.
Men mett hym, als I saye,
On þe playne grownd þer he laye:
Feftene fotte and mare.
Thorowe Goddis helpe and his knefe
Thus hase þe geant loste his lyfe—
He loues Gode of his lane.
An heghe strete tuke he thare;
Þe geauntis hede wyth hym bare
Till a castelle of stane.
Þe courte come hally hym agayne:
Slyk an hede, gun þay sayne,
Hade þay neuir sene nane.
Before þe erle gan he fare:
‘Lo, lorde, I hafe bene þare!’
Þay bare wittnes ilkane.
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Lines 343–345 are taken from the Cotton Caligula A. II Ms.


26

Make we mery, so haue we blysse!
For þys ys þe fyrst fytte, iwys,
Of Sir Eglamour þat he has tane.
Þe erle said, ‘What of þis poynt be done?’
Þou sall hafe a iournaye sone:
Þou buske and make þe ȝare.
In Sedoyne, in þat riche contree,
Þare dare na man belde nor be
For dowt of a bare:
Man or beste þat he ouirtase
Þat wylde swyn he þam slase,
And gyffes þam wondis sare.
His tuskes are halfe a ȝerde lange:
Þe flesche þat þay festyn amange
It coueres it neuir mare!’
This nobill knyghte he sayde noght naye,
Bot one the morne when it was daye
His wayes þan wendis hee;
Till Sedoyne, I vndirstande—
A monethe he trauelde alle by lande,
And als mekill by þe see;
Till þat it felle, agayne an euyn tyde,
Into þe forrest gan he ryde
Whare als þat bare sulde be.
Takyn[yn]ges of hym sone he fande:
Slayne men one ilk a hande:
It was dole to see.
Sir Eglamour vndir an ake
Till on þe morne þat he gun wake;
28

Þe sone rase bryght and schane.
Into þe foreste forthe he droghe,
And of þe see he herde a swoghe,
And thedir gun he gane.
Bryght helmys he fannd aywhare,
Þat men of armes had leued þare,
Þat þe bare hade slayne.
Till a clyffe þan wendis he:
He saw þe bare com fra the see—
His morne-drynke hade he tane.
And when þe bare saw hym whare he stode,
He whette his tuskis als he ware wode
And till hym droughe one syde.
And þe knyghte wennes wele to do:
Wyth a spere he rynnes hym to
Als swythe als he myghte ryde;
Bot þofe he rade neuir so faste
His nobill spere on hym he braste—
It wold nott in hym bytt.
Þe bare þan come nerre wyth a swoghe:
His nobill stede vndir hym he sloghe:
On fote þis knyghte most byde.
The knyghte on fote now most habyd:
Vntill a banke he sett his syde
In þose holtys so hare.
His nobill swerde he drawes syne
And faughte wyth þat wylde swyne
Thre dayes and somdele mare,
30

Till on þe fourte daye at none
His lyfe dayes were nerehand done
Forfoghtten wyth þat bare.
The knyght hym couthe na bettir rede,
Bot strake faste at þe bares hede:
His tuskes he strake owt þare.
Thorow þe myght of God in þat stownd
Þe bare he gaffe his dedis wounde,
Als þat þe buke vs tellis.
The kyng of Sedoyne on huntyng es gane
Wyth fyfty men of armys ylkane;
Þe bare he herde gyff ȝellis.
He bade a sqwyere forthe to fare:
‘Þer es som man in perill wyth þe bare:
I drede full lange we duelle.’
Till a clyffe þe sqwyere com sone:
A sees a knyghte hewand hym one,
And wyth swerde seruelle.
Þe sqwyere byhaldys þam twa,
And tournes agayne and sayd þam swa:
‘Sir kynge, þe bare es dede!’
‘Saynt Mary!’ he sayd. ‘How may þat be?’
‘Sir, a knyght I appon hym see—
Forsothe, þat es his bane.
He beris of golde a semely sighte:
A stede of asure and a knyghte
Alle armede als he solde gane;
Þe crest þat on his helme es
Es a lady of gowlis in hir reches;
His bagges are sabyll ylkane.’
32

The kynge sayd, ‘So mot I the,
Þose gentill armes I will go see!’
And thedir he tuke þe waye.
By þat had Sir Eglamour
Vencuste alle þat stronge stoure
And ourthruerte þe bare he laye.
‘Sir knyghte,’ he sayd, ‘God riste wyth the!’
‘Welecome, sirris, mot ȝe be!
Of peese I wolde ȝow praye.
I hafe so foghetyn wyth þis bare,
So helpe me God, I may no mare;
This es þe fourte daye.’
Þe kyng sayd þan, ‘So mot I the,
Here sall no man fyghte wyth the:
It ware synn the to tene,
For þou hase foghtten wyth a bare
Þat hase walked full wyde whare
And many mans bane hase bene.
Þou art doghety vndir þi schelde,
Hase slayne thi fa and wonn þe felde—
Þat we alle hafe sene.
I hafe sene, I dare wele saye,
Þat he hase slayne fourty on a daye,
Wele armede men and clene.’
Dylecyous metis forthe þay broghte;
Þe Renyche wyne ne spared þay noghte;
Whitte clathis þare þay sperde.
Þe kyng sayde, ‘So mot I the,
I will dyne for þe lufe of the—
Þou hase bene strangly stedde.’
34

‘Ȝa, so helpe me God!’ þe knyght says,
‘I hafe foghetyn foure dayes
And neuir a fote I flede.’
‘Sir knyght,’ þe kyng says, ‘I pray the
All nyght þat þou wold duelle wyth mee,
And riste the in a bed.’
When þay had dyned, als I ȝow sayne,
Þe kyng gan at þe knyghte frayne
Of whate land þat he was.
‘My name, sir, es Eglamour;
I duelle wyth Sir Pryncesamour,
The erle of Artase.’
Þe knyghtis nerhande þe kyng droghe:
‘Lord, þis es he þat Arrake sloghe,
Þe geanttes broþir Marrasse.’
‘Sir knyght,’ þe kyng said, ‘I pray þe
Twa dayes or thre þou duelle wyth me,
Or þat þou fra me passe.
‘Þare wonnes a geaunt nere besyde:
My doghetir, þat es of mekill pryde,
He wolde hir hafe me fra,
Þat I ne dare neuir norwhare wend owt
Bot I armed men me abowte,
Full seldom wyth thus faa.
Þe bare þat þou hase slayne here,
He hase hym fed þis feftene ȝere
Crystyn men to slaa;
Now es he went wyth care ynoghe
To bery his broþir þat þou sloghe—
Þer euir mare worthe hym waa!’
36

To bryttyn þe bare þay went full tite;
Þar wolde no knyues in hym bytte,
So hard of hyde was he.
‘Sir Auntirous,’ þe kyng said, ‘Þou hym sloghe:
We trowe þat thyn be gud ynoghe,
If þat it þi willis it bee.’
Þe knyght agayne to þe bare es gane
And cleued hym by þe rygge bane;
It was grete ioye to see.
‘Lordyngs, I garte hym down falle:
Gyues me þe hede and takes ȝow alle—
Ȝe wate it es my fee.’
The kyng said, ‘So God me saue,
Of þe bare what þou will haue—
Þou hase it boghte full dere.’
Aftir cartis þe kyng hase sent;
Onone hamwardes þay went:
A cete was þam nere.
Þe courte was þan alle full fayne
Þat that wikked wilde beste was slayne:
Þay made full ryall chere.
The qwene sayd, ‘So God scheld me fra blame,
What tyme þat þe geant comes hame
Now tydands get we here.’
Sir Eglamour, this nobill knyghte,
He was sett wyth þat dere wyghte
For þat he solde be blythe;
Men called þat lady Organata:
Scho prayed hym gud chere for to ma,
By God, full ofte sythe.
38

And aftir mete scho gun hym telle
How a geant walde þam qwelle,
And he bygan to lythe.
‘Damesele,’ he said, ‘so mot I the,
And he come here whils I here be
I sall asaye hym swythe.’
Agayne þe ewyn þe kyng gart dighte
A nobill bathe for the knyghte
Of herbys þat were gude;
And alle þe nyght þerin he laye
Till on þe morne, þat it was daye,
To men to matyns ȝode.
Þe kyng went and herde his messe:
By þat þe geant comen wasse
And cryede als he ware wode,
And said, ‘Sir kyng, send owt to me
Organata thi doghetir free,
Or I sall spill thi blode!’
Sir Eglamour, this nobill knyghte,
Armed hym onone ryghte
And to þe wallis went hee.
The bares hede garte he bere
And sett it forthe appon a spere,
At Marrasse myght it see.
The geant luked on þe baris hede:
‘Allas, my gud bare! ert þou dede?
Mekill was trayste in the!
By þe laye þat I leue in,
My littill spotted hoglyn,
Dere boghte þi dede sall be!’
The geant on þe wallis dange;
Aftir ilke a dynt þe fyre owt sprange—
For na man walde he spare.
40

Into þe castell gan he crye,
‘Thefes! traytours! Ȝe sall dy
For slayng of my bare!
Ȝoure stane wallis I sall down dynge
And wyth myn handis I sall ȝow hynge,
Or þat I hythen fare!’
Thorowe þe helpe of God, by it was nyghte,
Þe geant had his fill of fyghte—
Þe buke says, sumdele mare.
Sir Eglamour es noghte abayste:
In Goddis helpe es alle his trayste
And on his swerde so bryghte.
‘Sir Eglamour,’ saide þe kynge than,
‘Vs byhouys arme vs, ilk a man:
This fend will felly fyghte.’
Sir Eglamour said, ‘By þe rode,
I sall assaye hym þofe he be wode,
And sla hym thorow Goddis myghte!’
He rynnes a cowrse to proue his stede,
And tuk hys helme and forthe ȝede;
Alle prayed þay for þat knyghte.
Sir Eglamour þe feld tase;
Þe geant sees and to hym gase,
Sayd, ‘Art þou comen, my fere?
Art þou ane of tha þat slewe my bare?
Þou sall habye or þou hethyn fare—
Neuir thynge þou did swa dere!’
The knyght wenys wele to do,
And wyth a spere he rynnes hym to
Als man of armes clere.
42

Þe geant buskes and made hym bowne:
Horse and man he strykes alle downe,
Þe knyghte to dede wele nere.
Þan he ne couthe no bettir rede,
When þat his nobyll stede was dede:
To fote he gane hym tane.
Nerhand þe geant gan he ga:
His righte arme he strake hym fra
Fast by þe schuldir bane.
The geant wyth þe toþir hande
Alle þe daye he stode feghtande
Till þe sonne to ryste es gane.
Now may he no lengare dry:
He es so febill, wittirly,
Þat lyfe es lefte hym nane.
Bot alle þat one þe wallis ware,
When þat þay herde þe geant rare,
For ioye þe bellis þay rynge.
Edmond was þe kynges name;
He sayd, ‘Sir Eglamour, by Sayne Iame,
Here þou sall be kynge!
To-morne sall þou crownede be;
Þou sall wedd my doghetir free
Wyth one so riche a rynge.’
Than spake þe gentill knyght so mylde,
‘Sir, God gyffe þe ioye of thi childe,
For here ne may I noght be kynge.’
‘Sir knyght, þan, for thi doghety dede,
I sall þe gyffe a nobill stede,
Es rede als any rone;
44

In iustes ne in tournament
Sall þou take no dedis dynt
Whills þou arte hym one.’
Þan sayd Organata, þat swet thynge,
‘Sir, I sall gyffe þe a gud golde rynge
Wyth a full ryche stane.
Whare so þou walkes on watir or land,
Whills it es appon thyn hande
Þou sall neuir be slayne.’
‘God forȝelde, mayden clere!’
‘Sir, I sall habyde the þis feftene ȝere,
So þat þou wold me wedd;
Trewly, and so God me saue,
Kynge ne duke nane for to haue,
Þofe þay be comly clede.’
‘Damesele,’ he sayd, ‘per ma faye,
And by þat tyme I sall wete þe at saye
How þat I hafe spedde.’
He tuk his leue forthe for to fare,
Wyth þe geant hede and þe bare,
Þe wayes oure Lorde hym ledd.
By þe seuen wekes were comen to ende
In þe lande of Artas gun he lende
Whare þat þe erle was.
Alle bot þe erle were full fayne
Þat he in qwerte was commen agayne
In trouthe, bathe mare and lesse.
46

Cristabelle, whytt als fame,
Herde telle þat he was comen hame:
Till his chambir scho mad hir ȝare.
‘Sir knyght,’ scho sayde, ‘how hase þou farne?’
‘Dameselle, wele, and trauelde ȝerne
To brynge vs bathe of care.’
Þe knyghte kyssede þat lady gent,
And into þe haulle es he went
The erle for to tene.
Two hedis downe he layde.
‘Lo, lorde,’ þe knyght sayde,
In Sedoyne hafe I bene!’
Þe erle was þan full wondir wa:
‘What, deuell!’ he said. ‘May na thyng þe sla?
By Sayne Iame, so I wene!
Þou arte abowte, I vndirstande,
To wyn all Artas of my hande,
And my doghetir bryghte and schene!’
Þe knyghte sayde, ‘So mot I the,
Noght bo[t] if I worthy be—
By God, þat es beste!
Gud lorde, I the praye,
Of feftene wokes gyffe me daye
My bonys for to reste.’
Thorowe prayere of þose gentillmen
Twelue wokes he gaffe hym þan:
No langere wold he freste.
48

Aftir sopir gan he fare
To Cristabelle chambir, whare scho ware,
Þare torchis brynnes bryghte.
The lady was of mekill pryde,
And sett hym on hir beddis syde,
And said, ‘Welecom, sir knyghte!’
‘Dameselle,’ he sayd, ‘So hafe I spede,
Thorow þe grace of God I schall þe wedd!’
And þare þay trouthes plyghte.
So gracyously he gun hir telle
Of dedis of armys þat hym byfelle
Þat þare he duellid all nyghte.
By þe twelue were alle gane
The lady, whyte als qwallis bane,
Alle falowed hir hewe.
‘My chambir women, als ȝe are fre,
Sen ȝe knawe my preuate,
To me þat ȝe be trewe!’
Þe erle, brym als any bare,
Bad Sir Eglamour make hym ȝare:
‘Thi iournay commes newe!’
Als sone als þe lady herde saye
Scho mournys bothe nyght and daye,
Þat alle wyghttis myght hir rewe.
‘At grete Rome, als men me talde,
Þare lyes a worme bittir and balde,
Forsothe als I the saye:
Þat fend es of so grete renowne
50

Þare dare no man come nere þe towne
By seuen mile of þe waye.
Arme the and thedir þou wende:
Luk þou sla hym wyth thy hende
Or ells þou saye me naye!’
Þe knyght says, ‘I hafe done poyntes twa:
Thorow þe myght of God I sall do ma,
Or ells ende þer for aye!’
Sir Eglamour to chambir gase;
Of Cristabelle his leue he tase,
Es faire als flour one felde:
‘Damesele, I hafe a poynt vndone:
I sall wende and come full sone
Thorow þe helpe of Mary mylde.
A gold ryng I sall gyff the;
Kepe it wele, my lady free,
If God send the a childe.’
And, als þe buke of Rome says,
To grete Rome he tase þe wayes
To seke þat worme so wylde.
Þe knyght wendis on his waye—
Herkyns, now! I sall ȝow saye—
To seke þat dragone bolde:
Takynnyng of hym full son he fande:
Slayne men on ylk a hande—
Knyghttis lay full colde.
52

Of he were neuir so gud a knyghte,
When he of þe dragon had a syght
Hiss hert bygan to folde.
It was no wondir þof he ware wrothe:
He strake hym and his horse bothe
Vnto þe grounde so colde.
Þe knyght rase and his paynes sett;
Þe wylde worme appon hym bett
Bittir strakes and felle,
And schott fyre appon hym ȝare,
Euir agayne euyn mare and mare,
Als it ware owte of helle.
Sir Eglamour, als I ȝow saye,
Halfe his tayle he smate awaye:
Þat fende bygan to ȝelle;
And with þe stompe þat hym was leuede
He strak þe knyght in þe heuede,
A wykkid wonde and a felle.
Þe knyght sayd, ‘I ame bot schent!’
Nerehand þat wylde worme he went:
His heued he smate awaye.
And nerre hym þare þan gun he ga:
His rygge bane he cleued in twa,
And wane þe felde for ay.
54

The emperour laye in his towre
And sawe þe knyghte Sir Eglamour:
Till his men gun he saye,
‘Þe wyld worme forsothe es slayne!
Þat hase a knyght done by hym ane,
Appertly, per ma faye!’
In grete Rome gerte he crye
Ilke an offessere in his baly
Þat þe worme had mad endynge.
The emperour, als I ȝow saye,
To þe knyght he tuke þe waye,
To se þat dredfull thynge.
Alle þat myghte ryde or gaa
Sir Eglamour vp þay taa;
With blys þay hym hame brynge.
For ioye þat þe worme was slayne
Procession come hym agayne,
And swetly bellis þay rynge.
The emperour wyth hym tuke hym hame;
Octoueane was his name,
A lord of gret honour.
Bot alle þat euir saw his hede,
Þay sayd þat he was bot dede,
This knyght Sir Eglamour.
The emperour had a doghetir bryghte
Hase vndirtane to hele þe knyght:
56

Hir name was Dyateur;
Scho saued hym þare fra þe dede,
And wyth hir handis scho helid his hede
A tweluemoneth in hir bowre.
[_]

Lines 781–798 are taken from the Cotton Caligula A. II Ms.

Thys ryche emperour of Rome
Sent aftyr þe dragone,
That in þe feld was deed.
Hys sydys hard as balayne was;
Hys wynges were grene as any glas;
Hys hed as fyre was reed.
When þey sawe þe hydowes best
Mony awey þen ronne fest,
And from hym fled full sone.
They metyd hym, forty fote and mo—
Þe emperour commanded þey schuld hym do—
Hys wyll most nede be done.
To Seynt Lawrans kyrke þey hym bare,
And þer schall he lye euurmare,
To þe day of dome.
When þe remeued þat fowle þyng
Mony men fell in swonyng
For stynke þat from hym come.
58

Lettirs come vnto Artas
Þat þe worme of Ro[m]e dede was:
A knyght appon hym slayne.
So lange on lechyng gan he duelle
A knafe childe had Cristabelle,
Als whitt als wallis bane.
The erle hir fadir mad his avowe:
‘Doghetir, to þe se schall þou
In a schippe by þe allane,
Þat he na cristyndom sal haf here,
This bastard þat es to þe sa dere!’
Hir frendis wepid ylkane.
If scho were neuir so swet a wyght
Þe schippe was full sone dyght
Þat scho schuld in fare.
Scho luked on hir son wyth hir eghe:
‘Allas!’ scho sayd. ‘Now mon we dye!’
In hert scho mournys sare.
Scho wappid hym in a mantill of skarelett rede:
‘My dere child, dighte es oure dede.
Thi fadir seese vs na mare.’
Hir chambir women in swon gan falle;
So did hir leue frendis alle
Þat wolde hir any gude.
‘Gud fadir,’ scho sayd, ‘I ȝow praye,
60

Late a preste a gospelle saye
For fendis on þe flode!’
Scho sayd, ‘My chambir women free,
Grete wele my lorde when ȝe hym see!’
Þay weped als þay ware wode.
Now leue þis knyght, Sir Eglamour,
And speke we of þis lady whytt als flour,
So wilsome wayes scho ȝode.
The lady dryues nyght and daye
Till an ile, als I ȝowe saye,
Þare wilde bestis gan lende.
Scho was full blythe, I vndirstande:
Scho wend þer had bene town and lande,
And þare scho gan vp wende.
Nothyng þan fand scho þare
Bot fewlys þat wylde ware,
Þat faste flowe fra hir hande.
Þare come a grype flyande þare;
Hir ȝonge sone fra hir he bare
Intill an vncouthe lande.
Þe lady sawe and cryed allas,
Þat euir in land borne scho was:
‘My childe es had me fra!’
And in þe land of Iraelle gane he lyghte—
A gryffone, sayse þe buke, he highte,
Þat wroghte þat lady waa.
The kyng of Iraelle on huntyng went
And sawe whare þe grippe was lent,
And nerehande hym gan he gane.
[_]

Lines 853–855 are taken from the Cotton Caligula A. II Ms.


62

He strok on þe chylde with his byll:
The chylde scryked—þat greued hym yll—
He rose and lefte hym so.
A child he fand, thorow Goddis grace;
In a mantill wrappede it was
Wyth an full riche pane;
A golde gyrdill bowndyn with;
The childe was large of lym and lythe,
His eghne graye als cristalle stane.
The kynge sayde, ‘By þe rode,
This childe es comen of gentill blode,
Ware euir þat he was tane!’
And for þat he fra þe grippe felle
He garte calle hym Degrebelle,
Þat wilsome was of wane.
The kynge lefte his gamen þat tyde
And wyth þe childe gun hame ryde
Þat he fra þe gryppe hent.
Than sayd þe kynge vnto þe qwene,
‘Dame, I hafe ofte on huntynge bene:
To-daye God hase vs sent!’
The qwene þerof was full blythe,
And sent a noresche swythe;
His sydis were longe and gent.
Bot leue now here þis gentill childe,
And speke we of his modir mylde,
In what land oure Lorde hir lent.
64

Alle nyghte þe lady vndir þe ile laye;
The wynde turned agayne þe daye
And fra þe lande gun hyr dryfe.
Scho hade noþir maste ne rothir,
Bot ylka wawe grettir þan oþir
Þat sterynly on hir [s]chippe gun stryfe.
And, als þe buke of Rome sayse,
Scho had no mete of sex dayes
Agayne þose carefull cleuys.
And by þe seuent daye at none
Ihesu rewede hir appon:
In Egyppe vp scho ryves.
The kynge of Egippe laye in
And sawe þat lady whitt als
Castyn vp on the sande;
And till a sqwyere þan sayd he,
‘Ga luke what in ȝone schippe may be,
The see hase broghte to lande.’
Thedir he went wythowttyn delyt,
And appon þe burdis gun he smytte;
The lady gan þan vp stande.
For fawte scho myght speke no worde,
Bot lay and lened hir ouir þe borde,
And made synys wyth hir hande.
66

[_]

Lines 904–906 are taken from the Cotton Caligula A. II Ms.

Makes mery, for yt ys beste,
For þis ys þe laste geste
Þat I now take in honde.
The sqwyere wyst noghte what scho ment;
Agayne vnto þe kynge he went
And sett hym one his knee.
‘Lorde,’ he sayde, ‘nothyng þerin es
Bot a womans lyknes:
Scho lyes and lukes on me.
‘If þat scho ware of flesche and bane
A fayrere creature was neuir nane,
Bot it ware Mary free.
Scho makis me synys wyth hir hande
Þat scho es of vncouthe lande
Beȝonde þe Grekkis see.’
‘Petir!’ þan sayd þat riche kynge,
‘I will go se þat swete thynge!’
And to þe schippe he gase.
Þe lady whytte als wallis bone,
He bade hir speke in Goddis name;
Agaynes hym vp scho rase.
[_]

Lines 925–937 are taken from the Cotton Caligula A. II Ms.

The damysell, þat was so mylde,
Had so greet for here chylde
That sche was waxen hose.
To a chaumbur þey here lede;
Good mete þey here bede;
With good wyll sche with hem gose.
68

Aftyr mete þen freynes þe kyng,
‘When art þou, my swete thyng?—
For þou art bryȝt of ble.’
Sche sayde, ‘I was born in Artas;
Syr Prymsamour my fadyr was,
The lord of þat countre.
‘Sythen it befell, on a day,
I and my maydyns went to playe
By þe syde of the see.
The wynd was lythe; a bote þer stode;
I and my sqwyere thedir in we ȝode—
Vncrystyn man was he!
‘On þe lande I leuede my maydyns alle;
My sqwyere gan on slepe falle;
A mantill on hym I swoghe.
The wynde rase and to a roche vs bare;
A fowle tuke my sqwyere thare—
Sotheweste wyth hym he droghe.’
The kynge sayde, ‘Þou arte welecom here—
Þou ert my broþir doghetir dere!’
For ioye on hym scho loughe.
Leue we here this lady, whytt als flour,
And speke we now of Sir Eglamour:
Till hym come kare ynoghe.
Sir Eglamour es hale and sownde,
And wele recouirde of his wonde,
And hamwardes made hym ȝare.
The emperour gan hym blysse,
His doghtir and þe empryce,
And alle þat he leued þare.
Of Crystabelle es alle his thoghte;
The wormes hede forgettis he noghte:
[_]

Lines 963–978 are taken from the Cotton Caligula A. II Ms.


70

On a spere he hyt bare.
Be þat seuen wykes were come to ende
In þe lond of Artas gon he lende:
To hym come letters of care.
The countre herde, I vndyrstand,
That Sir Eglamour was comand
With þe dragons hed;
A sqwyer went agayn hym sone:
‘Lo, lord, what þe erle has done:
Fayre Crystabell ys ded!
A knaue chyld had sche with hyre borne;
Thay haue both here lyues lorne—
He was both whyte and rede.
He has don in þe see þem two,
And with þe wynd lett hem go.’
The knyȝt swoned in þat stede.
‘Saynt Mary!’ sayd þe knyght so free,
‘Whare euir hir gentillwomen bee
In chambir wyth hir þat was?’
The sqwyere ansuerd hym full sone,
‘Sir, when scho to þe see was done,
Ilkane sere way gun passe.’
He hyed hym sone into the haulle,
Amange the gret lordis alle
Byfor þat erle of Artasse.
‘Haue here,’ he said, ‘þe wormes heuede!
And whare es myn þat I here leuede?—
Þou syttande in my palace.’
72

It was grete pete for to here
How he cryed, ‘Crystabelle, my fere!
Arte þou in the see?
Ihesu þat dyede on þe croyse verrayly
One thi saule he hafe mercy,
And on thi ȝonge sone so fre!’
The erle rase and tuk a toure:
He was ferde of Sir Eglamour—
Þere euir mare wa hym be!
‘Gentillmen,’ he sayd, ‘God ȝow saue!
Alle þat will ordir of knyght haue
Ryse vpe and gase wyth me.’
Sqwyers rase and come hym tyll:
Þay were full bayne to wyrke his wyll;
He gaffe þam ordir sone.
In þat haulle whils he habade
Fyve and thrytty knyghttis he made,
By þe toþir daye at nonne.
Alle þat were sembled, ylke one,
He gafe þam for to lyfe appone,
For Cristabelle saule to mone;
sothely als I vndirstande
e þe waye to þe Haly Lande
od on þe rode was done.
[_]

Lines 1015–1016 are taken from the Cotton Caligula A. II Ms.

Syr Eglamour, as ȝe may here,
Dwelled in þe Holy Lond XV ȝere
The heythyn men amange.
So doghetyly þer he hym bare
Whare any dedis of armes ware
Agaynes þam þat did wrange.
And by þe fyfetene ȝere were gane
The childe þat þe gryffon had tane
Was waxen bathe stythe and strange.
[_]

Lines 1024–1026 are taken from the Cotton Caligula A. II Ms.


74

In iustenyng nore in tornament
Þer myȝt no man sytte his dent,
Butt he cast hem to þe ground.
Degrebelle þe child hyght;
The kyng of Iraelle mad hym knyght
And prynce, ȝa, wyth his hande.
Now herkyns, lordynngs lesse and mare,
What armes þat þe child bare
If ȝe will vndirstande!
He beris of azure wyth a grippe of golde
So richely betyn in þe molde,
And in his clowes hyngand
A knaue child in a mantill of skarlet wondyn,
And wyth a golde girdill bowndyn,
Als he was broghte to lande.
The kyng of Iraelle wexe alde:
Sir Degrebelle his sone he calde,
Sayde, ‘Will þou hafe a wyfe,
Whills þat I lyffe, my sone so dere?
When I am dede þou getis na pere,
Thi reches beese so ryfe.’
A messangere stode by þe kynge,
Sayd, ‘In Egippe wonnes a swete thynge,
I knawe none slyke on lyfe.
The kynge hir eme an athe hase sworne
Þat he will gyffe hir to na man borne
Bot he wyne hir with knyfe.’
The kynge sayd, ‘And scho be gude,
Þarfore schalle we nott lett, by þe rode!
76

Do buske vs thedir swythe.’
He biddis his messangere forthe gane
To comand his knyghtis euirylkane
To come to hym belyue.
Full cumly þan þay þam bare;
Thaire armour schippe þay þare
To passe þe watirs lighte;
Þat, by þe monethe was comen to ende,
In the lande of Egippe gun þay lende
Þaire maystries for to kythe.
A messangere went for to telle
Þat þare come þe kyng of Iraelle
Wyth a full riche naue;
The prynce his sone, wyth many a knyghte,
For to see þat birde so bryghte,
Iff þat yt þaire willes bee.
The messangere spake wyth blythe chere:
‘Þe kynge of Iraelle comes here
Wyth a full faire semblee.’
‘Sir,’ sayd þe kyng, ‘I hoppe I schalle
Fynd gud iustynge for þam alle:
Dere welecome sall þay bee!’
Trompis in topcastells þay rasse;
Þe riche kyng to þe land gaste—
His knyghtis weryn in palle.
Þe ȝonge childe of feftene ȝere
He ȝode amang þam als ȝe may here,
A fote abowne þam alle.
78

Þe kyng of Egippe come hym agayne;
Þe kyng hym by þe hand haues tane
And ledde hym to þe haulle.
‘Gud sir, we pray, gyf þat we myghte,
Of ȝowre nece hafe a syghte,
Es whytte as þe bone of qwalle.’
The lady of þe chambir was broghte,
Wyth manes handis als scho were wroghte,
Or coruen on a tree.
Hir sone stode and hir byhelde:
‘Wele were hym þat myght þe welde!’
Till hymseluen sayd he.
Þe kynge of Iraelle asked hir eme,
‘Will þou scho weddid be ouir þe st
My sonnes wyfe to be?’
[_]

Lines 1096–1101 are taken from the Cotton Caligula A. II Ms.


Sche seyde, ‘Ȝe—yf þat he may
Sytte for me a stroke or tway,
Thy askyng graunt I the.’
Grete lordes were at on assent;
Waytes blewe; vp to mete þey went
With a full ryall chere.
The kynges twa þe borde bygane,
Sir Degrebelle and his modir þan,
If þay were syb full nere.
Knyghttis went to sytt, iwys,
Sqwyers in þaire seruese
To serue þaire lordis so dere.
80

Aftir mett wesched þay;
Clerkes gun þe grace saye
In þe haulle, als ȝe may here.
Appon þe morne, when þe day sprange,
Gentillmen to armys thrange
And Degrebelle was dyghte.
Þe kyng of Egippe gun hym hy
Into a faire felde, wittirly,
Wyth many a doghety knyghte.
Gret lordis þay gun crye,
‘What man es he þat es so hye,
Þat beris ȝone gryffone bryghte?’
Harawdis of armes gun þam telle,
‘He es þe prynce of Iraelle—
Bese warre, for he es wyghte!’
Trompis blewe on ylke a syde;
Þe gret lordis togedir gun ryde,
Þat semly was to sene.
Þe kynge of Egippe tuk a schafte;
Þe prynce þat sawe and sadly satt,
Of he were neuir so kene.
Agayne hym he made hym bowne:
Horse and man he strake al downe
Appon þe felde so grene.
Þan said þe kyng, ‘So God me saue,
Þou ert beste worthy hir to haue!’
[_]

Lines 1134–1139 are taken from the Cotton Caligula A. II Ms.


Thus seyde þey all bydene.
Lordes þen iusted þey;
Sqwyeres on þat oþure day,
Dowȝty men and kene.
82

Two kynges, þat were of myȝt,
Toke Crystabell þat was so bryȝt:
And to þe kirke þay gun hir lede.
Thorow þe myghte of God þus haf þay spedde:
His awen modir hase he wedde,
Als clerkes þus gun rede.
His armes ware byfore hym borne;
Scho thoghte on hir sone þat scho had lorne
Scho weped als scho wold wede.
He sayd, ‘Qwan now, my lady dere!
Why makis þou þus febill chere?
Methynke als þou had thoghte.’
‘Sir, in thyne armes a fowle I see
Þat somtyme tuk a childe fra me,
A knyghte full dere had boghte.
In a skarelett mantill was he wonden,
And with a gold girdill bownden
Þat full richely was wroghte.’
The kynge of Iraelle sayd, ‘By Goddis myght,
In my foreste gun he lyghte:
A grippe to land hym broghte!’
He command a sqwyere, þat was hende,
Aftir þe cofire for to wende
Þat þay were in layde.
Þay tuk þam owte þan full rathe,
The mantill and þe gyrdill bathe,
Þat richely was graythede.
‘Allas!’ sayde þat lady free,
‘Bathe were þay refte me in þe see!’
And in swounynge down scho brayde.
84

‘How longe seyn?’ þe kynge gun saye.
‘Fyvestene, sir, per may faye!’
Þat assent to þat scho sayde.
‘My sone,’ he sayde, ‘if þat þou rede,
Ane ouirsyb maryage hafe we made
In þe sprynge of þis mone.
I rede ȝe luke, so God me saue,
Whilke of myn erles scho will haue.’
He ansuerd hym full sone,
‘Sir, thyn erles hold I gude;
So do I my modyr, by þe rode!
I weddid hir byfore þe none.
Sall na man hir haue, by Saynt Marie,
Bot he wyn hir doghetyly
Als I myselfe hase done!’
Ilke gret lorde gun to oþir saye,
‘For hir loue will we turnaye
Wyth swerdis in oure hande.
Wha þat wynnes þat lady clere,
For to welde hir to his fere
Whare hym lykes in lande.’
Hawrawdes of armes forthe ere went
For to crye a turnament
In ylk a landis ende.
Sir Eglamour es hamward boune;
He herde telle of þat dede of grete renown
And thedir wolde he wende.
86

Fro Cristabelle was don in þe see
Newe armes þan beris hee:
Herkyns! I will þam discrye.
Of azure wyth a schippe of golde;
A lady als scho drowne scholde;
A child lyggand hir by—
In þe see so grym and balde—
Purtrayede of a nyghte alde,
And euir in poynte to dy.
Of syluir his maste, of golde his fane,
His sayle and his rapis ylkane
Purtrayede verrayly.
Now gret lordis þat herde þat crye
Thedir went þay full wittirly,
Als faste als þay myght fare.
The kynge of Sedoyne com thedir als sonne,
Wyth doghety knyghtis many one
Þat full riche colours bare.
Rannges mad þay in the felde
That grete lordis myghte þam welde;
Þaire seluen made þam ȝare.
Sir Eglamour, ȝife he ware laste,
Ȝitt was he noghte away to caste;
Þe knyght was cled in care.
Haurauds of armes bygan to crye
Grete lordis full rathely
Into a felde so brade.
Cristabelle, þat lady smalle,
Es broghte vnto þe castelle walle:
For hir the crye was made.
88

Hir ȝonge sone of feftene ȝere elde
He es aunterous in the felde:
Into þe stowre he rade;
Bot fra Sir Degrebelle bygan to smytt
Fra his handis þay flede full tyte,
Þat nane his dynt habade.
His fadir hovede and byhelde
How he fellid in the felde
The knyghtis all bydene.
His sonne hym sawe and rade hym till;
Said, ‘Sir, why houys þou sa stille
Amange thir knyghtis kene?’
‘Sir,’ he said, ‘acrayed I es,
And comen owt of haythynnes:
It ware syn me to tene.’
‘Sir,’ he said þan, ‘sa mot I the,
Þou sulde noghte þan haue armed be,
And þat mare menske had bene!’
Sir Eglamour appon hym loghe;
Said, ‘Sir, hase þou not iournayed ynoghe,
Bot þou for mare will praye?’
[_]

Lines 1249–1254 are taken from the Cotton Caligula A. II Ms.


He sayd, ‘No, Mari! I am aunterus in stowre
For a lady, as whyte as flowre,
To wynne here ȝyf I may.’
‘Be Ihesu!’ swere þe knyȝt þan,
‘I schall asaye ȝyf I can
Ony thyng turnay.
For som tyme hafe I sene,
In als hard auntirs hafe I bene
And wonne full wele awaye!’
90

Þe doghety knyghtis on horse dange
In tournament wyth swerdis lange:
Thase oþir byhelde ylkane.
Sir Eglamour tuk his swerd platte
And gyffes his son swylke a swappe
Þat to þe grownde gan he gane.
‘Allas!’ þan said þat lady free,
‘My childe es dede, be Cristis pete!
Ȝone a knyght hase hym slayne.’
Thase oþir said, ‘Hally one þe molde,
He þat berys þe schippe of golde
Hase wonne hir by his ane!’
Hauraudis of armes he gart cry þan
If þare were any gentillmane
Wald make his body gude:
Say forthe whils he was þare,
Þat will iuste or turnay any mare—
He wold be auntirous, by þe rode!
His sone said, ‘Ne ware his swerd so brighte,
Alle þe day myght I wyth hym fyght,
Þofe he were werse þan wode!’
Gret lordis sayse nowe,
‘Beste worthy, sir, art þou
To hafe ȝone frely fude.’
To vnarme hym þe lady gase:
A surcott vuerte þe knyght tase;
To mete þan gan þay wende.
This doghety knyght þat wan þe gree
[_]

Lines 1286–1291 are taken from the Cotton Caligula A. II. Ms.


Syr Eglamour and Crystabell þan—
Ihesu vs all spede!
Sche asked be what cheson he bore
A schyp of gold, maste and ore;
‘Fro þe see drowned was done,’
The knyȝt sone gon answere:
92

‘My lady and my ȝonge sone,
And þare þay made þaire ende.’
Knawlege of hym gun scho taa:
‘Swete sir, how felle it swa
Þat þay were broghte to grownde?’
‘Dameselle, I was in a ferre contre;
Hir fadir dide þam to þe see
Wyth þe wawes to confounde.’
In swounyge þan felle þat lady free:
‘Welcome, Sir Eglamour, to me!
Dere hase þou boghte me are!’
Grete lordis þan told scho sone
How þat scho to þe se was done:
Þay wepede, bothe lesse and mare.
‘In þe wawes grete and graye
A gryffon bare my childe awaye;’
Gentillmen þan syghede sare.
It es sothe sayd, by God of heuen,
Þat ofte metis men at vnsett steuyn:
Forsothe, sa did þay thare.
The kyng of Iraell gun þam telle
How þat he fond Sir Degrebelle:
Knyghtis lythede ilkane.
Sir Eglamour knelid on his knee:
‘Lord,’ he said, ‘God forȝelde the!
Þou hase hym broghte to man.’
The kynge of Iraelle said, ‘I sall hym gyffe
Halfe my lande whils þat I lyffe,
My sone whytte als swane.’
94

The kyng of Sedoyne sayd alswa,
‘I sall giff hym my doghetir Organata:
Me menys þat þou hir wane.’
Sir Eglamour prayed þe kynges three
In Artasse at his weddynge to be,
His lykynge for to haue.
Þay graunted hym bathe mare and lesse,
The gret lordis þat þare was—
Þare Ihesu Crist þam saue!
Kynges and dukis, I vndirstande,
And gret lordis of oþir lande,
Thaire stremours made þay full rathe.
Trompis in topcastells þay rase;
Alle maner of men to schippe gase;
A comly wynd þam draue.
Thorow þe myght of God þis fayre naue
Alle in lykynge passed the see:
In Artasse vp þay raffe.
Þe erle in his castelle stode:
Gentillmen sone to lande ȝode;
Knyghtis to horse gan dryue.
Bot fro he herde tell of Sir Eglamour
He felle owte of his heghe toure
And brake his nekke bylyue.
A messangere went byfore to telle
What kyns auntirs þat þer byfelle:
With God may na man stryue!
And þus in Artasse are þay lent;
Eftir þe emperour þay sent
To þat mangery so free.
96

And in alle þe lande garte þay crye,
Wha þat wolde com to þat mangerye
Dere welcome solde þay be.
Sir Eglamour to þe kirk gun ga;
Sir Degrebelle and Organata,
The ladys bryghte of blee.
Þe kyng of Iraelle sayd, ‘I ȝow gyffe
Halfe my kyngdome whils I lyffe—
Brouke alle wele aftir me!’
With myrthe þat mangery was made:
Fowrtty dayes it habade
Amange þase lordis hende;
[_]

Lines 1363–1368 are taken from the Cotton Caligula A. II Ms.


Mynstrelles co[m]e fro fere lond:
Thay hadde ryche gyftes, I vnþurstond:
In hert þey were lyȝt.
Sythen to þe castell gon þey wende
To holde þe brydale to þe ende:
Hyt lasted a fowrtenyȝt.
And syen, forsothe als I ȝow saye,
Ilk a man tuke his awen waye
Whare hym lyked beste to lende.
Mynstrals were gyffen gyftis fre
Þat þay myght þe bettir bee
The boldlyere for to spende.
In Rome þis romance crouned es;
Now Ihesu brynge vs to his blysse
Þat lastis wythowttyn ende! Amen,
Amen, Amen, per charyte, Amen.
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