Author Unknown - Alliterative Morte Arthure, Part IV lyrics

But on a Saterday at noon, a seven-night there-after, The cunningest Cardinal that to the court longed Kneeles to the conquerour and carpes these wordes, Prayes him for the pees and proffers full large To have pitee of the Pope, that put was at-under Besought him of suraunce for sake of the Lord But a seven-night day to they were all sembled And they sholde sekerly him see the Sononday there-after In the citee of Rome, as soveraign and lord, And crown him kindly with crismed handes With his sceptre and swerde, as soveraign and lord. Of this undertaking hostage are comen, Of eiers full avenaunt, eight score children, In togges of tars full richly attired, And betook them the king and his clere knightes. When they had treted their trewe, with trumping thereafter They trine unto a tent where tables were raised; The king himselven is set and certain lordes Under a sylure of silk, saught at the bordes. All the senatours are set sere by them one, Served solemnly with selcouthe metes. The king, mighty of mirth, with his mild wordes, Rehetes the Romanes at his rich table, Comfortes the Cardinal, so knightly himselven, And this roy real, as romaunce us telles, Reverences the Romans in his rich table. The taught men and the cunning, when them time thought, Tas their leve at the king and turned again; To the citee that night they sought at the gainest, And thus the hostage of Rome with Arthur is leved. Then this roy real reherses these wordes: "Now we may revel and rest, for Rome is our owen! Make our hostage at ese, these avenaunt children, And look ye honden them all that in mine host lenges, The Emperour of Almaine and all these este marches; We shall be overling of all that on erthe lenges! We will by the Cross-days encroch these landes 190 And at the Cristenma** day be crowned there-after, Regne in my realtees and hold my Round Table, With the rentes of Rome, as me best likes; Senn graithe over the grete se with good men of armes To revenge the Renk that on the Rood died!" Then this comlich king as cronicles telles, Bounes brothly to bed with a blithe herte; Off he slinges with sleght and slakes his girdle, 191 And for slewth of slomour on a sleep falles. But by one after midnight all his mood changed; He mette in the morn-while full marvelous dremes; And when his dredful dreme was driven to the ende, The king dares for doute, die as he sholde, Sendes after philosophers, and his affray telles: "Senn I was formed, in faith, so ferd was I never! For-thy ransackes redily and rede me my swevenes, And I shall redily and right rehersen the sooth. "Me thought I was in a wood, willed mine one That I ne wiste no way whider that I sholde, For wolves and wild swine and wicked bestes Walked in that wastern wathes to seek, There lions full lothly licked their tuskes All for lapping of blood of my lele knightes! Through that forest I fled there flowres were high, For to fele me for ferd of tho foul thinges, Merked to a medow with mountaines enclosed The merriest of middle-erthe that men might behold. The close was in compa** casten all about With clover and clerewort cledde even over; The vale was enveround with vines of silver, All with grapes of gold, greter were never, Enhorild with arbory and alkins trees, Erberes full honest, and herdes there-under; All fruites foddemed was that flourished in erthe, Fair frithed in fraunk upon the free bowes; 192 Was there no danking of dew that ought dere sholde; With the drought of the day all dry were the flowres. "Then descendes in the dale, down fro the cloudes, A duchess dereworthily dight in diapered weedes, 193 In a surcote of silk full selcouthly hewed, All with loyotour overlaid low to the hemmes And with ladily lappes the lenghe of a yard, And all redily reversed with rebanes of gold, With brouches and besauntes and other bright stones; 194 Her back and her breste was broched all over, With kell and with coronal clenlich arrayed, And that so comly of colour one knowen was never. "About sho whirled a wheel with her white handes, Overwhelm all quaintly the wheel, as sho sholde; The rowel was red gold with real stones, Railed with riches and rubies ynow; The spekes was splented all with speltes of silver, The space of a spere-lenghe springand full fair; There-on was a chair of chalk-white silver And checkered with charbocle changing of hewes Upon the compa** there cleved kinges on row, With crowns of clere gold that cracked in sonder; Six was of that settle full sodenlich fallen, Ilk a segge by himself and said these wordes: 'That ever I regned on this roo me rewes it ever! Was never roy so rich that regned in erthe! When I rode in my rout rought I nought elles But rivaye and revel and raunson the pople! And thus I drive forth my dayes whiles I drie might, And therefore derflich I am damned for ever!' "The last was a little man that laid was beneth; His leskes lay all lene and lothlich to shew, His lockes liard and long the lenghe of a yard, His lire and his ligham lamed full sore, The tone eye of the berne was brighter than silver The other was yellower than the yolk of a nay. "'I was lord,' quod the lede, 'landes ynow, And all ledes me louted that lenged in erthe. And now is left me no lap my ligham to hele But lightly now am I lost, leve eche man the sooth.' "The second sir, forsooth, that sewed them after Was sekerer to my sight and sadder in armes; Oft he sighed unsound and said these wordes: 'On yon see have I sitten als soveraign and lord, And ladies me loved to lap in their armes, And now my lordshippes are lost and laid for ever!' "The third thoroughly was thro and thick in the shoulders, A thro man to thret of there thirty were gadered; His diadem was dropped down, dubbed with stones, Endented all with diamaundes and dight for the nones; 'I was dredde in my dayes,' he said, 'in diverse rewmes, And now damned to the dede, and dole is the more!' "The fourt was a fair man and forcy in armes, The fairest of figure that formed was ever. 'I was frek in my faith,' he said, 'whiles I on folde regned, Famous in fer landes and flowr of all kinges; Now is my face defaded and foul is me happened, For I am fallen fro fer and frendles beleved.' "The fift was a fairer man than fele of these other, A forcy man and a fers, with fomand lippes; He fanged fast on the feleighes and folded his armes But yet he failed and fell a fifty foot large; But yet he sprang and sprent and spradden his armes, And on the spere-lenghe spekes he spekes these wordes: 'I was in Surry a Sire and set by mine one As soveraign and seinyour of sere kinges landes; Now of my solace I am full sodenly fallen And for sake of my sin yon sete is me rewed.' "The sixt had a sawter seemlich bounden With a surepel of silk sewed full fair, A harp and a hand-sling with hard flint-stones; What harmes he has hent he hallowes full soon: 'I was deemed in my dayes,' he said, 'of deedes of armes One of the doughtiest that dwelled in erthe; But I was marred on molde in my most strenghes With this maiden so mild that moves us all.' "Two kinges were climband and claverand on high, The erest of the compa** they covet full yerne. 'This chair of charbocle,' they said, 'we challenge hereafter, As two of the chefest chosen in erthe.' "The childer were chalk-white, cheekes and other, But the chair aboven cheved they never. The furthermost was freely with a front large The fairest of fisnamy that formed was ever, And he was busked in a blee of a blew noble With flourdelys of gold flourished all over; The tother was cledde in a cote all of clene silver, With a comlich cross corven of gold; Four crosselettes crafty by the cross restes And thereby knew I the king, that cristened him seemed. "Then I went to that wlonk and winly her greetes, And sho said: 'Welcome, iwis, well art thou founden; Thou ought to worship my will, and thou well couthe, Of all the valiant men that ever was in erthe, For all thy worship in war by me has thou wonnen; I have been frendly, freke, and fremmed til other. 195 That thou has founden, in faith, and fele of thy bernes, For I felled down Sir Frolle with froward knightes; 196 For-thy the fruits of Fraunce are freely thine owen. Thou shall the chair escheve, I chese thee myselven, Before all the cheftaines chosen in this erthe.' "Sho lift me up lightly with her lene handes And set me softly in the see, the septer me reched; Craftily with a comb sho kembed mine heved, That the crispand krok to my crown raught; Dressed on me a diadem that dight was full fair, And senn proffers me a pome pight full of fair stones, Enameld with azure, the erthe there-on depainted, Circled with the salt se upon sere halves, In sign that I soothly was soveraign in erthe. "Then brought sho me a brand with full bright hiltes And bade me braundish the blade: 'The brand is mine owen; Many swain with the swing has the swet leved, For whiles thou swa*k with the sword it swiked thee never.' "Then raikes sho with roo and rest when her liked, To the rindes of the wood, richer was never; Was no pomerie so pight of princes in erthe, Ne none apparel so proud but paradise one. Sho bade the bowes sholde bow down and bring to my handes Of the best that they bore on braunches so high; Then they helded to her hest, all holly at ones, The highest of ech a hirst, I hete you forsooth. Sho bade me frith not the fruit, but fonde whiles me liked: 'Fonde of the finest, thou freelich berne, And reche to the ripest and riot thyselven. Rest, thou real roy, for Rome is thine owen, And I shall redily roll the roo at the gainest And reche thee the rich wine in rinsed cuppes.' "Then sho went to the well by the wood eves, That all welled of wine and wonderlich runnes, Caught up a cup-full and covered it fair; Sho bade me derelich draw and drink to herselven; And thus sho led me about the lenghe of an hour, With all liking and love that any lede sholde. "But at the mid-day full even all her mood changed, And made much menace with marvelous wordes. When I cried upon her, she cast down her browes: 'King, thou carpes for nought, by Crist that me made! For thou shall lose this laik and thy life after; Thou has lived in delite and lordshippes ynow!' "About sho whirles the wheel and whirles me under, Til all my quarters that while were quasht all to peces, And with that chair my chin was chopped in sonder; And I have shivered for chele senn me this chaunce happened. Thus wakened I, iwis, all wery fordremed, And now wot thou my wo; worde as thee likes." "Freke," says the philosopher, "thy fortune is pa**ed, For thou shall find her thy fo; fraist when thee likes! Thou art at the highest, I hete thee forsooth; Challenge now when thou will, thou cheves no more! Thou has shed much blood and shalkes destroyed, Sakeles, in surquidrie, in sere kinges landes; Shrive thee of thy shame and shape for thine end. Thou has a shewing, Sir King, take keep yif thee like, For thou shall fersly fall within five winters. Found abbeyes in Fraunce, the fruites are thine owen, For Frolle and for Feraunt and for thir fers knightes That thou fremedly in Fraunce has fey beleved. 197 Take keep yet of other kinges, and cast in thine herte, That were conquerours kidd and crowned in erthe. "The eldest was Alexander that all the world louted, The tother Ector of Troy, the chevalrous gome; The third Julius Cesar, that giaunt was holden, In eche journee gentle, ajudged with lordes. The fourth was Sir Judas, a jouster full noble, The masterful Macabee, the mightiest of strenghes; The fift was Josue, that jolly man of armes, That in Jerusalem host full much joy limped; The sixt was David the dere, deemed with kinges One of the doughtiest that dubbed was ever, For he slew with a sling by sleight of his handes Golias the grete gome, grimmest in erthe; Senn endited in his dayes all the dere psalmes That in the sawter are set with selcouthe wordes. "The tone climand king, I know it forsooth, Shall Karolus be called, the kinge son of Fraunce; He shall be cruel and keen and conquerour holden, Cover by conquest contrees ynow; He shall encroch the crown that Crist bore himselven, And that lifelich launce that lepe to His herte When He was crucified on cross, and all the keen nailes Knightly he shall conquer to Cristen men handes. "The tother shall be Godfray, that God shall revenge On the Good Friday with galiard knightes; He shall of Lorraine be lord by leve of his fader And senn in Jerusalem much joy happen, For he shall cover the cross by craftes of armes And senn be crowned king with crisom annointed. Shall no dukes in his day such destainy happen, Ne such mischief drie when trewth shall be tried. "For-thy Fortune thee fetches to fulfill the number, Als ninde of the noblest named in erthe; This shall in romaunce be redde with real knightes, Reckoned and renownd with riotous kinges, And deemed on Doomesday for deedes of armes, For the doughtiest that ever was dwelland in erthe; So many clerkes and kinges shall carp of your deedes And keep your conquestes in cronicle for ever. "But the wolves in the wood and the wild bestes Are some wicked men that werrayes thy rewmes, Is entered in thine absence to werray thy pople, And alienes and hostes of uncouthe landes. Thou gettes tidandes, I trow, within ten dayes, That some torfer is tidde senn thou fro home turned. I rede thou reckon and reherse unresonable deedes Ere thee repentes full rathe all thy rewth workes. Man, amend thy mood, ere thou mishappen, And meekly ask mercy for meed of thy soul." Then rises the rich king and raght on his weedes, A red acton of rose, the richest of flowres, A pesan and a paunson and a pris girdle; 199 And on he hentes a hood of scarlet full rich, A pavis pillion-hat that pight was full fair With perry of the Orient and precious stones; His gloves gaylich gilt and graven by the hemmes With graines of rubies full gracious to shew. His bede greyhound and his brand and no berne else And bounes over a brode mede with brethe at his herte. Forth he stalkes a sty by tho still eves, Stotays at a high street, studyand him one. 200 At the sours of the sun he sees there comand, Raikand to Rome-ward the rediest wayes, A renk in a round clok with right rowme clothes 201 With hat and with high shoon homely and round; With flat farthinges the freke was flourished all over Many shreddes and shragges at his skirtes hanges With scrip and with slawin and scallopes ynow 202 Both pike and palm, als pilgrim him sholde; The gome graithly him grette and bade good morwen; The king, lordly himself, of langage of Rome, Of Latin corrumped all, full lovely him menes: "Wheder wilnes thou, wye, walkand thine one? Whiles this world is o war, a wathe I it hold; Here is an enmy with host, under yon vines; And they see thee, forsooth, sorrow thee betides; But if thou have condeth of the king selven, Knaves will k** thee and keep at thou haves, And if thou hold the high way, they hent thee also, But if thou hastily have help of his hende knightes." Then carpes Sir Craddok to the king selven: "I shall forgive him my dede, so me God help, Any gome under God that on this ground walkes! Let the keenest come that to the king longes, I shall encounter him as knight, so Crist have my soul! For thou may not reche me ne arrest thyselven, Though thou be richly arrayed in full rich weedes; I will not wonde for no war to wend where me likes Ne for no wye of this world that wrought is on erthe! But I will pa** in pilgrimage this pas to Rome To purchase me pardon of the Pope selven, And of the paines of Purgatory be plenerly a**oilled; Then shall I seek sekerly my soveraign lord, Sir Arthur of England, that avenaunt berne! For he is in this empire, as hathel men me telles, Hostayand in this Orient with awful knightes." "Fro whethen come thou, keen man," quod the king then, "That knowes King Arthur and his knightes also? Was thou ever in his court whiles he in kith lenged? Thou carpes so kindly it comfortes mine herte! Well wele has thou went and wisely thou seekes, For thou art Breton berne, as by thy brode speche." "Me ought to know the king; he is my kidd lord, And I called in his court a knight of his chamber; Sir Craddok was I called in his court rich, Keeper of Caerlion, under the king selven; Now I am chased out of kith, with care at my herte, And that castel is caught with uncouthe ledes." Then the comlich king caught him in armes, Cast off his kettle-hat and kissed him full soon, Said: "Welcome, Sir Craddok, so Crist mot me help! Dere cosin of kind, thou coldes mine herte! How fares it in Bretain with all my bold bernes? Are they brittened or brint or brought out of life? Ken thou me kindly what case is befallen; I keep no credens to crave; I know thee for trew." 203 "Sir, thy warden is wicked and wild of his deedes, For he wandreth has wrought senn thou away pa**ed. He has castels encroched and crownd himselven, Caught in all the rentes of the Round Table; He devised the rewm and delt as him likes; Dubbed of the Denmarkes dukes and erles, Disservered them sonderwise, and citees destroyed; Of Sarazenes and Sessoines upon sere halves He has sembled a sorte of selcouthe bernes, Soveraignes of Surgenale and soudeours many Of Peghtes and paynims and proved knightes Of Ireland and Argyle, outlawed bernes; All tho laddes are knightes that long to the mountes, And leding and lordship has all, als themselve likes; And there is Sir Childrik a cheftain holden, That ilke chevalrous man, he charges thy pople; They rob thy religious and ravish thy nunnes And redy rides with his rout to raunson the poor; Fro Humber to Hawyk he holdes his owen, And all the countree of Kent by covenant entailled, The comlich castles that to the crown longed, The holtes and the hore wood and the hard bankes, All that Hengest and Hors hent in their time; At Southampton on the se is seven score shippes, Fraught full of fers folk, out of fer landes, For to fight with thy frap when thou them a**ailes. But yet a word, witterly, thou wot not the worst! He has wedded Waynor and her his wife holdes, And wonnes in the wild boundes of the west marches, And has wrought her with child, as witness telles! Of all the wyes of this world, wo mot him worthe, Als warden unworthy women to yeme! Thus has Sir Mordred marred us all! For-thy I merked over these mountes to mene thee the sooth." Then the burlich king, for brethe at his herte And for this booteless bale all his blee changed; "By the Rood," says the roy, "I shall it revenge! Him shall repent full rathe all his rewth workes!" All weepand for wo he went to his tentes; Unwinly this wise king he wakenes his bernes, Cleped in a clarioun kinges and other, Calles them to counsel and of this case telles: "I am with tresoun betrayed, for all my trew deedes! And all my travail is tint, me tides no better! Him shall torfer betide this tresoun has wrought, And I may traistely him take, as I am trew lord! This is Mordred, the man that I most traisted, Has my castels encroched and crownd himselven With rentes and riches of the Round Table; He made all his retinues of renayed wretches, And devised my rewm to diverse lordes, To soudeours and Sarazenes out of sere landes! He has wedded Waynor and her to wife holdes, And a child is y-shaped, the chaunce is no better! They have sembled on the se seven score shippes, Full of ferrom folk to fight with mine one! For-thy to Bretain the Brode buske us behooves, 204 For to britten the berne that has this bale raised. There shall no freke men fare but all on fresh horses That are fraisted in fight and flowr of my knightes. Sir Howell and Sir Hardolf here shall beleve To be lordes of the ledes that here to me longes; Lookes into Lumbardy that there no lede change, And tenderly to Tuskane take tent als I bid; Receive the rentes of Rome when they are reckoned; Take sesin the same day that last was a**igned, Or elles all the hostage withouten the walles Be hanged high upon height all holly at ones." Now bounes the bold king with his best knightes, Gars trome and trusse and trines forth after, Turnes through Tuskane, tarries but little; Lights not in Lumbardy but when the light failed; Merkes over the mountaines full marvelous wayes, Ayers through Almaine even at the gainest Ferkes even into Flandresh with his fers knightes. Within fifteen dayes his fleet is a**embled, And then he shope him to ship and shounes no lenger, Sheeres with a sharp wind over the shire waters; By the roche with ropes he rides on anker. There the false men fleted and on flood lenged, With chef chaines of charre chocked togeders, Charged even chock-full of chevalrous knightes, And in the hinter on height, helmes and crestes; Hatches with hethen men heled were there-under, Proudlich pourtrayed with painted clothes, Ech a pece by pece prikked til other, Dubbed with dagswainnes doubled they seem; And thus the derf Denmarkes had dight all their shippes, That no dint of no dart dere them sholde. Then the roy and the renkes of the Round Table All realy in red arrayes his shippes; That day ducheries he delt and dubbed knightes, Dresses dromoundes and dragges and drawen up stones; The top-castels he stuffed with toiles, as him liked; Bendes bowes of vise brothly there-after; Toloures tently tackle they righten, Brasen hedes full brode busked on flones, Graithes for garnisons, gomes arrayes, Grim godes of steel, gives of iron; Stighteles steren on steren with stiff men of armes; Many lovelich launce upon loft standes, Ledes on leburd, lordes and other, Pight pavis on port, painted sheldes, On hinder hurdace on height helmed knightes. Thus they shiften for shottes on those shire strandes, Ilke shalk in his shroud, full sheen were their weedes. The bold king is in a barge and about rowes, All bare-hevede for besy with beveren lockes, And a berne with his brand and an helm beten, Menged with a mauntelet of mailes of silver, Compast with a coronal and covered full rich; Kaires to ech a cogge to comfort his knightes; To Clegis and Cleremond he cries on loud: "O Gawain! O Galyran! These good mens bodies!" To Lot and to Lionel full lovely he meles, And to Sir Launcelot de Lake lordlich wordes: "Let us cover the kith, the coste is our own, And gar them brothelich blenk, all yon blood-houndes! Britten them within borde and brin them there-after! Hew down hertily yon hethen tikes! They are harlotes half, I hete you mine hand!" 210 Then he coveres his cogge and catches on anker, Caught his comlich helm with the clere mailes; Buskes banners on brode, beten of gules, With crowns of clere gold clenlich arrayed; But there was chosen in the chef a chalk-white maiden, 211 And a child in her arm that Chef is of heven; Withouten changing in chase these were the chef armes Of Arthur the avenaunt, whiles he in erthe lenged. Then the mariners meles and masters of shippes; Merrily ich a mate menes til other; Of their termes they talk, how they were tidd, 212 Towen trussel on trete, trussen up sailes, Bete bonnetes on brode, bettred hatches; Braundisht brown steel, bragged in trumpes; Standes stiff on the stamin, steeres on after, Streken over the streme, there striving beginnes. Fro the waggand wind out of the west rises, Brothly bessomes with birr in bernes sailes, Wether bringes on borde burlich cogges, 213 Whiles the biling and the beme bristes in sonder; So stoutly the fore-stern on the stam hittes That stockes of the steer-borde strikes in peces! By then cogge upon cogge, crayers and other, Castes crepers on-cross, als to the craft longes; Then was hed-ropes hewen, that held up the mastes; There was contek full keen and cracking of shippes! Grete cogges of kemp crashes in sonder! Many cabane cleved, cables destroyed, Knightes and keen men k**ed the bernes! Kidd castels were corven, with all their keen wepen, Castels full comlich that coloured were fair! Up ties edgeling they ochen there-after; 214 With the swing of the sword sways the mastes, Over-falles in the first frekes and other; Many freke in the fore-ship fey is beleved! Then brothly they beker with bustous tackle; Brushes boldly on borde brenyed knightes, 215 Out of botes on borde, was busked with stones, Bete down of the best, bristes the hatches; Some gomes through-gird with godes of iron, Gomes gaylich cledde englaimes wepenes; Archers of England full egerly shootes, Hittes through the hard steel full hertly dintes! Soon ochen in holly the hethen knightes, Hurt through the hard steel, hele they never! Then they fall to the fight, foines with speres, All the frekkest on front that to the fight longes, And ilkon freshly fraistes their strenghes, War to fight in the fleet with their fell wepenes. Thus they delt that day, thir dubbed knightes, Til all the Danes were dede and in the deep throwen! Then Bretons brothly with brandes they hewen; Lepes in upon loft lordlich bernes; When ledes of out-landes lepen in waters, All our lordes on loud laughen at ones! By then speres were sprongen, spalded shippes, Spanioles speedily sprented over-bordes; All the keen men of kemp, knightes and other, k**ed are cold-dede and casten over-bordes; Their swyers swiftly has the swet leved; Hethen hevand on hatch in thir hawe rises, Sinkand in the salt se seven hundreth at ones! Then Sir Gawain the good, he has the gree wonnen, And all the cogges grete he gave to his knightes. Sir Garin, Sir Griswold, and other grete lordes; Gart Galuth, a good gome, gird off their hedes! 216 Thus of the false fleet upon the flood happened, And thus these ferin folk fey are beleved! Yet is the traitour on land with tried knightes, And all trumped they trip on trapped steedes Shews them under sheld on the shire bankes; He ne shuntes for no shame but shewes full high! Sir Arthur and Gawain avyed them bothen To sixty thousand of men that in their sight hoved. By this the folk was felled, then was the flood pa**ed; 217 Then was it silke a slowde in slackes full huge That let the king for to land in the low water. For-thy he lenged on laye for lesing of horses, To look of his lege-men and of his lele knightes, Yif any were lamed or lost, live yif they sholde. Then Sir Gawain the good a galley he takes And glides up at a gole with good men of armes; When he grounded, for gref he girdes in the water That to the girdle he goes in all his gilt weedes, Shootes up upon the sand in sight of the lordes, Singly with his soppe, my sorrow is the more! With banners of his badges, best of his armes, He braides up on the bank in his bright weedes; He biddes his banneour: "Busk thou belive To yon brode batail that on yon bank hoves, And I ensure you soothe I shall you sew after; Look ye blenk for no brand ne for no bright wepen, But beres down of the best and bring them o-dawe! Bes not abaist of their boste, abide on the erthe; Ye have my banneres borne in batailes full huge; We shall fell yon false, the fend have their soules! Fightes fast with the frap, the feld shall be oures! May I that traitour over-take, torfer him tides That this tresoun has timbered to my trew lord! Of such a engendure full little joy happens, And that shall in this journee be judged full even!" Now they seek over the sand, this soppe at the gainest, Sembles on the soudeours and settes their dintes; Through the sheldes so sheen shalkes they touch With shaftes shivered short of those sheen launces; Derf dintes they delt with daggand speres; On the dank of the dew many dede ligges, Dukes and douspeeres and dubbed knightes; The doughtiest of Danemark undone are forever! Thus those renkes in rewth rittes their brenyes And reches of the richest unrecken dintes, There they throng in the thick and thrustes to the erthe Of the throest men three hundreth at ones! But Sir Gawain for gref might not again-stand, Umbegrippes a spere and to a gome runnes, That bore of gules full gay with goutes of silver; He girdes him in at the gorge with his grim launce That the grounden glaive graithes in sonder; With that bustous blade he bounes him to die! The King of Gotheland it was, a good man of armes. Their avauntward then all voides there-after, Als vanquist verrayly with valiant bernes; Meetes with middle-ward that Mordred ledes; Our men merkes them to, as them mishappened, For had Sir Gawain the grace to hold the green hill, He had worship, iwis, wonnen forever! But then Sir Gawain, iwis, he waites him well To wreke on this warlaw that this war moved, And merkes to Sir Mordred among all his bernes, With the Montagues and other grete lordes. Then Sir Gawain was greved and with a grete will Fewters a fair spere and freshly ascries: "False fostered fode, the fend have thy bones! Fy on thee, felon, and thy false workes! Thou shall be dede and undone for thy derf deedes, Or I shall die this day, if destainy worthe!" Then his enmy with host of outlawed bernes All enangles about our excellent knightes That the traitour by tresoun had tried himselven; Dukes of Danemark he dightes full soon, And leders of Lettow with legions ynow, Umbelapped our men with launces full keen, Soudeours and Sarazenes out of sere landes, Sixty thousand men, seemlyly arrayed, Sekerly a**embles there on seven score knightes, Sodenly in dischaite by tho salt strandes. Then Sir Gawain grette with his grey eyen For gref of his good men that he guide sholde. He wiste that they wounded were and wery for-foughten, 218 And what for wonder and wo, all his wit failed. And then sighand he said with syland teres: "We are with Sarazenes beset upon sere halves! I sigh not for myself, so help our Lord, But for to see us surprised my sorrow is the more! Bes doughty today, yon dukes shall be yours! For dere Drighten this day dredes no wepen. We shall end this day als excellent knightes, Ayer to endless joy with angeles unwemmed; Though we have unwittyly wasted ourselven, We shall work all well in the worship of Crist! We shall for yon Sarazenes, I seker you my trewth, Soupe with our Saviour solemnly in heven, In presence of that Precious, Prince of all other, With prophetes and patriarkes and apostles full noble, Before His freelich face that formed us all! Yonder to yon yaldsones! He that yeldes him ever Whiles he is quick and in quert, unquelled with handes, Be he never mo saved, ne succoured with Crist, But Satanase his soul mowe sink into Hell!" Then grimly Sir Gawain grippes his wepen; Again that grete batail he graithes him soon, Radly of his rich sword he rightes the chaines; In he shockes his sheld, shuntes he no lenger, But all unwise, wodewise, he went at the gainest, Woundes of those widerwinnes with wrakful dintes; All welles full of blood there he away pa**es; And though him were full wo, he wondes but little, But wrekes at his worship the wrath of his lord! He stickes steedes in stour and sterenfull knightes, That steren men in the stirrupes stone-dede they ligge! He rives the rank steel, he rittes the mailes; There might no renk him arrest; his resoun was pa**ed! He fell in a frensy for fersness of herte; He fightes and felles down that him before standes! Fell never fey man such fortune in erthe! Into the hole batail hedlings he runnes And hurtes of the hardiest that on the erthe lenges; Letand as a lion he launches them through, Lordes and leders that on the land hoves. Yet Sir Wawain for wo wondes but little, But woundes of those widerwinnes with wonderful dintes, Als he that wolde wilfully wasten himselven, And for wondsome and will all his wit failed, That wode als a wild beste he went at the gainest; All wallowed on blood there he away pa**ed; Ich a wye may be ware by wreke of another! 219 Then he moves to Sir Mordred among all his knightes, And met him in the mid-sheld and malles him through, But the shalk for the sharp he shuntes a little; He share him on the short ribbes a shaftmond large. The shaft shuddered and shot in the shire berne That the sheddand blood over his shank runnes And shewed on his shin-bawde that was shire burnisht! And so they shift and shove he shot to the erthe, With the lush of the launce he light on his shoulders An acre-lenghe on a laund full lothly wounded. Then Gawain gird to the gome and on the grouf falles; All his gref was graithed; his grace was no better! He shockes out a short knife shethed with silver And sholde have slotted him in but no slit happened; His hand slipped and slode o-slant on the mailes And the tother slely slinges him under; With a trenchand knife the traitour him hittes Through the helm and the hed on high on the brain; And thus Sir Gawain is gone, the good man of armes, Withouten rescue of renk, and rew is the more! Thus Sir Gawain is gone that guied many other; Fro Gower to Gernesay, all the grete lordes Of Glamour, of Galys land, these galiard knightes For glent of glopining glad be they never! King Frederik of Fres faithly there-after Fraines at the false man of our fers knight: "Knew thou ever this knight in thy kith rich? Of what kind he was comen beknow now the sooth; What gome was he, this with the gay armes, With this griffon of gold, that is on grouf fallen? He has gretly greved us, so me God help, Gird down our good men and greved us sore! He was the sterenest in stour that ever steel wered, For he stonayed our stale and stroyed for ever!" Then Sir Mordred with mouth meles full fair: "He was makless on molde, man, by my trewth. This was Sir Gawain the good, the gladdest of other, And the graciousest gome that under God lived, Man hardiest of hand, happiest in armes, And the hendest in hall under heven-rich, And the lordliest in leding whiles he live might, For he was lion alosed in landes ynow; Had thou knowen him, Sir King, in kithe there he lenged, His cunning, his knighthood, his kindly workes, His doing, his doughtiness, his deedes of armes, Thou wolde have dole for his dede the dayes of thy life." Yet that traitour als tite teres let he fall, Turnes him forth tite and talkes no more, Went weepand away and weryes the stounde That ever his werdes were wrought such wandreth to work! When he thought on this thing it thirled his herte; For sake of his sib-blood sighand he rides; When that renayed renk remembered himselven Of reverence and riotes of the Round Table, He romed and repent him of all his rewth workes, Rode away with his rout, restes he no lenger, For rade of our rich king, rive that he sholde. Then kaires he to Cornwall, care-full in herte, Because of his kinsman that on the coste ligges; He tarries trembland ay, tidandes to herken. Then the traitour treunted the Tuesday there-after, Trines in with a trayn tresoun to work, And by the Tamber that tide his tentes he reres, And then in a mett-while a messanger he sendes And wrote unto Waynor how the world changed And what comlich coste the king was arrived, On flood foughten with his fleet and felled them o life; Bade her ferken o-fer and flee with her childer Whiles he might wile him away and win to her speche, 220 Ayer into Ireland, into those oute-mountes, And wonne there in wilderness within tho waste landes. Then sho yermes and yeyes at York in her chamber, Grones full grisly with gretand teres, Pa**es out of the palais with all her pris maidens, Toward Chester in a charre they chese her the wayes, Dight her even for to die with dole at her herte; Sho kaires to Caerlion and caught her a veil, Askes there the habit in honour of Crist And all for falshed and fraud and fere of her lord! But when our wise king wiste that Gawain was landed, He al to-writhes for wo, and wringand his handes, Gars launch his botes upon a low water, Landes als a lion with lordlich knightes, Slippes in the sloppes o-slant to the girdle, Swalters up swiftly with his sword drawen, Bounes his batail and banners displayes, Buskes over the brode sand with brethe at his herte, Ferkes frely on feld there the fey ligges; Of the traitours men on trapped steedes, Ten thousand were tint, the trewth to account, And, certain, on our side seven score knightes, In suite with their soveraign unsound are beleved. The king comly overcast knightes and other, Erles of Afrike and Estriche bernes, Of Argyle and Orkney the Irish kinges, The noblest of Norway, numbers full huge, Dukes and Danemarkes and dubbed knightes; And the Guthede king in the gay armes Lies gronand on the ground and gird through even. The rich king ransackes with rewth at his herte And up rippes the renkes of all the Round Table, Sees them all in a soppe in suite by them one With the Sarazenes unsound encircled about, 221 And Sir Gawain the good in his gay armes, Umbegripped the gers and on grouf fallen, His banners braiden down, beten of gules, His brand and his brode sheld all bloody berunnen. Was never our seemlich king so sorrowful in herte, Ne that sank him so sad but that sight one. 222 Then gliftes the good king and glopins in herte, Grones full grislich with gretande teres, Kneeles down to the corse and caught it in armes, Castes up his umbrere and kisses him soon, Lookes on his eye-liddes that locked were fair, His lippes like to the lede and his lire fallowed. Then the crownd king cries full loud: "Dere cosin of kind in care am I leved, For now my worship is went and my war ended! Here is the hope of my hele, my happing in armes, My herte and my hardiness holly on him lenged! My counsel, my comfort, that keeped mine herte! Of all knightes the king that under Crist lived! Thou was worthy to be king, though I the crown bare! My wele and my worship of all this world rich Was wonnen through Sir Gawain and through his wit one! "Alas," said Sir Arthur, "now eekes my sorrow! I am utterly undone in mine owen landes! A doutous, derf dede, thou dwelles too long! Why drawes thou so on dregh? Thou drownes mine herte!" Then sweltes the sweet king and in swoon falles, Swafres up swiftly and sweetly him kisses Til his burlich berde was bloody berunnen, Als he had bestes brittened and brought out of life; Ne had Sir Ewain comen and other grete lordes, His bold herte had bristen for bale at that stounde! "Blinn," says these bold men, "thou blunders thyselven! This is bootless bale, for better bes it never! It is no worship, iwis, to wring thine handes; To weep als a woman it is no wit holden! Be knightly of countenaunce, als a king sholde, And leve such clamour, for Cristes love of heven!" "For blood," says the bold king, "blinn shall I never Ere my brain to-brist or my breste other! Was never sorrow so soft that sank to my herte; It is full sib to myself; my sorrow is the more. Was never so sorrowful a sight seen with mine eyen! He is sakless surprised for sin of mine one!" Down kneeles the king and cries full loud, With care-full countenaunce he carpes these wordes: "O rightwise rich God, this rewth thou behold, This real red blood run upon erthe! It were worthy to be shrede and shrined in gold, For it is sakless of sin, so help me our Lord!" Down kneeles the king with care at his herte, Caught it up kindly with his clene handes, Cast it in a kettle-hat and coverd it fair, And kaires forth with the corse in kithe there he lenges. "Here I make mine avow," quod the king then, "To Messie and to Mary, the mild Queen of heven: I shall never rivaye ne ratches uncouple, At roe ne rein-dere that runnes upon erthe, Never greyhound let glide, ne gossehawk let fly Ne never fowl see felled that flighes with wing, Faucon ne formel upon fist handle Ne yet with gerefaucon rejoice me in erthe, Ne regne in my royaltees, ne hold my Round Table, Til thy dede, my dere, be duly revenged! But ever droop and dare whiles my life lastes, Til Drighten and derf dede have done what them likes!" Then caught they up the corse with care at their hertes, Carried it on a courser with the king selven; The way unto Winchester they went at the gainest, Wery and wandsomly with wounded knightes; There come the prior of the place and professed monkes, A-pas in procession, and with the prince meetes, And he betook them the corse of the knight noble: "Lookes it be clenly keeped," he said, "and in the kirk holden; Don for him diriges, as to the dede falles, Mensked with ma**es for meed of the soul; Look it want no wax, ne no worship elles, And that the body be baumed and on erthe holden; Yif thou keep thy covent, encroch any worship At my coming again, yif Crist will it thole; Abide of the burying til they be brought under That has wrought us this wo and this war moved." Then says Sir Wichere the wye, a wise man of armes: "I rede ye warily wend and workes the best, Sujourn in this citee and semble thy bernes, And bide with thy bold men in the burgh rich; Get out knightes of countrees that castels holdes, 223 And out of garrisons grete good men of armes, For we are faithly too few to fight with them all That we see in his sorte upon the se bankes. With cruel countenaunce then the king carpes these wordes: "I pray thee care not, sir knight, ne cast thou no dredes! Had I no segge but myself one under sun, And I may him see with sight or on him set handes, I shall even among his men malle him to dede, Ere I of the stede stir half a steed lenghe! I shall strike him in his stour and stroy him forever, And there-to make I mine avow devotly to Crist And to his moder Mary, the mild Queen of heven! I shall never sujourn sound, ne saught at mine herte, In citee ne in suburb set upon erthe, Ne yet slomour ne sleep with my slow eyen, Til he be slain that him slogh, if any sleight happen, But ever persew the paganes that my pople destroyed Whiles I may pare them and pinne in place there me likes." There durst no renk him arrest of all the Round Table, Ne none pay that prince with plesand wordes, Ne none of his lege-men look him in the eyen, So lordly he lookes for loss of his knightes! Then drawes he to Dorset and dreches no lenger, Dref-ful, dredless, with droopand teres, Kaires into Cornwall with care at his herte; The trace of the traitour he trines full even, And turnes in by the Trentis the traitour to seek, Findes him in a forest the Friday there-after; The king lightes on foot and freshly ascries, And with his freelich folk he has the feld nomen! Now isshewes his enmy under the wood eves With hostes of alienes full horrible to shew! Sir Mordred the Malbranche, with his much pople, Foundes out of the forest upon fele halves, In seven grete batailes seemlich arrayed, Sixty thousand men - the sight was full huge - All fightand folk of the fer landes, Fair fitted on front by tho fresh strandes. And all Arthurs host was amed with knightes But eighteen hundreth of all, enterd in rolles. This was a match un-mete, but mightes of Crist, To melle with that multitude in those main landes. Then the royal roy of the Round Table Rides on a rich steed, arrayes his bernes, Buskes his avauntward, als him best likes; Sir Ewain and Sir Errak, and other grete lordes Demenes the middle-ward menskfully there-after, With Merrak and Meneduke, mighty of strenghes; Idrous and Alymer, thir avenaunt children, Ayers with Arthur with seven-score of knightes; He rewles the rereward redyly there-after, The rekenest redy men of the Round Table; And thus he fittes his folk and freshly ascries, And senn comfortes his men with knightlich wordes: "I beseek you, sirs, for sake of our Lord, That ye do well today and dredes no wepen! Fightes fersly now and fendes yourselven, Felles down yon fey folk, the feld shall be ours! They are Sarazenes, yon sorte, unsound mot they worthe! Set on them sadly for sake of our Lord! Yif us be destained to die today on this erthe, We shall be heved unto heven ere we be half cold! Look ye let for no lede lordly to work; Layes yon laddes low by the laike end; Take no tent unto me, ne tale of me recke; Bes busy on my banners with your bright wepens, That they be strenghely stuffed with steren knightes And holden lordly on-loft ledes to shew; Yif any renk them arase, rescue them soon; Workes now my worship; today my war endes! Ye wot my wele and my wo; workes as you likes! Crist comly with crown comfort you all For the kindest creatures that ever king led! I give you all my blessing with a blithe will, And all Bretons bold, blithe mot ye worthe!" They pipe up at prime time, approches them ner, Pris men and preste proves their strenghes; Bremly the brethe-men bragges in trumpes, In coronettes comlyly, when knightes a**embles; And then jollyly enjoines these gentle knightes;nobr> A jollier journee ajudged was never, When Bretones boldly enbraces their sheldes, And Cristen encrossed them and castes in fewter! 224 Then Sir Arthur host his enmy escries, And in they shock their sheldes, shuntes no lenger, Shot to the sheltrones and shoutes full high; Through sheldes full sheen shalkes they touch! Redily those rydde men of the Round Table With real rank steel rittes their mailes; Brenyes brouden they brist and burnisht helmes, Hewes hethen men down, halses in sonder! Fightand with fine steel the fey blood runnes; Of the frekkest on front un-fers are beleved. Hethenes of Argyle and Irish kinges Enverounes our avauntward with venomous bernes, Peghtes and paynimes with perilous wepens, With speres dispitously despoiles our knightes And hewed down the hendest with hertly dintes! Through the hole batail they holden their wayes; Thus fersly they fight upon sere halves, That of the bold Bretons much blood spilles; There durst none rescue them for riches in erthe, The steren were there so stedde and stuffed with other; He durst not stir a step, but stood for himselven, Til three stales were stroyed by strenghe of him one! "Idrous," quod Arthur, "ayer thee behooves! I see Sir Ewain over-set with Sarazenes keen! Redy thee for rescues, array thee soon! Hie thee with hardy men in help of thy fader! Set in on the side and succour yon lordes! But they be succoured and sound, unsaught be I ever!" Idrous him answers ernestly there-after: "He is my fader, in faith, forsake shall I never - He has me fostered and fed and my fair brethern - But I forsake this gate, so me God help, And soothly all sibreden but thyself one. I broke never his bidding for berne on life, But ever buxom as beste blithely to work. He commaund me kindly with knightly wordes, That I sholde lely on thee lenge, and on no lede elles; I shall his commaundment hold, if Crist will me thole! He is elder than I, and end shall we bothen; He shall ferk before, and I shall come after; Yif him be destained to die today on this erthe, Crist, comly with crown, take keep to his soul!" Then romes the rich king with rewth at his herte, Heves his handes on height and to the Heven lookes: "Why then ne had Drighten destained at His dere will 225 That He had deemed me today to die for you all? That had I lever than be lord all my life-time Of all that Alexander ought whiles he in erthe lenged!" Sir Ewain and Sir Errak, these excellent bernes, Enters in on the host and egerly strikes; The hethenes of Orkney and Irish kinges They gobone of the gretest with grounden swordes, Hewes on those hulkes with their hard wepens, Layed down those ledes with lothly dintes; Shoulders and sheldes they shrede to the haunches, And middles through mailes they merken in sonder! Such honour never ought none erthly kinges At their ending day but Arthur himselven! So the drought of the day dryed their hertes That both drinkless they die; dole was the more! Now melles our middle-ward and mengen togeder. Sir Mordred the Malbranche with his much pople, He had hid him behind within these holt eves, With hole batail on hethe, harm is the more! He had seen the contek all clene to the end, How our chevalry cheved by chaunces of armes; He wiste our folk was for-foughten that there was fey leved; To encounter the king he castes him soon, But the cherles chicken had changed his armes; He had soothly forsaken the sauturour engreled, And laght up three lions all of white silver, Pa**and in purpure of perry full rich, 226 For the king sholde not know the cautelous wretch. Because of his cowardice he cast off his attire; But the comlich king knew him full swithe, Carpes to Sir Cador these kindly wordes: "I see the traitour come yonder trinand full yerne; Yon lad with the lions is like to himselven; Him shall torfer betide, may I touch ones, For all his tresoun and trayn, als I am trew lord! Today Clarent and Caliburn shall kithe them togeders Whilk is keener of carfe or harder of edge! Fraist shall we fine steel upon fine weedes. It was my darling dainteous and full dere holden, 227 Keeped for encrownmentes of kinges annointed; On dayes when I dubbed dukes and erles It was burlich borne by the bright hiltes; I durst never dere it in deedes of armes But ever keeped clene because of myselven. For I see Clarent uncledde that crown is of swordes, My wardrope at Walingford I wot is destroyed. Wiste no wye of wonne but Waynor herselven; Sho had the keeping herself of that kidd wepen, Of coffers enclosed that to the crown longed, With ringes and relickes and the regale of Fraunce That was founden on Sir Frolle when he was fey leved." Then Sir Marrak in malencoly meetes him soon, With a malled mace mightyly him strikes; The bordour of his bacenett he bristes in sonder, That the shire red blood over his breny runnes! The berne blenkes for bale and all his blee changes, But yet he bides as a bore and bremly he strikes! He braides out a brand bright als ever any silver That was Sir Arthur owen, and Utere his faders, In the wardrope at Walingford was wont to be keeped; Therewith the derf dog such dintes he reched The tother withdrew on dregh and drust do none other For Sir Marrak was man marred in elde, And Sir Mordred was mighty and in his most strenghes; Come none within the compa**, knight ne none other, Within the swing of sword, that he ne the swet leved. 228 That perceives our prince and presses to fast, Strikes into the stour by strenghe of his handes, Meetes with Sir Mordred; he meles unfair: "Turn, traitour untrew, thee tides no better; By grete God, thou shall die with dint of my handes! Thee shall rescue no renk ne riches in erthe!" The king with Caliburn knightly him strikes; The cantel of his clere sheld he carves in sonder, Into the shoulder of the shalk a shaftmonde large That the shire red blood shewed on the mailes! He shuddered and shrinkes and shuntes but little, But shockes in sharply in his sheen weedes; The felon with the fine sword freshly he strikes, The felettes of the ferrer side he flashes in sonder, Through jupon and gesseraunt of gentle mailes, The freke fiched in the flesh an half-foot large; That derf dint was his dede, and dole was the more That ever that doughty sholde die but at Drightens will! Yet with Caliburn his sword full knightly he strikes, Castes in his clere sheld and coveres him full fair, Swappes off the sword hand, als he by glentes - An inch fro the elbow he oched it in sonder That he swoones on the swarth and on swim falles - Through bracer of brown steel and the bright mailes, That the hilt and the hand upon the hethe ligges. Then freshlich the freke the fente up-reres, Broches him in with the brand to the bright hiltes, And he brawles on the brand and bounes for to die. "In faye," said the fey king, "sore me for-thinkes That ever such a false thef so fair an end haves." When they had finisht this fight, then was the feld wonnen, And the false folk in the feld fey are beleved! Til a forest they fled and fell in the greves, And fers fightand folk followes them after, Huntes and hewes down the hethen tikes, Murtheres in the mountaines Sir Mordred knightes; There chaped never no child, cheftain ne other, But choppes them down in the chase; it charges but little! But when Sir Arthur anon Sir Ewain he findes, And Errak the avenaunt and other grete lordes, He caught up Sir Cador with care at his herte, Sir Clegis, Sir Cleremond, these clere men of armes, Sir Lot and Sir Lionel, Sir Launcelot and Lowes, Marrak and Meneduke, that mighty were ever; With langour in the land there he layes them togeder, Looked on their lighames, and with a loud steven, Als lede that list not live and lost had his mirthes - Then he stotays for mad and all his strenghe failes, Lookes up to the lift and all his lire changes, Down he sways full swithe, and in a swoon falles, Up he coveres on knees and cries full often - "King, comly with crown, in care am I leved! All my lordship low in land is laid under, That me has given guerdones, by grace of Himselven, Maintained my manhed by might of their handes, Made me manly on molde and master in erthe, In a teenful time this torfer was rered, That for a traitour has tint all my trew lordes! Here restes the rich blood of the Round Table, Rebuked with a rebaud, and rewth is the more! I may helpless on hethe house by mine one, Als a woful widow that wantes her berne! I may werye and weep and wring mine handes, For my wit and my worship away is forever! Of all lordshippes I take leve to mine end! Here is the Bretones blood brought out of life, And now in this journee all my joy endes!" Then relies the renks of all the Round Table; To the real roy they ride them all; Then a**embles full soon seven score knightes In sight to their soveraign that was unsound leved; Then kneeles the crowned king and cries on loud: "I thank thee, God, of thy grace, with a good will, That gave us vertue and wit to venquish these bernes, And us has graunted the gree of these grete lordes! He sent us never no shame ne shenship in erthe But ever yet the over-hand of all other kinges; We have no leisere now these lordes to seek, For yon lothly lad me lamed so sore! Graith us to Glashenbury; us gaines none other; 229 There we may rest us with roo and ransack our woundes. Of this dere day work the Drighten be lowed, That us has detained and deemed to die in our owen." Then they hold at his hest holly at ones, And graithes to Glashenbury the gate at the gainest; Entres the Ile of Avalon and Arthur he lightes, Merkes to a manor there, for might he no further; A surgen of Salerne enserches his woundes; The king sees by a**ay that sound bes he never, And soon to his seker men he said these wordes: "Do call me a confessor with Crist in his armes; I will be houseld in haste what hap so betides. Constantine my cosin he shall the crown bere, Als becomes him of kind, if Crist will him thole! Berne, for my benison, thou bury yon lordes That in batail with brandes are brought out of life, And sithen merk manly to Mordred children, That they be slely slain and slongen in waters; Let no wicked weed wax ne writhe on this erthe; I warn, for thy worship, work als I bid! I forgive all gref, for Cristes love of heven! If Waynor have well wrought, well her betide!" He said "In man*s" with main on molde where he ligges, 230 And thus pa**es his spirit and spekes he no more! The baronage of Bretain then, bishoppes and other, Graithes them to Glashenbury with glopinand hertes To bury there the bold king and bring to the erthe With all worhsip and welth that any wye sholde. Throly belles they ring and Requiem singes, Dos ma**es and matins with mornand notes; Religious reveste in their rich copes, Pontificalles and prelates in precious weedes, Dukes and douspeeres in their dole-cotes, Countesses kneeland and claspand their handes, Ladies languishand and lowrand to shew; All was busked in black, birdes and other, That shewed at the sepulture with syland teres; Was never so sorrowful a sight seen in their time! Thus endes King Arthur, as auctors allege, That was of Ectores blude, the kinge son of Troy And of Sir Priamous, the prince, praised in erthe; Fro thethen brought the Bretons all his bold elders Into Bretain the brode, as the Brut telles. Hic jacet Arthurus, rex quondam rexque futurus. (Here lies Arthur, king once and king to be.) Here endes Morte Arthure, written by Robert of Thornton R. Thornton dictus qui scripsit sit benedictus. Amen. (May the said R. Thornton, who wrote this, be blessed. Amen.)