Edited by Mary Flowers Braswell - Sir Perceval of Galles - Part I lyrics

Here Begynnes the Romance of Sir Percyvell of Galles Lef, lythes to me Two wordes or thre, Of one that was faire and fre And felle in his fighte. His righte name was Percyvell, He was fosterde in the felle, He dranke water of the welle, And yitt was he wyghte. His fadir was a noble man; Fro the tyme that he began, Miche wirchippe he wan When he was made knyghte In Kyng Arthures haulle. Beste byluffede of alle, Percyvell thay gan hym calle, Whoso redis ryghte. Who that righte can rede, He was doughty of dede, A styffe body on a stede Wapynes to welde; Tharefore Kyng Arthoure Dide hym mek** honoure: He gaffe hym his syster Acheflour, To have and to holde Fro thethyn till his lyves ende, With brode londes to spende, For he the knyght wele kende. He bytaughte hir to welde, With grete gyftes to fulfill; He gaffe his sister hym till To the knyght, at ther bothers will, With robes in folde. He gaffe hym robes in folde, Brode londes in wolde, Mony mobles untolde, His syster to take. To the kirke the knyghte yode For to wedde that frely fode, For the gyftes that ware gude And for hir ownn sake. Sythen, withowtten any bade, A grete brydale thay made, For hir sake that hym hade Chosen to hir make; And after, withowtten any lett, A grete justyng ther was sett; Of all the kempes that he mett Wolde he none forsake. Wolde he none forsake, The Rede Knyghte ne the Blake, Ne none that wolde to hym take With schafte ne with schelde; He dose als a noble knyghte, Wele haldes that he highte; Faste preves he his myghte: Deres hym none elde. Sexty schaftes, I say, Sir Percyvell brake that ilke day, And ever that riche lady lay One walle and byhelde. Thofe the Rede Knyghte hade sworne, Oute of his sadill is he borne And almoste his lyfe forlorne, And lygges in the felde. There he lygges in the felde - Many men one hym byhelde - Thurgh his armour and his schelde Stoneyde that tyde. That arghede all that ther ware, Bothe the lesse and the mare, That noble Percyvell so wele dare Syche dynttys habyde. Was ther nowthir more ne la**e Of all those that ther was That durste mete hym one the gra**e, Agaynes hym to ryde. Thay gaffe Sir Percyvell the gree: Beste worthy was he; And hamewardes than rode he, And blythe was his bryde. And thofe the bryde blythe be That Percyvell hase wone the gree, Yete the Rede Knyghte es he Hurte of his honde; And therfore gyffes he a gyfte That if he ever covere myghte Owthir by day or by nyghte, In felde for to stonde, That he scholde qwyte hym that dynt That he of his handes hynte; Sall never this travell be tynt, Ne tolde in the londe That Percyvell in the felde Schulde hym schende thus undire schelde, Bot he scholde agayne it yelde, If that he were leveande. Now than are thay leveande bathe; Was noghte the Rede Knyghte so rathe For to wayte hym with skathe. Er ther the harmes felle, Ne befelle ther no stryffe, Till Percyvell had in his lyffe A son by his yonge wyffe, Aftir hym to duelle. When the childe was borne, He made calle it one the morne Als his fadir highte byforne - Yonge Percyvell. The knyghte was fayne a feste made For knave-childe that he hade; And sythen, withowtten any bade Offe justynges they telle. Now of justynges they tell: They sayne that Sir Percyvell That he will in the felde duelle, Als he hase are done. A grete justynge was ther sett Of all the kempes that ther mett, For he wolde his son were gette In the same wonne. Theroff the Rede Knyghte was blythe, When he herde of that justynge kythe, And graythed hym armour ful swythe, And rode thedir righte sone; Agayne Percyvell he rade, With schafte and with schelde brade, To holde his heste that he made, Of maistres to mone. Now of maistres to mone, Percyvell hase wele done, For the love of his yonge sone, One the firste day. Ere the Rede Knyghte was bownn, Percyvell hase borne downn Knyght, duke, erle, and baroun, And vencusede the play. Right als he hade done this honour, So come the Rede Knyghte to the stowre. Bot "Wo worthe wykkyde armour!" Percyvell may say. For ther was Sir Percyvell slayne, And the Rede Knyghte fayne - In herte is noghte for to layne - When he went on his way. When he went on his way, Durste ther no man to hym say, Nowther in erneste ne in play, To byd hym habyde; For he had slayne righte thare The beste body at thare ware, Sir Percyvell, with woundes sare, And stonayed that tyde. And than thay couthe no better rede Bot put hym in a prevee stede, Als that men dose with the dede, In erthe for to hyde. Scho that was his lady Mighte be full sary, That lorne hade siche a body: Hir aylede no pryde. And now is Percyvell the wighte Slayne in batelle and in fyghte, And the lady hase gyffen a gyfte, Holde if scho may, That scho schall never mare wone In stede, with hir yonge sone, Ther dedes of armes schall be done, By nyghte ne be daye. Bot in the wodde schall he be: Sall he no thyng see Bot the leves of the tree And the greves graye; Schall he nowther take tent To justes ne to tournament, Bot in the wilde wodde went, With bestes to playe. With wilde bestes for to playe, Scho tuke hir leve and went hir waye, Bothe at baron and at raye, And went to the wodde. Byhynde scho leved boure and haulle; A mayden scho tuke hir withalle, That scho myghte appon calle When that hir nede stode. Other gudes wolde scho nonne nayte, Bot with hir tuke a tryppe of gayte, With mylke of tham for to bayte To hir lyves fode. Off all hir lordes faire gere, Wolde scho noghte with hir bere Bot a lyttill Scottes spere, Agayne hir son yode. And when hir yong son yode, Scho bade hym walke in the wodde, Tuke hym the Scottes spere gude, And gaffe hym in hande. "Swete modir," sayde he, "What manere of thyng may this bee That ye nowe hafe taken mee? What calle yee this wande?" Than byspakke the lady: "Son," scho sayde, "sekerly, It es a dart doghty; In the wodde I it fande." The childe es payed, of his parte, His modir hafe gyffen hym that darte; Therwith made he many marte In that wodde-lande. Thus he welke in the lande, With hys darte in his hande; Under the wilde wodde-wande He wexe and wele thrafe. He wolde schote with his spere Bestes and other gere, As many als he myghte bere. He was a gude knave! Smalle birdes wolde he slo, Hertys, hyndes also; Broghte his moder of thoo: Thurte hir none crave. 1 So wele he lernede hym to schote, Ther was no beste that welke one fote To fle fro hym was it no bote. When that he wolde hym have, Even when he wolde hym have. Thus he wexe and wele thrave, And was reghte a gude knave Within a fewe yere. Fyftene wynter and mare He duellede in those holtes hare; Nowther nurture ne lare Scho wolde hym none lere. Till it byfelle, on a day, The lady till hir son gun say, "Swete childe, I rede thou praye To Goddes Sone dere, That he wolde helpe the - Lorde, for His poustee - A gude man for to bee, And longe to duelle here." "Swete moder," sayde he, "Whatkyns a godd may that be That ye nowe bydd mee That I schall to pray?" Then byspakke the lady even: "It es the grete Godd of heven: This worlde made He within seven, Appon the s**te day." "By grete Godd," sayde he than, "And I may mete with that man, With alle the crafte that I kan, Reghte so schall I pray!" There he levede in a tayte Bothe his modir and his gayte, The grete Godd for to layte, Fynde hym when he may. And as he welke in holtes hare, He sawe a gate, as it ware; With thre knyghtis mett he thare Off Arthrus in. One was Ewayne fytz Asoure, Another was Gawayne with honour, And Kay, the bolde baratour, And all were of his kyn. In riche robes thay ryde; The childe hadd no thyng that tyde That he myghte in his bones hyde, Bot a gaytes skynn. He was a burely of body, and therto right brade; One ayther halfe a skynn he hade; The hode was of the same made, Juste to the chynn. His hode was juste to his chyn, The flesche halfe tourned within. The childes witt was full thyn When he scholde say oughte. Thay were clothede all in grene; Siche hade he never sene: Wele he wened that thay had bene The Godd that he soghte. He said, "Wilke of yow alle three May the grete Godd bee That my moder tolde mee, That all this werlde wroghte?" Bot than ansuerde Sir Gawayne Faire and curtaisely agayne, "Son, so Criste mote me sayne, For swilke are we noghte." Than saide the fole one the filde, Was comen oute of the woddes wilde, To Gawayne that was meke and mylde And softe to ansuare, "I sall sla yow all three Bot ye smertly now telle mee Whatkyns thynges that ye bee, Sen ye no goddes are." Then ansuerde Sir Kay, "Who solde we than say That hade slayne us to-day In this holtis hare?" At Kayes wordes wexe he tene: Bot he a grete bukke had bene, Ne hadd he stonde tham bytwene, 2 He hade hym slayne thare. Bot than said Gawayn to Kay, "Thi prowde wordes pares ay; I scholde wyn this childe with play, And thou wolde holde the still. Swete son," than said he, "We are knyghtis all thre; With Kyng Arthoure duelle wee, That hovyn es on hyll." Then said Percyvell the lyghte, In gayte-skynnes that was dyghte, "Will Kyng Arthoure make me knyghte, And I come hym till?" Than saide Sir Gawayne righte thare, "I kane gyffe the nane ansuare; Bot to the Kynge I rede thou fare, To wete his awenn will!" To wete than the Kynges will Thare thay hoven yitt still; The childe hase taken hym till For to wende hame. And als he welke in the wodde, He sawe a full faire stode Offe coltes and of meres gude, Bot never one was tame; And sone saide he, "Bi Seyne John, Swilke thynges as are yone Rade the knyghtes apone; Knewe I thaire name, Als ever mote I thryffe or thee, The moste of yone that I see Smertly schall bere mee Till I come to my dame." He saide, "When I come to my dame, And I fynde hir at hame, Scho will telle the name Off this ilke thynge." The moste mere he thare see Smertly overrynnes he, And saide, "Thou sall bere me To-morne to the Kynge." Kepes he no sadill-gere, Bot stert up on the mere: Hamewarde scho gun hym bere, Withowtten faylynge. The lady was never more sore bygone. Scho wiste never whare to wonne, When scho wiste hir yonge sonne Horse hame brynge. Scho saw hym horse hame brynge; Scho wiste wele, by that thynge, That the kynde wolde oute sprynge For thynge that be moughte. Than als sone saide the lady, "That ever solde I sorowe dry, For love of thi body, That I hafe dere boghte! Dere son," saide scho hym to, "Thou wirkeste thiselfe mek** unroo, What will thou with this mere do, That thou hase hame broghte?" Bot the boye was never so blythe Als when he herde the name kythe Of the stode-mere stythe. Of na thyng than he roghte. Now he calles hir a mere, Als his moder dide ere; He wened all other horses were And hade bene callede soo. "Moder, at yonder hill hafe I bene; Thare hafe I thre knyghtes sene, And I hafe spoken with tham, I wene, Wordes in throo; I have highte tham all thre Before thaire Kyng for to be: Siche on schall he make me As is one of tho!" He sware by grete Goddes myghte, "I schall holde that I hafe highte; Bot-if the Kyng make me knyghte, To-morne I sall hym sloo!" Bot than byspakke the lady, That for hir son was sary - Hir thoghte wele that scho myght dy And knelyde one hir knee: "Sone, thou has takyn thi rede, To do thiselfe to the dede! In everilke a strange stede, Doo als I bydde the: To-morne es forthirmaste Yole-day, And thou says thou will away To make the knyghte, if thou may, Als thou tolde mee. Lyttill thou can of nurtoure: Luke thou be of mesure Bothe in haulle and in boure, And fonde to be fre." Than saide the lady so brighte, "There thou meteste with a knyghte, Do thi hode off, I highte, And haylse hym in hy." "Swete moder," sayd he then, "I saw never yit no men; If I solde a knyghte ken, Telles me wharby." Scho schewede hym the menevaire - Scho had robes in payre. "Sone, ther thou sees this fare In thaire hodes lye." "Bi grete God," sayd he, "Where that I a knyghte see, Moder, as ye bidd me, Righte so schall I." All that nyghte till it was day, The childe by the modir lay, Till on the morne he wolde away, For thyng that myghte betyde. Brydill hase he righte nane; Seese he no better wane, Bot a wythe hase he tane, And kevylles his stede. His moder gaffe hym a ryng, And bad he solde agayne it bryng; "Sonne, this sall be oure takynnyng, For here I sall the byde." He tase the rynge and the spere, Stirttes up appon the mere: Fro the moder that hym bere, Forthe gan he ryde. One his way as he gan ryde, He fande an haulle ther besyde; He saide, "For oghte that may betyde, Thedir in will I." He went in withowtten lett; He fande a brade borde sett, A bryghte fire, wele bett, Brynnande therby. A mawnger ther he fande, Corne therin lyggande; Therto his mere he bande With the withy. He saide, "My modir bad me That I solde of mesure bee Halfe that I here see Styll sall it ly." The corne he pertis in two, Gaffe his mere the tone of thoo, And to the borde gan he goo, Certayne that tyde. He fande a lofe of brede fyne And a pychere with wyne, A mese of the kechyne, A knyfe ther besyde. The mete ther that he fande, He dalte it even with his hande, Lefte the halfe lyggande A felawe to byde. The tother halfe ete he; How myghte he more of mesure be? Faste he fonded to be free, Thofe he were of no pryde. Thofe he were of no pryde, Forthyrmore gan he glyde Till a chambir ther besyde, Moo sellys to see. Riche clothes fande he sprede, A lady slepande on a bedde; He said, "Forsothe, a tokyn to wedde Sall thou lefe with mee." Ther he kyste that swete thynge; Of hir fynger he tuke a rynge; His awenn modir takynnynge He lefte with that fre. He went forthe to his mere, Tuke with hym his schorte spere, Lepe on lofte, as he was ere; His way rydes he. Now on his way rydes he, Moo selles to see; A knyghte wolde he nedis bee, Withowtten any bade. He came ther the Kyng was, Servede of the firste mese. To hym was the maste has That the childe hade; And thare made he no lett At gate, dore, ne wykett, Bot in graythely he gett - Syche maistres he made. At his firste in-comynge, His mere, withowtten faylynge, Kyste the forhevede of the Kynge - So nerehande he rade! The Kyng had ferly thaa, And up his hande gan he taa And putt it forthir hym fraa, The mouthe of the mere. He saide, "Faire childe and free, Stonde still besyde mee, And tell me wythen that thou bee, And what thou will here." Than said the fole of the filde, "I ame myn awnn modirs childe, Comen fro the woddes wylde Till Arthure the dere. Yisterday saw I knyghtis three: Siche on sall thou make mee On this mere byfor the, Thi mete or thou schere!" Bot than spak Sir Gawayne, Was the Kynges trenchepayne, Said, "Forsothe, is noghte to layne, I am one of thaa. Childe, hafe thou my blyssyng For thi feres folowynge! Here hase thou fonden the Kynge That kan the knyghte maa." Than sayde Peceyvell the free, "And this Arthure the Kyng bee, Luke he a knyghte make mee: I rede at it be swaa!" Thofe he unborely were dyghte, He sware by mek** Goddes myghte: "Bot if the Kyng make me knyghte, I sall hym here slaa!" All that ther weren, olde and yynge, Hadden ferly of the Kyng, That he wolde suffre siche a thyng Of that foull wyghte On horse hovande hym by. The Kyng byholdes hym on hy; Than wexe he sone sory When he sawe that syghte. The teres oute of his eghne glade, Never one another habade. "Allas," he sayde, "that I was made, Be day or by nyghte, One lyve I scholde after hym bee That me thynke lyke the: 3 Thou arte so semely to see, And thou were wele dighte!" He saide, "And thou were wele dighte, Thou were lyke to a knyghte That I lovede with all my myghte Whills he was one lyve. So wele wroghte he my will In all manere of sk**, I gaffe my syster hym till, For to be his wyfe. He es moste in my mane: Fiftene yere es it gane, Sen a theffe hade hym slane Abowte a littill stryffe! Sythen hafe I ever bene his fo, For to wayte hym with wo. Bot I myghte hym never slo, His craftes are so ryfe." He sayse, "His craftes are so ryfe, Ther is no man apon lyfe, With swerde, spere, ne with knyfe May stroye hym allan, Bot if it were Sir Percyvell son. Whoso wiste where he ware done! The bokes says that he mon Venge his fader bane." The childe thoghte he longe bade That he ne ware a knyghte made, For he wiste never that he hade A fader to be slayne; The lesse was his menynge. He saide sone to the Kynge, "Sir, late be thi jangleynge! Of this kepe I nane." He sais, "I kepe not to stande With thi jangleyns to lange. Make me knyghte with thi hande, If it sall be done!" Than the Kyng hym hendly highte That he schold dub hym to knyghte, With thi that he wolde doun lighte And ete with hym at none. The Kyng biholdes the vesage free, And ever more trowed hee That the childe scholde bee Sir Percyvell son: It ran in the Kynges mode, His syster Acheflour the gude - How scho went into the wodde With hym for to wonn. The childe hadde wonnede in the wodde; He knewe nother evyll ne gude; The Kynge hymselfe understode He was a wilde man. So faire he spakke hym withall, He lyghtes doun in the haulle, Bonde his mere amonge tham alle And to the borde wann. Bot are he myghte bygynn To the mete for to wynn, So commes the Rede Knyghte in Emanges tham righte than, Prekande one a rede stede; Blode-rede was his wede. He made tham gammen full gnede, With craftes that he can. With his craftes gan he calle, And callede tham recrayhandes all, Kynge, knyghtes inwith walle, At the bordes ther thay bade. Full felly the coupe he fett, Bifore the Kynge that was sett. Ther was no man that durste hym lett, Thofe that he were fadde. The couppe was filled full of wyne; He dranke of that that was therinn. All of rede golde fyne Was the couppe made. He tuke it up in his hande, The coupe that he there fande, And lefte tham all sittande, And fro tham he rade. Now from tham he rade, Als he says that this made. The sorowe that the Kynge hade Mighte no tonge tell. "A! dere God," said the Kyng than, "That all this wyde werlde wan, Whethir I sall ever hafe that man May make yone fende duelle? Fyve yeres hase he thus gane, And my coupes fro me tane, And my gude knyghte slayne, Men calde Sir Percyvell; Sythen taken hase he three, And ay awaye will he bee, Or I may harnayse me In felde hym to felle." "Petir!" quod Percyvell the yonge, "Hym than will I down dynge And the coupe agayne brynge, And thou will make me knyghte." "Als I am trewe kyng," said he, "A knyghte sall I make the, Forthi thou will brynge mee The coupe of golde bryghte." Up ryses Sir Arthoure, Went to a chamboure To feche doun armoure, The childe in to dyghte; Bot are it was doun caste, Ere was Percyvell paste, And on his way folowed faste, That he solde with fyghte. With his foo for to fighte, None othergates was he dighte, Bot in thre gayt-skynnes righte, A fole als he ware. He cryed, "How, man on thi mere! Bryng agayne the Kynges gere, Or with my dart I sall the fere And make the unfere!" And after the Rede Knyghte he rade, Baldely, withowtten bade: Sayd, "A knyght I sall be made For som of thi gere." He sware by mek** Goddes payne, "Bot if thou brynge the coupe agayne, With my dart thou sall be slayne And slongen of thi mere." The kynghte byhaldes hym in throo, Calde hym fole that was hys foo, For he named hym soo - The stede that hym bere. And for to see hym with syghte, He putt his umbrere on highte, To byhalde how he was dyghte, That so till hym spake. He sayde, "Come I to the, appert fole; I sall caste the in the pole, For all the heghe days of Yole, Als ane olde sakke." Than sayd Percyvell the free, "Be I fole, or whatte I bee, Now sone of that sall wee see Whose browes schall blakke." Of schottyng was the childe slee: At the knyghte lete he flee, Smote hym in at the eghe And oute at the nakke. For the dynt that he tuke, Oute of sadill he schoke, Whoso the sothe will luke, And ther was he slayne. He falles down one the hill; His stede rynnes whare he will. Than saide Percyvell hym till, "Thou art a lethir swayne." Then saide the childe in that tyde, "And thou woldeste me here byde, After thi mere scholde I ryde And brynge hir agayne; Then myghte we bothe with myghte Menskfully togedir fyghte, Ayther of us, as he were a knyghte, Till tyme the tone ware slayne." Now es the Rede Knyghte slayne, Lefte dede in the playne. The childe gon his mere mayne After the stede. The stede was swifter than the mere, For he hade no thynge to bere Bot his sadill and his gere, Fro hym thofe he yede. The mere was bagged with fole; And hirselfe a grete bole; For to rynne scho myghte not thole, Ne folowe hym no spede. The childe saw that it was soo, And till his fete he gan hym too; The gates that he scholde goo Made he full gnede. The gates made he full gnede In the waye ther he yede; With strenght tuke he the stede And broghte to the knyghte. "Me thynke," he sayde, "thou arte fele That thou ne will away stele; Now I houppe that thou will dele Strokes appon hyghte. I hafe broghte to the thi mere And mek** of thyn other gere; Lepe on hir, as thou was ere, And thou will more fighte!" The knyghte lay still in the stede: What sulde he say, when he was dede? The childe couthe no better rede, Bot down gun he lyghte. Now es Percyvell lyghte To unspoyle the Rede Knyghte, Bot he ne couthe never fynd righte The lacynge of his wede. He was armede so wele In gude iryn and in stele, He couthe no gett of a dele, For nonkyns nede. He sayd, "My moder bad me, When my dart solde broken be, Owte of the iren bren the tree: Now es me fyre gnede." Now he getis hym flynt, His fyre-iren he hent, And then, withowtten any stynt, He kyndilt a glede. Now he kyndils a glede, Amonge the buskes he yede And gedirs, full gude spede, Wodde, a fyre to make. A grete fyre made he than, The Rede Knyghte in to bren, For he ne couthe nott ken His gere off to take. Be than was Sir Gawayne dyght, Folowede after the fyghte Betwene hym and the Rede Knyghte, For the childes sake. He fande the Rede Knyght lyggand, Slayne of Percyvell hande, Besyde a fyre brynnande Off byrke and of akke. Ther brent of birke and of ake Gret brandes and blake. "What wylt thou with this fyre make?" Sayd Gawayne hym till. "Petir!" quod Percyvell then, "And I myghte hym thus ken, Out of his iren I wolde hym bren Righte here on this hill." Bot then sayd Sir Gawayne, "The Rede Knyghte for thou has slayne, I sall unarme hym agayne, And thou will holde the still." Than Sir Gawayn doun lyghte, Unlacede the Rede Knyghte; The childe in his armour dight At his awnn will. When he was dighte in his atire, He tase the knyghte bi the swire, Keste hym reghte in the fyre, The brandes to balde. Bot then said Percyvell on bost, "Ly still therin now and roste! I kepe nothynge of thi coste, Ne noghte of thi spalde!" The knyghte lygges ther on brede; The childe es dighte in his wede, And lepe up apon his stede, Als hymselfe wolde. He luked doun to his fete, Saw his gere faire and mete: "For a knyghte I may be lete And myghte be calde." Then sayd Sir Gawayn hym till, "Goo we faste fro this hill! Thou hase done what thou will; It neghes nere nyghte." "What! trowes thou," quod Percyvell the yonge, "That I will agayn brynge Untill Arthoure the Kynge The golde that es bryghte? Nay, so mote I thryfe or thee, I am als grete a lorde als he; To-day ne schall he make me None other gates knyghte. Take the coupe in thy hande And mak thiselfe the presande, For I will forthire into the lande, Are I doun lyghte." Nowther wolde he doun lyghte, Ne he wolde wende with the knyght, Bot rydes forthe all the nyghte, So prowde was he than. Till on the morne at forthe dayes, He mett a wyche, as men says. His horse and his harnays Couthe scho wele ken. Scho wende that it hade bene The Rede Knyghte that scho hade sene, Was wonnt in those armes to bene, To gerre the stede rynne. In haste scho come hym agayne, Sayde, "It is not to layne, Men tolde me that thou was slayne With Arthours men. Ther come one of my men, Till yonder hill he gan me kenne, There thou sees the fyre brene, And sayde that thou was thare." Ever satt Percyvell stone-still, And spakke no thynge hir till Till scho hade sayde all hir will, And spakke lesse ne mare. "At yondere hill hafe I bene: Nothynge hafe I there sene Bot gayte-skynnes, I wene. Siche ill-farande fare!" "Mi sone, and thou ware thare slayne And thyn armes of drawen, I couthe hele the agayne Als wele als thou was are." Than wist Percyvell by thatt, It servede hym of somwhatt, The wylde fyre that he gatt When the knyghte was slayne; And righte so wolde he, thare That the olde wiche ware. Oppon his spere he hir bare To the fyre agayne; In ill wrethe and in grete, He keste the wiche in the hete; He sayde, "Ly still and swete Bi thi son, that lyther swayne!" Thus he leves thaym twoo, And on his gates gan he goo: Siche dedis to do moo Was the childe fayne. Als he come by a wodd-syde, He sawe ten men ryde; He said, "For oughte that may betyde, To tham will I me." When those ten saw hym thare, Thay wende the Rede Knyghte it ware, That wolde tham all forfare, And faste gan thay flee; For he was sogates cledde, Alle belyffe fro hym thay fledde; And ever the faster that thay spedde, The swiftlyere sewed hee, Till he was warre of a knyghte, And of the menevaire he had syght; He put up his umbrere on hight, And said, "Sir, God luke thee!" The childe sayde, "God luke the!" The knyght said, "Now wele the be! A, lorde Godd, now wele es mee That ever was I made!" For by the vesage hym thoghte The Rede Knyghte was it noghte, That hade them all bysoughte; And baldely he bade. It semede wele bi the syghte That he had slayne the Rede Knyght: In his armes was he dighte, And on his stede rade. "Son," sayde the knyghte tho, And thankede the childe full thro, "Thou hase slayne the moste foo That ever yitt I hade." Then sayde Percyvell the free, "Wherefore fledde yee Lange are, when ye sawe mee Come rydande yow by?" Bot than spake the olde knyghte, That was paste out of myghte With any man for to fyghte: He ansuerde in hy; He sayde, "Theis children nyne, All are thay sonnes myne. For ferde or I solde tham tyne, Therfore fledd I. We wende wele that it had bene The Rede Knyghte that we hade sene; He walde hafe slayne us bydene, Withowtten mercy. Withowtten any mercy He wolde hafe slayne us in hy; To my sonnes he hade envy Moste of any men. Fiftene yeres es it gane Syn he my brodire hade slane; Now hadde the theefe undirtane To sla us all then: He was ferde lesse my sonnes sold hym slo When thay ware eldare and moo, And that thay solde take hym for thaire foo Where thay myghte hym ken; Hade I bene in the stede Ther he was done to the dede, I solde never hafe etyn brede Are I hade sene hym bren." "Petir!" quod Percyvell, "he es brende! I haffe spedde better than I wend Ever at the laste ende." The blythere wexe the knyghte; By his haulle thaire gates felle, And yerne he prayed Percyvell That he solde ther with hym duelle And be ther all that nyghte. Full wele he couthe a geste calle. He broghte the childe into the haulle; So faire he spake hym withalle That he es doun lyghte; His stede es in stable sett And hymselfe to the haulle fett, And than, withowtten any lett, To the mette thay tham dighte.