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

Mete and drynke was ther dighte, And men to serve tham full ryghte; The childe that come with the knyghte, Enoghe ther he fande. At the mete as thay beste satte, Come the portere fro the gate, Saide a man was theratte Of the Maydenlande; Saide, "Sir, he prayes the Off mete and drynke, for charyté; For a messagere es he And may nott lange stande." The knyght badde late hym inn, "For," he sayde, "it es no synn, The man that may the mete wynn To gyffe the travellande." Now the travellande man The portere lete in than; He haylsede the knyghte as he can, Als he satt on dese. The knyghte askede hym thare Whase man that he ware, And how ferre that he walde so fare, Withowtten any lese. He saide, "I come fro the Lady Lufamour, That sendes me to Kyng Arthoure, And prayes hym, for his honoure, Hir sorowes for to sesse. Up resyn es a Sowdane: Alle hir landes hase he tane; So byseges he that woman That scho may hafe no pese." He sayse that scho may have no pese, The lady, for hir fayrenes, And for hir mek** reches. "He wirkes hir full woo; He dose hir sorow all hir sythe, And all he slaes doun rythe; He wolde have hir to wyfe, And scho will noghte soo. Now hase that ilke Sowdane Hir fadir and hir eme slane, And hir brethir ilkane, And is hir moste foo. So nere he hase hir now soughte That till a castelle es scho broghte, And fro the walles will he noghte, Ere that he may hir too. The Sowdane sayse he will hir ta; The lady will hirselfe sla Are he, that es hir maste fa, Solde wedde hir to wyfe. Now es the Sowdan so wyghte, Alle he slaes doun ryghte: Ther may no man with hym fyghte, Bot he were kempe ryfe." Than sayde Percyvell, "I the praye, That thou wolde teche me the waye Thedir, als the gates laye, Withowtten any stryfe; Mighte I mete with that Sowdan That so dose to that woman, Alsone he solde be slane, And I myghte hafe the lyfe!" The messangere prayed hym mare That he wolde duell still thare: "For I will to the Kynge fare, Myne erandes for to say. For then mek** sorowe me betyde, And I lenger here habyde, Bot ryghte now will I ryde, Als so faste als I may." The knyghte herde hym say so; Yerne he prayes hym to too His nyne sonnes, with hym to goo. He nykkes hym with nay. Bot so faire spekes he That he takes of tham three, In his felawchipe to be - The blythere were thay. Thay ware blythe of ther bade, Busked tham and forthe rade; Mek** myrthes thay made: Bot lyttill it amende. He was paste bot a while - The montenance of a myle - He was bythoghte of a gyle Wele werse than thay wende. Thofe thay ware of thaire fare fayne, Forthwarde was thaire cheftayne; Ever he sende on agayne At ilke a myle ende, Untill thay ware alle gane; Than he rydes hym allane Als he ware sprongen of a stane, Thare na man hym kende, For he walde none sold hym ken. Forthe rydes he then, Amanges uncouthe men His maystres to make. Now hase Percyvell in throo Spoken with his emes twoo, Bot never one of thoo Took his knawlage. Now in his way es he sett That may hym lede, withowtten lett, Thare he and the Sowdan sall mete, His browes to blake. Late we Percyvell the yynge Fare in Goddes blyssynge, And untill Arthoure the Kynge Will we agayne take. The gates agayne we will tane: The Kyng to care-bedd es gane; For mournynge es his maste mane. He syghes full sore. His wo es wansome to wreke, His hert es bownn for to breke, For he wend never to speke With Percyvell no more. Als he was layde for to ly, Come the messangere on hy With lettres fro the lady, And schewes tham righte thare. Afote myghte the Kyng noght stande, Bot rede tham thare lyggande, And sayde, "Of thyne erande Thou hase thyn answare." He sayde, "Thou wote thyne ansuare: The mane that es seke and sare, He may full ill ferre fare In felde for to fyghte." The messangere made his mone: Saide, "Wo worthe wikkede wone! Why ne hade I tournede and gone Agayne with the knyghte?" "What knyghte es that," said the Kyng, "That thou mase of thy menynge? In my londe wot I no lordyng Es worthy to be a knyghte." The messangere ansuerd agayne, "Wete ye, his name es for to layne, The whethir I wolde hafe weten fayne What the childe highte. Thus mek** gatt I of that knyght: His dame sonne, he said, he hight. One what maner that he was dight Now I sall yow telle: He was wighte and worthly, His body bolde and borely, His armour bryghte and blody - Hade bene late in batell; Blode-rede was his stede, His akton, and his other wede; His cote of the same hede That till a knyghte felle." Than comanded the Kyng Horse and armes for to brynge: "If I kan trow thi talkynge, That ilke was Percyvell." For the luffe of Percyvell, To horse and armes thay felle; Thay wolde no lengare ther duelle: To fare ware thay fayne. Faste forthe gan thay fare; Thay were aferde full sare, Ere thay come whare he ware, The childe wolde be slayne. The Kyng tase with hym knyghtis thre: The ferthe wolde hymselfe be; Now so faste rydes hee, May folowe hym no swayne. The Kyng es now in his waye; Lete hym come when he maye! And I will forthir in my playe To Percyvell agayne. Go we to Percyvell agayne. The childe paste oute on the playne, Over more and mountayne, To the Maydenlande; Till agayne the even-tyde, Bolde bodys sawe he byde, Pavelouns mek** and unryde Aboute a cyté stonde. On huntyng was the Sowdane; He lefte men many ane, Twenty score that wele kan: Be the gates yemande - Elleven score one the nyghte, And ten one the daye-lighte - Wele armyde at alle righte, With wapyns in hande. With thaire wapyns in thaire hande, There will thay fight ther thay stande, Sittande and lyggande, Elleven score of men. In he rydes one a rase, Or that he wiste where he was, Into the thikkeste of the prese Amanges tham thanne. And up stirt one that was bolde, Bygane his brydill to holde, And askede whedire that he wolde Make his horse to rynne. He said, "I ame hedir come For to see a Sowdane; In faythe, righte sone he sall be slane, And I myghte hym ken. If I hym oghte ken may, To-morne, when it es lighte daye Than sall we togedir playe With wapyns unryde." They herde that he had undirtane For to sle thaire Sowdane. Thay felle aboute hym, everilkane, To make that bolde habyde. The childe sawe that he was fade, The body that his bridill hade: Even over hym he rade, In gate there bisyde. He stayred about hym with his spere; Many thurgh gane he bere: Ther was none that myght hym dere, Percevell, that tyde. Tide in townne who will telle, Folkes undir his fete felle; The bolde body Percevelle, He sped tham to spill. Hym thoghte no spede at his spere: Many thurgh gane he bere, Fonde folke in the here, Feghtyng to fill. Fro that it was mydnyghte Till it was even at daye-lighte, Were thay never so wilde ne wighte, He wroghte at his will. Thus he dalt with his brande, There was none that myght hym stande Halfe a dynt of his hande That he stroke till. Now he strykes for the nonys, Made the Sarazenes hede-bones Hoppe als dose hayle-stones Abowtte one the gres; Thus he dalt tham on rawe Till the daye gun dawe: He layd thaire lyves full law, Als many als there was. When he hade slayne so many men, He was so wery by then, I tell yow for certen, He roghte wele the lesse Awther of lyfe or of dede; To medis that he were in a stede Thar he myghte riste hym in thede A stownde in sekirnes. Now fonde he no sekirnes, Bot under the walle ther he was, A faire place he hym chese, And down there he lighte. He laide hym doun in that tyde; His stede stode hym besyde: The fole was fayne for to byde - Was wery for the fyght Till one the morne that it was day. The wayte appon the walle lay: He sawe an uggly play In the place dighte; Yitt was ther more ferly: Ther was no qwyk man left therby! Thay called up the lady For to see that sighte. Now commes the lady to that sight, The Lady Lufamour, the brighte; Scho clambe up to the walle on hight Full faste to beholde; Hedes and helmys ther was (I tell yow withowtten lese), Many layde one the gresse, And many schelde brode. Grete ferly thaym thoghte Who that wondir had wroghte, That had tham to dede broghte, That folke in the felde, And wold come none innermare For to kythe what he ware, And wist the lady was thare, Thaire warysoune to yelde. Scho wold thaire warysone yelde: Full faste forthe thay bihelde If thay myghte fynde in the felde Who hade done that dede; Thay luked undir thair hande, Sawe a mek** horse stande, A blody knyghte liggande By a rede stede. Then said the lady so brighte, "Yondir ligges a knyghte That hase bene in the fighte, If I kane righte rede; Owthir es yone man slane, Or he slepis hym allane, Or he in batelle es tane, For blody are his wede." Scho says, "Blody are his wede, And so es his riche stede; Siche a knyght in this thede Saw I never nane. What so he es, and he maye ryse, He es large there he lyse, And wele made in alle wyse, Ther als man sall be tane." Scho calde appon hir chaymbirlayne, Was called hende Hatlayne - The curtasye of Wawayne He weldis in wane; Scho badd hym, "Wende and see Yif yon man on lyfe be. Bid hym com and speke with me, And pray hym als thou kane." Now to pray hym als he kane, Undir the wallis he wane; Warly wakend he that mane: The horse stode still. Als it was tolde unto me, He knelid down on his kne; Hendely hailsed he that fre, And sone said hym till, "My lady, lele Lufamour, Habyddis the in hir chambour, Prayes the, for thyn honour, To come, yif ye will." So kyndly takes he that kyth That up he rose and went hym wyth, The man that was of myche pyth Hir prayer to fulfill. Now hir prayer to fulfill, He folowed the gentilmans will, And so he went hir untill, Forthe to that lady. Full blythe was that birde brighte When scho sawe hym with syghte, For scho trowed that he was wighte, And askede hym in hy: At that fre gan scho frayne, Thoghe he were lefe for to layne, If he wiste who had tham slayne - Thase folkes of envy. He sayd, "I soghte none of tho; I come the Sowdane to slo, And thay ne wolde noghte late me go; Thaire lyfes there refte I." He sayd, "Belyfe thay solde aby." And Lufamour, that lele lady, Wist ful wele therby The childe was full wighte. The birde was blythe of that bade That scho siche and helpe hade; Agayne the Sowdane was fade With alle for to fighte. Faste the lady hym byhelde: Scho thoght hym worthi to welde, And he myghte wyn hir in felde, With maystry and myghte. His stede thay in stabill set And hymselfe to haulle was fet, And than, withowtten any let, To dyne gun thay dighte. The childe was sett on the dese, And served with reches - I tell yow withowtten lese - That gaynely was get, In a chayere of golde Bifore the fayrest, to byholde The myldeste mayden one molde, At mete als scho satt. Scho made hym semblande so gude, Als thay felle to thaire fude, The mayden mengede his mode With myrthes at the mete, That for hir sake righte tha Sone he gane undirta The sory Sowdane to sla, Withowtten any lett. He sayd, withowtten any lett, "When the Sowdane and I bene mett, A sadde stroke I sall one hym sett, His pride for to spyll." Then said the lady so free, "Who that may his bon be Sall hafe this kyngdome and me, To welde at his will." He ne hade dyned bot smalle When worde come into the haulle That many men withalle Were hernyste one the hill; For tene thaire felawes were slayne, The cité hafe thay nere tane. The men that were within the wane The comon-belle gun knylle. Now knyllyn thay the comon-belle. Worde come to Percevell, And he wold there no lengere duelle, Bot lepe fro the dese - Siche wilde gerys hade he mo - Sayd, "Kynsmen, now I go. For alle yone sall I slo Longe are I sese!" Scho kiste hym withowtten lett; The helme on his hede scho sett; To the stabill full sone he gett, There his stede was. There were none with hym to fare; For no man then wolde he spare! - Rydis furthe, withowtten mare, Till he come to the prese. When he come to the prese, He rydes in one a rese; The folkes, that byfore hym was, Thaire strenght hade thay tone; To kepe hym than were thay ware; Thaire dynttis deris hym no mare Then whoso hade strekyn sare One a harde stone. Were thay wighte, were thay woke, Alle that he till stroke, He made thaire bodies to roke: Was ther no better wone. I wote, he sped hym so sone That day, by heghe none With all that folke hade he done: One lefe lefte noghte one. When he had slayne all tho, He loked forthir hym fro, If he myghte fynde any mo With hym for to fyghte; And als that hardy bihelde, He sese, ferre in the felde, Fowre knyghtis undir schelde Come rydand full righte. One was Kyng Arthour, Anothir Ewayne, the floure, The thirde Wawayne with honoure, And Kay, the kene knyghte. Percevell saide, withowtten mare, "To yondir foure will I fare; And if the Sowdane be thare, I sall holde that I highte." Now to holde that he hase highte, Agaynes thaym he rydis righte, And ay lay the lady brighte One the walle, and byhelde How many men that he had slane, And sythen gane his stede mayne Foure kempys agayne, Forthir in the felde. Then was the lady full wo When scho sawe hym go Agaynes foure knyghtys tho, With schafte and with schelde. They were so mekyl and unryde That wele wende scho that tyde With bale thay solde gare hym byde That was hir beste belde. Thofe he were beste of hir belde, As that lady byhelde, He rydes forthe in the felde, Even tham agayne. Then sayd Arthoure the Kyng, "I se a bolde knyghte owt spryng; For to seke feghtyng, Forthe will he frayne. If he fare forthe to fighte And we foure kempys agayne one knyght, Littill menske wold to us lighte If he were sone slayne." They fore forthward right faste, And sone kevells did thay caste, And evyr fell it to frayste Untill Sir Wawayne. When it felle to Sir Wawayne To ryde Percevell agayne, Of that fare was he fayne, And fro tham he rade. Ever the nerre hym he drewe, Wele the better he hym knewe, Horse and hernays of hewe, That the childe hade. "A, dere God!" said Wawayne the fre, "How-gates may this be? If I sle hym, or he me, That never yit was fade, And we are sisters sones two, And aythir of us othir slo, He that lifes will be full wo That ever was he made." Now no maistrys he made, Sir Wawayne, there als he rade, Bot hovyde styll and habade His concell to ta. "Ane unwyse man," he sayd, "am I, That puttis myselfe to siche a foly; Es there no man so hardy That ne anothir es alswa. Thogfe Percevell hase slayne the Rede Knight, Yitt may another be als wyghte, And in that gere be dyghte, And taken alle hym fra. If I suffire my sister sone, And anothir in his gere be done And gete the maystry me appon, That wolde do me wa; It wolde wirke me full wa! So mote I one erthe ga, It ne sall noghte betyde me swa, If I may righte rede! A schafte sall I one hym sett, And I sall fonde firste to hitt; Then sall I ken be my witt Who weldys that wede." No more carpys he that tyde, Bot son togedyr gon thay ryde- Men that bolde were to byde, And styff appon stede; Thaire horse were stallworthe and strange, Thair scheldis were unfailande; Thaire speris brake to thaire hande, Als tham byhoved nede. Now es broken that are were hale, And than bygane Percevale For to tell one a tale That one his tonge laye. He sayde, "Wyde-whare hafe I gane; Siche anothir Sowdane In faythe sawe I never nane, By nyghte ne by daye. I hafe slayne, and I the ken, Twenty score of thi men; And of alle that I slewe then, Me thoghte it bot a playe Agayne that dynt that I hafe tane; For siche one aughte I never nane Bot I qwyte two for ane, Forsothe, and I maye." Then spake Sir Wawayne - Certanely, is noghte to layne - Of that fare was he fayne, In felde there thay fighte: By the wordis so wylde At the fole one the felde, He wiste wele it was the childe, Percevell the wighte - He sayse, "I ame no Sowdane, Bot I am that ilke man That thi body bygan In armours to dighte. I giffe the prise to thi pyth. Unkyndely talked thou me with: My name es Wawayne in kythe, Whoso redys righte." He sayes, "Who that will rede the aryghte, My name es Wawayne the knyghte." And than thay sessen of thaire fighte, Als gude frendes scholde. He sayse, "Thynkes thou noghte when That thou woldes the knyghte brene, For thou ne couthe noghte ken To spoyle hym alle colde?" Bot then was Percevell the free Als blythe als he myghte be, For then wiste he wele that it was he, By takens that he tolde. He dide then als he gane hym lere: Putt up hys umbrere; And kyste togedir with gud chere Those beryns so bolde. Now kissede the beryns so bolde, Sythen talkede what thay wolde. Be then come Arthour the bolde, That there was knyghte and kyng Als his cosyns hadd done, Thankede God also sone. Off mek** myrthis thay mone At thaire metyng. Sythen, withowtten any bade, To the castelle thay rade With the childe that thay hade, Percevell the yynge. The portere was redy thare, Lete the knyghtis in fare; A blythere lady than . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . "Mi grete socour at thou here sende, Off my castell me to diffende, Agayne the Sowdane to wende, That es my moste foo." Theire stedis thay sett in the stalle. The Kyng wendis to haulle; His knyghtis yode hym with alle, Als kynde was to go. Thaire metis was redy, And therto went thay in hy, The Kyng and the lady, And knyghtis also. Wele welcomed scho the geste With riche metis of the beste, Drynkes of the derreste, Dighted bydene. Thay ete and dranke what thay wolde, Sythen talked and tolde Off othir estres full olde, The Kyng and the Qwene. At the firste bygynnyng, Scho frayned Arthour the Kyng Of childe Percevell the yyng, What life he had in bene. Grete wondir had Lufamour He was so styffe in stour And couthe so littill of nurtour Als scho had there sene. Scho had sene with the childe No thyng bot werkes wylde: Thoghte grete ferly on filde Of that foly fare. Then said Arthour the Kyng Of bold Percevell techyng, Fro the firste bygynnyng Till that he come thar: How his fadir was slayne, And his modir to the wode gane For to be there hir allane In the holtis hare, Fully feftene yere To play hym with the wilde dere: Littill wonder it were Wilde if he ware! When he had tolde this tale To that semely in sale He hade wordis at wale To tham ilkane. Then said Percevell the wighte, "Yif I be noghte yitt knyghte, Thou sall halde that thou highte, For to make me ane." Than saide the Kyng full sone, "Ther sall other dedis be done, And thou sall wynn thi schone Appon the Sowdane." Then said Percevell the fre, "Als sone als I the Sowdane see, Righte so sall it sone be, Als I hafe undirtane." He says, "Als I hafe undirtane For to sla the Sowdane, So sall I wirke als I kanne, That dede to bygynn." That day was ther no more dede With those worthily in wede, Bot buskede tham and to bedde yede, The more and the mynn; Till one the morne erely Comes the Sowdane with a cry, Fonde all his folkes hym by Putt into pyn. Sone asked he wha That so durste his men sla, And wete hym one lyfe gaa, The maystry to wynn. Now to wynn the maystry, To the castell gan he cry, If any were so hardy, The maistry to wynn: "A man for ane, Thoghe he hadd all his folke slane, Here sall he fynde Golrotherame To mete hym full ryghte, Appon siche a covenande That ye hefe up your hande; Who that may the better stande And more es of myghte To bryng that other to the dede, Browke wele the londe on brede And hir that is so faire and rede, Lufamour the brighte!" Then the Kyng Arthour And the Lady Lufamour And all that were in the towre Graunted therwith. Thay called Percevell the wight; The Kyng doubbed hym to knyghte. Thofe he couthe littill insighte, The childe was of pith. He bad he solde be to prayse, Therto hende and curtayse; Sir Percevell the Galayse Thay called hym in kythe. Kyng Arthour in Maydenlande Dubbid hym knyghte with his hande, Bad hym ther he his fo fande To gyff hym no grythe. Grith takes he nane: He rydes agayne the Sowdane That highte Gollerotherame, That felle was in fighte. In the felde so brade, No more carpynge thay made, Bot sone togedir thay rade, Theire schaftes to righte. Gollerotheram, thofe he wolde wede, Percevell bere hym fro his stede Two londis one brede, With maystry and myghte. At the erthe the Sowdane lay; His stede gun rynn away; Than said Percevell one play, "Thou haste that I the highte." He sayd, "I highte the a dynt, And now, me thynke, thou hase it hynt. And I may, als I hafe mynt, Thou schalt it never mende." Appon the Sowdan he duelled To the grownde ther he was felled, And to the erthe he hym helde With his speres ende. Fayne wolde he hafe hym slayne, This uncely Sowdane, Bot gate couthe he get nane, So ill was he kende. Than thynkes the childe Of olde werkes full wylde: "Hade I a fire now in this filde, Righte here he solde be brende." He said, "Righte here I solde the brene, And thou ne solde never more then Fighte for no wymman, So I solde the fere!" Then said Wawayne the knyghte, "Thou myghte, and thou knewe righte, And thou woldes of thi stede lighte, Wynn hym one were." The childe was of gamen gnede; Now he thynkes one thede, "Lorde! whethir this be a stede I wende had bene a mere?" In stede righte there he in stode, He ne wiste nother of evyll ne gude, Bot then chaunged his mode And slaked his spere. When his spere was up tane, Then gan this Gollerothiram, This ilke uncely Sowdane, One his fete to gete. Than his swerde drawes he, Strykes at Percevell the fre. The childe hadd no powsté His laykes to lett. The stede was his awnn will: Saw the swerde come hym till, Leppe up over an hill, Fyve stryde mett. Als he sprent forby, The Sowdan keste up a cry; The childe wann owt of study That he was inn sett. Now ther he was in sett, Owt of study he gett, And lightis downn, withowtten lett, Agaynes hym to goo. He says, "Now hase thou taughte me How that I sall wirke with the." Than his swerde drawes he And strake to hym thro. He hitt hym even one the nekk-bane, Thurgh ventale and pesane. The hede of the Sowdane He strykes the body fra. Then full wightly he yode To his stede, there he stode; The milde mayden in mode, Mirthe may scho ma! Many mirthes then he made; In to the castell he rade, And boldly he there habade With that mayden brighte. Fayne were thay ilkane That he had slane the Sowdane And wele wonn that wymman, With maystry and myghte. Thay said Percevell the yyng Was beste worthy to be kyng, For wele withowtten lesyng He helde that he highte. Ther was no more for to say, Bot sythen, appon that other day, He weddys Lufamour the may, This Percevell the wighte. Now hase Percevell the wight Wedded Lufamour the bright, And is a kyng full righte Of alle that lande brade. Than Kyng Arthour in hy Wolde no lengare ther ly: Toke lefe at the lady. Fro tham than he rade: Left Percevell the yyng Off all that lande to be kyng, For he had with a ryng The mayden that it hade. 4 Sythen, appon the tother day, The Kyng went on his way, The certane sothe, als I say, Withowtten any bade. Now than yong Percevell habade In those borowes so brade For hir sake, that he hade Wedd with a ryng. Wele weldede he that lande, Alle bowes to his honde; The folke, that he byfore fonde, Knewe hym for kyng. Thus he wonnes in that wone Till that the twelmonthe was gone, With Lufamour his lemman. He thoghte on no thyng, Now on his moder that was, How scho levyde with the gres, With more drynke and lesse, In welles, there thay spryng. Drynkes of welles, ther thay spryng, And gresse etys, withowt lesyng! Scho liffede with none othir thyng In the holtes hare. Till it byfelle appon a day, Als he in his bedd lay, Till hymselfe gun he say, Syghande full sare, "The laste Yole-day that was, Wilde wayes I chese: My modir all manles Leved I thare." Than righte sone saide he, "Blythe sall I never be Or I may my modir see, And wete how scho fare." Now to wete how scho fare, The knyght busked hym yare; He wolde no lengare duelle thare For noghte that myghte bee. Up he rose in that haulle, Tuke his lefe at tham alle, Both at grete and at smalle; Fro thaym wendis he. Faire scho prayed hym even than, Lufamour, his lemman, Till the heghe dayes of Yole were gane, With hir for to bee. Bot it served hir of no thyng: A preste he made forthe bryng, Hym a messe for to syng, And aftir rode he. Now fro tham gun he ryde; Ther wiste no man that tyde Whedirwarde he wolde ryde, His sorowes to amende. Forthe he rydes allone; Fro tham he wolde everichone: Mighte no man with hym gone, Ne whedir he wolde lende. Bot forthe thus rydes he ay, The certen sothe als I yow say, Till he come at a way By a wode-ende. Then herde he faste hym by Als it were a woman cry: Scho prayed to mylde Mary Som socoure hir to sende. Scho sende hir socour full gude, Mary, that es mylde of mode. As he come thurgh the wode, A ferly he fande. A birde, brighteste of ble, Stode faste bonden till a tre - I say it yow certanly - Bothe fote and hande. Sone askede he who, When he sawe hir tho, That had served hir so, That lady in lande. Scho said, "Sir, the Blake Knyghte Solde be my lorde with righte; He hase me thusgates dighte Here for to stande." She says, "Here mon I stande For a faute that he fande That sall I warande Is my moste mone. Now to the I sall say: Appon my bedd I lay Appon the laste Yole-day - Twelve monethes es gone - Were he knyghte, were he king, He come one his playnge. With me he chaungede a ring, The richeste of one. The body myght I noghte see That made that chaungyng with me, Bot what that ever he be, The better hase he tone!" Scho says, "The better hase he tane; Siche a vertue es in the stane, In alle this werlde wote I nane Siche stone in a rynge; A man that had it in were One his body for to bere, There scholde no dyntys hym dere, Ne to the dethe brynge." And then wiste Sir Percevale Full wele by the ladys tale That he had broghte hir in bale Thurgh his chaungyng. Than also sone sayd he To that lady so fre, "I sall the louse fro the tre, Als I ame trewe kyng." He was bothe kyng and knyght: Wele he helde that he highte; He loused the lady so brighte, Stod bown to the tre. Down satt the lady, And yong Percevall hir by. Forwaked was he wery: Rist hym wolde he. He wende wele for to ryst, Bot it wolde nothyng laste. Als he lay althir best, His hede one hir kne, Scho putt on Percevell wighte, Bad hym fle with all his myghte, "For yonder comes the Blake Knyghte; Dede mon ye be!" Scho sayd, "Dede mon ye be, I say yow, sir certanly: Yonder out comes he That will us bothe slee!" The knyghte gan hir answere, "Tolde ye me noghte lang ere Ther solde no dynttis me dere, Ne wirke me no woo?" The helme on his hede he sett; Bot or he myght to his stede get, The Blak Knyght with hym mett, His maistrys to mo. He sayd, "How! hase thou here Fonden now thi play-fere? Ye schall haby it full dere Er that I hethen go!" He said, "Or I hethyn go, I sall sle yow bothe two, And all siche othir mo, Thaire waryson to yelde." Than sayd Percevell the fre, "Now sone than sall we see Who that es worthy to bee Slayne in the felde." No more speke thay that tyde, Bot sone togedir gan thay ryde, Als men that wolde were habyde, With schafte and with schelde. Than Sir Percevell the wight Bare down the Blake Knyght. Than was the lady so bright His best socour in telde; Scho was the beste of his belde: Bot scho had there bene his schelde, He had bene slayne in the felde, Right certeyne in hy. Ever als Percevell the kene Sold the knyghtis bane hafe bene, Ay went the lady bytwene And cryed, "Mercy!" Than the lady he forbere, And made the Blak Knyghte to swere Of alle evylls that there were, Forgiffe the lady. And Percevell made the same othe That he come never undir clothe To do that lady no lothe That pendid to velany. "I did hir never no velany; Bot slepande I saw hir ly: Than kist I that lady - I will it never layne. I tok a ryng that I fande; I left hir, I undirstande, That sall I wele warande, Anothir ther-agayne." Thofe it were for none other thyng, He swere by Jhesu, Heven-kyng, To wete withowtten lesyng, And here to be slayne; "And all redy is the ryng; And thou will myn agayne bryng, Here will I make the chaungyng, And of myn awnn be fayne." He saise, "Of myn I will be fayne." The Blak Knyghte ansuers agayne: Sayd, "For sothe, it is noghte to layne, Thou come over-late. Als sone als I the ryng fande, I toke it sone off hir hande; To the lorde of this lande I bare it one a gate. That gate with grefe hafe I gone: I bare it to a gude mone, The stalwortheste geant of one That any man wate. Es it nowther knyghte ne kyng That dorste aske hym that ryng, That he ne wolde hym down dyng With harmes full hate." "Be thay hate, be thay colde," Than said Percevell the bolde, For the tale that he tolde He wex all tene. He said, "Heghe on galous mote he hyng That to the here giffes any ryng, Bot thou myn agayne brynge, Thou haste awaye geven! And yif it may no nother be, Righte sone than tell thou me The sothe: whilke that es he Thou knawes, that es so kene? Ther es no more for to say, Bot late me wynn it yif I may, For thou hase giffen thi part of bothe away, Thof thay had better bene." He says, "Thofe thay had better bene." The knyghte ansuerde in tene, "Thou sall wele wete, withowtten wene, Wiche that es he! If thou dare do als thou says, Sir Percevell de Galays, In yone heghe palays, Therin solde he be, The riche ryng with that grym! The stane es bright and nothyng dym; For sothe, ther sall thou fynd hym: I toke it fro me; Owthir within or withowt, Or one his play ther abowte, Of the he giffes littill dowte, And that sall thou see." He says, "That sall thou see, I say the full sekirly." And than forthe rydis he Wondirly swythe. The geant stode in his holde, That had those londis in wolde: Saw Percevell, that was bolde, One his lande dryfe; He calde one his portere: "How-gate may this fare? I se a bolde man yare On my lande ryfe. Go reche me my playlome, And I sall go to hym sone; Hym were better hafe bene at Rome, So ever mote I thryfe!" Whethir he thryfe or he the, Ane iryn clobe takes he; Agayne Percevell the fre He went than full right. The clobe wheyhed reghte wele That a freke myght it fele: The hede was of harde stele, Twelve stone weghte! Ther was iryn in the wande, Ten stone of the lande, And one was byhynde his hande, For holdyng was dight. Ther was thre and twenty in hale; Full evyll myght any men smale, That men telles nowe in tale, With siche a lome fighte. Now are thay bothe bown, Mett one a more brown, A mile withowt any town, Boldly with schelde. Than saide the geant so wight, Als sone als he sawe the knyght, "Mahown, loved be thi myght!" And Percevell byhelde. "Art thou hym, that," saide he than, "That slew Gollerothirame? I had no brothir bot hym ane, When he was of elde." Than said Percevell the fre, "Thurgh grace of God so sall I the, And siche geantes as ye Sle thaym in the felde!" Siche metyng was seldom sene. The dales dynned thaym bytwene For dynttis that thay gaffe bydene When thay so mett. The gyant with his clobe-lome Wolde hafe strekyn Percevell sone, Bot he therunder wightely come, A stroke hym to sett. The geant missede of his dynt; The clobe was harde as the flynt: Or he myght his staffe stynt Or his strengh lett, The clobe in the erthe stode: To the midschafte it wode. The Percevell the gode, Hys swerde owt he get. By then hys swerde owt he get, Strykes the geant withowtten lett, Merkes even to his nekk, Reght even ther he stode; His honde he strykes hym fro, His lefte fote also, With siche dyntis as tho. Nerre hym he yode. Then sayd Percevell, "I undirstande Thou myghte with a lesse wande Hafe weledid better thi hande And hafe done the some gode; Now bese it never for ane The clobe of the erthe tane. I tell thi gatis alle gane, Bi the gude Rode!" He says, "By the gud Rode, As evyll als thou ever yode, Of thi fote thou getis no gode; Bot lepe if thou may!" The geant gan the clobe lefe, And to Percevell a dynt he yefe In the nekk with his nefe. So ne neghede thay. At that dynt was he tene: He strikes off the hande als clene Als ther hadde never none bene. That other was awaye. Sythen his hede gan he off hafe; He was ane unhende knave A geantberde so to schafe, For sothe, als I say! Now for sothe, als I say, He lete hym ly there he lay, And rydis forthe one his way To the heghe holde. The portare saw his lorde slayne; The kayes durste he noght layne. He come Percevell agayne; The gatis he hym yolde. At the firste bygynnyng, He askede the portere of the ryng - If he wiste of it any thyng - And he hym than tolde: He taughte hym sone to the kiste Ther he alle the golde wiste, Bade hym take what hym liste Of that he hafe wolde. Percevell sayde, hafe it he wolde, And schott owtt all the golde Righte there appon the faire molde; The ryng owte glade. The portare stode besyde, Sawe the ryng owt glyde, Sayde ofte, "Wo worthe the tyde That ever was it made!" Percevell answerde in hy, And asked wherefore and why He banned it so brothely, Bot if he cause hade. Then alsone said he, And sware by his lewté: "The cause sall I tell the, Withowten any bade." He says, "Withowtten any bade, The knyghte that it here hade, Theroff a presande he made, And hedir he it broghte. Mi mayster tuke it in his hande, Ressayved faire that presande: He was chefe lorde of this lande, Als man that mek** moghte. That tyme was here fast by Wonnande a lady, And hir wele and lely He luffede, als me thoghte. So it byfelle appon a day, Now the sothe als I sall say, Mi lorde went hym to play, And the lady bysoghte. Now the lady byseches he That scho wolde his leman be; Fast he frayned that free, For any kyns aughte. At the firste bygynnyng, He wolde hafe gyffen hir the ryng; And when scho sawe the tokynyng, Then was scho un-saughte. Scho gret and cried in hir mone; Sayd, 'Thefe, hase thou my sone slone And the ryng fro hym tone, That I hym bitaughte?' Hir clothes ther scho rafe hir fro, And to the wodd gan scho go; Thus es the lady so wo, And this is the draghte. For siche draghtis als this, Now es the lady wode, iwys, And wilde in the wodde scho es, Ay sythen that ilke tyde. Fayne wolde I take that free, Bot alsone als scho sees me, Faste awaye dose scho flee: Will scho noghte abyde." Then sayde Sir Percevell, "I will a**aye full snelle To make that lady to duelle; Bot I will noghte ryde: One my fete will I ga, That faire lady to ta. Me aughte to bryng hir of wa: I laye in hir syde." He sayse, "I laye in hir syde; I sall never one horse ryde Till I hafe sene hir in tyde, Spede if I may; Ne none armoure that may be Sall come appone me Till I my modir may see, Be nyghte or by day. Bot reghte in the same wode That I firste fro hir yode, That sall be in my mode Aftir myn other play; Ne I ne sall never mare Come owt of yone holtis hare Till I wete how scho fare, For sothe, als I saye." Now for sothe, als I say, With that he helde one his way, And one the morne, when it was day, Forthe gonn he fare. His armour he leved therin, Toke one hym a gayt-skynne, And to the wodde gan he wyn, Among the holtis hare. A sevenyght long hase he soghte; His modir ne fyndis he noghte. Of mete ne drynke he ne roghte, So full he was of care. Till the nynte day, byfell That he come to a welle Ther he was wonte for to duelle And drynk take hym thare. When he had dronken that tyde, Forthirmare gan he glyde; Than was he warre, hym besyde, Of the lady so fre; Bot when scho sawe hym thare, Scho bygan for to dare, And sone gaffe hym answare, That brighte was of ble. Scho bigan to call and cry: Sayd, "Siche a sone hade I!" His hert lightened in hy, Blythe for to bee. Be that he come hir nere That scho myght hym here, He said, "My modir full dere, Wele byde ye me!" Be that, so nere getis he That scho myghte nangatis fle, I say yow full certeynly. Hir byhoved ther to byde. Scho stertis appon hym in tene; Wete ye wele, withowtten wene, Had hir myghte so mek** bene, Scho had hym slayne that tyde! Bot his myghte was the mare, And up he toke his modir thare; One his bake he hir bare: Pure was his pryde. To the castell, withowtten mare, The righte way gon he fare; The portare was redy yare, And lete hym in glyde. In with his modir he glade, Als he sayse that it made; With siche clothes als thay hade, Thay happed hir forthy. The geant had a drynk wroghte, The portere sone it forthe broghte, For no man was his thoghte Bot for that lady. Thay wolde not lett long thon, Bot lavede in hir with a spone. Then scho one slepe fell also sone, Reght certeyne in hy. Thus the lady there lyes Thre nyghttis and thre dayes, And the portere alwayes Lay wakande hir by. Thus the portare woke hir by - Ther whills hir luffed sekerly, - Till at the laste the lady Wakede, als I wene. Then scho was in hir awenn state And als wele in hir gate Als scho hadde nowthir arely ne late Never therowte bene. Thay sett tham down one thaire kne, Thanked Godde, alle three, That he wolde so appon tham see As it was there sene. Sythen aftir gan thay ta A riche bathe for to ma, And made the lady in to ga, In graye and in grene. Than Sir Percevell in hy Toke his modir hym by, I say yow than certenly, And home went hee. Grete lordes and the Qwene Welcomed hym al bydene; When thay hym on lyfe sene; Than blythe myghte thay bee. Sythen he went into the Holy Londe, Wanne many cités full stronge, And there was he slayne, I undirstonde; Thusgatis endis hee. Now Jhesu Criste, hevens Kyng, Als He es Lorde of all thyng, Grante us all His blyssyng! Amen, for charyté! Quod Robert Thornton Explicit Sir Percevell de Gales Here endys the Romance of Sir Percevell of Gales, Cosyn to King Arthoure.