Classic Poem

Now rides this renk thurgh the ryalme of Logres,
Sir Gawayn, on Godes halve, thagh him no game thoght.
Oft ledeles alone he lenges on nightes
There he fonde noght him before the fare that he liked.
Had he no fere bot his fole by frythes and downes,
Ne no gome bot God by gate with to carp,
Til that he neghed ful negh into the North Wales.
All the iles of Anglesay on lyft half he holdes
And fares over the fordes by the forlondes,
Over at the Holy Hede, til he had eft bank
In the wyldrenesse of Wyrale: woned there bot lyte
That auther God auther gome with good hert lovied.
And ay he frayned as he ferde at frekes that he met
If thay had herd any carp of a knight grene,
In any grounde theraboute of the Grene Chapel;
And all nikked him with nay, that never in her live
Thay seye never no segge that was of such hewes
Of grene.
The knight toke gates straunge
In mony a bonk unbene;
His chere ful oft con chaunge
That chapel ere he myght sene.

Mony clyff he overclambe in contrayes straunge,
Fer floten fro his frendes fremedly he rides.
At uch warthe auther water there the wye passed
He fonde a foo him before, bot ferly hit were,
And that so foule and so felle that fyght him behoved.
So mony mervayl by mount there the mon findes
Hit were to tor for to telle of the tenthe dole.
Sumwhyle with wormes he werres and with wolves als,
Sumwhyle with wodwos that woned in the knarres,
Both with bulles and beres, and bores otherwhyle,
And etaynes that him anelede of the high felle.
Nad he bene doghty and drye and Dryghtyn had served,
Douteles he had bene ded and dreped ful oft;
For werre wrathed him not so much that wynter nas wors,
When the colde clere water fro the cloudes schadde
And fres ere hit falle myght to the fale erthe.
Nere slayn with the slete he slepte in his yrnes
Mo nightes then innogh in naked rokkes,
There as claterande fro the crest the colde borne rennes
And henged high over his hede in hard iisse-ikkles.
Thus in peryl and payne and plytes ful hard
By contray cayres this knight til Cristmasse even
All one.
The knight wel that tyde
To Mary made his mone
That ho him rede to ride
And wysse him to sum wone.

By a mount on the morn meryly he rides
Into a forest ful depe that ferly was wylde,
High hilles on uch a half and holtwodes under,
Of hore okes ful huge a hundreth togeder.
The hasel and the hawthorne were harled all samen,
With rogh raged mosse rayled aywhere,
With mony bryddes unblythe upon bare twyges,
That pitosly there piped for pine of the colde.
The gome upon Gryngolet glydes hem under
Thurgh mony misy and myre, mon all him one,
Carande for his costes lest he ne kever schulde
To se the servyce of that syre that on that self night
Of a burde was born oure baret to quelle.
And therfore sykyng he sayd, " I beseche the, Lord,
And Mary, that is myldest moder so dere,
Of sum herber there highly I myght here masse
And thy matynes tomorn, mekely I ask,
And therto prestly I pray my pater and ave
And crede."
He rode in his prayere
And cryed for his mysdede;
He sayned him in sythes sere
And sayd, " Cros Cryst me spede!"