Classic Poem

Lord, þat is off mygtys most,
Fadyr and sone and holy gost,
Bryng us out off synne;
And lene us grace so forto wyrke,
To love boþe God and holy kyrke,
þat we may hevene wynne.
Lystnes, lordyngys þat ben hende,
Off falsnesse, hou it wil ende
A man þat ledes hym þerin.
Off foure weddyd breþeryn I wole gow tel,
þat wolden yn Yngelond go dwel,
þat sybbe were nougt off kyn.
And alle foure messangeres þey were,
þat wolden yn Yngelond lettrys bere,
As it wes here kynde.
By a forest gan þey mete
Wiþ a cros, stood in a strete,
Be leff undyr a lynde.
And, as þe story telles me,
Ylke man was of dyvers cuntre
(In book iwreten we fynde),
For love of here metyng þare,
þey swoor hem weddyd breþeryn for evermare,
In trewþe trewely dede hem bynde.

þe eldeste off hem ylkon,
He was hygt Athelston,
þe kyngys cosyn dere;
He was off þe kyngys blood,
Hys eemes sone, I undyrstood;
þerfore he neygyd hym nere.
And at þe laste, weel and fayr,
þe kyng hym dyyd withouten ayr;
þenne was þer non hys pere
But Athelston, hys eemes sone;
To make hym kyng wolde þey nougt schone,
To corowne hym with gold so clere.

Now was he kyng semely to se:
He sendes afftyr hys breþeryn þre,
And gaff hem here warysoun.
þe eldest broþir he made eerl of Dovere
And þus þe pore man gan covere
Lord off tour and toun.
þat oþer broþer he made eerl of Stane
Egelond was hys name,
A man off gret renoun,
And gaff hym tyl hys weddyd wyff
Hys owne sustyr, Dame Edyff,
Wiþ gret devocyoun.

þe ferþe broþir was a clerk,
Mekyl he cowde off Goddys werk:
Hys name it was Alryke.
Cauntyrbury was vacant
And fel into þat kyngys hand;
He gaff it hym, þat wyke,
And made hym bysschop of þat stede.
þat noble clerk, on book cowde rede —
In þe world was non hym lyche.
þus avaunsyd he hys broþer þorwg Goddys gras,
And Athelston hymselven was
A good kyng and a ryche.

And he þat was eerl off Stane
(Sere Egeland was hys name)
Was trewe, as ge schal here.
þorwg þe mygt off Goddys gras,
He gat upon þe countas
Twoo knave-chyldren dere.
þat on was fyfftene wyntyr old,
þat oþer þryttene, as men me told:
In þe world was non here pere,
Also whyt so lylye-flour,
Red as rose off here colour,
As brygt as blosme on brere.

Boþe þe eerl and hys wyff,
þe kyng hem lovede as hys lyff,
And here sones twoo;
And offtensyþe he gan hem calle
Boþe to boure and to halle,
To counsayl whenne þey scholde goo.
þerat sere Wymound hadde gret envye,
þat eerl off Dovere, wyttyrlye,
In herte he was ful woo;
He þougte al for here sake
False lesyngys on hem to make,
To don hem brenne and sloo.

And þanne sere Wymound hym beþougte:
" Here love þus endure may nougte;
þorwg wurd oure werk may sprynge."
He bad hys men maken hem gare;
Unto Londone wolde he fare,
To speke wiþ þe kynge.
Whenne þat he to Londone come,
He mette with þe kyng ful sone.
He sayde: " Welcome, my derelyng."
þe kyng hym fraynyd soone anon
Be what way he hadde igon,
Wiþouten ony dwellyng:

" Come þou ougt be Cauntyrbery,
þere þe clerkys syngen mery
Boþe erly and late?
Hou faryth þat noble clerk,
þat mekyl can on Goddys werk?
Knowest þou ougt hys state?
And come þou ougt be þe eerl off Stane,
þat wurþy lord in hys wane?
Wente þou ougt þat gate?
Hou fares þat noble knygt,
And hys sones fayr and brygt,
My sustyr, giff þat þou wate?"

" Sere," þanne he sayde, " wiþouten les,
Be Cauntyrbery my way I ches;
þere spak I wiþ þat dere.
Rygt weel gretes þee þat noble clerk,
þat mykyl can off Goddys werk,
In þe world is non hys pere.
And also be Stane my way I drowg;
Wiþ Egeland I spak inowg,
And with þe countesse so clere.
þey fare weel, is nougt to layne,
And boþe here sones." þe king was fayne,
And in his herte made glad chere.

" Sere kyng," he sayde, " Giff it be þi wille,
To chaumbyr þat þou woldest wenden tylle
Counsayl forto here,
I schal þe telle a swete tydande;
þer comen nevere non swyche in þis lande
Off al þis hundryd gere.
þe kyngys herte þan was ful woo
Wiþ þat traytour forto goo;
þey wente boþe forþ in fere —
And whenne þat þey were þe chaumbyr withinne,
False lesyngys he gan begynne
On hys weddyd broþer dere."

" Sere kyng," he sayde, woo were me,
Ded þat I scholde see þe,
So moot I have my lyff.
For by hym þat al þis worl wan,
þou hast makyd me a man,
And iholpe me forto þryff.
For in þy land, sere, is a fals traytour;
He wole doo þe mykyl dyshonour,
And brynge þe on lyve;
He wole deposen þe slyly,
Sodaynly þan schalt þou dy,
Be Crystys woundys fyve.

þenne sayde þe kyng: " So moot þou the,
Knowe I þat man, and I hym see?
His name þou me telle."
" Nay," says þat traytour, " þat wole I nougt,
For al þe gold þat evere was wrougt,
Be massebook and belle;
But giff þou me þy trowþe wil plygt,
þat þou schalt nevere bewreye þe knygt
þat þe þe tale schal telle."
þanne þe kyng his hand up raugte,
þat false man his trowþe betaugte:
He was a devyl off helle!

" Sere kyng," he sayde, " þou madyst me knygt,
And now þou hast þy trowþe me plygt
Oure counsayl forto layne:
Sertaynly, it is non oþir
But Egelane, þy weddyd broþir,
He wolde þat þou were slayne;
He dos þy sustyr to undyrstande
He wole be kyng off þy lande,
And þus he begynnes here trayne;
He wole þe poysoun rygt slyly,
Sodaynly þanne schalt þou dy —
Be hym þat suffryd payne."

þanne swoor þe kyng be cros and roode:
" Meete ne drynk schal do me goode,
Tyl þat he be dede;
Boþe he and hys wyff, hys soones twoo,
Schole þey nevere be no moo
In Yngelond, on þat stede."
" Nay," says þe traytour, " I so moot I the,
Ded wole I nougt my broþer se;
But do þy beste rede."
No lengere þere þen wolde he lende:
He takes hys leye, to Dovere gan wende.
God geve hym schame and dede!

Now is þat traytour hom iwent.
A messanger was afftyr sent
To speke with þe kyng.
I wene he bar his owne name:
He was hoten Athelstane;
He was foundelyng.
þe lettrys were imaad fullyche þare,
Unto Stane forto fare
Wiþouten ony dwellyng,
To fette þe eerl and his sones twoo,
And þe countasse alsoo,
Dame Edyve, þat swete þyng.

And in þe lettre git was it tolde,
þat þe kyng þe eerlys sones wolde
Make hem boþe knygt;
And þerto his seel he sette.
þe messanger wolde nougt lette,
þe way he rydes ful rygt.

þe messanger, þe noble man,
Takes hys hors and forþ he wan,
And hyes a ful good spede.
þe eerl in hys halle he fande;
He took hym þe lettre in his hande,
Anon he bad hym rede:
" Sere," he sayde also swyþe,
" þis lettre ougte to make þe blyþe:
þertoo, þou take good hede.
þe kyng wole for þe cuntas sake
Boþe þy sones knygtes make
To London I rede þe spede.

þe kyng wole for þe cuntas sake
Boþe þy sones knygtys make,
þe blyþere þou may be,
þy fayre wyff with þe þou bryng —
And þer be rygt no lettyng —
þat sygte þat sche may see."
þenne sayde þat eerl with herte mylde:
" My wyff goþ rygt gret with chylde
And, forþynkes me,
Sche may nougt out off chaumbyr wyn
To speke with non ende off here kyn,
Tyl sche delyveryd be."

But into chaumbyr þey gunne wende,
To rede þe lettrys before þat hende,
And tydyngys tolde here soone.
þenne sayde þe cuntasse: " So moot I the,
I wil nougt lette tyl I þere be,
Tomorwen or it be noone:
To see hem knygtys, my sones fre,
I wole nougt lette tyl I þere be:
I schal no lengere dwelle
Cryst forgelde my lord þe kyng,
þat has grauntyd hem here dubbyng;
Myn herte is gladyd welle."

þe eerl hys men bad make hem gare;
He and hys wyff forþ gunne þey fare,
To London faste þey wente.
At Westemynstyr was þe kyngys wone;
þere þey mette with Athelstone,
þat afftyr hem hadde sente.

þe goode eerl soone was hent,
And feteryd faste, verrayment,
And hys sones twoo.
Ful lowde þe countasse gan to crye,
And sayde: " Goode broþir, mercy!
Why wole ge us sloo?
What have we agens gow done,
þat ge wole have us ded so soone?
Me þynkiþ ge arn oure foo."
þe kyng as wood ferde in þat stede:
He garte hys sustyr to presoun lede,
In herte he was ful woo.

þenne a squyer, was þe countasses frende,
To þe qwene he gan wende,
And tydyngys tolde here soone.
Gerlondes off chyryes off sche caste,
Into þe halle sche come at þe laste,
Longe or it were noone.
" Sere kyng, I am before þe come
Wiþ a chyld, dougtyr or a sone;
Graunte me my bone:
My broþir and sustyr þat I may borwe,
Tyl þe nexte day at morwe,
Out off here paynys stronge.

þat we mowe wete be comoun sent
In þe playne parlement ..."
" Dame!" he sayde, goo fro me!
þy bone schal nougt igrauntyd be,
I doo þe to undyrstande.
For, be hym þat weres þe corowne off þorn,
þey schole be drawen and hangyd tomorn,
Gyff I be kyng off lande."

And whenne þe qwene þese wurdes herde,
As sche hadde be beten wiþ gerde,
þe teeres sche leet doun falle.
Sertaynly, as I gow telle,
On here bare knees doun sche felle,
And prayde git for hem alle.
" A, dame!" he sayde, " Verrayment,
Hast þou broke my comaundement?
Abyyd ful dere þou schalle."
Wiþ hys foot (he wolde nougt wonde)
He slowg þe chyld tygt in here wombe:
Sche swownyd amonges hem alle.

Ladys and maydenys þat þere were
þe qwene to here chaumbyr bere,
And þere was a dool inowg.
Soone withinne a lytel spase
A knave-chyld iborn þer wase,
As brygt as blosme on bowg.
He was boþe whyt and red,
Off þat dynt was he ded —
Hys owne fadyr hym slowg.
þus may a traytour baret rayse,
And make manye men ful evele at ayse,
Hymselff nougt afftyr it lowg.

But git þe qwene, as ge schole here,
Sche callyd upon a messangere,
Bad hym a lettre fonge;
And bad hym wende to Cauntyrbery,
þete þe clerkys syngen mery
Boþe masse and evensonge.
" þis lettre þou þe bysschop take,
And praye hym, for Goddys sake,
Come borewe hem out off here bande.
He wole doo more for hym, I wene,
þanne for me, þoug I be qwene,
I doo þe to undyrstande.

An eerldom in Spayne I have of land;
Al I sese into þyn hand,
Trewely, as I þe hygt,
An hundryd besauntys off gold red.
þou may save hem from þe ded
Gyff þat þyn hors be wygt.
" Madame, brouke weel þy moregeve,
Also longe as þou may leve —
þerto have I no rygt;
But off þy gold and off þy fee,
Cryst in hevene forgelde it þe;
I wole be þere tonygt.

Madame, þrytty myles off hard way
I have reden, siþ it was day:
Ful sore I gan me swynke;
And forto ryde now fyve and twenti þertoo,
An hard þyng it were to doo,
Forsoþe, rygt as me þynke.
Madame, it is nerhande passyd prime,
And me behoves al forto dyne,
Boþe wyn and ale to drynke.
Whenne I have dynyd, þenne wole I fare.
God may covere hem off here care,
Or þat I slepe a wynke.

Whenne he hadde dynyd, he wente his way,
Also faste as þat he may,
He rod be Charynge-cros,
And entryd into Flete-strete,
And seþþyn þorwg Londone, I gow hete,
Upon a noble hors.
þe messanger, þat noble man,
On Loundone-brygge sone he wan,
For his travayle he hadde no los
From Stone into Steppyngebourne.
Forsoþe his way nolde he nougt tourne;
Sparyd he nougt for myre ne mos.

And þus hys way wendes he
Fro Osprynge to þe Blee;
þenne mygte he see þe toun
Off Cauntyrbery, þat noble wyke,
þerin lay þat bysschoptyke,
þat lord off gret renoun.
And whenne þey runggen undernbelle,
He rod in Londone (as I gow telle),
He was non er redy;
And git to Cauntyrbery he wan,
Longe or evensong began;
He rod mylys fyffty.

þe messanger noþyng abod;
Into þe palays forþ he rod
þere þat þe bysschop was inne.
Rygt welcome was þe messanger,
þat was come from þe qwene so cleer,
Was off so noble kynne.
He took hym a lettre ful good speed,
And sayde: " Sere bysschop, have þis and reed";
And bad hym come wiþ hym.
Or he þe lettre hadde halff iredde,
For dool, hym þougte, hys herte bledde;
þe teeres fyl ovyr hys chyn.

þe bysschop bad sadele hys palfray:
" Also faste as þay may,
Bydde my men make hem gare;
And wendes before," þe bysschop dede say,
" To my maneres in þe way;
For noþyng þat ge spare.
And loke, at ylke fyve mylys ende
A fresch hors þat I fynde,
Schod and noþyng bare;
Blyþe schal I nevere be,
Tyl I my weddyd broþer see,
To kevere hym out off care."

On nyne palfrays þe bysschop sprong
Ar it was day, from evensong
In romaunce as we rede.
Sertaynly, as I gow telle,
On Londone-brygge ded doun felle
þe messangeres stede.
" Allas," he sayde, " þat I was born!
Now is my goode hors forlorn,
Was good at ylke a nede;
Gistyrday upon þe grounde,
He was wurþ an hundryd pounde,
Ony kyng to lede.

þenne bespak þe erchebysschop,
Oure gostly fadyr undyr God,
Unto þe messangere:
" Lat be þy menyng off þy stede,
And þynk uþon oure mykyl nede,
þe whylys þat we ben here;
For giff þat I may my broþer borwe,
And bryngen hym out off mekyl sorwe,
þou may make glad chere;
And þy warysoun I schal þe geve,
And God have grauntyd þe to leve
Unto an hundryd gere."

þe bysschop þenne nougt ne bod,
He took hys hors, and forþ he rod
Into Westemynstyr so lygt;
þe messanger on his foot alsoo —
Wiþ þe bysschop come no moo,
Neþer squyer ne knygt.
Upon þe morwen þe kyng aros,
And takes þe way to þe kyrke he gos,
As man off mekyl mygt.
Wiþ hym wente boþe preest and clerk,
þat mykyl cowde off Goddys werk,
To praye God for þe rygt.

Whenne þat he to þe kyrke com;
Tofore þe rode he knelyd anon,
And on hys knees he felle:
" God, þat syt in Trynyte,
A bone þat þou graunte me:
Lord, as þou harewyd helle,
Gyltles men giff þat þay be,
þat are in my presoun free,
Forcursyd þere to gelle,
Off þe gylt and þay be clene,
Leve it moot on hem be sene,
þat garte hem þere to dwelle."

And whenne he hadde maad his prayer,
He lokyd up into þe qweer,
þe erchebysschop sawg he stande.
He was forwondryd off þat caas,
And to hym he wente apas,
And took hym be þe hande.
" Welcome", he sayde, " þou etchebysschop,
Oure gostly fadyr undyr God."
He swoor be God levande:
" Weddyd broþer, weel moot þou spede,
For I hadde nevere so mekyl nede,
Siþ I took cros on hande.

Coode weddyd broþer, now turne þy rede:
Doo nougt þyn owne blood to dede,
But giff it wurþy were.
For hym þat weres þe corowne off þorn,
Lat me borwe hem tyl tomorn,
þat we mowe enquere;
And weten alle be comoun asent
In þe playne parlement
Who is wurþy be schent.
And, but giff ge wole graunte my bone,
It schal us rewe boþe or none,
Be God þat alle þyng lent."

þanne þe kyng wax wroþ as wynde,
A wodere man mygte no man fynde
þan he began to bee.
He swoor oþis be sunne and mone:
" þey schole be drawen and hongyd or none
Wiþ eyen þou schalt see.
Lay doun þy cros and þy staff,
þy mytyr and þy ryng þat I þe gaff;
Out off my land þou flee!
Hyge þe faste out off my sygt;
Wher I þe mete, þy deþ is dygt;
Non oþir þen schal it bee."

þenne bespak þat erchebysschop,
Oure gostly fadyr undyr God,
Smertly to þe kyng:
" Weel I wot þat þou me gaff
Boþe þe cros and þe staff,
þe mytyr and eke þe ryng;
My bysschopryche þou reves me?
And crystyndom forbede I þe:
Preest schal þer non syngge;
Neyþer maydynchyld ne knave
Crystyndom schal þer non have;
To care I schal þe brynge.

I schal gare crye þorwg ylke a toun
þat kyrkys schole be broken doun,
And stoken agayn wiþ þorn;
And þou schalt lygge in an old dyke,
As it were an heretyke.
Allas, þat þou were born.

Giff þou be ded þat I may see,
Asoylyd schalt þou nevere bie;
þanne is þy soule in sorwe.
And I schal wenden in uncouþe lond,
And gete me stronge men of hond;
My broþir git schal I borwe.
I schal brynge upon þy lond
Hungyr and þyrst ful strong,
Cold, drougþe, and sorwe;
I schal nougt leve on þy lond
Wurþ þe gloves on þy hond,
To begge ne to borwe."

þe bysschoþ has his leve tan,
By þat his men were comen ylkan:
þey sayden: " Sere, have good day."
He entryd into Flete-strete;
Wiþ lordys off Yngelond gan he mete
Upon a nobyl aray.
On here knees þey kneleden adoun,
And prayden hym off hys benysoun;
He nykkyd hem wiþ " Nay".
Neyþer off cros neyþer off ryng
Hadde þey non kyns wetyng;
And þanne a knygt gan say.

A knygt þanne spak with mylde voys:
" Sere, where is þy ryng? Where is þy croys?
Is it fro þe tan?"
þanne he sayde: " Goure cursyd kyng
Haþ me refft off al my þyng,
And off al my worldly wan;
And I have entyrdytyd Yngelond:
þer schal no preest synge masse with hond,
Chyld schal be crystenyd non;
But giff he graunte me þat knygt,
His wyff and chyldryn fayr and brygt:
He wolde with wrong hem slon."

þe knygt sayde: " Bysschop, turne agayn;
Off þy body we are ful fayn;
þy broþir git schole we borwe.
And, but he graunte us oure bone,
Hys presoun schal be broken soone,
Hymselff to mekyl sorwe.
We schole drawe doun boþe halle and boures;
Boþe hys castelles and hys toures,
þey schole lygge lowe and holewe.
þoug he be kyng and were þe corown,
We scholen hym sette in a deep dunioun:
Oure crystyndom we wole folewe."

þanne, as þey spoken off þis þyng,
þer comen twoo knygtys from þe kyng,
And sayden: " Bysschop, abyde,
And have þy cros and þy ryng,
And welcome, whyl þat þou wylt lyng —
It is nougt forto hyde —
Here he grauntys þe þe knygt,
Hys wyff and chyldryn fayr and brygt;
Again I rede þou ryde.
He prayes þe pur charyte
þat he mygte asoylyd be,
And Yngelond long and wyde."

Hereoff þe bysschop was ful fayn,
And turnys hys brydyl and wendes agayn;
Barouns gunne wiþ hym ryde
Unto þe Brokene-Cros off ston.
þedyr com þe kyng ful soone anon,
And þere he gan abyde.
Upon hys knees he knelyd adoun,
And prayde þe bysschop off benysoun;
And he gaff hym þat tyde.
Wiþ holy watyr and orysoun,
He asoylyd þe kyng þat weryd þe coroun,
And Yngelond long and wyde.

þenne sayde þe kyng anon rygt:
" Here I graunte þe þat knygt,
And hys sones free,
And my sustyr, hende in halle:
þou hast savyd here lyvys alle.
Iblessyd moot þou bee."
þenne sayde þe bysschop also soone:
" And I schal geven swylke a dome,
Wiþ eyen þat þou schalt see;
Giff þay be gylty off þat dede,
Sorrere þe doome þay may drede,
þan schewe here schame to me."

Whanne þe bysschop hadde sayd soo,
A gret fyr was maad rygt þoo —
In romaunce as we rede.
It was set, þat men mygte knawe,
Nyne plowg-lengþe on rawe,
As red as ony glede.
þanne sayde þe kyng: " What may þis mene?"
" Sere, off gylt and þay be clene,
þis doom hem thar nougt drede."
þanne sayde þe good Kyng Athelston:
" An hard doome now is þis on:
God graunte us alle weel to spede!"

þey fetten forþ Sere Egelan,
A trewere eerl was þer nan,
Before þe fyr so brygt.
From hym, þey token þe rede scarlet,
Boþe hosyn and schoon þat weren hym met,
þat fel al for a knygt.
Nyne syþe þe bysschop halewid þe way
þat his weddyd broþer scholde goo þat day,
To þraye God for þe rygt.
He was unblemeschyd foot and hand;
þat sawg þe lordes off þe land,
And þankyd God off hys mygt.

þey offeryd hym with mylde chere
Unto Seynt Powlys heyge awtere,
þat mekyl was off mygt.
Doun upon hys knees he felle,
And þankyd God þat harewede helle,
And hys modyr so brygt.

And git þe bysschop þo gan say:
" Now schal þe chyldryn gon þe way
þat þe fadyr gede."
Fro hem þey tooke þe rede scarlete,
þe hosen and schoon þat weren hem mete,
And al here worldly wede.
þe fyr was boþe hydous and red,
þe chyldryn swownyd as þey were ded;
þe bysschop tyl hem gede.
Wiþ careful herte on hem gan look,
Be hys hand he hem up took:
" Chyldryn, have ge no drede."

þanne þe chyldryn stood and lowg:
" Sere, þe fyr is cold inowg."
þorwgout þey wente apase.
þey weren unblemeschyd foot and hand;
þat sawg þe lordys off þe land,
And þankyd God off his grace.

þey offeryd hem with mylde chere
To Seynt Poulys hyge awtere;
þis myracle schewyd was þere.
And git þe bysschop efft gan say:
" Now schal þe countasse goo þe way,
þere þat þe chyldryn were."

þey fetten forþ þe lady mylde;
Sche was ful gret igon with chylde —
In romaunce as we rede.
Before þe fyr when þat sche come,
To Jesu Cryst he prayde a bone,
þat leet his woundys blede:
" Now, God, lat nevere þe kyngys foo
Quyk out off þe fyr goo.
þeroff hadde sche no drede.

Whenne sche hadde maad here prayer,
Sche was brougt before þe feer
þat brennyd boþe fayr and lygt.
Sche wente fro þe lengþe into þe þrydde;
Stylle sche stood þe fyr amydde,
And callyd it merye and brygt.
Harde schourys þenne took here stronge
Boþe in bak and eke in wombe;
And siþþen it fel at sygt.

Whenne þat here paynys slakyd was,
And sche hadde passyd þat hydous pas,
Here nose barst on bloode.
Sche was unblemeschyd foot and hand;
þat sawg þe lordys off þe land,
And þankyd God on rode.
þey comaundyd men here away to drawe,
As it was þe landys lawe,
And ladyys þanne tyl here gode.
Sche knelyd doun upon þe ground,
And þere was born Seynt Edemound:
Iblessyd be þat foode!

And whanne þis chyld iborn was,
It was brougt into þe plas;
It was boþe hool and sound.
Boþe þe kyng and bysschop free
þey crystnyd þe chyld, þat men mygt see,
And callyd it Edemound.
" Halff my land," he sayde, " I þe geve
Also longe as I may leve,
Wiþ markys and with pounde;
And al afftyr my dede
Yngelond to wysse and rede."
Now iblessyd be þat stounde!

þenne sayde þe bysschop to þe kyng:
" Sere, who made þis grete lesyng,
And who wrougte al þis bale?"
þanne sayde þe kyng: " So moot I thee,
þat schalt þou nevere wete for me,
In burgh neyþer in sale;
For I have sworn be Seynt Anne
þat I schal nevere bewreye þat manne,
þat me gan telle þat tale.
þey arn savyd þorwg þy red;
Now lat al þis be ded,
And kepe þis counseyl hale."

þenne swoor þe bysschop: " So moot I the,
Now I have power and dignyte
Forto asoyle þe as clene
As þou were hoven off þe fount-ston;
Trustly trowe þou þerupon,
And holde it for no wene.
I swere boþe be book and belle,
But giff þou me his name telle,
þe rygt doom schal I deme:
þyselff schalt goo þe rygte way
þat þy broþer wente today,
þoug it þe evele beseme."

þenne sayde þe kyng: " So moot I the,
Be schryffte off mouþe, telle I it þe,
þerto I am unblyve.
Sertaynly, it is non oþir
But Wymound, oure weddyd broþer;
He wole nevere þryve."
" Allas," sayde þe bysschop þan,
" I wende he were þe treweste man,
þat evere git levyd on lyve;
And he wiþ þis ateynt may bee,
He schal be hongyd on trees þree,
And drawen with hors ffyve."

And whenne þat þe bysschop þe soþe hade —
þat þat traytour þat lesyng made —
He callyd a messangere.
Bad hym to Dovere þat he scholde founde,
Forto fette þat eerl Wymounde:
þat traytour has no þere!
" Sere Egelane and hys sones be slawe,
Boþe ihangyd and todrawe —
Doo as I þe lere!
þe countasse is in presoun done;
Schal sche nevere out off presoun come,
But giff it be on bere."

Now wiþ þe messanger was no badde;
He took his hors as þe bysschop radde,
To Dovere tyl þat he come.
þe eerl in hys halle he fand;
He took hym þe lettre in his hand
On hyg, wolde he nougt wone:
" Sere Egelane and his sones be slawe,
Boþe ihangyd and to-drawe:
þou getyst þat eerldome.
þe countasse is in presoun done;
Schal sche nevere more out come,
Ne see neyþer sunne ne mone."

þanne þat eerl made hym glade,
And þankyd God þat lesyng was made:
" It haþ gete me þis eerldome."
He sayde: " Felawe, rygt weel þou bee!
Have here besauntys good plente
For þyn hedyr-come."
þanne þe messanger made his mon:
" Sere, off goure goode hors lende me on;
Now graunte me my bone.
For gystyrday deyde my nobyl stede,
On goure atende as I gede,
Be þe way as I come."

" Myn hors be fatte and comfed,
And off þy lyff I am adred,"
þat eerl sayde to hym þan;
" þanne giff myn hors scholde þe sloo,
My lord þe kyng wolde be ful woo
To lese swylk a man."

þe messanger git he brougte a stede,
On off þe beste at ylke a nede,
þat evere on grounde dede gange.
Sadelyd and brydelyd at þe beste,
þe messanger was ful preste,
Wygtly on hym he sprange.
" Sere," he sayde, " have good day;
þou schalt come whan þou may;
I schal make þe kyng at hande."
With sporys faste he strook þe stede;
To Gravysende he come good spede,
Is fourty myle to fande.

þere þe messanger þe traytour abood,
And seþþyn boþe insame þey rod
To Westemynstyr wone.
In þe palays þere þay lygt,
Into þe halle þey come ful rygt,
And mette wiþ Athelstone.
He wolde have kyssyd his lord swete;
He sayde: " Traytour, nougt git! Lete!
Be God and be Seynt Jhon,
For þy falsnesse and þy lesyng
I slowg myn heyr, scholde have ben kyng
When my lyf hadde ben gon."

þere he denyyd faste þe kyng,
þat he made nevere þat lesyng —
Among hys peres alle.
þe bysschop has hym be þe hand tan;
Forþ insame þey are gan
Into þe wyde halle.
Mygte he nevere with crafft ne gynne
Gare hym schryven off hys synne,
For nougt þat mygte befalle.
þenne sayde þe goode kyng Athelston:
" Lat hym to þe fyr gon,
To preve þe treweþe wiþ alle."

Whenne þe kyng hadde sayd soo,
A gret fyr was maad þoo —
In romaunce as we rede.
It was set, þat men mygten knawe,
Nyne plowg-lenge on rawe,
As red as ony glede.
Nyne syþis þe bysschop halewes þe way
þat þat traytour schole goo þat day:
þe wers hym gan to spede.
He wente fro þe lengþe into þe þrydde,
And doun he fel þe fyr amydde:
Hys eyen wolde hym nougt lede.

þan þe eerlys chyldryn were war ful smerte,
And wygtly to þe traytour sterte,
And out off þe fyr hym hade;
And sworen boþe be book and belle:
" Or þat þou deye, þou schalt telle
Why þou þat lesyng made."

" Certayn, I can non oþer red,
Now I wot I am but ded:
I telle gow noþyng gladde.
Certayn, þer was non oþer wyte:
He lovyd hym to mekyl and me to lyte;
þerfore envye I hadde."

Whenne þat traytour so hadde sayde,
Fyve good hors to hym were tayde,
Alle men mygten see wiþ yge.
þey drowen hym þorwg ylke a strete,
And seþþyn to þe Elmes, I gow hete,
And hongyd hym ful hyge.
Was þer nevere man so hardy,
þat durste felle hys false body:
þis hadde he for hys lye.
Now Jesu, þat is hevene kyng,
Leve nevere traytour have betere endyng,
But swych dome forto dye.