Classic Poem

Thus laykes this lorde by lynde-wodes eves,
And Gawayn the god mon in gay bed lyges,
Lurkes quyl the daylyght lemed on the wowes,
Under covertour ful clere, cortyned aboute.
And as in slomeryng he slode, sleyly he herde
A littel dyn at his dor, and dernly upon;
And he heves up his hed out of the clothes,
A corner of the cortyn he caght up a lyttel,
And waytes warly thiderwarde quat hit be myght.
Hit was the ladi, loflyest to beholde,
That drow the dor after hir ful dernly and stylle,
And bowed towarde the bed. And the burne schamed,
And layde hym doun lystyly, and let as he slepte.
And ho stepped stilly and stel to his bedde,
Kest up the cortyn and creped withinne,
And set hir ful softly on the bed-syde,
And lenged there selly longe to loke quen he wakened.
The lede lay lurked a ful longe quyle,
Compast in his concience to quat that cace myght
Meve other amount: to mervayle hym thoght.
Bot yet he sayde in hymself: " More semly hit were
To aspye wyth my spelle in space quat ho wolde."
Then he wakenede, and wroth, and to hir warde torned,
And unlouked his yye-lyddes, and let as hym wondered,
And sayned hym, as bi his sawe the saver to worthe,
with hande.
Wyth chynne and cheke ful swete,
Bothe quit and red in blande,
Ful lufly con ho lete
Wyth lyppes smal laghande.

" God moroun, Sir Gawayn", sayde that gay lady,
" Ye ar a sleper unsliye that mon may slyde hider.
Now ar ye tan astyt! Bot true uus may schape
I schal bynde yow in your bedde, that be ye trayst."
Al laghande the lady lanced tho bourdes.
" Goud moroun, gay", quoth Gawayn the blythe,
" Me schal worthe at your wille, and that me wel lykes;
For I yelde me yederly, and yeye after grace;
And that is the best, be my dome, for me byhoves nede."
And thus he bourded ayayn with mony a blythe laghter.
" Bot wolde ye, lady lovely, then leve me grante,
And deprece your prysoun, and pray hym to ryse,
I wolde bowe of this bed, and busk me better,
I schulde kever the more comfort to karp yow wyth."
" Nay for sothe, beau sir", sayd that swete,
" Ye schal not rise of your bedde; I rych yow better:
I schal happe yow here that other half als,
And sythen karp wyth my knyght that I kaght have;
For I wene wel, iwysse, Sir Wowen ye are,
That alle the worlde worchipes quere-so ye ride.
Your honour, your hendelayk is hendely praysed
With lordes, wyth ladyes, with alle that lyf bere.
And now ye ar here, iwysse, and we bot oure one;
My lorde and his ledes ar on lenthe faren;
Other burnes in her bedde, and my burdes als;
The dor drawen and dit with a derf haspe.
And sythen I have in this hous hym that al lykes,
I schal ware my whyle wel, quyl hit lastes,
with tale."
" Ye ar welcum to my cors,
Yowre awen won to wale;
Me behoves of fyne force
Your servaunt be, and schale.

" In god fayth", quoth Gawayn, " gayn hit me thynkkes,
Thagh I be not now he that ye of speken.
To reche to such reverence as ye reherce here
I am wiye unworthy — I wot wel myselven.
Bi God, I were glad, and yow god thoght,
At sawe other at servyce that I sette myght
To the plesaunce of your prys: hit were a pure joye."
" In god fayth, Sir Gawayn", quoth the gay lady,
" The prys and the prowes that pleses al other,
If I hit lakked other set at lyght, hit were littel daynte.
Bot hit ar ladyes innowe that lever wer nowthe
Haf the, hende, in hor holde (as I the habbe here) —
To daly with derely your daynte wordes,
Kever hem comfort and colen her cares —
Then much of the garysoun other golde that thay haven.
Bot I louue that ilk Lorde that the lyfte haldes
I haf hit holly in my honde that al desyres,
thurghe grace."
Scho made hym so gret chere,
That was so fayr of face.
The knyght with speches skere
Answared to uche a cace.

" Madame", quoth the myry mon, " Mary yow yelde!
For I haf founden, in god fayth, yowre fraunchis nobele,
And other ful much of other folk fongen hor dedes;
Bot the daynte that thay delen for my disert nysen:
Hit is the worchyp of yourself, that noght bot wel connes."
" Bi Mary", quoth the menskful, " me thynk hit an other.
For were I worth al the wone of wymmen alyve,
And al the wele of the worlde were in my honde,
And I schulde chepen and chose to cheve me a lorde,
For the costes that I haf knowen upon the, knyght, here,
Of bewte and debonerte and blythe semblaunt,
And that I haf er herkkened and halde hit here true —
Ther schulde no freke upon folde bifore yow be chosen."
" Iwysse, worthy", quoth the wiye, " ye haf waled wel better;
Bot I am proude of the prys that ye put on me,
And, soberly your servaunt, my soverayn I holde yow,
And yowre knyght I becom, and Kryst yow foryelde!"
Thus thay meled of muchquat til myd-morn paste;
And ay the lady let lyk as ho hym loved mych.
The freke ferde with defence and feted ful fayre.
" Thagh I were burde bryghtest", the burde in mynde hade,
" The lasse luf in his lode" (for lur that he soght
boute hone,
The dunte that schulde hym deve;
And nedes hit most be done).
The lady thenn spek of leve,
He granted hir ful sone.

Thenne ho gef hym god day, and wyth a glent laghed,
And as ho stod, ho stonyed hym wyth ful stor wordes:
" Now He that spedes uche spech this disport yelde yow!
Bot that ye be Gawan, hit gos in mynde."
" Querfore?", quoth the freke, and freschly he askes,
Ferde lest he hade fayled in fourme of his castes;
Bot the burde hym blessed, and bi this skyl sayde:
" So god as Gawayn gaynly is halden,
And cortaysye is closed so clene in hymselven,
Couth not lyghtly haf lenged so long wyth a lady,
Bot he had craved a cosse, bi his courtaysye,
Bi sum towch of summe tryfle at sum tales ende."
Then quoth Wowen: " Iwysse, worthe as yow lykes:
I schal kysse at your comaundement, as a knyght falles,
And no fire, lest he displese yow — so plede hit no more."
Ho comes nerre with that and caches hym in armes,
Loutes luflych adoun and the leude kysses.
Thay comly bykennen to Kryst ayther other.
Ho dos hir forth at the dore withouten dyn more;
And he ryches hym to ryse and rapes hym sone,
Clepes to his chamberlayn, choses his wede,
Bowes forth, quen he was boun, blythely to masse.
And thenne he meved to his mete that menskly hym keped;
And made myry al day, til the mone rysed,
with game.
Was never freke fayrer fonge
Bitwene two so dyngne dame,
The alder and the yonge;
Much solace set thay same. . . .

Thenne comaunded the lorde in that sale to samen alle the meny,
Bothe the ladyes on loghe to lyght with her burdes
Bifore alle the folk on the flette. Frekes he beddes
Verayly his venysoun to fech hym byforne,
And al godly in gomen Gawayn he called,
Teches hym to the tayles of ful tayt bestes,
Schewes hym the schyre grece schorne upon rybbes.
" How payes yow this play? Haf I prys wonnen?
Have I thryvandely thonk thurgh my craft served?"
" Ye iwysse", quoth that other wiye, " here is wayth fayrest
That I segh this seven yere in sesoun of wynter."
" And al I gif yow, Gawayn", quoth the gome thenne,
" For by acorde of covenaunt ye crave hit as your awen."
" This is soth", quoth the segge, " I say yow that ilke:
That I haf worthyly wonnen this wones wythinne
Iwysse with as god wylle hit worthes to youres."
He hasppes his fayre hals his armes wythinne,
And kysses hym as comlyly as he couthe avyse.
" Tas yow there my chevicaunce, I cheved no more;
I vowche hit saf fynly, thagh feler hit were."
" Hit is god", quoth the godmon, " grant-mercy therfore.
Hit may be such hit is the better, and ye me breve wolde
Where ye wan this ilk wele bi wytte of yorselven."
" That was not forward", quoth he, " frayst me no more;
For ye haf tan that yow tydes, trawe ye non other
ye mowe."
Thay laghed and made hem blythe
Wyth lotes that were to lowe;
To soper thay yede as-swythe,
Wyth dayntes newe innowe.