Classic Poem

Now neghes the New Yere and the night passes,
The day drives to the derk, as Drighten biddes.
Bot wilde wederes of the worlde wakned theroute,
Cloudes kesten kenly the colde to the erthe,
With nye innogh of the northe the naked to tene;
The snaw snitered full snart, that snaiped the wilde;
The werbelande wind wapped fro the highe
And drof uch dale full of driftes full grete.
The leude listened full well that lay in his bedde,
Thagh he loukes his liddes full littel he slepes;
By uch cock that crue he knew well the steven.
Deliverly he dressed up ere the day sprenged,
For there was light of a laumpe that lemed in his chambre.
He called to his chamberlain, that cofly him swared,
And bede him bring him his bruny and his blonk sadel.
That other ferkes him up and fecches him his wedes
And graithes me Sir Gawain upon a gret wise.
First he clad him in his clothes the colde forto were,
And sithen his other harnais, that holdely was keped,
Both his paunce and his plates piked full clene,
The ringes rocked of the roust of his riche bruny;
And all was fresh as upon first, and he was fain thenne
To thonk.
He had upon uch pece
Wipped full well and wlonk,
The gayest into Grece;
The burn bede bring his blonk.

While the wlonkest wede he warp on himselven,
His cote with the conisaunce of the clere werkes
Ennurned upon velvet, vertuus stones
Aboute beten and bounden, enbrauded semes,
And faire furred withinne with faire pelures,
Yet laft he not the lace, the ladies gift —
That forgat not Gawain for gode of himselven.
By he had belted the bronde upon his balwe haunches,
Then dressed he his drurye double him aboute,
Swithe swethled umbe his swange swetely that knight.
The girdel of the grene silk that gay well besemed,
Upon that ryal red clothe that riche was to shewe.
Bot wered not this ilk wye for wele this girdel,
For pride of the pendauntes, thagh polist they were,
And thagh the gliterande gold glent upon endes,
Bot forto saven himself when suffer him behoved,
To bide bale withoute debate, of bronde him to were
Other knive.
By that the bolde mon boun
Winnes theroute bilive,
All the meiny of renown
He thonkes ofte full rive.

Then was Gringolet graith, that gret was and huge,
And had ben sojourned saverly and in a siker wise;
Him list prick for point, that proude hors thenne.
The wye winnes him to and wites on his lire,
And said soberly himself and by his soth sweres:
" Here is a meiny in this mote that on mensk thenkes.
The mon hem maintaines, joy mot he have!
The leve lady on live, luf hir betide!
Yif they for charite cherisen a gest
And halden honour in her honde, the hathel hem yelde
That haldes the heven upon highe, and also you all!
And yif I might lif upon londe lede any while,
I sholde reche you som reward redily if I might."
Then steppes he into stirop and strides aloft;
His shalk shewed him his shelde, on shulder he hit laght,
Gordes to Gringolet with his gilt heles,
And he startes on the stone, stood he no lenger
To praunce.
His hathel on hors was thenne,
That bere his spere and launce.
" This castel to Crist I kenne;
He gef hit ay good chaunce."

The brigge was brayd down and the brode yates
Unbarred and borne open upon bothe halve.
The burn blessed him bilive and the bredes passed,
Praises the porter — before the prince kneled,
Gef him God and good day, that Gawain he save —
And went on his way with his wye one,
That sholde teche him to tourne to that tene place
There the ruful race he sholde resaive.
They bowen by bonkes there boghes are bare,
They clomben by cliffes there clenges the colde.
The heven was uphalt, bot ugly therunder.
Mist muged on the mor, malt on the mountes,
Uch hill had a hatte, a mist-hakel huge.
Brokes biled and breke by bonkes aboute,
Shire shaterande on shores there they down shouved.
Wela wille was the way there they by wode sholden,
Till hit was sone sesoun that the sunne rises
That tide.
They were on a hill full hye,
The white snaw lay beside.
The burn that rode him by
Bede his maister abide,
" For I have wonnen you hider, wye, at this time,
And now nare ye not fer fro that note place
That ye han spied and spuried so specially after.
Bot I shall say you for sothe, sithen I you knowe
And ye are a leude upon live that I well lovie;
Wolde ye worch by my wit, ye worthed the better.
The place that ye prese to full perelous is halden.
There wones a wye in that waste the worst upon erthe,
For he is stiff and sturn and to strike lovies,
And more he is than any mon upon middelerde,
And his body bigger than the best foure
That are in Arthures house, Hestor other other.
He cheves that chaunce at the Chapel Grene,
There passes non by that place so proud in his armes
That he ne dinges him to dethe with dint of his honde,
For he is a mon methless and mercy non uses.
For be hit chorle other chaplain that by the chapel rides,
Monk other masseprest other any mon elles,
Him think as queme him to quelle as quick go himselven.
Forthy I say thee as soth as ye in sadel sitte,
Come ye there, ye be killed, may the knight rede,
Trowe ye me that truely, thagh ye had twenty lives
To spende.
He has woned here full yore,
On bent much baret bende;
Ayain his dintes sore
Ye may not you defende.

" Forthy, good Sir Gawain, let the gome one
And gos away som other gate, upon Goddes halve.
Caires by som other kith, there Crist mot you spede,
And I shall hie me home ayain, and hete you firre
That I shall swere by God and all his gode halwes,
As help me God and the halydam, and othes innowe,
That I shall lelly you laine and lause never tale
That ever ye founded to flee for freke that I wist."
" Grant merci," quoth Gawain, and grucching he saide,
" Well worth thee, wye, that woldes my gode,
And that lelly me laine I leve well thou woldes.
Bot helde thou hit never so holde, and I here passed,
Founded for ferde forto flee in forme that thou telles,
I were a knight cowarde, I might not be excused.
Bot I will to the chapel, for chaunce that may falle,
And talk with that ilk tulk the tale that me list,
Worth hit wele other wo, as the wird likes
Hit have.
Thagh he be a sturn knape
To stightel, and stad with stave,
Full well con Drighten shape
His servauntes forto save."

" Mary!" quoth that other mon, " now thou so much spelles
That thou wilt thyn awen nye nime to thyselven,
And thee list lese thy lif, thee lette I ne kepe.
Have here thy helme on thy hed, thy spere in thy honde,
And ride me down this ilk rake by yon rock side
Till thou be broght to the bothem of the breme valay.
Thenne loke a littel on the launde on thy lifte honde,
And thou shall see in that slade the self chapel
And the borelich burn on bent that hit kepes.
Now fares well on Goddes half, Gawain the noble;
For all the gold upon grounde I nolde go with thee,
Ne bere thee felawship thurgh this frith oon foot firre."
By that the wye in the wode wendes his bridel,
Hit the hors with the heles as hard as he might,
Lepes him over the launde and leves the knight there
All one.
" By Goddes self," quoth Gawain,
" I will nauther grete ne grone.
To Goddes wille I am full bain,
And to him I have me tone."

Thenne girdes he to Gringolet and gederes the rake,
Shouves in by a shore at a shawe side,
Rides thurgh the roghe bonk right to the dale.
And thenne he waited him aboute, and wilde hit him thoght,
And sey no singne of resette besides nowhere,
Bot hye bonkes and brent upon bothe halve
And rogh knokled knarres with knorned stones;
The skues of the scoutes skained him thoght.
Thenne he hoved and withheld his hors at that tide,
And ofte chaunged his chere the chapel to seche.
He sey non such in no side, and selly him thoght,
Save a littel on a launde, a lawe as it were,
A balwe berwe by a bonk the brimme beside,
By a forw of a flood that ferked thare;
The borne blubred therinne as hit boiled had.
The knight cacches his caple and com to the lawe,
Lightes down luflily and at a linde tacches
The reine, and hit riches with a rogh braunch.
There he bowes to the berwe, aboute hit he walkes,
Debatande with himself what hit be might.
Hit had a hole on the ende and on aither side,
And overgrowen with gresse in glodes aywhere,
And all was holw inwith, nobot an olde cave
Or a crevisse of an olde cragge, he couth hit noght deme
With spelle.
" We! lorde," quoth the gentil knight,
" Whether this be the Grene Chapelle?
Here might aboute midnight
The dele his matines telle.

" Now ywis," quoth Gawain, " wisty is here.
This oritore is ugly, with erbes overgrowen;
Well besemes the wye wruxled in grene
Dele here his devocioun on the develes wise.
Now I fele hit is the fende, in my five wittes,
That has stoken me this steven to strye me here.
This is a chapel of meschaunce, that check hit betide!
Hit is the corsedest kirk that ever I com inne."
With hye helme on his hed, his launce in his honde,
He romes up to the roffe of tho rogh wones.
Then herd he of that hye hill, in a hard roche,
Beyonde the broke in a bonk, a wonder breme noise.
What, hit clatered in the cliff as hit cleve sholde,
As one upon a grindelston had grounden a sythe;
What, hit wharred and whette as water at a mulne;
What, hit rushed and rong, rauthe to here.
Then " By God," quoth Gawain, " that gere, as I trowe,
Is riched at the reverence me, renk, to mete
By rote.
Let God worch! We loo!
Hit helpes me not a mote.
My lif thagh I forgoo,
Drede dos me no lote."

Thenne the knight con calle full hye:
" Who stightles in this sted me steven to holde?
For now is good Gawain goande right here.
If any wye oght will, winne hider fast,
Other now other never, his nedes to spede."
" Abide," quoth oon on the bonk aboven over his hed,
" And thou shall have all in hast that I thee hight ones."
Yet he rushed on that rurde rapely a throwe
And with whetting awharf ere he wolde light;
And sithen he keveres by a cragge and comes of a hole,
Whirlande out of a wro with a felle weppen,
A denes ax newe dight the dint with to yelde,
With a borelich bitte bende by the halme,
Filed in a filor, foure foot large —
Hit was no lasse, by that lace that lemed full bright!
And the gome in the grene gered as first,
Both the lire and the legges, lockes and berd,
Save that faire on his fote he foundes on the erthe,
Sette the stele to the stone and stalked beside.
When he wan to the water, there he wade nolde,
He hipped over on his ax and orpedly strides,
Bremely brothe on a bent that brode was aboute
On snowe.
Sir Gawain the knight con mete,
He ne lutte him nothing lowe.
That other said, " Now, sir swete,
Of steven mon may thee trowe.

" Gawain," quoth that grene gome, " God thee mot loke!
Ywis thou art welcom, wye, to my place,
And thou has timed thy travail as true mon sholde,
And thou knowes the covenauntes kest us betwene:
At this time twelmonith thou toke that thee falled,
And I sholde at this New Yere yeply thee quite.
And we are in this valay veraily oure one;
Here are no renkes us to rid, rele as us likes.
Haf thy helme of thy hed and haf here thy pay.
Busk no more debate than I thee bede thenne
When thou wipped off my hed at a wap one."
" Nay, by God," quoth Gawain, " that me gost lante,
I shall grucche thee no grue for greme that falles.
Bot stightel thee upon oon stroke, and I shall stonde stille
And warp thee no werning to worch as thee likes
Nowhare."
He lened with the neck and lutte
And shewed that shire all bare
And let as he noght dutte;
For drede he wolde not dare.

Then the gome in the grene graithed him swithe,
Gederes up his grimme tole Gawain to smite;
With all the bur in his body he ber hit on lofte,
Munt as maghtily as marre him he wolde.
Had hit driven adown as dregh as he atled,
There had ben ded of his dint that doghty was ever;
Bot Gawain on that giserne glifte him beside,
As hit com glidande adown on glode him to shende,
And shrank a littel with the shulderes for the sharp irn.
The other shalk with a shunt the shene withhaldes,
And thenne repreved he the prince with mony proude wordes:
" Thou art not Gawain," quoth the gome, " that is so good halden,
That never arwed for no here by hille ne by vale,
And now thou flees for ferde ere thou fele harmes!
Such cowardise of that knight couth I never here.
Nauther fiked I ne flagh, freke, when thou mintest,
Ne kest no cavelacioun in kinges hous Arthur.
My hed flagh to my fote and yet flagh I never,
And thou, ere any harme hent, arwes in hert;
Wherfore the better burn me burde be called
Therfore."
Quoth Gawain, " I shunt ones,
And so will I no more.
Bot thagh my hed falle on the stones
I con not hit restore.

" Bot busk, burn, by thy faith, and bring me to the point,
Dele to me my destine and do hit out of honde;
For I shall stonde thee a strok and start no more
Till thyn ax have me hitte, haf here my trauthe."
" Haf at thee thenne!" quoth that other, and heves hit alofte
And waites as wrothly as he wood were.
He mintes at him maghtily bot not the mon rines,
Withheld heterly his honde ere hit hurt might.
Gawain graithly hit bides and glent with no membre,
Bot stood stille as the ston, other a stubbe other
That ratheled is in roche grounde with rotes a hundreth.
Then murily eft con he mele, the mon in the grene:
" So, now thou has thy hert hole, hitte me behoves.
Holde thee now the hye hode that Arthur thee raght,
And kepe thy kanel at this kest, yif hit kever may."
Gawain full grindelly with greme thenne saide:
" Wy! thresh on, thou thro mon, thou thretes too longe.
I hope that thy hert arwe with thyn awen selven."
" For sothe," quoth that other freke, " so felly thou spekes,
I will no lenger on lite lette thyn ernde
Right now."
Thenne tas he him strithe to strike
And frounses both lippe and browe.
No mervail thagh him mislike
That hoped of no rescowe.

He liftes lightly his lome and let hit down faire
With the barbe of the bit by the bare neck;
Thagh he homered heterly, hurt him no more
Bot snirt him on that oon side, that severed the hide.
The sharp shrank to the flesh thurgh the shire grece,
That the shene blood over his shulderes shot to the erthe.
And when the burn sey the blood blenk on the snawe,
He sprit forth spenne-foot more than a spere lenthe,
Hent heterly his helme and on his hed cast,
Shot with his shulderes his fair shelde under,
Braides out a bright bronde, and bremely he spekes —
Never syn that he was burn born of his moder
Was he never in this worlde wye half so blithe —
" Blinne, burn, of thy bur, bede me no mo!
I haf a stroke in this sted withoute strif hent,
And if thou reches me any mo, I redily shall quite
And yelde yederly ayain, and therto ye trist —
And foo.
Bot oon stroke here me falles;
The covenaunt shop right so
Festned in Arthures halles;
And therfore, hende, now hoo!"

The hathel helded him fro and on his ax rested,
Sette the shaft upon shore and to the sharp lened
And loked to the leude that on the launde yede,
How that doghty dredless dervely there stondes
Armed, full awless; in hert hit him likes.
Then he meles murily with a much steven
And with a rickande rurd he to the renk saide:
" Bold burn on this bent be not so grindel.
No mon here unmanerly thee misboden habbes,
Ne kid bot as covenaunt at kinges court shaped.
I hight thee a stroke and thou hit has; halde thee well payed.
I relece thee of the remnaunt of rightes all other.
If I deliver had ben, a boffet paraunter
I couth wrothloker haf wared, to thee haf wroght anger.
First I mansed thee murily with a mint one
And rove thee with no rof-sore, with right I thee profered
For the forward that we fest in the first night,
And thou tristily the trauthe and truly me haldes;
All the gaine thou me gef as good mon sholde.
That other mint for the morn, mon, I thee profered;
Thou kissedes my clere wif, the cosses me raghtes.
For both two here I thee bede bot two bare mintes
Boute scathe.
True mon true restore,
Thenne thar mon drede no wathe.
At the thrid thou failed thore,
And therfore that tappe ta the.

" For hit is my wede that thou weres, that ilk woven girdel,
Myn owen wif hit thee weved, I wot well for sothe.
Now know I well thy cosses and thy costes als,
And the wowing of my wif, I wroght hit myselven.
I sende hir to assay thee, and sothly me thinkes
Oon the fautlest freke that ever on fote yede.
As perle by the white pese is of pris more,
So is Gawain in good faith by other gay knightes.
Bot here you lacked a littel, sir, and lewte you wonted;
Bot that was for no wiled werk, ne wowing nauther,
Bot for ye lufed your lif — the lasse I you blame."
That other stiff mon in study stood a gret while,
So agreved for greme he gryed withinne:
All the blood of his brest blende in his face,
That all he shrank for shome that the shalk talked.
The forme word upon folde that the freke meled:
" Corsed worth cowardise and covetise both!
In you is vilany and vise that vertue distryes."
Thenne he caght to the knot and the kest lauses,
Braide brothly the belt to the burn selven:
" Lo there the falsing, foule mot hit falle!
For care of thy knocke cowardise me taght
To acorde me with covetise, my kinde to forsake,
That is largesse and lewte that longes to knightes.
Now am I fauty and falce, and ferde haf ben ever
Of trecherye and untrauthe — both betide sorwe
And care!
I beknowe you, knight, here stille,
All fauty is my fare.
Letes me overtake your wille
And eft I shall be ware."

Then logh that other leude and luflily saide:
" I halde hit hardily hole the harme that I had;
Thou art confessed so clene, beknowen of thy misses,
And has the penaunce apert of the point of myn egge.
I halde thee polised of that plight and pured as clene
As thou hades never forfeted sithen thou was first born.
And I gif thee, sir, the girdel that is gold-hemmed;
For hit is grene as my gowne, Sir Gawain, ye may
Thenk upon this ilk threpe there thou forth thringes
Among princes of pris, and this a pure token
Of the chaunce of the Grene Chapel at chevalrous knightes.
And ye shall in this New Yere ayain to my wones,
And we shyn revel the remnaunt of this riche fest
Full bene."
There lathed him fast the lorde
And saide, " With my wif, I wene,
We shall you well acorde,
That was your enmy kene."

" Nay, for sothe," quoth the segge, and sesed his helme
And has hit off hendly and the hathel thonkes:
" I have sojorned sadly; sele you betide
And he yelde hit you yare that yarkes all menskes!
And comaundes me to that cortais, your comlich fere,
Both that oon and that other, myn honoured ladies,
That thus her knight with her kest han kointly begiled.
Bot hit is no ferly thagh a fole madde,
And thurgh wiles of wimmen be wonen to sorwe;
For so was Adam in erde with one begiled,
And Salamon with fele sere; and Samson eftsones,
Dalida dalt him his wird; and Davith therafter
Was blended with Barsabe, that much bale tholed.
Now these were wrathed with her wiles, hit were a winne huge
To luf hem well and leve hem not, a leude that couth.
For these were forne the freest, that folwed all the sele
Exellently of all these other under hevenriche
That mused;
And all they were bewiled,
With wimmen that they used.
Thagh I be now begiled,
Me think me burde be excused.

" Bot your girdel," quoth Gawain, " God you foryelde!
That will I welde with good wille, not for the winne gold,
Ne the seint, ne the silk, ne the side pendauntes,
For wele ne for worship, ne for the wlonk werkes,
Bot in singne of my surfet I shall see hit ofte,
When I ride in renown remorde to myselven
The faut and the faintise of the flesh crabbed,
How tender hit is to entise teches of filthe;
And thus, when pride shall me prick for prowess of armes,
The loke to this luf-lace shall lethe my hert.
Bot oon I wolde you pray, displeses you never:
Syn ye be lorde of the yonder londe that I haf lent inne
With you with worship — the wye hit you yelde
That uphaldes the heven and on high sittes —
How norne ye your right name, and thenne no more?"
" That shall I telle thee truly," quoth that other thenne:
" Bertilak de Hautdesert I hat in this londe.
Thurgh might of Morgne la Faye, that in my hous lenges,
And kointise of clergye by craftes well lerned,
The maistres of Merlin mony has taken;
For ho has dalt drury full dere somtime
With that conable clerk, that knowes all your knightes
At hame.
Morgne the goddess
Therfore hit is hir name;
Weldes non so high hautesse
That ho ne con make full tame.

" Ho wained me upon this wise to your winne halle
Forto assay the surquidre, yif hit soth were
That nnes of the grete renown of the Rounde Table.
Ho wained me this wonder your wittes to reve,
Forto have greved Gainour and gart hir to die
With glopning of that ilk gome that gostlich speked
With his hed in his honde before the high table.
That is ho that is at home, the auncian lady;
Ho is even thyn aunt, Arthures half-suster,
The Duchess doghter of Tintagelle, that dere Uter after
Had Arthur upon, that athel is nowthe.
Therfore I ethe thee, hathel, to come to thyn aunt.
Make mirry in my house; my meiny thee lovies,
And I woll thee as well, wye, by my faith,
As any gome under God, for thy grete trauthe."
And he nicked him nay, he nolde by no wayes.
They acolen and kissen, bekennen aither other
To the prince of paradise, and parten right there
On colde.
Gawain on blonk full bene
To the kinges burgh buskes bolde,
And the knight in the enker grene
Whiderward-so-ever he wolde.

Wilde wayes in the worlde Wawain now rides
On Gringolet, that the grace had geten of his live.
Ofte he herbered in house and ofte all theroute,
And mony aventure in vale he venquist ofte
That I ne tight at this time in tale to remene.
The hurt was hole that he had hent in his neck,
And the blickande belt he bere theraboute
A belef as a bauderik bounden by his side,
Loken under his lift arme, the lace, with a knot,
In tokening he was tan in tech of a faut;
And thus he comes to the court, knight all in sounde.
There wakned wele in that wone when wist the grete
That good Gawain was comen; gain hit hem thoght.
The king kisses the knight, and the quene als,
And sithen mony siker knight that soght him to hailse,
Of his fare that him frained; and ferlily he telles,
Beknowes all the costes of care that he had,
The chaunce of the chapel, the chere of the knight,
The luf of the lady, the lace at the last.
The nirt in the neck he naked hem shewed
That he laght for his unlewte at the leudes hondes
For blame.
He tened when he sholde telle,
He groned for gref and grame;
The blood in his face con melle
When he hit sholde shewe, for shame.

" Lo, lorde," quoth the leude, and the lace hondeled,
" This is the bende of this blame I bere in my neck,
This is the lathe and the losse that I laght have
Of cowardise and covetise that I haf caght thare;
This is the token of untrauthe that I am tan inne,
And I mot nedes hit were while I may last.
For non may hiden his harme bot unhap ne may hit,
For there hit ones is tacched twinne will hit never."
The king comfortes the knight, and all the court als,
Laughen loude therat and luflily acorden
That lordes and ledes that longed to the Table,
Uch burn of the brotherhede, a bauderik sholde have,
A bende abelef him aboute of a bright grene,
And that for sake of that segge in sute to were.
For that was acorded the renown of the Rounde Table
And he honoured that hit had evermore after,
As hit is breved in the best boke of romaunce.
Thus in Arthures day this aunter betidde,
The Brutus bokes therof beres witnesse.
Sithen Brutus the bold burn bowed hider first,
After the sege and the asaute was sesed at Troye,
Ywis,
Mony aunteres here beforn
Haf fallen such ere this.
Now that bere the crown of thorn,
He bring us to his bliss. Amen.