Classic Poem

Lord Gode in Trynite,
Yeff home hevene for to se
That lovethe gamen and gle,
And gestus to fede.
Ther folke sitis in fere
Shullde men herken and here
Off gode that before [hem] were
That levede in arthede.
And Y schall karppe off a knyght
That was both hardy and wyght:
Sir Degrevaunt that hend hyght,
That dowghty was of dede;
Was never knyght that he fond,
In Fraunce ne in Englond,
Myght sette a schafft of hys hond
On a stythe stede.

Wyth Kyng Arrtor, Y wene,
And wyth Gwennor the quene,
He was known for kene,
That comelych knyght,
In Hethenesse and in Spayne,
In Fraunce and in Bryttayne,
Wyth Persevall and Gawayne,
For hardy and wyght.
He was dowghty and der,
And ther nevew full ner,
Ther he of dedys myght yher
By days or by nyght;
Forthy they name hem that stounde
A knyght of Tabull Round
As maked is in the mappe-mound,
In storye full ryght.
He was fayre man and free,
And gretlech yaff hym to gle:
To harp and to sautre,
And geterne full gay;
Well to play on a rote,
Off lewtyng, well Y wote,
And syngyng many seyt not,
He bar the pryes aey.
Yet gamenes hade he mare:
Grehondes for hert and hare,
Both for bokes and the bare,
By nyght and be day;
Fell faukons and fayr,
Haukes off nobull eyre,
Tyll his parke ganne repeyr,
By sexxty, Y dar say.

He wold be upp or the day
To honte and to revay;
Gretly yaff hem to pley
Eche day to newe;
To here hys mas or he went
Trewly in gode entaunt,
And sethe to bowe into the bente
There games ine grewe.
Now to forest he founde,
Both wyth horne and with hound;
To breyng the deere to the ground
Was hys most glew.
Certus, wyff wold he non,
Wench ne lemon,
But as an anker in a ston
He lyved ever trew.

Ther was sesyd in hys hand
A thousand poundus worth off land
Off rentes well settand,
And muchell dell more;
An houndered plows in demaynus,
Fayer parkes in-wyth haynus,
Grett herdus in the playnus,
Wyth muchell tame store;
Castelos wyth heygh wallus,
Chambors wyth noble hallus,
Fayer stedes in the stallus,
Lyard and soore.
Wher he herd of anny cry,
Ever he was redy;
He passede never forth by
In londe wher they were.

He lovede well almosdede,
Powr men to cloth and fede
Wyth menske and manhede;
Off met he was fre.
And also gestes to call
And mensteralus her in halle,
He yaff hem robes off palle,
Off gold and off fee.
In ych place whaer he come,
When he went fram hem,
They hade halowed hys name
Wyth gret nobulle.
In ych lond wher he wentt
So many men he hadde schentt,
In justus and on tornament
He whan ever the gre.

Ther wonede an eorl him besyd,
Ye, a lord off mechell pryd,
That hadd viij forestes ful wyd,
And bowres full brode.
He hade a grete spyt of the knyght
That was so hardy and wyght,
And thought howe he best myght
That dowghty to grade.
He was sterne and stoute,
And rode in a gay route,
And brak hys parkes about,
The best that he hade;
Therinne he made a sory pley,
The fattest he feld, in fey,
By sexty on a day,
Suche maystries he made.

He drowhe reveres with fysh,
And slogh hys forsteres, ywys:
The knyght wyste not of thys,
For soth Y you say,
For he was in the Holy Lond,
Dede of armes for to fond;
The hethene men wyth hys hond
He feld hem offten in fey.
Hys steward hadd a lettre ysent,
A mesynger hath hyt hent,
And forth hys wey ys ywent
As fast as ever he mey.
When he tyll hys lord com,
The lettre in hys hand he nom;
He sey all yoode to schom,
And went on hys wey.

Wyth the knytht was non abad,
He buskyd hym forth and rade
Fram the frount of Garnad
As faste as he myght.
Sone he pased the see,
He and hys meney,
And com into hys contre
By the twelthe nyght.
Tyll hys manere he went,
A feyr place he fond schent,
Hys housbondus that yaf rent
Was yherghed doun ryght.
His tenantrie was all doun,
The best in every toun,
His fayr parkes wer comoun,
And lothlych bydyght.

He closed hys parkes ayen —
His husbondus they were fyen —
He lent hem oxon and wayn
Of his own store;
And also sede for [to] sowe,
Wyght horse for to draw,
And thought werke be lawe
And wyth non other schore.
Forthi a lettre had he dyght
To this eorl opo myght:
He preyd hem to do him ryght
Ar tell hym wherfore;
And wyth sqwer he hit sent
Off an honderd pond of rent,
And forth hys wey ys he went
To wytt hys answer.

The squier nolde nat down lyght,
Bot haylis this eorl opon hyght,
And sethes barown and knyght
And sethes barown and knyght
With wordes full wise;
He held the lettre by the nooke
And to the eorle he hit toke,
And he thereon gan loke
And seyde his avys;
And spake to the squiere:
" Ne were thou a messengere,
Thou shuld abey ryght here
Under this wode-rys!
I wull, for thy lordes tene,
Honte hys forestus and grene,
And breke his parkes bydene,
Proudeste of prys."

Thanne the squier seyde sone:
" Syre, that is nat well done!
Ye have lefft hym bote whone,
In herte is nat to hyde.
He that seyth that hit is ryght,
Be he squier other knyght,
Here my glove on to fyght,
What chaunce so betyde!
Syr, yeff hit be your well,
Thenkes that ye han don ylle;
Y rede ye amend to schkyll,
For wothes is ever wyde."
The eorl answeryd, " Ywyse,
Y woll nat amend that mese.
Y counte hym nat at a cres,
For all hys mechell pryd."

Than the eorl wax wroth
And swor many a gret owth,
He schold be messaggere lothe
But he hys wey wente.
He toke his leve withouten nay,
And wendus forth on his way
As fast as ever he may
Over the brode bent.
He com hom at the none,
And told how he hade done;
The knyght asked him as sone
What answer he sent.
" Sir, and he may as he ment,
His game woll he never stent.
Thyself, and he may the hent,
I tell the for yschent."

Than Syr Degrevaunt syght,
And byheld the heven upan hyght:
" Jhesu, save me in my ryght,
And Mare me spede!
And Y schall yeff Gode a vow:
Som of us schall hyt rew;
Hyt schall not be for his prow,
And Y may right rede."
Anon to armus they hom dyght,
As fast as ever they myght,
Both squier and knyght,
Wys under wede;
Ther was y-armed on hye
Ten score knythis redy,
And iij hondred archerus by,
Full goode at her nede.

Anon to the forest they found,
Ther they stotede a stound,
They pyght pavelouns round,
And loggede that nyght.
The eorl purveyede him an ost,
And com in at anothur cost
Wyth his brag and his bost,
Wyth many a ferres knyght.
He uncouplede his houndus
Withinne the knyghtus boundus,
Bothe the grene and the groundus
They halowede an hyght.
Thus the forest they fray,
Hertus bade at abey;
On a launde by a ley
These lordus doune lyght.

Sexten hertus wase yslayn
And wer brought to a pleyn,
Byfore the cheff cheventen
Yleyd wer yfere.
Thane seys the [eorl] on the land:
" Wher ys now Sir Degrevaund?
Why wol not com this gyant
To rescow his dere?
Hys proud hertes of grese
Bereth no chartur of pes;
We schall have som ar we sese —
Y wolde he wer here.
Trewely, ar he went,
He schuld the game repent,
The proud lettre that he sent
By his sqwer."

Syr Degrevaunt was so nere
That he the wordes can her.
He seyd, " Avaunt baner,
And trompes apon hyght!"
Hys archarus that wer thare,
Both lase and the mar,
As swythe wer they thare,
To shote wer they dyght.
Thane the eorle was payd,
Sone his batell was reyde,
He was no-thyng afreyd
Off that feris knyght.
Now ar they met on a feld
Both with spere and sheld,
Wyghtly wepenes they weld,
And ferysly they fyght.

And whan the batell ennjoined,
With speres ferisly they foynede:
Ther no sege be ensoynd
That faught in the feld.
Wyth bryght swerdus on the bent
Rych hawberkes they rent,
Gleves, gleteryng glent
Opon geldene scheldus.
They styken stedus in stour,
Knyghtus thorow her armere;
Lordus off honor
Opon the hethe heldus.
They foughten so ferisly
Ther weste non so myghty
Who schold have the victory,
Bot He that all weldus.

The doughty knyght Sur Degrevant
Leys the lordes on the laund
Thorw jepun and jesseraund,
And lames the ledes.
Schyr scheldus they schrede,
Many dowghty was dede,
Ryche maylus wexen rede,
So manye bolde dedus.
Thus they fowghten on frythe,
Kene knyghtus inwith kith,
Wo wrekes thare wryth
These doughty on dede!
Burnes he hadde yborn doun,
Gomes wyth gambisoun
Lyes opon bent broun,
And sterff under stede.

Sir Degrevaunt the gode knyght
Bryttenes the basnettus bryght;
Hys feris ferysly they fyght
And felles hom to grond.
The knyghtus of the eorlus hous
That were yhalden so chyvalerus
And in batell so bountyveus,
They deyden all that stond.
The eorl hovede and beheld,
Both with sper and with scheld
How they fayr in the feld,
And syght unsound.
The best men that he ledde
He had ylefft hom to wedde;
With fyffty spers is he gledd,
And wodelech was ywounded.

Syr Degrivant and his men
Felde hom faste in the fen,
As the deer in the den
To dethe he tham denges.
Wyth scharpe axus of stell
He playtede her basnetus well;
Many a knyght gart he knell
In the mornyng.
Sir Degrevant was full thro,
Departed her batell atwo,
The eorl fley and was wo,
On a stede can he spryng.
He laf slaw in a slak
Forty scor on a pak,
Wyd open on her bake,
Dede in the lyng.

Syr Degrevant gat a sted
That was gode in ilk a ned,
Many a side gart he bled
Thorow dent of his spere,
And schased the eorl within a whyll
More then enleve mylle.
Many bold gert he syle,
That byfore dud hym dere.
He com schygynge ayen,
And of hys folk was fyen,
And fond never on slayn,
Ne worse be a pere.
He knelede doun in that place
And thankyd God of His grace:

Tyll his feyr manere.

Bleve to soper they dyght,
Both squier and knyght;
They daunsed and revelide that nyght,
In hert wer they blythe.
And whan the eorl com ham
He was wonded to scham;
The lady ses he was lam,
And swouned full swyth.
Offte she cryed, " Alas!
Have ye nat parkus and chas?
What schuld ye do at is place,
Swych costus to kythe?"
" Dame," he seys, " Y was thare,
And me rews now full sar.
I take m[y leve] for evermare
Swych wronges to wrythe."

The lady of honowre
Metes the [knyght] in the doure,
Knelyd doun in the floure,
And fel hym to feet.
Frek as fuyre in the flynt,
He in armes had hyr hynt,
And thritty sythes, ar he stynt,
He kyst that swet.
" Welcome, Sure Aunterous,
Me thenkus thou art mervelous;
Wyst my lord of this hous,
Wyth grame would the gret."
Swythe chayres was isette,
And quyschonus of vyolete;
Thus this semely was isete
With mouth for to mete.

" Damisele, loke ther be
A fuyre in the chymene,
Fagattus of fyre-tre."
That fecchyd was yare.
Sche sett a bourd of yvore,
Trestellus ordeyned therfor —
Clothus keverede that ovur,
Swyche seye thei never are.
Towellus of Eylyssham,
Whyght as the seeys fame,
Sanappus of the same,
Thus servyd thei ware.
With a gyld saler,
Basyn and ewer,
Watyr of euerrose clere,
They wesche ryght there.

Paynemayn privayly
Sche brought fram the pantry,
And served that semely
Same ther thei seet.
Sche brought fram the kychene
A scheld of a wylde swyne,
Hastelettus in galantyne,
An hand Y yow hete.
Sethe sche brought hom in haste
Ploverys poudryd in paste —
Ther ware metus with the maste,
I do yow to wytte.
Fatt conyngus and newe,
Fesauntus and corelewe,
Ryche she tham drewe
Vernage and crete.

To tell here metus was ter
That was served at her soper;
Ther was no dentethus to dere,
Ne spyces to spare.
And evere sche drow hom the wyn,
Bothe the roche and the reyn,
And the good malvesyn
Felde sche hom yare.
And evere Myldore sche sete
Harpyng notus ful swet,
And otherwhyle sche et
Whan hur leveste ware.
Songe yeddyngus above,
Swyche murthus they move;
In the chaumbur of love
Thus thei sleye care.
Ther was a ryal rooffe
In the chaumbur of loffe;
Hyt was buskyd above
With besauntus ful bryght.
All off ruel-bon,
Whyght ogee and parpon,
Mony a dereworthe stone
Endentyd and dyght.
Ther men myght se, ho that wolde,
Arcangelus of rede golde,
Fyfty mad of o molde,
Lowynge ful lyght;
With the Pocalyps of Jon,
The Powlus Pystolus everychon,
The Parabolus of Salamon
Payntyd ful ryght.

And the foure Gospellorus
Syttyng on pyllorus;
Hend, herkeneth and herus,
Gyf hyt be youre wyll.
Austin and Gregory,
Jerome and Ambrose,
Thus the foure doctorus
Lystened than tylle.
There was purtred in ston
The fylesoferus everychon,
The story of Absolon
That lyked ful ylle;
With an orrelegge on hyght,
To rynge the ours at nyght,
To waken Myldore the bryght
With bellus to knylle.

Square wyndowus of glas,
The rechest that ever was,
Tho moynelus was off bras,
Made with menne handus;
Alle the wallus of geete,
With gaye gablettus and grete,
Kynggus syttyng in ther sete,
Out of sere londus:
Grete Charlus with the croune,
Syre Godfray de Boyloune,
And Arthur the Bretoune,
With here bryght brondus.
The flour was paved overal
With a clere crystal,
And over-keveryd with a pal,
A flore where she stondes.

Hur bed was off aszure
With testur and celure,
With a bryght bordure,
Compasyd ful clene.
And all a storye as hyt was
Of Ydoyne and Amadas,
Perreye in ylke a plas,
And papageyes of grene.
The scochenus of many knyght
Of gold and cyprus was idyght,
Brode besauntus and bryght,
And trewelovus bytwene.
Ther was at hur testere
The kyngus owun banere;
Was never bede rychere
Of empryce ne qwene.

Fayr schetus of sylk,
Chalk-whyght as the mylk,
Quyltus poyned of that ylk,
Touseled they ware.
Coddys of sendal,
Knoppus of crystal
That was mad in West-fal
With women of lare.
Hyt was a mervelous thing
To se the rydalus hyng
With mony a rede gold ryng
That home upbare.
The cordes that thei on ran
The Duk Betyse hom wan,
Mayd Medyore hom span
Of mere-maydenes hare.

Ryght abought mydnyght
Seyd Syre Degrivaunt the knyght:
" When wolt thou, the worthely wyght,
Lysten me tyll?
For love my hert wyl tobrest,
When wylt thou bryng me to rest?
Lady, wysse me the [beste],
Gyf hyt be thi wyll."
The burde answered [full yare]:
" Nevene thow that eny mare,
Thou schalt rew hyt ful sare,
And lyke hyt ful ylle.
Sertes, tho thou were a kyng,
Thou touchest non swych thing
Or thou wed me with a ryng,
And maryage fulfylle.

Leff thou well withouten lette,
The ferste tyme Y the mette,
Myn hert on the was sette,
And my love on the lyght.
I thought never to have non,
Lord nothur lemman,
Bot onely the allon —
Cayser ne knyght,
Kyng ne non conquerour,
Ne no lord of honour,
And gyff hyt were the Emperour,
Most proved of myght.
Forthy, syr, hald the stylle,
Whyle thou get my fadyr wylle."
The knyght sentus thertylle,
And trouthus thei plyght.

And whan here trouthus was plyght,
Than here hertus were lyght:
Was never faukons off flyght
So fayn as thei ware.
Thai lay doun in the bede,
In ryche clothus was spred,
Wytte ye wel, or thei wer wed,
Thei synnyd nat thare.
Than spekus the burd bryght
To Syre Degrivaunt the knyght:
" Swet syre, come ylke nyght,
And loke how we fare."
And the bold bachylere
Toke the damysele clere.
This [han] thei dured that yere,
Thre quarterus, and mare.