Classic Poem

" What is he, this lordling, that cometh from the fight
With blood-rede wede so grisliche y-dight,
So faire y-cointised, so seemlich in sight,
So stifliche gangeth, so doughty a knight?"

" Ich it am, ich it am, that ne speke bute right,
Champioun to helen mankinde in fight."

" Why thenne is thy shroud red, with blood al y-meind,
Ase troddares in wringe with must al bespreind?"

" The wring ich habbe y-trodded al myself one,
And of al mankinde ne was none other wone.
Ich hem habbe y-trodded in wrathe and in grame,
And al my wede is bespreind with here blood y-same,
And al my robe y-fouled to here grete shame.
The day of th'ilke wreche liveth in my thought;
The yeer of medes yelding ne foryet ich nought.
Ich looked al aboute some helping mon;
Ich soughte al the route, but help n'as ther non.
It was myn owne strengthe that this bote wroughte,
Myn owe doughtinesse that help ther me broughte."

" On Godes milsfulnesse ich wil bethenche me,
And herien Him in alle thing that He yeldeth me."

" Ich habbe y-trodded the folk in wrathe and in grame,
Adreint al with shennesse, y-drawe down with shame."