Sir Gawain and the Green Knight

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3e ben ryche in a whyle, Such chaffer and 3e drowe.’Þenne þay teldet tablez trestes alofte,Kesten cloþen vpon; clere ly3t þenneWakned bi wo3ez, waxen torches;Seggez sette and serued in sale al aboute;Much glam and gle glent vp þerinneAboute þe fyre vpon flet, and on fele wyseAt þe soper and after, mony aþel songez,As coundutes of Krystmasse and carolez neweWith al þe manerly merþe þat mon may of telle,And euer oure luflych kny3t þe lady bisyde.Such semblaunt to þat segge semly ho madeWyth stille stollen countenaunce, þat stalworth to plese,Þat al forwondered watz þe wy3e, and wroth with hymseluen,Bot he nolde not for his nurture nurne hir a3aynez,Bot dalt with hir al in daynté, how-se-euer þe dede turned towrast. Quen þay hade played in halle As longe as hor wylle hom last, To chambre he con hym calle, And to þe chemné þay past.Ande þer þay dronken, and dalten, and demed eft nweTo norne on þe same note on Nwe 3erez euen;Bot þe kny3t craued leue to kayre on þe morn,For hit watz ne3 at þe terme þat he to schulde.

“folio” n=”113v”
Þe lorde hym letted of þat, to lenge hym resteyed,And sayde, ‘As I am trwe segge, I siker my trawþeÞou schal cheue to þe grene chapel þy charres to make,Leude, on Nw 3erez ly3t, longe bifore pryme.Forþy þow lye in þy loft and lach þyn ese,And I schal hunt in þis holt, and halde þe towchez,Chaunge wyth þe cheuisaunce, bi þat I charre hider;For I haf fraysted þe twys, and faythful I fynde þe.Now “þrid tyme þrowe best” þenk on þe morne,Make we mery quyl we may and mynne vpon joye,For þe lur may mon lach when-so mon lykez.’Þis watz grayþely graunted, and Gawayn is lenged,
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Bliþe bro3t watz hym drynk, and þay to bedde 3eden with li3t. Sir Gawayn lis and slepes Ful stille and softe al ni3t; Þe lorde þat his craftez kepes, Ful erly he watz di3t.After messe a morsel he and his men token;Miry watz þe mornyng, his mounture he askes.Alle þe haþeles þat on horse schulde helden hym afterWere boun busked on hor blonkkez bifore þe halle 3atez.Ferly fayre watz þe folde, for þe forst clenged;In rede rudede vpon rak rises þe sunne,And ful clere costez þe clowdes of þe welkyn.Hunteres vnhardeled bi a holt syde,Rocheres roungen bi rys for rurde of her hornes;Summe fel in þe fute þer þe fox bade,Traylez ofte a traueres bi traunt of her wyles;A kenet kyres þerof, þe hunt on hym calles;His fela3es fallen hym to, þat fnasted ful þike,Runnen forth in a rabel in his ry3t fare,And he fyskez hem byfore; þay founden hym sone,And quen þay seghe hym with sy3t þay sued hym fast,Wre3ande hym ful weterly with a wroth noyse;And he trantes and tornayeez þur3 mony tene greue,Hauilounez, and herkenez bi heggez ful ofte.

“folio” n=”114r”
At þe last bi a littel dich he lepez ouer a spenne,Stelez out ful stilly bi a strothe rande,Went haf wylt of þe wode with wylez fro þe houndes;Þenne watz he went, er he wyst, to a wale tryster,Þer þre þro at a þrich þrat hym at ones, al graye. He blenched a3ayn bilyue And stifly start on-stray, With alle þe wo on lyue To þe wod he went away.
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Thenne watz hit list vpon lif to lyþen þe houndez,When alle þe mute hade hym met, menged togeder:Suche a sor3e at þat sy3t þay sette on his hedeAs alle þe clamberande clyffes hade clatered on hepes;Here he watz halawed, when haþelez hym metten,Loude he watz 3ayned with 3arande speche;Þer he watz þreted and ofte þef called,And ay þe titleres at his tayl, þat tary he ne my3t;Ofte he watz runnen at, when he out rayked,And ofte reled in a3ayn, so Reniarde watz wylé.And 3e he lad hem bi lagmon, þe lorde and his meyny,On þis maner bi þe mountes quyle myd-ouer-vnder,Whyle þe hende kny3t at home holsumly slepesWithinne þe comly cortynes, on þe colde morne.Bot þe lady for luf let not to slepe,Ne þe purpose to payre þat py3t in hir hert,Bot ros hir vp radly, rayked hir þederIn a mery mantyle, mete to þe erþe,Þat watz furred ful fyne with fellez wel pured,No hwef goud on hir hede bot þe ha3er stonesTrased aboute hir tressour be twenty in clusteres;Hir þryuen face and hir þrote þrowen al naked,Hir brest bare bifore, and bihinde eke.Ho comez withinne þe chambre dore, and closes hit hir after,Wayuez vp a wyndow, and on þe wy3e callez,And radly þus rehayted hym with hir riche wordes, with chere: ‘A! mon, how may þou slepe,

“folio” n=”114v”
Þis morning is so clere?’ He watz in drowping depe, Bot þenne he con hir here.In dre3 droupyng of dreme draueled þat noble,As mon þat watz in mornyng of mony þro þo3tes,How þat destiné schulde þat day dele hym his wyrdeAt þe grene chapel, when he þe gome metes,And bihoues his buffet abide withoute debate more;Bot quen þat comly com he keuered his wyttes,
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Swenges out of þe sweuenes, and swarez with hast.Þe lady luflych com la3ande swete,Felle ouer his fayre face, and fetly hym kyssed;He welcumez hir worþily with a wale chere.He se3 hir so glorious and gayly atyred,So fautles of hir fetures and of so fyne hewes,Wi3t wallande joye warmed his hert.With smoþe smylyng and smolt þay smeten into merþe,Þat al watz blis and bonchef þat breke hem bitwene, and wynne. Þay lanced wordes gode, Much wele þen watz þerinne; Gret perile bitwene hem stod, Nif Maré of hir kny3t mynne.For þat prynces of pris depresed hym so þikke,Nurned hym so ne3e þe þred, þat nede hym bihouedOþer lach þer hir luf, oþer lodly refuse.He cared for his cortaysye, lest craþayn he were,And more for his meschef 3if he schulde make synne,And be traytor to þat tolke þat þat telde a3t.’God schylde,’ quoþ þe schalk, ‘þat schal not befalle!’With luf-la3yng a lyt he layd hym bysydeAlle þe spechez of specialté þat sprange of her mouthe.Quoþ þat burde to þe burne, ‘Blame 3e disserue,3if 3e luf not þat lyf þat 3e lye nexte,Bifore alle þe wy3ez in þe worlde wounded in hert,Bot if 3e haf a lemman, a leuer, þat yow lykez better,And folden fayth to þat fre, festned so harde