Sir Gawain and the Green Knight

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Sir Gawayn þe kny3t con mete, He ne lutte hym noþyng lowe;
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Þat oþer sayde, ‘Now, sir swete, Of steuen mon may þe trowe.”Gawayn,’ quoþ þat grene gome, ‘God þe mot loke!Iwysse þou art welcom, wy3e, to my place,And þou hatz tymed þi trauayl as truee mon schulde,And þou knowez þe couenauntez kest vus bytwene:At þis tyme twelmonyth þou toke þat þe falled,And I schulde at þis Nwe 3ere 3eply þe quyte.And we ar in þis valay verayly oure one;Here ar no renkes vs to rydde, rele as vus likez.Haf þy helme of þy hede, and haf here þy pay.Busk no more debate þen I þe bede þenneWhen þou wypped of my hede at a wap one.”Nay, bi God,’ quoþ Gawayn, ‘þat me gost lante,I schal gruch þe no grwe for grem þat fallez.Bot sty3tel þe vpon on strok, and I schal stonde stylleAnd warp þe no wernyng to worch as þe lykez, nowhare.’ He lened with þe nek, and lutte, And schewed þat schyre al bare, And lette as he no3t dutte; For drede he wolde not dare.THEN þe gome in þe grene grayþed hym swyþe,Gederez vp hys grymme tole Gawayn to smyte;With alle þe bur in his body he ber hit on lofte,Munt as ma3tyly as marre hym he wolde;Hade hit dryuen adoun as dre3 as he atled,Þer hade ben ded of his dynt þat do3ty watz euer.Bot Gawayn on þat giserne glyfte hym bysyde,As hit com glydande adoun on glode hym to schende,And schranke a lytel with þe schulderes for þe scharp yrne.Þat oþer schalk wyth a schunt þe schene wythhaldez,And þenne repreued he þe prynce with mony prowde wordez:’Þou art not Gawayn,’ quoþ þe gome, ‘þat is so goud halden,Þat neuer ar3ed for no here by hylle ne be vale,

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And now þou fles for ferde er þou fele harmez!Such cowardise of þat kny3t cowþe I neuer here.
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Nawþer fyked I ne fla3e, freke, quen þou myntest,Ne kest no kauelacion in kyngez hous Arthor.My hede fla3 to my fote, and 3et fla3 I neuer;And þou, er any harme hent, ar3ez in hert;Wherfore þe better burne me burde be called þerfore.’ Quoþ Gawayn, ‘I schunt onez, And so wyl I no more; Bot þa3 my hede falle on þe stonez, I con not hit restore.’Bot busk, burne, bi þi fayth, and bryng me to þe poynt.Dele to me my destiné, and do hit out of honde,For I schal stonde þe a strok, and start no moreTil þyn ax haue me hitte: haf here my trawþe.”Haf at þe þenne!’ quoþ þat oþer, and heuez hit alofte,And waytez as wroþely as he wode were.He myntez at hym ma3tyly, bot not þe mon rynez,Withhelde heterly his honde, er hit hurt my3t.Gawayn grayþely hit bydez, and glent with no membre,Bot stode stylle as þe ston, oþer a stubbe auþerÞat raþeled is in roché grounde with rotez a hundreth.Þen muryly efte con he mele, þe mon in þe grene:’So, now þou hatz þi hert holle, hitte me bihous.Halde þe now þe hy3e hode þat Arþur þe ra3t,And kepe þy kanel at þis kest, 3if hit keuer may.’Gawayn ful gryndelly with greme þenne sayde:’Wy! þresch on, þou þro mon, þou þretez to longe;I hope þat þi hert ar3e wyth þyn awen seluen.”For soþe,’ quoþ þat oþer freke, ‘so felly þou spekez,I wyl no lenger on lyte lette þin ernde ri3t nowe.’ Þenne tas he hym stryþe to stryke, And frounsez boþe lyppe and browe; No meruayle þa3 hym myslyke Þat hoped of no rescowe.He lyftes ly3tly his lome, and let hit doun fayre

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With þe barbe of þe bitte bi þe bare nek;
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Þa3 he homered heterly, hurt hym no moreBot snyrt hym on þat on syde, þat seuered þe hyde.Þe scharp schrank to þe flesche þur3 þe schyre grece,Þat þe schene blod ouer his schulderes schot to þe erþe;And quen þe burne se3 þe blode blenk on þe snawe,He sprit forth spenne-fote more þen a spere lenþe,Hent heterly his helme, and on his hed cast,Schot with his schulderez his fayre schelde vnder,Braydez out a bry3t sworde, and bremely he spekez — Neuer syn þat he watz burne borne of his moderWatz he neuer in þis worlde wy3e half so blyþe — ‘Blynne, burne, of þy bur, bede me no mo!I haf a stroke in þis sted withoute stryf hent,And if þow rechez me any mo, I redyly schal quyte,And 3elde 3ederly a3ayn — and þerto 3e tryst — and foo. Bot on stroke here me fallez — Þe couenaunt schop ry3t so, Fermed in Arþurez hallez — And þerfore, hende, now hoo!’The haþel heldet hym fro, and on his ax rested,Sette þe schaft vpon schore, and to þe scharp lened,And loked to þe leude þat on þe launde 3ede,How þat do3ty, dredles, deruely þer stondezArmed, ful a3lez: in hert hit hym lykez.Þenn he melez muryly wyth a much steuen,And wyth a rynkande rurde he to þe renk sayde:’Bolde burne, on þis bent be not so gryndel.No mon here vnmanerly þe mysboden habbez,Ne kyd bot as couenaunde at kyngez kort schaped.I hy3t þe a strok and þou hit hatz, halde þe wel payed;I relece þe of þe remnaunt of ry3tes alle oþer.Iif I deliuer had bene, a boffet paraunterI couþe wroþeloker haf waret, to þe haf wro3t anger.Fyrst I mansed þe muryly with a mynt one,And roue þe wyth no rof-sore, with ry3t I þe profered