Sir Gawain and the Green Knight

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Þat auþer God oþer gome wyth goud hert louied.And ay he frayned, as he ferde, at frekez þat he met,If þay hade herde any karp of a kny3t grene,In any grounde þeraboute, of þe grene chapel;And al nykked hym wyth nay, þat neuer in her lyueÞay se3e neuer no segge þat watz of suche hwez of grene. Þe kny3t tok gates straunge In mony a bonk vnbene, His cher ful oft con chaunge Þat chapel er he my3t sene.Mony klyf he ouerclambe in contrayez straunge,Fer floten fro his frendez fremedly he rydez.At vche warþe oþer water þer þe wy3e passedHe fonde a foo hym byfore, bot ferly hit were,And þat so foule and so felle þat fe3t hym byhode.So mony meruayl bi mount þer þe mon fyndez,Hit were to tore for to telle of þe tenþe dole.Sumwhyle wyth wormez he werrez, and with wolues als,Sumwhyle wyth wodwos, þat woned in þe knarrez,Boþe wyth bullez and berez, and borez oþerquyle,And etaynez, þat hym anelede of þe he3e felle;
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Nade he ben du3ty and dry3e, and Dry3tyn had serued,Douteles he hade ben ded and dreped ful ofte.For werre wrathed hym not so much þat wynter nas wors,When þe colde cler water fro þe cloudez schadde,And fres er hit falle my3t to þe fale erþe;Ner slayn wyth þe slete he sleped in his yrnesMo ny3tez þen innoghe in naked rokkez,Þer as claterande fro þe crest þe colde borne rennez,And henged he3e ouer his hede in hard iisse-ikkles.Þus in peryl and payne and plytes ful hardeBi contray cayrez þis kny3t, tyl Krystmasse euen, al one; Þe kny3t wel þat tyde To Mary made his mone, Þat ho hym red to ryde

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And wysse hym to sum wone.Bi a mounte on þe morne meryly he rydesInto a forest ful dep, þat ferly watz wylde,Hi3e hillez on vche a halue, and holtwodez vnderOf hore okez ful hoge a hundreth togeder;Þe hasel and þe ha3þorne were harled al samen,With ro3e raged mosse rayled aywhere,With mony bryddez vnblyþe vpon bare twyges,Þat pitosly þer piped for pyne of þe colde.Þe gome vpon Gryngolet glydez hem vnder,Þur3 mony misy and myre, mon al hym one,Carande for his costes, lest he ne keuer schuldeTo se þe seruyse of þat syre, þat on þat self ny3tOf a burde watz borne oure baret to quelle;And þerfore sykyng he sayde, ‘I beseche þe, lorde,And Mary, þat is myldest moder so dere,Of sum herber þer he3ly I my3t here masse,Ande þy matynez to-morne, mekely I ask,And þerto prestly I pray my pater and aue and crede.’ He rode in his prayere, And cryed for his mysdede,
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He sayned hym in syþes sere, And sayde ‘Cros Kryst me spede!’NADE he sayned hymself, segge, bot þrye,Er he watz war in þe wod of a won in a mote,Abof a launde, on a lawe, loken vnder bo3ezOf mony borelych bole aboute bi þe diches:A castel þe comlokest þat euer kny3t a3te,Pyched on a prayere, a park al aboute,With a pyked palays pyned ful þik,Þat vmbete3e mony tre mo þen two myle.Þat holde on þat on syde þe haþel auysed,As hit schemered and schon þur3 þe schyre okez;Þenne hatz he hendly of his helme, and he3ly he þonkezJesus and sayn Gilyan, þat gentyle ar boþe,

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Þat cortaysly had hym kydde, and his cry herkened.’Now bone hostel,’ coþe þe burne, ‘I beseche yow 3ette!’Þenne gerdez he to Gryngolet with þe gilt helez,And he ful chauncely hatz chosen to þe chef gate,Þat bro3t bremly þe burne to þe bryge ende in haste. Þe bryge watz breme vpbrayde, Þe 3atez wer stoken faste, Þe wallez were wel arayed, Hit dut no wyndez blaste.Þe burne bode on blonk, þat on bonk houedOf þe depe double dich þat drof to þe place;Þe walle wod in þe water wonderly depe,Ande eft a ful huge he3t hit haled vpon lofteOf harde hewen ston vp to þe tablez,Enbaned vnder þe abataylment in þe best lawe;And syþen garytez ful gaye gered bitwene,Wyth mony luflych loupe þat louked ful clene:A better barbican þat burne blusched vpon neuer.And innermore he behelde þat halle ful hy3e,Towres telded bytwene, trochet ful þik,Fayre fylyolez þat fy3ed, and ferlyly long,-23-

With coruon coprounes craftyly sle3e.Chalkwhyt chymnees þer ches he inno3eVpon bastel rouez, þat blenked ful quyte;So mony pynakle payntet watz poudred ayquere,Among þe castel carnelez clambred so þik,Þat pared out of papure purely hit semed.Þe fre freke on þe fole hit fayr innoghe þo3t,If he my3t keuer to com þe cloyster wythinne,To herber in þat hostel whyl halyday lested, auinant. He calde, and sone þer com A porter pure plesaunt, On þe wal his ernd he nome, And haylsed þe kny3t erraunt.’Gode sir,’ quoþ Gawan, ‘woldez þou go myn erndeTo þe he3 lorde of þis hous, herber to craue?’

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