Fit
III
Full early before day the folks were afoot;
Guests that would go, their grooms they summon’d,
Who hied them in haste the horses to saddle,
Gather’d the gear and girded the mails;
Those of rank were ready to ride all array’d,
Leapt up lightly, and lay to their bridles,
Each wight on his way, where it well liked them.
The dear lord of the land was not last either,
Array’d for the riding, with retinue gay;
A morsel he ate, when his mass he had heard,
And with bugle to bentfield he busk’d him anon;
Soon as any daylight dawn’d upon earth
He and his athels on horse were mounted.
Then lads of that craft coupled their hounds,
Unclosèd the kennels and call’d them thereout,
And blew bigly on bugles thrée báre móots,
While the bratches bayed—and a brave noise made they;
Hounds that went chasing they chastied with whips,
A hundred of hunters, as I have heard tell,
of the best.
Beaters to station hied,
Huntsmen their hounds releas’d,
And horns made, far and wide,
Great noise in that forèst.
At first cry of the quest quakèd the deer
And doting for dread went away up the dale,
Hied to the heights, but angerly there
Were stay’d at the stations, that stoutly ascried.
The high-headed harts they let háve a passage,
And the brave bucks too, with the broad antlers;
For in fermison months the master had bidden
That no man should meddle with the mále dèer.
But the hinds they held in, with a Hey! and a Ware!
And with din drove the does, down to the valleys.
Then sharp was the shooting of wingèd shafts!
At each woodland glade whistled an arrow
That on brown hide bit, with its broád bàrb;
How they bray’d and bled, on bank as they died!
And running on a race, hounds rush’d in pursuit,
Hunters with horns hasten’d them after,
With a cracking cry as if cliffs had bursten!
And any that scaped the shafts of the shooters
With a stour were stay’d and torn at the stations,
By the time they had been turn’d and teas’d to the waters;
So wary were the wights that watch’d in the vale,
And the greyhounds so great, that gripp’d them anon
And fell’d them to ground, fast as e’er look
ye might.
The lord, like happy boy,
Rode and did oft alight;
He drove that day with joy
A-hunting till the night.
So this lord is laiking by linden-wood eaves,
And the good man, Gawain, in gay bed sleeping
Lies snug till any gleam glimmers on wall,
Under coverlet clean, curtain’d about.
As on slumber he slid, a sly noise heard he,
A little din at his door, which daintily open’d;
He heav’d up his head out of the clothes,
A corner of the curtain he caught up a little,
And watched full warily what it might be.
’Twas the lady herself, lovely to look on,
Who drew the door after, so stealthy and still,
And boun’d toward the bed; and he blush’d and shamed him,
Slipt him down slyly, and look’d as if sleeping.
Then stepped she stilly, and stole to the bed,
Cast up the curtain, and creeping within it
Sat her full softly on the béd-sìde,
And waited a while to watch when he waken’d.
Long time did Gawain lie there lurking,
Cast in his conscience what such a case
Might mean or amount to: marvel him thought it!
Yet he said to himself more seemly it were
By speech or by spell to aspy her intent.
Then he waken’d, and wroth him, and toward her turn’d,
And opening his eye-lids with an air of surprise
For his safety him sain’d, and in secret a prayer
he said.
Winsome of chin and cheek,
With blent hues white and red,
Full kindly did she speak
And with dainty lips laughèd.
“Good morrow. Sir Gawain,” said the gay lady,
“Ye are a sleeper unsly to be so outwitted;
This time are ye ta’en! Fail a truce between us,
I shall bind yoii in your bed, be ye well sure.”
With laughter the lady launcèd her jest.
“Good morrow, my gay,” said Gawain full blithe,
“Ye may work on me your will, it likes me full well,
I surrender me readily, and cry you for ruth;
Meseems ’tis best só, when so me behoves
(Thus he jested in turn and jollily laugh’d).
But please, lovely lady, your leave I would ask,
Your prisoner release, and pray him to rise,
I would boun from my bed and busk me the better—
The more ease should I have, to hold with you converse.”
“Nay for sooth, fair sir,” said that sweet in reply,
“Ye shall not boun from your bed, I offer you better,
I shall hap you here on the other side too
And have converse with my captive, now I have caught him;
For I ween full well, ye’re the wight Sir Gawain,
That the world all worships, whéreso ye ride;
Your kindness, your courtesy, are knightliest held
Among lords and ladies, and all that life have.
Now I wis ye are with me, and we are alone;
My lord and his lieges a long way are ridden,
Other folks are abed, and my burds are in bower,
And drawn is the door, and dight with a pin;
And since I have in this house the athel belovèd
I shall ware my time well, the while it may last,
with skill.
Ye are welcome to my corse,
Your pleasure to fulfil.
Now must I by mere force
Your servant be, and will.”
“In good faith,” quoth Gawain, “gain I must hold it,
Though I be nów no more the Knight that ye name;
To reach to the reverence ye read to me here
I am a wight unworthy, I wot well in my heart.
But by God I were glad, an you good thought it,
If by service or speech I might something do
Your worship to please: ’twere a púre joy tó me.”
“In good faith. Sir Gawain,” said the gay lady,
“The prowess of price that pleases all others
To hold light or belittle, ’twere less than courteous;
There are ladies enow that had liefer today
Have you in their hold, as I have you here,
Dear dalliance to deal with your dainty speeches,
Some solace to seek and assuage their cares,
Than much of the gersom and gold that they have
But the High Lord I praise that the heaven upholds,
I have wholly in my hand what áll they desire,
by His grace.”
She made him ay great cheer,
Lady so fair of face;
The Knight with speech sincere
Answer’d her every case.
“Madam,” said the merry man, “Mary reward you,
For I have found, in good faith, your fraunchise is noble;
Others by hearsay hold their opinions,
And the honour they mete is more than my merit,
But ’tis kindness in you, that of courtesy comes.”
“By our Lady,” she answer’d, “but I hold it other:
For were I more worth than all women alive
And all the wealth in the world I might wield at my will
And chaffer and choose to achieve me a lord,
Yet for nobleness, Sir Knight, that I have known in you here,
Your beauty and bounty, and your blithe demeanour,
And for all I e’er heard (and I hold it but true),
Should no free upon fold before you be chosen.”
“I wis,” said the wight, “ye have won you a better,
But I am proud of the price that upon me ye set;
I am soothly your servant, my sovrain I deem you,
And your knight I’ll become: and may Christ you reward.”
Much did they moot of till midmorn was past,
And áy the lády made líke as she lov’d him too well,
But he fared with defence, as faithful man should.
“Though I were fairest of the fair,” in fear did she ponder,
“The less might his love be”—for the loss that he bode
that day,
The dint that should him deave,
That he might shun no way.
The lady spoke of leave,
And he granted her straightway.
So she gave him “Good-day,” and with a glance she laugh’d,
Then stonied him, as she stood, with stoor words enow:
“He that speeds each speech this dispórt repay you!
But in mind I debate if ye bé Sir Gawain.”
“Why so?” the wight said, and in sadness he ask’d,
For he fear’d he had fail’d in form of his speech:
But the burd him bless’d and broke forth anon:
“So goodly a groom as Gawain is holden,
Counted for courteous o’er all other knights,
Could not lightly so long with a lady have stay’d
Without craving a kiss, for his courtesy’s sake,
By some trifling touch, as he talk’d to an end.”
Then said Gawain “I grant you, since good it you seems;
I shall kiss at your command, ’tis a Knight’s duty—
Nor would I displease you; so plead it no more.”
Then comes she a-nigh, and catches him in arms,
Bends courteously down and her knight kisses.
Comelily to Christ beken they each other;
She departs by the door without more ado,
And he bouns him from bed and busks him anon,
Calls to his chamberlain, chooses his raiment,
And goes, when he’s graith, gaily to mass.
Then he moved to his meat for a menseful hour,
And made merry all day till the moon was up,
well fain.
Fair welcome did he find
Between those ladies twain;
Right gaily did they mind
Their guest to entertain.
And ay the lord of the land is laiking afield,
Hunting the hinds by holt and by heath:
Such a sum had he slain, when the sun slanted,
Of does and other deer, to deem of were wonder.
Then they flock’d in full fain, the folk at the last,
And quickly of the kill a quarry they made.
Those of rank were ready, and right as they should
Gather’d the greatest of grease that were there,
And had them deftly undone, all duly by law;
Sóme by assay searchèd them too,
And found two fingers of fat in the poorest.
Then they slit up the slot, and, seizing the arber,
With a sharp knife shore it, and sewed it again;
Next they sever’d the legs and stript off the hide,
Broke up the belly, and the bowels took out;
Then gripp’d they the gargilon, and graithly departed
The weasand from the wind-hole, and wound out the guts;
Shore off the shoulders with their shárp blàdes,
And máde a líttle hole to líft them, to leave whole sides.
Then rived they the breast and broke it in two,
And again at the gargilon got them to work,
Ripp’d the flesh readily, right to the fork,
Voided out the avanters, and featly thereafter
The membranes lanced along by the ribs;
Last, they clove a clear way, close by the backbone,
E’en to the haunch; it was all whole still,
And they heav’d it up whole, then hew’d off the loin,
And the offals that they name the numbles, I trow,
by kind;
Along the fork o’ the thigh,
The laps they lance behind;
To hew in two they hie,
By the backbone to unbind.
Both the head and the hawse they hew’d off after,
And sunder’d full swiftly the sides from the chine,
And the corbies’ fee they cast in a bush;
Then thirl’d they the thick sides through by the rib,
And slung them up high by slitting the sinews,
Ev’ry man for his fee, as falls him by custom.
On a fell of the fair beast fed they their hounds
With the liver and lights, the leather of the paunches,
And bread bathed in blood, blent thereamongst,
And boldly blew prize, while the bratches bay’d;
Then the flesh they took up and fared towards home,
Sounding full stoutly many a strong moot.
What time daylight was done, they had drawn to the gate
Of the comely castle, where the knight them bides
so still,
In bliss, with bright fire beat;
The lord is come theretil;
When Gawain did him meet,
There was but weal at will.
Then commanded the lord to muster his meiny,
And his ladies both to bring with their burds,
Before all the folk, on the floor of the hall;
Anon he sends forth the venison to fetch,
And in gamesome mood Sir Gawain he calls,
Tells him the tally of the táll dèer,
And shows him the sheen grease shorn from the ribs:
“How pleases you this play? Have I praise gotten
And a thank sincere by my skill deservèd?”
“By my faith,” quoth he, “ ’tis the fairest hunting
I have seen this seven year in season of winter.”
“ ’Tis a gift for Gawain,” the goodman replied,
“For by accord of covenant ye claim it your own.”
“That is sooth,” the Knight said, “and I say you the same;
What I have worthily won these wonës within,
I wis, with as good will, I waive it to you.”
His fair neck he folds in a fond embrace,
And kisses him as comely as he could it avise;
“Here are my winnings, for I won no more,
But all would I grant, if greater they had been.”
“Fair gain!” said the goodman, “gramercy therefor;
Better worth though it were if ye would but discover
Where ye won this same wealth by force of your wits.”
“ ’Twas not in the bargain, nor boots it to know;
Your dues ye have drawn, deem ye no other,
Sir lord.”
They laugh’d and made them blithe
With many a courteous word;
To supper they went forthwith,
Fresh dainties on the board.
After meat, by the chimney in chamber they sit
And comfort them well with the winsome wine;
And again in their game they agreed on the morn
To fulfil the same foreward as before they had made:
As fortune should chance, their winnings to change—
Aught new that they got, at night when they met.
This covenant they accorded before all the court,
And the beverage was brought, with bourd and with jest.
Then a lovesome leave they took at the last,
For all to their beds must busk them anon.
When the cock had crow’n and cackled but thrice,
Then leapt up the lord, and his lieges each one;
And when mass and morsel they had meetly taken,
Ere dawn’d any day they dress’d to the forest,
to chase;
Loudly with hunt and horns
Through plains they pass’d apace,
Uncoupled, among the thorns,
The hounds so swift to race.
Soon they cried of a quest at a cárr sìde;
The huntsman halloo’d the hounds that gave tongue,
Wroth words he utter’d, and wildly he call’d;
And the hounds that heard him hasten’d at once,
And féll as fást on the tráil, forty together;
Then such a deafening din of those dogs in concert
Arose, that the rocks rung all about.
Hunters them hearten’d with horn and with mouth,
And all in a throng they thrust on together,
Between a flash in that frith and a fearsome crag;
On a knoll, by a cliff, at the carr side,
Where the ruggèd rock in a rough knar tumbled,
They fared to the finding; the huntsmen them follow’d,
And made a cast of that knar and the knot beside it,
Till they wist full well that the wild one was there,
When the bloodhounds bay’d the beast to announce.
Then they beat on the bushes, and bade him break cover,
And he sought, with disaster, the searchers athwart him;
’Twas a wonder of a swine that swung out upon them,
Long sunder’d from the sounder, and sínce grown to age,
A fierce boar and fell, and fearsome for bigness.
When this grim one grunted, ’twas grievous to many,
For three at a thrust he threw to the ground,
Then sped forth good speed, nor spited them more.
They all hollo’ed “Hi!” and “Hey! hey!” shouted,
Hórns to mouth hád, the hunt to recall.
Many were the merry mouths of men and of hounds
That busk’d after boar, with boast and with clamour,
to kill.
Full oft he bides the bay
And maims the mute pell-mell;
He hurts the hounds and they
Piteously yowl and yell.
So after the boar the bowmen hied them,
Aim’d at him arrows and hit him full oft;
But the points could not pierce the pith of his shields,
And the sharpest barb on his brawn would not bite
Though the shaven shaft shinder’d in pieces;
The arrow-head, where it hit, ever rebounded.
But the dints at last of their dree strokes dazed him,
And frenzied with the fray he forth on them rush’d,
Wounded them wickedly whéreso he sallied,
That many were adread, and drew them adree.
But the lord on a light horse launces him after,
Bold man on bent his bugle he blows,
And rides on a race through roan and thicket,
Pursuing this swine, till the sun breaks through.
So this day they drive with doings afield
While our lovesome liege is lying abed,
Gawain graithly at home, in gear full rich
Of sheen.
The lady not forgat,
To greet him she came in,
Full early was him at
Seeking his will to win.
She comes to the curtain, at the Kníght she peeps,
And Gawain her welcom’d with greeting full grave.
With an amorous word the athel she answer’d,
Sat softly by his side, then suddenly laugh’d,
And with a loving look the liege she address’d:
“Sir, if ye be Gawain, greatly I wonder,
That a prince so purely disposèd to good
Is so uncouth to catch the manners of company,
And by terms if I teach you, ye tent it but ill;
Ye have forgotten again what I yesterday taught
By the truest token of talk that I knew.”
“What is that?” said the wight, “I wot not your will;
If ’tis sooth that ye say, myself am to blame.”
“ ’Tis the lesson,” said the lady, “that of kissing ye learnt—
Where countenance is clear, quickly to claim;
So becomes ev’ry knight that courtesy uses.”
“Now spare me,” quoth Gawain, “such speech any more;
That durst I ne’er do, lest denayèd I were,
And, refus’d, I’m at fault though fairly I offer.”
“By my faith,” said the fair, “and who may refuse you?
Ye are strong to constrain by strength, an you like,
If any be so boorish the boon to deny.”
“So help me God,” quoth Gawain, “though good is your speech,
Yet force is a fool’s way, on fold where I dwell,
Or any gift that is giv’n but with góod-wìll;
I am at your command, to kiss if ye care,
Ye may take when ye list, and leave when ye like,
a space.”
The lady down did bend,
Courteously kiss’d his face,
Much speech did they expend
Of love, its grief and grace.
“I would weet of you, wight,” that worthy replied,
“If ye wrath not therewith, what were the reason
That so young and so gay as you at this time,
So courteous, so knightly, as all know you abroad,
Should fail in the forms and fashion of court.
For of áll the chóice of chívalry, the chief thing prais’d
Is the leal game of love and errantry-lore;
And to tell of the trials of all trúe knìghts
Is the inscribèd title and text of their deeds:—
How lieges for love their lives have adventur’d,
Endured for their druery doleful hours,
Had vengeance by their valour and voided their sorrow,
And brought bliss into bower with bounties their own.
Now ye are the noblest knight, known of your eld,
Your name and your honour are aywhere upholden,
And I have sat by your side two several times
Yet no lightest word did light from your lips
That belongèd to love, or lesser or greater;
So courteous as you, of so knightly professions,
Ought verily to yearn to a creature so young,
And teach her some token of truelove dealings.
What! are ye so ignorant, in honour so high?
Or deem ye me too dull your dalliance to hearken?
For shame!
Single I come and sit
To learn of you some game;
Please! warn me of your wit
While alone ye have your dame.”
“In good faith,” said Gawain, “may God you reward!
Great is the glee, and the game to me huge
That so worthy as you should win to my chamber,
Take pains with a poor man, and play with your knight
With any kind of count’nance; it comforts me much.
But to take up that task, and true love expound
(Touching the text and the tales of romance)
To you that, I wot well, wield more of skill
In that art, by the half, than a hundred of such
As I am, or shall e’er be, on earth while I live,
’Twere a manifold folly, my fair, on my troth.
But your bidding I’ll do to the best of my might,
As I am highly beholden, and ever I bind me
To be soothly your servant, so save me the Almighty.”
Thus in talk did she try him and tempt him full oft,
To win him to woo her, whate’er she ween’d else,
But he defended so fair that no fault might appear,
Nor evil on either part, nor aught did they know
but bliss.
They laugh’d and had their play;
At last she did him kiss,
Made sign to wend her way,
And took her leave, I wis.
Now bestirs him Sir Gawain and steps to his mass,
And then dinner was dight, and daintily served.
He laik’d with the ladies the livelong day,
While the lord over laund launces full often
Pursuing his swine, that swung by the banks
And of the best of his bratches the backs bit in sunder
Where he bode at the bay, till the bowmen him shifted
And máde him máuger his héad to move to the open;
So many shafts flew, where the fólk him beset.
Yet the stoutest at whiles to start did he make,
Till so daunted and fordone, he could dree it no more,
But as hard as he might made off to a hole,
On a bank, by a rock, with the burn beside it;
There, the bank at his back, to scrape he began
With the froth at his chops foaming for fierceness,
And his white tusks whetted; they wounded him still,
Those bowmen so bold, about him that stood,
Till awearied they were, yet they would not him near,
so wroth.
For many his thrusts had borne,
Well seemèd all were loth
Be more with tusks betorn;
He was fierce and frenzied both.
Came that stalwart lord, his steed as he spurr’d,
Saw him bide at the bay, with the bowmen about him;
He leapt him down lightly and, leaving his courser,
Drew a bright brand; then bigly he strode
And hied fast through the ford where the fell beast waited;
Who, ware of the wight with the weapon in hand,
His hair bristled high, and so angerly snorted,
Many fear’d for that free lest the worse him befall.
Then set forth the swine and made swift at his foe,
That the man and the boar were both upon heaps
In the wildest of the water; but woe’s master boar!
For e’en as they meet, the man well marks him
And right in his slot the sharp blade he sets
And drives úp to the hilt; his heart is acloven,
With a snarl and a moan he moves o’er the water
anon.
A hundred hounds him caught,
They bit him every one,
Hunters to bent him brought
And dogs to kill set on.
There was blowing of prize on many a proud horn,
And hollo’ing from hunters that no hórns hàd;
The bratches all bay’d, as bade them their masters
That were huntsmen in chief of that toilsome chase.
Then a wight who was wise in the woodcraft-lore,
This beast to unlace right lustily gan.
First he hews off his head and on high it sets,
Then the backbone he breaks him in two;
Draws out the bowels, bakes them on glede,
And with bread therein blent his bratches rewards.
Then he cuts out the brawn in broad bright shields,
And has out the haslets, as e’en him beseems;
But the sides all whole he seizes together,
And on stang full strong stoutly he hangs them.
So they have their swine, and swing away homeward;
The boar’s head was borne the bold man before
That had finish’d him i’ the ford, by force of his hand
beset.
Until he saw Gawain
Long time it seemèd yet;
He call’d, and then came fain
That knight his fees to get.
When Sir Gawain he saw, full gay was the goodman,
Loud was his speech, and his laughter merry;
He sent for the ladies, assembled his meiny,
Show’d them the shields, and shaped them the tale,
How large and how long that boar was of limb,
And how fiercely he fought when he fled to the wood.
The knight full comely commended the deed,
And the prowess prais’d that the lord had proved,
For such a brawn of a beast, the blithe man said,
Or such sides of a swine had he seen ne’er before.
When they handled the huge head, full high was his praise,
Yet the horror that he had, he utter’d no less.
“Now, Gawain,” said the goodman, “this game is your own,
By the covenant clear we accorded together.”
“That is sooth,” the knight said, “and as surely, i’ faith,
Shall I give you again all my gets in return.”
Then clasp’d he his neck and courteously kiss’d him,
And served him eftsoons with a second kiss after.
“We are even,” quoth the athel, “this ev’ning once more
Of all covenants we knit, since I cáme hìther,
by law.
“By Saint Giles,” the lord cries,
“Ye are the best I know,
Ye’ll be rich in a trice,
Such profits if ye draw.”
Then rais’d they on trestles the tables full tight,
Cast on them cloths, and a clear light too
On the walls they awak’d with the waxen torches
By servitours set, that served in the hall.
Múch noise of merriment made they anon
On floor by the fire, and as free was the revel
At supper and after, with songs full glorious,
As Christmas-conduit, and carols of dance,
All the mannerly mirth that man may tell of;
And our lovesome liege at the lady’s side.
So sweetly she behav’d, with so seemly a semblance
And stol’n looks of love, that stalwart to please,
That the wight was forwonder’d, and wroth with himself,
Yet for his nurture so fine he would not refuse her,
But courtesy show’d, how the case soe’er turn’d
awry.
They have their play in hall,
In pleasure still they vie;
Then to chamber is the call,
And to chimney-side they hie.
There drank they and toasted, and talk’d yet again
Of renewing that note on New-Year’s eve;
But Gawain craved leave to go on the morrow,
For ’twas nigh to the term, when time was to travel;
But the lord dissuaded, and besought him to stay,
And said “As I’m true man (my troth will I plight)
Thou shalt be at thy bourn thy business to settle
With the New-Year’s light, long before prime.
So thou mayst lie in thy loft and lodge at thine ease,
While I hunt in this holt, and we’ll hold to our terms
And our chaffer exchange, when from chase I return;
For I have tried thee twice, and true have I found thee.
Now ‘third time throw best’ bethink thee tomorrow,
Máke we mérry while we máy, with a mind upon joy,
For woe may we win whénso we like.”
Thus graithly ’twas granted, and Gawain is stay’d;
Drink blithely was brought, and to bed they hied them
with light.
Sir Gawain lies and sleeps
Full still and soft all night;
The lord his hunting keeps,
Full early is he dight.
After mass a morsel he took with his men;
Merry was the morning, his mount he bade bring;
And the athels all, that the hunt should follow,
For the riding were ready, array’d at the gates.
Fair gleams it afield, for the frost clings,
Fiery red on the wrack rises the sun
And edges with crimson the clouds of the welkin.
The hunters cast off by a hólt sìde,
Rocks in the forest rung with their horns,
Hounds fell on the scent where the fox them bode,
Cross’d and recross’d, by craft of their wiles.
A kennet gave cry and the huntsman call’d,
And hounds came panting, all in a pack,
Ran forth in a rabble, right on the trail—
And he frisk’d off before them; they found him anon,
And, when they had sighted, pursued him full speed
And bewrayèd poor Reynard with a wroth clamour.
Then dodg’d he and doubled through dingle and spinney,
Héld back, and hearken’d by hedges full oft;
At last by a little ditch he leapt o’er a quickset,
And stole out full stilly, astray by a copse—
He ween’d to have outwitted the hounds by his wiles,
But was went, ere he wist, to óne of the stations
Where three men athwart him threaten’d him at once,
the gray!
Again he swervèd forth,
And started quick astray,
And with all the woe on earth
To the wood he went away.
Then was it very heaven to hearken the hounds,
When the mute all met him, mingled together:
Such a sorrow at sight of him they set on his head
As if clustering cliffs had clatter’d on heaps;
Here he was hollo’ed when hunters him met,
Or grimly was greeted with growling speech:
There he was threaten’d and “thief” call’d often,
And ay the teasers at his tail, that tarry he might not;
Oft he was harried when he hied for the open,
Oft he reel’d in again, Reynard so wily;
And hunters ay sped them, splash’d and bespatter’d,
In this manner by the mounts, till midmorn was past,
While the athel at home lay wholesomely sleeping
Within comely curtains, on that cóld mòrning.
But the lady for Love let him not sleep,
Never ’paired the purpose or pine in her heart,
But in haste she was up and hied to his chamber,
In a merry mantle, meet to the ground,
That was furr’d full fine with fells well-trimm’d,
And no hues on her head but the athel stones
Twined on her tressure by twenties in clusters;
Her thriv’n face so fair and her throat were unveil’d,
Her breast and her back the bodice show’d bare.
She comes within door, and closes it after,
Waives up a window, and on the wíght càlls,
And pleasantly rallies him with a ready word
and cheer:
“Ah! Sir, how mayst thou sleep
On such a morning clear?”
He was in dreamland deep
But then he did her hear.
In a dree gloom of dream that dear man was mumbling,
For a haunting thought weigh’d heavy on his heart,
How destiny that day should deal him his weird
When at the green chapel he must greet his man
And his buffet abide, nor debate any more;
But when that comely came, he recover’d his wits,
Dropt out of dreamland, and dress’d him to speak.
The lady so lovesome came laughing full sweet,
Fell o’er his fair face and featly him kiss’d,
And he welcom’d her worthily, with winsome cheer.
He saw her so glorious and gaily attired,
So faultless of feature, so fine of her hue,
That a wellspring of joy warmèd his heart.
Then with smiles and with mirth, they mooted of play,
And their gossip together was gladness and bliss,
full kind.
They spoke no words but good,
Much joy there did they find;
Great peril between them stood,
But Mary her knight did mind.
For that princess of price so hotly him press’d
To the limit of love, that at last him behoved
Or consent to her suit or sullen refuse.
He cared for his courtesy, lest caitiff he prove,
And for his dámnation more, to be doomèd in sin,
And be traitor untrue to the lord that him trusted.
“God shield,” quoth the wight, “that sháll not befall.”
With a lover’s laugh he put lightly aside
All the speeches so fond that fell from her lips.
Then sadly she said, “Ye are surely to blame,
If ye love not her life that ye lie here beside,
Woman in the world most wounded in heart,
Unless ye have a leman that ye love very dear,
And have plighted your troth with a pledge so true
That ye list never loose it; I believe it as now,
And I pray, on your troth, that truly ye tell me—
By all saints that there are conceal not the sooth,
for guile.”
The knight said “By Saint John,”
And gently did he smile,
“In faith I have right none,
And none will have this while.”
“ ’Tis a word,” said that wight, “that worst is of all,
But soothly I’m answer’d, and sorely it wounds.
Kiss me now comely, to care ere I go,
I may but mourn among men, as maid that much loves.”
She stoop’d with a sigh and seemlily kiss’d him,
Then sever’d from his side, and said as she stood
“Now, dear, at departing, do me this solace,
Somewhat give me as a gift, thy glove it may be,
That I máy thee remember, my mourning to lessen.”
“Now, I wis,” said the wight, “I would I had here
The liefest thing for thy love that in land I possess;
Ye have deservèd in sooth, and seemlily oft,
More reward by right than e’er I may reach;
But to give you for love—it little avail’d,
It becomes not your worth to win at this time
A glove for a guerdon, at Gawain’s hand:
I am here on an errand in an únknown land,
And carry no coffers, with presents of cost;
It mislikes me, lady, I love you too dear;
We must do as chance deals, so deem not amiss
nor pine.”
“Nay, Knight of high honoùrs,”
Then said that lady fine,
“Though I have nought of yours,
Yet shall ye have of mine.”
She raught him a ring of rich red gold,
With a blazing stone that stóod high in bezel,
And blink’d as bright as the beams of the sun;
Weet ye well, it was worth wealth unmeasured.
But the knight refused it and said to that fair:
“I wish no gifts for good, my gay, at this time,
I have none to offer, and nought will I take.”
Then pray’d she the prince and press’d him again,
But he swore by his sooth, and still her denied,
And she was sorry he forsook and said at the last:
“If the ring ye refuse, for its semblance too rich,
And ye would not so highly be holden to me,
I shall give you my girdle; your gain is the less.”
She took lightly a lace that loop’d round her body,
Knit on her kirtle, under mantle so clear,
A green silk girdle with pendants of gold,
Fair gauds and golden gear’d at the edges.
Then gaily again the girdle she offer’d,
A trifle unworthy, woúld he but take it.
But he would not (quoth he) anywise in the world
Either gold or gersom, ere God him vouchsafe
The chance to achieve that he had thére chòsen.
“And therefore, I pray, may it not displease you,
Let bé your business, to your boon shall I never
agree.
Full well my debt I know
For your blithe courtesy,
And whatever wind may blow
Your servant shall I be.”
“Why leave ye this lace?” the lady replied;
“For its simple semblance? Such it well seems;
Look! ’tis but little, and less is its worth;
But the virtues who knew that are knitted herein
He’d appraise it perchance at a price very high;
For the man that is girt with this girdle of green,
So long as ’tis firmly fasten’d upon him,
There’s no athel under Heaven can hew him to ground,
He may not be slain, for sleight upon earth.”
Then cast he with care, and it came to his heart,
’Twere a jewel for the jeopardy that was him adjudg’d,
When he fared to the chapel his fortune to fetch;
Might he shun to be slain, ’twere a shift full glorious!
And he suffer’d her so, nor her suit hinder’d,
And she proffer’d her prize and press’d it again.
When he granted, she gave it with a goód wìll
And besought him for her sake to discover it never,
But leally it hide; and the liege answer’d
“Never wight shall it weet, I wis, on this earth
but we.”
He thank’d her oft again,
A grateful man was he:
She kiss’d her knight, and then
She had giv’n him kisses three.
Then took she her leave and left him therewith,
For more mirth of that man míght she not get.
And the good Sir Gawain graith’d him anon,
Rose and array’d him in a raiment noble,
Laid by the lovelace, that the lady had raught him,
And hid it with heed where eft he might find it
So then to the chapel chose he the way,
Approachèd a priest and privily pray’d him
To lift up his life, and learn him how better
His soul he should save when hence he should seek.
Then he shrove him clean and show’d his misdeeds,
Both the less and the more, and mercy besought,
And absolution he ask’d of the priest;
Who assoil’d him surely, and as sinless him made
As if day of doom should have dawn’d on the morrow.
Then he made him as merry among those dames
With comely carols and all kinds of delight
As he ne’er did ere that day, till the dark night came
with bliss.
Each man had courtesy
Of him, and said “I wis,
He ne’er was so merrie
Since hither he came, ere this.”
Let him lie in that lee, (and love him betide!)
While the lord is on laund, leading the chase.
The fox he has kill’d that so far he follow’d;
As he sprang o’er a spinney the shrew to espy,
Where he heard the hounds that hustled him on,
Reynard came running through a ruggèd clough,
With the rabble in a race right at his heels;
The wight was ware of him, and warily bode,
Drew a bright brand, and drove at the beast,
Who swerv’d from the sword and away would have swung,
But a hound was át him or ever he might,
And before the foal’s feet the pack on him fell
And worried me that wily with a wróth clàmour.
Then alighted the lord, and leaping to seize him,
Rescued poor Reynard from ravening jaws,
And held him o’erhead, hollo’ing loudly,
While the barking pack full bravely him bay’d;
The huntsmen hied them with horns a many,
Sounding recall till they sighted the quarry.
Soon as were come that company noble,
All that bugle e’er bore, blew them together,
And the others hollo’ed that no hórns hàd;
’Twas the merriest music that man ever heard,
The rich dirge that was rais’d for Reynard his soul;
All’s done!
Hunters their hounds reward
Fawning their heads, each one;
And then they take Reynàrd
And strip his coat anon.
Then hied they homeward, for even was come,
Sounding bigly on their bugle horns.
And the lord at last is alighted at home,
Finds fire upon floor, and the fair knight beside it,
Sir Gawain the good, who glad was withal,
And had delight of his love those ladies among;
He wore a blue mantle was meet to the ground,
And a surcoat full seemly with soft fur lined,
And his hood of the same hung on his shoulder;
Border’d were both with ermine about.
He meets me his man amidst of the floor,
All gamesome he greets him and graciously speaks;
“I am first to fulfil our forewards today,
That we spoke, good speed, when we spared not of drink.”
Then accolls he that knight and kisses him thrice
As soundly and with semblance as sober as he might.
“By heaven!” said the other, “ye had happy reward
In winning of your gains, if ye gave but as good.”
“Nay, the price!” quoth the prince, “what profits to ask?
I have paid you complete the purchase I owed.”
“Marry,” said the merry man, “mine is a poorer,
For áll day I hunted and Í have nought gotten
But this fox-skin foul, the fiend have the goods!—
That is far too poor to pay for the purchase
That ye press on me here, the precious three kisses
so good.”
“Enough,” quoth Sir Gawain,
“I thank you, by the rood:”
And how the fox was slain
He told him, as they stood.
With mirth and with minstrelsy, with meats at their will,
They made as merry as any men might
Save they were doting mad or drunk had been else;
What with laughing of ladies and lightsome jest,
Gawain and the goodman, full glad were they both.
And the meiny also many japes made,
Till was come the season when sever they must,
And to busk them to bed behoved them at last.
Then lowly his leave of the lord took Gawain,
Goodly him greeted and graciously thank’d;
“For the happy sojourn I have had in this hall,
And the honour of the high feast, the High King reward you!
I make me your man, to your mind if it be,
For needs múst, as ye know, I move on the morrow,
And the promis’d squire ye shall send to escort me
To the Green Chapel, as God will me suffer
To dree on that day the doom of my weird.”
“In God’s name,” said the goodman, “with a góod wìll
Shall I áll perform, that ever I offer’d.”
Then assigns he a servant to set him i’ the way,
And conduct him by the downs (lest dole him befall),
And the forest track, where through frith he should fare,
to show.
Gawain to thank was fain
For the kindness he would do;
Then of those ladies twain
He took his leave also.
With kissings full sad he said his farewells,
And a húndred heártfelt thánks he had for them too;
And those lovesome ladies the like return’d him
And with careful sighings beken’d him to Christ.
He takes courteous leave of that kindly meiny;
Each man that he met, he made him a thank
For his seemly solace, and the boon service
They had been busy about him at his bidding to do:
And each servitour there was as sorry to sever
As they had wonèd for ay with the worshipful Gawain.
Then those lieges with light him led to his chamber
And brought to his bed, to be at his rest.
If he slept there soundly, say it I dare not,
For he had much on the morrow to mind, if he would,
in thought.
Let him lie there at will,
He is near the goal he sought;
If ye’ll a while be still
I shall tell you how he wrought.