The Tale
Listen, lordings, in good intent,
And I will tell you verament
Of mirth and of solas,
All of a knight was fair and gent,
In battle and in tournament,
His name was Sir Thopas.
Y-born he was in far countrý,
In Flanders, all beyond the sea,
At Popering in the place;
His father was a man full free,
And lord he was of that countrý,
As it was Goddë’s grace.
Sir Thopas was a doughty swain,
White was his face as paindemain,
His lippës red as rose.
His rode is like scarlét in grain,
And I you tell in good certáin
He had a seemly nose.
His hair, his beard, was like saffroún,
That to his girdle reach’d adown,
His shoes of cordëwane:
Of Bruges were his hosen brown;
His robë was of ciclatoún,
That costë many a jane.
He couldë hunt at the wild deer,
And ride on hawking for rivére
With gray goshawk on hand:
Thereto he was a good archére,
Of wrestling was there none his peer,
Where any ram should stand.
Full many a maiden bright in bow’r
They mourned for him par amour,
When them were better sleep;
But he was chaste, and no lechoúr,
And sweet as is the bramble flow’r
That beareth the red heep.
And so it fell upon a day,
For sooth as I you tellë may,
Sir Thopas would out ride;
He worth upon his steedë gray,
And in his hand a launcëgay,
A long sword by his side.
He pricked through a fair forést,
Wherein is many a wildë beast,
Yea, bothë buck and hare;
And as he pricked north and east,
I tell it you, him had almest
Betid a sorry care.
There sprangë herbës great and small,
The liquorice and the setëwall,
And many a clove-gilofre,
And nutëmeg to put in ale,
Whether it be moist or stale,
Or for to lay in coffer.
The birdës sang, it is no nay,
The sperhawk and the popinjay,
That joy it was to hear;
The throstle-cock made eke his lay,
The woodë-dove upon the spray
She sang full loud and clear.
Sir Thopas fell in love-longíng
All when he heard the throstle sing,
And prick’d as he were wood;
His fairë steed in his pricking
So sweated, that men might him wring,
His sidës were all blood.
Sir Thopas eke so weary was
For pricking on the softë grass,
So fierce was his coráge,
That down he laid him in that place,
To makë his steed some solace,
And gave him good foráge.
“Ah, Saint Marý, ben’dicite,
What aileth thilkë love at me
To bindë me so sore?
Me dreamed all this night, pardie,
An elf-queen shall my leman be,
And sleep under my gore.
An elf-queen will I love, y-wis,
For in this world no woman is
Worthy to be my make
In town;
All other women I forsake,
And to an elf-queen I me take
By dale and eke by down.”
Into his saddle he clomb anon,
And pricked over stile and stone
An elf-queen for to spy,
Till he so long had ridden and gone,
That he found in a privy wonne
The country of Faerý,
So wild;
For in that country was there none
That to him durstë ride or gon,
Neither wife nor child.
Till that there came a great giaunt,
His namë was Sir Oliphaunt,
A perilous man of deed;
He saidë, “Child, by Termagaunt,
But if thou prick out of mine haunt,
Anon I slay thy steed
With mace.
Here is the Queen of Faëry,
With harp, and pipe, and symphony,
Dwelling in this place.”
The Child said, “All so may I thé,
To-morrow will I meetë thee,
When I have mine armór;
And yet I hope, par ma fay,
That thou shalt with this launcëgay
Abyen it full sore;
Thy maw
Shall I pierce, if I may,
Ere it be fully prime of day,
For here thou shalt be slaw.”
Sir Thopas drew aback full fast;
This giant at him stonës cast
Out of a fell staff sling:
But fair escaped Child Thopas,
And all it was through Goddë’s grace,
And through his fair bearíng.
Yet listen, lordings, to my tale,
Merrier than the nightingale,
For now I will you rown,
How Sir Thopas, with sidës smale,
Pricking over hill and dale,
Is come again to town.
His merry men commanded he
To makë him both game and glee;
For needës must he fight
With a giánt with headës three,
For paramour and jollity
Of one that shone full bright.
“Do come,” he saidë, “my minstráles
And gestours for to tellë tales.
Anon in mine armíng,
Of rómances that be royáls,
Of popës and of cardinals,
And eke of love-longíng.”
They fetch’d him first the sweetë wine,
And mead eke in a maseline,
And royal spicery;
Of ginger-bread that was full fine,
And liquorice and eke cumin,
With sugar that is trie.
He diddë, next his whitë lere,
Of cloth of lakë fine and clear,
A breech and eke a shirt;
And next his shirt an haketon,
And over that an habergeon,
For piercing of his heart;
And over that a fine hauberk,
Was all y-wrought of Jewës’ werk,
Full strong it was of plate;
And over that his coat-armoúr,
As white as is the lily flow’r,
In which he would debate.
His shield was all of gold so red,
And therein was a boarë’s head,
A charboucle beside;
And there he swore on ale and bread,
How that the giant should be dead,
Betide whatso betide.
His jambeaux were of cuirbouly,
His swordë’s sheath of ivory,
His helm of latoun bright,
His saddle was of rewel bone,
His bridle as the sunnë shone,
Or as the moonëlight.
His spearë was of fine cypress,
That bodeth war, and nothing peace;
The head full sharp y-ground.
His steedë was all dapple gray,
It went an amble in the way
Full softëly and round
In land.
Lo, Lordës mine, here is a fytt;
If ye will any more of it,
To tell it will I fand.
Now hold your mouth for charity,
Bothë knight and lady free,
And hearken to my spell;
Of battle and of chivalry,
Of ladies’ love and druerie,
Anon I will you tell.
Men speak of rómances of price
Of Horn Child, and of Ipotis,
Of Bevis, and Sir Guy,
Of Sir Libeux, and Pleindamour,
But Sir Thopas, he bears the flow’r
Of royal chivalry.
His goodë steed he all bestrode,
And forth upon his way he glode,
As sparkle out of brand;
Upon his crest he bare a tow’r,
And therein stick’d a lily flow’r;
God shield his corse from shand!
And, for he was a knight auntroús,
He wouldë sleepen in none house,
But liggen in his hood,
His brightë helm was his wangér,
And by him baited his destrér
Of herbës fine and good.
Himself drank water of the well,
As did the knight Sir Percivel,
So worthy under weed;
Till on a day—
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