Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, "SIR GAWAIN AND THE GREEN KNIGHT, SELS.", by ANONYMOUS



Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

"SIR GAWAIN AND THE GREEN KNIGHT, SELS.", by             Poem Explanation        
First Line: Ful erly bifore the day the folk up rysen
Last Line: Wyth dayntes nwe innowe
Subject(s): Arthurian Legend; "arthur, King;


Ful erly bifore the day the folk up rysen;
Gestes that go wolde hor gromes thay calden,
And thay busken up bilyve blonkkes to sadel,
Tyffen her takles, trussen her males.
Richen hem the rychest, to ryde alle arayde,
Lepen up Iyghtly, lachen her brydeles,
Uche wyye on his way ther hym wel Iyked.
The leve lorde of the londe was not the last
Arayed for the rydyng, with renkkes ful mony;
Ete a sop hastyly, when he hade herde masse,
With bugle to bent-felde he buskes bylyve.
By that any daylyght lemed upon erthe,
He with his hatheles on hyghe horsses weren.
Thenne thise cacheres that couthe cowpled hor houndes,
Unclosed the kenel dore and calde hem theroute,
Blwe bygly in bugles thre bare motes;
Braches bayed therfore and breme noyse maked,
And thay chastysed and charred on chasyng that went,
A hundreth of hunteres, as I haf herde telle, of the best.
To trystors vewters yod,
Couples huntes of kest;
Ther ros for blastes gode
Gret rurd in that forest.

At the fyrst quethe of the quest quaked the wylde;
Der drof in the dale, doted for drede,
Hiyed to the hyghe, bot heterly thay were
Restayed with the stablye, that stoutly ascryed.
Thay let the herttes haf the gate, with the hyghe hedes,
The breme bukkes also with hor brode paumes;
For the fre lorde hade defende in fermysoun tyme
That ther schulde no mon meve to the male dere.
The hindes were halden in with 'hay!' and 'war!'
The does dryven with gret dyn to the depe slades.
Ther myght mon se, as thay slypte, slentyng of arwes;

At uche wende under wande wapped a flone,
That bigly bote on the broun with ful brode hedes.
What! thay brayen and bleden, bi bonkkes thay deyen,
And ay rachches in a res radly hem folwes,
Hunteres wyth hyghe horne hasted hem after,
Wyth such a crakkande kry as klyffes haden brusten.
What wylde so atwaped wyyes that schotten
Was al toraced and rent at the resayt,
Bi thay were tened at the hyghe and taysed to the wattres.
The ledes were so lerned at the lowe trysteres,
And the grehoundes so grete, that geten hem bylyve
And hem tofylched as fast as frekes myght loke, ther ryght.
The lorde for blys abloy
Ful oft con launce and Iyght,
And drof that day wyth joy
Thus to the derk nyght.

Thus laykes this lorde by Iynde-wodes eves,
And Gawayn the god mon in gay bed Iyges,
Lurkkes quyl the daylyght lemed on the wowes,
Under covertour ful clere, cortyned aboute.
And as in slomeryng he slode, sleyly he herde
A littel dyn at his dor, and derfly upon;
And he heves up his hed out of the clothes,
A corner of the cortyn he caght up a Iyttel,
And waytes warly thiderwarde quat hit be myght.
Hit was the ladi, loflyest to beholde,
That drow the dor after hir ful dernly and stylle,
And bowed towarde the bed; and the burne schamed,
And layde hym doun Iystyly and let as he slepte.
And ho stepped stilly and stel to his bedde,
Kest up the cortyn and creped withinne,
And set hir ful softly on the bed-syde
And lenged there selly longe, to loke quen he wakened.
The lede lay lurked a ful longe quyle,
Compast in his concience to quat that cace myght
Meve other amount, to mervayle hym thoght.
Bot yet he sayde in hymself: 'More semly hit were
To aspye wyth my spelle in space quat ho wolde.'
Then he wakenede and wroth and to-hir-warde torned,
And unlouked his yye-lyddes and let as hym wondered,
And sayned hym, as bi his sawe the saver to worthe, with hande.
Wyth chynne and cheke ful swete,
Bothe quit and red in blande,
Ful lufly con ho lete,
Wyth lyppes smal laghande.

'God moroun, Sir Gawayn,' sayde that gay lady,
'Ye ar a sleper unslyye, that mon may slyde hider.
Now ar ye tan astyt, bot true uus may schape,
I schal bynde yow in your bedde, that be ye trayst.'
Al laghande the lady lauced tho bourdes.
'Goud moroun, gay,' quoth Gawayn the blythe,
'Me schal worthe at your wille, and that me wel lykes,
For I yelde me yederly and yeye after grace;
And that is the best, be my dome, for me byhoves nede.'
And thus he bourded ayayn with mony a blythe laghter.
'Bot wolde ye, lady lovely, then leve me grante,
And deprece your prysoun and pray hym to ryse,
I wolde bowe of this bed and busk me better,
I schulde kever the more comfort to karp yow wyth.'
'Nay, for sothe, beau sir,' sayd that swete,
'Ye schal not rise of your bedde. I rych yow better:
I schal happe yow here that other half als,
And sythen karp wyth my knyght that I kaght have;
For I wene wel, iwysse, Sir Wowen ye are,
That alle the worlde worchipes, quere-so ye ride.
Your honour, your hendelayk is hendely praysed
With lordes, wyth ladyes, with alle that Iyf bere.
And now ye ar here, iwysse, and we bot oure one;
My lorde and his ledes ar on lenthe faren,
Other burnes in her bedde, and my burdes als,
The dor drawen and dit with a derf haspe.
And sythen I have in this hous hym that al Iykes,
I schal ware my whyle wel, quyl hit lastes, with tale.
Ye ar welcum to my cors,
Yowre awen won to wale;
Me behoves of fyne force
Your servaunt be, and schale.'

'In god fayth,' quoth Gawayn, 'gayn hit me thynkkes,
Thagh I be not now he that ye of speken;
To reche to such reverence as ye reherce here
I am wyye unworthy, I wot wel myselven.
Bi God, I were glad and yow god thoght
At sawe other at servyce that I sette myght
To the plesaunce of your prys -- hit were a pure joye.'
'In god fayth, Sir Gawayn,' quoth the gay lady,
'The prys and the prowes that pleses al other,
If I hit lakked other set at Iyght, hit were littel daynte;
Bot hit ar ladyes innoghe that lever wer nowthe
Haf the, hende, in hor holde, as I the habbe here,
To daly with derely your daynte wordes,
Kever hem comfort and colen her cares,
Then much of the garysoun other golde that thay haven.
Bot I louve that ilk lorde that the Iyfte haldes,
I haf hit holly in my honde that al desyres, thurghe grace.'
Scho made hym so gret chere,
That was so fayr of face;
The knyght with speches skere
Answared to uche a cace.

'Madame,' quoth the myry mon, 'Mary yow yelde,
For I haf founden, in god fayth, yowre fraunchis nobele.
And other ful much of other folk fongen hor dedes,
Bot the daynte that thay delen for my disert nysen.
Hit is the worchyp of yourself that noght bot wel connes.'
'Bi Mary,' quoth the menskful, 'me thynk hit another;
For were I worth al the wone of wymmen alyve,
And al the wele of the worlde were in my honde,
And I schulde chepen and chose to cheve me a lorde,
For the costes that I haf knowen upon the, knyght, here,
Of bewte and debonerte and blythe semblaunt,
And that I haf er herkkened and halde hit here trwee,
Ther schulde no freke upon folde bifore yow be chosen,'
'Iwysse, worthy,' quoth the wyye, 'ye haf waled wel better;
Bot I am proude of the prys that ye put on me,
And, soberly your servaunt, my soverayn I holde yow,
And yowre knyght I becom, and Kryst yow foryelde!'
Thus thay meled of muchquat til mydmorn paste,
And ay the lady let Iyk a hym loved mych;
The freke ferde with defence, and feted ful fayre.
'Thagh I were burde bryghtest,' the burde in mynde hade,
'The lasse luf in his lode' -- for lur that he soght boute hone,
The dunte that schulde hym deve,
And nedes hit most be done.
The lady thenn spek of leve,
He granted hir ful sone.

Thenne ho gef hym god day, and wyth a glent laghed,
And as ho stod ho stonyed hym wyth ful stor wordes:
'Now he that spedes uche spech this disport yelde yow!
Bot that ye be Gawayn, hit gos not in mynde.'
'Querfore?' quoth the freke, and freschly he askes,
Ferde lest he hade fayled in fourme of his costes.
Bot the burde hym blessed, and bi this skyl sayde:
'So god as Gawayn gaynly is halden,
And cortaysye is closed so clene in hymselven,
Couth not Iyghtly haf lenged so long wyth a lady,
Bot he had craved a cosse bi his courtaysye,
Bi sum towch of summe tryfle at sum tales ende.'
Then quoth Wowen: 'Iwysse, worthe as yow Iykes;
I schal kysse at your comaundement, as a knyght falles,
And firre, lest he displese yow, so plede hit no more.'
Ho comes nerre with that, and caches hym in armes,
Loutes luflych adoun and the leude kysses.
Thay comly bykennen to Kryst ayther other;
Ho dos hir forth at the dore withouten dyn more;
And he ryches hym to ryse and rapes hym sone,
Clepes to his chamberlayn, choses his wede,
Bowes forth, quen he was boun, blythely to masse.
And thenne he meved to his mete that menskly hym keped,
And made myry al day til the mone rysed, with game.
Was never freke fayrer fonge
Bitwene two so dyngne dame,
The alder and the yonge;
Much solace set thay same.

* * *

Thenne comaunded the lorde in that sale to samen alle the meny,
Bothe the ladyes on loghe to Iyght with her burdes.
Bifore alle the folk on the flette, frekes he beddes
Verayly his venysoun to fech hym byforne;
And al godly in gomen Gawayn he called,
Teches hym to the tayles of ful tayt bestes,
Schewes hym the schyree grece schorne upon rybbes.
'How payes yow this play? Haf I prys wonnen?
Have I thryvandely thonk thurgh my craft served?'
'Ye, iwysse,' quoth that other wyye, 'here is wayth fayrest
That I sey this seven yere in sesoun of wynter.'
'And al I gif yow, Gawayn,' quoth the gome thenne,
'For by acorde of covenaunt ye crave hit as your awen.'
'This is soth,' quoth the segge, 'I say yow that ilke:
That I haf worthyly wonnen this wones wythinne,
Iwysse with as god wylle hit worthes to youres.'
He hasppes his fayre hals his armes wythinne,
And kysses hym as comlyly as he couthe awyse:
'Tas yow there my chevicaunce, I cheved no more;
I wowche hit saf fynly, thagh feler hit were.'
'Hit is god,' quoth the godmon, 'grant mercy therfore.
Hit may be such, hit is the better and ye me breve wolde
Where ye wan this ilk wele bi wytte of yorselven.'
'That was not forward,' quoth he, 'frayst me no more;
For ye haf tan that yow tydes, trawe ye non other ye mowe.'
Thay laghed and made hem blythe
Wyth lotes that were to lowe;
To soper thay yede asswythe
Wyth dayntes nwe innowe.





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...



Home: PoetryExplorer.net