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.Thenne he houed, and wythhylde his hors at that tyde,And ofte chaunged his cher the chapel to seche:He se3 non suche in no syde, and selly hym thoyght,Saue, a lyttel on a launde, a lawe as hit were;A bal3 berygh bi a bonke the brymme bysyde,Bi a for3 of a flode that ferked thare;The borne blubred therinne as hit boyled hade.The kny3t kache3 his caple, and com to the lawe,Li3te3 doun luflyly, and at a lynde tachezThe rayne and his riche with a ro3e braunche.Thenne he bo3e3 to the beryghe, aboute hit he walkez,Debatande with hymself quat hit be my3t.Hit hade a hole on the ende and on ayther syde,And ouergrowen with gresse in glodes aywhere,And al wat3 hol3 inwith, nobot an olde caue,Or a creuisse of an olde cragge, he couthe hit no3t demewith spelle."We! Lorde," quoth the gentyle kny3t,"Whether this be the grene chapelle?Here my3t aboute mydnyyghtThe dele his matynnes telle!"Now iwysse," quoth Wowayn, "wysty is here;This oritore is vgly, with erbe3 ouergrowen;Wel biseme3 the wy3e wruxled in greneDele here his deuocioun on the deuele3 wyse.Now I fele hit is the fende, in my fyue wytte3,That hat3 stoken me this steuen to strye me here.This is a chapel of meschaunce, that chekke hit bytyde!Hit is the corsedest kyrk that euer I com inne!"With he3e helme on his hede, his launce in his honde,He rome3 vp to the roffe of the ro3 wonez.Thene herde he of that hy3e hil, in a harde rocheBi3onde the broke, in a bonk, a wonder breme noyse,Quat! hit clatered in the clyff, as hit cleue schulde,As one vpon a gryndelston hade grounden a sythe.What! hit wharred and whette, as water at a mulne;What! hit rusched and ronge, rawthe to here.Thenne "Bi Godde," quoth Gawayn, "that gere, as I trowe,Is ryched at the reuerence me, renk, to metebi rote.Let God worche! 'We loo'--Hit helppe3 me not a mote.My lif tha3 I forgoo,Drede dot3 me no lote."Thenne the kny3t con calle ful hyyghe:"Who sti3tle3 in this sted me steuen to holde?For now is gode Gawayn goande ry3t here.If any wy3e oyght wyl, wynne hider fast,Other now other neuer, his nede3 to spede.""Abyde," quoth on on the bonke abouen ouer his hede,"And thou schal haf al in hast that I the hy3t ones."Yghet he rusched on that rurde rapely a throwe.And wyth quettyng awharf, er he wolde ly3t;And sythen he keuere3 bi a cragge, and comez of a hole,Whyrlande out of a wro wyth a felle weppen,A dene3 ax nwe dy3t, the dynt with to yghelde,With a borelych bytte bende by the halme,Fyled in a fylor, fowre fote large--Hit wat3 no lasse bi that lace that lemed ful bry3t--And the gome in the grene gered as fyrst,Bothe the lyre and the legge3, lokkez and berde,Saue that fayre on his fote he founde3 on the erthe,Sette the stele to the stone, and stalked bysyde.When he wan to the watter, ther he wade nolde,He hypped ouer on hys ax, and orpedly stryde3,Bremly brothe on a bent that brode wat3 aboute,on snawe.Sir Gawayn the kny3t con mete,He ne lutte hym nothyng lowe;That other sayde, "Now, sir swete,Of steuen mon may the trowe.""Gawayn," quoth that grene gome, "God the mot loke!Iwysse thou art welcom, wy3e, to my place,And thou hat3 tymed thi trauayl as truee mon schulde,And thou knowe3 the couenauntez kest vus bytwene:At this tyme twelmonyth thou toke that the falled,And I schulde at this Nwe Yghere 3eply the quyte.And we ar in this valay verayly oure one;Here ar no renkes vs to rydde, rele as vus like3.Haf thy helme of thy hede, and haf here thy pay.Busk no more debate then I the bede thenneWhen thou wypped of my hede at a wap one.""Nay, bi God," quoth Gawayn, "that me gost lante,I schal gruch the no grwe for grem that falle3.Bot sty3tel the vpon on strok, and I schal stonde stylleAnd warp the no wernyng to worch as the lyke3,nowhare."He lened with the nek, and lutte,And schewed that schyre al bare,And lette as he no3t dutte;For drede he wolde not dare.THEN the gome in the grene graythed hym swythe,Gedere3 vp hys grymme tole Gawayn to smyte;With alle the 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,Ther hade ben ded of his dynt that do3ty wat3 euer.Bot Gawayn on that giserne glyfte hym bysyde,As hit com glydande adoun on glode hym to schende,And schranke a lytel with the schulderes for the scharp yrne.That other schalk wyth a schunt the schene wythhalde3,And thenne repreued he the prynce with mony prowde worde3:"Thou art not Gawayn," quoth the gome, "that is so goud halden,That neuer ar3ed for no here by hylle ne be vale,And now thou fles for ferde er thou fele harme3!Such cowardise of that kny3t cowthe I neuer here.Nawther fyked I ne fla3e, freke, quen thou myntest,Ne kest no kauelacion in kynge3 hous Arthor.My hede fla3 to my fote, and yghet flaygh I neuer;And thou, er any harme hent, ar3e3 in hert;Wherfore the better burne me burde be calledtherfore."Quoth Gawayn, "I schunt one3,And so wyl I no more;Bot tha3 my hede falle on the stone3,I con not hit restore."Bot busk, burne, bi thi fayth, and bryng me to the poynt.Dele to me my destine, and do hit out of honde,For I schal stonde the a strok, and start no moreTil thyn ax haue me hitte: haf here my trawthe.""Haf at the thenne!" quoth that other, and heue3 hit alofte,And wayte3 as wrothely as he wode were.He mynte3 at hym ma3tyly, bot not the mon rynez,Withhelde heterly his honde, er hit hurt my3t.Gawayn graythely hit byde3, and glent with no membre,Bot stode stylle as the ston, other a stubbe autherThat ratheled is in roche grounde with rote3 a hundreth.Then muryly efte con he mele, the mon in the grene:"So, now thou hat3 thi hert holle, hitte me bihous.Halde the now the hy3e hode that Arthur the rayght,And kepe thy kanel at this kest, 3if hit keuer may."Gawayn ful gryndelly with greme thenne sayde:"Wy! thresch on, thou thro mon, thou threte3 to longe;I hope that thi hert ar3e wyth thyn awen seluen.""For sothe," quoth that other freke, "so felly thou speke3,I wyl no lenger on lyte lette thin ernderi3t nowe."Thenne tas he hym strythe to stryke,And frounse3 bothe lyppe and browe;No meruayle tha3 hym myslykeThat hoped of no rescowe.He lyftes ly3tly his lome, and let hit doun fayreWith the barbe of the bitte bi the bare nek;Tha3 he homered heterly, hurt hym no moreBot snyrt hym on that on syde, that seuered the hyde.The scharp schrank to the flesche thur3 the schyre grece,That the schene blod ouer his schulderes schot to the erthe;And quen the burne se3 the blode blenk on the snawe,He sprit forth spenne-fote more then a spere lenthe,Hent heterly his helme, and on his hed cast,Schot with his schuldere3 his fayre schelde vnder,Brayde3 out a bry3t sworde, and bremely he spekez--Neuer syn that he wat3 burne borne of his moderWat3 he neuer in this worlde wy3e half so blythe--"Blynne, burne, of thy bur, bede me no mo!I haf a stroke in this sted withoute stryf hent,And if thow reche3 me any mo, I redyly schal quyte,And 3elde yghederly ayghayn--and therto yghe tryst--and foo.Bot on stroke here me falle3--The couenaunt schop ry3t so,Fermed in Arthure3 hallez--And therfore, hende, now hoo!"The hathel heldet hym fro, and on his ax rested,Sette the schaft vpon schore, and to the scharp lened,And loked to the leude that on the launde 3ede,How that do3ty, dredles, deruely ther stonde3Armed, ful a3le3: in hert hit hym lykez.Thenn he mele3 muryly wyth a much steuen,And wyth a rynkande rurde he to the renk sayde:"Bolde burne, on this bent be not so gryndel.No mon here vnmanerly the mysboden habbe3,Ne kyd bot as couenaunde at kynge3 kort schaped.I hy3t the a strok and thou hit hat3, halde the wel payed;I relece the of the remnaunt of ry3tes alle other
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