En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Turnament of Tottenham

The Turnament of Tottenham; or, the Wooeing, Winning, and Wedding of Tibbe, the Reev's Davghter There.

Of all thes kene conquerours to carpe it were kynde;
Of fele feyztyng folk ferly we fynde;
The Turnament of Totenham have we in mynde;
It were harme sych hardynes were holden byhynde,
In story as we rede
Of Hawkyn, of Herry,
Of Tomkyn, of Terry,
Of them that were dughty
And stalworth in dede.

It befel in Totenham on a dere day,
Ther was mad a shurtyng be the hyway;
Theder com al the men of the contray,
Of Hyssylton, of Hy-gate, and of Hakenay,
And all the swete swynkers:
Ther hopped Hawkyn,
Ther daunsed Dawkyn,
Ther trumped Tomkyn,
And all were trewe drynkers.

Tyl the day was gon and evyn-song past,
That thay shuld reckyn ther scot and ther counts cast;
Perkyn, the potter, into the press past,
And sayd, 'Randol, the refe, a dozter thou hast,
Tyb the dere.
Therefor faine wyt wold I,
Whych of all thys bachelery
Were best worthye
To wed hur to hys fere.'

Upstyrt thos gadelyngys wyth ther lang staves,
And sayd, 'Randol, the refe, lo, thys lad raves;
Boldely amang us thy dozter he craves;
We er rycher men than he, and mor gode haves,
Of cattell and corn.'
Then sayd Perkyn, 'To Tybbe I have hyzt,
That I schal be alway redy in my ryzt,
If that it schuld be thys day sevenyzt,
Or elles zet to morn.'

Then sayd Randolfe, the refe, 'Ever be he waryd
That about thys carpyng lenger wold be taryd:
I wold not my dozter, that scho were miscaryd,
But at hur most worschip I wold scho were maryd.
Therfor a Turnament schal begynne
Thys day sevenyzt,-
Wyth a flayl for to fyzt:
And 'he' that is of most myght
Schal brouke hur wyth wynne.

'Whoso berys hym best in the turnament,
Hym schal be granted the gre be the comon assent,
For to wynne my dozter wyth 'dughtynesse' of dent,
And 'Coppell' my brode-henne, 'that' was brozt out of Kent,
And my dunyd kowe.
For no spens wyl I spare,
For no cattell wyl I care;
He schal have my gray mare,
And my spottyd sowe.'

Ther was many 'a' bold lad ther bodyes to bede:
Than thay toke thayr leve and homward they zede,
And all the weke afterward graythed ther wede,
Tyll it come to the day, that thay suld do ther dede.
They armed tham in matts
Thay set on ther nollys,
For to hepe ther pollys,
Gode blake bollys,
For bateryng of bats.

Thay sowed tham in schepeskynnes, for thay schuld not brest,
Ilk-on toke a blak hat, insted of a crest,
'A basket or a panyer before on ther brest,'
And a flayle in ther hande; for to fyght prest,
Furth gon thay fare.
Ther was kyd mekyl fors,
Who schuld best fend hys cors;
He that had no gode hors,
He gat hym a mare.

Sych another gadryng have I not sene oft,
When all the gret company com rydand to the croft;
Tyb on a gray mare was set up on loft
On a sek ful of fedyrs, for scho sculd syt soft,
And led 'till the gap.'
For cryeng of the men
Forther wold not Tyb then,
Tyl scho had hur brode hen
Set in hur Lap.

A gay gyrdyl Tyb had on, borowed for the nonys,
And a garland on hur hed, ful of rounde bonys,
And a broche on hur brest, ful of 'sapphyre' stonys,
Wyth the holy-rode tokenyng, was wrotyn for the nonys;
For no 'spendings' thay had spared.
When joly Gyb saw hur thare,
He gyrd so hys gray mare,
'That scho lete a fowkin' fare
At the rereward.

'I wow to God,' quoth Herry, 'I schal not lefe behynde;
May I mete wyth Bernard on Bayard the blynde.
Ich man kepe hym out of my wynde,
For whatsoever that he be, before me I fynde,
I wot I schall hym greve.'
'Wele sayd,' quoth Hawkyn,
'And I wow,' quoth Dawkyn,
'May I mete wyth Tomkyn,
Hys flayle I schal hym reve.'

'I make a vow,' quoth Hud, 'Tyb, son schal thou se,
Whych of all thys bachelery 'granted' is the gre.
I schal scomfet thaym all, for the love of the;
In what place so I come thay schal have dout of me,
Myn armes ar so clere:
I bere a reddyl, and a rake,
Poudred wyth a brenand drake,
And three cantells of a cake
In ycha cornere.'

'I vow to God,' quoth Hawkyn, 'yf 'I' have the gowt,
Al that I fynde in the felde 'thrustand' here aboute,
Have I twyes or thryes redyn thurgh the route,
In ycha stede ther thay me se, of me thay schal have doute.
When I begyn to play,
I make avowe that I ne schall,
But yf Tybbe wyl me call,
Or I be thryes don fall,
Ryzt onys com away.'

Then sayd Terry, and swore be hys crede:
'Saw thou never yong boy forther hys body bede,
For when thay fyzt fastest and most ar in drede,
I schall take Tyb by the hand and hur away lede.
I am armed at the full;
In myn armys I bere wele
A doz trogh and a pele,
A sadyll wythout a panell,
Wyth a fles of woll.'

'I make a vow,' quoth Dudman, and swor be the stra,
'Whyls me ys left my 'mare,' thou gets hurr not swa;
For scho ys wele schapen and lizt as the rae,
Ther is no capul in thys myle befor hr schal ga.
Sche wul ne nozt begyle;
Sche wyl me bere, I dar say,
On a lang somerys day,
Fro Hyssylton to Hackenay,
Nozt other half myle.'

'I make a vow,' quoth Perkyn, 'thow speks of cold rost,
I schal wyrch 'wyselyer' without any bost.
Five of the best capulys that ar in thys ost,
I wot I schal thaym wynne, and bryng thaym to my cost,
And here I grant tham Tybbe.
Wele boyes here ys he,
That wyl fyzt and not fle,
For I am in my jolyte,
Wyth so forth, Gybbe.'

When thay had ther vowes made, furth can thay hie,
Wyth flayles and hornes and trumpes mad of tre.
Ther were all the bachelerys of that contre:
Thay were dyzt in aray, as thaymselfes wold be.
Thayr baners were ful bryzt,
Of an old rotten fell;
The cheveron of a plow-mell,
And the schadow of a bell,
'Quartred' wyth the mone lyst.

I wot yt 'was' no chylder game whan thay togedyr met,
When icha freke in the feld on hys feloy bet,
And layd on styfly, for nothyng wold thay let,
And foght ferly fast, tyll ther horses swet.
And few wordys spoken.
Ther were flayles al so slatred,
Ther were scheldys al to flatred,
Bollys and dysches al to schatred,
And many hedys brokyn.

Ther was clynkyng of cart-sadelys, and clatteryng of cannes;
Of fele frekys in the feld brokyn were their fannes;
Of sum were the hedys brokyn, of sum the brayn-pannes,
And yll were thay besene or thay went thanns,
Wyth swyppyng of swepyls.
Thay were so wery for-foght,
Thay myzt not fyzt mare oloft,
But creped about in the 'croft,'
As thay were croked crepyls.

Perkyn was so wery, that he began to loute:
'Help, Hud, I am ded in thys ylk rowte;
An hors, for forty pens, a gode and a stoute,
That I may lyztly come of my noye oute.
For no cost wyl I spare.'
Hy styrt up as a snayle,
And hent a capul be the tayle,
And 'reft' Dawkin hys flayle,
And wan there a mare.

Perkyn wan five, and Hud wan twa.
Glad and blythe thay ware that thay had don sa;
Thay wold have tham to Tyb, and present hur with tha;
The Capulls were so wery that thay myzt not ga,
But styl gon thay stond.
'Alas!' quoth Hudde, 'my joye I lese:
Mee had lever then a ston of chese
That dere Tyb had al these,
And wyst it were my sond.'

Perkyn turnyd hym about in that ych thrang;
Among those wery boyes he wrest and he wrang,
He threw tham doun to the erth, and thrast tham amang,
When he saw Tyrry away wyth Tyb fang,
And after hym ran.
Off his horse he hym drogh,
And gag hym of hys flayl inogh.
'We te he!' quoth Tyb, and lugh:
'Ye er a dughty man.'

'Thus' thay tugged and rugged, tyl yt was nere nyzt,
All the wyves of Totenham came to see that syzt
Wyth wyspes and kexis and ryschys there lyxt,
To fetch hom ther husbandes that were tham trouth plyzt.
And some brozt gret harwos,
Ther husbandes hom to fetch,
Som on dores, and sum on hech,
Sum on hyrdyllys, and som on crech,
And sum on whelebarrows.

Thay gaderyd Perkyn about 'on' everych syde,
And grant hym ther 'the gre,' the more was hys pryde.
Tyb and he wyth gret 'mirth' homeward con thay ryde,
And were al nyzt togedyr tyl the morn tyde.
And thay 'to church went.'
So wele hys nedys he has sped,
That dere Tyb he 'hath' wed;
The prayse-folk, that hur led,
Were of the Turnament.

To that ylk fest com many for the mones;
Some come hyphalte, and some trippand 'thither' on the stonys;
Sum a staf in hys hand, and sum two at onys;
Of sum where the hedes broken, of some the schulder bonys.
With sorrow come thay thedyr.
Wo was Hawkyn, wo was Herry,
Wo was Tomkyn, wo was Terry,
And so was all the bachelary,
When thay met togedyr.

At that fest thay wer servyd with a ryche aray:
Every fyve and fyve had a cokenay.
And so thay sat in jolyte al the lung day;
And at the last thay went to bed with ful gret deray.
Mekyl myrth was them among:
In every corner of the hous
Was melody delycyous,
For to here precyus,
Of six menys song.

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Mental

Its like Im dressed up in my mothers clothing
Its like Im talking to a voice that doesnt exist
Its like I got a wire crossed upstairs
But all I want is just a little truth and thats it
They say Im mental but Im just confused
Thay say Im mental but Ive been abused
They say Im mental cause Im not amused my it all
Another anchor man is on the t.v.
Hes got that far away and vacant look in his eyes
I turn the channel but nothings changing
The only truth is that everythings a lie
They say Im mental but Im just confused
Thay say Im mental but Ive been abused
They say Im mental cause Im not amused my it all
Theres truth in everything
Theres truth in lies
With all this knowledge
I think Im gonna be wise
They say Im mental but Im just confused
Thay say Im mental but Ive been abused
They say Im mental cause Im not amused my it all
Not at all
Not at all

song performed by by Eels
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Steady As The River

Thay want me to be steady as the river
but river are never stead the always changing
never stoping, they always chose the way that

isnt the esyest but the make way for dreams just around
the river bend, do all my dream just stop because im with him
why do all my dreams down the river, should i stay steadt as the river
thay say i should be,

or do u wat for me drem keeper

poem by Connie Chambers
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If Love Now Reynyd

If love now reynyd as it hath bene
And war rewardit as it hath sene,

Nobyll men then wold suer enserch
All ways wherby thay myght it rech;

But envy reynyth with such dysdayne,
And causith lovers owtwardly to refrayne,

Which puttes them to more and more
Inwardly most grevous and sore;

The faut in whome I cannot sett;
But let them tell which love doth gett.

To lovers I put now suer this cace -
Which of ther loves doth get them grace?

And unto them which doth it know
Better than do I, I thynk it so.

poem by Henry VIII King of England
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The Vicksburg Jail

O, when the poar pris'ner is put in the jaile,
he is put in a cell and his doors are all bar'd
With a great long chane he is bound to the floor,
And dam thear mean soles thay can do nothing more.

Our beds are maid of old rotten rugs,
And when you lay down you are covered with bugs;
The rugs they will swear they will never give bail,
And you're bound to get lousy in Vicksburg Jale.

In the morning you get a piece of bread
As hard as a rock and as heavy as lead,
A cup of cold coffee and meat that is stale,
And your are bound to get hungry in the Vicksburg jale.

Our jury they are a mighty mean crew,
Thay will look at a man as if thay would look him through;
The Judge he will prattle, all hell he don't fear,
He will bring you in guilty if you prove yourself clear.

Our Stats Arturny are men of renown,
Thay spend all thear time in lofing around,
Your pockets they will pick and your cloths will sell,
Get drunk on the mony, that is doing well.

The jailor comes round at nine in the night,
In one of his hands he carrys a light,
He will rap at your door and give you a hale,
To see that you're safe in the Vickburg Jale.

Oh, honrably kind friends I have finish'd my song,
I hipe I have song to you nothing that is wrong;
For fighting and drinking I never did fail,
And I don't give a dam for the Vicksburg Jail.

poem by Anonymous Americas
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A Team

a team more then one person
people who work together
dont fight thay are a family
thay are people who trust each other
dont do nothing behind each others back
fight to win a game people who r not scared to play games
for there life people who know somethiung coled happen in each
play like abrock arm or leg people who can fight thro the pain and play

poem by Dustin Reed
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Kabootar Se Computer Tak!

Kabhi esa bhi hota tha
Baharen jb bhi aati thiin
Tou apne sath jazbon ki nai faslen ugaati thiin
Hawaen geet gaati thiin
Fazaen muskuraati thiin
Wohi lamhaat hote thay
K jb ghamgeen nigaahon se jo dard aamez behte jam aate thay
Kabootar kaam aatay thay
Naey paigham laatay thay
Inhi lamhaat mein pinhaan hua krti thiin sub khushian …! ! !
Ab esa daur aya he
K sub k sub sada hr waqt hi log on rehte hen
Aur internet pe hr dm use laakhon phone hote hen
Dalail mein Faraz o Faiz o Ghalib note hote hen
Yaheen pr keats or Shelley k naghmay quote hote hen
Dilon pr kuchh naey jazbaat download hote hen
Ajab yeh khail hota hey
Gilay E-mail hote hen
Kabhi akhtar shumaari thi
Kabhi aankhon mein raaten thiin
Kabhi taaron se baaten thiin
Ab MSN pe chatting he
Kabhi FB pe tagging he
Kabhi qaasid k nakhray thay
Ab internet pe messengers ki taaza baharein hen
Magar ab kuchh bhi ho jaey
Zaraaey change ho jaen
Wisaal o hijr k naghmaat jis bhi rang, jis aahang mein ubhren
Kabootar ho ya computer
qareenay guftgu k jis shakal mein bhi badal jaen
yehi mehsoos hota he
muhabbat km nhi ho gi
muhabbat km nhi ho gi...! ! ! .

poem by Shahzia Batool
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The Knight of the Grail

Lully, lully; lully, lulley;
The fawcon hath born my mak away.

He bare hym vp, he bare hym down;
He bare hym into an orchard brown.

In that orchard ther was an hall,
That was hangid with purpill and pall.

And in that hall ther was a bede;
Hit was hangid with gold so rede.

And yn that bed ther lythe a knyght,
His wowndes bledyng day and nyght.

By that bedes side ther kneleth a may,
And she wepeth both nyght and day.

And by that beddes side ther stondith a ston,
'Corpus Christi' wretyn theron.

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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No Matter How I Change

it amazing how no matter how much you try to change
you seem to stay the same
you can dye your hair you can change your close
you can paint you nails change your skin
you can change your eyes with simple a lens
you can make yourself look like someone thay have never seen before
you can change you voice the way you speak
you can do all this in a few days if that
yet.
your mind the way you thank
thay way your mind works
that change can take so much longer
if you beleve
all men are evil and i will never love one
no mater how much you change how you look
your mind will steel thank
all men are evil and i will never love one
this go's to show
i can change everything about me and
i can walk past you and you would never know
but see me in a store
'is this movie any good'
'yes it one of my favorites reminds me of my father'
that will strike you as odd
'have we meet before'
'i don't believe so where did u go to school'
by this point you know it me but you wont say a thing
and i will smile and this will prove it
'max...'
no matter how i change
i will also be the same

poem by Max Saysoff
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Conscience

QUHEN halie Kirk first flurist in Ȝouthheid,
Prelatis wer chosin of all perfectioun;
For Conscience than the brydill had to leid,
And Conscience maid the hale electioun,
Syne eftir that come schrewit correctioun,
And thocht that Conscience had our large ane weid,
And of his habite out cuttit thay ane skreid.

And fra Conscience the Con thay clip away,
And maid of Conscience Science and na mair;
Bot ȝit the Kirk stude weill, full mony day, 10
For it wes rewlit be mene of wit and layre;
Syn eftir that Sciens began to payr,
And thocht at Sciens was our lang ane jaip,
The Sci away fast can thay rub and scraip;

And fra Sci of Science wes adew,
Than left thai nocht bot this sillab Ens,
Quhilk in our language singnifies that schrew
Riches and geir, that gart all grace go hens;
For Sciens baith and faythfull Consciens
Sa corruptit ar with this warldis gude,
That falset joukis in everie clerkis hude.

O hungrie Ens! cursit with cairis calde,
All kynd of folk constrenis thow to wirk;
For thé that thief Judas his Maister said;
For thé Symon infectit Halie Kirk;
To poysoun Justice thow dois nevir irk;
Thow fals Ens, go hens, thou monsture peralous,
God send Defens with Conscience in till ws!

poem by Gavin Douglas
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Ghazal! (Urdu)

(prize-winner in poetry competition
HIKC Lhr 2007)

Sitam ka baar uthaanay me kuchh kami na rahi
Bujhi he pyas kuchh esi k tashnagi na rahi

Nigah e naz ki jumbish pe jal uthhay taaray
'Phir us k baad charaghon me roshni na rahi'

Ajeeb silsila e ishq ki yeh manzil he
Mila Khuda to tamanna e bandagi na rahi

kuchh ese pal thay k mehfil ki jan thay hm bhi
Or ab yeh haal k khud se bhi dosti na rahi

Kahan kahan pe hukoomat he uss ki yadon ki
Wo kia gaya k gulon pe bhi taazgi na rahi

Guzar sakay to nhi jaan se pr tumharay baad
Rahi zaroor, , , mgr wesi zindagi naa rahi! ! !

poem by Shahzia Batool
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Robin Hood And The Potter

In schomer, when the leves spryng,
The bloschems on every bowe,
So merey doyt the berdys syng
Yn wodys merey now.

Herkens, god yemen,
Comley, corteysse, and god,
On of the best that yever bar bou,
Hes name was Roben Hode.

Roben Hood was the yemans name,
That was boyt corteys and fre;
For the loffe of owr ladey,
All wemen werschep he.

Bot as the god yemen stod on a day,
Among hes mery maney,
He was war of a prowd potter,
Cam dryfyng owyr the ley.

'Yonder comet a prod potter,' seyde Roben,
'That long hayt hantyd this wey;
He was never so corteys a man
On peney of pawage to pay.'

'Y met hem bot at Wentbreg,' seyde Lytyll John,
'And therfor yeffell mot he the,
Seche thre strokes he me gafe,
Yet they cleffe by my seydys.

'Y ley forty shillings,' seyde Lytyll John,
'To pay het thes same day,
Ther ys nat a man arnong hus all
A wed schall make hem ley.'

'Her ys forty shillings,' seyde Roben,
'Mor, and thow dar say,
That y schall make that prowde potter,
A wed to me schall he ley.'

Ther thes money they leyde,
They toke bot a yeman to kepe;
Roben befor the potter he breyde,
And bad hem stond stell.

Handys apon hes horse he leyde,
And bad the potter stonde foll stell;
The potter schorteley to hem seyde,
'Felow, what ys they well?'

'All thes thre yer, and mor, potter,' he seyde,
'Thow hast hantyd thes wey,
Yet wer tow never so cortys a man
One peney of pauage to pay.'

'What ys they name,' seyde the potter,
'For pauage thow ask of me?'
'Roben Hod ys mey name,
A wed schall thow leffe me.'

'Well well y non leffe,' seyde the potter,
'Nor pavag well y non pay;
Away they honde fro mey horse,
Y well the tene eyls, be me fay.'

The potter to hes cart he went,
He was not to seke;
A god to-hande staffe therowt he hent,
Befor Roben he lepe.

Roben howt with a swerd bent,
A bokeler en hes honde [therto];
The potter to Roben he went,
And seyde, 'Felow, let mey horse go.'

Togeder then went thes two yemen,
Het was a god seyt to se;
Therof low Robyn hes men,
Ther they stod onder a tre.

Leytell John to hes felowhes seyde,
'Yend potter welle steffeley stonde:'
The potter, with an acward stroke,
Smot the bokeler owt of hes honde;

And ar Roben meyt get hem agen
Hes bokeler at hes fette,
The potter yn the neke hem toke,
To the gronde sone he yede.

That saw Roben hes men,
As they stode ender a bow;
'Let us helpe owr master,' seyed Lytell John,
'Yonder potter els well hem sclo.'

Thes yemen went with a breyde,
To ther master they cam.
Leytell John to hes master seyde,
'He haet the wager won?

'Schall y haff yowr forty shillings,' seyde Lytel John,
'Or ye, master, schall haffe myne?'
'Yeff they wer a hundred,' seyde Roben,
'Y feythe, they ben all theyne.'

'Het ys fol leytell cortesey,' seyde the potter,
'As y haffe harde weyse men saye,
Yeff a por yeman com drywyng ower the wey,
To let hem of hes gorney.'

'Be mey trowet, thow seys soyt,' seyde Roben,
'Thow seys god yemenrey;
And thow dreyffe forthe yevery day,
Thow schalt never be let for me.

'Y well prey the, god potter,
A felischepe well thow haffe?
Geffe me they clothyng, and thow schalt hafe myne;
Y well go to Notynggam.'

'Y grant therto,' seyde the potter,
'Thow schalt feynde me a felow gode;
But thow can sell mey pottes well,
Come ayen as thow yode.'

'Nay, be mey trowt,' seyde Roben,
'And then y bescro mey hede
Yeffe y bryng eney pottes ayen,
And eney weyffe well hem chepe.'

Than spake Leytell John,
And all hes felowhes heynd,
'Master, be well war of the screffe of Notynggam,
For he ys leytell howr frende.'

'Heyt war howte,' seyde Roben,
'Felowhes, let me alone;
Thorow the helpe of howr ladey,
To Notynggam well y gon.'

Robyn went to Notynggam,
Thes pottes for to sell;
The potter abode with Robens men,
Ther he fered not eylle.

Tho Roben droffe on hes wey,
So merey ower the londe:
Heres mor and affter ys to saye,
The best ys beheynde.

[THE SECOND FIT.]

When Roben cam to Netynggam,
The soyt yef y scholde saye,
He set op hes horse anon,
And gaffe hem hotys and haye.

Yn the medys of the towne,
Ther he schowed hes war;
'Pottys! pottys!' he gan crey foll sone,
'Haffe hansell for the mar.'

Foll effen agenest the screffeys gate
Schowed he hes chaffar;
Weyffes and wedowes abowt hem drow,
And chepyd fast of hes war.

Yet, 'Pottys, gret chepe!' creyed Robyn,
'Y loffe yeffell thes to stonde;'
And all that saw hem sell,
Seyde he had be no potter long.

The pottys that wer werthe pens feyffe,
He sold tham for pens thre;
Preveley seyde man and weyffe,
'Ywnder potter schall never the.'

Thos Roben solde foll fast,
Tell he had pottys bot feyffe;
On he hem toke of his car,
And sende hem to the screffeys weyffe.

Therof sche was foll fayne,
'Gramarsey, sir,' than seyde sche;
'When ye com to thes contre ayen,
Y schall bey of they pottys, so mot y the.'

'Ye schall haffe of the best,' seyde Roben,
And swar be the treneyte;
Foll corteysley she gan hem call,
'Com deyne with the screfe and me.'

'Godamarsey,' seyde Roben,
'Yowr bedyng schalle be doyn;'
A mayden yn the pottys gan ber,
Roben and the screffe weyffe folowed anon.

Whan Roben ynto the hall cam,
The screffe sone he met;
The potter cowed of corteysey,
And sone the screffe he gret.

'Loketh what thes potter hayt geffe yow and me;
Feyffe pottys smalle and grete!'
'He ys fol wellcom, seyd the screffe,
'Let os was, and go to mete.'

As they sat at her methe,
With a nobell cher,
Two of the screffes men gan speke
Off a gret wager,

Was made the thother daye,
Off a schotyng was god and feyne,
Off forty shillings, the soyt to saye,
Who scholde thes wager wen.

Styll than sat thes prowde po,
Thos than thowt he;
'As y am a trow Cerstyn man,
Thes schotyng well y se.'

Whan they had fared of the best,
With bred and ale and weyne,
To the bottys they made them prest,
With bowes and boltys full feyne.

The screffes men schot foll fast,
As archares that weren godde;
Ther cam non ner ney the marke
Bey halfe a god archares bowe.

Stell then stod the prowde potter,
Thos than seyde he;
'And y had a bow, be the rode,
On schot scholde yow se.'

'Thow schall haffe a bow,' seyde the screffe,
'The best that thow well cheys of thre;
Thou semyst a stalward and a stronge,
Asay schall thow be.'

The screffe commandyd a yeman that stod hem bey
Affter bowhes to wende;
The best bow that the yeman browthe
Roben set on a stryng.

'Now schall y wet and thow be god,
And polle het op to they ner;'
'So god me helpe,' seyde the prowde potter,
'Thys ys bot rygzt weke ger.'

To a quequer Roben went,
A god bolt owthe he toke;
So ney on to the marke he went,
He fayled not a fothe.

All they schot abowthe agen,
The screffes men and he;
Off the marke he welde not fayle,
He cleffed the preke on thre.

The screffes men thowt gret schame,
The potter the mastry wan;
The screffe lowe and made god game,
And seyde, 'Potter, thow art a man;
Thow art worthey to ber a bowe,
Yn what plas that thow gang.'

'Yn mey cart y haffe a bowe,
Forsoyt,' he seyde, 'and that a godde;
Yn mey cart ys the bow
That I had of Robyn Hode.'

'Knowest thow Robyn Hode?' seyde the screffe,
'Potter, y prey the tell thou me;'
'A hundred torne y haffe schot with hem,
Under hes tortyll tree.'

'Y had lever nar a hundred ponde,' seyde the screffe,
And swar be the trenite,
['Y had lever nar a hundred ponde,' he seyde,]
'That the fals owtelawe stod be me.

'And ye well do afftyr mey red,' seyde the potter,
'And boldeley go with me,
And to morow, or we het bred,
Roben Hode wel we se.'

'Y well queyt the,' kod the screffe,
And swer be god of meythe;
Schetyng thay left, and hom they went,
Her scoper was redey deythe.

Upon the morow, when het was day,
He boskyd hem forthe to reyde;
The potter hes carte forthe gan ray,
And wolde not [be] leffe beheynde.

He toke leffe of the screffys wyffe,
And thankyd her of all thyng:
'Dam, for mey loffe, and ye well thys wer,
Y geffe yow her a golde ryng.'

'Gramarsey,' seyde the weyffe,
'Sir, god eylde het the;'
The screffes hart was never so leythe,
The feyr forest to se.

And when he cam ynto the foreyst,
Yonder the leffes grene,
Berdys ther sange on bowhes prest,
Het was gret joy to sene.

'Her het ys mercy to be,' seyde Roben,
'For a man that had hawt to spende;
Be mey horne we schall awet
Yeff Roben Hode be ner hande.'

Roben set hes horne to hes mowthe,
And blow a blast that was full god,
That herde hes men that ther stode,
Fer downe yn the wodde;
'I her mey master,' seyde Leytell John;
They ran as thay wer wode.

Whan thay to thar master cam,
Leytell John wold not spar;
'Master, how haffe yow far yn Notynggam?
How haffe yow solde yowr war?'

'Ye, be mey trowthe, Leytyll John,
Loke thow take no car;
Y haffe browt the screffe of Notynggam,
For all howr chaffar.'

'He ys foll wellcom,' seyde Lytyll John,
'Thes tydyng ys foll godde;'
The screffe had lever nar a hundred ponde
[He had never sene Roben Hode.]

'Had I west that beforen,
At Notynggam when we wer,
Thow scholde not com yn feyr forest
Of all thes thowsande eyr.'

'That wot y well,' seyde Roben,
'Y thanke god that ye be her;
Therfor schall ye leffe yowr horse with hos,
And all your hother ger.'

'That fend I godys forbode,' kod the screffe,
'So to lese mey godde;'
'Hether ye cam on horse foll hey,
And hom schall ye go on fote;
And gret well they weyffe at home,
The woman ys foll godde.

'Y schall her sende a wheyt palffrey,
Het hambellet as the weynde;
Ner for the loffe of yowr weyffe,
Off mor sorow scholde yow seyng.'

Thes parted Robyn Hode and the screffe,
To Notynggam he toke the waye;
Hes weyffe feyr welcomed hem hom,
And to hem gan sche saye:

'Seyr, how haffe yow fared yn grene foreyst?
Haffe ye browt Roben hom?'
'Dam, the deyell spede him, bothe bodey and bon,
Y haffe hade a foll grete skorne.

'Of all the god that y haffe lade to grene wod,
He hayt take het fro me,
All bot this feyr palffrey,
That he hayt sende to the.'

With that sche toke op a lowde lawhyng,
And swhar be hem that deyed on tre,
'Now haffe yow payed for all the pottys
That Roben gaffe to me.

'Now ye be corn hom to Notynggam,
Ye schall haffe god ynowe;'
Now speke we of Roben Hode,
And of the pottyr onder the grene bowhe.

'Potter, what was they pottys worthe
To Notynggam that y ledde with me?'
'They wer worth two nobellys,' seyd he,
'So mot y treyffe or the;
So cowde y had for tham,
And y had ther be.'

'Thow schalt hafe ten ponde,' seyde Roben,
'Of money feyr and fre;
And yever whan thou comest to grene wod,
Wellcom, potter to me.'

Thes partyd Robyn, the screffe, and the potter,
Ondernethe the grene-wod tre;
God haffe mersey on Robyn Hodys solle,
And saffe all god yemanrey!

poem by Andrew Lang
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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St. Stephen And Herod

Seynt Stevene was a clerk in Kyng Herowd{.e}s halle,
And servyd him of bred and cloth, as every kyng befalle.

Stevyn out of kechone cam, wyth boris hed on honde;
He saw a sterre was fayr and bryght over Bedlem stonde.

He kyst adoun the boris hed and went in to the halle:
'I forsak the, Kyng Herowd{.e}s, and thi werkes all{.e}.'

'I forsak the, Kyng Herowd{.e}s, and thi werkes alle;
Ther is a chyld in Bedlem born is beter than we alle.'

'Quat eylyt the, Stevene? quat is the befall{.e}?
Lakkyt the eyther mete or drynk in Kyng Herowdes halle?'

'Lakit me neyther mete ne drynk in Kyng Herowd{.e}s halle;
Ther is a chyld in Bedlem born is beter than we alle.'

'Quat eylyt the, Stevyn? Art thu wod, or thu gynnyst to brede?
Lakkyt the eyther gold or fe, or ony ryche wed{.e}?'

'Lakyt me neyther gold ne fe, ne non rych{.e} wed{.e};
Ther is a chyld in Bedlem born xal helpyn us at our nede.'

'That is al so soth, Stevyn, al so soth, iwys.
As this capoun crowe xal that lyth here in myn dysh.'

That word was not so son{.e} seyd, that word in that halle,
The capoun crew Cristus natus est! among the lord{.e}s all{.e}.

'Rysyt up, myn turmentowres, be to and al be on,
And ledyt Stevyn out of this toun, and stonyt hym wyth ston!'

Tokyn he Stevene, and stonyd hym in the way,
And therfore is his evyn on Cryst{.e}s owyn day.

poem by Anonymous Americas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Dreams are not without meaning wherever thay may come from-from fantasy, from the elements, or from other inspiration.

quote by Paracelsus
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I believe in "soulmates", especially growing up and seeing how much my parents loved each other. Thay always said that they had been married in past lives too.

quote by Nadia Bjorlin
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Diamond In My Crown

(Emmylouy HarrisPaul Kennerley)
As each long day rolls by and falls behind me
In the lonely night there's a peacefulness I've found
Tho' I'm weary even then
When I rise to start again
Ther'll be a diamond, a diamond in my crown
I have wasted all that life has laid before me
I have watched as all the green fields turn to brown
But I shall not disavow
All these ties that bind me now
Ther'll be a diamond, a diamond in my crown
Shinning down some day I know
Brighter than all their streets of gold
When the burdens that I carry I will lay down
And the sorrows I have known
I'll see them all be overthrown
Ther'll be a diamond, a diamond in my crown
Through the passing of the years I will grow stronger
Just as sure as this old world keeps spinning 'round
Then the closer I will be
To my sweetest victory
Ther'll be a diamond, a diamond in my crown

song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Saahil kay kinare...(A poem written in URDU)

Meray dil ki dharkan mai sirf tum hi rehtay ho
Pyar tum he say karti hoon buss tum he meray ho
Wo betay dinoon ki yaaden aur badal ka garajna tha
Wo saahil kay kinarey kishty mai kesa milna tha
Leher-oon ki thephair aa kar jab kishty sey takrati thee
Daar ka mai teray seenay say kesay lag jati thee
Do praim-ee aik jaan chup chup kay miltay thay
Kahan geye wo din…kitnay achay lagtay thay
Seepiyan chuntay gana ghatay saahil kay kinaray hum
Aik ddo-jay kay pyar mai ho jatay te hum gum
Tujh mai samah kay mai ney pya do janam-oon ka pyar
Aab Kha-gaye wo din aur kha-geye wo raat
Barsaat kay mosam mai tery yaad sa-ta-tee hai
Betay dinoon ki yaad mujh ko tar-patee hai
Ab na rehe wo kishty aur bun kaya aik khawab
Saahil kay kinare mai akalie kar-ee-hoon aaj.

poem by Meena Mustafa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Woh Sawan Tha, Yeh bhadon Hai. [ Poem in Hindi]

Woh sawan tha jo beet gaya
Tab paydon par jhuley jholti thi
Allhad masst jawani
Ik pal barasta tha paani
Dujey pal dhoop nikalti thi
Ik pal hum mil kar hanstey thay
Dujey pal virha mein jaltey thay
Woh sawan tha jo beet gaya.
Yeh bhadon hai
Iss ki vyatha main kis se kahoon
Na tum ho priyey
Na koi humdum
Ab jab bhi barkha hoti hai
Toa bas barkha hi hoti hai
Umeed ab tere aane ki
Iss pal kabhi sehlati nahien
Be- bass yeh jeevan lagta hai
Vyarth yeh duniya lagti hai
Yeh bhadon hai
Iss ki vyatha main kis se kahon
Yaadon ke athah samunder main
Jab lehren hilorey layti hain
Aakash main badal garajte jab
Mann par bijli si girti hai
Aur pass nahien tum hoti jab
Nainon se paani barasta hai
Ab jab bhi barkha hoti hai
Toa bas barkha hi hoti hai. [1973]

poem by Om Chawla
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The Wright's Chaste Wife

Allemyghty god, maker of alle,
Saue you my souereyns in towre & halle,
And send you good grace!
If ye wylle a stounde blynne,
Of a story I wylle begynne,
And telle you alle the cas,
Meny farleyes ?aue herde,
Ye would haue wondyr how yt ferde;
Lystyn, and ye schalle here;
Of a wryght I wylle you telle
That some tyme in thys land gan dwelle,
And lyued by hys myster.
Whether that he were yn or oute,
Of erthely man hadde he no dowte,
To werke hows, harowe, nor plowgh,
Or other werkes, what so they were,
Thous wrought he hem farre and nere,
And dyd tham wele I-nough.
Thys wryght would wedde no wyfe,
Butt yn yougeth to lede hys lyfe
In myrthe and o?ody;
Ouer alle where he gan wende,
Alle they seyd 'welcome, frende,
Sytt downe, and do gla[d]ly.'
Tylle on a tyme he was wyllyng,
As tyme comyth of alle thyng,
(So seyth the profesye,)
A wyfe for to wedde & haue
That myght hys goodes kepe & saue,
And for to leue alle foly.
Ther dwellyd a wydowe in ?tre
That hadde a doughter feyre & fre;
Of her, word sprang wyde,
For sche was bothe stabylle & trewe,
Meke of maners, and feyre of hewe;
So seyd men in that tyde.
The wryght seyde, 'so god me saue,
Such a wyfe would I haue
To lye nyghtly by my syde.'
He ?to speke wyth ?,
And rose erly on a daye
And ?an he to ryde.
The wryght was welcome to ?,
And her saluyd alle so blyve,
And so he dyd her doughter fre:
For the erand that he for came
Tho he spake, ?d yemane;
Than to hym seyd sche:
The wydow seyd, 'by heuen kyng,
I may geue wyth her no ?r> (And ?thynketh me
Saue a garlond I wylle the geue,
Ye schalle neuer see, whyle ye lyve,
None such in thys contre:
Haue here thys garlond of roses ryche,
In alle thys lond ys none yt lyche,
For ytt wylle euer be newe,
Wete ?e withowtyn fable,
Alle the whyle thy wyfe ys stable
The chaplett wolle hold hewe;
And yf thy wyfe vse putry,
Or tolle eny man to lye her by,
Than wolle yt change hewe,
And by the garlond ? see,
Fekylle or fals yf ?e be,
Or ellys yf sche be trewe.'
Of thys chaplett hym was fulle fayne,
And of hys wyfe, was nott to layne;
He weddyd her fulle sone,
And ladde her home wyth solempnite,
And hyld her brydalle dayes thre.
Whan they home come,
Thys wryght in hys hart cast,
If that he walkyd est or west
As he was wonte to done,
'My wyfe ?so bryght of ble
Men wolle desyre here fro me,
And ?tly and sone;'
Butt sone he hym by?br> That a chambyr schuld be wrought
Bothe of lyme and stone,
Wyth wallys strong as eny stele,
And dorres sotylly made and wele,
He owte framyd yt sone;
The chambyr he lett make fast,
Wyth plaster of parys ?le last,
Such ous know I neuer none;
Ther ys kyng ne emperoure,
And he were lockyn in ?re,
That cowde gete owte of ?ne.
Nowe hath he done as he ?
And in the myddes of the flore wrought
A wondyr strange gyle,
A trapdoure rounde abowte
That no man myght come yn nor owte;
It was made wyth a wyle,
That who-so touchyd yt eny thyng,
In to ? he schuld flyng
Wythyn a lytylle whyle.
For hys wyfe he made that place,
That no man schuld beseke her of grace,
Nor her to begyle.

By ?e ? of the towne
Hadde ordeynyd tymbyr redy bowne,
An halle to make of tre.
After the wryght the lord lett sende
For ?schuld wyth hym lende
Monythys two or thre.
The lord seyd, 'woult ?e ??
I wylle send after her blyve
That sche may com to the.'
The wryght hys garlond hadde take wyth hym,
That was bryght and no ?mme,
Yt wes feyre on to see.
The lord axyd hym as he satt,
'Felowe, where hadyst ? hatte
That ys so feyre and newe?'
The wryght answerd alle so blyue,
And seyd, 'syr, I hadde yt wyth my wyfe,
And ?e me neuere rewe;
Syr, by my garlond I may see
Fekylle or fals yf ?e be,
Or yf ?e be trewe;
And yf my wyfe loue a paramoure,
Than wylle my garlond vade coloure,
And change wylle yt the hewe.'
The lord ?'by godys myght,
That wylle I wete thys same nyght
Whether thys tale be trewe.'
To the wryghtys howse anon he went,
He fonde the wyfe ther-in presente
That was so bryght and schene;
Sone he hayled her trewly,
And so dyd sche the lord curtesly:
Sche seyd, 'welcome ye be;'
Thus seyd the wyfe of the hows,
'Syr, howe faryth my swete spowse
That hewyth vppon youre tre?'
'Sertes, dame,' he seyd, 'wele,
And I am come, so haue I hele,
To wete the wylle of the;
My loue ys so vppon the cast
That me thynketh my hert wolle brest,
It wolle none otherwyse be;
Good dame, graunt me thy grace
To pley with the in some preuy place
For gold and eke for fee.'
'Good syr, lett be youre fare,
And of such wordes speke no mare
For hys loue ?d on tre;
Hadde we onys begonne ?,
My husbond by his garlond myght see;
For sorowe he would wexe woode.'
'Certes, dame,' he seyd, 'naye;
Loue me, I pray you, in ?maye:
For godys loue change thy mode,
Forty marke schalle be youre mede
Of syluer and of gold [so] rede,
And that schalle do the good.'
'Syr, that deede schalle be done;
Take me that mony here anone.'
'I swere by the holy rode
I thought when I cam hyddere
For to bryng yt alle to-gyddere,
As I mott breke my heele.'
Ther sche toke xl marke
Of syluer and gold styff and sterke:
Sche toke yt feyre and welle;
Sche seyd, 'in to the chambyr wylle we,
Ther no man schalle vs see;
No lenger wylle we spare.'
Vp the steyer they gan hye:
The stepes were made so queyntly
That farther myght he nott fare.
The lord stumbyllyd as he went in hast,
He felle doune in to ?ste
Forty fote and somedele more.
The lord began to crye;
The wyfe seyd to hym in hye,
'Syr, what do ye there?'
'Dame, I can nott seye howe
That I am come hydder nowe
To thys hows ?so newe;
I am so depe in thys sure flore
That I ne can come owte att no dore;
Good dame, on me ?e!'
'Nay,' sche seyd, 'so mut y the,
Tylle myne husbond come and se,
I schrewe hym ??'
The lord arose and lokyd abowte
If he myght eny where gete owte,
But yt holpe hym ryght noght,
The wallys were so thycke wythyn,
That he no where myght owte wynne
But helpe to hym were brought;
And euer the lord made euylle chere,
And seyd, 'dame, ?alt by thys dere.'
Sche seyd that sche ne rought;
Sche seyd 'I recke nere
Whyle I am here and ? there,
I schrewe herre ?doth drede.'
The lord was sone owte of her ?
The wyfe went in to her lofte,
Sche satte and dyd here dede.
Than yt felle on ?r daye
Of mete and drynke he gan her pray,
There of he hadde gret nede.
He seyd, 'dame, for seynt charyte,
Wyth some mete ?fort me.'
Sche seyd, 'nay, so god me spede,
For I swere by swete seynt Iohne,
Mete ne drynke ne getyst ?e
Butt ?t swete or swynke;
For I haue both hempe and lyne,
And a betyngstocke fulle fyne,
And a swyngylle good and grete;
If ?t worke, tell me sone.'
'Dame, bryng yt forthe, yt schalle be done,
Fulle gladly would I ete.'
Sche toke the stocke in her honde,
And in to the pytt sche yt sclang
Wyth a grete hete:
Sche brought the lyne and hempe on her backe,
'Syr lord,' sche seyd, 'haue ?,
And lerne for to swete.'
Ther sche toke hym a bonde
For to occupy hys honde,
And bade hym fast on to bete.
He leyd yt downe on the stone,
And leyd on strockes welle good wone,
And sparyd nott on to leyne.
Whan ?hadde wrought a thraue,
Mete and drynke he gan to craue,
And would haue hadde yt fayne;
'That I hadde somewhat for to ete
Now after my gret swete;
Me thynketh yt were ryght,
For I haue labouryd nyght and daye
The for to plese, dame, I saye,
And therto putt my myght.'
The wyfe seyd 'so mutt I haue hele,
And yf ?e be wrought wele
Thou schalt haue to dyne.'
Mete and drynke sche hym bare,
Wyth a thrafe of flex mare
Of fulle long boundyn lyne.
So feyre the wyfe the lord gan praye
That he schuld be werkyng aye,
And nought ?schuld blynne;
The lord was fayne to werke tho,
Butt hys men knewe nott of hys woo
Nor of ?des pyne.

The stuard to ?ht gan saye,
'Sawe ?e of my lord to-daye,
Whether that he ys wende?'
The wryght answerde and seyd 'naye;
I sawe hym nott syth yesterdaye;
I trowe ?be schent.'
The stuard stode ?ht by,
And of hys garlond hadde ferly
What ?be-mente.
The stuard seyd, 'so god me saue,
Of thy garlond wondyr I haue,
And who yt hath the sent.'
'Syr,' he seyd, 'be the same hatte
I can knowe yf my wyfe be badde
To me by eny other man;
If my floures ou?e or falle,
Then doth my wyfe me wrong wyth-alle,
As many a woman can.'
The stuard ?'by godes myght,
That schalle I preue thys same nyght
Whether ?s or banne,'
And in to hys chambyr he gan gone,
And toke tresure fulle good wone,
And forth he spedde hem than.
Butt he ne stynt att no stone
Tylle he vn-to ?htes hows come
That ylke same nyght.
He mett the wyfe amydde the gate,
Abowte ?e he gan her take,
And seyd 'my dere wyght,
Alle the good ?myne
I wylle the geue to be thyne
To lye by the alle nyght.'
Sche seyd, 'syr, lett be thy fare,
My husbond wolle wete wyth-owtyn mare
And I hym dyd that vnryght;
I would nott he myght yt wete
For alle the good that I myght gete,
So Ihesus mutt me spede;
For, and eny man lay me by,
My husbond would yt wete truly,
It ys wythowtyn eny drede.'
The stuard seyd 'for hym ?wrought,
There-of, dame, drede the noght
Wyth me to do that dede;
Haue here of me xx marke
Of gold and syluer styf and starke,
Thys tresoure schalle be thy mede.'
'Syr, and I graunt ?you,
Lett no man wete butt we two nowe.'
He seyd, 'nay, wythowtyn drede.'
The stuard ? 'sykerly
Women beth both queynte & slye.'
The mony he gan her bede;
He ?wele to haue be spedde,
And of his erand he was onredde
Or he were fro hem I-gone.
Vp the sterys sche hym leyde
Tylle he saw the wryghtes bedde:
Of tresoure rought he none;
He went and stumblyd att a stone,
In to ?ere he fylle sone
Downe to the bare flore.
The lord seyd 'what deuylle art ?> And ?est falle on me nowe,
Thowe hadest hurt me fulle sore.'
The stuard stert and staryd abowte
If he myght ower gete owte
Att hole lesse or mare.
The lord seyd, 'welcome, and sytt be tyme,
For ?alt helpe to dyght thys lyne
For alle thy fers fare.'
The stuard lokyd on the knyght,
He seyd, 'syr, for godes myght,
My lord, what do you here?'
He seyd 'felowe, wyth-owtyn oth,
For o erand we come bothe,
The sothe wolle I nott lete.'
Tho cam the wyfe them vn-to,
And seyd, 'syres, what do you to,
Wylle ye nott lerne to swete?'
Than seyd ? her vn-to,
'Dame, youre lyne ys I-doo,
Nowe would I fayne ete:
And I haue made yt alle I-lyke,
Fulle clere, and no ?ycke,
Me thynketh yt gret payne.'
The stuard seyd 'wyth-owtyn dowte,
And euer I may wynne owte,
I wyll breke her brayne.'
'Felowe, lett be, and sey nott so,
For ?alt worke or euer ?,
Thy wordes ?ne agayne,
Fayne ?alt be so to doo,
And thy good wylle put ?br> As a man buxome and bayne
Thowe schalt rubbe, rele, and spynne,
And ?t eny mete wynne,
That I geue to god a gyfte.'
The stuard seyd, 'then haue I wondyr;
Rather would I dy for hungyr
Wyth-owte hosylle or shryfte.'
The lord seyd, 'so haue I hele,
Thowe wylt worke, yf ?gyr welle,
What worke ? be brought.'
The lord satt and dyd hys werke,
The stuard drewe in to the derke,
Gret sorowe was in hys ?
The lord seyd, 'dame, here ys youre lyne,
Haue yt in godes blessyng and myne,
I hold yt welle I-wrought.'
Mete and drynke sche gaue hym yn,
'The stuard,' sche seyd, 'wolle he nott spynne,
Wylle he do ryght noght?'
The lord seyd, 'by swete sen Ione,
Of thys mete schalle he haue none
That ye haue me hydder brought.'
The lord ete and dranke fast,
The stuard hungeryd att ?,
For he gaue hym nought.
The stuard satt alle in a stody,
Hys lord hadde forgote curtesy:
Tho seyd ?rd, 'geue me some.'
The lord seyd, 'sorow haue ?elle or sope
That schalle come in thy throte;
Nott so much as a crome!
Butt ?t helpe to dyght ?e,
Much hungyr yt schalle be thyne
Though ?e much mone.'
Vp he rose, and went therto,
'Better ys me ?doo
Whyle yt must nedys be do.'
The stuard began fast to knocke,
The wyfe ?m a swyngelyng stocke,
Hys mete ? to wyn;
Sche brought a swyngylle at ?,
'Good syres,' sche seyd, 'swyngylle on fast;
For no ?at ye blynne.'
Sche gaue hym a stocke to sytt vppon,
And seyd 'syres, ?ke must nedys be done,
Alle that that ys here yn.'
The stuard toke vp a stycke to saye,
'Sey, seye, swyngylle better yf ye may,
Hytt wylle be the better to spynne.'
Were ? neuer so gret,
Yet was he fayne to werke for hys mete
Though he were neuer so sadde;
Butt ?rd ? so stowde,
Was fayne to swyngelle ?es owte,
Ther-of he was nott glad.
The lordys meyne ?e att home
Wyst nott where he was bycome,
They were fulle sore adrad.

The proctoure of ?sche chyrche ryght
Came and lokyd on ?ht,
He lokyd as he were madde;
Fast ?toure gan hym frayne,
'Where hadest ? garlond gayne?
It ys euer lyke newe.'
The wryght gan say 'felowe,
Wyth my wyfe, yf ?t knowe;
That dare me nott rewe;
For alle the whyle my wyfe trew ys,
My garlond wolle hold hewe I-wys,
And neuer falle nor fade;
And yf my wyfe take a paramoure,
Than wolle my garlond vade ?re,
That dare I ley myne hede.'
The proctoure ? 'in good faye
That schalle I wete thys same daye
Whether yt may so be.'
To the wryghtes hows he went,
He grete ? wyth feyre entente,
Sche seyd 'syr, welcome be ye.'
'A! dame, my loue ys on you fast
Syth the tyme I sawe you last;
I pray you yt may so be
That ye would graunt me of youre grace
To play wyth you in some priuy place,
Or ellys to deth mutt me.'
Fast ?toure gan to pray,
And euer to hym sche seyd 'naye,
That wolle I nott doo.
Hadest ?e ?e wyth me,
My spouse by hys garlond myght see,
That schuld torne me to woe.'
The proctoure seyd, 'by heuen kyng,
If he sey to the any ?> He schalle haue sorowe vnsowte;
Twenty marke I wolle ?,
It wolle ?e welle to lyue,
The mony here haue I brought.'
Nowe hath sche the tresure tane,
And vp ?re be they gane,
(What helpyth yt to lye?)
The wyfe went the steyre be-syde,
The proctoure went a lytylle to wyde
He felle downe by and by.
Whan he in to ?er felle,
He wente to haue sonke in to helle,
He was in hart fulle sory.
The stuard lokyd on the knyght,
And seyd 'proctoure, for godes myght,
Come and sytt vs by.'
The proctoure began to stare,
For he was he wyst neuer whare,
Butt wele he knewe ?ht
And the stuard ?ngelyd ?.
He seyd 'syres, for godes pyne,
What do ye here thys nyght?'
The stuard seyd, 'god geue the care,
Thowe camyst to loke howe we fare,
Nowe helpe ?e were dyght.'
He stode stylle in a gret ?
What to answer he wyst noght:
'By mary fulle of myght,'
The proctoure seyd, 'what do ye in ?br> For to bete thys wyfes lyne?
For Jhesus loue, fulle of myght,'
The proctoure seyd ryght as he ?
'For me yt schalle be euylle wrought
And I may see aryght,
For I lernyd neuer in londe
For to haue a swyngelle in hond
By day nor be nyght.'
The stuard seyd, 'as good as ? We hold vs that be here now,
And lett preue yt be syght;
Yet must vs worke for owre mete,
Or ellys schalle we none gete,
Mete nor drynke to owre honde.'
The lord seyd, 'why flyte ye two?
I trowe ye wylle werke or ye goo
Yf yt be as I vndyrstond.'
Abowte he goys twyes or thryes;
They ete & drynke in such wyse
That ?e hym ryght noght.
The proctoure seyd, 'thynke ye no schame,
Yheue me some mete, (ye be to blame,)
Of that the wyfe ye brought.'
The stuard seyd 'euylle spede the soppe
If eny morcelle come in thy throte
Butt ?h vs hadest wrought.'
The proctoure stode in a stody
Whether he myght worke hem by;
And so to torne hys ?
To the lord he drewe nere,
And to hym seyd wyth myld chere,
'That mary mott the spede.'
The proctoure began to knocke,
The good wyfe rawte hym a rocke,
For therto hadde sche nede;
Sche seyd 'whan I was mayde att home,
Other werke cowde I do none
My lyfe ther-wyth to lede.'
Sche gaue hym in hande a rocke hynde,
And bade hem fast for to wynde
Or ellys to lett be hys dede.
'Yes, dame,' he seyd, 'so haue I hele,
I schalle yt worke both feyre & welle
As ye haue taute me.'
He wauyd vp a strycke of lyne,
And he span wele and fyne
By-fore the swyngelle tre.
The lord seyd '?nnest to grete,
Therfor ?alt haue no mete,
That ?alt welle see.'
Thus ?t and wrought fast
Tylle ? dayes were past;
Then the wryght, home came he,
And as he cam by hys hows syde
He herd noyse that was not ryde
Of persons two or thre;
One of hem knockyd lyne,
A-nothyr swyngelyd good and fyne
By-fore the swyngylle tre,
The thyrde did rele and spynne,
Mete and drynke ther-wyth to wynne,
Gret nede ther-of hadde he.
Thus ?ht stode herkenyng;
Hys wyfe was ware of hys comyng,
And ageynst hym went sche.
'Dame,' he seyd, 'what ys ?ne?
I here gret noyse here wythynne;
Telle me, so god the spede.'
'Syr,' sche seyd, 'workemen thre
Be come to helpe you and me,
Ther-of we haue gret nede;
Fayne would I wete what they were.'
But when he sawe hys lord there,
Hys hert bygan to drede
To see hys lord in ?ce,
He ?yt was a strange cas,
And seyd, 'so god hym spede,
What do ye here, my lord and knyght?
Telle me nowe for godes myght
Howe cam thys vn-to?'
The knyght seyd 'What ys best rede?
Mercy I aske for my mysdede,
My hert ys wondyr wo.'
'So ys myne, verament,
To se you among thys flex and hempe,
Fulle sore yt ruyth me;
To se you in such hevynes,
Fulle sore myne hert yt doth oppresse,
By god in trinite.'
The wryght bade hys wyfe lett hym owte,
'Nay, ?owe come on my snowte
If they passe hens to-daye
Tylle that my lady come and see
Howe ?ld haue done wyth me,
Butt nowe late me saye.'
Anon sche sent after the lady bryght
For to fett home her lord and knyght,
Therto sche seyd noght;
Sche told her what they hadde ment,
And of ther purpos & ther intente
That they would haue wrought.
Glad was ?y of that tydyng;
When sche wyst her lord was lyuyng,
Ther-of sche was fulle fayne:
Whan sche came vn-to ?re abouen,
Sche lokyd vn-to ?er downe,
And seyd,-?nott to leyne,-
'Good syres, what doo you here?'
'Dame, we by owre mete fulle dere,
Wyth gret trauayle and peyne;
I pray you helpe ?were owte,
And I wylle swere wythowtyn dowte
Neuer to come here agayne.'
The lady spake the wyfe vn-tylle,
And seyd 'dame, yf yt be youre wylle,
What doo thes meyny here?'
The carpentarys wyfe her answerd sykerly,
'Alle they would haue leyne me by,
Euerych in ther manere,
Gold and syluer they me brought,
And forsoke yt, and would yt noght,
The ryche gyftes so clere.
Wyllyng ?e to do me schame,
I toke ther gyftes wyth-owtyn blame,
And ther they be alle thre.'
The lady answerd her anon,
'I haue thynges to do att home
Mo than two or thre;
I wyst my lord neuer do ryght noght
Of no ?t schuld be wrought,
Such as fallyth to me.'
The lady lawghed and made good game
Whan they came owte alle in-same
From the swyngylle tre.
The knyght seyd 'felowys in fere,
I am glad ?be here,
By godes dere pyte;
Dame, and ye hadde bene wyth vs,
Ye would haue wrought, by swete Ihesus,
As welle as dyd we.'
And when they cam vp abouen
They turnyd abowte and lokyd downe,
The lord seyd, 'so god saue me,
Yet hadde I neuer such a fytte
As I haue hadde in ?e pytte;
So mary so mutt me spede.'
The knyght and thys lady bryght,
Howe they would home that nyght,
For no thyng they would abyde;
And so they went home;
Thys seyd Adam of Cobsam.
By the weye as they rode
Throwe a wode in ther playeng,
For to here the fowlys syng
They hovyd stylle and bode.
The stuard sware by godes ore,
And so dyd the proctoure much more,
That neuer in ther lyfe
Would they no more come in ?ne
Whan they were onys thens come,
Thys forty yere and fyve.
Of the tresure that they brought
The lady would geue hem ryght noght,
Butt gaue yt to the wryghtes wyfe.
Thus the wryghtes garlond was feyre of hewe,
And hys wyfe bothe good and trewe:
There-of was he fulle blythe;
I take wytnes att gret and smalle,
Thus trewe bene good women alle
That nowe bene on lyve,
So come thryste on ther hedys
Whan they mombylle on ther bedys
Ther pater noster ryue.

Here ys wretyn a geste of the wryght
That hadde a garlond welle I-dyght,
The coloure wylle neuer fade.
Now god ?heuyn kyng
Graunt vs alle hys dere blessyng
Owre hertes for to glade;
And alle tho that doo her husbondys ryght,
Pray we to Ihesu fulle of myght,
That feyre mott hem byfalle,
And that they may come to heuen blys,
For thy dere moderys loue ther-of nott to mys,
Alle good wyues alle.
Now alle tho that thys tretys hath hard,
Ihesu graunt hem for her reward
As trew louers to be
As was the wryght vn-to hys wyfe
And sche to hym duryng her lyfe.
Amen, for charyte.

Here endyth the wryghtes processe trewe
Wyth hys garlond feyre of hewe
That neuer dyd fade the coloure.
It was made by the avyse
Of hys wywes moder wytty and wyse
Of flourys most of honoure,
Of roses whyte ?le nott fade,
Whych floure alle ynglond doth glade
Wyth trewloues medelyd in syght;
Vn-to the whych floure I-wys
The loue of god and of the comenys
Subdued bene of ryght.

EXPLICIT

poem by Anonymous Olde English
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Avowyng of Arthur

He that made us on the mulde,
And fair fourmet the folde,
Atte His will, as He wold,
The see and the sande,
Giffe hom joy that will here
Of dughti men and of dere,
Of haldurs that before us were,
That lifd in this londe.
One was Arther the Kinge,
Wythowtun any letting;
Wyth him was mony lordinge
Hardi of honde.
Wice and war ofte thay were,
Bold undur banere,
And wighte weppuns wold were,
And stifly wold stond.

This is no fantum ne no fabull;
Ye wote wele of the Rowun Tabull,
Of prest men and priveabull,
Was holdun in prise:
Chevetan of chivalry,
Kyndenesse and curtesy,
Hunting full warly,
As wayt men and wise.
To the forest thay fare
To hunte atte buk and atte bare,
To the herte and to the hare,
That bredus in the rise.
The King atte Carlele he lay;
The hunter cummys on a day -
Sayd, 'Sir, ther walkes in my way
A well grim gryse.
'He is a balefull bare -
Seche on segh I nevyr are:
He hase wroghte me mycull care
And hurte of my howundes,
Slayn hom downe slely
Wyth feghting full furcely.
Wasse ther none so hardi
Durste bide in his bandus.
On him spild I my spere
And mycull of my nothir gere.
Ther moue no dintus him dere,
Ne wurche him no wowundes.
He is masly made -
All offellus that he bade.
Ther is no bulle so brade
That in frith foundes.

'He is hegher thenne a horse,
That uncumly corse;
In fayth, him faylis no force
Quen that he schalle feghte!
And therto, blake as a bere,
Feye folk will he fere:
Ther may no dyntus him dere,
Ne him to dethe dighte.
Quen he quettus his tusshes,
Thenne he betus on the busshes:
All he rives and he russhes,
That the rote is unryghte.
He hase a laythelych luffe:
Quen he castus uppe his stuffe,
Quo durst abide him a buffe,
Iwisse he were wighte.'

He sais, 'In Ingulwode is hee.'
The tother biddus, 'Lette him bee.
We schall that Satnace see,
Giffe that he be thare.'
The King callut on knyghtis thre:
Himselvun wold the fuyrthe be.
He sayd, 'There schalle no mo mené
Wynde to the bore.'
Bothe Kay and Sir Gauan
And Bowdewynne of Bretan,
The hunter and the howundus squayn
Hase yarket hom yare.
The Kinge hase armut him in hie,
And tho thre buirnes hym bie;
Now ar thay fawre alle redie,
And furthe conne thay fare.

Unto the forest thay weynde
That was hardy and heynde.
The hunter atte the northe ende
His bugull con he blaw,
Uncoupult kenettis as he couthe;
Witturly thay soghte the southe -
Raches wyth opon mouthe
Rennyng on a raw
Funde fute of the bore,
Faste folutte to him thore.
Quen that he herd, he hade care;
To the denne conne he draw:
He sloghe hom downe slely
Wyth feghting full fuyrsly;
But witte ye, sirs, witturly,
He stode butte litull awe.

Thay held him fast in his hold;
He brittunt bercelettus bold,
Bothe the yunge and the old,
And rafte hom the rest.
The raches comun rennyng him by,
And bayet him full boldely,
Butte ther was non so hardy
Durste on the fynde fast.
Thenne the hunter sayd, 'Lo, him thare!
Yaw thar, such him no mare!
Now may ye sone to him fare;
Lette see quo dose beste.
Yaw thar, such him nevyr more!
Butte sette my hed opon a store
Butte giffe he flaey yo all fawre,
That griselich geste!'

Thenne the hunter turnes home agayn.
The King callut on Sir Gauan,
On Bawdewin of Bretan,
And on kene Kay.
He sayd, 'Sirs, in your cumpany,
Myne avow make I:
Were he nevyr so hardy,
Yone Satenas to say -
To brittun him and downe bringe,
Wythoute any helpinge,
And I may have my levynge
Hen till tomorne atte day!
And now, sirs, I cummaunde yo
To do as I have done nowe:
Ichone make your avowe.'
Gladdely grawuntutte thay.

Then unsquarut Gauan
And sayd godely agayn,
'I avowe, to Tarne Wathelan,
To wake hit all nyghte.'
'And I avow,' sayd Kaye,
'To ride this forest or daye,
Quoso wernes me the waye,
Hym to dethe dighte.'
Quod Baudewyn, 'To stynte owre strife,
I avow bi my life
Nevyr to be jelus of my wife,
Ne of no birde bryghte;
Nere werne no mon my mete
Quen I gode may gete;
Ne drede my dethe for no threte
Nauthir of king ner knyghte.'
Butte now thay have thayre vowes made,
Thay buskutte hom and furth rade
To hold that thay heghte hade,
Ichone sere way.
The King turnus to the bore;
Gauan, wythoutun any more,
To the tarne con he fore,
To wake hit to day.
Thenne Kay, as I conne roune,
He rode the forest uppe and downe.
Boudewynne turnes to toune
Sum that his gate lay,
And sethun to bed bownus he;
Butte carpe we now of ther othir thre,
How thay prevyd hor wedde-fee,
The sothe for to say.

Furst, to carpe of oure Kinge,
Hit is a kyndelich thinge -
Atte his begynnyng,
Howe he dedde his dede.
Till his houndus con he hold;
The bore, wyth his brode schilde,
Folut hom fast in the filde
And spillutte hom on gode spede.
Then the Kinge con crye,
And carputte of venerie
To make his howundus hardi -
Hovut on a stede.
Als sone as he come thare,
Agaynus him rebowndet the bare:
He se nevyr no syghte are
So sore gerutte him to drede.

He hade drede and doute
Of him that was stirrun and stowte;
He began to romy and rowte,
And gapes and gones.
Men myghte noghte his cowch kenne
For howundes and for slayn men
That he hade draun to his denne
And brittunt all to bonus.
Thenne his tusshes con he quette,
Opon the Kinge for to sette;
He liftis uppe, wythoutun lette,
Stokkes and stonis.
Wyth wrathe he begynnus to wrote:
He ruskes uppe mony a rote
Wyth tusshes of thre fote,
So grisly he gronus.

Thenne the Kinge spanos his spere
Opon that bore for to bere;
Ther may no dyntus him dere,
So sekir was his schilde.
The grete schafte that was longe
All to spildurs hit spronge;
The gode stede that was stronge
Was fallun in the filde.
As the bore had mente,
He gave the King such a dinte,
Or he myghte his bridull hente,
That he myghte evyr hit fele.
His stede was stonet starke ded:
He sturd nevyr owte of that sted.
To Jhesu a bone he bede,
Fro wothes hym weylde.

Thenne the King in his sadul sete,
And wightely wan on his fete.
He prays to Sayn Margarete
Fro wathes him ware;
Did as a dughty knyghte -
Brayd oute a brand bryghte
And heve his schild opon highte,
For spild was his spere.
Sethun he buskette him yare,
Squithe, wythoutun any mare,
Agaynus the fynde for to fare
That hedoes was of hiere.
So thay cowunturt in the fild:
For all the weppuns that he myghte weld,
The bore brittunt his schild
On brest he conne bere.

There downe knelus he
And prayus till Him that was so fre:
'Send me the victoré!
This Satanas me sekes.'
All wroth wex that sqwyne,
Blu, and brayd uppe his bryne;
As kylne other kechine,
Thus rudely he rekes.
The Kynge myghte him noghte see,
Butte lenyt hym doune bi a tree,
So nyghe discumford was hee
For smelle other smekis.
And as he neghet bi a noke,
The King sturenly him stroke,
That both his brees con blake;
His maistry he mekes.

Thus his maistry mekes he
Wyth dyntus that werun dughté.
Were he nevyr so hardé,1
Thus bidus that brothe.
The Kinge, wyth a nobull brande,
He mette the bore comande:
On his squrd, till his hande,
He rennes full rathe.
He bare him inne atte the throte:
He hade no myrth of that mote -
He began to dotur and dote
Os he hade keghet scathe.
Wyth sit siles he adowne.
To brittun him the King was bowne,
And sundurt in that sesun
His brode schildus bothe.

The King couthe of venery:
Colurt him full kyndely.
The hed of that hardy
He sette on a stake.
Sethun brittuns he the best
As venesun in forest;
Bothe the thonge and lees
He hongus on a noke.
There downe knelys hee
That loves hur that is free;
Sayd, 'This socur thou hase send me
For thi Sune sake!'
If he were in a dale depe,
He hade no knyghte him to kepe.
Forwerré, slidus he on slepe:
No lengur myghte he wake.

The King hase fillut his avowe.
Of Kay carpe we nowe -
How that he come for his prowe
Ye schall here more.
Als he rode in the nyghte
In the forest he mette a knyghte
Ledand a birde bryghte;
Ho wepputte wundur sore.
Ho sayd, 'Sayn Maré myghte me spede
And save me my madunhede,
And giffe the knyghte for his dede
Bothe soro and care!'

Thus ho talkes him tille
Quille ho hade sayd all hur wille;
And Kay held him full stille,
And in the holte hoves.
He prekut oute prestely
And aurehiet him radly,
And on the knyghte conne cry,
And pertely him reproves,
And sayd, 'Recraiand knyghte,
Here I profur the to fighte
Be chesun of that biurde brighte!
I bede the my glovus.'
The tother unsquarut him wyth skille
And sayd, 'I am redy atte thi wille
That forward to fulfille
In alle that me behovus.'

'Now, quethen art thou?' quod Kay,
'Or quethur is thou on way?
Thi righte name thou me say!
Quere wan thou that wighte?'
The tother unsquarut him agayn:
'Mi righte name is noghte to layn:
Sir Menealfe of the Mountayn
My gode fadur highte.
And this Lady sum I the telle:
I fochet hur atte Ledelle,
Ther hur frindus con I felle
As foes in a fighte.
So I talket hom tille
That muche blode conne I spille,
And all agaynus thayre awne wille
There wan I this wighte.'

Quod Kay, 'The batell I take
Be chesun of the birdus sake,
And I schalle wurch the wrake' -
And sqwithely con squere.
Thenne thay rode togedur ryghte
As frekes redy to fighte
Be chesun of that birde bryghte,
Gay in hor gere.
Menealfe was the more myghty:
He stroke Kay stifly -
Witte ye, sirs, witturly -
Wyth a scharpe spere.
All toschildurt his schilde,
And aure his sadull gerut him to held,
And felle him flatte in the filde,
And toke him uppeon werre.

Thus hase he wonun Kay on werre,
And all tospild is his spere,
And mekill of his othir gere
Is holden to the pees.
Thenne unsquarut Kay agayn
And sayd, 'Sir, atte Tarne Wathelan
Bidus me Sir Gauan,
Is derwurthe on dese;
Wold ye thethur be bowne
Or ye turnut to the towne,
He wold pay my rawunsone
Wythowtyn delees.'
He sayd, 'Sir Kay, thi lyfe I the heghte
For a cowrce of that knyghte!'
Yette Menealfe, or the mydnyghte,
Him ruet all his rees.

Thus thay turnut to the Torne
Wyth the thrivand thorne.
Kay callut on Gauan yorne;
Asshes, 'Quo is there?'
He sayd, 'I, Kay, that thou knawes
That owte of tyme bostus and blawus;
Butte thou me lese wyth thi lawes,
I lif nevyr more.
For as I rode in the nyghte,
In the forest I mette a knyghte
Ledand a birde bryghte;
Ho wepput wundur sore.
There togedur faghte we
Be chesun of that Lady free;
On werre thus hase he wonun me,
Gif that me lothe ware.

'This knyghte that is of renowun
Hase takyn me to presowun,
And thou mun pay my rawunsun,
Gawan, wyth thi leve.'
Then unsquarutte Gauan
And sayd godely agayn,
'I wille, wundur fayne:
Quatt schall I geve?'
'Quen thou art armut in thi gere,
Take thi schild and thi spere
And ride to him a course on werre;
Hit schall the noghte greve.'
Gauan asshes, 'Is hit soe?' -
The tother knyght grauntus, 'Yoe';
He sayd, 'Then togedur schull we goe
Howsumevyr hit cheve!'

And these knyghtus kithun hor crafte,
And aythir gripus a schafte
Was als rude as a rafte;
So runnun thay togedur.
So somun conne thay hie
That nauthir scaput forbye;
Gif Menealfe was the more myghtie,
Yette dyntus gerut him to dedur:
He stroke him sadde and sore.
Squithe squonut he thore;
The blonke him aboute bore,
Wiste he nevyr quedur.
Quod Kay, 'Thou hase that thou hase soghte!
Mi raunnsun is all redy boghte;
Gif thou were ded, I ne roghte!
Forthi come I hedur.'

Thus Kay scornus the knyghte,
And Gauan rydus to him ryghte.
In his sadul sette him on highte,
Speke gif he may.
Of his helme con he draw,
Lete the wynde on him blaw;
He speke wyth a vois law -
'Delyveryt hase thou Kay.
Wyth thi laa hase made him leyce,
Butte him is lothe to be in pece.
And thou was aye curtase
And prins of ich play.
Wold thou here a stowunde bide,
A nother course wold I ride;
This that hoves by my side,
In wedde I wold hur lay.'

Thenne unsquarut Gauan,
Sayd godely agayn,
'I am wundur fayn
For hur for to fighte.'
These knyghtus kithun thayre gere
And aythir gripus a spere;
Runnun togedur on werre
Os hardy and wighte.
So somen ther thay yode
That Gauan bare him from his stede,
That both his brees con blede
On growunde qwen he lighte.
Thenne Kay con on him calle
And sayd, 'Sir, thou hade a falle,
And thi wench lost wythalle,
Mi trauthe I the plighte!'

Quod Kay, 'Thi leve hase thou loste
For all thi brag or thi boste;
If thou have oghte on hur coste,
I telle hit for tente.'
Thenne speke Gauan to Kay,
'A mons happe is notte ay;
Is none so sekur of asay
Butte he may harmes hente.'
Gauan rydus to him ryghte
And toke uppe the tother knyghte
That was dilfully dyghte
And stonet in that stynte.
Kay wurdus tenut him mare
Thenne all the harmes that he hente thare;
He sayd, 'And we allone ware,
This stryf schuld I stynte.'

'Ye, hardely,' quod Kay;
'Butte thou hast lost thi fayre may
And thi liffe, I dar lay.'
Thus talkes he him tille.
And Gauan sayd, 'God forbede,
For he is dughti in dede.'
Prayes the knyghte gud spede
To take hit to none ille
If Kay speke wurdes kene.
'Take thou this damesell schene;
Lede hur to Gaynour the Quene,
This forward to fulfille;
And say that Gawan, hur knyghte,
Sende hur this byurde brighte;
And rawunsun the anon righte
Atte hur awne wille.'

Therto grawuntus the knyghte
And truly his trauthe plighte,
Inne saveward that byurde bryghte
To Carlele to bringe.
And as thay hovet and abode,
He squere on the squrd brode.
Be he his othe hade made,
Thenne waknut the King.
Thenne the day beganne to daw;
The Kinge his bugull con blaw;
His knyghtus couth hitte welle knaw,
Hit was a sekur thinge.
Sethun thay busket hom yare,
Sqwith, wythowtun any mare,
To wete the Kingus welefare,
Wythowtun letting.

PRIMUS PASSUS

To the forest thay take the way -
Bothe Gawan and Kay,
Menealfe, and the fare may
Comun to the Kinge.
The bore brittunt thay funde,
Was colurt of the Kingus hande;
If he wore lord of that londe,
He hade no horsing.
Downe thay take that birde bryghte,
Sette hur one, behinde the knyghte;
Hur horse for the King was dyghte,
Wythoutun letting;
Gave Kay the venesun to lede,
And hiet hamward, gode spede;
Bothe the birde and the brede
To Carlele thay bringe.

Now as thay rode atte the way,
The Kynge himselvun con say
Bothe to Gauan and to Kay,
'Quere wan ye this wighte?'
Thenne Kay to the King spake;
He sayd, 'Sir, in the forest as I con wake
Atte the anturis hoke,
Ther mette me this knyghte.
Ther togedur faghte we
Be chesun of this Lady fre;
On werre hase he thus wonun me,
Wyth mayn and wyth myghte.
And Gawan hase my rawunsun made
For a course that he rode
And felle him in the fild brode;
He wanne this biurde bryghte.

'He toke him there to presunnere' -
Then loghe that damesell dere
And lovet wyth a mylde chere
God and Sir Gawan.
Thenne sayd the King opon highte,
All sqwithe to the knyghte,
'Quat is thi rawunsun, opon ryghte?
The soth thou me sayn.'
The tothir unsquarut him wyth skille,
'I conne notte say the thertille:
Hit is atte the Quene wille;
Qwi schuld I layne?
Bothe my dethe and my lyfe
Is inne the wille of thi wife,
Quethur ho wulle stynte me of my strife
Or putte me to payne.'

'Grete God,' quod the King,
'Gif Gawan gode endinge,
For he is sekur in alle kynne thinge,
To cowuntur wyth a knyghte!
Of all playus he berus the prise,
Loos of ther ladise.
Menealfe, and thou be wise,
Hold that thou beheghte,
And I schall helpe that I maye,'
The King himselvun con saye.
To Carlele thay take the waye,
And inne the courte is lighte.
He toke this damesell gente;
Before the Quene is he wente,
And sayd, 'Medame, I am hedur sente
Fro Gawan, your knyghte.'

He sayd, 'Medame, Gawan, your knyghte,
On werre hase wonun me tonyghte,
Be chesun of this birde brighte;
Mi pride conne he spille,
And gerut me squere squyftely
To bringe the this Lady
And my nowne body,
To do hit in thi wille.
And I have done as he me bade.'
Now quod the Quene, 'And I am glad.
Sethun thou art in my wille stade,
To spare or to spille,
I giffe the to my Lord the Kinge -
For he hase mestur of such a thinge,
Of knyghtus in a cowunturinge -
This forward to fullfille.'

Now the Quene sayd, 'God almyghte,
Save me Gawan, my knyghte,
That thus for wemen con fighte -
Fro wothus him were!'
Gawan sayd, 'Medame, as God me spede,
He is dughti of dede,
A blithe burne on a stede,
And grayth in his gere.'
Thenne thay fochet furth a boke,
All thayre laes for to loke;
The Kinge sone his othe toke
And squithely gerut him squere;
And sekirly, wythouten fabull,
Thus dwellus he atte the Rowun Tabull,
As prest knyghte and priveabull,
Wyth schild and wyth spere.

Nowe gode frindus ar thay.
Then carpus Sir Kay -
To the King con he say:
'Sire, a mervaell thinke me
Of Bowdewyns avouyng,
Yusturevyn in the evnyng,
Wythowtun any lettyng,
Wele more thenne we thre.'
Quod the King, 'Sothe to sayn,
I kepe no lengur for to layn:
I wold wete wundur fayn
How best myghte be.'
Quod Kay, 'And ye wold gif me leve,
And sithun take hit o no greve,
Now schuld I propurly preve,
As evyr myghte I thee!'

'Yisse,' quod the King, 'on that comande,
That o payn on life and on londe
That ye do him no wrunge,
Butte save wele my knyghte.
As men monly him mete,
And sithun forsette him the strete:
Ye fynde him noghte on his fete!
Be warre, for he is wyghte.
For he is horsutte full wele
And clene clad in stele;
Is none of yo but that he mun fele
That he may on lyghte.
Ye wynnun him noghte owte of his way,'
The King himselvun con say;
'Him is lefe, I dar lay,
To hald that he heghte.'

Thenne sex ar atte on assente,
Hase armut hom and furthe wente,
Brayd owte aure a bente
Bawdewyn to mete,
Wyth scharpe weppun and schene,
Gay gowuns of grene
To hold thayre armur clene,
And were hitte fro the wete.
Thre was sette on ich side
To werne him the wayus wide -
Quere the knyghte schuld furth ride,
Forsette hym the strete.
Wyth copus covert thay hom thenne,
Ryghte as thay hade bene uncowthe men,
For that thay wold noghte be kennet -
Evyn downe to thayre fete.

Now as thay hovut and thay hyild,
Thay se a schene undur schild
Come prekand fast aure the filde
On a fayre stede;
Wele armut, and dyghte
As freke redy to fyghte,
Toward Carlele ryghte
He hies gode spede.
He see ther sixe in his way;
Thenne to thaymselvun con thay say,
'Now he is ferd, I dar lay,
And of his lyfe adrede.'
Then Kay crius opon heghte,
All squyth to the knyghte:
'Othir flee or fighte:
The tone behovus the nede!'

Thenne thay kest thayre copus hom fro.
Sir Bawdewyn se that hit wasse so,
And sayd, 'And ye were als mony mo,
Ye gerutte me notte to flee.
I have my ways for to weynde
For to speke wyth a frynde;
As ye ar herdmen hinde -
Ye marre notte me!'
Thenne the sex sembult hom in fere
And squere by Him that boghte us dere,
'Thou passus nevyr away here
Butte gif thou dede be!'
'Yisse, hardely,' quod Kay,
'He may take anothir way -
And ther schall no mon do nere say
That schall greve the!'

'Gode the foryilde,' quod the knyghte,
'For I am in my wais righte;
Yisturevyn I the King highte
To cumme to my mete.
I warne yo, frekes, be ye bold,
My ryghte ways wille I holde!'
A spere in fewtre he folde,
A gode and a grete.
Kay stode nexte him in his way:
He jopput him aure on his play;
That hevy horse on him lay -
He squonet in that squete.
He rode to there othir fyve:
Thayre schene schildus con he rive,
And faure felle he belyve,
In hie in that hete.

Hardely wythouten delay,
The sex to hom hase takyn uppe Kay;
And thenne Sir Bawdewin con say,
'Will ye any more?'
The tother unsquarutte him thertille,
Sayd, 'Thou may weynd quere thou wille,
For thou hase done us noghte butte skille,
Gif we be wowundut sore.'
He brayd aure to the Kinge,
Wythowtun any letting;
He asshed if he hade herd any tithing
In thayre holtus hore.
The knyghte stedit and stode;
Sayd, 'Sir, as I come thro yondur wode,
I herd ne se butte gode
Quere I schuld furthe fare.'

Thanne was the Kinge amervaylet thare
That he wold telle him no more.
Als squithur thay ar yare,
To Masse ar thay wente.
By the Masse wasse done,
Kay come home sone,
Told the King before none,
'We ar all schente
Of Sir Baudewyn, your knyghte:
He is nobull in the fighte,
Bold, hardy, and wighte
To bide on a bente.
Fle wille he nevyr more:
Him is much levyr dee thore.
I may banne hur that him bore,
Suche harmes have I hente!'

Noue the King sayd, 'Fle he ne can,
Ne werne his mete to no man;
Gife any buirne schuld him ban,
A mervail hit ware.'
Thenne the King cald his mynstrelle
And told him holly his wille:
Bede him layne atte hit were stille,
That he schuld furth fare
To Baudewins of Bretan:
'I cummawunde the, or thou cum agayne,
Faurty days, o payne,
Loke that thou duelle there,
And wete me prevely to say
If any mon go meteles away;
For thi wareson for ay,
Do thou me nevyr more.'

Then the mynstrell weyndus on his way
Als fast as he may.
Be none of the thryd day,
He funde thaym atte the mete,
The Lady and hur mené
And gestus grete plenté.
Butte porter none funde he
To werne him the gate;
Butte rayket into the halle
Emunge the grete and the smalle,
And loket aboute him aure alle.
He herd of no threte,
Butte riall servys and fyne:
In bollus birlutte thay the wyne,
And cocus in the kechine
Squytheli con squete.

Then the Ladi conne he loute,
And the biurdes all aboute;
Both wythinne and wythoute,
No faute he ther fonde.
Knygte, squyer, yoman, ne knave,
Hom lacket noghte that thay schuld have;
Thay nedut notte aftur hit to crave:
Hit come to hor honde.
Thenne he wente to the dece,
Before the pruddust in prece.
That Lady was curtase,
And bede him stille stonde.
He sayd he was knoun and couthe,
And was comun fro bi southe,
And ho had myrth of his mouthe,
To here his tithand.

A sennyght duellut he thare.
Ther was no spense for to spare:
Burdes thay were nevyr bare,
Butte evyr covurt clene.
Bothe knyghte and squiere,
Mynstrelle and messyngere,
Pilgreme and palmere
Was welcum, I wene.
Ther was plenty of fode:
Pore men hade thayre gode,
Mete and drinke or thay yode,
To wete wythoutyn wene.
The lord lenge wold noghte,
Butte come home qwen him gode thoghte,
And both he hase wyth him broghte
The Kinge and the Quene.

A FITTE

Now ther come fro the kechine
Riall service and fine;
Ther was no wonting of wine
To lasse ne to mare.
Thay hade atte thayre sopere
Riche metes and dere.
The King, wyth a blythe chere,
Bade hom sle care.
Than sayd the Kinge opon highte,
All sqwithe to the knyghte:
'Such a service on a nyghte
Se I nevyr are.'
Thenne Bawdewyn smylit and on him logh;
Sayd, 'Sir, God hase a gud plughe!
He may send us all enughe:
Qwy schuld we spare?'

'Now I cummawunde the,' quod the King,
'Tomorne in the mornyng
That thou weynde on huntyng,
To wynne us the dere.
Fare furthe to the fenne;
Take wyth the howundus and men,
For thou conne hom best kenne:
Thou knoes best here.
For all day tomorne will I bide,
And no forthir will I ride,
Butte wyth the ladés of pride
To make me gud chere.'
To bed bownut thay that nyghte,
And atte the morun, atte days lighte,
Thay blew hornys opon highte
And ferd furthe in fere.

Thenne the Kynge cald his huntere,
And sayd, 'Felaw, come here!'
The tother, wyth a blithe chere,
Knelet on his kne:
Dowun to the Kinge con he lowte.
'I commawunde the to be all nyghte oute;
Bawdewyn, that is sturun and stowte,
Wyth the schall he be.
Erly in the dawyng
Loke that ye come fro huntyng;
If ye no venesun bring,
Full litill rechs me.'
The tother unsquarut him thertille,
Sayd, 'Sir, that is atte your aune wille:
That hald I resun and skille,
As evyr myghte I the.'

And atte evyn the King con him dyghte
And callut to him a knyghte;
And to the chambur full ryghte
He hiees gode waye
Qwere the Lady of the howse
And maydyns ful beuteowse
Were, curtase and curiowse,
Forsothe in bed lay.
The Kyng bede, 'Undo!'
The Lady asshes, 'Querto?'
He sayd, 'I am comun here, loe,
In derne for to play.'
Ho sayd, 'Have ye notte your aune Quene here,
And I my lord to my fere?
Tonyghte more neghe ye me nere,
In fayth, gif I may!'

'Undo the dur,' quod the Kinge,
'For bi Him that made all thinge,
Thou schall have no harmynge
Butte in thi none wille.'
Uppe rose a damesell squete,
In the Kinge that ho lete.
He sette him downe on hur beddus fete,
And talkes so hur tille,
Sayd, 'Medame, my knyghte
Mun lye wyth the all nyghte
Til tomorne atte days lighte -
Take hit on non ille.
For als evyr myghte I the,
Thou schall harmeles be:
We do hit for a wedde fee,
The stryve for to stylle.'

Thenne the Kyng sayd to his knyghte,
'Sone that thou were undyghte,
And in yondur bedde ryghte!
Hie the gud spede!'
The knyghte did as he him bade,
And qwenne ho se him unclad,
Then the Lady wex drede,
Worlyke in wede.
He sayd, 'Lye downe prevely hur by,
Butte neghe noghte thou that Lady;
For and thou do, thou schall dey
For thi derfe dede;
Ne noghte so hardy thou stur,
Ne onus turne the to hur.'
The tother sayd, 'Nay, sur!'
For him hade he drede.

Thenne the Kyng asshet a chekkere,
And cald a damesel dere;
Downe thay sette hom in fere
Opon the bedsyde.
Torches was ther mony lighte,
And laumpus brennyng full bryghte;
Butte notte so hardy was that knyghte
His hede onus to hide.
Butte fro thay began to play
Quyle on the morun that hit was day,
Evyr he lokette as he lay,
Baudewynne to byde.
And erly in the dawyng
Come thay home from huntyng,
And hertis conne thay home bring,
And buckes of pride.

Thay toke this venesun fyne
And hade hit to kechine;
The Kinge sende aftur Bawdewine,
And bede him cum see.
To the chaumbur he takes the way:
He fyndus the King atte his play;
A knyghte in his bedde lay
Wyth his Lady.
Thenne sayd the King opon highte,
'Tonyghte myssutte I my knyghte,
And hithir folut I him ryghte.
Here funden is hee;
And here I held hom bothe stille
For to do hom in thi wille.
And gif thou take hit now till ille,
No selcouthe thinge me!'

Then the King asshed, 'Art thou wroth?'
'Nay, Sir,' he sayd, 'wythouten othe,
Ne wille the Lady no lothe.
I telle yo as quy -
For hitte was atte hur awen wille:
Els thurt no mon comun hur tille.
And gif I take hitte thenne to ille,
Muche maugreve have I.
For mony wyntur togedur we have bene,
And yette ho dyd me nevyr no tene:
And ich syn schall be sene
And sette full sorely.'
The King sayd, 'And I hade thoghte
Quy that thou wrathis the noghte,
And fyndus him in bed broghte
By thi Laydy.'

Quod Bawdewyn, 'And ye will sitte,
I schall do yo wele to witte.'
'Yisse!' quod the King, 'I the hete,
And thou will noghte layne.'
'Hit befelle in your fadur tyme,
That was the Kyng of Costantyne,
Purvayed a grete oste and a fyne
And wente into Spayne.
We werrut on a sawdan
And all his londus we wan,
And himselvun, or we blan.
Then were we full fayn.
I wos so lufd wyth the King,
He gaf me to my leding -
Lordus atte my bidding
Was buxum and bayne.

'He gafe me a castell to gete,
Wyth all the lordschippus grete.
I hade men atte my mete,
Fyve hundryth and mo,
And no wemen butte thre,
That owre servandis schild be.
One was bryghtur of ble
Then ther othir toe.
Toe were atte one assente:
The thrid felow have thay hente;
Unto a well ar thay wente,
And says hur allso:
'Sithin all the loce in the lise,
Thou schall tyne thine aprise.'
And wurchun as the unwise,
And tite conne hur sloe.

'And for tho werkes were we wo,
Gart threte tho othir for to slo.
Thenne sayd the tone of tho,
'Lette us have oure life,
And we schall atte your bidding be
As mycull as we all thre;
Is none of yaw in preveté
Schall have wontyng of wyfe.'
Thay held us wele that thay heghte,
And dighte us on the daylighte,
And thayre body uch nyghte,
Wythoutun any stryve.
The tone was more lovely
That the tother hade envy:
Hur throte in sundur prevely
Ho cutte hitte wyth a knyfe.

'Muche besenes hade we
How that best myghte be;
Thay asshed cowuncell atte me
To do hur to dede.
And I unsquarut and sayd, 'Nay!
Loke furst qwatt hurselvun will say,
Quether ho may serve us all to pay;
That is a bettur rede.'
Ther ho hette us in that halle
To do all that a woman schild fall,
Wele for to serve us all
That stode in that stede.
Ho held us wele that ho heghte,
And dighte us on the daylighte,
And hur body ich nyghte
Intill oure bed beed.

'And bi this tale I understode,
Wemen that is of mylde mode
And syne giffes hom to gode,
Mecull may ho mende;
And tho that giffus hom to the ille,
And sithin thayre folis will fullfill,
I telle yo wele, be propur skille,
No luffe will inne hom lende.
Wyth gode wille grathely hom gete,2
Meke and mylde atte hor mete,
And thryvandly, wythoutun threte,
Joy atte iche ende.
Forthi jelius schall I never be
For no sighte that I see,
Ne no biurdes brighte of ble;
Ich ertheli thinke hase ende.'

The King sayd, 'Thou says wele.
Sir,' he sayd, 'as have I sele,
I will thou wote hit iche dele.
Therfore come I,
Thi Lady gret me to squere squyftelé,
Or I myghte gete entré,
That ho schuld harmeles be,
And all hur cumpany.
Then gerut I my knyghte
To go in bed wyth the biurde bryghte,
On the fur syde of the lighte,
And lay hur dowun by.
I sette me doune hom besyde,
Here the for to abide;
He neghit nevyr no naked syde
Of thi Lady.

'Forthi, of jelusnes, be thou bold,3
Thine avow may thou hold.
Butte of tho othir thinges that thou me told
I wold wete more:
Quy thou dredus notte thi dede
Ne non that bitus on thi brede?
As evyr brok I my hede,
Thi yatis are evyr yare!'
Quod Bawdewyn, 'I schall yo telle:
Atte the same castell
Quere this antur befelle,
Besegitte we ware.
On a day we usshet oute
And toke presonerus stoute;
The tone of owre feloys hade doute,
And durst notte furthe fare.

'The caytef crope into a tunne
That was sette therowte in the sunne.
And there come fliand a gunne,
And lemet as the levyn,
Lyghte opon hitte, atte the last,
That was fastnut so fast;
All in sundur hit brast,
In six or in sevyn.
And there hit sluye him als -
And his hert was so fals!
Sone the hed fro the hals,
Hit lyputt full evyn.
And we come fro the feghting
Sowunde, wythoutun hurting,
And then we lovyd the King
That heghhest was in hevyn.

'Then owre feloys con say,
'Schall no mon dee or his day,
Butte he cast himselfe away
Throgh wontyng of witte.'
And there myne avow made I -
So dyd all that cumpany -
For dede nevyr to be drery:
Welcum is hit -
Hit is a kyndely thing.'
'Thou says soth,' quod the King,
'Butte of thi thryd avowyng
Telle me quych is hit,
Quy thi mete thou will notte warne
To no levand barne?'
'Ther is no man that may hit tharne -
Lord, ye schall wele wete.

'For the sege aboute us lay stille;
We hade notte all atte oure wille4
Mete and drinke us to fille:
Us wontutte the fode.
So come in a messyngere,
Bade, 'Yild uppe all that is here!'
And speke wyth a sturun schere5
'I nyll, by the Rode!'
I gerutte him bide to none,
Callud the stuard sone,
Told him all as he schuld done,
As counsell is gud;
Gerutte trumpe on the wall,
And coverd burdes in the hall;
And I myself emunge hom all
As a king stode.

'I gerut hom wasshe; to mete wente.
Aftur the stuard then I sente:
I bede that he schuld take entente
That all schuld well fare -
Bede bringe bred plenté,
And wine in bollus of tre,
That no wontyng schuld be
To lasse ne to mare.
We hade no mete butte for on day -
Hit come in a nobull aray.
The messyngere lokit ay
And se hom sle care.
He toke his leve atte mete.
We gerutte him drinke atte the gate,
And gafe him giftus grete,
And furthe con he fare.

'But quen the messyngere was gone,
These officers ichone
To me made thay grete mone,
And drerely con say -
Sayd, 'In this howse is no bred,
No quyte wine nyf red;
Yo behoves yild uppe this stid
And for oure lyvys pray.'
Yette God helpus ay his man!
The messyngere come agayn than
Wythoute to the chevytan,
And sone conne he say:
'Thoghe ye sege this sevyn yere,
Castell gete ye none here,
For thay make als mury chere
Als hit were Yole Day!'

'Then the messyngere con say,
'I rede yo, hie yo hethin away,
For in your oste is no play,
Butte hongur and thurst.'
Thenne the king con his knyghtis calle.
Sethin to cowunsell wente thay all -
'Sythin no bettur may befall,
This hald I the best.'
Evyn atte the mydnyghte,
Hor lordis sembelet to a syghte,
That were hardy and wighte:
Thay remuyt of hor rest.
Mete laynes mony lakke:
And there mete hor sege brake,
And gerut hom to giffe us the bake;
To preke thay were full preste.

'And then we lokit were thay lay
And see oure enmeys away.
And then oure felawis con say,
The lasse and the mare,
'He that gode may gete
And wernys men of his mete,
Gud Gode that is grete
Gif him sory care!
For the mete of the messyngere,
Hit mendutte all oure chere.''
Then sayd the King, that thay myghte here,
And sqwythely con square,
'In the conne we fynde no fabull;
Thine avowes arne profetabull.'
And thus recordus the Rownde Tabull,
The lasse and the more.

Thenne the Kinge and his knyghtis all,
Thay madun myrthe in that halle.
And then the Lady conne thay calle,
The fayrist to fold;
Sayde Bawdewyn, 'And thou be wise,
Take thou this Lady of price -
For muche love in hur lyce -
To thine hert hold.
Ho is a biurde full bryghte,
And therto semely to thy sighte.
And thou hase holdin all that thou highte,
As a knighte schulde!'
Now Jhesu Lord, Hevyn Kynge,
He graunt us all His blessynge,
And gife us all gode endinge,
That made us on the mulde.

Amen.

poem by Anonymous Olde English
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Robin Hood and the Potter

Fitt I.
In schomer, when the leves spryng,
The bloschoms on every bowe,
So merey doyt the berdys syng
Yn wodys merey now.

Herkens, god yemen,
Comley, corteys, and god,
On of the best that yever bare bowe,
Hes name was Roben Hode.

Roben Hood was the yemans name,
That was boyt corteys and fre;
For the loffe of owre ladey,
All wemen werschepyd he.

Bot as the god yeman stod on a day,
Among hes mery maney,
He was ware of a prowd potter,
Cam dryfyng owyr the leye.

'Yonder comet a prod potter,' seyde Roben,
'That long hayt hantyd this wey;
He was never so corteys a man
On peney of pawage to pay.'

'Y met hem bot at Wentbreg,' seyde Lytyll John,
'And therefore yeffell mot he the!
Seche thre strokes he me gafe,
Yet by my seydys cleffe they.

Y ley forty shillings,' seyde Lytyll John,
'To pay het thes same day,
Ther ys nat a man among hus all
A wed schall make hem leye.'

'Here ys forty shillings,' seyde Roben,
'More, and thow dar say,
That Y schall make that prowde potter,
A wed to me schall he ley.'

There thes money they leyde,
They toke het a yeman to kepe;
Roben beffore the potter he breyde,
And bad hem stond stell.

Handys apon hes hors he leyde,
And bad the potter stonde foll stell;
The potter schorteley to hem seyde,
'Felow, what ys they well?'

'All thes thre yer, and more, potter,' he seyde,
'Thow hast hantyd thes wey,
Yet were tow never so cortys a man
On peney of pavage to pay.'

'What ys they name,' seyde the potter,
'For pavage thow aske of me?'
'Roben Hod ys mey name,
A wed schall thow leffe me.'

'Wed well y non leffe,' seyde the potter,
'Nor pavag well Y non pay;
Awey they honde fro mey hors!
Y well the tene eyls, be mey fay.'

The potter to hes cart he went,
He was not to seke;
A god to-hande staffe therowt he hent,
Beffore Roben he leppyd.

Roben howt with a swerd bent,
A bokeler en hes honde;
The potter to Roben he went,
And seyde, 'Felow, let mey hors go.'

Togeder then went thes to yemen,
Het was a god seyt to se;
Thereof low Robyn hes men,
There they stod onder a tre.

Leytell John to hes felow he seyde,
'Yend potter well steffeley stonde':
The potter, with an acward stroke,
Smot the bokeler owt of hes honde.

And ar Roben meyt get het agen
Hes bokeler at hes fette,
The potter yn the neke hem toke,
To the gronde sone he yede.

That saw Roben hes men,
As they stod onder a bow;
'Let us helpe owre master,' seyde Lytell John,
'Yonder potter,' seyde he, 'els well hem slo.'

Thes wight yemen with a breyde,
To thes master they cam.
Leytell John to hes master seyde,
'Ho haet the wager won?

'Schall Y haffe yowre forty shillings,' seyde Lytl John,
'Or ye, master, schall haffe myne?'
'Yeff they were a hundred,' seyde Roben,
'Y feythe, they ben all theyne.'

'Het ys fol leytell cortesey,' seyde the potter,
'As I hafe harde weyse men sye,
Yeffe a pore yeman com drywyng over the way,
To let hem of hes gorney.'

'Be mey trowet, thow seys soyt,' seyde Roben,
'Thow seys god yemenrey;
And thow dreyffe forthe yevery day,
Thow schalt never be let for me.'

'Y well prey the, god potter,
A felischepe well thow haffe?
Geffe me they clothyng, and thow schalt hafe myne;
Y well go to Notynggam.'

'Y grant thereto,' seyde the potter,
'Thow schalt feynde me a felow gode;
Bot thow can sell mey pottys well,
Com ayen as thow yede.'

'Nay, be mey trowt,' seyde Roben,
'And then Y bescro mey hede,
Yeffe Y bryng eney pottys ayen,
And eney weyffe well hem chepe.'

Than spake Leytell John,
And all hes felowhes heynd,
'Master, be well ware of the screffe of Notynggam,
For he ys leytell howr frende.'

'Thorow the helpe of Howr Ladey,
Felowhes, let me alone.
Heyt war howte!' seyde Roben,
'To Notynggam well Y gon.'

Robyn went to Notynggam,
Thes pottys for to sell;
The potter abode with Robens men,
There he fered not eylle.

Tho Roben droffe on hes wey,
So merey ower the londe:
Her es more, and affter ys to saye,
The best ys beheynde.

Fitt 2

When Roben cam to Notynggam,
The soyt yef Y scholde saye,
He set op hes hors anon,
And gaffe hem hotys and haye.

Yn the medys of the towne,
There he schowed hes ware;
'Pottys! pottys!' he gan crey foll sone,
'Haffe hansell for the mare!'

Foll effen agenest the screffeys gate
Schowed he hes chaffare;
Weyffes and wedowes abowt hem drow,
And chepyd fast of hes ware.

Yet 'Pottys, gret chepe!' creyed Robyn,
'Y loffe yeffell thes to stonde.'
And all that say hem sell
Seyde he had be no potter long.

The pottys that were worthe pens feyffe,
He solde tham for pens thre;
Preveley seyde man and weyffe,
'Ywnder potter schall never the.'

Thos Roben solde foll fast,
Tell he had pottys bot feyffe;
Op he hem toke of hes car,
And sende hem to the screffeys weyfe.

Thereof sche was foll fayne,
'Gereamarsey,' seyde sche, 'sir, than,
When ye com to thes contré ayen,
Y schall bey of the pottys, so mo Y the.'

'Ye schall haffe of the best,' seyde Roben,
And sware be the Treneyté';
Foll corteysley sche gan hem call,
'Com deyne with the screfe and me.'

'God amarsey,' seyde Roben,
'Yowre bedyng schall be doyn.'
A mayden yn the pottys gan bere,
Roben and the screffe weyffe folowed anon.

Whan Roben yn to the hall cam,
The screffe sone he met;
The potter cowed of corteysey,
And sone the screffe he gret.

'Lo, ser, what thes potter hayt geffe yow and me,
Feyffe pottys smalle and grete!'
'He ys foll wellcom,' seyd the screffe,
'Let os was, and to mete.'

As they sat at her methe,
With a nobell chere,
To of the screffes men gan speke
Of a gret wager,

Of a schotyng, was god and feyne,
Was made the tother daye,
Of forty shillings, the soyt to saye,
Who scholde thes wager gayne.

Styll than sat thes prowde potter,
Thos than thowt he,
As Y am a trow Cerstyn man,
Thes schotyng well Y se.

Whan they had fared of the best,
With bred and ale and weyne,
To the bottys the made them prest,
With bowes and boltys foll feyne.

The screffes men schot foll fast,
As archares that weren prowe,
There cam non ner ney the marke
Bey halffe a god archares bowe.

Stell then stod the prowde potter,
Thos than seyde he;
'And Y had a bow, be the Rode,
On schot scholde yow se.'

'Thow schall haffe a bow,' seyde the screffe,
'The best that thow well cheys of thre;
Thou semyst a stalward and a stronge,
Asay schall thow be.'

The screffe commandyd a yeman that stod hem bey
After bowhes to weynde;
The best bow that the yeman browthe
Roben set on a stryng.

'Now schall Y wet and thow be god,
And polle het op to they nere.'
'So god me helpe,' seyde the prowde potter,
'Thys ys bot ryght weke gere.'

To a quequer Roben went,
A god bolt owthe he toke;
So ney on to the marke he went,
He fayled not a fothe.

All they schot a bowthe agen,
The screffes men and he;
Off the marke he welde not fayle,
He cleffed the preke on thre.

The screffes men thowt gret schame
The potter the mastry wan;
The screffe lowe and made god game,
And seyde, 'Potter, thow art a man.
Thow art worthey to bere a bowe
Yn what plas that thow goe.'

'Yn mey cart Y haffe a bow,
For soyt,' he seyde, 'and that a godde;
Yn mey cart ys the bow
That gaffe me Robyn Hode.'

'Knowest thow Robyn Hode?' seyde the screffe,
'Potter, Y prey the tell thow me.'
'A hundred torne Y haffe schot with hem,
Under hes tortyll-tre.'
'Y had lever nar a hundred ponde,' seyde the screffe,
And sware be the Trinity,
'That the fals outelawe stod be me.'

'And ye well do afftyr mey red,' seyde the potter,
'And boldeley go with me,
And to morow, or we het bred,
Roben Hode well we se.'

'Y well queyt the,' kod the screffe,
'And swere be God of meythe.'
Schetyng thay left, and hom they went,
Her soper was reddy deythe.

Fitt 3

Upon the morrow, when het was day,
He boskyd hem forthe to reyde;
The potter hes cart forthe gan ray,
And wolde not leffe beheynde.

He toke leffe of the screffys wyffe,
And thankyd her of all thyng:
'Dam, for mey loffe and ye well thys were,
Y geffe yow here a golde ryng.'

'Gramarsey,' seyde the weyffe,
'Sir, God eylde het the.'
The screffes hart was never so leythe,
The feyre foreyst to se.

And when he cam yn to the foreyst,
Under the leffes grene,
Berdys there sange on bowhes prest,
Het was gret goy to se.

'Here het ys merey to be,' seyde Roben,
'For a man that had hawt to spende;
Be mey horne ye schall awet
Yeff Roben Hode be here.'

Roben set hes horne to hes mowthe,
And blow a blast that was foll god;
That herde hes men that there stode,
Fer downe yn the wodde.
'I her mey master blow,' seyde Leytell John,
They ran as thay were wode.

Whan thay to thar master cam,
Leytell John wold not spare;
'Master, how haffe yow fare yn Notynggam?
How haffe yow solde yowre ware?'

'Ye, be mey trowthe, Leytyll John,
Loke thow take no care;
Y haffe browt the screffe of Notynggam,
For all howre chaffare.'

'He ys foll wellcom,' seyde Lytyll John,
'Thes tydyng ys foll godde.'
The screffe had lever nar a hundred ponde
He had never seen Roben Hode.

'Had I west that befforen,
At Notynggam when we were,
Thow scholde not com yn feyre forest
Of all thes thowsande eyre.'

'That wot Y well,' seyde Roben,
'Y thanke God that ye be here;
Thereffore schall ye leffe yowre hors with hos,
And all yowre hother gere.'

'That fend I Godys forbod,' kod the screffe,
'So to lese mey godde.'
'Hether ye cam on hors foll hey,
And hom schall ye go on fote;
And gret well they weyffe at home,
The woman ys foll godde.

'Y schall her sende a wheyt palffrey,
Het hambellet as the weynde,
Nere for the loffe of yowre weyffe,
Off more sorow scholde yow seyng.'

Thes parted Robyn Hode and the screffe;
To Notynggam he toke the waye;
Hes weyffe feyre welcomed hem hom,
And to hem gan sche saye:

'Seyr, how haffe yow fared yn grene foreyst?
Haffe ye browt Roben hom?'
'Dam, the deyell spede hem, bothe bodey and bon;
Y haffe hade a foll gret skorne.

'Of all the god that Y haffe lade to grene wod,
He hayt take het fro me;
All bot thes feyre palffrey,
That he hayt sende to the.'

With that sche toke op a lowde lawhyng,
And swhare be Hem that deyed on tre,
'Now haffe yow payed for all the pottys
That Roben gaffe to me.

'Now ye be com hom to Notynggam.
Ye schall haffe god ynowe.'
Now speke we of Roben Hode,
And of the pottyr ondyr the grene bowhe.

'Potter, what was they pottys worthe
To Notynggam that Y ledde with me?'
'They wer worthe to nobellys,' seyde he,
'So mot Y treyffe or the;
So cowde Y had for tham,
And Y had be there.'

'Thow schalt hafe ten ponde,' seyde Roben,
'Of money feyre and fre;
And yever whan thow comest to grene wod,
Wellcom, potter, to me.'

Thes partyd Robyn, the screffe, and the potter,
Ondernethe the grene wod tre;
God haffe mersey on Roben Hodys solle,
And saffe all god yemanrey!

poem by Anonymous Olde English
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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