fforto grante me lond our lede
Or any gode, so god me spede,
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Thys is to myche for me.
Bot seth þat I schall ches my-selue,
I aske no-thyng bot strokes XII
ffrely now grante ȝe me,
With my staff to pay þem all,
Line 430
Myn aduersarys in þis hall,
ffor seynt charyte."
Than ansuerd vter, þe kyng;
He seyd: "I repent my grantyng,
The couenand þat I made."
Line 435
He seyd: "Be hym þat made me and the,
Thou had be better take gold our fe;
Mour nede þer-to þou hade."
Syr cleges seyd with-outen warryng:
"Lord, it is ȝour awne grante[yng];
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Yt may not be deleyd."
The kyng was angary and greuyd sore;
Neuer-þe-les he grante hym thore,
The dyntes schuld be payd.
Syr cleges went in-to þe hall
Line 445
Among þe grete lordes all,
With-outen any mour.
He souȝht after þe stewerd;
He thouȝt, to pay hym his rewerd,
ffor he had greuyd hym sore.
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