And bere him wiþ me:
Boþe in lond and in leode
Al þe lasse is my drede:
Þe mon þat to him takeþ hede
Line 135
Þe better he may be.
Þer nis non enemy in helle
Non so fers ne so felle,
And he here of vre lord telle,
Þat on is in þre:
Line 140
For al þe gold in þe grounde
He wolde not byde him a stounde
Þat he nolde freschly founde
And awey fle".
Forþ heo wenten on þe feld
Line 145
To an hul þei biheold.
Þe eorþe cleuet as a scheld
On þe grounde grene.
Sone fond þei a stih:
Þei went þer-on radly;
Line 150
Þe cristene mon hedde ferly
What hit mihte mene.
After þat stiȝ lay a strete,
Clene Ipauet wiþ grete.
Þei fond a maner þat was meete
Line 155
Wiþ murþes ful schene,
Wel coruen and wrouht,
Wiþ halles heiȝe vppon loft.
To a place weore þei brouht
As paradys þe clene.
Line 160
Þer was foulene song,
Muche murþes among —
Hose lenge wolde long,
Ful luitel him þouht.
On vche a syde of þe halle
Line 165
Pourpul, pelure and palle;
Wyndouwes I þe walle, [I = In, wie 306.]
Was wonderli Iwrouht.
Þer was dosers on þe dees
Hose þe cheef wolde ches,
Line 170
Þat neuere ricchere wes
In no sale souht.
Boþe þe mot and þe molde
Schon al on red golde.
Þe cristen mon hedde ferli on þat folde
Line 175
Þat þider was brouȝt.
Þer was erbes growen grene,
Spices springynge bitwene —
"Such hedde I non sene,
Forsoþe, as I say".
Line 180
Þe þrestel song ful schille,
He newed notes at his wille;
Feire floures to fille. [þat ist zu tilgen?]
Feire in þat fey.
And al þe Rounde table good
Line 185
Hou Arthur in eorþe ȝod,
Sum sat and sum stod
O þe grounde grey —
Hit was a wonderful siht: [Im Ms. fehlt hier ein Vers.]
As þei weore quik men diht,
Line 190
To seo hou þey play.
Þe jewȝ sone in þat tyde
He spak þer a word of pryde —
Hose wol lenge and abyde
May lusten and lere.
Line 195
Til a nonnerie þei came —
But I knowe not þe name:
Þer was mony a derworþe dame
In dyapre dere.
Squiȝers in vch a syde
Line 200
In þe wones so wyde.
"Heer schul we lenge and abyde,
Auntres to heere".
Þenne swiþe spekeþ he
Til a ladi so fre
Line 205
And biddeþ: þat he welcome be,
"Sire Water, my feere".
Þer was bordes Icloþed clene
Wiþ schire cloþes and schene.
Seþþe a wasschen, I weene,
Line 210
And wente to þe sete.
Riche metes was forþ brouht
To alle men, þat good þouht —
Þe cristen mon wolde nouht
Drynke nor ete.
Line 215
