By him þat in bedeleem was borne euer to bene our bote,
I shalle venge þe to day, if I cone right rede.
Line 550
Go fecche me my fresone, fairest one fote.
He may stonde þe in stoure, in as mekle stede;
No more for þe faire fole þene for a risshe rote,
But for doel of þe dombe best, þat þus shuld be dede;
I mourne for no monture, for I may gete mare."
Line 555
Als he stode by his stede,
Þat was so goode at nede,
Ner Gawayne wax wede, [folio 9b]
So siked he sare.
XLIV.
¶ Thus wepus for wo Wowayne þe wighte,
Line 560
And wenys him to quyte þat wonded is sare;
Þat oþer droȝ him on dreȝt, for drede of þe kniȝte,
And boldely broched his blonk one þe bent bare.
"Þus may þou dryve forthe þe day to þe derke nighte!"
The sone was passed, by þat, mydday and mare.
Line 565
Withe in þe listes þe lede lordly done lighte;
Touard þe burne withe his bronde, he busked him þare;
To bataile þey bowe withe brondes so brighte;
Shene sheldes were shred,
Brighte brenes by-bled,
Line 570
Many douȝeti were a-dred,
So fersely þei fighte!
XLV.
¶ Thus þei feght one fote, one þat faire felde,
As fresshe as a lyone þat fautes þe fille;
Wilele þes wighte mene þaire wepenes þey welde,
Line 575
. . . . .
He bronched him yne withe his bronde, vnder þe brode shelde,
Þorghe þe waast of þe body, and wonded him ille.
Þe swerd stent for no stuf, hit was so wel steled;
Þat oþer startis one bak, and stondis stone stille.
Line 580
