Sire Thopas drow abak ful fast;
This geaunt at him stones cast
Out of a fel staffe sling:
But faire escaped child Thopas.
And all it was thurgh Goddes grace,
And thurgh his faire bering.
Yet listeneth, lordinges, to my tale,
Merier than the nightingale,
For now I wol you roune,
How sire Thopas with sides smale,
Priking over hill and dale,
Is comen agein to toune.
His mery men commandeth he,
To maken him bothe game and gle,
For nedes must he fighte,
With a geaunt with hedes three,
For paramour and jolitee
Of on that shone ful brighte.
"Do come," he sayd, "my minestrales
And gestours for to tellen tales
Anon in min arming,
Of romaunces that ben reales,
Of popes and of cardinales,
And eke of love-longing."
They fet him first the swete win,
And mede eke in a maselin,
And real spicerie,
Of ginger-bred that was ful fin,
And licoris and eke comin,
With sugar that is trie.
He didde next his white lere
Of cloth of lake fin and clere
A breche and eke a sherte,
And next his shert an haketon,
And over that an habergeon,
For percing of his herte,
And over that a fin hauberk,
Was all ywrought of Jewes werk,
Ful strong it was of plate,
And over that his cote-armoure,
As white as is the lily floure,
In which he wold debate.
His sheld was all of gold so red,
And therin was a bores hed,
A charboucle beside;
And ther he swore on ale and bred
How that the geaunt shuld be ded,
Betide what so betide.
His jambeux were of cuirbouly,
His swerdes sheth of ivory,
His helme of latoun bright,
His sadel was of rewel bone,
His bridel as the sonne-shone,
Or as the mone-light.
His spere was of fin cypres,
That bodeth werre, and nothing pees, The hed ful sharpe yground.
His stede was all dapple gray,
It goth an aumble in the way
Ful softely and round | in londe-
Lo, lordes min, here is a fit;
If ye wol ony more of it,
To telle it wol I fond.
Now hold your mouth pour charite, Bothe knight and lady fre,
And herkeneth to my spell, Of bataille and of chevalrie, Of ladies love and druerie, Anon I wol you tell.
Men speken of romaunces of pris, Of Hornchild, and of Ipotis,
Of Bevis, and sire Guy,
Of sire Libeux, and Pleindamour, But sire Thopas, he bereth the flour Of real chevalrie.
His goode stede he al bestrode,
And forth upon his way he glode,
As sparcle out of bronde;
Upon his crest he bare a tour,
And therin stiked a lily flour,
God shilde his corps fro shonde.
And for he was a knight auntrous,
He n'olde slepen in non hous,
But liggen in his hood,
His brighte helm was his wanger,
And by him baited his destrer
Of herbes fin and good.
Himself drank water of the well, As did the knight sire Percivell So worthy under wede,
THE ministre and the norice unto vices,
Which that men clepe in English idelnesse,
That porter at the gate is of delices,
To eschuen, and by hire contrary hire oppresse,
That is to sain, by leful besinesse,
Wel oughte we to don al our entente,
Lest that the fend thurgh idelnesse us hente.
For he that with his thousand cordes slie
Continuelly us waiteth to beclappe,
Whan he may man in idelnesse espie,
He can so lightly cacche him in a trappe,
Til that a man be hent right by the lappe,
He n'is not ware the fend hath him in hond:
Wel ought us werche, and idelnesse withstond.
And though men dradden never for to die,
Yet see men wel by reson douteles,
That idelnesse is rote of slogardie,
Of which ther never cometh no good encrees,
And see that slouthe holdeth hem in a lees,
Only to slepe, and for to ete and drinke,
And to devouren all that other swinke.
|