Whanne gnarly groves and knotted Weald
Stoode grene and callow 'cross the feld,
Whanne raging river and brawling brooke
Crept and crawled through every nooke,
Times were black, the skies were grea
Sōls that naught, was ever gay.
For a fær maiden had borne
A heart broken, another torne;
Split asunder, slit in twain,
'Twixt two knights of valour magne.
We battled on, I and he,
Death in life had come to be;
We did spar through day and night,
Sabre pierced with all its might.
Arms were clashed and armour crashed,
Steeds crippled and sore skin gashed.
"Death to thee!" did I crie,
As we stepped, eye to eye.
Like Chaucer's verse I wanton trie,
In owen grese, to make him frie.
Steed caught steed and steele met steele,
Lances snapt and plates did keele.
I thrust his left on my vile blaed,
As my own arm was unmaed.
The crimson tiff went on on foote,
The blaed, my knee was firmly put.
Till the worthy foe was smote,
Knife was hacked and gyred abote.
There he lay, skewered and hewn,
Half myself away I'd strewn.
The rest in me revelled with pride,
Of bloody venge for my dear bride.
I had won, with chivalrie,
My own pyrrhic victorie;
Bled and spent, I shut my eye,
Nevermore'd I open, aye.
