The king feyd, It is for nought, Bi mi croun thou fchalt be flawe, And feththen on galwes hing... To Rimneld he com withouten lefing, The vertu wele fche knewe: It schal ben our tokening, The fton it is wel trewe. When the fton wexeth wan, Than chaungeth the thought of thi leman, Take than a newe; When the fton wexeth rede Than have y lorn mi maidenhed, Oyaines the untrewe. Horn feyd, In thine erber is a tre, Ygrowen al with yve, Rimnild, for the love of me, Everi day that thou ther be, To fe the water lithe, And, when thou feft mi fchadu thare, Than trowe thoù me na mare, Than am y bon to wive, And, while thou fest mi schadu nought, Than chaungeth never mi thought, Houlac king wald nere wede, And feyd, Traitour, fle! And grehoundes bot three; And alle his harneys, laffe and mare, When Horn com fer out of that fight, Horn for to feke. Of Godebounde herd he speke, Horn no might he never gete, Bi way, no bi ftrete. Wiard rode fouthe, and Horn rode west, To Wales Horn come attéleft, Wel long er thai so mete. Thurth a forest as he schuld fare And bad Horn fchuld abide, To yeld his harneise lesse and mare, The lawe is nought to hide ; And Horn of justing was ful fain, Ful leve me were to ride. That he couthe ride. Horn tok on al fo long A ful tough and to so strong, The knightes scheld he cleve atuo, And frufsed alle his fide. Out of his fadel he bar him than, He brac his arm, and his fchulder ban, When he of fwoning bicam "In Walis lond is ther nan Į cham comen to fand. For to win gold and fe, In fervife with your king to be, That lord is of this land. * Either this or the precedeing flanza is defective by the omisfion of three lines. "Our kinges name is Elidan, In al Wales is ther nan So strong a man as he; The eighten day, be thou bold, For to win the gre." Horn feyd, withouten lefing, He jufted al that seven night He fmot the king opon the fcheld, And feld him to the grounde, Bi for that ich stounde. The king asked him what he hight, My name is Godebounde. "Y wil the yif gold and fe, Mesfangers com out of Yrland, Fro a king, that men dede wrong, He lete write a letter oyain, He fchuld han help is nought to layn, Hem com an haven wele to hand, The court was ther bifide. Oyain hem gan ride. The letter told that he brought, King Finlak dede to Malkan fay, The bataile wald he bide. |