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Some shedd on their shoulder,
And some on their knee;
He that cold not hitt his mouthe,
Put it in his eye:
And he that was a cuckold
Every man might him see.
Craddocke wan the horne,
And the bores head:
His ladie wan the mantle
Unto her meede.
Everye such a lovely ladye
God send her well to speede.

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II. The Warriage of Sir Gawaine, Is chiefly taken from the fragment of an old ballad in the Editor's MS., which he has reason to believe more ancient than the time of Chaucer, and what furnished that bard with his Wife of Bath's Tale. The original was so extremely mutilated, half of every leaf being torn away, that without large supplements, &c. it was deemed improper for this collection: these it has therefore received, such as they are. They are not here particularly pointed out, because the Fragment itself will now be found printed at the end of this volume.

PART THE FIRST.
KING ARTHUR lives in merry Carleile,

And seemely is to see;
And there with him queene Guenever,

That bride soe bright of blee.
And there with him queene Guenever,

That bride so bright in bowre:

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At Tearne-Wadling 1 his castle stands,

Near to that lake so fair,
And proudlye rise the battlements,

And streamers deck the air.

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Noe gentle knighte, nor ladye gay,

May pass that castle-wall:
But from that foule discurteous knighte,

Mishappe will them befalle.

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Hee's twice the size of common men,

Wi' thewes, and sinewes stronge, And on his backe he bears a clubbe,

That is both thicke and longe.

1 Tearne-Wadling is the name of a small lake near Hesketh in Cumberland, on the road from Penrith to Carlisle. There is a tradition, that an old castle once stood near the lake, the remains of which were not long since visible. Tearn, in the dialect of that country, signifies a small lake, and is still in use.

This grimme barène 'twas our harde happe,

But yester morne to see;
When to his bowre he bare my love,

And sore misused mee.

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And when I told him, king Arthure

As lyttle shold him spare;
Goe tell, sayd hee, that cuckold kinge,

To meete mee if he dare.

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Upp then sterted king Arthùre,

And sware by hille and dale,
He ne'er wolde quitt that grimme barène,

Till he had made him quail.

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Goe fetch my sword Excalibar:

Goe saddle mee my steede;
Nowe, by my faye, that grimme baròne

Shall rue this ruthfulle deede.

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And when he came to Tearne Wadlinge

Benethe the castle walle:
“Come forth; come forth; thou proude baròne,

Or yielde thyself my thralle."
On magicke grounde that castle stoode,

And fenc'd with many a spelle:
Noe valiant knighte could tread thereon,

But straite his courage felle.
Forth then rush'd that carlish knight,

King Arthur felte the charme:
His sturdy sinewes lost their strengthe,

Downe sunke his feeble arme:
Nowe yield thee, yield thee, kinge Arthùre,

Now yield thee, unto mee:
Or fighte with mee, or lose thy lande,

Noe better termes maye bee,

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Unlesse thou sweare upon the rood,

And promise on thy faye,
Here to returne to Tearne-Wadling,

Upon the new-yeare's daye:

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And bringe me worde what thing it is

All women moste desyre: This is thy ransome, Arthur,

Ile have noe other hyre.

he sayes,

King Arthur then helde up his hande,

And sware upon his faye,
Then tooke his leave of the grimme barone,

And faste hee rode awaye.

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And he rode east, and he rode west,

And did of all inquyre,
What thing it is all women crave,

And what they most desyre

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Some told him riches, pompe, or state;

Some rayment fine and brighte; Some told him mirthe; some flatterye;

And some a jollye knighte.

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In letters all king Arthur wrote,

And seald them with his ringe:
But still his minde was helde in doubte,

Each tolde a different thinge.

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As ruthfulle he rode over a more,

He saw a ladye sette
Betweene an oke, and a greene holléye,

All clad in red 2 scarlette.

2 This was a common phrase in our old writers; so Chaucer, in his Prologue to the Cant. Tales, says of the Wife of Batb:

Her hosen were of fyne scarlet red.

Her nose was crookt and turnd outwarde,

Her chin stoode all awrye;
And where as sholde have been her mouthe,

Lo! there was set her eye:

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Her haires, like serpents, clung aboute

Her cheekes of deadlye hewe:
A worse-form'd ladye than she was,

No man mote ever viewe.

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To hail the king in seemelye sorte

This ladye was fulle faine:
But king Arthùre all sore amaz’d,

No aunswere made againe.
What wight art thou, the ladye sayd,

That wilt not speake to mee;
Sir, I may chance to ease thy paine,

Though I bee foule to see.
If thou wilt ease my paine, he sayd,

And helpe me in my neede;
Ask what thou wilt, thou grimme ladyè,

And it shall bee thy meede.
O sweare mee this upon the roode,

And promise on thy faye;
And here the secrette I will telle,

That shall thy ransome paye.
King Arthur promis'd on his faye,

And sware upon the roode; The secrette then the ladye told,

As lightlye well shee cou'de. Now this shall be my paye,

sir king, And this my guerdon bee, That some yong fair and courtlye knight,

Thou bringe to marrye mee.

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