IX.

"Truly," says Sir Gawayne, "a desert is here,

"Now i-wysse," quod Wowayn, "wysty is here;

Þis oritore is vgly, with erbe3 ouer-growen;

Wel biseme3 þe wy3e wruxled in grene

Dele here his deuocioun, on þe deuele3 wyse;

Now I fele hit is þe fende, in my fyue wytte3,

Þat hat3 stoken me þis steuen, to strye me here;

Þis is a chapel of meschaunce, þat chekke hit by-tyde,

Hit is þe corsedest kyrk, þat euer i com inne!"

With he3e helme on his hede, his launce in his honde,

He rome3 vp to þe rokke of þo ro3 wone3;

Þene herde he of þat hy3e hil, in a harde roche,

Bi3onde þe broke, in a bonk, a wonder breme noyse,

Quat! hit clatered in þe clyff, as hit cleue schulde,

As one vpon a gryndelston hade grounden a syþe;

What! hit wharred, & whette, as water at a mulne,

What! hit rusched, & ronge, rawþe to here.

Þenne "bi Godde," quod Gawayn, "þat gere as¹ I trowe,

Is ryched at þe reuerence, me renk to mete,

bi rote;

Let God worche we loo,

Hit helppe3 me not a mote,

My lif þa3 I for-goo,

Drede dot3 me no lote."

¹ at, in MS.