VIII.
He spurs his horse and goes on his way.
He sperred þe sted with þe spureȝ, & sprong on his way,
So stif þat þe ston fyr stroke out þer-after;
Al þat seȝ þat semly syked in hert,
& sayde soþly al same segges til oþer,
Carande for þat comly, "bi Kryst, hit is scaþe,
Þat þou, leude, schal be lost, þat art of lyf noble!
To fynde hys fere vpon folde, in fayth is not eþe;
Warloker to haf wroȝt had more wyt bene,
& haf dyȝt ȝonder dere a duk to haue worþed;
A lowande leder of ledeȝ in londe hym wel semeȝ,
& so had better haf ben þen britned to noȝt,
Hadet wyth an aluisch mon, for angardeȝ pryde.
Who knew euer any kyng such counsel to take,
As knyȝteȝ in cauelounȝ on cryst-masse gomneȝ!"
Wel much watȝ þe warme water þat waltered of yȝen,
When þat semly syre soȝt fro þo woneȝ
þat1 daye;
He made non abode,
Bot wyȝtly went hys way,
Mony wylsum way he rode,
Þe bok as I herde say.
1 MS. þad.