XI.
"God preserve thee!" says the Green Knight,
"Gawayn," quod þat grene gome, "God þe mot loke!
I-wysse þou art welcom,1 wy3e, to my place,
& þou hat3 tymed þi trauayl as true2 mon schulde;
& þou knowe3 þe couenaunte3 kest vus by-twene,
At þis tyme twelmonyth þou toke þat þe falled,
& I schulde at þis nwe 3ere 3eply þe quyte.
& we ar in þis valay, verayly oure one,
Here ar no renkes vs to rydde, rele as vus like3;
Haf þy3 helme of þy hede, & haf here þy pay;
Busk no more debate þen I þe bede þenne,
"When þou wypped of my hede at a wap one."
"Nay, bi God," quod Gawayn, "þat me gost lante,
I schal gruch þe no grwe, for grem þat falle3;
Botsty3tel þe vpon on strok, & I schal stonde stylle,
& warp þe no wernyng, to worch as þe lyke3,
no whare."
He lened with þe nek, & lutte,
& schewed þat schyre al bare,
& lette as he no3t dutte,
For drede he wolde not dare.
1 welcon, in MS. 2 truee in MS. 3 MS. þy þy.