XII.
Scarcely had he blessed himself thrice
Nade he sayned hym-self, segge, bot þrye,
Er he wat3 war in þe wod of a won in a mote.
Abof a launde, on a lawe, loken vnder bo3e3,
Of mony borelych bole, aboute bi þe diches;
A castel þe comlokest þat euer kny3t a3te,
Pyched on a prayere, a park al aboute,
With a pyked palays, pyned ful þik,
Þat vmbe-te3e mony tre mo þen two myle.
Þat holde on þat on syde þe haþel auysed,
As hit schemered & schon þur3 þe schyre oke3;
Þenne hat3 he hendly of his helme, & he3ly he þonke3
Iesus & say[nt] Gilyan, þat gentyle ar boþe,
Þat cortaysly hade hym kydde, & his cry herkened.
"Now bone hostel," coþe þe burne, "I be-seche yow 3ette!"
Þenne gedere3 he to Gryngolet with þe gilt hele3,
& he ful chauncely hat3 chosen to þe chef gate,
Þat bro3t bremly þe burne to þe bryge ende,
in haste;
Þe bryge wat3 breme vp-brayde,
Þe 3ate3 wer stoken faste,
Þe walle3 were wel arayed,
Hit dut no wynde3 blaste.