For the blod ran of his sides
So water þat fro þe welle glides;
But þanne bigan he for to mowe
With the barre, and let hem shewe,
Hw he cowþe sore smite,
He at last succeeds in killing twenty of them.
For was þer non, long ne lite,
Þat he Mouthe ouer-take,
Þat he ne garte his croune krake;
So þat on a litel stund,