Bremly broþe on a bent þat brode watȝ aboute, 165 on snawe. Sir Gawayn þe knyȝt con mete, He ne lutte hym no þyng lowe; Þat oþer sayde 'Now, sir swete, Of steuen mon may þe trowe. 170 'Gawayn,' quod þat grene gome, 'God þe mot loke! Iwysse þou art welco_m_, wyȝe, to my place, And þou hatȝ tymed þi trauayl as truee mon schulde, And þou knoweȝ þe couenaunteȝ kest vus bytwene: At þis tyme twelmonyth þou toke þat þe falled, 175 And I schulde at þis nwe ȝere ȝeply þe quyte. And we ar in þis valay verayly oure one; Here ar no renkes vs to rydde, rele as vus likeȝ. Haf þy helme of þy hede, and haf here þy pay. Busk no more debate þen I þe bede þenne 180 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 falleȝ. Bot styȝtel þe vpon on strok, and I schal stonde stylle And warp þe no wernyng to worch as þe lykeȝ, 185 nowhare.' He lened with þe nek, and lutte, And schewed þat schyre al bare, And lette as he noȝt dutte; For drede he wolde not dare. 190 Then þe gome in þe grene grayþed hym swyþe, Gedereȝ vp hys grymme tole Gawayn to smyte; With alle þe bur in his body he ber hit on lofte, Munt as maȝtyly as marre hym he wolde: Hade hit dryuen adoun as dreȝ as he atled, 195 Þer hade ben ded of his dynt þat doȝty watȝ euer. Bot Gawayn on þat giserne glyfte hym bysyde, As hit com glydande adoun on glode hym to schende, And schranke a lytel with þe schulderes for þe scharp yrne. Þat oþer schalk wyth a schunt þe schene wythhaldeȝ, 200 And þenne repreued he þe prynce with mony prowde wordeȝ: 'Þou art not Gawayn,' quod þe gome, 'þat is so goud halden, Þat neuer arȝed for no here, by hylle ne be vale, And now þou fles for ferde er þou fele harmeȝ! Such cowardise of þat knyȝt cowþe I neuer here. 205 Nawþer fyked I ne flaȝe, freke, quen þou myntest, Ne kest no kauelacion, in kyngeȝ hous Arthor. My hede flaȝ to my fote, and ȝet flaȝ I neuer; And þou, er any harme hent, arȝeȝ in hert; Wherfore þe better burne me burde be called 210 þerfore.' Quod Gawayn 'I schunt oneȝ, And so wyl I no more; Bot þaȝ my hede falle on þe stoneȝ, I con not hit restore. 215 Bot busk, burne, bi þi fayth! and bryng me to þe poynt. Dele to me my destiné, and do hit out of honde, For I schal stonde þe a strok, and start no more Til þyn ax haue me hitte: haf here my trawþe.'