Fitte the Firste

YE men that will of aunters wynne,That late within this lande hath bin,Of on I will yow telle;And of a sewe that was sea strang,Alas! that ever scho lived sea lang,For fell folk did scho wele.

Scho was mare than other three,The grizeliest beast that ere mote beeHer hede was greate and graye;Scho was bred in Rokebye woode,Ther war few that thither yoode,But cam belive awaye.

Her walke was endlang Greta syde,Was no barne that colde her byde,That was fra heven or helle;Ne never man that had that myght,That ever durst com in her syght,Her force it was sea felle.

Raphe of Rokebye, with full gode wyll,The freers of Richmonde gav her tyll,Full wele to gar thayme fare;Freer Myddeltone by name,Hee was sent to fetch her hame,Yt rewed him syne full sare.

Wyth hym tooke hee wyght men two,Peter of Dale was on of tho,Tother was Bryan of Beare;Thatte wele durst strike wyth swerde and knife,And fyght full manlie for theyr lyfe,What tyme as musters were.

These three men wended at theyr wyll,This wickede sewe gwhyl they cam tyll,Liggand under a tree;Rugg’d and rustic was her here,Scho rase up wyth a felon fere,To fyght agen the three.

Grizely was scho for to meete,Scho rave the earthe up wyth her feete,The barke cam fra’ the tree:When Freer Myddeltone her saugh,Wete yow wele hee list not laugh,Full earnestful luik’d hee.

These men of auncestors were so wight,They bound them bauldly for to fyght,And strake at her full sare;Until a kilne they garred her flee,Wolde God sende thayme the victorye,They wolde aske hym na maire.

The sewe was in the kilne hoile doone,And they wer on the bawke aboone,For hurting of theyr feete;They wer sea sauted wyth this sewe,That ’mang thayme was a stalwarth stewe,The kilne began to reeke!

Durst noe man nighe her wyth his hande,But put a rape downe wyth a wande,And heltered her ful meete;They hauled her furth agen her wyll,Qunyl they cam until a hille,A little fra the streete.

And ther scho made thayme sike a fray,As, had they lived until Domesday,They colde yt nere forgette:Scho brayded upon every syde,And ranne on thayme gapyng ful wyde,For nathing wolde scho lette.

Scho gaf sike hard braydes at the bandeThat Peter of Dale had in his hande,Hee myght not holde hys feete;Scho chasèd thayme sea to and fro,The wight men never wer sea woe,Ther mesure was not mete.

Scho bound her boldly to abide,To Peter of Dale scho cam aside,Wyth mony a hideous yelle;Scho gaped sea wide and cryed sea hee,The freer sayd, ‘I conjure thee,Thou art a fiend of helle!

‘Thou art comed hider for sum trayne,I conjure thee to go agayne,Wher thou was wont to dwell.’He sainèd hym wyth crosse and creede,Tooke furth a booke, began to reade,In Ste Johan hys gospell.

The sewe scho wolde not Latyne heare,But rudely rushèd at the freer,That blynkèd all his blee;And when scho wolde have takken holde,The freer leapt as I. H. S. wolde,And bealed hym wyth a tree.

Scho was brim as anie beare,For all their meete to laboure there,To thayme yt was noe boote;On tree and bushe that by her stode,Scho vengèd her as scho wer woode,And rave thayme up by roote.

Hee sayd, ‘Alas that I wer freer,I shal bee hugged asunder here,Hard is my destinie!Wiste my brederen, in this houre,That I was set in sike a stoure,They wolde pray for mee!’

This wicked beaste thatte wrought the woe,Tooke that rape from the other two,And than they fledd all three;They fledd away by Watling streete,They had no succour but their feete,Yt was the maire pittye.

The fielde it was both loste and wonne,The sewe wente hame, and thatte ful soone,To Morton-on-the-Greene.When Raphe of Rokeby saw the rape,He wist that there had bin debate,Whereat the sewe had beene.

He bade thayme stand out of her waye,For scho had had a sudden fraye,—‘I saw never sewe sea keene,Some new thingis shall wee heare,Of her and Myddeltone the freer,Some battel hath ther beene.’

But all that servèd him for nought,—Had they not better succour sought,They wer servèd therfore loe.Then Mistress Rokebye came anon,And for her brought scho meete ful soone,The sewe cam her untoe.

Scho gav her meete upon the flower;With moss and broom besprent;The sewe was gentle as mote be,Ne rage ne ire flashed fra her e’e,