Fitte the Seconde

When Freer Myddeltone com home,Hys breders war ful faine ilchone,And thanked God for hys lyfe;He told thayme all unto the ende,How hee had foughten wyth a fiende,And lived thro’ mickle stryfe.

‘Wee gav her battel half a daye,And was faine to flee awayeFor saving of oure lyfe;And Peter Dale wolde never blin,But ran as faste as he colde rinn,Till he cam till hys wyfe.’

The Warden sayde, ‘I am ful woeThat yow sholde bee torment soe,But wee had wyth yow beene!Had wee bene ther, yowr breders alle,Wee wolde hav garred the warlo falle,That wrought yow all thys teene.’

Freer Myddeltone, he sayde soon, ‘Naye,In faythe ye wolde hav ren awaye,When moste misstirre had bin;Ye all can speke safte wordes at home,The fiend wolde ding yow doone ilk on,An yt bee als I wene,

Hee luik’d sea grizely al that nyght.’The Warden sayde, ‘Yon man wol fyghtIf ye saye ought but gode,Yon guest hath grievèd hym sea sore;Holde your tongues, and speake ne more,Hee luiks als hee wer woode.’

The Warden wagèd on the morne,Two boldest men that ever wer borne,I weyne, or ere shall bee:Tone was Gilbert Griffin sonne,Ful mickle worship hadde hee wonne,Both by land and sea.

Tother a bastard sonne of Spaine,Mony a Sarazin hadde hee slaine;Hys dint hadde garred thayme dye.Theis men the battel undertokeAgen the sewe, as saythe the boke,And sealed securitye,

That they shold boldly bide and fyghte,And scomfit her in maine and myghte,Or therfor sholde they dye.The Warden sealed toe thayme againe,And sayde, ‘If ye in fielde be slaine,This condition make I:

‘Wee shall for yow praye, syng, and reade,Until Domesdaye wyth heartye speede,With al our progenie.’Then the lettres wer wele made,The bondes wer bounde wyth seales brade,As deeds of arms sholde bee.

Theise men-at-arms thatte wer sea wight,And wyth theire armour burnished bryght,They went the sewe toe see.Scho made at thayme sike a roare,That for her they fear it sore,And almaiste bounde to flee.

Scho cam runnyng thayme agayne,And saw the bastarde sonne of Spaine,Hee brayded owt hys brande;Ful spiteouslie at her hee strake,Yet for the fence that he colde make,Scho strake it fro hys hande,And rave asander half hys sheelde,And bare hym backwerde in the fielde,Hee mought not her gainstande.

Scho wolde hav riven hys privich geare,But Gilbert wyth hys swerde of warre,Hee strake at her ful strang.In her shouther hee held the swerde;Than was Gilbert sore afearde,When the blade brak in twang.

And whan in hande hee had her ta’en,Scho toke hym by the shouther bane,And held her hold ful faste;Scho strave sea stifflie in thatte stoure,Scho byt thro’ ale hys rich armoure,Till bloud cam owt at laste.

Than Gilbert grievèd was sea sare,That hee rave off the hyde of haire;The flesh cam fra the bane,And wyth force hee held her ther,And wanne her worthilie in warre,And band her hym alane;

And lifte her on a horse sea hee,Into two panyers made of a tree,And toe Richmond anon.When they sawe the felon come,They sange merrilye Te Deum!The freers evrich one.

They thankyd God and Saynte Frauncis,That they had wonne the beaste of pris,And nere a man was sleyne:There never didde man more manlye,The Knyght Marone, or Sir Guye,Nor Louis of Lothraine.

If yow wyl any more of thys,I’ the fryarie at Richmond written yt is,In parchment gude and fyne,How Freer Myddeltone sea hende,Att Greta Bridge conjured a fiende,In lykeness of a swyne.

Yt is wel knowen toe manie a man,That Freer Theobald was warden than,And thys fel in hys tyme.And Chryst thayme bles both ferre and nere,Al that for solas this doe here,And hym that made the ryme.

Raphe of Rokeby wid ful gode wyl,The freers of Richmond gav her tyll,This sewe toe mende ther fare;Freer Myddeltone by name,He wold bring the felon hame,That rewed hym sine ful sare.