Ho commes to þe cortyn, and at þe knyt totes.
Sir Wawen her welcumed worþy on fyrst,
And ho hym eldez aayn ful erne of hir wordez,
Settez hir softly by his syde, and swyþely ho laez,
And wyth a luflych loke ho layde hym þyse wordez:
'Sir, if e be Wawen, wonder me þynkkez,
Wye þat is so wel wrast alway to god,
And connez not of compaynye þe costez vndertake,
And if mon kennes yow hom to knowe, e kest hom of your mynde;
Þou hatz foreten ederly þat isterday I tatte
Bi alder-truest token of talk þat I cowþe.'
'What is þat?' quoþ þe wyghe, 'Iwysse I wot neuer;
If hit be sothe þat e breue, þe blame is myn awen.'
'et I kende yow of kyssyng,' quoþ þe clere þenne,
'Quere-so countenaunce is couþe quikly to clayme;
Þat bicumes vche a knyt þat cortaysy vses.'
'Do way,' quoþ þat derf mon, 'my dere, þat speche,
For þat durst I not do, lest I deuayed were;
If I were werned, I were wrang, iwysse, if I profered.'
'Ma fay,' quoþ þe meré wyf, 'e may not be werned
e ar stif innoghe to constrayne wyth strenkþe, if yow lykez,
if any were so vilanous þat yow devaye wolde.'
'e, be God,' quoþ Gawayn, 'good is your speche,
Bot þrete is vnþryuande in þede þer I lende,
And vche gift þat is geuen not with goud wylle.
I am at your comaundement, to kysse quen yow lykez,
e may lach quen yow lyst, and leue quen yow þynkkez,
in space.'
Þe lady loutez adoun,
And comlyly kysses his face,
Much speche þay þer expoun
Of druryes greme and grace.

'I woled wyt at yow, wye,' þat worþy þer sayde,
'And yow wrathed not þerwyth, what were þe skylle
Þat so ong and so epe as e at þis tyme,
So cortayse, so knytyly, as e ar knowen oute--
And of alle cheualry to chose, þe chef þyng alosed
Is þe lel layk of luf, þe lettrure of armes;
For to telle of þis teuelyng of þis trwe knytez,
Hit is þe tytelet token and tyxt of her werkkez,
How ledes for her lele luf hor lyuez han auntered,
Endured for her drury dulful stoundez,
And after wenged with her walour and voyded her care,
And brot blysse into boure with bountees hor awen--
And e ar knyt comlokest kyd of your elde,
Your worde and your worchip walkez ayquere,
And I haf seten by yourself here sere twyes,
et herde I neuer of your hed helde no wordez
Þat euer longed to luf, lasse ne more;
And e, þat ar so cortays and coynt of your hetes,
Oghe to a onke þynk ern to schewe
And teche sum tokenez of trweluf craftes.
Why! ar e lewed, þat alle þe los weldez?
Oþer elles e demen me to dille your dalyaunce to herken?
For schame!
I com hider sengel, and sitte
To lerne at yow sum game;
Dos, techez me of your wytte,
Whil my lorde is fro hame.'