IN MAY, whan every harte floryshyth and burgenyth (for, as the season ys lusty to beholde and comfortable, so man and woman rejoysyth and gladith of somer commynge with his freyshe floures, for wynter wyth hys rowghe wyndis and blastis causyth lusty men and women to cowre and to syt faste by fyres), so thys season hit befelle in the moneth of May a grete angur and unhappe that stynted nat tylle the floure of chyvalry of alle the worlde was destroyed and slayne. And all was longe uppon too unhappy knyghtis whych were named Sir Aggravayne and Sir Mordred, that were brethirn unto Sir Gawayne, for thys Sir Aggravayne and Sir Mordred had ever a prevy hate unto the quene, Dame Gwenyvere, and to Sir Launcelot; and dayly and nyghtly they ever wacched uppon Sir Launcelot.

So hyt myssefortuned Sir Gawayne and all hys brethirne were in Kynge Arthurs chambir, and than Sir Aggravayne seyde thus, opynly and nat in no counceyle, that manye knyghtis myght here: “I mervayle that we all be nat ashamed bothe to se and to know how Sir Launcelot lyeth dayly and nyghtly by the quene. And all we know well that hit ys so, and hit ys shamefully suffird of us all that we shulde suffir so noble a kynge as Kynge Arthur ys to be shamed.”

Than spake Sir Gawayne and seyde, “Brothir Sir Aggravayne, I pray you and charge you, meve no such maters no more afore me, for wyte you well I woll nat be of youre counceyle.”

“So God me helpe,” seyde Sir Gaherys and Sir Gareth, “we woll nat be knowyn of your dedis.”

“Than woll I!” seyde Sir Mordred.

“I lyve you well,” seyde Sir Gawayne, “for ever unto all unhappynes, sir, ye woll graunte. And I wolde that ye leffte all thys, and made you nat so bysy, for I know,” seyde Sir Gawayne, “what woll falle of hit.”

“Falle whatsumever falle may,” seyde Sir Aggravayne, “I woll disclose hit to the kynge!”

“Nat be my counceyle,” seyde Sir Gawayne, “for, and there aryse warre and wrake betwyxte Sir Launcelot and us, wyte you well, brothir, there woll many kynges and grete lordis holde with Sir Launcelot.