Upon his thyghes and harte-swefte legges he wore
  A hugie goat skyn, all of one grete peice;
  A boar skyn sheelde on his bare armes he bore;
  His gauntletts were the skynn of harte of greece. 
  They fledde; he followed close upon their heels, 495
  Vowynge vengeance for his deare countrymanne;
  And Siere de Sancelotte his vengeance feels;
  He peerc’d hys backe, and out the bloude ytt ranne. 
    His bloude went downe the swerde unto his arme,
    In springing rivulet, alive and warme. 500

  His swerde was shorte, and broade, and myckle keene,
  And no mann’s bone could stonde to stoppe itts waie;
  The Normann’s harte in partes two cutt cleane,
  He clos’d his eyne, and clos’d hys eyne for aie. 
  Then with his swerde he sett on Fitz du Valle, 505
  A knyghte mouch famous for to runne at tylte;
  With thilk a furie on hym he dyd falle,
  Into his neck he ranne the swerde and hylte;
    As myghtie lyghtenynge often has been founde,
    To drive an oke into unfallow’d grounde. 510

  And with the swerde, that in his neck yet stoke,
  The Norman fell unto the bloudie grounde;
  And with the fall ap Tewdore’s swerde he broke,
  And bloude afreshe came trickling from the wounde. 
  As whan the hyndes, before a mountayne wolfe, 515
  Flie from his paws, and angrie vysage grym;
  But when he falls into the pittie golphe,
  They dare hym to his bearde, and battone hym;
    And cause he fryghted them so muche before,
    Lyke cowart hyndes, they battone hym the more. 520

  So, whan they sawe ap Tewdore was bereft
  Of his keen swerde, thatt wroghte thilke great dismaie,
  They turned about, eftsoons upon hym lept,
  And full a score engaged in the fraie. 
  Mervyn ap Tewdore, ragyng as a bear, 525
  Seiz’d on the beaver of the Sier de Laque;
  And wring’d his hedde with such a vehement gier,
  His visage was turned round unto his backe. 
    Backe to his harte retyr’d the useless gore,
    And felle upon the pleine to rise no more. 530

  Then on the mightie Siere Fitz Pierce he flew,
  And broke his helm and seiz’d hym bie the throte: 
  Then manie Normann knyghtes their arrowes drew,
  That enter’d into Mervyn’s harte, God wote. 
  In dying panges he gryp’d his throte more stronge, 535
  And from their sockets started out his eyes;
  And from his mouthe came out his blameless tonge;
  And bothe in peyne and anguishe eftsoon dies. 
    As some rude rocke torne from his bed of claie,
    Stretch’d onn the pleyne the brave ap Tewdore laie. 540