Sone the elder brother giled the yonge knave.
He took into his hond his lond and leede
And Gamelyn himselfe to clothen and to feede.
He clothed him and fed him ivel and eek wrothe
And leet his londes forfare and his houses bothe,
His parkes and his woodes, and dede nothing well;
And sethen he it abought on his faire fell.
So longe was Gamelyn in his brotheres halle,
For the stengest, of good will, they doutiden him alle
Ther was non therinne, nouther yong ne olde,
That wolde wrathe Gamelyn, were he never so bolde.
Gamelyn stood on a day in his brotheres yerde
And bigan with his hond to handlen his berde.
He thought on his londes that layen unsawe

And his faire okes that doun were y-drawe.
His parkes were y-broken and his deer bireeved.

Of alle his goode steede noon was him bileved.
His houses were unhiled and full ivel dight.

Tho thoughte Gamelyn it went nought aright.
Afterward cam his brother walkinge thare
And saide to Gamelyn, "Is our mete yare?"
Tho wrathed him Gamelyn and swor by Goddes book,
"Thou shalt go bake thiself; I will nought be thy cook!"
"How? Brother Gamelyn, how answerest thou now?
Thou spake never a word as thou dost now."
"By my faith," saide Gamelyn, "now me thinketh neede;
Of alle the harmes that I have, I took never ar heede
My parkes been tobroken and my deer bireved,
Of mim armure and my steedes nought is me bileved.
All that my fader me biquath, all goth to shame
And therfor have thou Goddes curs, brother, by thy name!" (70-100)

A dreary Desart and a gloomy Waste,
To Savage Beasts and Savage Laws a Prey
And Kings more furious and severe than they:
Who claim'd the Skies, dispeopled Air and Floods,
The lonely Lords of empty Wilds and Woods.
Cities laid waste, they storm'd the Dens and Caves
What could be free, when lawless Beasts obey'd,
And ev'n the Elements a Tyrant sway'd?
In vain kind Seasons swell'd the teeming Grain,
Soft Show'rs distill'd, and Suns grew warm in vain;
The Swain with Tears his frustrate Labour yields
And famish'd dies amidst his ripn'd Fields.
What wonder then, a Beast or Subject slain
Were equal Crimes in a Despotick Reign;
Both doom'd alike for sportive Tyrants bled,
But while the Subject starv'd the Beast was fed.
Proud Nimrod first the bloody Chace began,
A mighty Hunter, and his Prey was Man.
Our haughty Norman boasts that barb'rous Name,
And makes his trembling Slaves the Royal Game.
The Fields are ravish'd from th' industrious Swains
From Men their Cities, and from Gods their Fanes:
The levell'd Towns with Weeds lie cover'd o'er,
The hollow Winds thro' naked Temples roar;
Round broken Columns clasping Ivy twin'd;
O'er Heaps of Ruins stalk'd the stately Hind;
The Fox obscene to gaping Tombs retires,
And savage Howlings fill the sacred Quires.
Aw'd by his Nobles, by his Commons curst,
Th' Oppressor rul'd Tyrannick where he durst,
Stretch'd o'er the Poor, and Church, his Iron Rod,
And serv' d alike his Vassals and. his God.
Whom ev'n the Saxon spar'd, and bloody Dane,
The wanton Victims of his Sport remain.
But see the Man who spacious Regions gave
A Waste for Beasts, himself deny'd a Grave!
Stretch'd on the Lawn his second Hope survey,
At once the Chaser and at once the Prey.
Lo Rufus, tugging at the deadly Dart,
Bleeds in the Forest, like a wounded Hart.
Succeeding Monarchs heard the Subjects Cries,
Nor saw displeas'd the peaceful Cottage rise.

"Brother, " saide Gamelyn, "wrathe thee right nought,-
For it is many day y-gon sithen it was bought;
For, brother, thou hast y-had, by Saint Richer,
Of fiftene plowes of lond this sixtene yer,
And of alle beestes thou has forth bred,
That my fader me biquath on his deth-bed,
Of all this sixtene yeer I yeve thee the prow,
For all the mete and drink that we have spended now." (355-62) (emphases added)