But on a booke yf ye wyll fwere That ye fchull not me dyskere, Then feyde the lady, How may that bee, Hyt ys full orybylle : Here my trowthe to the y plyght, Al fo trewe as boke or belle. "Lady, in yow ys all my tryfte, Inwardely y wolde ye wyfte, What payne y fuffur you fore; Y drowpe, y dare, nyght and day, My wele, my wytt, ys all away, But ye lene on my lore. Y have yow lovyd many a day, My mornyng ys the more; Than answeryd that lovely lyfe, Syr, wele thou wottyft y am a wyfe, My lorde ys emperoure, 550 560 He chafe the for a trewe knyght, To kepe me bothe day and nyght, To do that dede yf y asfente And broght in grete doloure; Be Mary that fwete floure. A, madam, feyde the knyght, Yn me ye may full wele tryste ay, Y dud nothyng but yow to affray, Al fo god me fpede. Thynke, madam, your trowthe ys plyght, To holde counfayle, bothe day and nyght, Fully wythowte drede; Y afke mercy for goddys ore, Hereof yf y carpe more Let drawe me wyth a stede. The lady feyde, Y the forgeve, Counfayle fchall hyt bee; -570 580 Loke thou be a trewe man, In all thyng that thou can, To my lorde fo free. "Yys, lady, ellys dyd y wronge, For y have fervyd hym longe, And wele he hath qwytt mee." Here of fpake he no mare, Thus to hys felowe ys he gon, And he hym frayned anon, 590 Syr, how hafte thou spedd? 600 Ryght noght, feyde that othyr, Was y nevyr fo adredd. Certys hyt ys a boteles bale To hur to touche foche a tale, At borde or at bedde. Then fayde that odur, Thy wytt ys thynne, Y myselfe fchall hur wynne, Y lay my hedd to wedde. Thus hyt pafsyd ovyr, os y you fay, 610 Tyl aftur, on the thrydde day, Thys knyght hym bethoght, Certys, fpede os y may, My ladyes wylle that ys fo gay, Hyt fchalle be thorowly foght. When he fawe hur in befte mode, Sore fyghyng to hur he yode, Of lyfe os he ne roght: Lady, he feyde, wythowte fayle, But ye helpe me wyth yowre counfayle, 620 Sche answeryd full curtesly, My counfayle fchall be redy, Telle me how hyt ys When y wott worde and ende, Yf my counfayle may hyt mende, To holde counfayle, y wys. Yys, feyde the lady free, Thereto my trouthe here to the, And ellys y dude amys. Madam, he feyde, now y am in tryfte, All my lyfe thogh ye wyste, Ye wolde me not dyskere ; 630 For you y am in fo grete thoght, Wythowte othe y fwere: And ye may full wele fee How pale y am of blee, Y dye nere for dere; Dere lady, graunt me youre love, For the love of god that fytteth above, Syr, fche feyde, ys that youre wylle? Yn thy kepeyng y have ben, What hafte thou herde be me or fene That touchyth to any velanye? That thou in herte art fo bolde, Nay that fchall nevyr bee. Had y not hyght to holde counfayle, Thou schouldest be honged, wythowt fayle, Upon a galowe-tree. The knyght was never fo fore aferde, Certys os he was thoo: 640 650 660 |