But on a booke yf ye wyll fwere

That ye fchull not me dyskere,
Then were hyt posfybyll.

Then feyde the lady, How may that bee,
That thou durfte not tryste to mee?

Hyt ys full orybylle :

Here my trowthe to the y plyght,
Y fchall heyle the day and nyght,

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,
But to yow durfte y nevyr say,

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,
Undur thy focowre.

To do that dede yf y asfente
Y were worthy to be brente,

And broght in grete doloure;
Thou art a traytour in thy fawe,
Worthy to be hanged and to-drawe,

Be Mary that fwete floure.

A, madam, feyde the knyght,
For the love of god almyght,
Hereon take no hede,

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,
Al fo longe os y leve,

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,
But to hys felowe can he fare,
There evyll muft they the.

Thus to hys felowe ys he gon,

And he hym frayned anon,

590

Syr, how hafte thou spedd?

600

Ryght noght, feyde that othyr,
Syth y was borne, lefe brothyr,

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,
Yn bale am y broght.

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,
Hyt fchall, fo have y blyffe.
Lady, he feyde, y undurftonde
Ye mufte holde up yowre honde

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,
Yn moche bale y am broght,

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,
That ftongen was wyth a spere.

Syr, fche feyde, ys that youre wylle?
Yf hyt were myne then dyd y ylle;
What woman holdyst thou me?

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,
Syth he was borne into myddyllerd,

Certys os he was thoo:

640

650

660