Mercy, he feyde, gode madam!

Wele y wott y am to blame,
Therfore myn herte ys woo;

Lady, let me not be spylte,
Y afke mercy of my gylte,

On lyve ye let me goo.

The lady feyde, Y graunte wele

Hyt fchall be counfeyle every dele,

But do no more foo.

Now the knyght forthe yede,

And feyde, Felowe, y may not fpede,

What ys thy beste redd?

Yf fche telle my lorde of thys,

We be but dedd, fo have y blys,

Wyth hym be we not fedd:

Womans tongue ys evell to tryfte,
Certys and my lorde hyt wyfte,

Etyn were all owre bredd.

670

Felow, fo mote y ryde or goo,

Or fche wayte us wyth that woo,

680

Hur felfe fchall be dedd.

How myght that be? that othur fayde,

Yn herte y wolde be wele payde,

Myght we do that dede.

Yys, fyr, he feyde, so have y roo,
Y fchall brynge hur wele thertoo,
Therof have thou no drede;
Or hyt paffe dayes three

In mekyll forowe fchall fche bee,

Thus y fchall qwyte hur hur mede. Now are they bothe at oon asfente, In forow to brynge that lady gente; The devell mote them spede!

Sone hyt drowe toward nyght,
To foper they can them dyght.
The emperes and they all.
The two knyghtys grete yapys made,
For to make the lady glade,

That was bothe gentyll and fmall;

When the foper-tyme was done,

To the chaumbyr they went foone,

Knyghtys cladd in palle.

They daunfed and revelyd os they noght dredd

To brynge the lady to hur bedde,

There foule mufte them falle.

That oon thefe callyd a knyght,

That was carver to that lady bryght,

An erleys fone was hee,

690

700

He was a feyre chylde, and a bolde,
Twenty wyntur he was oolde,

710

In londe was none fo free.

"Syr, wylt thou do os we the fay?
And we fchall ordeygne us a play,
That my lady may fee;

Thou fchalt make hur to lagh foo,
Thogh fche were gretly thy foo,
Thy frende fchuld sche bee."

The chylde anfweryd anon ryght,
Be the ordur y bere of knyght,

Therof wolde y be fayne;
And hyt wolde my lady plese,
Thogh hyt wolde me dysefe,

To renne yn wynde and rayne.
"Syr, make the nakyd, save thy breke,
And behynde the yondur curtayn thou crepe,
And do os y fchall fayne;

Then schalt thou fee a yoly play."

Y graunte, thys yonge knyght can fay,

Be god and feynte Jermayne.

Thys chylde thoght on no ylle,

Of he cafte hys clothys ftylle,

And behynde the curtayn he went;

720

730

They feyde to hym, what so befalle,
Come not owt tyll we thee calle ;
And he feyde, Syrs, y asfente.
They revelyd forthe a grete whyle,
No man wyfte of ther gyle,

Save they two veramente;

They voyded the chaumber fone anon,

The chylde they lafte fyttyng alone,

And that lady gente.

Thys lady lay in bedd on slepe,

Of trefon toke fche no kepe,

For therof wyfte sche noght;

Thys chylde had wonder ever among
Why thefe knyghtys were fo longe,

He was in many a thoght:
Lorde, mercy, how may thys bee!
Y trowe they have forgeton me

That me hedur broght;

Yfy them calle sche wyll be adredd,
My lady lyeth here in hur bedde,

Be hym that all hath wroght.

Thus ne fate ftylle as any stone,
He durft not ftore, nor make no mone,

To make the lady afryght;

740

750

Thes falfe men, ay worthe them woo!

To hur chaumbur can they goo,

And armyd them full ryght.

Lordys owte of bedd can they calle,

760

And badd arme them grete and smalle:

"Anone that ye were dyght;

And helpe to take a falfe traytour,

That with my lady, in hur boure,

Hath playde hym all thys nyght."

Sone they armyd everychone,

And with thefe traytours can they gone,

The lordys that there wore;

To the emperes chaumber they cam ryght,

Wyth torchys and with fwerdys bryght,

Brennyng them before.

Behynde the curtayne they wente,

The yonge knyght, verrament,

Nakyd founde they thore;

That oon thefe wyth a fwerde of were
Thorow the body he can hym bere,
That worde fpake he no more.

The lady woke, and was afryght,
Whan fche fawe the grete lyght,

Before hur beddys fyde.

770

780