Mercy, he feyde, gode madam! Wele y wott y am to blame, Lady, let me not be spylte, 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, 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, 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, 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, 710 In londe was none fo free. "Syr, wylt thou do os we the fay? Thou fchalt make hur to lagh foo, The chylde anfweryd anon ryght, Therof wolde y be fayne; To renne yn wynde and rayne. 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, 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 He was in many a thoght: That me hedur broght; Yfy them calle sche wyll be adredd, Be hym that all hath wroght. Thus ne fate ftylle as any stone, 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 The lady woke, and was afryght, Before hur beddys fyde. 770 780 |