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But some false fende of helle
Ys comyn thy doghtur for to qwelle,
· Let me quyte hur hur mede.

They dyght hur on the morne in sympull atyr,
And led hur forthe unto the fyre,

Many a oon wyth hur yede;
Sche seyde, God, of myghtys mooft,
Fadur and fone, and holy goost,

As y dud nevyr thys dede,
Yf y gyltles be of thys,

1680 Brynge me to thy bygly blys,

For thy grete godhede.
All that ever on hur can see,
Wrange ther hondes for grete pytè,

And farde as they wolde wede.

The lorde, that had the doghtur dedd,
Hys herte turned in that stedd,

To wepe he can begynne.
He seyde, Florence, al so mote y the,
I may not on thy dethe see,

For all the worlde to wynne.
To hur chaumbur he can hur lede,
And cled hur in hur own wede,,

And seyde, Y hold hyt synne.


They set hur on hur own palfraye,
In all hur nobull ryche arraye,

Or evyr wolde he blynne ;

And gaf hur the brydull in hur hande,
And broght hur to the wode ther he hur fande,
And than he lefte hur thare.

1700 And betaght hur god and gode day, And bad hur wende on hur way,

And then fche fyghed fare;
Syr, sche seyde, for charytė,
Let none of thy men folowe me

To worche me no more care.
Nay for god, he seyde, noon schulde
For nyne tymes thy weyght of golde:

Home then can he fare.


Thorow the foreste the lady rode,
All glemed there fche glode

Tyll sche came in a felde.
Sche fawe men undur a galows ftande,

Thedur they ledd a thefe to hange, • To them then sche helde ;

And haylesed them full curteslye.
They alkyd fro whens fche came in hye,

That worthy was to welde.

Sche seyde ye fchall wete of me no mare
But as a woman dyscownfortyd sare

Wythowten bote or belde ;


No levyng lefe wyth me y have,
Wolde ye graunt me to be my knave,

The thefe that ye thynke to hynge.
The more buxum wyll he bee,
That he were borowyd fro the galow tree,

I hope be hevyn kynge.
Then ther councell toke thay,
They were lothe to seye hur nay,

Sche was fo feyre a thynge.
They gaf hym to hur of ther gyfte,
He was full lothe to leeve hys thefte;

Sche thankyd them olde and yynge.


Sche feyde, Wolde thou serve me wele,
I fchulde the quyte every dele.

He feyde to hur, Yaa,
Ellys were y a grete fole,
And worthy to be drowned in a pole,

The galowse thou delyvyrd me fra.
Sche thynkyth, Myght y come ovyr the see, 1740
At Jerusalem wolde y bee,

Thedur to ryde or ga;


Then myght y spyr tythandes of Rome,
And of my lordys home come ;

But now wakenyth hur waa.


A burges that was the thefys reyset,
At the townes end he them mett,

The lady rode ovyr an hylle,
I wende thou hadyst be hangyd hye,
And he twynkylde wyth hys eye,

As who feyth, holde the stylle :
Thys gentyll woman hath borowed me,
For y fchulde hur knave bee,

And serve hur at hur wylle ;
And sythyn he rowned in hys eere,
I behete the all thys ryche gere,

Thy hows y wyll brynge hur tylle.


He led hur up into the towne,
At thys burges hows he toke hur downe,

There was hur harburgerye.
On the hye deyse he hur sett,
And mete and drynke he hur fett,

Of the wyne redd as cherye.
The burges wyfe welcomed hur ofte,
Wyth mylde wordys and wyth softe,

And bad hur ofte be merye.

Tho two false wyth grete yre,
Stode and behelde her ryche atyre,

And beganne to lagh and flerye.


The burges wyse wyste ther thoght,
And seyde in feythe we do for noght,

Yf fo be that y may.
At nyght to chaumbur sche hur ledd,
And sparryd the dore and went to bedd,

All nyght togedur they laye.
Sche calde on Clarebolde hur knave,
A lytyll errande for fothe y have,

At the see so graye ;
Yf any schepe wende ovyr the streme
To the cyté of Jerusalem,

Gode sone wytt me to faye.
Clarebalde feyde the burges tylle,
Thys nyght had we not owre wylle,

We mufte caste a nodur wyle.
To the see they went in fere,
And fold hur to a marynere,

Wythynne a lytyll whyle ;
On covenawnt sche ys the feyrest thynge,
That evyr ye fye olde or yynge,

And he at them can smyle.



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