Heer bigynneth the Cokes tale.

A prentis whylom dwelled in our citee,

And of a craft of vitaillers was he;

Gaillard he was as goldfinch in the shawe,

Broun as a berie, a propre short felawe,

With lokkes blake, y-kempt ful fetisly.

Dauncen he coude so wel and Iolily,

That he was cleped Perkin Revelour.

He was as ful of love and paramour

As is the hyve ful of hony swete;

Wel was the wenche with him mighte mete.

At every brydale wolde he singe and hoppe,

He loved bet the taverne than the shoppe.

For whan ther any ryding was in Chepe,

Out of the shoppe thider wolde he lepe.

Til that he hadde al the sighte y-seyn,

And daunced wel, he wolde nat come ageyn.

And gadered him a meinee of his sort

To hoppe and singe, and maken swich disport.

And ther they setten Steven for to mete

To pleyen at the dys in swich a strete.

For in the toune nas ther no prentys,

That fairer coude caste a paire of dys

Than Perkin coude, and ther-to he was free

Of his dispense, in place of privetee.

That fond his maister wel in his chaffare;

For often tyme he fond his box ful bare.

For sikerly a prentis revelour,

That haunteth dys, riot, or paramour,

His maister shal it in his shoppe abye,

Al have he no part of the minstralcye;

For thefte and riot, they ben convertible,

Al conne he pleye on giterne or ribible.

Revel and trouthe, as in a low degree,

They been ful wrothe al day, as men may see.

This Ioly prentis with his maister bood,

Til he were ny out of his prentishood,

Al were he snibbed bothe erly and late,

And somtyme lad with revel to Newgate;

But atte laste his maister him bithoghte,

Up-on a day, whan he his paper soghte,

Of a proverbe that seith this same word,

‘Wel bet is roten appel out of hord

Than that it rotie al the remenaunt.’

So fareth it by a riotous servaunt;

It is wel lasse harm to lete him pace,

Than he shende alle the servants in the place.

Therfore his maister yaf him acquitance,

And bad him go with sorwe and with meschance;

And thus this Ioly prentis hadde his leve.

Now lat him riote al the night or leve.

And for ther is no theef with-oute a louke,

That helpeth him to wasten and to souke

Of that he brybe can or borwe may,

Anon he sente his bed and his array

Un-to a compeer of his owne sort,

That lovede dys and revel and disport,

And hadde a wyf that heeld for countenance

A shoppe, and swyved for hir sustenance.

Of this Cokes tale maked Chaucer na more.

[For The Tale of Gamelin, see the Appendix.]

The wordes of the Hoost to the companye.

Our Hoste sey wel that the brighte sonne

The ark of his artificial day had ronne

The fourthe part, and half an houre, and more;

And though he were not depe expert in lore,

He wiste it was the eightetethe day

Of April, that is messager to May;

And sey wel that the shadwe of every tree

Was as in lengthe the same quantitee

That was the body erect that caused it.

And therfor by the shadwe he took his wit

That Phebus, which that shoon so clere and brighte,

Degrees was fyve and fourty clombe on highte;

And for that day, as in that latitude,

It was ten of the clokke, he gan conclude,

And sodeynly he plighte his hors aboute.

‘Lordinges,’ quod he, ‘I warne yow, al this route,

The fourthe party of this day is goon;

Now, for the love of god and of seint Iohn,

Leseth no tyme, as ferforth as ye may;

Lordinges, the tyme wasteth night and day,

And steleth from us, what prively slepinge,

And what thurgh necligence in our wakinge,

As dooth the streem, that turneth never agayn,

Descending fro the montaigne in-to playn.

Wel can Senek, and many a philosophre

Biwailen tyme, more than gold in cofre.

“For los of catel may recovered be,

But los of tyme shendeth us,” quod he.

It wol nat come agayn, with-outen drede,

Na more than wol Malkins maydenhede,

Whan she hath lost it in hir wantownesse;

Lat us nat moulen thus in ydelnesse.

Sir man of lawe,’ quod he, ‘so have ye blis,

Tel us a tale anon, as forward is;

Ye been submitted thurgh your free assent

To stonde in this cas at my Iugement.

Acquiteth yow, and holdeth your biheste,

Than have ye doon your devoir atte leste.’

‘Hoste,’ quod he, ‘depardieux ich assente,

To breke forward is not myn entente.

Biheste is dette, and I wol holde fayn

Al my biheste; I can no better seyn.

For swich lawe as man yeveth another wight,

He sholde him-selven usen it by right;

Thus wol our text; but natheles certeyn

I can right now no thrifty tale seyn,

But Chaucer, though he can but lewedly

On metres and on ryming craftily,

Hath seyd hem in swich English as he can

Of olde tyme, as knoweth many a man.

And if he have not seyd hem, leve brother,

In o book, he hath seyd hem in another.

For he hath told of loveres up and doun

Mo than Ovyde made of mencioun

In his Epistelles, that been ful olde.

What sholde I tellen hem, sin they ben tolde?

In youthe he made of Ceys and Alcion,

And sithen hath he spoke of everichon,

Thise noble wyves and thise loveres eek.

Who-so that wol his large volume seek

Cleped the Seintes Legende of Cupyde,

Ther may he seen the large woundes wyde

Of Lucresse, and of Babilan Tisbee;

The swerd of Dido for the false Enee;

The tree of Phillis for hir Demophon;

The pleinte of Dianire and Hermion,

Of Adriane and of Isiphilee;

The bareyne yle stonding in the see;

The dreynte Leander for his Erro;

The teres of Eleyne, and eek the wo

Of Brixseyde, and of thee, Ladomëa;

The crueltee of thee, queen Medëa,

Thy litel children hanging by the hals

For thy Iason, that was of love so fals!

O Ypermistra, Penelopee, Alceste,

Your wyfhod he comendeth with the beste!

But certeinly no word ne wryteth he

Of thilke wikke ensample of Canacee,

That lovede hir owne brother sinfully;

Of swiche cursed stories I sey ‘fy’;

Or elles of Tyro Apollonius,

How that the cursed king Antiochus

Birafte his doghter of hir maydenhede,

That is so horrible a tale for to rede,

Whan he hir threw up-on the pavement.

And therfor he, of ful avysement,

Nolde never wryte in none of his sermouns

Of swiche unkinde abhominaciouns,

Ne I wol noon reherse, if that I may.

But of my tale how shal I doon this day?

Me were looth be lykned, doutelees,

To Muses that men clepe Pierides—

Metamorphoseos wot what I mene:—

But nathelees, I recche noght a bene

Though I come after him with hawe-bake;

I speke in prose, and lat him rymes make.’

And with that word he, with a sobre chere,

Bigan his tale, as ye shal after here.

The Prologe of the Mannes Tale of Lawe.

O hateful harm! condicion of poverte!

With thurst, with cold, with hunger so confounded!

To asken help thee shameth in thyn herte;

If thou noon aske, with nede artow so wounded,

That verray nede unwrappeth al thy wounde hid!

Maugree thyn heed, thou most for indigence

Or stele, or begge, or borwe thy despence!

Thou blamest Crist, and seyst ful bitterly,

He misdeparteth richesse temporal;

Thy neighebour thou wytest sinfully,

And seyst thou hast to lyte, and he hath al.

‘Parfay,’ seistow, ‘somtyme he rekne shal,

Whan that his tayl shal brennen in the glede,

For he noght helpeth needfulle in hir nede.’

Herkne what is the sentence of the wyse:—

‘Bet is to dyën than have indigence;’

Thy selve neighebour wol thee despyse;

If thou be povre, farwel thy reverence!

Yet of the wyse man tak this sentence:—

‘Alle the dayes of povre men ben wikke;’

Be war therfor, er thou come in that prikke!

If thou be povre, thy brother hateth thee,

And alle thy freendes fleen fro thee, alas!

O riche marchaunts, ful of wele ben ye,

O noble, o prudent folk, as in this cas!

Your bagges been nat filled with ambes as,

But with sis cink, than renneth for your chaunce;

At Cristemasse merie may ye daunce!

Ye seken lond and see for your winninges,

As wyse folk ye knowen al thestaat

Of regnes; ye ben fadres of tydinges

And tales, bothe of pees and of debat.

I were right now of tales desolat,

Nere that a marchaunt, goon is many a yere,

Me taughte a tale, which that ye shal here.

Here beginneth the Man of Lawe his Tale.

In Surrie whylom dwelte a companye

Of chapmen riche, and therto sadde and trewe,

That wyde-wher senten her spycerye,

Clothes of gold, and satins riche of hewe;

Her chaffar was so thrifty and so newe,

That every wight hath deyntee to chaffare

With hem, and eek to sellen hem hir ware.

Now fel it, that the maistres of that sort

Han shapen hem to Rome for to wende;

Were it for chapmanhode or for disport,

Nan other message wolde they thider sende,

But comen hem-self to Rome, this is the ende;

And in swich place, as thoughte hem avantage

For her entente, they take her herbergage.

Soiourned han thise marchants in that toun

A certein tyme, as fel to hir plesance.

And so bifel, that thexcellent renoun

Of themperoures doghter, dame Custance,

Reported was, with every circumstance,

Un-to thise Surrien marchants in swich wyse,

Fro day to day, as I shal yow devyse.

This was the commune vois of every man—

‘Our Emperour of Rome, god him see,

A doghter hath that, sin the world bigan,

To rekne as wel hir goodnesse as beautee,

Nas never swich another as is she;

I prey to god in honour hir sustene,

And wolde she were of al Europe the quene.

In hir is heigh beautee, with-oute pryde,

Yowthe, with-oute grenehede or folye;

To alle hir werkes vertu is hir gyde,

Humblesse hath slayn in hir al tirannye.

She is mirour of alle curteisye;

Hir herte is verray chambre of holinesse,

Hir hand, ministre of fredom for almesse.’

And al this vois was soth, as god is trewe,

But now to purpos lat us turne agayn;

Thise marchants han doon fraught hir shippes newe,

And, whan they han this blisful mayden seyn,

Hoom to Surryë been they went ful fayn,

And doon her nedes as they han don yore,

And liven in wele; I can sey yow no more.

Now fel it, that thise marchants stode in grace

Of him, that was the sowdan of Surrye;

For whan they came from any strange place,

He wolde, of his benigne curteisye,

Make hem good chere, and bisily espye

Tydings of sondry regnes, for to lere

The wondres that they mighte seen or here.

Amonges othere thinges, specially

Thise marchants han him told of dame Custance,

So gret noblesse in ernest, ceriously,

That this sowdan hath caught so gret plesance

To han hir figure in his remembrance,

That al his lust and al his bisy cure

Was for to love hir whyl his lyf may dure.

Paraventure in thilke large book

Which that men clepe the heven, y-writen was

With sterres, whan that he his birthe took,

That he for love shulde han his deeth, allas!

For in the sterres, clerer than is glas,

Is writen, god wot, who-so coude it rede,

The deeth of every man, withouten drede.

In sterres, many a winter ther-biforn,

Was writen the deeth of Ector, Achilles,

Of Pompey, Iulius, er they were born;

The stryf of Thebes; and of Ercules,

Of Sampson, Turnus, and of Socrates

The deeth; but mennes wittes been so dulle,

That no wight can wel rede it atte fulle.

This sowdan for his privee conseil sente,

And, shortly of this mater for to pace,

He hath to hem declared his entente,

And seyde hem certein, ‘but he mighte have grace

To han Custance with-inne a litel space,

He nas but deed;’ and charged hem, in hye,

To shapen for his lyf som remedye.

Diverse men diverse thinges seyden;

They argumenten, casten up and doun;

Many a subtil resoun forth they leyden,

They speken of magik and abusioun;

But finally, as in conclusioun,

They can not seen in that non avantage,

Ne in non other wey, save mariage.

Than sawe they ther-in swich difficultee

By wey of resoun, for to speke al playn,

By-cause that ther was swich diversitee

Bitwene hir bothe lawes, that they sayn,

They trowe ‘that no cristen prince wolde fayn

Wedden his child under oure lawes swete

That us were taught by Mahoun our prophete.’

And he answerde, ‘rather than I lese

Custance, I wol be cristned doutelees;

I mot ben hires, I may non other chese.

I prey yow holde your arguments in pees;

Saveth my lyf, and beeth noght recchelees

To geten hir that hath my lyf in cure;

For in this wo I may not longe endure.’

What nedeth gretter dilatacioun?

I seye, by tretis and embassadrye,

And by the popes mediacioun,

And al the chirche, and al the chivalrye,

That, in destruccioun of Maumetrye,

And in encrees of Cristes lawe dere,

They ben acorded, so as ye shal here;

How that the sowdan and his baronage

And alle his liges shulde y-cristned be,

And he shal han Custance in mariage,

And certein gold, I noot what quantitee,

And her-to founden suffisant seurtee;

This same acord was sworn on eyther syde;

Now, faire Custance, almighty god thee gyde!

Now wolde som men waiten, as I gesse,

That I shulde tellen al the purveyance

That themperour, of his grete noblesse,

Hath shapen for his doghter dame Custance.

Wel may men knowe that so gret ordinance

May no man tellen in a litel clause

As was arrayed for so heigh a cause.

Bisshopes ben shapen with hir for to wende,

Lordes, ladyes, knightes of renoun,

And other folk y-nowe, this is the ende;

And notifyed is thurgh-out the toun

That every wight, with gret devocioun,

Shulde preyen Crist that he this mariage

Receyve in gree, and spede this viage.

The day is comen of hir departinge,

I sey, the woful day fatal is come,

That ther may be no lenger taryinge,

But forthward they hem dressen, alle and some;

Custance, that was with sorwe al overcome,

Ful pale arist, and dresseth hir to wende;

For wel she seeth ther is non other ende.

Allas! what wonder is it though she wepte,

That shal be sent to strange nacioun

Fro freendes, that so tendrely hir kepte,

And to be bounden under subieccioun

Of oon, she knoweth not his condicioun.

Housbondes been alle gode, and han ben yore,

That knowen wyves, I dar say yow no more.

‘Fader,’ she sayde, ‘thy wrecched child Custance,

Thy yonge doghter, fostred up so softe,

And ye, my moder, my soverayn plesance

Over alle thing, out-taken Crist on-lofte,

Custance, your child, hir recomandeth ofte

Un-to your grace, for I shal to Surryë,

Ne shal I never seen yow more with yë.

Allas! un-to the Barbre nacioun

I moste anon, sin that it is your wille;

But Crist, that starf for our redempcioun,

So yeve me grace, his hestes to fulfille;

I, wrecche womman, no fors though I spille.

Wommen are born to thraldom and penance,

And to ben under mannes governance.’

I trowe, at Troye, whan Pirrus brak the wal

Or Ylion brende, at Thebes the citee,

Nat Rome, for the harm thurgh Hanibal

That Romayns hath venquisshed tymes thre,

Nas herd swich tendre weping for pitee

As in the chambre was for hir departinge;

Bot forth she moot, wher-so she wepe or singe.

O firste moevyng cruel firmament,

With thy diurnal sweigh that crowdest ay

And hurlest al from Est til Occident,

That naturelly wolde holde another way,

Thy crowding set the heven in swich array

At the beginning of this fiers viage,

That cruel Mars hath slayn this mariage.

Infortunat ascendent tortuous,

Of which the lord is helples falle, allas!

Out of his angle in-to the derkest hous.

O Mars, O Atazir, as in this cas!

O feble mone, unhappy been thy pas!

Thou knittest thee ther thou art nat receyved,

Ther thou were weel, fro thennes artow weyved.

Imprudent emperour of Rome, allas!

Was ther no philosophre in al thy toun?

Is no tyme bet than other in swich cas?

Of viage is ther noon eleccioun,

Namely to folk of heigh condicioun,

Nat whan a rote is of a birthe y-knowe?

Allas! we ben to lewed or to slowe.

To shippe is brought this woful faire mayde

Solempnely, with every circumstance.

‘Now Iesu Crist be with yow alle,’ she sayde;

Ther nis namore but ‘farewel! faire Custance!’

She peyneth hir to make good countenance,

And forth I lete hir sayle in this manere,

And turne I wol agayn to my matere.

The moder of the sowdan, welle of vyces,

Espyëd hath hir sones pleyn entente,

How he wol lete his olde sacrifyces,

And right anon she for hir conseil sente;

And they ben come, to knowe what she mente.

And when assembled was this folk in-fere,

She sette hir doun, and sayde as ye shal here.

‘Lordes,’ quod she, ‘ye knowen everichon,

How that my sone in point is for to lete

The holy lawes of our Alkaron,

Yeven by goddes message Makomete.

But oon avow to grete god I hete,

The lyf shal rather out of my body sterte

Than Makometes lawe out of myn herte!

What shulde us tyden of this newe lawe

But thraldom to our bodies and penance?

And afterward in helle to be drawe

For we reneyed Mahoun our creance?

But, lordes, wol ye maken assurance,

As I shal seyn, assenting to my lore,

And I shall make us sauf for evermore?’

They sworen and assenten, every man,

To live with hir and dye, and by hir stonde;

And everich, in the beste wyse he can,

To strengthen hir shal alle his freendes fonde;

And she hath this empryse y-take on honde,

Which ye shal heren that I shal devyse,

And to hem alle she spak right in this wyse.

‘We shul first feyne us cristendom to take,

Cold water shal not greve us but a lyte;

And I shal swich a feste and revel make,

That, as I trowe, I shal the sowdan quyte.

For though his wyf be cristned never so whyte,

She shal have nede to wasshe awey the rede,

Thogh she a font-ful water with hir lede.’

O sowdanesse, rote of iniquitee,

Virago, thou Semyram the secounde,

O serpent under femininitee,

Lyk to the serpent depe in helle y-bounde,

O feyned womman, al that may confounde

Vertu and innocence, thurgh thy malyce,

Is bred in thee, as nest of every vyce!

O Satan, envious sin thilke day

That thou were chased from our heritage,

Wel knowestow to wommen the olde way!

Thou madest Eva bringe us in servage.

Thou wolt fordoon this cristen mariage.

Thyn instrument so, weylawey the whyle!

Makestow of wommen, whan thou wolt begyle.

This sowdanesse, whom I thus blame and warie,

Leet prively hir conseil goon hir way.

What sholde I in this tale lenger tarie?

She rydeth to the sowdan on a day,

And seyde him, that she wolde reneye hir lay,

And cristendom of preestes handes fonge,

Repenting hir she hethen was so longe,

Biseching him to doon hir that honour,

That she moste han the cristen men to feste;

‘To plesen hem I wol do my labour.’

The sowdan seith, ‘I wol don at your heste,’

And kneling thanketh hir of that requeste.

So glad he was, he niste what to seye;

She kiste hir sone, and hoom she gooth hir weye.

Explicit prima pars. Sequitur pars secunda.

Arryved ben this cristen folk to londe,

In Surrie, with a greet solempne route,

And hastily this sowdan sente his sonde,

First to his moder, and al the regne aboute,

And seyde, his wyf was comen, out of doute,

And preyde hir for to ryde agayn the quene,

The honour of his regne to sustene.

Gret was the prees, and riche was tharray

Of Surriens and Romayns met y-fere;

The moder of the sowdan, riche and gay,

Receyveth hir with al-so glad a chere

As any moder mighte hir doghter dere,

And to the nexte citee ther bisyde

A softe pas solempnely they ryde.

Noght trowe I the triumphe of Iulius,

Of which that Lucan maketh swich a bost,

Was royaller, ne more curious

Than was thassemblee of this blisful host.

But this scorpioun, this wikked gost,

The sowdanesse, for al hir flateringe,

Caste under this ful mortally to stinge.

The sowdan comth him-self sone after this

So royally, that wonder is to telle,

And welcometh hir with alle Ioye and blis.

And thus in merthe and Ioye I lete hem dwelle.

The fruyt of this matere is that I telle.

Whan tyme cam, men thoughte it for the beste

That revel stinte, and men goon to hir reste.

The tyme cam, this olde sowdanesse

Ordeyned hath this feste of which I tolde,

And to the feste cristen folk hem dresse

In general, ye! bothe yonge and olde.

Here may men feste and royaltee biholde,

And deyntees mo than I can yow devyse,

But al to dere they boughte it er they ryse.

O sodeyn wo! that ever art successour

To worldly blisse, spreynd with bitternesse;

Thende of the Ioye of our worldly labour;

Wo occupieth the fyn of our gladnesse.

Herke this conseil for thy sikernesse,

Up-on thy glade day have in thy minde

The unwar wo or harm that comth bihinde.

For shortly for to tellen at o word,

The sowdan and the cristen everichone

Ben al to-hewe and stiked at the bord,

But it were only dame Custance allone.

This olde sowdanesse, cursed crone,

Hath with hir frendes doon this cursed dede,

For she hir-self wolde al the contree lede.

Ne ther was Surrien noon that was converted

That of the conseil of the sowdan woot,

That he nas al to-hewe er he asterted.

And Custance han they take anon, foot-hoot,

And in a shippe al sterelees, god woot,

They han hir set, and bidde hir lerne sayle

Out of Surrye agaynward to Itayle.

A certein tresor that she thider ladde,

And, sooth to sayn, vitaille gret plentee

They han hir yeven, and clothes eek she hadde,

And forth she sayleth in the salte see.

O my Custance, ful of benignitee,

O emperoures yonge doghter dere,

He that is lord of fortune be thy stere!

She blesseth hir, and with ful pitous voys

Un-to the croys of Crist thus seyde she,

‘O clere, o welful auter, holy croys,

Reed of the lambes blood full of pitee,

That wesh the world fro the olde iniquitee,

Me fro the feend, and fro his clawes kepe,

That day that I shal drenchen in the depe.

Victorious tree, proteccioun of trewe,

That only worthy were for to bere

The king of heven with his woundes newe,

The whyte lamb, that hurt was with the spere,

Flemer of feendes out of him and here

On which thy limes feithfully extenden,

Me keep, and yif me might my lyf tamenden.’

Yeres and dayes fleet this creature

Thurghout the see of Grece un-to the strayte

Of Marrok, as it was hir aventure;

On many a sory meel now may she bayte;

After her deeth ful often may she wayte,

Er that the wilde wawes wole hir dryve

Un-to the place, ther she shal arryve.

Men mighten asken why she was not slayn?

Eek at the feste who mighte hir body save?

And I answere to that demaunde agayn,

Who saved Daniel in the horrible cave,

Ther every wight save he, maister and knave,

Was with the leoun frete er he asterte?

No wight but god, that he bar in his herte.

God liste to shewe his wonderful miracle

In hir, for we sholde seen his mighty werkes;

Crist, which that is to every harm triacle,

By certein menes ofte, as knowen clerkes,

Doth thing for certein ende that ful derk is

To mannes wit, that for our ignorance

Ne conne not knowe his prudent purveyance.

Now, sith she was not at the feste y-slawe,

Who kepte hir fro the drenching in the see?

Who kepte Ionas in the fisshes mawe

Til he was spouted up at Ninivee?

Wel may men knowe it was no wight but he

That kepte peple Ebraik fro hir drenchinge,

With drye feet thurgh-out the see passinge.

Who bad the foure spirits of tempest,

That power han tanoyen land and see,

‘Bothe north and south, and also west and est,

Anoyeth neither see, ne land, ne tree?’

Sothly, the comaundour of that was he,

That fro the tempest ay this womman kepte

As wel whan [that] she wook as whan she slepte.

Wher mighte this womman mete and drinke have?

Three yeer and more how lasteth hir vitaille?

Who fedde the Egipcien Marie in the cave,

Or in desert? no wight but Crist, sans faille.

Fyve thousand folk it was as gret mervaille

With loves fyve and fisshes two to fede.

God sente his foison at hir grete nede.

She dryveth forth in-to our occean

Thurgh-out our wilde see, til, atte laste,

Under an hold that nempnen I ne can,

Fer in Northumberlond the wawe hir caste,

And in the sond hir ship stiked so faste,

That thennes wolde it noght of al a tyde,

The wille of Crist was that she shulde abyde.

The constable of the castel doun is fare

To seen this wrak, and al the ship he soghte,

And fond this wery womman ful of care;

He fond also the tresor that she broghte.

In hir langage mercy she bisoghte

The lyf out of hir body for to twinne,

Hir to delivere of wo that she was inne.

A maner Latin corrupt was hir speche,

But algates ther-by was she understonde;

The constable, whan him list no lenger seche,

This woful womman broghte he to the londe;

She kneleth doun, and thanketh goddes sonde.

But what she was, she wolde no man seye,

For foul ne fair, thogh that she shulde deye.

She seyde, she was so mased in the see

That she forgat hir minde, by hir trouthe;

The constable hath of hir so greet pitee,

And eek his wyf, that they wepen for routhe,

She was so diligent, with-outen slouthe,

To serve and plesen everich in that place,

That alle hir loven that loken on hir face.

This constable and dame Hermengild his wyf

Were payens, and that contree every-where;

But Hermengild lovede hir right as hir lyf,

And Custance hath so longe soiourned there,

In orisons, with many a bitter tere,

Til Iesu hath converted thurgh his grace

Dame Hermengild, constablesse of that place.

In al that lond no cristen durste route,

Alle cristen folk ben fled fro that contree

Thurgh payens, that conquereden al aboute

The plages of the North, by land and see;

To Walis fled the cristianitee

Of olde Britons, dwellinge in this yle;

Ther was hir refut for the mene whyle.

But yet nere cristen Britons so exyled

That ther nere somme that in hir privetee

Honoured Crist, and hethen folk bigyled;

And ny the castel swiche ther dwelten three.

That oon of hem was blind, and mighte nat see

But it were with thilke yën of his minde,

With whiche men seen, after that they ben blinde.

Bright was the sonne as in that someres day,

For which the constable and his wyf also

And Custance han y-take the righte way

Toward the see, a furlong wey or two,

To pleyen and to romen to and fro;

And in hir walk this blinde man they mette

Croked and old, with yën faste y-shette.

‘In name of Crist,’ cryde this blinde Britoun,

‘Dame Hermengild, yif me my sighte agayn.’

This lady wex affrayed of the soun,

Lest that hir housbond, shortly for to sayn,

Wolde hir for Iesu Cristes love han slayn,

Til Custance made hir bold, and bad hir werche

The wil of Crist, as doghter of his chirche.

The constable wex abasshed of that sight,

And seyde, ‘what amounteth al this fare?’

Custance answerde, ‘sire, it is Cristes might,

That helpeth folk out of the feendes snare.’

And so ferforth she gan our lay declare,

That she the constable, er that it were eve,

Converted, and on Crist made him bileve.

This constable was no-thing lord of this place

Of which I speke, ther he Custance fond,

But kepte it strongly, many wintres space,

Under Alla, king of al Northumberlond,

That was ful wys, and worthy of his hond

Agayn the Scottes, as men may wel here,

But turne I wol agayn to my matere.

Sathan, that ever us waiteth to bigyle,

Saugh of Custance al hir perfeccioun,

And caste anon how he mighte quyte hir whyle,

And made a yong knight, that dwelte in that toun

Love hir so hote, of foul affeccioun,

That verraily him thoughte he shulde spille

But he of hir mighte ones have his wille.

He woweth hir, but it availleth noght,

She wolde do no sinne, by no weye;

And, for despyt, he compassed in his thoght

To maken hir on shamful deth to deye.

He wayteth whan the constable was aweye,

And prively, up-on a night, he crepte

In Hermengildes chambre whyl she slepte.

Wery, for-waked in her orisouns,

Slepeth Custance, and Hermengild also.

This knight, thurgh Sathanas temptaciouns,

Al softely is to the bed y-go,

And kitte the throte of Hermengild a-two,

And leyde the blody knyf by dame Custance,

And wente his wey, ther god yeve him meschance!