Sone after comth this constable hoom agayn,

And eek Alla, that king was of that lond,

And saugh his wyf despitously y-slayn,

For which ful ofte he weep and wrong his hond,

And in the bed the blody knyf he fond

By dame Custance; allas! what mighte she seye?

For verray wo hir wit was al aweye.

To king Alla was told al this meschance,

And eek the tyme, and where, and in what wyse

That in a ship was founden dame Custance,

As heer-biforn that ye han herd devyse.

The kinges herte of pitee gan agryse,

Whan he saugh so benigne a creature

Falle in disese and in misaventure.

For as the lomb toward his deeth is broght,

So stant this innocent bifore the king;

This false knight that hath this tresoun wroght

Berth hir on hond that she hath doon this thing.

But nathelees, ther was greet moorning

Among the peple, and seyn, ‘they can not gesse

That she hath doon so greet a wikkednesse.

For they han seyn hir ever so vertuous,

And loving Hermengild right as her lyf.’

Of this bar witnesse everich in that hous

Save he that Hermengild slow with his knyf.

This gentil king hath caught a gret motyf

Of this witnesse, and thoghte he wolde enquere

Depper in this, a trouthe for to lere.

Allas! Custance! thou hast no champioun,

Ne fighte canstow nought, so weylawey!

But he, that starf for our redempcioun

And bond Sathan (and yit lyth ther he lay)

So be thy stronge champioun this day!

For, but-if Crist open miracle kythe,

Withouten gilt thou shalt be slayn as swythe.

She sette her doun on knees, and thus she sayde,

‘Immortal god, that savedest Susanne

Fro false blame, and thou, merciful mayde,

Mary I mene, doghter to Seint Anne,

Bifore whos child aungeles singe Osanne,

If I be giltlees of this felonye,

My socour be, for elles I shal dye!’

Have ye nat seyn som tyme a pale face,

Among a prees, of him that hath be lad

Toward his deeth, wher-as him gat no grace,

And swich a colour in his face hath had,

Men mighte knowe his face, that was bistad,

Amonges alle the faces in that route:

So stant Custance, and loketh hir aboute.

O quenes, livinge in prosperitee,

Duchesses, and ye ladies everichone,

Haveth som routhe on hir adversitee;

An emperoures doghter stant allone;

She hath no wight to whom to make hir mone.

O blood royal, that stondest in this drede,

Fer ben thy freendes at thy grete nede!

This Alla king hath swich compassioun,

As gentil herte is fulfild of pitee,

That from his yën ran the water doun.

‘Now hastily do fecche a book,’ quod he,

‘And if this knight wol sweren how that she

This womman slow, yet wole we us avyse

Whom that we wole that shal ben our Iustyse.’

A Briton book, writen with Evangyles,

Was fet, and on this book he swoor anoon

She gilty was, and in the mene whyles

A hand him smoot upon the nekke-boon,

That doun he fil atones as a stoon,

And bothe his yën broste out of his face

In sight of every body in that place.

A vois was herd in general audience,

And seyde, ‘thou hast desclaundred giltelees

The doghter of holy chirche in hey presence;

Thus hastou doon, and yet holde I my pees.’

Of this mervaille agast was al the prees;

As mased folk they stoden everichone,

For drede of wreche, save Custance allone.

Greet was the drede and eek the repentance

Of hem that hadden wrong suspeccioun

Upon this sely innocent Custance;

And, for this miracle, in conclusioun,

And by Custances mediacioun,

The king, and many another in that place,

Converted was, thanked be Cristes grace!

This false knight was slayn for his untrouthe

By Iugement of Alla hastifly;

And yet Custance hadde of his deeth gret routhe.

And after this Iesus, of his mercy,

Made Alla wedden ful solempnely

This holy mayden, that is so bright and shene,

And thus hath Crist y-maad Custance a quene.

But who was woful, if I shal nat lye,

Of this wedding but Donegild, and na mo,

The kinges moder, ful of tirannye?

Hir thoughte hir cursed herte brast a-two;

She wolde noght hir sone had do so;

Hir thoughte a despit, that he sholde take

So strange a creature un-to his make.

Me list nat of the chaf nor of the stree

Maken so long a tale, as of the corn.

What sholde I tellen of the royaltee

At mariage, or which cours gooth biforn,

Who bloweth in a trompe or in an horn?

The fruit of every tale is for to seye;

They ete, and drinke, and daunce, and singe, and pleye.

They goon to bedde, as it was skile and right;

For, thogh that wyves been ful holy thinges,

They moste take in pacience at night

Swich maner necessaries as been plesinges

To folk that han y-wedded hem with ringes,

And leye a lyte hir holinesse asyde

As for the tyme; it may no bet bityde.

On hir he gat a knave-child anoon,

And to a bishop and his constable eke

He took his wyf to kepe, whan he is goon

To Scotland-ward, his fo-men for to seke;

Now faire Custance, that is so humble and meke,

So longe is goon with childe, til that stille

She halt hir chambre, abyding Cristes wille.

The tyme is come, a knave-child she ber;

Mauricius at the font-stoon they him calle;

This Constable dooth forth come a messager,

And wroot un-to his king, that cleped was Alle,

How that this blisful tyding is bifalle,

And othere tydings speedful for to seye;

He takth the lettre, and forth he gooth his weye.

This messager, to doon his avantage,

Un-to the kinges moder rydeth swythe,

And salueth hir ful faire in his langage,

‘Madame,’ quod he, ‘ye may be glad and blythe,

And thanke god an hundred thousand sythe;

My lady quene hath child, with-outen doute,

To Ioye and blisse of al this regne aboute.

Lo, heer the lettres seled of this thing,

That I mot bere with al the haste I may;

If ye wol aught un-to your sone the king,

I am your servant, bothe night and day.’

Donegild answerde, ‘as now at this tyme, nay;

But heer al night I wol thou take thy reste,

Tomorwe wol I seye thee what me leste.’

This messager drank sadly ale and wyn,

And stolen were his lettres prively

Out of his box, whyl he sleep as a swyn;

And countrefeted was ful subtilly

Another lettre, wroght ful sinfully,

Un-to the king direct of this matere

Fro his constable, as ye shul after here.

The lettre spak, ‘the queen delivered was

Of so horrible a feendly creature,

That in the castel noon so hardy was

That any whyle dorste ther endure.

The moder was an elf, by aventure

Y-come, by charmes or by sorcerye,

And every wight hateth hir companye.’

Wo was this king whan he this lettre had seyn,

But to no wighte he tolde his sorwes sore,

But of his owene honde he wroot ageyn,

‘Welcome the sonde of Crist for evermore

To me, that am now lerned in his lore;

Lord, welcome be thy lust and thy plesaunce,

My lust I putte al in thyn ordinaunce!

Kepeth this child, al be it foul or fair,

And eek my wyf, un-to myn hoom-cominge;

Crist, whan him list, may sende me an heir

More agreable than this to my lykinge.’

This lettre he seleth, prively wepinge,

Which to the messager was take sone,

And forth he gooth; ther is na more to done.

O messager, fulfild of dronkenesse,

Strong is thy breeth, thy limes faltren ay,

And thou biwreyest alle secreenesse.

Thy mind is lorn, thou Ianglest as a Iay,

Thy face is turned in a newe array!

Ther dronkenesse regneth in any route,

Ther is no conseil hid, with-outen doute.

O Donegild, I ne have noon English digne

Un-to thy malice and thy tirannye!

And therfor to the feend I thee resigne,

Let him endyten of thy traitorye!

Fy, mannish, fy! o nay, by god, I lye,

Fy, feendly spirit, for I dar wel telle,

Though thou heer walke, thy spirit is in helle!

This messager comth fro the king agayn,

And at the kinges modres court he lighte,

And she was of this messager ful fayn,

And plesed him in al that ever she mighte.

He drank, and wel his girdel underpighte.

He slepeth, and he snoreth in his gyse

Al night, un-til the sonne gan aryse.

Eft were his lettres stolen everichon

And countrefeted lettres in this wyse;

‘The king comandeth his constable anon,

Up peyne of hanging, and on heigh Iuÿse,

That he ne sholde suffren in no wyse

Custance in-with his regne for tabyde

Thre dayes and a quarter of a tyde;

But in the same ship as he hir fond,

Hir and hir yonge sone, and al hir gere,

He sholde putte, and croude hir fro the lond,

And charge hir that she never eft come there.’

O my Custance, wel may thy goost have fere

And sleping in thy dreem been in penance,

When Donegild caste al this ordinance!

This messager on morwe, whan he wook,

Un-to the castel halt the nexte wey,

And to the constable he the lettre took;

And whan that he this pitous lettre sey,

Ful ofte he seyde ‘allas!’ and ‘weylawey!’

‘Lord Crist,’ quod he, ‘how may this world endure?

So ful of sinne is many a creature!

O mighty god, if that it be thy wille,

Sith thou art rightful Iuge, how may it be

That thou wolt suffren innocents to spille,

And wikked folk regne in prosperitee?

O good Custance, allas! so wo is me

That I mot be thy tormentour, or deye

On shames deeth; ther is noon other weye!’

Wepen bothe yonge and olde in al that place,

Whan that the king this cursed lettre sente,

And Custance, with a deedly pale face,

The ferthe day toward hir ship she wente.

But natheles she taketh in good entente

The wille of Crist, and, kneling on the stronde,

She seyde, ‘lord! ay wel-com be thy sonde!

He that me kepte fro the false blame

Whyl I was on the londe amonges yow,

He can me kepe from harme and eek fro shame

In salte see, al-thogh I se nat how.

As strong as ever he was, he is yet now.

In him triste I, and in his moder dere,

That is to me my seyl and eek my stere.’

Hir litel child lay weping in hir arm,

And kneling, pitously to him she seyde,

‘Pees, litel sone, I wol do thee non harm.’

With that hir kerchef of hir heed she breyde,

And over his litel yën she it leyde;

And in hir arm she lulleth it ful faste,

And in-to heven hir yën up she caste.

‘Moder,’ quod she, ‘and mayde bright, Marye,

Sooth is that thurgh wommannes eggement

Mankind was lorn and damned ay to dye,

For which thy child was on a croys y-rent;

Thy blisful yën sawe al his torment;

Than is ther no comparisoun bitwene

Thy wo and any wo man may sustene.

Thou sawe thy child y-slayn bifor thyn yën,

And yet now liveth my litel child, parfay!

Now, lady bright, to whom alle woful cryën,

Thou glorie of wommanhede, thou faire may,

Thou haven of refut, brighte sterre of day,

Rewe on my child, that of thy gentillesse

Rewest on every rewful in distresse!

O litel child, allas! what is thy gilt,

That never wroughtest sinne as yet, pardee,

Why wil thyn harde fader han thee spilt?

O mercy, dere Constable!’ quod she;

‘As lat my litel child dwelle heer with thee;

And if thou darst not saven him, for blame,

So kis him ones in his fadres name!’

Ther-with she loketh bakward to the londe,

And seyde, ‘far-wel, housbond routhelees!’

And up she rist, and walketh doun the stronde

Toward the ship; hir folweth al the prees,

And ever she preyeth hir child to holde his pees;

And taketh hir leve, and with an holy entente

She blesseth hir; and in-to ship she wente.

Vitailled was the ship, it is no drede,

Habundantly for hir, ful longe space,

And other necessaries that sholde nede

She hadde y-nogh, heried be goddes grace!

For wind and weder almighty god purchace,

And bringe hir hoom! I can no bettre seye;

But in the see she dryveth forth hir weye.

Explicit secunda pars. Sequitur pars tercia.

Alla the king comth hoom, sone after this,

Unto his castel of the which I tolde,

And axeth wher his wyf and his child is.

The constable gan aboute his herte colde,

And pleynly al the maner he him tolde

As ye han herd, I can telle it no bettre,

And sheweth the king his seel and [eek] his lettre,

And seyde, ‘lord, as ye comaunded me

Up peyne of deeth, so have I doon, certein.’

This messager tormented was til he

Moste biknowe and tellen, plat and plein,

Fro night to night, in what place he had leyn.

And thus, by wit and subtil enqueringe,

Ymagined was by whom this harm gan springe.

The hand was knowe that the lettre wroot,

And al the venim of this cursed dede,

But in what wyse, certeinly I noot.

Theffect is this, that Alla, out of drede,

His moder slow, that men may pleinly rede,

For that she traitour was to hir ligeaunce.

Thus endeth olde Donegild with meschaunce.

The sorwe that this Alla, night and day,

Maketh for his wyf and for his child also,

Ther is no tonge that it telle may.

But now wol I un-to Custance go,

That fleteth in the see, in peyne and wo,

Fyve yeer and more, as lyked Cristes sonde,

Er that hir ship approched un-to londe.

Under an hethen castel, atte laste,

Of which the name in my text noght I finde,

Custance and eek hir child the see up-caste.

Almighty god, that saveth al mankinde,

Have on Custance and on hir child som minde,

That fallen is in hethen land eft-sone,

In point to spille, as I shal telle yow sone.

Doun from the castel comth ther many a wight

To gauren on this ship and on Custance.

But shortly, from the castel, on a night,

The lordes styward—god yeve him meschaunce!—

A theef, that had reneyed our creaunce,

Com in-to ship allone, and seyde he sholde

Hir lemman be, wher-so she wolde or nolde.

Wo was this wrecched womman tho bigon,

Hir child cryde, and she cryde pitously;

But blisful Marie heelp hir right anon;

For with hir strugling wel and mightily

The theef fil over bord al sodeinly,

And in the see he dreynte for vengeance;

And thus hath Crist unwemmed kept Custance.

O foule lust of luxurie! lo, thyn ende!

925

Nat only that thou feyntest mannes minde,

But verraily thou wolt his body shende;

Thende of thy werk or of thy lustes blinde

Is compleyning, how many-oon may men finde

That noght for werk som-tyme, but for thentente

To doon this sinne, ben outher sleyn or shente!

How may this wayke womman han this strengthe

Hir to defende agayn this renegat?

O Golias, unmesurable of lengthe,

How mighte David make thee so mat,

So yong and of armure so desolat?

How dorste he loke up-on thy dredful face?

Wel may men seen, it nas but goddes grace!

Who yaf Iudith corage or hardinesse

To sleen him, Olofernus, in his tente,

And to deliveren out of wrecchednesse

The peple of god? I seye, for this entente,

That, right as god spirit of vigour sente

To hem, and saved hem out of meschance,

So sente he might and vigour to Custance.

Forth goth hir ship thurgh-out the narwe mouth

Of Iubaltar and Septe, dryving ay,

Som-tyme West, som-tyme North and South,

And som-tyme Est, ful many a wery day,

Til Cristes moder (blessed be she ay!)

Hath shapen, thurgh hir endelees goodnesse,

To make an ende of al hir hevinesse.

Now lat us stinte of Custance but a throwe,

And speke we of the Romain Emperour,

That out of Surrie hath by lettres knowe

The slaughtre of cristen folk, and dishonour

Don to his doghter by a fals traitour,

I mene the cursed wikked sowdanesse,

That at the feste leet sleen both more and lesse.

For which this emperour hath sent anoon

His senatour, with royal ordinance,

And othere lordes, got wot, many oon,

On Surriens to taken heigh vengeance.

They brennen, sleen, and bringe hem to meschance

Ful many a day; but shortly, this is thende,

Homward to Rome they shapen hem to wende.

This senatour repaireth with victorie

To Rome-ward, sayling ful royally,

And mette the ship dryving, as seith the storie,

In which Custance sit ful pitously.

No-thing ne knew he what she was, ne why

She was in swich array; ne she nil seye

Of hir estaat, althogh she sholde deye.

He bringeth hir to Rome, and to his wyf

He yaf hir, and hir yonge sone also;

And with the senatour she ladde her lyf.

Thus can our lady bringen out of wo

Woful Custance, and many another mo.

And longe tyme dwelled she in that place,

In holy werkes ever, as was hir grace.

The senatoures wyf hir aunte was,

But for al that she knew hir never the more;

I wol no lenger tarien in this cas,

But to king Alla, which I spak of yore,

That for his wyf wepeth and syketh sore,

I wol retourne, and lete I wol Custance

Under the senatoures governance.

King Alla, which that hadde his moder slayn,

Upon a day fil in swich repentance,

That, if I shortly tellen shal and plain,

To Rome he comth, to receyven his penance;

And putte him in the popes ordinance

In heigh and low, and Iesu Crist bisoghte

Foryeve his wikked werkes that he wroghte.

The fame anon thurgh Rome toun is born,

How Alla king shal come in pilgrimage,

By herbergeours that wenten him biforn;

For which the senatour, as was usage,

Rood him ageyn, and many of his linage,

As wel to shewen his heighe magnificence

As to don any king a reverence.

Greet chere dooth this noble senatour

To king Alla, and he to him also;

Everich of hem doth other greet honour;

And so bifel that, in a day or two,

This senatour is to king Alla go

To feste, and shortly, if I shal nat lye,

Custances sone wente in his companye.

Som men wolde seyn, at requeste of Custance,

This senatour hath lad this child to feste;

I may nat tellen every circumstance,

Be as be may, ther was he at the leste.

But soth is this, that, at his modres heste,

Biforn Alla, during the metes space,

The child stood, loking in the kinges face.

This Alla king hath of this child greet wonder,

And to the senatour he seyde anon,

‘Whos is that faire child that stondeth yonder?’

‘I noot,’ quod he, ‘by god, and by seint Iohn!

A moder he hath, but fader hath he non

That I of woot’—but shortly, in a stounde,

He tolde Alla how that this child was founde.

‘But god wot,’ quod this senatour also,

‘So vertuous a livere in my lyf,

Ne saugh I never as she, ne herde of mo

Of worldly wommen, mayden, nor of wyf;

I dar wel seyn hir hadde lever a knyf

Thurgh-out her breste, than been a womman wikke;

Ther is no man coude bringe hir to that prikke.’

Now was this child as lyk un-to Custance

As possible is a creature to be.

This Alla hath the face in remembrance

Of dame Custance, and ther-on mused he

If that the childes moder were aught she

That was his wyf, and prively he sighte,

And spedde him fro the table that he mighte.

‘Parfay,’ thoghte he, ‘fantome is in myn heed!

I oghte deme, of skilful Iugement,

That in the salte see my wyf is deed.’

And afterward he made his argument—

‘What woot I, if that Crist have hider y-sent

My wyf by see, as wel as he hir sente

To my contree fro thennes that she wente?’

And, after noon, hoom with the senatour

Goth Alla, for to seen this wonder chaunce.

This senatour dooth Alla greet honour,

And hastifly he sente after Custaunce.

But trusteth weel, hir liste nat to daunce

Whan that she wiste wherefor was that sonde.

Unnethe up-on hir feet she mighte stonde.

When Alla saugh his wyf, faire he hir grette,

And weep, that it was routhe for to see.

For at the firste look he on hir sette

He knew wel verraily that it was she.

And she for sorwe as domb stant as a tree;

So was hir herte shet in hir distresse

Whan she remembred his unkindenesse.

Twyës she swowned in his owne sighte;

He weep, and him excuseth pitously:—

‘Now god,’ quod he, ‘and alle his halwes brighte

So wisly on my soule as have mercy,

That of your harm as giltelees am I

As is Maurice my sone so lyk your face;

Elles the feend me fecche out of this place!’

Long was the sobbing and the bitter peyne

Er that hir woful hertes mighte cesse;

Greet was the pitee for to here hem pleyne,

Thurgh whiche pleintes gan hir wo encresse.

I prey yow al my labour to relesse;

I may nat telle hir wo un-til tomorwe,

I am so wery for to speke of sorwe.

But fynally, when that the sooth is wist

That Alla giltelees was of hir wo,

I trowe an hundred tymes been they kist,

And swich a blisse is ther bitwix hem two

That, save the Ioye that lasteth evermo,

Ther is non lyk, that any creature

Hath seyn or shal, whyl that the world may dure.

Tho preyde she hir housbond mekely,

In relief of hir longe pitous pyne,

That he wold preye hir fader specially

That, of his magestee, he wolde enclyne

To vouche-sauf som day with him to dyne;

She preyde him eek, he sholde by no weye

Un-to hir fader no word of hir seye.

Som men wold seyn, how that the child Maurice

Doth this message un-to this emperour;

But, as I gesse, Alla was nat so nyce

To him, that was of so sovereyn honour

As he that is of cristen folk the flour,

Sente any child, but it is bet to deme

He wente him-self, and so it may wel seme.

This emperour hath graunted gentilly

To come to diner, as he him bisoghte;

And wel rede I, he loked bisily

Up-on this child, and on his doghter thoghte.

Alla goth to his in, and, as him oghte,

Arrayed for this feste in every wyse

As ferforth as his conning may suffyse.

The morwe cam, and Alla gan him dresse,

And eek his wyf, this emperour to mete;

And forth they ryde in Ioye and in gladnesse.

And whan she saugh hir fader in the strete,

She lighte doun, and falleth him to fete.

‘Fader,’ quod she, ‘your yonge child Custance

Is now ful clene out of your remembrance.

I am your doghter Custance,’ quod she,

‘That whylom ye han sent un-to Surrye.

It am I, fader, that in the salte see

Was put allone and dampned for to dye.

Now, gode fader, mercy I yow crye,

Send me namore un-to non hethenesse,

But thonketh my lord heer of his kindenesse.’

Who can the pitous Ioye tellen al

Bitwix hem three, sin they ben thus y-mette?

But of my tale make an ende I shal;

The day goth faste, I wol no lenger lette.

This glade folk to diner they hem sette;

In Ioye and blisse at mete I lete hem dwelle

A thousand fold wel more than I can telle.

This child Maurice was sithen emperour

Maad by the pope, and lived cristenly.

To Cristes chirche he dide greet honour;

But I lete al his storie passen by,

Of Custance is my tale specially.

In olde Romayn gestes may men finde

Maurices lyf; I bere it noght in minde.

This king Alla, whan he his tyme sey,

With his Custance, his holy wyf so swete,

To Engelond been they come the righte wey,

Wher-as they live in Ioye and in quiete.

But litel whyl it lasteth, I yow hete,

Ioye of this world, for tyme wol nat abyde;

Fro day to night it changeth as the tyde.

Who lived ever in swich delyt o day

That him ne moeved outher conscience,

Or ire, or talent, or som kin affray,

Envye, or pryde, or passion, or offence?

I ne seye but for this ende this sentence,

That litel whyl in Ioye or in plesance

Lasteth the blisse of Alla with Custance.

For deeth, that taketh of heigh and low his rente,

When passed was a yeer, even as I gesse,

Out of this world this king Alla he hente,

For whom Custance hath ful gret hevinesse.

Now lat us preyen god his soule blesse!

And dame Custance; fynally to seye,

Towards the toun of Rome gooth hir weye.

To Rome is come this holy creature,

And fyndeth ther hir frendes hole and sounde:

Now is she scaped al hir aventure;

And whan that she hir fader hath y-founde,

Doun on hir kneës falleth she to grounde;

Weping for tendrenesse in herte blythe,

She herieth god an hundred thousand sythe.

In vertu and in holy almes-dede

They liven alle, and never a-sonder wende;

Til deeth departed hem, this lyf they lede.

And fareth now weel, my tale is at an ende.

Now Iesu Crist, that of his might may sende

Ioye after wo, governe us in his grace,

And kepe us alle that ben in this place! Amen.

Here biginneth the Shipmannes Prolog.

Our hoste up-on his stiropes stood anon,

And seyde, ‘good men, herkneth everich on;

This was a thrifty tale for the nones!

Sir parish prest,’ quod he, ‘for goddes bones,

Tel us a tale, as was thy forward yore.

I see wel that ye lerned men in lore

Can moche good, by goddes dignitee!’

The Persone him answerde, ‘benedicite!

What eyleth the man, so sinfully to swere?’

Our hoste answerde, ‘O Iankin, be ye there?

I smelle a loller in the wind,’ quod he.

‘How! good men,’ quod our hoste, ‘herkneth me;

Abydeth, for goddes digne passioun,

For we shal han a predicacioun;

This loller heer wil prechen us som-what.’

‘Nay, by my fader soule! that shal be nat,’

Seyde the Shipman; ‘heer he shal nat preche,

He shal no gospel glosen heer ne teche.

We leve alle in the grete god,’ quod he,

‘He wolde sowen som difficultee,

Or springen cokkel in our clene corn;

And therfor, hoste, I warne thee biforn,

My Ioly body shal a tale telle,

And I shal clinken yow so mery a belle,

That I shal waken al this companye;

But it shal nat ben of philosophye,

Ne physices, ne termes queinte of lawe;

Ther is but litel Latin in my mawe.’

Here endeth the Shipman his Prolog.

Here biginneth the Shipmannes Tale.

A marchant whylom dwelled at Seint Denys,

That riche was, for which men helde him wys;

A wyf he hadde of excellent beautee,

And compaignable and revelous was she,

Which is a thing that causeth more dispence

Than worth is al the chere and reverence

That men hem doon at festes and at daunces;

Swiche salutaciouns and contenaunces

Passen as dooth a shadwe up-on the wal.

But wo is him that payen moot for al;

The sely housbond, algate he mot paye;

He moot us clothe, and he moot us arraye,

Al for his owene worship richely,

In which array we daunce Iolily.

And if that he noght may, par-aventure,

Or elles, list no swich dispence endure,

But thinketh it is wasted and y-lost,

Than moot another payen for our cost,

Or lene us gold, and that is perilous.