Classic Poem

This book thus to han endid had Y thoght,
But my freend made me change my cast.
Cleene out of þat purpos hath he me broght
‘Thomas,’ he seide, ‘at Estren þat was last,
I redde a tale, which Y am agast
To preye thee, for the laboures sake
That thow haast had, for to translate and make,

‘And yit ful fayn wolde Y þat it maad wer
Th'ensaumple of it to yong men mighte auaille,
And par cas cause hem riot to forber
The rather, and be bettre of gouernaille.
Youthe in no wyse wole his thankes faille
Flessh for to chepe, femel and venal,
Payyng for it more than worth is al.

‘that thyng is deer and ouer deer boght
That soule sleeth and the body destroieth,
And the purs emptith, leuyng in it noght
Or smal. Swich chaffar often sythe annoieth,
And yong folk encombrith and accloieth,
Lettynge hem to purchace hem good renoun,
And haastynge hem to hir confusioun

‘For this is þat Y speke, and to this ende:
A sone haue Y XV yeer of age,
For whom it is, as wisly God m'amende,
that Y desire into our langage
that tale be translated, for sauage
And wylde is he and likly to foleye
In swich cas. Now helpe if thow maist, Y preye.

‘Nat fer the tale fro which thow maad haast
Of th'emperice, this tale is, Y trowe,
And is of a womman þat was vnchaast
And deceyuable and sly, as thow shalt knowe
By þat the lynes thow red haue on rowe.
Brynge Y shal thee the copie verray
Therof, if thee list. Seye on, yee or nay.’

‘Freend, looth me wer nayseye vnto yow,
But Y suppose it may noon othir be
Lest wommen vnto Magge the good kow
Me likne, and thus seye, “O, beholde and see
The double man; o, yondir, lo, gooth he
That hony first yaf and now yeueth galle
He fo in herte is vnto wommen alle.

‘Til he of wommen oute wordes wikke
He fastynge is, him seemeth, al the day.
Out of his mowth lesynges swarmen thikke.
On wommen no good word affoorthe he may,
And, if he wel speke or wryte, is no nay,
He nat meeneth as he spekith or writ
O lewde dotepol, straw for his wit.”

‘This þat yee me now reede is al contrarie
Vnto þat yee me red han heerbefore
Yee seiden, syn Y many an aduersarie
Had of wommen, for Y mis had me bore
To hem or this, yee redden me therfore
Humble me to hem, and of grace hem preye,
But this reed haldith al anothir weye.

‘Sholde Y a neewe smoke now vp reyse,
And Y so mochil rered haue or now?
By your sawe, than wer Y nat to preise.’

‘Thomas, to wikkid wommen wel maist thow
Yeue hir pars, and wryte of hem euele ynow
To goode wommen shal it be no shame,
Althogh þat thow vnhonest wommen blame.

‘For, Thomas, thow shalt vndirstonde this:
No womman wole to theeward maligne
But swich oon as hath trode hir shoo amis,
For, who so dooth, ful suspect is the signe.
The vertuous womman good and benigne
Noon encheson but good may han to thee
For this tale. Wryte on, par charitee.

‘Nat oonly for my sones tendrenesse
Coueite Y þat this tale wer makid,
But to rebuke also the wantonnesse
Of lyf of many a womman þat is nakid
Of honestee, and with deshonour blakid—
Eek to miroure wommen vertuous
What ende takith swich lyf vicious.’

‘On Goddes half, freend, than let the copie
Of þat tale, whan yow list, be me sent,
And with good wil wole Y therto me hye
Whan Y therof take haue auisament.’
He glad was therwithal, and wel content
The copie on the morwe sente he me,
And thus Y wroot as yee may heer see.***

Explicit prologus, et incipit fabula de quadam muliere mala

Whilom an emperour prudent and wys
Regned in Rome, and hadde sones three,
Whiche he hadde in greet chiertee and greet prys,
And whan it shoop so þat th'infirmitee
Of deeth, which no wight may eschue or flee,
Him threew doun in his bed, he leet do call
His sones and before him they cam all,

And to the firste he seide in this maneere:
‘Al th'eritage which at the dyynge
Of my fadir he me lefte, al in feere
Leue Y thee, and al þat of my byynge
Was with my peny, al my purchacynge,
My second sone, byqwethe Y to thee.’
And to the iiide sone thus seide he:

‘Vnmeeble good right noon, withouten ooth,
Thee yeue Y may, but Y to thee dyuyse
Iewelles iii, a ryng, brooch and a clooth
With whiche, and thow be gyed as the wyse,
Thow maist gete al þat oghte thee souffyse.
Whoso þat the ryng vsith for to were,
Of alle folk the loue he shal conquere,

‘And whoso the brooch berith on his brest,
It is eek of swich vertu and swich kynde
That thynke vpon what thyng him lykith best
And he as blyue shal it haue and fynde
My wordes, sone, enprynte wel in mynde
The clooth eek hath a merueillous nature
Which þat committed shal be to thy cure:

‘Whoso sit on it, if he wisshe where
In al the world to been, he sodeynly
Withoute more labour shal be there.
Sone, tho three iewelles byqwethe Y
To thee, vnto this effect, certeynly,
that to the studie of the vniuersitee
Thow go, and þat Y bidde and charge thee.’

Whan he had thus seid, the vexacioun
Of deeth so haastid him þat his spiryt
Anoon forsook his habitacioun
In his body. Deeth wolde no respyt
Him yeue at al. He was of his lyf qwyt,
And biried was with swich solempnitee
As fil to his imperial dignitee.

Of the yongeste sone I telle shal,
And speke no more of his brethren two,
For with hem haue Y nat to do at al
Thus spak the modir Ionathas vnto:
‘Syn God his wil hath of thy fadir do,
To thy fadres wil wole Y me confourme,
And trewely his testament parfourme.

‘He iii iewelles, as thow knowist weel,
A ryng, a brooch and a clooth, thee byqweeth,
Whos vertues he thee tolde euerydeel,
Or þat he paste hens and yald vp the breeth.
O goode God, his departynge, his deeth,
Ful greuously stikith vnto myn herte,
But souffred moot been al, how sore it smerte.’

In þat cas wommen han swich heuynesse
that it nat lyth in my konnynge aright
Yow telle of so greet sorwe the excesse,
But wyse wommen konne take it light
And in short whyle putte vnto the flight
Al sorwe and wo, and cacche ageyn confort
Now to my tale make Y my resort.

‘Thy fadres wil, my sone, as Y seide eer,
Wole Y parfourme. Haue heer the rynge, and go
To studie anoon. And whan þat thow art theer
As thy fadir thee bad, do euene so,
And, as thow wilt, my blessyng haue also.’
Shee vnto him as swythe took the ryng,
And bad him keepe it weel, for anythyng.

He wente vnto the studie general,
Wher he gat loue ynow, and aqueyntance
Right good and freendly, the ryng causynge al,
And on a dayto him befil this chance.
With a womman, a morsel of plesance,
By the streetes of the vniuersitee,
As he was in his walkynge, mette he,

And right as blyue he with hir had a tale,
And therwithal sore in hir loue he brente
Gay, fressh and pykid was shee to the sale,
For to þat ende and to þat entente
Shee thidir cam, and bothe foorth they wente
And he a pistle rowned in hir ere,
Nat woot Y what, for Y ne cam nat there.

Shee was his paramour, shortley to seye
This man to folkes all was so leef
that they him yaf habundance of moneye
He feestid folk and stood at hy boncheef
Of the lak of good he felte no greef,
Al whyles þat the ryng he with him hadde,
But, faylynge it, his frendshipe gan sadde.

His paramour, which þat ycallid was
Fellicula, meruailled right greetly
Of the despenses of this Ionathas,
Syn shee no peny at al with him sy,
And on a nyght, as þat shee lay him by,
In the bed thus shee to him spak and seide,
And this peticion assoille him preyde:

‘O reuerent sire, vnto whom,’ quod shee,
‘Obeye Y wole ay with hertes humblesse,
Syn þat yee han had my virginitee
Yow Y byseeche, of your hy gentillesse,
Tellith me whens comth the good and richesse
That yee with feesten folk, and han no stoor,
By aght Y see can, ne gold ne tresor.’

‘If Y telle it,’ quod he, ‘par auenture
Thow wilt deskeuere it and out it publisshe.
Swich is wommannes inconstant nature,
They can nat keepe conseil worth a risshe
Bettre is my tonge keepe than to wisshe
that Y had kept cloos þat is goon at large,
And repentance is thyng þat Y moot charge.’

‘Nay, goode sire, haldith me nat suspect
Doutith nothyng. Y can be right secree.
Wel worthy wer it me to been abiect
From al good conpaignie, if Y,’ quod shee,
‘Vnto yow sholde so mistake me.
Beeth nat adrad your conseil me to shewe’
‘Wel,’ seide he, ‘thus it is, at wordes fewe

‘My fadir the ryng, which þat thow maist see
On my fyngir, me at his dyyng day
Byqweeth, which this vertu and propretee
Hath, þat the loue of men he shal haue ay
that werith it, and ther shal be no nay
Of what thyng þat him lykith axe and craue,
But with good wil he shal as blyue it haue.

‘Thurgh þat rynges vertuous excellence.
Thus am Y ryche, and haue euere ynow.’
‘Now, sire, yit a word, by your licence,
Suffrith me for to seye and speke now
Is it wysdam, as þat it seemeth yow,
Wer it on your fyngir continuelly?’
‘What woldest thow mene,’ quod he, ‘therby?

‘What peril therof mighte ther befalle?’
‘Right greet,’ quod shee. ‘As yee in conpaignye
Walke often, fro your fyngir mighte it falle,
Or plukkid of been in a ragerie,
And so be lost, and þat were folie
Take it me Let me been of it wardeyn
For, as my lyf, keepe it wole Y, certeyn.’

This Ionathas, this innocent yong man,
Yeuynge vnto hir wordes ful credence,
As youthe nat auysed best be can,
The ryng hir took, of his insipience.
Whan this was doon, the hete and the feruence
Of loue, þat he had beforn purchaced,
Was qweynt, and loues knotte was vnlaced.

Men of hir yiftes for to stynte gan
‘A,’ thoghte he, ‘for the ryng Y nat ne bere,
Faillith my loue. Fecche me, womman’,
Seide he, ‘my ryng. Anoon Y wole it were.’
Shee roos and into chambre dressith here,
And whan shee therin hadde been a whyle,
‘Allas,’ quod shee, ‘out on falshode and gyle.

‘The chiste is broken and the ryng take out.’
And whan he herde hir conplaynte and cry,
He was astoned sore and made a shout,
And seide, ‘Cursid be þat day þat Y
The mette first, or with myn yen sy.’
She wepte, and shewid outward cheer of wo,
But in hir herte was it nothyng so.

The ryng was sauf ynow, and in hir cheste
It was Al þat shee seide was lesyng,
As sum womman othir whyle atte beste
Can lye and weepe whan is hir lykyng
This man sy hir wo and seide, ‘Derlyng,
Weepe no more. Goddes help is ny’—
To him vnwist how fals shee was and sly.

He twynned thens, and hoom to his contree
Vnto his modir the streight way he wente.
And whan shee sy thidir comen was he,
‘My sone,’ quod shee, ‘what was thyn entente
Thee fro the scoole now for to absente?
What causid thee fro scoole hidir to hye?’
‘Modir, right this,’ seide he, ‘nat wole Y lye.

‘Forsoothe, modir, my ryng is ago
My paramour to keepe Y betook it,
And it is lost, for which Y am ful wo.
Sorwefully vnto myn herte it sit.’
‘Sone, often haue Y warned thee, and yit
For thy profyt Y warne thee, my sone
Vnhonest wommen thow heeraftir shone.

‘Thy brooch anoonright wole Y to thee fette’
Shee broghte it him, and charged him ful deepe,
Whan he it took and on his brest it sette,
Bet than he dide his ryng, he sholde it keepe,
Lest he the los bewaille sholde and weepe
To the vniuersitee, shortly to seyn,
In what he kowde he haastid him ageyn.

And whan he comen was, his paramour
Him mette anoon, and vnto hir him took,
As þat he dide erst, this yong reuelour
Hir conpaignie he nat a deel forsook,
Thogh he cause hadde, but, as with the hook
Of hir sleighte he beforn was caght and hent,
Right so he was deceyued eft and blent.

And as, thurgh vertu of the ryng before,
Of good he hadde habundance and plentee,
While it was with him, or he hadde it lore,
Right so, thurgh vertu of the brooch, had he
What good him list. Shee thoghte, ‘How may this be?
Sum pryuee thyng now causith this richesse,
As dide the rynge heerbefore, Y gesse.’

Wondrynge heeron, shee preide him and besoghte
Bysyly nyght and day þat telle he wolde
The cause of this, but he anothir thoghte
He mente it cloos for him it kept be sholde,
And a long tyme it was or he it tolde.
Shee wepte ay to and to, and seide, ‘Allas
The tyme and hour þat euere Y bore was.

‘Truste yee nat on me, sire?’ she seide
‘Leuer me wer be slayn in this place
By þat good lord þat for vs alle deide
Than purpose ageyn yow any fallace
Vnto yow wole Y be, my lyues space,
As treewe as any womman in eerthe is
Vnto a man. Doutith nothyng of this.’

Smal may shee do þat can nat wel byheete,
Thogh nat parfourmed be swich a promesse.
This Ionathas thoghte hir wordes so sweete
that he was dronke of the plesant swetnesse
Of hem, and of his foolissh tendrenesse
Thus vnto hir he spak and seide tho,
‘Be of good confort. Why weepist thow so?’.

And shee therto answerde thus, sobbynge:
‘Sire,’ quod shee, ‘myn heuynesse and dreede
Is this Y am adrad of the leesynge
Of your brooch, as almighty God forbeede
It happid so.’ ‘Now, what, so God thee speede,’
Seide he, ‘woldist thow in this cas consaille?’
Quod shee, ‘þat Y keepe mighte it, sanz faille.’

He seide, ‘Y haue a feere and dreede algate,
If Y so dide, thow woldest it leese,
As thow lostist my ryng, now goon but late.’
‘First, God preye Y,’ quod shee, ‘þat Y nat cheese
But þat myn herte as the cold frost may freese
Or elles be it brent with wylde fyr.
Nay, seurly it to keepe is my desyr.’

To hir wordes credence he yaf pleneer,
And the brooch took hir, and aftir anoon,
Wheras he was beforn ful leef and cheer
To folk and hadde good, al was agoon.
Good and frendshipe him lakkid. Ther was noon.
‘Womman, me fecche the brooch,’ quod he, ‘swythe
Into thy chambre for it go. Now hy the.’

Shee into chambre wente as þat he bad,
But she nat broghte þat he sente hir fore—
Shee mente it nat—but as shee had be mad,
Hir clothes hath shee al torent and tore,
And cryde, ‘Allas, the brooch away is bore,
For which Y wole anoonright with my knyf
Myself slee Y am weery of my lyf.’

This noyse he herde, and blyue he to hir ran,
Weenynge shee wolde han doon as shee spak,
And the knyf, in al haaste þat he can,
From hir took and threew it behynde his bak,
And seide, ‘For the los, ne for the lak
Of the brooch, sorwe nat Y foryeue al
I truste in God, þat yit vs helpe he shal.’

To th'emperice his modir this yong man
Ageyn him dressith. He wente hir vnto,
And whan shee sy him shee to wondre gan
Shee thoghte, ‘Now sumwhat ther is misdo’,
And seide, ‘Y dreede thy iewelles two
Been lost now, per cas, the brooch with the ryng.’
‘Modir,’ he seide, ‘yee, by heuene kyng.’

‘Sone, thow woost wel no iewel is left
Vnto thee now but the clooth precious,
Which Y thee take shal, thee chargynge eft
The conpaignie of wommen riotous
Thow flee, lest it be to thee so greuous
That thow it nat susteene shalt, ne bere.
Swich conpaignie, on my blessyng, forbere.’

The clooth shee fette and it hath him take,
And of his lady his modir his leeue
He took, but first this forward gan he make:
‘Modir,’ seide he, ‘trustith this weel, and leeue
that Y shal seyn, for sooth yee shul it preeue
If Y leese this clooth, neuere Y your face
Hensfoorth se wole, ne yow preye of grace.

‘With Goddes help Y shal do wel ynow.’
Hir blessyng he took and to studie is go,
And, as beforn told haue Y vnto yow,
His paramour, his priuee mortel fo,
Was wont for to meete him, right euene so
Shee dide thanne, and made him plesant cheere.
They clippe and kisse and walke homward in feere.

Whan they wer entred in the hows, he spradde
This clooth vpon the ground, and theron sit,
And bad his paramour, this womman badde,
To sitte also by him adoun on it
Shee dooth as þat he commandith and bit
Had shee his thoght, and vertu of the clooth,
Wist, to han sete on it had shee been looth.

Shee for a whyle was ful sore affesid
This Ionathas wisshe in his herte gan:
‘Wolde God þat Y mighte thus been esid,
That, as on this clooth Y and this womman
Sitte her, as fer wer as þat neuere man
Or this cam’, and vnnethe had he so thoght
But they with the clooth thidir weren broght.

Right to the worldes ende, as þat it wer
Whan apparceyued had shee this, shee cryde,
As thogh shee thurghgirt had be with a sper,
‘Harrow, allas, þat euere shoop this tyde
How cam we hidir?’ ‘Nay,’ he seide, ‘abyde
Wers is comynge Heer soul wole Y thee leue.
Wylde beestes thee shuln deuour or eue,

‘For thow my ryng and brooch haast fro me holden.’
‘O reuerent sir, haue vpon me pitee,’
Quod shee. ‘If yee this grace do me wolden,
As me brynge hoom ageyn to the citee
Wheras Y this day was, but if þat yee
Hem haue ageyn, of foul deeth do me dye
Your bontee on me kythe. Y mercy crye.’

This Ionathas kowde nothyng be waar,
Ne take ensample of the deceites tweyne
that shee dide him beforn, but feith him baar,
And hir he comanded, on dethes peyne,
Fro swiche offenses thensfoorth hir restreyne.
Shee swoor, and made therto foreward,
But herkneth how shee baar hir aftirward.

Whan shee sy and kneew þat the wratthe and ire
that he to hir had born was goon and past
And al was wel, shee thoghte him eft to fyre
In hir malice ay stood shee stidefast,
And to enquere of him was nat agast,
In so short tyme how þat it mighte be
That they cam thidir out of hir contree.

‘Swich vertu hath this clooth on which we sitte,’
Seide he, ‘þat wher in this world vs be list,
Sodeynly with the thoght shuln thidir flitte,
And how thidir come vnto vs vnwist,
As thyng fro fer vnknowen in the mist.’
And therwith to this womman fraudulent
‘To sleepe,’ he seide, ‘haue I good talent

‘Let see,’ quod he, ‘strecche out anoon thy lappe,
In which wole I myn heed doun leye and reste.’
So was it doon, and he anoon gan nappe.
Nappe? Nay, he sleep right wel atte beste.
What dooth this womman, oon the fikileste
Of wommen alle, but þat clooth þat lay
Vndir him, shee drow lyte and lyte away.

Whan shee it had al, ‘Wolde God,’ quod shee,
‘I wer as I was this day morwenynge.’
And therwith this roote of iniquitee
Had hir wissh, and soul lefte him ther slepynge.
O Ionathas, lyk to thy perisshynge
Art thow. Thy paramour maad hath thy berd.
Whan thow wakist, cause hast thow to be ferd,

But thow shalt do ful wel. Thow shalt obteene
Victorie on hir. Thow haast doon sum deede
Plesant to thy modir, wel can I weene,
For which our lord God qwyte shal thy meede,
And thee deliure out of thy woful dreede
The chyld whom þat the modir vsith blesse
Ful oftensythe is esid in distresse.

Whan he awook, and neithir he ne fond
Womman ne clooth, he wepte bittirly,
And seide, ‘Allas, now is ther in no lond
Man werse, I trowe, begoon, than am Y’
On euery syde his look he caste, and sy
Nothyng but briddes in the eir fleynge
And wylde beestes aboute him rennynge,

Of whos sighte he ful sore was agrysid
He thoghte, ‘Al this wel disserued Y haue
What eilid me to be so euel auysid,
That my conseil kowde I nat keepe and saue?
Who can fool pleye, who can madde or raue,
But he þat to a womman his secree
Deskeuereth? The smert cleueth now on me.’

He thens departed, as God wolde, harmlees,
And foorth of auenture his way is went,
But whidirward he drow he conceitlees
Was. he nat kneew to what place he was bent.
He paste a watir which was so feruent
that flessh vpon his feet lefte it him noon.
Al cleene was departid fro the boon.

It shoop so þat he had a lytil glas,
Which with þat watir anoon filled he,
And whan he ferther in his way goon was,
Before him he beheeld and sy a tree
that fair fruyt baar, and þat in greet plentee
He eet therof—the taast him lykid wel—
But he therthurgh becam a foul mesel,

For which vnto the ground for sorwe and wo
He fil, and seide, ‘Cursid be þat day
that I was born, and tyme and hour also
that my modir conceyued me for ay.
Now am I lost, allas and weleaway!’
And whan sumdel slakid his heuynesse,
He roos and on his way he gan him dresse.

Anothir watir before him he sy
Which for to comen in he was adrad,
But, nathelees, syn therby othir way
Ne aboute it ther kowde noon been had,
He thoghte, ‘So streytly am I bystad
that, thogh it sore me affese or gaste,
Assaye it wole I,’ and thurgh it he paste.

And right as the firste watir his flessh
Departed from his feet, so the secownde
Restored it, and made al hool and fressh.
And glad was he and ioieful þat stownde,
Whan he felte his fete hoole wer and sownde
A viole of the watir of þat brook
He filde, and fruyt of the tree with him took.

Foorth his iourneye this Ionathas heeld,
And, as þat he his look aboute him caste,
Anothir tree from afer he byheeld,
To which he haastid and him hyed faste
Hungry he was, and of the fruyt he thraste
Into his mowth and eet of it sadly,
And of the leepre he pourged was therby.

Of þat fruyt more he raghte and thens is goon,
And a fair castel from afer sy he,
In compas of which heedes many oon
Of men ther heeng as he mighte wel see,
But nat for þat he shone nolde or flee.
He thidirward him dressith the streight way
In al þat euere þat he can or may

Walkynge so, two men cam him ageyn
And seiden thus, ‘Deer freend, we yow preye
What man be yee?’ ‘Sires,’ quod he, ‘certeyn,
A leeche I am, and, thogh myself it seye,
Can for the helthe of seek folk wel purueye.’
They seide him, ‘Of yondir castel the kyng
A leepre is, and can hool be for nothyng.

‘With him ther hath been many a sundry leeche
that vndirtook him for to cure and hele
On peyne of hir heedes, but al to seeche
Hir art was. Waar þat thow nat with him dele,
But if thow canst the chartre of helthe ensele,
Lest þat thow thyn heed leese as diden they
But thow be wys, thow fynde it shalt no pley.’

‘Sires,’ seide he, ‘yow thanke I of your reed,
For gentilly yee han yow to me qwit,
But I nat dreede to leese myn heed.
By Goddes help ful sauf keepe I wole it.
God of his grace swich konnynge and wit
Hath lent me þat I hope I shal him cure.
Ful wel dar I me putte in auenture.’

They to the kynges presence han him lad,
And him of the fruyt of the second tree
He yaf to ete, and bad him to be glad,
And seide, ‘Anoon your helthe han shul yee.’
Eek of the second watir him yaf he
To drynke, and whan he tho two had receyued,
His leepre from him voided was and weyued.

The kyng, as vnto his hy dignitee
Conuenient was, yaf him largely,
And to him seide, ‘If þat it lyke thee
Abyden heer, I more habundantly
Thee yeue wole.’ ‘My lord, sikirly,’
Quod he, ‘fayn wolde I your pleisir fulfille,
And in your hy presence abyde stille,

‘But I no whyle may with yow abyde,
So mochil haue I to doone elleswhere.’
Ionathas euery day to the see-syde,
Which was ny, wente to looke and enquere
If any ship drawynge thidir were
Which him hoom to his contree lede mighte,
And on a day of shippes had he sighte.

Wel a xxxti toward the castel drawe,
And atte tyme of euensong they alle
Arryueden, of which he was ful fawe,
And to the shipmen crie he gan and calle,
And seide, ‘If it so happe mighte and falle
that some of yow me hoom to my contree
Me brynge wolde, wel qwit sholde he be’,

And tolde hem whidir þat they sholden go
Oon of the shipmen foorth stirte atte laste
And to him seide, ‘My ship, and no mo
Of hem þat heer been, hem shape and caste
Thidir to weende. Let see, tell on faste,’
Quod the shipman, ‘þat thow for my trauaille
Me yeue wilt if þat I thidir saille.’

They wer accorded. Ionathas foorth gooth
Vnto the kyng, to axe of him licence
To twynne thens, to which the kyng was looth,
And nathelees, with his beneuolence,
This Ionathas from his magnificence
Departed is, and foorth to the shipman
His way he takith as swythe as he can.

Into the ship he entrith, and, as blyue
As wynd and wedir good shoop for to be,
Thidir as he purposid him arryue
They saillid foorth and cam to the citee
In which this serpentyn womman was shee
That had him torned with false deceitis—
But wher no remedie folwith, streit is.

Tornes been qwit, al be they goode or badde,
Sumtyme thogh they put been in delay
But to my purpos. Shee deemed he hadde
Been deuoured with beestes many a day
Goon. Shee thoghte he deliured was for ay
Folke of the citee kneew nat Ionathas,
So many a yeer was past þat he ther was.

Mislykynge and thoght changed eek his face
Abouten he gooth, and for his dwellynge
In the citee he hyred him a place,
And therin excercysid his konnynge
Of phisyk, to whom weren repeirynge
Many a seek wight, and all wer helid.
Wel was the seek man þat with him hath delid.

Now shoop it thus, þat this Fellicula—
The welle of deceyuable doublenesse,
Folwer of the steppes of Dalida—
Was thanne exaltat vnto hy richesse,
But shee was fallen into greet seeknesse,
And herde seyn, for nat mighte it been hid,
How maistreful a leche he had him kid.

Messages solempne to him shee sente
Preyynge him to do so mochil labour
As come and seen hir, and he thidir wente
Whan he hir sy, þat shee his paramour
Had been, he wel kneew and, for þat dettour
To hir he was, hir he thoghte to qwyte
Or he wente, and no lenger it respyte,

But what þat he was, shee ne wiste nat.
He sy hir vryne and eek felte hir pous,
And seide, ‘The soothe is this, pleyn and plat.
A seeknesse han yee strange and merueillous,
Which for to voide is wondir dangerous
To hele yow ther is no way but oon.
Leche in this world othir can fynde noon.

‘Auysith yow whethir yow list it take
Or nat, for Y told haue yow my wit.’
‘A, sir,’ seide shee, ‘for Goddes sake,
that way me shewe and Y shal folwen it,
Whateuere it be, for this seeknesse sit
So ny myn herte þat Y woot nat how
Me to demene. Telle on, preye Y yow.’

‘Lady, yee muste openly yow confesse,
And, if ageyn good conscience and right
And good han yee take, more or lesse,
Beforn this hour of any maner wight,
Yilde it anoon, elles nat in the might
Of man is it to yeue a medecyne
that yow may hele of your seeknesse and pyne.

‘If any swich thyng be, telle out, Y rede,
And yee shul been al hool, Y yow byheete,
Elles myn art is naght, withouten drede.’
‘O lord,’ shee thoghte, ‘helthe is a thyng ful sweete
Therwith desir Y souerainly to meete
Syn Y it by confessioun may rekeuere,
A fool am I but I my gilt deskeuere.’

How falsly to the sone of th'emperour,
Ionathas, had shee doon, before hem alle,
As yee han herd aboue, al þat errour
Bykneew shee. O Fellicula, thee calle
Wel may Y so, for of the bittir galle
Thow takist the begynnynge of thy name,
Thow roote of malice and mirour of shame.

Than seide Ionathas, ‘Wher arn tho three
Iewelles þat yee fro the clerk withdrow?’
‘Sir, in a cofre at my beddes feet yee
Shul fynde hem. Opne it and see, preye Y yow.’
He thoghte nat to make it qweynte and tow,
And seye nay and streyne courtesie,
But with right good wil thidir he gan hye.

The cofre he opned and hem ther fond
Who was a glad man but Ionathas, who?
The ryng vpon a fyngir of his hond
He putte, and the brooch on his brest also
The clooth eek vndir his arm heeld he tho
And to hir him dressith to doon his cure,
Cure mortel, way to hir sepulture.

He thoghte reewe shee sholde, and forthynke
that shee hir hadde vnto him misbore,
And of þat watir hir he yaf to drynke
Which þat his flessh from his bones before
Had twynned, wherthurgh he was almoost lore
Nad he releeued been, as yee aboue
Han herd, and this he dide eek for hir loue.

Of the fruyt of the tree he yaf hir ete
Which þat him made into the leepre sterte,
And as blyue in hir wombe gan they frete
And gnawe so þat change gan hir herte
Now herkneth how it hir made smerte
Hir wombe opned and out fil eche entraille
That in hir was. Thus seith the book sanz faill.

Thus wrecchidly, lo, this gyle [wom]man dyde
And Ionathas with tho iewelles three
No lenger ther thoghte to abyde
But hoom to th'emperice his modir hastith he,
Wheras in ioie and in prosperitee
His lyf ledde he to his dyynge day
And so God vs graunte þat we do may Amen