The Canterbury Tales; The Man of Law

Part 6
 
 
  PROLOGUE OF THE MAN OF LAWE.
 
  The wordes of the Hoost to the compaignye.
 
 Oure Hooste saugh wel that the brighte sonne
  The ark of his artificial day hath ronne
  The ferthe part, and half an houre and moore;
  And though he were nat depe expert in loore,
  He wiste ti was the eightetethe day
 
  Of Aprill, that is messager to May;
  And saugh wel, that the shadwe of every tree
  Was as in lengthe the same quantitee
  That was the body erect that caused it,
  And therfore 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 at the clokke, he gan conclude,
  And sodeynly he plighte his hors aboute.-
 
  "Lordynges," quod he, "I warne yow, al this route,
  The fourthe party of this day is gon.
  Now for the love of God and of Seint John,
  Leseth no tyme, as ferforth as ye may.
  Lordynges, the tyme wasteth nyght and day,
 
  And steleth from us, what pryvely slepynge,
 
  And what thurgh necligence in oure wakynge,
  As dooth the streem, that turneth nevere agayn,
  Descendyng fro the montaigne into playn.
  Wel kan Senec and many a philosophre
 
  Biwaillen tyme, moore than gold in cofre.
  `for losse of catel may recovered be,
  But losse of tyme shendeth us,' quod he.
  It wol nat come agayn, withouten drede,
  Namoore than wole Malkynes maydenhede,
 
  Whan she hath lost it in hir wantownesse.
  Lat us nat mowlen thus in ydelnesse;
  Sir man of lawe," quod he, "so have ye blis,
  Telle us a tale anon, as forward is.
  Ye been submytted thurgh youre free assent
 
  To stonden in this cas at my juggement.
  Acquiteth yow as now of youre biheeste,
  Thanne have ye do youre devoir atte leeste."
 "Hooste," quod he, "Depardieux ich assente,
  To breke forward is nat myn entente.
 
  Biheste is dette, and I wole holde fayn
  Al my biheste, I kan no bettre sayn.
  For swich lawe as a man yeveth another wight,
  He sholde hymselven usen it by right;
  Thus wole oure text, but nathelees certeyn
 
  I kan right now no thrifty tale seyn;
  But Chaucer, thogh he kan but lewedly
  On metres and on rymyng craftily,
  Hath seyd hem in swich Englissh as he kan,
  Of olde tyme, as knoweth many a man.
 
  And if he have noght seyd hem, leve brother,
  In o book, he hath seyd hem in another.
  For he hath toold of loveris up and doun
  Mo than Ovide made of mencioun,
  In hise Episteles that been ful olde;
 
  What sholde I tellen hem, syn they ben tolde?
  In youthe he made of Ceys and Alcione,
  And sitthen hath he spoken of everichone
  Thise noble wyves and thise loveris eke.
  Whoso that wole his large volume seke
 
  Cleped the Seintes Legende of Cupide,
  Ther may he seen the large woundes wyde
  Of Lucresse, and of Babilan Tesbee,
  The swerd of Dido for the false Enee,
  The tree of Phillis for hir Demophon,
 
  The pleinte of Dianire and Hermyon,
  Of Adriane and of Isiphilee,
  The bareyne yle stondynge in the see,
  The dreynte Leandre for his Erro,
  The teeris of Eleyne, and eek the wo
 
  Of Brixseyde, and of the, Ladomea,
  The crueltee of the, queene Medea,
  Thy litel children hangyng by the hals
  For thy Jason, that was in love so fals.
  O Ypermystra, Penolopee, Alceste,
 
  Youre wyfhede he comendeth with the beste!
  But certeinly no word ne writeth he
  Of thilke wikke ensample of Canacee,
  That loved hir owene brother synfully-
  Of swiche cursed stories I sey fy!-
 
  Or ellis of Tyro Appollonius,
  How that the cursed kyng Antiochus
  Birafte his doghter of hir maydenhede,
  That is so horrible a tale for to rede,
  Whan he hir threw upon the pavement.
 
  And therfore he, of ful avysement,
  Nolde nevere write, in none of his sermouns,
  Of swiche unkynde abhomynaciouns;
  Ne I wol noon reherce, if that I may.
  But of my tale how shall I doon this day?
 
  Me were looth be likned, doutelees,
  To Muses that men clepe Pierides-
  Methamorphosios woot what I mene-
  But nathelees, I recche noght a bene
  Though I come after hym with hawebake,
 
  I speke in prose, and lat him rymes make."
  And with that word he, with a sobre cheere,
  Bigan his tale, as ye shal after heere.
  Part 7
 
  THE TALE OF THE MAN OF LAWE.
 
  The prologe of the Mannes Tale of Lawe.
 
 O hateful harm, condicion of poverte!
  With thurst, with coold, with hunger so confoundid!
  To asken help thee shameth in thyn herte,
  If thou noon aske, so soore artow ywoundid
  That verray nede unwrappeth al thy wounde hid;
  Maugree thyn heed thou most for indigence
  Or stele, or begge, or borwe thy despence!
 
  Thow blamest Crist, and seist ful bitterly
  He mysdeparteth richesse temporal.
  Thy neighebore thou wytest synfully,
  And seist thou hast to lite and he hath al.
  "Parfay!" seistow, "somtyme he rekene shal,
  Whan that his tayl shal brennen in the gleede,
  For he noght helpeth needfulle in hir neede."
 
  Herkne what is the sentence of the wise,
  "Bet is to dyen than have indigence."
  Thy selve neighebor wol thee despise,
  If thou be povre, farwel thy reverence!
  Yet of the wise man take this sentence,
  "Alle dayes of povre men been wikke;"
  Be war therfore, er thou come to that prikke.
 
  If thou be povre, thy brother hateth thee,
  And alle thy freendes fleen from thee; allas,
  O riche marchauntz, ful of wele been yee!
  O noble, o prudent folk, as in this cas!
  Youre bagges been nat fild with ambes as,
  But with sys cynk, that renneth for youre chaunce,
  At Cristemasse myrie may ye daunce!
 
  Ye seken lond and see for your wynnynges,
  As wise folk ye knowen all thestaat
  Of regnes; ye been fadres of tydynges
  And tales, bothe of pees and of debaat.
  I were right now of tales desolaat
  Nere that a marchant, goon is many a yeere,
  Me taughte a tale, which that ye shal heere.
 
  Heere begynneth the Man of Lawe his Tale.
 
 In Surrye whilom dwelte a compaignye
  Of chapmen riche, and therto sadde and trewe,
  That wyde-where senten hir spicerye,
  Clothes of gold, and satyns riche of hewe.
  Hir chaffare was so thrifty and so newe
  That every wight hath deyntee to chaffare
  With hem, and eek to sellen hem hir ware.
 
  Now fil it, that the maistres of that sort
  Han shapen hem to Rome for to wende;
  Were it for chapmanhode, or for disport,
  Noon oother message wolde they thider sende,
  But comen hemself to Rome, this is the ende,
  And in swich place as thoughte hem avantage
  For hir entente, they take hir herbergage.
 
  Sojourned han thise Marchantz in that toun
  A certein tyme, as fil to hire plesance.
  And so bifel, that thexcellent renoun
  Of the Emperoures doghter, Dame Custance,
  Reported was, with every circumstance
  Unto thise Surryen marchantz in swich wyse
  Fro day to day, as I shal yow devyse.
 
  This was the commune voys of every man:
  "Oure Emperour of Rome, God hym see,
  A doghter hath, that syn the world bigan,
  To rekene as wel hir goodnesse as beautee,
  Nas nevere swich another as is shee.
  I prey to God in honour hir sustene
  And wolde she were of all Europe the queene!
 
  In hir is heigh beautee, withoute pride,
  Yowthe, withoute 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 hoolynesse,
  Hir hand ministre of fredam for almesse."
 
  And al this voys was sooth, as God is trewe!
  But now to purpos, lat us turne agayn;
  Thise marchantz han doon fraught hir shippes newe,
  And whan they han this blisful mayden sayn,
  Hoom to Surrye been they went ful fayn,
  And doon hir nedes as they han doon yoore,
  And lyven in wele, I kan sey yow namoore.
 
  Now fil it, that thise marchantz stode in grace
  Of hym, that was the Sowdan of Surrye.
  For whan they cam from any strange place,
  He wolde, of his benigne curteisye,
  Make hem good chiere, and bisily espye
  Tidynges of sondry regnes, for to leere
  The wondres that they myghte seen or heere.
 
  Amonges othere thynges, specially
  Thise marchantz han hym toold of dame Custance
  So greet noblesse, in ernest ceriously,
  That this Sowdan hath caught so greet plesance
  To han hir figure in his remembrance,
  That all his lust and al his bisy cure
  Was for to love hir, while his lyf may dure.
 
  Praventure in thilke large book,
  Which that men clipe the hevene, ywriten was
  With sterres, whan that he his birthe took,
  That he for love sholde han his deeth, allas!
  For in the sterres clerer than is glas
  Is writen, God woot, whoso koude it rede,
  The deeth of every man, withouten drede.
 
  In sterres many a wynter therbiforn
  Was writen the deeth of Ector, Achilles,
  Of Pompei, Julius, er they were born,
  The strif of Thebes, and of Ercules,
  Of Sampson, Turnus, and of Socrates
  The deeth, but mennes wittes ben so dulle
  That no wight kan wel rede it atte fulle.
 
  This Sowdan for his privee conseil sente,
  And, shortly of this matiere for to pace,
  He hath to hem declared his entente
  And seyde hem, certein, but he myghte have grace
  To han Custance withinne a litel space,
  He nas but deed; and charged hem in hye
  To shapen for his lyf som remedye.
 
  Diverse men diverse thynges seyden;
  They argumenten, casten up and doun,
  Many a subtil resoun forth they leyden,
  They speken of magyk and abusioun;
  But finally, as in conclusioun,
  They kan nat seen in that noon avantage,
  Ne in noon oother wey, save mariage.
 
  Thanne sawe they therin swich difficultee
  By wey of reson, for to speke al playn
  Bycause that ther was swich diversitee
  Bitwene hir bothe lawes, that they sayn
  They trowe that "no cristene prince wolde fayn
  Wedden his child under oure lawes swete
  That us were taught by Mahoun oure prophete."
 
  And he answerde: "Rather than I lese
  Custance, I wol be cristned, doutelees.
  I moot been hires, I may noon oother chese;
  I prey yow, hoold youre argumentz in pees.
 
  Saveth my lyf, and beth noght recchelees
  To geten hir that hath my lyf in cure,
  For in this wo I may nat longe endure."
 
  What nedeth gretter dilatacioun?
  I syey, by tretys and embassadrye
  And by the popes mediacioun,
  And al the chirche and al the chivalrie,
  That in destruccioun of Mawmettrie
  And in encrees of Cristes lawe deere,
  They been acorded, so as ye shal heere,
 
  How that the Sowdan and his baronage
  And alle hise liges sholde ycristned be-
  And he shal han Custance in mariage,
  And certein gold, I noot what quantitee,
  And heerto founden suffisant suretee.
  This same accord was sworn on eyther syde.
  Now, faire Custance, almyghty God thee gyde!
 
  Now wolde som men waiten, as I gesse,
  That I sholde tellen al the purveiance
  That themperour, of his grete noblesse,
  Hath shapen for his doghter dame Custance;
  Wel may men knowen that so greet ordinance
  May no man tellen in alitel clause
  As was arrayed for so heigh a cause.
 
  Bisshopes been shapen with hir for to wende,
  Lordes, ladies, knyghtes of renoun,
  And oother folk ynogh, this is the ende,
  And notified is, thurghout the toun,
  That every wight with greet devocioun
  Sholde preyen Crist, that he this mariage
  Receyve in gree, and spede this viage.
 
  The day is comen of hir departynge,
  I seye, the woful day fatal is come,
  That ther may be no lenger tariynge,
  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 noon oother ende.
 
  Allas, what wonder is it thogh she wepte,
  That shal be sent to strange nacioun
  Fro freendes that so tendrely hir kepte,
  And to be bounden under subjeccioun
  Of oon, she knoweth nat his condicioun?
  Housbondes been alle goode, and han ben yoore,
  That knowen wyves!  I dar sey yow namoore.
 
  "Fader," she seyde, "Thy wrecched child Custance,
  Thy yonge doghter, fostred up so softe,
  And ye my mooder, my soverayn plesance,
  Over alle thyng, out-taken Crist on-lofte,
  Custance, youre child, hir recomandeth ofte
  Unto your grace, for I shal to Surrye
  Ne shal I nevere seen yow moore with eye.
 
  Allas! unto the barbre nacioun
  I moste goon, syn that it is youre wille,
  But Crist, that starf for our savacioun,
  So yeve me grace hise heestes to fulfille,-
  I, wrecche womman, no fors though I spille.
  Wommen are born to thraldom and penance,
  And to been under mannes governance."
 
  I trowe, at Troye whan Pirrus brak the wal,
  Or Ilion brende, ne at Thebes the Citee,
  Ne at Rome for the harm thurgh Hanybal
 
  That Romayns hath venquysshed tymes thre,
  Nas herd swich tendre wepyng for pitee
  As in the chambre was, for his departynge;
  But forth she moot, wher-so she wepe or synge.
 
  O firste moevyng crueel firmanent,
  With thy diurnal sweigh, that crowdest ay
  And hurlest al from Est til Occident
  That naturelly wolde holde another way,
  Thy crowdyng set the hevene in swich array
  At the bigynnyng of this fiers viage,
  That crueel Mars hath slayn this mariage.
 
  Infortunat ascendent tortuous,
  Of which the lord is helplees falle, allas!
  Out of his angle into the derkeste hous.
  O Mars! O Atazir! as in this cas,
  O fieble Moone, unhappy been thy paas!
  Thou knyttest 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 oother in swich cas?
  Of viage is ther noon eleccioun,
  Namely to folk of heigh condicioun,
  Noght whan a roote is of a burthe yknowe?
  Allas, we been to lewed or to slowe!
 
  To ship is brought this woful faire mayde
  Solempnely, with every circumstance,
  "Now Jesu Crist be with yow alle," she seyde.
  Ther nys namoore but, "Farewel faire Custance!"
  She peyneth hir to make good contenance,
  And forth I lete hir saille in this manere,
  And turne I wole agayn to my matere.
 
 The mooder of the Sowdan, welle of vyices,
  Espied hath hir sones pleyne entente,
  How he wol lete hise olde sacrifices,
  And right anon she for hir conseil sente,
  And they been come, to knowe what she mente,
  And whan assembled was this folk in feere,
  She sette hir doun, and seyde as ye shal heere.
 
  "Lordes," quod she, "ye knowen everichon,
  How that my sone in point is for to lete
  The hooly lawes of oure Alkaron,
  Yeven by Goddes message, Makomete.
  But oon avow to grete God I heete,
  The lyf shal rather out of my body sterte,
  Than Makometes lawe out of myn herte!
 
  What sholde us tyden of this newe lawe
  But thraldom to our bodies, and penance,
  And afterward in helle to be drawe
  For we reneyed Mahoun oure creance?
  But lordes, wol ye maken assurance
  As I shal seyn, assentynge to my loore,
  And I shal make us sauf for everemoore."
 
 They sworen and assenten every man
  To lyve with hir, and dye, and by hir stonde,
  And everich in the beste wise he kan
  To strengthen hir shal alle hise frendes fonde,
  And she hath this emprise ytake 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,-
  Coold water shal nat greve us but a lite-
  And I shal swich a feeste and revel make,
  That as I trowe I shal the Sowdan quite;
  For thogh his wyf be cristned never so white,
  She shal have nede to wasshe awey the rede,
  Thogh she a fontful water with hir lede!"
 
 O Sowdanesse, roote of iniquitee!
  Virage, thou Semyrame the secounde!
  O serpent under femynyntee,
  Lik to the serpent depe in helle ybounde!
  O feyned womman, al that may confounde
  Vertu and innocence thurgh thy malice
  Is bred in thee, as nest of every vice!
 
  O Sathan, envious syn thilke day
  That thou were chaced from oure heritage,
  Wel knowestow to wommen the olde way!
  Thou madest Eva brynge us in servage;
  Thou wolt fordoon this cristen mariage.
  Thyn instrument, so weylawey the while!
  Makestow of wommen, whan thou wolt bigile!
 
  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 hym, that she wolde reneye hir lay,
  And cristendom of preestes handes fonge,
  Repentynge hir she hethen was so longe;
 
  Bisechynge hym to doon hir that honour
  That she moste han the cristen folk to feeste.
  "To plesen hem I wol do my labour."
  The Sowdan seith, "I wol doon at youre heeste,"
  And knelynge thanketh hir of that requeste.
  So gald he was, he nyste what to seye;
  She kiste hir sone, and hoome she gooth hir weye.
 
  Explicit prima pars.
 
  Sequitur pars secunda.
 
 Arryved been this cristen folk to londe,
  In Surrye, with a greet solempne route,
  And hastifliche this Sowdan sente his sonde
  First to his mooder and all the regne aboute,
  And seyde his wyf was comen, oute of doute,
  And preyde hir for to ryde agayn the queene,
  The honour of his regne to susteene.
 
  Greet was the prees, and riche was tharray
  Of Surryens and Romayns met yfeere;
  The mooder of the Sowdan, riche and gay,
  Receyveth hir with also glad a cheere
  As any mooder myghte hir doghter deere,
  And to the nexte citee ther bisyde
  A softe pass solempnely they ryde.
 
 
  Noght trowe I the triumphe of Julius,
  Of which that Lucan maketh swich a boost,
  Was roialler, ne moore curius
  Than was thassemblee of this blisful hoost.
  But this scorpioun, this wikked goost,
  The Sowdanesse, for all hir falterynge
  Caste under this ful mortally to stynge.
 
  The Sowdabn comth hymself soone after this
  So roially, that wonder is to telle,
  And welcometh hir with alle joye and blis,
  And thus in murthe and joye I lete hem dwelle-
  The fruyt of this matiere is that I telle.-
  Whan tyme cam, men thoughte it for the beste,
  The revel stynte, and men goon to hir reste.
 
  The tyme cam, this olde Sowdanesse
  Ordeyned hath this feeste of which I tolde,
  And to the feeste cristen folk hem dresse
  In general, ye, bothe yonge and olde.
  Heere may men feeste and roialtee biholde,
  And deyntees mo than I kan yow devyse;
  But al to deere they boghte it er they ryse!
 
 O sodeyn wo, that evere art successour
  To worldly blisse, spreynd with bitternesse!
  The ende of the joye of oure worldly labour!
  Wo occupieth the fyn of oure galdnesse!
  Herke this conseil for thy sikernesse,
  Upon thy galde day have in thy minde
  The unwar wo or harm that comth bihynde.
 
  For shortly for to tellen at o word,
  The Sowdan and the cristen everichone
  Been al tohewe and stiked at the bord,
  But it were oonly dame Custance allone.
  This olde Sowdanesse, cursed krone,
  Hath with hir freendes doon this cursed dede,
  For she hirself wolde all the contree lede.
 
  Ne was ther Surryen noon, that was converted,
  That of the conseil of the Sowdan woot,
  That he nas al tohewe er he asterted.
  And Custance han they take anon foot-hoot
  And in a ship all steerelees, God woot,
  They han hir set, and biddeth hir lerne saille
  Out of Surrye agaynward to Ytaille.
 
  A certein tresor that she thider ladde,
  And, sooth to seyn, vitaille greet plentee
  They han hir yeven, and clothes eek she hadde,
  And forth she sailleth in the salte see.
  O my Custance, ful of benignytee,
  O emperoures yonge doghter deere,
  He that is lord of Fortune be thy steere!
 
  She blesseth hir, and with ful pitous voys
  Unto the croys of Crist thus seyde she,
  "O cleere, o welful auter, hooly croys,
  Reed of the lambes blood, ful of pitee,
  That wesshe 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 oonly worthy were for to bere
  The kyng of hevene with his woundes newe,
  The white lamb that hurt was with the spere,
  Flemer of feendes out of hym and here
  On which thy lymes feithfully extenden,
  Me keep, and yif me myght my lyf tamenden."
 
  Yeres and dayes fleteth this creature
  Thurghout the See of Grece unto the Strayte
  Of Marrok, as it was hir aventure.
  On many a sory meel now may she bayte;
  After hir deeth ful often may she wayte,
  Er that the wilde wawes wol hire dryve
  Unto the place ther she shal arryve.
 
 Men myghten asken why she was nat slayn?
  Eek at the feeste who myghte hir body save?
  And I answere to that demande agayn,
  Who saved Danyel 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 myracle
  In hir, for we sholde seen his myghty werkis.
  Crist, which that is to every harm triacle,
  By certeine meenes ofte, as knowen clerkis,
  Dooth thyng for certein ende, that ful derk is
  To mannes wit, that for oure ignorance
  Ne konne noght knowe his prudent purveiance.
 
  Now, sith she was nat at the feeste yslawe,
  Who kepte hir fro the drenchyng in the see?
  Who kepte Jonas in the fisshes mawe
  Til he was spouted up at Nynyvee?
  Wel may men knowe it was no wight but he
  That kepte peple Ebrayk from hir drenchynge,
  With drye feet thurghout the see passynge.
 
  Who bad the foure spirites of tempest,
  That power han tanoyen lond and see,
  "Bothe north and south, and also west and est,
  Anoyeth neither see, ne land, ne tree?"
  Soothly, the comandour of that was he,
  That fro the tempest ay this womman kepte,
  As wel eek when she wook as whan she slepte.
 
  Where myghte this womman mete and drynke have?
  Thre yeer and moore how lasteth hir vitaille?
  Who fedde the Egypcien Marie in the cave,
  Or in desert?
  no wight but Crist sanz faille.
  Fyve thousand folk it was as greet mervaille
  With loves fyve and fisshes two to feede;
  God sente his foyson at hir grete neede.
 
  She dryveth forth into oure occian
  Thurghout oure wilde see, til atte laste
  Under an hoold that nempnen I ne kan,
  Fer in Northhumberlond, the wawe hir caste,
  And in the sond hir ship stiked so faste
  That thennes wolde it noght of al a tyde,
  The wyl of Crist was that she sholde abyde.
 
  The constable of the castel doun is fare
  To seen his wrak, and al the ship he soghte,
  And foond this wery womman ful of care,
  He foond also the tresor that she broghte,
  In hir langage mercy she bisoghte,
  The lyf out of hire body for to twynne,
  Hir to delivere of wo that she was inne.
 
  A maner Latyn corrupt was hir speche,
  But algates ther-by was she understonde.
  The constable, whan hym lyst 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 sholde deye.
 
  She seyde, she was so mazed in the see
  That she forgat hir mynde, by hir trouthe.
  The constable hath of hir so greet pitee,
  And eke his wyf, that they wepen for routhe.
  She was so diligent withouten slouthe
  To serve and plesen everich in that place,
  That alle hir loven that looken on hir face.
 
  This constable and dame Hermengyld his wyf
  Were payens, and that contree every-where;
  But Hermengyld loved hir right as hir lyf,
  And Custance hath so longe sojourned there
  In orisons with many a bitter teere,
  Til Jesu hath converted thurgh his grace
  Dame Hermengyld, constablesse of that place.
 
  In al that lond no cristen dorste route,
  Alle cristen folk been fled fro that contree
  Thurgh payens that conquereden al aboute
  The plages of the North by land and see.
  To Walys fledde the Cristyanytee
  Of olde Britons, dwellynge in this Ile;
  Ther was hir refut for the meene-while.
 
  But yet nere cristene Britons so exiled
  That ther nere somme that in hir privetee
  Honoured Crist, and hethen folk bigiled,
  And ny the castel swiche ther dwelten three;
  That oon of hem was blynd, and myghte nat see,
  But it were with thilke eyen of his mynde,
  With whiche men seen, after that they ben blynde.
 
 Bright was the sonne as in that someres day,
  For which the constable and his wyf also
  And Custance han ytake the righte way
  Toward the see, a furlong wey or two,
  To pleyen, and to romen, to and fro,
  And in hir walk this blynde man they mette,
  Croked and oold, with eyen faste yshette.
 
  "In name of Crist," cride this olde Britoun,
  "Dame Hermengyld, yif me my sighte agayn."
  This lady weex affrayed of the soun,
  Lest that hir housbonde, shortly for to sayn,
  Wolde hir for Jesu Cristes love han slayn,
  Til Custance made hir boold, and bad hir wirche
  The wyl of Crist, as doghter of his chirche.
 
  The constable weex abasshed of that sight,
  And seyde, "What amounteth all this fare!"
  Custance answerde, "Sire, it is Cristes myght,
  That helpeth folk out of the feendes snare."
  And so ferforth she gan oure lay declare,
  That she the constable, er that it were eve,
  Converteth, and on Crist maketh hym bileve.
 
  This constable was no-thyng lord of this place
  Of which I speke, ther he Custance fond;
  But kepte it strongly many wyntres space
  Under Alla, kyng of al Northhumbrelond,
  That was ful wys and worthy of his hond
  Agayn the Scottes, as men may wel heere;-
  But turne I wole agayn to my mateere.
 
  Sathan, that ever us waiteth to bigile,
  Saugh of Custance al hir perfeccioun
  And caste anon how he myghte quite hir while;
  And made a yong knyght, that dwelte in that toun,
  Love hir so hoote of foul affeccioun
  That verraily hym thoughte he sholde spille,
  But he of hir myghte ones have his wille.
 
  He woweth hir, but it availleth noght,
  She wolde do no synne, by no were;
  And for despit he compassed in his thoght
  To maken hir on shameful deeth to deye.
  He wayteth whan the constable was aweye
  And pryvely upon a nyght he crepte
  In Hermengyldes chambre whil she slepte.
 
  Wery, for-waked in hir orisouns,
  Slepeth Custance, and Hermengyld also.
  This knyght, thurgh Sathanas temptaciouns,
  All softely is to the bed ygo,
  And kitte the throte of Hermengyld atwo,
  And leyde the blody knyf by dame Custance,
  And wente his wey, ther God yeve hym meschance!
 
  Soone after cometh this constable hoom agayn,
  And eek Alla, that kyng was of that lond,
  And saugh his wyf despitously yslayn,
  For which ful ofte he weep and wroong his hond,
  And in the bed the blody knyf he fond
  By Dame Custance; allas, what myghte she seye?
  For verray wo hir wit was al aweye!
 
  To kyng Alla was toold al this meschance,
  And eek the tyme, and where, and in what wise
  That in a ship was founden dame Custance,
  As heer-biforn that ye han herd devyse.
  The kynges herte of pitee gan agryse,
  Whan he saugh so benigne a creature
  Falle in disese and in mysaventure.
 
  For as the lomb toward his deeth is broght,
  So stant this innocent bifore the kyng.
  This false knyght, that hath this tresoun wroght,
  Berth hir on hond that she hath doon thys thyng,
  But nathelees, ther was greet moornyng
  Among the peple, and seyn, they kan nat gesse
  That she had doon so greet a wikkednesse;
 
  For they han seyn hir evere so vertuous,
  And lovyng Hermengyld right as hir lyf:
  Of this baar witnesse everich in that hous
 
  Save he that Hermengyld slow with his knyf.
  This gentil kyng hath caught a greet 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 kanstow noght, so weylaway!
  But he, that starf for our redempcioun,
  And boond Sathan-and yet lith ther he lay-
  So be thy stronge champion this day!
  For but if Crist open myracle kithe,
  Withouten gilt thou shalt be slayn as swithe.
 
  She sette hir doun on knees, and thus she sayde,
  "Immortal God, that savedest Susanne
  Fro false blame, and thou, merciful Mayde,
  Marie I meene, doghter to Seynte Anne,
  Bifore whos child angeles synge Osanne,
  If I be giltlees of this felonye,
  My socour be, for ellis shal I dye."
 
 Have ye nat seyn som tyme a pale face
  Among a prees, of hym that hath be lad
  Toward his deeth, wher as hym gat no grace,
  And swich a colour in his face hath had,
  Men myghte knowe his face, that was bistad,
  Amonges alle the faces in that route?
  So stant Custance, and looketh hir aboute.
 
  O queenes, lyvynge in prosperitee,
  Duchesses, and ladyes everichone,
  Haveth som routhe on hir adversitee;
  An emperoures doghter stant allone,
  She hath no wight to whom to make hir mone.
  O blood roial, that stondest in this drede,
  Fer been thy freendes at thy grete nede!
 
 This Alla kyng hath swich compassioun,
  As gentil herte is fulfild of pitee,
  That from hise eyen ran the water doun.
  "Now hastily do fecche a book," quod he,
  "And if this knyght wol sweren how that she
  This womman slow, yet wol we us avyse,
  Whom that we wole, that shal been oure justise."
 
  A Britoun book, written with Evaungiles,
  Was fet, and on this book he swoor anoon
  She gilty was, and in the meene-whiles
  An hand hym smoot upon the nekke-boon,
  That doun he fil atones, as a stoon;
  And bothe hise eyen broste out of his face,
  In sighte of every body in that place.
 
  A voys was herd in general audience,
  And seyde, "Thou hast desclaundred giltelees
  The doghter of hooly chirche in heigh presence,
  Thus hastou doon, and yet holde I my pees."
  Of this mervaille agast was al the prees,
  As mazed folk they stoden everichone
  For drede of wreche, save Custance allone.
 
  Greet was the drede and eek the repentance
  Of hem that hadden wronge suspecioun
  Upon this sely innocent, Custance;
  And for this miracle, in conclusioun,
  And by Custances mediacioun,
  The kyng, and many another in that place,
  Converted was, thanked be Cristes grace.
 
  This false knyght was slayn for his untrouthe,
  By juggement of Alla hastifly-
  And yet Custance hadde of his deeth greet routhe-
  And after this Jesus, of His mercy,
  Made Alla wedden ful solempnely
  This hooly mayden, that is so bright and sheene,
  And thus hath Crist ymaad Custance a queene.
 
  But who was woful, if I shal nat lye,
  Of this weddyng but Donegild, and namo,
  The kynges mooder, ful of tirannye?
  Hir thoughte hir cursed herte brast atwo,
  She wolde noght hir sone had do so,
  Hir thoughte a despit, that he sholde take
  So strange a creature unto 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 roialtee
  At mariages, or which cours goth biforn,
  Who bloweth in the trumpe, or in an horn?
  The fruyt of every tale is for to seye;
  They ete, and drynke, and daunce, and synge, and pleye.
 
  They goon to bedde, as it was skile and right,
  For thogh that wyves be ful hooly thynges,
  They moste take in pacience at nyght
  Swiche manere necessaries as been plesynges
  To folk that han ywedded hem with rynges,
  And leye a lite hir hoolynesse aside
  As for the tyme, it may no bet bitide.
 
  On hir he gat a knave childe anon,
  And to a bisshop and his constable eke
  He took his wyf to kepe, whan he is gon
  To Scotlondward, his foomen for to seke.
  Now faire Custance, that is so humble and meke,
  So longe is goon with childe, til that stille
  She halt hire chambre, abidyng Cristes wille.
 
  The tyme is come; a knave child she beer,
  Mauricius at the fontstoon they hym calle.
  This constable dooth forth come a messageer,
  And wroot unto his kyng, that cleped was Alle,
  How that this blisful tidyng is bifalle,
  And othere tidynges spedeful for to seye;
  He taketh the lettre, and forth he gooth his weye.
 
  This messager, to doon his avantage,
  Unto the kynges mooder rideth swithe,
  And salueth hir ful faire in his langage,
  "Madame," quod he, "ye may be glad and blithe,
  And thanketh God an hundred thousand sithe.
  My lady queene hath child, withouten doute,
  To joye and blisse to al this regne aboute.
 
  Lo, heere the lettres seled of this thyng,
  That I moot bere with al the haste I may.
  If ye wol aught unto youre sone, the kyng,
  I am youre servant both nyght and day."
  Donegild answerde, "as now at this tyme, nay,
  But heere al nyght I wol thou take thy reste,
  Tomorwe wol I seye thee what me leste."
 
  This messager drank sadly ale and wyn,
  And stolen wer hise lettres prively
  Out of his box, whil he sleep as a swyn;
  And countrefeted was ful subtilly
  Another lettre wroght ful synfully,
  Unto the kyng direct of this mateere
  Fro his constable, as ye shal after heere.
 
  The lettre spak, the queene delivered was
  Of so horrible a feendly creature
  That in the castel noon so hardy was
  That any while dorste ther endure;
  The mooder was an elf, by aventure,
  Yeomen by charmes or by sorcerie,
  And every wight hateth hir compaignye.
 
  Wo was this kyng whan he this lettre had sayn,
  But to no wight he tolde his sorwes soore,
  But of his owene hand he wroot agayn:
  "Welcome the sonde of Crist for everemoore
  To me, that am now lerned in his loore.
  Lord, welcome be thy lust and thy plesaunce,
  My lust I putte al in thyn ordinaunce.
 
  Kepeth this child, al be it foul or feire,
  And eek my wyf, unto myn hoom-comynge;
  Crist, whan hym list, may sende me an heir
  Moore agreable than this to my likynge."
  This lettre he seleth, pryvely wepynge,
  Which to the messager was take soone
  And forth he gooth, ther is namoore to doone.
 
 O messager, fulfild of dronkenesse,
  Strong is thy breeth, thy lymes faltren ay,
  And thou biwreyest alle secreenesse.
  Thy mynde is lorn, thou janglest as a jay,
  Thy face is turned in a newe array;
  Ther dronkenesse regneth in any route,
  Ther is no conseil hyd, withouten doute.
 
  O Donegild, I ne have noon Englissh digne
  Unto thy malice and thy tirannye;
  And therfore to the feend I thee resigne,
  Lat hym enditen of thy traitorie!
  Fy, mannysh, fy?  O nay, by God, I lye!
  Fy, feendlych spirit! for I dar wel telle,
  Thogh thou heere walke, thy spirit is in helle.
 
  This messager comth fro the kyng agayn,
  And at the kynges moodres court he lighte
  And she was of this messager ful fayn,
  And plesed hym in al that ever she myghte.
  He drank, and wel his girdel underpighte.
  He slepeth, and he fnorteth in his gyse
  Al nyght until the sonne gan aryse.
 
  Eft were hise lettres stolen everychon
  And countrefeted lettres in this wyse,
  "The king comandeth his constable anon
  Up peyne of hangyng and on heigh juyse
  That he ne sholde suffren in no wyse
  Custance inwith his reawme for tabyde,
  Thre dayes and o quarter of a tyde.
 
  But in the same ship as he hir fond,
  Hir and hir yonge sone, and al hir geere,
  He sholde putte, and croude hir fro the lond,
  And chargen hir she never eft coome theere."
  O my Custance, wel may thy goost have fere,
  And slepynge in thy dreem been in penance,
  Whan Donegild cast al this ordinance.
 
 This messager, on morwe whan he wook,
  Unto the Castel halt the nexte way,
  And to the constable he the lettre took.
  And whan that he this pitous lettre say,
  Ful ofte he seyde, "Allas and weylaway!"
  "Lord Crist," quod he, "how may this world endure,
  So ful of synne is many a creature?
 
  O myghty God, if that it be thy wille,
  Sith thou art rightful juge, how may it be
  That thou wolt suffren innocentz to spille,
  And wikked folk regnen in prosperitee?
  O goode Custance, allas, so wo is me,
  That I moot be thy tormentour, or deye
  On shames deeth!  Ther is noon oother weye!"
 
 Wepen bothe yonge and olde in al that place,
  Whan that the kyng this cursed lettre sente,
  And Custance, with a deedly pale face,
  The ferthe day toward the ship she wente;
  But nathelees she taketh in good entente
  The wyl of Crist, and knelynge on the stronde,
  She seyde, "Lord, ay welcome be thy sonde!
 
  He that me kepte fro the false blame,
  While I was on the lond amonges yow,
  He kan me kepe from harm and eek fro shame
  In salte see, al thogh I se noght how.
  As strong as evere he was, he is yet now;
  In hym triste I, and in his mooder deere,
  That is to me myu seyl and eek my steere."
 
  Hir litel child lay wepyng in hir arm,
  And knelynge, pitously to hym she seyde,
  "Pees, litel sone, I wol do thee noon harm."
  With that hir coverchief on hir heed she breyde,
  And over hise litel eyen she it leyde,
  And in hir arm she lulleth it ful faste,
  And into hevene hir eyen up she caste.
 
  "Mooder," quod she, "and mayde bright, Marie,
  Sooth is that thurgh wommanes eggement
  Mankynde was lorn and damned ay to dye,
  For which thy child was on a croys yrent;
  Thy blisful eyen sawe al his torment;
  Thanne is ther no comparison bitwene
  Thy wo, and any wo man may sustene.
 
  Thow sawe thy child yslayn bifore thyne eyen,
  And yet now lyveth my litel child, parfay.
  Now, lady bright, to whom alle woful cryen,
  Thow glorie of wommanhede, thow faire may,
  Thow haven of refut, brighte sterre of day,
  Rewe on my child, that of thy gentillesse
  Ruest on every reweful in distresse.
 
  O litel child, allas, what is thy gilt,
  That nevere wroghtest synne as yet, pardee!
  Why wil thyn harde fader han thee spilt?
  O mercy, deere Constable," quod she,
  "As lat my litel child dwelle heer with thee;
  And if thou darst nat saven hym for blame,
  Yet kys hym ones in his fadres name."
 
  Therwith she looketh bakward to the londe,
  And seyde, "Farwel, housbonde routheless!"
  And up she rist, and walketh doun the stronde,
  Toward the ship.  Hir folweth al the prees,
  And evere she preyeth hir child to holde his pees,
  And taketh hir leve, and with an hooly entente
  She blisseth hir, and into ship she wente.
 
  Vitailled was the ship, it is no drede,
  Habundantly for hir ful longe space;
  And othere necessaries that sholde nede
  She hadde ynogh, heried be Goddes grace;
  For wynd and weder almyghty God purchace,
  And brynge hir hoom, I kan no bettre seye!
  But in the see she dryveth forth hir weye.
 
 Alla the kyng comth hoom, soone after this,
  Unto his castel of the which I tolde,
  And asketh where his wyf and his child is.
  The constable gan aboute his herte colde,
  And pleynly al the manere he hym tolde,
  As ye han herd, I kan telle it no bettre;
  And sheweth the kyng his seel and eek his lettre,
 
  And seyde, "Lord, as ye comanded me,
  Up peyne of deeth, so have I doon, certein."
  This messager tormented was, til he
  Moste biknowe, and tellen plat and pleyn
  Fro nyght to nyght in what place he had leyn,
  And thus by wit and sotil enquerynge
  Ymagined was, by whom this harm gan sprynge.
 
  The hand was knowe that the lettre wroot,
  And al the venym of this cursed dede,
  But in what wise certeinly I noot.
  Theffect is this, that Alla, out of drede,
  His mooder slow, that may men pleynly rede,
  For that she traitoure was to hir ligeance,
  Thus endeth olde Donegild, with meschance!
 
 The sorwe that this Alla, nyght and day,
  Maketh for his wyf, and for his child also,
  Ther is no tonge that it telle may-
  But now wol I unto Custance go,
  That fleteth in the see in peyne and wo,
  Fyve yeer and moore, as liked Cristes sonde,
  Er that hir ship approched unto londe.
 
  Under an hethen castel, atte laste,
  Of which the name in my text toght I fynde,
  Custance and eek hir child the see upcaste.
  Almyghty god that saved al mankynde,
  Have on Custance and on hir child som mynde,
  That fallen is in hethen hand eft-soone,
  In point to spille, as I shal telle yow soone.
 
  Doun fro the castel comth ther many a wight
  To gauren on this ship and on Custance,
  But shortly from the castel on a nyght
  The lordes styward, God yeve hym meschance!-
  A theef that hadde reneyed oure creance,
  Cam into the ship allone, and seyde he sholde
  Hir lemman be, wherso she wolde or nolde.
 
  Wo was this wrecched womman tho bigon!
  Hir child cride, and she cride pitously,
  But blisful Marie heelp hir right anon,
  For with hir struglyng wel and myghtily,
  The theef fil over bord al sodeynly,
  And in the see he dreynte for vengeance,
  And thus hath Crist unwemmed kept Custance.
 
 O foule lust of luxurie, lo, thyn ende!
  Nat oonly that thou feyntest mannes mynde,
  But verraily thou wolt his body shende.
  Thende of thy werk or of thy lustes blynde
  Is compleynyng; hou many oon may men fynde,
  That noght for werk somtyme, but for thentente
  To doon this synne, been outher slayn or shente!
 
  How may this wayke womman han this strengthe
  Hir to defende agayn this renegat?
  O Golias, unmesurable of lengthe,
  Hou myghte David make thee so maat,
  So yong, and of armure so desolaat?
  Hou dorste he looke upon thy dredful face?
  Wel may men seen, it nas but Goddes grace!
 
  Who yaf Judith corage or hardynesse
  To sleen hym, Olofernus, in his tente,
  And to deliveren out of wrecchednesse
  The peple of God?  I seyde, for this entente
  That right as God spirit of vigour sente
  To hem, and saved hem out of meschance,
  So sente he myght and vigour to Custance.
 
  Forth gooth hir ship thurghout the narwe mouth
  Of Jubaltar and Septe, dryvynge alway,
  Somtyme west, and somtyme north and south,
  And somtyme est, ful many a wery day;
  Til Cristes mooder-blessed be she ay!-
  Hath shapen, thurgh hir endelees goodnesse,
  To make an ende of al hir hevynesse.
 
 Now lat us stynte of Custance but a throwe,
  And speke we of the Romayn Emperour,
  That out of Surrye hath by lettres knowe
  The slaughtre of cristen folk, and dishonour
  Doon to his doghter by a fals traytour,
  I mene the cursed wikked Sowdanesse,
  That at the feeste leet sleen both moore and lesse;
 
  For which this emperour hath sent anon
  His senatour with roial ordinance,
  And othere lordes, God woot many oon,
  On Surryens to taken heigh vengeance.
  They brennen, sleen, and brynge hem to meschance
  Ful many a day, but shortly, this is thende,
  Hoomward to Rome they shapen hem to wende.
 
  This senatour repaireth with victorie
  To Romeward saillynge ful roially,
  And mette the ship dryvynge, as seith the storie,
  In which Custance sit ful pitously.
  No thyng ne knew he what she was, ne why
  She was in swich array, ne she nyl seye
  Of hir estat, thogh that she sholde deye.
 
  He bryngeth hir to Rome, and to his wyf
  He yaf hir, and hir yonge sone also,
  And with the senatour she ladde hir lyf.
  Thus kan oure Lady bryngen out of wo
  Woful Custance, and many another mo.
  And longe tyme dwelled she in that place,
  In hooly werkes evere, as was hir grace.
 
  The senatoures wyf hir aunte was,
  But for all that she knew hir never the moore-
  I wol no lenger tarien in this cas,
  But to kyng Alla, which I spake of yoore,
  That wepeth for his wyf and siketh soore,
  I wol retourne, and lete I wol Custance
  Under the senatoures governance.
 
 Kyng Alla, which that hadde his mooder slayn,
  Upon a day fil in swich repentance
  That, if I shortly tellen shal and playn,
  To Rome he comth, to receyven his penance,
  And putte hym in the popes ordinance
  In heigh and logh, and Jesu Crist bisoghte
  Foryeve hise wikked werkes that he wroghte.
 
  The fame anon thurgh Rome toun is born
  How Alla kyng shal comen on pilgrymage,
  By herbergeours that wenten hym biforn,
  For which the Senatour, as was usage,
  Rood hym agayns, and many of his lynage,
  As wel to shewen his heighe magnificence
  As to doon any kyng a reverence.
 
  Greet cheere dooth this noble Senatour
  To kyng Alla, and he to hym also,
  Everich of hem dooth oother greet honour;
  And so bifel, that inwith a day or two
  This senatour is to kyng Alla go
  To feste; and shortly, if I shal nat lye,
  Custances sone wente in his compaignye.
 
  Som men wolde seyn, at requeste of Custance
  This senatour hath lad this child to feeste;
  I may nat tellen every circumstance,
  Be as be may, ther was he at the leeste,
  But sooth is this, that at his moodres heeste
  Biforn Alla durynge the metes space,
  The child stood lookynge in the kynges face.
 
  This Alla kyng 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 John!
  A mooder he hath, but fader hath he noon,
  That I of woot."  But shortly, in a stounde,
  He tolde Alla how that this child was founde.
 
  "But God woot," quod this senatour also,
  "So vertuous a lyver in my lyf
  Ne saugh I nevere as she, ne herde of mo
  Of worldly wommen, mayde, ne of wyf;
  I dar wel seyn, hir hadde levere a knyf
  Thurghout hir brest, than ben a womman wikke,
  There is no man koude brynge hir to that prikke."
 
  Now was this child as lyke unto Custance,
  As possible is a creature to be.
  This Alla hath the face in remembrance
  Of dame Custance, and theron mused he,
  If that the childes mooder were aught she
  That is his wyf; and prively he sighte
  And spedde hym fro the table that he myghte.
 
  "Parfay," thoghte he, "fantome is in myn heed.
  I oghte deme, of skilful juggement,
  That in the salte see my wyf is deed."
  And afterward he made his argument:
  "What woot I, if that Crist have hyder ysent
  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 Custance.
  But trusteth weel, hir liste nat to daunce
  Whan that she wiste wherfore was that sonde;
  Unnethe upon hir feet she myghte stonde.
 
  Whan 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 doumb stant as a tree,
  So was hir herte shet in hir distresse,
  Whan she remembred his unkyndenesse.
 
  Twyes she swowned in his owene sighte.
  He weep, and hym excuseth pitously.
  "Now God," quod he, "and alle hise halwes brighte
  So wisly on my soule as have mercy,
  That of youre harm as giltelees am I
  As is Maurice my sone, so lyk youre face;
  Elles the feend me fecche out of this place!"
 
  Long was the sobbyng and the bitter peyne
  Er that hir woful hertes myghte cesse,
  Greet was the pitee for to heere hem pleyne,
  Thurgh whiche pleintes gan hir wo encresse.
  I pray yow alle my labour to relesse;
  I may nat telle hir wo until tomorwe,
  I am so wery for to speke of sorwe.
 
  But finally, whan that the sothe 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 joye that lasteth everemo
  Ther is noon lyk that any creature
  Hath seyn, or shal, whil that the world may dure.
 
  Tho preyde she hir housbonde mekely,
  In relief of hir longe pitous pyne,
  That he wolde preye hir fader specially
  That, of his magestee, he wolde enclyne
  To vouchesauf som day with hym to dyne.
  She preyde hym eek, he wolde by no weye
  Unto hir fader no word of hir seye.
 
  Som men wolde seyn, how that the child Maurice
  Dooth this message unto this emperour,
  But, as I gesse, Alla was nat so nyce
  To hym that was of so sovereyn honour,
  As he that is of cristen folk the flour,
  Sente any child, but it is bet to deeme
  He wente hymself, and so it may wel seeme.
 
  This emperour hath graunted gentilly
  To come to dyner, as he hym bisoughte,
  And wel rede I he looked bisily
  Upon this child, and on his doghter thoghte.
  Alla goth to his in, and as him oghte
  Arrayed for this feste in every wise
  As ferforth as his konnyng may suffise.
 
  The morwe cam, and Alla gan hym dresse
  And eek his wyf, this emperour to meete,
  And forth they ryde in joye and in galdnesse,
  And whan she saugh hir fader in the strete,
  She lighte doun and falleth hym to feete.
  "Fader," quod she, "youre yonge child Custance
  Is now ful clene out of youre remembrance.
 
  I am youre doghter Custance," quod she,
  "That whilom ye han sent unto Surrye.
  It am I, fader, that in the salte see
  Was put allone, and dampned for to dye.
  Now goode fader, mercy I yow crye,
  Sende me namoore unto noon hethenesse,
  But thonketh my lord heere of his kyndenesse."
 
  Who kan the pitous joye tellen al
  Bitwix hem thre, syn they been thus ymette?
  But of my tale make an ende I shal,
  The day goth faste, I wol no lenger lette.
  This glade folk to dyner they hem sette,
  In joye and blisse at mete I lete hem dwelle,
  A thousand foold wel moore than I kan telle.
 
  This child Maurice was sithen emperour
  Maad by the pope, and lyved cristenly.
  To Cristes chirche he dide greet honour;
  But I lete all his storie passen by-
  Of Custance is my tale specially-
  In the olde Romayn geestes may men fynde
  Maurices lyf, I bere it noght in mynde.
 
  This kyng Alla, whan he his tyme say,
  With his Custance, his hooly wyf so sweete,
  To Engelond been they come the righte way,
  Wher as they lyve in joye and in quiete.
  But litel while it lasteth, I yow heete,
  Joye of this world, for tyme wol nat abyde,
  Fro day to nyght it changeth as the tyde.
 
  Who lyved evere in swich delit o day
  That hym ne moeved outher conscience
  Or ire, or talent, or som-kyn affray,
  Envye, or pride, or passion, or offence?
  I ne seye but for this ende this sentence,
  That litel while in joye or in plesance
  Lasteth the blisse of Alla with Custance.
 
  For deeth, that taketh of heigh and logh his rente,
  Whan passed was a yeer, evene as I gesse,
  Out of this world this kyng Alla he hente,
  For whom Custance hath ful greet hevynesse.
  Now lat us praye God his soule blesse,
  And dame Custance, finally to seye,
  Toward the toun of Rome goth hir weye.
 
  To Rome is come this hooly creature,
  And fyndeth ther hir freendes hoole and sounde.
  Now is she scaped al hire aventure,
  And whan that she hir fader hath yfounde,
  Doun on hir knees falleth she to grounde,
  Wepynge for tendrenesse, in herte blithe,
  She heryeth God an hundred thousande sithe.
 
  In vertu and in hooly almus-dede
  They lyven alle, and never asonder wende
  Til deeth departed hem; this lyf they lede;-
  And fareth now weel, my tale is at an ende.
  Now Jesu Crist, that of his myght may sende
  Joye after wo, governe us in his grace,
  And kepe us alle that been in this place.  Amen.
 
  Heere endeth the tale of the Man of Lawe.