And hastely he sent after Custaunce.
But trusteth wel, hir luste nat to daunce,
Whan that sche wiste wherfor was that sonde,
Unnethes on hir feet sche mighte stonde.
Whan Alla saugh his wyf, fayre he hir grette,
And wepte, that it was rewthe to se;
For at the firste look he on hir sette
He knew wel verrely that it was sche.
And for sorwe, as domb sche stant as a tre;
So was hire herte schett in hire distresse,
Whan sche remembred his unkyndenesse.
Twies sche swowned in his owen sighte; He wept and him excuseth pitously; 'Now God,' quod he, and alle his halwes brighte So wisly on my soule as have mercy, That of youre harm as gulteles 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, Or that here woful herte mighte cesse; Gret was the pité for to here hem pleyne, Thurgh whiche playntez gan here wo encresse. 970 pray you alle my labour to relesse,
I may not telle al here woo unto morwe,
I am so wery for to speke of the sorwe.
But fynally, whan that the soth is wist,
That Alla gilteles was of hir woo,
I trowe an hundred tymes they ben kist,
And such a blys is ther bitwix hem tuo,
That, save the joye that lasteth everemo,
Ther is noon lyk, that eny creature
Hath seyn or schal, whil that the world may dure.
Tho prayde sche hir housbond meekely
In the relees of hir long pytous pyne,
That he wolde preye hir fader specially,
That of his majesté he wold enclyne
To vouchesauf som tyme with him to dyne.
Sche preyeth him eek, he schulde by no weye
Unto hir fader no word of hir seye.
Som men wolde seye, that hir child Maurice
Doth his message unto the emperour;
But, as I gesse, Alla was nat so nyce,
To him that is so soverayn of honour,
As he that is of Cristes folk the flour,
Sent
eny child; but it is best to deeme
He went himsilf, and so it may wel seme.
This emperour hath graunted gentilly
To come to dyner, as he him bysoughte;
As wel rede I, he lokede besily
Upon the child, and on his doughter thoughte.
Alla goth to his in, and as him oughte
Arrayed for this fest in every wyse,
As ferforth as his connyng may suffise.
The morwe cam, and Alla gan him dresse, And eek his wyf, the emperour for to meete; And forth they ryde in joye and in gladnesse, And whan sche saugh hir fader in the streete, Sche light adoun and falleth him to feete. 'Fader,' quod sche, 'your yonge child Constance Is now ful clene out of your remembraunce. 'I am your doughter Custaunce,' quod sche, 'That whilom ye have sent unto Surrye; It am I, fader, that in the salte see Was put alloon, and dampned for to dye. Now, goode fader, mercy I you crye, Send me no more unto noon hethenesse,
But thanke my lord her of his kyndenesse.'
Who can the pytous joye telle al
Bitwix hem thre, sith they be thus i-mette?
But of my tale make an ende I schal;
The day goth fast, I wol no lenger lette.
This glade folk to dyner they ben sette;
In joye and blys at mete I let hem dwelle,
A thousand fold wel more than I can telle.
This child Maurice was siththen emperour
I-maad by the pope, and lyved cristenly,
To Cristes chirche dede he gret honour.
But I let al his story passen by,
Of Custaunce is my tale specially;
In olde Romayn gestes men may fynde
Maurices lyf, I bere it nought in mynde.
This kyng Alla whan he his tyme say,
With his Constaunce, his holy wyf so swete,
To Engelond they come the righte way.
Wher as they lyve in joye and in quyete.
But litel whil it last, I you biheete,
Joy of this world for tyme wol not abyde,
Fro day to night it chaungeth as the tyde.
Who lyved ever in such delyt a day,
That him ne meved eyther his conscience,
Or ire, or talent, or som maner affray,
Envy, or pride, or passioun, or offence?
I ne say but for this ende this sentence,
That litel whil in joye or in plesaunce
Lasteth the blis of Alla with Custaunce.
For deth, that takth of heigh and low his rente, Whan passed was a yeere, even as I gesse, Out of this worlde kyng Alla he hente, For whom Custauns hath ful gret hevynesse.
Now let us praye that God his souie blesse !
And dame Custaunce, fynally to say,
Toward the toun of Rome goth hir way.
To Rome is come this nobil creature,
And fynt hir freendes ther bothe hool and sound;
Now is sche skaped al hir aventure.
And whanne sche her fader had i-founde,
Doun on hir knees falleth sche to grounde,
Wepyng for tendirnes in herte blithe
Sche heriede God an hundred thousand sithe.
In vertu and in holy almes-dede
They lyven alle, and never asondre wende;
Til deth departe hem, this lyf they lede.
And far now wel, my tale is at an ende.
Now Jhesu Crist, that of his might may sende
Joy after wo, governe us in his grace,
And keep ous alle that ben in this place.
THE PROLOGE OF THE WYF OF BATHE.
XPERIENS, though noon auctorité Were in this world, it were ynough for me
To speke of wo that is in mariage ;
For, lordyngs, syns I twelf yer was of age,
I thank it God that is eterne on lyve,
Housbondes atte chirch dore I have had fyve,
For I so ofte might have weddid be,
And alle were worthy men in here degré.
But me was taught, nought longe tyme goon is,
That synnes Crist wente never but onys
To weddyng, in the Cane of Galile,
That by the same ensampul taught he me
That I ne weddid schulde be but ones.
Lo, herken such a scharp word for the nones!
Beside a welle Jhesus, God and man,
Spak in reproef of the Samaritan :
Thou hast y-had fyve housbondes,' quod he;
‘And that ilk man, which that now hath the,
Is nought thin housbond;' thus he sayde certayn;
What that he mente therby, I can not sayn.
But that I axe, why the fyfte man
Was nought housbond to the Samaritan ?
How many mighte sche have in mariage?
Yit herd I never tellen in myn age
Uppon this noumbre diffinicioun ;
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