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Felice þe feir answerd þo,
‘Artow þis, Gij, so mot þou go,
Þe steward sone Suward,
Ich wene þou art a fole musard!
When þou of loue me hast bisauȝt,
Al to fole-hardy þou art y-tauȝt.
Wele þou holdest me for a fole;
Þou art y-tauȝt to a liþer scole,
& icham þi lordes douhter biname;
Þan dostow him wel michel schame,
When þou of loue bi-sechist me
Þat y schold þi leman be.
No fond y neuer man me so missede,
No me so of loue bede,
Noyþer kniȝt no baroun,
Bot þou þat art a garsoun,
& art mi man, & man schalt be.
Yuel were mi fairhed sett on þe,
& y swiche a grome toke,
& so mani grete lordinges for-soke.
Erls, doukes of þe best
In þis world, & þe richest,
Me haue desired apliȝt,
Þat neuer of me hadde siȝt.
Þat wer gret deshonour to me!
Al to loþ mi liif me schuld be.
Al to fole-hardi þou were,
When þou me of loue bisouȝtest here.
Bi mi trewþe y schal þe swere,
Schal y mi fader þe tiding bere,
Þou worþest to-hewen, oþer for-do,
(Bi þe be warned oþer mo)
Oþer wiþ wilde hors to-drawe,
For þi foly, & þat wer lawe,
& oþer schul be warned bi þi dede,
& her lordinges þe more drede.
Go heþen,’ sche seyd, ‘& vp arise,
& cum nam-more in mi purpris!’

Wel sorwefuliche went Gij
In to his chaumber al dreri:
Gij in to his chaumber gan to gon,
& schett him þer in anon.
Þer in he made sorwe anouȝ,
& his cloþes al to-drouȝ.
Vnder heuen nas þat it ne miȝt haue rewþe
Of his sorwenes & of his trewþe.
Of loue he bi-ment strongliche
For whom þat he loued so miche:
‘Loue,’ he seyd, ‘slake now mi sore
Þat is dedeliche, as y seyd ore.
Loue of þis ȝongling
Makeþ me iuel fonding.
Loue, bring me of þis wodenisse,
& bring me in to sum lisse,
For to reste me aþrowe,
Þat y miȝt meseluen knowe.
Sore me meneþ, for me smert,
Miche care is in mine hert,
Michel ich am y-cast of miȝt
Al to fer wiþ vnriȝt.
Loue me doþ to grounde falle,
Þat y ne may stond stef wiþ alle.
Loue doþ min cloþes done,
& after me clepeþ ‘wreche’ sone.
Hou schal y liue? hou schal y fare?
Hou long schal y liuen in care?
Leuest þing me were to dye,
& ich wist bi wiche weye.
Deþ,’ he seyd, ‘wher artow so long?
Þou makest me y may nouȝt stond.
Þou makest me out of þe way to gon;
Whi ne comestow to feche me anon?
Worþi ich were ded to be:
Y loue þing þat loueþ nouȝt me.
Herkeneþ now hou seiþ þe wise:
Y schal ȝou schewe bi þis asise.
For a fole he schal him held
Þat takeþ more þan he may weld.
To a fenestre þan Gij is go,
Biheld þe castel, þe tour also.
‘Tour,’ he seyd, ‘feir artow bisett!
In þe is þat maiden bischett
Þat liueþ þer in ioie & blis,
& ichir loue for soþe y-wis.
Tour, when wer thou ouer-þrowe,
And wiþ þe winde al to-blowe!
Þat y miȝt hir wiþ eyȝen se
Þat y loue more þan me!’
He ginneþ to wepe & sore siche,
His care him neweþ eueriliche;
Adoun he fel and swoune bigan,
(More sorwe made neuer man)
& cursed þe time þat he was bore,
For now he haþ his witt forlore.
‘Loue,’ he seyd, ‘acursed þou be!
To michel miȝt it is in þe
Þat y ne may me fro þe were;
Loue, merci, þatow me no dere!
Leuer me were forto dye
Þan long to liuen here in eyȝe.
Allas, Felice, þat ich stounde,
Þi loue me haþ so ybounde!
& þat y serued þe þat day,
Acursed be þat time, seyen y may!
No bid ichaue non oþer mede,
Bot slake mi sorwe, ichaue nede.
Y loue þe & tow nouȝt me.
Euen dole may it nouȝt be;
For of mi sorwe no hastow nouȝt.
Allas! to grounde icham ybrouȝt!
Þou hast þe gode, & y þe quede:
Y brenne so spark on glede.
Seþþe þou me lokedest first to,
Þou me woundest wiþ a flo.
Schal y dye for þat siȝt?
Merci, Felice, þat swete wiȝt!
Mine hert is ful of venim spilt,
Of blis no worþ it neuer filt.’
Swiche liif ladde Gij sikerliche
Al that seuenniȝt holeliche.
His fader was for him sori,
Sabin his moder biment Gij,
Þerl for him sori was,
Þer liked non in that plas:
Litel & michel, al & some,
Biment Gij att[e] frome.