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‘Sir,’ quaþ Gij, ‘vnderstond to me:
He þat þe warld made he blisce þe.
Icham a kniȝt as ȝe may se:
Y bid þe mete par charite.
A meles mete ȝif þou me,
& seþþen hennes ichil te.’
‘Leue frende,’ he seyd, ‘sikerly,
Þou schalt it haue gladly.’
Þe water he axed þo anon,
To wasche his honden Gij is go[n].
To mete he sett him in þat stede,
Bred & win biforn him þai dede,
& gret plente of oþer mete.
When he hadde sumdele y-ete
In þe toun he herd belles ring,
& loude crie, & miche wepeing,
Cloþes to-tere, her to-te:
More sorwe no miȝt non be.
‘God,’ quaþ þerl, ‘lord fre,
Þis gret sorwe whi it be?’
Into þe halle come þere
Tvai men, & a bodi bere:
Amid þe flore þai it leyden, y-wis.
Quaþ þerl Florentin, ‘mi sone þis is,’
Torent his here, his cloþes he drouȝ:
In his hert was sorwe anouȝ.
‘Leue sone,’ he seyd, ‘who slouȝ þe?
Now wold god, þat is so fre,
Þat he were here in mi beylie!
Nold ich it lete for al Romanie,
Þat he no were anon y-slawe,
For-brent, & þat dust to-blowe.’
Þe kniȝtes he slouȝ þere,
Þe best þat in þat court were.

‘Sir Florentin,’ seyd sir Gij,
‘For godes loue now merci!
Þou art y-hold so gode a man,
Hennes to Rome better nis nan:
& þou in þine halle me sle,
For traisoun it worþ awist þe.
In edwite it worþ þe adrawe,
Swiche a man þou schust haue slawe,
When þou wiþ þi wille fre
Þe mete me ȝeue par charite.
Were it wiþ wrong, were it wiþ riȝt,
For tresoun it worþ þe witt, apliȝt;
Opon alle þing a þing atte mete,
Þer ȝe ouȝt me to were fram hete.
For godes loue, sir, so michel do me,
Þat ȝe þer-fore blamed no be:
Do me deliuer mi stede,
& lete me out at þe castel ride,
& seþþen þei y slawe be
No worþ ȝe nouȝt y-blamed in þe cuntre.’