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Thow yevere of the formes, that hast wrought
This fayre world and bar it in thy thought
Eternaly er thow thy werk began,
Why madest thow, unto the slaunder of man,
Or, al be that it was nat thy doing,
As for that fyn, to make swich a thyng,
Whi sufferest thow that Tereus was bore,
That is in love so fals and so forswore,
That fro this world up to the firste hevene
Corrumpeth whan that folk his name nevene?
And, as to me, so grisely was his dede
That, whan that I his foule storye rede,
Myne eyen wexe foule and sore also.
Yit last the venym of so longe ago,
That it enfecteth hym that wol beholde
The storye of Tereus, of which I tolde.

Of Trace was he lord, and kyn to Marte,
The crewel god that stant with blody darte;
And wedded hadde he, with a blysful cheere,
Kyng Pandiones fayre doughter dere,
That highte Progne, flour of hire cuntre,
Thogh Juno lyst nat at the feste to be,
Ne Imeneus that god of wedyng is;

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But at the feste redy hen, ywis,
The Furies thre with al here mortal brond.
The oule al nyght aboute the balkes wond,
That prophete is of wo and of myschaunce.
This revel, ful of song and ek of daunce,
Laste a fortenyght, or lytel lasse.
But shortly of this story for to passe,
For I am wery of hym for to telle,
Fyve yer his wif and he togeder dwelle,
Til on a day she gan so sore longe
To sen hire sister that she say nat longe,
That for desyr she nyste what to seye.
But to hire husbonde gan she for to preye,
For Godes love, that she moste ones gon
Hyre syster for to sen, and come anon,
Or elles, but she moste to hire wende,
She preyde hym that he wolde after hire sende;
And this was day by day al hire preyere,
With al humblesse of wifhod, word and chere.

This Tereus let make his shipes yare,
And into Grece hymself is forth yfare.
Unto his fadyr-in-lawe gan he preye
To vouche-sauf that for a month or tweye
That Philomene, his wyves syster, myghte
On Progne his wyf but ones han a syghte —
"And she shal come to yow ageyn anon.
Myself with hyre wol bothe come and gon
And as myn hertes lyf I wol hire kepe."

This olde Pandion, this kyng, gan wepe
For tendernesse of herte for to leve
His doughter gon, and for to yeve hire leve;
Of al this world he loveth nothyng so;
But at the laste leve hath she to go.
For Philomene with salte teres eke
Can of hire fader grace to beseke
To sen hire syster that she loveth so,
And hym embraseth with hire armes two.
And therwithal so yong and fayr was she
That, whan that Tereus saw hire beaute,
And of aray that there was non hire lyche,
And yit of beaute was she two so ryche,
He caste his fyry herte upon hyre so
That he wol have hir, how so that it go;
And with his wiles kneled and so preyde,
Tyl at the laste Pandyon thus seyde:
"Now, sone," quod he, "that art to me so dere,
I the betake my yonge doughter here
That bereth the keye of al myn hertes lyf.
And gret me wel my doughter and thy wif,
And yif hire leve somtyme for to pleye,
That she may sen me ones er I deye."
And sothly, he hath mad hym riche feste,
And to his folk, the moste and ek the leste,
That with hym com; and yaf hym yiftes grete,
And hym conveyeth thourgh the mayster-strete
Of Athenes, and to the se hym broughte,
And turneth hom; no malyce he ne thoughte.

The ores pullen forth the vessel faste,
And into Trace aryveth at the laste,
And up into a forest he hire ledde,
And to a cave pryvely hym spedde;
And in this derke cave, yif hir leste,
Or leste nat, he had hire for to reste;
Of which hire herte agros, and seyde thus:
"Where is my sister, brother Tereus?"
And therwithal she wepte tenderly
And quok for fere, pale and pitously,
Ryght as the lamb that of the wolf is biten;
Or as the culver that of the egle is smiten,
And is out of his clawes forth escaped,
Yit it is afered and awhaped,
Lest it be hent eft-sones; so sat she.
But utterly it may non other be.
By force hath this traytour don a dede,
That he hath reft hire of hire maydenhede,
Maugre hire hed, by strengthe and by his myght.
Lo! here a dede of men, and that a ryght!
She cryeth "Syster!" with ful loud a stevene,
And "Fader dere!" and "Help me, God in hevene!"
Al helpeth nat; and yit this false thef
Hath don this lady yit a more myschef,
For fere lest she shulde his shame crye
And don hym openly a vilenye,
And with his swerd hire tonge of kerveth he,
And in a castel made hire for to he
Ful pryvely in prisoun everemore,
And kepte hire to his usage and his store,
So that she myghte hym neveremore asterte.
O sely Philomene, wo is thyn herte!
God wreke thee, and sende the thy bone!
Now is it tyme I make an ende sone.

This Tereus is to his wif ycome,
And in his armes hath his wif ynome,
And pitously he wep and shok his hed,
And swor hir that he fond hir sister ded;
For which this sely Progne hath swich wo

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That nygh hire sorweful herte brak a-two.
And thus in terys lete I Progne dwelle,
And of hire sister forth I wol yow telle.

This woful lady lerned hadde in youthe
So that she werken and enbroude couthe,
And weven in hire stol the radevore
As it of wemen hath be woned yore.
And, sothly for to seyne, she hadde hire fille
Of mete and drynk, and clothyng at hire wille.
She coude eek rede and wel ynow endyte,
But with a penne coude she nat wryte.
But letters can she weve to and fro,
So that, by that the yer was al ago,
She hadde ywoven in a stamyn large
How she was brought from Athenes in a barge,
And in a cave how that she was brought;
And al the thyng that Tereus hath wrought,
She waf it wel, and wrot the storye above,
How she was served for hire systers love.
And to a knave a ryng she yaf anon,
And preyed hym by signes for to gon
Unto the queen, and beren hir that cloth,
And by signes swor hym many an oth
She wolde hym yeven what she geten myghte.
This knave anon unto the quene hym dyghte,
And tok it hire, and al the maner tolde.
And whan that Progne hath this thing beholde,
No word she spak, for sorwe and ek for rage,
But feynede hire to gon on pilgrymage
To Bacus temple; and in a litel stounde
Hire dombe sister sittynge hath she founde,
Wepynge in the castel, here alone.
Allas! The wo, the compleynt, and the mone
That Progne upon hire doumbe syster maketh!
In armes everych of hem other taketh,
And thus I late hem in here sorwe dwelle.

The remenaunt is no charge for to telle,
For this is al and som: thus was she served,
That nevere harm agilte ne deserved
Unto this crewel man, that she of wiste.
Ye may be war of men, if that yow liste.
For al be it that he wol nat, for shame,
Don as Tereus, to lese his name,
Ne serve yow as a morderour or a knave,
Ful lytel while shal ye trewe hym have —
That wol I seyn, al were he now my brother —
But it so be that he may have non other.

Explicit Legenda Philomene.