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By preve as wel as by autorite,
That wiked fruit cometh of a wiked tre,
That may ye fynde, if that it like yow.
But for this ende I speke this as now,
To tellen yow of false Demophon.
In love a falser herde I nevere non,
But if it were his fader Theseus.
"God, for his grace, fro swich oon kepe us!"
Thus may these women preyen that it here.
How to the effect turne I of my matere.

Destroyed is of Troye the cite;
This Demophon com seylynge in the se
Toward Athenes, to his paleys large.
With hym com many a ship and many a barge
Ful of his folk, of whiche ful many oon
Is wounded sore, and sek, and wo begon,
As they han at th'asege longe yleyn.
Byhynde hym com a wynd and ek a reyn
That shof so sore his sayl ne myghte stonde;
Hym were levere than al the world a-londe,
So hunteth hym the tempest to and fro.
So derk it was, he coude nowher go;
And with a wawe brosten was his stere.
His ship was rent so lowe, in swich manere,
That carpenter ne coude it nat amende.
The se, by nyghte, as any torche it brende
For wod, and possith hym now up, now doun,
Til Neptune hath of hym compassioun,
And Thetis, Thorus, Triton, and they alle,
And maden hym upon a lond to falle,
Wherof that Phillis lady was and queene,
Ligurges doughter, fayrer on to sene
Than is the flour ageyn the bryghte sonne.
Unnethe is Demophon to londe ywonne,
Wayk, and ek wery, and his folk forpyned
Of werynesse, and also enfamyned,
That to the deth he almost was ydriven.
His wise folk to conseyl han hym yiven
To seken help and socour of the queen,
And loke what his grace myghte been,
And maken in that lond som chevysaunce,
To kepen hym fro wo and fro myschaunce.
For syk he was, and almost at the deth;
Unnethe myghte he speke or drawe his breth,
And lyth in Rodopeya hym for to reste.
Whan he may walke, hym thoughte it was the beste
Unto the court to seken for socour.
Men knewen hym wel and diden hym honour;
For of Athenes duk and lord was he,
As Theseus his fader hadde be,
That in his tyme was of gret renoun,
No man so gret in al the regyoun,
And lyk his fader of face and of stature,
And fals of love; it com hym of nature.
As doth the fox Renard, the foxes sone,
Of kynde he coude his olde faders wone
Withoute lore, as can a drake swimme
Whan it is caught and caryed to the brymme.
This honurable Phillis doth hym chere;
Hire liketh wel his port and his manere.
But, for I am agroted herebyforn
To wryte of hem that ben in love forsworn,
And ek to haste me in my legende,
(Which to performe God me grace sende)
Therfore I passe shortly in this wyse.
Ye han wel herd of Theseus devyse
In the betraysynge of fayre Adryane
That of hire pite kepte him from his bane.
At shorte wordes, ryght so Demophon
The same wey, the same path hath gon,
That dide his false fader Theseus.
For unto Phillis hath he sworen thus,
To wedden hire, and hire his trouthe plyghte,
And piked of hire al the good he myghte,
Whan he was hol and sound, and hadde his reste;
And doth with Phillis what so that hym leste,
As wel coude I, if that me leste so,
Tellen al his doynge to and fro.

He seyde unto his contre moste he sayle,
For there he wolde hire weddynge aparayle,
As fel to hire honour and his also.
And openly he tok his leve tho,
And hath hire sworn he wolde nat sojorne,
But in a month he wolde ageyn retorne;
And in that lond let make his ordenaunce
As verray lord, and tok the obeysaunce
Wel and homly, and let his shipes dighte,
And hom he goth the nexte wey he myghte.
For unto Phillis yit ne com he nought,
And that hath she so harde and sore abought —
Allas! — that, as the storyes us recorde,
She was hire owene deth ryght with a corde,
Whan that she saw that Demophon hire trayed.
But to hym first she wrot, and faste him prayed
He wolde come and hire delyvere of peyne,
As I reherce shal a word or tweyne.
Me lyste nat vouche-sauf on hym to swynke,
Ne spende on hym a penne ful of ynke,
For fals in love was he, ryght as his syre.
The devil sette here soules bothe afyre!
But of the letter of Phillis wol I wryte
A word or two, althogh it be but lyte.
"Thyn hostesse," quod she, "O Demophon,
Thy Phillis, which that is so wo begon,
Of Rodopeye, upon yow mot compleyne
Over the terme set bytwixe us tweyne,
That ye ne holde forward, as ye seyde.
Youre anker, which ye in oure haven leyde,
Hyghte us that ye wolde comen, out of doute,
Or that the mone wente ones aboute.
But tymes foure the mone hath hid hire face,
Syn thilke day ye wente from this place,
And foure tymes lyghte the world ageyn.
But for al that, yif I shal soothly seyn,
Yit hath the strem of Sytho nat ybrought
From Athenes the ship; yit cometh it noght.
And if that ye the terme rekene wolde
As I or as a trewe lovere shulde,
I pleyne nat, God wot, byforn my day."
But al hire letter wryten I ne may
By order, for it were to me a charge;
Hire letter was ryght long and therto large.
But here and ther in rym I have it layd,
There as me thoughte that she wel hath sayd.
She seyde, "Thy sayles come nat agen,
Ne to thy word there is no fey certeyn;
But I wot why ye come nat," quod she,
"For I was of my love to yow to fre.
And of the goddes that ye han forswore,
Yif hire vengeaunce falle on yow therfore,
Ye be nat suffisaunt to bere the peyne.
To moche trusted I, wel may I pleyne,
Upon youre lynage and youre fayre tonge,
And on youre teres falsly out yronge.
How coude ye wepe so by craft?" quod she.
"May there swiche teres feyned be?
How certes, yif ye wol have in memorye,
It oughte be to yow but lyte glorye
To han a sely mayde thus betrayed!
To God," quod she, "preye I, and ofte have prayed,
That it mot be the grettest prys of alle
And most honour that evere the shal befalle!
And whan thyne olde auncestres peynted be,
In which men may here worthynesse se,
Thanne preye I God thow peynted be also
That folk may rede forby as they go,
""Lo! this is he that with his flaterye
Bytraised hath and don hire vilenye
That was his trewe love in thought and dede!""
But sothly, of oo poynt yit may they rede,
That ye ben lyk youre fader as in this,
For he begiled Adriane, ywis,
With swich an art and with swich subtilte
As thow thyselven hast begyled me.
As in that poynt, althogh it be nat fayr,
Thow folwest hym, certayn, and art his ayr.
But syn thus synfully ye me begile,
My body mote ye se withinne a while,
Ryght in the haven of Athenes fletynge,
Withoute sepulture and buryinge,
Thogh ye ben harder than is any ston."
And whan this letter was forth sent anon,
And knew how brotel and how fals he was,
She for dispeyr fordide hyreself, allas.
Swych sorwe hath she, for she besette hire so.
Be war, ye wemen, of youre subtyl fo,
Syn yit this day men may ensaumple se;
And trusteth, as in love, no man but me.