"Madame, seyth
to youre lord Arveragus
That sith I se his grete gentillesse
To yow, and eek I se wel youre
distresse,
That him were levere han
shame (and that were routhe)
Than ye to me sholde breke
thus youre trouthe,
I have wel levere evere to suffre wo
Than I departe the love bitwix
yow two.
I yow relesse, madame,
into youre hond
Quyt every serement
and every bond
That ye han maad to me
as heerbiforn,
Sith thilke tyme which that ye were born.
My trouthe I plighte, I shal yow never repreve
Of no biheste, and heere
I take my leve,
As of the treweste and the beste
wyf
That evere yet I knew in al
my lyf.
But every wyf be war of
hire biheeste!
On Dorigen remembreth,
atte leeste.
Thus kan a squier doon a gentil
dede
As wel as kan a knyght, withouten drede."
She thonketh hym upon hir knees al bare,
And hoom unto hir housbonde is she fare,
And tolde hym al, as ye han herd me sayd;
And be ye siker, he was so weel
apayd
That it were impossible me to wryte.
What sholde I lenger of
this cas endyte?