longë night, And saidë; “Farewell, Malkin, my sweet wight. The day is come, I may no longer bide, But evermore, where so I go or ride, I is thine owen clerk, so have I hele.” “Now, dearë leman,” quoth she, “go, farewele: But ere thou go, one thing I will thee tell. When that thou wendest homeward by the mill, Right at the entry of the door behind Thou shalt a cake of half a bushel find, That was y-maked of thine owen meal, Which that I help’d my father for to steal. And goodë leman, God thee save and keep.” And with that word she gan almost to weep. Alein uprose and thought, “Ere the day daw I will go creepen in by my felláw:” And found the cradle with his hand anon. “By God!” thought he, “all wrong I have misgone: My head is totty of my swink tonight, That maketh me that I go not aright. I wot well by the cradle I have misgo’; Here lie the miller and his wife also.” And forth he went a twenty devil way Unto the bed, there as the miller lay. He ween’d t’ have creeped by his fellow John, And by the miller in he crept anon, And caught him by the neck, and gan him shake, And said; “Thou John, thou swinë’s-head, awake For Christë’s soul, and hear a noble game! For by that lord that called is Saint Jame, As I have thriës in this shortë night Swived the miller’s daughter bolt-upright, While thou hast as a coward lain aghast.”
“Thou falsë harlot,” quoth the miller, “hast? Ah, falsë traitor, falsë clerk,” quoth he, “Thou shalt be dead, by Goddë’s dignity, Who durstë be so bold to disparáge My daughter, that is come of such lineáge?” And by the throatë-ball he caught Alein, And he him hent dispiteously again, And on the nose he smote him with his fist; Down ran the bloody stream upon his breast: And in the floor with nose and mouth all broke They wallow, as do two pigs in a poke. And up they go, and down again anon, Till that the miller spurned on a stone, And down he backward fell upon his wife, That wistë nothing of this nicë strife: For she was fall’n asleep a little wight With John the clerk, that waked had all night: And with the fall out of her sleep she braid. “Help, holy cross of Bromëholm,” she said; “ In manus tuas! Lord, to thee I call. Awake, Simón, the fiend is on me fall; Mine heart is broken; help; I am but dead: There li’th one on my