“Ah!” quoth the Yeoman, “here shall rise a game; 4665 All that I can anon I will you tell, Since he is gone; the foulë fiend him quell! 4666 For ne’er hereafter will I with him meet, For penny nor for pound, I you behete. 4667 He that me broughtë first unto that game, Ere that he die, sorrow have he and shame. For it is earnest 4668 to me, by my faith; That feel I well, what so any man saith; And yet for all my smart, and all my grief, For all my sorrow, labour, and mischíef, 4669 I couldë never leave it in no wise. Now would to God my wittë might suffice To tellen all that longeth to that art! But natheless yet will I tellë part; Since that my lord is gone, I will not spare; Such thing as that I know, I will declare.”