Alas! Constance, thou has no champión, Nor fightë canst thou not, so well-away! But he that starf for our redemptión, And bound Satán, and yet li’th where he lay, So be thy strongë champion this day: For, but Christ upon thee mirácle kithe, Withoutë guilt thou shalt be slain as swithe.
She set her down on knees, and thus she said; “Immortal God, that savedest Susanne From falsë blame; and thou merciful maid, Mary I mean, the daughter to Saint Anne, Before whose child the angels sing Osanne, If I be guiltless of this felony, My succour be, or ellës shall I die.”
Have ye not seen sometime a palë face (Among a press) of him that hath been lad Toward his death, where he getteth no grace, And such a colour in his face hath had, Men mightë know him that was so bestad Amongës all the faces in that rout? So stood Constance, and looked her about.
O queenës living in prosperity, Duchesses, and ye ladies every one, Havë some ruth on her adversity! An emperor’s daughtér, she stood alone; She had no wight to whom to make her moan. O blood royál, that standest in this drede, Far be thy friendës in thy greatë need!
This king Allá had such compassióun, As gentle heart is full filled of pitý, That from his eyen ran the water down “Now hastily do fetch a book,” quoth he; “And if this knight will swearë, how that she This woman slew, yet will we us advise Whom that we will that shall be our justíce.”
A Briton book, written with Evangiles, Was fetched, and on this book he swore anon She guilty was; and, in the meanëwhiles, An hand him smote upon the neckë bone, That down he fell at once right as a stone: And both his eyen burst out of his face In sight of ev’rybody in that place.