The Tale

this woeful man, “Whom I most dread, and love as I best can, And lothest were of all this world displease, Were ’t not that I for you have such disease, That I must die here at your foot anon, Nought would I tell how me is woebegone. But certes either must I die or plain; Ye slay me guiltëless for very pain. But of my death though that ye have no ruth, Advisë you, ere that ye break your truth: Repentë you, for thilkë God above, Ere ye me slay because that I you love. For, Madame, well ye wot what ye have hight; Not that I challenge anything of right Of you, my sovereign lady, but of grace: But in a garden yond’, in such a place, Ye wot right well what ye behightë me, And in mine hand your trothë plighted ye, To love me best; God wot ye saidë so, Albeit that I unworthy am thereto; Madame, I speak it for th’ honoúr of you, More than to save my heartë’s life right now; I have done so as ye commanded me, And if ye vouchësafe, ye may go see. Do as you list, have your behest in mind, For, quick or dead, right there ye shall me find; In you lies all to do me live or dey; But well I wot the rockës be away.”