As be these wedded men, that lie and dare, As in a formë sits a weary hare, Allë forstraught with houndës great and smale; But, dearë niecë, why be ye so pale? I trowë certes that our goodë man Hath you so laboúred, since this night began, That you were need to restë hastily.” And with that word he laugh’d full merrily, And of his owen thought he wax’d all red. This fairë wife gan for to shake her head, And saidë thus; “Yea, God wot all,” quoth she. “Nay, cousin mine, it stands not so with me; For by that God, that gave me soul and life, In all the realm of France is there no wife That lessë lust hath to that sorry play; For I may sing alas and well-away! That I was born; but to no wight,” quoth she, “Dare I not tell how that it stands with me. Wherefore I think out of this land to wend, Or ellës of myself to make an end, So full am I of dread and eke of care.”
This monk began upon this wife to stare, And said, “Alas! my niecë, God forbid That ye for any sorrow, or any dread, Fordo yourself: but tellë me your grief, Paráventure I may, in your mischíef, Counsel or help; and therefore tellë me All your annoy, for it shall be secré. For on my portos here I make an oath, That never in my life, for lief nor loth, Ne shall I of no counsel you bewray.” “The same again to you,” quoth she, “I say. By God and by this portos I you swear, Though men me woulden all in pieces tear, Ne shall I never, for to go to hell, Bewray one word of thing that ye me tell, For no cousinage, nor alliánce, But verily for love and affiánce.” Thus be they sworn, and thereupon they kiss’d, And each of them told other what them list. “Cousin,” quoth she, “if that I haddë space, As I have none, and namely in this place, Then would I tell a legend of my life, What I have suffer’d since I was a wife With mine husbánd, all be he your cousín. “Nay,” quoth this monk, “by God and Saint Martín, He is no morë cousin unto me, Than is the leaf that hangeth on the tree; I call him so, by Saint Denis of France, To have the morë cause of ácquaintánce Of you, which I have loved specially Aboven allë women sickerly, This swear I you on my professioún; Tell me your grief, lest that he come adown, And hasten you, and go away anon.”