“I am your daughter, your Constance,” quoth she, “That whilom ye have sent into Syrie; It am I, father, that in the salt sea Was put alone, and damned 1731 for to die. Now, goodë father, I you mercy cry, Send me no more into none heatheness, But thank my lord here of his kindëness.”

Who can the piteous joyë tellen all, Betwixt them three, since they be thus y-met? But of my talë make an end I shall, The day goes fast, I will no longer let. 1732 These gladdë folk to dinner be y-set; In joy and bliss at meat I let them dwell, A thousand fold well more than I can tell.