Were ’t not that I for you have such disease, 3351 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; 3352 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; 3353 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.