3714 As in a formë sits a weary hare, Allë forstraught 3715 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.”