Þan seyd þe quen ful sone:
"A, Keterine, wele is þe!
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Miche þou miȝt do wiþ Jhesu Crist,
We han sen of þi priuete".
Þan sche seyd: "ȝe; trowe on him
Þat is lord of swiche pouste!
His seriaunce no forȝet he nouȝt
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Þat him serue wiþ hert fre.
Certes, dame, y rede þe wel:
Forsake Maxens & al his miȝt
For þat ich kinges loue
Þat made þe day & eke þe niȝt,
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Heuen & erþe, man & best,
Sonne & mone to schine briȝt.
Þe ioie of heuen schaltow haue.
And al-so y say to þe, sir kniȝt".
Þan spak þe kniȝt to Katerine:
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"What maner ioie may þis be?"
Katerine seyd also sone:
"Porfir, y wil telle þe:
Þat is þe ioie wiþouten enden
Þat ere no may here, no eiȝe se,
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No tong speke, no hert þink—
Lord it sende ȝou & me!
Þer nis non in þat riche
Þat honger haþ, cold no þrest;
Þer is liif wiþouten ende,
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Þer is stede of ro & rest".
Þurch þe wordes þat sche spac
Er midniȝt þai weren al prest
To suffre deþ for godes loue;
Her hope was in his merci best. [l. fest st. best?]
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Sche bitauȝt hem Jhesu Crist,
& seþþen went boþe oway.
To hundred kniȝtes serued hir:
Sche told hem þat oþer day
Hou godes angels sat abouten hir
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In þe prisoun, þer sche lay.
Þai trowed on god, as sche hem radde,
& forsoken al her fals lay.
