He seyȝe his legges brosten ich-del,
Þat whilom wer y-hosed ful wel:
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More sorwe made neuer man.
Sir Gij went to him þo:
In his hert him was wo,
& in his armes vp him nam.
Atvix hem was gret diol in þat stounde:
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Boþe þai fel aswon to grounde:
For sorwe þai wex al wan.
¶ 'Tirri,' seyd sir Gij þo,
'Þou schalt bileue, & y schal go:
Y biteche þe heuen king.
Bot ich haue a sone, y-wis,
Y not wheþer he kniȝt is,
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For he is bot a ȝongling:
Ȝif he haue ani nede to þe,
Help him for þe loue of me,
Y pray þe, in al þing.
Ich hope he schal be a gode kniȝt:
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Y pray Iesu ful of miȝt
He graunt him his blisceing.'
¶ 'Merci, sir,' þan seyd he,
'For godes loue, leue her stil wiþ me:
Y pray þe par amour.
Mi treuþe y pliȝt in þine hond,
Y schal þe sese in al mi lond,
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Boþe in toun & tour.
Þi man y wil be & serue þe ay
Þer while mi liif lest may,
To hold vp þin honour.
& ȝif þou no wilt ichil wiþ þe go:
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Y-wis, ichaue wele leuer so
Þan bileue wiþ þemperour.'
