Yit hath the streem of Sitho nat y-broght From Athenes the ship; yit comth hit noght. And, yif that ye the terme rekne wolde, 2510 As I or other trewe lovers sholde, I pleyne not, god wot, beforn my day.'-- But al her lettre wryten I ne may (120) By ordre, for hit were to me a charge; Her lettre was right long and ther-to large; 2515 But here and there in ryme I have hit laid, Ther as me thoughte that she wel hath said.-- She seide, 'thy sailes comen nat again, Ne to thy word ther nis no fey certein; But I wot why ye come nat,' quod she; 2520 'For I was of my love to you so free. And of the goddes that ye han forswore, Yif that hir vengeance falle on yow therfore, (130) Ye be nat suffisaunt to bere the peyne. To moche trusted I, wel may I pleyne, 2525 Upon your linage and your faire tonge, And on your teres falsly out y-wronge. How coude ye wepe so by craft?' quod she; 'May ther swiche teres feyned be? Now certes, yif ye wolde have in memorie, 2530 Hit oghte be to yow but litel glorie To have a sely mayde thus betrayed! To god,' quod she, 'preye I, and ofte have prayed, (140) That hit be now the grettest prys of alle, And moste honour that ever yow shal befalle! 2535 And whan thyn olde auncestres peynted be, In which men may hir worthinesse see, Than, preye I god, thou peynted be also, That folk may reden, for-by as they go, "Lo! this is he, that with his flaterye 2540 Betrayed hath and doon her vilanye That was his trewe love in thoghte and dede!" But sothly, of oo point yit may they rede, (150) That ye ben lyk your fader as in this; For he begyled Adriane, y-wis, 2545 With swiche an art and swiche sotelte As thou thy-selven hast begyled me. As in that point, al-thogh hit be nat fayr, Thou folwest him, certein, and art his eyr. But sin thus sinfully ye me begyle, 2550 My body mote ye seen, within a whyle, Right in the haven of Athenes fletinge, With-outen sepulture and buryinge; (160) Thogh ye ben harder then is any stoon.' And, whan this lettre was forth sent anoon, 2555 And knew how brotel and how fals he was, She for dispeyr for-dide herself, allas! Swich sorwe hath she, for she besette her so. Be war, ye women, of your sotil fo, Sin yit this day men may ensample see; 2560 And trusteth, as in love, no man but me. (168) EXPLICIT LEGENDA PHILLIS.