And of his wounding this is the worst of alle, 470 Whan he hurteth, he doth so cruel wreche And maketh the seke for to crye and calle Unto his fo, for to been his leche; And hard it is, for a man to seche, Upon the point of dethe in jupardye, 475 Unto his fo, to finde remedye! Thus fareth it now even by me, That to my fo, that yaf myn herte a wounde, Mote aske grace, mercy, and pitè, And namëly, ther wher non may be founde! 480 For now my sore my leche wil confounde, And god of kinde so hath set myn ure, My lyves fo to have my wounde in cure! Alas! the whyle now that I was born! Or that I ever saw the brighte sonne! 485 For now I see, that ful longe aforn, Or I was born, my desteny was sponne By Parcas sustren, to slee me, if they conne; For they my deth shopen or my sherte Only for trouthe! I may it not asterte. 490 The mighty goddesse also of Nature That under god hath the governaunce Of worldly thinges committed to her cure, Disposed hath, through her wys purveyaunce, To yeve my lady so moche suffisaunce 495 Of al vertues, and therwithal purvyde To murdre trouthe, hath take Daunger to gyde. For bountè, beautè, shappe, and semeliheed, Prudence, wit, passingly fairnesse, Benigne port, glad chere with lowliheed, 500 Of womanheed right plenteous largesse, Nature did in her fully empresse, Whan she her wroughte; and alther-last Disdayne, To hinder trouthe, she made her chamberlayne; Whan Mistrust also, and Fals-Suspeccioun, 505 With Misbeleve, she made for to be Cheef of counsayl to this conclusioun, For to exyle Routhe, and eek Pitè, Out of her court to make Mercy flee, So that Dispyt now holdeth forth her reyne, 510 Through hasty bileve of tales that men feyne. And thus I am, for my trouthe, alas! Murdred and slayn with wordes sharpe and kene, Giltlees, god wot, of al maner trespas, And lye and blede upon this colde grene. 515 Now mercy, swete! mercy, my lyves quene! And to your grace of mercy yet I preye, In your servyse that your man may deye! But if so be that I shal deye algate, And that I shal non other mercy have, 520 Yet of my dethe let this be the date That by your wille I was brought to my grave; Or hastily, if that you list me save, My sharpe woundes, that ake so and blede, Of mercy, charme, and also of womanhede. 525 For other charme, playnly, is ther non But only mercy, to helpe in this case; For though my woundes blede ever in oon, My lyf, my deeth, standeth in youre grace; And though my gilt be nothing, alas! 530 I aske mercy in al my beste entente, Redy to dye, if that ye assente.