For ther-ayeines shal I never stryve In worde ne werke; playnly, I ne may; For lever I have than to be alyve 535 To dye soothly, and it be her to pay; Ye, though it be this eche same day Or whan that ever her liste to devyse; Suffyceth me to dye in your servyse. And god, that knowest the thought of every wight 540 Right as it is, in +al thing thou mayst see, Yet, ere I dye, with all my fulle might Lowly I pray, to graunte[n] unto me That ye, goodly, fayre, fresshe, and free, Which slee me only for defaute of routhe, 545 Or that I dye, ye may knowe my trouthe. For that, in sothe, suffyseth unto me, And she it knowe in every circumstaunce; And after, I am wel apayd that she If that hir list, of dethe to do vengeaunce 550 Untó me, that am under her legeaunce; It sit me not her doom to disobeye, But, at her luste, wilfully to deye. Withoute grucching or rebellioun In wille or worde, hoolly I assent, 555 Or any maner contradiccioun, Fully to be at her commaundëment; And, if I dyë, in my testament My herte I sende, and my spirit also, What-so-ever she list, with hem to do. 560 And alder-last unto her womanhede And to her mercy me I recommaunde, That lye now here, betwixe hope and drede, Abyding playnly what she list commaunde. For utterly, (this nis no demaunde), 565 Welcome to me, whyl me lasteth breeth, Right at her choise, wher it be lyf or deeth! In this matere more what mighte I seyn, Sith in her hande and in her wille is al, Both lyf and deeth, my joy and al my payn? 570 And fynally, my heste holde I shal, Til my spirit, by desteny fatal, Whan that her liste, fro my body wende; Have here my trouthe, and thus I make an ende!' And with that worde he gan syke as sore 575 Lyk as his herte ryve wolde atwayne, And held his pees, and spak a word no more. But, for to see his wo and mortal payne, The teres gonne fro myn eyen rayne Ful pitously, for very inward routhe 580 That I him saw so languisshing for trouthe. And al this whyle my-self I kepte cloos Among the bowes, and my-self gan hyde, Til, at the laste, the woful man aroos, And to a logge wente ther besyde, 585 Where, al the May, his custome was t'abyde, Sole, to complaynen of his paynes kene, Fro yeer to yere, under the bowes grene. And for bicause that it drow to the night And that the sonne his ark diurnál 590 Y-passed was, so that his persaunt light, His brighte bemes and his stremes al Were in the wawes of the water fal, Under the bordure of our ocëan, His char of golde his cours so swiftly ran: 595