Sche cast on me no goodly chiere: Thus natheles to me sche seide, “What art thou, Sone?” and I abreide Riht as a man doth out of slep, And therof tok sche riht good kep And bad me nothing ben adrad: Bot for al that I was noght glad, For I ne sawh no cause why. And eft scheo asketh, what was I: 160 I seide, “A Caitif that lith hiere: What wolde ye, my Ladi diere? Schal I ben hol or elles dye?” Sche seide, “Tell thi maladie: What is thi Sor of which thou pleignest? Ne hyd it noght, for if thou feignest, I can do the no medicine.” “Ma dame, I am a man of thyne, That in thi Court have longe served, And aske that I have deserved, 170 Some wele after my longe wo.” And sche began to loure tho, And seide, “Ther is manye of yow Faitours, and so may be that thow Art riht such on, and be feintise Seist that thou hast me do servise.” And natheles sche wiste wel, Mi world stod on an other whiel Withouten eny faiterie: Bot algate of my maladie 180 Sche bad me telle and seie hir trowthe. “Ma dame, if ye wolde have rowthe,” Quod I, “than wolde I telle yow.” “Sey forth,” quod sche, “and tell me how; Schew me thi seknesse everydiel.” “Ma dame, that can I do wel, Be so my lif therto wol laste.” With that hir lok on me sche caste, And seide: “In aunter if thou live, Mi will is ferst that thou be schrive; 190 And natheles how that it is I wot miself, bot for al this Unto my prest, which comth anon, I woll thou telle it on and on, Bothe all thi thoght and al thi werk. O Genius myn oghne Clerk, Com forth and hier this mannes schrifte,” Quod Venus tho; and I uplifte Min hefd with that, and gan beholde The selve Prest, which as sche wolde 200 Was redy there and sette him doun To hiere my confessioun.