Whilom be olde daies fer Of Mese was the king Theucer, Which hadde a kniht to Sone, Iphis: Of love and he so maistred is, That he hath set al his corage, As to reguard of his lignage, 3520 Upon a Maide of lou astat. Bot thogh he were a potestat Of worldes good, he was soubgit To love, and put in such a plit, That he excedeth the mesure Of reson, that himself assure He can noght; for the more he preide, The lass love on him sche leide. He was with love unwys constreigned, And sche with resoun was restreigned: 3530 The lustes of his herte he suieth, And sche for dred schame eschuieth, And as sche scholde, tok good hiede To save and kepe hir wommanhiede. And thus the thing stod in debat Betwen his lust and hire astat: He yaf, he sende, he spak be mouthe, Bot yit for oght that evere he couthe Unto his sped he fond no weie, So that he caste his hope aweie, 3540 Withinne his herte and gan despeire Fro dai to dai, and so empeire, That he hath lost al his delit Of lust, of Slep, of Appetit, That he thurgh strengthe of love lasseth His wit, and resoun overpasseth. As he which of his lif ne rowhte, His deth upon himself he sowhte, So that be nyhte his weie he nam, Ther wiste non wher he becam; 3550 The nyht was derk, ther schon no Mone, Tofore the gates he cam sone, Wher that this yonge Maiden was And with this wofull word, “Helas!” Hise dedli pleintes he began So stille that ther was noman It herde, and thanne he seide thus: “O thou Cupide, o thou Venus, Fortuned be whos ordinaunce Of love is every mannes chaunce, 3560 Ye knowen al min hole herte, That I ne mai your hond asterte; On you is evere that I crie, And yit you deigneth noght to plie, Ne toward me youre Ere encline. Thus for I se no medicine To make an ende of mi querele, My deth schal be in stede of hele. Ha, thou mi wofull ladi diere, Which duellest with thi fader hiere 3570 And slepest in thi bedd at ese, Thou wost nothing of my desese. Hou thou and I be now unmete. Ha lord, what swevene schalt thou mete, What dremes hast thou nou on honde? Thou slepest there, and I hier stonde. Thogh I no deth to the deserve, Hier schal I for thi love sterve, Hier schal a kinges Sone dye For love and for no felonie; 3580 Wher thou therof have joie or sorwe, Hier schalt thou se me ded tomorwe. O herte hard aboven alle, This deth, which schal to me befalle For that thou wolt noght do me grace, Yit schal be told in many a place, Hou I am ded for love and trouthe In thi defalte and in thi slouthe: Thi Daunger schal to manye mo Ensample be for everemo, 3590 Whan thei my wofull deth recorde.” And with that word he tok a Corde, With which upon the gate tre He hyng himself, that was pite.