Whan Progne of Philomene herde, Sche wolde knowe hou that it ferde, And opneth that the man hath broght, And wot therby what hath be wroght And what meschief ther is befalle. In swoune tho sche gan doun falle, And efte aros and gan to stonde, And eft sche takth the cloth on honde, 5790 Behield the lettres and thymages; Bot ate laste, “Of suche oultrages,” Sche seith, “wepinge is noght the bote:” And swerth, if that sche live mote, It schal be venged otherwise. And with that sche gan hire avise Hou ferst sche mihte unto hire winne Hir Soster, that noman withinne, Bot only thei that were suore, It scholde knowe, and schop therfore 5800 That Tereüs nothing it wiste; And yit riht as hirselven liste, Hir Soster was delivered sone Out of prison, and be the mone To Progne sche was broght be nyhte. Whan ech of other hadde a sihte, In chambre, ther thei were al one, Thei maden many a pitous mone; Bot Progne most of sorwe made, Which sihe hir Soster pale and fade 5810 And specheles and deshonoured, Of that sche hadde be defloured; And ek upon hir lord sche thoghte, Of that he so untreuly wroghte And hadde his espousaile broke. Sche makth a vou it schal be wroke, And with that word sche kneleth doun Wepinge in gret devocioun: Unto Cupide and to Venus Sche preide, and seide thanne thus: 5820 “O ye, to whom nothing asterte Of love mai, for every herte Ye knowe, as ye that ben above The god and the goddesse of love; Ye witen wel that evere yit With al mi will and al my wit, Sith ferst ye schopen me to wedde, That I lay with mi lord abedde, I have be trewe in mi degre, And evere thoghte forto be, 5830 And nevere love in other place, Bot al only the king of Trace, Which is mi lord and I his wif. Bot nou allas this wofull strif! That I him thus ayeinward finde The most untrewe and most unkinde That evere in ladi armes lay. And wel I wot that he ne may Amende his wrong, it is so gret; For he to lytel of me let, 5840 Whan he myn oughne Soster tok, And me that am his wif forsok.” Lo, thus to Venus and Cupide Sche preide, and furthermor sche cride Unto Appollo the hiheste, And seide, “O myghti god of reste, Thou do vengance of this debat. Mi Soster and al hire astat Thou wost, and hou sche hath forlore Hir maidenhod, and I therfore 5850 In al the world schal bere a blame Of that mi Soster hath a schame, That Tereüs to hire I sente: And wel thou wost that myn entente Was al for worschipe and for goode. O lord, that yifst the lives fode To every wyht, I prei thee hiere Thes wofull Sostres that ben hiere, And let ous noght to the ben lothe; We ben thin oghne wommen bothe.” 5860