The time set of kinde is come, This lady hath hire chambre nome, And of a Sone bore full, Wherof that sche was joiefull, Sche was delivered sauf and sone. The bisshop, as it was to done, Yaf him baptesme and Moris calleth; And therupon, as it befalleth, With lettres writen of record Thei sende unto here liege lord, 940 That kepers weren of the qweene: And he that scholde go betwene, The Messager, to Knaresburgh, Which toun he scholde passe thurgh, Ridende cam the ferste day. The kinges Moder there lay, Whos rihte name was Domilde, Which after al the cause spilde: For he, which thonk deserve wolde, Unto this ladi goth and tolde 950 Of his Message al how it ferde. And sche with feigned joie it herde And yaf him yiftes largely, Bot in the nyht al prively Sche tok the lettres whiche he hadde, Fro point to point and overradde, As sche that was thurghout untrewe, And let do wryten othre newe In stede of hem, and thus thei spieke: “Oure liege lord, we thee beseke 960 That thou with ous ne be noght wroth, Though we such thing as is thee loth Upon oure trowthe certefie. Thi wif, which is of faierie, Of such a child delivered is Fro kinde which stant al amis: Bot for it scholde noght be seie, We have it kept out of the weie For drede of pure worldes schame, A povere child and in the name 970 Of thilke which is so misbore We toke, and therto we be swore, That non bot only thou and we Schal knowen of this privete: Moris it hatte, and thus men wene That it was boren of the qweene And of thin oghne bodi gete. Bot this thing mai noght be foryete, That thou ne sende ous word anon What is thi wille therupon.” 980 This lettre, as thou hast herd devise, Was contrefet in such a wise That noman scholde it aperceive: And sche, which thoghte to deceive, It leith wher sche that other tok. This Messager, whan he awok, And wiste nothing how it was, Aros and rod the grete pas And tok this lettre to the king. And whan he sih this wonder thing, 990 He makth the Messager no chiere, Bot natheles in wys manere He wrote ayein, and yaf hem charge That thei ne soffre noght at large His wif to go, bot kepe hire stille, Til thei have herd mor of his wille. This Messager was yifteles, Bot with this lettre natheles, Or be him lief or be him loth, In alle haste ayein he goth 1000 Be Knaresburgh, and as he wente, Unto the Moder his entente Of that he fond toward the king He tolde; and sche upon this thing Seith that he scholde abide al nyht And made him feste and chiere ariht, Feignende as thogh sche cowthe him thonk. Bot he with strong wyn which he dronk Forth with the travail of the day Was drunke, aslepe and while he lay, 1010 Sche hath hise lettres overseie And formed in an other weie.