The which in alle haste he bende, As he that wolde an Arwe sende, Which he tofore hadde envenimed. He hath so wel his schote timed, That he him thurgh the bodi smette, And thus the false wiht he lette. 2240 Bot lest now such a felonie: Whan Nessus wiste he scholde die, He tok to Deianyre his scherte, Which with the blod was of his herte Thurghout desteigned overal, And tolde how sche it kepe schal Al prively to this entente, That if hire lord his herte wente To love in eny other place, The scherte, he seith, hath such a grace, 2250 That if sche mai so mochel make That he the scherte upon him take, He schal alle othre lete in vein And torne unto hire love ayein. Who was tho glad bot Deianyre? Hire thoghte hire herte was afyre Til it was in hire cofre loke, So that no word therof was spoke. The daies gon, the yeres passe, The hertes waxen lasse and lasse 2260 Of hem that ben to love untrewe: This Hercules with herte newe His love hath set on Eolen, And therof spieken alle men. This Eolen, this faire maide, Was, as men thilke time saide, The kinges dowhter of Eurice; And sche made Hercules so nyce Upon hir Love and so assote, That he him clotheth in hire cote, 2270 And sche in his was clothed ofte; And thus fieblesce is set alofte, And strengthe was put under fote, Ther can noman therof do bote. Whan Deianyre hath herd this speche, Ther was no sorwe forto seche: Of other helpe wot sche non, Bot goth unto hire cofre anon; With wepende yhe and woful herte Sche tok out thilke unhappi scherte, 2280 As sche that wende wel to do, And broghte hire werk aboute so That Hercules this scherte on dede, To such entente as she was bede Of Nessus, so as I seide er. Bot therof was sche noght the ner, As no fortune may be weyved; With Falssemblant sche was deceived, That whan sche wende best have wonne, Sche lost al that sche hath begonne. 2290 For thilke scherte unto the bon His body sette afyre anon, And cleveth so, it mai noght twinne, For the venym that was therinne. And he thanne as a wilde man Unto the hihe wode he ran, And as the Clerk Ovide telleth, The grete tres to grounde he felleth With strengthe al of his oghne myght, And made an huge fyr upriht, 2300 And lepte himself therinne at ones And brende him bothe fleissh and bones. Which thing cam al thurgh Falssemblant, That false Nessus the Geant Made unto him and to his wif; Wherof that he hath lost his lif, And sche sori for everemo. Forthi, my Sone, er thee be wo, I rede, be wel war therfore; For whan so gret a man was lore, 2310 It oghte yive a gret conceipte To warne alle othre of such deceipte. Grant mercy, fader, I am war So fer that I nomore dar Of Falssemblant take aqueintance; Bot rathere I wol do penance That I have feigned chiere er this. Now axeth forth, what so ther is Of that belongeth to my schrifte.