Thenne saide the justice, that gentil is ant fre, "Sire Simond Frysel, the kynges traytour hast thou be, In water ant in londe, that monie myhten se. 155 What sayst thou thareto, hou wolt thou quite the? Do say." So foul he him wiste, Nede waron truste For to segge nay. 160 Ther he wes ydemed, so hit wes londes lawe; For that he wes lordswyk, furst he wes to-drawe; Upon a retheres hude forth he wes ytuht: Sum while in ys time he wes a modi knyht, In huerte. 165 Wickednesse ant sunne, Hit is lutel wunne That maketh the body smerte. For al is grete poer, yet he wes ylaht; Falsnesse ant swykedom, al hit geth to naht; 170 Tho he wes in Scotlond, lutel wes ys thoht Of the harde jugement that him wes bysoht In stounde. He wes foursithe forswore To the kyng ther bifore,[L175] 175 Ant that him brohte to grounde. With feteres ant with gyves i chot he wes to-drowe, From the Tour of Londone, that monie myhte knowe, In a curtel of burel, a selkethe wyse, Ant a gerland on ys heved of the newe guyse, 180 Thurh Cheepe; Moni mon of Engelond For to se Symond Thideward con lepe. Tho he com to galewes, furst he wes anhonge, 185 Al quic byheveded, thah him thohte longe; Seththe he wes y-opened, is boweles ybrend, The heved to Londone-brugge wes send, To shonde: So ich ever mote the, 190 Sumwhile wende he Ther lutel to stonde. He rideth thourh the sit['e], as y telle may, With gomen ant wyth solas, that wes here play; To Londone-brugge hee nome the way, 195 Moni wes the wyves chil that theron laketh a day, Ant seide, Alas, That he wes ibore, Ant so villiche forlore, So feir mon ase he was! 200 Nou stont the heved above the tu-brugge, Faste bi Waleis, soth for te sugge; After socour of Scotlond longe he mowe prye, Ant after help of Fraunce, (wet halt hit to lye?) Ich wene. 205 Betere him were in Scotlond, With is ax in ys hond, To pleyen o the grene.