Sojourned have these merchants in that town A certain time as fell to their pleasance: And so befell, that th’ excellent renown Of th’ emperore’s daughter, Dame Constance, Reported was, with every circumstance, Unto these Syrian merchants in such wise, From day to day, as I shall you devise* *relate This was the common voice of every man “Our emperor of Rome, God him see*, *look on with favour A daughter hath, that since the the world began, To reckon as well her goodness and beauty, Was never such another as is she: I pray to God in honour her sustene*, *sustain And would she were of all Europe the queen. “In her is highe beauty without pride, And youth withoute greenhood* or folly: *childishness, immaturity To all her workes virtue is her guide; Humbless hath slain in her all tyranny: She is the mirror of all courtesy, Her heart a very chamber of holiness, Her hand minister of freedom for almess*.” *almsgiving And all this voice was sooth, as God is true; But now to purpose* let us turn again. *our tale <3> These merchants have done freight their shippes new, And when they have this blissful maiden seen, Home to Syria then they went full fain, And did their needes*, as they have done yore,* *business **formerly And liv’d in weal*; I can you say no more. *prosperity Now fell it, that these merchants stood in grace* *favour Of him that was the Soudan* of Syrie: *Sultan For when they came from any strange place He would of his benigne courtesy Make them good cheer, and busily espy* *inquire Tidings of sundry regnes*, for to lear** *realms **learn The wonders that they mighte see or hear. Amonges other thinges, specially These merchants have him told of Dame Constance So great nobless, in earnest so royally, That this Soudan hath caught so great pleasance* *pleasure To have her figure in his remembrance, That all his lust*, and all his busy cure**, *pleasure **care Was for to love her while his life may dure. Paraventure in thilke* large book, *that Which that men call the heaven, y-written was With starres, when that he his birthe took, That he for love should have his death, alas! For in the starres, clearer than is glass, Is written, God wot, whoso could it read, The death of every man withoute dread.* *doubt In starres many a winter therebeforn Was writ the death of Hector, Achilles, Of Pompey, Julius, ere they were born; The strife of Thebes; and of Hercules, Of Samson, Turnus, and of Socrates The death; but mennes wittes be so dull, That no wight can well read it at the full.