Long was the sobbing and the bitter pain, Ere that their woeful heartes mighte cease; Great was the pity for to hear them plain,* *lament Through whiche plaintes gan their woe increase. I pray you all my labour to release, I may not tell all their woe till to-morrow, I am so weary for to speak of sorrow. But finally, when that the *sooth is wist,* *truth is known* That Alla guiltless was of all her woe, I trow an hundred times have they kiss’d, And such a bliss is there betwixt them two, That, save the joy that lasteth evermo’, There is none like, that any creature Hath seen, or shall see, while the world may dure. Then prayed she her husband meekely In the relief of her long piteous pine,* *sorrow That he would pray her father specially, That of his majesty he would incline To vouchesafe some day with him to dine: She pray’d him eke, that he should by no way Unto her father no word of her say. Some men would say,<17> how that the child Maurice Did this message unto the emperor: But, as I guess, Alla was not so nice,* *foolish To him that is so sovereign of honor As he that is of Christian folk the flow’r, Send any child, but better ’tis to deem He went himself; and so it may well seem. This emperor hath granted gentilly To come to dinner, as he him besought: And well rede* I, he looked busily *guess, know Upon this child, and on his daughter thought. Alla went to his inn, and as him ought Arrayed* for this feast in every wise, *prepared *As farforth as his cunning* may suffice. *as far as his skill* The morrow came, and Alla gan him dress,* *make ready And eke his wife, the emperor to meet: And forth they rode in joy and in gladness, And when she saw her father in the street, She lighted down and fell before his feet. “Father,” quoth she, “your younge child Constance Is now full clean out of your remembrance. “I am your daughter, your Constance,” quoth she, “That whilom ye have sent into Syrie; It am I, father, that in the salt sea Was put alone, and damned* for to die. *condemned Now, goode father, I you mercy cry, Send me no more into none heatheness, But thank my lord here of his kindeness.” Who can the piteous joye tellen all, Betwixt them three, since they be thus y-met? But of my tale make an end I shall, The day goes fast, I will no longer let.* *hinder These gladde folk to dinner be y-set; In joy and bliss at meat I let them dwell, A thousand fold well more than I can tell. This child Maurice was since then emperor Made by the Pope, and lived Christianly, To Christe’s Churche did he great honor: But I let all his story passe by, Of Constance is my tale especially, In the olde Roman gestes* men may find *histories<19> Maurice’s life, I bear it not in mind.