Mercy! lady, nowe, in all humble wyse, To her he sayd: for yf ye me dyspyse So hath your beaute my true hart aryed, It is no mervayle thoughe I be afrayde To you to speake it, that you deny My purpose truely I am marde utterly. So do I love now wyth all my heart entere, Wyth inwarde care I by your beauty dere, I must abyde wyth all my hole entente Of lyfe or death your onely judgement. Wyth fayned eares of perfyte audyence She did him here, gyvyng this sentence: Vyrgyl, she sayd, I wolde fayne you ease Of your trouble, and of your great disease; But I wote not howe that it should be, Without tournynge us to great dyshoneste; If it be knowen, than bothe you and I Shall be reheited at full shamefully. But what for that? I have me bethought A praty craft by me shalbe wrought. Ye knowe my chambre joyneth to a wall, Beynge right hyghe and a wyndowe wythall. Soone at nyght, when all folke be at reast. I shall take a basket as me thynketh beast, And therto I shall a longe corde well tye, And from the wyndowe let it downe pryvely. Right so, whan it is downe on the grounde, Ye may well entre in it, both hole and sound, And my two maydens the whiche secrete be Shall anone helpe to hale you up with me. Lo! in this wyse you may have ryght well Your owne desyre in short space every deel. At xi. of the clocke, in the nyght so darke, They did appoynt for to fulfyll this worke. He often thanked her gentlines, And so departed with great gladnes; And so he went unto his study, Passyng the tyme himselfe full merely, Tyll that the clocke did strike aleven, Then to the wall he went full even, And founde the basket at the grounde already, And entred into it full sodaynly, Waggyng the rope, which the lady espied, Whiche to the wyndowe ryght anone her hyed. With her two maydens she did him up wynde, Amiddes the wall, and left hym there behynde, That was fyve fadom and more from the grounde. When him selfe in suche a case he founde, Alas! he sayde, myne owne lady, save Myne honestye, and what ye list to have, Ye shall have it at your owne desire. Nowe wynde me up, my hart is on fyre. Thou shalt, quod she, in that place abyde, That all the cytie so ryght long and wyde May the beholde and the matter knowe, For myne honestie, and thy shame, I trowe. So there he hong tyll noone of the daye, That every persone whiche went by the waye Myght hym well se and also beholde, And unto them the very cause she tolde. Lo, howe with shame she her love rewarded. His payne and sorowe she nothyng regarded; Thus at the last he adowne was brought, Replete with shame, it vayleth hym ryght nought. Thus with great anger he his love confounded, Healyng the stroke whiche that she hath wounded. And by his craft he in Rome did drenche Every fyre for he left none to quenche, And towarde Rome a great circuite aboute, There was no fyre that was un-put-out.