"Barons and burgeises She bryngeth in sorwe, And al the comune in care That coveiten lyve in truthe; {53} For clergie and coveitise She coupleth togidres. This is the lif of that lady; Now Lord gyve hire sorwe! 1690 And alle that maynteneth hire men, Meschaunce hem bitide! For povere men may have no power To pleyne hem, though thei smerte. Swich a maister is Mede Among men of goode." Thanne mournede Mede, And mened hire to the kynge To have space to speke, Spede if she myghte. 1700 The kyng graunted hire grace, With a good wille, "Excuse thee, if thow kanst; I kan na-moore seggen. For Conscience accuseth thee, To congeien thee for evere." "Nay, lord," quod that lady, "Leveth hym the werse, Whan ye witen witterly Wher the wrong liggeth. 1710 Ther that meschief is gret, Mede may helpe. And thow knowest, Conscience, I kam noght to chide Ne deprave thi persone, With a proud herte. Wel thow woost, wernarde, But if thow wolt gabbe, Thow hast hanged on myn half Ellevene tymes, 1720 {54} And also griped my gold, Gyve it where thee liked; And whi thow wrathest thee now, Wonder me thynketh. Yet I may as I myghte Menske thee with giftes, And mayntene thi manhode Moore than thow knowest. "Ac thow hast famed me foule Bifore the kyng here; 1730 For killed I nevere no kyng Ne counseiled therafter, Ne dide as thow demest I do it on the kynge. "In Normandie was he noght Noyed for my sake; Ac thow thiself soothly Shamedest hym ofte, Crope into a cabane For cold of thi nayles, 1740 Wendest that wynter Wolde han y-lasted evere, And dreddest to be ded For a dym cloude, And hyedest homward For hunger of thi wombe. "Withouten pité, pilour, Povere men thow robbedest; And bere hire bras at thi bak To Caleis to selle, 1750 Ther I lafte with my lord, His lif for to save. I made his men murye, And mournynge lette; {55} I batred hem on the bak, And boldede hire hertes, And dide hem hoppe for hope To have me at wille. Hadde I ben marchal of his men, By Marie of hevene! 1760 I dorste have leyd my lif, And no lasse wedde, He sholde have be lord of that lond In lengthe and in brede, And also kyng of that kith His kyn for to helpe, The leeste brol of his blood A barones piere. "Cowardly thow, Conscience, Conseiledest hym thennes, 1770 To leven his lordshipe For a litel silver, That is the richeste reaume That reyn over-hoveth.