If I say false, say nay upon thy fay. This knight answered, Alas and wala wa! I wot right wel that swiche was my behest. For Goddes love as chese a new request: Take all my good, and let my body go. Nay than, quod she, I shrewe us bothe two: For though that I be olde, foule, and pore, I n'olde for all the metal ne the ore That under erthe is grave, or lith above, But if thy wif I were and eke thy love. My love? quod he; nay, my dampnation. Alas! that any of my nation Shuld ever so foule disparaged be. But all for nought; the end is this, that he Constrained was, he nedes must hire wed, And taketh this olde wif, and goth to bed. Now wolden som men sayn paraventure, That for my negligence I do no cure To tellen you the joye and all the array That at the feste was that ilke day. To which thing shortly answeren I shal: I say ther was no joye ne feste at al; Ther n'as but hevinesse and mochel sorwe; For prively he wedded hire on the morwe, And all day after hid him as an oule, So wo was him his wif loked so foule. Gret was the wo the knight had in his thought Whan he was with his wif a-bed ybrought; He walweth, and he turneth to and fro. This olde wif lay smiling evermo, And said, O dere husbond, _benedicite_! Fareth ever knight thus with wif as ye? Is this the lawe of King Artoures hous? Is every knight of his thus dangerous? I am your owen love, and eke your wif, I am she which that saved hath your lif, And certes yet did I you never unright; Why fare ye thus with me this firste night? Ye faren like a man had lost his wit. What is my gilt? for Goddess love tell it, And it shal ben amended if I may. Amended? quod this knight, alas! nay, nay, It wol not ben amended never mo; Thou art so lothly, and so olde also, And therto comen of so low a kind, That little wonder is though I walwe and wind; So wolde God min herte wolde brest. Is this, quod she, the cause of your unrest? Ye certainly, quod he, no wonder is. Now Sire, quod she, I coude amend all this, If that me list, er it were dayes three, So wel ye mighten bere you unto me. But for ye speken of swiche gentillesse As is descended out of old richesse; That therefore shullen ye be gentilmen; Swiche arrogance n'is not worth an hen. Loke who that is most vertuous alway, Prive and apert, and most entendeth ay To do the gentil dedes that he can, And take him for the gretest gentilman. Crist wol we claime of him our gentillesse, Not of our elders for hir old richesse; For though they yeve us all hir heritage, For which we claime to ben of high parage, Yet may they not bequethen for no thing To non of us hir vertuous living, That made hem gentilmen called to be, And bade us folwen hem in swiche degree.