The poure man whan he goth by the way, Beforn the theves he may sing and play. Poverte is hateful good; and, as I gesse, A ful gret bringer out of besinesse; A gret amender eke of sapience To him that taketh it in patience. Poverte is this, although it some elenge, Possession that no wight wol challenge. Poverte ful often, whan a man is low, Maketh his God and eke himself to know. Poverte a spectakel is, as thinketh me, Thurgh which he may his veray frendes see. And therefore, Sire, sin that I you not greve, Of my poverte no more me repreve. Now, Sire, of elde that ye repreven me: And certes, Sire, though non auctoritee Were in no book, ye gentiles of honour Sain that men shuld an olde wight honour, And clepe him Fader, for your gentillesse; And auctours shal I finden, as I gesse. Now ther ye sain that I am foule and old, Than drede ye not to ben a cokewold; For filthe, and elde also, so mote I the, Ben grete wardeins upon chastitee. But natheles, sin I know your delit, I shal fulfill your worldly appetit. Chese now (quod she) on of thise thinges twey, To han me foule and old til that I dey, And be to you a trewe humble wif, And never you displese in all my lif; Or elles wol ye han me yonge and faire, And take your aventure of the repaire That shal be to your hous because of me, Or in some other place it may wel be? Now chese yourselven whether that you liketh. This knight aviseth him, and sore siketh, But at the last he said in this manere: My lady and my love, and wif so dere, I put me in your wise governance, Cheseth yourself which may be most plesance And most honour to you and me also, I do no force the whether of the two, For as you liketh, it sufficeth me. Than have I got the maisterie, quod she, Sin I may chese and governe as me lest. Ye certes, wif, quod he, I hold it best. Kisse me, quod she, we be no lenger wrothe, For by my trouth I wol be to you bothe, This to sayn, ye bothe faire and good. I pray to God that I mote sterven wood But I to you be al so good and trewe As ever was wif sin that the world was newe, And but I be to-morwe as faire to seen As any lady, emperice, or quene, That is betwix the est and eke the west, Doth with my lif and deth right as you lest. Cast up the curtein, loke how that it is. And whan the knight saw veraily all this, That she so faire was, and so yonge therto, For joye he hent hire in his armes two: His herte bathed in a bath of blisse, A thousand time a-row he gan hire kisse: And she obeyed him in every thing That mighte don him plesance or liking. And thus they live unto hir lives ende In parfit joye; and Jesu Crist us sende Husbondes meke and yonge, and fresh a-bed, And grace to overlive hem that we wed.