The moder of the Sultan, ful of vices,
Espyèd hath hir sones playn entent,
How he wol stop his olde sacrifices;
And right anon she for hir counseil sent;
And they be come, to knowe what she ment;
And when assembled was this folke neere,
She sette hir doun, and sayd as ye shal heere.

“Lordes,” quoth she, “ye knowen every one,
How that my sone is redy to forget
The holy lawes of our Al Korán,
Given by Goddes messangere Máhométe;
But this avow before grete God I sette,
The lyf shulde rather out of my body stert,
Than Máhométes law go myn hert.

“What shal us happen from this newe lawe
But thraldom to oure body and penaúnce,
And afterward in helle to be outlaw,
For we denied in our faith credénce?
But, lordes, wil ye maken ássuraúnce,
As I shal say, assentyng to my lore?
And I shal make us safe for evermore.”

They sworen and assenten every man
To lyfe with hir and dye, and by hir stande;
And every one in the beste wise he can
To strengthen hir shal help through al the land.
And she an enterprise hath taken in hand,
Which ye shul heere that I shal devyse,
And to them spak she in this wicked wyse:

“We shul first feyne us cristendom to take;
Cold watir shal nat greve us gretely;
And I shal such a fest and revel make,
That, I shal hym, the sultan, satisfie.
For though his wyf be cristned whitely,
She shal have need to wasshe away the red,
Though she a font of watir with hir hadde.”

O sultanesse, root of iniquitee
Virago thou Semýram the secoúnde;
O serpent under femininitee,
Lyk to the serpent deep in helle i-bounde;
O feynèd womman, alle that may confounde
Vertu and innocence, thurgh thy malice,
Is bred in thee as nest of every vice.

O Satan, envyous synce that one day
When thou were chasèd from oure heritage,
Wel knewest thou with wommen the olde way.
Thou madest Eve to bryng us in serváge,
Thou wolt destroy this cristen mariáge.
Thyn instrument so (weylaway the while!)
Makest thou of wommen when thou wilt bygyle.

This sultanesse whom I thus blame and hate
Let privily hir counseil go their way;
What shuld I in this tale make long debate?
She rideth to the sultan on a day,
And seyd him, that she wold her faith deny,
And cristendom of priestes hands receyve,
Repentyng hir of Máhométs bileeve;

Bysechyng him to do hir that honoúr,
That she most have the cristen men to feste;
“To plesen them I wil do my laboúr.”
The sultan seith, “I wil do at your heste,”
And knelyng, thanketh hir for that requeste;
So glad he was, he knew not what to seye.
She kyst hir sone, and hom she goth hir weye.

Arryvèd be the cristen folke to land
In Syrie, with a gret solemne route,
And hastily this sultan sent commaund,
First to his moder, and al the realm aboute,
And seyd, his wyf was comen out of doute,
And preyeth hir for to ride to mete the queene,
The honour of his realm for to susteene.

Gret was the press, and riche was the array
Of Syrriens and Romayns far and neere.
The moder of the sultan riche and gay
Receyvèd hir with al so glad a cheere,
As eny moder might hir doughter deere;
And to the nexte citee ther bysyde
A softe pace solemnely thay ryde.

Nought trow I the triúmphe of Julius,
Of which that Lukan maketh moche bost,
Was royaller or more curious,
Than was the assemblee of this blisful host.
But yet this scorpioun, this wikked ghost,
The sultaness, for al hir flaterynge,
Thought under this ful mortally to stynge.

The sultan comth himself sone after this
So royally, that wonder is to telle;
And welcometh hir with alle joy and blys.
And thus with mirth and joy I let them dwelle.
The fruyt of this matér is that I telle.
Whan tyme com, men thought it for the best
That revel stynt, and men go to there rest.

The tyme com, the olde sultanesse
Ordeynèd hath this fest of which I tolde;
And to the feste folk themselven addresse
In generale, bothe yong and olde.
Ther men may fest and royaltee byholde,
And deyntees mo than I can wel devyse,
But al too deere they bought it ere they ryse.