O sodeyn wo! that ever art súccessoúr
To worldly blis, sprinkled with bitternesse,
Ende of oure joye, of oure worldly laboúr;
Wo dwelleth at the tayle of oure gladnésse.
Herken this counseil for thy stedfastnesse;
Upon thy glade dayes have in thi mynde
The unseene wo that cometh ay bihynde.

For shortly for to tellen at one word,
The sultan and the cristen every one
Be al y-slayn and stikèd at the board,
Save it were dame Constaúnce hir allone.
This olde sultanesse, this cursed crone,
Hath with hir frendes doon this cursed dede,
For she hirself wold al the contree lede.

Nor ther was Syrrien noon that was converted,
That of the counseil of the sultan wot,
Who was not al y-slayn ere he up sterted
And Constaunce have they take anon foot-hot,
And in a shippe, stereles, God wot,
They have hir set, and bad hir lerne to sayle
Out of Surry agein-ward to Ytaile.

A certein tresour that she thider ladde,
And, soth to sayn, vitaile gret plentee,
They have hir geven, and clothes eek she hadde,
And forth she sayleth in the salte see.
O my Constaunce, ful of benignitee,
O emperoures yonge doughter deere,
He that is Lord of fortun be thi steere!

She crosseth hir, and with ful piteous voys
Unto the croys of Crist then seyde she:
“O clear, O welful altar, holy cross,
Red with the lambes blood, ful of pitee,
That wasshed the world from old iniquitee,
Me fro the feend and fro his clawes keepe,
That I be not y-drownèd in the deepe.

“Victorious tree, proteccioun of the trewe,
That only were worthy for to bere
That Kyng of Heven, with his woundes newe,
The white Lambe, that hurt was with a spere;
Banisshyng feendes out of him and her,
On which thy lymes feithfully extenden,
Me kepe, and gif me might my lyf to menden.”

Yeres and dayes floted this créatúre
Thurghout the see of Grece, into the strayte
Of Marrok, as it was hir áventúre.
O many a sory mele may she eate,
And for hir deth ful ofte may she wayte,
Ere that the wilde wave wil hir dryve
Unto the place wher she shal arryve.

Men mighten asken, why she was nought slayn?
And at the fest who might hir body save?
And I answere to that demaunde agayn,
Who savèd Daniel in the horrible cave,
When every wight, save he, mayster or knave,
Was with the lioun torn ere he upsterte?
No wight but God, that he bar in his herte.

God wolde shewe his wondurful mirácle
In hir, for we shulde see his mighty werkes;
Crist, which that is to every harm treácle,
By certeyne menes ofte, as knowen clerkes,
Doth things for certeyn ende, that ful derk is
To mannes witt, that for our ignoraunce
We can nought knowe his prudent providence.

Now since she was not at the fest i-slawe,
Who kepte hir from the drownyng in the see?
Who kepte Jonah in the fishes mawe,
Til he was spouted up at Ninivé?
Wel may men knowe, it was no wight but He
That kepte the pepul Hebrew fro their drownyng,
With drye feet thurghout the see passýng.
Who bad the foure spirits of tempést,
That power have to annoyen land and see,
Bothe north and south, and also west and est,
Anoyen neyther londe, see, nor tree?
Soothly the cómaunder of that was He
That from the tempest ay this womman kepte,
As wel when she awok as when she slepte.

Wher mighte mete and drinke this womman have?
Three yer and more, how lasteth hir vitaille?
Who fedde the Egipcien Marie in the cave,
Or in desért? no wight but Crist saunz faile.
Fyf thousand folk, it was as gret mervaíle
With loves fyf and fisshes tuo to feede;
God sent her plentee at her grete neede.

She dryveth forth into oure ocean
Thurghout oure wilde see, till atte laste
Under an holde, that I cannot namen,
Far in Northumberland, the wave hir caste,
And in the sand the ship stykède so faste,
That thence it wold not flote al in a tyde;
The wille of Crist was that she shold abyde.

The constabil of the castel doun is fare
To see this wrak, and al the ship he sought,
And found this wery womman ful of care;
He found also the tresour that she brought:
In hir langáge mercy she bisought,
The lif out of her body to let go,
Hir to delyver of al her grete wo.