for nought; the ende is this, that he
Constreinèd was, he needes most hir wedde,
And take his wyf, and go with hir to bedde.

Now wolden som men say peráventure,
That for my negligence I do no care
To telle you the joye and the array
That at that fest was made that ilke day.
To which thing shortly answeren I shal,
And say ther was not fest or joy at al,
Ther was but hevynes and moche sorwe;
For privily he weddyd hir on the morrow,
And alday hidde himself as doth an oule,
So wo was him, his wyf lokèd so foule.
Gret was the wo the knight had in his thought
When he was with his wyf on bedde brought,
He walloweth, and he torneth to and fro.
His olde wyf lay smylyng ever mo,
And sayd, “Deere housbond, benedicite,
Fareth every knighte with his wyf as ye!
Is this the lawe of king Arthùres hous?
Is every knight of his thus daungerous?
I am your oune love, and eek your wyf,
And I am she that savyd hath your lyf,
And certes never dede I you unright.
Why fare ye thus with me the firste night?
Ye fare lik a man that had lost his wit.
What is my gult? for Godes love, tel me it,
And it shal be amendid, if that I may.”
“Amendid!” quoth this knight, “allas! nay, nay,
If wol nought be amendid, never mo;
Thou art so lothly, and so old also,
And therto comen of so low a kynde,
That litil wonder is I walwe and wynde;
So wolde God, myn herte wolde brest!”
“Is this,” quoth she, “the cause of your unrest?”
“Ye, certeynly,” quoth he, “no wonder is!”
“Now, sir,” quoth she, “I coude amende al this,
If that me list, ere it were dayes three,
So that ye wolde bear you wel to me.
But for ye speken of such gentilesse
As is descendid out of old richesse,
Therfor shulde ye be holden gentil men;
Such arrogaunce it is not worth an hen.
Look who that is most vertuous alway,
Open and secret, and most entendith ay
To do the gentil dedes that he can,
Tak him to be the grettest gentil man.
Crist wills we clayme of him oure gentilesse,
Nought of oure eldres for their olde richesse.
For though they give us al their heritage,
For which we clayme to be of high peerage,
Yit may thay not biquethe, for no thing
To noon of us, so vertuous lyvyng,
That made them gentil men y-callid be,
And bad us folwe them in such degree.
Wel knew the wyse poet of Florence,
That highte Daunt, to speke of this sentence;
Lo, in such maner of rym is Dauntes tale;
Ful seldom risith to the braunchis smale
Prowes of man, for God of his prowesse
Wil that we clayme of him our gentilesse;
For of our auncestres we no thing clayme
But temporal thing, that men may hurt and mayme.
Ek every wight knoweth this as wel as I,
If gentiless were plaunted naturelly
Unto a certayn lignage certeynly,
Open or secret, they wolde never try
To do of gentilesce the fair office,
Thay might nought do no vileny or vice.
Take fyr and ber it in the derkest hous
Bitwixe this and the mount Caukasous,
And let men shut the dores, and go thenne,
Yit wol the fyr as fair and lighte brenne
As twenty thousand men might it biholde;
His office naturel ay wil it holde,
On peril on my lif, til that it dye.
Here may ye see wel, how that genterye
Is nought annexid to possessioun,
Since folk do not their operacioun
Alway, as doth the fyr, lo, in his kynde.
For God it wot, men may ful often fynde
A lordes sone do shame and vilonye.
And he that wil have pris of his gentrie,
For he was boren of a gentil hous,
And had his eldres noble and vertuous,
And will himselve do no gentil dedis,
Or follow his gentil auncester, that ded is,
He is nought gentil, be he duk or erl;
For vileyn synful deedes maketh a cherl,
For gentilnesse is but the name to thee
Of thin auncestres, for their high bountee,
Which is a straunge thing to thy persone;
Thy gentilesse cometh fro God allone.
Thence comth oure verray gentilesse of grace,
It was no thing biquethe us with oure place.
Think thou how nobil, as saith Valerius,
Was thilke Tullius Hostilius,
That out of povert rose to high noblesse.
Rede thou Senek, and rede thou eek Boece,
Ther shuln ye see expresse, that no dred is,
That he is gentil that doth gentil dedis.
And therfor, lieve housbond, I conclude,
Al were it that myn auncestres wer rude,
Yit may the highe God, and so hope I,
Graunte me grace to lyve vertuously;
Than am I gentil, wham that I bygynne
To lyve vertuously, and leven synne.
And for that ye of povert me repreve,
The highe God, on whom that we bilieve,
In wilful povert chose to lede his lif;
And certes, every man, mayden, or wyf,
May understonde that Jhesus, heven king,
Wolde not choose a vicious lyvyng.
Glad povert is an honest thing certayn;
This wil Senek and other clerkes sayn.
Who that himself is glad of his povert,
I hold him riche, al had he nought a shert.
He that coveitith is a pore wight,
For he wold have that is not in his might.
But he that nought hath, and coveyteth nought to have,
Is riche, although ye hold him but a knave
Verray povert it singeth proprely.
Juvenal saith of povert merily,
The pore man when he goth by the way
Bifore the theves he may synge and play.
Povert is sorrowful good, and, as I gesse,
A ful gret brynger out of busynesse;
A gret amender eek of sapiens
To him that takith it in paciens.
Povert is this, although it seme sorrow,
Possessioun no other wight wil borrow.
Povert, ful often, whan a man is lowe,
Makith him his God and eek himself to knowe.
Povert a spectacle is, as