“The remenant of your jewels redy be
Within your chambur dore dare I sayn.
Naked out of my fadres hous,” quoth she,
“I com, and naked must I torne agayn.
Al your plesaunce wold I fulfille fayn;
But yit I hope it be not youre entent,
That I smockless out of your paleys went.

“Ye coude not do so díshonést a thing,
That thilke body, in which your children leye,
Bifore the peple shulde, in my walkyng,
Be seen al bare: wherfore I you pray
Let me not lik a worm go by the way;
Remembre you, myn owne lord so deere,
I was your wyf, though I unworthy were.

“Wherfor, in guerdoun of my maydenhede,
Which that I brought and nought agayn I bere,
Vouchsafe to geve me only to my meede
But such a smok as I was wont to were,
That I therwith may cover the body of her
That was your wif; and here take I my leve
Of yow, myn owne lord, lest I you greve.”

“The smok,” quoth he, “that thou hast on thy bak,
Let it be stille, and ber it forth with thee.”
But scarcely for teres the word he spak,
But went his way for ruthe and for pitee.
Byforn the folk hirselven strippith she,
And in hir smok, with heed and foot al bare,
Toward hir fader house forth is she fare.

The folk hir follow wepyng in hir weye,
And fortune ay thay cursen as thay gon;
But she fro wepyng kept hir eyen dry,
And in this tyme no word spak she noon.
Hir fader, that this tyding herd anon,
Cursed the day and tyme, that natúre
Shaped him to ben a lyve créatúre.

For oute of doute this olde pore man
Was ever suspect of hir high honoúr;
For ever he deemèd, since that it bigan,
That whan the lord fulfillèd had his hour,
Him wolde thinke that it were dishonoúr
To his estate, so lowe for to light,
And send hir hom as sone as ever he might.

To meet his doughter hastily goth he;
For he by noyse of folk knew hir comyng;
And with hir olde cote, as it might be,
He covered hir ful sorwfully wepynge;
To touch her body might he it nought bringe,
For rude was the cloth, and more of age
By many yeres than at hir mariáge.

Thus with hir fader for a certeyn space
Dwellith this flour of wifly pacience,
That neyther by her wordes nor hir face,
Byforn the folk, nor eek in this absence,
She shewèd that to hir was done offence,
Nor of hir high estate no rémembraúnce
At al hadde she, as by hir countenaunce.

No wonder is, for in hir gret estate
Hir spirit was ever in playn humilitee;
No courtly speeches, no maner delicate,
No pompe, no semblances of royaltee;
But ful of pacient benignitee,
Discrete, and prideless, ay honurable,
And to hir housbond ever meke and stable.

Men speke of Job, and most for his humblesse,
And as clerkes, when they wil, can wel endite,
Always of men; but in good sothfastnesse,
Though clerkes prayse wommen but a lite,
There can no man in humblesse him acquyte
As wommen can, nor can be half so trewe
As wommen be, save it be somthing newe.

Pars Sexta

From Boloyne is this erl of Panik y-come,
Of which the fame up-sprong to more and lasse,
And to the peples eeres alle and some
Was knowen eek, that a newe marquisesse
He with him brought, in such pomp and richesse,
That never was ther seyn with mannes eye
So noble array in al West Lombardye.

The marquys, which that made and knew al this,
Ere that this erl was come, sent his messáge
After the silly pore Grísildis;
And she with humble hert and glad viságe,
Not with a swollen hert in hir corráge,
Cam at his hest, and on hir knees hir sette,
And reverently and wyfly did him greet.

“Grisild,” quoth he, “my wil is utterly,
This mayden, that shal weddid be to me,
Receyvèd be to morrow as royally
As it possible is in myn hous to be;
And eek that every wight in his degree
Have his estaat in seat and in servyse,
In high plesaunce, as I can best devyse.