“When Habradace was slayn, his wif so deere
Hir-self did slay, and let her blood to glyde
In Habradaces woundes, deepe and wyde;
And seyd, my body at the leste way
Ther shal no wight defoulen, if I may.
Why shold I more ensamples herof sayn?
Since that so many have them-selven slayn
Wel rather than they wolde defoulèd be,
I wol conclude that it is best for me
To slay myself than be defoulèd thus.
I wol be trewe unto Arviragus,
Or rather slay myself in som manér,
As did Democionis doughter deere.
Bycause she wolde nought defoulèd be.
O Cedasus, it is ful gret pity
To reden how thy doughters dyed, allas!
That slowe themself for suche maner case.
As gret a pity was it or wel more,
The Theban mayden, that for Nichonore
Herself did slay, right for such kind of wo.
Another Theban mayden did right so,
For one of Macidone had hir oppressed,
She with her deth her maydenhede redressed.
What shal I say of Nicerátis wif,
That for such case bereft hirself hir lyf?
How trewe eek was to Alcebiades
His love, that rather for to dyen chose,
Than for to suffre his body unburied be?
Lo, what a wif was Alceste,” quoth she,
“What saith Omer of good Penelopee?
Al Grece knoweth of her chastitee.
Pardi, of Laodomya is writen thus,
That whan at Troye was slain Protheselaus,
No longer wold she lyve after his day.
The name of noble Porcia telle I may;
Withoute Brutus kynde she myght not lyve,
To whom she had al whole her herte give.
The parfyt wyfhod of Artemesye
Honóurèd is through al the Barbarie.
O Theuta queen, thy wifly chastitee
To alle wyves may a mirour be.”

Thus playnèd Dorigen a day or tweye,
Purposyng ever that she wolde deye;
But nonetheless upon the thirde night
Home cam Arviragus, the worthy knight,
And askèd her why that she wepte so sore;
And she gan wepen ever more and more.

“Allas!” quoth she, “that ever was I born!
Thus have I sayd,” quoth she, “thus have I sworn;”
And told him al, as ye have herd bifore;
It nedeth nought reherse it you no more.

This housbond with glad chere in noble wise
Answerd and sayde, as I shal you devyse.
“Is ther aught elles, Dorigen, but this?”
“Nay, nay,” quoth she, “God me so be witnéss,

This is too moche, if it were Goodes wille.”
“Yea, wyf,” quoth he, “let things slepe that be stille,
It may be wel peráventure to day,
Ye shal your trothe holden, by my fay.
For God so wisly mercy have on me,
I hadde rather piercèd for to be,
For very love which to you I have,
Unless ye sholde your trothe kepe and save.
Trothe is the highest thing that men may kepe.”
But with that word he gan anon to wepe,
And sayde, “I yow forbede on peyne of deth,
That never while thee lasteth lyf or breth,
To no wight telle thou of this áventúre.
As I may best I wil my wo endure.
Nor make no countenaunce of hevynesse,
That folk of you may deme harm or gesse.”
And forth he cleped a squyer and a mayde.
“Go forth anon with Dorigen,” he sayde,
“And bring ye her to such a place anon.”
Thay take their leve, and on their wey are gon;
But thay ne wiste why she thither went,
He wold to no wight tellen his entent.

This squyer, which was named Aurelius,
On Dorigen that was so amerous,
Peráventure he happèd her to mete
Amyd the toun, right in the live strete;
As she was bound to go as was her othe
Toward the gardyn, there to kepe her trothe.
And he was to the gardyn-ward also;
For wel he spyèd when she wolde go
Out of her hous, to eny maner place.
But thus thay mette of áventure or grace,
And he saluteth her with glad entent,
And askith her whither and why she went.
And she him answered, half as she were mad,
“Unto the gardyn, as myn housbond bad,
My trothe for to holde, allas! allas!”
Aurilius gan wondre on this case,
And in his hert had gret compassioún
Of her, and of her lamentacioún,
And of Arviragus the worthy knight,
That bad her hold al that she hadde plight,
So loth he was his wif shuld breke hir trothe.
And in his hert he felt of this gret ruth,
And thoughte it best in hys opinioún,
That he shold leve his vile intencioún,
Nor do to her a cherlish wickedness
Agaynst nobilitee and gentilesse
For which in fewe wordes sayd he thus.
“Madame, tell your lord Arviragus,
That since I see his grete gentilesse
To you, and eek I see wel your distresse,
That he wold rather have shame (and that were ruthe)
Than that to me ye shulde breke youre trothe,
I have wel rather ever to suffre woo,
Than for to harme the love bytwix you two.
I you relesse, madame, into your hand
Quyt every promise made and every bond
That ye have given to me as herebefore,
Since thilke tyme which that ye were born.
My trothe I plight, I shal you never grieve
For no promise, and here I take my leve,
As of the trewest and the beste wif
That ever yet I knew in al my lyf.
Let every wyf be ware of eny othe,
On Dorigen remember and her trothe.
Thus can a squyer do a gentil dede,
As wel as can a knyght, withoute drede.”