"She blesseth thise bisshopes, Theigh thei be lewed; Provendreth persones, And preestes maynteneth, To have lemmans and lotebies Alle hire lif daies, 1660 And bryngeth forth barnes Ayein forbode lawes. Ther she is wel with the kyng, Wo is the reaume; For she is favourable to fals, And de-fouleth truthe ofte.
"By Jhesus! with hire jeweles Youre justices she shendeth, And lith ayein the lawe, And letteth hym the gate, 1670 That feith may noght have his forth, Hire floryns go so thikke. She ledeth the lawe as hire list, And love-daies maketh, And doth men lese thorugh hire love, That lawe myghte wynne The maze for a mene man, Though he mote hire evere. Lawe is so lordlich And looth to maken ende, 1680 Withouten presentz or pens She pleseth wel fewe.
"Barons and burgeises She bryngeth in sorwe, And al the comune in care That coveiten lyve in truthe; { 53} For clergie and coveitise She coupleth togidres. This is the lif of that lady; Now Lord gyve hire sorwe! 1690 And alle that maynteneth hire men, Meschaunce hem bitide! For povere men may have no power To pleyne hem, though thei smerte. Swich a maister is Mede Among men of goode."
Thanne mournede Mede, And mened hire to the kynge To have space to speke, Spede if she myghte. 1700
The kyng graunted hire grace, With a good wille, "Excuse thee, if thow kanst; I kan na-moore seggen. For Conscience accuseth thee, To congeien thee for evere."
"Nay, lord," quod that lady, "Leveth hym the werse, Whan ye witen witterly Wher the wrong liggeth. 1710 Ther that meschief is gret, Mede may helpe. And thow knowest, Conscience, I kam noght to chide Ne deprave thi persone, With a proud herte. Wel thow woost, wernarde, But if thow wolt gabbe, Thow hast hanged on myn half Ellevene tymes, 1720 { 54} And also griped my gold, Gyve it where thee liked; And whi thow wrathest thee now, Wonder me thynketh. Yet I may as I myghte Menske thee with giftes, And mayntene thi manhode Moore than thow knowest.
"Ac thow hast famed me foule Bifore the kyng here; 1730 For killed I nevere no kyng Ne counseiled therafter, Ne dide as thow demest I do it on the kynge.
"In Normandie was he noght Noyed for my sake; Ac thow thiself soothly Shamedest hym ofte, Crope into a cabane For cold of thi nayles, 1740 Wendest that wynter Wolde han y-lasted evere, And dreddest to be ded For a dym cloude, And hyedest homward For hunger of thi wombe.