Spake he a fayth no worde to you of me? I wote, and he dyde, ye wolde me telle. I haue a fauoure to you, wherof it be That I muste shewe you moche[277] of my counselle: But I wonder what the deuyll of helle He sayde of me, whan he with you dyde talke: By myne auyse[278] vse not with him to walke. 210
The soueraynst thynge that ony[279] man maye haue, Is lytyll to saye, and moche[280] to here and see; For, but I trusted you, so God me saue, I wolde noo thynge so playne be; To you oonly, me thynke, I durste shryue me For now am I plenarely dysposed To shewe you thynges that may not be disclosed.
Than I assured hym my fydelyte, His counseyle secrete neuer to dyscure,[281] Yf he coude fynde in herte to truste me; 220 Els I prayed hym, with all my besy cure, To kepe it hymselfe, for than he myghte be sure That noo man[282] erthly coude hym bewreye, Whyles of his mynde it were lockte with the keye.
By God, quod he, this and thus it is; And of his mynde he shewed me all and some. Farewell, quod he, we wyll talke more of this: Soo he departed there he wolde be come. I dare not speke, I promysed to be dome: But, as I stode musynge in my mynde, 230 Haruy Hafter[283] came lepynge, lyghte as lynde.
Vpon his breste he bare a versynge boxe; His throte was clere, and lustely coude fayne; Me[284] thoughte, his gowne was all furred wyth foxe; And euer he sange, Sythe I am no thynge playne. To kepe him frome pykynge it was a grete payne: He gased on me with his gotyshe berde; Whan I loked on hym, my[285] purse was half aferde.
Syr, God you saue! why loke ye so sadde? What thynge is that I maye do for you? 240 A wonder thynge that ye waxe not madde! For, and I studye sholde as ye doo nowe, My wytte wolde waste, I make God auowe. Tell me your mynde: me thynke, ye make a verse; I coude it skan,[287] and ye wolde it[288] reherse.
But to the poynte shortely to procede, Where hathe your dwellynge ben, er ye cam here? For, as I trowe, I haue sene you indede Er this, whan that ye made me royall chere. Holde vp the helme, loke vp, and lete God stere: 250 I wolde be mery, what wynde that euer blowe, Heue and how rombelow, row the bote, Norman, rowe!
Prynces of yougthe[289] can ye synge by rote? Or shall I sayle wyth you a felashyp assaye; For on the booke I[290] can not synge a note. Wolde to God, it wolde please you some daye A balade boke before me for to laye, And lerne me to synge, Re, my, fa, sol! And, whan I fayle, bobbe me on the noll.