ParsTertia

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Pars

Tertia

There fell, as falleth many timës mo’,

When that his child had sucked but a throw,

This marquis in his heartë longed so

To tempt his wife, her sadness for to know,

That he might not out of his heartë throw

This marvellous desire his wife t’assay;

Needless, God wot, he thought her to affray.

He had assayed her anough before,

And found her ever good; what needed it

Her for to tempt, and always more and more?

Though some men praise it for a subtle wit,

But as for me, I say that evil it sit

T’ assay a wife when that it is no need,

And puttë her in anguish and in dread.

For which this marquis wrought in this mannére:

He came at night alone there as she lay,

With sternë face and with full troubled cheer,

And saidë thus; “Griseld’,” quoth he “that day

That I you took out of your poor array,

And put you in estate of high nobléss,

Ye have it not forgotten, as I guess.

“I say, Griseld’, this present dignity,

In which that I have put you, as I trow

Maketh you not forgetful for to be

That I you took in poor estate full low,

For any weal you must yourselfë know.

Take heed of every word that I you say,

There is no wight that hears it but we tway.

“Ye know yourself well how that ye came here

Into this house, it is not long ago;

And though to me ye be right lefe and dear,

Unto my gentles ye be nothing so:

They say, to them it is great shame and woe

For to be subject, and be in serváge,

To thee, that born art of small lineage.

“And namely since thy daughter was y-bore

These wordës have they spoken doubtëless;

But I desire, as I have done before,

To live my life with them in rest and peace:

I may not in this case be reckëless;

I must do with thy daughter for the best,

Not as I would, but as my gentles lest.

“And yet, God wot, this is full loth to me:

But natheless withoutë your weeting

I will nought do; but this will I,” quoth he,

“That ye to me assenten in this thing.

Shew now your patience in your working,

That ye me hight and swore in your villáge

The day that maked was our marriáge.”

When she had heard all this, she not amev’d

Neither in word, in cheer, nor countenance

(For, as it seemed, she was not aggriev’d);

She saidë; “Lord, all lies in your pleasánce,

My child and I, with hearty obeisánce

Be yourës all, and ye may save or spill

Your owen thing: work then after your will.

“There may no thing, so God my soulë save,

Likë to you, that may displeasë me:

Nor I desire nothing for to have,

Nor dreadë for to lose, save only ye:

This will is in mine heart, and aye shall be,

No length of time, nor death, may this deface,

Nor change my corage to another place.”

Glad was the marquis for her answering,

But yet he feigned as he were not so;

All dreary was his cheer and his looking

When that he should out of the chamber go.

Soon after this, a furlong way or two,

He privily hath told all his intent

Unto a man, and to his wife him sent.

A manner sergeant was this private man,

The which he faithful often founden had

In thingës great, and eke such folk well can

Do executión in thingës bad:

The lord knew well, that he him loved and drad.

And when this sergeant knew his lordë’s will,

Into the chamber stalked he full still.

“Madam,” he said, “ye must forgive it me,

Though I do thing to which I am constrain’d;

Ye be so wise, that right well knowë ye

That lordës’ hestës may not be y-feign’d;

They may well be bewailed and complain’d,

But men must needs unto their lust obey;

And so will I, there is no more to say.

“This child I am commanded for to take.”

And spake no more, but out the child he hent

Dispiteously, and gan a cheer to make

As though he would have slain it ere he went.

Griseldis must all suffer and consent:

And as a lamb she sat there meek and still,

And let this cruel sergeant do his will.

Suspicious was the diffame of this man,

Suspect his face, suspect his word also,

Suspect the time in which he this began:

Alas! her daughter, that she loved so,

She weened he would have it slain right tho,

But natheless she neither wept nor siked,

Conforming her to what the marquis liked.

But at the last to speakë she began,

And meekly she unto the sergeant pray’d,

So as he was a worthy gentle man,

That she might kiss her child, ere that it died:

And in her barme this little child she laid,

With full sad face, and gan the child to bless,

And lulled it, and after gan it kiss.

And thus she said in her benignë voice:

“Farewell, my child, I shall thee never see;

But since I have thee marked with the cross,

Of that father y-blessed may’st thou be

That for us died upon a cross of tree:

Thy soul, my little child, I him betake,

For this night shalt thou dien for my sake.”

I trow that to a norice in this case

It had been hard this ruthë for to see:

Well might a mother then have cried, “Alas!”

But natheless so sad steadfást was she,

That she endured all adversity,

And to the sergeant meekëly she said,

“Have here again your little youngë maid.

“Go now,” quoth she, “and do my lord’s behest.

And one thing would I pray you of your grace,

But if my lord forbade you at the least,

Bury this little body in some place,

That neither beasts nor birdës it arace.”

But he no word would to that purpose say,

But took the child and went upon his way.

The sergeant came unto his lord again,

And of Griselda’s words and of her cheer

He told him point for point, in short and plain,

And him presented with his daughter dear.

Somewhat this lord had ruth in his mannére,

But natheless his purpose held he still,

As lordës do, when they will have their will;

And bade this sergeant that he privily

Shouldë the child full softly wind and wrap,

With allë circumstances tenderly,

And carry it in a coffer, or in lap;

But, upon pain his head off for to swap,

That no man shouldë know of his intent,

Nor whence he came, nor whither that he went;

But at Bologna, to his sister dear,

That at that time of Panic’ was Countéss,

He should it take, and shew her this mattere,

Beseeching her to do her business

This child to foster in all gentleness,

And whosë child it was he bade her hide

From every wight, for aught that might betide.

The sergeant went, and hath fulfill’d this thing.

But to the marquis now returnë we;

For now went he full fast imagining

If by his wifë’s cheer he mightë see,

Or by her wordës apperceive, that she

Were changed; but he never could her find,

But ever-in-one alikë sad and kind.

As glad, as humble, as busy in servíce,

And eke in love, as she was wont to be,

Was she to him, in every manner wise;

And of her daughter not a word spake she;

No accident for no adversity

Was seen in her, nor e’er her daughter’s name

She named, or in earnest or in game.