And axeth, as it were in game,
What love was. And I for schame
Ne wiste what I scholde ansuere;
And natheles I gan to swere
That be my trouthe I knew him noght;
So ferr it was out of mi thoght,
P. iii. 372
Riht as it hadde nevere be.
‘Mi goode Sone,’ tho quod sche,
‘Now at this time I lieve it wel,