That prince come prowdly to the toun,
Of that gyane to heir, 50
And fawcht with him, his awin persoun,
And tuke him presonier,
And kest him in his awin dungeoun,
Allane withouttin feir,
With hungir, cawld, and confusioun, 55
As full weill worthy weir;
Syne brak the bour, had hame the bricht,
[Vnto hir fadir he;]
Sa evil wondit was the knycht,
That he behuvit to de. 60
Unlusum was his likame dicht,
His sark was all bludy;
In all the warld was thair a wicht
So petyouse for to se!
The lady murnyt, and maid grit mone, 65
With all her mekle micht:
"I lufit nevir lufe, bot one,
That dulfully now is dicht!
God sen my lyfe wer fra me tone,
Or I had sene yone sicht; 70
Or ellis in begging evir to gone,
Furth with yone curtass knycht!"
He said, "Fair lady, now mone I
De, trestly ye me trow:
Tak ye my sark that is bludy, 75
And hing it forrow yow:
First think on it, and syne on me,
Quhen men cumis yow to wow."
The lady said, "Be Mary fre,
Thairto I mak a wow." 80
Quhen that scho lukit to the serk,
Scho thocht on the persoun,
And prayit for him with all hir harte,
That lowsd hir of bandoun,
Quhair scho was wont to sit full merk, 85
In that deip dungéoun;
And ever quhill scho wes in quert,
That wass hir a lessoun.
Sa weill the lady luvit the knycht,
That no man wald scho tak: 90
Sa suld we do our God of micht
That did all for us mak;
Quhilk fullély to deid was dicht,
For sinfull manis saik;
Sa suld we do both day and nycht, 95
With prayaris to him mak.
MORALITAS.
This king is lyk the trinitie,
Baith in hevin and heir:
The manis saule to the lady,
The gyane to Lucefeir: 100
The knycht to Chryst, that deit on tre,
And coft our synnis deir:
The pit to hell, with panis fell,
The syn to the woweir.
The lady was wowd, but scho said nay, 105
With men that wald hir wed;
Sa suld we wryth all syn away,
That in our breistis bred.
I pray to Jesu Chryst verrey
For us his blud that bled, 110
To be our help on domysday,
Quhair lawis ar straitly led.
The saule is Godis dochtir deir,
And eik his handewerk,
That was betrasit with Lucifeir, 115
Quha sittis in hell full merk.
Borrowit with Chrystis angell cleir,
Hend men, will ye nocht herk?
For his lufe that bocht us deir,
Think on the Bludy Serk! 120