"And thanne saue him other slen,
Bi conseil of thi gentil men."
The emperour than spared his sone,
And het him caste in his prisòne.
The emperice was fol wroth
That the child was spared, forsoht,
And wel mochel hit here traid.
Sche thought wel more thanne sche said.
An even late, the emperour
Was browt to bedde with hondur.
The emperice, his worhtli fere,
To him cam with lourand chere,
And the emperour asked why
Sche made semblant so sorì.
"O sire, sche saide, no wouder n'is;
For now to londe i-comen is,
He that schal, in thin eld age,
Benime the thin heritage."
"Pais, dame! who schal that be?"—
"Thin howen sone, I segge thè."-
"Min owen sone? dame, nay!
Ne schalt tou neuere se that dai,
That he schal haue ani might
"Pais, sire, what halt hit heled
To-dai tho hast him fram deth i-speled.
Ase wel mot hit like thè,
Of his ympe that he forht browte."
The emperour lai and more thoughte;
And bad hire, with semblannt fre,
Tellen him of that ilche tre,
And of the ympe, al the cas,
THE PINNOTE-TREE AND ITS YMPE.
"WHILOM a riche burgeis was,
And woned her in Rome toun;
A riche man of gret renoun.
He hadde, bihinden his palèys,
A fair gardin of noblàys,
Ful of appel tres, and als of pirie;
Foules songe therinne murie.
Amideward that gardyn fre,
So wax a pinnote-tre,
That hadde fair bowes and frut;
Ther-under was al his dedwt.
He made ther-under a grene bench,
And drank ther-under mani a sscench.
Certes, therinne was al his playing
In time of solas, and his resting. "So bifel upon a dai,
The burgeis fram home tok his wai;
He boughte marchaundise, and his chaffàre,
And bileued oute al a yare.
Al so sone so he mighte,
Homward he gan him dighte.
Whan he was lith at his in,
Quik he wente to his gardin,
His fair tre for to sen;
Thanne seggh he wexe a litel stren,
A yong ympe vt of his rote;
Fair hit him thoughte, and swote.
Ac that
ympe that so sprong,
Hit was sschort and nothing long.
The burgeis cleped his gardiner.
"Lo, he saide, lo me her!
Seste thou this ympe, of gret mounde,
Kanst thou me telle gode bounde,
Whi hit is so short wering?"
"Ya, sire, he saide, be heuene king!
The grete bough that over him is,
So him bisschadeweth, I wis;
That hit mai haue no thedom."
"Neghe up, he saide, mi gode grom,
And hak awai the grete bough,
That hit ne do min ympe no wough."
The gardiner, as his louerd het,
Hew awai the bough al swet,
And asked yif hit was wel i-do.
Another he bad him kit therto ;-
"Than mai, withouten letting,
Min himpe jolifliche spring."
Nou ben hise bowes awai i-sschore,
And mochel of his beauté forlore.
The ympe had roum, and wexeth fast.
The olde tre his vertu gan acast :
For no wonder hit n'is,
Of the maister-rote hit is
Out i-sprong, and out i-sschet,
And his bowes awai i-kett;
Tharfore that olde tre les his pride,
And asered bi that o side.
The gode burgeis, on a dai,
His ympe thriuende he sai,
Fair i-woxe and fair i-sprad,
But the olde tre was abrad.
He clepid his gardener tho,
And asked whi the olde tre verd so.
He answerede, als he wel couthe,
"Sikerliche, ich telle thè nouthe,
The yonge impe that wide springes,
Had large roum in alle thingges,
And, for the elde tre is so i-hewed,
Hit [is] so wikked and so sschrewed."
The burgeis seide, " Seththe the elde
Biginneth so to unbelde,
Hewe him to the grounde dounright;
Lat the yonge tre atire, aplight.
Thous was the olde tre doun i-thrawe,
And the yonge tre forht i-drawe.
"Gode sire, gent and fre,
That olde tre bitokneth thè.
The yonge bitokneth thi sone wode,
That is i-spronge out of thi blode.
He sschal be sone forht i-drawe,
And maister; and thou his knaue.
Hit wil wel sone ben i-do,
And thou take kep therto:
And but thou do, thou ne hast no might.
That I biseke to oure dright,
That als hit mote fare bi thè,
As dede bi the pinnote-tre."
"Certes, dame, thou seist for nowt;
I ne schal neuere so bin bicaught.
Ich the bihote, sikerliche,
He schal, tomorewe erliche,
To deth be don; and that is right."
And thous passede the ferste night.
Amorewe aros the emperour,
And mani baroun of gret honoùr.
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