The herde him seghth, and was of-drad:
He dorst nowt fle he was so mad.

Up to the hawe-tre he steghth;
The bor him com swithe neghth,
And he ne findeth hawe non,
As he was i-wont to don.

He loked up and segth the herd;"
He criede, and makede rewli rerd;
He wette his tossches and his fet,

910

The erthe with his snowte he bet.
Thourgh the mouht the fom was wight,
The tusches in the tre he smit;
The tre aresede as hit wold falle,
The herd was sori adrad withalle,
And gan sone on knes to falle.:
This segth the herd-man

That the bor falle bigan.

He kest the bor doun hawes anowe,

And com himself doun bi a bowe.

With the left hond he heng, or oth

And with the right hond on the bor he feng.

He clew the bor on the rigge, 21

And he bigan doun to ligge,

He clewe him eft upon the wombe;
He fil adoun als a lombe ;
He lek his eghen, and gan to slape.
The knif drouth the herde knape,

930

Out he drough scharp an long;

The bor to the herte he stong.
The herd thous, with his long knif,
Biraft the bor of his lif.

He went him forth, and let him ligge.

"Lo, sire emperour, I thè sigge,

Thou art the bor; thi maister thè clawes,
With fals resoun, and wikkede sawes;
And on the he wetteth his teth,
Til thai thè bringge to thi deth.

With clawing thai sculle thè desceiue,
Til thai thè sle with dethes glaiue,"
"Certes, dame, I sigge no:
Hit schal nevere bifalle so.
Forsothe he sschal tomorewe dai,
Withouten ani more derai!"

And sche saide, ones other twiis,

"Gentil sire, graunt-mercys!

To dethe him do er hit be night."

God yif the therto strengthe and might:

The night passede, the dai com.

The highe emperour of Rom
Went adoun of his tour,

With herte wroth, and gret irour.
Men unkek gate and halle-dore.
Barouns entrede in astore;

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950

Sone was filt paleys and tour.
In com gon th' emperour
Biforen hem, in grete traye;
He het mani a wikke boié

His sone lede toward the hangging:

Hit was i-do withouten letting.

And right amideward the pres

960

Come ride maister Ancilles,
That the childes other maister was,
And i-segh that ferli cas.

Toward the balle he gan driue,
And highede thider fast and bliue,
And fond sone that emperour,
And gret him sone with honour.
Th' emperour, sikerliche,
On him loked litherliche;

And to the maister he saide thore,
"Maugre have thou for thi lore!
Thou hast i-serued wikked mede;

Thou schalt hit haue, so Crist me spede!"
Than saide maister Ancilles,

"For Godes loue, sire, hold thi pes!

Wiltou sle thin owen sone?

To ben milde hit was thi wone!"

"Hit n'is no wonder, saide th' emperour,

970

980

Thou schalt be an-honged, thou vile loseniour.

Ich tok thè mi sone to lore,

For to teche him wisdom more,

And

ye

His speche is loren, ich am desmaid.

Mi wif he wolde haue forht i-take!

To deth (he seide) he schal ben don with wrake." Than seide the maister," Hit is non hale

To leve stepmoderes tale,

For here bolt is sone i-schote,

More to harm than to note,

Yif thou him [slai] bi hire purchas,

On the falle swich a cas,

Als fil on Ypocras the gode clerk,
That slow his neveu with fals werk."

"Maister, he seide, tel me that cas
Of the scoler and of Ypocras.”
Ancilles said als so tit,

"Thi sone to-dai mak thou quit,
Til to-morewe hit be dai light,
And I thè scha[l] telle, anon right,
With gret felonie and with wouhgh,
Hou Ypocras his neveu slowgh."

"I schal him respite," saide th' emperour ;
And het anon, withouten soiour,

Men scholde ayèn fechche his sone,

And caste him into prisone.

The child was brout into the toun,

With a fair processioun,

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1000

1010

And into prisoun pilt he was.

Nou ginneth the tale of Ypocras,

TALE IV.

THE TALE OF YPOCRAS AND HIS NEVEU.

"SIRE, Ypocras was maister here;
Of leche-craft was non his pere.
He hadde with him his nevèu ;
That schild lere of his vertu.

He segh the child so queinte of lore,
He wolde techen him nammore.
He thoughte wel, at a score,
He sscholde passi him before.

The child aparceiued wel this,
And held hit in his herte, I wis.
His emes werk he gan aspie,
Til he couthe al his maistrie.
Tho Ypocras wel he fond,
Bi craft of the childes hond,
That he couthe al his mastrìe,

And brast negh forth onde and vie.

So bifel vpon a time ying,

1

41

1020

Of Hongrie the riche king,

Hadde swich a sone gent;

To Ypocras anon he sent,

That he scholde come his sone to hale,

And habbe gold ful a male.

1030