And she the most servíceable of all
Hath ev’ry chamber arrayed, and his hall.
Abouten undern2675 gan the earl alight,
That with him brought these noble children tway;
For which the people ran to see the sight
Of their array, so richëly besey;2676
And then at erst2677 amongës them they say,
That Walter was no fool, though that him lest2678
To change his wife; for it was for the best.
For she is fairer, as they deemen2679 all,
Than is Griseld’, and more tender of age,
And fairer fruit between them shouldë fall,
And morë pleasant, for her high lineage:
Her brother eke so fair was of viságe,
That them to see the people hath caught pleasánce,
Commending now the marquis’ governance.
“O stormy people, unsad2680 and ev’r untrue,
And undiscreet, and changing as a vane,
Delighting ev’r in rumour that is new,
For like the moon so waxë ye and wane:
Aye full of clapping, dear enough a jane,2681
Your doom2682 is false, your constance evil preveth,2683
A full great fool is he that you believeth.”
Thus saidë the sad2684 folk in that citý,
When that the people gazed up and down;
For they were glad, right for the novelty,
To have a newë lady of their town.
No more of this now make I mentioún,
But to Griseld’ again I will me dress,
And tell her constancy and business.
Full busy was Griseld’ in ev’ry thing
That to the feastë was appertinent;
Right nought was she abash’d2685 of her clothing,
Though it were rude, and somedeal eke to-rent;2686
But with glad cheer unto the gate she went
With other folk, to greet the marchioness,
And after that did forth her business.
With so glad cheer his guestës she receiv’d
And so conningly2687 each in his degree,
That no defaultë no man apperceiv’d,
But aye they wonder’d what she mightë be
That in so poor array was for to see,
And coudë2688 such honoúr and reverence;
And worthily they praisë her prudence.
In all this meanë whilë she not stent2689
This maid, and eke her brother, to commend
With all her heart in full benign intent,
So well, that no man could her praise amend:
But at the last, when that these lordës wend2690
To sittë down to meat, he gan to call
Griseld’, as she was busy in the hall.
“Griseld’,” quoth he, as it were in his play,
“How liketh thee my wife, and her beauty?”
“Right well, my Lord,” quoth she, “for, in good fay,2691
A fairer saw I never none than she:
I pray to God give you prosperity;
And so I hope, that he will to you send
Pleasance enough unto your livës’ end.
“One thing beseech I you, and warn also,
That ye not prickë with no tórmentíng
This tender maiden, as ye have done mo:2692
For she is foster’d in her nourishing
More tenderly, and, to my supposing,
She mightë not adversity endure
As could a poorë foster’d creatúre.”
And when this Walter saw her patience,
Her gladdë cheer, and no malíce at all,
And2693 he so often had her done offence,
And she aye sad2694 and constant as a wall,
Continuing ev’r her innocence o’er all,
The sturdy marquis gan his heartë dress2695
To rue upon her wifely steadfastness.
“This is enough, Griselda mine,” quoth he,
“Be now no more aghast, nor evil paid,2696
I have thy faith and thy benignity
As well as ever woman was, assay’d,
In great estate and poorëly array’d:
Now know I, dearë wife, thy steadfastness;”
And her in arms he took, and gan to kiss.
And she for wonder took of it no keep;2697
She heardë not what thing he to her said:
She far’d as she had start out of a sleep,
Till she out of her mazedness abraid.2698
“Griseld’,” quoth he, “by God that for us died,
Thou art my wifë, none other I have,
Nor ever had, as God my soulë save.
“This is thy daughter, which thou hast suppos’d
To be my wife; that other faithfully
Shall be mine heir, as I have aye dispos’d;
Thou bare them of thy body truëly:
At Bologna kept I them privily:
Take them again, for now may’st thou not say
That thou hast lorn2699 none of thy children tway.
“And folk, that otherwise have said of me,
I warn them well, that I have done this deed
For no malíce, nor for no cruelty,
But to assay in thee thy womanhead:
And not to slay my children (God forbid),
But for to keep them privily and still,
Till I thy purpose knew, and all thy will.”
When she this heard, in swoon adown she falleth
For piteous joy; and after her swooning,
She both her youngë children to her calleth,
And in her armës piteously weeping
Embraced them, and tenderly kissing,
Full like a mother, with her saltë tears
She bathed both their visage and their hairs.
O, what a piteous thing it was to see
Her swooning, and her humble voice to hear!
“Grand mercy, Lord, God thank it you,” quoth she,
That ye have saved me my children dear;
Now reck2700 I never to be dead right here;
Since I stand in your love, and in your grace,
No force of2701 death, nor when my spirit pace.2702
“O tender, O dear, O young children mine,
Your woeful mother weened steadfastly2703
That cruel houndës, or some foul vermíne,
Had eaten you; but God of his mercy,
And your benignë father tenderly
Have done you keep:”2704 and in that samë stound,2705
All suddenly she swapt2706 down to the ground.
And in her swoon so sadly2707 holdeth she
Her children two, when she gan them embrace,
That with great sleight2708 and great difficulty
The children from her arm they can arace,2709
O! many a tear on many a piteous face
Down ran of them that stoodë her beside,
Unneth2710 aboutë her might they abide.
Walter her gladdeth, and her sorrow slaketh:2711
She riseth up abashed2712 from her trance,
And every wight her joy and feastë maketh,
Till she hath
