Ye coude nat doon so dishoneste a thing, (820)
That thilke wombe in which your children leye
Sholde, biforn the peple, in my walking,
Be seyn al bare; wherfor I yow preye,
Lat me nat lyk a worm go by the weye. 880
Remembre yow, myn owene lord so dere,
I was your wyf, thogh I unworthy were.
Wherfor, in guerdon of my maydenhede,
Which that I broghte, and noght agayn I bere,
As voucheth sauf to yeve me, to my mede, 885
But swich a smok as I was wont to were, (830)
That I therwith may wrye the wombe of here
That was your wyf; and heer take I my leve
Of yow, myn owene lord, lest I yow greve.’