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Now, sire, and eft, sire, so bifel the casThat on a day this hende NicholasFil with this Yonge wyf to rage and pleye,Whil that hir housbonde was at Oseeneye,As clerkes ben ful subtile and ful queynte;And prively he caughte hire by the queynte,And said, "Ywis, but if ich have my wille,For derne love of thee, lemman, I spille,"And heeld hire harde by the haunche-bones,And saide, "Lemman, love me al atones,Or I wol dien, also God me save."And she sproong as a colt dooth in a trave,And with hir heed she wried faste away;She saide, "I wol nat kisse thee, by my fay.Why, lat be," quod she, "lat be, Nicholas!Or I wol crye 'Out, harrow, and allas!'Do way youre handes, for your curteisye!"

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