And ye han him bitreid :

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 the 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 prisòne.

The child was brout into the toun,

With a fair processioun,

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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,

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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.

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Ypocras wende ne might,

But cleped his neveu, anon right,
And bad him wenden to that lond,
And that schild take an hond;
And, whan he hadde so i-do,

He scholde ayèn comen him to.
The schild was set on a palefrai,
And forht he tok the righte way.
And whan he com to that lond,
The king him tok bi the hond,
And ladde him to his sike childe.
Now Crist of hevene be ous milde !
The yonge man segh the childes peyne,
And tasted his senewe, and his veyne,

He taketh an vrinal for to sen;

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He ne segh nowt of the kyng, but of the quen :

And of the child, God hit wite,

He segh hit was a mis-beyete.
He gan the leuedi aside drawe.
"Dame, he saide, be aknawe
What man had biyete this child?”
"What? sche saide, artou wild?

Who sschulde him biyete but the king?"
"Dame, he saide, that is soht no thing!
Hit n'as neuere of kinges stren."

"Let, sche saide, swich wordes ben,
Other I schal do bete the so,
That tho schalt neuere ride ne go."

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"Dame, he saide, bi swiche tale,

Thi sone schal neuere more ben hale;
Ac tal me, dame, al the cas,

Hou the child biyeten was."

"Belami, sche saide, so."

"Par fai, dame, he saide, no!”

And schok his heved vpon the quen.

“Dame, he saide, thai yhe wille me slen, 1070

I ne mai do thi sone no bot,

But yif I wite the sothe rot,

Of what man hit was biyete."

"Maister, sche saide, that mai no man wite.

Yif mi conseil were vnhele,

Ich were i-slawe bi righte skele."

“ Dame, he seide, so mot ich thê, I n'elle nevere biwraie thè."

"O meister, sche seide, so hit bifel;

This enderdai, in on Aueril,

The Erl of Naverne com to this thede,

Wel atired, in riche wede,

With mi louerd for to plai;
And so he dede, mani a dai.
That ich erl I gan to loue,
Al erthliche thing aboue :
And so, par gret druri,
I let that erl ligge me bi,

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And thous hit was on me biyete.

A! leue maister, let no man wite!"

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"Nai, dame, for sothe, I wis;
But, for he was biyeten amis,
Hit mot bothe drink and ete
Contrarius drink, contrarius mete,
Beues flesch, and drink the brotht."
He gaf the child anon therof.
The child warisscht fair and wel;
The kyng yaf him mani a juèl,
To the leche, of silver and goold,
Als mochel als he nime wold.

"He wente hom with that eighte;

And Ypocras, anon right,

He asked yif that the schild was sound?
"Ye, sire, he saide, bi Seint Simond."
He asked, "What was his medicine?"
"Beff and broth gode afine."
"What than was he an auetrol ?"
"Thou seist soht, sire, be mi pol."

Quath Ypocras, " Bi the gode dome,
Thou art bicome al to wis a grome!"
Ther he thoughte, ayèn resoun,
To don him strong tresoun.

"So bifel, upon a dai,

He and his neveu yede to plai,
In a fair grene gardin,

Therin wex mani an herbe fin.
On thei seghen in the grounde,

That was an herbe of gret mounde;

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