It befel upon a Fryday on Mydsomyr Evyn in rygth hot wedyr, as this creatur was komyng fro Yorkeward beryng a botel wyth bere in hir hand and hir husbond a cake in hys bosom, he askyd hys wyfe this qwestyon, "Margery, if her come a man wyth a swerd and wold smyte of myn hed les than I schulde comown kendly wyth yow as I have do befor, seyth me trewth of yowr consciens - for ye sey ye wyl not lye - whether wold ye suffyr myn hed to be smet of er ellys suffyr me to medele wyth yow agen as I dede sumtyme?"
"Alas, ser," sche seyd, "why meve ye this mater and have we ben chast this eight wekys?" 
"For I wyl wete the trewth of yowr hert." 
And than sche seyd wyth gret sorwe, "Forsothe I had levar se yow be slayn than we schuld turne agen to owyr unclennesse."