That he n'ill find it out in som manere?

By Pyramus and Thisbe may men lere;
Though they were kept ful long and streit over all,
They ben accorded, rowning thurgh a wall,
Ther no wight coude han founden swiche a sleighte.
But now to purpos; er that daies eighte
Were passed of the month of Juil, befill,
That January hath caught so gret a will,
Thurgh egging of his wif, him for to play
In his gardin, and no wight but they tway,
That in a morwe unto this May said he;
Rise up, my wif, my love, my lady free;
The turtles vois is herd, myn owen swete;
The winter is gon, with all his raines wete.
Come forth now with thin eyen columbine.
Wel fairer ben thy brests than ony wine.
The gardin is enclosed all aboute;
Come forth, my white spouse, for out of doute,
Thou hast me wounded in myn herte, o wif:
No spot in thee n'as never in all thy lif.
Come forth, and let us taken our disport,
I chese thee for my wif and my comfort.
Swiche olde lewed wordes used he.

On Damian a signe made she,

That he shuld go before with his cliket.
This Damian hath opened the wiket,

And in he stert, and that in swiche manere,
That no wight might him see neyther yhere,
And still he sit under a bush. Anon

This January, as blind as is a ston,
With Maius in his hand, and no wight mo,
Into this freshe gardin is ago,

And clapped to the wiket sodenly.

Now, wif, quod he, here n'is but thou, and I,

That art the creature that I best love:

For by that lord that sit in heven above,
I hadde lever dien on a knif,

Than thee offenden, dere trewe wif.

For Goddes sake, thinke how I thee chees,
Not for no covetise douteles,

But only for the love I had to thee.

And though that I be old and may not see,
Beth to me trewe, and I wol tell you why;
Certes three thinges shal ye win therby;
First love of Crist, and to yourself honour,
And all min heritage, toun and tour.
I yeve it you, maketh chartres as you lest:
This shal be don to-morwe er sonne rest,
So wisly God my soule bring to blisse;
I pray you on this covenant ye me kisse.
And though that I be jalous, wite me nought;
Ye ben so depe enprented in my thought,
That whan that I consider your beautee,
And therwithall the unlikely elde of me,
I may not certes, though I shulde die,
Forbere to ben out of your compagnie
For veray love; this is withouten doute:
Now kisse me, wif, and let us rome aboute.
This freshe May, whan she thise wordes herd,
Benignely to January answerd,

But first and forward she began to wepe:

I have, quod she, a soule for to kepe
As wel as ye, and also min honour,
And of my wifhood thilke tendre flour,
Which that I have assured in

your hond,
Whan that the preest to you my body bond:
Wherfore I wol answere in this manere,
With leve of you, myn owen lord so dere.

I pray to God that never daw that day,
That I ne sterve, as foule as woman may,
If ever I do unto my kin that shame,
Or elles I empeire so my name,

That I be false; and if I do that lakke,
Do stripen me and put me in a sakke,
And in the nexte river do me drenche:
I am a gentil woman, and no wenche.
Why speke ye thus? but men ben ever untrewe,
And women han reprefe cf you ay newe.
Ye con non other daliance, I leve,
But speke to us as of untrust and repreve.
And with that word she saw wher Damian
Sat in the bush, and coughen she began;
And with hire finger a signe made she,
That Damian shuld climbe up on a tre,
That charged was with fruit, and up
For veraily he knew all hire entent,
And every signe that she coude make,
Wel bet than January hire owen make.
For in a lettre she had told him all

he went:

Of this matere, how that he werken shall.
And thus I let him sitting in the pery,
And January and May roming ful mery.
Bright was the day, and blew the firmament;
Phebus of gold his stremes doun hath sent
To gladen every flour with his warmnesse;
He was that time in Geminis, I gesse,
But litel fro his declination

Of Cancer, Joves exaltation.

And so befell in that bright morwe tide,
That in the gardin, on the ferther side,
Pluto, that is the king of Faerie,
And many a ladie in his compagnie

Folwing his wif, the quene Proserpina,
Which that he ravisshed out of Ethna,
While that she gadred floures in the mede,
(In Claudian ye may the story rede,
How that hire in his grisely carte he fette)
This king of Faerie adoun him sette
Upon a benche of turves freshe and grene,
And right anon thus said he to his quene.
My wif, quod he, ther may no wight say nay,
The experience so preveth it every day,
The treson which that woman doth to man.
Ten hundred thousand stories tell I can
Notable of your untrouth and brotelnesse.
O Salomon, richest of all richesse,
Fulfilled of sapience, and worldly glorie,
Ful worthy ben thy wordes to memorie
To every wight, that wit and reson can.
Thus praiseth he the bountee yet of man;
Among a thousand men yet fond I on,
But of all women fond I never non.

Thus saith this king, that knewe your wikkednesse;
And Jesus, Filius Sirach, as I gesse,
He speketh of you but selden reverence.
A wilde fire, a corrupt pestilence,
So fall upon your bodies yet to-night:
Ne see ye not this honourable knight?
Because, alas! that he is blind and old,
His owen man shal make him cokewold.
Lo, wher he sit, the lechour, in the tree.
Now wol I graunten of my majestee
Unto this olde blinde worthy knight,
That he shal have again his eyen sight,
Whan that his wif wol don him vilanie;
Than shal he knowen all hire harlotrie,

Both in reprefe of hire and other mo.

Ye, sire, quod Proserpine, and wol ye so?
Now by my modre Ceres soule I swere,
That I shal yeve hire suffisant answere,
And alle women after for hire sake;
That though they ben in any gilt ytake,
With face bold they shul hemselve excuse,
And bere hem doun that wolden hem accuse.
For lacke of answere, non of us shul dien.
Al had ye seen a thing with bothe youre eyen,
Yet shul we so visage it hardely,

And wepe and swere and chiden subtilly,
That ye shul ben as lewed as ben gees.

What rekketh me of your auctoritees?
I wote wel that this Jewe, this Salomon,
Fond of us women fooles many on:
But though that he ne fond no good woman,
Ther hath yfonden many an other man
Women ful good, and trewe, and vertuous;
Witnesse on hem that dwelte in Cristes hous,
With martyrdom they preved hir constance.
The Romain gestes maken remembrance
Of many a veray trewe wif also.

But, sire, ne be not wroth, al be it so,
Though that he said he fond no good woman,
I pray you take the sentence of the man:
He ment thus, That in soverain bountee
N'is non but God, no, nouther he ne she.

Ey, for the veray God that n'is but on,
What maken ye so moche of Salomon?
What though he made a temple, Goddes hous?
What though he riche were and glorious?
So made he eke a temple of false goddes,
How might he don a thing that more forbode is?