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?
Parde as faire as ye his name emplastre, He was a lechour, and an idolastre, And in his elde he veray God forsoke. And if that God ne hadde (as saith the boke) Spared him for his fathers sake, he sholde Han lost his regne rather than he wolde. I sete nat of all the vilanie, That he of women wrote, a boterflie. I am a woman, nedes moste I speke, Or swell unto that time min herte breke. For sin he said that we ben jangleresses, As ever mote I brouken hole my tresses, I shal nat sparen for no curtesie
To speke him harm, that sayth us vilanie.
Dame, quod this Pluto, be no lenger wroth, I yeve it up: but sin I swore min oth,
That I wold graunten him his sight again, My word shal stand, that warne I I am a king, it sit me not to lie.
And I, quod she, am quene of Faerie. Hire answere she shal han I undertake, Let us no more wordes of it make. Forsoth, quod he, I wol you not contrary. Now let us turne again to January, That in the gardin with his faire May Singeth wel merier than the popingay: You love I best, and shal, and other non. So long about the alleyes is he gon, Til he was comen again to thilke pery, Wher as this Damian sitteth ful mery On high, among the freshe leves grene.
This freshe May, that is so bright and shene, Gan for to sike, and said; alas my side! Now, sire, quod she, for ought that may betide
I moste have of the peres that I see, Or I moste die, so sore longeth me To eten of the smale peres grene: Help for hire love that is of heven quene. I tell you wel a woman in my plit May have to fruit so gret an appetit, That she may dien, but she of it have.
Alas! quod he, that I n'adde here a knave, That coude climbe, alas! alas! (quod he) For I am blinde. Ye, sire, no force, quod she; But wold ye vouchesauf for Goddes sake, The pery in with your armes for to take, (For wel I wot that ye mistrusten me) Than wold I climben wel ynough, (quod she) So I my fote might setten on your back. Certes, said he, therin shal be no lack, Might I you helpen with min herte blood. He stoupeth doun, and on his back she stood, And caught hire by a twist, and up she goth. (Ladies, I pray you that ye be not wroth, I can nat glose, I am a rude man:) And sodenly anon this Damian
Gan pullen up the smock, and in he throng.
And whan that Pluto saw this grete wrong,
To January he yaf again his sight,
And made him see as wel as ever he might. And whan he thus had caught his sight again, Ne was ther never man of thing so fain: But on his wif his thought was ever mo.
Up to the tree he cast his eyen two, And saw how Damian his wife had dressed In swiche manere, it may not ben expressed, But if I wolde speke uncurteisly.
And up he yaf a roring and a cry,
As doth the mother whan the child shal die; Out! helpe! alas! harow! he gan to cry; O stronge lady store, what doest thou?
And she answered: sire, what aileth you? Have patience and reson in your minde, I have you holpen on both your eyen blinde. Up peril of my soule, I shal nat lien,
As me was taught to helpen with your eyen, Was nothing better for to make you see, Than strogle with a man upon a tree: God wot, I did it in ful good entent. Strogle! quod he, ye, algate in it went. God yeve you both on shames deth to dien! He swived thee; I saw it with min eyen; And elles be I honged by the halse.
Than is, quod she, my medicine al false, For certainly, if that ye mighten see, Ye wold not say thise wordes unto me. Ye have som glimsing, and no parfit sight. I see, quod he, as wel as ever I might, (Thanked be God) with both min eyen two, And by my feith me thought he did thee so.
Ye mase, ye masen, goode sire, quod she; This thank have I for I have made you see: Alas! quod she, that ever I was so kind.
Now, dame, quod he, let al passe out of mind: Come doun, my lefe, and if I have missaid, God helpe me so, as I am evil apaid. But by my fadres soule, I wende have sein, How that this Damian had by thee lein, And that thy smock had lein upon his brest. Ye, sire, quod she, ye may wene as you lest: But, sire, a man that waketh of his slepe, He may not sodenly wel taken kepe
Upon a thing, ne seen it parfitly, Til that he be adawed veraily.
Right so a man, that long hath blind ybe, He may not sodenly so wel ysee,
First whan his sight his newe comen agein, As he that hath a day or two ysein. Til that your sight ysateled be a while, Ther may ful many a sighte you begile. Beware, I pray you, for by heven king Ful many a man weneth to see a thing, And it is all another than it semeth:
He which that misconceiveth oft misdemeth. And with that word she lep doun fro the tree. This January who is glad but he?
He kisseth hire, and clippeth hire ful oft, And on hire wombe he stroketh hire ful soft; And to his paleis home he hath hire lad. Now, goode men, I pray you to be glad. Thus endeth here my tale of Januarie, God blesse us, and his moder Seinte Marie.
THE SQUIERES PROLOGUE. By Goddes mercy, sayde oure Hoste tho, Now swiche a wif I preie God kepe me fro. Lo, swiche sleightes and subtilitees In women ben; for ay as besy as bees Ben they us sely men for to deceive, And from a sothe wol they ever weive. By this Marchantes tale it preveth wel. But natheles, as trewe as any stele, I have a wif, though that she poure be; But of hire tonge a labbing shrewe is she;
« AnteriorContinuar » |