I wol non old wyf han in no manere.

She shal nat passe twenty yeer, certayn;

Old fish and yong flesh wolde I have ful fayn.

Bet is,’ quod he, ‘a pyk than a pikerel;

And bet than old boef is the tendre veel.

I wol no womman thritty yeer of age,

It is but bene-straw and greet forage.

And eek thise olde widwes, god it woot,

They conne so muchel craft on Wades boot,

So muchel broken harm, whan that hem leste,

That with hem sholde I never live in reste.

For sondry scoles maken sotil clerkis;

Womman of manye scoles half a clerk is.

But certeynly, a yong thing may men gye,

Right as men may warm wex with handes plye.

Wherfore I sey yow pleynly, in a clause,

I wol non old wyf han right for this cause.

For if so were, I hadde swich mischaunce,

That I in hir ne coude han no plesaunce,

Thanne sholde I lede my lyf in avoutrye,

And go streight to the devel, whan I dye.

Ne children sholde I none up-on hir geten;

Yet were me lever houndes had me eten,

Than that myn heritage sholde falle

In straunge hand, and this I tell yow alle.

I dote nat, I woot the cause why

Men sholde wedde, and forthermore wot I,

Ther speketh many a man of mariage,

That woot na-more of it than woot my page,

For whiche causes man sholde take a wyf.

If he ne may nat liven chast his lyf,

Take him a wyf with greet devocioun,

By-cause of leveful procreacioun

Of children, to thonour of god above,

And nat only for paramour or love;

And for they sholde lecherye eschue,

And yelde hir dettes whan that they ben due;

Or for that ech of hem sholde helpen other

In meschief, as a suster shal the brother;

And live in chastitee ful holily.

But sires, by your leve, that am nat I.

For god be thanked, I dar make avaunt,

I fele my limes stark and suffisaunt

To do al that a man bilongeth to;

I woot my-selven best what I may do.

Though I be hoor, I fare as dooth a tree

That blosmeth er that fruyt y-woxen be;

A blosmy tree nis neither drye ne deed.

I fele me nowher hoor but on myn heed;

Myn herte and alle my limes been as grene

As laurer thurgh the yeer is for to sene.

And sin that ye han herd al myn entente,

I prey yow to my wil ye wole assente.’

Placebo seyde, ‘o Ianuarie, brother,

Ful litel nede had ye, my lord so dere,

Conseil to axe of any that is here;

But that ye been so ful of sapience,

That yow ne lyketh, for your heighe prudence,

To weyven fro the word of Salomon.

This word seyde he un-to us everichon:

“Wirk alle thing by conseil,” thus seyde he,

“And thanne shaltow nat repente thee.”

But though that Salomon spak swich a word,

Myn owene dere brother and my lord,

So wisly god my soule bringe at reste,

I hold your owene conseil is the beste.

For brother myn, of me tak this motyf,

I have now been a court-man al my lyf.

And god it woot, though I unworthy be,

I have stonden in ful greet degree

Abouten lordes of ful heigh estaat;

Yet hadde I never with noon of hem debaat.

I never hem contraried, trewely;

I woot wel that my lord can more than I.

What that he seith, I holde it ferme and stable;

I seye the same, or elles thing semblable.

A ful gret fool is any conseillour,

That serveth any lord of heigh honour,

That dar presume, or elles thenken it,

That his conseil sholde passe his lordes wit.

Nay, lordes been no foles, by my fay;

Ye han your-selven shewed heer to-day

So heigh sentence, so holily and weel,

That I consente and conferme every-deel

Your wordes alle, and your opinioun.

By god, ther nis no man in al this toun

Nin al Itaille, that coude bet han sayd;

Crist halt him of this conseil wel apayd.

And trewely, it is an heigh corage

Of any man, that stopen is in age,

To take a yong wyf; by my fader kin,

Your herte hangeth on a Ioly pin.

Doth now in this matere right as yow leste,

For finally I holde it for the beste.’

Iustinus, that ay stille sat and herde,

Right in this wyse to Placebo answerde:

‘Now brother myn, be pacient, I preye,

Sin ye han seyd, and herkneth what I seye.

Senek among his othere wordes wyse

Seith, that a man oghte him right wel avyse,

To whom he yeveth his lond or his catel.

And sin I oghte avyse me right wel

To whom I yeve my good awey fro me,

Wel muchel more I oghte avysed be

To whom I yeve my body; for alwey

I warne yow wel, it is no childes pley

To take a wyf with-oute avysement.

Men moste enquere, this is myn assent,

Wher she be wys, or sobre, or dronkelewe,

Or proud, or elles other-weys a shrewe;

A chydester, or wastour of thy good,

Or riche, or poore, or elles mannish wood.

Al-be-it so that no man finden shal

Noon in this world that trotteth hool in al,

Ne man ne beest, swich as men coude devyse;

But nathelees, it oghte y-nough suffise

With any wyf, if so were that she hadde

Mo gode thewes than hir vyces badde;

And al this axeth leyser for tenquere.

For god it woot, I have wept many a tere

Ful prively, sin I have had a wyf.

Preyse who-so wole a wedded mannes lyf,

Certein, I finde in it but cost and care,

And observances, of alle blisses bare.

And yet, god woot, my neighebores aboute,

And namely of wommen many a route,

Seyn that I have the moste stedefast wyf,

And eek the mekeste oon that bereth lyf.

But I wot best wher wringeth me my sho.

Ye mowe, for me, right as yow lyketh do;

Avyseth yow, ye been a man of age,

How that ye entren in-to mariage,

And namely with a yong wyf and a fair.

By him that made water, erthe, and air,

The yongest man that is in al this route

Is bisy y-nogh to bringen it aboute

To han his wyf allone, trusteth me.

Ye shul nat plese hir fully yeres three,

This is to seyn, to doon hir ful plesaunce.

A wyf axeth ful many an observaunce.

I prey yow that ye be nat yvel apayd.’

Heigh fantasye and curious bisinesse

Fro day to day gan in the soule impresse

Of Ianuarie aboute his mariage.

Many fair shap, and many a fair visage

Ther passeth thurgh his herte, night by night.

As who-so toke a mirour polished bright,

And sette it in a commune market-place,

Than sholde he see many a figure pace

By his mirour; and, in the same wyse,

Gan Ianuarie inwith his thoght devyse

Of maydens, whiche that dwelten him bisyde.

He wiste nat wher that he mighte abyde.

For if that oon have beaute in hir face,

Another stant so in the peples grace

For hir sadnesse, and hir benignitee,

That of the peple grettest voys hath she.

And somme were riche, and hadden badde name.

But nathelees, bitwixe ernest and game,

He atte laste apoynted him on oon,

And leet alle othere from his herte goon,

And chees hir of his owene auctoritee;

For love is blind al day, and may nat see.

And whan that he was in his bed y-broght,

He purtreyed, in his herte and in his thoght,

Hir fresshe beautee and hir age tendre,

Hir myddel smal, hir armes longe and sclendre,

Hir wyse governaunce, hir gentillesse,

Hir wommanly beringe and hir sadnesse.

And whan that he on hir was condescended,

Him thoughte his chois mighte nat ben amended.

For whan that he him-self concluded hadde,

Him thoughte ech other mannes wit so badde,

That inpossible it were to replye

Agayn his chois, this was his fantasye.

His freendes sente he to at his instaunce,

And preyed hem to doon him that plesaunce,

That hastily they wolden to him come;

He wolde abregge hir labour, alle and some.

Nedeth na-more for him to go ne ryde,

He was apoynted ther he wolde abyde.

He seyde, ther was a mayden in the toun,

Which that of beautee hadde greet renoun,

Al were it so she were of smal degree;

Suffyseth him hir youthe and hir beautee.

Which mayde, he seyde, he wolde han to his wyf,

To lede in ese and holinesse his lyf.

And thanked god, that he mighte han hire al,

That no wight of his blisse parten shal.

And preyde hem to labouren in this nede,

And shapen that he faille nat to spede;

For thanne, he seyde, his spirit was at ese.

‘Thanne is,’ quod he, ‘no-thing may me displese,

Saue o thing priketh in my conscience,

The which I wol reherce in your presence.

Iustinus, which that hated his folye,

Answerde anon, right in his Iaperye;

And for he wolde his longe tale abregge,

He wolde noon auctoritee allegge,

But seyde, ‘sire, so ther be noon obstacle

Other than this, god of his hye miracle

And of his mercy may so for yow wirche,

That, er ye have your right of holy chirche,

Ye may repente of wedded mannes lyf,

In which ye seyn ther is no wo ne stryf.

And elles, god forbede but he sente

A wedded man him grace to repente

Wel ofte rather than a sengle man!

And therfore, sire, the beste reed I can,

Dispeire yow noght, but have in your memorie,

Paraunter she may be your purgatorie!

She may be goddes mene, and goddes whippe;

Than shal your soule up to hevene skippe

Swifter than dooth an arwe out of the bowe!

I hope to god, her-after shul ye knowe,

That their nis no so greet felicitee

In mariage, ne never-mo shal be,

That yow shal lette of your savacioun,

So that ye use, as skile is and resoun,

The lustes of your wyf attemprely,

And that ye plese hir nat to amorously,

And that ye kepe yow eek from other sinne.

My tale is doon:—for my wit is thinne.

Beth nat agast her-of, my brother dere.’—

(But lat us waden out of this matere.

The Wyf of Bathe, if ye han understonde,

Of mariage, which we have on honde,

Declared hath ful wel in litel space).—

‘Fareth now wel, god have yow in his grace.’

And with this word this Justin and his brother

Han take hir leve, and ech of hem of other.

For whan they sawe it moste nedes be,

They wroghten so, by sly and wys tretee,

That she, this mayden, which that Maius highte,

As hastily as ever that she mighte,

Shal wedded be un-to this Ianuarie.

I trowe it were to longe yow to tarie,

If I yow tolde of every scrit and bond,

By which that she was feffed in his lond;

Or for to herknen of hir riche array.

But finally y-comen is the day

That to the chirche bothe be they went

For to receyve the holy sacrement.

Forth comth the preest, with stole aboute his nekke,

And bad hir be lyk Sarra and Rebekke,

In wisdom and in trouthe of mariage;

And seyde his orisons, as is usage,

And crouched hem, and bad god sholde hem blesse,

And made al siker y-nogh with holinesse.

At every cours than cam loud minstraleye,

That never tromped Ioab, for to here,

Nor he, Theodomas, yet half so clere,

At Thebes, whan the citee was in doute.

Bacus the wyn hem skinketh al aboute,

And Venus laugheth up-on every wight.

For Ianuarie was bicome hir knight,

And wolde bothe assayen his corage

In libertee, and eek in mariage;

And with hir fyrbrond in hir hand aboute

Daunceth biforn the bryde and al the route.

And certeinly, I dar right wel seyn this,

Ymenëus, that god of wedding is,

Saugh never his lyf so mery a wedded man.

Hold thou thy pees, thou poete Marcian,

That wrytest us that ilke wedding murie

Of hir, Philologye, and him, Mercurie

And of the songes that the Muses songe.

To smal is bothe thy penne, and eek thy tonge,

For to descryven of this mariage.

Whan tendre youthe hath wedded stouping age,

Ther is swich mirthe that it may nat be writen;

Assayeth it your-self, than may ye witen

If that I lye or noon in this matere.

The tyme cam that reson was to ryse;

And after that, men daunce and drinken faste,

And spyces al aboute the hous they caste;

And ful of Ioye and blisse is every man;

All but a squyer, highte Damian,

Which carf biforn the knight ful many a day.

He was so ravisshed on his lady May,

That for the verray peyne he was ny wood;

Almost he swelte and swowned ther he stood.

So sore hath Venus hurt him with hir brond,

As that she bar it daunsinge in hir hond.

And to his bed he wente him hastily;

Na-more of him as at this tyme speke I.

But ther I lete him wepe y-nough and pleyne,

Til fresshe May wol rewen on his peyne.

Parfourned hath the sonne his ark diurne,

No lenger may the body of him soiurne

On thorisonte, as in that latitude.

Night with his mantel, that is derk and rude,

Gan oversprede the hemisperie aboute;

For which departed is this lusty route

Fro Ianuarie, with thank on every syde.

Hom to hir houses lustily they ryde,

Wher-as they doon hir thinges as hem leste,

And whan they sye hir tyme, goon to reste.

Sone after that, this hastif Ianuarie

Wolde go to bedde, he wolde no lenger tarie.

He drinketh ipocras, clarree, and vernage

Of spyces hote, tencresen his corage;

And many a letuarie hadde he ful fyn,

Swiche as the cursed monk dan Constantyn

Hath writen in his book de Coitu;

To eten hem alle, he nas no-thing eschu.

And to his privee freendes thus seyde he:

‘For goddes love, as sone as it may be,

Lat voyden al this hous in curteys wyse.’

And they han doon right as he wol devyse.

Men drinken, and the travers drawe anon;

The bryde was broght a-bedde as stille as stoon;

And whan the bed was with the preest y-blessed,

Out of the chambre hath every wight him dressed.

And Ianuarie hath faste in armes take

His fresshe May, his paradys, his make.

He lulleth hir, he kisseth hir ful ofte

With thikke bristles of his berd unsofte,

Lyk to the skin of houndfish, sharp as brere,

For he was shave al newe in his manere.

He rubbeth hir aboute hir tendre face,

And seyde thus, ‘allas! I moot trespace

To yow, my spouse, and yow gretly offende,

Er tyme come that I wil doun descende.

But nathelees, considereth this,’ quod he,

‘Ther nis no werkman, what-so-ever he be,

That may bothe werke wel and hastily;

This wol be doon at leyser parfitly.

It is no fors how longe that we pleye;

In trewe wedlok wedded be we tweye;

And blessed be the yok that we been inne,

For in our actes we mowe do no sinne.

A man may do no sinne with his wyf,

Ne hurte him-selven with his owene knyf;

For we han leve to pleye us by the lawe.’

Thus laboureth he til that the day gan dawe;

And than he taketh a sop in fyn clarree,

And upright in his bed than sitteth he,

And after that he sang ful loude and clere,

And kiste his wyf, and made wantoun chere.

He was al coltish, ful of ragerye,

And ful of Iargon as a flekked pye.

The slakke skin aboute his nekke shaketh,

Whyl that he sang; so chaunteth he and craketh.

But god wot what that May thoughte in hir herte,

Whan she him saugh up sittinge in his sherte,

In his night-cappe, and with his nekke lene;

She preyseth nat his pleying worth a bene.

Than seide he thus, ‘my reste wol I take;

Now day is come, I may no lenger wake.’

And doun he leyde his heed, and sleep til pryme.

And afterward, whan that he saugh his tyme,

Up ryseth Ianuarie; but fresshe May

Holdeth hir chambre un-to the fourthe day,

As usage is of wyves for the beste.

For every labour som-tyme moot han reste,

Or elles longe may he nat endure;

This is to seyn, no lyves creature,

Be it of fish, or brid, or beest, or man.

This syke Damian in Venus fyr

So brenneth, that he dyeth for desyr;

For which he putte his lyf in aventure,

No lenger mighte he in this wyse endure;

But prively a penner gan he borwe,

And in a lettre wroot he al his sorwe,

In manere of a compleynt or a lay,

Un-to his faire fresshe lady May.

And in a purs of silk, heng on his sherte,

He hath it put, and leyde it at his herte.

‘That me forthinketh,’ quod this Ianuarie,

‘He is a gentil squyer, by my trouthe!

If that he deyde, it were harm and routhe;

He is as wys, discreet, and as secree

As any man I woot of his degree;

And ther-to manly and eek servisable,

And for to been a thrifty man right able.

But after mete, as sone as ever I may,

I wol my-self visyte him and eek May,

To doon him al the confort that I can.’

And for that word him blessed every man,

That, of his bountee and his gentillesse,

He wolde so conforten in siknesse

His squyer, for it was a gentil dede.

‘Dame,’ quod this Ianuarie, ‘tak good hede,

At-after mete ye, with your wommen alle,

Whan ye han been in chambre out of this halle,

That alle ye go see this Damian;

Doth him disport, he is a gentil man;

And telleth him that I wol him visyte,

Have I no-thing but rested me a lyte;

And spede yow faste, for I wole abyde

Til that ye slepe faste by my syde.’

And with that word he gan to him to calle

A squyer, that was marchal of his halle,

And tolde him certeyn thinges, what he wolde.

Who studieth now but faire fresshe May?

Adoun by olde Ianuarie she lay,

That sleep, til that the coughe hath him awaked;

Anon he preyde hir strepen hir al naked;

He wolde of hir, he seyde, han som plesaunce,

And seyde, hir clothes dide him encombraunce,

And she obeyeth, be hir lief or looth.

But lest that precious folk be with me wrooth,

How that he wroghte, I dar nat to yow telle;

Or whether hir thoughte it paradys or helle;

But here I lete hem werken in hir wyse

Til evensong rong, and that they moste aryse.

Heer may ye se how excellent franchyse

In wommen is, whan they hem narwe avyse.

Som tyrant is, as ther be many oon,

That hath an herte as hard as any stoon,

Which wolde han lete him sterven in the place

Wel rather than han graunted him hir grace;

And hem reioysen in hir cruel pryde,

And rekke nat to been an homicyde.

Somme clerkes holden that felicitee

Stant in delyt, and therefor certeyn he,

This noble Ianuarie, with al his might,

In honest wyse, as longeth to a knight,

Shoop him to live ful deliciously.

His housinge, his array, as honestly

To his degree was maked as a kinges.

Amonges othere of his honest thinges,

He made a gardin, walled al with stoon;

So fair a gardin woot I nowher noon.

For out of doute, I verraily suppose,

That he that wroot the Romance of the Rose

Ne coude of it the beautee wel devyse;

Ne Priapus ne mighte nat suffyse,

Though he be god of gardins, for to telle

The beautee of the gardin and the welle,

That stood under a laurer alwey grene.

Ful ofte tyme he, Pluto, and his quene,

Proserpina, and al hir fayërye

Disporten hem and maken melodye

Aboute that welle, and daunced, as men tolde.

O sodeyn hap, o thou fortune instable,

Lyk to the scorpion so deceivable,

That flaterest with thyn heed when thou wolt stinge;

Thy tayl is deeth, thurgh thyn enveniminge.

O brotil Ioye! o swete venim queynte!

O monstre, that so subtilly canst peynte

Thy yiftes, under hewe of stedfastnesse,

That thou deceyvest bothe more and lesse!

Why hastow Ianuarie thus deceyved,

That haddest him for thy ful frend receyved?

And now thou hast biraft him bothe hise yën,

For sorwe of which desyreth he to dyen.