Whan that his doghter twelf yeer was of age,

He to the court of Rome, in subtil wyse

Enformed of his wil, sente his message,

Comaunding hem swiche bulles to devyse

As to his cruel purpos may suffyse,

How that the pope, as for his peples reste,

Bad him to wedde another, if him leste.

I seye, he bad they sholde countrefete

The popes bulles, making mencioun

That he hath leve his firste wyf to lete,

As by the popes dispensacioun,

To stinte rancour and dissencioun

Bitwixe his peple and him; thus seyde the bulle,

The which they han publiced atte fulle.

The rude peple, as it no wonder is,

Wenden ful wel that it had been right so;

But whan thise tydinges cam to Grisildis,

I deme that hir herte was ful wo.

But she, y-lyke sad for evermo,

Disposed was, this humble creature,

Thadversitee of fortune al tendure.

Abyding ever his lust and his plesaunce,

To whom that she was yeven, herte and al,

As to hir verray worldly suffisaunce;

But shortly if this storie I tellen shal,

This markis writen hath in special

A lettre in which he sheweth his entente,

And secrely he to Boloigne it sente.

To the erl of Panik, which that hadde tho

Wedded his suster, preyde he specially

To bringen boom agayn his children two

In honurable estaat al openly.

But o thing he him preyede outerly,

That he to no wight, though men wolde enquere,

Sholde nat telle, whos children that they were,

But seye, the mayden sholde y-wedded be

Un-to the markis of Saluce anon.

And as this erl was preyed, so dide he;

For at day set he on his wey is goon

Toward Saluce, and lordes many oon,

In riche array, this mayden for to gyde;

Hir yonge brother ryding hir bisyde.

Arrayed was toward hir mariage

This fresshe mayde, ful of gemmes clere;

Hir brother, which that seven yeer was of age,

Arrayed eek ful fresh in his manere.

And thus in greet noblesse and with glad chere,

Toward Saluces shaping hir Iourney,

Fro day to day they ryden in hir wey.

Explicit quarta pars. Sequitur quinta pars.

Among al this, after his wikke usage,

This markis, yet his wyf to tempte more

To the uttereste preve of hir corage,

Fully to han experience and lore

If that she were as stedfast as bifore,

He on a day in open audience

Ful boistously hath seyd hir this sentence:

‘Certes, Grisilde, I hadde y-nough plesaunce

To han yow to my wyf for your goodnesse,

As for your trouthe and for your obeisaunce,

Nought for your linage ne for your richesse;

But now knowe I in verray soothfastnesse

That in gret lordshipe, if I wel avyse,

Ther is gret servitute in sondry wyse.

I may nat don as every plowman may;

My peple me constreyneth for to take

Another wyf, and cryen day by day;

And eek the pope, rancour for to slake,

Consenteth it, that dar I undertake;

And treweliche thus muche I wol yow seye,

My newe wyf is coming by the weye.

Be strong of herte, and voyde anon hir place,

And thilke dower that ye broghten me

Tak it agayn, I graunte it of my grace;

Retourneth to your fadres hous,’ quod he;

‘No man may alwey han prosperitee;

With evene herte I rede yow tendure

The strook of fortune or of aventure.’

And she answerde agayn in pacience,

‘My lord,’ quod she, ‘I woot, and wiste alway

How that bitwixen your magnificence

And my poverte no wight can ne may

Maken comparison; it is no nay.

I ne heeld me never digne in no manere

To be your wyf, no, ne your chamberere.

And in this hous, ther ye me lady made—

The heighe god take I for my witnesse,

And also wisly he my soule glade—

I never heeld me lady ne maistresse,

But humble servant to your worthinesse,

And ever shal, whyl that my lyf may dure,

Aboven every worldly creature.

That ye so longe of your benignitee

Han holden me in honour and nobleye,

Wher-as I was noght worthy for to be,

That thonke I god and yow, to whom I preye

Foryelde it yow; there is na-more to seye.

Un-to my fader gladly wol I wende,

And with him dwelle un-to my lyves ende.

Ther I was fostred of a child ful smal,

Til I be deed, my lyf ther wol I lede

A widwe clene, in body, herte, and al.

For sith I yaf to yow my maydenhede,

And am your trewe wyf, it is no drede,

God shilde swich a lordes wyf to take

Another man to housbonde or to make.

And of your newe wyf, god of his grace

So graunte yow wele and prosperitee:

For I wol gladly yelden hir my place,

In which that I was blisful wont to be,

For sith it lyketh yow, my lord,’ quod she,

‘That whylom weren al myn hertes reste,

That I shal goon, I wol gon whan yow leste.

But ther-as ye me profre swich dowaire

As I first broghte, it is wel in my minde

It were my wrecched clothes, no-thing faire,

The which to me were hard now for to finde.

O gode god! how gentil and how kinde

Ye semed by your speche and your visage

The day that maked was our mariage!

But sooth is seyd, algate I finde it trewe—

For in effect it preved is on me—

Love is noght old as whan that it is newe.

But certes, lord, for noon adversitee,

To dyen in the cas, it shal nat be

That ever in word or werk I shal repente

That I yow yaf myn herte in hool entente.

My lord, ye woot that, in my fadres place,

Ye dede me strepe out of my povre wede,

And richely me cladden, of your grace.

To yow broghte I noght elles, out of drede,

But feyth and nakednesse and maydenhede.

And here agayn my clothing I restore,

And eek my wedding-ring, for evermore.

The remenant of your Iewels redy be

In-with your chambre, dar I saufly sayn;

Naked out of my fadres hous,’ quod she,

‘I cam, and naked moot I turne agayn.

Al your plesaunce wol I folwen fayn;

But yet I hope it be nat your entente

That I smoklees out of your paleys wente.

Ye coude nat doon so dishoneste a thing,

That thilke wombe in which your children leye

Sholde, biforn the peple, in my walking,

Be seyn al bare; wherfor I yow preye,

Lat me nat lyk a worm go by the weye.

Remembre yow, myn owene lord so dere,

I was your wyf, thogh I unworthy were.

Wherfor, in guerdon of my maydenhede,

Which that I broghte, and noght agayn I bere,

As voucheth sauf to yeve me, to my mede,

But swich a smok as I was wont to were,

That I therwith may wrye the wombe of here

That was your wyf; and heer take I my leve

Of yow, myn owene lord, lest I yow greve.’

‘The smok,’ quod he, ‘that thou hast on thy bak,

Lat it be stille, and ber it forth with thee.’

But wel unnethes thilke word he spak,

But wente his wey for rewthe and for pitee.

Biforn the folk hir-selven strepeth she,

And in hir smok, with heed and foot al bare,

Toward hir fader hous forth is she fare.

The folk hir folwe wepinge in hir weye,

And fortune ay they cursen as they goon;

But she fro weping kepte hir yën dreye,

Ne in this tyme word ne spak she noon.

Hir fader, that this tyding herde anoon,

Curseth the day and tyme that nature

Shoop him to been a lyves creature.

For out of doute this olde povre man

Was ever in suspect of hir mariage;

For ever he demed, sith that it bigan,

That whan the lord fulfild had his corage,

Him wolde thinke it were a disparage

To his estaat so lowe for talighte,

And voyden hir as sone as ever he mighte.

Agayns his doghter hastilich goth he,

For he by noyse of folk knew hir cominge,

And with hir olde cote, as it mighte be,

He covered hir, ful sorwefully wepinge;

But on hir body mighte he it nat bringe.

For rude was the cloth, and more of age

By dayes fele than at hir mariage.

Thus with hir fader, for a certeyn space,

Dwelleth this flour of wyfly pacience,

That neither by hir wordes ne hir face

Biforn the folk, ne eek in hir absence,

Ne shewed she that hir was doon offence;

Ne of hir heigh estaat no remembraunce

Ne hadde she, as by hir countenaunce.

No wonder is, for in hir grete estaat

Hir goost was ever in pleyn humylitee;

No tendre mouth, non herte delicaat,

No pompe, no semblant of royaltee,

But ful of pacient benignitee,

Discreet and prydeles, ay honurable,

And to hir housbonde ever meke and stable.

Men speke of Iob and most for his humblesse,

As clerkes, whan hem list, can wel endyte,

Namely of men, but as in soothfastnesse,

Thogh clerkes preyse wommen but a lyte,

Ther can no man in humblesse him acquyte

As womman can, ne can ben half so trewe

As wommen been, but it be falle of-newe.

[Pars Sexta.]

Fro Boloigne is this erl of Panik come,

Of which the fame up-sprang to more and lesse,

And in the peples eres alle and some

Was couth eek, that a newe markisesse

He with him broghte, in swich pompe and richesse,

That never was ther seyn with mannes yë

So noble array in al West Lumbardye.

The markis, which that shoop and knew al this,

Er that this erl was come, sente his message

For thilke sely povre Grisildis;

And she with humble herte and glad visage,

Nat with no swollen thoght in hir corage,

Cam at his heste, and on hir knees hir sette,

And reverently and wysly she him grette.

‘Grisild,’ quod he, ‘my wille is outerly,

This mayden, that shal wedded been to me,

Receyved be to-morwe as royally

As it possible is in myn hous to be.

And eek that every wight in his degree

Have his estaat in sitting and servyse

And heigh plesaunce, as I can best devyse.

I have no wommen suffisaunt certayn

The chambres for tarraye in ordinaunce

After my lust, and therfor wolde I fayn

That thyn were al swich maner governaunce;

Thou knowest eek of old al my plesaunce;

Though thyn array be badde and yvel biseye,

Do thou thy devoir at the leeste weye.’

‘Nat only, lord, that I am glad,’ quod she,

‘To doon your lust, but I desyre also

Yow for to serve and plese in my degree

With-outen feynting, and shal evermo.

Ne never, for no wele ne no wo,

Ne shal the gost with-in myn herte stente

To love yow best with al my trewe entente.’

And with that word she gan the hous to dighte,

And tables for to sette and beddes make;

And peyned hir to doon al that she mighte,

Preying the chambereres, for goddes sake,

To hasten hem, and faste swepe and shake;

And she, the moste servisable of alle,

Hath every chambre arrayed and his halle.

Abouten undern gan this erl alighte,

That with him broghte thise noble children tweye,

For which the peple ran to seen the sighte

Of hir array, so richely biseye;

And than at erst amonges hem they seye,

That Walter was no fool, thogh that him leste

To chaunge his wyf, for it was for the beste.

For she is fairer, as they demen alle,

Than is Grisild, and more tendre of age,

And fairer fruit bitwene hem sholde falle,

And more plesant, for hir heigh linage;

Hir brother eek so fair was of visage,

That hem to seen the peple hath caught plesaunce,

Commending now the markis gouernaunce.—

Auctor. ‘O stormy peple! unsad and ever untrewe!

Ay undiscreet and chaunging as a vane,

Delyting ever in rumbel that is newe,

For lyk the mone ay wexe ye and wane;

Ay ful of clapping, dere y-nogh a Iane;

Your doom is fals, your constance yvel preveth,

A ful greet fool is he that on yow leveth!’

Thus seyden sadde folk in that citee,

Whan that the peple gazed up and doun,

For they were glad, right for the noveltee,

To han a newe lady of hir toun.

Na-more of this make I now mencioun;

But to Grisilde agayn wol I me dresse,

And telle hir constance and hir bisinesse.—

Ful bisy was Grisilde in every thing

That to the feste was apertinent;

Right noght was she abayst of hir clothing,

Though it were rude and somdel eek to-rent.

But with glad chere to the yate is went,

With other folk, to grete the markisesse,

And after that doth forth hir bisinesse.

With so glad chere his gestes she receyveth,

And conningly, everich in his degree,

That no defaute no man aperceyveth;

But ay they wondren what she mighte be

That in so povre array was for to see,

And coude swich honour and reverence;

And worthily they preisen hir prudence.

In al this mene whyle she ne stente

This mayde and eek hir brother to commende

With al hir herte, in ful benigne entente,

So wel, that no man coude hir prys amende.

But atte laste, whan that thise lordes wende

To sitten doun to mete, he gan to calle

Grisilde, as she was bisy in his halle.

‘Grisilde,’ quod he, as it were in his pley,

‘How lyketh thee my wyf and hir beautee?’

‘Right wel,’ quod she, ‘my lord; for, in good fey,

A fairer say I never noon than she.

I prey to god yeve hir prosperitee;

And so hope I that he wol to yow sende

Plesance y-nogh un-to your lyves ende.

O thing biseke I yow and warne also,

That ye ne prikke with no tormentinge

This tendre mayden, as ye han don mo;

For she is fostred in hir norishinge

More tendrely, and, to my supposinge,

She coude nat adversitee endure

As coude a povre fostred creature.’

And whan this Walter say hir pacience,

Hir glade chere and no malice at al,

And he so ofte had doon to hir offence,

And she ay sad and constant as a wal,

Continuing ever hir innocence overal,

This sturdy markis gan his herte dresse

To rewen up-on hir wyfly stedfastnesse.

‘This is y-nogh, Grisilde myn,’ quod he,

‘Be now na-more agast ne yvel apayed;

I have thy feith and thy benignitee,

As wel as ever womman was, assayed,

In greet estaat, and povreliche arrayed.

Now knowe I, dere wyf, thy stedfastnesse,’—

And hir in armes took and gan hir kesse.

And she for wonder took of it no keep;

She herde nat what thing he to hir seyde;

She ferde as she had stert out of a sleep,

Til she out of hir masednesse abreyde.

‘Grisilde,’ quod he, ‘by god that for us deyde,

Thou art my wyf, ne noon other I have,

Ne never hadde, as god my soule save!

This is thy doghter which thou hast supposed

To be my wyf; that other feithfully

Shal be myn heir, as I have ay purposed;

Thou bare him in thy body trewely.

At Boloigne have I kept hem prively;

Tak hem agayn, for now maystow nat seye

That thou hast lorn non of thy children tweye.

And folk that otherweyes han seyd of me,

I warne hem wel that I have doon this dede

For no malice ne for no crueltee,

But for tassaye in thee thy wommanhede,

And nat to sleen my children, god forbede!

But for to kepe hem prively and stille,

Til I thy purpos knewe and al thy wille.’

Whan she this herde, aswowne doun she falleth

For pitous Ioye, and after hir swowninge

She bothe hir yonge children un-to hir calleth,

And in hir armes, pitously wepinge,

Embraceth hem, and tendrely kissinge

Ful lyk a mooder, with hir salte teres

She batheth bothe hir visage and hir heres.

O, which a pitous thing it was to see

Hir swowning, and hir humble voys to here!

‘Grauntmercy, lord, that thanke I yow,’ quod she,

‘That ye han saved me my children dere!

Now rekke I never to ben deed right here;

Sith I stonde in your love and in your grace,

No fors of deeth, ne whan my spirit pace!

O tendre, o dere, o yonge children myne,

Your woful mooder wende stedfastly

That cruel houndes or som foul vermyne

Hadde eten yow; but god, of his mercy,

And your benigne fader tendrely

Hath doon yow kept;’ and in that same stounde

Al sodeynly she swapte adoun to grounde.

And in her swough so sadly holdeth she

Hir children two, whan she gan hem tembrace,

That with greet sleighte and greet difficultee

The children from hir arm they gonne arace.

O many a teer on many a pitous face

Doun ran of hem that stoden hir bisyde;

Unnethe abouten hir mighte they abyde.

Walter hir gladeth, and hir sorwe slaketh;

She ryseth up, abaysed, from hir traunce,

And every wight hir Ioye and feste maketh,

Til she hath caught agayn hir contenaunce.

Walter hir dooth so feithfully plesaunce,

That it was deyntee for to seen the chere

Bitwixe hem two, now they ben met y-fere.

Thise ladyes, whan that they hir tyme say,

Han taken hir, and in-to chambre goon,

And strepen hir out of hir rude array,

And in a cloth of gold that brighte shoon,

With a coroune of many a riche stoon

Up-on hir heed, they in-to halle hir broghte,

And ther she was honoured as hir oghte.

Thus hath this pitous day a blisful ende,

For every man and womman dooth his might

This day in murthe and revel to dispende

Til on the welkne shoon the sterres light.

For more solempne in every mannes sight

This feste was, and gretter of costage,

Than was the revel of hir mariage.

Ful many a yeer in heigh prosperitee

Liven thise two in concord and in reste,

And richely his doghter maried he

Un-to a lord, oon of the worthieste

Of al Itaille; and than in pees and reste

His wyves fader in his court he kepeth,

Til that the soule out of his body crepeth.

His sone succedeth in his heritage

In reste and pees, after his fader day;

And fortunat was eek in mariage,

Al putte he nat his wyf in greet assay.

This world is nat so strong, it is no nay,

As it hath been in olde tymes yore,

And herkneth what this auctour seith therfore.

This storie is seyd, nat for that wyves sholde

Folwen Grisilde as in humilitee,

For it were importable, though they wolde;

But for that every wight, in his degree,

Sholde be constant in adversitee

As was Grisilde; therfor Petrark wryteth

This storie, which with heigh style he endyteth.

For, sith a womman was so pacient

Un-to a mortal man, wel more us oghte

Receyven al in gree that god us sent;

For greet skile is, he preve that he wroghte.

But he ne tempteth no man that he boghte,

As seith seint Iame, if ye his pistel rede;

He preveth folk al day, it is no drede,

And suffreth us, as for our excercyse,

With sharpe scourges of adversitee

Ful ofte to be bete in sondry wyse;

Nat for to knowe our wil, for certes he,

Er we were bom, knew al our freletee;

And for our beste is al his governaunce;

Lat us than live in vertuous suffraunce.

But o word, lordinges, herkneth er I go:—

It were ful hard to finde now a dayes

In al a toun Grisildes three or two;

For, if that they were put to swiche assayes,

The gold of hem hath now so badde alayes

With bras, that thogh the coyne be fair at yë,

It wolde rather breste a-two than plye.

For which heer, for the wyves love of Bathe,

Whos lyf and al hir secte god mayntene

In heigh maistrye, and elles were it scathe,

I wol with lusty herte fresshe and grene

Seyn yow a song to glade yow, I wene,

And lat us stinte of ernestful matere:—

Herkneth my song, that seith in this manere.

Lenvoy de Chaucer.

Grisilde is deed, and eek hir pacience,

And bothe atones buried in Itaille;

For which I crye in open audience,

No wedded man so hardy be tassaille

His wyves pacience, in hope to finde

Grisildes, for in certein he shall faille!

O noble wyves, ful of heigh prudence,

Lat noon humilitee your tonge naille,

Ne lat no clerk have cause or diligence

To wryte of yow a storie of swich mervaille

As of Grisildis pacient and kinde;

Lest Chichevache yow swelwe in hir entraille!

Folweth Ekko, that holdeth no silence,

But evere answereth at the countretaille;

Beth nat bidaffed for your innocence,

But sharply tak on yow the governaille.

Emprinteth wel this lesson in your minde

For commune profit, sith it may availle.

Ye archewyves, stondeth at defence,

Sin ye be stronge as is a greet camaille;

Ne suffreth nat that men yow doon offence.

And sclendre wyves, feble as in bataille,

Beth egre as is a tygre yond in Inde;

Ay clappeth as a mille, I yow consaille.

Ne dreed hem nat, do hem no reverence;

For though thyn housbonde armed be in maille,

The arwes of thy crabbed eloquence

Shal perce his brest, and eek his aventaille;

In Ialousye I rede eek thou him binde,

And thou shalt make him couche as dooth a quaille.

If thou be fair, ther folk ben in presence

Shew thou thy visage and thyn apparaille;

If thou be foul, be free of thy dispence,

To gete thee freendes ay do thy travaille;

Be ay of chere as light as leef on linde,

And lat him care, and wepe, and wringe, and waille!

Here endeth the Clerk of Oxonford his Tale.

The Prologe of the Marchantes Tale.

‘Weping and wayling, care, and other sorwe

I know y-nogh, on even and a-morwe,’

Quod the Marchaunt, ‘and so don othere mo

That wedded been, I trowe that it be so.

For, wel I woot, it fareth so with me.

I have a wyf, the worste that may be;

For thogh the feend to hir y-coupled were,

She wolde him overmacche, I dar wel swere.

What sholde I yow reherce in special

Hir hye malice? she is a shrewe at al.

Ther is a long and large difference

Bitwix Grisildis grete pacience

And of my wyf the passing crueltee.

Were I unbounden, al-so moot I thee!

I wolde never eft comen in the snare.

We wedded men live in sorwe and care;

Assaye who-so wol, and he shal finde

I seye sooth, by seint Thomas of Inde,

As for the more part, I sey nat alle.

God shilde that it sholde so bifalle!

A! good sir hoost! I have y-wedded be

Thise monthes two, and more nat, pardee;

And yet, I trowe, he that all his lyve

Wyflees hath been, though that men wolde him ryve

Un-to the herte, ne coude in no manere

Tellen so muchel sorwe, as I now here

Coude tellen of my wyves cursednesse!’

‘Now,’ quod our hoost, ‘Marchaunt, so god yow blesse,

Sin ye so muchel knowen of that art,

Ful hertely I pray yow telle us part.’

‘Gladly,’ quod he, ‘but of myn owene sore,

For sory herte, I telle may na-more.’

Here biginneth the Marchantes Tale.

Whylom ther was dwellinge in Lumbardye

A worthy knight, that born was of Pavye,

In which he lived in greet prosperitee;

And sixty yeer a wyflees man was he,

And folwed ay his bodily delyt

On wommen, ther-as was his appetyt,

As doon thise foles that ben seculeer.

And whan that he was passed sixty yeer,

Were it for holinesse or for dotage,

I can nat seye, but swich a greet corage

Hadde this knight to been a wedded man,

That day and night he dooth al that he can

Tespyen where he mighte wedded be;

Preyinge our lord to granten him, that he

Mighte ones knowe of thilke blisful lyf

That is bitwixe an housbond and his wyf;

And for to live under that holy bond

With which that first god man and womman bond,

‘Non other lyf,’ seyde he, ‘is worth a bene;

For wedlok is so esy and so clene,

That in this world it is a paradys.’

Thus seyde this olde knight, that was so wys.

And certeinly, as sooth as god is king,

To take a wyf, it is a glorious thing,

And namely whan a man is old and hoor;

Thanne is a wyf the fruit of his tresor.

Than sholde he take a yong wyf and a feir,

On which he mighte engendren him an heir,

And lede his lyf in Ioye and in solas,

Wher-as thise bacheleres singe ‘allas,’

Whan that they finden any adversitee

In love, which nis but childish vanitee.

And trewely it sit wel to be so,

That bacheleres have often peyne and wo;

On brotel ground they builde, and brotelnesse

They finde, whan they wene sikernesse.

They live but as a brid or as a beste,

In libertee, and under non areste,

Ther-as a wedded man in his estaat

Liveth a lyf blisful and ordinaat,

Under the yok of mariage y-bounde;

Wel may his herte in Ioye and blisse habounde.

For who can be so buxom as a wyf?

Who is so trewe, and eek so ententyf

To kepe him, syk and hool, as is his make?

For wele or wo, she wol him nat forsake.

She nis nat wery him to love and serve,

Thogh that he lye bedrede til he sterve.

And yet somme clerkes seyn, it nis nat so,

Of whiche he, Theofraste, is oon of tho.

What force though Theofraste liste lye?

‘Ne take no wyf,’ quod he, ‘for housbondrye,

As for to spare in houshold thy dispence;

A trewe servant dooth more diligence,

Thy good to kepe, than thyn owene wyf.

For she wol clayme half part al hir lyf;

And if that thou be syk, so god me save,

Thy verray frendes or a trewe knave

Wol kepe thee bet than she that waiteth ay

After thy good, and hath don many a day.

And if thou take a wyf un-to thyn hold,

Ful lightly maystow been a cokewold.’

This sentence, and an hundred thinges worse,

Wryteth this man, ther god his bones corse!

But take no kepe of al swich vanitee;

Deffye Theofraste and herke me.

A wyf is goddes yifte verraily;

Alle other maner yiftes hardily,

As londes, rentes, pasture, or commune,

Or moebles, alle ben yiftes of fortune,

That passen as a shadwe upon a wal.

But dredelees, if pleynly speke I shal,

A wyf wol laste, and in thyn hous endure,

Wel lenger than thee list, paraventure.

Mariage is a ful gret sacrement;

He which that hath no wyf, I holde him shent;

He liveth helplees and al desolat,

I speke of folk in seculer estaat.

And herke why, I sey nat this for noght,

That womman is for mannes help y-wroght.

The hye god, whan he hadde Adam maked,

And saugh him al allone, bely-naked,

God of his grete goodnesse seyde than,

‘Lat us now make an help un-to this man

Lyk to him-self;’ and thanne he made him Eve.

Heer may ye se, and heer-by may ye preve,

That wyf is mannes help and his confort,

His paradys terrestre and his disport.

So buxom and so vertuous is she,

They moste nedes live in unitee.

O flesh they been, and o flesh, as I gesse,

Hath but on herte, in wele and in distresse.

A wyf! a! Seinte Marie, benedicite!

How mighte a man han any adversitee

That hath a wyf? certes, I can nat seye.

The blisse which that is bitwixe hem tweye

Ther may no tonge telle, or herte thinke.

If he be povre, she helpeth him to swinke;

She kepeth his good, and wasteth never a deel;

Al that hir housbonde lust, hir lyketh weel;

She seith not ones ‘nay,’ whan he seith ‘ye.’

‘Do this,’ seith he; ‘al redy, sir,’ seith she.

O blisful ordre of wedlok precious,

Thou art so mery, and eek so vertuous,

And so commended and appreved eek,

That every man that halt him worth a leek,

Up-on his bare knees oghte al his lyf

Thanken his god that him hath sent a wyf;

Or elles preye to god him for to sende

A wyf, to laste un-to his lyves ende.

For thanne his lyf is set in sikernesse;

He may nat be deceyved, as I gesse,

So that he werke after his wyves reed;

Than may he boldly beren up his heed,

They been so trewe and ther-with-al so wyse;

For which, if thou wolt werken as the wyse,

Do alwey so as wommen wol thee rede.

Lo, how that Iacob, as thise clerkes rede,

By good conseil of his moder Rebekke,

Bond the kides skin aboute his nekke;

Thurgh which his fadres benisoun he wan.

Lo, Iudith, as the storie eek telle can,

By wys conseil she goddes peple kepte,

And slow him, Olofernus, whyl he slepte.

Lo Abigayl, by good conseil how she

Saved hir housbond Nabal, whan that he

Sholde han be slayn; and loke, Ester also

By good conseil delivered out of wo

The peple of god, and made him, Mardochee,

Of Assuere enhaunced for to be.

Ther nis no-thing in gree superlatyf,

As seith Senek, above an humble wyf.

Suffre thy wyves tonge, as Caton bit;

She shal comande, and thou shalt suffren it;

And yet she wol obeye of curteisye.

A wyf is keper of thyn housbondrye;

Wel may the syke man biwaille and wepe,

Ther-as ther nis no wyf the hous to kepe.

I warne thee, if wysly thou wolt wirche,

Love wel thy wyf, as Crist loveth his chirche.

If thou lovest thy-self, thou lovest thy wyf;

No man hateth his flesh, but in his lyf

He fostreth it, and therfore bidde I thee,

Cherisse thy wyf, or thou shalt never thee.

Housbond and wyf, what so men Iape or pleye,

Of worldly folk holden the siker weye;

They been so knit, ther may noon harm bityde;

And namely, up-on the wyves syde.

For which this Ianuarie, of whom I tolde,

Considered hath, in with his dayes olde,

The lusty lyf, the vertuous quiete,

That is in mariage hony-swete;

And for his freendes on a day he sente,

To tellen hem theffect of his entente.