In our chapitre pray we day and night
To Crist, that he thee sende hele and might
Thy body for to welden hastily."

"God wot," quod he, “nothing therof fele I,
As help me Crist, as I in fewe yeres
Have spended upon divers maner freres
Ful many a pound, yet fare I never the bet;
Certain my good have I almost beset:
Farewel my good, for it is al ago."

The frere answered, "O Thomas, dost thou so?
What nedeth you diverse freres to seche?
What nedeth him that hath a parfit leche,

To sechen other leches in the toun ?
Your inconstance is your confusion.
Hold ye than me, or elles our covent,
To pray for you ben insufficient?
Thomas, that jape n'is not worth a mite;
Your maladie is for we han to lite.
A, yeve that covent half a quarter otes;
And yeve that covent four and twenty grotes;
And yeve that frere a peny, and let him go:
Nay, nay, Thomas, it may no thing be so.
What is a ferthing worth parted on twelve?
Lo, eche thing that is oned in himselve
Is more strong than whan it is yscatered.
Thomas, of me thou shalt not ben yflatered,
Thou woldest han our labour al for nought.
The highe God, that all this world hath wrought,
Saith, that the workman worthy is his hire.
Thomas, nought of your tresor I desire
As for myself, but that all our covent
To pray for you is ay so diligent:
And for to bilden Cristes owen chirche.
Thomas, if ye wol lernen for to wirche,
Of bilding up of chirches may ye finde
If it be good, in Thomas lif of Inde.

"Ye liggen here ful of anger and of ire,
With which the Devil set your herte on fire,
And chiden here this holy innocent
Your wif, that is so good and patient.
And therfore trow me, Thomas, if thee lest,
Ne strive not with thy wif, as for the best.
And bere this word away now by thy faith,
Touching swiche thing, lo, what the wise saith:
"Within thy hous ne be thou no leon;
To thy suggets do non oppression;
Ne make thou not thin acquaintance to flee.
"And yet, Thomas, eftsopes charge I thee,
Beware from ire that in thy bosom slepeth,
Ware fro the serpent, that so slily crepeth
Under the gras, and stingeth subtilly.
Beware, my sone, and herken patiently,
That twenty thousand men han lost hir lives
For striving with hir lemmans and hir wives.
Now sith ye han so holy and meek a wif,
What nedeth you, Thomas, to maken strif?
Ther n'is ywis no serpent so cruel,

Whan man tredeth on his tail, ne half so fel,
As woman is, whan she hath caught an ire;
Veray vengeance is than all hire desire.

"Ire is a sinne, on of the grète seven,
Abhominable unto the God of Heven,
And to himself it is destruction.
This every lewed vicar and parson
Can say, how ire engendreth homicide;
Ire is in soth executour of pride.

"I could of ire say so mochel sorwe, My tale shulde lasten til to-morwe.

And therfore pray I God both day and night,,
An irous man God send him litel might.

It is gret harm, and certes gret pitee To sette an irous man in high degree.

"Whilom ther was an irous potestat, As saith Senek, that during his estat Upon a day out riden knightes two. And, as fortune wold that it were so, That on of hem came home, that other nought. Anon the knight before the juge is brought, That saide thus; Thou hast thy felaw slain, For which I deme thee to the deth certain.' And to another knight commanded he; 'Go, lede him to the deth, I charge thee.', And happed, as they wenten by the wey Toward the place ther as he shulde dey, The knight came, which men wenden had be dede. Than thoughten they it was the beste rede To lede hem bothe to the juge again. They saiden, Lord, the knight ne hath not slain His felaw, here he stondeth bol alive.'

"Ye shull be ded,' quod he, 'so mot I thrive, That is to say, both on, and two, and three.' And to the firste knight right thus spake he.

"I damned thee, thou must algate be ded: And thou also must nedes lese thyn hed, For thou art cause why thy felaw deyeth.' And to the thridde knight right thus he seyeth, 'Thou hast not don that I commanded thee.' And thus he did do slen hem alle three.

"Irous Cambises was eke dronkelew,
And ay delighted him to ben a shrew.
And so befell, a lord of his meinie,
That loved vertuous moralitee,

Sayd on a day betwix hem two right thus:
A lord is lost, if he be vicious;
And dronkennesse is eke a foule record
Of any man, and namely of a lord.
Ther is ful many an eye and many an ere
Awaiting on a lord, and he n'ot wher.
For Goddes love drinke more attemprely:
Win maketh man to lesen wretchedly
His mind, and eke his limmes everich on.'
'The revers shalt thou see,' quod he,' anon,
And preve it by thyn owen experience,
That win ne doth to folk no swiche offence.
Ther is no win bereveth me my might
Of hond, ne foot, ne of min eyen sight.'
And for despit he dranke mochel more
An hundred part than he had don before,
And right anon, this cursed irous wretche
This knightes sone let before him fetche,
Commanding him he shuld before him stond:
And sodenly he took his bow in hond,
And up the streng he pulled to his ere,
And with an arwe he slow the child right ther.
"Now whether have I a siker hond or non?!
Quod he, 'Is all my might and minde agon?
Hath win bereved me min eyen sight?'

"What shuld I tell the answer of the knight?
His son was slain, ther is no more to say
Beth ware therfore with lordes for to play,
Singeth Placebo, and I shal if I can,

But if it be unto a poure man:

To a poure man men shuld his vices telle,
But not to a lord, though he shuld go to Helle.
"Lo, irous Cirus, thilke Persien,

How he destroyed the river of Gisen,
For that an hors of his was dreint therin,
Whan that he wente Babilon to win:
He made that the river was so smal,
That wimmen might it waden over al.

Lo, what" said he, "that so wel techen can?
Ne be no felaw to non irous man,

Ne with no wood man walke by the way,
Lest thee repent; I wol no forther say.

"Now, Thomas, leve brother, leve thin ire,
Thou shalt me find as just, as is a squire;
Hold not the devils knif ay to thin herte,
Thine anger doth thee all to sore smerte,
But shew to me all thy confession."

"Nay," quod the sike man, "by Seint Simon I have ben shriven this day of my curat; I have him told al holly min estat." "Nedeth no mo to speke of it, sayth he, But if me list of min humilitee.

"Yeve me than of thy gold to make our cloistre,"
Quod he, "for many a muscle and many an oistre,
Whan other men han ben ful wel at ese,
Hath been our food, our cloistre for to rese:
And yet, God wot, uneth the fundament
Parfourmed is, ne of our pavement
N'is not a tile yet within our wones:

By God we owen fourty pound for stones.
Now help, Thomas, for him that harwed Helle,
For elles mote we oure bokes selle,
And if ye lacke oure predication,
Than goth this world all to destruction.
For who so fro this world wold us bereve,
So God me save, Thomas, by your leve,
He wold bereve out of this world the Sonne.
For who can teche and worken as we conne?
And that is not of litel time," (quod he)
"But sithen Elie was, and Elisee,
Han freres ben, that find I of record,
In charitee, ythonked be our Lord.
Now, Thomas, help for Seinte Charitee."

And doun anon he sette him on his knee.
This sike man woxe wel neigh wood for ire,
He wolde that the frere had ben a-fire
With his false dissimulation.

"Swiche thing as is in my possession,” Quod he, "that may I yeve you and non other: Ye sain me thus, how that I am your brother." "Ye certes," quod this frere, "ye, trusteth wel; I took our dame the letter of our sele."

"Now wel," quod he, "and somwhat shal I yeve Unto your holy covent while I live; And in thin hond thou shalt it have anon,

On this condition, and other non,
That thou depart it so, my dere brother,
That every frere have as moche as other:
This shalt thou swere on thy profession
Withouten fraud or cavilation."

Thou shalt abie this fart, if that I may."
His meinie, which that herden this affray,
Came leping in, and chased out the frere,
And forth be goth with a ful angry chere,
And set his felaw, ther as lay his store:
He loked as it were a wilde bore,

And grinte with his teeth, so was he wroth.
A sturdy pas doun to the court he goth,
Wher as ther woned a man of gret honour,
To whom that he was alway confessour:
This worthy man was lord of that village.
This frere came, as he were in a rage,
Wher as this lord sat eting at his bord:
Unnethes might the frere speke o word,
Til atte last he saide, "God you see."

This lord gan loke, and saide, "Benedicite!
What? frere John, what maner world is this?
I see wel that som thing ther is amis;
Ye loken as the wood were ful of theves.
Sit doun anon, and tell me what your grieve is,
And it shal ben amended, if I may.

"I have," quod he, " had a despit to day,
God yelde you, adoun in your village,
That in this world ther n'is so poure a page,
That he n'olde have abhominatioun
Of that I have received in youre toun:
And yet ne greveth me nothing so sore,
As that the olde cherl, with lokkes hore,
Blasphemed hath oure holy covent eke."

"Now, maister," quod this lord, “I you beseke." "No maister, sire," quod he, "but servitour, Though I have had in scole that honour. God liketh not, that men us Rabi call, Neither in market, ne in your large hall."

"No force," quod he, "but tell me all your grefe." "Sire," quod this frere, "an odious meschefe This day betid is to min ordre, and me, And so per consequens to eche degree Of holy chirche, God amende it sone." "Sire," quod the lord, "ye wot what is to den: Distempre you not, ye ben my confessour. Ye ben the salt of the erthe, and the savour; For Goddes love your patience now hold; Telle me your grefe." And he anon him told As ye han herd before, ye wot wel what. The lady of the hous ay stille sat,

Til she had herde what the frere said.

"Ey, goddes moder," quod she, “blisful maid, Is ther ought elles? tell me faithfully." "Madame," quod he, "how thinketh you therby?" "How that me thinketh?" quod she; "so God me I say, a cherle hath don a cherles dede.

His sike bed is ful of vanitee;

A, thought this frere, that shal go with me.
And doun his hond he launcheth to the clifte,
In hope for to finden ther a gifte.
And whan this sike man felte this frere
About his towel gropen ther and here,
Amid his hond he let the frere a fart;
Ther n'is no capel drawing in a cart,

That might han let a fart of swiche a soun.
The frere up sterte, as doth a wood leoun:
A, false cherl," quod he, "for Goddes bones,
This hast thou in despit don for the nones:

"

[spede,

I hold him in a maner frenesie."
"Madame," quod he, "by God I shal not lie,
But I in other wise may ben awreke,

I shal diffame him over all, ther I speke;
This false blasphemour, that charged me
To parten that wol not departed be,
To every man ylike, with meschance."

The lord sat stille, as he were in a trance,
And in his herte he rolled up and doun,
"How had this cherl imaginatioun
To shewen swiche a probleme to the frere.
Never erst or now ne herd I swiche matere;
I trow the Devil put it in his mind.
In all Arsmetrike shal ther no man find
Beforn this day of swiche a question.
Who shulde make a demonstration,

THE CLERKES PROLOGUE.

That every man shuld han ylike his part
As of a soun or savour of a fart?

O nice proude cherl, I shrewe his face.

"Lo, sires," quod the lord, with harde grace,
"Who ever herd of swiche a thing or now?
To every man ylike? tell me how.
It is an impossible, it may not be.
Ey, nice cherl, God let him never the.
The rombling of a fart, and every soun,
N'is but of aire reverberatioun,
And ever it wasteth lite and lite away;
Ther n'is no man can demen, by my fay,
If that it were departed equally.
What? lo my cherl, lo yet how shrewedly
Unto my confessour to-day he spake ;
I hold him certain a demoniake.

Now ete your mete, and let the cherl go play,
Let him go honge himself a devil way."

Now stood the lordes squier atte bord,
That carf his mete, and herde word by word
Of all this thing, of which I have you sayd.
"My lord," quod he, "be ye not evil apaid,
I coude telle for a goune-cloth

To you, sire frere, so that ye be not wroth,
How that this fart shuld even ydeled be
Amonge your covent, if it liked thee."
"Tell," quod the lord, "and thou shalt have anon
A goune-cloth, by God and by Seint John." [faire,
"My lord," quod he, "whan that the weder is
Withouten winde, or pertourbing of aire,
Let bring a cart-whele here into this hall,
But loke that it have his spokes all;
Twelf spokes hath a cart-whele communly;
And bring me than twelf freres, wete ye why?
For threttene is a covent as I gesse:
Your confessour here for his worthinesse
Shal parfourme up the noumbre of his covent.
Than shull they knele adoun by on assent,
And to every spokes end in this manere
Ful sadly lay his nose shal a frere;
Your noble confessour, ther God him save,
Shal hold his nose upright under the nave.
Than shal this cherl, with bely stif and tought
As any tabour, hider ben ybrought;
And set him on the whele right of this cart
Upon the nave, and make him let a fart,
And ye shull seen, up peril of my lif,
By veray preef that is demonstratif,
That equally the soun of it wol wende,
And eke the stinke, unto the spokes ende,
Save that this worthy man, your confessour,
(Because he is a man of gret honour)
Shal han the firste fruit, as reson is.
The noble usage of freres yet it is,
The worthy men of hem shul first be served.
And certainly he hath it wel deserved;
He hath to-day taught us so mochel good,
With preching in the pulpit ther he stood,
That I may vouchesauf, I say for me,
He hadde the firste smel of fartes three,
And so wold all his brethren hardely,
He bereth him so faire and holyly."

The lord, the lady, and eche man, save the frere,
Sayden, that Jankin spake in this matere
As wel as Euclide, or elles Ptholomee.
Touching the cherl, they sayden, subtiltee
And highe wit made him speken as he spake;
He n'is no fool, ne no demoniake.
And Jankin hath ywonne a newe goune;
My tale is don, we ben almost at toune.

"SIRE Clerk of Oxenforde," our Hoste said, "Ye ride as stille and coy, as doth a maid, Were newe spoused, sitting at the bord: This day ne herd I of your tonge a word. I trow ye studie abouten som sophime:

But Salomon saith, that every thing hath time.
For Goddes sake as beth of better chere,

It is no time for to studien here.
Tell us som mery tale by your fay;
For what man that is entred in a play,
He nedes most unto the play assent.
But precheth not, as freres don in Lent,
To make us for our olde siunes wepe,
Ne that thy tale make us not to slepe.

"Tell us som mery thing of aventures,
Your termes, your coloures, and your figures,
Kepe hem in store, til so be ye endite
Hie stile, as whan that men to kinges write.
Speketh so plain at this time, I you pray,
That we may understonden what ye say."

This worthy Clerk benignely answerde;
"Hoste," quod he, "I am under your yerde,
Ye have of us as now the governance,
And therfore wolde I do you obeysance,
As fer as reson asketh hardely:
I wol you tell a tale, which that I
Lerned at Padowe of a worthy clerk,
As preved by his wordes and his werk.
He is now ded, and nailed in his cheste,
I pray to God so yeve his soule reste.
"Fraunceis Petrark, the laureat poete,
Highte this clerk, whos rethorike swete
Enlumined all Itaille of poetrie,

As Lynyan did of philosophie,
Or law, or other art particulere:

But Deth, that wol not suffre us dwellen here,
But as it were a twinkling of an eye,
Hem both hath slaine, and alle we shul dye.
"But forth to tellen of this worthy man,
That taughte me this tale, as I began,

I say that first he with hie stile enditeth
(Or he the body of his tale writeth)
A proheme, in the which descriveth he
Piemont, and of Saluces the contree,
And speketh of Apennin the hilles hie,
That ben the boundes of west Lumbardie:
And of mount Vesulus in special,
Wher as the Poo out of a welle smal
Taketh his firste springing and his sours,
That estward ay encreseth in his cours
To Emelie ward, to Ferare, and Venise,
The which a longe thing were to devise.
And trewely, as to my jugement,
Me thinketh it a thing impertinent,
Save that he wol conveyen his matere:
But this is the tale which that ye mow here."

THE CLERKES TALE.

THER is right at the west side of Itaille
Doun at the rote of Vesulus the cold,

A lusty plain, habundant of vitaille,
Ther many a toun and tour thou maist behold,
That founded were in time of fathers old,
And many another delitable sighte,

And Saluces this noble contree highte.

A markis whilom lord was of that lond,
As were his worthy elders him before,
And obeysant, ay redy to his hond,
Were all his lieges, bothe lesse and more:
Thus in delit he liveth, and hath don yore,
Beloved and drad, thurgh favour of fortune,
Both of his lordes, and of his commune.

Therwith he was, to speken of linage,
The gentilest yborne of Lumbardie,
A faire person, and strong, and yong of age,
And ful of honour and of curtesie:
Discret ynough, his contree for to gie,
Sauf in som thinges that he was to blame,
And Walter was this yonge lordes name.

I blame him thus, that he considered nought
In time coming what might him betide,
But on his lust present was all his thought,
And for to hauke and hunt on every side:
Wel neigh all other cures let he slide,
And eke he n'old (and that was worst of all)
Wedden no wif for ought that might befall.

Only that point his peple bare so sore,
That flockmel on a day to him they went,
And on of hem, that wisest was of lore,
(Or elles that the lord wold best assent
That he shuld tell him what the peple ment,
Or elles coud he wel shew swiche matere)
He to the markis said as ye shull here.

"O noble markis, your humanitee
Assureth us and yeveth us hardinesse,
As oft as time is of necessitee,

That we to you mow tell our hevinesse:
Accepteth, lord, than of your gentillesse,
That we with pitous herte unto you plaine,
And let your eres nat my vois disdaine.

"Al have I not to don in this matere
More than another man hath in this place,
Yet for as moch as ye, my lord so dere,
Han alway shewed me favour and grace,
I dare the better aske of you a space
Of audience, to shewen our request,
And ye, my lord, to don right as you lest.

"For certes, lord, so wel us liketh you
And all your werke, and ever have don, that we
Ne couden not ourself devisen how
We mighten live in more felicitee:
Save o thing, lord, if it your wille be,
That for to be a wedded man you lest,
Than were your peple in soverain hertes rest.

"Boweth your nekke under the blisful yok
Of soveraintee, and not of servise,
Which that men clepen spousaile or wedlok:
And thinketh, lord, among your thoughtes wise,
How that our dayes passe in sondry wise;
For though we slepe, or wake, or rome, or ride,
Ay fleth the time, it wol no man abide.

And though your grene youthe floure as yet,
In crepeth age alway as still as ston,
And deth manaseth every age, and smit
In eche estat, for ther escapeth non:
And al so certain, as we knowe cche on
That we shul die, as uncertain we all
Ben of that day whan deth shal on us fall.

"Accepteth than of us the trewe entent,
That never yet refuseden your hest,
And we wol, lord, if that ye wol assent,
Chese you a wife in short time at the mest,
Borne of the gentillest and of the best
Of all this lond, so that it oughte seme
Honour to God and you, as we can deme.

"Deliver us out of all this besy drede,
And take a wif, for highe Goddes sake:
For if it so befell, as God forbede,

That thurgh your deth your linage shulde slake,
And that a strange successour shuld take

Your heritage, o! wo were us on live:
Wherfore we pray you hastily to wive."

Hir meke praiere and hir pitous chere
Made the markis for to han pitee.
"Ye wol," quod he, " min owen peple dere,
To that I never er thought constrainen me.
I me rejoyced of my libertee,

That selden time is found in mariage;
Ther I was free, I moste ben in servage.

"But natheles I see your trewe entent,
And trust upon your wit, and have don ay:
Wherfore of my free will I wol assent
To wedden me, as sone as ever I may.
But ther as ye han profred me to-day
To chesen me a wif, I you relese

That chois, and pray you of that profer cese.

"For God it wot, that children often ben
Unlike hir worthy eldres hem before,
Bountee cometh al of God, not of the stren
Of which they ben ygendred and ybore:
I trust in Goddes bountee, and therfore
My mariage, and min estat, and rest
I him betake, he may don as him lest.
"Let me alone in chesing of my wif,
That charge upon my bak I wol endure:
But I you pray, and charge upon your lif,
That what wif that I take, ye me assure
To worship hire while that hire lif may dure,
In word and werk both here and elles where,
As she an emperoures doughter were.

"And forthermore this shuln ye swere, that ye
Again my chois shul never grutch ne strive.
For sith I shul forgo my libertee

At your request, as ever mote I thrive,
Ther as min herte is set, ther wol I wive:
And but ye wol assent in swiche manere,
I pray you speke no more of this matere."

With hertly will they sworen and assenten
To all this thing, ther saide not o wight nay:
Beseching him of grace, or that they wenten,
That he wold granten hem a certain day
Of his spousaile, as sone as ever he may,
For yet alway the peple somwhat dred,
Lest that this markis wolde no wif wed.

He granted hem a day, swiche as him lest,
On which he wold be wedded sikerly,
And said he did all this at hir request;
And they with humble herte ful buxumly
Kneling upon hir knees ful reverently
Him thonken all, and thus they han an end
Of hir entente, and home agen they wend.

And hereupon he to his officeres
Commandeth for the feste to purvay.
And to bis privee knightes and squieres
Swiche charge he yave, as him list on hem lay:
And they to his commandement obey,
And eche of hem doth al bis diligence
To do unto the feste al reverence.

PARS SECUNDA.

NOUGHT fer fro thilke paleis honourable,
Wher as this markis shope his mariage,
Ther stood a thorpe, of sighte delitable,
In which that poure folk of that village
Hadden hir bestes and hir herbergage,
And of hir labour toke hir sustenance,
After that the erthe yave hem habundance.

Among this poure folk ther dwelt a man,
Which that was holden pourest of hem all:
But highe God somtime senden can
His grace unto a litel oxes stall:
Janicola men of that thorpe him call.
A doughter had he, faire ynough to sight,
And Grisildis this yonge maiden hight.

But for to speke of vertuous beautee,
Than was she on the fairest under Sonne :
Ful pourely yfostred up was she:

No likerous lust was in hire herte yronne;
Wel ofter of the well than of the tonne
She dranke, and for she wolde vertue plese,
She knew wel labour, but non idel ese.

But though this mayden tendre were of age,
Yet in the brest of hire virginitee
Ther was enclosed sad and ripe corage:
And in gret reverence and charitee
Hire olde poure fader fostred she:

A few sheep spinning on the feld she kept,
She wolde not ben idel til she slept.

And whan she homward came she wolde bring
Wortes and other herbes times oft,

The which she shred and sethe for hire living,
And made hire bed ful hard, and nothing soft:
And ay she kept hire fadres lif on loft
With every obeisance and diligence,
That child may don to fadres reverence.

Upon Grisilde, this poure creature,
Ful often sithe this markis sette his eye,
As he on hunting rode paraventure:
And whan it fell that he might hire espie,
He not with wanton loking of folie
His eyen cast on hire, but in sad wise
Upon hire chere he wold him oft avise,

Commending in his herte hire womanhede,
And eke hire vertue, passing any wight
Of so yong age, as wel in chere as dede.
For though the people have no gret insight
In vertue, he considered ful right
Hire bountee, and disposed that he wold
Wedde hire only, if ever he wedden shold.

The day of wedding came, but no wight can
Tellen what woman that it shulde be,
For which mervaille wondred many a man,
And saiden, whan they were in privetee,
"Wol not our lord yet leve his vanitee?
Wol he not wedde? alas, alas the while!
Why wol he thus himself and us begile?"

But natheles this markis hath do make
Of gemmes, sette in gold and in asure,
Broches and ringes, for Grisildes sake,
And of hire clothing toke he the mesure
Of a maiden like unto hire stature,
And eke of other ornamentes all,
That unto swiche a wedding shulde fall.

The time of underne of the same day
Approcheth, that this wedding shulde be,
And all the paleis put was in array,
Both halle and chambres, eche in his degree,
Houses of office stuffed with plentee
Ther mayst thou see of deinteous vitaille,
That may be found, as fer as lasteth Itaille.

This real markis richely arraide,
Lordes and ladies in his compagnie,
The which unto the feste weren praide,
And of his retenue the bachelerie,
With many a soun of sondry melodie,
Unto the village, of the which I told,
In this array the righte way they hold.

Grisilde of this (God wot) ful innocent,
That for hire shapen was all this array,
To fetchen water at a welle is went,
And cometh home as sone as ever she may.
For wel she had herd say, that thilke day
The markis shulde wedde, and, if she might,
She wolde fayn han seen som of that sight.
She thought, "I wol with other maidens stond,
That ben my felawes, in our dore, and see
The markisesse, and therto wol I fond
To don at home, as sone as it may be,
The labour which that longeth unto me,
And than I may at leiser hire behold,
If she this way unto the castel hold."

And as she wolde over the threswold gon,
The markis came and gan hire for to call,
And she set doun hire water-pot anon
Beside the threswold in an oxes stall,
And doun upon hire knees she gan to fall.
And with sad countenance kneleth still,
Till she had herd what was the lordes will.

This thoughtful markis spake unto this maid
Ful soberly, and said in this manere:
"Wher is your fader, Grisildis?" he said.
And she with reverence in humble chere
Answered, "Lord, he is al redy here."
And in she goth withouten lenger lette,
And to the markis she hire fader fette.

He by the hond than toke this poure man,
And saide thus, whan he him had aside:
"Janicola, I neither may ne can
Lenger the plesance of min herte hide,
If that thou vouchesauf, what so betide,
Thy doughter wol I take or that I wend
As for my wife, unto hire lives end.