Piece5

Cupido, unto whos comaundëmentThe gentil kinrede of goddes on hyAnd people infernal been obedient,And mortel folk al serven besily,The goddesse sonë Cithera soothly, 5To alle tho that to our deiteeBen sugets, hertly greting sende we!

In general, we wolë that ye knoweThat ladies of honour and reverence,And other gentil women, haven sowe 10Such seed of compleynt in our audienceOf men that doon hem outrage and offence,That it our eres greveth for to here;So pitous is th'effect of this matere.

Passing al londes, on the litel yle 15That cleped is Albion they most compleyne;They seyn, that there is croppe and rote of gyle.So conne tho men dissimulen and feyneWith stonding dropes in hir eyen tweyne,​When that hir hertes feleth no distresse, 20To blinden women with hir doublenesse.

Hir wordes spoken ben so syghingly,With so pitousë chere and contenaunce,That every wight that meneth trewelyDemeth that they in herte have such grevaunce; 25They seyn so importáble is hir penaunceThat, but hir lady lust to shewe hem grace,They right anoon †mot sterven in the place.

'A, lady myn!' they seyn, 'I yow ensure,As doth me grace, and I shal ever be, 30Whyl that my lyf may lasten and endure,To yow as humble and lowe in ech degreeAs possible is, and kepe al thing secreeRight as your-selven liste that I do;And elles moot myn herte breste a-two.' 35

Ful hard it is to knowe a mannes herte;For outward may no man the trouthe deme;When word out of his mouthe may noon asterteBut it by reson any wight shuld queme,So is it seyd of herte, as hit wolde seme. 40O feythful woman, ful of innocence,Thou art deceyved by fals apparence!

By proces women, meved of pitee,Wening that al thing were as thise men sey,They graunte hem grace of hir benignitee 45For that men shulde nat for hir sake dey;And with good herte sette hem in the weyOf blisful lovë—kepe it if they conne;Thus other-whylë women beth y-wonne.​And whan this man the pot hath by the stele, 50And fully is in his possessioun,With that woman he kepeth not to dele,After if he may fynden in the tounAny woman, his blinde affecciounOn to bestowë; evel mote he preve! 55A man, for al his othes, is hard to leve!

And, for that every fals man hath a make,(As un-to every wight is light to knowe),Whan this traitour this woman hath forsake,He faste him spedeth un-to his felowe; 60Til he be there, his herte is on a lowe;His fals deceyt ne may him not suffyse,But of his treson telleth al the wyse.

Is this a fair avaunt? is this honour,A man him-self accuse thus, and diffame? 65Now is it good, confesse him a traitour,And bringe a woman to a sclandrous name,And telle how he her body hath do shame?No worship may he thus to him conquere,But greet esclaundre un-to him and here! 70

To herë? Nay, yet was it no repreef;For al for vertu was it that she wroughte;But he that brewed hath al this mischeef,That spak so faire, and falsly inward thoughte,His be the sclaundre, as it by reson oughte, 75And un-to her a thank perpetuel,That in a nede helpe can so wel!

Althogh of men, through sleyght and sotiltee,A sely, simple, and innocent womanBetrayed is, no wonder, sith the citee 80​Of Troye—as that the storie telle can—Betrayed was, through the disceyt of man,And set on fyre, and al doun over-throwe,And finally destroyed, as men knowe.

Betrayen men not citees grete, and kinges? 85What wight is that can shape remedyeAgeynes thise falsly purpósed thinges?Who can the craft such craftes to espyeBut man, whos wit ay redy is t'aplyeTo thing that souneth in-to hy falshede? 90Women, beth ware of mennes sleight, I rede!

And furthermore han thise men in usageThat, where as they not lykly been to spede,Suche as they been with a double visageThey prócuren, for to pursewe hir nede; 95He prayeth him in his causë to procede,And largely guerdoneth he his travayle;Smal witen wommen how men hem assayle!

Another wrecche un-to his felowe seyth:'Thou fisshest faire! She that thee hath fyred 100Is fals and inconstaunt, and hath no feyth.She for the rode of folke is so desyredAnd, as an hors, fro day to day is hyredThat, when thou twinnest fro hir companye,Another comth, and blered is thyn eyë! 105

'Now prikke on fastë, and ryd thy journeyWhyl thou art there; for she, behind thy bak,So liberal is, she wol no wight with-sey,But smertly of another take a snak;For thus thise wommen faren, al the pak! 110Who-so hem trusteth, hanged mote he be!Ay they desyren chaunge and noveltee!'​Wher-of procedeth this but of envye?For he him-selve her ne winne may,He speketh her repreef and vileinye, 115As mannes blabbing tonge is wont alway.Thus dyvers men ful often make assayFor to distourben folk in sondry wyse,For they may not acheven hir empryse.

Ful many a man eek wolde, for no good, 120(That hath in love his tyme spent and used)Men wiste, his lady his axing withstood,And that he were of her pleynly refused,Or wast and veyn were al that he had mused;Wherfore he can no better remedye 125But on his lady shapeth him to lye:

'Every womman,' he seyth, 'is light to gete;Can noon sey "nay," if she be wel y-soght.Who-so may leyser han, with her to trete,Of his purpós ne shal he faile noght, 130But he on madding be so depe y-broghtThat he shende al with open hoomlinesse;That loven wommen nat, as that I gesse!'

To sclaundre wommen thus, what may profyteTo gentils namely, that hem armen sholde, 135And in defence of wommen hem delyteAs that the ordre of gentilesse wolde?If that a man list gentil to be holde,He moot flee al that ther-to is contrarie;A sclaundring tonge is his grete adversarie. 140

A foul vice is of tonge to be light;For who-so michel clappeth, gabbeth ofte.The tonge of man so swift is and so wightThat, whan it is areysed up-on lofte,​Resoun it seweth so slowly and softe, 145That it him never over-take may:Lord! so thise men ben trusty in assay!

Al-be-it that man fynde oo woman nyce,Inconstant, rechelees, or variable,Deynouse or proud, fulfilled of malyce, 150Withouten feyth or love, and deceyvable,Sly, queynt, and fals, in al unthrift coupable,Wikked and feers, and ful of crueltee.It foloweth nat that swiche al wommen be.

Whan that the high god aungels formed had, 155Among hem alle whether ther werë noonThat founden was malicious and bad?Yis! al men woot that ther was many oonThat, for hir pryde, fil from heven anoon.Shul men therfore alle aungels proude name? 160Nay! he that that susteneth is to blame.

Of twelve apostels oon a traitour was;The remënant yit godë were and trewe.Than, if it happe men fyndë, per cas,Oo womman fals, swich good is for t'eschewe, 165And deme nat that they ben alle untrewe.I see wel mennes owne falsenesseHem causeth wommen for to trusten lesse.

O! every man oghte have an herte tendreUnto womman, and deme her honurable, 170Whether his shap be outher thikke or slendre,Or be he bad or good; this is no fable.Every man woot, that wit hath resonable,That of a womman he descended is:Than is it shame, of her to speke amis. 175​A wikked tree good fruit may noon forth bring,For swich the fruit is, as that is the tree.Tak hede of whom thou took thy biginning;Lat thy moder be mirour unto thee.Honoure her, if thou wolt honoured be! 180Dispyse thou her nat, in no manere,Lest that ther-by thy wikkednesse appere!

An old provérbë seyd is in English:Men seyn, 'that brid or foul is dishonest,What that he be, and holden ful churlish, 185That useth to defoule his owne nest.'Men, to sey wel of wommen it is best,And nat for to despyse hem ne deprave,If that they wole hir honour kepe and save.

Thise ladies eek compleynen hem on clerkes 190That they han maad bokës of hir diffame,In which they lakken wommen and hir werkesAnd speken of hem greet repreef and shame,And causëlees yive hem a wikked name.Thus they despysed been on every syde, 195And sclaundred, and bilowen on ful wyde.

The sory bokes maken menciounHow they betrayden, in especial,Adam, David, Sampsoun, and Salamoun,And many oon mo; who may rehersen al 200The treson that they havë doon, and shal?The world hir malice may not comprehende;As that thise clerkes seyn, it hath non ende.

Ovyde, in his boke called 'RemedyeOf Lovë,' greet repreef of wommen wryteth; 205Wherin, I trowe, he dide greet folye,And every wight that in such cas delyteth.​A clerkes custom is, whan he endytethOf wommen, be it prose, or ryme, or vers,Sey they ben wikke, al knowe he the revers. 210

And that book scolers lerne in hir childhede,For they of wommen be war sholde in age,And for to love hem ever been in drede,Sin to deceyve is set al hir corage.They seyn, peril to caste is avantage, 215And namely, suche as men han in be wrapped;For many a man by woman hath mishapped.

No charge is, what-so that thise clerkes seyn;Of al hir wrong wryting I do no cure;Al hir travayle and labour is in veyn. 220For, betwex me and my lady Nature,Shal nat be suffred, whyl the world may dure,Thise clerkes, by hir cruel tyrannye,Thus upon wommen kythen hir maistrye.

Whylom ful many of hem were in my cheyne 225Y-tyed, and now, what for unweldy ageAnd for unlust, may not to love atteyne,And seyn, that love is but verray dotage.Thus, for that they hem-self lakken corage,They folk excyten, by hir wikked sawes, 230For to rebelle agayn me and my lawes.

But, maugre hem that blamen wommen most,Suche is the force of myn impressioun,That sodeinly I felle can hir bostAnd al hir wrong imaginacioun. 235It shal not been in hir elecciounThe foulest slutte of al a toun refuse,If that me list, for al that they can muse;​But her in herte as brenningly desyreAs thogh she were a duchesse or a quene; 240So can I folkes hertes sette on fyre,And (as me list) hem sende joye or tene.They that to wommen been y-whet so keneMy sharpe persing strokes, how they smyte,Shul fele and knowe; and how they kerve and byte. 245

Perdee, this grete clerk, this sotil OvydeAnd many another han deceyved beOf wommen, as it knowen is ful wyde;Wot no man more; and that is greet deyntee,So excellent a clerk as that was he, 250And other mo that coude so wel precheBetrapped were, for aught they coude teche.

And trusteth wel, that it is no mervayle;For wommen knewen pleynly hir entente.They wiste how sotilly they coude assayle 255Hem, and what falshood they in herte mente;And thise clerkes they in hir daunger hente.With oo venym another was distroyed;And thus thise clerkes often were anoyed.

Thise ladies ne thise gentils, nevertheles, 260Were noon of tho that wroughten in this wyse;But swiche filthes as were vertulesThey quitten thus thise olde clerkes wyse.To clerkes forthy lesse may suffyseThan to deprave wommen generally; 265For worship shul they gete noon therby.

If that thise men, that lovers hem pretende,To wommen weren feythful, gode, and trewe,And dredde hem to deceyven or offende,​Wommen to love hem wolde nat eschewe. 270But every day hath man an herte newe;It upon oon abyde can no whyle.What fors is it, swich a wight to begyle?

Men beren eek thise wommen upon hondeThat lightly, and withouten any peyne, 275They wonne been; they can no wight withstondeThat his disese list to hem compleyne.They been so freel, they mowe hem nat refreyne;But who-so lyketh may hem lightly have;So been hir hertes esy in to grave. 280

To maister Iohn de Meun, as I suppose,Than it was a lewd occupaciounIn making of the Romance of the Rose;So many a sly imaginaciounAnd perils for to rollen up and doun, 285So long proces, so many a sly cauteleFor to deceyve a sely damosele!

Nat can I seen, ne my wit comprehendeThat art and peyne and sotiltee sholde fayleFor to conquére, and sone make an ende, 290Whan man a feble place shal assayle;And sone also to venquisshe a batayleOf which no wight dar maken resistence,Ne herte hath noon to stonden at defence.

Than moot it folwen of necessitee, 295Sin art asketh so greet engyn and peyneA womman to disceyve, what she be,Of constauncë they been not so bareyneAs that somme of thise sotil clerkes feyne;But they ben as that wommen oghten be, 300Sad, constant, and fulfilled of pitee.​How frendly was Medea to JasounIn the conquéring of the flees of gold!How falsly quitte he her affecciounBy whom victórie he gat, as he hath wold! 305How may this man, for shame, be so boldTo falsen her, that from his dethe and shameHim kepte, and gat him so gret prys and name?

Of Troye also the traitour Eneas,The feythles wrecche, how hath he him forswore 310To Dido, that queen of Cartágë was,That him releved of his smertes sore!What gentilesse might she han doon moreThan she with herte unfeyned to him kidde?And what mischeef to her ther-of betidde! 315

In my Legende of Martres men may fynde(Who-so that lyketh therin for to rede)That ooth noon ne behest may no man bynde;Of reprevable shame han they no drede.In mannes herte trouthe hath no stede; 320The soil is noght, ther may no trouthe growe!To womman namely it is nat unknowe.

Clerkes seyn also: 'ther is no malyceUnto wommannes crabbed wikkednesse!'O woman! How shalt thou thy-self chevyce, 325Sin men of thee so muchel harm witnesse?No fors! Do forth! Takë no hevinesse!Kepë thyn ownë, what men clappe or crake;And somme of hem shul smerte, I undertake!

Malyce of wommen, what is it to drede? 330They slee no men, distroyen no citees;They not oppressen folk ne overlede,​Betraye empyres, remes, ne duchees,Ne men bereve hir landes ne hir mees,Empoyson folk, ne houses sette on fyre, 335Ne false contractes maken for non hyre!

Trust, perfit love, and entere charitee,Fervent wil, and entalented corageTo thewes gode, as it sit wel to be,Han wommen ay, of custome and usage; 340And wel they can a mannes ire aswageWith softe wordes discreet and benigne;What they be inward, sheweth outward signe.

Wommannes herte un-to no cruelteeEnclyned is, but they ben charitable, 345Pitous, devout, fulle of humilitee,Shamfaste, debonaire, and amiable,Dredful, and of hir wordes mesurable:What womman thise hath not, peraventure,Ne folweth nat the wey of her nature. 350

Men seyn: 'our firste moder, natheles,Made al man-kynde lese his libertee,And naked it of joye, douteles;For goddes hestes disobeyed she,Whan she presumed tasten of a tree, 355Which god forbad that she nat ete of sholde;And, nad the devel been, namore she wolde.'

Th' envýous swelling that the feend, our fo,Had unto man in herte, for his welthe,Sente a serpent, and made her for to go 360To disceyve Eve; and thus was mannes heltheBeraft him by the fende, right in a stelthe,The womman noght knowing of the deceyt;God wot, ful fer was it from her conceyt.​Wherfore I sey, this godë womman Eve 365Our fader Adam ne deceyved noght.Ther may no man for a deceyt it preveProprely, but-if that she, in her thoght,Had it compassed first, er it was wroght;And, for swich was nat her impressioun, 370Men calle it may no déceyt, by resoun.

No wight deceyveth but he it purpóse;The feend this déceyt caste, and nothing she.Than is it wrong to demen or supposeThat she sholde of this harm the cause be. 375Wyteth the feend, and his be the maugree;And for excused have her innocence,Sauf only that she brak obedience.

And touching this, ful fewe men ther been,Unnethes any, dar I saufly seye— 380Fro day to day, as that men mow wel seen,But that the hest of god they disobeye.Have this in mynde, sires, I yow preye;If that ye be discreet and resonable,Ye wol her holde the more excusable. 385

And wher men seyn, 'in man is stedfastnesse,And woman is of her corage unstable,'Who may of Adam bere swich witnesse?Telleth me this:—was he nat chaungeable?They bothe weren in a caas semblable, 390Sauf willingly the feend deceyved Eve,And so did she nat Adam, by your leve.

Yet was this sinne happy to mankynde,The feend deceyved was, for al his sleight;For aught he coude him in his sleightes wynde, 395​God, to discharge mankynde of the weightOf his trespas, cam doun from hevenes height,And flesh and blood he took of a virgyne,And suffred deeth, him to deliver of pyne.

And god, to whom ther may nothing hid be, 400If he in woman knowe had such malyceAs men of hem recorde in generaltee,Of our lady, of lyf reparatryce,Nolde han be born; but, for that she of vyceWas voyde, and of al vertu (wel he wiste) 405Endowed, of her to be bore him liste.

Her heped vertu hath swich excellenceThat al to lene is mannes faculteeTo déclare it, and therfor in suspenceHer duë preysing put mot nedes be. 410But this we witen verrayly, that she,Next god, the best frend is that to man longeth;The key of mercy by her girdil hongeth.

And of mercy hath every man swich nedeThat, cessing that, farwel the joye of man! 415Of her power now taketh right good hede;She mercy may, wol, and purchace can.Displese her nat, honoureth that womman,And other wommen alle, for her sake!And, but ye do, your sorowe shal awake. 420

Thou precious gemme, O martir Margarete,Of thy blood draddest noon effusioun!Thy martirdom ne may I nat foryete;Thou, constant womman in thy passioun,Overcoom the feendes temptacioun; 425And many a wight converted thy doctryneUnto the feith of god, holy virgyne!​But understondeth, I commende hir noghtBy enchesoun of hir virginitee;Trusteth right wel, it cam not in my thoght; 430For ever I werrey ayein chastitee,And ever shal; but this, lo! meveth me,Her loving herte and constant to her layDryve out of rémembrauncë I ne may.

In any boke also wher can ye fynde, 435That of the werkes or the dethe or lyfOf Jesu speketh, or maketh any mynde,That womman him forsook, for wo or stryf?Wher was ther any wight so ententyfAbouten him as wommen? Pardee, noon! 440Th'apostels him forsoken, everichoon.

Womman forsook him noght; for al the feythOf holy chirche in womman lefte only.This is no lees, for holy writ thus seyth;Loke, and ye shal so fynde it, hardely. 445And therfore it may preved be therby,That in womman regneth stable constaunceAnd in men is the chaunge and variaunce!

Now holdeth this for ferme and for no lye,That this trewe and just commendacioun 450Of wommen is nat told for flaterye,Ne to cause hem pryde or elacioun,But only, lo! for this entencioun,To yeve hem corage of perseveraunceIn vertu, and hir honour to enhaunce. 455

The more vertu, the lasse is the pryde;Vertu so digne is, and so noble in kyndeThat vyce and she wol not in-fere abyde.​She putteth vyce clene out of her mynde,She fleeth from him, she leveth him behynde. 460O womman, that of vertu art hostesse,Greet is thyn honour and thy worthinesse!

Than wol we thus concluden and diffyne:We yow comaunde, our ministres, echoonThat redy been to our hestes enclyne, 465That of thise false men, our rebel foon,Ye do punisshëment, and that anoon!Voide hem our court and banish hem for everSo that ther-inne they ne come never.

Fulfilled be it, cessing al delay; 470Look that ther be non excusacioun.Writen in th'ayr, the lusty month of May,In our paleys (wher many a milliounOf loveres trewe han habitacioun)The yere of grace joyful and jocounde 475A thousand and foure hundred and secounde.