Page:Romance of the Rose (Ellis), volume 1.pdf/253

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With wish to honour her, she goes

To that side of the house which shows

So gorgeously, and dwelleth there

In queenly state, attired in fair

Rich regal vesting; passing sweet

Of perfumes, and of colours meet

For Iris’ self; such tints indeed

As dyers, or by herb or seed

Produce, for costliest garments made,

In silk, or wool, or rich brocade,

For wealthy folk, who dearly love

To vaunt themselves in pride above

Their fellow mortals. Thus her snares

Doth Fortune set, but never cares

One straw for living man when she

Is ’tired in all her bravery.

When looks she round and notes her great

Honour and wealth, and proud estate;

So madly then is she misled,

That seemeth she to lose her head

Outright, and dream that none on earth

But she have smallest count or worth,

Oblivious that on her descend

Oft-times rude strokes ere falls the end.

Then wandereth she about the house,

Till comes she where ’tis ruinous

And all in cue to fall piecemeal,

Yet ceaseless moveth on her wheel.

Then stumbling gropes she, head low bent,

As though she saw not where she went;