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Sourmounted; in her gentle hand

She grasped a mirror, and a grand

Quaint carven comb her tresses held,

While gloves of spotless white repelled

The sun, which fain would kiss her skin.

And lastly, she had ’tired her in

A costly coat of cloth of Ghent,

On which much labour had been spent

In broidering, while her sleeves around

With silken cords were laced and bound.

And when that she her raiment fair

Had donned, and ’tired her golden hair,

The day for her was worn and done,

Nought else had she to think upon.

A joyful time, a pleasant May

Was hers, for care she drove away

And dreamed of nothing, night and morn,

But how her body to adorn.

When thus I saw the garden gate

Unlocked by this most delicate

And winsome dame, her goodlihead

Abashed me, and I gently said

My thanks, and dared to ask her name.

And who she was, and whence she came.

With pleasant mien, in nowise high

Or haughty, made she quick reply:

“My dear companions well express

My name, who call me Idleness,

A rich and puissant woman I,

Passing the time right gleefully;

Nought else have I to think upon

Save what fair raiment I shall don,