Page:Romance of the Rose (Ellis), volume 2.pdf/94

66

Do you, my church-wed wife, make play

With worthless spendthrifts, day by day,

While I by no means am exempt

From handling rude; with fine contempt

They cry: Ha! ha! may wolves devour

The jealous dotard with his sour

Curmudgeon’s grin, and may his bones

Be dragged by hounds across the stones!

By whom am I thus put to shame?

Baggage! by you, who bear my name,

Vile, common quean of ribald heart;

With ruffians well you play your part,

Foul bitch at heat! base spawn of hell!

False libertine! curst Jezebel!

Since thus you give yourself to crime,

God grant a year may fill your time,

For while you join in this wild race,

Your lecherous life is my disgrace,

And I through you shall surely be

One of the base fraternity

Of Saint Arnould accounted, and

A member of that cuckold band,

Wherein each man must spend his life

Who’s fool enough to take a wife,

For though one had a million eyes,

A woman will their watch surprise.

No guard can keep a wanton chaste,

And though she fail Eve’s fruit to taste

At first, if she thereto hath will,

Her purpose she’ll at last fulfil.

But Juvenal of yore spake thus,

As he were fain to comfort us: