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Thereon, nor rashly deem that I

Would women treat despitefully,

Nor therefore heap too much of blame

On this my book, which nowise shame

Would do you, but instruct your wit:

For therein not one word unfit,

Of anger or malevolence,

Or passion, or ill-will prepense,

Nor envy, hatred, or despite

’Gainst any woman have I dight,

For no man would his finger stretch

’Gainst women, but some cold-heart wretch.

And if you some rude phrases find

In this my poem, bear in mind

That good and healthful ’tis for me

And you alike ourselves to see.

But ladies, if you deem I fail

Of truth or justice in my tale.

As liar hold not me in scorn,

But those who wrote, ere I was born.

The words I once again repeat.

And count you not those words unmeet

And false, unless you would condemn

The sages whence I gathered them,

And deem that they but fables told

Who framed the famous books of old;

But fainly I confess, forsooth,

I deem those sages wrote but truth

Of women’s ways, for they were not

Foolish, or drunk, or mad I wot,

But all by long experience knew

What women dream of, say, and do;