The Legend of Good Women G-Prologue 237-316

The god of Love on me his eye caste

And seyde, "Who restith there?" And I answerde

Unto his axynge, whan that I hym herde,

And seyde, "Sire, it am I," and cam hym ner,

And salewede hym. Quod he, "What dost thow her

In my presence, and that so boldely?

For it were better worthi, trewely,

A worm to comen in my syght than thow."

"And why, sire," quod I, "and it lyke yow?"

"For thow," quod he, "art therto nothyng able.

My servaunts ben alle wyse and honourable.

Thow art my mortal fo and me werreyest,

And of myne olde servauntes thow mysseyest,

And hynderest hem with thy translacyoun,

And lettest folk to han devocyoun

To serven me, and holdest it folye

To truste on me. Thow mayst it nat denye,

For in pleyn text, it nedeth nat to glose,

Thow hast translated the Romauns of the Rose,

That is an heresye ageyns my lawe,

And makest wise folk fro me withdrawe;

And thynkest in thy wit, that is ful col,

That he nys but a verray propre fol

That loveth paramours to harde and hote.

Wel wot I therby thow begynnyst dote,

As olde foles whan here spiryt fayleth;

Thanne blame they folk, and wite nat what hem ayleth.

Hast thow nat mad in Englysh ek the bok

How that Crisseyde Troylus forsok,

In shewynge how that wemen han don mis?

But natheles, answere me now to this;

Why noldest thow as wel [han] seyd goodnesse

Of wemen, as thow hast seyd wikednesse?

Was there no good matere in thy mynde,

Ne in alle thy bokes ne coudest thow nat fynde

Som story of wemen that were goode and trewe?

Yis, God wot, sixty bokes olde and newe

Hast thow thyself, alle ful of storyes grete,

That bothe Romayns and ek Grekes trete

Of sundry wemen, which lyf that they ladde,

And evere an hundred goode ageyn oon badde.

This knoweth God, and alle clerkes eke

That usen swiche materes for to seke.

What seith Valerye, Titus, or Claudyan?

What seith Jerome agayns Jovynyan?

How clene maydenes and how trewe wyves,

How stedefaste widewes durynge alle here lyves,

Telleth Jerome, and that nat of a fewe,

But, I dar seyn, an hundred on a rewe,

That it is pite for to rede, and routhe,

The wo that they endure for here trouthe

For to hyre love were they so trewe

That, rathere than they wolde take a newe,

They chose to be ded in sondry wyse,

And deiden, as the story wol devyse;

And some were brend, and some were cut the hals,

And some dreynt for they wolden not be fals;

For alle keped they here maydenhede,

Or elles wedlok, or here widewehede.

And this thing was nat kept for holynesse,

But al for verray vertu and clennesse,

And for men schulde sette on hem no lak;

And yit they were hethene, al the pak,

That were so sore adrad of alle shame.

These olde wemen kepte so here name

That in this world I trowe men shal nat fynde

A man that coude be so trewe and kynde

As was the leste woman in that tyde.

What seyth also the epistel of Ovyde

Of trewe wyves and of here labour?

What Vincent in his Estoryal Myrour?

Ek al the world of autours maystow here,

Cristene and hethene, trete of swich matere;

It nedeth nat al day thus for to endite.

But yit, I seye, what eyleth the to wryte

The draf of storyes, and forgete the corn?

By Seynt Venus, of whom that I was born,

Althogh thow reneyed hast my lay,

As othere olde foles many a day,

Thow shalt repente it, so that it shal be sene!"