And what hir liste, more or lesse, Sche dede, in bokes as we finde, That passeth over manneskinde. 4110 Bot who that wole of wondres hiere, What thing sche wroghte in this matiere, To make an ende of that sche gan, Such merveile herde nevere man. Apointed in the newe Mone, Whan it was time forto done, Sche sette a caldron on the fyr, In which was al the hole atir, Wheron the medicine stod, Of jus, of water and of blod, 4120 And let it buile in such a plit, Til that sche sawh the spume whyt; And tho sche caste in rynde and rote, And sed and flour that was for bote, With many an herbe and many a ston, Wherof sche hath ther many on: And ek Cimpheius the Serpent To hire hath alle his scales lent, Chelidre hire yaf his addres skin, And sche to builen caste hem in; 4130 A part ek of the horned Oule, The which men hiere on nyhtes houle; And of a Raven, which was told Of nyne hundred wynter old, Sche tok the hed with al the bile; And as the medicine it wile, Sche tok therafter the bouele Of the Seewolf, and for the hele Of Eson, with a thousand mo Of thinges that sche hadde tho, 4140 In that Caldroun togedre as blyve Sche putte, and tok thanne of Olyve A drie branche hem with to stere, The which anon gan floure and bere And waxe al freissh and grene ayein. Whan sche this vertu hadde sein, Sche let the leste drope of alle Upon the bare flor doun falle; Anon ther sprong up flour and gras, Where as the drope falle was, 4150 And wox anon al medwe grene, So that it mihte wel be sene. Medea thanne knew and wiste Hir medicine is forto triste, And goth to Eson ther he lay, And tok a swerd was of assay, With which a wounde upon his side Sche made, that therout mai slyde The blod withinne, which was old And sek and trouble and fieble and cold. 4160 And tho sche tok unto his us Of herbes al the beste jus, And poured it into his wounde; That made his veynes fulle and sounde: And tho sche made his wounde clos, And tok his hond, and up he ros; And tho sche yaf him drinke a drauhte, Of which his youthe ayein he cauhte, His hed, his herte and his visage Lich unto twenty wynter Age; 4170 Hise hore heres were away, And lich unto the freisshe Maii, Whan passed ben the colde shoures, Riht so recovereth he his floures. Lo, what mihte eny man devise, A womman schewe in eny wise Mor hertly love in every stede, Than Medea to Jason dede? Ferst sche made him the flees to winne, And after that fro kiththe and kinne 4180 With gret tresor with him sche stal, And to his fader forth withal His Elde hath torned into youthe, Which thing non other womman couthe: Bot hou it was to hire aquit, The remembrance duelleth yit.