Welcome, I sayde; I praye the now tell Me what thou arte and where thou dost dwell? Sothelyche, quod he, whan Icham in Kent At home Icham; though I be hether sente, Icham a gentylman of much noble kynne, Though Iche be clad in a knaves skynne. For there was one called Peter Pratefast, That in all hys lyfe spake no worde in waste; He wedde a wyfe that was called Maude. I trowe, quod I, she was a gorgious baude. Thou lyest, quod he, she was gentyl and good, She gave her husbande many a furde hode, And at his melys, without any mys, She wolde him serve in clenly wyse ywys. God love her soule as she loved clennes, And kepe her dysshes from al foulnes. Whan she lacketh cloutes, without any fayle She wyped her disshes wyth her dogges tayle. And they had yssue Sym Sadle-gander, That for a wyfe in all the worlde did wander, Tyll at the last, in the wynters nyght, By Temmes he sayled, aryved by ryght Amonge the nunnes of the grene cote. He wente to lande out of his prety bote, And wedde there one that was comen anewe: He thought her stable, and fayfthfull, and trewe. Her name was Betres, that so clenly was, That no fylthe by her in any wyse shoulde passe. * * * * * * * * * And betwene them bothe they did get a sonne, Whiche was my father, that in Kente did wonne. His name was Davy Dronken-nole, He never dranke but in a fayre blacke boule. He toke a wyfe that was very fayre, And gate me on her for to be his ayre. Her name was Alyson, she loved nought elles But ever more to rynge her blacke belles. Now are they deade all, so mote I well thryve, Excepte my selfe Godfray Gobelive, Whiche rode about a wyfe me to seke, But I can finde none that is good and meke; For all are shrewes in the world aboute, I coude never mete with none other route; For some develles wyll their husbandes bete, And tho that can not, they wyll never let Their tongues cease, but gyve thre wordes for one, Fy on them all! I wyll of them have none: Who loveth any for to make hym sadde, I wene that he become worse than madde. They are not stedfast nothyng in their mynde, But alway tornyng lyke a blaste of wynde. For let a man love them never so wele, They will hym love agayne never a dele. For though a man all his lyfe certayne Unto her sue to have release of payne, And at the last she on hym do rewe, If by fortune there come another newe, The first shall be clene out of her favoure. Recorde of Creseyd and of Troylus the doloure. They are so subtyll and so false of kynde, There can no man wade beyonde their mynde. Was not Aristotle for all his clergy, For a woman rapt in love so marveylously, That all his connyng he had sone forgotten. This unhap love had his mynde so broken, That evermore the salte teres downe hayled Whan the chaunce of love he hymselfe bewayled.