With burning rage, and frantic jealousy. His soul, I hope, enjoys eternal glory, For here on earth I was his purgatory. Oft, when his shoe the most severely wrung, He put on careless airs, and sat and sung. 240 How sore I galled him, only heav'n could know, And he that felt, and I that caused the woe. He died, when last from pilgrimage I came, With other gossips, from Jerusalem;[16] And now lies buried underneath a rood,[17] 245 Fair to be seen, and reared of honest wood. A tomb indeed, with fewer sculptures graced, Than that Mausolus' pious widow placed,[18] Or where inshrined the great Darius lay; But cost on graves is merely thrown away. 250 The pit filled up, with turf we covered o'er; So bless the good man's soul, I say no more. Now for my fifth loved lord, the last and best; (Kind heav'n afford him everlasting rest) Full hearty was his love, and I can shew 255 The tokens on my ribs in black and blue; Yet, with a knack, my heart he could have won, While yet the smart was shooting in the bone. How quaint an appetite in woman reigns! Free gifts we scorn, and love what costs us pains: 260 Let men avoid us, and on them we leap; A glutted market makes provision cheap.[19] In pure good will I took this jovial spark, Of Oxford he, a most egregious clerk. He boarded with a widow in the town,[20] 265 A trusty gossip, one dame Alison. Full well the secrets of my soul she knew, Better than e'er our parish priest could do. To her I told whatever could befall: Had but my husband pissed against a wall, 270 Or done a thing that might have cost his life, She, and my niece, and one more worthy wife, Had known it all: what most he would conceal, To these I made no scruple to reveal. Oft has he blushed from ear to ear for shame, 275 That e'er he told a secret to his dame. It so befel, in holy time of Lent, That oft a day I to this gossip went; (My husband, thank my stars, was out of town) From house to house we rambled up and down, 280 This clerk, myself, and my good neighbour Alse, To see, be seen, to tell, and gather tales.[21] Visits to ev'ry church we daily paid, And marched in every holy masquerade, The stations duly,[22] and the vigils kept; 285 Not much we fasted, but scarce ever slept. At sermons too I shone in scarlet gay, } The wasting moth ne'er spoiled my best array; } The cause was this, I wore it ev'ry day. }