And many othir such like idle dedes. And for the grete delite and the plesaunce They have to the Flour, and so reverently They unto it doin such obeisaunce, As ye may se. Now, fair Madame! quod I, [If I durst ask] what is the cause and why That knightis have the ensign of honour Rathir by the Lefè than by the Flour? Sothly, doughtir, quod she, this is the truth, For knightes evir should be persevering To seke honour without feintise or slouth, Fro wele to bettir in all manir thing, In sign of which with levis ay lasting They be rewardid aftir ther degre. Whose lusty grene may not appairid be, But ay keping ther beauty fresh and grene, For ther n'is no storme that may them deface, Ne hail nor snowe, ne wind nor frostis kene, Wherefore they have this propirty and grace; And for the Flour within a litil space Wollin be lost, so simple of nature They be, that they no grevaunce may endure: And every storme woll blowe them sone away, Ne they lastè not but for a seson, That is the cause [the very trouth to say] That they may not by no way of reson Be put to no such occupacion. Madame, quod I, with all mine whole servise I thank you now in my most humble wise; For now I am ascertain'd thoroughly Of every thing I desirid to knowe. I am right glad that I have said, sothly, Ought to your plesure, (if ye will me trow.) Quod she ayen. But to whom do ye owe Your service, and which wollin ye honour [Pray tell me] this year, the Lefe or the Flour? Madam, quod I, although I lest worthy, Unto the Lefe I ow mine observaunce. That is, quod she, right wel done certainly, And I pray God to honour you advaunce, And kepe you fro the wickid remembraunce Of Melèbouch and all his cruiltie, And all that gode and well-condition'd be; For here I may no lengir now abide, But I must follow the grete company That ye may se yondir before you ride. And forthwith, as I couth most humily I toke my leve of her, and she gan hie Aftir them as fast as evir she might, And I drow homeward, for it was nigh night. And put all that I had sene in writing, Undir support of them that lust it rede. O little boke! thou art so unconning, How darst thou put thy self in prees for drede? It is wondir that thou wexist not rede, Sith that thou wost full lite who shall behold Thy rude langage full boystously unfold. THE WIF OF BATHES TALE.