See how they bleed! be they not well array’d? Thus hath their lord, the god of love, them paid Their wages and their fees for their servíce; And yet they weenë for to be full wise, That servë love, for aught that may befall. But this is yet the bestë game 508 of all, That she, for whom they have this jealousy, Can them therefor as muchel thank as me. She wot no more of all this hotë fare, 509 By God, than wot a cuckoo or an hare. But all must be assayed hot or cold; A man must be a fool, or young or old; I wot it by myself full yore agone: 510 For in my time a servant was I one. And therefore since I know of lovë’s pain, And wot how sore it can a man distrain, 511 As he that oft hath been caught in his las, 512 I you forgivë wholly this trespáss,