The Prologue

heartë-root; Unto this day it doth mine heartë boot, That I have had my world as in my time. But age, alas! that all will envenime, Hath me bereft my beauty and my pith: Let go; farewell; the devil go therewith. The flour is gon, there is no more to tell, The bran, as I best may, now must I sell. But yet to be right merry will I fand. Now forth to tell you of my fourth husband, I say, I in my heart had great despite, That he of any other had delight; But he was quit, by God and by Saint Joce: I made for him of the same wood a cross; Not of my body in no foul mannére, But certainly I madë folk such cheer, That in his owen grease I made him fry For anger, and for very jealousý. By God, in earth I was his purgatory, For which I hope his soul may be in glory. For, God it wot, he sat full oft and sung, When that his shoe full bitterly him wrung. There was no wight, save God and he, that wist In many wise how sore I did him twist. He died when I came from Jerusalem, And lies in grave under the roodë beam: Although his tomb is not so curious As was the sepulchre of Darius, Which that Apelles wrought so subtlely. It is but waste to bury them preciously. Let him fare well, God give his soulë rest, He is now in his grave and in his chest.