laugh’d alway full fast. And eke there was a clerk sometime at Rome, A cardinal, that hightë Saint Jerome, That made a book against Jovinian, Which book was there; and eke Tertullian, Chrysippus, Trotula, and Heloïse, That was an abbess not far from Paris; And eke the Parables of Solomon, Ovidë’s Art , and bourdës many one; And allë these were bound in one volume. And every night and day was his custume (When he had leisure and vacatión From other worldly occupatión) To readen in this book of wicked wives. He knew of them more legends and more lives Than be of goodë wivës in the Bible. For, trust me well, it is an impossíble That any clerk will speakë good of wives, (But if it be of holy saintës’ lives) Nor of none other woman never the mo’. Who painted the lión, tell it me, who? By God, if women haddë written stories, As clerkës have within their oratóries, They would have writ of men more wickedness Than all the mark of Adam may redress. The children of Mercury and of Venus, Be in their working full contrarious. Mercury loveth wisdom and sciénce, And Venus loveth riot and dispence. And for their diverse dispositión, Each falls in other’s exaltatión. As thus, God wot, Mercúry is desolate In Pisces, where Venus is exaltáte, And Venus falls where Mercury is raised. Therefore no woman by no clerk is praised. The clerk, when he is old, and may not do Of Venus’ works not worth his oldë shoe, Then sits he down, and writes in his dotage, That women cannot keep their marriáge. But now to purpose, why I toldë thee That I was beaten for a book, pardie.
Upon a night Jenkin, that was our sire, Read on his book, as he sat by the fire, Of Eva first, that for her wickedness Was all mankind brought into wretchedness, For which that Jesus Christ himself was slain, That bought us with his heartë-blood again. Lo here express of women may ye find That woman was the loss of all mankind. Then read he me how Samson lost his hairs Sleeping, his leman cut them with her shears, Through whichë treason lost he both his eyen. Then read he me, if that I shall not lien, Of Hercules, and of his Dejanire, That caused him to set himself on fire. Nothing forgot he of the care and woe That Socrates had