he said in this mannére: “This is my wife,” quoth he, “that standeth here. Honoúrë her, and love her, I you pray, Whoso me loves; there is no more to say.”
And, for that nothing of her oldë gear She shouldë bring into his house, he bade That women should despoilë her right there; Of which these ladies werë nothing glad To handle her clothës wherein she was clad: But natheless this maiden bright of hue From foot to head they clothed have all new.
Her hairës have they comb’d that lay untress’d Full rudëly, and with their fingers small A crown upon her head they havë dress’d, And set her full of nouches great and small: Of her array why should I make a tale? Unneth the people her knew for her fairnéss, When she transmuted was in such richéss.
The marquis hath her spoused with a ring Brought for the samë cause, and then her set Upon a horse snow-white, and well ambling, And to his palace, ere he longer let With joyful people, that her led and met, Conveyed her; and thus the day they spend In revel, till the sunnë gan descend.
And, shortly forth this talë for to chase, I say, that to this newë marchioness God hath such favour sent her of his grace, That it ne seemed not by likeliness That she was born and fed in rudëness— As in a cot, or in an ox’s stall— But nourish’d in an emperorë’s hall.
To every wight she waxen is so dear And worshipful, that folk where she was born, That from her birthë knew her year by year, Unnethës trowed they, but durst have sworn, That to Janicol’ of whom I spake before, She was not daughter, for by conjectúre Them thought she was another creatúre.
For though that ever virtuous was she, She was increased in such excellence Of thewës good, y-set in high bounté, And so discreet, and fair