This ugly sergeant, in the samë wise That he her daughter caught, right so hath he (Or worse, if men can any worse devise,) Y-hent her son, that full was of beauty: And ever-in-one so patient was she, That she no cheerë made of heaviness, But kiss’d her son, and after gan him bless.
Save this she prayed him, if that he might, Her little son he would in earthë grave, His tender limbës, delicate to sight, From fowlës and from beastës for to save. But she none answer of him mightë have; He went his way, as him nothing ne raught, But to Bologna tenderly it brought.
The marquis wonder’d ever longer more Upon her patience; and, if that he Not haddë soothly knowen therebefore That perfectly her children loved she, He would have ween’d that of some subtilty, And of malíce, or for cruel coráge, She haddë suffer’d this with sad viságe.
But well he knew, that, next himself, certáin She lov’d her children best in every wise. But now of women would I askë fain, If these assayës mightë not suffice? What could a sturdy husband more devise To prove her wifehood and her steadfastness, And he continuing ev’r in sturdiness?
But there be folk of such conditión, That, when they have a certain purpose take, Thiey cannot stint of their intentión, But, right as they were bound unto a stake, They will not of their firstë purpose slake: Right so this marquis fully hath purpós’d To tempt his wife, as he was first dispos’d.
He waited, if by word or countenance That she to him was changed of coráge: But never could he findë variance, She was aye one in heart and in viságe, And aye the farther that she was in age, The morë true (if that it were possíble) She was to him in love, and more penible.
For which it seemed thus, that of them two There was but one will; for, as Walter lest, The same pleasáncë was her lust also; And, God be thanked, all fell for the best. She shewed well, for no worldly unrest, A