month or tway, His sorrow gan assuagë, sooth to say. For, when he wist it might none other be, He patiently took his adversity: Save out of doubtë he may not foregon That he was jealous evermore-in-one: Which jealousy was so outrageoús, That neither in hall, nor in none other house, Nor in none other place never the mo’ He wouldë suffer her to ride or go, But if that he had hand on her alway. For which full often weptë freshë May, That loved Damian so burningly That she must either dien suddenly, Or ellës she must have him as her lest: She waited when her heartë wouldë brest. Upon that other sidë Damian Becomen is the sorrowfullest man That ever was; for neither night nor day He mightë speak a word to freshë May, As to his purpose, of no such mattére, But if that January must it hear, That had a hand upon her evermo’. But natheless, by writing to and fro, And privy signës, wist he what she meant, And she knew eke the fine of his intent.
O January, what might it thee avail, Though thou might see as far as shippës sail? For as good is it blind deceiv’d to be, As be deceived when a man may see. Lo, Argus, which that had a hundred eyen, For all that ever he could pore or pryen, Yet was he blent; and, God wot, so be mo’, That weenë wisly that it be not so: Pass over is an ease, I say no more. This freshë May, of which I spakë yore, In warm wax hath imprinted the clikét That January bare of the small wickét By which into his garden oft he went; And Damian, that knew all her intent, The cliket counterfeited privily; There is no more to say, but hastily Some wonder by this cliket shall betide, Which ye shall hearen, if ye will abide.
O noble Ovid, sooth say’st thou, God wot, What sleight is it, if love be long and hot, That he’ll not find it out in some mannére? By Pyramus and Thisbe may men lear; Though they were kept full long and strait o’er all, They be accorded, rowning through a wall, Where no wight could have found out such a sleight. But now to purpose; ere that dayës eight Were passed of the month of July, fill That January caught so great a will, Through egging of his wife, him for to play In his gardén, and no wight