When Phoebus dwelled here in earth adown, As oldë bookës makë mentioún, He was the mostë lusty bachelér Of all this world, and eke the best archér. He slew Python the serpent, as he lay Sleeping against the sun upon a day; And many another noble worthy deed He with his bow wrought, as men mayë read. Playen he could on every minstrelsy, And singë, that it was a melody To hearen of his clearë voice the soun’. Certes the king of Thebes, Amphioún, That with his singing walled the citý, Could never singë half so well as he. Thereto he was the seemliestë man That is, or was since that the world began; What needeth it his features to descrive? For in this world is none so fair alive. He was therewith full fill’d of gentleness, Of honour, and of perfect worthiness.
This Phoebus, that was flower of bach’lery, As well in freedom as in chivalry, For his disport, in sign eke of victóry Of Python, so as telleth us the story, Was wont to bearen in his hand a bow. Now had this Phoebus in his house a crow, Which in a cage he foster’d many a day, And taught it speaken, as men teach a jay. White was this crow, as is a snow-white swan, And counterfeit the speech of every man He couldë, when he shouldë tell a tale. Therewith in all this world no nightingale Ne couldë by an hundred thousand deal Singë so wondrous merrily and well. Now had this Phoebus in his house a wife, Which that he loved morë than his life. And night and day did ever his diligence Her for to please, and do her reverence: Save only, if that I the sooth shall sayn, Jealous he was, and would have kept her fain. For him were loth y-japed for to be; And so is every wight in such degree; But all for nought, for it availeth nought. A good wife, that is clean of work and thought, Should not be kept in none await certáin: And truëly the labour is in vain To keep a shrewë, for it will not be. This hold I for a very nicety, To spillë labour for to keepë wives; Thus writen oldë clerkës in their lives.