Now of my fifthë husband will I tell: God let his soul never come into hell. And yet was he to me the mostë shrew; 1928 That feel I on my ribbës all by rew, 1929 And ever shall, until mine ending day. But in our bed he was so fresh and gay, And therewithal so well he could me glose, 1930 When that he wouldë have my bellë chose , Though he had beaten me on every bone, Yet could he win again my love anon. I trow, I lov’d him better, for that he Was of his love so dangerous 1931 to me. We women have, if that I shall not lie, In this mattér a quaintë fantasy. Whatever thing we may not lightly have, Thereafter will we cry all day and crave. Forbid us thing, and that desirë we;