And yet, Thomas, eftsoonës 2334 charge I thee, Beware from ire that in thy bosom sleeps, Ware from the serpent, that so slily creeps Under the grass, and stingeth subtilly. Beware, my son, and hearken patiently, That twenty thousand men have lost their lives For striving with their lemans 2335 and their wives. Now since ye have so holy and meek a wife, What needeth you, Thomas, to makë strife? There is, y-wis, 2336 no serpent so cruél, When men tread on his tail nor half so fell, 2337 As woman is, when she hath caught an ire; Very 2338 vengeánce is then all her desire. Ire is a sin, one of the greatë seven, 2339