To January, when he for her sent. Up rosë Damian the nextë morrow, All passed was his sickness and his sorrow. He combed him, he proined 2917 him and picked, He did all that unto his lady liked; And eke to January he went as low As ever did a doggë for the bow. 2918 He is so pleasant unto every man (For craft is all, whoso that do it can), Every wight is fain to speak him good; And fully in his lady’s grace he stood. Thus leave I Damian about his need, And in my talë forth I will proceed.