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; 2941 and, God wot, so be mo’, That weenë wisly 2942 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 2943 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.