O noble Ovid, sooth say’st thou, God wot, What sleight is it, if love be long and hot, That he’ll not find it out in some mannére? By Pyramus and Thisbe may men lear; 2944 Though they were kept full long and strait o’er all, They be accorded, 2945 rowning 2946 through a wall, Where no wight could have found out such a sleight. But now to purpose; ere that dayës eight Were passed of the month of July, fill 2947 That January caught so great a will, Through egging 2948 of his wife, him for to play In his gardén, and no wight but they tway, That in a morning to this May said he: “Rise up, my wife, my love, my lady free; The turtle’s voice is heard, mine owen sweet; The winter is gone, with all his rainës weet.