With which whan that him lift he it unfhette;
And whan that he wold pay his wives dette
In fomer fefon thider wold he go,
And May his wif, and no wight but they two;
And thinges which that were not don a-bedde
He in the gardin parfourmed hem, and fpedde.
And in this wife many a mery day
Lived this January and freshe May:
But worldly joye may not alway endure
To January ne to no creature.

O foden hap, o thou Fortune unstable!

Like to the fcorpion fo deceivable,

The tayl is deth thurgh thin eveniming.

O brotel joye! o fwete poyfon queinte!
O monftre! that fo fotilly canft peinte
Thy giftes under hewe of ftedfaftneffe,
That thou deceiveft bothe more and leffe,
Why haft thou January thus deceived,
That haddeft him for thy ful frend received?
And now thou haft beraft him both his eyen,
For forwe of which defireth he to dyen.
Alas! this nohle January free,
Amidde his luft and his profperitee,
Is waxen blind, and that al fodenly.
He wepeth and he waileth pitously,
And therwithall the fire of jaloufie
(Left that his wif fhuld fall in fom folie)
So brent his herte that he wolde fain
That fom man had both him and hire yflain;
For nother after his deth ne in his lif
Ne wold he that she were no love ne wif,
But ever live as a widewe in clothes blake,
Sole as the turtle that hath loft hire make.
But at the laft, after a moneth or tway,
His forwe gan affwagen, foth to say;
For whan he wift it might non other be,
He patiently toke his adverfitee;
Save out of doute he ne may nat forgon
That he n'as jalous ever more in on;
Which jalousie it was fo outrageous,
That neither in halle, ne in non other hous,
Ne in non other place never the mo,
He n'olde fuffre hire for to ride or go
But if that he had honde on hire alway;
For which ful often wepeth frethe May,
That loveth Damian fo brenningly,
That fhe mofte either dien fodenly
Or elles fhe mofte han him as hire left:
She waited whan hire herte wold to-brest.
Upon that other fide Damian
Becomen is the forwefulleft man
That ever was, for neither night ne day
Ne might be speke a word to freshe May,
As to his purpos, of no fwiche matere,
But if that January muft it here,
That had an hand upon hire evermo;
But natheles by writing to and fro,
And privee fignes, wist he what the ment,
And the knew eke the fin of his entent.

O January! what might it thee availe
Though thou might feen as fer as fhippes faile?
For as
good as blind to deceived be
As be deceived whan a man may fee.

Which ye fhul heren if ye wol abide.

O noble Ovide! foth fayeft thou, God wote,
What fleight is it, if Love be long and hote,
That he n'ill find it out in fom manere?
By Pyramus and Thisbe may men lere;
Though they were kept ful long and ftreit over all,
They ben accorded, rowning thurgh a wall,
Ther no wight coude han founden swiche a fleighte,
But now to purpos. Er that daies eighte
Were paffed of the month of Juil, befill
That January hath caught fo gret a will,
Thurgh egging of his wif, him for to play
In his gardin, and no wight but they tway,
That in a morwe unto this May said he,
Rife up, my wif, my love, my lady free!
The turtles vois is herd, myn owen (wete!
The winter is gon, with all his raines wete.
Come forth now with thin eyen columbine;
Wel fairer ben thy brefts than ony wine.
The gardin is enclosed all aboute;
Come forth, my white spouse, for out of doute
Thou haft me wounded in myn herte, o wif!
No fpot in thee n'as never in all thy lif.
Come forth, and let us taken our difport;
I chefe thee for my wif and my comfort.
Swiche olde lewed wordes ufed he.

On Damian a figne made fhe,
That he fhuld go before with his cliket.
This Damian hath opened the wiket,
And in he flert, and that in fwiche manere
That no wight might him fee neyther yhere,
And ftill he fit under a bush. Anon
This January, as blind as is a fton,
With Maius in his hand, and no wight mo,
Into this frefhe gardin is ago,

And clappet to the wiket fodenly.

Now wif, quod he, here n'is but thou and I
That art the creature that I beft love;
For by that Lord that fit in heven above

I hadde lever dien on a knif

Than thee offenden, dere trewe wif.
For Geddes fake thinke how I thee chees,
Not for no covetife douteles,

But only for the love I had to thee.
And though that I be old and may not fee,
Beth to me trewe, and I wol tell you why;
Certes three thinges faal ye win therby;
First love of Crift, and to yourself honour,
And all min heritage, toun and tour;

I yeve it you, maketh chartres as you left:
This fhal be don to-morwe er foune rest,

So willy God my foule bring to bliffe:
I pray you on this covenant ye me kiffe.
And though that I be jalous wite me nonght;
Ye ben fo depe enprented in my thought,
That whan that I confider your beautee,
And therwithall the unlikely elde of me,
I may not certes, though I fhulde die,
Forbere to ben out of your compagnie
For veray love; this is withouten doute :
Now kiffe me, wif, and let us rome aboute.

This frefhe May, whan fhe thife wordes herd, Benignely to January answerd,

But first and forward fhe began to wepe:
I have, quod fhe, a foule for to kepe
As wel as ye, and also min honour,
And of my wifhood, thilke tendre flour
Which that I have affured in your hond,
Whan that the preest to you my body bond,
Wherfore I wol anfwere in this manere,
With leve of you, myn owen lord fo dere.
I pray to God that never daw that day
That I ne ftarve, as foule as woman may,
If ever I do unto my kin that fhame,
Or elles I empeire fo my name
That I be falfe; and if I do that lakke,
Do ftripen me and put me in a fakke,
And in the nexte river do me drenche:
I am a gentil woman and no wenche.
Why peke ye thus? but men ben ever untrewe,
And women han reprefe of you ay newe.
Ye con non other daliance, I leve,

But fpeke to us as of untrust and repreve.
And with that word fhe faw wher Damian
Sat in the bush, and coughen the began;
And with hire finger a figne made the
That Damian fulde climb up on a tre

That charged was with fruit, and up he went;
For veraily he knew all hire entent,
And every figne that the coude make,
Wel bet than January her own make;
For in a lettre the had told him all

Of this matere, how that he werken fhall.
And thus I let him fitting in the pery,
And January and May roming ful mery.
Bright was the day, and blew the firmament;
Phebus of gold his firemes doun hath fent
To gladen every four with his warmnesse;
He was that time in Geminis I geffe,
But litel fro his declination
Of Cancer, Joves exaltation.

And fo be fell in that bright morwe tide,
That in the gardin, on the ferther fide,
Pluto that is the King of Faurie,
And many a ladie in his compagnie
Folwing his wif, the Quene Proferpina,
Which that he ravisfhed out of Ethna,
While that the gadred floures in the mede,
(In Claudian ye may the story rede,
How that hire in his grifely carte he fette)
This King of Faerie adoun him fette
Upon a benche of turves freshe and grene,
And right anon thus faid he to his quene:
My wif, quod he, ther may no wight say nay,
The experience fo preveth it every day,

The trefon which that woman dotti to man :
Ten hundred thousand stories tell I can
Notable of your untrouth and brotelneffe.

O Salomon! richest of all richesse,
Fulfilled of fapience and wordly glorie,
Ful worthy ben thy wordes to memorie
To every wight that wit and refon can.
Thus praifeth he the bountae yet of man;
Among a thousand men yet fond I on,
But of all women fond I never non.

Thus faith this king, that knewe your wikkedneffe:
And Jefus, flies Sirach, as I geffe,,

He fpeketh of you but felden reverence.
A wilde fire, a corrupt peftilence,
So fall upon your bodies yet to-night.
Ne fee ye not this honourable knight?
Becaufe, alas! that he is blind and old
His owen man fhal make him cokewold:
Lo wher he fit, the lechour, in the tree.
Now wol I graunten of my majestee
Unto this olde blinde worthy knight,
That he fhal have again his eyen fight
Whan that his wif wol don him vilanie,
Than fhal he knowen all hire harlotrie,
Both in reprefe of hire and other mo.

Ye, Sire, quod Proferpine, and wol ye fo?
Now by my modre Ceres foule I fwere
That I thal yeve hire fuffifant answere,
And alle women after for hire fake,
That though they ben in any gilt ytake,
With face bold they fhul hemfelve excufe,
And bere hem doun that wolden hem accufe:
For lacke of answere non of us fhui dien.
Al had ye feen a thing with both your eyen,
Yet fhul we fo vifage it hardely,

And wepe, and fwere, and chiden, fubtilly,
That ye fhul ben as lewed as ben gees.

What rekketh me of your auctoritees?
I wote wel that this Jewe, this Salomon,
Fond of us women fooles many on:
But though that he ne fond no good woman,
Ther hath yfonden many an other man
Women ful good, and trewe and vertuons,
Witnesse on hem that dwelte in Criftes hous
With martyrdom they preved hir conftance.
The Roman geftes maken remembrance
Of many a veray trewe wif alfo.
But, Sire, ne be not wroth al be it fa,
Though that he said he fond no good woman;
I pray you take the fentence of the man:
He ment thus, that in soverein bountee
N'is non but God, no, nouther he ne she.
Ey, for the veray God that n'is but on,
What maken ye fo moche of Salomon ?
What though he made a temple, Goddes hous!
What though he were riche and glorious ?
So made he eke a temple of falfe goddes;

How might he don a thing that more forhode is?
Parde as faire as ye his name emplaftre,
He was a lechour and an idolaftre,
And in his elde he veray God forfoke
And if that God ne hadde (as faithe the boke)
Spared him for his fathers fake, he sholde
Han loft his regne rather than he wolde.

I fete nat of all the vilanie
That he of women wrote a boterflie.
I am a woman; nedes mofte I fpeke,
Or fwell unto that time min herte breke:
For fin he faid that we ben janglereffes,
As ever mote I brouken hole my treffes,
I fhal nat sparen for no curtefie

To fpeke him harm that fayth us vilanie.

Dame, quod this Pluto, be no lenger wroth, I yeve it up but fin I fwore min oth, That I wold graunten him his fight again, My word fhal ftand, that warne I you certain : I am a king, it fit me not to lie. And I, quod fhe, am Qene of Faerie. Hire answere fhe fhal han I undertake; Let us no more wordes of it make. Forfoth, quod he, I wol you not contrary. Now let us turn again to January, That in the gardin with his faire May Singeth wel merier than the popingay; You love I beft, and fhal, and other non. So long about the alleyes is he gon, Til he was comen again to thilke pery Wher as this Damian fitteth ful mery On high, among the freshe leves grene.

This freshe May, that is fo bright and shene, Gan for to fike, and said, Alas, my fide! Now, Sire, quod fhe, for ought that may betide, I mofte have of the peres that I fee, Or I mofte die, fo fore longeth me To eten of the fmale peres grene; Help for hire love that is of heven quene. I tell you wel a woman in my plit May have to fruit so gret an appetit, That fhe may dien but fhe of it have.

Alas! qnod he, that I n'adde here a knave That coude climbe: alas! alas! quod he) For I am blinde. Ye, Sire, no force, quod fhe; But wold ye vouchefauf, for Goddes fake, The pery in with your armes for to take, (For wel I wot that ye miftruften me) Than wold I climben wel ynough, (quod fhe) So I my fote might fetten on your back.

Certes, faid he, therin fhal be no lack, Might I you helpen with min herte blood.

He ftoupeth doun, and on his back the stood, And caught hire by a twift; and up she goth. (Ladies, I pray you that ye be not wroth; I can nat glofe; I am a rude man :) And fodenly anon this Damian

Gan pullen up the fmock, and in he throng.
And whan that Pluto faw this grete wrong,
To January he yaf again his fight,

And made him fee as wel as ever he might;
And whan he thus had caught his fight again
Ne was ther never man of thing so fain:
But on his wif his thought was ever mo.
Up to the tree he caft his eyen two,

And faw how Damian his wife had dreffed
In fwiche manere it may not ben expressed,
But if I wolde fpeke uncurteisly;

And up he yaf a roring and a cry,

As doth the mother whan the child fhal die :
Out! helpe! alas! harow! he gan to cry;
O ftronge lady ftore, what doest thou?
And the anfwered, Sire, what aileth you?
Have patience and reson in your minde,

I have you holpen on both your eyen blinde.
Up peril of my foule, I fhal nat lien,
As me was taught to helpen with your eyen
Was nothing better for to make you see
Than ftrogle with a man upon a tree :
God wot, I did it in ful good entent.

Strogle! quod he; ye, algate in it went.
Gode yeve you both on fhames deth to dien;
He fwived thee, I faw it with min eyen,
And elles be I honged by the halfe.

Than is, quod fhe, my medicine al false;
For certainly if that ye mighten fee,
Ye wold not say thife wordes unto me.
Ye have fom glimfing, and no parfit fight.
I fee, quod he, as wel as ever I might
(Thanked be God) with both min eyen two,
And by my feith me thought he did thee so.

Ye mafe, ye masen, good Sire, quod fhe;
This thank have I for I have made you fee:
Alas! quod fhe, that ever I was fo kind.

Now Dame, quod he, let al paffe out of mind: Come doun, my lefe, and if I have missaid, God helpe me fo as I am evil appaid : But by my fadres foule I wende have fein How that this Damian had by thee lein, And that thy fmock had lein upon his breft.

Ye, Sire, quod fhe, ye may wene as you left: But, Sire, a man that weketh of his flepe, He may not fodenly wel taken kepe Upon a thing, ne seen it parfitly, Til that he be adawed veraily: Right fo a man that lang hath blind ybe, He may not fodenly fo wel yfee, First whan his fight is newe comen agein, As he that hath a day or two yfein. Til that your fight yfateled be a while, Ther may ful many a fighte you begile. Beware, I pray you, for by heven King Ful many a man weneth to see a thing, And it is all another than it femeth : He which that mifconceiveth oft mifdemeth.

And with that word fhe lep doun fro the tree. This January who is glad but he? He kiffeth hire and lippeth hire ful oft, And on hire wombe he stroketh hire ful soft, And to his paleis home he hath hire lad. Now, goode men, I pray you to be glad. Thus endeth here my Tale of Januarie; God bleffe us, and his moder Seinte Marie!

By Goddes mercy, fayde oure Hofte tho,
Now Twiche a wif 1 preie God kepe me fro.
Lo, fwiche fleightes and fubtilitees
In women ben; for ay as befy as bees
Ben they us fely men for to deceive,
And from a fothe wol they ever weive:
By this Marchantes Tale it preveth wel.
But natheles, as trewe as any stele
I have a wif, though that she poure be,
But of hire tonge a labbing fhrewe is fhe;
And yet the hath an hepe of vices mo.
Therof no force; let all fwiche thinges go.
But wete ye what? in confeil be it feyde,
Me reweth fore I am unto hire teyde;
For and I fhulde rekene every vice
Which that he hath; ywis I were to nice;

And caufe why, it fhulde reported be
And told to hire of fom of this compagnie,
(Of whom it nedeth not for to declare,
Sin women connen utter swiche chaffare)
And eke my wit sufficeth not therto
To tellen all; wherfore my Tale is do.

Squier, come ner, if it youre wille be,
And fay fomwhat of love, for certes ye
Connen theron as moche as any man.
Nay, Sire, quod he, but swiche thing as I can
With hertly wille, for I wol not rebelle
Agein your luft, a Tale wol I telle.
Have me excufed if I fpeke amis :

My wille is good; and lo, my Tale is this.

So excellent a lorde in alle thing;"
Him lacked nought that longeth to a king,
As of the fecte of which that he was borne.
He kept his lay to which he was yfworne,
And therto he was hardy, wife, and riche,
And pitous and juft, and alway yliche,
Trewe of his word, benigne and honourable,
Of his corage as any centre ftable,
Yong, fresh, and ftrong, in armes defirous,
As any bacheler of all his hous.

A faire perfon he was and fortunate,
And kept alway so wel real estat,

That ther n'as no wher fwiche another man.

This noble king, this Tartre Cambuscan,
Hadde two fones by Elfeta his wif,
Of which the eldest fone highte Algarfif,
That other was ycleped Camballo.

A doughter had this worthy king also,
That yongeft was, and highte Canace :
But for to tellen you all hire beautee
It lith not in my tonge ne in my conning;
I dare not undertake fo high a thing:
Min English eke is infufficient ;
It mufte ben a rethor excellent,

That coude his colours longing for that art,
If he fhuld hire defcriven ony part:
I am non fwiche; Imote fpeke as I can.

And so befel that whan this Cambufcan
Hath twenty winter borne his diademe,
As he was wont fro yere to yere I deme,
He let the feste of his nativitee
Don crien thurghout Sarra his citee
The laft idus of March after the yere.
Phebus the fonne ful jolif was and clere,
Fer he was nigh his exaltation
In Martes face, and in his mansion
In Aries, the colerike hote figne :
Ful lufty was the wether and benigne,
For which the foules again the sonne shene:
What for the fefon and the yonge grene
Ful londe fongen hir affections:
Hem femed han getten hem protections
Again the fwerd of winter kene and cold.
This Cambufcan, of which I have you told,
In real vestiments, fit on his deis
With diademe, ful high in paleis,
And holt his fefte fo folempne and fo riche,
That in this world ne was ther non it liche,
Of which if I fhall tellen all the array,
Than wold it occupie a fomers day;
And eke it nedeth not for to devise
At every cours the order of hir service:
I wol not tellen of hir ftrange fewes,
Ne of hir swannes ne hir heronfewes:
Eke in that lond, as tellen knightes old,
Ther is fom mete that is ful deintee hold,
That in his lond men recche of it ful smal
Ther n'is no man that may reporten al.
I wol not tarien you, for it is prime,
And for it is no fruit, but loffe of time;
Unto my purpos I wol have recours.

And fo befelle, that after the thridde cours, While that this king fit thus in his nobley, Herking his miniftralles hir thinges pley, Beforne him at his bord deliciously, In at the halle dore al fodenly Ther came a knight upon a stede of bras, And in his hond a brod mirrour of glas; Upon his thombe he had of gold a ring, And by his fide a naked fwerd hanging; And up he rideth to the highe bord. In all the halle ne was ther fpoke a word For mervaille of this knight; him to behold Ful befily they waiten yong and old.

This ftrange knight that come this fodenly, Al armed fave his hed ful richely,

Salueth king and quene, and lordes alle,
By order as they faten in the halle,
With fo high reverence and obfervance,
As wel in fpeche as in his contenance,
That Gawain with his olde curtefie,
Though he were come agen out of Faerie,
Ne coude him not amenden with a word;
And after this beforn the highe bord
He with a manly vois fayd his message,
After the forme used in his langage,
Withouten vice of fillable or of letter:
And for his tale fhulde feme the better,
Accordant to his wordes was his chere,
As techeth art of fpeche hem that it lere.
Al be it that I cannot foune his stile,
Ne cannot climben over fo high a stile,
Yet fay I this, as to comun entent,
Thus much amount eth all that ever he ment,
If it fo be that I have it in mind.

He fayd, The King of Arabie and of Inde,
My liege Lord, on this folempne day,
Salueth you as he best can and may,
And fendeth you, in honour of your feste,
By me, that am al redy at your heste,
This stede of bras, that efily and wel
Can in the space of a day naturel
(This is to fayn, in four-and-twenty houres)
Wher fo you lift, in drought or elles fhoures,
Beren your body into every place

To which your herte willeth for to pace,
Withouten wemme of you thurgh foule or faire)
Or if you lift to fleen as high in the aire
As doth an egle, whan him lift,

This fame ftede fhal bere you evermore,
Withouten harme, till ye be ther you left,
(Though that ye flepen on his back or reft)
And turne again with writhing of a pin;
He that it wrought he coude many a gin;
He waited many a constellation

Or he had don this operation,
And knew ful many a fele and many a bond.

This mirrour eke that I have in min hond
Hath fwiche a might that men may in it fee
Whan ther fhal falle ony adverfitee
Unto your regne or to yourself also,
And openly who is your friend or fo;
And over all this, if any lady bright
Hath fet hire herte on any maner wight,
If he be falfe, fhe fhall his trefon fee,
His newe love, and all his fubtiltee,
So openly, that ther fhal nothing hide.

Wherfore again this lufty fomer tide
This mirrour and this ring, that ye may se,
He hath fent to my Lady Canace,
Your excellente doughter that is here.

The vertue of this ring, if ye wol here,
Is this, that if hire lift it for to were
Upon hire thombe, or in hire purse it bere,
Ther is no foule that fleeth under heven
That the ne fhal wel understond his steven,
And know his mening openly and plaine,
And aufwere him in his langage again;
And every gras that groweth upon rote
She fhal eke know, and whom it wol do bote