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Lo Cresus, which that was of Lyde king, Mette he nat that he sat upon a tree, Which signified he sholde anhanged be? Lo heer Andromacha, Ectores wyf, That day that Ector sholde lese his lyf, She dremed on the same night biforn, How that the lyf of Ector sholde be lorn, If thilke day he wente in-to bataille; She warned him, but it mighte nat availle; He wente for to fighte nathelees, But he was slayn anoon of Achilles. But thilke tale is al to long to telle, And eek it is ny day, I may nat dwelle. Shortly I seye, as for conclusioun, That I shal han of this avisioun Adversitee; and I seye forther-more, That I ne telle of laxatyves no store, For they ben venimous, I woot it wel; I hem defye, I love hem never a del. Lo Cresus, which that was of Lyde king, Mette he nat that he sat upon a tree, Which signified he sholde anhanged be? Lo heer Andromacha, Ectores wyf, That day that Ector sholde lese his lyf, She dremed on the same night biforn, How that the lyf of Ector sholde be lorn, If thilke day he wente in-to bataille; She warned him, but it mighte nat availle; He wente for to fighte nathelees, But he was slayn anoon of Achilles. But thilke tale is al to long to telle, And eek it is ny day, I may nat dwelle. Shortly I seye, as for conclusioun, That I shal han of this avisioun Adversitee; and I seye forther-more, That I ne telle of laxatyves no store, For they ben venimous, I woot it wel; I hem defye, I love hem never a del.
Now let us speke of mirthe, and stinte al this; Madame Pertelote, so have I blis, Of o thing God hath sent me large grace; For whan I see the beautee of your face, Ye ben so scarlet-reed about your yën, It maketh al my drede for to dyen; For, also siker as In principio, Mulier est hominis confusio; Madame, the sentence of this Latin is— Womman is mannes Ioye and al his blis. For whan I fele a-night your softe syde, Al-be-it that I may nat on you ryde, For that our perche is maad so narwe, alas! I am so ful of Ioye and of solas That I defye bothe sweven and dreem.’ Now let us speke of mirthe, and stinte al this; Madame Pertelote, so have I blis, Of o thing God hath sent me large grace; For whan I see the beautee of your face, Ye ben so scarlet-reed about your yën, It maketh al my drede for to dyen; For, also siker as In principio, Mulier est hominis confusio; Madame, the sentence of this Latin is— Womman is mannes Ioye and al his blis. For whan I fele a-night your softe syde, Al-be-it that I may nat on you ryde, For that our perche is maad so narwe, alas! I am so ful of Ioye and of solas That I defye bothe sweven and dreem.’

Original Text

Modern Text

Lo Cresus, which that was of Lyde king, Mette he nat that he sat upon a tree, Which signified he sholde anhanged be? Lo heer Andromacha, Ectores wyf, That day that Ector sholde lese his lyf, She dremed on the same night biforn, How that the lyf of Ector sholde be lorn, If thilke day he wente in-to bataille; She warned him, but it mighte nat availle; He wente for to fighte nathelees, But he was slayn anoon of Achilles. But thilke tale is al to long to telle, And eek it is ny day, I may nat dwelle. Shortly I seye, as for conclusioun, That I shal han of this avisioun Adversitee; and I seye forther-more, That I ne telle of laxatyves no store, For they ben venimous, I woot it wel; I hem defye, I love hem never a del. Lo Cresus, which that was of Lyde king, Mette he nat that he sat upon a tree, Which signified he sholde anhanged be? Lo heer Andromacha, Ectores wyf, That day that Ector sholde lese his lyf, She dremed on the same night biforn, How that the lyf of Ector sholde be lorn, If thilke day he wente in-to bataille; She warned him, but it mighte nat availle; He wente for to fighte nathelees, But he was slayn anoon of Achilles. But thilke tale is al to long to telle, And eek it is ny day, I may nat dwelle. Shortly I seye, as for conclusioun, That I shal han of this avisioun Adversitee; and I seye forther-more, That I ne telle of laxatyves no store, For they ben venimous, I woot it wel; I hem defye, I love hem never a del.
Now let us speke of mirthe, and stinte al this; Madame Pertelote, so have I blis, Of o thing God hath sent me large grace; For whan I see the beautee of your face, Ye ben so scarlet-reed about your yën, It maketh al my drede for to dyen; For, also siker as In principio, Mulier est hominis confusio; Madame, the sentence of this Latin is— Womman is mannes Ioye and al his blis. For whan I fele a-night your softe syde, Al-be-it that I may nat on you ryde, For that our perche is maad so narwe, alas! I am so ful of Ioye and of solas That I defye bothe sweven and dreem.’ Now let us speke of mirthe, and stinte al this; Madame Pertelote, so have I blis, Of o thing God hath sent me large grace; For whan I see the beautee of your face, Ye ben so scarlet-reed about your yën, It maketh al my drede for to dyen; For, also siker as In principio, Mulier est hominis confusio; Madame, the sentence of this Latin is— Womman is mannes Ioye and al his blis. For whan I fele a-night your softe syde, Al-be-it that I may nat on you ryde, For that our perche is maad so narwe, alas! I am so ful of Ioye and of solas That I defye bothe sweven and dreem.’