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Lo Catoun, which that was so wys a man, Seyde he nat thus, ne do no fors of dremes? Now, sire,’ quod she, ‘whan we flee fro the bemes, For Goddes love, as tak som laxatyf; Up peril of my soule, and of my lyf, I counseille yow the beste, I wol nat lye, That bothe of colere and of malencolye Ye purge yow; and for ye shul nat tarie, Though in this toun is noon apotecarie, I shal my-self to herbes techen yow, That shul ben for your hele, and for your prow; And in our yerd tho herbes shal I finde, The whiche han of hir propretee, by kinde, To purgen yow binethe, and eek above. Forget not this, for Goddes owene love! Ye been ful colerik of compleccioun. Ware the sonne in his ascencioun Ne fynde yow nat repleet of humours hote; And if it do, I dar wel leye a grote, That ye shul have a fevere terciane, Or an agu, that may be youre bane. A day or two ye shul have digestyves Of wormes, er ye take your laxatyves, Of lauriol, centaure, and fumetere, Or elles of ellebor, that groweth there, Of catapuce, or of gaytres beryis, Of erbe yve, growing in our yerd, that mery is; Pekke hem up right as they growe, and ete hem in. Be mery, housbond, for your fader kin! Dredeth no dreem; I can say yow na-more.’ Lo Catoun, which that was so wys a man, Seyde he nat thus, ne do no fors of dremes? Now, sire,’ quod she, ‘whan we flee fro the bemes, For Goddes love, as tak som laxatyf; Up peril of my soule, and of my lyf, I counseille yow the beste, I wol nat lye, That bothe of colere and of malencolye Ye purge yow; and for ye shul nat tarie, Though in this toun is noon apotecarie, I shal my-self to herbes techen yow, That shul ben for your hele, and for your prow; And in our yerd tho herbes shal I finde, The whiche han of hir propretee, by kinde, To purgen yow binethe, and eek above. Forget not this, for Goddes owene love! Ye been ful colerik of compleccioun. Ware the sonne in his ascencioun Ne fynde yow nat repleet of humours hote; And if it do, I dar wel leye a grote, That ye shul have a fevere terciane, Or an agu, that may be youre bane. A day or two ye shul have digestyves Of wormes, er ye take your laxatyves, Of lauriol, centaure, and fumetere, Or elles of ellebor, that groweth there, Of catapuce, or of gaytres beryis, Of erbe yve, growing in our yerd, that mery is; Pekke hem up right as they growe, and ete hem in. Be mery, housbond, for your fader kin! Dredeth no dreem; I can say yow na-more.’

Original Text

Modern Text

Lo Catoun, which that was so wys a man, Seyde he nat thus, ne do no fors of dremes? Now, sire,’ quod she, ‘whan we flee fro the bemes, For Goddes love, as tak som laxatyf; Up peril of my soule, and of my lyf, I counseille yow the beste, I wol nat lye, That bothe of colere and of malencolye Ye purge yow; and for ye shul nat tarie, Though in this toun is noon apotecarie, I shal my-self to herbes techen yow, That shul ben for your hele, and for your prow; And in our yerd tho herbes shal I finde, The whiche han of hir propretee, by kinde, To purgen yow binethe, and eek above. Forget not this, for Goddes owene love! Ye been ful colerik of compleccioun. Ware the sonne in his ascencioun Ne fynde yow nat repleet of humours hote; And if it do, I dar wel leye a grote, That ye shul have a fevere terciane, Or an agu, that may be youre bane. A day or two ye shul have digestyves Of wormes, er ye take your laxatyves, Of lauriol, centaure, and fumetere, Or elles of ellebor, that groweth there, Of catapuce, or of gaytres beryis, Of erbe yve, growing in our yerd, that mery is; Pekke hem up right as they growe, and ete hem in. Be mery, housbond, for your fader kin! Dredeth no dreem; I can say yow na-more.’ Lo Catoun, which that was so wys a man, Seyde he nat thus, ne do no fors of dremes? Now, sire,’ quod she, ‘whan we flee fro the bemes, For Goddes love, as tak som laxatyf; Up peril of my soule, and of my lyf, I counseille yow the beste, I wol nat lye, That bothe of colere and of malencolye Ye purge yow; and for ye shul nat tarie, Though in this toun is noon apotecarie, I shal my-self to herbes techen yow, That shul ben for your hele, and for your prow; And in our yerd tho herbes shal I finde, The whiche han of hir propretee, by kinde, To purgen yow binethe, and eek above. Forget not this, for Goddes owene love! Ye been ful colerik of compleccioun. Ware the sonne in his ascencioun Ne fynde yow nat repleet of humours hote; And if it do, I dar wel leye a grote, That ye shul have a fevere terciane, Or an agu, that may be youre bane. A day or two ye shul have digestyves Of wormes, er ye take your laxatyves, Of lauriol, centaure, and fumetere, Or elles of ellebor, that groweth there, Of catapuce, or of gaytres beryis, Of erbe yve, growing in our yerd, that mery is; Pekke hem up right as they growe, and ete hem in. Be mery, housbond, for your fader kin! Dredeth no dreem; I can say yow na-more.’
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