A VALENTYNE.
(And a Remonstrance.)
This day to yow, dere ladye, wol I schowe
Myn hertes wissche—cum privilegio.
Of alle seintes nis ther more benigne
To man and mayden noon thanne Valentyne;
Sith everych yeer on that swete seintes day
Man can to mayden al his herte displaie
(Bye Cupid arwes smit in sory plighte—
One grote al pleyn, and twayn ypeinted brighte).
Then wol I mak my playnte, so maist ye knowe
Yon whele, dere ladye, don me mochel wo.
Algates I greve, whanne that scorchours I mete
That riden reccheles adoun the strete:
I praie, bethynke yow, swiche diversioun
Ben weel for mayde of mene condicioun,
But ladye fayre in brekes al ydighte
Certes meseems ne verray semelye sighte.
Swiche gere, yclept "raccionale," parde,
Righte sone wol be the dethe of chivalrye;
And we schal heren, whanne that it be dede,
The verdite, "Dethe by—Newe Womman-hede."
Heede then theffect and end of my prayere,
Upyeve thy whele, ne mannissche brekes were,
Contente in graces maydenlye to schyne,
So mote ye be myn owen Valentyne.
"Just the weather for receiving a sharp retort," observed our laughing Philosopher, with his snow-boots on. Naturally his friend wished to know why. "Because," replied Dr. Chuckler, "with the temperature below zero, no one can object to having a wrap over the knuckles." Then away he went merrily over the unartificial ice on the Serpentine.