VI
A PARAPHRASE, BY CHAUCER
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Syn that you, Chloe, to your moder sticken, Maketh all ye yonge bacheloures full sicken; Like as a lyttel deere you ben y-hiding Whenas come lovers with theyre pityse chiding. Sothly it ben faire to give up your moder For to beare swete company with some oder; Your moder ben well enow so farre shee goeth, But that ben not farre enow, God knoweth; Wherefore it ben sayed that foolysh ladyes That marrye not shall leade an aype in Hadys; But all that do with gode men wed full quicklye When that they be on dead go to ye seints full sickerly. |
TO MÆCENAS
| Than you, O valued friend of mine, A better patron non est! Come, quaff my home-made Sabine wine,— You'll find it poor but honest. I put it up that famous day You patronized the ballet, And the public cheered you such a way As shook your native valley. Cæcuban and the Calean brand May elsewhere claim attention; But I have none of these on hand,— For reasons I'll not mention. |