If that these men, that lovers them pretend,
To women werin faithful, good, and true,
And dread them to deceive, or to offend;
Women, to love them wouldin not eschew.
But, every day, hath man an heart new!
It, upon one abidin can, no while.
What force is it, such a wight to beguile?
Men bearing, eke, the women upon hand
That lightly, and withoutin any pain
They women be; they can no wight withstand
That his disease list to them to complain!
They be so frail, they may them not refrain!
But whoso liketh them, may lightly have;
So be their heartis easy in to grave.
To Master Jean de Meun, as I suppose,
Then, it was a lewd occupation,
In making of the Romance of the Rose,
So many a sly imagination,
And perils for to rollin up and down,
The long process, so many a slight cautel
For to deceive a silly damosel!
Nought can I say, ne my wit comprehend,
That art, and pain, and subtilty should fail
For to conquer, and soon to make an end;
When men, a feeble place shullin assail:
And soon, also, to vanquish a battle
Of which no wight may makin resistance;
Ne heart hath none, to make any defence.
Then mote it follow, of necessity,
Sith art asketh so great engine and pain
A woman to deceive, what so she be?
Of constancy be they not so barren
As that some of these silly Clerkis feign;
But they be, as women oughtin to be,
Sad, constant, and full fillèd of pity.
How friendly was Medea to Jason
In his Conquering of the Fleece of Gold!
How falsely quit he, her true affection,
By whom victory he gate as he would!
How may this man, for shame, be so bold
To falsin her, that, from his death and shame
Him kept, and gate him so great a prize and name?
Of Troy also, the traitor Æneas,
The faithless wretch! how he himself forswore
To Dido, which that Queen of Carthage was
That him relievèd of his smartis sore!
What gentleness might she have doin more
Than she, with heart unfeigned, to him kidde?
And what mischief to her thereof betid!
In my Legend of Natures may men find
(Whoso yliketh therein for to read)
That oathis ne behest may man not bind
Of reprovable shame have they no dread
In manis heart truth ne hath no stead.
The soil is naught; there may no troth ygrow.
To women, namely, it is not unknow[n].
Clerkis feign also there is no malice
Like unto woman's wicked crabbedness.
O Woman! how shalt thou thyself chevice;
Sith men of thee, so mochil harm witness?
Beth ware! O Woman! of their fickleness.
Kepeth thine ownè! what men clap or crake!
And some of them shall smart, I undertake!
Malice of women! What is it to dread?
They slay no man, destroyin no cities,
Ne oppress people, ne them overlaid,
Betray Empires, Realms, or Duchies,
Nor bereaven men their landis, ne their mees,
Empoison folk, ne houses set on fire,
Ne false contractis makin for no hire.