The Works of John Dryden, now first collected in eighteen volumes. Volume 12. John Dryden

      That dare sayn nay of that I shal you teche.

      Let us go forth withouten lenger speche.

      Tho rowned she a pistel in his ere,

      And bad him to be glad, and have no fere.

      Whan they ben comen to the court, this knight

      Said he had hold his day as he had hight,

      And redy was his answere, as he saide.

      Ful many a noble wif, and many a maide,

      And many a widewe, for that they ben wise,

      (The quene hireself sitting as a justice)

      Assembled ben his answer for to here,

      And afterward this knight was bode appere.

      To every wight commanded was silence,

      And that the knight shuld tell in audience

      What thing that worldly women loven best.

      This knight ne stood not still as doth a best,

      But to this question anon answerd

      With manly vois, that all the court it herd.

      My liege Lady, generally, quod he,

      Women desiren to han soverainetee,

      As well over hir husbond as hir love,

      And for to ben in maistrie him above.

      This is your most desire, though ye me kille;

      Doth as you list, I am here at your wille.

      In all the court ne was ther wif ne maide,

      Ne widewe, that contraried that he saide,

      But said he was worthy to han his lif.

      And with that word up stert this olde wif

      Which that the knight saw sitting on the grene.

      Mercy, quod she, my soveraine lady Quene,

      Er that your court depart, as doth me right.

      I taughte this answer unto this knight,

      For which he plighte me his trouthe there,

      The firste thing I wold of him requere,

      He wold it do, if it lay in his might.

      Before this court than pray I thee, Sire, Knight,

      Quod she, that thou me take unto thy wif,

      For wel thou wost that I have kept thy lif:

      If I say false, say nay upon thy fay.

      This knight answered, Alas and wala wa!

      I wot right wel that swiche was my behest.

      For Goddes love as chese a new request:

      Take all my good, and let my body go.

      Nay than, quod she, I shrewe us bothe two:

      For though that I be olde, foule, and pore,

      I n'olde for all the metal ne the ore

      That under erthe is grave, or lith above,

      But if thy wif I were and eke thy love.

      My love? quod he; nay, my dampnation.

      Alas! that any of my nation

      Shuld ever so foule disparaged be.

      But all for nought; the end is this, that he

      Constrained was, he nedes must hire wed,

      And taketh this olde wif, and goth to bed.

      Now wolden som men sayn paraventure,

      That for my negligence I do no cure

      To tellen you the joye and all the array

      That at the feste was that ilke day.

      To which thing shortly answeren I shal:

      I say ther was no joye ne feste at al;

      Ther n'as but hevinesse and mochel sorwe;

      For prively he wedded hire on the morwe,

      And all day after hid him as an oule,

      So wo was him his wif loked so foule.

      Gret was the wo the knight had in his thought

      Whan he was with his wif a-bed ybrought;

      He walweth, and he turneth to and fro.

      This olde wif lay smiling evermo,

      And said, O dere husbond, benedicite!

      Fareth ever knight thus with wif as ye?

      Is this the lawe of King Artoures hous?

      Is every knight of his thus dangerous?

      I am your owen love, and eke your wif,

      I am she which that saved hath your lif,

      And certes yet did I you never unright;

      Why fare ye thus with me this firste night?

      Ye faren like a man had lost his wit.

      What is my gilt? for Goddess love tell it,

      And it shal ben amended if I may.

      Amended? quod this knight, alas! nay, nay,

      It wol not ben amended never mo;

      Thou art so lothly, and so olde also,

      And therto comen of so low a kind,

      That little wonder is though I walwe and wind;

      So wolde God min herte wolde brest.

      Is this, quod she, the cause of your unrest?

      Ye certainly, quod he, no wonder is.

      Now Sire, quod she, I coude amend all this,

      If that me list, er it were dayes three,

      So wel ye mighten bere you unto me.

      But for ye speken of swiche gentillesse

      As is descended out of old richesse;

      That therefore shullen ye be gentilmen;

      Swiche arrogance n'is not worth an hen.

      Loke who that is most vertuous alway,

      Prive and apert, and most entendeth ay

      To do the gentil dedes that he can,

      And take him for the gretest gentilman.

      Crist wol we claime of him our gentillesse,

      Not of our elders for hir old richesse;

      For though they yeve us all hir heritage,

      For which we claime to ben of high parage,

      Yet may they not bequethen for no thing

      To non of us hir vertuous living,

      That made hem gentilmen called to be,

      And bade us folwen hem in swiche degree.

      Wel can the wise poet of Florence,

      That highte Dant, speken of this sentence:

      Lo in swiche maner rime is Dantes tale.

      Ful selde up riseth by his branches smale

      Prowesse of man, for God of his goodnesse

      Wol that we claime of him our gentillesse;

      For of our elders may we nothing claime

      But temporel thing, that man may hurt and maime.

      Eke every wight wot this as wel as I,

      If gentillesse were planted naturelly

      Unto a certain linage

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