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454
E. THE MARCHANTES TALE.
[T. 10083-10114.
And with hir finger signes made she,
That Damian sholde climbe up-on a tree, 2210
That charged was with fruit, and up he wente;
For verraily he knew al hir entente,
And every signe that she coude make
Wel bet than Ianuarie, hir owene make. (970)
For in a lettre she had told him al 2215
Of this matere, how he werchen shal.
And thus I lete him sitte up-on the pyrie,
And Ianuarie and May rominge myrie.
Bright was the day, and blew the firmament,
Phebus of gold his stremes doun hath sent, 2220
To gladen every flour with his warmnesse.
He was that tyme in Geminis, as I gesse,
But litel fro his declinacioun
Of Cancer, Iovis exaltacioun. (980)
And so bifel, that brighte morwe-tyde, 2225
That in that gardin, in the ferther syde,
Pluto, that is the king of fayërye,
And many a lady in his companye,
Folwinge his wyf, the quene Proserpyne,
Ech after other, right as any lyne— 2230
Whil that she gadered floures in the mede,
In Claudian ye may the story rede,
How in his grisly carte he hir fette:—
This king of fairye thanne adoun him sette (990)
Up-on a bench of turves, fresh and grene, 2235
And right anon thus seyde he to his quene.
'My wyf,' quod he, 'ther may no wight sey nay;
Thexperience so preveth every day
The treson whiche that wommen doon to man.
Ten hondred thousand [stories] telle I can 2240
That Damian sholde climbe up-on a tree, 2210
That charged was with fruit, and up he wente;
For verraily he knew al hir entente,
And every signe that she coude make
Wel bet than Ianuarie, hir owene make. (970)
For in a lettre she had told him al 2215
Of this matere, how he werchen shal.
And thus I lete him sitte up-on the pyrie,
And Ianuarie and May rominge myrie.
Bright was the day, and blew the firmament,
Phebus of gold his stremes doun hath sent, 2220
To gladen every flour with his warmnesse.
He was that tyme in Geminis, as I gesse,
But litel fro his declinacioun
Of Cancer, Iovis exaltacioun. (980)
And so bifel, that brighte morwe-tyde, 2225
That in that gardin, in the ferther syde,
Pluto, that is the king of fayërye,
And many a lady in his companye,
Folwinge his wyf, the quene Proserpyne,
Ech after other, right as any lyne— 2230
Whil that she gadered floures in the mede,
In Claudian ye may the story rede,
How in his grisly carte he hir fette:—
This king of fairye thanne adoun him sette (990)
Up-on a bench of turves, fresh and grene, 2235
And right anon thus seyde he to his quene.
'My wyf,' quod he, 'ther may no wight sey nay;
Thexperience so preveth every day
The treson whiche that wommen doon to man.
Ten hondred thousand [stories] telle I can 2240
