71vb] 5 10 15 20 25 30 35 72ra]    40 45

¶ In May hit murgeth when hit dawes In dounes, with this dueres plawes —    Ant lef is lyht on lynde, Blosmes bredeth on the bowes! Al this wylde wyhtes wowes,    So well Ych underfynde. Y not non so freoli flour Ase ledies that beth bryht in bour,    With love, who mihte hem bynde. So worly wymmen are by west; One of hem Ich herie best    From Irlond into Ynde! Wymmen were the beste thing That shup our heye hevene kyng,    Yef feole false nere; Heo beoth to rad upon huere red To love ther me hem lastes bed    When heo shule fenge fere. Lut in londe are to leve, Thah me hem trewe trouthe yeve,    For tricherie to yere; When trichour hath is trouthe yplyht,      Byswyken he hath that suete wyht,    Thah he hire othes swere. Wymmon, war the with the swyke, That feir ant freoly ys to fyke;    Ys fare is o to founde; So wyde in world ys huere won, In uch a toune untrewe is on    From Leycestre to Lounde. Of treuthe nis the trichour noht Bote he habbe is wille ywroht    At stevenyng, umbe-stounde. Ah, feyre levedis, be onwar — To late cometh the yeynchar    When love ou hath ybounde! Wymmen bueth so feyr on hewe, Ne trow Y none that nere trewe,    Yef trichour hem ne tahte. Ah, feyre thinges, freoly bore, When me ou woweth, beth war bifore    Whuch is worldes ahte! Al to late is send ageyn When the ledy liht byleyn    Ant lyveth by that he lahte! Ah, wolde lylie-leor in lyn Yhere levely lores myn,    With selthe we weren sahte!

¶ In May it makes us merry when it dawns In hillsides, with these frolicking animals —    And leaf is light on linden tree, Blossoms flourish on the boughs! All these wild creatures woo,    As well I perceive. I know no flower so excellent As ladies who shine bright in bower,    With love, whoever might bind them. Such splendid women live to the west; One of them I praise the most    From Ireland to India! Women would be the best thing Created by our high heaven’s king,    If many were not false; They are too hasty in their counsel To love where men offer them vices    When they should take a mate. Few in land may be believed, Though men give them a true pledge,    Too ready for treachery; When traitor has plighted his troth, Deceived he has that sweet creature,    Though he swears oaths to her. Women, guard yourself from the dissembler, Who fair and freely comes to flatter;    His conduct’s ever to be tested; So prevalent in the world is their manner, In every town there’s one untrue    From Leicester to Lounde. Truth means nothing to the traitor Provided he has performed his will    In tryst, for a brief time. Ah, fair ladies, be on guard — Too late comes the turning back    When love has bound you! Women are so fair in appearance, I know of none who are not true,    Unless a traitor taught them. Ah, fair creatures, nobly born, When men woo you, be well warned    About the world’s peril! It’s all too late to turn back When the lady lies deflowered    And lives by what she got! Ah, were the lily-cheeked in linen To listen lovingly to my advice,    With bliss we would be joined!

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