With allë circumstances tenderly,
And carry it in a coffer, or in lap;
But, upon pain his head off for to swap,2571
That no man shouldë know of his intent,
Nor whence he came, nor whither that he went;
But at Bologna, to his sister dear,
That at that time of Panic’2572 was Countéss,
He should it take, and shew her this mattere,
Beseeching her to do her business
This child to foster in all gentleness,
And whosë child it was he bade her hide
From every wight, for aught that might betide.
The sergeant went, and hath fulfill’d this thing.
But to the marquis now returnë we;
For now went he full fast imagining
If by his wifë’s cheer he mightë see,
Or by her wordës apperceive, that she
Were changed; but he never could her find,
But ever-in-one2573 alikë sad2574 and kind.
As glad, as humble, as busy in servíce,
And eke in love, as she was wont to be,
Was she to him, in every manner wise;2575
And of her daughter not a word spake she;
No accident for no adversity2576
Was seen in her, nor e’er her daughter’s name
She named, or in earnest or in game.
Pars Quarta
In this estate there passed be four year
Ere she with childë was; but, as God wo’ld,
A knavë2577 child she bare by this Waltére,
Full gracious and fair for to behold;
And when that folk it to his father told,
Not only he, but all his country, merry
Were for this child, and God they thank and hery.2578
When it was two year old, and from the breast
Departed2579 of the norice, on a day
This marquis caughtë yet another lest2580
To tempt his wife yet farther, if he may.
Oh! needless was she tempted in assay;2581
But wedded men not connen no measúre,2582
When that they find a patient creatúre.
“Wife,” quoth the marquis, “ye have heard ere this
My people sickly bear2583 our marriáge;
And namely2584 since my son y-boren is,
Now is it worse than ever in all our age:
The murmur slays mine heart and my coráge,
For to mine ears cometh the voice so smart,2585
That it well nigh destroyed hath mine heart.
“Now say they thus, ‘When Walter is y-gone,
Then shall the blood of Janicol’ succeed,
And be our lord, for other have we none:’
Such wordës say my people, out of drede.2586
Well ought I of such murmur takë heed,
For certainly I dread all such senténce,2587
Though they not plainen in mine audiénce.2588
“I wouldë live in peace, if that I might;
Wherefore I am disposed utterly,
As I his sister served ere2589 by night,
Right so think I to serve him privily.
This warn I you, that ye not suddenly
Out of yourself for no woe should outraie;2590
Be patient, and thereof I you pray.”
“I have,” quoth she, “said thus, and ever shall,
I will no thing, nor n’ill no thing, certáin,
But as you list; not grieveth me at all
Though that my daughter and my son be slain
At your commandëment; that is to sayn,
I have not had no part of children twain,
But first sicknéss, and after woe and pain.
“Ye be my lord, do with your owen thing
Right as you list, and ask no rede2591 of me:
For, as I left at home all my clothing
When I came first to you, right so,” quoth she,
“Left I my will and all my liberty,
And took your clothing: wherefore I you pray,
Do your pleasánce, I will your lust2592 obey.
“And, certes, if I haddë prescience
Your will to know, ere ye your lust2593 me told,
I would it do withoutë negligence:
But, now I know your lust, and what ye wo’ld,
All your pleasancë firm and stable I hold;
For, wist I that my death might do you ease,
Right gladly would I dien you to please.
“Death may not makë no comparisoún
Unto your love.” And when this marquis say2594
The constance of his wife, he cast adown
His eyen two, and wonder’d how she may
In patience suffer all this array;
And forth he went with dreary countenance;
But to his heart it was full great pleasánce.
This ugly sergeant, in the samë wise
That he her daughter caught, right so hath he
(Or worse, if men can any worse devise,)
Y-hent2595 her son, that full was of beauty:
And ever-in-one2596 so patient was she,
That she no cheerë made of heaviness,
But kiss’d her son, and after gan him bless.
Save this she prayed him, if that he might,
Her little son he would in earthë grave,2597
His tender limbës, delicate to sight,
From fowlës and from beastës for to save.
But she none answer of him mightë have;
He went his way, as him nothing ne raught,2598
But to Bologna tenderly it brought.
The marquis wonder’d ever longer more
Upon her patience; and, if that he
Not haddë soothly knowen therebefore
That perfectly her children loved she,
He would have ween’d2599 that of some subtilty,
And of malíce, or for cruel coráge,2600
She haddë suffer’d this with sad2601 viságe.
But well he knew, that, next himself, certáin
She lov’d her children best in every wise.
But now of women would I askë fain,
If these assayës mightë not suffice?
What could a sturdy2602 husband more devise
To prove her wifehood and her steadfastness,
And he continuing ev’r in sturdiness?
But there be folk of such conditión,
That, when they have a certain purpose take,
Thiey cannot stint2603 of their intentión,
But, right as they were bound unto a stake,
They will not of their firstë purpose slake:2604
Right so this marquis fully hath purpós’d
To tempt his wife, as he was first dispos’d.
He waited, if by word or countenance
That she to him was changed of coráge:2605
But never could he findë variance,
She was aye one in heart and in viságe,
And aye the farther that she was in age,
The morë true (if that it were possíble)
She
