Classic Poem

" " I WASTE my money when I buy for you
Expensive clothes dyed red or blue or green,
Adorned with squirrel fur or ermine lined,
In which you make parade with swish and smirk,
Trailing them through the mud and dust alike
With no regard for either me or God.
And then at night, when naked in my bed
You lie beside me, you must not be touched;
For when I want to take you in my arms,
A kiss or other solace to procure,
You cool my heat with looks as black as hell,
And spite of all my efforts turn your back.
Then you pretend you're ill, and sigh and groan,
And so impede my efforts that I fail,
Nor try again for fear of like success,
Not even in the morning when I wake.
But much I wonder if your lovers fail
When in their arms they take you fully clothed,
If when you play with them you twist and turn —
By day vex them as you vex me by night!
I don't believe your practice that would be
When you go tripping through the garden lanes
Or singing through the fields with traitors vile
Who, though the green grass glistens wet with dew,
Chase after you, who are my wedded wife,
Voicing among themselves contempt of me:
" Here's how we trick the dirty, jealous wretch!"
May wolves devour the flesh, dogs gnaw the bones
Of those by whom I am so cuckolded.
Foul woman, ribald hussy, lecherous bitch,
By you and your vile ways I'm put to shame.
May you not live one year beyond the day
When you bestowed your body on such curs!
Your lechery has leagued me with the band
Of cuckolds whom Saint Arnold dominates,
From whom no married man can e'er escape,
In my opinion. Though a million eyes
He had to guard and spy upon his wife,
If she's assailable, and freely gives
Herself, no guard can make a wanton safe.
If it should happen that her purpose fail
While yet the will thereto is strong, she'll know
How to accomplish it, for wish will find a way.
" " Cold comfort gives us Juvenal, who says
Stupration is the least of women's sins,
Whose nature urges them to greater crimes.
We read how mothers-in-law cooked poison broth
For daughters' husbands, and with spells and charms
Worked many other mighty deviltries
Unthinkable, which I cannot rehearse.
" " All women are, have been, and e'er will be,
In thought if not in deed, unvirtuous;
Though some may hesitate to do the act,
None can restrain their wish. All women have
This great advantage: they their purpose hold.
Scolding and beating will not change their minds;
He'd rule their bodies who could rule their wills.
Let's talk no more of things that ne'er can be!
" " So help me fair, sweet God, the King of Heaven,
What can I do against this ribald crew
Who wrong me so and put me to such shame?
What do they care for all the threats I make?
They'd beat or kill me if I tried to fight,
For they are felon outlaws bold enough
To work all ill; voluptuous and proud,
Foolish and strong, they prize me not a fig;
For youth enflames them, filling them with fire,
And stimulates their hearts to risky deeds.
So light and volatile are all their thoughts
That each a Roland thinks himself to be
If not a Samson or a Hercules.
It matters not which of the latter two,
For, as we read, they were alike in strength.
According to the author Solinus,
The last-named one was seven feet in height,
The greatest size attainable by man.
Many a labor did he undertake;
Twelve dreadful monsters did he overcome
But never gained the thirteenth victory,
For Deianira, who had been his love,
Jealous of Iole, whose love he was,
Sent him the poison shirt that ate his flesh.
Thus Hercules, so valorous and strong,
Was conquered by a woman. Samson, too,
Who no more than ten apples feared ten men,
While he still had his hair, was overcome
When it was by his wife, Delilah, cut.
" " But I'm a fool to talk. You will repeat
Me word for word when next you meet your friends,
And you may have those ribalds beat my head
Or break my legs or 'twixt my shoulders stab
If e'er I let you talk with them again.
However, if I hear that you have blabbed,
Unless they hold my arms or steal my club,
I'll break your ribs before that comes to pass.
No relative or neighbor shall prevent
The deed — not even all your lecherous friends.
Alas! Why were we ever introduced?
Woe worth the evil hour when I was born!
You think me vile; and yet those stinking dogs
Who flatter and caress you, you make lords
And masters of the body that belongs
Alone to him who should your seignor be,
Who keeps you, feeds you, clothes you, buys you shoes.
You make me but a coparticipant
With those who give you naught but shameful name!
The honor that you fail to guard they steal,
When in your arms you clasp them. To your face
They say they love you, but behind your back
They call you whore. Then, after meeting you,
They get together, they exchange their tales,
The worst they can invent, of how the game
Went with each one. I may as well confess
That all their boasts most probably are true.
When to their will you offer up yourself,
They need small skill to bring you to the point.
There's no resistance in you when the crowd
Sees fit lewdly to spank and rummage you.
Of them and of the pleasure that they get
I must confess that I some envy feel;
But you should know what I most emphasize:
That it is not your body nor the thrills
It gives them that attracts them all to you,
But rather jeweled buttons, golden clasps,
Rich gowns and mantles, that like crazy fool
I let you wear. For when you go to balls
With all your crowd of silly satellites
I stay at home like any drunken sot
While on your back you wear a hundred pounds
In worth of gold and silver, and demand
That I dress you in camelot and furs;
While I myself in care and anger pine,
So much your conduct irks and vexes me.
" " What good to me are all your orfrays fine,
The gilded bands and headdresses you wear,
The coronets of decorated gold,
Your ivory mirror, and your golden ring,
Carved and enameled with such costly skill,
The fair and finely polished golden crown
Which so enraged me, the jewelry,
The sapphires, rubies, emeralds, and pearls
Which make you proud and of such seeming worth?
What good to me is all such gewgaw trash
As golden clasp beset with precious stones
That calls attention to your neck and breast,
Or silver-threaded cinctures for your waist,
Whose buckles cost their weight in pearls or gold?
You're shod so finely that you lift your skirts,
Oft as you can, to show the men your feet.
So help me Saint Thibaud, within three days
I'll sell this trash, and then you will be crushed;
For, lacking it, you'll be considered vile!
God's body, but I'll give you different clothes:
A woolen dress and mantle, hempen scarf,
Not fine but coarse, and mayhap woven ill
Or torn and mended, spite of your complaints!
And do you know what belt shall bind your waist?
A plain white leather one without a clasp.
Of my old gaiters you can make laced shoes;
If they're too ample, stuff them out with rags.
I'll take away all these deceitful clothes
That lead to fornication and naught else,
And then you'll go no more to show yourself
And lure the ribalds to adultery.
" " Now tell me truly, who bought you that dress
Which you appeared in at the dance last week?
I never gave it. In what love affair
Did you receive it as a prize? You swore
By Saint Denis and holy Filibert
And by Saint Peter 'twas your mother's gift,
Who sent it to you out of love for me,
As you gave me to understand, that I
Might save my money while she spend her own.
If those are not the very words you used,
I'll see her burned alive, the dirty whore,
Old prostitute, vile bawd, and sorceress —
And you along with her, as you deserve.
To ask the truth of her were labor lost —
Not worth a marble the replies I'd get —
For worthless as her daughter is your dame.
You've been in consultation, I know;
Your hearts are bells with single clapper rung;
And well I see on which foot you both limp.
With that old, dirty, painted, debauchee
You're in complete accord. In former days
She twisted the same halter you now twirl;
So many roads she's traveled that she's been
Bitten by many dogs, until at last
Her force is spent so that she's nothing worth,
And so she plays the procuress for you.
She comes here three or four days every week
And on new pilgrimages leads you forth,
As she pretends according to her wont.
But I know all the secret of that trick.
She promenades you as one would a nag
Which he desires to sell; she preys on men
And teaches you to prey upon them too.
Do you think I am ignorant of this?
What holds me back from breaking all your bones,
As if you were a pullet or a pye,
And putting to good use a pestle or a spit?" "