Classic Poem

The ancient acquaintance, madam, between us twain,
The familiarity, the former dalliance,
Causeth me that I cannot myself refrain
But that I must write for my pleasant pastance:
Remembering your passing goodly countenance,
Your goodly port, your beauteous visage,
Ye may be counted comfort of all corage.

Of all your features favourable to make true description,
I am insufficient to make such enterprise:
For this dare I say, without contradiction,
That Dame Menolope was never half so wise.
Yet so it is that a rumour beginneth for to rise
How in good horsemen ye set your whole delight,
And have forgotten your old true loving knight.

With bound and rebound, bouncingly take up
His gentle curtal, and set nought by small nags!
Spur up at the hinder girth, with, Gup, morell, gup!
With, Jayst ye, jennet of Spain, for your tail wags!
Ye cast all your corage upon such courtly hags.
Have in sergeant farrier, mine horse behind is bare;
He rideth well the horse — but he rideth better the mare.

Ware, ware the mare winceth with her wanton heel!
She kicketh with her calkins and keyleth with a clench;
She goeth wide behind, and hueth never a deal:
Ware galling in the withers, ware of that wrench!
It is parlous for a horseman to dig in the trench.
This grieveth your husband, that right gentil knight,
And so with your servants he fiercely doth fight.

So fiercely he fighteth, his mind is so fell,
That he driveth them down with dints on their day-watch;
He bruiseth their brainpans and maketh them to swell,
Their browes all to-broken, such clappes they catch;
Whose jealousy malicious maketh them to leap the hatch,
By their cognizance knowing how they serve a wily pie:
Ask all your neighbours whether that I lie.

It can be no counsel that is cried at the cross:
For your gentil husband sorrowful am I;
Howbeit, he is not first hath had a loss.
Advertising you, madam, to work more secretly,
Let not all the world make an outcry:
Play fair play, madam, and look ye play clean,
Or else with great shame your game will be seen.