| Tobroken been the statutz hye in hevene |
| That creat were eternally to dure, |
| Syth that I see the bryghte goddis sevene |
| Mowe wepe and wayle, and passioun endure, |
| 5 | As may in erthe a mortal creature. |
| Allas, fro whennes may thys thing procede, |
| Of which errour I deye almost for drede? |
| |
| By word eterne whilom was it shape |
| That fro the fyfte sercle, in no manere, |
| 10 | Ne myght a drope of teeres doun escape. |
| But now so wepith Venus in hir spere |
| That with hir teeres she wol drenche us here. |
| Allas! Scogan, this is for thyn offence; |
| Thow causest this diluge of pestilence. |
| |
| 15 | Hastow not seyd, in blaspheme of the goddis, |
| Thurgh pride, or thrugh thy grete rekelnesse, |
| Swich thing as in the lawe of love forbode is, |
| That, for thy lady sawgh nat thy distresse, |
| Therfore thow yave hir up at Michelmesse? |
| 20 | Allas! Scogan, of olde folk ne yonge |
| Was never erst Scogan blamed for his tonge. |
| |
| Thow drowe in skorn Cupide eke to record |
| Of thilke rebel word that thow hast spoken, |
| For which he wol no lenger be thy lord. |
| 25 | And, Scogan, though his bowe be nat broken, |
| He wol nat with his arwes been ywroken |
| On the, ne me, ne noon of oure figure; |
| We shul of him have neyther hurt ne cure. |
| |
| Now certes, frend, I dreed of thyn unhap, |
| 30 | Lest for thy gilt the wreche of Love procede |
| On alle hem that ben hoor and rounde of shap, |
| That ben so lykly folk in love to spede. |
| Than shal we for oure labour have no mede; |
| But wel I wot, thow wolt answere and saye, |
| 35 | "Lo, olde Grisel lyst to ryme and playe!" |
| |
| Nay, Scogan, say not so, for I m' excuse -- |
| God helpe me so! -- in no rym, dowteles, |
| Ne thynke I never of slep to wake my muse, |
| That rusteth in my shethe stille in pees. |
| 40 | While I was yong, I put hir forth in prees; |
| But al shal passe that men prose or ryme; |
| Take every man hys turn, as for his tyme. |
| |