Were passed, er the moneth of Iule befyllThat Ianuary hath caught so great a wylThrough egging of his wife, him for to playIn his garden, & no wight but they twayThat in a morowe, vnto this May sayd heRyse vp my wife, my loue, my lady freeThe turtel voyce is herde my lady sweteThe wynter is gon, with al his raynes weteCome forth now with thyn eyen columbyneNowe fayrer ben thy brestes than is wyneThe garden is enclosed al aboutCome forth my white spouse out of doutThou hast me wounded in my hert, o, wyfeNo spotte in the nas in al thy lyfeCome forth and lette vs taken our disportI chese the for my wyfe and my confortSuche olde leude wordes vsed heOn Damyan a sygne made sheThat he shulde go before with hys clicketThis Damyan hath opened this wicketAnd in he stert, and that in suche manereThat no wight might it se ne hereAnd styl he sate vnder a busshe anon.This Ianuary, as blynde as is a stonwith May in hys honde, and no wight moIn to hys freshe garden is he goAnd clapte to the wicket sodainly.Nowe wyfe ({quod} he) here nys but thou & IThat arte the creature that I best loueFor by that lorde that sytte vs al aboueI had leuer dyen on a knyfeThan the offende, dere trewe wyfeFor goddes sake thynke howe I the cheesNat for couetise, ne other good doutleesBut onely for the loue I had to theAnd though that I be olde and may nat seBe to me trewe, and I woll tel you whyCertes, thre thynges shal ye wyn therbyFirst loue of Christ, & to your selfe honourAnd al myn heritage, town and toureI gyue it you, maketh charters as ye lystThys shal be don to morowe er sonne rystSo wisely god my soule bring to blysseI pray you on couenaunt that ye me kysseAnd though yt I be ielous wite me noughtYe ben so depe enprented in my thoughtThat whan I consyder your beauteAnd therwithal, the vnlikly elde of meI may nat certes, though I shulde dyeForbere, to ben out of your companyFor very loue, this is withouten doutNow kysse me wife, and lette vs rome aboutThis fresh May, whā she these wordes herdBenygnely to Ianuary answerdeBut fyrst and forwarde she began to wepeI haue ({quod} she) a soule for to kepeAs wel as ye, and also myn honourAnd of wyfehode thilke tender flourwhiche that I haue ensured in your hondewhan that the preest to you my body bondewherfore I wol answere in this manereBy the leaue of you my lorde so dereI pray god that neuer dawe that dayThat I ne sterue, as foule as woman mayYf euer I do to my kynne that shameOr els that I empayre so my nameThat I be false, and yf I do that lackeDo stripe me, and putte me in a sackeAnd in the next ryuer do me drencheI am a gentyl woman, and no wenchewhy speke ye thus, but men ben euer vntrewAnd women haue reprofe of you, aye neweYe can non other cōmunyng, I leueBut speke to vs of vntrust and repreueAnd with ye word she sawe where DamiāSate in the bushe, and knele he beganAnd with her fynger sygnes made sheThat Damyan shulde clymbe vp on a treThat charged was with frute, & vp he wentFor verily he knewe al her ententAnd euery sygne that she couth makewelbet than Ianuary her owne makeFor in a letter she had tolde him alOf this mater, howe that he worch shalAnd thus I lete hym sytte in the peryAnd Ianuary and May romyng ful mery.¶Bright was the day, & blewe ye fyrmamentPhebus of golde doun hath his stremes sentTo gladen euery flour with hys warmnesseHe was that tyme in Geminy, as I gesseBut lytel fro hys declynationThe causer of Iouis exaltationAnd so byfel that bright morowe tydeThat in the garden, on the farther sydePluto, that is the kyng of FayryeAnd many a lady in hys companyFolowyng his wyfe, the quene ProserpyneEche after other ryght as a lynewhiles she gadred floures in a medeIn Claudian ye may the story redeHowe in his grisely carte he her fetteThis kyng of Fayry doun hym setteVpon a benche of turues freshe and greneAnd right anon thus sayd he to hys quene0