Classic Poem

Looke well about, ye that lovers be:
Lat nat youre lustes leede you to dotage.
Be nat enamered on all thing that ye see:
Sampson the fort, and Salomon the sage,
Deceived were for all theire gret corage.
Men deme it right that they see with ey--
Beware! therfore: the blind eteth many a fly.

I mene of wemen, for all theire cheres queint--
Trust hem nat too moche, theire trouth is but geason.
The feirest outward full well can they peint;
Theire stedfastness endureth but a season,
For they feine frendliness and worchen treson.
And for they ar chaungeabill naturally,
Beware! therfore: the blind eteth many a fly.

What wight onlive trusteth in theire cheres
Shall have at last his guerdon and his mede,
For wemen can shave nerer then rasours or sheres.
All is nat gold that shineth--men take hede.
Theire gall is hid under a sugred wede.
It is full queint theire fantasy to aspy--
Beware! therfore: the blind eteth many a fly.

Though all the world do his besy cure
To make wemen stond in stabilness,
It woll nat be; it is again nature--
The world is do when they lak doubilness!
For they can laugh and love nat, this is express.
To trust on them it is but fantasy.
Beware! therfore: the blind eteth many a fly.

Wemen of kinde have condicions three:
The furst is they be full of deceit;
To spinne also is theire propurte;
And wemen have a wonderfull conceit,
For they can wepe oft and all is a sleit,
And when they list the teere is in the ey--
Beware! therfore: the blind eteth many a fly.

In sothe to say, though all the erthe so wan
Were parchemine smothe, white and scribabill,
And the gret see, that called is the occian,
Were torned into inke, blacker then is sabill,
Every stik a penne, iche man a scrivener abill,
They coude not writen wimmenes treiterye--
Beware! therfore: the blind eteth many a fly.