Classic Poem

Men beren eek the wommen upon honde,
That lightly, and withouten any peyne,
They wonne been; they can no wight withstonde,
That his disese list to hem conpleyne;
They been so freel, they mowe hem nat restreyne;
But whoso lykith may hem lightly have;
So been hire hertes esy in to grave.

To maistir John de Meun, as I suppose,
Than it was a lewde occupacioun
In makynge of The Romance of the Rose
So many a sly ymaginacioun
And perils for to rollen up and doun;
So long procees, so many a sly cautele,
For to deceyve a cely damoisele.

Nat can we seen ne in our wit conprehende
That art and peyne and sotiltee may faille
For to conquere, and soone make an ende,
Whan man a feeble place shal assaille,
And soone also to venquisshe a bataille,
Of which no wight dar make resistence,
Ne herte hath noon to stonden at deffense.

Than moot it folwen of necessitee,
Syn art askith so greet engyn and peyne
A woman to deceyve--what shee be--
Of constance they been nat so bareyne
As that some of tho sotil clerkes feyne;
But they been--as that wommen oghten be--
Sad, constaunt, and fulfillid of pitee.

How freendly was Medea to Jasoun,
In the conqueryng of the flees of gold!
How falsly quitte he hire affeccion,
By whom victorie he gat as he hath wold!
How may this man for shame be so bold
To falsen hire that from deeth and shame
Him kepte, and gat him so greet prys and name?

Of Troie also the traitour Eneas,
The feithlees man, how hath he him forswore
To Dydo, that queene of Cartage was,
That him releeved of his greeves sore?
What gentillesse mighte shee do more
Than shee, with herte unfeyned, to him kidde?
And what mescheef to hire of it betidde!

In our legende of martirs may men fynde,
Whoso that lykith therin forto rede,
That ooth noon ne byheeste may men bynde:
Of repreef ne of shame han they no drede;
In herte of man conceites trewe arn dede;
The soile is naght--ther may no trouthe growe:
To womman is hir vice nat unknowe.

Cleres seyn also ther is no malice
Unto wommannes crabbid wikkidnesse.
O womman, how shalt thow thyself chevyce,
Syn men of thee so mochil harm witnesse?
Yee! strah! do foorth! take noon hevynesse!
Keepe thyn owne, what men clappe or crake,
And some of hem shuln smerte, I undirtake.

Malice of wommen what is it to drede?
They slee no men, destroien no citees;
They nat oppressen folk ne overlede;
Betraye empyres, remes ne duchees;
Ne men byreve hir landes ne hir mees,
Folk enpoysone, or howses sette on fyre,
Ne fals contractes maken for noon hyre.

Trust, parfyt love, and enteer charitee,
Fervent wil, and entalentid corage
To thewes goode, as it sit wel to be,
Han wommen ay of custume and usage;
And wel they can a mannes ire asswage
With softe wordes, discreet and benigne;
What they been inward, shewith owtward signe.