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.Al ful of joye and blisse is the paleys,And ful of instrumentz and of vitaille,The mooste deynteuous of al Ytaille.Biforn hem stoode instrumentz of swich sounThat Orpheus ne of Thebes AmphiounNe maden nevere swich a melodye.At every cours thanne cam loud mynstralcyeThat nevere tromped Joab for to heere,Nor he Theodomas yet half so cleereAt Thebes whan the citee was in doute.Bacus the wyn hem skynketh al aboute,And Venus laugheth upon every wight,For Januarie was bicome hir knyghtAnd wolde bothe assayen his corageIn libertee and eek in mariage;And with hire fyrbrond in hire hand abouteDaunceth biforn the bryde and al the route.And certeinly, I dar right wel seyn this,Ymeneus that god of weddyng isSaugh nevere his lyf so myrie a wedded man.Hoold thou thy pees, thou poete Marcian,That writest us that ilke weddyng murieOf hire Philologie and hym Mercurie,And of the songes that the Muses songe!To smal is bothe thy penne, and eek thy tongeFor to descryven of this mariageWhan tendre youthe hath wedded stoupyng age.Ther is swich myrthe that it may nat be writen.Assayeth it youreself, thanne may ye witenIf that I lye or noon in this matiere.Mayus, that sit with so benyngne a chiere,Hire to biholde it semed fairye.Queene Ester looked nevere with swich an eyeOn Assuer, so meke a look hath she.I may yow nat devyse al hir beautee,But thus muche of hire beautee telle I may,That she was lyk the brighte morwe of May,Fulfild of alle beautee and plesaunce.This Januarie is ravysshed in a traunceAt every tyme he looked on hir face;But in his herte he gan hire to manaceThat he that nyght in armes wolde hire streyneHarder than evere Parys dide Eleyne.But nathelees yet hadde he greet piteeThat thilke nyght offenden hire moste he,And thoughte, »Allas, O tendre creature,Now wolde God ye myghte wel endureAl my corage, it is so sharp and keene!I am agast ye shul it nat susteene –But God forbede that I dide al my myght!Now wolde God that it were woxen nyght,And that the nyght wolde lasten everemo.I wolde that al this peple were ago.«And finally he dooth al his labour,As he best myghte, savynge his honour,To haste hem fro the mete in subtil wyse.The tyme cam that resoun was to ryse,And after that men daunce and drynken faste,And spices al aboute the hous they caste,And ful of joye and blisse is every man –Al but a squyer highte Damyan,Which carf biforn the knyght ful many a day.He was so ravysshed on his lady MayThat for the verray peyne he was ny wood.Almoost he swelte and swowned ther he stood,So soore hath Venus hurt hym with hire brond,As that she bar it daunsynge in hire hond,And to his bed he wente hym hastily.Namoore of hym as at this tyme speke I,But there I lete hym wepe ynogh and pleyne,Til fresshe May wol rewen on his peyne.O perilous fyr that in the bedstraw bredeth!O famulier too that his servyce bedeth!O servant traytour, false hoomly hewe,Lyk to the naddre in bosom sly untrewe!God shilde us alle from youre aqueyntaunce.O Januarie, dronken in plesaunceIn mariage, se how thy Damyan,Thyn owene squier and thy boren man,Entendeth for to do thee vileynye.God graunte thee thy hoomly fo t'espye!For in this world nys worse pestilenceThan hoomly foo al day in thy presence.Parfourned hath the sonne his ark diurne;No lenger may the body of hym sojurneOn th'orisonte as in that latitude.Night with his mantel that is derk and rudeGan oversprede the hemysperie aboute,For which departed is this lusty routeFro Januarie with thank on every syde.Hoom to hir houses lustily they ryde,Where as they doon hir thynges as hem leste,And whan they sye hir tyme goon to reste.Soone after that, this hastif JanuarieWolde go to bedde, he wolde no lenger tarye.He drynketh ypocras, clarree, and vernageOf spices hoote t'encreessen his corage,And many a letuarie hath he ful fyn,Swiche as the cursed monk daun ConstantynHath writen in his book De Coitu;To eten hem alle he nas no thyng eschu.And to his privee freendes thus seyde he,»For Goddes love, as soone as it may be,Lat voyden al this hous in curteys wyse.«And they han doon right as he wol devyse.Men drynken and the travers drawe anon.The bryde was broght abedde as stille as stoon;And whan the bed was with the preest yblessed,Out of the chambre hath every wight hym dressed.And Januarie hath faste in armes takeHis fresshe May, his paradys, his make.He lulleth hire, he kisseth hire ful ofte.With thikke brustles of his berd unsofte –Lyk to the skyn of houndfyssh, sharp as brere,For he was shave al newe in his manere –He rubbeth hire aboute hir tendre face,And seyde thus, »Allas, I moot trespaceTo yow, my spouse, and yow greetly offendeEr tyme come that I wil doun descende.But nathelees, considereth this,« quod he,»Ther nys no werkman, whatsoevere he be,That may bothe werke wel and hastily.This wol be doon at leyser parfitly.It is no fors how longe that we pleye;In trewe wedlok coupled be we tweye,And blessed be the yok that we been inne,For in oure actes we mowe do no synne.A man may do no synne with his wyf,Ne hurte hymselven with his owene knyf,For we han leve to pleye us by the lawe.«Thus laboureth he til that the day gan dawe,And thanne he taketh a soppe in fyn clarree,And upright in his bed thanne sitteth he,And after that he sang ful loude and cleere,And kiste his wyf, and made wantown cheere.He was al coltissh, ful of ragerye,And ful of jargon as a flekked pye.The slakke skyn aboute his nekke shakethWhil that he sang, so chaunteth he and craketh.But God woot what that May thoughte in hir herteWhan she hym saugh up sittynge in his sherte,In his nyght-cappe, and with his nekke lene.She preyseth nat his pleyyng worth a bene.Thanne seide he thus, »My reste wol I take.Now day is come I may no lenger wake.«And doun he leyde his heed and sleep til pryme.And afterward whan that he saugh his tymeUp ryseth Januarie.But fresshe MayHeeld hire chambre unto the fourthe day,As usage is of wyves for the beste,For every labour somtyme moot han resteOr elles longe may he nat endure,This is to seyn, no lyves creatureBe it of fyssh or bryd or beest or man
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