In the same vain vein, for alles lange syne:

Whilom ther dwelt at Pocyatelleo
80        A riche gnof, that gestes heeld to bord,
And of his craft he was Booke-Keepere.
Yet wythal was he a faire scoler,
Hadde lerned art, but al his fantasye
Was turned for to lerne astrologye,
And koude a certeyn of conclusiouns,
To demen by interrogaciouns,
If that men asked hym in certain houres
Whan that men sholde have droghte or elles shoures,
Or if men asked hym what sholde bifalle
Of every thyng; I may nat rekene hem alle.

This Booke-Keepere hadde newe a wyf,
Which that he lovede moore than his lyf;
Of most three scoare yeer she was of age.
Jalous he was, and heeld hire narwe in cage,
For she was wylde at Hearte, and he was old,
And demed hymself, been lik a cokewold.
He knew nat Catoun, for his wit was rude,
That bad man sholde wedde his simylitude.
Men sholde wedden after hire estaat,
For youth and elde is often at debaat.
But sith that he was fallen in the snare,
Her moste endure, as oother folk, his care.

---

And so it is, and so it ever was.


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