Romance of the Rose (Ellis)/Chapter 49
XLIX
The jealous husband scolds his wife,
Remonstrates, blames her course of life,8940
And setteth forth his dire distress
At that he calls her wantonness.
A wanton wife
Moreover, nought can I conceal
The righteous anger that I feel
When Robichon, with head-gear green,
Aye ready at your beck is seen.
Is there someland that he and you
Sould share, and hence this fine ado?
You sit and list his fluting tales
With heads close set till daylight fails;8950
My blood nigh boils with rage to see
You carry on so shamelessly.
The wife threatened
I swear ’fore God, who lieth never,
That either you your friendship sever
With him, or else from forth my door
You go with face of blackamoor,
For, help me God, unless you chase
From out your heart all track and trace
Of this loose love, your features I
Will beat and batter till you cry8960
For mercy, and agree to drop
That cackle I’m resolved to stop.
Alone, you ne’er the public way
Shall tread, but serve me night and day
At home, made sure with iron-chained hands.
Think you a woman e’er commands
Her husband’s love who gads about
With dangling men, week in, week out?
And if they follow you, ’tis plain
That you encourage them amain,8970
For they’d not dare to make pretence
Of love, but for your impudence.
The devil’s prompting ’twas that made
Me marry such a wanton jade.
Ha! would I’d Theophrastus read
Ere, like a fool, I thrust my head
In wedlock’s noose: No man, saith he,
Who’s blest with fair sagacity
Will take a wife, or poor or rich,
As goddess fair, or like a witch
Bewrinkled—he hath writ the whole
Within his book hight “Aureole,”
Which treats of marriage: Ha! he cries,
Man’s life is filled with miseries,
Troubles, and ills, on every side,
Induced by the insensate pride
Of women, their demands and plaints
Such trouble cause as life attaints
With miseries manifold; alack!
Hard task hath he who striveth back8990
To call them to a decent sense
Of modesty and reverence.
Marital miseries
Whoso will take one indigent
To wife, must wonder not if spent
His substance be in gowns and shoes;
And if a wealthy wife one choose,
He need not marvel if disdain
She showeth towards him, or if vain
And proud she prove, and not a fly
She valueth his authority,9000
And further, will perhaps engage
To vilify his lineage;
Till he to madness will be stung.
Through clack of her unbridled tongue.
Or is she fair? At once a cloud
Of suitors round her footsteps crowd,
Hustle and bustle, push, dispute,
While each one strives to press his suit,
And find out what may please her best,
Here anxious prayer, there love confessed,9010
They loiter round, and strange it were
and If no man conquest made of her,
For when on every side a fort
Is pressed, resistance is but short.
If plain she be, she’ll welcome all:
And when a tower prepares to fall,
And those within its gates betray,
Who shall defend it or upstay?
For if with all the world he fights,
A man would scarce dare sleep o’ nights,9020
And after all were said and done,
By first assault the prize were won.
Penelope and Lucretia
The best of wives who lived in Greece,
Penelope, alas! small peace
Enjoyed—yet saved her fame at last.
Lucretia, she whose name hath passed
Into a proverb, was seduced
Through brutal force, by Tarquin used
Most shamefully, and then she killed
Herself, with grief and horror filled.9030
Nowise, as Titus Livius saith,
Could sire or husband save from death
This matron chaste; whate’er they said,
Herself she boldly poignarded
Before their eyes.
To calm her grief
They spake wise words, but no relief
She took therefrom, e’en though her spouse
Avowed that she her marriage vows
Had straightly kept, and nothing blamed
Her for the deed which so had shamed9040
Her spirit, but declared that she
Lived spotless in her chastity.
No sin without consent
For though the body may endure
Befoulment forced, the soul is pure,
And never sin hath body shent,
When lacked thereto the heart’s consent.
But she, disdainful of her life
Through grief, snatched suddenly a knife
From out her bosom’s folds, then cried
To those who, weeping, stood beside9050
Her couch: Fair sirs, though nobly ye
Declare me innocent to be
In this foul deed which I deplore,
Lucrece forgives it not, nor more
Can lift her face to meet the shame
She suffers, though absolved from blame.