Chapter VI: A Paraphrase, by Chaucer

Syn that you, Chloe, to your moder sticken, Maketh all ye yonge bacheloures full sicken; Like as a lyttel deere you ben y-hiding Whenas come lovers with theyre pityse chiding. Sothly it ben faire to give up your moder For to beare swete company with some oder; Your moder ben well enow so farre shee goeth, But that ben not farre enow, God knoweth; Wherefore it ben sayed that foolysh ladyes That marrye not shall leade an aype in Hadys; But all that do with gode men wed full quicklye When that they be on dead go to ye seints full sickerly.

TO MÆCENAS

Than you, O valued friend of mine,
A better patron _non est_!
Come, quaff my home-made Sabine wine,--
You'll find it poor but honest.

I put it up that famous day
You patronized the ballet,
And the public cheered you such a way
As shook your native valley.

Cæcuban and the Calean brand
May elsewhere claim attention;
But _I_ have none of these on hand,--
For reasons I'll not mention.

ENVOY

So, come! though favors I bestow
Cannot be called extensive,
Who better than my friend should know
That they're at least expensive?

TO BARINE

If for your oath broken, or word lightly spoken, A plague comes, Barine, to grieve you; If on tooth or on finger a black mark shall linger Your beauty to mar, I'll believe you.

But no sooner, the fact is, you bind, as your tact is, Your head with the vows of untruth, Than you shine out more charming, and, what's more alarming, You come forth beloved of our youth.

It is advantageous, but no less outrageous, Your poor mother's ashes to cheat; While the gods of creation and each constellation You seem to regard as your meat.

Now Venus, I own it, is pleased to condone it; The good-natured nymphs merely smile; And Cupid is merry,--'t is humorous, very,-- And sharpens his arrows the while.

Our boys you are making the slaves for your taking, A new band is joined to the old; While the horrified matrons your juvenile patrons In vain would bring back to the fold.

The thrifty old fellows your loveliness mellows Confess to a dread of your house; But a more pressing duty, in view of your beauty, Is the young wife's concern for her spouse.

THE RECONCILIATION

I

HE

When you were mine, in auld lang syne,
And when none else your charms might ogle,
I'll not deny, fair nymph, that I
Was happier than a heathen mogul.

SHE

Before _she_ came, that rival flame
(Had ever mater saucier filia?),
In those good times, bepraised in rhymes,
I was more famed than Mother Ilia.

HE

Chloe of Thrace! With what a grace
Does she at song or harp employ her!
I'd gladly die, if only I
Could live forever to enjoy her!

SHE

My Sybaris so noble is
That, by the gods, I love him madly!
That I might save him from the grave,
I'd give my life, and give it gladly!

HE

What if _ma belle_ from favor fell,
And I made up my mind to shake her;
Would Lydia then come back again,
And to her quondam love betake her?

SHE

My other beau should surely go,
And you alone should find me gracious;
For no one slings such odes and things
As does the lauriger Horatius!

THE RECONCILIATION