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And Januarie hath faste in armes take
His 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 houndfyss, sharp as brere
For he was shave al newe in his manere --
He rubbeth hire aboute hir tendre face,
And seyde thus, "Alas! I moot trespace
To yow, my spouse, and yow greetly offende
Er tyme come that I wil foun descende.
But nathelees, considerth this," quod he,
"Ther nys no werkman, whatsoevere he be,
That may bothe werke wel and hastily;
This wol be doon as leser parfitly."
- The Merchant's Tale
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I, being born a woman and distressed
By all the needs and notions of my kind,
Am urged by your propinquity to find
Your person fair, and feel a certain zest
To bear your body's weight upon my breast:
So subtly is the fume of life designed,
To clarify the pulse and cloud the mind,
And leave me once again undone, possessed.
Think not for this, however, the poor treason
Of my stout blood against my staggering brain,
I shall remember you will love, or season
My scorn with pity,--let me make it plain:
I find this frenzy insufficient reason
For conversation when we meet again.
-Edna St. Vincent Millay
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