# Romance of the Rose (Ellis)/Chapter 49

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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.