Ey! goddes marcy! seyde oure hooste tho, 
 Now swich a wyf I pray God kepe me fro! 
 Lo, whiche sleightes and subtilitees 
 In wommen been! for ay as bisy as bees 
 Been they, us sely men for to deceyve, 
 And from the soothe evere wol they weyve; 
 By this marchauntes tale it preveth weel. 
 But doutelees, as trewe as any steel 
 I have a wyf, though that she povre be, 
 Nut of hir tonge, a labbyng shrewe is she, 
 And yet she hath an heep of vices mo; 
 Therof no fors! lat alle swiche thynges go. 
 But wyte ye what? in conseil be it seyd, 
 Me reweth soore I am unto hire teyd. 
 For, and I sholde rekenen every vice 
 Which that she hath, ywis I were to nyce; 
 And cause why, it sholde reported by 
 And toold to hire of somme of this meynee, -- 
 Of whom, it nedeth nat for to declare, 
 Syn wommen konnen outen swich chaffare; 
 And eek my with suffiseth nat therto, 
 To tellen al, wherfore my tale is do.