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But now to purpose why I tolde theeThat I was beten for a book, pardee:Upon a night Janekin, that was our sire,Redde on his book as he sat by the fireOf Eva first, that for hir wikkednesseWas al mankinde brought to wrecchednesse,For which that Jesu Crist himself was slainThat boughte us with his herte blood again—Lo, heer expres of wommen may ye findeThat womman was the los of al mankinde.Tho redde he me how Sampson loste his heres:Sleeping his lemman kitte it with hir sheres,Thurgh which treson loste he both yis yen...Of Pasipha that was the quenne of Crete—For shrewednesse him thoughte the tale sweete—Fy, speek namore, it is a grisly thingOf hir horrible lust and hir liking.Of Clytermistra for hir lecheryeThat falsly made hir housbounde for to die,He redde it with ful good devocioun.

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