Abstract in his countour-cell
light spindles to his petrified gaze.
Scriptor of sums on a dim page
his wife ecstatic at another’s skill.
She horns him and her taste betrays;
in lieu of hearth and home, the seasoned meal.
Casual lust or lust that will not heal,
the blame is Januarie’s, never Maye’s.
The penned adulteries are laced and wry,
informed too still for clear distress.
The monk that ploughs between the lady’s thighs
takes pleasure in mercantile redress.
And on the wife thus trembling lies
the sin that she must not confess.