Book I

Naturatus amor nature legibus orbemSubdit, et vnanimes concitat esse feras:Huius enim mundi Princeps amor esse videtur,Cuius eget diues, pauper et omnis ope.Sunt in agone pares amor et fortuna, que cecasPlebis ad insidias vertit vterque rotas.Est amor egra salus, vexata quies, pius error,Bellica pax, vulnus dulce, suaue malum.

I may noght strecche up to the heveneMin hand, ne setten al in eveneThis world, which evere is in balance:It stant noght in my sufficanceSo grete thinges to compasse,Bot I mot lete it overpasseAnd treten upon othre thinges.Forthi the Stile of my writingesFro this day forth I thenke changeAnd speke of thing is noght so strange,Which every kinde hath upon honde,And wherupon the world mot stonde,And hath don sithen it began,And schal whil ther is any man;And that is love, of which I meneTo trete, as after schal be sene.In which ther can noman him reule,For loves lawe is out of reule,That of tomoche or of toliteWelnyh is every man to wyte,And natheles ther is nomanIn al this world so wys, that canOf love tempre the mesure,Bot as it falth in aventure:For wit ne strengthe may noght helpe,And he which elles wolde him yelpeIs rathest throwen under fote,Ther can no wiht therof do bote.For yet was nevere such covine,That couthe ordeine a medicineTo thing which god in lawe of kindeHath set, for ther may noman findeThe rihte salve of such a Sor.It hath and schal ben everemorThat love is maister wher he wile,Ther can no lif make other skile;For wher as evere him lest to sette,Ther is no myht which him may lette.Bot what schal fallen ate laste,The sothe can no wisdom caste,Bot as it falleth upon chance;For if ther evere was balanceWhich of fortune stant governed,I may wel lieve as I am lernedThat love hath that balance on honde,Which wol no reson understonde.For love is blind and may noght se,Forthi may no certeineteBe set upon his jugement,Bot as the whiel aboute wentHe yifth his graces undeserved,And fro that man which hath him servedFulofte he takth aweye his fees,As he that pleieth ate Dees,And therupon what schal befalleHe not, til that the chance falle,Wher he schal lese or he schal winne.And thus fulofte men beginne,That if thei wisten what it mente,Thei wolde change al here entente.

And forto proven it is so,I am miselven on of tho,Which to this Scole am underfonge.For it is siththe go noght longe,As forto speke of this matiere,I may you telle, if ye woll hiere,A wonder hap which me befell,That was to me bothe hard and fell,Touchende of love and his fortune,The which me liketh to comuneAnd pleinly forto telle it oute.To hem that ben lovers abouteFro point to point I wol declareAnd wryten of my woful care,Mi wofull day, my wofull chance,That men mowe take remembranceOf that thei schall hierafter rede:For in good feith this wolde I rede,That every man ensample takeOf wisdom which him is betake,And that he wot of good apriseTo teche it forth, for such empriseIs forto preise; and therfore IWoll wryte and schewe al openlyHow love and I togedre mette,Wherof the world ensample fetteMai after this, whan I am go,Of thilke unsely jolif wo,Whos reule stant out of the weie,Nou glad and nou gladnesse aweie,And yet it may noght be withstondeFor oght that men may understonde.

Upon the point that is befalleOf love, in which that I am falle,I thenke telle my matiere:Now herkne, who that wol it hiere,Of my fortune how that it ferde.This enderday, as I forthferdeTo walke, as I yow telle may,—And that was in the Monthe of Maii,Whan every brid hath chose his makeAnd thenkth his merthes forto makeOf love that he hath achieved;Bot so was I nothing relieved,For I was further fro my loveThan Erthe is fro the hevene above,As forto speke of eny sped:So wiste I me non other red,Bot as it were a man forfareUnto the wode I gan to fare,Noght forto singe with the briddes,For whanne I was the wode amiddes,I fond a swote grene pleine,And ther I gan my wo compleigneWisshinge and wepinge al myn one,For other merthes made I none.So hard me was that ilke throwe,That ofte sithes overthroweTo grounde I was withoute breth;And evere I wisshide after deth,Whanne I out of my peine awok,And caste up many a pitous lokUnto the hevene, and seide thus:“O thou Cupide, O thou Venus,Thou god of love and thou goddesse,Wher is pite? wher is meknesse?Now doth me pleinly live or dye,For certes such a maladieAs I now have and longe have hadd,It myhte make a wisman madd,If that it scholde longe endure.O Venus, queene of loves cure,Thou lif, thou lust, thou mannes hele,Behold my cause and my querele,And yif me som part of thi grace,So that I may finde in this placeIf thou be gracious or non.”And with that word I sawh anonThe kyng of love and qweene bothe;Bot he that kyng with yhen wrotheHis chiere aweiward fro me caste,And forth he passede ate laste.Bot natheles er he forth wenteA firy Dart me thoghte he henteAnd threw it thurgh myn herte rote:In him fond I non other bote,For lenger list him noght to duelle.Bot sche that is the Source and WelleOf wel or wo, that schal betideTo hem that loven, at that tideAbod, bot forto tellen hiereSche cast on me no goodly chiere:Thus natheles to me sche seide,“What art thou, Sone?” and I abreideRiht as a man doth out of slep,And therof tok sche riht good kepAnd bad me nothing ben adrad:Bot for al that I was noght glad,For I ne sawh no cause why.And eft scheo asketh, what was I:I seide, “A Caitif that lith hiere:What wolde ye, my Ladi diere?Schal I ben hol or elles dye?”Sche seide, “Tell thi maladie:What is thi Sor of which thou pleignest?Ne hyd it noght, for if thou feignest,I can do the no medicine.”“Ma dame, I am a man of thyne,That in thi Court have longe served,And aske that I have deserved,Some wele after my longe wo.”And sche began to loure tho,And seide, “Ther is manye of yowFaitours, and so may be that thowArt riht such on, and be feintiseSeist that thou hast me do servise.”And natheles sche wiste wel,Mi world stod on an other whielWithouten eny faiterie:Bot algate of my maladieSche bad me telle and seie hir trowthe.“Ma dame, if ye wolde have rowthe,”Quod I, “than wolde I telle yow.”“Sey forth,” quod sche, “and tell me how;Schew me thi seknesse everydiel.”“Ma dame, that can I do wel,Be so my lif therto wol laste.”With that hir lok on me sche caste,And seide: “In aunter if thou live,Mi will is ferst that thou be schrive;And natheles how that it isI wot miself, bot for al thisUnto my prest, which comth anon,I woll thou telle it on and on,Bothe all thi thoght and al thi werk.O Genius myn oghne Clerk,Com forth and hier this mannes schrifte,”Quod Venus tho; and I uplifteMin hefd with that, and gan beholdeThe selve Prest, which as sche woldeWas redy there and sette him dounTo hiere my confessioun.

This worthi Prest, this holy manTo me spekende thus began,And seide: “Benedicite,Mi Sone, of the feliciteOf love and ek of all the woThou schalt thee schrive of bothe tuo.What thou er this for loves sakeHast felt, let nothing be forsake,Tell pleinliche as it is befalle.”And with that word I gan doun falleOn knees, and with devociounAnd with full gret contriciounI seide thanne: “Dominus,Min holi fader Genius,So as thou hast experienceOf love, for whos reverenceThou schalt me schriven at this time,I prai the let me noght mistimeMi schrifte, for I am destourbedIn al myn herte, and so contourbed,That I ne may my wittes gete,So schal I moche thing foryete:Bot if thou wolt my schrifte opposeFro point to point, thanne I suppose,Ther schal nothing be left behinde.Bot now my wittes ben so blinde,That I ne can miselven teche.”Tho he began anon to preche,And with his wordes debonaireHe seide tome softe and faire:“Thi schrifte to oppose and hiere,My Sone, I am assigned hiereBe Venus the godesse above,Whos Prest I am touchende of love.Bot natheles for certein skileI mot algate and nedes wileNoght only make my spekyngesOf love, bot of othre thinges,That touchen to the cause of vice.For that belongeth to thofficeOf Prest, whos ordre that I bere,So that I wol nothing forbere,That I the vices on and onNe schal thee schewen everychon;Wherof thou myht take evidenceTo reule with thi conscience.Bot of conclusion finalConclude I wol in specialFor love, whos servant I am,And why the cause is that I cam.So thenke I to don bothe tuo,Ferst that myn ordre longeth to,The vices forto telle arewe,Bot next above alle othre scheweOf love I wol the propretes,How that thei stonde be degreesAfter the disposiciounOf Venus, whos condiciounI moste folwe, as I am holde.For I with love am al withholde,So that the lasse I am to wyte,Thogh I ne conne bot a lyteOf othre thinges that ben wise:I am noght tawht in such a wise;For it is noght my comun usTo speke of vices and vertus,Bot al of love and of his lore,For Venus bokes of nomoreMe techen nowther text ne glose.Bot for als moche as I supposeIt sit a prest to be wel thewed,And schame it is if he be lewed,Of my Presthode after the formeI wol thi schrifte so enforme,That ate leste thou schalt hiereThe vices, and to thi matiereOf love I schal hem so remene,That thou schalt knowe what thei mene.For what a man schal axe or seinTouchende of schrifte, it mot be plein,It nedeth noght to make it queinte,For trowthe hise wordes wol noght peinte:That I wole axe of the forthi,My Sone, it schal be so pleinly,That thou schalt knowe and understondeThe pointz of schrifte how that thei stonde.”

Betwen the lif and deth I herdeThis Prestes tale er I answerde,And thanne I preide him forto seieHis will, and I it wolde obeieAfter the forme of his apprise.Tho spak he tome in such a wise,And bad me that I scholde schriveAs touchende of my wittes fyve,And schape that thei were amendedOf that I hadde hem misdispended.For tho be proprely the gates,Thurgh whiche as to the herte algatesComth alle thing unto the feire,Which may the mannes Soule empeire.And now this matiere is broght inne,Mi Sone, I thenke ferst beginneTo wite how that thin yhe hath stonde,The which is, as I understonde,The moste principal of alle,Thurgh whom that peril mai befalle.

And forto speke in loves kinde,Ful manye suche a man mai finde,Whiche evere caste aboute here yhe,To loke if that thei myhte aspieFulofte thing which hem ne toucheth,Bot only that here herte souchethIn hindringe of an other wiht;And thus ful many a worthi knyhtAnd many a lusti lady botheHave be fulofte sythe wrothe.So that an yhe is as a thiefTo love, and doth ful gret meschief;And also for his oghne partFulofte thilke firy DartOf love, which that evere brenneth,Thurgh him into the herte renneth:And thus a mannes yhe ferstHimselve grieveth alther werst,And many a time that he knowethUnto his oghne harm it groweth.Mi Sone, herkne now forthiA tale, to be war therbyThin yhe forto kepe and warde,So that it passe noght his warde.

Ovide telleth in his bokEnsample touchende of mislok,And seith hou whilom ther was on,A worthi lord, which ActeonWas hote, and he was cousin nyhTo him that Thebes ferst on hyhUp sette, which king Cadme hyhte.This Acteon, as he wel myhte,Above alle othre caste his chiere,And used it fro yer to yere,With Houndes and with grete HornesAmong the wodes and the thornesTo make his hunting and his chace:Where him best thoghte in every placeTo finde gamen in his weie,Ther rod he forto hunte and pleie.So him befell upon a tideOn his hunting as he cam ride,In a Forest al one he was:He syh upon the grene grasThe faire freisshe floures springe,He herde among the leves singeThe Throstle with the nyhtingale:Thus er he wiste into a DaleHe cam, wher was a litel plein,All round aboute wel beseinWith buisshes grene and Cedres hyhe;And ther withinne he caste his yhe.Amidd the plein he syh a welle,So fair ther myhte noman telle,In which Diana naked stodTo bathe and pleie hire in the flodWith many a Nimphe, which hire serveth.Bot he his yhe awey ne swervethFro hire, which was naked al,And sche was wonder wroth withal,And him, as sche which was godesse,Forschop anon, and the liknesseSche made him taken of an Hert,Which was tofore hise houndes stert,That ronne besiliche abouteWith many an horn and many a route,That maden mochel noise and cry:And ate laste unhappelyThis Hert his oghne houndes slowheAnd him for vengance al todrowhe.

Lo now, my Sone, what it isA man to caste his yhe amis,Which Acteon hath dere aboght;Be war forthi and do it noght.For ofte, who that hiede toke,Betre is to winke than to loke.And forto proven it is so,Ovide the Poete alsoA tale which to this matiereAcordeth seith, as thou schalt hiere.

In Metamor it telleth thus,How that a lord which PhorceusWas hote, hadde dowhtres thre.Bot upon here nativiteSuch was the constellacion,That out of mannes nacionFro kynde thei be so miswent,That to the liknesse of SerpentThei were bore, and so that onOf hem was cleped Stellibon,That other soster Suriale,The thridde, as telleth in the tale,Medusa hihte, and nathelesOf comun name GorgonesIn every contre ther aboute,As Monstres whiche that men doute,Men clepen hem; and bot on yheAmong hem thre in pourpartieThei hadde, of which thei myhte se,Now hath it this, now hath it sche;After that cause and nede it ladde,Be throwes ech of hem it hadde.A wonder thing yet more amisTher was, wherof I telle al this:What man on hem his chiere casteAnd hem behield, he was als fasteOut of a man into a StonForschape, and thus ful manyonDeceived were, of that thei woldeMisloke, wher that thei ne scholde.Bot Perseus that worthi knyht,Whom Pallas of hir grete myhtHalp, and tok him a Schield therto,And ek the god Mercurie alsoLente him a swerd, he, as it fell,Beyende Athlans the hihe hellThese Monstres soghte, and there he fondDiverse men of thilke londThurgh sihte of hem mistorned were,Stondende as Stones hiere and there.Bot he, which wisdom and prouesseHadde of the god and the godesse,The Schield of Pallas gan enbrace,With which he covereth sauf his face,Mercuries Swerd and out he drowh,And so he bar him that he slowhThese dredful Monstres alle thre.

Lo now, my Sone, avise the,That thou thi sihte noght misuse:Cast noght thin yhe upon Meduse,That thou be torned into Ston:For so wys man was nevere non,Bot if he wel his yhe kepeAnd take of fol delit no kepe,That he with lust nys ofte nome,Thurgh strengthe of love and overcome.Of mislokynge how it hath ferd,As I have told, now hast thou herd,My goode Sone, and tak good hiede.And overthis yet I thee redeThat thou be war of thin heringe,Which to the Herte the tidingeOf many a vanite hath broght,To tarie with a mannes thoght.And natheles good is to hiereSuch thing wherof a man may lereThat to vertu is acordant,And toward al the remenantGood is to torne his Ere fro;For elles, bot a man do so,Him may fulofte mysbefalle.I rede ensample amonges alle,Wherof to kepe wel an EreIt oghte pute a man in fere.

A Serpent, which that AspidisIs cleped, of his kynde hath this,That he the Ston noblest of alle,The which that men Carbuncle calle,Berth in his hed above on heihte.For which whan that a man be sleyhte,The Ston to winne and him to daunte,With his carecte him wolde enchaunte,Anon as he perceiveth that,He leith doun his on Ere al platUnto the ground, and halt it faste,And ek that other Ere als fasteHe stoppeth with his tail so sore,That he the wordes lasse or moreOf his enchantement ne hiereth;And in this wise himself he skiereth,So that he hath the wordes weyvedAnd thurgh his Ere is noght deceived.

An othre thing, who that recordeth,Lich unto this ensample acordeth,Which in the tale of Troie I finde.Sirenes of a wonder kyndeBen Monstres, as the bokes tellen,And in the grete Se thei duellen:Of body bothe and of visageLik unto wommen of yong ageUp fro the Navele on hih thei be,And doun benethe, as men mai se,Thei bere of fisshes the figure.And overthis of such natureThei ben, that with so swete a steveneLik to the melodie of heveneIn wommanysshe vois thei singe,With notes of so gret likinge,Of such mesure, of such musike,Wherof the Schipes thei beswikeThat passen be the costes there.For whan the Schipmen leie an EreUnto the vois, in here avysThei wene it be a Paradys,Which after is to hem an helle.For reson may noght with hem duelle,Whan thei tho grete lustes hiere;Thei conne noght here Schipes stiere,So besiliche upon the noteThei herkne, and in such wise assote,That thei here rihte cours and weieForyete, and to here Ere obeie,And seilen til it so befalleThat thei into the peril falle,Where as the Schipes be todrawe,And thei ben with the Monstres slawe.Bot fro this peril nathelesWith his wisdom king UluxesAscapeth and it overpasseth;For he tofor the hond compassethThat noman of his compaignieHath pouer unto that folieHis Ere for no lust to caste;For he hem stoppede alle faste,That non of hem mai hiere hem singe.So whan they comen forth seilinge,Ther was such governance on honde,That thei the Monstres have withstondeAnd slain of hem a gret partie.Thus was he sauf with his navie,This wise king, thurgh governance.

Wherof, my Sone, in remembranceThou myht ensample taken hiere,As I have told, and what thou hiereBe wel war, and yif no credence,Bot if thou se more evidence.For if thou woldest take kepeAnd wisly cowthest warde and kepeThin yhe and Ere, as I have spoke,Than haddest thou the gates stokeFro such Sotie as comth to winneThin hertes wit, which is withinne,Wherof that now thi love excedethMesure, and many a peine bredeth.Bot if thou cowthest sette in reuleTho tuo, the thre were eth to reule:Forthi as of thi wittes fiveI wole as now nomore schryve,Bot only of these ilke tuo.Tell me therfore if it be so,Hast thou thin yhen oght misthrowe?

Mi fader, ye, I am beknowe,I have hem cast upon Meduse,Therof I may me noght excuse:Min herte is growen into Ston,So that my lady theruponHath such a priente of love grave,That I can noght miselve save.

Mi fader, I am gultyf there;For whanne I may my lady hiere,Mi wit with that hath lost his Stiere:I do noght as Uluxes dede,Bot falle anon upon the stede,Wher as I se my lady stonde;And there, I do yow understonde,I am topulled in my thoght,So that of reson leveth noght,Wherof that I me mai defende.

My goode Sone, god thamende:For as me thenketh be thi specheThi wittes ben riht feer to seche.As of thin Ere and of thin yheI woll nomore specefie,Bot I woll axen overthisOf othre thing how that it is.

Mi Sone, as I thee schal enforme,Ther ben yet of an other formeOf dedly vices sevene applied,Wherof the herte is ofte pliedTo thing which after schal him grieve.The ferste of hem thou schalt believeIs Pride, which is principal,And hath with him in specialMinistres five ful diverse,Of whiche, as I the schal reherse,The ferste is seid Ypocrisie.If thou art of his compaignie,Tell forth, my Sone, and schrif the clene.

I wot noght, fader, what ye mene:Bot this I wolde you beseche,That ye me be som weie techeWhat is to ben an ypocrite;And thanne if I be forto wyte,I wol beknowen, as it is.

Mi Sone, an ypocrite is this,—A man which feigneth conscience,As thogh it were al innocence,Withoute, and is noght so withinne;And doth so for he wolde winneOf his desir the vein astat.And whanne he comth anon therat,He scheweth thanne what he was,The corn is torned into gras,That was a Rose is thanne a thorn,And he that was a Lomb befornIs thanne a Wolf, and thus maliceUnder the colour of justiceIs hid; and as the poeple telleth,These ordres witen where he duelleth,As he that of here conseil is,And thilke world which thei er thisForsoken, he drawth in ayein:He clotheth richesse, as men sein,Under the simplesce of poverte,And doth to seme of gret decerteThing which is litel worth withinne:He seith in open, fy! to Sinne,And in secre ther is no viceOf which that he nis a Norrice:And evere his chiere is sobre and softe,And where he goth he blesseth ofte,Wherof the blinde world he dreccheth.Bot yet al only he ne strecchethHis reule upon religioun,Bot next to that condiciounIn suche as clepe hem holy chercheIt scheweth ek how he can wercheAmong tho wyde furred hodes,To geten hem the worldes goodes.And thei hemself ben thilke sameThat setten most the world in blame,Bot yet in contraire of her loreTher is nothing thei loven more;So that semende of liht thei werkeThe dedes whiche are inward derke.And thus this double YpocrisieWith his devolte apparantieA viser set upon his face,Wherof toward this worldes graceHe semeth to be riht wel thewed,And yit his herte is al beschrewed.Bot natheles he stant believed,And hath his pourpos ofte achievedOf worschipe and of worldes welthe,And takth it, as who seith, be steltheThurgh coverture of his fallas.And riht so in semblable casThis vice hath ek his officersAmong these othre seculersOf grete men, for of the smaleAs for tacompte he set no tale,Bot thei that passen the comuneWith suche him liketh to comune,And where he seith he wol socoureThe poeple, there he woll devoure;For now aday is manyonWhich spekth of Peter and of JohnAnd thenketh Judas in his herte.Ther schal no worldes good asterteHis hond, and yit he yifth almesseAnd fasteth ofte and hiereth Messe:With mea culpa, which he seith,Upon his brest fullofte he leithHis hond, and cast upward his yhe,As thogh he Cristes face syhe;So that it seemeth ate syhte,As he al one alle othre myhteRescoue with his holy bede.Bot yet his herte in other stedeAmong hise bedes most devouteGoth in the worldes cause aboute,How that he myhte his warisounEncresce.

And in comparisounTher ben lovers of such a sort,That feignen hem an humble port,And al is bot Ypocrisie,Which with deceipte and flaterieHath many a worthi wif beguiled.For whanne he hath his tunge affiled,With softe speche and with lesinge,Forth with his fals pitous lokynge,He wolde make a womman weneTo gon upon the faire grene,Whan that sche falleth in the Mir.For if he may have his desir,How so falle of the remenant,He halt no word of covenant;Bot er the time that he spede,Ther is no sleihte at thilke nede,Which eny loves faitour mai,That he ne put it in assai,As him belongeth forto done.The colour of the reyni MoneWith medicine upon his faceHe set, and thanne he axeth grace,As he which hath sieknesse feigned.Whan his visage is so desteigned,With yhe upcast on hire he siketh,And many a contenance he piketh,To bringen hire in to believeOf thing which that he wolde achieve,Wherof he berth the pale hewe;And for he wolde seme trewe,He makth him siek, whan he is heil.Bot whanne he berth lowest the Seil,Thanne is he swiftest to beguileThe womman, which that ilke whileSet upon him feith or credence.

Mi Sone, if thou thi conscienceEntamed hast in such a wise,In schrifte thou thee myht aviseAnd telle it me, if it be so.

Min holy fader, certes no.As forto feigne such sieknesseIt nedeth noght, for this witnesseI take of god, that my corageHath ben mor siek than my visage.And ek this mai I wel avowe,So lowe cowthe I nevere boweTo feigne humilite withoute,That me ne leste betre louteWith alle the thoghtes of myn herte;For that thing schal me nevere asterte,I speke as to my lady diere,To make hire eny feigned chiere.God wot wel there I lye noght,Mi chiere hath be such as my thoght;For in good feith, this lieveth wel,Mi will was betre a thousendelThan eny chiere that I cowthe.Don other wise in other place,I put me therof in your grace:For this excusen I ne schal,That I have elles overalTo love and to his compaignieBe plein withoute Ypocrisie;Bot ther is on the which I serve,Althogh I may no thonk deserve,To whom yet nevere into this dayI seide onlyche or ye or nay,Bot if it so were in my thoght.As touchende othre seie I noghtThat I nam somdel forto wyteOf that ye clepe an ypocrite.

Mi Sone, it sit wel every wihtTo kepe his word in trowthe upryhtTowardes love in alle wise.For who that wolde him wel aviseWhat hath befalle in this matiere,He scholde noght with feigned chiereDeceive Love in no degre.To love is every herte fre,Bot in deceipte if that thou feignestAnd therupon thi lust atteignest,That thow hast wonne with thi wyle,Thogh it thee like for a whyle,Thou schalt it afterward repente.And forto prove myn entente,I finde ensample in a CroniqeOf hem that love so beswike.

It fell be olde daies thus,Whil themperour TiberiusThe Monarchie of Rome ladde,Ther was a worthi Romein haddeA wif, and sche Pauline hihte,Which was to every mannes sihteOf al the Cite the faireste,And as men seiden, ek the beste.It is and hath ben evere yit,That so strong is no mannes wit,Which thurgh beaute ne mai be draweTo love, and stonde under the laweOf thilke bore frele kinde,Which makth the hertes yhen blinde,Wher no reson mai be comuned:And in this wise stod fortunedThis tale, of which I wolde mene;This wif, which in hire lustes greneWas fair and freissh and tendre of age,Sche may noght lette the corageOf him that wole on hire assote.

There was a Duck, and he was hoteMundus, which hadde in his baillieTo lede the chivalerieOf Rome, and was a worthi knyht;Bot yet he was noght of such myhtThe strengthe of love to withstonde,That he ne was so broght to honde,That malgre wher he wole or no,This yonge wif he loveth so,That he hath put al his assayTo wynne thing which he ne mayGete of hire graunt in no manere,Be yifte of gold ne be preiere.And whanne he syh that be no medeToward hir love he myhte spede,Be sleyhte feigned thanne he wroghte;And therupon he him bethoghteHow that ther was in the CiteA temple of such auctorite,To which with gret DevociounThe noble wommen of the tounMost comunliche a pelrinageGon forto preie thilke ymageWhich the godesse of childinge is,And cleped was be name Ysis:And in hire temple thanne were,To reule and to ministre thereAfter the lawe which was tho,Above alle othre Prestes tuo.This Duck, which thoghte his love gete,Upon a day hem tuo to meteHath bede, and thei come at his heste;Wher that thei hadde a riche feste,And after mete in prive placeThis lord, which wolde his thonk pourchace,To ech of hem yaf thanne a yifte,And spak so that be weie of schrifteHe drowh hem unto his covine,To helpe and schape how he PaulineAfter his lust deceive myhte.And thei here trowthes bothe plyhte,That thei be nyhte hire scholden wynneInto the temple, and he therinneSchal have of hire al his entente:And thus acorded forth thei wente.

Now lest thurgh which ypocrisieOrdeigned was the tricherie,Wherof this ladi was deceived.These Prestes hadden wel conceivedThat sche was of gret holinesse;And with a contrefet simplesse,Which hid was in a fals corage,Feignende an hevenely messageThei come and seide unto hir thus:“Pauline, the god AnubusHath sent ous bothe Prestes hiere,And seith he woll to thee appiereBe nyhtes time himself alone,For love he hath to thi persone:And therupon he hath ous bede,That we in Ysis temple a stedeHonestely for thee pourveie,Wher thou be nyhte, as we thee seie,Of him schalt take avisioun.For upon thi condicioun,The which is chaste and ful of feith,Such pris, as he ous tolde, he leith,That he wol stonde of thin acord;And forto bere hierof recordHe sende ous hider bothe tuo.”Glad was hire innocence thoOf suche wordes as sche herde,With humble chiere and thus answerde,And seide that the goddes willeSche was al redy to fulfille,That be hire housebondes leveSche wolde in Ysis temple at eveUpon hire goddes grace abide,To serven him the nyhtes tide.The Prestes tho gon hom ayein,And sche goth to hire sovereign,Of goddes wille and as it wasSche tolde him al the pleine cas,Wherof he was deceived eke,And bad that sche hire scholde mekeAl hol unto the goddes heste.And thus sche, which was al honesteTo godward after hire entente,At nyht unto the temple wente,Wher that the false Prestes were;And thei receiven hire thereWith such a tokne of holinesse,As thogh thei syhen a godesse,And al withinne in prive placeA softe bedd of large spaceThei hadde mad and encourtined,Wher sche was afterward engined.Bot sche, which al honour supposeth,The false Prestes thanne opposeth,And axeth be what observanceSche myhte most to the plesanceOf godd that nyhtes reule kepe:And thei hire bidden forto slepeLiggende upon the bedd alofte,For so, thei seide, al stille and softeGod Anubus hire wolde awake.The conseil in this wise take,The Prestes fro this lady gon;And sche, that wiste of guile non,In the manere as it was seidTo slepe upon the bedd is leid,In hope that sche scholde achieveThing which stod thanne upon bilieve,Fulfild of alle holinesse.Bot sche hath failed, as I gesse,For in a closet faste byThe Duck was hid so privelyThat sche him myhte noght perceive;And he, that thoghte to deceive,Hath such arrai upon him nome,That whanne he wolde unto hir come,It scholde semen at hire yheAs thogh sche verrailiche syheGod Anubus, and in such wiseThis ypocrite of his queintiseAwaiteth evere til sche slepte.And thanne out of his place he crepteSo stille that sche nothing herde,And to the bedd stalkende he ferde,And sodeinly, er sche it wiste,Beclipt in armes he hire kiste:Wherof in wommanysshe dredeSche wok and nyste what to rede;Bot he with softe wordes mildeConforteth hire and seith, with childeHe wolde hire make in such a kyndeThat al the world schal have in myndeThe worschipe of that ilke Sone;For he schal with the goddes wone,And ben himself a godd also.With suche wordes and with mo,The whiche he feigneth in his speche,This lady wit was al to seche,As sche which alle trowthe weneth:Bot he, that alle untrowthe meneth,With blinde tales so hire ladde,That all his wille of hire he hadde.And whan him thoghte it was ynowh,Ayein the day he him withdrowhSo prively that sche ne wisteWher he becom, bot as him listeOut of the temple he goth his weie.And sche began to bidde and preieUpon the bare ground knelende,And after that made hire offrende,And to the Prestes yiftes greteSche yaf, and homward be the Strete.The Duck hire mette and seide thus:“The myhti godd which AnubusIs hote, he save the, Pauline,For thou art of his disciplineSo holy, that no mannes myhtMai do that he hath do to nyhtOf thing which thou hast evere eschuied.Bot I his grace have so poursuied,That I was mad his lieutenant:Forthi be weie of covenantFro this day forth I am al thin,And if thee like to be myn,That stant upon thin oghne wille.”

Sche herde his tale and bar it stille,And hom sche wente, as it befell,Into hir chambre, and ther sche fellUpon hire bedd to wepe and crie,And seide: “O derke ypocrisie,Thurgh whos dissimilacionOf fals ymaginacionI am thus wickedly deceived!Bot that I have it aperceivedI thonke unto the goddes alle;For thogh it ones be befalle,It schal nevere eft whil that I live,And thilke avou to godd I yive.”And thus wepende sche compleigneth,Hire faire face and al desteignethWith wofull teres of hire ije,So that upon this agonieHire housebonde is inne come,And syh how sche was overcomeWith sorwe, and axeth what hire eileth.And sche with that hirself beweilethWelmore than sche dede afore,And seide, “Helas, wifhode is loreIn me, which whilom was honeste,I am non other than a beste,Now I defouled am of tuo.”And as sche myhte speke tho,Aschamed with a pitous ondeSche tolde unto hir housebondeThe sothe of al the hole tale,And in hire speche ded and paleSche swouneth welnyh to the laste.And he hire in hise armes fasteUphield, and ofte swor his othThat he with hire is nothing wroth,For wel he wot sche may ther noght:Bot natheles withinne his thoghtHis herte stod in sori plit,And seide he wolde of that despitBe venged, how so evere it falle,And sende unto hise frendes alle.And whan thei weren come in fere,He tolde hem upon this matiere,And axeth hem what was to done:And thei avised were sone,And seide it thoghte hem for the besteTo sette ferst his wif in reste,And after pleigne to the kingUpon the matiere of this thing.Tho was this wofull wif confortedBe alle weies and desported,Til that sche was somdiel amended;And thus a day or tuo despended,The thridde day sche goth to pleigneWith many a worthi Citezeine,And he with many a Citezein.

Whan themperour it herde sein,And knew the falshed of the vice,He seide he wolde do justice:And ferst he let the Prestes take,And for thei scholde it noght forsake,He put hem into questioun;Bot thei of the suggestiounNe couthen noght a word refuse,Bot for thei wolde hemself excuse,The blame upon the Duck thei leide.Bot therayein the conseil seideThat thei be noght excused so,For he is on and thei ben tuo,And tuo han more wit then on,So thilke excusement was non.And over that was seid hem eke,That whan men wolden vertu seke,Men scholde it in the Prestes finde;Here ordre is of so hyh a kinde,That thei be Duistres of the weie:Forthi, if eny man forsueieThurgh hem, thei be noght excusable.And thus be lawe resonableAmong the wise jugges thereThe Prestes bothe dampned were,So that the prive tricherieHid under fals IpocrisieWas thanne al openliche schewed,That many a man hem hath beschrewed.And whan the Prestes weren dede,The temple of thilke horrible dedeThei thoghten purge, and thilke ymage,Whos cause was the pelrinage,Thei drowen out and als so fasteFer into Tibre thei it caste,Wher the Rivere it hath defied:And thus the temple purifiedThei have of thilke horrible Sinne,Which was that time do therinne.Of this point such was the juise,Bot of the Duck was other wise:For he with love was bestad,His dom was noght so harde lad;For Love put reson aweieAnd can noght se the rihte weie.And be this cause he was respited,So that the deth him was acquited,Bot for al that he was exiled,For he his love hath so beguiled,That he schal nevere come ayein:For who that is to trowthe unplein,He may noght failen of vengance.

And ek to take remembranceOf that Ypocrisie hath wroghtOn other half, men scholde noghtTo lihtly lieve al that thei hiere,Bot thanne scholde a wisman stiereThe Schip, whan suche wyndes blowe:For ferst thogh thei beginne lowe,At ende thei be noght menable,Bot al tobreken Mast and Cable,So that the Schip with sodein blast,Whan men lest wene, is overcast;As now fulofte a man mai se:And of old time how it hath beI finde a gret experience,Wherof to take an evidenceGood is, and to be war alsoOf the peril, er him be wo.

Of hem that ben so derk withinne,At Troie also if we beginne,Ipocrisie it hath betraied:For whan the Greks hadde al assaied,And founde that be no batailleNe be no Siege it myhte availeThe toun to winne thurgh prouesse,This vice feigned of simplesceThurgh sleyhte of Calcas and of CriseIt wan be such a maner wise.An Hors of Bras thei let do forgeOf such entaile, of such a forge,That in this world was nevere manThat such an other werk began.The crafti werkman EpiusIt made, and forto telle thus,The Greks, that thoghten to beguileThe kyng of Troie, in thilke whileWith Anthenor and with Enee,That were bothe of the CiteAnd of the conseil the wiseste,The richeste and the myhtieste,In prive place so thei treteWith fair beheste and yiftes greteOf gold, that thei hem have engined;Togedre and whan thei be covined,Thei feignen forto make a pes,And under that yit nathelesThei schopen the destrucciounBothe of the kyng and of the toun.And thus the false pees was takeOf hem of Grece and undertake,And therupon thei founde a weie,Wher strengthe myhte noght aweie,That sleihte scholde helpe thanne;And of an ynche a large spanneBe colour of the pees thei made,And tolden how thei weren gladeOf that thei stoden in acord;And for it schal ben of record,Unto the kyng the Gregois seiden,Be weie of love and this thei preiden,As thei that wolde his thonk deserve,A Sacrifice unto Minerve,The pes to kepe in good entente,Thei mosten offre er that thei wente.The kyng conseiled in this casBe Anthenor and EneasTherto hath yoven his assent:So was the pleine trowthe blentThurgh contrefet IpocrisieOf that thei scholden sacrifie.

The Greks under the holinesseAnon with alle besinesseHere Hors of Bras let faire dihte,Which was to sen a wonder sihte;For it was trapped of himselve,And hadde of smale whieles twelve,Upon the whiche men ynoweWith craft toward the toun it drowe,And goth glistrende ayein the Sunne.Tho was ther joie ynowh begunne,For Troie in gret devociounCam also with processiounAyein this noble SacrifiseWith gret honour, and in this wiseUnto the gates thei it broghte.Bot of here entre whan thei soghte,The gates weren al to smale;And therupon was many a tale,Bot for the worschipe of Minerve,To whom thei comen forto serve,Thei of the toun, whiche understodeThat al this thing was do for goode,For pes, wherof that thei ben glade,The gates that Neptunus madeA thousend wynter ther tofore,Thei have anon tobroke and tore;The stronge walles doun thei bete,So that in to the large streteThis Hors with gret solempniteWas broght withinne the Cite,And offred with gret reverence,Which was to Troie an evidenceOf love and pes for everemo.The Gregois token leve thoWith al the hole felaschipe,And forth thei wenten into SchipeAnd crossen seil and made hem yare,Anon as thogh thei wolden fare:Bot whan the blake wynter nyhtWithoute Mone or Sterre lyhtBederked hath the water Stronde,Al prively thei gon to londeFul armed out of the navie.Synon, which mad was here aspieWithinne Troie, as was conspired,Whan time was a tokne hath fired;And thei with that here weie holden,And comen in riht as thei wolden,Ther as the gate was tobroke.The pourpos was full take and spoke:Er eny man may take kepe,Whil that the Cite was aslepe,Thei slowen al that was withinne,And token what thei myhten wynneOf such good as was sufficant,And brenden up the remenant.And thus cam out the tricherie,Which under fals YpocrisieWas hid, and thei that wende peesTho myhten finde no relesOf thilke swerd which al devoureth.

Fulofte and thus the swete soureth,Whan it is knowe to the tast:He spilleth many a word in wastThat schal with such a poeple trete;For whan he weneth most beyete,Thanne is he schape most to lese.And riht so if a womman cheseUpon the wordes that sche hierethSom man, whan he most trewe appiereth,Thanne is he forthest fro the trowthe:Bot yit fulofte, and that is rowthe,Thei speden that ben most untreweAnd loven every day a newe,Wherof the lief is after lothAnd love hath cause to be wroth.Bot what man that his lust desirethOf love, and therupon conspirethWith wordes feigned to deceive,He schal noght faile to receiveHis peine, as it is ofte sene.

Forthi, my Sone, as I thee mene,It sit the wel to taken hiedeThat thou eschuie of thi manhiedeIpocrisie and his semblant,That thou ne be noght deceivant,To make a womman to believeThing which is noght in thi bilieve:For in such feint IpocrisieOf love is al the tricherie,Thurgh which love is deceived ofte;For feigned semblant is so softe,Unethes love may be war.Forthi, my Sone, as I wel dar,I charge thee to fle that vice,That many a womman hath mad nice;Bot lok thou dele noght withal.

For this that thou hast herd beforeIs seid the ferste point of Pride:And next upon that other side,To schryve and speken overthisTouchende of Pride, yit ther isThe point seconde, I thee behote,Which Inobedience is hote.

This vice of InobedienceAyein the reule of conscienceAl that is humble he desalloweth,That he toward his god ne bowethAfter the lawes of his heste.Noght as a man bot as a beste,Which goth upon his lustes wilde,So goth this proude vice unmylde,That he desdeigneth alle lawe:He not what is to be felawe,And serve may he noght for pride;So is he badde on every side,And is that selve of whom men speke,Which wol noght bowe er that he breke.I not if love him myhte plie,For elles forto justefieHis herte, I not what mihte availe.

Forthi, my Sone, of such entaileIf that thin herte be disposed,Tell out and let it noght be glosed:For if that thou unbuxom beTo love, I not in what degreeThou schalt thi goode world achieve.

Mi fader, ye schul wel believe,The yonge whelp which is affaitedHath noght his Maister betre awaited,To couche, whan he seith “Go lowe,”That I, anon as I may knoweMi ladi will, ne bowe more.Bot other while I grucche soreOf some thinges that sche doth,Wherof that I woll telle soth:For of tuo pointz I am bethoght,That, thogh I wolde, I myhte noghtObeie unto my ladi heste;Bot I dar make this beheste,Save only of that ilke tuoI am unbuxom of no mo.

Mi fader, this is on, that scheComandeth me my mowth to close,And that I scholde hir noght opposeIn love, of which I ofte preche,Bot plenerliche of such a specheForbere, and soffren hire in pes.Bot that ne myhte I nathelesFor al this world obeie ywiss;For whanne I am ther as sche is,Though sche my tales noght alowe,Ayein hir will yit mot I bowe,To seche if that I myhte have grace:Bot that thing may I noght enbraceFor ought that I can speke or do;And yit fulofte I speke so,That sche is wroth and seith, “Be stille.”If I that heste schal fulfilleAnd therto ben obedient,Thanne is my cause fully schent,For specheles may noman spede.So wot I noght what is to rede;Bot certes I may noght obeie,That I ne mot algate seieSomwhat of that I wolde mene;For evere it is aliche grene,The grete love which I have,Wherof I can noght bothe saveMy speche and this obedience:And thus fulofte my silenceI breke, and is the ferste pointWherof that I am out of pointIn this, and yit it is no pride.

Now thanne upon that other sideTo telle my desobeissance,Ful sore it stant to my grevanceAnd may noght sinke into my wit;For ofte time sche me bitTo leven hire and chese a newe,And seith, if I the sothe kneweHow ferr I stonde from hir grace,I scholde love in other place.Bot therof woll I desobeie;For also wel sche myhte seie,“Go tak the Mone ther it sit,”As bringe that into my wit:For ther was nevere rooted tre,That stod so faste in his degre,That I ne stonde more fasteUpon hire love, and mai noght casteMin herte awey, althogh I wolde.For god wot, thogh I nevere scholdeSen hir with yhe after this day,Yit stant it so that I ne mayHir love out of my brest remue.This is a wonder retenue,That malgre wher sche wole or nonMin herte is everemore in on,So that I can non other chese,Bot whether that I winne or lese,I moste hire loven til I deie;And thus I breke as be that weieHire hestes and hir comandinges,Bot trewliche in non othre thinges.Forthi, my fader, what is moreTouchende to this ilke loreI you beseche, after the formeThat ye pleinly me wolde enforme,So that I may myn herte reuleIn loves cause after the reule.

Toward this vice of which we treteTher ben yit tweie of thilke estrete,Here name is Murmur and Compleignte:Ther can noman here chiere peinte,To sette a glad semblant therinne,For thogh fortune make hem wynne,Yit grucchen thei, and if thei lese,Ther is no weie forto chese,Wherof thei myhten stonde appesed.So ben thei comunly desesed;Ther may no welthe ne poverteAttempren hem to the decerteOf buxomnesse be no wise:For ofte time thei despiseThe goode fortune as the badde,As thei no mannes reson hadde,Thurgh pride, wherof thei be blinde.

And ryht of such a maner kindeTher be lovers, that thogh thei haveOf love al that thei wolde crave,Yit wol thei grucche be som weie,That thei wol noght to love obeieUpon the trowthe, as thei do scholde;And if hem lacketh that thei wolde,Anon thei falle in such a peine,That evere unbuxomly thei pleigneUpon fortune, and curse and crie,That thei wol noght here hertes plieTo soffre til it betre falle.Forthi if thou amonges alleHast used this condicioun,Mi Sone, in thi ConfessiounNow tell me pleinly what thou art.

Mi fader, I beknowe a part,So as ye tolden hier aboveOf Murmur and Compleignte of love,That for I se no sped comende,Ayein fortune compleignendeI am, as who seith, everemo:And ek fulofte tyme also,Whan so is that I se and hiereOr hevy word or hevy chiereOf my lady, I grucche anon;Bot wordes dar I speke non,Wherof sche myhte be desplesed,Bot in myn herte I am desesed:With many a Murmur, god it wot,Thus drinke I in myn oghne swot,And thogh I make no semblant,Min herte is al desobeissant;And in this wise I me confesseOf that ye clepe unbuxomnesse.Now telleth what youre conseil is.

Mi Sone, and I thee rede this,What so befalle of other weie,That thou to loves heste obeieAls ferr as thou it myht suffise:For ofte sithe in such a wiseObedience in love availeth,Wher al a mannes strengthe faileth;Wherof, if that the list to witeIn a Cronique as it is write,A gret ensample thou myht fynde,Which now is come to my mynde.

Ther was whilom be daies oldeA worthi knyht, and as men toldeHe was Nevoeu to themperourAnd of his Court a Courteour:Wifles he was, Florent he hihte,He was a man that mochel myhte,Of armes he was desirous,Chivalerous and amorous,And for the fame of worldes speche,Strange aventures forto seche,He rod the Marches al aboute.And fell a time, as he was oute,Fortune, which may every thredTobreke and knette of mannes sped,Schop, as this knyht rod in a pas,That he be strengthe take was,And to a Castell thei him ladde,Wher that he fewe frendes hadde:For so it fell that ilke stoundeThat he hath with a dedly woundeFeihtende his oghne hondes slainBranchus, which to the CapitainWas Sone and Heir, wherof ben wrotheThe fader and the moder bothe.That knyht Branchus was of his hondThe worthieste of al his lond,And fain thei wolden do venganceUpon Florent, bot remembranceThat thei toke of his worthinesseOf knyhthod and of gentilesse,And how he stod of cousinageTo themperour, made hem assuage,And dorsten noght slen him for fere:In gret desputeisoun thei wereAmong hemself, what was the beste.Ther was a lady, the slyhesteOf alle that men knewe tho,So old sche myhte unethes go,And was grantdame unto the dede:And sche with that began to rede,And seide how sche wol bringe him inne,That sche schal him to dethe winneAl only of his oghne grant,Thurgh strengthe of verray covenantWithoute blame of eny wiht.Anon sche sende for this kniht,And of hire Sone sche alleideThe deth, and thus to him sche seide:“Florent, how so thou be to wyteOf Branchus deth, men schal respiteAs now to take vengement,Be so thou stonde in juggementUpon certein condicioun,That thou unto a questiounWhich I schal axe schalt ansuere;And over this thou schalt ek swere,That if thou of the sothe faile,Ther schal non other thing availe,That thou ne schalt thi deth receive.And for men schal thee noght deceive,That thou therof myht ben avised,Thou schalt have day and tyme assisedAnd leve saufly forto wende,Be so that at thi daies endeThou come ayein with thin avys.

This knyht, which worthi was and wys,This lady preith that he may wite,And have it under Seales write,What questioun it scholde beFor which he schal in that degreeStonde of his lif in jeupartie.With that sche feigneth compaignie,And seith: “Florent, on love it hongethAl that to myn axinge longeth:What alle wommen most desireThis wole I axe, and in thempireWher as thou hast most knowlechingeTak conseil upon this axinge.”

Florent this thing hath undertake,The day was set, the time take,Under his seal he wrot his oth,In such a wise and forth he gothHom to his Emes court ayein;To whom his aventure pleinHe tolde, of that him is befalle.And upon that thei weren alleThe wiseste of the lond asent,Bot natheles of on assentThei myhte noght acorde plat,On seide this, an othre that.After the disposiciounOf naturel complexiounTo som womman it is plesance,That to an other is grevance;Bot such a thing in special,Which to hem alle in generalIs most plesant, and most desiredAbove alle othre and most conspired,Such o thing conne thei noght findeBe Constellacion ne kinde:And thus Florent withoute cureMot stonde upon his aventure,And is al schape unto the lere,As in defalte of his answere.This knyht hath levere forto dyeThan breke his trowthe and forto lyeIn place ther as he was swore,And schapth him gon ayein therfore.Whan time cam he tok his leve,That lengere wolde he noght beleve,And preith his Em he be noght wroth,For that is a point of his oth,He seith, that noman schal him wreke,Thogh afterward men hiere spekeThat he par aventure deie.And thus he wente forth his weieAlone as knyht aventurous,And in his thoght was curiousTo wite what was best to do:And as he rod al one so,And cam nyh ther he wolde be,In a forest under a treHe syh wher sat a creature,A lothly wommannysch figure,That forto speke of fleisch and bonSo foul yit syh he nevere non.This knyht behield hir redely,And as he wolde have passed by,Sche cleped him and bad abide;And he his horse heved asideTho torneth, and to hire he rod,And there he hoveth and abod,To wite what sche wolde mene.And sche began him to bemene,And seide: “Florent be thi name,Thou hast on honde such a game,That bot thou be the betre avised,Thi deth is schapen and devised,That al the world ne mai the save,Bot if that thou my conseil have.”

Florent, whan he this tale herde,Unto this olde wyht answerdeAnd of hir conseil he hir preide.And sche ayein to him thus seide:“Florent, if I for the so schape,That thou thurgh me thi deth ascapeAnd take worschipe of thi dede,What schal I have to my mede?”“What thing,” quod he, “that thou wolt axe.”“I bidde nevere a betre taxe,”Quod sche, “bot ferst, er thou be sped,Thou schalt me leve such a wedd,That I wol have thi trowthe in hondeThat thou schalt be myn housebonde.”“Nay,” seith Florent, “that may noght be.”“Ryd thanne forth thi wey,” quod sche,“And if thou go withoute red,Thou schalt be sekerliche ded.”Florent behihte hire good ynowhOf lond, of rente, of park, of plowh,Bot al that compteth sche at noght.Tho fell this knyht in mochel thoght,Now goth he forth, now comth ayein,He wot noght what is best to sein,And thoghte, as he rod to and fro,That chese he mot on of the tuo,Or forto take hire to his wifOr elles forto lese his lif.And thanne he caste his avantage,That sche was of so gret an age,That sche mai live bot a while,And thoghte put hire in an Ile,Wher that noman hire scholde knowe,Til sche with deth were overthrowe.And thus this yonge lusti knyhtUnto this olde lothly wihtTho seide: “If that non other chanceMai make my deliverance,Bot only thilke same specheWhich, as thou seist, thou schalt me teche,Have hier myn hond, I schal thee wedde.”And thus his trowthe he leith to wedde.With that sche frounceth up the browe:“This covenant I wol allowe,”Sche seith: “if eny other thingBot that thou hast of my techyngFro deth thi body mai respite,I woll thee of thi trowthe acquite,And elles be non other weie.Now herkne me what I schal seie.Whan thou art come into the place,Wher now thei maken gret manaceAnd upon thi comynge abyde,Thei wole anon the same tideOppose thee of thin answere.I wot thou wolt nothing forbereOf that thou wenest be thi beste,And if thou myht so finde reste,Wel is, for thanne is ther nomore.And elles this schal be my lore,That thou schalt seie, upon this MoldeThat alle wommen lievest woldeBe soverein of mannes love:For what womman is so above,Sche hath, as who seith, al hire wille;And elles may sche noght fulfilleWhat thing hir were lievest have.With this answere thou schalt saveThiself, and other wise noght.And whan thou hast thin ende wroght,Com hier ayein, thou schalt me finde,And let nothing out of thi minde.”

He goth him forth with hevy chiere,As he that not in what manereHe mai this worldes joie atteigne:For if he deie, he hath a peine,And if he live, he mot him bindeTo such on which of alle kindeOf wommen is thunsemlieste:Thus wot he noght what is the beste:Bot be him lief or be him loth,Unto the Castell forth he gothHis full answere forto yive,Or forto deie or forto live.Forth with his conseil cam the lord,The thinges stoden of record,He sende up for the lady sone,And forth sche cam, that olde Mone.In presence of the remenantThe strengthe of al the covenantTho was reherced openly,And to Florent sche bad forthiThat he schal tellen his avis,As he that woot what is the pris.Florent seith al that evere he couthe,Bot such word cam ther non to mowthe,That he for yifte or for behesteMihte eny wise his deth areste.And thus he tarieth longe and late,Til that this lady bad algateThat he schal for the dom finalYive his answere in specialOf that sche hadde him ferst opposed:And thanne he hath trewly supposedThat he him may of nothing yelpe,Bot if so be tho wordes helpe,Whiche as the womman hath him tawht;Wherof he hath an hope cawhtThat he schal ben excused so,And tolde out plein his wille tho.And whan that this Matrone herdeThe manere how this knyht ansuerde,Sche seide: “Ha treson, wo thee be,That hast thus told the privite,Which alle wommen most desire!I wolde that thou were afire.”Bot natheles in such a plitFlorent of his answere is quit:And tho began his sorwe newe,For he mot gon, or ben untrewe,To hire which his trowthe hadde.Bot he, which alle schame dradde,Goth forth in stede of his penance,And takth the fortune of his chance,As he that was with trowthe affaited.

This olde wyht him hath awaitedIn place wher as he hire lefte:Florent his wofull heved uplefteAnd syh this vecke wher sche sat,Which was the lothlieste whatThat evere man caste on his yhe:Hire Nase bass, hire browes hyhe,Hire yhen smale and depe set,Hire chekes ben with teres wet,And rivelen as an emty skynHangende doun unto the chin,Hire Lippes schrunken ben for age,Ther was no grace in the visage,Hir front was nargh, hir lockes hore,Sche loketh forth as doth a More,Hire Necke is schort, hir schuldres courbe,That myhte a mannes lust destourbe,Hire body gret and nothing smal,And schortly to descrive hire al,Sche hath no lith withoute a lak;Bot lich unto the wollesakSche proferth hire unto this knyht,And bad him, as he hath behyht,So as sche hath ben his warant,That he hire holde covenant,And be the bridel sche him seseth.Bot godd wot how that sche him plesethOf suche wordes as sche spekth:Him thenkth welnyh his herte brekthFor sorwe that he may noght fle,Bot if he wolde untrewe be.

Loke, how a sek man for his heleTakth baldemoine with Canele,And with the Mirre takth the Sucre,Ryht upon such a maner lucreStant Florent, as in this diete:He drinkth the bitre with the swete,He medleth sorwe with likynge,And liveth, as who seith, deyinge;His youthe schal be cast aweieUpon such on which as the weieIs old and lothly overal.Bot nede he mot that nede schal:He wolde algate his trowthe holde,As every knyht therto is holde,What happ so evere him is befalle:Thogh sche be the fouleste of alle,Yet to thonour of wommanhiedeHim thoghte he scholde taken hiede;So that for pure gentilesse,As he hire couthe best adresce,In ragges, as sche was totore,He set hire on his hors toforeAnd forth he takth his weie softe;No wonder thogh he siketh ofte.Bot as an oule fleth be nyhteOut of alle othre briddes syhte,Riht so this knyht on daies brodeIn clos him hield, and schop his rodeOn nyhtes time, til the tydeThat he cam there he wolde abide;And prively withoute noiseHe bringth this foule grete CoiseTo his Castell in such a wiseThat noman myhte hire schappe avise,Til sche into the chambre cam:Wher he his prive conseil namOf suche men as he most troste,And tolde hem that he nedes mosteThis beste wedde to his wif,For elles hadde he lost his lif.

The prive wommen were asent,That scholden ben of his assent:Hire ragges thei anon of drawe,And, as it was that time lawe,She hadde bath, sche hadde reste,And was arraied to the beste.Bot with no craft of combes brodeThei myhte hire hore lockes schode,And sche ne wolde noght be schoreFor no conseil, and thei therfore,With such atyr as tho was used,Ordeinen that it was excused,And hid so crafteliche aboute,That noman myhte sen hem oute.Bot when sche was fulliche arraiedAnd hire atyr was al assaied,Tho was sche foulere on to se:Bot yit it may non other be,Thei were wedded in the nyht;So wo begon was nevere knyhtAs he was thanne of mariage.And sche began to pleie and rage,As who seith, I am wel ynowh;Bot he therof nothing ne lowh,For sche tok thanne chiere on hondeAnd clepeth him hire housebonde,And seith, “My lord, go we to bedde,For I to that entente wedde,That thou schalt be my worldes blisse:”And profreth him with that to kisse,As sche a lusti Lady were.His body myhte wel be there,Bot as of thoght and of memoireHis herte was in purgatoire.Bot yit for strengthe of matrimoineHe myhte make non essoine,That he ne mot algates plieTo gon to bedde of compaignie:And whan thei were abedde naked,Withoute slep he was awaked;He torneth on that other side,For that he wolde hise yhen hydeFro lokynge on that foule wyht.The chambre was al full of lyht,The courtins were of cendal thinne,This newe bryd which lay withinne,Thogh it be noght with his acord,In armes sche beclipte hire lord,And preide, as he was torned fro,He wolde him torne ayeinward tho;“For now,” sche seith, “we ben bothe on.”And he lay stille as eny ston,Bot evere in on sche spak and preide,And bad him thenke on that he seide,Whan that he tok hire be the hond.

He herde and understod the bond,How he was set to his penance,And as it were a man in tranceHe torneth him al sodeinly,And syh a lady lay him byOf eyhtetiene wynter age,Which was the faireste of visageThat evere in al this world he syh:And as he wolde have take hire nyh,Sche put hire hand and be his leveBesoghte him that he wolde leve,And seith that forto wynne or leseHe mot on of tuo thinges chese,Wher he wol have hire such on nyht,Or elles upon daies lyht,For he schal noght have bothe tuo.And he began to sorwe tho,In many a wise and caste his thoght,Bot for al that yit cowthe he noghtDevise himself which was the beste.And sche, that wolde his hertes reste,Preith that he scholde chese algate,Til ate laste longe and lateHe seide: “O ye, my lyves hele,Sey what you list in my querele,I not what ansuere I schal yive:Bot evere whil that I may live,I wol that ye be my maistresse,For I can noght miselve gesseWhich is the beste unto my chois.Thus grante I yow myn hole vois,Ches for ous bothen, I you preie;And what as evere that ye seie,Riht as ye wole so wol I.”

“Mi lord,” sche seide, “grant merci,For of this word that ye now sein,That ye have mad me soverein,Mi destine is overpassed,That nevere hierafter schal be lassedMi beaute, which that I now have,Til I be take into my grave;Bot nyht and day as I am nowI schal alwey be such to yow.The kinges dowhter of CizileI am, and fell bot siththe awhile,As I was with my fader late,That my Stepmoder for an hate,Which toward me sche hath begonne,Forschop me, til I hadde wonneThe love and sovereineteOf what knyht that in his degreAlle othre passeth of good name:And, as men sein, ye ben the same,The dede proeveth it is so;Thus am I youres evermo.”Tho was plesance and joye ynowh,Echon with other pleide and lowh;Thei live longe and wel thei ferde,And clerkes that this chance herdeThei writen it in evidence,To teche how that obedienceMai wel fortune a man to loveAnd sette him in his lust above,As it befell unto this knyht.

Forthi, my Sone, if thou do ryht,Thou schalt unto thi love obeie,And folwe hir will be alle weie.

Min holy fader, so I wile:For ye have told me such a skileOf this ensample now tofore,That I schal evermo therforeHierafterward myn observanceTo love and to his obeissanceThe betre kepe: and over thisOf pride if ther oght elles is,Wherof that I me schryve schal,What thing it is in special,Mi fader, axeth, I you preie.

Now lest, my Sone, and I schal seie:For yit ther is Surquiderie,Which stant with Pride of compaignie;Wherof that thou schalt hiere anon,To knowe if thou have gult or nonUpon the forme as thou schalt hiere:Now understond wel the matiere.

Surquiderie is thilke viceOf Pride, which the thridde officeHath in his Court, and wol noght knoweThe trowthe til it overthrowe.Upon his fortune and his graceComth “Hadde I wist” fulofte aplace;For he doth al his thing be gesse,And voideth alle sikernesse.Non other conseil good him siemethBot such as he himselve diemeth;For in such wise as he compasseth,His wit al one alle othre passeth;And is with pride so thurghsoght,That he alle othre set at noght,And weneth of himselven so,That such as he ther be nomo,So fair, so semly, ne so wis;And thus he wolde bere a prisAbove alle othre, and noght forthiHe seith noght ones “grant mercy”To godd, which alle grace sendeth,So that his wittes he despendethUpon himself, as thogh ther wereNo godd which myhte availe there:Bot al upon his oghne wittHe stant, til he falle in the pittSo ferr that he mai noght arise.

And riht thus in the same wiseThis vice upon the cause of loveSo proudly set the herte above,And doth him pleinly forto weneThat he to loven eny qweneHath worthinesse and sufficance;And so withoute pourveanceFulofte he heweth up so hihe,That chippes fallen in his yhe;And ek ful ofte he weneth this,Ther as he noght beloved is,To be beloved alther best.Of this that I have told thee hier.

Ha, fader, be noght in a wer:I trowe ther be noman lesse,Of eny maner worthinesse,That halt him lasse worth thanne ITo be beloved; and noght forthiI seie in excusinge of me,To alle men that love is fre.And certes that mai noman werne;For love is of himself so derne,It luteth in a mannes herte:Bot that ne schal me noght asterte,To wene forto be worthiTo loven, bot in hir mercy.That I scholde otherwise weneTo be beloved thanne I was,I am beknowe as in that cas.

Now lest, and I wol telle yow,Mi goode fader, how it is.Fulofte it hath befalle or thisThurgh hope that was noght certein,Mi wenynge hath be set in veinTo triste in thing that halp me noght,Bot onliche of myn oughne thoght.For as it semeth that a belleLik to the wordes that men telleAnswerth, riht so ne mor ne lesse,To yow, my fader, I confesse,Such will my wit hath overset,That what so hope me behet,Ful many a time I wene it soth,Bot finali no spied it doth.Thus may I tellen, as I can,Wenyng beguileth many a man;So hath it me, riht wel I wot:For if a man wole in a BotWhich is withoute botme rowe,He moste nedes overthrowe.Riht so wenyng hath ferd be me:For whanne I wende next have be,As I be my wenynge caste,Thanne was I furthest ate laste,And as a foll my bowe unbende,Whan al was failed that I wende.Forthi, my fader, as of this,That my wenynge hath gon amisTouchende to Surquiderie,Yif me my penance er I die.Bot if ye wolde in eny formeOf this matiere a tale enforme,Which were ayein this vice set,I scholde fare wel the bet.

Mi Sone, in alle maner wiseSurquiderie is to despise,Wherof I finde write thus.The proude knyht CapaneusHe was of such Surquiderie,That he thurgh his chivalerieUpon himself so mochel triste,That to the goddes him ne listeIn no querele to beseche,Bot seide it was an ydel speche,Which caused was of pure drede,For lack of herte and for no nede.And upon such presumpciounHe hield this proude opinioun,Til ate laste upon a dai,Aboute Thebes wher he lay,Whan it of Siege was belein,This knyht, as the Croniqes sein,In alle mennes sihte there,Whan he was proudest in his gere,And thoghte how nothing myhte him dere,Ful armed with his schield and spereAs he the Cite wolde assaile,Godd tok himselve the batailleAyein his Pride, and fro the skyA firy thonder sodeinlyHe sende, and him to pouldre smot.And thus the Pride which was hot,Whan he most in his strengthe wende,Was brent and lost withouten ende:So that it proeveth wel therfore,The strengthe of man is sone lore,Bot if that he it wel governe.And over this a man mai lerneThat ek fulofte time it grieveth,Whan that a man himself believeth,As thogh it scholde him wel besemeThat he alle othre men can deme,And hath foryete his oghne vice.A tale of hem that ben so nyce,And feigne hemself to be so wise,I schal thee telle in such a wise,Wherof thou schalt ensample takeThat thou no such thing undertake.

I finde upon Surquiderie,How that whilom of HungarieBe olde daies was a KingWys and honeste in alle thing:And so befell upon a dai,And that was in the Monthe of Maii,As thilke time it was usance,This kyng with noble pourveanceHath for himself his Charr araied,Wher inne he wolde ride amaiedOut of the Cite forto pleie,With lordes and with gret nobleieOf lusti folk that were yonge:Wher some pleide and some songe,And some gon and some ryde,And some prike here hors asideAnd bridlen hem now in now oute.The kyng his yhe caste aboute,Til he was ate laste warAnd syh comende ayein his charTwo pilegrins of so gret age,That lich unto a dreie ymageThei weren pale and fade hewed,And as a bussh which is besnewed,Here berdes weren hore and whyte;Ther was of kinde bot a lite,That thei ne semen fulli dede.Thei comen to the kyng and bedeSom of his good par charite;And he with gret humiliteOut of his Char to grounde lepte,And hem in bothe hise armes kepteAnd keste hem bothe fot and hondBefore the lordes of his lond,And yaf hem of his good therto:And whanne he hath this dede do,He goth into his char ayein.Tho was Murmur, tho was desdeign,Tho was compleignte on every side,Thei seiden of here oghne PrideEche until othre: “What is this?Oure king hath do this thing amis,So to abesse his realteThat every man it myhte se,And humbled him in such a wiseTo hem that were of non emprise.”Thus was it spoken to and froOf hem that were with him thoAl prively behinde his bak;Bot to himselven noman spak.The kinges brother in presenceWas thilke time, and gret offenceHe tok therof, and was the sameAbove alle othre which most blameUpon his liege lord hath leid,And hath unto the lordes seid,Anon as he mai time finde,Ther schal nothing be left behinde,That he wol speke unto the king.

Now lest what fell upon this thing.The day was merie and fair ynowh,Echon with othre pleide and lowh,And fellen into tales newe,How that the freisshe floures grewe,And how the grene leves spronge,And how that love among the yongeBegan the hertes thanne awake,And every bridd hath chose hire make:And thus the Maies day to thendeThei lede, and hom ayein thei wende.The king was noght so sone come,That whanne he hadde his chambre nome,His brother ne was redi there,And broghte a tale unto his EreOf that he dede such a schameIn hindringe of his oghne name,Whan he himself so wolde drecche,That to so vil a povere wreccheHim deigneth schewe such simplesceAyein thastat of his noblesce:And seith he schal it nomor use,And that he mot himself excuseToward hise lordes everychon.The king stod stille as eny ston,And to his tale an Ere he leide,And thoghte more than he seide:Bot natheles to that he herdeWel cortaisly the king answerde,And tolde it scholde be amended.And thus whan that her tale is ended,Al redy was the bord and cloth,The king unto his Souper gothAmong the lordes to the halle;And whan thei hadden souped alle,Thei token leve and forth thei go.The king bethoghte himselve thoHow he his brother mai chastie,That he thurgh his SurquiderieTok upon honde to despreiseHumilite, which is to preise,And therupon yaf such conseilToward his king that was noght heil;Wherof to be the betre lered,He thenkth to maken him afered.

It fell so that in thilke daweTher was ordeined be the laweA trompe with a sterne breth,Which cleped was the Trompe of deth:And in the Court wher the king wasA certein man this Trompe of brasHath in kepinge, and therof serveth,That whan a lord his deth deserveth,He schal this dredful trompe bloweTofore his gate, and make it knoweHow that the jugement is yoveOf deth, which schal noght be foryove.The king, whan it was nyht, anonThis man asente and bad him gonTo trompen at his brother gate;And he, which mot so don algate,Goth forth and doth the kynges heste.This lord, which herde of this tempesteThat he tofore his gate blew,Tho wiste he be the lawe and knewThat he was sikerliche ded:And as of help he wot no red,Bot sende for hise frendes alleAnd tolde hem how it is befalle.And thei him axe cause why;Bot he the sothe noght forthiNe wiste, and ther was sorwe tho:For it stod thilke tyme so,This trompe was of such sentence,That therayein no resistenceThei couthe ordeine be no weie,That he ne mot algate deie,Bot if so that he may pourchaceTo gete his liege lordes grace.Here wittes therupon thei caste,And ben apointed ate laste.

This lord a worthi ladi haddeUnto his wif, which also draddeHire lordes deth, and children fiveBetwen hem two thei hadde alyve,That weren yonge and tendre of age,And of stature and of visageRiht faire and lusty on to se.Tho casten thei that he and scheForth with here children on the morwe,As thei that were full of sorwe,Al naked bot of smok and scherte,To tendre with the kynges herte,His grace scholden go to secheAnd pardoun of the deth beseche.Thus passen thei that wofull nyht,And erly, whan thei sihe it lyht,Thei gon hem forth in such a wiseAs thou tofore hast herd devise,Al naked bot here schortes one.Thei wepte and made mochel mone,Here Her hangende aboute here Eres;With sobbinge and with sory teresThis lord goth thanne an humble pas,That whilom proud and noble was;Wherof the Cite sore afflyhte,Of hem that sihen thilke syhte:And natheless al openlyWith such wepinge and with such criForth with hise children and his wifHe goth to preie for his lif.Unto the court whan thei be come,And men therinne have hiede nome,Ther was no wiht, if he hem syhe,Fro water mihte kepe his yheFor sorwe which thei maden tho.The king supposeth of this wo,And feigneth as he noght ne wiste;Bot natheles at his upristeMen tolden him how that it ferde:And whan that he this wonder herde,In haste he goth into the halle,And alle at ones doun thei falle,If eny pite may be founde.The king, which seth hem go to grounde,Hath axed hem what is the fere,Why thei be so despuiled there.His brother seide: “Ha lord, mercy!I wot non other cause why,Bot only that this nyht ful lateThe trompe of deth was at my gateIn tokne that I scholde deie;Thus be we come forto preieThat ye mi worldes deth respite.”

“Ha fol, how thou art forto wyte,”The king unto his brother seith,“That thou art of so litel feith,That only for a trompes sounHast gon despuiled thurgh the toun,Thou and thi wif in such manereForth with thi children that ben here,In sihte of alle men aboute,For that thou seist thou art in douteOf deth, which stant under the laweOf man, and man it mai withdrawe,So that it mai par chance faile.Now schalt thou noght forthi mervaileThat I doun fro my Charr alihte,Whanne I behield tofore my sihteIn hem that were of so grete ageMin oghne deth thurgh here ymage,Which god hath set be lawe of kynde,Wherof I mai no bote finde:For wel I wot, such as thei be,Riht such am I in my degree,Of fleissh and blod, and so schal deie.And thus, thogh I that lawe obeieOf which the kinges ben put under,It oghte ben wel lasse wonderThan thou, which art withoute nedeFor lawe of londe in such a drede,Which for tacompte is bot a jape,As thing which thou miht overscape.Forthi, mi brother, after thisI rede, sithen that so isThat thou canst drede a man so sore,Dred god with al thin herte more:For al schal deie and al schal passe,Als wel a Leoun as an asse,Als wel a beggere as a lord,Towardes deth in on acordThei schullen stonde.” And in this wiseThe king hath with hise wordes wiseHis brother tawht and al foryive.

Forthi, mi Sone, if thou wolt liveIn vertu, thou most vice eschuie,And with low herte humblesce suie,So that thou be noght surquidous.

Mi fader, I am amorous,Wherof I wolde you besecheThat ye me som ensample teche,Which mihte in loves cause stonde.

Mi Sone, thou schalt understonde,In love and othre thinges alleIf that Surquiderie falle,It may to him noght wel betideWhich useth thilke vice of Pride,Which torneth wisdom to wenyngeAnd Sothfastnesse into lesyngeThurgh fol ymaginacion.And for thin enformacion,That thou this vice as I the redeEschuie schalt, a tale I rede,Which fell whilom be daies olde,So as the clerk Ovide tolde.

Ther was whilom a lordes Sone,Which of his Pride a nyce woneHath cawht, that worthi to his liche,To sechen al the worldes riche,Ther was no womman forto love.So hihe he sette himselve aboveOf stature and of beaute bothe,That him thoghte alle wommen lothe:So was ther no comparisounAs toward his condicioun.This yonge lord Narcizus hihte:No strengthe of love bowe mihteHis herte, which is unaffiled;Bot ate laste he was beguiled:For of the goddes pourveanceIt fell him on a dai par chance,That he in all his proude fareUnto the forest gan to fare,Amonges othre that ther wereTo hunte and to desporte him there.And whanne he cam into the placeWher that he wolde make his chace,The houndes weren in a throweUncoupled and the hornes blowe:The grete hert anon was founde,Which swifte feet sette upon grounde,And he with spore in horse sideHim hasteth faste forto ride,Til alle men be left behinde.And as he rod, under a lindeBeside a roche, as I thee telle,He syh wher sprong a lusty welle:The day was wonder hot withalle,And such a thurst was on him falle,That he moste owther deie or drinke;And doun he lihte and be the brinkeHe teide his Hors unto a braunche,And leide him lowe forto stauncheHis thurst: and as he caste his lokInto the welle and hiede tok,He sih the like of his visage,And wende ther were an ymageOf such a Nimphe as tho was faie,Wherof that love his herte assaieBegan, as it was after sene,Of his sotie and made him weneIt were a womman that he syh.The more he cam the welle nyh,The nerr cam sche to him ayein;So wiste he nevere what to sein;For whanne he wepte, he sih hire wepe,And whanne he cride, he tok good kepe,The same word sche cride also:And thus began the newe wo,That whilom was to him so strange;Tho made him love an hard eschange,To sette his herte and to beginneThing which he mihte nevere winne.And evere among he gan to loute,And preith that sche to him come oute;And otherwhile he goth a ferr,And otherwhile he draweth nerr,And evere he fond hire in o place.He wepth, he crith, he axeth grace,There as he mihte gete non;So that ayein a Roche of Ston,As he that knew non other red,He smot himself til he was ded.Wherof the Nimphes of the welles,And othre that ther weren ellesUnto the wodes belongende,The body, which was ded ligende,For pure pite that thei haveUnder the grene thei begrave.And thanne out of his sepultureTher sprong anon par aventureOf floures such a wonder syhte,That men ensample take myhteUpon the dedes whiche he dede,As tho was sene in thilke stede;For in the wynter freysshe and faireThe floures ben, which is contraireTo kynde, and so was the folieWhich fell of his Surquiderie.

Thus he, which love hadde in desdeign,Worste of all othre was besein,And as he sette his pris most hyhe,He was lest worth in loves yheAnd most bejaped in his wit:Wherof the remembrance is yit,So that thou myht ensample take,And ek alle othre for his sake.

Mi fader, as touchende of me,This vice I thenke forto fle,Which of his wenynge overtroweth;And nameliche of thing which growethIn loves cause or wel or woYit pryded I me nevere so.Bot wolde god that grace sende,That toward me my lady wendeAs I towardes hire wene!Mi love scholde so be sene,Ther scholde go no pride a place.Bot I am ferr fro thilke grace,As forto speke of tyme now;So mot I soffre, and preie yowThat ye wole axe on other sideIf ther be eny point of Pride,Wherof it nedeth to be schrive.

Mi Sone, godd it thee foryive,If thou have eny thing misdoTouchende of this, bot overmoTher is an other yit of Pride,Which nevere cowthe hise wordes hide,That he ne wole himself avaunte;Ther mai nothing his tunge daunte,That he ne clappeth as a Belle:Wherof if thou wolt that I telle,It is behovely forto hiere,So that thou myht thi tunge stiere,Toward the world and stonde in grace,Which lacketh ofte in many placeTo him that can noght sitte stille,Which elles scholde have al his wille.

The vice cleped AvantanceWith Pride hath take his aqueintance,So that his oghne pris he lasseth,When he such mesure overpassethThat he his oghne Herald is.That ferst was wel is thanne mis,That was thankworth is thanne blame,And thus the worschipe of his nameThurgh pride of his avantarieHe torneth into vilenie.I rede how that this proude viceHath thilke wynd in his office,Which thurgh the blastes that he blowethThe mannes fame he overthrowethOf vertu, which scholde elles springeInto the worldes knowlechinge;Bot he fordoth it alto sore.And riht of such a maner loreTher ben lovers: forthi if thowArt on of hem, tell and sei how.Whan thou hast taken eny thingOf loves yifte, or Nouche or ring,Or tok upon thee for the coldSom goodly word that thee was told,Or frendly chiere or tokne or lettre,Wherof thin herte was the bettre,Or that sche sende the grietinge,Hast thou for Pride of thi likingeMad thin avant wher as the liste?

I wolde, fader, that ye wiste,Mi conscience lith noght hiere:Yit hadde I nevere such matiere,Wherof min herte myhte amende,Noght of so mochel that sche sendeBe mowthe and seide, “Griet him wel:”And thus for that ther is no dielWherof to make myn avant,It is to reson acordantThat I mai nevere, bot I lye,Of love make avanterie.I wot noght what I scholde have do,If that I hadde encheson so,As ye have seid hier manyon;Bot I fond cause nevere non:Bot daunger, which welnyh me slowh,Therof I cowthe telle ynowh,And of non other Avantance:Thus nedeth me no repentance.Now axeth furthere of my lif,For hierof am I noght gultif.

Mi Sone, I am wel paid withal;For wite it wel in specialThat love of his verrai justiceAbove alle othre ayein this viceAt alle times most debateth,With al his herte and most it hateth.And ek in alle maner wiseAvantarie is to despise,As be ensample thou myht wite,Which I finde in the bokes write.

Of hem that we Lombars now calleAlbinus was the ferste of alleWhich bar corone of Lombardie,And was of gret chivalerieIn werre ayein diverse kinges.So fell amonges othre thinges,That he that time a werre haddeWith Gurmond, which the Geptes ladde,And was a myhti kyng also:Bot natheles it fell him so,Albinus slowh him in the feld,Ther halp him nowther swerd ne scheld,That he ne smot his hed of thanne,Wherof he tok awey the Panne,Of which he seide he wolde makeA Cuppe for Gurmoundes sake,To kepe and drawe into memoireOf his bataille the victoire.And thus whan he the feld hath wonne,The lond anon was overronneAnd sesed in his oghne hond,Wher he Gurmondes dowhter fond,Which Maide Rosemounde hihte,And was in every mannes sihteA fair, a freissh, a lusti on.His herte fell to hire anon,And such a love on hire he caste,That he hire weddeth ate laste;And after that long time in resteWith hire he duelte, and to the besteThei love ech other wonder wel.Bot sche which kepth the blinde whel,Venus, whan thei be most above,In al the hoteste of here love,Hire whiel sche torneth, and thei felleIn the manere as I schal telle.

This king, which stod in al his weltheOf pes, of worschipe and of helthe,And felte him on no side grieved,As he that hath his world achieved,Tho thoghte he wolde a feste make;And that was for his wyves sake,That sche the lordes ate feste,That were obeissant to his heste,Mai knowe: and so forth theruponHe let ordeine, and sende anonBe lettres and be messagiers,And warnede alle hise officiersThat every thing be wel arraied:The grete Stiedes were assaiedFor joustinge and for tornement,And many a perled garnementEmbroudred was ayein the dai.The lordes in here beste arraiBe comen ate time set,On jousteth wel, an other bet,And otherwhile thei torneie,And thus thei casten care aweieAnd token lustes upon honde.And after, thou schalt understonde,To mete into the kinges halleThei come, as thei be beden alle:And whan thei were set and served,Thanne after, as it was deserved,To hem that worthi knyhtes were,So as thei seten hiere and there,The pris was yove and spoken outeAmong the heraldz al aboute.And thus benethe and ek aboveAl was of armes and of love,Wherof abouten ate bordesMen hadde manye sondri wordes,That of the merthe which thei madeThe king himself began to gladeWithinne his herte and tok a pride,And sih the Cuppe stonde aside,Which mad was of Gurmoundes hed,As ye have herd, whan he was ded,And was with gold and riche StonesBeset and bounde for the nones,And stod upon a fot on heihteOf burned gold, and with gret sleihteOf werkmanschipe it was begraveOf such werk as it scholde have,And was policed ek so cleneThat no signe of the Skulle is sene,Bot as it were a Gripes Ey.The king bad bere his Cuppe awey,Which stod tofore him on the bord,And fette thilke. Upon his wordThis Skulle is fet and wyn therinne,Wherof he bad his wif beginne:“Drink with thi fader, Dame,” he seide.And sche to his biddinge obeide,And tok the Skulle, and what hire listeSche drank, as sche which nothing wisteWhat Cuppe it was: and thanne al outeThe kyng in audience abouteHath told it was hire fader Skulle,So that the lordes knowe schulleOf his bataille a soth witnesse,And made avant thurgh what prouesseHe hath his wyves love wonne,Which of the Skulle hath so begonne.Tho was ther mochel Pride alofte,Thei speken alle, and sche was softe,Thenkende on thilke unkynde Pride,Of that hire lord so nyh hire sideAvanteth him that he hath slainAnd piked out hire fader brain,And of the Skulle had mad a Cuppe.Sche soffreth al til thei were uppe,And tho sche hath seknesse feigned,And goth to chambre and hath compleignedUnto a Maide which sche triste,So that non other wyht it wiste.This Mayde Glodeside is hote,To whom this lady hath behoteOf ladischipe al that sche can,To vengen hire upon this man,Which dede hire drinke in such a plitAmong hem alle for despitOf hire and of hire fader bothe;Wherof hire thoghtes ben so wrothe,Sche seith, that sche schal noght be glad,Til that sche se him so bestadThat he nomore make avant.And thus thei felle in covenant,That thei acorden ate laste,With suche wiles as thei casteThat thei wol gete of here acordSom orped knyht to sle this lord:And with this sleihte thei beginne,How thei Helmege myhten winne,Which was the kinges Boteler,A proud a lusti Bacheler,And Glodeside he loveth hote.And sche, to make him more assote,Hire love granteth, and be nyhteThei schape how thei togedre myhteAbedde meete: and don it wasThis same nyht; and in this casThe qwene hirself the nyht secoundeWente in hire stede, and there hath foundeA chambre derk withoute liht,And goth to bedde to this knyht.And he, to kepe his observance,To love doth his obeissance,And weneth it be Glodeside;And sche thanne after lay aside,And axeth him what he hath do,And who sche was sche tolde him tho,And seide: “Helmege, I am thi qwene,Now schal thi love wel be seneOf that thou hast thi wille wroght:Or it schal sore ben aboght,Or thou schalt worche as I thee seie.And if thou wolt be such a weieDo my plesance and holde it stille,For evere I schal ben at thi wille,Bothe I and al myn heritage.”Anon the wylde loves rage,In which noman him can governe,Hath mad him that he can noght werne,Bot fell al hol to hire assent:And thus the whiel is al miswent,The which fortune hath upon honde;For how that evere it after stonde,Thei schope among hem such a wyle,The king was ded withinne a whyle.So slihly cam it noght abouteThat thei ne ben descoevered oute,So that it thoghte hem for the besteTo fle, for there was no reste:And thus the tresor of the kingThei trusse and mochel other thing,And with a certein felaschipeThei fledde and wente awey be schipe,And hielde here rihte cours fro thenne,Til that thei come to Ravenne,Wher thei the Dukes helpe soghte.And he, so as thei him besoghte,A place granteth forto duelle;Bot after, whan he herde telleOf the manere how thei have do,This Duk let schape for hem so,That of a puison which thei drunkeThei hadden that thei have beswunke.

And al this made avant of Pride:Good is therfore a man to hideHis oghne pris, for if he speke,He mai lihtliche his thonk tobreke.In armes lith non avantanceTo him which thenkth his name avanceAnd be renomed of his dede:And also who that thenkth to spedeOf love, he mai him noght avaunte;For what man thilke vice haunte,His pourpos schal fulofte faile.In armes he that wol travaileOr elles loves grace atteigne,His lose tunge he mot restreigne,Which berth of his honour the keie.

Forthi, my Sone, in alle weieTak riht good hiede of this matiere.

I thonke you, my fader diere,This scole is of a gentil lore;And if ther be oght elles moreOf Pride, which I schal eschuie,Now axeth forth, and I wol suieWhat thing that ye me wole enforme.

Mi Sone, yit in other formeTher is a vice of Prides lore,Which lich an hauk whan he wol sore,Fleith upon heihte in his delicesAfter the likynge of his vices,And wol no mannes resoun knowe,Till he doun falle and overthrowe.This vice veine gloire is hote,Wherof, my Sone, I thee behoteTo trete and speke in such a wise,That thou thee myht the betre avise.

The proude vice of veine gloireRemembreth noght of purgatoire,Hise worldes joyes ben so grete,Him thenkth of hevene no beyete;This lives Pompe is al his pes:Yit schal he deie natheles,And therof thenkth he bot a lite,For al his lust is to deliteIn newe thinges, proude and veine,Als ferforth as he mai atteigne.I trowe, if that he myhte makeHis body newe, he wolde takeA newe forme and leve his olde:For what thing that he mai beholde,The which to comun us is strange,Anon his olde guise changeHe wole and falle therupon,Lich unto the Camelion,Which upon every sondri heweThat he beholt he moste neweHis colour, and thus unavisedFulofte time he stant desguised.Mor jolif than the brid in MaiiHe makth him evere freissh and gay,And doth al his array desguise,So that of him the newe guiseOf lusti folk alle othre take;And ek he can carolles make,Rondeal, balade and virelai.And with al this, if that he mayOf love gete him avantage,Anon he wext of his corageSo overglad, that of his endeHim thenkth ther is no deth comende:For he hath thanne at alle tideOf love such a maner pride,Him thenkth his joie is endeles.

Now schrif thee, Sone, in godes pes,And of thi love tell me pleinIf that thi gloire hath be so vein.

Mi fader, as touchinge of alI may noght wel ne noght ne schalOf veine gloire excuse me,That I ne have for love beThe betre adresced and arraied;And also I have ofte assaiedRondeal, balade and virelaiFor hire on whom myn herte laiTo make, and also forto peinteCaroles with my wordes qweinte,To sette my pourpos alofte;And thus I sang hem forth fulofteIn halle and ek in chambre aboute,And made merie among the route,Bot yit ne ferde I noght the bet.Thus was my gloire in vein besetOf al the joie that I made;For whanne I wolde with hire glade,And of hire love songes make,Sche saide it was noght for hir sake,And liste noght my songes hiereNe witen what the wordes were.So forto speke of myn arrai,Yit couthe I nevere be so gayNe so wel make a songe of love,Wherof I myhte ben aboveAnd have encheson to be glad;Bot rathere I am ofte adradFor sorwe that sche seith me nay.And natheles I wol noght say,That I nam glad on other side;For fame, that can nothing hide,Alday wol bringe unto myn EreOf that men speken hier and there,How that my ladi berth the pris,How sche is fair, how sche is wis,How sche is wommanlich of chiere;Of al this thing whanne I mai hiere,What wonder is thogh I be fain?And ek whanne I may hiere sainTidinges of my ladi hele,Althogh I may noght with hir dele,Yit am I wonder glad of that;For whanne I wot hire good astat,As for that time I dar wel swere,Non other sorwe mai me dere,Thus am I gladed in this wise.Bot, fader, of youre lores wise,Of whiche ye be fully tawht,Now tell me if yow thenketh awhtThat I therof am forto wyte.

Of that ther is I thee acquite,Mi sone, he seide, and for thi goodeI wolde that thou understode:For I thenke upon this matiereTo telle a tale, as thou schalt hiere,How that ayein this proude viceThe hihe god of his justiceIs wroth and gret vengance doth.Now herkne a tale that is soth:Thogh it be noght of loves kinde,A gret ensample thou schalt findeThis veine gloire forto fle,Which is so full of vanite.

Ther was a king that mochel myhte,Which Nabugodonosor hihte,Of whom that I spak hier tofore.Yit in the bible his name is bore,For al the world in OrientWas hol at his comandement:As thanne of kinges to his licheWas non so myhty ne so riche;To his Empire and to his lawes,As who seith, alle in thilke dawesWere obeissant and tribut bere,As thogh he godd of Erthe were.With strengthe he putte kinges under,And wroghte of Pride many a wonder;He was so full of veine gloire,That he ne hadde no memoireThat ther was eny good bot he,For pride of his prosperite;Til that the hihe king of kinges,Which seth and knoweth alle thinges,Whos yhe mai nothing asterte,—The privetes of mannes herteThei speke and sounen in his EreAs thogh thei lowde wyndes were,—He tok vengance upon this pride.Bot for he wolde awhile abideTo loke if he him wolde amende,To him a foretokne he sende,And that was in his slep be nyhte.This proude kyng a wonder syhteHadde in his swevene, ther he lay:Him thoghte, upon a merie dayAs he behield the world aboute,A tree fulgrowe he syh theroute,Which stod the world amiddes evene,Whos heihte straghte up to the hevene;The leves weren faire and large,Of fruit it bar so ripe a charge,That alle men it myhte fede:He sih also the bowes spriedeAbove al Erthe, in whiche wereThe kinde of alle briddes there;And eke him thoghte he syh alsoThe kinde of alle bestes goUnder this tre aboute roundAnd fedden hem upon the ground.As he this wonder stod and syh,Him thoghte he herde a vois on hihCriende, and seide aboven alle:“Hew doun this tree and lett it falle,The leves let defoule in hasteAnd do the fruit destruie and waste,And let of schreden every braunche,Bot ate Rote let it staunche.Whan al his Pride is cast to grounde,The rote schal be faste bounde,And schal no mannes herte bere,Bot every lust he schal forbereOf man, and lich an Oxe his meteOf gras he schal pourchace and ete,Til that the water of the heveneHave waisshen him be times sevene,So that he be thurghknowe arihtWhat is the heveneliche myht,And be mad humble to the willeOf him which al mai save and spille.”

This king out of his swefne abreide,And he upon the morwe it seideUnto the clerkes whiche he hadde:Bot non of hem the sothe aradde,Was non his swevene cowthe undo.And it stod thilke time so,This king hadde in subjecciounJudee, and of affecciounAbove alle othre on DanielHe loveth, for he cowthe welDivine that non other cowthe:To him were alle thinges cowthe,As he it hadde of goddes grace.He was before the kinges faceAsent, and bode that he scholdeUpon the point the king of toldeThe fortune of his swevene expounde,As it scholde afterward be founde.Whan Daniel this swevene herde,He stod long time er he ansuerde,And made a wonder hevy chiere.The king tok hiede of his manere,And bad him telle that he wiste,As he to whom he mochel triste,And seide he wolde noght be wroth.Bot Daniel was wonder loth,And seide: “Upon thi fomen alle,Sire king, thi swevene mote falle;And natheles touchende of thisI wol the tellen how it is,And what desese is to thee schape:God wot if thou it schalt ascape.

The hihe tree, which thou hast seinWith lef and fruit so wel besein,The which stod in the world amiddes,So that the bestes and the briddesGoverned were of him al one,Sire king, betokneth thi persone,Which stant above all erthli thinges.Thus regnen under the the kinges,And al the poeple unto thee louteth,And al the world thi pouer doubteth,So that with vein honour deceivedThou hast the reverence weyvedFro him which is thi king above,That thou for drede ne for loveWolt nothing knowen of thi godd;Which now for thee hath mad a rodd,Thi veine gloire and thi folieWith grete peines to chastie.And of the vois thou herdest speke,Which bad the bowes forto brekeAnd hewe and felle doun the tree,That word belongeth unto thee;Thi regne schal ben overthrowe,And thou despuiled for a throwe:Bot that the Rote scholde stonde,Be that thou schalt wel understonde,Ther schal abyden of thi regneA time ayein whan thou schalt regne.And ek of that thou herdest seie,To take a mannes herte aweieAnd sette there a bestial,So that he lich an Oxe schalPasture, and that he be bereinedBe times sefne and sore peined,Til that he knowe his goddes mihtes,Than scholde he stonde ayein uprihtes,—Al this betokneth thin astat,Which now with god is in debat:Thi mannes forme schal be lassed,Til sevene yer ben overpassed,And in the liknesse of a besteOf gras schal be thi real feste,The weder schal upon thee reine.And understond that al this peine,Which thou schalt soffre thilke tide,Is schape al only for thi prideOf veine gloire, and of the sinneWhich thou hast longe stonden inne.

So upon this condiciounThi swevene hath exposicioun.Bot er this thing befalle in dede,Amende thee, this wolde I rede:Yif and departe thin almesse,Do mercy forth with rihtwisnesse,Besech and prei the hihe grace,For so thou myht thi pes pourchaceWith godd, and stonde in good acord.”

Bot Pride is loth to leve his lord,And wol noght soffre humiliteWith him to stonde in no degree;And whan a schip hath lost his stiere,Is non so wys that mai him stiereAyein the wawes in a rage.This proude king in his corageHumilite hath so forlore,That for no swevene he sih tofore,Ne yit for al that DanielHim hath conseiled everydel,He let it passe out of his mynde,Thurgh veine gloire, and as the blinde,He seth no weie, er him be wo.And fell withinne a time so,As he in Babiloine wente,The vanite of Pride him hente;His herte aros of veine gloire,So that he drowh into memoireHis lordschipe and his regalieWith wordes of Surquiderie.And whan that he him most avaunteth,That lord which veine gloire daunteth,Al sodeinliche, as who seith treis,Wher that he stod in his Paleis,He tok him fro the mennes sihte:Was non of hem so war that mihteSette yhe wher that he becom.And thus was he from his kingdomInto the wilde Forest drawe,Wher that the myhti goddes laweThurgh his pouer dede him transformeFro man into a bestes forme;And lich an Oxe under the fotHe graseth, as he nedes mot,To geten him his lives fode.Tho thoghte him colde grases goode,That whilom eet the hote spices,Thus was he torned fro delices:The wyn which he was wont to drinkeHe tok thanne of the welles brinkeOr of the pet or of the slowh,It thoghte him thanne good ynowh:In stede of chambres wel arraiedHe was thanne of a buissh wel paied,The harde ground he lay upon,For othre pilwes hath he non;The stormes and the Reines falle,The wyndes blowe upon him alle,He was tormented day and nyht,Such was the hihe goddes myht,Til sevene yer an ende toke.Upon himself tho gan he loke;In stede of mete gras and stres,In stede of handes longe cles,In stede of man a bestes lykeHe syh; and thanne he gan to sykeFor cloth of gold and for perrie,Which him was wont to magnefie.Whan he behield his Cote of heres,He wepte and with fulwoful teresUp to the hevene he caste his chiereWepende, and thoghte in this manere;Thogh he no wordes myhte winne,Thus seide his herte and spak withinne:“O mihti godd, that al hast wroghtAnd al myht bringe ayein to noght,Now knowe I wel, bot al of thee,This world hath no prosperite:In thin aspect ben alle liche,The povere man and ek the riche,Withoute thee ther mai no wight,And thou above alle othre miht.O mihti lord, toward my viceThi merci medle with justice;And I woll make a covenant,That of my lif the remenantI schal it be thi grace amende,And in thi lawe so despendeThat veine gloire I schal eschuie,And bowe unto thin heste and suieHumilite, and that I vowe.”And so thenkende he gan doun bowe,And thogh him lacke vois and speche,He gan up with his feet areche,And wailende in his bestly steveneHe made his pleignte unto the hevene.He kneleth in his wise and braieth,To seche merci and assaiethHis god, which made him nothing strange,Whan that he sih his pride change.Anon as he was humble and tame,He fond toward his god the same,And in a twinklinge of a lokHis mannes forme ayein he tok,And was reformed to the regneIn which that he was wont to regne;So that the Pride of veine gloireEvere afterward out of memoireHe let it passe. And thus is schewedWhat is to ben of Pride unthewedAyein the hihe goddes lawe,To whom noman mai be felawe.

Forthi, my Sone, tak good hiedeSo forto lede thi manhiede,That thou ne be noght lich a beste.Bot if thi lif schal ben honeste,Thou most humblesce take on honde,For thanne myht thou siker stonde:And forto speke it otherwise,A proud man can no love assise;For thogh a womman wolde him plese,His Pride can noght ben at ese.

Ther mai noman to mochel blameA vice which is forto blame;Forthi men scholde nothing hideThat mihte falle in blame of Pride,Which is the werste vice of alle:Wherof, so as it was befalle,The tale I thenke of a CroniqueTo telle, if that it mai thee like,So that thou myht humblesce suieAnd ek the vice of Pride eschuie,Wherof the gloire is fals and vein;Which god himself hath in desdeign,That thogh it mounte for a throwe,It schal doun falle and overthrowe.

A king whilom was yong and wys,The which sette of his wit gret pris.Of depe ymaginaciounsAnd strange interpretaciouns,Problemes and demandes eke,His wisdom was to finde and seke;Wherof he wolde in sondri wiseOpposen hem that weren wise.Bot non of hem it myhte bereUpon his word to yeve answere,Outaken on, which was a knyht;To him was every thing so liht,That also sone as he hem herde,The kinges wordes he answerde;What thing the king him axe wolde,Therof anon the trowthe he tolde.The king somdiel hadde an Envie,And thoghte he wolde his wittes plieTo sette som conclusioun,Which scholde be confusiounUnto this knyht, so that the nameAnd of wisdom the hihe fameToward himself he wolde winne.And thus of al his wit withinneThis king began to studie and muse,What strange matiere he myhte useThe knyhtes wittes to confounde;And ate laste he hath it founde,And for the knyht anon he sente,That he schal telle what he mente.Upon thre pointz stod the matiereOf questions, as thou schalt hiere.

The ferste point of alle threWas this: “What thing in his degreOf al this world hath nede lest,And yet men helpe it althermest?”

The secounde is: “What most is worth,And of costage is lest put forth?”

The thridde is: “Which is of most cost,And lest is worth and goth to lost?”

The king thes thre demandes axeth,And to the knyht this lawe he taxeth,That he schal gon and come ayeinThe thridde weke, and telle him pleinTo every point, what it amonteth.And if so be that he misconteth,To make in his answere a faile,Ther schal non other thing availe,The king seith, bot he schal be dedAnd lese hise goodes and his hed.The knyht was sori of this thingAnd wolde excuse him to the king,Bot he ne wolde him noght forbere,And thus the knyht of his ansuereGoth hom to take avisement:Bot after his entendementThe more he caste his wit aboute,The more he stant therof in doute.Tho wiste he wel the kinges herte,That he the deth ne scholde asterte,And such a sorwe hath to him take,That gladschipe he hath al forsake.He thoghte ferst upon his lif,And after that upon his wif,Upon his children ek also,Of whiche he hadde dowhtres tuo;The yongest of hem hadde of ageFourtiene yer, and of visageSche was riht fair, and of statureLich to an hevenely figure,And of manere and goodli speche,Thogh men wolde alle Londes seche,Thei scholden noght have founde hir like.Sche sih hire fader sorwe and sike,And wiste noght the cause why;So cam sche to him prively,And that was where he made his moneWithinne a Gardin al him one;Upon hire knes sche gan doun falleWith humble herte and to him calle,And seide: “O goode fader diere,Why make ye thus hevy chiere,And I wot nothing how it is?And wel ye knowen, fader, this,What aventure that you felleYe myhte it saufly to me telle,For I have ofte herd you seid,That ye such trust have on me leid,That to my soster ne my brother,In al this world ne to non other,Ye dorste telle a priviteSo wel, my fader, as to me.Forthi, my fader, I you preie,Ne casteth noght that herte aweie,For I am sche that wolde kepeYoure honour.” And with that to wepeHire yhe mai noght be forbore,Sche wissheth forto ben unbore,Er that hire fader so mistristeTo tellen hire of that he wiste:And evere among merci sche cride,That he ne scholde his conseil hideFrom hire that so wolde him goodAnd was so nyh his fleissh and blod.So that with wepinge ate lasteHis chiere upon his child he caste,And sorwfulli to that sche preideHe tolde his tale and thus he seide:“The sorwe, dowhter, which I makeIs noght al only for my sake,Bot for thee bothe and for you alle:For such a chance is me befalle,That I schal er this thridde dayLese al that evere I lese may,Mi lif and al my good therto:Therfore it is I sorwe so.”“What is the cause, helas!” quod sche,“Mi fader, that ye scholden beDed and destruid in such a wise?”And he began the pointz devise,Whiche as the king told him be mowthe,And seid hir pleinly that he cowtheAnsuere unto no point of this.And sche, that hiereth how it is,Hire conseil yaf and seide tho:“Mi fader, sithen it is so,That ye can se non other weie,Bot that ye moste nedes deie,I wolde preie of you a thing:Let me go with you to the king,And ye schull make him understondeHow ye, my wittes forto fonde,Have leid your ansuere upon me;And telleth him, in such degreUpon my word ye wole abideTo lif or deth, what so betide.For yit par chaunce I may pourchaceWith som good word the kinges grace,Your lif and ek your good to save;For ofte schal a womman haveThing which a man mai noght areche.”The fader herde his dowhter speche,And thoghte ther was resoun inne,And sih his oghne lif to winneHe cowthe don himself no cure;So betre him thoghte in aventureTo put his lif and al his good,Than in the maner as it stodHis lif in certein forto lese.And thus thenkende he gan to cheseTo do the conseil of this Maide,And tok the pourpos which sche saide.

The dai was come and forth thei gon,Unto the Court thei come anon,Wher as the king in juggementWas set and hath this knyht assent.Arraied in hire beste wiseThis Maiden with hire wordes wiseHire fader ladde be the hondInto the place, wher he fondThe king with othre whiche he wolde,And to the king knelende he toldeAs he enformed was tofore,And preith the king that he therforeHis dowhtres wordes wolde take,And seith that he wol undertakeUpon hire wordes forto stonde.Tho was ther gret merveile on honde,That he, which was so wys a knyht,His lif upon so yong a wyhtBesette wolde in jeupartie,And manye it hielden for folie:Bot ate laste nathelesThe king comandeth ben in pes,And to this Maide he caste his chiere,And seide he wolde hire tale hiere,He bad hire speke, and sche began:

“Mi liege lord, so as I can,”Quod sche, “the pointz of whiche I herde,Thei schul of reson ben ansuerde.

The ferste I understonde is this,What thing of al the world it is,Which men most helpe and hath lest nede.Mi liege lord, this wolde I rede:The Erthe it is, which everemoWith mannes labour is bego;Als wel in wynter as in MaiiThe mannes hond doth what he maiTo helpe it forth and make it riche,And forthi men it delve and dycheAnd eren it with strengthe of plowh,Wher it hath of himself ynowh,So that his nede is ate leste.For every man and bridd and beste,And flour and gras and rote and rinde,And every thing be weie of kyndeSchal sterve, and Erthe it schal become;As it was out of Erthe nome,It schal to therthe torne ayein:And thus I mai be resoun seinThat Erthe is the most nedeles,And most men helpe it natheles.So that, my lord, touchende of thisI have ansuerd hou that it is.

That other point I understod,Which most is worth and most is good,And costeth lest a man to kepe:Mi lord, if ye woll take kepe,I seie it is Humilite,Thurgh which the hihe triniteAs for decerte of pure loveUnto Marie from above,Of that he knew hire humble entente,His oghne Sone adoun he sente,Above alle othre and hire he chesFor that vertu which bodeth pes:So that I may be resoun calleHumilite most worth of alle.And lest it costeth to maintiene,In al the world as it is sene;For who that hath humblesce on honde,He bringth no werres into londe,For he desireth for the besteTo setten every man in reste.Thus with your hihe reverenceMe thenketh that this evidenceAs to this point is sufficant.

And touchende of the remenant,Which is the thridde of youre axinges,What leste is worth of alle thinges,And costeth most, I telle it, Pride;Which mai noght in the hevene abide,For Lucifer with hem that felleBar Pride with him into helle.Ther was Pride of to gret a cost,Whan he for Pride hath hevene lost;And after that in ParadisAdam for Pride loste his pris:In Midelerthe and ek alsoPride is the cause of alle wo,That al the world ne may suffiseTo stanche of Pride the reprise:Pride is the heved of alle Sinne,Which wasteth al and mai noght winne;Pride is of every mis the pricke,Pride is the werste of alle wicke,And costneth most and lest is worthIn place where he hath his forth.Thus have I seid that I wol seieOf myn answere, and to you preie,Mi liege lord, of youre officeThat ye such grace and such justiceOrdeigne for mi fader hiere,That after this, whan men it hiere,The world therof mai speke good.”

The king, which reson understodAnd hath al herd how sche hath said,Was inly glad and so wel paidThat al his wraththe is overgo:And he began to loke thoUpon this Maiden in the face,In which he fond so mochel grace,That al his pris on hire he leide,In audience and thus he seide:“Mi faire Maide, wel thee be!Of thin ansuere and ek of theeMe liketh wel, and as thou wilt,Foryive be thi fader gilt.And if thou were of such lignage,That thou to me were of parage,And that thi fader were a Pier,As he is now a Bachilier,So seker as I have a lif,Thou scholdest thanne be my wif.Bot this I seie natheles,That I wol schape thin encress;What worldes good that thou wolt crave,Axe of my yifte and thou schalt have.”And sche the king with wordes wiseKnelende thonketh in this wise:“Mi liege lord, god mot you quite!Mi fader hier hath bot a liteOf warison, and that he wendeHadde al be lost; bot now amendeHe mai wel thurgh your noble grace.”With that the king riht in his placeAnon forth in that freisshe heteAn Erldom, which thanne of escheteWas late falle into his hond,Unto this knyht with rente and londHath yove and with his chartre sesed;And thus was all the noise appesed.

This Maiden, which sat on hire knesTofore the king, hise chariteesComendeth, and seide overmore:“Mi liege lord, riht now toforeYe seide, as it is of record,That if my fader were a lordAnd Pier unto these othre grete,Ye wolden for noght elles lete,That I ne scholde be your wif;And this wot every worthi lif,A kinges word it mot ben holde.Forthi, my lord, if that ye woldeSo gret a charite fulfille,God wot it were wel my wille:For he which was a Bacheler,Mi fader, is now mad a Pier;So whenne as evere that I cam,An Erles dowhter now I am.”

This yonge king, which peised al,Hire beaute and hir wit withal,As he that was with love hent,Anon therto yaf his assent.He myhte noght the maide asterte,That sche nis ladi of his herte;So that he tok hire to his wif,To holde whyl that he hath lif:And thus the king toward his knyhtAcordeth him, as it is riht.

And over this good is to wite,In the Cronique as it is write,This noble king of whom I toldeOf Spaine be tho daies oldeThe kingdom hadde in governance,And as the bok makth remembrance,Alphonse was his propre name:The knyht also, if I schal name,Danz Petro hihte, and as men telle,His dowhter wyse PeronelleWas cleped, which was full of grace:And that was sene in thilke place,Wher sche hir fader out of teeneHath broght and mad hirself a qweene,Of that sche hath so wel desclosedThe pointz wherof sche was opposed.

Lo now, my Sone, as thou myht hiere,Of al this thing to my matiereBot on I take, and that is Pride,To whom no grace mai betide:In hevene he fell out of his stede,And Paradis him was forbede,The goode men in Erthe him hate,So that to helle he mot algate,Where every vertu schal be weyvedAnd every vice be received.Bot Humblesce is al otherwise,Which most is worth, and no repriseIt takth ayein, bot softe and faire,If eny thing stond in contraire,With humble speche it is redresced:Thus was this yonge Maiden blessed,The which I spak of now tofore,Hire fader lif sche gat therfore,And wan with al the kinges love.Forthi, my Sone, if thou wolt love,It sit thee wel to leve PrideAnd take Humblesce upon thi side;The more of grace thou schalt gete.

Mi fader, I woll noght foryeteOf this that ye have told me hiere,And if that eny such manereOf humble port mai love appaie,Hierafterward I thenke assaie:Bot now forth over I besecheThat ye more of my schrifte seche.

Mi goode Sone, it schal be do:Now herkne and ley an Ere to;For as touchende of Prides fare,Als ferforth as I can declareIn cause of vice, in cause of love,That hast thou pleinly herd above,So that ther is nomor to seieTouchende of that; bot other weieTouchende Envie I thenke telle,Which hath the propre kinde of helle,Withoute cause to misdoToward himself and othre also,Hierafterward as understondeThou schalt the spieces, as thei stonde.