Book II

Inuidie culpa magis est attrita dolore,Nam sua mens nullo tempore leta manet:Quo gaudent alii, dolet ille, nec vnus amicusEst, cui de puro comoda velle facit.Proximitatis honor sua corda veretur, et omnisEst sibi leticia sic aliena dolor.Hoc etenim vicium quam sepe repugnat amanti,Non sibi, set reliquis, dum fauet ipsa Venus.Est amor ex proprio motu fantasticus, et queGaudia fert alius, credit obesse sibi.

Now after Pride the secoundeTher is, which many a woful stoundeTowardes othre berth abouteWithinne himself and noght withoute;For in his thoght he brenneth evere,Whan that he wot an other levereOr more vertuous than he,Which passeth him in his degre;Therof he takth his maladie:That vice is cleped hot Envie.

Forthi, my Sone, if it be soThou art or hast ben on of tho,As forto speke in loves cas,If evere yit thin herte wasSek of an other mannes hele?

So god avance my querele,Mi fader, ye, a thousend sithe:Whanne I have sen an other blitheOf love, and hadde a goodly chiere,Ethna, which brenneth yer be yere,Was thanne noght so hot as IOf thilke Sor which privelyMin hertes thoght withinne brenneth.The Schip which on the wawes renneth,And is forstormed and forblowe,Is noght more peined for a throweThan I am thanne, whanne I seAn other which that passeth meIn that fortune of loves yifte.Bot, fader, this I telle in schrifte,That is nowher bot in o place;For who that lese or finde graceIn other stede, it mai noght grieve:Bot this ye mai riht wel believe,Toward mi ladi that I serve,Thogh that I wiste forto sterve,Min herte is full of such sotie,That I myself mai noght chastie.Whan I the Court se of CupideAproche unto my ladi sideOf hem that lusti ben and freisshe,—Thogh it availe hem noght a reisshe,Bot only that thei ben in speche,—My sorwe is thanne noght to seche:Bot whan thei rounen in hire Ere,Than groweth al my moste fere,And namly whan thei talen longe;My sorwes thanne be so strongeOf that I se hem wel at ese,I can noght telle my desese.Thogh sche have wowers ten or twelve,For no mistrust I have of hireMe grieveth noght, for certes, Sire,I trowe, in al this world to seche,Nis womman that in dede and specheWoll betre avise hire what sche doth,Ne betre, forto seie a soth,Kepe hire honour ate alle tide,And yit get hire a thank beside.Bot natheles I am beknowe,That whanne I se at eny throwe,Or elles if I mai it hiere,That sche make eny man good chiere,Thogh I therof have noght to done,Mi thought wol entermette him sone.For thogh I be miselve strange,Envie makth myn herte change,That I am sorghfully bestadOf that I se an other gladWith hire; bot of other alle,Of love what so mai befalle,Or that he faile or that he spede,Therof take I bot litel heede.Now have I seid, my fader, alAs of this point in special,Als ferforthli as I have wist.Now axeth further what you list.

Mi Sone, er I axe eny more,I thenke somdiel for thi loreTelle an ensample of this matiereTouchende Envie, as thou schalt hiere.Write in Civile this I finde:Thogh it be noght the houndes kindeTo ete chaf, yit wol he werneAn Oxe which comth to the berne,Therof to taken eny fode.And thus, who that it understode,It stant of love in many place:Who that is out of loves graceAnd mai himselven noght availe,He wolde an other scholde faile;And if he may put eny lette,He doth al that he mai to lette.Wherof I finde, as thou schalt wite,To this pourpos a tale write.

Ther ben of suche mo than twelve,That ben noght able as of hemselveTo gete love, and for EnvieUpon alle othre thei aspie;And for hem lacketh that thei wolde,Thei kepte that non other scholdeTouchende of love his cause spede:Wherof a gret ensample I rede,Which unto this matiere acordeth,As Ovide in his bok recordeth,How Poliphemus whilom wroghte,Whan that he Galathee besoghteOf love, which he mai noght lacche.That made him forto waite and waccheBe alle weies how it ferde,Til ate laste he knew and herdeHow that an other hadde leveTo love there as he mot leve,As forto speke of eny sped:So that he knew non other red,Bot forto wayten upon alle,Til he may se the chance falleThat he hire love myhte grieve,Which he himself mai noght achieve.This Galathee, seith the Poete,Above alle othre was unmeteOf beaute, that men thanne knewe,And hadde a lusti love and trewe,A Bacheler in his degree,Riht such an other as was sche,On whom sche hath hire herte set,So that it myhte noght be letFor yifte ne for no beheste,That sche ne was al at his heste.This yonge knyht Acis was hote,Which hire ayeinward als so hoteAl only loveth and nomo.Hierof was Poliphemus woThurgh pure Envie, and evere aspide,And waiteth upon every side,Whan he togedre myhte seThis yonge Acis with Galathe.

So longe he waiteth to and fro,Til ate laste he fond hem tuo,In prive place wher thei stodeTo speke and have here wordes goode.The place wher as he hem syh,It was under a banke nyhThe grete See, and he aboveStod and behield the lusti loveWhich ech of hem to other madeWith goodly chiere and wordes glade,That al his herte hath set afyreOf pure Envie: and as a fyreWhich fleth out of a myhti bowe,Aweie he fledde for a throwe,As he that was for love wod,Whan that he sih how that it stod.This Polipheme a Geant was;And whan he sih the sothe cas,How Galathee him hath forsakeAnd Acis to hire love take,His herte mai it noght forbereThat he ne roreth lich a Bere;And as it were a wilde beste,The whom no reson mihte areste,He ran Ethna the hell aboute,Wher nevere yit the fyr was oute,Fulfild of sorghe and gret desese,That he syh Acis wel at ese.Til ate laste he him bethoghte,As he which al Envie soghte,And torneth to the banke ayein,Wher he with Galathee hath seynAcis, whom that he thoghte grieve,Thogh he himself mai noght relieve.This Geant with his ruide myhtPart of the banke he schof doun riht,The which evene upon Acis fell,So that with fallinge of this hellThis Poliphemus Acis slowh,Wherof sche made sorwe ynowh.And as sche fledde fro the londe,Neptunus tok hire into hondeAnd kept hire in so sauf a placeFro Polipheme and his manace,That he with al his false EnvieNe mihte atteigne hir compaignie.This Galathee of whom I speke,That of hirself mai noght be wreke,Withouten eny semblant feignedSche hath hire loves deth compleigned,And with hire sorwe and with hire woSche hath the goddes moeved so,That thei of pite and of graceHave Acis in the same place,Ther he lai ded, into a welleTransformed, as the bokes telle,With freisshe stremes and with cliere,As he whilom with lusti chiereWas freissh his love forto qweme.And with this ruide PoliphemeFor his Envie and for his hateThei were wrothe.

And thus algate,Mi Sone, thou myht understonde,That if thou wolt in grace stondeWith love, thou most leve Envie:And as thou wolt for thi partieToward thi love stonde fre,So most thou soffre an other be,What so befalle upon the chaunce:For it is an unwys vengance,Which to non other man is lief,And is unto himselve grief.

Mi fader, this ensample is good;Bot how so evere that it stodWith Poliphemes love as tho,It schal noght stonde with me so,To worchen eny felonieIn love for no such Envie.Forthi if ther oght elles be,Now axeth forth, in what degreIt is, and I me schal confesseWith schrifte unto youre holinesse.

Mi goode Sone, yit ther isA vice revers unto this,Which envious takth his gladnesseOf that he seth the hevinesseOf othre men: for his welfareIs whanne he wot an other care:Of that an other hath a fall,He thenkth himself arist withal.Such is the gladschipe of EnvieIn worldes thing, and in partieFulofte times ek alsoIn loves cause it stant riht so.If thou, my Sone, hast joie had,Whan thou an other sihe unglad,Schrif the therof.

Mi fader, yis:I am beknowe unto you this.Of these lovers that loven streyte,And for that point which thei coveiteBen poursuiantz fro yeer to yereIn loves Court, whan I may hiereHow that thei clymbe upon the whel,And whan thei wene al schal be wel,Thei ben doun throwen ate laste,Thanne am I fedd of that thei faste,And lawhe of that I se hem loure;And thus of that thei brewe soureI drinke swete, and am wel esedOf that I wot thei ben desesed.Bot this which I you telle hiereIs only for my lady diere;That for non other that I knoweMe reccheth noght who overthrowe,Ne who that stonde in love upriht:Bot be he squier, be he knyht,Which to my ladiward poursuieth,The more he lest of that he suieth,The mor me thenketh that I winne,And am the more glad withinneOf that I wot him sorwe endure.For evere upon such aventureIt is a confort, as men sein,To him the which is wo beseinTo sen an other in his peine,So that thei bothe mai compleigne.Wher I miself mai noght availeTo sen an other man travaile,I am riht glad if he be let;And thogh I fare noght the bet,His sorwe is to myn herte a game:Whan that I knowe it is the sameWhich to mi ladi stant enclined,And hath his love noght termined,I am riht joifull in my thoght.If such Envie grieveth oght,As I beknowe me coupable,Ye that be wys and resonable,Mi fader, telleth youre avis.

Mi Sone, Envie into no prisOf such a forme, I understonde,Ne mihte be no resoun stondeFor this Envie hath such a kinde,That he wole sette himself behindeTo hindre with an othre wyht,And gladly lese his oghne rihtTo make an other lesen his.And forto knowe how it so is,A tale lich to this matiereI thenke telle, if thou wolt hiere,To schewe proprely the viceOf this Envie and the malice.

Of Jupiter this finde I write,How whilom that he wolde witeUpon the pleigntes whiche he herde,Among the men how that it ferde,As of here wrong condicionTo do justificacion:And for that cause doun he senteAn Angel, which about wente,That he the sothe knowe mai.So it befell upon a daiThis Angel, which him scholde enforme,Was clothed in a mannes forme,And overtok, I understonde,Tuo men that wenten over londe,Thurgh whiche he thoghte to aspieHis cause, and goth in compaignie.This Angel with hise wordes wiseOpposeth hem in sondri wise,Now lowde wordes and now softe,That mad hem to desputen ofte,And ech of hem his reson hadde.And thus with tales he hem laddeWith good examinacioun,Til he knew the condicioun,What men thei were bothe tuo;And sih wel ate laste tho,That on of hem was coveitous,And his fela was envious.And thus, whan he hath knowlechinge,Anon he feigneth departinge,And seide he mot algate wende.Bot herkne now what fell at ende:For thanne he made hem understondeThat he was there of goddes sonde,And seide hem, for the kindeschipeThat thei have don him felaschipe,He wole hem do som grace ayein,And bad that on of hem schal seinWhat thing him is lievest to crave,And he it schal of yifte have;And over that ek forth withalHe seith that other have schalThe double of that his felaw axeth;And thus to hem his grace he taxeth.

The coveitous was wonder glad,And to that other man he badAnd seith that he ferst axe scholde:For he supposeth that he woldeMake his axinge of worldes good;For thanne he knew wel how it stod,That he himself be double weyhteSchal after take, and thus be sleyhte,Be cause that he wolde winne,He bad his fela ferst beginne.This Envious, thogh it be late,Whan that he syh he mot algateMake his axinge ferst, he thoghte,If he worschipe or profit soghte,It schal be doubled to his fiere:That wolde he chese in no manere.Bot thanne he scheweth what he wasToward Envie, and in this casUnto this Angel thus he seideAnd for his yifte this he preide,To make him blind of his on yhe,So that his fela nothing syhe.This word was noght so sone spoke,That his on yhe anon was loke,And his felawh forthwith alsoWas blind of bothe his yhen tuo.Tho was that other glad ynowh,That on wepte, and that other lowh,He sette his on yhe at no cost,Wherof that other two hath lost.

Of thilke ensample which fell tho,Men tellen now fulofte so,The world empeireth comunly:And yit wot non the cause why;For it acordeth noght to kindeMin oghne harm to seche and findeOf that I schal my brother grieve;It myhte nevere wel achieve.

Mi fader, bot I scholde lie,Upon the point which ye have seidYit was myn herte nevere leid,Bot in the wise as I you tolde.Bot overmore, if that ye woldeOght elles to my schrifte seieTouchende Envie, I wolde preie.

Mi Sone, that schal wel be do:Now herkne and ley thin Ere to.

Touchende as of Envious brodI wot noght on of alle good;Bot natheles, suche as thei be,Yit is ther on, and that is heWhich cleped in Detraccioun.And to conferme his accioun,He hath withholde Malebouche,Whos tunge neither pyl ne croucheMai hyre, so that he pronounceA plein good word withoute frounceAwher behinde a mannes bak.For thogh he preise, he fint som lak,Which of his tale is ay the laste,That al the pris schal overcaste:And thogh ther be no cause why,Yit wole he jangle noght forthi,As he which hath the heraldieOf hem that usen forto lye.For as the Netle which up rennethThe freisshe rede Roses brennethAnd makth hem fade and pale of hewe,Riht so this fals Envious hewe,In every place wher he duelleth,With false wordes whiche he tellethHe torneth preisinge into blameAnd worschipe into worldes schame.Of such lesinge as he compasseth,Is non so good that he ne passethBetwen his teeth and is bacbited,And thurgh his false tunge endited:Lich to the Scharnebudes kinde,Of whos nature this I finde,That in the hoteste of the dai,Whan comen is the merie Maii,He sprat his wynge and up he fleth:And under al aboute he sethThe faire lusti floures springe,Bot therof hath he no likinge;Bot where he seth of eny besteThe felthe, ther he makth his feste,And therupon he wole alyhte,Ther liketh him non other sihte.Riht so this janglere Envious,Thogh he a man se vertuousAnd full of good condicioun,Therof makth he no mencioun:Bot elles, be it noght so lyte,Wherof that he mai sette a wyte,Ther renneth he with open mouth,Behinde a man and makth it couth.Bot al the vertu which he can,That wole he hide of every man,And openly the vice telle,As he which of the Scole of helleIs tawht, and fostred with EnvieOf houshold and of compaignie,Wher that he hath his propre officeTo sette on every man a vice.How so his mouth be comely,His word sit evermore awryAnd seith the worste that he may.

And in this wise now a dayIn loves Court a man mai hiereFulofte pleigne of this matiere,That many envious tale is stered,Wher that it mai noght ben ansuered;Bot yit fulofte it is believed,And many a worthi love is grievedThurgh bacbitinge of fals Envie.

If thou have mad such janglerieIn loves Court, mi Sone, er this,Schrif thee therof.

Mi fader, yis:Bot wite ye how? noght openly,Bot otherwhile prively,Whan I my diere ladi mete,And thenke how that I am noght meteUnto hire hihe worthinesse,And ek I se the besinesseOf al this yonge lusty route,Whiche alday pressen hire aboute,And ech of hem his time awaiteth,And ech of hem his tale affaiteth,Al to deceive an innocent,Which woll noght ben of here assent;And for men sein unknowe unkest,Hire thombe sche holt in hire festSo clos withinne hire oghne hond,That there winneth noman lond;Sche lieveth noght al that sche hiereth,And thus fulofte hirself sche skierethAnd is al war of “hadde I wist”:—Bot for al that myn herte arist,Whanne I thes comun lovers se,That woll noght holden hem to thre,Bot welnyh loven overal,Min herte is Envious withal,And evere I am adrad of guile,In aunter if with eny wyleThei mihte hire innocence enchaunte.Forthi my wordes ofte I haunteBehynden hem, so as I dar,Wherof my ladi may be war:I sai what evere comth to mowthe,And worse I wolde, if that I cowthe;For whanne I come unto hir speche,Al that I may enquere and secheOf such deceipte, I telle it al,And ay the werste in special.So fayn I wolde that sche wisteHow litel thei ben forto triste,And what thei wolde and what thei mente,So as thei be of double entente:Thus toward hem that wicke meneMy wicked word was evere grene.And natheles, the soth to telle,In certain if it so befelleThat althertrewest man ybore,To chese among a thousend score,Which were alfulli forto triste,Mi ladi lovede, and I it wiste,Yit rathere thanne he scholde spede,I wolde swiche tales spredeTo my ladi, if that I myhte,That I scholde al his love unrihte,And therto wolde I do mi peine.For certes thogh I scholde feigne,And telle that was nevere thoght,For al this world I myhte noghtTo soffre an othre fully winne,Ther as I am yit to beginne.For be thei goode, or be thei badde,I wolde non my ladi hadde;And that me makth fulofte aspieAnd usen wordes of Envie,Al forto make hem bere a blame.And that is bot of thilke same,The whiche unto my ladi drawe,For evere on hem I rounge and gknaweAnd hindre hem al that evere I mai;And that is, sothly forto say,Bot only to my lady selve:I telle it noght to ten ne tuelve,Therof I wol me wel avise,To speke or jangle in eny wiseThat toucheth to my ladi name,The which in ernest and in gameI wolde save into my deth;For me were levere lacke brethThan speken of hire name amis.Now have ye herd touchende of this,Mi fader, in confessioun:And therfor of DetracciounIn love, of that I have mispoke,Tel how ye wole it schal be wroke.I am al redy forto bereMi peine, and also to forbereWhat thing that ye wol noght allowe;For who is bounden, he mot bowe.So wol I bowe unto youre heste,For I dar make this beheste,That I to yow have nothing hid,Bot told riht as it is betid;And otherwise of no mispeche,Mi conscience forto seche,I can noght of Envie finde,That I mispoke have oght behindeWherof love owhte be mispaid.Now have ye herd and I have said;What wol ye, fader, that I do?

Mi Sone, do nomore so,Bot evere kep thi tunge stille,Thou miht the more have of thi wille.For as thou saist thiselven here,Thi ladi is of such manere,So wys, so war in alle thinge,It nedeth of no bakbitingeThat thou thi ladi mis enforme:For whan sche knoweth al the forme,How that thiself art envious,Thou schalt noght be so graciousAs thou peraunter scholdest elles.Ther wol noman drinke of tho wellesWhiche as he wot is puyson inne;And ofte swich as men beginneTowardes othre, swich thei finde,That set hem ofte fer behinde,Whan that thei wene be before.Mi goode Sone, and thou therforeBewar and lef thi wicke speche,Wherof hath fallen ofte wrecheTo many a man befor this time.For who so wole his handes lime,Thei mosten be the more unclene;For many a mote schal be sene,That wolde noght cleve elles there;And that schold every wys man fere:For who so wol an other blame,He secheth ofte his oghne schame,Which elles myhte be riht stille.Forthi if that it be thi willeTo stonde upon amendement,A tale of gret entendementI thenke telle for thi sake,Wherof thou miht ensample take.

A worthi kniht in Cristes laweOf grete Rome, as is the sawe,The Sceptre hadde forto rihte;Tiberie Constantin he hihte,Whos wif was cleped Ytalie:Bot thei togedre of progenieNo children hadde bot a Maide;And sche the god so wel apaide,That al the wide worldes fameSpak worschipe of hire goode name.Constance, as the Cronique seith,Sche hihte, and was so ful of feith,That the greteste of Barbarie,Of hem whiche usen marchandie,Sche hath converted, as thei comeTo hire upon a time in Rome,To schewen such thing as thei broghte;Whiche worthili of hem sche boghte,And over that in such a wiseSche hath hem with hire wordes wiseOf Cristes feith so full enformed,That thei therto ben all conformed,So that baptesme thei receivenAnd alle here false goddes weyven.Whan thei ben of the feith certein,Thei gon to Barbarie ayein,And ther the Souldan for hem senteAnd axeth hem to what ententeThei have here ferste feith forsake.And thei, whiche hadden undertakeThe rihte feith to kepe and holde,The matiere of here tale toldeWith al the hole circumstance.And whan the Souldan of ConstanceUpon the point that thei ansuerdeThe beaute and the grace herde,As he which thanne was to wedde,In alle haste his cause speddeTo sende for the mariage.And furthermor with good corageHe seith, be so he mai hire have,That Crist, which cam this world to save,He woll believe: and this recorded,Thei ben on either side acorded,And therupon to make an endeThe Souldan hise hostages sendeTo Rome, of Princes Sones tuelve:Wherof the fader in himselveWas glad, and with the Pope avisedTuo Cardinals he hath assissedWith othre lordes many mo,That with his doghter scholden go,To se the Souldan be converted.

Bot that which nevere was wel herted,Envie, tho began travaileIn destourbance of this spousaileSo prively that non was war.The Moder which this Souldan barWas thanne alyve, and thoghte thisUnto hirself: “If it so isMi Sone him wedde in this manere,Than have I lost my joies hiere,For myn astat schal so be lassed.”Thenkende thus sche hath compassedBe sleihte how that sche may beguileHire Sone; and fell withinne a while,Betwen hem two whan that thei were,Sche feigneth wordes in his Ere,And in this wise gan to seie:“Mi Sone, I am be double weieWith al myn herte glad and blithe,For that miself have ofte sitheDesired thou wolt, as men seith,Receive and take a newe feith,Which schal be forthringe of thi lif:And ek so worschipful a wif,The doughter of an Emperour,To wedde it schal be gret honour.Forthi, mi Sone, I you besecheThat I such grace mihte areche,Whan that my doughter come schal,That I mai thanne in special,So as me thenkth it is honeste,Be thilke which the ferste festeSchal make unto hire welcominge.”The Souldan granteth hire axinge,And sche therof was glad ynowh:For under that anon sche drowhWith false wordes that sche spakCovine of deth behinde his bak.And therupon hire ordinanceShe made so, that whan ConstanceWas come forth with the Romeins,Of clerkes and of Citezeins,A riche feste sche hem made:And most whan that thei weren glade,With fals covine which sche haddeHire clos Envie tho sche spradde,And alle tho that hadden beOr in apert or in priveOf conseil to the mariage,Sche slowh hem in a sodein rageEndlong the bord as thei be set,So that it myhte noght be let;Hire oghne Sone was noght quit,Bot deide upon the same plit.Bot what the hihe god wol spareIt mai for no peril misfare:This worthi Maiden which was thereStod thanne, as who seith, ded for feere,To se the feste how that it stod,Which al was torned into blod:The Dissh forthwith the Coppe and alBebled thei weren overal;Sche sih hem deie on every side;No wonder thogh sche wepte and crideMakende many a wofull mone.Whan al was slain bot sche al one,This olde fend, this Sarazine,Let take anon this ConstantineWith al the good sche thider broghte,And hath ordeined, as sche thoghte,A nakid Schip withoute stiere,In which the good and hire in fiere,Vitailed full for yeres fyve,Wher that the wynd it wolde dryve,Sche putte upon the wawes wilde.

Bot he which alle thing mai schilde,Thre yer, til that sche cam to londe,Hire Schip to stiere hath take in honde,And in Northumberlond aryveth;And happeth thanne that sche dryvethUnder a Castel with the flod,Which upon Humber banke stodAnd was the kynges oghne also,The which Allee was cleped tho,A Saxon and a worthi knyht,Bot he believed noght ariht.Of this Castell was ChastelleinElda the kinges Chamberlein,A knyhtly man after his lawe;And whan he sih upon the waweThe Schip drivende al one so,He bad anon men scholden goTo se what it betokne mai.This was upon a Somer dai,The Schip was loked and sche founde;Elda withinne a litel stoundeIt wiste, and with his wif anonToward this yonge ladi gon,Wher that thei founden gret richesse;Bot sche hire wolde noght confesse,Whan thei hire axen what sche was.And natheles upon the casOut of the Schip with gret worschipeThei toke hire into felaschipe,As thei that weren of hir glade:Bot sche no maner joie made,Bot sorweth sore of that sche fondNo cristendom in thilke lond;Bot elles sche hath al hire wille,And thus with hem sche duelleth stille.

Dame Hermyngheld, which was the wifOf Elda, lich hire oghne lifConstance loveth; and fell so,Spekende alday betwen hem two,Thurgh grace of goddes pourveanceThis maiden tawhte the creanceUnto this wif so parfitly,Upon a dai that faste byIn presence of hire housebonde,Wher thei go walkende on the Stronde,A blind man, which cam there lad,Unto this wif criende he bad,With bothe hise hondes up and preideTo hire, and in this wise he seide:“O Hermyngeld, which Cristes feith,Enformed as Constance seith,Received hast, yif me my sihte.”

Upon his word hire herte afflihteThenkende what was best to done,Bot natheles sche herde his boneAnd seide, “In trust of Cristes lawe,Which don was on the crois and slawe,Thou bysne man, behold and se.”With that to god upon his kneThonkende he tok his sihte anon,Wherof thei merveile everychon,Bot Elda wondreth most of alle:This open thing which is befalleConcludeth him be such a weie,That he the feith mot nede obeie.

Now lest what fell upon this thing.This Elda forth unto the kingA morwe tok his weie and rod,And Hermyngeld at home abodForth with Constance wel at ese.Elda, which thoghte his king to plese,As he that thanne unwedded was,Of Constance al the pleine casAls goodliche as he cowthe tolde.The king was glad and seide he woldeCome thider upon such a wiseThat he him mihte of hire avise,The time apointed forth withal.This Elda triste in specialUpon a knyht, whom fro childhodeHe hadde updrawe into manhode:To him he tolde al that he thoghte,Wherof that after him forthoghte;And natheles at thilke tideUnto his wif he bad him rideTo make redi alle thingAyein the cominge of the king,And seith that he himself toforeThenkth forto come, and bad therforeThat he him kepe, and told him whanne.This knyht rod forth his weie thanne;And soth was that of time passedHe hadde in al his wit compassedHow he Constance myhte winne;Bot he sih tho no sped therinne,Wherof his lust began tabate,And that was love is thanne hate;Of hire honour he hadde Envie,So that upon his tricherieA lesinge in his herte he caste.Til he cam home he hieth faste,And doth his ladi tunderstondeThe Message of hire housebonde:And therupon the longe daiThei setten thinges in arrai,That al was as it scholde beOf every thing in his degree;And whan it cam into the nyht,This wif hire hath to bedde dyht,Wher that this Maiden with hire lay.This false knyht upon delayHath taried til thei were aslepe,As he that wolde his time kepeHis dedly werkes to fulfille;And to the bed he stalketh stille,Wher that he wiste was the wif,And in his hond a rasour knifHe bar, with which hire throte he cutte,And prively the knif he putteUnder that other beddes side,Wher that Constance lai beside.Elda cam hom the same nyht,And stille with a prive lyht,As he that wolde noght awakeHis wif, he hath his weie takeInto the chambre, and ther liggendeHe fond his dede wif bledende,Wher that Constance faste byWas falle aslepe; and sodeinlyHe cride alowd, and sche awok,And forth withal sche caste a lokAnd sih this ladi blede there,Wherof swoundende ded for fereSche was, and stille as eny StonShe lay, and Elda theruponInto the Castell clepeth oute,And up sterte every man aboute,Into the chambre and forth thei wente.Bot he, which alle untrouthe mente,This false knyht, among hem alleUpon this thing which is befalleSeith that Constance hath don this dede;And to the bed with that he yedeAfter the falshed of his speche,And made him there forto seche,And fond the knif, wher he it leide,And thanne he cride and thanne he seide,“Lo, seth the knif al blody hiere!What nedeth more in this matiereTo axe?” And thus hire innocenceHe sclaundreth there in audienceWith false wordes whiche he feigneth.Bot yit for al that evere he pleigneth,Elda no full credence tok:And happeth that ther lay a bok,Upon the which, whan he it sih,This knyht hath swore and seid on hih,That alle men it mihte wite,“Now be this bok, which hier is write,Constance is gultif, wel I wot.”With that the hond of hevene him smotIn tokne of that he was forswore,That he hath bothe hise yhen lore,Out of his hed the same stoundeThei sterte, and so thei weren founde.A vois was herd, whan that they felle,Which seide, “O dampned man to helle,Lo, thus hath god the sclaundre wrokeThat thou ayein Constance hast spoke:Beknow the sothe er that thou dye.”And he told out his felonie,And starf forth with his tale anon.Into the ground, wher alle gon,This dede lady was begrave:Elda, which thoghte his honour save,Al that he mai restreigneth sorwe.

For the seconde day a morweThe king cam, as thei were acorded;And whan it was to him recordedWhat god hath wroght upon this chaunce,He tok it into remembranceAnd thoghte more than he seide.For al his hole herte he leideUpon Constance, and seide he scholdeFor love of hire, if that sche wolde,Baptesme take and Cristes feithBelieve, and over that he seithHe wol hire wedde, and upon thisAsseured ech til other is.And forto make schorte tales,Ther cam a Bisschop out of WalesFro Bangor, and Lucie he hihte,Which thurgh the grace of god almihteThe king with many an other moHath cristned, and betwen hem tuoHe hath fulfild the mariage.Bot for no lust ne for no rageSche tolde hem nevere what sche was;And natheles upon the casThe king was glad, how so it stod,For wel he wiste and understodSche was a noble creature.The hihe makere of natureHire hath visited in a throwe,That it was openliche knoweSche was with childe be the king,Wherof above al other thingHe thonketh god and was riht glad.And fell that time he was bestadUpon a werre and moste ride;And whil he scholde there abide,He lefte at hom to kepe his wifSuche as he knew of holi lif,Elda forth with the Bisschop eke;And he with pouer goth to sekeAyein the Scottes forto fondeThe werre which he tok on honde.

The time set of kinde is come,This lady hath hire chambre nome,And of a Sone bore full,Wherof that sche was joiefull,Sche was delivered sauf and sone.The bisshop, as it was to done,Yaf him baptesme and Moris calleth;And therupon, as it befalleth,With lettres writen of recordThei sende unto here liege lord,That kepers weren of the qweene:And he that scholde go betwene,The Messager, to Knaresburgh,Which toun he scholde passe thurgh,Ridende cam the ferste day.The kinges Moder there lay,Whos rihte name was Domilde,Which after al the cause spilde:For he, which thonk deserve wolde,Unto this ladi goth and toldeOf his Message al how it ferde.And sche with feigned joie it herdeAnd yaf him yiftes largely,Bot in the nyht al privelySche tok the lettres whiche he hadde,Fro point to point and overradde,As sche that was thurghout untrewe,And let do wryten othre neweIn stede of hem, and thus thei spieke:

“Oure liege lord, we thee besekeThat thou with ous ne be noght wroth,Though we such thing as is thee lothUpon oure trowthe certefie.Thi wif, which is of faierie,Of such a child delivered isFro kinde which stant al amis:Bot for it scholde noght be seie,We have it kept out of the weieFor drede of pure worldes schame,A povere child and in the nameOf thilke which is so misboreWe toke, and therto we be swore,That non bot only thou and weSchal knowen of this privete:Moris it hatte, and thus men weneThat it was boren of the qweeneAnd of thin oghne bodi gete.Bot this thing mai noght be foryete,That thou ne sende ous word anonWhat is thi wille therupon.”

This lettre, as thou hast herd devise,Was contrefet in such a wiseThat noman scholde it aperceive:And sche, which thoghte to deceive,It leith wher sche that other tok.This Messager, whan he awok,And wiste nothing how it was,Aros and rod the grete pasAnd tok this lettre to the king.And whan he sih this wonder thing,He makth the Messager no chiere,Bot natheles in wys manereHe wrote ayein, and yaf hem chargeThat thei ne soffre noght at largeHis wif to go, bot kepe hire stille,Til thei have herd mor of his wille.This Messager was yifteles,Bot with this lettre natheles,Or be him lief or be him loth,In alle haste ayein he gothBe Knaresburgh, and as he wente,Unto the Moder his ententeOf that he fond toward the kingHe tolde; and sche upon this thingSeith that he scholde abide al nyhtAnd made him feste and chiere ariht,Feignende as thogh sche cowthe him thonk.Bot he with strong wyn which he dronkForth with the travail of the dayWas drunke, aslepe and while he lay,Sche hath hise lettres overseieAnd formed in an other weie.

Ther was a newe lettre write,Which seith: “I do you forto wite,That thurgh the conseil of you tuoI stonde in point to ben undo,As he which is a king deposed.For every man it hath supposed,How that my wif Constance is faie;And if that I, thei sein, delaieTo put hire out of compaignie,The worschipe of my RegalieIs lore; and over this thei telle,Hire child schal noght among hem duelle,To cleymen eny heritage.So can I se non avantage,Bot al is lost, if sche abide:Forthi to loke on every sideToward the meschief as it is,I charge you and bidde this,That ye the same Schip vitaile,In which that sche tok arivaile,Therinne and putteth bothe tuo,Hireself forthwith hire child also,And so forth broght unto the depeBetaketh hire the See to kepe.Of foure daies time I sette,That ye this thing no longer lette,So that your lif be noght forsfet.”And thus this lettre contrefetThe Messager, which was unwar,Upon the kingeshalve bar,And where he scholde it hath betake.Bot whan that thei have hiede take,And rad that writen is withinne,So gret a sorwe thei beginne,As thei here oghne Moder sihenBrent in a fyr before here yhen:Ther was wepinge and ther was wo,Bot finaly the thing is do.

Upon the See thei have hire broght,Bot sche the cause wiste noght,And thus upon the flod thei wone,This ladi with hire yonge Sone:And thanne hire handes to the heveneSche strawhte, and with a milde steveneKnelende upon hire bare kneSche seide, “O hihe mageste,Which sest the point of every trowthe,Tak of thi wofull womman rowtheAnd of this child that I schal kepe.”And with that word sche gan to wepe,Swounende as ded, and ther sche lay;Bot he which alle thinges mayConforteth hire, and ate lasteSche loketh and hire yhen casteUpon hire child and seide this:“Of me no maner charge it isWhat sorwe I soffre, bot of theeMe thenkth it is a gret pite,For if I sterve thou schalt deie:So mot I nedes be that weieFor Moderhed and for tendresseWith al myn hole besinesseOrdeigne me for thilke office,As sche which schal be thi Norrice.”Thus was sche strengthed forto stonde;And tho sche tok hire child in hondeAnd yaf it sowke, and evere amongSche wepte, and otherwhile songTo rocke with hire child aslepe:And thus hire oghne child to kepeSche hath under the goddes cure.

And so fell upon aventure,Whan thilke yer hath mad his ende,Hire Schip, so as it moste wendeThurgh strengthe of wynd which god hath yive,Estward was into Spaigne driveRiht faste under a Castell wall,Wher that an hethen AmirallWas lord, and he a Stieward hadde,Oon Thelous, which al was badde,A fals knyht and a renegat.He goth to loke in what astatThe Schip was come, and there he fondForth with a child upon hire hondThis lady, wher sche was al one.He tok good hiede of the persone,And sih sche was a worthi wiht,And thoghte he wolde upon the nyhtDemene hire at his oghne wille,And let hire be therinne stille,That mo men sih sche noght that dai.At goddes wille and thus sche lai,Unknowe what hire schal betide;And fell so that be nyhtes tideThis knyht withoute felaschipeHath take a bot and cam to Schipe,And thoghte of hire his lust to take,And swor, if sche him daunger make,That certeinly sche scholde deie.Sche sih ther was non other weie,And seide he scholde hire wel conforte,That he ferst loke out ate porte,That noman were nyh the stede,Which myhte knowe what thei dede,And thanne he mai do what he wolde.He was riht glad that sche so tolde,And to the porte anon he ferde:Sche preide god, and he hire herde,And sodeinliche he was out throweAnd dreynt, and tho began to bloweA wynd menable fro the lond,And thus the myhti goddes hondHire hath conveied and defended.

And whan thre yer be full despended,Hire Schip was drive upon a dai,Wher that a gret Navye layOf Schipes, al the world at ones:And as god wolde for the nones,Hire Schip goth in among hem alle,And stinte noght, er it be falleAnd hath the vessell undergete,Which Maister was of al the Flete,Bot there it resteth and abod.This grete Schip on Anker rod;The Lord cam forth, and whan he sihThat other ligge abord so nyh,He wondreth what it myhte be,And bad men to gon in and se.This ladi tho was crope aside,As sche that wolde hireselven hide,For sche ne wiste what thei were:Thei soghte aboute and founde hir thereAnd broghten up hire child and hire;And therupon this lord to spireBegan, fro whenne that sche cam,And what sche was. Quod sche, “I amA womman wofully bestad.I hadde a lord, and thus he bad,That I forth with my litel SoneUpon the wawes scholden wone,Bot why the cause was, I not:Bot he which alle thinges wotYit hath, I thonke him, of his mihtMi child and me so kept upriht,That we be save bothe tuo.”This lord hire axeth overmoHow sche believeth, and sche seith,“I lieve and triste in Cristes feith,Which deide upon the Rode tree.”“What is thi name?” tho quod he.“Mi name is Couste,” sche him seide:Bot forthermor for noght he preideOf hire astat to knowe plein,Sche wolde him nothing elles seinBot of hir name, which sche feigneth;Alle othre thinges sche restreigneth,That a word more sche ne tolde.This lord thanne axeth if sche woldeWith him abide in compaignie,And seide he cam fro BarbarieTo Romeward, and hom he wente.Tho sche supposeth what it mente,And seith sche wolde with him wendeAnd duelle unto hire lyves ende,Be so it be to his plesance.And thus upon here aqueintanceHe tolde hire pleinly as it stod,Of Rome how that the gentil blodIn Barbarie was betraied,And therupon he hath assaiedBe werre, and taken such vengance,That non of al thilke alliance,Be whom the tresoun was compassed,Is from the swerd alyve passed;Bot of Constance hou it was,That cowthe he knowe be no cas,Wher sche becam, so as he seide.

Hire Ere unto his word sche leide,Bot forther made sche no chiere.And natheles in this matiereIt happeth thilke time so:This Lord, with whom sche scholde go,Of Rome was the Senatour,And of hir fader themperourHis brother doughter hath to wyve,Which hath hir fader ek alyve,And was Salustes cleped tho;This wif Heleine hihte also,To whom Constance was Cousine.Thus to the sike a medicineHath god ordeined of his grace,That forthwith in the same placeThis Senatour his trowthe plihte,For evere, whil he live mihte,To kepe in worschipe and in welthe,Be so that god wol yive hire helthe,This ladi, which fortune him sende.And thus be Schipe forth sailendeHire and hir child to Rome he broghte,And to his wif tho he besoghteTo take hire into compaignie:And sche, which cowthe of courtesieAl that a good wif scholde konne,Was inly glad that sche hath wonneThe felaschip of so good on.Til tuelve yeres were agon,This Emperoures dowhter CusteForth with the dowhter of SalusteWas kept, bot noman redilyKnew what sche was, and noght forthiThei thoghten wel sche hadde beIn hire astat of hih degre,And every lif hire loveth wel.

Now herke how thilke unstable whel,Which evere torneth, wente aboute.The king Allee, whil he was oute,As thou tofore hast herd this cas,Deceived thurgh his Moder was:Bot whan that he cam hom ayein,He axeth of his ChamberleinAnd of the Bisschop ek also,Wher thei the qweene hadden do.And thei answerde, there he bad,And have him thilke lettre rad,Which he hem sende for warant,And tolde him pleinli as it stant,And sein, it thoghte hem gret piteTo se so worthi on as sche,With such a child as ther was bore,So sodeinly to be forlore.He axeth hem what child that were;And thei him seiden, that naghere,In al the world thogh men it soghte,Was nevere womman that forth broghteA fairer child than it was on.And thanne he axede hem anon,Whi thei ne hadden write so:Thei tolden, so thei hadden do.He seide, “Nay.” Thei seiden, “Yis.”The lettre schewed rad it is,Which thei forsoken everidel.Tho was it understonde welThat ther is tresoun in the thing:The Messager tofore the kingWas broght and sodeinliche opposed;And he, which nothing hath supposedBot alle wel, began to seieThat he nagher upon the weieAbod, bot only in a stede;And cause why that he so dedeWas, as he wente to and fro,At Knaresburgh be nyhtes tuoThe kinges Moder made him duelle.And whan the king it herde telle,Withinne his herte he wiste als fasteThe treson which his Moder caste;And thoghte he wolde noght abide,Bot forth riht in the same tideHe tok his hors and rod anon.With him ther riden manion,To Knaresburgh and forth thei wente,And lich the fyr which tunder hente,In such a rage, as seith the bok,His Moder sodeinliche he tokAnd seide unto hir in this wise:“O beste of helle, in what juiseHast thou deserved forto deie,That hast so falsly put aweieWith tresoun of thi bacbitingeThe treweste at my knowlechingeOf wyves and the most honeste?Bot I wol make this beheste,I schal be venged er I go.”And let a fyr do make tho,And bad men forto caste hire inne:Bot ferst sche tolde out al the sinne,And dede hem alle forto witeHow sche the lettres hadde write,Fro point to point as it was wroght.And tho sche was to dethe broghtAnd brent tofore hire Sones yhe:Wherof these othre, whiche it siheAnd herden how the cause stod,Sein that the juggement is good,Of that hir Sone hire hath so served;For sche it hadde wel deservedThurgh tresoun of hire false tunge,Which thurgh the lond was after sunge,Constance and every wiht compleigneth.Bot he, whom alle wo distreigneth,This sorghfull king, was so bestad,That he schal nevermor be glad,He seith, eftsone forto wedde,Til that he wiste how that sche spedde,Which hadde ben his ferste wif:And thus his yonge unlusti lifHe dryveth forth so as he mai.

Til it befell upon a dai,Whan he hise werres hadde achieved,And thoghte he wolde be relievedOf Soule hele upon the feithWhich he hath take, thanne he seithThat he to Rome in pelrinageWol go, wher Pope was Pelage,To take his absolucioun.And upon this condiciounHe made Edwyn his lieutenant,Which heir to him was apparant,That he the lond in his absenceSchal reule: and thus be providenceOf alle thinges wel begonHe tok his leve and forth is gon.Elda, which tho was with him there,Er thei fulliche at Rome were,Was sent tofore to pourveie;And he his guide upon the weie,In help to ben his herbergour,Hath axed who was Senatour,That he his name myhte kenne.Of Capadoce, he seide, ArcenneHe hihte, and was a worthi kniht.To him goth Elda tho forth rihtAnd tolde him of his lord tidinge,And preide that for his comyngeHe wolde assigne him herbergage;And he so dede of good corage.

Whan al is do that was to done,The king himself cam after sone.This Senatour, whan that he com,To Couste and to his wif at homHath told how such a king AlleeOf gret array to the CiteeWas come, and Couste upon his taleWith herte clos and colour paleAswoune fell, and he merveilethSo sodeinly what thing hire eyleth,And cawhte hire up, and whan sche wok,Sche syketh with a pitous lokAnd feigneth seknesse of the See;Bot it was for the king Allee,For joie which fell in hire thoghtThat god him hath to toune broght.This king hath spoke with the PopeAnd told al that he cowthe agrope,What grieveth in his conscience;And thanne he thoghte in reverenceOf his astat, er that he wente,To make a feste, and thus he senteUnto the Senatour to comeUpon the morwe and othre some,To sitte with him at the mete.This tale hath Couste noght foryete,Bot to Moris hire Sone toldeThat he upon the morwe scholdeIn al that evere he cowthe and mihteBe present in the kinges sihte,So that the king him ofte sihe.Moris tofore the kinges yheUpon the morwe, wher he sat,Fulofte stod, and upon thatThe king his chiere upon him caste,And in his face him thoghte als fasteHe sih his oghne wif Constance;For nature as in resemblanceOf face hem liketh so to clothe,That thei were of a suite bothe.The king was moeved in his thoghtOf that he seth, and knoweth it noght;This child he loveth kindely,And yit he wot no cause why.Bot wel he sih and understodThat he toward Arcenne stod,And axeth him anon riht there,If that this child his Sone were.He seide, “Yee, so I him calle,And wolde it were so befalle,Bot it is al in other wise.”

And tho began he to deviseHow he the childes Moder fondUpon the See from every londWithinne a Schip was stiereles,And how this ladi helpelesForth with hir child he hath forthdrawe.The king hath understonde his sawe,The childes name and axeth tho,And what the Moder hihte alsoThat he him wolde telle he preide.“Moris this child is hote,” he seide,“His Moder hatte Couste, and thisI not what maner name it is.”But Allee wiste wel ynowh,Wherof somdiel smylende he lowh;For Couste in Saxoun is to seinConstance upon the word Romein.Bot who that cowthe specefieWhat tho fell in his fantasie,And how his wit aboute rennethUpon the love in which he brenneth,It were a wonder forto hiere:For he was nouther ther ne hiere,Bot clene out of himself aweie,That he not what to thenke or seie,So fain he wolde it were sche.Wherof his hertes priveteBegan the werre of yee and nay,The which in such balance lay,That contenance for a throweHe loste, til he mihte knoweThe sothe: bot in his memoireThe man which lith in purgatoireDesireth noght the hevene more,That he ne longeth al so soreTo wite what him schal betide.And whan the bordes were asideAnd every man was rise aboute,The king hath weyved al the route,And with the Senatour al oneHe spak and preide him of a bone,To se this Couste, wher sche duellethAt hom with him, so as he telleth.The Senatour was wel appaied,This thing no lengere is delaied,To se this Couste goth the king;And sche was warned of the thing,And with Heleine forth sche camAyein the king, and he tho namGood hiede, and whan he sih his wif,Anon with al his hertes lifHe cawhte hire in his arm and kiste.Was nevere wiht that sih ne wisteA man that more joie made,Wherof thei weren alle gladeWhiche herde tellen of this chance.

This king tho with his wif Constance,Which hadde a gret part of his wille,In Rome for a time stilleAbod and made him wel at ese:Bot so yit cowthe he nevere pleseHis wif, that sche him wolde seinOf hire astat the trowthe plein,Of what contre that sche was bore,Ne what sche was, and yit therforeWith al his wit he hath don sieke.Thus as they lihe abedde and spieke,Sche preide him and conseileth bothe,That for the worschipe of hem bothe,So as hire thoghte it were honeste,He wolde an honourable festeMake, er he wente, in the Cite,Wher themperour himself schal be:He graunteth al that sche him preide.Bot as men in that time seide,This Emperour fro thilke dayThat ferst his dowhter wente awayHe was thanne after nevere glad;Bot what that eny man him badOf grace for his dowhter sake,That grace wolde he noght forsake;And thus ful gret almesse he dede,Wherof sche hadde many a bede.

This Emperour out of the tounWithinne a ten mile enviroun,Where as it thoghte him for the beste,Hath sondry places forto reste;And as fortune wolde tho,He was duellende at on of tho.The king Allee forth with thassentOf Couste his wif hath thider sentMoris his Sone, as he was taght,To themperour and he goth straght,And in his fader half besoghte,As he which his lordschipe soghte,That of his hihe worthinesseHe wolde do so gret meknesse,His oghne toun to come and se,And yive a time in the cite,So that his fader mihte him geteThat he wolde ones with him ete.This lord hath granted his requeste;And whan the dai was of the feste,In worschipe of here EmperourThe king and ek the SenatourForth with here wyves bothe tuo,With many a lord and lady mo,On horse riden him ayein;Til it befell, upon a pleinThei sihen wher he was comende.With that Constance anon preiendeSpak to hir lord that he abyde,So that sche mai tofore ryde,To ben upon his bienvenueThe ferste which schal him salue;And thus after hire lordes grauntUpon a Mule whyt amblauntForth with a fewe rod this qweene.Thei wondren what sche wolde mene,And riden after softe pas;Bot whan this ladi come wasTo themperour, in his presenceSche seide alowd in audience,“Mi lord, mi fader, wel you be!And of this time that I seYoure honour and your goode hele,Which is the helpe of my querele,I thonke unto the goddes myht.”For joie his herte was afflihtOf that sche tolde in remembrance;And whanne he wiste it was Constance,Was nevere fader half so blithe.Wepende he keste hire ofte sithe,So was his herte al overcome;For thogh his Moder were comeFro deth to lyve out of the grave,He mihte nomor wonder haveThan he hath whan that he hire sih.With that hire oghne lord cam nyhAnd is to themperour obeied;Bot whan the fortune is bewreied,How that Constance is come aboute,So hard an herte was non oute,That he for pite tho ne wepte.

Arcennus, which hire fond and kepte,Was thanne glad of that is falle,So that with joie among hem alleThei riden in at Rome gate.This Emperour thoghte al to late,Til that the Pope were come,And of the lordes sende someTo preie him that he wolde haste:And he cam forth in alle haste,And whan that he the tale herde,How wonderly this chance ferde,He thonketh god of his miracle,To whos miht mai be non obstacle:The king a noble feste hem made,And thus thei weren alle glade.A parlement, er that thei wente,Thei setten unto this entente,To puten Rome in full espeirThat Moris was apparant heirAnd scholde abide with hem stille,For such was al the londes wille.

Whan every thing was fulli spoke,Of sorwe and queint was al the smoke,Tho tok his leve Allee the king,And with full many a riche thing,Which themperour him hadde yive,He goth a glad lif forto live;For he Constance hath in his hond,Which was the confort of his lond.For whan that he cam hom ayein,Ther is no tunge it mihte seinWhat joie was that ilke stoundeOf that he hath his qweene founde,Which ferst was sent of goddes sonde,Whan sche was drive upon the Stronde,Be whom the misbelieve of SinneWas left, and Cristes feith cam inneTo hem that whilom were blinde.

Bot he which hindreth every kindeAnd for no gold mai be forboght,The deth comende er he be soght,Tok with this king such aqueintance,That he with al his retenanceNe mihte noght defende his lif;And thus he parteth from his wif,Which thanne made sorwe ynowh.And therupon hire herte drowhTo leven Engelond for evereAnd go wher that sche hadde levere,To Rome, whenne that sche cam:And thus of al the lond sche namHir leve, and goth to Rome ayein.And after that the bokes sein,She was noght there bot a throwe,Whan deth of kinde hath overthroweHir worthi fader, which men seideThat he betwen hire armes deide.And afterward the yer suiendeThe god hath mad of hire an ende,And fro this worldes faierieHath take hire into compaignie.Moris hir Sone was corouned,Which so ferforth was abandounedTo Cristes feith, that men him calleMoris the cristeneste of alle.

And thus the wel meninge of loveWas ate laste set above;And so as thou hast herd tofore,The false tunges weren lore,Whiche upon love wolden lie.Forthi touchende of this EnvieWhich longeth unto bacbitinge,Be war thou make no lesingeIn hindringe of an other wiht:And if thou wolt be tawht arihtWhat meschief bakbitinge dothBe other weie, a tale sothNow miht thou hiere next suiende,Which to this vice is acordende.

In a Cronique, as thou schalt wite,A gret ensample I finde write,Which I schal telle upon this thing.Philippe of Macedoyne kyngTwo Sones hadde be his wif,Whos fame is yit in Grece rif:Demetrius the ferste brotherWas hote, and Perseus that other.Demetrius men seiden thoThe betre knyht was of the tuo,To whom the lond was entendant,As he which heir was apparantTo regne after his fader dai:Bot that thing which no water maiQuenche in this world, bot evere brenneth,Into his brother herte it renneth,The proude Envie of that he sihHis brother scholde clymbe on hih,And he to him mot thanne obeie:That may he soffre be no weie.With strengthe dorst he nothing fonde,So tok he lesinge upon honde,Whan he sih time and spak therto.For it befell that time so,His fader grete werres haddeWith Rome, whiche he streite laddeThurgh mihty hond of his manhode,As he which hath ynowh knihthode,And ofte hem hadde sore grieved.Bot er the werre were achieved,As he was upon ordinanceAt hom in Grece, it fell per chance,Demetrius, which ofte abouteRidende was, stod that time oute,So that this Perse in his absence,Which bar the tunge of pestilence,With false wordes whiche he feignethUpon his oghne brother pleignethIn privete behinde his bak,And to his fader thus he spak:

“Mi diere fader, I am holdeBe weie of kinde, as resoun wolde,That I fro yow schal nothing hide,Which mihte torne in eny sideOf youre astat into grevance:Forthi myn hertes obeissanceTowardes you I thenke kepe;For it is good ye take kepeUpon a thing which is me told.Mi brother hath ous alle soldTo hem of Rome, and you also;For thanne they behote him so,That he with hem schal regne in pes.Thus hath he cast for his encressThat youre astat schal go to noght;And this to proeve schal be broghtSo ferforth, that I undertakeIt schal noght wel mow be forsake.”

The king upon this tale ansuerdeAnd seide, if this thing which he herdeBe soth and mai be broght to prove,“It schal noght be to his behove,Which so hath schapen ous the werste,For he himself schal be the fersteThat schal be ded, if that I mai.”

Thus afterward upon a dai,Whan that Demetrius was come,Anon his fader hath him nome,And bad unto his brother PerseThat he his tale schal reherseOf thilke tresoun which he tolde.And he, which al untrowthe wolde,Conseileth that so hih a nedeBe treted wher as it mai spede,In comun place of juggement.The king therto yaf his assent,Demetrius was put in hold,Wherof that Perseus was bold.Thus stod the trowthe under the charge,And the falshede goth at large,Which thurgh beheste hath overcomeThe greteste of the lordes some,That privelich of his acordThei stonde as witnesse of record:The jugge was mad favorable:Thus was the lawe deceivableSo ferforth that the trowthe fondRescousse non, and thus the londForth with the king deceived were.

The gulteles was dampned thereAnd deide upon accusement:Bot such a fals conspirement,Thogh it be prive for a throwe,Godd wolde noght it were unknowe;And that was afterward wel provedIn him which hath the deth controved.Of that his brother was so slainThis Perseus was wonder fain,As he that tho was apparant,Upon the Regne and expectant;Wherof he wax so proud and vein,That he his fader in desdeignHath take and set of non acompte,As he which thoghte him to surmonte;That wher he was ferst debonaire,He was tho rebell and contraire,And noght as heir bot as a kingHe tok upon him alle thingOf malice and of tirannieIn contempt of the Regalie,Livende his fader, and so wroghte,That whan the fader him bethoghteAnd sih to whether side it drowh,Anon he wiste well ynowhHow Perse after his false tungeHath so thenvious belle runge,That he hath slain his oghne brother.Wherof as thanne he knew non other,Bot sodeinly the jugge he nom,Which corrupt sat upon the dom,In such a wise and hath him pressed,That he the sothe him hath confessedOf al that hath be spoke and do.

Mor sori than the king was thoWas nevere man upon this Molde,And thoghte in certain that he woldeVengance take upon this wrong.Bot thother parti was so strong,That for the lawe of no statutTher mai no riht ben execut;And upon this divisionThe lond was torned up so doun:Wherof his herte is so distraght,That he for pure sorwe hath caghtThe maladie of which natureIs queint in every creature.

And whan this king was passed thus,This false tunged PerseusThe regiment hath underfonge.Bot ther mai nothing stonde longeWhich is noght upon trowthe grounded;For god, which alle thing hath boundedAnd sih the falshod of his guile,Hath set him bot a litel while,That he schal regne upon depos;For sodeinliche as he arosSo sodeinliche doun he fell.

In thilke time it so befell,This newe king of newe PrideWith strengthe schop him forto ride,And seide he wolde Rome waste,Wherof he made a besi haste,And hath assembled him an hostIn al that evere he mihte most:What man that mihte wepne bereOf alle he wolde non forbere;So that it mihte noght be nombred,The folk which after was encombredThurgh him, that god wolde overthrowe.

Anon it was at Rome knowe,The pompe which that Perse ladde;And the Romeins that time haddeA Consul, which was cleped thusBe name, Paul Emilius,A noble, a worthi kniht withalle;And he, which chief was of hem alle,This werre on honde hath undertake.And whanne he scholde his leve takeOf a yong dowhter which was his,Sche wepte, and he what cause it isHire axeth, and sche him ansuerdeThat Perse is ded; and he it herde,And wondreth what sche meene wolde:And sche upon childhode him toldeThat Perse hir litel hound is ded.With that he pulleth up his hedAnd made riht a glad visage,And seide how that was a presageTouchende unto that other Perse,Of that fortune him scholde adverse,He seith, for such a prenostikMost of an hound was to him lik:For as it is an houndes kindeTo berke upon a man behinde,Riht so behinde his brother bakWith false wordes whiche he spakHe hath do slain, and that is rowthe.“Bot he which hateth alle untrowthe,The hihe god, it schal redresse;For so my dowhter prophetesseForth with hir litel houndes dethBetokneth.” And thus forth he gethConforted of this evidence,With the Romeins in his defenceAyein the Greks that ben comende.

This Perseüs, as noght seendeThis meschief which that him abod,With al his multitude rod,And prided him upon the thing,Of that he was become a king,And how he hadde his regne gete;Bot he hath al the riht foryeteWhich longeth unto governance.Wherof thurgh goddes ordinanceIt fell, upon the wynter tideThat with his host he scholde rideOver Danubie thilke flod,Which al befrose thanne stodSo harde, that he wende welTo passe: bot the blinde whiel,Which torneth ofte er men be war,Thilke ys which that the horsmen barTobrak, so that a gret partieWas dreint; of the chivalerieThe rerewarde it tok aweie,Cam non of hem to londe dreie.

Paulus the worthi kniht RomeinBe his aspie it herde sein,And hasteth him al that he may,So that upon that other dayHe cam wher he this host beheld,And that was in a large feld,Wher the Baneres ben desplaied.He hath anon hise men arraied,And whan that he was embatailled,He goth and hath the feld assailed,And slowh and tok al that he fond;Wherof the Macedoyne lond,Which thurgh king Alisandre honouredLong time stod, was tho devoured.To Perse and al that infortuneThei wyte, so that the comuneOf al the lond his heir exile;And he despeired for the whileDesguised in a povere wedeTo Rome goth, and ther for nedeThe craft which thilke time was,To worche in latoun and in bras,He lerneth for his sustienance.Such was the Sones pourveance,And of his fader it is seid,In strong prisoun that he was leidIn Albe, wher that he was dedFor hunger and defalte of bred.The hound was tokne and prophecieThat lich an hound he scholde die,Which lich was of condicioun,Whan he with his detracciounBark on his brother so behinde.

Lo, what profit a man mai finde,Which hindre wole an other wiht.Forthi with al thin hole miht,Mi Sone, eschuie thilke vice.

Mi fader, elles were I nyce:For ye therof so wel have spoke,That it is in myn herte lokeAnd evere schal: bot of Envie,If ther be more in his baillieTowardes love, sai me what.

Mi Sone, as guile under the hatWith sleyhtes of a tregetourIs hidd, Envie of such colourHath yit the ferthe deceivant,The which is cleped Falssemblant,Wherof the matiere and the formeNow herkne and I thee schal enforme.

Of Falssemblant if I schal telle,Above alle othre it is the welleOut of the which deceipte floweth.Ther is noman so wys that knowethOf thilke flod which is the tyde,Ne how he scholde himselven guideTo take sauf passage there.And yit the wynd to mannes EreIs softe, and as it semeth outeIt makth clier weder al aboute;Bot thogh it seme, it is noght so.For Falssemblant hath everemoOf his conseil in compaignieThe derke untrewe Ypocrisie,Whos word descordeth to his thoght:Forthi thei ben togedre broghtOf o covine, of on houshold,As it schal after this be told.Of Falssemblant it nedeth noghtTo telle of olde ensamples oght;For al dai in experienceA man mai se thilke evidenceOf faire wordes whiche he hiereth;Bot yit the barge Envie stierethAnd halt it evere fro the londe,Wher Falssemblant with Ore on hondeIt roweth, and wol noght arive,Bot let it on the wawes dryveIn gret tempeste and gret debat,Wherof that love and his astatEmpeireth. And therfore I rede,Mi Sone, that thou fle and dredeThis vice, and what that othre sein,Let thi Semblant be trewe and plein.For Falssemblant is thilke vice,Which nevere was withoute office:Wher that Envie thenkth to guile,He schal be for that ilke whileOf prive conseil Messagier.For whan his semblant is most clier,Thanne is he most derk in his thoght,Thogh men him se, thei knowe him noght;Bot as it scheweth in the glasThing which therinne nevere was,So scheweth it in his visageThat nevere was in his corage:Thus doth he al his thing with sleyhte.

Now ley thi conscience in weyhte,Mi goode Sone, and schrif the hier,If thou were evere CustummerTo Falssemblant in eny wise.

For ought I can me yit avise,Mi goode fader, certes no.If I for love have oght do so,Now asketh, I wol praie yow:For elles I wot nevere howOf Falssemblant that I have gilt.

Mi Sone, and sithen that thou wiltThat I schal axe, gabbe noght,Bot tell if evere was thi thoghtWith Falssemblant and covertureTo wite of eny creatureHow that he was with love lad;So were he sori, were he glad,Whan that thou wistest how it were,Al that he rounede in thin EreThou toldest forth in other place,To setten him fro loves graceOf what womman that thee beste liste,Ther as noman his conseil wisteBot thou, be whom he was deceivedOf love, and from his pourpos weyved;And thoghtest that his destourbanceThin oghne cause scholde avance,As who saith, “I am so celee,Ther mai no mannes priveteBe heled half so wel as myn.”Art thou, mi Sone, of such engin?Tell on.

Mi goode fader, nayAs for the more part I say;Bot of somdiel I am beknowe,That I mai stonde in thilke roweAmonges hem that Saundres use.I wol me noght therof excuse,That I with such colour ne steyne,Whan I my beste Semblant feigneTo my felawh, til that I wotAl his conseil bothe cold and hot:For be that cause I make him chiere,Til I his love knowe and hiere;And if so be myn herte souchethThat oght unto my ladi touchethOf love that he wol me telle,Anon I renne unto the welleAnd caste water in the fyr,So that his carte amidd the Myr,Be that I have his conseil knowe,Fulofte sithe I overthrowe,Whan that he weneth best to stonde.Bot this I do you understonde,If that a man love elles where,So that my ladi be noght there,And he me telle, I wole it hide,Ther schal no word ascape aside,For with deceipte of no semblantTo him breke I no covenant;Me liketh noght in other placeTo lette noman of his grace,Ne forto ben inquisitifTo knowe an other mannes lif:Wher that he love or love noght,That toucheth nothing to my thoght,Bot al it passeth thurgh myn EreRiht as a thing that nevere were,And is foryete and leid beside.Bot if it touche on eny sideMi ladi, as I have er spoken,Myn Eres ben noght thanne loken;For certes, whanne that betitt,My will, myn herte and al my wittBen fully set to herkne and spireWhat eny man wol speke of hire.Thus have I feigned compaignieFulofte, for I wolde aspieWhat thing it is that eny manTelle of mi worthi lady can:And for tuo causes I do this,The ferste cause wherof is,—If that I myhte ofherkne and sekeThat eny man of hire mispeke,I wolde excuse hire so fully,That whan sche wist in inderly,Min hope scholde be the moreTo have hir thank for everemore.

That other cause, I you assure,Is, why that I be covertureHave feigned semblant ofte timeTo hem that passen alday bymeAnd ben lovers als wel as I,For this I weene trewely,That ther is of hem alle non,That thei ne loven everich onMi ladi: for sothliche I lieveAnd durste setten it in prieve,Is non so wys that scholde asterte,Bot he were lustles in his herte,Forwhy and he my ladi sihe,Hir visage and hir goodlych yhe,Bot he hire lovede, er he wente.And for that such is myn entente,That is the cause of myn aspie,Why that I feigne compaignieAnd make felawe overal;For gladly wolde I knowen alAnd holde me covert alway,That I fulofte ye or nayNe liste ansuere in eny wise,Bot feigne semblant as the wiseAnd herkne tales, til I knoweMi ladi lovers al arowe.And whanne I hiere how thei have wroght,I fare as thogh I herde it noghtAnd as I no word understode;Bot that is nothing for here goode:For lieveth wel, the sothe is this,That whanne I knowe al how it is,I wol bot forthren hem a lite,Bot al the worste I can enditeI telle it to my ladi platIn forthringe of myn oghne astat,And hindre hem al that evere I may.Bot for al that yit dar I say,I finde unto miself no bote,Althogh myn herte nedes moteThurgh strengthe of love al that I hiereDiscovere unto my ladi diere:For in good feith I have no mihtTo hele fro that swete wiht,If that it touche hire eny thing.Bot this wot wel the hevene king,That sithen ferst this world began,Unto non other strange manNe feigned I semblant ne chiere,To wite or axe of his matiere,Thogh that he lovede ten or tuelve,Whanne it was noght my ladi selve:Bot if he wolde axe eny redAl onlich of his oghne hed,How he with other love ferde,His tales with myn Ere I herde,Bot to myn herte cam it noghtNe sank no deppere in my thoght,Bot hield conseil, as I was bede,And tolde it nevere in other stede,Bot let it passen as it com.Now, fader, say what is thi dom,And hou thou wolt that I be peinedFor such Semblant as I have feigned.

Mi Sone, if reson be wel peised,Ther mai no vertu ben unpreisedNe vice non be set in pris.Forthi, my Sone, if thou be wys,Do no viser upon thi face,Which as wol noght thin herte embrace:For if thou do, withinne a throweTo othre men it schal be knowe,So miht thou lihtli falle in blameAnd lese a gret part of thi name.And natheles in this degreeFulofte time thou myht seOf suche men that now adayThis vice setten in a say:I speke it for no mannes blame,Bot forto warne thee the same.Mi Sone, as I mai hiere talkeIn every place where I walke,I not if it be so or non,Bot it is manye daies gonThat I ferst herde telle this,How Falssemblant hath ben and isMost comunly fro yer to yereWith hem that duelle among ous here,Of suche as we Lombardes calle.For thei ben the slyeste of alle,So as men sein in toune aboute,To feigne and schewe thing withouteWhich is revers to that withinne:Wherof that thei fulofte winne,Whan thei be reson scholden lese;Thei ben the laste and yit thei chese,And we the ferste, and yit behindeWe gon, there as we scholden findeThe profit of oure oghne lond:Thus gon thei fre withoute bondTo don her profit al at large,And othre men bere al the charge.Of Lombardz unto this covine,Whiche alle londes conne engine,Mai Falssemblant in specialBe likned, for thei overal,Wher as they thenken forto duelle,Among hemself, so as thei telle,Ferst ben enformed forto lereA craft which cleped is Fa crere:For if Fa crere come aboute,Thanne afterward hem stant no douteTo voide with a soubtil hondThe beste goodes of the londAnd bringe chaf and take corn.Where as Fa crere goth toforn,In all his weie he fynt no lette;That Dore can non huissher schetteIn which him list to take entre:And thus the conseil most secreOf every thing Fa crere knoweth,Which into strange place he bloweth,Where as he wot it mai most grieve.And thus Fa crere makth believe,So that fulofte he hath deceived,Er that he mai ben aperceived.Thus is this vice forto drede;For who these olde bokes redeOf suche ensamples as were ar,Him oghte be the more warOf alle tho that feigne chiere,Wherof thou schalt a tale hiere.

Of Falssemblant which is believedFul many a worthi wiht is grieved,And was long time er we wer bore.To thee, my Sone, I wol therforeA tale telle of Falssemblant,Which falseth many a covenant,And many a fraude of fals conseilTher ben hangende upon his Seil:And that aboghten gultelesBothe Deianire and Hercules,The whiche in gret desese felleThurgh Falssemblant, as I schal telle.Whan Hercules withinne a throweAl only hath his herte throweUpon this faire Deianire,It fell him on a dai desire,Upon a Rivere as he stod,That passe he wolde over the flodWithoute bot, and with him ledeHis love, bot he was in dredeFor tendresce of that swete wiht,For he knew noght the forde ariht.Ther was a Geant thanne nyh,Which Nessus hihte, and whanne he sihThis Hercules and Deianyre,Withinne his herte he gan conspire,As he which thurgh his tricherieHath Hercules in gret envie,Which he bar in his herte loke,And thanne he thoghte it schal be wroke.Bot he ne dorste nathelesAyein this worthi HerculesFalle in debat as forto feihte;Bot feigneth Semblant al be sleihteOf frendschipe and of alle goode,And comth where as thei bothe stode,And makth hem al the chiere he can,And seith that as here oghne manHe is al redy forto doWhat thing he mai; and it fell soThat thei upon his Semblant triste,And axen him if that he wisteWhat thing hem were best to done,So that thei mihten sauf and soneThe water passe, he and sche.And whan Nessus the priveteKnew of here herte what it mente,As he that was of double entente,He made hem riht a glad visage;And whanne he herde of the passageOf him and hire, he thoghte guile,And feigneth Semblant for a whileTo don hem plesance and servise,Bot he thoghte al an other wise.This Nessus with hise wordes slyheYaf such conseil tofore here yheWhich semeth outward profitableAnd was withinne deceivable.He bad hem of the Stremes depeThat thei be war and take kepe,So as thei knowe noght the pas;Bot forto helpe in such a cas,He seith himself that for here eseHe wolde, if that it mihte hem plese,The passage of the water take,And for this ladi undertakeTo bere unto that other strondeAnd sauf to sette hire up alonde,And Hercules may thanne alsoThe weie knowe how he schal go:And herto thei acorden alle.Bot what as after schal befalle,Wel payd was Hercules of this,And this Geant also glad is,And tok this ladi up alofteAnd set hire on his schuldre softe,And in the flod began to wade,As he which no grucchinge made,And bar hire over sauf and sound.Bot whanne he stod on dreie groundAnd Hercules was fer behinde,He sette his trowthe al out of mynde,Who so therof be lief or loth,With Deianyre and forth he goth,As he that thoghte to dissevereThe compaignie of hem for evere.Whan Hercules therof tok hiede,Als faste as evere he mihte him spiedeHe hyeth after in a throwe;And hapneth that he hadde a bowe,The which in alle haste he bende,As he that wolde an Arwe sende,Which he tofore hadde envenimed.He hath so wel his schote timed,That he him thurgh the bodi smette,And thus the false wiht he lette.

Bot lest now such a felonie:Whan Nessus wiste he scholde die,He tok to Deianyre his scherte,Which with the blod was of his herteThurghout desteigned overal,And tolde how sche it kepe schalAl prively to this entente,That if hire lord his herte wenteTo love in eny other place,The scherte, he seith, hath such a grace,That if sche mai so mochel makeThat he the scherte upon him take,He schal alle othre lete in veinAnd torne unto hire love ayein.Who was tho glad bot Deianyre?Hire thoghte hire herte was afyreTil it was in hire cofre loke,So that no word therof was spoke.

The daies gon, the yeres passe,The hertes waxen lasse and lasseOf hem that ben to love untrewe:This Hercules with herte neweHis love hath set on Eolen,And therof spieken alle men.This Eolen, this faire maide,Was, as men thilke time saide,The kinges dowhter of Eurice;And sche made Hercules so nyceUpon hir Love and so assote,That he him clotheth in hire cote,And sche in his was clothed ofte;And thus fieblesce is set alofte,And strengthe was put under fote,Ther can noman therof do bote.Whan Deianyre hath herd this speche,Ther was no sorwe forto seche:Of other helpe wot sche non,Bot goth unto hire cofre anon;With wepende yhe and woful herteSche tok out thilke unhappi scherte,As sche that wende wel to do,And broghte hire werk aboute soThat Hercules this scherte on dede,To such entente as she was bedeOf Nessus, so as I seide er.Bot therof was sche noght the ner,As no fortune may be weyved;With Falssemblant sche was deceived,That whan sche wende best have wonne,Sche lost al that sche hath begonne.For thilke scherte unto the bonHis body sette afyre anon,And cleveth so, it mai noght twinne,For the venym that was therinne.And he thanne as a wilde manUnto the hihe wode he ran,And as the Clerk Ovide telleth,The grete tres to grounde he fellethWith strengthe al of his oghne myght,And made an huge fyr upriht,And lepte himself therinne at onesAnd brende him bothe fleissh and bones.Which thing cam al thurgh Falssemblant,That false Nessus the GeantMade unto him and to his wif;Wherof that he hath lost his lif,And sche sori for everemo.

Forthi, my Sone, er thee be wo,I rede, be wel war therfore;For whan so gret a man was lore,It oghte yive a gret conceipteTo warne alle othre of such deceipte.

Grant mercy, fader, I am warSo fer that I nomore darOf Falssemblant take aqueintance;Bot rathere I wol do penanceThat I have feigned chiere er this.Now axeth forth, what so ther isOf that belongeth to my schrifte.

Mi Sone, yit ther is the fifteWhich is conceived of Envie,And cleped is Supplantarie,Thurgh whos compassement and guileFul many a man hath lost his whileIn love als wel as otherwise,Hierafter as I schal devise.

The vice of SupplantaciounWith many a fals collacioun,Which he conspireth al unknowe,Full ofte time hath overthroweThe worschipe of an other man.So wel no lif awayte canAyein his sleyhte forto caste,That he his pourpos ate lasteNe hath, er that it be withset.Bot most of alle his herte is setIn court upon these grete OfficesOf dignitees and benefices:Thus goth he with his sleyhte abouteTo hindre and schowve an other outeAnd stonden with his slyh compasIn stede there an other was;And so to sette himselven inne,He reccheth noght, be so he winne,Of that an other man schal lese,And thus fulofte chalk for cheseHe changeth with ful litel cost,Wherof an other hath the lostAnd he the profit schal receive.For his fortune is to deceiveAnd forto change upon the whelHis wo with othre mennes wel:Of that an other man avaleth,His oghne astat thus up he haleth,And takth the bridd to his beyete,Wher othre men the buisshes bete.

Mi Sone, and in the same wiseTher ben lovers of such emprise,That schapen hem to be relievedWhere it is wrong to ben achieved:For it is other mannes riht,Which he hath taken dai and nihtTo kepe for his oghne StorToward himself for everemor,And is his propre be the lawe,Which thing that axeth no felawe,If love holde his covenant.Bot thei that worchen be supplaunt,Yit wolden thei a man supplaunte,And take a part of thilke plaunteWhich he hath for himselve set:And so fulofte is al unknet,That som man weneth be riht fast.For Supplant with his slyhe castFulofte happneth forto moweThing which an other man hath sowe,And makth comun of propreteWith sleihte and with soubtilite,As men mai se fro yer to yere.Thus cleymeth he the bot to stiere,Of which an other maister is.

Forthi, my Sone, if thou er thisHast ben of such professioun,Discovere thi confessioun:Hast thou supplanted eny man?

For oght that I you telle can,Min holi fader, as of the dedeI am withouten eny dredeAl gulteles; bot of my thoghtMi conscience excuse I noght.For were it wrong or were it riht,Me lakketh nothing bote myht,That I ne wolde longe er thisOf other mannes love ywissBe weie of SupplantaciounHave mad apropriaciounAnd holde that I nevere boghte,Thogh it an other man forthoghte.And al this speke I bot of on,For whom I lete alle othre gon;Bot hire I mai noght overpasse,That I ne mot alwey compasse,Me roghte noght be what queintise,So that I mihte in eny wiseFro suche that mi ladi serveHire herte make forto swerveWithouten eny part of love.For be the goddes alle aboveI wolde it mihte so befalle,That I al one scholde hem alleSupplante, and welde hire at mi wille.And that thing mai I noght fulfille,Bot if I scholde strengthe make;And that I dar noght undertake,Thogh I were as was Alisaundre,For therof mihte arise sklaundre;And certes that schal I do nevere,For in good feith yit hadde I levereIn my simplesce forto die,Than worche such Supplantarie.Of otherwise I wol noght seieThat if I founde a seker weie,I wolde as for conclusiounWorche after Supplantacioun,So hihe a love forto winne.Now, fader, if that this be Sinne,I am al redy to redresceThe gilt of which I me confesse.

Mi goode Sone, as of SupplantThee thar noght drede tant ne quant,As for nothing that I have herd,Bot only that thou hast misferdThenkende, and that me liketh noght,For godd beholt a mannes thoght.And if thou understode in sothIn loves cause what it doth,A man to ben a Supplantour,Thou woldest for thin oghne honourBe double weie take kepe:Ferst for thin oghne astat to kepe,To be thiself so wel bethoghtThat thou supplanted were noght,And ek for worschipe of thi nameTowardes othre do the same,And soffren every man have his.Bot natheles it was and is,That in a wayt at alle assaiesSupplant of love in oure daiesThe lief fulofte for the levereForsakth, and so it hath don evere.

Ensample I finde therupon,At Troie how that AgamenonSupplantede the worthi knyhtAchilles of that swete wiht,Which named was Brexeida;And also of Criseida,Whom Troilus to love ches,Supplanted hath Diomedes.

Of Geta and Amphitrion,That whilom weren bothe as onOf frendschipe and of compaignie,I rede how that SupplantarieIn love, as it betidde tho,Beguiled hath on of hem tuo.For this Geta that I of meene,To whom the lusti faire AlmeeneAssured was be weie of love,Whan he best wende have ben aboveAnd sikerest of that he hadde,Cupido so the cause ladde,That whil he was out of the weie,Amphitrion hire love aweieHath take, and in this forme he wroghte.Be nyhte unto the chambre he soghte,Wher that sche lay, and with a wyleHe contrefeteth for the whyleThe vois of Gete in such a wise,That made hire of hire bedd arise,Wenende that it were he,And let him in, and whan thei beTogedre abedde in armes faste,This Geta cam thanne ate lasteUnto the Dore and seide, “Undo.”And sche ansuerde and bad him go,And seide how that abedde al warmHir lief lay naked in hir arm;Sche wende that it were soth.Lo, what Supplant of love doth:This Geta forth bejaped wente,And yit ne wiste he what it mente;Amphitrion him hath supplantedWith sleyhte of love and hire enchaunted:And thus put every man out other,The Schip of love hath lost his Rother,So that he can no reson stiere.And forto speke of this matiereTouchende love and his Supplant,A tale which is acordantUnto thin Ere I thenke enforme.Now herkne, for this is the forme.

Of thilke Cite chief of alleWhich men the noble Rome calle,Er it was set to Cristes feith,Ther was, as the Cronique seith,An Emperour, the which it laddeIn pes, that he no werres hadde:Ther was nothing desobeissantWhich was to Rome appourtenant,Bot al was torned into reste.To some it thoghte for the beste,To some it thoghte nothing so,And that was only unto thoWhos herte stod upon knyhthode:Bot most of alle of his manhodeThe worthi Sone of themperour,Which wolde ben a werreiour,As he that was chivalerousOf worldes fame and desirous,Began his fadre to besecheThat he the werres mihte seche,In strange Marches forto ride.His fader seide he scholde abide,And wolde granten him no leve:Bot he, which wolde noght beleve,A kniht of his to whom he triste,So that his fader nothing wiste,He tok and tolde him his corage,That he pourposeth a viage.If that fortune with him stonde,He seide how that he wolde fondeThe grete See to passe unknowe,And there abyde for a throweUpon the werres to travaile.And to this point withoute faileThis kniht, whan he hath herd his lord,Is swore, and stant of his acord,As thei that bothe yonge were;So that in prive conseil thereThei ben assented forto wende.And therupon to make an ende,Tresor ynowh with hem thei token,And whan the time is best thei loken,That sodeinliche in a GaleieFro Romelond thei wente here weieAnd londe upon that other side.The world fell so that ilke tide,Which evere hise happes hath diverse,The grete Soldan thanne of PerseAyein the Caliphe of EgipteA werre, which that him beclipte,Hath in a Marche costeiant.And he, which was a poursuiantWorschipe of armes to atteigne,This Romein, let anon ordeigne,That he was redi everydel:And whan he was arraied welOf every thing which him belongeth,Straght unto Kaire his weie he fongeth,Wher he the Soldan thanne fond,And axeth that withinne his londHe mihte him for the werre serve,As he which wolde his thonk deserve.

The Soldan was riht glad with al,And wel the more in specialWhan that he wiste he was Romein;Bot what was elles in certein,That mihte he wite be no weie.And thus the kniht of whom I seieToward the Soldan is beleft,And in the Marches now and eft,Wher that the dedli werres were,He wroghte such knihthode there,That every man spak of him good.And thilke time so it stod,This mihti Soldan be his wifA Dowhter hath, that in this lifMen seiden ther was non so fair.Sche scholde ben hir fader hair,And was of yeres ripe ynowh:Hire beaute many an herte drowhTo bowe unto that ilke laweFro which no lif mai be withdrawe,And that is love, whos natureSet lif and deth in aventureOf hem that knyhthode undertake.

This lusti peine hath overtakeThe herte of this Romein so sore,That to knihthode more and moreProuesce avanceth his corage.Lich to the Leoun in his rage,Fro whom that alle bestes fle,Such was the knyht in his degre:Wher he was armed in the feld,Ther dorste non abide his scheld;Gret pris upon the werre he hadde.Bot sche which al the chance ladde,Fortune, schop the Marches so,That be thassent of bothe tuo,The Soldan and the Caliphe eke,Bataille upon a dai thei seke,Which was in such a wise setThat lengere scholde it noght be let.Thei made hem stronge on every side,And whan it drowh toward the tideThat the bataille scholde be,The Soldan in gret priveteA goldring of his dowhter tok,And made hire swere upon a bokAnd ek upon the goddes alle,That if fortune so befalleIn the bataille that he deie,That sche schal thilke man obeieAnd take him to hire housebonde,Which thilke same Ring to hondeHire scholde bringe after his deth.This hath sche swore, and forth he gethWith al the pouer of his londUnto the Marche, where he fondHis enemy full embatailled.

The Soldan hath the feld assailed:Thei that ben hardy sone assemblen,Wherof the dredfull hertes tremblen:That on sleth, and that other sterveth,Bot above all his pris deservethThis knihtly Romein; where he rod,His dedly swerd noman abod,Ayein the which was no defence;Egipte fledde in his presence,And thei of Perse upon the chacePoursuien: bot I not what graceBefell, an Arwe out of a boweAl sodeinly that ilke throweThe Soldan smot, and ther he lay:The chace is left for thilke day,And he was bore into a tente.

The Soldan sih how that it wente,And that he scholde algate die;And to this knyht of Romanie,As unto him whom he most triste,His Dowhter Ring, that non it wiste,He tok, and tolde him al the cas,Upon hire oth what tokne it wasOf that sche scholde ben his wif.Whan this was seid, the hertes lifOf this Soldan departeth sone;And therupon, as was to done,The dede body wel and faireThei carie til thei come at Kaire,Wher he was worthily begrave.

The lordes, whiche as wolden saveThe Regne which was desolat,To bringe it into good astatA parlement thei sette anon.Now herkne what fell therupon:This yonge lord, this worthi knihtOf Rome, upon the same nihtThat thei amorwe trete scholde,Unto his Bacheler he toldeHis conseil, and the Ring with alHe scheweth, thurgh which that he schal,He seith, the kinges Dowhter wedde,For so the Ring was leid to wedde,He tolde, into hir fader hond,That with what man that sche it fondSche scholde him take to hire lord.And this, he seith, stant of record,Bot noman wot who hath this Ring.

This Bacheler upon this thingHis Ere and his entente leide,And thoghte more thanne he seide,And feigneth with a fals visageThat he was glad, bot his corageWas al set in an other wise.These olde Philosophres wiseThei writen upon thilke while,That he mai best a man beguileIn whom the man hath most credence;And this befell in evidenceToward this yonge lord of Rome.His Bacheler, which hadde tome,Whan that his lord be nihte slepte,This Ring, the which his maister kepte,Out of his Pours awey he dede,And putte an other in the stede.

Amorwe, whan the Court is set,The yonge ladi was forth fet,To whom the lordes don homage,And after that of MariageThei trete and axen of hir wille.Bot sche, which thoghte to fulfilleHire fader heste in this matiere,Seide openly, that men mai hiere,The charge which hire fader bad.

Tho was this Lord of Rome gladAnd drowh toward his Pours anon,Bot al for noght, it was agon:His Bacheler it hath forthdrawe,And axeth ther upon the laweThat sche him holde covenant.The tokne was so sufficantThat it ne mihte be forsake,And natheles his lord hath takeQuerelle ayein his oghne man;Bot for nothing that evere he canHe mihte as thanne noght ben herd,So that his cleym is unansuerd,And he hath of his pourpos failed.

This Bacheler was tho consailedAnd wedded, and of thilke EmpireHe was coroned Lord and Sire,And al the lond him hath received;Wherof his lord, which was deceived,A seknesse er the thridde morweConceived hath of dedly sorwe:And as he lay upon his deth,Therwhile him lasteth speche and breth,He sende for the worthiesteOf al the lond and ek the beste,And tolde hem al the sothe tho,That he was Sone and Heir alsoOf themperour of grete Rome,And how that thei togedre come,This kniht and he; riht as it was,He tolde hem al the pleine cas,And for that he his conseil tolde,That other hath al that he wolde,And he hath failed of his mede:As for the good he takth non hiede,He seith, bot only of the love,Of which he wende have ben above.And therupon be lettre writeHe doth his fader forto witeOf al this matiere as it stod;And thanne with an hertly modUnto the lordes he besoghteTo telle his ladi how he boghteHire love, of which an other gladeth;And with that word his hewe fadeth,And seide, “A dieu, my ladi swete.”The lif hath lost his kindly hete,And he lay ded as eny ston;Wherof was sory manyon,Bot non of alle so as sche.

This false knyht in his degreeArested was and put in hold:For openly whan it was toldOf the tresoun which is befalle,Thurghout the lond thei seiden alle,If it be soth that men suppose,His oghne untrowthe him schal depose.And forto seche an evidence,With honour and gret reverence,Wherof they mihten knowe an ende,To themperour anon thei sendeThe lettre which his Sone wrot.And whan that he the sothe wot,To telle his sorwe is endeles,Bot yit in haste nathelesUpon the tale which he herdeHis Stieward into Perse ferdeWith many a worthi Romein eke,His liege tretour forto seke;And whan thei thider come were,This kniht him hath confessed thereHow falsly that he hath him bore,Wherof his worthi lord was lore.Tho seiden some he scholde deie,Bot yit thei founden such a weieThat he schal noght be ded in Perse;And thus the skiles ben diverse.Be cause that he was coroned,And that the lond was abandonedTo him, althogh it were unriht,Ther is no peine for him diht;Bot to this point and to this endeThei granten wel that he schal wendeWith the Romeins to Rome ayein.And thus acorded ful and plein,The qwike body with the dedeWith leve take forth thei lede,Wher that Supplant hath his juise.

Wherof that thou thee miht aviseUpon this enformaciounTouchende of Supplantacioun,That thou, my Sone, do noght so:And forto take hiede alsoWhat Supplant doth in other halve,Ther is noman can finde a salvePleinly to helen such a Sor;It hath and schal ben everemor,Whan Pride is with Envie joint,He soffreth noman in good point,Wher that he mai his honour lette.And therupon if I schal setteEnsample, in holy cherche I findeHow that Supplant is noght behinde;God wot if that it now be so:For in Cronique of time agoI finde a tale concordableOf Supplant, which that is no fable,In the manere as I schal telle,So as whilom the thinges felle.

At Rome, as it hath ofte falle,The vicair general of alleOf hem that lieven Cristes feithHis laste day, which non withseith,Hath schet as to the worldes ije,Whos name if I schal specefie,He hihte Pope Nicolas.And thus whan that he passed was,The Cardinals, that wolden saveThe forme of lawe, in the conclaveGon forto chese a newe Pope,And after that thei cowthe agropeHath ech of hem seid his entente:Til ate laste thei assenteUpon an holy clerk reclus,Which full was of gostli vertus;His pacience and his simplesseHath set him into hih noblesse.Thus was he Pope canonized,With gret honour and intronized,And upon chance as it is falle,His name Celestin men calle;Which notefied was be bulleTo holi cherche and to the fulleIn alle londes magnified.Bot every worschipe is envied,And that was thilke time sene:For whan this Pope of whom I meeneWas chose, and othre set beside,A Cardinal was thilke tideWhich the papat longe hath desiredAnd therupon gretli conspired;Bot whan he sih fortune is failed,For which long time he hath travailed,That ilke fyr which Ethna brennethThurghout his wofull herte renneth,Which is resembled to Envie,Wherof Supplant and tricherieEngendred is; and nathelesHe feigneth love, he feigneth pes,Outward he doth the reverence,Bot al withinne his conscienceThurgh fals ymaginaciounHe thoghte Supplantacioun.And therupon a wonder wyleHe wroghte: for at thilke whyleIt fell so that of his lignageHe hadde a clergoun of yong age,Whom he hath in his chambre affaited.This Cardinal his time hath waited,And with his wordes slyhe and queinte,The whiche he cowthe wysly peinte,He schop this clerk of which I telleToward the Pope forto duelle,So that withinne his chambre anyhtHe lai, and was a prive wyhtToward the Pope on nyhtes tide.

Mai noman fle that schal betide.This Cardinal, which thoghte guile,Upon a day whan he hath whileThis yonge clerc unto him tok,And made him swere upon a bok,And told him what his wille was.And forth withal a Trompe of brasHe hath him take, and bad him this:“Thou schalt,” he seide, “whan time isAwaite, and take riht good kepe,Whan that the Pope is fast aslepeAnd that non other man by nyh;And thanne that thou be so slyhThurghout the Trompe into his Ere,Fro hevene as thogh a vois it were,To soune of such prolaciounThat he his meditaciounTherof mai take and understonde,As thogh it were of goddes sonde.And in this wise thou schalt seie,That he do thilke astat aweieOf Pope, in which he stant honoured,So schal his Soule be socouredOf thilke worschipe ate lasteIn hevene which schal evere laste.”

This clerc, whan he hath herd the formeHow he the Pope scholde enforme,Tok of the Cardinal his leve,And goth him hom, til it was Eve,And prively the trompe he hedde,Til that the Pope was abedde.And at the Midnyht, whan he knewhThe Pope slepte, thanne he blewhWithinne his trompe thurgh the wal,And tolde in what manere he schalHis Papacie leve, and takeHis ferste astat: and thus awakeThis holi Pope he made thries,Wherof diverse fantasiesUpon his grete holinesseWithinne his herte he gan impresse.The Pope ful of innocenceConceiveth in his conscienceThat it is goddes wille he cesse;Bot in what wise he may relesseHis hihe astat, that wot he noght.And thus withinne himself bethoght,He bar it stille in his memoire,Til he cam to the Consistoire;And there in presence of hem alleHe axeth, if it so befalleThat eny Pope cesse wolde,How that the lawe it soffre scholde.Thei seten alle stille and herde,Was non which to the point ansuerde,For to what pourpos that it menteTher was noman knew his entente,Bot only he which schop the guile.

This Cardinal the same whileAl openly with wordes pleineSeith, if the Pope wolde ordeigneThat ther be such a lawe wroght,Than mihte he cesse, and elles noght.And as he seide, don it was;The Pope anon upon the casOf his Papal AutoriteHath mad and yove the decre:And whan that lawe was confermedIn due forme and al affermed,This innocent, which was deceived,His Papacie anon hath weyved,Renounced and resigned eke.That other was nothing to seke,Bot undernethe such a japeHe hath so for himselve schape,That how as evere it him beseme,The Mitre with the DiademeHe hath thurgh Supplantacion:And in his confirmacionUpon the fortune of his graceHis name is cleped Boneface.

Under the viser of Envie,Lo, thus was hid the tricherie,Which hath beguiled manyon.Bot such conseil ther mai be non,With treson whan it is conspired,That it nys lich the Sparke fyredUp in the Rof, which for a throweLith hidd, til whan the wyndes bloweIt blaseth out on every side.This Bonefas, which can noght hydeThe tricherie of his Supplant,Hath openly mad his avantHow he the Papacie hath wonne.Bot thing which is with wrong begonneMai nevere stonde wel at ende;Wher Pride schal the bowe bende,He schet fulofte out of the weie:And thus the Pope of whom I seie,Whan that he stod on hih the whiel,He can noght soffre himself be wel.Envie, which is loveles,And Pride, which is laweles,With such tempeste made him erre,That charite goth out of herre:So that upon misgovernanceAyein Lowyz the king of FranceHe tok querelle of his oultrage,And seide he scholde don hommageUnto the cherche bodily.Bot he, that wiste nothing whyHe scholde do so gret serviseAfter the world in such a wise,Withstod the wrong of that demande;For noght the Pope mai comandeThe king wol noght the Pope obeie.This Pope tho be alle weieThat he mai worche of violenceHath sent the bulle of his sentenceWith cursinge and with enterdit.

The king upon this wrongful plyt,To kepe his regne fro servage,Conseiled was of his BarnageThat miht with miht schal be withstonde.Thus was the cause take on honde,And seiden that the PapacieThei wolde honoure and magnefieIn al that evere is spirital;Bot thilke Pride temporalOf Boneface in his persone,Ayein that ilke wrong al oneThei wolde stonden in debat:And thus the man and noght the statThe Frensche schopen be her mihtTo grieve. And fell ther was a kniht,Sire Guilliam de Langharet,Which was upon this cause set;And therupon he tok a routeOf men of Armes and rod oute,So longe and in a wayt he lay,That he aspide upon a dayThe Pope was at Avinoun,And scholde ryde out of the tounUnto Pontsorge, the which isA Castell in Provence of his.Upon the weie and as he rod,This kniht, which hoved and abodEmbuisshed upon horse bak,Al sodeinliche upon him brakAnd hath him be the bridel sesed,And seide: “O thou, which hast desesedThe Court of France be thi wrong,Now schalt thou singe an other song:Thin enterdit and thi sentenceAyein thin oghne conscienceHierafter thou schalt fiele and grope.We pleigne noght ayein the Pope,For thilke name is honourable,Bot thou, which hast be deceivableAnd tricherous in al thi werk,Thou Bonefas, thou proude clerk,Misledere of the Papacie,Thi false bodi schal abyeAnd soffre that it hath deserved.”

Lo, thus the Supplantour was served;For thei him ladden into FranceAnd setten him to his penanceWithinne a tour in harde bondes,Wher he for hunger bothe hise hondesEet of and deide, god wot how:Of whom the wrytinge is yit nowRegistred, as a man mai hiere,Which spekth and seith in this manere:

Thin entre lich the fox was slyh,Thi regne also with pride on hihWas lich the Leon in his rage;Bot ate laste of thi passageThi deth was to the houndes like.

Such is the lettre of his CroniqueProclamed in the Court of Rome,Wherof the wise ensample nome.And yit, als ferforth as I dar,I rede alle othre men be war,And that thei loke wel algateThat non his oghne astat translateOf holi cherche in no degreeBe fraude ne soubtilite:For thilke honour which Aaron tokSchal non receive, as seith the bok,Bot he be cleped as he was.What I schal thenken in this casOf that I hiere now aday,I not: bot he which can and may,Be reson bothe and be natureThe help of every mannes cure,He kepe Simon fro the folde.For Joachim thilke Abbot toldeHow suche daies scholden falle,That comunliche in places alleThe Chapmen of such mercerieWith fraude and with SupplantarieSo manye scholden beie and selle,That he ne may for schame telleSo foul a Senne in mannes Ere.Bot god forbiede that it wereIn oure daies that he seith:For if the Clerc beware his feithIn chapmanhod at such a feire,The remenant mot nede empeireOf al that to the world belongeth;For whan that holi cherche wrongeth,I not what other thing schal rihte.And natheles at mannes sihteEnvie forto be preferredHath conscience so differred,That noman loketh to the viceWhich is the Moder of malice,And that is thilke false Envie,Which causeth many a tricherie;For wher he may an other seThat is mor gracious than he,It schal noght stonden in his mihtBot if he hindre such a wiht:And that is welnyh overal,This vice is now so general.

Envie thilke unhapp indrowh,Whan Joab be deceipte slowhAbner, for drede he scholde beWith king David such as was he.And thurgh Envie also it fellOf thilke false Achitofell,For his conseil was noght achieved,Bot that he sih Cusy believedWith Absolon and him forsake,He heng himself upon a stake.

Senec witnesseth openlyHow that Envie proprelyIs of the Court the comun wenche,And halt taverne forto schencheThat drink which makth the herte brenne,And doth the wit aboute renne,Be every weie to compasseHow that he mihte alle othre passe,As he which thurgh unkindeschipeEnvieth every felaschipe;So that thou miht wel knowe and se,Ther is no vice such as he,Ferst toward godd abhominable,And to mankinde unprofitable:And that be wordes bot a feweI schal be reson prove and schewe.

Envie if that I schal descrive,He is noght schaply forto wyveIn Erthe among the wommen hiere;For ther is in him no matiereWherof he mihte do plesance.Ferst for his hevy continanceOf that he semeth evere unglad,He is noght able to ben had;And ek he brenneth so withinne,That kinde mai no profit winne,Wherof he scholde his love plese:For thilke blod which scholde have eseTo regne among the moiste veines,Is drye of thilke unkendeli peinesThurgh whiche Envie is fyred ay.And thus be reson prove I mayThat toward love Envie is noght;And otherwise if it be soght,Upon what side as evere it falle,It is the werste vice of alle,Which of himself hath most malice.For understond that every viceSom cause hath, wherof it groweth,Bot of Envie noman knowethFro whenne he cam bot out of helle.For thus the wise clerkes telle,That no spirit bot of maliceBe weie of kinde upon a viceIs tempted, and be such a weieEnvie hath kinde put aweieAnd of malice hath his steringe,Wherof he makth his bakbitinge,And is himself therof desesed.So mai ther be no kinde plesed;For ay the mor that he envieth,The more ayein himself he plieth.Thus stant Envie in good espeirTo ben himself the develes heir,As he which is his nexte licheAnd forthest fro the heveneriche,For there mai he nevere wone.

Forthi, my goode diere Sone,If thou wolt finde a siker weieTo love, put Envie aweie.

Min holy fader, reson woldeThat I this vice eschuie scholde:Bot yit to strengthe mi corage,If that ye wolde in avantageTherof sette a recoverir,It were tome a gret desir,That I this vice mihte flee.

Nou understond, my Sone, and se,Ther is phisique for the seke,And vertus for the vices eke.Who that the vices wolde eschuie,He mot be resoun thanne suieThe vertus; for be thilke weieHe mai the vices don aweie,For thei togedre mai noght duelle:For as the water of a welleOf fyr abateth the malice,Riht so vertu fordoth the vice.Ayein Envie is Charite,Which is the Moder of Pite,That makth a mannes herte tendre,That it mai no malice engendreIn him that is enclin therto.For his corage is tempred so,That thogh he mihte himself relieve,Yit wolde he noght an other grieve,Bot rather forto do plesanceHe berth himselven the grevance,So fain he wolde an other ese.Wherof, mi Sone, for thin eseNow herkne a tale which I rede,And understond it wel, I rede.

Among the bokes of latinI finde write of ConstantinThe worthi Emperour of Rome,Suche infortunes to him come,Whan he was in his lusti age,The lepre cawhte in his visageAnd so forth overal aboute,That he ne mihte ryden oute:So lefte he bothe Schield and spere,As he that mihte him noght bestere,And hield him in his chambre clos.Thurgh al the world the fame aros,The grete clerkes ben asentAnd come at his comandementTo trete upon this lordes hele.So longe thei togedre dele,That thei upon this medicineApointen hem, and determineThat in the maner as it stodThei wolde him bathe in childes blodWithinne sevene wynter age:For, as thei sein, that scholde assuageThe lepre and al the violence,Which that thei knewe of AccidenceAnd noght be weie of kinde is falle.And therto thei acorden alleAs for final conclusioun,And tolden here opiniounTo themperour: and he anonHis conseil tok, and theruponWith lettres and with seales outeThei sende in every lond abouteThe yonge children forto seche,Whos blod, thei seiden, schal be lecheFor themperoures maladie.Ther was ynowh to wepe and crieAmong the Modres, whan thei herdeHou wofully this cause ferde,Bot natheles thei moten bowe;And thus wommen ther come ynowheWith children soukende on the Tete.Tho was ther manye teres lete,Bot were hem lieve or were hem lothe,The wommen and the children botheInto the Paleis forth be broghtWith many a sory hertes thoghtOf hem whiche of here bodi boreThe children hadde, and so forloreWithinne a while scholden se.The Modres wepe in here degre,And manye of hem aswoune falle,The yonge babes criden alle:This noyse aros, the lord it herde,And loked out, and how it ferdeHe sih, and as who seith abreideOut of his slep, and thus he seide:

“O thou divine pourveance,Which every man in the balanceOf kinde hast formed to be liche,The povere is bore as is the richeAnd deieth in the same wise,Upon the fol, upon the wiseSiknesse and hele entrecomune;Mai non eschuie that fortuneWhich kinde hath in hire lawe set;Hire strengthe and beaute ben besetTo every man aliche fre,That sche preferreth no degreAs in the disposiciounOf bodili complexioun:And ek of Soule resonableThe povere child is bore als ableTo vertu as the kinges Sone;For every man his oghne woneAfter the lust of his assayThe vice or vertu chese may.Thus stonden alle men franchised,Bot in astat thei ben divised;To some worschipe and richesse,To some poverte and distresse,On lordeth and an other serveth;Bot yit as every man deservethThe world yifth noght his yiftes hiere.Bot certes he hath gret matiereTo ben of good condicioun,Which hath in his subjecciounThe men that ben of his semblance.”And ek he tok a remembranceHow he that made lawe of kindeWolde every man to lawe binde,And bad a man, such as he woldeToward himself, riht such he scholdeToward an other don also.And thus this worthi lord as thoSette in balance his oghne astatAnd with himself stod in debat,And thoghte hou that it was noght goodTo se so mochel mannes blodBe spilt for cause of him alone.He sih also the grete mone,Of that the Modres were unglade,And of the wo the children made,Wherof that al his herte tendreth,And such pite withinne engendreth,That him was levere forto cheseHis oghne bodi forto lese,Than se so gret a moerdre wroghtUpon the blod which gulteth noght.Thus for the pite which he tokAlle othre leches he forsok,And put him out of aventureAl only into goddes cure;And seith, “Who that woll maister be,He mot be servant to pite.”So ferforth he was overcomeWith charite, that he hath nomeHis conseil and hise officers,And bad unto hise tresorersThat thei his tresour al abouteDeparte among the povere routeOf wommen and of children bothe,Wherof thei mihte hem fede and clotheAnd saufli tornen hom ayeinWithoute lost of eny grein.Thurgh charite thus he despendethHis good, wherof that he amendethThe povere poeple, and contrevailethThe harm, that he hem so travaileth:And thus the woful nyhtes sorweTo joie is torned on the morwe;Al was thonkinge, al was blessinge,Which erst was wepinge and cursinge;Thes wommen gon hom glade ynowh,Echon for joie on other lowh,And preiden for this lordes hele,Which hath relessed the querele,And hath his oghne will forsakeIn charite for goddes sake.

Bot now hierafter thou schalt hiereWhat god hath wroght in this matiere,As he which doth al equite.To him that wroghte chariteHe was ayeinward charitous,And to pite he was pitous:For it was nevere knowe yitThat charite goth unaquit.The nyht, whan he was leid to slepe,The hihe god, which wolde him kepe,Seint Peter and seint Poul him sende,Be whom he wolde his lepre amende.Thei tuo to him slepende appiereFro god, and seide in this manere:“O Constantin, for thou hast servedPite, thou hast pite deserved:Forthi thou schalt such pite haveThat god thurgh pite woll thee save.So schalt thou double hele finde,Ferst for thi bodiliche kinde,And for thi wofull Soule also,Thou schalt ben hol of bothe tuo.And for thou schalt thee noght despeire,Thi lepre schal nomore empeireTil thou wolt sende theruponUnto the Mont of Celion,Wher that Silvestre and his clergieTogedre duelle in compaignieFor drede of thee, which many dayHast ben a fo to Cristes lay,And hast destruid to mochel schameThe prechours of his holy name.Bot now thou hast somdiel appesedThi god, and with good dede plesed,That thou thi pite hast bewaredUpon the blod which thou hast spared.Forthi to thi salvacionThou schalt have enformacioun,Such as Silvestre schal the teche:The nedeth of non other leche.”

This Emperour, which al this herde,“Grant merci lordes,” he ansuerde,“I wol do so as ye me seie.Bot of o thing I wolde preie:What schal I telle unto SilvestreOr of youre name or of youre estre?”And thei him tolden what thei hihte,And forth withal out of his sihteThei passen up into the hevene.And he awok out of his swevene,And clepeth, and men come anon:He tolde his drem, and theruponIn such a wise as he hem tellethThe Mont wher that Silvestre duellethThei have in alle haste soght,And founde he was and with hem broghtTo themperour, which to him toldeHis swevene and elles what he wolde.And whan Silvestre hath herd the king,He was riht joiful of this thing,And him began with al his witTo techen upon holi writFerst how mankinde was forlore,And how the hihe god therforeHis Sone sende from above,Which bore was for mannes love,And after of his oghne choisHe tok his deth upon the crois;And how in grave he was beloke,And how that he hath helle broke,And tok hem out that were him lieve;And forto make ous full believeThat he was verrai goddes Sone,Ayein the kinde of mannes woneFro dethe he ros the thridde day,And whanne he wolde, as he wel may,He styh up to his fader eveneWith fleissh and blod into the hevene;And riht so in the same formeIn fleissh and blod he schal reforme,Whan time comth, the qwike and dedeAt thilke woful dai of drede,Where every man schal take his dom,Als wel the Maister as the grom.The mihti kinges retenueThat dai may stonde of no valueWith worldes strengthe to defende;For every man mot thanne entendeTo stonde upon his oghne dedesAnd leve alle othre mennes nedes.That dai mai no consail availe,The pledour and the plee schal faile,The sentence of that ilke dayMai non appell sette in delay;Ther mai no gold the Jugge plie,That he ne schal the sothe trieAnd setten every man upriht,Als wel the plowman as the kniht:The lewed man, the grete clerkSchal stonde upon his oghne werk,And such as he is founde tho,Such schal he be for everemo.Ther mai no peine be relessed,Ther mai no joie ben encressed,Bot endeles, as thei have do,He schal receive on of the tuo.And thus Silvestre with his saweThe ground of al the newe laweWith gret devocion he precheth,Fro point to point and pleinly techethUnto this hethen Emperour;And seith, the hihe creatourHath underfonge his charite,Of that he wroghte such pite,Whan he the children hadde on honde.Thus whan this lord hath understondeOf al this thing how that it ferde,Unto Silvestre he thanne ansuerde,With al his hole herte and seithThat he is redi to the feith.And so the vessel which for blodWas mad, Silvestre, ther it stod,With clene water of the welleIn alle haste he let do felle,And sette Constantin therinneAl naked up unto the chinne.And in the while it was begunne,A liht, as thogh it were a Sunne,Fro hevene into the place comWher that he tok his cristendom;And evere among the holi talesLich as thei weren fisshes skalesTher fellen from him now and eft,Til that ther was nothing beleftOf al his grete maladie.For he that wolde him purefie,The hihe god hath mad him clene,So that ther lefte nothing sene;He hath him clensed bothe tuo,The bodi and the Soule also.

Tho knew this Emperour in dedeThat Cristes feith was forto drede,And sende anon hise lettres outeAnd let do crien al aboute,Up peine of deth that noman weyveThat he baptesme ne receive:After his Moder qweene HeleineHe sende, and so betwen hem tweineThei treten, that the Cite allWas cristned, and sche forth withall.This Emperour, which hele hath founde,Withinne Rome anon let foundeTuo cherches, which he dede makeFor Peter and for Poules sake,Of whom he hadde avisioun;And yaf therto possessiounOf lordschipe and of worldes good.Bot how so that his will was goodToward the Pope and his Franchise,Yit hath it proved other wise,To se the worchinge of the dede:For in Cronique this I rede;Anon as he hath mad the yifte,A vois was herd on hih the lifte,Of which al Rome was adrad,And seith: “To day is venym schadIn holi cherche of temporal,Which medleth with the spirital.”And hou it stant of that degreeYit mai a man the sothe se:God mai amende it, whan he wile,I can ther to non other skile.

Bot forto go ther I began,How charite mai helpe a manTo bothe worldes, I have seid:And if thou have an Ere leid,Mi Sone, thou miht understonde,If charite be take on honde,Ther folweth after mochel grace.Forthi, if that thou wolt pourchaceHow that thou miht Envie flee,Aqueinte thee with charite,Which is the vertu sovereine.

Mi fader, I schal do my peine:For this ensample which ye toldeWith al myn herte I have withholde,So that I schal for everemoreEschuie Envie wel the more:And that I have er this misdo,Yif me my penance er I go.And over that to mi matiereOf schrifte, why we sitten hiereIn privete betwen ous tweie,Now axeth what ther is, I preie.

Mi goode Sone, and for thi loreI woll thee telle what is more,So that thou schalt the vices knowe:For whan thei be to thee full knowe,Thou miht hem wel the betre eschuie.And for this cause I thenke suieThe forme bothe and the matiere,As now suiende thou schalt hiereWhich vice stant next after this:And whan thou wost how that it is,As thou schalt hiere me devise,Thow miht thiself the betre avise.