Book IV

Dicunt accidiam fore nutricem viciorum,Torpet et in cunctis tarda que lenta bonis:Que fieri possent hodie transfert piger in cras,Furatoque prius ostia claudit equo.Poscenti tardo negat emolumenta Cupido,Set Venus in celeri ludit amore viri.

Upon the vices to procedeAfter the cause of mannes dede,The ferste point of Slowthe I calleLachesce, and is the chief of alle,And hath this propreliche of kinde,To leven alle thing behinde.Of that he mihte do now hierHe tarieth al the longe yer,And everemore he seith, “Tomorwe”;And so he wol his time borwe,And wissheth after “God me sende,”That whan he weneth have an ende,Thanne is he ferthest to beginne.Thus bringth he many a meschief inneUnwar, til that he be meschieved,And may noght thanne be relieved.

And riht so nowther mor ne lesseIt stant of love and of lachesce:Som time he slowtheth in a dayThat he nevere after gete mai.If thou have eny knowleching,That thou to love hast don er this,Tell on.

Mi goode fader, yis.As of lachesce I am beknoweThat I mai stonde upon his rowe,As I that am clad of his suite:For whanne I thoghte mi poursuiteTo make, and therto sette a dayTo speke unto the swete May,Lachesce bad abide yit,And bar on hond it was no witNe time forto speke as tho.Thus with his tales to and froMi time in tariinge he drowh:Whan ther was time good ynowh,He seide, “An other time is bettre;Thou schalt mowe senden hire a lettre,And per cas wryte more pleinThan thou be Mowthe durstest sein.”Thus have I lete time slydeFor Slowthe, and kepte noght my tide,So that lachesce with his viceFulofte hath mad my wit so nyce,That what I thoghte speke or doWith tariinge he hield me so,Til whanne I wolde and mihte noght.I not what thing was in my thoght,Or it was drede, or it was schame;Bot evere in ernest and in gameI wot ther is long time passed.Bot yit is noght the love lassed,Which I unto mi ladi have;For thogh my tunge is slowh to craveAt alle time, as I have bede,Min herte stant evere in o stedeAnd axeth besiliche grace,The which I mai noght yit embrace.And god wot that is malgre myn;For this I wot riht wel a fin,Mi grace comth so selde aboute,That is the Slowthe of which I douteMor than of al the remenantWhich is to love appourtenant.And thus as touchende of lachesce,As I have told, I me confesseTo you, mi fader, and besecheThat furthermor ye wol me teche;And if ther be to this matiereSom goodly tale forto liereHow I mai do lachesce aweie,That ye it wolden telle I preie.

To wisse thee, my Sone, and rede,Among the tales whiche I rede,An old ensample theruponNow herkne, and I wol tellen on.

Ayein Lachesce in loves casI finde how whilom Eneas,Whom Anchises to Sone hadde,With gret navie, which he laddeFro Troie, aryveth at Cartage,Wher for a while his herbergageHe tok; and it betidde so,With hire which was qweene thoOf the Cite his aqueintanceHe wan, whos name in remembranceIs yit, and Dido sche was hote;Which loveth Eneas so hoteUpon the wordes whiche he seide,That al hire herte on him sche leideAnd dede al holi what he wolde.

Bot after that, as it be scholde,Fro thenne he goth toward YtaileBe Schipe, and there his arivaileHath take, and schop him forto ryde.Bot sche, which mai noght longe abideThe hote peine of loves throwe,Anon withinne a litel throweA lettre unto hir kniht hath write,And dede him pleinly forto wite,If he made eny tariinge,To drecche of his ayeincomynge,That sche ne mihte him fiele and se,Sche scholde stonde in such degreAs whilom stod a Swan tofore,Of that sche hadde hire make lore;For sorwe a fethere into hire brainSche schof and hath hireselve slain;As king Menander in a layThe sothe hath founde, wher sche laySprantlende with hire wynges tweie,As sche which scholde thanne deieFor love of him which was hire make.

“And so schal I do for thi sake,”This qweene seide, “wel I wot.”Lo, to Enee thus sche wrotWith many an other word of pleinte:Bot he, which hadde hise thoghtes feinteTowardes love and full of Slowthe,His time lette, and that was rowthe:For sche, which loveth him tofore,Desireth evere more and more,And whan sche sih him tarie so,Hire herte was so full of wo,That compleignende manyfoldSche hath hire oghne tale told,Unto hirself and thus sche spak:“Ha, who fond evere such a lakOf Slowthe in eny worthi kniht?Now wot I wel my deth is dihtThurgh him which scholde have be mi lif.”Bot forto stinten al this strif,Thus whan sche sih non other bote,Riht evene unto hire herte roteA naked swerd anon sche threste,And thus sche gat hireselve resteIn remembrance of alle slowe.

Wherof, my Sone, thou miht knoweHow tariinge upon the nedeIn loves cause is forto drede;And that hath Dido sore aboght,Whos deth schal evere be bethoght.And overmore if I schal secheIn this matiere an other spieche,In a Cronique I finde writeA tale which is good to wite.

At Troie whan king UlixesUpon the Siege among the presOf hem that worthi knihtes wereAbod long time stille there,In thilke time a man mai seHow goodli that Penolope,Which was to him his trewe wif,Of his lachesce was pleintif;Wherof to Troie sche him sendeHire will be lettre, thus spekende:

“Mi worthi love and lord also,It is and hath ben evere so,That wher a womman is al one,It makth a man in his personeThe more hardi forto wowe,In hope that sche wolde boweTo such thing as his wille were,Whil that hire lord were elleswhere.And of miself I telle this;For it so longe passed is,Sithe ferst than ye fro home wente,That welnyh every man his wenteTo there I am, whil ye ben oute,Hath mad, and ech of hem aboute,Which love can, my love secheth,With gret preiere and me besecheth:And some maken gret manace,That if thei mihten come in place,Wher that thei mihte here wille have,Ther is nothing me scholde save,That thei ne wolde werche thinges;And some tellen me tidyngesThat ye ben ded, and some seinThat certeinly ye ben beseinTo love a newe and leve me.Bot hou as evere that it be,I thonke unto the goddes alle,As yit for oght that is befalleMai noman do my chekes rede:Bot natheles it is to drede,That Lachesse in continuanceFortune mihte such a chance,Which noman after scholde amende.”Lo, thus this ladi compleignendeA lettre unto hire lord hath write,And preyde him that he wolde witeAnd thenke hou that sche was al his,And that he tarie noght in this,Bot that he wolde his love aquite,To hire ayeinward and noght wryte,Bot come himself in alle haste,That he non other paper waste;So that he kepe and holde his trowtheWithoute lette of eny Slowthe.

Unto hire lord and love liegeTo Troie, wher the grete SiegeWas leid, this lettre was conveied.And he, which wisdom hath pourveiedOf al that to reson belongeth,With gentil herte it underfongeth:And whan he hath it overrad,In part he was riht inly glad,And ek in part he was desesed:Bot love his herte hath so thorghsesedWith pure ymaginacioun,That for non occupaciounWhich he can take on other side,He mai noght flitt his herte asideFro that his wif him hadde enformed;Wherof he hath himself conformedWith al the wille of his corageTo schape and take the viageHomward, what time that he mai:So that him thenketh of a dayA thousand yer, til he mai seThe visage of Penolope,Which he desireth most of alle.And whan the time is so befalleThat Troie was destruid and brent,He made non delaiement,Bot goth him home in alle hihe,Wher that he fond tofore his yheHis worthi wif in good astat:And thus was cessed the debatOf love, and Slowthe was excused,Which doth gret harm, where it is used,And hindreth many a cause honeste.

For of the grete Clerc GrosstesteI rede how besy that he wasUpon clergie an Hed of brasTo forge, and make it forto telleOf suche thinges as befelle.And sevene yeres besinesseHe leyde, bot for the lachesseOf half a Minut of an houre,Fro ferst that he began laboureHe loste all that he hadde do.

And otherwhile it fareth so,In loves cause who is slow,That he withoute under the wowBe nyhte stant fulofte acold,Which mihte, if that he hadde woldHis time kept, have be withinne.

Bot Slowthe mai no profit winne,Bot he mai singe in his karoleHow Latewar cam to the Dole,Wher he no good receive mihte.And that was proved wel be nyhteWhilom of the Maidenes fyve,Whan thilke lord cam forto wyve:For that here oyle was aweieTo lihte here lampes in his weie,Here Slowthe broghte it so aboute,Fro him that thei ben schet withoute.

Wherof, my Sone, be thou war,Als ferforth as I telle dar.For love moste ben awaited:And if thou be noght wel affaitedIn love to eschuie Slowthe,Mi Sone, forto telle trowthe,Thou miht noght of thiself ben ableTo winne love or make it stable,All thogh thou mihtest love achieve.

Mi fader, that I mai wel lieve.Bot me was nevere assigned place,Wher yit to geten eny grace,Ne me was non such time apointed;For thanne I wolde I were unjoyntedOf every lime that I have,If I ne scholde kepe and saveMin houre bothe and ek my stede,If my ladi it hadde bede.Bot sche is otherwise avisedThan grante such a time assised;And natheles of mi lachesseTher hath be no defalte I gesseOf time lost, if that I mihte:Bot yit hire liketh noght alyhteUpon no lure which I caste;For ay the more I crie faste,The lasse hire liketh forto hiere.So forto speke of this matiere,I seche that I mai noght finde,I haste and evere I am behinde,And wot noght what it mai amounte.Bot, fader, upon myn acompte,Which ye be sett to examineOf Schrifte after the discipline,Sey what your beste conseil is.

Mi Sone, my conseil is this:Hou so it stonde of time go,Do forth thi besinesse so,That no Lachesce in the be founde:For Slowthe is mihti to confoundeThe spied of every mannes werk.For many a vice, as seith the clerk,Ther hongen upon Slowthes lappeOf suche as make a man mishappe,To pleigne and telle of hadde I wist.And therupon if that thee listTo knowe of Slowthes cause more,In special yit overmoreTher is a vice full grevableTo him which is therof coupable,And stant of alle vertu bare,Hierafter as I schal declare.

Touchende of Slowthe in his degre,Ther is yit Pusillamite,Which is to seie in this langage,He that hath litel of corageAnd dar no mannes werk beginne:So mai he noght be resoun winne;For who that noght dar undertake,Be riht he schal no profit take.Bot of this vice the natureDar nothing sette in aventure,Him lacketh bothe word and dede,Wherof he scholde his cause spede:He woll no manhed understonde,For evere he hath drede upon honde:Al is peril that he schal seie,Him thenkth the wolf is in the weie,And of ymaginaciounHe makth his excusaciounAnd feigneth cause of pure drede,And evere he faileth ate nede,Til al be spilt that he with deleth.He hath the sor which noman heleth,The which is cleped lack of herte;Thogh every grace aboute him sterte,He wol noght ones stere his fot;So that be resoun lese he mot,That wol noght auntre forto winne.

And so forth, Sone, if we beginneTo speke of love and his servise,Ther ben truantz in such a wise,That lacken herte, whan best wereTo speke of love, and riht for fereThei wexen doumb and dar noght telle,Withoute soun as doth the belle,Which hath no claper forto chyme;And riht so thei as for the tymeBen herteles withoute specheOf love, and dar nothing beseche;And thus thei lese and winne noght.Forthi, my Sone, if thou art oghtCoupable as touchende of this Slowthe,Schrif thee therof and tell me trowthe.

Mi fader, I am al beknoweThat I have ben on of tho slowe,As forto telle in loves cas.Min herte is yit and evere was,As thogh the world scholde al tobreke,So ferful, that I dar noght spekeOf what pourpos that I have nome,Whan I toward mi ladi come,Bot let it passe and overgo.

Mi Sone, do nomore so:For after that a man poursuiethTo love, so fortune suieth,Fulofte and yifth hire happi chanceTo him which makth continuanceTo preie love and to beseche;As be ensample I schal thee teche.

I finde hou whilom ther was on,Whos name was Pymaleon,Which was a lusti man of yowthe:The werkes of entaile he cowtheAbove alle othre men as tho;And thurgh fortune it fell him so,As he whom love schal travaile,He made an ymage of entaileLich to a womman in semblanceOf feture and of contienance,So fair yit nevere was figure.Riht as a lyves creatureSche semeth, for of yvor whytHe hath hire wroght of such delit,That sche was rody on the chekeAnd red on bothe hire lippes eke;Wherof that he himself beguileth.For with a goodly lok sche smyleth,So that thurgh pure impressionOf his ymaginacionWith al the herte of his corageHis love upon this faire ymageHe sette, and hire of love preide;Bot sche no word ayeinward seide.The longe day, what thing he dede,This ymage in the same stedeWas evere bi, that ate meteHe wolde hire serve and preide hire ete,And putte unto hire mowth the cuppe;And whan the bord was taken uppe,He hath hire into chambre nome,And after, whan the nyht was come,He leide hire in his bed al nakid.He was forwept, he was forwakid,He keste hire colde lippes ofte,And wissheth that thei weren softe,And ofte he rouneth in hire Ere,And ofte his arm now hier now thereHe leide, as he hir wolde embrace,And evere among he axeth grace,As thogh sche wiste what he mente:And thus himself he gan tormenteWith such desese of loves peine,That noman mihte him more peine.Bot how it were, of his penanceHe made such continuanceFro dai to nyht, and preith so longe,That his preiere is underfonge,Which Venus of hire grace herde;Be nyhte and whan that he worst ferde,And it lay in his nakede arm,The colde ymage he fieleth warmOf fleissh and bon and full of lif.

Lo, thus he wan a lusti wif,Which obeissant was at his wille;And if he wolde have holde him stilleAnd nothing spoke, he scholde have failed:Bot for he hath his word travailedAnd dorste speke, his love he spedde,And hadde al that he wolde abedde.For er thei wente thanne atwo,A knave child betwen hem twoThei gete, which was after hotePaphus, of whom yit hath the noteA certein yle, which PaphosMen clepe, and of his name it ros.

Be this ensample thou miht findeThat word mai worche above kinde.Forthi, my Sone, if that thou spareTo speke, lost is al thi fare,For Slowthe bringth in alle wo.And over this to loke also,The god of love is favorableTo hem that ben of love stable,And many a wonder hath befalle:Wherof to speke amonges alle,If that thee list to taken hede,Therof a solein tale I rede,Which I schal telle in remembraunceUpon the sort of loves chaunce.

The king Ligdus upon a strifSpak unto Thelacuse his wif,Which thanne was with childe grete;He swor it scholde noght be lete,That if sche have a dowhter bore,That it ne scholde be forloreAnd slain, wherof sche sory was.So it befell upon this cas,Whan sche delivered scholde be,Isis be nyhte in privete,Which of childinge is the goddesse,Cam forto helpe in that destresse,Til that this lady was al smal,And hadde a dowhter forth withal;Which the goddesse in alle weieBad kepe, and that thei scholden seieIt were a Sone: and thus IphisThei namede him, and upon thisThe fader was mad so to wene.And thus in chambre with the qweeneThis Iphis was forthdrawe tho,And clothed and arraied soRiht as a kinges Sone scholde.Til after, as fortune it wolde,Whan it was of a ten yer age,Him was betake in mariageA Duckes dowhter forto wedde,Which Iante hihte, and ofte abeddeThese children leien, sche and sche,Whiche of on age bothe be.So that withinne time of yeeres,Togedre as thei ben pleiefieres,Liggende abedde upon a nyht,Nature, which doth every wihtUpon hire lawe forto muse,Constreigneth hem, so that thei useThing which to hem was al unknowe;Wherof Cupide thilke throweTok pite for the grete love,And let do sette kinde above,So that hir lawe mai ben used,And thei upon here lust excused.For love hateth nothing moreThan thing which stant ayein the loreOf that nature in kinde hath sett:Forthi Cupide hath so besettHis grace upon this aventure,That he acordant to nature,Whan that he syh the time best,That ech of hem hath other kest,Transformeth Iphe into a man,Wherof the kinde love he wanOf lusti yonge Iante his wif;And tho thei ladde a merie lif,Which was to kinde non offence.

And thus to take an evidence,It semeth love is welwillendeTo hem that ben continuendeWith besy herte to poursuieThing which that is to love due.Wherof, my Sone, in this matiereThou miht ensample taken hiere,That with thi grete besinesseThou miht atteigne the richesseOf love, if that ther be no Slowthe.

I dar wel seie be mi trowthe,Als fer as I my witt can seche,Mi fader, as for lacke of speche,Bot so as I me schrof tofore,Ther is non other time lore,Wherof ther mihte ben obstacleTo lette love of his miracle,Which I beseche day and nyht.Bot, fader, so as it is rihtIn forme of schrifte to beknoweWhat thing belongeth to the slowe,Your faderhode I wolde preie,If ther be forthere eny weieTouchende unto this ilke vice.

Mi Sone, ye, of this officeTher serveth on in special,Which lost hath his memorial,So that he can no wit withholdeIn thing which he to kepe is holde,Wherof fulofte himself he grieveth:And who that most upon him lieveth,Whan that hise wittes ben so weyved,He mai full lihtly be deceived.

To serve Accidie in his office,Ther is of Slowthe an other vice,Which cleped is Foryetelnesse;That noght mai in his herte impresseOf vertu which reson hath sett,So clene his wittes he foryet.For in the tellinge of his taleNomore his herte thanne his maleHath remembrance of thilke forme,Wherof he scholde his wit enformeAs thanne, and yit ne wot he why.Thus is his pourpos noght forthiForlore of that he wolde bidde,And skarsly if he seith the thriddeTo love of that he hadde ment:Thus many a lovere hath be schent.Tell on therfore, hast thou be oonOf hem that Slowthe hath so begon?

Ye, fader, ofte it hath be so,That whanne I am mi ladi froAnd thenke untoward hire drawe,Than cast I many a newe laweAnd al the world torne up so doun,And so recorde I mi lecounAnd wryte in my memorialWhat I to hire telle schal,Riht al the matiere of mi tale:Bot al nys worth a note schale;For whanne I come ther sche is,I have it al foryete ywiss;Of that I thoghte forto telleI can noght thanne unethes spelleThat I wende altherbest have rad,So sore I am of hire adrad.For as a man that sodeinliA gost behelde, so fare I;So that for feere I can noght geteMi witt, bot I miself foryete,That I wot nevere what I am,Ne whider I schal, ne whenne I cam,Bot muse as he that were amased.Lich to the bok in which is rasedThe lettre, and mai nothing be rad,So ben my wittes overlad,That what as evere I thoghte have spoken,It is out fro myn herte stoken,And stonde, as who seith, doumb and def,That all nys worth an yvy lef,Of that I wende wel have seid.And ate laste I make abreid,Caste up myn hed and loke aboute,Riht as a man that were in douteAnd wot noght wher he schal become.Thus am I ofte al overcome,Ther as I wende best to stonde:Bot after, whanne I understonde,And am in other place al one,I make many a wofull moneUnto miself, and speke so:“Ha fol, wher was thin herte tho,Whan thou thi worthi ladi syhe?Were thou afered of hire yhe?For of hire hand ther is no drede:So wel I knowe hir wommanhede,That in hire is nomore oultrageThan in a child of thre yeer age.Whi hast thou drede of so good on,Whom alle vertu hath begon,That in hire is no violenceBot goodlihiede and innocenceWithouten spot of eny blame?Ha, nyce herte, fy for schame!Ha, couard herte of love unlered,Wherof art thou so sore afered,That thou thi tunge soffrest frese,And wolt thi goode wordes lese,Whan thou hast founde time and space?How scholdest thou deserve grace,Whan thou thiself darst axe non,Bot al thou hast foryete anon?”And thus despute I loves lore,Bot help ne finde I noght the more,Bot stomble upon myn oghne treineAnd make an ekinge of my peine.For evere whan I thenke amongHow al is on miself along,I seie, “O fol of alle foles,Thou farst as he betwen tuo stolesThat wolde sitte and goth to grounde.It was ne nevere schal be founde,Betwen foryetelnesse and dredeThat man scholde any cause spede.”And thus, myn holi fader diere,Toward miself, as ye mai hiere,I pleigne of my foryetelnesse;Bot elles al the besinesse,That mai be take of mannes thoght,Min herte takth, and is thorghsoghtTo thenken evere upon that sweteWithoute Slowthe, I you behete.For what so falle, or wel or wo,That thoght foryete I neveremo,Wher so I lawhe or so I loure:Noght half the Minut of an houreNe mihte I lete out of my mende,Bot if I thoghte upon that hende.Therof me schal no Slowthe lette,Til deth out of this world me fette,Althogh I hadde on such a Ring,As Moises thurgh his enchantingSom time in Ethiope made,Whan that he Tharbis weddid hade.Which Ring bar of OblivionThe name, and that was be resounThat where it on a finger sat,Anon his love he so foryat,As thogh he hadde it nevere knowe:And so it fell that ilke throwe,Whan Tharbis hadde it on hire hond,No knowlechinge of him sche fond,Bot al was clene out of memoire,As men mai rede in his histoire;And thus he wente quit away,That nevere after that ilke daySche thoghte that ther was such on;Al was foryete and overgon.Bot in good feith so mai noght I:For sche is evere faste by,So nyh that sche myn herte toucheth,That for nothing that Slowthe vouchethI mai foryete hire, lief ne loth;For overal, where as sche goth,Min herte folwith hire aboute.Thus mai I seie withoute doute,For bet, for wers, for oght, for noght,Sche passeth nevere fro my thoght;Bot whanne I am ther as sche is,Min herte, as I you saide er this,Som time of hire is sore adrad,And som time it is overglad,Al out of reule and out of space.For whan I se hir goodli faceAnd thenke upon hire hihe pris,As thogh I were in Paradis,I am so ravisht of the syhte,That speke unto hire I ne myhteAs for the time, thogh I wolde:For I ne mai my wit unfoldeTo finde o word of that I mene,Bot al it is foryete clene;And thogh I stonde there a myle,Al is foryete for the while,A tunge I have and wordes none.And thus I stonde and thenke al oneOf thing that helpeth ofte noght;Bot what I hadde afore thoghtTo speke, whanne I come there,It is foryete, as noght ne were,And stonde amased and assoted,That of nothing which I have notedI can noght thanne a note singe,Bot al is out of knowlechinge:Thus, what for joie and what for drede,Al is foryeten ate nede.So that, mi fader, of this SlowtheI have you said the pleine trowthe;Ye mai it as you list redresce:For thus stant my foryetelnesseAnd ek my pusillamite.Sey now forth what you list to me,For I wol only do be you.

Mi Sone, I have wel herd how thouHast seid, and that thou most amende:For love his grace wol noght sendeTo that man which dar axe non.For this we knowen everichon,A mannes thoght withoute specheGod wot, and yit that men besecheHis will is; for withoute bedesHe doth his grace in fewe stedes:And what man that foryet himselve,Among a thousand be noght tuelve,That wol him take in remembraunce,Bot lete him falle and take his chaunce.Forthi pull up a besi herte,Mi Sone, and let nothing asterteOf love fro thi besinesse:For touchinge of foryetelnesse,Which many a love hath set behinde,A tale of gret ensample I finde,Wherof it is pite to witeIn the manere as it is write.

King Demephon, whan he be SchipeTo Troieward with felaschipeSailende goth, upon his weieIt hapneth him at Rodopeie,As Eolus him hadde blowe,To londe, and rested for a throwe.And fell that ilke time thus,The dowhter of Ligurgius,Which qweene was of the contre,Was sojournende in that CiteWithinne a Castell nyh the stronde,Wher Demephon cam up to londe.Phillis sche hihte, and of yong ageAnd of stature and of visageSche hadde al that hire best besemeth.Of Demephon riht wel hire qwemeth,Whan he was come, and made him chiere;And he, that was of his manereA lusti knyht, ne myhte asterteThat he ne sette on hire his herte;So that withinne a day or tuoHe thoghte, how evere that it go,He wolde assaie the fortune,And gan his herte to communeWith goodly wordes in hire Ere;And forto put hire out of fere,He swor and hath his trowthe plihtTo be for evere hire oghne knyht.And thus with hire he stille abod,Ther while his Schip on Anker rod,And hadde ynowh of time and spaceTo speke of love and seche grace.

This ladi herde al that he seide,And hou he swor and hou he preide,Which was as an enchantementTo hire, that was innocent:As thogh it were trowthe and feith,Sche lieveth al that evere he seith,And as hire infortune scholde,Sche granteth him al that he wolde.Thus was he for the time in joie,Til that he scholde go to Troie;Bot tho sche made mochel sorwe,And he his trowthe leith to borweTo come, if that he live may,Ayein withinne a Monthe day,And therupon thei kisten bothe:Bot were hem lieve or were hem lothe,To Schipe he goth and forth he wenteTo Troie, as was his ferste entente.

The daies gon, the Monthe passeth,Hire love encresceth and his lasseth,For him sche lefte slep and mete,And he his time hath al foryete;So that this wofull yonge qweene,Which wot noght what it mihte meene,A lettre sende and preide him come,And seith how sche is overcomeWith strengthe of love in such a wise,That sche noght longe mai suffiseTo liven out of his presence;And putte upon his conscienceThe trowthe which he hath behote,Wherof sche loveth him so hote,Sche seith, that if he lengere letteOf such a day as sche him sette,Sche scholde sterven in his Slowthe,Which were a schame unto his trowthe.This lettre is forth upon hire sonde,Wherof somdiel confort on hondeSche tok, as she that wolde abideAnd waite upon that ilke tydeWhich sche hath in hire lettre write.

Bot now is pite forto wite,As he dede erst, so he foryatHis time eftsone and oversat.Bot sche, which mihte noght do so,The tyde awayteth everemo,And caste hire yhe upon the See:Somtime nay, somtime yee,Somtime he cam, somtime noght,Thus sche desputeth in hire thoghtAnd wot noght what sche thenke mai;Bot fastende al the longe daySche was into the derke nyht,And tho sche hath do set up lyhtIn a lanterne on hih alofteUpon a Tour, wher sche goth ofte,In hope that in his comingeHe scholde se the liht brenninge,Wherof he mihte his weies rihteTo come wher sche was be nyhte.Bot al for noght, sche was deceived,For Venus hath hire hope weyved,And schewede hire upon the SkyHow that the day was faste by,So that withinne a litel throweThe daies lyht sche mihte knowe.Tho sche behield the See at large;And whan sche sih ther was no bargeNe Schip, als ferr as sche may kenne,Doun fro the Tour sche gan to renneInto an Herber all hire one,Wher many a wonder woful moneSche made, that no lif it wiste,As sche which all hire joie miste,That now sche swouneth, now sche pleigneth,And al hire face sche desteignethWith teres, whiche, as of a welleThe stremes, from hire yhen felle;So as sche mihte and evere in onSche clepede upon Demephon,And seide, “Helas, thou slowe wiht,Wher was ther evere such a knyht,That so thurgh his ungentilesceOf Slowthe and of foryetelnesseAyein his trowthe brak his stevene?”And tho hire yhe up to the heveneSche caste, and seide, “O thou unkinde,Hier schalt thou thurgh thi Slowthe finde,If that thee list to come and se,A ladi ded for love of thee,So as I schal myselve spille;Whom, if it hadde be thi wille,Thou mihtest save wel ynowh.”With that upon a grene bowhA Ceinte of Selk, which sche ther hadde,Sche knette, and so hireself sche ladde,That sche aboute hire whyte swereIt dede, and hyng hirselven there.Wherof the goddes were amoeved,And Demephon was so reproeved,That of the goddes providenceWas schape such an evidenceEvere afterward ayein the slowe,That Phillis in the same throweWas schape into a Notetre,That alle men it mihte se,And after Phillis PhilliberdThis tre was cleped in the yerd,And yit for Demephon to schameInto this dai it berth the name.This wofull chance how that it ferdeAnon as Demephon it herde,And every man it hadde in speche,His sorwe was noght tho to seche;He gan his Slowthe forto banne,Bot it was al to late thanne.

Lo thus, my Sone, miht thou witeAyein this vice how it is write;For noman mai the harmes gesse,That fallen thurgh foryetelnesse,Wherof that I thi schrifte have herd.Bot yit of Slowthe hou it hath ferdIn other wise I thenke oppose,If thou have gult, as I suppose.

Fulfild of Slowthes essamplaireTher is yit on, his Secretaire,And he is cleped Negligence:Which wol noght loke his evidence,Wherof he mai be war tofore;Bot whanne he hath his cause lore,Thanne is he wys after the hond:Whanne helpe may no maner bond,Thanne ate ferste wolde he binde:Thus everemore he stant behinde.Whanne he the thing mai noght amende,Thanne is he war, and seith at ende,“Ha, wolde god I hadde knowe!”Wherof bejaped with a moweHe goth, for whan the grete StiedeIs stole, thanne he taketh hiede,And makth the stable dore fast:Thus evere he pleith an aftercastOf al that he schal seie or do.He hath a manere eke also,Him list noght lerne to be wys,For he set of no vertu prisBot as him liketh for the while;So fieleth he fulofte guile,Whan that he weneth siker stonde.And thus thou miht wel understonde,Mi Sone, if thou art such in love,Thou miht noght come at thin aboveOf that thou woldest wel achieve.

Mi holi fader, as I lieve,I mai wel with sauf conscienceExcuse me of necgligenceTowardes love in alle wise:For thogh I be non of the wise,I am so trewly amerous,That I am evere curiousOf hem that conne best enformeTo knowe and witen al the forme,What falleth unto loves craft.Bot yit ne fond I noght the haft,Which mihte unto that bladd acorde;For nevere herde I man recordeWhat thing it is that myhte availeTo winne love withoute faile.Yit so fer cowthe I nevere findeMan that be resoun ne be kindeMe cowthe teche such an art,That he ne failede of a part;And as toward myn oghne wit,Controeve cowthe I nevere yitTo finden eny sikernesse,That me myhte outher more or lesseOf love make forto spede:For lieveth wel withoute drede,If that ther were such a weie,As certeinliche as I schal deieI hadde it lerned longe ago.Bot I wot wel ther is non so:And natheles it may wel be,I am so rude in my degreeAnd ek mi wittes ben so dulle,That I ne mai noght to the fulleAtteigne to so hih a lore.Bot this I dar seie overmore,Althogh mi wit ne be noght strong,It is noght on mi will along,For that is besi nyht and dayTo lerne al that he lerne may,How that I mihte love winne:Bot yit I am as to beginneOf that I wolde make an ende,And for I not how it schal wende,That is to me mi moste sorwe.Bot I dar take god to borwe,As after min entendement,Non other wise necgligentThanne I yow seie have I noght be:Forthi per seinte chariteTell me, mi fader, what you semeth.

In good feith, Sone, wel me qwemeth,That thou thiself hast thus aquitToward this vice, in which no witAbide mai, for in an houreHe lest al that he mai laboureThe longe yer, so that men sein,What evere he doth it is in vein.For thurgh the Slowthe of NegligenceTher was yit nevere such scienceNe vertu, which was bodely,That nys destruid and lost therby.Ensample that it hath be soIn boke I finde write also.

Phebus, which is the Sonne hote,That schyneth upon Erthe hoteAnd causeth every lyves helthe,He hadde a Sone in al his welthe,Which Pheton hihte, and he desirethAnd with his Moder he conspireth,The which was cleped Clemenee,For help and conseil, so that heHis fader carte lede myhteUpon the faire daies brihte.And for this thing thei bothe preideUnto the fader, and he seideHe wolde wel, bot forth withalThre pointz he bad in specialUnto his Sone in alle wise,That he him scholde wel aviseAnd take it as be weie of lore.Ferst was, that he his hors to soreNe prike, and over that he toldeThat he the renes faste holde;And also that he be riht warIn what manere he lede his charr,That he mistake noght his gate,Bot up avisement algateHe scholde bere a siker yhe,That he to lowe ne to hyheHis carte dryve at eny throwe,Wherof that he mihte overthrowe.And thus be Phebus ordinanceTok Pheton into governanceThe Sonnes carte, which he ladde:Bot he such veine gloire haddeOf that he was set upon hyh,That he his oghne astat ne syhThurgh negligence and tok non hiede;So mihte he wel noght longe spede.For he the hors withoute laweThe carte let aboute draweWher as hem liketh wantounly,That ate laste sodeinly,For he no reson wolde knowe,This fyri carte he drof to lowe,And fyreth al the world aboute;Wherof thei weren alle in doubte,And to the god for helpe cridenOf suche unhappes as betyden.Phebus, which syh the necgligence,How Pheton ayein his defenceHis charr hath drive out of the weie,Ordeigneth that he fell aweieOut of the carte into a flodAnd dreynte. Lo now, hou it stodWith him that was so necgligent,That fro the hyhe firmament,For that he wolde go to lowe,He was anon doun overthrowe.

In hih astat it is a viceTo go to lowe, and in serviceIt grieveth forto go to hye,Wherof a tale in poesieI finde, how whilom Dedalus,Which hadde a Sone, and IcharusHe hihte, and thogh hem thoghte lothe,In such prison thei weren botheWith Minotaurus, that abouteThei mihten nawher wenden oute;So thei begonne forto schapeHow thei the prison mihte ascape.This Dedalus, which fro his yowtheWas tawht and manye craftes cowthe,Of fetheres and of othre thingesHath mad to fle diverse wyngesFor him and for his Sone also;To whom he yaf in charge thoAnd bad him thenke therupon,How that his wynges ben set onWith wex, and if he toke his flyhteTo hyhe, al sodeinliche he mihteMake it to melte with the Sonne.And thus thei have her flyht begonneOut of the prison faire and softe;And whan thei weren bothe alofte,This Icharus began to monte,And of the conseil non accompteHe sette, which his fader tawhte,Til that the Sonne his wynges cawhte,Wherof it malt, and fro the heihteWithouten help of eny sleihteHe fell to his destruccion.And lich to that condicionTher fallen ofte times feleFor lacke of governance in wele,Als wel in love as other weie.

Now goode fader, I you preie,If ther be more in the matiereOf Slowthe, that I mihte it hiere.

Mi Sone, and for thi diligence,Which every mannes conscienceBe resoun scholde reule and kepe,If that thee list to taken kepe,I wol thee telle, aboven alleIn whom no vertu mai befalle,Which yifth unto the vices resteAnd is of slowe the sloweste.

Among these othre of Slowthes kinde,Which alle labour set behinde,And hateth alle besinesse,Ther is yit on, which YdelnesseIs cleped, and is the NorriceIn mannes kinde of every vice,Which secheth eases manyfold.In Wynter doth he noght for cold,In Somer mai he noght for hete;So whether that he frese or swete,Or he be inne, or he be oute,He wol ben ydel al aboute,Bot if he pleie oght ate Dees.For who as evere take feesAnd thenkth worschipe to deserve,Ther is no lord whom he wol serve,As forto duelle in his servise,Bot if it were in such a wise,Of that he seth per aventureThat be lordschipe and covertureHe mai the more stonde stille,And use his ydelnesse at wille.For he ne wol no travail takeTo ryde for his ladi sake,Bot liveth al upon his wisshes;And as a cat wolde ete fisshesWithoute wetinge of his cles,So wolde he do, bot nathelesHe faileth ofte of that he wolde.

Mi Sone, if thou of such a moldeArt mad, now tell me plein thi schrifte.

Nay, fader, god I yive a yifte.That toward love, as be mi wit,Al ydel was I nevere yit,Ne nevere schal, whil I mai go.

What hast thou don of besischipeTo love and to the ladischipeOf hire which thi ladi is?

Mi fader, evere yit er thisIn every place, in every stede,What so mi lady hath me bede,With al myn herte obedientI have therto be diligent.And if so is sche bidde noght,What thing that thanne into my thoghtComth ferst of that I mai suffise,I bowe and profre my servise,Somtime in chambre, somtime in halle,Riht as I se the times falle.And whan sche goth to hiere masse,That time schal noght overpasse,That I naproche hir ladihede,In aunter if I mai hire ledeUnto the chapelle and ayein.Thanne is noght al mi weie in vein,Somdiel I mai the betre fare,Whan I, that mai noght fiele hir bare,Mai lede hire clothed in myn arm:Bot afterward it doth me harmOf pure ymaginacioun;For thanne this collaciounI make unto miselven ofte,And seie, “Ha lord, hou sche is softe,How sche is round, hou sche is smal!Now wolde god I hadde hire alWithoute danger at mi wille!”And thanne I sike and sitte stille,Of that I se mi besi thoghtIs torned ydel into noght.Bot for al that lete I ne mai,Whanne I se time an other dai,That I ne do my besinesseUnto mi ladi worthinesse.For I therto mi wit afaiteTo se the times and awaiteWhat is to done and what to leve:And so, whan time is, be hir leve,What thing sche bit me don, I do,And wher sche bidt me gon, I go,And whanne hir list to clepe, I come.Thus hath sche fulliche overcomeMin ydelnesse til I sterve,So that I mot hire nedes serve,For as men sein, nede hath no lawe.Thus mot I nedly to hire drawe,I serve, I bowe, I loke, I loute,Min yhe folweth hire aboute,What so sche wole so wol I,Whan sche wol sitte, I knele by,And whan sche stant, than wol I stonde:Bot whan sche takth hir werk on hondeOf wevinge or enbrouderie,Than can I noght bot muse and prieUpon hir fingres longe and smale,And now I thenke, and now I tale,And now I singe, and now I sike,And thus mi contienance I pike.And if it falle, as for a timeHir liketh noght abide bime,Bot besien hire on other thinges,Than make I othre tariingesTo dreche forth the longe dai,For me is loth departe away.And thanne I am so simple of port,That forto feigne som desportI pleie with hire litel houndNow on the bedd, now on the ground,Now with hir briddes in the cage;For ther is non so litel page,Ne yit so simple a chamberere,That I ne make hem alle chere,Al for thei scholde speke wel:Thus mow ye sen mi besi whiel,That goth noght ydeliche aboute.And if hir list to riden outeOn pelrinage or other stede,I come, thogh I be noght bede,And take hire in min arm alofteAnd sette hire in hire sadel softe,And so forth lede hire be the bridel,For that I wolde noght ben ydel.And if hire list to ride in Char,And thanne I mai therof be war,Anon I schape me to rydeRiht evene be the Chares side;And as I mai, I speke among,And otherwhile I singe a song,Which Ovide in his bokes made,And seide, “O whiche sorwes glade,O which wofull prosperiteBelongeth to the propreteOf love, who so wole him serve!And yit therfro mai noman swerve,That he ne mot his lawe obeie.”And thus I ryde forth mi weie,And am riht besi overalWith herte and with mi body al,As I have said you hier tofore.My goode fader, tell therfore,Of Ydelnesse if I have gilt.

Mi Sone, bot thou telle wiltOght elles than I mai now hiere,Thou schalt have no penance hiere.And natheles a man mai se,How now adayes that ther beFul manye of suche hertes slowe,That wol noght besien hem to knoweWhat thing love is, til ate laste,That he with strengthe hem overcaste,That malgre hem thei mote obeieAnd don al ydelschipe aweie,To serve wel and besiliche.For love schal the wel excuse:Bot otherwise, if thou refuseTo love, thou miht so per casBen ydel, as somtime wasA kinges dowhter unavised,Til that Cupide hire hath chastised:Wherof thou schalt a tale hiereAcordant unto this matiere.

Of Armenye, I rede thus,Ther was a king, which HerupusWas hote, and he a lusti MaideTo dowhter hadde, and as men saideHire name was Rosiphelee;Which tho was of gret renomee,For sche was bothe wys and fairAnd scholde ben hire fader hair.Bot sche hadde o defalte of SlowtheTowardes love, and that was rowthe;For so wel cowde noman seie,Which mihte sette hire in the weieOf loves occupacionThurgh non ymaginacion;That scole wolde sche noght knowe.And thus sche was on of the sloweAs of such hertes besinesse,Til whanne Venus the goddesse,Which loves court hath forto reule,Hath broght hire into betre reule,Forth with Cupide and with his miht:For thei merveille how such a wiht,Which tho was in hir lusti age,Desireth nother MariageNe yit the love of paramours,Which evere hath be the comun coursAmonges hem that lusti were.So was it schewed after there:For he that hihe hertes lowethWith fyri Dartes whiche he throweth,Cupide, which of love is godd,In chastisinge hath mad a roddTo dryve awei hir wantounesse;So that withinne a while, I gesse,Sche hadde on such a chance sporned,That al hire mod was overtorned,Which ferst sche hadde of slow manere:For thus it fell, as thou schalt hiere.Whan come was the Monthe of Maii,Sche wolde walke upon a dai,And that was er the Sonne Ariste;Of wommen bot a fewe it wiste,And forth sche wente privelyUnto the Park was faste by,Al softe walkende on the gras,Til sche cam ther the Launde was,Thurgh which ther ran a gret rivere.It thoghte hir fair, and seide, “HereI wole abide under the schawe”:And bad hire wommen to withdrawe,And ther sche stod al one stille,To thenke what was in hir wille.Sche sih the swote floures springe,Sche herde glade foules singe,Sche sih the bestes in her kinde,The buck, the do, the hert, the hinde,The madle go with the femele;And so began ther a quereleBetwen love and hir oghne herte,Fro which sche couthe noght asterte.And as sche caste hire yhe aboute,Sche syh clad in o suite a routeOf ladis, wher thei comen rydeAlong under the wodes syde:On faire amblende hors thei sete,That were al whyte, fatte and grete,And everichon thei ride on side.The Sadles were of such a Pride,With Perle and gold so wel begon,So riche syh sche nevere non;In kertles and in Copes richeThei weren clothed, alle liche,Departed evene of whyt and blew;With alle lustes that sche knewThei were enbrouded overal.Here bodies weren long and smal,The beaute faye upon her faceNon erthly thing it may desface;Corones on here hed thei beere,As ech of hem a qweene weere,That al the gold of Cresus halleThe leste coronal of alleNe mihte have boght after the worth:Thus come thei ridende forth.

The kinges dowhter, which this syh,For pure abaissht drowh hire adryhAnd hield hire clos under the bowh,And let hem passen stille ynowh;For as hire thoghte in hire avis,To hem that were of such a prisSche was noght worthi axen there,Fro when they come or what thei were:Bot levere than this worldes goodSche wolde have wist hou that it stod,And putte hire hed alitel oute;And as sche lokede hire aboute,Sche syh comende under the lindeA womman up an hors behinde.The hors on which sche rod was blak,Al lene and galled on the back,And haltede, as he were encluyed,Wherof the womman was annuied;Thus was the hors in sori plit,Bot for al that a sterre whitAmiddes in the front he hadde.Hir Sadel ek was wonder badde,In which the wofull womman sat,And natheles ther was with thatA riche bridel for the nonesOf gold and preciouse Stones.Hire cote was somdiel totore;Aboute hir middel twenty scoreOf horse haltres and wel moTher hyngen ate time tho.

Thus whan sche cam the ladi nyh,Than tok sche betre hiede and syhThis womman fair was of visage,Freyssh, lusti, yong and of tendre age;And so this ladi, ther sche stod,Bethoghte hire wel and understodThat this, which com ridende tho,Tidinges couthe telle of tho,Which as sche sih tofore ryde,And putte hir forth and preide abide,And seide, “Ha, Suster, let me hiere,What ben thei, that now riden hiere,And ben so richeliche arraied?”

This womman, which com so esmaied,Ansuerde with ful softe speche,And seith, “Ma Dame, I schal you teche.These ar of tho that whilom wereServantz to love, and trowthe beere,Ther as thei hadde here herte set.Fare wel, for I mai noght be let:Ma Dame, I go to mi servise,So moste I haste in alle wise;Forthi, ma Dame, yif me leve,I mai noght longe with you leve.”

“Ha, goode Soster, yit I preie,Tell me whi ye ben so beseieAnd with these haltres thus begon.”

“Ma Dame, whilom I was onThat to mi fader hadde a king;Bot I was slow, and for no thingMe liste noght to love obeie,And that I now ful sore abeie.For I whilom no love hadde,Min hors is now so fieble and badde,And al totore is myn arai,And every yeer this freisshe MaiiThese lusti ladis ryde aboute,And I mot nedes suie here routeIn this manere as ye now se,And trusse here haltres forth with me,And am bot as here horse knave.Non other office I ne have,Hem thenkth I am worthi nomore,For I was slow in loves lore,Whan I was able forto lere,And wolde noght the tales hiereOf hem that couthen love teche.”

“Now tell me thanne, I you beseche,Wherof that riche bridel serveth.”

With that hire chere awei sche swerveth,And gan to wepe, and thus sche tolde:“This bridel, which ye nou beholdeSo riche upon myn horse hed,—Ma Dame, afore, er I was ded,Whan I was in mi lusti lif,Ther fel into myn herte a strifOf love, which me overcom,So that therafter hiede I nomAnd thoghte I wolde love a kniht:That laste wel a fourtenyht,For it no lengere mihte laste,So nyh my lif was ate laste.Bot now, allas, to late warThat I ne hadde him loved ar:For deth cam so in haste bime,Er I therto hadde eny time,That it ne mihte ben achieved.Bot for al that I am relieved,Of that mi will was good therto,That love soffreth it be soThat I schal swiche a bridel were.Now have ye herd al myn ansuere:To godd, ma Dame, I you betake,And warneth alle for mi sake,Of love that thei ben noght ydel,And bidd hem thenke upon mi brydel.”And with that word al sodeinlySche passeth, as it were a Sky,Al clene out of this ladi sihte:And tho for fere hire herte afflihte,And seide to hirself, “Helas!I am riht in the same cas.Bot if I live after this day,I schal amende it, if I may.”And thus homward this lady wente,And changede al hire ferste entente,Withinne hire herte and gan to swereThat sche none haltres wolde bere.

How ydelnesse is forto drede,Namliche of love, as I have write.For thou miht understonde and wite,Among the gentil nacionLove is an occupacion,Which forto kepe hise lustes saveScholde every gentil herte have:For as the ladi was chastised,Riht so the knyht mai ben avised,Which ydel is and wol noght serveTo love, he mai per cas deserveA grettere peine than sche hadde,Whan sche aboute with hire laddeThe horse haltres; and forthiGood is to be wel war therbi.Bot forto loke aboven alle,These Maidens, hou so that it falle,Thei scholden take ensample of thisWhich I have told, for soth it is.

Mi ladi Venus, whom I serve,What womman wole hire thonk deserve,Sche mai noght thilke love eschuieOf paramours, bot sche mot suieCupides lawe; and nathelesMen sen such love sielde in pes,That it nys evere upon aspieOf janglinge and of fals Envie,Fulofte medlid with disese:Bot thilke love is wel at ese,Which set is upon mariage;For that dar schewen the visageIn alle places openly.A gret mervaile it is forthi,How that a Maiden wolde lette,That sche hir time ne besetteTo haste unto that ilke feste,Wherof the love is al honeste.Men mai recovere lost of good,Bot so wys man yit nevere stod,Which mai recovere time lore:So mai a Maiden wel therforeEnsample take, of that sche strangethHir love, and longe er that sche changethHir herte upon hir lustes greeneTo mariage, as it is seene.For thus a yer or tuo or threSche lest, er that sche wedded be,Whyl sche the charge myhte bereOf children, whiche the world forbereNe mai, bot if it scholde faile.Bot what Maiden hire esposaileWol tarie, whan sche take mai,Sche schal per chance an other daiBe let, whan that hire lievest were.Wherof a tale unto hire Ere,Which is coupable upon this dede,I thenke telle of that I rede.

Among the Jewes, as men tolde,Ther was whilom be daies oldeA noble Duck, which Jepte hihte.And fell, he scholde go to fyhteAyein Amon the cruel king:And forto speke upon this thing,Withinne his herte he made avouTo god and seide, “Ha lord, if thouWolt grante unto thi man victoire,I schal in tokne of thi memoireThe ferste lif that I mai se,Of man or womman wher it be,Anon as I come hom ayein,To thee, which art god sovereign,Slen in thi name and sacrifie.”And thus with his chivalerieHe goth him forth, wher that he scholde,And wan al that he winne woldeAnd overcam his fomen alle.

Mai noman lette that schal falle.This Duc a lusti dowhter hadde,And fame, which the wordes spradde,Hath broght unto this ladi EreHow that hire fader hath do there.Sche waiteth upon his comingeWith dansinge and with carolinge,As sche that wolde be toforeAl othre, and so sche was therforeIn Masphat at hir fader gateThe ferste; and whan he com therate,And sih his douhter, he tobreideHise clothes and wepende he seide:

“O mihti god among ous hiere,Nou wot I that in no manereThis worldes joie mai be plein.I hadde al that I coude seinAyein mi fomen be thi grace,So whan I cam toward this placeTher was non gladdere man than I:But now, mi lord, al sodeinliMi joie is torned into sorwe,For I mi dowhter schal tomorweTohewe and brenne in thi serviseTo loenge of thi sacrifiseThurgh min avou, so as it is.”

The Maiden, whan sche wiste of this,And sih the sorwe hir fader made,So as sche mai with wordes gladeConforteth him, and bad him holdeThe covenant which he is holdeTowardes god, as he behihte.Bot natheles hire herte aflihteOf that sche sih hire deth comende;And thanne unto the ground knelendeTofore hir fader sche is falle,And seith, so as it is befalleUpon this point that sche schal deie,Of o thing ferst sche wolde him preie,That fourty daies of respitHe wolde hir grante upon this plit,That sche the whyle mai bewepeHir maidenhod, which sche to kepeSo longe hath had and noght beset;Wherof her lusti youthe is let,That sche no children hath forthdraweIn Mariage after the lawe,So that the poeple is noght encressed.Bot that it mihte be relessed,That sche hir time hath lore so,Sche wolde be his leve goWith othre Maidens to compleigne,And afterward unto the peineOf deth sche wolde come ayein.

The fader herde his douhter sein,And therupon of on assentThe Maidens were anon asent,That scholden with this Maiden wende.So forto speke unto this ende,Thei gon the dounes and the dalesWith wepinge and with wofull tales,And every wyht hire maidenhiedeCompleigneth upon thilke nede,That sche no children hadde bore,Wherof sche hath hir youthe lore,Which nevere sche recovere mai:For so fell that hir laste daiWas come, in which sche scholde takeHir deth, which sche may noght forsake.Lo, thus sche deiede a wofull MaideFor thilke cause which I saide,As thou hast understonde above.

Mi fader, as toward the LoveOf Maidens forto telle trowthe,Ye have thilke vice of Slowthe,Me thenkth, riht wonder wel declared,That ye the wommen have noght sparedOf hem that tarien so behinde.Bot yit it falleth in my minde,Toward the men hou that ye spiekeOf hem that wole no travail siekeIn cause of love upon decerte:To speke in wordes so coverte,I not what travaill that ye mente.

Mi Sone, and after min ententeI woll thee telle what I thoghte,Hou whilom men here loves boghteThurgh gret travaill in strange londes,Wher that thei wroghten with here hondesOf armes many a worthi dede,In sondri place as men mai rede.

That every love of pure kindeIs ferst forthdrawe, wel I finde:Bot natheles yit overthisDecerte doth so that it isThe rather had in mani place.Forthi who secheth loves grace,Wher that these worthi wommen are,He mai noght thanne himselve spareUpon his travail forto serve,Wherof that he mai thonk deserve,There as these men of Armes be,Somtime over the grete Se:So that be londe and ek be SchipeHe mot travaile for worschipeAnd make manye hastyf rodes,Somtime in Prus, somtime in Rodes,And somtime into Tartarie;So that these heraldz on him crie,“Vailant, vailant, lo, wher he goth!”And thanne he yifth hem gold and cloth,So that his fame mihte springe,And to his ladi Ere bringeSom tidinge of his worthinesse;So that sche mihte of his prouesceOf that sche herde men recorde,The betre unto his love acordeAnd danger pute out of hire mod,Whanne alle men recorden good,And that sche wot wel, for hir sakeThat he no travail wol forsake.

Mi Sone, of this travail I meene:Nou schrif thee, for it schal be seneIf thou art ydel in this cas.

My fader ye, and evere was:For as me thenketh trewelyThat every man doth mor than IAs of this point, and if so isThat I have oght so don er this,It is so litel of acompte,As who seith, it mai noght amonteTo winne of love his lusti yifte.For this I telle you in schrifte,That me were levere hir love winneThan Kaire and al that is ther inne:And forto slen the hethen alle,I not what good ther mihte falle,So mochel blod thogh ther be schad.This finde I writen, hou Crist badThat noman other scholde sle.What scholde I winne over the Se,If I mi ladi loste at hom?Bot passe thei the salte fom,To whom Crist bad thei scholden precheTo al the world and his feith teche:Bot now thei rucken in here nestAnd resten as hem liketh bestIn all the swetnesse of delices.Thus thei defenden ous the vices,And sitte hemselven al amidde;To slen and feihten thei ous biddeHem whom thei scholde, as the bok seith,Converten unto Cristes feith.Bot hierof have I gret mervaile,Hou thei wol bidde me travaile:A Sarazin if I sle schal,I sle the Soule forth withal,And that was nevere Cristes lore.Bot nou ho ther, I seie nomore.

Bot I wol speke upon mi schrifte;And to Cupide I make a yifte,That who as evere pris deserveOf armes, I wol love serve;And thogh I scholde hem bothe kepe,Als wel yit wolde I take kepeWhan it were time to abide,As forto travaile and to ryde:For how as evere a man laboure,Cupide appointed hath his houre.

For I have herd it telle also,Achilles lefte hise armes soBothe of himself and of his menAt Troie for Polixenen,Upon hire love whanne he fell,That for no chance that befellAmong the Grecs or up or doun,He wolde noght ayein the tounBen armed, for the love of hire.And so me thenketh, lieve Sire,A man of armes mai him resteSomtime in hope for the beste,If he mai finde a weie nerr.What scholde I thanne go so ferrIn strange londes many a mileTo ryde, and lese at hom therwhileMi love? It were a schort beyeteTo winne chaf and lese whete.Bot if mi ladi bidde wolde,That I for hire love scholdeTravaile, me thenkth trewelyI mihte fle thurghout the Sky,And go thurghout the depe Se,For al ne sette I at a streWhat thonk that I mihte elles gete.What helpeth it a man have mete,Wher drinke lacketh on the bord?What helpeth eny mannes wordTo seie hou I travaile faste,Wher as me faileth ate lasteThat thing which I travaile fore?O in good time were he bore,That mihte atteigne such a mede.Bot certes if I mihte spedeWith eny maner besinesseOf worldes travail, thanne I gesse,Ther scholde me non ydelschipeDeparten fro hir ladischipe.Bot this I se, on daies nouThe blinde god, I wot noght hou,Cupido, which of love is lord,He set the thinges in discord,That thei that lest to love entendeFulofte he wole hem yive and sendeMost of his grace; and thus I findeThat he that scholde go behinde,Goth many a time ferr tofore:So wot I noght riht wel therfore,On whether bord that I schal seile.Thus can I noght miself conseile,Bot al I sette on aventure,And am, as who seith, out of cureFor ought that I can seie or do:For everemore I finde it so,The more besinesse I leie,The more that I knele and preieWith goode wordes and with softe,The more I am refused ofte,With besinesse and mai noght winne.And in good feith that is gret Sinne;For I mai seie, of dede and thoghtThat ydel man have I be noght;For hou as evere I be deslaied,Yit evermore I have assaied.Bot thogh my besinesse laste,Al is bot ydel ate laste,For whan theffect is ydelnesse,I not what thing is besinesse.Sei, what availeth al the dede,Which nothing helpeth ate nede?For the fortune of every fameSchal of his ende bere a name.And thus for oght is yit befalle,An ydel man I wol me calleAs after myn entendement:Bot upon youre amendement,Min holi fader, as you semeth,Mi reson and my cause demeth.

Mi Sone, I have herd thi matiere,Of that thou hast thee schriven hiere:And forto speke of ydel fare,Me semeth that thou tharst noght care,Bot only that thou miht noght spede.And therof, Sone, I wol thee rede,Abyd, and haste noght to faste;Thi dees ben every dai to caste,Thou nost what chance schal betyde.Betre is to wayte upon the tydeThan rowe ayein the stremes stronge:For thogh so be thee thenketh longe,Per cas the revolucionOf hevene and thi condicionNe be noght yit of on acord.Bot I dar make this recordTo Venus, whos Prest that I am,That sithen that I hidir camTo hiere, as sche me bad, thi lif,Wherof thou elles be gultif,Thou miht hierof thi conscienceExcuse, and of gret diligence,Which thou to love hast so despended,Thou oghtest wel to be comended.Bot if so be that ther oght faile,Of that thou slowthest to travaileIn armes forto ben absent,And for thou makst an argumentOf that thou seidest hiere above,Hou Achilles thurgh strengthe of loveHise armes lefte for a throwe,Thou schalt an other tale knowe,Which is contraire, as thou schalt wite.For this a man mai finde write,Whan that knyhthode schal be werred,Lust mai noght thanne be preferred;The bedd mot thanne be forsakeAnd Schield and spere on honde take,Which thing schal make hem after glade,Whan thei ben worthi knihtes made.Wherof, so as it comth to honde,A tale thou schalt understonde,Hou that a kniht schal armes suie,And for the while his ese eschuie.

Upon knyhthode I rede thus,How whilom whan the king Nauplus,The fader of Palamades,Cam forto preien UlixesWith othre Gregois ek also,That he with hem to Troie go,Wher that the Siege scholde be,Anon upon PenolopeHis wif, whom that he loveth hote,Thenkende, wolde hem noght behote.Bot he schop thanne a wonder wyle,How that he scholde hem best beguile,So that he mihte duelle stilleAt home and welde his love at wille:Wherof erli the morwe dayOut of his bedd, wher that he lay,Whan he was uppe, he gan to fareInto the field and loke and stare,As he which feigneth to be wod:He tok a plowh, wher that it stod,Wherinne anon in stede of OxesHe let do yoken grete foxes,And with gret salt the lond he siew.But Nauplus, which the cause kniew,Ayein the sleihte which he feignethAn other sleihte anon ordeigneth.And fell that time Ulixes haddeA chyld to Sone, and Nauplus raddeHow men that Sone taken scholde,And setten him upon the Molde,Wher that his fader hield the plowh,In thilke furgh which he tho drowh.For in such wise he thoghte assaie,Hou it Ulixes scholde paie,If that he were wod or non.

The knihtes for this child forthgon;Thelamacus anon was fett,Tofore the plowh and evene sett,Wher that his fader scholde dryve.Bot whan he sih his child, als blyveHe drof the plowh out of the weie,And Nauplus tho began to seie,And hath half in a jape cryd:“O Ulixes, thou art aspyd:What is al this thou woldest meene?For openliche it is now seeneThat thou hast feigned al this thing,Which is gret schame to a king,Whan that for lust of eny slowtheThou wolt in a querele of trowtheOf armes thilke honour forsake,And duelle at hom for loves sake:For betre it were honour to winneThan love, which likinge is inne.Forthi tak worschipe upon honde,And elles thou schalt understondeThese othre worthi kinges alleOf Grece, which unto thee calle,Towardes thee wol be riht wrothe,And grieve thee per chance bothe:Which schal be tothe double schameMost for the hindrynge of thi name,That thou for Slouthe of eny loveSchalt so thi lustes sette aboveAnd leve of armes the knyhthode,Which is the pris of thi manhodeAnd oghte ferst to be desired.”Bot he, which hadde his herte fyredUpon his wif, whan he this herde,Noght o word therayein ansuerde,Bot torneth hom halvinge aschamed,And hath withinne himself so tamedHis herte, that al the sotieOf love for chivalerieHe lefte, and be him lief or loth,To Troie forth with hem he goth,That he him mihte noght excuse.Thus stant it, if a knyht refuseThe lust of armes to travaile,Ther mai no worldes ese availe,Bot if worschipe be with al.And that hath schewed overal;For it sit wel in alle wiseA kniht to ben of hih empriseAnd puten alle drede aweie;For in this wise, I have herd seie,

The worthi king ProtheselaiOn his passage wher he laiTowardes Troie thilke Siege,Sche which was al his oghne liege,Laodomie his lusti wif,Which for his love was pensif,As he which al hire herte hadde,Upon a thing wherof sche draddeA lettre, forto make him duelleFro Troie, sende him, thus to telle,Hou sche hath axed of the wyseTouchende of him in such a wise,That thei have don hire understonde,Towardes othre hou so it stonde,The destine it hath so schapeThat he schal noght the deth ascapeIn cas that he arryve at Troie.Forthi as to hir worldes joieWith al hire herte sche him preide,And many an other cause alleide,That he with hire at home abide.Bot he hath cast hir lettre aside,As he which tho no maner hiedeTok of hire wommannysshe drede;And forth he goth, as noght ne were,To Troie, and was the ferste thereWhich londeth, and tok arryvaile:For him was levere in the bataille,He seith, to deien as a knyht,Than forto lyve in al his myhtAnd be reproeved of his name.Lo, thus upon the worldes fameKnyhthode hath evere yit be set,Which with no couardie is let.

Of king Saül also I finde,Whan Samuel out of his kinde,Thurgh that the Phitonesse hath lered,In Samarie was areredLong time after that he was ded,The king Saül him axeth red,If that he schal go fyhte or non.And Samuel him seide anon,“The ferste day of the batailleThou schalt be slain withoute faileAnd Jonathas thi Sone also.”Bot hou as evere it felle so,This worthi kniht of his corageHath undertake the viage,And wol noght his knyhthode letteFor no peril he couthe sette;Wherof that bothe his Sone and heUpon the Montz of GelboeAssemblen with here enemys:For thei knyhthode of such a prisBe olde daies thanne hielden,That thei non other thing behielden.And thus the fader for worschipeForth with his Sone of felaschipeThurgh lust of armes weren dede,As men mai in the bible rede;The whos knyhthode is yit in mende,And schal be to the worldes ende.

And forto loken overmore,It hath and schal ben evermoreThat of knihthode the prouesseIs grounded upon hardinesseOf him that dar wel undertake.And who that wolde ensample takeUpon the forme of knyhtes lawe,How that Achilles was forthdraweWith Chiro, which Centaurus hihte,Of many a wondre hiere he mihte.For it stod thilke time thus,That this Chiro, this Centaurus,Withinne a large wildernesse,Wher was Leon and Leonesse,The Lepard and the Tigre also,With Hert and Hynde, and buck and doo,Hadde his duellinge, as tho befell,Of Pileon upon the hel,Wherof was thanne mochel speche.Ther hath Chiro this Chyld to teche,What time he was of tuelve yer age;Wher forto maken his corageThe more hardi be other weie,In the forest to hunte and pleieWhan that Achilles walke wolde,Centaurus bad that he ne scholdeAfter no beste make his chace,Which wolde flen out of his place,As buck and doo and hert and hynde,With whiche he mai no werre finde;Bot tho that wolden him withstonde,Ther scholde he with his Dart on hondeUpon the Tigre and the LeonPourchace and take his veneison,As to a kniht is acordant.And therupon a covenantThis Chiro with Achilles sette,That every day withoute letteHe scholde such a cruel besteOr slen or wounden ate leste,So that he mihte a tokne bringeOf blod upon his hom cominge.And thus of that Chiro him tawhteAchilles such an herte cawhte,That he nomore a Leon dradde,Whan he his Dart on honde hadde,Thanne if a Leon were an asse:And that hath mad him forto passeAlle othre knihtes of his dede,Whan it cam to the grete nede,As it was afterward wel knowe.

Lo, thus, my Sone, thou miht knoweThat the corage of hardiesceIs of knyhthode the prouesce,Which is to love sufficantAboven al the remenantThat unto loves court poursuie.Bot who that wol no Slowthe eschuie,Upon knihthode and noght travaile,I not what love him scholde availe;Bot every labour axeth whyOf som reward, wherof that IEnsamples couthe telle ynoweOf hem that toward love droweBe olde daies, as thei scholde.

Mi Sone, it is wel resonable,In place which is honorableIf that a man his herte sette,That thanne he for no Slowthe letteTo do what longeth to manhede.For if thou wolt the bokes redeOf Lancelot and othre mo,Ther miht thou sen hou it was thoOf armes, for thei wolde atteigneTo love, which withoute peineMai noght be gete of ydelnesse.And that I take to witnesseAn old Cronique in special,The which into memorialIs write, for his loves sakeHou that a kniht schal undertake.

Ther was a king, which OënesWas hote, and he under his pesHield Calidoyne in his Empire,And hadde a dowhter Deianire.Men wiste in thilke time nonSo fair a wiht as sche was on;And as sche was a lusti wiht,Riht so was thanne a noble kniht,To whom Mercurie fader was.This kniht the tuo pilers of bras,The whiche yit a man mai finde,Sette up in the desert of Ynde;That was the worthi Hercules,Whos name schal ben endelesFor the merveilles whiche he wroghte.This Hercules the love soghteOf Deianire, and of this thingUnto hir fader, which was king,He spak touchende of Mariage.The king knowende his hih lignage,And dradde also hise mihtes sterne,To him ne dorste his dowhter werne;And natheles this he him seide,How Achelons er he ferst preideTo wedden hire, and in accordThei stode, as it was of record:Bot for al that this he him granteth,That which of hem that other dauntethIn armes, him sche scholde take,And that the king hath undertake.This Achelons was a Geant,A soubtil man, a deceivant,Which thurgh magique and sorcerieCouthe al the world of tricherie:And whan that he this tale herde,Hou upon that the king ansuerdeWith Hercules he moste feighte,He tristeth noght upon his sleighteAl only, whan it comth to nede,Bot that which voydeth alle dredeAnd every noble herte stereth,The love, that no lif forbereth,For his ladi, whom he desireth,With hardiesse his herte fyreth,And sende him word withoute faileThat he wol take the bataille.Thei setten day, they chosen field,The knihtes coevered under SchieldTogedre come at time set,And echon is with other met.It fell thei foghten bothe afote,Ther was no ston, ther was no rote,Which mihte letten hem the weie,But al was voide and take aweie.Thei smyten strokes bot a fewe,For Hercules, which wolde scheweHis grete strengthe as for the nones,He sterte upon him al at onesAnd cawhte him in hise armes stronge.This Geant wot he mai noght longeEndure under so harde bondes,And thoghte he wolde out of hise hondesBe sleyhte in som manere ascape.And as he couthe himself forschape,In liknesse of an Eddre he slipteOut of his hond, and forth he skipte;And efte, as he that feighte wole,He torneth him into a Bole,And gan to belwe of such a soun,As thogh the world scholde al go doun:The ground he sporneth and he tranceth,Hise large hornes he avancethAnd caste hem here and there aboute.Bot he, which stant of him no doute,Awaiteth wel whan that he cam,And him be bothe hornes namAnd al at ones he him casteUnto the ground, and hield him faste,That he ne mihte with no sleighteOut of his hond gete upon heighte,Til he was overcome and yolde,And Hercules hath what he wolde.The king him granteth to fulfilleHis axinge at his oghne wille,And sche for whom he hadde served,Hire thoghte he hath hire wel deserved.And thus with gret decerte of ArmesHe wan him forto ligge in armes,As he which hath it dere aboght,For otherwise scholde he noght.

And overthis if thou wolt hiereUpon knihthode of this matiere,Hou love and armes ben aqueinted,A man mai se bothe write and peintedSo ferforth that Pantasilee,Which was the queene of Feminee,The love of Hector forto siekeAnd for thonour of armes eke,To Troie cam with Spere and Schield,And rod hirself into the fieldWith Maidens armed al a routeIn rescouss of the toun aboute,Which with the Gregois was belein.

Fro Pafagoine and as men sein,Which stant upon the worldes ende,That time it likede ek to wendeTo Philemenis, which was king,To Troie, and come upon this thingIn helpe of thilke noble toun;And al was that for the renounOf worschipe and of worldes fame,Of which he wolde bere a name:And so he dede, and forth withalHe wan of love in specialA fair tribut for everemo.For it fell thilke time so;Pirrus the Sone of AchillesThis worthi queene among the pressWith dedli swerd soghte out and fond,And slowh hire with his oghne hond;Wherof this king of PafagoinePantasilee of Amazoine,Wher sche was queene, with him ladde,With suche Maidens as sche haddeOf hem that were left alyve,Forth in his Schip, til thei aryve;Wher that the body was begraveWith worschipe, and the wommen save.And for the goodschipe of this dedeThei granten him a lusti mede,That every yeer as for truageTo him and to his heritageOf Maidens faire he schal have thre.And in this wise spedde he,Which the fortune of armes soghte,With his travail his ese he boghte;For otherwise he scholde have failed,If that he hadde noght travailed.

Eneas ek withinne Ytaile,Ne hadde he wonne the batailleAnd don his miht so besilyAyein king Turne his enemy,He hadde noght Lavine wonne;Bot for he hath him overronneAnd gete his pris, he gat hire love.

Be these ensamples here above,Lo, now, mi Sone, as I have told,Thou miht wel se, who that is boldAnd dar travaile and undertakeThe cause of love, he schal be takeThe rathere unto loves grace;For comunliche in worthi placeThe wommen loven worthinesseOf manhode and of gentilesse,For the gentils ben most desired.

Mi fader, bot I were enspiredThurgh lore of you, I wot no weieWhat gentilesce is forto seie,Wherof to telle I you beseche.

The ground, Mi Sone, forto secheUpon this diffinicion,The worldes constitucionHath set the name of gentilesseUpon the fortune of richesseWhich of long time is falle in age.Thanne is a man of hih lignageAfter the forme, as thou miht hiere,Bot nothing after the matiere.For who that resoun understonde,Upon richesse it mai noght stonde,For that is thing which faileth ofte:For he that stant to day alofteAnd al the world hath in hise wones,Tomorwe he falleth al at onesOut of richesse into poverte,So that therof is no decerte,Which gentilesce makth abide.And forto loke on other sideHou that a gentil man is bore,Adam, which alle was toforeWith Eve his wif, as of hem tuo,Al was aliche gentil tho;So that of generacionTo make declaracion,Ther mai no gentilesce be.For to the reson if we se,Of mannes berthe the mesure,It is so comun to nature,That it yifth every man aliche,Als wel to povere as to the riche;For naked thei ben bore bothe,The lord nomore hath forto clotheAs of himself that ilke throwe,Than hath the povereste of the rowe.And whan thei schulle both passe,I not of hem which hath the lasseOf worldes good, bot as of chargeThe lord is more forto charge,Whan god schal his accompte hiere,For he hath had hise lustes hiere.Bot of the bodi, which schal deie,Althogh ther be diverse weieTo deth, yit is ther bot on ende,To which that every man schal wende,Als wel the beggere as the lord,Of o nature, of on acord:Sche which oure Eldemoder is,The Erthe, bothe that and thisReceiveth and alich devoureth,That sche to nouther part favoureth.So wot I nothing after kindeWhere I mai gentilesse finde.

For lacke of vertu lacketh grace,Wherof richesse in many place,Whan men best wene forto stonde,Al sodeinly goth out of honde:Bot vertu set in the corage,Ther mai no world be so salvage,Which mihte it take and don aweie,Til whanne that the bodi deie;And thanne he schal be riched so,That it mai faile neveremo;So mai that wel be gentilesse,Which yifth so gret a sikernesse.For after the condicionOf resonable entencion,The which out of the Soule growethAnd the vertu fro vice knoweth,Wherof a man the vice eschuieth,Withoute Slowthe and vertu suieth,That is a verrai gentil man,And nothing elles which he can,Ne which he hath, ne which he mai.Bot for al that yit nou aday,In loves court to taken hiede,The povere vertu schal noght spiede,Wher that the riche vice woweth;For sielde it is that love allowethThe gentil man withoute good,Thogh his condicion be good.Bot if a man of bothe tuoBe riche and vertuous also,Thanne is he wel the more worth:Bot yit to putte himselve forthHe moste don his besinesse,For nowther good ne gentilesseMai helpen him whiche ydel be.

Bot who that wole in his degreTravaile so as it belongeth,It happeth ofte that he fongethWorschipe and ese bothe tuo.For evere yit it hath be so,That love honeste in sondri weieProfiteth, for it doth aweieThe vice, and as the bokes sein,It makth curteis of the vilein,And to the couard hardiesceIt yifth, so that verrai prouesseIs caused upon loves reuleTo him that can manhode reule;And ek toward the wommanhiede,Who that therof wol taken hiede,For thei the betre affaited beIn every thing, as men may se.For love hath evere hise lustes greneIn gentil folk, as it is sene,Which thing ther mai no kinde areste:I trowe that ther is no beste,If he with love scholde aqueinte,That he ne wolde make it queinteAs for the while that it laste.And thus I conclude ate laste,That thei ben ydel, as me semeth,Whiche unto thing that love demethForslowthen that thei scholden do.

And overthis, mi Sone, alsoAfter the vertu moral ekeTo speke of love if I schal seke,Among the holi bokes wiseI finde write in such a wise,“Who loveth noght is hier as ded”;For love above alle othre is hed,Which hath the vertus forto lede,Of al that unto mannes dedeBelongeth: for of ydelschipeHe hateth all the felaschipe.For Slowthe is evere to despise,Which in desdeign hath al apprise,And that acordeth noght to man:For he that wit and reson kan,It sit him wel that he travaileUpon som thing which mihte availe,For ydelschipe is noght comended,Bot every lawe it hath defended.And in ensample therupon

The noble wise Salomon,Which hadde of every thing insihte,Seith, “As the briddes to the flihteBen made, so the man is boreTo labour,” which is noght forboreTo hem that thenken forto thryve.For we, whiche are now alyve,Of hem that besi whylom were,Als wel in Scole as elleswhere,Mowe every day ensample take,That if it were now to makeThing which that thei ferst founden oute,It scholde noght be broght aboute.Here lyves thanne were longe,Here wittes grete, here mihtes stronge,Here hertes ful of besinesse,Wherof the worldes redinesseIn bodi bothe and in corageStant evere upon his avantage.And forto drawe into memoireHere names bothe and here histoire,Upon the vertu of her dedeIn sondri bokes thou miht rede.

Of every wisdom the parfitThe hyhe god of his spiritYaf to the men in Erthe hiereUpon the forme and the matiereOf that he wolde make hem wise:And thus cam in the ferste appriseOf bokes and of alle goodeThurgh hem that whilom understodeThe lore which to hem was yive,Wherof these othre, that now live,Ben every day to lerne newe.Bot er the time that men siewe,And that the labour forth it broghte,Ther was no corn, thogh men it soghte,In non of al the fieldes oute;And er the wisdom cam abouteOf hem that ferst the bokes write,This mai wel every wys man wite,Ther was gret labour ek also.Thus was non ydel of the tuo,That on the plogh hath undertakeWith labour which the hond hath take,That other tok to studie and muse,As he which wolde noght refuseThe labour of hise wittes alle.And in this wise it is befalle,Of labour which that thei begunneWe be now tawht of that we kunne:Here besinesse is yit so seene,That it stant evere alyche greene;Al be it so the bodi deie,The name of hem schal nevere aweie.In the Croniqes as I finde,

Cham, whos labour is yit in minde,Was he which ferst the lettres fondAnd wrot in Hebreu with his hond:Of naturel PhilosophieHe fond ferst also the clergie.

Cadmus the lettres of GregoisFerst made upon his oghne chois.

Theges of thing which schal befalle,He was the ferste Augurre of alle:

And Philemon be the visageFond to descrive the corage.

Cladyns, Esdras and Sulpices,Termegis, Pandulf, Frigidilles,Menander, Ephiloquorus,Solins, Pandas and JosephusThe ferste were of Enditours,Of old Cronique and ek auctours:

And Heredot in his scienceOf metre, of rime and of cadenceThe ferste was of which men note.

And of Musique also the noteIn mannes vois or softe or scharpe,That fond Jubal; and of the harpeThe merie soun, which is to like,That fond Poulins forth with phisique.

Zenzis fond ferst the pourtreture,And Promotheus the Sculpture;After what forme that hem thoghte,The resemblance anon thei wroghte.

Tubal in Iren and in StelFond ferst the forge and wroghte it wel:

And Jadahel, as seith the bok,Ferst made Net and fisshes tok:Of huntynge ek he fond the chace,Which now is knowe in many place:A tente of cloth with corde and stakeHe sette up ferst and dede it make.

Verconius of cokerieFerst made the delicacie.

The craft Minerve of wolle fondAnd made cloth hire oghne hond;

And Delbora made it of lyn:Tho wommen were of great engyn.

Bot thing which yifth ous mete and drinkeAnd doth the labourer to swinkeTo tile lond and sette vines,Wherof the cornes and the wynesBen sustenance to mankinde,In olde bokes as I finde,Saturnus of his oghne witHath founde ferst, and more yitOf Chapmanhode he fond the weie,And ek to coigne the moneieOf sondri metall, as it is,He was the ferste man of this.

Bot hou that metall cam a placeThurgh mannes wit and goddes graceThe route of Philosophres wiseControeveden be sondri wise,Ferst forto gete it out of Myne,And after forto trie and fyne.

And also with gret diligenceThei founden thilke experience,Which cleped is Alconomie,Wherof the Selver multeplieThei made and ek the gold also.And forto telle hou it is so,Of bodies sevene in specialWith foure spiritz joynt withalStant the substance of this matiere.The bodies whiche I speke of hiereOf the Planetes ben begonne:The gold is titled to the Sonne,The mone of Selver hath his part,And Iren that stant upon Mart,The Led after Satorne groweth,And Jupiter the Bras bestoweth,The Coper set is to Venus,And to his part MercuriusHath the quikselver, as it falleth,The which, after the bok it calleth,Is ferst of thilke fowre namedOf Spiritz, whiche ben proclamed;And the spirit which is secoundeIn Sal Armoniak is founde:The thridde spirit Sulphur is;The ferthe suiende after thisArcennicum be name is hote.With blowinge and with fyres hoteIn these thinges, whiche I seie,Thei worchen be diverse weie.For as the philosophre toldeOf gold and selver, thei ben holdeTuo principal extremites,To whiche alle othre be degresOf the metalls ben acordant,And so thurgh kinde resemblant,That what man couthe aweie takeThe rust, of which thei waxen blake,And the savour and the hardnesse,Thei scholden take the liknesseOf gold or Selver parfitly.

Bot forto worche it sikirly,Betwen the corps and the spirit,Er that the metall be parfit,In sevene formes it is set;Of alle and if that on be let,The remenant mai noght availe,Bot otherwise it mai noght faile.For thei be whom this art was foundeTo every point a certain boundeOrdeignen, that a man mai findeThis craft is wroght be weie of kinde,So that ther is no fallas inne.Bot what man that this werk beginne,He mot awaite at every tyde,So that nothing be left aside,Ferst of the distillacion,Forth with the congelacion,Solucion, descencion,And kepe in his entencionThe point of sublimacion,And forth with calcinacionOf veray approbacionDo that ther be fixacionWith tempred hetes of the fyr,Til he the parfit ElixirOf thilke philosophres StonMai gete, of which that many onOf Philosophres whilom write.And if thou wolt the names witeOf thilke Ston with othre tuo,Whiche as the clerkes maden tho,So as the bokes it recorden,The kinde of hem I schal recorden.

These olde Philosophres wyseBe weie of kinde in sondri wiseThre Stones maden thurgh clergie.The ferste, if I schal specefie,Was lapis vegetabilis,Of which the propre vertu isTo mannes hele forto serve,As forto kepe and to preserveThe bodi fro siknesses alle,Til deth of kinde upon him falle.

The Ston seconde I thee behoteIs lapis animalis hote,The whos vertu is propre and cowthFor Ere and yhe and nase and mouth,Wherof a man mai hiere and seAnd smelle and taste in his degre,And forto fiele and forto goIt helpeth man of bothe tuo:The wittes fyve he underfongethTo kepe, as it to him belongeth.

The thridde Ston in specialBe name is cleped Minerall,Which the metalls of every MineAttempreth, til that thei ben fyne,And pureth hem be such a weie,That al the vice goth aweieOf rust, of stink and of hardnesse:And whan thei ben of such clennesse,This Mineral, so as I finde,Transformeth al the ferste kyndeAnd makth hem able to conceiveThurgh his vertu, and to receiveBothe in substance and in figureOf gold and selver the nature.For thei tuo ben thextremetes,To whiche after the propretesHath every metal his desir,With help and confort of the fyrForth with this Ston, as it is seid,Which to the Sonne and Mone is leid;For to the rede and to the whyteThis Ston hath pouer to profite.It makth mulptiplicaciounOf gold, and the fixaciounIt causeth, and of his habitHe doth the werk to be parfitOf thilke Elixer which men calleAlconomie, as is befalleTo hem that whilom weren wise.Bot now it stant al otherwise;Thei speken faste of thilke Ston,Bot hou to make it, nou wot nonAfter the sothe experience.And natheles gret diligenceThei setten upon thilke dede,And spille more than thei spede;For allewey thei finde a lette,Which bringeth in poverte and detteTo hem that riche were afore:The lost is had, the lucre is lore,To gete a pound thei spenden fyve;I not hou such a craft schal thryveIn the manere as it is used:It were betre be refusedThan forto worchen upon weeneIn thing which stant noght as thei weene.Bot noght forthi, who that it knewe,The science of himself is treweUpon the forme as it was founded,Wherof the names yit ben groundedOf hem that ferste it founden oute;And thus the fame goth abouteTo suche as soghten besinesseOf vertu and of worthinesse.Of whom if I the names calle,

Hermes was on the ferste of alle,To whom this art is most applied;Geber therof was magnefied,And Ortolan and Morien,Among the whiche is Avicen,Which fond and wrot a gret partieThe practique of Alconomie;Whos bokes, pleinli as thei stondeUpon this craft, fewe understonde;Bot yit to put hem in assaiTher ben full manye now aday,That knowen litel what thei meene.It is noght on to wite and weene;In forme of wordes thei it trete,Bot yit they failen of beyete,For of tomoche or of tolyteTher is algate founde a wyte,So that thei folwe noght the lyneOf the parfite medicine,Which grounded is upon nature.Bot thei that writen the scriptureOf Grek, Arabe and of Caldee,Thei were of such AuctoriteThat thei ferst founden out the weieOf al that thou hast herd me seie;Wherof the Cronique of her loreSchal stonde in pris for everemore.

Bot toward oure Marches hiere,Of the Latins if thou wolt hiere,Of hem that whilom vertuousWere and therto laborious,Carmente made of hire enginThe ferste lettres of Latin,Of which the tunge Romein cam,Wherof that Aristarchus namForth with Donat and DindimusThe ferste reule of Scole, as thus,How that Latin schal be componedAnd in what wise it schal be soned,That every word in his degreSchal stonde upon congruite.And thilke time at Rome alsoWas Tullius with Cithero,That writen upon Rethorike,Hou that men schal the wordes pikeAfter the forme of eloquence,Which is, men sein, a gret prudence:And after that out of HebreuJerom, which the langage kneu,The Bible, in which the lawe is closed,Into Latin he hath transposed;And many an other writere ekOut of Caldee, Arabe and GrekWith gret labour the bokes wiseTranslateden. And otherwiseThe Latins of hemself alsoHere studie at thilke time soWith gret travaile of Scole tokeIn sondri forme forto boke,That we mai take here evidencesUpon the lore of the Sciences,Of craftes bothe and of clergie;Among the whiche in PoesieTo the lovers Ovide wrotAnd tawhte, if love be to hot,In what manere it scholde akiele.

Forthi, mi Sone, if that thou fieleThat love wringe thee to sore,Behold Ovide and take his lore.

My fader, if thei mihte spedeMi love, I wolde his bokes rede;And if thei techen to restreigneMi love, it were an ydel peineTo lerne a thing which mai noght be.For lich unto the greene tree,If that men toke his rote aweie,Riht so myn herte scholde deie,If that mi love be withdrawe.Wherof touchende unto this saweThere is bot only to poursuieMi love, and ydelschipe eschuie.

Mi goode Sone, soth to seie,If ther be siker eny weieTo love, thou hast seid the beste:For who that wolde have al his resteAnd do no travail at the nede,It is no resoun that he spedeIn loves cause forto winne;For he which dar nothing beginne,I not what thing he scholde achieve.Bot overthis thou schalt believe,So as it sit thee wel to knowe,That ther ben othre vices slowe,Whiche unto love don gret lette,If thou thin herte upon hem sette.

Toward the Slowe progenieTher is yit on of compaignie,And he is cleped Sompnolence,Which doth to Slouthe his reverence,As he which is his Chamberlein,That many an hundrid time hath leinTo slepe, whan he scholde wake.He hath with love trewes take,That wake who so wake wile,If he mai couche a doun his bile,He hath al wowed what him list;That ofte he goth to bedde unkist,And seith that for no DruerieHe wol noght leve his sluggardie.For thogh noman it wole allowe,To slepe levere than to woweIs his manere, and thus on nyhtes,Whan that he seth the lusti knyhtesRevelen, wher these wommen are,Awey he skulketh as an hare,And goth to bedde and leith him softe,And of his Slouthe he dremeth ofteHou that he stiketh in the Myr,And hou he sitteth be the fyrAnd claweth on his bare schanckes,And hou he clymbeth up the banckesAnd falleth into Slades depe.Bot thanne who so toke kepe,Whanne he is falle in such a drem,Riht as a Schip ayein the Strem,He routeth with a slepi noise,And brustleth as a monkes froise,Whanne it is throwe into the Panne.And otherwhile sielde whanneThat he mai dreme a lusti swevene,Him thenkth as thogh he were in heveneAnd as the world were holi his:And thanne he spekth of that and this,And makth his exposicionAfter the disposicionOf that he wolde, and in such wiseHe doth to love all his service;I not what thonk he schal deserve.I rede that thou do noght so.

Ha, goode fader, certes no.I hadde levere be mi trowthe,Er I were set on such a sloutheAnd beere such a slepi snoute,Bothe yhen of myn hed were oute.For me were betre fulli die,Thanne I of such a slugardieHadde eny name, god me schilde;For whan mi moder was with childe,And I lay in hire wombe clos,I wolde rathere Atropos,Which is goddesse of alle deth,Anon as I hadde eny breth,Me hadde fro mi Moder cast.Bot now I am nothing agast,I thonke godd; for Lachesis,Ne Cloto, which hire felawe is,Me schopen no such destine,Whan thei at mi nativiteMy weerdes setten as thei wolde;Bot thei me schopen that I scholdeEschuie of slep the truandise,So that I hope in such a wiseTo love forto ben excused,That I no Sompnolence have used.For certes, fader Genius,Yit into nou it hath be thus,At alle time if it befelleSo that I mihte come and duelleIn place ther my ladi were,I was noght slow ne slepi there:For thanne I dar wel undertake,That whanne hir list on nyhtes wakeIn chambre as to carole and daunce,Me thenkth I mai me more avaunce,If I mai gon upon hir hond,Thanne if I wonne a kinges lond.For whanne I mai hire hand beclippe,With such gladnesse I daunce and skippe,Me thenkth I touche noght the flor;The Ro, which renneth on the Mor,Is thanne noght so lyht as I:So mow ye witen wel forthi,That for the time slep I hate.And whanne it falleth othergate,So that hire like noght to daunce,Bot on the Dees to caste chaunceOr axe of love som demande,Or elles that hir list comaundeTo rede and here of Troilus,Riht as sche wole or so or thus,I am al redi to consente.And if so is that I mai henteSomtime among a good leisir,So as I dar of mi desirI telle a part; bot whanne I preie,Anon sche bidt me go mi weieAnd seith it is ferr in the nyht;And I swere it is even liht.Bot as it falleth ate laste,Ther mai no worldes joie laste,So mot I nedes fro hire wendeAnd of my wachche make an ende:And if sche thanne hiede toke,Hou pitousliche on hire I loke,Whan that I schal my leve take,Hire oghte of mercy forto slakeHire daunger, which seith evere nay.

Bot he seith often, “Have good day,”That loth is forto take his leve:Therfore, while I mai beleve,I tarie forth the nyht along,For it is noght on me alongTo slep that I so sone go,Til that I mot algate so;And thanne I bidde godd hire se,And so doun knelende on mi kneI take leve, and if I schal,I kisse hire, and go forth withal.And otherwhile, if that I dore,Er I come fulli to the Dore,I torne ayein and feigne a thing,As thogh I hadde lost a RingOr somwhat elles, for I woldeKisse hire eftsones, if I scholde,Bot selden is that I so spede.And whanne I se that I mot nedeDeparten, I departe, and thanneWith al myn herte I curse and banneThat evere slep was mad for yhe;For, as me thenkth, I mihte dryheWithoute slep to waken evere,So that I scholde noght dissevereFro hire, in whom is al my liht:And thanne I curse also the nyhtWith al the will of mi corage,And seie, “Awey, thou blake ymage,Which of thi derke cloudy faceMakst al the worldes lyht deface,And causest unto slep a weie,Be which I mot nou gon aweieOut of mi ladi compaignie.O slepi nyht, I thee defie,And wolde that thou leye in presseWith Proserpine the goddesseAnd with Pluto the helle king:For til I se the daies spring,I sette slep noght at a risshe.”And with that word I sike and wisshe,And seie, “Ha, whi ne were it day?For yit mi ladi thanne I mayBeholde, thogh I do nomore.”And efte I thenke forthermore,To som man hou the niht doth ese,Whan he hath thing that mai him pleseThe longe nyhtes be his side,Where as I faile and go beside.Bot slep, I not wherof it serveth,Of which noman his thonk deservethTo gete him love in eny place,Bot is an hindrere of his graceAnd makth him ded as for a throwe,Riht as a Stok were overthrowe.And so, mi fader, in this wiseThe slepi nyhtes I despise,And evere amiddes of mi taleI thenke upon the nyhtingale,Which slepeth noght be weie of kindeFor love, in bokes as I finde.Thus ate laste I go to bedde,And yit min herte lith to weddeWith hire, wher as I cam fro;Thogh I departe, he wol noght so,Ther is no lock mai schette him oute,Him nedeth noght to gon aboute,That perce mai the harde wall;Thus is he with hire overall,That be hire lief, or be hire loth,Into hire bedd myn herte goth,And softly takth hire in his armAnd fieleth hou that sche is warm,And wissheth that his body wereTo fiele that he fieleth there.And thus miselven I tormente,Til that the dede slep me hente:Bot thanne be a thousand scoreWelmore than I was toforeI am tormented in mi slep,Bot that I dreme is noght of schep;For I ne thenke noght on wulle,Bot I am drecched to the fulleOf love, that I have to kepe,That nou I lawhe and nou I wepe,And nou I lese and nou I winne,And nou I ende and nou beginne.And otherwhile I dreme and meteThat I al one with hire meteAnd that Danger is left behinde;And thanne in slep such joie I finde,That I ne bede nevere awake.Bot after, whanne I hiede take,And schal arise upon the morwe,Thanne is al torned into sorwe,Noght for the cause I schal arise,Bot for I mette in such a wise,And ate laste I am bethoghtThat al is vein and helpeth noght:Bot yit me thenketh be my willeI wolde have leie and slepe stille,To meten evere of such a swevene,For thanne I hadde a slepi hevene.

Mi Sone, and for thou tellest so,A man mai finde of time agoThat many a swevene hath be certein,Al be it so, that som men seinThat swevenes ben of no credence.Bot forto schewe in evidenceThat thei fulofte sothe thingesBetokne, I thenke in my wrytingesTo telle a tale therupon,Which fell be olde daies gon.

This finde I write in Poesie:Ceïx the king of TrocinieHadde Alceone to his wif,Which as hire oghne hertes lifHim loveth; and he hadde alsoA brother, which was cleped thoDedalion, and he per casFro kinde of man forschape wasInto a Goshauk of liknesse;Wherof the king gret hevynesseHath take, and thoghte in his corageTo gon upon a pelrinageInto a strange regioun,Wher he hath his devociounTo don his sacrifice and preie,If that he mihte in eny weieToward the goddes finde graceHis brother hele to pourchace,So that he mihte be reformedOf that he hadde be transformed.To this pourpos and to this endeThis king is redy forto wende,As he which wolde go be Schipe;And forto don him felaschipeHis wif unto the See him broghte,With al hire herte and him besoghte,That he the time hire wolde sein,Whan that he thoghte come ayein:“Withinne,” he seith, “tuo Monthe day.”And thus in al the haste he mayHe tok his leve, and forth he seilethWepende, and sche hirself beweileth,And torneth hom, ther sche cam fro.Bot whan the Monthes were ago,The whiche he sette of his comynge,And that sche herde no tydinge,Ther was no care forto seche:Wherof the goddes to besecheTho sche began in many wise,And to Juno hire sacrifiseAbove alle othre most sche dede,And for hir lord sche hath so bedeTo wite and knowe hou that he ferde,That Juno the goddesse hire herde,Anon and upon this matiereSche bad Yris hir MessagereTo Slepes hous that sche schal wende,And bidde him that he make an endeBe swevene and schewen al the casUnto this ladi, hou it was.

This Yris, fro the hihe stageWhich undertake hath the Message,Hire reyny Cope dede upon,The which was wonderli begonWith colours of diverse hewe,An hundred mo than men it knewe;The hevene lich into a boweSche bende, and so she cam doun lowe,The god of Slep wher that sche fond.And that was in a strange lond,Which marcheth upon Chymerie:For ther, as seith the Poesie,The god of Slep hath mad his hous,Which of entaille is merveilous.Under an hell ther is a Cave,Which of the Sonne mai noght have,So that noman mai knowe arihtThe point betwen the dai and nyht:Ther is no fyr, ther is no sparke,Ther is no dore, which mai charke,Wherof an yhe scholde unschette,So that inward ther is no lette.And forto speke of that withoute,Ther stant no gret Tree nyh abouteWher on ther myhte crowe or pieAlihte, forto clepe or crie:Ther is no cok to crowe day,Ne beste non which noise mayThe hell, bot al aboute roundTher is growende upon the groundPopi, which berth the sed of slep,With othre herbes suche an hep.A stille water for the nonesRennende upon the smale stones,Which hihte of Lethes the rivere,Under that hell in such manereTher is, which yifth gret appetitTo slepe. And thus full of delitSlep hath his hous; and of his coucheWithinne his chambre if I schal touche,Of hebenus that slepi TreeThe bordes al aboute be,And for he scholde slepe softe,Upon a fethrebed alofteHe lith with many a pilwe of doun:The chambre is strowed up and dounWith swevenes many thousendfold.Thus cam Yris into this hold,And to the bedd, which is al blak,Sche goth, and ther with Slep sche spak,And in the wise as sche was bedeThe Message of Juno sche dede.Fulofte hir wordes sche reherceth,Er sche his slepi Eres perceth;With mochel wo bot ate lasteHis slombrende yhen he upcasteAnd seide hir that it schal be do.Wherof among a thousend tho,Withinne his hous that slepi were,In special he ches out thereThre, whiche scholden do this dede:The ferste of hem, so as I rede,Was Morpheus, the whos natureIs forto take the figureOf what persone that him liketh,Wherof that he fulofte entrikethThe lif which slepe schal be nyhte;And Ithecus that other hihte,Which hath the vois of every soun,The chiere and the condiciounOf every lif, what so it is:The thridde suiende after thisIs Panthasas, which may transformeOf every thing the rihte forme,And change it in an other kinde.Upon hem thre, so as I finde,Of swevenes stant al thapparence,Which otherwhile is evidenceAnd otherwhile bot a jape.Bot natheles it is so schape,That Morpheus be nyht al oneAppiereth until AlceoneIn liknesse of hir housebondeAl naked ded upon the stronde,And hou he dreynte in specialThese othre tuo it schewen al.The tempeste of the blake cloude,The wode See, the wyndes loude,Al this sche mette, and sih him dyen;Wherof that sche began to crien,Slepende abedde ther sche lay,And with that noise of hire affrayHir wommen sterten up aboute,Whiche of here ladi were in doute,And axen hire hou that sche ferde;And sche, riht as sche syh and herde,Hir swevene hath told hem everydel.And thei it halsen alle welAnd sein it is a tokne of goode;Bot til sche wiste hou that it stode,Sche hath no confort in hire herte,Upon the morwe and up sche sterte,And to the See, wher that sche metteThe bodi lay, withoute letteSche drowh, and whan that sche cam nyh,Stark ded, hise harmes sprad, sche syhHire lord flietende upon the wawe.Wherof hire wittes ben withdrawe,And sche, which tok of deth no kepe,Anon forth lepte into the depeAnd wolde have cawht him in hire arm.

This infortune of double harmThe goddes fro the hevene aboveBehielde, and for the trowthe of love,Which in this worthi ladi stod,Thei have upon the salte flodHire dreinte lord and hire alsoFro deth to lyve torned so,That thei ben schapen into briddesSwimmende upon the wawe amiddes.And whan sche sih hire lord livendeIn liknesse of a bridd swimmende,And sche was of the same sort,So as sche mihte do desport,Upon the joie which sche haddeHire wynges bothe abrod sche spradde,And him, so as sche mai suffise,Beclipte and keste in such a wise,As sche was whilom wont to do:Hire wynges for hire armes tuoSche tok, and for hire lippes softeHire harde bile, and so fulofteSche fondeth in hire briddes forme,If that sche mihte hirself conformeTo do the plesance of a wif,As sche dede in that other lif:For thogh sche hadde hir pouer lore,Hir will stod as it was tofore,And serveth him so as sche mai.Wherof into this ilke dayTogedre upon the See thei wone,Wher many a dowhter and a SoneThei bringen forth of briddes kinde;And for men scholden take in myndeThis Alceoun the trewe queene,Hire briddes yit, as it is seene,Of Alceoun the name bere.

Lo thus, mi Sone, it mai thee stereOf swevenes forto take kepe,For ofte time a man aslepeMai se what after schal betide.Forthi it helpeth at som tydeA man to slepe, as it belongeth,Bot slowthe no lif underfongethWhich is to love appourtenant.

Mi fader, upon covenantI dar wel make this avou,Of all mi lif that into nou,Als fer as I can understonde,Yit tok I nevere Slep on honde,Whan it was time forto wake;For thogh myn yhe it wolde take,Min herte is evere therayein.Bot natheles to speke it plein,Al this that I have seid you hiereOf my wakinge, as ye mai hiere,It toucheth to mi lady swete;For otherwise, I you behiete,In strange place whanne I go,Me list nothing to wake so.For whan the wommen listen pleie,And I hir se noght in the weie,Of whom I scholde merthe take,Me list noght longe forto wake,Bot if it be for pure schame,Of that I wolde eschuie a name,That thei ne scholde have cause nonTo seie, “Ha, lo, wher goth such on,That hath forlore his contenaunce!”And thus among I singe and daunce,And feigne lust ther as non is.For ofte sithe I fiele this;Of thoght, which in mi herte fallethWhanne it is nyht, myn hed appalleth,And that is for I se hire noght,Which is the wakere of mi thoght:And thus as tymliche as I may,Fulofte whanne it is brod day,I take of all these othre leveAnd go my weie, and thei beleve,That sen per cas here loves there;And I go forth as noght ne wereUnto mi bedd, so that al oneI mai ther ligge and sighe and groneAnd wisshen al the longe nyht,Til that I se the daies lyht.I not if that be Sompnolence,Bot upon youre conscience,Min holi fader, demeth ye.

My Sone, I am wel paid with thee,Of Slep that thou the SluggardieBe nyhte in loves compaignieEschuied hast, and do thi peineSo that thi love thar noght pleine:For love upon his lust wakendeIs evere, and wolde that non endeWere of the longe nyhtes set.Wherof that thou be war the bet,To telle a tale I am bethoght,Hou love and Slep acorden noght.

For love who that list to wakeBe nyhte, he mai ensample takeOf Cephalus, whan that he layWith Aurora that swete mayIn armes all the longe nyht.Bot whanne it drogh toward the liht,That he withinne his herte sihThe dai which was amorwe nyh,Anon unto the Sonne he preideFor lust of love, and thus he seide:

“O Phebus, which the daies lihtGovernest, til that it be nyht,And gladest every creatureAfter the lawe of thi nature,—Bot natheles ther is a thing,Which onli to the knoulechingBelongeth as in priveteTo love and to his duete,Which asketh noght to ben apert,Bot in cilence and in covertDesireth forto be beschaded:And thus whan that thi liht is fadedAnd Vesper scheweth him alofte,And that the nyht is long and softe,Under the cloudes derke and stilleThanne hath this thing most of his wille.Forthi unto thi myhtes hyhe,As thou which art the daies yhe,Of love and myht no conseil hyde,Upon this derke nyhtes tydeWith al myn herte I thee besecheThat I plesance myhte secheWith hire which lith in min armes.Withdrawgh the Banere of thin Armes,And let thi lyhtes ben unborn,And in the Signe of Capricorn,The hous appropred to Satorne,I preie that thou wolt sojorne,Wher ben the nihtes derke and longe:For I mi love have underfonge,Which lith hier be mi syde naked,As sche which wolde ben awaked,And me lest nothing forto slepe.So were it good to take kepeNou at this nede of mi preiere,And that the like forto stiereThi fyri Carte, and so ordeigne,That thou thi swifte hors restreigneLowe under Erthe in Occident,That thei towardes OrientBe Cercle go the longe weie.

And ek to thee, Diane, I preie,Which cleped art of thi noblesseThe nyhtes Mone and the goddesse,That thou to me be gracious:And in Cancro thin oghne housAyein Phebus in oppositStond al this time, and of delitBehold Venus with a glad yhe.For thanne upon AstronomieOf due constellacionThou makst prolificacion,And dost that children ben begete:Which grace if that I mihte gete,With al myn herte I wolde serveBe nyhte, and thi vigile observe.”

Lo, thus this lusti CephalusPreide unto Phebe and to PhebusThe nyht in lengthe forto drawe,So that he mihte do the laweIn thilke point of loves heste,Which cleped is the nyhtes feste,Withoute Slep of sluggardie;Which Venus out of compaignieHath put awey, as thilke same,Which lustles ferr from alle gameIn chambre doth fulofte woAbedde, whanne it falleth soThat love scholde ben awaited.But Slowthe, which is evele affaited,With Slep hath mad his retenue,That what thing is to love due,Of all his dette he paieth non:He wot noght how the nyht is gonNe hou the day is come aboute,Bot onli forto slepe and routeTil hyh midday, that he arise.Bot Cephalus dede otherwise,As thou, my Sone, hast herd above.

Mi fader, who that hath his loveAbedde naked be his syde,And wolde thanne hise yhen hydeWith Slep, I not what man is he:Bot certes as touchende of me,That fell me nevere yit er this.Bot otherwhile, whan so isThat I mai cacche Slep on hondeLiggende al one, thanne I fondeTo dreme a merie swevene er day;And if so falle that I mayMi thought with such a swevene plese,Me thenkth I am somdiel in ese,For I non other confort have.So nedeth noght that I schal craveThe Sonnes Carte forto tarie,Ne yit the Mone, that sche carieHire cours along upon the hevene,For I am noght the more in eveneTowardes love in no degree:Bot in mi slep yit thanne I seSomwhat in swevene of that me liketh,Which afterward min herte entriketh,Whan that I finde it otherwise.So wot I noght of what serviseThat Slep to mannes ese doth.

Mi Sone, certes thou seist soth,Bot only that it helpeth kindeSomtyme, in Phisique as I finde,Whan it is take be mesure:Bot he which can no Slep mesureUpon the reule as it belongeth,Fulofte of sodein chance he fongethSuch infortune that him grieveth.Bot who these olde bokes lieveth,Of Sompnolence hou it is write,Ther may a man the sothe wite,If that he wolde ensample take,That otherwhile is good to wake:Wherof a tale in PoesieI thenke forto specefie.

Ovide telleth in his sawes,How Jupiter be olde dawesLay be a Mayde, which YoWas cleped, wherof that JunoHis wif was wroth, and the goddesseOf Yo torneth the liknesseInto a cow, to gon therouteThe large fieldes al abouteAnd gete hire mete upon the griene.And therupon this hyhe queeneBetok hire Argus forto kepe,For he was selden wont to slepe,And yit he hadde an hundred yhen,And alle alyche wel thei syhen.Now herkne hou that he was beguiled.Mercurie, which was al affiledThis Cow to stele, he cam desguised,And hadde a Pipe wel devisedUpon the notes of Musiqe,Wherof he mihte hise Eres like.And over that he hadde affaitedHise lusti tales, and awaitedHis time; and thus into the fieldHe cam, where Argus he behieldWith Yo, which beside him wente.With that his Pype on honde he hente,And gan to pipe in his manereThing which was slepi forto hiere;And in his pipinge evere amongHe tolde him such a lusti song,That he the fol hath broght aslepe.Ther was non yhe mihte kepeHis hed, the which Mercurie of smot,And forth withal anon fot hotHe stal the Cow which Argus kepte,And al this fell for that he slepte.Ensample it was to manye mo,That mochel Slep doth ofte wo,Whan it is time forto wake:For if a man this vice take,In Sompnolence and him delite,Men scholde upon his Dore wryteHis epitaphe, as on his grave;For he to spille and noght to saveIs schape, as thogh he were ded.

Forthi, mi Sone, hold up thin hed,And let no Slep thin yhe englue,Bot whanne it is to resoun due.

Mi fader, as touchende of this,Riht so as I you tolde it is,That ofte abedde, whanne I scholde,I mai noght slepe, thogh I wolde;For love is evere faste byme,Which takth no hiede of due time.For whanne I schal myn yhen close,Anon min herte he wole opposeAnd holde his Scole in such a wise,Til it be day that I arise,That selde it is whan that I slepe.And thus fro Sompnolence I kepeMin yhe: and forthi if ther beOght elles more in this degre,Now axeth forth.

Mi Sone, yis:For Slowthe, which as Moder isThe forthdrawere and the NorriceTo man of many a dredful vice,Hath yit an other laste of alle,Which many a man hath mad to falle,Wher that he mihte nevere arise;Wherof for thou thee schalt avise,Er thou so with thiself misfare,What vice it is I wol declare.

Whan Slowthe hath don al that he mayTo dryve forth the longe day,Til it be come to the nede,Thanne ate laste upon the dedeHe loketh hou his time is lore,And is so wo begon therfore,That he withinne his thoght conceivethTristesce, and so himself deceiveth,That he wanhope bringeth inne,Wher is no confort to beginne,Bot every joie him is deslaied:So that withinne his herte affraiedA thousend time with o brethWepende he wissheth after deth,Whan he fortune fint adverse.For thanne he wole his hap reherce,As thogh his world were al forlore,And seith, “Helas, that I was bore!Hou schal I live? hou schal I do?For nou fortune is thus mi fo,I wot wel god me wol noght helpe.What scholde I thanne of joies yelpe,Whan ther no bote is of mi care?So overcast is my welfare,That I am schapen al to strif.Helas, that I nere of this lif,Er I be fulliche overtake!”And thus he wol his sorwe make,As god him mihte noght availe:Bot yit ne wol he noght travaileTo helpe himself at such a nede,Bot slowtheth under such a drede,Which is affermed in his herte,Riht as he mihte noght asterteThe worldes wo which he is inne.

Also whan he is falle in Sinne,Him thenkth he is so ferr coupable,That god wol noght be merciableSo gret a Sinne to foryive;And thus he leeveth to be schrive.And if a man in thilke throweWolde him consaile, he wol noght knoweThe sothe, thogh a man it finde:For Tristesce is of such a kinde,That forto meintiene his folie,He hath with him Obstinacie,Which is withinne of such a Slouthe,That he forsaketh alle trouthe,And wole unto no reson bowe;And yit ne can he noght avoweHis oghne skile bot of hed:Thus dwyneth he, til he be ded,In hindringe of his oghne astat.For where a man is obstinat,Wanhope folweth ate laste,Which mai noght after longe laste,Till Slouthe make of him an ende.Bot god wot whider he schal wende.

Mi Sone, and riht in such manereTher be lovers of hevy chiere,That sorwen mor than it is ned,Whan thei be taried of here spedAnd conne noght hemselven rede,Bot lesen hope forto spedeAnd stinten love to poursewe;And thus thei faden hyde and hewe,And lustles in here hertes waxe.Hierof it is that I wolde axe,If thou, mi Sone, art on of tho.

Ha, goode fader, it is so,Outake a point, I am beknowe;For elles I am overthroweIn al that evere ye have seid.Mi sorwe is everemore unteid,And secheth overal my veines;Bot forto conseile of mi peines,I can no bote do therto;And thus withouten hope I go,So that mi wittes ben empeired,And I, as who seith, am despeiredTo winne love of thilke swete,Withoute whom, I you behiete,Min herte, that is so bestad,Riht inly nevere mai be glad.For be my trouthe I schal noght lie,Of pure sorwe, which I dryeFor that sche seith sche wol me noght,With drecchinge of myn oghne thoghtIn such a wanhope I am falle,That I ne can unethes calle,As forto speke of eny grace,Mi ladi merci to pourchace.Bot yit I seie noght for thisThat al in mi defalte it is;For I cam nevere yit in stede,Whan time was, that I my bedeNe seide, and as I dorste tolde:Bot nevere fond I that sche wolde,For oght sche knew of min entente,To speke a goodly word assente.And natheles this dar I seie,That if a sinful wolde preieTo god of his foryivenesseWith half so gret a besinesseAs I have do to my ladi,In lacke of askinge of merciHe scholde nevere come in Helle.And thus I mai you sothli telle,Save only that I crie and bidde,I am in Tristesce al amiddeAnd fulfild of Desesperance:And therof yif me mi penance,Min holi fader, as you liketh.

Mi Sone, of that thin herte sikethWith sorwe, miht thou noght amende,Til love his grace wol thee sende,For thou thin oghne cause empeirestWhat time as thou thiself despeirest.I not what other thing availeth,Of hope whan the herte faileth,For such a Sor is incurable,And ek the goddes ben vengable:And that a man mai riht wel frede,These olde bokes who so rede,Of thing which hath befalle er this:Now hier of what ensample it is.

Whilom be olde daies ferOf Mese was the king Theucer,Which hadde a kniht to Sone, Iphis:Of love and he so maistred is,That he hath set al his corage,As to reguard of his lignage,Upon a Maide of lou astat.Bot thogh he were a potestatOf worldes good, he was soubgitTo love, and put in such a plit,That he excedeth the mesureOf reson, that himself assureHe can noght; for the more he preide,The lass love on him sche leide.He was with love unwys constreigned,And sche with resoun was restreigned:The lustes of his herte he suieth,And sche for dred schame eschuieth,And as sche scholde, tok good hiedeTo save and kepe hir wommanhiede.And thus the thing stod in debatBetwen his lust and hire astat:He yaf, he sende, he spak be mouthe,Bot yit for oght that evere he coutheUnto his sped he fond no weie,So that he caste his hope aweie,Withinne his herte and gan despeireFro dai to dai, and so empeire,That he hath lost al his delitOf lust, of Slep, of Appetit,That he thurgh strengthe of love lassethHis wit, and resoun overpasseth.As he which of his lif ne rowhte,His deth upon himself he sowhte,So that be nyhte his weie he nam,Ther wiste non wher he becam;The nyht was derk, ther schon no Mone,Tofore the gates he cam sone,Wher that this yonge Maiden wasAnd with this wofull word, “Helas!”Hise dedli pleintes he beganSo stille that ther was nomanIt herde, and thanne he seide thus:“O thou Cupide, o thou Venus,Fortuned be whos ordinaunceOf love is every mannes chaunce,Ye knowen al min hole herte,That I ne mai your hond asterte;On you is evere that I crie,And yit you deigneth noght to plie,Ne toward me youre Ere encline.Thus for I se no medicineTo make an ende of mi querele,My deth schal be in stede of hele.

Ha, thou mi wofull ladi diere,Which duellest with thi fader hiereAnd slepest in thi bedd at ese,Thou wost nothing of my desese.Hou thou and I be now unmete.Ha lord, what swevene schalt thou mete,What dremes hast thou nou on honde?Thou slepest there, and I hier stonde.Thogh I no deth to the deserve,Hier schal I for thi love sterve,Hier schal a kinges Sone dyeFor love and for no felonie;Wher thou therof have joie or sorwe,Hier schalt thou se me ded tomorwe.O herte hard aboven alle,This deth, which schal to me befalleFor that thou wolt noght do me grace,Yit schal be told in many a place,Hou I am ded for love and troutheIn thi defalte and in thi slouthe:Thi Daunger schal to manye moEnsample be for everemo,Whan thei my wofull deth recorde.”And with that word he tok a Corde,With which upon the gate treHe hyng himself, that was pite.

The morwe cam, the nyht is gon,Men comen out and syhe anonWher that this yonge lord was ded:Ther was an hous withoute red,For noman knew the cause why;Ther was wepinge and ther was cry.This Maiden, whan that sche it herde,And sih this thing hou it misferde,Anon sche wiste what it mente,And al the cause hou it wenteTo al the world sche tolde it oute,And preith to hem that were abouteTo take of hire the vengance,For sche was cause of thilke chaunce,Why that this kinges Sone is split.Sche takth upon hirself the gilt,And is al redi to the peineWhich eny man hir wole ordeigne:And bot if eny other wolde,Sche seith that sche hirselve scholdeDo wreche with hire oghne hond,Thurghout the world in every londThat every lif therof schal speke,Hou sche hirself i scholde wreke.Sche wepth, sche crith, sche swouneth ofte,Sche caste hire yhen up alofteAnd seide among ful pitously:“A godd, thou wost wel it am I,For whom Iphis is thus besein:Ordeine so, that men mai seinA thousend wynter after this,Hou such a Maiden dede amis,And as I dede, do to me:For I ne dede no piteTo him, which for mi love is lore,Do no pite to me therfore.”And with this word sche fell to groundeAswoune, and ther sche lay a stounde.The goddes, whiche hir pleigntes herdeAnd syhe hou wofully sche ferde,Hire lif thei toke awey anon,And schopen hire into a StonAfter the forme of hire ymageOf bodi bothe and of visage.And for the merveile of this thingUnto the place cam the kingAnd ek the queene and manye mo;And whan thei wisten it was so,As I have told it heir above,Hou that Iphis was ded for love,Of that he hadde be refused,Thei hielden alle men excusedAnd wondren upon the vengance.And forto kepe in remembrance,This faire ymage mayden licheWith compaignie noble and richeWith torche and gret sollempnite.To Salamyne the CiteThei lede, and carie forth withalThe dede corps, and sein it schalBeside thilke ymage haveHis sepulture and be begrave:This corps and this ymage thusInto the Cite to Venus,Wher that goddesse hire temple hadde,Togedre bothe tuo thei ladde.This ilke ymage as for miracleWas set upon an hyh pinacle,That alle men it mihte knowe,And under tht thei maden loweA tumbe riche for the nonesOf marbre and ek of jaspre stones,Wherin this Iphis was beloken,That evermor it schal be spoken.And for men schal the sothe wite,Thei have here epitaphe write,As thing which scholde abide stable:The lettres graven in a tableOf marbre were and seiden this:“Hier lith, which slowh himself, Iphis,For love of Araxarathen:And in ensample of tho wommen,That soffren men to deie so,Hire forme a man mai sen also,Hou it is torned fleissh and bonInto the figure of a Ston:He was to neysshe and sche to hard.Be war forthi hierafterward;Ye men and wommen bothe tuo,Ensampleth you of that was tho:

Lo thus, mi Sone, as I thee seie,It grieveth be diverse weieIn desepeir a man to falle,Which is the laste branche of alleOf Slouthe, as thou hast herd devise.Wherof that thou thiself aviseGood is, er that thou be deceived,Wher that the grace of hope is weyved.

Mi fader, hou so that it stonde,Now have I pleinly understondeOf Slouthes court the proprete,Wherof touchende in my degreFor evere I thenke to be war.Bot overthis, so as I dar,With al min herte I you beseche,That ye me wolde enforme and techeWhat ther is more of youre apriseIn love als wel as otherwise,So that I mai me clene schryve.

Mi Sone, whyl thou art alyveAnd hast also thi fulle mynde,Among the vices whiche I findeTher is yit on such of the sevene,Which al this world hath set uneveneAnd causeth manye thinges wronge,Where he the cause hath underfonge:Wherof hierafter thou schalt hiereThe forme bothe and the matiere.