Book V

Obstat auaricia nature legibus, et queLargus amor poscit, striccius illa vetat.Omne quod est nimium viciosum dicitur aurum,Vellera sicut oues, seruat auarus opes.Non decet vt soli seruabitur es, set amoriDebet homo solam solus habere suam.

Ferst whan the hyhe god beganThis world, and that the kinde of manWas falle into no gret encress,For worldes good tho was no press,Bot al was set to the comune.Thei spieken thanne of no fortuneOr forto lese or forto winne,Til Avarice broghte it inne;And that was whan the world was woxeOf man, of hors, of Schep, of Oxe,And that men knewen the moneie.Tho wente pes out of the weieAnd werre cam on every side,Which alle love leide asideAnd of comun his propre made,So that in stede of schovele and spadeThe scharpe swerd was take on honde;And in this wise it cam to londe,Wherof men maden dyches depeAnd hyhe walles forto kepeThe gold which Avarice encloseth.Bot al to lytel him supposeth,Thogh he mihte al the world pourchace;For what thing that he may embraceOf gold, of catel or of lond,He let it nevere out of his hond,Bot get him more and halt it faste,As thogh the world scholde evere laste.So is he lych unto the helle;For as these olde bokes telle,What comth therinne, lasse or more,It schal departe neveremore:Thus whanne he hath his cofre loken,It schal noght after ben unstoken,Bot whanne him list to have a syhteOf gold, hou that it schyneth brihte,That he ther on mai loke and muse;For otherwise he dar noght useTo take his part, or lasse or more.So is he povere, and everemoreHim lacketh that he hath ynowh:An Oxe draweth in the plowh,Of that himself hath no profit;A Schep riht in the same plitHis wolle berth, bot on a dayAn other takth the flees away:Thus hath he, that he noght ne hath,For he therof his part ne tath.To seie hou such a man hath good,Who so that reson understod,It is impropreliche seid,For good hath him and halt him teid,That he ne gladeth noght withal,Bot is unto his good a thral,And as soubgit thus serveth he,Wher that he scholde maister be:Such is the kinde of thaverous.

Mi Sone, as thou art amerous,Tell if thou farst of love so.

Mi fader, as it semeth, no;That averous yit nevere I was,So as ye setten me the cas:For as ye tolden here above,In full possession of loveYit was I nevere hier tofore,So that me thenketh wel therfore,I mai excuse wel my dede.Bot of mi will withoute drede,If I that tresor mihte gete,It scholde nevere be foryete,That I ne wolde it faste holde,Til god of love himselve woldeThat deth ous scholde part atuo.For lieveth wel, I love hire so,That evene with min oghne lif,If I that swete lusti wifMihte ones welden at my wille,For evere I wolde hire holde stille:And in this wise, taketh kepe,If I hire hadde, I wolde hire kepe,And yit no friday wolde I faste,Thogh I hire kepte and hielde faste.Fy on the bagges in the kiste!I hadde ynogh, if I hire kiste.For certes, if sche were myn,I hadde hir levere than a MynOf Gold; for al this worldesricheNe mihte make me so richeAs sche, that is so inly good.I sette noght of other good;For mihte I gete such a thing,I hadde a tresor for a king;And thogh I wolde it faste holde,I were thanne wel beholde.Bot I mot pipe nou with lasse,And suffre that it overpasse,Noght with mi will, for thus I woldeBen averous, if that I scholde.Bot, fader, I you herde seieHou thaverous hath yit som weie,Wherof he mai be glad; for heMai whanne him list his tresor se,And grope and fiele it al aboute,Bot I fulofte am schet theroute,Ther as my worthi tresor is.So is mi lif lich unto this,That ye me tolden hier tofore,Hou that an Oxe his yock hath boreFor thing that scholde him noght availe:And in this wise I me travaile;For who that evere hath the welfare,I wot wel that I have the care,For I am hadd and noght ne have,And am, as who seith, loves knave.Nou demeth in youre oghne thoght,If this be Avarice or noght.

Mi Sone, I have of thee no wonder,Thogh thou to serve be put underWith love, which to kinde acordeth:Bot, so as every bok recordeth,It is to kinde no plesanceThat man above his sustienanceUnto the gold schal serve and bowe,For that mai no reson avowe.Bot Avarice natheles,If he mai geten his encressOf gold, that wole he serve and kepe,For he takth of noght elles kepe,Bot forto fille hise bagges large;And al is to him bot a charge,For he ne parteth noght withal,Bot kepth it, as a servant schal:And thus, thogh that he multeplieHis gold, withoute tresorieHe is, for man is noght amendedWith gold, bot if it be despendedTo mannes us; wherof I redeA tale, and tak therof good hiede,Of that befell be olde tyde,As telleth ous the clerk Ovide.

Bachus, which is the god of wyn,Acordant unto his divinA Prest, the which Cillenus hihte,He hadde, and fell so that be nyhteThis Prest was drunke and goth astraied,Wherof the men were evele apaiedIn Frigelond, where as he wente.Bot ate laste a cherl him henteWith strengthe of other felaschipe,So that upon his drunkeschipeThei bounden him with chenes faste,And forth thei ladde him als so fasteUnto the king, which hihte Myde.Bot he, that wolde his vice hyde,This courteis king, tok of him hiede,And bad that men him scholde ledeInto a chambre forto kepe,Til he of leisir hadde slepe.And tho this Prest was sone unbounde,And up a couche fro the groundeTo slepe he was leid softe ynowh;And whanne he wok, the king him drowhTo his presence and dede him chiere,So that this Prest in such manere,Whil that him liketh, there he duelleth:And al this he to Bachus telleth,Whan that he cam to him ayein.And whan that Bachus herde seinHow Mide hath don his courtesie,Him thenkth it were a vilenie,Bot he rewarde him for his dede,So as he mihte of his godhiede.Unto this king this god appierethAnd clepeth, and that other hiereth:This god to Mide thonketh faireOf that he was so debonaireToward his Prest, and bad him seie:What thing it were he wolde preie,He scholde it have, of worldes good.This king was glad, and stille stod,And was of his axinge in doute,And al the world he caste aboute,What thing was best for his astat,And with himself stod in debatUpon thre pointz, the whiche I findeBen lievest unto mannes kinde.The ferste of hem it is delit,The tuo ben worschipe and profit.And thanne he thoghte, “If that I craveDelit, thogh I delit mai have,Delit schal passen in myn age:That is no siker avantage,For every joie bodilySchal ende in wo: delit forthiWol I noght chese. And if worschipeI axe and of the world lordschipe,That is an occupacionOf proud ymaginacion,Which makth an herte vein withinne;Ther is no certain forto winne,For lord and knave al is o weie,Whan thei be bore and whan thei deie.And if I profit axe wolde,I not in what manere I scholdeOf worldes good have sikernesse;For every thief upon richesseAwaiteth forto robbe and stele:Such good is cause of harmes fele.And also, thogh a man at onesOf al the world withinne his wonesThe tresor myhte have everydel,Yit hadde he bot o mannes delToward himself, so as I thinke,Of clothinge and of mete and drinke,For more, outake vanite,Ther hath no lord in his degre.”And thus upon the pointz diverseDiverseliche he gan reherceWhat point him thoghte for the beste;Bot pleinly forto gete him resteHe can so siker weie caste.And natheles yit ate lasteHe fell upon the coveitiseOf gold; and thanne in sondri wiseHe thoghte, as I have seid tofore,Hou tresor mai be sone lore,And hadde an inly gret desirTouchende of such recoverir,Hou that he mihte his cause availeTo gete him gold withoute faile.Withinne his herte and thus he preisethThe gold, and seith hou that it peisethAbove al other metall most:“The gold,” he seith, “may lede an hostTo make werre ayein a King;The gold put under alle thing,And set it whan him list above;The gold can make of hate loveAnd werre of pes and ryht of wrong,And long to schort and schort to long;Withoute gold mai be no feste,Gold is the lord of man and beste,And mai hem bothe beie and selle;So that a man mai sothly telleThat al the world to gold obeieth.”Forthi this king to Bachus preiethTo grante him gold, bot he excedethMesure more than him nedeth.Men tellen that the maladieWhich cleped is ydropesieResembled is unto this viceBe weie of kinde of Avarice:The more ydropesie drinketh,The more him thursteth, for him thinkethThat he mai nevere drinke his fille;So that ther mai nothing fulfilleThe lustes of his appetit:And riht in such a maner plitStant Avarice and evere stod;The more he hath of worldes good,The more he wolde it kepe streyte,And evere mor and mor coveite.And riht in such condiciounWithoute good discreciounThis king with avarice is smite,That al the world it myhte wite:For he to Bachus thanne preide,That wherupon his hond he leide,It scholde thurgh his touche anonBecome gold, and theruponThis god him granteth as he bad.Tho was this king of Frige glad,And forto put it in assaiWith al the haste that he mai,He toucheth that, he toucheth this,And in his hond al gold it is,The Ston, the Tree, the Lef, the gras,The flour, the fruit, al gold it was.Thus toucheth he, whil he mai lasteTo go, bot hunger ate lasteHim tok, so that he moste nedeBe weie of kinde his hunger fede.The cloth was leid, the bord was set,And al was forth tofore him fet,His disch, his coppe, his drinke, his mete;Bot whanne he wolde or drinke or ete,Anon as it his mouth cam nyh,It was al gold, and thanne he syhOf Avarice the folie.And he with that began to crie,And preide Bachus to foryiveHis gilt, and soffre him forto liveAnd be such as he was tofore,So that he were not forlore.This god, which herde of his grevance,Tok rowthe upon his repentance,And bad him go forth redilyUnto a flod was faste by,Which Paceole thanne hyhte,In which as clene as evere he myhteHe scholde him waisshen overal,And seide him thanne that he schalRecovere his ferste astat ayein.This king, riht as he herde sein,Into the flod goth fro the lond,And wissh him bothe fot and hond,And so forth al the remenant,As him was set in covenant:And thanne he syh merveilles strange,The flod his colour gan to change,The gravel with the smale StonesTo gold thei torne bothe at ones,And he was quit of that he hadde,And thus fortune his chance ladde.And whan he sih his touche aweie,He goth him hom the rihte weieAnd liveth forth as he dede er,And putte al Avarice afer,And the richesse of gold despiseth,And seith that mete and cloth sufficeth.Thus hath this king experienceHou foles don the reverenceTo gold, which of his oghne kindeIs lasse worth than is the rindeTo sustienance of mannes fode;And thanne he made lawes goodeAnd al his thing sette upon skile:He bad his poeple forto tileHere lond, and live under the lawe,And that thei scholde also forthdraweBestaile, and seche non encressOf gold, which is the breche of pes.For this a man mai finde write,Tofor the time, er gold was smiteIn Coign, that men the florin knewe,Ther was welnyh noman untrewe;Tho was ther nouther schield ne spereNe dedly wepne forto bere;Tho was the toun withoute wal,Which nou is closed overal;Tho was ther no brocage in londe,Which nou takth every cause on honde:So mai men knowe, hou the florinWas moder ferst of malenginAnd bringere inne of alle werre,Wherof this world stant out of herreThurgh the conseil of Avarice,Which of his oghne propre viceIs as the helle wonderfull;For it mai neveremor be full,That what as evere comth therinne,Awey ne may it nevere winne.Bot Sone myn, do thou noght so,Let al such Avarice go,And tak thi part of that thou hast:I bidde noght that thou do wast,Bot hold largesce in his mesure;And if thou se a creature,Which thurgh poverte is falle in nede,Yif him som good, for this I redeTo him that wol noght yiven here,What peine he schal have elleswhere.

Ther is a peine amonges alleBenethe in helle, which men calleThe wofull peine of Tantaly,Of which I schal thee redelyDevise hou men therinne stonde.In helle, thou schalt understonde,Ther is a flod of thilke office,Which serveth al for Avarice:What man that stonde schal therinne,He stant up evene unto the chinne;Above his hed also ther hongethA fruyt, which to that peine longeth,And that fruit toucheth evere in onHis overlippe: and theruponSwich thurst and hunger him assaileth,That nevere his appetit ne faileth.Bot whanne he wolde his hunger fede,The fruit withdrawth him ate nede,And thogh he heve his hed on hyh,The fruit is evere aliche nyh,So is the hunger wel the more:And also, thogh him thurste soreAnd to the water bowe a doun,The flod in such condiciounAvaleth, that his drinke arecheHe mai noght. Lo nou, which a wreche,That mete and drinke is him so couth,And yit ther comth non in his mouth!Lich to the peines of this flodStant Avarice in worldes good:He hath ynowh and yit him nedeth,For his skarsnesse it him forbiedeth,And evere his hunger after moreTravaileth him aliche sore,So is he peined overal.Forthi thi goodes forth withal,Mi Sone, loke thou despende,Wherof thou myht thiself amendeBothe hier and ek in other place.And also if thou wolt pourchaceTo be beloved, thou most useLargesce, for if thou refuseTo yive for thi loves sake,It is no reson that thou takeOf love that thou woldest crave.Forthi, if thou wolt grace have,Be gracious and do largesse,Of Avarice and the seknesseEschuie above alle other thing,And tak ensample of Mide kingAnd of the flod of helle also,Where is ynowh of alle wo.And thogh ther were no matiereBot only that we finden hiere,Men oghten Avarice eschuie;For what man thilke vice suie,He get himself bot litel reste.For hou so that the body reste,The herte upon the gold travaileth,Whom many a nyhtes drede assaileth;For thogh he ligge abedde naked,His herte is everemore awaked,And dremeth, as he lith to slepe,How besi that he is to kepeHis tresor, that no thief it stele.Thus hath he bot a woful wele.

And riht so in the same wise,If thou thiself wolt wel avise,Ther be lovers of suche ynowe,That wole unto no reson bowe.If so be that thei come above,Whan thei ben maistres of here love,And that thei scholden be most glad,With love thei ben most bestad,So fain thei wolde it holden al.Here herte, here yhe is overal,And wenen every man be thief,To stele awey that hem is lief;Thus thurgh here oghne fantasieThei fallen into Jelousie.Thanne hath the Schip tobroke his cable,With every wynd and is muable.

Mi fader, for that ye nou telle,I have herd ofte time telleOf Jelousie, bot what it isYit understod I nevere er this:Wherfore I wolde you beseche,That ye me wolde enforme and techeWhat maner thing it mihte be.

Mi Sone, that is hard to me:Bot natheles, as I have herd,Now herkne and thou schalt ben ansuerd.

Among the men lacke of manhodeIn Mariage upon wifhodeMakth that a man himself deceiveth,Wherof it is that he conceivethThat ilke unsely maladie,The which is cleped Jelousie:Of which if I the propreteSchal telle after the nycete,So as it worcheth on a man,A Fievere it is cotidian,Which every day wol come aboute,Wher so a man be inne or oute.At hom if that a man wol wone,This Fievere is thanne of comun woneMost grevous in a mannes yhe:For thanne he makth him tote and pryhe,Wher so as evere his love go;Sche schal noght with hir litel tooMisteppe, bot he se it al.His yhe is walkende overal;Wher that sche singe or that sche dance,He seth the leste contienance,If sche loke on a man asideOr with him roune at eny tyde,Or that sche lawghe, or that sche loure,His yhe is ther at every houre.And whanne it draweth to the nyht,If sche thanne is withoute lyht,Anon is al the game schent;For thanne he set his parlementTo speke it whan he comth to bedde,And seith, “If I were now to wedde,I wolde neveremore have wif.”And so he torneth into strifThe lust of loves duete,And al upon diversete.If sche be freissh and wel araied,He seith hir baner is displaiedTo clepe in gestes fro the weie:And if sche be noght wel beseie,And that hir list noght to be gladd,He berth an hond that sche is maddAnd loveth noght hire housebonde;He seith he mai wel understonde,That if sche wolde his compaignie,Sche scholde thanne afore his ijeSchewe al the plesir that sche mihte.So that be daie ne be nyhteSche not what thing is for the beste,Bot liveth out of alle reste;For what as evere him liste sein,Sche dar noght speke a word ayein,Bot wepth and holt hire lippes clos.Sche mai wel wryte, “Sanz repos,”The wif which is to such on maried.

Of alle wommen be he waried,For with this Fievere of JalousieHis echedaies fantasieOf sorghe is evere aliche grene,So that ther is no love sene,Whil that him list at hom abyde.And whan so is he wol out ryde,Thanne hath he redi his aspieAbidinge in hir compaignie,A janglere, an evel mouthed oon,That sche ne mai nowhider gon,Ne speke a word, ne ones loke,That he ne wol it wende and crokeAnd torne after his oghne entente,Thogh sche nothing bot honour mente.Whan that the lord comth hom ayein,The janglere moste somwhat sein;So what withoute and what withinne,This Fievere is evere to beginne,For where he comth he can noght ende,Til deth of him have mad an ende.For thogh so be that he ne hiereNe se ne wite in no manereBot al honour and wommanhiede,Therof the Jelous takth non hiede,Bot as a man to love unkinde,He cast his staf, as doth the blinde,And fint defaulte where is non;As who so dremeth on a StonHou he is leid, and groneth ofte,Whan he lith on his pilwes softe.So is ther noght bot strif and cheste;Whan love scholde make his feste,It is gret thing if he hir kisse:Thus hath sche lost the nyhtes blisse,For at such time he gruccheth evereAnd berth on hond ther is a levere,And that sche wolde an other wereIn stede of him abedde there;And with tho wordes and with moOf Jelousie, he torneth froAnd lith upon his other side,And sche with that drawth hire aside,And ther sche wepeth al the nyht.Ha, to what peine sche is dyht,That in hire youthe hath so besetThe bond which mai noght ben unknet!I wot the time is ofte cursed,That evere was the gold unpursed,The which was leid upon the bok,Whan that alle othre sche forsokFor love of him; bot al to lateSche pleigneth, for as thanne algateSche mot forbere and to him bowe,Thogh he ne wole it noght allowe.For man is lord of thilke feire,So mai the womman bot empeire,If sche speke oght ayein his wille;And thus sche berth hir peine stille.

Bot if this Fievere a womman take,Sche schal be wel mor harde schake;For thogh sche bothe se and hiere,And finde that ther is matiere,Sche dar bot to hirselve pleine,And thus sche suffreth double peine.

Lo thus, mi Sone, as I have write,Thou miht of Jelousie witeHis fievere and his condicion,Which is full of suspecion.Bot wherof that this fievere groweth,Who so these olde bokes troweth,Ther mai he finden hou it is:For thei ous teche and telle this,Hou that this fievere of JelousieSomdel it groweth of sotieOf love, and somdiel of untrust.For as a sek man lest his lust,And whan he may no savour gete,He hateth thanne his oughne mete,Riht so this fieverous maladie,Which caused is of fantasie,Makth the Jelous in fieble plitTo lese of love his appetitThurgh feigned enformacionOf his ymaginacion.

Bot finali to taken hiede,Men mai wel make a liklihiedeBetwen him which is averousOf gold and him that is jelousOf love, for in on degreThei stonde bothe, as semeth me.That oon wolde have his bagges stille,And noght departen with his wille,And dar noght for the thieves slepe,So fain he wolde his tresor kepe;That other mai noght wel be glad,For he is evere more adradOf these lovers that gon aboute,In aunter if thei putte him oute.So have thei bothe litel joyeAs wel of love as of monoie.

Now hast thou, Sone, at my techingeOf Jelousie a knowlechinge,That thou myht understonde this,Fro whenne he comth and what he is,And ek to whom that he is lik.Be war forthi thou be noght sikOf thilke fievere as I have spoke,For it wol in himself be wroke.For love hateth nothing more,As men mai finde be the loreOf hem that whilom were wise,Hou that thei spieke in many wise.

Mi fader, soth is that ye sein.Bot forto loke therayein,Befor this time hou it is falle,Wherof ther mihte ensample falleTo suche men as be jelousIn what manere it is grevous,Riht fain I wolde ensample hiere.

My goode Sone, at thi preiereOf suche ensamples as I finde,So as thei comen nou to myndeUpon this point, of time gonI thenke forto tellen on.

Ovide wrot of manye thinges,Among the whiche in his wrytingesHe tolde a tale in Poesie,Which toucheth unto Jelousie,Upon a certein cas of love.Among the goddes alle aboveIt fell at thilke time thus:The god of fyr, which VulcanusIs hote, and hath a craft forthwithAssigned, forto be the SmithOf Jupiter, and his figureBothe of visage and of statureIs lothly and malgracious,Bot yit he hath withinne his housAs for the likynge of his lifThe faire Venus to his wif.Bot Mars, which of batailles isThe god, an yhe hadde unto this:As he which was chivalerous,It fell him to ben amerous,And thoghte it was a gret piteTo se so lusti on as scheBe coupled with so lourde a wiht:So that his peine day and nyhtHe dede, if he hire winne myhte;And sche, which hadde a good insihteToward so noble a knyhtli lord,In love fell of his acord.Ther lacketh noght bot time and place,That he nys siker of hire grace:Bot whan tuo hertes falle in on,So wys await was nevere non,That at som time thei ne mete;And thus this faire lusti sweteWith Mars hath ofte compaignie.Bot thilke unkynde Jelousie,Which everemor the herte opposeth,Makth Vulcanus that he supposethThat it is noght wel overal,And to himself he seide, he schalAspie betre, if that he may;And so it fell upon a day,That he this thing so slyhli ledde,He fond hem bothe tuo abeddeAl warm, echon with other naked.And he with craft al redy makedOf stronge chenes hath hem bounde,As he togedre hem hadde founde,And lefte hem bothe ligge so,And gan to clepe and crie thoUnto the goddes al aboute;And thei assembled in a routeCome alle at ones forto se.Bot none amendes hadde he,Bot was rebuked hiere and thereOf hem that loves frendes were;And seiden that he was to blame,For if ther fell him eny schame,It was thurgh his misgovernance:And thus he loste contienance,This god, and let his cause falle;And thei to skorne him lowhen alle,And losen Mars out of hise bondes.Wherof these erthli housebondesFor evere myhte ensample take,If such a chaunce hem overtake:For Vulcanus his wif bewreide,The blame upon himself he leide,Wherof his schame was the more;Which oghte forto ben a loreFor every man that liveth hiere,To reulen him in this matiere.Thogh such an happ of love asterte,Yit scholde he noght apointe his herteWith Jelousie of that is wroght,Bot feigne, as thogh he wiste it noght:For if he lete it overpasse,The sclaundre schal be wel the lasse,And he the more in ese stonde.For this thou myht wel understonde,That where a man schal nedes lese,The leste harm is forto chese.Bot Jelousie of his untristMakth that full many an harm arist,Which elles scholde noght arise;And if a man him wolde aviseOf that befell to Vulcanus,Him oghte of reson thenke thus,That sithe a god therof was schamed,Wel scholde an erthli man be blamedTo take upon him such a vice.

Forthi, my Sone, in thin officeBe war that thou be noght jelous,Which ofte time hath schent the hous.

Mi fader, this ensample is hard,Hou such thing to the hevenewardAmong the goddes myhte falle:For ther is bot o god of alle,Which is the lord of hevene and helle.Bot if it like you to telleHou suche goddes come aplace,Ye mihten mochel thonk pourchace,For I schal be wel tawht withal.

Mi Sone, it is thus overalWith hem that stonden misbelieved,That suche goddes ben believed:In sondri place sondri wiseAmonges hem whiche are unwiseTher is betaken of credence;Wherof that I the differenceIn the manere as it is writeSchal do the pleinly forto wite.

Er Crist was bore among ous hiere,Of the believes that tho wereIn foure formes thus it was.Thei of Caldee as in this casHadde a believe be hemselve,Which stod upon the signes tuelve,Forth ek with the Planetes sevene,Whiche as thei sihe upon the hevene.Of sondri constellacionIn here ymaginacionWith sondri kerf and pourtretureThei made of goddes the figure.

In thelementz and ek alsoThei hadden a believe tho;And al was that unresonable:For thelementz ben servicableTo man, and ofte of Accidence,As men mai se thexperience,Thei ben corrupt be sondri weie;So mai no mannes reson seieThat thei ben god in eny wise.And ek, if men hem wel avise,The Sonne and Mone eclipse bothe,That be hem lieve or be hem lothe,Thei soffre; and what thing is passibleTo ben a god is impossible.These elementz ben creatures,So ben these hevenly figures,Wherof mai wel be justefiedThat thei mai noght be deified:And who that takth awey thonourWhich due is to the creatour,And yifth it to the creature,He doth to gret a forsfaiture.Bot of Caldee nathelesUpon this feith, thogh it be les,Thei holde affermed the creance;So that of helle the penance,As folk which stant out of believe,They schull receive, as we believe.

Of the Caldeus lo in this wiseStant the believe out of assisse:Bot in Egipte worst of alleThe feith is fals, hou so it falle;For thei diverse bestes thereHonoure, as thogh thei goddes were:And natheles yit forth withalThre goddes most in specialThei have, forth with a goddesse,In whom is al here sikernesse.Tho goddes be yit cleped thus,Orus, Typhon and Isirus:Thei were brethren alle thre,And the goddesse in hir degreHere Soster was and Ysis hyhte,Whom Isirus forlai be nyhteAnd hield hire after as his wif.So it befell that upon strifTyphon hath Isre his brother slain,Which hadde a child to Sone Orayn,And he his fader deth to herteSo tok, that it mai noght asterteThat he Typhon after ne slowh,Whan he was ripe of age ynowh.Bot yit thegipcienes troweFor al this errour, which thei knowe,That these brethren ben of myhtTo sette and kepe Egipte upriht,And overthrowe, if that hem like.Bot Ysis, as seith the Cronique,Fro Grece into Egipte cam,And sche thanne upon honde namTo teche hem forto sowe and eere,Which noman knew tofore there.And whan thegipcienes syheThe fieldes fulle afore here yhe,And that the lond began to greine,Which whilom hadde be bareigne,—For therthe bar after the kindeHis due charge,—this I finde,That sche of berthe the goddesseIs cleped, so that in destresseThe wommen there upon childingeTo hire clepe, and here offringeThei beren, whan that thei ben lyhte.Lo, hou Egipte al out of syhteFro resoun stant in misbelieveFor lacke of lore, as I believe.

Among the Greks, out of the weieAs thei that reson putte aweie,Ther was, as the Cronique seith,Of misbelieve an other feith,That thei here goddes and goddesses,As who seith, token al to gessesOf suche as weren full of vice,To whom thei made here sacrifice.The hihe god, so as thei seide,To whom thei most worschipe leide,Saturnus hihte, and king of CreteHe hadde be; bot of his seteHe was put doun, as he which stodIn frenesie, and was so wod,That fro his wif, which Rea hihte,Hise oghne children he to plihte,And eet hem of his comun wone.Bot Jupiter, which was his SoneAnd of full age, his fader bondAnd kutte of with his oghne hondHise genitals, whiche als so fasteInto the depe See he caste;Wherof the Greks afferme and seie,Thus whan thei were caste aweie,Cam Venus forth be weie of kinde.And of Saturne also I findeHow afterward into an yleThis Jupiter him dede exile,Wher that he stod in gret meschief.Lo, which a god thei maden chief!And sithen that such on was he,Which stod most hihe in his degreAmong the goddes, thou miht knowe,These othre, that ben more lowe,Ben litel worth, as it is founde.

For Jupiter was the secounde,Which Juno hadde unto his wif;And yit a lechour al his lifHe was, and in avouterieHe wroghte many a tricherie;And for he was so full of vices,Thei cleped him god of delices:Of whom, if thou wolt more wite,Ovide the Poete hath write.Bot yit here Sterres bothe tuo,Saturne and Jupiter also,Thei have, althogh thei be to blame,Attitled to here oghne name.

Mars was an other in that lawe,The which in Dace was forthdrawe,Of whom the clerk VegeciusWrot in his bok, and tolde thus,Hou he into Ytaile cam,And such fortune ther he namThat he a Maiden hath oppressed,Which in hire ordre was professed,As sche which was the PrioresseIn Vestes temple the goddesse,So was sche wel the mor to blame.Dame Ylia this ladi nameMen clepe, and ek sche was alsoThe kinges dowhter that was tho,Which Mynitor be name hihte.So that ayein the lawes ryhteMars thilke time upon hire thatRemus and Romulus begat,Whiche after, whan thei come in Age,Of knihthode and of vassellageYtaile al hol thei overcomeAnd foundeden the grete Rome;In Armes and of such empriseThei weren, that in thilke wiseHere fader Mars for the mervaileThe god was cleped of bataille.Thei were his children bothe tuo,Thurgh hem he tok his name so,Ther was non other cause why:And yit a Sterre upon the SkyHe hath unto his name applied,In which that he is signified.

An other god thei hadden eke,To whom for conseil thei beseke,The which was brother to Venus,Appollo men him clepe thus.He was an Hunte upon the helles,Ther was with him no vertu elles,Wherof that enye bokes karpe,Bot only that he couthe harpe;Which whanne he walked over londe,Fulofte time he tok on honde,To gete him with his sustienance,For lacke of other pourveance.And otherwhile of his falshedeHe feignede him to conne aredeOf thing which after scholde falle;Wherof among hise sleyhtes alleHe hath the lewed folk deceived,So that the betre he was received.Lo now, thurgh what creacionHe hath deificacion,And cleped is the god of witTo suche as be the foles yit.

An other god, to whom thei soghte,Mercurie hihte, and him ne roghteWhat thing he stal, ne whom he slowh.Of Sorcerie he couthe ynowh,That whanne he wolde himself transforme,Fulofte time he tok the formeOf womman and his oghne lefte;So dede he wel the more thefte.A gret spekere in alle thingesHe was also, and of lesingesAn Auctour, that men wiste nonAn other such as he was on.And yit thei maden of this thiefA god, which was unto hem lief,And clepede him in tho believesThe god of Marchantz and of thieves.Bot yit a sterre upon the heveneHe hath of the planetes sevene.

But Vulcanus, of whom I spak,He hadde a courbe upon the bak,And therto he was hepehalt:Of whom thou understonde schalt,He was a schrewe in al his youthe,And he non other vertu coutheOf craft to helpe himselve with,Bot only that he was a SmithWith Jupiter, which in his forgeDiverse thinges made him forge;So wot I noght for what desirThei clepen him the god of fyr.

King of Cizile YpolitusA Sone hadde, and EolusHe hihte, and of his fader grantHe hield be weie of covenantThe governance of every yleWhich was longende unto Cizile,Of hem that fro the lond foreinLeie open to the wynd al plein.And fro thilke iles to the londeFulofte cam the wynd to honde:After the name of him forthiThe wyndes cleped EoliTho were, and he the god of wynd.Lo nou, hou this believe is blynd!

The king of Crete Jupiter,The same which I spak of er,Unto his brother, which NeptuneWas hote, it list him to comunePart of his good, so that be SchipeHe mad him strong of the lordschipeOf al the See in tho parties;Wher that he wroghte his tyrannyes,And the strange yles al abouteHe wan, that every man hath douteUpon his marche forto saile;For he anon hem wolde assaileAnd robbe what thing that thei ladden,His sauf conduit bot if thei hadden.Wherof the comun vois arosIn every lond, that such a losHe cawhte, al nere it worth a stre,That he was cleped of the SeeThe god be name, and yit he isWith hem that so believe amis.This Neptune ek was thilke also,Which was the ferste foundour thoOf noble Troie, and he forthiWas wel the more lete by.

The loresman of the Schepherdes,And ek of hem that ben netherdes,Was of Archade and hihte Pan:Of whom hath spoke many a man;For in the wode of Nonarcigne,Enclosed with the tres of Pigne,And on the Mont of ParasieHe hadde of bestes the baillie,And ek benethe in the valleie,Wher thilke rivere, as men seie,Which Ladon hihte, made his cours,He was the chief of governoursOf hem that kepten tame bestes,Wherof thei maken yit the festesIn the Cite Stinfalides.And forth withal yit nathelesHe tawhte men the forthdrawingeOf bestaile, and ek the makingeOf Oxen, and of hors the same,Hou men hem scholde ryde and tame:Of foules ek, so as we finde,Ful many a soubtiel craft of kindeHe fond, which noman knew tofore.Men dede him worschipe ek therfore,That he the ferste in thilke londWas which the melodie fondOf Riedes, whan thei weren ripe,With double pipes forto pipe;Therof he yaf the ferste lore,Til afterward men couthe more.To every craft for mannes helpeHe hadde a redi wit to helpeThurgh naturel experience:And thus the nyce reverenceOf foles, whan that he was ded,The fot hath torned to the hed,And clepen him god of nature,For so thei maden his figure.

An other god, so as thei fiele,Which Jupiter upon SameleBegat in his avouterie,Whom, forto hide his lecherie,That non therof schal take kepe,In a Montaigne forto kepe,Which Dyon hihte and was in Ynde,He sende, in bokes as I finde:And he be name Bachus hihte,Which afterward, whan that he mihte,A wastour was, and al his renteIn wyn and bordel he despente.Bot yit, al were he wonder badde,Among the Greks a name he hadde;Thei cleped him the god of wyn,And thus a glotoun was dyvyn.

Ther was yit EsculapiusA godd in thilke time as thus.His craft stod upon Surgerie,Bot for the lust of lecherie,That he to Daires dowhter drowh,It felle that Jupiter him slowh:And yit thei made him noght forthiA god, and was no cause why.In Rome he was long time alsoA god among the Romeins tho;For, as he seide, of his presenceTher was destruid a pestilence,Whan thei to thyle of Delphos wente,And that Appollo with hem senteThis Esculapius his Sone,Among the Romeins forto wone.And there he duelte for a while,Til afterward into that yle,Fro whenne he cam, ayein he torneth,Where al his lyf that he sojornethAmong the Greks, til that he deide.And thei upon him thanne leideHis name, and god of medicineHe hatte after that ilke line.

An other god of HerculesThei made, which was nathelesA man, bot that he was so strong,In al this world that brod and longSo myhti was noman as he.Merveiles tuelve in his degre,As it was couth in sondri londes,He dede with hise oghne hondesAyein geantz and Monstres bothe,The whiche horrible were and lothe,Bot he with strengthe hem overcam:Wherof so gret a pris he nam,That thei him clepe amonges alleThe god of strengthe, and to him calle.And yit ther is no reson inne,For he a man was full of sinne,Which proved was upon his ende,For in a rage himself he brende;And such a cruel mannes dedeAcordeth nothing with godhede.

Thei hadde of goddes yit an other,Which Pluto hihte, and was the brotherOf Jupiter, and he fro youtheWith every word which cam to mouthe,Of eny thing whan he was wroth,He wolde swere his commun oth,Be Lethen and be Flegeton,Be Cochitum and Acheron,The whiche, after the bokes telle,Ben the chief flodes of the helle:Be Segne and Stige he swor also,That ben the depe Pettes tuoOf helle the most principal.Pluto these othes overalSwor of his commun custummance,Til it befell upon a chance,That he for Jupiteres sakeUnto the goddes let do makeA sacrifice, and for that dedeOn of the pettes for his medeIn helle, of which I spak of er,Was granted him; and thus he therUpon the fortune of this thingThe name tok of helle king.

Lo, these goddes and wel moAmong the Greks thei hadden tho,And of goddesses manyon,Whos names thou schalt hiere anon,And in what wise thei deceivenThe foles whiche here feith receiven.

So as Saturne is sovereinOf false goddes, as thei sein,So is Sibeles of goddessesThe Moder, whom withoute gessesThe folk Payene honoure and serve,As thei the whiche hire lawe observe.Bot forto knowen upon thisFro when sche cam and what sche is,Bethincia the contre hihte,Wher sche cam ferst to mannes sihte;And after was Saturnes wif,Be whom thre children in hire lifSche bar, and thei were cleped thoJuno, Neptunus and Pluto,The whiche of nyce fantasieThe poeple wolde deifie.And for hire children were so,Sibeles thanne was alsoMad a goddesse, and thei hire calleThe moder of the goddes alle.So was that name bore forth,And yit the cause is litel worth.

A vois unto Saturne toldeHou that his oghne Sone him scholdeOut of his regne putte aweie;And he be cause of thilke weie,That him was schape such a fate,Sibele his wif began to hateAnd ek hire progenie bothe.And thus, whil that thei were wrothe,Be Philerem upon a daiIn his avouterie he lai,On whom he Jupiter begat;And thilke child was after thatWhich wroghte al that was prophecied,As it tofore is specefied:So that whan Jupiter of CreteWas king, a wif unto him meteThe Dowhter of Sibele he tok,And that was Juno, seith the bok.Of his deificacionAfter the false oppinion,That have I told, so as thei meene;And for this Juno was the queeneOf Jupiter and Soster eke,The foles unto hire sieke,And sein that sche is the goddesseOf Regnes bothe and of richesse:And ek sche, as thei understonde,The water Nimphes hath in hondeTo leden at hire oghne heste;And whan hir list the Sky tempeste,The reinbowe is hir Messager.Lo, which a misbelieve is hier!That sche goddesse is of the SkyI wot non other cause why.

An other goddesse is Minerve,To whom the Greks obeie and serve:And sche was nyh the grete layOf Triton founde, wher sche layA child forcast, bot what sche wasTher knew noman the sothe cas.Bot in Aufrique sche was leidIn the manere as I have seid,And caried fro that ilke placeInto an Yle fer in Trace,The which Palene thanne hihte,Wher a Norrice hir kepte and dihte.And after, for sche was so wysThat sche fond ferst in hire avisThe cloth makinge of wolle and lyn,Men seiden that sche was divin,And the goddesse of SapienceThei clepen hire in that credence.

Of the goddesse which PallasIs cleped sondri speche was.On seith hire fader was Pallant,Which in his time was geant,A cruel man, a bataillous:An other seith hou in his housSche was the cause why he deide.And of this Pallas some ek seideThat sche was Martes wif; and soAmong the men that weren thoOf misbelieve in the rioteThe goddesse of batailles hoteShe was, and yit sche berth the name.Now loke, hou they be forto blame.

Saturnus after his exilFro Crete cam in gret perilInto the londes of Ytaile,And ther he dede gret mervaile,Wherof his name duelleth yit.For he fond of his oghne witThe ferste craft of plowh tilinge,Of Eringe and of corn sowinge,And how men scholden sette vinesAnd of the grapes make wynes;Al this he tawhte, and it fell so,His wif, the which cam with him tho,Was cleped Cereres be name,And for sche tawhte also the same,And was his wif that ilke throwe,As it was to the poeple knowe,Thei made of Ceres a goddesse,In whom here tilthe yit thei blesse,And sein that TricoloniusHire Sone goth amonges ousAnd makth the corn good chep or dere,Riht as hire list fro yer to yeere;So that this wif be cause of thisGoddesse of Cornes cleped is.

King Jupiter, which his likingeWhilom fulfelde in alle thinge,So priveliche aboute he laddeHis lust, that he his wille haddeOf Latona, and on hire thatDiane his dowhter he begatUnknowen of his wif Juno.And afterward sche knew it so,That Latona for drede fleddeInto an Ile, wher sche heddeHire wombe, which of childe aros.Thilke yle cleped was Delos;In which Diana was forthbroght,And kept so that hire lacketh noght.And after, whan sche was of Age,Sche tok non hiede of mariage,Bot out of mannes compaignieSche tok hire al to venerieIn forest and in wildernesseFor ther was al hire besinesseBe daie and ek be nyhtes tydeWith arwes brode under the sideAnd bowe in honde, of which sche slowhAnd tok al that hir liste ynowhOf bestes whiche ben chacable:Wherof the Cronique of this fableSeith that the gentils most of alleWorschipen hire and to hire calle,And the goddesse of hihe helles,Of grene trees, of freisshe welles,They clepen hire in that believe,Which that no reson mai achieve.

Proserpina, which dowhter wasOf Cereres, befell this cas:Whil sche was duellinge in Cizile,Hire moder in that ilke whileUpon hire blessinge and hire hesteBad that sche scholde ben honeste,And lerne forto weve and spinne,And duelle at hom and kepe hire inne.Bot sche caste al that lore aweie,And as sche wente hir out to pleie,To gadre floures in a pleine,And that was under the monteineOf Ethna, fell the same tydeThat Pluto cam that weie ryde,And sodeinly, er sche was war,He tok hire up into his char.And as thei riden in the field,Hire grete beaute he behield,Which was so plesant in his ije,That forto holde in compainieHe weddeth hire and hield hire soTo ben his wif for everemo.And as thou hast tofore herd telleHou he was cleped god of helle,So is sche cleped the goddesseBe cause of him, ne mor ne lesse.

Lo, thus, mi Sone, as I thee tolde,The Greks whilom be daies oldeHere goddes hadde in sondri wise,And thurgh the lore of here apriseThe Romeins hielden ek the same.And in the worschipe of here nameTo every godd in specialThei made a temple forth withal,And ech of hem his yeeres daiAttitled hadde; and of araiThe temples weren thanne ordeigned,And ek the poeple was constreignedTo come and don here sacrifice;The Prestes ek in here officeSolempne maden thilke festes.And thus the Greks lich to the bestesThe men in stede of god honoure,Whiche mihten noght hemself socoure,Whil that thei were alyve hiere.And over this, as thou schalt hiere,

The Greks fulfild of fantasieSein ek that of the helles hiheThe goddes ben in special,Bot of here name in generalThei hoten alle Satiri.Ther ben of Nimphes proprelyIn the believe of hem also:Oreades thei seiden thoAttitled ben to the monteines;And for the wodes in demeynesTo kepe, tho ben Driades;Of freisshe welles Naiades;And of the Nimphes of the SeeI finde a tale in proprete,Hou Dorus whilom king of Grece,Which hadde of infortune a piece,—His wif forth with hire dowhtres alle,So as the happes scholden falle,With many a gentil womman thereDreint in the salte See thei were:Wherof the Greks that time seiden,And such a name upon hem leiden,Nereïdes that thei ben hote,The Nimphes whiche that thei noteTo regne upon the stremes salte.Lo now, if this believe halte!Bot of the Nimphes as thei telle,In every place wher thei duelleThei ben al redi obeissantAs damoiselles entendantTo the goddesses, whos serviseThei mote obeie in alle wise;Wherof the Greks to hem besekeWith tho that ben goddesses eke,And have in hem a gret credence.

And yit withoute experienceSalve only of illusion,Which was to hem dampnacion,For men also that were dedeThei hadden goddes, as I rede,And tho be name Manes hihten,To whom ful gret honour thei dihten,So as the Grekes lawe seith,Which was ayein the rihte feith.

Thus have I told a gret partie;Bot al the hole progenieOf goddes in that ilke timeTo long it were forto rime.Bot yit of that which thou hast herd,Of misbelieve hou it hath ferd,Ther is a gret diversite.

Mi fader, riht so thenketh me.Bot yit o thing I you beseche,Which stant in alle mennes speche,The godd and the goddesse of love,Of whom ye nothing hier aboveHave told, ne spoken of her fare,That ye me wolden now declareHou thei ferst comen to that name.

Mi Sone, I have it left for schame,Be cause I am here oghne Prest;Bot for thei stonden nyh thi brestUpon the schrifte of thi matiere,Thou schalt of hem the sothe hiere:And understond nou wel the cas.Venus Saturnes dowhter was,Which alle danger putte aweieOf love, and fond to lust a weie;So that of hire in sondri placeDiverse men felle into grace,And such a lusti lif sche ladde,That sche diverse children hadde,Nou on be this, nou on be that.Of hire it was that Mars beyatA child, which cleped was Armene;Of hire also cam Andragene,To whom Mercurie fader was:Anchises begat EneasOf hire also, and EriconBiten begat, and therupon,Whan that sche sih ther was non other,Be Jupiter hire oghne brotherSche lay, and he begat Cupide.And thilke Sone upon a tyde,Whan he was come unto his Age,He hadde a wonder fair visage,And fond his Moder amourous,And he was also lecherous:So whan thei weren bothe al one,As he which yhen hadde noneTo se reson, his Moder kiste;And sche also, that nothing wisteBot that which unto lust belongeth,To ben hire love him underfongeth.Thus was he blind, and sche unwys:Bot natheles this cause it is,Why Cupide is the god of love,For he his moder dorste love.And sche, which thoghte hire lustes fonde,Diverse loves tok in honde,Wel mo thanne I the tolde hiere:And for sche wolde hirselve skiere,Sche made comun that desport,And sette a lawe of such a port,That every womman mihte takeWhat man hire liste, and noght forsakeTo ben als comun as sche wolde.Sche was the ferste also which toldeThat wommen scholde here bodi selle;Semiramis, so as men telle,Of Venus kepte thilke aprise,And so dede in the same wiseOf Rome faire Neabole,Which liste hire bodi to rigole;Sche was to every man felawe,And hild the lust of thilke lawe,Which Venus of hirself began;Wherof that sche the name wan,Why men hire clepen the goddesseOf love and ek of gentilesse,Of worldes lust and of plesance.

Se nou the foule mescreanceOf Greks in thilke time tho,Whan Venus tok hire name so.Ther was no cause under the MoneOf which thei hadden tho to done,Of wel or wo wher so it was,That thei ne token in that casA god to helpe or a goddesse.Wherof, to take mi witnesse,

The king of Bragmans DindimusWrot unto Alisandre thus:In blaminge of the Grekes feithAnd of the misbelieve, he seithHow thei for every membre haddenA sondri god, to whom thei spraddenHere armes, and of help besoghten.

Minerve for the hed thei soghten,For sche was wys, and of a manThe wit and reson which he canIs in the celles of the brayn,Wherof thei made hire soverain.

Mercurie, which was in his dawesA gret spekere of false lawes,On him the kepinge of the tungeThei leide, whan thei spieke or sunge.

For Bachus was a glotoun eke,Him for the throte thei beseke,That he it wolde waisshen ofteWith swote drinkes and with softe.

The god of schuldres and of armesWas Hercules; for he in armesThe myhtieste was to fihte,To him tho Limes they behihte.

The god whom that thei clepen MartThe brest to kepe hath for his part,Forth with the herte, in his ymageThat he adresce the corage.

And of the galle the goddesse,For sche was full of hastifesseOf wraththe and liht to grieve also,Thei made and seide it was Juno.

Cupide, which the brond afyreBar in his hond, he was the SireOf the Stomak, which builleth evere,Wherof the lustes ben the levere.

To the goddesse Cereres,Which of the corn yaf hire encressUpon the feith that tho was take,The wombes cure was betake;

And Venus thurgh the Lecherie,For which that thei hire deifie,Sche kept al doun the remenantTo thilke office appourtenant.

Thus was dispers in sondri wiseThe misbelieve, as I devise,With many an ymage of entaile,Of suche as myhte hem noght availe;For thei withoute lyves chiereUnmyhti ben to se or hiereOr speke or do or elles fiele;And yit the foles to hem knele,Which is here oghne handes werk.Ha lord, hou this believe is derk,And fer fro resonable wit!And natheles thei don it yit:That was to day a ragged tre,To morwe upon his majesteStant in the temple wel besein.How myhte a mannes resoun seinThat such a Stock mai helpe or grieve?Bot thei that ben of such believeAnd unto suche goddes calle,It schal to hem riht so befalle,And failen ate moste nede.Bot if thee list to taken hiedeAnd of the ferste ymage wite,Petornius therof hath writeAnd ek Nigargorus also;And thei afferme and write so,That Promotheus was toforeAnd fond the ferste craft therfore,And Cirophanes, as thei telle,Thurgh conseil which was take in helle,In remembrance of his lignageLet setten up the ferste ymage.

Of Cirophanes seith the bok,That he for sorwe, which he tokOf that he sih his Sone ded,Of confort knew non other red,Bot let do make in remembranceA faire ymage of his semblanceAnd sette it in the market place,Which openly tofore his faceStod every dai to don him ese.And thei that thanne wolden pleseThe fader, scholden it obeie,Whan that they comen thilke weie.

And of Ninus king of AssireI rede hou that in his empireHe was next after the secoundeOf hem that ferst ymages founde.For he riht in semblable casOf Belus, which his fader wasFro Nembroth in the rihte line,Let make of gold and Stones fineA precious ymage richeAfter his fader evene liche;And therupon a lawe he sette,That every man of pure detteWith sacrifice and with truageHonoure scholde thilke ymage:So that withinne time it fell,Of Belus cam the name of Bel,Of Bel cam Belzebub, and soThe misbelieve wente tho.

The thridde ymage next to thisWas, whan the king of Grece ApisWas ded, thei maden a figureIn resemblance of his stature.Of this king Apis seith the bokThat Serapis his name tok,In whom thurgh long continuanceOf misbelieve a gret creanceThei hadden, and the reverenceOf Sacrifice and of encenceTo him thei made: and as thei telle,Among the wondres that befelle,Whan Alisandre fro CandaceCam ridende, in a wilde placeUndur an hull a Cave he fond;And Candalus, which in that londWas bore, and was Candaces Sone,Him tolde hou that of commun woneThe goddes were in thilke cave.And he, that wolde assaie and haveA knowlechinge if it be soth,Liht of his hors and in he goth,And fond therinne that he soghte:For thurgh the fendes sleihte him thoghte,Amonges othre goddes moThat Serapis spak to him tho,Whom he sih there in gret arrai.And thus the fend fro dai to daiThe worschipe of ydolatrieDrowh forth upon the fantasieOf hem that weren thanne blindeAnd couthen noght the trouthe finde.

Thus hast thou herd in what degreOf Grece, Egipte and of CaldeeThe misbelieves whilom stode;And hou so that thei be noght goodeNe trewe, yit thei sprungen oute,Wherof the wyde world abouteHis part of misbelieve tok.Til so befell, as seith the bok,That god a poeple for himselveHath chose of the lignages tuelve,Wherof the sothe redely,As it is write in Genesi,I thenke telle in such a wiseThat it schal be to thin apprise.

After the flod, fro which NoëWas sauf, the world in his degreWas mad, as who seith, newe ayein,Of flour, of fruit, of gras, of grein,Of beste, of bridd and of mankinde,Which evere hath be to god unkinde:For noght withstondende al the fare,Of that this world was mad so bareAnd afterward it was restored,Among the men was nothing moredTowardes god of good lyvynge,Bot al was torned to likingeAfter the fleissh, so that foryeteWas he which yaf hem lif and mete,Of hevene and Erthe creatour.And thus cam forth the grete errour,That thei the hihe god ne knewe,Bot maden othre goddes newe,As thou hast herd me seid tofore:Ther was noman that time bore,That he ne hadde after his choisA god, to whom he yaf his vois.Wherof the misbelieve camInto the time of Habraham:Bot he fond out the rihte weie,Hou only that men scholde obeieThe hihe god, which weldeth al,And evere hath don and evere schal,In hevene, in Erthe and ek in helle;Ther is no tunge his miht mai telle.This Patriarch to his lignageForbad, that thei to non ymageEncline scholde in none wise,Bot here offrende and sacrifiseWith al the hole hertes loveUnto the mihti god aboveThei scholden yive and to no mo:And thus in thilke time thoBegan the Secte upon this Erthe,Which of believes was the ferthe.Of rihtwisnesse it was conceived,So moste it nedes be receivedOf him that alle riht is inne,The hihe god, which wolde winneA poeple unto his oghne feith.On Habraham the ground he leith,And made him forto multeplieInto so gret a progenie,That thei Egipte al overspradde.Bot Pharao with wrong hem laddeIn servitute ayein the pes,Til god let sende MoisesTo make the deliverance;And for his poeple gret venganceHe tok, which is to hiere a wonder.The king was slain, the lond put under,God bad the rede See divide,Which stod upriht on either sideAnd yaf unto his poeple a weie,That thei on fote it passe dreieAnd gon so forth into desert:Wher forto kepe hem in covert,The daies, whan the Sonne brente,A large cloude hem overwente,And forto wissen hem be nyhte,A firy Piler hem alyhte.And whan that thei for hunger pleigne,The myhti god began to reyneManna fro hevene doun to grounde,Wherof that ech of hem hath foundeHis fode, such riht as him liste;And for thei scholde upon him triste,Riht as who sette a tonne abroche,He percede the harde roche,And sprong out water al at wille,That man and beste hath drunke his fille:And afterward he yaf the laweTo Moises, that hem withdraweThei scholden noght fro that he bad.And in this wise thei be lad,Til thei toke in possessionThe londes of promission,Wher that Caleph and JosuëThe Marches upon such degreDeparten, after the lignageThat ech of hem as HeritageHis porpartie hath underfonge.And thus stod this believe longe,Which of prophetes was governed;And thei hadde ek the poeple lernedOf gret honour that scholde hem falle;Bot ate moste nede of alleThei faileden, whan Crist was bore.Bot hou that thei here feith have bore,It nedeth noght to tellen al,The matiere is so general:Whan Lucifer was best in heveneAnd oghte moste have stonde in evene,Towardes god he tok debat;And for that he was obstinat,And wolde noght to trouthe encline,He fell for evere into ruine:And Adam ek in Paradis,Whan he stod most in al his prisAfter thastat of Innocence,Ayein the god brak his defenceAnd fell out of his place aweie:And riht be such a maner weieThe Jwes in here beste plit,Whan that thei scholden most parfitHave stonde upon the prophecie,Tho fellen thei to most folie,And him which was fro hevene come,And of a Maide his fleissh hath nome,And was among hem bore and fedd,As men that wolden noght be speddOf goddes Sone, with o voisThei hinge and slowhe upon the crois.Wherof the parfit of here laweFro thanne forth hem was withdrawe,So that thei stonde of no merit,Bot in truage as folk soubgitWithoute proprete of placeThei liven out of goddes grace,Dispers in alle londes oute.

And thus the feith is come aboute,That whilom in the Jewes stod,Which is noght parfihtliche good.To speke as it is nou befalle,Ther is a feith aboven alle,In which the trouthe is comprehended,Wherof that we ben alle amended.

The hihe almyhti majeste,Of rihtwisnesse and of pite,The Sinne which that Adam wroghte,Whan he sih time, ayein he boghte,And sende his Sone fro the heveneTo sette mannes Soule in evene,Which thanne was so sore falleUpon the point which was befalle,That he ne mihte himself arise.

Gregoire seith in his aprise,It helpeth noght a man be bore,If goddes Sone were unbore;For thanne thurgh the ferste Sinne,Which Adam whilom broghte ous inne,Ther scholden alle men be lost;Bot Crist restoreth thilke lost,And boghte it with his fleissh and blod.And if we thenken hou it stodOf thilke rancoun which he payde,As seint Gregoire it wrot and sayde,Al was behovely to the man:For that wherof his wo beganWas after cause of al his welthe,Whan he which is the welle of helthe,The hihe creatour of lif,Upon the nede of such a strifSo wolde for his creatureTake on himself the forsfaitureAnd soffre for the mannes sake.Thus mai no reson wel forsakeThat thilke Senne originalNe was the cause in specialOf mannes worschipe ate laste,Which schal withouten ende laste.For be that cause the godhedeAssembled was to the manhedeIn the virgine, where he nomOure fleissh and verai man becomOf bodely fraternite;Wherof the man in his degreStant more worth, as I have told,Than he stod erst be manyfold,Thurgh baptesme of the newe lawe,Of which Crist lord is and felawe.

And thus the hihe goddes myht,Which was in the virgine alyht,The mannes Soule hath reconsiled,Which hadde longe ben exiled.So stant the feith upon believe,Withoute which mai non achieveTo gete him Paradis ayein:Bot this believe is so certein,So full of grace and of vertu,That what man clepeth to JhesuIn clene lif forthwith good dede,He mai noght faile of hevene mede,Which taken hath the rihte feith;For elles, as the gospel seith,Salvacion ther mai be non.And forto preche theruponCrist bad to hise Apostles alle,The whos pouer as nou is falleOn ous that ben of holi cherche,If we the goode dedes werche;For feith only sufficeth noght,Bot if good dede also be wroght.Now were it good that thou forthi,Which thurgh baptesme proprelyArt unto Cristes feith professed,Be war that thou be noght oppressedWith Anticristes lollardie.For as the Jwes prophecieWas set of god for avantage,Riht so this newe tapinageOf lollardie goth abouteTo sette Cristes feith in doute.The seintz that weren ous tofore,Be whom the feith was ferst upbore,That holi cherche stod relieved,Thei oghten betre be believedThan these, whiche that men knoweNoght holy, thogh thei feigne and bloweHere lollardie in mennes Ere.Bot if thou wolt live out of fere,Such newe lore, I rede, eschuie,And hold forth riht the weie and suie,As thine Ancestres dede er this:So schalt thou noght believe amis.

Crist wroghte ferst and after tawhte,So that the dede his word arawhte;He yaf ensample in his persone,And we the wordes have al one,Lich to the Tree with leves grene,Upon the which no fruit is sene.

The Priest Thoas, which of MinerveThe temple hadde forto serve,And the Palladion of TroieKepte under keie, for monoie,Of Anthenor which he hath nome,Hath soffred Anthenor to comeAnd the Palladion to stele,Wherof the worschipe and the weleOf the Troiens was overthrowe.Bot Thoas at the same throwe,Whan Anthenor this Juel tok,Wynkende caste awei his lokFor a deceipte and for a wyle:As he that scholde himself beguile,He hidde his yhen fro the sihte,And wende wel that he so mihteExcuse his false conscience.I wot noght if thilke evidenceNou at this time in here estatzExcuse mihte the Prelatz,Knowende hou that the feith discrescethAnd alle moral vertu cesseth,Wherof that thei the keies bere,Bot yit hem liketh noght to stereHere gostliche yhe forto seThe world in his adversite;Thei wol no labour undertakeTo kepe that hem is betake.Crist deide himselve for the feith,Bot nou our feerfull prelat seith,“The lif is suete,” and that he kepeth,So that the feith unholpe slepeth,And thei unto here ese entendenAnd in here lust her lif despenden,And every man do what him list.Thus stant this world fulfild of Mist,That noman seth the rihte weie:The wardes of the cherche keieThurgh mishandlinge ben myswreynt,The worldes wawe hath welnyh dreyntThe Schip which Peter hath to stiere,The forme is kept, bot the matiereTransformed is in other wise.Bot if thei weren gostli wise,And that the Prelatz weren goode,As thei be olde daies stode,It were thanne litel nedeAmong the men to taken hiedeOf that thei hieren Pseudo telle,Which nou is come forto duelle,To sowe cokkel with the corn,So that the tilthe is nyh forlorn,Which Crist sew ferst his oghne hond.Nou stant the cockel in the lond,Wher stod whilom the goode grein,For the Prelatz nou, as men sein,Forslowthen that thei scholden tile.And that I trowe be the skile,Whan ther is lacke in hem above,The poeple is stranged to the loveOf trouthe, in cause of ignorance;For wher ther is no pourveanceOf liht, men erren in the derke.Bot if the Prelatz wolden werkeUpon the feith which thei ous teche,Men scholden noght here weie secheWithoute liht, as now is used:Men se the charge aldai refused,Which holi cherche hath undertake.

Bot who that wolde ensample take,Gregoire upon his OmelieAyein the Slouthe of PrelacieCompleigneth him, and thus he seith:“Whan Peter, fader of the feith,At domesdai schal with him bringeJudeam, which thurgh his prechingeHe wan, and Andrew with AchaieSchal come his dette forto paie,And Thomas ek with his beyeteOf Ynde, and Poul the routes greteOf sondri londes schal presente,And we fulfild of lond and rente,Which of this world we holden hiere,With voide handes schul appiere,Touchende oure cure spirital,Which is our charge in special,I not what thing it mai amonteUpon thilke ende of oure accompte,Wher Crist himself is Auditour,Which takth non hiede of vein honour.”Thoffice of the ChancellerieOr of the kinges TresorieNe for the writ ne for the tailleTo warant mai noght thanne availe;The world, which nou so wel we trowe,Schal make ous thanne bot a mowe:So passe we withoute mede,That we non otherwise spede,Bot as we rede that he spedde,The which his lordes besant heddeAnd therupon gat non encress.Bot at this time natheles,What other man his thonk deserve,The world so lusti is to serve,That we with him ben all acorded,And that is wist and wel recordedThurghout this Erthe in alle londesLet knyhtes winne with here hondes,For oure tunge schal be stilleAnd stonde upon the fleisshes wille.It were a travail forto precheThe feith of Crist, as forto techeThe folk Paiene, it wol noght be;Bot every Prelat holde his SeeWith al such ese as he mai geteOf lusti drinke and lusti mete,Wherof the bodi fat and fullIs unto gostli labour dullAnd slowh to handle thilke plowh.Bot elles we ben swifte ynowhToward the worldes Avarice;And that is as a sacrifice,Which, after that thapostel seith,Is openly ayein the feithUnto thidoles yove and granted:Bot natheles it is nou haunted,And vertu changed into vice,So that largesce is Avarice,In whos chapitre now we trete.

Mi fader, this matiere is beteSo fer, that evere whil I liveI schal the betre hede yiveUnto miself be many weie:Bot over this nou wolde I preieTo wite what the branches areOf Avarice, and hou thei fareAls wel in love as otherwise.

Mi Sone, and I thee schal deviseIn such a manere as thei stonde,So that thou schalt hem understonde.

Dame Avarice is noght soleine,Which is of gold the Capiteine;Bot of hir Court in sondri wiseAfter the Scole of hire apriseSche hath of Servantz manyon,Wherof that Covoitise is on;Which goth the large world aboute,To seche thavantages oute,Wher that he mai the profit winneTo Avarice, and bringth it inne.That on hald and that other draweth,Ther is no day which hem bedaweth,No mor the Sonne than the Mone,Whan ther is eny thing to done,And namely with Covoitise;For he stant out of al assisseOf resonable mannes fare.Wher he pourposeth him to fareUpon his lucre and his beyete,The smale path, the large Strete,The furlong and the longe Mile,Al is bot on for thilke while:And for that he is such on holde,Dame Avarice him hath withholde,As he which is the principalOutward, for he is overalA pourveour and an aspie.For riht as of an hungri PieThe storve bestes ben awaited,Riht so is Covoitise afaitedTo loke where he mai pourchace,For be his wille he wolde embraceAl that this wyde world beclippeth;Bot evere he somwhat overhippeth,That he ne mai noght al fulfilleThe lustes of his gredi wille.Bot where it falleth in a lond,That Covoitise in myhti hondIs set, it is ful hard to fiede;For thanne he takth non other hiede,Bot that he mai pourchace and gete,His conscience hath al foryete,And not what thing it mai amonteThat he schal afterward acompte.Bote as the Luce in his degreOf tho that lasse ben than heThe fisshes griedeli devoureth,So that no water hem socoureth,Riht so no lawe mai rescoweFro him that wol no riht allowe;For wher that such on is of myht,His will schal stonde in stede of riht.Thus be the men destruid fulofte,Til that the grete god alofteAyein so gret a covoitiseRedresce it in his oghne wise:And in ensample of alle thoI finde a tale write so,The which, for it is good to liere,Hierafterward thou schalt it hiere.

Whan Rome stod in noble plit,Virgile, which was tho parfit,A Mirour made of his clergieAnd sette it in the tounes ijeOf marbre on a piler withoute;That thei be thritty Mile abouteBe daie and ek also be nyhteIn that Mirour beholde myhteHere enemys, if eny were,With al here ordinance there,Which thei ayein the Cite caste:So that, whil thilke Mirour laste,Ther was no lond which mihte achieveWith werre Rome forto grieve;Wherof was gret envie tho.And fell that ilke time so,That Rome hadde werres strongeAyein Cartage, and stoden longeThe tuo Cites upon debat.Cartage sih the stronge astatOf Rome in thilke Mirour stonde,And thoghte al prively to fondeTo overthrowe it be som wyle.And Hanybal was thilke whileThe Prince and ledere of Cartage,Which hadde set al his corageUpon knihthod in such a wise,That he be worthi and be wiseAnd be non othre was conseiled,Wherof the world is yit merveiledOf the maistries that he wroghteUpon the marches whiche he soghte.And fell in thilke time also,The king of Puile, which was tho,Thoghte ayein Rome to rebelle,And thus was take the querele,Hou to destruie this Mirour.

Of Rome tho was EmperourCrassus, which was so coveitous,That he was evere desirousOf gold to gete the pilage;Wherof that Puile and ek CartageWith Philosophres wise and greteBegunne of this matiere trete,And ate laste in this degreTher weren Philosophres thre,To do this thing whiche undertoke,And therupon thei with hem tokeA gret tresor of gold in cophres,To Rome and thus these philisophresTogedre in compainie wente,Bot noman wiste what thei mente.Whan thei to Rome come were,So prively thei duelte there,As thei that thoghten to deceive:Was non that mihte of hem perceive,Til thei in sondri stedes haveHere gold under the ground begraveIn tuo tresors, that to beholdeThei scholden seme as thei were olde.And so forth thanne upon a dayAl openly in good araiTo themperour thei hem presente,And tolden it was here ententeTo duellen under his servise.And he hem axeth in what wise;And thei him tolde in such a plit,That ech of hem hadde a spirit,The which slepende a nyht appierethAnd hem be sondri dremes lerethAfter the world that hath betid.Under the ground if oght be hidOf old tresor at eny throwe,They schull it in here swevenes knowe;And upon this condicioun,Thei sein, what gold under the tounOf Rome is hid, thei wole it finde,Ther scholde noght be left behinde,Be so that he the halvendelHem grante, and he assenteth wel;And thus cam sleighte forto duelleWith Covoitise, as I thee telle.This Emperour bad redilyThat thei be logged faste byWhere he his oghne body lay;And whan it was amorwe day,That on of hem seith that he metteWher he a goldhord scholde fette:Wherof this Emperour was glad,And therupon anon he badHis Mynours forto go and myne,And he himself of that covineGoth forth withal, and at his hondThe tresor redi there he fond,Where as thei seide it scholde be;And who was thanne glad bot he?

Upon that other dai secoundeThei have an other goldhord founde,Which the seconde maister tokUpon his swevene and undertok.And thus the sothe experienceTo themperour yaf such credence,That al his trist and al his feithSo sikerliche on hem he leith,Of that he fond him so relieved,That thei ben parfitli believed,As thogh thei were goddes thre.Nou herkne the soutilete.

The thridde maister scholde mete,Which, as thei seiden, was unmeteAbove hem alle, and couthe most;And he withoute noise or bostAl priveli, so as he wolde,Upon the morwe his swevene toldeTo themperour riht in his Ere,And seide him that he wiste whereA tresor was so plentivousOf gold and ek so preciousOf jeueals and of riche stones,That unto alle hise hors at onesIt were a charge sufficant.This lord upon this covenantWas glad, and axeth where it was.The maister seide, under the glas,And tolde him eke, as for the MynHe wolde ordeigne such engin,That thei the werk schull undersetteWith Tymber, that withoute letteMen mai the tresor saufli delve,So that the Mirour be himselveWithoute empeirement schal stonde:And this the maister upon hondeHath undertake in alle weie.This lord, which hadde his wit aweieAnd was with Covoitise blent,Anon therto yaf his assent;And thus they myne forth withal,The timber set up overal,Wherof the Piler stod upriht;Til it befell upon a nyhtThese clerkes, whan thei were warHou that the timber only barThe Piler, wher the Mirour stod,—Here sleihte noman understod,—Thei go be nyhte unto the MyneWith pich, with soulphre and with rosine,And whan the Cite was a slepe,A wylde fyr into the depeThey caste among the timberwerk,And so forth, whil the nyht was derk,Desguised in a povere araiThei passeden the toun er dai.And whan thei come upon an hell,Thei sihen how the Mirour fell,Wherof thei maden joie ynowh,And ech of hem with other lowh,And seiden, “Lo, what coveitiseMai do with hem that be noght wise!”And that was proved afterward,For every lond, to RomewardWhich hadde be soubgit tofore,Whan this Mirour was so forloreAnd thei the wonder herde seie,Anon begunne desobeieWith werres upon every side;And thus hath Rome lost his prideAnd was defouled overal.For this I finde of Hanybal,That he of Romeins in a dai,Whan he hem fond out of arai,So gret a multitude slowh,That of goldringes, whiche he drowhOf gentil handes that ben dede,Buisshelles fulle thre, I rede,He felde, and made a bregge also,That he mihte over Tibre goUpon the corps that dede wereOf the Romeins, whiche he slowh there.

Bot now to speke of the juise,The which after the covoitiseWas take upon this Emperour,For he destruide the Mirour;It is a wonder forto hiere.The Romeins maden a chaiereAnd sette here Emperour therinne,And seiden, for he wolde winneOf gold the superfluite,Of gold he scholde such plenteReceive, til he seide Ho:And with gold, which thei hadden thoBuillende hot withinne a panne,Into his Mouth thei poure thanne.And thus the thurst of gold was queynt,With gold which hadde ben atteignt.

Wherof, mi Sone, thou miht hiere,Whan Covoitise hath lost the stiereOf resonable governance,Ther falleth ofte gret vengance.For ther mai be no worse thingThan Covoitise aboute a king:If it in his persone be,It doth the more adversite;And if it in his conseil stonde,It bringth alday meschief to hondeOf commun harm; and if it groweWithinne his court, it wol be knowe,For thanne schal the king be piled.The man which hath hise londes tiled,Awaiteth noght more redilyThe Hervest, than thei gredilyNe maken thanne warde and wacche,Wher thei the profit mihten cacche:And yit fulofte it falleth so,As men mai sen among hem tho,That he which most coveiteth fasteHath lest avantage ate laste.For whan fortune is therayein,Thogh he coveite, it is in vein;The happes be noght alle liche,On is mad povere, an other riche,The court to some doth profit,And some ben evere in o plit;And yit thei bothe aliche soreCoveite, bot fortune is moreUnto that o part favorable.And thogh it be noght resonable,This thing a man mai sen alday,Wherof that I thee telle mayA fair ensample in remembrance,Hou every man mot take his chanceOr of richesse or of poverte.Hou so it stonde of the decerte,Hier is noght every thing aquit,For ofte a man mai se this yit,That who best doth, lest thonk schal have;It helpeth noght the world to crave,Which out of reule and of mesureHath evere stonde in aventureAls wel in Court as elles where:And hou in olde daies thereIt stod, so as the thinges felle,I thenke a tale forto telle.

In a Cronique this I rede.Aboute a king, as moste nede,Ther was of knyhtes and squiersGret route, and ek of Officers:Some of long time him hadden served,And thoghten that thei have deservedAvancement, and gon withoute;And some also ben of the routeThat comen bot a while agon,And thei avanced were anon.These olde men upon this thing,So as thei dorste, ayein the kingAmong hemself compleignen ofte:Bot ther is nothing seid so softe,That it ne comth out ate laste;The king it wiste, and als so faste,As he which was of hih Prudence,He schop therfore an evidenceOf hem that pleignen in that cas,To knowe in whos defalte it was.And al withinne his oghne entente,That noman wiste what it mente,Anon he let tuo cofres makeOf o semblance and of o make,So lich that no lif thilke throweThat on mai fro that other knowe:Thei were into his chambre broght,Bot noman wot why thei be wroght,And natheles the king hath bedeThat thei be set in prive stede.As he that was of wisdom slih,Whan he therto his time sih,Al prively, that non it wiste,Hise oghne hondes that o kisteOf fin gold and of fin perrie,The which out of his tresorieWas take, anon he felde full;That other cofre of straw and mullWith Stones meind he felde also.Thus be thei fulle bothe tuo,So that erliche upon a dayHe bad withinne, ther he lay,Ther scholde be tofore his bedA bord upset and faire spred;And thanne he let the cofres fette,Upon the bord and dede hem sette.He knew the names wel of tho,The whiche ayein him grucche so,Bothe of his chambre and of his halle,Anon and sende for hem alle,And seide to hem in this wise:“Ther schal noman his happ despise;I wot wel ye have longe served,And god wot what ye have deserved:Bot if it is along on meOf that ye unavanced be,Or elles it be long on you,The sothe schal be proved nou,To stoppe with youre evele word.Lo hier tuo cofres on the bord:Ches which you list of bothe tuo;And witeth wel that on of thoIs with tresor so full begon,That if ye happe therupon,Ye schull be riche men for evere.Now ches and tak which you is levere:Bot be wel war, er that ye take;For of that on I undertakeTher is no maner good therinne,Wherof ye mihten profit winne.Now goth togedre of on assentAnd taketh youre avisement,For bot I you this dai avance,It stant upon youre oghne chanceAl only in defalte of grace:So schal be schewed in this placeUpon you alle wel afyn,That no defalte schal be myn.”Thei knelen alle and with o voisThe king thei thonken of this chois:And after that thei up arise,And gon aside and hem avise,And ate laste thei acorde;Wherof her tale to recorde,To what issue thei be falle,A kniht schal speke for hem alle.He kneleth doun unto the king,And seith that thei upon this thing,Or forto winne or forto lese,Ben alle avised forto chese.Tho tok this kniht a yerde on honde,And goth there as the cofres stonde,And with assent of everichonHe leith his yerde upon that on,And seith the king hou thilke sameThei chese in reguerdoun be name,And preith him that thei mote it have.The king, which wolde his honour save,Whan he hath herd the commun vois,Hath granted hem here oghne choisAnd tok hem therupon the keie.Bot for he wolde it were seieWhat good thei have, as thei suppose,He bad anon the cofre unclose,Which was fulfild with straw and stones:Thus be thei served al at ones.This king thanne in the same stedeAnon that other cofre undede,Where as thei sihen gret richesse,Wel more than thei couthen gesse.“Lo,” seith the king, “nou mai ye seThat ther is no defalte in me;Forthi miself I wole aquyte,And bereth ye youre oghne wyteOf that fortune hath you refused.”Thus was this wise king excused,And thei lefte of here evele specheAnd mercy of here king beseche.

Somdiel to this matiere likI finde a tale, hou Frederik,Of Rome that time Emperour,Herde, as he wente, a gret clamourOf tuo beggers upon the weie.That on of hem began to seie,“Ha lord, wel mai the man be richeWhom that a king list forto riche.”That other saide nothing so,Bot, “He is riche and wel bego,To whom that god wole sende wele.”And thus thei maden wordes fele,Wherof this lord hath hiede nome,And dede hem bothe forto comeTo the Paleis, wher he schal ete,And bad ordeine for here meteTuo Pastes, whiche he let do make.A capoun in that on was bake,And in that other forto winneOf florins al that mai withinneHe let do pute a gret richesse;And evene aliche, as man mai gesse,Outward thei were bothe tuo.This begger was comanded tho,He that which hield him to the king,That he ferst chese upon this thing:He sih hem, bot he felte hem noght,So that upon his oghne thoghtHe ches the Capoun and forsokThat other, which his fela tok.Bot whanne he wiste hou that it ferde,He seide alowd, that men it herde,“Nou have I certeinly conceivedThat he mai lihtly be deceived,That tristeth unto mannes helpe;Bot wel is him whom god wol helpe,For he stant on the siker side,Which elles scholde go beside:I se my fela wel recovere,And I mot duelle stille povere.”

Thus spak this begger his entente,And povere he cam and povere he wente;Of that he hath richesse soght,His infortune it wolde noght.So mai it schewe in sondri wise,Betwen fortune and covoitiseThe chance is cast upon a Dee;Bot yit fulofte a man mai seYnowe of suche natheles,Whiche evere pute hemself in pressTo gete hem good, and yit thei faile.

And forto speke of this entaileTouchende of love in thi matiere,Mi goode Sone, as thou miht hiere,That riht as it with tho men stodOf infortune of worldes good,As thou hast herd me telle above,Riht so fulofte it stant be love:Thogh thou coveite it everemore,Thou schalt noght have o diel the more,Bot only that which thee is schape,The remenant is bot a jape.And natheles ynowe of thoTher ben, that nou coveiten so,That where as thei a womman se,Ye ten or tuelve thogh ther be,The love is nou so unavised,That wher the beaute stant assised,The mannes herte anon is there,And rouneth tales in hire Ere,And seith hou that he loveth streite,And thus he set him to coveite,An hundred thogh he sihe aday.So wolde he more thanne he may;Bot for the grete covoitiseOf sotie and of fol empriseIn ech of hem he fint somwhatThat pleseth him, or this or that;Som on, for sche is whit of skin,Som on, for sche is noble of kin,Som on, for sche hath rodi chieke,Som on, for that sche semeth mieke,Som on, for sche hath yhen greie,Som on, for sche can lawhe and pleie,Som on, for sche is long and smal,Som on, for sche is lyte and tall,Som on, for sche is pale and bleche,Som on, for sche is softe of speche,Som on, for that sche is camused,Som on, for sche hath noght ben used,Som on, for sche can daunce and singe;So that som thing to his likingeHe fint, and thogh nomore he fiele,Bot that sche hath a litel hiele,It is ynow that he therforeHire love, and thus an hundred score,Whil thei be newe, he wolde he hadde;Whom he forsakth, sche schal be badde.The blinde man no colour demeth,But al is on, riht as him semeth;So hath his lust no juggement,Whom covoitise of love blent.Him thenkth that to his covoitiseHou al the world ne mai suffise,For be his wille he wolde have alle,If that it mihte so befalle:Thus is he commun as the Strete,I sette noght of his beyete.

Nai, fader, such love I despise,And whil I live schal don evere,For in good feith yit hadde I levere,Than to coveite in such a weie,To ben for evere til I deieAs povere as Job, and loveles,Outaken on, for havelesHis thonkes is noman alyve.For that a man scholde al unthryveTher oghte no wisman coveite,The lawe was noght set so streite:Forthi miself withal to save,Such on ther is I wolde have,And non of al these othre mo.

Mi Sone, of that thou woldest so,I am noght wroth, bot over thisI wol thee tellen hou it is.For ther be men, whiche otherwise,Riht only for the covoitiseOf that thei sen a womman riche,Ther wol thei al here love affiche;Noght for the beaute of hire face,Ne yit for vertu ne for grace,Which sche hath elles riht ynowh,Bot for the Park and for the plowh,And other thing which therto longeth:For in non other wise hem longethTo love, bot thei profit finde;And if the profit be behinde,Here love is evere lesse and lesse,For after that sche hath richesse,Her love is of proporcion.If thou hast such condicion,Mi Sone, tell riht as it is.

Min holi fader, nay ywiss,Condicion such have I non.For trewli, fader, I love oonSo wel with al myn hertes thoght,That certes, thogh sche hadde noght,And were as povere as Medea,Which was exiled for Creusa,I wolde hir noght the lasse love;Ne thogh sche were at hire above,As was the riche qwen Candace,Which to deserve love and graceTo Alisandre, that was king,Yaf many a worthi riche thing,Or elles as Pantasilee,Which was the quen of Feminee,And gret richesse with hir nam,Whan sche for love of Hector camTo Troie in rescousse of the toun,—I am of such condicion,That thogh mi ladi of hirselveWere also riche as suche tuelve,I couthe noght, thogh it wer so,No betre love hir than I do.For I love in so plein a wise,That forto speke of coveitise,As for poverte or for richesseMi love is nouther mor ne lesse.For in good feith I trowe this,So coveitous noman ther is,Forwhy and he mi ladi sihe,That he thurgh lokinge of his yheNe scholde have such a strok withinne,That for no gold he mihte winneHe scholde noght hire love asterte,Bot if he lefte there his herte;Be so it were such a man,That couthe Skile of a womman.For ther be men so ruide some,Whan thei among the wommen come,Thei gon under proteccioun,That love and his affecciounNe schal noght take hem be the slieve;For thei ben out of that believe,Hem lusteth of no ladi chiere,Bot evere thenken there and hiereWher that here gold is in the cofre,And wol non other love profre:Bot who so wot what love amountethAnd be resoun trewliche acompteth,Than mai he knowe and taken hiedeThat al the lust of wommanhiede,Which mai ben in a ladi face,Mi ladi hath, and ek of graceIf men schull yiven hire a pris,Thei mai wel seie hou sche is wysAnd sobre and simple of contenance,And al that to good governanceBelongeth of a worthi wihtSche hath pleinli: for thilke nyhtThat sche was bore, as for the nonesNature sette in hire at onesBeaute with bounte so besein,That I mai wel afferme and sein,I sawh yit nevere creatureOf comlihied and of fetureIn eny kinges regiounBe lich hire in comparisoun:And therto, as I have you told,Yit hath sche more a thousendfoldOf bounte, and schortli to telle,Sche is the pure hed and welleAnd Mirour and ensample of goode.Who so hir vertus understode,Me thenkth it oughte ynow suffiseWithouten other covoitiseTo love such on and to serve,Which with hire chiere can deserveTo be beloved betre ywissThan sche per cas that richest isAnd hath of gold a Milion.Such hath be myn opinionAnd evere schal: bot nathelesI seie noght sche is haveles,That sche nys riche and wel at ese,And hath ynow wherwith to pleseOf worldes good whom that hire liste;Bot o thing wolde I wel ye wiste,That nevere for no worldes goodMin herte untoward hire stod,Bot only riht for pure love;That wot the hihe god above.Nou, fader, what seie ye therto?

Mi Sone, I seie it is wel do.For tak of this riht good believe,What man that wole himself relieveTo love in eny other wise,He schal wel finde his coveitiseSchal sore grieve him ate laste,For such a love mai noght laste.Bot nou, men sein, in oure daiesMen maken bot a fewe assaies,Bot if the cause be richesse;Forthi the love is wel the lesse.And who that wolde ensamples telle,Be olde daies as thei felle,Than mihte a man wel understondeSuch love mai noght longe stonde.Now herkne, Sone, and thou schalt hiereA gret ensample of this matiere.

To trete upon the cas of love,So as we tolden hiere above,I finde write a wonder thing.Of Puile whilom was a king,A man of hih complexiounAnd yong, bot his affecciounAfter the nature of his ageWas yit noght falle in his corageThe lust of wommen forto knowe.So it betidde upon a throweThis lord fell into gret seknesse:Phisique hath don the besinesseOf sondri cures manyonTo make him hol; and theruponA worthi maister which ther wasYaf him conseil upon this cas,That if he wolde have parfit hele,He scholde with a womman dele,A freissh, a yong, a lusti wiht,To don him compaignie a nyht:For thanne he seide him redily,That he schal be al hol therby,And otherwise he kneu no cure.

This king, which stod in aventureOf lif and deth, for medicineAssented was, and of covineHis Steward, whom he tristeth wel,He tok, and tolde him everydel,Hou that this maister hadde seid:And therupon he hath him preidAnd charged upon his ligance,That he do make porveanceOf such on as be covenableFor his plesance and delitable;And bad him, hou that evere it stod,That he schal spare for no good,For his will is riht wel to paie.

The Steward seide he wolde assaie:Bot nou hierafter thou schalt wite,As I finde in the bokes write,What coveitise in love doth.This Steward, forto telle soth,Amonges al the men alyveA lusti ladi hath to wyve,Which natheles for gold he tokAnd noght for love, as seith the bok.A riche Marchant of the londHir fader was, and hire fondSo worthily, and such richesseOf worldes good and such largesseWith hire he yaf in mariage,That only for thilke avantageOf good this Steward hath hire take,For lucre and noght for loves sake,And that was afterward wel seene;Nou herkne what it wolde meene.

This Steward in his oghne herteSih that his lord mai noght asterteHis maladie, bot he haveA lusti womman him to save,And thoghte he wolde yive ynowhOf his tresor; wherof he drowhGret coveitise into his mynde,And sette his honour fer behynde.Thus he, whom gold hath overset,Was trapped in his oghne net;The gold hath mad hise wittes lame,So that sechende his oghne schameHe rouneth in the kinges Ere,And seide him that he wiste whereA gentile and a lusti onTho was, and thider wolde he gon:Bot he mot yive yiftes grete;For bot it be thurgh grete beyeteOf gold, he seith, he schal noght spede.The king him bad upon the nedeThat take an hundred pound he scholde,And yive it where that he wolde,Be so it were in worthi place:And thus to stonde in loves graceThis king his gold hath abandouned.And whan this tale was full rouned,The Steward tok the gold and wente,Withinne his herte and many a wenteOf coveitise thanne he caste,Wherof a pourpos ate lasteAyein love and ayein his rihtHe tok, and seide hou thilke nyhtHis wif schal ligge be the king;And goth thenkende upon this thingToward his In, til he cam homInto the chambre, and thanne he nomHis wif, and tolde hire al the cas.And sche, which red for schame was,With bothe hire handes hath him preidKnelende and in this wise seid,That sche to reson and to skileIn what thing that he bidde wileIs redy forto don his heste,Bot this thing were noght honeste,That he for gold hire scholde selle.And he tho with hise wordes felleForth with his gastly contienanceSeith that sche schal don obeissanceAnd folwe his will in every place;And thus thurgh strengthe of his manaceHir innocence is overlad,Wherof sche was so sore adradThat sche his will mot nede obeie.And therupon was schape a weie,That he his oghne wif be nyhteHath out of alle mennes sihteSo prively that non it wisteBroght to the king, which as him listeMai do with hire what he wolde.For whan sche was ther as sche scholde,With him abedde under the cloth,The Steward tok his leve and gothInto a chambre faste by;Bot hou he slep, that wot noght I,For he sih cause of jelousie.

Bot he, which hath the compainieOf such a lusti on as sche,Him thoghte that of his degreTher was noman so wel at ese:Sche doth al that sche mai to plese,So that his herte al hol sche hadde;And thus this king his joie ladde,Til it was nyh upon the day.The Steward thanne wher sche layCam to the bedd, and in his wiseHath bede that sche scholde arise.The king seith, “Nay, sche schal noght go.”His Steward seide ayein, “Noght so;For sche mot gon er it be knowe,And so I swor at thilke throwe,Whan I hire fette to you hiere.”The king his tale wol noght hiere,And seith hou that he hath hire boght,Forthi sche schal departe noght,Til he the brighte dai beholde.And cawhte hire in hise armes folde,As he which liste forto pleie,And bad his Steward gon his weie,And so he dede ayein his wille.And thus his wif abedde stilleLay with the king the longe nyht,Til that it was hih Sonne lyht;Bot who sche was he knew nothing.

Tho cam the Steward to the kingAnd preide him that withoute schameIn savinge of hire goode nameHe myhte leden hom ayeinThis lady, and hath told him pleinHou that it was his oghne wif.The king his Ere unto this strifHath leid, and whan that he it herde,Welnyh out of his wit he ferde,And seide, “Ha, caitif most of alle,Wher was it evere er this befalle,That eny cokard in this wiseBetok his wif for coveitise?Thou hast bothe hire and me beguiledAnd ek thin oghne astat reviled,Wherof that buxom unto theeHierafter schal sche nevere be.For this avou to god I make,After this day if I thee take,Thou schalt ben honged and todrawe.Nou loke anon thou be withdrawe,So that I se thee neveremore.”This Steward thanne dradde him sore,With al the haste that he maiAnd fledde awei that same dai,And was exiled out of londe.

Lo, there a nyce housebonde,Which thus hath lost his wif for evere!Bot natheles sche hadde a levere;The king hire weddeth and honoureth,Wherof hire name sche socoureth,Which erst was lost thurgh coveitiseOf him, that ladde hire other wise,And hath himself also forlore.

Mi Sone, be thou war therfore,Wher thou schalt love in eny place,That thou no covoitise embrace,The which is noght of loves kinde.Bot for al that a man mai findeNou in this time of thilke rageFul gret desese in mariage,Whan venym melleth with the SucreAnd mariage is mad for lucre,Or for the lust or for the hele:What man that schal with outher dele,He mai noght faile to repente.

Mi fader, such is myn entente:Bot natheles good is to have,For good mai ofte time saveThe love which scholde elles spille.Bot god, which wot myn hertes wille,I dar wel take to witnesse,Yit was I nevere for richesseBeset with mariage non;For al myn herte is upon onSo frely, that in the personeStant al my worldes joie al one:I axe nouther Park ne Plowh,If I hire hadde, it were ynowh,Hir love scholde me suffiseWithouten other coveitise.Lo now, mi fader, as of this,Touchende of me riht as it is,Mi schrifte I am beknowe plein;And if ye wole oght elles sein,Of covoitise if ther be moreIn love, agropeth out the sore.

Mi Sone, thou schalt understondeHou Coveitise hath yit on hondeIn special tuo conseilours,That ben also hise procurours.The ferst of hem is Falswitnesse,Which evere is redi to witnesseWhat thing his maister wol him hote:Perjurie is the secounde hote,Which spareth noght to swere an oth,Thogh it be fals and god be wroth.That on schal falswitnesse bere,That other schal the thing forswere,Whan he is charged on the bok.So what with hepe and what with crokThei make here maister ofte winneAnd wol noght knowe what is sinneFor coveitise, and thus, men sain,Thei maken many a fals bargain.Ther mai no trewe querele ariseIn thilke queste and thilke assise,Where as thei tuo the poeple enforme;For thei kepe evere o maner forme,That upon gold here conscienceThei founde, and take here evidence;And thus with falswitnesse and othesThei winne hem mete and drinke and clothes.

Riht so ther be, who that hem knewe,Of thes lovers ful many untrewe:Nou mai a womman finde ynowe,That ech of hem, whan he schal wowe,Anon he wole his hand doun leinUpon a bok, and swere and seinThat he wole feith and trouthe bere;And thus he profreth him to swereTo serven evere til he die,And al is verai tricherie.For whan the sothe himselven trieth,The more he swerth, the more he lieth;Whan he his feith makth althermest,Than mai a womman truste him lest;For til he mai his will achieve,He is no lengere forto lieve.Thus is the trouthe of love exiled,And many a good womman beguiled.

And ek to speke of Falswitnesse,There be nou many suche, I gesse,That lich unto the provisoursThei make here prive procurours,To telle hou ther is such a man,Which is worthi to love and canAl that a good man scholde kunne;So that with lesinge is begunneThe cause in which thei wole procede,And also siker as the credeThei make of that thei knowen fals.And thus fulofte aboute the halsLove is of false men embraced;Bot love which is so pourchacedComth afterward to litel pris.Forthi, mi Sone, if thou be wis,Nou thou hast herd this evidence,Thou miht thin oghne conscienceOppose, if thou hast ben such on.

Nai, god wot, fader I am non,Ne nevere was; for as men seith,Whan that a man schal make his feith,His herte and tunge moste acorde;For if so be that thei discorde,Thanne is he fals and elles noght:And I dar seie, as of my thoght,In love it is noght descordableUnto mi word, bot acordable.And in this wise, fader, IMai riht wel swere and salvely,That I mi ladi love wel,For that acordeth everydel.It nedeth noght to mi sothsaweThat I witnesse scholde drawe,Into this dai for nevere yitNe mihte it sinke into mi wit,That I my conseil scholde seieTo eny wiht, or me bewreieTo sechen help in such manere,Bot only of mi ladi diere.And thogh a thousend men it wiste,That I hire love, and thanne hem listeWith me to swere and to witnesse,Yit were that no falswitnesse;For I dar on this trouthe duelle,I love hire mor than I can telle.Thus am I, fader, gulteles,As ye have herd, and nathelesIn youre dom I put it al.

Mi Sone, wite in special,It schal noght comunliche faile,Al thogh it for a time availeThat Falswitnesse his cause spede,Upon the point of his falshiedeIt schal wel afterward be kid;Wherof, so as it is betid,Ensample of suche thinges blindeIn a Cronique write I finde.

The Goddesse of the See Thetis,Sche hadde a Sone, and his name isAchilles, whom to kepe and warde,Whil he was yong, as into wardeSche thoghte him salfly to betake,As sche which dradde for his sakeOf that was seid in prophecie,That he at Troie scholde die,Whan that the Cite was belein.Forthi, so as the bokes sein,Sche caste hire wit in sondri wise,Hou sche him mihte so desguiseThat noman scholde his bodi knowe:And so befell that ilke throwe,Whil that sche thoghte upon this dede,Ther was a king, which LichomedeWas hote, and he was wel begonWith faire dowhtres manyon,And duelte fer out in an yle.

Nou schalt thou hiere a wonder wyle:This queene, which the moder wasOf Achilles, upon this casHire Sone, as he a Maiden were,Let clothen in the same gereWhich longeth unto wommanhiede:And he was yong and tok non hiede,Bot soffreth al that sche him dede.Wherof sche hath hire wommen bedeAnd charged be here othes alle,Hou so it afterward befalle,That thei discovere noght this thing,Bot feigne and make a knowleching,Upon the conseil which was nome,In every place wher thei comeTo telle and to witnesse this,Hou he here ladi dowhter is.And riht in such a maner wiseSche bad thei scholde hire don servise,So that Achilles underfongethAs to a yong ladi belongethHonour, servise and reverence.For Thetis with gret diligenceHim hath so tawht and so afaited,That, hou so that it were awaited,With sobre and goodli contenanceHe scholde his wommanhiede avance,That non the sothe knowe myhte,Bot that in every mannes syhteHe scholde seme a pure Maide.And in such wise as sche him saide,Achilles, which that ilke whileWas yong, upon himself to smyleBegan, whan he was so besein.

And thus, after the bokes sein,With frette of Perle upon his hed,Al freissh betwen the whyt and red,As he which tho was tendre of Age,Stod the colour in his visage,That forto loke upon his chekeAnd sen his childly manere eke,He was a womman to beholde.And thanne his moder to him tolde,That sche him hadde so begonBe cause that sche thoghte gonTo Lichomede at thilke tyde,Wher that sche seide he scholde abydeAmong hise dowhtres forto duelle.

Achilles herde his moder telle,And wiste noght the cause why;And natheles ful buxomlyHe was redy to that sche bad,Wherof his moder was riht glad,To Lichomede and forth thei wente.And whan the king knew hire entente,And sih this yonge dowhter there,And that it cam unto his EreOf such record, of such witnesse,He hadde riht a gret gladnesseOf that he bothe syh and herde,As he that wot noght hou it ferdeUpon the conseil of the nede.Bot for al that king LichomedeHath toward him this dowhter take,And for Thetis his moder sakeHe put hire into compainieTo duelle with Deïdamie,His oghne dowhter, the eldeste,The faireste and the comeliesteOf alle hise doghtres whiche he hadde.

Lo, thus Thetis the cause ladde,And lefte there Achilles feigned,As he which hath himself restreignedIn al that evere he mai and canOut of the manere of a man,And tok his wommannysshe chiere,Wherof unto his beddefereDeïdamie he hath be nyhte.Wher kinde wole himselve rihte,After the Philosophres sein,Ther mai no wiht be therayein:And that was thilke time seene.The longe nyhtes hem betueneNature, which mai noght forbere,Hath mad hem bothe forto stere:Thei kessen ferst, and overmoreThe hihe weie of loves loreThei gon, and al was don in dede,Wherof lost is the maydenhede;And that was afterward wel knowe.

For it befell that ilke throweAt Troie, wher the Siege layUpon the cause of MenelayAnd of his queene dame Heleine,The Gregois hadden mochel peineAlday to fihte and to assaile.Bot for thei mihten noght availeSo noble a Cite forto winne,A prive conseil thei beginne,In sondri wise wher thei trete;And ate laste among the greteThei fellen unto this acord,That Protheus, of his recordWhich was an AstronomienAnd ek a gret Magicien,Scholde of his calculacionSeche after constellacion,Hou thei the Cite mihten gete:And he, which hadde noght foryeteOf that belongeth to a clerk,His studie sette upon this werk.So longe his wit aboute he caste,Til that he fond out ate laste,Bot if they hadden AchillesHere werre schal ben endeles.And over that he tolde hem pleinIn what manere he was besein,And in what place he schal be founde;So that withinne a litel stoundeUlixes forth with DiomedeUpon this point to LichomedeAgamenon togedre sente.Bot Ulixes, er he forth wente,Which was on of the moste wise,Ordeigned hath in such a wise,That he the moste riche aray,Wherof a womman mai be gay,With him hath take manyfold,And overmore, as it is told,An harneis for a lusti kniht,Which burned was as Selver bryht,Of swerd, of plate and ek of maile,As thogh he scholde to bataille,He tok also with him be Schipe.And thus togedre in felaschipeForth gon this Diomede and heIn hope til thei mihten seThe place where Achilles is.

The wynd stod thanne noght amis,Bot evene topseilcole it blew,Til Ulixes the Marche knew,Wher Lichomede his Regne hadde.The Stieresman so wel hem ladde,That thei ben comen sauf to londe,Wher thei gon out upon the strondeInto the Burgh, wher that thei foundeThe king, and he which hath facounde,Ulixes, dede the message.Bot the conseil of his corage,Why that he cam, he tolde noght,Bot undernethe he was bethoghtIn what manere he mihte aspieAchilles fro DeïdamieAnd fro these othre that ther were,Full many a lusti ladi there.

Thei pleide hem there a day or tuo,And as it was fortuned so,It fell that time in such a wise,To Bachus that a sacrifiseThes yonge ladys scholden make;And for the strange mennes sake,That comen fro the Siege of Troie,Thei maden wel the more joie.Ther was Revel, ther was daunsinge,And every lif which coude singeOf lusti wommen in the routeA freissh carole hath sunge aboute;Bot for al this yit nathelesThe Greks unknowe of AchillesSo weren, that in no degreThei couden wite which was he,Ne be his vois, ne be his pas.Ulixes thanne upon this casA thing of hih Prudence hath wroght:For thilke aray, which he hath broghtTo yive among the wommen there,He let do fetten al the gereForth with a knihtes harneis eke,—In al a contre forto sekeMen scholden noght a fairer se,—And every thing in his degreEndlong upon a bord he leide.To Lichomede and thanne he preideThat every ladi chese scholdeWhat thing of alle that sche wolde,And take it as be weie of yifte;For thei hemself it scholde schifte,He seide, after here oghne wille.

Achilles thanne stod noght stille:Whan he the bryhte helm behield,The swerd, the hauberk and the Schield,His herte fell therto anon;Of all that othre wolde he non,The knihtes gere he underfongeth,And thilke aray which that belongethUnto the wommen he forsok.And in this wise, as seith the bok,Thei knowen thanne which he was:For he goth forth the grete pasInto the chambre where he lay;Anon, and made no delay,He armeth him in knyhtli wise,That bettre can noman devise,And as fortune scholde falle,He cam so forth tofore hem alle,As he which tho was glad ynowh.But Lichomede nothing lowh,Whan that he syh hou that it ferde,For thanne he wiste wel and herde,His dowhter hadde be forlein;Bot that he was so oversein,The wonder overgoth his wit.For in Cronique is write yitThing which schal nevere be foryete,Hou that Achilles hath begetePirrus upon Deïdamie,Wherof cam out the tricherieOf Falswitnesse, whan thei saideHou that Achilles was a Maide.Bot that was nothing sene tho,For he is to the Siege goForth with Ulixe and Diomede.

Lo, thus was proved in the dedeAnd fulli spoke at thilke while:If o womman an other guile,Wher is ther eny sikernesse?Whan Thetis, which was the goddesse,Deïdamie hath so bejaped,I not hou it schal ben ascapedWith tho wommen whos innocenceIs nou alday thurgh such credenceDeceived ofte, as it is seene,With men that such untrouthe meene.For thei ben slyhe in such a wise,That thei be sleihte and be queintiseOf Falswitnesse bringen inneThat doth hem ofte forto winne,Wher thei ben noght worthi therto.Forthi, my Sone, do noght so.

Mi fader, as of FalswitnesseThe trouthe and the matiere expresse,Touchende of love hou it hath ferd,As ye have told, I have wel herd.Bot for ye seiden otherwise,Hou thilke vice of CovoitiseHath yit Perjurie of his acord,If that you list of som recordTo telle an other tale alsoIn loves cause of time ago,What thing it is to be forswore,I wolde preie you therfore,Wherof I mihte ensample take.

Mi goode Sone, and for thi sakeTouchende of this I schall fulfilleThin axinge at thin oghne wille,And the matiere I schal declare,Hou the wommen deceived are,Whan thei so tendre herte bere,Of that thei hieren men so swere;Bot whan it comth unto thassay,Thei finde it fals an other day:As Jason dede to Medee,Which stant yet of AuctoriteIn tokne and in memorial;Wherof the tale in specialIs in the bok of Troie write,Which I schal do thee forto wite.

In Grece whilom was a king,Of whom the fame and knowlechingBeleveth yit, and PeleüsHe hihte; bot it fell him thus,That his fortune hir whiel so laddeThat he no child his oghne haddeTo regnen after his decess.He hadde a brother natheles,Whos rihte name was Eson,And he the worthi kniht JasonBegat, the which in every londAlle othre passede of his hondIn Armes, so that he the besteWas named and the worthieste,He soghte worschipe overal.Nou herkne, and I thee telle schalAn aventure that he soghte,Which afterward ful dere he boghte.

Ther was an yle, which ColchosWas cleped, and therof arosGret speche in every lond aboute,That such merveile was non outeIn al the wyde world nawhere,As tho was in that yle there.Ther was a Schiep, as it was told,The which his flees bar al of gold,And so the goddes hadde it set,That it ne mihte awei be fetBe pouer of no worldes wiht:And yit ful many a worthi knihtIt hadde assaied, as thei dorste,And evere it fell hem to the worste.Bot he, that wolde it noght forsake,Bot of his knyhthod undertakeTo do what thing therto belongeth,This worthi Jason, sore alongethTo se the strange regiounsAnd knowe the condiciounsOf othre Marches, where he wente;And for that cause his hole ententeHe sette Colchos forto seche,And therupon he made a specheTo Peleüs his Em the king.And he wel paid was of that thing;And schop anon for his passage,And suche as were of his lignage,With othre knihtes whiche he ches,With him he tok, and Hercules,Which full was of chivalerie,With Jason wente in compaignie;And that was in the Monthe of Maii,Whan colde stormes were away.The wynd was good, the Schip was yare,Thei tok here leve, and forth thei fareToward Colchos: bot on the weieWhat hem befell is long to seie;Hou Lamedon the king of Troie,Which oghte wel have mad hem joie.Whan thei to reste a while him preide,Out of his lond he hem congeide;And so fell the dissencion,Which after was destruccionOf that Cite, as men mai hiere:Bot that is noght to mi matiere.Bot thus this worthi folk GregeisFro that king, which was noght curteis,And fro his lond with Sail updraweThei wente hem forth, and many a saweThei made and many a gret manace,Til ate laste into that placeWhich as thei soghte thei aryve,And striken Sail, and forth as blyveThei sente unto the king and toldenWho weren ther and what thei wolden.Oëtes, which was thanne king,Whan that he herde this tydingOf Jason, which was comen there,And of these othre, what thei were,He thoghte don hem gret worschipe:For thei anon come out of Schipe,And strawht unto the king thei wente,And be the hond Jason he hente,And that was ate paleis gate,So fer the king cam on his gateToward Jason to don him chiere;And he, whom lacketh no manere,Whan he the king sih in presence,Yaf him ayein such reverenceAs to a kinges stat belongeth.And thus the king him underfongeth,And Jason in his arm he cawhte,And forth into the halle he strawhte,And ther they siete and spieke of thinges,And Jason tolde him tho tidinges,Why he was come, and faire him preideTo haste his time, and the kyng seide,“Jason, thou art a worthi kniht,Bot it lith in no mannes myhtTo don that thou art come fore:Ther hath be many a kniht forloreOf that thei wolden it assaie.”Bot Jason wolde him noght esmaie,And seide, “Of every worldes cureFortune stant in aventure,Per aunter wel, per aunter wo:Bot hou as evere that it go,It schal be with myn hond assaied.”The king tho hield him noght wel paied,For he the Grekes sore dredde,In aunter, if Jason ne spedde,He mihte therof bere a blame;For tho was al the worldes fameIn Grece, as forto speke of Armes.Forthi he dredde him of his harmes,And gan to preche him and to preie;Bot Jason wolde noght obeie,Bot seide he wolde his porpos holdeFor ought that eny man him tolde.The king, whan he thes wordes herde,And sih hou that this kniht ansuerde,Yit for he wolde make him glad,After Medea gon he bad,Which was his dowhter, and sche cam.And Jason, which good hiede nam,Whan he hire sih, ayein hire goth;And sche, which was him nothing loth,Welcomede him into that lond,And softe tok him be the hond,And doun thei seten bothe same.Sche hadde herd spoke of his nameAnd of his grete worthinesse;Forthi sche gan hir yhe impresseUpon his face and his stature,And thoghte hou nevere creatureWas so wel farende as was he.And Jason riht in such degreNe mihte noght withholde his lok,Bot so good hiede on hire he tok,That him ne thoghte under the heveneOf beaute sawh he nevere hir evene,With al that fell to wommanhiede.Thus ech of other token hiede,Thogh ther no word was of record;Here hertes bothe of on acordBen set to love, bot as thoTher mihten be no wordes mo.The king made him gret joie and feste,To alle his men he yaf an heste,So as thei wolde his thonk deserve,That thei scholde alle Jason serve,Whil that he wolde there duelle.And thus the dai, schortly to telle,With manye merthes thei despente,Til nyht was come, and tho thei wente,Echon of other tok his leve,Whan thei no lengere myhten leve.I not hou Jason that nyht slep,Bot wel I wot that of the Schep,For which he cam into that yle,He thoghte bot a litel whyle;Al was Medea that he thoghte,So that in many a wise he soghteHis witt wakende er it was day,Som time yee, som time nay,Som time thus, som time so,As he was stered to and froOf love, and ek of his conquesteAs he was holde of his beheste.And thus he ros up be the morweAnd tok himself seint John to borwe,And seide he wolde ferst beginneAt love, and after forto winneThe flees of gold, for which he com,And thus to him good herte he nom.

Medea riht the same wise,Til dai cam that sche moste arise,Lay and bethoughte hire al the nyht,Hou sche that noble worthi knihtBe eny weie mihte wedde:And wel sche wiste, if he ne speddeOf thing which he hadde undertake,Sche mihte hirself no porpos take;For if he deide of his bataile,Sche moste thanne algate faileTo geten him, whan he were ded.Thus sche began to sette redAnd torne aboute hir wittes alle,To loke hou that it mihte falleThat sche with him hadde a leisirTo speke and telle of hir desir.And so it fell that same dayThat Jason with that suete mayTogedre sete and hadden spaceTo speke, and he besoughte hir grace.And sche his tale goodli herde,And afterward sche him ansuerdeAnd seide, “Jason, as thou wilt,Thou miht be sauf, thou miht be spilt;For wite wel that nevere man,Bot if he couthe that I can,Ne mihte that fortune achieveFor which thou comst: bot as I lieve,If thou wolt holde covenantTo love, of al the remenantI schal thi lif and honour save,That thou the flees of gold schalt have.”He seide, “Al at youre oghne wille,Ma dame, I schal treuly fulfilleYoure heste, whil mi lif mai laste.”Thus longe he preide, and ate lasteSche granteth, and behihte him this,That whan nyht comth and it time is,Sche wolde him sende certeinlySuch on that scholde him privelyAl one into hire chambre bringe.He thonketh hire of that tidinge,For of that grace him is begonneHim thenkth alle othre thinges wonne.

The dai made ende and lost his lyht,And comen was the derke nyht,Which al the daies yhe blente.Jason tok leve and forth he wente,And whan he cam out of the pres,He tok to conseil Hercules,And tolde him hou it was betid,And preide it scholde wel ben hid,And that he wolde loke aboute,Therwhiles that he schal ben oute.Thus as he stod and hiede nam,A Mayden fro Medea camAnd to hir chambre Jason ledde,Wher that he fond redi to beddeThe faireste and the wiseste eke;And sche with simple chiere and meke,Whan sche him sih, wax al aschamed.Tho was here tale newe entamed;For sikernesse of MariageSche fette forth a riche ymage,Which was figure of Jupiter,And Jason swor and seide ther,That also wiss god scholde him helpe,That if Medea dede him helpe,That he his pourpos myhte winne,Thei scholde nevere parte atwinne,Bot evere whil him lasteth lif,He wolde hire holde for his wif.And with that word thei kisten bothe;And for thei scholden hem unclothe,Ther cam a Maide, and in hir wiseSche dede hem bothe full servise,Til that thei were in bedde naked:I wot that nyht was wel bewaked,Thei hadden bothe what thei wolde.And thanne of leisir sche him tolde,And gan fro point to point enformeOf his bataile and al the forme,Which as he scholde finde there,Whan he to thyle come were.

Sche seide, at entre of the pasHou Mars, which god of Armes was,Hath set tuo Oxen sterne and stoute,That caste fyr and flamme abouteBothe at the mouth and ate nase,So that thei setten al on blaseWhat thing that passeth hem betwene:And forthermore upon the greneTher goth the flees of gold to kepeA Serpent, which mai nevere slepe.Thus who that evere scholde it winne,The fyr to stoppe he mot beginne,Which that the fierce bestes caste,And daunte he mot hem ate laste,So that he mai hem yoke and dryve;And therupon he mot as blyveThe Serpent with such strengthe assaile,That he mai slen him be bataile;Of which he mot the teth outdrawe,As it belongeth to that lawe,And thanne he mot tho Oxen yoke,Til thei have with a plowh tobrokeA furgh of lond, in which aroweThe teth of thaddre he moste sowe,And therof schule arise knihtesWel armed up at alle rihtes.Of hem is noght to taken hiede,For ech of hem in hastihiedeSchal other slen with dethes wounde:And thus whan thei ben leid to grounde,Than mot he to the goddes preie,And go so forth and take his preie.Bot if he faile in eny wiseOf that ye hiere me devise,Ther mai be set non other weie,That he ne moste algates deie.“Nou have I told the peril al:I woll you tellen forth withal,”Quod Medea to Jason tho,“That ye schul knowen er ye go,Ayein the venym and the fyrWhat schal ben the recoverir.Ariseth up, so that I mayDelivere you what thing I have,That mai youre lif and honour save.”Thei weren bothe loth to rise,Bot for thei weren bothe wise,Up thei arisen ate laste:Jason his clothes on him casteAnd made him redi riht anon,And sche hir scherte dede uponAnd caste on hire a mantel clos,Withoute more and thanne aros.Tho tok sche forth a riche TyeMad al of gold and of Perrie,Out of the which sche nam a Ring,The Ston was worth al other thing.Sche seide, whil he wolde it were,Ther myhte no peril him dere,In water mai it noght be dreynt,Wher as it comth the fyr is queynt,It daunteth ek the cruel beste,Ther may no qued that man areste,Wher so he be on See or lond,Which hath that ring upon his hond:And over that sche gan to sein,That if a man wol ben unsein,Withinne his hond hold clos the Ston,And he mai invisible gon.The Ring to Jason sche betauhte,And so forth after sche him tauhteWhat sacrifise he scholde make;And gan out of hire cofre takeHim thoughte an hevenely figure,Which al be charme and be conjureWas wroght, and ek it was thurgh writeWith names, which he scholde wite,As sche him tauhte tho to rede;And bad him, as he wolde spede,Withoute reste of eny while,Whan he were londed in that yle,He scholde make his sacrifiseAnd rede his carecte in the wiseAs sche him tauhte, on knes doun bent,Thre sithes toward orient;For so scholde he the goddes pleseAnd winne himselven mochel ese.And whanne he hadde it thries rad,To opne a buiste sche him bad,Which sche ther tok him in present,And was full of such oignement,That ther was fyr ne venym nonThat scholde fastnen him upon,Whan that he were enoynt withal.Forthi sche tauhte him hou he schalEnoignte his armes al aboute,And for he scholde nothing doute,Sche tok him thanne a maner glu,The which was of so gret vertu,That where a man it wolde caste,It scholde binde anon so fasteThat noman mihte it don aweie.And that sche bad be alle weieHe scholde into the mouthes throwenOf tho tweie Oxen that fyr blowen,Therof to stoppen the malice;The glu schal serve of that office.And over that hir oignement,Hir Ring and hir enchantementAyein the Serpent scholde him were,Til he him sle with swerd or spere:And thanne he may saufliche ynowhHis Oxen yoke into the plowhAnd the teth sowe in such a wise,Til he the knyhtes se arise,And ech of other doun be leidIn such manere as I have seid.

Lo, thus Medea for JasonOrdeigneth, and preith theruponThat he nothing foryete scholde,And ek sche preith him that he wolde,Whan he hath alle his Armes don,To grounde knele and thonke anonThe goddes, and so forth be eseThe flees of gold he scholde sese.And whanne he hadde it sesed so,That thanne he were sone agoWithouten eny tariynge.

Whan this was seid, into wepingeSche fell, as sche that was thurgh nomeWith love, and so fer overcome,That al hir world on him sche sette.Bot whan sche sih ther was no lette,That he mot nedes parte hire fro,Sche tok him in hire armes tuo,An hundred time and gan him kisse,And seide, “O, al mi worldes blisse,Mi trust, mi lust, mi lif, min hele,To be thin helpe in this quereleI preie unto the goddes alle.”And with that word sche gan doun falleOn swoune, and he hire uppe nam,And forth with that the Maiden cam,And thei to bedde anon hir broghte,And thanne Jason hire besoghte,And to hire seide in this manere:“Mi worthi lusti ladi dere,Conforteth you, for be my troutheIt schal noght fallen in mi sloutheThat I ne wol thurghout fulfilleYoure hestes at youre oghne wille.And yit I hope to you bringeWithinne a while such tidinge,The which schal make ous bothe game.”

Bot for he wolde kepe hir name,Whan that he wiste it was nyh dai,He seide, “A dieu, mi swete mai.”And forth with him he nam his gere,Which as sche hadde take him there,And strauht unto his chambre he wente,And goth to bedde and slep him hente,And lay, that noman him awok,For Hercules hiede of him tok,Til it was undren hih and more.And thanne he gan to sighe soreAnd sodeinliche abreide of slep;And thei that token of him kep,His chamberleins, be sone there,And maden redi al his gere,And he aros and to the kingHe wente, and seide hou to that thingFor which he cam he wolde go.The king therof was wonder wo,And for he wolde him fain withdrawe,He tolde him many a dredful sawe,Bot Jason wolde it noght recorde,And ate laste thei acorde.Whan that he wolde noght abide,A Bot was redy ate tyde,In which this worthi kniht of GreceFul armed up at every piece,To his bataile which belongeth,Tok ore on honde and sore him longeth,Til he the water passed were.

Whan he cam to that yle there,He set him on his knes doun strauht,And his carecte, as he was tawht,He radde, and made his sacrifise,And siththe enoignte him in that wise,As Medea him hadde bede;And thanne aros up fro that stede,And with the glu the fyr he queynte,And anon after he atteinteThe grete Serpent and him slowh.Bot erst he hadde sorwe ynowh,For that Serpent made him travaileSo harde and sore of his bataile,That nou he stod and nou he fell:For longe time it so befell,That with his swerd ne with his spereHe mihte noght that Serpent dere.He was so scherded al aboute,It hield all eggetol withoute,He was so ruide and hard of skin,Ther mihte nothing go therin;Venym and fyr togedre he caste,That he Jason so sore ablaste,That if ne were his oignement,His Ring and his enchantement,Which Medea tok him tofore,He hadde with that worm be lore;Bot of vertu which therof camJason the Dragon overcam.And he anon the teth outdrouh,And sette his Oxen in a plouh,With which he brak a piece of londAnd sieu hem with his oghne hond.Tho mihte he gret merveile se:Of every toth in his degreSprong up a kniht with spere and schield,Of whiche anon riht in the fieldEchon slow other; and with thatJason Medea noght foryat,On bothe his knes he gan doun falle,And yaf thonk to the goddes alle.The Flees he tok and goth to Bote,The Sonne schyneth bryhte and hote,The Flees of gold schon forth withal,The water glistreth overal.

Medea wepte and sigheth ofte,And stod upon a Tour alofte:Al prively withinne hirselve,Ther herde it nouther ten ne tuelve,Sche preide, and seide, “O, god him spede,The kniht which hath mi maidenhiede!”And ay sche loketh toward thyle.Bot whan sche sih withinne a whileThe Flees glistrende ayein the Sonne,Sche saide, “Ha, lord, now al is wonne,Mi kniht the field hath overcome:Nou wolde god he were come;Ha lord, that he ne were alonde!”Bot I dar take this on honde,If that sche hadde wynges tuo,Sche wolde have flowe unto him thoStrawht ther he was into the Bot.

The dai was clier, the Sonne hot,The Gregeis weren in gret doute,The whyle that here lord was oute:Thei wisten noght what scholde tyde,Bot waiten evere upon the tyde,To se what ende scholde falle.Ther stoden ek the nobles alleForth with the comun of the toun;And as thei loken up and doun,Thei weren war withinne a throwe,Wher cam the bot, which thei wel knowe,And sihe hou Jason broghte his preie.And tho thei gonnen alle seie,And criden alle with o stevene,“Ha, wher was evere under the heveneSo noble a knyht as Jason is?”And welnyh alle seiden this,That Jason was a faie kniht,For it was nevere of mannes mihtThe Flees of gold so forto winne;And thus to talen thei beginne.With that the king com forth anon,And sih the Flees, hou that it schon;And whan Jason cam to the lond,The king himselve tok his hondAnd kist him, and gret joie him made.The Gregeis weren wonder glade,And of that thing riht merie hem thoghte,And forth with hem the Flees thei broghte,And ech on other gan to leyhe;Bot wel was him that mihte neyhe,To se therof the proprete.And thus thei passen the citeAnd gon unto the Paleis straght.

Medea, which foryat him naght,Was redy there, and seide anon,“Welcome, O worthi kniht Jason.”Sche wolde have kist him wonder fayn,Bot schame tornede hire agayn;It was noght the manere as tho,Forthi sche dorste noght do so.Sche tok hire leve, and Jason wenteInto his chambre, and sche him senteHire Maide to sen hou he ferde;The which whan that sche sih and herde,Hou that he hadde faren outeAnd that it stod wel al aboute,Sche tolde hire ladi what sche wiste,And sche for joie hire Maide kiste.The bathes weren thanne araied,With herbes tempred and assaied,And Jason was unarmed soneAnd dede as it befell to done:Into his bath he wente anonAnd wyssh him clene as eny bon;He tok a sopp, and oute he cam,And on his beste aray he nam,And kempde his hed, whan he was clad,And goth him forth al merie and gladRiht strawht into the kinges halle.The king cam with his knihtes alleAnd maden him glad welcominge;And he hem tolde the tidingeOf this and that, hou it befell,Whan that he wan the schepes fell.

Medea, whan sche was asent,Com sone to that parlement,And whan sche mihte Jason se,Was non so glad of alle as sche.Ther was no joie forto seche,Of him mad every man a speche,Som man seide on, som man seide other;Bot thogh he were goddes brotherAnd mihte make fyr and thonder,Ther mihte be nomore wonderThan was of him in that cite.Echon tauhte other, “This is he,Which hath in his pouer withinneThat al the world ne mihte winne:Lo, hier the beste of alle goode.”Thus saiden thei that there stode,And ek that walkede up and doun,Bothe of the Court and of the toun.

The time of Souper cam anon,Thei wisshen and therto thei gon,Medea was with Jason set:Tho was ther many a deynte fetAnd set tofore hem on the bord,Bot non so likinge as the wordWhich was ther spoke among hem tuo,So as thei dorste speke tho.Bot thogh thei hadden litel space,Yit thei acorden in that placeHou Jason scholde come at nyht,Whan every torche and every lihtWere oute, and thanne of other thingesThei spieke aloud for supposingesOf hem that stoden there aboute:For love is everemore in doute,If that it be wisly governedOf hem that ben of love lerned.

Whan al was don, that dissh and cuppeAnd cloth and bord and al was uppe,Thei waken whil hem lest to wake,And after that thei leve takeAnd gon to bedde forto reste.And whan him thoghte for the beste,That every man was faste aslepe,Jason, that wolde his time kepe,Goth forth stalkende al privelyUnto the chambre, and redelyTher was a Maide, which him kepte.Medea wok and nothing slepte,Bot natheles sche was abedde,And he with alle haste him speddeAnd made him naked and al warm.Anon he tok hire in his arm:What nede is forto speke of ese?Hem list ech other forto plese,So that thei hadden joie ynow:And tho thei setten whanne and howThat sche with him awey schal stele.With wordes suche and othre feleWhan al was treted to an ende,Jason tok leve and gan forth wendeUnto his oughne chambre in pes;Ther wiste it non bot Hercules.

He slepte and ros whan it was time,And whanne it fell towardes prime,He tok to him suche as he tristeIn secre, that non other wiste,And told hem of his conseil there,And seide that his wille wereThat thei to Schipe hadde alle thingeSo priveliche in thevenynge,That noman mihte here dede aspieBot tho that were of compaignie:For he woll go withoute leve,And lengere woll he noght beleve;Bot he ne wolde at thilke throweThe king or queene scholde it knowe.Thei saide, “Al this schal wel be do:”And Jason truste wel therto.

Medea in the mene while,Which thoghte hir fader to beguile,The Tresor which hir fader haddeWith hire al priveli sche ladde,And with Jason at time setAwey sche stal and fond no let,And straght sche goth hire unto schipeOf Grece with that felaschipe,And thei anon drowe up the Seil.And al that nyht this was conseil,Bot erly, whan the Sonne schon,Men syhe hou that thei were agon,And come unto the king and tolde:And he the sothe knowe wolde,And axeth where his dowhter was.Ther was no word bot Out, Allas!Sche was ago. The moder wepte,The fader as a wod man lepte,And gan the time forto warie,And swor his oth he wol noght tarie,That with Caliphe and with galeieThe same cours, the same weie,Which Jason tok, he wolde take,If that he mihte him overtake.To this thei seiden alle yee:Anon thei weren ate See,And alle, as who seith, at a wordThei gon withinne schipes bord,The Sail goth up, and forth thei strauhte.Bot non espleit therof thei cauhte,And so thei tornen hom ayein,For al that labour was in vein.

Jason to Grece with his preieGoth thurgh the See the rihte weie:Whan he ther com and men it tolde,Thei maden joie yonge and olde.Eson, whan that he wiste of this,Hou that his Sone comen is,And hath achieved that he soughteAnd hom with him Medea broughte,In al the wyde world was nonSo glad a man as he was on.Togedre ben these lovers tho,Til that thei hadden sones tuo,Wherof thei weren bothe glade,And olde Eson gret joie madeTo sen thencress of his lignage;For he was of so gret an Age,That men awaiten every day,Whan that he scholde gon away.Jason, which sih his fader old,Upon Medea made him bold,Of art magique, which sche couthe,And preith hire that his fader youtheSche wolde make ayeinward newe:And sche, that was toward him trewe,Behihte him that sche wolde it do,Whan that sche time sawh therto.Bot what sche dede in that matiereIt is a wonder thing to hiere,Bot yit for the novellerieI thenke tellen a partie.

Thus it befell upon a nyht,Whan ther was noght bot sterreliht,Sche was vanyssht riht as hir liste,That no wyht bot hirself it wiste,And that was ate mydnyht tyde.The world was stille on every side;With open hed and fot al bare,Hir her tosprad sche gan to fare,Upon hir clothes gert sche was,Al specheles and on the grasSche glod forth as an Addre doth:Non otherwise sche ne goth,Til sche cam to the freisshe flod,And there a while sche withstod.Thries sche torned hire aboute,And thries ek sche gan doun louteAnd in the flod sche wette hir her,And thries on the water therSche gaspeth with a drecchinge onde,And tho sche tok hir speche on honde.Ferst sche began to clepe and calleUpward unto the sterres alle,To Wynd, to Air, to See, to londSche preide, and ek hield up hir hondTo Echates, and gan to crie,Which is goddesse of Sorcerie.Sche seide, “Helpeth at this nede,And as ye maden me to spede,Whan Jason cam the Flees to seche,So help me nou, I you beseche.”With that sche loketh and was war,Doun fro the Sky ther cam a char,The which Dragouns aboute drowe:And tho sche gan hir hed doun bowe,And up sche styh, and faire and welSche drof forth bothe char and whelAbove in thair among the Skyes.The lond of Crete and tho partiesSche soughte, and faste gan hire hye,And there upon the hulles hyheOf Othrin and Olimpe also,And ek of othre hulles mo,Sche fond and gadreth herbes suote,Sche pulleth up som be the rote,And manye with a knyf sche scherth,And alle into hir char sche berth.Thus whan sche hath the hulles sought,The flodes ther foryat sche nought,Eridian and Amphrisos,Peneie and ek Spercheïdos,To hem sche wente and ther sche nomBothe of the water and the fom,The sond and ek the smale stones,Whiche as sche ches out for the nones,And of the rede See a part,That was behovelich to hire art,Sche tok, and after that abouteSche soughte sondri sedes outeIn feldes and in many greves,And ek a part sche tok of leves:Bot thing which mihte hire most availeSche fond in Crete and in Thessaile.

In daies and in nyhtes Nyne,With gret travaile and with gret pyne,Sche was pourveid of every piece,And torneth homward into Grece.Before the gates of EsonHir char sche let awai to gon,And tok out ferst that was therinne;For tho sche thoghte to beginneSuch thing as semeth impossible,And made hirselven invisible,As sche that was with Air enclosedAnd mihte of noman be desclosed.Sche tok up turves of the londWithoute helpe of mannes hond,Al heled with the grene gras,Of which an Alter mad ther wasUnto Echates the goddesseOf art magique and the maistresse,And eft an other to Juvente,As sche which dede hir hole entente.Tho tok sche fieldwode and verveyne,Of herbes ben noght betre tueine,Of which anon withoute letThese alters ben aboute set:Tuo sondri puttes faste bySche made, and with that hastelyA wether which was blak sche slouh,And out therof the blod sche drouhAnd dede into the pettes tuo;Warm melk sche putte also thertoWith hony meynd: and in such wiseSche gan to make hir sacrifice,And cride and preide forth withalTo Pluto the god infernal,And to the queene Proserpine.And so sche soghte out al the lineOf hem that longen to that craft,Behinde was no name laft,And preide hem alle, as sche wel couthe,To grante Eson his ferste youthe.

This olde Eson broght forth was tho,Awei sche bad alle othre goUpon peril that mihte falle;And with that word thei wenten alle,And leften there hem tuo al one.And tho sche gan to gaspe and gone,And made signes manyon,And seide hir wordes therupon;So that with spellinge of hir charmesSche tok Eson in bothe hire armes,And made him forto slepe faste,And him upon hire herbes caste.The blake wether tho sche tok,And hiewh the fleissh, as doth a cok;On either alter part sche leide,And with the charmes that sche seideA fyr doun fro the Sky alyhteAnd made it forto brenne lyhte.Bot whan Medea sawh it brenne,Anon sche gan to sterte and renneThe fyri aulters al aboute:Ther was no beste which goth outeMore wylde than sche semeth ther:Aboute hir schuldres hyng hir her,As thogh sche were oute of hir myndeAnd torned in an other kynde.Tho lay ther certein wode cleft,Of which the pieces nou and eftSche made hem in the pettes wete,And put hem in the fyri hete,And tok the brond with al the blase,And thries sche began to raseAboute Eson, ther as he slepte;And eft with water, which sche kepte,Sche made a cercle aboute him thries,And eft with fyr of sulphre twyes:Ful many an other thing sche dede,Which is noght writen in this stede.Bot tho sche ran so up and doun,Sche made many a wonder soun,Somtime lich unto the cock,Somtime unto the Laverock,Somtime kacleth as a Hen,Somtime spekth as don the men:And riht so as hir jargoun strangeth,In sondri wise hir forme changeth,Sche semeth faie and no womman;For with the craftes that sche canSche was, as who seith, a goddesse,And what hir liste, more or lesse,Sche dede, in bokes as we finde,That passeth over manneskinde.Bot who that wole of wondres hiere,What thing sche wroghte in this matiere,To make an ende of that sche gan,Such merveile herde nevere man.

Apointed in the newe Mone,Whan it was time forto done,Sche sette a caldron on the fyr,In which was al the hole atir,Wheron the medicine stod,Of jus, of water and of blod,And let it buile in such a plit,Til that sche sawh the spume whyt;And tho sche caste in rynde and rote,And sed and flour that was for bote,With many an herbe and many a ston,Wherof sche hath ther many on:And ek Cimpheius the SerpentTo hire hath alle his scales lent,Chelidre hire yaf his addres skin,And sche to builen caste hem in;A part ek of the horned Oule,The which men hiere on nyhtes houle;And of a Raven, which was toldOf nyne hundred wynter old,Sche tok the hed with al the bile;And as the medicine it wile,Sche tok therafter the boueleOf the Seewolf, and for the heleOf Eson, with a thousand moOf thinges that sche hadde tho,In that Caldroun togedre as blyveSche putte, and tok thanne of OlyveA drie branche hem with to stere,The which anon gan floure and bereAnd waxe al freissh and grene ayein.Whan sche this vertu hadde sein,Sche let the leste drope of alleUpon the bare flor doun falle;Anon ther sprong up flour and gras,Where as the drope falle was,And wox anon al medwe grene,So that it mihte wel be sene.Medea thanne knew and wisteHir medicine is forto triste,And goth to Eson ther he lay,And tok a swerd was of assay,With which a wounde upon his sideSche made, that therout mai slydeThe blod withinne, which was oldAnd sek and trouble and fieble and cold.And tho sche tok unto his usOf herbes al the beste jus,And poured it into his wounde;That made his veynes fulle and sounde:And tho sche made his wounde clos,And tok his hond, and up he ros;And tho sche yaf him drinke a drauhte,Of which his youthe ayein he cauhte,His hed, his herte and his visageLich unto twenty wynter Age;Hise hore heres were away,And lich unto the freisshe Maii,Whan passed ben the colde shoures,Riht so recovereth he his floures.

Lo, what mihte eny man devise,A womman schewe in eny wiseMor hertly love in every stede,Than Medea to Jason dede?Ferst sche made him the flees to winne,And after that fro kiththe and kinneWith gret tresor with him sche stal,And to his fader forth withalHis Elde hath torned into youthe,Which thing non other womman couthe:Bot hou it was to hire aquit,The remembrance duelleth yit.

King Peleüs his Em was ded,Jason bar corone on his hed,Medea hath fulfild his wille:Bot whanne he scholde of riht fulfilleThe trouthe, which to hire aforeHe hadde in thyle of Colchos swore,Tho was Medea most deceived.For he an other hath received,Which dowhter was to king Creon,Creusa sche hihte, and thus Jason,As he that was to love untrewe,Medea lefte and tok a newe.Bot that was after sone aboght:Medea with hire art hath wroghtOf cloth of gold a mantel riche,Which semeth worth a kingesriche,And that was unto Creusa sentIn name of yifte and of present,For Sosterhode hem was betuene;And whan that yonge freisshe queeneThat mantel lappeth hire aboute,Anon therof the fyr sprong outeAnd brente hir bothe fleissh and bon.Tho cam Medea to JasonWith bothe his Sones on hire hond,And seide, “O thou of every londThe moste untrewe creature,Lo, this schal be thi forfeture.”With that sche bothe his Sones slouhBefore his yhe, and he outdrouhHis swerd and wold have slayn hir tho,Bot farewel, sche was agoUnto Pallas the Court above,Wher as sche pleigneth upon love,As sche that was with that goddesse,And he was left in gret destresse.

Thus miht thou se what sorwe it dothTo swere an oth which is noght soth,In loves cause namely.Mi Sone, be wel war forthi,And kep that thou be noght forswore:For this, which I have told tofore,Ovide telleth everydel.

Mi fader, I may lieve it wel,For I have herde it ofte seieHou Jason tok the flees aweieFro Colchos, bot yit herde I noghtBe whom it was ferst thider broght.And for it were good to hiere,If that you liste at mi preiereTo telle, I wolde you beseche.

Mi Sone, who that wole it seche,In bokes he mai finde it write;And natheles, if thou wolt wite,In the manere as thou hast preidI schal the telle hou it is seid.

The fame of thilke schepes fell,Which in Colchos, as it befell,Was al of gold, schal nevere deie;Wherof I thenke for to seieHou it cam ferst into that yle.Ther was a king in thilke whyleTowardes Grece, and AthemasThe Cronique of his name was;And hadde a wif, which Philen hihte,Be whom, so as fortune it dihte,He hadde of children yonge tuo.Frixus the ferste was of tho,A knave child, riht fair withalle;A dowhter ek, the which men calleHellen, he hadde be this wif.Bot for ther mai no mannes lifEndure upon this Erthe hiere,This worthi queene, as thou miht hiere,Er that the children were of age,Tok of hire ende the passage,With gret worschipe and was begrave.

What thing it liketh god to haveIt is gret reson to ben his;Forthi this king, so as it is,With gret suffrance it underfongeth:And afterward, as him belongeth,Whan it was time forto wedde,A newe wif he tok to bedde,Which Yno hihte and was a Mayde,And ek the dowhter, as men saide,Of Cadme, which a king alsoWas holde in thilke daies tho.Whan Yno was the kinges make,Sche caste hou that sche mihte makeThese children to here fader lothe,And schope a wyle ayein hem bothe,Which to the king was al unknowe.A yeer or tuo sche let do soweThe lond with sode whete aboute,Wherof no corn mai springen oute;And thus be sleyhte and be covineAros the derthe and the famineThurghout the lond in such a wise,So that the king a sacrifiseUpon the point of this destresseTo Ceres, which is the goddesseOf corn, hath schape him forto yive,To loke if it mai be foryive,The meschief which was in his lond.Bot sche, which knew tofor the hondThe circumstance of al this thing,Ayein the cominge of the kingInto the temple, hath schape so,Of hire acord that alle thoWhiche of the temple prestes wereHave seid and full declared thereUnto the king, bot if so beThat he delivere the contreOf Frixus and of Hellen bothe,With whom the goddes ben so wrothe,That whil tho children ben therinne,Such tilthe schal noman beginne,Wherof to gete him eny corn.Thus was it seid, thus was it swornOf all the Prestes that ther are;And sche which causeth al this fareSeid ek therto what that sche wolde,And every man thanne after toldeSo as the queene hem hadde preid.

The king, which hath his Ere leid,And lieveth al that evere he herde,Unto here tale thus ansuerde,And seith that levere him is to cheseHise children bothe forto lese,Than him and al the remenantOf hem whiche are aportenantUnto the lond which he schal kepe:And bad his wif to take kepeIn what manere is best to done,That thei delivered weren soneOut of this world. And sche anonTuo men ordeigneth forto gon;Bot ferst sche made hem forto swereThat thei the children scholden bereUnto the See, that non it knowe,And hem therinne bothe throwe.

The children to the See ben lad,Wher in the wise as Yno badThese men be redy forto do.Bot the goddesse which JunoIs hote, appiereth in the stede,And hath unto the men forbedeThat thei the children noght ne sle;Bot bad hem loke into the SeeAnd taken hiede of that thei sihen.Ther swam a Schep tofore here yhen,Whos flees of burned gold was al;And this goddesse forth withalComandeth that withoute letteThei scholde anon these children setteAbove upon this Schepes bak;And al was do, riht as sche spak,Wherof the men gon hom ayein.And fell so, as the bokes sein,Hellen the yonge Mayden tho,Which of the See was wo bego,For pure drede hire herte hath lore,That fro the Schep, which hath hire bore,As sche that was swounende feint,Sche fell, and hath hirselve dreint;With Frixus and this Schep forth swam,Til he to thyle of Colchos cam,Where Juno the goddesse he fond,Which tok the Schep unto the lond,And sette it there in such a wiseAs thou tofore hast herd devise,Wherof cam after al the wo,Why Jason was forswore soUnto Medee, as it is spoke.

Mi fader, who that hath tobrokeHis trouthe, as ye have told above,He is noght worthi forto loveNe be beloved, as me semeth:Bot every newe love quemethTo him which newefongel is.And natheles nou after this,If that you list to taken hiedeUpon mi Schrifte to procede,In loves cause ayein the viceOf covoitise and AvariceWhat ther is more I wolde wite.

Mi Sone, this I finde write,Ther is yit on of thilke brood,Which only for the worldes good,To make a Tresor of Moneie,Put alle conscience aweie:Wherof in thi confessionThe name and the condicionI schal hierafterward declare,Which makth on riche, an other bare.

Upon the bench sittende on hihWith Avarice Usure I sih,Full clothed of his oghne suite,Which after gold makth chace and suiteWith his brocours, that renne abouteLich unto racches in a route.Such lucre is non above grounde,Which is noght of tho racches founde;For wher thei se beyete sterte,That schal hem in no wise asterte,Bot thei it dryve into the netOf lucre, which Usure hath set.Usure with the riche duelleth,To al that evere he beith and sellethHe hath ordeined of his sleyhteMesure double and double weyhte:Outward he selleth be the lasse,And with the more he makth his tasse,Wherof his hous is full withinne.He reccheth noght, be so he winne,Though that ther lese ten or tuelve:His love is al toward himselveAnd to non other, bot he seThat he mai winne suche thre;For wher he schal oght yive or lene,He wol ayeinward take a bene,Ther he hath lent the smale pese.And riht so ther ben manye of theseLovers, that thogh thei love a lyte,That scarsly wolde it weie a myte,Yit wolde thei have a pound again,As doth Usure in his bargain.Bot certes such usure unliche,It falleth more unto the riche,Als wel of love as of beyete,Than unto hem that be noght grete,And, as who seith, ben simple and povere;For sielden is whan thei recovere,Bot if it be thurgh gret decerte.And natheles men se poverteWith porsuite and continuanceFulofte make a gret chevanceAnd take of love his avantage,Forth with the help of his brocage,That maken seme wher is noght.And thus fulofte is love boghtFor litel what, and mochel take,With false weyhtes that thei make.

Thou wost what Usure is of love:Tell me forthi what so thou wilt,If thou therof hast eny gilt.

Mi fader, nay, for ought I hiere.For of tho pointz ye tolden hiereI wol you be mi trouthe assure,Mi weyhte of love and mi mesureHath be mor large and mor certeinThan evere I tok of love ayein:For so yit couthe I nevere of sleyhte,To take ayein be double weyhteOf love mor than I have yive.For als so wiss mot I be schriveAnd have remission of Sinne,As so yit couthe I nevere winne,Ne yit so mochel, soth to sein,That evere I mihte have half ayeinOf so full love as I have lent:And if myn happ were so wel went,That for the hole I mihte have half,Me thenkth I were a goddeshalf.For where Usure wole have double,Mi conscience is noght so trouble,I biede nevere as to my delBot of the hole an halvendel;That is non excess, as me thenketh.Bot natheles it me forthenketh;For wel I wot that wol noght be,For every day the betre I seThat hou so evere I yive or leneMi love in place ther I mene,For oght that evere I axe or crave,I can nothing ayeinward have.Bot yit for that I wol noght lete,What so befalle of mi beyete,That I ne schal hire yive and leneMi love and al mi thoght so clene,That toward me schal noght beleve.And if sche of hire goode leveRewarde wol me noght again,I wot the laste of my bargainSchal stonde upon so gret a lost,That I mai neveremor the costRecovere in this world til I die.So that touchende of this partieI mai me wel excuse and schal;And forto speke forth withal,If eny brocour for me wente,That point cam nevere in myn entente:So that the more me merveilleth,What thing it is mi ladi eilleth,That al myn herte and al my timeSche hath, and doth no betre bime.

I have herd seid that thoght is fre,And natheles in priveteTo you, mi fader, that ben hiereMin hole schrifte forto hiere,I dar min herte wel desclose.Touchende usure, as I suppose,Which as ye telle in love is used,Mi ladi mai noght ben excused;That for o lokinge of hire yëMin hole herte til I dyeWith al that evere I may and canSche hath me wonne to hire man:Wherof, me thenkth, good reson woldeThat sche somdel rewarde scholde,And yive a part, ther sche hath al.I not what falle hierafter schal,Bot into nou yit dar I sein,Hire liste nevere yive ayeinA goodli word in such a wise,Wherof min hope mihte arise,Mi grete love to compense.I not hou sche hire conscienceExcuse wole of this usure;Be large weyhte and gret mesureSche hath mi love, and I have noghtOf that which I have diere boght,And with myn herte I have it paid;Bot al that is asyde laid,And I go loveles aboute.Hire oghte stonde if ful gret doute,Til sche redresce such a sinne,That sche wole al mi love winneAnd yifth me noght to live by:Noght als so moche as “grant mercy”Hir list to seie, of which I mihteSom of mi grete peine allyhte.Bot of this point, lo, thus I fareAs he that paith for his chaffare,And beith it diere, and yit hath non,So mot he nedes povere gon:Thus beie I diere and have no love,That I ne mai noght come aboveTo winne of love non encress.Bot I me wole nathelesTouchende usure of love aquite;And if mi ladi be to wyte,I preie to god such grace hir sendeThat sche be time it mot amende.

Mi Sone, of that thou hast ansuerdTouchende Usure I have al herd,Hou thou of love hast wonne smale:Bot that thou tellest in thi taleAnd thi ladi therof accusest,Me thenkth tho wordes thou misusest.For be thin oghne knowlechingeThou seist hou sche for o lokingeThin hole herte fro the tok:Sche mai be such, that hire o lokIs worth thin herte manyfold;So hast thou wel thin herte sold,Whan thou hast that is more worth.And ek of that thou tellest forth,Hou that hire weyhte of love uneveneIs unto thin, under the heveneStod nevere in evene that balanceWhich stant in loves governance.Such is the statut of his lawe,That thogh thi love more draweAnd peise in the balance more,Thou miht noght axe ayein therforeOf duete, bot al of grace.For love is lord in every place,Ther mai no lawe him justefieBe reddour ne be compaignie,That he ne wole after his willeWhom that him liketh spede or spille.

To love a man mai wel beginne,Bot whether he schal lese or winne,That wot noman til ate laste:Forthi coveite noght to faste,Mi Sone, bot abyd thin ende,Per cas al mai to goode wende.Bot that thou hast me told and said,Of o thing I am riht wel paid,That thou be sleyhte ne be guileOf no brocour hast otherwhileEngined love, for such dedeIs sore venged, as I rede.

Brocours of love that deceiven,No wonder is thogh thei receivenAfter the wrong that thei decerven;For whom as evere that thei servenAnd do plesance for a whyle,Yit ate laste here oghne guileUpon here oghne hed descendeth,Which god of his vengance sendeth,As be ensample of time goA man mai finde it hath be so.It fell somtime, as it was sene,The hihe goddesse and the queeneJuno tho hadde in compainieA Maiden full of tricherie;For sche was evere in on acordWith Jupiter, that was hire lord,To gete him othre loves newe,Thurgh such brocage and was untreweAl otherwise than him nedeth.Bot sche, which of no schame dredeth,With queinte wordes and with slyheBlente in such wise hir lady yhe,As sche to whom that Juno triste,So that therof sche nothing wiste.Bot so prive mai be nothing,That it ne comth to knowleching;Thing don upon the derke nyhtIs after knowe on daies liht:So it befell, that ate lasteAl that this slyhe maiden casteWas overcast and overthrowe.For as the sothe mot be knowe,To Juno was don understondeIn what manere hir housebondeWith fals brocage hath take usureOf love mor than his mesure,Whan he tok othre than his wif,Wherof this mayden was gultif,Which hadde ben of his assent.And thus was al the game schent;She soffreth him, as sche mot nede,Bot the brocour of his misdede,Sche which hir conseil yaf therto,On hire is the vengance do:For Juno with hire wordes hote,This Maiden, which Eccho was hote,Reproveth and seith in this wise:“O traiteresse, of which serviseHast thou thin oghne ladi served!Thou hast gret peine wel deserved,That thou canst maken it so queinte,Thi slyhe wordes forto peinteTowardes me, that am thi queene,Wherof thou madest me to weneThat myn housbonde trewe were,Whan that he loveth elleswhere,Al be it so him nedeth noght.Bot upon thee it schal be boght,Which art prive to tho doinges,And me fulofte of thi lesingesDeceived hast: nou is the dayThat I thi while aquite may;And for thou hast to me conceledThat my lord hath with othre deled,I schal thee sette in such a kende,That evere unto the worldes endeAl that thou hierest thou schalt telle,And clappe it out as doth a belle.”And with that word sche was forschape,Ther may no vois hire mouth ascape,What man that in the wodes crieth,Withoute faile Eccho replieth,And what word that him list to sein,The same word sche seith ayein.Thus sche, which whilom hadde leveTo duelle in chambre, mot beleveIn wodes and on helles bothe,For such brocage as wyves lothe,Which doth here lordes hertes changeAnd love in other place strange.

Forthi, if evere it so befalle,That thou, mi Sone, amonges alleBe wedded man, hold that thou hast,For thanne al other love is wast.O wif schal wel to thee suffise,And thanne, if thou for covoitiseOf love woldest axe more,Thou scholdest don ayein the loreOf alle hem that trewe be.

Mi fader, as in this degreMy conscience is noght accused;For I no such brocage have used,Wherof that lust of love is wonne.Forthi spek forth, as ye begonne,Of Avarice upon mi schrifte.

Mi Sone, I schal the branches schifteBe ordre so as thei ben set,On whom no good is wel beset.

Blinde Avarice of his lignageFor conseil and for cousinage,To be withholde ayein largesse,Hath on, whos name is seid Skarsnesse,The which is kepere of his hous,And is so thurghout averous,That he no good let out of honde;Thogh god himself it wolde fonde,Of yifte scholde he nothing have;And if a man it wolde crave,He moste thanne faile nede,Wher god himselve mai noght spede.And thus Skarsnesse in every placeBe reson mai no thonk porchace,And natheles in his degreeAbove all othre most priveWith Avarice stant he this.For he governeth that ther isIn ech astat of his officeAfter the reule of thilke vice;He takth, he kepth, he halt, he bint,That lihtere is to fle the flintThan gete of him in hard or neissheOnly the value of a reyssheOf good in helpinge of an other,Noght thogh it were his oghne brother.For in the cas of yifte and loneStant every man for him al one,Him thenkth of his unkindeschipeThat him nedeth no felaschipe:Be so the bagge and he acorden,Him reccheth noght what men recordenOf him, or it be evel or good.For al his trust is on his good,So that al one he falleth ofte,Whan he best weneth stonde alofte,Als wel in love as other wise;For love is evere of som repriseTo him that wole his love holde.Forthi, mi Sone, as thou art holde,Touchende of this tell me thi schrifte:Hast thou be scars or large of yifteUnto thi love, whom thou servest?For after that thou wel deservestOf yifte, thou miht be the bet;For that good holde I wel beset,For why thou miht the betre fare;Thanne is no wisdom forto spare.For thus men sein, in every nedeHe was wys that ferst made mede;For where as mede mai noght spede,I not what helpeth other dede:Fulofte he faileth of his gameThat wol with ydel hand reclameHis hauk, as many a nyce doth.Forthi, mi Sone, tell me sothAnd sei the trouthe, if thou hast beUnto thy love or skars or fre.

Mi fader, it hath stonde thus,That if the tresor of CresusAnd al the gold Octovien,Forth with the richesse YndienOf Perles and of riche stones,Were al togedre myn at ones,I sette it at nomore acompteThan wolde a bare straw amonte,To yive it hire al in a day,Be so that to that suete mayI myhte like or more or lesse.And thus be cause of my scarsnesseYe mai wel understonde and lieveThat I schal noght the worse achieveThe pourpos which is in my thoght.Bot yit I yaf hir nevere noght,Ne therto dorste a profre make;For wel I wot sche wol noght take,And yive wol sche noght also,Sche is eschu of bothe tuo.And this I trowe be the skileTowardes me, for sche ne wileThat I have eny cause of hope,Noght also mochel as a drope.Bot toward othre, as I mai se,Sche takth and yifth in such degre,That as be weie of frendlihiedeSche can so kepe hir wommanhiede,That every man spekth of hir wel.Bot sche wole take of me no del,And yit sche wot wel that I woldeYive and do bothe what I scholdeTo plesen hire in al my myht:Be reson this wot every wyht,For that mai be no weie asterte,Ther sche is maister of the herte,Sche mot be maister of the good.For god wot wel that al my modAnd al min herte and al mi thoghtAnd al mi good, whil I have oght,Als freliche as god hath it yive,It schal ben hires, while I live,Riht as hir list hirself commande.So that it nedeth no demande,To axe of me if I be scarsTo love, for as to tho parsI wole ansuere and seie no.

Mi Sone, that is riht wel do.For often times of scarsnesseIt hath be sen, that for the lesseIs lost the more, as thou schalt hiereA tale lich to this matiere.

Skarsnesse and love acorden nevere,For every thing is wel the levere,Whan that a man hath boght it diere:And forto speke in this matiere,For sparinge of a litel costFulofte time a man hath lostThe large cote for the hod.What man that scars is of his goodAnd wol noght yive, he schal noght take:With yifte a man mai undertakeThe hihe god to plese and queme,With yifte a man the world mai deme;For every creature bore,If thou him yive, is glad therfore,And every gladschipe, as I finde,Is confort unto loves kindeAnd causeth ofte a man to spede.So was he wys that ferst yaf mede,For mede kepeth love in house;Bot wher the men ben coveitouseAnd sparen forto yive a part,Thei knowe noght Cupides art:For his fortune and his apriseDesdeigneth alle coveitiseAnd hateth alle nygardie.And forto loke of this partie,A soth ensample, hou it is so,

I finde write of Babio;Which hadde a love at his menage,Ther was non fairere of hire age,And hihte Viola be name;Which full of youthe and ful of gameWas of hirself, and large and fre,Bot such an other chinche as heMen wisten noght in al the lond,And hadde affaited to his hondHis servant, the which SpodiusWas hote. And in this wise thusThe worldes good of sufficanceWas had, bot likinge and plesance,Of that belongeth to richesseOf love, stod in gret destresse;So that this yonge lusty wyhtOf thing which fell to loves rihtWas evele served overal,That sche was wo bego withal,Til that Cupide and Venus ekeA medicine for the sekeOrdeigne wolden in this cas.So as fortune thanne was,Of love upon the destineIt fell, riht as it scholde be,A freissh, a fre, a frendly manThat noght of Avarice can,Which Croceus be name hihte,Toward this swete caste his sihte,And ther sche was cam in presence.Sche sih him large of his despence,And amorous and glad of chiere,So that hir liketh wel to hiereThe goodly wordes whiche he seide;And therupon of love he preide,Of love was al that he mente,To love and for sche scholde assente,He yaf hire yiftes evere among.Bot for men sein that mede is strong,It was wel seene at thilke tyde;For as it scholde of ryht betyde,This Viola largesce hath takeAnd the nygard sche hath forsake:Of Babio sche wol no more,For he was grucchende everemore,Ther was with him non other fareBot forto prinche and forto spare,Of worldes muk to gete encress.So goth the wrecche loveles,Bejaped for his Skarcete,And he that large was and freAnd sette his herte to despende,This Croceus, the bowe bende,Which Venus tok him forto holde,And schotte als ofte as evere he wolde.

Lo, thus departeth love his lawe,That what man wol noght be felaweTo yive and spende, as I thee telle,He is noght worthi forto duelleIn loves court to be relieved.Forthi, my Sone, if I be lieved,Thou schalt be large of thi despence.

Mi fader, in mi conscienceIf ther be eny thing amis,I wol amende it after this,Toward mi love namely.

Mi Sone, wel and redelyThou seist, so that wel paid withalI am, and forthere if I schalUnto thi schrifte specefieOf Avarices progenieWhat vice suieth after this,Thou schalt have wonder hou it is,Among the folk in eny regneThat such a vice myhte regne,Which is comun at alle assaies,As men mai finde nou adaies.

The vice lik unto the fend,Which nevere yit was mannes frend,And cleped is Unkindeschipe,Of covine and of felaschipeWith Avarice he is withholde.Him thenkth he scholde noght ben holdeUnto the moder which him bar;Of him mai nevere man be war,He wol noght knowe the merite,For that he wolde it noght aquite;Which in this world is mochel used,And fewe ben therof excused.To telle of him is endeles,Bot this I seie natheles,Wher as this vice comth to londe,Ther takth noman his thonk on honde;Thogh he with alle his myhtes serve,He schal of him no thonk deserve.He takth what eny man wol yive,Bot whil he hath o day to live,He wol nothing rewarde ayein;He gruccheth forto yive o grein,Wher he hath take a berne full.That makth a kinde herte dull,To sette his trust in such frendschipe,Ther as he fint no kindeschipe;And forto speke wordes pleine,Thus hiere I many a man compleigne,That nou on daies thou schalt findeAt nede fewe frendes kinde;What thou hast don for hem tofore,It is foryete, as it were lore.The bokes speken of this vice,And telle hou god of his justice,Be weie of kinde and ek natureAnd every lifissh creature,The lawe also, who that it kan,Thei dampnen an unkinde man.

It is al on to seie unkindeAs thing which don is ayein kinde,For it with kinde nevere stodA man to yelden evel for good.For who that wolde taken hede,A beste is glad of a good dede,And loveth thilke creatureAfter the lawe of his natureWhich doth him ese. And forto seOf this matiere Auctorite,Fulofte time it hath befalle;Wherof a tale amonges alle,Which is of olde ensamplerie,I thenke forto specefie.

To speke of an unkinde man,I finde hou whilom Adrian,Of Rome which a gret lord was,Upon a day as he per casTo wode in his huntinge wente,It hapneth at a soudein wente,After his chace as he poursuieth,Thurgh happ, the which noman eschuieth,He fell unwar into a pet,Wher that it mihte noght be let.The pet was dep and he fell lowe,That of his men non myhte knoweWher he becam, for non was nyh,Which of his fall the meschief syh.And thus al one ther he layClepende and criende al the dayFor socour and deliverance,Til ayein Eve it fell per chance,A while er it began to nyhte,A povere man, which Bardus hihte,Cam forth walkende with his asse,And hadde gadred him a tasseOf grene stickes and of dreieTo selle, who that wolde hem beie,As he which hadde no liflode,Bot whanne he myhte such a lodeTo toune with his Asse carie.And as it fell him forto tarieThat ilke time nyh the pet,And hath the trusse faste knet,He herde a vois, which cride dimme,And he his Ere to the brimmeHath leid, and herde it was a man,Which seide, “Ha, help hier Adrian,And I wol yiven half mi good.”

The povere man this understod,As he that wolde gladly winne,And to this lord which was withinneHe spak and seide, “If I thee save,What sikernesse schal I haveOf covenant, that afterwardThou wolt me yive such rewardAs thou behihtest nou tofore?”

That other hath his othes sworeBe hevene and be the goddes alle,If that it myhte so befalleThat he out of the pet him broghte,Of all the goodes whiche he oghteHe schal have evene halvendel.

This Bardus seide he wolde wel;And with this word his Asse anonHe let untrusse, and theruponDoun goth the corde into the pet,To which he hath at ende knetA staf, wherby, he seide, he woldeThat Adrian him scholde holde.Bot it was tho per chance falle,Into that pet was also falleAn Ape, which at thilke throwe,Whan that the corde cam doun lowe,Al sodeinli therto he skipteAnd it in bothe hise armes clipte.And Bardus with his Asse anonHim hath updrawe, and he is gon.But whan he sih it was an Ape,He wende al hadde ben a japeOf faierie, and sore him dradde:And Adrian eftsone graddeFor help, and cride and preide faste,And he eftsone his corde caste;Bot whan it cam unto the grounde,A gret Serpent it hath bewounde,The which Bardus anon up drouh.And thanne him thoghte wel ynouh,It was fantosme, bot yit he herdeThe vois, and he therto ansuerde,“What wiht art thou in goddes name?”

“I am,” quod Adrian, “the same,Whos good thou schalt have evene half.”Quod Bardus, “Thanne a goddes halfThe thridde time assaie I schal”:And caste his corde forth withalInto the pet, and whan it camTo him, this lord of Rome it nam,And therupon him hath adresced,And with his hand fulofte blessed,And thanne he bad to Bardus hale.And he, which understod his tale,Betwen him and his Asse al softeHath drawe and set him up alofteWithouten harm al esely.He seith noght ones “grant merci,”Bot strauhte him forth to the cite,And let this povere Bardus be.And natheles this simple manHis covenant, so as he can,Hath axed; and that other seide,If so be that he him umbreideOf oght that hath be speke or do,It schal ben venged on him so,That him were betre to be ded.And he can tho non other red,But on his asse ayein he casteHis trusse, and hieth homward faste:And whan that he cam hom to bedde,He tolde his wif hou that he spedde.Bot finaly to speke oght moreUnto this lord he dradde him sore,So that a word ne dorste he sein:And thus upon the morwe ayein,In the manere as I recorde,Forth with his Asse and with his cordeTo gadre wode, as he dede er,He goth; and whan that he cam nerUnto the place where he wolde,He hath his Ape anon beholde,Which hadde gadred al abouteOf stickes hiere and there a route,And leide hem redy to his hond,Wherof he made his trosse and bond;Fro dai to dai and in this wiseThis Ape profreth his servise,So that he hadde of wode ynouh.Upon a time and as he drouhToward the wode, he sih besydeThe grete gastli Serpent glyde,Til that sche cam in his presence,And in hir kinde a reverenceSche hath him do, and forth withalA Ston mor briht than a cristallOut of hir mouth tofore his weieSche let doun falle, and wente aweie,For that he schal noght ben adrad.Tho was this povere Bardus glad,Thonkende god, and to the StonHe goth an takth it up anon,And hath gret wonder in his witHou that the beste him hath aquit,Wher that the mannes Sone hath failed,For whom he hadde most travailed.Bot al he putte in goddes hond,And torneth hom, and what he fondUnto his wif he hath it schewed;And thei, that weren bothe lewed,Acorden that he scholde it selle.And he no lengere wolde duelle,Bot forth anon upon the taleThe Ston he profreth to the sale;And riht as he himself it sette,The jueler anon forth fetteThe gold and made his paiement,Therof was no delaiement.

Thus whan this Ston was boght and sold,Homward with joie manyfoldThis Bardus goth; and whan he camHom to his hous and that he namHis gold out of his Purs, withinneHe fond his Ston also therinne,Wherof for joie his herte pleide,Unto his wif and thus he seide,“Lo, hier my gold, lo, hier mi Ston!”His wif hath wonder therupon,And axeth him hou that mai be.“Nou be mi trouthe I not,” quod he,“Bot I dar swere upon a bok,That to my Marchant I it tok,And he it hadde whan I wente:So knowe I noght to what ententeIt is nou hier, bot it be grace.Forthi tomorwe in other placeI wole it fonde forto selle,And if it wol noght with him duelle,Bot crepe into mi purs ayein,Than dar I saufly swere and sein,It is the vertu of the Ston.”

The morwe cam, and he is gonTo seche aboute in other stedeHis Ston to selle, and he so dede,And lefte it with his chapman there.Bot whan that he cam elleswhere,In presence of his wif at hom,Out of his Purs and that he nomHis gold, he fond his Ston withal:And thus it fell him overal,Where he it solde in sondri place,Such was the fortune and the grace.Bot so wel may nothing ben hidd,That it nys ate laste kidd:This fame goth aboute RomeSo ferforth, that the wordes comeTo themperour Justinian;And he let sende for the man,And axede him hou that it was.And Bardus tolde him al the cas,Hou that the worm and ek the beste,Althogh thei maden no beheste,His travail hadden wel aquit;Bot he which hadde a mannes wit,And made his covenant be moutheAnd swor therto al that he coutheTo parte and yiven half his good,Hath nou foryete hou that it stod,As he which wol no trouthe holde.

This Emperour al that he toldeHath herd, and thilke unkindenesseHe seide he wolde himself redresse.And thus in court of juggementThis Adrian was thanne assent,And the querele in audienceDeclared was in the presenceOf themperour and many mo;Wherof was mochel speche thoAnd gret wondringe among the press.Bot ate laste nathelesFor the partie which hath pleignedThe lawe hath diemed and ordeignedBe hem that were avised wel,That he schal have the halvendelThurghout of Adrianes good.And thus of thilke unkinde blodStant the memoire into this day,Wherof that every wysman mayEnsamplen him, and take in myndeWhat schame it is to ben unkinde;Ayein the which reson debateth,And every creature it hateth.

Forthi, mi Sone, in thin officeI rede fle that ilke vice.For riht as the Cronique seithOf Adrian, hou he his feithForyat for worldes covoitise,Fulofte in such a maner wiseOf lovers nou a man mai seFull manye that unkinde be:For wel behote and evele lasteThat is here lif; for ate laste,Whan that thei have here wille do,Here love is after sone ago.What seist thou, Sone, to this cas?

Mi fader, I wol seie Helas,That evere such a man was bore,Which whan he hath his trouthe suoreAnd hath of love what he wolde,That he at eny time scholdeEvere after in his herte findeTo falsen and to ben unkinde.Bot, fader, as touchende of me,I mai noght stonde in that degre;For I tok nevere of love why,That I ne mai wel go therbyAnd do my profit elles where,For eny sped I finde there.I dar wel thenken al aboute,Bot I ne dar noght speke it oute;And if I dorste, I wolde pleigne,That sche for whom I soffre peineAnd love hir evere aliche hote,That nouther yive ne behoteIn rewardinge of mi serviseIt list hire in no maner wise.I wol noght say that sche is kinde,And forto sai sche is unkinde,That dar I noght; bot god above,Which demeth every herte of love,He wot that on myn oghne sideSchal non unkindeschipe abide:If it schal with mi ladi duelle,Therof dar I nomore telle.Nou, goode fader, as it is,Tell me what thenketh you of this.

Mi Sone, of that unkindeschipe,The which toward thi ladischipeThou pleignest, for sche wol thee noght,Thou art to blamen of that thoght.For it mai be that thi desir,Thogh it brenne evere as doth the fyr,Per cas to hire honour missit,Or elles time com noght yit,Which standt upon thi destine:Forthi, mi Sone, I rede thee,Thenk wel, what evere the befalle;For noman hath his lustes alle.Bot as thou toldest me beforeThat thou to love art noght forswore,And hast don non unkindenesse,Thou miht therof thi grace blesse:And lef noght that continuance;For ther mai be no such grevanceTo love, as is unkindeschipe.Wherof to kepe thi worschipe,So as these olde bokes tale,I schal thee telle a redi tale:Nou herkne and be wel war therby,For I wol telle it openly.

Mynos, as telleth the Poete,The which whilom was king of Crete,A Sone hadde and AndrocheeHe hihte: and so befell that heUnto Athenes forto lereWas send, and so he bar him there,For that he was of hih lignage,Such pride he tok in his corage,That he foryeten hath the Scoles,And in riote among the folesHe dede manye thinges wronge;And useth thilke lif so longe,Til ate laste of that he wroghteHe fond the meschief which he soghte,Wherof it fell that he was slain.His fader, which it herde sain,Was wroth, and al that evere he mihte,Of men of Armes he him dighteA strong pouer, and forth he wenteUnto Athenys, where he brenteThe pleine contre al aboute:The Cites stode of him in doute,As thei that no defence haddeAyein the pouer which he ladde.

Egeüs, which was there king,His conseil tok upon this thing,For he was thanne in the Cite:So that of pes into treteeBetwen Mynos and EgeüsThei felle, and ben acorded thus;That king Mynos fro yer to yeereReceive schal, as thou schalt here,Out of Athenys for truageOf men that were of myhti AgePersones nyne, of whiche he schalHis wille don in specialFor vengance of his Sones deth.Non other grace ther ne geth,Bot forto take the juise;And that was don in such a wise,Which stod upon a wonder cas.For thilke time so it was,Wherof that men yit rede and singe,King Mynos hadde in his kepingeA cruel Monstre, as seith the geste:For he was half man and half beste,And Minotaurus he was hote,Which was begete in a rioteUpon Pasiphe, his oghne wif,Whil he was oute upon the strifOf thilke grete Siege at Troie.Bot sche, which lost hath alle joie,Whan that sche syh this Monstre bore,Bad men ordeigne anon therfore:And fell that ilke time thus,Ther was a Clerk, on Dedalus,Which hadde ben of hire assentOf that hir world was so miswent;And he made of his oghne wit,Wherof the remembrance is yit,For Minotaure such an hous,Which was so strange and merveilous,That what man that withinne wente,Ther was so many a sondri wente,That he ne scholde noght come oute,But gon amased al aboute.And in this hous to loke and wardeWas Minotaurus put in warde,That what lif that therinne cam,Or man or beste, he overcamAnd slow, and fedde him therupon;And in this wise many onOut of Athenys for truageDevoured weren in that rage.For every yeer thei schope hem so,Thei of Athenys, er thei goToward that ilke wofull chance,As it was set in ordinance,Upon fortune here lot thei caste;Til that Theseüs ate laste,Which was the kinges Sone there,Amonges othre that ther wereIn thilke yeer, as it befell,The lot upon his chance fell.He was a worthi kniht withalle;And whan he sih this chance falle,He ferde as thogh he tok non hiede,Bot al that evere he mihte spiede,With him and with his felaschipeForth into Crete he goth be Schipe;Wher that the king Mynos he soghte,And profreth all that he him oghteUpon the point of here acord.

This sterne king, this cruel lordTok every day on of the Nyne,And put him to the disciplineOf Minotaure, to be devoured;Bot Theseüs was so favoured,That he was kept til ate laste.And in the meene while he casteWhat thing him were best to do:And fell that Adriagne tho,Which was the dowhter of Mynos,And hadde herd the worthi losOf Theseüs and of his myht,And syh he was a lusti kniht,Hire hole herte on him sche leide,And he also of love hir preide,So ferforth that thei were al on.And sche ordeigneth thanne anonIn what manere he scholde him save,And schop so that sche dede him haveA clue of thred, of which withinneFerst ate dore he schal beginneWith him to take that on ende,That whan he wolde ayeinward wende,He mihte go the same weie.And over this, so as I seie,Of pich sche tok him a pelote,The which he scholde into the throteOf Minotaure caste rihte:Such wepne also for him sche dighte,That he be reson mai noght faileTo make an ende of his bataile;For sche him tawhte in sondri wise,Til he was knowe of thilke emprise,Hou he this beste schulde quelle.And thus, schort tale forto telle,So as this Maide him hadde tawht,Theseüs with this Monstre fawht,Smot of his hed, the which he nam,And be the thred, so as he cam,He goth ayein, til he were oute.Tho was gret wonder al aboute:Mynos the tribut hath relessed,And so was al the werre cessedBetwen Athene and hem of Crete.

Bot now to speke of thilke suete,Whos beaute was withoute wane,This faire Maiden Adriane,Whan that sche sih Theseüs sound,Was nevere yit upon the groundA gladder wyht that sche was tho.Theseüs duelte a dai or tuoWher that Mynos gret chiere him dede:Theseüs in a prive stedeHath with this Maiden spoke and rouned,That sche to him was abandounedIn al that evere that sche couthe,So that of thilke lusty youtheAl prively betwen hem tweieThe ferste flour he tok aweie.For he so faire tho behihteThat evere, whil he live mihte,He scholde hire take for his wif,And as his oghne hertes lifHe scholde hire love and trouthe bere;And sche, which mihte noght forbere,So sore loveth him ayein,That what as evere he wolde seinWith al hire herte sche believeth.And thus his pourpos he achieveth,So that assured of his troutheWith him sche wente, and that was routhe.

Fedra hire yonger Soster eke,A lusti Maide, a sobre, a meke,Fulfild of alle curtesie,For Sosterhode and compainieOf love, which was hem betuene,To sen hire Soster mad a queene,Hire fader lefte and forth sche wenteWith him, which al his ferste ententeForyat withinne a litel throwe,So that it was al overthrowe,Whan sche best wende it scholde stonde.The Schip was blowe fro the londe,Wherin that thei seilende were;This Adriagne hath mochel fereOf that the wynd so loude bleu,As sche which of the See ne kneu,And preide forto reste a whyle.And so fell that upon an yle,Which Chyo hihte, thei ben drive,Where he to hire his leve hath yiveThat sche schal londe and take hire reste.Bot that was nothing for the beste:For whan sche was to londe broght,Sche, which that time thoghte noghtBot alle trouthe, and tok no kepe,Hath leid hire softe forto slepe,As sche which longe hath ben forwacched;Bot certes sche was evele macchedAnd fer from alle loves kinde;For more than the beste unkindeTheseüs, which no trouthe kepte,Whil that this yonge ladi slepte,Fulfild of his unkindeschipeHath al foryete the goodschipeWhich Adriane him hadde do,And bad unto the Schipmen thoHale up the seil and noght abyde,And forth he goth the same tydeToward Athene, and hire alondeHe lefte, which lay nyh the strondeSlepende, til that sche awok.Bot whan that sche cast up hire lokToward the stronde and sih no wyht,Hire herte was so sore aflyht,That sche ne wiste what to thinke,Bot drouh hire to the water brinke,Wher sche behield the See at large.Sche sih no Schip, sche sih no bargeAls ferforth as sche mihte kenne:“Ha lord,” sche seide, “which a Senne,As al the world schal after hiere,Upon this woful womman hiereThis worthi kniht hath don and wroght!I wende I hadde his love boght,And so deserved ate nede,Whan that he stod upon his drede,And ek the love he me behihte.It is gret wonder hou he mihteTowardes me nou ben unkinde,And so to lete out of his myndeThing which he seide his oghne mouth.Bot after this whan it is couthAnd drawe into the worldes fame,It schal ben hindringe of his name:For wel he wot and so wot I,He yaf his trouthe bodily,That he myn honour scholde kepe.”And with that word sche gan to wepe,And sorweth more than ynouh:Hire faire tresces sche todrouh,And with hirself tok such a strif,That sche betwen the deth and lifSwounende lay fulofte among.And al was this on him along,Which was to love unkinde so,Wherof the wrong schal everemoStonde in Cronique of remembrance.And ek it asketh a venganceTo ben unkinde in loves cas,So as Theseüs thanne was,Al thogh he were a noble kniht;For he the lawe of loves rihtForfeted hath in alle weie,That Adriagne he putte aweie,Which was a gret unkinde dede:And after this, so as I rede,Fedra, the which hir Soster is,He tok in stede of hire, and thisFel afterward to mochel teene.For thilke vice of which I meene,Unkindeschipe, where it falleth,The trouthe of mannes herte it palleth,That he can no good dede aquite:So mai he stonde of no meriteTowardes god, and ek alsoMen clepen him the worldes fo;For he nomore than the fendUnto non other man is frend,Bot al toward himself al one.Forthi, mi Sone, in thi personeThis vice above all othre fle.

Mi fader, as ye techen me,I thenke don in this matiere.Bot over this nou wolde I hiere,Wherof I schal me schryve more.

Mi goode Sone, and for thi lore,After the reule of coveitiseI schal the proprete deviseOf every vice by and by.Nou herkne and be wel war therby.

In the lignage of Avarice,Mi Sone, yit ther is a vice,His rihte name it is Ravine,Which hath a route of his covine.Ravine among the maistres duelleth,And with his servantz, as men telleth,Extorcion is nou withholde:Ravine of othre mennes foldeMakth his larder and paieth noght;For wher as evere it mai be soght,In his hous ther schal nothing lacke,And that fulofte abyth the packeOf povere men that duelle aboute.Thus stant the comun poeple in doute,Which can do non amendement;For whanne him faileth paiement,Ravine makth non other skile,Bot takth be strengthe what he wile.

So ben ther in the same wiseLovers, as I thee schal devise,That whan noght elles mai availe,Anon with strengthe thei assaileAnd gete of love the sesine,Whan thei se time, be Ravine.

Forthi, mi Sone, schrif thee hier,If thou hast ben a RavinerOf love.

Certes, fader, no:For I mi ladi love so,That thogh I were as was Pompeie,That al the world me wolde obeie,Or elles such as Alisandre,I wolde noght do such a sklaundre;It is no good man, which so doth.

In good feith, Sone, thou seist soth:For he that wole of pourveanceBe such a weie his lust avance,He schal it after sore abie,Bot if these olde ensamples lie.

Nou, goode fader, tell me on,So as ye cunne manyon,Touchende of love in this matiere.

Nou list, mi Sone, and thou schalt hiere,So as it hath befalle er this,In loves cause hou that it isA man to take be RavineThe preie which is femeline.

Ther was a real noble king,And riche of alle worldes thing,Which of his propre enheritanceAthenes hadde in governance,And who so thenke therupon,His name was king Pandion.Tuo douhtres hadde he be his wif,The whiche he lovede as his lif;The ferste douhter Progne hihte,And the secounde, as sche wel mihte,Was cleped faire Philomene,To whom fell after mochel tene.The fader of his pourveanceHis doughter Progne wolde avance,And yaf hire unto mariageA worthi king of hih lignage,A noble kniht eke of his hond,So was he kid in every lond,Of Trace he hihte Tereüs;The clerk Ovide telleth thus.This Tereüs his wif hom ladde,A lusti lif with hire he hadde;Til it befell upon a tyde,This Progne, as sche lay him besyde,Bethoughte hir hou it mihte beThat sche hir Soster myhte se,And to hir lord hir will sche seide,With goodly wordes and him preideThat sche to hire mihte go:And if it liked him noght so,That thanne he wolde himselve wende,Or elles be som other sende,Which mihte hire diere Soster griete,And schape hou that thei mihten miete.Hir lord anon to that he herdeYaf his acord, and thus ansuerde:“I wole,” he seide, “for thi sakeThe weie after thi Soster takeMiself, and bringe hire, if I may.”And sche with that, there as he lay,Began him in hire armes clippe,And kist him with hir softe lippe,And seide, “Sire, grant mercy.”And he sone after was redy,And tok his leve forto go;In sori time dede he so.

This Tereüs goth forth to SchipeWith him and with his felaschipe;Be See the rihte cours he nam,Into the contre til he cam,Wher Philomene was duellinge,And of hir Soster the tidingeHe tolde, and tho thei weren glade,And mochel joie of him thei made.The fader and the moder botheTo leve here douhter weren lothe,Bot if thei weren in presence;And natheles at reverenceOf him, that wolde himself travaile,Thei wolden noght he scholde faileOf that he preide, and yive hire leve:And sche, that wolde noght beleve,In alle haste made hire yareToward hir Soster forto fare,With Tereüs and forth sche wente.And he with al his hole entente,Whan sche was fro hir frendes go,Assoteth of hire love so,His yhe myhte he noght withholde,That he ne moste on hir beholde;And with the sihte he gan desire,And sette his oghne herte on fyre;And fyr, whan it to tow aprocheth,To him anon the strengthe acrocheth,Til with his hete it be devoured,The tow ne mai noght be socoured.And so that tirant raviner,Whan that sche was in his pouer,And he therto sawh time and place,As he that lost hath alle grace,Foryat he was a wedded man,And in a rage on hire he ran,Riht as a wolf which takth his preie.And sche began to crie and preie,“O fader, o mi moder diere,Nou help!” Bot thei ne mihte it hiere,And sche was of to litel myhtDefense ayein so ruide a knyhtTo make, whanne he was so wodThat he no reson understod,Bot hield hire under in such wise,That sche ne myhte noght arise,Bot lay oppressed and desesed,As if a goshauk hadde sesedA brid, which dorste noght for fereRemue: and thus this tirant thereBeraft hire such thing as men seinMai neveremor be yolde ayein,And that was the virginite:Of such Ravine it was pite.

Bot whan sche to hirselven com,And of hir meschief hiede nom,And knew hou that sche was no maide,With wofull herte thus sche saide,“O thou of alle men the worste,Wher was ther evere man that dorsteDo such a dede as thou hast do?That dai schal falle, I hope so,That I schal telle out al mi fille,And with mi speche I schal fulfilleThe wyde world in brede and lengthe.That thou hast do to me be strengthe,If I among the poeple duelle,Unto the poeple I schal it telle;And if I be withinne wallOf Stones closed, thanne I schalUnto the Stones clepe and crie,And tellen hem thi felonie;And if I to the wodes wende,Ther schal I tellen tale and ende,And crie it to the briddes oute,That thei schul hiere it al aboute.For I so loude it schal reherce,That my vois schal the hevene perce,That it schal soune in goddes Ere.Ha, false man, where is thi fere?O mor cruel than eny beste,Hou hast thou holden thi behesteWhich thou unto my Soster madest?O thou, which alle love ungladest,And art ensample of alle untrewe,Nou wolde god mi Soster knewe,Of thin untrouthe, hou that it stod!”And he than as a Lyon wodWith hise unhappi handes strongeHire cauhte be the tresses longe,With whiche he bond ther bothe hire armes,That was a fieble dede of armes,And to the grounde anon hire caste,And out he clippeth also fasteHire tunge with a peire scheres.So what with blod and what with teresOut of hire yhe and of hir mouth,He made hire faire face uncouth:Sche lay swounende unto the deth,Ther was unethes eny breth;Bot yit whan he hire tunge refte,A litel part therof belefte,Bot sche with al no word mai soune,Bot chitre and as a brid jargoune.And natheles that wode houndHir bodi hent up fro the ground,And sente hir there as be his willeSche scholde abyde in prison stilleFor everemo: bot nou tak hiedeWhat after fell of this misdede.

Whanne al this meschief was befalle,This Tereüs, that foule him falle,Unto his contre hom he tyh;And whan he com his paleis nyh,His wif al redi there him kepte.Whan he hir sih, anon he wepte,And that he dede for deceite,For sche began to axe him streite,“Wher is mi Soster?” And he seideThat sche was ded; and Progne abreide,As sche that was a wofull wif,And stod betuen hire deth and lif,Of that sche herde such tidinge:Bot for sche sih hire lord wepinge,She wende noght bot alle trouthe,And hadde wel the more routhe.The Perles weren tho forsakeTo hire, and blake clothes take;As sche that was gentil and kinde,In worschipe of hir Sostres myndeSche made a riche enterement,For sche fond non amendementTo syghen or to sobbe more:So was ther guile under the gore.

Nou leve we this king and queene,And torne ayein to Philomene,As I began to tellen erst.Whan sche cam into prison ferst,It thoghte a kinges douhter strangeTo maken so soudein a changeFro welthe unto so grete a wo;And sche began to thenke tho,Thogh sche be mouthe nothing preide,Withinne hir herte thus sche seide:“O thou, almyhty Jupiter,That hihe sist and lokest fer,Thou soffrest many a wrong doinge,And yit it is noght thi willinge.To thee ther mai nothing ben hid,Thou wost hou it is me betid:I wolde I hadde noght be bore,For thanne I hadde noght forloreMi speche and mi virginite.Bot, goode lord, al is in thee,Whan thou therof wolt do venganceAnd schape mi deliverance.”And evere among this ladi wepte,And thoghte that sche nevere kepteTo ben a worldes womman more,And that sche wissheth everemore.Bot ofte unto hir Soster diereHire herte spekth in this manere,And seide, “Ha, Soster, if ye kneweOf myn astat, ye wolde rewe,I trowe, and my deliveranceYe wolde schape, and do venganceOn him that is so fals a man:And natheles, so as I can,I wol you sende som tokninge,Wherof ye schul have knowlechingeOf thing I wot, that schal you lothe,The which you toucheth and me bothe.”And tho withinne a whyle als tytSche waf a cloth of Selk al whytWith lettres and ymagerie,In which was al the felonie,Which Tereüs to hire hath do;And lappede it togedre thoAnd sette hir signet theruponAnd sende it unto Progne anon.The messager which forth it bar,What it amonteth is noght war;And natheles to Progne he gothAnd prively takth hire the cloth,And wente ayein riht as he cam,The court of him non hiede nam.

Whan Progne of Philomene herde,Sche wolde knowe hou that it ferde,And opneth that the man hath broght,And wot therby what hath be wroghtAnd what meschief ther is befalle.In swoune tho sche gan doun falle,And efte aros and gan to stonde,And eft sche takth the cloth on honde,Behield the lettres and thymages;Bot ate laste, “Of suche oultrages,”Sche seith, “wepinge is noght the bote:”And swerth, if that sche live mote,It schal be venged otherwise.And with that sche gan hire aviseHou ferst sche mihte unto hire winneHir Soster, that noman withinne,Bot only thei that were suore,It scholde knowe, and schop therforeThat Tereüs nothing it wiste;And yit riht as hirselven liste,Hir Soster was delivered soneOut of prison, and be the moneTo Progne sche was broght be nyhte.

Whan ech of other hadde a sihte,In chambre, ther thei were al one,Thei maden many a pitous mone;Bot Progne most of sorwe made,Which sihe hir Soster pale and fadeAnd specheles and deshonoured,Of that sche hadde be defloured;And ek upon hir lord sche thoghte,Of that he so untreuly wroghteAnd hadde his espousaile broke.Sche makth a vou it schal be wroke,And with that word sche kneleth dounWepinge in gret devocioun:Unto Cupide and to VenusSche preide, and seide thanne thus:“O ye, to whom nothing asterteOf love mai, for every herteYe knowe, as ye that ben aboveThe god and the goddesse of love;Ye witen wel that evere yitWith al mi will and al my wit,Sith ferst ye schopen me to wedde,That I lay with mi lord abedde,I have be trewe in mi degre,And evere thoghte forto be,And nevere love in other place,Bot al only the king of Trace,Which is mi lord and I his wif.Bot nou allas this wofull strif!That I him thus ayeinward findeThe most untrewe and most unkindeThat evere in ladi armes lay.And wel I wot that he ne mayAmende his wrong, it is so gret;For he to lytel of me let,Whan he myn oughne Soster tok,And me that am his wif forsok.”

Lo, thus to Venus and CupideSche preide, and furthermor sche crideUnto Appollo the hiheste,And seide, “O myghti god of reste,Thou do vengance of this debat.Mi Soster and al hire astatThou wost, and hou sche hath forloreHir maidenhod, and I therforeIn al the world schal bere a blameOf that mi Soster hath a schame,That Tereüs to hire I sente:And wel thou wost that myn ententeWas al for worschipe and for goode.O lord, that yifst the lives fodeTo every wyht, I prei thee hiereThes wofull Sostres that ben hiere,And let ous noght to the ben lothe;We ben thin oghne wommen bothe.”

Thus pleigneth Progne and axeth wreche,And thogh hire Soster lacke speche,To him that alle thinges wotHire sorwe is noght the lasse hot:Bot he that thanne had herd hem tuo,Him oughte have sorwed everemoFor sorwe which was hem betuene.With signes pleigneth Philomene,And Progne seith, “It schal be wreke,That al the world therof schal speke.”And Progne tho seknesse feigneth,Wherof unto hir lord sche pleigneth,And preith sche moste hire chambres kepe,And as hir liketh wake and slepe.And he hire granteth to be so;And thus togedre ben thei tuo,That wolde him bot a litel good.Nou herk hierafter hou it stodOf wofull auntres that befelle:Thes Sostres, that ben bothe felle,—And that was noght on hem along,Bot onliche on the grete wrongWhich Tereüs hem hadde do,—Thei schopen forto venge hem tho.

This Tereüs be Progne his wifA Sone hath, which as his lifHe loveth, and Ithis he hihte:His moder wiste wel sche mihteDo Tereüs no more griefThan sle this child, which was so lief.Thus sche, that was, as who seith, madOf wo, which hath hir overlad,Withoute insihte of moderhedeForyat pite and loste drede,And in hir chambre privelyThis child withouten noise or crySche slou, and hieu him al to pieces:And after with diverse spiecesThe fleissh, whan it was so toheewe,Sche takth, and makth therof a sewe,With which the fader at his meteWas served, til he hadde him ete;That he ne wiste hou that it stod,Bot thus his oughne fleissh and blodHimself devoureth ayein kinde,As he that was tofore unkinde.And thanne, er that he were arise,For that he scholde ben agrise,To schewen him the child was ded,This Philomene tok the hedBetwen tuo disshes, and al wrotheTho comen forth the Sostres bothe,And setten it upon the bord.And Progne tho began the word,And seide, “O werste of alle wicke,Of conscience whom no prickeMai stere, lo, what thou hast do!Lo, hier ben nou we Sostres tuo;O Raviner, lo hier thi preie,With whom so falsliche on the weieThou hast thi tirannye wroght.Lo, nou it is somdel aboght,And bet it schal, for of thi dedeThe world schal evere singe and redeIn remembrance of thi defame:For thou to love hast do such schame,That it schal nevere be foryete.”With that he sterte up fro the mete,And schof the bord unto the flor,And cauhte a swerd anon and suorThat thei scholde of his handes dye.And thei unto the goddes crieBegunne with so loude a stevene,That thei were herd unto the hevene;And in a twinclinge of an yheThe goddes, that the meschief syhe,Here formes changen alle thre.Echon of hem in his degreWas torned into briddes kinde;Diverseliche, as men mai finde,After thastat that thei were inne,Here formes were set atwinne.And as it telleth in the tale,The ferst into a nyhtingaleWas schape, and that was Philomene,Which in the wynter is noght sene,For thanne ben the leves falleAnd naked ben the buisshes alle.For after that sche was a brid,Hir will was evere to ben hid,And forto duelle in prive place,That noman scholde sen hir faceFor schame, which mai noght be lassed,Of thing that was tofore passed,Whan that sche loste hir maidenhiede:For evere upon hir wommanhiede,Thogh that the goddes wolde hire change,Sche thenkth, and is the more strange,And halt hir clos the wyntres day.Bot whan the wynter goth away,And that Nature the goddesseWole of hir oughne fre largesseWith herbes and with floures botheThe feldes and the medwes clothe,And ek the wodes and the grevesBen heled al with grene leves,So that a brid hire hyde mai,Betwen Averil and March and Maii,Sche that the wynter hield hir clos,For pure schame and noght aros,Whan that sche seth the bowes thikke,And that ther is no bare sticke,Bot al is hid with leves grene,To wode comth this PhilomeneAnd makth hir ferste yeres flyht;Wher as sche singeth day and nyht,And in hir song al openlySche makth hir pleignte and seith, “O why,O why ne were I yit a maide?”For so these olde wise saide,Which understoden what sche mente,Hire notes ben of such entente.And ek thei seide hou in hir songSche makth gret joie and merthe among,And seith, “Ha, nou I am a brid,Ha, nou mi face mai ben hid:Thogh I have lost mi Maidenhede,Schal noman se my chekes rede.”Thus medleth sche with joie woAnd with hir sorwe merthe also,So that of loves maladieSche makth diverse melodie,And seith love is a wofull blisse,A wisdom which can noman wisse,A lusti fievere, a wounde softe:This note sche reherceth ofteTo hem whiche understonde hir tale.Nou have I of this nyhtingale,Which erst was cleped Philomene,Told al that evere I wolde mene,Bothe of hir forme and of hir note,Wherof men mai the storie note.

And of hir Soster Progne I finde,Hou sche was torned out of kindeInto a Swalwe swift of winge,Which ek in wynter lith swounynge,Ther as sche mai nothing be sene:Bot whan the world is woxe greneAnd comen is the Somertide,Than fleth sche forth and ginth to chide,And chitreth out in hir langageWhat falshod is in mariage,And telleth in a maner specheOf Tereüs the Spousebreche.Sche wol noght in the wodes duelle,For sche wolde openliche telle;And ek for that sche was a spouse,Among the folk sche comth to house,To do thes wyves understondeThe falshod of hire housebonde,That thei of hem be war also,For ther ben manye untrewe of tho.Thus ben the Sostres briddes bothe,And ben toward the men so lothe,That thei ne wole of pure schameUnto no mannes hand be tame;For evere it duelleth in here myndeOf that thei founde a man unkinde,And that was false Tereüs.If such on be amonges ousI not, bot his condicionMen sein in every regionWithinne toune and ek withouteNou regneth comunliche aboute.And natheles in remembranceI wol declare what venganceThe goddes hadden him ordeined,Of that the Sostres hadden pleigned:For anon after he was changedAnd from his oghne kinde stranged,A lappewincke mad he was,And thus he hoppeth on the gras,And on his hed ther stant uprihtA creste in tokne he was a kniht;And yit unto this dai men seith,A lappewincke hath lore his feithAnd is the brid falseste of alle.

Bewar, mi Sone, er thee so falle;For if thou be of such covine,To gete of love be RavineThi lust, it mai thee falle thus,As it befell of Tereüs.

Mi fader, goddes forebode!Me were levere be fortrodeWith wilde hors and be todrawe,Er I ayein love and his laweDede eny thing or loude or stille,Which were noght mi ladi wille.Men sein that every love hath drede;So folweth it that I hire drede,For I hire love, and who so dredeth,To plese his love and serve him nedeth.Thus mai ye knowen be this skileThat no Ravine don I wileAyein hir will be such a weie;Bot while I live, I wol obeieAbidinge on hire courtesie,If eny merci wolde hir plie.Forthi, mi fader, as of thisI wot noght I have don amis:Bot furthermore I you beseche,Som other point that ye me teche,And axeth forth, if ther be auht,That I mai be the betre tauht.

Whan Covoitise in povere astatStant with himself upon debatThurgh lacke of his misgovernance,That he unto his sustienanceNe can non other weie findeTo gete him good, thanne as the blinde,Which seth noght what schal after falle,That ilke vice which men calleOf Robberie, he takth on honde;Wherof be water and be londeOf thing which othre men beswinkeHe get him cloth and mete and drinke.Him reccheth noght what he beginne,Thurgh thefte so that he mai winne:Forthi to maken his pourchasHe lith awaitende on the pas,And what thing that he seth ther passe,He takth his part, or more or lasse,If it be worthi to be take.He can the packes wel ransake,So prively berth non abouteHis gold, that he ne fint it oute,Or other juel, what it be;He takth it as his proprete.In wodes and in feldes ekeThus Robberie goth to seke,Wher as he mai his pourpos finde.

And riht so in the same kinde,My goode Sone, as thou miht hiere,To speke of love in the matiereAnd make a verrai resemblance,Riht as a thief makth his chevanceAnd robbeth mennes good abouteIn wode and field, wher he goth oute,So be ther of these lovers some,In wylde stedes wher thei comeAnd finden there a womman able,And therto place covenable,Withoute leve, er that thei fare,Thei take a part of that chaffare:Yee, though sche were a Scheperdesse,Yit wol the lord of wantounesseAssaie, althogh sche be unmete,For other mennes good is swete.Bot therof wot nothing the wifAt hom, which loveth as hir lifHir lord, and sitt alday wisshingeAfter hir lordes hom comynge:Bot whan that he comth hom at eve,Anon he makth his wif beleve,For sche noght elles scholde knowe:He telth hire hou his hunte hath blowe,And hou his houndes have wel runne,And hou ther schon a merye Sunne,And hou his haukes flowen wel;Bot he wol telle her nevere a dielHou he to love untrewe was,Of that he robbede in the pas,And tok his lust under the schaweAyein love and ayein his lawe.

Which thing, mi Sone, I thee forbede,For it is an ungoodly dede.For who that takth be RobberieHis love, he mai noght justefieHis cause, and so fulofte sitheFor ones that he hath be blitheHe schal ben after sory thries.Ensample of suche RobberiesI finde write, as thou schalt hiere,Acordende unto this matiere.

I rede hou whilom was a Maide,The faireste, as Ovide saide,Which was in hire time tho;And sche was of the chambre alsoOf Pallas, which is the goddesseAnd wif to Marte, of whom prouesseIs yove to these worthi knihtes.For he is of so grete mihtes,That he governeth the bataille;Withouten him may noght availeThe stronge hond, bot he it helpe;Ther mai no knyht of armes yelpe,Bot he feihte under his banere.Bot nou to speke of mi matiere,This faire, freisshe, lusti mai,Al one as sche wente on a daiUpon the stronde forto pleie,Ther cam Neptunus in the weie,Which hath the See in governance;And in his herte such plesanceHe tok, whan he this Maide sih,That al his herte aros on hih,For he so sodeinliche unwarBehield the beaute that sche bar.And caste anon withinne his herteThat sche him schal no weie asterte,Bot if he take in avantageFro thilke maide som pilage,Noght of the broches ne the Ringes,Bot of some othre smale thingesHe thoghte parte, er that sche wente;And hire in bothe hise armes hente,And putte his hond toward the cofre,Wher forto robbe he made a profre,That lusti tresor forto stele,Which passeth othre goodes feleAnd cleped is the maidenhede,Which is the flour of wommanhede.This Maiden, which Cornix be nameWas hote, dredende alle schame,Sih that sche mihte noght debate,And wel sche wiste he wolde algateFulfille his lust of Robberie,Anon began to wepe and crie,And seide, “O Pallas, noble queene,Scheu nou thi myht and let be sene,To kepe and save myn honour:Help, that I lese noght mi flour,Which nou under thi keie is loke.”That word was noght so sone spoke,Whan Pallas schop recoverirAfter the will and the desirOf hire, which a Maiden was,And sodeinliche upon this casOut of hire wommanisshe kindeInto a briddes like I findeSche was transformed forth withal,So that Neptunus nothing stalOf such thing as he wolde have stole.With fetheres blake as eny coleOut of hise armes in a throweSche flih before his yhe a Crowe;Which was to hire a more delit,To kepe hire maidenhede whitUnder the wede of fethers blake,In Perles whyte than forsakeThat no lif mai restore ayein.Bot thus Neptune his herte in veinHath upon Robberie sett;The bridd is flowe and he was let,The faire Maide him hath ascaped,Wherof for evere he was bejapedAnd scorned of that he hath lore.

Mi Sone, be thou war therforeThat thou no maidenhode stele,Wherof men sen deseses feleAldai befalle in sondri wise;So as I schal thee yit deviseAn other tale therupon,Which fell be olde daies gon.

King Lichaon upon his wifA dowhter hadde, a goodly lif,A clene Maide of worthi fame,Calistona whos rihte nameWas cleped, and of many a lordSche was besoght, bot hire acordTo love myhte noman winne,As sche which hath no lust therinne;Bot swor withinne hir herte and saideThat sche wolde evere ben a Maide.Wherof to kepe hireself in pes,With suche as AmadriadesWere cleped, wodemaydes, tho,And with the Nimphes ek alsoUpon the spring of freisshe wellesSche schop to duelle and nagher elles.And thus cam this CalistonaInto the wode of Tegea,Wher sche virginite behihteUnto Diane, and therto plihteHer trouthe upon the bowes grene,To kepe hir maidenhode clene.Which afterward upon a dayWas priveliche stole away;For Jupiter thurgh his queintiseFrom hire it tok in such a wise,That sodeinliche forth withalHire wombe aros and sche toswal,So that it mihte noght ben hidd.And therupon it is betidd,Diane, which it herde telle,In prive place unto a welleWith Nimphes al a compainieWas come, and in a ragerieSche seide that sche bathe wolde,And bad that every maide scholdeWith hire al naked bathe also.And tho began the prive wo,Calistona wax red for schame;Bot thei that knewe noght the game,To whom no such thing was befalle,Anon thei made hem naked alle,As thei that nothing wolden hyde:Bot sche withdrouh hire evere asyde,And natheles into the flod,Wher that Diane hirselve stod,Sche thoghte come unaperceived.Bot therof sche was al deceived;For whan sche cam a litel nyh,And that Diane hire wombe syh,Sche seide, “Awey, thou foule beste,For thin astat is noght honesteThis chaste water forto touche;For thou hast take such a touche,Which nevere mai ben hol ayein.”And thus goth sche which was forleinWith schame, and fro the Nimphes fledde,Til whanne that nature hire spedde,That of a Sone, which ArchasWas named, sche delivered was.And tho Juno, which was the wifOf Jupiter, wroth and hastif,In pourpos forto do venganceCam forth upon this ilke chance,And to Calistona sche spak,And sette upon hir many a lak,And seide, “Ha, nou thou art atake,That thou thi werk myht noght forsake.Ha, thou ungoodlich ypocrite,Hou thou art gretly forto wyte!Bot nou thou schalt ful sore abieThat ilke stelthe and micherie,Which thou hast bothe take and do;Wherof thi fader LichaoSchal noght be glad, whan he it wot,Of that his dowhter was so hot,That sche hath broke hire chaste avou.Bot I thee schal chastise nou;Thi grete beaute schal be torned,Thurgh which that thou hast be mistorned,Thi large frount, thin yhen greie,I schal hem change in other weie,And al the feture of thi faceIn such a wise I schal deface,That every man thee schal forbere.”With that the liknesse of a bereSche tok and was forschape anon.

Withinne a time and theruponBefell that with a bowe on honde,To hunte and gamen forto fonde,Into that wode goth to pleieHir Sone Archas, and in his weieIt hapneth that this bere cam.And whan that sche good hiede nam,Wher that he stod under the bowh,Sche kneu him wel and to him drouh;For thogh sche hadde hire forme lore,The love was noght lost therforeWhich kinde hath set under his lawe.Whan sche under the wodesschaweHire child behield, sche was so glad,That sche with bothe hire armes sprad,As thogh sche were in wommanhiede,Toward him cam, and tok non hiedeOf that he bar a bowe bent.And he with that an Arwe hath hentAnd gan to teise it in his bowe,As he that can non other knowe,Bot that it was a beste wylde.Bot Jupiter, which wolde schyldeThe Moder and the Sone also,Ordeineth for hem bothe so,That thei for evere were save.

Bot thus, mi Sone, thou myht haveEnsample, hou that it is to fleTo robbe the virginiteOf a yong innocent aweie:And overthis be other weie,In olde bokes as I rede,Such Robberie is forto drede,And nameliche of thilke goodWhich every womman that is goodDesireth forto kepe and holde,As whilom was be daies olde.For if thou se mi tale welOf that was tho, thou miht somdielOf old ensample taken hiede,Hou that the flour of maidenhiedeWas thilke time holde in pris.And so it was, and so it is,And so it schal for evere stonde:And for thou schalt it understonde,Nou herkne a tale next suiende,Hou maidenhod is to commende.

Of Rome among the gestes oldeI finde hou that Valerie toldeThat what man tho was EmperourOf Rome, he scholde don honourTo the virgine, and in the weie,Wher he hire mette, he scholde obeieIn worschipe of virginite,Which tho was of gret dignite.Noght onliche of the wommen tho,Bot of the chaste men alsoIt was commended overal:And forto speke in specialTouchende of men, ensample I finde,

Phyryns, which was of mannes kindeAbove alle othre the fairesteOf Rome and ek the comelieste,That wel was hire which him mihteBeholde and have of him a sihte.Thus was he tempted ofte sore;Bot for he wolde be nomoreAmong the wommen so coveited,The beaute of his face streitedHe hath, and threste out bothe hise yhen,That alle wommen whiche him syhenThanne afterward, of him ne roghte:And thus his maidehiede he boghte.So mai I prove wel forthi,Above alle othre under the Sky,Who that the vertus wolde peise,Virginite is forto preise,Which, as thapocalips recordeth,To Crist in hevene best acordeth.So mai it schewe wel therfore,As I have told it hier tofore,In hevene and ek in Erthe alsoIt is accept to bothe tuo.

And if I schal more over thisDeclare what this vertu is,I finde write upon this thingOf Valentinian the kingAnd Emperour be thilke daies,A worthi knyht at alle assaies,Hou he withoute MariageWas of an hundred wynter Age,And hadde ben a worthi knihtBothe of his lawe and of his myht.Bot whan men wolde his dedes peiseAnd his knyhthode of Armes preise,Of that he dede with his hondes,Whan he the kinges and the londesTo his subjeccion put under,Of al that pris hath he no wonder,For he it sette of non acompte,And seide al that may noght amonteAyeins o point which he hath nome,That he his fleissh hath overcome:He was a virgine, as he seide;On that bataille his pris he leide.Lo nou, my Sone, avise thee.

Yee, fader, al this wel mai be,Bot if alle othre dede so,The world of men were sone go:And in the lawe a man mai finde,Hou god to man be weie of kindeHath set the world to multeplie;And who that wol him justefie,It is ynouh to do the lawe.And natheles youre goode saweIs good to kepe, who so may,I wol noght therayein seie nay.

Mi Sone, take it as I seie;If maidenhod be take aweieWithoute lawes ordinance,It mai noght failen of vengance.And if thou wolt the sothe wite,Behold a tale which is write,Hou that the King Agamenon,Whan he the Cite of LesbonHath wonne, a Maiden ther he fond,Which was the faireste of the LondIn thilke time that men wiste.He tok of hire what him listeOf thing which was most precious,Wherof that sche was dangerous.This faire Maiden cleped isCriseide, douhter of Crisis,Which was that time in specialOf thilke temple principal,Wher Phebus hadde his sacrifice,So was it wel the more vice.Agamenon was thanne in weieTo Troieward, and tok aweieThis Maiden, which he with him ladde,So grete a lust in hire he hadde.Bot Phebus, which hath gret desdeignOf that his Maiden was forlein,Anon as he to Troie cam,Vengance upon this dede he namAnd sende a comun pestilence.Thei soghten thanne here evidenceAnd maden calculacion,To knowe in what condicionThis deth cam in so sodeinly;And ate laste redylyThe cause and ek the man thei founde:And forth withal the same stoundeAgamenon opposed was,Which hath beknowen al the casOf the folie which he wroghte.And therupon mercy thei soghteToward the god in sondri wiseWith preiere and with sacrifise,The Maide and hom ayein thei sende,And yive hire good ynouh to spendeFor evere whil sche scholde live:And thus the Senne was foryiveAnd al the pestilence cessed.

Lo, what it is to ben encressedOf love which is evele wonne.It were betre noght begonneThan take a thing withoute leve,Which thou most after nedes leve,And yit have malgre forth withal.Forthi to robben overalIn loves cause if thou beginne,I not what ese thou schalt winne.Mi Sone, be wel war of this,For thus of Robberie it is.

Mi fader, youre ensamplerieIn loves cause of RobberieI have it riht wel understonde.Bot overthis, hou so it stonde,Yit wolde I wite of youre apriseWhat thing is more of Covoitise.

With Covoitise yit I findeA Servant of the same kinde,Which Stelthe is hote, and MecherieWith him is evere in compainie.Of whom if I schal telle soth,He stalketh as a Pocok doth,And takth his preie so covert,That noman wot it in apert.For whan he wot the lord from home,Than wol he stalke aboute and rome;And what thing he fint in his weie,Whan that he seth the men aweie,He stelth it and goth forth withal,That therof noman knowe schal.And ek fulofte he goth a nyhtWithoute Mone or sterreliht,And with his craft the dore unpiketh,And takth therinne what him liketh:And if the dore be so schet,That he be of his entre let,He wole in ate wyndou crepe,And whil the lord is faste aslepe,He stelth what thing as him best list,And goth his weie er it be wist.Fulofte also be lyhte of dayYit wole he stele and make assay;Under the cote his hond he put,Til he the mannes Purs have cut,And rifleth that he fint therinne.And thus he auntreth him to winne,And berth an horn and noght ne bloweth,For noman of his conseil knoweth;What he mai gete of his Michinge,It is al bile under the winge.And as an hound that goth to foldeAnd hath ther taken what he wolde,His mouth upon the gras he wypeth,And so with feigned chiere him slypeth,That what as evere of schep he strangle,Ther is noman therof schal jangle,As forto knowen who it dede;Riht so doth Stelthe in every stede,Where as him list his preie take.He can so wel his cause makeAnd so wel feigne and so wel glose,That ther ne schal noman suppose,Bot that he were an innocent,And thus a mannes yhe he blent:So that this craft I mai remeneWithouten help of eny mene.

Ther be lovers of that degre,Which al here lust in privete,As who seith, geten al be Stelthe,And ofte atteignen to gret weltheAs for the time that it lasteth.For love awaiteth evere and castethHou he mai stele and cacche his preie,Whan he therto mai finde a weie:For be it nyht or be it day,He takth his part, whan that he may,And if he mai nomore do,Yit wol he stele a cuss or tuo.

Mi Sone, what seist thou therto?Tell if thou dedest evere so.

Mi Sone, thus,—If thou hast stolen eny cussOr other thing which therto longeth,For noman suche thieves hongeth:Tell on forthi and sei the trouthe.

Mi fader, nay, and that is routhe,For be mi will I am a thief;Bot sche that is to me most lief,Yit dorste I nevere in priveteNoght ones take hire be the kne,To stele of hire or this or that,And if I dorste, I wot wel what:And natheles, bot if I lie,Be Stelthe ne be RobberieOf love, which fell in mi thoght,To hire dede I nevere noght.Bot as men sein, wher herte is failed,Ther schal no castell ben assailed;Bot thogh I hadde hertes ten,And were als strong as alle men,If I be noght myn oghne manAnd dar noght usen that I can,I mai miselve noght recovere.Thogh I be nevere man so povere,I bere an herte and hire it is,So that me faileth wit in this,Hou that I scholde of myn acordThe servant lede ayein the lord:For if mi fot wolde awher go,Or that min hand wolde elles do,Whan that myn herte is therayein,The remenant is al in vein.And thus me lacketh alle wele,And yit ne dar I nothing steleOf thing which longeth unto love:And ek it is so hyh above,I mai noght wel therto areche,Bot if so be at time of speche,Ful selde if thanne I stele mayA word or tuo and go my way.Betwen hire hih astat and meComparison ther mai non be,So that I fiele and wel I wot,Al is to hevy and to hotTo sette on hond withoute leve:And thus I mot algate leveTo stele that I mai noght take,And in this wise I mot forsakeTo ben a thief ayein mi willeOf thing which I mai noght fulfille.For that Serpent which nevere slepteThe flees of gold so wel ne kepteIn Colchos, as the tale is told,That mi ladi a thousendfoldNys betre yemed and bewaked,Wher sche be clothed or be naked.To kepe hir bodi nyht and day,Sche hath a wardein redi ay,Which is so wonderful a wyht,That him ne mai no mannes myhtWith swerd ne with no wepne daunte,Ne with no sleihte of charme enchaunte,Wherof he mihte be mad tame,And Danger is his rihte name;Which under lock and under keie,That noman mai it stele aweie,Hath al the Tresor underfongeThat unto love mai belonge.The leste lokinge of hire yheMai noght be stole, if he it syhe;And who so gruccheth for so lyte,He wolde sone sette a wyteOn him that wolde stele more.And that me grieveth wonder sore,For this proverbe is evere newe,That stronge lokes maken treweOf hem that wolden stele and pyke:For so wel can ther noman slykeBe him ne be non other mene,To whom Danger wol yive or leneOf that tresor he hath to kepe.So thogh I wolde stalke and crepe,And wayte on eve and ek on morwe,Of Danger schal I nothing borwe,And stele I wot wel may I noght:And thus I am riht wel bethoght,Whil Danger stant in his office,Of Stelthe, which ye clepe a vice,I schal be gultif neveremo.Therfore I wolde he were agoSo fer that I nevere of him herde,Hou so that afterward it ferde:For thanne I mihte yit per casOf love make som pourchasBe Stelthe or be som other weie,That nou fro me stant fer aweie.

Bot, fader, as ye tolde above,Hou Stelthe goth a nyht for love,I mai noght wel that point forsake,That ofte times I ne wakeOn nyhtes, whan that othre slepe;Bot hou, I prei you taketh kepe.Whan I am loged in such wiseThat I be nyhte mai arise,At som wyndowe and loken outeAnd se the housinge al aboute,So that I mai the chambre knoweIn which mi ladi, as I trowe,Lyth in hir bed and slepeth softe,Thanne is myn herte a thief fulofte:For there I stonde to beholdeThe longe nyhtes that ben colde,And thenke on hire that lyth there.And thanne I wisshe that I wereAls wys as was NectanabusOr elles as was Protheus,That couthen bothe of nigromaunceIn what liknesse, in what semblaunce,Riht as hem liste, hemself transforme:For if I were of such a forme,I seie thanne I wolde fleInto the chambre forto seIf eny grace wolde falle,So that I mihte under the palleSom thing of love pyke and stele.And thus I thenke thoghtes fele,And thogh therof nothing be soth,Yit ese as for a time it doth:Bot ate laste whanne I findeThat I am falle into my mynde,And se that I have stonde longeAnd have no profit underfonge,Than stalke I to mi bedd withinne.And this is al that evere I winneOf love, whanne I walke on nyht:Mi will is good, bot of mi myhtMe lacketh bothe and of mi grace;For what so that mi thoght embrace,Yit have I noght the betre ferd.Mi fader, lo, nou have ye herdWhat I be Stelthe of love have do,And hou mi will hath be therto:If I be worthi to penanceI put it on your ordinance.

Mi Sone, of Stelthe I the behiete,Thogh it be for a time swete,At ende it doth bot litel good,As be ensample hou that it stodWhilom, I mai thee telle nou.

Mi Sone, of him which goth be daieBe weie of Stelthe to assaie,In loves cause and takth his preie,Ovide seide as I schal seie,And in his Methamor he toldeA tale, which is good to holde.

The Poete upon this matiereOf Stelthe wrot in this manere.Venus, which hath this lawe in hondeOf thing which mai noght be withstonde,As sche which the tresor to wardeOf love hath withinne hir warde,Phebum to love hath so constreigned,That he withoute reste is peinedWith al his herte to coveiteA Maiden, which was warded streyteWithinne chambre and kept so clos,That selden was whan sche desclosGoth with hir moder forto pleie.Leuchotoe, so as men seie,This Maiden hihte, and OrchamusHir fader was; and befell thus.This doughter, that was kept so deere,And hadde be fro yer to yeereUnder hir moder disciplineA clene Maide and a Virgine,Upon the whos nativiteOf comelihiede and of beauteNature hath set al that sche may,That lich unto the fresshe Maii,Which othre monthes of the yeerSurmonteth, so withoute pierWas of this Maiden the feture.Wherof Phebus out of mesureHire loveth, and on every sydeAwaiteth, if so mai betyde,That he thurgh eny sleihte myhteHire lusti maidenhod unrihte,The which were al his worldes welthe.And thus lurkende upon his steltheIn his await so longe he lai,Til it befell upon a dai,That he thurghout hir chambre wallCam in al sodeinliche, and stallThat thing which was to him so lief.Bot wo the while, he was a thief!For Venus, which was enemieOf thilke loves micherie,Discovereth al the pleine casTo Clymene, which thanne wasToward Phebus his concubine.And sche to lette the covineOf thilke love, dedli wrothTo pleigne upon this Maide goth,And tolde hire fader hou it stod;Wherof for sorwe welnyh wodUnto hire moder thus he saide:“Lo, what it is to kepe a Maide!To Phebus dar I nothing speke,Bot upon hire I schal be wreke,So that these Maidens after thisMow take ensample, what it isTo soffre her maidenhed be stole,Wherof that sche the deth schal thole.”And bad with that do make a pet,Wherinne he hath his douhter set,As he that wol no pite have,So that sche was al quik begraveAnd deide anon in his presence.Bot Phebus, for the reverenceOf that sche hadde be his love,Hath wroght thurgh his pouer above,That sche sprong up out of the moldeInto a flour was named golde,Which stant governed of the Sonne.And thus whan love is evele wonne,Fulofte it comth to repentaile.

Mi fader, that is no mervaile,Whan that the conseil is bewreid.Bot ofte time love hath pleidAnd stole many a prive game,Which nevere yit cam into blame,Whan that the thinges weren hidde.Bot in youre tale, as it betidde,Venus discoverede al the cas,And ek also brod dai it was,Whan Phebus such a Stelthe wroghte,Wherof the Maide in blame he broghte,That afterward sche was so lore.Bot for ye seiden nou toforeHou stelthe of love goth be nyhte,And doth hise thinges out of syhte,Therof me liste also to hiereA tale lich to the matiere,Wherof I myhte ensample take.

Mi goode Sone, and for thi sake,So as it fell be daies olde,And so as the Poete it tolde,Upon the nyhtes micherieNou herkne a tale of Poesie.

The myhtieste of alle menWhan Hercules with Eolen,Which was the love of his corage,Togedre upon a PelrinageTowardes Rome scholden go,It fell hem be the weie so,That thei upon a dai a CaveWithinne a roche founden have,Which was real and gloriousAnd of Entaile curious,Be name and Thophis it was hote.The Sonne schon tho wonder hote,As it was in the Somer tyde;This Hercules, which be his sydeHath Eolen his love there,Whan thei at thilke cave were,He seide it thoghte him for the besteThat sche hire for the hete resteAl thilke day and thilke nyht;And sche, that was a lusti wyht,It liketh hire al that he seide:And thus thei duelle there and pleideThe longe dai. And so befell,This Cave was under the hellOf Tymolus, which was begroweWith vines, and at thilke throweFaunus with Saba the goddesse,Be whom the large wildernesseIn thilke time stod governed,Weere in a place, as I am lerned,Nyh by, which Bachus wode hihte.This Faunus tok a gret insihteOf Eolen, that was so nyh;For whan that he hire beaute syh,Out of his wit he was assoted,And in his herte it hath so noted,That he forsok the Nimphes alle,And seide he wolde, hou so it falle,Assaie an other forto winne;So that his hertes thoght withinneHe sette and caste hou that he myhteOf love pyke awey be nyhteThat he be daie in other wiseTo stele mihte noght suffise:And therupon his time he waiteth.

Nou tak good hiede hou love afaitethHim which withal is overcome.Faire Eolen, whan sche was comeWith Hercules into the Cave,Sche seide him that sche wolde haveHise clothes of and hires bothe,That ech of hem scholde other clothe.And al was do riht as sche bad,He hath hire in hise clothes cladAnd caste on hire his gulion,Which of the Skyn of a LeounWas mad, as he upon the weieIt slouh, and overthis to pleieSche tok his grete Mace alsoAnd knet it at hir gerdil tho.So was sche lich the man arraied,And Hercules thanne hath assaiedTo clothen him in hire array:And thus thei jape forth the dai,Til that her Souper redy were.And whan thei hadden souped there,Thei schopen hem to gon to reste;And as it thoghte hem for the beste,Thei bede, as for that ilke nyht,Tuo sondri beddes to be dyht,For thei togedre ligge nolde,Be cause that thei offre woldeUpon the morwe here sacrifice.The servantz deden here officeAnd sondri beddes made anon,Wherin that thei to reste gonEch be himself in sondri place.Faire Eole hath set the MaceBeside hire beddes hed above,And with the clothes of hire loveSche helede al hire bed aboute;And he, which hadde of nothing doute,Hire wympel wond aboute his cheke,Hire kertell and hire mantel ekeAbrod upon his bed he spredde.And thus thei slepen bothe abedde;And what of travail, what of wyn,The servantz lich to drunke SwynBegunne forto route faste.

This Faunus, which his Stelthe caste,Was thanne come to the Cave,And fond thei weren alle saveWithoute noise, and in he wente.The derke nyht his sihte blente,And yit it happeth him to goWhere Eolen abedde thoWas leid al one for to slepe;Bot for he wolde take kepeWhos bed it was, he made assai,And of the Leoun, where it lay,The Cote he fond, and ek he fielethThe Mace, and thanne his herte kieleth,That there dorste he noght abyde,Bot stalketh upon every sideAnd soghte aboute with his hond,That other bedd til that he fond,Wher lai bewympled a visage.Tho was he glad in his corage,For he hir kertell fond alsoAnd ek hir mantell bothe tuoBespred upon the bed alofte.He made him naked thanne, and softeInto the bedd unwar he crepte,Wher Hercules that time slepte,And wende wel it were sche;And thus in stede of EoleAnon he profreth him to love.But he, which felte a man above,This Hercules, him threw to groundeSo sore, that thei have him foundeLiggende there upon the morwe;And tho was noght a litel sorwe,That Faunus of himselve made,Bot elles thei were alle gladeAnd lowhen him to scorne aboute:Saba with Nimphis al a routeCam doun to loke hou that he ferde,And whan that thei the sothe herde,He was bejaped overal.

Mi Sone, be thou war withalTo seche suche mecheries,Bot if thou have the betre aspies,In aunter if the so betydeAs Faunus dede thilke tyde,Wherof thou miht be schamed so.

Min holi fader, certes no.Bot if I hadde riht good leve,Such mecherie I thenke leve:Mi feinte herte wol noght serve;For malgre wolde I noght deserveIn thilke place wher I love.Bot for ye tolden hier aboveOf Covoitise and his pilage,If ther be more of that lignage,Which toucheth to mi schrifte, I preieThat ye therof me wolde seie,So that I mai the vice eschuie.

Mi Sone, if I be order suieThe vices, as thei stonde arowe,Of Covoitise thou schalt knoweTher is yit on, which is the laste;In whom ther mai no vertu laste,For he with god himself debateth,Wherof that al the hevene him hateth.

The hihe god, which alle goodePourveied hath for mannes fodeOf clothes and of mete and drinke,Bad Adam that he scholde swinkeTo geten him his sustienance:And ek he sette an ordinanceUpon the lawe of Moises,That though a man be haveles,Yit schal he noght be thefte stele.Bot nou adaies ther ben fele,That wol no labour undertake,Bot what thei mai be Stelthe takeThei holde it sikerliche wonne.And thus the lawe is overronne,Which god hath set, and namelyWith hem that so untrewelyThe goodes robbe of holi cherche.The thefte which thei thanne wercheBe name is cleped Sacrilegge,Ayein the whom I thenke alegge.Of his condicion to telle,Which rifleth bothe bok and belle,So forth with al the remenantTo goddes hous appourtenant,Wher that he scholde bidde his bede,He doth his thefte in holi stede,And takth what thing he fint therinne:For whan he seth that he mai winne,He wondeth for no cursednesse,That he ne brekth the holinesseAnd doth to god no reverence;For he hath lost his conscience,That though the Prest therfore curse,He seith he fareth noght the wurse.

And forto speke it otherwise,What man that lasseth the franchiseAnd takth of holi cherche his preie,I not what bedes he schal preie.Whan he fro god, which hath yive al,The Pourpartie in special,Which unto Crist himself is due,Benymth, he mai noght wel eschueThe peine comende afterward;For he hath mad his forewardWith Sacrilegge forto duelle,Which hath his heritage in helle.And if we rede of tholde lawe,I finde write, in thilke daweOf Princes hou ther weren threCoupable sore in this degre.That on of hem was cleped thus,The proude king Antiochus;That other Nabuzardan hihte,Which of his crualte behyhteThe temple to destruie and waste,And so he dede in alle haste;The thridde, which was after schamed,Was Nabugodonosor named,And he Jerusalem putte under,Of Sacrilegge and many a wonderThere in the holi temple he wroghte,Which Baltazar his heir aboghte,Whan Mane, Techel, Phares writeWas on the wal, as thou miht wite,So as the bible it hath declared.Bot for al that it is noght sparedYit nou aday, that men ne pile,And maken argument and skileTo Sacrilegge as it belongeth,For what man that ther after longeth,He takth non hiede what he doth.

And riht so, forto telle soth,In loves cause if I schal trete,Ther ben of suche smale and grete:If thei no leisir fynden elles,Thei wol noght wonden for the belles,Ne thogh thei sen the Prest at masse;That wol thei leten overpasse.If that thei finde here love there,Thei stonde and tellen in hire Ere,And axe of god non other grace,Whyl thei ben in that holi place;Bot er thei gon som avantageTher wol thei have, and som pilageOf goodli word or of beheste,Or elles thei take ate lesteOut of hir hand or ring or glove,So nyh the weder thei wol love,As who seith sche schal noght foryete,Nou I this tokne of hire have gete:Thus halwe thei the hihe feste.Such thefte mai no cherche areste,For al is leveful that hem liketh,To whom that elles it misliketh.And ek riht in the selve kindeIn grete Cites men mai findeThis lusti folk, that make it gay,And waite upon the haliday:In cherches and in Menstres ekeThei gon the wommen forto seke,And wher that such on goth aboute,Tofore the faireste of the route,Wher as thei sitten alle arewe,Ther wol he most his bodi schewe,His croket kembd and theron setA Nouche with a chapelet,Or elles on of grene leves,Which late com out of the greves,Al for he scholde seme freissh.And thus he loketh on the fleissh,Riht as an hauk which hath a sihteUpon the foul, ther he schal lihte;And as he were of faierie,He scheweth him tofore here yheIn holi place wher thei sitte,Al forto make here hertes flitte.His yhe nawher wole abyde,Bot loke and prie on every sydeOn hire and hire, as him best lyketh:And otherwhile among he syketh;Thenkth on of hem, “That was for me,”And so ther thenken tuo or thre,And yit he loveth non of alle,Bot wher as evere his chance falle.And natheles to seie a soth,The cause why that he so dothIs forto stele an herte or tuo,Out of the cherche er that he go:And as I seide it hier above,Al is that Sacrilege of love;For wel mai be he stelth awayThat he nevere after yelde may.Tell me forthi, my Sone, anon,Hast thou do Sacrilege, or non,As I have said in this manere?

Mi fader, as of this matiereI wole you tellen redelyWhat I have do; bot trewelyI mai excuse min entente,That nevere I yit to cherche wenteIn such manere as ye me schryve,For no womman that is on lyve.The cause why I have it laftMai be for I unto that craftAm nothing able so to stele,Thogh ther be wommen noght so fele.Bot yit wol I noght seie this,Whan I am ther mi ladi is,In whom lith holly mi querele,And sche to cherche or to chapeleWol go to matins or to messe,—That time I waite wel and gesse,To cherche I come and there I stonde,And thogh I take a bok on honde,Mi contienance is on the bok,Bot toward hire is al my lok;And if so falle that I preieUnto mi god, and somwhat seieOf Paternoster or of Crede,Al is for that I wolde spede,So that mi bede in holi chercheTher mihte som miracle wercheMi ladi herte forto chaunge,Which evere hath be to me so strange.So that al mi devocionAnd al mi contemplacionWith al min herte and mi corageIs only set on hire ymage;And evere I waite upon the tyde.If sche loke eny thing asyde,That I me mai of hire avise,Anon I am with covoitiseSo smite, that me were liefTo ben in holi cherche a thief;Bot noght to stele a vestement,For that is nothing mi talent,Bot I wold stele, if that I mihte,A glad word or a goodly syhte;And evere mi service I profre,And namly whan sche wol gon offre,For thanne I lede hire, if I may,For somwhat wolde I stele away.Whan I beclippe hire on the wast,Yit ate leste I stele a tast,And otherwhile “grant mercy”Sche seith, and so winne I therbyA lusti touch, a good word eke,Bot al the remenant to sekeIs fro mi pourpos wonder ferr.So mai I seie, as I seide er,In holy cherche if that I wowe,My conscience it wolde allowe,Be so that up amendementI mihte gete assignementWher forto spede in other place:Such Sacrilege I holde a grace.And thus, mi fader, soth to seie,In cherche riht as in the weie,If I mihte oght of love take,Such hansell have I noght forsake.Bot finali I me confesse,Ther is in me non holinesse,Whil I hire se in eny stede;And yit, for oght that evere I dede,No Sacrilege of hire I tok,Bot if it were of word or lok,Or elles if that I hir fredde,Whan I toward offringe hir ledde,Take therof what I take may,For elles bere I noght away:For thogh I wolde oght elles have,Alle othre thinges ben so saveAnd kept with such a privilege,That I mai do no Sacrilege.God wot mi wille natheles,Thogh I mot nedes kepe pesAnd malgre myn so let it passe,Mi will therto is noght the lasse,If I mihte other wise aweie.Forthi, mi fader, I you preie,Tell what you thenketh therupon,If I therof have gult or non.

Thi will, mi Sone, is forto blame,The remenant is bot a game,That I have herd the telle as yit.Bot tak this lore into thi wit,That alle thing hath time and stede,The cherche serveth for the bede,The chambre is of an other speche.Bot if thou wistest of the wreche,Hou Sacrilege it hath aboght,Thou woldest betre ben bethoght;And for thou schalt the more amende,A tale I wole on the despende.

To alle men, as who seith, knoweIt is, and in the world thurgh blowe,Hou that of Troie LamedonTo Hercules and to Jasoun,Whan toward Colchos out of GreceBe See sailende upon a pieceOf lond of Troie reste preide,—Bot he hem wrathfulli congeide:And for thei founde him so vilein,Whan thei come into Grece ayein,With pouer that thei gete myhteTowardes Troie thei hem dyhte,And ther thei token such vengance,Wherof stant yit the remembrance;For thei destruide king and al,And leften bot the brente wal.The Grecs of Troiens many sloweAnd prisoners thei toke ynowe,Among the whiche ther was on,The kinges doughter Lamedon,Esiona, that faire thing,Which unto Thelamon the kingBe Hercules and be thassentOf al the hole parlementWas at his wille yove and granted.And thus hath Grece Troie danted,And hom thei torne in such manere:Bot after this nou schalt thou hiereThe cause why this tale I telle,Upon the chances that befelle.

King Lamedon, which deide thus,He hadde a Sone, on Priamus,Which was noght thilke time at hom:Bot whan he herde of this, he com,And fond hou the Cite was falle,Which he began anon to walleAnd made ther a cite newe,That thei whiche othre londes kneweTho seiden, that of lym and StonIn al the world so fair was non.And on that o side of the tounThe king let maken Ylioun,That hihe Tour, that stronge place,Which was adrad of no manaceOf quarel nor of non engin;And thogh men wolde make a Myn,No mannes craft it mihte aproche,For it was sett upon a roche.The walles of the toun aboute,Hem stod of al the world no doute,And after the proporcionSex gates weren of the tounOf such a forme, of such entaile,That hem to se was gret mervaile:The diches weren brode and depe,A fewe men it mihte kepeFrom al the world, as semeth tho,Bot if the goddes weren fo.Gret presse unto that cite drouh,So that ther was of poeple ynouh,Of Burgeis that therinne duellen;Ther mai no mannes tunge tellenHou that cite was riche of good.

Whan al was mad and al wel stod,King Priamus tho him bethoghteWhat thei of Grece whilom wroghte,And what was of her swerd devoured,And hou his Soster deshonouredWith Thelamon awey was lad:And so thenkende he wax unglad,And sette anon a parlement,To which the lordes were assent.In many a wise ther was spoke,Hou that thei mihten ben awroke,Bot ate laste nathelesThei seiden alle, “Acord and pes.”To setten either part in resteIt thoghte hem thanne for the besteWith resonable amendement;And thus was Anthenor forth sentTo axe Esionam ayeinAnd witen what thei wolden sein.So passeth he the See be bargeTo Grece forto seie his charge,The which he seide redelyUnto the lordes by and by:Bot where he spak in Grece aboute,He herde noght bot wordes stoute,And nameliche of Thelamon;The maiden wolde he noght forgon,He seide, for no maner thing,And bad him gon hom to his king,For there gat he non amendeFor oght he couthe do or sende.

This Anthenor ayein goth homUnto his king, and whan he com,He tolde in Grece of that he herde,And hou that Thelamon ansuerde,And hou thei were at here above,That thei wol nouther pes ne love,Bot every man schal don his beste.Bot for men sein that nyht hath reste,The king bethoghte him al that nyht,And erli, whan the dai was lyht,He tok conseil of this matiere;And thei acorde in this manere,That he withouten eny letteA certein time scholde setteOf Parlement to ben avised:And in the wise it was devised,Of parlement he sette a day,And that was in the Monthe of Maii.This Priamus hadde in his yhteA wif, and Hecuba sche hyhte,Be whom that time ek hadde heOf Sones fyve, and douhtres threBesiden hem, and thritty mo,And weren knyhtes alle tho,Bot noght upon his wif begete,Bot elles where he myhte hem geteOf wommen whiche he hadde knowe;Such was the world at thilke throwe:So that he was of children riche,As therof was noman his liche.

Of Parlement the dai was come,Ther ben the lordes alle and some;Tho was pronounced and pourposed,And al the cause hem was desclosed,Hou Anthenor in Grece ferde.Thei seten alle stille and herde,And tho spak every man aboute:Ther was alegged many a doute,And many a proud word spoke also;Bot for the moste part as thoThei wisten noght what was the beste,Or forto werre or forto reste.Bot he that was withoute fere,Hector, among the lordes thereHis tale tolde in such a wise,And seide, “Lordes, ye ben wise,Ye knowen this als wel as I,Above all othre most worthiStant nou in Grece the manhodeOf worthinesse and of knihthode;For who so wole it wel agrope,To hem belongeth al Europe,Which is the thridde parti eveneOf al the world under the hevene;And we be bot of folk a fewe.So were it reson forto scheweThe peril, er we falle thrinne:Betre is to leve, than beginneThing which as mai noght ben achieved;He is noght wys that fint him grieved,And doth so that his grief be more;For who that loketh al toforeAnd wol noght se what is behinde,He mai fulofte hise harmes finde:Wicke is to stryve and have the worse.We have encheson forto corse,This wot I wel, and forto hateThe Greks; bot er that we debateWith hem that ben of such a myht,It is ful good that every wihtBe of himself riht wel bethoght.Bot as for me this seie I noght;For while that mi lif wol stonde,If that ye taken werre on honde,Falle it to beste or to the werste,I schal miselven be the fersteTo grieven hem, what evere I may.I wol noght ones seie nayTo thing which that youre conseil demeth,For unto me wel more it quemethThe werre certes than the pes;Bot this I seie natheles,As me belongeth forto seie.Nou schape ye the beste weie.”

Whan Hector hath seid his avis,Next after him tho spak Paris,Which was his brother, and alleideWhat him best thoghte, and thus he seide:“Strong thing it is to soffre wrong,And suffre schame is more strong,Bot we have suffred bothe tuo;And for al that yit have we doWhat so we mihte to reformeThe pes, whan we in such a formeSente Anthenor, as ye wel knowe.And thei here grete wordes bloweUpon her wrongful dedes eke;And who that wole himself noght mekeTo pes, and list no reson take,Men sein reson him wol forsake:For in the multitude of menIs noght the strengthe, for with tenIt hath be sen in trew quereleAyein an hundred false dele,And had the betre of goddes grace.This hath befalle in many place;And if it like unto you alle,I wolde assaie, hou so it falle,Oure enemis if I mai grieve;For I have cawht a gret believeUpon a point I wol declare.

This ender day, as I gan fareTo hunte unto the grete hert,Which was tofore myn houndes stert,And every man went on his sydeHim to poursuie, and I to rydeBegan the chace, and soth to seie,Withinne a while out of mi weieI rod, and nyste where I was.And slep me cauhte, and on the grasBeside a welle I lay me dounTo slepe, and in a visiounTo me the god Mercurie cam;Goddesses thre with him he nam,Minerve, Venus and Juno,And in his hond an Appel thoHe hield of gold with lettres write:And this he dede me to wite,Hou that thei putt hem upon me,That to the faireste of hem threOf gold that Appel scholde I yive.With ech of hem tho was I schrive,And echon faire me behihte;Bot Venus seide, if that sche mihteThat Appel of mi yifte gete,Sche wolde it neveremor foryete,And seide hou that in Grece londSche wolde bringe unto myn hondOf al this Erthe the faireste;So that me thoghte it for the beste,To hire and yaf that Appel tho.Thus hope I wel, if that I go,That sche for me wol so ordeine,That thei matiere forto pleigneSchul have, er that I come ayein.Nou have ye herd that I wol sein:Sey ye what stant in youre avis.”And every man tho seide his,And sundri causes thei recorde,Bot ate laste thei acordeThat Paris schal to Grece wende,And thus the parlement tok ende.

Cassandra, whan sche herde of this,The which to Paris Soster is,Anon sche gan to wepe and weile,And seide, “Allas, what mai ous eile?Fortune with hire blinde whielNe wol noght lete ous stonde wel:For this I dar wel undertake,That if Paris his weie take,As it is seid that he schal do,We ben for evere thanne undo.”This, which Cassandre thanne hihte,In al the world as it berth sihte,In bokes as men finde write,Is that Sibille of whom ye wite,That alle men yit clepen sage.Whan that sche wiste of this viage,Hou Paris schal to Grece fare,No womman mihte worse fareNe sorwe more than sche dede;And riht so in the same stedeFerde Helenus, which was hir brother,Of prophecie and such an other:And al was holde bot a jape,So that the pourpos which was schape,Or were hem lief or were hem loth,Was holde, and into Grece gothThis Paris with his retenance.And as it fell upon his chance,Of Grece he londeth in an yle,And him was told the same whyleOf folk which he began to freyne,Tho was in thyle queene Heleyne,And ek of contres there abouteOf ladis many a lusti route,With mochel worthi poeple also.And why thei comen theder tho,The cause stod in such a wise,—For worschipe and for sacrifiseThat thei to Venus wolden make,As thei tofore hadde undertake,Some of good will, some of beheste,For thanne was hire hihe festeWithinne a temple which was there.

Whan Paris wiste what thei were,Anon he schop his ordinanceTo gon and don his obeissanceTo Venus on hire holi day,And dede upon his beste aray.With gret richesse he him behongeth,As it to such a lord belongeth,He was noght armed natheles,Bot as it were in lond of pes,And thus he goth forth out of SchipeAnd takth with him his felaschipe:In such manere as I you seieUnto the temple he hield his weie.

Tydinge, which goth overalTo grete and smale, forth withalCom to the queenes Ere and toldeHou Paris com, and that he woldeDo sacrifise to Venus:And whan sche herde telle thus,Sche thoghte, hou that it evere be,That sche wole him abyde and se.

Forth comth Paris with glad visageInto the temple on pelrinage,Wher unto Venus the goddesseHe yifth and offreth gret richesse,And preith hir that he preie wolde.And thanne aside he gan beholde,And sih wher that this ladi stod;And he forth in his freisshe modGoth ther sche was and made her chiere,As he wel couthe in his manere,That of his wordes such plesanceSche tok, that al hire aqueintance,Als ferforth as the herte lay,He stal er that he wente away.So goth he forth and tok his leve,And thoghte, anon as it was eve,He wolde don his Sacrilegge,That many a man it scholde abegge.

Whan he to Schipe ayein was come,To him he hath his conseil nome,And al devised the matiereIn such a wise as thou schalt hiere.Withinne nyht al privelyHis men he warneth by and by,That thei be redy armed soneFor certein thing which was to done:And thei anon ben redi alle,And ech on other gan to calle,And went hem out upon the strondeAnd tok a pourpos ther alondeOf what thing that thei wolden do,Toward the temple and forth thei go.So fell it, of devocionHeleine in contemplacionWith many an other worthi wihtWas in the temple and wok al nyht,To bidde and preie unto thymageOf Venus, as was thanne usage;So that Paris riht as him listeInto the temple, er thei it wiste,Com with his men al sodeinly,And alle at ones sette ascryIn hem whiche in the temple were,For tho was mochel poeple there;Bot of defense was no bote,So soffren thei that soffre mote.

Paris unto the queene wente,And hire in bothe hise armes henteWith him and with his felaschipe,And forth thei bere hire unto Schipe.Up goth the Seil and forth thei wente,And such a wynd fortune hem sente,Til thei the havene of Troie cauhte;Where out of Schipe anon thei strauhteAnd gon hem forth toward the toun,The which cam with processiounAyein Paris to sen his preie.And every man began to seieTo Paris and his felaschipeAl that thei couthen of worschipe;Was non so litel man in Troie,That he ne made merthe and joieOf that Paris hath wonne Heleine.Bot al that merthe is sorwe and peineTo Helenus and to Cassaundre;For thei it token schame and sklaundreAnd lost of al the comun grace,That Paris out of holi placeBe Stelthe hath take a mannes wif,Wherof that he schal lese his lifAnd many a worthi man therto,And al the Cite be fordo,Which nevere schal be mad ayein.And so it fell, riht as thei sein,The Sacrilege which he wroghteWas cause why the Gregois soughteUnto the toun and it beleie,And wolden nevere parte aweie,Til what be sleihte and what be strengtheThei hadde it wonne in brede and lengthe,And brent and slayn that was withinne.Now se, mi Sone, which a sinneIs Sacrilege in holy stede:Be war therfore and bidd thi bede,And do nothing in holy cherche,Bot that thou miht be reson werche.

And ek tak hiede of Achilles,Whan he unto his love chesPolixena, that was alsoIn holi temple of Appollo,Which was the cause why he dydeAnd al his lust was leyd asyde.

And Troilus upon CriseideAlso his ferste love leideIn holi place, and hou it ferde,As who seith, al the world it herde;Forsake he was for Diomede,Such was of love his laste mede.

Forthi, mi Sone, I wolde rede,Be this ensample as thou myht rede,Sech elles, wher thou wolt, thi grace,And war the wel in holi placeWhat thou to love do or speke,In aunter if it so be wrekeAs thou hast herd me told before.And tak good hiede also therforeUpon what forme, of AvariceMor than of eny other vice,I have divided in partiesThe branches, whiche of compainiesThurghout the world in generalBen nou the leders overal,Of Covoitise and of Perjure,Of fals brocage and of Usure,Of Skarsnesse and Unkindeschipe,Which nevere drouh to felaschipe,Of Robberie and privi Stelthe,Which don is for the worldes welthe,Of Ravine and of Sacrilegge,Which makth the conscience agregge;Althogh it mai richesse atteigne,It floureth, bot it schal noght greineUnto the fruit of rihtwisnesse.Bot who that wolde do largesseUpon the reule as it is yive,So myhte a man in trouthe liveToward his god, and ek alsoToward the world, for bothe tuoLargesse awaiteth as belongeth,To neither part that he ne wrongeth;He kepth himself, he kepth his frendes,So stant he sauf to bothe hise endes,That he excedeth no mesure,So wel he can himself mesure:Wherof, mi Sone, thou schalt wite,So as the Philosophre hath write.

Betwen the tuo extremitesOf vice stant the propretesOf vertu, and to prove it soTak Avarice and tak alsoThe vice of Prodegalite;Betwen hem Liberalite,Which is the vertu of Largesse,Stant and governeth his noblesse.For tho tuo vices in discordStonde evere, as I finde of record;So that betwen here tuo debatLargesse reuleth his astat.For in such wise as Avarice,As I tofore have told the vice,Thurgh streit holdinge and thurgh skarsnesseStant in contraire to Largesse,Riht so stant ProdegaliteRevers, bot noght in such degre.For so as Avarice spareth,And forto kepe his tresor careth,That other al his oghne and moreAyein the wise mannes loreYifth and despendeth hiere and there,So that him reccheth nevere where.While he mai borwe, he wol despende,Til ate laste he seith, “I wende”;Bot that is spoken al to late,For thanne is poverte ate gateAnd takth him evene be the slieve,For erst wol he no wisdom lieve.And riht as Avarice is Sinne,That wolde his tresor kepe and winne,Riht so is Prodegalite:Bot of Largesse in his degre,Which evene stant betwen the tuo,The hihe god and man alsoThe vertu ech of hem commendeth.For he himselven ferst amendeth,That overal his name spredeth,And to alle othre, where it nedeth,He yifth his good in such a wise,That he makth many a man arise,Which elles scholde falle lowe.Largesce mai noght ben unknowe;For what lond that he regneth inne,It mai noght faile forto winneThurgh his decerte love and grace,Wher it schal faile in other place.

And thus betwen tomoche and lyteLargesce, which is noght to wyte,Halt evere forth the middel weie:Bot who that torne wole aweieFro that to Prodegalite,Anon he lest the propreteOf vertu and goth to the vice;For in such wise as AvariceLest for scarsnesse his goode name,Riht so that other is to blame,Which thurgh his wast mesure excedeth,For noman wot what harm that bredeth.

Bot mochel joie ther betydeth,Wher that largesse an herte guydeth:For his mesure is so governed,That he to bothe partz is lerned,To god and to the world also,He doth reson to bothe tuo.The povere folk of his almesseRelieved ben in the destresseOf thurst, of hunger and of cold;The yifte of him was nevere sold,Bot frely yive, and nathelesThe myhti god of his encressRewardeth him of double grace;The hevene he doth him to pourchaceAnd yifth him ek the worldes good:And thus the Cote for the hodLargesse takth, and yit no SinneHe doth, hou so that evere he winne.

What man hath hors men yive him hors,And who non hath of him no fors,For he mai thanne on fote go;The world hath evere stonde so.Bot forto loken of the tweie,A man to go the siker weie,Betre is to yive than to take:With yifte a man mai frendes make,Bot who that takth or gret or smal,He takth a charge forth withal,And stant noght fre til it be quit.So forto deme in mannes wit,It helpeth more a man to haveHis oghne good, than forto craveOf othre men and make him bounde,Wher elles he mai stonde unbounde.

Senec conseileth in this wise,And seith, “Bot, if thi good suffiseUnto the liking of thi wille,Withdrawh thi lust and hold the stille,And be to thi good sufficant.”For that thing is appourtenantTo trouthe and causeth to be freAfter the reule of charite,Which ferst beginneth of himselve.For if thou richest othre tuelve,Wherof thou schalt thiself be povere,I not what thonk thou miht recovere.

Whil that a man hath good to yive,With grete routes he mai liveAnd hath his frendes overal,And everich of him telle schal.Therwhile he hath his fulle packe,Thei seie, “A good felawe is Jacke”;Bot whanne it faileth ate laste,Anon his pris thei overcaste,For thanne is ther non other laweBot, “Jacke was a good felawe.”Whan thei him povere and nedy se,Thei lete him passe and farwel he;Al that he wende of compainieIs thanne torned to folie.

Bot nou to speke in other kindeOf love, a man mai suche finde,That wher thei come in every routeThei caste and waste her love aboute,Til al here time is overgon,And thanne have thei love non:For who that loveth overal,It is no reson that he schalOf love have eny proprete.Forthi, mi Sone, avise theeIf thou of love hast be to large,For such a man is noght to charge:And if it so be that thou hastDespended al thi time in wastAnd set thi love in sondri place,Though thou the substance of thi graceLese ate laste, it is no wonder;For he that put himselven under,As who seith, comun overal,He lest the love specialOf eny on, if sche be wys;For love schal noght bere his prisBe reson, whanne it passeth on.So have I sen ful many on,That were of love wel at ese,Whiche after felle in gret deseseThurgh wast of love, that thei spenteIn sondri places wher thei wente.

Riht so, mi Sone, I axe of theeIf thou with ProdegaliteHast hier and ther thi love wasted.

Mi fader, nay; bot I have tastedIn many a place as I have go,And yit love I nevere on of tho,Bot forto drive forth the dai.For lieveth wel, myn herte is ayWithoute mo for everemoreAl upon on, for I nomoreDesire bot hire love al one:So make I many a prive mone,For wel I fiele I have despendedMi longe love and noght amendedMi sped, for oght I finde yit.If this be wast to youre witOf love, and Prodegalite,Nou, goode fader, demeth ye:Bot of o thing I wol me schryve,That I schal for no love thryve,Bot if hirself me wol relieve.

Mi Sone, that I mai wel lieve:And natheles me semeth so,For oght that thou hast yit misdoOf time which thou hast despended,It mai with grace ben amended.For thing which mai be worth the costPer chaunce is nouther wast ne lost;For what thing stant on aventure,That can no worldes creatureTelle in certein hou it schal wende,Til he therof mai sen an ende.So that I not as yit therforeIf thou, mi Sone, hast wonne or lore:For ofte time, as it is sene,Whan Somer hath lost al his greneAnd is with Wynter wast and bare,That him is left nothing to spare,Al is recovered in a throwe;The colde wyndes overblowe,And still be the scharpe schoures,And soudeinliche ayein his flouresThe Somer hapneth and is riche:And so per cas thi graces liche,Mi Sone, thogh thou be nou povereOf love, yit thou miht recovere.

Mi fader, certes grant merci:Ye have me tawht so redeli,That evere whil I live schalThe betre I mai be war withalOf thing which ye have seid er this.Bot overmore hou that it is,Toward mi schrifte as it belongeth,To wite of othre pointz me longeth;Wherof that ye me wolden techeWith al myn herte I you beseche.