Of hem that writen ous tofore

The bokes duelle, and we therfore

Ben tawht of that was write tho:

Forthi good is that we also

In oure tyme among ous hiere

Do wryte of newe som matiere,

Essampled of these olde wyse

So that it myhte in such a wyse,

Whan we ben dede and elleswhere,

Beleve to the worldes eere

In tyme comende after this.

Bot for men sein, and soth it is,

That who that al of wisdom writ

It dulleth ofte a mannes wit

To him that schal it aldai rede,

For thilke cause, if that ye rede,

I wolde go the middel weie

And wryte a bok betwen the tweie,

Somwhat of lust, somewhat of lore,

That of the lasse or of the more

Som man mai lyke of that I wryte:

And for that fewe men endite

In oure englissh, I thenke make

A bok for Engelondes sake,

The yer sextenthe of kyng Richard.

What schal befalle hierafterward

God wot, for now upon this tyde

Men se the world on every syde

In sondry wyse so diversed,

That it welnyh stant al reversed,

As forto speke of tyme ago.

The cause whi it changeth so

It needeth nought to specifie,

The thing so open is at yµe

That every man it mai beholde:

And natheles be daies olde,

Whan that the bokes weren levere,

Wrytinge was beloved evere

Of hem that weren vertuous;

For hier in erthe amonges ous,

If noman write hou that it stode,

The pris of hem that weren goode

Scholde, as who seith, a gret partie

Be lost: so for to magnifie

The worthi princes that tho were,

The bokes schewen hiere and there,

Wherof the world ensampled is;

And tho that deden thanne amis

Thurgh tirannie and crualte,

Right as thei stoden in degre,

So was the wrytinge of here werk.

Thus I, which am a burel clerk,

Purpose forto wryte a bok

After the world that whilom tok

Long tyme in olde daies passed:

Bot for men sein it is now lassed,

In worse plit than it was tho,

I thenke forto touche also

The world which neweth every dai,

So as I can, so as I mai.

Thogh I seknesse have upon honde

And longe have had, yit woll I fonde

To wryte and do my bisinesse,

That in som part, so as I gesse,

The wyse man mai ben avised.

For this prologe is so assised

That it to wisdom al belongeth:

What wysman that it underfongeth,

He schal drawe into remembrance

The fortune of this worldes chance,

The which noman in his persone

Mai knowe, bot the god al one.

Whan the prologe is so despended,

This bok schal afterward ben ended

Of love, which doth many a wonder

And many a wys man hath put under.

And in this wyse I thenke trete

Towardes hem that now be grete,

Betwen the vertu and the vice

Which longeth unto this office.

Bot for my wittes ben to smale

To tellen every man his tale,

This bok, upon amendment

To stonde at his commandement,

With whom myn herte is of accord,

I sende unto myn oghne lord,

Which of Lancastre is Henri named:

The hyhe god him hath proclamed

Ful of knyhthode and alle grace.

So woll I now this werk embrace

With hol trust and with hol believe;

God grante I mot it wel achieve.

If I schal drawe in to my mynde

The tyme passed, thanne I fynde

The world stod thanne in al his welthe:

Tho was the lif of man in helthe,

Tho was plente, tho was richesse,

Tho was the fortune of prouesse,

Tho was knyhthode in pris be name,

Wherof the wyde worldes fame

Write in Cronique is yit withholde;

Justice of lawe tho was holde,

The privilege of regalie

Was sauf, and al the baronie

Worschiped was in his astat;

The citees knewen no debat,

The poeple stod in obeissance

Under the reule of governance,

And pes, which ryhtwisnesse keste,

With charite tho stod in reste:

Of mannes herte the corage

Was schewed thanne in the visage;

The word was lich to the conceite

Withoute semblant of deceite:

Tho was ther unenvied love,

Tho was the vertu sett above

And vice was put under fote.

Now stant the crop under the rote,

The world is changed overal,

And therof most in special

That love is falle into discord.

And that I take to record

Of every lond for his partie

The comun vois, which mai noght lie;

Noght upon on, bot upon alle

It is that men now clepe and calle,

And sein the regnes ben divided,

In stede of love is hate guided,

The werre wol no pes purchace,

And lawe hath take hire double face,

So that justice out of the weie

With ryhtwisnesse is gon aweie:

And thus to loke on every halve,

Men sen the sor withoute salve,

Which al the world hath overtake.

Ther is no regne of alle outtake,

For every climat hath his diel

After the tornynge of the whiel,

Which blinde fortune overthroweth;

Wherof the certain noman knoweth:

The hevene wot what is to done,

Bot we that duelle under the mone

Stonde in this world upon a weer,

And namely bot the pouer

Of hem that ben the worldes guides

With good consail on alle sides

Be kept upriht in such a wyse,

That hate breke noght thassise

Of love, which is al the chief

To kepe a regne out of meschief.

For alle resoun wolde this,

That unto him which the heved is

The membres buxom scholden bowe,

And he scholde ek her trowthe allowe,

With al his herte and make hem chiere,

For good consail is good to hiere.

Althogh a man be wys himselve,

Yit is the wisdom more of tuelve;

And if thei stoden bothe in on,

To hope it were thanne anon

That god his grace wolde sende

To make of thilke werre an ende,

Which every day now groweth newe:

And that is gretly forto rewe

In special for Cristes sake,

Which wolde his oghne lif forsake

Among the men to yeve pes.

But now men tellen natheles

That love is fro the world departed,

So stant the pes unevene parted

With hem that liven now adaies.

Bot forto loke at alle assaies,

To him that wolde resoun seche

After the comun worldes speche

It is to wondre of thilke werre,

In which non wot who hath the werre;

For every lond himself deceyveth

And of desese his part receyveth,

And yet ne take men no kepe.

Bot thilke lord which al may kepe,

To whom no consail may ben hid,

Upon the world which is betid,

Amende that wherof men pleigne

With trewe hertes and with pleine,

And reconcile love ayeyn,

As he which is king sovereign

Of al the worldes governaunce,

And of his hyhe porveaunce

Afferme pes betwen the londes

And take her cause into hise hondes,

So that the world may stonde apppesed

And his godhede also be plesed.

To thenke upon the daies olde,

The lif of clerkes to beholde,

Men sein how that thei weren tho

Ensample and reule of alle tho

Whiche of wisdom the vertu soughten.

Unto the god ferst thei besoughten

As to the substaunce of her Scole,

That thei ne scholden noght befole

Her wit upon none erthly werkes,

Which were ayein thestat of clerkes,

And that thei myhten fle the vice

Which Simon hath in his office,

Wherof he takth the gold in honde.

For thilke tyme I understonde

The Lumbard made non eschange

The bisschopriches forto change,

Ne yet a lettre for to sende

For dignite ne for Provende,

Or cured or withoute cure.

The cherche keye in aventure

Of armes and of brygantaille

Stod nothing thanne upon bataille;

To fyhte or for to make cheste

It thoghte hem thanne noght honeste;

Bot of simplesce and pacience

Thei maden thanne no defence:

The Court of worldly regalie

To hem was thanne no baillie;

The vein honour was noght desired,

Which hath the proude herte fyred;

Humilite was tho withholde,

And Pride was a vice holde.

Of holy cherche the largesse

Yaf thanne and dede gret almesse

To povere men that hadden nede:

Thei were ek chaste in word and dede,

Wherof the poeple ensample tok;

Her lust was al upon the bok,

Or forto preche or forto preie,

To wisse men the ryhte weie

Of suche as stode of trowthe unliered.

Lo, thus was Petres barge stiered

Of hem that thilke tyme were,

And thus cam ferst to mannes Ere

The feith of Crist and alle goode

Thurgh hem that thanne weren goode

And sobre and chaste and large and wyse.

Bot now men sein is otherwise,

Simon the cause hath undertake,

The worldes swerd on honde is take;

And that is wonder natheles,

Whan Crist him self hath bode pes

And set it in his testament,

How now that holy cherche is went,

Of that here lawe positif

Hath set to make werre and strif

For worldes good, which may noght laste.

God wot the cause to the laste

Of every right and wrong also;

But whil the lawe is reuled so

That clerkes to the werre entende,

I not how that thei scholde amende

The woful world in othre thinges,

To make pes betwen the kynges

After the lawe of charite,

Which is the propre duete

Belongende unto the presthode.

Bot as it thenkth to the manhode,

The hevene is ferr, the world is nyh,

And veine gloire is ek so slyh,

Which coveitise hath now withholde,

That thei non other thing beholde,

Bot only that thei myhten winne.

And thus the werres thei beginne,

Wherof the holi cherche is taxed,

That in the point as it is axed

The disme goth to the bataille,

As thogh Crist myhte noght availe

To don hem riht be other weie.

In to the swerd the cherche keie

Is torned, and the holy bede

Into cursinge, and every stede

Which scholde stonde upon the feith

And to this cause an Ere leyth,

Astoned is of the querele.

That scholde be the worldes hele

Is now, men sein, the pestilence

Which hath exiled pacience

Fro the clergie in special:

And that is schewed overal,

In eny thing whan thei ben grieved.

Bot if Gregoire be believed,

As it is in the bokes write,

He doth ous somdel forto wite

The cause of thilke prelacie,

Wher god is noght of compaignie:

For every werk as it is founded

Schal stonde or elles be confounded;

Who that only for Cristes sake

Desireth cure forto take,

And noght for pride of thilke astat,

To bere a name of a prelat,

He schal be resoun do profit

In holy cherche upon the plit

That he hath set his conscience;

Bot in the worldes reverence

Ther ben of suche manie glade,

Whan thei to thilke astat ben made,

Noght for the merite of the charge,

Bot for thei wolde hemself descharge

Of poverte and become grete;

And thus for Pompe and for beyete

The Scribe and ek the Pharisee

Of Moiµses upon the See

In the chaiere on hyh ben set;

Wherof the feith is ofte let,

Which is betaken hem to kepe.

In Cristes cause alday thei slepe,

Bot of the world is noght foryete;

For wel is him that now may gete

Office in Court to ben honoured.

The stronge coffre hath al devoured

Under the keye of avarice

The tresor of the benefice,

Wherof the povere schulden clothe

And ete and drinke and house bothe;

The charite goth al unknowe,

For thei no grein of Pite sowe:

And slouthe kepeth the libraire

Which longeth to the Saintuaire;

To studie upon the worldes lore

Sufficeth now withoute more;

Delicacie his swete toth

Hath fostred so that it fordoth

Of abstinence al that ther is.

And forto loken over this,

If Ethna brenne in the clergie,

Al openly to mannes yµe

At Avynoun thexperience

Therof hath yove an evidence,

Of that men sen hem so divided.

And yit the cause is noght decided;

Bot it is seid and evere schal,

Betwen tuo Stoles lyth the fal,

Whan that men wenen best to sitte:

In holy cherche of such a slitte

Is for to rewe un to ous alle;

God grante it mote wel befalle

Towardes him which hath the trowthe.

Bot ofte is sen that mochel slowthe,

Whan men ben drunken of the cuppe,

Doth mochel harm, whan fyr is uppe,

Bot if somwho the flamme stanche;

And so to speke upon this branche,

Which proud Envie hath mad to springe,

Of Scisme, causeth forto bringe

This newe Secte of Lollardie,

And also many an heresie

Among the clerkes in hemselve.

It were betre dike and delve

And stonde upon the ryhte feith,

Than knowe al that the bible seith

And erre as somme clerkes do.

Upon the hond to were a Schoo

And sette upon the fot a Glove

Acordeth noght to the behove

Of resonable mannes us:

If men behielden the vertus

That Crist in Erthe taghte here,

Thei scholden noght in such manere,

Among hem that ben holden wise,

The Papacie so desguise

Upon diverse eleccioun,

Which stant after thaffeccioun

Of sondry londes al aboute:

Bot whan god wole, it schal were oute,

For trowthe mot stonde ate laste.

Bot yet thei argumenten faste

Upon the Pope and his astat,

Wherof thei falle in gret debat;

This clerk seith yee, that other nay,

And thus thei dryve forth the day,

And ech of hem himself amendeth

Of worldes good, bot non entendeth

To that which comun profit were.

Thei sein that god is myhti there,

And schal ordeine what he wile,

Ther make thei non other skile

Where is the peril of the feith,

Bot every clerk his herte leith

To kepe his world in special,

And of the cause general,

Which unto holy cherche longeth,

Is non of hem that underfongeth

To schapen eny resistence:

And thus the riht hath no defence,

Bot ther I love, ther I holde.

Lo, thus tobroke is Cristes folde,

Wherof the flock withoute guide

Devoured is on every side,

In lacke of hem that ben unware

Schepherdes, whiche her wit beware

Upon the world in other halve.

The scharpe pricke in stede of salve

Thei usen now, wherof the hele

Thei hurte of that thei scholden hele;

And what Schep that is full of wulle

Upon his back, thei toose and pulle,

Whil ther is eny thing to pile:

And thogh ther be non other skile

Bot only for thei wolden wynne,

Thei leve noght, whan thei begynne,

Upon her acte to procede,

Which is no good schepherdes dede.

And upon this also men sein,

That fro the leese which is plein

Into the breres thei forcacche

Her Orf, for that thei wolden lacche

With such duresce, and so bereve

That schal upon the thornes leve

Of wulle, which the brere hath tore;

Wherof the Schep ben al totore

Of that the hierdes make hem lese.

Lo, how thei feignen chalk for chese,

For though thei speke and teche wel,

Thei don hemself therof no del:

For if the wolf come in the weie,

Her gostly Staf is thanne aweie,

Wherof thei scholde her flock defende;

Bot if the povere Schep offende

In eny thing, thogh it be lyte,

They ben al redy forto smyte;

And thus, how evere that thei tale,

The strokes falle upon the smale,

And upon othre that ben grete

Hem lacketh herte forto bete.

So that under the clerkes lawe

Men sen the Merel al mysdrawe,

I wol noght seie in general,

For ther ben somme in special

In whom that alle vertu duelleth,

And tho ben, as thapostel telleth,

That god of his eleccioun

Hath cleped to perfeccioun

In the manere as Aaron was:

Thei ben nothing in thilke cas

Of Simon, which the foldes gate

Hath lete, and goth in othergate,

Bot thei gon in the rihte weie.

Ther ben also somme, as men seie,

That folwen Simon ate hieles,

Whos carte goth upon the whieles

Of coveitise and worldes Pride,

And holy cherche goth beside,

Which scheweth outward a visage

Of that is noght in the corage.

For if men loke in holy cherche,

Betwen the word and that thei werche

Ther is a full gret difference:

Thei prechen ous in audience

That noman schal his soule empeire,

For al is bot a chirie feire

This worldes good, so as thei telle;

Also thei sein ther is an helle,

Which unto mannes sinne is due,

And bidden ous therfore eschue

That wikkid is, and do the goode.

Who that here wordes understode,

It thenkth thei wolden do the same;

Bot yet betwen ernest and game

Ful ofte it torneth other wise.

With holy tales thei devise

How meritoire is thilke dede

Of charite, to clothe and fede

The povere folk and forto parte

The worldes good, bot thei departe

Ne thenken noght fro that thei have.

Also thei sein, good is to save

With penance and with abstinence

Of chastite the continence;

Bot pleinly forto speke of that,

I not how thilke body fat,

Which thei with deynte metes kepe

And leyn it softe forto slepe,

Whan it hath elles al his wille,

With chastite schal stonde stille:

And natheles I can noght seie,

In aunter if that I misseye.

Touchende of this, how evere it stonde,

I here and wol noght understonde,

For therof have I noght to done:

Bot he that made ferst the Mone,

The hyhe god, of his goodnesse,

If ther be cause, he it redresce.

Bot what as eny man accuse,

This mai reson of trowthe excuse;

The vice of hem that ben ungoode

Is no reproef unto the goode:

For every man hise oghne werkes

Schal bere, and thus as of the clerkes

The goode men ben to comende,

And alle these othre god amende:

For thei ben to the worldes yµe

The Mirour of ensamplerie,

To reulen and to taken hiede

Betwen the men and the godhiede.

Now forto speke of the comune,

It is to drede of that fortune

Which hath befalle in sondri londes:

Bot often for defalte of bondes

Al sodeinliche, er it be wist,

A Tonne, whanne his lye arist,

Tobrekth and renneth al aboute,

Which elles scholde noght gon oute;

And ek fulofte a litel Skar

Upon a Banke, er men be war,

Let in the Strem, which with gret peine,

If evere man it schal restreigne.

Wher lawe lacketh, errour groweth,

He is noght wys who that ne troweth,

For it hath proeved ofte er this;

And thus the comun clamour is

In every lond wher poeple dwelleth,

And eche in his compleignte telleth

How that the world is al miswent,

And ther upon his jugement

Yifth every man in sondry wise.

Bot what man wolde himself avise,

His conscience and noght misuse,

He may wel ate ferste excuse

His god, which evere stant in on:

In him ther is defalte non,

So moste it stonde upon ousselve

Nought only upon ten ne twelve,

Bot plenerliche upon ous alle,

For man is cause of that schal falle.

And natheles yet som men wryte

And sein that fortune is to wyte,

And som men holde oppinion

That it is constellacion,

Which causeth al that a man doth:

God wot of bothe which is soth.

The world as of his propre kynde

Was evere untrewe, and as the blynde

Improprelich he demeth fame,

He blameth that is noght to blame

And preiseth that is noght to preise:

Thus whan he schal the thinges peise,

Ther is deceipte in his balance,

And al is that the variance

Of ous, that scholde ous betre avise;

For after that we falle and rise,

The world arist and falth withal,

So that the man is overal

His oghne cause of wel and wo.

That we fortune clepe so

Out of the man himself it groweth;

And who that other wise troweth,

Behold the poeple of Irael:

For evere whil thei deden wel,

Fortune was hem debonaire,

And whan thei deden the contraire,

Fortune was contrariende.

So that it proeveth wel at ende

Why that the world is wonderfull

And may no while stonde full,

Though that it seme wel besein;

For every worldes thing is vein,

And evere goth the whiel aboute,

And evere stant a man in doute,

Fortune stant no while stille,

So hath ther noman al his wille.

Als fer as evere a man may knowe,

Ther lasteth nothing bot a throwe;

The world stant evere upon debat,

So may be seker non astat,

Now hier now ther, now to now fro,

Now up now down, this world goth so,

And evere hath don and evere schal:

Wherof I finde in special

A tale writen in the Bible,

Which moste nedes be credible;

And that as in conclusioun

Seith that upon divisioun

Stant, why no worldes thing mai laste,

Til it be drive to the laste.

And fro the ferste regne of alle

Into this day, hou so befalle,

Of that the regnes be muable

The man himself hath be coupable,

Which of his propre governance

Fortuneth al the worldes chance.

The hyhe almyhti pourveance,

In whos eterne remembrance

Fro ferst was every thing present,

He hath his prophecie sent,

In such a wise as thou schalt hiere,

To Daniel of this matiere,

Hou that this world schal torne and wende,

Till it be falle to his ende;

Wherof the tale telle I schal,

In which it is betokned al.

As Nabugodonosor slepte,

A swevene him tok, the which he kepte

Til on the morwe he was arise,

For he therof was sore agrise.

To Daniel his drem he tolde,

And preide him faire that he wolde

Arede what it tokne may;

And seide: "Abedde wher I lay,

Me thoghte I syh upon a Stage

Wher stod a wonder strange ymage.

His hed with al the necke also

Thei were of fin gold bothe tuo;

His brest, his schuldres and his armes

Were al of selver, bot the tharmes,

The wombe and al doun to the kne,

Of bras thei were upon to se;

The legges were al mad of Stiel,

So were his feet also somdiel,

And somdiel part to hem was take

Of Erthe which men Pottes make;

The fieble meynd was with the stronge,

So myhte it wel noght stonde longe.

And tho me thoghte that I sih

A gret ston from an hull on hyh

Fel doun of sodein aventure

Upon the feet of this figure,

With which Ston al tobroke was

Gold, Selver, Erthe, Stiel and Bras,

That al was in to pouldre broght,

And so forth torned into noght."

This was the swevene which he hadde,

That Daniel anon aradde,

And seide him that figure strange

Betokneth how the world schal change

And waxe lasse worth and lasse,

Til it to noght al overpasse.

The necke and hed, that weren golde,

He seide how that betokne scholde

A worthi world, a noble, a riche,

To which non after schal be liche.

Of Selver that was overforth

Schal ben a world of lasse worth;

And after that the wombe of Bras

Tokne of a werse world it was.

The Stiel which he syh afterward

A world betokneth more hard:

Bot yet the werste of everydel

Is last, whan that of Erthe and Stiel

He syh the feet departed so,

For that betokneth mochel wo.

Whan that the world divided is,

It moste algate fare amis,

For Erthe which is meynd with Stiel

Togedre may noght laste wiel,

Bot if that on that other waste;

So mot it nedes faile in haste.

The Ston, which fro the hully Stage

He syh doun falle on that ymage,

And hath it into pouldre broke,

That swevene hath Daniel unloke,

And seide how that is goddes myht,

Which whan men wene most upryht

To stonde, schal hem overcaste.

And that is of this world the laste,

And thanne a newe schal beginne,

Fro which a man schal nevere twinne;

Or al to peine or al to pes

That world schal lasten endeles.

Lo thus expondeth Daniel

The kynges swevene faire and wel

In Babiloyne the Cite,

Wher that the wiseste of Caldee

Ne cowthen wite what it mente;

Bot he tolde al the hol entente,

As in partie it is befalle.

Of gold the ferste regne of alle

Was in that kinges time tho,

And laste manye daies so,

Therwhiles that the Monarchie

Of al the world in that partie

To Babiloyne was soubgit;

And hield him stille in such a plit,

Til that the world began diverse:

And that was whan the king of Perse,

Which Cirus hyhte, ayein the pes

Forth with his Sone Cambises

Of Babiloine al that Empire,

Ryht as thei wolde hemself desire,

Put under in subjeccioun

And tok it in possessioun,

And slayn was Baltazar the king,

Which loste his regne and al his thing.

And thus whan thei it hadde wonne,

The world of Selver was begonne

And that of gold was passed oute:

And in this wise it goth aboute

In to the Regne of Darius;

And thanne it fell to Perse thus,

That Alisaundre put hem under,

Which wroghte of armes many a wonder,

So that the Monarchie lefte

With Grecs, and here astat uplefte,

And Persiens gon under fote,

So soffre thei that nedes mote.

And tho the world began of Bras,

And that of selver ended was;

Bot for the time thus it laste,

Til it befell that ate laste

This king, whan that his day was come,

With strengthe of deth was overcome.

And natheles yet er he dyde,

He schop his Regnes to divide

To knyhtes whiche him hadde served,

And after that thei have deserved

Yaf the conquestes that he wan;

Wherof gret werre tho began

Among hem that the Regnes hadde,

Thurgh proud Envie which hem ladde,

Til it befell ayein hem thus:

The noble Cesar Julius,

Which tho was king of Rome lond,

With gret bataille and with strong hond

Al Grece, Perse and ek Caldee

Wan and put under, so that he

Noght al only of thorient

Bot al the Marche of thoccident

Governeth under his empire,

As he that was hol lord and Sire,

And hield thurgh his chivalerie

Of al this world the Monarchie,

And was the ferste of that honour

Which tok the name of Emperour.

Wher Rome thanne wolde assaille,

Ther myhte nothing contrevaille,

Bot every contre moste obeie:

Tho goth the Regne of Bras aweie,

And comen is the world of Stiel,

And stod above upon the whiel.

As Stiel is hardest in his kynde

Above alle othre that men finde

Of Metals, such was Rome tho

The myhtieste, and laste so

Long time amonges the Romeins

Til thei become so vileins,

That the fals Emperour Leo

With Constantin his Sone also

The patrimoine and the richesse,

Which to Silvestre in pure almesse

The ferste Constantinus lefte,

Fro holy cherche thei berefte.

Bot Adrian, which Pope was,

And syh the meschief of this cas,

Goth in to France forto pleigne,

And preith the grete Charlemeine,

For Cristes sake and Soule hele

That he wol take the querele

Of holy cherche in his defence.

And Charles for the reverence

Of god the cause hath undertake,

And with his host the weie take

Over the Montz of Lombardie;

Of Rome and al the tirandie

With blodi swerd he overcom,

And the Cite with strengthe nom;

In such a wise and there he wroghte,

That holy cherche ayein he broghte

Into franchise, and doth restore

The Popes lost, and yaf him more:

And thus whan he his god hath served,

He tok, as he wel hath deserved,

The Diademe and was coroned.

Of Rome and thus was abandoned

Thempire, which cam nevere ayein

Into the hond of no Romein;

Bot a long time it stod so stille

Under the Frensche kynges wille,

Til that fortune hir whiel so ladde,

That afterward Lombardz it hadde,

Noght be the swerd, bot be soffrance

Of him that tho was kyng of France,

Which Karle Calvus cleped was;

And he resigneth in this cas

Thempire of Rome unto Lowis

His Cousin, which a Lombard is.

And so hit laste into the yeer

Of Albert and of Berenger;

Bot thanne upon dissencioun

Thei felle, and in divisioun

Among hemself that were grete,

So that thei loste the beyete

Of worschipe and of worldes pes.

Bot in proverbe natheles

Men sein, ful selden is that welthe

Can soffre his oghne astat in helthe;

And that was on the Lombardz sene,

Such comun strif was hem betwene

Thurgh coveitise and thurgh Envie,

That every man drowh his partie,

Which myhte leden eny route,

Withinne Burgh and ek withoute:

The comun ryht hath no felawe,

So that the governance of lawe

Was lost, and for necessite,

Of that thei stode in such degre

Al only thurgh divisioun,

Hem nedeth in conclusioun

Of strange londes help beside.

And thus for thei hemself divide

And stonden out of reule unevene,

Of Alemaine Princes sevene

Thei chose in this condicioun,

That upon here eleccioun

Thempire of Rome scholde stonde.

And thus thei lefte it out of honde

For lacke of grace, and it forsoke,

That Alemans upon hem toke:

And to confermen here astat,

Of that thei founden in debat

Thei token the possessioun

After the composicioun

Among hemself, and therupon

Thei made an Emperour anon,

Whos name as the Cronique telleth

Was Othes; and so forth it duelleth,

Fro thilke day yit unto this

Thempire of Rome hath ben and is

To thalemans. And in this wise,

As ye tofore have herd divise

How Daniel the swevene expondeth

Of that ymage, on whom he foundeth

The world which after scholde falle,

Come is the laste tokne of alle;

Upon the feet of Erthe and Stiel

So stant this world now everydiel

Departed; which began riht tho,

Whan Rome was divided so:

And that is forto rewe sore,

For alway siththe more and more

The world empeireth every day.

Wherof the sothe schewe may,

At Rome ferst if we beginne:

The wall and al the Cit withinne

Stant in ruine and in decas,

The feld is wher the Paleis was,

The toun is wast; and overthat,

If we beholde thilke astat

Which whilom was of the Romeins,

Of knyhthode and of Citezeins,

To peise now with that beforn,

The chaf is take for the corn,

As forto speke of Romes myht:

Unethes stant ther oght upryht

Of worschipe or of worldes good,

As it before tyme stod.

And why the worschipe is aweie,

If that a man the sothe seie,

The cause hath ben divisioun,

Which moder of confusioun

Is wher sche cometh overal,

Noght only of the temporal

Bot of the spirital also.

The dede proeveth it is so,

And hath do many day er this,

Thurgh venym which that medled is

In holy cherche of erthly thing:

For Crist himself makth knowleching

That noman may togedre serve

God and the world, bot if he swerve

Froward that on and stonde unstable;

And Cristes word may noght be fable.

The thing so open is at yµe,

It nedeth noght to specefie

Or speke oght more in this matiere;

Bot in this wise a man mai lere

Hou that the world is gon aboute,

The which welnyh is wered oute,

After the forme of that figure

Which Daniel in his scripture

Expondeth, as tofore is told.

Of Bras, of Selver and of Gold

The world is passed and agon,

And now upon his olde ton

It stant of brutel Erthe and Stiel,

The whiche acorden nevere a diel;

So mot it nedes swerve aside

As thing the which men sen divide.

Thapostel writ unto ous alle

And seith that upon ous is falle

Thende of the world; so may we knowe,

This ymage is nyh overthrowe,

Be which this world was signified,

That whilom was so magnefied,

And now is old and fieble and vil,

Full of meschief and of peril,

And stant divided ek also

Lich to the feet that were so,

As I tolde of the Statue above.

And this men sen, thurgh lacke of love

Where as the lond divided is,

It mot algate fare amis:

And now to loke on every side,

A man may se the world divide,

The werres ben so general

Among the cristene overal,

That every man now secheth wreche,

And yet these clerkes alday preche

And sein, good dede may non be

Which stant noght upon charite:

I not hou charite may stonde,

Wher dedly werre is take on honde.

Bot al this wo is cause of man,

The which that wit and reson can,

And that in tokne and in witnesse

That ilke ymage bar liknesse

Of man and of non other beste.

For ferst unto the mannes heste

Was every creature ordeined,

Bot afterward it was restreigned:

Whan that he fell, thei fellen eke,

Whan he wax sek, thei woxen seke;

For as the man hath passioun

Of seknesse, in comparisoun

So soffren othre creatures.

Lo, ferst the hevenly figures,

The Sonne and Mone eclipsen bothe,

And ben with mannes senne wrothe;

The purest Eir for Senne alofte

Hath ben and is corrupt fulofte,

Right now the hyhe wyndes blowe,

And anon after thei ben lowe,

Now clowdy and now clier it is:

So may it proeven wel be this,

A mannes Senne is forto hate,

Which makth the welkne to debate.

And forto se the proprete

Of every thyng in his degree,

Benethe forth among ous hiere

Al stant aliche in this matiere:

The See now ebbeth, now it floweth,

The lond now welketh, now it groweth,

Now be the Trees with leves grene,

Now thei be bare and nothing sene,

Now be the lusti somer floures,

Now be the stormy wynter shoures,

Now be the daies, now the nyhtes,

So stant ther nothing al upryhtes,

Now it is lyht, now it is derk;

And thus stant al the worldes werk

After the disposicioun

Of man and his condicioun.

Forthi Gregoire in his Moral

Seith that a man in special

The lasse world is properly:

And that he proeveth redely;

For man of Soule resonable

Is to an Angel resemblable,

And lich to beste he hath fielinge,

And lich to Trees he hath growinge;

The Stones ben and so is he:

Thus of his propre qualite

The man, as telleth the clergie,

Is as a world in his partie,

And whan this litel world mistorneth,

The grete world al overtorneth.

The Lond, the See, the firmament,

Thei axen alle jugement

Ayein the man and make him werre:

Therwhile himself stant out of herre,

The remenant wol noght acorde:

And in this wise, as I recorde,

The man is cause of alle wo,

Why this world is divided so.

Division, the gospell seith,

On hous upon another leith,

Til that the Regne al overthrowe:

And thus may every man wel knowe,

Division aboven alle

Is thing which makth the world to falle,

And evere hath do sith it began.

It may ferst proeve upon a man;

The which, for his complexioun

Is mad upon divisioun

Of cold, of hot, of moist, of drye,

He mot be verray kynde dye:

For the contraire of his astat

Stant evermore in such debat,

Til that o part be overcome,

Ther may no final pes be nome.

Bot other wise, if a man were

Mad al togedre of o matiere

Withouten interrupcioun,

Ther scholde no corrupcioun

Engendre upon that unite:

Bot for ther is diversite

Withinne himself, he may noght laste,

That he ne deieth ate laste.

Bot in a man yit over this

Full gret divisioun ther is,

Thurgh which that he is evere in strif,

Whil that him lasteth eny lif:

The bodi and the Soule also

Among hem ben divided so,

That what thing that the body hateth

The soule loveth and debateth;

Bot natheles fulofte is sene

Of werre which is hem betwene

The fieble hath wonne the victoire.

And who so drawth into memoire

What hath befalle of old and newe,

He may that werre sore rewe,

Which ferst began in Paradis:

For ther was proeved what it is,

And what desese there it wroghte;

For thilke werre tho forth broghte

The vice of alle dedly Sinne,

Thurgh which division cam inne

Among the men in erthe hiere,

And was the cause and the matiere

Why god the grete flodes sende,

Of al the world and made an ende

Bot Noeµ with his felaschipe,

Which only weren saulf be Schipe.

And over that thurgh Senne it com

That Nembrot such emprise nom,

Whan he the Tour Babel on heihte

Let make, as he that wolde feihte

Ayein the hihe goddes myht,

Wherof divided anon ryht

Was the langage in such entente,

Ther wiste non what other mente,

So that thei myhten noght procede.

And thus it stant of every dede,

Wher Senne takth the cause on honde,

It may upriht noght longe stonde;

For Senne of his condicioun

Is moder of divisioun

And tokne whan the world schal faile.

For so seith Crist withoute faile,

That nyh upon the worldes ende

Pes and acord awey schol wende

And alle charite schal cesse,

Among the men and hate encresce;

And whan these toknes ben befalle,

Al sodeinly the Ston schal falle,

As Daniel it hath beknowe,

Which al this world schal overthrowe,

And every man schal thanne arise

To Joie or elles to Juise,

Wher that he schal for evere dwelle,

Or straght to hevene or straght to helle.

In hevene is pes and al acord,

Bot helle is full of such descord

That ther may be no loveday:

Forthi good is, whil a man may,

Echon to sette pes with other

And loven as his oghne brother;

So may he winne worldes welthe

And afterward his soule helthe.

Bot wolde god that now were on

An other such as Arion,

Which hadde an harpe of such temprure,

And therto of so good mesure

He song, that he the bestes wilde

Made of his note tame and milde,

The Hinde in pes with the Leoun,

The Wolf in pes with the Moltoun,

The Hare in pees stod with the Hound;

And every man upon this ground

Which Arion that time herde,

Als wel the lord as the schepherde,

He broghte hem alle in good acord;

So that the comun with the lord,

And lord with the comun also,

He sette in love bothe tuo

And putte awey malencolie.

That was a lusti melodie,

Whan every man with other low;

And if ther were such on now,

Which cowthe harpe as he tho dede,

He myhte availe in many a stede

To make pes wher now is hate;

For whan men thenken to debate,

I not what other thing is good.

Bot wher that wisdom waxeth wod,

And reson torneth into rage,

So that mesure upon oultrage

Hath set his world, it is to drede;

For that bringth in the comun drede,

Which stant at every mannes Dore:

Bot whan the scharpnesse of the spore

The horse side smit to sore,

It grieveth ofte. And now nomore,

As forto speke of this matiere,

Which non bot only god may stiere.

I may noght strecche up to the hevene

Min hand, ne setten al in evene

This world, which evere is in balance:

It stant noght in my sufficance

So grete thinges to compasse,

Bot I mot lete it overpasse

And treten upon othre thinges.

Forthi the Stile of my writinges

Fro this day forth I thenke change

And speke of thing is noght so strange,

Which every kinde hath upon honde,

And wherupon the world mot stonde,

And hath don sithen it began,

And schal whil ther is any man;

And that is love, of which I mene

To trete, as after schal be sene.

In which ther can noman him reule,

For loves lawe is out of reule,

That of tomoche or of tolite

Welnyh is every man to wyte,

And natheles ther is noman

In al this world so wys, that can

Of love tempre the mesure,

Bot as it falth in aventure:

For wit ne strengthe may noght helpe,

And he which elles wolde him yelpe

Is rathest throwen under fote,

Ther can no wiht therof do bote.

For yet was nevere such covine,

That couthe ordeine a medicine

To thing which god in lawe of kinde

Hath set, for ther may noman finde

The rihte salve of such a Sor.

It hath and schal ben everemor

That love is maister wher he wile,

Ther can no lif make other skile;

For wher as evere him lest to sette,

Ther is no myht which him may lette.

Bot what schal fallen ate laste,

The sothe can no wisdom caste,

Bot as it falleth upon chance;

For if ther evere was balance

Which of fortune stant governed,

I may wel lieve as I am lerned

That love hath that balance on honde,

Which wol no reson understonde.

For love is blind and may noght se,

Forthi may no certeinete

Be set upon his jugement,

Bot as the whiel aboute went

He yifth his graces undeserved,

And fro that man which hath him served

Fulofte he takth aweye his fees,

As he that pleieth ate Dees,

And therupon what schal befalle

He not, til that the chance falle,

Wher he schal lese or he schal winne.

And thus fulofte men beginne,

That if thei wisten what it mente,

Thei wolde change al here entente.

And forto proven it is so,

I am miselven on of tho,

Which to this Scole am underfonge.

For it is siththe go noght longe,

As forto speke of this matiere,

I may you telle, if ye woll hiere,

A wonder hap which me befell,

That was to me bothe hard and fell,

Touchende of love and his fortune,

The which me liketh to comune

And pleinly forto telle it oute.

To hem that ben lovers aboute

Fro point to point I wol declare

And wryten of my woful care,

Mi wofull day, my wofull chance,

That men mowe take remembrance

Of that thei schall hierafter rede:

For in good feith this wolde I rede,

That every man ensample take

Of wisdom which him is betake,

And that he wot of good aprise

To teche it forth, for such emprise

Is forto preise; and therfore I

Woll wryte and schewe al openly

How love and I togedre mette,

Wherof the world ensample fette

Mai after this, whan I am go,

Of thilke unsely jolif wo,

Whos reule stant out of the weie,

Nou glad and nou gladnesse aweie,

And yet it may noght be withstonde

For oght that men may understonde.

Upon the point that is befalle

Of love, in which that I am falle,

I thenke telle my matiere:

Now herkne, who that wol it hiere,

Of my fortune how that it ferde.

This enderday, as I forthferde

To walke, as I yow telle may,-

And that was in the Monthe of Maii,

Whan every brid hath chose his make

And thenkth his merthes forto make

Of love that he hath achieved;

Bot so was I nothing relieved,

For I was further fro my love

Than Erthe is fro the hevene above,

As forto speke of eny sped:

So wiste I me non other red,

Bot as it were a man forfare

Unto the wode I gan to fare,

Noght forto singe with the briddes,

For whanne I was the wode amiddes,

I fond a swote grene pleine,

And ther I gan my wo compleigne

Wisshinge and wepinge al myn one,

For other merthes made I none.

So hard me was that ilke throwe,

That ofte sithes overthrowe

To grounde I was withoute breth;

And evere I wisshide after deth,

Whanne I out of my peine awok,

And caste up many a pitous lok

Unto the hevene, and seide thus:

"O thou Cupide, O thou Venus,

Thou god of love and thou goddesse,

Wher is pite? wher is meknesse?

Now doth me pleinly live or dye,

For certes such a maladie

As I now have and longe have hadd,

It myhte make a wisman madd,

If that it scholde longe endure.

O Venus, queene of loves cure,

Thou lif, thou lust, thou mannes hele,

Behold my cause and my querele,

And yif me som part of thi grace,

So that I may finde in this place

If thou be gracious or non."

And with that word I sawh anon

The kyng of love and qweene bothe;

Bot he that kyng with yhen wrothe

His chiere aweiward fro me caste,

And forth he passede ate laste.

Bot natheles er he forth wente

A firy Dart me thoghte he hente

And threw it thurgh myn herte rote:

In him fond I non other bote,

For lenger list him noght to duelle.

Bot sche that is the Source and Welle

Of wel or wo, that schal betide

To hem that loven, at that tide

Abod, bot forto tellen hiere

Sche cast on me no goodly chiere:

Thus natheles to me sche seide,

"What art thou, Sone?" and I abreide

Riht as a man doth out of slep,

And therof tok sche riht good kep

And bad me nothing ben adrad:

Bot for al that I was noght glad,

For I ne sawh no cause why.

And eft scheo asketh, what was I:

I seide, "A Caitif that lith hiere:

What wolde ye, my Ladi diere?

Schal I ben hol or elles dye?"

Sche seide, "Tell thi maladie:

What is thi Sor of which thou pleignest?

Ne hyd it noght, for if thou feignest,

I can do the no medicine."

"Ma dame, I am a man of thyne,

That in thi Court have longe served,

And aske that I have deserved,

Some wele after my longe wo."

And sche began to loure tho,

And seide, "Ther is manye of yow

Faitours, and so may be that thow

Art riht such on, and be feintise

Seist that thou hast me do servise."

And natheles sche wiste wel,

Mi world stod on an other whiel

Withouten eny faiterie:

Bot algate of my maladie

Sche bad me telle and seie hir trowthe.

"Ma dame, if ye wolde have rowthe,"

Quod I, "than wolde I telle yow."

"Sey forth," quod sche, "and tell me how;

Schew me thi seknesse everydiel."

"Ma dame, that can I do wel,

Be so my lif therto wol laste."

With that hir lok on me sche caste,

And seide: "In aunter if thou live,

Mi will is ferst that thou be schrive;

And natheles how that it is

I wot miself, bot for al this

Unto my prest, which comth anon,

I woll thou telle it on and on,

Bothe all thi thoght and al thi werk.

O Genius myn oghne Clerk,

Com forth and hier this mannes schrifte,"

Quod Venus tho; and I uplifte

Min hefd with that, and gan beholde

The selve Prest, which as sche wolde

Was redy there and sette him doun

To hiere my confessioun.

This worthi Prest, this holy man

To me spekende thus began,

And seide: "Benedicite,

Mi Sone, of the felicite

Of love and ek of all the wo

Thou schalt thee schrive of bothe tuo.

What thou er this for loves sake

Hast felt, let nothing be forsake,

Tell pleinliche as it is befalle."

And with that word I gan doun falle

On knees, and with devocioun

And with full gret contricioun

I seide thanne: "Dominus,

Min holi fader Genius,

So as thou hast experience

Of love, for whos reverence

Thou schalt me schriven at this time,

I prai the let me noght mistime

Mi schrifte, for I am destourbed

In al myn herte, and so contourbed,

That I ne may my wittes gete,

So schal I moche thing foryete:

Bot if thou wolt my schrifte oppose

Fro point to point, thanne I suppose,

Ther schal nothing be left behinde.

Bot now my wittes ben so blinde,

That I ne can miselven teche."

Tho he began anon to preche,

And with his wordes debonaire

He seide tome softe and faire:

"Thi schrifte to oppose and hiere,

My Sone, I am assigned hiere

Be Venus the godesse above,

Whos Prest I am touchende of love.

Bot natheles for certein skile

I mot algate and nedes wile

Noght only make my spekynges

Of love, bot of othre thinges,

That touchen to the cause of vice.

For that belongeth to thoffice

Of Prest, whos ordre that I bere,

So that I wol nothing forbere,

That I the vices on and on

Ne schal thee schewen everychon;

Wherof thou myht take evidence

To reule with thi conscience.

Bot of conclusion final

Conclude I wol in special

For love, whos servant I am,

And why the cause is that I cam.

So thenke I to don bothe tuo,

Ferst that myn ordre longeth to,

The vices forto telle arewe,

Bot next above alle othre schewe

Of love I wol the propretes,

How that thei stonde be degrees

After the disposicioun

Of Venus, whos condicioun

I moste folwe, as I am holde.

For I with love am al withholde,

So that the lasse I am to wyte,

Thogh I ne conne bot a lyte

Of othre thinges that ben wise:

I am noght tawht in such a wise;

For it is noght my comun us

To speke of vices and vertus,

Bot al of love and of his lore,

For Venus bokes of nomore

Me techen nowther text ne glose.

Bot for als moche as I suppose

It sit a prest to be wel thewed,

And schame it is if he be lewed,

Of my Presthode after the forme

I wol thi schrifte so enforme,

That ate leste thou schalt hiere

The vices, and to thi matiere

Of love I schal hem so remene,

That thou schalt knowe what thei mene.

For what a man schal axe or sein

Touchende of schrifte, it mot be plein,

It nedeth noght to make it queinte,

For trowthe hise wordes wol noght peinte:

That I wole axe of the forthi,

My Sone, it schal be so pleinly,

That thou schalt knowe and understonde

The pointz of schrifte how that thei stonde."

Betwen the lif and deth I herde

This Prestes tale er I answerde,

And thanne I preide him forto seie

His will, and I it wolde obeie

After the forme of his apprise.

Tho spak he tome in such a wise,

And bad me that I scholde schrive

As touchende of my wittes fyve,

And schape that thei were amended

Of that I hadde hem misdispended.

For tho be proprely the gates,

Thurgh whiche as to the herte algates

Comth alle thing unto the feire,

Which may the mannes Soule empeire.

And now this matiere is broght inne,

Mi Sone, I thenke ferst beginne

To wite how that thin yhe hath stonde,

The which is, as I understonde,

The moste principal of alle,

Thurgh whom that peril mai befalle.

And forto speke in loves kinde,

Ful manye suche a man mai finde,

Whiche evere caste aboute here yhe,

To loke if that thei myhte aspie

Fulofte thing which hem ne toucheth,

Bot only that here herte soucheth

In hindringe of an other wiht;

And thus ful many a worthi knyht

And many a lusti lady bothe

Have be fulofte sythe wrothe.

So that an yhe is as a thief

To love, and doth ful gret meschief;

And also for his oghne part

Fulofte thilke firy Dart

Of love, which that evere brenneth,

Thurgh him into the herte renneth:

And thus a mannes yhe ferst

Himselve grieveth alther werst,

And many a time that he knoweth

Unto his oghne harm it groweth.

Mi Sone, herkne now forthi

A tale, to be war therby

Thin yhe forto kepe and warde,

So that it passe noght his warde.

Ovide telleth in his bok

Ensample touchende of mislok,

And seith hou whilom ther was on,

A worthi lord, which Acteon

Was hote, and he was cousin nyh

To him that Thebes ferst on hyh

Up sette, which king Cadme hyhte.

This Acteon, as he wel myhte,

Above alle othre caste his chiere,

And used it fro yer to yere,

With Houndes and with grete Hornes

Among the wodes and the thornes

To make his hunting and his chace:

Where him best thoghte in every place

To finde gamen in his weie,

Ther rod he forto hunte and pleie.

So him befell upon a tide

On his hunting as he cam ride,

In a Forest al one he was:

He syh upon the grene gras

The faire freisshe floures springe,

He herde among the leves singe

The Throstle with the nyhtingale:

Thus er he wiste into a Dale

He cam, wher was a litel plein,

All round aboute wel besein

With buisshes grene and Cedres hyhe;

And ther withinne he caste his yhe.

Amidd the plein he syh a welle,

So fair ther myhte noman telle,

In which Diana naked stod

To bathe and pleie hire in the flod

With many a Nimphe, which hire serveth.

Bot he his yhe awey ne swerveth

Fro hire, which was naked al,

And sche was wonder wroth withal,

And him, as sche which was godesse,

Forschop anon, and the liknesse

Sche made him taken of an Hert,

Which was tofore hise houndes stert,

That ronne besiliche aboute

With many an horn and many a route,

That maden mochel noise and cry:

And ate laste unhappely

This Hert his oghne houndes slowhe

And him for vengance al todrowhe.

Lo now, my Sone, what it is

A man to caste his yhe amis,

Which Acteon hath dere aboght;

Be war forthi and do it noght.

For ofte, who that hiede toke,

Betre is to winke than to loke.

And forto proven it is so,

Ovide the Poete also

A tale which to this matiere

Acordeth seith, as thou schalt hiere.

In Metamor it telleth thus,

How that a lord which Phorceuµs

Was hote, hadde dowhtres thre.

Bot upon here nativite

Such was the constellacion,

That out of mannes nacion

Fro kynde thei be so miswent,

That to the liknesse of Serpent

Thei were bore, and so that on

Of hem was cleped Stellibon,

That other soster Suriale,

The thridde, as telleth in the tale,

Medusa hihte, and natheles

Of comun name Gorgones

In every contre ther aboute,

As Monstres whiche that men doute,

Men clepen hem; and bot on yhe

Among hem thre in pourpartie

Thei hadde, of which thei myhte se,

Now hath it this, now hath it sche;

After that cause and nede it ladde,

Be throwes ech of hem it hadde.

A wonder thing yet more amis

Ther was, wherof I telle al this:

What man on hem his chiere caste

And hem behield, he was als faste

Out of a man into a Ston

Forschape, and thus ful manyon

Deceived were, of that thei wolde

Misloke, wher that thei ne scholde.

Bot Perseuµs that worthi knyht,

Whom Pallas of hir grete myht

Halp, and tok him a Schield therto,

And ek the god Mercurie also

Lente him a swerd, he, as it fell,

Beyende Athlans the hihe hell

These Monstres soghte, and there he fond

Diverse men of thilke lond

Thurgh sihte of hem mistorned were,

Stondende as Stones hiere and there.

Bot he, which wisdom and prouesse

Hadde of the god and the godesse,

The Schield of Pallas gan enbrace,

With which he covereth sauf his face,

Mercuries Swerd and out he drowh,

And so he bar him that he slowh

These dredful Monstres alle thre.

Lo now, my Sone, avise the,

That thou thi sihte noght misuse:

Cast noght thin yhe upon Meduse,

That thou be torned into Ston:

For so wys man was nevere non,

Bot if he wel his yhe kepe

And take of fol delit no kepe,

That he with lust nys ofte nome,

Thurgh strengthe of love and overcome.

Of mislokynge how it hath ferd,

As I have told, now hast thou herd,

My goode Sone, and tak good hiede.

And overthis yet I thee rede

That thou be war of thin heringe,

Which to the Herte the tidinge

Of many a vanite hath broght,

To tarie with a mannes thoght.

And natheles good is to hiere

Such thing wherof a man may lere

That to vertu is acordant,

And toward al the remenant

Good is to torne his Ere fro;

For elles, bot a man do so,

Him may fulofte mysbefalle.

I rede ensample amonges alle,

Wherof to kepe wel an Ere

It oghte pute a man in fere.

A Serpent, which that Aspidis

Is cleped, of his kynde hath this,

That he the Ston noblest of alle,

The which that men Carbuncle calle,

Berth in his hed above on heihte.

For which whan that a man be sleyhte,

The Ston to winne and him to daunte,

With his carecte him wolde enchaunte,

Anon as he perceiveth that,

He leith doun his on Ere al plat

Unto the ground, and halt it faste,

And ek that other Ere als faste

He stoppeth with his tail so sore,

That he the wordes lasse or more

Of his enchantement ne hiereth;

And in this wise himself he skiereth,

So that he hath the wordes weyved

And thurgh his Ere is noght deceived.

An othre thing, who that recordeth,

Lich unto this ensample acordeth,

Which in the tale of Troie I finde.

Sirenes of a wonder kynde

Ben Monstres, as the bokes tellen,

And in the grete Se thei duellen:

Of body bothe and of visage

Lik unto wommen of yong age

Up fro the Navele on hih thei be,

And doun benethe, as men mai se,

Thei bere of fisshes the figure.

And overthis of such nature

Thei ben, that with so swete a stevene

Lik to the melodie of hevene

In wommanysshe vois thei singe,

With notes of so gret likinge,

Of such mesure, of such musike,

Wherof the Schipes thei beswike

That passen be the costes there.

For whan the Schipmen leie an Ere

Unto the vois, in here avys

Thei wene it be a Paradys,

Which after is to hem an helle.

For reson may noght with hem duelle,

Whan thei tho grete lustes hiere;

Thei conne noght here Schipes stiere,

So besiliche upon the note

Thei herkne, and in such wise assote,

That thei here rihte cours and weie

Foryete, and to here Ere obeie,

And seilen til it so befalle

That thei into the peril falle,

Where as the Schipes be todrawe,

And thei ben with the Monstres slawe.

Bot fro this peril natheles

With his wisdom king Uluxes

Ascapeth and it overpasseth;

For he tofor the hond compasseth

That noman of his compaignie

Hath pouer unto that folie

His Ere for no lust to caste;

For he hem stoppede alle faste,

That non of hem mai hiere hem singe.

So whan they comen forth seilinge,

Ther was such governance on honde,

That thei the Monstres have withstonde

And slain of hem a gret partie.

Thus was he sauf with his navie,

This wise king, thurgh governance.

Wherof, my Sone, in remembrance

Thou myht ensample taken hiere,

As I have told, and what thou hiere

Be wel war, and yif no credence,

Bot if thou se more evidence.

For if thou woldest take kepe

And wisly cowthest warde and kepe

Thin yhe and Ere, as I have spoke,

Than haddest thou the gates stoke

Fro such Sotie as comth to winne

Thin hertes wit, which is withinne,

Wherof that now thi love excedeth

Mesure, and many a peine bredeth.

Bot if thou cowthest sette in reule

Tho tuo, the thre were eth to reule:

Forthi as of thi wittes five

I wole as now nomore schryve,

Bot only of these ilke tuo.

Tell me therfore if it be so,

Hast thou thin yhen oght misthrowe?

Mi fader, ye, I am beknowe,

I have hem cast upon Meduse,

Therof I may me noght excuse:

Min herte is growen into Ston,

So that my lady therupon

Hath such a priente of love grave,

That I can noght miselve save.

What seist thou, Sone, as of thin Ere?

Mi fader, I am gultyf there;

For whanne I may my lady hiere,

Mi wit with that hath lost his Stiere:

I do noght as Uluxes dede,

Bot falle anon upon the stede,

Wher as I se my lady stonde;

And there, I do yow understonde,

I am topulled in my thoght,

So that of reson leveth noght,

Wherof that I me mai defende.

My goode Sone, god thamende:

For as me thenketh be thi speche

Thi wittes ben riht feer to seche.

As of thin Ere and of thin yhe

I woll nomore specefie,

Bot I woll axen overthis

Of othre thing how that it is.

Mi Sone, as I thee schal enforme,

Ther ben yet of an other forme

Of dedly vices sevene applied,

Wherof the herte is ofte plied

To thing which after schal him grieve.

The ferste of hem thou schalt believe

Is Pride, which is principal,

And hath with him in special

Ministres five ful diverse,

Of whiche, as I the schal reherse,

The ferste is seid Ypocrisie.

If thou art of his compaignie,

Tell forth, my Sone, and schrif the clene.

I wot noght, fader, what ye mene:

Bot this I wolde you beseche,

That ye me be som weie teche

What is to ben an ypocrite;

And thanne if I be forto wyte,

I wol beknowen, as it is.

Mi Sone, an ypocrite is this,-

A man which feigneth conscience,

As thogh it were al innocence,

Withoute, and is noght so withinne;

And doth so for he wolde winne

Of his desir the vein astat.

And whanne he comth anon therat,

He scheweth thanne what he was,

The corn is torned into gras,

That was a Rose is thanne a thorn,

And he that was a Lomb beforn

Is thanne a Wolf, and thus malice

Under the colour of justice

Is hid; and as the poeple telleth,

These ordres witen where he duelleth,

As he that of here conseil is,

And thilke world which thei er this

Forsoken, he drawth in ayein:

He clotheth richesse, as men sein,

Under the simplesce of poverte,

And doth to seme of gret decerte

Thing which is litel worth withinne:

He seith in open, fy] to Sinne,

And in secre ther is no vice

Of which that he nis a Norrice:

And evere his chiere is sobre and softe,

And where he goth he blesseth ofte,

Wherof the blinde world he dreccheth.

Bot yet al only he ne streccheth

His reule upon religioun,

Bot next to that condicioun

In suche as clepe hem holy cherche

It scheweth ek how he can werche

Among tho wyde furred hodes,

To geten hem the worldes goodes.

And thei hemself ben thilke same

That setten most the world in blame,

Bot yet in contraire of her lore

Ther is nothing thei loven more;

So that semende of liht thei werke

The dedes whiche are inward derke.

And thus this double Ypocrisie

With his devolte apparantie

A viser set upon his face,

Wherof toward this worldes grace

He semeth to be riht wel thewed,

And yit his herte is al beschrewed.

Bot natheles he stant believed,

And hath his pourpos ofte achieved

Of worschipe and of worldes welthe,

And takth it, as who seith, be stelthe

Thurgh coverture of his fallas.

And riht so in semblable cas

This vice hath ek his officers

Among these othre seculers

Of grete men, for of the smale

As for tacompte he set no tale,

Bot thei that passen the comune

With suche him liketh to comune,

And where he seith he wol socoure

The poeple, there he woll devoure;

For now aday is manyon

Which spekth of Peter and of John

And thenketh Judas in his herte.

Ther schal no worldes good asterte

His hond, and yit he yifth almesse

And fasteth ofte and hiereth Messe:

With mea culpa, which he seith,

Upon his brest fullofte he leith

His hond, and cast upward his yhe,

As thogh he Cristes face syhe;

So that it seemeth ate syhte,

As he al one alle othre myhte

Rescoue with his holy bede.

Bot yet his herte in other stede

Among hise bedes most devoute

Goth in the worldes cause aboute,

How that he myhte his warisoun

Encresce. And in comparisoun

Ther ben lovers of such a sort,

That feignen hem an humble port,

And al is bot Ypocrisie,

Which with deceipte and flaterie

Hath many a worthi wif beguiled.

For whanne he hath his tunge affiled,

With softe speche and with lesinge,

Forth with his fals pitous lokynge,

He wolde make a womman wene

To gon upon the faire grene,

Whan that sche falleth in the Mir.

For if he may have his desir,

How so falle of the remenant,

He halt no word of covenant;

Bot er the time that he spede,

Ther is no sleihte at thilke nede,

Which eny loves faitour mai,

That he ne put it in assai,

As him belongeth forto done.

The colour of the reyni Mone

With medicine upon his face

He set, and thanne he axeth grace,

As he which hath sieknesse feigned.

Whan his visage is so desteigned,

With yhe upcast on hire he siketh,

And many a contenance he piketh,

To bringen hire in to believe

Of thing which that he wolde achieve,

Wherof he berth the pale hewe;

And for he wolde seme trewe,

He makth him siek, whan he is heil.

Bot whanne he berth lowest the Seil,

Thanne is he swiftest to beguile

The womman, which that ilke while

Set upon him feith or credence.

Mi Sone, if thou thi conscience

Entamed hast in such a wise,

In schrifte thou thee myht avise

And telle it me, if it be so.

Min holy fader, certes no.

As forto feigne such sieknesse

It nedeth noght, for this witnesse

I take of god, that my corage

Hath ben mor siek than my visage.

And ek this mai I wel avowe,

So lowe cowthe I nevere bowe

To feigne humilite withoute,

That me ne leste betre loute

With alle the thoghtes of myn herte;

For that thing schal me nevere asterte,

I speke as to my lady diere,

To make hire eny feigned chiere.

God wot wel there I lye noght,

Mi chiere hath be such as my thoght;

For in good feith, this lieveth wel,

Mi will was betre a thousendel

Than eny chiere that I cowthe.

Bot, Sire, if I have in my yowthe

Don other wise in other place,

I put me therof in your grace:

For this excusen I ne schal,

That I have elles overal

To love and to his compaignie

Be plein withoute Ypocrisie;

Bot ther is on the which I serve,

Althogh I may no thonk deserve,

To whom yet nevere into this day

I seide onlyche or ye or nay,

Bot if it so were in my thoght.

As touchende othre seie I noght

That I nam somdel forto wyte

Of that ye clepe an ypocrite.

Mi Sone, it sit wel every wiht

To kepe his word in trowthe upryht

Towardes love in alle wise.

For who that wolde him wel avise

What hath befalle in this matiere,

He scholde noght with feigned chiere

Deceive Love in no degre.

To love is every herte fre,

Bot in deceipte if that thou feignest

And therupon thi lust atteignest,

That thow hast wonne with thi wyle,

Thogh it thee like for a whyle,

Thou schalt it afterward repente.

And forto prove myn entente,

I finde ensample in a Croniqe

Of hem that love so beswike.

It fell be olde daies thus,

Whil themperour Tiberius

The Monarchie of Rome ladde,

Ther was a worthi Romein hadde

A wif, and sche Pauline hihte,

Which was to every mannes sihte

Of al the Cite the faireste,

And as men seiden, ek the beste.

It is and hath ben evere yit,

That so strong is no mannes wit,

Which thurgh beaute ne mai be drawe

To love, and stonde under the lawe

Of thilke bore frele kinde,

Which makth the hertes yhen blinde,

Wher no reson mai be comuned:

And in this wise stod fortuned

This tale, of which I wolde mene;

This wif, which in hire lustes grene

Was fair and freissh and tendre of age,

Sche may noght lette the corage

Of him that wole on hire assote.

Ther was a Duck, and he was hote

Mundus, which hadde in his baillie

To lede the chivalerie

Of Rome, and was a worthi knyht;

Bot yet he was noght of such myht

The strengthe of love to withstonde,

That he ne was so broght to honde,

That malgre wher he wole or no,

This yonge wif he loveth so,

That he hath put al his assay

To wynne thing which he ne may

Gete of hire graunt in no manere,

Be yifte of gold ne be preiere.

And whanne he syh that be no mede

Toward hir love he myhte spede,

Be sleyhte feigned thanne he wroghte;

And therupon he him bethoghte

How that ther was in the Cite

A temple of such auctorite,

To which with gret Devocioun

The noble wommen of the toun

Most comunliche a pelrinage

Gon forto preie thilke ymage

Which the godesse of childinge is,

And cleped was be name Ysis:

And in hire temple thanne were,

To reule and to ministre there

After the lawe which was tho,

Above alle othre Prestes tuo.

This Duck, which thoghte his love gete,

Upon a day hem tuo to mete

Hath bede, and thei come at his heste;

Wher that thei hadde a riche feste,

And after mete in prive place

This lord, which wolde his thonk pourchace,

To ech of hem yaf thanne a yifte,

And spak so that be weie of schrifte

He drowh hem unto his covine,

To helpe and schape how he Pauline

After his lust deceive myhte.

And thei here trowthes bothe plyhte,

That thei be nyhte hire scholden wynne

Into the temple, and he therinne

Schal have of hire al his entente:

And thus acorded forth thei wente.

Now lest thurgh which ypocrisie

Ordeigned was the tricherie,

Wherof this ladi was deceived.

These Prestes hadden wel conceived

That sche was of gret holinesse;

And with a contrefet simplesse,

Which hid was in a fals corage,

Feignende an hevenely message

Thei come and seide unto hir thus:

"Pauline, the god Anubus

Hath sent ous bothe Prestes hiere,

And seith he woll to thee appiere

Be nyhtes time himself alone,

For love he hath to thi persone:

And therupon he hath ous bede,

That we in Ysis temple a stede

Honestely for thee pourveie,

Wher thou be nyhte, as we thee seie,

Of him schalt take avisioun.

For upon thi condicioun,

The which is chaste and ful of feith,

Such pris, as he ous tolde, he leith,

That he wol stonde of thin acord;

And forto bere hierof record

He sende ous hider bothe tuo."

Glad was hire innocence tho

Of suche wordes as sche herde,

With humble chiere and thus answerde,

And seide that the goddes wille

Sche was al redy to fulfille,

That be hire housebondes leve

Sche wolde in Ysis temple at eve

Upon hire goddes grace abide,

To serven him the nyhtes tide.

The Prestes tho gon hom ayein,

And sche goth to hire sovereign,

Of goddes wille and as it was

Sche tolde him al the pleine cas,

Wherof he was deceived eke,

And bad that sche hire scholde meke

Al hol unto the goddes heste.

And thus sche, which was al honeste

To godward after hire entente,

At nyht unto the temple wente,

Wher that the false Prestes were;

And thei receiven hire there

With such a tokne of holinesse,

As thogh thei syhen a godesse,

And al withinne in prive place

A softe bedd of large space

Thei hadde mad and encourtined,

Wher sche was afterward engined.

Bot sche, which al honour supposeth,

The false Prestes thanne opposeth,

And axeth be what observance

Sche myhte most to the plesance

Of godd that nyhtes reule kepe:

And thei hire bidden forto slepe

Liggende upon the bedd alofte,

For so, thei seide, al stille and softe

God Anubus hire wolde awake.

The conseil in this wise take,

The Prestes fro this lady gon;

And sche, that wiste of guile non,

In the manere as it was seid

To slepe upon the bedd is leid,

In hope that sche scholde achieve

Thing which stod thanne upon bilieve,

Fulfild of alle holinesse.

Bot sche hath failed, as I gesse,

For in a closet faste by

The Duck was hid so prively

That sche him myhte noght perceive;

And he, that thoghte to deceive,

Hath such arrai upon him nome,

That whanne he wolde unto hir come,

It scholde semen at hire yhe

As thogh sche verrailiche syhe

God Anubus, and in such wise

This ypocrite of his queintise

Awaiteth evere til sche slepte.

And thanne out of his place he crepte

So stille that sche nothing herde,

And to the bedd stalkende he ferde,

And sodeinly, er sche it wiste,

Beclipt in armes he hire kiste:

Wherof in wommanysshe drede

Sche wok and nyste what to rede;

Bot he with softe wordes milde

Conforteth hire and seith, with childe

He wolde hire make in such a kynde

That al the world schal have in mynde

The worschipe of that ilke Sone;

For he schal with the goddes wone,

And ben himself a godd also.

With suche wordes and with mo,

The whiche he feigneth in his speche,

This lady wit was al to seche,

As sche which alle trowthe weneth:

Bot he, that alle untrowthe meneth,

With blinde tales so hire ladde,

That all his wille of hire he hadde.

And whan him thoghte it was ynowh,

Ayein the day he him withdrowh

So prively that sche ne wiste

Wher he becom, bot as him liste

Out of the temple he goth his weie.

And sche began to bidde and preie

Upon the bare ground knelende,

And after that made hire offrende,

And to the Prestes yiftes grete

Sche yaf, and homward be the Strete.

The Duck hire mette and seide thus:

"The myhti godd which Anubus

Is hote, he save the, Pauline,

For thou art of his discipline

So holy, that no mannes myht

Mai do that he hath do to nyht

Of thing which thou hast evere eschuied.

Bot I his grace have so poursuied,

That I was mad his lieutenant:

Forthi be weie of covenant

Fro this day forth I am al thin,

And if thee like to be myn,

That stant upon thin oghne wille."

Sche herde his tale and bar it stille,

And hom sche wente, as it befell,

Into hir chambre, and ther sche fell

Upon hire bedd to wepe and crie,

And seide: "O derke ypocrisie,

Thurgh whos dissimilacion

Of fals ymaginacion

I am thus wickedly deceived]

Bot that I have it aperceived

I thonke unto the goddes alle;

For thogh it ones be befalle,

It schal nevere eft whil that I live,

And thilke avou to godd I yive."

And thus wepende sche compleigneth,

Hire faire face and al desteigneth

With wofull teres of hire yµe,

So that upon this agonie

Hire housebonde is inne come,

And syh how sche was overcome

With sorwe, and axeth what hire eileth.

And sche with that hirself beweileth

Welmore than sche dede afore,

And seide, "Helas, wifhode is lore

In me, which whilom was honeste,

I am non other than a beste,

Now I defouled am of tuo."

And as sche myhte speke tho,

Aschamed with a pitous onde

Sche tolde unto hir housebonde

The sothe of al the hole tale,

And in hire speche ded and pale

Sche swouneth welnyh to the laste.

And he hire in hise armes faste

Uphield, and ofte swor his oth

That he with hire is nothing wroth,

For wel he wot sche may ther noght:

Bot natheles withinne his thoght

His herte stod in sori plit,

And seide he wolde of that despit

Be venged, how so evere it falle,

And sende unto hise frendes alle.

And whan thei weren come in fere,

He tolde hem upon this matiere,

And axeth hem what was to done:

And thei avised were sone,

And seide it thoghte hem for the beste

To sette ferst his wif in reste,

And after pleigne to the king

Upon the matiere of this thing.

Tho was this wofull wif conforted

Be alle weies and desported,

Til that sche was somdiel amended;

And thus a day or tuo despended,

The thridde day sche goth to pleigne

With many a worthi Citezeine,

And he with many a Citezein.

Whan themperour it herde sein,

And knew the falshed of the vice,

He seide he wolde do justice:

And ferst he let the Prestes take,

And for thei scholde it noght forsake,

He put hem into questioun;

Bot thei of the suggestioun

Ne couthen noght a word refuse,

Bot for thei wolde hemself excuse,

The blame upon the Duck thei leide.

Bot therayein the conseil seide

That thei be noght excused so,

For he is on and thei ben tuo,

And tuo han more wit then on,

So thilke excusement was non.

And over that was seid hem eke,

That whan men wolden vertu seke,

Men scholde it in the Prestes finde;

Here ordre is of so hyh a kinde,

That thei be Duistres of the weie:

Forthi, if eny man forsueie

Thurgh hem, thei be noght excusable.

And thus be lawe resonable

Among the wise jugges there

The Prestes bothe dampned were,

So that the prive tricherie

Hid under fals Ipocrisie

Was thanne al openliche schewed,

That many a man hem hath beschrewed.

And whan the Prestes weren dede,

The temple of thilke horrible dede

Thei thoghten purge, and thilke ymage,

Whos cause was the pelrinage,

Thei drowen out and als so faste

Fer into Tibre thei it caste,

Wher the Rivere it hath defied:

And thus the temple purified

Thei have of thilke horrible Sinne,

Which was that time do therinne.

Of this point such was the juise,

Bot of the Duck was other wise:

For he with love was bestad,

His dom was noght so harde lad;

For Love put reson aweie

And can noght se the rihte weie.

And be this cause he was respited,

So that the deth him was acquited,

Bot for al that he was exiled,

For he his love hath so beguiled,

That he schal nevere come ayein:

For who that is to trowthe unplein,

He may noght failen of vengance.

And ek to take remembrance

Of that Ypocrisie hath wroght

On other half, men scholde noght

To lihtly lieve al that thei hiere,

Bot thanne scholde a wisman stiere

The Schip, whan suche wyndes blowe:

For ferst thogh thei beginne lowe,

At ende thei be noght menable,

Bot al tobreken Mast and Cable,

So that the Schip with sodein blast,

Whan men lest wene, is overcast;

As now fulofte a man mai se:

And of old time how it hath be

I finde a gret experience,

Wherof to take an evidence

Good is, and to be war also

Of the peril, er him be wo.

Of hem that ben so derk withinne,

At Troie also if we beginne,

Ipocrisie it hath betraied:

For whan the Greks hadde al assaied,

And founde that be no bataille

Ne be no Siege it myhte availe

The toun to winne thurgh prouesse,

This vice feigned of simplesce

Thurgh sleyhte of Calcas and of Crise

It wan be such a maner wise.

An Hors of Bras thei let do forge

Of such entaile, of such a forge,

That in this world was nevere man

That such an other werk began.

The crafti werkman Epius

It made, and forto telle thus,

The Greks, that thoghten to beguile

The kyng of Troie, in thilke while

With Anthenor and with Enee,

That were bothe of the Cite

And of the conseil the wiseste,

The richeste and the myhtieste,

In prive place so thei trete

With fair beheste and yiftes grete

Of gold, that thei hem have engined;

Togedre and whan thei be covined,

Thei feignen forto make a pes,

And under that yit natheles

Thei schopen the destruccioun

Bothe of the kyng and of the toun.

And thus the false pees was take

Of hem of Grece and undertake,

And therupon thei founde a weie,

Wher strengthe myhte noght aweie,

That sleihte scholde helpe thanne;

And of an ynche a large spanne

Be colour of the pees thei made,

And tolden how thei weren glade

Of that thei stoden in acord;

And for it schal ben of record,

Unto the kyng the Gregois seiden,

Be weie of love and this thei preiden,

As thei that wolde his thonk deserve,

A Sacrifice unto Minerve,

The pes to kepe in good entente,

Thei mosten offre er that thei wente.

The kyng conseiled in this cas

Be Anthenor and Eneas

Therto hath yoven his assent:

So was the pleine trowthe blent

Thurgh contrefet Ipocrisie

Of that thei scholden sacrifie.

The Greks under the holinesse

Anon with alle besinesse

Here Hors of Bras let faire dihte,

Which was to sen a wonder sihte;

For it was trapped of himselve,

And hadde of smale whieles twelve,

Upon the whiche men ynowe

With craft toward the toun it drowe,

And goth glistrende ayein the Sunne.

Tho was ther joie ynowh begunne,

For Troie in gret devocioun

Cam also with processioun

Ayein this noble Sacrifise

With gret honour, and in this wise

Unto the gates thei it broghte.

Bot of here entre whan thei soghte,

The gates weren al to smale;

And therupon was many a tale,

Bot for the worschipe of Minerve,

To whom thei comen forto serve,

Thei of the toun, whiche understode

That al this thing was do for goode,

For pes, wherof that thei ben glade,

The gates that Neptunus made

A thousend wynter ther tofore,

Thei have anon tobroke and tore;

The stronge walles doun thei bete,

So that in to the large strete

This Hors with gret solempnite

Was broght withinne the Cite,

And offred with gret reverence,

Which was to Troie an evidence

Of love and pes for everemo.

The Gregois token leve tho

With al the hole felaschipe,

And forth thei wenten into Schipe

And crossen seil and made hem yare,

Anon as thogh thei wolden fare:

Bot whan the blake wynter nyht

Withoute Mone or Sterre lyht

Bederked hath the water Stronde,

Al prively thei gon to londe

Ful armed out of the navie.

Synon, which mad was here aspie

Withinne Troie, as was conspired,

Whan time was a tokne hath fired;

And thei with that here weie holden,

And comen in riht as thei wolden,

Ther as the gate was tobroke.

The pourpos was full take and spoke:

Er eny man may take kepe,

Whil that the Cite was aslepe,

Thei slowen al that was withinne,

And token what thei myhten wynne

Of such good as was sufficant,

And brenden up the remenant.

And thus cam out the tricherie,

Which under fals Ypocrisie

Was hid, and thei that wende pees

Tho myhten finde no reles

Of thilke swerd which al devoureth.

Fulofte and thus the swete soureth,

Whan it is knowe to the tast:

He spilleth many a word in wast

That schal with such a poeple trete;

For whan he weneth most beyete,

Thanne is he schape most to lese.

And riht so if a womman chese

Upon the wordes that sche hiereth

Som man, whan he most trewe appiereth,

Thanne is he forthest fro the trowthe:

Bot yit fulofte, and that is rowthe,

Thei speden that ben most untrewe

And loven every day a newe,

Wherof the lief is after loth

And love hath cause to be wroth.

Bot what man that his lust desireth

Of love, and therupon conspireth

With wordes feigned to deceive,

He schal noght faile to receive

His peine, as it is ofte sene.

Forthi, my Sone, as I thee mene,

It sit the wel to taken hiede

That thou eschuie of thi manhiede

Ipocrisie and his semblant,

That thou ne be noght deceivant,

To make a womman to believe

Thing which is noght in thi bilieve:

For in such feint Ipocrisie

Of love is al the tricherie,

Thurgh which love is deceived ofte;

For feigned semblant is so softe,

Unethes love may be war.

Forthi, my Sone, as I wel dar,

I charge thee to fle that vice,

That many a womman hath mad nice;

Bot lok thou dele noght withal.

Iwiss, fader, nomor I schal.

Now, Sone, kep that thou hast swore:

For this that thou hast herd before

Is seid the ferste point of Pride:

And next upon that other side,

To schryve and speken overthis

Touchende of Pride, yit ther is

The point seconde, I thee behote,

Which Inobedience is hote.

This vice of Inobedience

Ayein the reule of conscience

Al that is humble he desalloweth,

That he toward his god ne boweth

After the lawes of his heste.

Noght as a man bot as a beste,

Which goth upon his lustes wilde,

So goth this proude vice unmylde,

That he desdeigneth alle lawe:

He not what is to be felawe,

And serve may he noght for pride;

So is he badde on every side,

And is that selve of whom men speke,

Which wol noght bowe er that he breke.

I not if love him myhte plie,

For elles forto justefie

His herte, I not what mihte availe.

Forthi, my Sone, of such entaile

If that thin herte be disposed,

Tell out and let it noght be glosed:

For if that thou unbuxom be

To love, I not in what degree

Thou schalt thi goode world achieve.

Mi fader, ye schul wel believe,

The yonge whelp which is affaited

Hath noght his Maister betre awaited,

To couche, whan he seith "Go lowe,"

That I, anon as I may knowe

Mi ladi will, ne bowe more.

Bot other while I grucche sore

Of some thinges that sche doth,

Wherof that I woll telle soth:

For of tuo pointz I am bethoght,

That, thogh I wolde, I myhte noght

Obeie unto my ladi heste;

Bot I dar make this beheste,

Save only of that ilke tuo

I am unbuxom of no mo.

Whan ben tho tuo? tell on, quod he.

Mi fader, this is on, that sche

Comandeth me my mowth to close,

And that I scholde hir noght oppose

In love, of which I ofte preche,

Bot plenerliche of such a speche

Forbere, and soffren hire in pes.

Bot that ne myhte I natheles

For al this world obeie ywiss;

For whanne I am ther as sche is,

Though sche my tales noght alowe,

Ayein hir will yit mot I bowe,

To seche if that I myhte have grace:

Bot that thing may I noght enbrace

For ought that I can speke or do;

And yit fulofte I speke so,

That sche is wroth and seith, "Be stille."

If I that heste schal fulfille

And therto ben obedient,

Thanne is my cause fully schent,

For specheles may noman spede.

So wot I noght what is to rede;

Bot certes I may noght obeie,

That I ne mot algate seie

Somwhat of that I wolde mene;

For evere it is aliche grene,

The grete love which I have,

Wherof I can noght bothe save

My speche and this obedience:

And thus fulofte my silence

I breke, and is the ferste point

Wherof that I am out of point

In this, and yit it is no pride.

Now thanne upon that other side

To telle my desobeissance,

Ful sore it stant to my grevance

And may noght sinke into my wit;

For ofte time sche me bit

To leven hire and chese a newe,

And seith, if I the sothe knewe

How ferr I stonde from hir grace,

I scholde love in other place.

Bot therof woll I desobeie;

For also wel sche myhte seie,

"Go tak the Mone ther it sit,"

As bringe that into my wit:

For ther was nevere rooted tre,

That stod so faste in his degre,

That I ne stonde more faste

Upon hire love, and mai noght caste

Min herte awey, althogh I wolde.

For god wot, thogh I nevere scholde

Sen hir with yhe after this day,

Yit stant it so that I ne may

Hir love out of my brest remue.

This is a wonder retenue,

That malgre wher sche wole or non

Min herte is everemore in on,

So that I can non other chese,

Bot whether that I winne or lese,

I moste hire loven til I deie;

And thus I breke as be that weie

Hire hestes and hir comandinges,

Bot trewliche in non othre thinges.

Forthi, my fader, what is more

Touchende to this ilke lore

I you beseche, after the forme

That ye pleinly me wolde enforme,

So that I may myn herte reule

In loves cause after the reule.

Toward this vice of which we trete

Ther ben yit tweie of thilke estrete,

Here name is Murmur and Compleignte:

Ther can noman here chiere peinte,

To sette a glad semblant therinne,

For thogh fortune make hem wynne,

Yit grucchen thei, and if thei lese,

Ther is no weie forto chese,

Wherof thei myhten stonde appesed.

So ben thei comunly desesed;

Ther may no welthe ne poverte

Attempren hem to the decerte

Of buxomnesse be no wise:

For ofte time thei despise

The goode fortune as the badde,

As thei no mannes reson hadde,

Thurgh pride, wherof thei be blinde.

And ryht of such a maner kinde

Ther be lovers, that thogh thei have

Of love al that thei wolde crave,

Yit wol thei grucche be som weie,

That thei wol noght to love obeie

Upon the trowthe, as thei do scholde;

And if hem lacketh that thei wolde,

Anon thei falle in such a peine,

That evere unbuxomly thei pleigne

Upon fortune, and curse and crie,

That thei wol noght here hertes plie

To soffre til it betre falle.

Forthi if thou amonges alle

Hast used this condicioun,

Mi Sone, in thi Confessioun

Now tell me pleinly what thou art.

Mi fader, I beknowe a part,

So as ye tolden hier above

Of Murmur and Compleignte of love,

That for I se no sped comende,

Ayein fortune compleignende

I am, as who seith, everemo:

And ek fulofte tyme also,

Whan so is that I se and hiere

Or hevy word or hevy chiere

Of my lady, I grucche anon;

Bot wordes dar I speke non,

Wherof sche myhte be desplesed,

Bot in myn herte I am desesed:

With many a Murmur, god it wot,

Thus drinke I in myn oghne swot,

And thogh I make no semblant,

Min herte is al desobeissant;

And in this wise I me confesse

Of that ye clepe unbuxomnesse.

Now telleth what youre conseil is.

Mi Sone, and I thee rede this,

What so befalle of other weie,

That thou to loves heste obeie

Als ferr as thou it myht suffise:

For ofte sithe in such a wise

Obedience in love availeth,

Wher al a mannes strengthe faileth;

Wherof, if that the list to wite

In a Cronique as it is write,

A gret ensample thou myht fynde,

Which now is come to my mynde.

Ther was whilom be daies olde

A worthi knyht, and as men tolde

He was Nevoeu to themperour

And of his Court a Courteour:

Wifles he was, Florent he hihte,

He was a man that mochel myhte,

Of armes he was desirous,

Chivalerous and amorous,

And for the fame of worldes speche,

Strange aventures forto seche,

He rod the Marches al aboute.

And fell a time, as he was oute,

Fortune, which may every thred

Tobreke and knette of mannes sped,

Schop, as this knyht rod in a pas,

That he be strengthe take was,

And to a Castell thei him ladde,

Wher that he fewe frendes hadde:

For so it fell that ilke stounde

That he hath with a dedly wounde

Feihtende his oghne hondes slain

Branchus, which to the Capitain

Was Sone and Heir, wherof ben wrothe

The fader and the moder bothe.

That knyht Branchus was of his hond

The worthieste of al his lond,

And fain thei wolden do vengance

Upon Florent, bot remembrance

That thei toke of his worthinesse

Of knyhthod and of gentilesse,

And how he stod of cousinage

To themperour, made hem assuage,

And dorsten noght slen him for fere:

In gret desputeisoun thei were

Among hemself, what was the beste.

Ther was a lady, the slyheste

Of alle that men knewe tho,

So old sche myhte unethes go,

And was grantdame unto the dede:

And sche with that began to rede,

And seide how sche wol bringe him inne,

That sche schal him to dethe winne

Al only of his oghne grant,

Thurgh strengthe of verray covenant

Withoute blame of eny wiht.

Anon sche sende for this kniht,

And of hire Sone sche alleide

The deth, and thus to him sche seide:

"Florent, how so thou be to wyte

Of Branchus deth, men schal respite

As now to take vengement,

Be so thou stonde in juggement

Upon certein condicioun,

That thou unto a questioun

Which I schal axe schalt ansuere;

And over this thou schalt ek swere,

That if thou of the sothe faile,

Ther schal non other thing availe,

That thou ne schalt thi deth receive.

And for men schal thee noght deceive,

That thou therof myht ben avised,

Thou schalt have day and tyme assised

And leve saufly forto wende,

Be so that at thi daies ende

Thou come ayein with thin avys.

This knyht, which worthi was and wys,

This lady preith that he may wite,

And have it under Seales write,

What questioun it scholde be

For which he schal in that degree

Stonde of his lif in jeupartie.

With that sche feigneth compaignie,

And seith: "Florent, on love it hongeth

Al that to myn axinge longeth:

What alle wommen most desire

This wole I axe, and in thempire

Wher as thou hast most knowlechinge

Tak conseil upon this axinge."

Florent this thing hath undertake,

The day was set, the time take,

Under his seal he wrot his oth,

In such a wise and forth he goth

Hom to his Emes court ayein;

To whom his aventure plein

He tolde, of that him is befalle.

And upon that thei weren alle

The wiseste of the lond asent,

Bot natheles of on assent

Thei myhte noght acorde plat,

On seide this, an othre that.

After the disposicioun

Of naturel complexioun

To som womman it is plesance,

That to an other is grevance;

Bot such a thing in special,

Which to hem alle in general

Is most plesant, and most desired

Above alle othre and most conspired,

Such o thing conne thei noght finde

Be Constellacion ne kinde:

And thus Florent withoute cure

Mot stonde upon his aventure,

And is al schape unto the lere,

As in defalte of his answere.

This knyht hath levere forto dye

Than breke his trowthe and forto lye

In place ther as he was swore,

And schapth him gon ayein therfore.

Whan time cam he tok his leve,

That lengere wolde he noght beleve,

And preith his Em he be noght wroth,

For that is a point of his oth,

He seith, that noman schal him wreke,

Thogh afterward men hiere speke

That he par aventure deie.

And thus he wente forth his weie

Alone as knyht aventurous,

And in his thoght was curious

To wite what was best to do:

And as he rod al one so,

And cam nyh ther he wolde be,

In a forest under a tre

He syh wher sat a creature,

A lothly wommannysch figure,

That forto speke of fleisch and bon

So foul yit syh he nevere non.

This knyht behield hir redely,

And as he wolde have passed by,

Sche cleped him and bad abide;

And he his horse heved aside

Tho torneth, and to hire he rod,

And there he hoveth and abod,

To wite what sche wolde mene.

And sche began him to bemene,

And seide: "Florent be thi name,

Thou hast on honde such a game,

That bot thou be the betre avised,

Thi deth is schapen and devised,

That al the world ne mai the save,

Bot if that thou my conseil have."

Florent, whan he this tale herde,

Unto this olde wyht answerde

And of hir conseil he hir preide.

And sche ayein to him thus seide:

"Florent, if I for the so schape,

That thou thurgh me thi deth ascape

And take worschipe of thi dede,

What schal I have to my mede?"

"What thing," quod he, "that thou wolt axe."

"I bidde nevere a betre taxe,"

Quod sche, "bot ferst, er thou be sped,

Thou schalt me leve such a wedd,

That I wol have thi trowthe in honde

That thou schalt be myn housebonde."

"Nay," seith Florent, "that may noght be."

"Ryd thanne forth thi wey," quod sche,

"And if thou go withoute red,

Thou schalt be sekerliche ded."

Florent behihte hire good ynowh

Of lond, of rente, of park, of plowh,

Bot al that compteth sche at noght.

Tho fell this knyht in mochel thoght,

Now goth he forth, now comth ayein,

He wot noght what is best to sein,

And thoghte, as he rod to and fro,

That chese he mot on of the tuo,

Or forto take hire to his wif

Or elles forto lese his lif.

And thanne he caste his avantage,

That sche was of so gret an age,

That sche mai live bot a while,

And thoghte put hire in an Ile,

Wher that noman hire scholde knowe,

Til sche with deth were overthrowe.

And thus this yonge lusti knyht

Unto this olde lothly wiht

Tho seide: "If that non other chance

Mai make my deliverance,

Bot only thilke same speche

Which, as thou seist, thou schalt me teche,

Have hier myn hond, I schal thee wedde."

And thus his trowthe he leith to wedde.

With that sche frounceth up the browe:

"This covenant I wol allowe,"

Sche seith: "if eny other thing

Bot that thou hast of my techyng

Fro deth thi body mai respite,

I woll thee of thi trowthe acquite,

And elles be non other weie.

Now herkne me what I schal seie.

Whan thou art come into the place,

Wher now thei maken gret manace

And upon thi comynge abyde,

Thei wole anon the same tide

Oppose thee of thin answere.

I wot thou wolt nothing forbere

Of that thou wenest be thi beste,

And if thou myht so finde reste,

Wel is, for thanne is ther nomore.

And elles this schal be my lore,

That thou schalt seie, upon this Molde

That alle wommen lievest wolde

Be soverein of mannes love:

For what womman is so above,

Sche hath, as who seith, al hire wille;

And elles may sche noght fulfille

What thing hir were lievest have.

With this answere thou schalt save

Thiself, and other wise noght.

And whan thou hast thin ende wroght,

Com hier ayein, thou schalt me finde,

And let nothing out of thi minde."

He goth him forth with hevy chiere,

As he that not in what manere

He mai this worldes joie atteigne:

For if he deie, he hath a peine,

And if he live, he mot him binde

To such on which of alle kinde

Of wommen is thunsemlieste:

Thus wot he noght what is the beste:

Bot be him lief or be him loth,

Unto the Castell forth he goth

His full answere forto yive,

Or forto deie or forto live.

Forth with his conseil cam the lord,

The thinges stoden of record,

He sende up for the lady sone,

And forth sche cam, that olde Mone.

In presence of the remenant

The strengthe of al the covenant

Tho was reherced openly,

And to Florent sche bad forthi

That he schal tellen his avis,

As he that woot what is the pris.

Florent seith al that evere he couthe,

Bot such word cam ther non to mowthe,

That he for yifte or for beheste

Mihte eny wise his deth areste.

And thus he tarieth longe and late,

Til that this lady bad algate

That he schal for the dom final

Yive his answere in special

Of that sche hadde him ferst opposed:

And thanne he hath trewly supposed

That he him may of nothing yelpe,

Bot if so be tho wordes helpe,

Whiche as the womman hath him tawht;

Wherof he hath an hope cawht

That he schal ben excused so,

And tolde out plein his wille tho.

And whan that this Matrone herde

The manere how this knyht ansuerde,

Sche seide: "Ha treson, wo thee be,

That hast thus told the privite,

Which alle wommen most desire]

I wolde that thou were afire."

Bot natheles in such a plit

Florent of his answere is quit:

And tho began his sorwe newe,

For he mot gon, or ben untrewe,

To hire which his trowthe hadde.

Bot he, which alle schame dradde,

Goth forth in stede of his penance,

And takth the fortune of his chance,

As he that was with trowthe affaited.

This olde wyht him hath awaited

In place wher as he hire lefte:

Florent his wofull heved uplefte

And syh this vecke wher sche sat,

Which was the lothlieste what

That evere man caste on his yhe:

Hire Nase bass, hire browes hyhe,

Hire yhen smale and depe set,

Hire chekes ben with teres wet,

And rivelen as an emty skyn

Hangende doun unto the chin,

Hire Lippes schrunken ben for age,

Ther was no grace in the visage,

Hir front was nargh, hir lockes hore,

Sche loketh forth as doth a More,

Hire Necke is schort, hir schuldres courbe,

That myhte a mannes lust destourbe,

Hire body gret and nothing smal,

And schortly to descrive hire al,

Sche hath no lith withoute a lak;

Bot lich unto the wollesak

Sche proferth hire unto this knyht,

And bad him, as he hath behyht,

So as sche hath ben his warant,

That he hire holde covenant,

And be the bridel sche him seseth.

Bot godd wot how that sche him pleseth

Of suche wordes as sche spekth:

Him thenkth welnyh his herte brekth

For sorwe that he may noght fle,

Bot if he wolde untrewe be.

Loke, how a sek man for his hele

Takth baldemoine with Canele,

And with the Mirre takth the Sucre,

Ryht upon such a maner lucre

Stant Florent, as in this diete:

He drinkth the bitre with the swete,

He medleth sorwe with likynge,

And liveth, as who seith, deyinge;

His youthe schal be cast aweie

Upon such on which as the weie

Is old and lothly overal.

Bot nede he mot that nede schal:

He wolde algate his trowthe holde,

As every knyht therto is holde,

What happ so evere him is befalle:

Thogh sche be the fouleste of alle,

Yet to thonour of wommanhiede

Him thoghte he scholde taken hiede;

So that for pure gentilesse,

As he hire couthe best adresce,

In ragges, as sche was totore,

He set hire on his hors tofore

And forth he takth his weie softe;

No wonder thogh he siketh ofte.

Bot as an oule fleth be nyhte

Out of alle othre briddes syhte,

Riht so this knyht on daies brode

In clos him hield, and schop his rode

On nyhtes time, til the tyde

That he cam there he wolde abide;

And prively withoute noise

He bringth this foule grete Coise

To his Castell in such a wise

That noman myhte hire schappe avise,

Til sche into the chambre cam:

Wher he his prive conseil nam

Of suche men as he most troste,

And tolde hem that he nedes moste

This beste wedde to his wif,

For elles hadde he lost his lif.

The prive wommen were asent,

That scholden ben of his assent:

Hire ragges thei anon of drawe,

And, as it was that time lawe,

She hadde bath, sche hadde reste,

And was arraied to the beste.

Bot with no craft of combes brode

Thei myhte hire hore lockes schode,

And sche ne wolde noght be schore

For no conseil, and thei therfore,

With such atyr as tho was used,

Ordeinen that it was excused,

And hid so crafteliche aboute,

That noman myhte sen hem oute.

Bot when sche was fulliche arraied

And hire atyr was al assaied,

Tho was sche foulere on to se:

Bot yit it may non other be,

Thei were wedded in the nyht;

So wo begon was nevere knyht

As he was thanne of mariage.

And sche began to pleie and rage,

As who seith, I am wel ynowh;

Bot he therof nothing ne lowh,

For sche tok thanne chiere on honde

And clepeth him hire housebonde,

And seith, "My lord, go we to bedde,

For I to that entente wedde,

That thou schalt be my worldes blisse:"

And profreth him with that to kisse,

As sche a lusti Lady were.

His body myhte wel be there,

Bot as of thoght and of memoire

His herte was in purgatoire.

Bot yit for strengthe of matrimoine

He myhte make non essoine,

That he ne mot algates plie

To gon to bedde of compaignie:

And whan thei were abedde naked,

Withoute slep he was awaked;

He torneth on that other side,

For that he wolde hise yhen hyde

Fro lokynge on that foule wyht.

The chambre was al full of lyht,

The courtins were of cendal thinne,

This newe bryd which lay withinne,

Thogh it be noght with his acord,

In armes sche beclipte hire lord,

And preide, as he was torned fro,

He wolde him torne ayeinward tho;

"For now," sche seith, "we ben bothe on."

And he lay stille as eny ston,

Bot evere in on sche spak and preide,

And bad him thenke on that he seide,

Whan that he tok hire be the hond.

He herde and understod the bond,

How he was set to his penance,

And as it were a man in trance

He torneth him al sodeinly,

And syh a lady lay him by

Of eyhtetiene wynter age,

Which was the faireste of visage

That evere in al this world he syh:

And as he wolde have take hire nyh,

Sche put hire hand and be his leve

Besoghte him that he wolde leve,

And seith that forto wynne or lese

He mot on of tuo thinges chese,

Wher he wol have hire such on nyht,

Or elles upon daies lyht,

For he schal noght have bothe tuo.

And he began to sorwe tho,

In many a wise and caste his thoght,

Bot for al that yit cowthe he noght

Devise himself which was the beste.

And sche, that wolde his hertes reste,

Preith that he scholde chese algate,

Til ate laste longe and late

He seide: "O ye, my lyves hele,

Sey what you list in my querele,

I not what ansuere I schal yive:

Bot evere whil that I may live,

I wol that ye be my maistresse,

For I can noght miselve gesse

Which is the beste unto my chois.

Thus grante I yow myn hole vois,

Ches for ous bothen, I you preie;

And what as evere that ye seie,

Riht as ye wole so wol I."

"Mi lord," sche seide, " grant merci,

For of this word that ye now sein,

That ye have mad me soverein,

Mi destine is overpassed,

That nevere hierafter schal be lassed

Mi beaute, which that I now have,

Til I be take into my grave;

Bot nyht and day as I am now

I schal alwey be such to yow.

The kinges dowhter of Cizile

I am, and fell bot siththe awhile,

As I was with my fader late,

That my Stepmoder for an hate,

Which toward me sche hath begonne,

Forschop me, til I hadde wonne

The love and sovereinete

Of what knyht that in his degre

Alle othre passeth of good name:

And, as men sein, ye ben the same,

The dede proeveth it is so;

Thus am I youres evermo."

Tho was plesance and joye ynowh,

Echon with other pleide and lowh;

Thei live longe and wel thei ferde,

And clerkes that this chance herde

Thei writen it in evidence,

To teche how that obedience

Mai wel fortune a man to love

And sette him in his lust above,

As it befell unto this knyht.

Forthi, my Sone, if thou do ryht,

Thou schalt unto thi love obeie,

And folwe hir will be alle weie.

Min holy fader, so I wile:

For ye have told me such a skile

Of this ensample now tofore,

That I schal evermo therfore

Hierafterward myn observance

To love and to his obeissance

The betre kepe: and over this

Of pride if ther oght elles is,

Wherof that I me schryve schal,

What thing it is in special,

Mi fader, axeth, I you preie.

Now lest, my Sone, and I schal seie:

For yit ther is Surquiderie,

Which stant with Pride of compaignie;

Wherof that thou schalt hiere anon,

To knowe if thou have gult or non

Upon the forme as thou schalt hiere:

Now understond wel the matiere.

Surquiderie is thilke vice

Of Pride, which the thridde office

Hath in his Court, and wol noght knowe

The trowthe til it overthrowe.

Upon his fortune and his grace

Comth "Hadde I wist" fulofte aplace;

For he doth al his thing be gesse,

And voideth alle sikernesse.

Non other conseil good him siemeth

Bot such as he himselve diemeth;

For in such wise as he compasseth,

His wit al one alle othre passeth;

And is with pride so thurghsoght,

That he alle othre set at noght,

And weneth of himselven so,

That such as he ther be nomo,

So fair, so semly, ne so wis;

And thus he wolde bere a pris

Above alle othre, and noght forthi

He seith noght ones "grant mercy"

To godd, which alle grace sendeth,

So that his wittes he despendeth

Upon himself, as thogh ther were

No godd which myhte availe there:

Bot al upon his oghne witt

He stant, til he falle in the pitt

So ferr that he mai noght arise.

And riht thus in the same wise

This vice upon the cause of love

So proudly set the herte above,

And doth him pleinly forto wene

That he to loven eny qwene

Hath worthinesse and sufficance;

And so withoute pourveance

Fulofte he heweth up so hihe,

That chippes fallen in his yhe;

And ek ful ofte he weneth this,

Ther as he noght beloved is,

To be beloved alther best.

Now, Sone, tell what so thee lest

Of this that I have told thee hier.

Ha, fader, be noght in a wer:

I trowe ther be noman lesse,

Of eny maner worthinesse,

That halt him lasse worth thanne I

To be beloved; and noght forthi

I seie in excusinge of me,

To alle men that love is fre.

And certes that mai noman werne;

For love is of himself so derne,

It luteth in a mannes herte:

Bot that ne schal me noght asterte,

To wene forto be worthi

To loven, bot in hir mercy.

Bot, Sire, of that ye wolden mene,

That I scholde otherwise wene

To be beloved thanne I was,

I am beknowe as in that cas.

Mi goode Sone, tell me how.

Now lest, and I wol telle yow,

Mi goode fader, how it is.

Fulofte it hath befalle or this

Thurgh hope that was noght certein,

Mi wenynge hath be set in vein

To triste in thing that halp me noght,

Bot onliche of myn oughne thoght.

For as it semeth that a belle

Lik to the wordes that men telle

Answerth, riht so ne mor ne lesse,

To yow, my fader, I confesse,

Such will my wit hath overset,

That what so hope me behet,

Ful many a time I wene it soth,

Bot finali no spied it doth.

Thus may I tellen, as I can,

Wenyng beguileth many a man;

So hath it me, riht wel I wot:

For if a man wole in a Bot

Which is withoute botme rowe,

He moste nedes overthrowe.

Riht so wenyng hath ferd be me:

For whanne I wende next have be,

As I be my wenynge caste,

Thanne was I furthest ate laste,

And as a foll my bowe unbende,

Whan al was failed that I wende.

Forthi, my fader, as of this,

That my wenynge hath gon amis

Touchende to Surquiderie,

Yif me my penance er I die.

Bot if ye wolde in eny forme

Of this matiere a tale enforme,

Which were ayein this vice set,

I scholde fare wel the bet.

Mi Sone, in alle maner wise

Surquiderie is to despise,

Wherof I finde write thus.

The proude knyht Capaneuµs

He was of such Surquiderie,

That he thurgh his chivalerie

Upon himself so mochel triste,

That to the goddes him ne liste

In no querele to beseche,

Bot seide it was an ydel speche,

Which caused was of pure drede,

For lack of herte and for no nede.

And upon such presumpcioun

He hield this proude opinioun,

Til ate laste upon a dai,

Aboute Thebes wher he lay,

Whan it of Siege was belein,

This knyht, as the Croniqes sein,

In alle mennes sihte there,

Whan he was proudest in his gere,

And thoghte how nothing myhte him dere,

Ful armed with his schield and spere

As he the Cite wolde assaile,

Godd tok himselve the bataille

Ayein his Pride, and fro the sky

A firy thonder sodeinly

He sende, and him to pouldre smot.

And thus the Pride which was hot,

Whan he most in his strengthe wende,

Was brent and lost withouten ende:

So that it proeveth wel therfore,

The strengthe of man is sone lore,

Bot if that he it wel governe.

And over this a man mai lerne

That ek fulofte time it grieveth,

Whan that a man himself believeth,

As thogh it scholde him wel beseme

That he alle othre men can deme,

And hath foryete his oghne vice.

A tale of hem that ben so nyce,

And feigne hemself to be so wise,

I schal thee telle in such a wise,

Wherof thou schalt ensample take

That thou no such thing undertake.

I finde upon Surquiderie,

How that whilom of Hungarie

Be olde daies was a King

Wys and honeste in alle thing:

And so befell upon a dai,

And that was in the Monthe of Maii,

As thilke time it was usance,

This kyng with noble pourveance

Hath for himself his Charr araied,

Wher inne he wolde ride amaied

Out of the Cite forto pleie,

With lordes and with gret nobleie

Of lusti folk that were yonge:

Wher some pleide and some songe,

And some gon and some ryde,

And some prike here hors aside

And bridlen hem now in now oute.

The kyng his yhe caste aboute,

Til he was ate laste war

And syh comende ayein his char

Two pilegrins of so gret age,

That lich unto a dreie ymage

Thei weren pale and fade hewed,

And as a bussh which is besnewed,

Here berdes weren hore and whyte;

Ther was of kinde bot a lite,

That thei ne semen fulli dede.

Thei comen to the kyng and bede

Som of his good par charite;

And he with gret humilite

Out of his Char to grounde lepte,

And hem in bothe hise armes kepte

And keste hem bothe fot and hond

Before the lordes of his lond,

And yaf hem of his good therto:

And whanne he hath this dede do,

He goth into his char ayein.

Tho was Murmur, tho was desdeign,

Tho was compleignte on every side,

Thei seiden of here oghne Pride

Eche until othre: "What is this?

Oure king hath do this thing amis,

So to abesse his realte

That every man it myhte se,

And humbled him in such a wise

To hem that were of non emprise."

Thus was it spoken to and fro

Of hem that were with him tho

Al prively behinde his bak;

Bot to himselven noman spak.

The kinges brother in presence

Was thilke time, and gret offence

He tok therof, and was the same

Above alle othre which most blame

Upon his liege lord hath leid,

And hath unto the lordes seid,

Anon as he mai time finde,

Ther schal nothing be left behinde,

That he wol speke unto the king.

Now lest what fell upon this thing.

The day was merie and fair ynowh,

Echon with othre pleide and lowh,

And fellen into tales newe,

How that the freisshe floures grewe,

And how the grene leves spronge,

And how that love among the yonge

Began the hertes thanne awake,

And every bridd hath chose hire make:

And thus the Maies day to thende

Thei lede, and hom ayein thei wende.

The king was noght so sone come,

That whanne he hadde his chambre nome,

His brother ne was redi there,

And broghte a tale unto his Ere

Of that he dede such a schame

In hindringe of his oghne name,

Whan he himself so wolde drecche,

That to so vil a povere wrecche

Him deigneth schewe such simplesce

Ayein thastat of his noblesce:

And seith he schal it nomor use,

And that he mot himself excuse

Toward hise lordes everychon.

The king stod stille as eny ston,

And to his tale an Ere he leide,

And thoghte more than he seide:

Bot natheles to that he herde

Wel cortaisly the king answerde,

And tolde it scholde be amended.

And thus whan that her tale is ended,

Al redy was the bord and cloth,

The king unto his Souper goth

Among the lordes to the halle;

And whan thei hadden souped alle,

Thei token leve and forth thei go.

The king bethoghte himselve tho

How he his brother mai chastie,

That he thurgh his Surquiderie

Tok upon honde to despreise

Humilite, which is to preise,

And therupon yaf such conseil

Toward his king that was noght heil;

Wherof to be the betre lered,

He thenkth to maken him afered.

It fell so that in thilke dawe

Ther was ordeined be the lawe

A trompe with a sterne breth,

Which cleped was the Trompe of deth:

And in the Court wher the king was

A certein man this Trompe of bras

Hath in kepinge, and therof serveth,

That whan a lord his deth deserveth,

He schal this dredful trompe blowe

Tofore his gate, and make it knowe

How that the jugement is yove

Of deth, which schal noght be foryove.

The king, whan it was nyht, anon

This man asente and bad him gon

To trompen at his brother gate;

And he, which mot so don algate,

Goth forth and doth the kynges heste.

This lord, which herde of this tempeste

That he tofore his gate blew,

Tho wiste he be the lawe and knew

That he was sikerliche ded:

And as of help he wot no red,

Bot sende for hise frendes alle

And tolde hem how it is befalle.

And thei him axe cause why;

Bot he the sothe noght forthi

Ne wiste, and ther was sorwe tho:

For it stod thilke tyme so,

This trompe was of such sentence,

That therayein no resistence

Thei couthe ordeine be no weie,

That he ne mot algate deie,

Bot if so that he may pourchace

To gete his liege lordes grace.

Here wittes therupon thei caste,

And ben apointed ate laste.

This lord a worthi ladi hadde

Unto his wif, which also dradde

Hire lordes deth, and children five

Betwen hem two thei hadde alyve,

That weren yonge and tendre of age,

And of stature and of visage

Riht faire and lusty on to se.

Tho casten thei that he and sche

Forth with here children on the morwe,

As thei that were full of sorwe,

Al naked bot of smok and scherte,

To tendre with the kynges herte,

His grace scholden go to seche

And pardoun of the deth beseche.

Thus passen thei that wofull nyht,

And erly, whan thei sihe it lyht,

Thei gon hem forth in such a wise

As thou tofore hast herd devise,

Al naked bot here schortes one.

Thei wepte and made mochel mone,

Here Her hangende aboute here Eres;

With sobbinge and with sory teres

This lord goth thanne an humble pas,

That whilom proud and noble was;

Wherof the Cite sore afflyhte,

Of hem that sihen thilke syhte:

And natheless al openly

With such wepinge and with such cri

Forth with hise children and his wif

He goth to preie for his lif.

Unto the court whan thei be come,

And men therinne have hiede nome,

Ther was no wiht, if he hem syhe,

Fro water mihte kepe his yhe

For sorwe which thei maden tho.

The king supposeth of this wo,

And feigneth as he noght ne wiste;

Bot natheles at his upriste

Men tolden him how that it ferde:

And whan that he this wonder herde,

In haste he goth into the halle,

And alle at ones doun thei falle,

If eny pite may be founde.

The king, which seth hem go to grounde,

Hath axed hem what is the fere,

Why thei be so despuiled there.

His brother seide: "Ha lord, mercy]

I wot non other cause why,

Bot only that this nyht ful late

The trompe of deth was at my gate

In tokne that I scholde deie;

Thus be we come forto preie

That ye mi worldes deth respite."

"Ha fol, how thou art forto wyte,"

The king unto his brother seith,

"That thou art of so litel feith,

That only for a trompes soun

Hast gon despuiled thurgh the toun,

Thou and thi wif in such manere

Forth with thi children that ben here,

In sihte of alle men aboute,

For that thou seist thou art in doute

Of deth, which stant under the lawe

Of man, and man it mai withdrawe,

So that it mai par chance faile.

Now schalt thou noght forthi mervaile

That I doun fro my Charr alihte,

Whanne I behield tofore my sihte

In hem that were of so grete age

Min oghne deth thurgh here ymage,

Which god hath set be lawe of kynde,

Wherof I mai no bote finde:

For wel I wot, such as thei be,

Riht such am I in my degree,

Of fleissh and blod, and so schal deie.

And thus, thogh I that lawe obeie

Of which the kinges ben put under,

It oghte ben wel lasse wonder

Than thou, which art withoute nede

For lawe of londe in such a drede,

Which for tacompte is bot a jape,

As thing which thou miht overscape.

Forthi, mi brother, after this

I rede, sithen that so is

That thou canst drede a man so sore,

Dred god with al thin herte more:

For al schal deie and al schal passe,

Als wel a Leoun as an asse,

Als wel a beggere as a lord,

Towardes deth in on acord

Thei schullen stonde." And in this wise

The king hath with hise wordes wise

His brother tawht and al foryive.

Forthi, mi Sone, if thou wolt live

In vertu, thou most vice eschuie,

And with low herte humblesce suie,

So that thou be noght surquidous.

Mi fader, I am amorous,

Wherof I wolde you beseche

That ye me som ensample teche,

Which mihte in loves cause stonde.

Mi Sone, thou schalt understonde,

In love and othre thinges alle

If that Surquiderie falle,

It may to him noght wel betide

Which useth thilke vice of Pride,

Which torneth wisdom to wenynge

And Sothfastnesse into lesynge

Thurgh fol ymaginacion.

And for thin enformacion,

That thou this vice as I the rede

Eschuie schalt, a tale I rede,

Which fell whilom be daies olde,

So as the clerk Ovide tolde.

Ther was whilom a lordes Sone,

Which of his Pride a nyce wone

Hath cawht, that worthi to his liche,

To sechen al the worldes riche,

Ther was no womman forto love.

So hihe he sette himselve above

Of stature and of beaute bothe,

That him thoghte alle wommen lothe:

So was ther no comparisoun

As toward his condicioun.

This yonge lord Narcizus hihte:

No strengthe of love bowe mihte

His herte, which is unaffiled;

Bot ate laste he was beguiled:

For of the goddes pourveance

It fell him on a dai par chance,

That he in all his proude fare

Unto the forest gan to fare,

Amonges othre that ther were

To hunte and to desporte him there.

And whanne he cam into the place

Wher that he wolde make his chace,

The houndes weren in a throwe

Uncoupled and the hornes blowe:

The grete hert anon was founde,

Which swifte feet sette upon grounde,

And he with spore in horse side

Him hasteth faste forto ride,

Til alle men be left behinde.

And as he rod, under a linde

Beside a roche, as I thee telle,

He syh wher sprong a lusty welle:

The day was wonder hot withalle,

And such a thurst was on him falle,

That he moste owther deie or drinke;

And doun he lihte and be the brinke

He teide his Hors unto a braunche,

And leide him lowe forto staunche

His thurst: and as he caste his lok

Into the welle and hiede tok,

He sih the like of his visage,

And wende ther were an ymage

Of such a Nimphe as tho was faie,

Wherof that love his herte assaie

Began, as it was after sene,

Of his sotie and made him wene

It were a womman that he syh.

The more he cam the welle nyh,

The nerr cam sche to him ayein;

So wiste he nevere what to sein;

For whanne he wepte, he sih hire wepe,

And whanne he cride, he tok good kepe,

The same word sche cride also:

And thus began the newe wo,

That whilom was to him so strange;

Tho made him love an hard eschange,

To sette his herte and to beginne

Thing which he mihte nevere winne.

And evere among he gan to loute,

And preith that sche to him come oute;

And otherwhile he goth a ferr,

And otherwhile he draweth nerr,

And evere he fond hire in o place.

He wepth, he crith, he axeth grace,

There as he mihte gete non;

So that ayein a Roche of Ston,

As he that knew non other red,

He smot himself til he was ded.

Wherof the Nimphes of the welles,

And othre that ther weren elles

Unto the wodes belongende,

The body, which was ded ligende,

For pure pite that thei have

Under the grene thei begrave.

And thanne out of his sepulture

Ther sprong anon par aventure

Of floures such a wonder syhte,

That men ensample take myhte

Upon the dedes whiche he dede,

As tho was sene in thilke stede;

For in the wynter freysshe and faire

The floures ben, which is contraire

To kynde, and so was the folie

Which fell of his Surquiderie.

Thus he, which love hadde in desdeign,

Worste of all othre was besein,

And as he sette his pris most hyhe,

He was lest worth in loves yhe

And most bejaped in his wit:

Wherof the remembrance is yit,

So that thou myht ensample take,

And ek alle othre for his sake.

Mi fader, as touchende of me,

This vice I thenke forto fle,

Which of his wenynge overtroweth;

And nameliche of thing which groweth

In loves cause or wel or wo

Yit pryded I me nevere so.

Bot wolde god that grace sende,

That toward me my lady wende

As I towardes hire wene]

Mi love scholde so be sene,

Ther scholde go no pride a place.

Bot I am ferr fro thilke grace,

As forto speke of tyme now;

So mot I soffre, and preie yow

That ye wole axe on other side

If ther be eny point of Pride,

Wherof it nedeth to be schrive.

Mi Sone, godd it thee foryive,

If thou have eny thing misdo

Touchende of this, bot overmo

Ther is an other yit of Pride,

Which nevere cowthe hise wordes hide,

That he ne wole himself avaunte;

Ther mai nothing his tunge daunte,

That he ne clappeth as a Belle:

Wherof if thou wolt that I telle,

It is behovely forto hiere,

So that thou myht thi tunge stiere,

Toward the world and stonde in grace,

Which lacketh ofte in many place

To him that can noght sitte stille,

Which elles scholde have al his wille.

The vice cleped Avantance

With Pride hath take his aqueintance,

So that his oghne pris he lasseth,

When he such mesure overpasseth

That he his oghne Herald is.

That ferst was wel is thanne mis,

That was thankworth is thanne blame,

And thus the worschipe of his name

Thurgh pride of his avantarie

He torneth into vilenie.

I rede how that this proude vice

Hath thilke wynd in his office,

Which thurgh the blastes that he bloweth

The mannes fame he overthroweth

Of vertu, which scholde elles springe

Into the worldes knowlechinge;

Bot he fordoth it alto sore.

And riht of such a maner lore

Ther ben lovers: forthi if thow

Art on of hem, tell and sei how.

Whan thou hast taken eny thing

Of loves yifte, or Nouche or ring,

Or tok upon thee for the cold

Som goodly word that thee was told,

Or frendly chiere or tokne or lettre,

Wherof thin herte was the bettre,

Or that sche sende the grietinge,

Hast thou for Pride of thi likinge

Mad thin avant wher as the liste?

I wolde, fader, that ye wiste,

Mi conscience lith noght hiere:

Yit hadde I nevere such matiere,

Wherof min herte myhte amende,

Noght of so mochel that sche sende

Be mowthe and seide, "Griet him wel:"

And thus for that ther is no diel

Wherof to make myn avant,

It is to reson acordant

That I mai nevere, bot I lye,

Of love make avanterie.

I wot noght what I scholde have do,

If that I hadde encheson so,

As ye have seid hier manyon;

Bot I fond cause nevere non:

Bot daunger, which welnyh me slowh,

Therof I cowthe telle ynowh,

And of non other Avantance:

Thus nedeth me no repentance.

Now axeth furthere of my lif,

For hierof am I noght gultif.

Mi Sone, I am wel paid withal;

For wite it wel in special

That love of his verrai justice

Above alle othre ayein this vice

At alle times most debateth,

With al his herte and most it hateth.

And ek in alle maner wise

Avantarie is to despise,

As be ensample thou myht wite,

Which I finde in the bokes write.

Of hem that we Lombars now calle

Albinus was the ferste of alle

Which bar corone of Lombardie,

And was of gret chivalerie

In werre ayein diverse kinges.

So fell amonges othre thinges,

That he that time a werre hadde

With Gurmond, which the Geptes ladde,

And was a myhti kyng also:

Bot natheles it fell him so,

Albinus slowh him in the feld,

Ther halp him nowther swerd ne scheld,

That he ne smot his hed of thanne,

Wherof he tok awey the Panne,

Of which he seide he wolde make

A Cuppe for Gurmoundes sake,

To kepe and drawe into memoire

Of his bataille the victoire.

And thus whan he the feld hath wonne,

The lond anon was overronne

And sesed in his oghne hond,

Wher he Gurmondes dowhter fond,

Which Maide Rosemounde hihte,

And was in every mannes sihte

A fair, a freissh, a lusti on.

His herte fell to hire anon,

And such a love on hire he caste,

That he hire weddeth ate laste;

And after that long time in reste

With hire he duelte, and to the beste

Thei love ech other wonder wel.

Bot sche which kepth the blinde whel,

Venus, whan thei be most above,

In al the hoteste of here love,

Hire whiel sche torneth, and thei felle

In the manere as I schal telle.

This king, which stod in al his welthe

Of pes, of worschipe and of helthe,

And felte him on no side grieved,

As he that hath his world achieved,

Tho thoghte he wolde a feste make;

And that was for his wyves sake,

That sche the lordes ate feste,

That were obeissant to his heste,

Mai knowe: and so forth therupon

He let ordeine, and sende anon

Be lettres and be messagiers,

And warnede alle hise officiers

That every thing be wel arraied:

The grete Stiedes were assaied

For joustinge and for tornement,

And many a perled garnement

Embroudred was ayein the dai.

The lordes in here beste arrai

Be comen ate time set,

On jousteth wel, an other bet,

And otherwhile thei torneie,

And thus thei casten care aweie

And token lustes upon honde.

And after, thou schalt understonde,

To mete into the kinges halle

Thei come, as thei be beden alle:

And whan thei were set and served,

Thanne after, as it was deserved,

To hem that worthi knyhtes were,

So as thei seten hiere and there,

The pris was yove and spoken oute

Among the heraldz al aboute.

And thus benethe and ek above

Al was of armes and of love,

Wherof abouten ate bordes

Men hadde manye sondri wordes,

That of the merthe which thei made

The king himself began to glade

Withinne his herte and tok a pride,

And sih the Cuppe stonde aside,

Which mad was of Gurmoundes hed,

As ye have herd, whan he was ded,

And was with gold and riche Stones

Beset and bounde for the nones,

And stod upon a fot on heihte

Of burned gold, and with gret sleihte

Of werkmanschipe it was begrave

Of such werk as it scholde have,

And was policed ek so clene

That no signe of the Skulle is sene,

Bot as it were a Gripes Ey.

The king bad bere his Cuppe awey,

Which stod tofore him on the bord,

And fette thilke. Upon his word

This Skulle is fet and wyn therinne,

Wherof he bad his wif beginne:

"Drink with thi fader, Dame," he seide.

And sche to his biddinge obeide,

And tok the Skulle, and what hire liste

Sche drank, as sche which nothing wiste

What Cuppe it was: and thanne al oute

The kyng in audience aboute

Hath told it was hire fader Skulle,

So that the lordes knowe schulle

Of his bataille a soth witnesse,

And made avant thurgh what prouesse

He hath his wyves love wonne,

Which of the Skulle hath so begonne.

Tho was ther mochel Pride alofte,

Thei speken alle, and sche was softe,

Thenkende on thilke unkynde Pride,

Of that hire lord so nyh hire side

Avanteth him that he hath slain

And piked out hire fader brain,

And of the Skulle had mad a Cuppe.

Sche soffreth al til thei were uppe,

And tho sche hath seknesse feigned,

And goth to chambre and hath compleigned

Unto a Maide which sche triste,

So that non other wyht it wiste.

This Mayde Glodeside is hote,

To whom this lady hath behote

Of ladischipe al that sche can,

To vengen hire upon this man,

Which dede hire drinke in such a plit

Among hem alle for despit

Of hire and of hire fader bothe;

Wherof hire thoghtes ben so wrothe,

Sche seith, that sche schal noght be glad,

Til that sche se him so bestad

That he nomore make avant.

And thus thei felle in covenant,

That thei acorden ate laste,

With suche wiles as thei caste

That thei wol gete of here acord

Som orped knyht to sle this lord:

And with this sleihte thei beginne,

How thei Helmege myhten winne,

Which was the kinges Boteler,

A proud a lusti Bacheler,

And Glodeside he loveth hote.

And sche, to make him more assote,

Hire love granteth, and be nyhte

Thei schape how thei togedre myhte

Abedde meete: and don it was

This same nyht; and in this cas

The qwene hirself the nyht secounde

Wente in hire stede, and there hath founde

A chambre derk withoute liht,

And goth to bedde to this knyht.

And he, to kepe his observance,

To love doth his obeissance,

And weneth it be Glodeside;

And sche thanne after lay aside,

And axeth him what he hath do,

And who sche was sche tolde him tho,

And seide: "Helmege, I am thi qwene,

Now schal thi love wel be sene

Of that thou hast thi wille wroght:

Or it schal sore ben aboght,

Or thou schalt worche as I thee seie.

And if thou wolt be such a weie

Do my plesance and holde it stille,

For evere I schal ben at thi wille,

Bothe I and al myn heritage."

Anon the wylde loves rage,

In which noman him can governe,

Hath mad him that he can noght werne,

Bot fell al hol to hire assent:

And thus the whiel is al miswent,

The which fortune hath upon honde;

For how that evere it after stonde,

Thei schope among hem such a wyle,

The king was ded withinne a whyle.

So slihly cam it noght aboute

That thei ne ben descoevered oute,

So that it thoghte hem for the beste

To fle, for there was no reste:

And thus the tresor of the king

Thei trusse and mochel other thing,

And with a certein felaschipe

Thei fledde and wente awey be schipe,

And hielde here rihte cours fro thenne,

Til that thei come to Ravenne,

Wher thei the Dukes helpe soghte.

And he, so as thei him besoghte,

A place granteth forto duelle;

Bot after, whan he herde telle

Of the manere how thei have do,

This Duk let schape for hem so,

That of a puison which thei drunke

Thei hadden that thei have beswunke.

And al this made avant of Pride:

Good is therfore a man to hide

His oghne pris, for if he speke,

He mai lihtliche his thonk tobreke.

In armes lith non avantance

To him which thenkth his name avance

And be renomed of his dede:

And also who that thenkth to spede

Of love, he mai him noght avaunte;

For what man thilke vice haunte,

His pourpos schal fulofte faile.

In armes he that wol travaile

Or elles loves grace atteigne,

His lose tunge he mot restreigne,

Which berth of his honour the keie.

Forthi, my Sone, in alle weie

Tak riht good hiede of this matiere.

I thonke you, my fader diere,

This scole is of a gentil lore;

And if ther be oght elles more

Of Pride, which I schal eschuie,

Now axeth forth, and I wol suie

What thing that ye me wole enforme.

Mi Sone, yit in other forme

Ther is a vice of Prides lore,

Which lich an hauk whan he wol sore,

Fleith upon heihte in his delices

After the likynge of his vices,

And wol no mannes resoun knowe,

Till he doun falle and overthrowe.

This vice veine gloire is hote,

Wherof, my Sone, I thee behote

To trete and speke in such a wise,

That thou thee myht the betre avise.

The proude vice of veine gloire

Remembreth noght of purgatoire,

Hise worldes joyes ben so grete,

Him thenkth of hevene no beyete;

This lives Pompe is al his pes:

Yit schal he deie natheles,

And therof thenkth he bot a lite,

For al his lust is to delite

In newe thinges, proude and veine,

Als ferforth as he mai atteigne.

I trowe, if that he myhte make

His body newe, he wolde take

A newe forme and leve his olde:

For what thing that he mai beholde,

The which to comun us is strange,

Anon his olde guise change

He wole and falle therupon,

Lich unto the Camelion,

Which upon every sondri hewe

That he beholt he moste newe

His colour, and thus unavised

Fulofte time he stant desguised.

Mor jolif than the brid in Maii

He makth him evere freissh and gay,

And doth al his array desguise,

So that of him the newe guise

Of lusti folk alle othre take;

And ek he can carolles make,

Rondeal, balade and virelai.

And with al this, if that he may

Of love gete him avantage,

Anon he wext of his corage

So overglad, that of his ende

Him thenkth ther is no deth comende:

For he hath thanne at alle tide

Of love such a maner pride,

Him thenkth his joie is endeles.

Now schrif thee, Sone, in godes pes,

And of thi love tell me plein

If that thi gloire hath be so vein.

Mi fader, as touchinge of al

I may noght wel ne noght ne schal

Of veine gloire excuse me,

That I ne have for love be

The betre adresced and arraied;

And also I have ofte assaied

Rondeal, balade and virelai

For hire on whom myn herte lai

To make, and also forto peinte

Caroles with my wordes qweinte,

To sette my pourpos alofte;

And thus I sang hem forth fulofte

In halle and ek in chambre aboute,

And made merie among the route,

Bot yit ne ferde I noght the bet.

Thus was my gloire in vein beset

Of al the joie that I made;

For whanne I wolde with hire glade,

And of hire love songes make,

Sche saide it was noght for hir sake,

And liste noght my songes hiere

Ne witen what the wordes were.

So forto speke of myn arrai,

Yit couthe I nevere be so gay

Ne so wel make a songe of love,

Wherof I myhte ben above

And have encheson to be glad;

Bot rathere I am ofte adrad

For sorwe that sche seith me nay.

And natheles I wol noght say,

That I nam glad on other side;

For fame, that can nothing hide,

Alday wol bringe unto myn Ere

Of that men speken hier and there,

How that my ladi berth the pris,

How sche is fair, how sche is wis,

How sche is wommanlich of chiere;

Of al this thing whanne I mai hiere,

What wonder is thogh I be fain?

And ek whanne I may hiere sain

Tidinges of my ladi hele,

Althogh I may noght with hir dele,

Yit am I wonder glad of that;

For whanne I wot hire good astat,

As for that time I dar wel swere,

Non other sorwe mai me dere,

Thus am I gladed in this wise.

Bot, fader, of youre lores wise,

Of whiche ye be fully tawht,

Now tell me if yow thenketh awht

That I therof am forto wyte.

Of that ther is I thee acquite,

Mi sone, he seide, and for thi goode

I wolde that thou understode:

For I thenke upon this matiere

To telle a tale, as thou schalt hiere,

How that ayein this proude vice

The hihe god of his justice

Is wroth and gret vengance doth.

Now herkne a tale that is soth:

Thogh it be noght of loves kinde,

A gret ensample thou schalt finde

This veine gloire forto fle,

Which is so full of vanite.

Ther was a king that mochel myhte,

Which Nabugodonosor hihte,

Of whom that I spak hier tofore.

Yit in the bible his name is bore,

For al the world in Orient

Was hol at his comandement:

As thanne of kinges to his liche

Was non so myhty ne so riche;

To his Empire and to his lawes,

As who seith, alle in thilke dawes

Were obeissant and tribut bere,

As thogh he godd of Erthe were.

With strengthe he putte kinges under,

And wroghte of Pride many a wonder;

He was so full of veine gloire,

That he ne hadde no memoire

That ther was eny good bot he,

For pride of his prosperite;

Til that the hihe king of kinges,

Which seth and knoweth alle thinges,

Whos yhe mai nothing asterte,-

The privetes of mannes herte

Thei speke and sounen in his Ere

As thogh thei lowde wyndes were,-

He tok vengance upon this pride.

Bot for he wolde awhile abide

To loke if he him wolde amende,

To him a foretokne he sende,

And that was in his slep be nyhte.

This proude kyng a wonder syhte

Hadde in his swevene, ther he lay:

Him thoghte, upon a merie day

As he behield the world aboute,

A tree fulgrowe he syh theroute,

Which stod the world amiddes evene,

Whos heihte straghte up to the hevene;

The leves weren faire and large,

Of fruit it bar so ripe a charge,

That alle men it myhte fede:

He sih also the bowes spriede

Above al Erthe, in whiche were

The kinde of alle briddes there;

And eke him thoghte he syh also

The kinde of alle bestes go

Under this tre aboute round

And fedden hem upon the ground.

As he this wonder stod and syh,

Him thoghte he herde a vois on hih

Criende, and seide aboven alle:

"Hew doun this tree and lett it falle,

The leves let defoule in haste

And do the fruit destruie and waste,

And let of schreden every braunche,

Bot ate Rote let it staunche.

Whan al his Pride is cast to grounde,

The rote schal be faste bounde,

And schal no mannes herte bere,

Bot every lust he schal forbere

Of man, and lich an Oxe his mete

Of gras he schal pourchace and ete,

Til that the water of the hevene

Have waisshen him be times sevene,

So that he be thurghknowe ariht

What is the heveneliche myht,

And be mad humble to the wille

Of him which al mai save and spille."

This king out of his swefne abreide,

And he upon the morwe it seide

Unto the clerkes whiche he hadde:

Bot non of hem the sothe aradde,

Was non his swevene cowthe undo.

And it stod thilke time so,

This king hadde in subjeccioun

Judee, and of affeccioun

Above alle othre on Daniel

He loveth, for he cowthe wel

Divine that non other cowthe:

To him were alle thinges cowthe,

As he it hadde of goddes grace.

He was before the kinges face

Asent, and bode that he scholde

Upon the point the king of tolde

The fortune of his swevene expounde,

As it scholde afterward be founde.

Whan Daniel this swevene herde,

He stod long time er he ansuerde,

And made a wonder hevy chiere.

The king tok hiede of his manere,

And bad him telle that he wiste,

As he to whom he mochel triste,

And seide he wolde noght be wroth.

Bot Daniel was wonder loth,

And seide: "Upon thi fomen alle,

Sire king, thi swevene mote falle;

And natheles touchende of this

I wol the tellen how it is,

And what desese is to thee schape:

God wot if thou it schalt ascape.

The hihe tree, which thou hast sein

With lef and fruit so wel besein,

The which stod in the world amiddes,

So that the bestes and the briddes

Governed were of him al one,

Sire king, betokneth thi persone,

Which stant above all erthli thinges.

Thus regnen under the the kinges,

And al the poeple unto thee louteth,

And al the world thi pouer doubteth,

So that with vein honour deceived

Thou hast the reverence weyved

Fro him which is thi king above,

That thou for drede ne for love

Wolt nothing knowen of thi godd;

Which now for thee hath mad a rodd,

Thi veine gloire and thi folie

With grete peines to chastie.

And of the vois thou herdest speke,

Which bad the bowes forto breke

And hewe and felle doun the tree,

That word belongeth unto thee;

Thi regne schal ben overthrowe,

And thou despuiled for a throwe:

Bot that the Rote scholde stonde,

Be that thou schalt wel understonde,

Ther schal abyden of thi regne

A time ayein whan thou schalt regne.

And ek of that thou herdest seie,

To take a mannes herte aweie

And sette there a bestial,

So that he lich an Oxe schal

Pasture, and that he be bereined

Be times sefne and sore peined,

Til that he knowe his goddes mihtes,

Than scholde he stonde ayein uprihtes,-

Al this betokneth thin astat,

Which now with god is in debat:

Thi mannes forme schal be lassed,

Til sevene yer ben overpassed,

And in the liknesse of a beste

Of gras schal be thi real feste,

The weder schal upon thee reine.

And understond that al this peine,

Which thou schalt soffre thilke tide,

Is schape al only for thi pride

Of veine gloire, and of the sinne

Which thou hast longe stonden inne.

So upon this condicioun

Thi swevene hath exposicioun.

Bot er this thing befalle in dede,

Amende thee, this wolde I rede:

Yif and departe thin almesse,

Do mercy forth with rihtwisnesse,

Besech and prei the hihe grace,

For so thou myht thi pes pourchace

With godd, and stonde in good acord."

Bot Pride is loth to leve his lord,

And wol noght soffre humilite

With him to stonde in no degree;

And whan a schip hath lost his stiere,

Is non so wys that mai him stiere

Ayein the wawes in a rage.

This proude king in his corage

Humilite hath so forlore,

That for no swevene he sih tofore,

Ne yit for al that Daniel

Him hath conseiled everydel,

He let it passe out of his mynde,

Thurgh veine gloire, and as the blinde,

He seth no weie, er him be wo.

And fell withinne a time so,

As he in Babiloine wente,

The vanite of Pride him hente;

His herte aros of veine gloire,

So that he drowh into memoire

His lordschipe and his regalie

With wordes of Surquiderie.

And whan that he him most avaunteth,

That lord which veine gloire daunteth,

Al sodeinliche, as who seith treis,

Wher that he stod in his Paleis,

He tok him fro the mennes sihte:

Was non of hem so war that mihte

Sette yhe wher that he becom.

And thus was he from his kingdom

Into the wilde Forest drawe,

Wher that the myhti goddes lawe

Thurgh his pouer dede him transforme

Fro man into a bestes forme;

And lich an Oxe under the fot

He graseth, as he nedes mot,

To geten him his lives fode.

Tho thoghte him colde grases goode,

That whilom eet the hote spices,

Thus was he torned fro delices:

The wyn which he was wont to drinke

He tok thanne of the welles brinke

Or of the pet or of the slowh,

It thoghte him thanne good ynowh:

In stede of chambres wel arraied

He was thanne of a buissh wel paied,

The harde ground he lay upon,

For othre pilwes hath he non;

The stormes and the Reines falle,

The wyndes blowe upon him alle,

He was tormented day and nyht,

Such was the hihe goddes myht,

Til sevene yer an ende toke.

Upon himself tho gan he loke;

In stede of mete gras and stres,

In stede of handes longe cles,

In stede of man a bestes lyke

He syh; and thanne he gan to syke

For cloth of gold and for perrie,

Which him was wont to magnefie.

Whan he behield his Cote of heres,

He wepte and with fulwoful teres

Up to the hevene he caste his chiere

Wepende, and thoghte in this manere;

Thogh he no wordes myhte winne,

Thus seide his herte and spak withinne:

"O mihti godd, that al hast wroght

And al myht bringe ayein to noght,

Now knowe I wel, bot al of thee,

This world hath no prosperite:

In thin aspect ben alle liche,

The povere man and ek the riche,

Withoute thee ther mai no wight,

And thou above alle othre miht.

O mihti lord, toward my vice

Thi merci medle with justice;

And I woll make a covenant,

That of my lif the remenant

I schal it be thi grace amende,

And in thi lawe so despende

That veine gloire I schal eschuie,

And bowe unto thin heste and suie

Humilite, and that I vowe."

And so thenkende he gan doun bowe,

And thogh him lacke vois and speche,

He gan up with his feet areche,

And wailende in his bestly stevene

He made his pleignte unto the hevene.

He kneleth in his wise and braieth,

To seche merci and assaieth

His god, which made him nothing strange,

Whan that he sih his pride change.

Anon as he was humble and tame,

He fond toward his god the same,

And in a twinklinge of a lok

His mannes forme ayein he tok,

And was reformed to the regne

In which that he was wont to regne;

So that the Pride of veine gloire

Evere afterward out of memoire

He let it passe. And thus is schewed

What is to ben of Pride unthewed

Ayein the hihe goddes lawe,

To whom noman mai be felawe.

Forthi, my Sone, tak good hiede

So forto lede thi manhiede,

That thou ne be noght lich a beste.

Bot if thi lif schal ben honeste,

Thou most humblesce take on honde,

For thanne myht thou siker stonde:

And forto speke it otherwise,

A proud man can no love assise;

For thogh a womman wolde him plese,

His Pride can noght ben at ese.

Ther mai noman to mochel blame

A vice which is forto blame;

Forthi men scholde nothing hide

That mihte falle in blame of Pride,

Which is the werste vice of alle:

Wherof, so as it was befalle,

The tale I thenke of a Cronique

To telle, if that it mai thee like,

So that thou myht humblesce suie

And ek the vice of Pride eschuie,

Wherof the gloire is fals and vein;

Which god himself hath in desdeign,

That thogh it mounte for a throwe,

It schal doun falle and overthrowe.

A king whilom was yong and wys,

The which sette of his wit gret pris.

Of depe ymaginaciouns

And strange interpretaciouns,

Problemes and demandes eke,

His wisdom was to finde and seke;

Wherof he wolde in sondri wise

Opposen hem that weren wise.

Bot non of hem it myhte bere

Upon his word to yeve answere,

Outaken on, which was a knyht;

To him was every thing so liht,

That also sone as he hem herde,

The kinges wordes he answerde;

What thing the king him axe wolde,

Therof anon the trowthe he tolde.

The king somdiel hadde an Envie,

And thoghte he wolde his wittes plie

To sette som conclusioun,

Which scholde be confusioun

Unto this knyht, so that the name

And of wisdom the hihe fame

Toward himself he wolde winne.

And thus of al his wit withinne

This king began to studie and muse,

What strange matiere he myhte use

The knyhtes wittes to confounde;

And ate laste he hath it founde,

And for the knyht anon he sente,

That he schal telle what he mente.

Upon thre pointz stod the matiere

Of questions, as thou schalt hiere.

The ferste point of alle thre

Was this: "What thing in his degre

Of al this world hath nede lest,

And yet men helpe it althermest?"

The secounde is: "What most is worth,

And of costage is lest put forth?"

The thridde is: "Which is of most cost,

And lest is worth and goth to lost?"

The king thes thre demandes axeth,

And to the knyht this lawe he taxeth,

That he schal gon and come ayein

The thridde weke, and telle him plein

To every point, what it amonteth.

And if so be that he misconteth,

To make in his answere a faile,

Ther schal non other thing availe,

The king seith, bot he schal be ded

And lese hise goodes and his hed.

The knyht was sori of this thing

And wolde excuse him to the king,

Bot he ne wolde him noght forbere,

And thus the knyht of his ansuere

Goth hom to take avisement:

Bot after his entendement

The more he caste his wit aboute,

The more he stant therof in doute.

Tho wiste he wel the kinges herte,

That he the deth ne scholde asterte,

And such a sorwe hath to him take,

That gladschipe he hath al forsake.

He thoghte ferst upon his lif,

And after that upon his wif,

Upon his children ek also,

Of whiche he hadde dowhtres tuo;

The yongest of hem hadde of age

Fourtiene yer, and of visage

Sche was riht fair, and of stature

Lich to an hevenely figure,

And of manere and goodli speche,

Thogh men wolde alle Londes seche,

Thei scholden noght have founde hir like.

Sche sih hire fader sorwe and sike,

And wiste noght the cause why;

So cam sche to him prively,

And that was where he made his mone

Withinne a Gardin al him one;

Upon hire knes sche gan doun falle

With humble herte and to him calle,

And seide: "O goode fader diere,

Why make ye thus hevy chiere,

And I wot nothing how it is?

And wel ye knowen, fader, this,

What aventure that you felle

Ye myhte it saufly to me telle,

For I have ofte herd you seid,

That ye such trust have on me leid,

That to my soster ne my brother,

In al this world ne to non other,

Ye dorste telle a privite

So wel, my fader, as to me.

Forthi, my fader, I you preie,

Ne casteth noght that herte aweie,

For I am sche that wolde kepe

Youre honour." And with that to wepe

Hire yhe mai noght be forbore,

Sche wissheth forto ben unbore,

Er that hire fader so mistriste

To tellen hire of that he wiste:

And evere among merci sche cride,

That he ne scholde his conseil hide

From hire that so wolde him good

And was so nyh his fleissh and blod.

So that with wepinge ate laste

His chiere upon his child he caste,

And sorwfulli to that sche preide

He tolde his tale and thus he seide:

"The sorwe, dowhter, which I make

Is noght al only for my sake,

Bot for thee bothe and for you alle:

For such a chance is me befalle,

That I schal er this thridde day

Lese al that evere I lese may,

Mi lif and al my good therto:

Therfore it is I sorwe so."

"What is the cause, helas]" quod sche,

"Mi fader, that ye scholden be

Ded and destruid in such a wise?"

And he began the pointz devise,

Whiche as the king told him be mowthe,

And seid hir pleinly that he cowthe

Ansuere unto no point of this.

And sche, that hiereth how it is,

Hire conseil yaf and seide tho:

"Mi fader, sithen it is so,

That ye can se non other weie,

Bot that ye moste nedes deie,

I wolde preie of you a thing:

Let me go with you to the king,

And ye schull make him understonde

How ye, my wittes forto fonde,

Have leid your ansuere upon me;

And telleth him, in such degre

Upon my word ye wole abide

To lif or deth, what so betide.

For yit par chaunce I may pourchace

With som good word the kinges grace,

Your lif and ek your good to save;

For ofte schal a womman have

Thing which a man mai noght areche."

The fader herde his dowhter speche,

And thoghte ther was resoun inne,

And sih his oghne lif to winne

He cowthe don himself no cure;

So betre him thoghte in aventure

To put his lif and al his good,

Than in the maner as it stod

His lif in certein forto lese.

And thus thenkende he gan to chese

To do the conseil of this Maide,

And tok the pourpos which sche saide.

The dai was come and forth thei gon,

Unto the Court thei come anon,

Wher as the king in juggement

Was set and hath this knyht assent.

Arraied in hire beste wise

This Maiden with hire wordes wise

Hire fader ladde be the hond

Into the place, wher he fond

The king with othre whiche he wolde,

And to the king knelende he tolde

As he enformed was tofore,

And preith the king that he therfore

His dowhtres wordes wolde take,

And seith that he wol undertake

Upon hire wordes forto stonde.

Tho was ther gret merveile on honde,

That he, which was so wys a knyht,

His lif upon so yong a wyht

Besette wolde in jeupartie,

And manye it hielden for folie:

Bot ate laste natheles

The king comandeth ben in pes,

And to this Maide he caste his chiere,

And seide he wolde hire tale hiere,

He bad hire speke, and sche began:

"Mi liege lord, so as I can,"

Quod sche, "the pointz of whiche I herde,

Thei schul of reson ben ansuerde.

The ferste I understonde is this,

What thing of al the world it is,

Which men most helpe and hath lest nede.

Mi liege lord, this wolde I rede:

The Erthe it is, which everemo

With mannes labour is bego;

Als wel in wynter as in Maii

The mannes hond doth what he mai

To helpe it forth and make it riche,

And forthi men it delve and dyche

And eren it with strengthe of plowh,

Wher it hath of himself ynowh,

So that his nede is ate leste.

For every man and bridd and beste,

And flour and gras and rote and rinde,

And every thing be weie of kynde

Schal sterve, and Erthe it schal become;

As it was out of Erthe nome,

It schal to therthe torne ayein:

And thus I mai be resoun sein

That Erthe is the most nedeles,

And most men helpe it natheles.

So that, my lord, touchende of this

I have ansuerd hou that it is.

That other point I understod,

Which most is worth and most is good,

And costeth lest a man to kepe:

Mi lord, if ye woll take kepe,

I seie it is Humilite,

Thurgh which the hihe trinite

As for decerte of pure love

Unto Marie from above,

Of that he knew hire humble entente,

His oghne Sone adoun he sente,

Above alle othre and hire he ches

For that vertu which bodeth pes:

So that I may be resoun calle

Humilite most worth of alle.

And lest it costeth to maintiene,

In al the world as it is sene;

For who that hath humblesce on honde,

He bringth no werres into londe,

For he desireth for the beste

To setten every man in reste.

Thus with your hihe reverence

Me thenketh that this evidence

As to this point is sufficant.

And touchende of the remenant,

Which is the thridde of youre axinges,

What leste is worth of alle thinges,

And costeth most, I telle it, Pride;

Which mai noght in the hevene abide,

For Lucifer with hem that felle

Bar Pride with him into helle.

Ther was Pride of to gret a cost,

Whan he for Pride hath hevene lost;

And after that in Paradis

Adam for Pride loste his pris:

In Midelerthe and ek also

Pride is the cause of alle wo,

That al the world ne may suffise

To stanche of Pride the reprise:

Pride is the heved of alle Sinne,

Which wasteth al and mai noght winne;

Pride is of every mis the pricke,

Pride is the werste of alle wicke,

And costneth most and lest is worth

In place where he hath his forth.

Thus have I seid that I wol seie

Of myn answere, and to you preie,

Mi liege lord, of youre office

That ye such grace and such justice

Ordeigne for mi fader hiere,

That after this, whan men it hiere,

The world therof mai speke good."

The king, which reson understod

And hath al herd how sche hath said,

Was inly glad and so wel paid

That al his wraththe is overgo:

And he began to loke tho

Upon this Maiden in the face,

In which he fond so mochel grace,

That al his pris on hire he leide,

In audience and thus he seide:

"Mi faire Maide, wel thee be]

Of thin ansuere and ek of thee

Me liketh wel, and as thou wilt,

Foryive be thi fader gilt.

And if thou were of such lignage,

That thou to me were of parage,

And that thi fader were a Pier,

As he is now a Bachilier,

So seker as I have a lif,

Thou scholdest thanne be my wif.

Bot this I seie natheles,

That I wol schape thin encress;

What worldes good that thou wolt crave,

Axe of my yifte and thou schalt have."

And sche the king with wordes wise

Knelende thonketh in this wise:

"Mi liege lord, god mot you quite]

Mi fader hier hath bot a lite

Of warison, and that he wende

Hadde al be lost; bot now amende

He mai wel thurgh your noble grace."

With that the king riht in his place

Anon forth in that freisshe hete

An Erldom, which thanne of eschete

Was late falle into his hond,

Unto this knyht with rente and lond

Hath yove and with his chartre sesed;

And thus was all the noise appesed.

This Maiden, which sat on hire knes

Tofore the king, hise charitees

Comendeth, and seide overmore:

"Mi liege lord, riht now tofore

Ye seide, as it is of record,

That if my fader were a lord

And Pier unto these othre grete,

Ye wolden for noght elles lete,

That I ne scholde be your wif;

And this wot every worthi lif,

A kinges word it mot ben holde.

Forthi, my lord, if that ye wolde

So gret a charite fulfille,

God wot it were wel my wille:

For he which was a Bacheler,

Mi fader, is now mad a Pier;

So whenne as evere that I cam,

An Erles dowhter now I am."

This yonge king, which peised al,

Hire beaute and hir wit withal,

As he that was with love hent,

Anon therto yaf his assent.

He myhte noght the maide asterte,

That sche nis ladi of his herte;

So that he tok hire to his wif,

To holde whyl that he hath lif:

And thus the king toward his knyht

Acordeth him, as it is riht.

And over this good is to wite,

In the Cronique as it is write,

This noble king of whom I tolde

Of Spaine be tho daies olde

The kingdom hadde in governance,

And as the bok makth remembrance,

Alphonse was his propre name:

The knyht also, if I schal name,

Danz Petro hihte, and as men telle,

His dowhter wyse Peronelle

Was cleped, which was full of grace:

And that was sene in thilke place,

Wher sche hir fader out of teene

Hath broght and mad hirself a qweene,

Of that sche hath so wel desclosed

The pointz wherof sche was opposed.

Lo now, my Sone, as thou myht hiere,

Of al this thing to my matiere

Bot on I take, and that is Pride,

To whom no grace mai betide:

In hevene he fell out of his stede,

And Paradis him was forbede,

The goode men in Erthe him hate,

So that to helle he mot algate,

Where every vertu schal be weyved

And every vice be received.

Bot Humblesce is al otherwise,

Which most is worth, and no reprise

It takth ayein, bot softe and faire,

If eny thing stond in contraire,

With humble speche it is redresced:

Thus was this yonge Maiden blessed,

The which I spak of now tofore,

Hire fader lif sche gat therfore,

And wan with al the kinges love.

Forthi, my Sone, if thou wolt love,

It sit thee wel to leve Pride

And take Humblesce upon thi side;

The more of grace thou schalt gete.

Mi fader, I woll noght foryete

Of this that ye have told me hiere,

And if that eny such manere

Of humble port mai love appaie,

Hierafterward I thenke assaie:

Bot now forth over I beseche

That ye more of my schrifte seche.

Mi goode Sone, it schal be do:

Now herkne and ley an Ere to;

For as touchende of Prides fare,

Als ferforth as I can declare

In cause of vice, in cause of love,

That hast thou pleinly herd above,

So that ther is nomor to seie

Touchende of that; bot other weie

Touchende Envie I thenke telle,

Which hath the propre kinde of helle,

Withoute cause to misdo

Toward himself and othre also,

Hierafterward as understonde

Thou schalt the spieces, as thei stonde.

Now after Pride the secounde

Ther is, which many a woful stounde

Towardes othre berth aboute

Withinne himself and noght withoute;

For in his thoght he brenneth evere,

Whan that he wot an other levere

Or more vertuous than he,

Which passeth him in his degre;

Therof he takth his maladie:

That vice is cleped hot Envie.

Forthi, my Sone, if it be so

Thou art or hast ben on of tho,

As forto speke in loves cas,

If evere yit thin herte was

Sek of an other mannes hele?

So god avance my querele,

Mi fader, ye, a thousend sithe:

Whanne I have sen an other blithe

Of love, and hadde a goodly chiere,

Ethna, which brenneth yer be yere,

Was thanne noght so hot as I

Of thilke Sor which prively

Min hertes thoght withinne brenneth.

The Schip which on the wawes renneth,

And is forstormed and forblowe,

Is noght more peined for a throwe

Than I am thanne, whanne I se

An other which that passeth me

In that fortune of loves yifte.

Bot, fader, this I telle in schrifte,

That is nowher bot in o place;

For who that lese or finde grace

In other stede, it mai noght grieve:

Bot this ye mai riht wel believe,

Toward mi ladi that I serve,

Thogh that I wiste forto sterve,

Min herte is full of such sotie,

That I myself mai noght chastie.

Whan I the Court se of Cupide

Aproche unto my ladi side

Of hem that lusti ben and freisshe,-

Thogh it availe hem noght a reisshe,

Bot only that thei ben in speche,-

My sorwe is thanne noght to seche:

Bot whan thei rounen in hire Ere,

Than groweth al my moste fere,

And namly whan thei talen longe;

My sorwes thanne be so stronge

Of that I se hem wel at ese,

I can noght telle my desese.

Bot, Sire, as of my ladi selve,

Thogh sche have wowers ten or twelve,

For no mistrust I have of hire

Me grieveth noght, for certes, Sire,

I trowe, in al this world to seche,

Nis womman that in dede and speche

Woll betre avise hire what sche doth,

Ne betre, forto seie a soth,

Kepe hire honour ate alle tide,

And yit get hire a thank beside.

Bot natheles I am beknowe,

That whanne I se at eny throwe,

Or elles if I mai it hiere,

That sche make eny man good chiere,

Thogh I therof have noght to done,

Mi thought wol entermette him sone.

For thogh I be miselve strange,

Envie makth myn herte change,

That I am sorghfully bestad

Of that I se an other glad

With hire; bot of other alle,

Of love what so mai befalle,

Or that he faile or that he spede,

Therof take I bot litel heede.

Now have I seid, my fader, al

As of this point in special,

Als ferforthli as I have wist.

Now axeth further what you list.

Mi Sone, er I axe eny more,

I thenke somdiel for thi lore

Telle an ensample of this matiere

Touchende Envie, as thou schalt hiere.

Write in Civile this I finde:

Thogh it be noght the houndes kinde

To ete chaf, yit wol he werne

An Oxe which comth to the berne,

Therof to taken eny fode.

And thus, who that it understode,

It stant of love in many place:

Who that is out of loves grace

And mai himselven noght availe,

He wolde an other scholde faile;

And if he may put eny lette,

He doth al that he mai to lette.

Wherof I finde, as thou schalt wite,

To this pourpos a tale write.

Ther ben of suche mo than twelve,

That ben noght able as of hemselve

To gete love, and for Envie

Upon alle othre thei aspie;

And for hem lacketh that thei wolde,

Thei kepte that non other scholde

Touchende of love his cause spede:

Wherof a gret ensample I rede,

Which unto this matiere acordeth,

As Ovide in his bok recordeth,

How Poliphemus whilom wroghte,

Whan that he Galathee besoghte

Of love, which he mai noght lacche.

That made him forto waite and wacche

Be alle weies how it ferde,

Til ate laste he knew and herde

How that an other hadde leve

To love there as he mot leve,

As forto speke of eny sped:

So that he knew non other red,

Bot forto wayten upon alle,

Til he may se the chance falle

That he hire love myhte grieve,

Which he himself mai noght achieve.

This Galathee, seith the Poete,

Above alle othre was unmete

Of beaute, that men thanne knewe,

And hadde a lusti love and trewe,

A Bacheler in his degree,

Riht such an other as was sche,

On whom sche hath hire herte set,

So that it myhte noght be let

For yifte ne for no beheste,

That sche ne was al at his heste.

This yonge knyht Acis was hote,

Which hire ayeinward als so hote

Al only loveth and nomo.

Hierof was Poliphemus wo

Thurgh pure Envie, and evere aspide,

And waiteth upon every side,

Whan he togedre myhte se

This yonge Acis with Galathe.

So longe he waiteth to and fro,

Til ate laste he fond hem tuo,

In prive place wher thei stode

To speke and have here wordes goode.

The place wher as he hem syh,

It was under a banke nyh

The grete See, and he above

Stod and behield the lusti love

Which ech of hem to other made

With goodly chiere and wordes glade,

That al his herte hath set afyre

Of pure Envie: and as a fyre

Which fleth out of a myhti bowe,

Aweie he fledde for a throwe,

As he that was for love wod,

Whan that he sih how that it stod.

This Polipheme a Geant was;

And whan he sih the sothe cas,

How Galathee him hath forsake

And Acis to hire love take,

His herte mai it noght forbere

That he ne roreth lich a Bere;

And as it were a wilde beste,

The whom no reson mihte areste,

He ran Ethna the hell aboute,

Wher nevere yit the fyr was oute,

Fulfild of sorghe and gret desese,

That he syh Acis wel at ese.

Til ate laste he him bethoghte,

As he which al Envie soghte,

And torneth to the banke ayein,

Wher he with Galathee hath seyn

Acis, whom that he thoghte grieve,

Thogh he himself mai noght relieve.

This Geant with his ruide myht

Part of the banke he schof doun riht,

The which evene upon Acis fell,

So that with fallinge of this hell

This Poliphemus Acis slowh,

Wherof sche made sorwe ynowh.

And as sche fledde fro the londe,

Neptunus tok hire into honde

And kept hire in so sauf a place

Fro Polipheme and his manace,

That he with al his false Envie

Ne mihte atteigne hir compaignie.

This Galathee of whom I speke,

That of hirself mai noght be wreke,

Withouten eny semblant feigned

Sche hath hire loves deth compleigned,

And with hire sorwe and with hire wo

Sche hath the goddes moeved so,

That thei of pite and of grace

Have Acis in the same place,

Ther he lai ded, into a welle

Transformed, as the bokes telle,

With freisshe stremes and with cliere,

As he whilom with lusti chiere

Was freissh his love forto qweme.

And with this ruide Polipheme

For his Envie and for his hate

Thei were wrothe. And thus algate,

Mi Sone, thou myht understonde,

That if thou wolt in grace stonde

With love, thou most leve Envie:

And as thou wolt for thi partie

Toward thi love stonde fre,

So most thou soffre an other be,

What so befalle upon the chaunce:

For it is an unwys vengance,

Which to non other man is lief,

And is unto himselve grief.

Mi fader, this ensample is good;

Bot how so evere that it stod

With Poliphemes love as tho,

It schal noght stonde with me so,

To worchen eny felonie

In love for no such Envie.

Forthi if ther oght elles be,

Now axeth forth, in what degre

It is, and I me schal confesse

With schrifte unto youre holinesse.

Mi goode Sone, yit ther is

A vice revers unto this,

Which envious takth his gladnesse

Of that he seth the hevinesse

Of othre men: for his welfare

Is whanne he wot an other care:

Of that an other hath a fall,

He thenkth himself arist withal.

Such is the gladschipe of Envie

In worldes thing, and in partie

Fulofte times ek also

In loves cause it stant riht so.

If thou, my Sone, hast joie had,

Whan thou an other sihe unglad,

Schrif the therof. Mi fader, yis:

I am beknowe unto you this.

Of these lovers that loven streyte,

And for that point which thei coveite

Ben poursuiantz fro yeer to yere

In loves Court, whan I may hiere

How that thei clymbe upon the whel,

And whan thei wene al schal be wel,

Thei ben doun throwen ate laste,

Thanne am I fedd of that thei faste,

And lawhe of that I se hem loure;

And thus of that thei brewe soure

I drinke swete, and am wel esed

Of that I wot thei ben desesed.

Bot this which I you telle hiere

Is only for my lady diere;

That for non other that I knowe

Me reccheth noght who overthrowe,

Ne who that stonde in love upriht:

Bot be he squier, be he knyht,

Which to my ladiward poursuieth,

The more he lest of that he suieth,

The mor me thenketh that I winne,

And am the more glad withinne

Of that I wot him sorwe endure.

For evere upon such aventure

It is a confort, as men sein,

To him the which is wo besein

To sen an other in his peine,

So that thei bothe mai compleigne.

Wher I miself mai noght availe

To sen an other man travaile,

I am riht glad if he be let;

And thogh I fare noght the bet,

His sorwe is to myn herte a game:

Whan that I knowe it is the same

Which to mi ladi stant enclined,

And hath his love noght termined,

I am riht joifull in my thoght.

If such Envie grieveth oght,

As I beknowe me coupable,

Ye that be wys and resonable,

Mi fader, telleth youre avis.

Mi Sone, Envie into no pris

Of such a forme, I understonde,

Ne mihte be no resoun stonde

For this Envie hath such a kinde,

That he wole sette himself behinde

To hindre with an othre wyht,

And gladly lese his oghne riht

To make an other lesen his.

And forto knowe how it so is,

A tale lich to this matiere

I thenke telle, if thou wolt hiere,

To schewe proprely the vice

Of this Envie and the malice.

Of Jupiter this finde I write,

How whilom that he wolde wite

Upon the pleigntes whiche he herde,

Among the men how that it ferde,

As of here wrong condicion

To do justificacion:

And for that cause doun he sente

An Angel, which about wente,

That he the sothe knowe mai.

So it befell upon a dai

This Angel, which him scholde enforme,

Was clothed in a mannes forme,

And overtok, I understonde,

Tuo men that wenten over londe,

Thurgh whiche he thoghte to aspie

His cause, and goth in compaignie.

This Angel with hise wordes wise

Opposeth hem in sondri wise,

Now lowde wordes and now softe,

That mad hem to desputen ofte,

And ech of hem his reson hadde.

And thus with tales he hem ladde

With good examinacioun,

Til he knew the condicioun,

What men thei were bothe tuo;

And sih wel ate laste tho,

That on of hem was coveitous,

And his fela was envious.

And thus, whan he hath knowlechinge,

Anon he feigneth departinge,

And seide he mot algate wende.

Bot herkne now what fell at ende:

For thanne he made hem understonde

That he was there of goddes sonde,

And seide hem, for the kindeschipe

That thei have don him felaschipe,

He wole hem do som grace ayein,

And bad that on of hem schal sein

What thing him is lievest to crave,

And he it schal of yifte have;

And over that ek forth withal

He seith that other have schal

The double of that his felaw axeth;

And thus to hem his grace he taxeth.

The coveitous was wonder glad,

And to that other man he bad

And seith that he ferst axe scholde:

For he supposeth that he wolde

Make his axinge of worldes good;

For thanne he knew wel how it stod,

That he himself be double weyhte

Schal after take, and thus be sleyhte,

Be cause that he wolde winne,

He bad his fela ferst beginne.

This Envious, thogh it be late,

Whan that he syh he mot algate

Make his axinge ferst, he thoghte,

If he worschipe or profit soghte,

It schal be doubled to his fiere:

That wolde he chese in no manere.

Bot thanne he scheweth what he was

Toward Envie, and in this cas

Unto this Angel thus he seide

And for his yifte this he preide,

To make him blind of his on yhe,

So that his fela nothing syhe.

This word was noght so sone spoke,

That his on yhe anon was loke,

And his felawh forthwith also

Was blind of bothe his yhen tuo.

Tho was that other glad ynowh,

That on wepte, and that other lowh,

He sette his on yhe at no cost,

Wherof that other two hath lost.

Of thilke ensample which fell tho,

Men tellen now fulofte so,

The world empeireth comunly:

And yit wot non the cause why;

For it acordeth noght to kinde

Min oghne harm to seche and finde

Of that I schal my brother grieve;

It myhte nevere wel achieve.

What seist thou, Sone, of this folie?

Mi fader, bot I scholde lie,

Upon the point which ye have seid

Yit was myn herte nevere leid,

Bot in the wise as I you tolde.

Bot overmore, if that ye wolde

Oght elles to my schrifte seie

Touchende Envie, I wolde preie.

Mi Sone, that schal wel be do:

Now herkne and ley thin Ere to.

Touchende as of Envious brod

I wot noght on of alle good;

Bot natheles, suche as thei be,

Yit is ther on, and that is he

Which cleped in Detraccioun.

And to conferme his accioun,

He hath withholde Malebouche,

Whos tunge neither pyl ne crouche

Mai hyre, so that he pronounce

A plein good word withoute frounce

Awher behinde a mannes bak.

For thogh he preise, he fint som lak,

Which of his tale is ay the laste,

That al the pris schal overcaste:

And thogh ther be no cause why,

Yit wole he jangle noght forthi,

As he which hath the heraldie

Of hem that usen forto lye.

For as the Netle which up renneth

The freisshe rede Roses brenneth

And makth hem fade and pale of hewe,

Riht so this fals Envious hewe,

In every place wher he duelleth,

With false wordes whiche he telleth

He torneth preisinge into blame

And worschipe into worldes schame.

Of such lesinge as he compasseth,

Is non so good that he ne passeth

Betwen his teeth and is bacbited,

And thurgh his false tunge endited:

Lich to the Scharnebudes kinde,

Of whos nature this I finde,

That in the hoteste of the dai,

Whan comen is the merie Maii,

He sprat his wynge and up he fleth:

And under al aboute he seth

The faire lusti floures springe,

Bot therof hath he no likinge;

Bot where he seth of eny beste

The felthe, ther he makth his feste,

And therupon he wole alyhte,

Ther liketh him non other sihte.

Riht so this janglere Envious,

Thogh he a man se vertuous

And full of good condicioun,

Therof makth he no mencioun:

Bot elles, be it noght so lyte,

Wherof that he mai sette a wyte,

Ther renneth he with open mouth,

Behinde a man and makth it couth.

Bot al the vertu which he can,

That wole he hide of every man,

And openly the vice telle,

As he which of the Scole of helle

Is tawht, and fostred with Envie

Of houshold and of compaignie,

Wher that he hath his propre office

To sette on every man a vice.

How so his mouth be comely,

His word sit evermore awry

And seith the worste that he may.

And in this wise now a day

In loves Court a man mai hiere

Fulofte pleigne of this matiere,

That many envious tale is stered,

Wher that it mai noght ben ansuered;

Bot yit fulofte it is believed,

And many a worthi love is grieved

Thurgh bacbitinge of fals Envie.

If thou have mad such janglerie

In loves Court, mi Sone, er this,

Schrif thee therof. Mi fader, yis:

Bot wite ye how? noght openly,

Bot otherwhile prively,

Whan I my diere ladi mete,

And thenke how that I am noght mete

Unto hire hihe worthinesse,

And ek I se the besinesse

Of al this yonge lusty route,

Whiche alday pressen hire aboute,

And ech of hem his time awaiteth,

And ech of hem his tale affaiteth,

Al to deceive an innocent,

Which woll noght ben of here assent;

And for men sein unknowe unkest,

Hire thombe sche holt in hire fest

So clos withinne hire oghne hond,

That there winneth noman lond;

Sche lieveth noght al that sche hiereth,

And thus fulofte hirself sche skiereth

And is al war of "hadde I wist":-

Bot for al that myn herte arist,

Whanne I thes comun lovers se,

That woll noght holden hem to thre,

Bot welnyh loven overal,

Min herte is Envious withal,

And evere I am adrad of guile,

In aunter if with eny wyle

Thei mihte hire innocence enchaunte.

Forthi my wordes ofte I haunte

Behynden hem, so as I dar,

Wherof my ladi may be war:

I sai what evere comth to mowthe,

And worse I wolde, if that I cowthe;

For whanne I come unto hir speche,

Al that I may enquere and seche

Of such deceipte, I telle it al,

And ay the werste in special.

So fayn I wolde that sche wiste

How litel thei ben forto triste,

And what thei wolde and what thei mente,

So as thei be of double entente:

Thus toward hem that wicke mene

My wicked word was evere grene.

And natheles, the soth to telle,

In certain if it so befelle

That althertrewest man ybore,

To chese among a thousend score,

Which were alfulli forto triste,

Mi ladi lovede, and I it wiste,

Yit rathere thanne he scholde spede,

I wolde swiche tales sprede

To my ladi, if that I myhte,

That I scholde al his love unrihte,

And therto wolde I do mi peine.

For certes thogh I scholde feigne,

And telle that was nevere thoght,

For al this world I myhte noght

To soffre an othre fully winne,

Ther as I am yit to beginne.

For be thei goode, or be thei badde,

I wolde non my ladi hadde;

And that me makth fulofte aspie

And usen wordes of Envie,

Al forto make hem bere a blame.

And that is bot of thilke same,

The whiche unto my ladi drawe,

For evere on hem I rounge and gknawe

And hindre hem al that evere I mai;

And that is, sothly forto say,

Bot only to my lady selve:

I telle it noght to ten ne tuelve,

Therof I wol me wel avise,

To speke or jangle in eny wise

That toucheth to my ladi name,

The which in ernest and in game

I wolde save into my deth;

For me were levere lacke breth

Than speken of hire name amis.

Now have ye herd touchende of this,

Mi fader, in confessioun:

And therfor of Detraccioun

In love, of that I have mispoke,

Tel how ye wole it schal be wroke.

I am al redy forto bere

Mi peine, and also to forbere

What thing that ye wol noght allowe;

For who is bounden, he mot bowe.

So wol I bowe unto youre heste,

For I dar make this beheste,

That I to yow have nothing hid,

Bot told riht as it is betid;

And otherwise of no mispeche,

Mi conscience forto seche,

I can noght of Envie finde,

That I mispoke have oght behinde

Wherof love owhte be mispaid.

Now have ye herd and I have said;

What wol ye, fader, that I do?

Mi Sone, do nomore so,

Bot evere kep thi tunge stille,

Thou miht the more have of thi wille.

For as thou saist thiselven here,

Thi ladi is of such manere,

So wys, so war in alle thinge,

It nedeth of no bakbitinge

That thou thi ladi mis enforme:

For whan sche knoweth al the forme,

How that thiself art envious,

Thou schalt noght be so gracious

As thou peraunter scholdest elles.

Ther wol noman drinke of tho welles

Whiche as he wot is puyson inne;

And ofte swich as men beginne

Towardes othre, swich thei finde,

That set hem ofte fer behinde,

Whan that thei wene be before.

Mi goode Sone, and thou therfore

Bewar and lef thi wicke speche,

Wherof hath fallen ofte wreche

To many a man befor this time.

For who so wole his handes lime,

Thei mosten be the more unclene;

For many a mote schal be sene,

That wolde noght cleve elles there;

And that schold every wys man fere:

For who so wol an other blame,

He secheth ofte his oghne schame,

Which elles myhte be riht stille.

Forthi if that it be thi wille

To stonde upon amendement,

A tale of gret entendement

I thenke telle for thi sake,

Wherof thou miht ensample take.

A worthi kniht in Cristes lawe

Of grete Rome, as is the sawe,

The Sceptre hadde forto rihte;

Tiberie Constantin he hihte,

Whos wif was cleped Ytalie:

Bot thei togedre of progenie

No children hadde bot a Maide;

And sche the god so wel apaide,

That al the wide worldes fame

Spak worschipe of hire goode name.

Constance, as the Cronique seith,

Sche hihte, and was so ful of feith,

That the greteste of Barbarie,

Of hem whiche usen marchandie,

Sche hath converted, as thei come

To hire upon a time in Rome,

To schewen such thing as thei broghte;

Whiche worthili of hem sche boghte,

And over that in such a wise

Sche hath hem with hire wordes wise

Of Cristes feith so full enformed,

That thei therto ben all conformed,

So that baptesme thei receiven

And alle here false goddes weyven.

Whan thei ben of the feith certein,

Thei gon to Barbarie ayein,

And ther the Souldan for hem sente

And axeth hem to what entente

Thei have here ferste feith forsake.

And thei, whiche hadden undertake

The rihte feith to kepe and holde,

The matiere of here tale tolde

With al the hole circumstance.

And whan the Souldan of Constance

Upon the point that thei ansuerde

The beaute and the grace herde,

As he which thanne was to wedde,

In alle haste his cause spedde

To sende for the mariage.

And furthermor with good corage

He seith, be so he mai hire have,

That Crist, which cam this world to save,

He woll believe: and this recorded,

Thei ben on either side acorded,

And therupon to make an ende

The Souldan hise hostages sende

To Rome, of Princes Sones tuelve:

Wherof the fader in himselve

Was glad, and with the Pope avised

Tuo Cardinals he hath assissed

With othre lordes many mo,

That with his doghter scholden go,

To se the Souldan be converted.

Bot that which nevere was wel herted,

Envie, tho began travaile

In destourbance of this spousaile

So prively that non was war.

The Moder which this Souldan bar

Was thanne alyve, and thoghte this

Unto hirself: "If it so is

Mi Sone him wedde in this manere,

Than have I lost my joies hiere,

For myn astat schal so be lassed."

Thenkende thus sche hath compassed

Be sleihte how that sche may beguile

Hire Sone; and fell withinne a while,

Betwen hem two whan that thei were,

Sche feigneth wordes in his Ere,

And in this wise gan to seie:

"Mi Sone, I am be double weie

With al myn herte glad and blithe,

For that miself have ofte sithe

Desired thou wolt, as men seith,

Receive and take a newe feith,

Which schal be forthringe of thi lif:

And ek so worschipful a wif,

The doughter of an Emperour,

To wedde it schal be gret honour.

Forthi, mi Sone, I you beseche

That I such grace mihte areche,

Whan that my doughter come schal,

That I mai thanne in special,

So as me thenkth it is honeste,

Be thilke which the ferste feste

Schal make unto hire welcominge."

The Souldan granteth hire axinge,

And sche therof was glad ynowh:

For under that anon sche drowh

With false wordes that sche spak

Covine of deth behinde his bak.

And therupon hire ordinance

She made so, that whan Constance

Was come forth with the Romeins,

Of clerkes and of Citezeins,

A riche feste sche hem made:

And most whan that thei weren glade,

With fals covine which sche hadde

Hire clos Envie tho sche spradde,

And alle tho that hadden be

Or in apert or in prive

Of conseil to the mariage,

Sche slowh hem in a sodein rage

Endlong the bord as thei be set,

So that it myhte noght be let;

Hire oghne Sone was noght quit,

Bot deide upon the same plit.

Bot what the hihe god wol spare

It mai for no peril misfare:

This worthi Maiden which was there

Stod thanne, as who seith, ded for feere,

To se the feste how that it stod,

Which al was torned into blod:

The Dissh forthwith the Coppe and al

Bebled thei weren overal;

Sche sih hem deie on every side;

No wonder thogh sche wepte and cride

Makende many a wofull mone.

Whan al was slain bot sche al one,

This olde fend, this Sarazine,

Let take anon this Constantine

With al the good sche thider broghte,

And hath ordeined, as sche thoghte,

A nakid Schip withoute stiere,

In which the good and hire in fiere,

Vitailed full for yeres fyve,

Wher that the wynd it wolde dryve,

Sche putte upon the wawes wilde.

Bot he which alle thing mai schilde,

Thre yer, til that sche cam to londe,

Hire Schip to stiere hath take in honde,

And in Northumberlond aryveth;

And happeth thanne that sche dryveth

Under a Castel with the flod,

Which upon Humber banke stod

And was the kynges oghne also,

The which Allee was cleped tho,

A Saxon and a worthi knyht,

Bot he believed noght ariht.

Of this Castell was Chastellein

Elda the kinges Chamberlein,

A knyhtly man after his lawe;

And whan he sih upon the wawe

The Schip drivende al one so,

He bad anon men scholden go

To se what it betokne mai.

This was upon a Somer dai,

The Schip was loked and sche founde;

Elda withinne a litel stounde

It wiste, and with his wif anon

Toward this yonge ladi gon,

Wher that thei founden gret richesse;

Bot sche hire wolde noght confesse,

Whan thei hire axen what sche was.

And natheles upon the cas

Out of the Schip with gret worschipe

Thei toke hire into felaschipe,

As thei that weren of hir glade:

Bot sche no maner joie made,

Bot sorweth sore of that sche fond

No cristendom in thilke lond;

Bot elles sche hath al hire wille,

And thus with hem sche duelleth stille.

Dame Hermyngheld, which was the wif

Of Elda, lich hire oghne lif

Constance loveth; and fell so,

Spekende alday betwen hem two,

Thurgh grace of goddes pourveance

This maiden tawhte the creance

Unto this wif so parfitly,

Upon a dai that faste by

In presence of hire housebonde,

Wher thei go walkende on the Stronde,

A blind man, which cam there lad,

Unto this wif criende he bad,

With bothe hise hondes up and preide

To hire, and in this wise he seide:

"O Hermyngeld, which Cristes feith,

Enformed as Constance seith,

Received hast, yif me my sihte."

Upon his word hire herte afflihte

Thenkende what was best to done,

Bot natheles sche herde his bone

And seide, "In trust of Cristes lawe,

Which don was on the crois and slawe,

Thou bysne man, behold and se."

With that to god upon his kne

Thonkende he tok his sihte anon,

Wherof thei merveile everychon,

Bot Elda wondreth most of alle:

This open thing which is befalle

Concludeth him be such a weie,

That he the feith mot nede obeie.

Now lest what fell upon this thing.

This Elda forth unto the king

A morwe tok his weie and rod,

And Hermyngeld at home abod

Forth with Constance wel at ese.

Elda, which thoghte his king to plese,

As he that thanne unwedded was,

Of Constance al the pleine cas

Als goodliche as he cowthe tolde.

The king was glad and seide he wolde

Come thider upon such a wise

That he him mihte of hire avise,

The time apointed forth withal.

This Elda triste in special

Upon a knyht, whom fro childhode

He hadde updrawe into manhode:

To him he tolde al that he thoghte,

Wherof that after him forthoghte;

And natheles at thilke tide

Unto his wif he bad him ride

To make redi alle thing

Ayein the cominge of the king,

And seith that he himself tofore

Thenkth forto come, and bad therfore

That he him kepe, and told him whanne.

This knyht rod forth his weie thanne;

And soth was that of time passed

He hadde in al his wit compassed

How he Constance myhte winne;

Bot he sih tho no sped therinne,

Wherof his lust began tabate,

And that was love is thanne hate;

Of hire honour he hadde Envie,

So that upon his tricherie

A lesinge in his herte he caste.

Til he cam home he hieth faste,

And doth his ladi tunderstonde

The Message of hire housebonde:

And therupon the longe dai

Thei setten thinges in arrai,

That al was as it scholde be

Of every thing in his degree;

And whan it cam into the nyht,

This wif hire hath to bedde dyht,

Wher that this Maiden with hire lay.

This false knyht upon delay

Hath taried til thei were aslepe,

As he that wolde his time kepe

His dedly werkes to fulfille;

And to the bed he stalketh stille,

Wher that he wiste was the wif,

And in his hond a rasour knif

He bar, with which hire throte he cutte,

And prively the knif he putte

Under that other beddes side,

Wher that Constance lai beside.

Elda cam hom the same nyht,

And stille with a prive lyht,

As he that wolde noght awake

His wif, he hath his weie take

Into the chambre, and ther liggende

He fond his dede wif bledende,

Wher that Constance faste by

Was falle aslepe; and sodeinly

He cride alowd, and sche awok,

And forth withal sche caste a lok

And sih this ladi blede there,

Wherof swoundende ded for fere

Sche was, and stille as eny Ston

She lay, and Elda therupon

Into the Castell clepeth oute,

And up sterte every man aboute,

Into the chambre and forth thei wente.

Bot he, which alle untrouthe mente,

This false knyht, among hem alle

Upon this thing which is befalle

Seith that Constance hath don this dede;

And to the bed with that he yede

After the falshed of his speche,

And made him there forto seche,

And fond the knif, wher he it leide,

And thanne he cride and thanne he seide,

"Lo, seth the knif al blody hiere]

What nedeth more in this matiere

To axe?" And thus hire innocence

He sclaundreth there in audience

With false wordes whiche he feigneth.

Bot yit for al that evere he pleigneth,

Elda no full credence tok:

And happeth that ther lay a bok,

Upon the which, whan he it sih,

This knyht hath swore and seid on hih,

That alle men it mihte wite,

"Now be this bok, which hier is write,

Constance is gultif, wel I wot."

With that the hond of hevene him smot

In tokne of that he was forswore,

That he hath bothe hise yhen lore,

Out of his hed the same stounde

Thei sterte, and so thei weren founde.

A vois was herd, whan that they felle,

Which seide, "O dampned man to helle,

Lo, thus hath god the sclaundre wroke

That thou ayein Constance hast spoke:

Beknow the sothe er that thou dye."

And he told out his felonie,

And starf forth with his tale anon.

Into the ground, wher alle gon,

This dede lady was begrave:

Elda, which thoghte his honour save,

Al that he mai restreigneth sorwe.

For the seconde day a morwe

The king cam, as thei were acorded;

And whan it was to him recorded

What god hath wroght upon this chaunce,

He tok it into remembrance

And thoghte more than he seide.

For al his hole herte he leide

Upon Constance, and seide he scholde

For love of hire, if that sche wolde,

Baptesme take and Cristes feith

Believe, and over that he seith

He wol hire wedde, and upon this

Asseured ech til other is.

And forto make schorte tales,

Ther cam a Bisschop out of Wales

Fro Bangor, and Lucie he hihte,

Which thurgh the grace of god almihte

The king with many an other mo

Hath cristned, and betwen hem tuo

He hath fulfild the mariage.

Bot for no lust ne for no rage

Sche tolde hem nevere what sche was;

And natheles upon the cas

The king was glad, how so it stod,

For wel he wiste and understod

Sche was a noble creature.

The hihe makere of nature

Hire hath visited in a throwe,

That it was openliche knowe

Sche was with childe be the king,

Wherof above al other thing

He thonketh god and was riht glad.

And fell that time he was bestad

Upon a werre and moste ride;

And whil he scholde there abide,

He lefte at hom to kepe his wif

Suche as he knew of holi lif,

Elda forth with the Bisschop eke;

And he with pouer goth to seke

Ayein the Scottes forto fonde

The werre which he tok on honde.

The time set of kinde is come,

This lady hath hire chambre nome,

And of a Sone bore full,

Wherof that sche was joiefull,

Sche was delivered sauf and sone.

The bisshop, as it was to done,

Yaf him baptesme and Moris calleth;

And therupon, as it befalleth,

With lettres writen of record

Thei sende unto here liege lord,

That kepers weren of the qweene:

And he that scholde go betwene,

The Messager, to Knaresburgh,

Which toun he scholde passe thurgh,

Ridende cam the ferste day.

The kinges Moder there lay,

Whos rihte name was Domilde,

Which after al the cause spilde:

For he, which thonk deserve wolde,

Unto this ladi goth and tolde

Of his Message al how it ferde.

And sche with feigned joie it herde

And yaf him yiftes largely,

Bot in the nyht al prively

Sche tok the lettres whiche he hadde,

Fro point to point and overradde,

As sche that was thurghout untrewe,

And let do wryten othre newe

In stede of hem, and thus thei spieke:

"Oure liege lord, we thee beseke

That thou with ous ne be noght wroth,

Though we such thing as is thee loth

Upon oure trowthe certefie.

Thi wif, which is of faierie,

Of such a child delivered is

Fro kinde which stant al amis:

Bot for it scholde noght be seie,

We have it kept out of the weie

For drede of pure worldes schame,

A povere child and in the name

Of thilke which is so misbore

We toke, and therto we be swore,

That non bot only thou and we

Schal knowen of this privete:

Moris it hatte, and thus men wene

That it was boren of the qweene

And of thin oghne bodi gete.

Bot this thing mai noght be foryete,

That thou ne sende ous word anon

What is thi wille therupon."

This lettre, as thou hast herd devise,

Was contrefet in such a wise

That noman scholde it aperceive:

And sche, which thoghte to deceive,

It leith wher sche that other tok.

This Messager, whan he awok,

And wiste nothing how it was,

Aros and rod the grete pas

And tok this lettre to the king.

And whan he sih this wonder thing,

He makth the Messager no chiere,

Bot natheles in wys manere

He wrote ayein, and yaf hem charge

That thei ne soffre noght at large

His wif to go, bot kepe hire stille,

Til thei have herd mor of his wille.

This Messager was yifteles,

Bot with this lettre natheles,

Or be him lief or be him loth,

In alle haste ayein he goth

Be Knaresburgh, and as he wente,

Unto the Moder his entente

Of that he fond toward the king

He tolde; and sche upon this thing

Seith that he scholde abide al nyht

And made him feste and chiere ariht,

Feignende as thogh sche cowthe him thonk.

Bot he with strong wyn which he dronk

Forth with the travail of the day

Was drunke, aslepe and while he lay,

Sche hath hise lettres overseie

And formed in an other weie.

Ther was a newe lettre write,

Which seith: "I do you forto wite,

That thurgh the conseil of you tuo

I stonde in point to ben undo,

As he which is a king deposed.

For every man it hath supposed,

How that my wif Constance is faie;

And if that I, thei sein, delaie

To put hire out of compaignie,

The worschipe of my Regalie

Is lore; and over this thei telle,

Hire child schal noght among hem duelle,

To cleymen eny heritage.

So can I se non avantage,

Bot al is lost, if sche abide:

Forthi to loke on every side

Toward the meschief as it is,

I charge you and bidde this,

That ye the same Schip vitaile,

In which that sche tok arivaile,

Therinne and putteth bothe tuo,

Hireself forthwith hire child also,

And so forth broght unto the depe

Betaketh hire the See to kepe.

Of foure daies time I sette,

That ye this thing no longer lette,

So that your lif be noght forsfet."

And thus this lettre contrefet

The Messager, which was unwar,

Upon the kingeshalve bar,

And where he scholde it hath betake.

Bot whan that thei have hiede take,

And rad that writen is withinne,

So gret a sorwe thei beginne,

As thei here oghne Moder sihen

Brent in a fyr before here yhen:

Ther was wepinge and ther was wo,

Bot finaly the thing is do.

Upon the See thei have hire broght,

Bot sche the cause wiste noght,

And thus upon the flod thei wone,

This ladi with hire yonge Sone:

And thanne hire handes to the hevene

Sche strawhte, and with a milde stevene

Knelende upon hire bare kne

Sche seide, "O hihe mageste,

Which sest the point of every trowthe,

Tak of thi wofull womman rowthe

And of this child that I schal kepe."

And with that word sche gan to wepe,

Swounende as ded, and ther sche lay;

Bot he which alle thinges may

Conforteth hire, and ate laste

Sche loketh and hire yhen caste

Upon hire child and seide this:

"Of me no maner charge it is

What sorwe I soffre, bot of thee

Me thenkth it is a gret pite,

For if I sterve thou schalt deie:

So mot I nedes be that weie

For Moderhed and for tendresse

With al myn hole besinesse

Ordeigne me for thilke office,

As sche which schal be thi Norrice."

Thus was sche strengthed forto stonde;

And tho sche tok hire child in honde

And yaf it sowke, and evere among

Sche wepte, and otherwhile song

To rocke with hire child aslepe:

And thus hire oghne child to kepe

Sche hath under the goddes cure.

And so fell upon aventure,

Whan thilke yer hath mad his ende,

Hire Schip, so as it moste wende

Thurgh strengthe of wynd which god hath yive,

Estward was into Spaigne drive

Riht faste under a Castell wall,

Wher that an hethen Amirall

Was lord, and he a Stieward hadde,

Oon Thelouµs, which al was badde,

A fals knyht and a renegat.

He goth to loke in what astat

The Schip was come, and there he fond

Forth with a child upon hire hond

This lady, wher sche was al one.

He tok good hiede of the persone,

And sih sche was a worthi wiht,

And thoghte he wolde upon the nyht

Demene hire at his oghne wille,

And let hire be therinne stille,

That mo men sih sche noght that dai.

At goddes wille and thus sche lai,

Unknowe what hire schal betide;

And fell so that be nyhtes tide

This knyht withoute felaschipe

Hath take a bot and cam to Schipe,

And thoghte of hire his lust to take,

And swor, if sche him daunger make,

That certeinly sche scholde deie.

Sche sih ther was non other weie,

And seide he scholde hire wel conforte,

That he ferst loke out ate porte,

That noman were nyh the stede,

Which myhte knowe what thei dede,

And thanne he mai do what he wolde.

He was riht glad that sche so tolde,

And to the porte anon he ferde:

Sche preide god, and he hire herde,

And sodeinliche he was out throwe

And dreynt, and tho began to blowe

A wynd menable fro the lond,

And thus the myhti goddes hond

Hire hath conveied and defended.

And whan thre yer be full despended,

Hire Schip was drive upon a dai,

Wher that a gret Navye lay

Of Schipes, al the world at ones:

And as god wolde for the nones,

Hire Schip goth in among hem alle,

And stinte noght, er it be falle

And hath the vessell undergete,

Which Maister was of al the Flete,

Bot there it resteth and abod.

This grete Schip on Anker rod;

The Lord cam forth, and whan he sih

That other ligge abord so nyh,

He wondreth what it myhte be,

And bad men to gon in and se.

This ladi tho was crope aside,

As sche that wolde hireselven hide,

For sche ne wiste what thei were:

Thei soghte aboute and founde hir there

And broghten up hire child and hire;

And therupon this lord to spire

Began, fro whenne that sche cam,

And what sche was. Quod sche, "I am

A womman wofully bestad.

I hadde a lord, and thus he bad,

That I forth with my litel Sone

Upon the wawes scholden wone,

Bot why the cause was, I not:

Bot he which alle thinges wot

Yit hath, I thonke him, of his miht

Mi child and me so kept upriht,

That we be save bothe tuo."

This lord hire axeth overmo

How sche believeth, and sche seith,

"I lieve and triste in Cristes feith,

Which deide upon the Rode tree."

"What is thi name?" tho quod he.

"Mi name is Couste," sche him seide:

Bot forthermor for noght he preide

Of hire astat to knowe plein,

Sche wolde him nothing elles sein

Bot of hir name, which sche feigneth;

Alle othre thinges sche restreigneth,

That a word more sche ne tolde.

This lord thanne axeth if sche wolde

With him abide in compaignie,

And seide he cam fro Barbarie

To Romeward, and hom he wente.

Tho sche supposeth what it mente,

And seith sche wolde with him wende

And duelle unto hire lyves ende,

Be so it be to his plesance.

And thus upon here aqueintance

He tolde hire pleinly as it stod,

Of Rome how that the gentil blod

In Barbarie was betraied,

And therupon he hath assaied

Be werre, and taken such vengance,

That non of al thilke alliance,

Be whom the tresoun was compassed,

Is from the swerd alyve passed;

Bot of Constance hou it was,

That cowthe he knowe be no cas,

Wher sche becam, so as he seide.

Hire Ere unto his word sche leide,

Bot forther made sche no chiere.

And natheles in this matiere

It happeth thilke time so:

This Lord, with whom sche scholde go,

Of Rome was the Senatour,

And of hir fader themperour

His brother doughter hath to wyve,

Which hath hir fader ek alyve,

And was Salustes cleped tho;

This wif Heleine hihte also,

To whom Constance was Cousine.

Thus to the sike a medicine

Hath god ordeined of his grace,

That forthwith in the same place

This Senatour his trowthe plihte,

For evere, whil he live mihte,

To kepe in worschipe and in welthe,

Be so that god wol yive hire helthe,

This ladi, which fortune him sende.

And thus be Schipe forth sailende

Hire and hir child to Rome he broghte,

And to his wif tho he besoghte

To take hire into compaignie:

And sche, which cowthe of courtesie

Al that a good wif scholde konne,

Was inly glad that sche hath wonne

The felaschip of so good on.

Til tuelve yeres were agon,

This Emperoures dowhter Custe

Forth with the dowhter of Saluste

Was kept, bot noman redily

Knew what sche was, and noght forthi

Thei thoghten wel sche hadde be

In hire astat of hih degre,

And every lif hire loveth wel.

Now herke how thilke unstable whel,

Which evere torneth, wente aboute.

The king Allee, whil he was oute,

As thou tofore hast herd this cas,

Deceived thurgh his Moder was:

Bot whan that he cam hom ayein,

He axeth of his Chamberlein

And of the Bisschop ek also,

Wher thei the qweene hadden do.

And thei answerde, there he bad,

And have him thilke lettre rad,

Which he hem sende for warant,

And tolde him pleinli as it stant,

And sein, it thoghte hem gret pite

To se so worthi on as sche,

With such a child as ther was bore,

So sodeinly to be forlore.

He axeth hem what child that were;

And thei him seiden, that naghere,

In al the world thogh men it soghte,

Was nevere womman that forth broghte

A fairer child than it was on.

And thanne he axede hem anon,

Whi thei ne hadden write so:

Thei tolden, so thei hadden do.

He seide, "Nay." Thei seiden, "Yis."

The lettre schewed rad it is,

Which thei forsoken everidel.

Tho was it understonde wel

That ther is tresoun in the thing:

The Messager tofore the king

Was broght and sodeinliche opposed;

And he, which nothing hath supposed

Bot alle wel, began to seie

That he nagher upon the weie

Abod, bot only in a stede;

And cause why that he so dede

Was, as he wente to and fro,

At Knaresburgh be nyhtes tuo

The kinges Moder made him duelle.

And whan the king it herde telle,

Withinne his herte he wiste als faste

The treson which his Moder caste;

And thoghte he wolde noght abide,

Bot forth riht in the same tide

He tok his hors and rod anon.

With him ther riden manion,

To Knaresburgh and forth thei wente,

And lich the fyr which tunder hente,

In such a rage, as seith the bok,

His Moder sodeinliche he tok

And seide unto hir in this wise:

"O beste of helle, in what juise

Hast thou deserved forto deie,

That hast so falsly put aweie

With tresoun of thi bacbitinge

The treweste at my knowlechinge

Of wyves and the most honeste?

Bot I wol make this beheste,

I schal be venged er I go."

And let a fyr do make tho,

And bad men forto caste hire inne:

Bot ferst sche tolde out al the sinne,

And dede hem alle forto wite

How sche the lettres hadde write,

Fro point to point as it was wroght.

And tho sche was to dethe broght

And brent tofore hire Sones yhe:

Wherof these othre, whiche it sihe

And herden how the cause stod,

Sein that the juggement is good,

Of that hir Sone hire hath so served;

For sche it hadde wel deserved

Thurgh tresoun of hire false tunge,

Which thurgh the lond was after sunge,

Constance and every wiht compleigneth.

Bot he, whom alle wo distreigneth,

This sorghfull king, was so bestad,

That he schal nevermor be glad,

He seith, eftsone forto wedde,

Til that he wiste how that sche spedde,

Which hadde ben his ferste wif:

And thus his yonge unlusti lif

He dryveth forth so as he mai.

Til it befell upon a dai,

Whan he hise werres hadde achieved,

And thoghte he wolde be relieved

Of Soule hele upon the feith

Which he hath take, thanne he seith

That he to Rome in pelrinage

Wol go, wher Pope was Pelage,

To take his absolucioun.

And upon this condicioun

He made Edwyn his lieutenant,

Which heir to him was apparant,

That he the lond in his absence

Schal reule: and thus be providence

Of alle thinges wel begon

He tok his leve and forth is gon.

Elda, which tho was with him there,

Er thei fulliche at Rome were,

Was sent tofore to pourveie;

And he his guide upon the weie,

In help to ben his herbergour,

Hath axed who was Senatour,

That he his name myhte kenne.

Of Capadoce, he seide, Arcenne

He hihte, and was a worthi kniht.

To him goth Elda tho forth riht

And tolde him of his lord tidinge,

And preide that for his comynge

He wolde assigne him herbergage;

And he so dede of good corage.

Whan al is do that was to done,

The king himself cam after sone.

This Senatour, whan that he com,

To Couste and to his wif at hom

Hath told how such a king Allee

Of gret array to the Citee

Was come, and Couste upon his tale

With herte clos and colour pale

Aswoune fell, and he merveileth

So sodeinly what thing hire eyleth,

And cawhte hire up, and whan sche wok,

Sche syketh with a pitous lok

And feigneth seknesse of the See;

Bot it was for the king Allee,

For joie which fell in hire thoght

That god him hath to toune broght.

This king hath spoke with the Pope

And told al that he cowthe agrope,

What grieveth in his conscience;

And thanne he thoghte in reverence

Of his astat, er that he wente,

To make a feste, and thus he sente

Unto the Senatour to come

Upon the morwe and othre some,

To sitte with him at the mete.

This tale hath Couste noght foryete,

Bot to Moris hire Sone tolde

That he upon the morwe scholde

In al that evere he cowthe and mihte

Be present in the kinges sihte,

So that the king him ofte sihe.

Moris tofore the kinges yhe

Upon the morwe, wher he sat,

Fulofte stod, and upon that

The king his chiere upon him caste,

And in his face him thoghte als faste

He sih his oghne wif Constance;

For nature as in resemblance

Of face hem liketh so to clothe,

That thei were of a suite bothe.

The king was moeved in his thoght

Of that he seth, and knoweth it noght;

This child he loveth kindely,

And yit he wot no cause why.

Bot wel he sih and understod

That he toward Arcenne stod,

And axeth him anon riht there,

If that this child his Sone were.

He seide, "Yee, so I him calle,

And wolde it were so befalle,

Bot it is al in other wise."

And tho began he to devise

How he the childes Moder fond

Upon the See from every lond

Withinne a Schip was stiereles,

And how this ladi helpeles

Forth with hir child he hath forthdrawe.

The king hath understonde his sawe,

The childes name and axeth tho,

And what the Moder hihte also

That he him wolde telle he preide.

"Moris this child is hote," he seide,

"His Moder hatte Couste, and this

I not what maner name it is."

But Allee wiste wel ynowh,

Wherof somdiel smylende he lowh;

For Couste in Saxoun is to sein

Constance upon the word Romein.

Bot who that cowthe specefie

What tho fell in his fantasie,

And how his wit aboute renneth

Upon the love in which he brenneth,

It were a wonder forto hiere:

For he was nouther ther ne hiere,

Bot clene out of himself aweie,

That he not what to thenke or seie,

So fain he wolde it were sche.

Wherof his hertes privete

Began the werre of yee and nay,

The which in such balance lay,

That contenance for a throwe

He loste, til he mihte knowe

The sothe: bot in his memoire

The man which lith in purgatoire

Desireth noght the hevene more,

That he ne longeth al so sore

To wite what him schal betide.

And whan the bordes were aside

And every man was rise aboute,

The king hath weyved al the route,

And with the Senatour al one

He spak and preide him of a bone,

To se this Couste, wher sche duelleth

At hom with him, so as he telleth.

The Senatour was wel appaied,

This thing no lengere is delaied,

To se this Couste goth the king;

And sche was warned of the thing,

And with Heleine forth sche cam

Ayein the king, and he tho nam

Good hiede, and whan he sih his wif,

Anon with al his hertes lif

He cawhte hire in his arm and kiste.

Was nevere wiht that sih ne wiste

A man that more joie made,

Wherof thei weren alle glade

Whiche herde tellen of this chance.

This king tho with his wif Constance,

Which hadde a gret part of his wille,

In Rome for a time stille

Abod and made him wel at ese:

Bot so yit cowthe he nevere plese

His wif, that sche him wolde sein

Of hire astat the trowthe plein,

Of what contre that sche was bore,

Ne what sche was, and yit therfore

With al his wit he hath don sieke.

Thus as they lihe abedde and spieke,

Sche preide him and conseileth bothe,

That for the worschipe of hem bothe,

So as hire thoghte it were honeste,

He wolde an honourable feste

Make, er he wente, in the Cite,

Wher themperour himself schal be:

He graunteth al that sche him preide.

Bot as men in that time seide,

This Emperour fro thilke day

That ferst his dowhter wente away

He was thanne after nevere glad;

Bot what that eny man him bad

Of grace for his dowhter sake,

That grace wolde he noght forsake;

And thus ful gret almesse he dede,

Wherof sche hadde many a bede.

This Emperour out of the toun

Withinne a ten mile enviroun,

Where as it thoghte him for the beste,

Hath sondry places forto reste;

And as fortune wolde tho,

He was duellende at on of tho.

The king Allee forth with thassent

Of Couste his wif hath thider sent

Moris his Sone, as he was taght,

To themperour and he goth straght,

And in his fader half besoghte,

As he which his lordschipe soghte,

That of his hihe worthinesse

He wolde do so gret meknesse,

His oghne toun to come and se,

And yive a time in the cite,

So that his fader mihte him gete

That he wolde ones with him ete.

This lord hath granted his requeste;

And whan the dai was of the feste,

In worschipe of here Emperour

The king and ek the Senatour

Forth with here wyves bothe tuo,

With many a lord and lady mo,

On horse riden him ayein;

Til it befell, upon a plein

Thei sihen wher he was comende.

With that Constance anon preiende

Spak to hir lord that he abyde,

So that sche mai tofore ryde,

To ben upon his bienvenue

The ferste which schal him salue;

And thus after hire lordes graunt

Upon a Mule whyt amblaunt

Forth with a fewe rod this qweene.

Thei wondren what sche wolde mene,

And riden after softe pas;

Bot whan this ladi come was

To themperour, in his presence

Sche seide alowd in audience,

"Mi lord, mi fader, wel you be]

And of this time that I se

Youre honour and your goode hele,

Which is the helpe of my querele,

I thonke unto the goddes myht."

For joie his herte was affliht

Of that sche tolde in remembrance;

And whanne he wiste it was Constance,

Was nevere fader half so blithe.

Wepende he keste hire ofte sithe,

So was his herte al overcome;

For thogh his Moder were come

Fro deth to lyve out of the grave,

He mihte nomor wonder have

Than he hath whan that he hire sih.

With that hire oghne lord cam nyh

And is to themperour obeied;

Bot whan the fortune is bewreied,

How that Constance is come aboute,

So hard an herte was non oute,

That he for pite tho ne wepte.

Arcennus, which hire fond and kepte,

Was thanne glad of that is falle,

So that with joie among hem alle

Thei riden in at Rome gate.

This Emperour thoghte al to late,

Til that the Pope were come,

And of the lordes sende some

To preie him that he wolde haste:

And he cam forth in alle haste,

And whan that he the tale herde,

How wonderly this chance ferde,

He thonketh god of his miracle,

To whos miht mai be non obstacle:

The king a noble feste hem made,

And thus thei weren alle glade.

A parlement, er that thei wente,

Thei setten unto this entente,

To puten Rome in full espeir

That Moris was apparant heir

And scholde abide with hem stille,

For such was al the londes wille.

Whan every thing was fulli spoke,

Of sorwe and queint was al the smoke,

Tho tok his leve Allee the king,

And with full many a riche thing,

Which themperour him hadde yive,

He goth a glad lif forto live;

For he Constance hath in his hond,

Which was the confort of his lond.

For whan that he cam hom ayein,

Ther is no tunge it mihte sein

What joie was that ilke stounde

Of that he hath his qweene founde,

Which ferst was sent of goddes sonde,

Whan sche was drive upon the Stronde,

Be whom the misbelieve of Sinne

Was left, and Cristes feith cam inne

To hem that whilom were blinde.

Bot he which hindreth every kinde

And for no gold mai be forboght,

The deth comende er he be soght,

Tok with this king such aqueintance,

That he with al his retenance

Ne mihte noght defende his lif;

And thus he parteth from his wif,

Which thanne made sorwe ynowh.

And therupon hire herte drowh

To leven Engelond for evere

And go wher that sche hadde levere,

To Rome, whenne that sche cam:

And thus of al the lond sche nam

Hir leve, and goth to Rome ayein.

And after that the bokes sein,

She was noght there bot a throwe,

Whan deth of kinde hath overthrowe

Hir worthi fader, which men seide

That he betwen hire armes deide.

And afterward the yer suiende

The god hath mad of hire an ende,

And fro this worldes faierie

Hath take hire into compaignie.

Moris hir Sone was corouned,

Which so ferforth was abandouned

To Cristes feith, that men him calle

Moris the cristeneste of alle.

And thus the wel meninge of love

Was ate laste set above;

And so as thou hast herd tofore,

The false tunges weren lore,

Whiche upon love wolden lie.

Forthi touchende of this Envie

Which longeth unto bacbitinge,

Be war thou make no lesinge

In hindringe of an other wiht:

And if thou wolt be tawht ariht

What meschief bakbitinge doth

Be other weie, a tale soth

Now miht thou hiere next suiende,

Which to this vice is acordende.

In a Cronique, as thou schalt wite,

A gret ensample I finde write,

Which I schal telle upon this thing.

Philippe of Macedoyne kyng

Two Sones hadde be his wif,

Whos fame is yit in Grece rif:

Demetrius the ferste brother

Was hote, and Perseuµs that other.

Demetrius men seiden tho

The betre knyht was of the tuo,

To whom the lond was entendant,

As he which heir was apparant

To regne after his fader dai:

Bot that thing which no water mai

Quenche in this world, bot evere brenneth,

Into his brother herte it renneth,

The proude Envie of that he sih

His brother scholde clymbe on hih,

And he to him mot thanne obeie:

That may he soffre be no weie.

With strengthe dorst he nothing fonde,

So tok he lesinge upon honde,

Whan he sih time and spak therto.

For it befell that time so,

His fader grete werres hadde

With Rome, whiche he streite ladde

Thurgh mihty hond of his manhode,

As he which hath ynowh knihthode,

And ofte hem hadde sore grieved.

Bot er the werre were achieved,

As he was upon ordinance

At hom in Grece, it fell per chance,

Demetrius, which ofte aboute

Ridende was, stod that time oute,

So that this Perse in his absence,

Which bar the tunge of pestilence,

With false wordes whiche he feigneth

Upon his oghne brother pleigneth

In privete behinde his bak,

And to his fader thus he spak:

"Mi diere fader, I am holde

Be weie of kinde, as resoun wolde,

That I fro yow schal nothing hide,

Which mihte torne in eny side

Of youre astat into grevance:

Forthi myn hertes obeissance

Towardes you I thenke kepe;

For it is good ye take kepe

Upon a thing which is me told.

Mi brother hath ous alle sold

To hem of Rome, and you also;

For thanne they behote him so,

That he with hem schal regne in pes.

Thus hath he cast for his encress

That youre astat schal go to noght;

And this to proeve schal be broght

So ferforth, that I undertake

It schal noght wel mow be forsake."

The king upon this tale ansuerde

And seide, if this thing which he herde

Be soth and mai be broght to prove,

"It schal noght be to his behove,

Which so hath schapen ous the werste,

For he himself schal be the ferste

That schal be ded, if that I mai."

Thus afterward upon a dai,

Whan that Demetrius was come,

Anon his fader hath him nome,

And bad unto his brother Perse

That he his tale schal reherse

Of thilke tresoun which he tolde.

And he, which al untrowthe wolde,

Conseileth that so hih a nede

Be treted wher as it mai spede,

In comun place of juggement.

The king therto yaf his assent,

Demetrius was put in hold,

Wherof that Perseuµs was bold.

Thus stod the trowthe under the charge,

And the falshede goth at large,

Which thurgh beheste hath overcome

The greteste of the lordes some,

That privelich of his acord

Thei stonde as witnesse of record:

The jugge was mad favorable:

Thus was the lawe deceivable

So ferforth that the trowthe fond

Rescousse non, and thus the lond

Forth with the king deceived were.

The gulteles was dampned there

And deide upon accusement:

Bot such a fals conspirement,

Thogh it be prive for a throwe,

Godd wolde noght it were unknowe;

And that was afterward wel proved

In him which hath the deth controved.

Of that his brother was so slain

This Perseuµs was wonder fain,

As he that tho was apparant,

Upon the Regne and expectant;

Wherof he wax so proud and vein,

That he his fader in desdeign

Hath take and set of non acompte,

As he which thoghte him to surmonte;

That wher he was ferst debonaire,

He was tho rebell and contraire,

And noght as heir bot as a king

He tok upon him alle thing

Of malice and of tirannie

In contempt of the Regalie,

Livende his fader, and so wroghte,

That whan the fader him bethoghte

And sih to whether side it drowh,

Anon he wiste well ynowh

How Perse after his false tunge

Hath so thenvious belle runge,

That he hath slain his oghne brother.

Wherof as thanne he knew non other,

Bot sodeinly the jugge he nom,

Which corrupt sat upon the dom,

In such a wise and hath him pressed,

That he the sothe him hath confessed

Of al that hath be spoke and do.

Mor sori than the king was tho

Was nevere man upon this Molde,

And thoghte in certain that he wolde

Vengance take upon this wrong.

Bot thother parti was so strong,

That for the lawe of no statut

Ther mai no riht ben execut;

And upon this division

The lond was torned up so doun:

Wherof his herte is so distraght,

That he for pure sorwe hath caght

The maladie of which nature

Is queint in every creature.

And whan this king was passed thus,

This false tunged Perseuµs

The regiment hath underfonge.

Bot ther mai nothing stonde longe

Which is noght upon trowthe grounded;

For god, which alle thing hath bounded

And sih the falshod of his guile,

Hath set him bot a litel while,

That he schal regne upon depos;

For sodeinliche as he aros

So sodeinliche doun he fell.

In thilke time it so befell,

This newe king of newe Pride

With strengthe schop him forto ride,

And seide he wolde Rome waste,

Wherof he made a besi haste,

And hath assembled him an host

In al that evere he mihte most:

What man that mihte wepne bere

Of alle he wolde non forbere;

So that it mihte noght be nombred,

The folk which after was encombred

Thurgh him, that god wolde overthrowe.

Anon it was at Rome knowe,

The pompe which that Perse ladde;

And the Romeins that time hadde

A Consul, which was cleped thus

Be name, Paul Emilius,

A noble, a worthi kniht withalle;

And he, which chief was of hem alle,

This werre on honde hath undertake.

And whanne he scholde his leve take

Of a yong dowhter which was his,

Sche wepte, and he what cause it is

Hire axeth, and sche him ansuerde

That Perse is ded; and he it herde,

And wondreth what sche meene wolde:

And sche upon childhode him tolde

That Perse hir litel hound is ded.

With that he pulleth up his hed

And made riht a glad visage,

And seide how that was a presage

Touchende unto that other Perse,

Of that fortune him scholde adverse,

He seith, for such a prenostik

Most of an hound was to him lik:

For as it is an houndes kinde

To berke upon a man behinde,

Riht so behinde his brother bak

With false wordes whiche he spak

He hath do slain, and that is rowthe.

"Bot he which hateth alle untrowthe,

The hihe god, it schal redresse;

For so my dowhter prophetesse

Forth with hir litel houndes deth

Betokneth." And thus forth he geth

Conforted of this evidence,

With the Romeins in his defence

Ayein the Greks that ben comende.

This Perseuµs, as noght seende

This meschief which that him abod,

With al his multitude rod,

And prided him upon the thing,

Of that he was become a king,

And how he hadde his regne gete;

Bot he hath al the riht foryete

Which longeth unto governance.

Wherof thurgh goddes ordinance

It fell, upon the wynter tide

That with his host he scholde ride

Over Danubie thilke flod,

Which al befrose thanne stod

So harde, that he wende wel

To passe: bot the blinde whiel,

Which torneth ofte er men be war,

Thilke ys which that the horsmen bar

Tobrak, so that a gret partie

Was dreint; of the chivalerie

The rerewarde it tok aweie,

Cam non of hem to londe dreie.

Paulus the worthi kniht Romein

Be his aspie it herde sein,

And hasteth him al that he may,

So that upon that other day

He cam wher he this host beheld,

And that was in a large feld,

Wher the Baneres ben desplaied.

He hath anon hise men arraied,

And whan that he was embatailled,

He goth and hath the feld assailed,

And slowh and tok al that he fond;

Wherof the Macedoyne lond,

Which thurgh king Alisandre honoured

Long time stod, was tho devoured.

To Perse and al that infortune

Thei wyte, so that the comune

Of al the lond his heir exile;

And he despeired for the while

Desguised in a povere wede

To Rome goth, and ther for nede

The craft which thilke time was,

To worche in latoun and in bras,

He lerneth for his sustienance.

Such was the Sones pourveance,

And of his fader it is seid,

In strong prisoun that he was leid

In Albe, wher that he was ded

For hunger and defalte of bred.

The hound was tokne and prophecie

That lich an hound he scholde die,

Which lich was of condicioun,

Whan he with his detraccioun

Bark on his brother so behinde.

Lo, what profit a man mai finde,

Which hindre wole an other wiht.

Forthi with al thin hole miht,

Mi Sone, eschuie thilke vice.

Mi fader, elles were I nyce:

For ye therof so wel have spoke,

That it is in myn herte loke

And evere schal: bot of Envie,

If ther be more in his baillie

Towardes love, sai me what.

Mi Sone, as guile under the hat

With sleyhtes of a tregetour

Is hidd, Envie of such colour

Hath yit the ferthe deceivant,

The which is cleped Falssemblant,

Wherof the matiere and the forme

Now herkne and I thee schal enforme.

Of Falssemblant if I schal telle,

Above alle othre it is the welle

Out of the which deceipte floweth.

Ther is noman so wys that knoweth

Of thilke flod which is the tyde,

Ne how he scholde himselven guide

To take sauf passage there.

And yit the wynd to mannes Ere

Is softe, and as it semeth oute

It makth clier weder al aboute;

Bot thogh it seme, it is noght so.

For Falssemblant hath everemo

Of his conseil in compaignie

The derke untrewe Ypocrisie,

Whos word descordeth to his thoght:

Forthi thei ben togedre broght

Of o covine, of on houshold,

As it schal after this be told.

Of Falssemblant it nedeth noght

To telle of olde ensamples oght;

For al dai in experience

A man mai se thilke evidence

Of faire wordes whiche he hiereth;

Bot yit the barge Envie stiereth

And halt it evere fro the londe,

Wher Falssemblant with Ore on honde

It roweth, and wol noght arive,

Bot let it on the wawes dryve

In gret tempeste and gret debat,

Wherof that love and his astat

Empeireth. And therfore I rede,

Mi Sone, that thou fle and drede

This vice, and what that othre sein,

Let thi Semblant be trewe and plein.

For Falssemblant is thilke vice,

Which nevere was withoute office:

Wher that Envie thenkth to guile,

He schal be for that ilke while

Of prive conseil Messagier.

For whan his semblant is most clier,

Thanne is he most derk in his thoght,

Thogh men him se, thei knowe him noght;

Bot as it scheweth in the glas

Thing which therinne nevere was,

So scheweth it in his visage

That nevere was in his corage:

Thus doth he al his thing with sleyhte.

Now ley thi conscience in weyhte,

Mi goode Sone, and schrif the hier,

If thou were evere Custummer

To Falssemblant in eny wise.

For ought I can me yit avise,

Mi goode fader, certes no.

If I for love have oght do so,

Now asketh, I wol praie yow:

For elles I wot nevere how

Of Falssemblant that I have gilt.

Mi Sone, and sithen that thou wilt

That I schal axe, gabbe noght,

Bot tell if evere was thi thoght

With Falssemblant and coverture

To wite of eny creature

How that he was with love lad;

So were he sori, were he glad,

Whan that thou wistest how it were,

Al that he rounede in thin Ere

Thou toldest forth in other place,

To setten him fro loves grace

Of what womman that thee beste liste,

Ther as noman his conseil wiste

Bot thou, be whom he was deceived

Of love, and from his pourpos weyved;

And thoghtest that his destourbance

Thin oghne cause scholde avance,

As who saith, "I am so celee,

Ther mai no mannes privete

Be heled half so wel as myn."

Art thou, mi Sone, of such engin?

Tell on. Mi goode fader, nay

As for the more part I say;

Bot of somdiel I am beknowe,

That I mai stonde in thilke rowe

Amonges hem that Saundres use.

I wol me noght therof excuse,

That I with such colour ne steyne,

Whan I my beste Semblant feigne

To my felawh, til that I wot

Al his conseil bothe cold and hot:

For be that cause I make him chiere,

Til I his love knowe and hiere;

And if so be myn herte soucheth

That oght unto my ladi toucheth

Of love that he wol me telle,

Anon I renne unto the welle

And caste water in the fyr,

So that his carte amidd the Myr,

Be that I have his conseil knowe,

Fulofte sithe I overthrowe,

Whan that he weneth best to stonde.

Bot this I do you understonde,

If that a man love elles where,

So that my ladi be noght there,

And he me telle, I wole it hide,

Ther schal no word ascape aside,

For with deceipte of no semblant

To him breke I no covenant;

Me liketh noght in other place

To lette noman of his grace,

Ne forto ben inquisitif

To knowe an other mannes lif:

Wher that he love or love noght,

That toucheth nothing to my thoght,

Bot al it passeth thurgh myn Ere

Riht as a thing that nevere were,

And is foryete and leid beside.

Bot if it touche on eny side

Mi ladi, as I have er spoken,

Myn Eres ben noght thanne loken;

For certes, whanne that betitt,

My will, myn herte and al my witt

Ben fully set to herkne and spire

What eny man wol speke of hire.

Thus have I feigned compaignie

Fulofte, for I wolde aspie

What thing it is that eny man

Telle of mi worthi lady can:

And for tuo causes I do this,

The ferste cause wherof is,-

If that I myhte ofherkne and seke

That eny man of hire mispeke,

I wolde excuse hire so fully,

That whan sche wist in inderly,

Min hope scholde be the more

To have hir thank for everemore.

That other cause, I you assure,

Is, why that I be coverture

Have feigned semblant ofte time

To hem that passen alday byme

And ben lovers als wel as I,

For this I weene trewely,

That ther is of hem alle non,

That thei ne loven everich on

Mi ladi: for sothliche I lieve

And durste setten it in prieve,

Is non so wys that scholde asterte,

Bot he were lustles in his herte,

Forwhy and he my ladi sihe,

Hir visage and hir goodlych yhe,

Bot he hire lovede, er he wente.

And for that such is myn entente,

That is the cause of myn aspie,

Why that I feigne compaignie

And make felawe overal;

For gladly wolde I knowen al

And holde me covert alway,

That I fulofte ye or nay

Ne liste ansuere in eny wise,

Bot feigne semblant as the wise

And herkne tales, til I knowe

Mi ladi lovers al arowe.

And whanne I hiere how thei have wroght,

I fare as thogh I herde it noght

And as I no word understode;

Bot that is nothing for here goode:

For lieveth wel, the sothe is this,

That whanne I knowe al how it is,

I wol bot forthren hem a lite,

Bot al the worste I can endite

I telle it to my ladi plat

In forthringe of myn oghne astat,

And hindre hem al that evere I may.

Bot for al that yit dar I say,

I finde unto miself no bote,

Althogh myn herte nedes mote

Thurgh strengthe of love al that I hiere

Discovere unto my ladi diere:

For in good feith I have no miht

To hele fro that swete wiht,

If that it touche hire eny thing.

Bot this wot wel the hevene king,

That sithen ferst this world began,

Unto non other strange man

Ne feigned I semblant ne chiere,

To wite or axe of his matiere,

Thogh that he lovede ten or tuelve,

Whanne it was noght my ladi selve:

Bot if he wolde axe eny red

Al onlich of his oghne hed,

How he with other love ferde,

His tales with myn Ere I herde,

Bot to myn herte cam it noght

Ne sank no deppere in my thoght,

Bot hield conseil, as I was bede,

And tolde it nevere in other stede,

Bot let it passen as it com.

Now, fader, say what is thi dom,

And hou thou wolt that I be peined

For such Semblant as I have feigned.

Mi Sone, if reson be wel peised,

Ther mai no vertu ben unpreised

Ne vice non be set in pris.

Forthi, my Sone, if thou be wys,

Do no viser upon thi face,

Which as wol noght thin herte embrace:

For if thou do, withinne a throwe

To othre men it schal be knowe,

So miht thou lihtli falle in blame

And lese a gret part of thi name.

And natheles in this degree

Fulofte time thou myht se

Of suche men that now aday

This vice setten in a say:

I speke it for no mannes blame,

Bot forto warne thee the same.

Mi Sone, as I mai hiere talke

In every place where I walke,

I not if it be so or non,

Bot it is manye daies gon

That I ferst herde telle this,

How Falssemblant hath ben and is

Most comunly fro yer to yere

With hem that duelle among ous here,

Of suche as we Lombardes calle.

For thei ben the slyeste of alle,

So as men sein in toune aboute,

To feigne and schewe thing withoute

Which is revers to that withinne:

Wherof that thei fulofte winne,

Whan thei be reson scholden lese;

Thei ben the laste and yit thei chese,

And we the ferste, and yit behinde

We gon, there as we scholden finde

The profit of oure oghne lond:

Thus gon thei fre withoute bond

To don her profit al at large,

And othre men bere al the charge.

Of Lombardz unto this covine,

Whiche alle londes conne engine,

Mai Falssemblant in special

Be likned, for thei overal,

Wher as they thenken forto duelle,

Among hemself, so as thei telle,

Ferst ben enformed forto lere

A craft which cleped is Fa crere:

For if Fa crere come aboute,

Thanne afterward hem stant no doute

To voide with a soubtil hond

The beste goodes of the lond

And bringe chaf and take corn.

Where as Fa crere goth toforn,

In all his weie he fynt no lette;

That Dore can non huissher schette

In which him list to take entre:

And thus the conseil most secre

Of every thing Fa crere knoweth,

Which into strange place he bloweth,

Where as he wot it mai most grieve.

And thus Fa crere makth believe,

So that fulofte he hath deceived,

Er that he mai ben aperceived.

Thus is this vice forto drede;

For who these olde bokes rede

Of suche ensamples as were ar,

Him oghte be the more war

Of alle tho that feigne chiere,

Wherof thou schalt a tale hiere.

Of Falssemblant which is believed

Ful many a worthi wiht is grieved,

And was long time er we wer bore.

To thee, my Sone, I wol therfore

A tale telle of Falssemblant,

Which falseth many a covenant,

And many a fraude of fals conseil

Ther ben hangende upon his Seil:

And that aboghten gulteles

Bothe Deianire and Hercules,

The whiche in gret desese felle

Thurgh Falssemblant, as I schal telle.

Whan Hercules withinne a throwe

Al only hath his herte throwe

Upon this faire Deianire,

It fell him on a dai desire,

Upon a Rivere as he stod,

That passe he wolde over the flod

Withoute bot, and with him lede

His love, bot he was in drede

For tendresce of that swete wiht,

For he knew noght the forde ariht.

Ther was a Geant thanne nyh,

Which Nessus hihte, and whanne he sih

This Hercules and Deianyre,

Withinne his herte he gan conspire,

As he which thurgh his tricherie

Hath Hercules in gret envie,

Which he bar in his herte loke,

And thanne he thoghte it schal be wroke.

Bot he ne dorste natheles

Ayein this worthi Hercules

Falle in debat as forto feihte;

Bot feigneth Semblant al be sleihte

Of frendschipe and of alle goode,

And comth where as thei bothe stode,

And makth hem al the chiere he can,

And seith that as here oghne man

He is al redy forto do

What thing he mai; and it fell so

That thei upon his Semblant triste,

And axen him if that he wiste

What thing hem were best to done,

So that thei mihten sauf and sone

The water passe, he and sche.

And whan Nessus the privete

Knew of here herte what it mente,

As he that was of double entente,

He made hem riht a glad visage;

And whanne he herde of the passage

Of him and hire, he thoghte guile,

And feigneth Semblant for a while

To don hem plesance and servise,

Bot he thoghte al an other wise.

This Nessus with hise wordes slyhe

Yaf such conseil tofore here yhe

Which semeth outward profitable

And was withinne deceivable.

He bad hem of the Stremes depe

That thei be war and take kepe,

So as thei knowe noght the pas;

Bot forto helpe in such a cas,

He seith himself that for here ese

He wolde, if that it mihte hem plese,

The passage of the water take,

And for this ladi undertake

To bere unto that other stronde

And sauf to sette hire up alonde,

And Hercules may thanne also

The weie knowe how he schal go:

And herto thei acorden alle.

Bot what as after schal befalle,

Wel payd was Hercules of this,

And this Geant also glad is,

And tok this ladi up alofte

And set hire on his schuldre softe,

And in the flod began to wade,

As he which no grucchinge made,

And bar hire over sauf and sound.

Bot whanne he stod on dreie ground

And Hercules was fer behinde,

He sette his trowthe al out of mynde,

Who so therof be lief or loth,

With Deianyre and forth he goth,

As he that thoghte to dissevere

The compaignie of hem for evere.

Whan Hercules therof tok hiede,

Als faste as evere he mihte him spiede

He hyeth after in a throwe;

And hapneth that he hadde a bowe,

The which in alle haste he bende,

As he that wolde an Arwe sende,

Which he tofore hadde envenimed.

He hath so wel his schote timed,

That he him thurgh the bodi smette,

And thus the false wiht he lette.

Bot lest now such a felonie:

Whan Nessus wiste he scholde die,

He tok to Deianyre his scherte,

Which with the blod was of his herte

Thurghout desteigned overal,

And tolde how sche it kepe schal

Al prively to this entente,

That if hire lord his herte wente

To love in eny other place,

The scherte, he seith, hath such a grace,

That if sche mai so mochel make

That he the scherte upon him take,

He schal alle othre lete in vein

And torne unto hire love ayein.

Who was tho glad bot Deianyre?

Hire thoghte hire herte was afyre

Til it was in hire cofre loke,

So that no word therof was spoke.

The daies gon, the yeres passe,

The hertes waxen lasse and lasse

Of hem that ben to love untrewe:

This Hercules with herte newe

His love hath set on Eolen,

And therof spieken alle men.

This Eolen, this faire maide,

Was, as men thilke time saide,

The kinges dowhter of Eurice;

And sche made Hercules so nyce

Upon hir Love and so assote,

That he him clotheth in hire cote,

And sche in his was clothed ofte;

And thus fieblesce is set alofte,

And strengthe was put under fote,

Ther can noman therof do bote.

Whan Deianyre hath herd this speche,

Ther was no sorwe forto seche:

Of other helpe wot sche non,

Bot goth unto hire cofre anon;

With wepende yhe and woful herte

Sche tok out thilke unhappi scherte,

As sche that wende wel to do,

And broghte hire werk aboute so

That Hercules this scherte on dede,

To such entente as she was bede

Of Nessus, so as I seide er.

Bot therof was sche noght the ner,

As no fortune may be weyved;

With Falssemblant sche was deceived,

That whan sche wende best have wonne,

Sche lost al that sche hath begonne.

For thilke scherte unto the bon

His body sette afyre anon,

And cleveth so, it mai noght twinne,

For the venym that was therinne.

And he thanne as a wilde man

Unto the hihe wode he ran,

And as the Clerk Ovide telleth,

The grete tres to grounde he felleth

With strengthe al of his oghne myght,

And made an huge fyr upriht,

And lepte himself therinne at ones

And brende him bothe fleissh and bones.

Which thing cam al thurgh Falssemblant,

That false Nessus the Geant

Made unto him and to his wif;

Wherof that he hath lost his lif,

And sche sori for everemo.

Forthi, my Sone, er thee be wo,

I rede, be wel war therfore;

For whan so gret a man was lore,

It oghte yive a gret conceipte

To warne alle othre of such deceipte.

Grant mercy, fader, I am war

So fer that I nomore dar

Of Falssemblant take aqueintance;

Bot rathere I wol do penance

That I have feigned chiere er this.

Now axeth forth, what so ther is

Of that belongeth to my schrifte.

Mi Sone, yit ther is the fifte

Which is conceived of Envie,

And cleped is Supplantarie,

Thurgh whos compassement and guile

Ful many a man hath lost his while

In love als wel as otherwise,

Hierafter as I schal devise.

The vice of Supplantacioun

With many a fals collacioun,

Which he conspireth al unknowe,

Full ofte time hath overthrowe

The worschipe of an other man.

So wel no lif awayte can

Ayein his sleyhte forto caste,

That he his pourpos ate laste

Ne hath, er that it be withset.

Bot most of alle his herte is set

In court upon these grete Offices

Of dignitees and benefices:

Thus goth he with his sleyhte aboute

To hindre and schowve an other oute

And stonden with his slyh compas

In stede there an other was;

And so to sette himselven inne,

He reccheth noght, be so he winne,

Of that an other man schal lese,

And thus fulofte chalk for chese

He changeth with ful litel cost,

Wherof an other hath the lost

And he the profit schal receive.

For his fortune is to deceive

And forto change upon the whel

His wo with othre mennes wel:

Of that an other man avaleth,

His oghne astat thus up he haleth,

And takth the bridd to his beyete,

Wher othre men the buisshes bete.

Mi Sone, and in the same wise

Ther ben lovers of such emprise,

That schapen hem to be relieved

Where it is wrong to ben achieved:

For it is other mannes riht,

Which he hath taken dai and niht

To kepe for his oghne Stor

Toward himself for everemor,

And is his propre be the lawe,

Which thing that axeth no felawe,

If love holde his covenant.

Bot thei that worchen be supplaunt,

Yit wolden thei a man supplaunte,

And take a part of thilke plaunte

Which he hath for himselve set:

And so fulofte is al unknet,

That som man weneth be riht fast.

For Supplant with his slyhe cast

Fulofte happneth forto mowe

Thing which an other man hath sowe,

And makth comun of proprete

With sleihte and with soubtilite,

As men mai se fro yer to yere.

Thus cleymeth he the bot to stiere,

Of which an other maister is.

Forthi, my Sone, if thou er this

Hast ben of such professioun,

Discovere thi confessioun:

Hast thou supplanted eny man?

For oght that I you telle can,

Min holi fader, as of the dede

I am withouten eny drede

Al gulteles; bot of my thoght

Mi conscience excuse I noght.

For were it wrong or were it riht,

Me lakketh nothing bote myht,

That I ne wolde longe er this

Of other mannes love ywiss

Be weie of Supplantacioun

Have mad apropriacioun

And holde that I nevere boghte,

Thogh it an other man forthoghte.

And al this speke I bot of on,

For whom I lete alle othre gon;

Bot hire I mai noght overpasse,

That I ne mot alwey compasse,

Me roghte noght be what queintise,

So that I mihte in eny wise

Fro suche that mi ladi serve

Hire herte make forto swerve

Withouten eny part of love.

For be the goddes alle above

I wolde it mihte so befalle,

That I al one scholde hem alle

Supplante, and welde hire at mi wille.

And that thing mai I noght fulfille,

Bot if I scholde strengthe make;

And that I dar noght undertake,

Thogh I were as was Alisaundre,

For therof mihte arise sklaundre;

And certes that schal I do nevere,

For in good feith yit hadde I levere

In my simplesce forto die,

Than worche such Supplantarie.

Of otherwise I wol noght seie

That if I founde a seker weie,

I wolde as for conclusioun

Worche after Supplantacioun,

So hihe a love forto winne.

Now, fader, if that this be Sinne,

I am al redy to redresce

The gilt of which I me confesse.

Mi goode Sone, as of Supplant

Thee thar noght drede tant ne quant,

As for nothing that I have herd,

Bot only that thou hast misferd

Thenkende, and that me liketh noght,

For godd beholt a mannes thoght.

And if thou understode in soth

In loves cause what it doth,

A man to ben a Supplantour,

Thou woldest for thin oghne honour

Be double weie take kepe:

Ferst for thin oghne astat to kepe,

To be thiself so wel bethoght

That thou supplanted were noght,

And ek for worschipe of thi name

Towardes othre do the same,

And soffren every man have his.

Bot natheles it was and is,

That in a wayt at alle assaies

Supplant of love in oure daies

The lief fulofte for the levere

Forsakth, and so it hath don evere.

Ensample I finde therupon,

At Troie how that Agamenon

Supplantede the worthi knyht

Achilles of that swete wiht,

Which named was Brexeiµda;

And also of Criseiµda,

Whom Troilus to love ches,

Supplanted hath Diomedes.

Of Geta and Amphitrion,

That whilom weren bothe as on

Of frendschipe and of compaignie,

I rede how that Supplantarie

In love, as it betidde tho,

Beguiled hath on of hem tuo.

For this Geta that I of meene,

To whom the lusti faire Almeene

Assured was be weie of love,

Whan he best wende have ben above

And sikerest of that he hadde,

Cupido so the cause ladde,

That whil he was out of the weie,

Amphitrion hire love aweie

Hath take, and in this forme he wroghte.

Be nyhte unto the chambre he soghte,

Wher that sche lay, and with a wyle

He contrefeteth for the whyle

The vois of Gete in such a wise,

That made hire of hire bedd arise,

Wenende that it were he,

And let him in, and whan thei be

Togedre abedde in armes faste,

This Geta cam thanne ate laste

Unto the Dore and seide, "Undo."

And sche ansuerde and bad him go,

And seide how that abedde al warm

Hir lief lay naked in hir arm;

Sche wende that it were soth.

Lo, what Supplant of love doth:

This Geta forth bejaped wente,

And yit ne wiste he what it mente;

Amphitrion him hath supplanted

With sleyhte of love and hire enchaunted:

And thus put every man out other,

The Schip of love hath lost his Rother,

So that he can no reson stiere.

And forto speke of this matiere

Touchende love and his Supplant,

A tale which is acordant

Unto thin Ere I thenke enforme.

Now herkne, for this is the forme.

Of thilke Cite chief of alle

Which men the noble Rome calle,

Er it was set to Cristes feith,

Ther was, as the Cronique seith,

An Emperour, the which it ladde

In pes, that he no werres hadde:

Ther was nothing desobeissant

Which was to Rome appourtenant,

Bot al was torned into reste.

To some it thoghte for the beste,

To some it thoghte nothing so,

And that was only unto tho

Whos herte stod upon knyhthode:

Bot most of alle of his manhode

The worthi Sone of themperour,

Which wolde ben a werreiour,

As he that was chivalerous

Of worldes fame and desirous,

Began his fadre to beseche

That he the werres mihte seche,

In strange Marches forto ride.

His fader seide he scholde abide,

And wolde granten him no leve:

Bot he, which wolde noght beleve,

A kniht of his to whom he triste,

So that his fader nothing wiste,

He tok and tolde him his corage,

That he pourposeth a viage.

If that fortune with him stonde,

He seide how that he wolde fonde

The grete See to passe unknowe,

And there abyde for a throwe

Upon the werres to travaile.

And to this point withoute faile

This kniht, whan he hath herd his lord,

Is swore, and stant of his acord,

As thei that bothe yonge were;

So that in prive conseil there

Thei ben assented forto wende.

And therupon to make an ende,

Tresor ynowh with hem thei token,

And whan the time is best thei loken,

That sodeinliche in a Galeie

Fro Romelond thei wente here weie

And londe upon that other side.

The world fell so that ilke tide,

Which evere hise happes hath diverse,

The grete Soldan thanne of Perse

Ayein the Caliphe of Egipte

A werre, which that him beclipte,

Hath in a Marche costeiant.

And he, which was a poursuiant

Worschipe of armes to atteigne,

This Romein, let anon ordeigne,

That he was redi everydel:

And whan he was arraied wel

Of every thing which him belongeth,

Straght unto Kaire his weie he fongeth,

Wher he the Soldan thanne fond,

And axeth that withinne his lond

He mihte him for the werre serve,

As he which wolde his thonk deserve.

The Soldan was riht glad with al,

And wel the more in special

Whan that he wiste he was Romein;

Bot what was elles in certein,

That mihte he wite be no weie.

And thus the kniht of whom I seie

Toward the Soldan is beleft,

And in the Marches now and eft,

Wher that the dedli werres were,

He wroghte such knihthode there,

That every man spak of him good.

And thilke time so it stod,

This mihti Soldan be his wif

A Dowhter hath, that in this lif

Men seiden ther was non so fair.

Sche scholde ben hir fader hair,

And was of yeres ripe ynowh:

Hire beaute many an herte drowh

To bowe unto that ilke lawe

Fro which no lif mai be withdrawe,

And that is love, whos nature

Set lif and deth in aventure

Of hem that knyhthode undertake.

This lusti peine hath overtake

The herte of this Romein so sore,

That to knihthode more and more

Prouesce avanceth his corage.

Lich to the Leoun in his rage,

Fro whom that alle bestes fle,

Such was the knyht in his degre:

Wher he was armed in the feld,

Ther dorste non abide his scheld;

Gret pris upon the werre he hadde.

Bot sche which al the chance ladde,

Fortune, schop the Marches so,

That be thassent of bothe tuo,

The Soldan and the Caliphe eke,

Bataille upon a dai thei seke,

Which was in such a wise set

That lengere scholde it noght be let.

Thei made hem stronge on every side,

And whan it drowh toward the tide

That the bataille scholde be,

The Soldan in gret privete

A goldring of his dowhter tok,

And made hire swere upon a bok

And ek upon the goddes alle,

That if fortune so befalle

In the bataille that he deie,

That sche schal thilke man obeie

And take him to hire housebonde,

Which thilke same Ring to honde

Hire scholde bringe after his deth.

This hath sche swore, and forth he geth

With al the pouer of his lond

Unto the Marche, where he fond

His enemy full embatailled.

The Soldan hath the feld assailed:

Thei that ben hardy sone assemblen,

Wherof the dredfull hertes tremblen:

That on sleth, and that other sterveth,

Bot above all his pris deserveth

This knihtly Romein; where he rod,

His dedly swerd noman abod,

Ayein the which was no defence;

Egipte fledde in his presence,

And thei of Perse upon the chace

Poursuien: bot I not what grace

Befell, an Arwe out of a bowe

Al sodeinly that ilke throwe

The Soldan smot, and ther he lay:

The chace is left for thilke day,

And he was bore into a tente.

The Soldan sih how that it wente,

And that he scholde algate die;

And to this knyht of Romanie,

As unto him whom he most triste,

His Dowhter Ring, that non it wiste,

He tok, and tolde him al the cas,

Upon hire oth what tokne it was

Of that sche scholde ben his wif.

Whan this was seid, the hertes lif

Of this Soldan departeth sone;

And therupon, as was to done,

The dede body wel and faire

Thei carie til thei come at Kaire,

Wher he was worthily begrave.

The lordes, whiche as wolden save

The Regne which was desolat,

To bringe it into good astat

A parlement thei sette anon.

Now herkne what fell therupon:

This yonge lord, this worthi kniht

Of Rome, upon the same niht

That thei amorwe trete scholde,

Unto his Bacheler he tolde

His conseil, and the Ring with al

He scheweth, thurgh which that he schal,

He seith, the kinges Dowhter wedde,

For so the Ring was leid to wedde,

He tolde, into hir fader hond,

That with what man that sche it fond

Sche scholde him take to hire lord.

And this, he seith, stant of record,

Bot noman wot who hath this Ring.

This Bacheler upon this thing

His Ere and his entente leide,

And thoghte more thanne he seide,

And feigneth with a fals visage

That he was glad, bot his corage

Was al set in an other wise.

These olde Philosophres wise

Thei writen upon thilke while,

That he mai best a man beguile

In whom the man hath most credence;

And this befell in evidence

Toward this yonge lord of Rome.

His Bacheler, which hadde tome,

Whan that his lord be nihte slepte,

This Ring, the which his maister kepte,

Out of his Pours awey he dede,

And putte an other in the stede.

Amorwe, whan the Court is set,

The yonge ladi was forth fet,

To whom the lordes don homage,

And after that of Mariage

Thei trete and axen of hir wille.

Bot sche, which thoghte to fulfille

Hire fader heste in this matiere,

Seide openly, that men mai hiere,

The charge which hire fader bad.

Tho was this Lord of Rome glad

And drowh toward his Pours anon,

Bot al for noght, it was agon:

His Bacheler it hath forthdrawe,

And axeth ther upon the lawe

That sche him holde covenant.

The tokne was so sufficant

That it ne mihte be forsake,

And natheles his lord hath take

Querelle ayein his oghne man;

Bot for nothing that evere he can

He mihte as thanne noght ben herd,

So that his cleym is unansuerd,

And he hath of his pourpos failed.

This Bacheler was tho consailed

And wedded, and of thilke Empire

He was coroned Lord and Sire,

And al the lond him hath received;

Wherof his lord, which was deceived,

A seknesse er the thridde morwe

Conceived hath of dedly sorwe:

And as he lay upon his deth,

Therwhile him lasteth speche and breth,

He sende for the worthieste

Of al the lond and ek the beste,

And tolde hem al the sothe tho,

That he was Sone and Heir also

Of themperour of grete Rome,

And how that thei togedre come,

This kniht and he; riht as it was,

He tolde hem al the pleine cas,

And for that he his conseil tolde,

That other hath al that he wolde,

And he hath failed of his mede:

As for the good he takth non hiede,

He seith, bot only of the love,

Of which he wende have ben above.

And therupon be lettre write

He doth his fader forto wite

Of al this matiere as it stod;

And thanne with an hertly mod

Unto the lordes he besoghte

To telle his ladi how he boghte

Hire love, of which an other gladeth;

And with that word his hewe fadeth,

And seide, "A dieu, my ladi swete."

The lif hath lost his kindly hete,

And he lay ded as eny ston;

Wherof was sory manyon,

Bot non of alle so as sche.

This false knyht in his degree

Arested was and put in hold:

For openly whan it was told

Of the tresoun which is befalle,

Thurghout the lond thei seiden alle,

If it be soth that men suppose,

His oghne untrowthe him schal depose.

And forto seche an evidence,

With honour and gret reverence,

Wherof they mihten knowe an ende,

To themperour anon thei sende

The lettre which his Sone wrot.

And whan that he the sothe wot,

To telle his sorwe is endeles,

Bot yit in haste natheles

Upon the tale which he herde

His Stieward into Perse ferde

With many a worthi Romein eke,

His liege tretour forto seke;

And whan thei thider come were,

This kniht him hath confessed there

How falsly that he hath him bore,

Wherof his worthi lord was lore.

Tho seiden some he scholde deie,

Bot yit thei founden such a weie

That he schal noght be ded in Perse;

And thus the skiles ben diverse.

Be cause that he was coroned,

And that the lond was abandoned

To him, althogh it were unriht,

Ther is no peine for him diht;

Bot to this point and to this ende

Thei granten wel that he schal wende

With the Romeins to Rome ayein.

And thus acorded ful and plein,

The qwike body with the dede

With leve take forth thei lede,

Wher that Supplant hath his juise.

Wherof that thou thee miht avise

Upon this enformacioun

Touchende of Supplantacioun,

That thou, my Sone, do noght so:

And forto take hiede also

What Supplant doth in other halve,

Ther is noman can finde a salve

Pleinly to helen such a Sor;

It hath and schal ben everemor,

Whan Pride is with Envie joint,

He soffreth noman in good point,

Wher that he mai his honour lette.

And therupon if I schal sette

Ensample, in holy cherche I finde

How that Supplant is noght behinde;

God wot if that it now be so:

For in Cronique of time ago

I finde a tale concordable

Of Supplant, which that is no fable,

In the manere as I schal telle,

So as whilom the thinges felle.

At Rome, as it hath ofte falle,

The vicair general of alle

Of hem that lieven Cristes feith

His laste day, which non withseith,

Hath schet as to the worldes yµe,

Whos name if I schal specefie,

He hihte Pope Nicolas.

And thus whan that he passed was,

The Cardinals, that wolden save

The forme of lawe, in the conclave

Gon forto chese a newe Pope,

And after that thei cowthe agrope

Hath ech of hem seid his entente:

Til ate laste thei assente

Upon an holy clerk reclus,

Which full was of gostli vertus;

His pacience and his simplesse

Hath set him into hih noblesse.

Thus was he Pope canonized,

With gret honour and intronized,

And upon chance as it is falle,

His name Celestin men calle;

Which notefied was be bulle

To holi cherche and to the fulle

In alle londes magnified.

Bot every worschipe is envied,

And that was thilke time sene:

For whan this Pope of whom I meene

Was chose, and othre set beside,

A Cardinal was thilke tide

Which the papat longe hath desired

And therupon gretli conspired;

Bot whan he sih fortune is failed,

For which long time he hath travailed,

That ilke fyr which Ethna brenneth

Thurghout his wofull herte renneth,

Which is resembled to Envie,

Wherof Supplant and tricherie

Engendred is; and natheles

He feigneth love, he feigneth pes,

Outward he doth the reverence,

Bot al withinne his conscience

Thurgh fals ymaginacioun

He thoghte Supplantacioun.

And therupon a wonder wyle

He wroghte: for at thilke whyle

It fell so that of his lignage

He hadde a clergoun of yong age,

Whom he hath in his chambre affaited.

This Cardinal his time hath waited,

And with his wordes slyhe and queinte,

The whiche he cowthe wysly peinte,

He schop this clerk of which I telle

Toward the Pope forto duelle,

So that withinne his chambre anyht

He lai, and was a prive wyht

Toward the Pope on nyhtes tide.

Mai noman fle that schal betide.

This Cardinal, which thoghte guile,

Upon a day whan he hath while

This yonge clerc unto him tok,

And made him swere upon a bok,

And told him what his wille was.

And forth withal a Trompe of bras

He hath him take, and bad him this:

"Thou schalt," he seide, "whan time is

Awaite, and take riht good kepe,

Whan that the Pope is fast aslepe

And that non other man by nyh;

And thanne that thou be so slyh

Thurghout the Trompe into his Ere,

Fro hevene as thogh a vois it were,

To soune of such prolacioun

That he his meditacioun

Therof mai take and understonde,

As thogh it were of goddes sonde.

And in this wise thou schalt seie,

That he do thilke astat aweie

Of Pope, in which he stant honoured,

So schal his Soule be socoured

Of thilke worschipe ate laste

In hevene which schal evere laste."

This clerc, whan he hath herd the forme

How he the Pope scholde enforme,

Tok of the Cardinal his leve,

And goth him hom, til it was Eve,

And prively the trompe he hedde,

Til that the Pope was abedde.

And at the Midnyht, whan he knewh

The Pope slepte, thanne he blewh

Withinne his trompe thurgh the wal,

And tolde in what manere he schal

His Papacie leve, and take

His ferste astat: and thus awake

This holi Pope he made thries,

Wherof diverse fantasies

Upon his grete holinesse

Withinne his herte he gan impresse.

The Pope ful of innocence

Conceiveth in his conscience

That it is goddes wille he cesse;

Bot in what wise he may relesse

His hihe astat, that wot he noght.

And thus withinne himself bethoght,

He bar it stille in his memoire,

Til he cam to the Consistoire;

And there in presence of hem alle

He axeth, if it so befalle

That eny Pope cesse wolde,

How that the lawe it soffre scholde.

Thei seten alle stille and herde,

Was non which to the point ansuerde,

For to what pourpos that it mente

Ther was noman knew his entente,

Bot only he which schop the guile.

This Cardinal the same while

Al openly with wordes pleine

Seith, if the Pope wolde ordeigne

That ther be such a lawe wroght,

Than mihte he cesse, and elles noght.

And as he seide, don it was;

The Pope anon upon the cas

Of his Papal Autorite

Hath mad and yove the decre:

And whan that lawe was confermed

In due forme and al affermed,

This innocent, which was deceived,

His Papacie anon hath weyved,

Renounced and resigned eke.

That other was nothing to seke,

Bot undernethe such a jape

He hath so for himselve schape,

That how as evere it him beseme,

The Mitre with the Diademe

He hath thurgh Supplantacion:

And in his confirmacion

Upon the fortune of his grace

His name is cleped Boneface.

Under the viser of Envie,

Lo, thus was hid the tricherie,

Which hath beguiled manyon.

Bot such conseil ther mai be non,

With treson whan it is conspired,

That it nys lich the Sparke fyred

Up in the Rof, which for a throwe

Lith hidd, til whan the wyndes blowe

It blaseth out on every side.

This Bonefas, which can noght hyde

The tricherie of his Supplant,

Hath openly mad his avant

How he the Papacie hath wonne.

Bot thing which is with wrong begonne

Mai nevere stonde wel at ende;

Wher Pride schal the bowe bende,

He schet fulofte out of the weie:

And thus the Pope of whom I seie,

Whan that he stod on hih the whiel,

He can noght soffre himself be wel.

Envie, which is loveles,

And Pride, which is laweles,

With such tempeste made him erre,

That charite goth out of herre:

So that upon misgovernance

Ayein Lowyz the king of France

He tok querelle of his oultrage,

And seide he scholde don hommage

Unto the cherche bodily.

Bot he, that wiste nothing why

He scholde do so gret servise

After the world in such a wise,

Withstod the wrong of that demande;

For noght the Pope mai comande

The king wol noght the Pope obeie.

This Pope tho be alle weie

That he mai worche of violence

Hath sent the bulle of his sentence

With cursinge and with enterdit.

The king upon this wrongful plyt,

To kepe his regne fro servage,

Conseiled was of his Barnage

That miht with miht schal be withstonde.

Thus was the cause take on honde,

And seiden that the Papacie

Thei wolde honoure and magnefie

In al that evere is spirital;

Bot thilke Pride temporal

Of Boneface in his persone,

Ayein that ilke wrong al one

Thei wolde stonden in debat:

And thus the man and noght the stat

The Frensche schopen be her miht

To grieve. And fell ther was a kniht,

Sire Guilliam de Langharet,

Which was upon this cause set;

And therupon he tok a route

Of men of Armes and rod oute,

So longe and in a wayt he lay,

That he aspide upon a day

The Pope was at Avinoun,

And scholde ryde out of the toun

Unto Pontsorge, the which is

A Castell in Provence of his.

Upon the weie and as he rod,

This kniht, which hoved and abod

Embuisshed upon horse bak,

Al sodeinliche upon him brak

And hath him be the bridel sesed,

And seide: "O thou, which hast desesed

The Court of France be thi wrong,

Now schalt thou singe an other song:

Thin enterdit and thi sentence

Ayein thin oghne conscience

Hierafter thou schalt fiele and grope.

We pleigne noght ayein the Pope,

For thilke name is honourable,

Bot thou, which hast be deceivable

And tricherous in al thi werk,

Thou Bonefas, thou proude clerk,

Misledere of the Papacie,

Thi false bodi schal abye

And soffre that it hath deserved."

Lo, thus the Supplantour was served;

For thei him ladden into France

And setten him to his penance

Withinne a tour in harde bondes,

Wher he for hunger bothe hise hondes

Eet of and deide, god wot how:

Of whom the wrytinge is yit now

Registred, as a man mai hiere,

Which spekth and seith in this manere:

Thin entre lich the fox was slyh,

Thi regne also with pride on hih

Was lich the Leon in his rage;

Bot ate laste of thi passage

Thi deth was to the houndes like.

Such is the lettre of his Cronique

Proclamed in the Court of Rome,

Wherof the wise ensample nome.

And yit, als ferforth as I dar,

I rede alle othre men be war,

And that thei loke wel algate

That non his oghne astat translate

Of holi cherche in no degree

Be fraude ne soubtilite:

For thilke honour which Aaron tok

Schal non receive, as seith the bok,

Bot he be cleped as he was.

What I schal thenken in this cas

Of that I hiere now aday,

I not: bot he which can and may,

Be reson bothe and be nature

The help of every mannes cure,

He kepe Simon fro the folde.

For Joachim thilke Abbot tolde

How suche daies scholden falle,

That comunliche in places alle

The Chapmen of such mercerie

With fraude and with Supplantarie

So manye scholden beie and selle,

That he ne may for schame telle

So foul a Senne in mannes Ere.

Bot god forbiede that it were

In oure daies that he seith:

For if the Clerc beware his feith

In chapmanhod at such a feire,

The remenant mot nede empeire

Of al that to the world belongeth;

For whan that holi cherche wrongeth,

I not what other thing schal rihte.

And natheles at mannes sihte

Envie forto be preferred

Hath conscience so differred,

That noman loketh to the vice

Which is the Moder of malice,

And that is thilke false Envie,

Which causeth many a tricherie;

For wher he may an other se

That is mor gracious than he,

It schal noght stonden in his miht

Bot if he hindre such a wiht:

And that is welnyh overal,

This vice is now so general.

Envie thilke unhapp indrowh,

Whan Joab be deceipte slowh

Abner, for drede he scholde be

With king David such as was he.

And thurgh Envie also it fell

Of thilke false Achitofell,

For his conseil was noght achieved,

Bot that he sih Cusy believed

With Absolon and him forsake,

He heng himself upon a stake.

Senec witnesseth openly

How that Envie proprely

Is of the Court the comun wenche,

And halt taverne forto schenche

That drink which makth the herte brenne,

And doth the wit aboute renne,

Be every weie to compasse

How that he mihte alle othre passe,

As he which thurgh unkindeschipe

Envieth every felaschipe;

So that thou miht wel knowe and se,

Ther is no vice such as he,

Ferst toward godd abhominable,

And to mankinde unprofitable:

And that be wordes bot a fewe

I schal be reson prove and schewe.

Envie if that I schal descrive,

He is noght schaply forto wyve

In Erthe among the wommen hiere;

For ther is in him no matiere

Wherof he mihte do plesance.

Ferst for his hevy continance

Of that he semeth evere unglad,

He is noght able to ben had;

And ek he brenneth so withinne,

That kinde mai no profit winne,

Wherof he scholde his love plese:

For thilke blod which scholde have ese

To regne among the moiste veines,

Is drye of thilke unkendeli peines

Thurgh whiche Envie is fyred ay.

And thus be reson prove I may

That toward love Envie is noght;

And otherwise if it be soght,

Upon what side as evere it falle,

It is the werste vice of alle,

Which of himself hath most malice.

For understond that every vice

Som cause hath, wherof it groweth,

Bot of Envie noman knoweth

Fro whenne he cam bot out of helle.

For thus the wise clerkes telle,

That no spirit bot of malice

Be weie of kinde upon a vice

Is tempted, and be such a weie

Envie hath kinde put aweie

And of malice hath his steringe,

Wherof he makth his bakbitinge,

And is himself therof desesed.

So mai ther be no kinde plesed;

For ay the mor that he envieth,

The more ayein himself he plieth.

Thus stant Envie in good espeir

To ben himself the develes heir,

As he which is his nexte liche

And forthest fro the heveneriche,

For there mai he nevere wone.

Forthi, my goode diere Sone,

If thou wolt finde a siker weie

To love, put Envie aweie.

Min holy fader, reson wolde

That I this vice eschuie scholde:

Bot yit to strengthe mi corage,

If that ye wolde in avantage

Therof sette a recoverir,

It were tome a gret desir,

That I this vice mihte flee.

Nou understond, my Sone, and se,

Ther is phisique for the seke,

And vertus for the vices eke.

Who that the vices wolde eschuie,

He mot be resoun thanne suie

The vertus; for be thilke weie

He mai the vices don aweie,

For thei togedre mai noght duelle:

For as the water of a welle

Of fyr abateth the malice,

Riht so vertu fordoth the vice.

Ayein Envie is Charite,

Which is the Moder of Pite,

That makth a mannes herte tendre,

That it mai no malice engendre

In him that is enclin therto.

For his corage is tempred so,

That thogh he mihte himself relieve,

Yit wolde he noght an other grieve,

Bot rather forto do plesance

He berth himselven the grevance,

So fain he wolde an other ese.

Wherof, mi Sone, for thin ese

Now herkne a tale which I rede,

And understond it wel, I rede.

Among the bokes of latin

I finde write of Constantin

The worthi Emperour of Rome,

Suche infortunes to him come,

Whan he was in his lusti age,

The lepre cawhte in his visage

And so forth overal aboute,

That he ne mihte ryden oute:

So lefte he bothe Schield and spere,

As he that mihte him noght bestere,

And hield him in his chambre clos.

Thurgh al the world the fame aros,

The grete clerkes ben asent

And come at his comandement

To trete upon this lordes hele.

So longe thei togedre dele,

That thei upon this medicine

Apointen hem, and determine

That in the maner as it stod

Thei wolde him bathe in childes blod

Withinne sevene wynter age:

For, as thei sein, that scholde assuage

The lepre and al the violence,

Which that thei knewe of Accidence

And noght be weie of kinde is falle.

And therto thei acorden alle

As for final conclusioun,

And tolden here opinioun

To themperour: and he anon

His conseil tok, and therupon

With lettres and with seales oute

Thei sende in every lond aboute

The yonge children forto seche,

Whos blod, thei seiden, schal be leche

For themperoures maladie.

Ther was ynowh to wepe and crie

Among the Modres, whan thei herde

Hou wofully this cause ferde,

Bot natheles thei moten bowe;

And thus wommen ther come ynowhe

With children soukende on the Tete.

Tho was ther manye teres lete,

Bot were hem lieve or were hem lothe,

The wommen and the children bothe

Into the Paleis forth be broght

With many a sory hertes thoght

Of hem whiche of here bodi bore

The children hadde, and so forlore

Withinne a while scholden se.

The Modres wepe in here degre,

And manye of hem aswoune falle,

The yonge babes criden alle:

This noyse aros, the lord it herde,

And loked out, and how it ferde

He sih, and as who seith abreide

Out of his slep, and thus he seide:

"O thou divine pourveance,

Which every man in the balance

Of kinde hast formed to be liche,

The povere is bore as is the riche

And deieth in the same wise,

Upon the fol, upon the wise

Siknesse and hele entrecomune;

Mai non eschuie that fortune

Which kinde hath in hire lawe set;

Hire strengthe and beaute ben beset

To every man aliche fre,

That sche preferreth no degre

As in the disposicioun

Of bodili complexioun:

And ek of Soule resonable

The povere child is bore als able

To vertu as the kinges Sone;

For every man his oghne wone

After the lust of his assay

The vice or vertu chese may.

Thus stonden alle men franchised,

Bot in astat thei ben divised;

To some worschipe and richesse,

To some poverte and distresse,

On lordeth and an other serveth;

Bot yit as every man deserveth

The world yifth noght his yiftes hiere.

Bot certes he hath gret matiere

To ben of good condicioun,

Which hath in his subjeccioun

The men that ben of his semblance."

And ek he tok a remembrance

How he that made lawe of kinde

Wolde every man to lawe binde,

And bad a man, such as he wolde

Toward himself, riht such he scholde

Toward an other don also.

And thus this worthi lord as tho

Sette in balance his oghne astat

And with himself stod in debat,

And thoghte hou that it was noght good

To se so mochel mannes blod

Be spilt for cause of him alone.

He sih also the grete mone,

Of that the Modres were unglade,

And of the wo the children made,

Wherof that al his herte tendreth,

And such pite withinne engendreth,

That him was levere forto chese

His oghne bodi forto lese,

Than se so gret a moerdre wroght

Upon the blod which gulteth noght.

Thus for the pite which he tok

Alle othre leches he forsok,

And put him out of aventure

Al only into goddes cure;

And seith, "Who that woll maister be,

He mot be servant to pite."

So ferforth he was overcome

With charite, that he hath nome

His conseil and hise officers,

And bad unto hise tresorers

That thei his tresour al aboute

Departe among the povere route

Of wommen and of children bothe,

Wherof thei mihte hem fede and clothe

And saufli tornen hom ayein

Withoute lost of eny grein.

Thurgh charite thus he despendeth

His good, wherof that he amendeth

The povere poeple, and contrevaileth

The harm, that he hem so travaileth:

And thus the woful nyhtes sorwe

To joie is torned on the morwe;

Al was thonkinge, al was blessinge,

Which erst was wepinge and cursinge;

Thes wommen gon hom glade ynowh,

Echon for joie on other lowh,

And preiden for this lordes hele,

Which hath relessed the querele,

And hath his oghne will forsake

In charite for goddes sake.

Bot now hierafter thou schalt hiere

What god hath wroght in this matiere,

As he which doth al equite.

To him that wroghte charite

He was ayeinward charitous,

And to pite he was pitous:

For it was nevere knowe yit

That charite goth unaquit.

The nyht, whan he was leid to slepe,

The hihe god, which wolde him kepe,

Seint Peter and seint Poul him sende,

Be whom he wolde his lepre amende.

Thei tuo to him slepende appiere

Fro god, and seide in this manere:

"O Constantin, for thou hast served

Pite, thou hast pite deserved:

Forthi thou schalt such pite have

That god thurgh pite woll thee save.

So schalt thou double hele finde,

Ferst for thi bodiliche kinde,

And for thi wofull Soule also,

Thou schalt ben hol of bothe tuo.

And for thou schalt thee noght despeire,

Thi lepre schal nomore empeire

Til thou wolt sende therupon

Unto the Mont of Celion,

Wher that Silvestre and his clergie

Togedre duelle in compaignie

For drede of thee, which many day

Hast ben a fo to Cristes lay,

And hast destruid to mochel schame

The prechours of his holy name.

Bot now thou hast somdiel appesed

Thi god, and with good dede plesed,

That thou thi pite hast bewared

Upon the blod which thou hast spared.

Forthi to thi salvacion

Thou schalt have enformacioun,

Such as Silvestre schal the teche:

The nedeth of non other leche."

This Emperour, which al this herde,

"Grant merci lordes," he ansuerde,

"I wol do so as ye me seie.

Bot of o thing I wolde preie:

What schal I telle unto Silvestre

Or of youre name or of youre estre?"

And thei him tolden what thei hihte,

And forth withal out of his sihte

Thei passen up into the hevene.

And he awok out of his swevene,

And clepeth, and men come anon:

He tolde his drem, and therupon

In such a wise as he hem telleth

The Mont wher that Silvestre duelleth

Thei have in alle haste soght,

And founde he was and with hem broght

To themperour, which to him tolde

His swevene and elles what he wolde.

And whan Silvestre hath herd the king,

He was riht joiful of this thing,

And him began with al his wit

To techen upon holi writ

Ferst how mankinde was forlore,

And how the hihe god therfore

His Sone sende from above,

Which bore was for mannes love,

And after of his oghne chois

He tok his deth upon the crois;

And how in grave he was beloke,

And how that he hath helle broke,

And tok hem out that were him lieve;

And forto make ous full believe

That he was verrai goddes Sone,

Ayein the kinde of mannes wone

Fro dethe he ros the thridde day,

And whanne he wolde, as he wel may,

He styh up to his fader evene

With fleissh and blod into the hevene;

And riht so in the same forme

In fleissh and blod he schal reforme,

Whan time comth, the qwike and dede

At thilke woful dai of drede,

Where every man schal take his dom,

Als wel the Maister as the grom.

The mihti kinges retenue

That dai may stonde of no value

With worldes strengthe to defende;

For every man mot thanne entende

To stonde upon his oghne dedes

And leve alle othre mennes nedes.

That dai mai no consail availe,

The pledour and the plee schal faile,

The sentence of that ilke day

Mai non appell sette in delay;

Ther mai no gold the Jugge plie,

That he ne schal the sothe trie

And setten every man upriht,

Als wel the plowman as the kniht:

The lewed man, the grete clerk

Schal stonde upon his oghne werk,

And such as he is founde tho,

Such schal he be for everemo.

Ther mai no peine be relessed,

Ther mai no joie ben encressed,

Bot endeles, as thei have do,

He schal receive on of the tuo.

And thus Silvestre with his sawe

The ground of al the newe lawe

With gret devocion he precheth,

Fro point to point and pleinly techeth

Unto this hethen Emperour;

And seith, the hihe creatour

Hath underfonge his charite,

Of that he wroghte such pite,

Whan he the children hadde on honde.

Thus whan this lord hath understonde

Of al this thing how that it ferde,

Unto Silvestre he thanne ansuerde,

With al his hole herte and seith

That he is redi to the feith.

And so the vessel which for blod

Was mad, Silvestre, ther it stod,

With clene water of the welle