Ther was a king, which OënesWas hote, and he under his pesHield Calidoyne in his Empire,And hadde a dowhter Deianire.Men wiste in thilke time nonSo fair a wiht as sche was on; 2050And as sche was a lusti wiht,Riht so was thanne a noble kniht,To whom Mercurie fader was.This kniht the tuo pilers of bras,The whiche yit a man mai finde,Sette up in the desert of Ynde;That was the worthi Hercules,Whos name schal ben endelesFor the merveilles whiche he wroghte.This Hercules the love soghte 2060Of Deianire, and of this thingUnto hir fader, which was king,He spak touchende of Mariage.The king knowende his hih lignage,And dradde also hise mihtes sterne,To him ne dorste his dowhter werne;And natheles this he him seide,How Achelons er he ferst preideTo wedden hire, and in accordThei stode, as it was of record: 2070Bot for al that this he him granteth,That which of hem that other dauntethIn armes, him sche scholde take,And that the king hath undertake.This Achelons was a Geant,A soubtil man, a deceivant,Which thurgh magique and sorcerieCouthe al the world of tricherie:And whan that he this tale herde,Hou upon that the king ansuerde 2080With Hercules he moste feighte,He tristeth noght upon his sleighteAl only, whan it comth to nede,Bot that which voydeth alle dredeAnd every noble herte stereth,The love, that no lif forbereth,For his ladi, whom he desireth,With hardiesse his herte fyreth,And sende him word withoute faileThat he wol take the bataille. 2090Thei setten day, they chosen field,The knihtes coevered under SchieldTogedre come at time set,And echon is with other met.It fell thei foghten bothe afote,Ther was no ston, ther was no rote,Which mihte letten hem the weie,But al was voide and take aweie.Thei smyten strokes bot a fewe,For Hercules, which wolde schewe 2100His grete strengthe as for the nones,He sterte upon him al at onesAnd cawhte him in hise armes stronge.This Geant wot he mai noght longeEndure under so harde bondes,And thoghte he wolde out of hise hondesBe sleyhte in som manere ascape.And as he couthe himself forschape,In liknesse of an Eddre he slipteOut of his hond, and forth he skipte; 2110And efte, as he that feighte wole,He torneth him into a Bole,And gan to belwe of such a soun,As thogh the world scholde al go doun:The ground he sporneth and he tranceth,Hise large hornes he avancethAnd caste hem here and there aboute.Bot he, which stant of him no doute,Awaiteth wel whan that he cam,And him be bothe hornes nam 2120And al at ones he him casteUnto the ground, and hield him faste,That he ne mihte with no sleighteOut of his hond gete upon heighte,Til he was overcome and yolde,And Hercules hath what he wolde.The king him granteth to fulfilleHis axinge at his oghne wille,And sche for whom he hadde served,Hire thoghte he hath hire wel deserved. 2130And thus with gret decerte of ArmesHe wan him forto ligge in armes,As he which hath it dere aboght,For otherwise scholde he noght.And overthis if thou wolt hiereUpon knihthode of this matiere,Hou love and armes ben aqueinted,A man mai se bothe write and peintedSo ferforth that Pantasilee,Which was the queene of Feminee, 2140The love of Hector forto siekeAnd for thonour of armes eke,To Troie cam with Spere and Schield,And rod hirself into the fieldWith Maidens armed al a routeIn rescouss of the toun aboute,Which with the Gregois was belein.Fro Pafagoine and as men sein,Which stant upon the worldes ende,That time it likede ek to wende 2150To Philemenis, which was king,To Troie, and come upon this thingIn helpe of thilke noble toun;And al was that for the renounOf worschipe and of worldes fame,Of which he wolde bere a name:And so he dede, and forth withalHe wan of love in specialA fair tribut for everemo.For it fell thilke time so; 2160Pirrus the Sone of AchillesThis worthi queene among the pressWith dedli swerd soghte out and fond,And slowh hire with his oghne hond;Wherof this king of PafagoinePantasilee of Amazoine,Wher sche was queene, with him ladde,With suche Maidens as sche haddeOf hem that were left alyve,Forth in his Schip, til thei aryve; 2170Wher that the body was begraveWith worschipe, and the wommen save.And for the goodschipe of this dedeThei granten him a lusti mede,That every yeer as for truageTo him and to his heritageOf Maidens faire he schal have thre.And in this wise spedde he,Which the fortune of armes soghte,With his travail his ese he boghte; 2180For otherwise he scholde have failed,If that he hadde noght travailed.Eneas ek withinne Ytaile,Ne hadde he wonne the batailleAnd don his miht so besilyAyein king Turne his enemy,He hadde noght Lavine wonne;Bot for he hath him overronneAnd gete his pris, he gat hire love.Be these ensamples here above, 2190Lo, now, mi Sone, as I have told,Thou miht wel se, who that is boldAnd dar travaile and undertakeThe cause of love, he schal be takeThe rathere unto loves grace;For comunliche in worthi placeThe wommen loven worthinesseOf manhode and of gentilesse,For the gentils ben most desired.Mi fader, bot I were enspired 2200Thurgh lore of you, I wot no weieWhat gentilesce is forto seie,Wherof to telle I you beseche.The ground, Mi Sone, forto secheUpon this diffinicion,The worldes constitucionHath set the name of gentilesseUpon the fortune of richesseWhich of long time is falle in age.Thanne is a man of hih lignage 2210After the forme, as thou miht hiere,Bot nothing after the matiere.For who that resoun understonde,Upon richesse it mai noght stonde,For that is thing which faileth ofte:For he that stant to day alofteAnd al the world hath in hise wones,Tomorwe he falleth al at onesOut of richesse into poverte,So that therof is no decerte, 2220Which gentilesce makth abide.And forto loke on other sideHou that a gentil man is bore,Adam, which alle was toforeWith Eve his wif, as of hem tuo,Al was aliche gentil tho;So that of generacionTo make declaracion,Ther mai no gentilesce be.For to the reson if we se, 2230Of mannes berthe the mesure,It is so comun to nature,That it yifth every man aliche,Als wel to povere as to the riche;For naked thei ben bore bothe,The lord nomore hath forto clotheAs of himself that ilke throwe,Than hath the povereste of the rowe.And whan thei schulle both passe,I not of hem which hath the lasse 2240Of worldes good, bot as of chargeThe lord is more forto charge,Whan god schal his accompte hiere,For he hath had hise lustes hiere.Bot of the bodi, which schal deie,Althogh ther be diverse weieTo deth, yit is ther bot on ende,To which that every man schal wende,Als wel the beggere as the lord,Of o nature, of on acord: 2250Sche which oure Eldemoder is,The Erthe, bothe that and thisReceiveth and alich devoureth,That sche to nouther part favoureth.So wot I nothing after kindeWhere I mai gentilesse finde.For lacke of vertu lacketh grace,Wherof richesse in many place,Whan men best wene forto stonde,Al sodeinly goth out of honde: 2260Bot vertu set in the corage,Ther mai no world be so salvage,Which mihte it take and don aweie,Til whanne that the bodi deie;And thanne he schal be riched so,That it mai faile neveremo;So mai that wel be gentilesse,Which yifth so gret a sikernesse.For after the condicionOf resonable entencion, 2270The which out of the Soule growethAnd the vertu fro vice knoweth,Wherof a man the vice eschuieth,Withoute Slowthe and vertu suieth,That is a verrai gentil man,And nothing elles which he can,Ne which he hath, ne which he mai.Bot for al that yit nou aday,In loves court to taken hiede,The povere vertu schal noght spiede, 2280Wher that the riche vice woweth;For sielde it is that love allowethThe gentil man withoute good,Thogh his condicion be good.Bot if a man of bothe tuoBe riche and vertuous also,Thanne is he wel the more worth:Bot yit to putte himselve forthHe moste don his besinesse,For nowther good ne gentilesse 2290Mai helpen him whiche ydel be.Bot who that wole in his degreTravaile so as it belongeth,It happeth ofte that he fongethWorschipe and ese bothe tuo.For evere yit it hath be so,That love honeste in sondri weieProfiteth, for it doth aweieThe vice, and as the bokes sein,It makth curteis of the vilein, 2300And to the couard hardiesceIt yifth, so that verrai prouesseIs caused upon loves reuleTo him that can manhode reule;And ek toward the wommanhiede,Who that therof wol taken hiede,For thei the betre affaited beIn every thing, as men may se.For love hath evere hise lustes greneIn gentil folk, as it is sene, 2310Which thing ther mai no kinde areste:I trowe that ther is no beste,If he with love scholde aqueinte,That he ne wolde make it queinteAs for the while that it laste.And thus I conclude ate laste,That thei ben ydel, as me semeth,Whiche unto thing that love demethForslowthen that thei scholden do.And overthis, mi Sone, also 2320After the vertu moral ekeTo speke of love if I schal seke,Among the holi bokes wiseI finde write in such a wise,“Who loveth noght is hier as ded”;For love above alle othre is hed,Which hath the vertus forto lede,Of al that unto mannes dedeBelongeth: for of ydelschipeHe hateth all the felaschipe. 2330For Slowthe is evere to despise,Which in desdeign hath al apprise,And that acordeth noght to man:For he that wit and reson kan,It sit him wel that he travaileUpon som thing which mihte availe,For ydelschipe is noght comended,Bot every lawe it hath defended.And in ensample theruponThe noble wise Salomon, 2340Which hadde of every thing insihte,Seith, “As the briddes to the flihteBen made, so the man is boreTo labour,” which is noght forboreTo hem that thenken forto thryve.For we, whiche are now alyve,Of hem that besi whylom were,Als wel in Scole as elleswhere,Mowe every day ensample take,That if it were now to make 2350Thing which that thei ferst founden oute,It scholde noght be broght aboute.Here lyves thanne were longe,Here wittes grete, here mihtes stronge,Here hertes ful of besinesse,Wherof the worldes redinesseIn bodi bothe and in corageStant evere upon his avantage.And forto drawe into memoireHere names bothe and here histoire, 2360Upon the vertu of her dedeIn sondri bokes thou miht rede.Of every wisdom the parfitThe hyhe god of his spiritYaf to the men in Erthe hiereUpon the forme and the matiereOf that he wolde make hem wise:And thus cam in the ferste appriseOf bokes and of alle goodeThurgh hem that whilom understode 2370The lore which to hem was yive,Wherof these othre, that now live,Ben every day to lerne newe.Bot er the time that men siewe,And that the labour forth it broghte,Ther was no corn, thogh men it soghte,In non of al the fieldes oute;And er the wisdom cam abouteOf hem that ferst the bokes write,This mai wel every wys man wite, 2380Ther was gret labour ek also.Thus was non ydel of the tuo,That on the plogh hath undertakeWith labour which the hond hath take,That other tok to studie and muse,As he which wolde noght refuseThe labour of hise wittes alle.And in this wise it is befalle,Of labour which that thei begunneWe be now tawht of that we kunne: 2390Here besinesse is yit so seene,That it stant evere alyche greene;Al be it so the bodi deie,The name of hem schal nevere aweie.In the Croniqes as I finde,Cham, whos labour is yit in minde,Was he which ferst the lettres fondAnd wrot in Hebreu with his hond:Of naturel PhilosophieHe fond ferst also the clergie. 2400Cadmus the lettres of GregoisFerst made upon his oghne chois.Theges of thing which schal befalle,He was the ferste Augurre of alle:And Philemon be the visageFond to descrive the corage.Cladyns, Esdras and Sulpices,Termegis, Pandulf, Frigidilles,Menander, Ephiloquorus,Solins, Pandas and Josephus 2410The ferste were of Enditours,Of old Cronique and ek auctours:And Heredot in his scienceOf metre, of rime and of cadenceThe ferste was of which men note.And of Musique also the noteIn mannes vois or softe or scharpe,That fond Jubal; and of the harpeThe merie soun, which is to like,That fond Poulins forth with phisique. 2420Zenzis fond ferst the pourtreture,And Promotheus the Sculpture;After what forme that hem thoghte,The resemblance anon thei wroghte.Tubal in Iren and in StelFond ferst the forge and wroghte it wel:And Jadahel, as seith the bok,Ferst made Net and fisshes tok:Of huntynge ek he fond the chace,Which now is knowe in many place: 2430A tente of cloth with corde and stakeHe sette up ferst and dede it make.Verconius of cokerieFerst made the delicacie.The craft Minerve of wolle fondAnd made cloth hire oghne hond;And Delbora made it of lyn:Tho wommen were of great engyn.Bot thing which yifth ous mete and drinkeAnd doth the labourer to swinke 2440To tile lond and sette vines,Wherof the cornes and the wynesBen sustenance to mankinde,In olde bokes as I finde,Saturnus of his oghne witHath founde ferst, and more yitOf Chapmanhode he fond the weie,And ek to coigne the moneieOf sondri metall, as it is,He was the ferste man of this. 2450Bot hou that metall cam a placeThurgh mannes wit and goddes graceThe route of Philosophres wiseControeveden be sondri wise,Ferst forto gete it out of Myne,And after forto trie and fyne.And also with gret diligenceThei founden thilke experience,Which cleped is Alconomie,Wherof the Selver multeplie 2460Thei made and ek the gold also.And forto telle hou it is so,Of bodies sevene in specialWith foure spiritz joynt withalStant the substance of this matiere.The bodies whiche I speke of hiereOf the Planetes ben begonne:The gold is titled to the Sonne,The mone of Selver hath his part,And Iren that stant upon Mart, 2470The Led after Satorne groweth,And Jupiter the Bras bestoweth,The Coper set is to Venus,And to his part MercuriusHath the quikselver, as it falleth,The which, after the bok it calleth,Is ferst of thilke fowre namedOf Spiritz, whiche ben proclamed;And the spirit which is secoundeIn Sal Armoniak is founde: 2480The thridde spirit Sulphur is;The ferthe suiende after thisArcennicum be name is hote.With blowinge and with fyres hoteIn these thinges, whiche I seie,Thei worchen be diverse weie.For as the philosophre toldeOf gold and selver, thei ben holdeTuo principal extremites,To whiche alle othre be degres 2490Of the metalls ben acordant,And so thurgh kinde resemblant,That what man couthe aweie takeThe rust, of which thei waxen blake,And the savour and the hardnesse,Thei scholden take the liknesseOf gold or Selver parfitly.Bot forto worche it sikirly,Betwen the corps and the spirit,Er that the metall be parfit, 2500In sevene formes it is set;Of alle and if that on be let,The remenant mai noght availe,Bot otherwise it mai noght faile.For thei be whom this art was foundeTo every point a certain boundeOrdeignen, that a man mai findeThis craft is wroght be weie of kinde,So that ther is no fallas inne.Bot what man that this werk beginne, 2510He mot awaite at every tyde,So that nothing be left aside,Ferst of the distillacion,Forth with the congelacion,Solucion, descencion,And kepe in his entencionThe point of sublimacion,And forth with calcinacionOf veray approbacionDo that ther be fixacion 2520With tempred hetes of the fyr,Til he the parfit ElixirOf thilke philosophres StonMai gete, of which that many onOf Philosophres whilom write.And if thou wolt the names witeOf thilke Ston with othre tuo,Whiche as the clerkes maden tho,So as the bokes it recorden,The kinde of hem I schal recorden. 2530These olde Philosophres wyseBe weie of kinde in sondri wiseThre Stones maden thurgh clergie.The ferste, if I schal specefie,Waslapis vegetabilis,Of which the propre vertu isTo mannes hele forto serve,As forto kepe and to preserveThe bodi fro siknesses alle,Til deth of kinde upon him falle. 2540The Ston seconde I thee behoteIslapis animalishote,The whos vertu is propre and cowthFor Ere and yhe and nase and mouth,Wherof a man mai hiere and seAnd smelle and taste in his degre,And forto fiele and forto goIt helpeth man of bothe tuo:The wittes fyve he underfongethTo kepe, as it to him belongeth. 2550The thridde Ston in specialBe name is cleped Minerall,Which the metalls of every MineAttempreth, til that thei ben fyne,And pureth hem be such a weie,That al the vice goth aweieOf rust, of stink and of hardnesse:And whan thei ben of such clennesse,This Mineral, so as I finde,Transformeth al the ferste kynde 2560And makth hem able to conceiveThurgh his vertu, and to receiveBothe in substance and in figureOf gold and selver the nature.For thei tuo ben thextremetes,To whiche after the propretesHath every metal his desir,With help and confort of the fyrForth with this Ston, as it is seid,Which to the Sonne and Mone is leid; 2570For to the rede and to the whyteThis Ston hath pouer to profite.It makth mulptiplicaciounOf gold, and the fixaciounIt causeth, and of his habitHe doth the werk to be parfitOf thilke Elixer which men calleAlconomie, as is befalleTo hem that whilom weren wise.Bot now it stant al otherwise; 2580Thei speken faste of thilke Ston,Bot hou to make it, nou wot nonAfter the sothe experience.And natheles gret diligenceThei setten upon thilke dede,And spille more than thei spede;For allewey thei finde a lette,Which bringeth in poverte and detteTo hem that riche were afore:The lost is had, the lucre is lore, 2590To gete a pound thei spenden fyve;I not hou such a craft schal thryveIn the manere as it is used:It were betre be refusedThan forto worchen upon weeneIn thing which stant noght as thei weene.Bot noght forthi, who that it knewe,The science of himself is treweUpon the forme as it was founded,Wherof the names yit ben grounded 2600Of hem that ferste it founden oute;And thus the fame goth abouteTo suche as soghten besinesseOf vertu and of worthinesse.Of whom if I the names calle,Hermes was on the ferste of alle,To whom this art is most applied;Geber therof was magnefied,And Ortolan and Morien,Among the whiche is Avicen, 2610Which fond and wrot a gret partieThe practique of Alconomie;Whos bokes, pleinli as thei stondeUpon this craft, fewe understonde;Bot yit to put hem in assaiTher ben full manye now aday,That knowen litel what thei meene.It is noght on to wite and weene;In forme of wordes thei it trete,Bot yit they failen of beyete, 2620For of tomoche or of tolyteTher is algate founde a wyte,So that thei folwe noght the lyneOf the parfite medicine,Which grounded is upon nature.Bot thei that writen the scriptureOf Grek, Arabe and of Caldee,Thei were of such AuctoriteThat thei ferst founden out the weieOf al that thou hast herd me seie; 2630Wherof the Cronique of her loreSchal stonde in pris for everemore.Bot toward oure Marches hiere,Of the Latins if thou wolt hiere,Of hem that whilom vertuousWere and therto laborious,Carmente made of hire enginThe ferste lettres of Latin,Of which the tunge Romein cam,Wherof that Aristarchus nam 2640Forth with Donat and DindimusThe ferste reule of Scole, as thus,How that Latin schal be componedAnd in what wise it schal be soned,That every word in his degreSchal stonde upon congruite.And thilke time at Rome alsoWas Tullius with Cithero,That writen upon Rethorike,Hou that men schal the wordes pike 2650After the forme of eloquence,Which is, men sein, a gret prudence:And after that out of HebreuJerom, which the langage kneu,The Bible, in which the lawe is closed,Into Latin he hath transposed;And many an other writere ekOut of Caldee, Arabe and GrekWith gret labour the bokes wiseTranslateden. And otherwise 2660The Latins of hemself alsoHere studie at thilke time soWith gret travaile of Scole tokeIn sondri forme forto boke,That we mai take here evidencesUpon the lore of the Sciences,Of craftes bothe and of clergie;Among the whiche in PoesieTo the lovers Ovide wrotAnd tawhte, if love be to hot, 2670In what manere it scholde akiele.Forthi, mi Sone, if that thou fieleThat love wringe thee to sore,Behold Ovide and take his lore.My fader, if thei mihte spedeMi love, I wolde his bokes rede;And if thei techen to restreigneMi love, it were an ydel peineTo lerne a thing which mai noght be.For lich unto the greene tree, 2680If that men toke his rote aweie,Riht so myn herte scholde deie,If that mi love be withdrawe.Wherof touchende unto this saweThere is bot only to poursuieMi love, and ydelschipe eschuie.Mi goode Sone, soth to seie,If ther be siker eny weieTo love, thou hast seid the beste:For who that wolde have al his reste 2690And do no travail at the nede,It is no resoun that he spedeIn loves cause forto winne;For he which dar nothing beginne,I not what thing he scholde achieve.Bot overthis thou schalt believe,So as it sit thee wel to knowe,That ther ben othre vices slowe,Whiche unto love don gret lette,If thou thin herte upon hem sette. 2700Toward the Slowe progenieTher is yit on of compaignie,And he is cleped Sompnolence,Which doth to Slouthe his reverence,As he which is his Chamberlein,That many an hundrid time hath leinTo slepe, whan he scholde wake.He hath with love trewes take,That wake who so wake wile,If he mai couche a doun his bile, 2710He hath al wowed what him list;That ofte he goth to bedde unkist,And seith that for no DruerieHe wol noght leve his sluggardie.For thogh noman it wole allowe,To slepe levere than to woweIs his manere, and thus on nyhtes,Whan that he seth the lusti knyhtesRevelen, wher these wommen are,Awey he skulketh as an hare, 2720And goth to bedde and leith him softe,And of his Slouthe he dremeth ofteHou that he stiketh in the Myr,And hou he sitteth be the fyrAnd claweth on his bare schanckes,And hou he clymbeth up the banckesAnd falleth into Slades depe.Bot thanne who so toke kepe,Whanne he is falle in such a drem,Riht as a Schip ayein the Strem, 2730He routeth with a slepi noise,And brustleth as a monkes froise,Whanne it is throwe into the Panne.And otherwhile sielde whanneThat he mai dreme a lusti swevene,Him thenkth as thogh he were in heveneAnd as the world were holi his:And thanne he spekth of that and this,And makth his exposicionAfter the disposicion 2740Of that he wolde, and in such wiseHe doth to love all his service;I not what thonk he schal deserve.Bot, Sone, if thou wolt love serve,I rede that thou do noght so.Ha, goode fader, certes no.I hadde levere be mi trowthe,Er I were set on such a sloutheAnd beere such a slepi snoute,Bothe yhen of myn hed were oute. 2750For me were betre fulli die,Thanne I of such a slugardieHadde eny name, god me schilde;For whan mi moder was with childe,And I lay in hire wombe clos,I wolde rathere Atropos,Which is goddesse of alle deth,Anon as I hadde eny breth,Me hadde fro mi Moder cast.Bot now I am nothing agast, 2760I thonke godd; for Lachesis,Ne Cloto, which hire felawe is,Me schopen no such destine,Whan thei at mi nativiteMy weerdes setten as thei wolde;Bot thei me schopen that I scholdeEschuie of slep the truandise,So that I hope in such a wiseTo love forto ben excused,That I no Sompnolence have used. 2770For certes, fader Genius,Yit into nou it hath be thus,At alle time if it befelleSo that I mihte come and duelleIn place ther my ladi were,I was noght slow ne slepi there:For thanne I dar wel undertake,That whanne hir list on nyhtes wakeIn chambre as to carole and daunce,Me thenkth I mai me more avaunce, 2780If I mai gon upon hir hond,Thanne if I wonne a kinges lond.For whanne I mai hire hand beclippe,With such gladnesse I daunce and skippe,Me thenkth I touche noght the flor;The Ro, which renneth on the Mor,Is thanne noght so lyht as I:So mow ye witen wel forthi,That for the time slep I hate.And whanne it falleth othergate, 2790So that hire like noght to daunce,Bot on the Dees to caste chaunceOr axe of love som demande,Or elles that hir list comaundeTo rede and here of Troilus,Riht as sche wole or so or thus,I am al redi to consente.And if so is that I mai henteSomtime among a good leisir,So as I dar of mi desir 2800I telle a part; bot whanne I preie,Anon sche bidt me go mi weieAnd seith it is ferr in the nyht;And I swere it is even liht.Bot as it falleth ate laste,Ther mai no worldes joie laste,So mot I nedes fro hire wendeAnd of my wachche make an ende:And if sche thanne hiede toke,Hou pitousliche on hire I loke, 2810Whan that I schal my leve take,Hire oghte of mercy forto slakeHire daunger, which seith evere nay.Bot he seith often, “Have good day,”That loth is forto take his leve:Therfore, while I mai beleve,I tarie forth the nyht along,For it is noght on me alongTo slep that I so sone go,Til that I mot algate so; 2820And thanne I bidde godd hire se,And so doun knelende on mi kneI take leve, and if I schal,I kisse hire, and go forth withal.And otherwhile, if that I dore,Er I come fulli to the Dore,I torne ayein and feigne a thing,As thogh I hadde lost a RingOr somwhat elles, for I woldeKisse hire eftsones, if I scholde, 2830Bot selden is that I so spede.And whanne I se that I mot nedeDeparten, I departe, and thanneWith al myn herte I curse and banneThat evere slep was mad for yhe;For, as me thenkth, I mihte dryheWithoute slep to waken evere,So that I scholde noght dissevereFro hire, in whom is al my liht:And thanne I curse also the nyht 2840With al the will of mi corage,And seie, “Awey, thou blake ymage,Which of thi derke cloudy faceMakst al the worldes lyht deface,And causest unto slep a weie,Be which I mot nou gon aweieOut of mi ladi compaignie.O slepi nyht, I thee defie,And wolde that thou leye in presseWith Proserpine the goddesse 2850And with Pluto the helle king:For til I se the daies spring,I sette slep noght at a risshe.”And with that word I sike and wisshe,And seie, “Ha, whi ne were it day?For yit mi ladi thanne I mayBeholde, thogh I do nomore.”And efte I thenke forthermore,To som man hou the niht doth ese,Whan he hath thing that mai him plese 2860The longe nyhtes be his side,Where as I faile and go beside.Bot slep, I not wherof it serveth,Of which noman his thonk deservethTo gete him love in eny place,Bot is an hindrere of his graceAnd makth him ded as for a throwe,Riht as a Stok were overthrowe.And so, mi fader, in this wiseThe slepi nyhtes I despise, 2870And evere amiddes of mi taleI thenke upon the nyhtingale,Which slepeth noght be weie of kindeFor love, in bokes as I finde.Thus ate laste I go to bedde,And yit min herte lith to weddeWith hire, wher as I cam fro;Thogh I departe, he wol noght so,Ther is no lock mai schette him oute,Him nedeth noght to gon aboute, 2880That perce mai the harde wall;Thus is he with hire overall,That be hire lief, or be hire loth,Into hire bedd myn herte goth,And softly takth hire in his armAnd fieleth hou that sche is warm,And wissheth that his body wereTo fiele that he fieleth there.And thus miselven I tormente,Til that the dede slep me hente: 2890Bot thanne be a thousand scoreWelmore than I was toforeI am tormented in mi slep,Bot that I dreme is noght of schep;For I ne thenke noght on wulle,Bot I am drecched to the fulleOf love, that I have to kepe,That nou I lawhe and nou I wepe,And nou I lese and nou I winne,And nou I ende and nou beginne. 2900And otherwhile I dreme and meteThat I al one with hire meteAnd that Danger is left behinde;And thanne in slep such joie I finde,That I ne bede nevere awake.Bot after, whanne I hiede take,And schal arise upon the morwe,Thanne is al torned into sorwe,Noght for the cause I schal arise,Bot for I mette in such a wise, 2910And ate laste I am bethoghtThat al is vein and helpeth noght:Bot yit me thenketh be my willeI wolde have leie and slepe stille,To meten evere of such a swevene,For thanne I hadde a slepi hevene.Mi Sone, and for thou tellest so,A man mai finde of time agoThat many a swevene hath be certein,Al be it so, that som men sein 2920That swevenes ben of no credence.Bot forto schewe in evidenceThat thei fulofte sothe thingesBetokne, I thenke in my wrytingesTo telle a tale therupon,Which fell be olde daies gon.This finde I write in Poesie:Ceïx the king of TrocinieHadde Alceone to his wif,Which as hire oghne hertes lif 2930Him loveth; and he hadde alsoA brother, which was cleped thoDedalion, and he per casFro kinde of man forschape wasInto a Goshauk of liknesse;Wherof the king gret hevynesseHath take, and thoghte in his corageTo gon upon a pelrinageInto a strange regioun,Wher he hath his devocioun 2940To don his sacrifice and preie,If that he mihte in eny weieToward the goddes finde graceHis brother hele to pourchace,So that he mihte be reformedOf that he hadde be transformed.To this pourpos and to this endeThis king is redy forto wende,As he which wolde go be Schipe;And forto don him felaschipe 2950His wif unto the See him broghte,With al hire herte and him besoghte,That he the time hire wolde sein,Whan that he thoghte come ayein:“Withinne,” he seith, “tuo Monthe day.”And thus in al the haste he mayHe tok his leve, and forth he seilethWepende, and sche hirself beweileth,And torneth hom, ther sche cam fro.Bot whan the Monthes were ago, 2960The whiche he sette of his comynge,And that sche herde no tydinge,Ther was no care forto seche:Wherof the goddes to besecheTho sche began in many wise,And to Juno hire sacrifiseAbove alle othre most sche dede,And for hir lord sche hath so bedeTo wite and knowe hou that he ferde,That Juno the goddesse hire herde, 2970Anon and upon this matiereSche bad Yris hir MessagereTo Slepes hous that sche schal wende,And bidde him that he make an endeBe swevene and schewen al the casUnto this ladi, hou it was.This Yris, fro the hihe stageWhich undertake hath the Message,Hire reyny Cope dede upon,The which was wonderli begon 2980With colours of diverse hewe,An hundred mo than men it knewe;The hevene lich into a boweSche bende, and so she cam doun lowe,The god of Slep wher that sche fond.And that was in a strange lond,Which marcheth upon Chymerie:For ther, as seith the Poesie,The god of Slep hath mad his hous,Which of entaille is merveilous. 2990Under an hell ther is a Cave,Which of the Sonne mai noght have,So that noman mai knowe arihtThe point betwen the dai and nyht:Ther is no fyr, ther is no sparke,Ther is no dore, which mai charke,Wherof an yhe scholde unschette,So that inward ther is no lette.And forto speke of that withoute,Ther stant no gret Tree nyh aboute 3000Wher on ther myhte crowe or pieAlihte, forto clepe or crie:Ther is no cok to crowe day,Ne beste non which noise mayThe hell, bot al aboute roundTher is growende upon the groundPopi, which berth the sed of slep,With othre herbes suche an hep.A stille water for the nonesRennende upon the smale stones, 3010Which hihte of Lethes the rivere,Under that hell in such manereTher is, which yifth gret appetitTo slepe. And thus full of delitSlep hath his hous; and of his coucheWithinne his chambre if I schal touche,Of hebenus that slepi TreeThe bordes al aboute be,And for he scholde slepe softe,Upon a fethrebed alofte 3020He lith with many a pilwe of doun:The chambre is strowed up and dounWith swevenes many thousendfold.Thus cam Yris into this hold,And to the bedd, which is al blak,Sche goth, and ther with Slep sche spak,And in the wise as sche was bedeThe Message of Juno sche dede.Fulofte hir wordes sche reherceth,Er sche his slepi Eres perceth; 3030With mochel wo bot ate lasteHis slombrende yhen he upcasteAnd seide hir that it schal be do.Wherof among a thousend tho,Withinne his hous that slepi were,In special he ches out thereThre, whiche scholden do this dede:The ferste of hem, so as I rede,Was Morpheus, the whos natureIs forto take the figure 3040Of what persone that him liketh,Wherof that he fulofte entrikethThe lif which slepe schal be nyhte;And Ithecus that other hihte,Which hath the vois of every soun,The chiere and the condiciounOf every lif, what so it is:The thridde suiende after thisIs Panthasas, which may transformeOf every thing the rihte forme, 3050And change it in an other kinde.Upon hem thre, so as I finde,Of swevenes stant al thapparence,Which otherwhile is evidenceAnd otherwhile bot a jape.Bot natheles it is so schape,That Morpheus be nyht al oneAppiereth until AlceoneIn liknesse of hir housebondeAl naked ded upon the stronde, 3060And hou he dreynte in specialThese othre tuo it schewen al.The tempeste of the blake cloude,The wode See, the wyndes loude,Al this sche mette, and sih him dyen;Wherof that sche began to crien,Slepende abedde ther sche lay,And with that noise of hire affrayHir wommen sterten up aboute,Whiche of here ladi were in doute, 3070And axen hire hou that sche ferde;And sche, riht as sche syh and herde,Hir swevene hath told hem everydel.And thei it halsen alle welAnd sein it is a tokne of goode;Bot til sche wiste hou that it stode,Sche hath no confort in hire herte,Upon the morwe and up sche sterte,And to the See, wher that sche metteThe bodi lay, withoute lette 3080Sche drowh, and whan that sche cam nyh,Stark ded, hise harmes sprad, sche syhHire lord flietende upon the wawe.Wherof hire wittes ben withdrawe,And sche, which tok of deth no kepe,Anon forth lepte into the depeAnd wolde have cawht him in hire arm.This infortune of double harmThe goddes fro the hevene aboveBehielde, and for the trowthe of love, 3090Which in this worthi ladi stod,Thei have upon the salte flodHire dreinte lord and hire alsoFro deth to lyve torned so,That thei ben schapen into briddesSwimmende upon the wawe amiddes.And whan sche sih hire lord livendeIn liknesse of a bridd swimmende,And sche was of the same sort,So as sche mihte do desport, 3100Upon the joie which sche haddeHire wynges bothe abrod sche spradde,And him, so as sche mai suffise,Beclipte and keste in such a wise,As sche was whilom wont to do:Hire wynges for hire armes tuoSche tok, and for hire lippes softeHire harde bile, and so fulofteSche fondeth in hire briddes forme,If that sche mihte hirself conforme 3110To do the plesance of a wif,As sche dede in that other lif:For thogh sche hadde hir pouer lore,Hir will stod as it was tofore,And serveth him so as sche mai.Wherof into this ilke dayTogedre upon the See thei wone,Wher many a dowhter and a SoneThei bringen forth of briddes kinde;And for men scholden take in mynde 3120This Alceoun the trewe queene,Hire briddes yit, as it is seene,Of Alceoun the name bere.Lo thus, mi Sone, it mai thee stereOf swevenes forto take kepe,For ofte time a man aslepeMai se what after schal betide.Forthi it helpeth at som tydeA man to slepe, as it belongeth,Bot slowthe no lif underfongeth 3130Which is to love appourtenant.Mi fader, upon covenantI dar wel make this avou,Of all mi lif that into nou,Als fer as I can understonde,Yit tok I nevere Slep on honde,Whan it was time forto wake;For thogh myn yhe it wolde take,Min herte is evere therayein.Bot natheles to speke it plein, 3140Al this that I have seid you hiereOf my wakinge, as ye mai hiere,It toucheth to mi lady swete;For otherwise, I you behiete,In strange place whanne I go,Me list nothing to wake so.For whan the wommen listen pleie,And I hir se noght in the weie,Of whom I scholde merthe take,Me list noght longe forto wake, 3150Bot if it be for pure schame,Of that I wolde eschuie a name,That thei ne scholde have cause nonTo seie, “Ha, lo, wher goth such on,That hath forlore his contenaunce!”And thus among I singe and daunce,And feigne lust ther as non is.For ofte sithe I fiele this;Of thoght, which in mi herte fallethWhanne it is nyht, myn hed appalleth, 3160And that is for I se hire noght,Which is the wakere of mi thoght:And thus as tymliche as I may,Fulofte whanne it is brod day,I take of all these othre leveAnd go my weie, and thei beleve,That sen per cas here loves there;And I go forth as noght ne wereUnto mi bedd, so that al oneI mai ther ligge and sighe and grone 3170And wisshen al the longe nyht,Til that I se the daies lyht.I not if that be Sompnolence,Bot upon youre conscience,Min holi fader, demeth ye.My Sone, I am wel paid with thee,Of Slep that thou the SluggardieBe nyhte in loves compaignieEschuied hast, and do thi peineSo that thi love thar noght pleine: 3180For love upon his lust wakendeIs evere, and wolde that non endeWere of the longe nyhtes set.Wherof that thou be war the bet,To telle a tale I am bethoght,Hou love and Slep acorden noght.For love who that list to wakeBe nyhte, he mai ensample takeOf Cephalus, whan that he layWith Aurora that swete may 3190In armes all the longe nyht.Bot whanne it drogh toward the liht,That he withinne his herte sihThe dai which was amorwe nyh,Anon unto the Sonne he preideFor lust of love, and thus he seide:“O Phebus, which the daies lihtGovernest, til that it be nyht,And gladest every creatureAfter the lawe of thi nature,— 3200Bot natheles ther is a thing,Which onli to the knoulechingBelongeth as in priveteTo love and to his duete,Which asketh noght to ben apert,Bot in cilence and in covertDesireth forto be beschaded:And thus whan that thi liht is fadedAnd Vesper scheweth him alofte,And that the nyht is long and softe, 3210Under the cloudes derke and stilleThanne hath this thing most of his wille.Forthi unto thi myhtes hyhe,As thou which art the daies yhe,Of love and myht no conseil hyde,Upon this derke nyhtes tydeWith al myn herte I thee besecheThat I plesance myhte secheWith hire which lith in min armes.Withdrawgh the Banere of thin Armes, 3220And let thi lyhtes ben unborn,And in the Signe of Capricorn,The hous appropred to Satorne,I preie that thou wolt sojorne,Wher ben the nihtes derke and longe:For I mi love have underfonge,Which lith hier be mi syde naked,As sche which wolde ben awaked,And me lest nothing forto slepe.So were it good to take kepe 3230Nou at this nede of mi preiere,And that the like forto stiereThi fyri Carte, and so ordeigne,That thou thi swifte hors restreigneLowe under Erthe in Occident,That thei towardes OrientBe Cercle go the longe weie.And ek to thee, Diane, I preie,Which cleped art of thi noblesseThe nyhtes Mone and the goddesse, 3240That thou to me be gracious:And in Cancro thin oghne housAyein Phebus in oppositStond al this time, and of delitBehold Venus with a glad yhe.For thanne upon AstronomieOf due constellacionThou makst prolificacion,And dost that children ben begete:Which grace if that I mihte gete, 3250With al myn herte I wolde serveBe nyhte, and thi vigile observe.”Lo, thus this lusti CephalusPreide unto Phebe and to PhebusThe nyht in lengthe forto drawe,So that he mihte do the laweIn thilke point of loves heste,Which cleped is the nyhtes feste,Withoute Slep of sluggardie;Which Venus out of compaignie 3260Hath put awey, as thilke same,Which lustles ferr from alle gameIn chambre doth fulofte woAbedde, whanne it falleth soThat love scholde ben awaited.But Slowthe, which is evele affaited,With Slep hath mad his retenue,That what thing is to love due,Of all his dette he paieth non:He wot noght how the nyht is gon 3270Ne hou the day is come aboute,Bot onli forto slepe and routeTil hyh midday, that he arise.Bot Cephalus dede otherwise,As thou, my Sone, hast herd above.Mi fader, who that hath his loveAbedde naked be his syde,And wolde thanne hise yhen hydeWith Slep, I not what man is he:Bot certes as touchende of me, 3280That fell me nevere yit er this.Bot otherwhile, whan so isThat I mai cacche Slep on hondeLiggende al one, thanne I fondeTo dreme a merie swevene er day;And if so falle that I mayMi thought with such a swevene plese,Me thenkth I am somdiel in ese,For I non other confort have.So nedeth noght that I schal crave 3290The Sonnes Carte forto tarie,Ne yit the Mone, that sche carieHire cours along upon the hevene,For I am noght the more in eveneTowardes love in no degree:Bot in mi slep yit thanne I seSomwhat in swevene of that me liketh,Which afterward min herte entriketh,Whan that I finde it otherwise.So wot I noght of what servise 3300That Slep to mannes ese doth.Mi Sone, certes thou seist soth,Bot only that it helpeth kindeSomtyme, in Phisique as I finde,Whan it is take be mesure:Bot he which can no Slep mesureUpon the reule as it belongeth,Fulofte of sodein chance he fongethSuch infortune that him grieveth.Bot who these olde bokes lieveth, 3310Of Sompnolence hou it is write,Ther may a man the sothe wite,If that he wolde ensample take,That otherwhile is good to wake:Wherof a tale in PoesieI thenke forto specefie.Ovide telleth in his sawes,How Jupiter be olde dawesLay be a Mayde, which YoWas cleped, wherof that Juno 3320His wif was wroth, and the goddesseOf Yo torneth the liknesseInto a cow, to gon therouteThe large fieldes al abouteAnd gete hire mete upon the griene.And therupon this hyhe queeneBetok hire Argus forto kepe,For he was selden wont to slepe,And yit he hadde an hundred yhen,And alle alyche wel thei syhen. 3330Now herkne hou that he was beguiled.Mercurie, which was al affiledThis Cow to stele, he cam desguised,And hadde a Pipe wel devisedUpon the notes of Musiqe,Wherof he mihte hise Eres like.And over that he hadde affaitedHise lusti tales, and awaitedHis time; and thus into the fieldHe cam, where Argus he behield 3340With Yo, which beside him wente.With that his Pype on honde he hente,And gan to pipe in his manereThing which was slepi forto hiere;And in his pipinge evere amongHe tolde him such a lusti song,That he the fol hath broght aslepe.Ther was non yhe mihte kepeHis hed, the which Mercurie of smot,And forth withal anon fot hot 3350He stal the Cow which Argus kepte,And al this fell for that he slepte.Ensample it was to manye mo,That mochel Slep doth ofte wo,Whan it is time forto wake:For if a man this vice take,In Sompnolence and him delite,Men scholde upon his Dore wryteHis epitaphe, as on his grave;For he to spille and noght to save 3360Is schape, as thogh he were ded.Forthi, mi Sone, hold up thin hed,And let no Slep thin yhe englue,Bot whanne it is to resoun due.Mi fader, as touchende of this,Riht so as I you tolde it is,That ofte abedde, whanne I scholde,I mai noght slepe, thogh I wolde;For love is evere faste byme,Which takth no hiede of due time. 3370For whanne I schal myn yhen close,Anon min herte he wole opposeAnd holde his Scole in such a wise,Til it be day that I arise,That selde it is whan that I slepe.And thus fro Sompnolence I kepeMin yhe: and forthi if ther beOght elles more in this degre,Now axeth forth.Mi Sone, yis:For Slowthe, which as Moder is 3380The forthdrawere and the NorriceTo man of many a dredful vice,Hath yit an other laste of alle,Which many a man hath mad to falle,Wher that he mihte nevere arise;Wherof for thou thee schalt avise,Er thou so with thiself misfare,What vice it is I wol declare.Whan Slowthe hath don al that he mayTo dryve forth the longe day, 3390Til it be come to the nede,Thanne ate laste upon the dedeHe loketh hou his time is lore,And is so wo begon therfore,That he withinne his thoght conceivethTristesce, and so himself deceiveth,That he wanhope bringeth inne,Wher is no confort to beginne,Bot every joie him is deslaied:So that withinne his herte affraied 3400A thousend time with o brethWepende he wissheth after deth,Whan he fortune fint adverse.For thanne he wole his hap reherce,As thogh his world were al forlore,And seith, “Helas, that I was bore!Hou schal I live? hou schal I do?For nou fortune is thus mi fo,I wot wel god me wol noght helpe.What scholde I thanne of joies yelpe, 3410Whan ther no bote is of mi care?So overcast is my welfare,That I am schapen al to strif.Helas, that I nere of this lif,Er I be fulliche overtake!”And thus he wol his sorwe make,As god him mihte noght availe:Bot yit ne wol he noght travaileTo helpe himself at such a nede,Bot slowtheth under such a drede, 3420Which is affermed in his herte,Riht as he mihte noght asterteThe worldes wo which he is inne.Also whan he is falle in Sinne,Him thenkth he is so ferr coupable,That god wol noght be merciableSo gret a Sinne to foryive;And thus he leeveth to be schrive.And if a man in thilke throweWolde him consaile, he wol noght knowe 3430The sothe, thogh a man it finde:For Tristesce is of such a kinde,That forto meintiene his folie,He hath with him Obstinacie,Which is withinne of such a Slouthe,That he forsaketh alle trouthe,And wole unto no reson bowe;And yit ne can he noght avoweHis oghne skile bot of hed:Thus dwyneth he, til he be ded, 3440In hindringe of his oghne astat.For where a man is obstinat,Wanhope folweth ate laste,Which mai noght after longe laste,Till Slouthe make of him an ende.Bot god wot whider he schal wende.Mi Sone, and riht in such manereTher be lovers of hevy chiere,That sorwen mor than it is ned,Whan thei be taried of here sped 3450And conne noght hemselven rede,Bot lesen hope forto spedeAnd stinten love to poursewe;And thus thei faden hyde and hewe,And lustles in here hertes waxe.Hierof it is that I wolde axe,If thou, mi Sone, art on of tho.Ha, goode fader, it is so,Outake a point, I am beknowe;For elles I am overthrowe 3460In al that evere ye have seid.Mi sorwe is everemore unteid,And secheth overal my veines;Bot forto conseile of mi peines,I can no bote do therto;And thus withouten hope I go,So that mi wittes ben empeired,And I, as who seith, am despeiredTo winne love of thilke swete,Withoute whom, I you behiete, 3470Min herte, that is so bestad,Riht inly nevere mai be glad.For be my trouthe I schal noght lie,Of pure sorwe, which I dryeFor that sche seith sche wol me noght,With drecchinge of myn oghne thoghtIn such a wanhope I am falle,That I ne can unethes calle,As forto speke of eny grace,Mi ladi merci to pourchace. 3480Bot yit I seie noght for thisThat al in mi defalte it is;For I cam nevere yit in stede,Whan time was, that I my bedeNe seide, and as I dorste tolde:Bot nevere fond I that sche wolde,For oght sche knew of min entente,To speke a goodly word assente.And natheles this dar I seie,That if a sinful wolde preie 3490To god of his foryivenesseWith half so gret a besinesseAs I have do to my ladi,In lacke of askinge of merciHe scholde nevere come in Helle.And thus I mai you sothli telle,Save only that I crie and bidde,I am in Tristesce al amiddeAnd fulfild of Desesperance:And therof yif me mi penance, 3500Min holi fader, as you liketh.Mi Sone, of that thin herte sikethWith sorwe, miht thou noght amende,Til love his grace wol thee sende,For thou thin oghne cause empeirestWhat time as thou thiself despeirest.I not what other thing availeth,Of hope whan the herte faileth,For such a Sor is incurable,And ek the goddes ben vengable: 3510And that a man mai riht wel frede,These olde bokes who so rede,Of thing which hath befalle er this:Now hier of what ensample it is.Whilom be olde daies ferOf Mese was the king Theucer,Which hadde a kniht to Sone, Iphis:Of love and he so maistred is,That he hath set al his corage,As to reguard of his lignage, 3520Upon a Maide of lou astat.Bot thogh he were a potestatOf worldes good, he was soubgitTo love, and put in such a plit,That he excedeth the mesureOf reson, that himself assureHe can noght; for the more he preide,The lass love on him sche leide.He was with love unwys constreigned,And sche with resoun was restreigned: 3530The lustes of his herte he suieth,And sche for dred schame eschuieth,And as sche scholde, tok good hiedeTo save and kepe hir wommanhiede.And thus the thing stod in debatBetwen his lust and hire astat:He yaf, he sende, he spak be mouthe,Bot yit for oght that evere he coutheUnto his sped he fond no weie,So that he caste his hope aweie, 3540Withinne his herte and gan despeireFro dai to dai, and so empeire,That he hath lost al his delitOf lust, of Slep, of Appetit,That he thurgh strengthe of love lassethHis wit, and resoun overpasseth.As he which of his lif ne rowhte,His deth upon himself he sowhte,So that be nyhte his weie he nam,Ther wiste non wher he becam; 3550The nyht was derk, ther schon no Mone,Tofore the gates he cam sone,Wher that this yonge Maiden wasAnd with this wofull word, “Helas!”Hise dedli pleintes he beganSo stille that ther was nomanIt herde, and thanne he seide thus:“O thou Cupide, o thou Venus,Fortuned be whos ordinaunceOf love is every mannes chaunce, 3560Ye knowen al min hole herte,That I ne mai your hond asterte;On you is evere that I crie,And yit you deigneth noght to plie,Ne toward me youre Ere encline.Thus for I se no medicineTo make an ende of mi querele,My deth schal be in stede of hele.Ha, thou mi wofull ladi diere,Which duellest with thi fader hiere 3570And slepest in thi bedd at ese,Thou wost nothing of my desese.Hou thou and I be now unmete.Ha lord, what swevene schalt thou mete,What dremes hast thou nou on honde?Thou slepest there, and I hier stonde.Thogh I no deth to the deserve,Hier schal I for thi love sterve,Hier schal a kinges Sone dyeFor love and for no felonie; 3580Wher thou therof have joie or sorwe,Hier schalt thou se me ded tomorwe.O herte hard aboven alle,This deth, which schal to me befalleFor that thou wolt noght do me grace,Yit schal be told in many a place,Hou I am ded for love and troutheIn thi defalte and in thi slouthe:Thi Daunger schal to manye moEnsample be for everemo, 3590Whan thei my wofull deth recorde.”And with that word he tok a Corde,With which upon the gate treHe hyng himself, that was pite.The morwe cam, the nyht is gon,Men comen out and syhe anonWher that this yonge lord was ded:Ther was an hous withoute red,For noman knew the cause why;Ther was wepinge and ther was cry. 3600This Maiden, whan that sche it herde,And sih this thing hou it misferde,Anon sche wiste what it mente,And al the cause hou it wenteTo al the world sche tolde it oute,And preith to hem that were abouteTo take of hire the vengance,For sche was cause of thilke chaunce,Why that this kinges Sone is split.Sche takth upon hirself the gilt, 3610And is al redi to the peineWhich eny man hir wole ordeigne:And bot if eny other wolde,Sche seith that sche hirselve scholdeDo wreche with hire oghne hond,Thurghout the world in every londThat every lif therof schal speke,Hou sche hirself i scholde wreke.Sche wepth, sche crith, sche swouneth ofte,Sche caste hire yhen up alofte 3620And seide among ful pitously:“A godd, thou wost wel it am I,For whom Iphis is thus besein:Ordeine so, that men mai seinA thousend wynter after this,Hou such a Maiden dede amis,And as I dede, do to me:For I ne dede no piteTo him, which for mi love is lore,Do no pite to me therfore.” 3630And with this word sche fell to groundeAswoune, and ther sche lay a stounde.The goddes, whiche hir pleigntes herdeAnd syhe hou wofully sche ferde,Hire lif thei toke awey anon,And schopen hire into a StonAfter the forme of hire ymageOf bodi bothe and of visage.And for the merveile of this thingUnto the place cam the king 3640And ek the queene and manye mo;And whan thei wisten it was so,As I have told it heir above,Hou that Iphis was ded for love,Of that he hadde be refused,Thei hielden alle men excusedAnd wondren upon the vengance.And forto kepe in remembrance,This faire ymage mayden licheWith compaignie noble and riche 3650With torche and gret sollempnite.To Salamyne the CiteThei lede, and carie forth withalThe dede corps, and sein it schalBeside thilke ymage haveHis sepulture and be begrave:This corps and this ymage thusInto the Cite to Venus,Wher that goddesse hire temple hadde,Togedre bothe tuo thei ladde. 3660This ilke ymage as for miracleWas set upon an hyh pinacle,That alle men it mihte knowe,And under tht thei maden loweA tumbe riche for the nonesOf marbre and ek of jaspre stones,Wherin this Iphis was beloken,That evermor it schal be spoken.And for men schal the sothe wite,Thei have here epitaphe write, 3670As thing which scholde abide stable:The lettres graven in a tableOf marbre were and seiden this:“Hier lith, which slowh himself, Iphis,For love of Araxarathen:And in ensample of tho wommen,That soffren men to deie so,Hire forme a man mai sen also,Hou it is torned fleissh and bonInto the figure of a Ston: 3680He was to neysshe and sche to hard.Be war forthi hierafterward;Ye men and wommen bothe tuo,Ensampleth you of that was tho:Lo thus, mi Sone, as I thee seie,It grieveth be diverse weieIn desepeir a man to falle,Which is the laste branche of alleOf Slouthe, as thou hast herd devise.Wherof that thou thiself avise 3690Good is, er that thou be deceived,Wher that the grace of hope is weyved.Mi fader, hou so that it stonde,Now have I pleinly understondeOf Slouthes court the proprete,Wherof touchende in my degreFor evere I thenke to be war.Bot overthis, so as I dar,With al min herte I you beseche,That ye me wolde enforme and teche 3700What ther is more of youre apriseIn love als wel as otherwise,So that I mai me clene schryve.Mi Sone, whyl thou art alyveAnd hast also thi fulle mynde,Among the vices whiche I findeTher is yit on such of the sevene,Which al this world hath set uneveneAnd causeth manye thinges wronge,Where he the cause hath underfonge: 3710Wherof hierafter thou schalt hiereThe forme bothe and the matiere.Explicit Liber Quartus.
Ther was a king, which OënesWas hote, and he under his pesHield Calidoyne in his Empire,And hadde a dowhter Deianire.Men wiste in thilke time nonSo fair a wiht as sche was on; 2050And as sche was a lusti wiht,Riht so was thanne a noble kniht,To whom Mercurie fader was.This kniht the tuo pilers of bras,The whiche yit a man mai finde,Sette up in the desert of Ynde;That was the worthi Hercules,Whos name schal ben endelesFor the merveilles whiche he wroghte.This Hercules the love soghte 2060Of Deianire, and of this thingUnto hir fader, which was king,He spak touchende of Mariage.The king knowende his hih lignage,And dradde also hise mihtes sterne,To him ne dorste his dowhter werne;And natheles this he him seide,How Achelons er he ferst preideTo wedden hire, and in accordThei stode, as it was of record: 2070Bot for al that this he him granteth,That which of hem that other dauntethIn armes, him sche scholde take,And that the king hath undertake.This Achelons was a Geant,A soubtil man, a deceivant,Which thurgh magique and sorcerieCouthe al the world of tricherie:And whan that he this tale herde,Hou upon that the king ansuerde 2080With Hercules he moste feighte,He tristeth noght upon his sleighteAl only, whan it comth to nede,Bot that which voydeth alle dredeAnd every noble herte stereth,The love, that no lif forbereth,For his ladi, whom he desireth,With hardiesse his herte fyreth,And sende him word withoute faileThat he wol take the bataille. 2090Thei setten day, they chosen field,The knihtes coevered under SchieldTogedre come at time set,And echon is with other met.It fell thei foghten bothe afote,Ther was no ston, ther was no rote,Which mihte letten hem the weie,But al was voide and take aweie.Thei smyten strokes bot a fewe,For Hercules, which wolde schewe 2100His grete strengthe as for the nones,He sterte upon him al at onesAnd cawhte him in hise armes stronge.This Geant wot he mai noght longeEndure under so harde bondes,And thoghte he wolde out of hise hondesBe sleyhte in som manere ascape.And as he couthe himself forschape,In liknesse of an Eddre he slipteOut of his hond, and forth he skipte; 2110And efte, as he that feighte wole,He torneth him into a Bole,And gan to belwe of such a soun,As thogh the world scholde al go doun:The ground he sporneth and he tranceth,Hise large hornes he avancethAnd caste hem here and there aboute.Bot he, which stant of him no doute,Awaiteth wel whan that he cam,And him be bothe hornes nam 2120And al at ones he him casteUnto the ground, and hield him faste,That he ne mihte with no sleighteOut of his hond gete upon heighte,Til he was overcome and yolde,And Hercules hath what he wolde.The king him granteth to fulfilleHis axinge at his oghne wille,And sche for whom he hadde served,Hire thoghte he hath hire wel deserved. 2130And thus with gret decerte of ArmesHe wan him forto ligge in armes,As he which hath it dere aboght,For otherwise scholde he noght.
And overthis if thou wolt hiereUpon knihthode of this matiere,Hou love and armes ben aqueinted,A man mai se bothe write and peintedSo ferforth that Pantasilee,Which was the queene of Feminee, 2140The love of Hector forto siekeAnd for thonour of armes eke,To Troie cam with Spere and Schield,And rod hirself into the fieldWith Maidens armed al a routeIn rescouss of the toun aboute,Which with the Gregois was belein.
Fro Pafagoine and as men sein,Which stant upon the worldes ende,That time it likede ek to wende 2150To Philemenis, which was king,To Troie, and come upon this thingIn helpe of thilke noble toun;And al was that for the renounOf worschipe and of worldes fame,Of which he wolde bere a name:And so he dede, and forth withalHe wan of love in specialA fair tribut for everemo.For it fell thilke time so; 2160Pirrus the Sone of AchillesThis worthi queene among the pressWith dedli swerd soghte out and fond,And slowh hire with his oghne hond;Wherof this king of PafagoinePantasilee of Amazoine,Wher sche was queene, with him ladde,With suche Maidens as sche haddeOf hem that were left alyve,Forth in his Schip, til thei aryve; 2170Wher that the body was begraveWith worschipe, and the wommen save.And for the goodschipe of this dedeThei granten him a lusti mede,That every yeer as for truageTo him and to his heritageOf Maidens faire he schal have thre.And in this wise spedde he,Which the fortune of armes soghte,With his travail his ese he boghte; 2180For otherwise he scholde have failed,If that he hadde noght travailed.
Eneas ek withinne Ytaile,Ne hadde he wonne the batailleAnd don his miht so besilyAyein king Turne his enemy,He hadde noght Lavine wonne;Bot for he hath him overronneAnd gete his pris, he gat hire love.
Be these ensamples here above, 2190Lo, now, mi Sone, as I have told,Thou miht wel se, who that is boldAnd dar travaile and undertakeThe cause of love, he schal be takeThe rathere unto loves grace;For comunliche in worthi placeThe wommen loven worthinesseOf manhode and of gentilesse,For the gentils ben most desired.
Mi fader, bot I were enspired 2200Thurgh lore of you, I wot no weieWhat gentilesce is forto seie,Wherof to telle I you beseche.
The ground, Mi Sone, forto secheUpon this diffinicion,The worldes constitucionHath set the name of gentilesseUpon the fortune of richesseWhich of long time is falle in age.Thanne is a man of hih lignage 2210After the forme, as thou miht hiere,Bot nothing after the matiere.For who that resoun understonde,Upon richesse it mai noght stonde,For that is thing which faileth ofte:For he that stant to day alofteAnd al the world hath in hise wones,Tomorwe he falleth al at onesOut of richesse into poverte,So that therof is no decerte, 2220Which gentilesce makth abide.And forto loke on other sideHou that a gentil man is bore,Adam, which alle was toforeWith Eve his wif, as of hem tuo,Al was aliche gentil tho;So that of generacionTo make declaracion,Ther mai no gentilesce be.For to the reson if we se, 2230Of mannes berthe the mesure,It is so comun to nature,That it yifth every man aliche,Als wel to povere as to the riche;For naked thei ben bore bothe,The lord nomore hath forto clotheAs of himself that ilke throwe,Than hath the povereste of the rowe.And whan thei schulle both passe,I not of hem which hath the lasse 2240Of worldes good, bot as of chargeThe lord is more forto charge,Whan god schal his accompte hiere,For he hath had hise lustes hiere.Bot of the bodi, which schal deie,Althogh ther be diverse weieTo deth, yit is ther bot on ende,To which that every man schal wende,Als wel the beggere as the lord,Of o nature, of on acord: 2250Sche which oure Eldemoder is,The Erthe, bothe that and thisReceiveth and alich devoureth,That sche to nouther part favoureth.So wot I nothing after kindeWhere I mai gentilesse finde.
For lacke of vertu lacketh grace,Wherof richesse in many place,Whan men best wene forto stonde,Al sodeinly goth out of honde: 2260Bot vertu set in the corage,Ther mai no world be so salvage,Which mihte it take and don aweie,Til whanne that the bodi deie;And thanne he schal be riched so,That it mai faile neveremo;So mai that wel be gentilesse,Which yifth so gret a sikernesse.For after the condicionOf resonable entencion, 2270The which out of the Soule growethAnd the vertu fro vice knoweth,Wherof a man the vice eschuieth,Withoute Slowthe and vertu suieth,That is a verrai gentil man,And nothing elles which he can,Ne which he hath, ne which he mai.Bot for al that yit nou aday,In loves court to taken hiede,The povere vertu schal noght spiede, 2280Wher that the riche vice woweth;For sielde it is that love allowethThe gentil man withoute good,Thogh his condicion be good.Bot if a man of bothe tuoBe riche and vertuous also,Thanne is he wel the more worth:Bot yit to putte himselve forthHe moste don his besinesse,For nowther good ne gentilesse 2290Mai helpen him whiche ydel be.
Bot who that wole in his degreTravaile so as it belongeth,It happeth ofte that he fongethWorschipe and ese bothe tuo.For evere yit it hath be so,That love honeste in sondri weieProfiteth, for it doth aweieThe vice, and as the bokes sein,It makth curteis of the vilein, 2300And to the couard hardiesceIt yifth, so that verrai prouesseIs caused upon loves reuleTo him that can manhode reule;And ek toward the wommanhiede,Who that therof wol taken hiede,For thei the betre affaited beIn every thing, as men may se.For love hath evere hise lustes greneIn gentil folk, as it is sene, 2310Which thing ther mai no kinde areste:I trowe that ther is no beste,If he with love scholde aqueinte,That he ne wolde make it queinteAs for the while that it laste.And thus I conclude ate laste,That thei ben ydel, as me semeth,Whiche unto thing that love demethForslowthen that thei scholden do.
And overthis, mi Sone, also 2320After the vertu moral ekeTo speke of love if I schal seke,Among the holi bokes wiseI finde write in such a wise,“Who loveth noght is hier as ded”;For love above alle othre is hed,Which hath the vertus forto lede,Of al that unto mannes dedeBelongeth: for of ydelschipeHe hateth all the felaschipe. 2330For Slowthe is evere to despise,Which in desdeign hath al apprise,And that acordeth noght to man:For he that wit and reson kan,It sit him wel that he travaileUpon som thing which mihte availe,For ydelschipe is noght comended,Bot every lawe it hath defended.And in ensample therupon
The noble wise Salomon, 2340Which hadde of every thing insihte,Seith, “As the briddes to the flihteBen made, so the man is boreTo labour,” which is noght forboreTo hem that thenken forto thryve.For we, whiche are now alyve,Of hem that besi whylom were,Als wel in Scole as elleswhere,Mowe every day ensample take,That if it were now to make 2350Thing which that thei ferst founden oute,It scholde noght be broght aboute.Here lyves thanne were longe,Here wittes grete, here mihtes stronge,Here hertes ful of besinesse,Wherof the worldes redinesseIn bodi bothe and in corageStant evere upon his avantage.And forto drawe into memoireHere names bothe and here histoire, 2360Upon the vertu of her dedeIn sondri bokes thou miht rede.
Of every wisdom the parfitThe hyhe god of his spiritYaf to the men in Erthe hiereUpon the forme and the matiereOf that he wolde make hem wise:And thus cam in the ferste appriseOf bokes and of alle goodeThurgh hem that whilom understode 2370The lore which to hem was yive,Wherof these othre, that now live,Ben every day to lerne newe.Bot er the time that men siewe,And that the labour forth it broghte,Ther was no corn, thogh men it soghte,In non of al the fieldes oute;And er the wisdom cam abouteOf hem that ferst the bokes write,This mai wel every wys man wite, 2380Ther was gret labour ek also.Thus was non ydel of the tuo,That on the plogh hath undertakeWith labour which the hond hath take,That other tok to studie and muse,As he which wolde noght refuseThe labour of hise wittes alle.And in this wise it is befalle,Of labour which that thei begunneWe be now tawht of that we kunne: 2390Here besinesse is yit so seene,That it stant evere alyche greene;Al be it so the bodi deie,The name of hem schal nevere aweie.In the Croniqes as I finde,
Cham, whos labour is yit in minde,Was he which ferst the lettres fondAnd wrot in Hebreu with his hond:Of naturel PhilosophieHe fond ferst also the clergie. 2400
Cadmus the lettres of GregoisFerst made upon his oghne chois.
Theges of thing which schal befalle,He was the ferste Augurre of alle:
And Philemon be the visageFond to descrive the corage.
Cladyns, Esdras and Sulpices,Termegis, Pandulf, Frigidilles,Menander, Ephiloquorus,Solins, Pandas and Josephus 2410The ferste were of Enditours,Of old Cronique and ek auctours:
And Heredot in his scienceOf metre, of rime and of cadenceThe ferste was of which men note.
And of Musique also the noteIn mannes vois or softe or scharpe,That fond Jubal; and of the harpeThe merie soun, which is to like,That fond Poulins forth with phisique. 2420
Zenzis fond ferst the pourtreture,And Promotheus the Sculpture;After what forme that hem thoghte,The resemblance anon thei wroghte.
Tubal in Iren and in StelFond ferst the forge and wroghte it wel:
And Jadahel, as seith the bok,Ferst made Net and fisshes tok:Of huntynge ek he fond the chace,Which now is knowe in many place: 2430A tente of cloth with corde and stakeHe sette up ferst and dede it make.
Verconius of cokerieFerst made the delicacie.
The craft Minerve of wolle fondAnd made cloth hire oghne hond;
And Delbora made it of lyn:Tho wommen were of great engyn.
Bot thing which yifth ous mete and drinkeAnd doth the labourer to swinke 2440To tile lond and sette vines,Wherof the cornes and the wynesBen sustenance to mankinde,In olde bokes as I finde,Saturnus of his oghne witHath founde ferst, and more yitOf Chapmanhode he fond the weie,And ek to coigne the moneieOf sondri metall, as it is,He was the ferste man of this. 2450
Bot hou that metall cam a placeThurgh mannes wit and goddes graceThe route of Philosophres wiseControeveden be sondri wise,Ferst forto gete it out of Myne,And after forto trie and fyne.
And also with gret diligenceThei founden thilke experience,Which cleped is Alconomie,Wherof the Selver multeplie 2460Thei made and ek the gold also.And forto telle hou it is so,Of bodies sevene in specialWith foure spiritz joynt withalStant the substance of this matiere.The bodies whiche I speke of hiereOf the Planetes ben begonne:The gold is titled to the Sonne,The mone of Selver hath his part,And Iren that stant upon Mart, 2470The Led after Satorne groweth,And Jupiter the Bras bestoweth,The Coper set is to Venus,And to his part MercuriusHath the quikselver, as it falleth,The which, after the bok it calleth,Is ferst of thilke fowre namedOf Spiritz, whiche ben proclamed;And the spirit which is secoundeIn Sal Armoniak is founde: 2480The thridde spirit Sulphur is;The ferthe suiende after thisArcennicum be name is hote.With blowinge and with fyres hoteIn these thinges, whiche I seie,Thei worchen be diverse weie.For as the philosophre toldeOf gold and selver, thei ben holdeTuo principal extremites,To whiche alle othre be degres 2490Of the metalls ben acordant,And so thurgh kinde resemblant,That what man couthe aweie takeThe rust, of which thei waxen blake,And the savour and the hardnesse,Thei scholden take the liknesseOf gold or Selver parfitly.
Bot forto worche it sikirly,Betwen the corps and the spirit,Er that the metall be parfit, 2500In sevene formes it is set;Of alle and if that on be let,The remenant mai noght availe,Bot otherwise it mai noght faile.For thei be whom this art was foundeTo every point a certain boundeOrdeignen, that a man mai findeThis craft is wroght be weie of kinde,So that ther is no fallas inne.Bot what man that this werk beginne, 2510He mot awaite at every tyde,So that nothing be left aside,Ferst of the distillacion,Forth with the congelacion,Solucion, descencion,And kepe in his entencionThe point of sublimacion,And forth with calcinacionOf veray approbacionDo that ther be fixacion 2520With tempred hetes of the fyr,Til he the parfit ElixirOf thilke philosophres StonMai gete, of which that many onOf Philosophres whilom write.And if thou wolt the names witeOf thilke Ston with othre tuo,Whiche as the clerkes maden tho,So as the bokes it recorden,The kinde of hem I schal recorden. 2530
These olde Philosophres wyseBe weie of kinde in sondri wiseThre Stones maden thurgh clergie.The ferste, if I schal specefie,Waslapis vegetabilis,Of which the propre vertu isTo mannes hele forto serve,As forto kepe and to preserveThe bodi fro siknesses alle,Til deth of kinde upon him falle. 2540
The Ston seconde I thee behoteIslapis animalishote,The whos vertu is propre and cowthFor Ere and yhe and nase and mouth,Wherof a man mai hiere and seAnd smelle and taste in his degre,And forto fiele and forto goIt helpeth man of bothe tuo:The wittes fyve he underfongethTo kepe, as it to him belongeth. 2550
The thridde Ston in specialBe name is cleped Minerall,Which the metalls of every MineAttempreth, til that thei ben fyne,And pureth hem be such a weie,That al the vice goth aweieOf rust, of stink and of hardnesse:And whan thei ben of such clennesse,This Mineral, so as I finde,Transformeth al the ferste kynde 2560And makth hem able to conceiveThurgh his vertu, and to receiveBothe in substance and in figureOf gold and selver the nature.For thei tuo ben thextremetes,To whiche after the propretesHath every metal his desir,With help and confort of the fyrForth with this Ston, as it is seid,Which to the Sonne and Mone is leid; 2570For to the rede and to the whyteThis Ston hath pouer to profite.It makth mulptiplicaciounOf gold, and the fixaciounIt causeth, and of his habitHe doth the werk to be parfitOf thilke Elixer which men calleAlconomie, as is befalleTo hem that whilom weren wise.Bot now it stant al otherwise; 2580Thei speken faste of thilke Ston,Bot hou to make it, nou wot nonAfter the sothe experience.And natheles gret diligenceThei setten upon thilke dede,And spille more than thei spede;For allewey thei finde a lette,Which bringeth in poverte and detteTo hem that riche were afore:The lost is had, the lucre is lore, 2590To gete a pound thei spenden fyve;I not hou such a craft schal thryveIn the manere as it is used:It were betre be refusedThan forto worchen upon weeneIn thing which stant noght as thei weene.Bot noght forthi, who that it knewe,The science of himself is treweUpon the forme as it was founded,Wherof the names yit ben grounded 2600Of hem that ferste it founden oute;And thus the fame goth abouteTo suche as soghten besinesseOf vertu and of worthinesse.Of whom if I the names calle,
Hermes was on the ferste of alle,To whom this art is most applied;Geber therof was magnefied,And Ortolan and Morien,Among the whiche is Avicen, 2610Which fond and wrot a gret partieThe practique of Alconomie;Whos bokes, pleinli as thei stondeUpon this craft, fewe understonde;Bot yit to put hem in assaiTher ben full manye now aday,That knowen litel what thei meene.It is noght on to wite and weene;In forme of wordes thei it trete,Bot yit they failen of beyete, 2620For of tomoche or of tolyteTher is algate founde a wyte,So that thei folwe noght the lyneOf the parfite medicine,Which grounded is upon nature.Bot thei that writen the scriptureOf Grek, Arabe and of Caldee,Thei were of such AuctoriteThat thei ferst founden out the weieOf al that thou hast herd me seie; 2630Wherof the Cronique of her loreSchal stonde in pris for everemore.
Bot toward oure Marches hiere,Of the Latins if thou wolt hiere,Of hem that whilom vertuousWere and therto laborious,Carmente made of hire enginThe ferste lettres of Latin,Of which the tunge Romein cam,Wherof that Aristarchus nam 2640Forth with Donat and DindimusThe ferste reule of Scole, as thus,How that Latin schal be componedAnd in what wise it schal be soned,That every word in his degreSchal stonde upon congruite.And thilke time at Rome alsoWas Tullius with Cithero,That writen upon Rethorike,Hou that men schal the wordes pike 2650After the forme of eloquence,Which is, men sein, a gret prudence:And after that out of HebreuJerom, which the langage kneu,The Bible, in which the lawe is closed,Into Latin he hath transposed;And many an other writere ekOut of Caldee, Arabe and GrekWith gret labour the bokes wiseTranslateden. And otherwise 2660The Latins of hemself alsoHere studie at thilke time soWith gret travaile of Scole tokeIn sondri forme forto boke,That we mai take here evidencesUpon the lore of the Sciences,Of craftes bothe and of clergie;Among the whiche in PoesieTo the lovers Ovide wrotAnd tawhte, if love be to hot, 2670In what manere it scholde akiele.
Forthi, mi Sone, if that thou fieleThat love wringe thee to sore,Behold Ovide and take his lore.
My fader, if thei mihte spedeMi love, I wolde his bokes rede;And if thei techen to restreigneMi love, it were an ydel peineTo lerne a thing which mai noght be.For lich unto the greene tree, 2680If that men toke his rote aweie,Riht so myn herte scholde deie,If that mi love be withdrawe.Wherof touchende unto this saweThere is bot only to poursuieMi love, and ydelschipe eschuie.
Mi goode Sone, soth to seie,If ther be siker eny weieTo love, thou hast seid the beste:For who that wolde have al his reste 2690And do no travail at the nede,It is no resoun that he spedeIn loves cause forto winne;For he which dar nothing beginne,I not what thing he scholde achieve.Bot overthis thou schalt believe,So as it sit thee wel to knowe,That ther ben othre vices slowe,Whiche unto love don gret lette,If thou thin herte upon hem sette. 2700
Toward the Slowe progenieTher is yit on of compaignie,And he is cleped Sompnolence,Which doth to Slouthe his reverence,As he which is his Chamberlein,That many an hundrid time hath leinTo slepe, whan he scholde wake.He hath with love trewes take,That wake who so wake wile,If he mai couche a doun his bile, 2710He hath al wowed what him list;That ofte he goth to bedde unkist,And seith that for no DruerieHe wol noght leve his sluggardie.For thogh noman it wole allowe,To slepe levere than to woweIs his manere, and thus on nyhtes,Whan that he seth the lusti knyhtesRevelen, wher these wommen are,Awey he skulketh as an hare, 2720And goth to bedde and leith him softe,And of his Slouthe he dremeth ofteHou that he stiketh in the Myr,And hou he sitteth be the fyrAnd claweth on his bare schanckes,And hou he clymbeth up the banckesAnd falleth into Slades depe.Bot thanne who so toke kepe,Whanne he is falle in such a drem,Riht as a Schip ayein the Strem, 2730He routeth with a slepi noise,And brustleth as a monkes froise,Whanne it is throwe into the Panne.And otherwhile sielde whanneThat he mai dreme a lusti swevene,Him thenkth as thogh he were in heveneAnd as the world were holi his:And thanne he spekth of that and this,And makth his exposicionAfter the disposicion 2740Of that he wolde, and in such wiseHe doth to love all his service;I not what thonk he schal deserve.Bot, Sone, if thou wolt love serve,I rede that thou do noght so.
Ha, goode fader, certes no.I hadde levere be mi trowthe,Er I were set on such a sloutheAnd beere such a slepi snoute,Bothe yhen of myn hed were oute. 2750For me were betre fulli die,Thanne I of such a slugardieHadde eny name, god me schilde;For whan mi moder was with childe,And I lay in hire wombe clos,I wolde rathere Atropos,Which is goddesse of alle deth,Anon as I hadde eny breth,Me hadde fro mi Moder cast.Bot now I am nothing agast, 2760I thonke godd; for Lachesis,Ne Cloto, which hire felawe is,Me schopen no such destine,Whan thei at mi nativiteMy weerdes setten as thei wolde;Bot thei me schopen that I scholdeEschuie of slep the truandise,So that I hope in such a wiseTo love forto ben excused,That I no Sompnolence have used. 2770For certes, fader Genius,Yit into nou it hath be thus,At alle time if it befelleSo that I mihte come and duelleIn place ther my ladi were,I was noght slow ne slepi there:For thanne I dar wel undertake,That whanne hir list on nyhtes wakeIn chambre as to carole and daunce,Me thenkth I mai me more avaunce, 2780If I mai gon upon hir hond,Thanne if I wonne a kinges lond.For whanne I mai hire hand beclippe,With such gladnesse I daunce and skippe,Me thenkth I touche noght the flor;The Ro, which renneth on the Mor,Is thanne noght so lyht as I:So mow ye witen wel forthi,That for the time slep I hate.And whanne it falleth othergate, 2790So that hire like noght to daunce,Bot on the Dees to caste chaunceOr axe of love som demande,Or elles that hir list comaundeTo rede and here of Troilus,Riht as sche wole or so or thus,I am al redi to consente.And if so is that I mai henteSomtime among a good leisir,So as I dar of mi desir 2800I telle a part; bot whanne I preie,Anon sche bidt me go mi weieAnd seith it is ferr in the nyht;And I swere it is even liht.Bot as it falleth ate laste,Ther mai no worldes joie laste,So mot I nedes fro hire wendeAnd of my wachche make an ende:And if sche thanne hiede toke,Hou pitousliche on hire I loke, 2810Whan that I schal my leve take,Hire oghte of mercy forto slakeHire daunger, which seith evere nay.
Bot he seith often, “Have good day,”That loth is forto take his leve:Therfore, while I mai beleve,I tarie forth the nyht along,For it is noght on me alongTo slep that I so sone go,Til that I mot algate so; 2820And thanne I bidde godd hire se,And so doun knelende on mi kneI take leve, and if I schal,I kisse hire, and go forth withal.And otherwhile, if that I dore,Er I come fulli to the Dore,I torne ayein and feigne a thing,As thogh I hadde lost a RingOr somwhat elles, for I woldeKisse hire eftsones, if I scholde, 2830Bot selden is that I so spede.And whanne I se that I mot nedeDeparten, I departe, and thanneWith al myn herte I curse and banneThat evere slep was mad for yhe;For, as me thenkth, I mihte dryheWithoute slep to waken evere,So that I scholde noght dissevereFro hire, in whom is al my liht:And thanne I curse also the nyht 2840With al the will of mi corage,And seie, “Awey, thou blake ymage,Which of thi derke cloudy faceMakst al the worldes lyht deface,And causest unto slep a weie,Be which I mot nou gon aweieOut of mi ladi compaignie.O slepi nyht, I thee defie,And wolde that thou leye in presseWith Proserpine the goddesse 2850And with Pluto the helle king:For til I se the daies spring,I sette slep noght at a risshe.”And with that word I sike and wisshe,And seie, “Ha, whi ne were it day?For yit mi ladi thanne I mayBeholde, thogh I do nomore.”And efte I thenke forthermore,To som man hou the niht doth ese,Whan he hath thing that mai him plese 2860The longe nyhtes be his side,Where as I faile and go beside.Bot slep, I not wherof it serveth,Of which noman his thonk deservethTo gete him love in eny place,Bot is an hindrere of his graceAnd makth him ded as for a throwe,Riht as a Stok were overthrowe.And so, mi fader, in this wiseThe slepi nyhtes I despise, 2870And evere amiddes of mi taleI thenke upon the nyhtingale,Which slepeth noght be weie of kindeFor love, in bokes as I finde.Thus ate laste I go to bedde,And yit min herte lith to weddeWith hire, wher as I cam fro;Thogh I departe, he wol noght so,Ther is no lock mai schette him oute,Him nedeth noght to gon aboute, 2880That perce mai the harde wall;Thus is he with hire overall,That be hire lief, or be hire loth,Into hire bedd myn herte goth,And softly takth hire in his armAnd fieleth hou that sche is warm,And wissheth that his body wereTo fiele that he fieleth there.And thus miselven I tormente,Til that the dede slep me hente: 2890Bot thanne be a thousand scoreWelmore than I was toforeI am tormented in mi slep,Bot that I dreme is noght of schep;For I ne thenke noght on wulle,Bot I am drecched to the fulleOf love, that I have to kepe,That nou I lawhe and nou I wepe,And nou I lese and nou I winne,And nou I ende and nou beginne. 2900And otherwhile I dreme and meteThat I al one with hire meteAnd that Danger is left behinde;And thanne in slep such joie I finde,That I ne bede nevere awake.Bot after, whanne I hiede take,And schal arise upon the morwe,Thanne is al torned into sorwe,Noght for the cause I schal arise,Bot for I mette in such a wise, 2910And ate laste I am bethoghtThat al is vein and helpeth noght:Bot yit me thenketh be my willeI wolde have leie and slepe stille,To meten evere of such a swevene,For thanne I hadde a slepi hevene.
Mi Sone, and for thou tellest so,A man mai finde of time agoThat many a swevene hath be certein,Al be it so, that som men sein 2920That swevenes ben of no credence.Bot forto schewe in evidenceThat thei fulofte sothe thingesBetokne, I thenke in my wrytingesTo telle a tale therupon,Which fell be olde daies gon.
This finde I write in Poesie:Ceïx the king of TrocinieHadde Alceone to his wif,Which as hire oghne hertes lif 2930Him loveth; and he hadde alsoA brother, which was cleped thoDedalion, and he per casFro kinde of man forschape wasInto a Goshauk of liknesse;Wherof the king gret hevynesseHath take, and thoghte in his corageTo gon upon a pelrinageInto a strange regioun,Wher he hath his devocioun 2940To don his sacrifice and preie,If that he mihte in eny weieToward the goddes finde graceHis brother hele to pourchace,So that he mihte be reformedOf that he hadde be transformed.To this pourpos and to this endeThis king is redy forto wende,As he which wolde go be Schipe;And forto don him felaschipe 2950His wif unto the See him broghte,With al hire herte and him besoghte,That he the time hire wolde sein,Whan that he thoghte come ayein:“Withinne,” he seith, “tuo Monthe day.”And thus in al the haste he mayHe tok his leve, and forth he seilethWepende, and sche hirself beweileth,And torneth hom, ther sche cam fro.Bot whan the Monthes were ago, 2960The whiche he sette of his comynge,And that sche herde no tydinge,Ther was no care forto seche:Wherof the goddes to besecheTho sche began in many wise,And to Juno hire sacrifiseAbove alle othre most sche dede,And for hir lord sche hath so bedeTo wite and knowe hou that he ferde,That Juno the goddesse hire herde, 2970Anon and upon this matiereSche bad Yris hir MessagereTo Slepes hous that sche schal wende,And bidde him that he make an endeBe swevene and schewen al the casUnto this ladi, hou it was.
This Yris, fro the hihe stageWhich undertake hath the Message,Hire reyny Cope dede upon,The which was wonderli begon 2980With colours of diverse hewe,An hundred mo than men it knewe;The hevene lich into a boweSche bende, and so she cam doun lowe,The god of Slep wher that sche fond.And that was in a strange lond,Which marcheth upon Chymerie:For ther, as seith the Poesie,The god of Slep hath mad his hous,Which of entaille is merveilous. 2990Under an hell ther is a Cave,Which of the Sonne mai noght have,So that noman mai knowe arihtThe point betwen the dai and nyht:Ther is no fyr, ther is no sparke,Ther is no dore, which mai charke,Wherof an yhe scholde unschette,So that inward ther is no lette.And forto speke of that withoute,Ther stant no gret Tree nyh aboute 3000Wher on ther myhte crowe or pieAlihte, forto clepe or crie:Ther is no cok to crowe day,Ne beste non which noise mayThe hell, bot al aboute roundTher is growende upon the groundPopi, which berth the sed of slep,With othre herbes suche an hep.A stille water for the nonesRennende upon the smale stones, 3010Which hihte of Lethes the rivere,Under that hell in such manereTher is, which yifth gret appetitTo slepe. And thus full of delitSlep hath his hous; and of his coucheWithinne his chambre if I schal touche,Of hebenus that slepi TreeThe bordes al aboute be,And for he scholde slepe softe,Upon a fethrebed alofte 3020He lith with many a pilwe of doun:The chambre is strowed up and dounWith swevenes many thousendfold.Thus cam Yris into this hold,And to the bedd, which is al blak,Sche goth, and ther with Slep sche spak,And in the wise as sche was bedeThe Message of Juno sche dede.Fulofte hir wordes sche reherceth,Er sche his slepi Eres perceth; 3030With mochel wo bot ate lasteHis slombrende yhen he upcasteAnd seide hir that it schal be do.Wherof among a thousend tho,Withinne his hous that slepi were,In special he ches out thereThre, whiche scholden do this dede:The ferste of hem, so as I rede,Was Morpheus, the whos natureIs forto take the figure 3040Of what persone that him liketh,Wherof that he fulofte entrikethThe lif which slepe schal be nyhte;And Ithecus that other hihte,Which hath the vois of every soun,The chiere and the condiciounOf every lif, what so it is:The thridde suiende after thisIs Panthasas, which may transformeOf every thing the rihte forme, 3050And change it in an other kinde.Upon hem thre, so as I finde,Of swevenes stant al thapparence,Which otherwhile is evidenceAnd otherwhile bot a jape.Bot natheles it is so schape,That Morpheus be nyht al oneAppiereth until AlceoneIn liknesse of hir housebondeAl naked ded upon the stronde, 3060And hou he dreynte in specialThese othre tuo it schewen al.The tempeste of the blake cloude,The wode See, the wyndes loude,Al this sche mette, and sih him dyen;Wherof that sche began to crien,Slepende abedde ther sche lay,And with that noise of hire affrayHir wommen sterten up aboute,Whiche of here ladi were in doute, 3070And axen hire hou that sche ferde;And sche, riht as sche syh and herde,Hir swevene hath told hem everydel.And thei it halsen alle welAnd sein it is a tokne of goode;Bot til sche wiste hou that it stode,Sche hath no confort in hire herte,Upon the morwe and up sche sterte,And to the See, wher that sche metteThe bodi lay, withoute lette 3080Sche drowh, and whan that sche cam nyh,Stark ded, hise harmes sprad, sche syhHire lord flietende upon the wawe.Wherof hire wittes ben withdrawe,And sche, which tok of deth no kepe,Anon forth lepte into the depeAnd wolde have cawht him in hire arm.
This infortune of double harmThe goddes fro the hevene aboveBehielde, and for the trowthe of love, 3090Which in this worthi ladi stod,Thei have upon the salte flodHire dreinte lord and hire alsoFro deth to lyve torned so,That thei ben schapen into briddesSwimmende upon the wawe amiddes.And whan sche sih hire lord livendeIn liknesse of a bridd swimmende,And sche was of the same sort,So as sche mihte do desport, 3100Upon the joie which sche haddeHire wynges bothe abrod sche spradde,And him, so as sche mai suffise,Beclipte and keste in such a wise,As sche was whilom wont to do:Hire wynges for hire armes tuoSche tok, and for hire lippes softeHire harde bile, and so fulofteSche fondeth in hire briddes forme,If that sche mihte hirself conforme 3110To do the plesance of a wif,As sche dede in that other lif:For thogh sche hadde hir pouer lore,Hir will stod as it was tofore,And serveth him so as sche mai.Wherof into this ilke dayTogedre upon the See thei wone,Wher many a dowhter and a SoneThei bringen forth of briddes kinde;And for men scholden take in mynde 3120This Alceoun the trewe queene,Hire briddes yit, as it is seene,Of Alceoun the name bere.
Lo thus, mi Sone, it mai thee stereOf swevenes forto take kepe,For ofte time a man aslepeMai se what after schal betide.Forthi it helpeth at som tydeA man to slepe, as it belongeth,Bot slowthe no lif underfongeth 3130Which is to love appourtenant.
Mi fader, upon covenantI dar wel make this avou,Of all mi lif that into nou,Als fer as I can understonde,Yit tok I nevere Slep on honde,Whan it was time forto wake;For thogh myn yhe it wolde take,Min herte is evere therayein.Bot natheles to speke it plein, 3140Al this that I have seid you hiereOf my wakinge, as ye mai hiere,It toucheth to mi lady swete;For otherwise, I you behiete,In strange place whanne I go,Me list nothing to wake so.For whan the wommen listen pleie,And I hir se noght in the weie,Of whom I scholde merthe take,Me list noght longe forto wake, 3150Bot if it be for pure schame,Of that I wolde eschuie a name,That thei ne scholde have cause nonTo seie, “Ha, lo, wher goth such on,That hath forlore his contenaunce!”And thus among I singe and daunce,And feigne lust ther as non is.For ofte sithe I fiele this;Of thoght, which in mi herte fallethWhanne it is nyht, myn hed appalleth, 3160And that is for I se hire noght,Which is the wakere of mi thoght:And thus as tymliche as I may,Fulofte whanne it is brod day,I take of all these othre leveAnd go my weie, and thei beleve,That sen per cas here loves there;And I go forth as noght ne wereUnto mi bedd, so that al oneI mai ther ligge and sighe and grone 3170And wisshen al the longe nyht,Til that I se the daies lyht.I not if that be Sompnolence,Bot upon youre conscience,Min holi fader, demeth ye.
My Sone, I am wel paid with thee,Of Slep that thou the SluggardieBe nyhte in loves compaignieEschuied hast, and do thi peineSo that thi love thar noght pleine: 3180For love upon his lust wakendeIs evere, and wolde that non endeWere of the longe nyhtes set.Wherof that thou be war the bet,To telle a tale I am bethoght,Hou love and Slep acorden noght.
For love who that list to wakeBe nyhte, he mai ensample takeOf Cephalus, whan that he layWith Aurora that swete may 3190In armes all the longe nyht.Bot whanne it drogh toward the liht,That he withinne his herte sihThe dai which was amorwe nyh,Anon unto the Sonne he preideFor lust of love, and thus he seide:
“O Phebus, which the daies lihtGovernest, til that it be nyht,And gladest every creatureAfter the lawe of thi nature,— 3200Bot natheles ther is a thing,Which onli to the knoulechingBelongeth as in priveteTo love and to his duete,Which asketh noght to ben apert,Bot in cilence and in covertDesireth forto be beschaded:And thus whan that thi liht is fadedAnd Vesper scheweth him alofte,And that the nyht is long and softe, 3210Under the cloudes derke and stilleThanne hath this thing most of his wille.Forthi unto thi myhtes hyhe,As thou which art the daies yhe,Of love and myht no conseil hyde,Upon this derke nyhtes tydeWith al myn herte I thee besecheThat I plesance myhte secheWith hire which lith in min armes.Withdrawgh the Banere of thin Armes, 3220And let thi lyhtes ben unborn,And in the Signe of Capricorn,The hous appropred to Satorne,I preie that thou wolt sojorne,Wher ben the nihtes derke and longe:For I mi love have underfonge,Which lith hier be mi syde naked,As sche which wolde ben awaked,And me lest nothing forto slepe.So were it good to take kepe 3230Nou at this nede of mi preiere,And that the like forto stiereThi fyri Carte, and so ordeigne,That thou thi swifte hors restreigneLowe under Erthe in Occident,That thei towardes OrientBe Cercle go the longe weie.
And ek to thee, Diane, I preie,Which cleped art of thi noblesseThe nyhtes Mone and the goddesse, 3240That thou to me be gracious:And in Cancro thin oghne housAyein Phebus in oppositStond al this time, and of delitBehold Venus with a glad yhe.For thanne upon AstronomieOf due constellacionThou makst prolificacion,And dost that children ben begete:Which grace if that I mihte gete, 3250With al myn herte I wolde serveBe nyhte, and thi vigile observe.”
Lo, thus this lusti CephalusPreide unto Phebe and to PhebusThe nyht in lengthe forto drawe,So that he mihte do the laweIn thilke point of loves heste,Which cleped is the nyhtes feste,Withoute Slep of sluggardie;Which Venus out of compaignie 3260Hath put awey, as thilke same,Which lustles ferr from alle gameIn chambre doth fulofte woAbedde, whanne it falleth soThat love scholde ben awaited.But Slowthe, which is evele affaited,With Slep hath mad his retenue,That what thing is to love due,Of all his dette he paieth non:He wot noght how the nyht is gon 3270Ne hou the day is come aboute,Bot onli forto slepe and routeTil hyh midday, that he arise.Bot Cephalus dede otherwise,As thou, my Sone, hast herd above.
Mi fader, who that hath his loveAbedde naked be his syde,And wolde thanne hise yhen hydeWith Slep, I not what man is he:Bot certes as touchende of me, 3280That fell me nevere yit er this.Bot otherwhile, whan so isThat I mai cacche Slep on hondeLiggende al one, thanne I fondeTo dreme a merie swevene er day;And if so falle that I mayMi thought with such a swevene plese,Me thenkth I am somdiel in ese,For I non other confort have.So nedeth noght that I schal crave 3290The Sonnes Carte forto tarie,Ne yit the Mone, that sche carieHire cours along upon the hevene,For I am noght the more in eveneTowardes love in no degree:Bot in mi slep yit thanne I seSomwhat in swevene of that me liketh,Which afterward min herte entriketh,Whan that I finde it otherwise.So wot I noght of what servise 3300That Slep to mannes ese doth.
Mi Sone, certes thou seist soth,Bot only that it helpeth kindeSomtyme, in Phisique as I finde,Whan it is take be mesure:Bot he which can no Slep mesureUpon the reule as it belongeth,Fulofte of sodein chance he fongethSuch infortune that him grieveth.Bot who these olde bokes lieveth, 3310Of Sompnolence hou it is write,Ther may a man the sothe wite,If that he wolde ensample take,That otherwhile is good to wake:Wherof a tale in PoesieI thenke forto specefie.
Ovide telleth in his sawes,How Jupiter be olde dawesLay be a Mayde, which YoWas cleped, wherof that Juno 3320His wif was wroth, and the goddesseOf Yo torneth the liknesseInto a cow, to gon therouteThe large fieldes al abouteAnd gete hire mete upon the griene.And therupon this hyhe queeneBetok hire Argus forto kepe,For he was selden wont to slepe,And yit he hadde an hundred yhen,And alle alyche wel thei syhen. 3330Now herkne hou that he was beguiled.Mercurie, which was al affiledThis Cow to stele, he cam desguised,And hadde a Pipe wel devisedUpon the notes of Musiqe,Wherof he mihte hise Eres like.And over that he hadde affaitedHise lusti tales, and awaitedHis time; and thus into the fieldHe cam, where Argus he behield 3340With Yo, which beside him wente.With that his Pype on honde he hente,And gan to pipe in his manereThing which was slepi forto hiere;And in his pipinge evere amongHe tolde him such a lusti song,That he the fol hath broght aslepe.Ther was non yhe mihte kepeHis hed, the which Mercurie of smot,And forth withal anon fot hot 3350He stal the Cow which Argus kepte,And al this fell for that he slepte.Ensample it was to manye mo,That mochel Slep doth ofte wo,Whan it is time forto wake:For if a man this vice take,In Sompnolence and him delite,Men scholde upon his Dore wryteHis epitaphe, as on his grave;For he to spille and noght to save 3360Is schape, as thogh he were ded.
Forthi, mi Sone, hold up thin hed,And let no Slep thin yhe englue,Bot whanne it is to resoun due.
Mi fader, as touchende of this,Riht so as I you tolde it is,That ofte abedde, whanne I scholde,I mai noght slepe, thogh I wolde;For love is evere faste byme,Which takth no hiede of due time. 3370For whanne I schal myn yhen close,Anon min herte he wole opposeAnd holde his Scole in such a wise,Til it be day that I arise,That selde it is whan that I slepe.And thus fro Sompnolence I kepeMin yhe: and forthi if ther beOght elles more in this degre,Now axeth forth.
Mi Sone, yis:For Slowthe, which as Moder is 3380The forthdrawere and the NorriceTo man of many a dredful vice,Hath yit an other laste of alle,Which many a man hath mad to falle,Wher that he mihte nevere arise;Wherof for thou thee schalt avise,Er thou so with thiself misfare,What vice it is I wol declare.
Whan Slowthe hath don al that he mayTo dryve forth the longe day, 3390Til it be come to the nede,Thanne ate laste upon the dedeHe loketh hou his time is lore,And is so wo begon therfore,That he withinne his thoght conceivethTristesce, and so himself deceiveth,That he wanhope bringeth inne,Wher is no confort to beginne,Bot every joie him is deslaied:So that withinne his herte affraied 3400A thousend time with o brethWepende he wissheth after deth,Whan he fortune fint adverse.For thanne he wole his hap reherce,As thogh his world were al forlore,And seith, “Helas, that I was bore!Hou schal I live? hou schal I do?For nou fortune is thus mi fo,I wot wel god me wol noght helpe.What scholde I thanne of joies yelpe, 3410Whan ther no bote is of mi care?So overcast is my welfare,That I am schapen al to strif.Helas, that I nere of this lif,Er I be fulliche overtake!”And thus he wol his sorwe make,As god him mihte noght availe:Bot yit ne wol he noght travaileTo helpe himself at such a nede,Bot slowtheth under such a drede, 3420Which is affermed in his herte,Riht as he mihte noght asterteThe worldes wo which he is inne.
Also whan he is falle in Sinne,Him thenkth he is so ferr coupable,That god wol noght be merciableSo gret a Sinne to foryive;And thus he leeveth to be schrive.And if a man in thilke throweWolde him consaile, he wol noght knowe 3430The sothe, thogh a man it finde:For Tristesce is of such a kinde,That forto meintiene his folie,He hath with him Obstinacie,Which is withinne of such a Slouthe,That he forsaketh alle trouthe,And wole unto no reson bowe;And yit ne can he noght avoweHis oghne skile bot of hed:Thus dwyneth he, til he be ded, 3440In hindringe of his oghne astat.For where a man is obstinat,Wanhope folweth ate laste,Which mai noght after longe laste,Till Slouthe make of him an ende.Bot god wot whider he schal wende.
Mi Sone, and riht in such manereTher be lovers of hevy chiere,That sorwen mor than it is ned,Whan thei be taried of here sped 3450And conne noght hemselven rede,Bot lesen hope forto spedeAnd stinten love to poursewe;And thus thei faden hyde and hewe,And lustles in here hertes waxe.Hierof it is that I wolde axe,If thou, mi Sone, art on of tho.
Ha, goode fader, it is so,Outake a point, I am beknowe;For elles I am overthrowe 3460In al that evere ye have seid.Mi sorwe is everemore unteid,And secheth overal my veines;Bot forto conseile of mi peines,I can no bote do therto;And thus withouten hope I go,So that mi wittes ben empeired,And I, as who seith, am despeiredTo winne love of thilke swete,Withoute whom, I you behiete, 3470Min herte, that is so bestad,Riht inly nevere mai be glad.For be my trouthe I schal noght lie,Of pure sorwe, which I dryeFor that sche seith sche wol me noght,With drecchinge of myn oghne thoghtIn such a wanhope I am falle,That I ne can unethes calle,As forto speke of eny grace,Mi ladi merci to pourchace. 3480Bot yit I seie noght for thisThat al in mi defalte it is;For I cam nevere yit in stede,Whan time was, that I my bedeNe seide, and as I dorste tolde:Bot nevere fond I that sche wolde,For oght sche knew of min entente,To speke a goodly word assente.And natheles this dar I seie,That if a sinful wolde preie 3490To god of his foryivenesseWith half so gret a besinesseAs I have do to my ladi,In lacke of askinge of merciHe scholde nevere come in Helle.And thus I mai you sothli telle,Save only that I crie and bidde,I am in Tristesce al amiddeAnd fulfild of Desesperance:And therof yif me mi penance, 3500Min holi fader, as you liketh.
Mi Sone, of that thin herte sikethWith sorwe, miht thou noght amende,Til love his grace wol thee sende,For thou thin oghne cause empeirestWhat time as thou thiself despeirest.I not what other thing availeth,Of hope whan the herte faileth,For such a Sor is incurable,And ek the goddes ben vengable: 3510And that a man mai riht wel frede,These olde bokes who so rede,Of thing which hath befalle er this:Now hier of what ensample it is.
Whilom be olde daies ferOf Mese was the king Theucer,Which hadde a kniht to Sone, Iphis:Of love and he so maistred is,That he hath set al his corage,As to reguard of his lignage, 3520Upon a Maide of lou astat.Bot thogh he were a potestatOf worldes good, he was soubgitTo love, and put in such a plit,That he excedeth the mesureOf reson, that himself assureHe can noght; for the more he preide,The lass love on him sche leide.He was with love unwys constreigned,And sche with resoun was restreigned: 3530The lustes of his herte he suieth,And sche for dred schame eschuieth,And as sche scholde, tok good hiedeTo save and kepe hir wommanhiede.And thus the thing stod in debatBetwen his lust and hire astat:He yaf, he sende, he spak be mouthe,Bot yit for oght that evere he coutheUnto his sped he fond no weie,So that he caste his hope aweie, 3540Withinne his herte and gan despeireFro dai to dai, and so empeire,That he hath lost al his delitOf lust, of Slep, of Appetit,That he thurgh strengthe of love lassethHis wit, and resoun overpasseth.As he which of his lif ne rowhte,His deth upon himself he sowhte,So that be nyhte his weie he nam,Ther wiste non wher he becam; 3550The nyht was derk, ther schon no Mone,Tofore the gates he cam sone,Wher that this yonge Maiden wasAnd with this wofull word, “Helas!”Hise dedli pleintes he beganSo stille that ther was nomanIt herde, and thanne he seide thus:“O thou Cupide, o thou Venus,Fortuned be whos ordinaunceOf love is every mannes chaunce, 3560Ye knowen al min hole herte,That I ne mai your hond asterte;On you is evere that I crie,And yit you deigneth noght to plie,Ne toward me youre Ere encline.Thus for I se no medicineTo make an ende of mi querele,My deth schal be in stede of hele.
Ha, thou mi wofull ladi diere,Which duellest with thi fader hiere 3570And slepest in thi bedd at ese,Thou wost nothing of my desese.Hou thou and I be now unmete.Ha lord, what swevene schalt thou mete,What dremes hast thou nou on honde?Thou slepest there, and I hier stonde.Thogh I no deth to the deserve,Hier schal I for thi love sterve,Hier schal a kinges Sone dyeFor love and for no felonie; 3580Wher thou therof have joie or sorwe,Hier schalt thou se me ded tomorwe.O herte hard aboven alle,This deth, which schal to me befalleFor that thou wolt noght do me grace,Yit schal be told in many a place,Hou I am ded for love and troutheIn thi defalte and in thi slouthe:Thi Daunger schal to manye moEnsample be for everemo, 3590Whan thei my wofull deth recorde.”And with that word he tok a Corde,With which upon the gate treHe hyng himself, that was pite.
The morwe cam, the nyht is gon,Men comen out and syhe anonWher that this yonge lord was ded:Ther was an hous withoute red,For noman knew the cause why;Ther was wepinge and ther was cry. 3600This Maiden, whan that sche it herde,And sih this thing hou it misferde,Anon sche wiste what it mente,And al the cause hou it wenteTo al the world sche tolde it oute,And preith to hem that were abouteTo take of hire the vengance,For sche was cause of thilke chaunce,Why that this kinges Sone is split.Sche takth upon hirself the gilt, 3610And is al redi to the peineWhich eny man hir wole ordeigne:And bot if eny other wolde,Sche seith that sche hirselve scholdeDo wreche with hire oghne hond,Thurghout the world in every londThat every lif therof schal speke,Hou sche hirself i scholde wreke.Sche wepth, sche crith, sche swouneth ofte,Sche caste hire yhen up alofte 3620And seide among ful pitously:“A godd, thou wost wel it am I,For whom Iphis is thus besein:Ordeine so, that men mai seinA thousend wynter after this,Hou such a Maiden dede amis,And as I dede, do to me:For I ne dede no piteTo him, which for mi love is lore,Do no pite to me therfore.” 3630And with this word sche fell to groundeAswoune, and ther sche lay a stounde.The goddes, whiche hir pleigntes herdeAnd syhe hou wofully sche ferde,Hire lif thei toke awey anon,And schopen hire into a StonAfter the forme of hire ymageOf bodi bothe and of visage.And for the merveile of this thingUnto the place cam the king 3640And ek the queene and manye mo;And whan thei wisten it was so,As I have told it heir above,Hou that Iphis was ded for love,Of that he hadde be refused,Thei hielden alle men excusedAnd wondren upon the vengance.And forto kepe in remembrance,This faire ymage mayden licheWith compaignie noble and riche 3650With torche and gret sollempnite.To Salamyne the CiteThei lede, and carie forth withalThe dede corps, and sein it schalBeside thilke ymage haveHis sepulture and be begrave:This corps and this ymage thusInto the Cite to Venus,Wher that goddesse hire temple hadde,Togedre bothe tuo thei ladde. 3660This ilke ymage as for miracleWas set upon an hyh pinacle,That alle men it mihte knowe,And under tht thei maden loweA tumbe riche for the nonesOf marbre and ek of jaspre stones,Wherin this Iphis was beloken,That evermor it schal be spoken.And for men schal the sothe wite,Thei have here epitaphe write, 3670As thing which scholde abide stable:The lettres graven in a tableOf marbre were and seiden this:“Hier lith, which slowh himself, Iphis,For love of Araxarathen:And in ensample of tho wommen,That soffren men to deie so,Hire forme a man mai sen also,Hou it is torned fleissh and bonInto the figure of a Ston: 3680He was to neysshe and sche to hard.Be war forthi hierafterward;Ye men and wommen bothe tuo,Ensampleth you of that was tho:
Lo thus, mi Sone, as I thee seie,It grieveth be diverse weieIn desepeir a man to falle,Which is the laste branche of alleOf Slouthe, as thou hast herd devise.Wherof that thou thiself avise 3690Good is, er that thou be deceived,Wher that the grace of hope is weyved.
Mi fader, hou so that it stonde,Now have I pleinly understondeOf Slouthes court the proprete,Wherof touchende in my degreFor evere I thenke to be war.Bot overthis, so as I dar,With al min herte I you beseche,That ye me wolde enforme and teche 3700What ther is more of youre apriseIn love als wel as otherwise,So that I mai me clene schryve.
Mi Sone, whyl thou art alyveAnd hast also thi fulle mynde,Among the vices whiche I findeTher is yit on such of the sevene,Which al this world hath set uneveneAnd causeth manye thinges wronge,Where he the cause hath underfonge: 3710Wherof hierafter thou schalt hiereThe forme bothe and the matiere.
Explicit Liber Quartus.