Lo, what mihte eny man devise,A womman schewe in eny wiseMor hertly love in every stede,Than Medea to Jason dede?Ferst sche made him the flees to winne,And after that fro kiththe and kinne 4180With gret tresor with him sche stal,And to his fader forth withalHis Elde hath torned into youthe,Which thing non other womman couthe:Bot hou it was to hire aquit,The remembrance duelleth yit.King Peleüs his Em was ded,Jason bar corone on his hed,Medea hath fulfild his wille:Bot whanne he scholde of riht fulfille 4190The trouthe, which to hire aforeHe hadde in thyle of Colchos swore,Tho was Medea most deceived.For he an other hath received,Which dowhter was to king Creon,Creusa sche hihte, and thus Jason,As he that was to love untrewe,Medea lefte and tok a newe.Bot that was after sone aboght:Medea with hire art hath wroght 4200Of cloth of gold a mantel riche,Which semeth worth a kingesriche,And that was unto Creusa sentIn name of yifte and of present,For Sosterhode hem was betuene;And whan that yonge freisshe queeneThat mantel lappeth hire aboute,Anon therof the fyr sprong outeAnd brente hir bothe fleissh and bon.Tho cam Medea to Jason 4210With bothe his Sones on hire hond,And seide, “O thou of every londThe moste untrewe creature,Lo, this schal be thi forfeture.”With that sche bothe his Sones slouhBefore his yhe, and he outdrouhHis swerd and wold have slayn hir tho,Bot farewel, sche was agoUnto Pallas the Court above,Wher as sche pleigneth upon love, 4220As sche that was with that goddesse,And he was left in gret destresse.Thus miht thou se what sorwe it dothTo swere an oth which is noght soth,In loves cause namely.Mi Sone, be wel war forthi,And kep that thou be noght forswore:For this, which I have told tofore,Ovide telleth everydel.Mi fader, I may lieve it wel, 4230For I have herde it ofte seieHou Jason tok the flees aweieFro Colchos, bot yit herde I noghtBe whom it was ferst thider broght.And for it were good to hiere,If that you liste at mi preiereTo telle, I wolde you beseche.Mi Sone, who that wole it seche,In bokes he mai finde it write;And natheles, if thou wolt wite, 4240In the manere as thou hast preidI schal the telle hou it is seid.The fame of thilke schepes fell,Which in Colchos, as it befell,Was al of gold, schal nevere deie;Wherof I thenke for to seieHou it cam ferst into that yle.Ther was a king in thilke whyleTowardes Grece, and AthemasThe Cronique of his name was; 4250And hadde a wif, which Philen hihte,Be whom, so as fortune it dihte,He hadde of children yonge tuo.Frixus the ferste was of tho,A knave child, riht fair withalle;A dowhter ek, the which men calleHellen, he hadde be this wif.Bot for ther mai no mannes lifEndure upon this Erthe hiere,This worthi queene, as thou miht hiere, 4260Er that the children were of age,Tok of hire ende the passage,With gret worschipe and was begrave.What thing it liketh god to haveIt is gret reson to ben his;Forthi this king, so as it is,With gret suffrance it underfongeth:And afterward, as him belongeth,Whan it was time forto wedde,A newe wif he tok to bedde, 4270Which Yno hihte and was a Mayde,And ek the dowhter, as men saide,Of Cadme, which a king alsoWas holde in thilke daies tho.Whan Yno was the kinges make,Sche caste hou that sche mihte makeThese children to here fader lothe,And schope a wyle ayein hem bothe,Which to the king was al unknowe.A yeer or tuo sche let do sowe 4280The lond with sode whete aboute,Wherof no corn mai springen oute;And thus be sleyhte and be covineAros the derthe and the famineThurghout the lond in such a wise,So that the king a sacrifiseUpon the point of this destresseTo Ceres, which is the goddesseOf corn, hath schape him forto yive,To loke if it mai be foryive, 4290The meschief which was in his lond.Bot sche, which knew tofor the hondThe circumstance of al this thing,Ayein the cominge of the kingInto the temple, hath schape so,Of hire acord that alle thoWhiche of the temple prestes wereHave seid and full declared thereUnto the king, bot if so beThat he delivere the contre 4300Of Frixus and of Hellen bothe,With whom the goddes ben so wrothe,That whil tho children ben therinne,Such tilthe schal noman beginne,Wherof to gete him eny corn.Thus was it seid, thus was it swornOf all the Prestes that ther are;And sche which causeth al this fareSeid ek therto what that sche wolde,And every man thanne after tolde 4310So as the queene hem hadde preid.The king, which hath his Ere leid,And lieveth al that evere he herde,Unto here tale thus ansuerde,And seith that levere him is to cheseHise children bothe forto lese,Than him and al the remenantOf hem whiche are aportenantUnto the lond which he schal kepe:And bad his wif to take kepe 4320In what manere is best to done,That thei delivered weren soneOut of this world. And sche anonTuo men ordeigneth forto gon;Bot ferst sche made hem forto swereThat thei the children scholden bereUnto the See, that non it knowe,And hem therinne bothe throwe.The children to the See ben lad,Wher in the wise as Yno bad 4330These men be redy forto do.Bot the goddesse which JunoIs hote, appiereth in the stede,And hath unto the men forbedeThat thei the children noght ne sle;Bot bad hem loke into the SeeAnd taken hiede of that thei sihen.Ther swam a Schep tofore here yhen,Whos flees of burned gold was al;And this goddesse forth withal 4340Comandeth that withoute letteThei scholde anon these children setteAbove upon this Schepes bak;And al was do, riht as sche spak,Wherof the men gon hom ayein.And fell so, as the bokes sein,Hellen the yonge Mayden tho,Which of the See was wo bego,For pure drede hire herte hath lore,That fro the Schep, which hath hire bore, 4350As sche that was swounende feint,Sche fell, and hath hirselve dreint;With Frixus and this Schep forth swam,Til he to thyle of Colchos cam,Where Juno the goddesse he fond,Which tok the Schep unto the lond,And sette it there in such a wiseAs thou tofore hast herd devise,Wherof cam after al the wo,Why Jason was forswore so 4360Unto Medee, as it is spoke.Mi fader, who that hath tobrokeHis trouthe, as ye have told above,He is noght worthi forto loveNe be beloved, as me semeth:Bot every newe love quemethTo him which newefongel is.And natheles nou after this,If that you list to taken hiedeUpon mi Schrifte to procede, 4370In loves cause ayein the viceOf covoitise and AvariceWhat ther is more I wolde wite.Mi Sone, this I finde write,Ther is yit on of thilke brood,Which only for the worldes good,To make a Tresor of Moneie,Put alle conscience aweie:Wherof in thi confessionThe name and the condicion 4380I schal hierafterward declare,Which makth on riche, an other bare.Upon the bench sittende on hihWith Avarice Usure I sih,Full clothed of his oghne suite,Which after gold makth chace and suiteWith his brocours, that renne abouteLich unto racches in a route.Such lucre is non above grounde,Which is noght of tho racches founde; 4390For wher thei se beyete sterte,That schal hem in no wise asterte,Bot thei it dryve into the netOf lucre, which Usure hath set.Usure with the riche duelleth,To al that evere he beith and sellethHe hath ordeined of his sleyhteMesure double and double weyhte:Outward he selleth be the lasse,And with the more he makth his tasse, 4400Wherof his hous is full withinne.He reccheth noght, be so he winne,Though that ther lese ten or tuelve:His love is al toward himselveAnd to non other, bot he seThat he mai winne suche thre;For wher he schal oght yive or lene,He wol ayeinward take a bene,Ther he hath lent the smale pese.And riht so ther ben manye of these 4410Lovers, that thogh thei love a lyte,That scarsly wolde it weie a myte,Yit wolde thei have a pound again,As doth Usure in his bargain.Bot certes such usure unliche,It falleth more unto the riche,Als wel of love as of beyete,Than unto hem that be noght grete,And, as who seith, ben simple and povere;For sielden is whan thei recovere, 4420Bot if it be thurgh gret decerte.And natheles men se poverteWith porsuite and continuanceFulofte make a gret chevanceAnd take of love his avantage,Forth with the help of his brocage,That maken seme wher is noght.And thus fulofte is love boghtFor litel what, and mochel take,With false weyhtes that thei make. 4430Nou, Sone, of that I seide aboveThou wost what Usure is of love:Tell me forthi what so thou wilt,If thou therof hast eny gilt.Mi fader, nay, for ought I hiere.For of tho pointz ye tolden hiereI wol you be mi trouthe assure,Mi weyhte of love and mi mesureHath be mor large and mor certeinThan evere I tok of love ayein: 4440For so yit couthe I nevere of sleyhte,To take ayein be double weyhteOf love mor than I have yive.For als so wiss mot I be schriveAnd have remission of Sinne,As so yit couthe I nevere winne,Ne yit so mochel, soth to sein,That evere I mihte have half ayeinOf so full love as I have lent:And if myn happ were so wel went, 4450That for the hole I mihte have half,Me thenkth I were a goddeshalf.For where Usure wole have double,Mi conscience is noght so trouble,I biede nevere as to my delBot of the hole an halvendel;That is non excess, as me thenketh.Bot natheles it me forthenketh;For wel I wot that wol noght be,For every day the betre I se 4460That hou so evere I yive or leneMi love in place ther I mene,For oght that evere I axe or crave,I can nothing ayeinward have.Bot yit for that I wol noght lete,What so befalle of mi beyete,That I ne schal hire yive and leneMi love and al mi thoght so clene,That toward me schal noght beleve.And if sche of hire goode leve 4470Rewarde wol me noght again,I wot the laste of my bargainSchal stonde upon so gret a lost,That I mai neveremor the costRecovere in this world til I die.So that touchende of this partieI mai me wel excuse and schal;And forto speke forth withal,If eny brocour for me wente,That point cam nevere in myn entente: 4480So that the more me merveilleth,What thing it is mi ladi eilleth,That al myn herte and al my timeSche hath, and doth no betre bime.I have herd seid that thoght is fre,And natheles in priveteTo you, mi fader, that ben hiereMin hole schrifte forto hiere,I dar min herte wel desclose.Touchende usure, as I suppose, 4490Which as ye telle in love is used,Mi ladi mai noght ben excused;That for o lokinge of hire yëMin hole herte til I dyeWith al that evere I may and canSche hath me wonne to hire man:Wherof, me thenkth, good reson woldeThat sche somdel rewarde scholde,And yive a part, ther sche hath al.I not what falle hierafter schal, 4500Bot into nou yit dar I sein,Hire liste nevere yive ayeinA goodli word in such a wise,Wherof min hope mihte arise,Mi grete love to compense.I not hou sche hire conscienceExcuse wole of this usure;Be large weyhte and gret mesureSche hath mi love, and I have noghtOf that which I have diere boght, 4510And with myn herte I have it paid;Bot al that is asyde laid,And I go loveles aboute.Hire oghte stonde if ful gret doute,Til sche redresce such a sinne,That sche wole al mi love winneAnd yifth me noght to live by:Noght als so moche as “grant mercy”Hir list to seie, of which I mihteSom of mi grete peine allyhte. 4520Bot of this point, lo, thus I fareAs he that paith for his chaffare,And beith it diere, and yit hath non,So mot he nedes povere gon:Thus beie I diere and have no love,That I ne mai noght come aboveTo winne of love non encress.Bot I me wole nathelesTouchende usure of love aquite;And if mi ladi be to wyte, 4530I preie to god such grace hir sendeThat sche be time it mot amende.Mi Sone, of that thou hast ansuerdTouchende Usure I have al herd,Hou thou of love hast wonne smale:Bot that thou tellest in thi taleAnd thi ladi therof accusest,Me thenkth tho wordes thou misusest.For be thin oghne knowlechingeThou seist hou sche for o lokinge 4540Thin hole herte fro the tok:Sche mai be such, that hire o lokIs worth thin herte manyfold;So hast thou wel thin herte sold,Whan thou hast that is more worth.And ek of that thou tellest forth,Hou that hire weyhte of love uneveneIs unto thin, under the heveneStod nevere in evene that balanceWhich stant in loves governance. 4550Such is the statut of his lawe,That thogh thi love more draweAnd peise in the balance more,Thou miht noght axe ayein therforeOf duete, bot al of grace.For love is lord in every place,Ther mai no lawe him justefieBe reddour ne be compaignie,That he ne wole after his willeWhom that him liketh spede or spille. 4560To love a man mai wel beginne,Bot whether he schal lese or winne,That wot noman til ate laste:Forthi coveite noght to faste,Mi Sone, bot abyd thin ende,Per cas al mai to goode wende.Bot that thou hast me told and said,Of o thing I am riht wel paid,That thou be sleyhte ne be guileOf no brocour hast otherwhile 4570Engined love, for such dedeIs sore venged, as I rede.Brocours of love that deceiven,No wonder is thogh thei receivenAfter the wrong that thei decerven;For whom as evere that thei servenAnd do plesance for a whyle,Yit ate laste here oghne guileUpon here oghne hed descendeth,Which god of his vengance sendeth, 4580As be ensample of time goA man mai finde it hath be so.It fell somtime, as it was sene,The hihe goddesse and the queeneJuno tho hadde in compainieA Maiden full of tricherie;For sche was evere in on acordWith Jupiter, that was hire lord,To gete him othre loves newe,Thurgh such brocage and was untrewe 4590Al otherwise than him nedeth.Bot sche, which of no schame dredeth,With queinte wordes and with slyheBlente in such wise hir lady yhe,As sche to whom that Juno triste,So that therof sche nothing wiste.Bot so prive mai be nothing,That it ne comth to knowleching;Thing don upon the derke nyhtIs after knowe on daies liht: 4600So it befell, that ate lasteAl that this slyhe maiden casteWas overcast and overthrowe.For as the sothe mot be knowe,To Juno was don understondeIn what manere hir housebondeWith fals brocage hath take usureOf love mor than his mesure,Whan he tok othre than his wif,Wherof this mayden was gultif, 4610Which hadde ben of his assent.And thus was al the game schent;She soffreth him, as sche mot nede,Bot the brocour of his misdede,Sche which hir conseil yaf therto,On hire is the vengance do:For Juno with hire wordes hote,This Maiden, which Eccho was hote,Reproveth and seith in this wise:“O traiteresse, of which servise 4620Hast thou thin oghne ladi served!Thou hast gret peine wel deserved,That thou canst maken it so queinte,Thi slyhe wordes forto peinteTowardes me, that am thi queene,Wherof thou madest me to weneThat myn housbonde trewe were,Whan that he loveth elleswhere,Al be it so him nedeth noght.Bot upon thee it schal be boght, 4630Which art prive to tho doinges,And me fulofte of thi lesingesDeceived hast: nou is the dayThat I thi while aquite may;And for thou hast to me conceledThat my lord hath with othre deled,I schal thee sette in such a kende,That evere unto the worldes endeAl that thou hierest thou schalt telle,And clappe it out as doth a belle.” 4640And with that word sche was forschape,Ther may no vois hire mouth ascape,What man that in the wodes crieth,Withoute faile Eccho replieth,And what word that him list to sein,The same word sche seith ayein.Thus sche, which whilom hadde leveTo duelle in chambre, mot beleveIn wodes and on helles bothe,For such brocage as wyves lothe, 4650Which doth here lordes hertes changeAnd love in other place strange.Forthi, if evere it so befalle,That thou, mi Sone, amonges alleBe wedded man, hold that thou hast,For thanne al other love is wast.O wif schal wel to thee suffise,And thanne, if thou for covoitiseOf love woldest axe more,Thou scholdest don ayein the lore 4660Of alle hem that trewe be.Mi fader, as in this degreMy conscience is noght accused;For I no such brocage have used,Wherof that lust of love is wonne.Forthi spek forth, as ye begonne,Of Avarice upon mi schrifte.Mi Sone, I schal the branches schifteBe ordre so as thei ben set,On whom no good is wel beset. 4670Blinde Avarice of his lignageFor conseil and for cousinage,To be withholde ayein largesse,Hath on, whos name is seid Skarsnesse,The which is kepere of his hous,And is so thurghout averous,That he no good let out of honde;Thogh god himself it wolde fonde,Of yifte scholde he nothing have;And if a man it wolde crave, 4680He moste thanne faile nede,Wher god himselve mai noght spede.And thus Skarsnesse in every placeBe reson mai no thonk porchace,And natheles in his degreeAbove all othre most priveWith Avarice stant he this.For he governeth that ther isIn ech astat of his officeAfter the reule of thilke vice; 4690He takth, he kepth, he halt, he bint,That lihtere is to fle the flintThan gete of him in hard or neissheOnly the value of a reyssheOf good in helpinge of an other,Noght thogh it were his oghne brother.For in the cas of yifte and loneStant every man for him al one,Him thenkth of his unkindeschipeThat him nedeth no felaschipe: 4700Be so the bagge and he acorden,Him reccheth noght what men recordenOf him, or it be evel or good.For al his trust is on his good,So that al one he falleth ofte,Whan he best weneth stonde alofte,Als wel in love as other wise;For love is evere of som repriseTo him that wole his love holde.Forthi, mi Sone, as thou art holde, 4710Touchende of this tell me thi schrifte:Hast thou be scars or large of yifteUnto thi love, whom thou servest?For after that thou wel deservestOf yifte, thou miht be the bet;For that good holde I wel beset,For why thou miht the betre fare;Thanne is no wisdom forto spare.For thus men sein, in every nedeHe was wys that ferst made mede; 4720For where as mede mai noght spede,I not what helpeth other dede:Fulofte he faileth of his gameThat wol with ydel hand reclameHis hauk, as many a nyce doth.Forthi, mi Sone, tell me sothAnd sei the trouthe, if thou hast beUnto thy love or skars or fre.Mi fader, it hath stonde thus,That if the tresor of Cresus 4730And al the gold Octovien,Forth with the richesse YndienOf Perles and of riche stones,Were al togedre myn at ones,I sette it at nomore acompteThan wolde a bare straw amonte,To yive it hire al in a day,Be so that to that suete mayI myhte like or more or lesse.And thus be cause of my scarsnesse 4740Ye mai wel understonde and lieveThat I schal noght the worse achieveThe pourpos which is in my thoght.Bot yit I yaf hir nevere noght,Ne therto dorste a profre make;For wel I wot sche wol noght take,And yive wol sche noght also,Sche is eschu of bothe tuo.And this I trowe be the skileTowardes me, for sche ne wile 4750That I have eny cause of hope,Noght also mochel as a drope.Bot toward othre, as I mai se,Sche takth and yifth in such degre,That as be weie of frendlihiedeSche can so kepe hir wommanhiede,That every man spekth of hir wel.Bot sche wole take of me no del,And yit sche wot wel that I woldeYive and do bothe what I scholde 4760To plesen hire in al my myht:Be reson this wot every wyht,For that mai be no weie asterte,Ther sche is maister of the herte,Sche mot be maister of the good.For god wot wel that al my modAnd al min herte and al mi thoghtAnd al mi good, whil I have oght,Als freliche as god hath it yive,It schal ben hires, while I live, 4770Riht as hir list hirself commande.So that it nedeth no demande,To axe of me if I be scarsTo love, for as to tho parsI wole ansuere and seie no.Mi Sone, that is riht wel do.For often times of scarsnesseIt hath be sen, that for the lesseIs lost the more, as thou schalt hiereA tale lich to this matiere. 4780Skarsnesse and love acorden nevere,For every thing is wel the levere,Whan that a man hath boght it diere:And forto speke in this matiere,For sparinge of a litel costFulofte time a man hath lostThe large cote for the hod.What man that scars is of his goodAnd wol noght yive, he schal noght take:With yifte a man mai undertake 4790The hihe god to plese and queme,With yifte a man the world mai deme;For every creature bore,If thou him yive, is glad therfore,And every gladschipe, as I finde,Is confort unto loves kindeAnd causeth ofte a man to spede.So was he wys that ferst yaf mede,For mede kepeth love in house;Bot wher the men ben coveitouse 4800And sparen forto yive a part,Thei knowe noght Cupides art:For his fortune and his apriseDesdeigneth alle coveitiseAnd hateth alle nygardie.And forto loke of this partie,A soth ensample, hou it is so,I finde write of Babio;Which hadde a love at his menage,Ther was non fairere of hire age, 4810And hihte Viola be name;Which full of youthe and ful of gameWas of hirself, and large and fre,Bot such an other chinche as heMen wisten noght in al the lond,And hadde affaited to his hondHis servant, the which SpodiusWas hote. And in this wise thusThe worldes good of sufficanceWas had, bot likinge and plesance, 4820Of that belongeth to richesseOf love, stod in gret destresse;So that this yonge lusty wyhtOf thing which fell to loves rihtWas evele served overal,That sche was wo bego withal,Til that Cupide and Venus ekeA medicine for the sekeOrdeigne wolden in this cas.So as fortune thanne was, 4830Of love upon the destineIt fell, riht as it scholde be,A freissh, a fre, a frendly manThat noght of Avarice can,Which Croceus be name hihte,Toward this swete caste his sihte,And ther sche was cam in presence.Sche sih him large of his despence,And amorous and glad of chiere,So that hir liketh wel to hiere 4840The goodly wordes whiche he seide;And therupon of love he preide,Of love was al that he mente,To love and for sche scholde assente,He yaf hire yiftes evere among.Bot for men sein that mede is strong,It was wel seene at thilke tyde;For as it scholde of ryht betyde,This Viola largesce hath takeAnd the nygard sche hath forsake: 4850Of Babio sche wol no more,For he was grucchende everemore,Ther was with him non other fareBot forto prinche and forto spare,Of worldes muk to gete encress.So goth the wrecche loveles,Bejaped for his Skarcete,And he that large was and freAnd sette his herte to despende,This Croceus, the bowe bende, 4860Which Venus tok him forto holde,And schotte als ofte as evere he wolde.Lo, thus departeth love his lawe,That what man wol noght be felaweTo yive and spende, as I thee telle,He is noght worthi forto duelleIn loves court to be relieved.Forthi, my Sone, if I be lieved,Thou schalt be large of thi despence.Mi fader, in mi conscience 4870If ther be eny thing amis,I wol amende it after this,Toward mi love namely.Mi Sone, wel and redelyThou seist, so that wel paid withalI am, and forthere if I schalUnto thi schrifte specefieOf Avarices progenieWhat vice suieth after this,Thou schalt have wonder hou it is, 4880Among the folk in eny regneThat such a vice myhte regne,Which is comun at alle assaies,As men mai finde nou adaies.The vice lik unto the fend,Which nevere yit was mannes frend,And cleped is Unkindeschipe,Of covine and of felaschipeWith Avarice he is withholde.Him thenkth he scholde noght ben holde 4890Unto the moder which him bar;Of him mai nevere man be war,He wol noght knowe the merite,For that he wolde it noght aquite;Which in this world is mochel used,And fewe ben therof excused.To telle of him is endeles,Bot this I seie natheles,Wher as this vice comth to londe,Ther takth noman his thonk on honde; 4900Thogh he with alle his myhtes serve,He schal of him no thonk deserve.He takth what eny man wol yive,Bot whil he hath o day to live,He wol nothing rewarde ayein;He gruccheth forto yive o grein,Wher he hath take a berne full.That makth a kinde herte dull,To sette his trust in such frendschipe,Ther as he fint no kindeschipe; 4910And forto speke wordes pleine,Thus hiere I many a man compleigne,That nou on daies thou schalt findeAt nede fewe frendes kinde;What thou hast don for hem tofore,It is foryete, as it were lore.The bokes speken of this vice,And telle hou god of his justice,Be weie of kinde and ek natureAnd every lifissh creature, 4920The lawe also, who that it kan,Thei dampnen an unkinde man.It is al on to seie unkindeAs thing which don is ayein kinde,For it with kinde nevere stodA man to yelden evel for good.For who that wolde taken hede,A beste is glad of a good dede,And loveth thilke creatureAfter the lawe of his nature 4930Which doth him ese. And forto seOf this matiere Auctorite,Fulofte time it hath befalle;Wherof a tale amonges alle,Which is of olde ensamplerie,I thenke forto specefie.To speke of an unkinde man,I finde hou whilom Adrian,Of Rome which a gret lord was,Upon a day as he per cas 4940To wode in his huntinge wente,It hapneth at a soudein wente,After his chace as he poursuieth,Thurgh happ, the which noman eschuieth,He fell unwar into a pet,Wher that it mihte noght be let.The pet was dep and he fell lowe,That of his men non myhte knoweWher he becam, for non was nyh,Which of his fall the meschief syh. 4950And thus al one ther he layClepende and criende al the dayFor socour and deliverance,Til ayein Eve it fell per chance,A while er it began to nyhte,A povere man, which Bardus hihte,Cam forth walkende with his asse,And hadde gadred him a tasseOf grene stickes and of dreieTo selle, who that wolde hem beie, 4960As he which hadde no liflode,Bot whanne he myhte such a lodeTo toune with his Asse carie.And as it fell him forto tarieThat ilke time nyh the pet,And hath the trusse faste knet,He herde a vois, which cride dimme,And he his Ere to the brimmeHath leid, and herde it was a man,Which seide, “Ha, help hier Adrian, 4970And I wol yiven half mi good.”The povere man this understod,As he that wolde gladly winne,And to this lord which was withinneHe spak and seide, “If I thee save,What sikernesse schal I haveOf covenant, that afterwardThou wolt me yive such rewardAs thou behihtest nou tofore?”That other hath his othes swore 4980Be hevene and be the goddes alle,If that it myhte so befalleThat he out of the pet him broghte,Of all the goodes whiche he oghteHe schal have evene halvendel.This Bardus seide he wolde wel;And with this word his Asse anonHe let untrusse, and theruponDoun goth the corde into the pet,To which he hath at ende knet 4990A staf, wherby, he seide, he woldeThat Adrian him scholde holde.Bot it was tho per chance falle,Into that pet was also falleAn Ape, which at thilke throwe,Whan that the corde cam doun lowe,Al sodeinli therto he skipteAnd it in bothe hise armes clipte.And Bardus with his Asse anonHim hath updrawe, and he is gon. 5000But whan he sih it was an Ape,He wende al hadde ben a japeOf faierie, and sore him dradde:And Adrian eftsone graddeFor help, and cride and preide faste,And he eftsone his corde caste;Bot whan it cam unto the grounde,A gret Serpent it hath bewounde,The which Bardus anon up drouh.And thanne him thoghte wel ynouh, 5010It was fantosme, bot yit he herdeThe vois, and he therto ansuerde,“What wiht art thou in goddes name?”“I am,” quod Adrian, “the same,Whos good thou schalt have evene half.”Quod Bardus, “Thanne a goddes halfThe thridde time assaie I schal”:And caste his corde forth withalInto the pet, and whan it camTo him, this lord of Rome it nam, 5020And therupon him hath adresced,And with his hand fulofte blessed,And thanne he bad to Bardus hale.And he, which understod his tale,Betwen him and his Asse al softeHath drawe and set him up alofteWithouten harm al esely.He seith noght ones “grant merci,”Bot strauhte him forth to the cite,And let this povere Bardus be. 5030And natheles this simple manHis covenant, so as he can,Hath axed; and that other seide,If so be that he him umbreideOf oght that hath be speke or do,It schal ben venged on him so,That him were betre to be ded.And he can tho non other red,But on his asse ayein he casteHis trusse, and hieth homward faste: 5040And whan that he cam hom to bedde,He tolde his wif hou that he spedde.Bot finaly to speke oght moreUnto this lord he dradde him sore,So that a word ne dorste he sein:And thus upon the morwe ayein,In the manere as I recorde,Forth with his Asse and with his cordeTo gadre wode, as he dede er,He goth; and whan that he cam ner 5050Unto the place where he wolde,He hath his Ape anon beholde,Which hadde gadred al abouteOf stickes hiere and there a route,And leide hem redy to his hond,Wherof he made his trosse and bond;Fro dai to dai and in this wiseThis Ape profreth his servise,So that he hadde of wode ynouh.Upon a time and as he drouh 5060Toward the wode, he sih besydeThe grete gastli Serpent glyde,Til that sche cam in his presence,And in hir kinde a reverenceSche hath him do, and forth withalA Ston mor briht than a cristallOut of hir mouth tofore his weieSche let doun falle, and wente aweie,For that he schal noght ben adrad.Tho was this povere Bardus glad, 5070Thonkende god, and to the StonHe goth an takth it up anon,And hath gret wonder in his witHou that the beste him hath aquit,Wher that the mannes Sone hath failed,For whom he hadde most travailed.Bot al he putte in goddes hond,And torneth hom, and what he fondUnto his wif he hath it schewed;And thei, that weren bothe lewed, 5080Acorden that he scholde it selle.And he no lengere wolde duelle,Bot forth anon upon the taleThe Ston he profreth to the sale;And riht as he himself it sette,The jueler anon forth fetteThe gold and made his paiement,Therof was no delaiement.Thus whan this Ston was boght and sold,Homward with joie manyfold 5090This Bardus goth; and whan he camHom to his hous and that he namHis gold out of his Purs, withinneHe fond his Ston also therinne,Wherof for joie his herte pleide,Unto his wif and thus he seide,“Lo, hier my gold, lo, hier mi Ston!”His wif hath wonder therupon,And axeth him hou that mai be.“Nou be mi trouthe I not,” quod he, 5100“Bot I dar swere upon a bok,That to my Marchant I it tok,And he it hadde whan I wente:So knowe I noght to what ententeIt is nou hier, bot it be grace.Forthi tomorwe in other placeI wole it fonde forto selle,And if it wol noght with him duelle,Bot crepe into mi purs ayein,Than dar I saufly swere and sein, 5110It is the vertu of the Ston.”The morwe cam, and he is gonTo seche aboute in other stedeHis Ston to selle, and he so dede,And lefte it with his chapman there.Bot whan that he cam elleswhere,In presence of his wif at hom,Out of his Purs and that he nomHis gold, he fond his Ston withal:And thus it fell him overal, 5120Where he it solde in sondri place,Such was the fortune and the grace.Bot so wel may nothing ben hidd,That it nys ate laste kidd:This fame goth aboute RomeSo ferforth, that the wordes comeTo themperour Justinian;And he let sende for the man,And axede him hou that it was.And Bardus tolde him al the cas, 5130Hou that the worm and ek the beste,Althogh thei maden no beheste,His travail hadden wel aquit;Bot he which hadde a mannes wit,And made his covenant be moutheAnd swor therto al that he coutheTo parte and yiven half his good,Hath nou foryete hou that it stod,As he which wol no trouthe holde.This Emperour al that he tolde 5140Hath herd, and thilke unkindenesseHe seide he wolde himself redresse.And thus in court of juggementThis Adrian was thanne assent,And the querele in audienceDeclared was in the presenceOf themperour and many mo;Wherof was mochel speche thoAnd gret wondringe among the press.Bot ate laste natheles 5150For the partie which hath pleignedThe lawe hath diemed and ordeignedBe hem that were avised wel,That he schal have the halvendelThurghout of Adrianes good.And thus of thilke unkinde blodStant the memoire into this day,Wherof that every wysman mayEnsamplen him, and take in myndeWhat schame it is to ben unkinde; 5160Ayein the which reson debateth,And every creature it hateth.Forthi, mi Sone, in thin officeI rede fle that ilke vice.For riht as the Cronique seithOf Adrian, hou he his feithForyat for worldes covoitise,Fulofte in such a maner wiseOf lovers nou a man mai seFull manye that unkinde be: 5170For wel behote and evele lasteThat is here lif; for ate laste,Whan that thei have here wille do,Here love is after sone ago.What seist thou, Sone, to this cas?Mi fader, I wol seie Helas,That evere such a man was bore,Which whan he hath his trouthe suoreAnd hath of love what he wolde,That he at eny time scholde 5180Evere after in his herte findeTo falsen and to ben unkinde.Bot, fader, as touchende of me,I mai noght stonde in that degre;For I tok nevere of love why,That I ne mai wel go therbyAnd do my profit elles where,For eny sped I finde there.I dar wel thenken al aboute,Bot I ne dar noght speke it oute; 5190And if I dorste, I wolde pleigne,That sche for whom I soffre peineAnd love hir evere aliche hote,That nouther yive ne behoteIn rewardinge of mi serviseIt list hire in no maner wise.I wol noght say that sche is kinde,And forto sai sche is unkinde,That dar I noght; bot god above,Which demeth every herte of love, 5200He wot that on myn oghne sideSchal non unkindeschipe abide:If it schal with mi ladi duelle,Therof dar I nomore telle.Nou, goode fader, as it is,Tell me what thenketh you of this.Mi Sone, of that unkindeschipe,The which toward thi ladischipeThou pleignest, for sche wol thee noght,Thou art to blamen of that thoght. 5210For it mai be that thi desir,Thogh it brenne evere as doth the fyr,Per cas to hire honour missit,Or elles time com noght yit,Which standt upon thi destine:Forthi, mi Sone, I rede thee,Thenk wel, what evere the befalle;For noman hath his lustes alle.Bot as thou toldest me beforeThat thou to love art noght forswore, 5220And hast don non unkindenesse,Thou miht therof thi grace blesse:And lef noght that continuance;For ther mai be no such grevanceTo love, as is unkindeschipe.Wherof to kepe thi worschipe,So as these olde bokes tale,I schal thee telle a redi tale:Nou herkne and be wel war therby,For I wol telle it openly. 5230Mynos, as telleth the Poete,The which whilom was king of Crete,A Sone hadde and AndrocheeHe hihte: and so befell that heUnto Athenes forto lereWas send, and so he bar him there,For that he was of hih lignage,Such pride he tok in his corage,That he foryeten hath the Scoles,And in riote among the foles 5240He dede manye thinges wronge;And useth thilke lif so longe,Til ate laste of that he wroghteHe fond the meschief which he soghte,Wherof it fell that he was slain.His fader, which it herde sain,Was wroth, and al that evere he mihte,Of men of Armes he him dighteA strong pouer, and forth he wenteUnto Athenys, where he brente 5250The pleine contre al aboute:The Cites stode of him in doute,As thei that no defence haddeAyein the pouer which he ladde.Egeüs, which was there king,His conseil tok upon this thing,For he was thanne in the Cite:So that of pes into treteeBetwen Mynos and EgeüsThei felle, and ben acorded thus; 5260That king Mynos fro yer to yeereReceive schal, as thou schalt here,Out of Athenys for truageOf men that were of myhti AgePersones nyne, of whiche he schalHis wille don in specialFor vengance of his Sones deth.Non other grace ther ne geth,Bot forto take the juise;And that was don in such a wise, 5270Which stod upon a wonder cas.For thilke time so it was,Wherof that men yit rede and singe,King Mynos hadde in his kepingeA cruel Monstre, as seith the geste:For he was half man and half beste,And Minotaurus he was hote,Which was begete in a rioteUpon Pasiphe, his oghne wif,Whil he was oute upon the strif 5280Of thilke grete Siege at Troie.Bot sche, which lost hath alle joie,Whan that sche syh this Monstre bore,Bad men ordeigne anon therfore:And fell that ilke time thus,Ther was a Clerk, on Dedalus,Which hadde ben of hire assentOf that hir world was so miswent;And he made of his oghne wit,Wherof the remembrance is yit, 5290For Minotaure such an hous,Which was so strange and merveilous,That what man that withinne wente,Ther was so many a sondri wente,That he ne scholde noght come oute,But gon amased al aboute.And in this hous to loke and wardeWas Minotaurus put in warde,That what lif that therinne cam,Or man or beste, he overcam 5300And slow, and fedde him therupon;And in this wise many onOut of Athenys for truageDevoured weren in that rage.For every yeer thei schope hem so,Thei of Athenys, er thei goToward that ilke wofull chance,As it was set in ordinance,Upon fortune here lot thei caste;Til that Theseüs ate laste, 5310Which was the kinges Sone there,Amonges othre that ther wereIn thilke yeer, as it befell,The lot upon his chance fell.He was a worthi kniht withalle;And whan he sih this chance falle,He ferde as thogh he tok non hiede,Bot al that evere he mihte spiede,With him and with his felaschipeForth into Crete he goth be Schipe; 5320Wher that the king Mynos he soghte,And profreth all that he him oghteUpon the point of here acord.This sterne king, this cruel lordTok every day on of the Nyne,And put him to the disciplineOf Minotaure, to be devoured;Bot Theseüs was so favoured,That he was kept til ate laste.And in the meene while he caste 5330What thing him were best to do:And fell that Adriagne tho,Which was the dowhter of Mynos,And hadde herd the worthi losOf Theseüs and of his myht,And syh he was a lusti kniht,Hire hole herte on him sche leide,And he also of love hir preide,So ferforth that thei were al on.And sche ordeigneth thanne anon 5340In what manere he scholde him save,And schop so that sche dede him haveA clue of thred, of which withinneFerst ate dore he schal beginneWith him to take that on ende,That whan he wolde ayeinward wende,He mihte go the same weie.And over this, so as I seie,Of pich sche tok him a pelote,The which he scholde into the throte 5350Of Minotaure caste rihte:Such wepne also for him sche dighte,That he be reson mai noght faileTo make an ende of his bataile;For sche him tawhte in sondri wise,Til he was knowe of thilke emprise,Hou he this beste schulde quelle.And thus, schort tale forto telle,So as this Maide him hadde tawht,Theseüs with this Monstre fawht, 5360Smot of his hed, the which he nam,And be the thred, so as he cam,He goth ayein, til he were oute.Tho was gret wonder al aboute:Mynos the tribut hath relessed,And so was al the werre cessedBetwen Athene and hem of Crete.Bot now to speke of thilke suete,Whos beaute was withoute wane,This faire Maiden Adriane, 5370Whan that sche sih Theseüs sound,Was nevere yit upon the groundA gladder wyht that sche was tho.Theseüs duelte a dai or tuoWher that Mynos gret chiere him dede:Theseüs in a prive stedeHath with this Maiden spoke and rouned,That sche to him was abandounedIn al that evere that sche couthe,So that of thilke lusty youthe 5380Al prively betwen hem tweieThe ferste flour he tok aweie.For he so faire tho behihteThat evere, whil he live mihte,He scholde hire take for his wif,And as his oghne hertes lifHe scholde hire love and trouthe bere;And sche, which mihte noght forbere,So sore loveth him ayein,That what as evere he wolde sein 5390With al hire herte sche believeth.And thus his pourpos he achieveth,So that assured of his troutheWith him sche wente, and that was routhe.Fedra hire yonger Soster eke,A lusti Maide, a sobre, a meke,Fulfild of alle curtesie,For Sosterhode and compainieOf love, which was hem betuene,To sen hire Soster mad a queene, 5400Hire fader lefte and forth sche wenteWith him, which al his ferste ententeForyat withinne a litel throwe,So that it was al overthrowe,Whan sche best wende it scholde stonde.The Schip was blowe fro the londe,Wherin that thei seilende were;This Adriagne hath mochel fereOf that the wynd so loude bleu,As sche which of the See ne kneu, 5410And preide forto reste a whyle.And so fell that upon an yle,Which Chyo hihte, thei ben drive,Where he to hire his leve hath yiveThat sche schal londe and take hire reste.Bot that was nothing for the beste:For whan sche was to londe broght,Sche, which that time thoghte noghtBot alle trouthe, and tok no kepe,Hath leid hire softe forto slepe, 5420As sche which longe hath ben forwacched;Bot certes sche was evele macchedAnd fer from alle loves kinde;For more than the beste unkindeTheseüs, which no trouthe kepte,Whil that this yonge ladi slepte,Fulfild of his unkindeschipeHath al foryete the goodschipeWhich Adriane him hadde do,And bad unto the Schipmen tho 5430Hale up the seil and noght abyde,And forth he goth the same tydeToward Athene, and hire alondeHe lefte, which lay nyh the strondeSlepende, til that sche awok.Bot whan that sche cast up hire lokToward the stronde and sih no wyht,Hire herte was so sore aflyht,That sche ne wiste what to thinke,Bot drouh hire to the water brinke, 5440Wher sche behield the See at large.Sche sih no Schip, sche sih no bargeAls ferforth as sche mihte kenne:“Ha lord,” sche seide, “which a Senne,As al the world schal after hiere,Upon this woful womman hiereThis worthi kniht hath don and wroght!I wende I hadde his love boght,And so deserved ate nede,Whan that he stod upon his drede, 5450And ek the love he me behihte.It is gret wonder hou he mihteTowardes me nou ben unkinde,And so to lete out of his myndeThing which he seide his oghne mouth.Bot after this whan it is couthAnd drawe into the worldes fame,It schal ben hindringe of his name:For wel he wot and so wot I,He yaf his trouthe bodily, 5460That he myn honour scholde kepe.”And with that word sche gan to wepe,And sorweth more than ynouh:Hire faire tresces sche todrouh,And with hirself tok such a strif,That sche betwen the deth and lifSwounende lay fulofte among.And al was this on him along,Which was to love unkinde so,Wherof the wrong schal everemo 5470Stonde in Cronique of remembrance.And ek it asketh a venganceTo ben unkinde in loves cas,So as Theseüs thanne was,Al thogh he were a noble kniht;For he the lawe of loves rihtForfeted hath in alle weie,That Adriagne he putte aweie,Which was a gret unkinde dede:And after this, so as I rede, 5480Fedra, the which hir Soster is,He tok in stede of hire, and thisFel afterward to mochel teene.For thilke vice of which I meene,Unkindeschipe, where it falleth,The trouthe of mannes herte it palleth,That he can no good dede aquite:So mai he stonde of no meriteTowardes god, and ek alsoMen clepen him the worldes fo; 5490For he nomore than the fendUnto non other man is frend,Bot al toward himself al one.Forthi, mi Sone, in thi personeThis vice above all othre fle.Mi fader, as ye techen me,I thenke don in this matiere.Bot over this nou wolde I hiere,Wherof I schal me schryve more.Mi goode Sone, and for thi lore, 5500After the reule of coveitiseI schal the proprete deviseOf every vice by and by.Nou herkne and be wel war therby.In the lignage of Avarice,Mi Sone, yit ther is a vice,His rihte name it is Ravine,Which hath a route of his covine.Ravine among the maistres duelleth,And with his servantz, as men telleth, 5510Extorcion is nou withholde:Ravine of othre mennes foldeMakth his larder and paieth noght;For wher as evere it mai be soght,In his hous ther schal nothing lacke,And that fulofte abyth the packeOf povere men that duelle aboute.Thus stant the comun poeple in doute,Which can do non amendement;For whanne him faileth paiement, 5520Ravine makth non other skile,Bot takth be strengthe what he wile.So ben ther in the same wiseLovers, as I thee schal devise,That whan noght elles mai availe,Anon with strengthe thei assaileAnd gete of love the sesine,Whan thei se time, be Ravine.Forthi, mi Sone, schrif thee hier,If thou hast ben a Raviner 5530Of love.Certes, fader, no:For I mi ladi love so,That thogh I were as was Pompeie,That al the world me wolde obeie,Or elles such as Alisandre,I wolde noght do such a sklaundre;It is no good man, which so doth.In good feith, Sone, thou seist soth:For he that wole of pourveanceBe such a weie his lust avance, 5540He schal it after sore abie,Bot if these olde ensamples lie.Nou, goode fader, tell me on,So as ye cunne manyon,Touchende of love in this matiere.Nou list, mi Sone, and thou schalt hiere,So as it hath befalle er this,In loves cause hou that it isA man to take be RavineThe preie which is femeline. 5550Ther was a real noble king,And riche of alle worldes thing,Which of his propre enheritanceAthenes hadde in governance,And who so thenke therupon,His name was king Pandion.Tuo douhtres hadde he be his wif,The whiche he lovede as his lif;The ferste douhter Progne hihte,And the secounde, as sche wel mihte, 5560Was cleped faire Philomene,To whom fell after mochel tene.The fader of his pourveanceHis doughter Progne wolde avance,And yaf hire unto mariageA worthi king of hih lignage,A noble kniht eke of his hond,So was he kid in every lond,Of Trace he hihte Tereüs;The clerk Ovide telleth thus. 5570This Tereüs his wif hom ladde,A lusti lif with hire he hadde;Til it befell upon a tyde,This Progne, as sche lay him besyde,Bethoughte hir hou it mihte beThat sche hir Soster myhte se,And to hir lord hir will sche seide,With goodly wordes and him preideThat sche to hire mihte go:And if it liked him noght so, 5580That thanne he wolde himselve wende,Or elles be som other sende,Which mihte hire diere Soster griete,And schape hou that thei mihten miete.Hir lord anon to that he herdeYaf his acord, and thus ansuerde:“I wole,” he seide, “for thi sakeThe weie after thi Soster takeMiself, and bringe hire, if I may.”And sche with that, there as he lay, 5590Began him in hire armes clippe,And kist him with hir softe lippe,And seide, “Sire, grant mercy.”And he sone after was redy,And tok his leve forto go;In sori time dede he so.This Tereüs goth forth to SchipeWith him and with his felaschipe;Be See the rihte cours he nam,Into the contre til he cam, 5600Wher Philomene was duellinge,And of hir Soster the tidingeHe tolde, and tho thei weren glade,And mochel joie of him thei made.The fader and the moder botheTo leve here douhter weren lothe,Bot if thei weren in presence;And natheles at reverenceOf him, that wolde himself travaile,Thei wolden noght he scholde faile 5610Of that he preide, and yive hire leve:And sche, that wolde noght beleve,In alle haste made hire yareToward hir Soster forto fare,With Tereüs and forth sche wente.And he with al his hole entente,Whan sche was fro hir frendes go,Assoteth of hire love so,His yhe myhte he noght withholde,That he ne moste on hir beholde; 5620And with the sihte he gan desire,And sette his oghne herte on fyre;And fyr, whan it to tow aprocheth,To him anon the strengthe acrocheth,Til with his hete it be devoured,The tow ne mai noght be socoured.And so that tirant raviner,Whan that sche was in his pouer,And he therto sawh time and place,As he that lost hath alle grace, 5630Foryat he was a wedded man,And in a rage on hire he ran,Riht as a wolf which takth his preie.And sche began to crie and preie,“O fader, o mi moder diere,Nou help!” Bot thei ne mihte it hiere,And sche was of to litel myhtDefense ayein so ruide a knyhtTo make, whanne he was so wodThat he no reson understod, 5640Bot hield hire under in such wise,That sche ne myhte noght arise,Bot lay oppressed and desesed,As if a goshauk hadde sesedA brid, which dorste noght for fereRemue: and thus this tirant thereBeraft hire such thing as men seinMai neveremor be yolde ayein,And that was the virginite:Of such Ravine it was pite. 5650Bot whan sche to hirselven com,And of hir meschief hiede nom,And knew hou that sche was no maide,With wofull herte thus sche saide,“O thou of alle men the worste,Wher was ther evere man that dorsteDo such a dede as thou hast do?That dai schal falle, I hope so,That I schal telle out al mi fille,And with mi speche I schal fulfille 5660The wyde world in brede and lengthe.That thou hast do to me be strengthe,If I among the poeple duelle,Unto the poeple I schal it telle;And if I be withinne wallOf Stones closed, thanne I schalUnto the Stones clepe and crie,And tellen hem thi felonie;And if I to the wodes wende,Ther schal I tellen tale and ende, 5670And crie it to the briddes oute,That thei schul hiere it al aboute.For I so loude it schal reherce,That my vois schal the hevene perce,That it schal soune in goddes Ere.Ha, false man, where is thi fere?O mor cruel than eny beste,Hou hast thou holden thi behesteWhich thou unto my Soster madest?O thou, which alle love ungladest, 5680And art ensample of alle untrewe,Nou wolde god mi Soster knewe,Of thin untrouthe, hou that it stod!”And he than as a Lyon wodWith hise unhappi handes strongeHire cauhte be the tresses longe,With whiche he bond ther bothe hire armes,That was a fieble dede of armes,And to the grounde anon hire caste,And out he clippeth also faste 5690Hire tunge with a peire scheres.So what with blod and what with teresOut of hire yhe and of hir mouth,He made hire faire face uncouth:Sche lay swounende unto the deth,Ther was unethes eny breth;Bot yit whan he hire tunge refte,A litel part therof belefte,Bot sche with al no word mai soune,Bot chitre and as a brid jargoune. 5700And natheles that wode houndHir bodi hent up fro the ground,And sente hir there as be his willeSche scholde abyde in prison stilleFor everemo: bot nou tak hiedeWhat after fell of this misdede.Whanne al this meschief was befalle,This Tereüs, that foule him falle,Unto his contre hom he tyh;And whan he com his paleis nyh, 5710His wif al redi there him kepte.Whan he hir sih, anon he wepte,And that he dede for deceite,For sche began to axe him streite,“Wher is mi Soster?” And he seideThat sche was ded; and Progne abreide,As sche that was a wofull wif,And stod betuen hire deth and lif,Of that sche herde such tidinge:Bot for sche sih hire lord wepinge, 5720She wende noght bot alle trouthe,And hadde wel the more routhe.The Perles weren tho forsakeTo hire, and blake clothes take;As sche that was gentil and kinde,In worschipe of hir Sostres myndeSche made a riche enterement,For sche fond non amendementTo syghen or to sobbe more:So was ther guile under the gore. 5730Nou leve we this king and queene,And torne ayein to Philomene,As I began to tellen erst.Whan sche cam into prison ferst,It thoghte a kinges douhter strangeTo maken so soudein a changeFro welthe unto so grete a wo;And sche began to thenke tho,Thogh sche be mouthe nothing preide,Withinne hir herte thus sche seide: 5740“O thou, almyhty Jupiter,That hihe sist and lokest fer,Thou soffrest many a wrong doinge,And yit it is noght thi willinge.To thee ther mai nothing ben hid,Thou wost hou it is me betid:I wolde I hadde noght be bore,For thanne I hadde noght forloreMi speche and mi virginite.Bot, goode lord, al is in thee, 5750Whan thou therof wolt do venganceAnd schape mi deliverance.”And evere among this ladi wepte,And thoghte that sche nevere kepteTo ben a worldes womman more,And that sche wissheth everemore.Bot ofte unto hir Soster diereHire herte spekth in this manere,And seide, “Ha, Soster, if ye kneweOf myn astat, ye wolde rewe, 5760I trowe, and my deliveranceYe wolde schape, and do venganceOn him that is so fals a man:And natheles, so as I can,I wol you sende som tokninge,Wherof ye schul have knowlechingeOf thing I wot, that schal you lothe,The which you toucheth and me bothe.”And tho withinne a whyle als tytSche waf a cloth of Selk al whyt 5770With lettres and ymagerie,In which was al the felonie,Which Tereüs to hire hath do;And lappede it togedre thoAnd sette hir signet theruponAnd sende it unto Progne anon.The messager which forth it bar,What it amonteth is noght war;And natheles to Progne he gothAnd prively takth hire the cloth, 5780And wente ayein riht as he cam,The court of him non hiede nam.Whan Progne of Philomene herde,Sche wolde knowe hou that it ferde,And opneth that the man hath broght,And wot therby what hath be wroghtAnd what meschief ther is befalle.In swoune tho sche gan doun falle,And efte aros and gan to stonde,And eft sche takth the cloth on honde, 5790Behield the lettres and thymages;Bot ate laste, “Of suche oultrages,”Sche seith, “wepinge is noght the bote:”And swerth, if that sche live mote,It schal be venged otherwise.And with that sche gan hire aviseHou ferst sche mihte unto hire winneHir Soster, that noman withinne,Bot only thei that were suore,It scholde knowe, and schop therfore 5800That Tereüs nothing it wiste;And yit riht as hirselven liste,Hir Soster was delivered soneOut of prison, and be the moneTo Progne sche was broght be nyhte.Whan ech of other hadde a sihte,In chambre, ther thei were al one,Thei maden many a pitous mone;Bot Progne most of sorwe made,Which sihe hir Soster pale and fade 5810And specheles and deshonoured,Of that sche hadde be defloured;And ek upon hir lord sche thoghte,Of that he so untreuly wroghteAnd hadde his espousaile broke.Sche makth a vou it schal be wroke,And with that word sche kneleth dounWepinge in gret devocioun:Unto Cupide and to VenusSche preide, and seide thanne thus: 5820“O ye, to whom nothing asterteOf love mai, for every herteYe knowe, as ye that ben aboveThe god and the goddesse of love;Ye witen wel that evere yitWith al mi will and al my wit,Sith ferst ye schopen me to wedde,That I lay with mi lord abedde,I have be trewe in mi degre,And evere thoghte forto be, 5830And nevere love in other place,Bot al only the king of Trace,Which is mi lord and I his wif.Bot nou allas this wofull strif!That I him thus ayeinward findeThe most untrewe and most unkindeThat evere in ladi armes lay.And wel I wot that he ne mayAmende his wrong, it is so gret;For he to lytel of me let, 5840Whan he myn oughne Soster tok,And me that am his wif forsok.”Lo, thus to Venus and CupideSche preide, and furthermor sche crideUnto Appollo the hiheste,And seide, “O myghti god of reste,Thou do vengance of this debat.Mi Soster and al hire astatThou wost, and hou sche hath forloreHir maidenhod, and I therfore 5850In al the world schal bere a blameOf that mi Soster hath a schame,That Tereüs to hire I sente:And wel thou wost that myn ententeWas al for worschipe and for goode.O lord, that yifst the lives fodeTo every wyht, I prei thee hiereThes wofull Sostres that ben hiere,And let ous noght to the ben lothe;We ben thin oghne wommen bothe.” 5860Thus pleigneth Progne and axeth wreche,And thogh hire Soster lacke speche,To him that alle thinges wotHire sorwe is noght the lasse hot:Bot he that thanne had herd hem tuo,Him oughte have sorwed everemoFor sorwe which was hem betuene.With signes pleigneth Philomene,And Progne seith, “It schal be wreke,That al the world therof schal speke.” 5870And Progne tho seknesse feigneth,Wherof unto hir lord sche pleigneth,And preith sche moste hire chambres kepe,And as hir liketh wake and slepe.And he hire granteth to be so;And thus togedre ben thei tuo,That wolde him bot a litel good.Nou herk hierafter hou it stodOf wofull auntres that befelle:Thes Sostres, that ben bothe felle,— 5880And that was noght on hem along,Bot onliche on the grete wrongWhich Tereüs hem hadde do,—Thei schopen forto venge hem tho.This Tereüs be Progne his wifA Sone hath, which as his lifHe loveth, and Ithis he hihte:His moder wiste wel sche mihteDo Tereüs no more griefThan sle this child, which was so lief. 5890Thus sche, that was, as who seith, madOf wo, which hath hir overlad,Withoute insihte of moderhedeForyat pite and loste drede,And in hir chambre privelyThis child withouten noise or crySche slou, and hieu him al to pieces:And after with diverse spiecesThe fleissh, whan it was so toheewe,Sche takth, and makth therof a sewe, 5900With which the fader at his meteWas served, til he hadde him ete;That he ne wiste hou that it stod,Bot thus his oughne fleissh and blodHimself devoureth ayein kinde,As he that was tofore unkinde.And thanne, er that he were arise,For that he scholde ben agrise,To schewen him the child was ded,This Philomene tok the hed 5910Betwen tuo disshes, and al wrotheTho comen forth the Sostres bothe,And setten it upon the bord.And Progne tho began the word,And seide, “O werste of alle wicke,Of conscience whom no prickeMai stere, lo, what thou hast do!Lo, hier ben nou we Sostres tuo;O Raviner, lo hier thi preie,With whom so falsliche on the weie 5920Thou hast thi tirannye wroght.Lo, nou it is somdel aboght,And bet it schal, for of thi dedeThe world schal evere singe and redeIn remembrance of thi defame:For thou to love hast do such schame,That it schal nevere be foryete.”With that he sterte up fro the mete,And schof the bord unto the flor,And cauhte a swerd anon and suor 5930That thei scholde of his handes dye.And thei unto the goddes crieBegunne with so loude a stevene,That thei were herd unto the hevene;And in a twinclinge of an yheThe goddes, that the meschief syhe,Here formes changen alle thre.Echon of hem in his degreWas torned into briddes kinde;Diverseliche, as men mai finde, 5940After thastat that thei were inne,Here formes were set atwinne.And as it telleth in the tale,The ferst into a nyhtingaleWas schape, and that was Philomene,Which in the wynter is noght sene,For thanne ben the leves falleAnd naked ben the buisshes alle.For after that sche was a brid,Hir will was evere to ben hid, 5950And forto duelle in prive place,That noman scholde sen hir faceFor schame, which mai noght be lassed,Of thing that was tofore passed,Whan that sche loste hir maidenhiede:For evere upon hir wommanhiede,Thogh that the goddes wolde hire change,Sche thenkth, and is the more strange,And halt hir clos the wyntres day.Bot whan the wynter goth away, 5960And that Nature the goddesseWole of hir oughne fre largesseWith herbes and with floures botheThe feldes and the medwes clothe,And ek the wodes and the grevesBen heled al with grene leves,So that a brid hire hyde mai,Betwen Averil and March and Maii,Sche that the wynter hield hir clos,For pure schame and noght aros, 5970Whan that sche seth the bowes thikke,And that ther is no bare sticke,Bot al is hid with leves grene,To wode comth this PhilomeneAnd makth hir ferste yeres flyht;Wher as sche singeth day and nyht,And in hir song al openlySche makth hir pleignte and seith, “O why,O why ne were I yit a maide?”For so these olde wise saide, 5980Which understoden what sche mente,Hire notes ben of such entente.And ek thei seide hou in hir songSche makth gret joie and merthe among,And seith, “Ha, nou I am a brid,Ha, nou mi face mai ben hid:Thogh I have lost mi Maidenhede,Schal noman se my chekes rede.”Thus medleth sche with joie woAnd with hir sorwe merthe also, 5990So that of loves maladieSche makth diverse melodie,And seith love is a wofull blisse,A wisdom which can noman wisse,A lusti fievere, a wounde softe:This note sche reherceth ofteTo hem whiche understonde hir tale.Nou have I of this nyhtingale,Which erst was cleped Philomene,Told al that evere I wolde mene, 6000Bothe of hir forme and of hir note,Wherof men mai the storie note.And of hir Soster Progne I finde,Hou sche was torned out of kindeInto a Swalwe swift of winge,Which ek in wynter lith swounynge,Ther as sche mai nothing be sene:Bot whan the world is woxe greneAnd comen is the Somertide,Than fleth sche forth and ginth to chide, 6010And chitreth out in hir langageWhat falshod is in mariage,And telleth in a maner specheOf Tereüs the Spousebreche.Sche wol noght in the wodes duelle,For sche wolde openliche telle;And ek for that sche was a spouse,Among the folk sche comth to house,To do thes wyves understondeThe falshod of hire housebonde, 6020That thei of hem be war also,For ther ben manye untrewe of tho.Thus ben the Sostres briddes bothe,And ben toward the men so lothe,That thei ne wole of pure schameUnto no mannes hand be tame;For evere it duelleth in here myndeOf that thei founde a man unkinde,And that was false Tereüs.If such on be amonges ous 6030I not, bot his condicionMen sein in every regionWithinne toune and ek withouteNou regneth comunliche aboute.And natheles in remembranceI wol declare what venganceThe goddes hadden him ordeined,Of that the Sostres hadden pleigned:For anon after he was changedAnd from his oghne kinde stranged, 6040A lappewincke mad he was,And thus he hoppeth on the gras,And on his hed ther stant uprihtA creste in tokne he was a kniht;And yit unto this dai men seith,A lappewincke hath lore his feithAnd is the brid falseste of alle.Bewar, mi Sone, er thee so falle;For if thou be of such covine,To gete of love be Ravine 6050Thi lust, it mai thee falle thus,As it befell of Tereüs.Mi fader, goddes forebode!Me were levere be fortrodeWith wilde hors and be todrawe,Er I ayein love and his laweDede eny thing or loude or stille,Which were noght mi ladi wille.Men sein that every love hath drede;So folweth it that I hire drede, 6060For I hire love, and who so dredeth,To plese his love and serve him nedeth.Thus mai ye knowen be this skileThat no Ravine don I wileAyein hir will be such a weie;Bot while I live, I wol obeieAbidinge on hire courtesie,If eny merci wolde hir plie.Forthi, mi fader, as of thisI wot noght I have don amis: 6070Bot furthermore I you beseche,Som other point that ye me teche,And axeth forth, if ther be auht,That I mai be the betre tauht.Whan Covoitise in povere astatStant with himself upon debatThurgh lacke of his misgovernance,That he unto his sustienanceNe can non other weie findeTo gete him good, thanne as the blinde, 6080Which seth noght what schal after falle,That ilke vice which men calleOf Robberie, he takth on honde;Wherof be water and be londeOf thing which othre men beswinkeHe get him cloth and mete and drinke.Him reccheth noght what he beginne,Thurgh thefte so that he mai winne:Forthi to maken his pourchasHe lith awaitende on the pas, 6090And what thing that he seth ther passe,He takth his part, or more or lasse,If it be worthi to be take.He can the packes wel ransake,So prively berth non abouteHis gold, that he ne fint it oute,Or other juel, what it be;He takth it as his proprete.In wodes and in feldes ekeThus Robberie goth to seke, 6100Wher as he mai his pourpos finde.And riht so in the same kinde,My goode Sone, as thou miht hiere,To speke of love in the matiereAnd make a verrai resemblance,Riht as a thief makth his chevanceAnd robbeth mennes good abouteIn wode and field, wher he goth oute,So be ther of these lovers some,In wylde stedes wher thei come 6110And finden there a womman able,And therto place covenable,Withoute leve, er that thei fare,Thei take a part of that chaffare:Yee, though sche were a Scheperdesse,Yit wol the lord of wantounesseAssaie, althogh sche be unmete,For other mennes good is swete.Bot therof wot nothing the wifAt hom, which loveth as hir lif 6120Hir lord, and sitt alday wisshingeAfter hir lordes hom comynge:Bot whan that he comth hom at eve,Anon he makth his wif beleve,For sche noght elles scholde knowe:He telth hire hou his hunte hath blowe,And hou his houndes have wel runne,And hou ther schon a merye Sunne,And hou his haukes flowen wel;Bot he wol telle her nevere a diel 6130Hou he to love untrewe was,Of that he robbede in the pas,And tok his lust under the schaweAyein love and ayein his lawe.Which thing, mi Sone, I thee forbede,For it is an ungoodly dede.For who that takth be RobberieHis love, he mai noght justefieHis cause, and so fulofte sitheFor ones that he hath be blithe 6140He schal ben after sory thries.Ensample of suche RobberiesI finde write, as thou schalt hiere,Acordende unto this matiere.I rede hou whilom was a Maide,The faireste, as Ovide saide,Which was in hire time tho;And sche was of the chambre alsoOf Pallas, which is the goddesseAnd wif to Marte, of whom prouesse 6150Is yove to these worthi knihtes.For he is of so grete mihtes,That he governeth the bataille;Withouten him may noght availeThe stronge hond, bot he it helpe;Ther mai no knyht of armes yelpe,Bot he feihte under his banere.Bot nou to speke of mi matiere,This faire, freisshe, lusti mai,Al one as sche wente on a dai 6160Upon the stronde forto pleie,Ther cam Neptunus in the weie,Which hath the See in governance;And in his herte such plesanceHe tok, whan he this Maide sih,That al his herte aros on hih,For he so sodeinliche unwarBehield the beaute that sche bar.And caste anon withinne his herteThat sche him schal no weie asterte, 6170Bot if he take in avantageFro thilke maide som pilage,Noght of the broches ne the Ringes,Bot of some othre smale thingesHe thoghte parte, er that sche wente;And hire in bothe hise armes hente,And putte his hond toward the cofre,Wher forto robbe he made a profre,That lusti tresor forto stele,Which passeth othre goodes fele 6180And cleped is the maidenhede,Which is the flour of wommanhede.This Maiden, which Cornix be nameWas hote, dredende alle schame,Sih that sche mihte noght debate,And wel sche wiste he wolde algateFulfille his lust of Robberie,Anon began to wepe and crie,And seide, “O Pallas, noble queene,Scheu nou thi myht and let be sene, 6190To kepe and save myn honour:Help, that I lese noght mi flour,Which nou under thi keie is loke.”That word was noght so sone spoke,Whan Pallas schop recoverirAfter the will and the desirOf hire, which a Maiden was,And sodeinliche upon this casOut of hire wommanisshe kindeInto a briddes like I finde 6200Sche was transformed forth withal,So that Neptunus nothing stalOf such thing as he wolde have stole.With fetheres blake as eny coleOut of hise armes in a throweSche flih before his yhe a Crowe;Which was to hire a more delit,To kepe hire maidenhede whitUnder the wede of fethers blake,In Perles whyte than forsake 6210That no lif mai restore ayein.Bot thus Neptune his herte in veinHath upon Robberie sett;The bridd is flowe and he was let,The faire Maide him hath ascaped,Wherof for evere he was bejapedAnd scorned of that he hath lore.Mi Sone, be thou war therforeThat thou no maidenhode stele,Wherof men sen deseses fele 6220Aldai befalle in sondri wise;So as I schal thee yit deviseAn other tale therupon,Which fell be olde daies gon.
Lo, what mihte eny man devise,A womman schewe in eny wiseMor hertly love in every stede,Than Medea to Jason dede?Ferst sche made him the flees to winne,And after that fro kiththe and kinne 4180With gret tresor with him sche stal,And to his fader forth withalHis Elde hath torned into youthe,Which thing non other womman couthe:Bot hou it was to hire aquit,The remembrance duelleth yit.
King Peleüs his Em was ded,Jason bar corone on his hed,Medea hath fulfild his wille:Bot whanne he scholde of riht fulfille 4190The trouthe, which to hire aforeHe hadde in thyle of Colchos swore,Tho was Medea most deceived.For he an other hath received,Which dowhter was to king Creon,Creusa sche hihte, and thus Jason,As he that was to love untrewe,Medea lefte and tok a newe.Bot that was after sone aboght:Medea with hire art hath wroght 4200Of cloth of gold a mantel riche,Which semeth worth a kingesriche,And that was unto Creusa sentIn name of yifte and of present,For Sosterhode hem was betuene;And whan that yonge freisshe queeneThat mantel lappeth hire aboute,Anon therof the fyr sprong outeAnd brente hir bothe fleissh and bon.Tho cam Medea to Jason 4210With bothe his Sones on hire hond,And seide, “O thou of every londThe moste untrewe creature,Lo, this schal be thi forfeture.”With that sche bothe his Sones slouhBefore his yhe, and he outdrouhHis swerd and wold have slayn hir tho,Bot farewel, sche was agoUnto Pallas the Court above,Wher as sche pleigneth upon love, 4220As sche that was with that goddesse,And he was left in gret destresse.
Thus miht thou se what sorwe it dothTo swere an oth which is noght soth,In loves cause namely.Mi Sone, be wel war forthi,And kep that thou be noght forswore:For this, which I have told tofore,Ovide telleth everydel.
Mi fader, I may lieve it wel, 4230For I have herde it ofte seieHou Jason tok the flees aweieFro Colchos, bot yit herde I noghtBe whom it was ferst thider broght.And for it were good to hiere,If that you liste at mi preiereTo telle, I wolde you beseche.
Mi Sone, who that wole it seche,In bokes he mai finde it write;And natheles, if thou wolt wite, 4240In the manere as thou hast preidI schal the telle hou it is seid.
The fame of thilke schepes fell,Which in Colchos, as it befell,Was al of gold, schal nevere deie;Wherof I thenke for to seieHou it cam ferst into that yle.Ther was a king in thilke whyleTowardes Grece, and AthemasThe Cronique of his name was; 4250And hadde a wif, which Philen hihte,Be whom, so as fortune it dihte,He hadde of children yonge tuo.Frixus the ferste was of tho,A knave child, riht fair withalle;A dowhter ek, the which men calleHellen, he hadde be this wif.Bot for ther mai no mannes lifEndure upon this Erthe hiere,This worthi queene, as thou miht hiere, 4260Er that the children were of age,Tok of hire ende the passage,With gret worschipe and was begrave.
What thing it liketh god to haveIt is gret reson to ben his;Forthi this king, so as it is,With gret suffrance it underfongeth:And afterward, as him belongeth,Whan it was time forto wedde,A newe wif he tok to bedde, 4270Which Yno hihte and was a Mayde,And ek the dowhter, as men saide,Of Cadme, which a king alsoWas holde in thilke daies tho.Whan Yno was the kinges make,Sche caste hou that sche mihte makeThese children to here fader lothe,And schope a wyle ayein hem bothe,Which to the king was al unknowe.A yeer or tuo sche let do sowe 4280The lond with sode whete aboute,Wherof no corn mai springen oute;And thus be sleyhte and be covineAros the derthe and the famineThurghout the lond in such a wise,So that the king a sacrifiseUpon the point of this destresseTo Ceres, which is the goddesseOf corn, hath schape him forto yive,To loke if it mai be foryive, 4290The meschief which was in his lond.Bot sche, which knew tofor the hondThe circumstance of al this thing,Ayein the cominge of the kingInto the temple, hath schape so,Of hire acord that alle thoWhiche of the temple prestes wereHave seid and full declared thereUnto the king, bot if so beThat he delivere the contre 4300Of Frixus and of Hellen bothe,With whom the goddes ben so wrothe,That whil tho children ben therinne,Such tilthe schal noman beginne,Wherof to gete him eny corn.Thus was it seid, thus was it swornOf all the Prestes that ther are;And sche which causeth al this fareSeid ek therto what that sche wolde,And every man thanne after tolde 4310So as the queene hem hadde preid.
The king, which hath his Ere leid,And lieveth al that evere he herde,Unto here tale thus ansuerde,And seith that levere him is to cheseHise children bothe forto lese,Than him and al the remenantOf hem whiche are aportenantUnto the lond which he schal kepe:And bad his wif to take kepe 4320In what manere is best to done,That thei delivered weren soneOut of this world. And sche anonTuo men ordeigneth forto gon;Bot ferst sche made hem forto swereThat thei the children scholden bereUnto the See, that non it knowe,And hem therinne bothe throwe.
The children to the See ben lad,Wher in the wise as Yno bad 4330These men be redy forto do.Bot the goddesse which JunoIs hote, appiereth in the stede,And hath unto the men forbedeThat thei the children noght ne sle;Bot bad hem loke into the SeeAnd taken hiede of that thei sihen.Ther swam a Schep tofore here yhen,Whos flees of burned gold was al;And this goddesse forth withal 4340Comandeth that withoute letteThei scholde anon these children setteAbove upon this Schepes bak;And al was do, riht as sche spak,Wherof the men gon hom ayein.And fell so, as the bokes sein,Hellen the yonge Mayden tho,Which of the See was wo bego,For pure drede hire herte hath lore,That fro the Schep, which hath hire bore, 4350As sche that was swounende feint,Sche fell, and hath hirselve dreint;With Frixus and this Schep forth swam,Til he to thyle of Colchos cam,Where Juno the goddesse he fond,Which tok the Schep unto the lond,And sette it there in such a wiseAs thou tofore hast herd devise,Wherof cam after al the wo,Why Jason was forswore so 4360Unto Medee, as it is spoke.
Mi fader, who that hath tobrokeHis trouthe, as ye have told above,He is noght worthi forto loveNe be beloved, as me semeth:Bot every newe love quemethTo him which newefongel is.And natheles nou after this,If that you list to taken hiedeUpon mi Schrifte to procede, 4370In loves cause ayein the viceOf covoitise and AvariceWhat ther is more I wolde wite.
Mi Sone, this I finde write,Ther is yit on of thilke brood,Which only for the worldes good,To make a Tresor of Moneie,Put alle conscience aweie:Wherof in thi confessionThe name and the condicion 4380I schal hierafterward declare,Which makth on riche, an other bare.
Upon the bench sittende on hihWith Avarice Usure I sih,Full clothed of his oghne suite,Which after gold makth chace and suiteWith his brocours, that renne abouteLich unto racches in a route.Such lucre is non above grounde,Which is noght of tho racches founde; 4390For wher thei se beyete sterte,That schal hem in no wise asterte,Bot thei it dryve into the netOf lucre, which Usure hath set.Usure with the riche duelleth,To al that evere he beith and sellethHe hath ordeined of his sleyhteMesure double and double weyhte:Outward he selleth be the lasse,And with the more he makth his tasse, 4400Wherof his hous is full withinne.He reccheth noght, be so he winne,Though that ther lese ten or tuelve:His love is al toward himselveAnd to non other, bot he seThat he mai winne suche thre;For wher he schal oght yive or lene,He wol ayeinward take a bene,Ther he hath lent the smale pese.And riht so ther ben manye of these 4410Lovers, that thogh thei love a lyte,That scarsly wolde it weie a myte,Yit wolde thei have a pound again,As doth Usure in his bargain.Bot certes such usure unliche,It falleth more unto the riche,Als wel of love as of beyete,Than unto hem that be noght grete,And, as who seith, ben simple and povere;For sielden is whan thei recovere, 4420Bot if it be thurgh gret decerte.And natheles men se poverteWith porsuite and continuanceFulofte make a gret chevanceAnd take of love his avantage,Forth with the help of his brocage,That maken seme wher is noght.And thus fulofte is love boghtFor litel what, and mochel take,With false weyhtes that thei make. 4430
Nou, Sone, of that I seide aboveThou wost what Usure is of love:Tell me forthi what so thou wilt,If thou therof hast eny gilt.
Mi fader, nay, for ought I hiere.For of tho pointz ye tolden hiereI wol you be mi trouthe assure,Mi weyhte of love and mi mesureHath be mor large and mor certeinThan evere I tok of love ayein: 4440For so yit couthe I nevere of sleyhte,To take ayein be double weyhteOf love mor than I have yive.For als so wiss mot I be schriveAnd have remission of Sinne,As so yit couthe I nevere winne,Ne yit so mochel, soth to sein,That evere I mihte have half ayeinOf so full love as I have lent:And if myn happ were so wel went, 4450That for the hole I mihte have half,Me thenkth I were a goddeshalf.For where Usure wole have double,Mi conscience is noght so trouble,I biede nevere as to my delBot of the hole an halvendel;That is non excess, as me thenketh.Bot natheles it me forthenketh;For wel I wot that wol noght be,For every day the betre I se 4460That hou so evere I yive or leneMi love in place ther I mene,For oght that evere I axe or crave,I can nothing ayeinward have.Bot yit for that I wol noght lete,What so befalle of mi beyete,That I ne schal hire yive and leneMi love and al mi thoght so clene,That toward me schal noght beleve.And if sche of hire goode leve 4470Rewarde wol me noght again,I wot the laste of my bargainSchal stonde upon so gret a lost,That I mai neveremor the costRecovere in this world til I die.So that touchende of this partieI mai me wel excuse and schal;And forto speke forth withal,If eny brocour for me wente,That point cam nevere in myn entente: 4480So that the more me merveilleth,What thing it is mi ladi eilleth,That al myn herte and al my timeSche hath, and doth no betre bime.
I have herd seid that thoght is fre,And natheles in priveteTo you, mi fader, that ben hiereMin hole schrifte forto hiere,I dar min herte wel desclose.Touchende usure, as I suppose, 4490Which as ye telle in love is used,Mi ladi mai noght ben excused;That for o lokinge of hire yëMin hole herte til I dyeWith al that evere I may and canSche hath me wonne to hire man:Wherof, me thenkth, good reson woldeThat sche somdel rewarde scholde,And yive a part, ther sche hath al.I not what falle hierafter schal, 4500Bot into nou yit dar I sein,Hire liste nevere yive ayeinA goodli word in such a wise,Wherof min hope mihte arise,Mi grete love to compense.I not hou sche hire conscienceExcuse wole of this usure;Be large weyhte and gret mesureSche hath mi love, and I have noghtOf that which I have diere boght, 4510And with myn herte I have it paid;Bot al that is asyde laid,And I go loveles aboute.Hire oghte stonde if ful gret doute,Til sche redresce such a sinne,That sche wole al mi love winneAnd yifth me noght to live by:Noght als so moche as “grant mercy”Hir list to seie, of which I mihteSom of mi grete peine allyhte. 4520Bot of this point, lo, thus I fareAs he that paith for his chaffare,And beith it diere, and yit hath non,So mot he nedes povere gon:Thus beie I diere and have no love,That I ne mai noght come aboveTo winne of love non encress.Bot I me wole nathelesTouchende usure of love aquite;And if mi ladi be to wyte, 4530I preie to god such grace hir sendeThat sche be time it mot amende.
Mi Sone, of that thou hast ansuerdTouchende Usure I have al herd,Hou thou of love hast wonne smale:Bot that thou tellest in thi taleAnd thi ladi therof accusest,Me thenkth tho wordes thou misusest.For be thin oghne knowlechingeThou seist hou sche for o lokinge 4540Thin hole herte fro the tok:Sche mai be such, that hire o lokIs worth thin herte manyfold;So hast thou wel thin herte sold,Whan thou hast that is more worth.And ek of that thou tellest forth,Hou that hire weyhte of love uneveneIs unto thin, under the heveneStod nevere in evene that balanceWhich stant in loves governance. 4550Such is the statut of his lawe,That thogh thi love more draweAnd peise in the balance more,Thou miht noght axe ayein therforeOf duete, bot al of grace.For love is lord in every place,Ther mai no lawe him justefieBe reddour ne be compaignie,That he ne wole after his willeWhom that him liketh spede or spille. 4560
To love a man mai wel beginne,Bot whether he schal lese or winne,That wot noman til ate laste:Forthi coveite noght to faste,Mi Sone, bot abyd thin ende,Per cas al mai to goode wende.Bot that thou hast me told and said,Of o thing I am riht wel paid,That thou be sleyhte ne be guileOf no brocour hast otherwhile 4570Engined love, for such dedeIs sore venged, as I rede.
Brocours of love that deceiven,No wonder is thogh thei receivenAfter the wrong that thei decerven;For whom as evere that thei servenAnd do plesance for a whyle,Yit ate laste here oghne guileUpon here oghne hed descendeth,Which god of his vengance sendeth, 4580As be ensample of time goA man mai finde it hath be so.It fell somtime, as it was sene,The hihe goddesse and the queeneJuno tho hadde in compainieA Maiden full of tricherie;For sche was evere in on acordWith Jupiter, that was hire lord,To gete him othre loves newe,Thurgh such brocage and was untrewe 4590Al otherwise than him nedeth.Bot sche, which of no schame dredeth,With queinte wordes and with slyheBlente in such wise hir lady yhe,As sche to whom that Juno triste,So that therof sche nothing wiste.Bot so prive mai be nothing,That it ne comth to knowleching;Thing don upon the derke nyhtIs after knowe on daies liht: 4600So it befell, that ate lasteAl that this slyhe maiden casteWas overcast and overthrowe.For as the sothe mot be knowe,To Juno was don understondeIn what manere hir housebondeWith fals brocage hath take usureOf love mor than his mesure,Whan he tok othre than his wif,Wherof this mayden was gultif, 4610Which hadde ben of his assent.And thus was al the game schent;She soffreth him, as sche mot nede,Bot the brocour of his misdede,Sche which hir conseil yaf therto,On hire is the vengance do:For Juno with hire wordes hote,This Maiden, which Eccho was hote,Reproveth and seith in this wise:“O traiteresse, of which servise 4620Hast thou thin oghne ladi served!Thou hast gret peine wel deserved,That thou canst maken it so queinte,Thi slyhe wordes forto peinteTowardes me, that am thi queene,Wherof thou madest me to weneThat myn housbonde trewe were,Whan that he loveth elleswhere,Al be it so him nedeth noght.Bot upon thee it schal be boght, 4630Which art prive to tho doinges,And me fulofte of thi lesingesDeceived hast: nou is the dayThat I thi while aquite may;And for thou hast to me conceledThat my lord hath with othre deled,I schal thee sette in such a kende,That evere unto the worldes endeAl that thou hierest thou schalt telle,And clappe it out as doth a belle.” 4640And with that word sche was forschape,Ther may no vois hire mouth ascape,What man that in the wodes crieth,Withoute faile Eccho replieth,And what word that him list to sein,The same word sche seith ayein.Thus sche, which whilom hadde leveTo duelle in chambre, mot beleveIn wodes and on helles bothe,For such brocage as wyves lothe, 4650Which doth here lordes hertes changeAnd love in other place strange.
Forthi, if evere it so befalle,That thou, mi Sone, amonges alleBe wedded man, hold that thou hast,For thanne al other love is wast.O wif schal wel to thee suffise,And thanne, if thou for covoitiseOf love woldest axe more,Thou scholdest don ayein the lore 4660Of alle hem that trewe be.
Mi fader, as in this degreMy conscience is noght accused;For I no such brocage have used,Wherof that lust of love is wonne.Forthi spek forth, as ye begonne,Of Avarice upon mi schrifte.
Mi Sone, I schal the branches schifteBe ordre so as thei ben set,On whom no good is wel beset. 4670
Blinde Avarice of his lignageFor conseil and for cousinage,To be withholde ayein largesse,Hath on, whos name is seid Skarsnesse,The which is kepere of his hous,And is so thurghout averous,That he no good let out of honde;Thogh god himself it wolde fonde,Of yifte scholde he nothing have;And if a man it wolde crave, 4680He moste thanne faile nede,Wher god himselve mai noght spede.And thus Skarsnesse in every placeBe reson mai no thonk porchace,And natheles in his degreeAbove all othre most priveWith Avarice stant he this.For he governeth that ther isIn ech astat of his officeAfter the reule of thilke vice; 4690He takth, he kepth, he halt, he bint,That lihtere is to fle the flintThan gete of him in hard or neissheOnly the value of a reyssheOf good in helpinge of an other,Noght thogh it were his oghne brother.For in the cas of yifte and loneStant every man for him al one,Him thenkth of his unkindeschipeThat him nedeth no felaschipe: 4700Be so the bagge and he acorden,Him reccheth noght what men recordenOf him, or it be evel or good.For al his trust is on his good,So that al one he falleth ofte,Whan he best weneth stonde alofte,Als wel in love as other wise;For love is evere of som repriseTo him that wole his love holde.Forthi, mi Sone, as thou art holde, 4710Touchende of this tell me thi schrifte:Hast thou be scars or large of yifteUnto thi love, whom thou servest?For after that thou wel deservestOf yifte, thou miht be the bet;For that good holde I wel beset,For why thou miht the betre fare;Thanne is no wisdom forto spare.For thus men sein, in every nedeHe was wys that ferst made mede; 4720For where as mede mai noght spede,I not what helpeth other dede:Fulofte he faileth of his gameThat wol with ydel hand reclameHis hauk, as many a nyce doth.Forthi, mi Sone, tell me sothAnd sei the trouthe, if thou hast beUnto thy love or skars or fre.
Mi fader, it hath stonde thus,That if the tresor of Cresus 4730And al the gold Octovien,Forth with the richesse YndienOf Perles and of riche stones,Were al togedre myn at ones,I sette it at nomore acompteThan wolde a bare straw amonte,To yive it hire al in a day,Be so that to that suete mayI myhte like or more or lesse.And thus be cause of my scarsnesse 4740Ye mai wel understonde and lieveThat I schal noght the worse achieveThe pourpos which is in my thoght.Bot yit I yaf hir nevere noght,Ne therto dorste a profre make;For wel I wot sche wol noght take,And yive wol sche noght also,Sche is eschu of bothe tuo.And this I trowe be the skileTowardes me, for sche ne wile 4750That I have eny cause of hope,Noght also mochel as a drope.Bot toward othre, as I mai se,Sche takth and yifth in such degre,That as be weie of frendlihiedeSche can so kepe hir wommanhiede,That every man spekth of hir wel.Bot sche wole take of me no del,And yit sche wot wel that I woldeYive and do bothe what I scholde 4760To plesen hire in al my myht:Be reson this wot every wyht,For that mai be no weie asterte,Ther sche is maister of the herte,Sche mot be maister of the good.For god wot wel that al my modAnd al min herte and al mi thoghtAnd al mi good, whil I have oght,Als freliche as god hath it yive,It schal ben hires, while I live, 4770Riht as hir list hirself commande.So that it nedeth no demande,To axe of me if I be scarsTo love, for as to tho parsI wole ansuere and seie no.
Mi Sone, that is riht wel do.For often times of scarsnesseIt hath be sen, that for the lesseIs lost the more, as thou schalt hiereA tale lich to this matiere. 4780
Skarsnesse and love acorden nevere,For every thing is wel the levere,Whan that a man hath boght it diere:And forto speke in this matiere,For sparinge of a litel costFulofte time a man hath lostThe large cote for the hod.What man that scars is of his goodAnd wol noght yive, he schal noght take:With yifte a man mai undertake 4790The hihe god to plese and queme,With yifte a man the world mai deme;For every creature bore,If thou him yive, is glad therfore,And every gladschipe, as I finde,Is confort unto loves kindeAnd causeth ofte a man to spede.So was he wys that ferst yaf mede,For mede kepeth love in house;Bot wher the men ben coveitouse 4800And sparen forto yive a part,Thei knowe noght Cupides art:For his fortune and his apriseDesdeigneth alle coveitiseAnd hateth alle nygardie.And forto loke of this partie,A soth ensample, hou it is so,
I finde write of Babio;Which hadde a love at his menage,Ther was non fairere of hire age, 4810And hihte Viola be name;Which full of youthe and ful of gameWas of hirself, and large and fre,Bot such an other chinche as heMen wisten noght in al the lond,And hadde affaited to his hondHis servant, the which SpodiusWas hote. And in this wise thusThe worldes good of sufficanceWas had, bot likinge and plesance, 4820Of that belongeth to richesseOf love, stod in gret destresse;So that this yonge lusty wyhtOf thing which fell to loves rihtWas evele served overal,That sche was wo bego withal,Til that Cupide and Venus ekeA medicine for the sekeOrdeigne wolden in this cas.So as fortune thanne was, 4830Of love upon the destineIt fell, riht as it scholde be,A freissh, a fre, a frendly manThat noght of Avarice can,Which Croceus be name hihte,Toward this swete caste his sihte,And ther sche was cam in presence.Sche sih him large of his despence,And amorous and glad of chiere,So that hir liketh wel to hiere 4840The goodly wordes whiche he seide;And therupon of love he preide,Of love was al that he mente,To love and for sche scholde assente,He yaf hire yiftes evere among.Bot for men sein that mede is strong,It was wel seene at thilke tyde;For as it scholde of ryht betyde,This Viola largesce hath takeAnd the nygard sche hath forsake: 4850Of Babio sche wol no more,For he was grucchende everemore,Ther was with him non other fareBot forto prinche and forto spare,Of worldes muk to gete encress.So goth the wrecche loveles,Bejaped for his Skarcete,And he that large was and freAnd sette his herte to despende,This Croceus, the bowe bende, 4860Which Venus tok him forto holde,And schotte als ofte as evere he wolde.
Lo, thus departeth love his lawe,That what man wol noght be felaweTo yive and spende, as I thee telle,He is noght worthi forto duelleIn loves court to be relieved.Forthi, my Sone, if I be lieved,Thou schalt be large of thi despence.
Mi fader, in mi conscience 4870If ther be eny thing amis,I wol amende it after this,Toward mi love namely.
Mi Sone, wel and redelyThou seist, so that wel paid withalI am, and forthere if I schalUnto thi schrifte specefieOf Avarices progenieWhat vice suieth after this,Thou schalt have wonder hou it is, 4880Among the folk in eny regneThat such a vice myhte regne,Which is comun at alle assaies,As men mai finde nou adaies.
The vice lik unto the fend,Which nevere yit was mannes frend,And cleped is Unkindeschipe,Of covine and of felaschipeWith Avarice he is withholde.Him thenkth he scholde noght ben holde 4890Unto the moder which him bar;Of him mai nevere man be war,He wol noght knowe the merite,For that he wolde it noght aquite;Which in this world is mochel used,And fewe ben therof excused.To telle of him is endeles,Bot this I seie natheles,Wher as this vice comth to londe,Ther takth noman his thonk on honde; 4900Thogh he with alle his myhtes serve,He schal of him no thonk deserve.He takth what eny man wol yive,Bot whil he hath o day to live,He wol nothing rewarde ayein;He gruccheth forto yive o grein,Wher he hath take a berne full.That makth a kinde herte dull,To sette his trust in such frendschipe,Ther as he fint no kindeschipe; 4910And forto speke wordes pleine,Thus hiere I many a man compleigne,That nou on daies thou schalt findeAt nede fewe frendes kinde;What thou hast don for hem tofore,It is foryete, as it were lore.The bokes speken of this vice,And telle hou god of his justice,Be weie of kinde and ek natureAnd every lifissh creature, 4920The lawe also, who that it kan,Thei dampnen an unkinde man.
It is al on to seie unkindeAs thing which don is ayein kinde,For it with kinde nevere stodA man to yelden evel for good.For who that wolde taken hede,A beste is glad of a good dede,And loveth thilke creatureAfter the lawe of his nature 4930Which doth him ese. And forto seOf this matiere Auctorite,Fulofte time it hath befalle;Wherof a tale amonges alle,Which is of olde ensamplerie,I thenke forto specefie.
To speke of an unkinde man,I finde hou whilom Adrian,Of Rome which a gret lord was,Upon a day as he per cas 4940To wode in his huntinge wente,It hapneth at a soudein wente,After his chace as he poursuieth,Thurgh happ, the which noman eschuieth,He fell unwar into a pet,Wher that it mihte noght be let.The pet was dep and he fell lowe,That of his men non myhte knoweWher he becam, for non was nyh,Which of his fall the meschief syh. 4950And thus al one ther he layClepende and criende al the dayFor socour and deliverance,Til ayein Eve it fell per chance,A while er it began to nyhte,A povere man, which Bardus hihte,Cam forth walkende with his asse,And hadde gadred him a tasseOf grene stickes and of dreieTo selle, who that wolde hem beie, 4960As he which hadde no liflode,Bot whanne he myhte such a lodeTo toune with his Asse carie.And as it fell him forto tarieThat ilke time nyh the pet,And hath the trusse faste knet,He herde a vois, which cride dimme,And he his Ere to the brimmeHath leid, and herde it was a man,Which seide, “Ha, help hier Adrian, 4970And I wol yiven half mi good.”
The povere man this understod,As he that wolde gladly winne,And to this lord which was withinneHe spak and seide, “If I thee save,What sikernesse schal I haveOf covenant, that afterwardThou wolt me yive such rewardAs thou behihtest nou tofore?”
That other hath his othes swore 4980Be hevene and be the goddes alle,If that it myhte so befalleThat he out of the pet him broghte,Of all the goodes whiche he oghteHe schal have evene halvendel.
This Bardus seide he wolde wel;And with this word his Asse anonHe let untrusse, and theruponDoun goth the corde into the pet,To which he hath at ende knet 4990A staf, wherby, he seide, he woldeThat Adrian him scholde holde.Bot it was tho per chance falle,Into that pet was also falleAn Ape, which at thilke throwe,Whan that the corde cam doun lowe,Al sodeinli therto he skipteAnd it in bothe hise armes clipte.And Bardus with his Asse anonHim hath updrawe, and he is gon. 5000But whan he sih it was an Ape,He wende al hadde ben a japeOf faierie, and sore him dradde:And Adrian eftsone graddeFor help, and cride and preide faste,And he eftsone his corde caste;Bot whan it cam unto the grounde,A gret Serpent it hath bewounde,The which Bardus anon up drouh.And thanne him thoghte wel ynouh, 5010It was fantosme, bot yit he herdeThe vois, and he therto ansuerde,“What wiht art thou in goddes name?”
“I am,” quod Adrian, “the same,Whos good thou schalt have evene half.”Quod Bardus, “Thanne a goddes halfThe thridde time assaie I schal”:And caste his corde forth withalInto the pet, and whan it camTo him, this lord of Rome it nam, 5020And therupon him hath adresced,And with his hand fulofte blessed,And thanne he bad to Bardus hale.And he, which understod his tale,Betwen him and his Asse al softeHath drawe and set him up alofteWithouten harm al esely.He seith noght ones “grant merci,”Bot strauhte him forth to the cite,And let this povere Bardus be. 5030And natheles this simple manHis covenant, so as he can,Hath axed; and that other seide,If so be that he him umbreideOf oght that hath be speke or do,It schal ben venged on him so,That him were betre to be ded.And he can tho non other red,But on his asse ayein he casteHis trusse, and hieth homward faste: 5040And whan that he cam hom to bedde,He tolde his wif hou that he spedde.Bot finaly to speke oght moreUnto this lord he dradde him sore,So that a word ne dorste he sein:And thus upon the morwe ayein,In the manere as I recorde,Forth with his Asse and with his cordeTo gadre wode, as he dede er,He goth; and whan that he cam ner 5050Unto the place where he wolde,He hath his Ape anon beholde,Which hadde gadred al abouteOf stickes hiere and there a route,And leide hem redy to his hond,Wherof he made his trosse and bond;Fro dai to dai and in this wiseThis Ape profreth his servise,So that he hadde of wode ynouh.Upon a time and as he drouh 5060Toward the wode, he sih besydeThe grete gastli Serpent glyde,Til that sche cam in his presence,And in hir kinde a reverenceSche hath him do, and forth withalA Ston mor briht than a cristallOut of hir mouth tofore his weieSche let doun falle, and wente aweie,For that he schal noght ben adrad.Tho was this povere Bardus glad, 5070Thonkende god, and to the StonHe goth an takth it up anon,And hath gret wonder in his witHou that the beste him hath aquit,Wher that the mannes Sone hath failed,For whom he hadde most travailed.Bot al he putte in goddes hond,And torneth hom, and what he fondUnto his wif he hath it schewed;And thei, that weren bothe lewed, 5080Acorden that he scholde it selle.And he no lengere wolde duelle,Bot forth anon upon the taleThe Ston he profreth to the sale;And riht as he himself it sette,The jueler anon forth fetteThe gold and made his paiement,Therof was no delaiement.
Thus whan this Ston was boght and sold,Homward with joie manyfold 5090This Bardus goth; and whan he camHom to his hous and that he namHis gold out of his Purs, withinneHe fond his Ston also therinne,Wherof for joie his herte pleide,Unto his wif and thus he seide,“Lo, hier my gold, lo, hier mi Ston!”His wif hath wonder therupon,And axeth him hou that mai be.“Nou be mi trouthe I not,” quod he, 5100“Bot I dar swere upon a bok,That to my Marchant I it tok,And he it hadde whan I wente:So knowe I noght to what ententeIt is nou hier, bot it be grace.Forthi tomorwe in other placeI wole it fonde forto selle,And if it wol noght with him duelle,Bot crepe into mi purs ayein,Than dar I saufly swere and sein, 5110It is the vertu of the Ston.”
The morwe cam, and he is gonTo seche aboute in other stedeHis Ston to selle, and he so dede,And lefte it with his chapman there.Bot whan that he cam elleswhere,In presence of his wif at hom,Out of his Purs and that he nomHis gold, he fond his Ston withal:And thus it fell him overal, 5120Where he it solde in sondri place,Such was the fortune and the grace.Bot so wel may nothing ben hidd,That it nys ate laste kidd:This fame goth aboute RomeSo ferforth, that the wordes comeTo themperour Justinian;And he let sende for the man,And axede him hou that it was.And Bardus tolde him al the cas, 5130Hou that the worm and ek the beste,Althogh thei maden no beheste,His travail hadden wel aquit;Bot he which hadde a mannes wit,And made his covenant be moutheAnd swor therto al that he coutheTo parte and yiven half his good,Hath nou foryete hou that it stod,As he which wol no trouthe holde.
This Emperour al that he tolde 5140Hath herd, and thilke unkindenesseHe seide he wolde himself redresse.And thus in court of juggementThis Adrian was thanne assent,And the querele in audienceDeclared was in the presenceOf themperour and many mo;Wherof was mochel speche thoAnd gret wondringe among the press.Bot ate laste natheles 5150For the partie which hath pleignedThe lawe hath diemed and ordeignedBe hem that were avised wel,That he schal have the halvendelThurghout of Adrianes good.And thus of thilke unkinde blodStant the memoire into this day,Wherof that every wysman mayEnsamplen him, and take in myndeWhat schame it is to ben unkinde; 5160Ayein the which reson debateth,And every creature it hateth.
Forthi, mi Sone, in thin officeI rede fle that ilke vice.For riht as the Cronique seithOf Adrian, hou he his feithForyat for worldes covoitise,Fulofte in such a maner wiseOf lovers nou a man mai seFull manye that unkinde be: 5170For wel behote and evele lasteThat is here lif; for ate laste,Whan that thei have here wille do,Here love is after sone ago.What seist thou, Sone, to this cas?
Mi fader, I wol seie Helas,That evere such a man was bore,Which whan he hath his trouthe suoreAnd hath of love what he wolde,That he at eny time scholde 5180Evere after in his herte findeTo falsen and to ben unkinde.Bot, fader, as touchende of me,I mai noght stonde in that degre;For I tok nevere of love why,That I ne mai wel go therbyAnd do my profit elles where,For eny sped I finde there.I dar wel thenken al aboute,Bot I ne dar noght speke it oute; 5190And if I dorste, I wolde pleigne,That sche for whom I soffre peineAnd love hir evere aliche hote,That nouther yive ne behoteIn rewardinge of mi serviseIt list hire in no maner wise.I wol noght say that sche is kinde,And forto sai sche is unkinde,That dar I noght; bot god above,Which demeth every herte of love, 5200He wot that on myn oghne sideSchal non unkindeschipe abide:If it schal with mi ladi duelle,Therof dar I nomore telle.Nou, goode fader, as it is,Tell me what thenketh you of this.
Mi Sone, of that unkindeschipe,The which toward thi ladischipeThou pleignest, for sche wol thee noght,Thou art to blamen of that thoght. 5210For it mai be that thi desir,Thogh it brenne evere as doth the fyr,Per cas to hire honour missit,Or elles time com noght yit,Which standt upon thi destine:Forthi, mi Sone, I rede thee,Thenk wel, what evere the befalle;For noman hath his lustes alle.Bot as thou toldest me beforeThat thou to love art noght forswore, 5220And hast don non unkindenesse,Thou miht therof thi grace blesse:And lef noght that continuance;For ther mai be no such grevanceTo love, as is unkindeschipe.Wherof to kepe thi worschipe,So as these olde bokes tale,I schal thee telle a redi tale:Nou herkne and be wel war therby,For I wol telle it openly. 5230
Mynos, as telleth the Poete,The which whilom was king of Crete,A Sone hadde and AndrocheeHe hihte: and so befell that heUnto Athenes forto lereWas send, and so he bar him there,For that he was of hih lignage,Such pride he tok in his corage,That he foryeten hath the Scoles,And in riote among the foles 5240He dede manye thinges wronge;And useth thilke lif so longe,Til ate laste of that he wroghteHe fond the meschief which he soghte,Wherof it fell that he was slain.His fader, which it herde sain,Was wroth, and al that evere he mihte,Of men of Armes he him dighteA strong pouer, and forth he wenteUnto Athenys, where he brente 5250The pleine contre al aboute:The Cites stode of him in doute,As thei that no defence haddeAyein the pouer which he ladde.
Egeüs, which was there king,His conseil tok upon this thing,For he was thanne in the Cite:So that of pes into treteeBetwen Mynos and EgeüsThei felle, and ben acorded thus; 5260That king Mynos fro yer to yeereReceive schal, as thou schalt here,Out of Athenys for truageOf men that were of myhti AgePersones nyne, of whiche he schalHis wille don in specialFor vengance of his Sones deth.Non other grace ther ne geth,Bot forto take the juise;And that was don in such a wise, 5270Which stod upon a wonder cas.For thilke time so it was,Wherof that men yit rede and singe,King Mynos hadde in his kepingeA cruel Monstre, as seith the geste:For he was half man and half beste,And Minotaurus he was hote,Which was begete in a rioteUpon Pasiphe, his oghne wif,Whil he was oute upon the strif 5280Of thilke grete Siege at Troie.Bot sche, which lost hath alle joie,Whan that sche syh this Monstre bore,Bad men ordeigne anon therfore:And fell that ilke time thus,Ther was a Clerk, on Dedalus,Which hadde ben of hire assentOf that hir world was so miswent;And he made of his oghne wit,Wherof the remembrance is yit, 5290For Minotaure such an hous,Which was so strange and merveilous,That what man that withinne wente,Ther was so many a sondri wente,That he ne scholde noght come oute,But gon amased al aboute.And in this hous to loke and wardeWas Minotaurus put in warde,That what lif that therinne cam,Or man or beste, he overcam 5300And slow, and fedde him therupon;And in this wise many onOut of Athenys for truageDevoured weren in that rage.For every yeer thei schope hem so,Thei of Athenys, er thei goToward that ilke wofull chance,As it was set in ordinance,Upon fortune here lot thei caste;Til that Theseüs ate laste, 5310Which was the kinges Sone there,Amonges othre that ther wereIn thilke yeer, as it befell,The lot upon his chance fell.He was a worthi kniht withalle;And whan he sih this chance falle,He ferde as thogh he tok non hiede,Bot al that evere he mihte spiede,With him and with his felaschipeForth into Crete he goth be Schipe; 5320Wher that the king Mynos he soghte,And profreth all that he him oghteUpon the point of here acord.
This sterne king, this cruel lordTok every day on of the Nyne,And put him to the disciplineOf Minotaure, to be devoured;Bot Theseüs was so favoured,That he was kept til ate laste.And in the meene while he caste 5330What thing him were best to do:And fell that Adriagne tho,Which was the dowhter of Mynos,And hadde herd the worthi losOf Theseüs and of his myht,And syh he was a lusti kniht,Hire hole herte on him sche leide,And he also of love hir preide,So ferforth that thei were al on.And sche ordeigneth thanne anon 5340In what manere he scholde him save,And schop so that sche dede him haveA clue of thred, of which withinneFerst ate dore he schal beginneWith him to take that on ende,That whan he wolde ayeinward wende,He mihte go the same weie.And over this, so as I seie,Of pich sche tok him a pelote,The which he scholde into the throte 5350Of Minotaure caste rihte:Such wepne also for him sche dighte,That he be reson mai noght faileTo make an ende of his bataile;For sche him tawhte in sondri wise,Til he was knowe of thilke emprise,Hou he this beste schulde quelle.And thus, schort tale forto telle,So as this Maide him hadde tawht,Theseüs with this Monstre fawht, 5360Smot of his hed, the which he nam,And be the thred, so as he cam,He goth ayein, til he were oute.Tho was gret wonder al aboute:Mynos the tribut hath relessed,And so was al the werre cessedBetwen Athene and hem of Crete.
Bot now to speke of thilke suete,Whos beaute was withoute wane,This faire Maiden Adriane, 5370Whan that sche sih Theseüs sound,Was nevere yit upon the groundA gladder wyht that sche was tho.Theseüs duelte a dai or tuoWher that Mynos gret chiere him dede:Theseüs in a prive stedeHath with this Maiden spoke and rouned,That sche to him was abandounedIn al that evere that sche couthe,So that of thilke lusty youthe 5380Al prively betwen hem tweieThe ferste flour he tok aweie.For he so faire tho behihteThat evere, whil he live mihte,He scholde hire take for his wif,And as his oghne hertes lifHe scholde hire love and trouthe bere;And sche, which mihte noght forbere,So sore loveth him ayein,That what as evere he wolde sein 5390With al hire herte sche believeth.And thus his pourpos he achieveth,So that assured of his troutheWith him sche wente, and that was routhe.
Fedra hire yonger Soster eke,A lusti Maide, a sobre, a meke,Fulfild of alle curtesie,For Sosterhode and compainieOf love, which was hem betuene,To sen hire Soster mad a queene, 5400Hire fader lefte and forth sche wenteWith him, which al his ferste ententeForyat withinne a litel throwe,So that it was al overthrowe,Whan sche best wende it scholde stonde.The Schip was blowe fro the londe,Wherin that thei seilende were;This Adriagne hath mochel fereOf that the wynd so loude bleu,As sche which of the See ne kneu, 5410And preide forto reste a whyle.And so fell that upon an yle,Which Chyo hihte, thei ben drive,Where he to hire his leve hath yiveThat sche schal londe and take hire reste.Bot that was nothing for the beste:For whan sche was to londe broght,Sche, which that time thoghte noghtBot alle trouthe, and tok no kepe,Hath leid hire softe forto slepe, 5420As sche which longe hath ben forwacched;Bot certes sche was evele macchedAnd fer from alle loves kinde;For more than the beste unkindeTheseüs, which no trouthe kepte,Whil that this yonge ladi slepte,Fulfild of his unkindeschipeHath al foryete the goodschipeWhich Adriane him hadde do,And bad unto the Schipmen tho 5430Hale up the seil and noght abyde,And forth he goth the same tydeToward Athene, and hire alondeHe lefte, which lay nyh the strondeSlepende, til that sche awok.Bot whan that sche cast up hire lokToward the stronde and sih no wyht,Hire herte was so sore aflyht,That sche ne wiste what to thinke,Bot drouh hire to the water brinke, 5440Wher sche behield the See at large.Sche sih no Schip, sche sih no bargeAls ferforth as sche mihte kenne:“Ha lord,” sche seide, “which a Senne,As al the world schal after hiere,Upon this woful womman hiereThis worthi kniht hath don and wroght!I wende I hadde his love boght,And so deserved ate nede,Whan that he stod upon his drede, 5450And ek the love he me behihte.It is gret wonder hou he mihteTowardes me nou ben unkinde,And so to lete out of his myndeThing which he seide his oghne mouth.Bot after this whan it is couthAnd drawe into the worldes fame,It schal ben hindringe of his name:For wel he wot and so wot I,He yaf his trouthe bodily, 5460That he myn honour scholde kepe.”And with that word sche gan to wepe,And sorweth more than ynouh:Hire faire tresces sche todrouh,And with hirself tok such a strif,That sche betwen the deth and lifSwounende lay fulofte among.And al was this on him along,Which was to love unkinde so,Wherof the wrong schal everemo 5470Stonde in Cronique of remembrance.And ek it asketh a venganceTo ben unkinde in loves cas,So as Theseüs thanne was,Al thogh he were a noble kniht;For he the lawe of loves rihtForfeted hath in alle weie,That Adriagne he putte aweie,Which was a gret unkinde dede:And after this, so as I rede, 5480Fedra, the which hir Soster is,He tok in stede of hire, and thisFel afterward to mochel teene.For thilke vice of which I meene,Unkindeschipe, where it falleth,The trouthe of mannes herte it palleth,That he can no good dede aquite:So mai he stonde of no meriteTowardes god, and ek alsoMen clepen him the worldes fo; 5490For he nomore than the fendUnto non other man is frend,Bot al toward himself al one.Forthi, mi Sone, in thi personeThis vice above all othre fle.
Mi fader, as ye techen me,I thenke don in this matiere.Bot over this nou wolde I hiere,Wherof I schal me schryve more.
Mi goode Sone, and for thi lore, 5500After the reule of coveitiseI schal the proprete deviseOf every vice by and by.Nou herkne and be wel war therby.
In the lignage of Avarice,Mi Sone, yit ther is a vice,His rihte name it is Ravine,Which hath a route of his covine.Ravine among the maistres duelleth,And with his servantz, as men telleth, 5510Extorcion is nou withholde:Ravine of othre mennes foldeMakth his larder and paieth noght;For wher as evere it mai be soght,In his hous ther schal nothing lacke,And that fulofte abyth the packeOf povere men that duelle aboute.Thus stant the comun poeple in doute,Which can do non amendement;For whanne him faileth paiement, 5520Ravine makth non other skile,Bot takth be strengthe what he wile.
So ben ther in the same wiseLovers, as I thee schal devise,That whan noght elles mai availe,Anon with strengthe thei assaileAnd gete of love the sesine,Whan thei se time, be Ravine.
Forthi, mi Sone, schrif thee hier,If thou hast ben a Raviner 5530Of love.
Certes, fader, no:For I mi ladi love so,That thogh I were as was Pompeie,That al the world me wolde obeie,Or elles such as Alisandre,I wolde noght do such a sklaundre;It is no good man, which so doth.
In good feith, Sone, thou seist soth:For he that wole of pourveanceBe such a weie his lust avance, 5540He schal it after sore abie,Bot if these olde ensamples lie.
Nou, goode fader, tell me on,So as ye cunne manyon,Touchende of love in this matiere.
Nou list, mi Sone, and thou schalt hiere,So as it hath befalle er this,In loves cause hou that it isA man to take be RavineThe preie which is femeline. 5550
Ther was a real noble king,And riche of alle worldes thing,Which of his propre enheritanceAthenes hadde in governance,And who so thenke therupon,His name was king Pandion.Tuo douhtres hadde he be his wif,The whiche he lovede as his lif;The ferste douhter Progne hihte,And the secounde, as sche wel mihte, 5560Was cleped faire Philomene,To whom fell after mochel tene.The fader of his pourveanceHis doughter Progne wolde avance,And yaf hire unto mariageA worthi king of hih lignage,A noble kniht eke of his hond,So was he kid in every lond,Of Trace he hihte Tereüs;The clerk Ovide telleth thus. 5570This Tereüs his wif hom ladde,A lusti lif with hire he hadde;Til it befell upon a tyde,This Progne, as sche lay him besyde,Bethoughte hir hou it mihte beThat sche hir Soster myhte se,And to hir lord hir will sche seide,With goodly wordes and him preideThat sche to hire mihte go:And if it liked him noght so, 5580That thanne he wolde himselve wende,Or elles be som other sende,Which mihte hire diere Soster griete,And schape hou that thei mihten miete.Hir lord anon to that he herdeYaf his acord, and thus ansuerde:“I wole,” he seide, “for thi sakeThe weie after thi Soster takeMiself, and bringe hire, if I may.”And sche with that, there as he lay, 5590Began him in hire armes clippe,And kist him with hir softe lippe,And seide, “Sire, grant mercy.”And he sone after was redy,And tok his leve forto go;In sori time dede he so.
This Tereüs goth forth to SchipeWith him and with his felaschipe;Be See the rihte cours he nam,Into the contre til he cam, 5600Wher Philomene was duellinge,And of hir Soster the tidingeHe tolde, and tho thei weren glade,And mochel joie of him thei made.The fader and the moder botheTo leve here douhter weren lothe,Bot if thei weren in presence;And natheles at reverenceOf him, that wolde himself travaile,Thei wolden noght he scholde faile 5610Of that he preide, and yive hire leve:And sche, that wolde noght beleve,In alle haste made hire yareToward hir Soster forto fare,With Tereüs and forth sche wente.And he with al his hole entente,Whan sche was fro hir frendes go,Assoteth of hire love so,His yhe myhte he noght withholde,That he ne moste on hir beholde; 5620And with the sihte he gan desire,And sette his oghne herte on fyre;And fyr, whan it to tow aprocheth,To him anon the strengthe acrocheth,Til with his hete it be devoured,The tow ne mai noght be socoured.And so that tirant raviner,Whan that sche was in his pouer,And he therto sawh time and place,As he that lost hath alle grace, 5630Foryat he was a wedded man,And in a rage on hire he ran,Riht as a wolf which takth his preie.And sche began to crie and preie,“O fader, o mi moder diere,Nou help!” Bot thei ne mihte it hiere,And sche was of to litel myhtDefense ayein so ruide a knyhtTo make, whanne he was so wodThat he no reson understod, 5640Bot hield hire under in such wise,That sche ne myhte noght arise,Bot lay oppressed and desesed,As if a goshauk hadde sesedA brid, which dorste noght for fereRemue: and thus this tirant thereBeraft hire such thing as men seinMai neveremor be yolde ayein,And that was the virginite:Of such Ravine it was pite. 5650
Bot whan sche to hirselven com,And of hir meschief hiede nom,And knew hou that sche was no maide,With wofull herte thus sche saide,“O thou of alle men the worste,Wher was ther evere man that dorsteDo such a dede as thou hast do?That dai schal falle, I hope so,That I schal telle out al mi fille,And with mi speche I schal fulfille 5660The wyde world in brede and lengthe.That thou hast do to me be strengthe,If I among the poeple duelle,Unto the poeple I schal it telle;And if I be withinne wallOf Stones closed, thanne I schalUnto the Stones clepe and crie,And tellen hem thi felonie;And if I to the wodes wende,Ther schal I tellen tale and ende, 5670And crie it to the briddes oute,That thei schul hiere it al aboute.For I so loude it schal reherce,That my vois schal the hevene perce,That it schal soune in goddes Ere.Ha, false man, where is thi fere?O mor cruel than eny beste,Hou hast thou holden thi behesteWhich thou unto my Soster madest?O thou, which alle love ungladest, 5680And art ensample of alle untrewe,Nou wolde god mi Soster knewe,Of thin untrouthe, hou that it stod!”And he than as a Lyon wodWith hise unhappi handes strongeHire cauhte be the tresses longe,With whiche he bond ther bothe hire armes,That was a fieble dede of armes,And to the grounde anon hire caste,And out he clippeth also faste 5690Hire tunge with a peire scheres.So what with blod and what with teresOut of hire yhe and of hir mouth,He made hire faire face uncouth:Sche lay swounende unto the deth,Ther was unethes eny breth;Bot yit whan he hire tunge refte,A litel part therof belefte,Bot sche with al no word mai soune,Bot chitre and as a brid jargoune. 5700And natheles that wode houndHir bodi hent up fro the ground,And sente hir there as be his willeSche scholde abyde in prison stilleFor everemo: bot nou tak hiedeWhat after fell of this misdede.
Whanne al this meschief was befalle,This Tereüs, that foule him falle,Unto his contre hom he tyh;And whan he com his paleis nyh, 5710His wif al redi there him kepte.Whan he hir sih, anon he wepte,And that he dede for deceite,For sche began to axe him streite,“Wher is mi Soster?” And he seideThat sche was ded; and Progne abreide,As sche that was a wofull wif,And stod betuen hire deth and lif,Of that sche herde such tidinge:Bot for sche sih hire lord wepinge, 5720She wende noght bot alle trouthe,And hadde wel the more routhe.The Perles weren tho forsakeTo hire, and blake clothes take;As sche that was gentil and kinde,In worschipe of hir Sostres myndeSche made a riche enterement,For sche fond non amendementTo syghen or to sobbe more:So was ther guile under the gore. 5730
Nou leve we this king and queene,And torne ayein to Philomene,As I began to tellen erst.Whan sche cam into prison ferst,It thoghte a kinges douhter strangeTo maken so soudein a changeFro welthe unto so grete a wo;And sche began to thenke tho,Thogh sche be mouthe nothing preide,Withinne hir herte thus sche seide: 5740“O thou, almyhty Jupiter,That hihe sist and lokest fer,Thou soffrest many a wrong doinge,And yit it is noght thi willinge.To thee ther mai nothing ben hid,Thou wost hou it is me betid:I wolde I hadde noght be bore,For thanne I hadde noght forloreMi speche and mi virginite.Bot, goode lord, al is in thee, 5750Whan thou therof wolt do venganceAnd schape mi deliverance.”And evere among this ladi wepte,And thoghte that sche nevere kepteTo ben a worldes womman more,And that sche wissheth everemore.Bot ofte unto hir Soster diereHire herte spekth in this manere,And seide, “Ha, Soster, if ye kneweOf myn astat, ye wolde rewe, 5760I trowe, and my deliveranceYe wolde schape, and do venganceOn him that is so fals a man:And natheles, so as I can,I wol you sende som tokninge,Wherof ye schul have knowlechingeOf thing I wot, that schal you lothe,The which you toucheth and me bothe.”And tho withinne a whyle als tytSche waf a cloth of Selk al whyt 5770With lettres and ymagerie,In which was al the felonie,Which Tereüs to hire hath do;And lappede it togedre thoAnd sette hir signet theruponAnd sende it unto Progne anon.The messager which forth it bar,What it amonteth is noght war;And natheles to Progne he gothAnd prively takth hire the cloth, 5780And wente ayein riht as he cam,The court of him non hiede nam.
Whan Progne of Philomene herde,Sche wolde knowe hou that it ferde,And opneth that the man hath broght,And wot therby what hath be wroghtAnd what meschief ther is befalle.In swoune tho sche gan doun falle,And efte aros and gan to stonde,And eft sche takth the cloth on honde, 5790Behield the lettres and thymages;Bot ate laste, “Of suche oultrages,”Sche seith, “wepinge is noght the bote:”And swerth, if that sche live mote,It schal be venged otherwise.And with that sche gan hire aviseHou ferst sche mihte unto hire winneHir Soster, that noman withinne,Bot only thei that were suore,It scholde knowe, and schop therfore 5800That Tereüs nothing it wiste;And yit riht as hirselven liste,Hir Soster was delivered soneOut of prison, and be the moneTo Progne sche was broght be nyhte.
Whan ech of other hadde a sihte,In chambre, ther thei were al one,Thei maden many a pitous mone;Bot Progne most of sorwe made,Which sihe hir Soster pale and fade 5810And specheles and deshonoured,Of that sche hadde be defloured;And ek upon hir lord sche thoghte,Of that he so untreuly wroghteAnd hadde his espousaile broke.Sche makth a vou it schal be wroke,And with that word sche kneleth dounWepinge in gret devocioun:Unto Cupide and to VenusSche preide, and seide thanne thus: 5820“O ye, to whom nothing asterteOf love mai, for every herteYe knowe, as ye that ben aboveThe god and the goddesse of love;Ye witen wel that evere yitWith al mi will and al my wit,Sith ferst ye schopen me to wedde,That I lay with mi lord abedde,I have be trewe in mi degre,And evere thoghte forto be, 5830And nevere love in other place,Bot al only the king of Trace,Which is mi lord and I his wif.Bot nou allas this wofull strif!That I him thus ayeinward findeThe most untrewe and most unkindeThat evere in ladi armes lay.And wel I wot that he ne mayAmende his wrong, it is so gret;For he to lytel of me let, 5840Whan he myn oughne Soster tok,And me that am his wif forsok.”
Lo, thus to Venus and CupideSche preide, and furthermor sche crideUnto Appollo the hiheste,And seide, “O myghti god of reste,Thou do vengance of this debat.Mi Soster and al hire astatThou wost, and hou sche hath forloreHir maidenhod, and I therfore 5850In al the world schal bere a blameOf that mi Soster hath a schame,That Tereüs to hire I sente:And wel thou wost that myn ententeWas al for worschipe and for goode.O lord, that yifst the lives fodeTo every wyht, I prei thee hiereThes wofull Sostres that ben hiere,And let ous noght to the ben lothe;We ben thin oghne wommen bothe.” 5860
Thus pleigneth Progne and axeth wreche,And thogh hire Soster lacke speche,To him that alle thinges wotHire sorwe is noght the lasse hot:Bot he that thanne had herd hem tuo,Him oughte have sorwed everemoFor sorwe which was hem betuene.With signes pleigneth Philomene,And Progne seith, “It schal be wreke,That al the world therof schal speke.” 5870And Progne tho seknesse feigneth,Wherof unto hir lord sche pleigneth,And preith sche moste hire chambres kepe,And as hir liketh wake and slepe.And he hire granteth to be so;And thus togedre ben thei tuo,That wolde him bot a litel good.Nou herk hierafter hou it stodOf wofull auntres that befelle:Thes Sostres, that ben bothe felle,— 5880And that was noght on hem along,Bot onliche on the grete wrongWhich Tereüs hem hadde do,—Thei schopen forto venge hem tho.
This Tereüs be Progne his wifA Sone hath, which as his lifHe loveth, and Ithis he hihte:His moder wiste wel sche mihteDo Tereüs no more griefThan sle this child, which was so lief. 5890Thus sche, that was, as who seith, madOf wo, which hath hir overlad,Withoute insihte of moderhedeForyat pite and loste drede,And in hir chambre privelyThis child withouten noise or crySche slou, and hieu him al to pieces:And after with diverse spiecesThe fleissh, whan it was so toheewe,Sche takth, and makth therof a sewe, 5900With which the fader at his meteWas served, til he hadde him ete;That he ne wiste hou that it stod,Bot thus his oughne fleissh and blodHimself devoureth ayein kinde,As he that was tofore unkinde.And thanne, er that he were arise,For that he scholde ben agrise,To schewen him the child was ded,This Philomene tok the hed 5910Betwen tuo disshes, and al wrotheTho comen forth the Sostres bothe,And setten it upon the bord.And Progne tho began the word,And seide, “O werste of alle wicke,Of conscience whom no prickeMai stere, lo, what thou hast do!Lo, hier ben nou we Sostres tuo;O Raviner, lo hier thi preie,With whom so falsliche on the weie 5920Thou hast thi tirannye wroght.Lo, nou it is somdel aboght,And bet it schal, for of thi dedeThe world schal evere singe and redeIn remembrance of thi defame:For thou to love hast do such schame,That it schal nevere be foryete.”With that he sterte up fro the mete,And schof the bord unto the flor,And cauhte a swerd anon and suor 5930That thei scholde of his handes dye.And thei unto the goddes crieBegunne with so loude a stevene,That thei were herd unto the hevene;And in a twinclinge of an yheThe goddes, that the meschief syhe,Here formes changen alle thre.Echon of hem in his degreWas torned into briddes kinde;Diverseliche, as men mai finde, 5940After thastat that thei were inne,Here formes were set atwinne.And as it telleth in the tale,The ferst into a nyhtingaleWas schape, and that was Philomene,Which in the wynter is noght sene,For thanne ben the leves falleAnd naked ben the buisshes alle.For after that sche was a brid,Hir will was evere to ben hid, 5950And forto duelle in prive place,That noman scholde sen hir faceFor schame, which mai noght be lassed,Of thing that was tofore passed,Whan that sche loste hir maidenhiede:For evere upon hir wommanhiede,Thogh that the goddes wolde hire change,Sche thenkth, and is the more strange,And halt hir clos the wyntres day.Bot whan the wynter goth away, 5960And that Nature the goddesseWole of hir oughne fre largesseWith herbes and with floures botheThe feldes and the medwes clothe,And ek the wodes and the grevesBen heled al with grene leves,So that a brid hire hyde mai,Betwen Averil and March and Maii,Sche that the wynter hield hir clos,For pure schame and noght aros, 5970Whan that sche seth the bowes thikke,And that ther is no bare sticke,Bot al is hid with leves grene,To wode comth this PhilomeneAnd makth hir ferste yeres flyht;Wher as sche singeth day and nyht,And in hir song al openlySche makth hir pleignte and seith, “O why,O why ne were I yit a maide?”For so these olde wise saide, 5980Which understoden what sche mente,Hire notes ben of such entente.And ek thei seide hou in hir songSche makth gret joie and merthe among,And seith, “Ha, nou I am a brid,Ha, nou mi face mai ben hid:Thogh I have lost mi Maidenhede,Schal noman se my chekes rede.”Thus medleth sche with joie woAnd with hir sorwe merthe also, 5990So that of loves maladieSche makth diverse melodie,And seith love is a wofull blisse,A wisdom which can noman wisse,A lusti fievere, a wounde softe:This note sche reherceth ofteTo hem whiche understonde hir tale.Nou have I of this nyhtingale,Which erst was cleped Philomene,Told al that evere I wolde mene, 6000Bothe of hir forme and of hir note,Wherof men mai the storie note.
And of hir Soster Progne I finde,Hou sche was torned out of kindeInto a Swalwe swift of winge,Which ek in wynter lith swounynge,Ther as sche mai nothing be sene:Bot whan the world is woxe greneAnd comen is the Somertide,Than fleth sche forth and ginth to chide, 6010And chitreth out in hir langageWhat falshod is in mariage,And telleth in a maner specheOf Tereüs the Spousebreche.Sche wol noght in the wodes duelle,For sche wolde openliche telle;And ek for that sche was a spouse,Among the folk sche comth to house,To do thes wyves understondeThe falshod of hire housebonde, 6020That thei of hem be war also,For ther ben manye untrewe of tho.Thus ben the Sostres briddes bothe,And ben toward the men so lothe,That thei ne wole of pure schameUnto no mannes hand be tame;For evere it duelleth in here myndeOf that thei founde a man unkinde,And that was false Tereüs.If such on be amonges ous 6030I not, bot his condicionMen sein in every regionWithinne toune and ek withouteNou regneth comunliche aboute.And natheles in remembranceI wol declare what venganceThe goddes hadden him ordeined,Of that the Sostres hadden pleigned:For anon after he was changedAnd from his oghne kinde stranged, 6040A lappewincke mad he was,And thus he hoppeth on the gras,And on his hed ther stant uprihtA creste in tokne he was a kniht;And yit unto this dai men seith,A lappewincke hath lore his feithAnd is the brid falseste of alle.
Bewar, mi Sone, er thee so falle;For if thou be of such covine,To gete of love be Ravine 6050Thi lust, it mai thee falle thus,As it befell of Tereüs.
Mi fader, goddes forebode!Me were levere be fortrodeWith wilde hors and be todrawe,Er I ayein love and his laweDede eny thing or loude or stille,Which were noght mi ladi wille.Men sein that every love hath drede;So folweth it that I hire drede, 6060For I hire love, and who so dredeth,To plese his love and serve him nedeth.Thus mai ye knowen be this skileThat no Ravine don I wileAyein hir will be such a weie;Bot while I live, I wol obeieAbidinge on hire courtesie,If eny merci wolde hir plie.Forthi, mi fader, as of thisI wot noght I have don amis: 6070Bot furthermore I you beseche,Som other point that ye me teche,And axeth forth, if ther be auht,That I mai be the betre tauht.
Whan Covoitise in povere astatStant with himself upon debatThurgh lacke of his misgovernance,That he unto his sustienanceNe can non other weie findeTo gete him good, thanne as the blinde, 6080Which seth noght what schal after falle,That ilke vice which men calleOf Robberie, he takth on honde;Wherof be water and be londeOf thing which othre men beswinkeHe get him cloth and mete and drinke.Him reccheth noght what he beginne,Thurgh thefte so that he mai winne:Forthi to maken his pourchasHe lith awaitende on the pas, 6090And what thing that he seth ther passe,He takth his part, or more or lasse,If it be worthi to be take.He can the packes wel ransake,So prively berth non abouteHis gold, that he ne fint it oute,Or other juel, what it be;He takth it as his proprete.In wodes and in feldes ekeThus Robberie goth to seke, 6100Wher as he mai his pourpos finde.
And riht so in the same kinde,My goode Sone, as thou miht hiere,To speke of love in the matiereAnd make a verrai resemblance,Riht as a thief makth his chevanceAnd robbeth mennes good abouteIn wode and field, wher he goth oute,So be ther of these lovers some,In wylde stedes wher thei come 6110And finden there a womman able,And therto place covenable,Withoute leve, er that thei fare,Thei take a part of that chaffare:Yee, though sche were a Scheperdesse,Yit wol the lord of wantounesseAssaie, althogh sche be unmete,For other mennes good is swete.Bot therof wot nothing the wifAt hom, which loveth as hir lif 6120Hir lord, and sitt alday wisshingeAfter hir lordes hom comynge:Bot whan that he comth hom at eve,Anon he makth his wif beleve,For sche noght elles scholde knowe:He telth hire hou his hunte hath blowe,And hou his houndes have wel runne,And hou ther schon a merye Sunne,And hou his haukes flowen wel;Bot he wol telle her nevere a diel 6130Hou he to love untrewe was,Of that he robbede in the pas,And tok his lust under the schaweAyein love and ayein his lawe.
Which thing, mi Sone, I thee forbede,For it is an ungoodly dede.For who that takth be RobberieHis love, he mai noght justefieHis cause, and so fulofte sitheFor ones that he hath be blithe 6140He schal ben after sory thries.Ensample of suche RobberiesI finde write, as thou schalt hiere,Acordende unto this matiere.
I rede hou whilom was a Maide,The faireste, as Ovide saide,Which was in hire time tho;And sche was of the chambre alsoOf Pallas, which is the goddesseAnd wif to Marte, of whom prouesse 6150Is yove to these worthi knihtes.For he is of so grete mihtes,That he governeth the bataille;Withouten him may noght availeThe stronge hond, bot he it helpe;Ther mai no knyht of armes yelpe,Bot he feihte under his banere.Bot nou to speke of mi matiere,This faire, freisshe, lusti mai,Al one as sche wente on a dai 6160Upon the stronde forto pleie,Ther cam Neptunus in the weie,Which hath the See in governance;And in his herte such plesanceHe tok, whan he this Maide sih,That al his herte aros on hih,For he so sodeinliche unwarBehield the beaute that sche bar.And caste anon withinne his herteThat sche him schal no weie asterte, 6170Bot if he take in avantageFro thilke maide som pilage,Noght of the broches ne the Ringes,Bot of some othre smale thingesHe thoghte parte, er that sche wente;And hire in bothe hise armes hente,And putte his hond toward the cofre,Wher forto robbe he made a profre,That lusti tresor forto stele,Which passeth othre goodes fele 6180And cleped is the maidenhede,Which is the flour of wommanhede.This Maiden, which Cornix be nameWas hote, dredende alle schame,Sih that sche mihte noght debate,And wel sche wiste he wolde algateFulfille his lust of Robberie,Anon began to wepe and crie,And seide, “O Pallas, noble queene,Scheu nou thi myht and let be sene, 6190To kepe and save myn honour:Help, that I lese noght mi flour,Which nou under thi keie is loke.”That word was noght so sone spoke,Whan Pallas schop recoverirAfter the will and the desirOf hire, which a Maiden was,And sodeinliche upon this casOut of hire wommanisshe kindeInto a briddes like I finde 6200Sche was transformed forth withal,So that Neptunus nothing stalOf such thing as he wolde have stole.With fetheres blake as eny coleOut of hise armes in a throweSche flih before his yhe a Crowe;Which was to hire a more delit,To kepe hire maidenhede whitUnder the wede of fethers blake,In Perles whyte than forsake 6210That no lif mai restore ayein.Bot thus Neptune his herte in veinHath upon Robberie sett;The bridd is flowe and he was let,The faire Maide him hath ascaped,Wherof for evere he was bejapedAnd scorned of that he hath lore.
Mi Sone, be thou war therforeThat thou no maidenhode stele,Wherof men sen deseses fele 6220Aldai befalle in sondri wise;So as I schal thee yit deviseAn other tale therupon,Which fell be olde daies gon.