King Lichaon upon his wifA dowhter hadde, a goodly lif,A clene Maide of worthi fame,Calistona whos rihte nameWas cleped, and of many a lordSche was besoght, bot hire acord 6230To love myhte noman winne,As sche which hath no lust therinne;Bot swor withinne hir herte and saideThat sche wolde evere ben a Maide.Wherof to kepe hireself in pes,With suche as AmadriadesWere cleped, wodemaydes, tho,And with the Nimphes ek alsoUpon the spring of freisshe wellesSche schop to duelle and nagher elles. 6240And thus cam this CalistonaInto the wode of Tegea,Wher sche virginite behihteUnto Diane, and therto plihteHer trouthe upon the bowes grene,To kepe hir maidenhode clene.Which afterward upon a dayWas priveliche stole away;For Jupiter thurgh his queintiseFrom hire it tok in such a wise, 6250That sodeinliche forth withalHire wombe aros and sche toswal,So that it mihte noght ben hidd.And therupon it is betidd,Diane, which it herde telle,In prive place unto a welleWith Nimphes al a compainieWas come, and in a ragerieSche seide that sche bathe wolde,And bad that every maide scholde 6260With hire al naked bathe also.And tho began the prive wo,Calistona wax red for schame;Bot thei that knewe noght the game,To whom no such thing was befalle,Anon thei made hem naked alle,As thei that nothing wolden hyde:Bot sche withdrouh hire evere asyde,And natheles into the flod,Wher that Diane hirselve stod, 6270Sche thoghte come unaperceived.Bot therof sche was al deceived;For whan sche cam a litel nyh,And that Diane hire wombe syh,Sche seide, “Awey, thou foule beste,For thin astat is noght honesteThis chaste water forto touche;For thou hast take such a touche,Which nevere mai ben hol ayein.”And thus goth sche which was forlein 6280With schame, and fro the Nimphes fledde,Til whanne that nature hire spedde,That of a Sone, which ArchasWas named, sche delivered was.And tho Juno, which was the wifOf Jupiter, wroth and hastif,In pourpos forto do venganceCam forth upon this ilke chance,And to Calistona sche spak,And sette upon hir many a lak, 6290And seide, “Ha, nou thou art atake,That thou thi werk myht noght forsake.Ha, thou ungoodlich ypocrite,Hou thou art gretly forto wyte!Bot nou thou schalt ful sore abieThat ilke stelthe and micherie,Which thou hast bothe take and do;Wherof thi fader LichaoSchal noght be glad, whan he it wot,Of that his dowhter was so hot, 6300That sche hath broke hire chaste avou.Bot I thee schal chastise nou;Thi grete beaute schal be torned,Thurgh which that thou hast be mistorned,Thi large frount, thin yhen greie,I schal hem change in other weie,And al the feture of thi faceIn such a wise I schal deface,That every man thee schal forbere.”With that the liknesse of a bere 6310Sche tok and was forschape anon.Withinne a time and theruponBefell that with a bowe on honde,To hunte and gamen forto fonde,Into that wode goth to pleieHir Sone Archas, and in his weieIt hapneth that this bere cam.And whan that sche good hiede nam,Wher that he stod under the bowh,Sche kneu him wel and to him drouh; 6320For thogh sche hadde hire forme lore,The love was noght lost therforeWhich kinde hath set under his lawe.Whan sche under the wodesschaweHire child behield, sche was so glad,That sche with bothe hire armes sprad,As thogh sche were in wommanhiede,Toward him cam, and tok non hiedeOf that he bar a bowe bent.And he with that an Arwe hath hent 6330And gan to teise it in his bowe,As he that can non other knowe,Bot that it was a beste wylde.Bot Jupiter, which wolde schyldeThe Moder and the Sone also,Ordeineth for hem bothe so,That thei for evere were save.Bot thus, mi Sone, thou myht haveEnsample, hou that it is to fleTo robbe the virginite 6340Of a yong innocent aweie:And overthis be other weie,In olde bokes as I rede,Such Robberie is forto drede,And nameliche of thilke goodWhich every womman that is goodDesireth forto kepe and holde,As whilom was be daies olde.For if thou se mi tale welOf that was tho, thou miht somdiel 6350Of old ensample taken hiede,Hou that the flour of maidenhiedeWas thilke time holde in pris.And so it was, and so it is,And so it schal for evere stonde:And for thou schalt it understonde,Nou herkne a tale next suiende,Hou maidenhod is to commende.Of Rome among the gestes oldeI finde hou that Valerie tolde 6360That what man tho was EmperourOf Rome, he scholde don honourTo the virgine, and in the weie,Wher he hire mette, he scholde obeieIn worschipe of virginite,Which tho was of gret dignite.Noght onliche of the wommen tho,Bot of the chaste men alsoIt was commended overal:And forto speke in special 6370Touchende of men, ensample I finde,Phyryns, which was of mannes kindeAbove alle othre the fairesteOf Rome and ek the comelieste,That wel was hire which him mihteBeholde and have of him a sihte.Thus was he tempted ofte sore;Bot for he wolde be nomoreAmong the wommen so coveited,The beaute of his face streited 6380He hath, and threste out bothe hise yhen,That alle wommen whiche him syhenThanne afterward, of him ne roghte:And thus his maidehiede he boghte.So mai I prove wel forthi,Above alle othre under the Sky,Who that the vertus wolde peise,Virginite is forto preise,Which, as thapocalips recordeth,To Crist in hevene best acordeth. 6390So mai it schewe wel therfore,As I have told it hier tofore,In hevene and ek in Erthe alsoIt is accept to bothe tuo.And if I schal more over thisDeclare what this vertu is,I finde write upon this thingOf Valentinian the kingAnd Emperour be thilke daies,A worthi knyht at alle assaies, 6400Hou he withoute MariageWas of an hundred wynter Age,And hadde ben a worthi knihtBothe of his lawe and of his myht.Bot whan men wolde his dedes peiseAnd his knyhthode of Armes preise,Of that he dede with his hondes,Whan he the kinges and the londesTo his subjeccion put under,Of al that pris hath he no wonder, 6410For he it sette of non acompte,And seide al that may noght amonteAyeins o point which he hath nome,That he his fleissh hath overcome:He was a virgine, as he seide;On that bataille his pris he leide.Lo nou, my Sone, avise thee.Yee, fader, al this wel mai be,Bot if alle othre dede so,The world of men were sone go: 6420And in the lawe a man mai finde,Hou god to man be weie of kindeHath set the world to multeplie;And who that wol him justefie,It is ynouh to do the lawe.And natheles youre goode saweIs good to kepe, who so may,I wol noght therayein seie nay.Mi Sone, take it as I seie;If maidenhod be take aweie 6430Withoute lawes ordinance,It mai noght failen of vengance.And if thou wolt the sothe wite,Behold a tale which is write,Hou that the King Agamenon,Whan he the Cite of LesbonHath wonne, a Maiden ther he fond,Which was the faireste of the LondIn thilke time that men wiste.He tok of hire what him liste 6440Of thing which was most precious,Wherof that sche was dangerous.This faire Maiden cleped isCriseide, douhter of Crisis,Which was that time in specialOf thilke temple principal,Wher Phebus hadde his sacrifice,So was it wel the more vice.Agamenon was thanne in weieTo Troieward, and tok aweie 6450This Maiden, which he with him ladde,So grete a lust in hire he hadde.Bot Phebus, which hath gret desdeignOf that his Maiden was forlein,Anon as he to Troie cam,Vengance upon this dede he namAnd sende a comun pestilence.Thei soghten thanne here evidenceAnd maden calculacion,To knowe in what condicion 6460This deth cam in so sodeinly;And ate laste redylyThe cause and ek the man thei founde:And forth withal the same stoundeAgamenon opposed was,Which hath beknowen al the casOf the folie which he wroghte.And therupon mercy thei soghteToward the god in sondri wiseWith preiere and with sacrifise, 6470The Maide and hom ayein thei sende,And yive hire good ynouh to spendeFor evere whil sche scholde live:And thus the Senne was foryiveAnd al the pestilence cessed.Lo, what it is to ben encressedOf love which is evele wonne.It were betre noght begonneThan take a thing withoute leve,Which thou most after nedes leve, 6480And yit have malgre forth withal.Forthi to robben overalIn loves cause if thou beginne,I not what ese thou schalt winne.Mi Sone, be wel war of this,For thus of Robberie it is.Mi fader, youre ensamplerieIn loves cause of RobberieI have it riht wel understonde.Bot overthis, hou so it stonde, 6490Yit wolde I wite of youre apriseWhat thing is more of Covoitise.With Covoitise yit I findeA Servant of the same kinde,Which Stelthe is hote, and MecherieWith him is evere in compainie.Of whom if I schal telle soth,He stalketh as a Pocok doth,And takth his preie so covert,That noman wot it in apert. 6500For whan he wot the lord from home,Than wol he stalke aboute and rome;And what thing he fint in his weie,Whan that he seth the men aweie,He stelth it and goth forth withal,That therof noman knowe schal.And ek fulofte he goth a nyhtWithoute Mone or sterreliht,And with his craft the dore unpiketh,And takth therinne what him liketh: 6510And if the dore be so schet,That he be of his entre let,He wole in ate wyndou crepe,And whil the lord is faste aslepe,He stelth what thing as him best list,And goth his weie er it be wist.Fulofte also be lyhte of dayYit wole he stele and make assay;Under the cote his hond he put,Til he the mannes Purs have cut, 6520And rifleth that he fint therinne.And thus he auntreth him to winne,And berth an horn and noght ne bloweth,For noman of his conseil knoweth;What he mai gete of his Michinge,It is al bile under the winge.And as an hound that goth to foldeAnd hath ther taken what he wolde,His mouth upon the gras he wypeth,And so with feigned chiere him slypeth, 6530That what as evere of schep he strangle,Ther is noman therof schal jangle,As forto knowen who it dede;Riht so doth Stelthe in every stede,Where as him list his preie take.He can so wel his cause makeAnd so wel feigne and so wel glose,That ther ne schal noman suppose,Bot that he were an innocent,And thus a mannes yhe he blent: 6540So that this craft I mai remeneWithouten help of eny mene.Ther be lovers of that degre,Which al here lust in privete,As who seith, geten al be Stelthe,And ofte atteignen to gret weltheAs for the time that it lasteth.For love awaiteth evere and castethHou he mai stele and cacche his preie,Whan he therto mai finde a weie: 6550For be it nyht or be it day,He takth his part, whan that he may,And if he mai nomore do,Yit wol he stele a cuss or tuo.Mi Sone, what seist thou therto?Tell if thou dedest evere so.Mi fader, hou?Mi Sone, thus,—If thou hast stolen eny cussOr other thing which therto longeth,For noman suche thieves hongeth: 6560Tell on forthi and sei the trouthe.Mi fader, nay, and that is routhe,For be mi will I am a thief;Bot sche that is to me most lief,Yit dorste I nevere in priveteNoght ones take hire be the kne,To stele of hire or this or that,And if I dorste, I wot wel what:And natheles, bot if I lie,Be Stelthe ne be Robberie 6570Of love, which fell in mi thoght,To hire dede I nevere noght.Bot as men sein, wher herte is failed,Ther schal no castell ben assailed;Bot thogh I hadde hertes ten,And were als strong as alle men,If I be noght myn oghne manAnd dar noght usen that I can,I mai miselve noght recovere.Thogh I be nevere man so povere, 6580I bere an herte and hire it is,So that me faileth wit in this,Hou that I scholde of myn acordThe servant lede ayein the lord:For if mi fot wolde awher go,Or that min hand wolde elles do,Whan that myn herte is therayein,The remenant is al in vein.And thus me lacketh alle wele,And yit ne dar I nothing stele 6590Of thing which longeth unto love:And ek it is so hyh above,I mai noght wel therto areche,Bot if so be at time of speche,Ful selde if thanne I stele mayA word or tuo and go my way.Betwen hire hih astat and meComparison ther mai non be,So that I fiele and wel I wot,Al is to hevy and to hot 6600To sette on hond withoute leve:And thus I mot algate leveTo stele that I mai noght take,And in this wise I mot forsakeTo ben a thief ayein mi willeOf thing which I mai noght fulfille.For that Serpent which nevere slepteThe flees of gold so wel ne kepteIn Colchos, as the tale is told,That mi ladi a thousendfold 6610Nys betre yemed and bewaked,Wher sche be clothed or be naked.To kepe hir bodi nyht and day,Sche hath a wardein redi ay,Which is so wonderful a wyht,That him ne mai no mannes myhtWith swerd ne with no wepne daunte,Ne with no sleihte of charme enchaunte,Wherof he mihte be mad tame,And Danger is his rihte name; 6620Which under lock and under keie,That noman mai it stele aweie,Hath al the Tresor underfongeThat unto love mai belonge.The leste lokinge of hire yheMai noght be stole, if he it syhe;And who so gruccheth for so lyte,He wolde sone sette a wyteOn him that wolde stele more.And that me grieveth wonder sore, 6630For this proverbe is evere newe,That stronge lokes maken treweOf hem that wolden stele and pyke:For so wel can ther noman slykeBe him ne be non other mene,To whom Danger wol yive or leneOf that tresor he hath to kepe.So thogh I wolde stalke and crepe,And wayte on eve and ek on morwe,Of Danger schal I nothing borwe, 6640And stele I wot wel may I noght:And thus I am riht wel bethoght,Whil Danger stant in his office,Of Stelthe, which ye clepe a vice,I schal be gultif neveremo.Therfore I wolde he were agoSo fer that I nevere of him herde,Hou so that afterward it ferde:For thanne I mihte yit per casOf love make som pourchas 6650Be Stelthe or be som other weie,That nou fro me stant fer aweie.Bot, fader, as ye tolde above,Hou Stelthe goth a nyht for love,I mai noght wel that point forsake,That ofte times I ne wakeOn nyhtes, whan that othre slepe;Bot hou, I prei you taketh kepe.Whan I am loged in such wiseThat I be nyhte mai arise, 6660At som wyndowe and loken outeAnd se the housinge al aboute,So that I mai the chambre knoweIn which mi ladi, as I trowe,Lyth in hir bed and slepeth softe,Thanne is myn herte a thief fulofte:For there I stonde to beholdeThe longe nyhtes that ben colde,And thenke on hire that lyth there.And thanne I wisshe that I were 6670Als wys as was NectanabusOr elles as was Protheus,That couthen bothe of nigromaunceIn what liknesse, in what semblaunce,Riht as hem liste, hemself transforme:For if I were of such a forme,I seie thanne I wolde fleInto the chambre forto seIf eny grace wolde falle,So that I mihte under the palle 6680Som thing of love pyke and stele.And thus I thenke thoghtes fele,And thogh therof nothing be soth,Yit ese as for a time it doth:Bot ate laste whanne I findeThat I am falle into my mynde,And se that I have stonde longeAnd have no profit underfonge,Than stalke I to mi bedd withinne.And this is al that evere I winne 6690Of love, whanne I walke on nyht:Mi will is good, bot of mi myhtMe lacketh bothe and of mi grace;For what so that mi thoght embrace,Yit have I noght the betre ferd.Mi fader, lo, nou have ye herdWhat I be Stelthe of love have do,And hou mi will hath be therto:If I be worthi to penanceI put it on your ordinance. 6700Mi Sone, of Stelthe I the behiete,Thogh it be for a time swete,At ende it doth bot litel good,As be ensample hou that it stodWhilom, I mai thee telle nou.I preie you, fader, sei me hou.Mi Sone, of him which goth be daieBe weie of Stelthe to assaie,In loves cause and takth his preie,Ovide seide as I schal seie, 6710And in his Methamor he toldeA tale, which is good to holde.The Poete upon this matiereOf Stelthe wrot in this manere.Venus, which hath this lawe in hondeOf thing which mai noght be withstonde,As sche which the tresor to wardeOf love hath withinne hir warde,Phebum to love hath so constreigned,That he withoute reste is peined 6720With al his herte to coveiteA Maiden, which was warded streyteWithinne chambre and kept so clos,That selden was whan sche desclosGoth with hir moder forto pleie.Leuchotoe, so as men seie,This Maiden hihte, and OrchamusHir fader was; and befell thus.This doughter, that was kept so deere,And hadde be fro yer to yeere 6730Under hir moder disciplineA clene Maide and a Virgine,Upon the whos nativiteOf comelihiede and of beauteNature hath set al that sche may,That lich unto the fresshe Maii,Which othre monthes of the yeerSurmonteth, so withoute pierWas of this Maiden the feture.Wherof Phebus out of mesure 6740Hire loveth, and on every sydeAwaiteth, if so mai betyde,That he thurgh eny sleihte myhteHire lusti maidenhod unrihte,The which were al his worldes welthe.And thus lurkende upon his steltheIn his await so longe he lai,Til it befell upon a dai,That he thurghout hir chambre wallCam in al sodeinliche, and stall 6750That thing which was to him so lief.Bot wo the while, he was a thief!For Venus, which was enemieOf thilke loves micherie,Discovereth al the pleine casTo Clymene, which thanne wasToward Phebus his concubine.And sche to lette the covineOf thilke love, dedli wrothTo pleigne upon this Maide goth, 6760And tolde hire fader hou it stod;Wherof for sorwe welnyh wodUnto hire moder thus he saide:“Lo, what it is to kepe a Maide!To Phebus dar I nothing speke,Bot upon hire I schal be wreke,So that these Maidens after thisMow take ensample, what it isTo soffre her maidenhed be stole,Wherof that sche the deth schal thole.” 6770And bad with that do make a pet,Wherinne he hath his douhter set,As he that wol no pite have,So that sche was al quik begraveAnd deide anon in his presence.Bot Phebus, for the reverenceOf that sche hadde be his love,Hath wroght thurgh his pouer above,That sche sprong up out of the moldeInto a flour was named golde, 6780Which stant governed of the Sonne.And thus whan love is evele wonne,Fulofte it comth to repentaile.Mi fader, that is no mervaile,Whan that the conseil is bewreid.Bot ofte time love hath pleidAnd stole many a prive game,Which nevere yit cam into blame,Whan that the thinges weren hidde.Bot in youre tale, as it betidde, 6790Venus discoverede al the cas,And ek also brod dai it was,Whan Phebus such a Stelthe wroghte,Wherof the Maide in blame he broghte,That afterward sche was so lore.Bot for ye seiden nou toforeHou stelthe of love goth be nyhte,And doth hise thinges out of syhte,Therof me liste also to hiereA tale lich to the matiere, 6800Wherof I myhte ensample take.Mi goode Sone, and for thi sake,So as it fell be daies olde,And so as the Poete it tolde,Upon the nyhtes micherieNou herkne a tale of Poesie.The myhtieste of alle menWhan Hercules with Eolen,Which was the love of his corage,Togedre upon a Pelrinage 6810Towardes Rome scholden go,It fell hem be the weie so,That thei upon a dai a CaveWithinne a roche founden have,Which was real and gloriousAnd of Entaile curious,Be name and Thophis it was hote.The Sonne schon tho wonder hote,As it was in the Somer tyde;This Hercules, which be his syde 6820Hath Eolen his love there,Whan thei at thilke cave were,He seide it thoghte him for the besteThat sche hire for the hete resteAl thilke day and thilke nyht;And sche, that was a lusti wyht,It liketh hire al that he seide:And thus thei duelle there and pleideThe longe dai. And so befell,This Cave was under the hell 6830Of Tymolus, which was begroweWith vines, and at thilke throweFaunus with Saba the goddesse,Be whom the large wildernesseIn thilke time stod governed,Weere in a place, as I am lerned,Nyh by, which Bachus wode hihte.This Faunus tok a gret insihteOf Eolen, that was so nyh;For whan that he hire beaute syh, 6840Out of his wit he was assoted,And in his herte it hath so noted,That he forsok the Nimphes alle,And seide he wolde, hou so it falle,Assaie an other forto winne;So that his hertes thoght withinneHe sette and caste hou that he myhteOf love pyke awey be nyhteThat he be daie in other wiseTo stele mihte noght suffise: 6850And therupon his time he waiteth.Nou tak good hiede hou love afaitethHim which withal is overcome.Faire Eolen, whan sche was comeWith Hercules into the Cave,Sche seide him that sche wolde haveHise clothes of and hires bothe,That ech of hem scholde other clothe.And al was do riht as sche bad,He hath hire in hise clothes clad 6860And caste on hire his gulion,Which of the Skyn of a LeounWas mad, as he upon the weieIt slouh, and overthis to pleieSche tok his grete Mace alsoAnd knet it at hir gerdil tho.So was sche lich the man arraied,And Hercules thanne hath assaiedTo clothen him in hire array:And thus thei jape forth the dai, 6870Til that her Souper redy were.And whan thei hadden souped there,Thei schopen hem to gon to reste;And as it thoghte hem for the beste,Thei bede, as for that ilke nyht,Tuo sondri beddes to be dyht,For thei togedre ligge nolde,Be cause that thei offre woldeUpon the morwe here sacrifice.The servantz deden here office 6880And sondri beddes made anon,Wherin that thei to reste gonEch be himself in sondri place.Faire Eole hath set the MaceBeside hire beddes hed above,And with the clothes of hire loveSche helede al hire bed aboute;And he, which hadde of nothing doute,Hire wympel wond aboute his cheke,Hire kertell and hire mantel eke 6890Abrod upon his bed he spredde.And thus thei slepen bothe abedde;And what of travail, what of wyn,The servantz lich to drunke SwynBegunne forto route faste.This Faunus, which his Stelthe caste,Was thanne come to the Cave,And fond thei weren alle saveWithoute noise, and in he wente.The derke nyht his sihte blente, 6900And yit it happeth him to goWhere Eolen abedde thoWas leid al one for to slepe;Bot for he wolde take kepeWhos bed it was, he made assai,And of the Leoun, where it lay,The Cote he fond, and ek he fielethThe Mace, and thanne his herte kieleth,That there dorste he noght abyde,Bot stalketh upon every side 6910And soghte aboute with his hond,That other bedd til that he fond,Wher lai bewympled a visage.Tho was he glad in his corage,For he hir kertell fond alsoAnd ek hir mantell bothe tuoBespred upon the bed alofte.He made him naked thanne, and softeInto the bedd unwar he crepte,Wher Hercules that time slepte, 6920And wende wel it were sche;And thus in stede of EoleAnon he profreth him to love.But he, which felte a man above,This Hercules, him threw to groundeSo sore, that thei have him foundeLiggende there upon the morwe;And tho was noght a litel sorwe,That Faunus of himselve made,Bot elles thei were alle glade 6930And lowhen him to scorne aboute:Saba with Nimphis al a routeCam doun to loke hou that he ferde,And whan that thei the sothe herde,He was bejaped overal.Mi Sone, be thou war withalTo seche suche mecheries,Bot if thou have the betre aspies,In aunter if the so betydeAs Faunus dede thilke tyde, 6940Wherof thou miht be schamed so.Min holi fader, certes no.Bot if I hadde riht good leve,Such mecherie I thenke leve:Mi feinte herte wol noght serve;For malgre wolde I noght deserveIn thilke place wher I love.Bot for ye tolden hier aboveOf Covoitise and his pilage,If ther be more of that lignage, 6950Which toucheth to mi schrifte, I preieThat ye therof me wolde seie,So that I mai the vice eschuie.Mi Sone, if I be order suieThe vices, as thei stonde arowe,Of Covoitise thou schalt knoweTher is yit on, which is the laste;In whom ther mai no vertu laste,For he with god himself debateth,Wherof that al the hevene him hateth. 6960The hihe god, which alle goodePourveied hath for mannes fodeOf clothes and of mete and drinke,Bad Adam that he scholde swinkeTo geten him his sustienance:And ek he sette an ordinanceUpon the lawe of Moises,That though a man be haveles,Yit schal he noght be thefte stele.Bot nou adaies ther ben fele, 6970That wol no labour undertake,Bot what thei mai be Stelthe takeThei holde it sikerliche wonne.And thus the lawe is overronne,Which god hath set, and namelyWith hem that so untrewelyThe goodes robbe of holi cherche.The thefte which thei thanne wercheBe name is cleped Sacrilegge,Ayein the whom I thenke alegge. 6980Of his condicion to telle,Which rifleth bothe bok and belle,So forth with al the remenantTo goddes hous appourtenant,Wher that he scholde bidde his bede,He doth his thefte in holi stede,And takth what thing he fint therinne:For whan he seth that he mai winne,He wondeth for no cursednesse,That he ne brekth the holinesse 6990And doth to god no reverence;For he hath lost his conscience,That though the Prest therfore curse,He seith he fareth noght the wurse.And forto speke it otherwise,What man that lasseth the franchiseAnd takth of holi cherche his preie,I not what bedes he schal preie.Whan he fro god, which hath yive al,The Pourpartie in special, 7000Which unto Crist himself is due,Benymth, he mai noght wel eschueThe peine comende afterward;For he hath mad his forewardWith Sacrilegge forto duelle,Which hath his heritage in helle.And if we rede of tholde lawe,I finde write, in thilke daweOf Princes hou ther weren threCoupable sore in this degre. 7010That on of hem was cleped thus,The proude king Antiochus;That other Nabuzardan hihte,Which of his crualte behyhteThe temple to destruie and waste,And so he dede in alle haste;The thridde, which was after schamed,Was Nabugodonosor named,And he Jerusalem putte under,Of Sacrilegge and many a wonder 7020There in the holi temple he wroghte,Which Baltazar his heir aboghte,Whan Mane, Techel, Phares writeWas on the wal, as thou miht wite,So as the bible it hath declared.Bot for al that it is noght sparedYit nou aday, that men ne pile,And maken argument and skileTo Sacrilegge as it belongeth,For what man that ther after longeth, 7030He takth non hiede what he doth.And riht so, forto telle soth,In loves cause if I schal trete,Ther ben of suche smale and grete:If thei no leisir fynden elles,Thei wol noght wonden for the belles,Ne thogh thei sen the Prest at masse;That wol thei leten overpasse.If that thei finde here love there,Thei stonde and tellen in hire Ere, 7040And axe of god non other grace,Whyl thei ben in that holi place;Bot er thei gon som avantageTher wol thei have, and som pilageOf goodli word or of beheste,Or elles thei take ate lesteOut of hir hand or ring or glove,So nyh the weder thei wol love,As who seith sche schal noght foryete,Nou I this tokne of hire have gete: 7050Thus halwe thei the hihe feste.Such thefte mai no cherche areste,For al is leveful that hem liketh,To whom that elles it misliketh.And ek riht in the selve kindeIn grete Cites men mai findeThis lusti folk, that make it gay,And waite upon the haliday:In cherches and in Menstres ekeThei gon the wommen forto seke, 7060And wher that such on goth aboute,Tofore the faireste of the route,Wher as thei sitten alle arewe,Ther wol he most his bodi schewe,His croket kembd and theron setA Nouche with a chapelet,Or elles on of grene leves,Which late com out of the greves,Al for he scholde seme freissh.And thus he loketh on the fleissh, 7070Riht as an hauk which hath a sihteUpon the foul, ther he schal lihte;And as he were of faierie,He scheweth him tofore here yheIn holi place wher thei sitte,Al forto make here hertes flitte.His yhe nawher wole abyde,Bot loke and prie on every sydeOn hire and hire, as him best lyketh:And otherwhile among he syketh; 7080Thenkth on of hem, “That was for me,”And so ther thenken tuo or thre,And yit he loveth non of alle,Bot wher as evere his chance falle.And natheles to seie a soth,The cause why that he so dothIs forto stele an herte or tuo,Out of the cherche er that he go:And as I seide it hier above,Al is that Sacrilege of love; 7090For wel mai be he stelth awayThat he nevere after yelde may.Tell me forthi, my Sone, anon,Hast thou do Sacrilege, or non,As I have said in this manere?Mi fader, as of this matiereI wole you tellen redelyWhat I have do; bot trewelyI mai excuse min entente,That nevere I yit to cherche wente 7100In such manere as ye me schryve,For no womman that is on lyve.The cause why I have it laftMai be for I unto that craftAm nothing able so to stele,Thogh ther be wommen noght so fele.Bot yit wol I noght seie this,Whan I am ther mi ladi is,In whom lith holly mi querele,And sche to cherche or to chapele 7110Wol go to matins or to messe,—That time I waite wel and gesse,To cherche I come and there I stonde,And thogh I take a bok on honde,Mi contienance is on the bok,Bot toward hire is al my lok;And if so falle that I preieUnto mi god, and somwhat seieOf Paternoster or of Crede,Al is for that I wolde spede, 7120So that mi bede in holi chercheTher mihte som miracle wercheMi ladi herte forto chaunge,Which evere hath be to me so strange.So that al mi devocionAnd al mi contemplacionWith al min herte and mi corageIs only set on hire ymage;And evere I waite upon the tyde.If sche loke eny thing asyde, 7130That I me mai of hire avise,Anon I am with covoitiseSo smite, that me were liefTo ben in holi cherche a thief;Bot noght to stele a vestement,For that is nothing mi talent,Bot I wold stele, if that I mihte,A glad word or a goodly syhte;And evere mi service I profre,And namly whan sche wol gon offre, 7140For thanne I lede hire, if I may,For somwhat wolde I stele away.Whan I beclippe hire on the wast,Yit ate leste I stele a tast,And otherwhile “grant mercy”Sche seith, and so winne I therbyA lusti touch, a good word eke,Bot al the remenant to sekeIs fro mi pourpos wonder ferr.So mai I seie, as I seide er, 7150In holy cherche if that I wowe,My conscience it wolde allowe,Be so that up amendementI mihte gete assignementWher forto spede in other place:Such Sacrilege I holde a grace.And thus, mi fader, soth to seie,In cherche riht as in the weie,If I mihte oght of love take,Such hansell have I noght forsake. 7160Bot finali I me confesse,Ther is in me non holinesse,Whil I hire se in eny stede;And yit, for oght that evere I dede,No Sacrilege of hire I tok,Bot if it were of word or lok,Or elles if that I hir fredde,Whan I toward offringe hir ledde,Take therof what I take may,For elles bere I noght away: 7170For thogh I wolde oght elles have,Alle othre thinges ben so saveAnd kept with such a privilege,That I mai do no Sacrilege.God wot mi wille natheles,Thogh I mot nedes kepe pesAnd malgre myn so let it passe,Mi will therto is noght the lasse,If I mihte other wise aweie.Forthi, mi fader, I you preie, 7180Tell what you thenketh therupon,If I therof have gult or non.Thi will, mi Sone, is forto blame,The remenant is bot a game,That I have herd the telle as yit.Bot tak this lore into thi wit,That alle thing hath time and stede,The cherche serveth for the bede,The chambre is of an other speche.Bot if thou wistest of the wreche, 7190Hou Sacrilege it hath aboght,Thou woldest betre ben bethoght;And for thou schalt the more amende,A tale I wole on the despende.To alle men, as who seith, knoweIt is, and in the world thurgh blowe,Hou that of Troie LamedonTo Hercules and to Jasoun,Whan toward Colchos out of GreceBe See sailende upon a piece 7200Of lond of Troie reste preide,—Bot he hem wrathfulli congeide:And for thei founde him so vilein,Whan thei come into Grece ayein,With pouer that thei gete myhteTowardes Troie thei hem dyhte,And ther thei token such vengance,Wherof stant yit the remembrance;For thei destruide king and al,And leften bot the brente wal. 7210The Grecs of Troiens many sloweAnd prisoners thei toke ynowe,Among the whiche ther was on,The kinges doughter Lamedon,Esiona, that faire thing,Which unto Thelamon the kingBe Hercules and be thassentOf al the hole parlementWas at his wille yove and granted.And thus hath Grece Troie danted, 7220And hom thei torne in such manere:Bot after this nou schalt thou hiereThe cause why this tale I telle,Upon the chances that befelle.King Lamedon, which deide thus,He hadde a Sone, on Priamus,Which was noght thilke time at hom:Bot whan he herde of this, he com,And fond hou the Cite was falle,Which he began anon to walle 7230And made ther a cite newe,That thei whiche othre londes kneweTho seiden, that of lym and StonIn al the world so fair was non.And on that o side of the tounThe king let maken Ylioun,That hihe Tour, that stronge place,Which was adrad of no manaceOf quarel nor of non engin;And thogh men wolde make a Myn, 7240No mannes craft it mihte aproche,For it was sett upon a roche.The walles of the toun aboute,Hem stod of al the world no doute,And after the proporcionSex gates weren of the tounOf such a forme, of such entaile,That hem to se was gret mervaile:The diches weren brode and depe,A fewe men it mihte kepe 7250From al the world, as semeth tho,Bot if the goddes weren fo.Gret presse unto that cite drouh,So that ther was of poeple ynouh,Of Burgeis that therinne duellen;Ther mai no mannes tunge tellenHou that cite was riche of good.Whan al was mad and al wel stod,King Priamus tho him bethoghteWhat thei of Grece whilom wroghte, 7260And what was of her swerd devoured,And hou his Soster deshonouredWith Thelamon awey was lad:And so thenkende he wax unglad,And sette anon a parlement,To which the lordes were assent.In many a wise ther was spoke,Hou that thei mihten ben awroke,Bot ate laste nathelesThei seiden alle, “Acord and pes.” 7270To setten either part in resteIt thoghte hem thanne for the besteWith resonable amendement;And thus was Anthenor forth sentTo axe Esionam ayeinAnd witen what thei wolden sein.So passeth he the See be bargeTo Grece forto seie his charge,The which he seide redelyUnto the lordes by and by: 7280Bot where he spak in Grece aboute,He herde noght bot wordes stoute,And nameliche of Thelamon;The maiden wolde he noght forgon,He seide, for no maner thing,And bad him gon hom to his king,For there gat he non amendeFor oght he couthe do or sende.This Anthenor ayein goth homUnto his king, and whan he com, 7290He tolde in Grece of that he herde,And hou that Thelamon ansuerde,And hou thei were at here above,That thei wol nouther pes ne love,Bot every man schal don his beste.Bot for men sein that nyht hath reste,The king bethoghte him al that nyht,And erli, whan the dai was lyht,He tok conseil of this matiere;And thei acorde in this manere, 7300That he withouten eny letteA certein time scholde setteOf Parlement to ben avised:And in the wise it was devised,Of parlement he sette a day,And that was in the Monthe of Maii.This Priamus hadde in his yhteA wif, and Hecuba sche hyhte,Be whom that time ek hadde heOf Sones fyve, and douhtres thre 7310Besiden hem, and thritty mo,And weren knyhtes alle tho,Bot noght upon his wif begete,Bot elles where he myhte hem geteOf wommen whiche he hadde knowe;Such was the world at thilke throwe:So that he was of children riche,As therof was noman his liche.Of Parlement the dai was come,Ther ben the lordes alle and some; 7320Tho was pronounced and pourposed,And al the cause hem was desclosed,Hou Anthenor in Grece ferde.Thei seten alle stille and herde,And tho spak every man aboute:Ther was alegged many a doute,And many a proud word spoke also;Bot for the moste part as thoThei wisten noght what was the beste,Or forto werre or forto reste. 7330Bot he that was withoute fere,Hector, among the lordes thereHis tale tolde in such a wise,And seide, “Lordes, ye ben wise,Ye knowen this als wel as I,Above all othre most worthiStant nou in Grece the manhodeOf worthinesse and of knihthode;For who so wole it wel agrope,To hem belongeth al Europe, 7340Which is the thridde parti eveneOf al the world under the hevene;And we be bot of folk a fewe.So were it reson forto scheweThe peril, er we falle thrinne:Betre is to leve, than beginneThing which as mai noght ben achieved;He is noght wys that fint him grieved,And doth so that his grief be more;For who that loketh al tofore 7350And wol noght se what is behinde,He mai fulofte hise harmes finde:Wicke is to stryve and have the worse.We have encheson forto corse,This wot I wel, and forto hateThe Greks; bot er that we debateWith hem that ben of such a myht,It is ful good that every wihtBe of himself riht wel bethoght.Bot as for me this seie I noght; 7360For while that mi lif wol stonde,If that ye taken werre on honde,Falle it to beste or to the werste,I schal miselven be the fersteTo grieven hem, what evere I may.I wol noght ones seie nayTo thing which that youre conseil demeth,For unto me wel more it quemethThe werre certes than the pes;Bot this I seie natheles, 7370As me belongeth forto seie.Nou schape ye the beste weie.”Whan Hector hath seid his avis,Next after him tho spak Paris,Which was his brother, and alleideWhat him best thoghte, and thus he seide:“Strong thing it is to soffre wrong,And suffre schame is more strong,Bot we have suffred bothe tuo;And for al that yit have we do 7380What so we mihte to reformeThe pes, whan we in such a formeSente Anthenor, as ye wel knowe.And thei here grete wordes bloweUpon her wrongful dedes eke;And who that wole himself noght mekeTo pes, and list no reson take,Men sein reson him wol forsake:For in the multitude of menIs noght the strengthe, for with ten 7390It hath be sen in trew quereleAyein an hundred false dele,And had the betre of goddes grace.This hath befalle in many place;And if it like unto you alle,I wolde assaie, hou so it falle,Oure enemis if I mai grieve;For I have cawht a gret believeUpon a point I wol declare.This ender day, as I gan fare 7400To hunte unto the grete hert,Which was tofore myn houndes stert,And every man went on his sydeHim to poursuie, and I to rydeBegan the chace, and soth to seie,Withinne a while out of mi weieI rod, and nyste where I was.And slep me cauhte, and on the grasBeside a welle I lay me dounTo slepe, and in a visioun 7410To me the god Mercurie cam;Goddesses thre with him he nam,Minerve, Venus and Juno,And in his hond an Appel thoHe hield of gold with lettres write:And this he dede me to wite,Hou that thei putt hem upon me,That to the faireste of hem threOf gold that Appel scholde I yive.With ech of hem tho was I schrive, 7420And echon faire me behihte;Bot Venus seide, if that sche mihteThat Appel of mi yifte gete,Sche wolde it neveremor foryete,And seide hou that in Grece londSche wolde bringe unto myn hondOf al this Erthe the faireste;So that me thoghte it for the beste,To hire and yaf that Appel tho.Thus hope I wel, if that I go, 7430That sche for me wol so ordeine,That thei matiere forto pleigneSchul have, er that I come ayein.Nou have ye herd that I wol sein:Sey ye what stant in youre avis.”And every man tho seide his,And sundri causes thei recorde,Bot ate laste thei acordeThat Paris schal to Grece wende,And thus the parlement tok ende. 7440Cassandra, whan sche herde of this,The which to Paris Soster is,Anon sche gan to wepe and weile,And seide, “Allas, what mai ous eile?Fortune with hire blinde whielNe wol noght lete ous stonde wel:For this I dar wel undertake,That if Paris his weie take,As it is seid that he schal do,We ben for evere thanne undo.” 7450This, which Cassandre thanne hihte,In al the world as it berth sihte,In bokes as men finde write,Is that Sibille of whom ye wite,That alle men yit clepen sage.Whan that sche wiste of this viage,Hou Paris schal to Grece fare,No womman mihte worse fareNe sorwe more than sche dede;And riht so in the same stede 7460Ferde Helenus, which was hir brother,Of prophecie and such an other:And al was holde bot a jape,So that the pourpos which was schape,Or were hem lief or were hem loth,Was holde, and into Grece gothThis Paris with his retenance.And as it fell upon his chance,Of Grece he londeth in an yle,And him was told the same whyle 7470Of folk which he began to freyne,Tho was in thyle queene Heleyne,And ek of contres there abouteOf ladis many a lusti route,With mochel worthi poeple also.And why thei comen theder tho,The cause stod in such a wise,—For worschipe and for sacrifiseThat thei to Venus wolden make,As thei tofore hadde undertake, 7480Some of good will, some of beheste,For thanne was hire hihe festeWithinne a temple which was there.Whan Paris wiste what thei were,Anon he schop his ordinanceTo gon and don his obeissanceTo Venus on hire holi day,And dede upon his beste aray.With gret richesse he him behongeth,As it to such a lord belongeth, 7490He was noght armed natheles,Bot as it were in lond of pes,And thus he goth forth out of SchipeAnd takth with him his felaschipe:In such manere as I you seieUnto the temple he hield his weie.Tydinge, which goth overalTo grete and smale, forth withalCom to the queenes Ere and toldeHou Paris com, and that he wolde 7500Do sacrifise to Venus:And whan sche herde telle thus,Sche thoghte, hou that it evere be,That sche wole him abyde and se.Forth comth Paris with glad visageInto the temple on pelrinage,Wher unto Venus the goddesseHe yifth and offreth gret richesse,And preith hir that he preie wolde.And thanne aside he gan beholde, 7510And sih wher that this ladi stod;And he forth in his freisshe modGoth ther sche was and made her chiere,As he wel couthe in his manere,That of his wordes such plesanceSche tok, that al hire aqueintance,Als ferforth as the herte lay,He stal er that he wente away.So goth he forth and tok his leve,And thoghte, anon as it was eve, 7520He wolde don his Sacrilegge,That many a man it scholde abegge.Whan he to Schipe ayein was come,To him he hath his conseil nome,And al devised the matiereIn such a wise as thou schalt hiere.Withinne nyht al privelyHis men he warneth by and by,That thei be redy armed soneFor certein thing which was to done: 7530And thei anon ben redi alle,And ech on other gan to calle,And went hem out upon the strondeAnd tok a pourpos ther alondeOf what thing that thei wolden do,Toward the temple and forth thei go.So fell it, of devocionHeleine in contemplacionWith many an other worthi wihtWas in the temple and wok al nyht, 7540To bidde and preie unto thymageOf Venus, as was thanne usage;So that Paris riht as him listeInto the temple, er thei it wiste,Com with his men al sodeinly,And alle at ones sette ascryIn hem whiche in the temple were,For tho was mochel poeple there;Bot of defense was no bote,So soffren thei that soffre mote. 7550Paris unto the queene wente,And hire in bothe hise armes henteWith him and with his felaschipe,And forth thei bere hire unto Schipe.Up goth the Seil and forth thei wente,And such a wynd fortune hem sente,Til thei the havene of Troie cauhte;Where out of Schipe anon thei strauhteAnd gon hem forth toward the toun,The which cam with processioun 7560Ayein Paris to sen his preie.And every man began to seieTo Paris and his felaschipeAl that thei couthen of worschipe;Was non so litel man in Troie,That he ne made merthe and joieOf that Paris hath wonne Heleine.Bot al that merthe is sorwe and peineTo Helenus and to Cassaundre;For thei it token schame and sklaundre 7570And lost of al the comun grace,That Paris out of holi placeBe Stelthe hath take a mannes wif,Wherof that he schal lese his lifAnd many a worthi man therto,And al the Cite be fordo,Which nevere schal be mad ayein.And so it fell, riht as thei sein,The Sacrilege which he wroghteWas cause why the Gregois soughte 7580Unto the toun and it beleie,And wolden nevere parte aweie,Til what be sleihte and what be strengtheThei hadde it wonne in brede and lengthe,And brent and slayn that was withinne.Now se, mi Sone, which a sinneIs Sacrilege in holy stede:Be war therfore and bidd thi bede,And do nothing in holy cherche,Bot that thou miht be reson werche. 7590And ek tak hiede of Achilles,Whan he unto his love chesPolixena, that was alsoIn holi temple of Appollo,Which was the cause why he dydeAnd al his lust was leyd asyde.And Troilus upon CriseideAlso his ferste love leideIn holi place, and hou it ferde,As who seith, al the world it herde; 7600Forsake he was for Diomede,Such was of love his laste mede.Forthi, mi Sone, I wolde rede,Be this ensample as thou myht rede,Sech elles, wher thou wolt, thi grace,And war the wel in holi placeWhat thou to love do or speke,In aunter if it so be wrekeAs thou hast herd me told before.And tak good hiede also therfore 7610Upon what forme, of AvariceMor than of eny other vice,I have divided in partiesThe branches, whiche of compainiesThurghout the world in generalBen nou the leders overal,Of Covoitise and of Perjure,Of fals brocage and of Usure,Of Skarsnesse and Unkindeschipe,Which nevere drouh to felaschipe, 7620Of Robberie and privi Stelthe,Which don is for the worldes welthe,Of Ravine and of Sacrilegge,Which makth the conscience agregge;Althogh it mai richesse atteigne,It floureth, bot it schal noght greineUnto the fruit of rihtwisnesse.Bot who that wolde do largesseUpon the reule as it is yive,So myhte a man in trouthe live 7630Toward his god, and ek alsoToward the world, for bothe tuoLargesse awaiteth as belongeth,To neither part that he ne wrongeth;He kepth himself, he kepth his frendes,So stant he sauf to bothe hise endes,That he excedeth no mesure,So wel he can himself mesure:Wherof, mi Sone, thou schalt wite,So as the Philosophre hath write. 7640Betwen the tuo extremitesOf vice stant the propretesOf vertu, and to prove it soTak Avarice and tak alsoThe vice of Prodegalite;Betwen hem Liberalite,Which is the vertu of Largesse,Stant and governeth his noblesse.For tho tuo vices in discordStonde evere, as I finde of record; 7650So that betwen here tuo debatLargesse reuleth his astat.For in such wise as Avarice,As I tofore have told the vice,Thurgh streit holdinge and thurgh skarsnesseStant in contraire to Largesse,Riht so stant ProdegaliteRevers, bot noght in such degre.For so as Avarice spareth,And forto kepe his tresor careth, 7660That other al his oghne and moreAyein the wise mannes loreYifth and despendeth hiere and there,So that him reccheth nevere where.While he mai borwe, he wol despende,Til ate laste he seith, “I wende”;Bot that is spoken al to late,For thanne is poverte ate gateAnd takth him evene be the slieve,For erst wol he no wisdom lieve. 7670And riht as Avarice is Sinne,That wolde his tresor kepe and winne,Riht so is Prodegalite:Bot of Largesse in his degre,Which evene stant betwen the tuo,The hihe god and man alsoThe vertu ech of hem commendeth.For he himselven ferst amendeth,That overal his name spredeth,And to alle othre, where it nedeth, 7680He yifth his good in such a wise,That he makth many a man arise,Which elles scholde falle lowe.Largesce mai noght ben unknowe;For what lond that he regneth inne,It mai noght faile forto winneThurgh his decerte love and grace,Wher it schal faile in other place.And thus betwen tomoche and lyteLargesce, which is noght to wyte, 7690Halt evere forth the middel weie:Bot who that torne wole aweieFro that to Prodegalite,Anon he lest the propreteOf vertu and goth to the vice;For in such wise as AvariceLest for scarsnesse his goode name,Riht so that other is to blame,Which thurgh his wast mesure excedeth,For noman wot what harm that bredeth. 7700Bot mochel joie ther betydeth,Wher that largesse an herte guydeth:For his mesure is so governed,That he to bothe partz is lerned,To god and to the world also,He doth reson to bothe tuo.The povere folk of his almesseRelieved ben in the destresseOf thurst, of hunger and of cold;The yifte of him was nevere sold, 7710Bot frely yive, and nathelesThe myhti god of his encressRewardeth him of double grace;The hevene he doth him to pourchaceAnd yifth him ek the worldes good:And thus the Cote for the hodLargesse takth, and yit no SinneHe doth, hou so that evere he winne.What man hath hors men yive him hors,And who non hath of him no fors, 7720For he mai thanne on fote go;The world hath evere stonde so.Bot forto loken of the tweie,A man to go the siker weie,Betre is to yive than to take:With yifte a man mai frendes make,Bot who that takth or gret or smal,He takth a charge forth withal,And stant noght fre til it be quit.So forto deme in mannes wit, 7730It helpeth more a man to haveHis oghne good, than forto craveOf othre men and make him bounde,Wher elles he mai stonde unbounde.Senec conseileth in this wise,And seith, “Bot, if thi good suffiseUnto the liking of thi wille,Withdrawh thi lust and hold the stille,And be to thi good sufficant.”For that thing is appourtenant 7740To trouthe and causeth to be freAfter the reule of charite,Which ferst beginneth of himselve.For if thou richest othre tuelve,Wherof thou schalt thiself be povere,I not what thonk thou miht recovere.Whil that a man hath good to yive,With grete routes he mai liveAnd hath his frendes overal,And everich of him telle schal. 7750Therwhile he hath his fulle packe,Thei seie, “A good felawe is Jacke”;Bot whanne it faileth ate laste,Anon his pris thei overcaste,For thanne is ther non other laweBot, “Jacke was a good felawe.”Whan thei him povere and nedy se,Thei lete him passe and farwel he;Al that he wende of compainieIs thanne torned to folie. 7760Bot nou to speke in other kindeOf love, a man mai suche finde,That wher thei come in every routeThei caste and waste her love aboute,Til al here time is overgon,And thanne have thei love non:For who that loveth overal,It is no reson that he schalOf love have eny proprete.Forthi, mi Sone, avise thee 7770If thou of love hast be to large,For such a man is noght to charge:And if it so be that thou hastDespended al thi time in wastAnd set thi love in sondri place,Though thou the substance of thi graceLese ate laste, it is no wonder;For he that put himselven under,As who seith, comun overal,He lest the love special 7780Of eny on, if sche be wys;For love schal noght bere his prisBe reson, whanne it passeth on.So have I sen ful many on,That were of love wel at ese,Whiche after felle in gret deseseThurgh wast of love, that thei spenteIn sondri places wher thei wente.Riht so, mi Sone, I axe of theeIf thou with Prodegalite 7790Hast hier and ther thi love wasted.Mi fader, nay; bot I have tastedIn many a place as I have go,And yit love I nevere on of tho,Bot forto drive forth the dai.For lieveth wel, myn herte is ayWithoute mo for everemoreAl upon on, for I nomoreDesire bot hire love al one:So make I many a prive mone, 7800For wel I fiele I have despendedMi longe love and noght amendedMi sped, for oght I finde yit.If this be wast to youre witOf love, and Prodegalite,Nou, goode fader, demeth ye:Bot of o thing I wol me schryve,That I schal for no love thryve,Bot if hirself me wol relieve.Mi Sone, that I mai wel lieve: 7810And natheles me semeth so,For oght that thou hast yit misdoOf time which thou hast despended,It mai with grace ben amended.For thing which mai be worth the costPer chaunce is nouther wast ne lost;For what thing stant on aventure,That can no worldes creatureTelle in certein hou it schal wende,Til he therof mai sen an ende. 7820So that I not as yit therforeIf thou, mi Sone, hast wonne or lore:For ofte time, as it is sene,Whan Somer hath lost al his greneAnd is with Wynter wast and bare,That him is left nothing to spare,Al is recovered in a throwe;The colde wyndes overblowe,And still be the scharpe schoures,And soudeinliche ayein his floures 7830The Somer hapneth and is riche:And so per cas thi graces liche,Mi Sone, thogh thou be nou povereOf love, yit thou miht recovere.Mi fader, certes grant merci:Ye have me tawht so redeli,That evere whil I live schalThe betre I mai be war withalOf thing which ye have seid er this.Bot overmore hou that it is, 7840Toward mi schrifte as it belongeth,To wite of othre pointz me longeth;Wherof that ye me wolden techeWith al myn herte I you beseche.Explicit Liber Quintus.
King Lichaon upon his wifA dowhter hadde, a goodly lif,A clene Maide of worthi fame,Calistona whos rihte nameWas cleped, and of many a lordSche was besoght, bot hire acord 6230To love myhte noman winne,As sche which hath no lust therinne;Bot swor withinne hir herte and saideThat sche wolde evere ben a Maide.Wherof to kepe hireself in pes,With suche as AmadriadesWere cleped, wodemaydes, tho,And with the Nimphes ek alsoUpon the spring of freisshe wellesSche schop to duelle and nagher elles. 6240And thus cam this CalistonaInto the wode of Tegea,Wher sche virginite behihteUnto Diane, and therto plihteHer trouthe upon the bowes grene,To kepe hir maidenhode clene.Which afterward upon a dayWas priveliche stole away;For Jupiter thurgh his queintiseFrom hire it tok in such a wise, 6250That sodeinliche forth withalHire wombe aros and sche toswal,So that it mihte noght ben hidd.And therupon it is betidd,Diane, which it herde telle,In prive place unto a welleWith Nimphes al a compainieWas come, and in a ragerieSche seide that sche bathe wolde,And bad that every maide scholde 6260With hire al naked bathe also.And tho began the prive wo,Calistona wax red for schame;Bot thei that knewe noght the game,To whom no such thing was befalle,Anon thei made hem naked alle,As thei that nothing wolden hyde:Bot sche withdrouh hire evere asyde,And natheles into the flod,Wher that Diane hirselve stod, 6270Sche thoghte come unaperceived.Bot therof sche was al deceived;For whan sche cam a litel nyh,And that Diane hire wombe syh,Sche seide, “Awey, thou foule beste,For thin astat is noght honesteThis chaste water forto touche;For thou hast take such a touche,Which nevere mai ben hol ayein.”And thus goth sche which was forlein 6280With schame, and fro the Nimphes fledde,Til whanne that nature hire spedde,That of a Sone, which ArchasWas named, sche delivered was.And tho Juno, which was the wifOf Jupiter, wroth and hastif,In pourpos forto do venganceCam forth upon this ilke chance,And to Calistona sche spak,And sette upon hir many a lak, 6290And seide, “Ha, nou thou art atake,That thou thi werk myht noght forsake.Ha, thou ungoodlich ypocrite,Hou thou art gretly forto wyte!Bot nou thou schalt ful sore abieThat ilke stelthe and micherie,Which thou hast bothe take and do;Wherof thi fader LichaoSchal noght be glad, whan he it wot,Of that his dowhter was so hot, 6300That sche hath broke hire chaste avou.Bot I thee schal chastise nou;Thi grete beaute schal be torned,Thurgh which that thou hast be mistorned,Thi large frount, thin yhen greie,I schal hem change in other weie,And al the feture of thi faceIn such a wise I schal deface,That every man thee schal forbere.”With that the liknesse of a bere 6310Sche tok and was forschape anon.
Withinne a time and theruponBefell that with a bowe on honde,To hunte and gamen forto fonde,Into that wode goth to pleieHir Sone Archas, and in his weieIt hapneth that this bere cam.And whan that sche good hiede nam,Wher that he stod under the bowh,Sche kneu him wel and to him drouh; 6320For thogh sche hadde hire forme lore,The love was noght lost therforeWhich kinde hath set under his lawe.Whan sche under the wodesschaweHire child behield, sche was so glad,That sche with bothe hire armes sprad,As thogh sche were in wommanhiede,Toward him cam, and tok non hiedeOf that he bar a bowe bent.And he with that an Arwe hath hent 6330And gan to teise it in his bowe,As he that can non other knowe,Bot that it was a beste wylde.Bot Jupiter, which wolde schyldeThe Moder and the Sone also,Ordeineth for hem bothe so,That thei for evere were save.
Bot thus, mi Sone, thou myht haveEnsample, hou that it is to fleTo robbe the virginite 6340Of a yong innocent aweie:And overthis be other weie,In olde bokes as I rede,Such Robberie is forto drede,And nameliche of thilke goodWhich every womman that is goodDesireth forto kepe and holde,As whilom was be daies olde.For if thou se mi tale welOf that was tho, thou miht somdiel 6350Of old ensample taken hiede,Hou that the flour of maidenhiedeWas thilke time holde in pris.And so it was, and so it is,And so it schal for evere stonde:And for thou schalt it understonde,Nou herkne a tale next suiende,Hou maidenhod is to commende.
Of Rome among the gestes oldeI finde hou that Valerie tolde 6360That what man tho was EmperourOf Rome, he scholde don honourTo the virgine, and in the weie,Wher he hire mette, he scholde obeieIn worschipe of virginite,Which tho was of gret dignite.Noght onliche of the wommen tho,Bot of the chaste men alsoIt was commended overal:And forto speke in special 6370Touchende of men, ensample I finde,
Phyryns, which was of mannes kindeAbove alle othre the fairesteOf Rome and ek the comelieste,That wel was hire which him mihteBeholde and have of him a sihte.Thus was he tempted ofte sore;Bot for he wolde be nomoreAmong the wommen so coveited,The beaute of his face streited 6380He hath, and threste out bothe hise yhen,That alle wommen whiche him syhenThanne afterward, of him ne roghte:And thus his maidehiede he boghte.So mai I prove wel forthi,Above alle othre under the Sky,Who that the vertus wolde peise,Virginite is forto preise,Which, as thapocalips recordeth,To Crist in hevene best acordeth. 6390So mai it schewe wel therfore,As I have told it hier tofore,In hevene and ek in Erthe alsoIt is accept to bothe tuo.
And if I schal more over thisDeclare what this vertu is,I finde write upon this thingOf Valentinian the kingAnd Emperour be thilke daies,A worthi knyht at alle assaies, 6400Hou he withoute MariageWas of an hundred wynter Age,And hadde ben a worthi knihtBothe of his lawe and of his myht.Bot whan men wolde his dedes peiseAnd his knyhthode of Armes preise,Of that he dede with his hondes,Whan he the kinges and the londesTo his subjeccion put under,Of al that pris hath he no wonder, 6410For he it sette of non acompte,And seide al that may noght amonteAyeins o point which he hath nome,That he his fleissh hath overcome:He was a virgine, as he seide;On that bataille his pris he leide.Lo nou, my Sone, avise thee.
Yee, fader, al this wel mai be,Bot if alle othre dede so,The world of men were sone go: 6420And in the lawe a man mai finde,Hou god to man be weie of kindeHath set the world to multeplie;And who that wol him justefie,It is ynouh to do the lawe.And natheles youre goode saweIs good to kepe, who so may,I wol noght therayein seie nay.
Mi Sone, take it as I seie;If maidenhod be take aweie 6430Withoute lawes ordinance,It mai noght failen of vengance.And if thou wolt the sothe wite,Behold a tale which is write,Hou that the King Agamenon,Whan he the Cite of LesbonHath wonne, a Maiden ther he fond,Which was the faireste of the LondIn thilke time that men wiste.He tok of hire what him liste 6440Of thing which was most precious,Wherof that sche was dangerous.This faire Maiden cleped isCriseide, douhter of Crisis,Which was that time in specialOf thilke temple principal,Wher Phebus hadde his sacrifice,So was it wel the more vice.Agamenon was thanne in weieTo Troieward, and tok aweie 6450This Maiden, which he with him ladde,So grete a lust in hire he hadde.Bot Phebus, which hath gret desdeignOf that his Maiden was forlein,Anon as he to Troie cam,Vengance upon this dede he namAnd sende a comun pestilence.Thei soghten thanne here evidenceAnd maden calculacion,To knowe in what condicion 6460This deth cam in so sodeinly;And ate laste redylyThe cause and ek the man thei founde:And forth withal the same stoundeAgamenon opposed was,Which hath beknowen al the casOf the folie which he wroghte.And therupon mercy thei soghteToward the god in sondri wiseWith preiere and with sacrifise, 6470The Maide and hom ayein thei sende,And yive hire good ynouh to spendeFor evere whil sche scholde live:And thus the Senne was foryiveAnd al the pestilence cessed.
Lo, what it is to ben encressedOf love which is evele wonne.It were betre noght begonneThan take a thing withoute leve,Which thou most after nedes leve, 6480And yit have malgre forth withal.Forthi to robben overalIn loves cause if thou beginne,I not what ese thou schalt winne.Mi Sone, be wel war of this,For thus of Robberie it is.
Mi fader, youre ensamplerieIn loves cause of RobberieI have it riht wel understonde.Bot overthis, hou so it stonde, 6490Yit wolde I wite of youre apriseWhat thing is more of Covoitise.
With Covoitise yit I findeA Servant of the same kinde,Which Stelthe is hote, and MecherieWith him is evere in compainie.Of whom if I schal telle soth,He stalketh as a Pocok doth,And takth his preie so covert,That noman wot it in apert. 6500For whan he wot the lord from home,Than wol he stalke aboute and rome;And what thing he fint in his weie,Whan that he seth the men aweie,He stelth it and goth forth withal,That therof noman knowe schal.And ek fulofte he goth a nyhtWithoute Mone or sterreliht,And with his craft the dore unpiketh,And takth therinne what him liketh: 6510And if the dore be so schet,That he be of his entre let,He wole in ate wyndou crepe,And whil the lord is faste aslepe,He stelth what thing as him best list,And goth his weie er it be wist.Fulofte also be lyhte of dayYit wole he stele and make assay;Under the cote his hond he put,Til he the mannes Purs have cut, 6520And rifleth that he fint therinne.And thus he auntreth him to winne,And berth an horn and noght ne bloweth,For noman of his conseil knoweth;What he mai gete of his Michinge,It is al bile under the winge.And as an hound that goth to foldeAnd hath ther taken what he wolde,His mouth upon the gras he wypeth,And so with feigned chiere him slypeth, 6530That what as evere of schep he strangle,Ther is noman therof schal jangle,As forto knowen who it dede;Riht so doth Stelthe in every stede,Where as him list his preie take.He can so wel his cause makeAnd so wel feigne and so wel glose,That ther ne schal noman suppose,Bot that he were an innocent,And thus a mannes yhe he blent: 6540So that this craft I mai remeneWithouten help of eny mene.
Ther be lovers of that degre,Which al here lust in privete,As who seith, geten al be Stelthe,And ofte atteignen to gret weltheAs for the time that it lasteth.For love awaiteth evere and castethHou he mai stele and cacche his preie,Whan he therto mai finde a weie: 6550For be it nyht or be it day,He takth his part, whan that he may,And if he mai nomore do,Yit wol he stele a cuss or tuo.
Mi Sone, what seist thou therto?Tell if thou dedest evere so.
Mi fader, hou?
Mi Sone, thus,—If thou hast stolen eny cussOr other thing which therto longeth,For noman suche thieves hongeth: 6560Tell on forthi and sei the trouthe.
Mi fader, nay, and that is routhe,For be mi will I am a thief;Bot sche that is to me most lief,Yit dorste I nevere in priveteNoght ones take hire be the kne,To stele of hire or this or that,And if I dorste, I wot wel what:And natheles, bot if I lie,Be Stelthe ne be Robberie 6570Of love, which fell in mi thoght,To hire dede I nevere noght.Bot as men sein, wher herte is failed,Ther schal no castell ben assailed;Bot thogh I hadde hertes ten,And were als strong as alle men,If I be noght myn oghne manAnd dar noght usen that I can,I mai miselve noght recovere.Thogh I be nevere man so povere, 6580I bere an herte and hire it is,So that me faileth wit in this,Hou that I scholde of myn acordThe servant lede ayein the lord:For if mi fot wolde awher go,Or that min hand wolde elles do,Whan that myn herte is therayein,The remenant is al in vein.And thus me lacketh alle wele,And yit ne dar I nothing stele 6590Of thing which longeth unto love:And ek it is so hyh above,I mai noght wel therto areche,Bot if so be at time of speche,Ful selde if thanne I stele mayA word or tuo and go my way.Betwen hire hih astat and meComparison ther mai non be,So that I fiele and wel I wot,Al is to hevy and to hot 6600To sette on hond withoute leve:And thus I mot algate leveTo stele that I mai noght take,And in this wise I mot forsakeTo ben a thief ayein mi willeOf thing which I mai noght fulfille.For that Serpent which nevere slepteThe flees of gold so wel ne kepteIn Colchos, as the tale is told,That mi ladi a thousendfold 6610Nys betre yemed and bewaked,Wher sche be clothed or be naked.To kepe hir bodi nyht and day,Sche hath a wardein redi ay,Which is so wonderful a wyht,That him ne mai no mannes myhtWith swerd ne with no wepne daunte,Ne with no sleihte of charme enchaunte,Wherof he mihte be mad tame,And Danger is his rihte name; 6620Which under lock and under keie,That noman mai it stele aweie,Hath al the Tresor underfongeThat unto love mai belonge.The leste lokinge of hire yheMai noght be stole, if he it syhe;And who so gruccheth for so lyte,He wolde sone sette a wyteOn him that wolde stele more.And that me grieveth wonder sore, 6630For this proverbe is evere newe,That stronge lokes maken treweOf hem that wolden stele and pyke:For so wel can ther noman slykeBe him ne be non other mene,To whom Danger wol yive or leneOf that tresor he hath to kepe.So thogh I wolde stalke and crepe,And wayte on eve and ek on morwe,Of Danger schal I nothing borwe, 6640And stele I wot wel may I noght:And thus I am riht wel bethoght,Whil Danger stant in his office,Of Stelthe, which ye clepe a vice,I schal be gultif neveremo.Therfore I wolde he were agoSo fer that I nevere of him herde,Hou so that afterward it ferde:For thanne I mihte yit per casOf love make som pourchas 6650Be Stelthe or be som other weie,That nou fro me stant fer aweie.
Bot, fader, as ye tolde above,Hou Stelthe goth a nyht for love,I mai noght wel that point forsake,That ofte times I ne wakeOn nyhtes, whan that othre slepe;Bot hou, I prei you taketh kepe.Whan I am loged in such wiseThat I be nyhte mai arise, 6660At som wyndowe and loken outeAnd se the housinge al aboute,So that I mai the chambre knoweIn which mi ladi, as I trowe,Lyth in hir bed and slepeth softe,Thanne is myn herte a thief fulofte:For there I stonde to beholdeThe longe nyhtes that ben colde,And thenke on hire that lyth there.And thanne I wisshe that I were 6670Als wys as was NectanabusOr elles as was Protheus,That couthen bothe of nigromaunceIn what liknesse, in what semblaunce,Riht as hem liste, hemself transforme:For if I were of such a forme,I seie thanne I wolde fleInto the chambre forto seIf eny grace wolde falle,So that I mihte under the palle 6680Som thing of love pyke and stele.And thus I thenke thoghtes fele,And thogh therof nothing be soth,Yit ese as for a time it doth:Bot ate laste whanne I findeThat I am falle into my mynde,And se that I have stonde longeAnd have no profit underfonge,Than stalke I to mi bedd withinne.And this is al that evere I winne 6690Of love, whanne I walke on nyht:Mi will is good, bot of mi myhtMe lacketh bothe and of mi grace;For what so that mi thoght embrace,Yit have I noght the betre ferd.Mi fader, lo, nou have ye herdWhat I be Stelthe of love have do,And hou mi will hath be therto:If I be worthi to penanceI put it on your ordinance. 6700
Mi Sone, of Stelthe I the behiete,Thogh it be for a time swete,At ende it doth bot litel good,As be ensample hou that it stodWhilom, I mai thee telle nou.
I preie you, fader, sei me hou.
Mi Sone, of him which goth be daieBe weie of Stelthe to assaie,In loves cause and takth his preie,Ovide seide as I schal seie, 6710And in his Methamor he toldeA tale, which is good to holde.
The Poete upon this matiereOf Stelthe wrot in this manere.Venus, which hath this lawe in hondeOf thing which mai noght be withstonde,As sche which the tresor to wardeOf love hath withinne hir warde,Phebum to love hath so constreigned,That he withoute reste is peined 6720With al his herte to coveiteA Maiden, which was warded streyteWithinne chambre and kept so clos,That selden was whan sche desclosGoth with hir moder forto pleie.Leuchotoe, so as men seie,This Maiden hihte, and OrchamusHir fader was; and befell thus.This doughter, that was kept so deere,And hadde be fro yer to yeere 6730Under hir moder disciplineA clene Maide and a Virgine,Upon the whos nativiteOf comelihiede and of beauteNature hath set al that sche may,That lich unto the fresshe Maii,Which othre monthes of the yeerSurmonteth, so withoute pierWas of this Maiden the feture.Wherof Phebus out of mesure 6740Hire loveth, and on every sydeAwaiteth, if so mai betyde,That he thurgh eny sleihte myhteHire lusti maidenhod unrihte,The which were al his worldes welthe.And thus lurkende upon his steltheIn his await so longe he lai,Til it befell upon a dai,That he thurghout hir chambre wallCam in al sodeinliche, and stall 6750That thing which was to him so lief.Bot wo the while, he was a thief!For Venus, which was enemieOf thilke loves micherie,Discovereth al the pleine casTo Clymene, which thanne wasToward Phebus his concubine.And sche to lette the covineOf thilke love, dedli wrothTo pleigne upon this Maide goth, 6760And tolde hire fader hou it stod;Wherof for sorwe welnyh wodUnto hire moder thus he saide:“Lo, what it is to kepe a Maide!To Phebus dar I nothing speke,Bot upon hire I schal be wreke,So that these Maidens after thisMow take ensample, what it isTo soffre her maidenhed be stole,Wherof that sche the deth schal thole.” 6770And bad with that do make a pet,Wherinne he hath his douhter set,As he that wol no pite have,So that sche was al quik begraveAnd deide anon in his presence.Bot Phebus, for the reverenceOf that sche hadde be his love,Hath wroght thurgh his pouer above,That sche sprong up out of the moldeInto a flour was named golde, 6780Which stant governed of the Sonne.And thus whan love is evele wonne,Fulofte it comth to repentaile.
Mi fader, that is no mervaile,Whan that the conseil is bewreid.Bot ofte time love hath pleidAnd stole many a prive game,Which nevere yit cam into blame,Whan that the thinges weren hidde.Bot in youre tale, as it betidde, 6790Venus discoverede al the cas,And ek also brod dai it was,Whan Phebus such a Stelthe wroghte,Wherof the Maide in blame he broghte,That afterward sche was so lore.Bot for ye seiden nou toforeHou stelthe of love goth be nyhte,And doth hise thinges out of syhte,Therof me liste also to hiereA tale lich to the matiere, 6800Wherof I myhte ensample take.
Mi goode Sone, and for thi sake,So as it fell be daies olde,And so as the Poete it tolde,Upon the nyhtes micherieNou herkne a tale of Poesie.
The myhtieste of alle menWhan Hercules with Eolen,Which was the love of his corage,Togedre upon a Pelrinage 6810Towardes Rome scholden go,It fell hem be the weie so,That thei upon a dai a CaveWithinne a roche founden have,Which was real and gloriousAnd of Entaile curious,Be name and Thophis it was hote.The Sonne schon tho wonder hote,As it was in the Somer tyde;This Hercules, which be his syde 6820Hath Eolen his love there,Whan thei at thilke cave were,He seide it thoghte him for the besteThat sche hire for the hete resteAl thilke day and thilke nyht;And sche, that was a lusti wyht,It liketh hire al that he seide:And thus thei duelle there and pleideThe longe dai. And so befell,This Cave was under the hell 6830Of Tymolus, which was begroweWith vines, and at thilke throweFaunus with Saba the goddesse,Be whom the large wildernesseIn thilke time stod governed,Weere in a place, as I am lerned,Nyh by, which Bachus wode hihte.This Faunus tok a gret insihteOf Eolen, that was so nyh;For whan that he hire beaute syh, 6840Out of his wit he was assoted,And in his herte it hath so noted,That he forsok the Nimphes alle,And seide he wolde, hou so it falle,Assaie an other forto winne;So that his hertes thoght withinneHe sette and caste hou that he myhteOf love pyke awey be nyhteThat he be daie in other wiseTo stele mihte noght suffise: 6850And therupon his time he waiteth.
Nou tak good hiede hou love afaitethHim which withal is overcome.Faire Eolen, whan sche was comeWith Hercules into the Cave,Sche seide him that sche wolde haveHise clothes of and hires bothe,That ech of hem scholde other clothe.And al was do riht as sche bad,He hath hire in hise clothes clad 6860And caste on hire his gulion,Which of the Skyn of a LeounWas mad, as he upon the weieIt slouh, and overthis to pleieSche tok his grete Mace alsoAnd knet it at hir gerdil tho.So was sche lich the man arraied,And Hercules thanne hath assaiedTo clothen him in hire array:And thus thei jape forth the dai, 6870Til that her Souper redy were.And whan thei hadden souped there,Thei schopen hem to gon to reste;And as it thoghte hem for the beste,Thei bede, as for that ilke nyht,Tuo sondri beddes to be dyht,For thei togedre ligge nolde,Be cause that thei offre woldeUpon the morwe here sacrifice.The servantz deden here office 6880And sondri beddes made anon,Wherin that thei to reste gonEch be himself in sondri place.Faire Eole hath set the MaceBeside hire beddes hed above,And with the clothes of hire loveSche helede al hire bed aboute;And he, which hadde of nothing doute,Hire wympel wond aboute his cheke,Hire kertell and hire mantel eke 6890Abrod upon his bed he spredde.And thus thei slepen bothe abedde;And what of travail, what of wyn,The servantz lich to drunke SwynBegunne forto route faste.
This Faunus, which his Stelthe caste,Was thanne come to the Cave,And fond thei weren alle saveWithoute noise, and in he wente.The derke nyht his sihte blente, 6900And yit it happeth him to goWhere Eolen abedde thoWas leid al one for to slepe;Bot for he wolde take kepeWhos bed it was, he made assai,And of the Leoun, where it lay,The Cote he fond, and ek he fielethThe Mace, and thanne his herte kieleth,That there dorste he noght abyde,Bot stalketh upon every side 6910And soghte aboute with his hond,That other bedd til that he fond,Wher lai bewympled a visage.Tho was he glad in his corage,For he hir kertell fond alsoAnd ek hir mantell bothe tuoBespred upon the bed alofte.He made him naked thanne, and softeInto the bedd unwar he crepte,Wher Hercules that time slepte, 6920And wende wel it were sche;And thus in stede of EoleAnon he profreth him to love.But he, which felte a man above,This Hercules, him threw to groundeSo sore, that thei have him foundeLiggende there upon the morwe;And tho was noght a litel sorwe,That Faunus of himselve made,Bot elles thei were alle glade 6930And lowhen him to scorne aboute:Saba with Nimphis al a routeCam doun to loke hou that he ferde,And whan that thei the sothe herde,He was bejaped overal.
Mi Sone, be thou war withalTo seche suche mecheries,Bot if thou have the betre aspies,In aunter if the so betydeAs Faunus dede thilke tyde, 6940Wherof thou miht be schamed so.
Min holi fader, certes no.Bot if I hadde riht good leve,Such mecherie I thenke leve:Mi feinte herte wol noght serve;For malgre wolde I noght deserveIn thilke place wher I love.Bot for ye tolden hier aboveOf Covoitise and his pilage,If ther be more of that lignage, 6950Which toucheth to mi schrifte, I preieThat ye therof me wolde seie,So that I mai the vice eschuie.
Mi Sone, if I be order suieThe vices, as thei stonde arowe,Of Covoitise thou schalt knoweTher is yit on, which is the laste;In whom ther mai no vertu laste,For he with god himself debateth,Wherof that al the hevene him hateth. 6960
The hihe god, which alle goodePourveied hath for mannes fodeOf clothes and of mete and drinke,Bad Adam that he scholde swinkeTo geten him his sustienance:And ek he sette an ordinanceUpon the lawe of Moises,That though a man be haveles,Yit schal he noght be thefte stele.Bot nou adaies ther ben fele, 6970That wol no labour undertake,Bot what thei mai be Stelthe takeThei holde it sikerliche wonne.And thus the lawe is overronne,Which god hath set, and namelyWith hem that so untrewelyThe goodes robbe of holi cherche.The thefte which thei thanne wercheBe name is cleped Sacrilegge,Ayein the whom I thenke alegge. 6980Of his condicion to telle,Which rifleth bothe bok and belle,So forth with al the remenantTo goddes hous appourtenant,Wher that he scholde bidde his bede,He doth his thefte in holi stede,And takth what thing he fint therinne:For whan he seth that he mai winne,He wondeth for no cursednesse,That he ne brekth the holinesse 6990And doth to god no reverence;For he hath lost his conscience,That though the Prest therfore curse,He seith he fareth noght the wurse.
And forto speke it otherwise,What man that lasseth the franchiseAnd takth of holi cherche his preie,I not what bedes he schal preie.Whan he fro god, which hath yive al,The Pourpartie in special, 7000Which unto Crist himself is due,Benymth, he mai noght wel eschueThe peine comende afterward;For he hath mad his forewardWith Sacrilegge forto duelle,Which hath his heritage in helle.And if we rede of tholde lawe,I finde write, in thilke daweOf Princes hou ther weren threCoupable sore in this degre. 7010That on of hem was cleped thus,The proude king Antiochus;That other Nabuzardan hihte,Which of his crualte behyhteThe temple to destruie and waste,And so he dede in alle haste;The thridde, which was after schamed,Was Nabugodonosor named,And he Jerusalem putte under,Of Sacrilegge and many a wonder 7020There in the holi temple he wroghte,Which Baltazar his heir aboghte,Whan Mane, Techel, Phares writeWas on the wal, as thou miht wite,So as the bible it hath declared.Bot for al that it is noght sparedYit nou aday, that men ne pile,And maken argument and skileTo Sacrilegge as it belongeth,For what man that ther after longeth, 7030He takth non hiede what he doth.
And riht so, forto telle soth,In loves cause if I schal trete,Ther ben of suche smale and grete:If thei no leisir fynden elles,Thei wol noght wonden for the belles,Ne thogh thei sen the Prest at masse;That wol thei leten overpasse.If that thei finde here love there,Thei stonde and tellen in hire Ere, 7040And axe of god non other grace,Whyl thei ben in that holi place;Bot er thei gon som avantageTher wol thei have, and som pilageOf goodli word or of beheste,Or elles thei take ate lesteOut of hir hand or ring or glove,So nyh the weder thei wol love,As who seith sche schal noght foryete,Nou I this tokne of hire have gete: 7050Thus halwe thei the hihe feste.Such thefte mai no cherche areste,For al is leveful that hem liketh,To whom that elles it misliketh.And ek riht in the selve kindeIn grete Cites men mai findeThis lusti folk, that make it gay,And waite upon the haliday:In cherches and in Menstres ekeThei gon the wommen forto seke, 7060And wher that such on goth aboute,Tofore the faireste of the route,Wher as thei sitten alle arewe,Ther wol he most his bodi schewe,His croket kembd and theron setA Nouche with a chapelet,Or elles on of grene leves,Which late com out of the greves,Al for he scholde seme freissh.And thus he loketh on the fleissh, 7070Riht as an hauk which hath a sihteUpon the foul, ther he schal lihte;And as he were of faierie,He scheweth him tofore here yheIn holi place wher thei sitte,Al forto make here hertes flitte.His yhe nawher wole abyde,Bot loke and prie on every sydeOn hire and hire, as him best lyketh:And otherwhile among he syketh; 7080Thenkth on of hem, “That was for me,”And so ther thenken tuo or thre,And yit he loveth non of alle,Bot wher as evere his chance falle.And natheles to seie a soth,The cause why that he so dothIs forto stele an herte or tuo,Out of the cherche er that he go:And as I seide it hier above,Al is that Sacrilege of love; 7090For wel mai be he stelth awayThat he nevere after yelde may.Tell me forthi, my Sone, anon,Hast thou do Sacrilege, or non,As I have said in this manere?
Mi fader, as of this matiereI wole you tellen redelyWhat I have do; bot trewelyI mai excuse min entente,That nevere I yit to cherche wente 7100In such manere as ye me schryve,For no womman that is on lyve.The cause why I have it laftMai be for I unto that craftAm nothing able so to stele,Thogh ther be wommen noght so fele.Bot yit wol I noght seie this,Whan I am ther mi ladi is,In whom lith holly mi querele,And sche to cherche or to chapele 7110Wol go to matins or to messe,—That time I waite wel and gesse,To cherche I come and there I stonde,And thogh I take a bok on honde,Mi contienance is on the bok,Bot toward hire is al my lok;And if so falle that I preieUnto mi god, and somwhat seieOf Paternoster or of Crede,Al is for that I wolde spede, 7120So that mi bede in holi chercheTher mihte som miracle wercheMi ladi herte forto chaunge,Which evere hath be to me so strange.So that al mi devocionAnd al mi contemplacionWith al min herte and mi corageIs only set on hire ymage;And evere I waite upon the tyde.If sche loke eny thing asyde, 7130That I me mai of hire avise,Anon I am with covoitiseSo smite, that me were liefTo ben in holi cherche a thief;Bot noght to stele a vestement,For that is nothing mi talent,Bot I wold stele, if that I mihte,A glad word or a goodly syhte;And evere mi service I profre,And namly whan sche wol gon offre, 7140For thanne I lede hire, if I may,For somwhat wolde I stele away.Whan I beclippe hire on the wast,Yit ate leste I stele a tast,And otherwhile “grant mercy”Sche seith, and so winne I therbyA lusti touch, a good word eke,Bot al the remenant to sekeIs fro mi pourpos wonder ferr.So mai I seie, as I seide er, 7150In holy cherche if that I wowe,My conscience it wolde allowe,Be so that up amendementI mihte gete assignementWher forto spede in other place:Such Sacrilege I holde a grace.And thus, mi fader, soth to seie,In cherche riht as in the weie,If I mihte oght of love take,Such hansell have I noght forsake. 7160Bot finali I me confesse,Ther is in me non holinesse,Whil I hire se in eny stede;And yit, for oght that evere I dede,No Sacrilege of hire I tok,Bot if it were of word or lok,Or elles if that I hir fredde,Whan I toward offringe hir ledde,Take therof what I take may,For elles bere I noght away: 7170For thogh I wolde oght elles have,Alle othre thinges ben so saveAnd kept with such a privilege,That I mai do no Sacrilege.God wot mi wille natheles,Thogh I mot nedes kepe pesAnd malgre myn so let it passe,Mi will therto is noght the lasse,If I mihte other wise aweie.Forthi, mi fader, I you preie, 7180Tell what you thenketh therupon,If I therof have gult or non.
Thi will, mi Sone, is forto blame,The remenant is bot a game,That I have herd the telle as yit.Bot tak this lore into thi wit,That alle thing hath time and stede,The cherche serveth for the bede,The chambre is of an other speche.Bot if thou wistest of the wreche, 7190Hou Sacrilege it hath aboght,Thou woldest betre ben bethoght;And for thou schalt the more amende,A tale I wole on the despende.
To alle men, as who seith, knoweIt is, and in the world thurgh blowe,Hou that of Troie LamedonTo Hercules and to Jasoun,Whan toward Colchos out of GreceBe See sailende upon a piece 7200Of lond of Troie reste preide,—Bot he hem wrathfulli congeide:And for thei founde him so vilein,Whan thei come into Grece ayein,With pouer that thei gete myhteTowardes Troie thei hem dyhte,And ther thei token such vengance,Wherof stant yit the remembrance;For thei destruide king and al,And leften bot the brente wal. 7210The Grecs of Troiens many sloweAnd prisoners thei toke ynowe,Among the whiche ther was on,The kinges doughter Lamedon,Esiona, that faire thing,Which unto Thelamon the kingBe Hercules and be thassentOf al the hole parlementWas at his wille yove and granted.And thus hath Grece Troie danted, 7220And hom thei torne in such manere:Bot after this nou schalt thou hiereThe cause why this tale I telle,Upon the chances that befelle.
King Lamedon, which deide thus,He hadde a Sone, on Priamus,Which was noght thilke time at hom:Bot whan he herde of this, he com,And fond hou the Cite was falle,Which he began anon to walle 7230And made ther a cite newe,That thei whiche othre londes kneweTho seiden, that of lym and StonIn al the world so fair was non.And on that o side of the tounThe king let maken Ylioun,That hihe Tour, that stronge place,Which was adrad of no manaceOf quarel nor of non engin;And thogh men wolde make a Myn, 7240No mannes craft it mihte aproche,For it was sett upon a roche.The walles of the toun aboute,Hem stod of al the world no doute,And after the proporcionSex gates weren of the tounOf such a forme, of such entaile,That hem to se was gret mervaile:The diches weren brode and depe,A fewe men it mihte kepe 7250From al the world, as semeth tho,Bot if the goddes weren fo.Gret presse unto that cite drouh,So that ther was of poeple ynouh,Of Burgeis that therinne duellen;Ther mai no mannes tunge tellenHou that cite was riche of good.
Whan al was mad and al wel stod,King Priamus tho him bethoghteWhat thei of Grece whilom wroghte, 7260And what was of her swerd devoured,And hou his Soster deshonouredWith Thelamon awey was lad:And so thenkende he wax unglad,And sette anon a parlement,To which the lordes were assent.In many a wise ther was spoke,Hou that thei mihten ben awroke,Bot ate laste nathelesThei seiden alle, “Acord and pes.” 7270To setten either part in resteIt thoghte hem thanne for the besteWith resonable amendement;And thus was Anthenor forth sentTo axe Esionam ayeinAnd witen what thei wolden sein.So passeth he the See be bargeTo Grece forto seie his charge,The which he seide redelyUnto the lordes by and by: 7280Bot where he spak in Grece aboute,He herde noght bot wordes stoute,And nameliche of Thelamon;The maiden wolde he noght forgon,He seide, for no maner thing,And bad him gon hom to his king,For there gat he non amendeFor oght he couthe do or sende.
This Anthenor ayein goth homUnto his king, and whan he com, 7290He tolde in Grece of that he herde,And hou that Thelamon ansuerde,And hou thei were at here above,That thei wol nouther pes ne love,Bot every man schal don his beste.Bot for men sein that nyht hath reste,The king bethoghte him al that nyht,And erli, whan the dai was lyht,He tok conseil of this matiere;And thei acorde in this manere, 7300That he withouten eny letteA certein time scholde setteOf Parlement to ben avised:And in the wise it was devised,Of parlement he sette a day,And that was in the Monthe of Maii.This Priamus hadde in his yhteA wif, and Hecuba sche hyhte,Be whom that time ek hadde heOf Sones fyve, and douhtres thre 7310Besiden hem, and thritty mo,And weren knyhtes alle tho,Bot noght upon his wif begete,Bot elles where he myhte hem geteOf wommen whiche he hadde knowe;Such was the world at thilke throwe:So that he was of children riche,As therof was noman his liche.
Of Parlement the dai was come,Ther ben the lordes alle and some; 7320Tho was pronounced and pourposed,And al the cause hem was desclosed,Hou Anthenor in Grece ferde.Thei seten alle stille and herde,And tho spak every man aboute:Ther was alegged many a doute,And many a proud word spoke also;Bot for the moste part as thoThei wisten noght what was the beste,Or forto werre or forto reste. 7330Bot he that was withoute fere,Hector, among the lordes thereHis tale tolde in such a wise,And seide, “Lordes, ye ben wise,Ye knowen this als wel as I,Above all othre most worthiStant nou in Grece the manhodeOf worthinesse and of knihthode;For who so wole it wel agrope,To hem belongeth al Europe, 7340Which is the thridde parti eveneOf al the world under the hevene;And we be bot of folk a fewe.So were it reson forto scheweThe peril, er we falle thrinne:Betre is to leve, than beginneThing which as mai noght ben achieved;He is noght wys that fint him grieved,And doth so that his grief be more;For who that loketh al tofore 7350And wol noght se what is behinde,He mai fulofte hise harmes finde:Wicke is to stryve and have the worse.We have encheson forto corse,This wot I wel, and forto hateThe Greks; bot er that we debateWith hem that ben of such a myht,It is ful good that every wihtBe of himself riht wel bethoght.Bot as for me this seie I noght; 7360For while that mi lif wol stonde,If that ye taken werre on honde,Falle it to beste or to the werste,I schal miselven be the fersteTo grieven hem, what evere I may.I wol noght ones seie nayTo thing which that youre conseil demeth,For unto me wel more it quemethThe werre certes than the pes;Bot this I seie natheles, 7370As me belongeth forto seie.Nou schape ye the beste weie.”
Whan Hector hath seid his avis,Next after him tho spak Paris,Which was his brother, and alleideWhat him best thoghte, and thus he seide:“Strong thing it is to soffre wrong,And suffre schame is more strong,Bot we have suffred bothe tuo;And for al that yit have we do 7380What so we mihte to reformeThe pes, whan we in such a formeSente Anthenor, as ye wel knowe.And thei here grete wordes bloweUpon her wrongful dedes eke;And who that wole himself noght mekeTo pes, and list no reson take,Men sein reson him wol forsake:For in the multitude of menIs noght the strengthe, for with ten 7390It hath be sen in trew quereleAyein an hundred false dele,And had the betre of goddes grace.This hath befalle in many place;And if it like unto you alle,I wolde assaie, hou so it falle,Oure enemis if I mai grieve;For I have cawht a gret believeUpon a point I wol declare.
This ender day, as I gan fare 7400To hunte unto the grete hert,Which was tofore myn houndes stert,And every man went on his sydeHim to poursuie, and I to rydeBegan the chace, and soth to seie,Withinne a while out of mi weieI rod, and nyste where I was.And slep me cauhte, and on the grasBeside a welle I lay me dounTo slepe, and in a visioun 7410To me the god Mercurie cam;Goddesses thre with him he nam,Minerve, Venus and Juno,And in his hond an Appel thoHe hield of gold with lettres write:And this he dede me to wite,Hou that thei putt hem upon me,That to the faireste of hem threOf gold that Appel scholde I yive.With ech of hem tho was I schrive, 7420And echon faire me behihte;Bot Venus seide, if that sche mihteThat Appel of mi yifte gete,Sche wolde it neveremor foryete,And seide hou that in Grece londSche wolde bringe unto myn hondOf al this Erthe the faireste;So that me thoghte it for the beste,To hire and yaf that Appel tho.Thus hope I wel, if that I go, 7430That sche for me wol so ordeine,That thei matiere forto pleigneSchul have, er that I come ayein.Nou have ye herd that I wol sein:Sey ye what stant in youre avis.”And every man tho seide his,And sundri causes thei recorde,Bot ate laste thei acordeThat Paris schal to Grece wende,And thus the parlement tok ende. 7440
Cassandra, whan sche herde of this,The which to Paris Soster is,Anon sche gan to wepe and weile,And seide, “Allas, what mai ous eile?Fortune with hire blinde whielNe wol noght lete ous stonde wel:For this I dar wel undertake,That if Paris his weie take,As it is seid that he schal do,We ben for evere thanne undo.” 7450This, which Cassandre thanne hihte,In al the world as it berth sihte,In bokes as men finde write,Is that Sibille of whom ye wite,That alle men yit clepen sage.Whan that sche wiste of this viage,Hou Paris schal to Grece fare,No womman mihte worse fareNe sorwe more than sche dede;And riht so in the same stede 7460Ferde Helenus, which was hir brother,Of prophecie and such an other:And al was holde bot a jape,So that the pourpos which was schape,Or were hem lief or were hem loth,Was holde, and into Grece gothThis Paris with his retenance.And as it fell upon his chance,Of Grece he londeth in an yle,And him was told the same whyle 7470Of folk which he began to freyne,Tho was in thyle queene Heleyne,And ek of contres there abouteOf ladis many a lusti route,With mochel worthi poeple also.And why thei comen theder tho,The cause stod in such a wise,—For worschipe and for sacrifiseThat thei to Venus wolden make,As thei tofore hadde undertake, 7480Some of good will, some of beheste,For thanne was hire hihe festeWithinne a temple which was there.
Whan Paris wiste what thei were,Anon he schop his ordinanceTo gon and don his obeissanceTo Venus on hire holi day,And dede upon his beste aray.With gret richesse he him behongeth,As it to such a lord belongeth, 7490He was noght armed natheles,Bot as it were in lond of pes,And thus he goth forth out of SchipeAnd takth with him his felaschipe:In such manere as I you seieUnto the temple he hield his weie.
Tydinge, which goth overalTo grete and smale, forth withalCom to the queenes Ere and toldeHou Paris com, and that he wolde 7500Do sacrifise to Venus:And whan sche herde telle thus,Sche thoghte, hou that it evere be,That sche wole him abyde and se.
Forth comth Paris with glad visageInto the temple on pelrinage,Wher unto Venus the goddesseHe yifth and offreth gret richesse,And preith hir that he preie wolde.And thanne aside he gan beholde, 7510And sih wher that this ladi stod;And he forth in his freisshe modGoth ther sche was and made her chiere,As he wel couthe in his manere,That of his wordes such plesanceSche tok, that al hire aqueintance,Als ferforth as the herte lay,He stal er that he wente away.So goth he forth and tok his leve,And thoghte, anon as it was eve, 7520He wolde don his Sacrilegge,That many a man it scholde abegge.
Whan he to Schipe ayein was come,To him he hath his conseil nome,And al devised the matiereIn such a wise as thou schalt hiere.Withinne nyht al privelyHis men he warneth by and by,That thei be redy armed soneFor certein thing which was to done: 7530And thei anon ben redi alle,And ech on other gan to calle,And went hem out upon the strondeAnd tok a pourpos ther alondeOf what thing that thei wolden do,Toward the temple and forth thei go.So fell it, of devocionHeleine in contemplacionWith many an other worthi wihtWas in the temple and wok al nyht, 7540To bidde and preie unto thymageOf Venus, as was thanne usage;So that Paris riht as him listeInto the temple, er thei it wiste,Com with his men al sodeinly,And alle at ones sette ascryIn hem whiche in the temple were,For tho was mochel poeple there;Bot of defense was no bote,So soffren thei that soffre mote. 7550
Paris unto the queene wente,And hire in bothe hise armes henteWith him and with his felaschipe,And forth thei bere hire unto Schipe.Up goth the Seil and forth thei wente,And such a wynd fortune hem sente,Til thei the havene of Troie cauhte;Where out of Schipe anon thei strauhteAnd gon hem forth toward the toun,The which cam with processioun 7560Ayein Paris to sen his preie.And every man began to seieTo Paris and his felaschipeAl that thei couthen of worschipe;Was non so litel man in Troie,That he ne made merthe and joieOf that Paris hath wonne Heleine.Bot al that merthe is sorwe and peineTo Helenus and to Cassaundre;For thei it token schame and sklaundre 7570And lost of al the comun grace,That Paris out of holi placeBe Stelthe hath take a mannes wif,Wherof that he schal lese his lifAnd many a worthi man therto,And al the Cite be fordo,Which nevere schal be mad ayein.And so it fell, riht as thei sein,The Sacrilege which he wroghteWas cause why the Gregois soughte 7580Unto the toun and it beleie,And wolden nevere parte aweie,Til what be sleihte and what be strengtheThei hadde it wonne in brede and lengthe,And brent and slayn that was withinne.Now se, mi Sone, which a sinneIs Sacrilege in holy stede:Be war therfore and bidd thi bede,And do nothing in holy cherche,Bot that thou miht be reson werche. 7590
And ek tak hiede of Achilles,Whan he unto his love chesPolixena, that was alsoIn holi temple of Appollo,Which was the cause why he dydeAnd al his lust was leyd asyde.
And Troilus upon CriseideAlso his ferste love leideIn holi place, and hou it ferde,As who seith, al the world it herde; 7600Forsake he was for Diomede,Such was of love his laste mede.
Forthi, mi Sone, I wolde rede,Be this ensample as thou myht rede,Sech elles, wher thou wolt, thi grace,And war the wel in holi placeWhat thou to love do or speke,In aunter if it so be wrekeAs thou hast herd me told before.And tak good hiede also therfore 7610Upon what forme, of AvariceMor than of eny other vice,I have divided in partiesThe branches, whiche of compainiesThurghout the world in generalBen nou the leders overal,Of Covoitise and of Perjure,Of fals brocage and of Usure,Of Skarsnesse and Unkindeschipe,Which nevere drouh to felaschipe, 7620Of Robberie and privi Stelthe,Which don is for the worldes welthe,Of Ravine and of Sacrilegge,Which makth the conscience agregge;Althogh it mai richesse atteigne,It floureth, bot it schal noght greineUnto the fruit of rihtwisnesse.Bot who that wolde do largesseUpon the reule as it is yive,So myhte a man in trouthe live 7630Toward his god, and ek alsoToward the world, for bothe tuoLargesse awaiteth as belongeth,To neither part that he ne wrongeth;He kepth himself, he kepth his frendes,So stant he sauf to bothe hise endes,That he excedeth no mesure,So wel he can himself mesure:Wherof, mi Sone, thou schalt wite,So as the Philosophre hath write. 7640
Betwen the tuo extremitesOf vice stant the propretesOf vertu, and to prove it soTak Avarice and tak alsoThe vice of Prodegalite;Betwen hem Liberalite,Which is the vertu of Largesse,Stant and governeth his noblesse.For tho tuo vices in discordStonde evere, as I finde of record; 7650So that betwen here tuo debatLargesse reuleth his astat.For in such wise as Avarice,As I tofore have told the vice,Thurgh streit holdinge and thurgh skarsnesseStant in contraire to Largesse,Riht so stant ProdegaliteRevers, bot noght in such degre.For so as Avarice spareth,And forto kepe his tresor careth, 7660That other al his oghne and moreAyein the wise mannes loreYifth and despendeth hiere and there,So that him reccheth nevere where.While he mai borwe, he wol despende,Til ate laste he seith, “I wende”;Bot that is spoken al to late,For thanne is poverte ate gateAnd takth him evene be the slieve,For erst wol he no wisdom lieve. 7670And riht as Avarice is Sinne,That wolde his tresor kepe and winne,Riht so is Prodegalite:Bot of Largesse in his degre,Which evene stant betwen the tuo,The hihe god and man alsoThe vertu ech of hem commendeth.For he himselven ferst amendeth,That overal his name spredeth,And to alle othre, where it nedeth, 7680He yifth his good in such a wise,That he makth many a man arise,Which elles scholde falle lowe.Largesce mai noght ben unknowe;For what lond that he regneth inne,It mai noght faile forto winneThurgh his decerte love and grace,Wher it schal faile in other place.
And thus betwen tomoche and lyteLargesce, which is noght to wyte, 7690Halt evere forth the middel weie:Bot who that torne wole aweieFro that to Prodegalite,Anon he lest the propreteOf vertu and goth to the vice;For in such wise as AvariceLest for scarsnesse his goode name,Riht so that other is to blame,Which thurgh his wast mesure excedeth,For noman wot what harm that bredeth. 7700
Bot mochel joie ther betydeth,Wher that largesse an herte guydeth:For his mesure is so governed,That he to bothe partz is lerned,To god and to the world also,He doth reson to bothe tuo.The povere folk of his almesseRelieved ben in the destresseOf thurst, of hunger and of cold;The yifte of him was nevere sold, 7710Bot frely yive, and nathelesThe myhti god of his encressRewardeth him of double grace;The hevene he doth him to pourchaceAnd yifth him ek the worldes good:And thus the Cote for the hodLargesse takth, and yit no SinneHe doth, hou so that evere he winne.
What man hath hors men yive him hors,And who non hath of him no fors, 7720For he mai thanne on fote go;The world hath evere stonde so.Bot forto loken of the tweie,A man to go the siker weie,Betre is to yive than to take:With yifte a man mai frendes make,Bot who that takth or gret or smal,He takth a charge forth withal,And stant noght fre til it be quit.So forto deme in mannes wit, 7730It helpeth more a man to haveHis oghne good, than forto craveOf othre men and make him bounde,Wher elles he mai stonde unbounde.
Senec conseileth in this wise,And seith, “Bot, if thi good suffiseUnto the liking of thi wille,Withdrawh thi lust and hold the stille,And be to thi good sufficant.”For that thing is appourtenant 7740To trouthe and causeth to be freAfter the reule of charite,Which ferst beginneth of himselve.For if thou richest othre tuelve,Wherof thou schalt thiself be povere,I not what thonk thou miht recovere.
Whil that a man hath good to yive,With grete routes he mai liveAnd hath his frendes overal,And everich of him telle schal. 7750Therwhile he hath his fulle packe,Thei seie, “A good felawe is Jacke”;Bot whanne it faileth ate laste,Anon his pris thei overcaste,For thanne is ther non other laweBot, “Jacke was a good felawe.”Whan thei him povere and nedy se,Thei lete him passe and farwel he;Al that he wende of compainieIs thanne torned to folie. 7760
Bot nou to speke in other kindeOf love, a man mai suche finde,That wher thei come in every routeThei caste and waste her love aboute,Til al here time is overgon,And thanne have thei love non:For who that loveth overal,It is no reson that he schalOf love have eny proprete.Forthi, mi Sone, avise thee 7770If thou of love hast be to large,For such a man is noght to charge:And if it so be that thou hastDespended al thi time in wastAnd set thi love in sondri place,Though thou the substance of thi graceLese ate laste, it is no wonder;For he that put himselven under,As who seith, comun overal,He lest the love special 7780Of eny on, if sche be wys;For love schal noght bere his prisBe reson, whanne it passeth on.So have I sen ful many on,That were of love wel at ese,Whiche after felle in gret deseseThurgh wast of love, that thei spenteIn sondri places wher thei wente.
Riht so, mi Sone, I axe of theeIf thou with Prodegalite 7790Hast hier and ther thi love wasted.
Mi fader, nay; bot I have tastedIn many a place as I have go,And yit love I nevere on of tho,Bot forto drive forth the dai.For lieveth wel, myn herte is ayWithoute mo for everemoreAl upon on, for I nomoreDesire bot hire love al one:So make I many a prive mone, 7800For wel I fiele I have despendedMi longe love and noght amendedMi sped, for oght I finde yit.If this be wast to youre witOf love, and Prodegalite,Nou, goode fader, demeth ye:Bot of o thing I wol me schryve,That I schal for no love thryve,Bot if hirself me wol relieve.
Mi Sone, that I mai wel lieve: 7810And natheles me semeth so,For oght that thou hast yit misdoOf time which thou hast despended,It mai with grace ben amended.For thing which mai be worth the costPer chaunce is nouther wast ne lost;For what thing stant on aventure,That can no worldes creatureTelle in certein hou it schal wende,Til he therof mai sen an ende. 7820So that I not as yit therforeIf thou, mi Sone, hast wonne or lore:For ofte time, as it is sene,Whan Somer hath lost al his greneAnd is with Wynter wast and bare,That him is left nothing to spare,Al is recovered in a throwe;The colde wyndes overblowe,And still be the scharpe schoures,And soudeinliche ayein his floures 7830The Somer hapneth and is riche:And so per cas thi graces liche,Mi Sone, thogh thou be nou povereOf love, yit thou miht recovere.
Mi fader, certes grant merci:Ye have me tawht so redeli,That evere whil I live schalThe betre I mai be war withalOf thing which ye have seid er this.Bot overmore hou that it is, 7840Toward mi schrifte as it belongeth,To wite of othre pointz me longeth;Wherof that ye me wolden techeWith al myn herte I you beseche.
Explicit Liber Quintus.