Chapter 4

Now lest what fell upon this thing.    2080The day was merie and fair ynowh,Echon with othre pleide and lowh,And fellen into tales newe,How that the freisshe floures grewe,And how the grene leves spronge,And how that love among the yongeBegan the hertes thanne awake,And every bridd hath chose hire make:And thus the Maies day to thendeThei lede, and hom ayein thei wende.    2090The king was noght so sone come,That whanne he hadde his chambre nome,His brother ne was redi there,And broghte a tale unto his EreOf that he dede such a schameIn hindringe of his oghne name,Whan he himself so wolde drecche,That to so vil a povere wreccheHim deigneth schewe such simplesceAyein thastat of his noblesce:    2100And seith he schal it nomor use,And that he mot himself excuseToward hise lordes everychon.The king stod stille as eny ston,And to his tale an Ere he leide,And thoghte more than he seide:Bot natheles to that he herdeWel cortaisly the king answerde,And tolde it scholde be amended.And thus whan that her tale is ended,    2110Al redy was the bord and cloth,The king unto his Souper gothAmong the lordes to the halle;And whan thei hadden souped alle,Thei token leve and forth thei go.The king bethoghte himselve thoHow he his brother mai chastie,That he thurgh his SurquiderieTok upon honde to despreiseHumilite, which is to preise,    2120And therupon yaf such conseilToward his king that was noght heil;Wherof to be the betre lered,He thenkth to maken him afered.It fell so that in thilke daweTher was ordeined be the laweA trompe with a sterne breth,Which cleped was the Trompe of deth:And in the Court wher the king wasA certein man this Trompe of bras    2130Hath in kepinge, and therof serveth,That whan a lord his deth deserveth,He schal this dredful trompe bloweTofore his gate, and make it knoweHow that the jugement is yoveOf deth, which schal noght be foryove.The king, whan it was nyht, anonThis man asente and bad him gonTo trompen at his brother gate;And he, which mot so don algate,    2140Goth forth and doth the kynges heste.This lord, which herde of this tempesteThat he tofore his gate blew,Tho wiste he be the lawe and knewThat he was sikerliche ded:And as of help he wot no red,Bot sende for hise frendes alleAnd tolde hem how it is befalle.And thei him axe cause why;Bot he the sothe noght forthi    2150Ne wiste, and ther was sorwe tho:For it stod thilke tyme so,This trompe was of such sentence,That therayein no resistenceThei couthe ordeine be no weie,That he ne mot algate deie,Bot if so that he may pourchaceTo gete his liege lordes grace.Here wittes therupon thei caste,And ben apointed ate laste.    2160This lord a worthi ladi haddeUnto his wif, which also draddeHire lordes deth, and children fiveBetwen hem two thei hadde alyve,That weren yonge and tendre of age,And of stature and of visageRiht faire and lusty on to se.Tho casten thei that he and scheForth with here children on the morwe,As thei that were full of sorwe,    2170Al naked bot of smok and scherte,To tendre with the kynges herte,His grace scholden go to secheAnd pardoun of the deth beseche.Thus passen thei that wofull nyht,And erly, whan thei sihe it lyht,Thei gon hem forth in such a wiseAs thou tofore hast herd devise,Al naked bot here schortes one.Thei wepte and made mochel mone,    2180Here Her hangende aboute here Eres;With sobbinge and with sory teresThis lord goth thanne an humble pas,That whilom proud and noble was;Wherof the Cite sore afflyhte,Of hem that sihen thilke syhte:And natheless al openlyWith such wepinge and with such criForth with hise children and his wifHe goth to preie for his lif.    2190Unto the court whan thei be come,And men therinne have hiede nome,Ther was no wiht, if he hem syhe,Fro water mihte kepe his yheFor sorwe which thei maden tho.The king supposeth of this wo,And feigneth as he noght ne wiste;Bot natheles at his upristeMen tolden him how that it ferde:And whan that he this wonder herde,    2200In haste he goth into the halle,And alle at ones doun thei falle,If eny pite may be founde.The king, which seth hem go to grounde,Hath axed hem what is the fere,Why thei be so despuiled there.His brother seide: “Ha lord, mercy!I wot non other cause why,Bot only that this nyht ful lateThe trompe of deth was at my gate    2210In tokne that I scholde deie;Thus be we come forto preieThat ye mi worldes deth respite.”“Ha fol, how thou art forto wyte,”The king unto his brother seith,“That thou art of so litel feith,That only for a trompes sounHast gon despuiled thurgh the toun,Thou and thi wif in such manereForth with thi children that ben here,    2220In sihte of alle men aboute,For that thou seist thou art in douteOf deth, which stant under the laweOf man, and man it mai withdrawe,So that it mai par chance faile.Now schalt thou noght forthi mervaileThat I doun fro my Charr alihte,Whanne I behield tofore my sihteIn hem that were of so grete ageMin oghne deth thurgh here ymage,    2230Which god hath set be lawe of kynde,Wherof I mai no bote finde:For wel I wot, such as thei be,Riht such am I in my degree,Of fleissh and blod, and so schal deie.And thus, thogh I that lawe obeieOf which the kinges ben put under,It oghte ben wel lasse wonderThan thou, which art withoute nedeFor lawe of londe in such a drede,    2240Which for tacompte is bot a jape,As thing which thou miht overscape.Forthi, mi brother, after thisI rede, sithen that so isThat thou canst drede a man so sore,Dred god with al thin herte more:For al schal deie and al schal passe,Als wel a Leoun as an asse,Als wel a beggere as a lord,Towardes deth in on acord    2250Thei schullen stonde.” And in this wiseThe king hath with hise wordes wiseHis brother tawht and al foryive.Forthi, mi Sone, if thou wolt liveIn vertu, thou most vice eschuie,And with low herte humblesce suie,So that thou be noght surquidous.Mi fader, I am amorous,Wherof I wolde you besecheThat ye me som ensample teche,    2260Which mihte in loves cause stonde.Mi Sone, thou schalt understonde,In love and othre thinges alleIf that Surquiderie falle,It may to him noght wel betideWhich useth thilke vice of Pride,Which torneth wisdom to wenyngeAnd Sothfastnesse into lesyngeThurgh fol ymaginacion.And for thin enformacion,    2270That thou this vice as I the redeEschuie schalt, a tale I rede,Which fell whilom be daies olde,So as the clerk Ovide tolde.Ther was whilom a lordes Sone,Which of his Pride a nyce woneHath cawht, that worthi to his liche,To sechen al the worldes riche,Ther was no womman forto love.So hihe he sette himselve above    2280Of stature and of beaute bothe,That him thoghte alle wommen lothe:So was ther no comparisounAs toward his condicioun.This yonge lord Narcizus hihte:No strengthe of love bowe mihteHis herte, which is unaffiled;Bot ate laste he was beguiled:For of the goddes pourveanceIt fell him on a dai par chance,    2290That he in all his proude fareUnto the forest gan to fare,Amonges othre that ther wereTo hunte and to desporte him there.And whanne he cam into the placeWher that he wolde make his chace,The houndes weren in a throweUncoupled and the hornes blowe:The grete hert anon was founde,Which swifte feet sette upon grounde,    2300And he with spore in horse sideHim hasteth faste forto ride,Til alle men be left behinde.And as he rod, under a lindeBeside a roche, as I thee telle,He syh wher sprong a lusty welle:The day was wonder hot withalle,And such a thurst was on him falle,That he moste owther deie or drinke;And doun he lihte and be the brinke    2310He teide his Hors unto a braunche,And leide him lowe forto stauncheHis thurst: and as he caste his lokInto the welle and hiede tok,He sih the like of his visage,And wende ther were an ymageOf such a Nimphe as tho was faie,Wherof that love his herte assaieBegan, as it was after sene,Of his sotie and made him wene    2320It were a womman that he syh.The more he cam the welle nyh,The nerr cam sche to him ayein;So wiste he nevere what to sein;For whanne he wepte, he sih hire wepe,And whanne he cride, he tok good kepe,The same word sche cride also:And thus began the newe wo,That whilom was to him so strange;Tho made him love an hard eschange,    2330To sette his herte and to beginneThing which he mihte nevere winne.And evere among he gan to loute,And preith that sche to him come oute;And otherwhile he goth a ferr,And otherwhile he draweth nerr,And evere he fond hire in o place.He wepth, he crith, he axeth grace,There as he mihte gete non;So that ayein a Roche of Ston,    2340As he that knew non other red,He smot himself til he was ded.Wherof the Nimphes of the welles,And othre that ther weren ellesUnto the wodes belongende,The body, which was ded ligende,For pure pite that thei haveUnder the grene thei begrave.And thanne out of his sepultureTher sprong anon par aventure    2350Of floures such a wonder syhte,That men ensample take myhteUpon the dedes whiche he dede,As tho was sene in thilke stede;For in the wynter freysshe and faireThe floures ben, which is contraireTo kynde, and so was the folieWhich fell of his Surquiderie.Thus he, which love hadde in desdeign,Worste of all othre was besein,    2360And as he sette his pris most hyhe,He was lest worth in loves yheAnd most bejaped in his wit:Wherof the remembrance is yit,So that thou myht ensample take,And ek alle othre for his sake.Mi fader, as touchende of me,This vice I thenke forto fle,Which of his wenynge overtroweth;And nameliche of thing which groweth    2370In loves cause or wel or woYit pryded I me nevere so.Bot wolde god that grace sende,That toward me my lady wendeAs I towardes hire wene!Mi love scholde so be sene,Ther scholde go no pride a place.Bot I am ferr fro thilke grace,As forto speke of tyme now;So mot I soffre, and preie yow    2380That ye wole axe on other sideIf ther be eny point of Pride,Wherof it nedeth to be schrive.Mi Sone, godd it thee foryive,If thou have eny thing misdoTouchende of this, bot overmoTher is an other yit of Pride,Which nevere cowthe hise wordes hide,That he ne wole himself avaunte;Ther mai nothing his tunge daunte,    2390That he ne clappeth as a Belle:Wherof if thou wolt that I telle,It is behovely forto hiere,So that thou myht thi tunge stiere,Toward the world and stonde in grace,Which lacketh ofte in many placeTo him that can noght sitte stille,Which elles scholde have al his wille.The vice cleped AvantanceWith Pride hath take his aqueintance,    2400So that his oghne pris he lasseth,When he such mesure overpassethThat he his oghne Herald is.That ferst was wel is thanne mis,That was thankworth is thanne blame,And thus the worschipe of his nameThurgh pride of his avantarieHe torneth into vilenie.I rede how that this proude viceHath thilke wynd in his office,    2410Which thurgh the blastes that he blowethThe mannes fame he overthrowethOf vertu, which scholde elles springeInto the worldes knowlechinge;Bot he fordoth it alto sore.And riht of such a maner loreTher ben lovers: forthi if thowArt on of hem, tell and sei how.Whan thou hast taken eny thingOf loves yifte, or Nouche or ring,    2420Or tok upon thee for the coldSom goodly word that thee was told,Or frendly chiere or tokne or lettre,Wherof thin herte was the bettre,Or that sche sende the grietinge,Hast thou for Pride of thi likingeMad thin avant wher as the liste?I wolde, fader, that ye wiste,Mi conscience lith noght hiere:Yit hadde I nevere such matiere,    2430Wherof min herte myhte amende,Noght of so mochel that sche sendeBe mowthe and seide, “Griet him wel:”And thus for that ther is no dielWherof to make myn avant,It is to reson acordantThat I mai nevere, bot I lye,Of love make avanterie.I wot noght what I scholde have do,If that I hadde encheson so,    2440As ye have seid hier manyon;Bot I fond cause nevere non:Bot daunger, which welnyh me slowh,Therof I cowthe telle ynowh,And of non other Avantance:Thus nedeth me no repentance.Now axeth furthere of my lif,For hierof am I noght gultif.Mi Sone, I am wel paid withal;For wite it wel in special    2450That love of his verrai justiceAbove alle othre ayein this viceAt alle times most debateth,With al his herte and most it hateth.And ek in alle maner wiseAvantarie is to despise,As be ensample thou myht wite,Which I finde in the bokes write.Of hem that we Lombars now calleAlbinus was the ferste of alle    2460Which bar corone of Lombardie,And was of gret chivalerieIn werre ayein diverse kinges.So fell amonges othre thinges,That he that time a werre haddeWith Gurmond, which the Geptes ladde,And was a myhti kyng also:Bot natheles it fell him so,Albinus slowh him in the feld,Ther halp him nowther swerd ne scheld,    2470That he ne smot his hed of thanne,Wherof he tok awey the Panne,Of which he seide he wolde makeA Cuppe for Gurmoundes sake,To kepe and drawe into memoireOf his bataille the victoire.And thus whan he the feld hath wonne,The lond anon was overronneAnd sesed in his oghne hond,Wher he Gurmondes dowhter fond,    2480Which Maide Rosemounde hihte,And was in every mannes sihteA fair, a freissh, a lusti on.His herte fell to hire anon,And such a love on hire he caste,That he hire weddeth ate laste;And after that long time in resteWith hire he duelte, and to the besteThei love ech other wonder wel.Bot sche which kepth the blinde whel,    2490Venus, whan thei be most above,In al the hoteste of here love,Hire whiel sche torneth, and thei felleIn the manere as I schal telle.This king, which stod in al his weltheOf pes, of worschipe and of helthe,And felte him on no side grieved,As he that hath his world achieved,Tho thoghte he wolde a feste make;And that was for his wyves sake,    2500That sche the lordes ate feste,That were obeissant to his heste,Mai knowe: and so forth theruponHe let ordeine, and sende anonBe lettres and be messagiers,And warnede alle hise officiersThat every thing be wel arraied:The grete Stiedes were assaiedFor joustinge and for tornement,And many a perled garnement    2510Embroudred was ayein the dai.The lordes in here beste arraiBe comen ate time set,On jousteth wel, an other bet,And otherwhile thei torneie,And thus thei casten care aweieAnd token lustes upon honde.And after, thou schalt understonde,To mete into the kinges halleThei come, as thei be beden alle:    2520And whan thei were set and served,Thanne after, as it was deserved,To hem that worthi knyhtes were,So as thei seten hiere and there,The pris was yove and spoken outeAmong the heraldz al aboute.And thus benethe and ek aboveAl was of armes and of love,Wherof abouten ate bordesMen hadde manye sondri wordes,    2530That of the merthe which thei madeThe king himself began to gladeWithinne his herte and tok a pride,And sih the Cuppe stonde aside,Which mad was of Gurmoundes hed,As ye have herd, whan he was ded,And was with gold and riche StonesBeset and bounde for the nones,And stod upon a fot on heihteOf burned gold, and with gret sleihte    2540Of werkmanschipe it was begraveOf such werk as it scholde have,And was policed ek so cleneThat no signe of the Skulle is sene,Bot as it were a Gripes Ey.The king bad bere his Cuppe awey,Which stod tofore him on the bord,And fette thilke. Upon his wordThis Skulle is fet and wyn therinne,Wherof he bad his wif beginne:    2550“Drink with thi fader, Dame,” he seide.And sche to his biddinge obeide,And tok the Skulle, and what hire listeSche drank, as sche which nothing wisteWhat Cuppe it was: and thanne al outeThe kyng in audience abouteHath told it was hire fader Skulle,So that the lordes knowe schulleOf his bataille a soth witnesse,And made avant thurgh what prouesse    2560He hath his wyves love wonne,Which of the Skulle hath so begonne.Tho was ther mochel Pride alofte,Thei speken alle, and sche was softe,Thenkende on thilke unkynde Pride,Of that hire lord so nyh hire sideAvanteth him that he hath slainAnd piked out hire fader brain,And of the Skulle had mad a Cuppe.Sche soffreth al til thei were uppe,    2570And tho sche hath seknesse feigned,And goth to chambre and hath compleignedUnto a Maide which sche triste,So that non other wyht it wiste.This Mayde Glodeside is hote,To whom this lady hath behoteOf ladischipe al that sche can,To vengen hire upon this man,Which dede hire drinke in such a plitAmong hem alle for despit    2580Of hire and of hire fader bothe;Wherof hire thoghtes ben so wrothe,Sche seith, that sche schal noght be glad,Til that sche se him so bestadThat he nomore make avant.And thus thei felle in covenant,That thei acorden ate laste,With suche wiles as thei casteThat thei wol gete of here acordSom orped knyht to sle this lord:    2590And with this sleihte thei beginne,How thei Helmege myhten winne,Which was the kinges Boteler,A proud a lusti Bacheler,And Glodeside he loveth hote.And sche, to make him more assote,Hire love granteth, and be nyhteThei schape how thei togedre myhteAbedde meete: and don it wasThis same nyht; and in this cas    2600The qwene hirself the nyht secoundeWente in hire stede, and there hath foundeA chambre derk withoute liht,And goth to bedde to this knyht.And he, to kepe his observance,To love doth his obeissance,And weneth it be Glodeside;And sche thanne after lay aside,And axeth him what he hath do,And who sche was sche tolde him tho,    2610And seide: “Helmege, I am thi qwene,Now schal thi love wel be seneOf that thou hast thi wille wroght:Or it schal sore ben aboght,Or thou schalt worche as I thee seie.And if thou wolt be such a weieDo my plesance and holde it stille,For evere I schal ben at thi wille,Bothe I and al myn heritage.”Anon the wylde loves rage,    2620In which noman him can governe,Hath mad him that he can noght werne,Bot fell al hol to hire assent:And thus the whiel is al miswent,The which fortune hath upon honde;For how that evere it after stonde,Thei schope among hem such a wyle,The king was ded withinne a whyle.So slihly cam it noght abouteThat thei ne ben descoevered oute,    2630So that it thoghte hem for the besteTo fle, for there was no reste:And thus the tresor of the kingThei trusse and mochel other thing,And with a certein felaschipeThei fledde and wente awey be schipe,And hielde here rihte cours fro thenne,Til that thei come to Ravenne,Wher thei the Dukes helpe soghte.And he, so as thei him besoghte,    2640A place granteth forto duelle;Bot after, whan he herde telleOf the manere how thei have do,This Duk let schape for hem so,That of a puison which thei drunkeThei hadden that thei have beswunke.And al this made avant of Pride:Good is therfore a man to hideHis oghne pris, for if he speke,He mai lihtliche his thonk tobreke.    2650In armes lith non avantanceTo him which thenkth his name avanceAnd be renomed of his dede:And also who that thenkth to spedeOf love, he mai him noght avaunte;For what man thilke vice haunte,His pourpos schal fulofte faile.In armes he that wol travaileOr elles loves grace atteigne,His lose tunge he mot restreigne,    2660Which berth of his honour the keie.Forthi, my Sone, in alle weieTak riht good hiede of this matiere.I thonke you, my fader diere,This scole is of a gentil lore;And if ther be oght elles moreOf Pride, which I schal eschuie,Now axeth forth, and I wol suieWhat thing that ye me wole enforme.Mi Sone, yit in other forme    2670Ther is a vice of Prides lore,Which lich an hauk whan he wol sore,Fleith upon heihte in his delicesAfter the likynge of his vices,And wol no mannes resoun knowe,Till he doun falle and overthrowe.This vice veine gloire is hote,Wherof, my Sone, I thee behoteTo trete and speke in such a wise,That thou thee myht the betre avise.    2680The proude vice of veine gloireRemembreth noght of purgatoire,Hise worldes joyes ben so grete,Him thenkth of hevene no beyete;This lives Pompe is al his pes:Yit schal he deie natheles,And therof thenkth he bot a lite,For al his lust is to deliteIn newe thinges, proude and veine,Als ferforth as he mai atteigne.    2690I trowe, if that he myhte makeHis body newe, he wolde takeA newe forme and leve his olde:For what thing that he mai beholde,The which to comun us is strange,Anon his olde guise changeHe wole and falle therupon,Lich unto the Camelion,Which upon every sondri heweThat he beholt he moste newe    2700His colour, and thus unavisedFulofte time he stant desguised.Mor jolif than the brid in MaiiHe makth him evere freissh and gay,And doth al his array desguise,So that of him the newe guiseOf lusti folk alle othre take;And ek he can carolles make,Rondeal, balade and virelai.And with al this, if that he may    2710Of love gete him avantage,Anon he wext of his corageSo overglad, that of his endeHim thenkth ther is no deth comende:For he hath thanne at alle tideOf love such a maner pride,Him thenkth his joie is endeles.Now schrif thee, Sone, in godes pes,And of thi love tell me pleinIf that thi gloire hath be so vein.    2720Mi fader, as touchinge of alI may noght wel ne noght ne schalOf veine gloire excuse me,That I ne have for love beThe betre adresced and arraied;And also I have ofte assaiedRondeal, balade and virelaiFor hire on whom myn herte laiTo make, and also forto peinteCaroles with my wordes qweinte,    2730To sette my pourpos alofte;And thus I sang hem forth fulofteIn halle and ek in chambre aboute,And made merie among the route,Bot yit ne ferde I noght the bet.Thus was my gloire in vein besetOf al the joie that I made;For whanne I wolde with hire glade,And of hire love songes make,Sche saide it was noght for hir sake,    2740And liste noght my songes hiereNe witen what the wordes were.So forto speke of myn arrai,Yit couthe I nevere be so gayNe so wel make a songe of love,Wherof I myhte ben aboveAnd have encheson to be glad;Bot rathere I am ofte adradFor sorwe that sche seith me nay.And natheles I wol noght say,    2750That I nam glad on other side;For fame, that can nothing hide,Alday wol bringe unto myn EreOf that men speken hier and there,How that my ladi berth the pris,How sche is fair, how sche is wis,How sche is wommanlich of chiere;Of al this thing whanne I mai hiere,What wonder is thogh I be fain?And ek whanne I may hiere sain    2760Tidinges of my ladi hele,Althogh I may noght with hir dele,Yit am I wonder glad of that;For whanne I wot hire good astat,As for that time I dar wel swere,Non other sorwe mai me dere,Thus am I gladed in this wise.Bot, fader, of youre lores wise,Of whiche ye be fully tawht,Now tell me if yow thenketh awht    2770That I therof am forto wyte.Of that ther is I thee acquite,Mi sone, he seide, and for thi goodeI wolde that thou understode:For I thenke upon this matiereTo telle a tale, as thou schalt hiere,How that ayein this proude viceThe hihe god of his justiceIs wroth and gret vengance doth.Now herkne a tale that is soth:    2780Thogh it be noght of loves kinde,A gret ensample thou schalt findeThis veine gloire forto fle,Which is so full of vanite.Ther was a king that mochel myhte,Which Nabugodonosor hihte,Of whom that I spak hier tofore.Yit in the bible his name is bore,For al the world in OrientWas hol at his comandement:    2790As thanne of kinges to his licheWas non so myhty ne so riche;To his Empire and to his lawes,As who seith, alle in thilke dawesWere obeissant and tribut bere,As thogh he godd of Erthe were.With strengthe he putte kinges under,And wroghte of Pride many a wonder;He was so full of veine gloire,That he ne hadde no memoire    2800That ther was eny good bot he,For pride of his prosperite;Til that the hihe king of kinges,Which seth and knoweth alle thinges,Whos yhe mai nothing asterte,—The privetes of mannes herteThei speke and sounen in his EreAs thogh thei lowde wyndes were,—He tok vengance upon this pride.Bot for he wolde awhile abide    2810To loke if he him wolde amende,To him a foretokne he sende,And that was in his slep be nyhte.This proude kyng a wonder syhteHadde in his swevene, ther he lay:Him thoghte, upon a merie dayAs he behield the world aboute,A tree fulgrowe he syh theroute,Which stod the world amiddes evene,Whos heihte straghte up to the hevene;    2820The leves weren faire and large,Of fruit it bar so ripe a charge,That alle men it myhte fede:He sih also the bowes spriedeAbove al Erthe, in whiche wereThe kinde of alle briddes there;And eke him thoghte he syh alsoThe kinde of alle bestes goUnder this tre aboute roundAnd fedden hem upon the ground.    2830As he this wonder stod and syh,Him thoghte he herde a vois on hihCriende, and seide aboven alle:“Hew doun this tree and lett it falle,The leves let defoule in hasteAnd do the fruit destruie and waste,And let of schreden every braunche,Bot ate Rote let it staunche.Whan al his Pride is cast to grounde,The rote schal be faste bounde,    2840And schal no mannes herte bere,Bot every lust he schal forbereOf man, and lich an Oxe his meteOf gras he schal pourchace and ete,Til that the water of the heveneHave waisshen him be times sevene,So that he be thurghknowe arihtWhat is the heveneliche myht,And be mad humble to the willeOf him which al mai save and spille.”    2850This king out of his swefne abreide,And he upon the morwe it seideUnto the clerkes whiche he hadde:Bot non of hem the sothe aradde,Was non his swevene cowthe undo.And it stod thilke time so,This king hadde in subjecciounJudee, and of affecciounAbove alle othre on DanielHe loveth, for he cowthe wel    2860Divine that non other cowthe:To him were alle thinges cowthe,As he it hadde of goddes grace.He was before the kinges faceAsent, and bode that he scholdeUpon the point the king of toldeThe fortune of his swevene expounde,As it scholde afterward be founde.Whan Daniel this swevene herde,He stod long time er he ansuerde,    2870And made a wonder hevy chiere.The king tok hiede of his manere,And bad him telle that he wiste,As he to whom he mochel triste,And seide he wolde noght be wroth.Bot Daniel was wonder loth,And seide: “Upon thi fomen alle,Sire king, thi swevene mote falle;And natheles touchende of thisI wol the tellen how it is,    2880And what desese is to thee schape:God wot if thou it schalt ascape.The hihe tree, which thou hast seinWith lef and fruit so wel besein,The which stod in the world amiddes,So that the bestes and the briddesGoverned were of him al one,Sire king, betokneth thi persone,Which stant above all erthli thinges.Thus regnen under the the kinges,    2890And al the poeple unto thee louteth,And al the world thi pouer doubteth,So that with vein honour deceivedThou hast the reverence weyvedFro him which is thi king above,That thou for drede ne for loveWolt nothing knowen of thi godd;Which now for thee hath mad a rodd,Thi veine gloire and thi folieWith grete peines to chastie.    2900And of the vois thou herdest speke,Which bad the bowes forto brekeAnd hewe and felle doun the tree,That word belongeth unto thee;Thi regne schal ben overthrowe,And thou despuiled for a throwe:Bot that the Rote scholde stonde,Be that thou schalt wel understonde,Ther schal abyden of thi regneA time ayein whan thou schalt regne.    2910And ek of that thou herdest seie,To take a mannes herte aweieAnd sette there a bestial,So that he lich an Oxe schalPasture, and that he be bereinedBe times sefne and sore peined,Til that he knowe his goddes mihtes,Than scholde he stonde ayein uprihtes,—Al this betokneth thin astat,Which now with god is in debat:    2920Thi mannes forme schal be lassed,Til sevene yer ben overpassed,And in the liknesse of a besteOf gras schal be thi real feste,The weder schal upon thee reine.And understond that al this peine,Which thou schalt soffre thilke tide,Is schape al only for thi prideOf veine gloire, and of the sinneWhich thou hast longe stonden inne.    2930So upon this condiciounThi swevene hath exposicioun.Bot er this thing befalle in dede,Amende thee, this wolde I rede:Yif and departe thin almesse,Do mercy forth with rihtwisnesse,Besech and prei the hihe grace,For so thou myht thi pes pourchaceWith godd, and stonde in good acord.”Bot Pride is loth to leve his lord,    2940And wol noght soffre humiliteWith him to stonde in no degree;And whan a schip hath lost his stiere,Is non so wys that mai him stiereAyein the wawes in a rage.This proude king in his corageHumilite hath so forlore,That for no swevene he sih tofore,Ne yit for al that DanielHim hath conseiled everydel,    2950He let it passe out of his mynde,Thurgh veine gloire, and as the blinde,He seth no weie, er him be wo.And fell withinne a time so,As he in Babiloine wente,The vanite of Pride him hente;His herte aros of veine gloire,So that he drowh into memoireHis lordschipe and his regalieWith wordes of Surquiderie.    2960And whan that he him most avaunteth,That lord which veine gloire daunteth,Al sodeinliche, as who seith treis,Wher that he stod in his Paleis,He tok him fro the mennes sihte:Was non of hem so war that mihteSette yhe wher that he becom.And thus was he from his kingdomInto the wilde Forest drawe,Wher that the myhti goddes lawe    2970Thurgh his pouer dede him transformeFro man into a bestes forme;And lich an Oxe under the fotHe graseth, as he nedes mot,To geten him his lives fode.Tho thoghte him colde grases goode,That whilom eet the hote spices,Thus was he torned fro delices:The wyn which he was wont to drinkeHe tok thanne of the welles brinke    2980Or of the pet or of the slowh,It thoghte him thanne good ynowh:In stede of chambres wel arraiedHe was thanne of a buissh wel paied,The harde ground he lay upon,For othre pilwes hath he non;The stormes and the Reines falle,The wyndes blowe upon him alle,He was tormented day and nyht,Such was the hihe goddes myht,    2990Til sevene yer an ende toke.Upon himself tho gan he loke;In stede of mete gras and stres,In stede of handes longe cles,In stede of man a bestes lykeHe syh; and thanne he gan to sykeFor cloth of gold and for perrie,Which him was wont to magnefie.Whan he behield his Cote of heres,He wepte and with fulwoful teres    3000Up to the hevene he caste his chiereWepende, and thoghte in this manere;Thogh he no wordes myhte winne,Thus seide his herte and spak withinne:“O mihti godd, that al hast wroghtAnd al myht bringe ayein to noght,Now knowe I wel, bot al of thee,This world hath no prosperite:In thin aspect ben alle liche,The povere man and ek the riche,    3010Withoute thee ther mai no wight,And thou above alle othre miht.O mihti lord, toward my viceThi merci medle with justice;And I woll make a covenant,That of my lif the remenantI schal it be thi grace amende,And in thi lawe so despendeThat veine gloire I schal eschuie,And bowe unto thin heste and suie    3020Humilite, and that I vowe.”And so thenkende he gan doun bowe,And thogh him lacke vois and speche,He gan up with his feet areche,And wailende in his bestly steveneHe made his pleignte unto the hevene.He kneleth in his wise and braieth,To seche merci and assaiethHis god, which made him nothing strange,Whan that he sih his pride change.    3030Anon as he was humble and tame,He fond toward his god the same,And in a twinklinge of a lokHis mannes forme ayein he tok,And was reformed to the regneIn which that he was wont to regne;So that the Pride of veine gloireEvere afterward out of memoireHe let it passe. And thus is schewedWhat is to ben of Pride unthewed    3040Ayein the hihe goddes lawe,To whom noman mai be felawe.Forthi, my Sone, tak good hiedeSo forto lede thi manhiede,That thou ne be noght lich a beste.Bot if thi lif schal ben honeste,Thou most humblesce take on honde,For thanne myht thou siker stonde:And forto speke it otherwise,A proud man can no love assise;    3050For thogh a womman wolde him plese,His Pride can noght ben at ese.Ther mai noman to mochel blameA vice which is forto blame;Forthi men scholde nothing hideThat mihte falle in blame of Pride,Which is the werste vice of alle:Wherof, so as it was befalle,The tale I thenke of a CroniqueTo telle, if that it mai thee like,    3060So that thou myht humblesce suieAnd ek the vice of Pride eschuie,Wherof the gloire is fals and vein;Which god himself hath in desdeign,That thogh it mounte for a throwe,It schal doun falle and overthrowe.A king whilom was yong and wys,The which sette of his wit gret pris.Of depe ymaginaciounsAnd strange interpretaciouns,    3070Problemes and demandes eke,His wisdom was to finde and seke;Wherof he wolde in sondri wiseOpposen hem that weren wise.Bot non of hem it myhte bereUpon his word to yeve answere,Outaken on, which was a knyht;To him was every thing so liht,That also sone as he hem herde,The kinges wordes he answerde;    3080What thing the king him axe wolde,Therof anon the trowthe he tolde.The king somdiel hadde an Envie,And thoghte he wolde his wittes plieTo sette som conclusioun,Which scholde be confusiounUnto this knyht, so that the nameAnd of wisdom the hihe fameToward himself he wolde winne.And thus of al his wit withinne    3090This king began to studie and muse,What strange matiere he myhte useThe knyhtes wittes to confounde;And ate laste he hath it founde,And for the knyht anon he sente,That he schal telle what he mente.Upon thre pointz stod the matiereOf questions, as thou schalt hiere.The ferste point of alle threWas this: “What thing in his degre    3100Of al this world hath nede lest,And yet men helpe it althermest?”The secounde is: “What most is worth,And of costage is lest put forth?”The thridde is: “Which is of most cost,And lest is worth and goth to lost?”The king thes thre demandes axeth,And to the knyht this lawe he taxeth,That he schal gon and come ayeinThe thridde weke, and telle him plein    3110To every point, what it amonteth.And if so be that he misconteth,To make in his answere a faile,Ther schal non other thing availe,The king seith, bot he schal be dedAnd lese hise goodes and his hed.The knyht was sori of this thingAnd wolde excuse him to the king,Bot he ne wolde him noght forbere,And thus the knyht of his ansuere    3120Goth hom to take avisement:Bot after his entendementThe more he caste his wit aboute,The more he stant therof in doute.Tho wiste he wel the kinges herte,That he the deth ne scholde asterte,And such a sorwe hath to him take,That gladschipe he hath al forsake.He thoghte ferst upon his lif,And after that upon his wif,    3130Upon his children ek also,Of whiche he hadde dowhtres tuo;The yongest of hem hadde of ageFourtiene yer, and of visageSche was riht fair, and of statureLich to an hevenely figure,And of manere and goodli speche,Thogh men wolde alle Londes seche,Thei scholden noght have founde hir like.Sche sih hire fader sorwe and sike,    3140And wiste noght the cause why;So cam sche to him prively,And that was where he made his moneWithinne a Gardin al him one;Upon hire knes sche gan doun falleWith humble herte and to him calle,And seide: “O goode fader diere,Why make ye thus hevy chiere,And I wot nothing how it is?And wel ye knowen, fader, this,    3150What aventure that you felleYe myhte it saufly to me telle,For I have ofte herd you seid,That ye such trust have on me leid,That to my soster ne my brother,In al this world ne to non other,Ye dorste telle a priviteSo wel, my fader, as to me.Forthi, my fader, I you preie,Ne casteth noght that herte aweie,    3160For I am sche that wolde kepeYoure honour.” And with that to wepeHire yhe mai noght be forbore,Sche wissheth forto ben unbore,Er that hire fader so mistristeTo tellen hire of that he wiste:And evere among merci sche cride,That he ne scholde his conseil hideFrom hire that so wolde him goodAnd was so nyh his fleissh and blod.    3170So that with wepinge ate lasteHis chiere upon his child he caste,And sorwfulli to that sche preideHe tolde his tale and thus he seide:“The sorwe, dowhter, which I makeIs noght al only for my sake,Bot for thee bothe and for you alle:For such a chance is me befalle,That I schal er this thridde dayLese al that evere I lese may,    3180Mi lif and al my good therto:Therfore it is I sorwe so.”“What is the cause, helas!” quod sche,“Mi fader, that ye scholden beDed and destruid in such a wise?”And he began the pointz devise,Whiche as the king told him be mowthe,And seid hir pleinly that he cowtheAnsuere unto no point of this.And sche, that hiereth how it is,    3190Hire conseil yaf and seide tho:“Mi fader, sithen it is so,That ye can se non other weie,Bot that ye moste nedes deie,I wolde preie of you a thing:Let me go with you to the king,And ye schull make him understondeHow ye, my wittes forto fonde,Have leid your ansuere upon me;And telleth him, in such degre    3200Upon my word ye wole abideTo lif or deth, what so betide.For yit par chaunce I may pourchaceWith som good word the kinges grace,Your lif and ek your good to save;For ofte schal a womman haveThing which a man mai noght areche.”The fader herde his dowhter speche,And thoghte ther was resoun inne,And sih his oghne lif to winne    3210He cowthe don himself no cure;So betre him thoghte in aventureTo put his lif and al his good,Than in the maner as it stodHis lif in certein forto lese.And thus thenkende he gan to cheseTo do the conseil of this Maide,And tok the pourpos which sche saide.The dai was come and forth thei gon,Unto the Court thei come anon,    3220Wher as the king in juggementWas set and hath this knyht assent.Arraied in hire beste wiseThis Maiden with hire wordes wiseHire fader ladde be the hondInto the place, wher he fondThe king with othre whiche he wolde,And to the king knelende he toldeAs he enformed was tofore,And preith the king that he therfore    3230His dowhtres wordes wolde take,And seith that he wol undertakeUpon hire wordes forto stonde.Tho was ther gret merveile on honde,That he, which was so wys a knyht,His lif upon so yong a wyhtBesette wolde in jeupartie,And manye it hielden for folie:Bot ate laste nathelesThe king comandeth ben in pes,    3240And to this Maide he caste his chiere,And seide he wolde hire tale hiere,He bad hire speke, and sche began:“Mi liege lord, so as I can,”Quod sche, “the pointz of whiche I herde,Thei schul of reson ben ansuerde.The ferste I understonde is this,What thing of al the world it is,Which men most helpe and hath lest nede.Mi liege lord, this wolde I rede:    3250The Erthe it is, which everemoWith mannes labour is bego;Als wel in wynter as in MaiiThe mannes hond doth what he maiTo helpe it forth and make it riche,And forthi men it delve and dycheAnd eren it with strengthe of plowh,Wher it hath of himself ynowh,So that his nede is ate leste.For every man and bridd and beste,    3260And flour and gras and rote and rinde,And every thing be weie of kyndeSchal sterve, and Erthe it schal become;As it was out of Erthe nome,It schal to therthe torne ayein:And thus I mai be resoun seinThat Erthe is the most nedeles,And most men helpe it natheles.So that, my lord, touchende of thisI have ansuerd hou that it is.    3270That other point I understod,Which most is worth and most is good,And costeth lest a man to kepe:Mi lord, if ye woll take kepe,I seie it is Humilite,Thurgh which the hihe triniteAs for decerte of pure loveUnto Marie from above,Of that he knew hire humble entente,His oghne Sone adoun he sente,    3280Above alle othre and hire he chesFor that vertu which bodeth pes:So that I may be resoun calleHumilite most worth of alle.And lest it costeth to maintiene,In al the world as it is sene;For who that hath humblesce on honde,He bringth no werres into londe,For he desireth for the besteTo setten every man in reste.    3290Thus with your hihe reverenceMe thenketh that this evidenceAs to this point is sufficant.And touchende of the remenant,Which is the thridde of youre axinges,What leste is worth of alle thinges,And costeth most, I telle it, Pride;Which mai noght in the hevene abide,For Lucifer with hem that felleBar Pride with him into helle.    3300Ther was Pride of to gret a cost,Whan he for Pride hath hevene lost;And after that in ParadisAdam for Pride loste his pris:In Midelerthe and ek alsoPride is the cause of alle wo,That al the world ne may suffiseTo stanche of Pride the reprise:Pride is the heved of alle Sinne,Which wasteth al and mai noght winne;    3310Pride is of every mis the pricke,Pride is the werste of alle wicke,And costneth most and lest is worthIn place where he hath his forth.Thus have I seid that I wol seieOf myn answere, and to you preie,Mi liege lord, of youre officeThat ye such grace and such justiceOrdeigne for mi fader hiere,That after this, whan men it hiere,    3320The world therof mai speke good.”The king, which reson understodAnd hath al herd how sche hath said,Was inly glad and so wel paidThat al his wraththe is overgo:And he began to loke thoUpon this Maiden in the face,In which he fond so mochel grace,That al his pris on hire he leide,In audience and thus he seide:    3330“Mi faire Maide, wel thee be!Of thin ansuere and ek of theeMe liketh wel, and as thou wilt,Foryive be thi fader gilt.And if thou were of such lignage,That thou to me were of parage,And that thi fader were a Pier,As he is now a Bachilier,So seker as I have a lif,Thou scholdest thanne be my wif.    3340Bot this I seie natheles,That I wol schape thin encress;What worldes good that thou wolt crave,Axe of my yifte and thou schalt have.”And sche the king with wordes wiseKnelende thonketh in this wise:“Mi liege lord, god mot you quite!Mi fader hier hath bot a liteOf warison, and that he wendeHadde al be lost; bot now amende    3350He mai wel thurgh your noble grace.”With that the king riht in his placeAnon forth in that freisshe heteAn    Erldom, which thanne of escheteWas late falle into his hond,Unto this knyht with rente and londHath yove and with his chartre sesed;And thus was all the noise appesed.This Maiden, which sat on hire knesTofore the king, hise charitees    3360Comendeth, and seide overmore:“Mi liege lord, riht now toforeYe seide, as it is of record,That if my fader were a lordAnd Pier unto these othre grete,Ye wolden for noght elles lete,That I ne scholde be your wif;And this wot every worthi lif,A kinges word it mot ben holde.Forthi, my lord, if that ye wolde    3370So gret a charite fulfille,God wot it were wel my wille:For he which was a Bacheler,Mi fader, is now mad a Pier;So whenne as evere that I cam,An Erles dowhter now I am.”This yonge king, which peised al,Hire beaute and hir wit withal,As he that was with love hent,Anon therto yaf his assent.    3380He myhte noght the maide asterte,That sche nis ladi of his herte;So that he tok hire to his wif,To holde whyl that he hath lif:And thus the king toward his knyhtAcordeth him, as it is riht.And over this good is to wite,In the Cronique as it is write,This noble king of whom I toldeOf Spaine be tho daies olde    3390The kingdom hadde in governance,And as the bok makth remembrance,Alphonse was his propre name:The knyht also, if I schal name,Danz Petro hihte, and as men telle,His dowhter wyse PeronelleWas cleped, which was full of grace:And that was sene in thilke place,Wher sche hir fader out of teeneHath broght and mad hirself a qweene,    3400Of that sche hath so wel desclosedThe pointz wherof sche was opposed.Lo now, my Sone, as thou myht hiere,Of al this thing to my matiereBot on I take, and that is Pride,To whom no grace mai betide:In hevene he fell out of his stede,And Paradis him was forbede,The goode men in Erthe him hate,So that to helle he mot algate,    3410Where every vertu schal be weyvedAnd every vice be received.Bot Humblesce is al otherwise,Which most is worth, and no repriseIt takth ayein, bot softe and faire,If eny thing stond in contraire,With humble speche it is redresced:Thus was this yonge Maiden blessed,The which I spak of now tofore,Hire fader lif sche gat therfore,    3420And wan with al the kinges love.Forthi, my Sone, if thou wolt love,It sit thee wel to leve PrideAnd take Humblesce upon thi side;The more of grace thou schalt gete.Mi fader, I woll noght foryeteOf this that ye have told me hiere,And if that eny such manereOf humble port mai love appaie,Hierafterward I thenke assaie:    3430Bot now forth over I besecheThat ye more of my schrifte seche.Mi goode Sone, it schal be do:Now herkne and ley an Ere to;For as touchende of Prides fare,Als ferforth as I can declareIn cause of vice, in cause of love,That hast thou pleinly herd above,So that ther is nomor to seieTouchende of that; bot other weie    3440Touchende Envie I thenke telle,Which hath the propre kinde of helle,Withoute cause to misdoToward himself and othre also,Hierafterward as understondeThou schalt the spieces, as thei stonde.Explicit Liber Primus

Now lest what fell upon this thing.    2080The day was merie and fair ynowh,Echon with othre pleide and lowh,And fellen into tales newe,How that the freisshe floures grewe,And how the grene leves spronge,And how that love among the yongeBegan the hertes thanne awake,And every bridd hath chose hire make:And thus the Maies day to thendeThei lede, and hom ayein thei wende.    2090The king was noght so sone come,That whanne he hadde his chambre nome,His brother ne was redi there,And broghte a tale unto his EreOf that he dede such a schameIn hindringe of his oghne name,Whan he himself so wolde drecche,That to so vil a povere wreccheHim deigneth schewe such simplesceAyein thastat of his noblesce:    2100And seith he schal it nomor use,And that he mot himself excuseToward hise lordes everychon.The king stod stille as eny ston,And to his tale an Ere he leide,And thoghte more than he seide:Bot natheles to that he herdeWel cortaisly the king answerde,And tolde it scholde be amended.And thus whan that her tale is ended,    2110Al redy was the bord and cloth,The king unto his Souper gothAmong the lordes to the halle;And whan thei hadden souped alle,Thei token leve and forth thei go.The king bethoghte himselve thoHow he his brother mai chastie,That he thurgh his SurquiderieTok upon honde to despreiseHumilite, which is to preise,    2120And therupon yaf such conseilToward his king that was noght heil;Wherof to be the betre lered,He thenkth to maken him afered.

It fell so that in thilke daweTher was ordeined be the laweA trompe with a sterne breth,Which cleped was the Trompe of deth:And in the Court wher the king wasA certein man this Trompe of bras    2130Hath in kepinge, and therof serveth,That whan a lord his deth deserveth,He schal this dredful trompe bloweTofore his gate, and make it knoweHow that the jugement is yoveOf deth, which schal noght be foryove.The king, whan it was nyht, anonThis man asente and bad him gonTo trompen at his brother gate;And he, which mot so don algate,    2140Goth forth and doth the kynges heste.This lord, which herde of this tempesteThat he tofore his gate blew,Tho wiste he be the lawe and knewThat he was sikerliche ded:And as of help he wot no red,Bot sende for hise frendes alleAnd tolde hem how it is befalle.And thei him axe cause why;Bot he the sothe noght forthi    2150Ne wiste, and ther was sorwe tho:For it stod thilke tyme so,This trompe was of such sentence,That therayein no resistenceThei couthe ordeine be no weie,That he ne mot algate deie,Bot if so that he may pourchaceTo gete his liege lordes grace.Here wittes therupon thei caste,And ben apointed ate laste.    2160

This lord a worthi ladi haddeUnto his wif, which also draddeHire lordes deth, and children fiveBetwen hem two thei hadde alyve,That weren yonge and tendre of age,And of stature and of visageRiht faire and lusty on to se.Tho casten thei that he and scheForth with here children on the morwe,As thei that were full of sorwe,    2170Al naked bot of smok and scherte,To tendre with the kynges herte,His grace scholden go to secheAnd pardoun of the deth beseche.Thus passen thei that wofull nyht,And erly, whan thei sihe it lyht,Thei gon hem forth in such a wiseAs thou tofore hast herd devise,Al naked bot here schortes one.Thei wepte and made mochel mone,    2180Here Her hangende aboute here Eres;With sobbinge and with sory teresThis lord goth thanne an humble pas,That whilom proud and noble was;Wherof the Cite sore afflyhte,Of hem that sihen thilke syhte:And natheless al openlyWith such wepinge and with such criForth with hise children and his wifHe goth to preie for his lif.    2190Unto the court whan thei be come,And men therinne have hiede nome,Ther was no wiht, if he hem syhe,Fro water mihte kepe his yheFor sorwe which thei maden tho.The king supposeth of this wo,And feigneth as he noght ne wiste;Bot natheles at his upristeMen tolden him how that it ferde:And whan that he this wonder herde,    2200In haste he goth into the halle,And alle at ones doun thei falle,If eny pite may be founde.The king, which seth hem go to grounde,Hath axed hem what is the fere,Why thei be so despuiled there.His brother seide: “Ha lord, mercy!I wot non other cause why,Bot only that this nyht ful lateThe trompe of deth was at my gate    2210In tokne that I scholde deie;Thus be we come forto preieThat ye mi worldes deth respite.”

“Ha fol, how thou art forto wyte,”The king unto his brother seith,“That thou art of so litel feith,That only for a trompes sounHast gon despuiled thurgh the toun,Thou and thi wif in such manereForth with thi children that ben here,    2220In sihte of alle men aboute,For that thou seist thou art in douteOf deth, which stant under the laweOf man, and man it mai withdrawe,So that it mai par chance faile.Now schalt thou noght forthi mervaileThat I doun fro my Charr alihte,Whanne I behield tofore my sihteIn hem that were of so grete ageMin oghne deth thurgh here ymage,    2230Which god hath set be lawe of kynde,Wherof I mai no bote finde:For wel I wot, such as thei be,Riht such am I in my degree,Of fleissh and blod, and so schal deie.And thus, thogh I that lawe obeieOf which the kinges ben put under,It oghte ben wel lasse wonderThan thou, which art withoute nedeFor lawe of londe in such a drede,    2240Which for tacompte is bot a jape,As thing which thou miht overscape.Forthi, mi brother, after thisI rede, sithen that so isThat thou canst drede a man so sore,Dred god with al thin herte more:For al schal deie and al schal passe,Als wel a Leoun as an asse,Als wel a beggere as a lord,Towardes deth in on acord    2250Thei schullen stonde.” And in this wiseThe king hath with hise wordes wiseHis brother tawht and al foryive.

Forthi, mi Sone, if thou wolt liveIn vertu, thou most vice eschuie,And with low herte humblesce suie,So that thou be noght surquidous.

Mi fader, I am amorous,Wherof I wolde you besecheThat ye me som ensample teche,    2260Which mihte in loves cause stonde.

Mi Sone, thou schalt understonde,In love and othre thinges alleIf that Surquiderie falle,It may to him noght wel betideWhich useth thilke vice of Pride,Which torneth wisdom to wenyngeAnd Sothfastnesse into lesyngeThurgh fol ymaginacion.And for thin enformacion,    2270That thou this vice as I the redeEschuie schalt, a tale I rede,Which fell whilom be daies olde,So as the clerk Ovide tolde.

Ther was whilom a lordes Sone,Which of his Pride a nyce woneHath cawht, that worthi to his liche,To sechen al the worldes riche,Ther was no womman forto love.So hihe he sette himselve above    2280Of stature and of beaute bothe,That him thoghte alle wommen lothe:So was ther no comparisounAs toward his condicioun.This yonge lord Narcizus hihte:No strengthe of love bowe mihteHis herte, which is unaffiled;Bot ate laste he was beguiled:For of the goddes pourveanceIt fell him on a dai par chance,    2290That he in all his proude fareUnto the forest gan to fare,Amonges othre that ther wereTo hunte and to desporte him there.And whanne he cam into the placeWher that he wolde make his chace,The houndes weren in a throweUncoupled and the hornes blowe:The grete hert anon was founde,Which swifte feet sette upon grounde,    2300And he with spore in horse sideHim hasteth faste forto ride,Til alle men be left behinde.And as he rod, under a lindeBeside a roche, as I thee telle,He syh wher sprong a lusty welle:The day was wonder hot withalle,And such a thurst was on him falle,That he moste owther deie or drinke;And doun he lihte and be the brinke    2310He teide his Hors unto a braunche,And leide him lowe forto stauncheHis thurst: and as he caste his lokInto the welle and hiede tok,He sih the like of his visage,And wende ther were an ymageOf such a Nimphe as tho was faie,Wherof that love his herte assaieBegan, as it was after sene,Of his sotie and made him wene    2320It were a womman that he syh.The more he cam the welle nyh,The nerr cam sche to him ayein;So wiste he nevere what to sein;For whanne he wepte, he sih hire wepe,And whanne he cride, he tok good kepe,The same word sche cride also:And thus began the newe wo,That whilom was to him so strange;Tho made him love an hard eschange,    2330To sette his herte and to beginneThing which he mihte nevere winne.And evere among he gan to loute,And preith that sche to him come oute;And otherwhile he goth a ferr,And otherwhile he draweth nerr,And evere he fond hire in o place.He wepth, he crith, he axeth grace,There as he mihte gete non;So that ayein a Roche of Ston,    2340As he that knew non other red,He smot himself til he was ded.Wherof the Nimphes of the welles,And othre that ther weren ellesUnto the wodes belongende,The body, which was ded ligende,For pure pite that thei haveUnder the grene thei begrave.And thanne out of his sepultureTher sprong anon par aventure    2350Of floures such a wonder syhte,That men ensample take myhteUpon the dedes whiche he dede,As tho was sene in thilke stede;For in the wynter freysshe and faireThe floures ben, which is contraireTo kynde, and so was the folieWhich fell of his Surquiderie.

Thus he, which love hadde in desdeign,Worste of all othre was besein,    2360And as he sette his pris most hyhe,He was lest worth in loves yheAnd most bejaped in his wit:Wherof the remembrance is yit,So that thou myht ensample take,And ek alle othre for his sake.

Mi fader, as touchende of me,This vice I thenke forto fle,Which of his wenynge overtroweth;And nameliche of thing which groweth    2370In loves cause or wel or woYit pryded I me nevere so.Bot wolde god that grace sende,That toward me my lady wendeAs I towardes hire wene!Mi love scholde so be sene,Ther scholde go no pride a place.Bot I am ferr fro thilke grace,As forto speke of tyme now;So mot I soffre, and preie yow    2380That ye wole axe on other sideIf ther be eny point of Pride,Wherof it nedeth to be schrive.

Mi Sone, godd it thee foryive,If thou have eny thing misdoTouchende of this, bot overmoTher is an other yit of Pride,Which nevere cowthe hise wordes hide,That he ne wole himself avaunte;Ther mai nothing his tunge daunte,    2390That he ne clappeth as a Belle:Wherof if thou wolt that I telle,It is behovely forto hiere,So that thou myht thi tunge stiere,Toward the world and stonde in grace,Which lacketh ofte in many placeTo him that can noght sitte stille,Which elles scholde have al his wille.

The vice cleped AvantanceWith Pride hath take his aqueintance,    2400So that his oghne pris he lasseth,When he such mesure overpassethThat he his oghne Herald is.That ferst was wel is thanne mis,That was thankworth is thanne blame,And thus the worschipe of his nameThurgh pride of his avantarieHe torneth into vilenie.I rede how that this proude viceHath thilke wynd in his office,    2410Which thurgh the blastes that he blowethThe mannes fame he overthrowethOf vertu, which scholde elles springeInto the worldes knowlechinge;Bot he fordoth it alto sore.And riht of such a maner loreTher ben lovers: forthi if thowArt on of hem, tell and sei how.Whan thou hast taken eny thingOf loves yifte, or Nouche or ring,    2420Or tok upon thee for the coldSom goodly word that thee was told,Or frendly chiere or tokne or lettre,Wherof thin herte was the bettre,Or that sche sende the grietinge,Hast thou for Pride of thi likingeMad thin avant wher as the liste?

I wolde, fader, that ye wiste,Mi conscience lith noght hiere:Yit hadde I nevere such matiere,    2430Wherof min herte myhte amende,Noght of so mochel that sche sendeBe mowthe and seide, “Griet him wel:”And thus for that ther is no dielWherof to make myn avant,It is to reson acordantThat I mai nevere, bot I lye,Of love make avanterie.I wot noght what I scholde have do,If that I hadde encheson so,    2440As ye have seid hier manyon;Bot I fond cause nevere non:Bot daunger, which welnyh me slowh,Therof I cowthe telle ynowh,And of non other Avantance:Thus nedeth me no repentance.Now axeth furthere of my lif,For hierof am I noght gultif.

Mi Sone, I am wel paid withal;For wite it wel in special    2450That love of his verrai justiceAbove alle othre ayein this viceAt alle times most debateth,With al his herte and most it hateth.And ek in alle maner wiseAvantarie is to despise,As be ensample thou myht wite,Which I finde in the bokes write.

Of hem that we Lombars now calleAlbinus was the ferste of alle    2460Which bar corone of Lombardie,And was of gret chivalerieIn werre ayein diverse kinges.So fell amonges othre thinges,That he that time a werre haddeWith Gurmond, which the Geptes ladde,And was a myhti kyng also:Bot natheles it fell him so,Albinus slowh him in the feld,Ther halp him nowther swerd ne scheld,    2470That he ne smot his hed of thanne,Wherof he tok awey the Panne,Of which he seide he wolde makeA Cuppe for Gurmoundes sake,To kepe and drawe into memoireOf his bataille the victoire.And thus whan he the feld hath wonne,The lond anon was overronneAnd sesed in his oghne hond,Wher he Gurmondes dowhter fond,    2480Which Maide Rosemounde hihte,And was in every mannes sihteA fair, a freissh, a lusti on.His herte fell to hire anon,And such a love on hire he caste,That he hire weddeth ate laste;And after that long time in resteWith hire he duelte, and to the besteThei love ech other wonder wel.Bot sche which kepth the blinde whel,    2490Venus, whan thei be most above,In al the hoteste of here love,Hire whiel sche torneth, and thei felleIn the manere as I schal telle.

This king, which stod in al his weltheOf pes, of worschipe and of helthe,And felte him on no side grieved,As he that hath his world achieved,Tho thoghte he wolde a feste make;And that was for his wyves sake,    2500That sche the lordes ate feste,That were obeissant to his heste,Mai knowe: and so forth theruponHe let ordeine, and sende anonBe lettres and be messagiers,And warnede alle hise officiersThat every thing be wel arraied:The grete Stiedes were assaiedFor joustinge and for tornement,And many a perled garnement    2510Embroudred was ayein the dai.The lordes in here beste arraiBe comen ate time set,On jousteth wel, an other bet,And otherwhile thei torneie,And thus thei casten care aweieAnd token lustes upon honde.And after, thou schalt understonde,To mete into the kinges halleThei come, as thei be beden alle:    2520And whan thei were set and served,Thanne after, as it was deserved,To hem that worthi knyhtes were,So as thei seten hiere and there,The pris was yove and spoken outeAmong the heraldz al aboute.And thus benethe and ek aboveAl was of armes and of love,Wherof abouten ate bordesMen hadde manye sondri wordes,    2530That of the merthe which thei madeThe king himself began to gladeWithinne his herte and tok a pride,And sih the Cuppe stonde aside,Which mad was of Gurmoundes hed,As ye have herd, whan he was ded,And was with gold and riche StonesBeset and bounde for the nones,And stod upon a fot on heihteOf burned gold, and with gret sleihte    2540Of werkmanschipe it was begraveOf such werk as it scholde have,And was policed ek so cleneThat no signe of the Skulle is sene,Bot as it were a Gripes Ey.The king bad bere his Cuppe awey,Which stod tofore him on the bord,And fette thilke. Upon his wordThis Skulle is fet and wyn therinne,Wherof he bad his wif beginne:    2550“Drink with thi fader, Dame,” he seide.And sche to his biddinge obeide,And tok the Skulle, and what hire listeSche drank, as sche which nothing wisteWhat Cuppe it was: and thanne al outeThe kyng in audience abouteHath told it was hire fader Skulle,So that the lordes knowe schulleOf his bataille a soth witnesse,And made avant thurgh what prouesse    2560He hath his wyves love wonne,Which of the Skulle hath so begonne.Tho was ther mochel Pride alofte,Thei speken alle, and sche was softe,Thenkende on thilke unkynde Pride,Of that hire lord so nyh hire sideAvanteth him that he hath slainAnd piked out hire fader brain,And of the Skulle had mad a Cuppe.Sche soffreth al til thei were uppe,    2570And tho sche hath seknesse feigned,And goth to chambre and hath compleignedUnto a Maide which sche triste,So that non other wyht it wiste.This Mayde Glodeside is hote,To whom this lady hath behoteOf ladischipe al that sche can,To vengen hire upon this man,Which dede hire drinke in such a plitAmong hem alle for despit    2580Of hire and of hire fader bothe;Wherof hire thoghtes ben so wrothe,Sche seith, that sche schal noght be glad,Til that sche se him so bestadThat he nomore make avant.And thus thei felle in covenant,That thei acorden ate laste,With suche wiles as thei casteThat thei wol gete of here acordSom orped knyht to sle this lord:    2590And with this sleihte thei beginne,How thei Helmege myhten winne,Which was the kinges Boteler,A proud a lusti Bacheler,And Glodeside he loveth hote.And sche, to make him more assote,Hire love granteth, and be nyhteThei schape how thei togedre myhteAbedde meete: and don it wasThis same nyht; and in this cas    2600The qwene hirself the nyht secoundeWente in hire stede, and there hath foundeA chambre derk withoute liht,And goth to bedde to this knyht.And he, to kepe his observance,To love doth his obeissance,And weneth it be Glodeside;And sche thanne after lay aside,And axeth him what he hath do,And who sche was sche tolde him tho,    2610And seide: “Helmege, I am thi qwene,Now schal thi love wel be seneOf that thou hast thi wille wroght:Or it schal sore ben aboght,Or thou schalt worche as I thee seie.And if thou wolt be such a weieDo my plesance and holde it stille,For evere I schal ben at thi wille,Bothe I and al myn heritage.”Anon the wylde loves rage,    2620In which noman him can governe,Hath mad him that he can noght werne,Bot fell al hol to hire assent:And thus the whiel is al miswent,The which fortune hath upon honde;For how that evere it after stonde,Thei schope among hem such a wyle,The king was ded withinne a whyle.So slihly cam it noght abouteThat thei ne ben descoevered oute,    2630So that it thoghte hem for the besteTo fle, for there was no reste:And thus the tresor of the kingThei trusse and mochel other thing,And with a certein felaschipeThei fledde and wente awey be schipe,And hielde here rihte cours fro thenne,Til that thei come to Ravenne,Wher thei the Dukes helpe soghte.And he, so as thei him besoghte,    2640A place granteth forto duelle;Bot after, whan he herde telleOf the manere how thei have do,This Duk let schape for hem so,That of a puison which thei drunkeThei hadden that thei have beswunke.

And al this made avant of Pride:Good is therfore a man to hideHis oghne pris, for if he speke,He mai lihtliche his thonk tobreke.    2650In armes lith non avantanceTo him which thenkth his name avanceAnd be renomed of his dede:And also who that thenkth to spedeOf love, he mai him noght avaunte;For what man thilke vice haunte,His pourpos schal fulofte faile.In armes he that wol travaileOr elles loves grace atteigne,His lose tunge he mot restreigne,    2660Which berth of his honour the keie.

Forthi, my Sone, in alle weieTak riht good hiede of this matiere.

I thonke you, my fader diere,This scole is of a gentil lore;And if ther be oght elles moreOf Pride, which I schal eschuie,Now axeth forth, and I wol suieWhat thing that ye me wole enforme.

Mi Sone, yit in other forme    2670Ther is a vice of Prides lore,Which lich an hauk whan he wol sore,Fleith upon heihte in his delicesAfter the likynge of his vices,And wol no mannes resoun knowe,Till he doun falle and overthrowe.This vice veine gloire is hote,Wherof, my Sone, I thee behoteTo trete and speke in such a wise,That thou thee myht the betre avise.    2680

The proude vice of veine gloireRemembreth noght of purgatoire,Hise worldes joyes ben so grete,Him thenkth of hevene no beyete;This lives Pompe is al his pes:Yit schal he deie natheles,And therof thenkth he bot a lite,For al his lust is to deliteIn newe thinges, proude and veine,Als ferforth as he mai atteigne.    2690I trowe, if that he myhte makeHis body newe, he wolde takeA newe forme and leve his olde:For what thing that he mai beholde,The which to comun us is strange,Anon his olde guise changeHe wole and falle therupon,Lich unto the Camelion,Which upon every sondri heweThat he beholt he moste newe    2700His colour, and thus unavisedFulofte time he stant desguised.Mor jolif than the brid in MaiiHe makth him evere freissh and gay,And doth al his array desguise,So that of him the newe guiseOf lusti folk alle othre take;And ek he can carolles make,Rondeal, balade and virelai.And with al this, if that he may    2710Of love gete him avantage,Anon he wext of his corageSo overglad, that of his endeHim thenkth ther is no deth comende:For he hath thanne at alle tideOf love such a maner pride,Him thenkth his joie is endeles.

Now schrif thee, Sone, in godes pes,And of thi love tell me pleinIf that thi gloire hath be so vein.    2720

Mi fader, as touchinge of alI may noght wel ne noght ne schalOf veine gloire excuse me,That I ne have for love beThe betre adresced and arraied;And also I have ofte assaiedRondeal, balade and virelaiFor hire on whom myn herte laiTo make, and also forto peinteCaroles with my wordes qweinte,    2730To sette my pourpos alofte;And thus I sang hem forth fulofteIn halle and ek in chambre aboute,And made merie among the route,Bot yit ne ferde I noght the bet.Thus was my gloire in vein besetOf al the joie that I made;For whanne I wolde with hire glade,And of hire love songes make,Sche saide it was noght for hir sake,    2740And liste noght my songes hiereNe witen what the wordes were.So forto speke of myn arrai,Yit couthe I nevere be so gayNe so wel make a songe of love,Wherof I myhte ben aboveAnd have encheson to be glad;Bot rathere I am ofte adradFor sorwe that sche seith me nay.And natheles I wol noght say,    2750That I nam glad on other side;For fame, that can nothing hide,Alday wol bringe unto myn EreOf that men speken hier and there,How that my ladi berth the pris,How sche is fair, how sche is wis,How sche is wommanlich of chiere;Of al this thing whanne I mai hiere,What wonder is thogh I be fain?And ek whanne I may hiere sain    2760Tidinges of my ladi hele,Althogh I may noght with hir dele,Yit am I wonder glad of that;For whanne I wot hire good astat,As for that time I dar wel swere,Non other sorwe mai me dere,Thus am I gladed in this wise.Bot, fader, of youre lores wise,Of whiche ye be fully tawht,Now tell me if yow thenketh awht    2770That I therof am forto wyte.

Of that ther is I thee acquite,Mi sone, he seide, and for thi goodeI wolde that thou understode:For I thenke upon this matiereTo telle a tale, as thou schalt hiere,How that ayein this proude viceThe hihe god of his justiceIs wroth and gret vengance doth.Now herkne a tale that is soth:    2780Thogh it be noght of loves kinde,A gret ensample thou schalt findeThis veine gloire forto fle,Which is so full of vanite.

Ther was a king that mochel myhte,Which Nabugodonosor hihte,Of whom that I spak hier tofore.Yit in the bible his name is bore,For al the world in OrientWas hol at his comandement:    2790As thanne of kinges to his licheWas non so myhty ne so riche;To his Empire and to his lawes,As who seith, alle in thilke dawesWere obeissant and tribut bere,As thogh he godd of Erthe were.With strengthe he putte kinges under,And wroghte of Pride many a wonder;He was so full of veine gloire,That he ne hadde no memoire    2800That ther was eny good bot he,For pride of his prosperite;Til that the hihe king of kinges,Which seth and knoweth alle thinges,Whos yhe mai nothing asterte,—The privetes of mannes herteThei speke and sounen in his EreAs thogh thei lowde wyndes were,—He tok vengance upon this pride.Bot for he wolde awhile abide    2810To loke if he him wolde amende,To him a foretokne he sende,And that was in his slep be nyhte.This proude kyng a wonder syhteHadde in his swevene, ther he lay:Him thoghte, upon a merie dayAs he behield the world aboute,A tree fulgrowe he syh theroute,Which stod the world amiddes evene,Whos heihte straghte up to the hevene;    2820The leves weren faire and large,Of fruit it bar so ripe a charge,That alle men it myhte fede:He sih also the bowes spriedeAbove al Erthe, in whiche wereThe kinde of alle briddes there;And eke him thoghte he syh alsoThe kinde of alle bestes goUnder this tre aboute roundAnd fedden hem upon the ground.    2830As he this wonder stod and syh,Him thoghte he herde a vois on hihCriende, and seide aboven alle:“Hew doun this tree and lett it falle,The leves let defoule in hasteAnd do the fruit destruie and waste,And let of schreden every braunche,Bot ate Rote let it staunche.Whan al his Pride is cast to grounde,The rote schal be faste bounde,    2840And schal no mannes herte bere,Bot every lust he schal forbereOf man, and lich an Oxe his meteOf gras he schal pourchace and ete,Til that the water of the heveneHave waisshen him be times sevene,So that he be thurghknowe arihtWhat is the heveneliche myht,And be mad humble to the willeOf him which al mai save and spille.”    2850

This king out of his swefne abreide,And he upon the morwe it seideUnto the clerkes whiche he hadde:Bot non of hem the sothe aradde,Was non his swevene cowthe undo.And it stod thilke time so,This king hadde in subjecciounJudee, and of affecciounAbove alle othre on DanielHe loveth, for he cowthe wel    2860Divine that non other cowthe:To him were alle thinges cowthe,As he it hadde of goddes grace.He was before the kinges faceAsent, and bode that he scholdeUpon the point the king of toldeThe fortune of his swevene expounde,As it scholde afterward be founde.Whan Daniel this swevene herde,He stod long time er he ansuerde,    2870And made a wonder hevy chiere.The king tok hiede of his manere,And bad him telle that he wiste,As he to whom he mochel triste,And seide he wolde noght be wroth.Bot Daniel was wonder loth,And seide: “Upon thi fomen alle,Sire king, thi swevene mote falle;And natheles touchende of thisI wol the tellen how it is,    2880And what desese is to thee schape:God wot if thou it schalt ascape.

The hihe tree, which thou hast seinWith lef and fruit so wel besein,The which stod in the world amiddes,So that the bestes and the briddesGoverned were of him al one,Sire king, betokneth thi persone,Which stant above all erthli thinges.Thus regnen under the the kinges,    2890And al the poeple unto thee louteth,And al the world thi pouer doubteth,So that with vein honour deceivedThou hast the reverence weyvedFro him which is thi king above,That thou for drede ne for loveWolt nothing knowen of thi godd;Which now for thee hath mad a rodd,Thi veine gloire and thi folieWith grete peines to chastie.    2900And of the vois thou herdest speke,Which bad the bowes forto brekeAnd hewe and felle doun the tree,That word belongeth unto thee;Thi regne schal ben overthrowe,And thou despuiled for a throwe:Bot that the Rote scholde stonde,Be that thou schalt wel understonde,Ther schal abyden of thi regneA time ayein whan thou schalt regne.    2910And ek of that thou herdest seie,To take a mannes herte aweieAnd sette there a bestial,So that he lich an Oxe schalPasture, and that he be bereinedBe times sefne and sore peined,Til that he knowe his goddes mihtes,Than scholde he stonde ayein uprihtes,—Al this betokneth thin astat,Which now with god is in debat:    2920Thi mannes forme schal be lassed,Til sevene yer ben overpassed,And in the liknesse of a besteOf gras schal be thi real feste,The weder schal upon thee reine.And understond that al this peine,Which thou schalt soffre thilke tide,Is schape al only for thi prideOf veine gloire, and of the sinneWhich thou hast longe stonden inne.    2930

So upon this condiciounThi swevene hath exposicioun.Bot er this thing befalle in dede,Amende thee, this wolde I rede:Yif and departe thin almesse,Do mercy forth with rihtwisnesse,Besech and prei the hihe grace,For so thou myht thi pes pourchaceWith godd, and stonde in good acord.”

Bot Pride is loth to leve his lord,    2940And wol noght soffre humiliteWith him to stonde in no degree;And whan a schip hath lost his stiere,Is non so wys that mai him stiereAyein the wawes in a rage.This proude king in his corageHumilite hath so forlore,That for no swevene he sih tofore,Ne yit for al that DanielHim hath conseiled everydel,    2950He let it passe out of his mynde,Thurgh veine gloire, and as the blinde,He seth no weie, er him be wo.And fell withinne a time so,As he in Babiloine wente,The vanite of Pride him hente;His herte aros of veine gloire,So that he drowh into memoireHis lordschipe and his regalieWith wordes of Surquiderie.    2960And whan that he him most avaunteth,That lord which veine gloire daunteth,Al sodeinliche, as who seith treis,Wher that he stod in his Paleis,He tok him fro the mennes sihte:Was non of hem so war that mihteSette yhe wher that he becom.And thus was he from his kingdomInto the wilde Forest drawe,Wher that the myhti goddes lawe    2970Thurgh his pouer dede him transformeFro man into a bestes forme;And lich an Oxe under the fotHe graseth, as he nedes mot,To geten him his lives fode.Tho thoghte him colde grases goode,That whilom eet the hote spices,Thus was he torned fro delices:The wyn which he was wont to drinkeHe tok thanne of the welles brinke    2980Or of the pet or of the slowh,It thoghte him thanne good ynowh:In stede of chambres wel arraiedHe was thanne of a buissh wel paied,The harde ground he lay upon,For othre pilwes hath he non;The stormes and the Reines falle,The wyndes blowe upon him alle,He was tormented day and nyht,Such was the hihe goddes myht,    2990Til sevene yer an ende toke.Upon himself tho gan he loke;In stede of mete gras and stres,In stede of handes longe cles,In stede of man a bestes lykeHe syh; and thanne he gan to sykeFor cloth of gold and for perrie,Which him was wont to magnefie.Whan he behield his Cote of heres,He wepte and with fulwoful teres    3000Up to the hevene he caste his chiereWepende, and thoghte in this manere;Thogh he no wordes myhte winne,Thus seide his herte and spak withinne:“O mihti godd, that al hast wroghtAnd al myht bringe ayein to noght,Now knowe I wel, bot al of thee,This world hath no prosperite:In thin aspect ben alle liche,The povere man and ek the riche,    3010Withoute thee ther mai no wight,And thou above alle othre miht.O mihti lord, toward my viceThi merci medle with justice;And I woll make a covenant,That of my lif the remenantI schal it be thi grace amende,And in thi lawe so despendeThat veine gloire I schal eschuie,And bowe unto thin heste and suie    3020Humilite, and that I vowe.”And so thenkende he gan doun bowe,And thogh him lacke vois and speche,He gan up with his feet areche,And wailende in his bestly steveneHe made his pleignte unto the hevene.He kneleth in his wise and braieth,To seche merci and assaiethHis god, which made him nothing strange,Whan that he sih his pride change.    3030Anon as he was humble and tame,He fond toward his god the same,And in a twinklinge of a lokHis mannes forme ayein he tok,And was reformed to the regneIn which that he was wont to regne;So that the Pride of veine gloireEvere afterward out of memoireHe let it passe. And thus is schewedWhat is to ben of Pride unthewed    3040Ayein the hihe goddes lawe,To whom noman mai be felawe.

Forthi, my Sone, tak good hiedeSo forto lede thi manhiede,That thou ne be noght lich a beste.Bot if thi lif schal ben honeste,Thou most humblesce take on honde,For thanne myht thou siker stonde:And forto speke it otherwise,A proud man can no love assise;    3050For thogh a womman wolde him plese,His Pride can noght ben at ese.

Ther mai noman to mochel blameA vice which is forto blame;Forthi men scholde nothing hideThat mihte falle in blame of Pride,Which is the werste vice of alle:Wherof, so as it was befalle,The tale I thenke of a CroniqueTo telle, if that it mai thee like,    3060So that thou myht humblesce suieAnd ek the vice of Pride eschuie,Wherof the gloire is fals and vein;Which god himself hath in desdeign,That thogh it mounte for a throwe,It schal doun falle and overthrowe.

A king whilom was yong and wys,The which sette of his wit gret pris.Of depe ymaginaciounsAnd strange interpretaciouns,    3070Problemes and demandes eke,His wisdom was to finde and seke;Wherof he wolde in sondri wiseOpposen hem that weren wise.Bot non of hem it myhte bereUpon his word to yeve answere,Outaken on, which was a knyht;To him was every thing so liht,That also sone as he hem herde,The kinges wordes he answerde;    3080What thing the king him axe wolde,Therof anon the trowthe he tolde.The king somdiel hadde an Envie,And thoghte he wolde his wittes plieTo sette som conclusioun,Which scholde be confusiounUnto this knyht, so that the nameAnd of wisdom the hihe fameToward himself he wolde winne.And thus of al his wit withinne    3090This king began to studie and muse,What strange matiere he myhte useThe knyhtes wittes to confounde;And ate laste he hath it founde,And for the knyht anon he sente,That he schal telle what he mente.Upon thre pointz stod the matiereOf questions, as thou schalt hiere.

The ferste point of alle threWas this: “What thing in his degre    3100Of al this world hath nede lest,And yet men helpe it althermest?”

The secounde is: “What most is worth,And of costage is lest put forth?”

The thridde is: “Which is of most cost,And lest is worth and goth to lost?”

The king thes thre demandes axeth,And to the knyht this lawe he taxeth,That he schal gon and come ayeinThe thridde weke, and telle him plein    3110To every point, what it amonteth.And if so be that he misconteth,To make in his answere a faile,Ther schal non other thing availe,The king seith, bot he schal be dedAnd lese hise goodes and his hed.The knyht was sori of this thingAnd wolde excuse him to the king,Bot he ne wolde him noght forbere,And thus the knyht of his ansuere    3120Goth hom to take avisement:Bot after his entendementThe more he caste his wit aboute,The more he stant therof in doute.Tho wiste he wel the kinges herte,That he the deth ne scholde asterte,And such a sorwe hath to him take,That gladschipe he hath al forsake.He thoghte ferst upon his lif,And after that upon his wif,    3130Upon his children ek also,Of whiche he hadde dowhtres tuo;The yongest of hem hadde of ageFourtiene yer, and of visageSche was riht fair, and of statureLich to an hevenely figure,And of manere and goodli speche,Thogh men wolde alle Londes seche,Thei scholden noght have founde hir like.Sche sih hire fader sorwe and sike,    3140And wiste noght the cause why;So cam sche to him prively,And that was where he made his moneWithinne a Gardin al him one;Upon hire knes sche gan doun falleWith humble herte and to him calle,And seide: “O goode fader diere,Why make ye thus hevy chiere,And I wot nothing how it is?And wel ye knowen, fader, this,    3150What aventure that you felleYe myhte it saufly to me telle,For I have ofte herd you seid,That ye such trust have on me leid,That to my soster ne my brother,In al this world ne to non other,Ye dorste telle a priviteSo wel, my fader, as to me.Forthi, my fader, I you preie,Ne casteth noght that herte aweie,    3160For I am sche that wolde kepeYoure honour.” And with that to wepeHire yhe mai noght be forbore,Sche wissheth forto ben unbore,Er that hire fader so mistristeTo tellen hire of that he wiste:And evere among merci sche cride,That he ne scholde his conseil hideFrom hire that so wolde him goodAnd was so nyh his fleissh and blod.    3170So that with wepinge ate lasteHis chiere upon his child he caste,And sorwfulli to that sche preideHe tolde his tale and thus he seide:“The sorwe, dowhter, which I makeIs noght al only for my sake,Bot for thee bothe and for you alle:For such a chance is me befalle,That I schal er this thridde dayLese al that evere I lese may,    3180Mi lif and al my good therto:Therfore it is I sorwe so.”“What is the cause, helas!” quod sche,“Mi fader, that ye scholden beDed and destruid in such a wise?”And he began the pointz devise,Whiche as the king told him be mowthe,And seid hir pleinly that he cowtheAnsuere unto no point of this.And sche, that hiereth how it is,    3190Hire conseil yaf and seide tho:“Mi fader, sithen it is so,That ye can se non other weie,Bot that ye moste nedes deie,I wolde preie of you a thing:Let me go with you to the king,And ye schull make him understondeHow ye, my wittes forto fonde,Have leid your ansuere upon me;And telleth him, in such degre    3200Upon my word ye wole abideTo lif or deth, what so betide.For yit par chaunce I may pourchaceWith som good word the kinges grace,Your lif and ek your good to save;For ofte schal a womman haveThing which a man mai noght areche.”The fader herde his dowhter speche,And thoghte ther was resoun inne,And sih his oghne lif to winne    3210He cowthe don himself no cure;So betre him thoghte in aventureTo put his lif and al his good,Than in the maner as it stodHis lif in certein forto lese.And thus thenkende he gan to cheseTo do the conseil of this Maide,And tok the pourpos which sche saide.

The dai was come and forth thei gon,Unto the Court thei come anon,    3220Wher as the king in juggementWas set and hath this knyht assent.Arraied in hire beste wiseThis Maiden with hire wordes wiseHire fader ladde be the hondInto the place, wher he fondThe king with othre whiche he wolde,And to the king knelende he toldeAs he enformed was tofore,And preith the king that he therfore    3230His dowhtres wordes wolde take,And seith that he wol undertakeUpon hire wordes forto stonde.Tho was ther gret merveile on honde,That he, which was so wys a knyht,His lif upon so yong a wyhtBesette wolde in jeupartie,And manye it hielden for folie:Bot ate laste nathelesThe king comandeth ben in pes,    3240And to this Maide he caste his chiere,And seide he wolde hire tale hiere,He bad hire speke, and sche began:

“Mi liege lord, so as I can,”Quod sche, “the pointz of whiche I herde,Thei schul of reson ben ansuerde.

The ferste I understonde is this,What thing of al the world it is,Which men most helpe and hath lest nede.Mi liege lord, this wolde I rede:    3250The Erthe it is, which everemoWith mannes labour is bego;Als wel in wynter as in MaiiThe mannes hond doth what he maiTo helpe it forth and make it riche,And forthi men it delve and dycheAnd eren it with strengthe of plowh,Wher it hath of himself ynowh,So that his nede is ate leste.For every man and bridd and beste,    3260And flour and gras and rote and rinde,And every thing be weie of kyndeSchal sterve, and Erthe it schal become;As it was out of Erthe nome,It schal to therthe torne ayein:And thus I mai be resoun seinThat Erthe is the most nedeles,And most men helpe it natheles.So that, my lord, touchende of thisI have ansuerd hou that it is.    3270

That other point I understod,Which most is worth and most is good,And costeth lest a man to kepe:Mi lord, if ye woll take kepe,I seie it is Humilite,Thurgh which the hihe triniteAs for decerte of pure loveUnto Marie from above,Of that he knew hire humble entente,His oghne Sone adoun he sente,    3280Above alle othre and hire he chesFor that vertu which bodeth pes:So that I may be resoun calleHumilite most worth of alle.And lest it costeth to maintiene,In al the world as it is sene;For who that hath humblesce on honde,He bringth no werres into londe,For he desireth for the besteTo setten every man in reste.    3290Thus with your hihe reverenceMe thenketh that this evidenceAs to this point is sufficant.

And touchende of the remenant,Which is the thridde of youre axinges,What leste is worth of alle thinges,And costeth most, I telle it, Pride;Which mai noght in the hevene abide,For Lucifer with hem that felleBar Pride with him into helle.    3300Ther was Pride of to gret a cost,Whan he for Pride hath hevene lost;And after that in ParadisAdam for Pride loste his pris:In Midelerthe and ek alsoPride is the cause of alle wo,That al the world ne may suffiseTo stanche of Pride the reprise:Pride is the heved of alle Sinne,Which wasteth al and mai noght winne;    3310Pride is of every mis the pricke,Pride is the werste of alle wicke,And costneth most and lest is worthIn place where he hath his forth.Thus have I seid that I wol seieOf myn answere, and to you preie,Mi liege lord, of youre officeThat ye such grace and such justiceOrdeigne for mi fader hiere,That after this, whan men it hiere,    3320The world therof mai speke good.”

The king, which reson understodAnd hath al herd how sche hath said,Was inly glad and so wel paidThat al his wraththe is overgo:And he began to loke thoUpon this Maiden in the face,In which he fond so mochel grace,That al his pris on hire he leide,In audience and thus he seide:    3330“Mi faire Maide, wel thee be!Of thin ansuere and ek of theeMe liketh wel, and as thou wilt,Foryive be thi fader gilt.And if thou were of such lignage,That thou to me were of parage,And that thi fader were a Pier,As he is now a Bachilier,So seker as I have a lif,Thou scholdest thanne be my wif.    3340Bot this I seie natheles,That I wol schape thin encress;What worldes good that thou wolt crave,Axe of my yifte and thou schalt have.”And sche the king with wordes wiseKnelende thonketh in this wise:“Mi liege lord, god mot you quite!Mi fader hier hath bot a liteOf warison, and that he wendeHadde al be lost; bot now amende    3350He mai wel thurgh your noble grace.”With that the king riht in his placeAnon forth in that freisshe heteAn    Erldom, which thanne of escheteWas late falle into his hond,Unto this knyht with rente and londHath yove and with his chartre sesed;And thus was all the noise appesed.

This Maiden, which sat on hire knesTofore the king, hise charitees    3360Comendeth, and seide overmore:“Mi liege lord, riht now toforeYe seide, as it is of record,That if my fader were a lordAnd Pier unto these othre grete,Ye wolden for noght elles lete,That I ne scholde be your wif;And this wot every worthi lif,A kinges word it mot ben holde.Forthi, my lord, if that ye wolde    3370So gret a charite fulfille,God wot it were wel my wille:For he which was a Bacheler,Mi fader, is now mad a Pier;So whenne as evere that I cam,An Erles dowhter now I am.”

This yonge king, which peised al,Hire beaute and hir wit withal,As he that was with love hent,Anon therto yaf his assent.    3380He myhte noght the maide asterte,That sche nis ladi of his herte;So that he tok hire to his wif,To holde whyl that he hath lif:And thus the king toward his knyhtAcordeth him, as it is riht.

And over this good is to wite,In the Cronique as it is write,This noble king of whom I toldeOf Spaine be tho daies olde    3390The kingdom hadde in governance,And as the bok makth remembrance,Alphonse was his propre name:The knyht also, if I schal name,Danz Petro hihte, and as men telle,His dowhter wyse PeronelleWas cleped, which was full of grace:And that was sene in thilke place,Wher sche hir fader out of teeneHath broght and mad hirself a qweene,    3400Of that sche hath so wel desclosedThe pointz wherof sche was opposed.

Lo now, my Sone, as thou myht hiere,Of al this thing to my matiereBot on I take, and that is Pride,To whom no grace mai betide:In hevene he fell out of his stede,And Paradis him was forbede,The goode men in Erthe him hate,So that to helle he mot algate,    3410Where every vertu schal be weyvedAnd every vice be received.Bot Humblesce is al otherwise,Which most is worth, and no repriseIt takth ayein, bot softe and faire,If eny thing stond in contraire,With humble speche it is redresced:Thus was this yonge Maiden blessed,The which I spak of now tofore,Hire fader lif sche gat therfore,    3420And wan with al the kinges love.Forthi, my Sone, if thou wolt love,It sit thee wel to leve PrideAnd take Humblesce upon thi side;The more of grace thou schalt gete.

Mi fader, I woll noght foryeteOf this that ye have told me hiere,And if that eny such manereOf humble port mai love appaie,Hierafterward I thenke assaie:    3430Bot now forth over I besecheThat ye more of my schrifte seche.

Mi goode Sone, it schal be do:Now herkne and ley an Ere to;For as touchende of Prides fare,Als ferforth as I can declareIn cause of vice, in cause of love,That hast thou pleinly herd above,So that ther is nomor to seieTouchende of that; bot other weie    3440Touchende Envie I thenke telle,Which hath the propre kinde of helle,Withoute cause to misdoToward himself and othre also,Hierafterward as understondeThou schalt the spieces, as thei stonde.

Explicit Liber Primus

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