Horestes dede his moder calleAnon tofore the lordes alleAnd ek tofor the poeple also,To hire and tolde his tale tho,And seide, “O cruel beste unkinde,How mihtest thou thin herte finde,For eny lust of loves drawhte,That thou acordest to the slawhteOf him which was thin oghne lord?Thi treson stant of such record, 2060Thou miht thi werkes noght forsake;So mot I for mi fader sakeVengance upon thi bodi do,As I comanded am therto.Unkindely for thou hast wroght,Unkindeliche it schal be boght,The Sone schal the Moder sle,For that whilom thou seidest yeeTo that thou scholdest nay have seid.”And he with that his hond hath leid 2070Upon his Moder brest anon,And rente out fro the bare bonHire Pappes bothe and caste aweieAmiddes in the carte weie,And after tok the dede corsAnd let it drawe awey with horsUnto the hound and to the raven;Sche was non other wise graven.Egistus, which was elles where,Tidinges comen to his Ere 2080How that Micenes was belein,Bot what was more herd he noght sein;With gret manace and mochel bostHe drowh pouer and made an hostAnd cam in rescousse of the toun.Bot al the sleyhte of his tresounHorestes wiste it be aspie,And of his men a gret partieHe made in buisshement abide,To waite on him in such a tide 2090That he ne mihte here hond ascape:And in this wise as he hath schapeThe thing befell, so that EgisteWas take, er he himself it wiste,And was forth broght hise hondes bounde,As whan men han a tretour founde.And tho that weren with him take,Whiche of tresoun were overtake,Togedre in o sentence falle;Bot false Egiste above hem alle 2100Was demed to diverse peine,The worste that men cowthe ordeigne,And so forth after be the laweHe was unto the gibet drawe,Where he above alle othre hongeth,As to a tretour it belongeth.Tho fame with hire swifte wyngesAboute flyh and bar tidinges,And made it cowth in alle londesHow that Horestes with hise hondes 2110Climestre his oghne Moder slowh.Some sein he dede wel ynowh,And som men sein he dede amis,Diverse opinion ther is:That sche is ded thei speken alle,Bot pleinli hou it is befalle,The matiere in so litel throweIn soth ther mihte noman knoweBot thei that weren ate dede:And comunliche in every nede 2120The worste speche is rathest herdAnd lieved, til it be ansuerd.The kinges and the lordes greteBegonne Horestes forto threteTo puten him out of his regne:“He is noght worthi forto regne,The child which slowh his moder so,”Thei saide; and therupon alsoThe lordes of comun assentA time sette of parlement, 2130And to Athenes king and lordTogedre come of on accord,To knowe hou that the sothe was:So that Horestes in this casThei senden after, and he com.King Menelay the wordes nomAnd axeth him of this matiere:And he, that alle it mihten hiere,Ansuerde and tolde his tale alarge,And hou the goddes in his charge 2140Comanded him in such a wiseHis oghne hond to do juise.And with this tale a Duc aros,Which was a worthi kniht of los,His name was Menesteus,And seide unto the lordes thus:“The wreeche which Horeste dede,It was thing of the goddes bede,And nothing of his crualte;And if ther were of mi degree 2150In al this place such a knihtThat wolde sein it was no riht,I wole it with my bodi prove.”And therupon he caste his glove,And ek this noble Duc alleideFul many an other skile, and seideSche hadde wel deserved wreche,Ferst for the cause of Spousebreche,And after wroghte in such a wiseThat al the world it oghte agrise, 2160Whan that sche for so foul a viceWas of hire oghne lord moerdrice.Thei seten alle stille and herde,Bot therto was noman ansuerde,It thoghte hem alle he seide skile,Ther is noman withseie it wile;Whan thei upon the reson musen,Horestes alle thei excusen:So that with gret solempneteHe was unto his dignete 2170Received, and coroned king.And tho befell a wonder thing:Egiona, whan sche this wiste,Which was the dowhter of EgisteAnd Soster on the moder sideTo this Horeste, at thilke tide,Whan sche herde how hir brother spedde,For pure sorwe, which hire ledde,That he ne hadde ben exiled,Sche hath hire oghne lif beguiled 2180Anon and hyng hireselve tho.It hath and schal ben everemo,To moerdre who that wole assente,He mai noght faille to repente:This false Egiona was on,Which forto moerdre AgamenonYaf hire acord and hire assent,So that be goddes juggement,Thogh that non other man it wolde,Sche tok hire juise as sche scholde; 2190And as sche to an other wroghte,Vengance upon hireself sche soghte,And hath of hire unhappi witA moerdre with a moerdre quit.Such is of moerdre the vengance.Forthi, mi Sone, in remembranceOf this ensample tak good hiede:For who that thenkth his love spiedeWith moerdre, he schal with worldes schameHimself and ek his love schame. 2200Mi fader, of this aventureWhich ye have told, I you assureMin herte is sory forto hiere,Bot only for I wolde lereWhat is to done, and what to leve.And over this now be your leve,That ye me wolden telle I preie,If ther be lieffull eny weieWithoute Senne a man to sle.Mi Sone, in sondri wise ye. 2210What man that is of traiterie,Of moerdre or elles robberieAtteint, the jugge schal noght lette,Bot he schal slen of pure dette,And doth gret Senne, if that he wonde.For who that lawe hath upon honde,And spareth forto do justiceFor merci, doth noght his office,That he his mercy so bewareth,Whan for o schrewe which he spareth 2220A thousand goode men he grieveth:With such merci who that believethTo plese god, he is deceived,Or elles resoun mot be weyved.The lawe stod er we were bore,How that a kinges swerd is boreIn signe that he schal defendeHis trewe poeple and make an endeOf suche as wolden hem devoure.Lo thus, my Sone, to socoure 2230The lawe and comun riht to winne,A man mai sle withoute Sinne,And do therof a gret almesse,So forto kepe rihtwisnesse.And over this for his contreIn time of werre a man is freHimself, his hous and ek his londDefende with his oghne hond,And slen, if that he mai no bet,After the lawe which is set. 2240Now, fader, thanne I you besecheOf hem that dedly werres secheIn worldes cause and scheden blod,If such an homicide is good.Mi Sone, upon thi questionThe trowthe of myn opinion,Als ferforth as my wit arechethAnd as the pleine lawe techeth,I woll thee telle in evidence,To rewle with thi conscience. 2250The hihe god of his justiceThat ilke foule horrible viceOf homicide he hath forbede,Be Moises as it was bede.Whan goddes Sone also was bore,He sende hise anglis doun therfore,Whom the Schepherdes herden singe,Pes to the men of welwillingeIn erthe be among ous here.So forto speke in this matiere 2260After the lawe of charite,Ther schal no dedly werre be:And ek nature it hath defendedAnd in hir lawe pes comended,Which is the chief of mannes welthe,Of mannes lif, of mannes helthe.Bot dedly werre hath his covineOf pestilence and of famine,Of poverte and of alle wo,Wherof this world we blamen so, 2270Which now the werre hath under fote,Til god himself therof do bote.For alle thing which god hath wroghtIn Erthe, werre it bringth to noght:The cherche is brent, the priest is slain,The wif, the maide is ek forlain,The lawe is lore and god unserved:I not what mede he hath deservedThat suche werres ledeth inne.If that he do it forto winne, 2280Ferst to acompte his grete costForth with the folk that he hath lost,As to the wordes rekeningeTher schal he finde no winnynge;And if he do it to pourchaceThe hevene mede, of such a graceI can noght speke, and nathelesCrist hath comanded love and pes,And who that worcheth the revers,I trowe his mede is ful divers. 2290And sithen thanne that we findeThat werres in here oghne kindeBen toward god of no decerte,And ek thei bringen in poverteOf worldes good, it is merveileAmong the men what it mai eyle,That thei a pes ne conne sette.I trowe Senne be the lette,And every mede of Senne is deth;So wot I nevere hou that it geth: 2300Bot we that ben of o believeAmong ousself, this wolde I lieve,That betre it were pes to chese,Than so be double weie lese.I not if that it now so stonde,Bot this a man mai understonde,Who that these olde bokes redeth,That coveitise is on which ledeth,And broghte ferst the werres inne.At Grece if that I schal beginne, 2310Ther was it proved hou it stod:To Perce, which was ful of good,Thei maden werre in special,And so thei deden overal,Wher gret richesse was in londe,So that thei leften nothing stondeUnwerred, bot onliche Archade.For there thei no werres made,Be cause it was bareigne and povere,Wherof thei mihten noght recovere; 2320And thus poverte was forbore,He that noght hadde noght hath lore.Bot yit it is a wonder thing,Whan that a riche worthi king,Or other lord, what so he be,Wol axe and cleyme propreteIn thing to which he hath no riht,Bot onliche of his grete miht:For this mai every man wel wite,That bothe kinde and lawe write 2330Expressly stonden therayein.Bot he mot nedes somwhat sein,Althogh ther be no reson inne,Which secheth cause forto winne:For wit that is with will oppressed,Whan coveitise him hath adressed,And alle resoun put aweie,He can wel finde such a weieTo werre, where as evere him liketh,Wherof that he the world entriketh, 2340That many a man of him compleigneth:Bot yit alwei som cause he feigneth,And of his wrongful herte he demethThat al is wel, what evere him semeth,Be so that he mai winne ynowh.For as the trew man to the plowhOnly to the gaignage entendeth,Riht so the werreiour despendethHis time and hath no conscience.And in this point for evidence 2350Of hem that suche werres make,Thou miht a gret ensample take,How thei her tirannie excusenOf that thei wrongfull werres usen,And how thei stonde of on acord,The Souldeour forth with the lord,The povere man forth with the riche,As of corage thei ben liche,To make werres and to pileFor lucre and for non other skyle: 2360Wherof a propre tale I rede,As it whilom befell in dede.Of him whom al this Erthe dradde,Whan he the world so overladdeThurgh werre, as it fortuned is,King Alisandre, I rede this;How in a Marche, where he lay,It fell per chance upon a dayA Rovere of the See was nome,Which many a man hadde overcome 2370And slain and take here good aweie:This Pilour, as the bokes seie,A famous man in sondri stedeWas of the werkes whiche he dede.This Prisoner tofor the kingWas broght, and there upon this thingIn audience he was accused:And he his dede hath noght excused,Bot preith the king to don him riht,And seith, “Sire, if I were of miht, 2380I have an herte lich to thin;For if the pouer were myn,Mi will is most in specialTo rifle and geten overalThe large worldes good aboute.Bot for I lede a povere routeAnd am, as who seith, at meschief,The name of Pilour and of thiefI bere; and thou, which routes greteMiht lede and take thi beyete, 2390And dost riht as I wolde do,Thi name is nothing cleped so,Bot thou art named Emperour.Oure dedes ben of o colourAnd in effect of o decerte,Bot thi richesse and my poverteTho ben noght taken evene liche.And natheles he that is richeThis dai, tomorwe he mai be povere;And in contraire also recovere 2400A povere man to gret richesseMen sen: forthi let rihtwisnesseBe peised evene in the balance.The king his hardi contienanceBehield, and herde hise wordes wise,And seide unto him in this wise:“Thin ansuere I have understonde,Wherof my will is, that thou stondeIn mi service and stille abide.”And forth withal the same tide 2410He hath him terme of lif withholde,The mor and for he schal ben holde,He made him kniht and yaf him lond,Which afterward was of his hondAnd orped kniht in many a stede,And gret prouesce of armes dede,As the Croniqes it recorden.And in this wise thei acorden,The whiche of o condiciounBe set upon destruccioun: 2420Such Capitein such retenue.Bot forto se to what issueThe thing befalleth ate laste,It is gret wonder that men casteHere herte upon such wrong to winne,Wher no beyete mai ben inne,And doth desese on every side:Bot whan reson is put asideAnd will governeth the corage,The faucon which that fleth ramage 2430And soeffreth nothing in the weie,Wherof that he mai take his preie,Is noght mor set upon ravine,Than thilke man which his covineHath set in such a maner wise:For al the world ne mai suffiseTo will which is noght resonable.Wherof ensample concordableLich to this point of which I meene,Was upon Alisandre sene, 2440Which hadde set al his entente,So as fortune with him wente,That reson mihte him non governe,Bot of his will he was so sterne,That al the world he overranAnd what him list he tok and wan.In Ynde the superiourWhan that he was ful conquerour,And hadde his wilful pourpos wonneOf al this Erthe under the Sonne, 2450This king homward to Macedoine,Whan that he cam to Babiloine,And wende most in his Empire,As he which was hol lord and Sire,In honour forto be received,Most sodeinliche he was deceived,And with strong puison envenimed.And as he hath the world mistimedNoght as he scholde with his wit,Noght as he wolde it was aquit. 2460Thus was he slain that whilom slowh,And he which riche was ynowhThis dai, tomorwe he hadde noght:And in such wise as he hath wroghtIn destorbance of worldes pes,His werre he fond thanne endeles,In which for evere desconfitHe was. Lo now, for what profitOf werre it helpeth forto ryde,For coveitise and worldes pride 2470To sle the worldes men aboute,As bestes whiche gon theroute.For every lif which reson canOghth wel to knowe that a manNe scholde thurgh no tirannieLich to these othre bestes die,Til kinde wolde for him sende.I not hou he it mihte amende,Which takth awei for everemoreThe lif that he mai noght restore. 2480Forthi, mi Sone, in alle weieBe wel avised, I thee preie,Of slawhte er that thou be coupableWithoute cause resonable.Mi fader, understonde it is,That ye have seid; bot over thisI prei you tell me nay or yee,To passe over the grete SeeTo werre and sle the Sarazin,Is that the lawe?Sone myn, 2490To preche and soffre for the feith,That have I herd the gospell seith;Bot forto slee, that hiere I noght.Crist with his oghne deth hath boghtAlle othre men, and made hem fre,In tokne of parfit charite;And after that he tawhte himselve,Whan he was ded, these othre tuelveOf hise Apostles wente abouteThe holi feith to prechen oute, 2500Wherof the deth in sondri placeThei soffre, and so god of his graceThe feith of Crist hath mad aryse:Bot if thei wolde in other wiseBe werre have broght in the creance,It hadde yit stonde in balance.And that mai proven in the dede;For what man the Croniqes rede,Fro ferst that holi cherche hath weyvedTo preche, and hath the swerd received, 2510Wherof the werres ben begonne,A gret partie of that was wonneTo Cristes feith stant now miswent:Godd do therof amendement,So as he wot what is the beste.Bot, Sone, if thou wolt live in resteOf conscience wel assised,Er that thou sle, be wel avised:For man, as tellen ous the clerkes,Hath god above alle ertheli werkes 2520Ordeined to be principal,And ek of Soule in specialHe is mad lich to the godhiede.So sit it wel to taken hiedeAnd forto loke on every side,Er that thou falle in homicide,Which Senne is now so general,That it welnyh stant overal,In holi cherche and elles where.Bot al the while it stant so there, 2530The world mot nede fare amis:For whan the welle of pite isThurgh coveitise of worldes goodDefouled with schedinge of blod,The remenant of folk abouteUnethe stonden eny douteTo werre ech other and to slee.So is it all noght worth a Stree,The charite wherof we prechen,For we do nothing as we techen: 2540And thus the blinde conscienceOf pes hath lost thilke evidenceWhich Crist upon this Erthe tawhte.Now mai men se moerdre and manslawhteLich as it was be daies olde,Whan men the Sennes boghte and solde.In Grece afore Cristes feith,I rede, as the Cronique seith,Touchende of this matiere thus,In thilke time hou Peleüs 2550His oghne brother Phocus slowh;Bot for he hadde gold ynowhTo yive, his Senne was despensedWith gold, wherof it was compensed:Achastus, which with Venus wasHire Priest, assoilede in that cas,Al were ther no repentance.And as the bok makth remembrance,It telleth of Medee also;Of that sche slowh her Sones tuo, 2560Egeüs in the same plitHath mad hire of hire Senne quit.The Sone ek of Amphioras,Whos rihte name Almeus was,His Moder slowh, Eriphile;Bot Achilo the Priest and he,So as the bokes it recorden,For certein Somme of gold acordenThat thilke horrible sinfull dedeAssoiled was. And thus for mede 2570Of worldes good it falleth ofteThat homicide is set alofteHiere in this lif; bot after thisTher schal be knowe how that it isOf hem that suche thinges werche,And hou also that holi chercheLet suche Sennes passe quyte,And how thei wole hemself aquiteOf dedly werres that thei make.For who that wolde ensample take, 2580The lawe which is naturelBe weie of kinde scheweth welThat homicide in no degree,Which werreth ayein charite,Among the men ne scholde duelle.For after that the bokes telle,To seche in al this worldesriche,Men schal noght finde upon his licheA beste forto take his preie:And sithen kinde hath such a weie, 2590Thanne is it wonder of a man,Which kynde hath and resoun can,That he wol owther more or lasseHis kinde and resoun overpasse,And sle that is to him semblable.So is the man noght resonableNe kinde, and that is noght honeste,Whan he is worse than a beste.Among the bokes whiche I findeSolyns spekth of a wonder kinde, 2600And seith of fowhles ther is on,Which hath a face of blod and bonLich to a man in resemblance.And if it falle him so per chance,As he which is a fowhl of preie,That he a man finde in his weie,He wol him slen, if that he mai:Bot afterward the same dai,Whan he hath eten al his felle,And that schal be beside a welle, 2610In which whan he wol drinke take,Of his visage and seth the makeThat he hath slain, anon he thenkethOf his misdede, and it forthenkethSo gretly, that for pure sorweHe liveth noght til on the morwe.Be this ensample it mai well suieThat man schal homicide eschuie,For evere is merci good to take,Bot if the lawe it hath forsake 2620And that justice is therayein.For ofte time I have herd seinAmonges hem that werres hadden,That thei som while here cause laddenBe merci, whan thei mihte have slain,Wherof that thei were after fain:And, Sone, if that thou wolt recordeThe vertu of Misericorde,Thou sihe nevere thilke place,Where it was used, lacke grace. 2630For every lawe and every kindeThe mannes wit to merci binde;And namely the worthi knihtes,Whan that thei stonden most uprihtesAnd ben most mihti forto grieve,Thei scholden thanne most relieveHim whom thei mihten overthrowe,As be ensample a man mai knowe.He mai noght failen of his medeThat hath merci: for this I rede, 2640In a Cronique and finde thus.Whan Achilles with TelaphusHis Sone toward Troie were,It fell hem, er thei comen there,Ayein Theucer the king of MeseTo make werre and forto seseHis lond, as thei that wolden regneAnd Theucer pute out of his regne.And thus the Marches thei assaile,Bot Theucer yaf to hem bataille; 2650Thei foghte on bothe sides faste,Bot so it hapneth ate laste,This worthi Grek, this Achilles,The king among alle othre ches:As he that was cruel and fell,With swerd in honde on him he fell,And smot him with a dethes wounde,That he unhorsed fell to grounde.Achilles upon him alyhte,And wolde anon, as he wel mihte, 2660Have slain him fullich in the place;Bot Thelaphus his fader graceFor him besoghte, and for pitePreith that he wolde lete him be,And caste his Schield betwen hem tuo.Achilles axeth him why so,And Thelaphus his cause tolde,And seith that he is mochel holde,For whilom Theucer in a stedeGret grace and socour to him dede, 2670And seith that he him wolde aquite,And preith his fader to respite.Achilles tho withdrowh his hond;Bot al the pouer of the lond,Whan that thei sihe here king thus take,Thei fledde and han the feld forsake:The Grecs unto the chace falle,And for the moste part of alleOf that contre the lordes greteThei toke, and wonne a gret beyete. 2680And anon after this victoireThe king, which hadde good memoire,Upon the grete merci thoghte,Which Telaphus toward him wroghte,And in presence of al the londHe tok him faire be the hond,And in this wise he gan to seie:“Mi Sone, I mot be double weieLove and desire thin encress;Ferst for thi fader Achilles 2690Whilom ful many dai er this,Whan that I scholde have fare amis,Rescousse dede in mi quereleAnd kepte al myn astat in hele:How so ther falle now distanceAmonges ous, yit remembranceI have of merci which he dedeAs thanne: and thou now in this stedeOf gentilesce and of franchiseHast do mercy the same wise. 2700So wol I noght that eny timeBe lost of that thou hast do byme;For hou so this fortune falle,Yit stant mi trust aboven alle,For the mercy which I now finde,That thou wolt after this be kinde:And for that such is myn espeir,As for my Sone and for myn EirI thee receive, and al my londI yive and sese into thin hond.” 2710And in this wise thei acorde,The cause was Misericorde:The lordes dede here obeissanceTo Thelaphus, and pourveanceWas mad so that he was coroned:And thus was merci reguerdoned,Which he to Theucer dede afore.Lo, this ensample is mad therfore,That thou miht take remembrance,Mi Sone; and whan thou sest a chaunce, 2720Of other mennes passiounTak pite and compassioun,And let nothing to thee be lief,Which to an other man is grief.And after this if thou desireTo stonde ayein the vice of Ire,Consaile thee with Pacience,And tak into thi conscienceMerci to be thi governour.So schalt thou fiele no rancour, 2730Wherof thin herte schal debateWith homicide ne with hateFor Cheste or for Malencolie:Thou schalt be soft in compaignieWithoute Contek or Folhaste:For elles miht thou longe wasteThi time, er that thou have thi willeOf love; for the weder stilleMen preise, and blame the tempestes.Mi fader, I wol do youre hestes, 2740And of this point ye have me tawht,Toward miself the betre sawhtI thenke be, whil that I live.Bot for als moche as I am schriveOf Wraththe and al his circumstance,Yif what you list to my penance,And asketh forthere of my lif,If otherwise I be gultifOf eny thing that toucheth Sinne.Mi Sone, er we departe atwinne, 2750I schal behinde nothing leve.Mi goode fader, be your leveThanne axeth forth what so you list,For I have in you such a trist,As ye that be my Soule hele,That ye fro me wol nothing hele,For I schal telle you the trowthe.Mi Sone, art thou coupable of SlowtheIn eny point which to him longeth?My fader, of tho pointz me longeth 2760To wite pleinly what thei meene,So that I mai me schrive cleene.Now herkne, I schal the pointz devise;And understond wel myn aprise:For schrifte stant of no valueTo him that wol him noght vertueTo leve of vice the folie:For word is wynd, bot the maistrieIs that a man himself defendeOf thing which is noght to comende, 2770Wherof ben fewe now aday.And natheles, so as I mayMake unto thi memoire knowe,The pointz of Slowthe thou schalt knowe.Explicit Liber Tercius
Horestes dede his moder calleAnon tofore the lordes alleAnd ek tofor the poeple also,To hire and tolde his tale tho,And seide, “O cruel beste unkinde,How mihtest thou thin herte finde,For eny lust of loves drawhte,That thou acordest to the slawhteOf him which was thin oghne lord?Thi treson stant of such record, 2060Thou miht thi werkes noght forsake;So mot I for mi fader sakeVengance upon thi bodi do,As I comanded am therto.Unkindely for thou hast wroght,Unkindeliche it schal be boght,The Sone schal the Moder sle,For that whilom thou seidest yeeTo that thou scholdest nay have seid.”And he with that his hond hath leid 2070Upon his Moder brest anon,And rente out fro the bare bonHire Pappes bothe and caste aweieAmiddes in the carte weie,And after tok the dede corsAnd let it drawe awey with horsUnto the hound and to the raven;Sche was non other wise graven.
Egistus, which was elles where,Tidinges comen to his Ere 2080How that Micenes was belein,Bot what was more herd he noght sein;With gret manace and mochel bostHe drowh pouer and made an hostAnd cam in rescousse of the toun.Bot al the sleyhte of his tresounHorestes wiste it be aspie,And of his men a gret partieHe made in buisshement abide,To waite on him in such a tide 2090That he ne mihte here hond ascape:And in this wise as he hath schapeThe thing befell, so that EgisteWas take, er he himself it wiste,And was forth broght hise hondes bounde,As whan men han a tretour founde.And tho that weren with him take,Whiche of tresoun were overtake,Togedre in o sentence falle;Bot false Egiste above hem alle 2100Was demed to diverse peine,The worste that men cowthe ordeigne,And so forth after be the laweHe was unto the gibet drawe,Where he above alle othre hongeth,As to a tretour it belongeth.
Tho fame with hire swifte wyngesAboute flyh and bar tidinges,And made it cowth in alle londesHow that Horestes with hise hondes 2110Climestre his oghne Moder slowh.Some sein he dede wel ynowh,And som men sein he dede amis,Diverse opinion ther is:That sche is ded thei speken alle,Bot pleinli hou it is befalle,The matiere in so litel throweIn soth ther mihte noman knoweBot thei that weren ate dede:And comunliche in every nede 2120The worste speche is rathest herdAnd lieved, til it be ansuerd.The kinges and the lordes greteBegonne Horestes forto threteTo puten him out of his regne:“He is noght worthi forto regne,The child which slowh his moder so,”Thei saide; and therupon alsoThe lordes of comun assentA time sette of parlement, 2130And to Athenes king and lordTogedre come of on accord,To knowe hou that the sothe was:So that Horestes in this casThei senden after, and he com.King Menelay the wordes nomAnd axeth him of this matiere:And he, that alle it mihten hiere,Ansuerde and tolde his tale alarge,And hou the goddes in his charge 2140Comanded him in such a wiseHis oghne hond to do juise.And with this tale a Duc aros,Which was a worthi kniht of los,His name was Menesteus,And seide unto the lordes thus:“The wreeche which Horeste dede,It was thing of the goddes bede,And nothing of his crualte;And if ther were of mi degree 2150In al this place such a knihtThat wolde sein it was no riht,I wole it with my bodi prove.”And therupon he caste his glove,And ek this noble Duc alleideFul many an other skile, and seideSche hadde wel deserved wreche,Ferst for the cause of Spousebreche,And after wroghte in such a wiseThat al the world it oghte agrise, 2160Whan that sche for so foul a viceWas of hire oghne lord moerdrice.Thei seten alle stille and herde,Bot therto was noman ansuerde,It thoghte hem alle he seide skile,Ther is noman withseie it wile;Whan thei upon the reson musen,Horestes alle thei excusen:So that with gret solempneteHe was unto his dignete 2170Received, and coroned king.And tho befell a wonder thing:Egiona, whan sche this wiste,Which was the dowhter of EgisteAnd Soster on the moder sideTo this Horeste, at thilke tide,Whan sche herde how hir brother spedde,For pure sorwe, which hire ledde,That he ne hadde ben exiled,Sche hath hire oghne lif beguiled 2180Anon and hyng hireselve tho.It hath and schal ben everemo,To moerdre who that wole assente,He mai noght faille to repente:This false Egiona was on,Which forto moerdre AgamenonYaf hire acord and hire assent,So that be goddes juggement,Thogh that non other man it wolde,Sche tok hire juise as sche scholde; 2190And as sche to an other wroghte,Vengance upon hireself sche soghte,And hath of hire unhappi witA moerdre with a moerdre quit.Such is of moerdre the vengance.
Forthi, mi Sone, in remembranceOf this ensample tak good hiede:For who that thenkth his love spiedeWith moerdre, he schal with worldes schameHimself and ek his love schame. 2200
Mi fader, of this aventureWhich ye have told, I you assureMin herte is sory forto hiere,Bot only for I wolde lereWhat is to done, and what to leve.
And over this now be your leve,That ye me wolden telle I preie,If ther be lieffull eny weieWithoute Senne a man to sle.
Mi Sone, in sondri wise ye. 2210What man that is of traiterie,Of moerdre or elles robberieAtteint, the jugge schal noght lette,Bot he schal slen of pure dette,And doth gret Senne, if that he wonde.For who that lawe hath upon honde,And spareth forto do justiceFor merci, doth noght his office,That he his mercy so bewareth,Whan for o schrewe which he spareth 2220A thousand goode men he grieveth:With such merci who that believethTo plese god, he is deceived,Or elles resoun mot be weyved.The lawe stod er we were bore,How that a kinges swerd is boreIn signe that he schal defendeHis trewe poeple and make an endeOf suche as wolden hem devoure.Lo thus, my Sone, to socoure 2230The lawe and comun riht to winne,A man mai sle withoute Sinne,And do therof a gret almesse,So forto kepe rihtwisnesse.And over this for his contreIn time of werre a man is freHimself, his hous and ek his londDefende with his oghne hond,And slen, if that he mai no bet,After the lawe which is set. 2240
Now, fader, thanne I you besecheOf hem that dedly werres secheIn worldes cause and scheden blod,If such an homicide is good.
Mi Sone, upon thi questionThe trowthe of myn opinion,Als ferforth as my wit arechethAnd as the pleine lawe techeth,I woll thee telle in evidence,To rewle with thi conscience. 2250
The hihe god of his justiceThat ilke foule horrible viceOf homicide he hath forbede,Be Moises as it was bede.Whan goddes Sone also was bore,He sende hise anglis doun therfore,Whom the Schepherdes herden singe,Pes to the men of welwillingeIn erthe be among ous here.So forto speke in this matiere 2260After the lawe of charite,Ther schal no dedly werre be:And ek nature it hath defendedAnd in hir lawe pes comended,Which is the chief of mannes welthe,Of mannes lif, of mannes helthe.Bot dedly werre hath his covineOf pestilence and of famine,Of poverte and of alle wo,Wherof this world we blamen so, 2270Which now the werre hath under fote,Til god himself therof do bote.For alle thing which god hath wroghtIn Erthe, werre it bringth to noght:The cherche is brent, the priest is slain,The wif, the maide is ek forlain,The lawe is lore and god unserved:I not what mede he hath deservedThat suche werres ledeth inne.If that he do it forto winne, 2280Ferst to acompte his grete costForth with the folk that he hath lost,As to the wordes rekeningeTher schal he finde no winnynge;And if he do it to pourchaceThe hevene mede, of such a graceI can noght speke, and nathelesCrist hath comanded love and pes,And who that worcheth the revers,I trowe his mede is ful divers. 2290And sithen thanne that we findeThat werres in here oghne kindeBen toward god of no decerte,And ek thei bringen in poverteOf worldes good, it is merveileAmong the men what it mai eyle,That thei a pes ne conne sette.I trowe Senne be the lette,And every mede of Senne is deth;So wot I nevere hou that it geth: 2300Bot we that ben of o believeAmong ousself, this wolde I lieve,That betre it were pes to chese,Than so be double weie lese.
I not if that it now so stonde,Bot this a man mai understonde,Who that these olde bokes redeth,That coveitise is on which ledeth,And broghte ferst the werres inne.At Grece if that I schal beginne, 2310Ther was it proved hou it stod:To Perce, which was ful of good,Thei maden werre in special,And so thei deden overal,Wher gret richesse was in londe,So that thei leften nothing stondeUnwerred, bot onliche Archade.For there thei no werres made,Be cause it was bareigne and povere,Wherof thei mihten noght recovere; 2320And thus poverte was forbore,He that noght hadde noght hath lore.Bot yit it is a wonder thing,Whan that a riche worthi king,Or other lord, what so he be,Wol axe and cleyme propreteIn thing to which he hath no riht,Bot onliche of his grete miht:For this mai every man wel wite,That bothe kinde and lawe write 2330Expressly stonden therayein.Bot he mot nedes somwhat sein,Althogh ther be no reson inne,Which secheth cause forto winne:For wit that is with will oppressed,Whan coveitise him hath adressed,And alle resoun put aweie,He can wel finde such a weieTo werre, where as evere him liketh,Wherof that he the world entriketh, 2340That many a man of him compleigneth:Bot yit alwei som cause he feigneth,And of his wrongful herte he demethThat al is wel, what evere him semeth,Be so that he mai winne ynowh.For as the trew man to the plowhOnly to the gaignage entendeth,Riht so the werreiour despendethHis time and hath no conscience.And in this point for evidence 2350Of hem that suche werres make,Thou miht a gret ensample take,How thei her tirannie excusenOf that thei wrongfull werres usen,And how thei stonde of on acord,The Souldeour forth with the lord,The povere man forth with the riche,As of corage thei ben liche,To make werres and to pileFor lucre and for non other skyle: 2360Wherof a propre tale I rede,As it whilom befell in dede.
Of him whom al this Erthe dradde,Whan he the world so overladdeThurgh werre, as it fortuned is,King Alisandre, I rede this;How in a Marche, where he lay,It fell per chance upon a dayA Rovere of the See was nome,Which many a man hadde overcome 2370And slain and take here good aweie:This Pilour, as the bokes seie,A famous man in sondri stedeWas of the werkes whiche he dede.This Prisoner tofor the kingWas broght, and there upon this thingIn audience he was accused:And he his dede hath noght excused,Bot preith the king to don him riht,And seith, “Sire, if I were of miht, 2380I have an herte lich to thin;For if the pouer were myn,Mi will is most in specialTo rifle and geten overalThe large worldes good aboute.Bot for I lede a povere routeAnd am, as who seith, at meschief,The name of Pilour and of thiefI bere; and thou, which routes greteMiht lede and take thi beyete, 2390And dost riht as I wolde do,Thi name is nothing cleped so,Bot thou art named Emperour.Oure dedes ben of o colourAnd in effect of o decerte,Bot thi richesse and my poverteTho ben noght taken evene liche.And natheles he that is richeThis dai, tomorwe he mai be povere;And in contraire also recovere 2400A povere man to gret richesseMen sen: forthi let rihtwisnesseBe peised evene in the balance.
The king his hardi contienanceBehield, and herde hise wordes wise,And seide unto him in this wise:“Thin ansuere I have understonde,Wherof my will is, that thou stondeIn mi service and stille abide.”And forth withal the same tide 2410He hath him terme of lif withholde,The mor and for he schal ben holde,He made him kniht and yaf him lond,Which afterward was of his hondAnd orped kniht in many a stede,And gret prouesce of armes dede,As the Croniqes it recorden.
And in this wise thei acorden,The whiche of o condiciounBe set upon destruccioun: 2420Such Capitein such retenue.Bot forto se to what issueThe thing befalleth ate laste,It is gret wonder that men casteHere herte upon such wrong to winne,Wher no beyete mai ben inne,And doth desese on every side:Bot whan reson is put asideAnd will governeth the corage,The faucon which that fleth ramage 2430And soeffreth nothing in the weie,Wherof that he mai take his preie,Is noght mor set upon ravine,Than thilke man which his covineHath set in such a maner wise:For al the world ne mai suffiseTo will which is noght resonable.
Wherof ensample concordableLich to this point of which I meene,Was upon Alisandre sene, 2440Which hadde set al his entente,So as fortune with him wente,That reson mihte him non governe,Bot of his will he was so sterne,That al the world he overranAnd what him list he tok and wan.In Ynde the superiourWhan that he was ful conquerour,And hadde his wilful pourpos wonneOf al this Erthe under the Sonne, 2450This king homward to Macedoine,Whan that he cam to Babiloine,And wende most in his Empire,As he which was hol lord and Sire,In honour forto be received,Most sodeinliche he was deceived,And with strong puison envenimed.And as he hath the world mistimedNoght as he scholde with his wit,Noght as he wolde it was aquit. 2460
Thus was he slain that whilom slowh,And he which riche was ynowhThis dai, tomorwe he hadde noght:And in such wise as he hath wroghtIn destorbance of worldes pes,His werre he fond thanne endeles,In which for evere desconfitHe was. Lo now, for what profitOf werre it helpeth forto ryde,For coveitise and worldes pride 2470To sle the worldes men aboute,As bestes whiche gon theroute.For every lif which reson canOghth wel to knowe that a manNe scholde thurgh no tirannieLich to these othre bestes die,Til kinde wolde for him sende.I not hou he it mihte amende,Which takth awei for everemoreThe lif that he mai noght restore. 2480
Forthi, mi Sone, in alle weieBe wel avised, I thee preie,Of slawhte er that thou be coupableWithoute cause resonable.
Mi fader, understonde it is,That ye have seid; bot over thisI prei you tell me nay or yee,To passe over the grete SeeTo werre and sle the Sarazin,Is that the lawe?
Sone myn, 2490To preche and soffre for the feith,That have I herd the gospell seith;Bot forto slee, that hiere I noght.Crist with his oghne deth hath boghtAlle othre men, and made hem fre,In tokne of parfit charite;And after that he tawhte himselve,Whan he was ded, these othre tuelveOf hise Apostles wente abouteThe holi feith to prechen oute, 2500Wherof the deth in sondri placeThei soffre, and so god of his graceThe feith of Crist hath mad aryse:Bot if thei wolde in other wiseBe werre have broght in the creance,It hadde yit stonde in balance.And that mai proven in the dede;For what man the Croniqes rede,Fro ferst that holi cherche hath weyvedTo preche, and hath the swerd received, 2510Wherof the werres ben begonne,A gret partie of that was wonneTo Cristes feith stant now miswent:Godd do therof amendement,So as he wot what is the beste.Bot, Sone, if thou wolt live in resteOf conscience wel assised,Er that thou sle, be wel avised:For man, as tellen ous the clerkes,Hath god above alle ertheli werkes 2520Ordeined to be principal,And ek of Soule in specialHe is mad lich to the godhiede.So sit it wel to taken hiedeAnd forto loke on every side,Er that thou falle in homicide,Which Senne is now so general,That it welnyh stant overal,In holi cherche and elles where.Bot al the while it stant so there, 2530The world mot nede fare amis:For whan the welle of pite isThurgh coveitise of worldes goodDefouled with schedinge of blod,The remenant of folk abouteUnethe stonden eny douteTo werre ech other and to slee.So is it all noght worth a Stree,The charite wherof we prechen,For we do nothing as we techen: 2540And thus the blinde conscienceOf pes hath lost thilke evidenceWhich Crist upon this Erthe tawhte.Now mai men se moerdre and manslawhteLich as it was be daies olde,Whan men the Sennes boghte and solde.
In Grece afore Cristes feith,I rede, as the Cronique seith,Touchende of this matiere thus,In thilke time hou Peleüs 2550His oghne brother Phocus slowh;Bot for he hadde gold ynowhTo yive, his Senne was despensedWith gold, wherof it was compensed:Achastus, which with Venus wasHire Priest, assoilede in that cas,Al were ther no repentance.And as the bok makth remembrance,It telleth of Medee also;Of that sche slowh her Sones tuo, 2560Egeüs in the same plitHath mad hire of hire Senne quit.The Sone ek of Amphioras,Whos rihte name Almeus was,His Moder slowh, Eriphile;Bot Achilo the Priest and he,So as the bokes it recorden,For certein Somme of gold acordenThat thilke horrible sinfull dedeAssoiled was. And thus for mede 2570Of worldes good it falleth ofteThat homicide is set alofteHiere in this lif; bot after thisTher schal be knowe how that it isOf hem that suche thinges werche,And hou also that holi chercheLet suche Sennes passe quyte,And how thei wole hemself aquiteOf dedly werres that thei make.For who that wolde ensample take, 2580The lawe which is naturelBe weie of kinde scheweth welThat homicide in no degree,Which werreth ayein charite,Among the men ne scholde duelle.For after that the bokes telle,To seche in al this worldesriche,Men schal noght finde upon his licheA beste forto take his preie:And sithen kinde hath such a weie, 2590Thanne is it wonder of a man,Which kynde hath and resoun can,That he wol owther more or lasseHis kinde and resoun overpasse,And sle that is to him semblable.So is the man noght resonableNe kinde, and that is noght honeste,Whan he is worse than a beste.
Among the bokes whiche I findeSolyns spekth of a wonder kinde, 2600And seith of fowhles ther is on,Which hath a face of blod and bonLich to a man in resemblance.And if it falle him so per chance,As he which is a fowhl of preie,That he a man finde in his weie,He wol him slen, if that he mai:Bot afterward the same dai,Whan he hath eten al his felle,And that schal be beside a welle, 2610In which whan he wol drinke take,Of his visage and seth the makeThat he hath slain, anon he thenkethOf his misdede, and it forthenkethSo gretly, that for pure sorweHe liveth noght til on the morwe.Be this ensample it mai well suieThat man schal homicide eschuie,For evere is merci good to take,Bot if the lawe it hath forsake 2620And that justice is therayein.For ofte time I have herd seinAmonges hem that werres hadden,That thei som while here cause laddenBe merci, whan thei mihte have slain,Wherof that thei were after fain:And, Sone, if that thou wolt recordeThe vertu of Misericorde,Thou sihe nevere thilke place,Where it was used, lacke grace. 2630For every lawe and every kindeThe mannes wit to merci binde;And namely the worthi knihtes,Whan that thei stonden most uprihtesAnd ben most mihti forto grieve,Thei scholden thanne most relieveHim whom thei mihten overthrowe,As be ensample a man mai knowe.
He mai noght failen of his medeThat hath merci: for this I rede, 2640In a Cronique and finde thus.Whan Achilles with TelaphusHis Sone toward Troie were,It fell hem, er thei comen there,Ayein Theucer the king of MeseTo make werre and forto seseHis lond, as thei that wolden regneAnd Theucer pute out of his regne.And thus the Marches thei assaile,Bot Theucer yaf to hem bataille; 2650Thei foghte on bothe sides faste,Bot so it hapneth ate laste,This worthi Grek, this Achilles,The king among alle othre ches:As he that was cruel and fell,With swerd in honde on him he fell,And smot him with a dethes wounde,That he unhorsed fell to grounde.Achilles upon him alyhte,And wolde anon, as he wel mihte, 2660Have slain him fullich in the place;Bot Thelaphus his fader graceFor him besoghte, and for pitePreith that he wolde lete him be,And caste his Schield betwen hem tuo.Achilles axeth him why so,And Thelaphus his cause tolde,And seith that he is mochel holde,For whilom Theucer in a stedeGret grace and socour to him dede, 2670And seith that he him wolde aquite,And preith his fader to respite.Achilles tho withdrowh his hond;Bot al the pouer of the lond,Whan that thei sihe here king thus take,Thei fledde and han the feld forsake:The Grecs unto the chace falle,And for the moste part of alleOf that contre the lordes greteThei toke, and wonne a gret beyete. 2680And anon after this victoireThe king, which hadde good memoire,Upon the grete merci thoghte,Which Telaphus toward him wroghte,And in presence of al the londHe tok him faire be the hond,And in this wise he gan to seie:“Mi Sone, I mot be double weieLove and desire thin encress;Ferst for thi fader Achilles 2690Whilom ful many dai er this,Whan that I scholde have fare amis,Rescousse dede in mi quereleAnd kepte al myn astat in hele:How so ther falle now distanceAmonges ous, yit remembranceI have of merci which he dedeAs thanne: and thou now in this stedeOf gentilesce and of franchiseHast do mercy the same wise. 2700So wol I noght that eny timeBe lost of that thou hast do byme;For hou so this fortune falle,Yit stant mi trust aboven alle,For the mercy which I now finde,That thou wolt after this be kinde:And for that such is myn espeir,As for my Sone and for myn EirI thee receive, and al my londI yive and sese into thin hond.” 2710And in this wise thei acorde,The cause was Misericorde:The lordes dede here obeissanceTo Thelaphus, and pourveanceWas mad so that he was coroned:And thus was merci reguerdoned,Which he to Theucer dede afore.
Lo, this ensample is mad therfore,That thou miht take remembrance,Mi Sone; and whan thou sest a chaunce, 2720Of other mennes passiounTak pite and compassioun,And let nothing to thee be lief,Which to an other man is grief.And after this if thou desireTo stonde ayein the vice of Ire,Consaile thee with Pacience,And tak into thi conscienceMerci to be thi governour.So schalt thou fiele no rancour, 2730Wherof thin herte schal debateWith homicide ne with hateFor Cheste or for Malencolie:Thou schalt be soft in compaignieWithoute Contek or Folhaste:For elles miht thou longe wasteThi time, er that thou have thi willeOf love; for the weder stilleMen preise, and blame the tempestes.
Mi fader, I wol do youre hestes, 2740And of this point ye have me tawht,Toward miself the betre sawhtI thenke be, whil that I live.Bot for als moche as I am schriveOf Wraththe and al his circumstance,Yif what you list to my penance,And asketh forthere of my lif,If otherwise I be gultifOf eny thing that toucheth Sinne.
Mi Sone, er we departe atwinne, 2750I schal behinde nothing leve.
Mi goode fader, be your leveThanne axeth forth what so you list,For I have in you such a trist,As ye that be my Soule hele,That ye fro me wol nothing hele,For I schal telle you the trowthe.
Mi Sone, art thou coupable of SlowtheIn eny point which to him longeth?
My fader, of tho pointz me longeth 2760To wite pleinly what thei meene,So that I mai me schrive cleene.
Now herkne, I schal the pointz devise;And understond wel myn aprise:For schrifte stant of no valueTo him that wol him noght vertueTo leve of vice the folie:For word is wynd, bot the maistrieIs that a man himself defendeOf thing which is noght to comende, 2770Wherof ben fewe now aday.And natheles, so as I mayMake unto thi memoire knowe,The pointz of Slowthe thou schalt knowe.
Explicit Liber Tercius