Incipit Liber QuartusDicunt accidiam fore nutricem viciorum,Torpet et in cunctis tarda que lenta bonis:Que fieri possent hodie transfert piger in cras,Furatoque prius ostia claudit equo.Poscenti tardo negat emolumenta Cupido,Set Venus in celeri ludit amore viri.Upon the vices to procedeAfter the cause of mannes dede,The ferste point of Slowthe I calleLachesce, and is the chief of alle,And hath this propreliche of kinde,To leven alle thing behinde.Of that he mihte do now hierHe tarieth al the longe yer,And everemore he seith, “Tomorwe”;And so he wol his time borwe, 10And wissheth after “God me sende,”That whan he weneth have an ende,Thanne is he ferthest to beginne.Thus bringth he many a meschief inneUnwar, til that he be meschieved,And may noght thanne be relieved.And riht so nowther mor ne lesseIt stant of love and of lachesce:Som time he slowtheth in a dayThat he nevere after gete mai. 20Now, Sone, as of this ilke thing,If thou have eny knowleching,That thou to love hast don er this,Tell on.Mi goode fader, yis.As of lachesce I am beknoweThat I mai stonde upon his rowe,As I that am clad of his suite:For whanne I thoghte mi poursuiteTo make, and therto sette a dayTo speke unto the swete May, 30Lachesce bad abide yit,And bar on hond it was no witNe time forto speke as tho.Thus with his tales to and froMi time in tariinge he drowh:Whan ther was time good ynowh,He seide, “An other time is bettre;Thou schalt mowe senden hire a lettre,And per cas wryte more pleinThan thou be Mowthe durstest sein.” 40Thus have I lete time slydeFor Slowthe, and kepte noght my tide,So that lachesce with his viceFulofte hath mad my wit so nyce,That what I thoghte speke or doWith tariinge he hield me so,Til whanne I wolde and mihte noght.I not what thing was in my thoght,Or it was drede, or it was schame;Bot evere in ernest and in game 50I wot ther is long time passed.Bot yit is noght the love lassed,Which I unto mi ladi have;For thogh my tunge is slowh to craveAt alle time, as I have bede,Min herte stant evere in o stedeAnd axeth besiliche grace,The which I mai noght yit embrace.And god wot that is malgre myn;For this I wot riht wel a fin, 60Mi grace comth so selde aboute,That is the Slowthe of which I douteMor than of al the remenantWhich is to love appourtenant.And thus as touchende of lachesce,As I have told, I me confesseTo you, mi fader, and besecheThat furthermor ye wol me teche;And if ther be to this matiereSom goodly tale forto liere 70How I mai do lachesce aweie,That ye it wolden telle I preie.To wisse thee, my Sone, and rede,Among the tales whiche I rede,An old ensample theruponNow herkne, and I wol tellen on.Ayein Lachesce in loves casI finde how whilom Eneas,Whom Anchises to Sone hadde,With gret navie, which he ladde 80Fro Troie, aryveth at Cartage,Wher for a while his herbergageHe tok; and it betidde so,With hire which was qweene thoOf the Cite his aqueintanceHe wan, whos name in remembranceIs yit, and Dido sche was hote;Which loveth Eneas so hoteUpon the wordes whiche he seide,That al hire herte on him sche leide 90And dede al holi what he wolde.Bot after that, as it be scholde,Fro thenne he goth toward YtaileBe Schipe, and there his arivaileHath take, and schop him forto ryde.Bot sche, which mai noght longe abideThe hote peine of loves throwe,Anon withinne a litel throweA lettre unto hir kniht hath write,And dede him pleinly forto wite, 100If he made eny tariinge,To drecche of his ayeincomynge,That sche ne mihte him fiele and se,Sche scholde stonde in such degreAs whilom stod a Swan tofore,Of that sche hadde hire make lore;For sorwe a fethere into hire brainSche schof and hath hireselve slain;As king Menander in a layThe sothe hath founde, wher sche lay 110Sprantlende with hire wynges tweie,As sche which scholde thanne deieFor love of him which was hire make.“And so schal I do for thi sake,”This qweene seide, “wel I wot.”Lo, to Enee thus sche wrotWith many an other word of pleinte:Bot he, which hadde hise thoghtes feinteTowardes love and full of Slowthe,His time lette, and that was rowthe: 120For sche, which loveth him tofore,Desireth evere more and more,And whan sche sih him tarie so,Hire herte was so full of wo,That compleignende manyfoldSche hath hire oghne tale told,Unto hirself and thus sche spak:“Ha, who fond evere such a lakOf Slowthe in eny worthi kniht?Now wot I wel my deth is diht 130Thurgh him which scholde have be mi lif.”Bot forto stinten al this strif,Thus whan sche sih non other bote,Riht evene unto hire herte roteA naked swerd anon sche threste,And thus sche gat hireselve resteIn remembrance of alle slowe.Wherof, my Sone, thou miht knoweHow tariinge upon the nedeIn loves cause is forto drede; 140And that hath Dido sore aboght,Whos deth schal evere be bethoght.And overmore if I schal secheIn this matiere an other spieche,In a Cronique I finde writeA tale which is good to wite.At Troie whan king UlixesUpon the Siege among the presOf hem that worthi knihtes wereAbod long time stille there, 150In thilke time a man mai seHow goodli that Penolope,Which was to him his trewe wif,Of his lachesce was pleintif;Wherof to Troie sche him sendeHire will be lettre, thus spekende:“Mi worthi love and lord also,It is and hath ben evere so,That wher a womman is al one,It makth a man in his persone 160The more hardi forto wowe,In hope that sche wolde boweTo such thing as his wille were,Whil that hire lord were elleswhere.And of miself I telle this;For it so longe passed is,Sithe ferst than ye fro home wente,That welnyh every man his wenteTo there I am, whil ye ben oute,Hath mad, and ech of hem aboute, 170Which love can, my love secheth,With gret preiere and me besecheth:And some maken gret manace,That if thei mihten come in place,Wher that thei mihte here wille have,Ther is nothing me scholde save,That thei ne wolde werche thinges;And some tellen me tidyngesThat ye ben ded, and some seinThat certeinly ye ben besein 180To love a newe and leve me.Bot hou as evere that it be,I thonke unto the goddes alle,As yit for oght that is befalleMai noman do my chekes rede:Bot natheles it is to drede,That Lachesse in continuanceFortune mihte such a chance,Which noman after scholde amende.”Lo, thus this ladi compleignende 190A lettre unto hire lord hath write,And preyde him that he wolde witeAnd thenke hou that sche was al his,And that he tarie noght in this,Bot that he wolde his love aquite,To hire ayeinward and noght wryte,Bot come himself in alle haste,That he non other paper waste;So that he kepe and holde his trowtheWithoute lette of eny Slowthe. 200Unto hire lord and love liegeTo Troie, wher the grete SiegeWas leid, this lettre was conveied.And he, which wisdom hath pourveiedOf al that to reson belongeth,With gentil herte it underfongeth:And whan he hath it overrad,In part he was riht inly glad,And ek in part he was desesed:Bot love his herte hath so thorghsesed 210With pure ymaginacioun,That for non occupaciounWhich he can take on other side,He mai noght flitt his herte asideFro that his wif him hadde enformed;Wherof he hath himself conformedWith al the wille of his corageTo schape and take the viageHomward, what time that he mai:So that him thenketh of a day 220A thousand yer, til he mai seThe visage of Penolope,Which he desireth most of alle.And whan the time is so befalleThat Troie was destruid and brent,He made non delaiement,Bot goth him home in alle hihe,Wher that he fond tofore his yheHis worthi wif in good astat:And thus was cessed the debat 230Of love, and Slowthe was excused,Which doth gret harm, where it is used,And hindreth many a cause honeste.For of the grete Clerc GrosstesteI rede how besy that he wasUpon clergie an Hed of brasTo forge, and make it forto telleOf suche thinges as befelle.And sevene yeres besinesseHe leyde, bot for the lachesse 240Of half a Minut of an houre,Fro ferst that he began laboureHe loste all that he hadde do.And otherwhile it fareth so,In loves cause who is slow,That he withoute under the wowBe nyhte stant fulofte acold,Which mihte, if that he hadde woldHis time kept, have be withinne.Bot Slowthe mai no profit winne, 250Bot he mai singe in his karoleHow Latewar cam to the Dole,Wher he no good receive mihte.And that was proved wel be nyhteWhilom of the Maidenes fyve,Whan thilke lord cam forto wyve:For that here oyle was aweieTo lihte here lampes in his weie,Here Slowthe broghte it so aboute,Fro him that thei ben schet withoute. 260Wherof, my Sone, be thou war,Als ferforth as I telle dar.For love moste ben awaited:And if thou be noght wel affaitedIn love to eschuie Slowthe,Mi Sone, forto telle trowthe,Thou miht noght of thiself ben ableTo winne love or make it stable,All thogh thou mihtest love achieve.Mi fader, that I mai wel lieve. 270Bot me was nevere assigned place,Wher yit to geten eny grace,Ne me was non such time apointed;For thanne I wolde I were unjoyntedOf every lime that I have,If I ne scholde kepe and saveMin houre bothe and ek my stede,If my ladi it hadde bede.Bot sche is otherwise avisedThan grante such a time assised; 280And natheles of mi lachesseTher hath be no defalte I gesseOf time lost, if that I mihte:Bot yit hire liketh noght alyhteUpon no lure which I caste;For ay the more I crie faste,The lasse hire liketh forto hiere.So forto speke of this matiere,I seche that I mai noght finde,I haste and evere I am behinde, 290And wot noght what it mai amounte.Bot, fader, upon myn acompte,Which ye be sett to examineOf Schrifte after the discipline,Sey what your beste conseil is.Mi Sone, my conseil is this:Hou so it stonde of time go,Do forth thi besinesse so,That no Lachesce in the be founde:For Slowthe is mihti to confounde 300The spied of every mannes werk.For many a vice, as seith the clerk,Ther hongen upon Slowthes lappeOf suche as make a man mishappe,To pleigne and telle of hadde I wist.And therupon if that thee listTo knowe of Slowthes cause more,In special yit overmoreTher is a vice full grevableTo him which is therof coupable, 310And stant of alle vertu bare,Hierafter as I schal declare.Touchende of Slowthe in his degre,Ther is yit Pusillamite,Which is to seie in this langage,He that hath litel of corageAnd dar no mannes werk beginne:So mai he noght be resoun winne;For who that noght dar undertake,Be riht he schal no profit take. 320Bot of this vice the natureDar nothing sette in aventure,Him lacketh bothe word and dede,Wherof he scholde his cause spede:He woll no manhed understonde,For evere he hath drede upon honde:Al is peril that he schal seie,Him thenkth the wolf is in the weie,And of ymaginaciounHe makth his excusacioun 330And feigneth cause of pure drede,And evere he faileth ate nede,Til al be spilt that he with deleth.He hath the sor which noman heleth,The which is cleped lack of herte;Thogh every grace aboute him sterte,He wol noght ones stere his fot;So that be resoun lese he mot,That wol noght auntre forto winne.And so forth, Sone, if we beginne 340To speke of love and his servise,Ther ben truantz in such a wise,That lacken herte, whan best wereTo speke of love, and riht for fereThei wexen doumb and dar noght telle,Withoute soun as doth the belle,Which hath no claper forto chyme;And riht so thei as for the tymeBen herteles withoute specheOf love, and dar nothing beseche; 350And thus thei lese and winne noght.Forthi, my Sone, if thou art oghtCoupable as touchende of this Slowthe,Schrif thee therof and tell me trowthe.Mi fader, I am al beknoweThat I have ben on of tho slowe,As forto telle in loves cas.Min herte is yit and evere was,As thogh the world scholde al tobreke,So ferful, that I dar noght speke 360Of what pourpos that I have nome,Whan I toward mi ladi come,Bot let it passe and overgo.Mi Sone, do nomore so:For after that a man poursuiethTo love, so fortune suieth,Fulofte and yifth hire happi chanceTo him which makth continuanceTo preie love and to beseche;As be ensample I schal thee teche. 370I finde hou whilom ther was on,Whos name was Pymaleon,Which was a lusti man of yowthe:The werkes of entaile he cowtheAbove alle othre men as tho;And thurgh fortune it fell him so,As he whom love schal travaile,He made an ymage of entaileLich to a womman in semblanceOf feture and of contienance, 380So fair yit nevere was figure.Riht as a lyves creatureSche semeth, for of yvor whytHe hath hire wroght of such delit,That sche was rody on the chekeAnd red on bothe hire lippes eke;Wherof that he himself beguileth.For with a goodly lok sche smyleth,So that thurgh pure impressionOf his ymaginacion 390With al the herte of his corageHis love upon this faire ymageHe sette, and hire of love preide;Bot sche no word ayeinward seide.The longe day, what thing he dede,This ymage in the same stedeWas evere bi, that ate meteHe wolde hire serve and preide hire ete,And putte unto hire mowth the cuppe;And whan the bord was taken uppe, 400He hath hire into chambre nome,And after, whan the nyht was come,He leide hire in his bed al nakid.He was forwept, he was forwakid,He keste hire colde lippes ofte,And wissheth that thei weren softe,And ofte he rouneth in hire Ere,And ofte his arm now hier now thereHe leide, as he hir wolde embrace,And evere among he axeth grace, 410As thogh sche wiste what he mente:And thus himself he gan tormenteWith such desese of loves peine,That noman mihte him more peine.Bot how it were, of his penanceHe made such continuanceFro dai to nyht, and preith so longe,That his preiere is underfonge,Which Venus of hire grace herde;Be nyhte and whan that he worst ferde, 420And it lay in his nakede arm,The colde ymage he fieleth warmOf fleissh and bon and full of lif.Lo, thus he wan a lusti wif,Which obeissant was at his wille;And if he wolde have holde him stilleAnd nothing spoke, he scholde have failed:Bot for he hath his word travailedAnd dorste speke, his love he spedde,And hadde al that he wolde abedde. 430For er thei wente thanne atwo,A knave child betwen hem twoThei gete, which was after hotePaphus, of whom yit hath the noteA certein yle, which PaphosMen clepe, and of his name it ros.Be this ensample thou miht findeThat word mai worche above kinde.Forthi, my Sone, if that thou spareTo speke, lost is al thi fare, 440For Slowthe bringth in alle wo.And over this to loke also,The god of love is favorableTo hem that ben of love stable,And many a wonder hath befalle:Wherof to speke amonges alle,If that thee list to taken hede,Therof a solein tale I rede,Which I schal telle in remembraunceUpon the sort of loves chaunce. 450The king Ligdus upon a strifSpak unto Thelacuse his wif,Which thanne was with childe grete;He swor it scholde noght be lete,That if sche have a dowhter bore,That it ne scholde be forloreAnd slain, wherof sche sory was.So it befell upon this cas,Whan sche delivered scholde be,Isis be nyhte in privete, 460Which of childinge is the goddesse,Cam forto helpe in that destresse,Til that this lady was al smal,And hadde a dowhter forth withal;Which the goddesse in alle weieBad kepe, and that thei scholden seieIt were a Sone: and thus IphisThei namede him, and upon thisThe fader was mad so to wene.And thus in chambre with the qweene 470This Iphis was forthdrawe tho,And clothed and arraied soRiht as a kinges Sone scholde.Til after, as fortune it wolde,Whan it was of a ten yer age,Him was betake in mariageA Duckes dowhter forto wedde,Which Iante hihte, and ofte abeddeThese children leien, sche and sche,Whiche of on age bothe be. 480So that withinne time of yeeres,Togedre as thei ben pleiefieres,Liggende abedde upon a nyht,Nature, which doth every wihtUpon hire lawe forto muse,Constreigneth hem, so that thei useThing which to hem was al unknowe;Wherof Cupide thilke throweTok pite for the grete love,And let do sette kinde above, 490So that hir lawe mai ben used,And thei upon here lust excused.For love hateth nothing moreThan thing which stant ayein the loreOf that nature in kinde hath sett:Forthi Cupide hath so besettHis grace upon this aventure,That he acordant to nature,Whan that he syh the time best,That ech of hem hath other kest, 500Transformeth Iphe into a man,Wherof the kinde love he wanOf lusti yonge Iante his wif;And tho thei ladde a merie lif,Which was to kinde non offence.And thus to take an evidence,It semeth love is welwillendeTo hem that ben continuendeWith besy herte to poursuieThing which that is to love due. 510Wherof, my Sone, in this matiereThou miht ensample taken hiere,That with thi grete besinesseThou miht atteigne the richesseOf love, if that ther be no Slowthe.I dar wel seie be mi trowthe,Als fer as I my witt can seche,Mi fader, as for lacke of speche,Bot so as I me schrof tofore,Ther is non other time lore, 520Wherof ther mihte ben obstacleTo lette love of his miracle,Which I beseche day and nyht.Bot, fader, so as it is rihtIn forme of schrifte to beknoweWhat thing belongeth to the slowe,Your faderhode I wolde preie,If ther be forthere eny weieTouchende unto this ilke vice.Mi Sone, ye, of this office 530Ther serveth on in special,Which lost hath his memorial,So that he can no wit withholdeIn thing which he to kepe is holde,Wherof fulofte himself he grieveth:And who that most upon him lieveth,Whan that hise wittes ben so weyved,He mai full lihtly be deceived.To serve Accidie in his office,Ther is of Slowthe an other vice, 540Which cleped is Foryetelnesse;That noght mai in his herte impresseOf vertu which reson hath sett,So clene his wittes he foryet.For in the tellinge of his taleNomore his herte thanne his maleHath remembrance of thilke forme,Wherof he scholde his wit enformeAs thanne, and yit ne wot he why.Thus is his pourpos noght forthi 550Forlore of that he wolde bidde,And skarsly if he seith the thriddeTo love of that he hadde ment:Thus many a lovere hath be schent.Tell on therfore, hast thou be oonOf hem that Slowthe hath so begon?Ye, fader, ofte it hath be so,That whanne I am mi ladi froAnd thenke untoward hire drawe,Than cast I many a newe lawe 560And al the world torne up so doun,And so recorde I mi lecounAnd wryte in my memorialWhat I to hire telle schal,Riht al the matiere of mi tale:Bot al nys worth a note schale;For whanne I come ther sche is,I have it al foryete ywiss;Of that I thoghte forto telleI can noght thanne unethes spelle 570That I wende altherbest have rad,So sore I am of hire adrad.For as a man that sodeinliA gost behelde, so fare I;So that for feere I can noght geteMi witt, bot I miself foryete,That I wot nevere what I am,Ne whider I schal, ne whenne I cam,Bot muse as he that were amased.Lich to the bok in which is rased 580The lettre, and mai nothing be rad,So ben my wittes overlad,That what as evere I thoghte have spoken,It is out fro myn herte stoken,And stonde, as who seith, doumb and def,That all nys worth an yvy lef,Of that I wende wel have seid.And ate laste I make abreid,Caste up myn hed and loke aboute,Riht as a man that were in doute 590And wot noght wher he schal become.Thus am I ofte al overcome,Ther as I wende best to stonde:Bot after, whanne I understonde,And am in other place al one,I make many a wofull moneUnto miself, and speke so:“Ha fol, wher was thin herte tho,Whan thou thi worthi ladi syhe?Were thou afered of hire yhe? 600For of hire hand ther is no drede:So wel I knowe hir wommanhede,That in hire is nomore oultrageThan in a child of thre yeer age.Whi hast thou drede of so good on,Whom alle vertu hath begon,That in hire is no violenceBot goodlihiede and innocenceWithouten spot of eny blame?Ha, nyce herte, fy for schame! 610Ha, couard herte of love unlered,Wherof art thou so sore afered,That thou thi tunge soffrest frese,And wolt thi goode wordes lese,Whan thou hast founde time and space?How scholdest thou deserve grace,Whan thou thiself darst axe non,Bot al thou hast foryete anon?”And thus despute I loves lore,Bot help ne finde I noght the more, 620Bot stomble upon myn oghne treineAnd make an ekinge of my peine.For evere whan I thenke amongHow al is on miself along,I seie, “O fol of alle foles,Thou farst as he betwen tuo stolesThat wolde sitte and goth to grounde.It was ne nevere schal be founde,Betwen foryetelnesse and dredeThat man scholde any cause spede.” 630And thus, myn holi fader diere,Toward miself, as ye mai hiere,I pleigne of my foryetelnesse;Bot elles al the besinesse,That mai be take of mannes thoght,Min herte takth, and is thorghsoghtTo thenken evere upon that sweteWithoute Slowthe, I you behete.For what so falle, or wel or wo,That thoght foryete I neveremo, 640Wher so I lawhe or so I loure:Noght half the Minut of an houreNe mihte I lete out of my mende,Bot if I thoghte upon that hende.Therof me schal no Slowthe lette,Til deth out of this world me fette,Althogh I hadde on such a Ring,As Moises thurgh his enchantingSom time in Ethiope made,Whan that he Tharbis weddid hade. 650Which Ring bar of OblivionThe name, and that was be resounThat where it on a finger sat,Anon his love he so foryat,As thogh he hadde it nevere knowe:And so it fell that ilke throwe,Whan Tharbis hadde it on hire hond,No knowlechinge of him sche fond,Bot al was clene out of memoire,As men mai rede in his histoire; 660And thus he wente quit away,That nevere after that ilke daySche thoghte that ther was such on;Al was foryete and overgon.Bot in good feith so mai noght I:For sche is evere faste by,So nyh that sche myn herte toucheth,That for nothing that Slowthe vouchethI mai foryete hire, lief ne loth;For overal, where as sche goth, 670Min herte folwith hire aboute.Thus mai I seie withoute doute,For bet, for wers, for oght, for noght,Sche passeth nevere fro my thoght;Bot whanne I am ther as sche is,Min herte, as I you saide er this,Som time of hire is sore adrad,And som time it is overglad,Al out of reule and out of space.For whan I se hir goodli face 680And thenke upon hire hihe pris,As thogh I were in Paradis,I am so ravisht of the syhte,That speke unto hire I ne myhteAs for the time, thogh I wolde:For I ne mai my wit unfoldeTo finde o word of that I mene,Bot al it is foryete clene;And thogh I stonde there a myle,Al is foryete for the while, 690A tunge I have and wordes none.And thus I stonde and thenke al oneOf thing that helpeth ofte noght;Bot what I hadde afore thoghtTo speke, whanne I come there,It is foryete, as noght ne were,And stonde amased and assoted,That of nothing which I have notedI can noght thanne a note singe,Bot al is out of knowlechinge: 700Thus, what for joie and what for drede,Al is foryeten ate nede.So that, mi fader, of this SlowtheI have you said the pleine trowthe;Ye mai it as you list redresce:For thus stant my foryetelnesseAnd ek my pusillamite.Sey now forth what you list to me,For I wol only do be you.Mi Sone, I have wel herd how thou 710Hast seid, and that thou most amende:For love his grace wol noght sendeTo that man which dar axe non.For this we knowen everichon,A mannes thoght withoute specheGod wot, and yit that men besecheHis will is; for withoute bedesHe doth his grace in fewe stedes:And what man that foryet himselve,Among a thousand be noght tuelve, 720That wol him take in remembraunce,Bot lete him falle and take his chaunce.Forthi pull up a besi herte,Mi Sone, and let nothing asterteOf love fro thi besinesse:For touchinge of foryetelnesse,Which many a love hath set behinde,A tale of gret ensample I finde,Wherof it is pite to witeIn the manere as it is write. 730King Demephon, whan he be SchipeTo Troieward with felaschipeSailende goth, upon his weieIt hapneth him at Rodopeie,As Eolus him hadde blowe,To londe, and rested for a throwe.And fell that ilke time thus,The dowhter of Ligurgius,Which qweene was of the contre,Was sojournende in that Cite 740Withinne a Castell nyh the stronde,Wher Demephon cam up to londe.Phillis sche hihte, and of yong ageAnd of stature and of visageSche hadde al that hire best besemeth.Of Demephon riht wel hire qwemeth,Whan he was come, and made him chiere;And he, that was of his manereA lusti knyht, ne myhte asterteThat he ne sette on hire his herte; 750So that withinne a day or tuoHe thoghte, how evere that it go,He wolde assaie the fortune,And gan his herte to communeWith goodly wordes in hire Ere;And forto put hire out of fere,He swor and hath his trowthe plihtTo be for evere hire oghne knyht.And thus with hire he stille abod,Ther while his Schip on Anker rod, 760And hadde ynowh of time and spaceTo speke of love and seche grace.This ladi herde al that he seide,And hou he swor and hou he preide,Which was as an enchantementTo hire, that was innocent:As thogh it were trowthe and feith,Sche lieveth al that evere he seith,And as hire infortune scholde,Sche granteth him al that he wolde. 770Thus was he for the time in joie,Til that he scholde go to Troie;Bot tho sche made mochel sorwe,And he his trowthe leith to borweTo come, if that he live may,Ayein withinne a Monthe day,And therupon thei kisten bothe:Bot were hem lieve or were hem lothe,To Schipe he goth and forth he wenteTo Troie, as was his ferste entente. 780The daies gon, the Monthe passeth,Hire love encresceth and his lasseth,For him sche lefte slep and mete,And he his time hath al foryete;So that this wofull yonge qweene,Which wot noght what it mihte meene,A lettre sende and preide him come,And seith how sche is overcomeWith strengthe of love in such a wise,That sche noght longe mai suffise 790To liven out of his presence;And putte upon his conscienceThe trowthe which he hath behote,Wherof sche loveth him so hote,Sche seith, that if he lengere letteOf such a day as sche him sette,Sche scholde sterven in his Slowthe,Which were a schame unto his trowthe.This lettre is forth upon hire sonde,Wherof somdiel confort on honde 800Sche tok, as she that wolde abideAnd waite upon that ilke tydeWhich sche hath in hire lettre write.Bot now is pite forto wite,As he dede erst, so he foryatHis time eftsone and oversat.Bot sche, which mihte noght do so,The tyde awayteth everemo,And caste hire yhe upon the See:Somtime nay, somtime yee, 810Somtime he cam, somtime noght,Thus sche desputeth in hire thoghtAnd wot noght what sche thenke mai;Bot fastende al the longe daySche was into the derke nyht,And tho sche hath do set up lyhtIn a lanterne on hih alofteUpon a Tour, wher sche goth ofte,In hope that in his comingeHe scholde se the liht brenninge, 820Wherof he mihte his weies rihteTo come wher sche was be nyhte.Bot al for noght, sche was deceived,For Venus hath hire hope weyved,And schewede hire upon the SkyHow that the day was faste by,So that withinne a litel throweThe daies lyht sche mihte knowe.Tho sche behield the See at large;And whan sche sih ther was no barge 830Ne Schip, als ferr as sche may kenne,Doun fro the Tour sche gan to renneInto an Herber all hire one,Wher many a wonder woful moneSche made, that no lif it wiste,As sche which all hire joie miste,That now sche swouneth, now sche pleigneth,And al hire face sche desteignethWith teres, whiche, as of a welleThe stremes, from hire yhen felle; 840So as sche mihte and evere in onSche clepede upon Demephon,And seide, “Helas, thou slowe wiht,Wher was ther evere such a knyht,That so thurgh his ungentilesceOf Slowthe and of foryetelnesseAyein his trowthe brak his stevene?”And tho hire yhe up to the heveneSche caste, and seide, “O thou unkinde,Hier schalt thou thurgh thi Slowthe finde, 850If that thee list to come and se,A ladi ded for love of thee,So as I schal myselve spille;Whom, if it hadde be thi wille,Thou mihtest save wel ynowh.”With that upon a grene bowhA Ceinte of Selk, which sche ther hadde,Sche knette, and so hireself sche ladde,That sche aboute hire whyte swereIt dede, and hyng hirselven there. 860Wherof the goddes were amoeved,And Demephon was so reproeved,That of the goddes providenceWas schape such an evidenceEvere afterward ayein the slowe,That Phillis in the same throweWas schape into a Notetre,That alle men it mihte se,And after Phillis PhilliberdThis tre was cleped in the yerd, 870And yit for Demephon to schameInto this dai it berth the name.This wofull chance how that it ferdeAnon as Demephon it herde,And every man it hadde in speche,His sorwe was noght tho to seche;He gan his Slowthe forto banne,Bot it was al to late thanne.Lo thus, my Sone, miht thou witeAyein this vice how it is write; 880For noman mai the harmes gesse,That fallen thurgh foryetelnesse,Wherof that I thi schrifte have herd.Bot yit of Slowthe hou it hath ferdIn other wise I thenke oppose,If thou have gult, as I suppose.Fulfild of Slowthes essamplaireTher is yit on, his Secretaire,And he is cleped Negligence:Which wol noght loke his evidence, 890Wherof he mai be war tofore;Bot whanne he hath his cause lore,Thanne is he wys after the hond:Whanne helpe may no maner bond,Thanne ate ferste wolde he binde:Thus everemore he stant behinde.Whanne he the thing mai noght amende,Thanne is he war, and seith at ende,“Ha, wolde god I hadde knowe!”Wherof bejaped with a mowe 900He goth, for whan the grete StiedeIs stole, thanne he taketh hiede,And makth the stable dore fast:Thus evere he pleith an aftercastOf al that he schal seie or do.He hath a manere eke also,Him list noght lerne to be wys,For he set of no vertu prisBot as him liketh for the while;So fieleth he fulofte guile, 910Whan that he weneth siker stonde.And thus thou miht wel understonde,Mi Sone, if thou art such in love,Thou miht noght come at thin aboveOf that thou woldest wel achieve.Mi holi fader, as I lieve,I mai wel with sauf conscienceExcuse me of necgligenceTowardes love in alle wise:For thogh I be non of the wise, 920I am so trewly amerous,That I am evere curiousOf hem that conne best enformeTo knowe and witen al the forme,What falleth unto loves craft.Bot yit ne fond I noght the haft,Which mihte unto that bladd acorde;For nevere herde I man recordeWhat thing it is that myhte availeTo winne love withoute faile. 930Yit so fer cowthe I nevere findeMan that be resoun ne be kindeMe cowthe teche such an art,That he ne failede of a part;And as toward myn oghne wit,Controeve cowthe I nevere yitTo finden eny sikernesse,That me myhte outher more or lesseOf love make forto spede:For lieveth wel withoute drede, 940If that ther were such a weie,As certeinliche as I schal deieI hadde it lerned longe ago.Bot I wot wel ther is non so:And natheles it may wel be,I am so rude in my degreeAnd ek mi wittes ben so dulle,That I ne mai noght to the fulleAtteigne to so hih a lore.Bot this I dar seie overmore, 950Althogh mi wit ne be noght strong,It is noght on mi will along,For that is besi nyht and dayTo lerne al that he lerne may,How that I mihte love winne:Bot yit I am as to beginneOf that I wolde make an ende,And for I not how it schal wende,That is to me mi moste sorwe.Bot I dar take god to borwe, 960As after min entendement,Non other wise necgligentThanne I yow seie have I noght be:Forthi per seinte chariteTell me, mi fader, what you semeth.In good feith, Sone, wel me qwemeth,That thou thiself hast thus aquitToward this vice, in which no witAbide mai, for in an houreHe lest al that he mai laboure 970The longe yer, so that men sein,What evere he doth it is in vein.For thurgh the Slowthe of NegligenceTher was yit nevere such scienceNe vertu, which was bodely,That nys destruid and lost therby.Ensample that it hath be soIn boke I finde write also.Phebus, which is the Sonne hote,That schyneth upon Erthe hote 980And causeth every lyves helthe,He hadde a Sone in al his welthe,Which Pheton hihte, and he desirethAnd with his Moder he conspireth,The which was cleped Clemenee,For help and conseil, so that heHis fader carte lede myhteUpon the faire daies brihte.And for this thing thei bothe preideUnto the fader, and he seide 990He wolde wel, bot forth withalThre pointz he bad in specialUnto his Sone in alle wise,That he him scholde wel aviseAnd take it as be weie of lore.Ferst was, that he his hors to soreNe prike, and over that he toldeThat he the renes faste holde;And also that he be riht warIn what manere he lede his charr, 1000That he mistake noght his gate,Bot up avisement algateHe scholde bere a siker yhe,That he to lowe ne to hyheHis carte dryve at eny throwe,Wherof that he mihte overthrowe.And thus be Phebus ordinanceTok Pheton into governanceThe Sonnes carte, which he ladde:Bot he such veine gloire hadde 1010Of that he was set upon hyh,That he his oghne astat ne syhThurgh negligence and tok non hiede;So mihte he wel noght longe spede.For he the hors withoute laweThe carte let aboute draweWher as hem liketh wantounly,That ate laste sodeinly,For he no reson wolde knowe,This fyri carte he drof to lowe, 1020And fyreth al the world aboute;Wherof thei weren alle in doubte,And to the god for helpe cridenOf suche unhappes as betyden.Phebus, which syh the necgligence,How Pheton ayein his defenceHis charr hath drive out of the weie,Ordeigneth that he fell aweieOut of the carte into a flodAnd dreynte. Lo now, hou it stod 1030With him that was so necgligent,That fro the hyhe firmament,For that he wolde go to lowe,He was anon doun overthrowe.In hih astat it is a viceTo go to lowe, and in serviceIt grieveth forto go to hye,Wherof a tale in poesieI finde, how whilom Dedalus,Which hadde a Sone, and Icharus 1040He hihte, and thogh hem thoghte lothe,In such prison thei weren botheWith Minotaurus, that abouteThei mihten nawher wenden oute;So thei begonne forto schapeHow thei the prison mihte ascape.This Dedalus, which fro his yowtheWas tawht and manye craftes cowthe,Of fetheres and of othre thingesHath mad to fle diverse wynges 1050For him and for his Sone also;To whom he yaf in charge thoAnd bad him thenke therupon,How that his wynges ben set onWith wex, and if he toke his flyhteTo hyhe, al sodeinliche he mihteMake it to melte with the Sonne.And thus thei have her flyht begonneOut of the prison faire and softe;And whan thei weren bothe alofte, 1060This Icharus began to monte,And of the conseil non accompteHe sette, which his fader tawhte,Til that the Sonne his wynges cawhte,Wherof it malt, and fro the heihteWithouten help of eny sleihteHe fell to his destruccion.And lich to that condicionTher fallen ofte times feleFor lacke of governance in wele, 1070Als wel in love as other weie.Now goode fader, I you preie,If ther be more in the matiereOf Slowthe, that I mihte it hiere.Mi Sone, and for thi diligence,Which every mannes conscienceBe resoun scholde reule and kepe,If that thee list to taken kepe,I wol thee telle, aboven alleIn whom no vertu mai befalle, 1080Which yifth unto the vices resteAnd is of slowe the sloweste.Among these othre of Slowthes kinde,Which alle labour set behinde,And hateth alle besinesse,Ther is yit on, which YdelnesseIs cleped, and is the NorriceIn mannes kinde of every vice,Which secheth eases manyfold.In Wynter doth he noght for cold, 1090In Somer mai he noght for hete;So whether that he frese or swete,Or he be inne, or he be oute,He wol ben ydel al aboute,Bot if he pleie oght ate Dees.For who as evere take feesAnd thenkth worschipe to deserve,Ther is no lord whom he wol serve,As forto duelle in his servise,Bot if it were in such a wise, 1100Of that he seth per aventureThat be lordschipe and covertureHe mai the more stonde stille,And use his ydelnesse at wille.For he ne wol no travail takeTo ryde for his ladi sake,Bot liveth al upon his wisshes;And as a cat wolde ete fisshesWithoute wetinge of his cles,So wolde he do, bot natheles 1110He faileth ofte of that he wolde.Mi Sone, if thou of such a moldeArt mad, now tell me plein thi schrifte.Nay, fader, god I yive a yifte.That toward love, as be mi wit,Al ydel was I nevere yit,Ne nevere schal, whil I mai go.Now, Sone, tell me thanne so,What hast thou don of besischipeTo love and to the ladischipe 1120Of hire which thi ladi is?Mi fader, evere yit er thisIn every place, in every stede,What so mi lady hath me bede,With al myn herte obedientI have therto be diligent.And if so is sche bidde noght,What thing that thanne into my thoghtComth ferst of that I mai suffise,I bowe and profre my servise, 1130Somtime in chambre, somtime in halle,Riht as I se the times falle.And whan sche goth to hiere masse,That time schal noght overpasse,That I naproche hir ladihede,In aunter if I mai hire ledeUnto the chapelle and ayein.Thanne is noght al mi weie in vein,Somdiel I mai the betre fare,Whan I, that mai noght fiele hir bare, 1140Mai lede hire clothed in myn arm:Bot afterward it doth me harmOf pure ymaginacioun;For thanne this collaciounI make unto miselven ofte,And seie, “Ha lord, hou sche is softe,How sche is round, hou sche is smal!Now wolde god I hadde hire alWithoute danger at mi wille!”And thanne I sike and sitte stille, 1150Of that I se mi besi thoghtIs torned ydel into noght.Bot for al that lete I ne mai,Whanne I se time an other dai,That I ne do my besinesseUnto mi ladi worthinesse.For I therto mi wit afaiteTo se the times and awaiteWhat is to done and what to leve:And so, whan time is, be hir leve, 1160What thing sche bit me don, I do,And wher sche bidt me gon, I go,And whanne hir list to clepe, I come.Thus hath sche fulliche overcomeMin ydelnesse til I sterve,So that I mot hire nedes serve,For as men sein, nede hath no lawe.Thus mot I nedly to hire drawe,I serve, I bowe, I loke, I loute,Min yhe folweth hire aboute, 1170What so sche wole so wol I,Whan sche wol sitte, I knele by,And whan sche stant, than wol I stonde:Bot whan sche takth hir werk on hondeOf wevinge or enbrouderie,Than can I noght bot muse and prieUpon hir fingres longe and smale,And now I thenke, and now I tale,And now I singe, and now I sike,And thus mi contienance I pike. 1180And if it falle, as for a timeHir liketh noght abide bime,Bot besien hire on other thinges,Than make I othre tariingesTo dreche forth the longe dai,For me is loth departe away.And thanne I am so simple of port,That forto feigne som desportI pleie with hire litel houndNow on the bedd, now on the ground, 1190Now with hir briddes in the cage;For ther is non so litel page,Ne yit so simple a chamberere,That I ne make hem alle chere,Al for thei scholde speke wel:Thus mow ye sen mi besi whiel,That goth noght ydeliche aboute.And if hir list to riden outeOn pelrinage or other stede,I come, thogh I be noght bede, 1200And take hire in min arm alofteAnd sette hire in hire sadel softe,And so forth lede hire be the bridel,For that I wolde noght ben ydel.And if hire list to ride in Char,And thanne I mai therof be war,Anon I schape me to rydeRiht evene be the Chares side;And as I mai, I speke among,And otherwhile I singe a song, 1210Which Ovide in his bokes made,And seide, “O whiche sorwes glade,O which wofull prosperiteBelongeth to the propreteOf love, who so wole him serve!And yit therfro mai noman swerve,That he ne mot his lawe obeie.”And thus I ryde forth mi weie,And am riht besi overalWith herte and with mi body al, 1220As I have said you hier tofore.My goode fader, tell therfore,Of Ydelnesse if I have gilt.Mi Sone, bot thou telle wiltOght elles than I mai now hiere,Thou schalt have no penance hiere.And natheles a man mai se,How now adayes that ther beFul manye of suche hertes slowe,That wol noght besien hem to knowe 1230What thing love is, til ate laste,That he with strengthe hem overcaste,That malgre hem thei mote obeieAnd don al ydelschipe aweie,To serve wel and besiliche.Bot, Sone, thou art non of swiche,For love schal the wel excuse:Bot otherwise, if thou refuseTo love, thou miht so per casBen ydel, as somtime was 1240A kinges dowhter unavised,Til that Cupide hire hath chastised:Wherof thou schalt a tale hiereAcordant unto this matiere.Of Armenye, I rede thus,Ther was a king, which HerupusWas hote, and he a lusti MaideTo dowhter hadde, and as men saideHire name was Rosiphelee;Which tho was of gret renomee, 1250For sche was bothe wys and fairAnd scholde ben hire fader hair.Bot sche hadde o defalte of SlowtheTowardes love, and that was rowthe;For so wel cowde noman seie,Which mihte sette hire in the weieOf loves occupacionThurgh non ymaginacion;That scole wolde sche noght knowe.And thus sche was on of the slowe 1260As of such hertes besinesse,Til whanne Venus the goddesse,Which loves court hath forto reule,Hath broght hire into betre reule,Forth with Cupide and with his miht:For thei merveille how such a wiht,Which tho was in hir lusti age,Desireth nother MariageNe yit the love of paramours,Which evere hath be the comun cours 1270Amonges hem that lusti were.So was it schewed after there:For he that hihe hertes lowethWith fyri Dartes whiche he throweth,Cupide, which of love is godd,In chastisinge hath mad a roddTo dryve awei hir wantounesse;So that withinne a while, I gesse,Sche hadde on such a chance sporned,That al hire mod was overtorned, 1280Which ferst sche hadde of slow manere:For thus it fell, as thou schalt hiere.Whan come was the Monthe of Maii,Sche wolde walke upon a dai,And that was er the Sonne Ariste;Of wommen bot a fewe it wiste,And forth sche wente privelyUnto the Park was faste by,Al softe walkende on the gras,Til sche cam ther the Launde was, 1290Thurgh which ther ran a gret rivere.It thoghte hir fair, and seide, “HereI wole abide under the schawe”:And bad hire wommen to withdrawe,And ther sche stod al one stille,To thenke what was in hir wille.Sche sih the swote floures springe,Sche herde glade foules singe,Sche sih the bestes in her kinde,The buck, the do, the hert, the hinde, 1300The madle go with the femele;And so began ther a quereleBetwen love and hir oghne herte,Fro which sche couthe noght asterte.And as sche caste hire yhe aboute,Sche syh clad in o suite a routeOf ladis, wher thei comen rydeAlong under the wodes syde:On faire amblende hors thei sete,That were al whyte, fatte and grete, 1310And everichon thei ride on side.The Sadles were of such a Pride,With Perle and gold so wel begon,So riche syh sche nevere non;In kertles and in Copes richeThei weren clothed, alle liche,Departed evene of whyt and blew;With alle lustes that sche knewThei were enbrouded overal.Here bodies weren long and smal, 1320The beaute faye upon her faceNon erthly thing it may desface;Corones on here hed thei beere,As ech of hem a qweene weere,That al the gold of Cresus halleThe leste coronal of alleNe mihte have boght after the worth:Thus come thei ridende forth.The kinges dowhter, which this syh,For pure abaissht drowh hire adryh 1330And hield hire clos under the bowh,And let hem passen stille ynowh;For as hire thoghte in hire avis,To hem that were of such a prisSche was noght worthi axen there,Fro when they come or what thei were:Bot levere than this worldes goodSche wolde have wist hou that it stod,And putte hire hed alitel oute;And as sche lokede hire aboute, 1340Sche syh comende under the lindeA womman up an hors behinde.The hors on which sche rod was blak,Al lene and galled on the back,And haltede, as he were encluyed,Wherof the womman was annuied;Thus was the hors in sori plit,Bot for al that a sterre whitAmiddes in the front he hadde.Hir Sadel ek was wonder badde, 1350In which the wofull womman sat,And natheles ther was with thatA riche bridel for the nonesOf gold and preciouse Stones.Hire cote was somdiel totore;Aboute hir middel twenty scoreOf horse haltres and wel moTher hyngen ate time tho.Thus whan sche cam the ladi nyh,Than tok sche betre hiede and syh 1360This womman fair was of visage,Freyssh, lusti, yong and of tendre age;And so this ladi, ther sche stod,Bethoghte hire wel and understodThat this, which com ridende tho,Tidinges couthe telle of tho,Which as sche sih tofore ryde,And putte hir forth and preide abide,And seide, “Ha, Suster, let me hiere,What ben thei, that now riden hiere, 1370And ben so richeliche arraied?”This womman, which com so esmaied,Ansuerde with ful softe speche,And seith, “Ma Dame, I schal you teche.These ar of tho that whilom wereServantz to love, and trowthe beere,Ther as thei hadde here herte set.Fare wel, for I mai noght be let:Ma Dame, I go to mi servise,So moste I haste in alle wise; 1380Forthi, ma Dame, yif me leve,I mai noght longe with you leve.”“Ha, goode Soster, yit I preie,Tell me whi ye ben so beseieAnd with these haltres thus begon.”“Ma Dame, whilom I was onThat to mi fader hadde a king;Bot I was slow, and for no thingMe liste noght to love obeie,And that I now ful sore abeie. 1390For I whilom no love hadde,Min hors is now so fieble and badde,And al totore is myn arai,And every yeer this freisshe MaiiThese lusti ladis ryde aboute,And I mot nedes suie here routeIn this manere as ye now se,And trusse here haltres forth with me,And am bot as here horse knave.Non other office I ne have, 1400Hem thenkth I am worthi nomore,For I was slow in loves lore,Whan I was able forto lere,And wolde noght the tales hiereOf hem that couthen love teche.”“Now tell me thanne, I you beseche,Wherof that riche bridel serveth.”With that hire chere awei sche swerveth,And gan to wepe, and thus sche tolde:“This bridel, which ye nou beholde 1410So riche upon myn horse hed,—Ma Dame, afore, er I was ded,Whan I was in mi lusti lif,Ther fel into myn herte a strifOf love, which me overcom,So that therafter hiede I nomAnd thoghte I wolde love a kniht:That laste wel a fourtenyht,For it no lengere mihte laste,So nyh my lif was ate laste. 1420Bot now, allas, to late warThat I ne hadde him loved ar:For deth cam so in haste bime,Er I therto hadde eny time,That it ne mihte ben achieved.Bot for al that I am relieved,Of that mi will was good therto,That love soffreth it be soThat I schal swiche a bridel were.Now have ye herd al myn ansuere: 1430To godd, ma Dame, I you betake,And warneth alle for mi sake,Of love that thei ben noght ydel,And bidd hem thenke upon mi brydel.”And with that word al sodeinlySche passeth, as it were a Sky,Al clene out of this ladi sihte:And tho for fere hire herte afflihte,And seide to hirself, “Helas!I am riht in the same cas. 1440Bot if I live after this day,I schal amende it, if I may.”And thus homward this lady wente,And changede al hire ferste entente,Withinne hire herte and gan to swereThat sche none haltres wolde bere.Lo, Sone, hier miht thou taken hiede,How ydelnesse is forto drede,Namliche of love, as I have write.For thou miht understonde and wite, 1450Among the gentil nacionLove is an occupacion,Which forto kepe hise lustes saveScholde every gentil herte have:For as the ladi was chastised,Riht so the knyht mai ben avised,Which ydel is and wol noght serveTo love, he mai per cas deserveA grettere peine than sche hadde,Whan sche aboute with hire ladde 1460The horse haltres; and forthiGood is to be wel war therbi.Bot forto loke aboven alle,These Maidens, hou so that it falle,Thei scholden take ensample of thisWhich I have told, for soth it is.Mi ladi Venus, whom I serve,What womman wole hire thonk deserve,Sche mai noght thilke love eschuieOf paramours, bot sche mot suie 1470Cupides lawe; and nathelesMen sen such love sielde in pes,That it nys evere upon aspieOf janglinge and of fals Envie,Fulofte medlid with disese:Bot thilke love is wel at ese,Which set is upon mariage;For that dar schewen the visageIn alle places openly.A gret mervaile it is forthi, 1480How that a Maiden wolde lette,That sche hir time ne besetteTo haste unto that ilke feste,Wherof the love is al honeste.Men mai recovere lost of good,Bot so wys man yit nevere stod,Which mai recovere time lore:So mai a Maiden wel therforeEnsample take, of that sche strangethHir love, and longe er that sche changeth 1490Hir herte upon hir lustes greeneTo mariage, as it is seene.For thus a yer or tuo or threSche lest, er that sche wedded be,Whyl sche the charge myhte bereOf children, whiche the world forbereNe mai, bot if it scholde faile.Bot what Maiden hire esposaileWol tarie, whan sche take mai,Sche schal per chance an other dai 1500Be let, whan that hire lievest were.Wherof a tale unto hire Ere,Which is coupable upon this dede,I thenke telle of that I rede.Among the Jewes, as men tolde,Ther was whilom be daies oldeA noble Duck, which Jepte hihte.And fell, he scholde go to fyhteAyein Amon the cruel king:And forto speke upon this thing, 1510Withinne his herte he made avouTo god and seide, “Ha lord, if thouWolt grante unto thi man victoire,I schal in tokne of thi memoireThe ferste lif that I mai se,Of man or womman wher it be,Anon as I come hom ayein,To thee, which art god sovereign,Slen in thi name and sacrifie.”And thus with his chivalerie 1520He goth him forth, wher that he scholde,And wan al that he winne woldeAnd overcam his fomen alle.Mai noman lette that schal falle.This Duc a lusti dowhter hadde,And fame, which the wordes spradde,Hath broght unto this ladi EreHow that hire fader hath do there.Sche waiteth upon his comingeWith dansinge and with carolinge, 1530As sche that wolde be toforeAl othre, and so sche was therforeIn Masphat at hir fader gateThe ferste; and whan he com therate,And sih his douhter, he tobreideHise clothes and wepende he seide:“O mihti god among ous hiere,Nou wot I that in no manereThis worldes joie mai be plein.I hadde al that I coude sein 1540Ayein mi fomen be thi grace,So whan I cam toward this placeTher was non gladdere man than I:But now, mi lord, al sodeinliMi joie is torned into sorwe,For I mi dowhter schal tomorweTohewe and brenne in thi serviseTo loenge of thi sacrifiseThurgh min avou, so as it is.”The Maiden, whan sche wiste of this, 1550And sih the sorwe hir fader made,So as sche mai with wordes gladeConforteth him, and bad him holdeThe covenant which he is holdeTowardes god, as he behihte.Bot natheles hire herte aflihteOf that sche sih hire deth comende;And thanne unto the ground knelendeTofore hir fader sche is falle,And seith, so as it is befalle 1560Upon this point that sche schal deie,Of o thing ferst sche wolde him preie,That fourty daies of respitHe wolde hir grante upon this plit,That sche the whyle mai bewepeHir maidenhod, which sche to kepeSo longe hath had and noght beset;Wherof her lusti youthe is let,That sche no children hath forthdraweIn Mariage after the lawe, 1570So that the poeple is noght encressed.Bot that it mihte be relessed,That sche hir time hath lore so,Sche wolde be his leve goWith othre Maidens to compleigne,And afterward unto the peineOf deth sche wolde come ayein.The fader herde his douhter sein,And therupon of on assentThe Maidens were anon asent, 1580That scholden with this Maiden wende.So forto speke unto this ende,Thei gon the dounes and the dalesWith wepinge and with wofull tales,And every wyht hire maidenhiedeCompleigneth upon thilke nede,That sche no children hadde bore,Wherof sche hath hir youthe lore,Which nevere sche recovere mai:For so fell that hir laste dai 1590Was come, in which sche scholde takeHir deth, which sche may noght forsake.Lo, thus sche deiede a wofull MaideFor thilke cause which I saide,As thou hast understonde above.Mi fader, as toward the LoveOf Maidens forto telle trowthe,Ye have thilke vice of Slowthe,Me thenkth, riht wonder wel declared,That ye the wommen have noght spared 1600Of hem that tarien so behinde.Bot yit it falleth in my minde,Toward the men hou that ye spiekeOf hem that wole no travail siekeIn cause of love upon decerte:To speke in wordes so coverte,I not what travaill that ye mente.Mi Sone, and after min ententeI woll thee telle what I thoghte,Hou whilom men here loves boghte 1610Thurgh gret travaill in strange londes,Wher that thei wroghten with here hondesOf armes many a worthi dede,In sondri place as men mai rede.That every love of pure kindeIs ferst forthdrawe, wel I finde:Bot natheles yit overthisDecerte doth so that it isThe rather had in mani place.Forthi who secheth loves grace, 1620Wher that these worthi wommen are,He mai noght thanne himselve spareUpon his travail forto serve,Wherof that he mai thonk deserve,There as these men of Armes be,Somtime over the grete Se:So that be londe and ek be SchipeHe mot travaile for worschipeAnd make manye hastyf rodes,Somtime in Prus, somtime in Rodes, 1630And somtime into Tartarie;So that these heraldz on him crie,“Vailant, vailant, lo, wher he goth!”And thanne he yifth hem gold and cloth,So that his fame mihte springe,And to his ladi Ere bringeSom tidinge of his worthinesse;So that sche mihte of his prouesceOf that sche herde men recorde,The betre unto his love acorde 1640And danger pute out of hire mod,Whanne alle men recorden good,And that sche wot wel, for hir sakeThat he no travail wol forsake.Mi Sone, of this travail I meene:Nou schrif thee, for it schal be seneIf thou art ydel in this cas.My fader ye, and evere was:For as me thenketh trewelyThat every man doth mor than I 1650As of this point, and if so isThat I have oght so don er this,It is so litel of acompte,As who seith, it mai noght amonteTo winne of love his lusti yifte.For this I telle you in schrifte,That me were levere hir love winneThan Kaire and al that is ther inne:And forto slen the hethen alle,I not what good ther mihte falle, 1660So mochel blod thogh ther be schad.This finde I writen, hou Crist badThat noman other scholde sle.What scholde I winne over the Se,If I mi ladi loste at hom?Bot passe thei the salte fom,To whom Crist bad thei scholden precheTo al the world and his feith teche:Bot now thei rucken in here nestAnd resten as hem liketh best 1670In all the swetnesse of delices.Thus thei defenden ous the vices,And sitte hemselven al amidde;To slen and feihten thei ous biddeHem whom thei scholde, as the bok seith,Converten unto Cristes feith.Bot hierof have I gret mervaile,Hou thei wol bidde me travaile:A Sarazin if I sle schal,I sle the Soule forth withal, 1680And that was nevere Cristes lore.Bot nou ho ther, I seie nomore.Bot I wol speke upon mi schrifte;And to Cupide I make a yifte,That who as evere pris deserveOf armes, I wol love serve;And thogh I scholde hem bothe kepe,Als wel yit wolde I take kepeWhan it were time to abide,As forto travaile and to ryde: 1690For how as evere a man laboure,Cupide appointed hath his houre.For I have herd it telle also,Achilles lefte hise armes soBothe of himself and of his menAt Troie for Polixenen,Upon hire love whanne he fell,That for no chance that befellAmong the Grecs or up or doun,He wolde noght ayein the toun 1700Ben armed, for the love of hire.And so me thenketh, lieve Sire,A man of armes mai him resteSomtime in hope for the beste,If he mai finde a weie nerr.What scholde I thanne go so ferrIn strange londes many a mileTo ryde, and lese at hom therwhileMi love? It were a schort beyeteTo winne chaf and lese whete. 1710Bot if mi ladi bidde wolde,That I for hire love scholdeTravaile, me thenkth trewelyI mihte fle thurghout the Sky,And go thurghout the depe Se,For al ne sette I at a streWhat thonk that I mihte elles gete.What helpeth it a man have mete,Wher drinke lacketh on the bord?What helpeth eny mannes word 1720To seie hou I travaile faste,Wher as me faileth ate lasteThat thing which I travaile fore?O in good time were he bore,That mihte atteigne such a mede.Bot certes if I mihte spedeWith eny maner besinesseOf worldes travail, thanne I gesse,Ther scholde me non ydelschipeDeparten fro hir ladischipe. 1730Bot this I se, on daies nouThe blinde god, I wot noght hou,Cupido, which of love is lord,He set the thinges in discord,That thei that lest to love entendeFulofte he wole hem yive and sendeMost of his grace; and thus I findeThat he that scholde go behinde,Goth many a time ferr tofore:So wot I noght riht wel therfore, 1740On whether bord that I schal seile.Thus can I noght miself conseile,Bot al I sette on aventure,And am, as who seith, out of cureFor ought that I can seie or do:For everemore I finde it so,The more besinesse I leie,The more that I knele and preieWith goode wordes and with softe,The more I am refused ofte, 1750With besinesse and mai noght winne.And in good feith that is gret Sinne;For I mai seie, of dede and thoghtThat ydel man have I be noght;For hou as evere I be deslaied,Yit evermore I have assaied.Bot thogh my besinesse laste,Al is bot ydel ate laste,For whan theffect is ydelnesse,I not what thing is besinesse. 1760Sei, what availeth al the dede,Which nothing helpeth ate nede?For the fortune of every fameSchal of his ende bere a name.And thus for oght is yit befalle,An ydel man I wol me calleAs after myn entendement:Bot upon youre amendement,Min holi fader, as you semeth,Mi reson and my cause demeth. 1770Mi Sone, I have herd thi matiere,Of that thou hast thee schriven hiere:And forto speke of ydel fare,Me semeth that thou tharst noght care,Bot only that thou miht noght spede.And therof, Sone, I wol thee rede,Abyd, and haste noght to faste;Thi dees ben every dai to caste,Thou nost what chance schal betyde.Betre is to wayte upon the tyde 1780Than rowe ayein the stremes stronge:For thogh so be thee thenketh longe,Per cas the revolucionOf hevene and thi condicionNe be noght yit of on acord.Bot I dar make this recordTo Venus, whos Prest that I am,That sithen that I hidir camTo hiere, as sche me bad, thi lif,Wherof thou elles be gultif, 1790Thou miht hierof thi conscienceExcuse, and of gret diligence,Which thou to love hast so despended,Thou oghtest wel to be comended.Bot if so be that ther oght faile,Of that thou slowthest to travaileIn armes forto ben absent,And for thou makst an argumentOf that thou seidest hiere above,Hou Achilles thurgh strengthe of love 1800Hise armes lefte for a throwe,Thou schalt an other tale knowe,Which is contraire, as thou schalt wite.For this a man mai finde write,Whan that knyhthode schal be werred,Lust mai noght thanne be preferred;The bedd mot thanne be forsakeAnd Schield and spere on honde take,Which thing schal make hem after glade,Whan thei ben worthi knihtes made. 1810Wherof, so as it comth to honde,A tale thou schalt understonde,Hou that a kniht schal armes suie,And for the while his ese eschuie.Upon knyhthode I rede thus,How whilom whan the king Nauplus,The fader of Palamades,Cam forto preien UlixesWith othre Gregois ek also,That he with hem to Troie go, 1820Wher that the Siege scholde be,Anon upon PenolopeHis wif, whom that he loveth hote,Thenkende, wolde hem noght behote.Bot he schop thanne a wonder wyle,How that he scholde hem best beguile,So that he mihte duelle stilleAt home and welde his love at wille:Wherof erli the morwe dayOut of his bedd, wher that he lay, 1830Whan he was uppe, he gan to fareInto the field and loke and stare,As he which feigneth to be wod:He tok a plowh, wher that it stod,Wherinne anon in stede of OxesHe let do yoken grete foxes,And with gret salt the lond he siew.But Nauplus, which the cause kniew,Ayein the sleihte which he feignethAn other sleihte anon ordeigneth. 1840And fell that time Ulixes haddeA chyld to Sone, and Nauplus raddeHow men that Sone taken scholde,And setten him upon the Molde,Wher that his fader hield the plowh,In thilke furgh which he tho drowh.For in such wise he thoghte assaie,Hou it Ulixes scholde paie,If that he were wod or non.The knihtes for this child forthgon; 1850Thelamacus anon was fett,Tofore the plowh and evene sett,Wher that his fader scholde dryve.Bot whan he sih his child, als blyveHe drof the plowh out of the weie,And Nauplus tho began to seie,And hath half in a jape cryd:“O Ulixes, thou art aspyd:What is al this thou woldest meene?For openliche it is now seene 1860That thou hast feigned al this thing,Which is gret schame to a king,Whan that for lust of eny slowtheThou wolt in a querele of trowtheOf armes thilke honour forsake,And duelle at hom for loves sake:For betre it were honour to winneThan love, which likinge is inne.Forthi tak worschipe upon honde,And elles thou schalt understonde 1870These othre worthi kinges alleOf Grece, which unto thee calle,Towardes thee wol be riht wrothe,And grieve thee per chance bothe:Which schal be tothe double schameMost for the hindrynge of thi name,That thou for Slouthe of eny loveSchalt so thi lustes sette aboveAnd leve of armes the knyhthode,Which is the pris of thi manhode 1880And oghte ferst to be desired.”Bot he, which hadde his herte fyredUpon his wif, whan he this herde,Noght o word therayein ansuerde,Bot torneth hom halvinge aschamed,And hath withinne himself so tamedHis herte, that al the sotieOf love for chivalerieHe lefte, and be him lief or loth,To Troie forth with hem he goth, 1890That he him mihte noght excuse.Thus stant it, if a knyht refuseThe lust of armes to travaile,Ther mai no worldes ese availe,Bot if worschipe be with al.And that hath schewed overal;For it sit wel in alle wiseA kniht to ben of hih empriseAnd puten alle drede aweie;For in this wise, I have herd seie, 1900The worthi king ProtheselaiOn his passage wher he laiTowardes Troie thilke Siege,Sche which was al his oghne liege,Laodomie his lusti wif,Which for his love was pensif,As he which al hire herte hadde,Upon a thing wherof sche draddeA lettre, forto make him duelleFro Troie, sende him, thus to telle, 1910Hou sche hath axed of the wyseTouchende of him in such a wise,That thei have don hire understonde,Towardes othre hou so it stonde,The destine it hath so schapeThat he schal noght the deth ascapeIn cas that he arryve at Troie.Forthi as to hir worldes joieWith al hire herte sche him preide,And many an other cause alleide, 1920That he with hire at home abide.Bot he hath cast hir lettre aside,As he which tho no maner hiedeTok of hire wommannysshe drede;And forth he goth, as noght ne were,To Troie, and was the ferste thereWhich londeth, and tok arryvaile:For him was levere in the bataille,He seith, to deien as a knyht,Than forto lyve in al his myht 1930And be reproeved of his name.Lo, thus upon the worldes fameKnyhthode hath evere yit be set,Which with no couardie is let.Of king Saül also I finde,Whan Samuel out of his kinde,Thurgh that the Phitonesse hath lered,In Samarie was areredLong time after that he was ded,The king Saül him axeth red, 1940If that he schal go fyhte or non.And Samuel him seide anon,“The ferste day of the batailleThou schalt be slain withoute faileAnd Jonathas thi Sone also.”Bot hou as evere it felle so,This worthi kniht of his corageHath undertake the viage,And wol noght his knyhthode letteFor no peril he couthe sette; 1950Wherof that bothe his Sone and heUpon the Montz of GelboeAssemblen with here enemys:For thei knyhthode of such a prisBe olde daies thanne hielden,That thei non other thing behielden.And thus the fader for worschipeForth with his Sone of felaschipeThurgh lust of armes weren dede,As men mai in the bible rede; 1960The whos knyhthode is yit in mende,And schal be to the worldes ende.And forto loken overmore,It hath and schal ben evermoreThat of knihthode the prouesseIs grounded upon hardinesseOf him that dar wel undertake.And who that wolde ensample takeUpon the forme of knyhtes lawe,How that Achilles was forthdrawe 1970With Chiro, which Centaurus hihte,Of many a wondre hiere he mihte.For it stod thilke time thus,That this Chiro, this Centaurus,Withinne a large wildernesse,Wher was Leon and Leonesse,The Lepard and the Tigre also,With Hert and Hynde, and buck and doo,Hadde his duellinge, as tho befell,Of Pileon upon the hel, 1980Wherof was thanne mochel speche.Ther hath Chiro this Chyld to teche,What time he was of tuelve yer age;Wher forto maken his corageThe more hardi be other weie,In the forest to hunte and pleieWhan that Achilles walke wolde,Centaurus bad that he ne scholdeAfter no beste make his chace,Which wolde flen out of his place, 1990As buck and doo and hert and hynde,With whiche he mai no werre finde;Bot tho that wolden him withstonde,Ther scholde he with his Dart on hondeUpon the Tigre and the LeonPourchace and take his veneison,As to a kniht is acordant.And therupon a covenantThis Chiro with Achilles sette,That every day withoute lette 2000He scholde such a cruel besteOr slen or wounden ate leste,So that he mihte a tokne bringeOf blod upon his hom cominge.And thus of that Chiro him tawhteAchilles such an herte cawhte,That he nomore a Leon dradde,Whan he his Dart on honde hadde,Thanne if a Leon were an asse:And that hath mad him forto passe 2010Alle othre knihtes of his dede,Whan it cam to the grete nede,As it was afterward wel knowe.Lo, thus, my Sone, thou miht knoweThat the corage of hardiesceIs of knyhthode the prouesce,Which is to love sufficantAboven al the remenantThat unto loves court poursuie.Bot who that wol no Slowthe eschuie, 2020Upon knihthode and noght travaile,I not what love him scholde availe;Bot every labour axeth whyOf som reward, wherof that IEnsamples couthe telle ynoweOf hem that toward love droweBe olde daies, as thei scholde.Mi fader, therof hiere I wolde.Mi Sone, it is wel resonable,In place which is honorable 2030If that a man his herte sette,That thanne he for no Slowthe letteTo do what longeth to manhede.For if thou wolt the bokes redeOf Lancelot and othre mo,Ther miht thou sen hou it was thoOf armes, for thei wolde atteigneTo love, which withoute peineMai noght be gete of ydelnesse.And that I take to witnesse 2040An old Cronique in special,The which into memorialIs write, for his loves sakeHou that a kniht schal undertake.
Dicunt accidiam fore nutricem viciorum,Torpet et in cunctis tarda que lenta bonis:Que fieri possent hodie transfert piger in cras,Furatoque prius ostia claudit equo.Poscenti tardo negat emolumenta Cupido,Set Venus in celeri ludit amore viri.
Upon the vices to procedeAfter the cause of mannes dede,The ferste point of Slowthe I calleLachesce, and is the chief of alle,And hath this propreliche of kinde,To leven alle thing behinde.Of that he mihte do now hierHe tarieth al the longe yer,And everemore he seith, “Tomorwe”;And so he wol his time borwe, 10And wissheth after “God me sende,”That whan he weneth have an ende,Thanne is he ferthest to beginne.Thus bringth he many a meschief inneUnwar, til that he be meschieved,And may noght thanne be relieved.
And riht so nowther mor ne lesseIt stant of love and of lachesce:Som time he slowtheth in a dayThat he nevere after gete mai. 20Now, Sone, as of this ilke thing,If thou have eny knowleching,That thou to love hast don er this,Tell on.
Mi goode fader, yis.As of lachesce I am beknoweThat I mai stonde upon his rowe,As I that am clad of his suite:For whanne I thoghte mi poursuiteTo make, and therto sette a dayTo speke unto the swete May, 30Lachesce bad abide yit,And bar on hond it was no witNe time forto speke as tho.Thus with his tales to and froMi time in tariinge he drowh:Whan ther was time good ynowh,He seide, “An other time is bettre;Thou schalt mowe senden hire a lettre,And per cas wryte more pleinThan thou be Mowthe durstest sein.” 40Thus have I lete time slydeFor Slowthe, and kepte noght my tide,So that lachesce with his viceFulofte hath mad my wit so nyce,That what I thoghte speke or doWith tariinge he hield me so,Til whanne I wolde and mihte noght.I not what thing was in my thoght,Or it was drede, or it was schame;Bot evere in ernest and in game 50I wot ther is long time passed.Bot yit is noght the love lassed,Which I unto mi ladi have;For thogh my tunge is slowh to craveAt alle time, as I have bede,Min herte stant evere in o stedeAnd axeth besiliche grace,The which I mai noght yit embrace.And god wot that is malgre myn;For this I wot riht wel a fin, 60Mi grace comth so selde aboute,That is the Slowthe of which I douteMor than of al the remenantWhich is to love appourtenant.And thus as touchende of lachesce,As I have told, I me confesseTo you, mi fader, and besecheThat furthermor ye wol me teche;And if ther be to this matiereSom goodly tale forto liere 70How I mai do lachesce aweie,That ye it wolden telle I preie.
To wisse thee, my Sone, and rede,Among the tales whiche I rede,An old ensample theruponNow herkne, and I wol tellen on.
Ayein Lachesce in loves casI finde how whilom Eneas,Whom Anchises to Sone hadde,With gret navie, which he ladde 80Fro Troie, aryveth at Cartage,Wher for a while his herbergageHe tok; and it betidde so,With hire which was qweene thoOf the Cite his aqueintanceHe wan, whos name in remembranceIs yit, and Dido sche was hote;Which loveth Eneas so hoteUpon the wordes whiche he seide,That al hire herte on him sche leide 90And dede al holi what he wolde.
Bot after that, as it be scholde,Fro thenne he goth toward YtaileBe Schipe, and there his arivaileHath take, and schop him forto ryde.Bot sche, which mai noght longe abideThe hote peine of loves throwe,Anon withinne a litel throweA lettre unto hir kniht hath write,And dede him pleinly forto wite, 100If he made eny tariinge,To drecche of his ayeincomynge,That sche ne mihte him fiele and se,Sche scholde stonde in such degreAs whilom stod a Swan tofore,Of that sche hadde hire make lore;For sorwe a fethere into hire brainSche schof and hath hireselve slain;As king Menander in a layThe sothe hath founde, wher sche lay 110Sprantlende with hire wynges tweie,As sche which scholde thanne deieFor love of him which was hire make.
“And so schal I do for thi sake,”This qweene seide, “wel I wot.”Lo, to Enee thus sche wrotWith many an other word of pleinte:Bot he, which hadde hise thoghtes feinteTowardes love and full of Slowthe,His time lette, and that was rowthe: 120For sche, which loveth him tofore,Desireth evere more and more,And whan sche sih him tarie so,Hire herte was so full of wo,That compleignende manyfoldSche hath hire oghne tale told,Unto hirself and thus sche spak:“Ha, who fond evere such a lakOf Slowthe in eny worthi kniht?Now wot I wel my deth is diht 130Thurgh him which scholde have be mi lif.”Bot forto stinten al this strif,Thus whan sche sih non other bote,Riht evene unto hire herte roteA naked swerd anon sche threste,And thus sche gat hireselve resteIn remembrance of alle slowe.
Wherof, my Sone, thou miht knoweHow tariinge upon the nedeIn loves cause is forto drede; 140And that hath Dido sore aboght,Whos deth schal evere be bethoght.And overmore if I schal secheIn this matiere an other spieche,In a Cronique I finde writeA tale which is good to wite.
At Troie whan king UlixesUpon the Siege among the presOf hem that worthi knihtes wereAbod long time stille there, 150In thilke time a man mai seHow goodli that Penolope,Which was to him his trewe wif,Of his lachesce was pleintif;Wherof to Troie sche him sendeHire will be lettre, thus spekende:
“Mi worthi love and lord also,It is and hath ben evere so,That wher a womman is al one,It makth a man in his persone 160The more hardi forto wowe,In hope that sche wolde boweTo such thing as his wille were,Whil that hire lord were elleswhere.And of miself I telle this;For it so longe passed is,Sithe ferst than ye fro home wente,That welnyh every man his wenteTo there I am, whil ye ben oute,Hath mad, and ech of hem aboute, 170Which love can, my love secheth,With gret preiere and me besecheth:And some maken gret manace,That if thei mihten come in place,Wher that thei mihte here wille have,Ther is nothing me scholde save,That thei ne wolde werche thinges;And some tellen me tidyngesThat ye ben ded, and some seinThat certeinly ye ben besein 180To love a newe and leve me.Bot hou as evere that it be,I thonke unto the goddes alle,As yit for oght that is befalleMai noman do my chekes rede:Bot natheles it is to drede,That Lachesse in continuanceFortune mihte such a chance,Which noman after scholde amende.”Lo, thus this ladi compleignende 190A lettre unto hire lord hath write,And preyde him that he wolde witeAnd thenke hou that sche was al his,And that he tarie noght in this,Bot that he wolde his love aquite,To hire ayeinward and noght wryte,Bot come himself in alle haste,That he non other paper waste;So that he kepe and holde his trowtheWithoute lette of eny Slowthe. 200
Unto hire lord and love liegeTo Troie, wher the grete SiegeWas leid, this lettre was conveied.And he, which wisdom hath pourveiedOf al that to reson belongeth,With gentil herte it underfongeth:And whan he hath it overrad,In part he was riht inly glad,And ek in part he was desesed:Bot love his herte hath so thorghsesed 210With pure ymaginacioun,That for non occupaciounWhich he can take on other side,He mai noght flitt his herte asideFro that his wif him hadde enformed;Wherof he hath himself conformedWith al the wille of his corageTo schape and take the viageHomward, what time that he mai:So that him thenketh of a day 220A thousand yer, til he mai seThe visage of Penolope,Which he desireth most of alle.And whan the time is so befalleThat Troie was destruid and brent,He made non delaiement,Bot goth him home in alle hihe,Wher that he fond tofore his yheHis worthi wif in good astat:And thus was cessed the debat 230Of love, and Slowthe was excused,Which doth gret harm, where it is used,And hindreth many a cause honeste.
For of the grete Clerc GrosstesteI rede how besy that he wasUpon clergie an Hed of brasTo forge, and make it forto telleOf suche thinges as befelle.And sevene yeres besinesseHe leyde, bot for the lachesse 240Of half a Minut of an houre,Fro ferst that he began laboureHe loste all that he hadde do.
And otherwhile it fareth so,In loves cause who is slow,That he withoute under the wowBe nyhte stant fulofte acold,Which mihte, if that he hadde woldHis time kept, have be withinne.
Bot Slowthe mai no profit winne, 250Bot he mai singe in his karoleHow Latewar cam to the Dole,Wher he no good receive mihte.And that was proved wel be nyhteWhilom of the Maidenes fyve,Whan thilke lord cam forto wyve:For that here oyle was aweieTo lihte here lampes in his weie,Here Slowthe broghte it so aboute,Fro him that thei ben schet withoute. 260
Wherof, my Sone, be thou war,Als ferforth as I telle dar.For love moste ben awaited:And if thou be noght wel affaitedIn love to eschuie Slowthe,Mi Sone, forto telle trowthe,Thou miht noght of thiself ben ableTo winne love or make it stable,All thogh thou mihtest love achieve.
Mi fader, that I mai wel lieve. 270Bot me was nevere assigned place,Wher yit to geten eny grace,Ne me was non such time apointed;For thanne I wolde I were unjoyntedOf every lime that I have,If I ne scholde kepe and saveMin houre bothe and ek my stede,If my ladi it hadde bede.Bot sche is otherwise avisedThan grante such a time assised; 280And natheles of mi lachesseTher hath be no defalte I gesseOf time lost, if that I mihte:Bot yit hire liketh noght alyhteUpon no lure which I caste;For ay the more I crie faste,The lasse hire liketh forto hiere.So forto speke of this matiere,I seche that I mai noght finde,I haste and evere I am behinde, 290And wot noght what it mai amounte.Bot, fader, upon myn acompte,Which ye be sett to examineOf Schrifte after the discipline,Sey what your beste conseil is.
Mi Sone, my conseil is this:Hou so it stonde of time go,Do forth thi besinesse so,That no Lachesce in the be founde:For Slowthe is mihti to confounde 300The spied of every mannes werk.For many a vice, as seith the clerk,Ther hongen upon Slowthes lappeOf suche as make a man mishappe,To pleigne and telle of hadde I wist.And therupon if that thee listTo knowe of Slowthes cause more,In special yit overmoreTher is a vice full grevableTo him which is therof coupable, 310And stant of alle vertu bare,Hierafter as I schal declare.
Touchende of Slowthe in his degre,Ther is yit Pusillamite,Which is to seie in this langage,He that hath litel of corageAnd dar no mannes werk beginne:So mai he noght be resoun winne;For who that noght dar undertake,Be riht he schal no profit take. 320Bot of this vice the natureDar nothing sette in aventure,Him lacketh bothe word and dede,Wherof he scholde his cause spede:He woll no manhed understonde,For evere he hath drede upon honde:Al is peril that he schal seie,Him thenkth the wolf is in the weie,And of ymaginaciounHe makth his excusacioun 330And feigneth cause of pure drede,And evere he faileth ate nede,Til al be spilt that he with deleth.He hath the sor which noman heleth,The which is cleped lack of herte;Thogh every grace aboute him sterte,He wol noght ones stere his fot;So that be resoun lese he mot,That wol noght auntre forto winne.
And so forth, Sone, if we beginne 340To speke of love and his servise,Ther ben truantz in such a wise,That lacken herte, whan best wereTo speke of love, and riht for fereThei wexen doumb and dar noght telle,Withoute soun as doth the belle,Which hath no claper forto chyme;And riht so thei as for the tymeBen herteles withoute specheOf love, and dar nothing beseche; 350And thus thei lese and winne noght.Forthi, my Sone, if thou art oghtCoupable as touchende of this Slowthe,Schrif thee therof and tell me trowthe.
Mi fader, I am al beknoweThat I have ben on of tho slowe,As forto telle in loves cas.Min herte is yit and evere was,As thogh the world scholde al tobreke,So ferful, that I dar noght speke 360Of what pourpos that I have nome,Whan I toward mi ladi come,Bot let it passe and overgo.
Mi Sone, do nomore so:For after that a man poursuiethTo love, so fortune suieth,Fulofte and yifth hire happi chanceTo him which makth continuanceTo preie love and to beseche;As be ensample I schal thee teche. 370
I finde hou whilom ther was on,Whos name was Pymaleon,Which was a lusti man of yowthe:The werkes of entaile he cowtheAbove alle othre men as tho;And thurgh fortune it fell him so,As he whom love schal travaile,He made an ymage of entaileLich to a womman in semblanceOf feture and of contienance, 380So fair yit nevere was figure.Riht as a lyves creatureSche semeth, for of yvor whytHe hath hire wroght of such delit,That sche was rody on the chekeAnd red on bothe hire lippes eke;Wherof that he himself beguileth.For with a goodly lok sche smyleth,So that thurgh pure impressionOf his ymaginacion 390With al the herte of his corageHis love upon this faire ymageHe sette, and hire of love preide;Bot sche no word ayeinward seide.The longe day, what thing he dede,This ymage in the same stedeWas evere bi, that ate meteHe wolde hire serve and preide hire ete,And putte unto hire mowth the cuppe;And whan the bord was taken uppe, 400He hath hire into chambre nome,And after, whan the nyht was come,He leide hire in his bed al nakid.He was forwept, he was forwakid,He keste hire colde lippes ofte,And wissheth that thei weren softe,And ofte he rouneth in hire Ere,And ofte his arm now hier now thereHe leide, as he hir wolde embrace,And evere among he axeth grace, 410As thogh sche wiste what he mente:And thus himself he gan tormenteWith such desese of loves peine,That noman mihte him more peine.Bot how it were, of his penanceHe made such continuanceFro dai to nyht, and preith so longe,That his preiere is underfonge,Which Venus of hire grace herde;Be nyhte and whan that he worst ferde, 420And it lay in his nakede arm,The colde ymage he fieleth warmOf fleissh and bon and full of lif.
Lo, thus he wan a lusti wif,Which obeissant was at his wille;And if he wolde have holde him stilleAnd nothing spoke, he scholde have failed:Bot for he hath his word travailedAnd dorste speke, his love he spedde,And hadde al that he wolde abedde. 430For er thei wente thanne atwo,A knave child betwen hem twoThei gete, which was after hotePaphus, of whom yit hath the noteA certein yle, which PaphosMen clepe, and of his name it ros.
Be this ensample thou miht findeThat word mai worche above kinde.Forthi, my Sone, if that thou spareTo speke, lost is al thi fare, 440For Slowthe bringth in alle wo.And over this to loke also,The god of love is favorableTo hem that ben of love stable,And many a wonder hath befalle:Wherof to speke amonges alle,If that thee list to taken hede,Therof a solein tale I rede,Which I schal telle in remembraunceUpon the sort of loves chaunce. 450
The king Ligdus upon a strifSpak unto Thelacuse his wif,Which thanne was with childe grete;He swor it scholde noght be lete,That if sche have a dowhter bore,That it ne scholde be forloreAnd slain, wherof sche sory was.So it befell upon this cas,Whan sche delivered scholde be,Isis be nyhte in privete, 460Which of childinge is the goddesse,Cam forto helpe in that destresse,Til that this lady was al smal,And hadde a dowhter forth withal;Which the goddesse in alle weieBad kepe, and that thei scholden seieIt were a Sone: and thus IphisThei namede him, and upon thisThe fader was mad so to wene.And thus in chambre with the qweene 470This Iphis was forthdrawe tho,And clothed and arraied soRiht as a kinges Sone scholde.Til after, as fortune it wolde,Whan it was of a ten yer age,Him was betake in mariageA Duckes dowhter forto wedde,Which Iante hihte, and ofte abeddeThese children leien, sche and sche,Whiche of on age bothe be. 480So that withinne time of yeeres,Togedre as thei ben pleiefieres,Liggende abedde upon a nyht,Nature, which doth every wihtUpon hire lawe forto muse,Constreigneth hem, so that thei useThing which to hem was al unknowe;Wherof Cupide thilke throweTok pite for the grete love,And let do sette kinde above, 490So that hir lawe mai ben used,And thei upon here lust excused.For love hateth nothing moreThan thing which stant ayein the loreOf that nature in kinde hath sett:Forthi Cupide hath so besettHis grace upon this aventure,That he acordant to nature,Whan that he syh the time best,That ech of hem hath other kest, 500Transformeth Iphe into a man,Wherof the kinde love he wanOf lusti yonge Iante his wif;And tho thei ladde a merie lif,Which was to kinde non offence.
And thus to take an evidence,It semeth love is welwillendeTo hem that ben continuendeWith besy herte to poursuieThing which that is to love due. 510Wherof, my Sone, in this matiereThou miht ensample taken hiere,That with thi grete besinesseThou miht atteigne the richesseOf love, if that ther be no Slowthe.
I dar wel seie be mi trowthe,Als fer as I my witt can seche,Mi fader, as for lacke of speche,Bot so as I me schrof tofore,Ther is non other time lore, 520Wherof ther mihte ben obstacleTo lette love of his miracle,Which I beseche day and nyht.Bot, fader, so as it is rihtIn forme of schrifte to beknoweWhat thing belongeth to the slowe,Your faderhode I wolde preie,If ther be forthere eny weieTouchende unto this ilke vice.
Mi Sone, ye, of this office 530Ther serveth on in special,Which lost hath his memorial,So that he can no wit withholdeIn thing which he to kepe is holde,Wherof fulofte himself he grieveth:And who that most upon him lieveth,Whan that hise wittes ben so weyved,He mai full lihtly be deceived.
To serve Accidie in his office,Ther is of Slowthe an other vice, 540Which cleped is Foryetelnesse;That noght mai in his herte impresseOf vertu which reson hath sett,So clene his wittes he foryet.For in the tellinge of his taleNomore his herte thanne his maleHath remembrance of thilke forme,Wherof he scholde his wit enformeAs thanne, and yit ne wot he why.Thus is his pourpos noght forthi 550Forlore of that he wolde bidde,And skarsly if he seith the thriddeTo love of that he hadde ment:Thus many a lovere hath be schent.Tell on therfore, hast thou be oonOf hem that Slowthe hath so begon?
Ye, fader, ofte it hath be so,That whanne I am mi ladi froAnd thenke untoward hire drawe,Than cast I many a newe lawe 560And al the world torne up so doun,And so recorde I mi lecounAnd wryte in my memorialWhat I to hire telle schal,Riht al the matiere of mi tale:Bot al nys worth a note schale;For whanne I come ther sche is,I have it al foryete ywiss;Of that I thoghte forto telleI can noght thanne unethes spelle 570That I wende altherbest have rad,So sore I am of hire adrad.For as a man that sodeinliA gost behelde, so fare I;So that for feere I can noght geteMi witt, bot I miself foryete,That I wot nevere what I am,Ne whider I schal, ne whenne I cam,Bot muse as he that were amased.Lich to the bok in which is rased 580The lettre, and mai nothing be rad,So ben my wittes overlad,That what as evere I thoghte have spoken,It is out fro myn herte stoken,And stonde, as who seith, doumb and def,That all nys worth an yvy lef,Of that I wende wel have seid.And ate laste I make abreid,Caste up myn hed and loke aboute,Riht as a man that were in doute 590And wot noght wher he schal become.Thus am I ofte al overcome,Ther as I wende best to stonde:Bot after, whanne I understonde,And am in other place al one,I make many a wofull moneUnto miself, and speke so:“Ha fol, wher was thin herte tho,Whan thou thi worthi ladi syhe?Were thou afered of hire yhe? 600For of hire hand ther is no drede:So wel I knowe hir wommanhede,That in hire is nomore oultrageThan in a child of thre yeer age.Whi hast thou drede of so good on,Whom alle vertu hath begon,That in hire is no violenceBot goodlihiede and innocenceWithouten spot of eny blame?Ha, nyce herte, fy for schame! 610Ha, couard herte of love unlered,Wherof art thou so sore afered,That thou thi tunge soffrest frese,And wolt thi goode wordes lese,Whan thou hast founde time and space?How scholdest thou deserve grace,Whan thou thiself darst axe non,Bot al thou hast foryete anon?”And thus despute I loves lore,Bot help ne finde I noght the more, 620Bot stomble upon myn oghne treineAnd make an ekinge of my peine.For evere whan I thenke amongHow al is on miself along,I seie, “O fol of alle foles,Thou farst as he betwen tuo stolesThat wolde sitte and goth to grounde.It was ne nevere schal be founde,Betwen foryetelnesse and dredeThat man scholde any cause spede.” 630And thus, myn holi fader diere,Toward miself, as ye mai hiere,I pleigne of my foryetelnesse;Bot elles al the besinesse,That mai be take of mannes thoght,Min herte takth, and is thorghsoghtTo thenken evere upon that sweteWithoute Slowthe, I you behete.For what so falle, or wel or wo,That thoght foryete I neveremo, 640Wher so I lawhe or so I loure:Noght half the Minut of an houreNe mihte I lete out of my mende,Bot if I thoghte upon that hende.Therof me schal no Slowthe lette,Til deth out of this world me fette,Althogh I hadde on such a Ring,As Moises thurgh his enchantingSom time in Ethiope made,Whan that he Tharbis weddid hade. 650Which Ring bar of OblivionThe name, and that was be resounThat where it on a finger sat,Anon his love he so foryat,As thogh he hadde it nevere knowe:And so it fell that ilke throwe,Whan Tharbis hadde it on hire hond,No knowlechinge of him sche fond,Bot al was clene out of memoire,As men mai rede in his histoire; 660And thus he wente quit away,That nevere after that ilke daySche thoghte that ther was such on;Al was foryete and overgon.Bot in good feith so mai noght I:For sche is evere faste by,So nyh that sche myn herte toucheth,That for nothing that Slowthe vouchethI mai foryete hire, lief ne loth;For overal, where as sche goth, 670Min herte folwith hire aboute.Thus mai I seie withoute doute,For bet, for wers, for oght, for noght,Sche passeth nevere fro my thoght;Bot whanne I am ther as sche is,Min herte, as I you saide er this,Som time of hire is sore adrad,And som time it is overglad,Al out of reule and out of space.For whan I se hir goodli face 680And thenke upon hire hihe pris,As thogh I were in Paradis,I am so ravisht of the syhte,That speke unto hire I ne myhteAs for the time, thogh I wolde:For I ne mai my wit unfoldeTo finde o word of that I mene,Bot al it is foryete clene;And thogh I stonde there a myle,Al is foryete for the while, 690A tunge I have and wordes none.And thus I stonde and thenke al oneOf thing that helpeth ofte noght;Bot what I hadde afore thoghtTo speke, whanne I come there,It is foryete, as noght ne were,And stonde amased and assoted,That of nothing which I have notedI can noght thanne a note singe,Bot al is out of knowlechinge: 700Thus, what for joie and what for drede,Al is foryeten ate nede.So that, mi fader, of this SlowtheI have you said the pleine trowthe;Ye mai it as you list redresce:For thus stant my foryetelnesseAnd ek my pusillamite.Sey now forth what you list to me,For I wol only do be you.
Mi Sone, I have wel herd how thou 710Hast seid, and that thou most amende:For love his grace wol noght sendeTo that man which dar axe non.For this we knowen everichon,A mannes thoght withoute specheGod wot, and yit that men besecheHis will is; for withoute bedesHe doth his grace in fewe stedes:And what man that foryet himselve,Among a thousand be noght tuelve, 720That wol him take in remembraunce,Bot lete him falle and take his chaunce.Forthi pull up a besi herte,Mi Sone, and let nothing asterteOf love fro thi besinesse:For touchinge of foryetelnesse,Which many a love hath set behinde,A tale of gret ensample I finde,Wherof it is pite to witeIn the manere as it is write. 730
King Demephon, whan he be SchipeTo Troieward with felaschipeSailende goth, upon his weieIt hapneth him at Rodopeie,As Eolus him hadde blowe,To londe, and rested for a throwe.And fell that ilke time thus,The dowhter of Ligurgius,Which qweene was of the contre,Was sojournende in that Cite 740Withinne a Castell nyh the stronde,Wher Demephon cam up to londe.Phillis sche hihte, and of yong ageAnd of stature and of visageSche hadde al that hire best besemeth.Of Demephon riht wel hire qwemeth,Whan he was come, and made him chiere;And he, that was of his manereA lusti knyht, ne myhte asterteThat he ne sette on hire his herte; 750So that withinne a day or tuoHe thoghte, how evere that it go,He wolde assaie the fortune,And gan his herte to communeWith goodly wordes in hire Ere;And forto put hire out of fere,He swor and hath his trowthe plihtTo be for evere hire oghne knyht.And thus with hire he stille abod,Ther while his Schip on Anker rod, 760And hadde ynowh of time and spaceTo speke of love and seche grace.
This ladi herde al that he seide,And hou he swor and hou he preide,Which was as an enchantementTo hire, that was innocent:As thogh it were trowthe and feith,Sche lieveth al that evere he seith,And as hire infortune scholde,Sche granteth him al that he wolde. 770Thus was he for the time in joie,Til that he scholde go to Troie;Bot tho sche made mochel sorwe,And he his trowthe leith to borweTo come, if that he live may,Ayein withinne a Monthe day,And therupon thei kisten bothe:Bot were hem lieve or were hem lothe,To Schipe he goth and forth he wenteTo Troie, as was his ferste entente. 780
The daies gon, the Monthe passeth,Hire love encresceth and his lasseth,For him sche lefte slep and mete,And he his time hath al foryete;So that this wofull yonge qweene,Which wot noght what it mihte meene,A lettre sende and preide him come,And seith how sche is overcomeWith strengthe of love in such a wise,That sche noght longe mai suffise 790To liven out of his presence;And putte upon his conscienceThe trowthe which he hath behote,Wherof sche loveth him so hote,Sche seith, that if he lengere letteOf such a day as sche him sette,Sche scholde sterven in his Slowthe,Which were a schame unto his trowthe.This lettre is forth upon hire sonde,Wherof somdiel confort on honde 800Sche tok, as she that wolde abideAnd waite upon that ilke tydeWhich sche hath in hire lettre write.
Bot now is pite forto wite,As he dede erst, so he foryatHis time eftsone and oversat.Bot sche, which mihte noght do so,The tyde awayteth everemo,And caste hire yhe upon the See:Somtime nay, somtime yee, 810Somtime he cam, somtime noght,Thus sche desputeth in hire thoghtAnd wot noght what sche thenke mai;Bot fastende al the longe daySche was into the derke nyht,And tho sche hath do set up lyhtIn a lanterne on hih alofteUpon a Tour, wher sche goth ofte,In hope that in his comingeHe scholde se the liht brenninge, 820Wherof he mihte his weies rihteTo come wher sche was be nyhte.Bot al for noght, sche was deceived,For Venus hath hire hope weyved,And schewede hire upon the SkyHow that the day was faste by,So that withinne a litel throweThe daies lyht sche mihte knowe.Tho sche behield the See at large;And whan sche sih ther was no barge 830Ne Schip, als ferr as sche may kenne,Doun fro the Tour sche gan to renneInto an Herber all hire one,Wher many a wonder woful moneSche made, that no lif it wiste,As sche which all hire joie miste,That now sche swouneth, now sche pleigneth,And al hire face sche desteignethWith teres, whiche, as of a welleThe stremes, from hire yhen felle; 840So as sche mihte and evere in onSche clepede upon Demephon,And seide, “Helas, thou slowe wiht,Wher was ther evere such a knyht,That so thurgh his ungentilesceOf Slowthe and of foryetelnesseAyein his trowthe brak his stevene?”And tho hire yhe up to the heveneSche caste, and seide, “O thou unkinde,Hier schalt thou thurgh thi Slowthe finde, 850If that thee list to come and se,A ladi ded for love of thee,So as I schal myselve spille;Whom, if it hadde be thi wille,Thou mihtest save wel ynowh.”With that upon a grene bowhA Ceinte of Selk, which sche ther hadde,Sche knette, and so hireself sche ladde,That sche aboute hire whyte swereIt dede, and hyng hirselven there. 860Wherof the goddes were amoeved,And Demephon was so reproeved,That of the goddes providenceWas schape such an evidenceEvere afterward ayein the slowe,That Phillis in the same throweWas schape into a Notetre,That alle men it mihte se,And after Phillis PhilliberdThis tre was cleped in the yerd, 870And yit for Demephon to schameInto this dai it berth the name.This wofull chance how that it ferdeAnon as Demephon it herde,And every man it hadde in speche,His sorwe was noght tho to seche;He gan his Slowthe forto banne,Bot it was al to late thanne.
Lo thus, my Sone, miht thou witeAyein this vice how it is write; 880For noman mai the harmes gesse,That fallen thurgh foryetelnesse,Wherof that I thi schrifte have herd.Bot yit of Slowthe hou it hath ferdIn other wise I thenke oppose,If thou have gult, as I suppose.
Fulfild of Slowthes essamplaireTher is yit on, his Secretaire,And he is cleped Negligence:Which wol noght loke his evidence, 890Wherof he mai be war tofore;Bot whanne he hath his cause lore,Thanne is he wys after the hond:Whanne helpe may no maner bond,Thanne ate ferste wolde he binde:Thus everemore he stant behinde.Whanne he the thing mai noght amende,Thanne is he war, and seith at ende,“Ha, wolde god I hadde knowe!”Wherof bejaped with a mowe 900He goth, for whan the grete StiedeIs stole, thanne he taketh hiede,And makth the stable dore fast:Thus evere he pleith an aftercastOf al that he schal seie or do.He hath a manere eke also,Him list noght lerne to be wys,For he set of no vertu prisBot as him liketh for the while;So fieleth he fulofte guile, 910Whan that he weneth siker stonde.And thus thou miht wel understonde,Mi Sone, if thou art such in love,Thou miht noght come at thin aboveOf that thou woldest wel achieve.
Mi holi fader, as I lieve,I mai wel with sauf conscienceExcuse me of necgligenceTowardes love in alle wise:For thogh I be non of the wise, 920I am so trewly amerous,That I am evere curiousOf hem that conne best enformeTo knowe and witen al the forme,What falleth unto loves craft.Bot yit ne fond I noght the haft,Which mihte unto that bladd acorde;For nevere herde I man recordeWhat thing it is that myhte availeTo winne love withoute faile. 930Yit so fer cowthe I nevere findeMan that be resoun ne be kindeMe cowthe teche such an art,That he ne failede of a part;And as toward myn oghne wit,Controeve cowthe I nevere yitTo finden eny sikernesse,That me myhte outher more or lesseOf love make forto spede:For lieveth wel withoute drede, 940If that ther were such a weie,As certeinliche as I schal deieI hadde it lerned longe ago.Bot I wot wel ther is non so:And natheles it may wel be,I am so rude in my degreeAnd ek mi wittes ben so dulle,That I ne mai noght to the fulleAtteigne to so hih a lore.Bot this I dar seie overmore, 950Althogh mi wit ne be noght strong,It is noght on mi will along,For that is besi nyht and dayTo lerne al that he lerne may,How that I mihte love winne:Bot yit I am as to beginneOf that I wolde make an ende,And for I not how it schal wende,That is to me mi moste sorwe.Bot I dar take god to borwe, 960As after min entendement,Non other wise necgligentThanne I yow seie have I noght be:Forthi per seinte chariteTell me, mi fader, what you semeth.
In good feith, Sone, wel me qwemeth,That thou thiself hast thus aquitToward this vice, in which no witAbide mai, for in an houreHe lest al that he mai laboure 970The longe yer, so that men sein,What evere he doth it is in vein.For thurgh the Slowthe of NegligenceTher was yit nevere such scienceNe vertu, which was bodely,That nys destruid and lost therby.Ensample that it hath be soIn boke I finde write also.
Phebus, which is the Sonne hote,That schyneth upon Erthe hote 980And causeth every lyves helthe,He hadde a Sone in al his welthe,Which Pheton hihte, and he desirethAnd with his Moder he conspireth,The which was cleped Clemenee,For help and conseil, so that heHis fader carte lede myhteUpon the faire daies brihte.And for this thing thei bothe preideUnto the fader, and he seide 990He wolde wel, bot forth withalThre pointz he bad in specialUnto his Sone in alle wise,That he him scholde wel aviseAnd take it as be weie of lore.Ferst was, that he his hors to soreNe prike, and over that he toldeThat he the renes faste holde;And also that he be riht warIn what manere he lede his charr, 1000That he mistake noght his gate,Bot up avisement algateHe scholde bere a siker yhe,That he to lowe ne to hyheHis carte dryve at eny throwe,Wherof that he mihte overthrowe.And thus be Phebus ordinanceTok Pheton into governanceThe Sonnes carte, which he ladde:Bot he such veine gloire hadde 1010Of that he was set upon hyh,That he his oghne astat ne syhThurgh negligence and tok non hiede;So mihte he wel noght longe spede.For he the hors withoute laweThe carte let aboute draweWher as hem liketh wantounly,That ate laste sodeinly,For he no reson wolde knowe,This fyri carte he drof to lowe, 1020And fyreth al the world aboute;Wherof thei weren alle in doubte,And to the god for helpe cridenOf suche unhappes as betyden.Phebus, which syh the necgligence,How Pheton ayein his defenceHis charr hath drive out of the weie,Ordeigneth that he fell aweieOut of the carte into a flodAnd dreynte. Lo now, hou it stod 1030With him that was so necgligent,That fro the hyhe firmament,For that he wolde go to lowe,He was anon doun overthrowe.
In hih astat it is a viceTo go to lowe, and in serviceIt grieveth forto go to hye,Wherof a tale in poesieI finde, how whilom Dedalus,Which hadde a Sone, and Icharus 1040He hihte, and thogh hem thoghte lothe,In such prison thei weren botheWith Minotaurus, that abouteThei mihten nawher wenden oute;So thei begonne forto schapeHow thei the prison mihte ascape.This Dedalus, which fro his yowtheWas tawht and manye craftes cowthe,Of fetheres and of othre thingesHath mad to fle diverse wynges 1050For him and for his Sone also;To whom he yaf in charge thoAnd bad him thenke therupon,How that his wynges ben set onWith wex, and if he toke his flyhteTo hyhe, al sodeinliche he mihteMake it to melte with the Sonne.And thus thei have her flyht begonneOut of the prison faire and softe;And whan thei weren bothe alofte, 1060This Icharus began to monte,And of the conseil non accompteHe sette, which his fader tawhte,Til that the Sonne his wynges cawhte,Wherof it malt, and fro the heihteWithouten help of eny sleihteHe fell to his destruccion.And lich to that condicionTher fallen ofte times feleFor lacke of governance in wele, 1070Als wel in love as other weie.
Now goode fader, I you preie,If ther be more in the matiereOf Slowthe, that I mihte it hiere.
Mi Sone, and for thi diligence,Which every mannes conscienceBe resoun scholde reule and kepe,If that thee list to taken kepe,I wol thee telle, aboven alleIn whom no vertu mai befalle, 1080Which yifth unto the vices resteAnd is of slowe the sloweste.
Among these othre of Slowthes kinde,Which alle labour set behinde,And hateth alle besinesse,Ther is yit on, which YdelnesseIs cleped, and is the NorriceIn mannes kinde of every vice,Which secheth eases manyfold.In Wynter doth he noght for cold, 1090In Somer mai he noght for hete;So whether that he frese or swete,Or he be inne, or he be oute,He wol ben ydel al aboute,Bot if he pleie oght ate Dees.For who as evere take feesAnd thenkth worschipe to deserve,Ther is no lord whom he wol serve,As forto duelle in his servise,Bot if it were in such a wise, 1100Of that he seth per aventureThat be lordschipe and covertureHe mai the more stonde stille,And use his ydelnesse at wille.For he ne wol no travail takeTo ryde for his ladi sake,Bot liveth al upon his wisshes;And as a cat wolde ete fisshesWithoute wetinge of his cles,So wolde he do, bot natheles 1110He faileth ofte of that he wolde.
Mi Sone, if thou of such a moldeArt mad, now tell me plein thi schrifte.
Nay, fader, god I yive a yifte.That toward love, as be mi wit,Al ydel was I nevere yit,Ne nevere schal, whil I mai go.
Now, Sone, tell me thanne so,What hast thou don of besischipeTo love and to the ladischipe 1120Of hire which thi ladi is?
Mi fader, evere yit er thisIn every place, in every stede,What so mi lady hath me bede,With al myn herte obedientI have therto be diligent.And if so is sche bidde noght,What thing that thanne into my thoghtComth ferst of that I mai suffise,I bowe and profre my servise, 1130Somtime in chambre, somtime in halle,Riht as I se the times falle.And whan sche goth to hiere masse,That time schal noght overpasse,That I naproche hir ladihede,In aunter if I mai hire ledeUnto the chapelle and ayein.Thanne is noght al mi weie in vein,Somdiel I mai the betre fare,Whan I, that mai noght fiele hir bare, 1140Mai lede hire clothed in myn arm:Bot afterward it doth me harmOf pure ymaginacioun;For thanne this collaciounI make unto miselven ofte,And seie, “Ha lord, hou sche is softe,How sche is round, hou sche is smal!Now wolde god I hadde hire alWithoute danger at mi wille!”And thanne I sike and sitte stille, 1150Of that I se mi besi thoghtIs torned ydel into noght.Bot for al that lete I ne mai,Whanne I se time an other dai,That I ne do my besinesseUnto mi ladi worthinesse.For I therto mi wit afaiteTo se the times and awaiteWhat is to done and what to leve:And so, whan time is, be hir leve, 1160What thing sche bit me don, I do,And wher sche bidt me gon, I go,And whanne hir list to clepe, I come.Thus hath sche fulliche overcomeMin ydelnesse til I sterve,So that I mot hire nedes serve,For as men sein, nede hath no lawe.Thus mot I nedly to hire drawe,I serve, I bowe, I loke, I loute,Min yhe folweth hire aboute, 1170What so sche wole so wol I,Whan sche wol sitte, I knele by,And whan sche stant, than wol I stonde:Bot whan sche takth hir werk on hondeOf wevinge or enbrouderie,Than can I noght bot muse and prieUpon hir fingres longe and smale,And now I thenke, and now I tale,And now I singe, and now I sike,And thus mi contienance I pike. 1180And if it falle, as for a timeHir liketh noght abide bime,Bot besien hire on other thinges,Than make I othre tariingesTo dreche forth the longe dai,For me is loth departe away.And thanne I am so simple of port,That forto feigne som desportI pleie with hire litel houndNow on the bedd, now on the ground, 1190Now with hir briddes in the cage;For ther is non so litel page,Ne yit so simple a chamberere,That I ne make hem alle chere,Al for thei scholde speke wel:Thus mow ye sen mi besi whiel,That goth noght ydeliche aboute.And if hir list to riden outeOn pelrinage or other stede,I come, thogh I be noght bede, 1200And take hire in min arm alofteAnd sette hire in hire sadel softe,And so forth lede hire be the bridel,For that I wolde noght ben ydel.And if hire list to ride in Char,And thanne I mai therof be war,Anon I schape me to rydeRiht evene be the Chares side;And as I mai, I speke among,And otherwhile I singe a song, 1210Which Ovide in his bokes made,And seide, “O whiche sorwes glade,O which wofull prosperiteBelongeth to the propreteOf love, who so wole him serve!And yit therfro mai noman swerve,That he ne mot his lawe obeie.”And thus I ryde forth mi weie,And am riht besi overalWith herte and with mi body al, 1220As I have said you hier tofore.My goode fader, tell therfore,Of Ydelnesse if I have gilt.
Mi Sone, bot thou telle wiltOght elles than I mai now hiere,Thou schalt have no penance hiere.And natheles a man mai se,How now adayes that ther beFul manye of suche hertes slowe,That wol noght besien hem to knowe 1230What thing love is, til ate laste,That he with strengthe hem overcaste,That malgre hem thei mote obeieAnd don al ydelschipe aweie,To serve wel and besiliche.Bot, Sone, thou art non of swiche,For love schal the wel excuse:Bot otherwise, if thou refuseTo love, thou miht so per casBen ydel, as somtime was 1240A kinges dowhter unavised,Til that Cupide hire hath chastised:Wherof thou schalt a tale hiereAcordant unto this matiere.
Of Armenye, I rede thus,Ther was a king, which HerupusWas hote, and he a lusti MaideTo dowhter hadde, and as men saideHire name was Rosiphelee;Which tho was of gret renomee, 1250For sche was bothe wys and fairAnd scholde ben hire fader hair.Bot sche hadde o defalte of SlowtheTowardes love, and that was rowthe;For so wel cowde noman seie,Which mihte sette hire in the weieOf loves occupacionThurgh non ymaginacion;That scole wolde sche noght knowe.And thus sche was on of the slowe 1260As of such hertes besinesse,Til whanne Venus the goddesse,Which loves court hath forto reule,Hath broght hire into betre reule,Forth with Cupide and with his miht:For thei merveille how such a wiht,Which tho was in hir lusti age,Desireth nother MariageNe yit the love of paramours,Which evere hath be the comun cours 1270Amonges hem that lusti were.So was it schewed after there:For he that hihe hertes lowethWith fyri Dartes whiche he throweth,Cupide, which of love is godd,In chastisinge hath mad a roddTo dryve awei hir wantounesse;So that withinne a while, I gesse,Sche hadde on such a chance sporned,That al hire mod was overtorned, 1280Which ferst sche hadde of slow manere:For thus it fell, as thou schalt hiere.Whan come was the Monthe of Maii,Sche wolde walke upon a dai,And that was er the Sonne Ariste;Of wommen bot a fewe it wiste,And forth sche wente privelyUnto the Park was faste by,Al softe walkende on the gras,Til sche cam ther the Launde was, 1290Thurgh which ther ran a gret rivere.It thoghte hir fair, and seide, “HereI wole abide under the schawe”:And bad hire wommen to withdrawe,And ther sche stod al one stille,To thenke what was in hir wille.Sche sih the swote floures springe,Sche herde glade foules singe,Sche sih the bestes in her kinde,The buck, the do, the hert, the hinde, 1300The madle go with the femele;And so began ther a quereleBetwen love and hir oghne herte,Fro which sche couthe noght asterte.And as sche caste hire yhe aboute,Sche syh clad in o suite a routeOf ladis, wher thei comen rydeAlong under the wodes syde:On faire amblende hors thei sete,That were al whyte, fatte and grete, 1310And everichon thei ride on side.The Sadles were of such a Pride,With Perle and gold so wel begon,So riche syh sche nevere non;In kertles and in Copes richeThei weren clothed, alle liche,Departed evene of whyt and blew;With alle lustes that sche knewThei were enbrouded overal.Here bodies weren long and smal, 1320The beaute faye upon her faceNon erthly thing it may desface;Corones on here hed thei beere,As ech of hem a qweene weere,That al the gold of Cresus halleThe leste coronal of alleNe mihte have boght after the worth:Thus come thei ridende forth.
The kinges dowhter, which this syh,For pure abaissht drowh hire adryh 1330And hield hire clos under the bowh,And let hem passen stille ynowh;For as hire thoghte in hire avis,To hem that were of such a prisSche was noght worthi axen there,Fro when they come or what thei were:Bot levere than this worldes goodSche wolde have wist hou that it stod,And putte hire hed alitel oute;And as sche lokede hire aboute, 1340Sche syh comende under the lindeA womman up an hors behinde.The hors on which sche rod was blak,Al lene and galled on the back,And haltede, as he were encluyed,Wherof the womman was annuied;Thus was the hors in sori plit,Bot for al that a sterre whitAmiddes in the front he hadde.Hir Sadel ek was wonder badde, 1350In which the wofull womman sat,And natheles ther was with thatA riche bridel for the nonesOf gold and preciouse Stones.Hire cote was somdiel totore;Aboute hir middel twenty scoreOf horse haltres and wel moTher hyngen ate time tho.
Thus whan sche cam the ladi nyh,Than tok sche betre hiede and syh 1360This womman fair was of visage,Freyssh, lusti, yong and of tendre age;And so this ladi, ther sche stod,Bethoghte hire wel and understodThat this, which com ridende tho,Tidinges couthe telle of tho,Which as sche sih tofore ryde,And putte hir forth and preide abide,And seide, “Ha, Suster, let me hiere,What ben thei, that now riden hiere, 1370And ben so richeliche arraied?”
This womman, which com so esmaied,Ansuerde with ful softe speche,And seith, “Ma Dame, I schal you teche.These ar of tho that whilom wereServantz to love, and trowthe beere,Ther as thei hadde here herte set.Fare wel, for I mai noght be let:Ma Dame, I go to mi servise,So moste I haste in alle wise; 1380Forthi, ma Dame, yif me leve,I mai noght longe with you leve.”
“Ha, goode Soster, yit I preie,Tell me whi ye ben so beseieAnd with these haltres thus begon.”
“Ma Dame, whilom I was onThat to mi fader hadde a king;Bot I was slow, and for no thingMe liste noght to love obeie,And that I now ful sore abeie. 1390For I whilom no love hadde,Min hors is now so fieble and badde,And al totore is myn arai,And every yeer this freisshe MaiiThese lusti ladis ryde aboute,And I mot nedes suie here routeIn this manere as ye now se,And trusse here haltres forth with me,And am bot as here horse knave.Non other office I ne have, 1400Hem thenkth I am worthi nomore,For I was slow in loves lore,Whan I was able forto lere,And wolde noght the tales hiereOf hem that couthen love teche.”
“Now tell me thanne, I you beseche,Wherof that riche bridel serveth.”
With that hire chere awei sche swerveth,And gan to wepe, and thus sche tolde:“This bridel, which ye nou beholde 1410So riche upon myn horse hed,—Ma Dame, afore, er I was ded,Whan I was in mi lusti lif,Ther fel into myn herte a strifOf love, which me overcom,So that therafter hiede I nomAnd thoghte I wolde love a kniht:That laste wel a fourtenyht,For it no lengere mihte laste,So nyh my lif was ate laste. 1420Bot now, allas, to late warThat I ne hadde him loved ar:For deth cam so in haste bime,Er I therto hadde eny time,That it ne mihte ben achieved.Bot for al that I am relieved,Of that mi will was good therto,That love soffreth it be soThat I schal swiche a bridel were.Now have ye herd al myn ansuere: 1430To godd, ma Dame, I you betake,And warneth alle for mi sake,Of love that thei ben noght ydel,And bidd hem thenke upon mi brydel.”And with that word al sodeinlySche passeth, as it were a Sky,Al clene out of this ladi sihte:And tho for fere hire herte afflihte,And seide to hirself, “Helas!I am riht in the same cas. 1440Bot if I live after this day,I schal amende it, if I may.”And thus homward this lady wente,And changede al hire ferste entente,Withinne hire herte and gan to swereThat sche none haltres wolde bere.
Lo, Sone, hier miht thou taken hiede,How ydelnesse is forto drede,Namliche of love, as I have write.For thou miht understonde and wite, 1450Among the gentil nacionLove is an occupacion,Which forto kepe hise lustes saveScholde every gentil herte have:For as the ladi was chastised,Riht so the knyht mai ben avised,Which ydel is and wol noght serveTo love, he mai per cas deserveA grettere peine than sche hadde,Whan sche aboute with hire ladde 1460The horse haltres; and forthiGood is to be wel war therbi.Bot forto loke aboven alle,These Maidens, hou so that it falle,Thei scholden take ensample of thisWhich I have told, for soth it is.
Mi ladi Venus, whom I serve,What womman wole hire thonk deserve,Sche mai noght thilke love eschuieOf paramours, bot sche mot suie 1470Cupides lawe; and nathelesMen sen such love sielde in pes,That it nys evere upon aspieOf janglinge and of fals Envie,Fulofte medlid with disese:Bot thilke love is wel at ese,Which set is upon mariage;For that dar schewen the visageIn alle places openly.A gret mervaile it is forthi, 1480How that a Maiden wolde lette,That sche hir time ne besetteTo haste unto that ilke feste,Wherof the love is al honeste.Men mai recovere lost of good,Bot so wys man yit nevere stod,Which mai recovere time lore:So mai a Maiden wel therforeEnsample take, of that sche strangethHir love, and longe er that sche changeth 1490Hir herte upon hir lustes greeneTo mariage, as it is seene.For thus a yer or tuo or threSche lest, er that sche wedded be,Whyl sche the charge myhte bereOf children, whiche the world forbereNe mai, bot if it scholde faile.Bot what Maiden hire esposaileWol tarie, whan sche take mai,Sche schal per chance an other dai 1500Be let, whan that hire lievest were.Wherof a tale unto hire Ere,Which is coupable upon this dede,I thenke telle of that I rede.
Among the Jewes, as men tolde,Ther was whilom be daies oldeA noble Duck, which Jepte hihte.And fell, he scholde go to fyhteAyein Amon the cruel king:And forto speke upon this thing, 1510Withinne his herte he made avouTo god and seide, “Ha lord, if thouWolt grante unto thi man victoire,I schal in tokne of thi memoireThe ferste lif that I mai se,Of man or womman wher it be,Anon as I come hom ayein,To thee, which art god sovereign,Slen in thi name and sacrifie.”And thus with his chivalerie 1520He goth him forth, wher that he scholde,And wan al that he winne woldeAnd overcam his fomen alle.
Mai noman lette that schal falle.This Duc a lusti dowhter hadde,And fame, which the wordes spradde,Hath broght unto this ladi EreHow that hire fader hath do there.Sche waiteth upon his comingeWith dansinge and with carolinge, 1530As sche that wolde be toforeAl othre, and so sche was therforeIn Masphat at hir fader gateThe ferste; and whan he com therate,And sih his douhter, he tobreideHise clothes and wepende he seide:
“O mihti god among ous hiere,Nou wot I that in no manereThis worldes joie mai be plein.I hadde al that I coude sein 1540Ayein mi fomen be thi grace,So whan I cam toward this placeTher was non gladdere man than I:But now, mi lord, al sodeinliMi joie is torned into sorwe,For I mi dowhter schal tomorweTohewe and brenne in thi serviseTo loenge of thi sacrifiseThurgh min avou, so as it is.”
The Maiden, whan sche wiste of this, 1550And sih the sorwe hir fader made,So as sche mai with wordes gladeConforteth him, and bad him holdeThe covenant which he is holdeTowardes god, as he behihte.Bot natheles hire herte aflihteOf that sche sih hire deth comende;And thanne unto the ground knelendeTofore hir fader sche is falle,And seith, so as it is befalle 1560Upon this point that sche schal deie,Of o thing ferst sche wolde him preie,That fourty daies of respitHe wolde hir grante upon this plit,That sche the whyle mai bewepeHir maidenhod, which sche to kepeSo longe hath had and noght beset;Wherof her lusti youthe is let,That sche no children hath forthdraweIn Mariage after the lawe, 1570So that the poeple is noght encressed.Bot that it mihte be relessed,That sche hir time hath lore so,Sche wolde be his leve goWith othre Maidens to compleigne,And afterward unto the peineOf deth sche wolde come ayein.
The fader herde his douhter sein,And therupon of on assentThe Maidens were anon asent, 1580That scholden with this Maiden wende.So forto speke unto this ende,Thei gon the dounes and the dalesWith wepinge and with wofull tales,And every wyht hire maidenhiedeCompleigneth upon thilke nede,That sche no children hadde bore,Wherof sche hath hir youthe lore,Which nevere sche recovere mai:For so fell that hir laste dai 1590Was come, in which sche scholde takeHir deth, which sche may noght forsake.Lo, thus sche deiede a wofull MaideFor thilke cause which I saide,As thou hast understonde above.
Mi fader, as toward the LoveOf Maidens forto telle trowthe,Ye have thilke vice of Slowthe,Me thenkth, riht wonder wel declared,That ye the wommen have noght spared 1600Of hem that tarien so behinde.Bot yit it falleth in my minde,Toward the men hou that ye spiekeOf hem that wole no travail siekeIn cause of love upon decerte:To speke in wordes so coverte,I not what travaill that ye mente.
Mi Sone, and after min ententeI woll thee telle what I thoghte,Hou whilom men here loves boghte 1610Thurgh gret travaill in strange londes,Wher that thei wroghten with here hondesOf armes many a worthi dede,In sondri place as men mai rede.
That every love of pure kindeIs ferst forthdrawe, wel I finde:Bot natheles yit overthisDecerte doth so that it isThe rather had in mani place.Forthi who secheth loves grace, 1620Wher that these worthi wommen are,He mai noght thanne himselve spareUpon his travail forto serve,Wherof that he mai thonk deserve,There as these men of Armes be,Somtime over the grete Se:So that be londe and ek be SchipeHe mot travaile for worschipeAnd make manye hastyf rodes,Somtime in Prus, somtime in Rodes, 1630And somtime into Tartarie;So that these heraldz on him crie,“Vailant, vailant, lo, wher he goth!”And thanne he yifth hem gold and cloth,So that his fame mihte springe,And to his ladi Ere bringeSom tidinge of his worthinesse;So that sche mihte of his prouesceOf that sche herde men recorde,The betre unto his love acorde 1640And danger pute out of hire mod,Whanne alle men recorden good,And that sche wot wel, for hir sakeThat he no travail wol forsake.
Mi Sone, of this travail I meene:Nou schrif thee, for it schal be seneIf thou art ydel in this cas.
My fader ye, and evere was:For as me thenketh trewelyThat every man doth mor than I 1650As of this point, and if so isThat I have oght so don er this,It is so litel of acompte,As who seith, it mai noght amonteTo winne of love his lusti yifte.For this I telle you in schrifte,That me were levere hir love winneThan Kaire and al that is ther inne:And forto slen the hethen alle,I not what good ther mihte falle, 1660So mochel blod thogh ther be schad.This finde I writen, hou Crist badThat noman other scholde sle.What scholde I winne over the Se,If I mi ladi loste at hom?Bot passe thei the salte fom,To whom Crist bad thei scholden precheTo al the world and his feith teche:Bot now thei rucken in here nestAnd resten as hem liketh best 1670In all the swetnesse of delices.Thus thei defenden ous the vices,And sitte hemselven al amidde;To slen and feihten thei ous biddeHem whom thei scholde, as the bok seith,Converten unto Cristes feith.Bot hierof have I gret mervaile,Hou thei wol bidde me travaile:A Sarazin if I sle schal,I sle the Soule forth withal, 1680And that was nevere Cristes lore.Bot nou ho ther, I seie nomore.
Bot I wol speke upon mi schrifte;And to Cupide I make a yifte,That who as evere pris deserveOf armes, I wol love serve;And thogh I scholde hem bothe kepe,Als wel yit wolde I take kepeWhan it were time to abide,As forto travaile and to ryde: 1690For how as evere a man laboure,Cupide appointed hath his houre.
For I have herd it telle also,Achilles lefte hise armes soBothe of himself and of his menAt Troie for Polixenen,Upon hire love whanne he fell,That for no chance that befellAmong the Grecs or up or doun,He wolde noght ayein the toun 1700Ben armed, for the love of hire.And so me thenketh, lieve Sire,A man of armes mai him resteSomtime in hope for the beste,If he mai finde a weie nerr.What scholde I thanne go so ferrIn strange londes many a mileTo ryde, and lese at hom therwhileMi love? It were a schort beyeteTo winne chaf and lese whete. 1710Bot if mi ladi bidde wolde,That I for hire love scholdeTravaile, me thenkth trewelyI mihte fle thurghout the Sky,And go thurghout the depe Se,For al ne sette I at a streWhat thonk that I mihte elles gete.What helpeth it a man have mete,Wher drinke lacketh on the bord?What helpeth eny mannes word 1720To seie hou I travaile faste,Wher as me faileth ate lasteThat thing which I travaile fore?O in good time were he bore,That mihte atteigne such a mede.Bot certes if I mihte spedeWith eny maner besinesseOf worldes travail, thanne I gesse,Ther scholde me non ydelschipeDeparten fro hir ladischipe. 1730Bot this I se, on daies nouThe blinde god, I wot noght hou,Cupido, which of love is lord,He set the thinges in discord,That thei that lest to love entendeFulofte he wole hem yive and sendeMost of his grace; and thus I findeThat he that scholde go behinde,Goth many a time ferr tofore:So wot I noght riht wel therfore, 1740On whether bord that I schal seile.Thus can I noght miself conseile,Bot al I sette on aventure,And am, as who seith, out of cureFor ought that I can seie or do:For everemore I finde it so,The more besinesse I leie,The more that I knele and preieWith goode wordes and with softe,The more I am refused ofte, 1750With besinesse and mai noght winne.And in good feith that is gret Sinne;For I mai seie, of dede and thoghtThat ydel man have I be noght;For hou as evere I be deslaied,Yit evermore I have assaied.Bot thogh my besinesse laste,Al is bot ydel ate laste,For whan theffect is ydelnesse,I not what thing is besinesse. 1760Sei, what availeth al the dede,Which nothing helpeth ate nede?For the fortune of every fameSchal of his ende bere a name.And thus for oght is yit befalle,An ydel man I wol me calleAs after myn entendement:Bot upon youre amendement,Min holi fader, as you semeth,Mi reson and my cause demeth. 1770
Mi Sone, I have herd thi matiere,Of that thou hast thee schriven hiere:And forto speke of ydel fare,Me semeth that thou tharst noght care,Bot only that thou miht noght spede.And therof, Sone, I wol thee rede,Abyd, and haste noght to faste;Thi dees ben every dai to caste,Thou nost what chance schal betyde.Betre is to wayte upon the tyde 1780Than rowe ayein the stremes stronge:For thogh so be thee thenketh longe,Per cas the revolucionOf hevene and thi condicionNe be noght yit of on acord.Bot I dar make this recordTo Venus, whos Prest that I am,That sithen that I hidir camTo hiere, as sche me bad, thi lif,Wherof thou elles be gultif, 1790Thou miht hierof thi conscienceExcuse, and of gret diligence,Which thou to love hast so despended,Thou oghtest wel to be comended.Bot if so be that ther oght faile,Of that thou slowthest to travaileIn armes forto ben absent,And for thou makst an argumentOf that thou seidest hiere above,Hou Achilles thurgh strengthe of love 1800Hise armes lefte for a throwe,Thou schalt an other tale knowe,Which is contraire, as thou schalt wite.For this a man mai finde write,Whan that knyhthode schal be werred,Lust mai noght thanne be preferred;The bedd mot thanne be forsakeAnd Schield and spere on honde take,Which thing schal make hem after glade,Whan thei ben worthi knihtes made. 1810Wherof, so as it comth to honde,A tale thou schalt understonde,Hou that a kniht schal armes suie,And for the while his ese eschuie.
Upon knyhthode I rede thus,How whilom whan the king Nauplus,The fader of Palamades,Cam forto preien UlixesWith othre Gregois ek also,That he with hem to Troie go, 1820Wher that the Siege scholde be,Anon upon PenolopeHis wif, whom that he loveth hote,Thenkende, wolde hem noght behote.Bot he schop thanne a wonder wyle,How that he scholde hem best beguile,So that he mihte duelle stilleAt home and welde his love at wille:Wherof erli the morwe dayOut of his bedd, wher that he lay, 1830Whan he was uppe, he gan to fareInto the field and loke and stare,As he which feigneth to be wod:He tok a plowh, wher that it stod,Wherinne anon in stede of OxesHe let do yoken grete foxes,And with gret salt the lond he siew.But Nauplus, which the cause kniew,Ayein the sleihte which he feignethAn other sleihte anon ordeigneth. 1840And fell that time Ulixes haddeA chyld to Sone, and Nauplus raddeHow men that Sone taken scholde,And setten him upon the Molde,Wher that his fader hield the plowh,In thilke furgh which he tho drowh.For in such wise he thoghte assaie,Hou it Ulixes scholde paie,If that he were wod or non.
The knihtes for this child forthgon; 1850Thelamacus anon was fett,Tofore the plowh and evene sett,Wher that his fader scholde dryve.Bot whan he sih his child, als blyveHe drof the plowh out of the weie,And Nauplus tho began to seie,And hath half in a jape cryd:“O Ulixes, thou art aspyd:What is al this thou woldest meene?For openliche it is now seene 1860That thou hast feigned al this thing,Which is gret schame to a king,Whan that for lust of eny slowtheThou wolt in a querele of trowtheOf armes thilke honour forsake,And duelle at hom for loves sake:For betre it were honour to winneThan love, which likinge is inne.Forthi tak worschipe upon honde,And elles thou schalt understonde 1870These othre worthi kinges alleOf Grece, which unto thee calle,Towardes thee wol be riht wrothe,And grieve thee per chance bothe:Which schal be tothe double schameMost for the hindrynge of thi name,That thou for Slouthe of eny loveSchalt so thi lustes sette aboveAnd leve of armes the knyhthode,Which is the pris of thi manhode 1880And oghte ferst to be desired.”Bot he, which hadde his herte fyredUpon his wif, whan he this herde,Noght o word therayein ansuerde,Bot torneth hom halvinge aschamed,And hath withinne himself so tamedHis herte, that al the sotieOf love for chivalerieHe lefte, and be him lief or loth,To Troie forth with hem he goth, 1890That he him mihte noght excuse.Thus stant it, if a knyht refuseThe lust of armes to travaile,Ther mai no worldes ese availe,Bot if worschipe be with al.And that hath schewed overal;For it sit wel in alle wiseA kniht to ben of hih empriseAnd puten alle drede aweie;For in this wise, I have herd seie, 1900
The worthi king ProtheselaiOn his passage wher he laiTowardes Troie thilke Siege,Sche which was al his oghne liege,Laodomie his lusti wif,Which for his love was pensif,As he which al hire herte hadde,Upon a thing wherof sche draddeA lettre, forto make him duelleFro Troie, sende him, thus to telle, 1910Hou sche hath axed of the wyseTouchende of him in such a wise,That thei have don hire understonde,Towardes othre hou so it stonde,The destine it hath so schapeThat he schal noght the deth ascapeIn cas that he arryve at Troie.Forthi as to hir worldes joieWith al hire herte sche him preide,And many an other cause alleide, 1920That he with hire at home abide.Bot he hath cast hir lettre aside,As he which tho no maner hiedeTok of hire wommannysshe drede;And forth he goth, as noght ne were,To Troie, and was the ferste thereWhich londeth, and tok arryvaile:For him was levere in the bataille,He seith, to deien as a knyht,Than forto lyve in al his myht 1930And be reproeved of his name.Lo, thus upon the worldes fameKnyhthode hath evere yit be set,Which with no couardie is let.
Of king Saül also I finde,Whan Samuel out of his kinde,Thurgh that the Phitonesse hath lered,In Samarie was areredLong time after that he was ded,The king Saül him axeth red, 1940If that he schal go fyhte or non.And Samuel him seide anon,“The ferste day of the batailleThou schalt be slain withoute faileAnd Jonathas thi Sone also.”Bot hou as evere it felle so,This worthi kniht of his corageHath undertake the viage,And wol noght his knyhthode letteFor no peril he couthe sette; 1950Wherof that bothe his Sone and heUpon the Montz of GelboeAssemblen with here enemys:For thei knyhthode of such a prisBe olde daies thanne hielden,That thei non other thing behielden.And thus the fader for worschipeForth with his Sone of felaschipeThurgh lust of armes weren dede,As men mai in the bible rede; 1960The whos knyhthode is yit in mende,And schal be to the worldes ende.
And forto loken overmore,It hath and schal ben evermoreThat of knihthode the prouesseIs grounded upon hardinesseOf him that dar wel undertake.And who that wolde ensample takeUpon the forme of knyhtes lawe,How that Achilles was forthdrawe 1970With Chiro, which Centaurus hihte,Of many a wondre hiere he mihte.For it stod thilke time thus,That this Chiro, this Centaurus,Withinne a large wildernesse,Wher was Leon and Leonesse,The Lepard and the Tigre also,With Hert and Hynde, and buck and doo,Hadde his duellinge, as tho befell,Of Pileon upon the hel, 1980Wherof was thanne mochel speche.Ther hath Chiro this Chyld to teche,What time he was of tuelve yer age;Wher forto maken his corageThe more hardi be other weie,In the forest to hunte and pleieWhan that Achilles walke wolde,Centaurus bad that he ne scholdeAfter no beste make his chace,Which wolde flen out of his place, 1990As buck and doo and hert and hynde,With whiche he mai no werre finde;Bot tho that wolden him withstonde,Ther scholde he with his Dart on hondeUpon the Tigre and the LeonPourchace and take his veneison,As to a kniht is acordant.And therupon a covenantThis Chiro with Achilles sette,That every day withoute lette 2000He scholde such a cruel besteOr slen or wounden ate leste,So that he mihte a tokne bringeOf blod upon his hom cominge.And thus of that Chiro him tawhteAchilles such an herte cawhte,That he nomore a Leon dradde,Whan he his Dart on honde hadde,Thanne if a Leon were an asse:And that hath mad him forto passe 2010Alle othre knihtes of his dede,Whan it cam to the grete nede,As it was afterward wel knowe.
Lo, thus, my Sone, thou miht knoweThat the corage of hardiesceIs of knyhthode the prouesce,Which is to love sufficantAboven al the remenantThat unto loves court poursuie.Bot who that wol no Slowthe eschuie, 2020Upon knihthode and noght travaile,I not what love him scholde availe;Bot every labour axeth whyOf som reward, wherof that IEnsamples couthe telle ynoweOf hem that toward love droweBe olde daies, as thei scholde.
Mi fader, therof hiere I wolde.
Mi Sone, it is wel resonable,In place which is honorable 2030If that a man his herte sette,That thanne he for no Slowthe letteTo do what longeth to manhede.For if thou wolt the bokes redeOf Lancelot and othre mo,Ther miht thou sen hou it was thoOf armes, for thei wolde atteigneTo love, which withoute peineMai noght be gete of ydelnesse.And that I take to witnesse 2040An old Cronique in special,The which into memorialIs write, for his loves sakeHou that a kniht schal undertake.