Incipit Liber Sextus

Incipit Liber SextusEst gula, que nostrum maculavit prima parentemEx vetito pomo, quo dolet omnis homoHec agit, ut corpus anime contraria spirat,Quo caro fit crassa, spiritus atque macer.Intus et exterius si que virtutis habentur,Potibus ebrietas conviciata ruit.Mersa sopore labis, que Bachus inebriat hospes,Indignata Venus oscula raro premit.The grete Senne original,Which every man in generalUpon his berthe hath envenymed,In Paradis it was mystymed:Whan Adam of thilke Appel bot,His swete morscel was to hot,Which dedly made the mankinde.And in the bokes as I finde,This vice, which so out of ruleHath sette ous alle, is cleped Gule;    10Of which the branches ben so grete,That of hem alle I wol noght trete,Bot only as touchende of tuoI thenke speke and of no mo;Wherof the ferste is Dronkeschipe,Which berth the cuppe felaschipe.Ful many a wonder doth this vice,He can make of a wisman nyce,And of a fool, that him schal semeThat he can al the lawe deme,    20And yiven every juggementWhich longeth to the firmamentBothe of the sterre and of the mone;And thus he makth a gret clerk soneOf him that is a lewed man.Ther is nothing which he ne can,Whil he hath Dronkeschipe on honde,He knowth the See, he knowth the stronde,He is a noble man of armes,And yit no strengthe is in his armes:    30Ther he was strong ynouh tofore,With Dronkeschipe it is forlore,And al is changed his astat,And wext anon so fieble and mat,That he mai nouther go ne come,Bot al togedre him is benomeThe pouer bothe of hond and fot,So that algate abide he mot.And alle hise wittes he foryet,The which is to him such a let,    40That he wot nevere what he doth,Ne which is fals, ne which is soth,Ne which is dai, ne which is nyht,And for the time he knowth no wyht,That he ne wot so moche as this,What maner thing himselven is,Or he be man, or he be beste.That holde I riht a sori feste,Whan he that reson understodSo soudeinliche is woxe wod,    50Or elles lich the dede man,Which nouther go ne speke can.Thus ofte he is to bedde broght,Bot where he lith yit wot he noght,Til he arise upon the morwe;And thanne he seith, “O, which a sorweIt is a man be drinkeles!”So that halfdrunke in such a resWith dreie mouth he sterte him uppe,And seith, “Noubaillez çathe cuppe.”    60That made him lese his wit at eveIs thanne a morwe al his beleve;The cuppe is al that evere him pleseth,And also that him most deseseth;It is the cuppe whom he serveth,Which alle cares fro him kervethAnd alle bales to him bringeth:In joie he wepth, in sorwe he singeth,For Dronkeschipe is so divers,It may no whyle stonde in vers.    70He drinkth the wyn, bot ate lasteThe wyn drynkth him and bint him faste,And leith him drunke be the wal,As him which is his bonde thralAnd al in his subjeccion.And lich to such condicion,As forto speke it other wise,It falleth that the moste wiseBen otherwhile of love adoted,And so bewhaped and assoted,    80Of drunke men that nevere yitWas non, which half so loste his witOf drinke, as thei of such thing doWhich cleped is the jolif wo;And waxen of here oghne thoghtSo drunke, that thei knowe noghtWhat reson is, or more or lesse.Such is the kinde of that sieknesse,And that is noght for lacke of brain,Bot love is of so gret a main,    90That where he takth an herte on honde,Ther mai nothing his miht withstonde:The wise Salomon was nome,And stronge Sampson overcome,The knihtli David him ne mihteRescoue, that he with the sihteOf Bersabee ne was bestad,Virgile also was overlad,And Aristotle was put under.Forthi, mi Sone, it is no wonder    100If thou be drunke of love among,Which is above alle othre strong:And if so is that thou so be,Tell me thi Schrifte in privite;It is no schame of such a thewA yong man to be dronkelew.Of such Phisique I can a part,And as me semeth be that art,Thou scholdest be PhisonomieBe schapen to that maladie    110Of lovedrunke, and that is routhe.Ha, holi fader, al is troutheThat ye me telle: I am beknoweThat I with love am so bethrowe,And al myn herte is so thurgh sunke,That I am verrailiche drunke,And yit I mai bothe speke and go.Bot I am overcome so,And torned fro miself so clene,That ofte I wot noght what I mene;    120So that excusen I ne maiMin herte, fro the ferste dayThat I cam to mi ladi kiththe,I was yit sobre nevere siththe.Wher I hire se or se hire noght,With musinge of min oghne thoght,Of love, which min herte assaileth,So drunke I am, that mi wit failethAnd al mi brain is overtorned,And mi manere so mistorned,    130That I foryete al that I canAnd stonde lich a mased man;That ofte, whanne I scholde pleie,It makth me drawe out of the weieIn soulein place be miselve,As doth a labourer to delve,Which can no gentil mannes chere;Or elles as a lewed Frere,Whan he is put to his penance,Riht so lese I mi contienance.    140And if it nedes to betyde,That I in compainie abyde,Wher as I moste daunce and singeThe hovedance and carolinge,Or forto go the newefot,I mai noght wel heve up mi fot,If that sche be noght in the weie;For thanne is al mi merthe aweie,And waxe anon of thoght so full,Wherof mi limes ben so dull,    150I mai unethes gon the pas.For thus it is and evere was,Whanne I on suche thoghtes muse,The lust and merthe that men use,Whan I se noght mi ladi byme,Al is foryete for the timeSo ferforth that mi wittes changenAnd alle lustes fro me strangen,That thei seie alle trewely,And swere, that it am noght I.    160For as the man which ofte drinketh,With win that in his stomac sinkethWext drunke and witles for a throwe,Riht so mi lust is overthrowe,And of myn oghne thoght so matI wexe, that to myn astatTher is no lime wol me serve,Bot as a drunke man I swerve,And suffre such a Passion,That men have gret compassion,    170And everich be himself merveillethWhat thing it is that me so eilleth.Such is the manere of mi woWhich time that I am hire fro,Til eft ayein that I hire se.Bot thanne it were a nyceteTo telle you hou that I fare:For whanne I mai upon hire stare,Hire wommanhede, hire gentilesse,Myn herte is full of such gladnesse,    180That overpasseth so mi wit,That I wot nevere where it sit,Bot am so drunken of that sihte,Me thenkth that for the time I mihteRiht sterte thurgh the hole wall;And thanne I mai wel, if I schal,Bothe singe and daunce and lepe aboute,And holde forth the lusti route.Bot natheles it falleth soFulofte, that I fro hire go    190Ne mai, bot as it were a stake,I stonde avisement to takeAnd loke upon hire faire face;That for the while out of the placeFor al the world ne myhte I wende.Such lust comth thanne unto mi mende,So that withoute mete or drinke,Of lusti thoughtes whiche I thinkeMe thenkth I mihte stonden evere;And so it were to me levere    200Than such a sihte forto leve,If that sche wolde yif me leveTo have so mochel of mi wille.And thus thenkende I stonde stilleWithoute blenchinge of myn yhe,Riht as me thoghte that I syheOf Paradis the moste joie:And so therwhile I me rejoie,Into myn herte a gret desir,The which is hotere than the fyr,    210Al soudeinliche upon me renneth,That al mi thoght withinne brenneth,And am so ferforth overcome,That I not where I am become;So that among the hetes strongeIn stede of drinke I underfongeA thoght so swete in mi corage,That nevere Pyment ne vernageWas half so swete forto drinke.For as I wolde, thanne I thinke    220As thogh I were at myn above,For so thurgh drunke I am of love,That al that mi sotye demethIs soth, as thanne it to me semeth.And whyle I mai tho thoghtes kepe,Me thenkth as thogh I were aslepeAnd that I were in goddes barm;Bot whanne I se myn oghne harm,And that I soudeinliche awakeOut of my thought, and hiede take    230Hou that the sothe stant in dede,Thanne is mi sekernesse in dredeAnd joie torned into wo,So that the hete is al agoOf such sotie as I was inne.And thanne ayeinward I beginneTo take of love a newe thorst,The which me grieveth altherworst,For thanne comth the blanche fievere,With chele and makth me so to chievere,    240And so it coldeth at myn herte,That wonder is hou I asterte,In such a point that I ne deie:For certes ther was nevere keieNe frosen ys upon the walMore inly cold that I am al.And thus soffre I the hote chele,Which passeth othre peines fele;In cold I brenne and frese in hete:And thanne I drinke a biter swete    250With dreie lippe and yhen wete.Lo, thus I tempre mi diete,And take a drauhte of such reles,That al mi wit is herteles,And al myn herte, ther it sit,Is, as who seith, withoute wit;So that to prove it be resonIn makinge of comparisonTher mai no difference beBetwen a drunke man and me.    260Bot al the worste of everychonIs evere that I thurste in on;The more that myn herte drinketh,The more I may; so that me thinketh,My thurst schal nevere ben aqueint.God schilde that I be noght dreintOf such a superfluite:For wel I fiele in mi degreThat al mi wit is overcast,Wherof I am the more agast,    270That in defaulte of ladischipePer chance in such a drunkeschipeI mai be ded er I be war.For certes, fader, this I darBeknowe and in mi schrifte telle:Bot I a drauhte have of that welle,In which mi deth is and mi lif,Mi joie is torned into strif,That sobre schal I nevere worthe,Bot as a drunke man forworthe;    280So that in londe where I fareThe lust is lore of mi welfare,As he that mai no bote finde.Bot this me thenkth a wonder kinde,As I am drunke of that I drinke,So am I ek for falte of drinke;Of which I finde no reles:Bot if I myhte nathelesOf such a drinke as I coveite,So as me liste, have o receite,    290I scholde assobre and fare wel.Bot so fortune upon hire whielOn hih me deigneth noght to sette,For everemore I finde a lette:The boteler is noght mi frend,Which hath the keie be the bend;I mai wel wisshe and that is wast,For wel I wot, so freissh a tast,Bot if mi grace be the more,I schal assaie neveremore.    300Thus am I drunke of that I se,For tastinge is defended me,And I can noght miselven stanche:So that, mi fader, of this brancheI am gultif, to telle trouthe.Mi Sone, that me thenketh routhe;For lovedrunke is the meschiefAbove alle othre the most chief,If he no lusti thoght assaie,Which mai his sori thurst allaie:    310As for the time yit it lissethTo him which other joie misseth.Forthi, mi Sone, aboven alleThenk wel, hou so it the befalle,And kep thi wittes that thou hast,And let hem noght be drunke in wast:Bot natheles ther is no wyhtThat mai withstonde loves miht.Bot why the cause is, as I finde,Of that ther is diverse kinde    320Of lovedrunke, why men pleignethAfter the court which al ordeigneth,I wol the tellen the manere;Nou lest, mi Sone, and thou schalt hiere.For the fortune of every chanceAfter the goddes pourveanceTo man it groweth from above,So that the sped of every loveIs schape there, er it befalle.For Jupiter aboven alle,    330Which is of goddes soverein,Hath in his celier, as men sein,Tuo tonnes fulle of love drinke,That maken many an herte sinkeAnd many an herte also to flete,Or of the soure or of the swete.That on is full of such piment,Which passeth all entendementOf mannes witt, if he it taste,And makth a jolif herte in haste:    340That other biter as the galle,Which makth a mannes herte palle,Whos drunkeschipe is a sieknesseThurgh fielinge of the biternesse.Cupide is boteler of bothe,Which to the lieve and to the lotheYifth of the swete and of the soure,That some lawhe, and some loure.Bot for so moche as he blind is,Fulofte time he goth amis    350And takth the badde for the goode,Which hindreth many a mannes fodeWithoute cause, and forthreth eke.So be ther some of love seke,Whiche oghte of reson to ben hole,And some comen to the doleIn happ and as hemselve lesteDrinke undeserved of the beste.And thus this blinde BotelerYifth of the trouble in stede of cler    360And ek the cler in stede of trouble:Lo, hou he can the hertes trouble,And makth men drunke al upon chaunceWithoute lawe of governance.If he drawe of the swete tonne,Thanne is the sorwe al overronneOf lovedrunke, and schalt noght grevenSo to be drunken every even,For al is thanne bot a game.Bot whanne it is noght of the same,    370And he the biter tonne draweth,Such drunkeschipe an herte gnawethAnd fiebleth al a mannes thoght,That betre him were have drunke noghtAnd al his bred have eten dreie;For thanne he lest his lusti weieWith drunkeschipe, and wot noght whiderTo go, the weies ben so slider,In which he mai per cas so falle,That he schal breke his wittes alle.    380And in this wise men be drunkeAfter the drink that thei have drunke:Bot alle drinken noght alike,For som schal singe and som schal syke,So that it me nothing merveilleth,Mi Sone, of love that thee eilleth;For wel I knowe be thi tale,That thou hast drunken of the duale,Which biter is, til god the sendeSuch grace that thou miht amende.    390Bot, Sone, thou schalt bidde and preieIn such a wise as I schal seie,That thou the lusti welle atteigneThi wofull thurstes to restreigneOf love, and taste the swetnesse;As Bachus dede in his distresse,Whan bodiliche thurst him henteIn strange londes where he wente.This Bachus Sone of JupiterWas hote, and as he wente fer    400Be his fadres assignementTo make a werre in Orient,And gret pouer with him he ladde,So that the heiere hond he haddeAnd victoire of his enemys,And torneth homward with his pris,In such a contre which was dreieA meschief fell upon the weie.As he rod with his compainieNyh to the strondes of Lubie,    410Ther myhte thei no drinke findeOf water nor of other kinde,So that himself and al his hostWere of defalte of drinke almostDestruid, and thanne Bachus preideTo Jupiter, and thus he seide:“O hihe fader, that sest al,To whom is reson that I schalBeseche and preie in every nede,Behold, mi fader, and tak hiede    420This wofull thurst that we ben inneTo staunche, and grante ous forto winne,And sauf unto the contre fare,Wher that oure lusti loves areWaitende upon oure hom cominge.”And with the vois of his preiynge,Which herd was to the goddes hihe,He syh anon tofore his yheA wether, which the ground hath sporned;And wher he hath it overtorned,    430Ther sprang a welle freissh and cler,Wherof his oghne botelerAfter the lustes of his willeWas every man to drinke his fille.And for this ilke grete graceBachus upon the same placeA riche temple let arere,Which evere scholde stonde thereTo thursti men in remembrance.Forthi, mi Sone, after this chance    440It sit thee wel to taken hiedeSo forto preie upon thi nede,As Bachus preide for the welle;And thenk, as thou hast herd me telle,Hou grace he gradde and grace he hadde.He was no fol that ferst so radde,For selden get a domb man lond:Tak that proverbe, and understondThat wordes ben of vertu grete.Forthi to speke thou ne lete,    450And axe and prei erli and lateThi thurst to quenche, and thenk algate,The boteler which berth the keieIs blind, as thou hast herd me seie;And if it mihte so betyde,That he upon the blinde sidePer cas the swete tonne arauhte,Than schalt thou have a lusti drauhteAnd waxe of lovedrunke sobre.And thus I rede thou assobre    460Thin herte in hope of such a grace;For drunkeschipe in every place,To whether side that it torne,Doth harm and makth a man to sporneAnd ofte falle in such a wise,Wher he per cas mai noght arise.And forto loke in evidenceUpon the sothe experience,So as it hath befalle er this,In every mannes mouth it is    470Hou Tristram was of love drunkeWith Bele Ysolde, whan thei drunkeThe drink which Brangwein hem betok,Er that king Marc his Eem hire tokTo wyve, as it was after knowe.And ek, mi Sone, if thou wolt knowe,As it hath fallen overmoreIn loves cause, and what is moreOf drunkeschipe forto drede,As it whilom befell in dede,    480Wherof thou miht the betre eschuieOf drunke men that thou ne suieThe compaignie in no manere,A gret ensample thou schalt hiere.This finde I write in PoesieOf thilke faire Ipotacie,Of whos beaute ther as sche wasSpak every man,—and fell per cas,That Pirotous so him spedde,That he to wyve hire scholde wedde,    490Wherof that he gret joie made.And for he wolde his love glade,Ayein the day of mariageBe mouthe bothe and be messageHise frendes to the feste he preide,With gret worschipe and, as men seide,He hath this yonge ladi spoused.And whan that thei were alle housed,And set and served ate mete,Ther was no wyn which mai be gete,    500That ther ne was plente ynouh:Bot Bachus thilke tonne drouh,Wherof be weie of drunkeschipeThe greteste of the felaschipeWere oute of reson overtake;And Venus, which hath also takeThe cause most in special,Hath yove hem drinke forth withalOf thilke cuppe which excitethThe lust wherinne a man deliteth:    510And thus be double weie drunke,Of lust that ilke fyri funkeHath mad hem, as who seith, halfwode,That thei no reson understode,Ne to non other thing thei syhen,Bot hire, which tofore here yhenWas wedded thilke same day,That freisshe wif, that lusti May,On hire it was al that thei thoghten.And so ferforth here lustes soghten,    520That thei the whiche named wereCentauri, ate feste thereOf on assent, of an acordThis yonge wif malgre hire lordIn such a rage awei forth ladden,As thei whiche non insihte haddenBot only to her drunke fare,Which many a man hath mad misfareIn love als wel as other weie.Wherof, if I schal more seie    530Upon the nature of the vice,Of custume and of exerciceThe mannes grace hou it fordoth,A tale, which was whilom soth,Of fooles that so drunken were,I schal reherce unto thine Ere.I rede in a Cronique thusOf Galba and of Vitellus,The whiche of Spaigne bothe wereThe greteste of alle othre there,    540And bothe of o condicionAfter the disposicionOf glotonie and drunkeschipe.That was a sori felaschipe:For this thou miht wel understonde,That man mai wel noght longe stondeWhich is wyndrunke of comun us;For he hath lore the vertus,Wherof reson him scholde clothe;And that was seene upon hem bothe.    550Men sein ther is non evidence,Wherof to knowe a differenceBetwen the drunken and the wode,For thei be nevere nouther goode;For wher that wyn doth wit aweie,Wisdom hath lost the rihte weie,That he no maner vice dredeth;Nomore than a blind man thredethHis nedle be the Sonnes lyht,Nomore is reson thanne of myht,    560Whan he with drunkeschipe is blent.And in this point thei weren schent,This Galba bothe and ek Vitelle,Upon the cause as I schal telle,Wherof good is to taken hiede.For thei tuo thurgh her drunkenhiedeOf witles excitaciounOppressede al the nacionOf Spaigne; for of fool usance,Which don was of continuance    570Of hem, whiche alday drunken were,Ther was no wif ne maiden there,What so thei were, or faire or foule,Whom thei ne token to defoule,Wherof the lond was often wo:And ek in othre thinges moThei wroghten many a sondri wrong.Bot hou so that the dai be long,The derke nyht comth ate laste:God wolde noght thei scholden laste,    580And schop the lawe in such a wise,That thei thurgh dom to the juiseBe dampned forto be forlore.Bot thei, that hadden ben toforeEnclin to alle drunkenesse,—Here ende thanne bar witnesse;For thei in hope to assuageThe peine of deth, upon the rageThat thei the lasse scholden fiele,Of wyn let fille full a Miele,    590And dronken til so was befalleThat thei her strengthes losten alleWithouten wit of eny brain;And thus thei ben halfdede slain,That hem ne grieveth bot a lyte.Mi Sone, if thou be forto wyteIn eny point which I have seid,Wherof thi wittes ben unteid,I rede clepe hem hom ayein.I schal do, fader, as ye sein,    600Als ferforth as I mai suffise:Bot wel I wot that in no wiseThe drunkeschipe of love aweieI mai remue be no weie,It stant noght upon my fortune.Bot if you liste to comuneOf the seconde Glotonie,Which cleped is Delicacie,Wherof ye spieken hier tofore,Beseche I wolde you therfore.    610Mi Sone, as of that ilke vice,Which of alle othre is the Norrice,And stant upon the retenueOf Venus, so as it is due,The proprete hou that it farethThe bok hierafter nou declareth.Of this chapitre in which we treteThere is yit on of such diete,To which no povere mai atteigne;For al is Past of paindemeine    620And sondri wyn and sondri drinke,Wherof that he wole ete and drinke:Hise cokes ben for him affaited,So that his body is awaited,That him schal lacke no delit,Als ferforth as his appetitSufficeth to the metes hote.Wherof this lusti vice is hoteOf Gule the Delicacie,Which al the hole progenie    630Of lusti folk hath undertakeTo feede, whil that he mai takeRichesses wherof to be founde:Of Abstinence he wot no bounde,To what profit it scholde serve.And yit phisique of his conserveMakth many a restauraciounUnto his recreacioun,Which wolde be to Venus lief.Thus for the point of his relief    640The coc which schal his mete arraie,Bot he the betre his mouth assaie,His lordes thonk schal ofte lese,Er he be served to the chese:For ther mai lacke noght so lyte,That he ne fint anon a wyte;For bot his lust be fully served,Ther hath no wiht his thonk deserved.And yit for mannes sustenance,To kepe and holde in governance,    650To him that wole his hele geteIs non so good as comun mete:For who that loketh on the bokes,It seith, confeccion of cokes,A man him scholde wel aviseHou he it toke and in what wise.For who that useth that he knoweth,Ful selden seknesse on him groweth,And who that useth metes strange,Though his nature empeire and change    660It is no wonder, lieve Sone,Whan that he doth ayein his wone;For in Phisique this I finde,Usage is the seconde kinde.And riht so changeth his astatHe that of love is delicat:For though he hadde to his hondThe beste wif of al the lond,Or the faireste love of alle,Yit wolde his herte on othre falle    670And thenke hem mor deliciousThan he hath in his oghne hous:Men sein it is nou ofte so;Avise hem wel, thei that so do.And forto speke in other weie,Fulofte time I have herd seie,That he which hath no love achieved,Him thenkth that he is noght relieved,Thogh that his ladi make him chiere,So as sche mai in good manere    680Hir honour and hir name save,Bot he the surplus mihte have.Nothing withstondende hire astat,Of love more delicatHe set hire chiere at no delit,Bot he have al his appetit.Mi Sone, if it be with thee so,Tell me.Myn holi fader, no:For delicat in such a wiseOf love, as ye to me devise,    690Ne was I nevere yit gultif;For if I hadde such a wifAs ye speke of, what scholde I more?For thanne I wolde neveremoreFor lust of eny wommanhiedeMyn herte upon non other fiede:And if I dede, it were a wast.Bot al withoute such repastOf lust, as ye me tolde above,Of wif, or yit of other love,    700I faste, and mai no fode gete;So that for lacke of deinte mete,Of which an herte mai be fedd,I go fastende to my bedd.Bot myhte I geten, as ye tolde,So mochel that mi ladi woldeMe fede with hir glad semblant,Though me lacke al the remenant,Yit scholde I somdel ben abechedAnd for the time wel refreched.    710Bot certes, fader, sche ne doth;For in good feith, to telle soth,I trowe, thogh I scholde sterve,Sche wolde noght hire yhe swerve,Min herte with o goodly lokTo fede, and thus for such a cokI mai go fastinge everemo:Bot if so is that eny woMai fede a mannes herte wel,Therof I have at every meel    720Of plente more than ynowh;Bot that is of himself so towh,Mi stomac mai it noght defie.Lo, such is the delicacieOf love, which myn herte fedeth;Thus have I lacke of that me nedeth.Bot for al this yit nathelesI seie noght I am gylteles,That I somdel am delicat:For elles were I fulli mat,    730Bot if that I som lusti stoundeOf confort and of ese founde,To take of love som repast;For thogh I with the fulle tastThe lust of love mai noght fiele,Min hunger otherwise I kieleOf smale lustes whiche I pike,And for a time yit thei like;If that ye wisten what I mene.Nou, goode Sone, schrif thee clene    740Of suche deyntes as ben goode,Wherof thou takst thin hertes fode.Mi fader, I you schal reherce,Hou that mi fodes ben diverse,So as thei fallen in degre.O fiedinge is of that I se,An other is of that I here,The thridde, as I schal tellen here,It groweth of min oghne thoght:And elles scholde I live noght;    750For whom that failleth fode of herte,He mai noght wel the deth asterte.Of sihte is al mi ferste fode,Thurgh which myn yhe of alle goodeHath that to him is acordant,A lusti fode sufficant.Whan that I go toward the placeWher I schal se my ladi face,Min yhe, which is loth to faste,Beginth to hungre anon so faste,    760That him thenkth of on houre thre,Til I ther come and he hire se:And thanne after his appetitHe takth a fode of such delit,That him non other deynte nedeth.Of sondri sihtes he him fedeth:He seth hire face of such colour,That freisshere is than eny flour,He seth hire front is large and pleinWithoute fronce of eny grein,    770He seth hire yhen lich an hevene,He seth hire nase strauht and evene,He seth hire rode upon the cheke,He seth hire rede lippes eke,Hire chyn acordeth to the face,Al that he seth is full of grace,He seth hire necke round and clene,Therinne mai no bon be sene,He seth hire handes faire and whyte;For al this thing withoute wyte    780He mai se naked ate leste,So is it wel the more festeAnd wel the mor DelicacieUnto the fiedinge of myn yhe.He seth hire schapthe forth withal,Hire bodi round, hire middel smal,So wel begon with good array,Which passeth al the lust of Maii,Whan he is most with softe schouresFul clothed in his lusti floures.    790With suche sihtes by and byMin yhe is fed; bot finaly,Whan he the port and the manereSeth of hire wommanysshe chere,Than hath he such delice on honde,Him thenkth he mihte stille stonde,And that he hath ful sufficanceOf liflode and of sustienanceAs to his part for everemo.And if it thoghte alle othre so,    800Fro thenne wolde he nevere wende,Bot there unto the worldes endeHe wolde abyde, if that he mihte,And fieden him upon the syhte.For thogh I mihte stonden ayInto the time of domesdayAnd loke upon hire evere in on,Yit whanne I scholde fro hire gon,Min yhe wolde, as thogh he faste,Ben hungerstorven al so faste,    810Til efte ayein that he hire syhe.Such is the nature of myn yhe:Ther is no lust so deintefull,Of which a man schal noght be full,Of that the stomac underfongeth,Bot evere in on myn yhe longeth:For loke hou that a goshauk tireth,Riht so doth he, whan that he pirethAnd toteth on hire wommanhiede;For he mai nevere fulli fiede    820His lust, bot evere aliche soreHim hungreth, so that he the moreDesireth to be fed algate:And thus myn yhe is mad the gate,Thurgh which the deyntes of my thoghtOf lust ben to myn herte broght.Riht as myn yhe with his lokIs to myn herte a lusti cocOf loves fode delicat,Riht so myn Ere in his astat,    830Wher as myn yhe mai noght serve,Can wel myn hertes thonk deserveAnd fieden him fro day to dayWith suche deyntes as he may.For thus it is, that overal,Wher as I come in special,I mai hiere of mi ladi pris;I hiere on seith that sche is wys,An other seith that sche is good,And som men sein, of worthi blod    840That sche is come, and is alsoSo fair, that nawher is non so;And som men preise hire goodli chiere:Thus every thing that I mai hiere,Which souneth to mi ladi goode,Is to myn Ere a lusti foode.And ek min Ere hath over thisA deynte feste, whan so isThat I mai hiere hirselve speke;For thanne anon mi faste I breke    850On suche wordes as sche seith,That full of trouthe and full of feithThei ben, and of so good desport,That to myn Ere gret confortThei don, as thei that ben delices.For al the metes and the spices,That eny Lombard couthe make,Ne be so lusti forto takeNe so ferforth restauratif,I seie as for myn oghne lif,    860As ben the wordes of hire mouth:For as the wyndes of the SouthBen most of alle debonaire,So whan hir list to speke faire,The vertu of hire goodly specheIs verraily myn hertes leche.And if it so befalle among,That sche carole upon a song,Whan I it hiere I am so fedd,That I am fro miself so ledd,    870As thogh I were in paradis;For certes, as to myn avis,Whan I here of hir vois the stevene,Me thenkth it is a blisse of hevene.And ek in other wise alsoFulofte time it falleth so,Min Ere with a good pitanceIs fedd of redinge of romanceOf Ydoine and of Amadas,That whilom weren in mi cas,    880And eke of othre many a score,That loveden longe er I was bore.For whan I of here loves rede,Min Ere with the tale I fede;And with the lust of here histoireSomtime I drawe into memoireHou sorwe mai noght evere laste;And so comth hope in ate laste,Whan I non other fode knowe.And that endureth bot a throwe,    890Riht as it were a cherie feste;Bot forto compten ate leste,As for the while yit it esethAnd somdel of myn herte appeseth:For what thing to myn Ere spreedeth,Which is plesant, somdel it feedethWith wordes suche as he mai geteMi lust, in stede of other mete.Lo thus, mi fader, as I seie,Of lust the which myn yhe hath seie,    900And ek of that myn Ere hath herd,Fulofte I have the betre ferd.And tho tuo bringen in the thridde,The which hath in myn herte amiddeHis place take, to arraieThe lusti fode, which assaieI mot; and nameliche on nyhtes,Whan that me lacketh alle sihtes,And that myn heringe is aweie,Thanne is he redy in the weie    910Mi reresouper forto make,Of which myn hertes fode I take.This lusti cokes name is hoteThoght, which hath evere hise pottes hoteOf love buillende on the fyrWith fantasie and with desir,Of whiche er this fulofte he feddeMin herte, whanne I was abedde;And thanne he set upon my bordBothe every syhte and every word    920Of lust, which I have herd or sein.Bot yit is noght mi feste al plein,Bot al of woldes and of wisshes,Therof have I my fulle disshes,Bot as of fielinge and of tast,Yit mihte I nevere have o repast.And thus, as I have seid aforn,I licke hony on the thorn,And as who seith, upon the bridelI chiewe, so that al is ydel    930As in effect the fode I have.Bot as a man that wolde him save,Whan he is seck, be medicine,Riht so of love the famineI fonde in al that evere I maiTo fiede and dryve forth the day,Til I mai have the grete feste,Which al myn hunger myhte areste.Lo suche ben mi lustes thre;Of that I thenke and hiere and se    940I take of love my fiedingeWithoute tastinge or fielinge:And as the Plover doth of EirI live, and am in good espeirThat for no such delicacieI trowe I do no glotonie.And natheles to youre avis,Min holi fader, that be wis,I recomande myn astatOf that I have be delicat.    950Mi Sone, I understonde welThat thou hast told hier everydel,And as me thenketh be thi tale,It ben delices wonder smale,Wherof thou takst thi loves fode.Bot, Sone, if that thou understodeWhat is to ben delicious,Thou woldest noght be curiousUpon the lust of thin astatTo ben to sore delicat,    960Wherof that thou reson excede:For in the bokes thou myht rede,If mannes wisdom schal be suied,It oghte wel to ben eschuiedIn love als wel as other weie;For, as these holi bokes seie,The bodely delices alleIn every point, hou so thei falle,Unto the Soule don grievance.And forto take in remembrance,    970A tale acordant unto this,Which of gret understondinge isTo mannes soule resonable,I thenke telle, and is no fable.Of Cristes word, who wole it rede,Hou that this vice is forto dredeIn thevangile it telleth plein,Which mot algate be certein,For Crist himself it berth witnesse.And thogh the clerk and the clergesse    980In latin tunge it rede and singe,Yit for the more knoulechingeOf trouthe, which is good to wite,I schal declare as it is writeIn Engleissh, for thus it began.Crist seith: “Ther was a riche man,A mihti lord of gret astat,And he was ek so delicatOf his clothing, that everydayOf pourpre and bisse he made him gay,    990And eet and drank therto his filleAfter the lustes of his wille,As he which al stod in deliceAnd tok non hiede of thilke vice.And as it scholde so betyde,A povere lazre upon a tydeCam to the gate and axed mete:Bot there mihte he nothing geteHis dedly hunger forto stanche;For he, which hadde his fulle panche    1000Of alle lustes ate bord,Ne deigneth noght to speke a word,Onliche a Crumme forto yive,Wherof the povere myhte liveUpon the yifte of his almesse.Thus lai this povere in gret destresseAcold and hungred ate gate,Fro which he mihte go no gate,So was he wofulli besein.And as these holi bokes sein,    1010The houndes comen fro the halle,Wher that this sike man was falle,And as he lay ther forto die,The woundes of his maladieThei licken forto don him ese.Bot he was full of such desese,That he mai noght the deth eschape;Bot as it was that time schape,The Soule fro the bodi passeth,And he whom nothing overpasseth,    1020The hihe god, up to the heveneHim tok, wher he hath set him eveneIn Habrahammes barm on hyh,Wher he the hevene joie syhAnd hadde al that he have wolde.And fell, as it befalle scholde,This riche man the same throweWith soudein deth was overthrowe,And forth withouten eny wenteInto the helle straght he wente;    1030The fend into the fyr him drouh,Wher that he hadde peine ynouhOf flamme which that evere brenneth.And as his yhe aboute renneth,Toward the hevene he cast his lok,Wher that he syh and hiede tokHou Lazar set was in his SeAls ferr as evere he mihte seWith Habraham; and thanne he preideUnto the Patriarch and seide:    1040“Send Lazar doun fro thilke Sete,And do that he his finger weteIn water, so that he mai droppeUpon my tunge, forto stoppeThe grete hete in which I brenne.”Bot Habraham answerde thenneAnd seide to him in this wise:“Mi Sone, thou thee miht aviseAnd take into thi remembrance,Hou Lazar hadde gret penance,    1050Whyl he was in that other lif,Bot thou in al thi lust jolifThe bodily delices soghtest:Forthi, so as thou thanne wroghtest,Nou schalt thou take thi rewardOf dedly peine hierafterwardIn helle, which schal evere laste;And this Lazar nou ate lasteThe worldes peine is overronne,In hevene and hath his lif begonne    1060Of joie, which is endeles.Bot that thou preidest natheles,That I schal Lazar to the sendeWith water on his finger ende,Thin hote tunge forto kiele,Thou schalt no such graces fiele;For to that foule place of Sinne,For evere in which thou schalt ben inne,Comth non out of this place thider,Ne non of you mai comen hider;    1070Thus be yee parted nou atuo.”The riche ayeinward cride tho:“O Habraham, sithe it so is,That Lazar mai noght do me thisWhich I have axed in this place,I wolde preie an other grace.For I have yit of brethren fyve,That with mi fader ben alyveTogedre duellende in on hous;To whom, as thou art gracious,    1080I preie that thou woldest sendeLazar, so that he mihte wendeTo warne hem hou the world is went,That afterward thei be noght schentOf suche peines as I drye.Lo, this I preie and this I crie,Now I may noght miself amende.”The Patriarch anon suiendeTo his preiere ansuerde nay;And seide him hou that everyday    1090His brethren mihten knowe and hiereOf Moises on Erthe hiereAnd of prophetes othre mo,What hem was best. And he seith no;Bot if ther mihte a man aryseFro deth to lyve in such a wise,To tellen hem hou that it were,He seide hou thanne of pure fereThei scholden wel be war therby.Quod Habraham: “Nay sikerly;    1100For if thei nou wol noght obeieTo suche as techen hem the weie,And alday preche and alday telleHou that it stant of hevene and helle,Thei wol noght thanne taken hiede,Thogh it befelle so in dedeThat eny ded man were arered,To ben of him no betre leredThan of an other man alyve.”If thou, mi Sone, canst descryve    1110This tale, as Crist himself it tolde,Thou schalt have cause to beholde,To se so gret an evidence,Wherof the sothe experienceHath schewed openliche at ije,That bodili delicacieOf him which yeveth non almesseSchal after falle in gret destresse.And that was sene upon the riche:For he ne wolde unto his liche    1120A Crumme yiven of his bred,Thanne afterward, whan he was ded,A drope of water him was werned.Thus mai a mannes wit be lernedOf hem that so delices taken;Whan thei with deth ben overtaken,That erst was swete is thanne sour.Bot he that is a governourOf worldes good, if he be wys,Withinne his herte he set no pris    1130Of al the world, and yit he usethThe good, that he nothing refuseth,As he which lord is of the thinges.The Nouches and the riche ringes,The cloth of gold and the PerrieHe takth, and yit delicacieHe leveth, thogh he were al this.The beste mete that ther isHe ett, and drinkth the beste drinke;Bot hou that evere he ete or drinke,    1140Delicacie he put aweie,As he which goth the rihte weieNoght only forto fiede and clotheHis bodi, bot his soule bothe.Bot thei that taken otherwiseHere lustes, ben none of the wise;And that whilom was schewed eke,If thou these olde bokes seke,Als wel be reson as be kinde,Of olde ensample as men mai finde.    1150What man that wolde him wel avise,Delicacie is to despise,Whan kinde acordeth noght withal;Wherof ensample in specialOf Nero whilom mai be told,Which ayein kinde manyfoldHise lustes tok, til ate lasteThat god him wolde al overcaste;Of whom the Cronique is so plein,Me list nomore of him to sein.    1160And natheles for glotonieOf bodili Delicacie,To knowe his stomak hou it ferde,Of that noman tofore herde,Which he withinne himself bethoghte,A wonder soubtil thing he wroghte.Thre men upon elecciounOf age and of complexiounLich to himself be alle weieHe tok towardes him to pleie,    1170And ete and drinke als wel as he.Therof was no diversite;For every day whan that thei eete,Tofore his oghne bord thei seete,And of such mete as he was served,Althogh thei hadde it noght deserved,Thei token service of the same.Bot afterward al thilke gameWas into wofull ernest torned;For whan thei weren thus sojorned,    1180Withinne a time at after meteNero, which hadde noght foryeteThe lustes of his frele astat,As he which al was delicat,To knowe thilke experience,The men let come in his presence:And to that on the same tyde,A    courser that he scholde rydeInto the feld, anon he bad;Wherof this man was wonder glad,    1190And goth to prike and prance aboute.That other, whil that he was oute,He leide upon his bedd to slepe:The thridde, which he wolde kepeWithinne his chambre, faire and softeHe goth now doun nou up fulofte,Walkende a pass, that he ne slepte,Til he which on the courser lepteWas come fro the field ayein.Nero thanne, as the bokes sein,    1200These men doth taken alle threAnd slouh hem, for he wolde seThe whos stomak was best defied:And whanne he hath the sothe tryed,He fond that he which goth the passDefyed best of alle was,Which afterward he usede ay.And thus what thing unto his payWas most plesant, he lefte non:With every lust he was begon,    1210Wherof the bodi myhte glade,For he non abstinence made;Bot most above alle erthli thingesOf wommen unto the likingesNero sette al his hole herte,For that lust scholde him noght asterte.Whan that the thurst of love him cawhte,Wher that him list he tok a drauhte,He spareth nouther wif ne maide,That such an other, as men saide,    1220In al this world was nevere yit.He was so drunke in al his witThurgh sondri lustes whiche he tok,That evere, whil ther is a bok,Of Nero men schul rede and singeUnto the worldes knowlechinge,Mi goode Sone, as thou hast herd.For evere yit it hath so ferd,Delicacie in loves casWithoute reson is and was;    1230For wher that love his herte set,Him thenkth it myhte be no bet;And thogh it be noght fulli mete,The lust of love is evere swete.Lo, thus togedre of felaschipeDelicacie and drunkeschipe,Wherof reson stant out of herre,Have mad full many a wisman erreIn loves cause most of alle:For thanne hou so that evere it falle,    1240Wit can no reson understonde,Bot let the governance stondeTo Will, which thanne wext so wylde,That he can noght himselve schyldeFro no peril, bot out of feereThe weie he secheth hiere and there,Him recheth noght upon what syde:For oftetime he goth beside,And doth such thing withoute drede,Wherof him oghte wel to drede.    1250Bot whan that love assoteth sore,It passeth alle mennes lore;What lust it is that he ordeigneth,Ther is no mannes miht restreigneth,And of the godd takth he non hiede:Bot laweles withoute drede,His pourpos for he wolde achieveAyeins the pointz of the believe,He tempteth hevene and erthe and helle,Hierafterward as I schall telle.    1260Who dar do thing which love ne dar?To love is every lawe unwar,Bot to the lawes of his hesteThe fissch, the foul, the man, the besteOf al the worldes kinde louteth.For love is he which nothing douteth:In mannes herte where he sit,He compteth noght toward his witThe wo nomore than the wele,No mor the hete than the chele,    1270No mor the wete than the dreie,No mor to live than to deie,So that tofore ne behindeHe seth nothing, bot as the blindeWithoute insyhte of his corageHe doth merveilles in his rage.To what thing that he wole him drawe,Ther is no god, ther is no lawe,Of whom that he takth eny hiede;Bot as Baiard the blinde stede,    1280Til he falle in the dich amidde,He goth ther noman wole him bidde;He stant so ferforth out of reule,Ther is no wit that mai him reule.And thus to telle of him in soth,Ful many a wonder thing he doth,That were betre to be laft,Among the whiche is wicchecraft,That som men clepen Sorcerie,Which forto winne his druerie    1290With many a circumstance he useth,Ther is no point which he refuseth.The craft which that Saturnus fond,To make prickes in the Sond,That Geomance cleped is,Fulofte he useth it amis;And of the flod his Ydromance,And of the fyr the Piromance,With questions echon of thoHe tempteth ofte, and ek also    1300Aëremance in juggementTo love he bringth of his assent:For these craftes, as I finde,A man mai do be weie of kinde,Be so it be to good entente.Bot he goth al an other wente;For rathere er he scholde faile,With Nigromance he wole assaileTo make his incantaciounWith hot subfumigacioun.    1310Thilke art which Spatula is hote,And used is of comun roteAmong Paiens, with that craft ekOf which is Auctor Thosz the Grek,He worcheth on and on be rowe:Razel is noght to him unknowe,Ne Salomones Candarie,His Ydeac, his Eutonye;The figure and the bok withalOf Balamuz, and of Ghenbal    1320The Seal, and therupon thymageOf Thebith, for his avantageHe takth, and somwhat of Gibiere,Which helplich is to this matiere.Babilla with hire Sones sevene,Which hath renonced to the hevene,With Cernes bothe square and rounde,He traceth ofte upon the grounde,Makende his invocacioun;And for full enformacioun    1330The Scole which HonoriusWrot, he poursuieth: and lo, thusMagique he useth forto winneHis love, and spareth for no Sinne.And over that of his Sotie,Riht as he secheth SorcerieOf hem that ben Magiciens,Riht so of the NaturiensUpon the Sterres from aboveHis weie he secheth unto love,    1340Als fer as he hem understondeth.In many a sondry wise he fondeth:He makth ymage, he makth sculpture,He makth writinge, he makth figure,He makth his calculacions,He makth his demonstracions;His houres of AstronomieHe kepeth as for that partieWhich longeth to thinspeccionOf love and his affeccion;    1350He wolde into the helle secheThe devel himselve to beseche,If that he wiste forto spede,To gete of love his lusti mede:Wher that he hath his herte set,He bede nevere fare betNe wite of other hevene more.Mi Sone, if thou of such a loreHast ben er this, I red thee leve.Min holi fader, be youre leve    1360Of al that ye have spoken hiereWhich toucheth unto this matiere,To telle soth riht as I wene,I wot noght o word what ye mene.I wol noght seie, if that I couthe,That I nolde in mi lusti youtheBenethe in helle and ek aboveTo winne with mi ladi loveDon al that evere that I mihte;For therof have I non insihte    1370Wher afterward that I become,To that I wonne and overcomeHire love, which I most coveite.Mi Sone, that goth wonder streite:For this I mai wel telle soth,Ther is noman the which so doth,For al the craft that he can caste,That he nabeith it ate laste.For often he that wol beguileIs guiled with the same guile,    1380And thus the guilour is beguiled;As I finde in a bok compiledTo this matiere an old histoire,The which comth nou to mi memoire,And is of gret essamplerieAyein the vice of Sorcerie,Wherof non ende mai be good.Bot hou whilom therof it stod,A tale which is good to knoweTo thee, mi Sone, I schal beknowe.    1390Among hem whiche at Troie were,Uluxes ate Siege thereWas on be name in special;Of whom yit the memorialAbit, for whyl ther is a mouth,For evere his name schal be couth.He was a worthi knyht and kingAnd clerk knowende of every thing;He was a gret rethorien,He was a gret magicien;    1400Of Tullius the rethorique,Of king Zorastes the magique,Of Tholome thastronomie,Of Plato the Philosophie,Of Daniel the slepi dremes,Of Neptune ek the water stremes,Of Salomon and the proverbes,Of Macer al the strengthe of herbes,And the Phisique of Ypocras,And lich unto Pictagoras    1410Of Surgerie he knew the cures.Bot somwhat of his aventures,Which schal to mi matiere acorde,To thee, mi Sone, I wol recorde.This king, of which thou hast herd sein,Fro Troie as he goth hom ayeinBe Schipe, he fond the See divers,With many a wyndi storm revers.Bot he thurgh wisdom that he schapethFul many a gret peril ascapeth,    1420Of whiche I thenke tellen on,Hou that malgre the nedle and stonWynddrive he was al soudeinlyUpon the strondes of Cilly,Wher that he moste abyde a whyle.Tuo queenes weren in that yleCalipsa named and Circes;And whan they herde hou UluxesIs londed ther upon the ryve,For him thei senden als so blive.    1430With him suche as he wolde he namAnd to the court to hem he cam.Thes queenes were as tuo goddessesOf Art magique Sorceresses,That what lord comth to that rivage,Thei make him love in such a rageAnd upon hem assote so,That thei wol have, er that he go,Al that he hath of worldes good.Uluxes wel this understod,    1440Thei couthe moche, he couthe more;Thei schape and caste ayein him soreAnd wroghte many a soutil wyle,Bot yit thei mihte him noght beguile.Bot of the men of his navieThei tuo forschope a gret partie,Mai non of hem withstonde here hestes;Som part thei schopen into bestes,Som part thei schopen into foules,To beres, tigres, Apes, oules,    1450Or elles be som other weie;Ther myhte hem nothing desobeie,Such craft thei hadde above kinde.Bot that Art couthe thei noght finde,Of which Uluxes was deceived,That he ne hath hem alle weyved,And broght hem into such a rote,That upon him thei bothe assote;And thurgh the science of his artHe tok of hem so wel his part,    1460That he begat Circes with childe.He kepte him sobre and made hem wilde,He sette himselve so above,That with here good and with here love,Who that therof be lief or loth,Al quit into his Schip he goth.Circes toswolle bothe sidesHe lefte, and waiteth on the tydes,And straght thurghout the salte fomHe takth his cours and comth him hom,    1470Where as he fond Penolope;A betre wif ther mai non be,And yit ther ben ynowhe of goode.Bot who hir goodschipe understodeFro ferst that sche wifhode tok,Hou many loves sche forsokAnd hou sche bar hire al aboute,Ther whiles that hire lord was oute,He mihte make a gret avantAmonges al the remenant    1480That sche was on of al the beste.Wel myhte he sette his herte in reste,This king, whan he hir fond in hele;For as he couthe in wisdom dele,So couthe sche in wommanhiede:And whan sche syh withoute dredeHire lord upon his oghne ground,That he was come sauf and sound,In al this world ne mihte beA gladdere womman than was sche.    1490The fame, which mai noght ben hidd,Thurghout the lond is sone kidd,Here king is come hom ayein:Ther mai noman the fulle sein,Hou that thei weren alle glade,So mochel joie of him thei made.The presens every day be newed,He was with yiftes al besnewed;The poeple was of him so glad,That thogh non other man hem bad,    1500Taillage upon hemself thei sette,And as it were of pure detteThei yeve here goodes to the king:This was a glad hom welcomyng.Thus hath Uluxes what he wolde,His wif was such as sche be scholde,His poeple was to him sougit,Him lacketh nothing of delit.Bot fortune is of such a sleyhte,That whan a man is most on heyhte,    1510Sche makth him rathest forto falle:Ther wot noman what schal befalle,The happes over mannes hedBen honged with a tendre thred.That proved was on Uluxes;For whan he was most in his pes,Fortune gan to make him werreAnd sette his welthe al out of herre.Upon a dai as he was merie,As thogh ther mihte him nothing derie,    1520Whan nyht was come, he goth to bedde,With slep and bothe his yhen fedde.And while he slepte, he mette a swevene:Him thoghte he syh a stature evene,Which brihtere than the sonne schon;A man it semeth was it non,Bot yit it was as in figureMost lich to mannyssh creature,Bot as of beaute hevenelichIt was most to an Angel lich:    1530And thus betwen angel and manBeholden it this king began,And such a lust tok of the sihte,That fain he wolde, if that he mihte,The forme of that figure embrace;And goth him forth toward the place,Wher he sih that ymage tho,And takth it in his Armes tuo,And it embraceth him ayeinAnd to the king thus gan it sein:    1540“Uluxes, understond wel this,The tokne of oure aqueintance isHierafterward to mochel tene:The love that is ous betuene,Of that we nou such joie make,That on of ous the deth schal take,Whan time comth of destine;It may non other wise be.”Uluxes tho began to preieThat this figure wolde him seie    1550What wyht he is that seith him so.This wyht upon a spere thoA pensel which was wel begon,Embrouded, scheweth him anon:Thre fisshes alle of o colourIn manere as it were a tourUpon the pensel were wroght.Uluxes kneu this tokne noght,And preith to wite in som partieWhat thing it myhte signefie,    1560“A signe it is,” the wyht ansuerde,“Of an Empire:” and forth he ferdeAl sodeinly, whan he that seide.Uluxes out of slep abreide,And that was riht ayein the day,That lengere slepen he ne may.Men sein, a man hath knowlechingSave of himself of alle thing;His oghne chance noman knoweth,Bot as fortune it on him throweth:    1570Was nevere yit so wys a clerk,Which mihte knowe al goddes werk,Ne the secret which god hath setAyein a man mai noght be let.Uluxes, thogh that he be wys,With al his wit in his avis,The mor that he his swevene acompteth,The lasse he wot what it amonteth:For al his calculacion,He seth no demonstracion    1580Al pleinly forto knowe an ende;Bot natheles hou so it wende,He dradde him of his oghne Sone.That makth him wel the more astone,And schop therfore anon withal,So that withinne castel wallThelamachum his Sone he schette,And upon him strong warde he sette.The sothe furthere he ne knew,Til that fortune him overthreu;    1590Bot natheles for sikernesse,Wher that he mihte wite and gesseA place strengest in his lond,Ther let he make of lym and sondA strengthe where he wolde duelle;Was nevere man yit herde telleOf such an other as it was.And forto strengthe him in that cas,Of al his lond the sekeresteOf servantz and the worthieste,    1600To kepen him withinne warde,He sette his bodi forto warde;And made such an ordinance,For love ne for aqueintance,That were it erly, were it late,Thei scholde lete in ate gateNo maner man, what so betydde,Bot if so were himself it bidde.Bot al that myhte him noght availe,For whom fortune wole assaile,    1610Ther mai be non such resistence,Which mihte make a man defence;Al that schal be mot falle algate.This Circes, which I spak of late,On whom Uluxes hath begeteA child, thogh he it have foryete,Whan time com, as it was wone,Sche was delivered of a Sone,Which cleped is Thelogonus.This child, whan he was bore thus,    1620Aboute his moder to ful age,That he can reson and langage,In good astat was drawe forth:And whan he was so mochel worthTo stonden in a mannes stede,Circes his moder hath him bedeThat he schal to his fader go,And tolde him al togedre thoWhat man he was that him begat.And whan Thelogonus of that    1630Was war and hath ful knowlechingHou that his fader was a king,He preith his moder faire this,To go wher that his fader is;And sche him granteth that he schal,And made him redi forth withal.It was that time such usance,That every man the conoiscanceOf his contre bar in his hond,Whan he wente into strange lond;    1640And thus was every man therforeWel knowe, wher that he was bore:For espiaile and mistrowingesThey dede thanne suche thinges,That every man mai other knowe.So it befell that ilke throweThelogonus as in this cas;Of his contre the signe wasThre fisshes, whiche he scholde bereUpon the penon of a spere:    1650And whan that he was thus arraiedAnd hath his harneis al assaied,That he was redy everydel,His moder bad him farewel,And seide him that he scholde switheHis fader griete a thousand sithe.Thelogonus his moder kisteAnd tok his leve, and wher he wisteHis fader was, the weie nam,Til he unto Nachaie cam,    1660Which of that lond the chief CiteWas cleped, and ther axeth heWher was the king and hou he ferde.And whan that he the sothe herde,Wher that the king Uluxes was,Al one upon his hors gret pasHe rod him forth, and in his hondHe bar the signal of his londWith fisshes thre, as I have told;And thus he wente unto that hold,    1670Wher that his oghne fader duelleth.The cause why he comth he tellethUnto the kepers of the gate,And wolde have comen in therate,Bot schortli thei him seide nay:And he als faire as evere he mayBesoghte and tolde hem ofte this,Hou that the king his fader is;Bot they with proude wordes greteBegunne to manace and threte,    1680Bot he go fro the gate faste,Thei wolde him take and sette faste.Fro wordes unto strokes thusThei felle, and so ThelogonusWas sore hurt and welnyh ded;Bot with his scharpe speres hedHe makth defence, hou so it falle,And wan the gate upon hem alle,And hath slain of the beste fyve;And thei ascriden als so blyve    1690Thurghout the castell al aboute.On every syde men come oute,Wherof the kinges herte afflihte,And he with al the haste he mihteA spere cauhte and out he goth,As he that was nyh wod for wroth.He sih the gates ful of blod,Thelogonus and wher he stodHe sih also, bot he ne knewWhat man it was, and to him threw    1700His Spere, and he sterte out asyde.Bot destine, which schal betide,Befell that ilke time so,Thelogonus knew nothing thoWhat man it was that to him caste,And while his oghne spere laste,With al the signe theruponHe caste unto the king anon,And smot him with a dedly wounde.Uluxes fell anon to grounde;    1710Tho every man, “The king! the king!”Began to crie, and of this thingThelogonus, which sih the cas,On knes he fell and seide, “Helas!I have min oghne fader slain:Nou wolde I deie wonder fain,Nou sle me who that evere wile,For certes it is right good skile.”He crith, he wepth, he seith therfore,“Helas, that evere was I bore,    1720That this unhappi destineSo wofulli comth in be me!”This king, which yit hath lif ynouh,His herte ayein to him he drouh,And to that vois an Ere he leideAnd understod al that he seide,And gan to speke, and seide on hih,“Bring me this man.” And whan he sihThelogonus, his thoght he setteUpon the swevene which he mette,    1730And axeth that he myhte seHis spere, on which the fisshes threHe sih upon a pensel wroght.Tho wiste he wel it faileth noght,And badd him that he telle scholdeFro whenne he cam and what he wolde.Thelogonus in sorghe and woSo as he mihte tolde thoUnto Uluxes al the cas,Hou that Circes his moder was,    1740And so forth seide him everydel,Hou that his moder gret him wel,And in what wise sche him sente.Tho wiste Uluxes what it mente,And tok him in hise Armes softe,And al bledende he kest him ofte,And seide, “Sone, whil I live,This infortune I thee foryive.”After his other Sone in hasteHe sende, and he began him haste    1750And cam unto his fader tyt.Bot whan he sih him in such plit,He wolde have ronne upon that otherAnon, and slain his oghne brother,Ne hadde be that UluxesBetwen hem made acord and pes,And to his heir ThelamachusHe bad that he ThelogonusWith al his pouer scholde kepe,Til he were of his woundes depe    1760Al hol, and thanne he scholde him yiveLond wher upon he mihte live.Thelamachus, whan he this herde,Unto his fader he ansuerdeAnd seide he wolde don his wille.So duelle thei togedre stille,These brethren, and the fader sterveth.Lo, wherof Sorcerie serveth.Thurgh Sorcerie his lust he wan,Thurgh Sorcerie his wo began,    1770Thurgh Sorcerie his love he ches,Thurgh Sorcerie his lif he les;The child was gete in Sorcerie,The which dede al this felonie:Thing which was ayein kynde wroghtUnkindeliche it was aboght;The child his oghne fader slowh,That was unkindeschipe ynowh.Forthi tak hiede hou that it is,So forto winne love amis,    1780Which endeth al his joie in wo:For of this Art I finde also,That hath be do for loves sake,Wherof thou miht ensample take,A gret Cronique imperial,Which evere into memorialAmong the men, hou so it wende,Schal duelle to the worldes ende.The hihe creatour of thinges,Which is the king of alle kinges,    1790Ful many a wonder worldes chanceLet slyden under his suffrance;Ther wot noman the cause why,Bot he the which is almyhty.And that was proved whilom thus,Whan that the king Nectanabus,Which hadde Egipte forto lede,—Bot for he sih tofor the dedeThurgh magique of his Sorcerie,Wherof he couthe a gret partie,    1800Hise enemys to him comende,Fro whom he mihte him noght defende,Out of his oghne lond he fledde;And in the wise as he him dreddeIt fell, for al his wicchecraft,So that Egipte him was beraft,And he desguised fledde aweieBe schipe, and hield the rihte weieTo Macedoine, wher that heAryveth ate chief Cite.    1810Thre yomen of his chambre thereAl only forto serve him were,The whiche he trusteth wonder wel,For thei were trewe as eny stiel;And hapneth that thei with him laddePart of the beste good he hadde.Thei take logginge in the tounAfter the disposicionWher as him thoghte best to duelle:He axeth thanne and herde telle    1820Hou that the king was oute go.Upon a werre he hadde tho;But in that Cite thanne wasThe queene, which OlimpiasWas hote, and with sollempneteThe feste of hir nativite,As it befell, was thanne holde;And for hire list to be beholdeAnd preised of the poeple aboute,Sche schop hir forto riden oute    1830At after mete al openly.Anon were alle men redy,And that was in the monthe of Maii,This lusti queene in good arraiWas set upon a Mule whyt:To sen it was a gret delitThe joie that the cite made;With freisshe thinges and with gladeThe noble toun was al behonged,And every wiht was sore alonged    1840To se this lusti ladi ryde.Ther was gret merthe on alle syde;Wher as sche passeth be the strete,Ther was ful many a tymber beteAnd many a maide carolende:And thus thurghout the toun pleiendeThis queene unto a pleine rod,Wher that sche hoved and abodTo se diverse game pleie,The lusti folk jouste and tourneie;    1850And so forth every other man,Which pleie couthe, his pley began,To plese with this noble queene.Nectanabus cam to the greneAmonges othre and drouh him nyh.Bot whan that he this ladi sihAnd of hir beaute hiede tok,He couthe noght withdrawe his lokTo se noght elles in the field,Bot stod and only hire behield.    1860Of his clothinge and of his gereHe was unlich alle othre there,So that it hapneth ate laste,The queene on him hire yhe caste,And knew that he was strange anon:Bot he behield hire evere in onWithoute blenchinge of his chere.Sche tok good hiede of his manere,And wondreth why he dede so,And bad men scholde for him go.    1870He cam and dede hire reverence,And sche him axeth in cilenceFor whenne he cam and what he wolde.And he with sobre wordes tolde,And seith, “Ma dame, a clerk I am,To you and in message I cam,The which I mai noght tellen hiere;Bot if it liketh you to hiere,It mot be seid al prively,Wher non schal be bot ye and I.”    1880Thus for the time he tok his leve.The dai goth forth til it was eve,That every man mot lete his werk;And sche thoghte evere upon this clerk,What thing it is he wolde mene:And in this wise abod the queene,And passeth over thilke nyht,Til it was on the morwe liht.Sche sende for him, and he com,With him his Astellabre he nom,    1890Which was of fin gold preciousWith pointz and cercles merveilous;And ek the hevenely figuresWroght in a bok ful of peinturesHe tok this ladi forto schewe,And tolde of ech of hem be reweThe cours and the condicion.And sche with gret affeccionSat stille and herde what he wolde:And thus whan he sih time, he tolde,    1900And feigneth with hise wordes wiseA tale, and seith in such a wise:“Ma dame, bot a while ago,Wher I was in Egipte tho,And radde in scole of this science,It fell into mi conscienceThat I unto the temple wente,And ther with al myn hole ententeAs I mi sacrifice dede,On of the goddes hath me bede    1910That I you warne prively,So that ye make you redy,And that ye be nothing agast;For he such love hath to you cast,That ye schul ben his oghne diere,And he schal be your beddefiere,Til ye conceive and be with childe.”And with that word sche wax al mylde,And somdel red becam for schame,And axeth him that goddes name,    1920Which so wol don hire compainie.And he seide, “Amos of Lubie.”And sche seith, “That mai I noght lieve,Bot if I sihe a betre prieve.”“Ma dame,” quod Nectanabus,“In tokne that it schal be thus,This nyht for enformacionYe schul have an avision:That Amos schal to you appiere,To schewe and teche in what manere    1930The thing schal afterward befalle.Ye oghten wel above alleTo make joie of such a lord;For whan ye ben of on acord,He schal a Sone of you begete,Which with his swerd schal winne and geteThe wyde world in lengthe and brede;Alle erthli kinges schull him drede,And in such wise, I you behote,The god of erthe he schal be hote.”    1940“If this be soth,” tho quod the queene,“This nyht, thou seist, it schal be sene.And if it falle into mi grace,Of god Amos, that I pourchaceTo take of him so gret worschipe,I wol do thee such ladischipe,Wherof thou schalt for everemoBe riche.” And he hir thonketh tho,And tok his leve and forth he wente.Sche wiste litel what he mente,    1950For it was guile and Sorcerie,Al that sche tok for Prophecie.Nectanabus thurghout the day,Whan he cam hom wher as he lay,His chambre be himselve tok,And overtorneth many a bok,And thurgh the craft of ArtemageOf wex he forgeth an ymage.He loketh his equacionsAnd ek the constellacions,    1960He loketh the conjunccions,He loketh the recepcions,His signe, his houre, his ascendent,And drawth fortune of his assent:The name of queene OlimpiasIn thilke ymage write wasAmiddes in the front above.And thus to winne his lust of loveNectanabus this werk hath diht;And whan it cam withinne nyht,    1970That every wyht is falle aslepe,He thoghte he wolde his time kepe,As he which hath his houre apointed.And thanne ferst he hath enoigntedWith sondri herbes that figure,And therupon he gan conjure,So that thurgh his enchantementThis ladi, which was innocentAnd wiste nothing of this guile,Mette, as sche slepte thilke while,    1980Hou fro the hevene cam a lyht,Which al hir chambre made lyht;And as sche loketh to and fro,Sche sih, hir thoghte, a dragoun tho,Whos scherdes schynen as the Sonne,And hath his softe pas begonneWith al the chiere that he mayToward the bedd ther as sche lay,Til he cam to the beddes side.And sche lai stille and nothing cride,    1990For he dede alle his thinges faireAnd was courteis and debonaire:And as he stod hire fasteby,His forme he changeth sodeinly,And the figure of man he nom,To hire and into bedde he com,And such thing there of love he wroghte,Wherof, so as hire thanne thoghte,Thurgh likinge of this god AmosWith childe anon hire wombe aros,    2000And sche was wonder glad withal.Nectanabus, which causeth alOf this metrede the substance,Whan he sih time, his nigromanceHe stinte and nothing more seideOf his carecte, and sche abreideOut of hir slep, and lieveth welThat it is soth thanne everydelOf that this clerk hire hadde told,And was the gladdere manyfold    2010In hope of such a glad metrede,Which after schal befalle in dede.Sche longeth sore after the dai,That sche hir swevene telle maiTo this guilour in privete,Which kneu it als so wel as sche:And natheles on morwe soneSche lefte alle other thing to done,And for him sende, and al the casSche tolde him pleinly as it was,    2020And seide hou thanne wel sche wisteThat sche his wordes mihte triste,For sche fond hire AvisiounRiht after the condicionWhich he hire hadde told tofore;And preide him hertely therforeThat he hire holde covenantSo forth of al the remenant,That sche may thurgh his ordinanceToward the god do such plesance,    2030That sche wakende myhte him kepeIn such wise as sche mette aslepe.And he, that couthe of guile ynouh,Whan he this herde, of joie he louh,And seith, “Ma dame, it schal be do.Bot this I warne you therto:This nyht, whan that he comth to pleie,That ther be no lif in the weieBot I, that schal at his likingeOrdeine so for his cominge,    2040That ye ne schull noght of him faile.For this, ma dame, I you consaile,That ye it kepe so prive,That no wiht elles bot we threHave knowlechinge hou that it is;For elles mihte it fare amis,If ye dede oght that scholde him grieve.”And thus he makth hire to believe,And feigneth under guile feith:Bot natheles al that he seith    2050Sche troweth; and ayein the nyhtSche hath withinne hire chambre dyht,Wher as this guilour faste byUpon this god schal privelyAwaite, as he makth hire to wene:And thus this noble gentil queene,Whan sche most trusteth, was deceived.The nyht com, and the chambre is weyved,Nectanabus hath take his place,And whan he sih the time and space,    2060Thurgh the deceipte of his magiqueHe putte him out of mannes like,And of a dragoun tok the forme,As he which wolde him al conformeTo that sche sih in swevene er this;And thus to chambre come he is.The queene lay abedde and sih,And hopeth evere, as he com nyh,That he god of Lubye were,So hath sche wel the lasse fere.    2070Bot for he wolde hire more assure,Yit eft he changeth his figure,And of a wether the liknesseHe tok, in signe of his noblesseWith large hornes for the nones:Of fin gold and of riche stonesA corone on his hed he bar,And soudeinly, er sche was war,As he which alle guile can,His forme he torneth into man,    2080And cam to bedde, and sche lai stille,Wher as sche soffreth al his wille,As sche which wende noght misdo.Bot natheles it hapneth so,Althogh sche were in part deceived,Yit for al that sche hath conceivedThe worthieste of alle kiththe,Which evere was tofore or siththeOf conqueste and chivalerie;So that thurgh guile and Sorcerie    2090Ther was that noble knyht begunne,Which al the world hath after wunne.Thus fell the thing which falle scholde,Nectanabus hath that he wolde;With guile he hath his love sped,With guile he cam into the bed,With guile he goth him out ayein:He was a schrewed chamberlein,So to beguile a worthi queene,And that on him was after seene.    2100Bot natheles the thing is do;This false god was sone go,With his deceipte and hield him clos,Til morwe cam, that he aros.And tho, whan time and leisir was,The queene tolde him al the cas,As sche that guile non supposeth;And of tuo pointz sche him opposeth.On was, if that this god nomoreWol come ayein, and overmore,    2110Hou sche schal stonden in acordWith king Philippe hire oghne lord,Whan he comth hom and seth hire grone.“Ma dame,” he seith, “let me alone:As for the god I undertakeThat whan it liketh you to takeHis compaignie at eny throwe,If I a day tofore it knowe,He schal be with you on the nyht;And he is wel of such a myht    2120To kepe you from alle blame.Forthi conforte you, ma dame,Ther schal non other cause be.”Thus tok he leve and forth goth he,And tho began he forto museHou he the queene mihte excuseToward the king of that is falle;And fond a craft amonges alle,Thurgh which he hath a See foul daunted,With his magique and so enchaunted,    2130That he flyh forth, whan it was nyht,Unto the kinges tente riht,Wher that he lay amidde his host:And whanne he was aslepe most,With that the See foul to him broghteAnd othre charmes, whiche he wroghteAt hom withinne his chambre stille,The king he torneth at his wille,And makth him forto dreme and seThe dragoun and the privete    2140Which was betuen him and the queene.And over that he made him weneIn swevene, hou that the god Amos,Whan he up fro the queene aros,Tok forth a ring, wherinne a stonWas set, and grave theruponA Sonne, in which, whan he cam nyh,A leoun with a swerd he sih;And with that priente, as he tho mette,Upon the queenes wombe he sette    2150A Seal, and goth him forth his weie.With that the swevene wente aweie,And tho began the king awakeAnd sigheth for his wyves sake,Wher as he lay withinne his tente,And hath gret wonder what it mente.With that he hasteth him to ryseAnon, and sende after the wise,Among the whiche ther was on,A clerc, his name is Amphion:    2160Whan he the kinges swevene herde,What it betokneth he ansuerde,And seith, “So siker as the lif,A god hath leie be thi wif,And gete a Sone, which schal winneThe world and al that is withinne.As leon is the king of bestes,So schal the world obeie his hestes,Which with his swerd schal al be wonne,Als ferr as schyneth eny Sonne.”    2170The king was doubtif of this dom;Bot natheles, whan that he comAyein into his oghne lond,His wif with childe gret he fond.He mihte noght himselve stiere,That he ne made hire hevy chiere;Bot he which couthe of alle sorwe,Nectanabus, upon the morweThurgh the deceipte and nigromanceTok of a dragoun the semblance,    2180And wher the king sat in his halle,Com in rampende among hem alleWith such a noise and such a rore,That thei agast were also soreAs thogh thei scholde deie anon.And natheles he grieveth non,Bot goth toward the deyss on hih;And whan he cam the queene nyh,He stinte his noise, and in his wiseTo hire he profreth his servise,    2190And leith his hed upon hire barm;And sche with goodly chiere hire armAboute his necke ayeinward leide,And thus the queene with him pleideIn sihte of alle men aboute.And ate laste he gan to louteAnd obeissance unto hire make,As he that wolde his leve take;And sodeinly his lothly formeInto an Egle he gan transforme,    2200And flyh and sette him on a raile;Wherof the king hath gret mervaile,For there he pruneth him and piketh,As doth an hauk whan him wel liketh,And after that himself he schok,Wherof that al the halle quok,As it a terremote were;Thei seiden alle, god was there:In such a res and forth he flyh.The king, which al this wonder syh,    2210Whan he cam to his chambre alone,Unto the queene he made his moneAnd of foryivenesse hir preide;For thanne he knew wel, as he seide,Sche was with childe with a godd.Thus was the king withoute roddChastised, and the queene excusedOf that sche hadde ben accused.And for the gretere evidence,Yit after that in the presence    2220Of king Philipp and othre mo,Whan thei ride in the fieldes tho,A Phesant cam before here yhe,The which anon as thei hire syhe,Fleende let an ey doun falle,And it tobrak tofore hem alle:And as thei token therof kepe,Thei syhe out of the schelle crepeA litel Serpent on the ground,Which rampeth al aboute round,    2230And in ayein it wolde have wonne,Bot for the brennynge of the SonneIt mihte noght, and so it deide.And therupon the clerkes seide,“As the Serpent, whan it was oute,Went enviroun the schelle abouteAnd mihte noght torne in ayein,So schal it fallen in certein:This child the world schal environe,And above alle the corone    2240Him schal befalle, and in yong AgeHe schal desire in his corage,Whan al the world is in his hond,To torn ayein into the londWher he was bore, and in his weieHomward he schal with puison deie.”The king, which al this sih and herde,Fro that dai forth, hou so it ferde,His jalousie hath al foryete.Bot he which hath the child begete,    2250Nectanabus, in priveteThe time of his nativiteUpon the constellaciounAwaiteth, and relacionMakth to the queene hou sche schal do,And every houre apointeth so,That no mynut therof was lore.So that in due time is boreThis child, and forth with theruponTher felle wondres many on    2260Of terremote universiel:The Sonne tok colour of stielAnd loste his lyht, the wyndes blewe,And manye strengthes overthrewe;The See his propre kinde changeth,And al the world his forme strangeth;The thonder with his fyri leveneSo cruel was upon the hevene,That every erthli creatureTho thoghte his lif in aventure.    2270The tempeste ate laste cesseth,The child is kept, his age encresseth,And Alisandre his name is hote,To whom Calistre and AristoteTo techen him PhilosophieEntenden, and Astronomie,With othre thinges whiche he coutheAlso, to teche him in his youtheNectanabus tok upon honde.Bot every man mai understonde,    2280Of Sorcerie hou that it wende,It wole himselve prove at ende,And namely forto beguileA lady, which withoute guileSupposeth trouthe al that sche hiereth:Bot often he that evele stierethHis Schip is dreynt therinne amidde;And in this cas riht so betidde.Nectanabus upon a nyht,Whan it was fair and sterre lyht,    2290This yonge lord ladde up on hihAbove a tour, wher as he sihThee sterres such as he acompteth,And seith what ech of hem amonteth,As thogh he knewe of alle thing;Bot yit hath he no knowlechingWhat schal unto himself befalle.Whan he hath told his wordes alle,This yonge lord thanne him opposeth,And axeth if that he supposeth    2300What deth he schal himselve deie.He seith, “Or fortune is aweieAnd every sterre hath lost his wone,Or elles of myn oghne SoneI schal be slain, I mai noght fle.”Thoghte Alisandre in privete,“Hierof this olde dotard lieth”:And er that other oght aspieth,Al sodeinliche his olde bonesHe schof over the wal at ones,    2310And seith him, “Ly doun there apart:Wherof nou serveth al thin art?Thou knewe alle othre mennes chanceAnd of thiself hast ignorance:That thou hast seid amonges alleOf thi persone, is noght befalle.”Nectanabus, which hath his deth,Yit while him lasteth lif and breth,To Alisandre he spak and seideThat he with wrong blame on him leide    2320Fro point to point and al the casHe tolde, hou he his Sone was.Tho he, which sory was ynowh,Out of the dich his fader drouh,And tolde his moder hou it ferdeIn conseil; and whan sche it herdeAnd kneu the toknes whiche he tolde,Sche nyste what sche seie scholde,Bot stod abayssht as for the whileOf his magique and al the guile.    2330Sche thoghte hou that sche was deceived,That sche hath of a man conceived,And wende a god it hadde be.Bot natheles in such degre,So as sche mihte hire honour save,Sche schop the body was begrave.And thus Nectanabus aboghteThe Sorcerie which he wroghte:Thogh he upon the creaturesThurgh his carectes and figures    2340The maistrie and the pouer hadde,His creatour to noght him ladde,Ayein whos lawe his craft he useth,Whan he for lust his god refuseth,And tok him to the dieules craft.Lo, what profit him is belaft:That thing thurgh which he wende have stonde,Ferst him exilede out of londeWhich was his oghne, and from a kingMade him to ben an underling;    2350And siththen to deceive a queene,That torneth him to mochel teene;Thurgh lust of love he gat him hate,That ende couthe he noght abate.His olde sleyhtes whiche he caste,Yonge Alisaundre hem overcaste,His fader, which him misbegat,He slouh, a gret mishap was that;Bot for o mis an other mysWas yolde, and so fulofte it is;    2360Nectanabus his craft miswente,So it misfell him er he wente.I not what helpeth that clergieWhich makth a man to do folie,And nameliche of nigromance,Which stant upon the mescreance.And forto se more evidence,Zorastes, which thexperienceOf Art magique ferst forth drouh,Anon as he was bore, he louh,    2370Which tokne was of wo suinge:For of his oghne controvingeHe fond magique and tauhte it forth;Bot al that was him litel worth,For of Surrie a worthi kingHim slou, and that was his endyng.Bot yit thurgh him this craft is used,And he thurgh al the world accused,For it schal nevere wel achieveThat stant noght riht with the believe:    2380Bot lich to wolle is evele sponne,Who lest himself hath litel wonne,An ende proveth every thing.Saul, which was of Juys king,Up peine of deth forbad this art,And yit he tok therof his part.The Phitonesse in SamarieYaf him conseil be Sorcerie,Which after fell to mochel sorwe,For he was slain upon the morwe.    2390To conne moche thing it helpeth,Bot of to mochel noman yelpeth:So forto loke on every side,Magique mai noght wel betyde.Forthi, my Sone, I wolde redeThat thou of these ensamples drede,That for no lust of erthli loveThou seche so to come above,Wherof as in the worldes wonderThou schalt for evere be put under.    2400Mi goode fader, grant mercy,For evere I schal be war therby:Of love what me so befalle,Such Sorcerie aboven alleFro this dai forth I schal eschuie,That so ne wol I noght poursuieMi lust of love forto seche.Bot this I wolde you beseche,Beside that me stant of love,As I you herde speke above    2410Hou Alisandre was betawhtTo Aristotle, and so wel tawhtOf al that to a king belongeth,Wherof min herte sore longethTo wite what it wolde mene.For be reson I wolde weneThat if I herde of thinges strange,Yit for a time it scholde changeMi peine, and lisse me somdiel.Mi goode Sone, thou seist wel.    2420For wisdom, hou that evere it stonde,To him that can it understondeDoth gret profit in sondri wise;Bot touchende of so hih aprise,Which is noght unto Venus knowe,I mai it noght miselve knowe,Which of hir court am al forthdraweAnd can nothing bot of hir lawe.Bot natheles to knowe moreAls wel as thou me longeth sore;    2430And for it helpeth to comune,Al ben thei noght to me comune,The scoles of Philosophie,Yit thenke I forto specefie,In boke as it is comprehended,Wherof thou mihtest ben amended.For thogh I be noght al cunnyngeUpon the forme of this wrytynge,Som part therof yit have I herd,In this matiere hou it hath ferd.    2440Explicit Liber Sextus

Est gula, que nostrum maculavit prima parentemEx vetito pomo, quo dolet omnis homoHec agit, ut corpus anime contraria spirat,Quo caro fit crassa, spiritus atque macer.Intus et exterius si que virtutis habentur,Potibus ebrietas conviciata ruit.Mersa sopore labis, que Bachus inebriat hospes,Indignata Venus oscula raro premit.

The grete Senne original,Which every man in generalUpon his berthe hath envenymed,In Paradis it was mystymed:Whan Adam of thilke Appel bot,His swete morscel was to hot,Which dedly made the mankinde.And in the bokes as I finde,This vice, which so out of ruleHath sette ous alle, is cleped Gule;    10Of which the branches ben so grete,That of hem alle I wol noght trete,Bot only as touchende of tuoI thenke speke and of no mo;Wherof the ferste is Dronkeschipe,Which berth the cuppe felaschipe.Ful many a wonder doth this vice,He can make of a wisman nyce,And of a fool, that him schal semeThat he can al the lawe deme,    20And yiven every juggementWhich longeth to the firmamentBothe of the sterre and of the mone;And thus he makth a gret clerk soneOf him that is a lewed man.Ther is nothing which he ne can,Whil he hath Dronkeschipe on honde,He knowth the See, he knowth the stronde,He is a noble man of armes,And yit no strengthe is in his armes:    30Ther he was strong ynouh tofore,With Dronkeschipe it is forlore,And al is changed his astat,And wext anon so fieble and mat,That he mai nouther go ne come,Bot al togedre him is benomeThe pouer bothe of hond and fot,So that algate abide he mot.And alle hise wittes he foryet,The which is to him such a let,    40That he wot nevere what he doth,Ne which is fals, ne which is soth,Ne which is dai, ne which is nyht,And for the time he knowth no wyht,That he ne wot so moche as this,What maner thing himselven is,Or he be man, or he be beste.That holde I riht a sori feste,Whan he that reson understodSo soudeinliche is woxe wod,    50Or elles lich the dede man,Which nouther go ne speke can.Thus ofte he is to bedde broght,Bot where he lith yit wot he noght,Til he arise upon the morwe;And thanne he seith, “O, which a sorweIt is a man be drinkeles!”So that halfdrunke in such a resWith dreie mouth he sterte him uppe,And seith, “Noubaillez çathe cuppe.”    60That made him lese his wit at eveIs thanne a morwe al his beleve;The cuppe is al that evere him pleseth,And also that him most deseseth;It is the cuppe whom he serveth,Which alle cares fro him kervethAnd alle bales to him bringeth:In joie he wepth, in sorwe he singeth,For Dronkeschipe is so divers,It may no whyle stonde in vers.    70He drinkth the wyn, bot ate lasteThe wyn drynkth him and bint him faste,And leith him drunke be the wal,As him which is his bonde thralAnd al in his subjeccion.

And lich to such condicion,As forto speke it other wise,It falleth that the moste wiseBen otherwhile of love adoted,And so bewhaped and assoted,    80Of drunke men that nevere yitWas non, which half so loste his witOf drinke, as thei of such thing doWhich cleped is the jolif wo;And waxen of here oghne thoghtSo drunke, that thei knowe noghtWhat reson is, or more or lesse.Such is the kinde of that sieknesse,And that is noght for lacke of brain,Bot love is of so gret a main,    90That where he takth an herte on honde,Ther mai nothing his miht withstonde:The wise Salomon was nome,And stronge Sampson overcome,The knihtli David him ne mihteRescoue, that he with the sihteOf Bersabee ne was bestad,Virgile also was overlad,And Aristotle was put under.Forthi, mi Sone, it is no wonder    100If thou be drunke of love among,Which is above alle othre strong:And if so is that thou so be,Tell me thi Schrifte in privite;It is no schame of such a thewA yong man to be dronkelew.Of such Phisique I can a part,And as me semeth be that art,Thou scholdest be PhisonomieBe schapen to that maladie    110Of lovedrunke, and that is routhe.

Ha, holi fader, al is troutheThat ye me telle: I am beknoweThat I with love am so bethrowe,And al myn herte is so thurgh sunke,That I am verrailiche drunke,And yit I mai bothe speke and go.Bot I am overcome so,And torned fro miself so clene,That ofte I wot noght what I mene;    120So that excusen I ne maiMin herte, fro the ferste dayThat I cam to mi ladi kiththe,I was yit sobre nevere siththe.Wher I hire se or se hire noght,With musinge of min oghne thoght,Of love, which min herte assaileth,So drunke I am, that mi wit failethAnd al mi brain is overtorned,And mi manere so mistorned,    130That I foryete al that I canAnd stonde lich a mased man;That ofte, whanne I scholde pleie,It makth me drawe out of the weieIn soulein place be miselve,As doth a labourer to delve,Which can no gentil mannes chere;Or elles as a lewed Frere,Whan he is put to his penance,Riht so lese I mi contienance.    140And if it nedes to betyde,That I in compainie abyde,Wher as I moste daunce and singeThe hovedance and carolinge,Or forto go the newefot,I mai noght wel heve up mi fot,If that sche be noght in the weie;For thanne is al mi merthe aweie,And waxe anon of thoght so full,Wherof mi limes ben so dull,    150I mai unethes gon the pas.For thus it is and evere was,Whanne I on suche thoghtes muse,The lust and merthe that men use,Whan I se noght mi ladi byme,Al is foryete for the timeSo ferforth that mi wittes changenAnd alle lustes fro me strangen,That thei seie alle trewely,And swere, that it am noght I.    160For as the man which ofte drinketh,With win that in his stomac sinkethWext drunke and witles for a throwe,Riht so mi lust is overthrowe,And of myn oghne thoght so matI wexe, that to myn astatTher is no lime wol me serve,Bot as a drunke man I swerve,And suffre such a Passion,That men have gret compassion,    170And everich be himself merveillethWhat thing it is that me so eilleth.Such is the manere of mi woWhich time that I am hire fro,Til eft ayein that I hire se.Bot thanne it were a nyceteTo telle you hou that I fare:For whanne I mai upon hire stare,Hire wommanhede, hire gentilesse,Myn herte is full of such gladnesse,    180That overpasseth so mi wit,That I wot nevere where it sit,Bot am so drunken of that sihte,Me thenkth that for the time I mihteRiht sterte thurgh the hole wall;And thanne I mai wel, if I schal,Bothe singe and daunce and lepe aboute,And holde forth the lusti route.Bot natheles it falleth soFulofte, that I fro hire go    190Ne mai, bot as it were a stake,I stonde avisement to takeAnd loke upon hire faire face;That for the while out of the placeFor al the world ne myhte I wende.Such lust comth thanne unto mi mende,So that withoute mete or drinke,Of lusti thoughtes whiche I thinkeMe thenkth I mihte stonden evere;And so it were to me levere    200Than such a sihte forto leve,If that sche wolde yif me leveTo have so mochel of mi wille.And thus thenkende I stonde stilleWithoute blenchinge of myn yhe,Riht as me thoghte that I syheOf Paradis the moste joie:And so therwhile I me rejoie,Into myn herte a gret desir,The which is hotere than the fyr,    210Al soudeinliche upon me renneth,That al mi thoght withinne brenneth,And am so ferforth overcome,That I not where I am become;So that among the hetes strongeIn stede of drinke I underfongeA thoght so swete in mi corage,That nevere Pyment ne vernageWas half so swete forto drinke.For as I wolde, thanne I thinke    220As thogh I were at myn above,For so thurgh drunke I am of love,That al that mi sotye demethIs soth, as thanne it to me semeth.And whyle I mai tho thoghtes kepe,Me thenkth as thogh I were aslepeAnd that I were in goddes barm;Bot whanne I se myn oghne harm,And that I soudeinliche awakeOut of my thought, and hiede take    230Hou that the sothe stant in dede,Thanne is mi sekernesse in dredeAnd joie torned into wo,So that the hete is al agoOf such sotie as I was inne.And thanne ayeinward I beginneTo take of love a newe thorst,The which me grieveth altherworst,For thanne comth the blanche fievere,With chele and makth me so to chievere,    240And so it coldeth at myn herte,That wonder is hou I asterte,In such a point that I ne deie:For certes ther was nevere keieNe frosen ys upon the walMore inly cold that I am al.And thus soffre I the hote chele,Which passeth othre peines fele;In cold I brenne and frese in hete:And thanne I drinke a biter swete    250With dreie lippe and yhen wete.Lo, thus I tempre mi diete,And take a drauhte of such reles,That al mi wit is herteles,And al myn herte, ther it sit,Is, as who seith, withoute wit;So that to prove it be resonIn makinge of comparisonTher mai no difference beBetwen a drunke man and me.    260Bot al the worste of everychonIs evere that I thurste in on;The more that myn herte drinketh,The more I may; so that me thinketh,My thurst schal nevere ben aqueint.God schilde that I be noght dreintOf such a superfluite:For wel I fiele in mi degreThat al mi wit is overcast,Wherof I am the more agast,    270That in defaulte of ladischipePer chance in such a drunkeschipeI mai be ded er I be war.For certes, fader, this I darBeknowe and in mi schrifte telle:Bot I a drauhte have of that welle,In which mi deth is and mi lif,Mi joie is torned into strif,That sobre schal I nevere worthe,Bot as a drunke man forworthe;    280So that in londe where I fareThe lust is lore of mi welfare,As he that mai no bote finde.Bot this me thenkth a wonder kinde,As I am drunke of that I drinke,So am I ek for falte of drinke;Of which I finde no reles:Bot if I myhte nathelesOf such a drinke as I coveite,So as me liste, have o receite,    290I scholde assobre and fare wel.Bot so fortune upon hire whielOn hih me deigneth noght to sette,For everemore I finde a lette:The boteler is noght mi frend,Which hath the keie be the bend;I mai wel wisshe and that is wast,For wel I wot, so freissh a tast,Bot if mi grace be the more,I schal assaie neveremore.    300Thus am I drunke of that I se,For tastinge is defended me,And I can noght miselven stanche:So that, mi fader, of this brancheI am gultif, to telle trouthe.

Mi Sone, that me thenketh routhe;For lovedrunke is the meschiefAbove alle othre the most chief,If he no lusti thoght assaie,Which mai his sori thurst allaie:    310As for the time yit it lissethTo him which other joie misseth.Forthi, mi Sone, aboven alleThenk wel, hou so it the befalle,And kep thi wittes that thou hast,And let hem noght be drunke in wast:Bot natheles ther is no wyhtThat mai withstonde loves miht.Bot why the cause is, as I finde,Of that ther is diverse kinde    320Of lovedrunke, why men pleignethAfter the court which al ordeigneth,I wol the tellen the manere;Nou lest, mi Sone, and thou schalt hiere.

For the fortune of every chanceAfter the goddes pourveanceTo man it groweth from above,So that the sped of every loveIs schape there, er it befalle.For Jupiter aboven alle,    330Which is of goddes soverein,Hath in his celier, as men sein,Tuo tonnes fulle of love drinke,That maken many an herte sinkeAnd many an herte also to flete,Or of the soure or of the swete.That on is full of such piment,Which passeth all entendementOf mannes witt, if he it taste,And makth a jolif herte in haste:    340That other biter as the galle,Which makth a mannes herte palle,Whos drunkeschipe is a sieknesseThurgh fielinge of the biternesse.Cupide is boteler of bothe,Which to the lieve and to the lotheYifth of the swete and of the soure,That some lawhe, and some loure.Bot for so moche as he blind is,Fulofte time he goth amis    350And takth the badde for the goode,Which hindreth many a mannes fodeWithoute cause, and forthreth eke.So be ther some of love seke,Whiche oghte of reson to ben hole,And some comen to the doleIn happ and as hemselve lesteDrinke undeserved of the beste.And thus this blinde BotelerYifth of the trouble in stede of cler    360And ek the cler in stede of trouble:Lo, hou he can the hertes trouble,And makth men drunke al upon chaunceWithoute lawe of governance.If he drawe of the swete tonne,Thanne is the sorwe al overronneOf lovedrunke, and schalt noght grevenSo to be drunken every even,For al is thanne bot a game.Bot whanne it is noght of the same,    370And he the biter tonne draweth,Such drunkeschipe an herte gnawethAnd fiebleth al a mannes thoght,That betre him were have drunke noghtAnd al his bred have eten dreie;For thanne he lest his lusti weieWith drunkeschipe, and wot noght whiderTo go, the weies ben so slider,In which he mai per cas so falle,That he schal breke his wittes alle.    380And in this wise men be drunkeAfter the drink that thei have drunke:Bot alle drinken noght alike,For som schal singe and som schal syke,So that it me nothing merveilleth,Mi Sone, of love that thee eilleth;For wel I knowe be thi tale,That thou hast drunken of the duale,Which biter is, til god the sendeSuch grace that thou miht amende.    390

Bot, Sone, thou schalt bidde and preieIn such a wise as I schal seie,That thou the lusti welle atteigneThi wofull thurstes to restreigneOf love, and taste the swetnesse;As Bachus dede in his distresse,Whan bodiliche thurst him henteIn strange londes where he wente.This Bachus Sone of JupiterWas hote, and as he wente fer    400Be his fadres assignementTo make a werre in Orient,And gret pouer with him he ladde,So that the heiere hond he haddeAnd victoire of his enemys,And torneth homward with his pris,In such a contre which was dreieA meschief fell upon the weie.As he rod with his compainieNyh to the strondes of Lubie,    410Ther myhte thei no drinke findeOf water nor of other kinde,So that himself and al his hostWere of defalte of drinke almostDestruid, and thanne Bachus preideTo Jupiter, and thus he seide:“O hihe fader, that sest al,To whom is reson that I schalBeseche and preie in every nede,Behold, mi fader, and tak hiede    420This wofull thurst that we ben inneTo staunche, and grante ous forto winne,And sauf unto the contre fare,Wher that oure lusti loves areWaitende upon oure hom cominge.”And with the vois of his preiynge,Which herd was to the goddes hihe,He syh anon tofore his yheA wether, which the ground hath sporned;And wher he hath it overtorned,    430Ther sprang a welle freissh and cler,Wherof his oghne botelerAfter the lustes of his willeWas every man to drinke his fille.And for this ilke grete graceBachus upon the same placeA riche temple let arere,Which evere scholde stonde thereTo thursti men in remembrance.

Forthi, mi Sone, after this chance    440It sit thee wel to taken hiedeSo forto preie upon thi nede,As Bachus preide for the welle;And thenk, as thou hast herd me telle,Hou grace he gradde and grace he hadde.He was no fol that ferst so radde,For selden get a domb man lond:Tak that proverbe, and understondThat wordes ben of vertu grete.Forthi to speke thou ne lete,    450And axe and prei erli and lateThi thurst to quenche, and thenk algate,The boteler which berth the keieIs blind, as thou hast herd me seie;And if it mihte so betyde,That he upon the blinde sidePer cas the swete tonne arauhte,Than schalt thou have a lusti drauhteAnd waxe of lovedrunke sobre.And thus I rede thou assobre    460Thin herte in hope of such a grace;For drunkeschipe in every place,To whether side that it torne,Doth harm and makth a man to sporneAnd ofte falle in such a wise,Wher he per cas mai noght arise.

And forto loke in evidenceUpon the sothe experience,So as it hath befalle er this,In every mannes mouth it is    470Hou Tristram was of love drunkeWith Bele Ysolde, whan thei drunkeThe drink which Brangwein hem betok,Er that king Marc his Eem hire tokTo wyve, as it was after knowe.And ek, mi Sone, if thou wolt knowe,As it hath fallen overmoreIn loves cause, and what is moreOf drunkeschipe forto drede,As it whilom befell in dede,    480Wherof thou miht the betre eschuieOf drunke men that thou ne suieThe compaignie in no manere,A gret ensample thou schalt hiere.

This finde I write in PoesieOf thilke faire Ipotacie,Of whos beaute ther as sche wasSpak every man,—and fell per cas,That Pirotous so him spedde,That he to wyve hire scholde wedde,    490Wherof that he gret joie made.And for he wolde his love glade,Ayein the day of mariageBe mouthe bothe and be messageHise frendes to the feste he preide,With gret worschipe and, as men seide,He hath this yonge ladi spoused.And whan that thei were alle housed,And set and served ate mete,Ther was no wyn which mai be gete,    500That ther ne was plente ynouh:Bot Bachus thilke tonne drouh,Wherof be weie of drunkeschipeThe greteste of the felaschipeWere oute of reson overtake;And Venus, which hath also takeThe cause most in special,Hath yove hem drinke forth withalOf thilke cuppe which excitethThe lust wherinne a man deliteth:    510And thus be double weie drunke,Of lust that ilke fyri funkeHath mad hem, as who seith, halfwode,That thei no reson understode,Ne to non other thing thei syhen,Bot hire, which tofore here yhenWas wedded thilke same day,That freisshe wif, that lusti May,On hire it was al that thei thoghten.And so ferforth here lustes soghten,    520That thei the whiche named wereCentauri, ate feste thereOf on assent, of an acordThis yonge wif malgre hire lordIn such a rage awei forth ladden,As thei whiche non insihte haddenBot only to her drunke fare,Which many a man hath mad misfareIn love als wel as other weie.Wherof, if I schal more seie    530Upon the nature of the vice,Of custume and of exerciceThe mannes grace hou it fordoth,A tale, which was whilom soth,Of fooles that so drunken were,I schal reherce unto thine Ere.

I rede in a Cronique thusOf Galba and of Vitellus,The whiche of Spaigne bothe wereThe greteste of alle othre there,    540And bothe of o condicionAfter the disposicionOf glotonie and drunkeschipe.That was a sori felaschipe:For this thou miht wel understonde,That man mai wel noght longe stondeWhich is wyndrunke of comun us;For he hath lore the vertus,Wherof reson him scholde clothe;And that was seene upon hem bothe.    550Men sein ther is non evidence,Wherof to knowe a differenceBetwen the drunken and the wode,For thei be nevere nouther goode;For wher that wyn doth wit aweie,Wisdom hath lost the rihte weie,That he no maner vice dredeth;Nomore than a blind man thredethHis nedle be the Sonnes lyht,Nomore is reson thanne of myht,    560Whan he with drunkeschipe is blent.And in this point thei weren schent,This Galba bothe and ek Vitelle,Upon the cause as I schal telle,Wherof good is to taken hiede.For thei tuo thurgh her drunkenhiedeOf witles excitaciounOppressede al the nacionOf Spaigne; for of fool usance,Which don was of continuance    570Of hem, whiche alday drunken were,Ther was no wif ne maiden there,What so thei were, or faire or foule,Whom thei ne token to defoule,Wherof the lond was often wo:And ek in othre thinges moThei wroghten many a sondri wrong.Bot hou so that the dai be long,The derke nyht comth ate laste:God wolde noght thei scholden laste,    580And schop the lawe in such a wise,That thei thurgh dom to the juiseBe dampned forto be forlore.Bot thei, that hadden ben toforeEnclin to alle drunkenesse,—Here ende thanne bar witnesse;For thei in hope to assuageThe peine of deth, upon the rageThat thei the lasse scholden fiele,Of wyn let fille full a Miele,    590And dronken til so was befalleThat thei her strengthes losten alleWithouten wit of eny brain;And thus thei ben halfdede slain,That hem ne grieveth bot a lyte.

Mi Sone, if thou be forto wyteIn eny point which I have seid,Wherof thi wittes ben unteid,I rede clepe hem hom ayein.

I schal do, fader, as ye sein,    600Als ferforth as I mai suffise:Bot wel I wot that in no wiseThe drunkeschipe of love aweieI mai remue be no weie,It stant noght upon my fortune.Bot if you liste to comuneOf the seconde Glotonie,Which cleped is Delicacie,Wherof ye spieken hier tofore,Beseche I wolde you therfore.    610

Mi Sone, as of that ilke vice,Which of alle othre is the Norrice,And stant upon the retenueOf Venus, so as it is due,The proprete hou that it farethThe bok hierafter nou declareth.

Of this chapitre in which we treteThere is yit on of such diete,To which no povere mai atteigne;For al is Past of paindemeine    620And sondri wyn and sondri drinke,Wherof that he wole ete and drinke:Hise cokes ben for him affaited,So that his body is awaited,That him schal lacke no delit,Als ferforth as his appetitSufficeth to the metes hote.Wherof this lusti vice is hoteOf Gule the Delicacie,Which al the hole progenie    630Of lusti folk hath undertakeTo feede, whil that he mai takeRichesses wherof to be founde:Of Abstinence he wot no bounde,To what profit it scholde serve.And yit phisique of his conserveMakth many a restauraciounUnto his recreacioun,Which wolde be to Venus lief.Thus for the point of his relief    640The coc which schal his mete arraie,Bot he the betre his mouth assaie,His lordes thonk schal ofte lese,Er he be served to the chese:For ther mai lacke noght so lyte,That he ne fint anon a wyte;For bot his lust be fully served,Ther hath no wiht his thonk deserved.And yit for mannes sustenance,To kepe and holde in governance,    650To him that wole his hele geteIs non so good as comun mete:For who that loketh on the bokes,It seith, confeccion of cokes,A man him scholde wel aviseHou he it toke and in what wise.For who that useth that he knoweth,Ful selden seknesse on him groweth,And who that useth metes strange,Though his nature empeire and change    660It is no wonder, lieve Sone,Whan that he doth ayein his wone;For in Phisique this I finde,Usage is the seconde kinde.

And riht so changeth his astatHe that of love is delicat:For though he hadde to his hondThe beste wif of al the lond,Or the faireste love of alle,Yit wolde his herte on othre falle    670And thenke hem mor deliciousThan he hath in his oghne hous:Men sein it is nou ofte so;Avise hem wel, thei that so do.And forto speke in other weie,Fulofte time I have herd seie,That he which hath no love achieved,Him thenkth that he is noght relieved,Thogh that his ladi make him chiere,So as sche mai in good manere    680Hir honour and hir name save,Bot he the surplus mihte have.Nothing withstondende hire astat,Of love more delicatHe set hire chiere at no delit,Bot he have al his appetit.

Mi Sone, if it be with thee so,Tell me.

Myn holi fader, no:For delicat in such a wiseOf love, as ye to me devise,    690Ne was I nevere yit gultif;For if I hadde such a wifAs ye speke of, what scholde I more?For thanne I wolde neveremoreFor lust of eny wommanhiedeMyn herte upon non other fiede:And if I dede, it were a wast.Bot al withoute such repastOf lust, as ye me tolde above,Of wif, or yit of other love,    700I faste, and mai no fode gete;So that for lacke of deinte mete,Of which an herte mai be fedd,I go fastende to my bedd.Bot myhte I geten, as ye tolde,So mochel that mi ladi woldeMe fede with hir glad semblant,Though me lacke al the remenant,Yit scholde I somdel ben abechedAnd for the time wel refreched.    710Bot certes, fader, sche ne doth;For in good feith, to telle soth,I trowe, thogh I scholde sterve,Sche wolde noght hire yhe swerve,Min herte with o goodly lokTo fede, and thus for such a cokI mai go fastinge everemo:Bot if so is that eny woMai fede a mannes herte wel,Therof I have at every meel    720Of plente more than ynowh;Bot that is of himself so towh,Mi stomac mai it noght defie.Lo, such is the delicacieOf love, which myn herte fedeth;Thus have I lacke of that me nedeth.

Bot for al this yit nathelesI seie noght I am gylteles,That I somdel am delicat:For elles were I fulli mat,    730Bot if that I som lusti stoundeOf confort and of ese founde,To take of love som repast;For thogh I with the fulle tastThe lust of love mai noght fiele,Min hunger otherwise I kieleOf smale lustes whiche I pike,And for a time yit thei like;If that ye wisten what I mene.

Nou, goode Sone, schrif thee clene    740Of suche deyntes as ben goode,Wherof thou takst thin hertes fode.

Mi fader, I you schal reherce,Hou that mi fodes ben diverse,So as thei fallen in degre.O fiedinge is of that I se,An other is of that I here,The thridde, as I schal tellen here,It groweth of min oghne thoght:And elles scholde I live noght;    750For whom that failleth fode of herte,He mai noght wel the deth asterte.

Of sihte is al mi ferste fode,Thurgh which myn yhe of alle goodeHath that to him is acordant,A lusti fode sufficant.Whan that I go toward the placeWher I schal se my ladi face,Min yhe, which is loth to faste,Beginth to hungre anon so faste,    760That him thenkth of on houre thre,Til I ther come and he hire se:And thanne after his appetitHe takth a fode of such delit,That him non other deynte nedeth.Of sondri sihtes he him fedeth:He seth hire face of such colour,That freisshere is than eny flour,He seth hire front is large and pleinWithoute fronce of eny grein,    770He seth hire yhen lich an hevene,He seth hire nase strauht and evene,He seth hire rode upon the cheke,He seth hire rede lippes eke,Hire chyn acordeth to the face,Al that he seth is full of grace,He seth hire necke round and clene,Therinne mai no bon be sene,He seth hire handes faire and whyte;For al this thing withoute wyte    780He mai se naked ate leste,So is it wel the more festeAnd wel the mor DelicacieUnto the fiedinge of myn yhe.He seth hire schapthe forth withal,Hire bodi round, hire middel smal,So wel begon with good array,Which passeth al the lust of Maii,Whan he is most with softe schouresFul clothed in his lusti floures.    790With suche sihtes by and byMin yhe is fed; bot finaly,Whan he the port and the manereSeth of hire wommanysshe chere,Than hath he such delice on honde,Him thenkth he mihte stille stonde,And that he hath ful sufficanceOf liflode and of sustienanceAs to his part for everemo.And if it thoghte alle othre so,    800Fro thenne wolde he nevere wende,Bot there unto the worldes endeHe wolde abyde, if that he mihte,And fieden him upon the syhte.For thogh I mihte stonden ayInto the time of domesdayAnd loke upon hire evere in on,Yit whanne I scholde fro hire gon,Min yhe wolde, as thogh he faste,Ben hungerstorven al so faste,    810Til efte ayein that he hire syhe.Such is the nature of myn yhe:Ther is no lust so deintefull,Of which a man schal noght be full,Of that the stomac underfongeth,Bot evere in on myn yhe longeth:For loke hou that a goshauk tireth,Riht so doth he, whan that he pirethAnd toteth on hire wommanhiede;For he mai nevere fulli fiede    820His lust, bot evere aliche soreHim hungreth, so that he the moreDesireth to be fed algate:And thus myn yhe is mad the gate,Thurgh which the deyntes of my thoghtOf lust ben to myn herte broght.

Riht as myn yhe with his lokIs to myn herte a lusti cocOf loves fode delicat,Riht so myn Ere in his astat,    830Wher as myn yhe mai noght serve,Can wel myn hertes thonk deserveAnd fieden him fro day to dayWith suche deyntes as he may.For thus it is, that overal,Wher as I come in special,I mai hiere of mi ladi pris;I hiere on seith that sche is wys,An other seith that sche is good,And som men sein, of worthi blod    840That sche is come, and is alsoSo fair, that nawher is non so;And som men preise hire goodli chiere:Thus every thing that I mai hiere,Which souneth to mi ladi goode,Is to myn Ere a lusti foode.And ek min Ere hath over thisA deynte feste, whan so isThat I mai hiere hirselve speke;For thanne anon mi faste I breke    850On suche wordes as sche seith,That full of trouthe and full of feithThei ben, and of so good desport,That to myn Ere gret confortThei don, as thei that ben delices.For al the metes and the spices,That eny Lombard couthe make,Ne be so lusti forto takeNe so ferforth restauratif,I seie as for myn oghne lif,    860As ben the wordes of hire mouth:For as the wyndes of the SouthBen most of alle debonaire,So whan hir list to speke faire,The vertu of hire goodly specheIs verraily myn hertes leche.And if it so befalle among,That sche carole upon a song,Whan I it hiere I am so fedd,That I am fro miself so ledd,    870As thogh I were in paradis;For certes, as to myn avis,Whan I here of hir vois the stevene,Me thenkth it is a blisse of hevene.

And ek in other wise alsoFulofte time it falleth so,Min Ere with a good pitanceIs fedd of redinge of romanceOf Ydoine and of Amadas,That whilom weren in mi cas,    880And eke of othre many a score,That loveden longe er I was bore.For whan I of here loves rede,Min Ere with the tale I fede;And with the lust of here histoireSomtime I drawe into memoireHou sorwe mai noght evere laste;And so comth hope in ate laste,Whan I non other fode knowe.And that endureth bot a throwe,    890Riht as it were a cherie feste;Bot forto compten ate leste,As for the while yit it esethAnd somdel of myn herte appeseth:For what thing to myn Ere spreedeth,Which is plesant, somdel it feedethWith wordes suche as he mai geteMi lust, in stede of other mete.

Lo thus, mi fader, as I seie,Of lust the which myn yhe hath seie,    900And ek of that myn Ere hath herd,Fulofte I have the betre ferd.And tho tuo bringen in the thridde,The which hath in myn herte amiddeHis place take, to arraieThe lusti fode, which assaieI mot; and nameliche on nyhtes,Whan that me lacketh alle sihtes,And that myn heringe is aweie,Thanne is he redy in the weie    910Mi reresouper forto make,Of which myn hertes fode I take.

This lusti cokes name is hoteThoght, which hath evere hise pottes hoteOf love buillende on the fyrWith fantasie and with desir,Of whiche er this fulofte he feddeMin herte, whanne I was abedde;And thanne he set upon my bordBothe every syhte and every word    920Of lust, which I have herd or sein.Bot yit is noght mi feste al plein,Bot al of woldes and of wisshes,Therof have I my fulle disshes,Bot as of fielinge and of tast,Yit mihte I nevere have o repast.And thus, as I have seid aforn,I licke hony on the thorn,And as who seith, upon the bridelI chiewe, so that al is ydel    930As in effect the fode I have.Bot as a man that wolde him save,Whan he is seck, be medicine,Riht so of love the famineI fonde in al that evere I maiTo fiede and dryve forth the day,Til I mai have the grete feste,Which al myn hunger myhte areste.

Lo suche ben mi lustes thre;Of that I thenke and hiere and se    940I take of love my fiedingeWithoute tastinge or fielinge:And as the Plover doth of EirI live, and am in good espeirThat for no such delicacieI trowe I do no glotonie.And natheles to youre avis,Min holi fader, that be wis,I recomande myn astatOf that I have be delicat.    950

Mi Sone, I understonde welThat thou hast told hier everydel,And as me thenketh be thi tale,It ben delices wonder smale,Wherof thou takst thi loves fode.Bot, Sone, if that thou understodeWhat is to ben delicious,Thou woldest noght be curiousUpon the lust of thin astatTo ben to sore delicat,    960Wherof that thou reson excede:For in the bokes thou myht rede,If mannes wisdom schal be suied,It oghte wel to ben eschuiedIn love als wel as other weie;For, as these holi bokes seie,The bodely delices alleIn every point, hou so thei falle,Unto the Soule don grievance.And forto take in remembrance,    970A tale acordant unto this,Which of gret understondinge isTo mannes soule resonable,I thenke telle, and is no fable.

Of Cristes word, who wole it rede,Hou that this vice is forto dredeIn thevangile it telleth plein,Which mot algate be certein,For Crist himself it berth witnesse.And thogh the clerk and the clergesse    980In latin tunge it rede and singe,Yit for the more knoulechingeOf trouthe, which is good to wite,I schal declare as it is writeIn Engleissh, for thus it began.

Crist seith: “Ther was a riche man,A mihti lord of gret astat,And he was ek so delicatOf his clothing, that everydayOf pourpre and bisse he made him gay,    990And eet and drank therto his filleAfter the lustes of his wille,As he which al stod in deliceAnd tok non hiede of thilke vice.And as it scholde so betyde,A povere lazre upon a tydeCam to the gate and axed mete:Bot there mihte he nothing geteHis dedly hunger forto stanche;For he, which hadde his fulle panche    1000Of alle lustes ate bord,Ne deigneth noght to speke a word,Onliche a Crumme forto yive,Wherof the povere myhte liveUpon the yifte of his almesse.Thus lai this povere in gret destresseAcold and hungred ate gate,Fro which he mihte go no gate,So was he wofulli besein.And as these holi bokes sein,    1010The houndes comen fro the halle,Wher that this sike man was falle,And as he lay ther forto die,The woundes of his maladieThei licken forto don him ese.Bot he was full of such desese,That he mai noght the deth eschape;Bot as it was that time schape,The Soule fro the bodi passeth,And he whom nothing overpasseth,    1020The hihe god, up to the heveneHim tok, wher he hath set him eveneIn Habrahammes barm on hyh,Wher he the hevene joie syhAnd hadde al that he have wolde.

And fell, as it befalle scholde,This riche man the same throweWith soudein deth was overthrowe,And forth withouten eny wenteInto the helle straght he wente;    1030The fend into the fyr him drouh,Wher that he hadde peine ynouhOf flamme which that evere brenneth.And as his yhe aboute renneth,Toward the hevene he cast his lok,Wher that he syh and hiede tokHou Lazar set was in his SeAls ferr as evere he mihte seWith Habraham; and thanne he preideUnto the Patriarch and seide:    1040“Send Lazar doun fro thilke Sete,And do that he his finger weteIn water, so that he mai droppeUpon my tunge, forto stoppeThe grete hete in which I brenne.”Bot Habraham answerde thenneAnd seide to him in this wise:“Mi Sone, thou thee miht aviseAnd take into thi remembrance,Hou Lazar hadde gret penance,    1050Whyl he was in that other lif,Bot thou in al thi lust jolifThe bodily delices soghtest:Forthi, so as thou thanne wroghtest,Nou schalt thou take thi rewardOf dedly peine hierafterwardIn helle, which schal evere laste;And this Lazar nou ate lasteThe worldes peine is overronne,In hevene and hath his lif begonne    1060Of joie, which is endeles.Bot that thou preidest natheles,That I schal Lazar to the sendeWith water on his finger ende,Thin hote tunge forto kiele,Thou schalt no such graces fiele;For to that foule place of Sinne,For evere in which thou schalt ben inne,Comth non out of this place thider,Ne non of you mai comen hider;    1070Thus be yee parted nou atuo.”

The riche ayeinward cride tho:“O Habraham, sithe it so is,That Lazar mai noght do me thisWhich I have axed in this place,I wolde preie an other grace.For I have yit of brethren fyve,That with mi fader ben alyveTogedre duellende in on hous;To whom, as thou art gracious,    1080I preie that thou woldest sendeLazar, so that he mihte wendeTo warne hem hou the world is went,That afterward thei be noght schentOf suche peines as I drye.Lo, this I preie and this I crie,Now I may noght miself amende.”

The Patriarch anon suiendeTo his preiere ansuerde nay;And seide him hou that everyday    1090His brethren mihten knowe and hiereOf Moises on Erthe hiereAnd of prophetes othre mo,What hem was best. And he seith no;Bot if ther mihte a man aryseFro deth to lyve in such a wise,To tellen hem hou that it were,He seide hou thanne of pure fereThei scholden wel be war therby.

Quod Habraham: “Nay sikerly;    1100For if thei nou wol noght obeieTo suche as techen hem the weie,And alday preche and alday telleHou that it stant of hevene and helle,Thei wol noght thanne taken hiede,Thogh it befelle so in dedeThat eny ded man were arered,To ben of him no betre leredThan of an other man alyve.”

If thou, mi Sone, canst descryve    1110This tale, as Crist himself it tolde,Thou schalt have cause to beholde,To se so gret an evidence,Wherof the sothe experienceHath schewed openliche at ije,That bodili delicacieOf him which yeveth non almesseSchal after falle in gret destresse.And that was sene upon the riche:For he ne wolde unto his liche    1120A Crumme yiven of his bred,Thanne afterward, whan he was ded,A drope of water him was werned.Thus mai a mannes wit be lernedOf hem that so delices taken;Whan thei with deth ben overtaken,That erst was swete is thanne sour.Bot he that is a governourOf worldes good, if he be wys,Withinne his herte he set no pris    1130Of al the world, and yit he usethThe good, that he nothing refuseth,As he which lord is of the thinges.The Nouches and the riche ringes,The cloth of gold and the PerrieHe takth, and yit delicacieHe leveth, thogh he were al this.The beste mete that ther isHe ett, and drinkth the beste drinke;Bot hou that evere he ete or drinke,    1140Delicacie he put aweie,As he which goth the rihte weieNoght only forto fiede and clotheHis bodi, bot his soule bothe.Bot thei that taken otherwiseHere lustes, ben none of the wise;And that whilom was schewed eke,If thou these olde bokes seke,Als wel be reson as be kinde,Of olde ensample as men mai finde.    1150

What man that wolde him wel avise,Delicacie is to despise,Whan kinde acordeth noght withal;Wherof ensample in specialOf Nero whilom mai be told,Which ayein kinde manyfoldHise lustes tok, til ate lasteThat god him wolde al overcaste;Of whom the Cronique is so plein,Me list nomore of him to sein.    1160And natheles for glotonieOf bodili Delicacie,To knowe his stomak hou it ferde,Of that noman tofore herde,Which he withinne himself bethoghte,A wonder soubtil thing he wroghte.

Thre men upon elecciounOf age and of complexiounLich to himself be alle weieHe tok towardes him to pleie,    1170And ete and drinke als wel as he.Therof was no diversite;For every day whan that thei eete,Tofore his oghne bord thei seete,And of such mete as he was served,Althogh thei hadde it noght deserved,Thei token service of the same.Bot afterward al thilke gameWas into wofull ernest torned;For whan thei weren thus sojorned,    1180Withinne a time at after meteNero, which hadde noght foryeteThe lustes of his frele astat,As he which al was delicat,To knowe thilke experience,The men let come in his presence:And to that on the same tyde,A    courser that he scholde rydeInto the feld, anon he bad;Wherof this man was wonder glad,    1190And goth to prike and prance aboute.That other, whil that he was oute,He leide upon his bedd to slepe:The thridde, which he wolde kepeWithinne his chambre, faire and softeHe goth now doun nou up fulofte,Walkende a pass, that he ne slepte,Til he which on the courser lepteWas come fro the field ayein.Nero thanne, as the bokes sein,    1200These men doth taken alle threAnd slouh hem, for he wolde seThe whos stomak was best defied:And whanne he hath the sothe tryed,He fond that he which goth the passDefyed best of alle was,Which afterward he usede ay.

And thus what thing unto his payWas most plesant, he lefte non:With every lust he was begon,    1210Wherof the bodi myhte glade,For he non abstinence made;Bot most above alle erthli thingesOf wommen unto the likingesNero sette al his hole herte,For that lust scholde him noght asterte.Whan that the thurst of love him cawhte,Wher that him list he tok a drauhte,He spareth nouther wif ne maide,That such an other, as men saide,    1220In al this world was nevere yit.He was so drunke in al his witThurgh sondri lustes whiche he tok,That evere, whil ther is a bok,Of Nero men schul rede and singeUnto the worldes knowlechinge,Mi goode Sone, as thou hast herd.For evere yit it hath so ferd,Delicacie in loves casWithoute reson is and was;    1230For wher that love his herte set,Him thenkth it myhte be no bet;And thogh it be noght fulli mete,The lust of love is evere swete.

Lo, thus togedre of felaschipeDelicacie and drunkeschipe,Wherof reson stant out of herre,Have mad full many a wisman erreIn loves cause most of alle:For thanne hou so that evere it falle,    1240Wit can no reson understonde,Bot let the governance stondeTo Will, which thanne wext so wylde,That he can noght himselve schyldeFro no peril, bot out of feereThe weie he secheth hiere and there,Him recheth noght upon what syde:For oftetime he goth beside,And doth such thing withoute drede,Wherof him oghte wel to drede.    1250Bot whan that love assoteth sore,It passeth alle mennes lore;What lust it is that he ordeigneth,Ther is no mannes miht restreigneth,And of the godd takth he non hiede:Bot laweles withoute drede,His pourpos for he wolde achieveAyeins the pointz of the believe,He tempteth hevene and erthe and helle,Hierafterward as I schall telle.    1260

Who dar do thing which love ne dar?To love is every lawe unwar,Bot to the lawes of his hesteThe fissch, the foul, the man, the besteOf al the worldes kinde louteth.For love is he which nothing douteth:In mannes herte where he sit,He compteth noght toward his witThe wo nomore than the wele,No mor the hete than the chele,    1270No mor the wete than the dreie,No mor to live than to deie,So that tofore ne behindeHe seth nothing, bot as the blindeWithoute insyhte of his corageHe doth merveilles in his rage.To what thing that he wole him drawe,Ther is no god, ther is no lawe,Of whom that he takth eny hiede;Bot as Baiard the blinde stede,    1280Til he falle in the dich amidde,He goth ther noman wole him bidde;He stant so ferforth out of reule,Ther is no wit that mai him reule.And thus to telle of him in soth,Ful many a wonder thing he doth,That were betre to be laft,Among the whiche is wicchecraft,That som men clepen Sorcerie,Which forto winne his druerie    1290With many a circumstance he useth,Ther is no point which he refuseth.

The craft which that Saturnus fond,To make prickes in the Sond,That Geomance cleped is,Fulofte he useth it amis;And of the flod his Ydromance,And of the fyr the Piromance,With questions echon of thoHe tempteth ofte, and ek also    1300Aëremance in juggementTo love he bringth of his assent:For these craftes, as I finde,A man mai do be weie of kinde,Be so it be to good entente.Bot he goth al an other wente;For rathere er he scholde faile,With Nigromance he wole assaileTo make his incantaciounWith hot subfumigacioun.    1310Thilke art which Spatula is hote,And used is of comun roteAmong Paiens, with that craft ekOf which is Auctor Thosz the Grek,He worcheth on and on be rowe:Razel is noght to him unknowe,Ne Salomones Candarie,His Ydeac, his Eutonye;The figure and the bok withalOf Balamuz, and of Ghenbal    1320The Seal, and therupon thymageOf Thebith, for his avantageHe takth, and somwhat of Gibiere,Which helplich is to this matiere.Babilla with hire Sones sevene,Which hath renonced to the hevene,With Cernes bothe square and rounde,He traceth ofte upon the grounde,Makende his invocacioun;And for full enformacioun    1330The Scole which HonoriusWrot, he poursuieth: and lo, thusMagique he useth forto winneHis love, and spareth for no Sinne.And over that of his Sotie,Riht as he secheth SorcerieOf hem that ben Magiciens,Riht so of the NaturiensUpon the Sterres from aboveHis weie he secheth unto love,    1340Als fer as he hem understondeth.In many a sondry wise he fondeth:He makth ymage, he makth sculpture,He makth writinge, he makth figure,He makth his calculacions,He makth his demonstracions;His houres of AstronomieHe kepeth as for that partieWhich longeth to thinspeccionOf love and his affeccion;    1350He wolde into the helle secheThe devel himselve to beseche,If that he wiste forto spede,To gete of love his lusti mede:Wher that he hath his herte set,He bede nevere fare betNe wite of other hevene more.

Mi Sone, if thou of such a loreHast ben er this, I red thee leve.

Min holi fader, be youre leve    1360Of al that ye have spoken hiereWhich toucheth unto this matiere,To telle soth riht as I wene,I wot noght o word what ye mene.I wol noght seie, if that I couthe,That I nolde in mi lusti youtheBenethe in helle and ek aboveTo winne with mi ladi loveDon al that evere that I mihte;For therof have I non insihte    1370Wher afterward that I become,To that I wonne and overcomeHire love, which I most coveite.

Mi Sone, that goth wonder streite:For this I mai wel telle soth,Ther is noman the which so doth,For al the craft that he can caste,That he nabeith it ate laste.For often he that wol beguileIs guiled with the same guile,    1380And thus the guilour is beguiled;As I finde in a bok compiledTo this matiere an old histoire,The which comth nou to mi memoire,And is of gret essamplerieAyein the vice of Sorcerie,Wherof non ende mai be good.Bot hou whilom therof it stod,A tale which is good to knoweTo thee, mi Sone, I schal beknowe.    1390

Among hem whiche at Troie were,Uluxes ate Siege thereWas on be name in special;Of whom yit the memorialAbit, for whyl ther is a mouth,For evere his name schal be couth.He was a worthi knyht and kingAnd clerk knowende of every thing;He was a gret rethorien,He was a gret magicien;    1400Of Tullius the rethorique,Of king Zorastes the magique,Of Tholome thastronomie,Of Plato the Philosophie,Of Daniel the slepi dremes,Of Neptune ek the water stremes,Of Salomon and the proverbes,Of Macer al the strengthe of herbes,And the Phisique of Ypocras,And lich unto Pictagoras    1410Of Surgerie he knew the cures.Bot somwhat of his aventures,Which schal to mi matiere acorde,To thee, mi Sone, I wol recorde.

This king, of which thou hast herd sein,Fro Troie as he goth hom ayeinBe Schipe, he fond the See divers,With many a wyndi storm revers.Bot he thurgh wisdom that he schapethFul many a gret peril ascapeth,    1420Of whiche I thenke tellen on,Hou that malgre the nedle and stonWynddrive he was al soudeinlyUpon the strondes of Cilly,Wher that he moste abyde a whyle.Tuo queenes weren in that yleCalipsa named and Circes;And whan they herde hou UluxesIs londed ther upon the ryve,For him thei senden als so blive.    1430With him suche as he wolde he namAnd to the court to hem he cam.Thes queenes were as tuo goddessesOf Art magique Sorceresses,That what lord comth to that rivage,Thei make him love in such a rageAnd upon hem assote so,That thei wol have, er that he go,Al that he hath of worldes good.Uluxes wel this understod,    1440Thei couthe moche, he couthe more;Thei schape and caste ayein him soreAnd wroghte many a soutil wyle,Bot yit thei mihte him noght beguile.Bot of the men of his navieThei tuo forschope a gret partie,Mai non of hem withstonde here hestes;Som part thei schopen into bestes,Som part thei schopen into foules,To beres, tigres, Apes, oules,    1450Or elles be som other weie;Ther myhte hem nothing desobeie,Such craft thei hadde above kinde.Bot that Art couthe thei noght finde,Of which Uluxes was deceived,That he ne hath hem alle weyved,And broght hem into such a rote,That upon him thei bothe assote;And thurgh the science of his artHe tok of hem so wel his part,    1460That he begat Circes with childe.He kepte him sobre and made hem wilde,He sette himselve so above,That with here good and with here love,Who that therof be lief or loth,Al quit into his Schip he goth.Circes toswolle bothe sidesHe lefte, and waiteth on the tydes,And straght thurghout the salte fomHe takth his cours and comth him hom,    1470Where as he fond Penolope;A betre wif ther mai non be,And yit ther ben ynowhe of goode.Bot who hir goodschipe understodeFro ferst that sche wifhode tok,Hou many loves sche forsokAnd hou sche bar hire al aboute,Ther whiles that hire lord was oute,He mihte make a gret avantAmonges al the remenant    1480That sche was on of al the beste.Wel myhte he sette his herte in reste,This king, whan he hir fond in hele;For as he couthe in wisdom dele,So couthe sche in wommanhiede:And whan sche syh withoute dredeHire lord upon his oghne ground,That he was come sauf and sound,In al this world ne mihte beA gladdere womman than was sche.    1490

The fame, which mai noght ben hidd,Thurghout the lond is sone kidd,Here king is come hom ayein:Ther mai noman the fulle sein,Hou that thei weren alle glade,So mochel joie of him thei made.The presens every day be newed,He was with yiftes al besnewed;The poeple was of him so glad,That thogh non other man hem bad,    1500Taillage upon hemself thei sette,And as it were of pure detteThei yeve here goodes to the king:This was a glad hom welcomyng.Thus hath Uluxes what he wolde,His wif was such as sche be scholde,His poeple was to him sougit,Him lacketh nothing of delit.

Bot fortune is of such a sleyhte,That whan a man is most on heyhte,    1510Sche makth him rathest forto falle:Ther wot noman what schal befalle,The happes over mannes hedBen honged with a tendre thred.That proved was on Uluxes;For whan he was most in his pes,Fortune gan to make him werreAnd sette his welthe al out of herre.Upon a dai as he was merie,As thogh ther mihte him nothing derie,    1520Whan nyht was come, he goth to bedde,With slep and bothe his yhen fedde.And while he slepte, he mette a swevene:Him thoghte he syh a stature evene,Which brihtere than the sonne schon;A man it semeth was it non,Bot yit it was as in figureMost lich to mannyssh creature,Bot as of beaute hevenelichIt was most to an Angel lich:    1530And thus betwen angel and manBeholden it this king began,And such a lust tok of the sihte,That fain he wolde, if that he mihte,The forme of that figure embrace;And goth him forth toward the place,Wher he sih that ymage tho,And takth it in his Armes tuo,And it embraceth him ayeinAnd to the king thus gan it sein:    1540“Uluxes, understond wel this,The tokne of oure aqueintance isHierafterward to mochel tene:The love that is ous betuene,Of that we nou such joie make,That on of ous the deth schal take,Whan time comth of destine;It may non other wise be.”Uluxes tho began to preieThat this figure wolde him seie    1550What wyht he is that seith him so.This wyht upon a spere thoA pensel which was wel begon,Embrouded, scheweth him anon:Thre fisshes alle of o colourIn manere as it were a tourUpon the pensel were wroght.Uluxes kneu this tokne noght,And preith to wite in som partieWhat thing it myhte signefie,    1560“A signe it is,” the wyht ansuerde,“Of an Empire:” and forth he ferdeAl sodeinly, whan he that seide.

Uluxes out of slep abreide,And that was riht ayein the day,That lengere slepen he ne may.Men sein, a man hath knowlechingSave of himself of alle thing;His oghne chance noman knoweth,Bot as fortune it on him throweth:    1570Was nevere yit so wys a clerk,Which mihte knowe al goddes werk,Ne the secret which god hath setAyein a man mai noght be let.Uluxes, thogh that he be wys,With al his wit in his avis,The mor that he his swevene acompteth,The lasse he wot what it amonteth:For al his calculacion,He seth no demonstracion    1580Al pleinly forto knowe an ende;Bot natheles hou so it wende,He dradde him of his oghne Sone.That makth him wel the more astone,And schop therfore anon withal,So that withinne castel wallThelamachum his Sone he schette,And upon him strong warde he sette.The sothe furthere he ne knew,Til that fortune him overthreu;    1590Bot natheles for sikernesse,Wher that he mihte wite and gesseA place strengest in his lond,Ther let he make of lym and sondA strengthe where he wolde duelle;Was nevere man yit herde telleOf such an other as it was.And forto strengthe him in that cas,Of al his lond the sekeresteOf servantz and the worthieste,    1600To kepen him withinne warde,He sette his bodi forto warde;And made such an ordinance,For love ne for aqueintance,That were it erly, were it late,Thei scholde lete in ate gateNo maner man, what so betydde,Bot if so were himself it bidde.

Bot al that myhte him noght availe,For whom fortune wole assaile,    1610Ther mai be non such resistence,Which mihte make a man defence;Al that schal be mot falle algate.This Circes, which I spak of late,On whom Uluxes hath begeteA child, thogh he it have foryete,Whan time com, as it was wone,Sche was delivered of a Sone,Which cleped is Thelogonus.This child, whan he was bore thus,    1620Aboute his moder to ful age,That he can reson and langage,In good astat was drawe forth:And whan he was so mochel worthTo stonden in a mannes stede,Circes his moder hath him bedeThat he schal to his fader go,And tolde him al togedre thoWhat man he was that him begat.And whan Thelogonus of that    1630Was war and hath ful knowlechingHou that his fader was a king,He preith his moder faire this,To go wher that his fader is;And sche him granteth that he schal,And made him redi forth withal.It was that time such usance,That every man the conoiscanceOf his contre bar in his hond,Whan he wente into strange lond;    1640And thus was every man therforeWel knowe, wher that he was bore:For espiaile and mistrowingesThey dede thanne suche thinges,That every man mai other knowe.So it befell that ilke throweThelogonus as in this cas;Of his contre the signe wasThre fisshes, whiche he scholde bereUpon the penon of a spere:    1650And whan that he was thus arraiedAnd hath his harneis al assaied,That he was redy everydel,His moder bad him farewel,And seide him that he scholde switheHis fader griete a thousand sithe.

Thelogonus his moder kisteAnd tok his leve, and wher he wisteHis fader was, the weie nam,Til he unto Nachaie cam,    1660Which of that lond the chief CiteWas cleped, and ther axeth heWher was the king and hou he ferde.And whan that he the sothe herde,Wher that the king Uluxes was,Al one upon his hors gret pasHe rod him forth, and in his hondHe bar the signal of his londWith fisshes thre, as I have told;And thus he wente unto that hold,    1670Wher that his oghne fader duelleth.The cause why he comth he tellethUnto the kepers of the gate,And wolde have comen in therate,Bot schortli thei him seide nay:And he als faire as evere he mayBesoghte and tolde hem ofte this,Hou that the king his fader is;Bot they with proude wordes greteBegunne to manace and threte,    1680Bot he go fro the gate faste,Thei wolde him take and sette faste.Fro wordes unto strokes thusThei felle, and so ThelogonusWas sore hurt and welnyh ded;Bot with his scharpe speres hedHe makth defence, hou so it falle,And wan the gate upon hem alle,And hath slain of the beste fyve;And thei ascriden als so blyve    1690Thurghout the castell al aboute.

On every syde men come oute,Wherof the kinges herte afflihte,And he with al the haste he mihteA spere cauhte and out he goth,As he that was nyh wod for wroth.He sih the gates ful of blod,Thelogonus and wher he stodHe sih also, bot he ne knewWhat man it was, and to him threw    1700His Spere, and he sterte out asyde.Bot destine, which schal betide,Befell that ilke time so,Thelogonus knew nothing thoWhat man it was that to him caste,And while his oghne spere laste,With al the signe theruponHe caste unto the king anon,And smot him with a dedly wounde.Uluxes fell anon to grounde;    1710Tho every man, “The king! the king!”Began to crie, and of this thingThelogonus, which sih the cas,On knes he fell and seide, “Helas!I have min oghne fader slain:Nou wolde I deie wonder fain,Nou sle me who that evere wile,For certes it is right good skile.”He crith, he wepth, he seith therfore,“Helas, that evere was I bore,    1720That this unhappi destineSo wofulli comth in be me!”This king, which yit hath lif ynouh,His herte ayein to him he drouh,And to that vois an Ere he leideAnd understod al that he seide,And gan to speke, and seide on hih,“Bring me this man.” And whan he sihThelogonus, his thoght he setteUpon the swevene which he mette,    1730And axeth that he myhte seHis spere, on which the fisshes threHe sih upon a pensel wroght.Tho wiste he wel it faileth noght,And badd him that he telle scholdeFro whenne he cam and what he wolde.

Thelogonus in sorghe and woSo as he mihte tolde thoUnto Uluxes al the cas,Hou that Circes his moder was,    1740And so forth seide him everydel,Hou that his moder gret him wel,And in what wise sche him sente.Tho wiste Uluxes what it mente,And tok him in hise Armes softe,And al bledende he kest him ofte,And seide, “Sone, whil I live,This infortune I thee foryive.”After his other Sone in hasteHe sende, and he began him haste    1750And cam unto his fader tyt.Bot whan he sih him in such plit,He wolde have ronne upon that otherAnon, and slain his oghne brother,Ne hadde be that UluxesBetwen hem made acord and pes,And to his heir ThelamachusHe bad that he ThelogonusWith al his pouer scholde kepe,Til he were of his woundes depe    1760Al hol, and thanne he scholde him yiveLond wher upon he mihte live.Thelamachus, whan he this herde,Unto his fader he ansuerdeAnd seide he wolde don his wille.So duelle thei togedre stille,These brethren, and the fader sterveth.

Lo, wherof Sorcerie serveth.Thurgh Sorcerie his lust he wan,Thurgh Sorcerie his wo began,    1770Thurgh Sorcerie his love he ches,Thurgh Sorcerie his lif he les;The child was gete in Sorcerie,The which dede al this felonie:Thing which was ayein kynde wroghtUnkindeliche it was aboght;The child his oghne fader slowh,That was unkindeschipe ynowh.Forthi tak hiede hou that it is,So forto winne love amis,    1780Which endeth al his joie in wo:For of this Art I finde also,That hath be do for loves sake,Wherof thou miht ensample take,A gret Cronique imperial,Which evere into memorialAmong the men, hou so it wende,Schal duelle to the worldes ende.

The hihe creatour of thinges,Which is the king of alle kinges,    1790Ful many a wonder worldes chanceLet slyden under his suffrance;Ther wot noman the cause why,Bot he the which is almyhty.And that was proved whilom thus,Whan that the king Nectanabus,Which hadde Egipte forto lede,—Bot for he sih tofor the dedeThurgh magique of his Sorcerie,Wherof he couthe a gret partie,    1800Hise enemys to him comende,Fro whom he mihte him noght defende,Out of his oghne lond he fledde;And in the wise as he him dreddeIt fell, for al his wicchecraft,So that Egipte him was beraft,And he desguised fledde aweieBe schipe, and hield the rihte weieTo Macedoine, wher that heAryveth ate chief Cite.    1810Thre yomen of his chambre thereAl only forto serve him were,The whiche he trusteth wonder wel,For thei were trewe as eny stiel;And hapneth that thei with him laddePart of the beste good he hadde.Thei take logginge in the tounAfter the disposicionWher as him thoghte best to duelle:He axeth thanne and herde telle    1820Hou that the king was oute go.Upon a werre he hadde tho;But in that Cite thanne wasThe queene, which OlimpiasWas hote, and with sollempneteThe feste of hir nativite,As it befell, was thanne holde;And for hire list to be beholdeAnd preised of the poeple aboute,Sche schop hir forto riden oute    1830At after mete al openly.Anon were alle men redy,And that was in the monthe of Maii,This lusti queene in good arraiWas set upon a Mule whyt:To sen it was a gret delitThe joie that the cite made;With freisshe thinges and with gladeThe noble toun was al behonged,And every wiht was sore alonged    1840To se this lusti ladi ryde.Ther was gret merthe on alle syde;Wher as sche passeth be the strete,Ther was ful many a tymber beteAnd many a maide carolende:And thus thurghout the toun pleiendeThis queene unto a pleine rod,Wher that sche hoved and abodTo se diverse game pleie,The lusti folk jouste and tourneie;    1850And so forth every other man,Which pleie couthe, his pley began,To plese with this noble queene.

Nectanabus cam to the greneAmonges othre and drouh him nyh.Bot whan that he this ladi sihAnd of hir beaute hiede tok,He couthe noght withdrawe his lokTo se noght elles in the field,Bot stod and only hire behield.    1860Of his clothinge and of his gereHe was unlich alle othre there,So that it hapneth ate laste,The queene on him hire yhe caste,And knew that he was strange anon:Bot he behield hire evere in onWithoute blenchinge of his chere.Sche tok good hiede of his manere,And wondreth why he dede so,And bad men scholde for him go.    1870He cam and dede hire reverence,And sche him axeth in cilenceFor whenne he cam and what he wolde.And he with sobre wordes tolde,And seith, “Ma dame, a clerk I am,To you and in message I cam,The which I mai noght tellen hiere;Bot if it liketh you to hiere,It mot be seid al prively,Wher non schal be bot ye and I.”    1880Thus for the time he tok his leve.The dai goth forth til it was eve,That every man mot lete his werk;And sche thoghte evere upon this clerk,What thing it is he wolde mene:And in this wise abod the queene,And passeth over thilke nyht,Til it was on the morwe liht.Sche sende for him, and he com,With him his Astellabre he nom,    1890Which was of fin gold preciousWith pointz and cercles merveilous;And ek the hevenely figuresWroght in a bok ful of peinturesHe tok this ladi forto schewe,And tolde of ech of hem be reweThe cours and the condicion.And sche with gret affeccionSat stille and herde what he wolde:And thus whan he sih time, he tolde,    1900And feigneth with hise wordes wiseA tale, and seith in such a wise:

“Ma dame, bot a while ago,Wher I was in Egipte tho,And radde in scole of this science,It fell into mi conscienceThat I unto the temple wente,And ther with al myn hole ententeAs I mi sacrifice dede,On of the goddes hath me bede    1910That I you warne prively,So that ye make you redy,And that ye be nothing agast;For he such love hath to you cast,That ye schul ben his oghne diere,And he schal be your beddefiere,Til ye conceive and be with childe.”And with that word sche wax al mylde,And somdel red becam for schame,And axeth him that goddes name,    1920Which so wol don hire compainie.And he seide, “Amos of Lubie.”And sche seith, “That mai I noght lieve,Bot if I sihe a betre prieve.”“Ma dame,” quod Nectanabus,“In tokne that it schal be thus,This nyht for enformacionYe schul have an avision:That Amos schal to you appiere,To schewe and teche in what manere    1930The thing schal afterward befalle.Ye oghten wel above alleTo make joie of such a lord;For whan ye ben of on acord,He schal a Sone of you begete,Which with his swerd schal winne and geteThe wyde world in lengthe and brede;Alle erthli kinges schull him drede,And in such wise, I you behote,The god of erthe he schal be hote.”    1940“If this be soth,” tho quod the queene,“This nyht, thou seist, it schal be sene.And if it falle into mi grace,Of god Amos, that I pourchaceTo take of him so gret worschipe,I wol do thee such ladischipe,Wherof thou schalt for everemoBe riche.” And he hir thonketh tho,And tok his leve and forth he wente.Sche wiste litel what he mente,    1950For it was guile and Sorcerie,Al that sche tok for Prophecie.

Nectanabus thurghout the day,Whan he cam hom wher as he lay,His chambre be himselve tok,And overtorneth many a bok,And thurgh the craft of ArtemageOf wex he forgeth an ymage.He loketh his equacionsAnd ek the constellacions,    1960He loketh the conjunccions,He loketh the recepcions,His signe, his houre, his ascendent,And drawth fortune of his assent:The name of queene OlimpiasIn thilke ymage write wasAmiddes in the front above.And thus to winne his lust of loveNectanabus this werk hath diht;And whan it cam withinne nyht,    1970That every wyht is falle aslepe,He thoghte he wolde his time kepe,As he which hath his houre apointed.And thanne ferst he hath enoigntedWith sondri herbes that figure,And therupon he gan conjure,So that thurgh his enchantementThis ladi, which was innocentAnd wiste nothing of this guile,Mette, as sche slepte thilke while,    1980Hou fro the hevene cam a lyht,Which al hir chambre made lyht;And as sche loketh to and fro,Sche sih, hir thoghte, a dragoun tho,Whos scherdes schynen as the Sonne,And hath his softe pas begonneWith al the chiere that he mayToward the bedd ther as sche lay,Til he cam to the beddes side.And sche lai stille and nothing cride,    1990For he dede alle his thinges faireAnd was courteis and debonaire:And as he stod hire fasteby,His forme he changeth sodeinly,And the figure of man he nom,To hire and into bedde he com,And such thing there of love he wroghte,Wherof, so as hire thanne thoghte,Thurgh likinge of this god AmosWith childe anon hire wombe aros,    2000And sche was wonder glad withal.Nectanabus, which causeth alOf this metrede the substance,Whan he sih time, his nigromanceHe stinte and nothing more seideOf his carecte, and sche abreideOut of hir slep, and lieveth welThat it is soth thanne everydelOf that this clerk hire hadde told,And was the gladdere manyfold    2010In hope of such a glad metrede,Which after schal befalle in dede.

Sche longeth sore after the dai,That sche hir swevene telle maiTo this guilour in privete,Which kneu it als so wel as sche:And natheles on morwe soneSche lefte alle other thing to done,And for him sende, and al the casSche tolde him pleinly as it was,    2020And seide hou thanne wel sche wisteThat sche his wordes mihte triste,For sche fond hire AvisiounRiht after the condicionWhich he hire hadde told tofore;And preide him hertely therforeThat he hire holde covenantSo forth of al the remenant,That sche may thurgh his ordinanceToward the god do such plesance,    2030That sche wakende myhte him kepeIn such wise as sche mette aslepe.And he, that couthe of guile ynouh,Whan he this herde, of joie he louh,And seith, “Ma dame, it schal be do.Bot this I warne you therto:This nyht, whan that he comth to pleie,That ther be no lif in the weieBot I, that schal at his likingeOrdeine so for his cominge,    2040That ye ne schull noght of him faile.For this, ma dame, I you consaile,That ye it kepe so prive,That no wiht elles bot we threHave knowlechinge hou that it is;For elles mihte it fare amis,If ye dede oght that scholde him grieve.”And thus he makth hire to believe,And feigneth under guile feith:Bot natheles al that he seith    2050Sche troweth; and ayein the nyhtSche hath withinne hire chambre dyht,Wher as this guilour faste byUpon this god schal privelyAwaite, as he makth hire to wene:And thus this noble gentil queene,Whan sche most trusteth, was deceived.

The nyht com, and the chambre is weyved,Nectanabus hath take his place,And whan he sih the time and space,    2060Thurgh the deceipte of his magiqueHe putte him out of mannes like,And of a dragoun tok the forme,As he which wolde him al conformeTo that sche sih in swevene er this;And thus to chambre come he is.The queene lay abedde and sih,And hopeth evere, as he com nyh,That he god of Lubye were,So hath sche wel the lasse fere.    2070Bot for he wolde hire more assure,Yit eft he changeth his figure,And of a wether the liknesseHe tok, in signe of his noblesseWith large hornes for the nones:Of fin gold and of riche stonesA corone on his hed he bar,And soudeinly, er sche was war,As he which alle guile can,His forme he torneth into man,    2080And cam to bedde, and sche lai stille,Wher as sche soffreth al his wille,As sche which wende noght misdo.Bot natheles it hapneth so,Althogh sche were in part deceived,Yit for al that sche hath conceivedThe worthieste of alle kiththe,Which evere was tofore or siththeOf conqueste and chivalerie;So that thurgh guile and Sorcerie    2090Ther was that noble knyht begunne,Which al the world hath after wunne.Thus fell the thing which falle scholde,Nectanabus hath that he wolde;With guile he hath his love sped,With guile he cam into the bed,With guile he goth him out ayein:He was a schrewed chamberlein,So to beguile a worthi queene,And that on him was after seene.    2100Bot natheles the thing is do;This false god was sone go,With his deceipte and hield him clos,Til morwe cam, that he aros.

And tho, whan time and leisir was,The queene tolde him al the cas,As sche that guile non supposeth;And of tuo pointz sche him opposeth.On was, if that this god nomoreWol come ayein, and overmore,    2110Hou sche schal stonden in acordWith king Philippe hire oghne lord,Whan he comth hom and seth hire grone.“Ma dame,” he seith, “let me alone:As for the god I undertakeThat whan it liketh you to takeHis compaignie at eny throwe,If I a day tofore it knowe,He schal be with you on the nyht;And he is wel of such a myht    2120To kepe you from alle blame.Forthi conforte you, ma dame,Ther schal non other cause be.”Thus tok he leve and forth goth he,And tho began he forto museHou he the queene mihte excuseToward the king of that is falle;And fond a craft amonges alle,Thurgh which he hath a See foul daunted,With his magique and so enchaunted,    2130That he flyh forth, whan it was nyht,Unto the kinges tente riht,Wher that he lay amidde his host:And whanne he was aslepe most,With that the See foul to him broghteAnd othre charmes, whiche he wroghteAt hom withinne his chambre stille,The king he torneth at his wille,And makth him forto dreme and seThe dragoun and the privete    2140Which was betuen him and the queene.And over that he made him weneIn swevene, hou that the god Amos,Whan he up fro the queene aros,Tok forth a ring, wherinne a stonWas set, and grave theruponA Sonne, in which, whan he cam nyh,A leoun with a swerd he sih;And with that priente, as he tho mette,Upon the queenes wombe he sette    2150A Seal, and goth him forth his weie.With that the swevene wente aweie,And tho began the king awakeAnd sigheth for his wyves sake,Wher as he lay withinne his tente,And hath gret wonder what it mente.

With that he hasteth him to ryseAnon, and sende after the wise,Among the whiche ther was on,A clerc, his name is Amphion:    2160Whan he the kinges swevene herde,What it betokneth he ansuerde,And seith, “So siker as the lif,A god hath leie be thi wif,And gete a Sone, which schal winneThe world and al that is withinne.As leon is the king of bestes,So schal the world obeie his hestes,Which with his swerd schal al be wonne,Als ferr as schyneth eny Sonne.”    2170

The king was doubtif of this dom;Bot natheles, whan that he comAyein into his oghne lond,His wif with childe gret he fond.He mihte noght himselve stiere,That he ne made hire hevy chiere;Bot he which couthe of alle sorwe,Nectanabus, upon the morweThurgh the deceipte and nigromanceTok of a dragoun the semblance,    2180And wher the king sat in his halle,Com in rampende among hem alleWith such a noise and such a rore,That thei agast were also soreAs thogh thei scholde deie anon.And natheles he grieveth non,Bot goth toward the deyss on hih;And whan he cam the queene nyh,He stinte his noise, and in his wiseTo hire he profreth his servise,    2190And leith his hed upon hire barm;And sche with goodly chiere hire armAboute his necke ayeinward leide,And thus the queene with him pleideIn sihte of alle men aboute.And ate laste he gan to louteAnd obeissance unto hire make,As he that wolde his leve take;And sodeinly his lothly formeInto an Egle he gan transforme,    2200And flyh and sette him on a raile;Wherof the king hath gret mervaile,For there he pruneth him and piketh,As doth an hauk whan him wel liketh,And after that himself he schok,Wherof that al the halle quok,As it a terremote were;Thei seiden alle, god was there:In such a res and forth he flyh.

The king, which al this wonder syh,    2210Whan he cam to his chambre alone,Unto the queene he made his moneAnd of foryivenesse hir preide;For thanne he knew wel, as he seide,Sche was with childe with a godd.Thus was the king withoute roddChastised, and the queene excusedOf that sche hadde ben accused.And for the gretere evidence,Yit after that in the presence    2220Of king Philipp and othre mo,Whan thei ride in the fieldes tho,A Phesant cam before here yhe,The which anon as thei hire syhe,Fleende let an ey doun falle,And it tobrak tofore hem alle:And as thei token therof kepe,Thei syhe out of the schelle crepeA litel Serpent on the ground,Which rampeth al aboute round,    2230And in ayein it wolde have wonne,Bot for the brennynge of the SonneIt mihte noght, and so it deide.And therupon the clerkes seide,“As the Serpent, whan it was oute,Went enviroun the schelle abouteAnd mihte noght torne in ayein,So schal it fallen in certein:This child the world schal environe,And above alle the corone    2240Him schal befalle, and in yong AgeHe schal desire in his corage,Whan al the world is in his hond,To torn ayein into the londWher he was bore, and in his weieHomward he schal with puison deie.”

The king, which al this sih and herde,Fro that dai forth, hou so it ferde,His jalousie hath al foryete.Bot he which hath the child begete,    2250Nectanabus, in priveteThe time of his nativiteUpon the constellaciounAwaiteth, and relacionMakth to the queene hou sche schal do,And every houre apointeth so,That no mynut therof was lore.So that in due time is boreThis child, and forth with theruponTher felle wondres many on    2260Of terremote universiel:The Sonne tok colour of stielAnd loste his lyht, the wyndes blewe,And manye strengthes overthrewe;The See his propre kinde changeth,And al the world his forme strangeth;The thonder with his fyri leveneSo cruel was upon the hevene,That every erthli creatureTho thoghte his lif in aventure.    2270The tempeste ate laste cesseth,The child is kept, his age encresseth,And Alisandre his name is hote,To whom Calistre and AristoteTo techen him PhilosophieEntenden, and Astronomie,With othre thinges whiche he coutheAlso, to teche him in his youtheNectanabus tok upon honde.

Bot every man mai understonde,    2280Of Sorcerie hou that it wende,It wole himselve prove at ende,And namely forto beguileA lady, which withoute guileSupposeth trouthe al that sche hiereth:Bot often he that evele stierethHis Schip is dreynt therinne amidde;And in this cas riht so betidde.Nectanabus upon a nyht,Whan it was fair and sterre lyht,    2290This yonge lord ladde up on hihAbove a tour, wher as he sihThee sterres such as he acompteth,And seith what ech of hem amonteth,As thogh he knewe of alle thing;Bot yit hath he no knowlechingWhat schal unto himself befalle.Whan he hath told his wordes alle,This yonge lord thanne him opposeth,And axeth if that he supposeth    2300What deth he schal himselve deie.He seith, “Or fortune is aweieAnd every sterre hath lost his wone,Or elles of myn oghne SoneI schal be slain, I mai noght fle.”Thoghte Alisandre in privete,“Hierof this olde dotard lieth”:And er that other oght aspieth,Al sodeinliche his olde bonesHe schof over the wal at ones,    2310And seith him, “Ly doun there apart:Wherof nou serveth al thin art?Thou knewe alle othre mennes chanceAnd of thiself hast ignorance:That thou hast seid amonges alleOf thi persone, is noght befalle.”

Nectanabus, which hath his deth,Yit while him lasteth lif and breth,To Alisandre he spak and seideThat he with wrong blame on him leide    2320Fro point to point and al the casHe tolde, hou he his Sone was.Tho he, which sory was ynowh,Out of the dich his fader drouh,And tolde his moder hou it ferdeIn conseil; and whan sche it herdeAnd kneu the toknes whiche he tolde,Sche nyste what sche seie scholde,Bot stod abayssht as for the whileOf his magique and al the guile.    2330Sche thoghte hou that sche was deceived,That sche hath of a man conceived,And wende a god it hadde be.Bot natheles in such degre,So as sche mihte hire honour save,Sche schop the body was begrave.

And thus Nectanabus aboghteThe Sorcerie which he wroghte:Thogh he upon the creaturesThurgh his carectes and figures    2340The maistrie and the pouer hadde,His creatour to noght him ladde,Ayein whos lawe his craft he useth,Whan he for lust his god refuseth,And tok him to the dieules craft.Lo, what profit him is belaft:That thing thurgh which he wende have stonde,Ferst him exilede out of londeWhich was his oghne, and from a kingMade him to ben an underling;    2350And siththen to deceive a queene,That torneth him to mochel teene;Thurgh lust of love he gat him hate,That ende couthe he noght abate.His olde sleyhtes whiche he caste,Yonge Alisaundre hem overcaste,His fader, which him misbegat,He slouh, a gret mishap was that;Bot for o mis an other mysWas yolde, and so fulofte it is;    2360Nectanabus his craft miswente,So it misfell him er he wente.I not what helpeth that clergieWhich makth a man to do folie,And nameliche of nigromance,Which stant upon the mescreance.

And forto se more evidence,Zorastes, which thexperienceOf Art magique ferst forth drouh,Anon as he was bore, he louh,    2370Which tokne was of wo suinge:For of his oghne controvingeHe fond magique and tauhte it forth;Bot al that was him litel worth,For of Surrie a worthi kingHim slou, and that was his endyng.Bot yit thurgh him this craft is used,And he thurgh al the world accused,For it schal nevere wel achieveThat stant noght riht with the believe:    2380Bot lich to wolle is evele sponne,Who lest himself hath litel wonne,An ende proveth every thing.Saul, which was of Juys king,Up peine of deth forbad this art,And yit he tok therof his part.The Phitonesse in SamarieYaf him conseil be Sorcerie,Which after fell to mochel sorwe,For he was slain upon the morwe.    2390

To conne moche thing it helpeth,Bot of to mochel noman yelpeth:So forto loke on every side,Magique mai noght wel betyde.Forthi, my Sone, I wolde redeThat thou of these ensamples drede,That for no lust of erthli loveThou seche so to come above,Wherof as in the worldes wonderThou schalt for evere be put under.    2400

Mi goode fader, grant mercy,For evere I schal be war therby:Of love what me so befalle,Such Sorcerie aboven alleFro this dai forth I schal eschuie,That so ne wol I noght poursuieMi lust of love forto seche.Bot this I wolde you beseche,Beside that me stant of love,As I you herde speke above    2410Hou Alisandre was betawhtTo Aristotle, and so wel tawhtOf al that to a king belongeth,Wherof min herte sore longethTo wite what it wolde mene.For be reson I wolde weneThat if I herde of thinges strange,Yit for a time it scholde changeMi peine, and lisse me somdiel.

Mi goode Sone, thou seist wel.    2420For wisdom, hou that evere it stonde,To him that can it understondeDoth gret profit in sondri wise;Bot touchende of so hih aprise,Which is noght unto Venus knowe,I mai it noght miselve knowe,Which of hir court am al forthdraweAnd can nothing bot of hir lawe.Bot natheles to knowe moreAls wel as thou me longeth sore;    2430And for it helpeth to comune,Al ben thei noght to me comune,The scoles of Philosophie,Yit thenke I forto specefie,In boke as it is comprehended,Wherof thou mihtest ben amended.For thogh I be noght al cunnyngeUpon the forme of this wrytynge,Som part therof yit have I herd,In this matiere hou it hath ferd.    2440

Explicit Liber Sextus

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