Incipit Liber TerciusIra suis paribus est par furiis Acherontis,Quo furor ad tempus nil pietatis habet.Ira malencolicos animos perturbat, vt equoIure sui pondus nulla statera tenet.Omnibus in causis grauat Ira, set inter amantes,Illa magis facili sorte grauamen agit:Est vbi vir discors leuiterque repugnat amori,Sepe loco ludi fletus ad ora venit.If thou the vices lest to knowe,Mi Sone, it hath noght ben unknowe,Fro ferst that men the swerdes grounde,That ther nis on upon this grounde,A vice forein fro the lawe,Wherof that many a good felaweHath be distraght be sodein chance;And yit to kinde no plesanceIt doth, bot wher he most achievethHis pourpos, most to kinde he grieveth, 10As he which out of conscienceIs enemy to pacience:And is be name on of the Sevene,Which ofte hath set this world unevene,And cleped is the cruel Ire,Whos herte is everemore on fyreTo speke amis and to do bothe,For his servantz ben evere wrothe.Mi goode fader, tell me this:What thing is Ire? Sone, it is 20That in oure englissh Wrathe is hote,Which hath hise wordes ay so hote,That all a mannes pacienceIs fyred of the violence.For he with him hath evere fyveServantz that helpen him to stryve:The ferst of hem MalencolieIs cleped, which in compaignieAn hundred times in an houreWol as an angri beste loure, 30And noman wot the cause why.Mi Sone, schrif thee now forthi:Hast thou be Malencolien?Ye, fader, be seint Julien,Bot I untrewe wordes use,I mai me noght therof excuse:And al makth love, wel I wot,Of which myn herte is evere hot,So that I brenne as doth a gledeFor Wrathe that I mai noght spede. 40And thus fulofte a day for noghtSave onlich of myn oghne thoghtI am so with miselven wroth,That how so that the game gothWith othre men, I am noght glad;Bot I am wel the more unglad,For that is othre mennes gameIt torneth me to pure grame.Thus am I with miself oppressedOf thoght, the which I have impressed, 50That al wakende I dreme and meeteThat I with hire al one meeteAnd preie hire of som good ansuere:Bot for sche wol noght gladly swere,Sche seith me nay withouten oth;And thus wexe I withinne wroth,That outward I am al affraied,And so distempred and esmaied.A thousand times on a dayTher souneth in myn Eres nay, 60The which sche seide me tofore:Thus be my wittes as forlore;And namely whan I beginneTo rekne with miself withinneHow many yeres ben agon,Siththe I have trewly loved onAnd nevere tok of other hede,And evere aliche fer to spedeI am, the more I with hir dele,So that myn happ and al myn hele 70Me thenkth is ay the leng the ferre,That bringth my gladschip out of herre,Wherof my wittes ben empeired,And I, as who seith, al despeired.For finaly, whan that I museAnd thenke how sche me wol refuse,I am with anger so bestad,For al this world mihte I be glad:And for the while that it lastethAl up so doun my joie it casteth, 80And ay the furthere that I be,Whan I ne may my ladi se,The more I am redy to wraththe,That for the touchinge of a laththeOr for the torninge of a streeI wode as doth the wylde Se,And am so malencolious,That ther nys servant in myn housNe non of tho that ben aboute,That ech of hem ne stant in doute, 90And wenen that I scholde raveFor Anger that thei se me have;And so thei wondre more and lasse,Til that thei sen it overpasse.Bot, fader, if it so betide,That I aproche at eny tideThe place wher my ladi is,And thanne that hire like ywissTo speke a goodli word untome,For al the gold that is in Rome 100Ne cowthe I after that be wroth,Bot al myn Anger overgoth;So glad I am of the presenceOf hire, that I all offenceForyete, as thogh it were noght,So overgladed is my thoght.And natheles, the soth to telle,Ayeinward if it so befelleThat I at thilke time siheOn me that sche miscaste hire yhe, 110Or that sche liste noght to loke,And I therof good hiede toke,Anon into my ferste astatI torne, and am with al so mat,That evere it is aliche wicke.And thus myn hand ayein the prickeI hurte and have do many day,And go so forth as I go may,Fulofte bitinge on my lippe,And make unto miself a whippe. 120With which in many a chele and heteMi wofull herte is so tobete,That all my wittes ben unsofteAnd I am wroth, I not how ofte;And al it is Malencolie,Which groweth of the fantasieOf love, that me wol noght loute:So bere I forth an angri snouteFul manye times in a yer.Bot, fader, now ye sitten hier 130In loves stede, I yow beseche,That som ensample ye me teche,Wherof I mai miself appese.Mi Sone, for thin hertes eseI schal fulfille thi preiere,So that thou miht the betre lereWhat mischief that this vice stereth,Which in his Anger noght forbereth,Wherof that after him forthenketh,Whan he is sobre and that he thenketh 140Upon the folie of his dede;And of this point a tale I rede.Ther was a king which EolusWas hote, and it befell him thus,That he tuo children hadde faire,The Sone cleped was Machaire,The dowhter ek Canace hihte.Be daie bothe and ek be nyhte,Whil thei be yonge, of comun woneIn chambre thei togedre wone, 150And as thei scholden pleide hem ofte,Til thei be growen up alofteInto the youthe of lusti age,Whan kinde assaileth the corageWith love and doth him forto bowe,That he no reson can allowe,Bot halt the lawes of nature:For whom that love hath under cure,As he is blind himself, riht soHe makth his client blind also. 160In such manere as I you telleAs thei al day togedre duelle,This brother mihte it noght asterteThat he with al his hole herteHis love upon his Soster caste:And so it fell hem ate laste,That this Machaire with CanaceWhan thei were in a prive place,Cupide bad hem ferst to kesse,And after sche which is Maistresse 170In kinde and techeth every lifWithoute lawe positif,Of which sche takth nomaner charge,Bot kepth hire lawes al at large,Nature, tok hem into loreAnd tawht hem so, that overmoreSche hath hem in such wise daunted,That thei were, as who seith, enchaunted.And as the blinde an other ledethAnd til thei falle nothing dredeth, 180Riht so thei hadde non insihte;Bot as the bridd which wole alihteAnd seth the mete and noght the net,Which in deceipte of him is set,This yonge folk no peril sihe,Bot that was likinge in here yhe,So that thei felle upon the chanceWhere witt hath lore his remembrance.So longe thei togedre assemble,The wombe aros, and sche gan tremble, 190And hield hire in hire chambre closFor drede it scholde be disclosAnd come to hire fader Ere:Wherof the Sone hadde also fere,And feigneth cause forto ryde;For longe dorste he noght abyde,In aunter if men wolde seinThat he his Soster hath forlein:For yit sche hadde it noght beknoweWhos was the child at thilke throwe. 200Machaire goth, Canace abit,The which was noght delivered yit,Bot riht sone after that sche was.Now lest and herkne a woful cas.The sothe, which mai noght ben hid,Was ate laste knowe and kidUnto the king, how that it stod.And whan that he it understod,Anon into Malencolie,As thogh it were a frenesie, 210He fell, as he which nothing cowtheHow maistrefull love is in yowthe:And for he was to love strange,He wolde noght his herte changeTo be benigne and favorableTo love, bot unmerciableBetwen the wawe of wod and wrothInto his dowhtres chambre he goth,And sih the child was late bore,Wherof he hath hise othes swore 220That sche it schal ful sore abye.And sche began merci to crie,Upon hire bare knes and preide,And to hire fader thus sche seide:“Ha mercy! fader, thenk I amThi child, and of thi blod I cam.That I misdede yowthe it made,And in the flodes bad me wade,Wher that I sih no peril tho:Bot now it is befalle so, 230Merci, my fader, do no wreche!”And with that word sche loste specheAnd fell doun swounende at his fot,As sche for sorwe nedes mot.Bot his horrible crualteTher mihte attempre no pite:Out of hire chambre forth he wenteAl full of wraththe in his entente,And tok the conseil in his herteThat sche schal noght the deth asterte, 240As he which MalencolienOf pacience hath no lien,Wherof the wraththe he mai restreigne.And in this wilde wode peine,Whanne al his resoun was untame,A kniht he clepeth be his name,And tok him as be weie of sondeA naked swerd to bere on honde,And seide him that he scholde goAnd telle unto his dowhter so 250In the manere as he him bad,How sche that scharpe swerdes bladReceive scholde and do withalSo as sche wot wherto it schal.Forth in message goth this knihtUnto this wofull yonge wiht,This scharpe swerd to hire he tok:Wherof that al hire bodi qwok,For wel sche wiste what it mente,And that it was to thilke entente 260That sche hireselven scholde slee.And to the kniht sche seide: “Yee,Now that I wot my fadres wille,That I schal in this wise spille,I wole obeie me therto,And as he wole it schal be do.Bot now this thing mai be non other,I wole a lettre unto mi brother,So as my fieble hand may wryte,With al my wofull herte endite.” 270Sche tok a Penne on honde tho,Fro point to point and al the wo,Als ferforth as hireself it wot,Unto hire dedly frend sche wrot,And tolde how that hire fader graceSche mihte for nothing pourchace;And overthat, as thou schalt hiere,Sche wrot and seide in this manere:“O thou my sorwe and my gladnesse,O thou myn hele and my siknesse, 280O my wanhope and al my trust,O my desese and al my lust,O thou my wele, o thou my wo,O thou my frend, o thou my fo,O thou my love, o thou myn hate,For thee mot I be ded algate.Thilke ende may I noght asterte,And yit with al myn hole herte,Whil that me lasteth eny breth,I wol the love into my deth. 290Bot of o thing I schal thee preie,If that my litel Sone deie,Let him be beried in my graveBeside me, so schalt thou haveUpon ous bothe remembrance.For thus it stant of my grevance;Now at this time, as thou schalt wite,With teres and with enke writeThis lettre I have in cares colde:In my riht hond my Penne I holde, 300And in my left the swerd I kepe,And in my barm ther lith to wepeThi child and myn, which sobbeth faste.Now am I come unto my laste:Fare wel, for I schal sone deie,And thenk how I thi love abeie.”The pomel of the swerd to groundeSche sette, and with the point a woundeThurghout hire herte anon sche made,And forth with that al pale and fade 310Sche fell doun ded fro ther sche stod.The child lay bathende in hire blodOut rolled fro the moder barm,And for the blod was hot and warm,He basketh him aboute thrinne.Ther was no bote forto winne,For he, which can no pite knowe,The king cam in the same throwe,And sih how that his dowhter diethAnd how this Babe al blody crieth; 320Bot al that mihte him noght suffise,That he ne bad to do juiseUpon the child, and bere him oute,And seche in the Forest abouteSom wilde place, what it were,To caste him out of honde there,So that som best him mai devoure,Where as noman him schal socoure.Al that he bad was don in dede:Ha, who herde evere singe or rede 330Of such a thing as that was do?Bot he which ladde his wraththe soHath knowe of love bot a lite;Bot for al that he was to wyte,Thurgh his sodein MalencolieTo do so gret a felonie.Forthi, my Sone, how so it stonde,Be this cas thou miht understondeThat if thou evere in cause of loveSchalt deme, and thou be so above 340That thou miht lede it at thi wille,Let nevere thurgh thi Wraththe spilleWhich every kinde scholde save.For it sit every man to haveReward to love and to his miht,Ayein whos strengthe mai no wiht:And siththe an herte is so constreigned,The reddour oghte be restreignedTo him that mai no bet aweie,Whan he mot to nature obeie. 350For it is seid thus overal,That nedes mot that nede schalOf that a lif doth after kinde,Wherof he mai no bote finde.What nature hath set in hir laweTher mai no mannes miht withdrawe,And who that worcheth therayein,Fulofte time it hath be sein,Ther hath befalle gret vengance,Wherof I finde a remembrance. 360Ovide after the time thoTolde an ensample and seide so,How that whilom Tiresias,As he walkende goth per cas,Upon an hih Montaine he sihTuo Serpentz in his weie nyh,And thei, so as nature hem tawhte,Assembled were, and he tho cawhteA yerde which he bar on honde,And thoghte that he wolde fonde 370To letten hem, and smot hem bothe:Wherof the goddes weren wrothe;And for he hath destourbed kindeAnd was so to nature unkinde,Unkindeliche he was transformed,That he which erst a man was formedInto a womman was forschape.That was to him an angri jape;Bot for that he with Angre wroghte,Hise Angres angreliche he boghte. 380Lo thus, my Sone, Ovide hath write,Wherof thou miht be reson wite,More is a man than such a beste:So mihte it nevere ben honesteA man to wraththen him to soreOf that an other doth the loreOf kinde, in which is no malice,Bot only that it is a vice:And thogh a man be resonable,Yit after kinde he is menable 390To love, wher he wole or non.Thenk thou, my Sone, theruponAnd do Malencolie aweie;For love hath evere his lust to pleie,As he which wolde no lif grieve.Mi fader, that I mai wel lieve;Al that ye tellen it is skile:Let every man love as he wile,Be so it be noght my ladi,For I schal noght be wroth therby. 400Bot that I wraththe and fare amis,Al one upon miself it is,That I with bothe love and kindeAm so bestad, that I can findeNo weie how I it mai asterte:Which stant upon myn oghne herteAnd toucheth to non other lif,Save only to that swete wifFor whom, bot if it be amended,Mi glade daies ben despended, 410That I miself schal noght forbereThe Wraththe which that I now bere,For therof is non other leche.Now axeth forth, I yow beseche,Of Wraththe if ther oght elles is,Wherof to schryve. Sone, yis.Of Wraththe the secounde is Cheste,Which hath the wyndes of tempesteTo kepe, and many a sodein blastHe bloweth, wherof ben agast 420Thei that desiren pes and reste.He is that ilke ungoodliesteWhich many a lusti love hath twinned;For he berth evere his mowth unpinned,So that his lippes ben unlokeAnd his corage is al tobroke,That every thing which he can telle,It springeth up as doth a welle,Which mai non of his stremes hyde,Bot renneth out on every syde. 430So buillen up the foule sawesThat Cheste wot of his felawes:For as a Sive kepeth Ale,Riht so can Cheste kepe a tale;Al that he wot he wol desclose,And speke er eny man oppose.As a Cite withoute wal,Wher men mai gon out overalWithouten eny resistence,So with his croked eloquence 440He spekth al that he wot withinne:Wherof men lese mor than winne,For ofte time of his chidingeHe bringth to house such tidinge,That makth werre ate beddeshed.He is the levein of the bred,Which soureth al the past aboute:Men oghte wel such on to doute,For evere his bowe is redi bent,And whom he hit I telle him schent, 450If he mai perce him with his tunge.And ek so lowde his belle is runge,That of the noise and of the sounMen feeren hem in al the tounWelmore than thei don of thonder.For that is cause of more wonder;For with the wyndes whiche he blowethFulofte sythe he overthrowethThe Cites and the policie,That I have herd the poeple crie, 460And echon seide in his degre,“Ha wicke tunge, wo thee be!”For men sein that the harde bon,Althogh himselven have non,A tunge brekth it al to pieces.He hath so manye sondri spiecesOf vice, that I mai noght welDescrive hem be a thousendel:Bot whan that he to Cheste falleth,Ful many a wonder thing befalleth, 470For he ne can nothing forbere.Now tell me, Sone, thin ansuere,If it hath evere so betidd,That thou at eny time hast chiddToward thi love.Fader, nay:Such Cheste yit unto this dayNe made I nevere, god forbede:For er I sunge such a crede,I hadde levere to be lewed;For thanne were I al beschrewed 480And worthi to be put abakWith al the sorwe upon my bakThat eny man ordeigne cowthe.Bot I spak nevere yit be mowtheThat unto Cheste mihte touche,And that I durste riht wel voucheUpon hirself as for witnesse;For I wot, of hir gentilesseThat sche me wolde wel excuse,That I no suche thinges use. 490And if it scholde so betideThat I algates moste chide,It myhte noght be to my love:For so yit was I nevere above,For al this wyde world to winneThat I dorste eny word beginne,Be which sche mihte have ben amoevedAnd I of Cheste also reproeved.Bot rathere, if it mihte hir like,The beste wordes wolde I pike 500Whiche I cowthe in myn herte chese,And serve hem forth in stede of chese,For that is helplich to defie;And so wolde I my wordes plie,That mihten Wraththe and Cheste avaleWith tellinge of my softe tale.Thus dar I make a foreward,That nevere unto my ladiwardYit spak I word in such a wise,Wherof that Cheste scholde arise. 510This seie I noght, that I fulofteNe have, whanne I spak most softe,Per cas seid more thanne ynowh;Bot so wel halt noman the plowhThat he ne balketh otherwhile,Ne so wel can noman affileHis tunge, that som time in rapeHim mai som liht word overscape,And yit ne meneth he no Cheste.Bot that I have ayein hir heste 520Fulofte spoke, I am beknowe;And how my will is, that ye knowe:For whan my time comth aboute,That I dar speke and seie al outeMi longe love, of which sche wotThat evere in on aliche hotMe grieveth, thanne al my deseseI telle, and though it hir desplese,I speke it forth and noght ne leve:And thogh it be beside hire leve, 530I hope and trowe nathelesThat I do noght ayein the pes;For thogh I telle hire al my thoght,Sche wot wel that I chyde noght.Men mai the hihe god beseche,And he wol hiere a mannes specheAnd be noght wroth of that he seith;So yifth it me the more feithAnd makth me hardi, soth to seie,That I dar wel the betre preie 540Mi ladi, which a womman is.For thogh I telle hire that or thisOf love, which me grieveth sore,Hire oghte noght be wroth the more,For I withoute noise or criMi pleignte make al buxomlyTo puten alle wraththe away.Thus dar I seie unto this dayOf Cheste in ernest or in gameMi ladi schal me nothing blame. 550Bot ofte time it hath betiddThat with miselven I have chidd,That noman couthe betre chide:And that hath ben at every tide,Whanne I cam to miself al one;For thanne I made a prive mone,And every tale by and by,Which as I spak to my ladi,I thenke and peise in my balanceAnd drawe into my remembrance; 560And thanne, if that I finde a lakOf eny word that I mispak,Which was to moche in eny wise,Anon my wittes I despiseAnd make a chidinge in myn herte,That eny word me scholde asterteWhich as I scholde have holden inne.And so forth after I beginneAnd loke if ther was elles oghtTo speke, and I ne spak it noght: 570And thanne, if I mai seche and findeThat eny word be left behinde,Which as I scholde more have spoke,I wolde upon miself be wroke,And chyde with miselven soThat al my wit is overgo.For noman mai his time loreRecovere, and thus I am therforeSo overwroth in al my thoght,That I myself chide al to noght: 580Thus for to moche or for to liteFulofte I am miself to wyte.Bot al that mai me noght availe,With cheste thogh I me travaile:Bot Oule on Stock and Stock on Oule;The more that a man defoule,Men witen wel which hath the werse;And so to me nys worth a kerse,Bot torneth on myn oghne hed,Thogh I, til that I were ded, 590Wolde evere chyde in such a wiseOf love as I to you devise.Bot, fader, now ye have al herdIn this manere how I have ferdOf Cheste and of dissencioun,Yif me youre absolucioun.Mi Sone, if that thou wistest al,What Cheste doth in specialTo love and to his welwillinge,Thou woldest flen his knowlechinge 600And lerne to be debonaire.For who that most can speke faireIs most acordende unto love:Fair speche hath ofte brought aboveFul many a man, as it is knowe,Which elles scholde have be riht loweAnd failed mochel of his wille.Forthi hold thou thi tunge stilleAnd let thi witt thi wille areste,So that thou falle noght in Cheste, 610Which is the source of gret destance:And tak into thi remembranceIf thou miht gete pacience,Which is the leche of alle offence,As tellen ous these olde wise:For whan noght elles mai suffiseBe strengthe ne be mannes wit,Than pacience it oversitAnd overcomth it ate laste;Bot he mai nevere longe laste, 620Which wol noght bowe er that he breke.Tak hiede, Sone, of that I speke.Mi fader, of your goodli specheAnd of the witt which ye me techeI thonke you with al myn herte:For that world schal me nevere asterte,That I ne schal your wordes holde,Of Pacience as ye me tolde,Als ferforth as myn herte thenketh;And of my wraththe it me forthenketh. 630Bot, fader, if ye forth withalSom good ensample in specialMe wolden telle of som Cronique,It scholde wel myn herte likeOf pacience forto hiere,So that I mihte in mi matiereThe more unto my love obeieAnd puten mi desese aweie.Mi Sone, a man to beie him pesBehoveth soffre as Socrates 640Ensample lefte, which is write:And for thou schalt the sothe wite,Of this ensample what I mene,Althogh it be now litel seneAmong the men thilke evidence,Yit he was upon pacienceSo sett, that he himself assaieIn thing which mihte him most mispaieDesireth, and a wickid wifHe weddeth, which in sorwe and strif 650Ayein his ese was contraire.Bot he spak evere softe and faire,Til it befell, as it is told,In wynter, whan the dai is cold,This wif was fro the welle come,Wher that a pot with water nomeSche hath, and broghte it into house,And sih how that hire seli spouseWas sett and loked on a bokNyh to the fyr, as he which tok 660His ese for a man of age.And sche began the wode rage,And axeth him what devel he thoghte,And bar on hond that him ne roghteWhat labour that sche toke on honde,And seith that such an HousebondeWas to a wif noght worth a Stre.He seide nowther nay ne ye,Bot hield him stille and let hire chyde;And sche, which mai hirself noght hyde, 670Began withinne forto swelle,And that sche broghte in fro the welle,The waterpot sche hente alofteAnd bad him speke, and he al softeSat stille and noght a word ansuerde;And sche was wroth that he so ferde,And axeth him if he be ded;And al the water on his hedSche pourede oute and bad awake.Bot he, which wolde noght forsake 680His Pacience, thanne spak,And seide how that he fond no lakIn nothing which sche hadde do:For it was wynter time tho,And wynter, as be weie of kindeWhich stormy is, as men it finde,Ferst makth the wyndes forto blowe,And after that withinne a throweHe reyneth and the watergatesUndoth; “and thus my wif algates, 690Which is with reson wel besein,Hath mad me bothe wynd and reinAfter the Sesoun of the yer.”And thanne he sette him nerr the fer,And as he mihte hise clothes dreide,That he nomore o word ne seide;Wherof he gat him somdel reste,For that him thoghte was the beste.I not if thilke ensample yitAcordeth with a mannes wit, 700To soffre as Socrates tho dede:And if it falle in eny stedeA man to lese so his galle,Him oghte among the wommen alleIn loves Court be juggementThe name bere of Pacient,To yive ensample to the goodeOf pacience how that it stode,That othre men it mihte knowe.And, Sone, if thou at eny throwe 710Be tempted ayein Pacience,Tak hiede upon this evidence;It schal per cas the lasse grieve.Mi fader, so as I believe,Of that schal be no maner nede,For I wol take so good hiede,That er I falle in such assai,I thenke eschuie it, if I mai.Bot if ther be oght elles moreWherof I mihte take lore, 720I preie you, so as I dar,Now telleth, that I mai be war,Som other tale in this matiere.Sone, it is evere good to lere,Wherof thou miht thi word restreigne,Er that thou falle in eny peine.For who that can no conseil hyde,He mai noght faile of wo beside,Which schal befalle er he it wite,As I finde in the bokes write. 730Yit cam ther nevere good of strif,To seche in all a mannes lif:Thogh it beginne on pure game,Fulofte it torneth into grameAnd doth grevance upon som side.Wherof the grete Clerk OvideAfter the lawe which was thoOf Jupiter and of JunoMakth in his bokes menciounHow thei felle at dissencioun 740In manere as it were a borde,As thei begunne forto wordeAmong hemself in privete:And that was upon this degree,Which of the tuo more amorous is,Or man or wif. And upon thisThei mihten noght acorde in on,And toke a jugge therupon,Which cleped is Tiresias,And bede him demen in the cas; 750And he withoute avisementAyein Juno yaf juggement.This goddesse upon his ansuereWas wroth and wolde noght forbere,Bot tok awey for everemoThe liht fro bothe hise yhen tuo.Whan Jupiter this harm hath sein,An other bienfait therayeinHe yaf, and such a grace him doth,That for he wiste he seide soth, 760A Sothseiere he was for evere:Bot yit that other were levere,Have had the lokinge of his yhe,Than of his word the prophecie;Bot how so that the sothe wente,Strif was the cause of that he henteSo gret a peine bodily.Mi Sone, be thou war ther by,And hold thi tunge stille clos:For who that hath his word desclos 770Er that he wite what he mene,He is fulofte nyh his teneAnd lest ful many time grace,Wher that he wolde his thonk pourchace.And over this, my Sone diere,Of othre men, if thou miht hiereIn privete what thei have wroght,Hold conseil and descoevere it noght,For Cheste can no conseil hele,Or be it wo or be it wele: 780And tak a tale into thi mynde,The which of olde ensample I finde.Phebus, which makth the daies lihte,A love he hadde, which tho hihteCornide, whom aboven alleHe pleseth: bot what schal befalleOf love ther is noman knoweth,Bot as fortune hire happes throweth.So it befell upon a chaunce,A yong kniht tok hire aqueintance 790And hadde of hire al that he wolde:Bot a fals bridd, which sche hath holdeAnd kept in chambre of pure yowthe,Discoevereth all that evere he cowthe.This briddes name was as thoCorvus, the which was thanne alsoWelmore whyt than eny Swan,And he that schrewe al that he canOf his ladi to Phebus seide;And he for wraththe his swerd outbreide, 800With which Cornide anon he slowh.Bot after him was wo ynowh,And tok a full gret repentance,Wherof in tokne and remembranceOf hem whiche usen wicke speche,Upon this bridd he tok this wreche,That ther he was snow whyt tofore,Evere afterward colblak therforeHe was transformed, as it scheweth,And many a man yit him beschreweth, 810And clepen him into this dayA Raven, be whom yit men maiTake evidence, whan he crieth,That som mishapp it signefieth.Be war therfore and sei the beste,If thou wolt be thiself in reste,Mi goode Sone, as I the rede.For in an other place I redeOf thilke Nimphe which Laar hihte:For sche the privete be nyhte, 820How Jupiter lay be Jutorne,Hath told, god made hire overtorne:Hire tunge he kutte, and into helleFor evere he sende hir forto duelle,As sche that was noght worthi hiereTo ben of love a Chamberere,For sche no conseil cowthe hele.And suche adaies be now feleIn loves Court, as it is seid,That lete here tunges gon unteid. 830Mi Sone, be thou non of tho,To jangle and telle tales so,And namely that thou ne chyde,For Cheste can no conseil hide,For Wraththe seide nevere wel.Mi fader, soth is everydelThat ye me teche, and I wol holdeThe reule to which I am holde,To fle the Cheste, as ye me bidde,For wel is him that nevere chidde. 840Now tell me forth if ther be moreAs touchende unto Wraththes lore.Of Wraththe yit ther is an other,Which is to Cheste his oghne brother,And is be name cleped Hate,That soffreth noght withinne his gateThat ther come owther love or pes,For he wol make no relesOf no debat which is befalle.Now spek, if thou art on of alle, 850That with this vice hast ben withholde.As yit for oght that ye me tolde,Mi fader, I not what it is.In good feith, Sone, I trowe yis.Mi fader, nay, bot ye me lere.Now lest, my Sone, and thou schalt here.Hate is a wraththe noght schewende,Bot of long time gaderende,And duelleth in the herte loken,Til he se time to be wroken; 860And thanne he scheweth his tempesteMor sodein than the wilde beste,Which wot nothing what merci is.Mi Sone, art thou knowende of this?My goode fader, as I wene,Now wot I somdel what ye mene;Bot I dar saufly make an oth,Mi ladi was me nevere loth.I wol noght swere nathelesThat I of hate am gulteles; 870For whanne I to my ladi plieFro dai to dai and merci crie,And sche no merci on me leithBot schorte wordes to me seith,Thogh I my ladi love algate,Tho wordes moste I nedes hate;And wolde thei were al despent,Or so ferr oute of londe wentThat I nevere after scholde hem hiere;And yit love I my ladi diere. 880Thus is ther Hate, as ye mai se,Betwen mi ladi word and me;The word I hate and hire I love,What so me schal betide of love.Bot forthere mor I wol me schryve,That I have hated al my lyveThese janglers, whiche of here EnvieBen evere redi forto lie;For with here fals compassementFuloften thei have mad me schent 890And hindred me fulofte time,Whan thei no cause wisten bime,Bot onliche of here oghne thoght:And thus fuloften have I boghtThe lie, and drank noght of the wyn.I wolde here happ were such as myn:For how so that I be now schrive,To hem ne mai I noght foryive,Til that I se hem at debatWith love, and thanne myn astat 900Thei mihten be here oghne deme,And loke how wel it scholde hem qwemeTo hindre a man that loveth sore.And thus I hate hem everemore,Til love on hem wol don his wreche:For that schal I alway besecheUnto the mihti Cupido,That he so mochel wolde do,So as he is of love a godd,To smyte hem with the same rodd 910With which I am of love smite;So that thei mihten knowe and witeHow hindringe is a wofull peineTo him that love wolde atteigne.Thus evere on hem I wayte and hope,Til I mai sen hem lepe a lope,And halten on the same SorWhich I do now: for overmorI wolde thanne do my myhtSo forto stonden in here lyht, 920That thei ne scholden finde a weieTo that thei wolde, bot aweieI wolde hem putte out of the stedeFro love, riht as thei me dedeWith that thei speke of me be mowthe.So wolde I do, if that I cowthe,Of hem, and this, so god me save,Is al the hate that I have,Toward these janglers everydiel;I wolde alle othre ferde wel. 930Thus have I, fader, said mi wille;Say ye now forth, for I am stille.Mi Sone, of that thou hast me saidI holde me noght fulli paid:That thou wolt haten eny man,To that acorden I ne can,Thogh he have hindred thee tofore.Bot this I telle thee therfore,Thou miht upon my beneicounWel haten the condicioun 940Of tho janglers, as thou me toldest,Bot furthermor, of that thou woldestHem hindre in eny other wise,Such Hate is evere to despise.Forthi, mi Sone, I wol thee rede,That thou drawe in be frendlihedeThat thou ne miht noght do be hate;So miht thou gete love algateAnd sette thee, my Sone, in reste,For thou schalt finde it for the beste. 950And over this, so as I dar,I rede that thou be riht warOf othre mennes hate aboute,Which every wysman scholde doute:For Hate is evere upon await,And as the fisshere on his baitSleth, whan he seth the fisshes faste,So, whan he seth time ate laste,That he mai worche an other wo,Schal noman tornen him therfro, 960That Hate nyle his felonieFulfille and feigne compaignieYit natheles, for fals SemblantIs toward him of covenantWithholde, so that under botheThe prive wraththe can him clothe,That he schal seme of gret believe.Bot war thee wel that thou ne lieveAl that thou sest tofore thin yhe,So as the Gregois whilom syhe: 970The bok of Troie who so rede,Ther mai he finde ensample in dede.Sone after the destruccioun,Whan Troie was al bete dounAnd slain was Priamus the king,The Gregois, whiche of al this thingBen cause, tornen hom ayein.Ther mai noman his happ withsein;It hath be sen and felt fulofte,The harde time after the softe: 980Be See as thei forth homward wente,A rage of gret tempeste hem hente;Juno let bende hire parti bowe,The Sky wax derk, the wynd gan blowe,The firy welkne gan to thondre,As thogh the world scholde al to sondre;Fro hevene out of the watergatesThe reyni Storm fell doun algatesAnd al here takel made unwelde,That noman mihte himself bewelde. 990Ther mai men hiere Schipmen crie,That stode in aunter forto die:He that behinde sat to stiereMai noght the forestempne hiere;The Schip aros ayein the wawes,The lodesman hath lost his lawes,The See bet in on every side:Thei nysten what fortune abide,Bot sette hem al in goddes wille,Wher he hem wolde save or spille. 1000And it fell thilke time thus:Ther was a king, the which NamplusWas hote, and he a Sone hadde,At Troie which the Gregois ladde,As he that was mad Prince of alle,Til that fortune let him falle:His name was Palamades.Bot thurgh an hate nathelesOf some of hem his deth was castAnd he be tresoun overcast. 1010His fader, whan he herde it telle,He swor, if evere his time felle,He wolde him venge, if that he mihte,And therto his avou behihte:And thus this king thurgh prive hateAbod upon await algate,For he was noght of such empriseTo vengen him in open wise.The fame, which goth wyde where,Makth knowe how that the Gregois were 1020Homward with al the felaschipeFro Troie upon the See be Schipe.Namplus, whan he this understod,And knew the tydes of the flod,And sih the wynd blew to the lond,A gret deceipte anon he fondOf prive hate, as thou schalt hiere,Wherof I telle al this matiere.This king the weder gan beholde,And wiste wel thei moten holde 1030Here cours endlong his marche riht,And made upon the derke nyhtOf grete Schydes and of blockesGret fyr ayein the grete rockes,To schewe upon the helles hihe,So that the Flete of Grece it sihe.And so it fell riht as he thoghte:This Flete, which an havene soghte,The bryghte fyres sih a ferr,And thei hem drowen nerr and nerr, 1040And wende wel and understodeHow al that fyr was made for goode,To schewe wher men scholde aryve,And thiderward thei hasten blyve.In Semblant, as men sein, is guile,And that was proved thilke while;The Schip, which wende his helpe acroche,Drof al to pieces on the roche,And so ther deden ten or twelve;Ther mihte noman helpe himselve, 1050For ther thei wenden deth ascape,Withouten help here deth was schape.Thus thei that comen ferst toforeUpon the Rockes be forlore,Bot thurgh the noise and thurgh the criThese othre were al war therby;And whan the dai began to rowe,Tho mihten thei the sothe knowe,That wher they wenden frendes finde,Thei founden frenschipe al behinde. 1060The lond was thanne sone weyved,Wher that thei hadden be deceived,And toke hem to the hihe See;Therto thei seiden alle yee,Fro that dai forth and war thei wereOf that thei hadde assaied there.Mi Sone, hierof thou miht aviseHow fraude stant in many wiseAmonges hem that guile thenke;Ther is no Scrivein with his enke 1070Which half the fraude wryte canThat stant in such a maner man:Forthi the wise men ne demenThe thinges after that thei semen,Bot after that thei knowe and finde.The Mirour scheweth in his kindeAs he hadde al the world withinne,And is in soth nothing therinne;And so farth Hate for a throwe:Til he a man hath overthrowe, 1080Schal noman knowe be his chereWhich is avant, ne which arere.Forthi, mi Sone, thenke on this.Mi fader, so I wole ywiss;And if ther more of Wraththe be,Now axeth forth per charite,As ye be youre bokes knowe,And I the sothe schal beknowe.Mi Sone, thou schalt understondeThat yit towardes Wraththe stonde 1090Of dedly vices othre tuo:And forto telle here names so,It is Contek and Homicide,That ben to drede on every side.Contek, so as the bokes sein,Folhast hath to his Chamberlein,Be whos conseil al unavisedIs Pacience most despised,Til Homicide with hem meete.Fro merci thei ben al unmeete, 1100And thus ben thei the worste of alleOf hem whiche unto wraththe falle,In dede bothe and ek in thoght:For thei acompte here wraththe at noght,Bot if ther be schedinge of blod;And thus lich to a beste wodThei knowe noght the god of lif.Be so thei have or swerd or knifHere dedly wraththe forto wreke,Of Pite list hem noght to speke; 1110Non other reson thei ne fonge,Bot that thei ben of mihtes stronge.Bot war hem wel in other place,Where every man behoveth grace,Bot ther I trowe it schal hem faile,To whom no merci mihte availe,Bot wroghten upon tiraundie,That no pite ne mihte hem plie.Now tell, my Sone.Fader, what?If thou hast be coupable of that. 1120Mi fader, nay, Crist me forbiede:I speke onliche as of the dede,Of which I nevere was coupableWithoute cause resonable.Bot this is noght to mi matiereOf schrifte, why we sitten hiere;For we ben sett to schryve of love,As we begunne ferst above:And natheles I am beknoweThat as touchende of loves throwe, 1130Whan I my wittes overwende,Min hertes contek hath non ende,Bot evere it stant upon debatTo gret desese of myn astatAs for the time that it lasteth.For whan mi fortune overcastethHire whiel and is to me so strange,And that I se sche wol noght change,Than caste I al the world aboute,And thenke hou I at home and oute 1140Have al my time in vein despended,And se noght how to ben amended,Bot rathere forto be empeired,As he that is welnyh despeired:For I ne mai no thonk deserve,And evere I love and evere I serve,And evere I am aliche nerr.Thus, for I stonde in such a wer,I am, as who seith, out of herre;And thus upon miself the werre 1150I bringe, and putte out alle pes,That I fulofte in such a resAm wery of myn oghne lif.So that of Contek and of strifI am beknowe and have ansuerd,As ye, my fader, now have herd.Min herte is wonderly begonWith conseil, wherof witt is on,Which hath resoun in compaignie;Ayein the whiche stant partie 1160Will, which hath hope of his acord,And thus thei bringen up descord.Witt and resoun conseilen ofteThat I myn herte scholde softe,And that I scholde will remueAnd put him out of retenue,Or elles holde him under fote:For as thei sein, if that he moteHis oghne rewle have upon honde,Ther schal no witt ben understonde. 1170Of hope also thei tellen this,That overal, wher that he is,He set the herte in jeupartieWith wihssinge and with fantasie,And is noght trewe of that he seith,So that in him ther is no feith:Thus with reson and wit avisedIs will and hope aldai despised.Reson seith that I scholde leveTo love, wher ther is no leve 1180To spede, and will seith therayeinThat such an herte is to vilein,Which dar noght love and til he spede,Let hope serve at such a nede:He seith ek, where an herte sitAl hol governed upon wit,He hath this lyves lust forlore.And thus myn herte is al totoreOf such a Contek as thei make:Bot yit I mai noght will forsake, 1190That he nys Maister of my thoght,Or that I spede, or spede noght.Thou dost, my Sone, ayein the riht;Bot love is of so gret a miht,His lawe mai noman refuse,So miht thou thee the betre excuse.And natheles thou schalt be lernedThat will scholde evere be governedOf reson more than of kinde,Wherof a tale write I finde. 1200A Philosophre of which men toldeTher was whilom be daies olde,And Diogenes thanne he hihte.So old he was that he ne mihteThe world travaile, and for the besteHe schop him forto take his reste,And duelte at hom in such a wise,That nyh his hous he let deviseEndlong upon an AxeltreTo sette a tonne in such degre, 1210That he it mihte torne aboute;Wherof on hed was taken oute,For he therinne sitte scholdeAnd torne himself so as he wolde,To take their and se the heveneAnd deme of the planetes sevene,As he which cowthe mochel what.And thus fulofte there he satTo muse in his philosophieSolein withoute compaignie: 1220So that upon a morwetyde,As thing which scholde so betyde,Whan he was set ther as him listeTo loke upon the Sonne ariste,Wherof the propretes he sih,It fell ther cam ridende nyhKing Alisandre with a route;And as he caste his yhe aboute,He sih this Tonne, and what it menteHe wolde wite, and thider sente 1230A knyht, be whom he mihte it knowe,And he himself that ilke throweAbod, and hoveth there stille.This kniht after the kinges willeWith spore made his hors to gonAnd to the tonne he cam anon,Wher that he fond a man of Age,And he him tolde the message,Such as the king him hadde bede,And axeth why in thilke stede 1240The Tonne stod, and what it was.And he, which understod the cas,Sat stille and spak no word ayein.The kniht bad speke and seith, “Vilein,Thou schalt me telle, er that I go;It is thi king which axeth so.”“Mi king,” quod he, “that were unriht.”“What is he thanne?” seith the kniht,“Is he thi man?” “That seie I noght,”Quod he, “bot this I am bethoght, 1250Mi mannes man hou that he is.”“Thou lyest, false cherl, ywiss,”The kniht him seith, and was riht wroth,And to the king ayein he gothAnd tolde him how this man ansuerde.The king, whan he this tale herde,Bad that thei scholden alle abyde,For he himself wol thider ryde.And whan he cam tofore the tonne,He hath his tale thus begonne: 1260“Alheil,” he seith, “what man art thou?”Quod he, “Such on as thou sest now.”The king, which hadde wordes wise,His age wolde noght despise,Bot seith, “Mi fader, I thee preieThat thou me wolt the cause seie,How that I am thi mannes man.”“Sire king,” quod he, “and that I can,If that thou wolt.” “Yis,” seith the king.Quod he, “This is the sothe thing: 1270Sith I ferst resoun understod,And knew what thing was evel and good,The will which of my bodi moeveth,Whos werkes that the god reproeveth,I have restreigned everemore,As him which stant under the loreOf reson, whos soubgit he is,So that he mai noght don amis:And thus be weie of covenantWill is my man and my servant, 1280And evere hath ben and evere schal.And thi will is thi principal,And hath the lordschipe of thi witt,So that thou cowthest nevere yitTake o dai reste of thi labour;Bot forto ben a conquerourOf worldes good, which mai noght laste,Thou hiest evere aliche faste,Wher thou no reson hast to winne:And thus thi will is cause of Sinne, 1290And is thi lord, to whom thou servest,Wherof thou litel thonk deservest.”The king of that he thus answerdeWas nothing wroth, bot whanne he herdeThe hihe wisdom which he seide,With goodly wordes this he preide,That he him wolde telle his name.“I am,” quod he, “that ilke same,The which men Diogenes calle.”Tho was the king riht glad withalle, 1300For he hadde often herd toforeWhat man he was, so that therforeHe seide, “O wise Diogene,Now schal thi grete witt be sene;For thou schalt of my yifte haveWhat worldes thing that thou wolt crave.”Quod he, “Thanne hove out of mi Sonne,And let it schyne into mi Tonne;For thou benymst me thilke yifte,Which lith noght in thi miht to schifte: 1310Non other good of thee me nedeth.”This king, whom every contre dredeth,Lo, thus he was enformed there:Wherof, my Sone, thou miht lereHow that thi will schal noght be lieved,Where it is noght of wit relieved.And thou hast seid thiself er thisHow that thi will thi maister is;Thurgh which thin hertes thoght withinneIs evere of Contek to beginne, 1320So that it is gretli to dredeThat it non homicide brede.For love is of a wonder kinde,And hath hise wittes ofte blinde,That thei fro mannes reson falle;Bot whan that it is so befalleThat will schal the corage lede,In loves cause it is to drede:Wherof I finde ensample write,Which is behovely forto wite. 1330I rede a tale, and telleth this:The Cite which SemiramisEnclosed hath with wall aboute,Of worthi folk with many a routeWas enhabited here and there;Among the whiche tuo ther wereAbove alle othre noble and grete,Dwellende tho withinne a StreteSo nyh togedre, as it was sene,That ther was nothing hem betwene, 1340Bot wow to wow and wall to wall.This o lord hadde in specialA Sone, a lusti Bacheler,In al the toun was non his pier:That other hadde a dowhter eke,In al the lond that forto sekeMen wisten non so faire as sche.And fell so, as it scholde be,This faire dowhter nyh this SoneAs thei togedre thanne wone, 1350Cupide hath so the thinges schape,That thei ne mihte his hand ascape,That he his fyr on hem ne caste:Wherof her herte he overcasteTo folwe thilke lore and suieWhich nevere man yit miht eschuie;And that was love, as it is happed,Which hath here hertes so betrapped,That thei be alle weies secheHow that thei mihten winne a speche, 1360Here wofull peine forto lisse.Who loveth wel, it mai noght misse,And namely whan ther be tuoOf on acord, how so it go,Bot if that thei som weie finde;For love is evere of such a kindeAnd hath his folk so wel affaited,That howso that it be awaited,Ther mai noman the pourpos lette:And thus betwen hem tuo thei sette 1370And hole upon a wall to make,Thurgh which thei have her conseil takeAt alle times, whan thei myhte.This faire Maiden Tisbee hihte,And he whom that sche loveth hoteWas Piramus be name hote.So longe here lecoun thei recorden,Til ate laste thei acordenBe nihtes time forto wendeAl one out fro the tounes ende, 1380Wher was a welle under a Tree;And who cam ferst, or sche or he,He scholde stille there abide.So it befell the nyhtes tideThis maiden, which desguised was,Al prively the softe pasGoth thurgh the large toun unknowe,Til that sche cam withinne a throweWher that sche liketh forto duelle,At thilke unhappi freisshe welle, 1390Which was also the Forest nyh.Wher sche comende a Leoun syhInto the feld to take his preie,In haste and sche tho fledde aweie,So as fortune scholde falle,For feere and let hire wympel falleNyh to the welle upon therbage.This Leoun in his wilde rageA beste, which that he fond oute,Hath slain, and with his blodi snoute, 1400Whan he hath eten what he wolde,To drynke of thilke stremes coldeCam to the welle, where he fondThe wympel, which out of hire hondWas falle, and he it hath todrawe,Bebled aboute and al forgnawe;And thanne he strawhte him forto drinkeUpon the freisshe welles brinke,And after that out of the pleinHe torneth to the wode ayein. 1410And Tisbee dorste noght remue,Bot as a bridd which were in MueWithinne a buissh sche kepte hire closSo stille that sche noght aros;Unto hirself and pleigneth ay.And fell, whil that sche there lay,This Piramus cam after soneUnto the welle, and be the MoneHe fond hire wimpel blodi there.Cam nevere yit to mannes Ere 1420Tidinge, ne to mannes sihteMerveile, which so sore aflihteA mannes herte, as it tho dedeTo him, which in the same stedeWith many a wofull compleignyngeBegan his handes forto wringe,As he which demeth sikerlyThat sche be ded: and sodeinlyHis swerd al nakid out he breideIn his folhaste, and thus he seide: 1430“I am cause of this felonie,So it is resoun that I die,As sche is ded be cause of me.”And with that word upon his kneHe fell, and to the goddes alleUp to the hevene he gan to calle,And preide, sithen it was soThat he may noght his love as thoHave in this world, that of her graceHe miht hire have in other place, 1440For hiere wolde he noght abide,He seith: bot as it schal betide,The Pomel of his swerd to groundeHe sette, and thurgh his herte a woundeHe made up to the bare hilte:And in this wise himself he spilteWith his folhaste and deth he nam;For sche withinne a while cam,Wher he lai ded upon his knif.So wofull yit was nevere lif 1450As Tisbee was, whan sche him sih:Sche mihte noght o word on hihSpeke oute, for hire herte schette,That of hir lif no pris sche sette,Bot ded swounende doun sche fell.Til after, whanne it so befellThat sche out of hire traunce awok,With many a wofull pitous lokHire yhe alwei among sche casteUpon hir love, and ate laste 1460Sche cawhte breth and seide thus:“O thou which cleped art Venus,Goddesse of love, and thou, Cupide,Which loves cause hast forto guide,I wot now wel that ye be blinde,Of thilke unhapp which I now findeOnly betwen my love and me.This Piramus, which hiere I seBledende, what hath he deserved?For he youre heste hath kept and served, 1470And was yong and I bothe also:Helas, why do ye with ous so?Ye sette oure herte bothe afyre,And maden ous such thing desireWherof that we no skile cowthe;Bot thus oure freisshe lusti yowtheWithoute joie is al despended,Which thing mai nevere ben amended:For as of me this wol I seie,That me is levere forto deie 1480Than live after this sorghful day.”And with this word, where as he lay,Hire love in armes sche embraseth,Hire oghne deth and so pourchasethThat now sche wepte and nou sche kiste,Til ate laste, er sche it wiste,So gret a sorwe is to hire falle,Which overgoth hire wittes alle.As sche which mihte it noght asterte,The swerdes point ayein hire herte 1490Sche sette, and fell doun therupon,Wherof that sche was ded anon:And thus bothe on o swerd bledendeThei weren founde ded liggende.Now thou, mi Sone, hast herd this tale,Bewar that of thin oghne baleThou be noght cause in thi folhaste,And kep that thou thi witt ne wasteUpon thi thoght in aventure,Wherof thi lyves forfeture 1500Mai falle: and if thou have so thoghtEr this, tell on and hyde it noght.Mi fader, upon loves sideMi conscience I woll noght hyde,How that for love of pure woI have ben ofte moeved so,That with my wisshes if I myhte,A thousand times, I yow plyhte,I hadde storven in a day;And therof I me schryve may, 1510Though love fully me ne slowh,Mi will to deie was ynowh,So am I of my will coupable:And yit is sche noght merciable,Which mai me yive lif and hele.Bot that hir list noght with me dele,I wot be whos conseil it is,And him wolde I long time er this,And yit I wolde and evere schal,Slen and destruie in special. 1520The gold of nyne kinges londesNe scholde him save fro myn hondes,In my pouer if that he were;Bot yit him stant of me no fereFor noght that evere I can manace.He is the hindrere of mi grace,Til he be ded I mai noght spede;So mot I nedes taken hiedeAnd schape how that he were aweie,If I therto mai finde a weie. 1530Mi Sone, tell me now forthi,Which is that mortiel enemyThat thou manacest to be ded.Mi fader, it is such a qwed,That wher I come, he is tofore,And doth so, that mi cause is lore.What is his name?It is Daunger,Which is mi ladi consailer:For I was nevere yit so slyh,To come in eny place nyh 1540Wher as sche was be nyht or day,That Danger ne was redy ay,With whom for speche ne for medeYit mihte I nevere of love spede;For evere this I finde soth,Al that my ladi seith or dothTo me, Daunger schal make an ende,And that makth al mi world miswende:And evere I axe his help, bot heMai wel be cleped sanz pite; 1550For ay the more I to him bowe,The lasse he wol my tale alowe.He hath mi ladi so englued,Sche wol noght that he be remued;For evere he hangeth on hire Seil,And is so prive of conseil,That evere whanne I have oght bede,I finde Danger in hire stedeAnd myn ansuere of him I have;Bot for no merci that I crave, 1560Of merci nevere a point I hadde.I finde his ansuere ay so badde,That werse mihte it nevere be:And thus betwen Danger and meIs evere werre til he dye.Bot mihte I ben of such maistrie,That I Danger hadde overcome,With that were al my joie come.Thus wolde I wonde for no Sinne,Ne yit for al this world to winne; 1570If that I mihte finde a sleyhte,To leie al myn astat in weyhte,I wolde him fro the Court dissevere,So that he come ayeinward nevere.Therfore I wisshe and wolde fainThat he were in som wise slain;For while he stant in thilke place,Ne gete I noght my ladi grace.Thus hate I dedly thilke vice,And wolde he stode in non office 1580In place wher mi ladi is;For if he do, I wot wel this,That owther schal he deie or IWithinne a while; and noght forthiOn my ladi fulofte I muse,How that sche mai hirself excuse,If that I deie in such a plit.Me thenkth sche mihte noght be qwytThat sche ne were an homicide:And if it scholde so betide, 1590As god forbiede it scholde be,Be double weie it is pite.For I, which al my will and wittHave yove and served evere yit,And thanne I scholde in such a wiseIn rewardinge of my serviseBe ded, me thenkth it were a rowthe:And furthermor, to telle trowthe,Sche, that hath evere be wel named,Were worthi thanne to be blamed 1600And of reson to ben appeled,Whan with o word sche mihte have heledA man, and soffreth him so deie.Ha, who sawh evere such a weie?Ha, who sawh evere such destresse?Withoute pite gentilesse,Withoute mercy wommanhede,That wol so quyte a man his mede,Which evere hath be to love trewe.Mi goode fader, if ye rewe 1610Upon mi tale, tell me now,And I wol stinte and herkne yow.Mi Sone, attempre thi corageFro Wraththe, and let thin herte assuage:For who so wole him underfonge,He mai his grace abide longe,Er he of love be received;And ek also, bot it be weyved,Ther mihte mochel thing befalle,That scholde make a man to falle 1620Fro love, that nevere afterwardNe durste he loke thiderward.In harde weies men gon softe,And er thei clymbe avise hem ofte:Men sen alday that rape reweth;And who so wicked Ale breweth,Fulofte he mot the werse drinke:Betre is to flete than to sincke;Betre is upon the bridel chieweThanne if he felle and overthrewe, 1630The hors and stikede in the Myr:To caste water in the fyrBetre is than brenne up al the hous:The man which is maliciousAnd folhastif, fulofte he falleth,And selden is whan love him calleth.Forthi betre is to soffre a throweThan be to wilde and overthrowe;Suffrance hath evere be the besteTo wissen him that secheth reste: 1640And thus, if thou wolt love and spede,Mi Sone, soffre, as I the rede.What mai the Mous ayein the Cat?And for this cause I axe that,Who mai to love make a werre,That he ne hath himself the werre?Love axeth pes and evere schal,And who that fihteth most withalSchal lest conquere of his emprise:For this thei tellen that ben wise, 1650Wicke is to stryve and have the werse;To hasten is noght worth a kerse;Thing that a man mai noght achieve,That mai noght wel be don at Eve,It mot abide til the morwe.Ne haste noght thin oghne sorwe,Mi Sone, and tak this in thi witt,He hath noght lost that wel abitt.Ensample that it falleth thus,Thou miht wel take of Piramus, 1660Whan he in haste his swerd outdrowhAnd on the point himselve slowhFor love of Tisbee pitously,For he hire wympel fond blodyAnd wende a beste hire hadde slain;Wher as him oghte have be riht fain,For sche was there al sauf beside:Bot for he wolde noght abide,This meschief fell. Forthi be war,Mi Sone, as I the warne dar, 1670Do thou nothing in such a res,For suffrance is the welle of Pes.Thogh thou to loves Court poursuie,Yit sit it wel that thou eschuieThat thou the Court noght overhaste,For so miht thou thi time waste;Bot if thin happ therto be schape,It mai noght helpe forto rape.Therfore attempre thi corage;Folhaste doth non avantage, 1680Bot ofte it set a man behindeIn cause of love, and that I findeBe olde ensample, as thou schalt hiere,Touchende of love in this matiere.A Maiden whilom ther was on,Which Daphne hihte, and such was nonOf beaute thanne, as it was seid.Phebus his love hath on hire leid,And therupon to hire he soghteIn his folhaste, and so besoghte, 1690That sche with him no reste hadde;For evere upon hire love he gradde,And sche seide evere unto him nay.So it befell upon a dai,Cupide, which hath every chanceOf love under his governance,Syh Phebus hasten him so sore:And for he scholde him haste more,And yit noght speden ate laste,A dart thurghout his herte he caste, 1700Which was of gold and al afyre,That made him manyfold desireOf love more thanne he dede.To Daphne ek in the same stedeA dart of Led he caste and smot,Which was al cold and nothing hot.And thus Phebus in love brenneth,And in his haste aboute renneth,To loke if that he mihte winne;Bot he was evere to beginne, 1710For evere awei fro him sche fledde,So that he nevere his love spedde.And forto make him full believeThat no Folhaste mihte achieveTo gete love in such degree,This Daphne into a lorer treWas torned, which is evere grene,In tokne, as yit it mai be sene,That sche schal duelle a maiden stille,And Phebus failen of his wille. 1720Be suche ensamples, as thei stonde,Mi Sone, thou miht understonde,To hasten love is thing in vein,Whan that fortune is therayein.To take where a man hath leveGood is, and elles he mot leve;For whan a mannes happes failen,Ther is non haste mai availen.Mi fader, grant merci of this:Bot while I se mi ladi is 1730No tre, but halt hire oghne forme,Ther mai me noman so enforme,To whether part fortune wende,That I unto mi lyves endeNe wol hire serven everemo.Mi Sone, sithen it is so,I seie nomor; bot in this casBewar how it with Phebus was.Noght only upon loves chance,Bot upon every governance 1740Which falleth unto mannes dede,Folhaste is evere forto drede,And that a man good consail take,Er he his pourpos undertake,For consail put Folhaste aweie.Now goode fader, I you preie,That forto wisse me the more,Som good ensample upon this loreYe wolden telle of that is write,That I the betre mihte wite 1750How I Folhaste scholde eschuie,And the wisdom of conseil suie.Mi Sone, that thou miht enformeThi pacience upon the formeOf old essamples, as thei felle,Now understond what I schal telle.Whan noble Troie was beleinAnd overcome, and hom ayeinThe Gregois torned fro the siege,The kinges founde here oghne liege 1760In manye places, as men seide,That hem forsoke and desobeide.Among the whiche fell this casTo Demephon and Athemas,That weren kinges bothe tuo,And bothe weren served so:Here lieges wolde hem noght receive,So that thei mote algates weyveTo seche lond in other place,For there founde thei no grace. 1770Wherof they token hem to rede,And soghten frendes ate nede,And ech of hem asseureth otherTo helpe as to his oghne brother,To vengen hem of thilke oultrageAnd winne ayein here heritage.And thus thei ryde aboute fasteTo gete hem help, and ate lasteThei hadden pouer sufficant,And maden thanne a covenant, 1780That thei ne scholden no lif save,Ne prest, ne clerc, ne lord, ne knave,Ne wif, ne child, of that thei finde,Which berth visage of mannes kinde,So that no lif schal be socoured,Bot with the dedly swerd devoured:In such Folhaste here ordinanceThei schapen forto do vengance.Whan this pourpos was wist and knoweAmong here host, tho was ther blowe 1790Of wordes many a speche aboute:Of yonge men the lusti routeWere of this tale glad ynowh,Ther was no care for the plowh;As thei that weren Folhastif,Thei ben acorded to the strif,And sein it mai noght be to gretTo vengen hem of such forfet:Thus seith the wilde unwise tongeOf hem that there weren yonge. 1800Bot Nestor, which was old and hor,The salve sih tofore the sor,As he that was of conseil wys:So that anon be his avisTher was a prive conseil nome.The lordes ben togedre come;This Demephon and AthemasHere pourpos tolden, as it was;Thei sieten alle stille and herde,Was non bot Nestor hem ansuerde. 1810He bad hem, if thei wolde winne,They scholden se, er thei beginne,Here ende, and sette here ferste entente,That thei hem after ne repente:And axeth hem this questioun,To what final conclusiounThei wolde regne Kinges there,If that no poeple in londe were;And seith, it were a wonder wierdeTo sen a king become an hierde, 1820Wher no lif is bot only besteUnder the liegance of his heste;For who that is of man no king,The remenant is as no thing.He seith ek, if the pourpos holdeTo sle the poeple, as thei tuo wolde,Whan thei it mihte noght restore,Al Grece it scholde abegge sore,To se the wilde beste woneWher whilom duelte a mannes Sone: 1830And for that cause he bad hem trete,And stinte of the manaces grete.Betre is to winne be fair speche,He seith, than such vengance seche;For whanne a man is most above,Him nedeth most to gete him love.Whan Nestor hath his tale seid,Ayein him was no word withseid;It thoghte hem alle he seide wel:And thus fortune hire dedly whiel 1840Fro werre torneth into pes.Bot forth thei wenten natheles;And whan the Contres herde seinHow that here kinges be beseinOf such a pouer as thei ladde,Was non so bold that hem ne dradde,And forto seche pes and grithThei sende and preide anon forthwith,So that the kinges ben appesed,And every mannes herte is esed; 1850Al was foryete and noght recorded.And thus thei ben togedre acorded;The kinges were ayein received,And pes was take and wraththe weived,And al thurgh conseil which was goodOf him that reson understod.Be this ensample, Sone, attempreThin herte and let no will distempreThi wit, and do nothing be myhtWhich mai be do be love and riht. 1860Folhaste is cause of mochel wo;Forthi, mi Sone, do noght so.And as touchende of HomicideWhich toucheth unto loves side,Fulofte it falleth unavisedThurgh will, which is noght wel assised,Whan wit and reson ben aweieAnd that Folhaste is in the weie,Wherof hath falle gret vengance.Forthi tak into remembrance 1870To love in such a maner wiseThat thou deserve no juise:For wel I wot, thou miht noght lette,That thou ne schalt thin herte setteTo love, wher thou wolt or non;Bot if thi wit be overgon,So that it torne into malice,Ther wot noman of thilke vice,What peril that ther mai befalle:Wherof a tale amonges alle, 1880Which is gret pite forto hiere,I thenke forto tellen hiere,That thou such moerdre miht withstonde,Whan thou the tale hast understonde.Of Troie at thilke noble toun,Whos fame stant yit of renounAnd evere schal to mannes Ere,The Siege laste longe there,Er that the Greks it mihten winne,Whil Priamus was king therinne; 1890Bot of the Greks that lyhe abouteAgamenon ladde al the route.This thing is knowen overal,Bot yit I thenke in specialTo my matiere theruponTelle in what wise Agamenon,Thurgh chance which mai noght be weived,Of love untrewe was deceived.An old sawe is, “Who that is slyhIn place where he mai be nyh, 1900He makth the ferre Lieve loth”:Of love and thus fulofte it goth.Ther while Agamenon bataillethTo winne Troie, and it assailleth,Fro home and was long time ferr,Egistus drowh his qweene nerr,And with the leiser which he haddeThis ladi at his wille he ladde:Climestre was hire rihte name,Sche was therof gretli to blame, 1910To love there it mai noght laste.Bot fell to meschief ate laste;For whan this noble worthi knihtFro Troie cam, the ferste nyhtThat he at home abedde lay,Egistus, longe er it was day,As this Climestre him hadde asent,And weren bothe of on assent,Be treson slowh him in his bedd.Bot moerdre, which mai noght ben hedd, 1920Sprong out to every mannes Ere,Wherof the lond was full of fere.Agamenon hath be this qweeneA Sone, and that was after sene;Bot yit as thanne he was of yowthe,A babe, which no reson cowthe,And as godd wolde, it fell him thus.A worthi kniht TaltabiusThis yonge child hath in kepinge,And whan he herde of this tidinge, 1930Of this treson, of this misdede,He gan withinne himself to drede,In aunter if this false EgisteUpon him come, er he it wiste,To take and moerdre of his maliceThis child, which he hath to norrice:And for that cause in alle hasteOut of the lond he gan him hasteAnd to the king of Crete he strawhteAnd him this yonge lord betawhte, 1940And preide him for his fader sakeThat he this child wolde undertakeAnd kepe him til he be of Age,So as he was of his lignage;And tolde him over al the cas,How that his fadre moerdred was,And hou Egistus, as men seide,Was king, to whom the lond obeide.And whanne Ydomeneux the kingHath understondinge of this thing, 1950Which that this kniht him hadde told,He made sorwe manyfold,And tok this child into his warde,And seide he wolde him kepe and warde,Til that he were of such a myhtTo handle a swerd and ben a knyht,To venge him at his oghne wille.And thus Horestes duelleth stille,Such was the childes rihte name,Which after wroghte mochel schame 1960In vengance of his fader deth.The time of yeres overgeth,That he was man of brede and lengthe,Of wit, of manhod and of strengthe,A fair persone amonges alle.And he began to clepe and calle,As he which come was to manne,Unto the King of Crete thanne,Preiende that he wolde him makeA kniht and pouer with him take, 1970For lengere wolde he noght beleve,He seith, bot preith the king of leveTo gon and cleyme his heritageAnd vengen him of thilke oultrageWhich was unto his fader do.The king assenteth wel therto,With gret honour and knyht him makth,And gret pouer to him betakth,And gan his journe forto caste:So that Horestes ate laste 1980His leve tok and forth he goth.As he that was in herte wroth,His ferste pleinte to bemene,Unto the Cite of AtheneHe goth him forth and was received,So there was he noght deceived.The Duc and tho that weren wiseThei profren hem to his servise;And he hem thonketh of here profreAnd seith himself he wol gon offre 1990Unto the goddes for his sped,As alle men him yeven red.So goth he to the temple forth:Of yiftes that be mochel worthHis sacrifice and his offringeHe made; and after his axingeHe was ansuerd, if that he woldeHis stat recovere, thanne he scholdeUpon his Moder do venganceSo cruel, that the remembrance 2000Therof mihte everemore abide,As sche that was an homicideAnd of hire oghne lord Moerdrice.Horestes, which of thilke officeWas nothing glad, as thanne he preideUnto the goddes there and seideThat thei the juggement devise,How sche schal take the juise.And therupon he hadde ansuere,That he hire Pappes scholde of tere 2010Out of hire brest his oghne hondes,And for ensample of alle londesWith hors sche scholde be todrawe,Til houndes hadde hire bones gnaweWithouten eny sepulture:This was a wofull aventure.And whan Horestes hath al herd,How that the goddes have ansuerd,Forth with the strengthe which he laddeThe Duc and his pouer he hadde, 2020And to a Cite forth thei gon,The which was cleped Cropheon,Where as Phoieus was lord and Sire,Which profreth him withouten hyreHis help and al that he mai do,As he that was riht glad therto,To grieve his mortiel enemy:And tolde hem certein cause why,How that Egiste in MariageHis dowhter whilom of full Age 2030Forlai, and afterward forsok,Whan he Horestes Moder tok.Men sein, “Old Senne newe schame”:Thus more and more aros the blameAyein Egiste on every side.Horestes with his host to rideBegan, and Phoieus with hem wente;I trowe Egiste him schal repente.Thei riden forth unto Micene,Wher lay Climestre thilke qweene, 2040The which Horestes moder is:And whan sche herde telle of this,The gates weren faste schet,And thei were of here entre let.Anon this Cite was withouteBelein and sieged al aboute,And evere among thei it assaile,Fro day to nyht and so travaile,Til ate laste thei it wonne;Tho was ther sorwe ynowh begonne. 2050
Ira suis paribus est par furiis Acherontis,Quo furor ad tempus nil pietatis habet.Ira malencolicos animos perturbat, vt equoIure sui pondus nulla statera tenet.Omnibus in causis grauat Ira, set inter amantes,Illa magis facili sorte grauamen agit:Est vbi vir discors leuiterque repugnat amori,Sepe loco ludi fletus ad ora venit.
If thou the vices lest to knowe,Mi Sone, it hath noght ben unknowe,Fro ferst that men the swerdes grounde,That ther nis on upon this grounde,A vice forein fro the lawe,Wherof that many a good felaweHath be distraght be sodein chance;And yit to kinde no plesanceIt doth, bot wher he most achievethHis pourpos, most to kinde he grieveth, 10As he which out of conscienceIs enemy to pacience:And is be name on of the Sevene,Which ofte hath set this world unevene,And cleped is the cruel Ire,Whos herte is everemore on fyreTo speke amis and to do bothe,For his servantz ben evere wrothe.
Mi goode fader, tell me this:What thing is Ire? Sone, it is 20That in oure englissh Wrathe is hote,Which hath hise wordes ay so hote,That all a mannes pacienceIs fyred of the violence.For he with him hath evere fyveServantz that helpen him to stryve:The ferst of hem MalencolieIs cleped, which in compaignieAn hundred times in an houreWol as an angri beste loure, 30And noman wot the cause why.Mi Sone, schrif thee now forthi:Hast thou be Malencolien?
Ye, fader, be seint Julien,Bot I untrewe wordes use,I mai me noght therof excuse:And al makth love, wel I wot,Of which myn herte is evere hot,So that I brenne as doth a gledeFor Wrathe that I mai noght spede. 40And thus fulofte a day for noghtSave onlich of myn oghne thoghtI am so with miselven wroth,That how so that the game gothWith othre men, I am noght glad;Bot I am wel the more unglad,For that is othre mennes gameIt torneth me to pure grame.Thus am I with miself oppressedOf thoght, the which I have impressed, 50That al wakende I dreme and meeteThat I with hire al one meeteAnd preie hire of som good ansuere:Bot for sche wol noght gladly swere,Sche seith me nay withouten oth;And thus wexe I withinne wroth,That outward I am al affraied,And so distempred and esmaied.A thousand times on a dayTher souneth in myn Eres nay, 60The which sche seide me tofore:Thus be my wittes as forlore;And namely whan I beginneTo rekne with miself withinneHow many yeres ben agon,Siththe I have trewly loved onAnd nevere tok of other hede,And evere aliche fer to spedeI am, the more I with hir dele,So that myn happ and al myn hele 70Me thenkth is ay the leng the ferre,That bringth my gladschip out of herre,Wherof my wittes ben empeired,And I, as who seith, al despeired.For finaly, whan that I museAnd thenke how sche me wol refuse,I am with anger so bestad,For al this world mihte I be glad:And for the while that it lastethAl up so doun my joie it casteth, 80And ay the furthere that I be,Whan I ne may my ladi se,The more I am redy to wraththe,That for the touchinge of a laththeOr for the torninge of a streeI wode as doth the wylde Se,And am so malencolious,That ther nys servant in myn housNe non of tho that ben aboute,That ech of hem ne stant in doute, 90And wenen that I scholde raveFor Anger that thei se me have;And so thei wondre more and lasse,Til that thei sen it overpasse.Bot, fader, if it so betide,That I aproche at eny tideThe place wher my ladi is,And thanne that hire like ywissTo speke a goodli word untome,For al the gold that is in Rome 100Ne cowthe I after that be wroth,Bot al myn Anger overgoth;So glad I am of the presenceOf hire, that I all offenceForyete, as thogh it were noght,So overgladed is my thoght.And natheles, the soth to telle,Ayeinward if it so befelleThat I at thilke time siheOn me that sche miscaste hire yhe, 110Or that sche liste noght to loke,And I therof good hiede toke,Anon into my ferste astatI torne, and am with al so mat,That evere it is aliche wicke.And thus myn hand ayein the prickeI hurte and have do many day,And go so forth as I go may,Fulofte bitinge on my lippe,And make unto miself a whippe. 120With which in many a chele and heteMi wofull herte is so tobete,That all my wittes ben unsofteAnd I am wroth, I not how ofte;And al it is Malencolie,Which groweth of the fantasieOf love, that me wol noght loute:So bere I forth an angri snouteFul manye times in a yer.Bot, fader, now ye sitten hier 130In loves stede, I yow beseche,That som ensample ye me teche,Wherof I mai miself appese.
Mi Sone, for thin hertes eseI schal fulfille thi preiere,So that thou miht the betre lereWhat mischief that this vice stereth,Which in his Anger noght forbereth,Wherof that after him forthenketh,Whan he is sobre and that he thenketh 140Upon the folie of his dede;And of this point a tale I rede.
Ther was a king which EolusWas hote, and it befell him thus,That he tuo children hadde faire,The Sone cleped was Machaire,The dowhter ek Canace hihte.Be daie bothe and ek be nyhte,Whil thei be yonge, of comun woneIn chambre thei togedre wone, 150And as thei scholden pleide hem ofte,Til thei be growen up alofteInto the youthe of lusti age,Whan kinde assaileth the corageWith love and doth him forto bowe,That he no reson can allowe,Bot halt the lawes of nature:For whom that love hath under cure,As he is blind himself, riht soHe makth his client blind also. 160In such manere as I you telleAs thei al day togedre duelle,This brother mihte it noght asterteThat he with al his hole herteHis love upon his Soster caste:And so it fell hem ate laste,That this Machaire with CanaceWhan thei were in a prive place,Cupide bad hem ferst to kesse,And after sche which is Maistresse 170In kinde and techeth every lifWithoute lawe positif,Of which sche takth nomaner charge,Bot kepth hire lawes al at large,Nature, tok hem into loreAnd tawht hem so, that overmoreSche hath hem in such wise daunted,That thei were, as who seith, enchaunted.And as the blinde an other ledethAnd til thei falle nothing dredeth, 180Riht so thei hadde non insihte;Bot as the bridd which wole alihteAnd seth the mete and noght the net,Which in deceipte of him is set,This yonge folk no peril sihe,Bot that was likinge in here yhe,So that thei felle upon the chanceWhere witt hath lore his remembrance.So longe thei togedre assemble,The wombe aros, and sche gan tremble, 190And hield hire in hire chambre closFor drede it scholde be disclosAnd come to hire fader Ere:Wherof the Sone hadde also fere,And feigneth cause forto ryde;For longe dorste he noght abyde,In aunter if men wolde seinThat he his Soster hath forlein:For yit sche hadde it noght beknoweWhos was the child at thilke throwe. 200Machaire goth, Canace abit,The which was noght delivered yit,Bot riht sone after that sche was.
Now lest and herkne a woful cas.The sothe, which mai noght ben hid,Was ate laste knowe and kidUnto the king, how that it stod.And whan that he it understod,Anon into Malencolie,As thogh it were a frenesie, 210He fell, as he which nothing cowtheHow maistrefull love is in yowthe:And for he was to love strange,He wolde noght his herte changeTo be benigne and favorableTo love, bot unmerciableBetwen the wawe of wod and wrothInto his dowhtres chambre he goth,And sih the child was late bore,Wherof he hath hise othes swore 220That sche it schal ful sore abye.And sche began merci to crie,Upon hire bare knes and preide,And to hire fader thus sche seide:“Ha mercy! fader, thenk I amThi child, and of thi blod I cam.That I misdede yowthe it made,And in the flodes bad me wade,Wher that I sih no peril tho:Bot now it is befalle so, 230Merci, my fader, do no wreche!”And with that word sche loste specheAnd fell doun swounende at his fot,As sche for sorwe nedes mot.Bot his horrible crualteTher mihte attempre no pite:Out of hire chambre forth he wenteAl full of wraththe in his entente,And tok the conseil in his herteThat sche schal noght the deth asterte, 240As he which MalencolienOf pacience hath no lien,Wherof the wraththe he mai restreigne.And in this wilde wode peine,Whanne al his resoun was untame,A kniht he clepeth be his name,And tok him as be weie of sondeA naked swerd to bere on honde,And seide him that he scholde goAnd telle unto his dowhter so 250In the manere as he him bad,How sche that scharpe swerdes bladReceive scholde and do withalSo as sche wot wherto it schal.Forth in message goth this knihtUnto this wofull yonge wiht,This scharpe swerd to hire he tok:Wherof that al hire bodi qwok,For wel sche wiste what it mente,And that it was to thilke entente 260That sche hireselven scholde slee.And to the kniht sche seide: “Yee,Now that I wot my fadres wille,That I schal in this wise spille,I wole obeie me therto,And as he wole it schal be do.Bot now this thing mai be non other,I wole a lettre unto mi brother,So as my fieble hand may wryte,With al my wofull herte endite.” 270Sche tok a Penne on honde tho,Fro point to point and al the wo,Als ferforth as hireself it wot,Unto hire dedly frend sche wrot,And tolde how that hire fader graceSche mihte for nothing pourchace;And overthat, as thou schalt hiere,Sche wrot and seide in this manere:“O thou my sorwe and my gladnesse,O thou myn hele and my siknesse, 280O my wanhope and al my trust,O my desese and al my lust,O thou my wele, o thou my wo,O thou my frend, o thou my fo,O thou my love, o thou myn hate,For thee mot I be ded algate.Thilke ende may I noght asterte,And yit with al myn hole herte,Whil that me lasteth eny breth,I wol the love into my deth. 290Bot of o thing I schal thee preie,If that my litel Sone deie,Let him be beried in my graveBeside me, so schalt thou haveUpon ous bothe remembrance.For thus it stant of my grevance;Now at this time, as thou schalt wite,With teres and with enke writeThis lettre I have in cares colde:In my riht hond my Penne I holde, 300And in my left the swerd I kepe,And in my barm ther lith to wepeThi child and myn, which sobbeth faste.Now am I come unto my laste:Fare wel, for I schal sone deie,And thenk how I thi love abeie.”The pomel of the swerd to groundeSche sette, and with the point a woundeThurghout hire herte anon sche made,And forth with that al pale and fade 310Sche fell doun ded fro ther sche stod.The child lay bathende in hire blodOut rolled fro the moder barm,And for the blod was hot and warm,He basketh him aboute thrinne.Ther was no bote forto winne,For he, which can no pite knowe,The king cam in the same throwe,And sih how that his dowhter diethAnd how this Babe al blody crieth; 320Bot al that mihte him noght suffise,That he ne bad to do juiseUpon the child, and bere him oute,And seche in the Forest abouteSom wilde place, what it were,To caste him out of honde there,So that som best him mai devoure,Where as noman him schal socoure.Al that he bad was don in dede:Ha, who herde evere singe or rede 330Of such a thing as that was do?Bot he which ladde his wraththe soHath knowe of love bot a lite;Bot for al that he was to wyte,Thurgh his sodein MalencolieTo do so gret a felonie.
Forthi, my Sone, how so it stonde,Be this cas thou miht understondeThat if thou evere in cause of loveSchalt deme, and thou be so above 340That thou miht lede it at thi wille,Let nevere thurgh thi Wraththe spilleWhich every kinde scholde save.For it sit every man to haveReward to love and to his miht,Ayein whos strengthe mai no wiht:And siththe an herte is so constreigned,The reddour oghte be restreignedTo him that mai no bet aweie,Whan he mot to nature obeie. 350For it is seid thus overal,That nedes mot that nede schalOf that a lif doth after kinde,Wherof he mai no bote finde.What nature hath set in hir laweTher mai no mannes miht withdrawe,And who that worcheth therayein,Fulofte time it hath be sein,Ther hath befalle gret vengance,Wherof I finde a remembrance. 360
Ovide after the time thoTolde an ensample and seide so,How that whilom Tiresias,As he walkende goth per cas,Upon an hih Montaine he sihTuo Serpentz in his weie nyh,And thei, so as nature hem tawhte,Assembled were, and he tho cawhteA yerde which he bar on honde,And thoghte that he wolde fonde 370To letten hem, and smot hem bothe:Wherof the goddes weren wrothe;And for he hath destourbed kindeAnd was so to nature unkinde,Unkindeliche he was transformed,That he which erst a man was formedInto a womman was forschape.That was to him an angri jape;Bot for that he with Angre wroghte,Hise Angres angreliche he boghte. 380
Lo thus, my Sone, Ovide hath write,Wherof thou miht be reson wite,More is a man than such a beste:So mihte it nevere ben honesteA man to wraththen him to soreOf that an other doth the loreOf kinde, in which is no malice,Bot only that it is a vice:And thogh a man be resonable,Yit after kinde he is menable 390To love, wher he wole or non.Thenk thou, my Sone, theruponAnd do Malencolie aweie;For love hath evere his lust to pleie,As he which wolde no lif grieve.
Mi fader, that I mai wel lieve;Al that ye tellen it is skile:Let every man love as he wile,Be so it be noght my ladi,For I schal noght be wroth therby. 400Bot that I wraththe and fare amis,Al one upon miself it is,That I with bothe love and kindeAm so bestad, that I can findeNo weie how I it mai asterte:Which stant upon myn oghne herteAnd toucheth to non other lif,Save only to that swete wifFor whom, bot if it be amended,Mi glade daies ben despended, 410That I miself schal noght forbereThe Wraththe which that I now bere,For therof is non other leche.Now axeth forth, I yow beseche,Of Wraththe if ther oght elles is,Wherof to schryve. Sone, yis.
Of Wraththe the secounde is Cheste,Which hath the wyndes of tempesteTo kepe, and many a sodein blastHe bloweth, wherof ben agast 420Thei that desiren pes and reste.He is that ilke ungoodliesteWhich many a lusti love hath twinned;For he berth evere his mowth unpinned,So that his lippes ben unlokeAnd his corage is al tobroke,That every thing which he can telle,It springeth up as doth a welle,Which mai non of his stremes hyde,Bot renneth out on every syde. 430So buillen up the foule sawesThat Cheste wot of his felawes:For as a Sive kepeth Ale,Riht so can Cheste kepe a tale;Al that he wot he wol desclose,And speke er eny man oppose.As a Cite withoute wal,Wher men mai gon out overalWithouten eny resistence,So with his croked eloquence 440He spekth al that he wot withinne:Wherof men lese mor than winne,For ofte time of his chidingeHe bringth to house such tidinge,That makth werre ate beddeshed.He is the levein of the bred,Which soureth al the past aboute:Men oghte wel such on to doute,For evere his bowe is redi bent,And whom he hit I telle him schent, 450If he mai perce him with his tunge.And ek so lowde his belle is runge,That of the noise and of the sounMen feeren hem in al the tounWelmore than thei don of thonder.For that is cause of more wonder;For with the wyndes whiche he blowethFulofte sythe he overthrowethThe Cites and the policie,That I have herd the poeple crie, 460And echon seide in his degre,“Ha wicke tunge, wo thee be!”For men sein that the harde bon,Althogh himselven have non,A tunge brekth it al to pieces.He hath so manye sondri spiecesOf vice, that I mai noght welDescrive hem be a thousendel:Bot whan that he to Cheste falleth,Ful many a wonder thing befalleth, 470For he ne can nothing forbere.
Now tell me, Sone, thin ansuere,If it hath evere so betidd,That thou at eny time hast chiddToward thi love.
Fader, nay:Such Cheste yit unto this dayNe made I nevere, god forbede:For er I sunge such a crede,I hadde levere to be lewed;For thanne were I al beschrewed 480And worthi to be put abakWith al the sorwe upon my bakThat eny man ordeigne cowthe.Bot I spak nevere yit be mowtheThat unto Cheste mihte touche,And that I durste riht wel voucheUpon hirself as for witnesse;For I wot, of hir gentilesseThat sche me wolde wel excuse,That I no suche thinges use. 490And if it scholde so betideThat I algates moste chide,It myhte noght be to my love:For so yit was I nevere above,For al this wyde world to winneThat I dorste eny word beginne,Be which sche mihte have ben amoevedAnd I of Cheste also reproeved.Bot rathere, if it mihte hir like,The beste wordes wolde I pike 500Whiche I cowthe in myn herte chese,And serve hem forth in stede of chese,For that is helplich to defie;And so wolde I my wordes plie,That mihten Wraththe and Cheste avaleWith tellinge of my softe tale.Thus dar I make a foreward,That nevere unto my ladiwardYit spak I word in such a wise,Wherof that Cheste scholde arise. 510This seie I noght, that I fulofteNe have, whanne I spak most softe,Per cas seid more thanne ynowh;Bot so wel halt noman the plowhThat he ne balketh otherwhile,Ne so wel can noman affileHis tunge, that som time in rapeHim mai som liht word overscape,And yit ne meneth he no Cheste.Bot that I have ayein hir heste 520Fulofte spoke, I am beknowe;And how my will is, that ye knowe:For whan my time comth aboute,That I dar speke and seie al outeMi longe love, of which sche wotThat evere in on aliche hotMe grieveth, thanne al my deseseI telle, and though it hir desplese,I speke it forth and noght ne leve:And thogh it be beside hire leve, 530I hope and trowe nathelesThat I do noght ayein the pes;For thogh I telle hire al my thoght,Sche wot wel that I chyde noght.Men mai the hihe god beseche,And he wol hiere a mannes specheAnd be noght wroth of that he seith;So yifth it me the more feithAnd makth me hardi, soth to seie,That I dar wel the betre preie 540Mi ladi, which a womman is.For thogh I telle hire that or thisOf love, which me grieveth sore,Hire oghte noght be wroth the more,For I withoute noise or criMi pleignte make al buxomlyTo puten alle wraththe away.Thus dar I seie unto this dayOf Cheste in ernest or in gameMi ladi schal me nothing blame. 550
Bot ofte time it hath betiddThat with miselven I have chidd,That noman couthe betre chide:And that hath ben at every tide,Whanne I cam to miself al one;For thanne I made a prive mone,And every tale by and by,Which as I spak to my ladi,I thenke and peise in my balanceAnd drawe into my remembrance; 560And thanne, if that I finde a lakOf eny word that I mispak,Which was to moche in eny wise,Anon my wittes I despiseAnd make a chidinge in myn herte,That eny word me scholde asterteWhich as I scholde have holden inne.And so forth after I beginneAnd loke if ther was elles oghtTo speke, and I ne spak it noght: 570And thanne, if I mai seche and findeThat eny word be left behinde,Which as I scholde more have spoke,I wolde upon miself be wroke,And chyde with miselven soThat al my wit is overgo.For noman mai his time loreRecovere, and thus I am therforeSo overwroth in al my thoght,That I myself chide al to noght: 580Thus for to moche or for to liteFulofte I am miself to wyte.Bot al that mai me noght availe,With cheste thogh I me travaile:Bot Oule on Stock and Stock on Oule;The more that a man defoule,Men witen wel which hath the werse;And so to me nys worth a kerse,Bot torneth on myn oghne hed,Thogh I, til that I were ded, 590Wolde evere chyde in such a wiseOf love as I to you devise.Bot, fader, now ye have al herdIn this manere how I have ferdOf Cheste and of dissencioun,Yif me youre absolucioun.
Mi Sone, if that thou wistest al,What Cheste doth in specialTo love and to his welwillinge,Thou woldest flen his knowlechinge 600And lerne to be debonaire.For who that most can speke faireIs most acordende unto love:Fair speche hath ofte brought aboveFul many a man, as it is knowe,Which elles scholde have be riht loweAnd failed mochel of his wille.Forthi hold thou thi tunge stilleAnd let thi witt thi wille areste,So that thou falle noght in Cheste, 610Which is the source of gret destance:And tak into thi remembranceIf thou miht gete pacience,Which is the leche of alle offence,As tellen ous these olde wise:For whan noght elles mai suffiseBe strengthe ne be mannes wit,Than pacience it oversitAnd overcomth it ate laste;Bot he mai nevere longe laste, 620Which wol noght bowe er that he breke.Tak hiede, Sone, of that I speke.
Mi fader, of your goodli specheAnd of the witt which ye me techeI thonke you with al myn herte:For that world schal me nevere asterte,That I ne schal your wordes holde,Of Pacience as ye me tolde,Als ferforth as myn herte thenketh;And of my wraththe it me forthenketh. 630Bot, fader, if ye forth withalSom good ensample in specialMe wolden telle of som Cronique,It scholde wel myn herte likeOf pacience forto hiere,So that I mihte in mi matiereThe more unto my love obeieAnd puten mi desese aweie.
Mi Sone, a man to beie him pesBehoveth soffre as Socrates 640Ensample lefte, which is write:And for thou schalt the sothe wite,Of this ensample what I mene,Althogh it be now litel seneAmong the men thilke evidence,Yit he was upon pacienceSo sett, that he himself assaieIn thing which mihte him most mispaieDesireth, and a wickid wifHe weddeth, which in sorwe and strif 650Ayein his ese was contraire.Bot he spak evere softe and faire,Til it befell, as it is told,In wynter, whan the dai is cold,This wif was fro the welle come,Wher that a pot with water nomeSche hath, and broghte it into house,And sih how that hire seli spouseWas sett and loked on a bokNyh to the fyr, as he which tok 660His ese for a man of age.And sche began the wode rage,And axeth him what devel he thoghte,And bar on hond that him ne roghteWhat labour that sche toke on honde,And seith that such an HousebondeWas to a wif noght worth a Stre.He seide nowther nay ne ye,Bot hield him stille and let hire chyde;And sche, which mai hirself noght hyde, 670Began withinne forto swelle,And that sche broghte in fro the welle,The waterpot sche hente alofteAnd bad him speke, and he al softeSat stille and noght a word ansuerde;And sche was wroth that he so ferde,And axeth him if he be ded;And al the water on his hedSche pourede oute and bad awake.Bot he, which wolde noght forsake 680His Pacience, thanne spak,And seide how that he fond no lakIn nothing which sche hadde do:For it was wynter time tho,And wynter, as be weie of kindeWhich stormy is, as men it finde,Ferst makth the wyndes forto blowe,And after that withinne a throweHe reyneth and the watergatesUndoth; “and thus my wif algates, 690Which is with reson wel besein,Hath mad me bothe wynd and reinAfter the Sesoun of the yer.”And thanne he sette him nerr the fer,And as he mihte hise clothes dreide,That he nomore o word ne seide;Wherof he gat him somdel reste,For that him thoghte was the beste.
I not if thilke ensample yitAcordeth with a mannes wit, 700To soffre as Socrates tho dede:And if it falle in eny stedeA man to lese so his galle,Him oghte among the wommen alleIn loves Court be juggementThe name bere of Pacient,To yive ensample to the goodeOf pacience how that it stode,That othre men it mihte knowe.And, Sone, if thou at eny throwe 710Be tempted ayein Pacience,Tak hiede upon this evidence;It schal per cas the lasse grieve.
Mi fader, so as I believe,Of that schal be no maner nede,For I wol take so good hiede,That er I falle in such assai,I thenke eschuie it, if I mai.Bot if ther be oght elles moreWherof I mihte take lore, 720I preie you, so as I dar,Now telleth, that I mai be war,Som other tale in this matiere.
Sone, it is evere good to lere,Wherof thou miht thi word restreigne,Er that thou falle in eny peine.For who that can no conseil hyde,He mai noght faile of wo beside,Which schal befalle er he it wite,As I finde in the bokes write. 730
Yit cam ther nevere good of strif,To seche in all a mannes lif:Thogh it beginne on pure game,Fulofte it torneth into grameAnd doth grevance upon som side.Wherof the grete Clerk OvideAfter the lawe which was thoOf Jupiter and of JunoMakth in his bokes menciounHow thei felle at dissencioun 740In manere as it were a borde,As thei begunne forto wordeAmong hemself in privete:And that was upon this degree,Which of the tuo more amorous is,Or man or wif. And upon thisThei mihten noght acorde in on,And toke a jugge therupon,Which cleped is Tiresias,And bede him demen in the cas; 750And he withoute avisementAyein Juno yaf juggement.This goddesse upon his ansuereWas wroth and wolde noght forbere,Bot tok awey for everemoThe liht fro bothe hise yhen tuo.Whan Jupiter this harm hath sein,An other bienfait therayeinHe yaf, and such a grace him doth,That for he wiste he seide soth, 760A Sothseiere he was for evere:Bot yit that other were levere,Have had the lokinge of his yhe,Than of his word the prophecie;Bot how so that the sothe wente,Strif was the cause of that he henteSo gret a peine bodily.
Mi Sone, be thou war ther by,And hold thi tunge stille clos:For who that hath his word desclos 770Er that he wite what he mene,He is fulofte nyh his teneAnd lest ful many time grace,Wher that he wolde his thonk pourchace.And over this, my Sone diere,Of othre men, if thou miht hiereIn privete what thei have wroght,Hold conseil and descoevere it noght,For Cheste can no conseil hele,Or be it wo or be it wele: 780And tak a tale into thi mynde,The which of olde ensample I finde.
Phebus, which makth the daies lihte,A love he hadde, which tho hihteCornide, whom aboven alleHe pleseth: bot what schal befalleOf love ther is noman knoweth,Bot as fortune hire happes throweth.So it befell upon a chaunce,A yong kniht tok hire aqueintance 790And hadde of hire al that he wolde:Bot a fals bridd, which sche hath holdeAnd kept in chambre of pure yowthe,Discoevereth all that evere he cowthe.This briddes name was as thoCorvus, the which was thanne alsoWelmore whyt than eny Swan,And he that schrewe al that he canOf his ladi to Phebus seide;And he for wraththe his swerd outbreide, 800With which Cornide anon he slowh.Bot after him was wo ynowh,And tok a full gret repentance,Wherof in tokne and remembranceOf hem whiche usen wicke speche,Upon this bridd he tok this wreche,That ther he was snow whyt tofore,Evere afterward colblak therforeHe was transformed, as it scheweth,And many a man yit him beschreweth, 810And clepen him into this dayA Raven, be whom yit men maiTake evidence, whan he crieth,That som mishapp it signefieth.Be war therfore and sei the beste,If thou wolt be thiself in reste,Mi goode Sone, as I the rede.
For in an other place I redeOf thilke Nimphe which Laar hihte:For sche the privete be nyhte, 820How Jupiter lay be Jutorne,Hath told, god made hire overtorne:Hire tunge he kutte, and into helleFor evere he sende hir forto duelle,As sche that was noght worthi hiereTo ben of love a Chamberere,For sche no conseil cowthe hele.And suche adaies be now feleIn loves Court, as it is seid,That lete here tunges gon unteid. 830
Mi Sone, be thou non of tho,To jangle and telle tales so,And namely that thou ne chyde,For Cheste can no conseil hide,For Wraththe seide nevere wel.
Mi fader, soth is everydelThat ye me teche, and I wol holdeThe reule to which I am holde,To fle the Cheste, as ye me bidde,For wel is him that nevere chidde. 840Now tell me forth if ther be moreAs touchende unto Wraththes lore.
Of Wraththe yit ther is an other,Which is to Cheste his oghne brother,And is be name cleped Hate,That soffreth noght withinne his gateThat ther come owther love or pes,For he wol make no relesOf no debat which is befalle.
Now spek, if thou art on of alle, 850That with this vice hast ben withholde.
As yit for oght that ye me tolde,Mi fader, I not what it is.
In good feith, Sone, I trowe yis.
Mi fader, nay, bot ye me lere.
Now lest, my Sone, and thou schalt here.Hate is a wraththe noght schewende,Bot of long time gaderende,And duelleth in the herte loken,Til he se time to be wroken; 860And thanne he scheweth his tempesteMor sodein than the wilde beste,Which wot nothing what merci is.Mi Sone, art thou knowende of this?
My goode fader, as I wene,Now wot I somdel what ye mene;Bot I dar saufly make an oth,Mi ladi was me nevere loth.I wol noght swere nathelesThat I of hate am gulteles; 870For whanne I to my ladi plieFro dai to dai and merci crie,And sche no merci on me leithBot schorte wordes to me seith,Thogh I my ladi love algate,Tho wordes moste I nedes hate;And wolde thei were al despent,Or so ferr oute of londe wentThat I nevere after scholde hem hiere;And yit love I my ladi diere. 880Thus is ther Hate, as ye mai se,Betwen mi ladi word and me;The word I hate and hire I love,What so me schal betide of love.
Bot forthere mor I wol me schryve,That I have hated al my lyveThese janglers, whiche of here EnvieBen evere redi forto lie;For with here fals compassementFuloften thei have mad me schent 890And hindred me fulofte time,Whan thei no cause wisten bime,Bot onliche of here oghne thoght:And thus fuloften have I boghtThe lie, and drank noght of the wyn.I wolde here happ were such as myn:For how so that I be now schrive,To hem ne mai I noght foryive,Til that I se hem at debatWith love, and thanne myn astat 900Thei mihten be here oghne deme,And loke how wel it scholde hem qwemeTo hindre a man that loveth sore.And thus I hate hem everemore,Til love on hem wol don his wreche:For that schal I alway besecheUnto the mihti Cupido,That he so mochel wolde do,So as he is of love a godd,To smyte hem with the same rodd 910With which I am of love smite;So that thei mihten knowe and witeHow hindringe is a wofull peineTo him that love wolde atteigne.Thus evere on hem I wayte and hope,Til I mai sen hem lepe a lope,And halten on the same SorWhich I do now: for overmorI wolde thanne do my myhtSo forto stonden in here lyht, 920That thei ne scholden finde a weieTo that thei wolde, bot aweieI wolde hem putte out of the stedeFro love, riht as thei me dedeWith that thei speke of me be mowthe.So wolde I do, if that I cowthe,Of hem, and this, so god me save,Is al the hate that I have,Toward these janglers everydiel;I wolde alle othre ferde wel. 930Thus have I, fader, said mi wille;Say ye now forth, for I am stille.
Mi Sone, of that thou hast me saidI holde me noght fulli paid:That thou wolt haten eny man,To that acorden I ne can,Thogh he have hindred thee tofore.Bot this I telle thee therfore,Thou miht upon my beneicounWel haten the condicioun 940Of tho janglers, as thou me toldest,Bot furthermor, of that thou woldestHem hindre in eny other wise,Such Hate is evere to despise.Forthi, mi Sone, I wol thee rede,That thou drawe in be frendlihedeThat thou ne miht noght do be hate;So miht thou gete love algateAnd sette thee, my Sone, in reste,For thou schalt finde it for the beste. 950And over this, so as I dar,I rede that thou be riht warOf othre mennes hate aboute,Which every wysman scholde doute:For Hate is evere upon await,And as the fisshere on his baitSleth, whan he seth the fisshes faste,So, whan he seth time ate laste,That he mai worche an other wo,Schal noman tornen him therfro, 960That Hate nyle his felonieFulfille and feigne compaignieYit natheles, for fals SemblantIs toward him of covenantWithholde, so that under botheThe prive wraththe can him clothe,That he schal seme of gret believe.Bot war thee wel that thou ne lieveAl that thou sest tofore thin yhe,So as the Gregois whilom syhe: 970The bok of Troie who so rede,Ther mai he finde ensample in dede.
Sone after the destruccioun,Whan Troie was al bete dounAnd slain was Priamus the king,The Gregois, whiche of al this thingBen cause, tornen hom ayein.Ther mai noman his happ withsein;It hath be sen and felt fulofte,The harde time after the softe: 980Be See as thei forth homward wente,A rage of gret tempeste hem hente;Juno let bende hire parti bowe,The Sky wax derk, the wynd gan blowe,The firy welkne gan to thondre,As thogh the world scholde al to sondre;Fro hevene out of the watergatesThe reyni Storm fell doun algatesAnd al here takel made unwelde,That noman mihte himself bewelde. 990Ther mai men hiere Schipmen crie,That stode in aunter forto die:He that behinde sat to stiereMai noght the forestempne hiere;The Schip aros ayein the wawes,The lodesman hath lost his lawes,The See bet in on every side:Thei nysten what fortune abide,Bot sette hem al in goddes wille,Wher he hem wolde save or spille. 1000
And it fell thilke time thus:Ther was a king, the which NamplusWas hote, and he a Sone hadde,At Troie which the Gregois ladde,As he that was mad Prince of alle,Til that fortune let him falle:His name was Palamades.Bot thurgh an hate nathelesOf some of hem his deth was castAnd he be tresoun overcast. 1010His fader, whan he herde it telle,He swor, if evere his time felle,He wolde him venge, if that he mihte,And therto his avou behihte:And thus this king thurgh prive hateAbod upon await algate,For he was noght of such empriseTo vengen him in open wise.The fame, which goth wyde where,Makth knowe how that the Gregois were 1020Homward with al the felaschipeFro Troie upon the See be Schipe.Namplus, whan he this understod,And knew the tydes of the flod,And sih the wynd blew to the lond,A gret deceipte anon he fondOf prive hate, as thou schalt hiere,Wherof I telle al this matiere.This king the weder gan beholde,And wiste wel thei moten holde 1030Here cours endlong his marche riht,And made upon the derke nyhtOf grete Schydes and of blockesGret fyr ayein the grete rockes,To schewe upon the helles hihe,So that the Flete of Grece it sihe.And so it fell riht as he thoghte:This Flete, which an havene soghte,The bryghte fyres sih a ferr,And thei hem drowen nerr and nerr, 1040And wende wel and understodeHow al that fyr was made for goode,To schewe wher men scholde aryve,And thiderward thei hasten blyve.In Semblant, as men sein, is guile,And that was proved thilke while;The Schip, which wende his helpe acroche,Drof al to pieces on the roche,And so ther deden ten or twelve;Ther mihte noman helpe himselve, 1050For ther thei wenden deth ascape,Withouten help here deth was schape.Thus thei that comen ferst toforeUpon the Rockes be forlore,Bot thurgh the noise and thurgh the criThese othre were al war therby;And whan the dai began to rowe,Tho mihten thei the sothe knowe,That wher they wenden frendes finde,Thei founden frenschipe al behinde. 1060The lond was thanne sone weyved,Wher that thei hadden be deceived,And toke hem to the hihe See;Therto thei seiden alle yee,Fro that dai forth and war thei wereOf that thei hadde assaied there.
Mi Sone, hierof thou miht aviseHow fraude stant in many wiseAmonges hem that guile thenke;Ther is no Scrivein with his enke 1070Which half the fraude wryte canThat stant in such a maner man:Forthi the wise men ne demenThe thinges after that thei semen,Bot after that thei knowe and finde.The Mirour scheweth in his kindeAs he hadde al the world withinne,And is in soth nothing therinne;And so farth Hate for a throwe:Til he a man hath overthrowe, 1080Schal noman knowe be his chereWhich is avant, ne which arere.Forthi, mi Sone, thenke on this.
Mi fader, so I wole ywiss;And if ther more of Wraththe be,Now axeth forth per charite,As ye be youre bokes knowe,And I the sothe schal beknowe.
Mi Sone, thou schalt understondeThat yit towardes Wraththe stonde 1090Of dedly vices othre tuo:And forto telle here names so,It is Contek and Homicide,That ben to drede on every side.Contek, so as the bokes sein,Folhast hath to his Chamberlein,Be whos conseil al unavisedIs Pacience most despised,Til Homicide with hem meete.Fro merci thei ben al unmeete, 1100And thus ben thei the worste of alleOf hem whiche unto wraththe falle,In dede bothe and ek in thoght:For thei acompte here wraththe at noght,Bot if ther be schedinge of blod;And thus lich to a beste wodThei knowe noght the god of lif.Be so thei have or swerd or knifHere dedly wraththe forto wreke,Of Pite list hem noght to speke; 1110Non other reson thei ne fonge,Bot that thei ben of mihtes stronge.Bot war hem wel in other place,Where every man behoveth grace,Bot ther I trowe it schal hem faile,To whom no merci mihte availe,Bot wroghten upon tiraundie,That no pite ne mihte hem plie.Now tell, my Sone.
Fader, what?
If thou hast be coupable of that. 1120
Mi fader, nay, Crist me forbiede:I speke onliche as of the dede,Of which I nevere was coupableWithoute cause resonable.
Bot this is noght to mi matiereOf schrifte, why we sitten hiere;For we ben sett to schryve of love,As we begunne ferst above:And natheles I am beknoweThat as touchende of loves throwe, 1130Whan I my wittes overwende,Min hertes contek hath non ende,Bot evere it stant upon debatTo gret desese of myn astatAs for the time that it lasteth.For whan mi fortune overcastethHire whiel and is to me so strange,And that I se sche wol noght change,Than caste I al the world aboute,And thenke hou I at home and oute 1140Have al my time in vein despended,And se noght how to ben amended,Bot rathere forto be empeired,As he that is welnyh despeired:For I ne mai no thonk deserve,And evere I love and evere I serve,And evere I am aliche nerr.Thus, for I stonde in such a wer,I am, as who seith, out of herre;And thus upon miself the werre 1150I bringe, and putte out alle pes,That I fulofte in such a resAm wery of myn oghne lif.So that of Contek and of strifI am beknowe and have ansuerd,As ye, my fader, now have herd.Min herte is wonderly begonWith conseil, wherof witt is on,Which hath resoun in compaignie;Ayein the whiche stant partie 1160Will, which hath hope of his acord,And thus thei bringen up descord.Witt and resoun conseilen ofteThat I myn herte scholde softe,And that I scholde will remueAnd put him out of retenue,Or elles holde him under fote:For as thei sein, if that he moteHis oghne rewle have upon honde,Ther schal no witt ben understonde. 1170Of hope also thei tellen this,That overal, wher that he is,He set the herte in jeupartieWith wihssinge and with fantasie,And is noght trewe of that he seith,So that in him ther is no feith:Thus with reson and wit avisedIs will and hope aldai despised.Reson seith that I scholde leveTo love, wher ther is no leve 1180To spede, and will seith therayeinThat such an herte is to vilein,Which dar noght love and til he spede,Let hope serve at such a nede:He seith ek, where an herte sitAl hol governed upon wit,He hath this lyves lust forlore.And thus myn herte is al totoreOf such a Contek as thei make:Bot yit I mai noght will forsake, 1190That he nys Maister of my thoght,Or that I spede, or spede noght.
Thou dost, my Sone, ayein the riht;Bot love is of so gret a miht,His lawe mai noman refuse,So miht thou thee the betre excuse.And natheles thou schalt be lernedThat will scholde evere be governedOf reson more than of kinde,Wherof a tale write I finde. 1200
A Philosophre of which men toldeTher was whilom be daies olde,And Diogenes thanne he hihte.So old he was that he ne mihteThe world travaile, and for the besteHe schop him forto take his reste,And duelte at hom in such a wise,That nyh his hous he let deviseEndlong upon an AxeltreTo sette a tonne in such degre, 1210That he it mihte torne aboute;Wherof on hed was taken oute,For he therinne sitte scholdeAnd torne himself so as he wolde,To take their and se the heveneAnd deme of the planetes sevene,As he which cowthe mochel what.And thus fulofte there he satTo muse in his philosophieSolein withoute compaignie: 1220So that upon a morwetyde,As thing which scholde so betyde,Whan he was set ther as him listeTo loke upon the Sonne ariste,Wherof the propretes he sih,It fell ther cam ridende nyhKing Alisandre with a route;And as he caste his yhe aboute,He sih this Tonne, and what it menteHe wolde wite, and thider sente 1230A knyht, be whom he mihte it knowe,And he himself that ilke throweAbod, and hoveth there stille.This kniht after the kinges willeWith spore made his hors to gonAnd to the tonne he cam anon,Wher that he fond a man of Age,And he him tolde the message,Such as the king him hadde bede,And axeth why in thilke stede 1240The Tonne stod, and what it was.And he, which understod the cas,Sat stille and spak no word ayein.The kniht bad speke and seith, “Vilein,Thou schalt me telle, er that I go;It is thi king which axeth so.”“Mi king,” quod he, “that were unriht.”“What is he thanne?” seith the kniht,“Is he thi man?” “That seie I noght,”Quod he, “bot this I am bethoght, 1250Mi mannes man hou that he is.”“Thou lyest, false cherl, ywiss,”The kniht him seith, and was riht wroth,And to the king ayein he gothAnd tolde him how this man ansuerde.The king, whan he this tale herde,Bad that thei scholden alle abyde,For he himself wol thider ryde.And whan he cam tofore the tonne,He hath his tale thus begonne: 1260“Alheil,” he seith, “what man art thou?”Quod he, “Such on as thou sest now.”The king, which hadde wordes wise,His age wolde noght despise,Bot seith, “Mi fader, I thee preieThat thou me wolt the cause seie,How that I am thi mannes man.”“Sire king,” quod he, “and that I can,If that thou wolt.” “Yis,” seith the king.Quod he, “This is the sothe thing: 1270Sith I ferst resoun understod,And knew what thing was evel and good,The will which of my bodi moeveth,Whos werkes that the god reproeveth,I have restreigned everemore,As him which stant under the loreOf reson, whos soubgit he is,So that he mai noght don amis:And thus be weie of covenantWill is my man and my servant, 1280And evere hath ben and evere schal.And thi will is thi principal,And hath the lordschipe of thi witt,So that thou cowthest nevere yitTake o dai reste of thi labour;Bot forto ben a conquerourOf worldes good, which mai noght laste,Thou hiest evere aliche faste,Wher thou no reson hast to winne:And thus thi will is cause of Sinne, 1290And is thi lord, to whom thou servest,Wherof thou litel thonk deservest.”The king of that he thus answerdeWas nothing wroth, bot whanne he herdeThe hihe wisdom which he seide,With goodly wordes this he preide,That he him wolde telle his name.“I am,” quod he, “that ilke same,The which men Diogenes calle.”Tho was the king riht glad withalle, 1300For he hadde often herd toforeWhat man he was, so that therforeHe seide, “O wise Diogene,Now schal thi grete witt be sene;For thou schalt of my yifte haveWhat worldes thing that thou wolt crave.”Quod he, “Thanne hove out of mi Sonne,And let it schyne into mi Tonne;For thou benymst me thilke yifte,Which lith noght in thi miht to schifte: 1310Non other good of thee me nedeth.”
This king, whom every contre dredeth,Lo, thus he was enformed there:Wherof, my Sone, thou miht lereHow that thi will schal noght be lieved,Where it is noght of wit relieved.And thou hast seid thiself er thisHow that thi will thi maister is;Thurgh which thin hertes thoght withinneIs evere of Contek to beginne, 1320So that it is gretli to dredeThat it non homicide brede.For love is of a wonder kinde,And hath hise wittes ofte blinde,That thei fro mannes reson falle;Bot whan that it is so befalleThat will schal the corage lede,In loves cause it is to drede:Wherof I finde ensample write,Which is behovely forto wite. 1330
I rede a tale, and telleth this:The Cite which SemiramisEnclosed hath with wall aboute,Of worthi folk with many a routeWas enhabited here and there;Among the whiche tuo ther wereAbove alle othre noble and grete,Dwellende tho withinne a StreteSo nyh togedre, as it was sene,That ther was nothing hem betwene, 1340Bot wow to wow and wall to wall.This o lord hadde in specialA Sone, a lusti Bacheler,In al the toun was non his pier:That other hadde a dowhter eke,In al the lond that forto sekeMen wisten non so faire as sche.And fell so, as it scholde be,This faire dowhter nyh this SoneAs thei togedre thanne wone, 1350Cupide hath so the thinges schape,That thei ne mihte his hand ascape,That he his fyr on hem ne caste:Wherof her herte he overcasteTo folwe thilke lore and suieWhich nevere man yit miht eschuie;And that was love, as it is happed,Which hath here hertes so betrapped,That thei be alle weies secheHow that thei mihten winne a speche, 1360Here wofull peine forto lisse.
Who loveth wel, it mai noght misse,And namely whan ther be tuoOf on acord, how so it go,Bot if that thei som weie finde;For love is evere of such a kindeAnd hath his folk so wel affaited,That howso that it be awaited,Ther mai noman the pourpos lette:And thus betwen hem tuo thei sette 1370And hole upon a wall to make,Thurgh which thei have her conseil takeAt alle times, whan thei myhte.This faire Maiden Tisbee hihte,And he whom that sche loveth hoteWas Piramus be name hote.So longe here lecoun thei recorden,Til ate laste thei acordenBe nihtes time forto wendeAl one out fro the tounes ende, 1380Wher was a welle under a Tree;And who cam ferst, or sche or he,He scholde stille there abide.So it befell the nyhtes tideThis maiden, which desguised was,Al prively the softe pasGoth thurgh the large toun unknowe,Til that sche cam withinne a throweWher that sche liketh forto duelle,At thilke unhappi freisshe welle, 1390Which was also the Forest nyh.Wher sche comende a Leoun syhInto the feld to take his preie,In haste and sche tho fledde aweie,So as fortune scholde falle,For feere and let hire wympel falleNyh to the welle upon therbage.This Leoun in his wilde rageA beste, which that he fond oute,Hath slain, and with his blodi snoute, 1400Whan he hath eten what he wolde,To drynke of thilke stremes coldeCam to the welle, where he fondThe wympel, which out of hire hondWas falle, and he it hath todrawe,Bebled aboute and al forgnawe;And thanne he strawhte him forto drinkeUpon the freisshe welles brinke,And after that out of the pleinHe torneth to the wode ayein. 1410And Tisbee dorste noght remue,Bot as a bridd which were in MueWithinne a buissh sche kepte hire closSo stille that sche noght aros;Unto hirself and pleigneth ay.
And fell, whil that sche there lay,This Piramus cam after soneUnto the welle, and be the MoneHe fond hire wimpel blodi there.Cam nevere yit to mannes Ere 1420Tidinge, ne to mannes sihteMerveile, which so sore aflihteA mannes herte, as it tho dedeTo him, which in the same stedeWith many a wofull compleignyngeBegan his handes forto wringe,As he which demeth sikerlyThat sche be ded: and sodeinlyHis swerd al nakid out he breideIn his folhaste, and thus he seide: 1430“I am cause of this felonie,So it is resoun that I die,As sche is ded be cause of me.”And with that word upon his kneHe fell, and to the goddes alleUp to the hevene he gan to calle,And preide, sithen it was soThat he may noght his love as thoHave in this world, that of her graceHe miht hire have in other place, 1440For hiere wolde he noght abide,He seith: bot as it schal betide,The Pomel of his swerd to groundeHe sette, and thurgh his herte a woundeHe made up to the bare hilte:And in this wise himself he spilteWith his folhaste and deth he nam;For sche withinne a while cam,Wher he lai ded upon his knif.So wofull yit was nevere lif 1450As Tisbee was, whan sche him sih:Sche mihte noght o word on hihSpeke oute, for hire herte schette,That of hir lif no pris sche sette,Bot ded swounende doun sche fell.Til after, whanne it so befellThat sche out of hire traunce awok,With many a wofull pitous lokHire yhe alwei among sche casteUpon hir love, and ate laste 1460Sche cawhte breth and seide thus:“O thou which cleped art Venus,Goddesse of love, and thou, Cupide,Which loves cause hast forto guide,I wot now wel that ye be blinde,Of thilke unhapp which I now findeOnly betwen my love and me.This Piramus, which hiere I seBledende, what hath he deserved?For he youre heste hath kept and served, 1470And was yong and I bothe also:Helas, why do ye with ous so?Ye sette oure herte bothe afyre,And maden ous such thing desireWherof that we no skile cowthe;Bot thus oure freisshe lusti yowtheWithoute joie is al despended,Which thing mai nevere ben amended:For as of me this wol I seie,That me is levere forto deie 1480Than live after this sorghful day.”And with this word, where as he lay,Hire love in armes sche embraseth,Hire oghne deth and so pourchasethThat now sche wepte and nou sche kiste,Til ate laste, er sche it wiste,So gret a sorwe is to hire falle,Which overgoth hire wittes alle.As sche which mihte it noght asterte,The swerdes point ayein hire herte 1490Sche sette, and fell doun therupon,Wherof that sche was ded anon:And thus bothe on o swerd bledendeThei weren founde ded liggende.
Now thou, mi Sone, hast herd this tale,Bewar that of thin oghne baleThou be noght cause in thi folhaste,And kep that thou thi witt ne wasteUpon thi thoght in aventure,Wherof thi lyves forfeture 1500Mai falle: and if thou have so thoghtEr this, tell on and hyde it noght.
Mi fader, upon loves sideMi conscience I woll noght hyde,How that for love of pure woI have ben ofte moeved so,That with my wisshes if I myhte,A thousand times, I yow plyhte,I hadde storven in a day;And therof I me schryve may, 1510Though love fully me ne slowh,Mi will to deie was ynowh,So am I of my will coupable:And yit is sche noght merciable,Which mai me yive lif and hele.Bot that hir list noght with me dele,I wot be whos conseil it is,And him wolde I long time er this,And yit I wolde and evere schal,Slen and destruie in special. 1520The gold of nyne kinges londesNe scholde him save fro myn hondes,In my pouer if that he were;Bot yit him stant of me no fereFor noght that evere I can manace.He is the hindrere of mi grace,Til he be ded I mai noght spede;So mot I nedes taken hiedeAnd schape how that he were aweie,If I therto mai finde a weie. 1530
Mi Sone, tell me now forthi,Which is that mortiel enemyThat thou manacest to be ded.
Mi fader, it is such a qwed,That wher I come, he is tofore,And doth so, that mi cause is lore.
What is his name?
It is Daunger,Which is mi ladi consailer:For I was nevere yit so slyh,To come in eny place nyh 1540Wher as sche was be nyht or day,That Danger ne was redy ay,With whom for speche ne for medeYit mihte I nevere of love spede;For evere this I finde soth,Al that my ladi seith or dothTo me, Daunger schal make an ende,And that makth al mi world miswende:And evere I axe his help, bot heMai wel be cleped sanz pite; 1550For ay the more I to him bowe,The lasse he wol my tale alowe.He hath mi ladi so englued,Sche wol noght that he be remued;For evere he hangeth on hire Seil,And is so prive of conseil,That evere whanne I have oght bede,I finde Danger in hire stedeAnd myn ansuere of him I have;Bot for no merci that I crave, 1560Of merci nevere a point I hadde.I finde his ansuere ay so badde,That werse mihte it nevere be:And thus betwen Danger and meIs evere werre til he dye.Bot mihte I ben of such maistrie,That I Danger hadde overcome,With that were al my joie come.Thus wolde I wonde for no Sinne,Ne yit for al this world to winne; 1570If that I mihte finde a sleyhte,To leie al myn astat in weyhte,I wolde him fro the Court dissevere,So that he come ayeinward nevere.Therfore I wisshe and wolde fainThat he were in som wise slain;For while he stant in thilke place,Ne gete I noght my ladi grace.Thus hate I dedly thilke vice,And wolde he stode in non office 1580In place wher mi ladi is;For if he do, I wot wel this,That owther schal he deie or IWithinne a while; and noght forthiOn my ladi fulofte I muse,How that sche mai hirself excuse,If that I deie in such a plit.Me thenkth sche mihte noght be qwytThat sche ne were an homicide:And if it scholde so betide, 1590As god forbiede it scholde be,Be double weie it is pite.For I, which al my will and wittHave yove and served evere yit,And thanne I scholde in such a wiseIn rewardinge of my serviseBe ded, me thenkth it were a rowthe:And furthermor, to telle trowthe,Sche, that hath evere be wel named,Were worthi thanne to be blamed 1600And of reson to ben appeled,Whan with o word sche mihte have heledA man, and soffreth him so deie.Ha, who sawh evere such a weie?Ha, who sawh evere such destresse?Withoute pite gentilesse,Withoute mercy wommanhede,That wol so quyte a man his mede,Which evere hath be to love trewe.Mi goode fader, if ye rewe 1610Upon mi tale, tell me now,And I wol stinte and herkne yow.
Mi Sone, attempre thi corageFro Wraththe, and let thin herte assuage:For who so wole him underfonge,He mai his grace abide longe,Er he of love be received;And ek also, bot it be weyved,Ther mihte mochel thing befalle,That scholde make a man to falle 1620Fro love, that nevere afterwardNe durste he loke thiderward.In harde weies men gon softe,And er thei clymbe avise hem ofte:Men sen alday that rape reweth;And who so wicked Ale breweth,Fulofte he mot the werse drinke:Betre is to flete than to sincke;Betre is upon the bridel chieweThanne if he felle and overthrewe, 1630The hors and stikede in the Myr:To caste water in the fyrBetre is than brenne up al the hous:The man which is maliciousAnd folhastif, fulofte he falleth,And selden is whan love him calleth.Forthi betre is to soffre a throweThan be to wilde and overthrowe;Suffrance hath evere be the besteTo wissen him that secheth reste: 1640And thus, if thou wolt love and spede,Mi Sone, soffre, as I the rede.What mai the Mous ayein the Cat?And for this cause I axe that,Who mai to love make a werre,That he ne hath himself the werre?Love axeth pes and evere schal,And who that fihteth most withalSchal lest conquere of his emprise:For this thei tellen that ben wise, 1650Wicke is to stryve and have the werse;To hasten is noght worth a kerse;Thing that a man mai noght achieve,That mai noght wel be don at Eve,It mot abide til the morwe.Ne haste noght thin oghne sorwe,Mi Sone, and tak this in thi witt,He hath noght lost that wel abitt.
Ensample that it falleth thus,Thou miht wel take of Piramus, 1660Whan he in haste his swerd outdrowhAnd on the point himselve slowhFor love of Tisbee pitously,For he hire wympel fond blodyAnd wende a beste hire hadde slain;Wher as him oghte have be riht fain,For sche was there al sauf beside:Bot for he wolde noght abide,This meschief fell. Forthi be war,Mi Sone, as I the warne dar, 1670Do thou nothing in such a res,For suffrance is the welle of Pes.Thogh thou to loves Court poursuie,Yit sit it wel that thou eschuieThat thou the Court noght overhaste,For so miht thou thi time waste;Bot if thin happ therto be schape,It mai noght helpe forto rape.Therfore attempre thi corage;Folhaste doth non avantage, 1680Bot ofte it set a man behindeIn cause of love, and that I findeBe olde ensample, as thou schalt hiere,Touchende of love in this matiere.
A Maiden whilom ther was on,Which Daphne hihte, and such was nonOf beaute thanne, as it was seid.Phebus his love hath on hire leid,And therupon to hire he soghteIn his folhaste, and so besoghte, 1690That sche with him no reste hadde;For evere upon hire love he gradde,And sche seide evere unto him nay.So it befell upon a dai,Cupide, which hath every chanceOf love under his governance,Syh Phebus hasten him so sore:And for he scholde him haste more,And yit noght speden ate laste,A dart thurghout his herte he caste, 1700Which was of gold and al afyre,That made him manyfold desireOf love more thanne he dede.To Daphne ek in the same stedeA dart of Led he caste and smot,Which was al cold and nothing hot.And thus Phebus in love brenneth,And in his haste aboute renneth,To loke if that he mihte winne;Bot he was evere to beginne, 1710For evere awei fro him sche fledde,So that he nevere his love spedde.And forto make him full believeThat no Folhaste mihte achieveTo gete love in such degree,This Daphne into a lorer treWas torned, which is evere grene,In tokne, as yit it mai be sene,That sche schal duelle a maiden stille,And Phebus failen of his wille. 1720
Be suche ensamples, as thei stonde,Mi Sone, thou miht understonde,To hasten love is thing in vein,Whan that fortune is therayein.To take where a man hath leveGood is, and elles he mot leve;For whan a mannes happes failen,Ther is non haste mai availen.
Mi fader, grant merci of this:Bot while I se mi ladi is 1730No tre, but halt hire oghne forme,Ther mai me noman so enforme,To whether part fortune wende,That I unto mi lyves endeNe wol hire serven everemo.
Mi Sone, sithen it is so,I seie nomor; bot in this casBewar how it with Phebus was.Noght only upon loves chance,Bot upon every governance 1740Which falleth unto mannes dede,Folhaste is evere forto drede,And that a man good consail take,Er he his pourpos undertake,For consail put Folhaste aweie.
Now goode fader, I you preie,That forto wisse me the more,Som good ensample upon this loreYe wolden telle of that is write,That I the betre mihte wite 1750How I Folhaste scholde eschuie,And the wisdom of conseil suie.
Mi Sone, that thou miht enformeThi pacience upon the formeOf old essamples, as thei felle,Now understond what I schal telle.
Whan noble Troie was beleinAnd overcome, and hom ayeinThe Gregois torned fro the siege,The kinges founde here oghne liege 1760In manye places, as men seide,That hem forsoke and desobeide.Among the whiche fell this casTo Demephon and Athemas,That weren kinges bothe tuo,And bothe weren served so:Here lieges wolde hem noght receive,So that thei mote algates weyveTo seche lond in other place,For there founde thei no grace. 1770Wherof they token hem to rede,And soghten frendes ate nede,And ech of hem asseureth otherTo helpe as to his oghne brother,To vengen hem of thilke oultrageAnd winne ayein here heritage.And thus thei ryde aboute fasteTo gete hem help, and ate lasteThei hadden pouer sufficant,And maden thanne a covenant, 1780That thei ne scholden no lif save,Ne prest, ne clerc, ne lord, ne knave,Ne wif, ne child, of that thei finde,Which berth visage of mannes kinde,So that no lif schal be socoured,Bot with the dedly swerd devoured:In such Folhaste here ordinanceThei schapen forto do vengance.Whan this pourpos was wist and knoweAmong here host, tho was ther blowe 1790Of wordes many a speche aboute:Of yonge men the lusti routeWere of this tale glad ynowh,Ther was no care for the plowh;As thei that weren Folhastif,Thei ben acorded to the strif,And sein it mai noght be to gretTo vengen hem of such forfet:Thus seith the wilde unwise tongeOf hem that there weren yonge. 1800Bot Nestor, which was old and hor,The salve sih tofore the sor,As he that was of conseil wys:So that anon be his avisTher was a prive conseil nome.The lordes ben togedre come;This Demephon and AthemasHere pourpos tolden, as it was;Thei sieten alle stille and herde,Was non bot Nestor hem ansuerde. 1810He bad hem, if thei wolde winne,They scholden se, er thei beginne,Here ende, and sette here ferste entente,That thei hem after ne repente:And axeth hem this questioun,To what final conclusiounThei wolde regne Kinges there,If that no poeple in londe were;And seith, it were a wonder wierdeTo sen a king become an hierde, 1820Wher no lif is bot only besteUnder the liegance of his heste;For who that is of man no king,The remenant is as no thing.He seith ek, if the pourpos holdeTo sle the poeple, as thei tuo wolde,Whan thei it mihte noght restore,Al Grece it scholde abegge sore,To se the wilde beste woneWher whilom duelte a mannes Sone: 1830And for that cause he bad hem trete,And stinte of the manaces grete.Betre is to winne be fair speche,He seith, than such vengance seche;For whanne a man is most above,Him nedeth most to gete him love.
Whan Nestor hath his tale seid,Ayein him was no word withseid;It thoghte hem alle he seide wel:And thus fortune hire dedly whiel 1840Fro werre torneth into pes.Bot forth thei wenten natheles;And whan the Contres herde seinHow that here kinges be beseinOf such a pouer as thei ladde,Was non so bold that hem ne dradde,And forto seche pes and grithThei sende and preide anon forthwith,So that the kinges ben appesed,And every mannes herte is esed; 1850Al was foryete and noght recorded.And thus thei ben togedre acorded;The kinges were ayein received,And pes was take and wraththe weived,And al thurgh conseil which was goodOf him that reson understod.
Be this ensample, Sone, attempreThin herte and let no will distempreThi wit, and do nothing be myhtWhich mai be do be love and riht. 1860Folhaste is cause of mochel wo;Forthi, mi Sone, do noght so.And as touchende of HomicideWhich toucheth unto loves side,Fulofte it falleth unavisedThurgh will, which is noght wel assised,Whan wit and reson ben aweieAnd that Folhaste is in the weie,Wherof hath falle gret vengance.Forthi tak into remembrance 1870To love in such a maner wiseThat thou deserve no juise:For wel I wot, thou miht noght lette,That thou ne schalt thin herte setteTo love, wher thou wolt or non;Bot if thi wit be overgon,So that it torne into malice,Ther wot noman of thilke vice,What peril that ther mai befalle:Wherof a tale amonges alle, 1880Which is gret pite forto hiere,I thenke forto tellen hiere,That thou such moerdre miht withstonde,Whan thou the tale hast understonde.
Of Troie at thilke noble toun,Whos fame stant yit of renounAnd evere schal to mannes Ere,The Siege laste longe there,Er that the Greks it mihten winne,Whil Priamus was king therinne; 1890Bot of the Greks that lyhe abouteAgamenon ladde al the route.This thing is knowen overal,Bot yit I thenke in specialTo my matiere theruponTelle in what wise Agamenon,Thurgh chance which mai noght be weived,Of love untrewe was deceived.An old sawe is, “Who that is slyhIn place where he mai be nyh, 1900He makth the ferre Lieve loth”:Of love and thus fulofte it goth.Ther while Agamenon bataillethTo winne Troie, and it assailleth,Fro home and was long time ferr,Egistus drowh his qweene nerr,And with the leiser which he haddeThis ladi at his wille he ladde:Climestre was hire rihte name,Sche was therof gretli to blame, 1910To love there it mai noght laste.Bot fell to meschief ate laste;For whan this noble worthi knihtFro Troie cam, the ferste nyhtThat he at home abedde lay,Egistus, longe er it was day,As this Climestre him hadde asent,And weren bothe of on assent,Be treson slowh him in his bedd.Bot moerdre, which mai noght ben hedd, 1920Sprong out to every mannes Ere,Wherof the lond was full of fere.
Agamenon hath be this qweeneA Sone, and that was after sene;Bot yit as thanne he was of yowthe,A babe, which no reson cowthe,And as godd wolde, it fell him thus.A worthi kniht TaltabiusThis yonge child hath in kepinge,And whan he herde of this tidinge, 1930Of this treson, of this misdede,He gan withinne himself to drede,In aunter if this false EgisteUpon him come, er he it wiste,To take and moerdre of his maliceThis child, which he hath to norrice:And for that cause in alle hasteOut of the lond he gan him hasteAnd to the king of Crete he strawhteAnd him this yonge lord betawhte, 1940And preide him for his fader sakeThat he this child wolde undertakeAnd kepe him til he be of Age,So as he was of his lignage;And tolde him over al the cas,How that his fadre moerdred was,And hou Egistus, as men seide,Was king, to whom the lond obeide.And whanne Ydomeneux the kingHath understondinge of this thing, 1950Which that this kniht him hadde told,He made sorwe manyfold,And tok this child into his warde,And seide he wolde him kepe and warde,Til that he were of such a myhtTo handle a swerd and ben a knyht,To venge him at his oghne wille.And thus Horestes duelleth stille,Such was the childes rihte name,Which after wroghte mochel schame 1960In vengance of his fader deth.
The time of yeres overgeth,That he was man of brede and lengthe,Of wit, of manhod and of strengthe,A fair persone amonges alle.And he began to clepe and calle,As he which come was to manne,Unto the King of Crete thanne,Preiende that he wolde him makeA kniht and pouer with him take, 1970For lengere wolde he noght beleve,He seith, bot preith the king of leveTo gon and cleyme his heritageAnd vengen him of thilke oultrageWhich was unto his fader do.The king assenteth wel therto,With gret honour and knyht him makth,And gret pouer to him betakth,And gan his journe forto caste:So that Horestes ate laste 1980His leve tok and forth he goth.As he that was in herte wroth,His ferste pleinte to bemene,Unto the Cite of AtheneHe goth him forth and was received,So there was he noght deceived.The Duc and tho that weren wiseThei profren hem to his servise;And he hem thonketh of here profreAnd seith himself he wol gon offre 1990Unto the goddes for his sped,As alle men him yeven red.So goth he to the temple forth:Of yiftes that be mochel worthHis sacrifice and his offringeHe made; and after his axingeHe was ansuerd, if that he woldeHis stat recovere, thanne he scholdeUpon his Moder do venganceSo cruel, that the remembrance 2000Therof mihte everemore abide,As sche that was an homicideAnd of hire oghne lord Moerdrice.Horestes, which of thilke officeWas nothing glad, as thanne he preideUnto the goddes there and seideThat thei the juggement devise,How sche schal take the juise.And therupon he hadde ansuere,That he hire Pappes scholde of tere 2010Out of hire brest his oghne hondes,And for ensample of alle londesWith hors sche scholde be todrawe,Til houndes hadde hire bones gnaweWithouten eny sepulture:This was a wofull aventure.And whan Horestes hath al herd,How that the goddes have ansuerd,Forth with the strengthe which he laddeThe Duc and his pouer he hadde, 2020And to a Cite forth thei gon,The which was cleped Cropheon,Where as Phoieus was lord and Sire,Which profreth him withouten hyreHis help and al that he mai do,As he that was riht glad therto,To grieve his mortiel enemy:And tolde hem certein cause why,How that Egiste in MariageHis dowhter whilom of full Age 2030Forlai, and afterward forsok,Whan he Horestes Moder tok.
Men sein, “Old Senne newe schame”:Thus more and more aros the blameAyein Egiste on every side.Horestes with his host to rideBegan, and Phoieus with hem wente;I trowe Egiste him schal repente.Thei riden forth unto Micene,Wher lay Climestre thilke qweene, 2040The which Horestes moder is:And whan sche herde telle of this,The gates weren faste schet,And thei were of here entre let.Anon this Cite was withouteBelein and sieged al aboute,And evere among thei it assaile,Fro day to nyht and so travaile,Til ate laste thei it wonne;Tho was ther sorwe ynowh begonne. 2050