Chapter 40

[Ire or Wrath.]P. i. 279i.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,Hic in tercio libro tractat super quinque speciebus Ire, quarum prima Malencolia dicitur, cuius vicium Confessor primo837describens Amanti super eodem consequenter opponit.That ther nis on upon this grounde,A vice forein fro the lawe,Wherof that many a good felaweHath be distraght be sodein chance;838And 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:839And is be name on of the Sevene,Which ofte hath set this world unevene,P. i. 280And 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 is20That 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:[i.Melancholy.]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?Confessio Amantis.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 gothP. i. 281With 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 oppressed840Of thoght, the which I have impressed,50That al wakende I dreme and meete841That 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;842And 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 spede843I am, the more I with hir dele,So that myn happ and al myn hele70Me 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.P. i. 282For 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,844And 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 Rome100Ne cowthe I after that be wroth,Bot al myn Anger overgoth;So glad I am of the presenceOf hire, that I all offenceP. i. 283Foryete, 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 sihe845On 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 hier130In loves stede, I yow beseche,That som ensample ye me teche,Wherof I mai miself appese.Confessor.Mi Sone, for thin hertes eseP. i. 284I 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 thenketh140Upon the folie of his dede;And of this point a tale I rede.[Tale of Canace and Machaire.]Ther was a king which EolusWas hote, and it befell him thus,Hic ponit Confessor exemplum contra istos, qui cum vires amoris non sunt realiter experti, contra alios amantes malencolica846seueritate ad iracundiam vindicte prouocantur. Et narrat qualiter Rex Eolus filium nomine Macharium et filiam nomine Canacem habuit, qui cum ab infancia vsque ad pubertatem inuicem educati fuerant, Cupido tandem ignito iaculo amborum cordis desideria amorose penetrauit, ita quod Canacis natura cooperante a fratre suo inpregnata parturit: super quo pater, intollerabilem iuuentutis concupiscenciam847ignorans nimiaque furoris malencolia preuentus, dictam filiam cum partu dolorosissimo casu interfici adiudicauit.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 herteP. i. 285His love upon his Soster caste:And so it fell hem ate laste,That this Machaire with CanaceWhan thei were in a prive place,848Cupide bad hem ferst to kesse,And after sche which is Maistresse170In 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 overmore849Sche 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;850Bot 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,851So 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,P. i. 286And 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.852200Machaire 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 swore220That 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:P. i. 287‘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 his 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 so250In the manere as he him bad,How sche that scharpe swerdes bladReceive scholde and do withalSo as sche wot wherto it schal.853P. i. 288Forth 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 entente260That 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,P. i. 289O thou my love, o thou myn hate,For thee mot I be ded algate.854Thilke 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.855290Bot 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 fade310Sche fell doun ded fro ther sche stod.The child lay bathende in hire blodOut rolled fro the moder barm,856And for the blod was hot and warm,P. i. 290He basketh him aboute thrinne.857Ther 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 beste him mai devoure,Where as noman him schal socoure.Al that he bad was don in dede:Ha, who herde evere singe or rede330Of such a thing as that was do?858Bot 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.Confessor.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 above340That thou miht lede it at thi wille,Let nevere thurgh thi Wraththe spilleWhich every kinde scholde save.For it sit every man to haveP. i. 291Reward 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.859What nature hath set in hir lawe860Ther 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[Tiresias and the Snakes.]Ovide after the time thoTolde an ensample and seide so,How that whilom Tiresias,As he walkende goth per cas,Hic narrat qualiter Tiresias in quodam monte duos serpentes inuenit pariter commiscentes, quos cum virga percussit. Irati dii ob hoc quod naturam impediuit, ipsum contra naturam a forma virili in muliebrem transmutarunt.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 fonde370To letten hem, and smot hem bothe:Wherof the goddes weren wrothe;And for he hath destourbed kindeAnd was so to nature unkinde,P. i. 292Unkindeliche 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.380Confessor.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 menable861390To 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.Amans.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,[Melancholy.]Al one upon miself it is,862That I with bothe love and kindeAm so bestad, that I can findeP. i. 293No weie how I it mai asterte:Which stant upon myn oghne herteAnd toucheth to non other lif,Save only to that swete wif863For 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.[ii.Cheste.]ii.Ira mouet litem, que lingue frena resoluensLaxa per infames currit vbique vias.Rixarum nutrix quos educat ista loquaces,Hos Venus a latere linquit habere vagos.Set pacienter agens taciturno qui celet ore,Vincit, et optati carpit amoris iter.864Of Wraththe the secounde is Cheste,Which hath the wyndes of tempesteTo kepe, and many a sodein blastHe bloweth, wherof ben agast420Hic tractat Confessor super secunda specie Ire, que Lis dicitur, ex cuius contumeliis innumerosa dolorum occasio tam in amoris causa quam aliter in quampluribus sepissime exorta est.Thei 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.430P. i. 294So 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 eloquence440He 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.865He is the levein of the bred,866Which sourethal 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,460P. i. 295And 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.Opponit Confessor.Now tell me, Sone, thin ansuere,If it hath evere so betidd,That thou at eny time hast chiddToward thi love.Confessio Amantis.Fader, nay;Such Cheste yit unto this day867Ne made I nevere, god forbede:For er I sunge such a crede,868I hadde levere to be lewed;For thanne were I al beschrewed869480And 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.870490P. i. 296And 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 pike500Whiche 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,871That 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.872Bot that I have ayein hir heste520P. i. 297Fulofte 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;873For thogh I telle hire al my thoght,Sche wot wel that I chyde noght.Men mai the hihe god beseche,874And 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 preie540Mi 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.550P. i. 298Bot 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,875I 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:580P. i. 299Thus for to moche or for to lite876Fulofte 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.Confessor.Mi Sone, if that thou wistest al,What Cheste doth in specialTo love and to his welwillinge,Thou woldest flen his knowlechinge600And 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,610P. i. 300Which is the source of gret destance:877And tak into thi remembrance878If thou miht gete pacience,Which is the leche of alle offence,As tellen ous these olde wise:Seneca. Paciencia est vindicta omnium iniuriarum.For whan noght elles mai suffiseBe strengthe ne be mannes wit,Than pacience it oversitAnd overcomth it ate laste;879Bot he mai nevere longe laste,620Which wol noght bowe er that he breke.Tak hiede, Sone, of that I speke.Amans.Mi fader, of your goodli specheAnd of the witt which ye me teche880I thonke you with al myn herte:For that world schal me nevere asterte,881That 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,882It scholde wel myn herte likeOf pacience forto hiere,So that I mihte in mi matiereThe more unto my love obeieAnd puten mi desese aweie.

[Ire or Wrath.]

P. i. 279

i.Ira suis paribus est par furiis Acherontis,

Quo furor ad tempus nil pietatis habet.

Ira malencolicos animos perturbat, vt equo

Iure 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,Hic in tercio libro tractat super quinque speciebus Ire, quarum prima Malencolia dicitur, cuius vicium Confessor primo837describens Amanti super eodem consequenter opponit.That ther nis on upon this grounde,A vice forein fro the lawe,Wherof that many a good felaweHath be distraght be sodein chance;838And 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:839And is be name on of the Sevene,Which ofte hath set this world unevene,P. i. 280And 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 is20That 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:[i.Melancholy.]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?Confessio Amantis.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 gothP. i. 281With 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 oppressed840Of thoght, the which I have impressed,50That al wakende I dreme and meete841That 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;842And 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 spede843I am, the more I with hir dele,So that myn happ and al myn hele70Me 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.P. i. 282For 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,844And 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 Rome100Ne cowthe I after that be wroth,Bot al myn Anger overgoth;So glad I am of the presenceOf hire, that I all offenceP. i. 283Foryete, 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 sihe845On 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 hier130In loves stede, I yow beseche,That som ensample ye me teche,Wherof I mai miself appese.Confessor.Mi Sone, for thin hertes eseP. i. 284I 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 thenketh140Upon the folie of his dede;And of this point a tale I rede.

If thou the vices lest to knowe,

Mi Sone, it hath noght ben unknowe,

Fro ferst that men the swerdes grounde,

Hic in tercio libro tractat super quinque speciebus Ire, quarum prima Malencolia dicitur, cuius vicium Confessor primo837describens Amanti super eodem consequenter opponit.

That ther nis on upon this grounde,

A vice forein fro the lawe,

Wherof that many a good felawe

Hath be distraght be sodein chance;838

And yit to kinde no plesance

It doth, bot wher he most achieveth

His pourpos, most to kinde he grieveth,10

As he which out of conscience

Is enemy to pacience:839

And is be name on of the Sevene,

Which ofte hath set this world unevene,

P. i. 280

And cleped is the cruel Ire,

Whos herte is everemore on fyre

To speke amis and to do bothe,

For his servantz ben evere wrothe.

Mi goode fader, tell me this:

What thing is Ire?

Sone, it is20

That in oure englissh Wrathe is hote,

Which hath hise wordes ay so hote,

That all a mannes pacience

Is fyred of the violence.

For he with him hath evere fyve

Servantz that helpen him to stryve:

[i.Melancholy.]

The ferst of hem Malencolie

Is cleped, which in compaignie

An hundred times in an houre

Wol as an angri beste loure,30

And noman wot the cause why.

Mi Sone, schrif thee now forthi:

Hast thou be Malencolien?

Confessio Amantis.

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 glede

For Wrathe that I mai noght spede.40

And thus fulofte a day for noght

Save onlich of myn oghne thoght

I am so with miselven wroth,

That how so that the game goth

P. i. 281

With othre men, I am noght glad;

Bot I am wel the more unglad,

For that is othre mennes game

It torneth me to pure grame.

Thus am I with miself oppressed840

Of thoght, the which I have impressed,50

That al wakende I dreme and meete841

That I with hire al one meete

And 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 day

Ther souneth in myn Eres nay,60

The which sche seide me tofore:

Thus be my wittes as forlore;842

And namely whan I beginne

To rekne with miself withinne

How many yeres ben agon,

Siththe I have trewly loved on

And nevere tok of other hede,

And evere aliche fer to spede843

I am, the more I with hir dele,

So that myn happ and al myn hele70

Me 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.

P. i. 282

For finaly, whan that I muse

And 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 lasteth

Al up so doun my joie it casteth,80

And 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 laththe

Or for the torninge of a stree

I wode as doth the wylde Se,844

And am so malencolious,

That ther nys servant in myn hous

Ne non of tho that ben aboute,

That ech of hem ne stant in doute,90

And wenen that I scholde rave

For 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 tide

The place wher my ladi is,

And thanne that hire like ywiss

To speke a goodli word untome,

For al the gold that is in Rome100

Ne cowthe I after that be wroth,

Bot al myn Anger overgoth;

So glad I am of the presence

Of hire, that I all offence

P. i. 283

Foryete, as thogh it were noght,

So overgladed is my thoght.

And natheles, the soth to telle,

Ayeinward if it so befelle

That I at thilke time sihe845

On me that sche miscaste hire yhe,110

Or that sche liste noght to loke,

And I therof good hiede toke,

Anon into my ferste astat

I torne, and am with al so mat,

That evere it is aliche wicke.

And thus myn hand ayein the pricke

I 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,120

With which in many a chele and hete

Mi wofull herte is so tobete,

That all my wittes ben unsofte

And I am wroth, I not how ofte;

And al it is Malencolie,

Which groweth of the fantasie

Of love, that me wol noght loute:

So bere I forth an angri snoute

Ful manye times in a yer.

Bot, fader, now ye sitten hier130

In loves stede, I yow beseche,

That som ensample ye me teche,

Wherof I mai miself appese.

Confessor.

Mi Sone, for thin hertes ese

P. i. 284

I schal fulfille thi preiere,

So that thou miht the betre lere

What mischief that this vice stereth,

Which in his Anger noght forbereth,

Wherof that after him forthenketh,

Whan he is sobre and that he thenketh140

Upon the folie of his dede;

And of this point a tale I rede.

[Tale of Canace and Machaire.]Ther was a king which EolusWas hote, and it befell him thus,Hic ponit Confessor exemplum contra istos, qui cum vires amoris non sunt realiter experti, contra alios amantes malencolica846seueritate ad iracundiam vindicte prouocantur. Et narrat qualiter Rex Eolus filium nomine Macharium et filiam nomine Canacem habuit, qui cum ab infancia vsque ad pubertatem inuicem educati fuerant, Cupido tandem ignito iaculo amborum cordis desideria amorose penetrauit, ita quod Canacis natura cooperante a fratre suo inpregnata parturit: super quo pater, intollerabilem iuuentutis concupiscenciam847ignorans nimiaque furoris malencolia preuentus, dictam filiam cum partu dolorosissimo casu interfici adiudicauit.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 herteP. i. 285His love upon his Soster caste:And so it fell hem ate laste,That this Machaire with CanaceWhan thei were in a prive place,848Cupide bad hem ferst to kesse,And after sche which is Maistresse170In 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 overmore849Sche 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;850Bot 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,851So 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,P. i. 286And 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.852200Machaire 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 swore220That 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:P. i. 287‘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 his 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 so250In the manere as he him bad,How sche that scharpe swerdes bladReceive scholde and do withalSo as sche wot wherto it schal.853P. i. 288Forth 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 entente260That 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,P. i. 289O thou my love, o thou myn hate,For thee mot I be ded algate.854Thilke 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.855290Bot 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 fade310Sche fell doun ded fro ther sche stod.The child lay bathende in hire blodOut rolled fro the moder barm,856And for the blod was hot and warm,P. i. 290He basketh him aboute thrinne.857Ther 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 beste him mai devoure,Where as noman him schal socoure.Al that he bad was don in dede:Ha, who herde evere singe or rede330Of such a thing as that was do?858Bot 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.Confessor.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 above340That thou miht lede it at thi wille,Let nevere thurgh thi Wraththe spilleWhich every kinde scholde save.For it sit every man to haveP. i. 291Reward 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.859What nature hath set in hir lawe860Ther 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

[Tale of Canace and Machaire.]

Ther was a king which Eolus

Was hote, and it befell him thus,

Hic ponit Confessor exemplum contra istos, qui cum vires amoris non sunt realiter experti, contra alios amantes malencolica846seueritate ad iracundiam vindicte prouocantur. Et narrat qualiter Rex Eolus filium nomine Macharium et filiam nomine Canacem habuit, qui cum ab infancia vsque ad pubertatem inuicem educati fuerant, Cupido tandem ignito iaculo amborum cordis desideria amorose penetrauit, ita quod Canacis natura cooperante a fratre suo inpregnata parturit: super quo pater, intollerabilem iuuentutis concupiscenciam847ignorans nimiaque furoris malencolia preuentus, dictam filiam cum partu dolorosissimo casu interfici adiudicauit.

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 wone

In chambre thei togedre wone,150

And as thei scholden pleide hem ofte,

Til thei be growen up alofte

Into the youthe of lusti age,

Whan kinde assaileth the corage

With 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 so

He makth his client blind also.160

In such manere as I you telle

As thei al day togedre duelle,

This brother mihte it noght asterte

That he with al his hole herte

P. i. 285

His love upon his Soster caste:

And so it fell hem ate laste,

That this Machaire with Canace

Whan thei were in a prive place,848

Cupide bad hem ferst to kesse,

And after sche which is Maistresse170

In kinde and techeth every lif

Withoute lawe positif,

Of which sche takth nomaner charge,

Bot kepth hire lawes al at large,

Nature, tok hem into lore

And tawht hem so, that overmore849

Sche hath hem in such wise daunted;

That thei were, as who seith, enchaunted.

And as the blinde an other ledeth

And til thei falle nothing dredeth,180

Riht so thei hadde non insihte;850

Bot as the bridd which wole alihte

And 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,851

So that thei felle upon the chance

Where witt hath lore his remembrance.

So longe thei togedre assemble,

The wombe aros, and sche gan tremble,190

And hield hire in hire chambre clos

For drede it scholde be disclos

And come to hire fader Ere:

Wherof the Sone hadde also fere,

P. i. 286

And feigneth cause forto ryde;

For longe dorste he noght abyde,

In aunter if men wolde sein

That he his Soster hath forlein:

For yit sche hadde it noght beknowe

Whos was the child at thilke throwe.852200

Machaire 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 kid

Unto the king, how that it stod.

And whan that he it understod,

Anon into Malencolie,

As thogh it were a frenesie,210

He fell, as he which nothing cowthe

How maistrefull love is in yowthe:

And for he was to love strange,

He wolde noght his herte change

To be benigne and favorable

To love, bot unmerciable

Betwen the wawe of wod and wroth

Into his dowhtres chambre he goth,

And sih the child was late bore,

Wherof he hath hise othes swore220

That 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:

P. i. 287

‘Ha mercy! fader, thenk I am

Thi 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,230

Merci, my fader, do no wreche!’

And with that word sche loste speche

And fell doun swounende at his fot,

As sche for sorwe nedes mot.

Bot his horrible crualte

Ther mihte attempre no pite:

Out of hire chambre forth he wente

Al full of wraththe in his entente,

And tok the conseil in his herte

That sche schal noght the deth asterte,240

As he which Malencolien

Of pacience hath no lien,

Wherof his 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 sonde

A naked swerd to bere on honde,

And seide him that he scholde go

And telle unto his dowhter so250

In the manere as he him bad,

How sche that scharpe swerdes blad

Receive scholde and do withal

So as sche wot wherto it schal.853

P. i. 288

Forth in message goth this kniht

Unto 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 entente260

That 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.’270

Sche 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 grace

Sche 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,280

O 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,

P. i. 289

O thou my love, o thou myn hate,

For thee mot I be ded algate.854

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.855290

Bot of o thing I schal thee preie,

If that my litel Sone deie,

Let him be beried in my grave

Beside me, so schalt thou have

Upon ous bothe remembrance.

For thus it stant of my grevance;

Now at this time, as thou schalt wite,

With teres and with enke write

This lettre I have in cares colde:

In my riht hond my Penne I holde,300

And in my left the swerd I kepe,

And in my barm ther lith to wepe

Thi 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 grounde

Sche sette, and with the point a wounde

Thurghout hire herte anon sche made,

And forth with that al pale and fade310

Sche fell doun ded fro ther sche stod.

The child lay bathende in hire blod

Out rolled fro the moder barm,856

And for the blod was hot and warm,

P. i. 290

He basketh him aboute thrinne.857

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 dieth

And how this Babe al blody crieth;320

Bot al that mihte him noght suffise,

That he ne bad to do juise

Upon the child, and bere him oute,

And seche in the Forest aboute

Som wilde place, what it were,

To caste him out of honde there,

So that som beste him mai devoure,

Where as noman him schal socoure.

Al that he bad was don in dede:

Ha, who herde evere singe or rede330

Of such a thing as that was do?858

Bot he which ladde his wraththe so

Hath knowe of love bot a lite;

Bot for al that he was to wyte,

Thurgh his sodein Malencolie

To do so gret a felonie.

Confessor.

Forthi, my Sone, how so it stonde,

Be this cas thou miht understonde

That if thou evere in cause of love

Schalt deme, and thou be so above340

That thou miht lede it at thi wille,

Let nevere thurgh thi Wraththe spille

Which every kinde scholde save.

For it sit every man to have

P. i. 291

Reward to love and to his miht,

Ayein whos strengthe mai no wiht:

And siththe an herte is so constreigned,

The reddour oghte be restreigned

To him that mai no bet aweie,

Whan he mot to nature obeie.350

For it is seid thus overal,

That nedes mot that nede schal

Of that a lif doth after kinde,

Wherof he mai no bote finde.859

What nature hath set in hir lawe860

Ther 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

[Tiresias and the Snakes.]Ovide after the time thoTolde an ensample and seide so,How that whilom Tiresias,As he walkende goth per cas,Hic narrat qualiter Tiresias in quodam monte duos serpentes inuenit pariter commiscentes, quos cum virga percussit. Irati dii ob hoc quod naturam impediuit, ipsum contra naturam a forma virili in muliebrem transmutarunt.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 fonde370To letten hem, and smot hem bothe:Wherof the goddes weren wrothe;And for he hath destourbed kindeAnd was so to nature unkinde,P. i. 292Unkindeliche 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.380Confessor.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 menable861390To 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.Amans.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,[Melancholy.]Al one upon miself it is,862That I with bothe love and kindeAm so bestad, that I can findeP. i. 293No weie how I it mai asterte:Which stant upon myn oghne herteAnd toucheth to non other lif,Save only to that swete wif863For 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.

[Tiresias and the Snakes.]

Ovide after the time tho

Tolde an ensample and seide so,

How that whilom Tiresias,

As he walkende goth per cas,

Hic narrat qualiter Tiresias in quodam monte duos serpentes inuenit pariter commiscentes, quos cum virga percussit. Irati dii ob hoc quod naturam impediuit, ipsum contra naturam a forma virili in muliebrem transmutarunt.

Upon an hih Montaine he sih

Tuo Serpentz in his weie nyh,

And thei, so as nature hem tawhte,

Assembled were, and he tho cawhte

A yerde which he bar on honde,

And thoghte that he wolde fonde370

To letten hem, and smot hem bothe:

Wherof the goddes weren wrothe;

And for he hath destourbed kinde

And was so to nature unkinde,

P. i. 292

Unkindeliche he was transformed,

That he which erst a man was formed

Into a womman was forschape.

That was to him an angri jape;

Bot for that he with Angre wroghte,

Hise Angres angreliche he boghte.380

Confessor.

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 honeste

A man to wraththen him to sore

Of that an other doth the lore

Of kinde, in which is no malice,

Bot only that it is a vice:

And thogh a man be resonable,

Yit after kinde he is menable861390

To love, wher he wole or non.

Thenk thou, my Sone, therupon

And do Malencolie aweie;

For love hath evere his lust to pleie,

As he which wolde no lif grieve.

Amans.

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.400

Bot that I wraththe and fare amis,

[Melancholy.]

Al one upon miself it is,862

That I with bothe love and kinde

Am so bestad, that I can finde

P. i. 293

No weie how I it mai asterte:

Which stant upon myn oghne herte

And toucheth to non other lif,

Save only to that swete wif863

For whom, bot if it be amended,

Mi glade daies ben despended,410

That I miself schal noght forbere

The 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.

[ii.Cheste.]ii.Ira mouet litem, que lingue frena resoluensLaxa per infames currit vbique vias.Rixarum nutrix quos educat ista loquaces,Hos Venus a latere linquit habere vagos.Set pacienter agens taciturno qui celet ore,Vincit, et optati carpit amoris iter.864

[ii.Cheste.]

ii.Ira mouet litem, que lingue frena resoluens

Laxa per infames currit vbique vias.

Rixarum nutrix quos educat ista loquaces,

Hos Venus a latere linquit habere vagos.

Set pacienter agens taciturno qui celet ore,

Vincit, et optati carpit amoris iter.864

Of Wraththe the secounde is Cheste,Which hath the wyndes of tempesteTo kepe, and many a sodein blastHe bloweth, wherof ben agast420Hic tractat Confessor super secunda specie Ire, que Lis dicitur, ex cuius contumeliis innumerosa dolorum occasio tam in amoris causa quam aliter in quampluribus sepissime exorta est.Thei 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.430P. i. 294So 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 eloquence440He 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.865He is the levein of the bred,866Which sourethal 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,460P. i. 295And 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.Opponit Confessor.Now tell me, Sone, thin ansuere,If it hath evere so betidd,That thou at eny time hast chiddToward thi love.Confessio Amantis.Fader, nay;Such Cheste yit unto this day867Ne made I nevere, god forbede:For er I sunge such a crede,868I hadde levere to be lewed;For thanne were I al beschrewed869480And 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.870490P. i. 296And 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 pike500Whiche 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,871That 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.872Bot that I have ayein hir heste520P. i. 297Fulofte 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;873For thogh I telle hire al my thoght,Sche wot wel that I chyde noght.Men mai the hihe god beseche,874And 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 preie540Mi 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.550P. i. 298Bot 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,875I 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:580P. i. 299Thus for to moche or for to lite876Fulofte 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.Confessor.Mi Sone, if that thou wistest al,What Cheste doth in specialTo love and to his welwillinge,Thou woldest flen his knowlechinge600And 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,610P. i. 300Which is the source of gret destance:877And tak into thi remembrance878If thou miht gete pacience,Which is the leche of alle offence,As tellen ous these olde wise:Seneca. Paciencia est vindicta omnium iniuriarum.For whan noght elles mai suffiseBe strengthe ne be mannes wit,Than pacience it oversitAnd overcomth it ate laste;879Bot he mai nevere longe laste,620Which wol noght bowe er that he breke.Tak hiede, Sone, of that I speke.Amans.Mi fader, of your goodli specheAnd of the witt which ye me teche880I thonke you with al myn herte:For that world schal me nevere asterte,881That 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,882It scholde wel myn herte likeOf pacience forto hiere,So that I mihte in mi matiereThe more unto my love obeieAnd puten mi desese aweie.

Of Wraththe the secounde is Cheste,

Which hath the wyndes of tempeste

To kepe, and many a sodein blast

He bloweth, wherof ben agast420

Hic tractat Confessor super secunda specie Ire, que Lis dicitur, ex cuius contumeliis innumerosa dolorum occasio tam in amoris causa quam aliter in quampluribus sepissime exorta est.

Thei that desiren pes and reste.

He is that ilke ungoodlieste

Which many a lusti love hath twinned;

For he berth evere his mowth unpinned,

So that his lippes ben unloke

And 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.430

P. i. 294

So buillen up the foule sawes

That 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 overal

Withouten eny resistence,

So with his croked eloquence440

He spekth al that he wot withinne:

Wherof men lese mor than winne,

For ofte time of his chidinge

He bringth to house such tidinge,

That makth werre ate beddeshed.865

He is the levein of the bred,866

Which sourethal 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,450

If he mai perce him with his tunge.

And ek so lowde his belle is runge,

That of the noise and of the soun

Men feeren hem in al the toun

Welmore than thei don of thonder.

For that is cause of more wonder;

For with the wyndes whiche he bloweth

Fulofte sythe he overthroweth

The Cites and the policie,

That I have herd the poeple crie,460

P. i. 295

And 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 spieces

Of vice, that I mai noght wel

Descrive hem be a thousendel:

Bot whan that he to Cheste falleth,

Ful many a wonder thing befalleth,470

For he ne can nothing forbere.

Opponit Confessor.

Now tell me, Sone, thin ansuere,

If it hath evere so betidd,

That thou at eny time hast chidd

Toward thi love.

Confessio Amantis.

Fader, nay;

Such Cheste yit unto this day867

Ne made I nevere, god forbede:

For er I sunge such a crede,868

I hadde levere to be lewed;

For thanne were I al beschrewed869480

And worthi to be put abak

With al the sorwe upon my bak

That eny man ordeigne cowthe.

Bot I spak nevere yit be mowthe

That unto Cheste mihte touche,

And that I durste riht wel vouche

Upon hirself as for witnesse;

For I wot, of hir gentilesse

That sche me wolde wel excuse,

That I no suche thinges use.870490

P. i. 296

And if it scholde so betide

That I algates moste chide,

It myhte noght be to my love:

For so yit was I nevere above,

For al this wyde world to winne

That I dorste eny word beginne,

Be which sche mihte have ben amoeved

And I of Cheste also reproeved.

Bot rathere, if it mihte hir like,

The beste wordes wolde I pike500

Whiche 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,871

That mihten Wraththe and Cheste avale

With tellinge of my softe tale.

Thus dar I make a foreward,

That nevere unto my ladiward

Yit spak I word in such a wise,

Wherof that Cheste scholde arise.510

This seie I noght, that I fulofte

Ne have, whanne I spak most softe,

Per cas seid more thanne ynowh;

Bot so wel halt noman the plowh

That he ne balketh otherwhile,

Ne so wel can noman affile

His tunge, that som time in rape

Him mai som liht word overscape,

And yit ne meneth he no Cheste.872

Bot that I have ayein hir heste520

P. i. 297

Fulofte 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 oute

Mi longe love, of which sche wot

That evere in on aliche hot

Me grieveth, thanne al my desese

I telle, and though it hir desplese,

I speke it forth and noght ne leve:

And thogh it be beside hire leve,530

I hope and trowe natheles

That I do noght ayein the pes;873

For thogh I telle hire al my thoght,

Sche wot wel that I chyde noght.

Men mai the hihe god beseche,874

And he wol hiere a mannes speche

And be noght wroth of that he seith;

So yifth it me the more feith

And makth me hardi, soth to seie,

That I dar wel the betre preie540

Mi ladi, which a womman is.

For thogh I telle hire that or this

Of love, which me grieveth sore,

Hire oghte noght be wroth the more,

For I withoute noise or cri

Mi pleignte make al buxomly

To puten alle wraththe away.

Thus dar I seie unto this day

Of Cheste in ernest or in game

Mi ladi schal me nothing blame.550

P. i. 298

Bot ofte time it hath betidd

That 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 balance

And drawe into my remembrance;560

And thanne, if that I finde a lak

Of eny word that I mispak,

Which was to moche in eny wise,

Anon my wittes I despise

And make a chidinge in myn herte,

That eny word me scholde asterte

Which as I scholde have holden inne.

And so forth after I beginne

And loke if ther was elles oght

To speke, and I ne spak it noght:570

And thanne, if I mai seche and finde

That eny word be left behinde,

Which as I scholde more have spoke,875

I wolde upon miself be wroke,

And chyde with miselven so

That al my wit is overgo.

For noman mai his time lore

Recovere, and thus I am therfore

So overwroth in al my thoght,

That I myself chide al to noght:580

P. i. 299

Thus for to moche or for to lite876

Fulofte 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,590

Wolde evere chyde in such a wise

Of love as I to you devise.

Bot, fader, now ye have al herd

In this manere how I have ferd

Of Cheste and of dissencioun,

Yif me youre absolucioun.

Confessor.

Mi Sone, if that thou wistest al,

What Cheste doth in special

To love and to his welwillinge,

Thou woldest flen his knowlechinge600

And lerne to be debonaire.

For who that most can speke faire

Is most acordende unto love:

Fair speche hath ofte brought above

Ful many a man, as it is knowe,

Which elles scholde have be riht lowe

And failed mochel of his wille.

Forthi hold thou thi tunge stille

And let thi witt thi wille areste,

So that thou falle noght in Cheste,610

P. i. 300

Which is the source of gret destance:877

And tak into thi remembrance878

If thou miht gete pacience,

Which is the leche of alle offence,

As tellen ous these olde wise:

Seneca. Paciencia est vindicta omnium iniuriarum.

For whan noght elles mai suffise

Be strengthe ne be mannes wit,

Than pacience it oversit

And overcomth it ate laste;879

Bot he mai nevere longe laste,620

Which wol noght bowe er that he breke.

Tak hiede, Sone, of that I speke.

Amans.

Mi fader, of your goodli speche

And of the witt which ye me teche880

I thonke you with al myn herte:

For that world schal me nevere asterte,881

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.630

Bot, fader, if ye forth withal

Som good ensample in special

Me wolden telle of som Cronique,882

It scholde wel myn herte like

Of pacience forto hiere,

So that I mihte in mi matiere

The more unto my love obeie

And puten mi desese aweie.

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