i.
[Confessor]
5
L
10
15
[Amans]
20
[Confessor]
25
30
Confessio Amantis
35
40
45
50
55
60
65
70
75
80
85
90
95
100
105
110
115
120
125
130
Confessor
135
140
L
145
150
155
160
165
170
175
180
185
190
195
200
205
210
215
220
225
230
235
240
245
250
255
260
265
270
275
280
285
290
295
300
305
310
315
320
325
330
335
Confessor
340
345
350
355
360
L
365
370
375
380
Confessor
385
390
395
Amans
400
405
410
415
[Confessor]
ii.
420
L
425
430
435
440
445
450
455
460
465
470
Opponit Confessor
475
Confessio Amantis
480
485
490
495
500
505
510
515
520
525
530
535
540
545
550
555
560
565
570
575
580
585
590
595
Confessor
600
605
610
615
L
620
Amans
625
630
635
[Confessor]
640
L
645
650
655
660
665
670
675
680
685
690
695
Confessor
700
705
710
Amans
715
720
Confessor
725
730
L
735
740
745
750
755
760
765
Confessor
770
775
780
L
785
790
795
800
805
810
815
L
820
825
830
[Confessor]
835
Amans
840
iii.
[Confessor]
845
L
850
[Amans]
[Confessor]
[Amans]
[Confessor]
860
864
Confessio Amantis
870
875
880
885
890
895
900
905
910
915
920
925
930
Confessor
935
940
945
950
955
960
965
970
L
975
980
985
990
995
1000
1005
1010
1015
1020
1025
1030
1035
1040
1045
1050
1055
1060
1065
Confessor
1070
1075
1080
[Amans]
1085
iv.
[Confessor]
1090
L
1095
1100
1105
1110
1115
Opponit Confessor
[Amans]
[Confessor]
Confessio Amantis
1125
1130
1135
1140
1145
1150
1155
1160
1165
1170
1175
1180
1185
1190
Confessor
1195
1200
L
1205
1210
1215
1220
1225
1230
1235
1240
1245
1250
1255
1260
1265
1270
1275
1280
1285
1290
1295
1300
1305
1310
1315
1320
1325
1330
L
1335
1340
1345
1350
1355
1360
1365
1370
1375
1380
1385
1390
1395
1400
1405
1410
1415
1420
1425
1430
1435
1440
1445
1450
1455
1460
1465
1470
1475
1480
1485
1490
Confessor
1496
1500
Confessio Amantis
1505
1510
1515
1520
1525
1530
Confessor
Confessio Amantis
1535
[Confessor]
[Amans]
1540
1545
1550
1555
1560
1565
1570
1575
1580
1585
1590
1595
1600
1605
1610
Confessor
1615
1620
1625
1630
1635
1640
1645
1650
1655
1660
1665
1670
1675
1680
1685
L
1690
1695
1700
1705
1710
1715
1720
1725
Amans
1730
1735
Confessor
1740
1745
Amans
1750
Confessor
1755
1759
L
1765
1770
1775
1780
1785
1790
1795
1800
1805
1810
1815
1820
1825
1830
1834
Nota
1840
1845
1850
1855
Confessor
Nota
1860
1865
1870
1875
1880
1885
L
1890
1895
1900
1905
1910
1915
1920
1925
1930
1935
1940
1945
1950
1955
1960
1965
1970
1975
1980
1985
1990
1995
2000
2005
2010
2015
2020
2025
2030
2035
2040
2045
2050
2055
2060
2065
2070
2075
2080
2085
2090
2095
2100
2105
2110
2115
2120
2125
2130
2135
2140
2145
2150
2155
2160
2165
2170
2175
2180
2185
2190
2195
Confessor
2200
Amans
2205
L
2209
Confessor
2215
L
2221
L
2226
2230
L
2236
2240
Amans
[Confessor]
2246
2250
v.
[Confessor]
L
2255
2260
2265
2270
2275
2280
2285
2290
2295
L
2300
2305
2310
2315
L
2320
2325
2330
2335
2340
2345
2350
2355
2360
2365
L
2370
2375
2380
2385
2390
2395
2400
2405
2410
2415
2420
2425
2430
2435
L
2440
2445
2450
2455
2460
2465
2470
2475
2480
Confessor
Amans
2486
2490
Confessor
2495
2500
2504
Nota
2510
2515
2520
2525
2530
2535
2540
2545
L
2550
2555
2560
2565
2570
2575
2580
2585
2590
2595
L
2600
2605
2610
2615
2620
2625
2630
2635
2640
L
2645
2650
2655
2660
2665
2670
2675
2680
2685
2690
2695
2700
2705
2710
2715
Confessor
2720
2725
2730
2735
2739
Amans
2745
2749
Confessor
Amans
2755
Confessor
Amans
2761
Confessor
2765
2770
|
Incipit Liber Tercius
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.1
"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 felawe
Hath be distraght be sodein chance.
And yit to kinde no plesance
It doth, bot wher he most achieveth
His pourpos, most to kinde he grieveth,
As he which out of conscience
Is 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 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 is
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:
The ferst of hem Malencolie
Is cleped, which in compaignie
An hundred times in an houre
Wol as an angri beste loure,
And no man 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 glede
For Wrathe that I mai noght spede.
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
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 oppressed
Of thoght, the which I have impressed,
That al wakende I dreme and meete
That I with hire alone 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,'
The which sche seide me tofore.
Thus be my wittes as forlore;
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 spede
I am, the more I with hir dele,
So that myn happ and al myn hele
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.
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,
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,
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
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 unto me,
For al the gold that is in Rome
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
Forgete, as thogh it were noght,
So overgladed is my thoght.
And natheles, the soth to telle,
Ageinward if it so befelle
That I at thilke time sihe
On me that sche miscaste hire yhe,
Or that sche liste noght to loke,
And I therof good hiede toke,
Anon into my ferste astat
I torne, and am withal so mat,
That evere it is aliche wicke.
And thus myn hand agein 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
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 hier
In loves stede, I yow beseche
That som ensample ye me teche,
Wherof I mai miself appese."
"Mi sone, for thin hertes ese
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 thenketh
Upon the folie of his dede;
And of this point a tale I rede.
[The Tale of Canace and Machaire]
Ther was a king which Eolus
Was 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 wone
In chambre thei togedre wone,
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 for to 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.
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
His love upon his soster caste.
And so it fell hem ate laste,
That this Machaire with Canace
Whan thei were in a privé place,
Cupide bad hem ferst to kesse,
And after sche which is maistresse
In kinde and techeth every lif
Withoute lawe positif,
Of which sche takth no maner charge,
Bot kepth hire lawes al at large,
Nature, tok hem into lore
And tawht hem so, that overmore
Sche hath hem in such wise daunted,
That thei were, as who seith, enchaunted.
And as the blinde another ledeth
And til thei falle nothing dredeth,
Riht so thei hadde non insihte;
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,
So that thei felle upon the chance
Wher witt hath lore his remembrance.
So longe thei togedre assemble,
The wombe aros, and sche gan tremble,
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,
And feigneth cause for to 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.
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,
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 swore
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:
'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,
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 crualté
Ther mihte attempre no pité.
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,
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 so
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.
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 entente
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.'
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 over that, 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,
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,
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 thee love into my deth.
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,
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.
Farewel, 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 forthwith that al pale and fade
Sche fell doun ded fro ther sche stod.
The child lay bathende in hire blod
Out rolled fro the moder barm,
And for the blod was hot and warm,
He basketh him aboute thrinne.
Ther was no bote for to winne,
For he, which can no pité knowe,
The king cam in the same throwe,
And sih how that his dowhter dieth
And how this babe al blody crieth;
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 no man him schal socoure.
Al that he bad was don in dede.
Ha, who herde evere singe or rede
Of such a thing as that was do?
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.
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 above
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
Reward to love and to his miht,
Agein 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.
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
What nature hath set in hir lawe
Ther mai no mannes miht withdrawe,
And who that worcheth theragein,
Fulofte time it hath be sein,
Ther hath befalle gret vengance,
Wherof I finde a remembrance.
[The Tale of 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,
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 fonde
To letten hem, and smot hem bothe:
Wherof the goddes weren wrothe;
And for he hath destourbed kinde
And was so to nature unkinde,
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,
His Angres angreliche he boghte.
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 another 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 menable
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."
"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.
Bot that I wraththe and fare amis,
Alone upon miself it is,
That I with bothe love and kinde
Am so bestad, that I can finde
No weie how I it mai asterte.
Which stant upon myn oghne herte
And toucheth to non other lif,
Save only to that swete wif
For whom, bot if it be amended,
Mi glade daies ben despended,
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."
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.2
"Of Wraththe the secounde is Cheste,
Which hath the wyndes of tempeste
To kepe, and many a sodein blast
He bloweth, wherof ben agast
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 everything which he can telle,
It springeth up as doth a welle,
Which mai non of his stremes hyde,
Bot renneth out on every syde.
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 cité withoute wal,
Wher men mai gon out overal
Withouten eny resistence,
So with his croked eloquence
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.
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,
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,
And echon seide in his degré,
'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,
For he ne can nothing forbere.
"Now tell me, sone, thin ansuere,
If it hath evere so betidd,
That thou at eny time hast chidd
Toward thi love."
"Fader, nay;
Such Cheste yit unto this day
Ne made I nevere, God forbede:
For er I sunge such a crede,
I hadde levere to be lewed;
For thanne were I al beschrewed
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.
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 pike
Whiche I cowthe in myn herte chese,
And serve hem forth instede of chese,
For that is helplich to defie;
And so wolde I my wordes plie,
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.
This seie I noght, that I fulofte
Ne have, whanne I spak most softe,
Per cas seid more thanne ynowh;
Bot so wel halt no man the plowh
That he ne balketh otherwhile,
Ne so wel can no man affile
His tunge, that som time in rape
Him mai som liht word overscape,
And yit ne meneth he no Cheste.
Bot that I have agein hir heste
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,
I hope and trowe natheles
That I do noght agein 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 speche
And be noght wroth of that he seith;
So gifth it me the more feith
And makth me hardi, soth to seie,
That I dar wel the betre preie
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.
Bot ofte time it hath betidd
That with miselven I have chidd,
That no man couthe betre chide.
And that hath ben at every tide
Whanne I cam to miself alone.
For thanne I made a privé 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;
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.
And thanne, if I mai seche and finde
That eny word be left behinde,
Which as I scholde more have spoke,
I wolde upon miself be wroke,
And chyde with miselven so
That al my wit is overgo.
For no man mai his time lore
Recovere, and thus I am therfore
So overwroth in al my thoght,
That I myself chide al to noght.
Thus for to moche or for to lite
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,
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,
Gif me youre absolucioun."
"Mi sone, if that thou wistest al,
What Cheste doth in special
To love and to his welwillinge,
Thou woldest flen his knowlechinge
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,
Which is the source of gret destance.
And tak into thi remembrance
If thou miht gete pacience,
Which is the leche of alle offence,
As tellen ous these olde wise.
For whan noght elles mai suffise
Be strengthe ne be mannes wit,
Than pacience it oversit
And overcomth it ate laste;
Bot he mai nevere longe laste,
Which wol noght bowe er that he breke.
Tak hiede, sone, of that I speke."
"Mi fader, of your goodli speche
And of the witt which ye me teche
I 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.
Bot, fader, if ye forthwithal
Som good ensample in special
Me wolden telle of som cronique,
It scholde wel myn herte like
Of pacience for to hiere,
So that I mihte in mi matiere
The more unto my love obeie
And puten mi desese aweie."
[The Patience of Socrates]
"Mi sone, a man to beie him pes
Behoveth soffre as Socrates
Ensample lefte, which is write.
And for thou schalt the sothe wite
Of this ensample what I mene,
Although it be now litel sene
Among the men thilke evidence,
Yit he was upon pacience
So sett, that he himself assaie
In thing which mihte him most mispaie
Desireth, and a wickid wif
He weddeth, which in sorwe and strif
Agein 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 nome
Sche hath, and broghte it into house,
And sih how that hire seli spouse
Was sett and loked on a bok
Nyh to the fyr, as he which tok
His 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 roghte
What labour that sche toke on honde,
And seith that such an housebonde
Was 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,
Began withinne for to swelle,
And that sche broghte in fro the welle,
The waterpot sche hente alofte
And bad him speke, and he al softe
Sat 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 hed
Sche pourede oute and bad awake.
Bot he, which wolde noght forsake
His pacience, thanne spak,
And seide how that he fond no lak
In nothing which sche hadde do.
For it was wynter time tho,
And wynter, as be weie of kinde
Which stormy is, as men it finde,
Ferst makth the wyndes for to blowe,
And after that withinne a throwe
He reyneth and the watergates
Undoth; 'And thus my wif algates,
Which is with reson wel besein,
Hath mad me bothe wynd and rein
After the sesoun of the yer.'
And thanne he sette him nerr the fer,
And as he mihte hise clothes dreide,
That he no more o word ne seide;
Wherof he gat him somdel reste,
For that him thoghte was the beste.
I not if thilke ensample yit
Accordeth with a mannes wit,
To soffre as Socrates tho dede:
And if it falle in eny stede
A man to lese so his galle,
Him oghte among the wommen alle
In loves court be juggement
The name bere of Pacient,
To give ensample to the goode
Of pacience how that it stode,
That othre men it mihte knowe.
And, sone, if thou at eny throwe
Be tempted, agein Pacience,
Tak hiede upon this evidence;
It schal per cas thee 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 more
Wherof I mihte take lore,
I preie you, so as I dar,
Now telleth, that I mai be war,
Some 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.
[Of Jupiter, Juno, and Tiresias]
Yit cam ther nevere good of strif,
To seche in all a mannes lif.
Thogh it beginne on pure game,
Fulofte it torneth into grame
And doth grevance upon som side.
Wherof the grete clerk Ovide
After the lawe which was tho
Of Jupiter and of Juno
Makth in his bokes mencioun
How thei felle at dissencioun
In manere as it were a borde,
As thei begunne for to worde
Among hemself in priveté.
And that was upon this degree,
Which of the tuo more amorous is,
Or man or wif? And upon this
Thei mihten noght acorde in on,
And toke a jugge therupon,
Which cleped is Tiresias,
And bede him demen in the cas;
And he withoute avisement
Agein Juno gaf juggement.
This goddesse upon his ansuere
Was wroth and wolde noght forbere,
Bot tok awey foreveremo
The liht fro bothe hise yhen tuo.
Whan Jupiter this harm hath sein,
An other bienfait theragein
He gaf, and such a grace him doth,
That for he wiste he seide soth,
A sothseiere he was forevere.
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 hente
So gret a peine bodily.
Mi sone, be thou war ther by,
And hold thi tunge stille clos.
For who that hath his word desclos
Er that he wite what he mene,
He is fulofte nyh his tene
And lest ful many time grace,
Wher that he wolde his thonk pourchace.
And over this, my sone diere,
Of othre men, if thou miht hiere
In priveté what thei have wroght,
Hold conseil and descoevere it noght,
For Cheste can no conseil hele,
Or be it wo or be it wele.
And tak a tale into thi mynde,
The which of olde ensample I finde.
[The Tale of Phebus and Cornide]
Phebus, which makth the daies lihte,
A love he hadde, which tho hihte
Cornide, whom aboven alle
He pleseth. Bot what schal befalle
Of love ther is no man knoweth,
Bot as fortune hire happes throweth.
So it befell upon a chaunce,
A yong kniht tok hire aqueintance
And hadde of hire al that he wolde.
Bot a fals bridd, which sche hath holde
And kept in chambre of pure yowthe,
Discoevereth all that evere he cowthe.
This briddes name was as tho
Corvus, the which was thanne also
Welmore whyt than eny swan,
And he (that schrewe) al that he can
Of his ladi to Phebus seide.
And he for wraththe his swerd outbreide,
With which Cornide anon he slowh.
Bot after him was wo ynowh,
And tok a full gret repentance,
Wherof in tokne and remembrance
Of hem whiche usen wicke speche,
Upon this bridd he tok this wreche,
That ther he was snow whyt tofore,
Evere afterward colblak therfore
He was transformed, as it scheweth,
And many a man yit him beschreweth
And clepen him into this day
A raven, be whom yit men mai
Take 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 thee rede.
[Jupiter and Laar]
For in another place I rede
Of thilke nimphe which Laar hihte.
For sche the priveté be nyhte,
How Jupiter lay be Jutorne,
Hath told, god made hire overtorne.
Hire tunge he kutte, and into helle
Forevere he sende hir for to duelle,
As sche that was noght worthi hiere
To ben of love a chamberere,
For sche no conseil cowthe hele.
And suche adaies be now fele
In loves court, as it is seid,
That lete here tunges gon unteid.
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 everydel
That ye me teche, and I wol holde
The reule to which I am holde,
To fle the Cheste, as ye me bidde,
For wel is him that nevere chidde.
Now tell me forth if ther be more
As touchende unto Wraththes lore."
Demonis est odium quasi Scriba, cui dabit Ira
Materiam scripti cordi ad antra sui.
Non laxabit amor odii quem frena restringunt,
Nec secreta sui iuris adire sinit.3
"Of Wraththe yit ther is another,
Which is to Cheste his oghne brother,
And is be name cleped Hate,
That soffreth noght withinne his gate
That ther come owther love or pes,
For he wol make no reles
Of no debat which is befalle.
Now spek, if thou art on of alle,
That 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.
And thanne he scheweth his tempeste
Mor sodein than the wilde beste,
Which wot nothing what merci is.
Mi sone, art thou knowende of this?"
"Mi 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, natheles,
That I of hate am gulteles;
For whanne I to my ladi plie
Fro dai to dai and merci crie,
And sche no merci on me leith
Bot 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 went
That I nevere after scholde hem hiere.
And yit love I my ladi diere.
Thus is ther Hate, as ye mai se
Betwen my 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 lyve
These janglers, whiche of here Envie
Ben evere redi for to lie.
For with here fals compassement
Fuloften thei have mad me schent
And hindred me fulofte time,
Whan thei no cause wisten bi me,
Bot onliche of here oghne thoght.
And thus fuloften have I boght
The 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 forgive,
Til that I se hem at debat
With love, and thanne myn astat
Thei mihten be here oghne deme,
And loke how wel it scholde hem qweme
To 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 beseche
Unto the mihti Cupido,
That he so mochel wolde do,
So as he is of love a godd,
To smyte hem with the same rodd
With which I am of love smite;
So that thei mihten knowe and wite
How hindringe is a wofull peine
To 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 sor
Which I do now: for overmor
I wolde thanne do my myht
So for to stonden in here lyht,
That thei ne scholden finde a weie
To that thei wolde, bot aweie
I wolde hem putte out of the stede
Fro love, riht as thei me dede
With 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.
Thus have I, fader, said mi wille;
Say ye now forth, for I am stille."
"Mi sone, of that thou hast me said
I 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 beneicoun
Wel haten the condicioun
Of tho janglers, as thou me toldest,
Bot furthermor, of that thou woldest
Hem hindre in eny other wise,
Such Hate is evere to despise.
Forthi, mi sone, I wol thee rede,
That thou drawe in be frendlihede
That thou ne miht noght do be hate;
So miht thou gete love algate
And sette thee, my sone, in reste,
For thou schalt finde it for the beste.
And over this, so as I dar,
I rede that thou be riht war
Of othre mennes hate aboute
Which every wysman scholde doute.
For Hate is evere upon await,
And as the fisshere on his bait
Sleth, whan he seth the fisshes faste,
So, whan he seth time ate laste,
That he mai worche another wo,
Schal no man tornen him therfro,
That Hate nyle his felonie
Fulfille and feigne compaignie
Yit natheles, for Falssemblant
Is toward him of covenant
Withholde, so that under bothe
The privé wraththe can him clothe,
That he schal seme of gret believe.
Bot war thee wel that thou ne lieve
Al that thou sest tofore thin yhe,
So as the Gregois whilom syhe.
The bok of Troie whoso rede,
Ther mai he finde ensample in dede.
[The Tale of King Namplus and the Greeks]
Sone after the destruccioun,
Whan Troie was al bete doun
And slain was Priamus the king,
The Gregois, whiche of al this thing
Ben cause, tornen hom agein.
Ther mai no man his happ withsein;
It hath be sen and felt fulofte,
The harde time after the softe.
Be 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 watergates
The reyni storm fell doun algates
And al here takel made unwelde,
That no man mihte himself bewelde.
Ther mai men hiere schipmen crie,
That stode in aunter for to die.
He that behinde sat to stiere
Mai noght the forestempne hiere;
The schip aros agein 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.
And it fell thilke time thus:
Ther was a king, the which Namplus
Was 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 natheles
Of some of hem his deth was cast
And he be tresoun overcast.
His 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 privé hate
Abod upon await algate,
For he was noght of such emprise
To vengen him in open wise.
The fame, which goth wyde where,
Makth knowe how that the Gregois were
Homward with al the felaschipe
Fro 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 fond
Of privé hate, as thou schalt hiere,
Wherof I telle al this matiere.
This king the weder gan beholde,
And wiste wel thei moten holde
Here cours endlong his marche riht,
And made upon the derke nyht
Of grete schydes and of blockes
Gret fyr agein 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 aferr,
And thei hem drowen nerr and nerr,
And wende wel and understode
How al that fyr was mad 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 no man helpe himselve,
For ther thei wenden deth ascape,
Withouten help here deth was schape.
Thus thei that comen ferst tofore
Upon the rockes be forlore,
Bot thurgh the noise and thurgh the cri
These othre were al war therby.
And whan the dai began to rowe,
Tho mihten thei the sothe knowe,
That wher thei wenden frendes finde,
Thei founden frenschipe al behinde.
The 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 were
Of that thei hadde assaied there.
Mi sone, hierof thou miht avise
How fraude stant in many wise
Amonges hem that guile thenke;
Ther is no scrivein with his enke
Which half the fraude wryte can
That stant in such a maner man.
Forthi the wise men ne demen
The thinges after that thei semen,
Bot after that thei knowe and finde.
The mirour scheweth in his kinde
As 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,
Schal no man knowe be his chere
Which 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 charité,
As ye be youre bokes knowe,
And I the sothe schal beknowe."
Qvi cohibere manum nequit, et sit spiritus eius
Naribus, hic populo sepe timendus erit.
Sepius in luctum Venus et sua gaudia transfert,
Cumque suis thalamis talis amicus adest.
Est amor amplexu non ictibus alliciendus,
Frangit amicicias impetuosa manus.4
"Mi sone, thou schalt understonde
That yit towardes Wraththe stonde
Of dedly vices othre tuo:
And for to 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 unavised
Is Pacience most despised,
Til Homicide with hem meete.
Fro Merci thei ben al unmeete,
And thus ben thei the worste of alle
Of 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 wod
Thei knowe noght the God of lif.
Be so the have or swerd or knif
Here dedly wraththe for to wreke,
Of pité list hem noght to speke;
Non 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 pité ne mihte hem plie.
Now tell, my sone."
"Fader, what?"
"If thou hast be coupable of that."
"Mi fader, nay, Crist me forbiede!
I speke onliche as of the dede
Of which I nevere was coupable
Withoute cause resonable.
Bot this is noght to mi matiere
Of schrifte. Why we sitten hiere?
For we ben sett to schryve of love,
As we begunne ferst above.
And natheles I am beknowe
That as touchende of loves throwe,
Whan I my wittes overwende,
Min hertes contek hath non ende,
Bot evere it stant upon debat
To gret desese of myn astat
As for the time that it lasteth.
For whan mi fortune overcasteth
Hire 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
Have al my time in vein despended,
And se noght how to ben amended,
Bot rathere for to be empeired,
As he that is wel nyh 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
I bringe, and putte out alle pes,
That I fulofte in such a res
Am wery of myn oghne lif.
So that of Contek and of strif
I am beknowe and have ansuerd,
As ye, my fader, now have herd.
Min herte is wonderly begon
With conseil, wherof Witt is on,
Which hath Resoun in compaignie;
Agein the whiche stant partie
Will, which hath Hope of his acord,
And thus thei bringen up Descord.
Witt and Resoun conseilen ofte
That I myn herte scholde softe,
And that I scholde Will remue
And put him out of retenue,
Or elles holde him under fote.
For as thei sein, if that he mote
His oghne rewle have upon honde,
Ther schal no witt ben understonde.
Of Hope also thei tellen this,
That overal, wher that he is,
He set the herte in jeupartie
With wisshinge and with fantasie,
And is noght trewe of that he seith,
So that in him ther is no feith.
Thus with Reson and Wit avised
Is Will and Hope aldai despised.
Reson seith that I scholde leve
To love, wher ther is no leve
To spede, and Will seith theragein
That 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 sit
Al hol governed upon Wit,
He hath this lyves lust forlore.
And thus myn herte is al totore
Of such a Contek as thei make.
Bot yit I mai noght Will forsake,
That he nys maister of my thoght,
Or that I spede, or spede noght."
"Thou dost, my sone, agein the riht;
Bot love is of so gret a miht,
His lawe mai no man refuse,
So miht thou thee the betre excuse.
And natheles thou schalt be lerned
That Will scholde evere be governed
Of Reson more than of Kinde,
Wherof a tale write I finde.
[The Tale of Diogenes and Alexander]
A philosophre of which men tolde
Ther was whilom be daies olde,
And Diogenes thanne he hihte.
So old he was that he ne mihte
The world travaile, and for the beste
He schop him for to take his reste,
And duelte at hom in such a wise,
That nyh his hous he let devise
Endlong upon an axeltré
To sette a tonne in such degré,
That he it mihte torne aboute;
Wherof on hed was taken oute,
For he therinne sitte scholde
And torne himself so as he wolde,
To take th'eir and se the hevene
And deme of the planetes sevene,
As he which cowthe mochel what.
And thus fulofte there he sat
To muse in his philosophie
Solein withoute compaignie:
So that upon a morwetyde,
As thing which scholde so betyde,
Whan he was set ther as him liste
To loke upon the sonne ariste,
Wherof the propretes he sih,
It fell ther cam ridende nyh
King Alisandre with a route.
And as he caste his yhe aboute,
He sih this tonne, and what it mente
He wolde wite, and thider sente
A knyht, be whom he mihte it knowe,
And he himself that ilke throwe
Abod, and hoveth there stille.
This kniht after the kinges wille
With spore made his hors to gon
And 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
The tonne stod, and what it was.
And he, which understod the cas,
Sat stille and spak no word agein.
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,
Mi mannes man hou that he is.'
'Thou lyest, false cherl, ywiss,'
The kniht him seith, and was riht wroth,
And to the king agein he goth
And 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:
'Al heil,' 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 preie
That 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:
Sith 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 lore
Of reson, whos soubgit he is,
So that he mai noght don amis.
And thus be weie of covenant
Will is my man and my servant,
And evere hath ben and evere schal.
And thi will is thi principal,
And hath the lordschipe of thi witt,
So that thou cowthest nevere yit
Take o dai reste of thi labour;
Bot for to ben a conquerour
Of 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,
And is thi lord, to whom thou servest,
Wherof thou litel thonk deservest.'
The king of that he thus answerde
Was nothing wroth, bot whanne he herde
The 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,
That which men Diogenes calle.'
Tho was the king riht glad withalle,
For he hadde often herd tofore
What man he was, so that therfore
He seide, 'O wise Diogene,
Now schal thi grete witt be sene;
For thou schalt of my gifte have
What 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 gifte,
Which lith noght in thi miht to schifte.
Non other good of thee me nedeth.'
This king, whom every contré dredeth,
Lo, thus he was enformed there.
Wherof, my sone, thou miht lere
How that thi will schal noght be lieved,
Where it is noght of wit relieved.
And thou hast seid thiself er this
How that thi will thi maister is;
Thurgh which thin hertes thoght withinne
Is evere of Contek to beginne,
So that it is gretli to drede
That 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 befalle
That will schal the corage lede,
In loves cause it is to drede. |