i.
[Confessor]
5
L
10
15
20
Confessio Amantis
25
30
35
40
45
50
55
60
65
70
Confessor
75
79
L
85
90
95
100
105
110
115
120
125
130
135
Confessor
140
145
150
L
155
160
165
170
175
180
185
190
195
200
205
210
215
220
225
230
L
235
240
245
249
L
255
260
Confessor
265
269
Confessio Amantis
275
280
285
290
295
Confessor
300
305
310
ii.
[Confessor]
315
L
320
325
330
335
339
Confessor
345
350
354
Amans
360
Confessor
365
370
L
375
380
385
390
395
400
405
410
415
420
425
430
435
Confessor
440
445
450
L
455
460
465
470
475
480
485
490
495
500
505
Confessor
510
515
Amans
520
525
529
Confessor
535
iii.
[Confessor]
540
L
545
550
555
Confessio Amantis
560
565
570
575
580
585
590
595
600
605
610
615
620
625
630
635
640
645
650
655
660
665
670
675
680
685
690
695
700
705
709
Confessor
715
720
725
730
L
735
740
745
750
755
760
765
770
775
780
785
790
795
800
805
810
815
820
825
830
835
840
845
850
855
860
865
870
875
Confessor
880
885
iv.
[Confessor]
890
L
895
900
905
910
915
Confessio Amantis
920
925
930
935
940
945
950
955
960
965
Confessor
970
975
980
L
985
990
995
1000
1005
1010
1015
1020
1025
1030
1035
L
1040
1045
1050
1055
1060
1065
1070
Amans
1074
Confessor
1080
v.
[Confessor]
1085
L
1090
1095
1100
1105
1110
Confessor
Amans
1115
Confessor
1120
Confessio Amantis
1125
1130
1135
1140
1145
1150
1155
1160
1165
1170
1175
1180
1185
1190
1195
1200
1205
1210
1215
1220
Confessor
1225
1230
1235
1240
1245
L
1250
1255
1260
1265
1270
1275
1280
1285
1290
1295
1300
1305
1310
1315
1320
1325
1330
1335
1340
1345
1350
1355
1360
1365
1370
1375
1380
1385
1390
1395
1400
1405
1410
1415
1420
1425
1430
1435
1440
1445
Confessor
1450
L
1455
1460
1465
1470
1475
1480
1485
1490
1495
1500
1505
L
1510
1515
1520
1525
1530
1535
1540
1545
1550
1555
1560
1565
1570
1575
1580
1585
1590
1595
Amans
1600
1605
Confessor
1610
vi.
[Confessor]
1616
L
1620
1625
1630
1635
1640
Confessor
1646
Confessio Amantis
1650
1655
1660
1665
1670
1675
1680
1685
1690
L
1695
1700
1705
1710
1715
1720
1725
1730
1735
1740
1745
1750
1755
1760
1765
1770
Confessor
1775
1780
1785
1790
1795
1800
1805
1810
1815
L
1820
1825
1830
1835
1840
1845
1850
1855
1860
1865
1870
1875
1880
1885
1890
1895
1900
L
1905
1910
1915
1920
1925
1930
1934
L
1940
1945
1950
1955
1960
L
1965
1970
1975
1980
1985
1990
1995
2000
2005
2010
Confessor
2015
2020
2025
Amans
Confessor
2030
2035
2040
2045
L
2050
2055
2060
2065
2070
2075
2080
2085
2090
2095
2100
2105
2110
2115
2120
2125
2130
2134
L
2140
2145
L
2150
2155
2160
2165
2170
2175
2180
L
2185
2190
2195
L
[Amans]
2201
[Confessor]
2205
2210
2215
2220
2225
2230
2235
2240
2244
L
2250
2255
2260
2265
2270
2275
2280
2285
2290
2295
2300
2305
2310
2315
2320
L
2325
2330
2335
2340
2345
L
2350
2355
2360
vii.
2364
2370
2375
L
2380
2385
2390
2395
2400
2405
2410
2415
2420
2425
2430
2435
2440
2445
2450
2455
L
2460
2465
2470
2475
2480
2485
2490
2495
2500
2505
2510
2515
2520
2525
2530
L
2535
2540
2545
2550
2555
2560
2565
2570
2575
2580
2585
2590
2595
2600
2605
2610
2615
2620
2625
2630
2635
2640
2645
2650
2655
2660
2665
2670
Confessor
2674
Amans
2680
2685
Confessor
2690
2695
2700
viii.
[Confessor]
2705
L
2710
2715
2720
2725
2730
2735
2740
2745
Confessio Amantis
2750
2755
2760
2765
2770
2775
2780
2785
2790
2795
2800
2805
2810
2815
2820
2825
2830
2835
2840
2845
2850
2855
2860
2865
2870
2875
2880
2885
2890
2895
2900
2905
2910
2915
Confessor
2920
2925
L
2930
2935
2940
2945
2950
2955
2960
2965
2970
2975
2980
2985
2990
2995
3000
3005
3010
3015
3020
3025
3030
3035
3040
3045
3050
3055
3060
3065
3070
3075
3080
3085
3090
3095
3100
3105
3110
3115
3120
Confessor
3125
3130
Confessio Amantis
3135
3140
3145
3150
3155
3160
3165
3170
3175
Confessor
3180
3185
3189
L
3195
3200
3205
3210
3215
3220
3225
3230
3235
3240
3245
3250
Confessor
3255
3260
3265
3270
3275
Amans
3280
3285
3290
3295
3300
Confessor
3305
3310
3315
L
3320
3325
3330
3335
3340
3345
3350
3355
3360
Confessor
3364
Amans
3370
3375
Confessor
3380
3385
ix.
[Confessor]
L
3391
3395
3400
3405
3410
3415
3420
3425
3430
L
3435
3440
3445
Confessor
3450
3455
Confessio Amantis
3460
3465
3470
3475
3480
3485
3490
3495
3500
Confessor
3505
3510
3515
L
3520
3525
3530
3535
3540
3545
3550
3555
3560
3565
3570
3575
3580
3585
3590
3595
3600
3605
3610
3615
3620
3625
3630
3635
3640
3645
3650
3655
3660
3665
3670
3675
3680
3684
Confessor
3690
Amans
3695
3700
Confessor
3705
3710
|
Incipit Liber Quartus
Dicunt accidiam fore nutricem viciorum,
Torpet et in cunctis tarda que lenta bonis:
Que fieri possent hodie transfert piger in cras,
Furatoque prius ostia claudit equo.
Poscenti tardo negat emolumenta Cupido,
Set Venus in celeri ludit amore viri.1
"Upon the vices to procede
After the cause of mannes dede,
The ferste point of Slowthe I calle
Lachesce, and is the chief of all,
And hath this propreliche of kinde,
To leven alle thing behinde.
Of that he mihte do now hier
He tarieth al the longe yer,
And everemore he seith, 'Tomorwe';
And so he wol his time borwe,
And wissheth after 'God me sende,'
That whan he weneth have an ende,
Thanne is he ferthest to beginne.
Thus bringth he many a meschief inne
Unwar, til that he be meschieved,
And may noght thanne be relieved.
And riht so nowther mor ne lesse
It stant of love and of lachesce.
Somtime he slowtheth in a day
That he nevere after gete mai.
Now, sone, as of this ilke thing,
If thou have eny knowleching
That thou to love hast don er this,
Tell on."
"Mi goode fader, yis.
As of lachesce I am beknowe
That I mai stonde upon his rowe,
As I that am clad of his suite.
For whanne I thoghte mi poursuite
To make, and therto sette a day
To speke unto the swete May,
Lachesce bad abide yit
And bar on hond it was no wit
Ne time for to speke as tho.
Thus with his tales to and fro
Mi time in tariinge he drowh.
Whan ther was time good ynowh,
He seide, 'Another time is bettre;
Thou schalt mowe senden hire a lettre,
And per cas wryte more plein
Than thou be mowthe durstest sein.'
Thus have I lete time slyde
For Slowthe, and kepte noght my tide,
So that Lachesce with his vice
Fulofte hath mad my wit so nyce,
That what I thoghte speke or do
With tariinge he hield me so,
Til whanne I wolde and mihte noght.
I not what thing was in my thoght,
Or it was drede, or it was schame;
Bot evere in ernest and in game
I wot ther is long time passed.
Bot yit is noght the love lassed
Which I unto mi ladi have;
For thogh my tunge is slowh to crave
At alle time, as I have bede,
Min herte stant evere in o stede
And axeth besiliche grace,
The which I mai noght yit embrace.
And God wot that is malgré myn;
For this I wot riht wel a fin,
Mi grace comth so selde aboute,
That is the Slowthe of which I doute
Mor than of al the remenant
Which is to love appourtenant.
And thus as touchende of Lachesse,
As I have told, I me confesse
To you, mi fader, and beseche
That furthermor ye wol me teche;
And if ther be to this matiere
Som goodly tale for to liere
How I mai do Lachesce aweie,
That ye it wolden telle I preie."
"To wisse thee, my sone, and rede,
Among the tales whiche I rede,
An old ensample therupon
Now herkne, and I wol tellen on.
[The Tale of Aeneas and Dido]
Agein Lachesce in loves cas
I finde how whilom Eneas,
Whom Anchises to sone hadde,
With gret navie, which he ladde
Fro Troie, aryveth at Cartage,
Wher for a while his herbergage
He tok; and it betidde so,
With hire which was qweene tho
Of the cité his aqueintance
He wan, whos name in remembrance
Is yit, and Dido sche was hote,
Which loveth Eneas so hote
Upon the wordes whiche he seide,
That al hire herte on him sche leide
And dede al holi what he wolde.
Bot after that, as it be scholde,
Fro thenne he goth toward Ytaile
Be schipe, and there his arivaile
Hath take, and schop him for to ryde.
Bot sche, which mai noght longe abide
The hote peine of loves throwe,
Anon withinne a litel throwe
A lettre unto hir kniht hath write,
And dede him pleinly for to wite,
If he made eny tariinge,
To drecche of his ageincomynge,
That sche ne mihte him fiele and se,
Sche scholde stonde in such degré
As whilom stod a swan tofore,
Of that sche hadde hire make lore;
For sorwe a fethere into hire brain
She schof and hath hireselve slain:
As king Menander in a lay
The sothe hath founde, wher sche lay
Sprantlende with hire wynges tweie,
As sche which scholde thanne deie
For love of him which was hire make.
'And so schal I do for thi sake,'
This qweene seide, 'wel I wot.'
Lo, to Enee thus sche wrot
With many another word of pleinte.
Bot he, which hadde hise thoghtes feinte
Towardes love and full of Slowthe,
His time lette, and that was rowthe.
For sche, which loveth him tofore,
Desireth evere more and more,
And whan sche sih him tarie so,
Hire herte was so full of wo,
That compleignende manyfold
Sche hath hire oghne tale told
Unto hirself, and thus sche spak:
'Ha, who fond evere such a lak
Of Slowthe in eny worthi kniht?
Now wot I wel my deth is diht
Thurgh him which scholde have be mi lif.'
Bot for to stinten al this strif,
Thus whan sche sih non other bote,
Riht evene unto hire herte rote
A naked swerd anon sche threste,
And thus sche gat hireselve reste
In remembrance of alle slowe.
Wherof, my sone, thou mihte knowe
How tariinge upon the nede
In loves cause is for to drede;
And that hath Dido sore aboght,
Whos deth schal evere be bethoght.
And overmore if I schal seche
In this matiere another spieche,
In a cronique I finde write
A tale which is good to wite.
[The Tale of Ulysses and Penelope]
At Troie whan king Ulixes
Upon the siege among the pres
Of hem that worthi knihtes were
Abod long time stille there,
In thilke time a man mai se
How goodli that Penolope,
Which was to him his trewe wif,
Of his Lachesce was pleintif;
Wherof to Troie sche him sende
Hire will be lettre, thus spekende:
'Mi worthi love and lord also,
It is and hath ben evere so,
That wher a womman is alone,
It makth a man in his persone
The more hardi for to wowe,
In hope that sche wolde bowe
To such thing as his wille were,
Whil that hire lord were elleswhere.
And of miself I telle this:
For it so longe passed is,
Sithe ferst than ye fro home wente,
That welnyh every man his wente
To there I am, whil ye ben oute,
Hath mad, and ech of hem aboute,
Which love can, my love secheth,
With gret preiere and me besecheth.
And some maken gret manace,
That if thei mihten come in place
Wher that thei mihte here wille have,
Ther is nothing me scholde save,
That thei ne wolde werche thinges;
And some tellen me tidynges
That ye ben ded, and some sein
That certeinly ye ben besein
To love a newe and leve me.
Bot hou as evere that it be,
I thonke unto the goddes alle,
As yit for oght that is befalle
Mai no man do my chekes rede.
Bot natheles it is to drede,
That Lachesce in continuance
Fortune mihte such a chance,
Which no man after scholde amende.'
Lo, thus this ladi compleignende
A lettre unto hire lord hath write,
And preyde him that he wolde wite
And thenke hou that sche was al his,
And that he tarie noght in this,
Bot that he wolde his love aquite,
To hire ageinward and noght wryte
Bot come himself in alle haste,
That he non other paper waste,
So that he kepe and holde his trowthe
Withoute lette of eny Slowthe.
Unto hire lord and love liege
To Troie, wher the grete siege
Was leid, this lettre was conveied.
And he, which wisdom hath pourveied
Of al that to reson belongeth,
With gentil herte it underfongeth.
And whan he hath it overrad,
In part he was riht inly glad,
And ek in part he was desesed.
Bot love his herte hath so thorghsesed
With pure ymaginacioun,
That for non occupacioun
Which he can take on other side,
He mai noght flitt his herte aside
Fro that his wif him hadde enformed;
Wherof he hath himself conformed
With al the wille of his corage
To schape and take the viage
Homward, what time that he mai,
So that him thenketh of a day
A thousand yer, til he mai se
The visage of Penolope,
Which he desireth most of alle.
And whan the time is so befalle
That Troie was destruid and brent,
He made non delaiement,
Bot goth him home in alle hihe,
Wher that he fond tofore his yhe
His worthi wif in good astat.
And thus was cessed the debat
Of love, and Slowthe was excused,
Which doth gret harm, where it is used,
And hindreth many a cause honeste.
For of the grete clerc Grossteste
I rede how besy that he was
Upon clergie an hed of bras
To forge, and make it for to telle
Of suche thinges as befelle.
And sevene yeres besinesse
He leyde, bot for the Lachesse,
Of half a minut of an houre,
Fro ferst that he began laboure
He loste all that he hadde do.
And otherwhile it fareth so,
In loves cause who is slow,
That he withoute under the wow
Be nyhte stant fulofte acold,
Which mihte if that he hadde wold
His time kept, have be withinne.
Bot Slowthe mai no profit winne,
Bot he mai singe in his karole
How Latewar cam to the dole,2
Wher he no good receive mihte.
And that was proved wel be nyhte
Whilom of the maidenes fyve,
Whan thilke lord cam for to wyve.
For that here oyle was aweie
To lihte here lampes in his weie,
Here Slowthe broghte it so aboute,
Fro him that thei ben schet withoute.
Wherof, my sone, be thou war,
Als ferforth as I telle dar.
For love moste ben awaited.
And if thou be noght wel affaited
In love to eschuie Slowthe,
Mi sone, for to telle trowthe,
Thou miht noght of thiself ben able
To winne love or make it stable,
Althogh thou mihtest love achieve."
"Mi fader, that I mai wel lieve.
Bot me was nevere assigned place,
Wher yit to geten eny grace,
Ne me was non such time apointed;
For thanne I wolde I were unjoynted
Of every lime that I have,
If I ne scholde kepe and save
Min houre bothe and ek my stede,
If my ladi it hadde bede.
Bot sche is otherwise avised
Than grante such a time assised;
And natheles of mi lachesse
Ther hath be no defalte I gesse
Of time lost, if that I mihte.
Bot yit hire liketh noght alyhte
Upon no lure which I caste;
For ay the more I crie faste,
The lasse hire liketh for to hiere.
So for to speke of this matiere,
I seche that I mai noght finde,
I haste, and evere I am behinde,
And wot noght what it mai amounte.
Bot, fader, upon myn acompte,
Which ye be sett to examine
Of schrifte after the discipline,
Sey what your beste conseil is."
"Mi sone, my conseil is this:
How so it stonde of time go,
Do forth thi besinesse so,
That no Lachesce in thee be founde.
For Slowthe is mihti to confounde
The spied of every mannes werk.
For many a vice, as seith the clerk,
Ther hongen upon Slowthes lappe
Of suche as make a man mishappe,
To pleigne and telle of 'hadde I wist.'
And therupon if that thee list
To knowe of Slowthes cause more,
In special yit overmore
Ther is a vice full grevable
To him which is therof coupable,
And stant of alle vertu bare,
Hierafter as I schal declare."
Qui nichil attemptat, nichil expedit, oreque muto
Munus Amicicie vir sibi raro capit.
Est modus in verbis, set ei qui parcit amori
Verba referre sua, non fauet vllus amor.3
"Touchende of Slowthe in his degré,
Ther is yit Pusillamité,
Which is to seie in this langage,
He that hath litel of corage
And dar no mannes werk beginne.
So mai he noght be resoun winne;
For who that noght dar undertake,
Be riht he schal no profit take.
Bot of this vice the nature
Dar nothing sette in aventure,
Him lacketh bothe word and dede,
Wherof he scholde his cause spede.
He woll no manhed understonde,
For evere he hath drede upon honde.
Al is peril that he schal seie,
Him thenkth the wolf is in the weie,
And of ymaginacioun
He makth his excusacioun
And feigneth cause of pure drede,
And evere he faileth ate nede,
Til al be spilt that he with deleth.
He hath the sor which no man heleth,
The which is cleped lack of herte.
Thogh every grace aboute him sterte,
He wol noght ones stere his fot;
So that be resoun lese he mot,
That wol noght auntre for to winne.
And so forth, sone, if we beginne
To speke of love and his servise,
Ther ben truantz in such a wise
That lacken herte, whan best were
To speke of love, and riht for fere
Thei wexen doumb and dar noght telle,
Withoute soun as doth the belle
Which hath no claper for to chyme.
And riht so thei as for the tyme
Ben herteles withoute speche,
Of love and dar nothing beseche;
And thus thei lese and winne noght.
Forthi, my sone, if thou art oght
Coupable as touchende of this Slowthe,
Schrif thee therof and tell me trowthe."
"Mi fader, I am al beknowe
That I have ben on of tho slowe,
As for to telle in loves cas.
Min herte is yit and evere was,
As thogh the world scholde al tobreke,
So ferful, that I dar noght speke
Of what pourpos that I have nome,
Whan I toward mi ladi come,
Bot let it passe and overgo."
"Mi sone, do no more so!
For after that a man poursuieth
To love, so fortune suieth
Fulofte and gifth hire happi chance
To him which makth continuance
To preie love and to beseche;
As be ensample I schal thee teche.
[Pygmalion and his Statue]
I finde hou whilom ther was on,
Whos name was Pymaleon,
Which was a lusti man of yowthe.
The werkes of entaile he cowthe
Above alle othre men as tho;
And thurgh fortune it fell him so,
As he whom love schal travaile,
He made an ymage of entaile
Lich to a womman in semblance
Of feture and of contienance,
So fair yit nevere was figure.
Riht as a lyves creature
Sche semeth, for of yvor whyt
He hath hire wroght of such delit,
That sche was rody on the cheke
And red on bohe hire lippes eke;
Wherof that he himself beguileth.
For with a goodly lok sche smyleth,
So that thurgh pure impression
Of his ymaginacion
With al the herte of his corage
His love upon this faire ymage
He sette, and hire of love preide;
Bot sche no word ageinward seide.
The longe day, what thing he dede,
This ymage in the same stede
Was evere bi, that ate mete
He wolde hire serve and preide hire ete,
And putte unto hire mowth the cuppe.
And whan the bord was taken uppe,
He hath hire into chambre nome,
And after, whan the nyht was come,
He leide hire in his bed al nakid.
He was forwept, he was forwakid,
He keste hire colde lippes ofte,
And wissheth that thei weren softe,
And ofte he rouneth in hire ere,
And ofte his arm now hier now there
He leide, as he hir wolde embrace,
And evere among he axeth grace,
As thogh sche wiste what he mente.
And thus himself he gan tormente
With such desese of loves peine,
That no man mihte him more peine.
Bot how it were, of his penance
He made such continuance
Fro dai to nyht, and preith so longe,
That his preiere is underfonge,
Which Venus of hire grace herde;
By nyhte and whan that he worst ferde,
And it lay in his nakede arm,
The colde ymage he fieleth warm
Of fleissh and bon and full of lif.
Lo, thus he wan a lusti wif,
Which obeissant was at his wille;
And if he wolde have holde him stille
And nothing spoke, he scholde have failed.
Bot for he hath his word travailed
And dorste speke, his love he spedde,
And hadde al that he wolde abedde.
For er thei wente thanne atwo,
A knave child betwen hem two
Thei gete, which was after hote
Paphus, of whom yit hath the note
A certein yle, which Paphos
Men clepe, and of his name it ros.
Be this ensample thou miht finde
That word mai worche above kinde.
Forthi, my sone, if that thou spare
To speke, lost is al thi fare,
For Slowthe bringth in alle wo.
And over this to loke also,
The god of love is favorable
To hem that ben of love stable,
And many a wonder hath befalle.
Wherof to speke amonges alle,
If that thee list to taken hede,
Therof a solein tale I rede,
Which I schal telle in remembraunce
Upon the sort of loves chaunce.
[The Tale of Iphis]
The king Ligdus upon a strif
Spak unto Thelacuse his wif,
Which thanne was with childe grete;
He swor it scholde noght be lete
That if sche have a dowhter bore
That it ne scholde be forlore
And slain, wherof sche sory was.
So it befell upon this cas,
Whan sche delivered scholde be,
Isis be nyhte in priveté,
Which of childinge is the goddesse,
Cam for to helpe in that destresse,
Til that this lady was al smal,
And hadde a dowhter forthwithal;
Which the goddesse in alle weie
Bad kepe, and that thei scholden seie
It were a sone: and thus Iphis
Thei namede him, and upon this
The fader was mad so to wene.
And thus in chambre with the qweene
This Iphis was forthdrawe tho,
And clothed and arraied so
Riht as a kinges sone scholde.
Til after, as fortune it wolde,
Whan it was of a ten yer age,
Him was betake in mariage
A duckes dowhter for to wedde,
Which Iante hihte, and ofte abedde
These children leien, sche and sche,
Which of on age bothe be.
So that withinne time of yeeres,
Togedre as thei ben pleiefieres,
Liggende abedde upon a nyht,
Nature, which doth every wiht
Upon hire lawe for to muse,
Constreigneth hem, so that thei use
Thing which to hem was al unknowe;
Wherof Cupide thilke throwe
Tok pité for the grete love,
And let do sette kinde above,
So that hir lawe mai ben used,
And thei upon here lust excused.
For love hateth nothing more
Than thing which stant agein the lore
Of that nature in kinde hath sett.
Forthi Cupide hath so besett
His grace upon this aventure,
That he acordant to nature,
Whan that he syh the time best,
That ech of hem hath other kest,
Transformeth Iphe into a man,
Wherof the kinde love he wan
Of lusti yonge Iante his wif;
And tho thei ladde a merie lif,
Which was to kinde non offence.
And thus to take an evidence,
It semeth love is welwillende
To hem that ben continuende
With besy herte to poursuie
Thing which that is to love due.
Wherof, my sone, in this matiere
Thou miht ensample taken hiere,
That with thi grete besinesse
Thou mihte atteigne the richesse
Of love, if that ther be no Slowthe."
"I dar wel seie be mi trowthe,
Als fer as I my witt can seche,
Mi fader, as for lacke of speche,
Bot so as I me schrof tofore,
Ther is non other time lore,
Wherof ther mihte ben obstacle
To lette love of his miracle,
Which I beseche day and nyht.
Bot, fader, so as it is riht
In forme of schrifte to beknowe
What thing belongeth to the slowe,
Your faderhode I wolde preie,
If ther be forthere eny weie
Touchende unto this ilke vice."
"Mi sone, ye, of this office
Ther serveth on in special,
Which lost hath his memorial,
So that he can no wit withholde
In thing which he to kepe is holde,
Wherof fulofte himself he grieveth:
And who that most upon him lieveth,
Whan that hise wittes ben so weyved,
He mai full lihtly be deceived."
Mentibus oblitus alienis labitur ille,
Quem probat accidia non meminisse sui.
Sic amor incautus, qui non memoratur ad horas,
Perdit et offendit, quod cuperare nequit.4
"To serve Accidie in his office,
Ther is of Slowthe an other vice,
Which cleped is Forgetelnesse;
That noght mai in his herte impresse
Of vertu which reson hath sett,
So clene his wittes he forget.
For in the tellinge of his tale
No more his herte thanne his male
Hath remembrance of thilke forme
Wherof he scholde his wit enforme
As thanne, and yit ne wot he why.
Thus is his pourpos noght forthi
Forlore of that he wolde bidde,
And skarsly if he seith the thridde
To love of that he hadde ment.
Thus many a lovere hath be schent.
Tell on therfore, hast thou be oon
Of hem that Slowthe hath so begon?"
"Ye, fader, ofte it hath be so,
That whanne I am mi ladi fro
And thenke untoward hire drawe,
Than cast I many a newe lawe
And al the world torne up so doun,
And so recorde I mi lecoun
And wryte in my memorial
What I to hire telle schal,
Riht al the matiere of mi tale.
Bot al nys worth a note schale;
For whanne I come ther sche is,
I have it al forgete ywiss;
Of that I thoghte for to telle
I can noght thanne unethes spelle
That I wende altherbest have rad,
So sore I am of hire adrad.
For as a man that sodeinli
A gost behelde, so fare I;
So that for feere I can noght gete
Mi witt, bot I miself forgete,
That I wot nevere what I am,
Ne whider I schal, ne whenne I cam,
Bot muse as he that were amased.
Lich to the bok in which is rased
The lettre, and mai nothing be rad,
So ben my wittes overlad,
That what as evere I thoghte have spoken,
It is out fro myn herte stoken,
And stonde, as who seith, doumb and def,
That al nys worth an yvy lef,
Of that I wende wel have seid.
And ate laste I make abreid,
Caste up myn hed and loke aboute,
Riht as a man that were in doute
And wot noght wher he schal become.
Thus am I ofte al overcome,
Ther as I wende best to stonde.
Bot after, whanne I understonde,
And am in other place alone,
I make many a wofull mone
Unto miself, and speke so:
'Ha fol, wher was thin herte tho,
Whan thou thi worthi ladi syhe?
Were thou afered of hire yhe?
For of hire hand ther is no drede.
So wel I knowe hir wommanhede,
That in hire is no more oultrage
Than in a child of thre yeer age.
Whi hast thou drede of so good on,
Whom alle vertu hath begon,
That in hire is no violence
Bot goodlihiede and innocence
Withouten spot of eny blame?
Ha, nyce herte, fy for schame!
Ha, couard herte of love unlered,
Wherof art thou so sore afered,
That thou thi tunge soffrest frese,
And wolt thi goode wordes lese,
Whan thou hast founde time and space?
How scholdest thou deserve grace,
Whan thou thiself darst axe non,
Bot al thou hast forgete anon?'
And thus despute I loves lore,
Bot help ne finde I noght the more,
Bot stomble upon myn oghne treine
And make an ekinge of my peine.
For evere whan I thenke among
How al is on miself along,
I seie, 'O fol of alle foles,
Thou farst as he betwen tuo stoles
That wolde sitte and goth to grounde.
It was ne nevere schal be founde,
Betwen forgetelnesse and drede
That man scholde any cause spede.'
And thus, myn holi fader diere,
Toward miself, as ye mai hiere,
I pleigne of my forgetelnesse.
Bot elles al the besinesse
That mai be take of mannes thoght,
Min herte takth, and is thorghsoght
To thenken evere upon that swete
Withoute Slowthe, I you behete.
For what so falle, or wel or wo,
That thoght forgete I neveremo,
Wher so I lawhe or so I loure,
Noght half the minut of an houre
Ne mihte I lete out of my mende,
Bot if I thoghte upon that hende.
Therof me schal no Slowthe lette
Til deth out of this world me fette,
Althogh I hadde on such a ring
As Moises thurgh his enchanting
Somtime in Ethiope made,
Whan that he Tharbis weddid hade.
Which ring bar of Oblivion
The name, and that was be resoun
That where it on a finger sat,
Anon his love he so forgat,
As thogh he hadde it nevere knowe.
And so it fell that ilke throwe,
Whan Tharbis hadde it on hire hond,
No knowlechinge of him sche fond,
Bot al was clene out of memoire,
As men mai rede in his histoire.
And thus he wente quit away,
That nevere after that ilke day
Sche thoghte that ther was such on;
Al was forgete and overgon.
Bot in good feith so mai noght I,
For sche is evere faste by,
So nyh that sche myn herte toucheth,
That for nothing that Slowthe voucheth
I mai forgete hire, lief ne loth.
For overal, where as sche goth,
Min herte folwith hire aboute.
Thus mai I seie withoute doute,
For bet for wers, for oght for noght,
Sche passeth nevere fro my thoght.
Bot whanne I am ther as sche is,
Min herte, as I you saide er this,
Somtime of hire is sore adrad,
And somtime it is overglad,
Al out of reule and out of space.
For whan I se hire goodli face
And thenke upon hire hihe pris,
As thogh I were in Paradis,
I am so ravisht of the syhte,
To speke unto hire I ne myhte
As for the time, thogh I wolde.
For I ne mai my wit unfolde
To finde o word of that I mene,
Bot al it is forgete clene;
And thogh I stonde there a myle,
Al is forgete for the while:
A tunge I have and wordes none.
And thus I stonde and thenke alone
Of thing that helpeth ofte noght;
Bot what I hadde afore thoght
To speke, whanne I come there
It is forgete, as noght ne were,
And stonde amased and assoted,
That of nothing which I have noted
I can noght thanne a note singe,
Bot al is out of knowlechinge.
Thus, what for joie and what for drede,
Al is forgeten ate nede.
So that, mi fader, of this Slowthe
I have you said the pleine trowthe;
Ye mai it as you list redresce.
For thus stant my forgetelnesse
And ek my pusillamité.
Sey now forth what you list to me,
For I wol only do be you."
"Mi sone, I have wel herd how thou
Hast seid, and that thou most amende:
For love his grace wol noght sende
To that man which dar axe non.
For this we knowen everichon,
A mannes thoght withoute speche
God wot, and yit that men beseche
His will is; for withoute bedes
He doth His grace in fewe stedes:
And what man that forget himselve,
Among a thousand be noght tuelve
That wol Him take in remembraunce,
Bot lete him falle and take his chaunce.
Forthi pull up a besi herte,
Mi sone, and let nothing asterte
Of love fro thi besinesse.
For touchinge of Forgetelnesse,
Which many a love hath set behinde,
A tale of gret ensample I finde,
Wherof it is pité to wite
In the manere as it is write.
[The Tale of Demophon and Phyllis]
King Demephon, whan he be schipe
To Troieward with felaschipe
Sailende goth, upon his weie
It hapneth him at Rodopeie,
As Eolus him hadde blowe,
To londe, and rested for a throwe.
And fell that ilke time thus,
The dowhter of Ligurgius,
Which qweene was of the contré,
Was sojournende in that cité
Withinne a castell nyh the stronde,
Wher Demephon cam up to londe.
Phillis sche hihte, and of yong age
And of stature and of visage
Sche hadde al that hire best besemeth.
Of Demephon riht wel hire qwemeth,
Whan he was come, and made him chiere;
And he, that was of his manere
A lusti knyht, ne myhte asterte
That he ne sette on hire his herte;
So that withinne a day or tuo
He thoghte, howevere that it go,
He wolde assaie the fortune,
And gan his herte to commune
With goodly wordes in hire ere;
And for to put hire out of fere,
He swor and hath his trowthe pliht
To be forevere hire oghne knyht.
And thus with hire he stille abod,
Ther while his schip on anker rod,
And hadde ynowh of time and space
To speke of love and seche grace.
This ladi herde al that he seide,
And hou he swor and hou he preide,
Which was as an enchantement
To hire, that was innocent.
As thogh it were trowthe and feith
Sche lieveth al that evere he seith,
And as hire infortune scholde,
Sche granteth him al that he wolde.
Thus was he for the time in joie,
Til that he scholde go to Troie.
Bot tho sche made mochel sorwe,
And he his trowthe leith to borwe
To come, if that he live may,
Agein withinne a monthe day,
And therupon thei kisten bothe.
Bot were hem lieve or were hem lothe,
To schipe he goth and forth he wente
To Troie, as was his ferste entente.
The daies gon, the monthe passeth,
Hire love encresceth and his lasseth,
For him sche lefte slep and mete.
And he his time hath al forgete,
So that this wofull yonge qweene,
Which wot noght what it mihte meene,
A lettre sende and preide him come,
And seith how sche is overcome
With strengthe of love in such a wise
That sche noght longe mai suffise
To liven out of his presence;
And putte upon his conscience
The trowthe which he hath behote,
Wherof sche loveth him so hote,
Sche seith, that if he lengere lette
Of such a day as sche him sette,
Sche scholde sterven in his Slowthe,
Which were a schame unto his trowthe.
This lettre is forth upon hire sonde,
Wherof somdiel confort on honde
Sche tok, as sche that wolde abide
And waite upon that ilke tyde
Which sche hath in hire lettre write.
Bot now is pité for to wite,
As he dede erst, so he forgat
His time eftsone and oversat.
Bot sche, which mihte noght do so,
The tyde awayteth everemo,
And caste hire yhe upon the see.
Somtime nay, somtime yee,
Somtime he cam, somtime noght,
Thus sche desputeth in hire thoght
And wot noght what sche thenke mai.
Bot fastende al the longe day
Sche was into the derke nyht,
And tho sche hath do set up lyht
In a lanterne on hih alofte
Upon a tour, wher sche goth ofte,
In hope that in his cominge
He scholde se the liht brenninge,
Wherof he mihte his weies rihte
To come wher sche was be nyhte.
Bot al for noght, sche was deceived,
For Venus hath hire hope weyved,
And schewede hire upon the sky
How that the day was faste by,
So that withinne a litel throwe
The daies lyht sche mihte knowe.
Tho sche behield the see at large,
And whan sche sih ther was no barge
Ne schip, als ferr as sche may kenne,
Doun fro the tour sche gan to renne
Into an herber al hire one,
Wher many a wonder woful mone
Sche made, that no lif it wiste,
As sche which al hire joie miste,
That now sche swouneth, now sche pleigneth,
And al hire face sche desteigneth
With teres, whiche, as of a welle
The stremes from hire yhen felle;
So as sche mihte and evere in on
Sche clepede upon Demephon,
And seide, 'Helas, thou slowe wiht,
Wher was ther evere such a knyht,
That so thurgh his ungentilesce
Of Slowthe and of Forgetelnesce
Agein his trowthe brak his stevene?'
And tho hire yhe up to the hevene
Sche caste, and seide, 'O thou unkinde,
Hier schalt thou thurgh thi Slowthe finde,
If that thee list to come and se,
A ladi ded for love of thee,
So as I schal myselve spille;
Whom, if it hadde be thi wille,
Thou mihtest save wel ynowh.'
With that upon a grene bowh
A ceinte of selk, which sche ther hadde,
Sche knette, and so hireself sche ladde,
That sche aboute hire whyte swere
It dede, and hyng hirselven there.
Wherof the goddes were amoeved,
And Demephon was so reproeved,
That of the goddes providence
Was schape such an evidence
Evere afterward agein the slowe,
That Phillis in the same throwe
Was schape into a notetre,
That alle men it mihte se,
And after Phillis philliberd
This tre was cleped in the yerd,
And yit for Demephon to schame
Into this dai it berth the name.
This wofull chance how that it ferde
Anon as Demephon it herde,
And every man it hadde in speche,
His sorwe was noght tho to seche;
He gan his Slowthe for to banne,
Bot it was al to late thanne.
Lo thus, my sone, miht thou wite
Agein this vice how it is write;
For no man mai the harmes gesse,
That fallen thurgh Forgetelnesse,
Wherof that I thi schrifte have herd.
Bot yit of Slowthe hou it hath ferd
In other wise I thenke oppose,
If thou have gult, as I suppose."
Dum plantare licet, cultor qui necgligit ortum,
Si desint fructus, imputet ipse sibi.
Preterit ista dies bona, nec valet illa secunda,
Hoc caret exemplo lentus amore suo.5
"Fulfild of Slowthes essamplaire
Ther is yit on, his secretaire,
And he is cleped Negligence,
Which wol noght loke his evidence,
Wherof he mai be war tofore;
Bot whanne he hath his cause lore,
Thanne is he wys after the hond,
Whanne helpe may no maner bond.
Thanne ate ferste wolde he binde:
Thus everemore he stant behinde.
Whanne he the thing mai noght amende,
Thanne is he war, and seith at ende,
'Ha, wolde God I hadde knowe!'
Wherof bejaped with a mowe
He goth, for whan the grete stiede
Is stole, thanne he taketh hiede,
And makth the stable dore fast.
Thus evere he pleith an aftercast
Of al that he schal seie or do.
He hath a manere eke also,
Him list noght lerne to be wys,
For he set of no vertu pris
Bot as him liketh for the while;
So fieleth he fulofte guile,
Whan that he weneth siker stonde.
And thus thou miht wel understonde,
Mi sone, if thou art such in love,
Thou miht noght come at thin above
Of that thou woldest wel achieve."
"Mi holi fader, as I lieve,
I mai wel with sauf conscience
Excuse me of necgligence
Towardes love in alle wise.
For thogh I be non of the wise,
I am so trewly amerous,
That I am evere curious
Of hem that conne best enforme
To knowe and witen al the forme
What falleth unto loves craft.
Bot yit ne fond I noght the haft
Which mihte unto that bladd acorde;
For nevere herde I man recorde
What thing it is that myhte availe
To winne love withoute faile.
Yit so fer cowthe I nevere finde
Man that be resoun ne be kinde
Me cowthe teche such an art,
That he ne failede of a part;
And as toward myn oghne wit,
Controeve cowthe I nevere yit
To finden eny sikernesse
That me myhte outher more or lesse
Of love make for to spede.
For lieveth wel withoute drede,
If that ther were such a weie,
As certeinliche as I schal deie
I hadde it lerned longe ago.
Bot I wot wel ther is non so.
And natheles it may wel be,
I am so rude in my degree
And ek mi wittes ben so dulle,
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