Confessio Amantis - Tales Of The Seven Deadly Sins, 1330-1408 A.D. - 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.     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,    10     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    20     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,        30     And noman wot the cause why.     Mi Sone, schrif thee now forthi:     Hast thou be Malencolien?     Ye, fader, be seint Julien,     Bot I untrewe wordes use,     I mai me noght therof excuse:     And al makth love, wel I wot,     Of which myn herte is evere hot,     So that I brenne as doth a 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     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,     50     That al wakende I dreme and meete     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;     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     70     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,    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,     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 Rome        100     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     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 sihe     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 hier    130     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        140     Upon the folie of his dede;     And of this point a tale I rede.     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,     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     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,     Cupide bad hem ferst to kesse,     And after sche which is Maistresse        170     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 overmore     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;     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     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,     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.    200     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 swore        220     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,        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 the wraththe he mai restreigne.     And in this wilde wode peine,     Whanne al his resoun was untame,     A kniht he clepeth be his name,     And tok him as be weie of sonde     A naked swerd to bere on honde,     And seide him that he scholde go     And telle unto his dowhter so             250     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    260     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,     O thou my love, o thou myn hate,     For thee mot I be ded algate.     Thilke ende may I noght asterte,     And yit with al myn hole herte,     Whil that me lasteth eny breth,     I wol the love into my deth.        290     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 fade    310     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 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 best him mai devoure,     Where as noman him schal socoure.     Al that he bad was don in dede:     Ha, who herde evere singe or rede    330     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    340     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,     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.     What nature hath set in hir lawe     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     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        370     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,     Hise Angres angreliche he boghte.    380     Lo thus, my Sone, Ovide hath write,     Wherof thou miht be reson wite,     More is a man than such a beste:     So mihte it nevere ben 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 menable     390     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.        400     Bot that I wraththe and fare amis,     Al one 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,     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.     Of Wraththe the secounde is Cheste,     Which hath the wyndes of tempeste     To kepe, and many a sodein blast     He bloweth, wherof ben agast        420     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     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 eloquence        440     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,     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     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.     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        480     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.        490     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     500     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,     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.     Bot that I have ayein hir heste        520     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;     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 yifth it me the more feith     And makth me hardi, soth to seie,     That I dar wel the betre preie    540     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     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,     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     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,     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.     Mi Sone, if that thou wistest al,     What Cheste doth in special     To love and to his welwillinge,     Thou woldest flen his knowlechinge        600     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     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,            620     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.        630     Bot, fader, if ye forth withal     Som good ensample in special     Me wolden telle of som Cronique,     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.     Mi Sone, a man to beie him pes     Behoveth soffre as Socrates    640     Ensample lefte, which is write:     And for thou schalt the sothe wite,     Of this ensample what I mene,     Althogh 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    650     Ayein 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        660     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,    670     Began withinne forto 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    680     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 forto blowe,     And after that withinne a throwe     He reyneth and the watergates     Undoth; "and thus my wif algates,    690     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 nomore o word ne seide;     Wherof he gat him somdel reste,     For that him thoghte was the beste.     I not if thilke ensample yit     Acordeth with a mannes wit,    700     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 yive ensample to the goode     Of pacience how that it stode,     That othre men it mihte knowe.     And, Sone, if thou at eny throwe     710     Be tempted ayein Pacience,     Tak hiede upon this evidence;     It schal per cas the lasse grieve.     Mi fader, so as I believe,     Of that schal be no maner nede,     For I wol take so good hiede,     That er I falle in such assai,     I thenke eschuie it, if I mai.     Bot if ther be oght elles more     Wherof I mihte take lore,        720     I preie you, so as I dar,     Now telleth, that I mai be war,     Som other tale in this matiere.     Sone, it is evere good to lere,     Wherof thou miht thi word restreigne,     Er that thou falle in eny peine.     For who that can no conseil hyde,     He mai noght faile of wo beside,     Which schal befalle er he it wite,     As I finde in the bokes write.    730     Yit cam ther nevere good of strif,     To seche in all a mannes lif:     Thogh it beginne on pure game,     Fulofte it torneth into 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     740     In manere as it were a borde,     As thei begunne forto worde     Among hemself in privete:     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;    750     And he withoute avisement     Ayein Juno yaf juggement.     This goddesse upon his ansuere     Was wroth and wolde noght forbere,     Bot tok awey for everemo     The liht fro bothe hise yhen tuo.     Whan Jupiter this harm hath sein,     An other bienfait therayein     He yaf, and such a grace him doth,     That for he wiste he seide soth,     760     A Sothseiere he was for evere:     Bot yit that other were levere,     Have had the lokinge of his yhe,     Than of his word the prophecie;     Bot how so that the sothe wente,     Strif was the cause of that he 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        770     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 privete what thei have wroght,     Hold conseil and descoevere it noght,     For Cheste can no conseil hele,     Or be it wo or be it wele:     780     And tak a tale into thi mynde,     The which of olde ensample I finde.     Phebus, which makth the daies lihte,     A love he hadde, which tho hihte     Cornide, whom aboven alle     He pleseth: bot what schal befalle     Of love ther is noman knoweth,     Bot as fortune hire happes throweth.     So it befell upon a chaunce,     A yong kniht tok hire aqueintance    790     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,        800     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,     810     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 the rede.     For in an other place I rede     Of thilke Nimphe which Laar hihte:     For sche the privete be nyhte,    820     How Jupiter lay be Jutorne,     Hath told, god made hire overtorne:     Hire tunge he kutte, and into helle     For evere he sende hir forto 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.    830     Mi Sone, be thou non of tho,     To jangle and telle tales so,     And namely that thou ne chyde,     For Cheste can no conseil hide,     For Wraththe seide nevere wel.     Mi fader, soth is 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.                840     Now tell me forth if ther be more     As touchende unto Wraththes lore.     Of Wraththe yit ther is an other,     Which is to Cheste his oghne brother,     And is be name cleped Hate,     That soffreth noght withinne his 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,    850     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;        860     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?     My goode fader, as I wene,     Now wot I somdel what ye mene;     Bot I dar saufly make an oth,     Mi ladi was me nevere loth.     I wol noght swere natheles     That I of hate am gulteles;    870     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.     880     Thus is ther Hate, as ye mai se,     Betwen mi ladi word and me;     The word I hate and hire I love,     What so me schal betide of love.     Bot forthere mor I wol me schryve,     That I have hated al my lyve     These janglers, whiche of here Envie     Ben evere redi forto lie;     For with here fals compassement     Fuloften thei have mad me schent     890     And hindred me fulofte time,     Whan thei no cause wisten bime,     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 foryive,     Til that I se hem at debat     With love, and thanne myn astat        900     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        910     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 forto stonden in here lyht,    920     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.     930     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    940     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.            950     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 an other wo,     Schal noman tornen him therfro,        960     That Hate nyle his felonie     Fulfille and feigne compaignie     Yit natheles, for fals Semblant     Is toward him of covenant     Withholde, so that under bothe     The prive 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:    970     The bok of Troie who so rede,     Ther mai he finde ensample in dede.     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 ayein.     Ther mai noman his happ withsein;     It hath be sen and felt fulofte,     The harde time after the softe:        980     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 noman mihte himself bewelde.    990     Ther mai men hiere Schipmen crie,     That stode in aunter forto die:     He that behinde sat to stiere     Mai noght the forestempne hiere;     The Schip aros ayein the wawes,     The lodesman hath lost his lawes,     The See bet in on every side:     Thei nysten what fortune abide,     Bot sette hem al in goddes wille,     Wher he hem wolde save or spille.    1000     And it fell thilke time thus:     Ther was a king, the which 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.    1010     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 prive 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        1020     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 prive hate, as thou schalt hiere,     Wherof I telle al this matiere.     This king the weder gan beholde,     And wiste wel thei moten holde    1030     Here cours endlong his marche riht,     And made upon the derke nyht     Of grete Schydes and of blockes     Gret fyr ayein the grete rockes,     To schewe upon the helles hihe,     So that the Flete of Grece it sihe.     And so it fell riht as he thoghte:     This Flete, which an havene soghte,     The bryghte fyres sih a ferr,     And thei hem drowen nerr and nerr,        1040     And wende wel and understode     How al that fyr was made for goode,     To schewe wher men scholde aryve,     And thiderward thei hasten blyve.     In Semblant, as men sein, is guile,     And that was proved thilke while;     The Schip, which wende his helpe acroche,     Drof al to pieces on the roche,     And so ther deden ten or twelve;     Ther mihte noman helpe himselve,     1050     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 they wenden frendes finde,     Thei founden frenschipe al behinde.     1060     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    1070     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,     1080     Schal noman 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 charite,     As ye be youre bokes knowe,     And I the sothe schal beknowe.     Mi Sone, thou schalt understonde     That yit towardes Wraththe stonde    1090     Of dedly vices othre tuo:     And forto telle here names so,     It is Contek and Homicide,     That ben to drede on every side.     Contek, so as the bokes sein,     Folhast hath to his Chamberlein,     Be whos conseil al unavised     Is Pacience most despised,     Til Homicide with hem meete.     Fro merci thei ben al unmeete,    1100     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 thei have or swerd or knif     Here dedly wraththe forto wreke,     Of Pite list hem noght to speke;     1110     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 pite ne mihte hem plie.     Now tell, my Sone. Fader, what?     If thou hast be coupable of that.    1120     Mi fader, nay, Crist me forbiede:     I speke onliche as of the dede,     Of which I nevere was 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,        1130     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    1140     Have al my time in vein despended,     And se noght how to ben amended,     Bot rathere forto be empeired,     As he that is welnyh despeired:     For I ne mai no thonk deserve,     And evere I love and evere I serve,     And evere I am aliche nerr.     Thus, for I stonde in such a wer,     I am, as who seith, out of herre;     And thus upon miself the werre    1150     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;     Ayein the whiche stant partie     1160     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.     1170     Of hope also thei tellen this,     That overal, wher that he is,     He set the herte in jeupartie     With wihssinge and with fantasie,     And is noght trewe of that he seith,     So that in him ther is no feith:     Thus with reson and wit avised     Is will and hope aldai despised.     Reson seith that I scholde leve     To love, wher ther is no leve     1180     To spede, and will seith therayein     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,    1190     That he nys Maister of my thoght,     Or that I spede, or spede noght.     Thou dost, my Sone, ayein the riht;     Bot love is of so gret a miht,     His lawe mai noman refuse,     So miht thou thee the betre excuse.     And natheles thou schalt be lerned     That will scholde evere be governed     Of reson more than of kinde,     Wherof a tale write I finde.        1200     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 forto take his reste,     And duelte at hom in such a wise,     That nyh his hous he let devise     Endlong upon an Axeltre     To sette a tonne in such degre,        1210     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 their 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:    1220     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        1230     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     1240     The Tonne stod, and what it was.     And he, which understod the cas,     Sat stille and spak no word ayein.     The kniht bad speke and seith, "Vilein,     Thou schalt me telle, er that I go;     It is thi king which axeth so."     "Mi king," quod he, "that were unriht."     "What is he thanne?" seith the kniht,     "Is he thi man?" "That seie I noght,"     Quod he, "bot this I am bethoght,    1250     Mi mannes man hou that he is."     "Thou lyest, false cherl, ywiss,"     The kniht him seith, and was riht wroth,     And to the king ayein he 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:    1260     "Alheil," he seith, "what man art thou?"     Quod he, "Such on as thou sest now."     The king, which hadde wordes wise,     His age wolde noght despise,     Bot seith, "Mi fader, I thee 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:        1270     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,    1280     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 forto 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,    1290     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,     The which men Diogenes calle."     Tho was the king riht glad withalle,    1300     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 yifte 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 yifte,     Which lith noght in thi miht to schifte:        1310     Non other good of thee me nedeth."     This king, whom every contre 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,    1320     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:     Wherof I finde ensample write,     Which is behovely forto wite.     1330     I rede a tale, and telleth this:     The Cite which Semiramis     Enclosed hath with wall aboute,     Of worthi folk with many a route     Was enhabited here and there;     Among the whiche tuo ther were     Above alle othre noble and grete,     Dwellende tho withinne a Strete     So nyh togedre, as it was sene,     That ther was nothing hem betwene,        1340     Bot wow to wow and wall to wall.     This o lord hadde in special     A Sone, a lusti Bacheler,     In al the toun was non his pier:     That other hadde a dowhter eke,     In al the lond that forto seke     Men wisten non so faire as sche.     And fell so, as it scholde be,     This faire dowhter nyh this Sone     As thei togedre thanne wone,        1350     Cupide hath so the thinges schape,     That thei ne mihte his hand ascape,     That he his fyr on hem ne caste:     Wherof her herte he overcaste     To folwe thilke lore and suie     Which nevere man yit miht eschuie;     And that was love, as it is happed,     Which hath here hertes so betrapped,     That thei be alle weies seche     How that thei mihten winne a speche,    1360     Here wofull peine forto lisse.     Who loveth wel, it mai noght misse,     And namely whan ther be tuo     Of on acord, how so it go,     Bot if that thei som weie finde;     For love is evere of such a kinde     And hath his folk so wel affaited,     That howso that it be awaited,     Ther mai noman the pourpos lette:     And thus betwen hem tuo thei sette        1370     And hole upon a wall to make,     Thurgh which thei have her conseil take     At alle times, whan thei myhte.     This faire Maiden Tisbee hihte,     And he whom that sche loveth hote     Was Piramus be name hote.     So longe here lecoun thei recorden,     Til ate laste thei acorden     Be nihtes time forto wende     Al one out fro the tounes ende,        1380     Wher was a welle under a Tree;     And who cam ferst, or sche or he,     He scholde stille there abide.     So it befell the nyhtes tide     This maiden, which desguised was,     Al prively the softe pas     Goth thurgh the large toun unknowe,     Til that sche cam withinne a throwe     Wher that sche liketh forto duelle,     At thilke unhappi freisshe welle,    1390     Which was also the Forest nyh.     Wher sche comende a Leoun syh     Into the feld to take his preie,     In haste and sche tho fledde aweie,     So as fortune scholde falle,     For feere and let hire wympel falle     Nyh to the welle upon therbage.     This Leoun in his wilde rage     A beste, which that he fond oute,     Hath slain, and with his blodi snoute,     1400     Whan he hath eten what he wolde,     To drynke of thilke stremes colde     Cam to the welle, where he fond     The wympel, which out of hire hond     Was falle, and he it hath todrawe,     Bebled aboute and al forgnawe;     And thanne he strawhte him forto drinke     Upon the freisshe welles brinke,     And after that out of the plein     He torneth to the wode ayein.     1410     And Tisbee dorste noght remue,     Bot as a bridd which were in Mue     Withinne a buissh sche kepte hire clos     So stille that sche noght aros;     Unto hirself and pleigneth ay.     And fell, whil that sche there lay,     This Piramus cam after sone     Unto the welle, and be the Mone     He fond hire wimpel blodi there.     Cam nevere yit to mannes Ere        1420     Tidinge, ne to mannes sihte     Merveile, which so sore aflihte     A mannes herte, as it tho dede     To him, which in the same stede     With many a wofull compleignynge     Began his handes forto wringe,     As he which demeth sikerly     That sche be ded: and sodeinly     His swerd al nakid out he breide     In his folhaste, and thus he seide:     1430     "I am cause of this felonie,     So it is resoun that I die,     As sche is ded be cause of me."     And with that word upon his kne     He fell, and to the goddes alle     Up to the hevene he gan to calle,     And preide, sithen it was so     That he may noght his love as tho     Have in this world, that of her grace     He miht hire have in other place,    1440     For hiere wolde he noght abide,     He seith: bot as it schal betide,     The Pomel of his swerd to grounde     He sette, and thurgh his herte a wounde     He made up to the bare hilte:     And in this wise himself he spilte     With his folhaste and deth he nam;     For sche withinne a while cam,     Wher he lai ded upon his knif.     So wofull yit was nevere lif        1450     As Tisbee was, whan sche him sih:     Sche mihte noght o word on hih     Speke oute, for hire herte schette,     That of hir lif no pris sche sette,     Bot ded swounende doun sche fell.     Til after, whanne it so befell     That sche out of hire traunce awok,     With many a wofull pitous lok     Hire yhe alwei among sche caste     Upon hir love, and ate laste        1460     Sche cawhte breth and seide thus:     "O thou which cleped art Venus,     Goddesse of love, and thou, Cupide,     Which loves cause hast forto guide,     I wot now wel that ye be blinde,     Of thilke unhapp which I now finde     Only betwen my love and me.     This Piramus, which hiere I se     Bledende, what hath he deserved?     For he youre heste hath kept and served,        1470     And was yong and I bothe also:     Helas, why do ye with ous so?     Ye sette oure herte bothe afyre,     And maden ous such thing desire     Wherof that we no skile cowthe;     Bot thus oure freisshe lusti yowthe     Withoute joie is al despended,     Which thing mai nevere ben amended:     For as of me this wol I seie,     That me is levere forto deie        1480     Than live after this sorghful day."     And with this word, where as he lay,     Hire love in armes sche embraseth,     Hire oghne deth and so pourchaseth     That now sche wepte and nou sche kiste,     Til ate laste, er sche it wiste,     So gret a sorwe is to hire falle,     Which overgoth hire wittes alle.     As sche which mihte it noght asterte,     The swerdes point ayein hire herte        1490     Sche sette, and fell doun therupon,     Wherof that sche was ded anon:     And thus bothe on o swerd bledende     Thei weren founde ded liggende.     Now thou, mi Sone, hast herd this tale,     Bewar that of thin oghne bale     Thou be noght cause in thi folhaste,     And kep that thou thi witt ne waste     Upon thi thoght in aventure,     Wherof thi lyves forfeture     1500     Mai falle: and if thou have so thoght     Er this, tell on and hyde it noght.     Mi fader, upon loves side     Mi conscience I woll noght hyde,     How that for love of pure wo     I have ben ofte moeved so,     That with my wisshes if I myhte,     A thousand times, I yow plyhte,     I hadde storven in a day;     And therof I me schryve may,        1510     Though love fully me ne slowh,     Mi will to deie was ynowh,     So am I of my will coupable:     And yit is sche noght merciable,     Which mai me yive lif and hele.     Bot that hir list noght with me dele,     I wot be whos conseil it is,     And him wolde I long time er this,     And yit I wolde and evere schal,     Slen and destruie in special.     1520     The gold of nyne kinges londes     Ne scholde him save fro myn hondes,     In my pouer if that he were;     Bot yit him stant of me no fere     For noght that evere I can manace.     He is the hindrere of mi grace,     Til he be ded I mai noght spede;     So mot I nedes taken hiede     And schape how that he were aweie,     If I therto mai finde a weie.     1530     Mi Sone, tell me now forthi,     Which is that mortiel enemy     That thou manacest to be ded.     Mi fader, it is such a qwed,     That wher I come, he is tofore,     And doth so, that mi cause is lore.     What is his name? It is Daunger,     Which is mi ladi consailer:     For I was nevere yit so slyh,     To come in eny place nyh            1540     Wher as sche was be nyht or day,     That Danger ne was redy ay,     With whom for speche ne for mede     Yit mihte I nevere of love spede;     For evere this I finde soth,     Al that my ladi seith or doth     To me, Daunger schal make an ende,     And that makth al mi world miswende:     And evere I axe his help, bot he     Mai wel be cleped sanz pite;        1550     For ay the more I to him bowe,     The lasse he wol my tale alowe.     He hath mi ladi so englued,     Sche wol noght that he be remued;     For evere he hangeth on hire Seil,     And is so prive of conseil,     That evere whanne I have oght bede,     I finde Danger in hire stede     And myn ansuere of him I have;     Bot for no merci that I crave,    1560     Of merci nevere a point I hadde.     I finde his ansuere ay so badde,     That werse mihte it nevere be:     And thus betwen Danger and me     Is evere werre til he dye.     Bot mihte I ben of such maistrie,     That I Danger hadde overcome,     With that were al my joie come.     Thus wolde I wonde for no Sinne,     Ne yit for al this world to winne;        1570     If that I mihte finde a sleyhte,     To leie al myn astat in weyhte,     I wolde him fro the Court dissevere,     So that he come ayeinward nevere.     Therfore I wisshe and wolde fain     That he were in som wise slain;     For while he stant in thilke place,     Ne gete I noght my ladi grace.     Thus hate I dedly thilke vice,     And wolde he stode in non office     1580     In place wher mi ladi is;     For if he do, I wot wel this,     That owther schal he deie or I     Withinne a while; and noght forthi     On my ladi fulofte I muse,     How that sche mai hirself excuse,     If that I deie in such a plit.     Me thenkth sche mihte noght be qwyt     That sche ne were an homicide:     And if it scholde so betide,        1590     As god forbiede it scholde be,     Be double weie it is pite.     For I, which al my will and witt     Have yove and served evere yit,     And thanne I scholde in such a wise     In rewardinge of my servise     Be ded, me thenkth it were a rowthe:     And furthermor, to telle trowthe,     Sche, that hath evere be wel named,     Were worthi thanne to be blamed        1600     And of reson to ben appeled,     Whan with o word sche mihte have heled     A man, and soffreth him so deie.     Ha, who sawh evere such a weie?     Ha, who sawh evere such destresse?     Withoute pite gentilesse,     Withoute mercy wommanhede,     That wol so quyte a man his mede,     Which evere hath be to love trewe.     Mi goode fader, if ye rewe     1610     Upon mi tale, tell me now,     And I wol stinte and herkne yow.     Mi Sone, attempre thi corage     Fro Wraththe, and let thin herte assuage:     For who so wole him underfonge,     He mai his grace abide longe,     Er he of love be received;     And ek also, bot it be weyved,     Ther mihte mochel thing befalle,     That scholde make a man to falle     1620     Fro love, that nevere afterward     Ne durste he loke thiderward.     In harde weies men gon softe,     And er thei clymbe avise hem ofte:     Men sen alday that rape reweth;     And who so wicked Ale breweth,     Fulofte he mot the werse drinke:     Betre is to flete than to sincke;     Betre is upon the bridel chiewe     Thanne if he felle and overthrewe,        1630     The hors and stikede in the Myr:     To caste water in the fyr     Betre is than brenne up al the hous:     The man which is malicious     And folhastif, fulofte he falleth,     And selden is whan love him calleth.     Forthi betre is to soffre a throwe     Than be to wilde and overthrowe;     Suffrance hath evere be the beste     To wissen him that secheth reste:    1640     And thus, if thou wolt love and spede,     Mi Sone, soffre, as I the rede.     What mai the Mous ayein the Cat?     And for this cause I axe that,     Who mai to love make a werre,     That he ne hath himself the werre?     Love axeth pes and evere schal,     And who that fihteth most withal     Schal lest conquere of his emprise:     For this thei tellen that ben wise,     1650     Wicke is to stryve and have the werse;     To hasten is noght worth a kerse;     Thing that a man mai noght achieve,     That mai noght wel be don at Eve,     It mot abide til the morwe.     Ne haste noght thin oghne sorwe,     Mi Sone, and tak this in thi witt,     He hath noght lost that wel abitt.     Ensample that it falleth thus,     Thou miht wel take of Piramus,    1660     Whan he in haste his swerd outdrowh     And on the point himselve slowh     For love of Tisbee pitously,     For he hire wympel fond blody     And wende a beste hire hadde slain;     Wher as him oghte have be riht fain,     For sche was there al sauf beside:     Bot for he wolde noght abide,     This meschief fell. Forthi be war,     Mi Sone, as I the warne dar,        1670     Do thou nothing in such a res,     For suffrance is the welle of Pes.     Thogh thou to loves Court poursuie,     Yit sit it wel that thou eschuie     That thou the Court noght overhaste,     For so miht thou thi time waste;     Bot if thin happ therto be schape,     It mai noght helpe forto rape.     Therfore attempre thi corage;     Folhaste doth non avantage,    1680     Bot ofte it set a man behinde     In cause of love, and that I finde     Be olde ensample, as thou schalt hiere,     Touchende of love in this matiere.     A Maiden whilom ther was on,     Which Daphne hihte, and such was non     Of beaute thanne, as it was seid.     Phebus his love hath on hire leid,     And therupon to hire he soghte     In his folhaste, and so besoghte,            1690     That sche with him no reste hadde;     For evere upon hire love he gradde,     And sche seide evere unto him nay.     So it befell upon a dai,     Cupide, which hath every chance     Of love under his governance,     Syh Phebus hasten him so sore:     And for he scholde him haste more,     And yit noght speden ate laste,     A dart thurghout his herte he caste,    1700     Which was of gold and al afyre,     That made him manyfold desire     Of love more thanne he dede.     To Daphne ek in the same stede     A dart of Led he caste and smot,     Which was al cold and nothing hot.     And thus Phebus in love brenneth,     And in his haste aboute renneth,     To loke if that he mihte winne;     Bot he was evere to beginne,        1710     For evere awei fro him sche fledde,     So that he nevere his love spedde.     And forto make him full believe     That no Folhaste mihte achieve     To gete love in such degree,     This Daphne into a lorer tre     Was torned, which is evere grene,     In tokne, as yit it mai be sene,     That sche schal duelle a maiden stille,     And Phebus failen of his wille.        1720     Be suche ensamples, as thei stonde,     Mi Sone, thou miht understonde,     To hasten love is thing in vein,     Whan that fortune is therayein.     To take where a man hath leve     Good is, and elles he mot leve;     For whan a mannes happes failen,     Ther is non haste mai availen.     Mi fader, grant merci of this:     Bot while I se mi ladi is        1730     No tre, but halt hire oghne forme,     Ther mai me noman so enforme,     To whether part fortune wende,     That I unto mi lyves ende     Ne wol hire serven everemo.     Mi Sone, sithen it is so,     I seie nomor; bot in this cas     Bewar how it with Phebus was.     Noght only upon loves chance,     Bot upon every governance        1740     Which falleth unto mannes dede,     Folhaste is evere forto drede,     And that a man good consail take,     Er he his pourpos undertake,     For consail put Folhaste aweie.     Now goode fader, I you preie,     That forto wisse me the more,     Som good ensample upon this lore     Ye wolden telle of that is write,     That I the betre mihte wite    1750     How I Folhaste scholde eschuie,     And the wisdom of conseil suie.     Mi Sone, that thou miht enforme     Thi pacience upon the forme     Of old essamples, as thei felle,     Now understond what I schal telle.     Whan noble Troie was belein     And overcome, and hom ayein     The Gregois torned fro the siege,     The kinges founde here oghne liege        1760     In manye places, as men seide,     That hem forsoke and desobeide.     Among the whiche fell this cas     To Demephon and Athemas,     That weren kinges bothe tuo,     And bothe weren served so:     Here lieges wolde hem noght receive,     So that thei mote algates weyve     To seche lond in other place,     For there founde thei no grace.        1770     Wherof they token hem to rede,     And soghten frendes ate nede,     And ech of hem asseureth other     To helpe as to his oghne brother,     To vengen hem of thilke oultrage     And winne ayein here heritage.     And thus thei ryde aboute faste     To gete hem help, and ate laste     Thei hadden pouer sufficant,     And maden thanne a covenant,        1780     That thei ne scholden no lif save,     Ne prest, ne clerc, ne lord, ne knave,     Ne wif, ne child, of that thei finde,     Which berth visage of mannes kinde,     So that no lif schal be socoured,     Bot with the dedly swerd devoured:     In such Folhaste here ordinance     Thei schapen forto do vengance.     Whan this pourpos was wist and knowe     Among here host, tho was ther blowe     1790     Of wordes many a speche aboute:     Of yonge men the lusti route     Were of this tale glad ynowh,     Ther was no care for the plowh;     As thei that weren Folhastif,     Thei ben acorded to the strif,     And sein it mai noght be to gret     To vengen hem of such forfet:     Thus seith the wilde unwise tonge     Of hem that there weren yonge.    1800     Bot Nestor, which was old and hor,     The salve sih tofore the sor,     As he that was of conseil wys:     So that anon be his avis     Ther was a prive conseil nome.     The lordes ben togedre come;     This Demephon and Athemas     Here pourpos tolden, as it was;     Thei sieten alle stille and herde,     Was non bot Nestor hem ansuerde.     1810     He bad hem, if thei wolde winne,     They scholden se, er thei beginne,     Here ende, and sette here ferste entente,     That thei hem after ne repente:     And axeth hem this questioun,     To what final conclusioun     Thei wolde regne Kinges there,     If that no poeple in londe were;     And seith, it were a wonder wierde     To sen a king become an hierde,        1820     Wher no lif is bot only beste     Under the liegance of his heste;     For who that is of man no king,     The remenant is as no thing.     He seith ek, if the pourpos holde     To sle the poeple, as thei tuo wolde,     Whan thei it mihte noght restore,     Al Grece it scholde abegge sore,     To se the wilde beste wone     Wher whilom duelte a mannes Sone:    1830     And for that cause he bad hem trete,     And stinte of the manaces grete.     Betre is to winne be fair speche,     He seith, than such vengance seche;     For whanne a man is most above,     Him nedeth most to gete him love.     Whan Nestor hath his tale seid,     Ayein him was no word withseid;     It thoghte hem alle he seide wel:     And thus fortune hire dedly whiel    1840     Fro werre torneth into pes.     Bot forth thei wenten natheles;     And whan the Contres herde sein     How that here kinges be besein     Of such a pouer as thei ladde,     Was non so bold that hem ne dradde,     And forto seche pes and grith     Thei sende and preide anon forthwith,     So that the kinges ben appesed,     And every mannes herte is esed;        1850     Al was foryete and noght recorded.     And thus thei ben togedre acorded;     The kinges were ayein received,     And pes was take and wraththe weived,     And al thurgh conseil which was good     Of him that reson understod.     Be this ensample, Sone, attempre     Thin herte and let no will distempre     Thi wit, and do nothing be myht     Which mai be do be love and riht.    1860     Folhaste is cause of mochel wo;     Forthi, mi Sone, do noght so.     And as touchende of Homicide     Which toucheth unto loves side,     Fulofte it falleth unavised     Thurgh will, which is noght wel assised,     Whan wit and reson ben aweie     And that Folhaste is in the weie,     Wherof hath falle gret vengance.     Forthi tak into remembrance    1870     To love in such a maner wise     That thou deserve no juise:     For wel I wot, thou miht noght lette,     That thou ne schalt thin herte sette     To love, wher thou wolt or non;     Bot if thi wit be overgon,     So that it torne into malice,     Ther wot noman of thilke vice,     What peril that ther mai befalle:     Wherof a tale amonges alle,    1880     Which is gret pite forto hiere,     I thenke forto tellen hiere,     That thou such moerdre miht withstonde,     Whan thou the tale hast understonde.     Of Troie at thilke noble toun,     Whos fame stant yit of renoun     And evere schal to mannes Ere,     The Siege laste longe there,     Er that the Greks it mihten winne,     Whil Priamus was king therinne;        1890     Bot of the Greks that lyhe aboute     Agamenon ladde al the route.     This thing is knowen overal,     Bot yit I thenke in special     To my matiere therupon     Telle in what wise Agamenon,     Thurgh chance which mai noght be weived,     Of love untrewe was deceived.     An old sawe is, "Who that is slyh     In place where he mai be nyh,     1900     He makth the ferre Lieve loth":     Of love and thus fulofte it goth.     Ther while Agamenon batailleth     To winne Troie, and it assailleth,     Fro home and was long time ferr,     Egistus drowh his qweene nerr,     And with the leiser which he hadde     This ladi at his wille he ladde:     Climestre was hire rihte name,     Sche was therof gretli to blame,     1910     To love there it mai noght laste.     Bot fell to meschief ate laste;     For whan this noble worthi kniht     Fro Troie cam, the ferste nyht     That he at home abedde lay,     Egistus, longe er it was day,     As this Climestre him hadde asent,     And weren bothe of on assent,     Be treson slowh him in his bedd.     Bot moerdre, which mai noght ben hedd,     1920     Sprong out to every mannes Ere,     Wherof the lond was full of fere.     Agamenon hath be this qweene     A Sone, and that was after sene;     Bot yit as thanne he was of yowthe,     A babe, which no reson cowthe,     And as godd wolde, it fell him thus.     A worthi kniht Taltabius     This yonge child hath in kepinge,     And whan he herde of this tidinge,        1930     Of this treson, of this misdede,     He gan withinne himself to drede,     In aunter if this false Egiste     Upon him come, er he it wiste,     To take and moerdre of his malice     This child, which he hath to norrice:     And for that cause in alle haste     Out of the lond he gan him haste     And to the king of Crete he strawhte     And him this yonge lord betawhte,    1940     And preide him for his fader sake     That he this child wolde undertake     And kepe him til he be of Age,     So as he was of his lignage;     And tolde him over al the cas,     How that his fadre moerdred was,     And hou Egistus, as men seide,     Was king, to whom the lond obeide.     And whanne Ydomeneux the king     Hath understondinge of this thing,        1950     Which that this kniht him hadde told,     He made sorwe manyfold,     And tok this child into his warde,     And seide he wolde him kepe and warde,     Til that he were of such a myht     To handle a swerd and ben a knyht,     To venge him at his oghne wille.     And thus Horestes duelleth stille,     Such was the childes rihte name,     Which after wroghte mochel schame    1960     In vengance of his fader deth.     The time of yeres overgeth,     That he was man of brede and lengthe,     Of wit, of manhod and of strengthe,     A fair persone amonges alle.     And he began to clepe and calle,     As he which come was to manne,     Unto the King of Crete thanne,     Preiende that he wolde him make     A kniht and pouer with him take,     1970     For lengere wolde he noght beleve,     He seith, bot preith the king of leve     To gon and cleyme his heritage     And vengen him of thilke oultrage     Which was unto his fader do.     The king assenteth wel therto,     With gret honour and knyht him makth,     And gret pouer to him betakth,     And gan his journe forto caste:     So that Horestes ate laste     1980     His leve tok and forth he goth.     As he that was in herte wroth,     His ferste pleinte to bemene,     Unto the Cite of Athene     He goth him forth and was received,     So there was he noght deceived.     The Duc and tho that weren wise     Thei profren hem to his servise;     And he hem thonketh of here profre     And seith himself he wol gon offre        1990     Unto the goddes for his sped,     As alle men him yeven red.     So goth he to the temple forth:     Of yiftes that be mochel worth     His sacrifice and his offringe     He made; and after his axinge     He was ansuerd, if that he wolde     His stat recovere, thanne he scholde     Upon his Moder do vengance     So cruel, that the remembrance    2000     Therof mihte everemore abide,     As sche that was an homicide     And of hire oghne lord Moerdrice.     Horestes, which of thilke office     Was nothing glad, as thanne he preide     Unto the goddes there and seide     That thei the juggement devise,     How sche schal take the juise.     And therupon he hadde ansuere,     That he hire Pappes scholde of tere     2010     Out of hire brest his oghne hondes,     And for ensample of alle londes     With hors sche scholde be todrawe,     Til houndes hadde hire bones gnawe     Withouten eny sepulture:     This was a wofull aventure.     And whan Horestes hath al herd,     How that the goddes have ansuerd,     Forth with the strengthe which he ladde     The Duc and his pouer he hadde,        2020     And to a Cite forth thei gon,     The which was cleped Cropheon,     Where as Phoieus was lord and Sire,     Which profreth him withouten hyre     His help and al that he mai do,     As he that was riht glad therto,     To grieve his mortiel enemy:     And tolde hem certein cause why,     How that Egiste in Mariage     His dowhter whilom of full Age    2030     Forlai, and afterward forsok,     Whan he Horestes Moder tok.     Men sein, "Old Senne newe schame":     Thus more and more aros the blame     Ayein Egiste on every side.     Horestes with his host to ride     Began, and Phoieus with hem wente;     I trowe Egiste him schal repente.     Thei riden forth unto Micene,     Wher lay Climestre thilke qweene,    2040     The which Horestes moder is:     And whan sche herde telle of this,     The gates weren faste schet,     And thei were of here entre let.     Anon this Cite was withoute     Belein and sieged al aboute,     And evere among thei it assaile,     Fro day to nyht and so travaile,     Til ate laste thei it wonne;     Tho was ther sorwe ynowh begonne.    2050     Horestes dede his moder calle     Anon tofore the lordes alle     And ek tofor the poeple also,     To hire and tolde his tale tho,     And seide, "O cruel beste unkinde,     How mihtest thou thin herte finde,     For eny lust of loves drawhte,     That thou acordest to the slawhte     Of him which was thin oghne lord?     Thi treson stant of such record,     2060     Thou miht thi werkes noght forsake;     So mot I for mi fader sake     Vengance upon thi bodi do,     As I comanded am therto.     Unkindely for thou hast wroght,     Unkindeliche it schal be boght,     The Sone schal the Moder sle,     For that whilom thou seidest yee     To that thou scholdest nay have seid."     And he with that his hond hath leid     2070     Upon his Moder brest anon,     And rente out fro the bare bon     Hire Pappes bothe and caste aweie     Amiddes in the carte weie,     And after tok the dede cors     And let it drawe awey with hors     Unto the hound and to the raven;     Sche was non other wise graven.     Egistus, which was elles where,     Tidinges comen to his Ere        2080     How that Micenes was belein,     Bot what was more herd he noght sein;     With gret manace and mochel bost     He drowh pouer and made an host     And cam in rescousse of the toun.     Bot al the sleyhte of his tresoun     Horestes wiste it be aspie,     And of his men a gret partie     He made in buisshement abide,     To waite on him in such a tide    2090     That he ne mihte here hond ascape:     And in this wise as he hath schape     The thing befell, so that Egiste     Was take, er he himself it wiste,     And was forth broght hise hondes bounde,     As whan men han a tretour founde.     And tho that weren with him take,     Whiche of tresoun were overtake,     Togedre in o sentence falle;     Bot false Egiste above hem alle        2100     Was demed to diverse peine,     The worste that men cowthe ordeigne,     And so forth after be the lawe     He was unto the gibet drawe,     Where he above alle othre hongeth,     As to a tretour it belongeth.     Tho fame with hire swifte wynges     Aboute flyh and bar tidinges,     And made it cowth in alle londes     How that Horestes with hise hondes        2110     Climestre his oghne Moder slowh.     Some sein he dede wel ynowh,     And som men sein he dede amis,     Diverse opinion ther is:     That sche is ded thei speken alle,     Bot pleinli hou it is befalle,     The matiere in so litel throwe     In soth ther mihte noman knowe     Bot thei that weren ate dede:     And comunliche in every nede        2120     The worste speche is rathest herd     And lieved, til it be ansuerd.     The kinges and the lordes grete     Begonne Horestes forto threte     To puten him out of his regne:     "He is noght worthi forto regne,     The child which slowh his moder so,"     Thei saide; and therupon also     The lordes of comun assent     A time sette of parlement,     2130     And to Athenes king and lord     Togedre come of on accord,     To knowe hou that the sothe was:     So that Horestes in this cas     Thei senden after, and he com.     King Menelay the wordes nom     And axeth him of this matiere:     And he, that alle it mihten hiere,     Ansuerde and tolde his tale alarge,     And hou the goddes in his charge     2140     Comanded him in such a wise     His oghne hond to do juise.     And with this tale a Duc aros,     Which was a worthi kniht of los,     His name was Meneste
s,     And seide unto the lordes thus:     "The wreeche which Horeste dede,     It was thing of the goddes bede,     And nothing of his crualte;     And if ther were of mi degree     2150     In al this place such a kniht     That wolde sein it was no riht,     I wole it with my bodi prove."     And therupon he caste his glove,     And ek this noble Duc alleide     Ful many an other skile, and seide     Sche hadde wel deserved wreche,     Ferst for the cause of Spousebreche,     And after wroghte in such a wise     That al the world it oghte agrise,        2160     Whan that sche for so foul a vice     Was of hire oghne lord moerdrice.     Thei seten alle stille and herde,     Bot therto was noman ansuerde,     It thoghte hem alle he seide skile,     Ther is noman withseie it wile;     Whan thei upon the reson musen,     Horestes alle thei excusen:     So that with gret solempnete     He was unto his dignete     2170     Received, and coroned king.     And tho befell a wonder thing:     Egiona, whan sche this wiste,     Which was the dowhter of Egiste     And Soster on the moder side     To this Horeste, at thilke tide,     Whan sche herde how hir brother spedde,     For pure sorwe, which hire ledde,     That he ne hadde ben exiled,     Sche hath hire oghne lif beguiled    2180     Anon and hyng hireselve tho.     It hath and schal ben everemo,     To moerdre who that wole assente,     He mai noght faille to repente:     This false Egiona was on,     Which forto moerdre Agamenon     Yaf hire acord and hire assent,     So that be goddes juggement,     Thogh that non other man it wolde,     Sche tok hire juise as sche scholde;    2190     And as sche to an other wroghte,     Vengance upon hireself sche soghte,     And hath of hire unhappi wit     A moerdre with a moerdre quit.     Such is of moerdre the vengance.     Forthi, mi Sone, in remembrance     Of this ensample tak good hiede:     For who that thenkth his love spiede     With moerdre, he schal with worldes schame     Himself and ek his love schame.        2200     Mi fader, of this aventure     Which ye have told, I you assure     Min herte is sory forto hiere,     Bot only for I wolde lere     What is to done, and what to leve.     And over this now be your leve,     That ye me wolden telle I preie,     If ther be lieffull eny weie     Withoute Senne a man to sle.     Mi Sone, in sondri wise ye.    2210     What man that is of traiterie,     Of moerdre or elles robberie     Atteint, the jugge schal noght lette,     Bot he schal slen of pure dette,     And doth gret Senne, if that he wonde.     For who that lawe hath upon honde,     And spareth forto do justice     For merci, doth noght his office,     That he his mercy so bewareth,     Whan for o schrewe which he spareth     2220     A thousand goode men he grieveth:     With such merci who that believeth     To plese god, he is deceived,     Or elles resoun mot be weyved.     The lawe stod er we were bore,     How that a kinges swerd is bore     In signe that he schal defende     His trewe poeple and make an ende     Of suche as wolden hem devoure.     Lo thus, my Sone, to socoure        2230     The lawe and comun riht to winne,     A man mai sle withoute Sinne,     And do therof a gret almesse,     So forto kepe rihtwisnesse.     And over this for his contre     In time of werre a man is fre     Himself, his hous and ek his lond     Defende with his oghne hond,     And slen, if that he mai no bet,     After the lawe which is set.        2240     Now, fader, thanne I you beseche     Of hem that dedly werres seche     In worldes cause and scheden blod,     If such an homicide is good.     Mi Sone, upon thi question     The trowthe of myn opinion,     Als ferforth as my wit arecheth     And as the pleine lawe techeth,     I woll thee telle in evidence,     To rewle with thi conscience.             2250     The hihe god of his justice     That ilke foule horrible vice     Of homicide he hath forbede,     Be Moi5ses as it was bede.     Whan goddes Sone also was bore,     He sende hise anglis doun therfore,     Whom the Schepherdes herden singe,     Pes to the men of welwillinge     In erthe be among ous here.     So forto speke in this matiere    2260     After the lawe of charite,     Ther schal no dedly werre be:     And ek nature it hath defended     And in hir lawe pes comended,     Which is the chief of mannes welthe,     Of mannes lif, of mannes helthe.     Bot dedly werre hath his covine     Of pestilence and of famine,     Of poverte and of alle wo,     Wherof this world we blamen so,        2270     Which now the werre hath under fote,     Til god himself therof do bote.     For alle thing which god hath wroght     In Erthe, werre it bringth to noght:     The cherche is brent, the priest is slain,     The wif, the maide is ek forlain,     The lawe is lore and god unserved:     I not what mede he hath deserved     That suche werres ledeth inne.     If that he do it forto winne,     2280     Ferst to acompte his grete cost     Forth with the folk that he hath lost,     As to the wordes rekeninge     Ther schal he finde no winnynge;     And if he do it to pourchace     The hevene mede, of such a grace     I can noght speke, and natheles     Crist hath comanded love and pes,     And who that worcheth the revers,     I trowe his mede is ful divers.        2290     And sithen thanne that we finde     That werres in here oghne kinde     Ben toward god of no decerte,     And ek thei bringen in poverte     Of worldes good, it is merveile     Among the men what it mai eyle,     That thei a pes ne conne sette.     I trowe Senne be the lette,     And every mede of Senne is deth;     So wot I nevere hou that it geth:    2300     Bot we that ben of o believe     Among ousself, this wolde I lieve,     That betre it were pes to chese,     Than so be double weie lese.     I not if that it now so stonde,     Bot this a man mai understonde,     Who that these olde bokes redeth,     That coveitise is on which ledeth,     And broghte ferst the werres inne.     At Grece if that I schal beginne,    2310     Ther was it proved hou it stod:     To Perce, which was ful of good,     Thei maden werre in special,     And so thei deden overal,     Wher gret richesse was in londe,     So that thei leften nothing stonde     Unwerred, bot onliche Archade.     For there thei no werres made,     Be cause it was bareigne and povere,     Wherof thei mihten noght recovere;        2320     And thus poverte was forbore,     He that noght hadde noght hath lore.     Bot yit it is a wonder thing,     Whan that a riche worthi king,     Or other lord, what so he be,     Wol axe and cleyme proprete     In thing to which he hath no riht,     Bot onliche of his grete miht:     For this mai every man wel wite,     That bothe kinde and lawe write        2330     Expressly stonden therayein.     Bot he mot nedes somwhat sein,     Althogh ther be no reson inne,     Which secheth cause forto winne:     For wit that is with will oppressed,     Whan coveitise him hath adressed,     And alle resoun put aweie,     He can wel finde such a weie     To werre, where as evere him liketh,     Wherof that he the world entriketh,     2340     That many a man of him compleigneth:     Bot yit alwei som cause he feigneth,     And of his wrongful herte he demeth     That al is wel, what evere him semeth,     Be so that he mai winne ynowh.     For as the trew man to the plowh     Only to the gaignage entendeth,     Riht so the werreiour despendeth     His time and hath no conscience.     And in this point for evidence    2350     Of hem that suche werres make,     Thou miht a gret ensample take,     How thei her tirannie excusen     Of that thei wrongfull werres usen,     And how thei stonde of on acord,     The Souldeour forth with the lord,     The povere man forth with the riche,     As of corage thei ben liche,     To make werres and to pile     For lucre and for non other skyle:        2360     Wherof a propre tale I rede,     As it whilom befell in dede.     Of him whom al this Erthe dradde,     Whan he the world so overladde     Thurgh werre, as it fortuned is,     King Alisandre, I rede this;     How in a Marche, where he lay,     It fell per chance upon a day     A Rovere of the See was nome,     Which many a man hadde overcome        2370     And slain and take here good aweie:     This Pilour, as the bokes seie,     A famous man in sondri stede     Was of the werkes whiche he dede.     This Prisoner tofor the king     Was broght, and there upon this thing     In audience he was accused:     And he his dede hath noght excused,     Bot preith the king to don him riht,     And seith, "Sire, if I were of miht,    2380     I have an herte lich to thin;     For if the pouer were myn,     Mi will is most in special     To rifle and geten overal     The large worldes good aboute.     Bot for I lede a povere route     And am, as who seith, at meschief,     The name of Pilour and of thief     I bere; and thou, which routes grete     Miht lede and take thi beyete,    2390     And dost riht as I wolde do,     Thi name is nothing cleped so,     Bot thou art named Emperour.     Oure dedes ben of o colour     And in effect of o decerte,     Bot thi richesse and my poverte     Tho ben noght taken evene liche.     And natheles he that is riche     This dai, tomorwe he mai be povere;     And in contraire also recovere    2400     A povere man to gret richesse     Men sen: forthi let rihtwisnesse     Be peised evene in the balance.     The king his hardi contienance     Behield, and herde hise wordes wise,     And seide unto him in this wise:     "Thin ansuere I have understonde,     Wherof my will is, that thou stonde     In mi service and stille abide."     And forth withal the same tide    2410     He hath him terme of lif withholde,     The mor and for he schal ben holde,     He made him kniht and yaf him lond,     Which afterward was of his hond     And orped kniht in many a stede,     And gret prouesce of armes dede,     As the Croniqes it recorden.     And in this wise thei acorden,     The whiche of o condicioun     Be set upon destruccioun:        2420     Such Capitein such retenue.     Bot forto se to what issue     The thing befalleth ate laste,     It is gret wonder that men caste     Here herte upon such wrong to winne,     Wher no beyete mai ben inne,     And doth desese on every side:     Bot whan reson is put aside     And will governeth the corage,     The faucon which that fleth ramage        2430     And soeffreth nothing in the weie,     Wherof that he mai take his preie,     Is noght mor set upon ravine,     Than thilke man which his covine     Hath set in such a maner wise:     For al the world ne mai suffise     To will which is noght resonable.     Wherof ensample concordable     Lich to this point of which I meene,     Was upon Alisandre sene,    2440     Which hadde set al his entente,     So as fortune with him wente,     That reson mihte him non governe,     Bot of his will he was so sterne,     That al the world he overran     And what him list he tok and wan.     In Ynde the superiour     Whan that he was ful conquerour,     And hadde his wilful pourpos wonne     Of al this Erthe under the Sonne,    2450     This king homward to Macedoine,     Whan that he cam to Babiloine,     And wende most in his Empire,     As he which was hol lord and Sire,     In honour forto be received,     Most sodeinliche he was deceived,     And with strong puison envenimed.     And as he hath the world mistimed     Noght as he scholde with his wit,     Noght as he wolde it was aquit.        2460     Thus was he slain that whilom slowh,     And he which riche was ynowh     This dai, tomorwe he hadde noght:     And in such wise as he hath wroght     In destorbance of worldes pes,     His werre he fond thanne endeles,     In which for evere desconfit     He was. Lo now, for what profit     Of werre it helpeth forto ryde,     For coveitise and worldes pride        2470     To sle the worldes men aboute,     As bestes whiche gon theroute.     For every lif which reson can     Oghth wel to knowe that a man     Ne scholde thurgh no tirannie     Lich to these othre bestes die,     Til kinde wolde for him sende.     I not hou he it mihte amende,     Which takth awei for everemore     The lif that he mai noght restore.        2480     Forthi, mi Sone, in alle weie     Be wel avised, I thee preie,     Of slawhte er that thou be coupable     Withoute cause resonable.     Mi fader, understonde it is,     That ye have seid; bot over this     I prei you tell me nay or yee,     To passe over the grete See     To werre and sle the Sarazin,     Is that the lawe? Sone myn,    2490     To preche and soffre for the feith,     That have I herd the gospell seith;     Bot forto slee, that hiere I noght.     Crist with his oghne deth hath boght     Alle othre men, and made hem fre,     In tokne of parfit charite;     And after that he tawhte himselve,     Whan he was ded, these othre tuelve     Of hise Apostles wente aboute     The holi feith to prechen oute,        2500     Wherof the deth in sondri place     Thei soffre, and so god of his grace     The feith of Crist hath mad aryse:     Bot if thei wolde in other wise     Be werre have broght in the creance,     It hadde yit stonde in balance.     And that mai proven in the dede;     For what man the Croniqes rede,     Fro ferst that holi cherche hath weyved     To preche, and hath the swerd received,    2510     Wherof the werres ben begonne,     A gret partie of that was wonne     To Cristes feith stant now miswent:     Godd do therof amendement,     So as he wot what is the beste.     Bot, Sone, if thou wolt live in reste     Of conscience wel assised,     Er that thou sle, be wel avised:     For man, as tellen ous the clerkes,     Hath god above alle ertheli werkes        2520     Ordeined to be principal,     And ek of Soule in special     He is mad lich to the godhiede.     So sit it wel to taken hiede     And forto loke on every side,     Er that thou falle in homicide,     Which Senne is now so general,     That it welnyh stant overal,     In holi cherche and elles where.     Bot al the while it stant so there,     2530     The world mot nede fare amis:     For whan the welle of pite is     Thurgh coveitise of worldes good     Defouled with schedinge of blod,     The remenant of folk aboute     Unethe stonden eny doute     To werre ech other and to slee.     So is it all noght worth a Stree,     The charite wherof we prechen,     For we do nothing as we techen:        2540     And thus the blinde conscience     Of pes hath lost thilke evidence     Which Crist upon this Erthe tawhte.     Now mai men se moerdre and manslawhte     Lich as it was be daies olde,     Whan men the Sennes boghte and solde.     In Grece afore Cristes feith,     I rede, as the Cronique seith,     Touchende of this matiere thus,     In thilke time hou Pele
s     2550     His oghne brother Phocus slowh;     Bot for he hadde gold ynowh     To yive, his Senne was despensed     With gold, wherof it was compensed:     Achastus, which with Venus was     Hire Priest, assoilede in that cas,     Al were ther no repentance.     And as the bok makth remembrance,     It telleth of Medee also;     Of that sche slowh her Sones tuo,    2560     Ege
s in the same plit     Hath mad hire of hire Senne quit.     The Sone ek of Amphioras,     Whos rihte name Alme
s was,     His Moder slowh, Eriphile;     Bot Achilo the Priest and he,     So as the bokes it recorden,     For certein Somme of gold acorden     That thilke horrible sinfull dede     Assoiled was. And thus for mede        2570     Of worldes good it falleth ofte     That homicide is set alofte     Hiere in this lif;    bot after this     Ther schal be knowe how that it is     Of hem that suche thinges werche,     And hou also that holi cherche     Let suche Sennes passe quyte,     And how thei wole hemself aquite     Of dedly werres that thei make.     For who that wolde ensample take,    2580     The lawe which is naturel     Be weie of kinde scheweth wel     That homicide in no degree,     Which werreth ayein charite,     Among the men ne scholde duelle.     For after that the bokes telle,     To seche in al this worldesriche,     Men schal noght finde upon his liche     A beste forto take his preie:     And sithen kinde hath such a weie,        2590     Thanne is it wonder of a man,     Which kynde hath and resoun can,     That he wol owther more or lasse     His kinde and resoun overpasse,     And sle that is to him semblable.     So is the man noght resonable     Ne kinde, and that is noght honeste,     Whan he is worse than a beste.     Among the bokes whiche I finde     Solyns spekth of a wonder kinde,     2600     And seith of fowhles ther is on,     Which hath a face of blod and bon     Lich to a man in resemblance.     And if it falle him so per chance,     As he which is a fowhl of preie,     That he a man finde in his weie,     He wol him slen, if that he mai:     Bot afterward the same dai,     Whan he hath eten al his felle,     And that schal be beside a welle,    2610     In which whan he wol drinke take,     Of his visage and seth the make     That he hath slain, anon he thenketh     Of his misdede, and it forthenketh     So gretly, that for pure sorwe     He liveth noght til on the morwe.     Be this ensample it mai well suie     That man schal homicide eschuie,     For evere is merci good to take,     Bot if the lawe it hath forsake        2620     And that justice is therayein.     For ofte time I have herd sein     Amonges hem that werres hadden,     That thei som while here cause ladden     Be merci, whan thei mihte have slain,     Wherof that thei were after fain:     And, Sone, if that thou wolt recorde     The vertu of Misericorde,     Thou sihe nevere thilke place,     Where it was used, lacke grace.        2630     For every lawe and every kinde     The mannes wit to merci binde;     And namely the worthi knihtes,     Whan that thei stonden most uprihtes     And ben most mihti forto grieve,     Thei scholden thanne most relieve     Him whom thei mihten overthrowe,     As be ensample a man mai knowe.     He mai noght failen of his mede     That hath merci: for this I rede,    2640     In a Cronique and finde thus.     Whan Achilles with Telaphus     His Sone toward Troie were,     It fell hem, er thei comen there,     Ayein Theucer the king of Mese     To make werre and forto sese     His lond, as thei that wolden regne     And Theucer pute out of his regne.     And thus the Marches thei assaile,     Bot Theucer yaf to hem bataille;     2650     Thei foghte on bothe sides faste,     Bot so it hapneth ate laste,     This worthi Grek, this Achilles,     The king among alle othre ches:     As he that was cruel and fell,     With swerd in honde on him he fell,     And smot him with a dethes wounde,     That he unhorsed fell to grounde.     Achilles upon him alyhte,     And wolde anon, as he wel mihte,     2660     Have slain him fullich in the place;     Bot Thelaphus his fader grace     For him besoghte, and for pite     Preith that he wolde lete him be,     And caste his Schield betwen hem tuo.     Achilles axeth him why so,     And Thelaphus his cause tolde,     And seith that he is mochel holde,     For whilom Theucer in a stede     Gret grace and socour to him dede,        2670     And seith that he him wolde aquite,     And preith his fader to respite.     Achilles tho withdrowh his hond;     Bot al the pouer of the lond,     Whan that thei sihe here king thus take,     Thei fledde and han the feld forsake:     The Grecs unto the chace falle,     And for the moste part of alle     Of that contre the lordes grete     Thei toke, and wonne a gret beyete.     2680     And anon after this victoire     The king, which hadde good memoire,     Upon the grete merci thoghte,     Which Telaphus toward him wroghte,     And in presence of al the lond     He tok him faire be the hond,     And in this wise he gan to seie:     "Mi Sone, I mot be double weie     Love and desire thin encress;     Ferst for thi fader Achilles        2690     Whilom ful many dai er this,     Whan that I scholde have fare amis,     Rescousse dede in mi querele     And kepte al myn astat in hele:     How so ther falle now distance     Amonges ous, yit remembrance     I have of merci which he dede     As thanne: and thou now in this stede     Of gentilesce and of franchise     Hast do mercy the same wise.        2700     So wol I noght that eny time     Be lost of that thou hast do byme;     For hou so this fortune falle,     Yit stant mi trust aboven alle,     For the mercy which I now finde,     That thou wolt after this be kinde:     And for that such is myn espeir,     As for my Sone and for myn Eir     I thee receive, and al my lond     I yive and sese into thin hond."     2710     And in this wise thei acorde,     The cause was Misericorde:     The lordes dede here obeissance     To Thelaphus, and pourveance     Was mad so that he was coroned:     And thus was merci reguerdoned,     Which he to Theucer dede afore.     Lo, this ensample is mad therfore,     That thou miht take remembrance,     Mi Sone; and whan thou sest a chaunce,     2720     Of other mennes passioun     Tak pite and compassioun,     And let nothing to thee be lief,     Which to an other man is grief.     And after this if thou desire     To stonde ayein the vice of Ire,     Consaile thee with Pacience,     And tak into thi conscience     Merci to be thi governour.     So schalt thou fiele no rancour,     2730     Wherof thin herte schal debate     With homicide ne with hate     For Cheste or for Malencolie:     Thou schalt be soft in compaignie     Withoute Contek or Folhaste:     For elles miht thou longe waste     Thi time, er that thou have thi wille     Of love; for the weder stille     Men preise, and blame the tempestes.     Mi fader, I wol do youre hestes,     2740     And of this point ye have me tawht,     Toward miself the betre sawht     I thenke be, whil that I live.     Bot for als moche as I am schrive     Of Wraththe and al his circumstance,     Yif what you list to my penance,     And asketh forthere of my lif,     If otherwise I be gultif     Of eny thing that toucheth Sinne.     Mi Sone, er we departe atwinne,        2750     I schal behinde nothing leve.     Mi goode fader, be your leve     Thanne axeth forth what so you list,     For I have in you such a trist,     As ye that be my Soule hele,     That ye fro me wol nothing hele,     For I schal telle you the trowthe.     Mi Sone, art thou coupable of Slowthe     In eny point which to him longeth?     My fader, of tho pointz me longeth        2760     To wite pleinly what thei meene,     So that I mai me schrive cleene.     Now herkne, I schal the pointz devise;     And understond wel myn aprise:     For schrifte stant of no value     To him that wol him noght vertue     To leve of vice the folie:     For word is wynd, bot the maistrie     Is that a man himself defende     Of thing which is noght to comende,     2770     Wherof ben fewe now aday.     And natheles, so as I may     Make unto thi memoire knowe,     The pointz of Slowthe thou schalt knowe.     Explicit Liber Tercius