Incipit Liber Octavus

Que favet ad vicium vetus hec modo regula confert,Nec novus e contra qui docet ordo placet.Cecus amor dudum nondum sua lumina cepit,Quo Venus impositum devia fallit iter.

The myhti god, which unbegunneStant of himself and hath begunneAlle othre thinges at his wille,The hevene him liste to fulfilleOf alle joie, where as heSit inthronized in his See,And hath hise Angles him to serve,Suche as him liketh to preserve,So that thei mowe noght forsueie:Bot Lucifer he putte aweie,    10With al the route apostaziedOf hem that ben to him allied,Whiche out of hevene into the helleFrom Angles into fendes felle;Wher that ther is no joie of lyht,Bot more derk than eny nyhtThe peine schal ben endeles;And yit of fyres nathelesTher is plente, bot thei ben blake,Wherof no syhte mai be take.    20

Thus whan the thinges ben befalle,That Luciferes court was falleWher dedly Pride hem hath conveied,Anon forthwith it was pourveiedThurgh him which alle thinges may;He made Adam the sexte dayIn Paradis, and to his makeHim liketh Eve also to make,And bad hem cresce and multiplie.For of the mannes Progenie,    30Which of the womman schal be bore,The nombre of Angles which was lore,Whan thei out fro the blisse felle,He thoghte to restore, and felleIn hevene thilke holy placeWhich stod tho voide upon his grace.Bot as it is wel wiste and knowe,Adam and Eve bot a throwe,So as it scholde of hem betyde,In Paradis at thilke tyde    40Ne duelten, and the cause why,Write in the bok of Genesi,As who seith, alle men have herd,Hou Raphael the fyri swerdIn honde tok and drof hem oute,To gete here lyves fode abouteUpon this wofull Erthe hiere.Metodre seith to this matiere,As he be revelacionIt hadde upon avision,    50Hou that Adam and Eve alsoVirgines comen bothe tuoInto the world and were aschamed,Til that nature hem hath reclamedTo love, and tauht hem thilke lore,That ferst thei keste, and overmoreThei don that is to kinde due,Wherof thei hadden fair issue.A Sone was the ferste of alle,And Chain be name thei him calle;    60Abel was after the secounde,And in the geste as it is founde,Nature so the cause ladde,Tuo douhtres ek Dame Eve hadde,The ferste cleped CalmanaWas, and that other Delbora.Thus was mankinde to beginne;Forthi that time it was no SinneThe Soster forto take hire brother,Whan that ther was of chois non other:    70To Chain was Calmana betake,And Delboram hath Abel take,In whom was gete nathelesOf worldes folk the ferste encres.Men sein that nede hath no lawe,And so it was be thilke daweAnd laste into the Secounde Age,Til that the grete water rage,Of Noeh which was seid the flod,The world, which thanne in Senne stod,    80Hath dreint, outake lyves Eyhte.Tho was mankinde of litel weyhte;Sem, Cham, Japhet, of these thre,That ben the Sones of Noë,The world of mannes nacionInto multiplicacionWas tho restored newe ayeinSo ferforth, as the bokes sein,That of hem thre and here issueTher was so large a retenue,    90Of naciouns seventy and tuo;In sondri place ech on of thoThe wyde world have enhabited.Bot as nature hem hath excited,Thei token thanne litel hiede,The brother of the SosterhiedeTo wedde wyves, til it camInto the time of Habraham.Whan the thridde Age was begunne,The nede tho was overrunne,    100For ther was poeple ynouh in londe:Thanne ate ferste it cam to honde,That Sosterhode of mariageWas torned into cousinage,So that after the rihte lyneThe Cousin weddeth the cousine.For Habraham, er that he deide,This charge upon his servant leide,To him and in this wise spak,That he his Sone Isaäc    110Do wedde for no worldes good,Bot only to his oghne blod:Wherof this Servant, as he bad,Whan he was ded, his Sone hath ladTo Bathuel, wher he RebeckeHath wedded with the whyte necke;For sche, he wiste wel and syh,Was to the child cousine nyh.

And thus as Habraham hath tawht,Whan Isaäc was god betawht,    120His Sone Jacob dede also,And of Laban the dowhtres tuo,Which was his Em, he tok to wyve,And gat upon hem in his lyve,Of hire ferst which hihte Lie,Sex Sones of his Progenie,And of Rachel tuo Sones eke:The remenant was forto seke,That is to sein of foure mo,Wherof he gat on Bala tuo,    130And of Zelpha he hadde ek tweie.And these tuelve, as I thee seie,Thurgh providence of god himselveBen seid the Patriarkes tuelve;Of whom, as afterward befell,The tribes tuelve of IrahelEngendred were, and ben the sameThat of Hebreus tho hadden name,Which of Sibrede in allianceFor evere kepten thilke usance    140Most comunly, til Crist was bore.Bot afterward it was forboreAmonges ous that ben baptized;For of the lawe canonizedThe Pope hath bede to the men,That non schal wedden of his kenNe the seconde ne the thridde.Bot thogh that holy cherche it bidde,So to restreigne Mariage,Ther ben yit upon loves Rage    150Full manye of suche nou adayThat taken wher thei take may.For love, which is unbeseinOf alle reson, as men sein,Thurgh sotie and thurgh nycete,Of his voluptuositeHe spareth no condicionOf ken ne yit religion,Bot as a cock among the Hennes,Or as a Stalon in the Fennes,    160Which goth amonges al the Stod,Riht so can he nomore good,Bot takth what thing comth next to honde.

Mi Sone, thou schalt understonde,That such delit is forto blame.Forthi if thou hast be the sameTo love in eny such manere,Tell forth therof and schrif thee hiere.

Mi fader, nay, god wot the sothe,Mi feire is noght of such a bothe,    170So wylde a man yit was I nevere,That of mi ken or lief or levereMe liste love in such a wise:And ek I not for what empriseI scholde assote upon a Nonne,For thogh I hadde hir love wonne,It myhte into no pris amonte,So therof sette I non acompte.Ye mai wel axe of this and that,Bot sothli forto telle plat,    180In al this world ther is bot onThe which myn herte hath overgon;I am toward alle othre fre.

Full wel, mi Sone, nou I seeThi word stant evere upon o place,Bot yit therof thou hast a grace,That thou thee myht so wel excuseOf love such as som men use,So as I spak of now tofore.For al such time of love is lore,    190And lich unto the bitterswete;For thogh it thenke a man ferst swete,He schal wel fielen ate lasteThat it is sour and may noght laste.For as a morsell envenimed,So hath such love his lust mistimed,And grete ensamples manyonA man mai finde therupon.

At Rome ferst if we beginne,Ther schal I finde hou of this sinne    200An Emperour was forto blame,Gayus Caligula be name,Which of his oghne Sostres threBerefte the virginite:And whanne he hadde hem so forlein,As he the which was al vilein,He dede hem out of londe exile.Bot afterward withinne a whileGod hath beraft him in his ireHis lif and ek his large empire:    210And thus for likinge of a throweFor evere his lust was overthrowe.

Of this sotie also I finde,Amon his Soster ayein kinde,Which hihte Thamar, he forlay;Bot he that lust an other dayAboghte, whan that AbsolonHis oghne brother therupon,Of that he hadde his Soster schent,Tok of that Senne vengement    220And slowh him with his oghne hond:And thus thunkinde unkinde fond.

And forto se more of this thing,The bible makth a knowleching,Wherof thou miht take evidenceUpon the sothe experience.Whan Lothes wif was overgonAnd schape into the salte Ston,As it is spoke into this day,Be bothe hise dowhtres thanne he lay,    230With childe and made hem bothe grete,Til that nature hem wolde lete,And so the cause aboute laddeThat ech of hem a Sone hadde,Moab the ferste, and the secondeAmon, of whiche, as it is founde,Cam afterward to gret encresTuo nacions: and natheles,For that the stockes were ungoode,The branches mihten noght be goode;    240For of the false MoabitesForth with the strengthe of Amonites,Of that thei weren ferst misgete,The poeple of god was ofte upseteIn Irahel and in Judee,As in the bible a man mai se.

Lo thus, my Sone, as I thee seie,Thou miht thiselve be beseieOf that thou hast of othre herd:For evere yit it hath so ferd,    250Of loves lust if so befalleThat it in other place falleThan it is of the lawe set,He which his love hath so besetMote afterward repente him sore.And every man is othres lore;Of that befell in time er thisThe present time which now isMay ben enformed hou it stod,And take that him thenketh good,    260And leve that which is noght so.Bot forto loke of time go,Hou lust of love excedeth lawe,It oghte forto be withdrawe;For every man it scholde drede,And nameliche in his Sibrede,Which torneth ofte to vengance:Wherof a tale in remembrance,Which is a long process to hiere,I thenke forto tellen hiere.    270

Of a Cronique in daies gon,The which is cleped Pantheon,In loves cause I rede thus,Hou that the grete Antiochus,Of whom that Antioche tokHis ferste name, as seith the bok,Was coupled to a noble queene,And hadde a dowhter hem betwene:Bot such fortune cam to honde,That deth, which no king mai withstonde,    280Bot every lif it mote obeie,This worthi queene tok aweie.The king, which made mochel mone,Tho stod, as who seith, al him oneWithoute wif, bot nathelesHis doghter, which was pierelesOf beaute, duelte aboute him stille.Bot whanne a man hath welthe at wille,The fleissh is frele and falleth ofte,And that this maide tendre and softe,    290Which in hire fadres chambres duelte,Withinne a time wiste and felte:For likinge and concupiscenceWithoute insihte of conscienceThe fader so with lustes blente,That he caste al his hole ententeHis oghne doghter forto spille.This king hath leisir at his willeWith strengthe, and whanne he time sih,This yonge maiden he forlih:    300And sche was tendre and full of drede,Sche couthe noght hir MaidenhedeDefende, and thus sche hath forloreThe flour which she hath longe bore.It helpeth noght althogh sche wepe,For thei that scholde hir bodi kepeOf wommen were absent as thanne;And thus this maiden goth to manne,The wylde fader thus devourethHis oghne fleissh, which non socoureth,    310And that was cause of mochel care.Bot after this unkinde fareOut of the chambre goth the king,And sche lay stille, and of this thing,Withinne hirself such sorghe made,Ther was no wiht that mihte hir glade,For feere of thilke horrible vice.With that cam inne the NorriceWhich fro childhode hire hadde kept,And axeth if sche hadde slept,    320And why hire chiere was unglad.Bot sche, which hath ben overladOf that sche myhte noght be wreke,For schame couthe unethes speke;And natheles mercy sche preideWith wepende yhe and thus sche seide:“Helas, mi Soster, waileway,That evere I sih this ilke day!Thing which mi bodi ferst begatInto this world, onliche that    330Mi worldes worschipe hath bereft.”With that sche swouneth now and eft,And evere wissheth after deth,So that welnyh hire lacketh breth.That other, which hire wordes herde,In confortinge of hire ansuerde,To lette hire fadres fol desirSche wiste no recoverir:Whan thing is do, ther is no bote,So suffren thei that suffre mote;    340Ther was non other which it wiste.Thus hath this king al that him listeOf his likinge and his plesance,And laste in such continuance,And such delit he tok therinne,Him thoghte that it was no Sinne;And sche dorste him nothing withseie.

Bot fame, which goth every weie,To sondry regnes al abouteThe grete beaute telleth oute    350Of such a maide of hih parage:So that for love of mariageThe worthi Princes come and sende,As thei the whiche al honour wende,And knewe nothing hou it stod.The fader, whanne he understod,That thei his dowhter thus besoghte,With al his wit he caste and thoghteHou that he myhte finde a lette;And such a Statut thanne he sette,    360And in this wise his lawe he taxeth,That what man that his doghter axeth,Bot if he couthe his questionAssoile upon suggestionOf certein thinges that befelle,The whiche he wolde unto him telle,He scholde in certein lese his hed.And thus ther weren manye ded,Here hevedes stondende on the gate,Till ate laste longe and late,    370For lacke of ansuere in the wise,The remenant that weren wiseEschuieden to make assay.

Til it befell upon a dayAppolinus the Prince of Tyr,Which hath to love a gret desir,As he which in his hihe modWas likende of his hote blod,A yong, a freissh, a lusti knyht,As he lai musende on a nyht    380Of the tidinges whiche he herde,He thoghte assaie hou that it ferde.He was with worthi compainieArraied, and with good navieTo schipe he goth, the wynd him dryveth,And seileth, til that he arryveth:Sauf in the port of AntiocheHe londeth, and goth to aprocheThe kinges Court and his presence.Of every naturel science,    390Which eny clerk him couthe teche,He couthe ynowh, and in his specheOf wordes he was eloquent;And whanne he sih the king present,He preith he moste his dowhter have.The king ayein began to crave,And tolde him the condicion,Hou ferst unto his questionHe mote ansuere and faile noght,Or with his heved it schal be boght:    400And he him axeth what it was.

The king declareth him the casWith sturne lok and sturdi chiere,To him and seide in this manere:“With felonie I am upbore,I ete and have it noght forboreMi modres fleissh, whos housebondeMi fader forto seche I fonde,Which is the Sone ek of my wif.Hierof I am inquisitif;    410And who that can mi tale save,Al quyt he schal my doghter have;Of his ansuere and if he faile,He schal be ded withoute faile.Forthi my Sone,” quod the king,“Be wel avised of this thing,Which hath thi lif in jeupartie.”

Appolinus for his partie,Whan he this question hath herd,Unto the king he hath ansuerd    420And hath rehersed on and onThe pointz, and seide therupon:“The question which thou hast spoke,If thou wolt that it be unloke,It toucheth al the priveteBetwen thin oghne child and thee,And stant al hol upon you tuo.”

The king was wonder sory tho,And thoghte, if that he seide it oute,Than were he schamed al aboute.    430With slihe wordes and with felleHe seith, “Mi Sone, I schal thee telle,Though that thou be of litel wit,It is no gret merveile as yit,Thin age mai it noght suffise:Bot loke wel thou noght despiseThin oghne lif, for of my graceOf thretty daies fulle a spaceI grante thee, to ben avised.”

And thus with leve and time assised    440This yonge Prince forth he wente,And understod wel what it mente,Withinne his herte as he was lered,That forto maken him aferedThe king his time hath so deslaied.Wherof he dradde and was esmaied,Of treson that he deie scholde,For he the king his sothe tolde;And sodeinly the nyhtes tyde,That more wolde he noght abide,    450Al prively his barge he henteAnd hom ayein to Tyr he wente:And in his oghne wit he seideFor drede, if he the king bewreide,He knew so wel the kinges herte,That deth ne scholde he noght asterte,The king him wolde so poursuie.Bot he, that wolde his deth eschuie,And knew al this tofor the hond,Forsake he thoghte his oghne lond,    460That there wolde he noght abyde;For wel he knew that on som sydeThis tirant of his felonieBe som manere of tricherieTo grieve his bodi wol noght leve.

Forthi withoute take leve,Als priveliche as evere he myhte,He goth him to the See be nyhteIn Schipes that be whete laden:Here takel redy tho thei maden    470And hale up Seil and forth thei fare.Bot forto tellen of the careThat thei of Tyr begonne tho,Whan that thei wiste he was ago,It is a Pite forto hiere.They losten lust, they losten chiere,Thei toke upon hem such penaunce,Ther was no song, ther was no daunce,Bot every merthe and melodieTo hem was thanne a maladie;    480For unlust of that aventureTher was noman which tok tonsure,In doelful clothes thei hem clothe,The bathes and the Stwes botheThei schetten in be every weie;There was no lif which leste pleieNe take of eny joie kepe,Bot for here liege lord to wepe;And every wyht seide as he couthe,“Helas, the lusti flour of youthe,    490Our Prince, oure heved, our governour,Thurgh whom we stoden in honour,Withoute the comun assentThus sodeinliche is fro ous went!”Such was the clamour of hem alle.

Bot se we now what is befalleUpon the ferste tale plein,And torne we therto ayein.Antiochus the grete Sire,Which full of rancour and of ire    500His herte berth, so as ye herde,Of that this Prince of Tyr ansuerde,He hadde a feloun bacheler,Which was his prive consailer,And Taliart be name he hihte:The king a strong puison him dihteWithinne a buiste and gold therto,In alle haste and bad him goStrawht unto Tyr, and for no costNe spare he, til he hadde lost    510The Prince which he wolde spille.And whan the king hath seid his wille,This Taliart in a GaleieWith alle haste he tok his weie:The wynd was good, he saileth blyve,Til he tok lond upon the ryveOf Tyr, and forth with al anonInto the Burgh he gan to gon,And tok his In and bod a throwe.Bot for he wolde noght be knowe,    520Desguised thanne he goth him oute;He sih the wepinge al aboute,And axeth what the cause was,And thei him tolden al the cas,How sodeinli the Prince is go.And whan he sih that it was so,And that his labour was in vein,Anon he torneth hom ayein,And to the king, whan he cam nyh,He tolde of that he herde and syh,    530Hou that the Prince of Tyr is fled,So was he come ayein unsped.The king was sori for a while,Bot whan he sih that with no wyleHe myhte achieve his crualte,He stinte his wraththe and let him be.

Bot over this now forto telleOf aventures that befelleUnto this Prince of whom I tolde,He hath his rihte cours forth holde    540Be Ston and nedle, til he camTo Tharse, and there his lond he nam.A Burgeis riche of gold and feeWas thilke time in that cite,Which cleped was Strangulio,His wif was Dionise also:This yonge Prince, as seith the bok,With hem his herbergage tok;And it befell that Cite soBefore time and thanne also,    550Thurgh strong famyne which hem laddeWas non that eny whete hadde.Appolinus, whan that he herdeThe meschief, hou the cite ferde,Al freliche of his oghne yifteHis whete, among hem forto schifte,The which be Schipe he hadde broght,He yaf, and tok of hem riht noght.Bot sithen ferst this world began,Was nevere yit to such a man    560Mor joie mad than thei him made:For thei were alle of him so glade,That thei for evere in remembranceMade a figure in resemblanceOf him, and in the comun placeThei sette him up, so that his faceMihte every maner man beholde,So as the cite was beholde;It was of latoun overgilt:Thus hath he noght his yifte spilt.    570

Upon a time with his routeThis lord to pleie goth him oute,And in his weie of Tyr he metteA man, the which on knees him grette,And Hellican be name he hihte,Which preide his lord to have insihteUpon himself, and seide him thus,Hou that the grete AntiochusAwaiteth if he mihte him spille.That other thoghte and hield him stille,    580And thonked him of his warnynge,And bad him telle no tidinge,Whan he to Tyr cam hom ayein,That he in Tharse him hadde sein.

Fortune hath evere be muableAnd mai no while stonde stable:For now it hiheth, now it loweth,Now stant upriht, now overthroweth,Now full of blisse and now of bale,As in the tellinge of mi tale    590Hierafterward a man mai liere,Which is gret routhe forto hiere.This lord, which wolde don his beste,Withinne himself hath litel reste,And thoghte he wolde his place changeAnd seche a contre more strange.Of Tharsiens his leve anonHe tok, and is to Schipe gon:His cours he nam with Seil updrawe,Where as fortune doth the lawe,    600And scheweth, as I schal reherse,How sche was to this lord diverse,The which upon the See sche ferketh.The wynd aros, the weder derketh,It blew and made such tempeste,Non ancher mai the schip areste,Which hath tobroken al his gere;The Schipmen stode in such a feere,Was non that myhte himself bestere,Bot evere awaite upon the lere,    610Whan that thei scholde drenche at ones.Ther was ynowh withinne wonesOf wepinge and of sorghe tho;This yonge king makth mochel woSo forto se the Schip travaile:Bot al that myhte him noght availe;The mast tobrak, the Seil torof,The Schip upon the wawes drof,Til that thei sihe a londes cooste.Tho made avou the leste and moste,    620Be so thei myhten come alonde;Bot he which hath the See on honde,Neptunus, wolde noght acorde,Bot altobroke cable and corde,Er thei to londe myhte aproche,The Schip toclef upon a roche,And al goth doun into the depe.Bot he that alle thing mai kepeUnto this lord was merciable,And broghte him sauf upon a table,    630Which to the lond him hath upbore;The remenant was al forlore,Wherof he made mochel mone.

Thus was this yonge lord him one,Al naked in a povere plit:His colour, which whilom was whyt,Was thanne of water fade and pale,And ek he was so sore acaleThat he wiste of himself no bote,It halp him nothing forto mote    640To gete ayein that he hath lore.Bot sche which hath his deth forbore,Fortune, thogh sche wol noght yelpe,Al sodeinly hath sent him helpe,Whanne him thoghte alle grace aweie;Ther cam a Fisshere in the weie,And sih a man ther naked stonde,And whan that he hath understondeThe cause, he hath of him gret routhe,And onliche of his povere trouthe    650Of suche clothes as he haddeWith gret Pite this lord he cladde.And he him thonketh as he scholde,And seith him that it schal be yolde,If evere he gete his stat ayein,And preide that he wolde him seinIf nyh were eny toun for him.He seide, “Yee, Pentapolim,Wher bothe king and queene duellen.”Whanne he this tale herde tellen,    660He gladeth him and gan besecheThat he the weie him wolde teche:And he him taghte; and forth he wenteAnd preide god with good ententeTo sende him joie after his sorwe.

It was noght passed yit Midmorwe,Whan thiderward his weie he nam,Wher sone upon the Non he cam.He eet such as he myhte gete,And forth anon, whan he hadde ete,    670He goth to se the toun aboute,And cam ther as he fond a routeOf yonge lusti men withalle;And as it scholde tho befalle,That day was set of such assisse,That thei scholde in the londes guise,As he herde of the poeple seie,Here comun game thanne pleie;And crid was that thei scholden comeUnto the gamen alle and some    680Of hem that ben delivere and wyhte,To do such maistrie as thei myhte.Thei made hem naked as thei scholde,For so that ilke game wolde,As it was tho custume and us,Amonges hem was no refus:The flour of al the toun was thereAnd of the court also ther were,And that was in a large placeRiht evene afore the kinges face,    690Which Artestrathes thanne hihte.The pley was pleid riht in his sihte,And who most worthi was of dedeReceive he scholde a certein medeAnd in the cite bere a pris.

Appolinus, which war and wysOf every game couthe an ende,He thoghte assaie, hou so it wende,And fell among hem into game:And there he wan him such a name,    700So as the king himself acomptethThat he alle othre men surmonteth,And bar the pris above hem alle.The king bad that into his halleAt Souper time he schal be broght;And he cam thanne and lefte it noght,Withoute compaignie al one:Was non so semlich of persone,Of visage and of limes bothe,If that he hadde what to clothe.    710At Soupertime nathelesThe king amiddes al the presLet clepe him up among hem alle,And bad his Mareschall of halleTo setten him in such degreThat he upon him myhte se.The king was sone set and served,And he, which hath his pris deservedAfter the kinges oghne word,Was mad beginne a Middel bord,    720That bothe king and queene him sihe.He sat and caste aboute his yheAnd sih the lordes in astat,And with himself wax in debatThenkende what he hadde lore,And such a sorwe he tok therfore,That he sat evere stille and thoghte,As he which of no mete roghte.

The king behield his hevynesse,And of his grete gentillesse    730His doghter, which was fair and goodAnd ate bord before him stod,As it was thilke time usage,He bad to gon on his messageAnd fonde forto make him glad.And sche dede as hire fader bad,And goth to him the softe pasAnd axeth whenne and what he was,And preith he scholde his thoghtes leve.He seith, “Ma Dame, be your leve    740Mi name is hote Appolinus,And of mi richesse it is thus,Upon the See I have it lore.The contre wher as I was bore,Wher that my lond is and mi rente,I lefte at Tyr, whan that I wente:The worschipe of this worldes aghte,Unto the god ther I betaghte.”And thus togedre as thei tuo speeke,The teres runne be his cheeke.    750The king, which therof tok good kepe,Hath gret Pite to sen him wepe,And for his doghter sende ayein,And preide hir faire and gan to seinThat sche no lengere wolde drecche,Bot that sche wolde anon forth feccheHire harpe and don al that sche canTo glade with that sory man.And sche to don hir fader hesteHir harpe fette, and in the feste    760Upon a Chaier which thei fetteHirself next to this man sche sette:With harpe bothe and ek with moutheTo him sche dede al that sche coutheTo make him chiere, and evere he siketh,And sche him axeth hou him liketh.“Ma dame, certes wel,” he seide,“Bot if ye the mesure pleideWhich, if you list, I schal you liere,It were a glad thing forto hiere.”    770“Ha, lieve sire,” tho quod sche,“Now tak the harpe and let me seOf what mesure that ye mene.”Tho preith the king, tho preith the queene,Forth with the lordes alle arewe,That he som merthe wolde schewe;He takth the Harpe and in his wiseHe tempreth, and of such assiseSingende he harpeth forth withal,That as a vois celestial    780Hem thoghte it souneth in here Ere,As thogh that he an Angel were.Thei gladen of his melodie,Bot most of alle the compainieThe kinges doghter, which it herde,And thoghte ek hou that he ansuerde,Whan that he was of hire opposed,Withinne hir herte hath wel supposedThat he is of gret gentilesse.Hise dedes ben therof witnesse    790Forth with the wisdom of his lore;It nedeth noght to seche more,He myhte noght have such manere,Of gentil blod bot if he were.Whanne he hath harped al his fille,The kinges heste to fulfille,Awey goth dissh, awey goth cuppe,Doun goth the bord, the cloth was uppe,Thei risen and gon out of halle.

The king his chamberlein let calle,    800And bad that he be alle weieA chambre for this man pourveie,Which nyh his oghne chambre be.“It schal be do, mi lord,” quod he.Appolinus of whom I meneTho tok his leve of king and queeneAnd of the worthi Maide also,Which preide unto hir fader tho,That sche myhte of that yonge manOf tho sciences whiche he can    810His lore have; and in this wiseThe king hir granteth his aprise,So that himself therto assente.Thus was acorded er thei wente,That he with al that evere he mayThis yonge faire freisshe MayOf that he couthe scholde enforme;And full assented in this formeThei token leve as for that nyht.

And whanne it was amorwe lyht,    820Unto this yonge man of TyrOf clothes and of good atirWith gold and Selver to despendeThis worthi yonge lady sende:And thus sche made him wel at ese,And he with al that he can pleseHire serveth wel and faire ayein.He tawhte hir til sche was certeinOf Harpe, of Citole and of Rote,With many a tun and many a note    830Upon Musique, upon mesure,And of hire Harpe the temprureHe tawhte hire ek, as he wel couthe.Bot as men sein that frele is youthe,With leisir and continuanceThis Mayde fell upon a chance,That love hath mad him a quereleAyein hire youthe freissh and frele,That malgre wher sche wole or noght,Sche mot with al hire hertes thoght    840To love and to his lawe obeie;And that sche schal ful sore abeie.For sche wot nevere what it is,Bot evere among sche fieleth this:Thenkende upon this man of Tyr,Hire herte is hot as eny fyr,And otherwhile it is acale;Now is sche red, nou is sche paleRiht after the condicionOf hire ymaginacion;    850Bot evere among hire thoghtes alle,Sche thoghte, what so mai befalle,Or that sche lawhe, or that sche wepe,Sche wolde hire goode name kepeFor feere of wommanysshe schame.Bot what in ernest and in game,Sche stant for love in such a plit,That sche hath lost al appetitOf mete, of drinke, of nyhtes reste,As sche that not what is the beste;    860Bot forto thenken al hir filleSche hield hire ofte times stilleWithinne hir chambre, and goth noght oute:The king was of hire lif in doute,Which wiste nothing what it mente.

Bot fell a time, as he out wenteTo walke, of Princes Sones threTher come and felle to his kne;And ech of hem in sondri wiseBesoghte and profreth his servise,    870So that he myhte his doghter have.The king, which wolde his honour save,Seith sche is siek, and of that specheTho was no time to beseche;Bot ech of hem do make a billeHe bad, and wryte his oghne wille,His name, his fader and his good;And whan sche wiste hou that it stod,And hadde here billes oversein,Thei scholden have ansuere ayein.    880Of this conseil thei weren glad,And writen as the king hem bad,And every man his oghne bokInto the kinges hond betok,And he it to his dowhter sende,And preide hir forto make an endeAnd wryte ayein hire oghne hond,Riht as sche in hire herte fond.

The billes weren wel received,Bot sche hath alle here loves weyved,    890And thoghte tho was time and spaceTo put hire in hir fader grace,And wrot ayein and thus sche saide:“The schame which is in a MaideWith speche dar noght ben unloke,Bot in writinge it mai be spoke;So wryte I to you, fader, thus:Bot if I have Appolinus,Of al this world, what so betyde,I wol non other man abide.    900And certes if I of him faile,I wot riht wel withoute faileYe schull for me be dowhterles.”This lettre cam, and ther was pressTofore the king, ther as he stod;And whan that he it understod,He yaf hem ansuer by and by,Bot that was do so prively,That non of othres conseil wiste.Thei toke her leve, and wher hem liste    910Thei wente forth upon here weie.

The king ne wolde noght bewreieThe conseil for no maner hihe,Bot soffreth til he time sihe:And whan that he to chambre is come,He hath unto his conseil nomeThis man of Tyr, and let him seThe lettre and al the privete,The which his dowhter to him sente:And he his kne to grounde bente    920And thonketh him and hire also,And er thei wenten thanne atuo,With good herte and with good corageOf full Love and full mariageThe king and he ben hol acorded.And after, whanne it was recordedUnto the dowhter hou it stod,The yifte of al this worldes goodNe scholde have mad hir half so blythe:And forth withal the king als swithe,    930For he wol have hire good assent,Hath for the queene hir moder sent.The queene is come, and whan sche herdeOf this matiere hou that it ferde,Sche syh debat, sche syh desese,Bot if sche wolde hir dowhter plese,And is therto assented full.Which is a dede wonderfull,For noman knew the sothe casBot he himself, what man he was;    940And natheles, so as hem thoghte,Hise dedes to the sothe wroghteThat he was come of gentil blod:Him lacketh noght bot worldes good,And as therof is no despeir,For sche schal ben hire fader heir,And he was able to governe.Thus wol thei noght the love werneOf him and hire in none wise,Bot ther acorded thei divise    950The day and time of Mariage.

Wher love is lord of the corage,Him thenketh longe er that he spede;Bot ate laste unto the dedeThe time is come, and in her wiseWith gret offrende and sacrifiseThei wedde and make a riche feste,And every thing which was honesteWithinnen house and ek withouteIt was so don, that al aboute    960Of gret worschipe, of gret noblesseTher cride many a man largesseUnto the lordes hihe and loude;The knyhtes that ben yonge and proude,Thei jouste ferst and after daunce.The day is go, the nyhtes chaunceHath derked al the bryhte Sonne;This lord, which hath his love wonne,Is go to bedde with his wif,Wher as thei ladde a lusti lif,    970And that was after somdel sene,For as thei pleiden hem betwene,Thei gete a child betwen hem tuo,To whom fell after mochel wo.

Now have I told of the spousailes.Bot forto speke of the mervailesWhiche afterward to hem befelle,It is a wonder forto telle.It fell adai thei riden oute,The king and queene and al the route,    980To pleien hem upon the stronde,Wher as thei sen toward the londeA Schip sailende of gret array.To knowe what it mene may,Til it be come thei abide;Than sen thei stonde on every side,Endlong the schipes bord to schewe,Of Penonceals a riche rewe.Thei axen when the ship is come:Fro Tyr, anon ansuerde some,    990And over this thei seiden moreThe cause why thei comen foreWas forto seche and forto findeAppolinus, which was of kindeHer liege lord: and he appiereth,And of the tale which he hierethHe was riht glad; for thei him tolde,That for vengance, as god it wolde,Antiochus, as men mai wite,With thondre and lyhthnynge is forsmite;    1000His doghter hath the same chaunce,So be thei bothe in o balance.“Forthi, oure liege lord, we seieIn name of al the lond, and preie,That left al other thing to done,It like you to come soneAnd se youre oghne liege menWith othre that ben of youre ken,That live in longinge and desirTil ye be come ayein to Tyr.”    1010This tale after the king it haddePentapolim al overspradde,Ther was no joie forto seche;For every man it hadde in specheAnd seiden alle of on acord,“A worthi king schal ben oure lord:That thoghte ous ferst an hevinesseIs schape ous now to gret gladnesse.”Thus goth the tidinge overal.

Bot nede he mot, that nede schal:    1020Appolinus his leve tok,To god and al the lond betokWith al the poeple long and brod,That he no lenger there abod.The king and queene sorwe made,Bot yit somdiel thei weren gladeOf such thing as thei herden tho:And thus betwen the wel and woTo schip he goth, his wif with childe,The which was evere meke and mylde    1030And wolde noght departe him fro,Such love was betwen hem tuo.Lichorida for hire officeWas take, which was a Norrice,To wende with this yonge wif,To whom was schape a woful lif.Withinne a time, as it betidde,Whan thei were in the See amidde,Out of the North they sihe a cloude;The storm aros, the wyndes loude    1040Thei blewen many a dredful blast,The welkne was al overcast,The derke nyht the Sonne hath under,Ther was a gret tempeste of thunder:The Mone and ek the Sterres botheIn blake cloudes thei hem clothe,Wherof here brihte lok thei hyde.This yonge ladi wepte and cride,To whom no confort myhte availe;Of childe sche began travaile,    1050Wher sche lay in a Caban clos:Hire woful lord fro hire aros,And that was longe er eny morwe,So that in anguisse and in sorweSche was delivered al be nyhteAnd ded in every mannes syhte;Bot natheles for al this woA maide child was bore tho.

Appolinus whan he this knew,For sorwe a swoune he overthrew,    1060That noman wiste in him no lif.And whanne he wok, he seide, “Ha, wif,Mi lust, mi joie, my desir,Mi welthe and my recoverir,Why schal I live, and thou schalt dye?Ha, thou fortune, I thee deffie,Nou hast thou do to me thi werste.Ha, herte, why ne wolt thou berste,That forth with hire I myhte passe?Mi peines weren wel the lasse.”    1070In such wepinge and in such cryHis dede wif, which lay him by,A thousend sithes he hire kiste;Was nevere man that sih ne wisteA sorwe unto his sorwe lich;For evere among upon the lichHe fell swounende, as he that soghteHis oghne deth, which he besoghteUnto the goddes alle aboveWith many a pitous word of love;    1080Bot suche wordes as tho wereYit herde nevere mannes Ere,Bot only thilke whiche he seide.The Maister Schipman cam and preideWith othre suche as be therinne,And sein that he mai nothing winneAyein the deth, bot thei him rede,He be wel war and tak hiede,The See be weie of his natureReceive mai no creature    1090Withinne himself as forto holde,The which is ded: forthi thei wolde,As thei conseilen al aboute,The dede body casten oute.For betre it is, thei seiden alle,That it of hire so befalle,Than if thei scholden alle spille.

The king, which understod here willeAnd knew here conseil that was trewe,Began ayein his sorwe newe    1100With pitous herte, and thus to seie:“It is al reson that ye preie.I am,” quod he, “bot on al one,So wolde I noght for mi personeTher felle such adversite.Bot whan it mai no betre be,Doth thanne thus upon my word,Let make a cofre strong of bord,That it be ferm with led and pich.”Anon was mad a cofre sich,    1110Al redy broght unto his hond;And whanne he sih and redy fondThis cofre mad and wel enclowed,The dede bodi was besowedIn cloth of gold and leid therinne.And for he wolde unto hire winneUpon som cooste a Sepulture,Under hire heved in aventureOf gold he leide Sommes greteAnd of jeueals a strong beyete    1120Forth with a lettre, and seide thus:

“I, king of Tyr Appollinus,Do alle maner men to wite,That hiere and se this lettre write,That helpeles withoute redHier lith a kinges doghter ded:And who that happeth hir to finde,For charite tak in his mynde,And do so that sche be begraveWith this tresor, which he schal have.”    1130Thus whan the lettre was full spoke,Thei haue anon the cofre stoke,And bounden it with yren faste,That it may with the wawes laste,And stoppen it be such a weie,That it schal be withinne dreie,So that no water myhte it grieve.And thus in hope and good believeOf that the corps schal wel aryve,Thei caste it over bord als blyve.    1140

The Schip forth on the wawes wente;The prince hath changed his entente,And seith he wol noght come at TyrAs thanne, bot al his desirIs ferst to seilen unto Tharse.The wyndy Storm began to skarse,The Sonne arist, the weder cliereth,The Schipman which behinde stiereth,Whan that he sih the wyndes saghte,Towardes Tharse his cours he straghte.    1150

Bot now to mi matiere ayein,To telle as olde bokes sein,This dede corps of which ye knoweWith wynd and water was forthroweNow hier, now ther, til ate lasteAt Ephesim the See upcasteThe cofre and al that was therinne.Of gret merveile now beginneMai hiere who that sitteth stille;That god wol save mai noght spille.    1160Riht as the corps was throwe alonde,Ther cam walkende upon the strondeA worthi clerc, a Surgien,And ek a gret Phisicien,Of al that lond the wisest on,Which hihte Maister Cerymon;Ther were of his disciples some.This Maister to the Cofre is come,He peiseth ther was somwhat in,And bad hem bere it to his In,    1170And goth himselve forth withal.Al that schal falle, falle schal;Thei comen hom and tarie noght;This Cofre is into chambre broght,Which that thei finde faste stoke,Bot thei with craft it have unloke.Thei loken in, where as thei foundeA bodi ded, which was bewoundeIn cloth of gold, as I seide er,The tresor ek thei founden ther    1180Forth with the lettre, which thei rede.And tho thei token betre hiede;Unsowed was the bodi sone,And he, which knew what is to done,This noble clerk, with alle hasteBegan the veines forto taste,And sih hire Age was of youthe,And with the craftes whiche he coutheHe soghte and fond a signe of lif.With that this worthi kinges wif    1190Honestely thei token oute,And maden fyres al aboute;Thei leide hire on a couche softe,And with a scheete warmed ofteHire colde brest began to hete,Hire herte also to flacke and bete.This Maister hath hire every joigntWith certein oile and balsme enoignt,And putte a liquour in hire mouth,Which is to fewe clerkes couth,    1200So that sche coevereth ate laste;And ferst hire yhen up sche caste,And whan sche more of strengthe cawhte,Hire Armes bothe forth sche strawhte,Hield up hire hond and pitouslySche spak and seide, “Ha, wher am I?Where is my lord, what world is this?”As sche that wot noght hou it is.Bot Cerymon the worthi lecheAnsuerde anon upon hire speche    1210And seith, “Ma dame, yee ben hiere,Where yee be sauf, as yee schal hiereHierafterward; forthi as nouMi conseil is, conforteth you:For trusteth wel withoute faile,Ther is nothing which schal you faile,That oghte of reson to be do.”Thus passen thei a day or tuo;Thei speke of noght as for an ende,Til sche began somdiel amende,    1220And wiste hireselven what sche mente.

Tho forto knowe hire hol entente,This Maister axeth al the cas,Hou sche cam there and what sche was.“Hou I cam hiere wot I noght,”Quod sche, “bot wel I am bethoghtOf othre thinges al aboute”:Fro point to point and tolde him outeAls ferforthli as sche it wiste.And he hire tolde hou in a kiste    1230The See hire threw upon the lond,And what tresor with hire he fond,Which was al redy at hire wille,As he that schop him to fulfilleWith al his myht what thing he scholde.Sche thonketh him that he so wolde,And al hire herte sche discloseth,And seith him wel that sche supposethHire lord be dreint, hir child also;So sih sche noght bot alle wo.    1240Wherof as to the world nomoreNe wol sche torne, and preith therforeThat in som temple of the Cite,To kepe and holde hir chastete,Sche mihte among the wommen duelle.Whan he this tale hir herde telle,He was riht glad, and made hire knowenThat he a dowhter of his owenHath, which he wol unto hir yiveTo serve, whil thei bothe live,    1250In stede of that which sche hath lost;Al only at his oghne costSche schal be rendred forth with hire.She seith, “Grant mercy, lieve sire,God quite it you, ther I ne may.”And thus thei drive forth the day,Til time com that sche was hol;And tho thei take her conseil hol,To schape upon good ordinanceAnd make a worthi pourveance    1260Ayein the day whan thei be veiled.And thus, whan that thei be conseiled,In blake clothes thei hem clothe,This lady and the dowhter bothe,And yolde hem to religion.The feste and the professionAfter the reule of that degreWas mad with gret solempnete,Where as Diane is seintefied;Thus stant this lady justefied    1270In ordre wher sche thenkth to duelle.

Bot now ayeinward forto telleIn what plit that hire lord stod inne:He seileth, til that he may winneThe havene of Tharse, as I seide er;And whanne he was aryved ther,And it was thurgh the Cite knowe,Men myhte se withinne a throwe,As who seith, al the toun at ones,That come ayein him for the nones,    1280To yiven him the reverence,So glad thei were of his presence:And thogh he were in his corageDesesed, yit with glad visageHe made hem chiere, and to his In,Wher he whilom sojourned in,He goth him straght and was resceived.And whan the presse of poeple is weived,He takth his hoste unto him tho,And seith, “Mi frend Strangulio,    1290Lo, thus and thus it is befalle,And thou thiself art on of alle,Forth with thi wif, whiche I most triste.Forthi, if it you bothe liste,My doghter Thaise be youre leveI thenke schal with you beleveAs for a time; and thus I preie,That sche be kept be alle weie,And whan sche hath of age more,That sche be set to bokes lore.    1300And this avou to god I make,That I schal nevere for hir sakeMi berd for no likinge schave,Til it befalle that I haveIn covenable time of ageBeset hire unto mariage.”Thus thei acorde, and al is wel,And forto resten him somdel,As for a while he ther sojorneth,And thanne he takth his leve and torneth    1310To Schipe, and goth him hom to Tyr,Wher every man with gret desirAwaiteth upon his comynge.Bot whan the Schip com in seilinge,And thei perceiven it is he,Was nevere yit in no citeSuch joie mad as thei tho made;His herte also began to gladeOf that he sih the poeple glad.Lo, thus fortune his hap hath lad;    1320In sondri wise he was travailed,Bot hou so evere he be assailed,His latere ende schal be good.

And forto speke hou that it stodOf Thaise his doghter, wher sche duelleth,In Tharse, as the Cronique telleth,Sche was wel kept, sche was wel loked,Sche was wel tawht, sche was wel boked,So wel sche spedde hir in hire youtheThat sche of every wisdom couthe,    1330That forto seche in every londSo wys an other noman fond,Ne so wel tawht at mannes yhe.Bot wo worthe evere fals envie!For it befell that time so,A dowhter hath Strangulio,The which was cleped Philotenne:Bot fame, which wole evere renne,Cam al day to hir moder Ere,And seith, wher evere hir doghter were    1340With Thayse set in eny place,The comun vois, the comun graceWas al upon that other Maide,And of hir doghter noman saide.Who wroth but Dionise thanne?Hire thoghte a thousend yer til whanneSche myhte ben of Thaise wrekeOf that sche herde folk so speke.And fell that ilke same tyde,That ded was trewe Lychoride,    1350Which hadde be servant to Thaise,So that sche was the worse at aise,For sche hath thanne no serviseBot only thurgh this Dionise,Which was hire dedlich AnemieThurgh pure treson and envie.Sche, that of alle sorwe can,Tho spak unto hire bondeman,Which cleped was Theophilus,And made him swere in conseil thus,    1360That he such time as sche him setteSchal come Thaise forto fette,And lede hire oute of alle sihte,Wher as noman hire helpe myhte,Upon the Stronde nyh the See,And there he schal this maiden sle.This cherles herte is in a traunce,As he which drad him of venganceWhan time comth an other day;Bot yit dorste he noght seie nay,    1370Bot swor and seide he schal fulfilleHire hestes at hire oghne wille.

The treson and the time is schape,So fell it that this cherles knapeHath lad this maiden ther he woldeUpon the Stronde, and what sche scholdeSche was adrad; and he out breideA rusti swerd and to hir seide,“Thou schalt be ded.” “Helas!” quod sche,“Why schal I so?” “Lo thus,” quod he,    1380“Mi ladi Dionise hath bede,Thou schalt be moerdred in this stede.”This Maiden tho for feere schryhte,And for the love of god almyhteSche preith that for a litel stoundeSche myhte knele upon the grounde,Toward the hevene forto crave,Hire wofull Soule if sche mai save:And with this noise and with this cry,Out of a barge faste by,    1390Which hidd was ther on Scomerfare,Men sterten out and weren wareOf this feloun, and he to go,And sche began to crie tho,“Ha, mercy, help for goddes sake!Into the barge thei hire take,As thieves scholde, and forth thei wente.Upon the See the wynd hem hente,And malgre wher thei wolde or non,Tofor the weder forth thei gon,    1400Ther halp no Seil, ther halp non Ore,Forstormed and forblowen soreIn gret peril so forth thei dryve,Til ate laste thei aryveAt Mitelene the Cite.In havene sauf and whan thei be,The Maister Schipman made him boun,And goth him out into the toun,And profreth Thaise forto selle.On Leonin it herde telle,    1410Which Maister of the bordel was,And bad him gon a redy pasTo fetten hire, and forth he wente,And Thaise out of his barge he hente,And to this bordeller hir solde.And he, that be hire body woldeTake avantage, let do crye,That what man wolde his lecherieAttempte upon hire maidenhede,Lei doun the gold and he schal spede.    1420And thus whan he hath crid it outeIn syhte of al the poeple aboute,He ladde hire to the bordel tho.

No wonder is thogh sche be wo:Clos in a chambre be hireselve,Ech after other ten or tuelveOf yonge men to hire in wente;Bot such a grace god hire sente,That for the sorwe which sche madeWas non of hem which pouer hade    1430To don hire eny vileinie.This Leonin let evere aspie,And waiteth after gret beyete;Bot al for noght, sche was forlete,That mo men wolde ther noght come.Whan he therof hath hiede nome,And knew that sche was yit a maide,Unto his oghne man he saide,That he with strengthe ayein hire leveTho scholde hir maidenhod bereve.    1440This man goth in, bot so it ferde,Whan he hire wofull pleintes herdeAnd he therof hath take kepe,Him liste betre forto wepeThan don oght elles to the game.And thus sche kepte hirself fro schame,And kneleth doun to therthe and preideUnto this man, and thus sche seide:“If so be that thi maister woldeThat I his gold encresce scholde,    1450It mai noght falle be this weie:Bot soffre me to go mi weieOut of this hous wher I am inne,And I schal make him forto winneIn som place elles of the toun,Be so it be religioun,Wher that honeste wommen duelle.And thus thou myht thi maister telle,That whanne I have a chambre there,Let him do crie ay wyde where,    1460What lord that hath his doghter diere,And is in will that sche schal liereOf such a Scole that is trewe,I schal hire teche of thinges newe,Which as non other womman canIn al this lond.” And tho this manHire tale hath herd, he goth ayein,And tolde unto his maister pleinThat sche hath seid; and therupon,Whan than he sih beyete non    1470At the bordel be cause of hire,He bad his man to gon and spireA place wher sche myhte abyde,That he mai winne upon som sideBe that sche can: bot ate lesteThus was sche sauf fro this tempeste.

He hath hire fro the bordel take,Bot that was noght for goddes sake,Bot for the lucre, as sche him tolde.Now comen tho that comen wolde    1480Of wommen in her lusty youthe,To hiere and se what thing sche couthe:Sche can the wisdom of a clerk,Sche can of every lusti werkWhich to a gentil womman longeth,And some of hem sche underfongethTo the Citole and to the Harpe,And whom it liketh forto carpeProverbes and demandes slyhe,An other such thei nevere syhe,    1490Which that science so wel tawhte:Wherof sche grete yiftes cawhte,That sche to Leonin hath wonne;And thus hire name is so begonneOf sondri thinges that sche techeth,That al the lond unto hir sechethOf yonge wommen forto liere.

Nou lete we this maiden hiere,And speke of Dionise ayeinAnd of Theophile the vilein,    1500Of whiche I spak of nou tofore.Whan Thaise scholde have be forlore,This false cherl to his ladyWhan he cam hom, al privelyHe seith, “Ma Dame, slain I haveThis maide Thaise, and is begraveIn prive place, as ye me biede.Forthi, ma dame, taketh hiedeAnd kep conseil, hou so it stonde.”This fend, which this hath understonde,    1510Was glad, and weneth it be soth:Now herkne, hierafter hou sche doth.Sche wepth, sche sorweth, sche compleigneth,And of sieknesse which sche feignethSche seith that Taise sodeinlyBe nyhte is ded, “as sche and ITogedre lyhen nyh my lord.”Sche was a womman of record,And al is lieved that sche seith;And forto yive a more feith,    1520Hire housebonde and ek sche botheIn blake clothes thei hem clothe,And made a gret enterrement;And for the poeple schal be blent,Of Thaise as for the remembrance,After the real olde usanceA tumbe of latoun noble and richeWith an ymage unto hir licheLiggende above theruponThei made and sette it up anon.    1530Hire Epitaffe of good assisseWas write aboute, and in this wiseIt spak: “O yee that this beholde,Lo, hier lith sche, the which was holdeThe faireste and the flour of alle,Whos name Thaïsis men calle.The king of Tyr AppolinusHire fader was: now lith sche thus.Fourtiene yer sche was of Age,Whan deth hir tok to his viage.”    1540

Thus was this false treson hidd,Which afterward was wyde kidd,As be the tale a man schal hiere.Bot forto clare mi matiere,To Tyr I thenke torne ayein,And telle as the Croniqes sein.Whan that the king was comen hom,And hath left in the salte fomHis wif, which he mai noght foryete,For he som confort wolde gete,    1550He let somoune a parlement,To which the lordes were asent;And of the time he hath ben oute,He seth the thinges al aboute,And told hem ek hou he hath fare,Whil he was out of londe fare;And preide hem alle to abyde,For he wolde at the same tydeDo schape for his wyves mynde,As he that wol noght ben unkinde.    1560Solempne was that ilke office,And riche was the sacrifice,The feste reali was holde:And therto was he wel beholde;For such a wif as he hadde onIn thilke daies was ther non.

Whan this was do, thanne he him thoghteUpon his doghter, and besoghteSuche of his lordes as he wolde,That thei with him to Tharse scholde,    1570To fette his doghter Taise there:And thei anon al redy were,To schip they gon and forth thei wente,Til thei the havene of Tharse hente.They londe and faile of that thei secheBe coverture and sleyhte of speche:This false man Strangulio,And Dionise his wif also,That he the betre trowe myhte,Thei ladden him to have a sihte    1580Wher that hir tombe was arraied.The lasse yit he was mispaied,And natheles, so as he dorste,He curseth and seith al the worsteUnto fortune, as to the blinde,Which can no seker weie finde;For sche him neweth evere among,And medleth sorwe with his song.Bot sithe it mai no betre be,

He thonketh god and forth goth he    1590Seilende toward Tyr ayein.Bot sodeinly the wynd and reynBegonne upon the See debate,So that he soffre mot algateThe lawe which Neptune ordeigneth;Wherof fulofte time he pleigneth,And hield him wel the more esmaiedOf that he hath tofore assaied.So that for pure sorwe and care,Of that he seth his world so fare,    1600The reste he lefte of his Caban,That for the conseil of nomanAyein therinne he nolde come,Bot hath benethe his place nome,Wher he wepende al one lay,Ther as he sih no lyht of day.And thus tofor the wynd thei dryve,Til longe and late thei aryveWith gret distresce, as it was sene,Upon this toun of Mitelene,    1610Which was a noble cite tho.And hapneth thilke time so,The lordes bothe and the comuneThe hihe festes of NeptuneUpon the stronde at the rivage,As it was custumme and usage,Sollempneliche thei besihe.

Whan thei this strange vessel syheCome in, and hath his Seil avaled,The toun therof hath spoke and taled.    1620The lord which of the cite was,Whos name is Athenagoras,Was there, and seide he wolde seWhat Schip it is, and who thei beThat ben therinne: and after sone,Whan that he sih it was to done,His barge was for him arraied,And he goth forth and hath assaied.He fond the Schip of gret Array,Bot what thing it amonte may,    1630He seth thei maden hevy chiere,Bot wel him thenkth be the manereThat thei be worthi men of blod,And axeth of hem hou it stod;And thei him tellen al the cas,Hou that here lord fordrive was,And what a sorwe that he made,Of which ther mai noman him glade.He preith that he here lord mai se,Bot thei him tolde it mai noght be,    1640For he lith in so derk a place,That ther may no wiht sen his face:Bot for al that, thogh hem be loth,He fond the ladre and doun he goth,And to him spak, bot non ansuereAyein of him ne mihte he bereFor oght that he can don or sein;And thus he goth him up ayein.

Tho was ther spoke in many wiseAmonges hem that weren wise,    1650Now this, now that, bot ate lasteThe wisdom of the toun this caste,That yonge Taise were asent.For if ther be amendementTo glade with this woful king,Sche can so moche of every thing,That sche schal gladen him anon.A Messager for hire is gon,And sche cam with hire Harpe on honde,And seide hem that sche wolde fonde    1660Be alle weies that sche can,To glade with this sory man.Bot what he was sche wiste noght,Bot al the Schip hire hath besoghtThat sche hire wit on him despende,In aunter if he myhte amende,And sein it schal be wel aquit.Whan sche hath understonden it,Sche goth hir doun, ther as he lay,Wher that sche harpeth many a lay    1670And lich an Angel sang withal;Bot he nomore than the walTok hiede of eny thing he herde.And whan sche sih that he so ferde,Sche falleth with him into wordes,And telleth him of sondri bordes,And axeth him demandes strange,Wherof sche made his herte change,And to hire speche his Ere he leideAnd hath merveile of that sche seide.    1680For in proverbe and in problemeSche spak, and bad he scholde demeIn many soubtil question:Bot he for no suggestiounWhich toward him sche couthe stere,He wolde noght o word ansuere,Bot as a madd man ate lasteHis heved wepende awey he caste,And half in wraththe he bad hire go.Bot yit sche wolde noght do so,    1690And in the derke forth sche goth,Til sche him toucheth, and he wroth,And after hire with his hondHe smot: and thus whan sche him fondDesesed, courtaisly sche saide,“Avoi, mi lord, I am a Maide;And if ye wiste what I am,And out of what lignage I cam,Ye wolde noght be so salvage.”

With that he sobreth his corage    1700And put awey his hevy chiere.Bot of hem tuo a man mai liereWhat is to be so sibb of blod:Non wiste of other hou it stod,And yit the fader ate lasteHis herte upon this maide caste,That he hire loveth kindely,And yit he wiste nevere why.Bot al was knowe er that thei wente;For god, which wot here hol entente,    1710Here hertes bothe anon descloseth.This king unto this maide opposeth,And axeth ferst what was hire name,And wher sche lerned al this game,And of what ken that sche was come.And sche, that hath hise wordes nome,Ansuerth and seith, “My name is Thaise,That was som time wel at aise:In Tharse I was forthdrawe and fed,Ther lerned I, til I was sped,    1720Of that I can. Mi fader ekeI not wher that I scholde him seke;He was a king, men tolde me:Mi Moder dreint was in the See.”Fro point to point al sche him tolde,That sche hath longe in herte holde,And nevere dorste make hir moneBot only to this lord al one,To whom hire herte can noght hele,Torne it to wo, torne it to wele,    1730Torne it to good, torne it to harm.And he tho toke hire in his arm,Bot such a joie as he tho madeWas nevere sen; thus be thei glade,That sory hadden be toforn.Fro this day forth fortune hath swornTo sette him upward on the whiel;So goth the world, now wo, now wel:This king hath founde newe grace,So that out of his derke place    1740He goth him up into the liht,And with him cam that swete wiht,His doghter Thaise, and forth anonThei bothe into the Caban gonWhich was ordeigned for the king,And ther he dede of al his thing,And was arraied realy.

And out he cam al openly,Wher Athenagoras he fond,The which was lord of al the lond:    1750He preith the king to come and seHis castell bothe and his cite,And thus thei gon forth alle in fiere,This king, this lord, this maiden diere.This lord tho made hem riche festeWith every thing which was honeste,To plese with this worthi king,Ther lacketh him no maner thing:Bot yit for al his noble arrayWifles he was into that day,    1760As he that yit was of yong Age;So fell ther into his corageThe lusti wo, the glade peineOf love, which noman restreigneYit nevere myhte as nou tofore.This lord thenkth al his world forlore,Bot if the king wol don him grace;He waiteth time, he waiteth place,Him thoghte his herte wol tobreke,Til he mai to this maide speke    1770And to hir fader ek alsoFor mariage: and it fell so,That al was do riht as he thoghte,His pourpos to an ende he broghte,Sche weddeth him as for hire lord;Thus be thei alle of on acord.

Whan al was do riht as thei wolde,The king unto his Sone toldeOf Tharse thilke traiterie,And seide hou in his compaignie    1780His doghter and himselven ekeSchull go vengance forto seke.The Schipes were redy sone,And whan thei sihe it was to done,Withoute lette of eny wenteWith Seil updrawe forth thei wenteTowardes Tharse upon the tyde.Bot he that wot what schal betide,The hihe god, which wolde him kepe,Whan that this king was faste aslepe,    1790Be nyhtes time he hath him bedeTo seile into an other stede:To Ephesim he bad him drawe,And as it was that time lawe,He schal do there his sacrifise;And ek he bad in alle wiseThat in the temple amonges alleHis fortune, as it is befalle,Touchende his doghter and his wifHe schal beknowe upon his lif.    1800The king of this AvisiounHath gret ymaginacioun,What thing it signefie may;And natheles, whan it was day,He bad caste Ancher and abod;And whil that he on Ancher rod,The wynd, which was tofore strange,Upon the point began to change,And torneth thider as it scholde.Tho knew he wel that god it wolde,    1810And bad the Maister make him yare,Tofor the wynd for he wol fareTo Ephesim, and so he dede.And whanne he cam unto the stedeWhere as he scholde londe, he londethWith al the haste he may, and fondethTo schapen him be such a wise,That he may be the morwe ariseAnd don after the mandementOf him which hath him thider sent.    1820And in the wise that he thoghte,Upon the morwe so he wroghte;His doghter and his Sone he nom,And forth unto the temple he comWith a gret route in compaignie,Hise yiftes forto sacrifie.The citezeins tho herden seieOf such a king that cam to preieUnto Diane the godesse,And left al other besinesse,    1830Thei comen thider forto seThe king and the solempnete.

With worthi knyhtes environedThe king himself hath abandonedInto the temple in good entente.The dore is up, and he in wente,Wher as with gret devociounOf holi contemplaciounWithinne his herte he made his schrifte;And after that a riche yifte    1840He offreth with gret reverence,And there in open AudienceOf hem that stoden thanne aboute,He tolde hem and declareth outeHis hap, such as him is befalle,Ther was nothing foryete of alle.His wif, as it was goddes grace,Which was professed in the place,As sche that was Abbesse there,Unto his tale hath leid hire Ere:    1850Sche knew the vois and the visage,For pure joie as in a rageSche strawhte unto him al at ones,And fell aswoune upon the stones,Wherof the temple flor was paved.Sche was anon with water laved,Til sche cam to hirself ayein,And thanne sche began to sein:“Ha, blessed be the hihe sonde,That I mai se myn housebonde,    1860That whilom he and I were on!”The king with that knew hire anon,And tok hire in his Arm and kiste;And al the toun thus sone it wiste.Tho was ther joie manyfold,For every man this tale hath toldAs for miracle, and were glade,Bot nevere man such joie madeAs doth the king, which hath his wif.And whan men herde hou that hir lif    1870Was saved, and be whom it was,Thei wondren alle of such a cas:Thurgh al the Lond aros the specheOf Maister Cerymon the lecheAnd of the cure which he dede.The king himself tho hath him bede,And ek this queene forth with him,That he the toun of EphesimWol leve and go wher as thei be,For nevere man of his degre    1880Hath do to hem so mochel good;And he his profit understod,And granteth with hem forto wende.And thus thei maden there an ende,And token leve and gon to SchipeWith al the hole felaschipe.

This king, which nou hath his desir,Seith he wol holde his cours to Tyr.Thei hadden wynd at wille tho,With topseilcole and forth they go,    1890And striken nevere, til thei comeTo Tyr, where as thei havene nome,And londen hem with mochel blisse.Tho was ther many a mowth to kisse,Echon welcometh other hom,Bot whan the queen to londe com,And Thaise hir doghter be hir side,The joie which was thilke tydeTher mai no mannes tunge telle:Thei seiden alle, “Hier comth the welle    1900Of alle wommannysshe grace.”The king hath take his real place,The queene is into chambre go:Ther was gret feste arraied tho;Whan time was, thei gon to mete,Alle olde sorwes ben foryete,And gladen hem with joies newe:The descoloured pale heweIs now become a rody cheke,Ther was no merthe forto seke,    1910Bot every man hath that he wolde.

The king, as he wel couthe and scholde,Makth to his poeple riht good chiere;And after sone, as thou schalt hiere,A parlement he hath sommoned,Wher he his doghter hath coronedForth with the lord of Mitelene,That on is king, that other queene:And thus the fadres ordinanceThis lond hath set in governance,    1920And seide thanne he wolde wendeTo Tharse, forto make an endeOf that his doghter was betraied.Therof were alle men wel paied,And seide hou it was forto done:The Schipes weren redi sone,And strong pouer with him he tok;Up to the Sky he caste his lok,And syh the wynd was covenable.

Thei hale up Ancher with the cable,    1930The Seil on hih, the Stiere in honde,And seilen, til thei come alondeAt Tharse nyh to the cite;And whan thei wisten it was he,The toun hath don him reverence.He telleth hem the violence,Which the tretour StrangulioAnd Dionise him hadde doTouchende his dowhter, as yee herde;And whan thei wiste hou that it ferde,    1940As he which pes and love soghte,Unto the toun this he besoghte,To don him riht in juggement.Anon thei were bothe asentWith strengthe of men, and comen sone,And as hem thoghte it was to done,Atteint thei were be the laweAnd diemed forto honge and drawe,And brent and with the wynd toblowe,That al the world it myhte knowe:    1950And upon this condicionThe dom in execucionWas put anon withoute faile.And every man hath gret mervaile,Which herde tellen of this chance,And thonketh goddes pourveance,Which doth mercy forth with justice.Slain is the moerdrer and moerdriceThurgh verray trowthe of rihtwisnesse,And thurgh mercy sauf is simplesse    1960Of hire whom mercy preserveth;Thus hath he wel that wel deserveth.

Whan al this thing is don and ended,This king, which loved was and frended,A lettre hath, which cam to himBe Schipe fro Pentapolim,Be which the lond hath to him write,That he wolde understonde and witeHou in good mynde and in good pesDed is the king Artestrates,    1970Wherof thei alle of on acordHim preiden, as here liege lord,That he the lettre wel conceiveAnd come his regne to receive,Which god hath yove him and fortune;And thus besoghte the communeForth with the grete lordes alle.This king sih how it was befalle,Fro Tharse and in prosperiteHe tok his leve of that Cite    1980And goth him into Schipe ayein:The wynd was good, the See was plein,Hem nedeth noght a Riff to slake,Til thei Pentapolim have take.The lond, which herde of that tidinge,Was wonder glad of his cominge;He resteth him a day or tuoAnd tok his conseil to him tho,And sette a time of Parlement,Wher al the lond of on assent    1990Forth with his wif hath him corouned,Wher alle goode him was fuisouned.Lo, what it is to be wel grounded:For he hath ferst his love foundedHonesteliche as forto wedde,Honesteliche his love he speddeAnd hadde children with his wif,And as him liste he ladde his lif;And in ensample his lif was write,That alle lovers myhten wite    2000How ate laste it schal be seneOf love what thei wolden mene.For se now on that other side,Antiochus with al his Pride,Which sette his love unkindely,His ende he hadde al sodeinly,Set ayein kinde upon vengance,And for his lust hath his penance.

Lo thus, mi Sone, myht thou liereWhat is to love in good manere,    2010And what to love in other wise:The mede arist of the servise;Fortune, thogh sche be noght stable,Yit at som time is favorableTo hem that ben of love trewe.Bot certes it is forto reweTo se love ayein kinde falle,For that makth sore a man to falle,As thou myht of tofore rede.Forthi, my Sone, I wolde rede    2020To lete al other love aweie,Bot if it be thurgh such a weieAs love and reson wolde acorde.For elles, if that thou descorde,And take lust as doth a beste,Thi love mai noght ben honeste;For be no skile that I findeSuch lust is noght of loves kinde.

Mi fader, hou so that it stonde,Youre tale is herd and understonde,    2030As thing which worthi is to hiere,Of gret ensample and gret matiere,Wherof, my fader, god you quyte.Bot in this point miself aquiteI mai riht wel, that nevere yitI was assoted in my wit,Bot only in that worthi placeWher alle lust and alle graceIs set, if that danger ne were.Bot that is al my moste fere:    2040I not what ye fortune acompte,Bot what thing danger mai amonteI wot wel, for I have assaied;For whan myn herte is best arraiedAnd I have al my wit thurghsoghtOf love to beseche hire oght,For al that evere I skile may,I am concluded with a nay:That o sillable hath overthroweA thousend wordes on a rowe    2050Of suche as I best speke can;Thus am I bot a lewed man.Bot, fader, for ye ben a clerkOf love, and this matiere is derk,And I can evere leng the lasse,Bot yit I mai noght let it passe,Youre hole conseil I beseche,That ye me be som weie techeWhat is my beste, as for an ende.

Mi Sone, unto the trouthe wende    2060Now wol I for the love of thee,And lete alle othre truffles be.The more that the nede is hyh,The more it nedeth to be slyhTo him which hath the nede on honde.I have wel herd and understonde,Mi Sone, al that thou hast me seid,And ek of that thou hast me preid,Nou at this time that I schalAs for conclusioun final    2070Conseile upon thi nede sette:So thenke I finaly to knetteThis cause, where it is tobroke,And make an ende of that is spoke.For I behihte thee that yifteFerst whan thou come under my schrifte,That thogh I toward Venus were,Yit spak I suche wordes there,That for the Presthod which I have,Min ordre and min astat to save,    2080I seide I wolde of myn officeTo vertu more than to viceEncline, and teche thee mi lore.Forthi to speken overmoreOf love, which thee mai availe,Tak love where it mai noght faile:For as of this which thou art inne,Be that thou seist it is a Sinne,And Sinne mai no pris deserve,Withoute pris and who schal serve,    2090I not what profit myhte availe.Thus folweth it, if thou travaile,Wher thou no profit hast ne pris,Thou art toward thiself unwis:And sett thou myhtest lust atteigne,Of every lust thende is a peine,And every peine is good to fle;So it is wonder thing to se,Why such a thing schal be desired.The more that a Stock is fyred,    2100The rathere into Aisshe it torneth;The fot which in the weie spornethFulofte his heved hath overthrowe;Thus love is blind and can noght knoweWher that he goth, til he be falle:Forthi, bot if it so befalleWith good conseil that he be lad,Him oghte forto ben adrad.For conseil passeth alle thingTo him which thenkth to ben a king;    2110And every man for his partieA kingdom hath to justefie,That is to sein his oghne dom.If he misreule that kingdom,He lest himself, and that is moreThan if he loste Schip and OreAnd al the worldes good withal:For what man that in specialHath noght himself, he hath noght elles,Nomor the perles than the schelles;    2120Al is to him of o value:Thogh he hadde at his retenueThe wyde world ryht as he wolde,Whan he his herte hath noght withholdeToward himself, al is in vein.And thus, my Sone, I wolde sein,As I seide er, that thou aryse,Er that thou falle in such a wiseThat thou ne myht thiself rekevere;For love, which that blind was evere,    2130Makth alle his servantz blinde also.My Sone, and if thou have be so,Yit is it time to withdrawe,And set thin herte under that lawe,The which of reson is governedAnd noght of will. And to be lerned,Ensamples thou hast many onOf now and ek of time gon,That every lust is bot a while;And who that wole himself beguile,    2140He may the rathere be deceived.Mi Sone, now thou hast conceivedSomwhat of that I wolde mene;Hierafterward it schal be seneIf that thou lieve upon mi lore;For I can do to thee nomoreBot teche thee the rihte weie:Now ches if thou wolt live or deie.

Mi fader, so as I have herdYour tale, bot it were ansuerd,    2150I were mochel forto blame.Mi wo to you is bot a game,That fielen noght of that I fiele;The fielinge of a mannes HieleMai noght be likned to the Herte:I mai noght, thogh I wolde, asterte,And ye be fre from al the peineOf love, wherof I me pleigne.It is riht esi to comaunde;The hert which fre goth on the launde    2160Not of an Oxe what him eileth;It falleth ofte a man merveilethOf that he seth an other fare,Bot if he knewe himself the fare,And felt it as it is in soth,He scholde don riht as he doth,Or elles werse in his degre:For wel I wot, and so do ye,That love hath evere yit ben used,So mot I nedes ben excused.    2170Bot, fader, if ye wolde thusUnto Cupide and to VenusBe frendlich toward mi querele,So that myn herte were in heleOf love which is in mi briest,I wot wel thanne a betre PrestWas nevere mad to my behove.Bot al the whiles that I hoveIn noncertein betwen the tuo,And not if I to wel or wo    2180Schal torne, that is al my drede,So that I not what is to rede.Bot for final conclusionI thenke a SupplicacionWith pleine wordes and expresseWryte unto Venus the goddesse,The which I preie you to bereAnd bringe ayein a good ansuere.Tho was betwen mi Prest and meDebat and gret perplexete:    2190Mi resoun understod him wel,And knew it was sothe everydelThat he hath seid, bot noght forthiMi will hath nothing set therby.For techinge of so wis a portIs unto love of no desport;Yit myhte nevere man beholdeReson, wher love was withholde,Thei be noght of o governance.And thus we fellen in distance,    2200Mi Prest and I, bot I spak faire,And thurgh mi wordes debonaireThanne ate laste we acorden,So that he seith he wol recordenTo speke and stonde upon mi sydeTo Venus bothe and to Cupide;And bad me wryte what I wolde,And seith me trewly that he scholdeMi lettre bere unto the queene.And I sat doun upon the grene    2210Fulfilt of loves fantasie,And with the teres of myn ijeIn stede of enke I gan to wryteThe wordes whiche I wolde enditeUnto Cupide and to Venus,And in mi lettre I seide thus.

The wofull peine of loves maladie,Ayein the which mai no phisique availe,Min herte hath so bewhaped with sotie,That wher so that I reste or I travaile,    2220I finde it evere redy to assaileMi resoun, which that can him noght defende:Thus seche I help, wherof I mihte amende.

Ferst to Nature if that I me compleigne,Ther finde I hou that every creatureSom time ayer hath love in his demeine,So that the litel wrenne in his mesureHath yit of kinde a love under his cure;And I bot on desire, of which I misse:And thus, bot I, hath every kinde his blisse.    2230

The resoun of my wit it overpasseth,Of that Nature techeth me the weieTo love, and yit no certein sche compassethHou I schal spede, and thus betwen the tweieI stonde, and not if I schal live or deie.For thogh reson ayein my will debate,I mai noght fle, that I ne love algate.

Upon miself is thilke tale come,Hou whilom Pan, which is the god of kinde,With love wrastlede and was overcome:    2240For evere I wrastle and evere I am behinde,That I no strengthe in al min herte finde,Wherof that I mai stonden eny throwe;So fer mi wit with love is overthrowe.

Whom nedeth help, he mot his helpe crave,Or helpeles he schal his nede spille:Pleinly thurghsoght my wittes alle I have,Bot non of hem can helpe after mi wille;And als so wel I mihte sitte stille,As preie unto mi lady eny helpe:    2250Thus wot I noght wherof miself to helpe.

Unto the grete Jove and if I bidde,To do me grace of thilke swete tunne,Which under keie in his celier amiddeLith couched, that fortune is overrunne,Bot of the bitter cuppe I have begunne,I not hou ofte, and thus finde I no game;For evere I axe and evere it is the same.

I se the world stonde evere upon eschange,Nou wyndes loude, and nou the weder softe;    2260I mai sen ek the grete mone change,And thing which nou is lowe is eft alofte;The dredfull werres into pes fulofteThei torne; and evere is Danger in o place,Which wol noght change his will to do me grace.

Bot upon this the grete clerc Ovide,Of love whan he makth his remembrance,He seith ther is the blinde god Cupide,The which hath love under his governance,And in his hond with many a fyri lance    2270He woundeth ofte, ther he wol noght hele;And that somdiel is cause of mi querele.

Ovide ek seith that love to parforneStant in the hond of Venus the goddesse,Bot whan sche takth hir conseil with Satorne,Ther is no grace, and in that time, I gesse,Began mi love, of which myn hevynesseIs now and evere schal, bot if I spede:So wot I noght miself what is to rede.

Forthi to you, Cupide and Venus bothe,    2280With al myn hertes obeissance I preie,If ye were ate ferste time wrothe,Whan I began to love, as I you seie,Nou stynt, and do thilke infortune aweie,So that Danger, which stant of retenueWith my ladi, his place mai remue.

O thou Cupide, god of loves lawe,That with thi Dart brennende hast set afyreMin herte, do that wounde be withdrawe,Or yif me Salve such as I desire:    2290For Service in thi Court withouten hyreTo me, which evere yit have kept thin heste,Mai nevere be to loves lawe honeste.

O thou, gentile Venus, loves queene,Withoute gult thou dost on me thi wreche;Thou wost my peine is evere aliche greneFor love, and yit I mai it noght areche:This wold I for my laste word beseche,That thou mi love aquite as I deserve,Or elles do me pleinly forto sterve.    2300

Whanne I this SupplicaciounWith good deliberacioun,In such a wise as ye nou wite,Hadde after min entente writeUnto Cupide and to Venus,This Prest which hihte GeniusIt tok on honde to presente,On my message and forth he wenteTo Venus, forto wite hire wille.And I bod in the place stille,    2310And was there bot a litel while,Noght full the montance of a Mile,Whan I behield and sodeinlyI sih wher Venus stod me by.So as I myhte, under a treTo grounde I fell upon mi kne,And preide hire forto do me grace:Sche caste hire chiere upon mi face,And as it were halvinge a gameSche axeth me what is mi name.    2320“Ma dame,” I seide, “John Gower.”“Now John,” quod sche, “in my pouerThou most as of thi love stonde;For I thi bille have understonde,In which to Cupide and to meSomdiel thou hast compleigned thee,And somdiel to Nature also.Bot that schal stonde among you tuo,For therof have I noght to done;For Nature is under the Mone    2330Maistresse of every lives kinde,Bot if so be that sche mai findeSom holy man that wol withdraweHis kindly lust ayein hir lawe;Bot sielde whanne it falleth so,For fewe men ther ben of tho,Bot of these othre ynowe be,Whiche of here oghne nyceteAyein Nature and hire officeDeliten hem in sondri vice,    2340Wherof that sche fulofte hath pleigned,And ek my Court it hath desdeignedAnd evere schal; for it receivethNon such that kinde so deceiveth.For al onliche of gentil loveMi court stant alle courtz aboveAnd takth noght into retenueBot thing which is to kinde due,For elles it schal be refused.Wherof I holde thee excused,    2350For it is manye daies gon,That thou amonges hem were onWhich of my court hast ben withholde;So that the more I am beholdeOf thi desese to commune,And to remue that fortune,Which manye daies hath the grieved.Bot if my conseil mai be lieved,Thou schalt ben esed er thou goOf thilke unsely jolif wo,    2360Wherof thou seist thin herte is fyred:Bot as of that thou hast desiredAfter the sentence of thi bille,Thou most therof don at my wille,And I therof me wole avise.For be thou hol, it schal suffise:Mi medicine is noght to siekeFor thee and for suche olde sieke,Noght al per chance as ye it wolden,Bot so as ye be reson scholden,    2370Acordant unto loves kinde.For in the plit which I thee finde,So as mi court it hath awarded,Thou schalt be duely rewarded;And if thou woldest more crave,It is no riht that thou it have.”

Venus, which stant withoute laweIn noncertein, bot as men draweOf Rageman upon the chance,Sche leith no peis in the balance,    2380Bot as hir lyketh forto weie;The trewe man fulofte aweieSche put, which hath hir grace bede,And set an untrewe in his stede.Lo, thus blindly the world sche diemethIn loves cause, as tome siemeth:I not what othre men wol sein,Bot I algate am so besein,And stonde as on amonges alleWhich am out of hir grace falle:    2390It nedeth take no witnesse,For sche which seid is the goddesse,To whether part of love it wende,Hath sett me for a final endeThe point wherto that I schal holde.For whan sche hath me wel beholde,Halvynge of scorn, sche seide thus:“Thou wost wel that I am Venus,Which al only my lustes seche;And wel I wot, thogh thou beseche    2400Mi love, lustes ben ther none,Whiche I mai take in thi persone;For loves lust and lockes horeIn chambre acorden neveremore,And thogh thou feigne a yong corage,It scheweth wel be the visageThat olde grisel is no fole:There ben fulmanye yeres stoleWith thee and with suche othre mo,That outward feignen youthe so    2410And ben withinne of pore assay.Min herte wolde and I ne mayIs noght beloved nou adayes;Er thou make eny suche assaiesTo love, and faile upon the fet,Betre is to make a beau retret;For thogh thou myhtest love atteigne,Yit were it bot an ydel peine,Whan that thou art noght sufficantTo holde love his covenant.    2420Forthi tak hom thin herte ayein,That thou travaile noght in vein,Wherof my Court may be deceived.I wot and have it wel conceived,Hou that thi will is good ynowh;Bot mor behoveth to the plowh,Wherof the lacketh, as I trowe:So sitte it wel that thou beknoweThi fieble astat, er thou beginneThing wher thou miht non ende winne.    2430What bargain scholde a man assaie,Whan that him lacketh forto paie?Mi Sone, if thou be wel bethoght,This toucheth thee; foryet it noght:The thing is torned into was;That which was whilom grene gras,Is welked hey at time now.Forthi mi conseil is that thouRemembre wel hou thou art old.”

Whan Venus hath hir tale told,    2440And I bethoght was al aboute,Tho wiste I wel withoute doute,That ther was no recoverir;And as a man the blase of fyrWith water quencheth, so ferd I;A cold me cawhte sodeinly,For sorwe that myn herte madeMi dedly face pale and fadeBecam, and swoune I fell to grounde.And as I lay the same stounde,    2450Ne fully quik ne fully ded,Me thoghte I sih tofor myn hedCupide with his bowe bent,And lich unto a Parlement,Which were ordeigned for the nones,With him cam al the world at onesOf gentil folk that whilom wereLovers, I sih hem alle thereForth with Cupide in sondri routes.Min yhe and as I caste aboutes,    2460To knowe among hem who was who,

I sih wher lusty Youthe tho,As he which was a Capitein,Tofore alle othre upon the pleinStod with his route wel begon,Here hevedes kempt, and theruponGarlandes noght of o colour,Some of the lef, some of the flour,And some of grete Perles were;The newe guise of Beawme there,    2470With sondri thinges wel devised,I sih, wherof thei ben queintised.It was al lust that thei with ferde,Ther was no song that I ne herde,Which unto love was touchende;Of Pan and al that was likendeAs in Pipinge of melodieWas herd in thilke compaignieSo lowde, that on every sideIt thoghte as al the hevene cride    2480In such acord and such a sounOf bombard and of clarionWith Cornemuse and Schallemele,That it was half a mannes heleSo glad a noise forto hiere.And as me thoghte, in this manereAl freissh I syh hem springe and dance,And do to love her entendanceAfter the lust of youthes heste.Ther was ynowh of joie and feste,    2490For evere among thei laghe and pleie,And putten care out of the weie,That he with hem ne sat ne stod.And overthis I understod,So as myn Ere it myhte areche,The moste matiere of her specheWas al of knyhthod and of Armes,And what it is to ligge in armesWith love, whanne it is achieved.

Ther was Tristram, which was believed    2500With bele Ysolde, and LancelotStod with Gunnore, and GalahotWith his ladi, and as me thoghte,I syh wher Jason with him broghteHis love, which that Creusa hihte,And Hercules, which mochel myhte,Was ther berende his grete Mace,And most of alle in thilke placeHe peyneth him to make chiereWith Eolen, which was him diere.    2510

Theseüs, thogh he were untreweTo love, as alle wommen knewe,Yit was he there nathelesWith Phedra, whom to love he ches:Of Grece ek ther was Thelamon,Which fro the king LamenedonAt Troie his doghter refte aweie,Eseonen, as for his preie,Which take was whan Jason camFro Colchos, and the Cite nam    2520In vengance of the ferste hate;That made hem after to debate,Whan Priamus the newe tounHath mad. And in avisioun

Me thoghte that I sih alsoEctor forth with his brethren tuo;Himself stod with Pantaselee,And next to him I myhte se,Wher Paris stod with faire Eleine,Which was his joie sovereine;    2530And Troilus stod with Criseide,Bot evere among, althogh he pleide,Be semblant he was hevy chiered,For Diomede, as him was liered,Cleymeth to ben his parconner.And thus full many a bacheler,A thousend mo than I can sein,With Yowthe I sih ther wel beseinForth with here loves glade and blithe.

And some I sih whiche ofte sithe    2540Compleignen hem in other wise;Among the whiche I syh NarciseAnd Piramus, that sory were.The worthy Grek also was there,Achilles, which for love deide:Agamenon ek, as men seide,And Menelay the king alsoI syh, with many an other mo,Which hadden be fortuned soreIn loves cause.

And overmore    2550Of wommen in the same cas,With hem I sih wher Dido was,Forsake which was with Enee;And Phillis ek I myhte see,Whom Demephon deceived hadde;And Adriagne hir sorwe ladde,For Theseüs hir Soster tokAnd hire unkindely forsok.I sih ther ek among the pressCompleignende upon Hercules    2560His ferste love Deyanire,Which sette him afterward afyre:Medea was there ek and pleignethUpon Jason, for that he feigneth,Withoute cause and tok a newe;Sche seide, “Fy on alle untrewe!”I sih there ek Deijdamie,Which hadde lost the compaignieOf Achilles, whan DiomedeTo Troie him fette upon the nede.    2570

Among these othre upon the greneI syh also the wofull queeneCleopatras, which in a CaveWith Serpentz hath hirself begraveAlquik, and so sche was totore,For sorwe of that sche hadde loreAntonye, which hir love hath be:And forth with hire I sih Tisbee,Which on the scharpe swerdes pointFor love deide in sory point;    2580And as myn Ere it myhte knowe,Sche seide, “Wo worthe alle slowe!”The pleignte of Progne and PhilomeneTher herde I what it wolde mene,How Tereüs of his untroutheUndede hem bothe, and that was routhe;And next to hem I sih Canace,Which for Machaire hir fader graceHath lost, and deide in wofull plit.And as I sih in my spirit,    2590Me thoghte amonges othre thusThe doghter of king Priamus,Polixena, whom Pirrus slowh,Was there and made sorwe ynowh,As sche which deide gultelesFor love, and yit was loveles.

And forto take the desport,I sih there some of other port,And that was Circes and Calipse,That cowthen do the Mone eclipse,    2600Of men and change the liknesses,Of Artmagique Sorceresses;Thei hielde in honde manyon,To love wher thei wolde or non.

Bot above alle that ther wereOf wommen I sih foure there,Whos name I herde most comended:Be hem the Court stod al amended;For wher thei comen in presence,Men deden hem the reverence,    2610As thogh they hadden be goddesses,Of al this world or Emperesses.And as me thoghte, an Ere I leide,And herde hou that these othre seide,“Lo, these ben the foure wyves,Whos feith was proeved in her lyves:For in essample of alle goodeWith Mariage so thei stode,That fame, which no gret thing hydeth,Yit in Cronique of hem abydeth.”    2620

Penolope that on was hote,Whom many a knyht hath loved hote,Whil that hire lord Ulixes layFull many a yer and many a dayUpon the grete Siege of Troie:Bot sche, which hath no worldes joieBot only of hire housebonde,Whil that hir lord was out of londe,So wel hath kept hir wommanhiede,That al the world therof tok hiede,    2630And nameliche of hem in Grece.

That other womman was Lucrece,Wif to the Romain Collatin;And sche constreigned of TarquinTo thing which was ayein hir wille,Sche wolde noght hirselven stille,Bot deide only for drede of schameIn keping of hire goode name,As sche which was on of the beste.

The thridde wif was hote Alceste,    2640Which whanne Ametus scholde dyeUpon his grete maladye,Sche preide unto the goddes so,That sche receyveth al the woAnd deide hirself to yive him lif:Lo, if this were a noble wif.

The ferthe wif which I ther sih,I herde of hem that were nyhHou sche was cleped Alcione,Which to Seyix hir lord al one    2650And to nomo hire body kepte;And whan sche sih him dreynt, sche lepteInto the wawes where he swam,And there a Sefoul sche becam,And with hire wenges him bespraddeFor love which to him sche hadde.

Lo, these foure were thoWhiche I sih, as me thoghte tho,Among the grete compaignieWhich Love hadde forto guye:    2660Bot Youthe, which in specialOf Loves Court was Mareschal,So besy was upon his lay,That he non hiede where I layHath take. And thanne, as I behield,

Me thoghte I sih upon the field,Where Elde cam a softe pasToward Venus, ther as sche was.With him gret compaignie he ladde,Bot noght so manye as Youthe hadde:    2670The moste part were of gret Age,And that was sene in the visage,And noght forthi, so as thei myhte,Thei made hem yongly to the sihte:Bot yit herde I no pipe thereTo make noise in mannes Ere,Bot the Musette I myhte knowe,For olde men which souneth lowe,With Harpe and Lute and with Citole.The hovedance and the Carole,    2680In such a wise as love hath bede,A softe pas thei dance and trede;And with the wommen otherwhileWith sobre chier among thei smyle,For laghtre was ther non on hyh.And natheles full wel I syhThat thei the more queinte it madeFor love, in whom thei weren glade.

And there me thoghte I myhte seThe king David with Bersabee,    2690And Salomon was noght withoute;Passende an hundred on a routeOf wyves and of Concubines,Juesses bothe and Sarazines,To him I sih alle entendant:I not if he was sufficant,Bot natheles for al his witHe was attached with that writWhich love with his hond enseleth,Fro whom non erthly man appeleth.    2700And overthis, as for a wonder,With his leon which he put under,With Dalida Sampson I knew,Whos love his strengthe al overthrew.

I syh there Aristotle also,Whom that the queene of Grece soHath bridled, that in thilke timeSche made him such a Silogime,That he foryat al his logique;Ther was non art of his Practique,    2710Thurgh which it mihte ben excludedThat he ne was fully concludedTo love, and dede his obeissance.And ek Virgile of aqueintanceI sih, wher he the Maiden preide,Which was the doghter, as men seide,Of themperour whilom of Rome;Sortes and Plato with him come,So dede Ovide the Poete.I thoghte thanne how love is swete,    2720Which hath so wise men reclamed,And was miself the lasse aschamed,Or forto lese or forto winneIn the meschief that I was inne:And thus I lay in hope of grace.

And whan thei comen to the placeWher Venus stod and I was falle,These olde men with o vois alleTo Venus preiden for my sake.And sche, that myhte noght forsake    2730So gret a clamour as was there,Let Pite come into hire Ere;And forth withal unto CupideSche preith that he upon his sideMe wolde thurgh his grace sendeSom confort, that I myhte amende,Upon the cas which is befalle.And thus for me thei preiden alleOf hem that weren olde aboute,And ek some of the yonge route,    2740Of gentilesse and pure troutheI herde hem telle it was gret routhe,That I withouten help so ferde.And thus me thoghte I lay and herde.

Cupido, which may hurte and heleIn loves cause, as for myn heleUpon the point which him was preidCam with Venus, wher I was leidSwounende upon the grene gras.And, as me thoghte, anon ther was    2750On every side so gret presse,That every lif began to presse,I wot noght wel hou many score,Suche as I spak of now tofore,Lovers, that comen to beholde,Bot most of hem that weren olde:Thei stoden there at thilke tyde,To se what ende schal betydeUpon the cure of my sotie.Tho myhte I hiere gret partie    2760Spekende, and ech his oghne avisHath told, on that, an other this:Bot among alle this I herde,Thei weren wo that I so ferde,And seiden that for no rioteAn old man scholde noght assote;For as thei tolden redely,Ther is in him no cause why,Bot if he wolde himself benyce;So were he wel the more nyce.    2770And thus desputen some of tho,And some seiden nothing so,Bot that the wylde loves rageIn mannes lif forberth non Age;Whil ther is oyle forto fyre,The lampe is lyhtly set afyre,And is fulhard er it be queynt,Bot only if it be som seint,Which god preserveth of his grace.And thus me thoghte, in sondri place    2780Of hem that walken up and dounTher was diverse opinioun:And for a while so it laste,Til that Cupide to the laste,Forth with his moder full avised,Hath determined and devisedUnto what point he wol descende.And al this time I was liggendeUpon the ground tofore his yhen,And thei that my desese syhen    2790Supposen noght I scholde live;Bot he, which wolde thanne yiveHis grace, so as it mai be,This blinde god which mai noght se,Hath groped til that he me fond;And as he pitte forth his hondUpon my body, wher I lay,Me thoghte a fyri Lancegay,Which whilom thurgh myn herte he caste,He pulleth oute, and also faste    2800As this was do, Cupide namHis weie, I not where he becam,And so dede al the remenantWhich unto him was entendant,Of hem that in AvisionI hadde a revelacion,So as I tolde now tofore.

Bot Venus wente noght therfore,Ne Genius, whiche thilke timeAbiden bothe faste byme.    2810And sche which mai the hertes byndeIn loves cause and ek unbinde,Er I out of mi trance aros,Venus, which hield a boiste clos,And wolde noght I scholde deie,Tok out mor cold than eny keieAn oignement, and in such pointSche hath my wounded herte enoignt,My temples and my Reins also.And forth withal sche tok me tho    2820A wonder Mirour forto holde,In which sche bad me to beholdeAnd taken hiede of that I syhe;Wherinne anon myn hertes yheI caste, and sih my colour fade,Myn yhen dymme and al unglade,Mi chiekes thinne, and al my faceWith Elde I myhte se deface,So riveled and so wo besein,That ther was nothing full ne plein,    2830I syh also myn heres hore.Mi will was tho to se nomoreOutwith, for ther was no plesance;And thanne into my remembranceI drowh myn olde daies passed,And as reson it hath compassed,I made a liknesse of miselveUnto the sondri Monthes twelve,Wherof the yeer in his astatIs mad, and stant upon debat,    2840That lich til other non acordeth.For who the times wel recordeth,And thanne at Marche if he beginne,Whan that the lusti yeer comth inne,Til Augst be passed and Septembre,The myhty youthe he may remembreIn which the yeer hath his deduitOf gras, of lef, of flour, of fruit,Of corn and of the wyny grape.And afterward the time is schape    2850To frost, to Snow, to Wind, to Rein,Til eft that Mars be come ayein:The Wynter wol no Somer knowe,The grene lef is overthrowe,The clothed erthe is thanne bare,Despuiled is the Somerfare,That erst was hete is thanne chele.

And thus thenkende thoghtes fele,I was out of mi swoune affraied,Wherof I sih my wittes straied,    2860And gan to clepe hem hom ayein.And whan Resoun it herde seinThat loves rage was aweie,He cam to me the rihte weie,And hath remued the sotieOf thilke unwise fantasie,Wherof that I was wont to pleigne,So that of thilke fyri peineI was mad sobre and hol ynowh.

Venus behield me than and lowh,    2870And axeth, as it were in game,What love was. And I for schameNe wiste what I scholde ansuere;And natheles I gan to swereThat be my trouthe I knew him noght;So ferr it was out of mi thoght,Riht as it hadde nevere be.“Mi goode Sone,” tho quod sche,“Now at this time I lieve it wel,So goth the fortune of my whiel;    2880Forthi mi conseil is thou leve.”

“Ma dame,” I seide, “be your leve,Ye witen wel, and so wot I,That I am unbehovelyYour Court fro this day forth to serve:And for I may no thonk deserve,And also for I am refused,I preie you to ben excused.And natheles as for the laste,Whil that my wittes with me laste,    2890Touchende mi confessionI axe an absolucionOf Genius, er that I go.”The Prest anon was redy tho,And seide, “Sone, as of thi schrifteThou hast ful pardoun and foryifte;Foryet it thou, and so wol I.”

“Min holi fader, grant mercy,”Quod I to him, and to the queeneI fell on knes upon the grene,    2900And tok my leve forto wende.Bot sche, that wolde make an ende,As therto which I was most able,A Peire of Bedes blak as SableSche tok and heng my necke aboute;Upon the gaudes al withouteWas write of gold, Por reposer.“Lo,” thus sche seide, “John Gower,Now thou art ate laste cast,This have I for thin ese cast,    2910That thou nomore of love sieche.Bot my will is that thou besiecheAnd preie hierafter for the pes,And that thou make a plein relesTo love, which takth litel hiedeOf olde men upon the nede,Whan that the lustes ben aweie:Forthi to thee nys bot o weie,In which let reson be thi guide;For he may sone himself misguide,    2920That seth noght the peril tofore.Mi Sone, be wel war therfore,And kep the sentence of my loreAnd tarie thou mi Court nomore,Bot go ther vertu moral duelleth,Wher ben thi bokes, as men telleth,Whiche of long time thou hast write.For this I do thee wel to wite,If thou thin hele wolt pourchace,Thou miht noght make suite and chace,    2930Wher that the game is nought pernable;It were a thing unresonable,A man to be so overseie.Forthi tak hiede of that I seie;For in the lawe of my comuneWe be noght schape to comune,Thiself and I, nevere after this.Now have y seid al that ther isOf love as for thi final ende:Adieu, for y mot fro the wende.”    2940And with that word al sodeinly,Enclosid in a sterred sky,Venus, which is the qweene of love,Was take in to hire place above,More wiste y nought wher sche becam.And thus my leve of hire y nam,And forth with al the same tideHire prest, which wolde nought abide,Or be me lief or be me loth,Out of my sighte forth he goth,    2950And y was left with outen helpe.So wiste I nought wher of to yelpe,Bot only that y hadde loreMy time, and was sori ther fore.And thus bewhapid in my thought,Whan al was turnyd in to nought,I stod amasid for a while,And in my self y gan to smyleThenkende uppon the bedis blake,And how they weren me betake,    2960For that y schulde bidde and preie.And whanne y sigh non othre weieBot only that y was refusid,Unto the lif which y hadde usidI thoughte nevere torne ayein:And in this wise, soth to seyn,Homward a softe pas y wente,Wher that with al myn hol ententeUppon the point that y am schryveI thenke bidde whil y live.    2970

He which withinne daies seveneThis large world forth with the heveneOf his eternal providenceHath mad, and thilke intelligenceIn mannys soule resonableHath schape to be perdurable,Wherof the man of his fetureAbove alle erthli creatureAftir the soule is immortal,To thilke lord in special,    2980As he which is of alle thingesThe creatour, and of the kyngesHath the fortunes uppon honde,His grace and mercy forto fondeUppon my bare knes y preie,That he this lond in siker weieWol sette uppon good governance.For if men takyn remembranceWhat is to live in unite,Ther ys no staat in his degree    2990That noughte to desire pes,With outen which, it is no les,To seche and loke in to the laste,Ther may no worldes joye laste.

Ferst forto loke the Clergie,Hem oughte wel to justefieThing which belongith to here cure,As forto praie and to procureOure pes toward the hevene above,And ek to sette reste and love    3000Among ous on this erthe hiere.For if they wroughte in this manereAftir the reule of charite,I hope that men schuldyn seThis lond amende.

And ovyr this,To seche and loke how that it isTouchende of the chevalerie,Which forto loke, in som partieIs worthi forto be comendid,And in som part to ben amendid,    3010That of here large retenueThe lond is ful of maintenue,Which causith that the comune rightIn fewe contrees stant upright.Extorcioun, contekt, ravineWithholde ben of that covyne,Aldai men hierin gret compleignteOf the desease, of the constreignte,Wher of the poeple is sore oppressid:God graunte it mote be redressid.    3020For of knyghthode thordre woldeThat thei defende and kepe scholdeThe comun right and the fraunchiseOf holy cherche in alle wise,So that no wikke man it dere,And ther fore servith scheld and spere:Bot for it goth now other weie,Oure grace goth the more aweie.

And forto lokyn ovyrmore,Wher of the poeple pleigneth sore,    3030Toward the lawis of oure lond,Men sein that trouthe hath broke his bondAnd with brocage is goon aweie,So that no man can se the weieWher forto fynde rightwisnesse.

And if men sechin sikernesseUppon the lucre of marchandie,Compassement and tricherieOf singuler profit to wynne,Men seyn, is cause of mochil synne,    3040And namely of divisioun,Which many a noble worthi tounFro welthe and fro prosperiteHath brought to gret adversite.So were it good to ben al on,For mechil grace ther upponUnto the Citees schulde falle,Which myghte availle to ous alle,If these astatz amendid were,So that the vertus stodyn there    3050And that the vices were aweie:Me thenkth y dorste thanne seie,This londis grace schulde arise.

Bot yit to loke in othre wise,Ther is a stat, as ye schul hiere,Above alle othre on erthe hiere,Which hath the lond in his balance:To him belongith the leianceOf Clerk, of knyght, of man of lawe;Undir his hond al is forth drawe    3060The marchant and the laborer;So stant it al in his powerOr forto spille or forto save.Bot though that he such power have,And that his myghtes ben so large,He hath hem nought withouten charge,To which that every kyng ys swore:So were it good that he ther foreFirst un to rightwisnesse entende,Wherof that he hym self amende    3070Toward his god and leve vice,Which is the chief of his office;And aftir al the remenantHe schal uppon his covenantGoverne and lede in such a wise,So that ther be no tirandise,Wherof that he his poeple grieve,Or ellis may he nought achieveThat longith to his regalie.For if a kyng wol justifie    3080His lond and hem that beth withynne,First at hym self he mot begynne,To kepe and reule his owne astat,That in hym self be no debatToward his god: for othre wiseTher may non erthly kyng suffiseOf his kyngdom the folk to lede,Bot he the kyng of hevene drede.For what kyng sett hym uppon prideAnd takth his lust on every side    3090And wil nought go the righte weie,Though god his grace caste aweieNo wondir is, for ate lasteHe schal wel wite it mai nought laste,The pompe which he secheth here.Bot what kyng that with humble chereAftir the lawe of god eschuiethThe vices, and the vertus suieth,His grace schal be suffisantTo governe al the remenant    3100Which longith to his duite;So that in his prosperiteThe poeple schal nought ben oppressid,Wherof his name schal be blessid,For evere and be memorial.

And now to speke as in final,Touchende that y undirtokIn englesch forto make a bookWhich stant betwene ernest and game,I have it maad as thilke same    3110Which axe forto ben excusid,And that my bok be nought refusidOf lered men, whan thei it se,For lak of curiosite:For thilke scole of eloquenceBelongith nought to my science,Uppon the forme of rethoriqeMy wordis forto peinte and pike,As Tullius som tyme wrot.Bot this y knowe and this y wot,    3120That y have do my trewe peyneWith rude wordis and with pleyne,In al that evere y couthe and myghte,This bok to write as y behighte,So as siknesse it soffre wolde;And also for my daies olde,That y am feble and impotent,I wot nought how the world ys went.So preye y to my lordis alleNow in myn age, how so befalle,    3130That y mot stonden in here grace:For though me lacke to purchaceHere worthi thonk as by decerte,Yit the symplesse of my poverteDesireth forto do plesanceTo hem undir whos governanceI hope siker to abide.

But now uppon my laste tideThat y this book have maad and write,My muse doth me forto wite,    3140And seith it schal be for my besteFro this day forth to take reste,That y nomore of love make,Which many an herte hath overtake,And ovyrturnyd as the blyndeFro reson in to lawe of kynde;Wher as the wisdom goth aweieAnd can nought se the ryhte weieHow to governe his oghne estat,Bot everydai stant in debat    3150Withinne him self, and can nought leve.And thus forthy my final leveI take now for evere more,Withoute makynge any more,Of love and of his dedly hele,Which no phisicien can hele.For his nature is so divers,That it hath evere som traversOr of to moche or of to lite,That pleinly mai noman delite,    3160Bot if him faile or that or this.Bot thilke love which that isWithinne a mannes herte affermed,And stant of charite confermed,Such love is goodly forto have,Such love mai the bodi save,Such love mai the soule amende,The hyhe god such love ous sendeForthwith the remenant of grace;So that above in thilke place    3170Wher resteth love and alle pes,Oure joie mai ben endeles.

Explicit iste liber, qui transeat, obsecro liber,Vt sine liuore vigeat lectoris in ore.Qui sedet in scannis celi det vt ista lohannisPerpetuis annis stet pagina grata Britannis,Derbeie Comiti, recolunt quem laude periti,Vade liber purus, sub eo requiesce futurus.

[End of CONFESSIO AMANTIS]

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