Musynge upon the restlees bysynesse
Which that this troubly world hath ay on honde,
That othir thyng than fruyt of bittirnesse
Ne yildith naght, as I can undirstonde,
At Chestres In, right faste by the Stronde,
As I lay in my bed upon a nyght,
Thoght me byrefte of sleep the force and might. 1
And many a day and nyght that wikkid hyne
Hadde beforn vexed my poore goost
So grevously that of angwissh and pyne
No rycher man was nowhere in no coost.
This dar I seyn, may no wight make his boost
That he with thoght was bet than I aqweynted,
For to the deeth he wel ny hath me feynted.
Bysyly in my mynde I gan revolve
The welthe unseur of every creature,
How lightly that Fortune it can dissolve
Whan that hir list that it no lenger dure;
And of the brotilnesse of hir nature
My tremblynge herte so greet gastnesse hadde
That my spirites were of my lyf sadde.
Me fil to mynde how that nat longe agoo
Fortunes strook doun thraste estat rial
Into mescheef, and I took heede also
Of many anothir lord that hadde a fal.
In mene estat eek sikirnesse at al
Ne saw I noon, but I sy atte laste
Wher seuretee for to abyde hir caste.
In poore estat shee pighte hir pavyloun
To kevere hir fro the storm of descendynge 2
For shee kneew no lower descencion
Sauf oonly deeth, fro which no wight lyvynge
Deffende him may; and thus in my musynge
I destitut was of joie and good hope,
And to myn ese nothyng cowde I grope.
For right as blyve ran it in my thoght,
Thogh poore I be, yit sumwhat leese I may.
Than deemed I that seurtee wolde noght
With me abyde; it is nat to hir pay
Ther to sojourne as shee descende may.
And thus unsikir of my smal lyflode,
Thoght leide on me ful many an hevy lode.
I thoghte eek, if I into povert creepe,
Than am I entred into sikirnesse;
But swich seurtee mighte I ay waille and weepe,
For povert breedith naght but hevynesse.
Allas, wher is this worldes stablenesse?
Heer up, heer doun; heer honour, heer repreef;
Now hool, now seek; now bountee, now mescheef.
And whan I hadde rollid up and doun
This worldes stormy wawes in my mynde,
I sy wel povert was exclusioun
Of al welfare regnynge in mankynde;
And how in bookes thus writen I fynde,
"The werste kynde of wrecchidnesse is
A man to han be weleful or this."
Allas, thoghte I, what sikirnesse is that
To lyve ay seur of greef and of nusance?
What shal I do? Best is I stryve nat
Ageyn the peys of Fortunes balance,
For wel I woot that hir brotil constance
A wight no whyle souffre can sojourne
In o plyt; thus nat wiste I how to tourne.
For whan man weeneth stonde moost constant,
Thanne is he nexte to his overthrowynge;
So flittynge is shee and so variant,
Ther is no trust upon hir fair lawhynge;
Aftir glad look, shee shapith hir to stynge.
I was adrad so of hir gerynesse
That my lyf was but a deedly gladnesse.
This ilke nyght I walwid to and fro
Seekynge reste, but certeynly shee
Appeerid nat, for thoght, my cruel fo,
Chaced had hir and sleep away fro me.
And for I sholde nat allone be,
Ageyn my lust wach proferred his servyse,
And I admittid him in hevy wyse.
So long a nyght ne felte I nevere noon
As was that same, to my jugement.
Whoso that thoghty is, is wo begoon;
The thoghtful wight is vessel of torment;
Ther nis no greef to him equipollent.
He graveth deepest of seeknesses alle:
Ful wo is him that in swich thoght is falle.
What wight that inly pensyf is, I trowe,
His moost desir is to be solitarie.
That this is sooth, in my persone I knowe,
For evere whyl that fretynge adversarie
Myn herte made to him tributarie
In sowkynge of the fressheste of my blood;
To sorwe soul me thoghte it dide me good.
For the nature of hevynesse is this:
If it habownde greetly in a wight,
The place eschueth he whereas joie is,
For joie and he nat mowe accorde aright.
As discordant as day is unto nyght,
And honour adversarie is unto shame,
Is hevynesse so to joie and game.
Whan to the thoghtful wight is told a tale,
He heerith it as thogh he thennes were;
His hevy thoghtes him so plukke and hale
Hidir and thidir, and him greeve and dere,
That his eres availle him nat a pere;
He undirstandith nothyng what men seye,
So been his wittes fer goon hem to pleye.
The smert of thoght I by experience
Knowe as wel as any man dooth lyvynge.
His frosty swoot and fyry hoot fervence,
And troubly dremes drempt al in wakynge,
My mazid heed sleeplees han of konnynge
And wit despoillid, and so me bejapid
That aftir deeth ful often have I gapid.
Passe over; whan this stormy nyght was goon
And day gan at my wyndowe in to prye,
I roos me up, for boote fond I noon
In myn unresty bed lenger to lye.
Into the feeld I dressid me in hye,
And in my wo I herte-deep gan wade,
As he that was bareyne of thoghtes glade.
By that I walkid hadde a certeyn tyme,
Were it an hour I not, or more or lesse,
A poore old hoor man cam walkynge by me,
And seide, "Good day, sire, and God yow blesse!"
But I no word, for my seekly distresse
Forbad myn eres usen hir office,
For which this old man heeld me lewde and nyce,
Til he took heede to my drery cheere,
And to my deedly colour pale and wan.
Than thoghte he thus: "This man that I see heere
Al wrong is wrestid, by aght I see can."
He stirte unto me and seide, "Sleepstow, man?
Awake!" and gan me shake wondir faste,
And with a sigh I answerde atte laste:
"A, who is there?" "I," quod this olde greye,
"Am heer," and he me tolde the manere
How he spak to me, as yee herde me seye.
"O man," quod I, "for Crystes love deere,
If that thow wilt aght doon at my prayeere,
As go thy way, talke to me no more;
Thy wordes alle annoyen me ful sore.
"Voide fro me, me list no conpaignie.
Encresse nat my greef, I have ynow."
"My sone, hast thow good lust thy sorwe drye
And mayst releeved be? What man art thow?
Wirke aftir me: it shal be for thy prow.
Thow nart but yong and hast but litil seen,
And ful seelde is that yong folk wyse been.
"If that thee lyke to been esid wel,
As suffre me with thee to talke a whyle.
Art thow aght lettred?" "Yee," quod I, "sumdel."
"Blessid be God, than hope I, by Seint Gyle,
That God to thee thy wit shal reconsyle
Which that me thynkith is fer fro thee went
Thurgh the assaut of thy grevous torment.
"Lettred folk han gretter discrecion
And bet conceyve konne a mannes sawe,
And rather wole applie to reson,
And from folie sonner hem withdrawe,
Than he that neithir reson can ne lawe,
Ne lerned hath no maner letterure.
Plukke up thyn herte - I hope I shal thee cure."
"Cure, good man? Yee, thow art a fair leeche!
Cure thyself that tremblest as thow goost,
For al thyn aart wole enden in thy speeche.
It lyth nat in thy power, poore goost,
To hele me; thow art as seek almoost
As I! First on thyself kythe thyn aart,
And if aght leve, let me thanne have paart.
"Go foorth thy way, I thee preye, or be stille;
Thow doost me more annoy than that thow weenest.
Thow art as ful of clap as is a mille;
Thow doost naght heer but greevest me and teenest.
Good man, thow woost but litil what thow meenest.
In thee lyth naght redresse my nusance,
And yit thow maist be wel-willid, par chance.
"It muste been a gretter man of might
Than that thow art that sholde me releeve."
"What, sone myn, thow feelist nat aright;
To herkne me, what shal it harme or greeve?"
"Petir, good man, thogh we talke heer til eeve,
Al is in veyn; thy might may nat atteyne
To hele me, swich is my woful peyne."
"What that I may or can ne woost thow noght.
Hardily, sone, telle on how it is."
"Man, at a word, it is encombrous thoght
That causith me thus sorwe and fare amis."
"Now, sone, and if ther nothyng be but this,
Do as I shal thee seye, and thyn estat
Amende I shal but thow be obstinat,
"And wilfully rebelle and disobeye,
And list nat to my lore thee conforme;
For in swich cas, what sholde I speke or seye,
Or in my beste wyse thee enforme?
If thow it weyve and take anothir forme,
Aftir thy childissh misreuled conceit,
Thow doost unto thyself harm and deceit.
"O thyng seye I, if thow go feerelees
Al solitarie and conseil lakke and reed,
As me thynkith thy gyse is, doutelees
Thow likly art to bere a dotid heed.
Whil thow art soul, thoght his wastyng seed
Sowith in thee, and that in greet foysoun,
And thow reedlees nat canst voide his poisoun.
"The Book seith thus - I redde it yore agoon:
'Wo be to him that list to been allone,
For if he falle, help ne hath he noon
To ryse.' This seye I by thy persone;
I fond thee soul and thy wittes echone
Fer fro thee fled and disparpled ful wyde,
Wherfore it seemeth thee needith a gyde,
"Which that thee may unto thy wittes lede.
Thow graspist heer and there as dooth the blynde,
And ay misgoost, and yit, have I no drede,
If thow receyve wilt into thy mynde
My lore and execute it, thow shalt fynde
Therin swich ese that thy maladie
Abregge it shal and thy malencolie.
"Ful holsum were it stynten of thy wo
And take unto thee spirit of gladnesse.
What profyt fyndest thow to mourne so?
Salomon seith that sorwe and hevynesse
Bones of man drieth by his duresse,
And herte glad makith florisshyng age;
Therfore I rede thow thy wo asswage.
"He seith: 'As motthes to a clooth annoyen
And of his wolle maken it al bare,
And also as wormes a tree destroien
Thurgh hir percynge, right so sorwe and care
Byreven man his helthe and his welfare
And his dayes abregge and shorte his lyf.'
Lo, what profyt is for to be pensyf?
"Now, goode sone, telle on thy grevance:
What is thy cause of thoght in special?
Haast thow of worldly goodes habundance
And carist how that it ykept be shal?
Or art thow needy and hast nat but smal,
And thristist sore a ryche man to be?
Or lovest hire that nat loveth thee?
"I have herd seyn, in keepynge of richesse
Is thoght and wo and bisy awayt alway. 3
The poore and needy eek hath hevynesse,
For to his purpos nat atteyne he may;
The lovere also seen men day by day
Prolle aftir that that he shal nevere fynde;
Thus thoght tormentith folk in sundry kynde.
"If thow thee feele in any of thise ygreeved
Or elles what, telle on, in Goddes name.
Thow seest al day the begger is releeved
That sit and beggith blynd, crookid, and lame,
And why? For he ne lettith for no shame
His harmes and his povert to bywreye
To folk as they goon by him in the weye.
"For and he keepe him cloos and holde his pees,
And nat out shewe how seek he inward is,
He may al day so sitten helpelees;
And, sone myn, althogh he fare amis
That hydeth so, God woot, the wyt is his;
But this begger his hurtes wole nat stele;
He wole telle al and more - he can naght hele.
"Right so, if thee list have a remedie
Of thyn annoy that prikkith thee so smerte,
The verray cause of thyn hid maladie
Thow moot deskevere and telle out al thyn herte.
If thow it hyde, thow shalt nat asterte
That thow ne falle shalt in sum meschance;
Forthy amende thow thy governance.
"Be waar of thoght, for it is perillous;
He the streight way to desconfort men ledith;
His violence is ful outrageous;
Unwys is he that bisy thoght ne dredith.
In whom that he his mortel venym shedith,
But if a vomyt aftir folwe blyve,
At the port of despeir he may arryve.
"Sone, swich thoght lurkynge thee withynne,
That huntith aftir thy confusioun,
Hy tyme it is to voide and lat him twynne,
And walke at large out of thy prisoun.
Be waar the feendes sly conclusioun,
For if he may thee unto despeir brynge,
Thow mourne shalt, and lawhe he wole and synge.
"Sum man for lak of occupacioun
Musith ferthere than his wit may strecche,
And at the feendes instigacioun
Dampnable errour holdith, and can nat flecche
For no conseil ne reed, as dide a wrecche
Nat fern ago, which that of heresie
Convict and brent was unto asshen drie.
"The precious body of our Lord Jhesu
In forme of brede he leeved nat at al;
He was in nothyng abassht ne eschu
To seye it was but brede material.
He seide a preestes power was as smal
As a rakers or swich anothir wight,
And to make it hadde no gretter might.
"My lord the Prince - God him save and blesse -
Was at his deedly castigacioun
And of his soule hadde greet tendrenesse,
Thristynge sore his sauvacioun.
Greet was his pitous lamentacioun
Whan that this renegat nat wolde blynne
Of the stynkynge errour that he was ynne.
"This good lord highte him to be swich a mene
To his fadir, our lige lord sovereyn,
If he renounce wolde his error clene
And come unto our good byleeve ageyn,
He sholde of his lyf seur been and certain;
And souffissant lyflode eek sholde he have
Unto the day he clad were in his grave.
"Also this noble prynce and worthy knyght -
God qwyte him his charitable labour -
Or any stikke kyndlid were or light,
The sacrament, our blessid Sauveour,
With reverence greet and hy honour,
He fecche leet, this wrecche to converte,
And make our feith to synken in his herte.
"But al for naght, it wolde nat betyde;
He heeld foorth his oppinioun dampnable,
And caste our holy Cristen feith asyde
As he that was to the feend acceptable.
By any outward tokne resonable,
If he inward hadde any repentance,
That woot He that of nothyng hath doutance.
"Lat the dyvynes of him speke and muse
Where his soule is bycome or whidir goon;
Myn unkonnynge of that me shal excuse;
Of swich mateere knowleche have I noon.
But wolde God tho Crystes foos echoon
That holde as he heeld were yserved so,
For I am seur that ther been many mo.
"The more routhe is! Allas, what men been they
That hem delyten in swich surquidrye?
For mannes reson may nat preeve our fey
That they wole it dispreeven or denye.
To our lord God that sitte in hevenes hye,
Shul they desyre for to been egal?
Nay, that was nevere, certes, ne be shal.
"That our lord God seith in Holy Scripture
May nat be fals, this knowith every wight
But he be mad; and thogh a creature
In his Goddes werk feele nat aright,
Shal he rebelle ageyn his lordes might,
Which that this wyde world hath maad of noght,
For reson may nat knytte it in his thoght?
"Was it nat eek a moustre as in nature
That God ybore was of a virgyne?
Yit is it sooth, thogh man by conjecture
Of reson or what he can ymagyne
Nat savoure it ne can it determyne.
He that almighty is dooth as him list;
He wole his konnynge hid be and nat wist.
"Our feith nat were unto us meritorie
If that we mighten by reson it preeve.
Lat us nat fro God twynnen and His glorie;
As Holy Chirche us bit, lat us byleeve.
But we therto obeye, it shal us greeve
Importably; lat us do as shee bit;
Oure goode fadres olde han folwed it.
"Presumpcion, a benedicitee!
Why vexest thow folk with thy franesie,
Thogh nothyng elles were, I seye for me?
But see how that the worthy prelacie,
And undir hem the souffissant clergie,
Endowid of profounde intelligence,
Of al this land werreyen thy sentence.
"That selve same to me were a brydil
By which wolde I governed been and gyed,
And elles al my labour were in ydil.
By Holy Chirche I wole be justified;
To that al hoolly is myn herte applied,
And evere shal. I truste in Goddes grace;
Swich surquidrie in me shal have no place.
"Sone, if God wole, thow art noon of tho
That wrappid been in this dampnacioun?"
"I? Cryst forbeede it, sire," seide I tho.
"I thanke it God, noon inclinacioun
Have I to laboure in probacioun
Of His hy knowleche and His mighty werkis,
For swich mateere unto my wit to derk is.
"Of our feith wole I nat despute at al,
But at o word, I in the sacrament
Of the auter fully byleeve and shal,
With Goddes help, whil lyf is to me lent,
And in despit of the feendes talent,
In alle othir articles of the feith
Byleeve as fer as that Holy Writ seith."
"Now good thrift come unto thee, sone deere;
Thy goost is now awakid wel, I see,
And sumwhat eek amendid is thy cheere.
And first I was ful sore agast of thee,
Lest that thow thurgh thoghtful adversitee
Nat haddest standen in thy feith aright;
Now is myn herte woxen glad and light.
"Hast thow in me any gretter savour
Than that thow haddest first whan thow me sy,
Whan I opposid thee of thy langour?
Seye on the soothe." "Yee, sumdel," quod I.
"My sone, in feith that is seid ful feyntly;
Thy savour yit ful smal is, as I trowe,
But or aght longe I shal the soothe knowe.
"I woot wel, sone, of me thus wilt thow thynke:
This olde dotid grisel halt him wys; 4
He weeneth maken in myn heed to synke
His lewde clap, of which sette I no prys.
He is a noble prechour at devys;
Greet noyse hath thurgh his chynned lippes drye
This day out past, the devel in his ye.
"But thogh I old and hoor be, sone myn,
And poore be my clothynge and array,
And nat so wyde a gowne have as is thyn -
So smal ypynchid ne so fressh and gay -
My reed in hap yit thee profyte may,
And likly that thow deemest for folie
Is gretter wysdam than thow canst espie.
"Undir an old poore habyt regneth ofte
Greet vertu, thogh it moustre poorely;
And whereas greet array is up on lofte,
Vice is but seelden hid - that wel woot I.
But nat reporte, I preye thee, inwardly,
That fressh array I generally deprave;
Thise worthy men mowe it wel use and have.
"But this me thynkith an abusioun,
To see oon walke in gownes of scarlet
Twelve yerdes wyde, with pendaunt sleeves doun
On the ground, and the furrour therin set,
Amountyng unto twenti pound or bet.
And if he for it paied have, he no good
Hath left him wherwith for to bye an hood.
"For thogh he gette foorth among the prees
And overlooke every poore wight,
His cofre and eek his purs been penylees;
He hath no more than he gooth in right.
For land, rente, or catel he may go light;
The weighte of hem shal nat so moche peise
As dooth his gowne. Is swich array to preise?
"Nay, soothly, sone, it is al mis, me thynkith,
So poore a wight his lord to countrefete
In his array; in my conceit it stynkith.
Certes to blame been the lordes grete,
If that I durste seyn, that hir men lete
Usurpe swich a lordly apparaille;
It is nat worth, my chyld, withouten faille.
"Sumtyme afer men mighten lordes knowe
By hir array from othir folk, but now
A man shal studie and musen a long throwe
Which is which. O lordes, it sit to yow
Amende this, for it is for your prow;
If twixt yow and your men no difference
Be in array, lesse is your reverence.
"Also ther is anothir neewe get:
A foul waast of clooth and an excessyf
Ther gooth, no lesse in a mannes typet
Than of brood clooth a yerde, by my lyf;
Me thynkith this a verray inductyf
Unto stelthe. Waar hem of hempen lane,
For stelthe is medid with a chekelewe bane.
"Let every lord his owne men deffende
Swich greet array, and thanne, on my peril,
This land withynne a whyle shal amende.
In Goddes name, putte it in exyl;
It is a synne outrageous and vyl;
Lordes, if yee your estat and honour
Loven, fleemeth this vicious errour.
"What is a lord withouten his meynee?
I putte cas that his foos him assaille
Sodeynly in the street: what help shal he
Whos sleeves encombrous so syde traille
Do to his lord? He may him nat availle;
In swich a cas he nis but a womman;
He may nat stande him in stide of a man.
"His armes two han right ynow to doone,
And sumwhat more, his sleeves up to holde.
The taillours, trowe I, moot heeraftir soone
Shape in the feeld; they shul nat sprede and folde
On hir bord, thogh they nevere so fayn wolde,
The clooth that shal been in a gowne wroght;
Take an hool clooth is best, for lesse is noght.
"The skynner unto the feeld moot also -
His hous in Londoun is to streit and scars
To doon his craft; sumtyme it was nat so.
O lordes, geve unto your men hir pars
That so doon, and aqweynte hem bet with Mars,
God of bataille; he loveth noon array
That hurtith manhode at preef or assay.
"Who now moost may bere on his bak at ones
Of clooth and furrour hath a fressh renoun;
He is a lusty man clept, for the nones.
But drapers and eek skynners in the toun
For swich folk han a special orisoun,
That droppid is with curses heer and there,
And ay shal til they paied be for hir gere.
"In dayes olde, whan smal apparaille
Souffysid unto hy estat or mene,
Was greet houshold wel stuffid of vitaille;
But now housholdes been ful sclendre and lene,
For al the good that men may repe or glene
Waastid is in outrageous array,
So that housholdes men nat holde may.
"Pryde hath wel lever bere an hungry mawe
To bedde than lak of array outrage.
He no prys settith by mesures lawe,
Ne takith of him clooth, mete, ne wage;
Mesure is out of land on pilgrimage;
But I suppose he shal resorte as blyve,
For verray neede wole us therto dryve.
"Ther may no lord take up no neewe gyse
But that a knave shal the same up take.
If lordes wolden wirken in this wyse
For to do swiche gownes to hem make
As men dide in old tyme, I undirtake,
The same get sholde up be take and usid,
And al this costlewe outrage refusid.
"Of Lancastre Duk John, whos soule in hevene
I fully deeme and truste sit ful hye -
A noble prince, I may allegge and nevene -
Othir may no man of him testifie;
I nevere sy a lord that cowde him gye
Bet lyk his estat; al knyghtly prowesse
Was to him girt - o God, his soule blesse!
"His garnementes weren nat ful wyde,
And yit they him becam wondirly wel.
Now wolde God the waast of clooth and pryde
Yput were in exyl perpetuel
For the good and profyt universel;
And lordes mighte helpe al this, if they wolde
The old get take, and it foorth use and holde.
"Than mighte silver walke more thikke
Among the peple than that it dooth now.
Ther wolde I fayn that were yset the prikke -
Nat for myself, I shal do wel ynow -
But, sone, for that swiche men as thow,
That with the world wrastlen, mighte han plentee
Of coyn, whereas yee han now scarsetee.
"Now hath this land but litil neede of bromes
To sweepe away the filthe out of the street,
Syn syde sleeves of penylees gromes
Wole it up likke, be it drie or weet.
O Engeland, stande upright on thy feet!
So foul a waast in so symple degree
Banisshe, or sore it shal repente thee.
"If a wight vertuous but narwe clothid
To lordes courtes now adayes go,
His conpaignie is unto folkes lothid;
Men passen by him bothe to and fro,
And scorne him for he is arraied so.
To hir conceit is no wight vertuous
But he that of array is outrageous.
"But he that flatere can or be a baude,
And by tho tweyne fressh array him gete,
It holden is to him honour and laude.
Trouthe and clennesse musten men forgete
In lordes courtes, for they hertes frete;
They hyndren folk. Fy upon tonges treewe!
They displesance in lordes courtes breewe.
"Lo, sone myn, that tale is at an eende.
Now, goode sone, have of me no desdeyn,
Thogh I be old and myn array untheende,
For many a yong man, woot I wel certeyn,
Of corage is so prowd and so hauteyn
That to the poore and old mannes doctryne
Ful seelde him deyneth bowen or enclyne.
"Senek seith, age is an infirmitee
That leche noon can cure ne it hele,
For to the deeth next neigheburgh is he.
Ther may no wight the chartre of lyf ensele;
The ende is deeth of male and of femele;
Nothyng is more certeyn than deeth is,
Ne more uncerteyn than the tyme, ywis.
"As touchynge age, God in Holy Writ
Right thus seith: 'Fadir and modir honure,
That thow maist be long-lyved' - thus he bit.
Than moot it folwen upon this scripture,
Age is a guerdoun to a creature,
And long-lyved is noon withouten age,
Wherfore I seye, in elde is avauntage;
"And the reward of God may nat be smal;
His giftes been ful noble and profitable;
Forthy ne lakke thow nat age at al.
Whan youthe is past is age sesonable;
Age hath insighte how unseur and unstable
This worldes cours is by lengthe of his yeeres,
And can deffende him from his sharpe breres.
"Lord, whethir it be maistrie to knowe
Whan a man ofte hath sundry weyes ride,
Which is the beste? Nay, for soothe, I trowe,
Right so he that hath many a world abide
There he in youthe wroghte mis or dide,
His age it seeth and bit him it eschue
And seekith weyes covenable and due.
"Whan that thow hast assayed bothe two,
Sad age, I seye, aftir thy skittissh yowthe,
As thow moot needes atteyne therto
Or sterve yong, than trowe I thow wilt bowe thee
To swiche conceites as I have nowthe,
And thanke God devoutly in thyn herte
That He hath suffrid thee thy yowthe asterte.
"Youthe ful smal reward hath to goodnesse,
And peril dredith he noon, woot I wel;
Al his devocion and holynesse
At the taverne is, as for the moost del;
To Bachus signe and to the levesel
His youthe him halith, and whan it him happith
To chirche goon, of nycetee he clappith.
"The cause why men oghten thidir goon,
Nat cause can his wilde steerissh heed
To folwen it. Also, boote is it noon
To telle it him, for thogh men sowen seed
Of vertu, in a yong man it is deed;
As blyve his rebel goost it mortifieth.
Al thyng sauf folie in a yong man dieth.
"Whan I was yong, I was ful rechelees,
Prowd, nyce, and riotous for the maistrie,
And among othir, consciencelees.
By that sette I nat the worth of a flie;
And of hem hauntid I the conpaignie
That wente on pilgrimage to taverne,
Which before unthrift berith the lanterne.
"There offred I wel more than my tythe,
And withdrow Holy Chirche his duetee.
My freendes me conseillid often sythe
That I with lownesse and humilitee
To my curat go sholde and make his gree,
But straw, unto hir reed wolde I nat bowe
For aght they cowden preyen alle or wowe!
"Whan folk wel reuled dressid hem to bedde
In tyme due by reed of nature,
To the taverne qwikly I me spedde
And pleide at dees whil the nyght wolde endure.
There the former of every creature
Dismembred I with oothes grete, and rente
Lym fro lym or that I thennes wente.
"And ofte it fals was that I swoor or spak,
For the desir fervent of covetyse
Fond in perjurie no deffaute or lak,
But evere entyced me that in al wyse
Myne oothes grete I sholde excercyse,
And specially for lucre, in al maneere,
Swere and forswere with bold face and cheere.
"But this condicioun, lo, hadde I evere:
Thogh I prowd were in wordes or in speeche,
Whan strokes cam, a place I gan dissevere;
Fro my felawes soghte I nevere leeche
For hurt which that I took; what sholde I seeche
A salve whan I therof had no neede?
I hurtlees was ay thurgh impressid dreede.
"Tho mighte I spende an hundred mark by yeer,
Al thyng deduct, my sone, I gabbe noght.
I was so prowd, I heeld no man my peere;
In pryde and leccherie was al my thoght.
No more I hadde set therby or roght
A wyf or mayde or nonne to deffoule
Than sheete or pleyen at the bal or boule.
"Right nyce girles at my retenue
Had I an heep, wyves and othir mo -
What so they were, I wolde noon eschue;
And yeeres fele I continued so.
Allas, I nothyng was waar of the wo
That folwed me; I lookid nat behynde;
Conceites yonge been ful dirk and blynde.
"An office also hadde I lucratyf,
And wan ynow, God woot, and mochil more,
But nevere thoghte I in al my yong lyf
What I unjustly gat for to restore,
Wherfore I now repente wondir sore;
As it misgoten was, mis was despendid,
Of which our lord God greetly was offendid.
"He sy I nolde absteene for no good
Of myn outrageous iniquitee,
And whan that His lust was, withdrow the flood
Of welthe, and at ground ebbe sette He me;
With povert for my gilt me feffid He.
Swich wreche took He for my cursid synne;
No more good have I than I stonde ynne.
"Gold, silver, jewel, clooth, beddyng, array -
Ne have I noon othir than thow maist see;
Pardee, this bare old russet is nat gay,
And in my purs so grete sommes be
That ther nis contour in al Cristientee
Which that hem can at any noumbre sette.
That shalt thow see, my purs I wole unshette.
"Come hidir to me, sone, and looke whethir
In this purs ther be any crois or crouche
Sauf nedel and threde and themel of lethir;
Heer seestow naght that man may handele or touche.
The feend, men seyn, may hoppen in a pouche
Whan that no crois therynne may appeere,
And by my purs the same I may seye heere.
"O, where is now al the wantoun moneye
That I was maistir of and governour,
Whan I kneew nat what povert was to seye?
Now is povert the glas and the mirour
In which I see my God, my sauveour.
Or povert cam, wiste I nat what God was,
But now I knowe and see Him in this glas.
"And where be my gownes of scarlet,
Sangwyn, murray, and blewes sadde and lighte;
Greenes also, and the fair violet;
Hors and harneys, fressh and lusty in sighte -
My wikkid lyf hath put al this to flighte.
But, certes, yit me greeveth moost of alle,
My frendshipe is al clene fro me falle.
"O whyle I stood in wele, I was honurid
And many oon of my conpaignie glad,
And now I am mislookid on and lourid;
Ther rekkith noon how wo I be bystad.
O Lord, this world unstable is and unsad;
This world honureth nat mannes persone
For himself, sone, but for good allone.
"Ful sooth fynde I the word of Salomon,
That to moneie obeien alle thynges;
For that my coyn and coynworth is agoon,
Contrarien they my wil and my biddynges,
That in my welthe with hir flaterynges
Heelden with me what that I wroghte or seide;
Now disobeyen they that thanne obeide.
"Now seyn they thus: 'I wiste wel alway
That him destroie wolde his fool largesse;
I tolde him so and evere he seide nay.'
And yit they lien, also God me blesse;
They me conforted ay in myn excesse,
And seide I was a manly man withalle;
Hir hony wordes tornen me to galle.
"God, which of His benigne courtesie,
And of His cheere lovynge tendrenesse,
He of the synful hath nat wole he die,
But lyve for to amende his wikkidnesse;
Him thanke I and His infynyt goodnesse;
His grace lykith that thurgh worldly peyne
My soule eschape may the feendes cheyne.
"Job hadde an hevyer fal than I, pardee,
For he was clumben hyer in richesse,
And paciently he his adversitee
Took, as the Byble bere can witnesse.
And aftirward, God al his hevynesse
Torned to joie, and so may He do myn
Whan that it lykith to His myght devyn.
"Lord, as Thee list, right so Thow to me do;
But evere I hope seur been of that place
Which that Thy mercy boght us hath unto,
If that us list for to sue Thy grace.
A! Lord almighty, in my lyves space,
Of my gilt graunte Thow me repentance,
And Thy strook take in greable souffrance.
"I cowde of youthe han talkid more and told
Than I have doon, but the day passith swythe,
And eek me lever is by many fold
Thy greef to knowe which that sit so ny thee.
Telle on anoon, my goode sone, and hye thee,
And I shal herknen as thow hast doon me,
And, as I can, wole I conseille thee."
"Grant mercy, deere fadir, of your speeche.
Yee han right wel me conforted and esid;
And hertily I preye yow and byseeche,
What I first to yow spak, be nat displesid;
It reewith me if I yow have disesid,
And meekly yow byseeche I of pardoun,
Me submittynge unto correccioun.
"I woot wel first, whan that I with yow mette,
I was ful mad and spak ful rudely.
Thogh I nat slepte, yit my spirit mette
Ful angry dremes; thoght ful bysyly
Vexid my goost so that nothyng wiste I
What that I to yow spak or what I thoghte,
But heer and there I myselven soghte.
"I preye yow, deemeth nat that in despyt
I hadde yow for age or povertee;
I mente it nat, but I stood in swich plyt
That it was nothyng likly unto me,
Thogh yee had knowen al my privetee,
That yee mighten my greef thus han abregged
As yee han doon, so sore I was agregged.
"Fadir, as wysly God me save and speede,
Yee been nat he whom that I wende han fownde;
Yee been to me ful welcome in this neede.
I woot wel yee in hy vertu habownde;
Your wys reed hope I hele shal my wownde;
My day of helthe is present, as me thynkith;
Your confort deepe into myn herte synkith.
"Myn herte seith that your benevolence,
Of routhe meeved and verray pitee
Of my wo, dooth his peyne and diligence
Me to releeve of myn infirmitee.
O, goode fadir, blessid moot yee be,
That han swich routhe of my woful estat,
Which wel ny was of helthe desperat.
"But, fadir, thogh ther be dyversitee
Ful greet betwixt your excellent prudence
And the folie that regneth in me,
Yit, God it woot, ful litil difference
Is ther betwixt the hete and the fervence
Of love which to agid folk yee have
And myn, althogh yee deeme I hem deprave.
"For if that I the soothe shal confesse,
The lak of olde mennes cherisshynge
Is cause and ground of al myn hevynesse
And encheson of my woful mournynge.
That shal yee knowe, if it be your lykynge
The cause wite of myn adversitee."
"Yis, telle on in the name of Cryst," seide he.
"Sauf first, or thow any ferther proceede,
O thyng of thee wite wolde I, my sone:
Wher dwellist thow?" "Fadir, withouten dreede,
In the office of the Privee Seel I wone
And wryte - there is my custume and wone
Unto the Seel, and have twenti yeer
And foure come Estren, and that is neer."
"Now sikir, sone, that is a fair tyme;
The tokne is good of thy continuance.
Come hidir, goode, and sitte adoun heer by me,
For I moot reste a whyle; it is penance
To me thus longe walke - it dooth nusance
Unto my crookid, feeble lymes olde,
That been so stif, unnethe I may hem folde."
Whan I was set adoun as he me preide,
"Telle on," seide he, "how is it with thee, how?"
And I began my tale and thus I seide:
"My lige lord, the kyng which that is now,
I fynde to me gracious ynow;
God yilde him, he hath for my long servyse
Guerdouned me in covenable wyse.
"In th'eschequeer, he of his special grace
Hath to me grauntid an annuitee
Of twenti mark whyle I have lyves space.
Mighte I ay payd been of that duetee,
It sholde stonde wel ynow with me;
But paiement is hard to gete adayes,
And that me putte in many foule affrayes.
"It gooth ful streite and sharpe or I it have.
If I seur were of it be satisfied
Fro yeer to yeer, thanne, so God me save,
My deepe-rootid greef were remedied
Souffissantly. But how I shal be gyed
Heeraftir, whan that I no lenger serve -
This hevyeth me so that I wel ny sterve.
"For syn that I now in myn age greene,
And beynge in court, with greet peyne unnethe
Am paid, in elde and out of court, I weene,
My purs for that may be a ferthyng shethe;
Lo, fadir myn, this dullith me to dethe.
Now God helpe al, for but he me socoure,
My future yeeres lyk been to be soure."

"Ther preeve I shal the mutabilitee
Of this wrecchid worldes affeccion,
Which, whan that youthe is past, begynneth flee.
Frendshipe, adieu! Farwel, dileccion!
Age is put out of your proteccion;
His look unlusty and his inpotence
Qwenchith your love and your benevolence.
"That aftirclap in my mynde so deepe
Yficchid is, and hath swich roote ycaght,
That al my joie and mirthe is leid to sleepe;
My ship is wel ny with despeir yfraght.
They that nat konne lerned be ne taght
By swiche ensamples smerte as they han seen,
Me thynkith certes over blynde been.
"Allas! I see routhe and pitee exylid
Out of this land. Allas, conpassioun!
Whan shul yee thre to us be reconsylid?
Your absence is my grevous passioun;
Resorte, I preye yow, to this regioun;
O, come ageyn! The lak of your presence
Manaceth me to sterve in indigence.
"O fikil world, allas thy variance!
How many a gentil man may men now see
That whilom in the werres olde of France
Honured were and holde in greet cheertee
For hir prowesse in armes, and plentee
Of freendes hadde in youthe, and now, for shame,
Allas, hir frendshipe is crookid and lame!
"Now age unourne away puttith favour
That floury youthe in his seson conquerde;
Now al forgote is the manly labour
Thurgh which ful ofte they hir foos aferde.
Now been tho worthy men bet with the yerde
Of neede, allas, and noon hath of hem routhe;
Pitee I trowe is biried, by my trouthe.
"If shee be deed, God have hir soule, I preye,
And so shal mo heeraftir preye, I trowe.
He that pretendith him of moost nobleye,
If he hir lakke, shal wel wite and knowe
That crueltee hir fo may but a throwe
Him suffre for to lyve in any welthe;
Herte pitous to body and soule is helthe.
"Yee olde men of armes, that han knowe
By sight and by report hir worthynesse,
Lat nat mescheef tho men thus overthrowe;
Kythe upon hem your manly gentillesse.
Yee yonge men that entre into prowesse
Of armes eek, youre fadres olde honurith;
Helpe hem yourself, or sum good hem procurith.
"Knyghthode, awake! Thow sleepist to longe;
Thy brothir, see, ny dieth for mescheef;
Awake and reewe upon his peynes stronge.
If thow heeraftir come unto swich preef,
Thow wilt ful sore thriste aftir releef;
Thow art nat seur what that thee shal befalle.
Welthe is ful slipir; be waar lest thow falle.
"Thow that yclomben art in hy honoures,
And hast this worldes welthe at thy devys,
And bathist now in youthes lusty floures;
Be waar, rede I, thow standist on the ys.
It hath been seen, as weleful and as wys
As thow han slide; and thow that no pitee
On othir folk hast, who shal reewe on thee?
"Leeve me wel, ther is noon eerthely man
That hath so stable a welthe but that it
May faille, do he what that he do can.
God as him list visitith folk and smit;
Wherfore I deeme and holde it grace and wit
In hy estat, man God and himself knowe,
And releeve hem that mescheef hath doun throwe.
"God wole that the needy be releeved;
It is oon of the werkis of mercy.
And syn tho men that been in armes preeved
Been into povert falle, treewely
Yee men of armes oghten specially
Helpe hem. Allas! han yee no pitous blood
That may yow stire for to doon hem good?
"O now in ernest, deere fadir myn,
Thise worthy men to me the mirour shewe
Of slipir frendshipe, and unto what fyn
I drawe shal withyn a yeeres fewe.

"In feith, fadir, my lyflode, besyde
Th'annuite of which above I tolde,
May nat exceede yeerly in no tyde
Six marc. That sit to myn herte so colde,
Whan that I looke abouten and beholde
How scars it is, if that that othir faille,
That I nat glade can but mourne and waille.
"And as ferfoorth as I can deeme or gesse,
Whan I at hoom dwelle in my poore cote,
I fynde shal as freendly slipirnesse
As tho men now doon, whos frendshipe is rote.
Nat wolde I rekke as mochil as a mote,
Thogh I no more hadde of yeerly encrees,
So that I mighte ay payed be doutlees.
"Two parties of my lyf and mochil more
I seur am past been - I ne doute it noght;
And if that I sholde in my yeeres hore
Forgo my duetee that I have boght
With my flessh and my blood, that hevy thoght,
Which I drede ay shal falle as I it thynke,
Me hastith blyve unto my pittes brynke.
Faylynge, fadir, myn annuitee,
Foot-hoot in me creepith disese and wo,
For they that han byfore knowen me,
Faylynge good, me faille wole also.
Who no good hath is fer his freendes fro.
In muk is al this worldes freendlyhede;
My goost is wrappid in an hevy drede.
"If that I hadde of custume or this tyme
Lyved in indigences wrecchidnesse,
The lesse heeraftir sholde it sit by me;
But in myn age wrastle with hardnesse,
That with him stroglid nevere in the grennesse
Of youthe - that mutacion and chaunge
Anothir day me seeme sholde al straunge.
"He that nevere kneew the swetnesse of wele,
Thogh he it lakke ay, lesse him greeve it shal
Than him that hath been welthy yeeres fele,
And in effect hath felt no greef at al.
O povert, God me sheelde fro thy fal!
O deeth! Thy strook yit is more agreable
To me than lyve a lyf so miserable.
"Six marc yeerly and no more than that,
Fadir, to me me thynkith is ful lyte,
Considerynge how that I am nat
In housbondrye lerned worth a myte;
Scarsely kowde I charre away the kyte
That me byreve wolde my pullaille,
And more axith housbondly governaille.
"With plow can I nat medlen ne with harwe,
Ne woot nat what lond good is for what corn,
And for to lade a cart or fille a barwe,
To which I nevere usid was toforn;
My bak unbuxum hath swich thyng forsworn,
At instaunce of wrytynge, his werreyour,
That stowpynge hath him spilt with his labour.
"Many men, fadir, weenen that wrytynge
No travaille is; they holde it but a game;
Aart hath no fo but swich folk unkonnynge.
But whoso list desporte him in that same,
Let him continue and he shal fynde it grame;
It is wel gretter labour than it seemeth;
The blynde man of colours al wrong deemeth.
"A wryter moot thre thynges to him knytte,
And in tho may be no disseverance:
Mynde, ye, and hand - noon may from othir flitte,
But in hem moot be joynt continuance;
The mynde al hool, withouten variance,
On ye and hand awayte moot alway,
And they two eek on him, it is no nay.
"Whoso shal wryte, may nat holde a tale
With him and him, ne synge this ne that;
But al his wittes hoole, grete and smale,
Ther muste appeere and holden hem therat;
And syn he speke may ne synge nat,
But bothe two he needes moot forbere,
His labour to him is the elengere.
"Thise artificers see I day by day,
In the hootteste of al hir bysynesse,
Talken and synge and make game and play,
And foorth hir labour passith with gladnesse;
But we laboure in travaillous stilnesse;
We stowpe and stare upon the sheepes skyn,
And keepe moot our song and wordes yn.
"Wrytyng also dooth grete annoyes thre,
Of which ful fewe folkes taken heede
Sauf we ourself, and thise, lo, they be:
Stommak is oon, whom stowpynge out of dreede
Annoyeth sore; and to our bakkes neede
Moot it be grevous; and the thridde oure yen
Upon the whyte mochil sorwe dryen.
"What man that three and twenti yeer and more
In wrytynge hath continued, as have I,
I dar wel seyn, it smertith him ful sore
In every veyne and place of his body;
And yen moost it greeveth, treewely,
Of any craft that man can ymagyne.
Fadir, in feith, it spilt hath wel ny myne.
"Lo, fadir, told have I yow the substance
Of al my greef, so as that I can telle.
But wel I woot it hath been greet penance
To yow with me so longe for to dwelle;
I am right sikir it hath been an helle
Yow for to herkne me thus jangle and clappe,
So lewdly in my termes I me wrappe.
"But, nathelees, truste I your pacience
Receyve wole in gree my wordes alle,
And what misseid I have of negligence,
Yee wole it lete asyde slippe and falle.
My fadir deere, unto your grace I calle;
Yee woot my greef; now redith me the beste,
Withouten whom my goost can have no reste."
"Now, sone myn, hastow al seid and spoke
That thee good lykith?" "Yee, fadir, as now."
"Sone, if aght in thyn herte elles be loke,
Unloke it blyve. Come of, what seistow?"
"Fadir, I can no more telle yow
Than I before spoken have and said."
"A Goddes half, sone, I am wel apaid.
"Conceyved have I that thow greet fere haast
Of povert for to fallen in the snare;
Thow haast therynne caght so deep a taast
That of al joie thow art voide and bare.
Thow ny despeired art of al welfare,
And the strook of povert art thow fer fro;
For shame, why makist thow al this wo?
"I putte cas, as God therfro thee keepe,
Thow were yfalle in indigent povert.
Sholdest thow grucche and thyn annoy byweepe?
Nay, be thow ryche or poore, or seek or qwert,
God thanke alway of thyn ese and thy smert;
Pryde thee nat for no prosperitee,
Ne hevye thee for noon adversitee.
"Povert hath in himself ynow grevance
Withouten that that man him more purchace;
Whoso it takth in pacient souffrance,
It is ful plesant beforn Crystes face;
And whoso grucchith, forfetith that grace
That he sholde han if that his pacience
Withstood the greef and made it resistence.
"My sone, as witnessith Holy Scripture,
Discreet and honest povert many fold
Commendid is. Cryst Himself, I thee ensure,
To love and teche and prechen it hath wold;
He dide al this. Be thow nevere so bold
Ageyn povert heeraftir grucche, I rede;
For ferthermore, in Holy Writ I rede:
"Beholde the lyf of our Sauveour,
Right fro the tyme of His nativitee
Unto His deeth, as that seith myn auctour,
And tokne in it shalt thow noon fynde or se
But of povert with which content was He.
Is man bettre than God? Shal man eschue
Swich lyf, syn God that same wolde ay sue?
"Fy! It is to greet an abusioun
To seen a man that is but wormes mete
Desire ryche and greet possessioun,
Wheras our lord God wolde Him entremete
Of no richesse - He deyned it nat gete;
He lyved poorely and povert chees,
That mighte han been ful ryche, it is no lees.
"The poore man sleepith ful sikirly
On nyghtes, thogh his dore be nat shit,
Whereas the riche abedde bysyly
Castith and ymagyneth in his wit
That necessarie unto him is it
Barres and lokkes stronge for to have,
His good from theeves for to keepe and save.
"And whan the deed sleep fallith atte laste
On him, he dremeth theeves comen yn
And on his cofres knokke and leye on faste;
And some hem pyke with a sotil gyn,
And up is broken lok, hasp, barre, and pyn,
And in the hand gooth, and the bagge out takith,
For sorwe of which, out of his sleep he wakith;
"And up he rysith, foot and hand tremblynge,
As that assaillid him the palesie,
And at a stirt, withouten taryynge,
Unto his cofre he dressith him in hye;
Or he ther come, he is in poynt to dye;
He it undooth and opneth for to se
If that his false goddes therin be.
"He dredith fynde it as that he hath drempt.
This worldes power and ryche habundance
Of drede of peril nevere been exempt,
But in povert is ay sikir constance;
Who holdith him content hath souffissance.

"Wilful povert in princes ancien
So ferfoorth was that they desired more
Good loos than good, but now adayes men
Yerne and desyren aftir muk so sore
That they good fame han leid a watir yore,
And rekken nevere how longe it ther stepe
Or thogh it drenche, so they good may grepe.
"Of Sysile whilom ther was a kyng
With eerthen vessel served at his table,
And men wondrynge faste upon this thyng
Seide unto him, it was nat honurable
To his estat, ne nothyng commendable,
Axynge him why him list be served so;
To which demande he answerde tho:
"He seide, 'Thogh I kyng be of Sysile,
A potter was my fadir, it is no nay.
How longe I shal enduren or what while
In my prosperitee, nat knowe I may.
Fortunes variaunce I drede alway;
Right as shee made me to clymbe on highte,
Sodeynly so shee may me make alighte.
"'I thynke alway of my nativitee,
And of my poore lenage and my blood;
Eerthen vessel to swich a man as me
Ful sittyng is and acceptable and good.'
O fewe been ther now left of the brood
That he cam of - he loved bet profyt
Commun than his avantage or delyt.
"How seistow by Affrican Scipion -
Affrican clept for that he Affrik wan?
To povert hadde he swich affecion
Of his owne free wil and lust, that whan
He dyde, no good had this worthy man
Wherwith his body upon eerthe brynge,
But the commun cost made his enterynge.
"Beforn the senat was he bore on honde,
Ones aftir he Affrik wonnen hadde,
That he was ryche, as they cowde undirstonde,
Of gold, to which with wordes sobre and sadde
Answerde he thus: 'Thogh I be feeble and badde,
The soothe is, unto your subjeccioun
I gat Affrik, of that have I renoun.
"'My name was al that I there gat;
To wynne honour was oonly the purpoos
Which that I took or that I cam therat.
Othir good had I noon than ryche loos;
For al the good ther was open or cloos,
Myn herte mighte nat so wel contente
As the renoun oonly that I ther hente.
"Of covetyse he was nothyng coupable;
He sette nat therby, thow maist wel se.
Fy on the greedynesse insaciable
Of many a man that can nat content be
Of muk, althogh nevere so moche have he!
The kynde is evere of wrecchid covetyse
To coveite ay and have and nat souffyse.
"I wolde every knyght dide now the same,
And were of good no more coveitous
Than he was. What! To gete a noble fame
To knyghthode is tresor moost precious;
But I was nevere so aventurous
Renoun to wynne by swerdes conquest,
For I was bred in a peisible nest.
"Upon my bak cam nevere haburgeon,
Ne my knyf drow I nevere in violence.
I may nat countrefete Scipion
In armes, ne his worthy excellence
Of wilful povert, but of indigence
I am as ryche as was evere any man;
Suffre it in pacience if that I can.
"No rycher man am I than thow maist see.
Of myne have I nothyng to take to;
I lyve of almesse. If it stood with thee
So streite and lyvedest as that I do,
I see thow woldest sorwe swiche two
As I; but thow hast for to lyven oon
A poore lyf, and swich ne have I noon.
"Salomon gaf conseil men sholden preye
Two thynges unto God in soothfastnesse.
Now herkne, sone, he bad men thus to seye:
'Enhance thow me, Lord, to no richesse,
Ne by miserie me so sore oppresse
That neede for to begge me conpelle' -
In his proverbes thus, lo, can he telle.
"But this povert mene conseillid he
Men to desire that was necessarie
To foode and clothe, dredynge lest plentee
Of good hem mighte make to miscarie
And fro the knowlechynge of God to varie,
And lest smert neede made hem God reneye.
Now be waar, sone, lest that thow foleye.
"Sone, in this mene povert holde I thee,
Sauf that thow canst nat taken it ful weel.
What thogh thow leese thyn annuitee?
Yit maistow lyven on that othir deel,
Thogh nat ful delicat shal be thy meel.
Of six marc yeerly, mete and drynke and clooth
Thow gete maist, my chyld, withouten ooth."
"Yee, fadir myn, I am nat so parfyt
To take it so; I have had habundance
Of welfare ay, and now stonde in the plyt
Of scarsetee. It were a greet penance
For me - God sheelde me fro that streit chance.
Six marc yeerly to scars is to susteene
The charges that I have, as that I weene.
"Tow on my distaf have I for to spynne
More, my fadir, than yee woot of yit,
Which yee shul knowe or that I fro yow twynne,
If your good lust be for to heeren it.
But for as moche as it nat to me sit
Your tale for to interrupte or breke,
Heeraftir to yow wole I therof speke.
"Yit o word, fadir. I have herd men seyn,
Whoso no good hath, that he can no good;
And that fynde I a plat soothe and a pleyn.
For althogh that myn heed undir myn hood
Was nevere wys, yit whyl it with me stood
So that I hadde silver resonable,
My lytil wit was sumwhat covenable.
"But now, for that I have a large lyte,
And likly am heeraftir to han lesse,
My dul wit can to me nothyng profyte;
I am so drad of moneyes scantnesse
That myn herte is al nakid of lightnesse.
Wisseth me how to gete a golden salve
And what I have I wole it with yow halve."
"Sone, as for me, neithir avaunte ne rere
But if disese algates shal betyde,
For to be pacient rede I thow lere;
For anythyng, withholde hir on thy syde.
My reed wole it nat, sone, fro thee hyde.
Make of necessitee, rede I, vertu,
For bettre reed can I noon, by Jhesu.
"My sone, they that swymmen in richesse
Continuelly, and han prosperitee,
And nevere han felt but weleful swetnesse,
Unscourgid ay of any adversitee,
Lest God forgete hem, oghten ferdful be,
Syn God in Holy Writ seith in this wyse:
'Whomso I love, him wole I chastyse.'
"Seint Ambroses legende seith how he
Ones to Romeward took his viage;
And in Tuscie toward that contree
With a ryche oost he took his herbergage.
Of whom, as blyve faire in his langage,
Of his estat enqueren he bygan,
And unto that answerde anoon this man:
"'Right at my lust have I al worldly welthe;
Myn estat hath been ay good, and yit is;
Richesse have I, frendshipe, and bodyes helthe;
Was nevere thyng me happid yit amis.'
And Seint Ambrose, astoned sore of this,
Anoon right rowned to his conpaignie,
'Sires, it is tyme that we hens hie.
"'I am adrad God is nat in this place;
Ga we faste hennes, lest that His vengeance
Falle on us.' And withynne a litil space,
Aftir they were agoon, shoop this meschance:
The ground claf and made disseverance,
And in sank man, womman, chyld, hous, and al
That to him appartened, grete and smal.
"Whan this cam to Ambroses audience,
He seide to his felawshipe thus:
'Lo, brethren, seeth heere in experience
How merciablely our lord Jhesus,
Of His benigne grace, hath sparid us.
He sparith hem that unwelthy heere been,
And to the welthy dooth as that yee seen.'
"This lyf, my sone, is but a chirie feire;
Worldly richesse, have ay in thy memorie,
Shal passe, al looke it nevere on men so feire.
Whyl thow art heere in this world transitorie,
Enable thee to wynne eternel glorie,
Wher no povert is but parfyt richesse
Of joie and blisse and vertuous gladnesse.
"O thyng telle I thee, sone, that is sooth:
Thogh o man hadde as moche as men han alle,
But vertu that good gye, al he misdooth;
Al that swetnesse torne shal to galle.
Whan that richesse is on a man yfalle,
If it be wrong despendid or miskept,
Anothir day ful sore it shal be wept.
"Sum ryche is large and his good misdespendith
In maintenance of synne and harlotrie -
To swiche despenses his lust him accendith;
And on that othir part, his nygardrie
Suffrith his neighburgh by him sterve and die,
Rather than with a ferthyng him releeve.
Tho two condicions been to repreeve.
"Whoso moost hath, he moost of shal answere;
O day shal come, sum men shal par chance
Desire he nevere hadde been rychere
Than heer han hadde his bare sustenance.
Whan the day comth of ire and of vengeance,
Than shal men seeme how in this world, I gesse,
Richesse is povert and povert richesse.
"Whyler, my sone, tolde I nat to thee
What habundance in yowthe I hadde of good?
And how me blente so prosperitee
That what God was I nothyng undirstood?
But ay whil that I in my welthe stood,
Aftir my flesshly lust my lyf I ledde,
And of His wreche nothyng I me dredde.
"And as I seide, He smoot me with the strook
Of povert, in which I continue yit,
Whos smert my good blood first so sore sook,
Or that I was aqweyntid wel with it,
That ny it hadde reft fro me my wit.
But sythen, thanke I God, in pacience
I have it take and shal for myn offense.
"If thee list flee that may povert engendre,
First synne eschue and God honure and drede.
Also, for thy lyflode is scars and sclendre,
Despende nat to largely, I rede.
Mesure is good, let hir thee gye and lede;
Be waar of outrage, and be sobre and wys;
Thus thow exclude him shalt, by myn avys.
"Nathelees, thow maist ageyn me replie:
'To sum folk, thogh they doon al as I seye,
Ageyn povert it is no remedie;
They mowe it nat eschue by no weye.'
I graunte wel, but than take heede, I preye.
The jugementz of God been to us hid;
Take alle in gree, so is thy vertu kid.
"To the plesaunce of God thow thee conforme;
Aboute that be bisy and ententyf.
That thow misdoon hast, thow blyve it reforme;
Swich laborer thee kythe heere in this lyf
That God thy soule, which that is His wyf,
Rejoise may for it is to Him due,
And His shal be but thow the devors sue.
"O thow Fortune, fals and deceyvable,
Ful sooth is it, if thow do a good deede,
Thow nat purposist it shal be durable;
Of good entente shal it nat proceede.
Wel oghte us thy promesses blynde dreede.
He slipirly stant whom that thow enhauncest,
For sodeynliche thow him disavauncest.
"Hadde I doon, sone, as I thee consaille
Whan that Fortunes deceyvable cheere
Lawhid on me, than hadde I nat, sanz faille,
Been in this wrecchid plyt as thow seest heere.
Nat kneew my youthe hir changeable maneere,
For whan I sat on hy upon hir wheel,
Hir gladsum look me made truste hir weel.
"I cowde for nothyng han wend or deemed
That shee aboute baar double visage;
I wende shee had been swich as shee seemed.
But nathelees yit is it avantage
To him that woful is, that hir usage
Is for to flitte fro place to place;
Hir variaunce is unto sum folk grace.
"Whomso that neede greeveth and travaillith,
Hir chaunge is unto him no greef or wo;
But the contrarie of that nothyng availlith,
As whan a man is wel put him therfro.
What shal man calle hir? Freend or elles fo?
I not, but calle hir freend whan that shee esith,
And calle hir fo whan that shee man displesith.
"But whoso calle hir shal a sikir name,
Men moot hir clepe my lady changeable,
For hardily shee is that selve same.
A, nay, I gabbe! I am unresonable.
Shee is my lady stidefast and stable,
For I endure in povertes distresse
And shee nat list remue my duresse.
"I ymagyne why that nat hir list
With me now dele; age is cold and drie,
And whan tho two been to a lady wist,
And that I poore am eek for the maistrie,
Swich a man is unlusty to hir ye,
And wers to grope - straw for inpotence!
Shee loveth yong folk and large of despense.
"Al this that I have of Fortune seid
Is but a jape, as who seith, or a knak.
Now I a whyle bourded have and pleid,
Resorte I wole to that I first spak.
Beholde and caste thow thyn ye abak;
What thow God hast agilt in tyme past,
Correcte it and to do so eft be gast.
"Of Holy Chirche, my sone, I conceyve
As yit ne hast thow noon avancement.
Yee courteours, ful often yee deceyve
Youre soules for the desirous talent
Yee han to good; and for that thow art brent
With covetyse now, par aventure,
Oonly for muk thow yernest soules cure.
"Ful many men knowe I that gane and gape
Aftir sum fat and ryche benefice;
Chirche or provendre unnethe hem may eschape
But they as blyve it henten up and tryce.
God graunte they accepte hem for the office
And nat for the profyt that by hem hongith,
For that conceit nat to presthode longith.
"A dayes now, my sone, as men may see,
O chirche unto o man may nat souffyse;
But algate he moot han pluralitee,
Elles he can nat lyven in no wyse.
Ententyfly he keepith his service
In court; his labour there shal nat moule;
But to his cure looketh he ful foule.
"Thogh that his chauncel roof be al totorn
And on the hy auter it reyne or sneewe,
He rekkith nat, the cost may be forborn
Crystes hous to repeire or make neewe;
And thogh ther be ful many a vicious heewe
Undir his cure, he takth of it no keep;
He rekkith nevere how rusty been his sheep.
"The oynement of holy sermonynge
Him looth is upon hem for to despende.
Sum person is so thredbare of konnynge
That he can naght, thogh he him wys pretende;
And he that can may nat his herte bende
Therto, but from his cure he him absentith,
And what therof comth, greedyliche he hentith.
"How he despendith it, be as be may,
For unto that am I nothyng pryvee;
But wel I woot, as nyce, fressh, and gay
Some of hem been as borel folkes be,
And that unsittynge is to hir degree;
Hem owith to be mirours of sadnesse,
And weyve jolitee and wantonnesse.
"But nathelees, I woot wel therageyn,
That many of hem gye hem as hem oghte,
And elles were it greet pitee, certeyn.
But what man wilt thow be, for Him thee boghte?"
"Fadir, I may nat cheese. I whilom thoghte
Han been a preest; now past am I the raas."
"Than art thow, sone, a weddid man, par caas?"
"Yee soothly, fadir myn, right so I am;
I gazid longe first and waytid faste
Aftir sum benefice, and whan noon cam,
By procees I me weddid atte laste.
And God it woot, it sore me agaste
To bynde me, where I was at my large;
But doon it was, I took on me that charge."
"A sone, I have espyed and now see
This is the tow that thow speek of right now!"
"Now by the Rood, fadir, sooth seyn yee."
"Yee, sone myn, thow shalt do wel ynow.
Whan endid is my tale, than shalt thow
Be put in swich a way as shal thee plese,
And to thyn herte do confort and ese.
"So longe as thow, sone, in the Privee Seel
Dwelt hast and woldest fayn han been avanced
Unto sum chirche or this, I deeme weel
That God nat wolde have thee enhanced
In no swich plyt; I holde thee wel chanced;
God woot and knowith every hid entente;
He for thy beste a wyf unto thee sente.
"If that thow haddest par cas been a preest,
Thow woldest han as wantounly thee gyed
As dooth the nyceste of hem that thow seest;
And God forbeede thow thee haddest tyed
Therto but if thyn herte might han plyed
For to observe it wel. Be glad and merie;
That thow art as thow art, God thanke and herie.
"The ordres of preesthode and of wedlok
Been bothe vertuous, withouten fable;
But undirstonde wel, the holy yok
Of preesthode is, as it is resonable
That it so be, the more commendable;
The lesse of hem of meede hath habundance;
Men han meryt aftir hir governance.
"But how been thy felawes lookid to
At hoom? Been they nat wel ybeneficed?"
"Yis, fadir, yis. Ther is oon clept Nemo:
He helpith hem, by him been they chericed;
Nere he, they weren poorely chevyced;
He hem avanceth, he fully hir freend is;
Sauf oonly him, they han but fewe freendes.
"So many a man as they this many a yeer
Han writen fore, fynde can they noon
So gentil or of hir estat so cheer
That ones list for hem to ryde or goon,
Ne for hem speke a word, but doumb as stoon
They standen where hir speeche hem mighte availle,
For swich folk is unlusty to travaille.
"But if a wight have a cause to sue
To us, sum lordes man shal undirtake
To sue it out, and that that is us due
For our labour, him deyneth us nat take;
He seith his lord to thanke us wole he make;
It touchith him, it is a man of his,
Wher the revers of that, God woot, sooth is.
"His lettre he takith and foorth gooth his way,
And biddith us to douten us nothyng;
His lord shal thanken us anothir day;
And if we han to sue to the kyng,
His lord may there have al his axyng.
We shul be sped as fer as that our bille
Wole specifie th'effect of oure wille.
"What shul we do? We dar noon argument
Make ageyn him, but faire and wel him trete,
Lest he reporte amis and make us shent;
To have his wil we suffren him and lete.
Hard is be holden suspect with the grete;
His tale shal be leeved but nat ouris,
And that conclusioun to us ful soure is.
"And whan the mateere is to ende ybroght
Of the straunger for whom the suyte hath be,
Than is he to the lord knowen right noght;
He is to him as unknowen as we;
The lord nat woot of al this sotiltee,
Ne we nat dar lete him of it to knowe,
Lest our conpleynte ourselven overthrowe.
"And wher this bribour hath no peny payed
In our office, he seith behynde our bak,
'He payde I not what.' Thus been we betrayed
And desclaundred, and put in wyt and lak
Ful giltelees; and eek by swich a knak
The man for whom the suyte is, is deceyved;
He weeneth we han of his gold receyved.
"Ful many swiche pursuours ther been
That for us take, and geve us nat a myte;
This makith us that we may nevere theen.
Eek whereas lordes bidde hir men us qwyte
Whan that we for hemself laboure and wryte,
And been allowed for our paiement,
Oure handes therof been ful innocent.
"Nat seye I alle lordes men thus do
That sue unto our court, but many I seye
Han thus doon ofte. Lo, my fadir, lo!
Thus bothe our thanke and lucre goon aweye.
God geve hem sorwe that so with us pleye,
For we it fynden ernest at the fulle;
This makith us of our labour to dulle.
"Now, fadir myn, how thynkith yow heerby?
Suppose yee nat that this sit us sore?"
"Yis, certes, sone; that ful wel woot I.
Hastow seid, sone? Wilt thow aght seye more?"
"Nay, sire, as now, but ay upon your lore
I herkne as bisyly as I best can."
"Sone, than lat us speke as we bygan.
"Seye on the soothe, I preye thee hertily,
What was thy cause why thow took a wyf?
Was it to gete children lawfully,
And in clennesse to lede thy lyf,
Or for lust or muk - what was thy motyf?"
"Fadir, nothyng wole I it qweynte make;
Oonly for love I chees hir to my make."
"Sone, what holdist thow love, I thee preye?
Thow deemest lust and love convertible,
Par cas, as whan thee list with thy wyf pleye,
Thy conceit holdith it good and lisible
To doon? Artow aght, sone myn, sensible
In which cas that thow oghtest thee forbere
And in which nat - canst thow to this answere?"
"Fadir, me thynkith al is good ynow.
Shee is my wyf - who may therof me lette?"
"Nay, sone, abyde and I shal tellen how,
If that thow aght by Goddes drede sette.
Three causes been whiche I thee wole unshette
And opne anoon why thow shalt with hir dele.
Now herkne, sone, for thy soules hele.
"The firste cause, procreacioun
Of children, is unto Goddes honour;
To keepe eek thee fro fornicacioun
The next is; and the thridde of that labour,
Yilde thy dette in which thow art dettour
Unto thy wyf, and othre ententes alle
Leye hem apart for aght that may befalle.
"For thise causes thow here use must
And for noon othir, on peyne of deedly synne."
"Fadir, right now me thoghte how ageyn lust
Yee heeld and children begoten therynne,
Where is no lust." "O sone, or that we twynne,
Thow shalt wel undirstonde how that I
Nat holde ageynes lust al uttirly.
"I woot wel, leefful lust is necessarie;
Withouten that may be noon engendrure;
But use lust for lust oonly, contrarie
To Goddes heestes is; for I th'ensure,
Thogh thow take of it litil heede or cure,
A man may with his wyf do leccherie;
Th'entente is al; be waar ay of folie.
"Weddid folk many leden holy lyf,
For thogh hir flesshly lustes hem assaille
And stire hem often, the man to the wyf
And shee to him, they maken swich bataille
And stryf ageyn hir flessh that he shal faille
Of his purpos. But some folk as beestes
Hir lust ay folwen - in hem noon areest is.
"Adayes now there is swich governance
Among hem that han paramours and wyves
That, for lust of hir wommen and plesance,
Nat souffyse hem metes restauratives,
But they receyven eek provocatives
To engendre hem lust, feyntynge hir nature,
And swich thyng causith hastyf sepulture.
"This knowe I sooth is, and kneew fern agoon;
And they that so doon hyly God offende.
Swich folk holde I homicydes echoon;
They sleen hemself or God deeth to hem sende.
My sone, on Goddes half, I thee deffende
Swiche medecynes that thow nat receyve,
Syn they God wratthe and soule of man deceyve.
"Passe over this. Thow seidest th'enchesoun
Why that thow took upon thee mariage
Was unto noon othir entencioun
But love oonly thee sente that corage.
Now, sone myn, I am a man of age,
And many weddid couples have I knowe -
Noon of myn age, many mo, I trowe -
"But I ne saw ne I ne espyde nevere,
As longe as that I have lyved yit,
The love of hem departen or dissevere
That for good love bownden were and knyt;
God loveth love and He wole forthere it.
At long rennynge love best shal preeve;
Thus hath it been and ay shal, I byleeve.
"But they that marien hem for muk and good
Oonly, and nat for love of the persone,
Nat have I wist they any whyle stood
In reste, but of stryf is ther swich wone,
As for the more part, twixt hem echone,
That al hir lyf they lede in hevynesse;
Swich is the fruyt to wedde for richesse.
"Among the ryche also is an usage:
Eche of hem his chyld unto othres wedde,
Thogh they be al to yong and tendre of age,
Nowher ny rype ynow to go to bedde;
And hir conceit in love is leid to wedde -
Men wite it wel, it is no questioun -
Til yeeres come of hir discrecioun.
"And whan they han the knowleche of resoun,
Than may they neithir fynden in hir herte
To loven othir; al out of sesoun
They knyt been that into wedlok so sterte;
This makith many a couple for to smerte.
O covetyse, thyn is al the gilt
Of this, and mo deceyve yit thow wilt!
"Also they that for lust cheesen hir make
Oonly, as othirwhyle it is usage,
Wayte wel whan hir lust is overshake,
And therwith wole hir loves hete asswage.
Thanne is to hem an helle hir mariage;
Than they desyren for to been unknyt,
And to that ende studie in al hir wit.
"Styntynge cause, th'effect styntith eek;
No lenger forster, no lenger lemman;
Love on lust growndid is nat worth a leek.
But who for vertu weddith a womman,
And neithir for muk ne for lust, that man
The forme due of matrymoyne sueth,
And soules hurt and bodyes grief eschueth.
"I dar nat medle of lordes mariages -
How they hem knytten, hir makes unseen.
But as to me, it seemeth swiche usage is
Nat worth a straw, for also moot I theen,
Reportes nat so sikir juges been
As man to see the wommannes persone.
In swich a choys let man himself allone.
"Weddyng at hoom in this land holsum were,
So that a man him wedde duely.
To see the flessh first it may nothyng dere,
And him avyse how him lykith therby
Or he be knyt - lo! this conceit have I.
In this mateere depper cowde I go,
But passe I wole and slippe away therfro.
"Now sythen thow hast, to my jugement,
Thee maried unto Goddes plesance,
Be a treewe housbonde as by myn assent;
Keepe thy bond, be waar of th'encombrance
Of the feend which, with many a circumstance
Ful sly, him castith thee wrappe in and wrie
To stire thee for to doon advoutrie.
"Advoutrie and perjurie and wilful slaghtre,
The book seith, lyk been and o peys they weye. 5
Waar advoutrie, it is no play or laghtre
To doon it. Flee also thise othir tweye,
For thus woot I wel Seint Jerom can seye:
'In peyne advoutrie hath the second place.'
Tho thre to eschue, God thee graunte grace.
"I in the Bible rede how that Abram
To Egypt wente with his wyf Saray,
And whan that they ny unto Egypt cam,
Thus seide he unto his wyf by the way:
'I woot wel thow art fair, it is no nay;
Whan they of Egypt see thee, they wole seye,
"Thow art his wyf," and for thee do me deye.
"'They wolen kille me and thee reserve;
Forthy unto hem seye, I thee byseeche,
Thow art my suster, lest I for thee sterve;
Thus may I wel been esid by thy speeche;
And thus thow mayst lengthe my lyf and eeche.'
And whan they into Egypt entred were,
Th'Egipcians faste byheelden here,
"And of hir beautee maden they report
To Pharao, and shee as blyve is take
Into his hous, and doon is greet confort
Unto Abram for this wommannes sake,
And greet desport and cheere men hem make.
But for Saray grevously Pharao
Punysshid was and eek his hous therto.
"Pharao clepte Abram and him abreide:
'What is it that thow hast doon unto me?
Why naddist thow told unto me,' he seide,
'How that this womman wyf was unto thee?
For what encheson seidist thow,' quod he,
'Shee was thy suster? Take thy wyf heere'
Quod he, 'and bothe go your way in feere.'
"The Bible makith no manere of mynde
Whethir that Pharao lay by hir aght,
But looke in Lyre and there shalt thow fynde
For to han doon it was he in ful thoght;
But God preserved hir; he mighte noght.
And syn for wil God him punysshid so,
How shal the dede unpunysshid go?
"Also nat kneew he that a wyf shee was.
Now thanne, they that wyves wityngly
Taken and holde and with hem doon trespas
Stonde in hard plyt. Sone, be waar, rede I,
If thow therynne agilte, eternelly
Thow smerte shalt, and in this lyf present
Han sharp adversitee and greet torment.
"And to Abymalech God bad he sholde
Yilde Sara also to hir housbonde,
For he and his echone, if he ne wolde,
Sholden be deed, he dide him undirstonde.
Take heede, o sone, that thow cleere ay stonde,
For God stoppid eek the concepcioun
Of every womman of his mansioun.
"Ne that shee was a wyf wiste he nothyng
Ne nat here kneew in no flesshly folie.
My goode sone, rede of David kyng,
How he took Bersabee, wyf of Urie,
Into his hous and dide advoutrie;
And how he made Urie slayn to be,
And how therfore punysshid was he.
"How was the tribe also of Benjamyn
Punysshid and put to destruccion
For advoutrie which they lyved yn,
In the abhominable oppression
Of the Levytes wyf? Lo, mencion
Therof is maad, if thow looke Holy Writ:
In Judicum ful redily it sit.
"Whoso lyth with his neigheburghes wyf
Is cursid, and who is an advoutour
The kyngdam faille shal of endles lyf;
Of that ne shal he be no possessour.
Allas, this likerous, dampnable errour
In this lond hath so large a threde ysponne
That werse peple is noon undir the sonne.
"Of swiche stories cowde I telle an heep,
But I suppose thise shul souffyse,
And forthy, sone, wole I make a leep
From hem and go wole I to the empryse
That I first took. If thow thee wel avyse,
Whanne I thee mette and sy thyn hevynesse,
Of confort, sone, made I thee promesse.
"And of a treewe man, byheeste is dette."
"Fadir, God yilde it yow, and so yee diden;
Yee highten me in ese me to sette."
"Now, sone, and thogh I longe have abiden,
Thy greef is nat out of my mynde sliden;
To thy grevance wole I now resorte,
And shewe thee how thow thee shalt conforte.
"In short, this is of thy greef enchesoun:
Of thyn annuitee the paiement,
Which for thy long service is thy guerdoun,
Thow dreddist, whan thow art from court absent,
Shal be restreyned, syn thow now present
Unnethes maist it gete, it is so streit -
Thus undirstood I, sone, thy conceit.
"For of thy lyflode is it the substance -
Is it nat thus?" "Yis soothly, fadir, it."
"Now, sone, to remedie this grevance,
Canstow no weyes fynden in thy wit?"
"No certes, fadir, nevere kowde I yit."
"May no lordshipe, sone, thee availle
For al thy long service and thy travaille?"
"What, fadir, what? Lordes han for to doone
So moche for hemself that my mateere
Out of hir mynde slippith away soone.
The world is nat swich now, my fadir deere,
As yee han seen. Farwel, freendly maneere!
So God me amende, I am al destitut
Of my lyflode. God be my refut.
"I am unto so streit a poynt ydryve,
Of thre conclusions moot I cheese oon:
Or begge, or stele, or sterve; I am yshryve
So ny that othir way ne see I noon;
Myn herte is also deed as is a stoon;
Nay, there I faille; a stoon nothyng ne feelith,
But thoght me brenneth and freesyngly keelith.
"To begge, shame is myn impediment;
I woot wel rather sholde I dye and sterve;
And stelthes guerdoun is swich paiement
That nevere thynke I his wages disserve.
Wolde honest deeth come and me overterve
And of my grave me putte in seisyne,
To al my greef that were a medecyne."
"What, sone! How now? I see wel smal effect
Or elles noon my wordes in thee take;
Outhir ful symple is thyn intellect,
Or hokirly thow hast hem overshake,
Or thy goost slept hath. What, my sone, awake!
Whileer thow seidist thow were of me glad,
And now it seemeth thow art of me sad.
"I deeme so syn that my long sermoun
Profitith naght - it sore me repentith."
"Fadir, beeth nat of that oppinioun;
For as yee wole, I do; myn herte assentith.
But ay among, fadir, thoght me tormentith
So sharply, and so troublith and despeirith,
That it my wit foule hyndreth and apeirith."
"O, my good sone, wilt thow yit algate
Despeired be? Nay, sone, let be that!
Thow shalt as blyve entre into the gate
Of thy confort. Now telle on pleyn and plat:
My lord the Prince, knowith he thee nat?
If that thow stonde in his benevolence,
He may be salve unto thyn indigence,
"No man bet next his fadir, our lord lige."
"Yis, fadir, he is my good gracious lord."
"Wel, sone, thanne wole I me oblige,
And God of hevene vouche I to record,
That if thow wilt be ful of myn accord,
Thow shalt no cause have more thus to muse,
But hevynesse voide and it refuse.
"Syn he thy good lord is, I am ful seur
His grace to thee shal nat be denyed.
Thow woost wel he benigne is and demeur
To sue unto; nat is his goost maistried
With daunger, but his herte is ful applied
To graunte, and nat the needy werne his grace.
To him pursue and thy releef purchace.
"Conpleyne unto his excellent noblesse,
As I have herd thee unto me conpleyne,
And but he qwenche thy greet hevynesse,
My tonge take and slitte in peces tweyne!
What, sone myn, for Goddes deere peyne,
Endite in Frenssh or Latyn thy greef cleer,
And for to wryte it wel do thy poweer.
"Of alle thre thow oghtest be wel leerid,
Syn thow so longe in hem laboured haast -
Thow of the Pryvee Seel art old iyeerid."
"Yit, fadir, of hem ful smal is my taast."
"Now, sone, thanne foule hastow in waast
Despent thy tyme; and nathelees I trowe
Thow canst do bet than thow wilt do me knowe.
"What shal I calle thee, what is thy name?"
"Hoccleve, fadir myn, men clepen me."
"Hoccleve, sone?" "Ywis, fadir, that same."
"Sone, I have herd or this men speke of thee;
Thow were aqweyntid with Chaucer, pardee -
God have his soule, best of any wight!
Sone, I wole holde thee that I have hight.
"Althogh thow seye that thow in Latyn
Ne in Frensshe neithir canst but smal endyte,
In Englissh tonge canstow wel afyn."
"Fadir, therof can I eek but a lyte."
"Yee, straw! Let be! Thy penne take and wryte
As thow canst, and thy sorwe torne shal
Into gladnesse - I doute it nat at al.
"Syn thow maist nat be payed in th'eschequer,
Unto my lord the Prince make instance
That thy patente into the hanaper
May chaunged be." "Fadir, by your souffrance,
It may nat so by cause of th'ordenance:
Longe aftir this shal no graunt chargeable
Out passe - fadir myn, this is no fable.
"An egal change, my sone, is in soothe
No charge, I woot it wel ynow in dede.
What, sone myn, good herte take unto the!
Men seyn, whoso of every gras hath drede,
Let him be waar to walke in any mede.
Assaye, assaye, thow symple hertid goost!
What grace is shapen thee thow nat ne woost."
"Fadir, as sikir as that I stande heere,
Whethir that I be symple or argh or bold,
Swich an eschange gete I noon to yeere;
Do as I can with that I have in hold;
For as for that, my confort is but cold.
But wel I fynde your good wil alway
Redy to me in what yee can and may."
"That is sooth, sone. Now syn thow me toldist
My lord, the Prince, is good lord thee to,
No maistrie is it for thee if thow woldist
To be releeved. Woost thow what to do?
Wryte to him a goodly tale or two,
On which he may desporten him by nyght,
And his free grace shal upon thee lyght.
"Sharpe thy penne and wryte on lustyly.
Let see, my sone, make it fressh and gay;
Owte thyn aart if thow canst craftily;
His hy prudence hath insighte verray
To juge if it be wel ymaad or nay.
Wherfore, sone, it is unto thee neede
Unto thy werk take the gretter heede.
"But of o thyng be wel waar in al wyse,
On flaterie that thow thee nat fownde,
For therof, sone, Salomon the wyse,
As that I have in his proverbes fownde,
Seith thus: 'They that in feyned speeche habownde,
And glosyngly unto hir freendes talke,
Spreden a net byforn hem wher they walke.'
"If a deceyvour geve a man to sowke
Wordes plesant in hony al bewrappid,
Good is a man eschue swich a powke.
Thurgh Favel hath ful many a man mishappid,
For whan that he hath janglid al and clappid
With his freend tretyng of pees openly,
He in awayt lyth of him covertly.
"The moost lak that han the lordes grete
Is of him that hir soothes sholde hem telle.
Al in the glose folk laboure and swete;
They stryven who best rynge shal the belle
Of fals plesaunce; in that hir hertes swelle,
If that oon can bet than othir deceyve,
And swich deceit lordes blyndly receyve.
"The worldly ryche men han no knowleche
What that they been of hir condicioun;
They been so blent with Faveles gay speeche
Which reportith to hem, that hir renoun
Is everywhere halwid in the toun;
That in hemself they deemen greet vertu,
Whereas there is but smal or nat a gru;
"For unnethe a good word men speke of hem.
This false treson commun is and ryf;
Bet were it thee been at Jerusalem,
Sone, than thow were in it deffectyf.
Syn my lord the Prince is, God holde his lyf,
To thee good lord, good servant thow thee qwyte
To him, and treewe, and it shal thee profyte.
"Wryte him nothyng that sowneth into vice.
Kythe thy love in mateere of sadnesse.
Looke if thow fynde canst any tretice
Growndid on his estates holsumnesse.
Swich thyng translate and unto his hynesse,
As humblely as that thow canst, presente.
Do thus, my sone." "Fadir, I assente."
"With herte as tremblyng as the leef of asp,
Fadir, syn yee me rede to do so,
Of my symple conceit wole I the clasp
Undo and lat it at his large go.
But, weleaway, so is myn herte wo
That the honour of Englissh tonge is deed,
Of which I wont was han conseil and reed.
"O maistir deere and fadir reverent,
My maistir Chaucer, flour of eloquence,
Mirour of fructuous entendement,
O universel fadir in science!
Allas that thow thyn excellent prudence
In thy bed mortel mightest nat byqwethe!
What eiled deeth? Allas, why wolde he sle the?
"O deeth, thow didest nat harm singuler
In slaghtre of him, but al this land it smertith.
But nathelees yit hastow no power
His name slee; his hy vertu astertith
Unslayn fro thee, which ay us lyfly hertith
With bookes of his ornat endytyng
That is to al this land enlumynyng.
"Hastow nat eek my maistir Gower slayn,
Whos vertu I am insufficient
For to descryve? I woot wel in certayn,
For to sleen al this world thow hast yment.
But syn our lord Cryst was obedient
To thee, in feith I can no ferther seye;
His creatures musten thee obeye.
"Fadir, yee may lawhe at my lewde speeche,
If that yow list - I am nothyng fourmeel;
My yong konnynge may no hyer reeche;
My wit is also slipir as an eel.
But how I speke, algate I meene weel."
"Sone, thow seist wel ynow, as me seemeth;
Noon othir feele I, so my conceit deemeth.
"Now farwel, sone, go hoom to thy mete;
It is hy tyme, and go wole I to myn.
And what I have seid thee, nat forgete.
And swich as that I am, sone, I am thyn.
Thow seest wel age hath put me to declyn,
And povert hath me maad of good al bare;
I may nat but preye for thy welfare."
"What, fadir, wolden yee thus sodeynly
Departe fro me? Petir, Cryst forbeede!
Yee shal go dyne with me, treewely."
"Sone, at o word, I moot go fro thee neede."
"Nay, fadir, nay!" "Yis, sone, as God me speede."
"Now, fadir, syn it may noon othir tyde,
Almighty God yow save and be your gyde;
"And graunte grace me that day to see
That I sumwhat may qwyte your goodnesse.
But, goode fadir, whan and wher shul yee
And I eft meete?" "Sone, in soothfastnesse,
I every day heere at the Carmes messe,
It faillith nat, aboute the hour of sevene."
"Wel, fadir, God bytake I yow of hevene."
Recordyng in my mynde the lessoun
That he me yaf, I hoom to mete wente.
And on the morwe sette I me adoun,
And penne and ynke and parchemeyn I hente,
And to parfourme his wil and his entente
I took corage, and whyles it was hoot,
Unto my lord the Prince thus I wroot:
[Words of the Compiler to the Prince] 6
Hy noble and mighty Prince excellent,
My lord the Prince, o my lord gracious,
I, humble servant and obedient
Unto your estat hy and glorious,
Of which I am ful tendre and ful gelous,
Me recommande unto your worthynesse,
With herte enteer and spirit of meeknesse;
Right humblely axyng of yow licence
That with my penne I may to yow declare
(So as that can my wittes innocence)
Myn inward wil that thristith the welfare
Of your persone, and elles be I bare
Of blisse whan that the cold strook of deeth
My lyf hath qweynt and me byreft my breeth.
Thogh that my lyflode and possessioun
Be scant, I ryche am of benevolence;
To yow therof can I be no nygoun.
Good have I noon by which your excellence
May plesid be, and for myn inpotence
Stoppith the way to do as I were holde,
I wryte as he that your good lyf fayn wolde.
Aristotle, moost famous philosophre,
His epistles to Alisaundre sente,
Whos sentence is wel bet than gold in cofre,
And more holsum growndid on treewe entente.
For al that evere tho epistles mente,
To sette was this worthy conquerour
In reule how to susteene his honour.
The tendre love and the fervent cheertee
That this worthy clerk ay to this kyng beer,
Thristynge his welthe durable to be,
Unto his herte stak and sat so neer,
That by wrytyng his conseil gaf he cleer
Unto his lord to keepe him fro nusance,
As witnessith his book of governance;
Of which, and of Gyles of Regiment
Of Princes, plotmeel thynke I to translate.
And thogh that symple be my sentement,
O worthy Prince, I yow byseeche algate,
Considereth how endytynge hath in hate
My dul conceit, and nat accorde may
With my childhede - I am so childissh ay.
Also byseeche I that the altitude
Of your estat, thogh that this pamfilet
Noon ordre holde ne in him include,
Nat greeved be, for I can do no bet.
Anothir day, whan wit and I be met
Which longe is to, and han us freendly kist, 7
Deskevere I wole that now is nat wist.
Nathelees, swich as is my smal konnynge,
With also treewe an herte, I wole it oute
As tho two dide or evere clerk lyvynge.
But tremblynge is my spirit, out of doute,
That to parfourme that I am aboute.
Allas, the stuf of sad intelligence
Me faillith to speke in so hy presence.
Symple is my goost and scars my letterure
Unto your excellence for to wryte
Myn inward love, and yit in aventure
Wole I me putte, thogh I can but lyte.
My deere maistir, God his soule qwyte,
And fadir, Chaucer, fayn wolde han me taght,
But I was dul and lerned lyte or naght.

Also who was heir in philosophie
To Aristotle in our tonge but thow?
The steppes of Virgile in poesie
Thow folwedist eek. Men woot wel ynow
That combreworld that thee, my maistir, slow.
Wolde I slayn were! Deeth was to hastyf
To renne on thee and reve thee thy lyf.
Deeth hath but smal consideracioun
Unto the vertuous, I have espyed;
No more, as shewith the probacioun,
Than to a vicious maistir losel tryed
Among an heep. Every man is maistried
With here, as wel the poore as is the ryche;
Leered and lewde eek standen alle ylyche.
Shee mighte han taried hir vengeance a whyle
Til that sum man had egal to thee be -
Nay, let be that! Shee kneew wel that this yle
May nevere man foorth brynge lyk to thee;
And hir office needes do moot shee.

Now to my mateere as that I began.
There is a book Jacob de Cessolis
Of the ordre of prechours maad, a worthy man,
That the Ches Moralysed clepid is,
In which purpos I eek laboure ywis;
And heere and there, as that my litil wit
Affoorthe may, I thynke translate it.
And al be it that in that place sqwaar
Of the listes - I meene th'eschequeer -
A man may lerne to be wys and waar,
I that have aventured many a yeer
My wit therin, but lyte am I the neer,
Sauf that I sumwhat knowe a kynges draght;
Of othir draghtes lerned have I naght.
And for that among the draghtes echone
That unto the ches apparteene may,
Is noon so needful unto your persone
To knowe as that of the cheertee verray
That I have had unto your noblesse ay,
And shal, if your plesaunce it be to heere,
A kynges draght reporte I shal now heere.
I am seur that tho bookes alle three
Red hath and seen your innat sapience;
And as I hope, hir vertu folwen yee.
But unto yow compyle I this sentence
That, at the good lust of your excellence,
In short yee mowen beholde heer and rede
That in hem thre is scatered fer in brede.
And althogh it be no maneere of neede
Yow to consaille what to doon or leeve,
Yit if yow list of stories taken heede,
Sumwhat it may profyte, by your leeve;
At hardest, whan yee been in chambre at eeve,
They been good for to dryve foorth the nyght;
They shal nat harme if they be herd aright.
To your hynesse thynke it nat to longe,
Thogh in that draght I sumwhat wade deepe,
The thewes vertuous that to it longe
Wacchen my goost and letten him to sleepe.
Now God in vertu yow maynteene and keepe,
And I byseeche your magnificence
Geve unto me benigne audience.
For thogh I to the steppes clergial
Of thise clerkes thre nat may atteyne,
Yit for to putte in prees my conceit smal,
Good wil me artith take on me the peyne.
But sore in me ther qwappith every veyne,
So dreedful am I of myn ignorance;
The Crois of Cryst my werk speede and avance.
Explicit prologus, de principum regimine; incipiendo de fide observanda
Now gracious Prince, ageyn that the corone
Honure yow with rial dignitee,
Byseechith Him that sit on hy in trone,
That whan that charge receyved han yee,
Swich governance men may feele and see
In yow as may been unto His plesance
Profyt to us and your good loos avance.
First and forward, the dignitee of kyng
Impressith in the botme of your mynde,
Consideryng how chargeable a thyng
That office is, for so yee shul it fynde.
Unto good reule yee yow knytte and bynde;
Of Goddes wreche have ay drede and awe;
Do right to grete and smale, and keepe lawe.
Ones ther was a kyng, as I have rad,
Whan his corone was unto him broght,
Or he it took, in thoght he stood al sad,
And thus he seide, aftir he had thoght:
"O thow corone, noble and faire ywroght!
What man that thee receyveth or admittith,
More ese than he weeneth from him flittith.
"Whoso the peril kneew, and charge and fere
That is in thee, thogh thow at eerthe lay,
He wolde nat thee up areise or rere,
But let thee lye stille and go his way.
For sooth is this, and hath, and shal been ay:
This worldes hook, envye hath to his bayt,
And ay hath hy degree sore in awayt."
Now, noble Prince, thogh I be nat wys,
Wel willid am I as I first yow tolde.
In name of Jhesu, wirke aftir the avys
That I compyle out of thise auctours olde.
And if I nat the way of reson holde,
Folwe me nat; and if that I do, thenne
Do as I shal reporte with my penne.
Tho oothes that at your creacioun
Shul thurgh your tonge passe, hem wel observe.
Lat no coloured excusacioun
Yow make from hem slippe asyde or swerve.
Holde up hir lyf, lat hem nat in yow sterve.
It is nat kyngly from an ooth to varie;
A kyng of trouthe owith been exemplarie.
Lo, thus this Aristotle in his book seith
To Alisaundre, and to be waar him bit
That he ne breke his bondes ne his feith,
For unto folk untreewe longith it.
He seith that grace nat in him abit,
But wikkid ende and cursid aventure
Him folwith, that forswere him hath no cure.
By feith is maad the congregacioun
Of peple and of citees enhabitynge;
By feith han kynges dominacioun;
Feith causith eek of men the communynge;
Castels by feith dreden noon assailynge;
By feith the citees standen unwerreied,
And kynges of hir sogettes been obeied.
Who leesith feith, gretter thyng may noon leese.
Or a man speke, or bynde him by his seel,
And hath his ful libertee, and may cheese
What he do shal, him oghte avyse him weel
Or he promette. Heete nat a deel
By word ne bond but if he wole it laste;
For whoso dooth, shal smerten at the laste.
Litil enchesoun hath he for to speke,
To whos wordes is geven no credence.
Perillous is a man his feith to breke.
Feith by necessitee ne indigence
Nat artid is deceyve, and apparence
Of trouthe outward and inward fikilnesse
Bultith out shame and causith greet smertnesse.
What was the cause of the destruccioun
Of the peple of Scites and Arabee,
But for hir kynges in decepcioun
Of men and citees ny to hir contree,
Hir oothes useden, by sotiltee,
Brekynge bondes that stablisshid were
Mankynde to profyte and nat to dere.
And for that synne, Goddes rightwisnesse,
That punysshith falshode and treccherie,
Nat mighte hem suffre endure in that woodnesse,
But they destroyed were, it is no lye.
Untrouthe, allas! The ordre of chivalrie
Dampneth it; thogh that the persone it use,
Knyghthode itself moot algate it refuse.
To God truste I, no lord in al this lond
Is gilty of that inconvenience.
Fy! What, a lord breke his byheeste or bond?
Nay, God forbeede that that pestilence
In a lord dwelle or holde residence;
For if that he that wikkid gest recette,
By swich a lord wole honour nothyng sette.
Whan Marcus Regulus was, as I rede,
Venquisshid in a bataille of the see
By hem of Cartage, hoom with hem they lede
This prisoner; and aftir sent was he
By hem to Rome, his owne contree,
Sworn to retourne to Cartage ageyn,
As Tullius and eek Seint Austyn seyn.
The cause why they him to Rome sente
Was for to do to Romains hir message,
Witynge of hem if that they wolde assente
That, syn ther were Romains in Cartage
In prison, and Romains hadde eek in cage
Cartagiens, suffre hem at large go
And the Romains go sholde at large also.
Whan Marcus doon hadde as that he was bode,
The senat axid him what was his reed,
And he answerde and seide thus: "For Gode,
Al this rede I lat sleepen and be deed.
It may by no way synke into myn heed
That to us Romains were it covenable
Swich an eschaunge, but unprofitable.
"We Romains that they han in prison loke
Been but yong froth, unlerned in bataille,
And othir feeble folk with age ybroke,
Of which I am oon; we may nat availle.
Of us no los is but, withouten faille,
Your prisoners been myghty men and wyse,
And folk in armes preeved at devyse."
His freendes wolde han holde him stille there,
But they nat mighte - he wolde alway retourne;
To breke his ooth, his goost was ay in fere.
He thoghte nat in his contree sojourne,
Do what hem list, whethir they glade or mourne.
Unto his foos as blyve he him dressith,
And kneew wel to be deed, the book witnessith.
He heeld it bet his ooth for to observe
And dye in honur as that a knyght oghte,
Than by perjurie his lyf for to preserve;
Of swiche unknyghtly tukkes he nat roghte.
I trowe now adayes, thogh men soghte,
His heir ful hard were in this land to fynde.
Men list nat so ferfoorth to trouthe hem bynde.
Yit nat oonly to preise is this Marcus
For trouthe, but eek, as it seemeth me,
His renoun oghte doublid been, as thus:
Whereas th'eschange mighte han maad him free,
Qwit of his foos prison, gretter cheertee
He hadde of the profyt universel
Than of himself - his deeth it preeved wel.
Amonges alle thynges in a knyght,
Trouthe is a thyng that he ne lakke may
If his honur shal bere his heed upright.
Valerie tellith how with greet array
Kyng Alisandre and his oost on a day,
Meeved of ire and of malencolie,
Unto a citee dressid him in hye,
Which that yclept and callid was Lapsat,
Purposynge him bete it to the eerthe adoun.
And or that this kyng fully cam therat,
Ther was a philosophre in the toun,
A man of excellent discrecioun,
That to this kyng sumtyme had maistir be,
Ful sore abassht of him and his meynee.
Out of the town he spedde him on his weye,
As hastily as that he cowde or mighte,
Toward the kyng, of grace him for to preye.
And as swythe as the kyng hadde of him sighte,
He kneew him and his meenynge, and on highte
He seide him thus: "By the goddes I swere,
Al thy labour shal nat be worth a pere.
"At thy prayere do wole I nothyng."
This philosophre of his ooth took good heede
And seide, "O worthy conquerour and kyng,
Than preye I thee unto the toun thee speede
And it destroye, bothe in lengthe and brede;
Have on it no pitee, but al doun caste;
This preye I thee that may be doon as faste."
And whan the kyng his preyere undirstood,
Al his angire and his irous talent
Refreyned he; he wolde for no good
On the toun venge him as he hadde ment.
He rather chees be disobedient
To his vengeable wil and his ooth keepe
Than be forsworn of that he swoor so deepe.
Or a kyng swere, it is ful necessarie
Avyse him wel, for whan that it is past,
He may his ooth in no wyse contrarie
If he of shame or repreef be agast.
A kyng owith of word be stidefast;
Nothyng byheete but he it parfourme
If he wole him to his estat confourme.
A greet clerk which clept is Crisostomus,
Where he of matire of swerynge tretith,
Thise arn the wordes that he writ to us:
"What man the custume of oothes nat lettith
In sweryng ofte, what he seith forgetith.
Usage of oothes of perjurie is cause."
And more he seith eek in the same clause.
He seith, "Perjurie engendrid is of oothes,
For right as he that custumablely
Clappith and janglith and to stynte looth is,
Moot othirwhyle speke unsittyngly,
Right so usage of sweryng enemy
To trouthe is, and makith men hem forswere."
Ful necessarie is oothes to forbere.
Sweryng hath thise thre condicions
Folwyng, as trouthe, doom, and rightwisnesse.
Ooth axith trouthe and no decepcions,
But swere in his entente soothfastnesse;
Doom moot discreetly, lest al hastynesse,
Swere, and nat needles; and justice also,
Leeffully swere, and justly everemo.
Quintilian seith that unto hy degree
Unsittynge is to swere in any wyse
But it be causid of necessitee;
For as he seith, and othir clerkes wyse,
A kyng or princes word oghte souffyse
Wel more than oghte a marchantes ooth,
And to go therageyn be more looth.
And syn a princes ooth or his promesse,
Whan they nat holden been, him deshonure,
His lettre and seel, which more open witnesse
Beren than they, good is take heede and cure
That they be kept; wrytynge wole endure.
What a man is, it prest is for to preeve;
Outhir honure it shal him or repreeve.
Now if it happe, as it hath happid ofte,
A kyng in neede borwe of his marchantes,
Greet wysdam were it trete faire and softe,
And holde hem treewely hir covenantes;
For truste it wel, whan hir covenant is
Nat to hem kept, as that hir bond requerith,
The kyng hath shame, and eek it hem mischerith.
Looth wole hem been eftsones for to lene;
He that is brent, men seyn, dredith the fyre;
Be his day kept, he rekkith nat a bene,
But elles, sikir, dun is in the myre.
Withouten doute, a marchantes desyr
Is with good herte his kyng honure and plese,
And to his might refresshe and doon him ese.
In hem is the substance of every lone.
What folk chevyce as mochil as doon they?
Excellent Prince, I deeme your persone
To hem and to al othir in good fay
Wole holde that yee heeten hem alway,
And so to do God, the auctour of trouthe,
Yow graunte, and elles certes were it routhe.
If that a poore man breke his byheeste
Or do ageyn his ooth or seel or lettre,
Men hente him by the heed and him areeste,
And to prison he gooth; he gete no bettre
Til his maynpernour his areest unfettre;o
And yit he moot the cours of lawe abyde,
Or his maynpernour moot deffende his syde.
Among the poore peple thus it gooth:
They for untrouthe han smert and open shame.
And if a lord his bond breke or his ooth,
For soothe, it is a foul spot in his name.
Thogh men dar nat openly him diffame,
They thynke, al be it that they nothyng speke,
In swiche lordes is untrouthe, I rekke.
And syn a kyng by way of his office
To God ylikned is, as in maneere,
And God is trouthe itself, than may the vice
Of untrouthe nat in a kyng appeere,
If his office shal to God refeere.
A bisy tonge bryngith in swich wyt,
He that by word nat giltith is parfyt.
A! lord, what it is fair and honurable
A kyng from mochil speeche him refreyne.
It sit him been of wordes mesurable,
For mochil clap wole his estat desteyne.
If he his tonge with mesures reyne
Governe, thanne his honur it conserveth;
And by the revers, dieth it and sterveth.
Bet is the peples eres thriste and yerne
Hir kyng or princes wordes for to heere,
Than that his tonge go so faste and yerne
That mennes eres dulle of his mateere;
For dullyng hem, dullith the herte in feere
Of hem that geven to him audience.
In mochil speeche wantith nat offense.
Whoso that hatith mochil clap or speeche
Qwenchith malice, and he that his mowth keepith,
Keepith his soule, as that the bookes teche.
Unbrydlid wordes ofte man byweepith;
Prudence wakith whan the tonge sleepith,
And sleepith ofte whan the tonge wakith.
Moderat speeche engendrith reste and makith.
Alle natures of beestes and briddes
And of serpentes been ymakid tame,
But tonge of man, as it wel knowe and kid is,
Nat may be tamed. O fy, man, for shame!
Silence of tonge is wardeyn of good fame,
And aftir repreef, fisshith clap and foulith.
The tonge of man al the body deffoulith.
And that out of the tonge of kyng procedith,
The peple specially beren away;
Wherfore unto a kyng the more it needith
Avyse him what he speke shal alway.
In mochil speeche sum byheeste may
Lightly asterte that may nat be holde,
And thanne trouthe begynneth to colde.
O worthy Prince, this, lo, meeveth me
Of trouthe for to touche thus sadly,
For that I wolde that the hy degree
Of chivalrie universelly
Baar up his heed and bente it nat awry.
Of his honour untrouthe a knyght unlaceth
And his renoun al uttirly defaceth.
Honour appropred is to chivalrie,
And faylynge it, the cheef flour of his style
Fadith and faillith and begynneth die.
But now passe over; touche I wole a whyle
Of rightwisnesse, which out of this yle
Purposith fully for to fare and weende,
So is our reule unthrifty and untheende.
De justitia
Seint Anselm seith, justice is libertee
Of wil, gevynge unto every wight
That longith to his propre dignitee:
To God obedience, as it is right;
And he that poore is of degree and might,
Unto his bettre, honour and reverence;
The grete eek to the smal, lore and science;
To thyn egal, concord; unto thy fo,
Souffrance; and to thyselven, holynesse;
To the needy, greeved with wrecchid wo,
Mercy in dede and releeve his distresse;
Aftir thy power, do thow thyn almesse,
And reewe upon him if that thy might faille,
For that wil shal thy dede contrevaille.
Whoso it be that justice verray
Desirith folwe, first moot he God dreede
And love as hertly as he can or may.
It nat souffisith do no noyous deede,
But who annoye wolde, him it forbeede;
For nat annoye is no rightwisnesse,
But it is abstinence of wikkidnesse.
Of conseil and of help been we dettours,
Eche to othir, by right of brethirhede;
For whan a man yfalle into errour is,
His brothir owith him conseil and rede
To correcte and amende his wikkid dede;
And if he be vexid with maladie,
Ministre him help his greef to remedie.
Every man owith studien and muse
To teche his brothir what thyng is to do
And what behovely is to refuse;
That that is good, provokynge him therto.
And thus he moot conseille his brothir, lo,
Do that right is and good to Goddes pay,
In word nat oonly but in werk alway.
Lawful justice is, as in maneere,
Al vertu, and who wole han this justice,
The lawe of Cryst to keepe moot he leere.
Now if that lawe forbeede every vice,
And commande al good thyng and it cherice,
Fulfille lawe is vertu parfyt
And injustice is of al vertu qwyt.
Justice is of the kynde and the nature
Of God, and he hath maad it and ordeyned
On remes and on every creature.
By justice is shedynge of blood restreyned,
And gilt punysshid whan it is conpleyned.
Justice deffendith possessions,
And peple keepith from oppressions.
A kyng is maad to keepen and maynteene
Justice, for shee makith obeissant
The misdoers that prowde been and keene,
And hem that been in vertu habundant,
Chericeth. A kyng is by covenant
Of ooth maad in his coronacioun
Bownde to justices sauvacioun.
And a kyng in fulfillyng of that is
To God lyk, which is verray rightwisnesse.
And men of Ynde seyn and holden this:
"A kynges justice is as greet richesse
Unto his peple as plentee or largesse
Of eerthely good, and bettre than reyn
Fallyng at eeve from hevene," they seyn.
Ful often sythe it is wist and seen
That for the wrong and the unrightwisnesse
Of kynges ministres, that kynges been
Holden gilty; whereas, in soothfastnesse,
They knowen nothyng of the wikkidnesse;
Unjust ministres ofte hir kyng accusen,
And they that just been, of wrong hem excusen.
If the ministres do naght but justice
To poore peple in contree as they go,
Thogh the kyng be unjust, yit is his vice
Hid to the peple; they weene everemo
The kyng be just for his men gye hem so.
But ministres to seelde hem wel governe;
Oppressioun regneth in every herne.
A kyng, me thynkith, for the seuretee
Of his good loos, byhoveth it enquere
Of hem that han his estat in cheertee,
What fame that his poore peple him bere.
He of justice is bownden hem to were
And to deffende; and if that they be greeved,
By him they moot be holpen and releeved.
Excuse shal him nat his ignorance;
He moot enquere of wrong and it redresse.
For that he peple hath in governance,
He clept is kyng. If his men peple oppresse,
Witynge him, and nat rekke of the duresse,
He may by right be clept no governour,
But of his peple a wilful destroyour.
O worthy Kyng benigne, Edward the laste,
Thow haddist ofte in herte a drede impressid,
Which that thyn humble goost ful sore agaste;
And to knowe if thow cursid were or blessid,
Among the peple ofte hastow thee dressid
Into contree in symple array allone
To heere what men seide of thy persone.
Althogh a kyng have habundance of might
In his land at his lust, knyt and unknyt,
Good is that he his power use aright,
That fro the way of justice he nat flitte,
Lest our lord God him from His grace shitte,
Of whom al rightwys power is deryved;
For if he do, of blisse he shal be pryved.
I fynde how that Theodorus Sireene,
For that he to the kyng of Lysemak
Tolde his deffautes, the kyng leet for teene
Crucifie him, and as he heeng and stak
Upon the Crois, thus to the kyng he spak:
"This peyne, or othir lyk therto, moot falle
Upon thy false conseilloures alle.
"Nat rekke I thogh I rote on hy or lowe,
As he that of the deeth hath no gastnesse;
I dye an innocent, I do thee knowe;
I dye to deffende rightwisnesse.
Thy flaterers enhaunced in richesse
Dreden to suffre for right swich a peyne,
But I therby nat sette risshes tweyne."
Ther was a duc Romayn clept Camilus,
Leide ones seege unto a citee,
Falisk named, as seith Valerius,
Of which the men of moost auctoritee,
And gretteste of power and of degree,
To a maistir in the citee dwellynge
Bytook hir children by wey of lernynge.
What dooth me this maistir but on a day
Some of tho children out of the toun ledde,
The moost expert in science, and the way
Streight to the Romayn tentes he him spedde,
And the duc thus conseillid he and redde:
"Haveth thise children in possessioun,
And keepith hem in hold and in prisoun;
"The fadres of hem han in governance
Falisk the citee at hir owne list.
In hy and lowe, aftir hir ordenance
Is al thyng doon.
The duke answerde anoon to this traitour:
"Thogh thow be fals unto thyn owne toun,
And rekkist nat of shame or deshonour,
But par cas for to gete of me guerdoun,
Desirest Faliskes destruccioun,
Nat were it knyghtly me to thee consente
That taken hast so traiterous entente.
"We Romains keepen rightes of bataille
As trewely as the rightes of pees;
Our custume is no children to assaille.
Thogh we the town had wonne, doutelees
Ther sholde no chyld among al the prees
For us han greeved be. We armes bere
Ageyn the armed men, hem for to dere,
"And nat ageyn children undeffensable.
In that in thee is, thy might hastow do,
Thurgh wikkid treson fals and deceyvable,
Thy citee to destroyen and fordo;
But I, Romayn, agree me nat therto.
By vertu of armes wole I it wynne,
For al the might of men that been therynne."
The duke commandith, shortly for to seyn,
His handes him behynde to be bownde,
And bad the children lede him hoom ageyn
To hir fadres; which, whan that they han fownde
So greet justice in this duke habownde,
The senat clepte and this unto hem tolde;
The hertes gan to chaunge of yonge and olde.
Alle, they seiden, of hy gentillesse,
Growndid upon justice dide he this,
And also of a chivalrous prowesse.
They seiden, "It to us moost sittynge is
Oure gates opne and offre us to been his.
Is noon so good as lat us mollifie
Oure hertes stoute to his genterie;
"And of his pees, requeren him and preye."
They diden so, but what was folewynge,
Nat have I red, wherfore I can nat seye.
But this just duke, as by my supposynge,
Was to hem swich in wil and in wirkynge
That he hem qwitte so as mighte hem qweeme.
What sholde I elles of swich a lord deeme?
Of Lancastre good Duke Henri also,
Whos justice is writen and auctorysid -
Why sholde I nat thee rekne amonges tho
That in hir tyme han justice excercysid?
Yit that vertu oonly nat hath souffysid
To thee, but al that longith to knyghthode
Was inned in thyn excellent manhode.
I rede also how that, hangynge a stryf
Twixt Kyng Porrus and a lord clept Fabrice,
The leche of this kyng, a cursid caytyf
Involved and ywrappid in the vice
Of covetyse, shoop him for to tryce
His owne lord the kyng and him to kille
If that it hadde been Fabrices wille.
This leche unto Fabrices hous by nyght,
As pryvely as that he cowde, wente,
And unto him ensured and behighte
If that him list to the dede consente,
He was so glad to plese him and contente,
His lord the kyng with venym wolde he feede
So that therthurgh he sterve sholde neede.
This lord with that bad men his handes teye,
And lede unto the kyng this traiterous wight,
And al this treson unto him bywreye.
Whan this was doon, the kyng seide anoon right:
"See heere a trouthe and manhode of a knyght.
Men may the sonne as lightly his cours reve
As this Fabrice make his trouthe leve."
In Perse ones ther was by jugement
A man to deeth dampned in wronge wyse
For wratthe and hate and the irous talent
That to this ilke man baar the justice.
And whan the knowleche of this fals jewyse
Was come unto the kynges audience,
This doom he gaf as blyve and this sentence.
He bad men fleen him qwik out of his skyn,
And therwith kevere the judicial see,
And made his sone to be set theryn,
That juge aftir his fadir sholde be,
To this ende and entencioun, that he
Sholde be waar how he his doomes gaf,
And lene alway to rightwisnesse staf.
Nat oghte a juge for hate or for love
Othir way deeme than trouthe requerith,
But, at the reverence of God above,
Right ay favoure whan that it appeerith.
Dede of justice a conscience cleerith,
Chacyng away thoghtes on wrong ygrowndid.
Who jugeth wrongfully is feendly wowndid.
What juge in doom eek geveth just sentence
Awaytyng upon a golden dragee,
To God he dooth displesance and offense;
For the justice which of duetee
He sholde do, cursidly sellith he,
For love of meede him provokith therto,
And rightwisnesse nothyng so to do.
To swich a juge, withdrawe the hope
Of moneye, and he fro justice flittith.
Where he supposith moneye to grope,
Just jugement he in his herte admittith;
But whoso that his hand fro giftes shittith,
As unto us witnessith Isaye,
He shal in hevene dwelle and sitten hye.
Cristen men yilde oghten just jugement
Freely, for unleefful is it to selle,
Thogh it be leefful and convenient
A wys man for reward his reed to telle.
A juges purs with gold nat sholde swelle.
If on justice he shape his doom to bilde,
His jugementz he giftlees muste yilde.
And he that dooth of justice rigour,
Let him be waar he have no delyt
In punysshynge of the offendour
That hath ydoon the trespas or the wyt,
Ne him rejoise of his annoyous plyt,
Ne the manere excede in swiche cas,
Or quantitee of the gilt or trespas,
Evene as a soule is bodyes lyflynesse,
And whan that it is twynned from a wight
The herte is deed, so farith rightwisnesse;
For whan a reme is reuled by hir might,
Than may the peple be ful glad and light;
The land may bathen in prosperitee;
And lost is al if that absent be shee.
Ther was a lawe ymaad upon a tyme
At Rome, by the consules assent,
That whoso were gilty of the cryme
Of advoutrie and were therin hent,
His yen bothe sholden out be brent.
Now fil it so, a man that sone was
To a consul was take in this trespas.
And whan that the mishap of this persone
Was to the peple knowen of the toun,
They loveden his fadir so echone,
And had him in so cheer affeccioun,
They seiden that noon execucioun
Sholde on this sone for this dede falle,
And the consules so they preyden alle.
To which the fadir gan replie tho,
And thus allegged he for him and leide:
"Considereth, sires, I am oon of tho
That to this lawe assentid and obeide;
And sholde I now the same breke?" he seide,
"For favour of myself or any of myne?
Nay, sires, to that may I nat enclyne.
"Maffeith, that were wrong and vilenye.
The lawe shal foorth, thogh it fil on me."
The peple gan to rumble and clappe and crye,
And the consules preide of the citee
The revers; thus overcome was he.
So at the laste, he sy noon othir weye
But in partie he muste hir lust obeye.
"Now," quod he, "syn that it may be no bet,
Sumwhat to yow me confourme wole I,
So that the lawe shal nat al be let,
Thogh that it mighte observed be fully.
Thus wole I and noon othir, trewely:
Oon of myn yen wole I now forgo,
My sone anothir - it shal be right so.
"We two wole have but o mannes sighte."
Thus was doon, but nat al at the plesance
Of the peple; but they noon othir mighte.
Now if tomorwe fil ther swich a chance,
Sholde men fynde so just governance?
Nay, nay, this lond is al to scars and lyte
To fynde oon that so justly wolde him qwyte.
Prince excellent, have your lawes cheer;
Observe hem and offende hem by no weye.
By ooth to keepe hem, bownde is the poweer
Of kyng, and by it is kynges nobleye
Sustened. Lawe is bothe lok and keye
Of seuretee; whyl lawe is kept in londe,
A prince in his estat may sikir stonde.
And doutelees, if that fordoon be lawe,
A princes power may go pleye him thenne;
For they that naght ne han, with knyf ydrawe
Wole on hem that of good be mighty renne,
And hurte hem and hir houses fyre and brenne,
And robbe and slee and do al swich folie,
Whan ther no lawe is hem to justifie.
Now in good feith, I preye God it amende,
Lawe is ny fleemed out of this contree,
For fewe been that dreden it offende.
Correccioun and al is longe on thee:
Why suffrest thow so many an assemblee
Of armed folk? Wel ny in every shire
Partie is maad to venge hir cruel ire.
They with hir hand wrong to hem doon redresse.
Hem deyneth nat an accioun attame
At commun lawe; swich unbuxumnesse
Suffred us make wole of seurtee lame.
Whoso may this correcte, is worthy blame
That he ne dooth naght. Allas, this souffrance
Wole us destroye by continuance.
Is ther no lawe this to remedie?
I can no more, but and this foorth growe,
This land shal it repente and sore abye,
And al swich maintenance, as men wel knowe,
Susteened is nat by persones lowe,
But cobbes grete this riot susteene.
Correcte it good is whil that it is greene;
For and it hoore, this land is but lost.
He that our heed is, sore it shal repente;
And this t'amende axith no gretter cost
But to do lawe in no vengeable entente,
Seye I; but for the bettre, hem take and hente,
And punysshe hem by lawful rightwisnesse,
And suffre nat eche othir thus oppresse.
Smal tendrenesse is had now of oure lawes,
For if so be that oon of the grete wattis
A dede do which that ageyn the lawe is,
Nothyng at al he punysshid for that is.
Right as lopwebbes, flyes smale and gnattis
Taken and suffre grete flyes go,
For al this world, lawe is now reuled so.
The ryche and mighty man, thogh he trespace,
No man seith ones that blak is his ye;
But to the poore is denyed al grace;
He snybbid is and put to tormentrie.
He nat asterte may, he shal abye;
He caght is in the webbe and may nat twynne.
Mochil good reule is sowe and spryngith thynne.
Of this growith stryf, bataille, and discord;
And by the grete, poore folk been greeved;
For he that noble is of blood and a lord
In style, and naght hath, stired is and meeved
Unto rapyne; this is often preeved;
The poore it feelith. Thus of lawe lak
Norissheth wrong and castith right abak.
Whan a kyng dooth his peyne and diligence
His reme by lawe and reson to gye,
He standith more in the benevolence
Of God, and more his werk shal fructifie,
And shal han gretter meede, it is no lye,
Than they that swich a cure han noon on honde.
Thus fynde I writen, as I undirstonde.
Whoso that in hy dignitee is set
And may do grevous wrong and crueltee,
If he forbere hem, to commende is bet,
And gretter shal his meede and meryt be,
Than they that nat may kythe iniquitee,
Ne naght doon; for if sum man were of might,
Often wolde he do greet harm and unright.
Hy dignitee, the Philosophre writith,
Preeveth a man what he is in his dede.
Whan that a prince in vertu him delitith,
Than is his peple warisshid of drede;
Than may they seye and synge alowde and grede:
"Honur, long lyf, joie, and Crystes blessyng
Moot have our sustenour, our prince and kyng!"
Whan that an emperour in dayes olde
Coroned was, aftir as blyve anoon
Makers of toumbes come unto him sholde
And axe him of what metal or what stoon
His toumbe sholde been, and foorth they goon
With swich devys as the lord list devyse,
And up they make it in hir beste wyse.
This was doon for to brynge unto memorie
That he was nat but a man corruptible,
And that this worldes joie is transitorie,
And the trust on it slipir and fallible.
Al this considered, oghte him be penible
His reme wel for to governe and gye,
For whoso lyveth wel, wel shal he dye.
Lyk a brydil is dethes remembrance,
That mannes herte restreyneth fro vice.
That kyng that kyngly is of governance,
That is to seyn, dooth justly his office,
Of love and pees and reste he is norice.
And whan that he is out of this world went,
Thus seyn men that goon by his monument:
"In hevene moot this kynges soule reste.
This was a worthy kyng, greet was the pees
That men hadde in his tyme. He was the beste
That mighte be; he kepte his peple harmlees;
In his comynge, glad was al the prees,
And sory weren of his departynge."
O gracious Prince, swich be your wirkynge!
Thus, my good Lord, wynneth your peples vois,
For peples vois is Goddes vois, men seyn.
And He that for us starf upon the Crois
Shal qwyte it yow, I doute it nat certeyn;
Your labour shal nat ydil be ne veyn.
"No good dede unrewarded is or qwit,
Ne evel unpunysshid," seith Holy Writ.
In your prosperitee and in your welthe,
Remembrith evere among that yee shul dye
And woot nat whan; it cometh in a stelthe.
Have often Him beforn your myndes ye
Fro whom noon herte hyde may ne wrye
His secree thoghtes. God al woot and weyeth;
Him love and drede, and His lawes obeyeth.
Now syn a kyng is to his lawes swore,
And lawe biddith free eleccioun
In chirches passe, my good Lord, therfore;
Let no favour ne noon affeccioun
So meeve your wys circumspeccioun
To lette hem of hir lawful libertee;
Lat hem rejoise hir propre duetee.
The chapitre of a chirche cathedral,
Whan they han chosen hir heed and pastour,
Which as hem thynkith souffissant at al
Hem for to reule and been hir governour,
Writith unto the Pope in hir favour,
Byseekyng humblely his fadirhede
It to conferme, and that is a just dede.
And if the lawe suffre yow to wryte
For any man apart, herkneth now me:
Let vertu thanne therto yow excyte.
Lookith that the man have habilitee
That shal receyve that hy dignitee -
That is to seyn, he be clene of lyvynge,
Discreet, just, and of souffissant konnynge.
If the Pope to that estat provyde
A persone at your preyere and instance,
Your soonde he takith to the bettre syde;
He holdith the persone of souffissance
To have swich a cure in governance,
For so witnessith the suggestioun
That to him maad is for provisioun.
To kynges lettres geven is credence;
Beeth waar how that yee wryte in swich mateere,
Lest that yee hurte and mayme conscience.
For if that execut be your preyeere,
The persone unworthy, yee shul ful deere
Reewe it; no smal charge is the soules cure
Of al a diocise, I yow ensure.
If swich wrytynge be of right souffrable,
And the man able swich charge receyve
For whom yee wryte, that is commendable,
And elles wole it your soule deceyve.
Helpe him that able is, and th'unable weyve.
Weyve Favel with his polisshid speeche,
And helpe him that wel dooth and wel can teche.
But certes Favel hath caght so sad foot
In lordes court, he may nat thennes slyde;
Who come or go, algate abyde he moot.
His craft is to susteene ay the wrong syde,
And from vertu his lord for to dyvyde.
And, for sooth sawes been to lordes looth,
Nat wole he sooth seyn, he hath maad his ooth.
Let Favel passe, foule moot he falle!
Foorth in justice wole I now proceede.
Ther was a knyght, I not what men him calle,
A just man and a treewe in al his deede;
Which on a tyme, as thoghte him it was neede,
The froward peple by sharp lawes bynde;
Lawes ful juste he made and in streit kynde.
And whan they weren byfore hem yrad,
They made hem wondir wrooth, and seiden alle,
They weren nat so nyce ne so mad
To hem assente for aght may befalle;
They wolden nat hem to tho lawes thralle;
And wolde han artid this knyght hem repele,
Makyng ageyn him an haynous querele.
Whan he sy this, he blyve to hem seide
He made hem nat, it was god Apollo.
"And on my bak," quod he, "the charge he leide
To keepe hem. Sires, what seyn yee heerto?
As he me charged hath, right so I do."
And unto that answerde anoon the prees:
"We wole hem nat admitten, doutelees!"
"Wel," quod he, "thanne is good, or yee hem breke,
That unto god Apollo I me dresse
To trete of this mateere and with him speke;
Withouten him I may it nat redresse.
Byseeche him wole I of his gentillesse
Repele hem, syn that they to streite been,
And do my dever right wel, yee shul seen.
"But or I go, yee shul unto me swere
Tho lawes keepe til I ageyn come,
And breke hem nat," to which they gan answere:
"Yee, yee, man, yee! We graunte it al and some!"
They made hir ooth, and he his way hath nome;
He nat to Apollo but to Grece wente,
And there abood til that the deeth him hente.
And whan his laste day gan to appeere,
He bad men throwe his body in the see
Lest, if upon the lond maad were his beere,
The peple mighten unto hir citee
His bones carie, and at hir large be,
Qwyt of hir ooth, as to hir jugement.
Thus he devysed in his testament.
Syn I spoke have of justice, as yee knowe,
Unto pitee - which moot been had algates,
And namely in princes oghte it growe -
Wole I me dresse. Shee opneth the gates
Of helthe to him that in seek estat is;
Shee esith many a wight that is distressid
That, nere hir help, sholde be sore oppressid.
[De] pietate
Pitee nat elles is to undirstonde
But good wil inward of debonaire herte
And outward speeche, and werk of man to fonde
To helpe him that men seen in mescheef smerte.
Men seelde him seen into wikkid deeth sterte
That pitous is, but they han cruel deeth
Often, whos crueltee cruelly sleeth.
Whilom ther was a tirant despitous,
That so delytid him in crueltee
That of nothyng was he so desyrous.
Now shoop it so, a man that to pitee
Fo was and freend unto iniquitee,
A sotil werkman in craft of metal,
Wroghte in this wyse, as I yow telle shal.
His lord the kyng he thoghte plese and glade,
And craftily he made a bole of bras,
And in the syde of it he slyly made
A litil wyket that ordeyned was
To receyve hem that stood in dethes cas,
Undir the which men sholden sharp fyr make
Tho folk to deeth for to brennen and bake.
And yit, moreover, the kyng for to meeve
The lesse unto pitee, it maad was so
By sotil aart the dampned folk to greeve,
That whan to crye hem conpellid hir wo,
Hir vois was lyk a boles everemo,
And nothyng lyk a mannes vois in soun,
As the scripture makith mencioun.
But our lord God, of pitee the auctour,
Displesid with this cruel ordenance,
Swich reward shoop unto this losengeour
That it abatid al his contenance;
And for to preeve his feendly purveance,
How sharp it was and cowde folk distreyne,
The first he was that entred in that peyne.
For whan the kyng this cruel werk had seyn,
The craft of it commendid he ful wel,
But the entente he fully heeld ageyn,
And seide: "Thow that art more cruel
Than I, the maydenhede of this jewel
Shalt preeve anoon; this is my jugement."
And so as blyve he was therin ybrent.
Men may seen heere how Favel him enclyneth
Ay to his lordes lust what so it be;
Unto that ende he bysyeth him and pyneth,
And no consideracion hath he
Thogh it be harm to his lordes degree,
Or ageyn feith, honour, or conscience;
In fals plesaunce is al his diligence.
To what thyng it be, if it his lord lyke,
He him conformeth. He nevere denyeth
His lordes resons, but a thank to pyke,
His lordes wil and wit he justifieth.
Whyl Favel lyveth, no fals conseil dieth.
Favel is weddid to plesant deceit
And in that wedlok treewe is his conceit.
Ground of treson, o thow cursid Favel!
How longe shalt thow been a potestat?
In lordes court thow pleyest thy parcel
So that it strecchith to thy lordes maat;
For thow hast nevere thy lordes estaat
To herte cheer, but al thy bysynesse
Is for thy lucre and thy cofres warmnesse.
Favel was nevere freendly man unto.
Lordes, beeth waar it needith, trewely.
Senek by hem that folweden Nero
Seith thus: "A flie folwith the hony,
The wolf, careyne," he seith. So wel woot I
That conpaignie folweden hir pray,
And nat the man, and so do men this day.
Whil that the swetnesse of richesse endurith,
Unto the ryche is many a man plesant;
Oonly the richesse therto hem lurith;
What he commandith, they been obeissant
To do whil he of good is habundant.
But whan the pray, the richesse, is ago,
The man forsaken they for everemo.
O Favel, a blynd marchant artow oon,
That for worldly good and grace and favour
Which faille shal and passe and overgoon,
Swich diligence doost and swich labour
That thow thy soule from our Sauveour
Twynnest and sleest thy lordes soule also,
And causist hem to peyne eternel go.
Ther is a long and large difference
Twixt vertuous plesaunce and flaterie.
Good plesaunce is of swich benevolence
That what good dede he may in man espie,
He preisith it and rebukith folie.
But Favel takith al anothir paart;
In wrong preysynge is al his craft and aart.
A gloser also keepith his silence
Often where he his lord seeth him mistake.
Lest that his answer mighte doon offense
Unto his lord and him displesid make,
He halt his pees - nat o word dar he crake;
And for he naght ne seith, he his assent
Geveth therto by mannes jugement.
Whoso that woot the purpos of a wight
That is ygrowndid upon wikkidnesse
And nat ne lettith it unto his might,
Favourith it, as the book can expresse.
Whoso it lookith, fynde it shal no lesse.
But of al this now make I heere an eende
And to my tale of pitee wole I weende.
A prince moot been of condicioun
Pitous, and his angyr refreyne and ire,
Lest an unavysid commocioun
Him chaufe so and sette his herte on fyre,
That him to venge as blyve he desyre,
And fulfille it in dede. Him owith knowe
His errour, and qwenche that fyry lowe.
Aristotle amonestith wondir faste,
In his book which to Alisaundre he wroot,
If he wolde have his regne endure and laste,
That for noon ire he nevere be so hoot
Blood of man shede. And God seith, wel I woot,
That unto him reserved is vengeance;
Whoso that sleeth shal have the same chance.
But this nat ment is by the cours of lawe
That putte a man to deeth for cryme horrible.
Whan he a man ymurdred hath and slawe,
A man to slee by lawe it is lisible -
That slaghtre beforn God is admittible;
And if a kyng do swiche murdrers grace
Of lyf, he boldith hem eft to trespace.
A kyng of this lond, whilom herde I seyn,
For mannes deeth a pardoun hadde grauntid
Unto a man, which aftirward ageyn
The same gilt hadde in anothir hauntid;
Aftir whos deeth, he hoomly hath avauntid,
He nas nat so frendlees he wolde do
Wel ynow, thogh he had slayn othir two.
"Of freendes," quod he, "have I large wone,
That for that they have had and shul of myne,
Beforn the kyng for me shal knele echone.
They at the fulle konne his herte myne.
Thidir wole I go, streight as any lyne;
And they that now annoyen me or greeve,
I shal hem qwyte heereaftir, as I leeve."
He cam unto the kyng and axid grace
Of that he wroght hadde so synfully.
The kyng avysed him wel on his face,
And seide, "Freend, me thynkith how that I
Have unto thee doon grace or this, soothly.
I grauntid ones a chartre to thee
Of mannes deeth, as it remembrith me.
"Hastow now slayn anothir man also?"

He slow him nat, for yee yourself him slow;
And by your leeve, I shal tellen how.
"If that the lawe mighte his cours han had,
This man heere had been for the first man deed;
Forgeve him eft now and, if he be drad
To slee the thridde, than girde of myn heed.

This kyng wel thoghte that he seide him trouthe,
And chartrelees gooth this man ful of dreede.
And aftirward, of whos dissert was routhe,
The lawe him gaf that longid to his meede.
My tale is doon. Now soothly, it is neede
Tho grauntes to withstonde that procure
Meschevous deeth to many a creature.
Pitee availlith mochil, but nat there,
For bet it is to slee the murdreman
Than suffre him regne, for he hath no fere
His hand to use foorth as he bygan;
And in my conceit feele wel I can
That of swich pitee is the abstinence
Of gretter pitee for the consequence.
If rightful deeth of o man keepe and save
Two innocentes lyves, thynkith me
By reson, more merit oghte him have
That commandith this gilty man deed be
Than he that lyf him grauntith. Why? Lat se!
The gilty man is no wrong doon unto,
But wrong is doon unto thise othir two.
Every man woot wel, for to save tweyne
Is gretter grace than save but oon.
Of murdre is cause greet for to conpleyne;
Tho pardons al to lightly passe and goon;
Avyse hem that favoure hem, by Seint John.
Whoso it be that therto the kyng meeveth,
Wel more than he woot his soule greeveth.
Avyse a kyng eek for any requeste
Unto him maad by greet estat or mene,
That he favoure it nat; it is the beste
Tho requestes to werne and voide clene -
Of swiche, in soothe, as murdrers been, I mene.
But and oon be by malice of his foos
Endited, pardoun be to him nat cloos.
If that be sooth, lat pitee walke at large,
For shee and mercy therto wole assente;
It is a parcel of hir eithir charge.
Routhe were it the giltelees tormente.
Pitee shal soule of man to God presente,
And God, that gaf us ensample of pitee,
To pitous folk sauvacion shal be.
The pitous herte of Marcus Marcellus
Wel worthy is be drawen in memorie.
He may ensample and mirour be to us;
For, as Valerie writith in a storie,
Whan this Marc obteened had the victorie
By seege leid to men of Siracuse,
As I shal seyn, he hevyly gan muse.
He wente him up on hy upon a tour
Where he beholde mighte al the citee,
And how Fortune had shape him that honour.
With herte tendre than considered he
And hadde of folkes dethes swich pitee
That from wepynge he mighte him nat restreyne;
Al his triumphe was to him but peyne.
Who hadde stonden by him in that tyde
And him avysid on his contenance
Wolde han supposid that that othir syde
Rathere hadde put him to the outrance
Than he hadde had of hem so fair a chance.
O worthy knyght, who shal thy steppes sue?
Thy successour halt him to longe in mue.
O citee, syn Fortune was contrarie
To thee in o part, yit hir gentillesse
Purveied thee a benigne adversarie!
Thanke hire of that, for thy disese is lesse
Falle in the daunger of lambes humblesse
Than be with cruel wolves al tofrete;
A lamb is nat so greedy on hir mete.
Ther nis nothyng, as witnessith a storie,
Makith a knyght so shynyng in renoun,
Whan that he of his foos hath the victorie,
As reewe on him that throwen is adoun,
And of his blood eschue effusioun.
A beestes kynde is, that is wylde and wood,
Victorie nat desyre but the blood.
Also, whan that the kyng of Hermenye
Venquissht was in bataille by Pompeye,
This kyng fil doun unto his foot in hye
And from him caste his diadeeme aweye.
But Pompeyus as blyve of his nobleye
Stirte unto him and up him lifte and hente
And many a word benigne on him despente.