Part 10

“O thou divine pourveance, Which every man in the balance Of kinde hast formed to be liche, The povere is bore as is the riche And deieth in the same wise, Upon the fol, upon the wise Siknesse and hele entrecomune; Mai non eschuie that fortune 3250 Which kinde hath in hire lawe set; Hire strengthe and beaute ben beset To every man aliche fre, That sche preferreth no degre As in the disposicioun Of bodili complexioun: And ek of Soule resonable The povere child is bore als able To vertu as the kinges Sone; For every man his oghne wone 3260 After the lust of his assay The vice or vertu chese may. Thus stonden alle men franchised, Bot in astat thei ben divised; To some worschipe and richesse, To some poverte and distresse, On lordeth and an other serveth; Bot yit as every man deserveth The world yifth noght his yiftes hiere. Bot certes he hath gret matiere 3270 To ben of good condicioun, Which hath in his subjeccioun The men that ben of his semblance.” And ek he tok a remembrance How he that made lawe of kinde Wolde every man to lawe binde, And bad a man, such as he wolde Toward himself, riht such he scholde Toward an other don also. And thus this worthi lord as tho 3280 Sette in balance his oghne astat And with himself stod in debat, And thoghte hou that it was noght good To se so mochel mannes blod Be spilt for cause of him alone. He sih also the grete mone, Of that the Modres were unglade, And of the wo the children made, Wherof that al his herte tendreth, And such pite withinne engendreth, 3290 That him was levere forto chese His oghne bodi forto lese, Than se so gret a moerdre wroght Upon the blod which gulteth noght. Thus for the pite which he tok Alle othre leches he forsok, And put him out of aventure Al only into goddes cure; And seith, “Who that woll maister be, He mot be servant to pite.” 3300 So ferforth he was overcome With charite, that he hath nome His conseil and hise officers, And bad unto hise tresorers That thei his tresour al aboute Departe among the povere route Of wommen and of children bothe, Wherof thei mihte hem fede and clothe And saufli tornen hom ayein Withoute lost of eny grein. 3310 Thurgh charite thus he despendeth His good, wherof that he amendeth The povere poeple, and contrevaileth The harm, that he hem so travaileth: And thus the woful nyhtes sorwe To joie is torned on the morwe; Al was thonkinge, al was blessinge, Which erst was wepinge and cursinge; Thes wommen gon hom glade ynowh, Echon for joie on other lowh, 3320 And preiden for this lordes hele, Which hath relessed the querele, And hath his oghne will forsake In charite for goddes sake.

Bot now hierafter thou schalt hiere What god hath wroght in this matiere, As he which doth al equite. To him that wroghte charite He was ayeinward charitous, And to pite he was pitous: 3330 For it was nevere knowe yit That charite goth unaquit. The nyht, whan he was leid to slepe, The hihe god, which wolde him kepe, Seint Peter and seint Poul him sende, Be whom he wolde his lepre amende. Thei tuo to him slepende appiere Fro god, and seide in this manere: “O Constantin, for thou hast served Pite, thou hast pite deserved: 3340 Forthi thou schalt such pite have That god thurgh pite woll thee save. So schalt thou double hele finde, Ferst for thi bodiliche kinde, And for thi wofull Soule also, Thou schalt ben hol of bothe tuo. And for thou schalt thee noght despeire, Thi lepre schal nomore empeire Til thou wolt sende therupon Unto the Mont of Celion, 3350 Wher that Silvestre and his clergie Togedre duelle in compaignie For drede of thee, which many day Hast ben a fo to Cristes lay, And hast destruid to mochel schame The prechours of his holy name. Bot now thou hast somdiel appesed Thi god, and with good dede plesed, That thou thi pite hast bewared Upon the blod which thou hast spared. 3360 Forthi to thi salvacion Thou schalt have enformacioun, Such as Silvestre schal the teche: The nedeth of non other leche.”

This Emperour, which al this herde, “Grant merci lordes,” he ansuerde, “I wol do so as ye me seie. Bot of o thing I wolde preie: What schal I telle unto Silvestre Or of youre name or of youre estre?” 3370 And thei him tolden what thei hihte, And forth withal out of his sihte Thei passen up into the hevene. And he awok out of his swevene, And clepeth, and men come anon: He tolde his drem, and therupon In such a wise as he hem telleth The Mont wher that Silvestre duelleth Thei have in alle haste soght, And founde he was and with hem broght 3380 To themperour, which to him tolde His swevene and elles what he wolde. And whan Silvestre hath herd the king, He was riht joiful of this thing, And him began with al his wit To techen upon holi writ Ferst how mankinde was forlore, And how the hihe god therfore His Sone sende from above, Which bore was for mannes love, 3390 And after of his oghne chois He tok his deth upon the crois; And how in grave he was beloke, And how that he hath helle broke, And tok hem out that were him lieve; And forto make ous full believe That he was verrai goddes Sone, Ayein the kinde of mannes wone Fro dethe he ros the thridde day, And whanne he wolde, as he wel may, 3400 He styh up to his fader evene With fleissh and blod into the hevene; And riht so in the same forme In fleissh and blod he schal reforme, Whan time comth, the qwike and dede At thilke woful dai of drede, Where every man schal take his dom, Als wel the Maister as the grom. The mihti kinges retenue That dai may stonde of no value 3410 With worldes strengthe to defende; For every man mot thanne entende To stonde upon his oghne dedes And leve alle othre mennes nedes. That dai mai no consail availe, The pledour and the plee schal faile, The sentence of that ilke day Mai non appell sette in delay; Ther mai no gold the Jugge plie, That he ne schal the sothe trie 3420 And setten every man upriht, Als wel the plowman as the kniht: The lewed man, the grete clerk Schal stonde upon his oghne werk, And such as he is founde tho, Such schal he be for everemo. Ther mai no peine be relessed, Ther mai no joie ben encressed, Bot endeles, as thei have do, He schal receive on of the tuo. 3430 And thus Silvestre with his sawe The ground of al the newe lawe With gret devocion he precheth, Fro point to point and pleinly techeth Unto this hethen Emperour; And seith, the hihe creatour Hath underfonge his charite, Of that he wroghte such pite, Whan he the children hadde on honde. Thus whan this lord hath understonde 3440 Of al this thing how that it ferde, Unto Silvestre he thanne ansuerde, With al his hole herte and seith That he is redi to the feith. And so the vessel which for blod Was mad, Silvestre, ther it stod, With clene water of the welle In alle haste he let do felle, And sette Constantin therinne Al naked up unto the chinne. 3450 And in the while it was begunne, A liht, as thogh it were a Sunne, Fro hevene into the place com Wher that he tok his cristendom; And evere among the holi tales Lich as thei weren fisshes skales Ther fellen from him now and eft, Til that ther was nothing beleft Of al his grete maladie. For he that wolde him purefie, 3460 The hihe god hath mad him clene, So that ther lefte nothing sene; He hath him clensed bothe tuo, The bodi and the Soule also.

Tho knew this Emperour in dede That Cristes feith was forto drede, And sende anon hise lettres oute And let do crien al aboute, Up peine of deth that noman weyve That he baptesme ne receive: 3470 After his Moder qweene Heleine He sende, and so betwen hem tweine Thei treten, that the Cite all Was cristned, and sche forth withall. This Emperour, which hele hath founde, Withinne Rome anon let founde Tuo cherches, which he dede make For Peter and for Poules sake, Of whom he hadde avisioun; And yaf therto possessioun 3480 Of lordschipe and of worldes good. Bot how so that his will was good Toward the Pope and his Franchise, Yit hath it proved other wise, To se the worchinge of the dede: For in Cronique this I rede; Anon as he hath mad the yifte, A vois was herd on hih the lifte, Of which al Rome was adrad, And seith: “To day is venym schad 3490 In holi cherche of temporal, Which medleth with the spirital.” And hou it stant of that degree Yit mai a man the sothe se: God mai amende it, whan he wile, I can ther to non other skile.

Bot forto go ther I began, How charite mai helpe a man To bothe worldes, I have seid: And if thou have an Ere leid, 3500 Mi Sone, thou miht understonde, If charite be take on honde, Ther folweth after mochel grace. Forthi, if that thou wolt pourchace How that thou miht Envie flee, Aqueinte thee with charite, Which is the vertu sovereine.

Mi fader, I schal do my peine: For this ensample which ye tolde With al myn herte I have withholde, 3510 So that I schal for everemore Eschuie Envie wel the more: And that I have er this misdo, Yif me my penance er I go. And over that to mi matiere Of schrifte, why we sitten hiere In privete betwen ous tweie, Now axeth what ther is, I preie.

Mi goode Sone, and for thi lore I woll thee telle what is more, 3520 So that thou schalt the vices knowe: For whan thei be to thee full knowe, Thou miht hem wel the betre eschuie. And for this cause I thenke suie The forme bothe and the matiere, As now suiende thou schalt hiere Which vice stant next after this: And whan thou wost how that it is, As thou schalt hiere me devise, Thow miht thiself the betre avise. 3530

Explicit Liber Secundus

Incipit Liber Tercius

Ira suis paribus est par furiis Acherontis, Quo furor ad tempus nil pietatis habet. Ira malencolicos animos perturbat, vt equo Iure sui pondus nulla statera tenet. Omnibus in causis grauat Ira, set inter amantes, Illa magis facili sorte grauamen agit: Est vbi vir discors leuiterque repugnat amori, Sepe loco ludi fletus ad ora venit.

If thou the vices lest to knowe, Mi Sone, it hath noght ben unknowe, Fro ferst that men the swerdes grounde, That ther nis on upon this grounde, A vice forein fro the lawe, Wherof that many a good felawe Hath be distraght be sodein chance; And yit to kinde no plesance It doth, bot wher he most achieveth His pourpos, most to kinde he grieveth, 10 As he which out of conscience Is enemy to pacience: And is be name on of the Sevene, Which ofte hath set this world unevene, And cleped is the cruel Ire, Whos herte is everemore on fyre To speke amis and to do bothe, For his servantz ben evere wrothe.

Mi goode fader, tell me this: What thing is Ire? Sone, it is 20 That in oure englissh Wrathe is hote, Which hath hise wordes ay so hote, That all a mannes pacience Is fyred of the violence. For he with him hath evere fyve Servantz that helpen him to stryve: The ferst of hem Malencolie Is cleped, which in compaignie An hundred times in an houre Wol as an angri beste loure, 30 And noman wot the cause why. Mi Sone, schrif thee now forthi: Hast thou be Malencolien?

Ye, fader, be seint Julien, Bot I untrewe wordes use, I mai me noght therof excuse: And al makth love, wel I wot, Of which myn herte is evere hot, So that I brenne as doth a glede For Wrathe that I mai noght spede. 40 And thus fulofte a day for noght Save onlich of myn oghne thoght I am so with miselven wroth, That how so that the game goth With othre men, I am noght glad; Bot I am wel the more unglad, For that is othre mennes game It torneth me to pure grame. Thus am I with miself oppressed Of thoght, the which I have impressed, 50 That al wakende I dreme and meete That I with hire al one meete And preie hire of som good ansuere: Bot for sche wol noght gladly swere, Sche seith me nay withouten oth; And thus wexe I withinne wroth, That outward I am al affraied, And so distempred and esmaied. A thousand times on a day Ther souneth in myn Eres nay, 60 The which sche seide me tofore: Thus be my wittes as forlore; And namely whan I beginne To rekne with miself withinne How many yeres ben agon, Siththe I have trewly loved on And nevere tok of other hede, And evere aliche fer to spede I am, the more I with hir dele, So that myn happ and al myn hele 70 Me thenkth is ay the leng the ferre, That bringth my gladschip out of herre, Wherof my wittes ben empeired, And I, as who seith, al despeired. For finaly, whan that I muse And thenke how sche me wol refuse, I am with anger so bestad, For al this world mihte I be glad: And for the while that it lasteth Al up so doun my joie it casteth, 80 And ay the furthere that I be, Whan I ne may my ladi se, The more I am redy to wraththe, That for the touchinge of a laththe Or for the torninge of a stree I wode as doth the wylde Se, And am so malencolious, That ther nys servant in myn hous Ne non of tho that ben aboute, That ech of hem ne stant in doute, 90 And wenen that I scholde rave For Anger that thei se me have; And so thei wondre more and lasse, Til that thei sen it overpasse. Bot, fader, if it so betide, That I aproche at eny tide The place wher my ladi is, And thanne that hire like ywiss To speke a goodli word untome, For al the gold that is in Rome 100 Ne cowthe I after that be wroth, Bot al myn Anger overgoth; So glad I am of the presence Of hire, that I all offence Foryete, as thogh it were noght, So overgladed is my thoght. And natheles, the soth to telle, Ayeinward if it so befelle That I at thilke time sihe On me that sche miscaste hire yhe, 110 Or that sche liste noght to loke, And I therof good hiede toke, Anon into my ferste astat I torne, and am with al so mat, That evere it is aliche wicke. And thus myn hand ayein the pricke I hurte and have do many day, And go so forth as I go may, Fulofte bitinge on my lippe, And make unto miself a whippe. 120 With which in many a chele and hete Mi wofull herte is so tobete, That all my wittes ben unsofte And I am wroth, I not how ofte; And al it is Malencolie, Which groweth of the fantasie Of love, that me wol noght loute: So bere I forth an angri snoute Ful manye times in a yer. Bot, fader, now ye sitten hier 130 In loves stede, I yow beseche, That som ensample ye me teche, Wherof I mai miself appese.

Mi Sone, for thin hertes ese I schal fulfille thi preiere, So that thou miht the betre lere What mischief that this vice stereth, Which in his Anger noght forbereth, Wherof that after him forthenketh, Whan he is sobre and that he thenketh 140 Upon the folie of his dede; And of this point a tale I rede.

Ther was a king which Eolus Was hote, and it befell him thus, That he tuo children hadde faire, The Sone cleped was Machaire, The dowhter ek Canace hihte. Be daie bothe and ek be nyhte, Whil thei be yonge, of comun wone In chambre thei togedre wone, 150 And as thei scholden pleide hem ofte, Til thei be growen up alofte Into the youthe of lusti age, Whan kinde assaileth the corage With love and doth him forto bowe, That he no reson can allowe, Bot halt the lawes of nature: For whom that love hath under cure, As he is blind himself, riht so He makth his client blind also. 160 In such manere as I you telle As thei al day togedre duelle, This brother mihte it noght asterte That he with al his hole herte His love upon his Soster caste: And so it fell hem ate laste, That this Machaire with Canace Whan thei were in a prive place, Cupide bad hem ferst to kesse, And after sche which is Maistresse 170 In kinde and techeth every lif Withoute lawe positif, Of which sche takth nomaner charge, Bot kepth hire lawes al at large, Nature, tok hem into lore And tawht hem so, that overmore Sche hath hem in such wise daunted, That thei were, as who seith, enchaunted. And as the blinde an other ledeth And til thei falle nothing dredeth, 180 Riht so thei hadde non insihte; Bot as the bridd which wole alihte And seth the mete and noght the net, Which in deceipte of him is set, This yonge folk no peril sihe, Bot that was likinge in here yhe, So that thei felle upon the chance Where witt hath lore his remembrance. So longe thei togedre assemble, The wombe aros, and sche gan tremble, 190 And hield hire in hire chambre clos For drede it scholde be disclos And come to hire fader Ere: Wherof the Sone hadde also fere, And feigneth cause forto ryde; For longe dorste he noght abyde, In aunter if men wolde sein That he his Soster hath forlein: For yit sche hadde it noght beknowe Whos was the child at thilke throwe. 200 Machaire goth, Canace abit, The which was noght delivered yit, Bot riht sone after that sche was.

Now lest and herkne a woful cas. The sothe, which mai noght ben hid, Was ate laste knowe and kid Unto the king, how that it stod. And whan that he it understod, Anon into Malencolie, As thogh it were a frenesie, 210 He fell, as he which nothing cowthe How maistrefull love is in yowthe: And for he was to love strange, He wolde noght his herte change To be benigne and favorable To love, bot unmerciable Betwen the wawe of wod and wroth Into his dowhtres chambre he goth, And sih the child was late bore, Wherof he hath hise othes swore 220 That sche it schal ful sore abye. And sche began merci to crie, Upon hire bare knes and preide, And to hire fader thus sche seide: “Ha mercy! fader, thenk I am Thi child, and of thi blod I cam. That I misdede yowthe it made, And in the flodes bad me wade, Wher that I sih no peril tho: Bot now it is befalle so, 230 Merci, my fader, do no wreche!” And with that word sche loste speche And fell doun swounende at his fot, As sche for sorwe nedes mot. Bot his horrible crualte Ther mihte attempre no pite: Out of hire chambre forth he wente Al full of wraththe in his entente, And tok the conseil in his herte That sche schal noght the deth asterte, 240 As he which Malencolien Of pacience hath no lien, Wherof the wraththe he mai restreigne. And in this wilde wode peine, Whanne al his resoun was untame, A kniht he clepeth be his name, And tok him as be weie of sonde A naked swerd to bere on honde, And seide him that he scholde go And telle unto his dowhter so 250 In the manere as he him bad, How sche that scharpe swerdes blad Receive scholde and do withal So as sche wot wherto it schal. Forth in message goth this kniht Unto this wofull yonge wiht, This scharpe swerd to hire he tok: Wherof that al hire bodi qwok, For wel sche wiste what it mente, And that it was to thilke entente 260 That sche hireselven scholde slee. And to the kniht sche seide: “Yee, Now that I wot my fadres wille, That I schal in this wise spille, I wole obeie me therto, And as he wole it schal be do. Bot now this thing mai be non other, I wole a lettre unto mi brother, So as my fieble hand may wryte, With al my wofull herte endite.” 270 Sche tok a Penne on honde tho, Fro point to point and al the wo, Als ferforth as hireself it wot, Unto hire dedly frend sche wrot, And tolde how that hire fader grace Sche mihte for nothing pourchace; And overthat, as thou schalt hiere, Sche wrot and seide in this manere: “O thou my sorwe and my gladnesse, O thou myn hele and my siknesse, 280 O my wanhope and al my trust, O my desese and al my lust, O thou my wele, o thou my wo, O thou my frend, o thou my fo, O thou my love, o thou myn hate, For thee mot I be ded algate. Thilke ende may I noght asterte, And yit with al myn hole herte, Whil that me lasteth eny breth, I wol the love into my deth. 290 Bot of o thing I schal thee preie, If that my litel Sone deie, Let him be beried in my grave Beside me, so schalt thou have Upon ous bothe remembrance. For thus it stant of my grevance; Now at this time, as thou schalt wite, With teres and with enke write This lettre I have in cares colde: In my riht hond my Penne I holde, 300 And in my left the swerd I kepe, And in my barm ther lith to wepe Thi child and myn, which sobbeth faste. Now am I come unto my laste: Fare wel, for I schal sone deie, And thenk how I thi love abeie.” The pomel of the swerd to grounde Sche sette, and with the point a wounde Thurghout hire herte anon sche made, And forth with that al pale and fade 310 Sche fell doun ded fro ther sche stod. The child lay bathende in hire blod Out rolled fro the moder barm, And for the blod was hot and warm, He basketh him aboute thrinne. Ther was no bote forto winne, For he, which can no pite knowe, The king cam in the same throwe, And sih how that his dowhter dieth And how this Babe al blody crieth; 320 Bot al that mihte him noght suffise, That he ne bad to do juise Upon the child, and bere him oute, And seche in the Forest aboute Som wilde place, what it were, To caste him out of honde there, So that som best him mai devoure, Where as noman him schal socoure. Al that he bad was don in dede: Ha, who herde evere singe or rede 330 Of such a thing as that was do? Bot he which ladde his wraththe so Hath knowe of love bot a lite; Bot for al that he was to wyte, Thurgh his sodein Malencolie To do so gret a felonie.

Forthi, my Sone, how so it stonde, Be this cas thou miht understonde That if thou evere in cause of love Schalt deme, and thou be so above 340 That thou miht lede it at thi wille, Let nevere thurgh thi Wraththe spille Which every kinde scholde save. For it sit every man to have Reward to love and to his miht, Ayein whos strengthe mai no wiht: And siththe an herte is so constreigned, The reddour oghte be restreigned To him that mai no bet aweie, Whan he mot to nature obeie. 350 For it is seid thus overal, That nedes mot that nede schal Of that a lif doth after kinde, Wherof he mai no bote finde. What nature hath set in hir lawe Ther mai no mannes miht withdrawe, And who that worcheth therayein, Fulofte time it hath be sein, Ther hath befalle gret vengance, Wherof I finde a remembrance. 360

Ovide after the time tho Tolde an ensample and seide so, How that whilom Tiresias, As he walkende goth per cas, Upon an hih Montaine he sih Tuo Serpentz in his weie nyh, And thei, so as nature hem tawhte, Assembled were, and he tho cawhte A yerde which he bar on honde, And thoghte that he wolde fonde 370 To letten hem, and smot hem bothe: Wherof the goddes weren wrothe; And for he hath destourbed kinde And was so to nature unkinde, Unkindeliche he was transformed, That he which erst a man was formed Into a womman was forschape. That was to him an angri jape; Bot for that he with Angre wroghte, Hise Angres angreliche he boghte. 380

Lo thus, my Sone, Ovide hath write, Wherof thou miht be reson wite, More is a man than such a beste: So mihte it nevere ben honeste A man to wraththen him to sore Of that an other doth the lore Of kinde, in which is no malice, Bot only that it is a vice: And thogh a man be resonable, Yit after kinde he is menable 390 To love, wher he wole or non. Thenk thou, my Sone, therupon And do Malencolie aweie; For love hath evere his lust to pleie, As he which wolde no lif grieve.

Mi fader, that I mai wel lieve; Al that ye tellen it is skile: Let every man love as he wile, Be so it be noght my ladi, For I schal noght be wroth therby. 400 Bot that I wraththe and fare amis, Al one upon miself it is, That I with bothe love and kinde Am so bestad, that I can finde No weie how I it mai asterte: Which stant upon myn oghne herte And toucheth to non other lif, Save only to that swete wif For whom, bot if it be amended, Mi glade daies ben despended, 410 That I miself schal noght forbere The Wraththe which that I now bere, For therof is non other leche. Now axeth forth, I yow beseche, Of Wraththe if ther oght elles is, Wherof to schryve. Sone, yis.

Of Wraththe the secounde is Cheste, Which hath the wyndes of tempeste To kepe, and many a sodein blast He bloweth, wherof ben agast 420 Thei that desiren pes and reste. He is that ilke ungoodlieste Which many a lusti love hath twinned; For he berth evere his mowth unpinned, So that his lippes ben unloke And his corage is al tobroke, That every thing which he can telle, It springeth up as doth a welle, Which mai non of his stremes hyde, Bot renneth out on every syde. 430 So buillen up the foule sawes That Cheste wot of his felawes: For as a Sive kepeth Ale, Riht so can Cheste kepe a tale; Al that he wot he wol desclose, And speke er eny man oppose. As a Cite withoute wal, Wher men mai gon out overal Withouten eny resistence, So with his croked eloquence 440 He spekth al that he wot withinne: Wherof men lese mor than winne, For ofte time of his chidinge He bringth to house such tidinge, That makth werre ate beddeshed. He is the levein of the bred, Which soureth al the past aboute: Men oghte wel such on to doute, For evere his bowe is redi bent, And whom he hit I telle him schent, 450 If he mai perce him with his tunge. And ek so lowde his belle is runge, That of the noise and of the soun Men feeren hem in al the toun Welmore than thei don of thonder. For that is cause of more wonder; For with the wyndes whiche he bloweth Fulofte sythe he overthroweth The Cites and the policie, That I have herd the poeple crie, 460 And echon seide in his degre, “Ha wicke tunge, wo thee be!” For men sein that the harde bon, Althogh himselven have non, A tunge brekth it al to pieces. He hath so manye sondri spieces Of vice, that I mai noght wel Descrive hem be a thousendel: Bot whan that he to Cheste falleth, Ful many a wonder thing befalleth, 470 For he ne can nothing forbere.

Now tell me, Sone, thin ansuere, If it hath evere so betidd, That thou at eny time hast chidd Toward thi love.

Fader, nay: Such Cheste yit unto this day Ne made I nevere, god forbede: For er I sunge such a crede, I hadde levere to be lewed; For thanne were I al beschrewed 480 And worthi to be put abak With al the sorwe upon my bak That eny man ordeigne cowthe. Bot I spak nevere yit be mowthe That unto Cheste mihte touche, And that I durste riht wel vouche Upon hirself as for witnesse; For I wot, of hir gentilesse That sche me wolde wel excuse, That I no suche thinges use. 490 And if it scholde so betide That I algates moste chide, It myhte noght be to my love: For so yit was I nevere above, For al this wyde world to winne That I dorste eny word beginne, Be which sche mihte have ben amoeved And I of Cheste also reproeved. Bot rathere, if it mihte hir like, The beste wordes wolde I pike 500 Whiche I cowthe in myn herte chese, And serve hem forth in stede of chese, For that is helplich to defie; And so wolde I my wordes plie, That mihten Wraththe and Cheste avale With tellinge of my softe tale. Thus dar I make a foreward, That nevere unto my ladiward Yit spak I word in such a wise, Wherof that Cheste scholde arise. 510 This seie I noght, that I fulofte Ne have, whanne I spak most softe, Per cas seid more thanne ynowh; Bot so wel halt noman the plowh That he ne balketh otherwhile, Ne so wel can noman affile His tunge, that som time in rape Him mai som liht word overscape, And yit ne meneth he no Cheste. Bot that I have ayein hir heste 520 Fulofte spoke, I am beknowe; And how my will is, that ye knowe: For whan my time comth aboute, That I dar speke and seie al oute Mi longe love, of which sche wot That evere in on aliche hot Me grieveth, thanne al my desese I telle, and though it hir desplese, I speke it forth and noght ne leve: And thogh it be beside hire leve, 530 I hope and trowe natheles That I do noght ayein the pes; For thogh I telle hire al my thoght, Sche wot wel that I chyde noght. Men mai the hihe god beseche, And he wol hiere a mannes speche And be noght wroth of that he seith; So yifth it me the more feith And makth me hardi, soth to seie, That I dar wel the betre preie 540 Mi ladi, which a womman is. For thogh I telle hire that or this Of love, which me grieveth sore, Hire oghte noght be wroth the more, For I withoute noise or cri Mi pleignte make al buxomly To puten alle wraththe away. Thus dar I seie unto this day Of Cheste in ernest or in game Mi ladi schal me nothing blame. 550

Bot ofte time it hath betidd That with miselven I have chidd, That noman couthe betre chide: And that hath ben at every tide, Whanne I cam to miself al one; For thanne I made a prive mone, And every tale by and by, Which as I spak to my ladi, I thenke and peise in my balance And drawe into my remembrance; 560 And thanne, if that I finde a lak Of eny word that I mispak, Which was to moche in eny wise, Anon my wittes I despise And make a chidinge in myn herte, That eny word me scholde asterte Which as I scholde have holden inne. And so forth after I beginne And loke if ther was elles oght To speke, and I ne spak it noght: 570 And thanne, if I mai seche and finde That eny word be left behinde, Which as I scholde more have spoke, I wolde upon miself be wroke, And chyde with miselven so That al my wit is overgo. For noman mai his time lore Recovere, and thus I am therfore So overwroth in al my thoght, That I myself chide al to noght: 580 Thus for to moche or for to lite Fulofte I am miself to wyte. Bot al that mai me noght availe, With cheste thogh I me travaile: Bot Oule on Stock and Stock on Oule; The more that a man defoule, Men witen wel which hath the werse; And so to me nys worth a kerse, Bot torneth on myn oghne hed, Thogh I, til that I were ded, 590 Wolde evere chyde in such a wise Of love as I to you devise. Bot, fader, now ye have al herd In this manere how I have ferd Of Cheste and of dissencioun, Yif me youre absolucioun.

Mi Sone, if that thou wistest al, What Cheste doth in special To love and to his welwillinge, Thou woldest flen his knowlechinge 600 And lerne to be debonaire. For who that most can speke faire Is most acordende unto love: Fair speche hath ofte brought above Ful many a man, as it is knowe, Which elles scholde have be riht lowe And failed mochel of his wille. Forthi hold thou thi tunge stille And let thi witt thi wille areste, So that thou falle noght in Cheste, 610 Which is the source of gret destance: And tak into thi remembrance If thou miht gete pacience, Which is the leche of alle offence, As tellen ous these olde wise: For whan noght elles mai suffise Be strengthe ne be mannes wit, Than pacience it oversit And overcomth it ate laste; Bot he mai nevere longe laste, 620 Which wol noght bowe er that he breke. Tak hiede, Sone, of that I speke.

Mi fader, of your goodli speche And of the witt which ye me teche I thonke you with al myn herte: For that world schal me nevere asterte, That I ne schal your wordes holde, Of Pacience as ye me tolde, Als ferforth as myn herte thenketh; And of my wraththe it me forthenketh. 630 Bot, fader, if ye forth withal Som good ensample in special Me wolden telle of som Cronique, It scholde wel myn herte like Of pacience forto hiere, So that I mihte in mi matiere The more unto my love obeie And puten mi desese aweie.

Mi Sone, a man to beie him pes Behoveth soffre as Socrates 640 Ensample lefte, which is write: And for thou schalt the sothe wite, Of this ensample what I mene, Althogh it be now litel sene Among the men thilke evidence, Yit he was upon pacience So sett, that he himself assaie In thing which mihte him most mispaie Desireth, and a wickid wif He weddeth, which in sorwe and strif 650 Ayein his ese was contraire. Bot he spak evere softe and faire, Til it befell, as it is told, In wynter, whan the dai is cold, This wif was fro the welle come, Wher that a pot with water nome Sche hath, and broghte it into house, And sih how that hire seli spouse Was sett and loked on a bok Nyh to the fyr, as he which tok 660 His ese for a man of age. And sche began the wode rage, And axeth him what devel he thoghte, And bar on hond that him ne roghte What labour that sche toke on honde, And seith that such an Housebonde Was to a wif noght worth a Stre. He seide nowther nay ne ye, Bot hield him stille and let hire chyde; And sche, which mai hirself noght hyde, 670 Began withinne forto swelle, And that sche broghte in fro the welle, The waterpot sche hente alofte And bad him speke, and he al softe Sat stille and noght a word ansuerde; And sche was wroth that he so ferde, And axeth him if he be ded; And al the water on his hed Sche pourede oute and bad awake. Bot he, which wolde noght forsake 680 His Pacience, thanne spak, And seide how that he fond no lak In nothing which sche hadde do: For it was wynter time tho, And wynter, as be weie of kinde Which stormy is, as men it finde, Ferst makth the wyndes forto blowe, And after that withinne a throwe He reyneth and the watergates Undoth; “and thus my wif algates, 690 Which is with reson wel besein, Hath mad me bothe wynd and rein After the Sesoun of the yer.” And thanne he sette him nerr the fer, And as he mihte hise clothes dreide, That he nomore o word ne seide; Wherof he gat him somdel reste, For that him thoghte was the beste.

I not if thilke ensample yit Acordeth with a mannes wit, 700 To soffre as Socrates tho dede: And if it falle in eny stede A man to lese so his galle, Him oghte among the wommen alle In loves Court be juggement The name bere of Pacient, To yive ensample to the goode Of pacience how that it stode, That othre men it mihte knowe. And, Sone, if thou at eny throwe 710 Be tempted ayein Pacience, Tak hiede upon this evidence; It schal per cas the lasse grieve.