Part 11

Mi fader, so as I believe, Of that schal be no maner nede, For I wol take so good hiede, That er I falle in such assai, I thenke eschuie it, if I mai. Bot if ther be oght elles more Wherof I mihte take lore, 720 I preie you, so as I dar, Now telleth, that I mai be war, Som other tale in this matiere.

Sone, it is evere good to lere, Wherof thou miht thi word restreigne, Er that thou falle in eny peine. For who that can no conseil hyde, He mai noght faile of wo beside, Which schal befalle er he it wite, As I finde in the bokes write. 730

Yit cam ther nevere good of strif, To seche in all a mannes lif: Thogh it beginne on pure game, Fulofte it torneth into grame And doth grevance upon som side. Wherof the grete Clerk Ovide After the lawe which was tho Of Jupiter and of Juno Makth in his bokes mencioun How thei felle at dissencioun 740 In manere as it were a borde, As thei begunne forto worde Among hemself in privete: And that was upon this degree, Which of the tuo more amorous is, Or man or wif. And upon this Thei mihten noght acorde in on, And toke a jugge therupon, Which cleped is Tiresias, And bede him demen in the cas; 750 And he withoute avisement Ayein Juno yaf juggement. This goddesse upon his ansuere Was wroth and wolde noght forbere, Bot tok awey for everemo The liht fro bothe hise yhen tuo. Whan Jupiter this harm hath sein, An other bienfait therayein He yaf, and such a grace him doth, That for he wiste he seide soth, 760 A Sothseiere he was for evere: Bot yit that other were levere, Have had the lokinge of his yhe, Than of his word the prophecie; Bot how so that the sothe wente, Strif was the cause of that he hente So gret a peine bodily.

Mi Sone, be thou war ther by, And hold thi tunge stille clos: For who that hath his word desclos 770 Er that he wite what he mene, He is fulofte nyh his tene And lest ful many time grace, Wher that he wolde his thonk pourchace. And over this, my Sone diere, Of othre men, if thou miht hiere In privete what thei have wroght, Hold conseil and descoevere it noght, For Cheste can no conseil hele, Or be it wo or be it wele: 780 And tak a tale into thi mynde, The which of olde ensample I finde.

Phebus, which makth the daies lihte, A love he hadde, which tho hihte Cornide, whom aboven alle He pleseth: bot what schal befalle Of love ther is noman knoweth, Bot as fortune hire happes throweth. So it befell upon a chaunce, A yong kniht tok hire aqueintance 790 And hadde of hire al that he wolde: Bot a fals bridd, which sche hath holde And kept in chambre of pure yowthe, Discoevereth all that evere he cowthe. This briddes name was as tho Corvus, the which was thanne also Welmore whyt than eny Swan, And he that schrewe al that he can Of his ladi to Phebus seide; And he for wraththe his swerd outbreide, 800 With which Cornide anon he slowh. Bot after him was wo ynowh, And tok a full gret repentance, Wherof in tokne and remembrance Of hem whiche usen wicke speche, Upon this bridd he tok this wreche, That ther he was snow whyt tofore, Evere afterward colblak therfore He was transformed, as it scheweth, And many a man yit him beschreweth, 810 And clepen him into this day A Raven, be whom yit men mai Take evidence, whan he crieth, That som mishapp it signefieth. Be war therfore and sei the beste, If thou wolt be thiself in reste, Mi goode Sone, as I the rede.

For in an other place I rede Of thilke Nimphe which Laar hihte: For sche the privete be nyhte, 820 How Jupiter lay be Jutorne, Hath told, god made hire overtorne: Hire tunge he kutte, and into helle For evere he sende hir forto duelle, As sche that was noght worthi hiere To ben of love a Chamberere, For sche no conseil cowthe hele. And suche adaies be now fele In loves Court, as it is seid, That lete here tunges gon unteid. 830

Mi Sone, be thou non of tho, To jangle and telle tales so, And namely that thou ne chyde, For Cheste can no conseil hide, For Wraththe seide nevere wel.

Mi fader, soth is everydel That ye me teche, and I wol holde The reule to which I am holde, To fle the Cheste, as ye me bidde, For wel is him that nevere chidde. 840 Now tell me forth if ther be more As touchende unto Wraththes lore.

Of Wraththe yit ther is an other, Which is to Cheste his oghne brother, And is be name cleped Hate, That soffreth noght withinne his gate That ther come owther love or pes, For he wol make no reles Of no debat which is befalle.

Now spek, if thou art on of alle, 850 That with this vice hast ben withholde.

As yit for oght that ye me tolde, Mi fader, I not what it is.

In good feith, Sone, I trowe yis.

Mi fader, nay, bot ye me lere.

Now lest, my Sone, and thou schalt here. Hate is a wraththe noght schewende, Bot of long time gaderende, And duelleth in the herte loken, Til he se time to be wroken; 860 And thanne he scheweth his tempeste Mor sodein than the wilde beste, Which wot nothing what merci is. Mi Sone, art thou knowende of this?

My goode fader, as I wene, Now wot I somdel what ye mene; Bot I dar saufly make an oth, Mi ladi was me nevere loth. I wol noght swere natheles That I of hate am gulteles; 870 For whanne I to my ladi plie Fro dai to dai and merci crie, And sche no merci on me leith Bot schorte wordes to me seith, Thogh I my ladi love algate, Tho wordes moste I nedes hate; And wolde thei were al despent, Or so ferr oute of londe went That I nevere after scholde hem hiere; And yit love I my ladi diere. 880 Thus is ther Hate, as ye mai se, Betwen mi ladi word and me; The word I hate and hire I love, What so me schal betide of love.

Bot forthere mor I wol me schryve, That I have hated al my lyve These janglers, whiche of here Envie Ben evere redi forto lie; For with here fals compassement Fuloften thei have mad me schent 890 And hindred me fulofte time, Whan thei no cause wisten bime, Bot onliche of here oghne thoght: And thus fuloften have I boght The lie, and drank noght of the wyn. I wolde here happ were such as myn: For how so that I be now schrive, To hem ne mai I noght foryive, Til that I se hem at debat With love, and thanne myn astat 900 Thei mihten be here oghne deme, And loke how wel it scholde hem qweme To hindre a man that loveth sore. And thus I hate hem everemore, Til love on hem wol don his wreche: For that schal I alway beseche Unto the mihti Cupido, That he so mochel wolde do, So as he is of love a godd, To smyte hem with the same rodd 910 With which I am of love smite; So that thei mihten knowe and wite How hindringe is a wofull peine To him that love wolde atteigne. Thus evere on hem I wayte and hope, Til I mai sen hem lepe a lope, And halten on the same Sor Which I do now: for overmor I wolde thanne do my myht So forto stonden in here lyht, 920 That thei ne scholden finde a weie To that thei wolde, bot aweie I wolde hem putte out of the stede Fro love, riht as thei me dede With that thei speke of me be mowthe. So wolde I do, if that I cowthe, Of hem, and this, so god me save, Is al the hate that I have, Toward these janglers everydiel; I wolde alle othre ferde wel. 930 Thus have I, fader, said mi wille; Say ye now forth, for I am stille.

Mi Sone, of that thou hast me said I holde me noght fulli paid: That thou wolt haten eny man, To that acorden I ne can, Thogh he have hindred thee tofore. Bot this I telle thee therfore, Thou miht upon my beneicoun Wel haten the condicioun 940 Of tho janglers, as thou me toldest, Bot furthermor, of that thou woldest Hem hindre in eny other wise, Such Hate is evere to despise. Forthi, mi Sone, I wol thee rede, That thou drawe in be frendlihede That thou ne miht noght do be hate; So miht thou gete love algate And sette thee, my Sone, in reste, For thou schalt finde it for the beste. 950 And over this, so as I dar, I rede that thou be riht war Of othre mennes hate aboute, Which every wysman scholde doute: For Hate is evere upon await, And as the fisshere on his bait Sleth, whan he seth the fisshes faste, So, whan he seth time ate laste, That he mai worche an other wo, Schal noman tornen him therfro, 960 That Hate nyle his felonie Fulfille and feigne compaignie Yit natheles, for fals Semblant Is toward him of covenant Withholde, so that under bothe The prive wraththe can him clothe, That he schal seme of gret believe. Bot war thee wel that thou ne lieve Al that thou sest tofore thin yhe, So as the Gregois whilom syhe: 970 The bok of Troie who so rede, Ther mai he finde ensample in dede.

Sone after the destruccioun, Whan Troie was al bete doun And slain was Priamus the king, The Gregois, whiche of al this thing Ben cause, tornen hom ayein. Ther mai noman his happ withsein; It hath be sen and felt fulofte, The harde time after the softe: 980 Be See as thei forth homward wente, A rage of gret tempeste hem hente; Juno let bende hire parti bowe, The Sky wax derk, the wynd gan blowe, The firy welkne gan to thondre, As thogh the world scholde al to sondre; Fro hevene out of the watergates The reyni Storm fell doun algates And al here takel made unwelde, That noman mihte himself bewelde. 990 Ther mai men hiere Schipmen crie, That stode in aunter forto die: He that behinde sat to stiere Mai noght the forestempne hiere; The Schip aros ayein the wawes, The lodesman hath lost his lawes, The See bet in on every side: Thei nysten what fortune abide, Bot sette hem al in goddes wille, Wher he hem wolde save or spille. 1000

And it fell thilke time thus: Ther was a king, the which Namplus Was hote, and he a Sone hadde, At Troie which the Gregois ladde, As he that was mad Prince of alle, Til that fortune let him falle: His name was Palamades. Bot thurgh an hate natheles Of some of hem his deth was cast And he be tresoun overcast. 1010 His fader, whan he herde it telle, He swor, if evere his time felle, He wolde him venge, if that he mihte, And therto his avou behihte: And thus this king thurgh prive hate Abod upon await algate, For he was noght of such emprise To vengen him in open wise. The fame, which goth wyde where, Makth knowe how that the Gregois were 1020 Homward with al the felaschipe Fro Troie upon the See be Schipe. Namplus, whan he this understod, And knew the tydes of the flod, And sih the wynd blew to the lond, A gret deceipte anon he fond Of prive hate, as thou schalt hiere, Wherof I telle al this matiere. This king the weder gan beholde, And wiste wel thei moten holde 1030 Here cours endlong his marche riht, And made upon the derke nyht Of grete Schydes and of blockes Gret fyr ayein the grete rockes, To schewe upon the helles hihe, So that the Flete of Grece it sihe. And so it fell riht as he thoghte: This Flete, which an havene soghte, The bryghte fyres sih a ferr, And thei hem drowen nerr and nerr, 1040 And wende wel and understode How al that fyr was made for goode, To schewe wher men scholde aryve, And thiderward thei hasten blyve. In Semblant, as men sein, is guile, And that was proved thilke while; The Schip, which wende his helpe acroche, Drof al to pieces on the roche, And so ther deden ten or twelve; Ther mihte noman helpe himselve, 1050 For ther thei wenden deth ascape, Withouten help here deth was schape. Thus thei that comen ferst tofore Upon the Rockes be forlore, Bot thurgh the noise and thurgh the cri These othre were al war therby; And whan the dai began to rowe, Tho mihten thei the sothe knowe, That wher they wenden frendes finde, Thei founden frenschipe al behinde. 1060 The lond was thanne sone weyved, Wher that thei hadden be deceived, And toke hem to the hihe See; Therto thei seiden alle yee, Fro that dai forth and war thei were Of that thei hadde assaied there.

Mi Sone, hierof thou miht avise How fraude stant in many wise Amonges hem that guile thenke; Ther is no Scrivein with his enke 1070 Which half the fraude wryte can That stant in such a maner man: Forthi the wise men ne demen The thinges after that thei semen, Bot after that thei knowe and finde. The Mirour scheweth in his kinde As he hadde al the world withinne, And is in soth nothing therinne; And so farth Hate for a throwe: Til he a man hath overthrowe, 1080 Schal noman knowe be his chere Which is avant, ne which arere. Forthi, mi Sone, thenke on this.

Mi fader, so I wole ywiss; And if ther more of Wraththe be, Now axeth forth per charite, As ye be youre bokes knowe, And I the sothe schal beknowe.

Mi Sone, thou schalt understonde That yit towardes Wraththe stonde 1090 Of dedly vices othre tuo: And forto telle here names so, It is Contek and Homicide, That ben to drede on every side. Contek, so as the bokes sein, Folhast hath to his Chamberlein, Be whos conseil al unavised Is Pacience most despised, Til Homicide with hem meete. Fro merci thei ben al unmeete, 1100 And thus ben thei the worste of alle Of hem whiche unto wraththe falle, In dede bothe and ek in thoght: For thei acompte here wraththe at noght, Bot if ther be schedinge of blod; And thus lich to a beste wod Thei knowe noght the god of lif. Be so thei have or swerd or knif Here dedly wraththe forto wreke, Of Pite list hem noght to speke; 1110 Non other reson thei ne fonge, Bot that thei ben of mihtes stronge. Bot war hem wel in other place, Where every man behoveth grace, Bot ther I trowe it schal hem faile, To whom no merci mihte availe, Bot wroghten upon tiraundie, That no pite ne mihte hem plie. Now tell, my Sone.

Fader, what?

If thou hast be coupable of that. 1120

Mi fader, nay, Crist me forbiede: I speke onliche as of the dede, Of which I nevere was coupable Withoute cause resonable.

Bot this is noght to mi matiere Of schrifte, why we sitten hiere; For we ben sett to schryve of love, As we begunne ferst above: And natheles I am beknowe That as touchende of loves throwe, 1130 Whan I my wittes overwende, Min hertes contek hath non ende, Bot evere it stant upon debat To gret desese of myn astat As for the time that it lasteth. For whan mi fortune overcasteth Hire whiel and is to me so strange, And that I se sche wol noght change, Than caste I al the world aboute, And thenke hou I at home and oute 1140 Have al my time in vein despended, And se noght how to ben amended, Bot rathere forto be empeired, As he that is welnyh despeired: For I ne mai no thonk deserve, And evere I love and evere I serve, And evere I am aliche nerr. Thus, for I stonde in such a wer, I am, as who seith, out of herre; And thus upon miself the werre 1150 I bringe, and putte out alle pes, That I fulofte in such a res Am wery of myn oghne lif. So that of Contek and of strif I am beknowe and have ansuerd, As ye, my fader, now have herd. Min herte is wonderly begon With conseil, wherof witt is on, Which hath resoun in compaignie; Ayein the whiche stant partie 1160 Will, which hath hope of his acord, And thus thei bringen up descord. Witt and resoun conseilen ofte That I myn herte scholde softe, And that I scholde will remue And put him out of retenue, Or elles holde him under fote: For as thei sein, if that he mote His oghne rewle have upon honde, Ther schal no witt ben understonde. 1170 Of hope also thei tellen this, That overal, wher that he is, He set the herte in jeupartie With wihssinge and with fantasie, And is noght trewe of that he seith, So that in him ther is no feith: Thus with reson and wit avised Is will and hope aldai despised. Reson seith that I scholde leve To love, wher ther is no leve 1180 To spede, and will seith therayein That such an herte is to vilein, Which dar noght love and til he spede, Let hope serve at such a nede: He seith ek, where an herte sit Al hol governed upon wit, He hath this lyves lust forlore. And thus myn herte is al totore Of such a Contek as thei make: Bot yit I mai noght will forsake, 1190 That he nys Maister of my thoght, Or that I spede, or spede noght.

Thou dost, my Sone, ayein the riht; Bot love is of so gret a miht, His lawe mai noman refuse, So miht thou thee the betre excuse. And natheles thou schalt be lerned That will scholde evere be governed Of reson more than of kinde, Wherof a tale write I finde. 1200

A Philosophre of which men tolde Ther was whilom be daies olde, And Diogenes thanne he hihte. So old he was that he ne mihte The world travaile, and for the beste He schop him forto take his reste, And duelte at hom in such a wise, That nyh his hous he let devise Endlong upon an Axeltre To sette a tonne in such degre, 1210 That he it mihte torne aboute; Wherof on hed was taken oute, For he therinne sitte scholde And torne himself so as he wolde, To take their and se the hevene And deme of the planetes sevene, As he which cowthe mochel what. And thus fulofte there he sat To muse in his philosophie Solein withoute compaignie: 1220 So that upon a morwetyde, As thing which scholde so betyde, Whan he was set ther as him liste To loke upon the Sonne ariste, Wherof the propretes he sih, It fell ther cam ridende nyh King Alisandre with a route; And as he caste his yhe aboute, He sih this Tonne, and what it mente He wolde wite, and thider sente 1230 A knyht, be whom he mihte it knowe, And he himself that ilke throwe Abod, and hoveth there stille. This kniht after the kinges wille With spore made his hors to gon And to the tonne he cam anon, Wher that he fond a man of Age, And he him tolde the message, Such as the king him hadde bede, And axeth why in thilke stede 1240 The Tonne stod, and what it was. And he, which understod the cas, Sat stille and spak no word ayein. The kniht bad speke and seith, “Vilein, Thou schalt me telle, er that I go; It is thi king which axeth so.” “Mi king,” quod he, “that were unriht.” “What is he thanne?” seith the kniht, “Is he thi man?” “That seie I noght,” Quod he, “bot this I am bethoght, 1250 Mi mannes man hou that he is.” “Thou lyest, false cherl, ywiss,” The kniht him seith, and was riht wroth, And to the king ayein he goth And tolde him how this man ansuerde. The king, whan he this tale herde, Bad that thei scholden alle abyde, For he himself wol thider ryde. And whan he cam tofore the tonne, He hath his tale thus begonne: 1260 “Alheil,” he seith, “what man art thou?” Quod he, “Such on as thou sest now.” The king, which hadde wordes wise, His age wolde noght despise, Bot seith, “Mi fader, I thee preie That thou me wolt the cause seie, How that I am thi mannes man.” “Sire king,” quod he, “and that I can, If that thou wolt.” “Yis,” seith the king. Quod he, “This is the sothe thing: 1270 Sith I ferst resoun understod, And knew what thing was evel and good, The will which of my bodi moeveth, Whos werkes that the god reproeveth, I have restreigned everemore, As him which stant under the lore Of reson, whos soubgit he is, So that he mai noght don amis: And thus be weie of covenant Will is my man and my servant, 1280 And evere hath ben and evere schal. And thi will is thi principal, And hath the lordschipe of thi witt, So that thou cowthest nevere yit Take o dai reste of thi labour; Bot forto ben a conquerour Of worldes good, which mai noght laste, Thou hiest evere aliche faste, Wher thou no reson hast to winne: And thus thi will is cause of Sinne, 1290 And is thi lord, to whom thou servest, Wherof thou litel thonk deservest.” The king of that he thus answerde Was nothing wroth, bot whanne he herde The hihe wisdom which he seide, With goodly wordes this he preide, That he him wolde telle his name. “I am,” quod he, “that ilke same, The which men Diogenes calle.” Tho was the king riht glad withalle, 1300 For he hadde often herd tofore What man he was, so that therfore He seide, “O wise Diogene, Now schal thi grete witt be sene; For thou schalt of my yifte have What worldes thing that thou wolt crave.” Quod he, “Thanne hove out of mi Sonne, And let it schyne into mi Tonne; For thou benymst me thilke yifte, Which lith noght in thi miht to schifte: 1310 Non other good of thee me nedeth.”