Part 14

Dicunt accidiam fore nutricem viciorum, Torpet et in cunctis tarda que lenta bonis: Que fieri possent hodie transfert piger in cras, Furatoque prius ostia claudit equo. Poscenti tardo negat emolumenta Cupido, Set Venus in celeri ludit amore viri.

Upon the vices to procede After the cause of mannes dede, The ferste point of Slowthe I calle Lachesce, and is the chief of alle, And hath this propreliche of kinde, To leven alle thing behinde. Of that he mihte do now hier He tarieth al the longe yer, And everemore he seith, “Tomorwe”; And so he wol his time borwe, 10 And wissheth after “God me sende,” That whan he weneth have an ende, Thanne is he ferthest to beginne. Thus bringth he many a meschief inne Unwar, til that he be meschieved, And may noght thanne be relieved.

And riht so nowther mor ne lesse It stant of love and of lachesce: Som time he slowtheth in a day That he nevere after gete mai. 20 Now, Sone, as of this ilke thing, If thou have eny knowleching, That thou to love hast don er this, Tell on.

Mi goode fader, yis. As of lachesce I am beknowe That I mai stonde upon his rowe, As I that am clad of his suite: For whanne I thoghte mi poursuite To make, and therto sette a day To speke unto the swete May, 30 Lachesce bad abide yit, And bar on hond it was no wit Ne time forto speke as tho. Thus with his tales to and fro Mi time in tariinge he drowh: Whan ther was time good ynowh, He seide, “An other time is bettre; Thou schalt mowe senden hire a lettre, And per cas wryte more plein Than thou be Mowthe durstest sein.” 40 Thus have I lete time slyde For Slowthe, and kepte noght my tide, So that lachesce with his vice Fulofte hath mad my wit so nyce, That what I thoghte speke or do With tariinge he hield me so, Til whanne I wolde and mihte noght. I not what thing was in my thoght, Or it was drede, or it was schame; Bot evere in ernest and in game 50 I wot ther is long time passed. Bot yit is noght the love lassed, Which I unto mi ladi have; For thogh my tunge is slowh to crave At alle time, as I have bede, Min herte stant evere in o stede And axeth besiliche grace, The which I mai noght yit embrace. And god wot that is malgre myn; For this I wot riht wel a fin, 60 Mi grace comth so selde aboute, That is the Slowthe of which I doute Mor than of al the remenant Which is to love appourtenant. And thus as touchende of lachesce, As I have told, I me confesse To you, mi fader, and beseche That furthermor ye wol me teche; And if ther be to this matiere Som goodly tale forto liere 70 How I mai do lachesce aweie, That ye it wolden telle I preie.

To wisse thee, my Sone, and rede, Among the tales whiche I rede, An old ensample therupon Now herkne, and I wol tellen on.

Ayein Lachesce in loves cas I finde how whilom Eneas, Whom Anchises to Sone hadde, With gret navie, which he ladde 80 Fro Troie, aryveth at Cartage, Wher for a while his herbergage He tok; and it betidde so, With hire which was qweene tho Of the Cite his aqueintance He wan, whos name in remembrance Is yit, and Dido sche was hote; Which loveth Eneas so hote Upon the wordes whiche he seide, That al hire herte on him sche leide 90 And dede al holi what he wolde.

Bot after that, as it be scholde, Fro thenne he goth toward Ytaile Be Schipe, and there his arivaile Hath take, and schop him forto ryde. Bot sche, which mai noght longe abide The hote peine of loves throwe, Anon withinne a litel throwe A lettre unto hir kniht hath write, And dede him pleinly forto wite, 100 If he made eny tariinge, To drecche of his ayeincomynge, That sche ne mihte him fiele and se, Sche scholde stonde in such degre As whilom stod a Swan tofore, Of that sche hadde hire make lore; For sorwe a fethere into hire brain Sche schof and hath hireselve slain; As king Menander in a lay The sothe hath founde, wher sche lay 110 Sprantlende with hire wynges tweie, As sche which scholde thanne deie For love of him which was hire make.

“And so schal I do for thi sake,” This qweene seide, “wel I wot.” Lo, to Enee thus sche wrot With many an other word of pleinte: Bot he, which hadde hise thoghtes feinte Towardes love and full of Slowthe, His time lette, and that was rowthe: 120 For sche, which loveth him tofore, Desireth evere more and more, And whan sche sih him tarie so, Hire herte was so full of wo, That compleignende manyfold Sche hath hire oghne tale told, Unto hirself and thus sche spak: “Ha, who fond evere such a lak Of Slowthe in eny worthi kniht? Now wot I wel my deth is diht 130 Thurgh him which scholde have be mi lif.” Bot forto stinten al this strif, Thus whan sche sih non other bote, Riht evene unto hire herte rote A naked swerd anon sche threste, And thus sche gat hireselve reste In remembrance of alle slowe.

Wherof, my Sone, thou miht knowe How tariinge upon the nede In loves cause is forto drede; 140 And that hath Dido sore aboght, Whos deth schal evere be bethoght. And overmore if I schal seche In this matiere an other spieche, In a Cronique I finde write A tale which is good to wite.

At Troie whan king Ulixes Upon the Siege among the pres Of hem that worthi knihtes were Abod long time stille there, 150 In thilke time a man mai se How goodli that Penolope, Which was to him his trewe wif, Of his lachesce was pleintif; Wherof to Troie sche him sende Hire will be lettre, thus spekende:

“Mi worthi love and lord also, It is and hath ben evere so, That wher a womman is al one, It makth a man in his persone 160 The more hardi forto wowe, In hope that sche wolde bowe To such thing as his wille were, Whil that hire lord were elleswhere. And of miself I telle this; For it so longe passed is, Sithe ferst than ye fro home wente, That welnyh every man his wente To there I am, whil ye ben oute, Hath mad, and ech of hem aboute, 170 Which love can, my love secheth, With gret preiere and me besecheth: And some maken gret manace, That if thei mihten come in place, Wher that thei mihte here wille have, Ther is nothing me scholde save, That thei ne wolde werche thinges; And some tellen me tidynges That ye ben ded, and some sein That certeinly ye ben besein 180 To love a newe and leve me. Bot hou as evere that it be, I thonke unto the goddes alle, As yit for oght that is befalle Mai noman do my chekes rede: Bot natheles it is to drede, That Lachesse in continuance Fortune mihte such a chance, Which noman after scholde amende.” Lo, thus this ladi compleignende 190 A lettre unto hire lord hath write, And preyde him that he wolde wite And thenke hou that sche was al his, And that he tarie noght in this, Bot that he wolde his love aquite, To hire ayeinward and noght wryte, Bot come himself in alle haste, That he non other paper waste; So that he kepe and holde his trowthe Withoute lette of eny Slowthe. 200

Unto hire lord and love liege To Troie, wher the grete Siege Was leid, this lettre was conveied. And he, which wisdom hath pourveied Of al that to reson belongeth, With gentil herte it underfongeth: And whan he hath it overrad, In part he was riht inly glad, And ek in part he was desesed: Bot love his herte hath so thorghsesed 210 With pure ymaginacioun, That for non occupacioun Which he can take on other side, He mai noght flitt his herte aside Fro that his wif him hadde enformed; Wherof he hath himself conformed With al the wille of his corage To schape and take the viage Homward, what time that he mai: So that him thenketh of a day 220 A thousand yer, til he mai se The visage of Penolope, Which he desireth most of alle. And whan the time is so befalle That Troie was destruid and brent, He made non delaiement, Bot goth him home in alle hihe, Wher that he fond tofore his yhe His worthi wif in good astat: And thus was cessed the debat 230 Of love, and Slowthe was excused, Which doth gret harm, where it is used, And hindreth many a cause honeste.

For of the grete Clerc Grossteste I rede how besy that he was Upon clergie an Hed of bras To forge, and make it forto telle Of suche thinges as befelle. And sevene yeres besinesse He leyde, bot for the lachesse 240 Of half a Minut of an houre, Fro ferst that he began laboure He loste all that he hadde do.

And otherwhile it fareth so, In loves cause who is slow, That he withoute under the wow Be nyhte stant fulofte acold, Which mihte, if that he hadde wold His time kept, have be withinne.

Bot Slowthe mai no profit winne, 250 Bot he mai singe in his karole How Latewar cam to the Dole, Wher he no good receive mihte. And that was proved wel be nyhte Whilom of the Maidenes fyve, Whan thilke lord cam forto wyve: For that here oyle was aweie To lihte here lampes in his weie, Here Slowthe broghte it so aboute, Fro him that thei ben schet withoute. 260

Wherof, my Sone, be thou war, Als ferforth as I telle dar. For love moste ben awaited: And if thou be noght wel affaited In love to eschuie Slowthe, Mi Sone, forto telle trowthe, Thou miht noght of thiself ben able To winne love or make it stable, All thogh thou mihtest love achieve.

Mi fader, that I mai wel lieve. 270 Bot me was nevere assigned place, Wher yit to geten eny grace, Ne me was non such time apointed; For thanne I wolde I were unjoynted Of every lime that I have, If I ne scholde kepe and save Min houre bothe and ek my stede, If my ladi it hadde bede. Bot sche is otherwise avised Than grante such a time assised; 280 And natheles of mi lachesse Ther hath be no defalte I gesse Of time lost, if that I mihte: Bot yit hire liketh noght alyhte Upon no lure which I caste; For ay the more I crie faste, The lasse hire liketh forto hiere. So forto speke of this matiere, I seche that I mai noght finde, I haste and evere I am behinde, 290 And wot noght what it mai amounte. Bot, fader, upon myn acompte, Which ye be sett to examine Of Schrifte after the discipline, Sey what your beste conseil is.

Mi Sone, my conseil is this: Hou so it stonde of time go, Do forth thi besinesse so, That no Lachesce in the be founde: For Slowthe is mihti to confounde 300 The spied of every mannes werk. For many a vice, as seith the clerk, Ther hongen upon Slowthes lappe Of suche as make a man mishappe, To pleigne and telle of hadde I wist. And therupon if that thee list To knowe of Slowthes cause more, In special yit overmore Ther is a vice full grevable To him which is therof coupable, 310 And stant of alle vertu bare, Hierafter as I schal declare.

Touchende of Slowthe in his degre, Ther is yit Pusillamite, Which is to seie in this langage, He that hath litel of corage And dar no mannes werk beginne: So mai he noght be resoun winne; For who that noght dar undertake, Be riht he schal no profit take. 320 Bot of this vice the nature Dar nothing sette in aventure, Him lacketh bothe word and dede, Wherof he scholde his cause spede: He woll no manhed understonde, For evere he hath drede upon honde: Al is peril that he schal seie, Him thenkth the wolf is in the weie, And of ymaginacioun He makth his excusacioun 330 And feigneth cause of pure drede, And evere he faileth ate nede, Til al be spilt that he with deleth. He hath the sor which noman heleth, The which is cleped lack of herte; Thogh every grace aboute him sterte, He wol noght ones stere his fot; So that be resoun lese he mot, That wol noght auntre forto winne.

And so forth, Sone, if we beginne 340 To speke of love and his servise, Ther ben truantz in such a wise, That lacken herte, whan best were To speke of love, and riht for fere Thei wexen doumb and dar noght telle, Withoute soun as doth the belle, Which hath no claper forto chyme; And riht so thei as for the tyme Ben herteles withoute speche Of love, and dar nothing beseche; 350 And thus thei lese and winne noght. Forthi, my Sone, if thou art oght Coupable as touchende of this Slowthe, Schrif thee therof and tell me trowthe.

Mi fader, I am al beknowe That I have ben on of tho slowe, As forto telle in loves cas. Min herte is yit and evere was, As thogh the world scholde al tobreke, So ferful, that I dar noght speke 360 Of what pourpos that I have nome, Whan I toward mi ladi come, Bot let it passe and overgo.

Mi Sone, do nomore so: For after that a man poursuieth To love, so fortune suieth, Fulofte and yifth hire happi chance To him which makth continuance To preie love and to beseche; As be ensample I schal thee teche. 370

I finde hou whilom ther was on, Whos name was Pymaleon, Which was a lusti man of yowthe: The werkes of entaile he cowthe Above alle othre men as tho; And thurgh fortune it fell him so, As he whom love schal travaile, He made an ymage of entaile Lich to a womman in semblance Of feture and of contienance, 380 So fair yit nevere was figure. Riht as a lyves creature Sche semeth, for of yvor whyt He hath hire wroght of such delit, That sche was rody on the cheke And red on bothe hire lippes eke; Wherof that he himself beguileth. For with a goodly lok sche smyleth, So that thurgh pure impression Of his ymaginacion 390 With al the herte of his corage His love upon this faire ymage He sette, and hire of love preide; Bot sche no word ayeinward seide. The longe day, what thing he dede, This ymage in the same stede Was evere bi, that ate mete He wolde hire serve and preide hire ete, And putte unto hire mowth the cuppe; And whan the bord was taken uppe, 400 He hath hire into chambre nome, And after, whan the nyht was come, He leide hire in his bed al nakid. He was forwept, he was forwakid, He keste hire colde lippes ofte, And wissheth that thei weren softe, And ofte he rouneth in hire Ere, And ofte his arm now hier now there He leide, as he hir wolde embrace, And evere among he axeth grace, 410 As thogh sche wiste what he mente: And thus himself he gan tormente With such desese of loves peine, That noman mihte him more peine. Bot how it were, of his penance He made such continuance Fro dai to nyht, and preith so longe, That his preiere is underfonge, Which Venus of hire grace herde; Be nyhte and whan that he worst ferde, 420 And it lay in his nakede arm, The colde ymage he fieleth warm Of fleissh and bon and full of lif.

Lo, thus he wan a lusti wif, Which obeissant was at his wille; And if he wolde have holde him stille And nothing spoke, he scholde have failed: Bot for he hath his word travailed And dorste speke, his love he spedde, And hadde al that he wolde abedde. 430 For er thei wente thanne atwo, A knave child betwen hem two Thei gete, which was after hote Paphus, of whom yit hath the note A certein yle, which Paphos Men clepe, and of his name it ros.

Be this ensample thou miht finde That word mai worche above kinde. Forthi, my Sone, if that thou spare To speke, lost is al thi fare, 440 For Slowthe bringth in alle wo. And over this to loke also, The god of love is favorable To hem that ben of love stable, And many a wonder hath befalle: Wherof to speke amonges alle, If that thee list to taken hede, Therof a solein tale I rede, Which I schal telle in remembraunce Upon the sort of loves chaunce. 450

The king Ligdus upon a strif Spak unto Thelacuse his wif, Which thanne was with childe grete; He swor it scholde noght be lete, That if sche have a dowhter bore, That it ne scholde be forlore And slain, wherof sche sory was. So it befell upon this cas, Whan sche delivered scholde be, Isis be nyhte in privete, 460 Which of childinge is the goddesse, Cam forto helpe in that destresse, Til that this lady was al smal, And hadde a dowhter forth withal; Which the goddesse in alle weie Bad kepe, and that thei scholden seie It were a Sone: and thus Iphis Thei namede him, and upon this The fader was mad so to wene. And thus in chambre with the qweene 470 This Iphis was forthdrawe tho, And clothed and arraied so Riht as a kinges Sone scholde. Til after, as fortune it wolde, Whan it was of a ten yer age, Him was betake in mariage A Duckes dowhter forto wedde, Which Iante hihte, and ofte abedde These children leien, sche and sche, Whiche of on age bothe be. 480 So that withinne time of yeeres, Togedre as thei ben pleiefieres, Liggende abedde upon a nyht, Nature, which doth every wiht Upon hire lawe forto muse, Constreigneth hem, so that thei use Thing which to hem was al unknowe; Wherof Cupide thilke throwe Tok pite for the grete love, And let do sette kinde above, 490 So that hir lawe mai ben used, And thei upon here lust excused. For love hateth nothing more Than thing which stant ayein the lore Of that nature in kinde hath sett: Forthi Cupide hath so besett His grace upon this aventure, That he acordant to nature, Whan that he syh the time best, That ech of hem hath other kest, 500 Transformeth Iphe into a man, Wherof the kinde love he wan Of lusti yonge Iante his wif; And tho thei ladde a merie lif, Which was to kinde non offence.

And thus to take an evidence, It semeth love is welwillende To hem that ben continuende With besy herte to poursuie Thing which that is to love due. 510 Wherof, my Sone, in this matiere Thou miht ensample taken hiere, That with thi grete besinesse Thou miht atteigne the richesse Of love, if that ther be no Slowthe.

I dar wel seie be mi trowthe, Als fer as I my witt can seche, Mi fader, as for lacke of speche, Bot so as I me schrof tofore, Ther is non other time lore, 520 Wherof ther mihte ben obstacle To lette love of his miracle, Which I beseche day and nyht. Bot, fader, so as it is riht In forme of schrifte to beknowe What thing belongeth to the slowe, Your faderhode I wolde preie, If ther be forthere eny weie Touchende unto this ilke vice.