Part 15

Mi Sone, ye, of this office 530 Ther serveth on in special, Which lost hath his memorial, So that he can no wit withholde In thing which he to kepe is holde, Wherof fulofte himself he grieveth: And who that most upon him lieveth, Whan that hise wittes ben so weyved, He mai full lihtly be deceived.

To serve Accidie in his office, Ther is of Slowthe an other vice, 540 Which cleped is Foryetelnesse; That noght mai in his herte impresse Of vertu which reson hath sett, So clene his wittes he foryet. For in the tellinge of his tale Nomore his herte thanne his male Hath remembrance of thilke forme, Wherof he scholde his wit enforme As thanne, and yit ne wot he why. Thus is his pourpos noght forthi 550 Forlore of that he wolde bidde, And skarsly if he seith the thridde To love of that he hadde ment: Thus many a lovere hath be schent. Tell on therfore, hast thou be oon Of hem that Slowthe hath so begon?

Ye, fader, ofte it hath be so, That whanne I am mi ladi fro And thenke untoward hire drawe, Than cast I many a newe lawe 560 And al the world torne up so doun, And so recorde I mi lecoun And wryte in my memorial What I to hire telle schal, Riht al the matiere of mi tale: Bot al nys worth a note schale; For whanne I come ther sche is, I have it al foryete ywiss; Of that I thoghte forto telle I can noght thanne unethes spelle 570 That I wende altherbest have rad, So sore I am of hire adrad. For as a man that sodeinli A gost behelde, so fare I; So that for feere I can noght gete Mi witt, bot I miself foryete, That I wot nevere what I am, Ne whider I schal, ne whenne I cam, Bot muse as he that were amased. Lich to the bok in which is rased 580 The lettre, and mai nothing be rad, So ben my wittes overlad, That what as evere I thoghte have spoken, It is out fro myn herte stoken, And stonde, as who seith, doumb and def, That all nys worth an yvy lef, Of that I wende wel have seid. And ate laste I make abreid, Caste up myn hed and loke aboute, Riht as a man that were in doute 590 And wot noght wher he schal become. Thus am I ofte al overcome, Ther as I wende best to stonde: Bot after, whanne I understonde, And am in other place al one, I make many a wofull mone Unto miself, and speke so: “Ha fol, wher was thin herte tho, Whan thou thi worthi ladi syhe? Were thou afered of hire yhe? 600 For of hire hand ther is no drede: So wel I knowe hir wommanhede, That in hire is nomore oultrage Than in a child of thre yeer age. Whi hast thou drede of so good on, Whom alle vertu hath begon, That in hire is no violence Bot goodlihiede and innocence Withouten spot of eny blame? Ha, nyce herte, fy for schame! 610 Ha, couard herte of love unlered, Wherof art thou so sore afered, That thou thi tunge soffrest frese, And wolt thi goode wordes lese, Whan thou hast founde time and space? How scholdest thou deserve grace, Whan thou thiself darst axe non, Bot al thou hast foryete anon?” And thus despute I loves lore, Bot help ne finde I noght the more, 620 Bot stomble upon myn oghne treine And make an ekinge of my peine. For evere whan I thenke among How al is on miself along, I seie, “O fol of alle foles, Thou farst as he betwen tuo stoles That wolde sitte and goth to grounde. It was ne nevere schal be founde, Betwen foryetelnesse and drede That man scholde any cause spede.” 630 And thus, myn holi fader diere, Toward miself, as ye mai hiere, I pleigne of my foryetelnesse; Bot elles al the besinesse, That mai be take of mannes thoght, Min herte takth, and is thorghsoght To thenken evere upon that swete Withoute Slowthe, I you behete. For what so falle, or wel or wo, That thoght foryete I neveremo, 640 Wher so I lawhe or so I loure: Noght half the Minut of an houre Ne mihte I lete out of my mende, Bot if I thoghte upon that hende. Therof me schal no Slowthe lette, Til deth out of this world me fette, Althogh I hadde on such a Ring, As Moises thurgh his enchanting Som time in Ethiope made, Whan that he Tharbis weddid hade. 650 Which Ring bar of Oblivion The name, and that was be resoun That where it on a finger sat, Anon his love he so foryat, As thogh he hadde it nevere knowe: And so it fell that ilke throwe, Whan Tharbis hadde it on hire hond, No knowlechinge of him sche fond, Bot al was clene out of memoire, As men mai rede in his histoire; 660 And thus he wente quit away, That nevere after that ilke day Sche thoghte that ther was such on; Al was foryete and overgon. Bot in good feith so mai noght I: For sche is evere faste by, So nyh that sche myn herte toucheth, That for nothing that Slowthe voucheth I mai foryete hire, lief ne loth; For overal, where as sche goth, 670 Min herte folwith hire aboute. Thus mai I seie withoute doute, For bet, for wers, for oght, for noght, Sche passeth nevere fro my thoght; Bot whanne I am ther as sche is, Min herte, as I you saide er this, Som time of hire is sore adrad, And som time it is overglad, Al out of reule and out of space. For whan I se hir goodli face 680 And thenke upon hire hihe pris, As thogh I were in Paradis, I am so ravisht of the syhte, That speke unto hire I ne myhte As for the time, thogh I wolde: For I ne mai my wit unfolde To finde o word of that I mene, Bot al it is foryete clene; And thogh I stonde there a myle, Al is foryete for the while, 690 A tunge I have and wordes none. And thus I stonde and thenke al one Of thing that helpeth ofte noght; Bot what I hadde afore thoght To speke, whanne I come there, It is foryete, as noght ne were, And stonde amased and assoted, That of nothing which I have noted I can noght thanne a note singe, Bot al is out of knowlechinge: 700 Thus, what for joie and what for drede, Al is foryeten ate nede. So that, mi fader, of this Slowthe I have you said the pleine trowthe; Ye mai it as you list redresce: For thus stant my foryetelnesse And ek my pusillamite. Sey now forth what you list to me, For I wol only do be you.

Mi Sone, I have wel herd how thou 710 Hast seid, and that thou most amende: For love his grace wol noght sende To that man which dar axe non. For this we knowen everichon, A mannes thoght withoute speche God wot, and yit that men beseche His will is; for withoute bedes He doth his grace in fewe stedes: And what man that foryet himselve, Among a thousand be noght tuelve, 720 That wol him take in remembraunce, Bot lete him falle and take his chaunce. Forthi pull up a besi herte, Mi Sone, and let nothing asterte Of love fro thi besinesse: For touchinge of foryetelnesse, Which many a love hath set behinde, A tale of gret ensample I finde, Wherof it is pite to wite In the manere as it is write. 730

King Demephon, whan he be Schipe To Troieward with felaschipe Sailende goth, upon his weie It hapneth him at Rodopeie, As Eolus him hadde blowe, To londe, and rested for a throwe. And fell that ilke time thus, The dowhter of Ligurgius, Which qweene was of the contre, Was sojournende in that Cite 740 Withinne a Castell nyh the stronde, Wher Demephon cam up to londe. Phillis sche hihte, and of yong age And of stature and of visage Sche hadde al that hire best besemeth. Of Demephon riht wel hire qwemeth, Whan he was come, and made him chiere; And he, that was of his manere A lusti knyht, ne myhte asterte That he ne sette on hire his herte; 750 So that withinne a day or tuo He thoghte, how evere that it go, He wolde assaie the fortune, And gan his herte to commune With goodly wordes in hire Ere; And forto put hire out of fere, He swor and hath his trowthe pliht To be for evere hire oghne knyht. And thus with hire he stille abod, Ther while his Schip on Anker rod, 760 And hadde ynowh of time and space To speke of love and seche grace.

This ladi herde al that he seide, And hou he swor and hou he preide, Which was as an enchantement To hire, that was innocent: As thogh it were trowthe and feith, Sche lieveth al that evere he seith, And as hire infortune scholde, Sche granteth him al that he wolde. 770 Thus was he for the time in joie, Til that he scholde go to Troie; Bot tho sche made mochel sorwe, And he his trowthe leith to borwe To come, if that he live may, Ayein withinne a Monthe day, And therupon thei kisten bothe: Bot were hem lieve or were hem lothe, To Schipe he goth and forth he wente To Troie, as was his ferste entente. 780

The daies gon, the Monthe passeth, Hire love encresceth and his lasseth, For him sche lefte slep and mete, And he his time hath al foryete; So that this wofull yonge qweene, Which wot noght what it mihte meene, A lettre sende and preide him come, And seith how sche is overcome With strengthe of love in such a wise, That sche noght longe mai suffise 790 To liven out of his presence; And putte upon his conscience The trowthe which he hath behote, Wherof sche loveth him so hote, Sche seith, that if he lengere lette Of such a day as sche him sette, Sche scholde sterven in his Slowthe, Which were a schame unto his trowthe. This lettre is forth upon hire sonde, Wherof somdiel confort on honde 800 Sche tok, as she that wolde abide And waite upon that ilke tyde Which sche hath in hire lettre write.

Bot now is pite forto wite, As he dede erst, so he foryat His time eftsone and oversat. Bot sche, which mihte noght do so, The tyde awayteth everemo, And caste hire yhe upon the See: Somtime nay, somtime yee, 810 Somtime he cam, somtime noght, Thus sche desputeth in hire thoght And wot noght what sche thenke mai; Bot fastende al the longe day Sche was into the derke nyht, And tho sche hath do set up lyht In a lanterne on hih alofte Upon a Tour, wher sche goth ofte, In hope that in his cominge He scholde se the liht brenninge, 820 Wherof he mihte his weies rihte To come wher sche was be nyhte. Bot al for noght, sche was deceived, For Venus hath hire hope weyved, And schewede hire upon the Sky How that the day was faste by, So that withinne a litel throwe The daies lyht sche mihte knowe. Tho sche behield the See at large; And whan sche sih ther was no barge 830 Ne Schip, als ferr as sche may kenne, Doun fro the Tour sche gan to renne Into an Herber all hire one, Wher many a wonder woful mone Sche made, that no lif it wiste, As sche which all hire joie miste, That now sche swouneth, now sche pleigneth, And al hire face sche desteigneth With teres, whiche, as of a welle The stremes, from hire yhen felle; 840 So as sche mihte and evere in on Sche clepede upon Demephon, And seide, “Helas, thou slowe wiht, Wher was ther evere such a knyht, That so thurgh his ungentilesce Of Slowthe and of foryetelnesse Ayein his trowthe brak his stevene?” And tho hire yhe up to the hevene Sche caste, and seide, “O thou unkinde, Hier schalt thou thurgh thi Slowthe finde, 850 If that thee list to come and se, A ladi ded for love of thee, So as I schal myselve spille; Whom, if it hadde be thi wille, Thou mihtest save wel ynowh.” With that upon a grene bowh A Ceinte of Selk, which sche ther hadde, Sche knette, and so hireself sche ladde, That sche aboute hire whyte swere It dede, and hyng hirselven there. 860 Wherof the goddes were amoeved, And Demephon was so reproeved, That of the goddes providence Was schape such an evidence Evere afterward ayein the slowe, That Phillis in the same throwe Was schape into a Notetre, That alle men it mihte se, And after Phillis Philliberd This tre was cleped in the yerd, 870 And yit for Demephon to schame Into this dai it berth the name. This wofull chance how that it ferde Anon as Demephon it herde, And every man it hadde in speche, His sorwe was noght tho to seche; He gan his Slowthe forto banne, Bot it was al to late thanne.

Lo thus, my Sone, miht thou wite Ayein this vice how it is write; 880 For noman mai the harmes gesse, That fallen thurgh foryetelnesse, Wherof that I thi schrifte have herd. Bot yit of Slowthe hou it hath ferd In other wise I thenke oppose, If thou have gult, as I suppose.

Fulfild of Slowthes essamplaire Ther is yit on, his Secretaire, And he is cleped Negligence: Which wol noght loke his evidence, 890 Wherof he mai be war tofore; Bot whanne he hath his cause lore, Thanne is he wys after the hond: Whanne helpe may no maner bond, Thanne ate ferste wolde he binde: Thus everemore he stant behinde. Whanne he the thing mai noght amende, Thanne is he war, and seith at ende, “Ha, wolde god I hadde knowe!” Wherof bejaped with a mowe 900 He goth, for whan the grete Stiede Is stole, thanne he taketh hiede, And makth the stable dore fast: Thus evere he pleith an aftercast Of al that he schal seie or do. He hath a manere eke also, Him list noght lerne to be wys, For he set of no vertu pris Bot as him liketh for the while; So fieleth he fulofte guile, 910 Whan that he weneth siker stonde. And thus thou miht wel understonde, Mi Sone, if thou art such in love, Thou miht noght come at thin above Of that thou woldest wel achieve.

Mi holi fader, as I lieve, I mai wel with sauf conscience Excuse me of necgligence Towardes love in alle wise: For thogh I be non of the wise, 920 I am so trewly amerous, That I am evere curious Of hem that conne best enforme To knowe and witen al the forme, What falleth unto loves craft. Bot yit ne fond I noght the haft, Which mihte unto that bladd acorde; For nevere herde I man recorde What thing it is that myhte availe To winne love withoute faile. 930 Yit so fer cowthe I nevere finde Man that be resoun ne be kinde Me cowthe teche such an art, That he ne failede of a part; And as toward myn oghne wit, Controeve cowthe I nevere yit To finden eny sikernesse, That me myhte outher more or lesse Of love make forto spede: For lieveth wel withoute drede, 940 If that ther were such a weie, As certeinliche as I schal deie I hadde it lerned longe ago. Bot I wot wel ther is non so: And natheles it may wel be, I am so rude in my degree And ek mi wittes ben so dulle, That I ne mai noght to the fulle Atteigne to so hih a lore. Bot this I dar seie overmore, 950 Althogh mi wit ne be noght strong, It is noght on mi will along, For that is besi nyht and day To lerne al that he lerne may, How that I mihte love winne: Bot yit I am as to beginne Of that I wolde make an ende, And for I not how it schal wende, That is to me mi moste sorwe. Bot I dar take god to borwe, 960 As after min entendement, Non other wise necgligent Thanne I yow seie have I noght be: Forthi per seinte charite Tell me, mi fader, what you semeth.

In good feith, Sone, wel me qwemeth, That thou thiself hast thus aquit Toward this vice, in which no wit Abide mai, for in an houre He lest al that he mai laboure 970 The longe yer, so that men sein, What evere he doth it is in vein. For thurgh the Slowthe of Negligence Ther was yit nevere such science Ne vertu, which was bodely, That nys destruid and lost therby. Ensample that it hath be so In boke I finde write also.

Phebus, which is the Sonne hote, That schyneth upon Erthe hote 980 And causeth every lyves helthe, He hadde a Sone in al his welthe, Which Pheton hihte, and he desireth And with his Moder he conspireth, The which was cleped Clemenee, For help and conseil, so that he His fader carte lede myhte Upon the faire daies brihte. And for this thing thei bothe preide Unto the fader, and he seide 990 He wolde wel, bot forth withal Thre pointz he bad in special Unto his Sone in alle wise, That he him scholde wel avise And take it as be weie of lore. Ferst was, that he his hors to sore Ne prike, and over that he tolde That he the renes faste holde; And also that he be riht war In what manere he lede his charr, 1000 That he mistake noght his gate, Bot up avisement algate He scholde bere a siker yhe, That he to lowe ne to hyhe His carte dryve at eny throwe, Wherof that he mihte overthrowe. And thus be Phebus ordinance Tok Pheton into governance The Sonnes carte, which he ladde: Bot he such veine gloire hadde 1010 Of that he was set upon hyh, That he his oghne astat ne syh Thurgh negligence and tok non hiede; So mihte he wel noght longe spede. For he the hors withoute lawe The carte let aboute drawe Wher as hem liketh wantounly, That ate laste sodeinly, For he no reson wolde knowe, This fyri carte he drof to lowe, 1020 And fyreth al the world aboute; Wherof thei weren alle in doubte, And to the god for helpe criden Of suche unhappes as betyden. Phebus, which syh the necgligence, How Pheton ayein his defence His charr hath drive out of the weie, Ordeigneth that he fell aweie Out of the carte into a flod And dreynte. Lo now, hou it stod 1030 With him that was so necgligent, That fro the hyhe firmament, For that he wolde go to lowe, He was anon doun overthrowe.

In hih astat it is a vice To go to lowe, and in service It grieveth forto go to hye, Wherof a tale in poesie I finde, how whilom Dedalus, Which hadde a Sone, and Icharus 1040 He hihte, and thogh hem thoghte lothe, In such prison thei weren bothe With Minotaurus, that aboute Thei mihten nawher wenden oute; So thei begonne forto schape How thei the prison mihte ascape. This Dedalus, which fro his yowthe Was tawht and manye craftes cowthe, Of fetheres and of othre thinges Hath mad to fle diverse wynges 1050 For him and for his Sone also; To whom he yaf in charge tho And bad him thenke therupon, How that his wynges ben set on With wex, and if he toke his flyhte To hyhe, al sodeinliche he mihte Make it to melte with the Sonne. And thus thei have her flyht begonne Out of the prison faire and softe; And whan thei weren bothe alofte, 1060 This Icharus began to monte, And of the conseil non accompte He sette, which his fader tawhte, Til that the Sonne his wynges cawhte, Wherof it malt, and fro the heihte Withouten help of eny sleihte He fell to his destruccion. And lich to that condicion Ther fallen ofte times fele For lacke of governance in wele, 1070 Als wel in love as other weie.

Now goode fader, I you preie, If ther be more in the matiere Of Slowthe, that I mihte it hiere.

Mi Sone, and for thi diligence, Which every mannes conscience Be resoun scholde reule and kepe, If that thee list to taken kepe, I wol thee telle, aboven alle In whom no vertu mai befalle, 1080 Which yifth unto the vices reste And is of slowe the sloweste.

Among these othre of Slowthes kinde, Which alle labour set behinde, And hateth alle besinesse, Ther is yit on, which Ydelnesse Is cleped, and is the Norrice In mannes kinde of every vice, Which secheth eases manyfold. In Wynter doth he noght for cold, 1090 In Somer mai he noght for hete; So whether that he frese or swete, Or he be inne, or he be oute, He wol ben ydel al aboute, Bot if he pleie oght ate Dees. For who as evere take fees And thenkth worschipe to deserve, Ther is no lord whom he wol serve, As forto duelle in his servise, Bot if it were in such a wise, 1100 Of that he seth per aventure That be lordschipe and coverture He mai the more stonde stille, And use his ydelnesse at wille. For he ne wol no travail take To ryde for his ladi sake, Bot liveth al upon his wisshes; And as a cat wolde ete fisshes Withoute wetinge of his cles, So wolde he do, bot natheles 1110 He faileth ofte of that he wolde.

Mi Sone, if thou of such a molde Art mad, now tell me plein thi schrifte.

Nay, fader, god I yive a yifte. That toward love, as be mi wit, Al ydel was I nevere yit, Ne nevere schal, whil I mai go.

Now, Sone, tell me thanne so, What hast thou don of besischipe To love and to the ladischipe 1120 Of hire which thi ladi is?

Mi fader, evere yit er this In every place, in every stede, What so mi lady hath me bede, With al myn herte obedient I have therto be diligent. And if so is sche bidde noght, What thing that thanne into my thoght Comth ferst of that I mai suffise, I bowe and profre my servise, 1130 Somtime in chambre, somtime in halle, Riht as I se the times falle. And whan sche goth to hiere masse, That time schal noght overpasse, That I naproche hir ladihede, In aunter if I mai hire lede Unto the chapelle and ayein. Thanne is noght al mi weie in vein, Somdiel I mai the betre fare, Whan I, that mai noght fiele hir bare, 1140 Mai lede hire clothed in myn arm: Bot afterward it doth me harm Of pure ymaginacioun; For thanne this collacioun I make unto miselven ofte, And seie, “Ha lord, hou sche is softe, How sche is round, hou sche is smal! Now wolde god I hadde hire al Withoute danger at mi wille!” And thanne I sike and sitte stille, 1150 Of that I se mi besi thoght Is torned ydel into noght. Bot for al that lete I ne mai, Whanne I se time an other dai, That I ne do my besinesse Unto mi ladi worthinesse. For I therto mi wit afaite To se the times and awaite What is to done and what to leve: And so, whan time is, be hir leve, 1160 What thing sche bit me don, I do, And wher sche bidt me gon, I go, And whanne hir list to clepe, I come. Thus hath sche fulliche overcome Min ydelnesse til I sterve, So that I mot hire nedes serve, For as men sein, nede hath no lawe. Thus mot I nedly to hire drawe, I serve, I bowe, I loke, I loute, Min yhe folweth hire aboute, 1170 What so sche wole so wol I, Whan sche wol sitte, I knele by, And whan sche stant, than wol I stonde: Bot whan sche takth hir werk on honde Of wevinge or enbrouderie, Than can I noght bot muse and prie Upon hir fingres longe and smale, And now I thenke, and now I tale, And now I singe, and now I sike, And thus mi contienance I pike. 1180 And if it falle, as for a time Hir liketh noght abide bime, Bot besien hire on other thinges, Than make I othre tariinges To dreche forth the longe dai, For me is loth departe away. And thanne I am so simple of port, That forto feigne som desport I pleie with hire litel hound Now on the bedd, now on the ground, 1190 Now with hir briddes in the cage; For ther is non so litel page, Ne yit so simple a chamberere, That I ne make hem alle chere, Al for thei scholde speke wel: Thus mow ye sen mi besi whiel, That goth noght ydeliche aboute. And if hir list to riden oute On pelrinage or other stede, I come, thogh I be noght bede, 1200 And take hire in min arm alofte And sette hire in hire sadel softe, And so forth lede hire be the bridel, For that I wolde noght ben ydel. And if hire list to ride in Char, And thanne I mai therof be war, Anon I schape me to ryde Riht evene be the Chares side; And as I mai, I speke among, And otherwhile I singe a song, 1210 Which Ovide in his bokes made, And seide, “O whiche sorwes glade, O which wofull prosperite Belongeth to the proprete Of love, who so wole him serve! And yit therfro mai noman swerve, That he ne mot his lawe obeie.” And thus I ryde forth mi weie, And am riht besi overal With herte and with mi body al, 1220 As I have said you hier tofore. My goode fader, tell therfore, Of Ydelnesse if I have gilt.

Mi Sone, bot thou telle wilt Oght elles than I mai now hiere, Thou schalt have no penance hiere. And natheles a man mai se, How now adayes that ther be Ful manye of suche hertes slowe, That wol noght besien hem to knowe 1230 What thing love is, til ate laste, That he with strengthe hem overcaste, That malgre hem thei mote obeie And don al ydelschipe aweie, To serve wel and besiliche. Bot, Sone, thou art non of swiche, For love schal the wel excuse: Bot otherwise, if thou refuse To love, thou miht so per cas Ben ydel, as somtime was 1240 A kinges dowhter unavised, Til that Cupide hire hath chastised: Wherof thou schalt a tale hiere Acordant unto this matiere.

Of Armenye, I rede thus, Ther was a king, which Herupus Was hote, and he a lusti Maide To dowhter hadde, and as men saide Hire name was Rosiphelee; Which tho was of gret renomee, 1250 For sche was bothe wys and fair And scholde ben hire fader hair. Bot sche hadde o defalte of Slowthe Towardes love, and that was rowthe; For so wel cowde noman seie, Which mihte sette hire in the weie Of loves occupacion Thurgh non ymaginacion; That scole wolde sche noght knowe. And thus sche was on of the slowe 1260 As of such hertes besinesse, Til whanne Venus the goddesse, Which loves court hath forto reule, Hath broght hire into betre reule, Forth with Cupide and with his miht: For thei merveille how such a wiht, Which tho was in hir lusti age, Desireth nother Mariage Ne yit the love of paramours, Which evere hath be the comun cours 1270 Amonges hem that lusti were. So was it schewed after there: For he that hihe hertes loweth With fyri Dartes whiche he throweth, Cupide, which of love is godd, In chastisinge hath mad a rodd To dryve awei hir wantounesse; So that withinne a while, I gesse, Sche hadde on such a chance sporned, That al hire mod was overtorned, 1280 Which ferst sche hadde of slow manere: For thus it fell, as thou schalt hiere. Whan come was the Monthe of Maii, Sche wolde walke upon a dai, And that was er the Sonne Ariste; Of wommen bot a fewe it wiste, And forth sche wente prively Unto the Park was faste by, Al softe walkende on the gras, Til sche cam ther the Launde was, 1290 Thurgh which ther ran a gret rivere. It thoghte hir fair, and seide, “Here I wole abide under the schawe”: And bad hire wommen to withdrawe, And ther sche stod al one stille, To thenke what was in hir wille. Sche sih the swote floures springe, Sche herde glade foules singe, Sche sih the bestes in her kinde, The buck, the do, the hert, the hinde, 1300 The madle go with the femele; And so began ther a querele Betwen love and hir oghne herte, Fro which sche couthe noght asterte. And as sche caste hire yhe aboute, Sche syh clad in o suite a route Of ladis, wher thei comen ryde Along under the wodes syde: On faire amblende hors thei sete, That were al whyte, fatte and grete, 1310 And everichon thei ride on side. The Sadles were of such a Pride, With Perle and gold so wel begon, So riche syh sche nevere non; In kertles and in Copes riche Thei weren clothed, alle liche, Departed evene of whyt and blew; With alle lustes that sche knew Thei were enbrouded overal. Here bodies weren long and smal, 1320 The beaute faye upon her face Non erthly thing it may desface; Corones on here hed thei beere, As ech of hem a qweene weere, That al the gold of Cresus halle The leste coronal of alle Ne mihte have boght after the worth: Thus come thei ridende forth.

The kinges dowhter, which this syh, For pure abaissht drowh hire adryh 1330 And hield hire clos under the bowh, And let hem passen stille ynowh; For as hire thoghte in hire avis, To hem that were of such a pris Sche was noght worthi axen there, Fro when they come or what thei were: Bot levere than this worldes good Sche wolde have wist hou that it stod, And putte hire hed alitel oute; And as sche lokede hire aboute, 1340 Sche syh comende under the linde A womman up an hors behinde. The hors on which sche rod was blak, Al lene and galled on the back, And haltede, as he were encluyed, Wherof the womman was annuied; Thus was the hors in sori plit, Bot for al that a sterre whit Amiddes in the front he hadde. Hir Sadel ek was wonder badde, 1350 In which the wofull womman sat, And natheles ther was with that A riche bridel for the nones Of gold and preciouse Stones. Hire cote was somdiel totore; Aboute hir middel twenty score Of horse haltres and wel mo Ther hyngen ate time tho.

Thus whan sche cam the ladi nyh, Than tok sche betre hiede and syh 1360 This womman fair was of visage, Freyssh, lusti, yong and of tendre age; And so this ladi, ther sche stod, Bethoghte hire wel and understod That this, which com ridende tho, Tidinges couthe telle of tho, Which as sche sih tofore ryde, And putte hir forth and preide abide, And seide, “Ha, Suster, let me hiere, What ben thei, that now riden hiere, 1370 And ben so richeliche arraied?”

This womman, which com so esmaied, Ansuerde with ful softe speche, And seith, “Ma Dame, I schal you teche. These ar of tho that whilom were Servantz to love, and trowthe beere, Ther as thei hadde here herte set. Fare wel, for I mai noght be let: Ma Dame, I go to mi servise, So moste I haste in alle wise; 1380 Forthi, ma Dame, yif me leve, I mai noght longe with you leve.”

“Ha, goode Soster, yit I preie, Tell me whi ye ben so beseie And with these haltres thus begon.”

“Ma Dame, whilom I was on That to mi fader hadde a king; Bot I was slow, and for no thing Me liste noght to love obeie, And that I now ful sore abeie. 1390 For I whilom no love hadde, Min hors is now so fieble and badde, And al totore is myn arai, And every yeer this freisshe Maii These lusti ladis ryde aboute, And I mot nedes suie here route In this manere as ye now se, And trusse here haltres forth with me, And am bot as here horse knave. Non other office I ne have, 1400 Hem thenkth I am worthi nomore, For I was slow in loves lore, Whan I was able forto lere, And wolde noght the tales hiere Of hem that couthen love teche.”