Prologue

Musyne upone the restles besynesse
The whiche this troubly world hath ay on honde,
That other thyng than fruyte of bitternesse
Ne yildeth not, as I kan undirstonde,
At Chestres Inne, right fast by the Stronde,
As I lay in my bedde upon a nyght,
Thought me bireft of slepe the force and myght.

And many a day and nyght that wikked hyne
Hadde byfore vexed my pore goste
So grevousely, that of angwisshe and pyne
No riccher man was never in no coste,
This dar I say, may no wight make his boste
That he with thought was bette than I acqueynted,
For he to the deth welnyghe hath me feynted.

Besily in my mynde I gan revolve
The welthe unsure of every creature,
How lightly that fortune it kan dissolve,
Whan that hir list that it no lenger dure;
And of the brotilnesse of hir nature
My tremlyng hert so grete gastnesse hadde,
That my spirites were of my lyfe sadde.

Me felle to mynde how that, not longe agoo,
Fortunes stroke doune threste estate roialle
Into myschief; and I toke hede also
Of many another lord that hadde a falle ;
In mene estate eke sikirnesse at alle
Ne sawe I none, but I sawe at the laste
Where seurté for to abide hir caste.

In povere estate she pight hir pavyloun,
To kever hir fro the stroke of descendyng ;
For she knewe no lower descencioun,
Save onely dethe, fro whiche no wight livyng
Defende hym may; and thus, in my musyng,
I destitute was of joye and goode hope,
And to myne ease no thyng coude I grope.

For right as blive ran it in my thought,
Thoughe I pore be, yit somwhat lese I may ;
Than deemed I that seurtee wold nought
Withe me abide, it is not to hir pay
There to sojourne, as she descende may.
And thus unsiker of my smal lyvelode,
Thought leide on me fulle many an hevy lode.

I thought also yf I into povert crepe,
Than am I entred into sikirnesse.
But suche seurté myght I ay waile and wepe,
For poverté bredethe but hevynesse.
Allas! where is this worldes stabilnesse ?
Here up, here doune ; here honour, here repreef ;
Now hole, now sike; now bounté, now myscheef.

And whan I hade rolled up and doune
This worldes stormy wawes in my mynde,
I sawe wele povertee was conclusioun
Of alle wele-fare reignyng in mankynde,
And how in bookes thus writen I fynde,
The werst kynde of wrecchednesse is
A man to have be welfulle or this.

Allas! thought I, what sikirnesse is that,
To live ay seure of greef and of noisaunce ?
What shal I do? best is I strive nat
Ageyn the peys of fortunes balaunce ;
For wele I wote that hir brotil constaunce
A wight no while suffre kan sojourne
In o plite, thus I wist nat how to turne.

For whan a man wenethe to stonde moste constant,
Than is he next to his overthrowyng.
For flittyng is she and so variant,
There is no trust upon hir faire laughyng ;
After glad looke she shapethe hir to styng ;
I was adredde so of hir gerynesse,
That my lyfe was but a dedely gladnesse.

Thus ilke nyght I walwed to and fro,
Seekyng rest ; but certeinly she
Appered not, but thought, my cruelle foo,
Chaced hade hir and slepe awey fro me;
And for I shuld nat alone be,
Ageyn my luste wacche profred his service,
And I admytted hym in hevy wise.

So longe a nyght ne felt I never none
As was that same, to my juggement.
Whoso that thoughty is, he is wo-bygone ;
The thoughtfulle wight is vesselle of turment,
There is no greef to hym equipollent.
He gravethe deppest of sikenesses alle ;
Fulle wo is hym that in suche caas is falle.

What wight that inly pensyfe is, I trowe
His moste desire is to be solitarie.
That this is sothe in my persone I knowe;
For ever while that fretyng adversarie
Myne hert made to hym tributarie,
In souking of the fresshest of my bloode
To sorwe soole me thought it ded me goode.

For the nature of hevynesse is this,
If it abounde gretely in a wight,
The place eschuethe he where as joye is ;
For joye and he may nat accorde aright,
As discordant as day is to the nyght,
And honour adversarie is unto shame,
So hevynesse is to joye and game.

Whan to the thoughtfulle wight is tolde a tale,
He herethe as thoughe he thennes were ;
His hevy thoughtes so hym plukke and hale
Hider and thider, and hym greve and dere,
That his eres availe hym nat a pere;
He understondethe no thyng what men say,
So ben his wittes gone fro hym away.

The smert of thought I by experience
Knowe also wele as dothe ony man lyvyng;
His frosty swote and his firy fervence,
And troubly dremes drempte alle in waylyng,
My mased hede slepeles hath of kunnyng
And witte dispoyled, and so me by-japed,
That after dethe fulle ofte have I gaped.

Passe over whan this stormy nyght was gone,
And day gan at my wyndowe in to prie,
I rose me up, for bote fonde I none
In myne unresty bedde lenger to lie ;
In to the feelde I dressed me on hie,
And in my wofulle hert deepe gan wade,
As he that was bareyne of thoughtes glade.

By that I walked hade a certeyne tyme,
Were it an houre I note more or lesse,
A poore olde hore man came walkyng by me,
And seide, Good day, sire, and God yow blesse !
But I no word, for my sikly distresse
Forbade myne eres usen her office ;
For whiche this olde man heeld me lewde and nyce.

Til he toke heede to my drery cheere,
And to me dedely colour pale and wan,
Than thought he thus, This man that I see here
Alle wronge is wrest, by ought that I see kan.
He sterte unto me, and seide, Slepest thou, man ?
Awake! and he gan me shake wonder faste,
And with a sighe I answerde at the laste,

A! who is there? TI, quod this olde grey,
Am here; and me tolde he the manere,
How he spake to me, as ye herd me sey.
O, man! quod J, for Cristes love dere,
Yf thou wilt ought done at my prayere,
As go thy way, talke to me nomore ;
Thy wordes alle anoyethe me fulle sore.

Voyde fro me, me liste no companye ;
Encrece not my greef, I have ynow.
My sone, haste thou gode luste thy sorwe drye,
And mayst releeved be, what man art thow ?
Wirke after me, it shalle be for thy prowe ;
Thow art but yonge, and hast but litelle seen,
And fulle seelde is that yonge folk wise ben.

If that the like to ben esed wele,
Then suffre me withe the to talke a while.
Art thou lettred ? Ye, quod I, somedele.
Blissed be God ! than hope I, by seint Gile,
That God to the thy witte shalle reconcile,
Whiche that me thynkethe is ferre fro the went,
Thurghe thassent of thy grevous turment.

Lettred folk han gretter discrecioun,
And better conceyve kan a mannes sawe,
And rather wole applie to resoun,
And fro folye sonner hem withdrawe,
Then he that kan neither resoun ne lawe,
Ne lerned hathe no lettrure ;
Plukke up thyne hert, I hope I shalle the cure.

Cure, godeman ? ye, thow art a faire leche;
Cure thy self, that tremblest as thou goste,
For alle thyne art wole enden in thy speche,
It lithe nat in thy powere, pore goste,
To hele me; thou art as sike almoste,
And first on thy self kithe thyne arte,
And yf ought leve, than lete me have parte.

Go forthe thy wey, I pray the, or be stille,
Thow doost me more anoye than thou wenest,
Thow art as fulle of clappe as is a mylle,
Thow doost nought here but grevest me and tenest.
Good man, thou nost what thow menest,
In the lithe nat to redresse my noiaunce ;
And yit thou maist be wele willed perchaunce.

It moste be a gretter man of myght
Than thow art, that shuld me releeve.
What, sone myne, thou feelest nat aright ;
To herken me, what shalle it hurte or greeve ?
Petir! good man, though we talke here til eve,
Alle is in veyne, thy might may nat atteyne
To hele me, suche is my wofulle peyne.

What that I kan or may, ne woste thou nought ;
Hardely, sone, telle on, how it is.
Man, at a word, it is encombrous thought
That causethe me this sorwe and fare amys.
Now, sone, and yf there no thyng be but this,
Do as I shalle the sey, and thyne estate
Amende I shalle, but yf thou be obstynate,

And wilfully rebelle and disobeye,
And liste not to my lore the confourme ;
For in suche caas what shulde I speke or seye,
Or in my best wise the enfourme?
If thou it waife and take anothir fourme,
After thy childisshe chere and froward conceyt,
Thow doost unto thy self harme and deceyt.

O thyng I say, yf thow go felaweles,
Alle solitarie, and counseille lakke and rede,
As me thenkethe, thy gise is douteles,
Thow likly art to bere a fonned hede ;
While thou art soole, thought is wastyng sede,
Suche is in the, and that in grete foisoun,
And thou redeles kanst not voide his poysoun.

The book seithe thus, I redde it yore agone,
Woo be to hym that luste to be alone ;
For, yf he falle, helpe hathe he none
To rise; thus say I by thy persone.
I fonde the soole and thy wittes echone
Were fro the fledde, and disparpled fulle wide ;
Wherfore it semethe the nedethe a guyde.

Whiche that the may unto thy wittes lede,
That grapsest here and there as dothe the blynde,
And ay mysgoste, and yit have I no drede,
If thou receyve wolt into thy mynde
My lore, and execute it, thow shalt fynde
Therein suche ese that thy maladie
Abregge it shalle, and thy malyncolie.

Fulle holsome were it to stynte of thy wo
And take unto the spirites of gladnesse.
What profite fyndest thou to mourne so ?
Salamon seithe, that sorwe and hevynesse
Bones of man driethe by duresse,
And hert glad makethe florisshyng age ;
Therfore, I redethe, thy wo aswage.

He seithe, as motthes to a clothe anoyen
And of his wolle maken it alle bare,
And also as wormes a tree distroyen
Thurghe her percyng, right so sorwe and karre
Byreven man his helthe and his welfare,
And his dayes abregge, and short his lyfe ;
Loo! what profite is it to be pensyfe.

Now, good sone, telle on thy grevaunce,
What is thy cause of thought in specialle ?
Hast thou of worldly goodes habundaunce,
And carest thou how it kept be shalle ?
Or art thou nedy, and hast but smalle,
And trustest sone a riche man to be ?
Or elles lovest thou hir that lovethe not the ?

I have herd seide, in kepyng of richesse
Is thought and wo, and besy awaite alway ;
The poore and the nedy eke hathe hevynesse,
For to his purpose he not atteyne may ;
The lover, also men see day by day,
Prolle after that that he shalle never fynde ;
Thus thought turmenteth folk in sundry kynde.

If thou be in ony of thise agrevede,
Or elleswhat, telle on in Goddes name.
Thow seest alle day the begger is releved,
That sitte and beggethe, blynd, croked, and lame ;
And why? for he lettethe for no shame
His harmes and his poverte to bewrey
To folk, as they gone by him in the wey.

For and he kepe hym cloos, and holde his pees,
And not outshewe how sike he inward is,
He may alle day so sitten helpeles ;
And, sone mine, althoughe he fare amys
That hidethe so, God wote, the wite is his.
But this begger his hurtes wole not stele,
He wille telle alle, and more he kan not hele.

Right so yf the luste to have a remedie
Of thyne annoye that prikkethe the so smert,
The verray cause of thyne hidde maladie
Thow must discover, and telle out alle thyne hert.
Yf thow it hide, thou it shalt not astert,
That thow ne falle shalt in somme myschaunce ;
Therfore amende thow thy governaunce.

Beware of thought, for it is perilous ;
For he the streyt wey to discomfort men ledethe ;
His violence is fulle outrageous ;
Unwise is he, that besy thought ne dredethe,
In whom that he his mortall venyme shedeth,
But yf a vomite folowe after blive,
At the porte of dispeire he may arrive.

Sone, suche thought lurkyng the withynne,
That huntethe after thy confusioun,
Hye tyme is to voide and lete hym twynne,
And walke at large out of thy prisoun.
Beware the fendes slye conclusioun ;
For yf he may the unto dispeire bryng,
Thow shalt mone, and he wille laughe and syng.

Some man for lakke of occupacioun
Musethe ferther than his witte may streeche,
And alle thurghe the fendes instigacioun,
Dampnable erroure holdethe, and kan not lesche
For no counseille ne rede, as did a wrecche
Not longe agoo, whiche that for heresye
Convict and brent was unto asshen drye.

The precious body of our lord Jhesu
In fourme of brede he leeved not at alle ;
He was in no thyng abasshed ne eschu
To sey it was but brede materialle.
He seide a preestes power was as smalle
As a rakyers, or suche another wight,
And to make it hade no gretter myght.

My lord the prynce, God him save and blesse !
Was at his dedely castigacioun,
And of his soule hade grete tendirnesse,
Thurstyng sore his salvacioun.
Grete was his pitevous lamentacioun,
Whan this renegate wold not blynne
Of the stynkyng errour that he was ynne.

This good lord hight him to be suche a mene
To his fader, our liege lord sovereyne,
Yf he renounce wolde his errour clene,
And come unto our good beleve ageyne,
He shulde of his lyfe sure be and certeyne,
And sufficient livelode eke shulde he have
Unto that day he cladde were in his grave.

Also this noble prince and worthy knyght,
God quyte hym his charitable labour !
Or ony stikke kindelede were or light,
The sacrament our blissed saviour
Withe reverence grete and hye honour
He lete fette this wrecche to converte,
And make our feithe to synken in his herte.

But alle for nought wold it not betide,
He held forthe his oppynyoun dampnable,
And caste our holy cristen feithe aside,
As he that was to the fende acceptable,
By ony outwarde token resonable,
If he inwarde hade ony repentaunce,
That wote he that of no thyng hath dotaunce.

Lete the divines of hym speke and muse,
Where his soule is become, or whider gone ;
Myne unkunnyng of that me shalle excuse,
Of whiche matere knowyng have I none.
But wolde God tho Cristes foes echone
That as he helde were yserved so,
For I am sure there ben many mo.

The more routhe is, allas ! what men ben they
That hem deliten in suche surquidrye ?
For mannes resoun may not preve our fey,
That they wole it disprave or denye.
To our Lorde God that sitte in heven hye
Shalle they desire to ben egalle ;
Nay, that ne was never ne be shalle.

That our Lord God seithe in holy scripture
May not be fals, that knowethe every wight;
But he be madde, and, thoughe a creature,
In his Goddes werkes feele nat aright.
Shalle he rebelle ayeinst his Lordes myght,
Whiche alle this wide worlde hathe made of nought ?
For resoun may nat knytte it in his thought.

Was it nat a monstre as in nature
That God ybore was of a virgyne ?
Yit is it sothe, thoughe men by conjecture
Of resoun, or what he kan ymagyne,
Not savoure it, ne it ne kan determyne.
He that Almighty is dothe alle his liste,
He wole his kunnyng hidde be, and not wiste,

Our feithe were not to us meritorie,
If that we myght by resoun it preeve.
Lete us not fro God twynne and fro his glorie,
As holy chirche bitte us lete us believe ;
But we therto obeye, it shalle us greeve
Importably, lete us do as she bitte,
For our olde faders alle han folowed it,

Presumpcioun, a! benedicite !
Why vexest thow folk with thy fran[e]sye ?
Thoughe no thyng elles were, I sey for me.
But see how that the worthy prelacye,
And undir hem the sufficient clergye,
Endowede of profounde intelligence,
Of alle this lande werreyen thy sentence.

That self same were to me a bridelle,
By whiche I wolde governed be and guyede ;
And elles alle my labour were in ydelle.
By holy chirche I wole be justifiede ;
To that alle hoolly is myne hert appliede,
And ever shalle, I truste in goddes grace :
Suche surquidrie in me shalle have no place.

Sone, if God wole, thow art none of tho
That wrapped ben in this dampnacioun.
By! Crist forbede it! sire, seide I tho,
I thanke it God, none inclinacioun
Have I to laboure in probacioun
Of his hye knowleche and his myghty werkes ;
For suche matere to my witte fulle derk is.

Of our feithe wole I not dispute at alle;
But at o worde, I in the sacrament
Of the autere fully beleve and shalle,
Withe Goddes helpe, while my lyfe is to me lent;
And in dispite of the fendes talent,
In alle the articles of the feithe
I beleeve as holy writte seithe.

Now good thrift come upone the, my sone dere !
Thy goste is newe awaked, wele I see;
And somwhat eke amendede is thy chere.
And first I was agast fulle sore of the,
Leste thow thurghe thoughtfulle adversitee
Not hadest stonden in the feithe aright ;
Now is myne hert woxen glad and light.

Hast thow in me eny gretter savour
Than thow hadest first whan thow me sy,
Whan I apposed the of thy langour ?
Sey on the sothe. Ye, somdele, quod I.
My sone, in feithe, that is seide fulle feyntly ;
Thy savour fulle smalle is yit, as I trowe ;
But or ought longe I shalle the sothe knowe.

I wote wele, sone, of me thus wolt thow thynke,
This olde doted griselle holte him wise ;
He wenethe to make in myne hede to synke
His lewde clappe, of whiche sette I no price ;
He is a noble prechour at device,
Grete noise hathe thurghe his thynne lippes drye
This day out passed, the develle in his ye.

But thoughe I olde and hore be, sone myne,
And poore by my clothyng and aray,
And not so wide a gowne have as is thyne,
So smalle y-pynched, and so fresshe and gay,
My rede in happe yit the profite may ;
And likly that thow deemest for folie
Is gretter wisdome than thow canst espie.

Undir an olde poore habite reignethe ofte
Grete vertu, thoughe it mustre poorely ;
And where as grete aray is up one lofte,
Vice is but seelden hidde, that wele wote I.
But not reporte I pray the inwardly,
That fresshe aray I generally deprave ;
Thise worthy men mowe it wele use and have.

But this me thynkethe a grete abusioun,
To see one walke in gownes of scarlet
Twelve yerdes wide, with pendaunt sleves doune
On the grounde, and the furre therin set,
Amountyng unto twenty pound and bet ;
And yf he for it paide have, he no goode
Hath hym lefte to bey withe an hoode.

For thoughe he yode forthe amonge the prees,
And overloke every poore wight,
His coffre and eke his purs ben penylees,
He hathe no more than he gothe in right ;
For land, rent, or catelle, he may go light,
The weight of hem shalle not so muche peise
As dothe his gowne; is suche aray to preise ?

Nay, sone, it is alle mys, me thynkethe,
So poore a wight his lord to countirfete,
In his aray ; in my conceyt it stynkethe.
Certes to blame ben the lordes grete,
Yf that I durst sey, that her men lete
Usurpe suche a lordes apparaile ;
It is not worthe, my child, withouten faile.

Som tyme men myght aferre lordes knowe
By her aray from other folk, but now
A man shalle studie and muse a longe throwe
Whiche is whiche; a! lordes, it sitte to yow,
Amende this, for it is for your prow ;
Yf betwene you and your men no difference
Be in aray, the lesse is your reverence.

Also there is another newe gette,
A foule waste of clothe and excessyfe,
There gothe no lesse in a mannes typette
Than of brode clothe a yerd, by my lyfe.
Me thynkethe this a verray inductyfe
Unto stelthe, ware hem of hempyn-lane,
For stelthe is meeded with a chokelewe bane.

Lete every lord his owen men defende
Suche grete aray, and than, on my perile,
This land within a while shalle amende.
In Goddes name, puttethe it in exile!
It is synne outrageous and vile ;
Lordes, yf ye your estate and honour
Loven, flemethe this vicious errour.

What is a lord withouten his meyné ?
I putte caas his foes hym assaile
Sodeinly in the strete, what helpe shalle he,
Whos sleves encombrous so side trayle,
Do to his lord, he may hym not availe ;
In suche a caas he is but a womman,
He may not stonde hym in stede of a man.

His armes two han righ ynoughe to done,
And somwhat more, his sleves up to holde.
The taillours, I trowe, mote hereafter sone
Shape in the felde, they shalle not sprede and folde
On her bord, thoughe they never so fayne wolde,
The clothe that shalle be in a gowne wrought;
Take an hole clothe is best, for lesse is nought.

The skynner into the feld muste also ;
His hous in Londone is to streyt and scars
To done his craft; somtyme it was nat so.
O lordes, yevethe unto your men her pars
That so done, and acqueynte hem bette withe Mars,
God of bataile, he lovethe none aray
That hurtethe manhode at preef or assay.

Who now most may bere on his bakke at ones
Of clothe and furre, he hathe a fresshe renoune ;
He is a lusty man for the nones ;
But drapers and eke skinners in toune
For suche folk han a special orisoune,
That trapped is withe curses here and there,
And ay shalle be, til they be payed for her gere.

In dayes olde, whan smalle apparaile
Suffised unto hye estate and mene,
Was grete householde wele stuffede of vitaile ;
But now housholdes ben so sklendre and lene ;
For alle the good that men may rippe and glene
Wasted is in outrageous aray,
So that householdes men not hold may.

Pride hathe wel lever bere an hungry mawe
To bedde, than lakke of aray outrage ;
He no pris settethe by mesures lawe,
Ne takethe of hym clothe, mete, ne wage ;
Mesure is out of londe on pilgrimage ;
But I suppose he shalle resorte as blive,
For verray nede wole us therto drive.

There may no lord take up a newe gise,
But that a knave shalle the same up take.
If lordes wolde in this wise,
For to do suche gownes to hem make
As men did in olde tyme, I undirtake
The same jette shulde up be take and usede,
And alle this costeleue and outrage refused.

Of Lancastre duc Johan, whos soule in heven
I fulle deeme and truste sittethe fulle hye ;
A noble prince I may allegge and neven,
Other may no man of him testifie ;
I never sawe a lord that couthe hym gye
Bet like his estate, alle knyghtly prowesse
Was to hym girt, God his soule blesse !

His garnementes were not fulle wide,
And yit the hym became wondirly welle.
Now wolde God the wast of clothe and pride
Yputte were in exile perpetuelle,
For the worshippe and profite universelle ;
And lordes myght do alle this yf they wolde,
The olde jette up take, and it forthe holde.

Than myght silver walke more thikke
Amonge the peple than it dothe now.
Ther wolde I fayne that were sette the prikke,
Not for my self, I shalle do wele ynow,
But, sone, for that suche men as thou
With the worlde wrastle, myght han plenté
Of coigne, where as ye have now scarsité.

Now have thise lordes but litelle nede of bromes
To sweepe awey the filthe out of the strete,
Setthe side sleves of penylees gromes
Wole it up likke, be it drye or wete.
O Ingland, stonde upright on thy fete;
So foule a waste in so symple degree
Banysshe, or sore it shalle repent the.

If a wight vertuous, but withe narwe clothes,
To lordes courtes now a dayes go,
His companye is to folkes lothed ;
Men passen by hym to and fro,
And scorne hym, for he is araide so ;
To her conceyt is no wight vertuous
But he that of aray is outrageous.

But he that kan flatre or be a baude,
And by tho two fresshe aray hym gete,
It holden is to hym honour and laude.
Trouthe and clennesse most men forgete
In lordes courtes, for they hertes frete,
They hyndren folk, fy upon tonges trewe !
They displesance in lordes courtes brewe.

Loo, sone myne, this tale is at an ende ;
Now, good sone, have of me no dysdeyne,
Thoughe I be olde, and myne aray unthende ;
For many a yong man, wote I wele certeyne,
Of corage is so proude and so hauteyne,
That to the poore and olde mannes doctrine
Fulle seelde hem deynethe bowe and enclyne.

Senek seithe age is an infirmité
That leche none ne kan it hele,
For to the dethe next neighbore is he,
There may no wyght the chartre of lyfe ensele,
The ende is dethe of male and eke femele ;
No thyng is more certein than dethe is,
Ne more uncertein than the tyme ywis.

As touchyng age, God in holy writte,
Right thus seith, Fader and moder honoure,
That thow maist be longe lyved; thus he bitte.
Than mote it folowe upon this scripture,
Age is a guerdoun to a creature,
And longe lyved is there none withouten age ;
Wherof I sey in elde is avauntage.

And the rewarde of God may not be smalle,
His yiftes ben fulle noble and profitable,
Forthy ne lakke thow none age at alle;
Whan youthe is paste is age resonable ;
Age hathe insight how unsure and unstable
This worldes cours is by lengthe of his yeres,
And kan defende him from his sharpe breres.

Lord, where it be maistrye to knowe,
Whan a man oft hathe sondry weyes ride,
Whiche is the best ; nay, forsothe, I trowe,
Right so he that hathe many a worlde abide,
There he in youthe wrought mys or dide,
His age it seethe and bitte hym it eschewe,
And sekithe weyes covenable and dewe.

When thow hast assaide bothe two,
Sadde age, I sey, after thy skittishe youthe,
As thow muste nedes atteyne therto,
Or sterve yong, than I trowe thow wold bow the
To suche conceytes as I have yove the,
And thanke God devoutely in thyne hert,
That he hath suffrede the thy youthe astert.

Youthe fulle smalle rewarde hathe to goodnesse,
And perile dredethe he none, wote I wele;
Alle his devocioun and holynesse
At the taverne is,.as, for the most dele,
To Bacus syne and to the leef-sele
His youthe hym halethe, and whan that hym happethe
To chirche gone, of niceté he clappethe.

The cause why men oughten thider gone
Not conceyve kan his wilde steresshe hede :
To followe it also bote is it none
To telle hyme, for thoughe men sowen sede
Of vertu, in yong men it is dede ;
As blive his rebelle goste it mortifiethe
Alle thyng save folie in a yong man diethe.

Whan I was yonge, I was fulle recheles,
Proude, nice, and ryotous for the maystrye ;
And amonge other conscienceles,
By that sette I not the worthe of a flye ;
And of hem hauntede I the companye
That went on pilgermage to taverne,
Whiche before unthrift berethe the lanterne.

There offred I wel more than my tithe,
And withdrewe holy chirches duetee.
My frendes me conceilede often sithe,
That I withe lownesse and humilitee
To my curate go shulde and make his gree ;
But strawe for her rede, wold I not bowe
For ought they coude prayen alle or wowe.

Whan folk wele reuled dressede hem to bedde
In tyme due by rede of nature,
To the taverne quykly I me spedde,
And pleide at dyce while the nyght wolde endure.
There the fourmere of every creature
Dismembrede I with othes grete, and rent
Lym from lym, or I thens went,

And thoughe it fals were that I sware or spake,
For the desire fervent of covetise,
Fonde I in perjurie no defaute ne lakke,
But ever enticed me that in alle wise
Myne othes grete I shulde exercise;
And specially for lucre, in alle manere,
Swere and forswere withe bolde face and chere.

But this condicioun, loo! hade I ever,
Thoughe I proude were in worde or in speche,
Whan strokes came in place I gan dissever
Fro my felawes, ne sought I never leche
For hurte that I there toke; what shulde I seche
A salve whan I therto hade no nede ?
I hertles was ay thurghe myne impressede drede.

Thoo myght I spende an hundrede mark by yere,
Alle thyng quytte, my sone, I gabbe nought ;
I was so proude I hade no man my peere;
In pride and lecherie was alle my thought ;
No more I hade sette verraily ne rought
A wyfe or maide or another to defoule,
Than to shete or pleye at the balle or boule.

Right nyce girles at my retenu
Hade I an hepe, wives, and other mo;
What so they were wold I none eschu ;
And yeres fele I contynued so.
Allas! I no thyng was ware of the wo
That folowede me, I lokede not behynde ;
Conceytes yonge they ben fulle derke and blinde.

An office hade I lucratyfe,
And wanne ynoughe, God wote, and somdele more ;
But never thought I in alle my yonge lyfe
What I falsly gate for to restore.
Wherfore I now repente wondirly sore ;
And yf it mysgoten was, mys was dispendede,
Of whiche our Lord God gretely was offendede.

He sawe I nolde abstene me for no goode
Of myne outrageous iniquitee,
And whan his lust was withdrowe the floode
Of welthe, and at the grounde ebbe sette he me,
With povertee for my gilt me feffede he ;
Suche wreche toke he for my cursed synne,
Nomore goode have I than I stonde ynne.

Gold, silver, jewelle, clothe, beddyng, aray,
Ne have I none other than thow maist see,
Pardé this olde russet is not gay,
And in my purs so grete sommes be,
That there nys counter in alle cristenté
Whiche that kan at ony nombre sette;
That shalt thow see, for my purs wole I unshette.

Come hidre, my sone, and loke whethir
In this purs there be ony crosse or crouche ;
Save nedle and threde, and thymelle of lether,
Here seest thow nought that man may handelle or touche.
The feende, men seyne, may hoppe in a pouche,
Whan that no crosse therein may appeere,
And by my purs the same ye may sey here.

O where is now alle the wantone money
That I was maister of and governour,
Whan I knewe not what povert was to sey ?
Now is povert the glas and the myrrour
In whiche I see my God, my savyour ;
Or poverte came, wist I not what God was,
But now I knowe and see hym in this glas.

And where ben my gownes of scarlet,
Sangweyn, murrey, and blewes sadde and light,
Grenes also, and the faire vyolet,
Hors and harneys, fresshe and lusty in sight?
My wikkede lyfe hathe putte alle this to flight ;
But certes yit me grevethe moste of alle
My frenship is alle clene from me falle.

O while I stode in welthe I was honourede,
And many one of my companye glade,
And now I am mysloked on and lourede ;
There rekkethe none how harde I be bystade.
A! Lord, this worlde is unstable and unsadde,
This worlde honourethe not mannes persone
For hym self, sone, but for Gode alone.

Fulle sothe fynde I the word of Salamon,
That to money obeyen alle thynges ;
For that my coigne and coigne worthe is agone,
Contrarien they my wille and my biddynges,
That in my welthe withe her flaterynges
Helden withe me, what that I wrought or seide ;
Now disobey they that than obeide.

Now sey they thus, I wist wele alway
That hym destroye wolde his foule largesse,
I tolde hym so, and ever he seide, nay.
And yit they lyen, as God me blesse ;
They me comfortede ay in myne excesse,
And seide I was a manly man withealle ;
Her hony wordes turned me to galle.

God, whiche of his benigne curtesye,
And of his chere lovyng tendirnesse,
He of the synfulle hathe not wille he dye,
But lyve for to amende his wikkednesse,
Hym thanke I and his infinite goodnesse ;
His grace likethe that, thurghe worldly peyne,
My soule escape may the feendes cheyne.

Job hade an hyer falle than I, pardé,
For he was clomben hyer in richesse,
And paciently he his adversité
Toke, as the bible bere kan witnesse ;
And afterwarde God alle his hevynesse
Turnede to joye, and so may he do myne,
Whan it likethe to his myght divine.

Lord, right as thow lust, so thow do me to;
But ever I hope sure be of that place
Whiche as thy mercy bought hathe us unto,
Yf that us lust for to sue thy grace.
A! Lorde almyghty, in my lives space,
Of my gilte thow graunte me repentaunce,
And thy stroke take in charitable suffraunce.

I couthe of youthe have talked more and tolde
Than I have done, but the day passethe swithe,
And eke me lever is by many folde
Thy greef to knowe, whiche that sitte so ny the.
Telle on anone, my gode sone, and I the
Shalle herken as thow hast done me;
And, as I kan, wole I counceile the.

Graunt mercy, dere fader, of your speche ;
Ye han right wele me comforted and esede ;
And hertily I pray yow and beseche,
What I first to you spak be nat displesede.
It ruethe me, yf I have you disesede ;
And mekely beseche I yow of pardoun,
Me submyttyng unto your correccioun.

I wote wele, first whan I withe yow mette,
I was fulle madde and spake fulle rudely ;
Thoughe I not slept, yit my spirite mette
Fulle angry dremes, thought fulle besily
Vexed my gost, so that no thyng wist I
What I to you spake, or what I thought,
But here and there I my self sought.

I pray you deemethe not that in dispite
I hade you, for age or povertee ;
I ment it not, but I stode in suche plite,
That it was no thyng likly unto me,
Thoughe ye hade knowen alle my privité,
That ye myght my greef thus han abreggede,
As ye han done, so sore I was agreggede.

Fader, as wisly God me save and spede,
Ye ben not he whom I wend han founde;
Ye ben to me fulle welcome in this nede,
I wote wele in hye vertu ye abounde.
Your wise rede hope I hele shalle my wounde ;
My day of helthe is present, as me thynkethe,
Your comfort depe into myne hert synkethe.

Myne hert seethe that your: benevolence,
Of routhe. meved and of verray pitee,
Of my wo dothe his peyne and diligence
Me to releeve of myne infirmitee.
O goode fader, blissede mote ye be,
That han suche routhe of my wofulle estate,
Whiche was welnye of helthe disperate.

But, fader, thoughe there be diversitee
Ful grete bitwene your excellent prudence
And the folye that reignethe in me,
Yit, God it wote, fulle litelle difference
Is there betwixt the hete and the fervence
Of love, whiche that to good folk ye have,
And myne, although ye deeme I hem deprave.

For yf that I the sothe shalle confesse,
The lak of olde mannes chereshyng
Is cause of the grounde of myne hevynesse,
And enchesoun of my wofulle mournyng ;
That shalle ye knowe, yf it be your likyng
The cause to wite of myne adversité.
Yis, telle on, in the name of Crist, seide he.

Save first, or thow ony ferther procede,
O thyng of the wite wolde I, my sone.
Where dwellest thow ? Fader, witheouten drede,
In the office of the privé-seel I wone,
To write there is my custume and wone
Unto the seel, and have twenty yere
And foure come Estren, and that is nere.

Now siker, sone, that is a faire tyme ;
The token is goode of thy contynuance.
Come hider, and sitte adoune here by me,
For I mote rest a while, it is my penance ;
To me this longe walke it dothe noisance
Unto my croked lymes, feble and olde.
That ben so stiffe unnethe I may hem folde.

Whan I was sette adoune, as he me preide,
Telle on, seide he; how is it withe the now?
And I began my tale, and thus I seide ;
My liege lord, the kyng whiche that is now,
I fynde to me gracious ynowe ;
God yild hym, he hathe for my longe servise
Guerdonede me in covenable wise.

In the escheker he of his special grace
Hathe to me grauntede an annuitee
Of twenty mark, while that I have lives space ;
Myght I ay paide be of that duetee,
It shulde stonde wel ynoughe withe me ;
But paiement is harde to gete now adayes,
And that me putte in many foule affrayes.

It gothe fulle streit and sharpe or I it have;
If I sure were of it to be satisfiede
From yere to yere, than, so God me save,
My depe rooted greef were remediede
Sufficiently ; but how I shalle be guyede
Hereafter, whan I no lenger serve,
This heviethe me, so that I welnye sterve.

For syne that now, in myne age grene,
And beyng in court, withe grete peyne unnethe
Am paide, in elde and out of court I wene,
My purs for that may be a ferthyng shethe.
Loo, fader myne, this dullethe me to dethe;
Now God helpe alle, for but yf he me socoure,
My future yeres ben like to be soure.

Servise, I wote wele, is none heritage ;
Whan I am out of court another day,
As I mote whan upone me hastethe age,
And that I no lenger laboure may,
Unto my poore cote, it is no nay,
I mote me drawe, and my fortune abide,
And suffre the storme after the mery tide.

There preve I shalle the mutabilitee
Of this wrecchede worldes affeccioun ;
The whiche, whan youthe is past, begynnethe to flee.
Frenship, adieu ; farewele, dileccioun ;
Age is putte out of your proteccioun;
His looke unlusty, and his impotence,
Quenchethe your love and your benevolence.

That after-clap in my mynde so depe
Ifyeched is, and hathe suche roote ycaught,
That alle my joye and myrthe is leide to slepe,
My ship is nye withe dispeire yfraught ;
They that not kan lernede be ne taught
By suche ensamples, smert as they han seen,
Me thynkethe certes over blynde ben.

Allas ! I see routhe and pitee exilede
Out of this lande; allas! compassioun ;
Whan shulle ye thre to us be reconcilede ?
Your absence is my grevous compassioun ;
Resorte, I pray yow, to this regioun,
O, come agein, the lakke of your presence
Manacethe me to sterve in indigence.

O fikelle worlde, allas, thy variance !
How many a gentilman may men now see
That whilom in the werres olde of France
Honourede were and holde in grete chiertee
For her prowesse in armes, and plentee
Of frendes hade in youthe, and now, for shame,
Allas ! her frenship is crokede and lame.

Now age unorne away puttethe favour,
That floury youthe in his cesoun conquerede !
Now forgete is al manere manly labour,
Thurghe whiche fulle ofte thei her foes afferede !
Now ben the worthy men beten withe the yerde
Of nede, allas! and none hathe of hem routhe ;
Pitee is beriede, I trowe, be my trouthe.

If she be dede, God have hir soule, I prey ;
And so shalle mo herafter, I trowe.
He that pretendethe hym of most nobley,
If he hir lak, shalle wite and knowe
That crueltee hir foo may but a throwe
Hym suffre for to live in ony welthe,
But ever after in sorwe and unwelthe,

The olde men of armes that han knowe
By sight and by report her worthynesse,
Lete not myschief thus hem overthrowe,
Kithethe upon hem your manly gentilnesse ;
Ye yonge men, that entren into prowesse
Of armes, eke your olde faders honoure,
Helpe hem your self withe some gode of youre.

Knyghthode, awake ; thow slepest to longe ;
Thy brother see ny diethe for myschief ;
Awake, and rewe upon his peynes stronge.
Yf thow herafter come into suche myschief,
Thow wolt fulle sore thurst after releef ;
Thow art not sure what shalle the befalle ;
Welthe is fulle slepir ; beware, lest thow falle.

Thow that clomben art in hye honoures,
And hast this worldes welthe at thy devyse,
And bathest now in youthes lusty floures,
Beware, I rede; thow stondest on the yce,
It hathe be seyne as wilfulle and as wise
As thow han slide, and thow no pitee
On other folk hast, who shalle rewe on the?

Leeve me wele, there is none erthely man
That hathe so stable a welthe but that it
May faile, do he what he do kan ;
God, as hym lust, visitethe folk, and smyt.
Wherfore I deeme and hold it grace and wyt,
In hye estate man God and hym self knowe,
And releve him that myschief hathe doune throwe.

God wole that the nedy be releevede ;
It is one of the werkes of mercy ;
And sithen that men ben in armes preevede,
Ben into poverte falle, truly
Ye men of armes oughten specially
Helpe hem; alas! have ye no pitous bloode,
That may yow stire for to do goode ?

O now in ernest, dere fader myne,
Thise worthy men to me a myrrour shewe
Of slepir frenshippe and unto what fyne
I drawe shalle withein a yeres fewe.
Upon this wofulle thought I hak and hewe,
And muse so that I unto lite madde,
And lever dyen than liven I hadde.

In feithe, fader, my livelode, beside
The annuitee of whiche I above tolde,
May not excede yerly in no tide
Six mark ; that sitte to myne hert so colde,
Whan that I loke abouten and beholde
How scarce it is, yf that that other faile,
That I not glad kan be, but mourne and waile.

And as ferforthe as I kan deeme or gesse,
Whan that I at home dwelle in my poore cote,
I fynde shalle as frendely slipernesse
As tho men nowe done whos frendship is rote.
Not wold I rekke as muche as a mote,
Thoughe I no more hade of yerely encres,
So that I myght ay paide be doubtles.

Two parties of my life, and muche more,
I sure am, past is, I ne doute it nought ;
And yf that I shulde in my yeres hore
Forgo my duetee that I have bought
Withe my flesshe and my bloode, that hevy thought,
Whiche I drede ay shalle falle, as I thynke,
Me hastethe blive unto my pittes brynke.

Failyng, fader, myne annuitee,
Foote hote in me crepethe desese and wo;
For they that have before knowe me,
Failyng goode, me wole faile also.
Who no goode hathe, is ferre his frendes fro,
In mukke is alle this worldes frendlyhede ;
My gost is wrappede in an hevy drede.

If that I hade of custume or this tyme
Lyved in indigence and wrecchednesse,
The lesse herafter shulde I sette by me;
But in myne age wrastle in hardnesse,
That withe hym stroglede never in grenesse
Of youthe, that mutacioun and chaunge
Another day me seeme shulde alle straunge.

He that never knewe swetnesse of wele,
Thoughe he it lak ay lesse hym greeve shalle,
Than hym that hathe ben welle many yeres fele,
And in effect hathe felt no greef at alle.
O poverte, God me shilde fro thy falle ;
O dethe, thy stroke is more agreable
To me than lyve a lyfe so myserable.

Sixe mark yerely, and no more but that,
Fadir, to me me thynkethe is fulle lite,
Consideryng how that I am nat
In husbondrie not lernede worthe a myte ;
Scarsly knowe I to chare awey the kyte,
That me byreve wolde my polaile,
And more axethe husbondery governaile.

Withe ploughe kan I not medle, ne withe harwe,
Ne wote nat what lond goode is for what corne,
And for to lade a carte or fille a barwe,
To whiche I never used was aforne,
My bak unbuxom hathe suche thyng forsworne,
At instaunce of writyng his werreyour,
That stoupyng hathe hym spilte withe his labour.

Many men, fader, wenen that writyng
No travaile is, they holde it but a game ;
An art hathe no foo but suche folk unkunnyng ;
But who so luste to disporte hym in that same,
Lete hym contynew, and he shalle fynde it grame ;
It is welle gretter laboure than it seemethe,
The blynde man of colours wrong deemethe.

A writer mote thre thynges to hym knette,
And in tho may be no disseveraunce ;
Mynde, eye, and honde, none may from other flitte,
But in hem mote be joynte contynuaunce.
The mynde alle hole witheoute variaunce
On eye and honde awaite mote alway,
And they two eke on hym, it is no nay,

Who so shalle write, may not holde a tale
Withe hym and hym, ne syng this ne that ;
But alle his wittes grete and smale
There most appeere, and holde hem thereat,
And setthe speke he ne may ne syng nat ;
But bothe two he nedes mote forbere,
His labour to hym is the elengere,

Thise artificers see I day by day,
In the hottest of alle her besynesse,
Talken and syng, and make game and play,
And forthe her labour passethe withe gladnesse ;
But we labouren in travaillous stilnesse,
We stoupe and stare upon the shepes skyn,
And kepe most our songe and our wordes in,

Writyng also dothe grete annoies thre,
Of whiche fulle fewe taken hede
Save we our self, and thise loo! thei be.
Stomak is one, whom stoupyng out of drede
Annoiethe sore, and to our bakkes nede
Mote it be grevous, and the thirde our eyen,
Upone the white mochille for to dryen,

What man that twenty yere and more
In writyng hathe contynuede, as have I,
I dar wele sey it smertethe hym fulle sore
In every veyne and place of his body ;
And yen most it grevethe truly.
Of ony craft that man kan ymagyne,
Fader, in feithe, it sete hathe welny me.

Loo, fader, tolde have I the substaunce
Of alle my greef, so as I kan telle ;
But wele I wote it hathe be grete penaunce
To you with me so long to dwelle;
I am right siker it hathe ben an helle,
You for to herken me thus jangle and clappe,
So lewdely in my termes I me wrappe.

But natheles I trust to your pacience,
Receyve wole in gree my wordes alle,
And what I have mysseide of necligence,
Ye wole it lete aside slippe and falle.
My fader dere, unto your grace I calle,
Ye wote my greef, now rede me for the best,
Witheouten whom my gost kan have no rest.

Now, sone myne, hast thou alle seide and spoken
That the goode likethe ? Ye, fader, as now.
Sone, yf ought elles in thyne hert be loken,
Unlok it blive, come forthe; what seist thow ?
Fader, I kan nomore telle yow
Than I beforn have spoken and saide.
A Goddes half, sone, I am wele apaide.

Conceyved have I that thow grete fere hast
Of povertee, for to falle in the snare ;
Thow hast therynne caught so depe a tast,
That of alle joye thow art void and bare ;
Thow nye dispeirede art of alle welfare,
And the stroke of poverte art thow fer fro ;
For shame! why makest thow alle this wo ?

I putte cas, as God therfro the kepe,
Thow were yfalle in indigent povert ;
Shuldest thow grucche and thyne annoye bewepe ?
Nay, be thow riche or poore, sike or quert,
God thanke alwey of thyne ese and of thyne smert ;
Pride the not for no prosperitee,
Ne hevy the not for none adversitee.

Povert hathe in hym self ynow grevaunce,
Withouten that that man hym more purchace ;
Who so it takethe in pacient suffraunce,
It is fulle plesaunt before Cristes face.
And who so grucchethe, forfetethe that grace
That he shulde have, yf that his pacience
Withstode the greef and made it resistence.

My sone, as witnessethe holy scripture,
Discrete and honest povert manyfolde
Comendede ys; Crist hym self, I the ensure,
To love and preche and teche it hathe wolde.
He did alle this; be thou never so bolde,
Agein poverte herafter ne grucche, I rede,
For ferthermore in holy writte I rede.

Beholde the lyfe of our Savyour,
Right fro the tyme of his nativitee,
Unto his dethe, as seithe myne auctour,
And token in it shalt thow none fynde or see
But of poverte, withe whiche contente was he.
Is man better than God? shalle man eschewe
Suche lyfe, sithen God that same wolde ay sewe ?

Fy! it is to grete an abusioun,
To see a man, that is but wormes mete,
Desire richesse and grete possessioun,
Where as our Lorde God wolde entermete
Of no richesse, he deyned it not to gete ;
He lyved poorely and poverte ches,
That myght have be fulle riche, it is no les.

The poore man slepethe fulle sikerly
On nyghtes, thoughe his dore be not shette,
Where as the riche abedde besily :
Castethe and ymagynethe in his witte,
That necessarie unto hym is it
Barres and lokkes stronge for to have,
His goode from theves forto kepe and save.

And whan the dede slepe fallethe atte laste
On hym, he dremethe theves come in,
And on his coffres knokke, and ley on faste,
And some of hem unpyke withe a sotelle gynne,
And up is broke lok, haspe, barre, and pynne,
And in the hande gothe, and the bagge outtakethe ;
For sorwe of whiche, out of his slepe he wakethe.

And up he risethe, fote and hond tremblyng,
As that hym shoke the palsye ;
And after that, without tarying,
Unto his coffre he dressethe hym on hye ;
Or he come there, he is in poynte to dye,
He it undothe, and openethe, for to see
Yf that his fals goddes therein be.

He dredethe to fynde it as he drempte.
This worldes power and riche abundaunce
Of drede of perile never ben exempte,
But in poverte is ay siker constaunce ;
Who holdethe him content hathe suffisaunce.
And, sone, by my rede thow shalt do so,
And by desire of goode sette not a slo.

Wilfulle poverte in princes auncien
So ferforthe was, that they desirede more
Good loos than goode ; but now adayes men
Renne and desiren after mukke so sore,
That her gode fame is leide a water thore,
And they rek never how longe it slepe,
Or thoughe it drowne, so they gode may kepe,

Of Cesile somtyme there was a kyng
Withe erthen vesselle servede at his table;
And men fast wondrede upone this thyng,
And seide unto hym it was not honourable
To his estate, ne no thyng comendable,
Axyng hym why that hym luste to be served so.
To whiche demaunde he answerde tho:

He seide, Thoughe I kyng be of Cesile,
A potter was my fader, it is no nay ;
How longe I shalle endure and what while
In my prosperitee, knowe I ne may ;
Fortunes variaunce I drede alway ;
Right as she made me clymbe on hight,
Sodeynly so she may make me alight.

I thynke alwey on my nativitee,
And on my poore lynage, and on my bloode ;
Erthen vesselle to suche a man as me
Fulle sittyng is, and fulle acceptable and goode.
O fewe ben there now left of the broode
That he came of; he lovede bette profite
Comune, than his avauntage or delite.

How seyst thow by Affrican Scipioun ?
Affrican clept, for that he Affrik wan ;
To poverte hade he suche affeccioun
Of his owen free wille and lust, that, whan
He deide, no goode hade this worthy man,
Wherewithe his body in the erthe to bryng,
But the comon coste made his enteryng.

Beforne the Senat was he borne on honde
Ones, after that he Affrik wonnen hade,
That he was riche, as they coude undirstonde,
Of gold, to whiche, with wordes sobre and sadde,
Answered he thus, Thoughe I be feble and badde,
The sothe is to your subjeccioun
I gate Affrik, of that have I renoune.

My name was alle that I there gate,
To wynne honour was onely the purpose
Whiche that I tooke; or that I come thereate,
Other good hade I none than riche lose ;
For alle the good there was, open or close,
Myne hert myght nat so wele contente,
As the renoun onely that I there hente.

Of covetise he was no thyng culpable ;
He sette not therby, thow maist wele see.
Fy on the! gredynesse insaciable,
Of many a man that kan not content be
Of mukke, althoughe never so muche have he;
The kynde is ever on wrecchede covetise,
To coveite ay and have and not suffise.

I wolde every knyght did now the same,
And were of goode nomore coveitous
Than he was; what! to gete a noble fame
To knyghthode is tresour most precious.
But I was never so aventrous
Renoune to wynne by swerdes conquest,
For I was bredde in a pesible nest.

Upone my bak came never habirgeoun,
Ne my knyfe drowe I never in no violence ;
I may not countirfete Scipioun
In armes, ne his worthy excellence
Of wilfulle poverte; but of indigence
I am also riche as ever was ony man,
Suffre it in pacience yf that I kan.

No richer am I than thow maist see,
Of myne have I no thyng to take to;
I live of almesse, yf it stode withe the
So streit and livedest as that I do,
I see thow woldest sorwe suche two
As I, but thow hast for to lyven one
A poore lyfe, and suche have I none.

Salamon yafe counseille, men shulden prey
Two thynges unto God, in sothefastnesse ;
Now herken, sone, he bade men thus to sey,
Enhaunce thow me, Lord, to no richesse,
Ne by myserie me so sore oppresse
That nede for to begge me compelle.
In his proverbes thus gan he telle.

But this povert men counceilede he
For to desire that was necessarie
To fode and clothe, dredyng lest plentee
Of gode hem myght bryng to myserie,
And from the knowlechyng of God to varie,
And lest smert rede hem made God renye.
Now beware, sone, lest thow folye.

Sone, in this meen povert hold I the,
Save that thow canst not take it fulle wele ;
What thoughe thow leese thyne annuitee ?
Yit maist thow live on that other dele,
Thoughe not fulle delicate shalle be thy mele ;
Of six mark yerely, mete and drynke and clothe
Thow gete maist, my child, witheouten othe.

Ye, fader myne, I am not so parfite,
To take it so; I have hade habundaunce
Of welefare ay, and now stonde I in plite
Of skarstee, it were a grete penaunce ;
For God shilde me fro that streyt chaunce ;
Sixe mark yerely to skars is to sustene
The charges that I have, as I wene.

Towe on my dystaf have I for to spynne
More, fader myne, than ye wote of yit ;
Whiche ye shalle knowe, or I fro you twynne,
Yf your good luste be for to heren it.
But for as muche as it not to me sit
Your tale for to interupte ne breke,
Herafter therof wole I to yow speke.

Yit o worde, fader ; I have herde men seyne,
Who so no goode hathe, that he can no goode.
And that fynde I, a platte sothe and a pleyne ;
For, althoughe myne hede, undir my hode,
Was never wise, yete while it with me stode,
So that I hade silver resonable,
My litelle witte was somwhat covenable,

But now, for that I have but a lite,
And likly am herafter to have lesse,
My dulle witte kan not to me profite ;
I am so adradde of moneyes scantnesse
That myne hert is alle nakede of lightnesse.
Wisse me to gete a golden salve,
And what I have, I wole it with you halve.

Sone, as for me, nother avaunt narere,
But yf disese algates shalle betide,
For to be pacient I rede thow lere,
For ony thyng withholde hir on thy side.
My rede wole it not, sone, fro the hide,
Make of necessitee, I rede, vertu ;
For better rede kan I none, by Jhesu.

My sone, they that swymmen in richesse
Contynuelly, and have prosperitee,
And never han felt but welfulle swetnesse,
Unscourgede ay of any adversitee,
Lest God forgete hem oughten ferdfulle be ;
Sitthe God in holy writ seithe in this wise,
Whom so I love, hym wole I chastise.

Seinte Ambroses legende seithe how he
Ones to Rome-warde toke his viage,
And in Tuske towarde that contree
Withe a riche hoost he toke his herbegage ;
Of whom as blive faire in his langage
Of his estate enqueren he began,
And to that answerede anone this man.

Right at my lust have I alle this worldly welthe,
Myne estate hathe be good and yit is;
Richesse have I, and bodily helthe,
Was never thyng yit me happede amys.
And seint Ambrose astoned sore of this,
Anone righ rownede unto his companye,
Sires, it is tyme that we hens hye.

I am adredde God is not in this place ;
Go we fast hens, lest that his vengeaunce
Falle on us. And than withein litelle space
After they were gone shope this chaunce ;
The grounde clafe and made disseveraunce,
And in sanke man, womman, childe, hous, and alle
That to hym pertenede, grete and smalle.

Whan this came to Ambroses audience,
He seide unto his felyship thus,
Loo, bretherne, seethe here in experience,
How merciably our Lorde Jhesus
Of his benigne grace hathe spared us ;
He sparethe hem that unwelthy here ben,
And to the welthy dothe as that ye seen.

Thy lyfe, my sone, is but a chery feire ;
Worldly richesse, have ever in thy memorie,
Shalle passe alle, loke it never on the so faire ;
While thow art here in this worlde transitorie,
Enable the to wynne eternalle glorie,
Where no poverte is, but richesse
Of joye and blisse and vertuous gladnesse.

O thyng telle I the, sone, that is sothe;
Thoughe a man hade as muche as men han alle,
But vertu that goode guye, alle he mysdothe,
Alle that swetnes turne shalle into galle.
Whan that richesse is on a man falle,
Yf it be wronge dispendede or myskept,
Another day it shalle fulle sore be wept.

Some riche is large, and his goode mysdespendethe
In mayntenaunce of synne and of harlotrye ;
To whiche despenses his luste attendethe ;
And on that other part his nygardrye
Suffrethe his neighbore by hym sterve and dye,
Rather than withe a ferthyng hym releeve.
The two condicions ben to repreve.

Who so most hathe, most shalle of answere ;
A day shalle come some men perchaunce
Desire shalle he never hade ben richer
Than here han hade his bare sustenaunce.
Whan the day comethe of ire and of vengeaunce,
Than shulle men see how in this worlde, I gesse,
Richesse is poverte, and poverte richesse.

Whilere, my sone, tolde I not to the
What habundaunce in my youthe I hade of goode,
And how me blent prosperitee,
That what God was I not undirstoode ?
But ay while that I in my welthe stoode,
After my flesshely luste my lyfe I ladde,
And of his wreche no thyng I me dradde.

And, as I seide, he smote me withe the stroke
Of povertee, in whiche I contynu yit ;
Whos smert my goode bloode first so sore soke,
Or that I was acqueynted wele withe it,
That nye it hade refte fro me my wit ;
But sithen, thanke I God, in pacience
I have it take, and shalle, for myne offence.

Yf the luste flee, that povert dothe engendre,
First synne eschewe, and God honoure and drede ;
Also, for thy lyvelode is scars and sclendre,
Spende not to large, I the rede.
Mesure is goode, lete hir the gye and lede ;
Be ware of outrage and be sobre and wise,
Thus thou exclude hym, by myne advyse.

Natheles thou maiste agein me replye,
To some folk, thoughe they done alle as I sey,
Ageyn poverte it is no remedye,
They mowe it not eschewe by no wey.
I graunte wele ; but than take kepe, I prey,
The juggementes of God ben to us hidde,
Take alle in gree, so is thy vertu kidde.

To the plesaunce of God thou the confourme,
Aboute that be besy and ententyfe,
That thou mysdo not, but blive thou it refourme ;
Suche a labour the kithe here in thy life,
That God thy soule, whiche that is his wyfe,
Rejoise may, for it is to hym due,
And his shalle be, but thou the devorce sue.

O thow, fortune, fals and deceyvable,
Fulle sothe is it, yf thow doost a goode dede,
Thow not purposest it shalle be durable,
Of goode entent shalle it not procede.
Wele ought us thy promysses blynde to drede.
He slipirly stant whom that thow enhauncest,
For sodeynly thow hym disavauncest.

Hade I done, sone, as I the counceile,
Whan that fortunes deceyvable chere
Laughed on me, than hade I not, saunz faile,
Ben in this wrecched plite as thow seest here.
Not knewe my thought her chaungeable manere ;
For whan I sate on hye upone hir whele,
Hir gladsome looke made me truste hir wele.

I coude for no thyng han wende or deemede
That she aboute bare double visage ;
I wende she hade ben suche as she seemede ;
But natheles yit is it avauntage
To hym that wofulle is, that hir usage
Is for to flitte fro place to place,
Hir variaunce is to some folk grace.

Whom so that nede grevethe or travailethe,
Hir chaunge is unto hym no greef or wo;
But the contrarie of that no thyng availethe,
As whan a man is wele, putte hym therfro,
What shulle men calle hir frende or elles foo?
I note but calle hir frende whan that she esethe,
And calle hir foo whan she man displesethe.

But ye so calle hir shalle a siker name ;
Men mote hir calle my lady chaungeable ;
For hardely she is that self same ;
A! nay, I gabbe, I am unresonable,
She is my lady stedfast and stable,
For I endure in povertes distresse,
And she not luste releeve my duresse.

Imagyne why that not hir liste
Withe me now dele, age is colde and drye,
And whan tho two ben to a lady wiste,
And that I poore am for the maistrye,
Suche a man is unlusty to hir eye,
And wers to grope; strawe for impotence !
She lovethe yonge folk and large of despence.

And this that I have of fortune seide,
Is but a jape, as who seithe, or a knak.
Now I a while bourded have and pleide,
Resorte I wole to that I first spak ;
Beholde and cast thou thyne eye abak,
What thou god hast agilt in tyme past,
Correcte it, and to do so efte be agast.

Of holy chirche, my sone, I conceyve
As yit ne hast thow none advauncement ;
Ye courteours, fulle often ye deceyve
Your soules, for the desirous talent
Ye han to goode, and for that thow art brent
Withe covetise, now peraventure
Onely for mukke thow lernest soules cure.

Fulle many men knowe I that yane and gape
After some fatte and riche benefice ;
Chirche ne prebende unnethe hem may escape,
But they as blive it hent up and trice.
God graunte they accepte hem for the office,
And not for the profite that by him hongethe,
For that conceyte not to preesthode longethe.

Adayes now, my sone, as men may see,
O chirche to o man may nat suffise ;
But algate he mote have pluralitee,
Elles he kan not lyve in no wise.
Ententyfly he kepethe his servise
In court, ther his labour shalle not moule,
But to his cure loketh he fulle foule.

Thoughe that his chauncelle roof be alle totorne,
And on the hye awtere reyne or snewe,
He rekkethe not, the cost may be forborne
Cristes hous to repaire or make newe ;
And thoughe ther be fulle many a vicious hewe
Undir his cure, he takethe of it no kepe :
He rekkethe never how rusty ben his shepe.

The oynement of holy sermonyng
Hym lothe is upone hem for to dispende ;
Some persone is so thredebare of kunnyng
That he kan not, thoughe he hym wise pretende,
And he that kan may not his hert bende
Therto, but from his cure he hym absentethe,
And what therof comethe he gredily hentethe.

How he dispendethe it, be as it be may ;
For unto that am I no thyng pryvee ;
But wele I wote as nyce, fresshe, and gay
Some of hem ben as borelle folkes be,
And that unsittyng is to her degree ;
Hem ought to be myrrours of sadnesse,
And weyve jolitee and wantonesse.

But natheles I wote wele there ageyne,
That many of hem guye hem as hem oughte ;
And elles it were grete pitee certeyne.
But what man wilt thou be for hym the boughte ?
Fader, I may not chese, I whilom thought
Have ben a preest, now past is the raas.
Than art thow a wedded man percaas.

Ye, sothely, fader myne, right so I am.
I gased longe first, and waitede faste
After some benefice, and whan none cam,
By processe I weddede me atte laste.
And God it wote it sore me agaste
To bynde me where I was at my large ;
But done it was, I toke on me the charge.

A! sone, I have aspyede, and now see,
This is the towe that thow spakest of right now.
Now, by the roode, fader, sothe sey ye.
Ye, sone myne, thow shalle do wele ynow,
Whan ended is my tale, than shalt thow
Be putte in suche a wey as shalle the plese,
And to thyne hert do comfort and ese.

So longe, sone, as in the privé seel
Dwelt hast, and woldest so fayn han be avauncede
Unto some chirche or this, I deme wele,
That God wolde not have the enhauncede
In no suche plite, I holde the wele chauncede ;
Gode wote and knowethe every mannes entent ;
He for thy best a wyfe unto the sent.

Yf that thou haddest percas ben a preste,
Thou woldest han also wantonly the guyede
As dothe the nycest of hem that thou seeste ;
And God forbede thou haddest the tiede
Therto, but yf thyne hert myght han plyed
For to observe it wele, be glad and mery,
That thou art as thou art, God thank and hery.

The ordres of preesthode and of wedlokke
Ben bothe vertuous, witheouten fable ;
But undirstonde the holy yokke
Of preesthode is, as it is resonable
That it so be, the more comendable ;
The lesse of hem of meede hath abundaunce,
Men han merite after her governaunce.

But how ben thy felawes loked to
At home? ben not thei wele benefisede ?
Yis, fader, yis; there is one clept Nemo
Helpethe hem, by hym ben they cherisede.
Nere he, they were poorely chevysede ;
He hem avauncethe, he fully her frende is,
Save onely hym they han but fewe frendis.

So many a man as they this many a yere
Han writen fore, fynde kan I none ;
So gentill, or of her estate so dere,
That ones luste for hem to ride or gone,
Ne for hem speke a worde, but doumbe as a stone
They stonden, where as he speche myght availe,
For suche folke is unlusty to travaile.

But yf a wight have a cause to sue
To us, some lordes man shalle undirtake
To sue it out, and that that is us due
For our labour he deynethe not to us take ;
He seithe his lord thanke us wole he make ;
It touchithe hym, it is a man of his,
Where the revers of that, God wote, sothe is.

His lettre he takethe, and forthe gothe his wey,
And biddethe us to douten us no thyng
His lorde shalle thanke us another day.
And yf we have for to sue to the kyng,
His lord may have there alle his axyng;
We shull be spedde as ferre as our bille
Wole specifie the effect of our wille.

What shulle we do? We dare none argument
Make ageyn hym, but faire and wele hym trete,
Lest he report amys and make us shent ;
To have his wille we soffren hym and lete.
Hard is it to be holden suspect withe the grete ;
His tale shalle be bileevede and not oures,
And that conclusioun to us fulle soure is.

And whan the matere is to: the ende brought
Of the straunger for whom the suyt hathe be,
Than is he knowen to the lord right nought,
He is to hym as unknowe as we;
The lord ne wote not of alle this soteltee,
Ne we ne dar not lete hym of it knowe,
Les our compleynt our self overthrowe.

And where this bribour hathe no peny paide
In our office, he seithe behynde our bakke,
Here paide I nought, what thus ben we betraide,
And disclaundrede and putte in wite and lakke,
Full giltles and eke by suche a knakke
The man for whom the suyte is, is deceyvede,
He weneth we have of his gold receyved.

Fulle many suche pursuers there ben,
That for us take, and yeve us not a myte.
This makethe us that we may not thene.
Eke where as lordes bidde her men us quyte,
When that for hem self we laboure and write,
And ben allowede for her payement,
Our handes ben therof fulle innocent.

I sey nat alle lordes men thus do,
That sue unto our court, but many, I sey,
Han done thus ofte; loo! my fadir, loo!
Thus bothe our thanke and lucre gothe awey.
God yeve hem sorwe that thus withe us pley ;
For we fynden it ernest atte fulle ;
This maketh us of our labour to dulle.

Now, fader myne, how thynkethe you hereby ?
Suppose ye that this sittethe us not sore P
Yes, certes, sone, that fulle wele wote I.
Hast thou seide, sone? wilt thou ought sey more ?
Nay, sire, as now; but ay upone your lore
I herken also besily as I best kan.
Sone, than lete us speke as we began.

Sey on the sothe, I pray the hertely,
What was the cause why thou toke a wyfe ?
Was it to gete children lawfully,
And in clennesse to lede thy lyfe ;
Or first for mukke, what was thy motyfe ?
Fader, no thyng wole I queynte make ;
Onely for love I chees hir to my make.

Sone, what holdest thou love, I the pray ?
Thou deemest luste and love convertible,
Percas, as whan the liste with thy wyfe to play,
Thy conceyt holdethe it goode and lisible
To done; art thou ought, sone myne, sensible
In whiche cas that thou oughtest the forbere,
And in whiche not ? kanst thou to this answere ?

Fader, me thynkethe alle this is goode ynow ;
She is my wyfe, who may therof me lette?
Nay, sone, abide, and I shalle telle how,
Yf that thow ought by Goddes drede sette,
Thre causes ben, whiche I wole unshette,
And open anone, why thow shalt with hir dele:
Now, herken, sone, for thy soules hele.

The first cause, of procreacioun
Of children is to Goddes honour ;
To kepe the eke fro fornicacioun
The next is; and the third, of that labour
Yilde thy dette in whiche thou art dettour
Unto thy wyfe ; and other ententes alle,
Ley out a parte for ought that may befalle.

For thise causes thou hir use muste ;
And for none other, on peyne of dedely synne.
Fader, yit now me thought ageyn luste
Ye helden, and children begoten therynne
Where is no luste. O sone, or that we twynne,
Yf that thow wolt undirstonde how that I
Not holde ageinst lust alle uttirly.

I wote wele leefulle luste is necessarie ;
Witheout that may be none engendrure.
But use luste for luste onely contrarie
To Goddes hestes is, for I the ensure,
Thoughe thow take of it litelle hede or cure,
A man may withe his wyfe do lecherye ;
The entent is alle; be ware of folye.

Wedded folk may leden holy lyfe ;
For thoughe her flesshely lust hem assaile,
And stire hem often, the man to the wyfe,
And she to hym, maken suche bataile,
And strive ageyn her flesshe, that he shalle faile
Of his purpose; but som folk as bestes
Her luste ay folowen ; in hem none arest is.

Adayes now there is suche governaunce
Amonge hem that han paramours and wives,
That, for luste of her wommen and plesaunce,
Not suffisen hem metes restoratives,
But they receyve eke provocatives
To engendre hem luste, feyntyng her nature,
And suche thyng causethe hasty sepulture,

This knowe I sothe is, and knewe it ferne agone ;
And they that so done hyely God offende.
Suche folk holde I homycides everichone ;
They sleen hem self or God do for hem sende.
My sone, on Goddes half I the defende
Suche medicynes that thow not receyve,
Syn they God wratthen and soule of man deceyve.

Passe over this, thou seidest the enchesoun,
Why that thou tooke upon the mariage
Was unto none other entencioun,
But love onely the sette in that corage ;
Now, son myne, I am a man of age,
And many weddede couples have I knowe,
None of myne age many mo I trowe.

But I ne sawe, ne I ne spied, never
Also longe as I have lyved yit,
The love of hem departen or dissever
That for goode love bounden were and knyt,
God lovethe love, and he wole further it ;
At longe rennyng love best shalle preeve ;
Thus hathe it ben, and ay shalle, I beleeve.

But they that marien hem for mukke and goode
Onely, and not for love of the persone,
Not have I wist they ony while stoode
In rest; but of strife is there suche wone,
As for the more part, betwixt hem everychone,
That alle her lives they leden in hevynesse ;
Suche is the fruyte to wedde for richesse,

Amonge the riche also is an usage,
Ecche of hem her childe unto other wedde,
Thoughe they be al to yonge and tendir of age,
No wher ny ripe to go to bedde;
And her conceyte in love is leide to wedde,
Men wete it wele, it is no questioun,
Til yeres come of her discrecioun,

And whan thei have the knowleche of resoun,
Than may they nothir fynde in her hert
To love other; alle out of sesoun
They knyt ben, that into wedlok so stert.
This makethe many a couple for to smert.
O covetise, thyne is alle the gilte
Of this, and mo yit deceyve thou wilte.

Also they that for luste chesen her make
Onely, as other while it is usage,
Watte wele that whan her luste is overshake,
Therwithe wole her loves hete aswage ;
Than is to hem an helle her mariage ;
Than they desiren for to ben unknytte,
And to that ende studie in alle her witte.

Styntyng the cause, theffect styntethe eke ;
No lenger forster, no lenger lemman.
Love on luste groundede is not worthe a leeke ;
But who for vertu weddethe a womman,
And nother for mukke ne for luste, that man
The fourme due of matrimonye suethe,
And soules hurte and bodyes greef eschuethe.

I dar not medle of lordes mariages,
How they hem knytte her makes unsene ;
But as to me it seemethe suche usages
Not worthe a strawe, for, also mote I thene,
Reportethe not so siker jugges ben,
As man to see the wommans persone,
In whiche choice lete man hym self alone.

Weddyng at home in this lond holsome were,
So that man hym weddede duely ;
To see the flesshe first, it may no thyng dere,
And hym avise how hym thynkethe therby
Or he be knytte; loo, this conceyte have I,
In this matere depper coude I go,
But passe I wole and slippe awey therfro.

Now sithen thou hast, to my juggement,
The maryede unto Goddes plesaunce,
Be a trewe husbonde, and by myne assent
Kepe thy bonde, beware the of combraunce
Of the feende, whiche withe many a circumstaunce
Fulle slyly hym castethe the to wrappe and wrye,
To stire the for to done advoutrye.

Advoutrye and perjurye and wilfulle slaughtir,
The booke seithe, lokkede ben and of o peyse they wey.
Ware advoutrye, it is no pley ne laughtir
To done it, flee also the other twey.
For thus wote I wele, seint Jerome kan sey,
In peyne advoutrye hathe the seconde place;
Tho thre to eschewe God the graunte grace.

I in the bible rede how that Abraham
To Egipte went, withe his wyfe Sarray ;
And whan they ny unto Egipte cam,
Thus seide he unto his wyfe by the way,
I wote wele thow art faire, it is no nay ;
Whan they of Egipt see the, there wole they seye
Thow art his wyfe, and for the do me deye.

Thei wole quelle me, and the reserve ;
Forthy unto hem sey, I the beseche,
Thow art my suster, leste I for the sterve ;
Thus may I wele ben esed by thy speche,
And thus maist thow lengthe my lyve and eche.
And whan they into Egipte entrede were,
The Egipciens fast behelden here,

And of hir beautee maden her reporte
To Pharao, and she as blive is take
Into his hous, and done is grete comforte
Unto Abraham for this wommans sake ;
And grete disporte and chere men hem make,
But for Sarray grevousely Pharao
Punysshed was, and eke his hous therto,

Pharao clept Abraham, and hym obreide,
What is that thou hast done unto me?
Why naddest thow tolde to me, he seide,
How that this womman wyfe was to the ?
For what encheson seidest thou, kothe he,
She was thy suster? take thy wyfe here,
Koth he, and bothe go your wey yfere.

The bible makethe no maner of mynde
Whethir that Pharao lay by hir, or nought;
But looke in Lyre, and there shalt thou fynde
For to han do it was he in fulle thought ;
But God preserved hir, he myght nought ;
And sithen for that wille God hym punysshed so,
How shalle the dede unpunysshed go ?

Also he not knewe that she a wyfe was ;
Now than they that wives wetyngly
Taken and holden, and with hem done trespas,
Stonden in harde plite, sone, beware, rede I.
Yf thou therynne agilte, eternally
Thou smert shalt, and in lyfe present
Han sharp adversitee and grete turment.

And to Abymeleche God bade he sholde
Yilde Sarra also to hir husbonde;
For he and his eechone, yf he ne wolde,
Shulden be dede, he did hem undirstonde.
Take heede ay, sone, that thow clere ay stonde ;
For God estopped eke the concepcioun
Of every womman of his mansioun.

Ne that she was a wyfe wist he no thyng,
Ne nought hir knewe in no flesshly folye.
My goode sone, rede of David the kyng,
How he Bersabee tooke, wyfe of Urye,
Into his hous and did advoutrye ;
And how he made Urye slayne to be,
And how, therfore punysshede was he.

How was the tribe also of Benjamyn
Punysshed and putte to distruccioun,
For advoutrye whiche they lyvede yn
In the abhominable oppressioun
Of Levytes wyfe, the mensioun
Therof is made, yf ye looke holy writte,
In Judicum fulle redily it sitte.

Who so lithe with his neighbores wyfe
Is cursed, and who is ony advoutour,
The kyngdome faile shalle of endeles lyfe ;
Of that shalle he be no possessour.
Allas ! this likerous dampnable errour
In this lond hathe so large a threde ysponne,
That wers peple is there none undir the sonne.

Of suche stories couthe I telle an hepe,
But I suppose thise shulle suffise,
And forthy, sone, wole I make a lepe
Fro hem, and go wole I to the emprise
That I first tooke, yf thou the wele avise ;
When I the mette and sawe thyne hevynesse,
Of comforte, sone, made I the promesse.

And of a trewe man beheest is dette.
Fader, God yilde it you, and so ye diden,
Ye highten me in ese for to sette.
Now, sone, thoughe I longe have abiden,
Thy greef is not out of mynde sliden ;
To thy grevaunce wole I now resorte,
And shewe the how thow the shalt comforte.

In short wise, this is of thy greef enchesoun,
Of thyne annuitee the payement,
Whiche for thy longe service is thy guerdoun,
Thou dredest whan thou art fro court absent
Shalle be restreyned, syn thou now art present,
Unnethe maist thou it gete, it is so streyte ;
Thus undirstode I, sone, thy conceyte.

For of thy livelode is it the substaunce ;
Is it not thus? Yis, sothely, fader, it.
Now, sone, to remedie this grevaunce
Kanst thou no weyes fynde in thy wit?
No, certes, fader, never coude I yit.
May no lordship, sone, the availe
For alle thy longe service and thy travaile ?

What ? fader, what? lordes han for to done
So muche for hem self, that my matere
Out of her mynde slippethe awey sone ;
The worlde is not suche now, my fader dere,
As ye han seen ; farewele, frendly manere.
So God me amende, I am alle destitute
Of my livelode, God be my refute !

I am unto so streyte a poynte ydrive,
Of thre conclusions mote I chese one;
Or begge, or stele, or sterve, I am yshrive
So nye that other wey see I none.
Myne hert is as dede as ony stone.
Nay, there I faile, a stone no thyng ne feelethe ;
But thought me brennethe and fresyngly keelethe.

To begge, shame is myne impediment ;
I wote wele rather shulde I dye and sterve ;
And stelthes guerdoun is suche payment,
That never thynke I his wages deserve ;
Wold honest dethe come, and me overterve,
And of my grave me putte in seisyne,
To all my greef that were a medicyne.

What, sone, how now? I see wele smalle effecte,
Or elles none, my wordes in the take ;
Outher fulle symple is thyne intellecte,
Or hokirly thou hast hem overshake,
Or thy gost slept hathe; what, my sone? awake!
Whilere thou seidest thou were of me gladde,
And now it seemethe thou art of me sadde.

I deeme so, syn that my longe sermoun
Profitethe not, it sore me repentethe.
Fader, be nat of that oppynyoun ;
For as ye wole I do, myne hert assentethe ;
But ay amonge, thought me, fadir, turmentethe
So sharply, and so troublethe and despeirethe,
That it my witte foule hyndrethe and apeirethe.

O, my goode sone! wolt thou yit algate
Dispeirede be ? nay, sone, lete be that.
Thow shalt as blive entre into the yate
Of thy comforte; now telle on playne and plate,
My lord the prince knowethe he the nat ?
Yf that thou stoode in his benevolence,
He may be salve unto thyne indigence,

No man bette, next his fader our lorde the lige.
Yis, fader, he is my goode gracious lorde.
Wele, sone, than wole I me oblige,
And God of heven vouche I to recorde,
That yf thow wolt be fully of myne accorde,
Thou shalt no cause have more thus to muse,
But hevynesse voide, and it refuse.

Sithen he thy gode lorde is, I am fulle sure,
His grace shalle not to the be denyede ;
Thou woste wele he benigne is and demure
To see unto, not is his gost maistriede
Withe daungere, but it is fulle appliede
To graunte, and not the nedy werne his grace ;
To hym pursue, and thy releef purchace.

Compleyne unto his excellent noblesse,
As I have herde the unto me compleyne,
And but he quenche thy grete hevynesse,
My tunge takke and slitte it in peces tweyne.
What, sone myne, for Goddes dere peyne,
Endite in Latyne or in Frensshe thy greef clere,
And for to write it wele do thy powere.

Of alle thre thou oughtest be wele ylerede,
Syn thou so longe in hem laboured haste,
Thou of the pryvé seel art olde yyerede.
Yit, fader, of hem fulle smalle is my taste.
Now, sone, than thou foule hast in waste
Dispended thy tyme, and natheles, I trowe,
Thow kanst do bette than thou wolt do me knowe.

What shalle I calle the ? what is thy name ?
Occleve, fader myne, men callen me.
Occleve, sone? Ywis, fader, the same.
Sone, I have herde or this men speke of the ;
Thow were acqueynted withe Chaucers pardé,
God save his soule! best of ony wight;
Sone, I wole holde the that I have the hight.

Althoughe thou sey thou nouther in Latyne
Ne in Frensshe canst but smalle endite,
In Englisshe tunge thou canst wele afyne.
Truly therof kan I but a lyte.
Ye, strawe! lete be! take thy penne and write,
As thou kanst, and thy sorwe turne shalle
Into gladnesse, I doute it not at alle.

Syn thou maist not be paied in the escheker,
Unto my lorde the prince make instaunce
That thy patent into the haniper
May chaunged be. Fader, by your suffraunce,
It may nat so, bycause of the ordynaunce,
Longe after this shalle no graunte chargeable
Oute passe; fader myne, this is no fable.

An egalle chaunge it is, my sone, in sothe,
And no charge, I wote it wele in dede.
What, sone myne, good hert take unto the ;
Men seyne who so of every grasse hathe drede,
Lete hym beware to walke in ony mede.
Assay, assay, thou symple herted goste ;
What grace is shapen the thou ne woste.

Fader, also siker as I stonde here,
Whether that I be symple, or arghe, or bolde,
Suche an eschaunge gete I none to yere,
Do as I kan, withe that I have in holde.
For, as for that, my comfort is but colde ;
But wele I fynde your good wille alwey
Redy to me, in what ye kan or may.

That is sothe, sone; now syn thou me toldest
My lorde the prynce is goode lord the to,
No maistrye is to the, yf thou woldest
To be releeved ; wost thou what to do,
Write to hym a goodely tale or two,
On whiche he may disporten hym be nyght,
And his free grace shalle upon the light.

Sharpe thy penne and write on lustily ;
Lete see, my sone, make it fresshe and gay ;
Uttre thyne art as thow canst craftily,
His hye prudence hathe insight verray
To jugge where it be wele made or nay ;
Wherfore, sone, it is to the nede
Unto thy werk to take the gretter hede.

But of o thyng be wele ware in alle wise,
On flatterye that thou not the founde ;
For therof, sone, Salamon the wise,
As that I have in his Proverbes founde,
Seithe thus : They that in feyned speche abounde,
And glosyngly unto her frendes talke,
Spreden anette before hem where they walke.

Yf a disceyvour yeve a man to souke
Wordes plesaunt in hony al bewrappede,
Goode is a man to eschewe suche a pouke ;
Thurghe favelle hathe many a man myshappede.
For when he hathe jangelede alle and clappede,
Withe his frende tretyng openly,
He in awaite lithe on hym covertly.

The most lakke that the lordes han grete
Is of hym that her sothes shulde hem telle ;
And in the glose folke labouren and swete,
They striven who best kan rynge the belle
Of fals plesaunce, in that her hertes swelle,
Yf that one kan bette than other deceyve,
And suche deceytes lordes blyndely receyve.

The worldly riche men han no knowleche
What that they be of her condicioun,
They ben so blent withe favels gay speche,
Whiche reportethe to hem that her renoun
Is every where halwede in the toune,
That in hem self they deemen grete vertu,
Where as ther is but smalle, or not a gru.

For unnethe a goode worde men speke of hem,
This fals tresoun comoun is and rive;
Better were it thou were at Jerusalem,
Sone, than thou were therin defectyfe.
Syn my lord the prince is, God holde hym lyfe,
To the good lord, good servaunt thou the quyte
To hym and trewe, and it shalle the profite.

Write to hym no thyng that sownethe to vice,
Kithe thy love in mater of sadnesse,
Loke yf thou fynde kanst ony tretyce
Groundede on his estates holsomnesse,
Suche thyng translate and unto his hynesse
As humbly as that thou kanst presente ;
Do thus my sone. Fader, I assente.

Wight hert as tremblyng as the leef of aspe,
Fader, syn ye me rede to do so,
Of my symple conceyte wole I the claspe,
Undo and lete it at his large go;
But weleaway ! so is myne hert wo,
That the honour of Englisshe tonge is dede,
Of whiche I was wonte have counseile and rede,

O, maister dere and fader reverent,
My maister Chaucers, floure of eloquence,
Mirrour of fructuous entendement,
O, universal fader in science,
Allas! that thou thyne excellent prudence
In thy bedde mortalle myghtest not bequethe,
What eyled dethe, allas! why wold he sle the?

O dethe, thou didest not harme singulere
In slaughtre of hym, but alle this londe it smertethe.
But natheles yit hast thow no powere
His name to slee, his hye vertu astertethe.
Unslayne fro the whiche ay us lyfly hertethe,
Withe bookes of his ornat endityng,
That is to alle this lande enlumynyng.

Hast thou not eke maister Gower slayn,
Whos vertu I am insufficient
For to discrive, I wote wele in certayn ?
For to slee alle this worlde thou hast yment ;
But syn our Lorde Criste was obedient
To the, in feithe I kan no ferther sey,
His creatures mosten to the obey.

Fader, ye may laughe at my nyce speche,
Yf that ye list, I am no thyng formelle ;
My yonge kunnyng may none hyer reche,
My witte is also slipir as ony ele.
But how ever I speke, algate I mene wele.
Sone, thou seist wel ynoughe, as me seemethe ;
None other feele I, so my conceyte deemethe.

Now, fare wele, sone, go home to thy mete,
It is hye tyme; and go wole I to myne ;
And what I have seide the thou not foryete ;
Suche as I am, sone, I am thyne,
Thow seest wele, age hathe putte me to declyne,
And poverte hathe made me of goode alle bare ;
I may not but pray for thy welfare.

What fader, wole ye thus sodeynly
Departe fro me? Petir! Crist forbede.
Ye shalle go dyne withe me truly.
Sone, at o worde, I mote go fro the nede.
Nay, fader, nay! Yis, sone, as God me spede.
Now, fader, syn it may none other betide,
Almyghty God yow save, and be your gyde.

And graunte grace that day me to see,
That I somwhat may quyte your goodnesse ;
But, goode fader, when and where shulle ye
And I efte meete? Sone, in sothefastnesse,
I every day heere at Carmes masse,
It failethe not, aboute the houre of seven.
Wele, fader, God I betake yow of heven.

Recordyng in my mynde the lessoun
That he me yafe, I home to mete went ;
And on the morwe sette I me adoune,
And penne and ynke and parchemyne I hent,
And to perfourme his wille and his entent
I tooke corage, and, whiles it was hote,
Unto my lord the prynce thus I wrote,