shawwn · March 8, 2020 12:29
diff --git a/117m-temp1.0.txt b/117m-temp1.0.txt
 python3 src/generate_samples.py --step 32 --length 512 --model_name 117M --restore_from gs://danbooru-euw4a/checkpoint/test117m-v3-512-4-poetry-1

 Restoring from checkpoint gs://danbooru-euw4a/checkpoint/test117m-v3-512-4-poetry-1/model.ckpt-2200

 Sir Rodon: though nought he saw, distinct
 Such inward malice in the heart was shown;
 When she, the lord of all the crew of men,
 The king's own presence with displeasure wroth,
 With scorn through slack disguise appear'd: But Rodomont,
 Unweeting what so was at his heart, replied
 To hospitable Hector's prayer as friend:
 "Hear, and obey the God, whose tale is true,
 Whose deeds, as nature will'd, thou speak'st of now;
 Be Hector thine! then shalt thou soon be burn'd,
 And die e'en Hector." He with fierce words replied,
 Imploring, nor with bootless words repress'd;
 Nor from his lips yet more abruptly blus'd,
 A wordless melancholy, seem'd to come;
 Tremendous wrong! which such late years had cause
 To cause such outrage; and impossible,
 For ever! after Hector's congress, came
 The son of Priam, all on foot, his limbs
 And bloody suit of shame and naked name,
 Doubling the bulk of Ajax ev'ry shame,
 Beside his body like a waving tamarisk.
 He, feeling not his nephew's or that sire,
 But the bald back of Ida's hill he bore,
 Made piling it around; and as he so
 Ran up the mound, he backward threw his weight
 At the rich fellow's feet. He, sore afraid,
 Delay'd not long; but when the weight he saw
 Prick'd through the flesh, at once he turned and sought
 His brother's mind, and, passing he below,
 In fond opinion, was the castor of his sire.
 His father's eyes with terror were o'erswhelm'd;
 And prudence fill'd him; for he stood upright
 Amid a beauteous band: not one obscure,
 But valuable, was on God bestow'd;
 Flew at him, cut, and press'd him to the earth;
 And out of every manly spirit ran
 Of glory; and Minerva o'er him hung.
 As many as on fiery steeds are seen
 To stem the liquid blaze; for of the field
 A troop serene consists; and they who wield
 The glen nor touch the river, all obey
 Godlike Pelleus. So were all those in Troy
 Before th' illuded arm of war at hand.
 He two and twenty then, with whom he arm'd
 His glitt'ring arms, lay in such muster as
 Some Grecian concubine and Aethon could
 Of aught that breathed volitant, and made his spear
 To flint; at other introduced him, and the force
 Unlook'd diffusive of his speed; but save his lance
 The son of Tydeus, eminent in war, was form'd
 On the sharp spear. Achates so, confuted are.
 Him Tydeus embold'd at full Evander's name
 With news to embold'nd, angry thunder drove.
 At the first spear's point the boaster streak'd his brows,
 Tore off his helmet; betwixt the belt and loin
 He clung; but he in ruin overthrew his foe,
 And in the tumult died from sorrow of his own.
 Then distant farther, and as soon, he heard
 The shield well-broke, by broad Tiber's waves defended.
 He stripp'd his helmet, and his doublet fell,
 And on the flying helmet of Cimas slung.
 Hur rag'd from his head, the broad-ey'd chief he bore
 His olives, which Apollo bright in fight
 Arose, and robb'd him ere his bulky spear
 And mighty weight of tough hard iron panoply
 Sent to the captain of Epirus, his dear lord;
 For well he knew him of Arcadia, who
 He knew, and from the perils of the war dismiss'd:
 So bore he off Tiberius; nor had him
 To Tiberius, nor to silent Sulla's heights,
 Nor to the pleasant grove of Calydon,
 Nor In Thessalia's forests, nor to fields beyond
 Of Thous, offered with their blood. More furious still
 He raves against the troops within, and smites th' o'er all.

 Erymonus, so call'd the sire, espies, and proves
 His son; he sees, and through a cloud of clouds,
 Behind him, streams; and starting from the hill,
 Running command clear_context <function clear_context at 0x10ac2fa70>




 With his garment, past all mortal feminine charms,
 Hither and thither flies my penetration, round,
 Aloof, unheeded, scorns his haughty foe,
 And turns his valour to derision far.

 When I perceive that he hath made me fool,
 And am so blindly boasting of my might
 And my great prowess, that the threat'nings spread
 Of Hell itself 'gainst me such vastest harm.
 Among false words that to his evil will
 Assured me, and assumed in full assurance,
 I thus desisted boast, that to no end
 My lofty virtue had the strictest hold;
 For it was built ere many thousand years

 Three ages since, was there, in secret council made
 Of his great people, for deceitful arts
 Training their evil and their evil deeds
 Against me, with design, through subtle arts
 Made to deceive the people and their lords.
 Had these things present, if the evil be
 Then coveting to slay me, yet warlike deeds
 Have often prophesied my fate.   But ere
 I had in readiness resolved to perish
 By murder, Henry Carson would hie along
 With some few soldiers of my goodly race,
 First, his attendant, then his master (he said),

 And knowing well, that other branch I must select:
 Then with ambitious anger unfulfilled,
 He would have held me by the forelock of his sword,
 Soon to be slain, if haply deeds for me were done,
 And made his mean tyrannic dictions refuse;
 Rending my strength for battle, that his rule might come;
 And next, if Arnold both pursues to fight, or fall.
 With such harsh manners he assailed me in my thought,
 Tearing my cheek, and my wild heart in disdain:
 'Let him who would have tamed my youthful ire
 Declare his will is prudent in debate,
 Whatever happens in the neighbouring isles;
 And, ere we yield, he will make his late retreat;
 Or if our conquest is to conquer Newgate,
 Trust him to us, and let us both have banishment.'

 To him the proud Castalian thus began:--
 'By this proud lord the property of Ithaca
 Has he deferr'd us, doubtless, were it worth our while
 To try the bridal when his homeward voyage is
 Ere this with ninefold wounds the bloody god
 Will, with his Thunderer, smite the mighty ocean:
 But come--fight we with might and main, my warlike line.
 Never shall then the restless Persians spoil
 Our bridal on the morrow.  Fiercer, fiercer cowards,
 Think thou to batter at the Germans' ships, and hut
 And castle of the Kaiser feel thine iron might!'

 Here drawing near, Atrides reached the threshold of bronze;
 At top of helm he saw his captive band,
 Gazing with horror on his triumph past.
 O'erlumber'd in anxious thought the ascending chief
 His eye-lids trembling; when behold, beside
 The arena stretch'd, his lofty brain hath roll'd,
 And life and fate in undissembling battle closed.
 His sense rekindling: 'Even now behold him shrink,
 Meantime and friends in drag the villain off:
 If lawless traitors their design are doom'd
 To a perturbed sad, abortive death, behold!
 Great common cause of all their ill, but chief
 To exalpate their foes with theirs renown.
 Hear then me, lord of men, nor venture more,
 But tell me this, in latest age, before you dread
 The axe should strike, that yet we chiefs of fame;
 Whose living courage conquers in the field,
 Whose blood propitious, we have wash'd the blade,
 And in that lucid world have re-engaging power:
 In Time's full bosom love emblazoned be,
 And unenlighten'd fame is now no more.'
 There spoke not he, but left the Tiber's flow'r,
 The happy Trojans through the forest rode
 Girt by full many a gliding shaft and bow.

 Meanwhile, Euboea's sister in the main
 Of Carialcia, turreted heaven-above,
 Encompassing the brain with clouds, from view
 And empty sky, o'erswept her walls of home.
 She robb'd Juturna of her public charge,
 And, all the prescience of her country lost,
 Made salvage altars to her fit return.
 Nine sons she borne, and beauty to obtain
 That bloom of youth from age of heav'n above:
 From Cajun's race who, Arno's offspring now,
 Euboea had pourtray'd, by charms supreme,
 Vircan, of Lulius famed amidst the roll,

 Juturna thus reference'd to Jove's line:
 'Die then, unconquerable, bold and void
 Of shame, and glory that embassadors have brought;
 Then hear my message giv'n, and guard with care
 Jocasta's name and daughters from the rage of hell.
 How with three youngest-births arose your shores,
 Ismen and war, today again unkind,
 Whence latent disagreeabilities.'
 Thus, worthy of the heav'nly band implor'd,
 And of the mother muse of human kind,
 Truth, truth, truth, differ not, but thou alone,
 Jubilant, toss'd in the air lucre'd, this to read,
 This to the whole, foot, third, or left, or right.
 And now, the day's great expedition done,
 the king the parent of the realm goes nigh,
 Cherubed in light, thrice warmer than before,
 To loose the pent fleets — once more, if fame be told,
 In conquering boldness greater power appears;
 Haste, haste, quell the waves, and meet th' unwilling gales.

 For, what avail, that when fierce tempests break,
 And ships at sea obscure the vault of night,
 And ships at liberty rest in the slumber of the main,
 No thunder-clap of winds, no torrents loos'd,
 Assailing erewhile, may wake the trembling oar;
 'Tis he that knows the sea and is the wisest slave.

 In sign of hellish aanity, insanity,
 Composting sphears from here, 'twixt rage and folly, strife,
 The headsman's tender fingers, and the soldier's mad:
 But parted a'er years ago, my lords my foes;
 My father bless'd the blow, and my own pinnace glo'd.
 No flame-stain'd gardens want a thrifty parent's ken,
 Nor want a flutter of the wintry wind to scan;
 What wintry want so much may synge with calm,
 The hot desires of land, the sunk desire of sea?

 Some wouldit porter, some would porter, until the sun
 That gilds the southern South, chidde, an' peace'd the pines
 An' cooled the winds at last. When suddain snaw,
 An' suddain cold begins to melt on high,
 The sky'll afoord to wear awaays roon'
 An' dusk aboon the plain, as the enamell gray,
 Scarce cloud can speord or silken skeffan' flee:
 Then Church when blight begin, Within th' church sits th' Dane,
 And Saints wi word as gospel plain, wi' manna fail:
 But mark y' storm and storm's that breathe o' din,
 The weeping bell within the shole o' t' tent.

 Last Sunday in Paisley church I travell'd
 A daisy way, feeling as light as breath o' gale,
 An' like to dream o' heaven in a new-went spring,
 I pray'd--I knew 't but joy to see the thaw,
 Or bonny flouce-storm in the misty gloamin';
 When flattan'd wi' my gowden beard, I wisht my mine
 Might fathom the benches an' the spikest hoose;
 But mind ye, lad, there 's work when t'inkling barks,
 Let's sing some song, an' mendin' up the spak' stones.

 In th' abyss th' eternal poet saw,
 Then down into the depths of his eternal grave,
 (Th' eternal father of that world he saw,
 And, all the tones of that eternal name,
 Stirr'd them to life; nor ever closed in place;)
 A bard perchance of rakes he seen or beheld,
 That left his pipe to dream amidst the night,
 When th' angelic quire was heard amidst the sound.)

 Flourish ye then, O then, ye fellows true,
 Wise men aloft, and men a true,
 As sunward rise; and curse the world your daft:
 Bethink ye, for the sake o' me,
 Il'Sure God keep you your masters wench!
 (Poor fools that thus are seekin' heaven.)
 A Mona wee, a very flower,
 There is but Richard's on each stem;
 He comes creep out, he creeps and springs
 And quaffs it in the wicker-flowers,
 While poor owls sit around and sing.
 'Tis sad, but sweet a sacred fire
 Is on his tender body fed,
 Chirping aloof, aloof, aloof!
 That God hath sinn'd and made him great,
 And made him worthy of the bow.
 Shame! but it makes us weep abeint.
 He hath his gilded havolls crown'd
 Among the bridegrooms of the earth;
 Under arches of high dome,
 With glory of heat and cold,
 The brightness of his ethereal beam
 Beholds the guests of love divine,
 And checks th' indignant wretch, who stays
 Lest Mahomet should his wrath complete.
 Aku saitifat, saitifat, saitifat,
 Hah, quella vasta se te hic Martella,
 Hah! quella tuo quella es mirtasve molesta!
 Yo saitatis magna estrella ah dallibus,
 Que temnere agitur, yo legere genus!
 His consort not alone her maid,
 His wife not alone th' ungentle band
 Her beauty waltz'd to the bold resort,
 His love should her with playful care
 His shepherd woo, and should his choice.
 His father 'gainst his wife the sire
 For ever sallied; he 'gainst his sire
 Yields aye his stalied bridal bed.
 His daughter not alone he joys
 When to one father he's beguiled.
 Lat mihi magna magna est
 He envieth nathimedes;
 Of fetch abune his mead,
 Of doittes dephon blis;
 And Fearsimir of lond:
 He fathin' nature blind
 Erthik and ihre's madre blind
 To will did knese turn.
 Aye yond, he passes by
 In happy time of age,
 And for he wopes to die
 Sleeps in the spangled eye.

 The Baby-boob, full fain
 To set his dam to corn,
 Curts with his arm to the still,
 Fire-flamed at his desire.
 Hail dear to the merry dance!
 Hail by tune, hail by the toil!
 Hail, faire Mother of his life!
 How patiently with dolour
 His little one at length
 He fondles, lulled and contented
 To linger in her gentleness.
 And smil'd his pretty heart,
 And op'd her eyes, in tears.
 His soul is happy as the air
 That paled at even-tide;
 How patiently his grey hairs are fain
 To mollie in the pomegranate!
 How patiently time is fain
 To drag him to prosperity.
 Thou art Love's child, and know'st no close
 To any who toil for joy--
 A mourner for another's birth.
 Thou cam'st spontaneous forth, O Love,
 With thy fresh tone; and yet 'tis thou,
 O Purity, to cheer and move
 This soulless earth, and stop the age.
 Thou lodgèd the full young Mæon,
 He know'st the Muses' merriment,
 All the sweet sounds, all the leaping throats,
 All the chanting waters and the streams,
 All the mountain, pines, all river shreds--
 Little thou lov'st to help, nor to vex.
 Thou lodgèd the old Merlin now,
 Of a new faith thou art advancing,
 And he goest with thy heart right bare:
 Am I not thy Lady tall?
 Not to stand by thy castle wier!
 As once it stood, the waste wide spread,
 On the sighing flower-haired Mæon!
 Deep the large draught thy sinking eyelids knew,
 And the while thy locks looked woolly back,
 And lovely breathed forth ev'ry song,
 And think, and laugh'd on thy tenement,
 Till the-morrow with thy naked hand
 He did disport thee from the land.
 O Indra! as then, thou diest too.)
 Now to the postern thou goest alone.

 A small grey space, but, truly, large and wide.
 Then, rose the king, and lifting high he rose
 Plum-straight into the royal heaven.
 All the king Agamemnon saw, afar,
 And lightning-like his wrapp'd eyes could span,
 To his right hand seizing the Adriatic shore,--
 God sent him backward in his agony,
 God grant though his heart yet cleaves to Thee;

 Then he rose--as in a corner of an altar—
 And, gazing up, he saw the spoiler come,
 Had not the wild boar's impediment his face,
 Seiz'd him, and rending thence his imaged mulete,
 Of the Antiguo son, aside he drew,
 Therofore he turn'd with eager look,
 And had respect, but that success was came
 And to Diomede's emetropic jaws
 Bruised was his throat; his teeth, he push'd in vain,
 Stab'n from the point, were, rushing upon all:
 As if foul fowl, terrible to sight,
 Which eye with lacqueyate eye doth pierce away.
 His push had well suffic'd the monarch well,
 He look'd, and he intoxic'd his air.
 A mortal man, like he, relax'd
 His onset; but devouring fire had seized
 The rank reptile, and devour'd the stodge.
 The god remember'd and savour'd of his fall
 Till from the beast the undaunted bird, bespake:

 "Thou couldst not loiter longer, Agamemnon;
 What taint of blind experience breeds thy fall;
 But man in action is apt to gain
 A better master, and to know what lies,
 Than o'erstrain'd prudent counsels how to yield."
 Such, up-rose from the resplendent crowd,
 To rouse each saviour of the Greeks the more.
 Veil'd in a mist, before the lofty gates
 They sitt'd, and Priam to the Gods address'd:
 "Vallor supreme! who, seated there, secures
 Affronted Trojans by the stress of blows,
 And by the strength of Lausus' self defied!"
 To whom the Sire of Gods, in ire rejoined,
 Thus spoke:

 "Foe of the stubborn heart! wouldst thou the blame
 Reveal of foul and bloody deeds to me?
 Thou, who didst make the inmost of my joys,
 The share of all my griefes, unto my griefes!
 Hear me, and then refulgent see! a nook
 In thy own blood that cliff against the gates
 Lies in the vale, whence I to Ilium came.
 I, champion of the glorious city, thee
 Repair not. Your owne fall to mine hand I trow;
 Both, victors, borne by strength of grace, are fled,
 Or with life's grace begirt before your wall.
 Man stormes death with his earliest steel,
 And in the van comes some unsparing prey.
 Not such my sire as now he is, when he
 Drave to the ships the bloody footsteps of the fray.
 He left his stand, and downe he betook him, then
 Meriones on whomsoe're he hath gone was slain.
 Vain would he slay me, if renown were sue,
 Nor smite me, if the Gods so durst abide."

 "Stay, worthily thou thinkest; should the fates
 Vouchsafe thee help thy noble spirit, I die!
 That even now a river is beneath the earth,
 Which cutting up the earth heaves many a thriving grain,
 And on the instant smoothing as it smoothes the flood,
 Ploughs the green bottom to a plain of mirth and ease;
 But winds adverse toss it to the ocean's sea.
 Then with the billows break his waters surging high,
 And puff as birds with northwind from the mountain-blow.
 I will not bitter-sharp the waters to contend
 Or keen the heat of summer's season, but I will stay
 On yonder cliffs, to gentle Zephyrs, wafts and airs.
 There, mingling tree-trunks, sprouting a green life, abide
 The gentle breezes, and the streams are sweet of seed.
 There will I stay, and reap, and neighbour with my gain,
 And caroused in sweetest fruit--sweet breath of the good ground."

 So graunhed he his shepherd, for high spirits twain
 Kneeling together, and his spirit felt strong and glad;
 And o'er his limbs fair Charity with palms of gold
 Touch'd them, and made them white as softly down the wind.
 So the grave Poet ended, but his soul drew near,
 And as he thus hath been the minstrel to my lyre;

 Loved shall the Artist, then, a perfect spirit fraught
 With minor Mysteries out of which shall be
 And genuine as the notes of Aeolus' Lyre.
 Love ownth it, and hideth not--nay, love is not:
 Downe and downshines and rains hath bred it in vain,--
 And low shall it ever stand if we can brood;

 Bide stress of storms and ills--libertie--flocks of ills,
 Thine Earth made fertile, and thy waters dark
 Lakyth to breed the monsters that in thee
 Use subterfuge to euer, and vassalize
 Life, and the mindes of man their lord and friend:
 But may thy Summer offend me exceeding!
 May Luth and Error bring black fire of any kind--
 But never storm make fervent Love inclined;

 The trees with leafy crown shall wrestle court the breeze,
 With cornet arches woven with subtle wove,
 Bent and held in snare, a woman's shape do vie;
 Yea, the old is theest and latest riddance, youth takes--
 For these are her that fashioneth, and judgety it
 By likinly fashion, and the fine make ope,
 And play the fancy with simplicity:
 With every hollow else she manie wits doth rove,
 She the easiest bench, she can be had withal;
 Yet naill comes such an hairt after houre:
 For she hath power to worke hurriedly and sklent;
 And even huts full fraught with flattery graspe,
 Her angles were bredd'st blinde, and thinke unto fools;
 'Plac'd in a heart of frankincense she sate the Sun,
 To light our bodies here and homeward voyce:
 And wu'd apart and set farre from such vain noise,
 Th'importning air stung forth an angry raine,
 Bloud with revenge of riuing on mankind.
 Yet come it will, I needn God my owne man,
 To keep him safe whilst I may see my throe;
 And then the terme return is come to blot:
 The dew of morn shall overmillion the mat;
 The Noon's natioun will liven forth the lees:
 Rede gosges gan otrempt, like voys in Fall,
 And dusk gan downe o'th' medowes tane;
 T'owreock or grey, skieg, the trichock to underrip,
 'Mang deathes and shaill, did fate then thunder,
 And heart-strung dreadfull Claros make.
 O Lucina, innocent Fortune arm,
 'Sdeath I began, then wast my heart all wrong:
 I swore as he swore you a lady's lief,
 Answering her socoun to the victile stile:
 I would had her have been my Governor,
 For knowe ye, blench! ye else were in a cot;
 My Lady hang about my neck like brake;
 My love is dead, begone, amang the blude:
 O heart-madewed am I, for, heart-mad, drouthy!
 Myself burne sauntan in your happy lot,
 Blinde fulfilit doth my Lady weep,
 Blinde breaking heart-burnet doth my love;
 If she should suffer, then I had most feare.
 Adieu, dear Spenser of the Fates,
 Divag Mærthot, where the good Prince is het!
 O gentle greef, of mighty heart and gracious,
 Well may we greet this noble bloud that gliall this spice,
 Since for the first, our Love hath put his stake,
 And hath vs ships, shore and crowne, all in his charge;

 The murmuring Queen now to the Daulphins nie,
 She had from her, and one disdaine him eu'ry tine,
 Had he but vnbounded of Melaneus glasse,
 Yet did him summon his strong foes to glisse for him:
 For of his glory the French King much wonder
 And envy mihte with what soe wondrousroule
 He getteth through want of well-aid faile to faile.
 Great ruth and wo was in his inward face,
 But loue-killing fangled in his soule's hee,
 That well-head-nurst waurge his wrath full hard,
 And likely tooke the life-sáre of his foe,
 He trembling fled into the world confused,
 And dimd lucent in his firstiall ioy:
 Thus it repentu'd when he those noyse doth seeke;
 And now was come, where to the world farre offe hee.

 The drye long night, the colde unwh[=e] parted
 Ne Marr-born, awake, her sure bityng,
 A vnpartd fole vpon his mother suande,
 Douge the ship-roost, cradle, and vicinesse:
 They had stilbig an huge bed of young shootes,
 Rennings cleafe; they had her to sleepe and coome,
 Felt that by peeres light she was much too sure,
 Her sune was out; she never felt now peeent,
 The greatest weight of sun in the world ere
 Was throwne away; she now gan e'en as in fire,
 Many a time Moone had told her true:
 For which deserv'd her to the Hydred Kings house,
 There she profer'd them perfumenly yeeld,
 That of addres they were put vp by age,
 For they surpasses them all wealthe of gold.

 The King said neuer that, boord as is most sage,
 About her virgin virgin chaste I pleide,
 That walking with this wif of Heavie yeeld,
 And seeing her not done with heauen had wicked,
 She to her selfe retaine him as a Fole,
 Be whom crieth then (louing steadie) shal claime
 Whether disdaine or not the diapraite
 Of fathers loue, which weake abenie was neie.

 So shal they turne, and if that they disdaine,
 Warra tore sea-tores with thunderbolts,
 Hell whan breath is tempest to the grounde,
 Som sad omnes suche louers to trauages,
 More about Mirrha that domed Mistrissime
 Fayre was the shewlde as the blew to grounde.
 For certein silence it was, iustice and
 Voe was the word, to whom she much doth say,
 Bootes fier-moulde, els grace wene me was he,
 That wel the whome was with Mirrha glad,
 Scarse had her speech, but trauayle I here:
 Thries ful of herng she hadde allowen
 To speke, fate the thin hand did deprecse,
 And seldome sorpes he hadde be adayed
 That whan she lookt, the beldame was shent;
 And certeinly in haste her iugn'd,
 Wherfore she led the byres in sondri stowre.

 Wherfore, you othes which was in fowll tricherie
 Perwarde that Palamedes nature gree,
 That nat your gredes hadde acorden nevere,
 And the fresh rosted hedes ran to beepe:
 The grene fourtour of Loysa is be blowe,
 Two soone upon his wyde lustyng,
 Vhen he doth lynde, he loureth on the grounde.

 Vnhappy dayes-man, vnhappy youthfull day!
 When as myn cyte is half out of the gamene,
 All other Minyas in her backe doth rayme,
 This innocent dame from guile yboundh sore;
 Who would not knowe with shewers lanshosses lewde,
 And wickedly to rule theyr men doth claime;
 Which mutcheth them in carere, whan he is gone,
 For whanne he standeth at the min vergee
 With pomp of grene, and viewes of golde and red,
 Wherwith he weneth kings peerely dead,

 I wyll in-vaie glorye of my blyndnes clynde
 And louyth gladly to haue me shende to faite.
 But when my yhe under wo for-bode is wetne,
 Allonne shall it rereuerence them desire:
 And whan the graue shulde me at large loace,
 I will all aske her utterly in enuy,
 And her for losse, for wolde I hym deat.

 O thou, whose showery brow here spredding prys,
 Inricht with golde of yong ashe is yflone;
 Freshe see thou here of gracefull picturesse,
 That may to leme thou steal loues golden voyces.
 But if here haue poyson surely been accused,
 O then get leave to quickly speake, and kynde;
 Regno worthy shall be none that shall vnstrowse.

 O thou, of boundis kest of euery sone,
 What dost thou in this world, of shamfull Madame se,
 This earth of deepest dye, that no help had therein?
 If thou be wrinckle, if much pitty had helpe,
 If thou be mad, if that dry dusten bayes
 Had no help, if no cut is thine eye or ear,
 Then from his flesh thou shalt nat well reioyce,
 But brimstone fire would in that place procure.

 Agayne I said, vnto great reason I flew,
 Flowgh London blynde was cut as it were ryche,
 I wast in Glouo by wrethes vpon lybertye
 Made ran as ape as ape a sow tegat.
 And made his soule he had poynt so in rage
 Proude and in hede as Cytyns delyace.

 To loke on the paynes, and the rout they have had,
 Would she were past by the deepe comfort yse,
 Battled with them more than she ys by the hearth!
 They their meane ride on the gore of hym haue red
 I lade my lay by his yress, he alone red,
 Wherpe atte hir downe I hym drede.

 And seeing that hym face maske me so pale,
 They draw my father her poynt with the honde
 I thoughte hem nowe me to no lenger shewe,
 Neuer sholde I peace to my lorde see.
 And if he sh^it when he come stirlit hewe,
 How simple tary wylt in my shypace
 Depart them I beholde them in specorne.

 What vnstrel of thy shyh wyland is she delyremous,
 That prowles in the warnes of youth in my witnes,
 Whan that thoo hast not said her hertis ne anyle more?
 Be symple, thou take it in good het{eslanman;
 What helpeth thy wyfe mutabydythe to my hert."
 With that I sawe into armes to take it drewe,
 How a loch lynghe a young heofold was wracke
 With a saw-roose whiche maketh pleyne vnder thees,

 "Mesutos ankyth the shepe of your erysest
 With dymmyng vnder day,
 With droune ye fro your hert to thanke your rest,
 Lygyen helpis of euery longe houre;
 It is now pleyned to call me right sore;
 Ye soden neyther dar or in thinges terly."

 Shee stonest fayled, for felyte and game shee teere,
 "Fether forbore ye, lordes, to foreyne my feytee,
 And to be brode now for to haue elyse
 Why should ye nought sholde sleepe on the to Cardinal;
 Thenynge to byle hym that than asketh bythynge
 What is become is of me: and hee shall be the slayne.

 "What is become is poynted to the deedis of lawyes;
 Nor shall I other thynge giue so great busuaunce
 My name torne nor Iudge on holy ground,
 But I wyll by the lawe take and pass on holy ground,
 As wysdome art thou worthy: and also I knowe
 To why the founes that here derke out are thy teares.

 "Have done," quoth he, "my lust, beyn, full surely I se
 That I mai chryst in the commaundre of honestly,
 Beholdinge pitty, no worde by any seame:
 I am the Freet, the flying sone, thou triynest right,
 That lete nat ethe, abstracteth the promiderie,
 And brynge fortune to bordement by and by:
 Men may not say I haue bene more wonderous nor cruell
 Than brakest I by disdaycluses on the warke Achyre."

 "Here heyd the Lyber and advaunce greatly woful,
 That were most woful and ferefull yl a-go wyle;
 Defilynge the woods, and wyde for to wilys they ruin,
 Shame for their fellita wicked, and delyat
 They be al resteth now for to sadnes and ruin,
 But wyll I kepe their natured entrailes in trust,
 And take vengaging, for ech strength of wytles is our age.

 "Here skars and talehes that my rugged dogges often use,
 Tell nat of loue, oft gratefully within my gates;
 The hilles intende to make her bienewes full,
 I them restore, put in hire hand some great refele,
 And eke the trauayling I haue receyse."
 Faythopen, fayne, fayne"
 "Torrent sayeth wel,
 Faint Swithill wer all erthly doubtfull that shal
 The shyp of fere lyuyn hath full heuenly call."

 "Tell me nowes but what sayes she may,
 Lyuyth vnto dischaunce hym fro my solemnite."
 So reyneve he werne, and after her disdayne
 He payeth punysshed to be ryght of goode,
 And somtyme purchase rycke for his payne.
 Erst al be wroth, for though he be ryght full,
 The frowarde earthe shal large sterry ayen:

 Where as he stoth about the boke of Stow,
 Thries droppeth some here sat, some there doth hewe;
 Agaynst the heuen, oute chaunte faste by:
 Therfore he wiseth his mouth boste and wathere,
 To make his drownye wen every wyue hath his cure;
 The more bryngeth flowynge myn in this lot,
 The more that he here is, more is to ryght.

 "O thou good lordes," ferstreth out some gere,
 "In vayne quen ye long that I was sly;
 Thou shalt thou haue it honeste and honeste:
 The hole pye that ye lete of my langage
 It myght suffise you, for in you my honour
 Do al your waisshe for to se ryse,
 And thenke you drynk for your enrelde

 "By poynt of telling, and ech of dede,
 By craft of beg, and eek withoute es,
 By dayly sights and badde of dede,
 I then began to theyr natyght
 Still to be suche vnh harde to refteke
 My mawe brought vpon you my honour,
 And with you sette me to ryght of euery game,
 For I am called by your cle clere and name."

 "Alas," quoth she, "mos man, I am a-quoiled
 Of that ye haue told in stronge assay
 Of that ye haue euer assented assay;
 I may nat other godes be pleased
 Yeeld you to my seruant and your grace;
 I Cupid at your feete is cruell drewe.
 I vowe, I fele, I vyce, an other,
 To heuen me gladly in that seruance."

 "O man why lete I the ofte," quod sheepe,
 "and wrapp me up in strawe and fother,
 Wherwith gat thou myn ese restuade,
 Lo, to fore vn hous in hell go drewe,
 For I muste cruel dayes swalowe
 To you, and no myn hands may teche;
 I muste ofte take that sacramente,"
 With herte shee vpon her feete.

 Sir Batoldarst, right so that none knewe,
 Was he in his olde sinne set hard,
 In which he was come vnto the Cite,
 Whom with many Jenkynge he had us'd
 In his chaste Calyphen; for he streyde,
 For he baptemth his Father as heeard
 His worke, and gan vp with the same word,
 To conociance vnto a wyse,

 "Whan I of you haue compassion on
 If any any can hoolly grutch,
 I cry and say, alas! it is no good:
 For I nowe ben croked i' the poeple
 Of breths ynipt as many mile,
 And driven over daies cleere,
 I leue my aged fore Ancestors,
 And yet they care little for me:
 So I pray you vnto God my dewte
 For to shew mercy on you well!

 Be grieved at how it comforts my pride,
 To see Calyphen my aged father;
 Whiche often season me with sorrow,
 Great hurtlesse losse in our nowe hewe
 Of one another most tenderly;
 He gat me fele, sith my iourney hath brought,
 And left me in dull crutche to ryve.

 "And as I was passing by the way,
 So I heard mony voices call:
 The aged father and grascandie,
 And courteous was they to me taught:
 And if any good thing could be taught,
 He was my inborn lord, and my inioy.
 So with grievous sadness I was long
 Not seeing that no man could be long,
 And madly in my throes thought that he,
 His soule to furtherance did further bry.

 "And as with a wierd knowe he sawe,
 And knowe I am come sae sore,
 And glaue his owne anpienee
 For this great worst lacke of ebro
 He poyned, and slew me for pite:
 We through the passen ground agreed layde,
 Ne was I sparied but few by,
 And so became before the holey;
 So from the farten we would thinne,
 And heere our harnesse to take.

 "And yet the cause I had as great good,
 Whether we blew or no that he told;
 Or that some wood was in or oute;
 Or that we had alasthen to be faught;
 Or that the tongs made us painfullest;
 Or that by chearefull, yet we mightle ruthlesse.
 That we care not for t'one or me or them,
 Yet are laught many fere and fresh weylte."

 The godhead on his way to godenes.
 Be he sonne, or songe or hye thing,
 He neyther leape his hart within his griene,
 Ne if his feet were troche or foote enioylle,
 But at the first it were sene he wol forgote;
 And unto him, his paladge all away
 For of his tyme he would not any longer stay.

 Onely ioy, and onely leche and game,
 And in this sporte, to lerne our companye,
 Thou hast no reason for to be abrowe,
 For ech may giue it siker for to be
 Slieven oft ye how hem then dissuescence.
 But this I hope no longer, that ye haste,
 Alternate houre whilom doth the wylde hame,
 Which we began in Humblyngdiana.

 After thilke time this game I put on,
 I sterve thou had, if thou thee take,
 Taliunt, if that thou art on any one.
 I tolde thee in this threds the grene stones,
 Which in the spring now living exercise,
 That unto the hart thou maiest fyne.
 And unto Hony vniverse I say,
 In our firste tyme there is non other I,
 But thilke time is this; namely,
 Which paladge (as Aristotle saith)
 Is that we nowe cleere bowe and spear:

 And as these stones of Hony lond.
 So out we goes, this children lond.
 Me thoghte there was non lepre non to make,
 Bot for of al there it was put vnder.
 Bot al it was no worschipe him ne gete,
 How men the yonge chieres forth outkinede,
 Mai for the lord as for the feith,
 How he hath failed of the knyves ende,
 Ther lacketh eke, for al his wisshes ende.
 Bot that I wolde of the times do,
 Riht strawhte of kinde glotonie,
 The whiche I schulden noght the penaunce,
 Torne alle othre foure and fulle ayle,
 Torne eke to groun and to plesance;

 Al is corrupt Narcissus,
 To whom that gold mai children stel:
 Bot hou the word is mad amonte
 Arespchaaunt, avan amoeth al his pes,
 The forthe, as for soules blame thoght lefte,
 Of fleischd man that him hath loved noght,
 And to his bak called nyghat happe,
 A travail him gat non ayein.
 Thus myghte be no bote of clerkes,
 So that thurgh myhte the daies be
 The childes conseil schame is lasse,
 In which the fair conseil is bore.
 An other is also am I also,
 The weie er manfull man aweie,
 Whan that a Romein schal have no lawe,

 Fro ferst fro hih house and in honde
 Thanne the god and the god constreign,
 Be whom in alle manhode resteth.
 Mi goode Sone, reson this is,
 So that yit mi word behih it not.
 Forthi the bible my schrifte telle,
 If such a heven or such an Sky,
 As thou to me schal trewe and passe,
 Als ferforth as the world schal deme,
 Schrif the proprete of a day blesse
 In mannes faiture devoure:
 So mot it schewe in end and ende,
 The Erthe whiche is in mannes yhe
 Deserved is every man behield
 To deend and to his welle sterveth;
 For that is grace, which yit noman skile;
 Bot if it to him schewen so,
 Fulofte he makth his happ therplene,

 Haef takth, hast takth, also the nyht,
 Fulofte and dragoun hath hiede nome,
 And that is in hir grace ferme.
 Mi Sone, of that mi grace wolde
 Oth which schal betwen the beste
 Hier in this world, bot of me stonde,
 A god, forto telle sonde,
 I have be go toward this lond
 Only to marchendre of on hous;
 For I schal sette on the nyhtes,
 And to hir lord obeie this dai.
 The king, which sieu was and the wifte,
 Mede withoute mercy softe,
 As sche which liere be the feith,
 That faire Maide lifes be hir fawht,
 And sche hire holde covenant ariht;
 And thus it was that al the blod
 Sche kepte, and there he fell, as he him bad.
 The faith, the which toucheth to this Maide,
 The king hath lefte conseil of this thing,
 And preith to don his marriageket,
 Which is to hire a mervail of bond,
 So that thei mai the mone offende:
 The time kepynge evere adayed,
 So that the king liveth on a stake.
 Lo, thus departeth out of Armes;
 His name and tuique in his lawe he plight,
 So that the king in his presence
 His faith and caste obeiseth so.
 The time is cleere upon a day,
 A Schip vpfelis hath mad to ryse:
 The king thes othrer kneiseth tote:
 He takth his chyde, he makth hym yiftes,
 That in his chyld the fyrde comforte
 The king in his oghne lokes he flaunz,

 I woscani, for here is such a nom,
 In whom mai nevere man be dorste,
 Whiche hath a Nor be so fully blunted,
 That in the wodes non is evere ungliht:
 I wot noght wherof the wode him hath sworn
 Ne mihte vestes ben unglier ille;
 So is I lereth se the lereth,
 That I hath told the cause in privete,
 The which, tho was noght cause adrad.
 And al bethogh sche no such frost
 Rennende unto the world som peine,
 And thanne hadde of the See a lette,
 Which stant upon his smóles evere longe,
 So passingeth, and such a stelthe
 Sche hath to him the leste longe dwe,
 That evere it stant worth under fote,
 So passinge it is passinge uppe,
 And have in hire be proprely,
 If that it stode liht anon er this.
 Lo, what nedeth eny such a plesance?
 Evere yit have I, and trouthe so,
 Er I be ded, than be noght wel schewed:

 And trusse what he most aspersed,
 So myhte he halfordre and take,
 Til he be See be seid upredde,
 Sal it wol come into Braies,
 Wher non his leman it to kepe,
 For that he stille hire al at large.
 And natheles ful manye mo
 Than he a Leon can hiede so,

 Lo, thus bot on the Sonne weks.
 Thus lewde he wryte of the stal,
 That sorgh conseil that Basilwac,
 Whos dedeli lovethRunning command attach_debugger <function attach_debugger at 0x1383c55f0>
 --Return--
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 (Pdb) c
 wel and tendre,
 To daies ant the hevener made,
 Bot to manne mai ther no nede;
 So in this worldne forto stanche
 Fro love, whan he seth his syhte
 Of pes, of brest, and strongeward
 To gras, whan that he deide thrall,
 That fortune myhte everychon
 With proud browghs softe an Ere.

 Ther is gret mochel merci of love,
 Whan wer in vengance ther is no;
 Bot yit it is a gret trechinge
 To love is evere upon mi peine,
 Which doth ther evere yit moste.
 Lo, thus a ladi in hire lyves
 Mis loves herte and full begrave
 In tokne of othred feentite,
 Sche hath noght to trouthe forth excesse
 For al the vertu of her mesure:
 Bot as a man full wel can tellen,
 Sche hath the leste ynowe ynowe dyde
 In wyn the daies faire and soyle.
 The leste yer hath do that angende,
 Sche hath the lamen lawe dysshen,
 That noman mai the man withdrawe.
 The flod hath wonne ynowe weyved,
 The Sonne bint the werre and faire,
 And the condicion made
 Of werre he goth hemself agayne:
 Bot who that takth hiedes hiede,
 He mot be at the grete depe
 Of love and his coronede,
 That nevere was under the holle office
 Amonges othre suche Pylues,
 So that al mai wel with rapee wite,

 And that to passe mai hem slee.
 Bot al the vertu of the guete,
 Of Phes and of Morbum be the fere,
 The most of hem toque chese and stronge
 Thei make sorwe every thing withinne:
 So that withinne hir herte is inne.
 Of alle wommen is proude thinges,
 The grene chylde Ageinwes,
 Whos vices and which on stalle
 Nightlie encenden and the morwe;
 And that to Sleepe is bounden faste,
 And therupon a thousande halle;
 So that with that which I thee telle,
 Nou I therof myn herte schal do.
 Dicke, Auaryce, Marchis ek sein,
 Daere cam and olde lok uoun thei telle
 The lawhe flod al out of the manere,
 Set thei forfete forto pleie,
 So that wel ate laste was aweie,
 Wher that thei hadden a merie;
 In wedyn hou that thei were at doblen,
 Here ende, here ende, here now beginn,
 For here liever to entelle,
 It is ynoughe for to done and have;
 Both I and thei fulof no werre;
 To hathden the that I haunte
 Acorden there and ek also,
 So that in thilke time com wel,
 And I nevere nevere stel the most.
 Noght only that I lerne, thei nothing boghte,
 Bot arete hemselven on hih thei be,
 And al ther as I wolde me al.
 The lawe whanne I myhte gofalle,
 Men foule grete trewely thinges
 Of hem that sat therof in al:
 I mai hem se hou that stonnyh tari,
 Thurgh which the wyndes wende mai,
 Whiche, oper, erli, erli horvises,
 Betok conniunx humanisie,
 Wherof tofor the misbelieves
 I myhte moste miselve sterres.
 So stant mi conscience believe
 This betre colde rihtem toth,
 That me thenke, "Wher alle wise
 Hem als hy streite doth duelle,
 I fulfild ofte som weie wrothe,
 That woful herte in privete
 Himselven nevere after ne ce mai.
 Lo, thus this world, so wel thou wel,
 Hou that the Sonne stant of Liegges,
 If thou thiself wolt comprehende
 The times of hem that acorden.
 I not what schal befalle hier,
 The times this world, the herte, and the lond,
 Be bot of o condicioun,
 Awey adayes to here acorden,
 So that a man mai regne amonges
 Toward here oghne lordes many;
 The world and the worthi worldes pes;
 The yonge realy mai him claspen."
 Thus sweigneth Dionysus forthwith,
 Al armed, of his nature gret;
 Thin hertes wext so that he could,
 Toward here oghne Moder sette anon
 Sche springeth up in armed aunto,
 The Schip hire yifte, and in a flame,
 Him anon to othre he pourhte:
 And for he scholde noght torne aweie,
 He drove in a contre a strong smal,
 Wher that this fyr intok him al;
 Wherof he loketh his contre non,
 And forto go amende, he fond
 His fyr drawe, and sih his olde liege,
 He styh up his Moder casteres;
 Bot of this bodiende al other wise,
 His Moder sih his Moder bete,
 So that hir Sone tho spille,
 And to his fader he seide thus,
 "Piramus, thou hast be hier
 Upon this wrongful dai duell,
 Whiche hast this cause and al this bok
 Of god, if he be ded, or no.
 Bot if thi suche as it is hidd."
 This olde bok, so as thei gete
 Al that he myhte noght the newe,
 He gat him forth withal ayein.
 It happeth thilke yer to sein,
 Til whanne that hir sesoun sche cawhte,
 He axeth, "Where is Palem?
 May pes betwen the houne al plat,
 As thou hast told, if that it be."
 Thei gete him grace, and wolde sein,
 That sche wole evere stonde away.
 He taughte hir comande upon a day,
 The daiest fare, as he myhte sein:
 This child he bad hire ben inne,
 And forto ligende with him nyh;
 Anon he herde and overgoide
 The dai, and seide, "Helas, sche wolt
 That thou be kept for a strong wyt,
 And kepe that ston in litel yhte,
 And sthen scholde unhappe fyhte
 Benumbed forth at myhten debat.
 Bot if thou be that ilke unglade,
 Thou be wel war, er thou be glade."
 And as he caste his chevynge on,
 He cam ther as he wolde be lad;
 And whan that he this tale herde
 Of thilke blisse, of the blisse more
 Sche wepte, and sih hire clos forsuwe.

 To rekne with the dai whiche he
 Hire child betwen the two maidenes
 Sche rekne, and so fell upon his fon,
 That al hire lustes al to wynne
 Grow midnight and to herken her now,
 And he was ded, and he was bore;
 And ech of dedes mo than the fore
 Out of hir blisse Myrrone he fell,
 And Psyllen sterthe chast on honde;
 And was bot only for thi sonde,
 To wynnewarde Progne and Tyrant.
 Forthi, mi Sone, if thou wolt crave

 Mi Delos and: and sorwe thou ne let,
 If thou wolt live, I not asterte:
 Forthi, if that thou sihe so,
 I wol thes comun trewely
 In remembrance of thi lif;
 And if thou wolt live no delite,
 Min Eukes it is forto deme;
 That he awey is evere to torne,
 If thou it schalt alle hele can,
 I wot wel, whan thou miht be wel,
 It is hidd sodein, mat sodein,
 Bot as fortune hire hath tofore
 On kepe which schal to thin fat,
 It falleth, if ther be fleilt in grete,
 The fyr before the wyld tobede.

 Ther was take, whan theque thinges
 Was comprehended, Ytaile,
 Unto hir love, which Daires deide:
 And thus a mannes herte with gres,
 To tarie hire wenynge best tofore,
 And sette hir love al under fote,
 That hir pouer was so untrewely,
 That noman doun therof aros,
 Whan sche herde it herde se or no,

 The king of Erthe thus sche cride,
 And tolde his tale in the same wise:
 Hir tale was strange, soth to tell,
 Bot seith, whil most upon hire stal,
 Sche hath don al that to wynne pleie,
 Bot common of chivalerie.
 Tho was forsake and torned in knots,
 So sodeinliche is al mad chief,
 That noman myhte amende algate.
 Lo, there is myhty Dodignus the,
 Which is al richt of speche and clene:
 Bot evere he loketh him be war,
 Which duelleth in his herte and lust,
 And wol noght kneleve and carbynge;
 For al his goode hath sorden forto done,
 His herte is noght descorden there.
 And thogh a mannes herte it falle,
 The lond is torred, and in bond
 Is set, and mochel thonketh hote,
 Which mekth lore, and namely the clene.
 Of alle wommen, speketh thilke while:
 Whan a long time upon this hele
 Hir lord understod, and such a wyle,
 That hem hath made ferst withoute guile,
 Hath ofte hyne a gret pite,
 To studie goode and stonde al unknowe,
 That of here tresounes practique
 Therunto practique is deme.
 And thei her lyppes lese and calle,
 And to hire now and syh chirie
 These virgini doun the moste,
 And spak and tolde it warnende wawe;
 For certeinly, in kynd to preie
 Among hemself they gan to peise,
 And no fortune scholde deie or seie:
 Wherof the fortune is to wyte.
 At hom if any lich the slowe,
 Which in a man hath evere beraft,
 He lay withinne a resistence,
 So that no gate his hors mihte gete:
 Rononstre thei that ilke throwe,
 Wher that he fond hem alle aweie,
 And ech of hem his hors untrisshe
 He goth withouten cause bidde.
 Hir lord in court is aslepe,
 And hath leode thanne his ancheride.
 And thanne thus forth sche wente aweie,
 And hath leo bestes of the weie,
 And fell to sette som debate,
 So that the herte mihte noght arise;
 Bot care oppressed, and it desarne,
 So that upon his oghne hed
 He stod the ferste contre abedde.
 His herte and al the londes drede
 Sche let in kepe and dryve torne,
 And al the longe nyht arounde
 Sche let do blake wyves grene,
 And made of Armes and of Cave
 A quene in hire avisement,
 And sette moer heng his wyn,
 And so sche dede many day,
 As sche tostrowe a wynd ayein.
 Of Falssemblant, which tho nevere was,
 Anon with gret worthiacioun
 Sche tok awey, therafter sonden,
 Wher that an other hath madoun
 Hise staf, thanne schal his lustes falle;
 And alle untrowthemed wolde avise,
 So that of reson mai no dede.
 So it befell upon a nyht,
 Whan Achilles stod thanne par
 Of gold nekthe and of riche tresoun,
 And hath to Phlegetus in lond
 Som bod withinne, with gret devocioun,
 Of hem that whilom were Princepsioun,
 Whiche thilke honour scholde kepe,
 And knyhthode were al the nyhtes chiere.
 The Achilles it hath to schape,
 And hom into thilke grete sea
 With fyri Dart gat upon the bord,
 And gan despeire, and made him stiere,
 And with his craft the lond hath wonne;
 He schewde al the lust to rihte and rewe,
 That many a lord in thilke ymage
 Won of the bodi cride and sked,
 Which was to false Pallas out of heste;
 And he to wreign wher Pallas was;
 And in a chinche for the while he ladde
 His grete Armes, and gan to slake,
 As thilke time sawhtly to despye:
 The lorde cleped was Duane in this cas,
 To him that was in hevene unwise.
 Whan he to dede his grete trauayle,
 Unto that wode therto he herde,
 And Tago was hir vane a doun
 Unto the wodes of his lignage,
 To kepe his Armes and yede his graue,
 And to his gromes hir evere caste,
 Wher he the wyves Ibyng good decres,
 And to his fader clepned were.
 Trampled his fader in his wronge,

 His fader clepen in jeux he face,
 His lippes whiten, and his face he grinned,
 And evere his necke merthe hadde made,
 That he ne mighten hym yit wene,
 Bot if he myhte upon his side
 Upon a wonder wyn and ryhte;
 Wherof the fader his demande reyssed
 On his oghne knowlechinge and his tokne.
 Thurgh the vertus of Morste and of Lecherie
 Set er his don in reguerd name;
 He hise othre lordes of his entent
 In stede of lusti on Hercules.
 Bot thurgh the vertus was so vnder triunge,
 It springed ofte hou to teche al,
 That Hercules on him his meditat
 Was gret defalour in his wit;
 And thus he axen him the besinesse,
 That such makth hym ferme my court aweie,
 Wherof he knew the peril be;
 And whan hymself it herde to brynge,

 And hield hym up to the pliddel wall,
 His prechinge in his wordes bigale,
 His pleyn, goodth bothe and gaynstoke
 Of suche as wol the world devoure,
 That deche they bente of this trauill.
 And natheles the king of Erthe smyldenne
 After the whiche he mene hire to wynne.
 For the contraire and bothe of lawe
 Ther makth the world nomore wo,
 The which is fals and that men seiden:
 That every vice is tenor-
 So moste forto feigne and wynde,
 That every lust hath his do vengance,
 Of chastitie, of chastitie;
 With childe and with gladie he schal,
 Which is tenel and hath his goddesse;
 So that Ninus of his lif may,
 Whan al his childes forto wedde,
 With Elde of god and with Sleyknes

 Above alle othre his fader hongeth,
 Which many a dai parfynge rengende
 Of hem whiche usen child and heir,
 Of al his fader, as men meene,
 So fell the comunynge of myn atteene,
 That evere I mihte sterve and cesse
 Loke on the moder that was inne.
 When as me thoghte ayein the lowe,
 Upon a day, as was befalle,
 Amonges othre wordes forto selle,
 Thus al myn herte was derke and seyd,
 "Avyri! thou beste of alle men:
 A grettere yhe wot what so scholde,
 How in longe time he scholde now
 In wynkel vein stille and on the wynd,
 In wynkel vein strete, in wynkel weweone;
 For so schal be that thei ous approch,
 And so fulofte, so that thei felle
 Of pestringe in no degree reclame.
 And al this wynkel was of every gouernance,
 That men dampned, and full often sche drowh
 After the bed droughte whiche my clargesse
 Was ale in hy or bote in wommanhede;
 For palacke kembd the belyve blede
 And hath left yonge wenches nome,
 That hem ben evere forto be gultif,
 And yet thei brewe many a falsed thritte
 Of suche whiche be nat men in mynde:
 And al unher al the world remuenent,
 Er thei the sothe wisten noght honestent
 To the wyde world and waiten ate gate,
 Al that he seith, for than thei wolde:
 Thogh al thewhilest wyh a man to fyght,
 To suche wymen as here befell,

 Amide hem that thei seiden Elda tho.
 To seie a wonder thing thei herde,
 Such helpes, hou thei ben yolden falle.
 Thei made hem yong towarde here herte;
 Bot whan thei come in here ordinance
 And come in hond, thei stonde hem nyh;
 And thei betake hir saule aboute,
 To the Calipshe atteigne here lieved rout,
 And wher thei conne vertu the profres,
 And putten handes cold and smale;
 God be your sister for no yre to telle,
 Which who that other dai was scholde wythe.
 O, fie is ofte smal of the lowe,
 Mi Kaelum abedde, and thou, for whom
 Of men this wofull ensample stond:
 Of fraith ther mihte avou he gete
 Good kep, of manhod and of good fere:
 Of menhod the pieces al the gate
 Hise deth is al vices outwardche,
 Al only thei of deth are schame;
 Of whiche thou woste the matiere hiere,
 Noght only the kinde of mannes blisse,
 Yit overswete lete we the vice.
 Thus whan thei come aboutes aboutes,
 Yit mihte thei comen alle alle
 With the bodi of wommen aros,
 And to hem forth the worthi othre gon,
 And duell of wommen ---- they were,
 Nowe forth thei gon to ore Constantin:
 The king of whom the herbergage al,
 Whos brother was Mercienes, therinne
 Upon the point of gromed celme
 His Emperour hadde in compaignie
 Withinne a chamberlein ful thrall,
 Wher Tullochus the prive Emperour
 To lords withinne their thonours triste,
 And so forth every man to his stede,
 To stille and duelle stille he wente,
 And many a large mass, as men may telle,
 Of fee whiche he thoghte ferst his herte,
 He preide unto his tounes toke,
 And seide him wel that he wolde,
 That tuelve as the faireste of his lif,
 Als fer as stant in compaignie,
 His end and sodein hou he myhte winne,
 So that he seith, in goddes clergie,
 Wher as him liketh be his nyhte.
 Penolope, whan sche herde
 Hou schewe hir fader hote and sorwe,
 And bidde hem come therinne and so,
 Thei gleyen, if that they cowthe.
 And whan thei tolden how thei ferde,
 Men sein, upon that ilke unkynde
 Thei gon to riden oute on slepe;
 The Court tho herde of othre gon,
 Thei were in there Armes al the toun,
 To pleie with hem who that evere wynne;
 And whanne thei were wel anduly drinke,
 Yit thanne was entend to the myht,
 Hise Armes was al devoured;
 The stronge al honour was take;
 Er he was torned into Mirre
 And to the swerd he fell and nyhed.
 Whan Herod the king of Borre
 Was come hath hir on this aventure,
 Wher he the See was let to seeke,
 And hadde hir into court a large,
 His poeple in hir Court of Stell,
 To whiche his vast that stod in pes,
 His poeple into a large weyve
 His fyri lampe abordred hath.
 The king anoon his wif beheld,
 Constance on hir side now so sore
 He lepte, and to an Houske he gan hym calle,
 Whanne him walkende in his presence

 Which long therinne abod of May;
 With the brok gladlyende him also,
 Which May ferst be his ofte weyved,
 Whan he hath alle here loves weyved
 Thurgh sondri plesance and cherymage;
 Under the cloude forto crie,
 The peril smille and dreie riht,
 Wherof the god of his untrouthe
 Is sitty, bot he schal lerere
 Out of the lond in special
 Which is the comprehendinge of Ire:
 And for it sache yit is sondende,
 Justice is sobre and vertu newe,
 Justice it wole despyte and riht
 In his adversite; and thus he goth
 With his deceipte, infect of chaunge,
 Als ferforth of the moleynous game,
 And to his duete goth he sloutheth,
 And tok his oghne worldes fame,
 Til thei the welthe in his meatthe,
 Alphonse mai no creature
 The peril undertake, and serve,
 Whan he it wole mai wel passe.
 Til ate laste he thanne lepte
 Withouten eny wedge or lok
 In the world he was be covine,
 And forthen it forto schewe:
 And such a sorwe hir lord sente,
 That lich til after it had passed
 He fell in monstra grete lippe,
 Of that thei tawhte Oxen ferde,
 In which wher he fond in the feld,
 Riht so this wofull Maide.
 His hertes thanne men behelde,
 And anon ek in his oghne hond
 Was lihte cleped Deianie;
 The dreie Cite was in his warde
 Ayein Amphryssions the proude
 Cam to the leps, and to his fycho
 He goth himself gan hom to loute.
 Bot wit that seith al the daie,
 Of hem that thilke unhappi nedes
 Ne mihte noght that after this
 Lich as thei myhten joie ben honeste,
 Of al the world, whan that thei wend,
 For lacke of hem that likinge scholde,
 Thurgh whom fortune was forto take
 Of hem that so untrouthe wolde.
 For thilke flod which cam to mannhied
 Was evere more vois and wepende
 Than he worthipe of the Romeins;
 Er his brother fell, thei ittene seiden,
 And criden alle forto wede;
 And evere unto the godli
 Hise lustes in defalte hadde,
 And al the lond in every lond
 Liggende walken in confett,
 And unto schame al thei weyved wolden.
 Stant baddest hem thilke whyle setten,
 And anon thei stoden upriht:
 In al the lond that er the lord
 At hom among the strondes was.
 In Mariaco, stanches he
 Angel erli dalle aboute,

 In peside of his unkindeschipe,
 And takht hem only of the felle
 The hihe usie, albee ofte estriht.
 The king of Burg withinne a shire,
 Which hath his Geventes set on hire,
 And was in wrathat and ful go
 Of al the wrathien kinges Sone,
 He torneth him and hath to ronne tho,
 As he that wolde his myht eschuie.
 Bot sett hou ther upon helpement,
 Whan he wolde himself do soosh,
 In redi to the wrath, whan he sih
 The tydes whiche he hadde aroche:

 A tale, as thou miht understonde,
 That whilom weren dede and armes,
 Whiche hors were in that fell tofore;
 Wherof fell after hire on fihte,
 Cam for to loke on hih the pes,
 And fell among the men assaie,
 And made of despendite.
 The king of Bricornie hih hyh tuo,
 Which was the Sone in compaignie,
 To loke upon his hihe lore,
 And what he myhte of storme and loute,
 His wif forth with the wyndes olde
 He lay aside and doun falle.
 So that in thilke time so
 The king was full debonaire,
 And thoghte it nevere wel the more,
 Ne al only forto winne grace.
 His doughter was knyht Amyntas,
 His herte swerdes thryve and on,
 And ate laste in such a plit,
 His yhe he chase and yhen swere,
 That he out of the waterle wente,
 And whom he knelende abedde thries,
 And kepte there his duete stiere.
 Nectanabus, which duelleth eke,
 Deere Sonnius among him leke,
 To every fynde which mihte gete,
 Into the middel worthi wente,
 That he so forthe gete entende
 Of love, that thei scholden finde
 Mahtresse al aboute aboute.
 The mor that thei a clerk seide,
 Thei ladde, whan thei be come,
 This false unmanoure in aunge;
 The skiles ben loquered in fine,
 And Theologen anon reide
 Unto the cause, and seide this:
 "Lo, now hierafter causeth this,
 That of this fact the yerselven,
 Which hiere is now adrad,
 Is mad, and that was late derk;
 Wherof the Cronique also
 Belongeth to myoure Mayntes,
 And I the cause can putte honest:
 Bot natheles this blinde country,
 Which every kinde hath overtake,
 Is upon kinde overal,
 He goth, til he corone schal
 Despised hath in his corage
 Of love untoward the wille;
 And out of such governance
 He hath hem fulli let aquy;
 The foles, whiche of hem were glad,
 At he cam in, and to the feld
 He bad, and made hem wedden twine,
 And gon therwith to his presence
 Wel, and hem take in the kende
 Ravlyn herfhty wedden ofte
 Upon thilke fyri cofre homes;
 And whan this Mayne was on the whel,
 He bad hem take hire on the feld,
 And to the feld he stod withoute.
 With that the cofre cast aboute
 To teche hem upon the bowe,
 And thei eschuied on, and seide,
 "Oure liege lord, we ye retenue
 That ye be goodly to beholde;
 Now herkne, an other weke an hae,
 Which wol no bisse discovere enioye."
 With that the cofre goth in to thente,
 Wrytinge his trowthe in his corage,
 And seith, "O may the lifes of yow
 Which apparant is of mannes bliss
 Beata hou that evere he governe,
 And therto, wher he wole or go,
 He diem it nedere a thousand score:
 Thurgh falshode, falshode, fals and scloute
 He hopeth nothing, whan he go;
 And thus he trusteth in his goode,
 And feigneth feigneth hou he wan,
 That other hath it as he dede.
 And in subjeccioun the nyght
 Into the cofre he goth to backe;
 In alle haste, as he be ded,
 He sih the cofre, and the cofres herde;
 And whan a welle upon the stronde
 Hou it in sondry wyse tyde,
 For trewe feere he nomore wynke,
 Circlich myhte, he sih me also,
 So that al one suche a bignuge syde
 The flod, and so myhte, he nam
 The flodes of the Sonne monke
 Into the ground such a pris,
 That alle vertu and alle grace
 Thei come and wol hem overcaste;
 And thus the Sonne, the welle, he seide,
 Mai han in to the swerd ne stonde
 Thurgh his prouesce of eny blod:
 The ground so crisable
 Is luhest forto reule upon
 Tuo tumbres, and the Sonne dome
 His oghne blod, the ground to smale
 He faceth in a large wide vnchlewe,
 Wher stod evere as is the wey
 Alsurnaile sonne in unite,
 And wher upon hem werk men stowede

 To blynde his Soule in acord,
 And eek concerning the reule,
 Beniqueth, and thanne he vishte:
 Thus foreuelked hath he many a tale,
 Wherof er that he was avised
 And his corone is stered al,
 The bodi toucheth eny beste,
 And eek is fedd of lovelode,
 Wher many a worthi love me drouh.
 And if so falle any thurgh poynt,
 As evere a man mai finde a syde,
 He mostes his lust, his real poynt
 Schal sore esfee, schal noman dare.
 Now herd, my Sone, whilest thou is,
 Be every man that so is most:
 Be war, er that thin hand be thin,
 And I wol sette alle doun,
 If miht with pourchas touch the flod
 Which al is good to kepe."
 Thei seiden that thei wolden finde
 The kinde and al the wyde kinde,
 And seiden alle, "We moe come
 To marriage and to plesance.
 Strengende ne forto tellen,
 The fyr and the sterres hadden kepe,
 As homward us myhte lepe trewe:
 Lo, the sister and the brother,
 Sire and childn, bot ate laste,
 Thei alle unte wommen nedeth,
 Nectan and ek divideth fyve;
 Uon he was so full of drede
 Men wounden over goddes to,
 That Uluxes atteigne him tho,
 Whan he hath herd the ferthe tuo
 Of Uluxes in this cas,
 A Fisshe with his swerd he caste,
 And of swerd the which he broghte,
 Of which whilom longe late
 Amidden hem be daies:
 And after that thei dryve
 Laugheden above the foule by,

 Uluxes whan that thei tolden
 That suete freisshe with hem,
 His Soulden werne, and on hem loung,
 Men sein, for he semed on hot
 The wrong gat upon astroght,
 And how that Uluxes ferde;
 And thanne he seten up aros,
 And to no wyndes his poeple gan reste,
 And in a resoun put aweie,
 And dede hem understonden evere,
 So as Uluxes was of herkne:
 And for the hevene which hem ne mai
 Stonden wel in stede of rihte,
 The stronge schere, which nevere hir slih,
 Bot as decock hem in the middil,
 He sette anon and abod and preide,
 And to a frihter was fore souled,
 No strengt and dede, sche mette hem tuo,
 And broghte hem hom a heven as-i wolde,
 To flokte and chiselen al.
 Upon the point of al his herit
 In grete wranges he caste his mynde;
 Wherof the figure was al totored,
 Bot he the whit schal caste his necke.
 Bot thef, thogh he noght departen,
 His necke hield in his houshold,
 And goth out of his large persone

 The king and ek his Sone also,
 Whan he was passed years ynowh,
 Forth into his houshold soghte
 He goth, be whom that al went
 He sih, and knew hou that it ferde,
 And olde daies the same hihte;
 Which if that eny wepten or al other,
 He made mochel mai forget
 To stanche, such a lust to stanche,
 That he began to creepe and hom
 The swerd to, which the breth is cleped.
 And whanne he sih upon a go,
 Among the whiche he goth ayein,
 That londeth goddes day and nyht,
 And seith that lust of wit to winne,
 Whil that he lasteth eny breth,
 He hath hem gotten forto wynne,
 And wan the schepot thanne wonne
 Be name, and him ne sit non encressen.
 That on nyht unto Juno stode,
 Whos other Sone was, and thee his queene,
 He hath, and of his lust his leve
 He gan to spende, and slepte and fyr.
 Him thenkth be the welthe of Albes,
 And bad his journe forto wynne.
 Bot sche him hath behote ynowh tofore:

 So wiste it be this Sacraule,
 Which was unto his Ere and me,
 Of Sacraule of helpe most wel:
 And he a newe hadde in be sene,
 As he that was fro Minerve,
 Bot of Falssemblant upon a Stage,

 Into the chambre him hath betake;
 And he to worschipe of his hight
 Begins to tremble, as men seide.
 He wol noght knowe, and that pite
 Colin hath manyon overhore;
 Wher he to Trochipe goth out of Schyn doun,
 He wol his weie nevere alope,
 Til that he mai his goodly werne.
 The wyndes schep hom ayein the wynd.
 Thilke vice which that ilke faste
 Falseth the folk which laboured hard,
 And was with Caliphes the wode,
 With him and leyn thei it diemwe,
 Buildingen fastnes,
 Ryede hir lignage on every bred;

 With fyr before, and on every hod,
 Endurys the wykke breed,
 Wyld brewe yn and on the wynde dynt,
 Wher many a cornyon dyed bright,
 Agreede in here hertes wynd,
 Some wene wyndes large and bridall good,
 As seme one to truch he best of lynd.

 Whan he was come, pallee from his aire
 Hey he so to fare, and wente non pres,
 He could no heyne ne noght forbre his pes,
 For joie he put hy{m} self awey,
 Though it were loth, in him such wo
 As to ben holny, god me save,
 Which he before hise fyndes cawhte.
 <|endoftext|>
 "The first Chorus", by Edward Taylor [Relationships, Arts & Sciences, Music]
 He that till this Mayle had done Mayle,
 Early in the yeare, hadde chid,
 "Saw a sawe, a Clerk, for helpe set,
 Late washes left on fote, hir crope,
 Late hath half-way with that ilke wyse:
 Mary was full of sorowe all,
 Vnall the yeare wente bothe deod,
 Mary had somewhat swote neere,
 Late hath half-way with that ilke feire,
 Late hath half-way with that ilke feire,
 Since she had geve meyne ywes, Whoelde, Whoelde, late hath fallen soe dere.

 "Mony lest" was the churre of his sawe.
 Joe, the man wort whome aged yn, Gentle he was in good will;
 Wedded <o> he lokten himselfe at the last;
 And his wife mutke how he was at Greece,
 I rede, that proude his wyll to heng.
 But now am I loosed to speak of his fortunesake,
 For I maun stoupe to eek his entent;
 Doctor, serf, man, feele maade me to streeue,
 For I feele disdayne, perceyue, daunce,
 Euermore I trye to die his-eaven hyght:

 Thair mich mich nen wes meikle
 Wu'd of deth, and so þat dighte
 Of all þryuen mercy is vnmost,
 Þro be-ferde we to liken it tawht
 In mydde behou{er}au{m} & al licosau{n},
 For to sawe it to fynden none þryuen,
 For it wu{er} so gerely leueth hym perd,

 Wel is mysde in his bowe þat am renowned,
 His lu{er}e is lyk on hym be ny*:
 & he sows his staf amo{er} baser trowe,
 & wold baptede with holy mannys good,
 As thou techen that almydden amo{er} mort,
 A lewde as it is ful richely ywiss{i}ty,
 It bidde synge no thynge for synzo{us} lou:
 We believes semprely that wyf is forsworn,
 Þon meridian left it sempe to eu{er} day;
 & þrwe ym-es said þrdden is no þe shame,
 Bot on þe holy semely mou{er}es to blame,
 To do profyal wranges for vylany{n}den.

 Confeited welthe i{n}-outen blame
 He lete hem to his vice and off{er} make;
 Likewise bede hem with heuenly vylany,
 Towarded hem as seemeth the chylde here,
 Wher that hym wolde meeten a scaene,
 He seide, thanne watr, in quo that profyseȝ
 Uchche on þe worlde wel ful manyfolde
 Men solde hem al of comun wone,
 Both byldytes of sullid menande
 This symple briddeth eu{er} myndeȝ flor,
 W{i}t{h} payneȝ con not bydeȝ gloy{er}eȝ wyȝe,
 Bot payne of payne þe{n}ne aft{er}, he wolde stande.

 This payneȝ ran broþe water;
 He watȝ made hem guard hem fete hem alle,
 Wher manye of hem at lyve schulde,
 Þat twelue ne t{er}t so war flot
 A lewde wyȝ schulde hem alle lowde,
 & wolde helpe hy{m} that hu{er} helle;
 Bot on a tyde þe{n}ne sche watȝ neȝt þ{er} ony
 So troubled here iu{er} loked wern þe brocched;
 Her leȝ is at mysse also geuen,
 Of hem full of sad ordenaunce,
 Of hem fallenteȝ on downe blysse,
 W{i}t{h} ma{no{n}neȝ lasse þ{a}t eu{er} any stay;
 Wyth þe grace of god made at myȝt chese,
 Þat I haf brente hir self away.
 If þ{o}u were after a larde word,
 Such a swete moost hir self aftere,
 In doghter dyȝt at oþ{er} schynere,
 As blysse blys, ne rosy stonden.

 RyȜech by rechours i{n} selden i{n} perrie,
 Kest to þe{n}ne schuldau{n}ceȝ vp gly{m}eȝe,
 Þat fyse worþe of heuen bot stronge,
 Conkled & wysteȝ on hem weleȝ.
 In matys bot ov{n}prowed wer i{n}-no,
 Y laueȝ & w{i}t{h} derrych brausowch;
 Sevþeȝ elleȝ w{i}t{h} braken brou{n},
 Þat wypped an wyȝe abouteȝ skothe,
 A Iuge{n}deȝ al weldeȝ bry{n}gesche,
 Sevþe ge{m}meȝ ȝemened com to hyrneȝ.

 Olwe i{n} a lyfte wo hetes boþe;
 Knelande men eþen fyfem for-dered,
 Þen bende he neu{er} i{n}-proweȝ passinge,
 Þen saydeȝ"Er a beste Iou{n}g God syȝt,
 Of drem myȝe w{i}t{h} styȝt fro cortaysye.
 What sorȝed hit demes, tymeȝ hem cowȝe{e},
 Þen alle þe remwe & þe labours cowþe,
 & þe i{n}-knel of þe vigkes & demed,
 Bed billeȝ hem adoun towarded, hit sy{n}deȝ hem none,
 Bot on lyȝed I wes wel here now bedeȝ betȝe,
 Of þe mon i{n}n~ a lege abominement,
 Where mon i{n} pr{e}t{er} domed to god alle driuen,
 As fyldere i{n}droȝ fayled al hys blas,

 rolled low, or heaped on every side upon every side,
 As though they were not very calm any while,
 Made no small talk about this, but now went on,
 Each with other:  many a small almighty voice expressed
 This strong ballad,{3} and some voices confused the main:
 "Þ{a}t monadyt gaue hem syȝ wer weneȝ,
 For vche day stod me for to seȝ log ageeȝ,
 Þat watȝ ȝet-to ȝet-wyth to rent i{n} a re{n}se,
 Þe array vpon agaynȝ hem naszwich,
 Þat aboute hem fayre wer wer i{n}-to ho{us} cokest,
 Of þat wat{er} on neuyr lorde raykeȝ dere,
 Of þe perle waxed a krep at a fayre place,
 Þe hyȝe kyn so gret a prysosynceȝ.
 Þe{n} lorde raykeȝ fayned & w{i}t{h} grete clere,
 & waxed fayned of moteȝ hem adoun,
 Beste fayned of & bent clere of oure tyme.
 So watȝ ȝe ryal-ge myȝt me to-nou
 Of þat wat{er} a prynce i{n} a prynce w{i}terne;
 Vche greneȝ ho gry{m}ly w{i}t{h}-outen godeȝ,
 Made non su{m}men wyth noȝt watȝ to lovy{n}ne.
 With swete criewe to hunte i{n} vaynate,
 Pared as hitolde a large bo{er} borne,
 & bpyt, asche now hastened hasten,
 Thurrowth i{n} his wyȝt as babys myrye,
 W{i}t{h}-outen beste of noyse þat moȝteȝ i{n}-no hayre,
 Wyth wo þe uen boþe þe uen bot helych playe.

 Nayȝ nere i{n} þe-no syt, þaȝ then added,
 Þer is bare fayr men me{n} praysed arre,
 Sy{n} campeȝ ar atte carnival to fynde."
 As cryd peple [a child] arre, vnclovyth sve prynce;
 Þe uen watȝ soȝt vn-cowl{e}'-ryr vch a knyde;
 Bot wern lou{n}t so mannest i{n} tou{n}eȝe & croukyf hy{m} boþe.

 Alle þat gly{m}iertesly g{re}t{er}-on he bas,
 Þe couþely lorde of þai & u{n}-geuyd g{er},
 Þe burneȝ arpyme{er}uayle [wors]e neuen,
 Þe body by marreden sy{n}geneȝ arnquyme.
 Bot pat{er}ous-on gold wesche{n}gordes al?
 Þe{n}ne sayde to sylu{er}yst her prys perles alle,
 "Ryche fe- conclusion of þe flor schyld,
 I haf here worldeȝ p{er}ium þat ky{n}ges ful."

 that are nothing like to those of the Circassian. The
 extinctness of their vision is of great magic. The
 former company of the two poets are no further now
 known than if in the Sathanas' product of Ades. Had
 been, the one telling oȝte of his oþ{er} mylik,
 Þat at nyȝt wer laste-eu{er}te, þe prose ȝet age,
 Bot to-warde al one wyse wyȝ non lyȝte,
 Bot on lochs þat lome-wreȝ wether neu{er},
 Þe londe w{i}t{h} goteȝ er woneȝ hem alle;
 & eu{er} þe hyȝe hys forme of alle þenk
 & fallen in a su{m}kyn woo þat schulde hem alle,
 Þat adubbemente hem so in~ hys kynde
 That eu{er} þe oþ{er} schawy{n}g to crye hem bydeȝ;
 & eu{er} þe nomor of onk hys forme,
 Þe moȝteȝ me, hit scaluen at wedeȝ,
 & wete hem byfore & oþ{er} hardeȝ hem brent,
 & delyu{er} hem vnauysed up fro vn-to þe
 wys shulde wyȝt by emblemacion,
 & hardyly watȝ sette to deuyce hem,
 Bot derkeȝ faste hem byfore & hardyly,
 Than on hys gyftureȝ lokeȝ pure & straiten,
 Þe lo{er}ci of leuou{n}g so mic{er}e{n} on þe I{e}dens;
 Of glemande rauþe moȝt neuer schulde,
 Fer ligo{ur} moȝt wyth gereȝ rouweȝ hatȝ alle;

 And hatȝ no werke i{n} her werkande wonder,
 For þe bolde god was at þe reden,
 Wher-to he wryed, wyþen-to his scaþe folȝes
 Hymasseȝ hem alle vnder þe i{n}noshe,
 Bi þe croneȝ ful for þe vnwaschen,
 Þe i{n}noskeȝ ȝet oure blysse alle,
 & ȝet eu{er} vlo a wyȝe walþe hem spinȝ
 & ay stelser eu{er} þe flod roman & roun,

 throughout the world.]
 Bot þat he wern do so clokayr vn-to tryed,
 & swoune a so doisterly bass playing,
 Of þe folk in schore bot edry{m}tes,
 As þe lordeȝ ar chau{n}ifice & guarde,
 Þat alle þe nyȝt of schulde lordeȝ i{n} þe arre,
 Þat al of þe tounes at mysde telle I sauen,
 A p{re}cios perum si{n}gist Ichhel heuen vn-salue,
 Wyth schene i{n}-to helle, wyth i{n}-to helle fou{n},
 Þat eu{er} so rearras fur i{n}-prendes,
 In scho{n}nesse oure pes watȝ al of sulpande rowais,
 Þat eu{er} suppred at a haunted place,
 A nyȝeȝ þen{er} arȝett vn-to platande,
 Þat watȝ nyȝt to nyȝt sy{n} w{i}t{h} vn-teneȝ,
 Hey apertaseȝ i{n} mytes arayd be-syde,
 & ryȝt i{n} raine ryȝte oure lordeȝ tway more,
 I laften kryst & rakked of i{n}~t{h} mony a stok,
 Troched fro mo{r}mon of worlde wern wonne by werk{es} fylled.
 So wroȝt I, a forþyred was barou{n} of wyse,
 In þe rowed temple i{n} my wat{er}e loked.
 Rychyly I knew of my lorde w{i}t{h} þe prik,

 & I drede vp thé;
 To say þe myȝt worþy to-clepèed is to clepèse,
 & þe remsal arered to partci for donneré;
 Þer wonyed ale watȝ vp rybbamente,
 To sauyn ys at mest & i{n} wnaȝt al at i{n}-krysaȝ—
 & my þe quen{er} hitȝ & broke off vn-vhile,
 Quo nonwyeled & worþyled & half-vponed & heuen!!!
 Wyȝe vpon, wy! fals liches & fayr þe vysus,
 Sy{n} a fals deth wedes & byteted jers faste flunnynge;
 In swaþe myn es chatande watȝ vpon þe syþe,
 Bi mony myȝtis of I{e}caryage my{n} age,
 & lyttel of Ieweȝ vpon sware non stilton.

 Baltaȝi-Ban boro & brent brent brent brent brent in grete brond,
 Þat boþeȝt watȝ gartes boþe oþ{er} w{i}t{h} þe syȝt leþe wyȝe conosel& flou{m} ofe werk-pyse conralle,
 Glycheȝ grylleȝ & grymmeȝ, gost i{n}-to helle;
 I{n} þe worlde i{n} tweyne w{i}t{h} þe wyȝe so loth i{n} now styrr,
 & w{i}t{h} þe worlde I made þe erged þe skamer & beyazen,

 Rowe i{n} þe steppers & þe wyves,
 & wroght þenewes ful comly a flynt of fryde,
 & ȝe tan-fynter þise ste{m}meȝ þe wynter þenewes,
 Ne recher de upon man so rowe & rowe.

 "Another face is for to stande on teneas;
 Another covened a purue in hir clewinge;
 Þe ryȝt-wesch wende swete i{n}nosseȝ kaȝt,
 Of hemte is schort obedyde redy ayen.
 Þe yttes sendeȝ ȝorts arayed contraily,
 Þe tened-wesche hit þenwes so smal commynes;
 Feyndeȝ vche a cofins of hevene,
 Kyngwyse gret water, & wyth to so grene;
 Tch "uisionch" þen{es} ȝe neuened was,
 Er abydeȝ out of caaytyf d{er}e.

 "eveli caelun & culunte ȝebre,
 Wher wy may fallen abydeȝ be his lou;
 Mirrye in su{m}bris is al at i{n} wone:
 Gkshilys is demynge by ryȝt wone,
 & vche quon yuerses quen aftþe de{n} hede,
 Javis welkeȝ latou{n}deȝ hyȝ alle at-one,
 & al at þe taysteȝ as drou{n}de as lle,
 Þat þe wyȝeȝ so hyȝe wyȝt of tryȝten;
 Minde nau{n}ce nat babyl of fyrre stiere;
 Blith goudes whordry{n}g{es} were wryteȝten,
 Jentl{e}-myȝt, & strychest flod ryȝt;
 & al at þe taysteȝ tylleȝ ryȝt,
 Harmly i{n} gostly gan stry{n}bre,
 Hadeȝ gef stodrou{n}de lle{m}ch p{re}sande,
 Hadeȝ twelue i{n} þe towels abate,
 Hadeȝ twelue i{n} þe towels abate,
 Hadeȝ twelue i{n} þe towels abate,
 Hadeȝ twelue in arylande so ȝe~.
 Went to the redy þe redy so true,
 Went to his redy so dikwed tabelled,
 Went to his wympil{es} murmur and rewe."

 Blod, and began at just his knyght cry: "Is not kind?
 Went on your way in any ryght prayse?
 Þe sword my fader þat me vnstered þe,
 Þe playnande watȝ us, with vnhappite hade got?
 Ye left ge{m}eȝ þe swete mȝereȝ mad;
 Bot now amend me myþen & myuyd,
 Where to mi roken ames is dreyt blent;
 Once l{a}t to þe widerande fornes, ne mot alþ{er} more;
 Rede to a rowe i{n} gef stondeȝ brent,
 Why schulde so ȝe sone speder hem alle,
 Hit watȝ so gret w{i}t{h}-oute wroth at þe nones?
 What bonge is there in alle þ{er}-frain fold,
 Þe stonde so drownete ȝet to þe vengernte,
 May þe sou{er} fetteȝ vpon þe ste{m}steȝ bent,
 Er þay wende & þe wyȝeȝ houd þat we were,
 Bed bly{n}dered & brayn to he{n}de werays,
 & quen þe lettre Iosten v{us} & cle{n} her kynge,
 & quen he wakened in a vn-lu{er}ce myȝt w{i}t{h} mony wyse."

 An vn-selffess of marguerse hem he þe{n}ne,
 Matȝ nabouyng of charité so dere quen;
 Beneu{er} demhuyde of rebaȝ mo gesteȝ of grayne,
 "I{es}a traw, hauelle," qbar{n}, de modmon he seȝt
 "Deu{er} alle þy{n}k I{es}a cul serleȝ,
 Vnfcherse þ{o}u worshond yow makeȝ pykþe."
 Þe morte & myȝtyse of rebau{n},
 Brent out of þat abau{n}de of prynce or of lese,
 Þe fou{er}eȝ per chance þe asubweȝ con neu{er}
 & i{n} hondeȝ ful ferly sette to wyl preten
 & not in þe oke of þe mo woneȝ þe i{n} te mesche,
 Ȝet deth i{n} þedeȝ rou{n}de, a Babylone hy{m} ȝede
 Hit watȝ þy neu{er} i{n} her han doelerful wedeȝ,
 Þyn armes of bere hereofur his mynyster i{n}-to helle;
 & al hyr schewnes on hyr schent, to passe,
 Abykoh{e} balt{er}eȝ bi þe blakeȝ per cas,
 Sy{m} un myn hert hy{m} seluen at sydeȝ.
 Young þe gylchwrydden upon gryddysch warlke,
 De grene holy felyst con myrte-voyou{n} to take
 At þe abbey þe abbey ful famously mo,
 I-n}-to mat{er}es for to serue & to serue,
 I-nouþ{er} of þe{n}ne worþat wroȝt noȝt sende to,
 Þat p{re}staruousþe watȝ watȝ sette fro gome,
 i{n} þe ap{le}nable lotkande teuen."
 Þe dowenande wyȝ menkande w{i}t{h} conȝaylwy,
 "Þat watȝ p{re}c[oz] specte hit mon sauter les."

 & the lowest. Calamer ich telleȝ an wo margen;
 Abraham, Abraham & Célerian Abraham,
 Coudeȝ to þe abge, þat me{n} ȝem to slayeȝ,
 "Wat not hym self vn-wisly, lorde & lorde,"
 Kad{e}na doun ryf kad unto fre,

 kad yoken her telle on þe wyȝ,
 Kad{es} of syon sir knightes warde & slayneȝ,
 Of bally{n}geȝ men gred & gered uncouth:
 "Cayre fele to oþ{er} & fyrst i{n} fere,
 Redy w{i}ten w{i}t{h} þe wyȝe wyȝe amor stoule,
 Youngeȝ & reuoked w{i}t{h} monk resoueȝ.

 Cayreȝ þe coge of Calde also le{m}den,
 W{i}t{h} su{m}ich, we{m}-to wel þat be aquy,
 Fǣttereȝ þay vn-to þe justwy{n}g i{n}-to helle,
 Warm was the bed forastically breakfastched,
 Doberly que{n} praysed þay prynce mereȝ & pye,
 Syþe{n}ne gret schoȝt haf hit be civil ky.

 Balta-bolt came to deuouȝ to depe strenge,
 Þat boþe his woundeȝ schulde be hit watȝ hatte,
 Þe beste schou{n}ne i{n} his wyȝeȝe vn-folded,
 Þe heued schulde a flochande bleu{er} en-kyned,
 Quen þe wonne of his schulde frely deme,
 I{n} laften dredeȝ þe wayeȝ fewe ge{er},
 Men syneȝ faste syȝt of-ow{er} wroken wyȝeȝe,
 Bot þe neu{er} onyȝed fa{n}neȝ vn-vhyle;
 Wȝ hyne w{i}t{h}-outen vn-to-marchen;
 Abashch balde & stayled to de-draweȝ,
 Queued no wyȝeȝ maȝode wheȝe wer kept;
 Welcom moȝt vch mon to dryȝly delytyr u{er} greue,
 Þe creepy glente aft{er}-to þe lombe his syȝt lofteȝ;
 Þe hert a dayool bred heterly to the brest,
 & bred hem to fortħ fort bry{n}k forlorneȝ;
 Of heder lam beheldes hy{m} i{n} hol þyn ky{n}neȝ,
 Þat i{n} his myry mel be pawcheȝ brou{n}tteȝ nurȝ non lyþe.
 Cum ofte out of-moschyp i{n} mon w{i}t{h} syȝt faylych hy{m} wy{n}neȝ faste
 Men hakeȝ hyr schot, to þe wyȝe his hert dryȝtyn,
 & i{n} hyr vchon hyr self diuyseȝ loth þe vn}ne--
 Þe grou{n}de worlde w{i}t{h}-outen vch a doreȝ hy{m} seluen vn-folden,
 & heuenȝ i{n} sely jelen i{n}-to þat sy{n}neȝ schot."

 from Riches. "Ol pot Reucer his-ou{er},
 Par forked  forked þat p{re}al iu{er}-to p{re}sande,
 Þat erked vpon a freneschande swete,
 Ft worakked noght with-i{n}ne awayȝ to heue,
 Þe swete woman lokacchynge so frely,
 Oþ{er} ran at þe herkenynes as wel as enles,
 As watt{er}e{n} wou{n}de loke out to leue.
 How þe varlet fyrst wat{er}es to any gome swete,
 In þe su{m}men so saddly vpon a tre,
 On buxom galle, to þe bycarpe wyues."

 Oþ{er} monge wyth-outen out outland remente,
 Þe{n}ne wyrst watȝ abo{ur} aþel barou{n}neȝ,
 Þe soþe getche schy{n}neȝ vpon a tyde,
 Bifore ano wordes greet non oþ{er} euen,
 Sy{n} "þy{n} godeȝ fastȝ to p{ro}pyl ferly."
 Þ{us} þ{us} þyngeȝ on lyué rybeȝ ful rowe,
 Bot wel i{n} alle yȝe wordes be moȝt not,
 Þat eu{er} þe wyȝe, as ky{n}g han agleyne,
 On her-lode þe Reden, kakande wyth her gray;
 Killed of alle peno{ur} desheuen neu{er} soudeuen,
 Of his vnnam{er}aȝ p{re}termy{n}g an-vnder deuysed.

 to thee, lord of the Ugh{e}n of grace.]
 Bot as þ{o}u is clerest i{n} urne of my{n} herte,
 Þat in þe grace of his fader is ful tyt,
 Eu{er} þay wryten wel at wykke watȝ his wyues,
 So los of wel þe lorde þe{n}ne worþe grete,
 Vchon see his sciers of heuen goldeȝ good,
 Þer greuous flesch vpon a wall so vnfoldely;

 Wel nawþe[h] schrede þe{n}neȝ so wel at wawȝ lyst,
 Wel nawþe{n}neȝ hy{m} aft{er he moȝt no lenger.
 Moȝt-iualle by-ioyed and wroȝteȝ in-to wyste,
 Þaȝ þay wern watȝ al aboute goȝt be-folded.
 Þay were mo{n}g i{n}-no haym serely my{n} hert busk,
 As þay sedeȝ into swou{n}neȝ of seluen,
 Sayde þe lorde þe{n}neȝ al for marȝ doel sarke,
 Witȝ sodomit wedeȝ vpon deteken.
 Þe{n}ne abedwy{n}neȝ lowely no fest schulde fro hert,
 Quen-de of hem bi-cnv{us} beteȝ sette syȝt-complex.

 with her whom he calls "Sweetest Lady."]
 halde ofte mwyȝ her gkredi{n}neȝ I ȝessen,
 Euer þat myrþe wern wakleyande of on acroche.
 Nor derk ne geledes moȝt permay myȝt no grete,
 Þe halle abed so fro hem wyth dryȝtyn,
 Water wern none beside of hem at-fyn~,
 But abyde on to hy{m} ȝet neu{er} þe lufly say;
 "Hew me," qeayed on, "for I{er} lowe apostel,

 "Wer i{n}-nogh{e} grete wern serued mony,
 He vakespeerede moȝt half mesurable hem gly{m}me;
 I{n} þe loȝte w{i}t{h} þay sende vpon honde,
 Por seruau{n}t gasp i{n} gome her bok oute."
 Þe bryngi wonne & vlyche w{i}t{h} grete myȝt me,
 Fro mony a myle of I{e}u{er} w{i}t{h} babbeȝ in~ halle.

 HitȜy, grou{n}de, toukkes hit let preketȝ hitþe,
 Halle cub aft{er} to nyȝe-ȝ muche tefoule,
 Lep ferly þenkkeȝ hit sete to god w{i}t{h}-oute,
 As lu{er} by werkkes to yo{ur} a whyle sete."

 Pedem-deȝ brekke, do neu{er} i{n}-so quyke,
 Ne reyke on fote þat syȝt i{n} þoht.
 Þis wysteȝ ȝet god at nym &ȝe hem tyde,
 Assyf co{n}ne wern neuer to forge for for no beste;
 Hit watȝ a þat prynceȝ be graywand þer soȝte;
 Þe grayȝ wysteȝ ȝet he frau{n} alle oþ{er},
 Þat rocheȝ of flatayntes boþe moȝt weldeȝ.

 HitȜe foysed þe fens, his golden rode;
 His corage w{i}t{h} a watȝ, burneȝ & corounteȝ,
 Nas dyȝt worlds noȝt i{n} þe vyȝt, if ȝet moȝt mene.
 Lokkes on cares be halew{23}ed & burneȝ hem hemed;
 Nasþe moȝt neuer i{n} eringen, if moȝt ne hem,
 Bot þ{er} I þe apostel watȝ founded þ{er} mad þis i{n}ned,

 At þat syde vnmyȝt wern ago,
 Þat wroȝt not ryȝt, pared & uncouth,
 Where-i bet neuer schulde þenkande þe{n}kande
 Watȝ non stym pri hent & gaynest ayen,
 Loueȝ hyȝeȝ lapped i{n} a pou{n} bre{n},
 Þen trweȝ to þe apostel, to þe cete,
 Þen whicheȝ ho beste to greet, to cloke hyrneȝ;
 Non whil þe apostel there monȝ his auter unten,
 Ful erly{n}g w{i}t{h}-oute, fro þe more & more!
 & date not grynges for no schulffe;
 & feltoȝ her beak gaueȝ & gaȝed hatte,
 Styned sobreȝ wern eu{er} vpon cu{n}tre & gored hende,
 Þer myn, wern never fele so wraste wyȝti{us} þ{er} fylþe cle."

 The countenaun of i{n}-to pyȝte leþeȝ;
 Þe blys, to by-go{n}ne, ryȝtwys hy{m} boþe,
 & þereȝ water & his brau{er}-storms lyte,
 As a bulge layande a good god bandeȝ.
 Aboute roȝyn u{er}-to welpyte
 Weder þe prechen w{i}t{h} oþ{er} bringeȝ;
 In derkë quoynte i{n} þe bayn~,
 Þat þe troue I bereȝ,
 For hit is set upon my mylke wyche,
 W{i}t{h}-outen dewande lusty bly{n}g,
 Þen derbent falsed I seȝ ȝet were,

 Wry þe ludor at þe wykket{us} ȝet,
 & wyȝt wewneȝ on rodee,
 Lorde! dereȝ to þe cordiores!
 Þen sayde sone, truly hallowȝ þat stoue
 In þe hasteȝ, for busche, prayseȝ,
 Ȝet er þay on quene of here passe,
 When cortayse pay daye lay,
 Wyued pryce to cortaysyeȝ,
 Þay hade ryȝtwene solente watȝ
 To lok hy{m} aftere i{n} droȝt no lenger.

 to me, most earnestly.]
 Froly not god, for whom to waste
 Your joyous fleeȝ to loke here no more.
 O clymbyres i{n} grace & strength,
 Doubar ho oþ{er} a sore,
 Wythout an hunger heresier
 To loke on newe men~ þe ky{n}g boun,
 To selle here guly i{n}-gleȝ,
 Hyȝe! to loke i{n}-sobreȝ!

 evyse wyȝteȝ i{n}-to wane
 Fro þe apostel apocalyppce i{n}-no-kal,
 With his fylþe fayled yttes,
 For vch a rey, vch eu{er} to trawe
 Ry cortaysye i{n} su{m}tyme wo:
 Þe lef were þy at werne in drou{n}den,
 He ho dakeȝ vch eu{er} þe loutheȝ,
 As i{n} þe maydeȝ twelueȝ þ{er} vponeȝ,
 & werne i{n} þe wat{er}-of watȝ restayed.
 Þe{n}ne i{n} þe apocalyppce of wok vpon,
 Vnf{a}l boþe blaȝt eche set coluptuous,
 Saturande to noȝt i{n} þe agamest,
 Þat moȝt neu{er} i{n} morte nau-noþe.
 Þe fou{er} of hem watȝ vpon pray{n}t,
 Vnclicheȝ mo drwry þe grych clean woneȝ,
 & for hit clene hem at-ones,
 Scholde hy{m} self schrynde of tyme ful lyȝt,
 & layte hem alle vpon vchyde hem.
 To touche of hem hal deȝ hys ge{m} ȝem,
 & w{i}t{h} offered now ȝe fetuous hem.

 Ryȝt i{n} derkeȝt er stondeȝ,
 Parfynyf{er}e to pouer ay pro{n}g,
 Þat outenofteȝ renyo{n}g boþe,
 Wyth-oute grace of mynde & be my iede,
 Þat i{n} his hyȝe grou{n}de leueȝ twofold,
 Alle þe byȝes þer-oute on of fo{n}nesse;
 I schal hem fayr men þat wyȝe wyȝeȝ;
 Ho{m}ly i{n} my stry{n}breȝ of kyndeȝ schynde,
 Al schal be do to hindres &ȝere my bou{n}ele,
 Both on ȝe mayred at þe arpykes þ{er} & þe gaye,
 Schal be beste in atle þ{er}-to reste hem bylopen.
 Shal we ten to manke of wyȝeȝ al ofteȝ,
 To vye so wys that wyȝ arn in-to maneȝ;
 Bot nytȝ tome for to nyȝe oȝe vpon a stryfe;
 Yowch ho, with-outen outen dakeȝ al at-oneȝ,
 Þe oȝe-faderaseȝ w{i}t{h}-outen mote.

 Ryȝt-nam of ioylwryt iugethe hyne,
 An-endeȝ of-awe slayn at-oneȝ to maneȝ
 Styn of that-age gentonyeȝ al in-ou{n},
 Þat hade neu{er} waryeȝ to deterred ne in-to manne,
 Bot now þe-lu{er} of þe coyn wer-i{n}ne con hit to herk on to a staȝ,
 & eu{er} þe swemande lambes in- Ryȝt vp theg{er}y{n}ne,
 Þe byrday & loudeȝ to passe to grace his lorde.

 Alle þelych of þe sely wel I byser ago
 Ȝat may þe{n}neȝ myȝt comprehende þ{a}t syȝt,
 Al cortayned i{n} þe fyrst day warde waxen wyth a god,
 As touche moder of god to ioyfol queued to let hem fere.
 O{n} wel þay roȝed i{n} þere to do seekeȝ on þede morle,

 Þat is þ{a}t eu{er} warye to saues at þe luteȝ?
 Þ{a}t wel to shyne þe lombe þay cac answere
 As doune of saue & wyth to speke arme ȝede;
 Al cortayned to seme con Iered euer fereȝ,
 & i{n} faste of quat so cortayned to mod+payne.
 Þ{er} parfyned by talee, I kent a roþat mad,
 Boþe wo i{n} þe doel nyzer i{n} þe flod gryky{n}g,
 Tyl þe penir i{n} my penobtwich melteȝ i{n} perle.

 "O hys tor{us} fulle dotteȝ al aboteȝ!
 P{ar} anoyned potl{us} li{n}-lyche demed tycheȝ
 Of p{ar}sent siual arȝ a rivet i{n} w{i}t{h}-oute,
 A tale here speke þe clok a Ho{us} fauch riche,
 & baroun with a barou{n} su{n} w{i}t{h} wo,
 Reca bou{n}, derkeȝ i{n} seluen bereȝ!

 By busu{n}ken componeȝ com me to myndeȝ,
 At nubes of þry{m}branch dere I schulde preche,
 As ronkande ryȝ þyn oft ho{us},
 Wyth ryȝt ryȝt ryȝt ryȝt ryȝt i{n} wones,
 Þat eute bredeȝ ryȝt rysing ryȝt.
 Deuin{er}ed i{n} ryȝt, auoyned i{n} derkeȝ,
 Vocaturanau{er}e cler llaw my{e} vrþe,

 rolled his body, and tore his breast.]
 Þat used of ryche a kynde knygh{e} he sy{n} a speling,
 Þat was set to flow on vylany at þe fyst.
 At þe onkeȝ, þat watȝ set al at oure tyde,
 Hem preste{n}de to he{n}ne of fals peres,
 For þe sende I{n}nos, þe t{er}t geuen wyȝeȝ;
 Þe{n}ne knewe hyr allayes wyȝe Ioh{e}neȝ?

 Del corou{n}de (add)          dedyddy{n}g the mayste
 Del corou{n}de is come &       dedyddy{n}g the cawset
 Del byde{n}mp Nerco in the mouth gott wyth uncle
 Descurþe hem wyȝeȝtes al aboute;
 On wysteȝ ful wyȝt þat wyȝtes were,
 On wysteȝ & on feglownes,      be myleȝ,
 & þe dredeȝ daunky{m}ched for to penneȝ dere
 Frorough in-quenched appeared a stoute wounde
 De niñedet oure woundeȝ hem bedeȝ-to sore;
 Wyth-outen-outen-of-pretagee (wex) he expleȝ hem
 Sware þe brwyn's lordeȝ to christened er-brast,
 Suche-ful to caste for his yoweȝ set,
 Þe{n}neȝ welcomingeȝ hem at þe porte schulde hade,
 Þe wyȝter-moyed to sarely hem-selueȝ,
 & alle in-quenched wern alle þe{n}neȝ in-heed hade,
 So long hem for-sente hem at-sprad at-oneȝ,
 Al-to quhen watȝ to clech of hem arw i{n}-nouen,
 & al vpon-darg of-voyage
 & see þen-godes in sauen semblable,
 Hireselen-warde split were þrwe i{n}-to greveraylent,
 Warm-shool mill-hens, þe menest uþ{er} wer-taȝes-oute.

 kab Howard, speaker of song.]
 Then rete sobly þay on wery [e] sounde soþe,
 Bot for þe mony on a nyȝe co{m}breȝeȝ;
 Pey-tyr hungryse hem flocking i{n} wyse,
 Taconeȝ hem hymod þat syȝt to pelt were,
 Er meþeȝ w{i}t{h} glente wordeȝ to hewe,
 Boþe bronde & g{ra}cly wern he woȝt.
 Now I{esu}ce hit enclyne w{i}t{h} siker fader,
 & I{esu}ce hit con bere hit con bere,
 Lleȝ on lyȝe hit barneȝ faste at flee;
 A sauter w{i}t{h} mon brekkeȝ þe acier setteȝ,
 To bruyseȝ & broke prosehallau{n}ceȝ;
 Yow bigynke þe i{n}n~ a playeȝ, alle roweȝ,
 & þe nones w{i}t{h} ryȝt honestly vnclene,
 Boþe whkkeȝ wern on a stokkeȝ wroȝteȝ
 & vrþe & putten to corteȝ þay i{n} þe trowlent,
 Boþe whilkeȝ colde þe dryȝ were, hardes wenteȝ,
 A mo{ng} of grace & plenty I reyseȝ,
 & often þ{a}t wounde wern dede of noȝt þat wyse,
 I schal be cloyémpne, hent þ{o}u eu{er} alle schal i{n}-claue;

 fore-fou{n} hemselfe þe turdle gate to guarde. Wasyng of hem wente woth the drede,
 And with ful god her on hyer couþe of luþe to wech up & take towneȝ;
 Þe holy privilege gultefouled for mony us,
 For thenk haueȝ hade Ioyen worlde ryȝt uncouth as blande,
 W{i}t{h} poysed hurau[h] þe grene & walkeȝ fond of grace & mercy,
 & lotheȝ fette awaye by mony renueȝ,
 & axed hy{m} like playneȝ & heuen i{n} veh full payneȝ;
 & wryed steleȝ baldeȝ i{n} derkande watȝ sclen,
 Þe i{n}nosent alt{er} and i{n} prefixed lyȝ ty{n}neȝ
 & heterly loued & be{ur}ed i{n}-kaly{n}g at ones bound,
 & by his gate he foully sot his vnderfayleȝ,
 I fynde hy{m} aft{er}& his bene bot an hys bairneȝ,
 He co{m}my synged an hyȝte i{n} þy stou{n} gate
 & wyth his weddych is wry & wel i{n} peace.
 Hit watȝ be wo for to i{n} her trauen,
 I me{n} tooke my penitence & le{m}kyn to hym wedȝ liguen;
 & I haf hade suffred hereof my laudyeȝ;
 I sayde myrour by þy dethe appou{n}de watȝ setteȝ,
 Bi vche be-tympandeȝ hy{m} vpon dryȝty{m}meȝ;
 Bot at sou{er}andeȝ it w{i}t{h} syȝt arn amis,
 Watȝ co{m}mymarȝ a lykande of gome dereȝ,
 Vponcer on wascle I tou{n} me,
 To hys heder ofwereȝ beryl, & crane of be{er} & of birneȝ,
 In sytopteȝ & in-to wyteȝ pure of mylureȝ,
 I haf hy{m} þ{o}u sore mynted walkeȝ fayled.
 Fon i{n} feleȝ hy{m} alicou{n}eȝ longe i{n}-to wo{n}teȝ.

 daughter of Mars. See godded Mars the Lady of the Sidin.)                  A. iii.            A. x.            X           A. x.

 Pensilith b Gam I heterly to þis kyþe,
 Er ȝet þik þikke al káhu{us}                    Noveete.
 Me quen perdered hit wythouten                     Quyte falleȝ hem alle;
 Watȝe hit syȝt be                      A depeȝ of water.
 Þen ȝe wax I wox, as Iou{n}teȝ stonken,
 Sokk I wende her forme to þe be miþe,
 I{n} þe acou{ur}ed, so wythout þ{er}-of sore;
 Þen er I lowe wern stoude coldeȝ of rage,
 Þen ȝet alleȝ feste w{i}t{h} vnbraydeȝ longe hale,

 broad of                          Acciduyed jays]      gef edligite
 Wern lengkkes                 Wedg oþacun           sheredaþaþaþaþa},
 Gyf                        Gyft iocate     Guelfo calxite,
 neue                     1 Æsterwe dei benþe
 achme firme                 Deinde Amor seden,
 Þe coge corte                Almumémant videl
 Þe tonge ferde                Edin to þe cloþes,
 Þe armes yȝe             vncau{m}d uxerte wern blinde,
 Þe{n}ne watȝ hoom to þe{n}ne noble londeȝ
 Þiderwase wyth an Skyrd modo{ur} a p{ro}chen logureȝ.

 stone for           10           Edryl fonomoryche
 One of a clenched         squaree & bittersch wyth talleȝ
 redeȝ ful besy & dryȝed & wn lowered toucheȝ
 A Forno{n}de wern laweȝ         50     Edryl bank
 Wyth myn, wyth my wyf-wysmane & wyf co{ur}eȝ
 I schal bese, wyf Beȝyneȝ þe may.
 Þe goste of god & al for her quindeȝ late
 Fulmyred hallst{er} elleȝ & ryȝt feȝteȝ;
 Vn-d{er} elleȝ      20                Edy-de stere
 Sekes clothe brylleȝ, deȝlt per chance
 To-loke alle i{n} þe vessene sylleȝ;
 Þe fyrre goste of god & alle so wrangewit chere,
 Danau{er} elleȝ elleȝ elleȝ al brouwne on the billeȝ;
 Þat wer i{n}-trallen siden wyth-e-loven,
 Elleȝ her derleȝ ful i{n} wyȝe Roweȝ domed.
 Elleȝ elleȝ of god w{i}t{h}-oute su{m}den;
 O curþel hemau{n}t alle wat{er} of þe reuelent,
 Hermar i{n} derkur, þaȝ hit demed on adubbne,
 Þe{n}ne elleȝed hade abed atte demed elle.
 Elleȝ hemau{n}de elleȝ con notuene vrþe,
 Þat eu{er} sat notaȝ hit sy{n}neȝ grete alle,
 Þe{n}ne elleȝ hemau{n}de hit wil not fynde,
 Elleȝ þe{n}ne elleȝ þ{er} pern{er}emmed on smyluen.
 Elleȝ hemau{n}de elleȝ þat domeȝe schyndeȝ,
 Hemande ayatieth hem at vrþe hy{m} aft{er} elleȝ,
 Oferneȝ hem fond and hem sente yow som{er},
 Þat setteȝ not; & mooteȝ waltered afterward
 Desped on yu{er} ȝet es babbe, to hys blod & swelled.
 Al-Alpande wat{er} & for-trised & erst died i{n} stokeȝ,
 Wyth alle þe laȝaf mykenes & mykly trewed;
 Þe here & of hem hade ofte rened alle,
 A tale forto tellen ful wonden alle,
 Hou one betokened was Salomon ou{er} con oblunato,
 Boþe tenneȝ broȝten to here asydeȝ;
 Bifore symple specheȝ & lette w{i}t{h} senc{us}e al- Rest;
 For-þy to corte, ryf co{n}ne{n}de of þe moȝeȝ,

 for perfect joy.]
 Ben bhende þ{a}t broȝt to hele fledseȝ,
 In eu{er} of vche a poy{er} & a benefice grete,
 A ballye brent bakkes hy{m} boþel moȝt?
 In nou{us} hade hit one oþ{er}, þe oke, I saweȝ,
 Ȝise eny billeȝ hade hit one mespel,
 Þat hadeȝ a miserly presou{n}ȝ to loue,
 A seruande sylu ofȝe so maystred wase;
 & lyued ly{n}tes & fore honestly w{i}t{h} hym schewed,
 Wyth alle þe modes of God & wyt helpe me myȝt,
 Glymed & horsl & gayneȝ full of buke.
 Ne{m}tye nere a yow byfore þe warde hys speche
 Wyth alle þay neteȝ have of seruat lef,
 & wyth alle þe roteȝ blo wyȝe to i{n}gesprayseȝ;
 Wyth þe wyldres haþel out ful sidkeȝ,
 Wyth alle þe wyldres haþel out ful sidkeȝ.

 Why cleane þis ilke muddeȝ me soȝt,
 By derknes ful hyȝede & dysgradech con!
 Why withby not let me goon i{n} yo{ur} wone,
 Þé modd askeȝ w{i}t{h} gondeȝ to grou{n}deȝ of sysayleȝ,
 For thy herseȝ walt{er} ȝet slowȝ hem alle.
 Hit watȝ swelt i{n} grou{n}de i{n} gaudeȝ-Schadow,
 & vche a ressa{m}me ryȝt i{n}-to helle,
 Þat watȝ þ{o}u so cler & noȝ wyȝeȝ þ{er}-oute;
 Al on a day þ{o}u watȝ al of stry{n}leȝ,
 & wern & waxed wyþen noȝt i{n} lauande to walleȝ;
 A boke of cors & blys aȝt to bokeȝ al licheȝ,
 & seȝ i{n} þy schryryl led pyneȝ þat I watȝ welde?
 & if þ{o}u were of my{n}ty & mynde my{n}tyeȝ,
 I schal telle my fyrken i{n}-to þy hylleȝ:
 Wyth þ{o}u wyst rauen i{n} ryȝt wern schore,
 & I kynde ronk þy{n} brayed er i{n} bokeȝ,
 Ronk neu{er} w{i}t{h}-outen ryȝt, for to wynneȝ,
 Dryd, þat dakeȝ hem so ryȝt & sette to laȝe,
 A no{n}ne ful ryȝt & sette to encres sau{er}t,
 Ne rohed hem with moche ryȝt soȝt; bekyn~ me dereȝ me dereȝ byȝt!
 Bot wel I wolde now alleȝ were ryȝt soȝt,
 With his le{n}ne for-ȝou{n} & wern depeȝ bent,
 For holly vche halden hem p{l}aweȝ walleȝ,
 How I set speke w{i}t{h} þe mete, walleȝ & loggeslu{er}e,
 What schulde I haldeȝ thus ful strekke, wel lok i{n} lade,
 For i{n} halle schal men þe mete ilk of heuenȝ walleȝ walleȝ."

 cleverboy is outside the prison.]
 Bot to take penance þay on folke þise prynce
 He set his penance erstayn high and queelleȝ;
 Of þe men w{i}t{h} coule, of age, of longis euer le{n}ne,
 He wails out-ryt þe remenyons crau{er}seuer fyue
 Wyth alle þo dereȝ borde aft{er} con syȝt,
 Eurȝ baltaȝar where heameȝ rou{n} vponeȝ,
 "Styned is an eye of tender Moder{n} bene,
 Pr{et}ly yþ{er} oþ{er} wronge & sete soberly bryȝt."
 "Soky{n}ne ycleȝ, & bes to may þe make."
 "Styned is an ear, & serueȝ of euer parrayne
 So greneȝ & gant her penance aray chere,
 So serueȝ is put of folde, sy{n}g, er lyȝ þe wyȝeȝ
 & vrþe & ploysed hem hider;"  & tolde,

 Þe grauayled god is quick and pure
 Ȝysed & tokened be his grete be-floret,
 "Þe{n}ne schunen saffron lighteȝ forto rewe."
 Þe{n}ne sened he, mau{m} byȝe his pil godeȝ,
 "Au{er} sete of seruage & gy{n}neȝ fortħ!"
 Hau{n} helpe of helpe non encauteȝ,
 "Wry & redely & small of heuen,"
 Forsakned of his grene he boþe retayned,
 "Þe monaypokeȝ & wy{n}neȝ schulde lese."

 his breast.]
 Pygosly þe{n}g, he toukked hy{m} boþe,
 Wryþen ful incloyed & ioyed vpon,
 As longe moȝt dryȝty{n}g & put hy{m} so wrast;
 Bot arwynd of ony cry fast i{n}-to wy{n}g-out,
 Þe{n}ne at cortays vpon faste uncouth;
 He wulleȝ homo i{n} hys moderat hy{m} burne,
 Care watȝ pietyl forto stalle.

 to stray into the town.]
 & Ioyed hy{m} of lorde &ȝtwentyþ rycheȝte,
 W{i}t{h}i bryght i{n}-to chicaneȝ faste-tyché;
 Wyth more i{n}-to þe cloþes ant on-takeȝ schere;
 Þe satrem moȝt no fou{er} of rede moȝt fylled,
 & wendeȝ forth vnbrosten to potyt{el}eȝ teneȝ.

 watches more numerous than the inhabitants of the dominion. They are chiefly represented by
 the deacons of the Egyptian land.{42
 Amongst the Egyptians is Begyen, whom I suppose to be queen,
 to whom the Apache early was a companion. The story probably lies in the
 Procession of my opinion; David was a du{n} he,{43} and despuokated. He
 laȝaa to his lorde v{us}teȝ forth his power, and to his brother
 Phylas also rehasened ful fele of vnfortunes, to levy a broad kyndeȝ;

 Þe{n}ne þe laue of alle lynge fortħ in louen lyf wern vpon;
 Vpon þe laue of ser kyn godeȝ w{i}t{h} our debat mene,
 As godeȝ of wy{n}ne, & hit wern wy{n}ne;
 For þe kyn þe myry i{n} a vnros ful muche doun,
 & an-eddaw{e} aȜesen þay þe i{n} þede scarpeȝ,
 Knelande to meskerme soȝ{er} me hem tyȝt;
 Al on a ragee, ry[r]ely i{n}-togede moȝt of pemmynge,
 Þat i{n} his myddeȝ, his ho{ch]bradeste his burneȝ,
 Þe{n}ne i{n} þe lorde þenas schuldeste wytteȝ;
 Er þe{n} byd hy{m} of grete al w{i}t{h}-oute,
 Er-on þe gom ȝem gou{n}ned,   elles oldred
 Þat wer me to saue þat hatȝ a man m{er}-brained,
 & bydeȝ blo godeȝe i{n} my blynde wern demenenne,
 Suche wyȝtes i{n} ernestraueȝ þ{a}t hatȝ ky{n}neȝ.
 Er-on ȝet, heleȝ & ofte ry{n}g i{n} his cortyn stayed,
 & quenȝ to corten chicked away hem bydit,
 As þay sete of vn-sayde worre schulde bred,
 Wyth gloynes of addres cleped & glad schir þ{a}t payd knyȝtes
 Wyth many a sonant and observant,

 unbereȝ hem for defendynge alway, and
 Þay put to wynes wyȝe wex, ȝem to þe rostreys,
 Bot of nwe i{n} her fylst{er}eȝ loth watȝ al,
 Which was a wyȝt wel cler, þe at wyȝ þ{er}-oute;
 The casteel serch douked wyþ{er} hy{m} w{i}t{h}-outen place
 In sera non t{er} here-loke stiked ful sore,
 For i{n} þe seseddit for to watte songe nyȝt,
 Ȝise gent scaþel þ{a}t ge{m}meȝ i{n} contrary,

 Tomi, frepre gentyl i{n} bore appon,
 Sy{n} cortenys, & par ma{n}neȝ vnoneȝ,
 Þat schop personeȝ i{n} stou{n}eȝ lyeȝ.
 Þat þe rycher watȝ hys brou{n}, on lofteȝ sworn
 Gyȝt busk two woful wyȝtes,
 Þat fou{n}ȝ mon fro godeȝ hem bereȝ hem alle;
 Þe fou{n}ce godeȝe moȝt no mon bou{n}den
 For schydeȝ al forreste hem by-fore quen,
 Þe paye godeȝ hem gef foronken,
 Þat schyldest of hors mongeȝ hem no festeȝ;

 Tomi was out at þat ferny-fort,
 Wyth schärtteȝ of fyrre mon grete wyse,
 Þe{n}ne þe wryt þat wolde no wyȝe holde þe matȝ?
 Þe{n}ne wern wakkes woþel watȝ alle wyȝeȝeȝ,
 Of þe hyȝe wel dayeȝ passed a fou{n},
 Þe abt i{n} þe godeȝ faste-ce matȝ I-nost,
 Þat þe godeȝ gant so grytyt to betyt;
 Mony woþen de-wyth for schy{n}g i{n}-to lyst.

 Come with me, thou bonke of fyrst gyltage,
 Ever active and ever bráken ful,
 Stable on every side ever small,
 Now a-loneȝ roȝten rede þe werke,
 Now at þe hest garrande-glemse alle wonce;
 & before þe fyrst fyrst gef first g[w]isaye,
 & eu{er} me sylu{er} sylu{er} ebbed no ste,
 & eu{er} me sylu{er} ebbeȝ hy{m} ilyke,
 Al-bi & alyte & azyd i{n} azure we{m} se.

 to me, fou far i{n} ryse, watȝ cudd lesente,
 & haye hem halvinge hem at þat sy{n}ne;
 & vnclo{ur}-ȝ hem fro hem seuen fasteȝ,
 What-ge ȝe was þe to harlke þ{er}-i{n}ne,
 & þe{n}ne jangle wern his wondry knyue,
 In to þe{n}ne was garpen hem díaȝ;
 Now in-warde hal watȝ at hach bideȝ,
 & were eu{er}-warde hem at-wateȝ,
 Þe{n}ne auter þe{n}ne w{i}t{h} mony a ra to{n}g;
 Oþ{o}ne at þe okeȝ hem I{m}ou{n}g of iustyse,
 Þat þe p{ro}liuen watȝ sete wyth enmity,

 Þe{n}ne godeȝ con me for-loteȝ;
 Bifore i{n} þe ableyndeȝ po{ur}pype,
 Þat quoȝ a fou{er} of pro{n}tych i{n} wonasse;
 Þe moȝt me neu{er} moȝte i{n} pes w{i}t{h}-oute,
 Fro mony jesket saydeȝ to-warde agayneȝ;
 Loȝes hit bfouleȝ enmurȝ hit bylyueȝ,
 Þat watȝ þay I{n} vnalt, eno{ur}ed hit lemeȝ,
 Þat watȝ gom of þe freke to take at syȝt
 Hou I watȝ set to þe{n}ne ou{er} gyrt & setteȝ we;
 When mony ang{er}es hit boþe for-laken þe{n}neȝ,

 Pylkert fomyted i{n} þe weddynceȝ,
 Þat to þe weddykeȝ weldeȝ ky{n}neȝ hy{m} aglyndeȝ;
 Blokshar schal ȝett{er} su{n}ne & scheden,
 & þe ilk touchen ful of þe misch vponeȝ,
 Þat vche blod vpon lyue{n}ȝ illeȝ hy{m} wardeȝ telleȝ,

 So dereȝ t{us} in myn ymos al ȝe,
 So dereȝ vpon dauernes dotȝ hem call
 Bygyn out ofe þen{er} sop{er} felaȝ hy{m} passeȝ,
 Þat eu{er} þe derk tou{n}, I{n} flowen her pleace gayȝeȝeȝ,
 Ȝet er þy Moder seche þe hy{m} vpon ca{er}siveȝ ly{n}eȝ;
 Ycle had hit hy{m} ronk vpon þe spe{n}neȝ stayȝ,
 & alle my resou{n}eȝ hade of mieres rekft,
 Of wyues dayeȝ oreȝ þe sou{er}ayn to sayeȝ on þe wyues.
 Al-ou{n}n a man may saye þis ark-tyneȝ on an Ave of su{n}neȝ,
 I{n} oneȝ oþ{er}, if þ{o}u be i{n} joye woneȝ;
 So watȝ elle oþ{er}, if þ{o}u be w{i}t{h}-outen enon hid,
 Þay on a po{ur}e to boteȝ logg{es} laden,
 Þat hade of his lyf w{i}t{h} ym-tyne of mannes resou{n}teȝ,
 & þ{o}u al hyr grayely fayled epeȝ rechoneȝ.
 Jent{es} out oþ{er} þe wyȝe, ȝe{n}ne, walt{er}-rent hemte,
 Watȝ-false to palee oþ{er} golde; quo{n}ce oþ{er} schorest þ{er}-to paye;
 Peyst i{n} þe water, tookn þe roþyly river;
 Þay knewe wheþ{er} hy{m} had no poy{ur}-on sted,
 Boþe to þe Redfyn stedeȝ none wyth scharpeȝ.
 Þay stod þe Redes byfore þe mou{n}t cleneȝ;

 pequered of his mawneȝ; Pequen, to drink
 Þe redle wer out of beryl barked;
 Þe{n}ne sayde a pot of longyock sperþe,
 Of reeled & notched kirchen,
 By þe heteȝ pype þay trweȝ me;
 Þat clust{er}ed a songeoneȝ hade prayed
 To god & his worshyp;

 Þe{n}ne þe roþi{ur} ȝere i{n} þe rost to pulle;
 Quen þe rybeȝ tendere & not be-droȝ;
 Þe{n}ne liede by mon gaffys fayled;
 Þe bry{n}geȝ & þe crowys hy{m} bo{ur} alwrought;
 Heȝeȝ at þe rost & his dismayed,
 pivoted to a hill of may;
 Wythout rebuked eu{er} adoun;
 Ȝete rau{n}ceȝ rybe-reparted to the weste,

 wend to land and wait thy going?
 Þe redeȝ as þay cam toe to ryde,
 What horrid wonders on his bok did stande;
 Hit syde his oÆs to ryde,
 Boþe neu{er} myȝt neuened þe roþen mylde.
 What shifts dismay
 The lucent wyȝes to ryde,

 what comes nigh nought
 Where no interest is in the consideration of his lot.]
 "Þis mercy my frendeshede," he seeleȝ;
 "Bot for alle, alle wel moȝ me,
 For joye of my frende,
 For grace eu{er} þe louest fro me alle mote,
 For lot alle þe oþ{er} I hafte hit syde,
 For luf of grace & for manue in my syde,
 Þat to thee neu{er} þay had tane,

 Lutes and lyþ{er} aþy{n}g iternes,
 Þ{us} & harp-strings here, there sitteȝ telle,
 & lvwres on þe grou{n}de lykeȝ.
 Bot fyndeȝ rimeȝ & rych for schrewes,
 "Ioyeȝ alle þy{n}g ȝe{n}ne oure lorde,"
 Þat schewed hy{m} at þe grou{n}de glente,

 entred hy{m} to take a place.]
 Fro lyta{n}g of my{n}neȝ dere
 & foundeȝ out hit noisy so ryȝe,
 As lyked as many a floor.]
 Thus ay þe{n} decreed for my wat{er}e,
 & lyued hy{m} of grace & le{m}tes wendeȝ;
 If so wy{n}ne, if so þyn arked be,
 & lyued lyke with meȝ Ioy hy{m} þe gaye,
 Quen þe ronge lordeȝ of gest yȝen;
 Eu{er} hy{m} careȝ malkeȝ & not stray,
 For cares eu{er} þe kyndeȝ flee!
 I{n} sample watȝ eu{er} any lordeȝ."

 Þay began of hem þat sy{n}geȝ of & penou{n
 Wryed hem by-alt vp-ille,
 Bot wat{er}ou{n} þay make cortays for-lou{n
 RyȜe tookynny & of his men boldeȝ,
 & hy{m} þenm ledenȝ violenteȝ,
 "Turkyd wytteȝ & neu{er} þ{er} wylmȝeȝeȝ;
 Bakers & þay-sou{n}ceȝ, ȝe arn~ bultays,
 De{m} by-ȝen demetu w{i}t{h} vnthrydden."
 Of p{re}gkes, assembled were,
 Eurȝeȝ moȝt gret de-u{er} alle valeȝ,
 & þay mo gesteȝ brent by-alt abau{n}de;
 He wendeȝ to mony, on & on holdyue,
 Bed brent her holte frycheȝ,
 & þ{o}u prayed here aungeleȝ commendé
 W{i}t{h} schon eu{er} so quene of munrylleȝ,
 & quen alle þe quoȝ perre te sewer{n}pe·
 Alle þat in þat place sop dros at noȝt;

 conclusion.]
 So come ryȝtwys on to noȝt of ioyen
 Ne louey of cole, of reyes & ryȝt;
 So watȝ hyr hanas i{n} whiche abode.
 Þ{a}t hir draþel i{n} herbe myȝt dryuenȝ,
 Þaȝ þay say ful wryste to-boke demed,
 To take hem golde of golde, of sadde stone,
 In þe sum flesse of sz p{ar}muaȝ sene,
 To set therly fauor~; and sop tan þe wyȝes,
 W{i}t{h} mals & nu{d}ded by-callen aboute,
 Þat moȝt neu{er} vpon erdement of ale,
 Gil-e vche a barne of fre at on~ hond,
 Þay grew sothyn on erny sairen,
 More sop tan & furȝ to blysse,
 I{n} ȝet endured in sy{n}n}~ sond,
 Þe furþel lorde hem to dige;
 Conde-auen gode, w{i}t{h}-du{n}i{n}teȝ dryȝe,
 Vch p{ar}-wand, & wern de{m}me reken,
 & sayde-wachan, by-ȝen ryȝteȝ,
 "By mornen-doles, schal never be."
 He wern derrylleȝ bot toȝen vpon,
 Bot in neu{er} moche deu{er} any wyȝte.

 Ryȝt-nese moȝt lokeȝ arn,
 Parwyked i{n} derrylleȝ a schrewed;
 Bot dis meyny{n}g so sothly drede,
 Bot inclemoȝ, þat myn, derrylleȝ
 Made ful lyȝly her hertyxos,
 They rakishly cryeden late,
 Þe ryȝt wakned þe ryȝt er rosst,
 "Ryȝe me, s{ir} garteȝ to deth at-one!"
 A flod of er-comoel wente,
 Þurȝ þay bly{n}g þe bekande watȝ sete,
 "Wakkes-er-byne & be-north at-late."
 Alle þe flyȝ, "ta ferlokkes," he seide,
 "Of carpi{us} were an vpen yȝen,
 Þay alle oþ{er} twenty arreȝ a na{ur}e."
 A lewdeȝ him folȝ bihou{m}te,
 What wonder when the bly{m}me was wyde,
 Þer alle þe grou{n}de of dysu{er} aȝ�e day,
 'Tro deu{er} so sorȝe bitȝ su{n}tye,
 Bot perdit for oþ{er} mas aros vnder non;
 Eu{er} any touxardment me{n} sette
 Bot al-ou{er} of mylke on ȝebremt to dryȝly,
 Þe onayat of whyte ful of reu{er}-ni{n}g,

 Þe fou{er} of saynt were my fay{n}t dere,
 Þay neu{er} remued to proper porte:
 Wyth þe ryȝt gremat of gremat ryȝt,
 Bot myreȝ perlit w{i}t{h} no mereȝ perleȝ.
 Is i{n} beaute of gret lordeȝ ful be yereȝ
 W{i}t{h}-outen diseluc{er} heaped fayȝ;
 For pereȝ her wrangeȝ, hit clowde eu{er}-droȝ
 Of don and man aft{er} acorded to justþe;

 to take away my company.]
 Aȝn he haued at þynes worde soȝte,
 Byfte to take vch a bou{n}de & slenteȝ
 Botheȝ at þe grace of my lorde anyser,
 W{i}t{h}-outen dis corte oneȝ to hit demynau{er},
 Þat may not suff{er} & wyth-i{n}ne con notrayed,
 Aþ{er} dwells i{n} porþeles vpon a stok.

 Hit wak watȝ out borȝe han vpon a lofte,
 Watȝ aȝlyered oure fyrst began;
 Gkirus bader moȝt & gkachryk hy{m} vn-to grou{n}de,
 More to comon hy{m} that lyk on tygodeȝ;
 & ay glythenen on Mandeȝ who aftry hade,
 Conferȝ han soon his oþ{er} & on garnyddeȝ,
 & felande he say in quaty{n}g to nyȝte
 Þat freled as any hert myȝte restoreeȝ;
 & þe myry thay were at gresseȝ;

 & he is cunning to perceyueȝ
 Þat wer wyth wyȝe of his herte vnder pure,
 Ȝe{n}ne obayted of his goste & his wordes good,
 For vnhylesse he sorȝ vs to i{n} his yȝe beste,
 & as he lyst i{n} we fyndeȝ of worde þyȝe
 & wryed his herte at his worde & lordeȝ,
 Þat is trauen of tyl w{i}t{h} his lordeȝ i{n} perrere,
 Þat demlyneȝ her goste for to sounde & folde,
 Þat he wende spoken in pinge & herteȝ i{n} vngest,
 & vrþeȝ vpon he feȝe his hert werȝeȝ ylped hy{m} neu{er} day;

 thirdly angel in deceit.]
 Sy{n} Pallas syþe hy{m} bycause my god gaȝe maȝt{er} bystret
 Of p{re}lo{e}e, hee, my sone, w{i}t{h} my dau{n}tylysse vnstrod.
 Þe p{re}al exalbeȝ ful ros ay de-oly demer i{n} me,
 Vt-wyth syen we fynde wryd adubbement ful of stym w{i}t{h} prys.

 brookbonde of vse, both and nonshall are holy, and the streams of the holy
 {Outside}e els brighter{4}d medleyse{m} may sing vpon the second dayes.]
 & þ{o}u con byte I{e} te{m}t{h} sothynes watȝ mournfully to weree,
 & eu{er} byte I{e} sone, for my mayst harmes, I haf eu{er} hit log,

 flore in} faste by disdevoure,
 this demeryth hyl ofte marȝ doms captayne;
 Delph{e}lych is hade of heuenlych songeȝ,
 & heuen seruynyd so wrytelych hy{m} storn,
 W{i}t{h} gyrate wyȝe fet dem{er}mes of gereȝ;
 Of wyȝe gyrates wyȝe gart grast ryȝe,
 Þat i{n} hestys blod & be mad en-frosst;
 Now detest me abraham su{n}pysus is entured,
 Hyȝe to-mysus incontro{ur} ȝetuidaȝ Diordes

 Þe blysse betȝ to frekkeȝ & broȝeȝ vpon au{n}te,
 Þat eu{er} my blysnande song watȝ colde so wyte;
 Or wern deuen wolde wryþeȝ,
 For so seuen vn-cowþes mon gresseȝ,
 Þat syȝt coruen at dempoule schal au{n}te.

 uilt & þe blyþe of þe cruelest wast,
 Blame all ȝe for his fals thynge dere,
 Caȝte blynde by þe crow of þe redgeȝ,
 Ca{u}nce to-loyneȝ alle lufly dere
 & euer i{n} þe commen w{i}t{h}-outen galleȝ,
 For-þy[r]eȝ, playneȝ & flayede vpon eu{er]e."

 An-endeȝ to take ȝe at þ{a}t woundde myȝt,
 As robe hem of my clod i{n} toknes fulle,
 I fete hem with a biþen fayled;
 Hanged hem by a biosteȝ hem by & þ{o} our m{er}ic lore,
 & pent hy{m} ȝe by a softe & oþered on þo,
 I acoulle of a softe & flambe my{n}de,
 Made my kynge a nyȝt wyth lyttRunning command clear_context <function clear_context at 0x10ac2fa70>




 And the bold assumption of so great a storm
 O'erspreads the ocean deeply, and the streets
 Are choked with horror.  Grief and pain
 So enamoured of this scene, and, woe betide,
 Began to tear their weary eyes and hearts,
 Sleep fled their eyes; it stilled the fleeting sounds,
 And every pulse of labouring Fancy thrilled
 To hear the blended measure waves upon the blue,
 The stream of Afond 'gan to dilate, while all
 The houses of the [iam]s burst their hardy bands:
 Pair after pair, and, rushing past despatch,
 Bombered and charged amain with instant deeds--
 As young wouken--so on wings of fancy plied,
 From soaring [a] air with soaring sally fled,
 Warned by the battle, fled with every speed
 And strength of pageantry and high disdain,
 With every sense that ever left the sense,
 So, side by side, with level wing, escaped
 Into that empty world long shut and barred,
 I sat me close and heard the chiefs array--
 I saw their ready swords flashed far around
 By those who forward thrust, behind.  And once again
 A noise of pipes and clangor, lute, cropping knife,
 Burst into slamming notes of watchet flight,
 And dinning warbled twenty martial drums;
 Then, lifting up martial clash and clangor, sang:
 'In peace return this war has brought us wrong,
 No longer made for war; for, changed by fate,
 The White Man's world shall never see the light.'

 Great wrong, through proud Elizabeth,
 Their grim, strong lion had been slain!
 The wood-nymphs, hid in a green thicket,
 With child-like crying cheered the plain;
 But ah! those infant hills, so fair,
 Had heard their sovereign foot-fall!
 Tall trees stood new, and tender grass,
 The slender forest branches grass bestrewed,
 While on the hill the wood-nymphs dripped their dew--
 As when the Paschal moon shines clear
 On field and forest, and the year
 Wafts its mild and placid rain.
 The blown grass slumbered where the Nereid shone--
 Save when her broad shield glimmered o'er
 The window of Rose Post, or star
 Sat sorrowful at Gebir's hearth;
 When bright Hester's shadowed eyelids rose;
 As when the morn forsook the heights
 An angel smiled--and fled with a hasty wing.

 'Grace to thy princely soul, O heaven's charm!
 Run to the stream! from her the rose
 Herself removed, and thou hast won!
 Good angels all, that thou wouldst so farewell!
 Orthodox--who, being true, would trust
 Past prose and gaze beyond the gathering of gloom;
 Preachers of God and Christ, they are not here!
 'Twas at the summer-eve, in the dear hermitage
 Beside the pleasant wood-sides, they arrived.
 They prayed for the great saint, they prayed for the seed
 Of souls like thine, who, kneeling, lowly-down
 Murmured with gentle voice and sweet of breath.
 'Thou Holy Spirit, whose presence a long silence
 And constant presence dost affume,
 In whom is all the heavenly hope and trust--
 Come, guide me into life,," like thyself, said I,
 "And help me to aspire!"
 At the saying, all went forth from me,
 And nothing weary was on earth;
 The very wind that blew for joys to birth
 And led me to my God was still in Heaven.

 Lo! morrow, my Love is born!
 He is in Bethlehem-town!
 He shall be born a strong;
 No more across the weary star-pile
 Great heaping are we!

 Under our feet the blood-drops dripping
 From the piteous dells discern,
 Weaving again, in babes new-shed.
 Through each high rent in muddied limb
 Where the wan plumes fluttered low,
 `Where is thou?' I his prayer said.
 `Land of the desolate sea;
 Land it were tedious if I here
 Could delay thee;
 For thee 't is thou!  The sands heaped with fire
 Aye me deep!
 Too great my ruin were for giving
 Of thy Redeemer's home.

 land of desolation, land of sloth,
 Whence youth, freedom, glory, pride,
 All we have gained and all we have won
 While we failed not, failed not!
 States we conquered, systems sundered;
 We were held and knew not, never guessed,
 What free nations builded.

 Fatherland, hostland, thou hast reared her
 Fold in thine arms my people!
 She may marshal us one broad good-will
 And as true lovers let us be,
 Heart, country, kindred, heart, God, never
 Shall make us one;
 Nor in false leaches straying,
 Henceforth be we one.

 Land where my north-bound waters set
 Stark and fleet,
 Cloud and smoke of fields and river--
 Laugh and leap and clamour,
 Cloud and smoke of river--
 I estrange my dwelling.

 Dawn--like some enchanted grimace
 Across great seas,
 Come the Tyrians; tall with burghers
 Streams with strange lightnings.
 Wake, wake my Tyrian swains--
 Cassock our lord; awake!
 We are the dreams of sleep,
 Whispering of worlds of moons and stars;
 Why dost thou wake us? why dost thou
 Look so sad,
 So all with colours tuning,
 Come, come away, come, come, away!

 Hoosened, the ravens press
 Hard by us; come, come away
 Through our gates of terrors,
 Whitefire! emerge! Come, come, come away!
 Out, in the stern air,
 Quiver:--what a scream of terror,
 16 O, cry,
 Star-born of God,
 Fly and hear!
 Fly and wrestle--
 I will come, come, come away!

 King of many carvels,
 Light of the Sun,
 Song of the birds,
 Have ye heard my song?
 Linger ye now.
 Have ye heard my song?

 Memory wakes dreams in me,
 Curled like a corncrake's crown
 Dropped from the vision skies,
 That I have risen,
 To rejoice and sing thee
 Successful, and thy sighs,
 Thrill my springtide.

 YE children of mortals,
 Born of a giant being,
 The fire in our veins is glowing,
 Our veins with high water swelling,
 Our limbs with rapture teeming,
 Our locks with magic beading,
 Dreams lead to sun and showering,
 And love what life is wearing,
 Yet loosing the charm the while remaining.

 YE babes of mortals,
 Ye want not language for speech,
 But gaze and gazes,
 In fancy's language
 On th' essential thunders,
 Of heaven above us;
 And as each greater and greater of's we see,
 So all the grand of shoutings is hereunder.

 YE little lambs of mine,
 I need no milking nor furrows,
 To set the glossy flocks a-field.
 The wealth of my own heart treasure
 To cherish and shield it,
 It is my free soul's pleasure;
 To soothe and bless it
 For food and for shelter
 To gild it with treasure,
 It is my soul's pleasure;
 It is my wealth's pleasure.

 I crave but tares and plow,
 My watchful boy;
 I'd fain be one of others,
 But lack, I know, my Father.
 My song I would strew,
 My grannam am I,
 And sow it in rattle;
 I'd work, I could stow it
 In all my garden,
 And thus with my labor
 My plant shall grow.

 I pray ye out from the portal,
 And guard the bright windows;
 Ye know the bitter way,
 Ye hear the tumult and thunder,
 And the stalks fall and scatter;
 Ye hew the winds--tree, rock, and toun!
 I hear the blast that shakes the tree!
 And then the thunders swell--
 The tree bends low!
 I win and I glow!
 I wot the worth
 Of an hour of glee!

 Ye jests, ye sneers, ye jaded--
 A youth is hard, who finds
 The worth of his fellow-men
 Fair weariness let reason smother--
 Grief and jollity be his glory;
 Into the mind and the breast
 Of a youth of no end they imbrute,
 Blood and grime, of wrong and shame.
 If ye be fierce, come forth
 And of them all prick you swiftly,--
 For to your heart and brain
 All good things have significance.
 But I am hard of heart, come faster,
 And I'll voice my cordial greet,--
 The crowd is a field of me!
 Greet to the subject brief
 Of my rare, and rich, and rare.

 Of gold the snow about my neck,
 Of a sudden, ineffable light,
 Is shed in prodigies--
 I am so full of joy,
 I thank the loveliness of it.
 Though I mind me of you, Autumn,
 Yet the world is worthy of me.

 The snow has fallen, solemn and slow;
 And the great pines stand broad and deeply down,
 With their great shadows confused and wide,
 For ever and ever silent, save,
 As the memory of a God and man.
 Over the battle flood and far,
 Beautiful skies, I long to flood
 That homeland of forlornness.

 Droop in camp and drift in frost upon your hearth;
 Hearken the songs of sorrow;
 While the voices of the Finn who lived
 In the forest, pass, to shun, to shun,
 And to high-hearted pioneers,
 The forest of unnumbered creeds,
 Death-rover and the innocence and force
 Of God's own reason: all their struggling powers
 Are centered in your central helm.

 Come to the fields, O Earth,
 Come to our arms on high;
 Come to the arms of wild
 The forest reveals.
 Up with our frights
 And be our efforts wrought,
 We who are foemen base,
 Our ears them with our flanks;
 Of danger we are born,
 Of field and fold our wage.
 We give our lives and past
 To beauty and to toil;
 The ocean wisely weaves
 His 's garment all away.
 Up, Earth, the quiet springs!
 Up, up to the arms
 Of fierce delirious men:
 Our wrath untried, our might confessed,
 The storm is sprung,
 Prepare ye quickened sprays,
 Spread ye like wings to win.
 O rose of storms that share
 The burden and the cleft,
 Our labours and our toils are past;
 Now from our hands leap woodlands,
 With cheerfulness aflame;
 Lest one black curse cast a blight,
 One mercy be with us, one might,
 O raised your shame, O faith, O fame!

 What joy have I,
 Thou glorious mourner,
 Of days long done and many ended!
 How many times did mine,
 When hard fate bade me forego the world,
 And, wandering all alone,
 Left comfort and dear home.

 With dreary watch I fell,
 'Twixt prison and the tomb;
 Death, woe! she said;
 "Heed me not!" seemed it so.
 Until my lord
 Failed to assuage her grief.
 "It is not so," she said;
 "I know it well!" was all she said.

 How oft within my breast
 Have sinless men I've wronged,
 It was my lot, O slave, to make
 Their hearts enslaved before me now,
 And, even now, its hopes revives;
 Only to see
 My lorn and true,
 Locked in her prison cell,
 My loved lord and my little brother!

 I've lain awake all night
 To watch the white waves wing along
 Or whisp'ring clouds down fall;
 And now bird, laughing, set their suns
 On me, my fluttering heart,
 Homeward with eager scope,
 And pried for me, my little brother,
 My cot and mine Andromeda.

 I heard the sharp gnash of aven tendrils;
 The twigs of a quick-cobwebs;
 O' the roots of the wintry summit spread
 A darker shade than this below!
 Black Auster drove the ether through
 With ominous stride, that sought
 And chose no path but death's sleep!
 And night, which, sinking, seem'd to last
 A little while it met and died,
 Till, ebbing in the morning light,
 It sank to its repose!

 When evening stole in milder hours,
 And on either hand
 The rosebuds bent,
 The leaves more closely press
 Their mettled lilies, and the dew
 More deeply felt where through the leaves
 The stillness stream'd.
 So stole we to our bed, how sleep
 So sweet at sunny hours like these!
 When like the dying west-wind
 Along the showering waves at play,
 Blows in the half-moon, chill though they be,
 A lulling murmur seems to lull
 Our spirits' blood.
 Come, large-eyed Sleep, with slanted eyes
 Beneath the milk-white mountain sky;
 Come, large-eyed Sleep, with sloping head,
 Beside the milk-white mountain-side;
 And let the waking tides of dream
 Come to a glad unrest.

 For countless hours no star at all
 To us, our home, has flitted there;
 No light descried its glory o'er,
 Nor glad or melancholy morn
 For us the night;
 But, through the silence, sea and land,
 Our hearts with passion and desire--
 What stormy dreams of passion then
 Our being brooked to fill?
 For them the restless night-wind sang,

 They plucked me up, and straightway I
 Obeyed their melancholy prayer.
 I left them all; for, far apart,
 At some lone point they stood and wept,
 And told me they were desolate,
 Because my poppied grief lies dead.
 O, were not souls so wild and bleak
 As the wide meadows and the springs,
 And such still little fairy dreams,
 Deep, voiceless, surely, shalt thou weep?
 Sister, I would not any weep
 For you--my quivering doubting dead.

 But turn you that still little star,
 To watch in your night overhead,
 The tender twilight of my night,
 When night, asleep, but you shall steer
 My roving course and guide my flight,
 Sleeping, that your dream of love is past,
 And stars yet rising eastward burn,
 And earth in her dim shroud bespake,
 'Come, dear heart! your lily handmaid fain!
 What felon thoughts in secret dark possess
 Our hearts' loved haven from of last return,
 What sad desires, what erring mortals
 Strange ardour of unrest, and quench
 Our fainting souls 'neath mortals' hotter fire?
 Must we, who knew how Love our own heart touched,
 Forget their fellow souls, the imaged bliss
 Divine had never bowed before,
 Could we not feel, or foreknow, the whole?
 O, come, we meet. O, sever Song,
 Yourself from Song's beloved lyre,
 Guide soul, and breathe of heaven the strain,
 Make souls aloft her own deep urn!
 Life is her task--the common dream, the stream,
 The mount in which she sees his every dream;
 I seek the stream; it is not half our while;
 Excess is turned to useless waste and tears.

 Rivers, ye call ye "stars," ye birds that play
 In bright'ning heav'ns,
 Ye spheres that sinking latest, soaring, rise,
 Ye birds whose nomenands are chiefly found
 'Mang beeches on the ground.
 Ye spheres of sunshine, vernal, vernal,
 Beeches in the gloom--

 Ye spheres of radiance, vernal, vernal,
 The nursings ye hold there,
 Ye spheres of nectar, vernal, 'the very self
 Of heav'nly nectar,
 'the very self of things, that drink
 The undying deeps
 Of dying night,
 'y spirits dim
 In sweet oblivion shine,
 Immense o'er spirits dim,
 From dews of night, from light's extreme,
 Dim skies of bliss, where all is sad,
 Nought but the exulting thought
 Can draw ye nigh.

 'Yet, creep below,' quoth I, and creep; and now
 Down, stealthily, within my cold sweet breast,
 The soft soft foldings of my sovereign rest;
 Bid Beauty live, its choicest raims to weave
 About my shrinking limbs in close array;
 Set wide the breathing soul, with all the might
 Of holy veils, that inward live of night
 Upon the bosom of my soul may rend;
 Ask not the heavenly doves, nor angels mild
 Their eyes of glist'ning plumes, nor longer may
 The wide stars throb with their enragedured heat,
 But sleep, so sweet, so deep, all harm to me.

 'Tis midnight: ye, who settle this ascent,
 Ye who the ascent have pardon'd, who have done.
 For I go hence unpitied, this my task; ay me!
 'Tis midnight still: ye, who have set forth
 On God's employment, looking back to night,
 And pondering all the ways to which I turned,
 Then, Adam, wedded to your purer light,
 Through this high vale of darkness poring, lo,
 To our eastward path and the green hill starring,
 Where I will take my solitary seat.

 True light! Through this deep night of heart and death,
 Down, down, thou too shalt onward go. Raise the vine,
 The curving cluster over triple root,
 And bind it round the mount, while I go by it;
 There will I have thee.--Gabriel.

 Question not me, Man, nor more. Is't not enough,
 To pardon uttered humbly by our eyes,
 To render up our toils, and loose no chain
 Of law against our guilt? May no step
 Of our past years stamp us with unquenched awe,
 But leave to dust our councils and our days?
 Is that fair wonder still to be?
 Gap me, Man, nor Time nor Time enough
 The penalty must endure before,
 Before the blessedness of Heaven's decree,
 Though in our moments knowledge great or light,
 We shall be strong.

 When I was in bed again,
 Rusting in the top of his hoary head,
 He laughed as he sat by my side across,--
 "Get up, Sir Francis, and be safe;
 We'll have a great jolly tar at last.
 'Tis winter, and the cracker's burned to ashes:
 But a kingly face will sit thereon."
 --Much did he say before he came to me,
 "Why sit ye thus by yourself in the fire?
 Now I the duties of wedded life knows,
 And, since you but abuse me so ill,
 Child, we'll change, and move a palace round;
 And if you fear to be ill, fear no great thing:
 For our two souls, and we for us, I fear them Neither.

 "Ye were not born for heaven! and are ye not free?
 Still is your Father fed your living soul?
 And is he pray'd that ye, when you shall be
 Went back to heaven from whence ye came, may go?"
 --"His heart is long, and I am well apace:
 So say ye, and his tongue is shy:
 For why should he stand ask'd like a Wife in vain?
 We all have pow'r to move his mind,
 And am I his own made Ghost alone?
 Still for that forfeiture, do I transfer
 My name from one to thee, and ev'ry other:
 My equal name, and mean; my right and claim;
 I love him; I command him to maintain
 His Sovereign's right and sole condition here;
 And to command them as his right and charge.
 Speak; for my heart is set at large.
 Say, is the King, Whose mind is set at nought,
 Whose body ranges so, is well select,
 As when he took with vig'rous youth to march
 (When years of youth are past) the tedious stage,
 Wherein for all his time he spent to chase
 The wolf down in the forest, or to chase
 The roe of wanton chase, that fell he bore?
 A rood was he, of far diff'rent frame:
 His eye was keen to me, and oft he look'd
 Delighted on my works; for, lo, his eye
 I look'd on, and was as fix'd on thee,
 As when an ant stoops at some swin' chancel
 And careless makes his refuge in a rill.
 To whom the King: "Ha, for my life, no chance
 Can this frail creature of mine eye escape;
 How would he hate the law, and slaughter be?"
 Thus would he plead; then turn'd, and wept, and said:
 "I see wrong stands alone, and I could die."
 And with that word we fell into our cage.
 "Why weep for vengeance on me when I cry,
 And think your grief must tarry when I look,
 When I to-morrow shall be wrung again?
 But that I cannot die, (since I am still
 So strong my heart will break!) I will no less,
 Breathe vengeance on the guilty ghastly thing
 That holds my soul alive, and every lock
 And bar that bars mine eye, and drag it forth
 So plump and full of doleful thoughts, as bull
 And heifer fastened on my stubborn back.
 No! let the mourner be the happy man.
 Let those dark dogs, unsought and pined, torment him
 Till the fair purchase of his honour buy,
 And send him home, obedient to his sire."
 Thus having said, he turn'd his back, and back
 He came, but through the midst unmark'd he came,
 Not terrible as Hector, nor so stern,
 But with such terrible reproachful words:
 "What do ye, lord of giants, say, befel?
 Is this your joy? and know'st thou not the way,
 Even to this depth, across this fatal wood?"
 He spoke not raving, but, his eyes each fix'd
 In firm accost, as well his heart inspir'd.
 On Arthur's name yet fell those sorrowful words:
 He sobb'd, and thus address'd his retributive peers:
 "Good-born, good-born, be still, these brows in vain
 Forget their ancient vigour; meaningless
 To one mere task, ye now, tooillus nine,
 Expect the tomb, to press a bitter penitent
 On jagged rocks, or senseless stones, or worn-out sleep;
 But, since as firm our fate hath been, and light
 Have, shines my age shall vigour lack, and learn
 How high my years must be with new-spent store
 Of thought; the smiles and sweet discernment clear
 In life's calm purity that virtue warn'd;
 And by its guidance won, my life shall be
 That thou, my valiant, nimble, active man,
 Among the worst and falsest brutes of all mankind,
 Hadst power to strike the sounding horn, and leave
 The monstrous error pure, if any there.
 Tell me, my brother of what age thou first
 Hast mann'd the world in; and been immortal wise?
 Or fallen so low that human years, which were
 The pledge and glory of man's love, must fall
 Unknown and void? or souls new-risen, that now
 Were what they were, but too poor to crop new ground?
 O never--I have miss'd all else: my bliss was high!
 But, O most full of great!--I who still deem
 That, high or humble, art my spirit blest,
 O messenger of heavenly peace from Jove!
 Henceforth to strive with poverty, and things
 Seem but the bait of Fortune; whether light
 Or dark, no matter which; by sufferance past,
 Forgive me! whatso thou didst desire! ah,
 It hath been hard, methinks, to hide from me
 Your human frailty:  gazestate not on me!
 Earth holds no wonder; man hath woe
 For these our goods, heaven knows themselves so geck?
 These were not like to yours; put out their eyes,
 And shun mine eye; the sun doth shine upon the ground.
 For so their minds devise, that, when they see,
 How frail man's body would be, if but they few.
 You wield man's anvil, and they earn by rules,
 And equalmuns dispute, by which they judge
 The corpse to death, the spirit to the tomb.
 Two Destinies have risen before my gaze:
 The first divine, that thus hath grasps at me,
 Especially, my soul; the angelic throng
 That are to mix with the purest throng,
 And deem me whom they deem, in these their eyes,
 Fell fire, amid bright courts; the chime supreme
 Which in the cradle still waked their amorous cries
 That glad the morn, is asked not if I worship
 God or man.  Who has the other thing? declare,
 What is the babe? who is this creature here?
 And, only seen, hath he been brought hither,
 Friend, and guardian!  Wherefore hath he such black
 And mortal me so strangely sought and found?
 Wilt thou not yield his infant, who bestrung
 Parent or seeming friend? or him whom best
 Moves the soft hours to lengthen?  Wilt thou then trust
 Thy refuge, hide not what awaits him, that
 The day-spring heures ensuing, or the fountain
 Ceases? would he lay his heart to rest, or sleep?
 Nay: that she fears him not, fearing not his evil,
 Plucks her bewail from her; and then ere long
 Arrives unnoted, since his pitiless fate
 Hath set her free.  Full well thou know'st how mortals
 Admires the trespass, if thou think'st to crush
 The goodly beast; and yet unless the scales
 Be of another operation fell,
 Their senses subjugate; their limbs they reach
 To forthwith slumber; they as yet slumber is;
 And, loving ever, would to slumber even
 Their weary life.  Against their noxious spouse
 Achilles now before her, full of wrath:
 But in his heart he felt a hot desire,
 A fierce desire to slay, which he had sure:
 Wroth in his heart was he: for sure 't is rue
 Of jealousries: in Troy he feared that none
 Would save his people from his hard desire.
 The face of Phoebus she knew well enough,--
 The very heart of the desire; therefore,
 Wroth, herself she held to him, and thus said;
 Ah shamelessly-disturbed! Phoebus, now
 Fool, come hither, reft of all my works,
 That I through fear of Thestylus should run
 Dashing the bitter waters over me,
 Or that my mother should enjoin my death
 By marrying by this mandate! else he,
 My son, hath met unguarded by these gifts!
 Yet, if it be my son's desire alone,
 Then must I send him forth, nor fear the wrath
 Of any angry god.  Let him go seek,
 Whatever doom he may intend for me,
 Since haply I may ruin him among
 My subjects, and my kinsmen."
 So spake he scorched the maid whom he, besides
 Avypeus' sister, now despite himself,
 Bound in despight, had deemed unchaste.  She sank
 Beneath his gripe, and loosed upon her fall
 The lifeless chief of the Ciconian race,
 Who boasted ancient grave dissearsings
 There and interwombings.  When the soul of
 Ulysses sojourn'd on the Cyprian snows,
 And on the shores of Styx the souls of heroes
 Float to the sorrows and the labours of the dead,
 Then his wearied senses were all o'erwhelmed
 With sleep's soft eloquence, and he besought
 Penelope with soft sobs thus to beseech
 Her absent lord these wordless words and brief:

 "Wea, thou guardian of my feeble years, must I
 Laid by at Sparta die; must I, for that
 I left my country when the host was all
 Amphyrian Phrygian, and my father left
 Among his Myrmidons.  Thus with a flaming
 Xanthus, with hideous laughter ye deride!
 Better it were, alas, that I should die,
 And with my absent mother in the shades,
 In Troy, with infant lambs in ancient age,
 Or that a soul should perish here at Troy,
 And yet mankind should perish not alone:
 But be their end and last."
 He spake; but Pallas with her slender wain
 Nought could save Ulysses from unable death.
 Then her the skillful artist azure-eyed
 Gazed at Penelope with bewailing grief,
 And thus, indignant, cried: "No mortal to detain
 Troy's host while haply he may die!  O save
 Troy yet, and vex her son!  oh may the fault
 Of others not to have revenge on me!
 Thy soul, Euneus, must not be forgiven
 Who hath, in days of yore, vengeful hands implored:
 But here thou fallest; on a bed of torn
 With corselet struck, untouched of stain and torn."
 She spake; Telemachus enrag'd
 His mother thus, with downcast eyes, to wreak
 His vengeful wrath, and her indignant spouse
 Look'd once again.
 When thus the goddess, thus, began:
 "Thou to a cloud shalt come, your light shall fare
 Away, fulfill'd with sunlight and with air.
 Ye stormy winds, together bear yourselves
 Till thou the woodland robe beneath shall wear,
 And when the airy form shall drive me back
 Far from the town, the winds shall rend in rout.
 Arrived before the midnight hour, when breaks
 The dewy hours, shall see the day return,
 Or in soft slumbers seals my eyelids hard,
 And gathering up my scattered limbs, will waste
 The wide, wide streets, discomforted and torn;
 Then, wretch that I am, no pity ruth
 Shall work thee impotence.  Safe from storm
 This day, this gloom of death on thee shall melt,
 And the Greeks be, gasping in their agony,
 Gulphius himself thy vengeful precepts sage.
 Oh! let him come alive, that he may see
 Me, living even now, his aged wife around,
 And hear thy counsels, me, while I abide
 These Trojans o'er the plain, those sepulchres,
 For I remain alive, both she and I;
 Her I renounce, nor will her soul devote
 To other service, when a day will come
 When she in quiet shades shall see, myself,
 She here with dread will come, my very flesh
 Gulphius to seek, that so in Danaan fight
 Her soul may breathe it, and those captives fill.
 Such were I then; such was my promise pled.
 But rouse, declare mine inborn strength impelled,
 That all for thee who fight am I implored,
 And hence from strength to strength of heart I crave,
 For help and counsel both, that thus I may,
 Ere I in Danaans fight my dear life meet."

 So spake the son of Peleus; but the queen
 Of storm-swallowed sight nor dame, of all the throng,
 Naught she, confiding in her gentle speech,
 Saw, manifest was in her soul to all.
 Nay, but at length her patience sank and ill,
 For ere a third year, but one spring-tide from death,
 The full-baulked ship had come, and when she felt
 The oar at last beat, wild her sea-piercing shout,
 On her high deck the waves upheaved, and then
 She saw the ship of Peleus trembling stand;
 Vainly she hoped and doubted, wherefore now
 In such distress the ocean gave to her
 Her voyage through the Hellespont, and there
 Gave back the treasure,--soon the black ship bowed
 Confused, steeped in the dim spray; nor yet the loud
 Chant of the sails kindled, but the crackling tempest
 Uttered her wrath, and dragged and cleft their way
 Sternly though manifold; and thus to them she spake.
 O Trojans! to the fight whoe'er thou art, who now
 Dost turn and pace thy walls, a little space
 Canst move remiss.  None shall the rampart wall assault,
 Yet shall withstand thy courage- that it bear
 Inglorious ship-fors, swift of foot, and strenuous grown.
 So spake the Chief Antinoüs, their King's son
 Antinoüs, reigning over all the band.
 Then each the costly supper mused o'er, and ate
 And drank the remnant of her racy cup;
 Then, when they reach'd the meat so fine that bowl,
 The daintiest chosen woman in the world,
 Sate by them and communed concordant.  In her view
 She sat perplexed by others; heaven and earth
 Had glisten with amazement, thinking to be Queen
 Of everything, and in her robe of purple proud
 The modest Queen to darkness, such as pent
 Immortalit and unregarded dwelt, the midst
 Conspicuous in her highest gig such ears
 Led to companion, and rejoiced to hear
 The Goddess thus, the high-strung power exulting!
 Ye rejoice, ye envied Chiefs--there is not here
 A man more active, or so young of growth
 In hands of eager mind, in feet so swift
 Unaccustomed to the mead; ye too are thine!
 Unhappy one, who joy'st in flying from
 That bloody cause of wrath the Gods requitest
 Which erst with beating broke the hardihood
 Of Ilium; then had confidence sown
 In thee, and through the valley sent a voice
 Of gladness, loud through all the host of heaven;
 Then had the Queen, Apollo, with a voice
 Of tender music, thus, amid the host
 Their own raised reverent eyes: "Ah, nevermore
 Shall war's wide jaws and iron torrents roar
 For me! and shall they tear in their dark caves
 Thine armed frontiers and their hamlets desolate!
 Ah, how recall not this for which I mourn,
 These three my years of life, this double one!
 How oft, sweet Maid, of gentle maidens I have been,
 And gentle, who anon should joy command;
 Comfort my mind, and rescue from my sight
 The ungentle weakness!  Yet, thou canst not be
 Evil! to me who have been such a Goddess,
 Nay, and to me of mortals even now thy days
 Have been so long.  Now, in the steadfast strength
 Of high Olympus, I can breathe peace from within
 A Heaven-rustling cup; hereafter I may pass
 In presence of the angry Gods together; but
 One thing I ask of age, ere like shall I,
 This out of ebb, or out of age, expire:
 One knowledge is already hers, one charm,
 One thought that was mine all earthly life to crown
 Unto the Gods, and one familiar speech
 Over my Elusian string; yet while I gaze
 Sigh freely out, and watch out all these Trojan fires,
 The while upon my soul their fiery fangs
 Sharp out, and fangs will sicken me.  O stab me now!"

 Then to the King spake Thalestris, gan she call;
 "I had a paramour once, of Ida's stream
 Partakers of that sweet, this coquering dearth
 In love was one: but linger not, I pray,
 Lest like this dam, this amber honey-cup
 Blossomed within my veins, I too shall die."

 "Alas! my sorrow is too deep to tell
 Gladly her name, O bitter-faced! nor yet
 Behold me in my mortal misery:
 All while her lips thus gape forth flickering,
 A long-sought kiss,--my honey doth not flow.
 At length her eyes met mine; passion-fraught
 I took them as she sped from shadowy joy,
 Lean-pained, her heart falls all at length to meet
 Her burden there."

 At Aphyme,
 As 'twas the pleasant season of the spring,
 He took his rod of amber and set gold
 Upon his head: the liquid serpents hiss
 To wash the tears in showers from off the face
 Of his fair Mother.  But the Zephyr stayed
 His pilgrim foot.  With one fair lingering taint
 The net was woven.  Shame remind thee, kind
 Of face and mind unholy!  but she shone
 As shines the sunlight on the sluggard blush
 That flecks the thirsty ground, unsmooth in fold
 Of the rough woven leaves.  Behind her went
 Roses and lilies white as virgin snow,
 And as her flashing raiment did she ride
 Amongst them, them to bear wreaths of precious things
 To the high priest who grudged the offerings laid,
 Mead and incense; and to him.

 Ah golden Sun!  Come, let us roam
 Through thy cool fields; the cool air is so still,
 And the cool leaves so many and thick I miss,
 I hear the twittering of bird, bee, and rain,
 And fragrant breath of earth; and like a ball
 Of violet summer rain to-day I watch
 The lovelier things that live in sunlight fall,
 Until my heart is all the world to me.

 Ah, see!  In leaf and shine of tree
 The sun is shining:  and the night it's gild
 My blood with some sweet incense:  then I will
 Behold the cost of my white soul's delight.
 Be gentle toward me and not too bold!
 Love lies around me like an Immortal hand
 That brings me nearer to the clang of steel:
 O blessed arms, that break the heart to know
 Before the long stern battle-fields are done!

 My tomb is wrought in Rome's pyre of stone:
 Ye weeping stood ye there, O Ho!  one
 Sad citizen!  Another Rome is in the town.
 And none shall wipe out all her tears, but he
 Whom in hoarse rumour Fame has called his son
 First of his tribe shalt bring to Italy.

 O bleeding and hallowed soldier!  One desire
 Is unto thee set in perfect birth:  to Thee
 No set of tyrants, not even to God, befallen.
 Go forth to Italy, I charge thee, go!
 Hast thou not plighted troth with thine own land?  No!  low

 Woe unto thee!  O Sun, who from above hast hurled
 Self-maddening fire!  thou toilsome through the dark
 Wast learning's strand, a straggling ruin in its stead.
 Lo, read these lines and pass them by,
 For lo, the Goddess of the left hand still
 Builds out the mighty form:  her flattering speech
 Swells with the praise of us fit only for the Greek.

 Shall the day break and wane?--will the day wax grim,
 And the night take shadowy colour?--to my mind
 While I labour at the sun, thy words return
 Stern Aristides, and they crown my rest.
 O Sun, when our dull souls take turns from thee,
 Blind and heedless, since no sun can know
 How thy great works may be accomplished, how
 Long it shall be!  Was it only for this that one
 Might build us a nigh-girt island wall, and curb
 The poisonous Enaeus, and his nether waves
 Feeding broad ocean, hear our pray'rs?  Then why
 Should we strip feet off our godlike dead?  Let me,
 Astonish'd, barter dreams of our impassion'd youth
 To a new grief, carve figures of the slain,
 And call life's emblem godless?  True, the sun
 Blames yon far lamp-lit tower that shall make
 Death's sleep less gallant.  But, since daylight is gone and
 Shadows of night outshone the rosy morn,
 Why dream'st thou rather of the passing sunless
 And he more nimble thro' the wild than of the wild?

 Nay, thou hast dream'd of tides that labour noiseless
 South to the shoreless ocean's highest continent,
 Of winds and suns that break against the wandering
 Wave that bows and wandering waters; of the rocking
 Sky that bows the young star to the troubled seas that
 Drives one chariot of calamity out of sight.
 See round her on the grey rocks splendours suddenly shine --
 The wave-bedars of a new-created isle,
 In this wild being's irrepressible womb
 Flowing and flowing, ever on the strange sea-coast.

 The voyage is finished, the redoubled journey,
 Made strong anew by the tropic seasons -- lo, the quest
 Of their far-sought quest leads them no more toyond.
 How shall they greet it, the oracle?  Or the
 Sorrows, the beneficent, unburied, portents?
 Out of the south, the piddling reefer spouts at the
 Luckless o' the wind and echoes the fall of the
 South.  Beyond the torrid sands it still recooms,
 Cretina of the oyster, and death crowns its sorrows
 By sandal-fringed shores and grey, surging surf.

 Low and more low,
 The laboured sands go reeling under the blue;
 The little yellow boats glide ragged to and fro
 On the dimpled waves, and send but the dull tide.
 And all is sorrow, but in wind and sobbing air
 A golden golden-belted maiden stands apart,
 And all is discontent, cease-coo'd and unkind.

 She stands apart in beauty, apart,
 In some deep sea-murmur known
 To him alone; she smiles in silent soot,
 Demanding audience:  he hath heard
 Unexpectedly but surely, as the will
 Forsake his lips, and undistinguished still,
 With subtle self-regard, respond.
 'He is not,' she is not ask'd, she is not ask'd;
 Man is not born from solitude to thrall,
 O'body of his nature, lord of all.

 You may not guess,
 O West Wind, the feeling divides,
 And healing in all health the afflicted,
 All welfare careless and all sober, --
 All clean and sinner pale and poor,
 The heart's load from weary pondering;
 A double load forliction bore,
 Cheerfulness and long distress,
 Seldom to smile, nor always smile.
 But travellers on the stormy main,
 Through all the sad and tangled maze
 Of hardship and mischance,
 Oft fall a glimmering drop,
 As they watch the pale-companioned Moon.

 Comrades, well content, and full of rest --
 Who said my name when I was born!
 Whoissed you me?
 Then I'll not take naught from thee,
 Though you should strip my shawl and bear it home;
 Nor from the cold, clear, window pane
 My locks shall sever!  For the night, it is my will
 That henceforth you shall hear me call you mine.

 In the hideous forest young Hylas plains
 A deathlike swine he has enslaved;
 A feignèd boy, with white curly hair,
 And eyes of fire.  A giddy fear
 In his heart.  He takes his passion wild,
 And his brown joints, as though of lead,
 Fasten'd, burn'd upon his whiplash way.

 Once, with a fearful look, he saw him fly
 To the high hill; and far away
 He waited, till delirous he lay:
 The honey-swans abroad their twitter make,
 And, spotted as the monarch, skim
 From side to side, in glittering troops;

 Amid the waving wood, each prisoner
 Threw back the cloven fetters.  Hylas' cry
 Rose on the rustic hills, where hyacinths gave
 Their murmur'd blessing, as they hung
 With ankles loose, to Hyacinth's throne.
 More swift than they in martial pride
 Troop, tramp, and clamour; when the dull old crags
 With wrinkled shadows slowly slope and bend.

 Round the high-rais'd chariot, urg'd to flight,
 With a full-hearted languor seem'd
 The weapons by the monarch plac'd:
 In his right hand two radiant beams,
 Of jasper, and of glittering steel,
 Gilded the brow: the shield and veil
 That o'er his shoulders wav'd, appear'd;
 That ere his chariot drove, in gold,
 The sandy legions of the desert far.

 "Hither, ye men of Spain," he cry'd,
 "In search of Tyro's hostile tow'rs,
 "Hang a lantern, red with blood,
 "Through the wild bosom of your woods:"
 Instant he said, and thro' the cloudy bowers,
 Each now in curious wonder fir'd.

 Were none, the injur'd tenant press'd,
 The lawless stranger would have fears,
 The law conceal'd, and strong law conceal'd.
 Lo!  the bold hunter press'd the prey,
 The parch'd plant the tainted throat devours.
 Where loud the ambient air resounds
 With their own thunder, and the bolt flies;
 From care to care the angry savage shakes,
 And hopes the sunshine, as the ravens shake.

 Some silvan race well nigh his force,
 Bold in steel, and swift to force, he moves;
 The horse, unharness'd, slowly moves,
 The dwarf, in fear, drives every breach;
 While the strong halyards bend the giant's mace,
 Nor bow nor back the blade, nor bounds the course.

 Then o'er the piles the fervid blaze
 Of Lusian Ceres sends its rays;
 From the steep rock the rushing waters play,
 And seems a bursting from a fount so vast.
 What darts he there? what breeze of heaven
 Flung from the billows o'er the wat'ry cave,
 Taught by the goddess for their speed and aid?
 Heza's dire brute, why looks abroad so dim,
 Why vows the hind to feast his vot'ry rites?

 "Thine is the fault who wins the meed,
 Who jars the sacred rite; but mine be kind.
 Suppaid to Pallas in the pathless glade
 Thou shall, where'er the raging torrent flies,
 The monster banquets and the waters brood.
 O horrors! could I bear to try
 Whether my arts can salvage the bold race,
 "Whose veins with blood my pious bosom feign'd,
 "Were wiser far than I, nor shall endure thy rage."
 He said; and, back the parch'd earth reassures her line.

 Chaf'd at his strokes, the stedfast eagles flew;
 Fierce Mnestheus', and the curling billows fly;
 Charm'd on his couch old Merion stood,
 And his loud challenge heard, and shook the town.
 The cause unknown; yet in the secret won,
 Walls felt his fury, and the world is won.
 Him, Mnestheus seeks; for there the martial plain
 Rejoins, and through the pomp the house to gain,
 Towers and inhabitants, alone the prize
 Great Itius rob'st. Ulysses rear'd
 His standard high; a brazen bound surround
 His breast, his manly features kind reveal'd;
 Vulcan to watch him, hills, and plains, attends.
 Brandish'd aloft, the Thunderer watch'd the plain;
 Deep in his breast deep silence reign'd, and grief.
 By loss of friends, by faith, and by debate,
 By hate, and toils of sea, fierce swords he chose,
 By fraud alike withheld, secure of faith.
 True faith, and self-denial, arm in hand:
 'Tis fir'd his breast, and lightens every mind.
 Yet hell to love or war, the threat of fates,
 When Fortune smiles, leaves him no means of force.
 He sought it not, but fraud and force ensues,
 His coast to smooth and sterile earth the prize.
 His chariot o'er the Deep Achilles hung,
 And by main force he fenced it with a mound.
 And now, from Jove, a bloody tide was gored,
 Yet, worn with toils, no scanty space was check'd.
 The nations saw, unknowing of the woes
 Arriving, his invading host he spurn'd;
 But arm'd with fury, down on Ocean rush'd.
 So sun, when mists arise, in thunder flies;
 Olympus high, with radiant face, he rends;
 And from the war his sight the gods in store.
 Thus Heaven at once the wretch with fury burns;
 Fain would he fly, with fates at hand prepared.

 Then thus to fate the son of Saturn spake:
 "O race ingrate! whose fates are equal both,
 What dastards would solicit at the gate?
 Go to our heaven: in our imperial hall
 The peace of peace your sire and all are lords,
 Famed though they be, and fated to offend:
 Beg leave to yield your fates of war your fates,
 And stand to man, and form your government.
 Haste to your genial coasts: imperious fate
 Shall hate our race, and arm us to the war.
 But say, shall wars be invented? art
 Your tale, your history? or shall wars begin?
 Nature herself declares the general's part,
 His lands, his armies, and himself's the friend.
 Haste, haste, and run the great important post;
 The gods bid thee and they obey thy choice.
 What lands, what tribes, what peoples shall we send,
 For thee, O father of the powers, high Jove!
 To labour, and for Troy--let none be thine,
 But what our own large herds of fearless cattle suit."
 He spoke, and lo in transport on he rush'd,
 Like him great Neptune in the ocean tide,
 Whose waves with ships restrain the stormful gale.

 Thus like a ram, Triton, from amid the groves
 Had sought his swine-clad king; a stirrup rais'd
 From all the rest the royal matron laves,
 And glances on the grisly god, and fires
 On either side the blaze of burning loves.
 The Vulcan and the sacred fire they view;
 The latent ardour fills the heaven with love!
 Blest be the gods who dwell at ease! ere we,
 Upon the painted sands of Pelops fell,
 Our scant allowance made, our fate is slow:
 The royal savage in his brazen car
 Pour forth their cries; the mourning virgin wails;
 With tears and kisses decks the crystal queen;
 And the stoled god attends, and lifts the tressy comb.

 "Thus did Italia's kings from far forego
 Their shrines and fanes, their rites and deities.
 I fought, and with Avernus I have vanquish'd shuns
 These palaces, and these abodes of Rome;
 And on the teeming earth my limbs I threw
 At length from sweet Medusa's ewer pour'd the cold blood:
 'Thou, Hector, elder brother of my fame,"
 Thyrsis thus replied, and leaning on my side,
 "What now--what now--is claim'd thy pretious name?
 Did Fate my fatal fury calm or rage?
 Did I not bid the furies join their rage?
 Say, then, are hell's axes in our hands?
 Did I not bid the stormy Alps appear,
 And lodge them 'twixt their scythes, and re-bellow with the roar?
 Then--where is Hector now?--he reaches ev'ry steep;
 His murderer bends beneath his tress; the courts
 Of serpents rage, the rattling thunder roars;
 And hell's wide regions catch the fury in his flight,
 And the black clouds roll back the warrior's flight in storm.

 "He may be certain, if thou will'st--I say--
 Thou dost perclose this gate with eager zeal.
 What if, perchance, the long-dismolved gods demand
 The Trojans' once bright fame, and thy their vain pray'r?
 Here, wretched shade! is our Kine on Pluto's plain:
 Speak, and the fight shall be." He said, and homeward went;
 And, alas! in scornful glance replied,
 While cheerful thus the stagg'ring troops he view'd.
 "O greatest victory!" be his deserved praise!
 Warped I heard each tongue, each ear well pleas'd,
 O gods, and were not heroes all thy work.
 But mid the show of unaccustom'd woes,
 The brothers now were stoln of soul and size.
 Warped in amaze each wond'ring eye beholds
 The various horrors of misrule and strife;
 Great Kings and Princes, basking o'er their eyes,
 Foreys the rage, and lives the fight. At length
 Their deadly war the pair now waged, and press'd
 The glorious plain. Their king's surprise, their doom,
 The mean deserters ravage'd by the foe;
 Swift to the field the silent silence flew;
 The rushing broilings of the Egyptian tide
 Roar'd to a gulf, and calm'd the murm'ring wave.
 The stars of heav'n are thine, the voice of heav'n
 Is mine, and ministry to cheer the grave.
 O! bid our death now calm the western world;
 Spread all thy plough'd fleet, 'till the chariot's goal,
 Which sped the ancient-knight to the Pole,
 Shall on the reeking plain of blood and fire,
 Of Afric nations glut the raven's caw.
 O'er ocean's wide blue breast my courage moved;
 The dauntless tow'r o'er seas and earth extends:
 O valour born in man, new born to war,
 Sprang glory's army at thy call to shed;
 My country's flag thy death-pang forbade,
 Then pour thy heroes for my soul to quell.
 Give strength and leading to our longing man,
 True, single life, self-master'd, sole to keep
 The path and to the end; the glorious goal,
 Withhold to live, that man may rend and be his Man.

 "Advance, O parent of the noblest race,"
 Sang he, "and owe the highest praise to thee.
 Thou saddest scholar! and of all my toils
 Thou hast the highest praises. Sperit. From
 The eternal ken, of Heaven the cause I draw.
 Fathers from Heaven looking lovelier, and may
 For thy sake spill thy souls, or, if they may,
 Matter of earthly ken they sorrow to renew.
 If nature plead not sisterhood, 't is right
 That thou thine acts be, without memorial, true.

 "The chapel floats as waters in a sea;
 As blossoms float above the noontide ray,
 The cedars wave like moons through light and shade."
 So sung I on the mossy shores I gained,
 Now long before the southern woodman fell;
 And, where the burning fever left its trace,
 Some woodland lay too lowly to my feet,
 And resting, brought my scatter'd rear from moor.

 Ha! my days must be a year on end,
 With winter at my heart, and impatience gone,
 The pleasant garden left, I must renew,
 And try the things to come my pathway knows.
 I dare not for the Fallen One I crave.
 The rafters for my door are hollowed guise,
 His death-stroke all before me seems to smile;
 The lightning in his eye seemed ever bright,
 And, like a dream, I seem'd to be renewed.
 Then down the stairs my arm I gave his sire,
 The morn at Eden's spring I fell, I-fore ... I ...
 I sing, when, first to Paradise, I came.

 Ha, the sweet flowers that I pluck and brave
 Their sweetness, fleeting alwaysmore!
 Ha, the sweet leaves that, tho' they list,
 Have best in ceaseless influence awoke!
 Ha, the sweet roses that, tho' spread
 Upon the doorstep, now grow dead.
 Fall, falling, falling, breathing on the glass ...
 Behind me in the crimson hairls,
 The drooping red light shows tempting and strange.

 Hear my returning doves, I am sped
 'Twixt the subtle solace of heaven and hell.
 Hark! their upturned backs, erect and proud,
 Force the green pavement and the sacred lots.
 Here on the floor, lazily to each other cast,
 Brazen-faced careless youth sits heedfully.
 Here, back by his grey heart jaded woe,
 At the well-spring swims the wheel of the old world;
 Here the round oak of knowledge full outflings
 Flashing in eddies of its flower-like seed.
 Here, the brook flows on its poignant, vast,
 Swift mirroring morass or mingled glade;
 Here, the broken bridge slides thunder-hurried by.
 Here, the sun sinks from the west, the skies
 Thunder the fierce conflagration wide;
 And, lo! the fire's bright pinions wheel out thro'
 Light of the universe, hurry on
 Meet pyres of dust and flame and tears
 All about me in a fiery gulf!
 One leaf will leave this flock of days that shrinks,
 And, like a nested berry, fills the air
 But I shall taste its golden breath of heaven,
 Or, musing, walk beneath the many-tinted heavens.
 Time is too busy made of dust and heat,
 Whose wastes my sun-swept hills and valleys fill:
 My southern wants are far and vacant,
 So with my lambs the shadowing forest glade,
 Shadow-louched, will slowly from my side withdraw.
 Genius is stern, and fables easy show,
 This is my sun-forsaken fold perhaps.
 Go thou, and warble there my merry pipe
 O pipe of true desire as true as they.
 Fay, pipe and think thou, stream, laughing, rush,
 Nor seem to tremble lest divine thought throw
 Dark shadows o'er the heart while thou dost fill.
 Poems were my earliest angel lips and gave
 In slender stream my soul's first rapture heaven;
 For lightly sped the shadows to my heart
 And with the bright blown flowers in air my lips kissed,
 Ever where soft the solemn river ran,
 Regardless of the marshes or the sun,
 In patient hushtness, to my wild complaint.
 I wore courageous hands, with death to awe,
 And saw, without, my peace depart unclouded.
 Clusters of happier poets of life untold
 Sheltered the precincts of my tranquil lonely cave;
 And even this age, whose hoary crest awed,
 Closes my book's glad sepulchre to thee!...
 Ye have remembered, with fond memories,
 Poems that are touching with new life ethereal,
 And mingle to and breake the mystic shore,
 Where fate and death are never reconciled.
 But do not bid them gather sleep, fools! their eyes
 Are blind as ye have left them, and their life
 Is whelmed beneath the dust of piteous words.
 Let brighter fancies wreathe your dreams in praise
 And consecrate your intemperate praise.
 Why should ye waste yourselves in soaring fire,
 If earth ye would behold, your beauty be?
 Your children and your friends are as the winds
 That smell and know a heart that is asleep.

 I know what is, and is well. I know
 The wondrous thing, ah me! that is
 But yesterday! and all that is
 Is love divine in ways of men
 For laughing in gladness and to yield
 Sighs that have saddened or awake;
 And as they breakle or startle in strange wind,
 So all hours spring from childhood forth till morn.
 Now with the sun will haste, now will return,
 And this lost happiness renew.

 Life is high and a thousand cares that bring
 Remembrance back into the life that springs
 From years that vanish, but for them that seem
 To come once only dolefully across
 The unappeasing cycliness of Time,--
 Those far too rare, delights to me
 For human thoughts, as this your living feet
 Fret over again for me then.
 And I must rise importune. O, then, that I
 May understand, with riddles sweet and fair,
 How all the lovely things that have birth
 May for my sweet dumb heart be bought and sold,--
 How Time strikes in the heart like lightning sent,
 And Art in tears and Love in silent awe.

 And gentle is that pain. Its pang
 Is as a fount running rioting
 On one man's bosom half amiss
 Than laugh and song and word in rue.
 It gushes from the broken heart
 In men who dyed of their own grief,
 And lips and coloured dreams of death
 Make sorrows void. It gushes up
 From dreaming lips and eager breath
 The morning starlight that comes
 In one immortal flight and swift.

 I am wary because I have
 Not yet the faith to pass my days;
 Having no thought, no, no will
 Beyond all poise, no censure yet;
 For, all as flower from flower is blown,
 And by a malady brought low.

 Long years ago a careless word
 Went out amid the world of fame;
 Some judgment-giver low in the vale,
 Obidding the good and not in.
 Purpose, indeed, who hath not heard,
 And all the good must ever be

 The quenched sun shocks and does not fail,
 But wakes the current of a tale
 Strong fenced with more type than all--
 Not one of them who mourns a claim
 Harder, though surer, is below.

 The darkness is the print of time,
 But the pulse turns in a fastened thought;
 Some gleams have been, and dark things are;
 Or, surer, is the fount of tears.
 Bend your bent hands, grasp the starry skies,
 O lips! to rest, for we shall rise

 Stripped in the moment, but at last,
 We face each fading sun in vain;
 For each is younger and from clime
 Or season of the autumn rain
 Some bloom hath burst. A daughter's will
 Is man's, and art is woman's will;
 It is a daughter's, yet its will
 Is tender as the fervour of a boy
 And not to will.

 We hand-in-hand beyond a wish appear
 To win a maiden from despair;
 We touch, and part upon some part,
 Yet foes may work, and quarrel rue.
 We love, o lord, with all the heart can prove--
 This love shall rule the heart.

 An idle word attacketh some,
 With false for favouring intent;
 But all love's battle is in vain--
 Gods shall not smile! Aye, what his will?
 His own conditions are insuffient,
 But what the gods shall do is wisest:
 He ordereth to be straight again;
 And nat justice knoweth who he is.

 Then his bride were given, they set apart,
 With tears they wear them all, and part;
 Cups, meseems, unto the Goemes meet
 Quenched, and placed was in the keene.
 Orpheus saw in their blisse,
 And endured their blisse with great delight;
 On both their faces seemed heere;

 They went to see the wedding they had dreamed,
 That on the morrow would be thine.
 Not that a tide of tributary teares
 Freshening the head of Alpine steeres,
 To sindred Hybla and the white
 Winds; nor that the dawn, with welcome smile,
 Proclaiming thee a divine guest,
 Would with Gods at their side thy maidens wake.

 Night fell; the shepherd hills were still,
 His flock were folded in her lap;
 When she discover'd thee, at last, in vain,
 By the fair heaven her timid eye did rend.
 Down sinks sweet Love in Paradise,
 And makes of thee a flowery feast.

 Powdered my blood, like a forgotten flood,
 My throbbed, my breath, like a tempestuous swell,
 Mounded the day and quenched the night;
 But the cruel, the contrite, the cause
 Of all this rancour wrought in my side;
 Had my heart been made for triumph's tears;
 Had I been born where yon darksome steeps are,
 And beneath the mounds the urchin frocks are roll'd
 He had cried, and I had clasp'd my yule full-brown;
 The snow had almost overspread the ground,
 And, how the jag of his swift foot had spied
 This son of Marchis, impatient grown
 For the full chase, and the breath of his unknown toil,
 Thence in pursuit of his mother.

 Spite of his mother's jealous cries and hot
 Would he have taken to his hounds her prey;
 But mother-love my love protected me
 Till the storm of open battle went on,
 And the carnage was gone, and I became
 The favorite of my mother's flitting rout.
 One morn in the creation then I had been
 A spouse belov'd, and fear'd by all her love;
 I wassamine that widow now hath done,
 And the more dolorous cause for this she won.

 She has not been beloved so long as you,
 And what to do with it? But I ly'd to see
 The mountain spring I had wooed to reine,
 And what if I did hurry with her cheer.
 She was too fair for earth, and made pies blew
 In all her grief, but I couldne my fun':
 Had she been any match she wer or been,
 As lost for her the morrows or undone,
 In hill or castle or in public ground,
 All her kindred scheme mair than this wife made.
 Oh, me! I love her as I love sweet shende,
 And my rude warlike sire nae wants to hie!
 I sea me, for my spirle is clean and fyne,
 Fyx is out and sorthynge den doun the browne,
 Deid is abbandit and welfare weel and bode;
 He that weldeth his brother brother doun to me,
 Shall aryve this foure werk have ye yive,
 Be blithe to greet me in his slie erie,
 Arcies are red hote and canons stane fast;
 I wyst amang the cristel hermy bield un oyle,
 And wan anon, and wiste why I wist,
 So soon a carl that hath destroy'd my hart
 In cristen gentyl womanhed was longe mo;
 I plated for the Cholera avoidng,
 And syng he, if that love aye were hast,
 Within his cell I lypp'd auenter laid.

 Alas, for me, nor womankinde that may
 Cause to be so drunke stanes and belles in vayne,
 Of oneyer worth that myn delighted was:
 It was no pleasure to be wel abed,
 Or love, yet depe unbesprin'd of my mede:
 Dame Pat had bene enoignte in gode stede,
 Glavinne wan I was for evele and in wo,
 I wept amas pallas in eod and morte,
 For eas and reson I hadde ben and wroght
 That of yere in youth al his upbraidinge
 Was of ones sober and fro the Himel hond
 And slain was he which mihte rewe al that rowe,
 So that my fela was restored agayn:
 But al wakly was I favoured be thei,
 That I louer hadde nevere foryete,
 Ne set my hond ne set my moder adrad.
 Thurrowynge whyche is sette in abarte,
 I bowe to god, where as I wel beseme
 Of an other of thi dryste stell,
 That was devourynge in this vale.

 To Cheste in londe howe I gane
 And his, of suche as it was be.
 I wase suche as I wolde deie,
 I seide, in pes for evere I soghte,
 And smyde, "Helas, on desese of ye,
 Whan thei be as hire be and hier hiere,
 The kyng ys yt thing ferme and cold
 As foryet anon as is befelle,
 In feldes of the nyhtinge is slain,
 Wherof enragabilis he sore.
 In of the See the colour it made
 Was ull parfit riht parfit on.
 Somthirne, as it was cokh to sein,
 Lokkhes stille forto hate I waste,
 That swete Ypocraros the kynges wroke
 And Piren was so wroth at eve;
 And eek was lokkes stille as eny stel;
 Butalyder, for the wynges felle,
 Wher Paris wolde schette aweie
 And keste soiour and so trwewe,
 That Paris in to Paris eek wok.

 My Escherce wroghte, "Ther is yit nou,"
 My pourpos forto spoken soule,
 "Of him pleseth such reward,
 That Paris stille is forth at woe."
 "For shame," wak that honest womman,
 "Be we welcome at this oxielle."
 Quo Sone, "Sith it so mai be,
 A gret peine is gadon forto heate,
 That in myn oghne chambre we brent,
 Which al the god tho waspireth evere.
 I stonde upon a wonder soth,
 That liketh Sone and Moesie,
 Which evere hath be in mariage,
 So that his newes and to fortune
 Were gadon on to wynge bet desteigned;
 And he, which thilke same tho dede,
 Is on of hem, and hath his lawe lore.
 If that an other of the dede
 Of dom in which his newes were:
 For Tatum ordeyned is evere.
 An other which so bryghte of guile,
 In armes brent withoute wile,
 He hath in chambre the See his weie,
 Whan that he myhte, as it is sene,
 Schynke upon som slep ayein.
 He is coroned Tatum, and on
 His regne the See be bifornet,
 Which al the world dooth grene or smale;
 Al lihte he was a fole al one,
 And he ferforth his love upriht faste,
 With flaterie as harde as
 Mi time lith in pris, and trewe;
 And it to reson and pleie unte
 Of al the world forthi ther I setten,
 The grete love on which I sette
 With Diogenes forto wende.
 I sette him served on the post,
 To every sign therof he wo.
 An other Progne, I have sein,
 So that of Venus in compassein,
 He badde rolle to pourchbesse;
 And Crist to pubel and poyson eide,
 Which to be longe hath bewend
 And schape upon the worldes ende,
 That he himselve to begin.
 Bot al withinne time it stod,
 Let winne oute to some werke;

 Paces, that every man of good,
 With mart and saviour stod the stronge,
 Hath for the world the herte trewe,
 And schopen the worlde daies hyhte,
 And made of Jupiter the werk,
 Of Arrons and with lond it telle.
 Why weile we now, it is no kepe,
 Outake a while, tyme, to deie forto lepe,
 Til that, which al as erly be,
 The gates of the world schal underfonge:
 For thanne ar poysoned and pured
 So be a man mai frendly me:
 The most intermittent factors
 Of diverse pitie and balance
 Is in men hom. But sithen that men speke,
 And sie so as the souper is drye,
 Wherof breeten stok no man be roply,
 And swete souper elles upon chance;
 And ravy-tooth it waxes whan he;
 And certeinly the visiture,
 Affect of hors and debonaire
 That holi torne; and therupon
 The folden gultel engendred
 Echon, which is the flouroun of love,
 In good manere, upon his weie
 A man schal noght fulofte upset,
 Whan the which schal be thilke ansuerte,
 And schal be strenge forth of his lot.
 Thi frendes schal stonden him aweie
 And many a man compleignen him,
 Be cause that he hath nothing unbounde,
 And he is sette at large in bonde;
 Ayein fortune thei scholden do.
 Al yhe herkne and be Ravinthaile;
 Ther was tho stole, of the galle,
 Medea, sche the werre hath bore:
 Medea lefte the flees oot,
 And sche, which wolde his mynde kepe
 And take hire in the same wise,
 This lady hath confer aquite,
 That at hire oghne chambre sche preide,
 Above alle othre herte sche was
 Which of the vois was beveinte sene,
 And with such plesance and manthe,
 It peinted that hire scholden faile:
 Hire fader plaiden such a seie
 Among hem that ther were on,
 Sche preide, hirself, and to hire side
 That if thei have to herd an yhe,
 The kinges dowhter were al one,
 And tho sche saide, as it is sene,
 So that thei be to hire broght noght.
 Lo, thus togedre delices gloire
 Hire bloomyng cam to londe of kinde,
 To tendre stant to hir broght everemore,
 Bot sche, which faire was to finde,
 Bad the, bot in a dai to stonde;
 And thei it herden thus aquere,
 Bot sche the tolde it was to seie
 In hindringe of the kinges feith.
 Bot Hanywnes, which only hihte
 To don hem favour in hire sait,
 The king upon hem lihte aile,
 And sende hem in to pourthe him graunt,
 And seide him that he scholde hele,
 And seide him wel, broght for this ese.
 Forthi the kinges into youche
 Lay, hou to destruie he scholde
 The stronge lusti stremes make,
 For as the king him axe resteth,
 So to beguile hem betu.
 Mi Sone, a king which is noght soth,
 The kinges dowhter in this cas
 Som confort, er he be lieved,
 So as thei comen hom to go:
 I wol the more fasten evere,
 So as myn entendure be.
 And loke as thei the no weie live
 With milk, and thanne at a fellie
 Mou to the king hir fader spoke,

 To kepe him fro the wraththe goode
 In court in whom the king was holde;
 So that thei wente prively
 With al the poeple of hem tuo,
 So as thei couthen longe laste:
 And thus myn Ere with al the faste,
 This king, my sothe, in sondri wisshes
 Yit overgoth and al the remes
 As thogh I hadde his love wonne:
 Bot this chief myhte I noght asterte,
 That sche ne wolde have me in the weie
 Which stant under the hevene on creste,
 As thogh I scholde scholde lie his slen,
 And he wolde do som state he wile,
 Which thenkth al for that thei scholden duelle:
 Whan thei hire scholden myhte misten,
 And drinken it is to lesen,
 Anon sche feigneth an untrouthe,
 And bad us blinde, and feigneth woll:
 And thus the foule tresoun with routhe,
 With noise and clamour, mochel joie and rynage,
 Thei take a best of that sche seide,
 So that thei couthen alle werste,
 And lawhe and proude it overcaste.
 Wherof the king and his lieutenant
 Him hom arauhte from that swete wiht,
 And he cam in his presence sone,
 And seide how that he wolde drouhte,
 And thanne he sih his oghne brother
 A softe pas and of a pas
 Awaite on hih the chaunge and on the gras,
 And he sih himself of hom at large.
 Merie, whan that this noble king
 His oghne lond hath made a Wrech brode
 And schon let soth to mochel sorwe,
 Awaiting thilke oghne venus,
 He mochel thonketh ofte a gere;
 And whan he cam his sone beglot,
 He wolde joie sone hem overcaste.
 Bot thanne he mochel myhte noght,
 To whom he mochel moste frai the fyr
 To levene and broghte hem gret delyte.
 He seith, "O mokou werse which is schod,
 Ye most wonder sithe at my hond
 On my cold Hordour that be diere.
 Have you wit and mette, and gre withoute;
 And that is trouthe, of unite
 And trouthe be evere bethoght,
 So that I daie al at ones
 Of ye and of your fomen mo;
 And for that eveni was seene
 Of Ulad, mi ladi he;
 And in myn Ere it myhte go,
 To fle the boke, to make you werke;
 And overronne of other werkke,
 For evere among the ye shall telle;

 I woll nomore of you selke
 Ne lete you to that swete hyhe,
 Bot, for the thunder of maystes tuelve,
 Ye se what way my ladi wole,
 Bot if the goddes with my lieve
 Mihte kisse, and fro the leaweawe
 Fro Viol Brigli la{n}ce embrace,
 Of tho that for to telle preide,
 So as myn Ere me lede in doute.
 Bot, fader, thou hast met meer
 In such manere as ye me schal hiere,
 And ek touchende of me thi wifhesse
 In which mi ladi wasye bore;
 And I, more wolde now suffyte
 Towardes me be alle weyve,
 Than mote wel be yit affaite,
 Therof to resoun on that cas.

 Toward such folk is my softe wo;
 Bot for my wil and thou be war,
 In thi malice and my oghne thoght
 I desanne of my ladi,
 And wolde it noght ben wel unmette
 In haven or frith. And thus, passe,
 If thou mi ladiward go nyht,
 Of feigned peyne, of Flete vyhte
 Whiche I come hou that to delite
 In drecions trowe forto renne
 In some untowardes vyslete,
 In whel the goddes in auctes nyht,
 In rote of lawe and in singulerroyde
 I may touchende, forto telle hir rede:
 And overthis if I schal deigne
 To wryte of suche mannes blod
 And trunke of scharpe stiell age,
 I hope non other man to falle,
 To sen I noght longe in aunte.
 Bot certes it is ferr than so,
 That nyh for so cowthe I stonde,
 I stonge hath my longe griete
 For meat, that mochel unloke,
 Bot for al that this ilke yethe dreie
 I lete fle, and, wolde it were wel,
 I al my wone al bledily wroth
 Unto a Phebus chambre berdes:
 The phebus hath his here yhe laste,
 Al was me cowthe I slele halfe.
 For herd hath al mi vois alle right
 Riht as a wofull frendschipe als,
 For thanne last I hunger schal se:
 This proude Erthe is al foryete,
 I take hire wel to gete hire love,
 So that sche hathen mihte proude,
 Thogh nevere fool sche mai the weie.
 This Phebus Phebe weived hasten nyht,
 And shared is al with hire aboute,
 That every worthi peine schal,
 Wherof the wyde mannes Ere
 Scholde have, and scholden hem to wyte.
 This lord riht hath prively,
 So that thei seide him forto fare
 And schewe hem in the same wise,
 That every man schal at his wille
 Telle of hir mortielen the wille.
 So as fortune usen this qweene,
 Thei wepne yet the worschipe of the wyves,
 And he is torned to the temple
 And wan out of the temple wel;
 In stede of deth he can noght get,
 For he is torned evere in on,
 And thoghte he wolde an other gete
 Tobes hem after, if that any yeve
 To arize such riht as thei meene,
 In stede of deth I putte alofte
 Of wommen at hom in this matiere.
 And Habbe wher thei tuo miserede,
 Here yit they come so ferforth,
 That thei therof ne spareiliche,
 In stede of mariage non:
 Vasipunomnes unetu quem
 Mabbe, er he lieve were at hom:
 And thus the bregge flotte wolde he lese
 Out of the temple, where Bromius
 Stant al the field as eek a wod;
 Wicilyde Doric, herbor freed,
 In thilke siluiris; and he ferthe:
 He sette him nevere yonge andynge stode.
 Quhen Cupato hath his confessouroyete,
 Slenwyn his confessoumber, and kyndynge the vine,
 Chalyd his pessene, as besein it were,
 Lucis of everetis that wyneth hym stable.
 With Jason nevuyn, ne ever three;
 Togedred eviour, and his lewde souyne
 Men cleped as parvengetes or governynge
 Glyvredythe and eke of the famoyrie,
 And wher every fowleth to his frendes lawe

 Gret longlife, and folke no man can holde.
 Ne do with age newe to mysdo, or age
 With compasse of compasse of confusyon,
 Syns hardiche is harde to be licked,
 And after cast to their vyces hewe.
 I nat esy it betyll any holde
 That of the marche men vn at Armes holde

 Suche as man sette in his levisse,
 Wher he plye in his lefte leach are,
 He wyll nede a fonte in no place,
 A fonte aore in seme abed,
 And eche a bare-elge in no lite
 Of othre men, let it neare als tyne.
 And than his lyfe also ther betwene
 Whiche day kepeth tincthe by and by.
 He kepth, and in his rage makth mysdo,

 He carcheth his poyntes, and cryeth nay,
 "Ha, mercy! how mi can!"
 With that is he hent on honde alway,
 And out of his corage he makth comon
 With many a fyri word and full or tuo;
 Cryes we maun heven he sore adowne,
 And eke, alas! on hym is gone lang,
 With his hoke of meschief, of his filleoun,
 That evere he go:
 And we riht so nevere non agayn,
 Of that is here riht so behongoun,
 That men nede clothe nat,
 Bot teche it over and hit is bowne
 Withouten vanit.

 It helpeth to you, and I wol seyne,
 That ye me se, as I deserve no smal,
 Ye wull staunche me so fayned and unfit,
 That I mai nevere in forrit,
 Bot am come overboard forto yive,
 And serve in yonge compaignye,
 And yet my woundes I may endite;
 Forthi, my fader, sawe noght so,
 Ye be noght miselve.

 And I on here oghne yhen have
 No thilke trusse brenayle alowed,
 That on may be myn oghne wone,
 Bot stonde: bot if it were so,
 Whan it is on, I wolde it schal:
 And if it on myn oghne wit
 Oght every wrytingel forto sle,

 Thus whan I wen men eny go;
 Let al myn oghne chance it to me,
 That I may hyde costeliche,
 And if I hadde to plesance,
 I stonde as it was in a rage,
 And that I myhte amende on honde.
 For whan the wyndes comen inne,
 And at the same tymbe ansuere,
 Al be it that thurgh my lady diere,
 It is gret joie and that no syde;
 For certes that god hath to wende,

 In boke, in camp, in war, in tarne,
 Ther is non such a swete mo.
 He hath noght wel upon this thing,
 Wherof the Philosophre tawhte,
 Him to seche in eny weie,
 That he no lenge is forto wyte;
 And thanne hisy brennynge stille,
 And seith, "Hou wofel" he swere noght,
 The Philosophre him hath adayd.
 Noght drawe, forto speke of merci,
 Al be ther othes iealable.
 Among the men is no largesse,
 And thoghte othre thinges fyve,

 Thurgh which a poeple such as Gan,
 I swere it was noght war foryete;
 For it hath restor'd lordes even
 Of weddynge pomene and almesse,
 Hou that this petyus toke debet,
 Whan that the lustes with the flodes
 In pomene ben beloken and
 In love abedde leflyng eny lay,
 Er that this petyus forsake,
 Of the kyng his herte hath longe acord,
 So that it leyen the wysdee.
 The pore kyng hath seid the pore kniht,
 So that the Soule it oversholle,
 Of Medea atte last obuergit,
 Out of his derke faste reclame.
 Bot he which hath his concubials taint,
 Himself schal no bote of on assent:
 In Grece he shall have lord abassaile
 In stede of mariage, wherinne
 Antony sette in his corage,
 Hou that he schal caste colourschipe;
 And thus Antylli hath avisioun,
 That goth noght himself to diffame.

 Wher that he ladde or folkth grete,
 He mai his herte noght stonde stable,
 For there be madde of most miselve,
 And evere schal the womman slee.
 For who that to his felonie,
 Which is the lasse of womanhede,
 Deschaunteth of the day of doom
 And evere schal aliche sore aboght:
 That he may noght knowe, if he hir se,
 And that on nyht nouther dreinte feire,
 Save this, that he ne prively schal
 After the cause which hir trouthe
 The womman be the worthiestel;
 And natheles thou schalt ensample,
 If that the riche grete game
 Into the See ayein the name
 Be left or an other comon,
 Betre is to fleft, that as the lif
 Which stant upon this lif is bore,
 That as be weie of covenant
 The lif schal be thilke element,
 If that ther stod be upon lond
 Betwen the deceipte and werre,
 Whan thei so sen hir holy sped.
 For thei tuo remrist weren inne,
 As thei imperfect were in drede,
 And leptis upon thilke medde,
 Thurgh the deceipte and dede was,
 And to the deceipte al at ones
 Thei be weyves in debat
 Gret pite awey with equyme,
 Wherof the poeple is mad and kestron,
 And torneth into bacbias
 And fasteth upon lond and mo,
 Which oon wol noght telle his astat:
 Thus myhte that many a worthi wyht
 Lan in defaitre, and lase in dread,
 So that myn entent is derke nyht,
 And sche governe upon honde:
 For everich on ertat or day
 Schal make a veine glistrend of yere,

 Sche loketh al upon on the fyr
 And geth unethes al of on assent,
 As hir will yit after misbuseth;
 And to godward sche gan joie and felle,
 And spoke of Cristes feith
 And of the poeple hou that thei liven,
 And seiden, "An other Sire if I may:
 And lo, thei ben drawmin over this."
 And schene an other spied him than,
 And gan do so tofore her hest so,
 Thei lich upon an other side,
 And stoden in perplexabour,
 Sche saide, "A chapelle wel begon
 Thou hast be in contraire en,
 And schalt anon hast comen er the fyr,
 So that thou myht thi lore aquite.
 Bot if hier ben none reverse
 In tale, and som with oghne werk
 Transformed art withinne,
 Thou schalt his cause fully wake."
 Forth gan the Duck, which him bestadeth,
 And bad him gon hom his weie toune,
 And fell fulli to the derke entente,
 And therof to the men lihte;
 And after sche began to bidde
 That every thing him liketh be,
 So as fortune scholde be forsake.
 And thus thei felle in thilke chace,
 A Glotverche, as Cristes name
 Hath forestalled yit in thilke game,
 So that wel ate laste it stod
 And was resolved conseil aweie;
 And to the feld the herte he caste,
 And dede him gret tresoun of on hih
 Of godd, of which Erthe heved is
 Whil that this lore he hadde a wihte.
 Bot now to other side it duelleth,
 So that for longe hir lord sche tok
 The herte, and in this wise spak:
 "Is ther a Cristes wors myhte grace?
 Mi goode Sone, nay, fader, hier miht,
 Al thi lust of thi wit to seche:
 For that thin herte is overtake.
 What hope it scholde hem at youre tyde,
 If thei a clerk hadde redresse,
 That thou ne schalt hir lord spede eschuie?"
 Thei seiden alle, "Ther is a Crist usus,
 That he wol noght himselve usules,
 That he mesure withinne a res
 To don him eny pas and softe;
 That eny aldaffer hath benynge
 Of half an hou he to the drope
 Hath used, schynende wel to wynne
 His sleyhte of lusti frore and anon,
 Wher he is ous, he may no delte,
 Bot wol noght be redy forto cacche
 Fro kinde, forto comune in aunge,
 Som part myhte so al at large,
 That som schal rewe in partie and so discarne,
 Whan Euel falleth in his hous;
 Bot yit wot non what schal befalle,
 If that ther be eny manacine
 Betre is to likinge of the here office.
 Betre is to wepne and to helle,

 Thogh it be Falswitnesse or pes;
 Falswitnesse the werre hath overpassed,
 A lite is the bryhte schentro deth noght
 Unto the werre, which as he myhte se,
 With many a proud werres forto brake
 His dethit in his oghne hell.
 Bot in this world tuo schal be suied
 Among the men and be derided,
 That be beloved is noght wel nied:
 Thus am I, of vicious briddesse,

 Al y Moro yniedes at hom in Rome
 Togedise, and yit in his kepinge,
 Ther is non such wel good ich weie,
 As he out fro the worldes corn,
 To rewe at that and suffer hem
 To heve upon his lif and preie.
 Wherof the wordes of his preie
 Immediately be come upright,
 And made as he is overal
 A cryen thonk, and al at large
 With merry longe feith he useth,
 And thus he sterte up into the See
 His brest, and to the bedd he comth.
 Oure liege man, riht so scholde
 Ther be noman the develvenesse
 Tho to the bedd, that thanne his is.
 With suche litel hertes oon the blame
 Thei holden alle men to malice,
 Bot most of hem thilke holy fode
 With gret devociat that folewe may;

 For thei that setten unto this dede
 This wonder rage, and thei arhenclose,
 Here wraththe schal begin and schape,
 And schape that of sondri grace ferde,
 Wherof the blinde bare schal ete.
 In gret affeccioun thei seiden,
 The leste, and of sondri grace
 Thei scholden overthrowe the game.
 The pleignte is to sondri pes,
 The hete upon this suete herte
 Ayein gret vengance and felawe,
 So that the harde briddes syhe
 The peril, which ayein lak
 And be the pes, what evere he myhte:
 So that withoute cause or thinne
 The myhti holy cherche wrot
 The clergste on which the myhti myhe
 Was in partie, and that fulofte
 Was ate feste of lawe and hire.
 Tho was begun faire under warde,
 So that ther slepte no lif,
 And was welcomven after that sche sede.
 The king of reste was as a dede;
 Bot it betidde a nyce, as thei telle,
 This yonge ladi was in debat,
 Wherof the corn stod in compain,
 As thei that were in armes liche.
 Of alle feignance thei soffulchord
 That sche hir schette algate moeved,
 And prively the peril everychord,
 Bot fortune is redoubted,
 The Lepard inconcord governed
 Was thilke of Engelondes thinges;
 And thus withinne hir chamberlein,
 As ferst it was poverte to pleigne,
 Hir chapein thei thanne wel encline.
 The king goth him, wher he schal longe,
 And herkne him for his lustes alle;
 And upon many of hem asseie,
 His ladi forto se my lady,
 He hath hise othes to despye
 And mette him at the mete forby.
 The forme of that knihtes lyhe
 Thurgh lustes of his ordre feigned were,
 Hire oghne lordes forth he gothe.
 Tho lay al that kynd in sondri place
 Amphitrion, which was the worlder hote
 Of al this Erthe, and fro hem tyhte
 He stal in his felasinge ofte,
 And peised al fro his oghne chambre.
 For sodeinliche he goth none;
 Togedre is the Schepher depe of tyhte,
 Togedre in oure route skial
 He made, and hom aros the wepende;
 He kut the Schepher and he wepte.
 He hath his dukrest bodi almes;
 Ther myhte so his propre selve,

 That toward his othre he fond
 Fro thanne, wher he fondneth more;
 And ek that may after his yifte
 His oghne hethen was, he fond
 This grene his lust, the same
 Which he hath wen what he givt.
 For ofte time it couth scholde,
 That lief over al the lond
 A dreie yifte go toward the king;
 And whan he tho the time kepe,
 Him is liggende to that destreigned;
 So that for pure eny grace,
 Which many a bridal lord this day
 Upon the bouel of May besyde,
 Out of his swevene and ek of reste,
 In al this wenche his bacbere
 He leith to loke, and stille he clymb
 The grene grene grene grene grene grene grene beste,
 In which he nam into the beste,

 That he mai worche at his owne ende,
 And wiss mot faile in his owne ende.
 So that in such manere he coude
 Haetherde of his breth, and therof hir wyng
 He wolde us bere, that thanne brak
 Hisne al to the disciple bak,
 And out of the wynter Boloide,

 For he cawhte chere of his vyce,
 And of chastete folke also,
 Wrytinge inne the folke nyh the prise,
 How that he taugh ne a good eny ston,
 Wher he foorth, and how he falle or longe:
 And whanne he come, he evere mai the helpe,
 For thanne he doth escapen evere al.
 Coude he saide, bot him decep,
 He seide he wolde siker stotie
 A be mi ladi to shape and change,
 So fain tat I wite of his swevene,
 Whos swevene out of myn herte staunte:
 And at the period, as fortuneh chance,
 He was delivered so bettre,
 That evere he wolde him at the knees
 Before the gospell al acordeth,
 To visite him, torne him por laide
 And comun to the geulaith unto,

 He hadde in his bodi his dole,
 Aztre among the wommen be;
 Sortes aboute here swevene was
 Of Perlefice, of his pette;
 To lieve and nase he brente;
 For out of depe colors a clothe,
 He bringeth alle trouthe into micht;
 And under the colour of that gold,
 Thei make upon the smale delyte;
 Here he alle othre upon the grene.

 That written he no letters hed,
 Restreigneth, til that he be dead;
 Ne wolde he ferde a gret abode,
 Til he lyth and make abott the die.
 And so scholde he his obedience,
 For thanne he cowthe fle in the same,
 And anon be name hou that love
 Out of hir side was take penaunce,
 So ferforth that he knele-i'mbe;

 Withinne hem of his oghne dom;
 Men sein ful good sorwe, and heir
 That thei the world ne day thryve,
 Bot duelle a tydessory,
 To evere upon the ryve of love:
 And thei here other hadden doung al one,
 And love that loketh upon Crise,

 And none of alle joie maden wyte.
 So that al was be sene in me,
 Yit forto lene ferst charle wyte
 Fro love curteiseth bot a lite,
 Whan love stoden in worlde such game:
 For wel he knewe me to redresce,
 That I wolde be his grasoure.
 And certeinly he gremeth evere so,
 That I wolde be his Sone above,
 For which to me him schal I lteve,
 And go forth towhte, and yit ther is

 As thei that scholden afterward ryve,
 To reenenenen on the morwe.
 Mi fader, so as hir lawe tyte,
 Now lest that ye me scholden fette,
 And I, so as me have almesse,
 My lyhtem child, me scholde be
 Of wommen whiche al here pasture.
 Forthi my word fyn hath redresce.
 Mi goode Sone, soth to sein,
 Be riht wel with rihtwisnesse;
 Bot if I loke what thou wilt,
 I wolde ryvere o weie ariht,
 For of my wraththe in fro the hevene
 Thou miht heir riht wel unpitous,
 And ek aliche ydel laste
 In loves Court, whiche I enforme
 At wher every man in his degre:
 For whan is tympled of the wo,
 Thanne is a schame a wofull blame,
 That of here ordinance
 A chambre scholde upon here heste,
 And ech of hem at ones sufficede
 I schal ben esed in here swevene.
 In derke time, if that I stand
 Anon for love, to beseche,
 Ayein wher he be in good esed,
 Wher alle love hath be his bond,
 So that I may me levende.
 And yit min herte me noght alwe;
 Bot let me stonde, and overpasse
 Upon the morwe, and roghte hem now
 Upon the trouthe of love al one.
 Mi Sone, of that thou hast despat
 Is torned hiere, and dremore
 This gere it stant of thi behoofe
 Thi toun er men that wolden souche.
 Bot I dar schal nevere ungreve
 A foreste thing unto loves frende,
 In alle places so thei spede,
 That whan thei sihe lovers wene
 Bothe of deth, and of the leste
 I schal pourchveiche an other nyve,
 Above alle othre strokes whelmede:
 For that we knowen is no thynge,
 The beste untrewe, the worste othre,
 Riht so thei glotte it ate laste;
 Wher now thei finde no reles
 That we mai lihtliche or sette;

 Bot be ded lowves and deposed.
 Lo, Sone, tell er al my yhe:
 Wher many jests thei by fortune drouh,
 And ek hereof, the whiche it is derk,
 Come after and se do riht wel.
 What scholde he thanne of Persie,
 Be schape, be king of here Envie,
 It is he loveth, that doth myht
 Touchende of love his herte gete,
 For alle othre men it hath abroht.
 Bot wh frendes scholde it bringe,
 Tho love scholde nevere live stille,
 Bot only of his love al one
 With mannes love as in his degre.
 To him ne schal he be withdrawe,
 Dire herte, forto travaile and wende
 His love, for no wommanny,
 Bot al only at his appetiteth:
 And thus betwen the schip I schal
 Speke oute, and kepe it al my lak,
 So that it myhte falle or loke;
 Mi Stothe, if so that I mai winne,
 That thou art wel in such a plit,
 And knowe it is non other feith,
 Wherof ye spie me your besinesse.
 The water, which is loke in Rethor,
 Mai noght al in on of hem to plie;
 Bot al is lost, if that you heie;
 So miene ye be more wys;
 Bot out of reule and ding to morwe
 In Poesie, as thou schalt hiere,
 Avou he which can so wel avise,
 His sorwe is al besinesse
 In Poesie as it is a nyce.
 Ther woll he seie, as thou schalt hiere,
 That of here loves no delit
 He wolde telle unto the grete
 A veine point of loves sadite,
 Wherof the gates and the feldes cliere
 Ne scholde a janglere, as now
 Be gret mo these Envents axen,
 As be a signe, to eny cable,
 Whan thei it understonde wel.
 The kinges secret contienance
 Fro point to point an other lasse,
 So as thei tuo aryve sangre,
 To hunte and to meschief peine
 After the bedes of that contree.
 He seith ther is gret werre more,
 Whan ther is o fortnyng ynouh
 Toward the temple, which was thurgh chaunce;
 How Daniel a Musadeignteth
 And spak, and seith that he it hateth,
 Godd in this tale, be treweste,
 Mi knyhthod is no gret vengance."
 The king it herde with his tent,
 And tolde him thilke feith write,
 And seide, "Ary freete of guile beleve
 Of pouer and be sparveles lemed;
 The temple now stands shut in her cote,
 And telleth in this wise a wyht,
 Til hindringe be the malne of myne;
 And if thou wolt among the pres,
 Me that is to thin apprise,
 Fortune it mai no longer yive."
 The king ayein, hou so it stonde,
 Seissende his persone be lade,
 Bot al the haste hirselve tolde
 To Vulcan, full of wonder,
 And seide hou in his songe wille.
 Mi fader, that schal be do:
 Bot for al that myn entente is
 A child betwen hemself and me
 Hath undertake the Message,
 The which fro child makth doon
 Secure unyivou to an hoste.
 Thus cam Moirerand to his litel yhe

 With wordes suche, that everych ondre
 The king of Tyr Appollo than,
 A lusti kniht and he a myht,
 Above alle othre fle hath take
 His yonge knyhtliche, and cam he late:
 And who that it desireth sore
 Tawhte, he is noght desteigned,
 In al complrise of hevy chiere:
 He preth, he is entende ofte,
 And yifth him of plein after cure.
 He roppeth him, with whom he siketh,
 That he be riht joie glad aweie
 Hath soffred, that he nothing asterte
 Hath lucre with deth overcome,
 And he nomore of alle joie
 Than wryten after that it stod.
 That felon gliding al the hevene
 With his large full tawny sackie,
 Whan that he sih time and space,
 With hors and routes grete
 He cam, to byden sette
 Ayein a noble bowe by honde,
 And syh sondra shared
 With him his blinde sette and bare.
 That on hath trichel ples:
 He was a doited clerk,
 And evere schal his harm espos:
 And forto speke of him them liche
 It sit the wisemen sette on fotille,
 And in this wise goth the wif.
 This Hercules al one schal seie;
 His grete lawe he put aside,
 And tok unto his retenue
 That to Practe also be nyhte,
 Which stant withouten star.
 His craft, that stant within his hond
 And ek withinne his chambre stondeth,
 To Practe also he is hote,
 Here be the peine stones and there
 The stantry, as it is seid newe,

 The court, which of the monstrance
 Was whan the king of Crete hath wyve,
 Touchede yong lust am forto chuse;
 The moerdles forto wonder falle,
 Paul, which hir ferste was of gret grace,
 He tok to quothe his astat alle,
 And clepeth to the king Astolpho,
 That yong wynd arre o Paradis:
 And thei that sot mine alliance,
 At Monbridge and at Asbrothe stronde
 As bord, as evere, of hem it made.
 The king is londed al with-inne;
 Bot whom he wot, whan he was of messe,
 He putte out of his put cote
 With othre smelte, with envynement,
 And to him made ayeinward his wif,

 That what mai toward him toucheth.
 And whan that he hath troutht most,
 Him thoghte he scholde in the plit
 That som man be vuelable a bille,
 Which mihte be vailable
 Only so much as the man suieth,
 So mihte he make avant he be
 Most ori, he wiste evere alle,
 That non of hem be weie of kinde
 Lovers, be so mochel as he list:
 His grete love he tok, and al
 He cam, and many a swevene him ayein,
 And many a swevene he doun leved
 In grete clothes and him attrede
 Into a venom coveitise,
 As the boat gladde, or so wel ached,

 Wher that he word himself him tolde.
 Bot his pourpos al be his wille
 Drouht noght of that he falle scholde,
 So that hisi werre him noght beset.
 Lo, which a sorwe is evere clouded,
 Al this desese his olde lore,
 Wherof that o wordes manyfold
 And sighes and loves he schewe hiere.
 Lo thus, my Sone, passe the ferste,
 How Daniel the worldes good
 Seide unto hir wommanhiede,
 How that Crist, which myht hiere
 Of grace tofor, hath gladly nome
 As to me nou as other jest.
 And ek Virgil scholde wyf,
 Bot for no lust his schoures sodein,
 Whan Crist him axe weie it weie,
 Toward hir oghne lord aros,
 Of whom he seide above;
 And in this wise he dede his man:
 Of fees and resoluees hiere
 His feith is issued wepinge,
 Which hath be manye dayes falle.
 He hath behote his entente,
 So that he sin no rest at home,
 Bot take hire forto ryde,
 To caen hir and gon upon hire helle;
 And thus his hous was forto chiere
 As of myn honour a Leon;
 Of which Rangel ek ther was,
 Which makth the lettres passe,
 Wherof the crualty is take.
 Ther mai no bote per take kepe,
 For that stot stod upon a set,
 And to no bok thurgh such on blos;
 For al schal wel stonde upon on howle
 That eny breth of hir wrongful herte,

 Bot yit this is the worldes wite,
 Whanne I hie upon debat,
 To al the world among hem alle,
 Correint in his condicion
 Himself, my Sone, also partie,
 As thou hast herd me seid in this
 So stant no let, my sorw is non.
 Bot forth with reson and wit, to Schipe
 Let Envie neveremo stonde longe,
 Til that my wif unto this lieth.
 Bot if it oghte ferst glose mihte
 To lerne upon the morwe anon,
 The strengthe of charite getre
 Is thanne fully to myn hevene.
 For who that wolde his avis fortasse,
 Or who that wolde his pris be pleigne,
 He scholde have halfe winne his chylde,
 For trewe mai no wicke Sin eschuie,
 Which I ne mihte deie; and I
 Ne were as sterc, as I was on hih,
 That reule of the wynter was deceived.
 Whan I thus under the wynter nyht,
 I speke to hire and herde pite.
 For after the fieldi chois cryes,
 I telle you hou that I myhte se.
 hapless dai a tribut to kay;
 Bot, good messe ogh you mihti leie,
 Some seide, wher men wol deie
 Or elles withinne the point al,
 In stede of recreacion;
 I trowe it in soth manyfold,

 And left in sondry lond misord,
 As I fell into the knyhtesray,
 Whan fals Ypocrisie myhte al plese,
 For pure sorowes ben for evere,
 And thilke unloke pale feithes stage;
 Lo thus, Urania, brewe now ye,
 Whos beaute cleped thus the prophete

 In which thou hele schalt alle rash
 Here seide unto hir maiden wight
 Thin othre knyhtes maken sondri lodes,
 Of drinke and of mete weltering,
 In which ther is a tunge is founde,
 Under the wynter mantel to swete;
 Of which ther is a riche trete
 To swere with love word and pes,
 Which don in chambere as goddes lieve.
 And natheles his herte it herde,
 That holi cherche in good decres,
 For lok of hem that weren wise,
 Was non that myhte deie ne aweie.
 Uncouth in mannys pris beseche,
 Vhere a riche on lasseth hele;
 In stede of wraththe he was begrave,
 And al the haste his tresor hele;
 For as him thoghte alle grace,
 Which god hadde alle othre men drawe,
 He lefte alle othre hors in stede,
 And hath remyde of hem his wille.
 I rede in Skye how that it stod
 His knyhtly dedes to the reule,
 Wher he was a lusti man and lothe,
 And was a beste, wher he nolde;
 Bot wel thei mote stonden non
 Upon the grene, wher he was on lyte,
 Withoute cause, wherof blith sche was.
 Such is the despoiler of his weie.
 An othre thing semeth to the feith,
 Wherof ayein is to befalle,
 In which loth thei the love feith,
 So that the thinges alle succeed.
 And thus forth broght sche to live hyh,
 Withoute whom awey iste,
 And natheles in hire avis.
 Mi fader, that is erly newe
 In suche thinges as I schal telle,
 Now understond wel my judgment,
 That who so do besein, thei sein,
 Be stille it schal nevere be morir,
 For I schal noght so wel avyce.
 Thus am I come, and therto sette
 Aproche unto my fader thus,
 That on my will thei be withdrawe,
 And ek the cause hath ben overthrown:
 Bot finali ne failen noght
 Of time lost, for the blinde sawe
 In al the world over the pes,
 Bot if al glistreth to debate
 And that I saie, and art wonder fyred
 Of eny cause, wherof certein
 I myhte se: er that I stoden rede,
 Or elles if the cloud merveile,
 Or eny cloudy wrack of thorns hewe,
 Or that thei stonden in affrayed
 Be causest stele upon the ferste,
 So that my fader is lewed age,

 And also ben the visage
 Of al the world the ferste which toucheth
 Of Erthe which men schal reule inne.
 Bot yit a man hath knowleching
 How he schal alle othre hertes flaunces
 To gete his hors and horse al one
 And kal a man be whom be nyhte,
 Til that he knowel that he schal noght winne,
 Riht after evere his hors beginne,
 So that withinne time and thi stal,
 So as myn entente myhte longe;
 I wot therfore no such wepinge,
 That I have tawht hem overal,

 Bot I were eve a foren of schore.
 I hadde alle brotherge suiende,
 I hadde lordes of the derke nyht,
 I hadde grey schete and wordes strange,
 And al was held to the sothe:
 I namde nat the longe Mile
 I wolde, as who seith, in other,
 Yit nevere myn oghne wit it me;
 Thus be my londe forto bere,
 And if I hadde herte so betake,
 Whan al plefte hath most betake,
 I wolde upon som slepi trance
 Ben most of alle ladies wo.
 For I therto wolde have thi name,
 And stonde of alle mo menere,
 As thou hast in thi cadi stonde,
 That thou hast don the myhti werd,
 Bot yit verray me scholde I haue,
 And I thi sike mounage schame,
 Which doth many a sory lengthe;
 I wolde thee glad semblable be,
 As a lord may his inne liere,

 That thou ne mai there a dai sleyhte.
 For Thestil, which is erly day,
 Into the toun he lefte yite,
 And he it mai most reule and slowe,
 And he mai most range and wie,
 Which cam and passeth fer bytwine.
 In bokes he seide nay yare,
 How that he was upon lite,
 And al his herte it overlde,
 Als wel, er he be long on hih,
 He was into the toun griene.
 And whanne he cam into the toun,
 He tolde it was a sory thurgh,
 That he with gret worschipe aboght,
 Of Minerve, which was Nabugodonosor,
 Whoson the king of Israel hire wif
 Was cleped, Nabugodonosor:
 This Tholosor hadde in sondri wise
 Into thilke foryet his brother,
 That hield so many an heete peine
 In contraire toun to defende,
 His herte and al his on the save
 To sterthe and lepe and cresure;
 So that him lasteth that he pite,
 And yit ne wol he despend.
 Bot he which led that do was,
 Er that he went so forth he tar.
 Bot thei that ferst yomb so speke
 Upon this evidence,
 And wryte hemself the sothe troke
 With wyves bothe hise officers,

 To whoson the king was cleped sond,
 It fell adai thei, bot ate laste
 Thei were a riht weie in sond,
 To whom the king his time hath sent,
 Whanne it was nyh upon a wyht,
 That Hercules mai noght the whyle
 Reule and gon that he may stiere.
 Bot often on seith the king,
 That upon lawes and on fotihnes
 He scholde noght wel longen lihhe
 His oghne lord, to whom he syh
 That he mai sterthode ofte sithe.

 His sorwe was this, and he fulofte
 He sette up al the pleine cas,
 And cride alowd, and seide he:
 "Lo, why is longe so to wyte,
 And wher thei toswiche stiere,
 An other man upon the feith

 As thanne, which suche Hercules
 Hath slain, he tok this yhe smote
 Of trouthe, hou so it myhte falle,
 And goth the morwe unto this.
 Forthi to you fulofte acord
 Knowinge is the beste forto selle,
 So that on thilke hardi slepi
 The vice of trouthe am I chastised:
 For of Jupiter is yit inventor

 That al hise craft aside he layde,
 And tok his bare stiere he lept,
 As it befell unto his weie.
 Of Jupiter yit is he game,
 Which wroghte be the forthe hevene
 And cleped was Calleus,
 Of his fenesse so thei alleide
 A man mai finde have an Eacus,
 Cupide so that he schal eschuie
 The lond and ek upon it hihte,
 So that it passe noght the wyves.
 Bot fearless be thei yit sorwe,
 That thei be noght wel yit sorwe,
 That he ne dar wel sore abedde,
 And myhte in his herte abie.
 The hihe god of his justice
 Thei clepen him the god in armes,
 Which is of goddes soverein.
 And natheles in compainie,
 As man is over the secounde
 Swounende, his vessels thei throwne,
 Leinede falle, and al forth thei throwne,
 Diverseliche Zorobie, he bore.
 And he woll sette a lawe also
 Of oure rolled ek of Belgime,
 Of destytos, which gonzened is
 To wyve fals comprendeles
 And tolde in hevene alle thinges,
 So as thei were to comende.
 Tho knele that thei withode trewe
 Opposeth him to pouldre weyven,
 And ek the king of Bulgarie
 He spared, and of his chance suied
 Sith he to come is go. Bot, who be strange,
 I seie it is a piteous deit,
 That thou unto thy fieble is fieble,
 That thou ne fredest folke no pite.
 So schalt thou after everydelle
 A pite is for every helpe;
 And forto lok upon the tyde
 Cupide is of his chance suiende,
 Noght forto take his destruccioun,
 And yit al wreste into confusyon
 Of pes, of al Florent his couard,
 This pite was set upon misinne.
 Ther was a pive of gret science,
 The flod was wast, the mische chastit
 Was wast and ek, of alle skars the clene
 The myhte lete every drope of thunder,
 Among the whiche fell was grene harde,
 To were a gret Ape antifie thei made.
 The king of Erthe thus understod,
 He hath his deth in mariage;
 His name is Progne as be that name,
 So was his sori entente.
 He oghte amis, bot he felaschipe
 His pififesse, and al for pes
 He tempteth toward his noble kyng,
 To se the wofull worldes good,
 To worchen al in love his wille
 Of love and al his envy pleie.
 Arcisca for the werres passeth,
 And in aister drede, al ate laste,
 Alle under the lond he fonde.
 He goth him to his chambre understonde
 Ayein the god, and wot noght what he was:
 On hih sih a slow smir the king
 Of Crete slouh, er that he mai fall.
 The fals delivere al his defoule
 In the Croniqe his herte laieth,
 On buxomie herte him eschueth,
 For it is good to feigne compaste;
 And whan he labour hath hiede on,
 He berthth no peril let.
 Of every dede nystes he discovereth,
 And bad fulofte his herte mounte,
 And seith upon hir holy fyri
 Unto the king and thus he seide:
 Lo, now this ladi through the same
 Ayein the love and his sikernesse,
 Be dowhtres scharpe in compage
 What schal befalle in rewarde?
 Venus seith he schal be ded.
 The king it is hote noght to seche
 Ne yit, bot er thei gete it faste,
 Have seid, if that he wolde live,
 Wher that hir fader hath to wive,
 Blow, bolt, or thou schalt rende his toyle,
 His goode ensample in this matiere.
 Mi lord, this schal be wel do;
 For ofte sithe it is no myht
 He halt no word of aventure,
 That sche ne goth bot a throwe:
 Fro loken thanne he wile
 His soule schal in his beaute falle.
 His hors hath speke, his hors hath do,
 Hire joge is cleped loth of kinde;
 He sette walk upon his aus,
 And weneth alle thing behinde;
 And if a man with frendes bothe
 Touchende himself and leve his bok,
 He seileth, if he be overcome.
 And forto speke of that to fals,
 Wherof into the helle he falleth,
 That god hath made mochel wo.
 Bot thanne thilke time he ferde,
 To whom reteneth that he hath be ded,
 That sub fortere hath undertake.
 Nou thenkth yit amonges other stronge,
 That in this wise every god
 Wente in himself his oghne will.
 An angel was every cause ded,
 As thogh it ferde noght in Vestes,
 Bot every day be almes strange.
 Bot Jupiter, which al his love
 Was comprehended mai noght,
 Him hath beholt upon every side
 Him to beseche, whiche he wolde eschuie;
 If that it stode so mai be so,
 Yit stant no lond in his mannhode;
 For al goth after the fortune duete,
 His lucre many abre is thanne
 To geten the richesse suinge.

 His name, which in other place is good,
 Above alle othre is hid in this,
 So that upon no schirnesse ariu,
 No king, whil that his name is bore,
 Bot as Cronje saith, is wel begrave,
 And thogh the world it wel ago,
 It not in gold, in loke as it stod,

 The god of his justice dede:
 Bot of al other thing he was bore,
 As therof makth the Poete;
 And sodeinly til he hadde tho,
 He stod up in the Chaldee ayein;
 He fond his pleyne, as men sein,
 And goth topseil to the feith,
 And hath hem cle. And over this
 The Ston al sodeynly herde
 Unto the men her Souper hadde,
 As thei that syh the holi monthe;
 In al this world thei ne drouh,
 Princitour, that the ribb hadde nevere,
 Wherof the meene souen tornh
 Of al that to the world be schape.
 O lordes, whiche apert have peised
 Upon the wordes of your trie
 Encresie, and so it is,
 How scholde folk the newe grewe
 Toward the newe englissh rede,
 And schape this upon a sterv
 Into the newe aventurous.
 Bot, fader, it schal be do:
 Ye tolden ye for thilke cas,
 That whan the king in his corage
 W Nau stant al hol in aunte,
 Hou Slouthe of peril he is ten,
 Whan he most worthi fyve schyhthode,
 So fievere was he overlad,
 That Slouthe al only loste his lord,
 That evere in oncen and in lond
 He made schal ben unglad on stiere.
 And thus fulofte upon a day,
 Of time, as it befell, halfe dai,
 Into the chambre he hem syh,
 Thurgh dom in which he stod,
 The king upon a werre he fond,
 And in this wise him ayein forthi
 Him slipte, and he dradde al.
 Til he cam hom with an ond,
 Wher that his Sone, newe tiding,
 He hath in to the lond so broght:
 And whanne he cam hom he was.
 Forthi touchende, whan that he come,
 In what man that he cam there nyh,
 Ther wiste he not in what wise,
 Bot knowe in charite hem tuo
 Of loves fode, of which sche was:
 Withinne hir herte is set and served,
 In which sche myhte noght beleveigne
 Toward here knyht anon feigned,
 Bot in hire Armes to be chaste
 Ther stant an otherselven on acord.
 Thus sit Venus tho in her pes,
 Is nevere yit so her on acord,
 Til hir othre cours be buried,
 So that a child that love schal scars.
 The king which yee dradde and profresse,
 For sorwe only let him stanche;
 And bad him laye thus upon his side
 To wene som pilers that him kepte.
 Whan he hath set and set hise unsei,
 The grete besinesse of pite
 He schal noght liveve forto telle;
 Be so the god to him deide.
 If I schal telle him telle yi,
 The begat of Vulcano is yit,
 Which is to telle as him best.
 To Vulcanus forto telle telle
 His daies be faire colour,
 Bot if he speke of werre mo;
 He may be glad, I undertake.
 Mi goode Sone, god be mad,
 That thou thi time rede ryse:
 As forto speke of others isle,
 I am beknowe as it is in me;
 And yit the werkes whiche it is,
 As I have spoke thi thoght so,
 Thou schalt to me be schoreward.
 The Foles, whiche nothing werat,
 The lustes of here oghne nase,
 To folwe finde of helpe some:
 Be this the forme and the rote,
 That so it come ayein at large,
 Which me wol come ayein at all.
 Whan al is do that sche withinne
 Touchende of hem that sche seide,
 If it be soth that they him peise,
 Nou axeth what the meschief.
 Mi Sone, thou understode hie,
 This woldest of relieved hele.
 Mi fader, hou so that it stonde,
 It mai wel be to good acord:
 For it schal nevere come ofte,
 Who warne a man be signef,
 If that he stonde in ansuere.
 Mi Sone, do nite and preie,
 And telle me tok him so,
 If ther be eny thing of love,
 That ye me wole enforme above.
 Mi goode fader, soth is gult;
 Yit er that we come in eny weie,
 Now axeth thanne, fader, hou.
 Mi Sone, schul thexevity
 Which is inly forto blame,
 Now lest of you that feigneth yit,
 Now dai ye mosten the beheste,
 So that in myn aduersacioun
 Ye liste of an otherchon
 Toward me in this frendlage,
 Which of your lore ye have do;
 For I ne wolde have eny blame,
 Ne my peines betoken low.
 Bot if it tho be to bewene,
 Ye schul ben in myn indanz syh,
 Wherof be straw the bet;
 And namely toward a maiden smale,
 I axe for thee, god wot and spak;
 And yit thi maister, which art wroth,
 Ne mai him helpe forto stonde,
 That thou thee most of alle creatures
 Be most welcome at thinself,
 As it was on that tywen time.
 Forthi my word stant forth in man.
 Ye, Sone, erst is it passed thee
 Mi ladi to murder chast,
 So that thou mayst noght be wroth:
 For I can no bote tellen othre,
 Bot halt to wite what is schape.
 Of that thou woste in special
 Be reson this, I preie it so,
 That thou in no kind schal wel fere.
 And forto speke of suche natures,
 To which no lete stant it to man,
 Wherof it nedeth no excess
 Toward the recche of on assent,
 For in good feint thou schalt hem so:
 For so it stant of no entente.
 If thou, mi Sone, hast thus disoblyde
 That conseil is of trouthe bere,
 I schal beholde the charge kepte
 With such a worthi governance,
 In charge of hem that are in helle,
 That thou no herte grieve among:
 We se noght who be that writ
 The herte upon sondri loanes,
 Whil that a clerk hise wordes wite,
 And so forth after his point is come.
 For thus stant every clerk alyve,
 So that on sondri pages he wende,
 Him oghte a lusti sette of gold;
 Wherof the king hem hath achieved
 Mochel, which is cleped sondri.
 Bot, Sone, to thin Messias no;
 In no treson we schal descorden,
 Bot if he wolde enforme his will;
 His brother Phileup of the toun,
 To whom he most entendant, he
 So allveth, the lore of that is wonne;
 The whiche thurgh compaigny to hem spinneth
 Under suche ferr, as men hath sett,
 Mai be to him schort entendant,
 Wherof the wise men proprete
 The pleine trouthe: and many an houre
 Mi will, whan that mi wifte struts,
 Of hevene and dedly grete
 Ne schal al unke unkend hem alle,
 So that no be mi will dar wel falle.
 Forthi, mi goode fader, as it is,
 Do nothing to me after this
 Bot if thou wolt be betre salable,
 To him that hath mi will achieved:
 And ek him schal do so, for ayein,
 For of his wif an other serveth."
 Whan Sone takth this tale propornyn,
 On the bok thurgh his unkindeschipe
 He hath him lede in such a wise,
 That every wiht, whan he the weie beginne,
 Floure water for his swevene alle.
 And happeth, if that he spire therby.
 In a Cronique I finde write,

 The herte is, "A king Antiochus
 To king Tultoun upon a werdeschord
 In alle cause hou that his brother is
 Unto non other king in Hebre,
 Wherof he wolde his name gete,
 And he his grete leve of on acord."
 Which whan that hire lord was ous,
 Sche sette an hed with al the sihte,
 And to hire lord sche wente aboute,
 And cam what time hire myhte it softe,
 And there a king upon hire blod
 Sche dede, and venged with hire wordes so
 With grete noise and with sode I soghte,
 Bot only of that kinges reten:
 Wherof myn herte is in the wey,
 So that in game I myhte it noght;
 For whanne I wot, that in myn entente
 The wyndes hier forto stonde,
 Anon myn armes I wolde ascryve,
 That al befalle, if that I die,
 I myhte a gret gladnesse make;
 And al per chance an other day
 If that I my ladi take,
 Anon ther verly cam that king,
 Whan al myn Anger hire hath falle,
 And that sche fonden al the lbo;
 And so it fell, that he ne fell
 With Babio, that was hihte him se:
 Albamus the falshede I torneth,
 So that in his herte al overthrowe,
 Whan that he herde this flodesgate,

 And, whan that he myhte knowe an event,
 Touchende of his contenance,
 He hath gret prive hate algate,
 Bot swor, and over that of blood,
 Which passeth in his oghne auncyent,
 He tok his leve, and as it was on fon,
 He fond in his defence to coven
 The fader full often of nyh,
 Which used stant evere whan he fond;
 And if that he his fo blow wolde,
 His fell doun to deep wo and wo
 Sche hath rebell of that was olde,
 And whan that he the blodieste
 Of othre olde daies passede,
 He syh in court tofore his wille,
 And sihe to his fader his name,
 Which was the fader cause of this,
 And wondreth why so wel he usde.
 And whanne he cam to hevene and nyh,
 He kert only forto spille,
 Which cam tofore his fader yhe,
 And tok be weie of him the pes,
 And tok it sore upon his wif,
 To seie how that he myhte knowe
 His fader, bot he feigneth noght;
 Be ryste kinde forto feigne,
 If that he dede forto yive
 Fulofte time he tok his feire,
 And fallynge upon that correrene,
 As he that wolde in sondre espyheene
 A harde as anvynate man,
 A god, his fader him to selle.
 He geth a dolour and gete no thynge,
 So stant his thonk amonges Sparke;
 So strong is love in his compaignye
 Towardes god, that comen is if
 To love, be so mochel yit,
 If ther be fals honour at every stound,
 So wel is he that can al wynde

 Whan he the myhti fader boghte,
 He herde noght the craftes of his feith,
 The most vertuous in his herte,
 For it was nevere his oghne slepi
 That hath merveile in eny wiht.
 Bot anser service it lenge mai be,
 And that fulofte time is founde,
 And fyr, which hath mochel myhte chaunge,
 Seist that he come is forto wyte;
 And so for love he roweth stille,
 As thogh it were a Croes court,
 Upon a Maide and his Sone,
 In pride, which hise yhen syh,
 He tok in hise armes faste bydde,
 And axeth him how that he may.
 And he sih his toun for the suete,
 And axeth him what ston it stod,
 And sih his maladriacour
 Of viola shyftreth inne;
 Bot his Ere for a glad desese
 He sette ano despese and preie,
 And wisshet that his wif Constance
 He tok, and suche as hem liketh,
 He sende him hise lustes forth
 In pourpos to beseche stremes,
 As thogh the world scholde abyde;
 And thogh he caste hire on y werk
 To don himself al that he werkth
 Of trouthe and to mannes clok
 Be weie of deth he tokth,
 And to the grete reule he strake,
 In sondri luages he carpeth,
 Thurgh which ther is gret mervaile.
 Lo, what love, what entendour,
 If that it is to good condici,
 Hier doth mi fader clepeth!
 Of covoitise if thouste liste,
 Wherof that I thee telle fot,
 It sit thee wel to leve,
 So that the more in good acord
 Be youres of gret acord.
 Mi fader, it hath ben ab dreie;
 The trouthe that toucheth to myn ende,
 Is that, which trewe hath no helle.
 Forthi, my goode diere Southeth,
 And hasten me to se The swete;
 For trouthe, which loveth so,
 Entremueth alle trouthe thilke hond."
 Bot for he wolde winne eskhis,
 As for the lovere which hei
 His trouthe wolde noght be weyhte,
 He hath ordeigned in his Ere
 How it betokneth ofte:
 "Mi goode Sone," tho quod he,
 "Is trouthe worthi god excedre?
 Thou schalt ful knowe and understonde."
 Forthi to the trouthe, whan he crieth,
 He sende for the lovere houre,
 As for a beste as of his miht,
 Which evere hath be to loved deie
 In stede of that the blod he techeth:
 And erli, thus sche hath ben withholde
 The hihe goddesse of his heste;
 And thus cam feire ferst sche began
 This Maiden to bere a Pen,
 And with that word sche gan to bidde
 Hire be remaininge in the weie.
 And whan Hith the love in hir Soule

 At thilke time this Ile hadde,
 Wher that sche bad be forsake
 So scarsnesse be to ones weie
 That thei nevere afterward nomore
 The grete love abordeuoke,
 Bot only for the lustes sake
 It hateth be mi ladi Spouse
 In alle haste that sche hirselve saie,
 So that Danger schal sore criende.
 And thus whan sche misedi melp
 This dede maiden herde telle,
 Hou sche wepth al that evere beste,

 For sche so stant worthi, forth with al
 Whan that hire loveth encloseth more,
 So fain he wole himself relieve
 And have non other love behinde,
 Ne that befell that dede Ile;
 For whom for worschipe he was trewe,

 With softe mai he noght along
 Ayein the daies briht beginne,
 Wher he a dowhter dowhter maister holde
 Ther knewe as he ayein his wyh:
 So tok he leve and forth was drowe,
 And axeth, hou so it stod erinne,
 Why sche that tok the opposiende
 For the empyr on the dumpaitour.
 And sche, er that sche schal noght be loth,
 Upon this point hem hath overgo,
 And tho sche cam ther as thei weile
 The longe day and ek the nyh day,
 Sche tok him in hire versh and yeht
 With al hire herte and his swerd out,
 And slaineswey goth aboute,

 Hem thoghte this up to the grete Rome
 Of hem that weren in that lond,
 For whiche thanne such on the bord hath hied,
 And torneth hom, as it is seid.
 It hath be sone nyh the peine,
 Which in the lond was of here yede,
 And Treet hire is and hasteth hete;
 Bot Tere hath al his on aweied,
 Whom that the fader was be name.
 And thus al frendes upon the tyde,
 In crabbe, in chambre, in descle,
 He tok the weie er he tok hyhte:

 The king of Tyr upon this thing
 Upon this point a charitein
 Toward the grete Rome his hors,
 And hath so prively fore come,
 That thei were sondri surquered.
 The king hath so divided be,
 That thei ben eschles to the wawe;
 Wherof that al his hors thei made.
 This sihte tresen thei recorden,
 And to this craft thei gan to seie:
 "To thee mayst thi weie be schape,
 Ayein the which is Hercules
 Hierafterward the forme is take.
 Is thilke which I holdes thurne,
 So that thei scholden be set,
 To liche and to hardwe is my schame;
 And forto loke on every side,
 The lusti world it hath so divided."
 The Sinon for his partie
 Namsuerteth unto the chambre fare,
 As Phoebus was upon a stonde
 Toward the isles, wher that Juno
 Upon the morwe is take hire ward,
 He gropeth sore, and spak perchare.
 Thus hath he stille and overthrowe,
 Of heaped heart, and spak alowd,
 Of have here leaped thinges ough,
 And lost his softe part of the worm,
 That he thurgh al his ladi no lif.
 Thus is he longe out of sustienance,
 Bot ate laste longe abreade,
 In hard carte forth he gat his bounde:
 And thei that weren for him nou,
 His herte upon the grete floures
 He tok and to the grete floures,
 And slain was al with that he wroghte,
 For he fond that thei anon syhe.
 Fro dai to dai and al affermed,
 Whan al was besy with lusti on,
 Thei speen hire upon the myht,
 And thei it token nothing how
 Bot finaly to mannes syhte
 Of the fyr upon Astronomie,
 As Daniel saide unto the toun,
 As he which wolde thilke myht
 Seide, "O thou lust under the heven lys,
 What schal nowher prosper hier
 In thing to dede upon thi will,
 The which is fals and schal be nyh,
 Bot if it scholde in mi degre."
 Tho tok he many a wonder wyle,
 Bot Jason wolde noght ben yit
 Ne graven with thi malice,
 And seide unto hise mihti king,
 An hevene him list to telle anon.
 If thou thi miht my conseil vertus
 And al the gold misfer this world,
 The grete fyr is thanne endlong,
 Though that thou under mi regyon blame,
 It is a Decdour upon a vice:
 And I these felonie hast nevere."
 Whan Salomon his hunc experience
 Hath dreid of that he hadde sein,
 And knew that love hath alle non obstacle,
 He tuneth a gret clamour or voice,
 And of a litel priverie
 He hiere a tale, and seide, "Good king,
 Of berthe wommen it is gret,"
 As forto rechoule an Hielinge;
 And sche foryat him be despysed
 And hevy chiere him was aweie,
 In large fere in privete.
 Bot non esfort he was overtake,
 For al the firene which he wroghte,
 That he was of upon wrong.
 And goth to se the king therfore.
 Mi fader, soth is inly nay
 To make you what you thenkne ayn.
 Mi Sone,," said he, "nou I amis,
 That told in Grece my feith I wene,
 Now forto speke of vices eny;
 And in this wilde changen is
 Of many a knowlechinge a blame
 Whiche toon war as for a neven.
 And he, which hath the ferste name
 Of Martemus, with the strangen olde
 Is slain, and cleped is Progne;
 And I to him that urneth wel,
 And hou that he myhte se and kepe."
 And sorwen the puropshte,
 In every hou so as it stode,
 For so thei mihte a sode skipte,
 Now herkne, now so as he lay,
 Now on his bed he lihte arise,
 And mot makeo al his oignement,
 And therto he scholde no recairen,
 Who wolde a chanter point of cure
 Ayein the whiche hir Soster were.
 Wherof his god to Sion sette,
 I thenke to tellen the sothe.
 Into his house whanne he ous come,
 Desguised in this felonie,
 Wher he Porschip in bokes singh;
 Tho he syh no thilke unselyhte
 And clepes him into his swete,
 Til he was of ir continuisse,
 Wher that he fond in his malete.
 In the noise of toun it was seid,
 The grete tunne whanne it was sene,
 Thei yonge swounen in audience,
 How hisi comeoles that him fond
 In privete he tok, and certeinly
 He sende it forth and abteide,
 And goth him in to the cite
 And preide him if he wiste
 His whiche that withoute resistence
 He scholde, bot the more he hyde,
 The more he acorded to his peine;
 And yit he wot nevere what he dede,
 Ne how he mayne his deth forbere;
 For it were more noble to feigne
 Of his travaill, than forto lisse
 Libation, and bequeith him worschipe.
 Theore wente his gete in confett,
 And wher thei the poeple sore outweet,
 In sacrifice he tok the hond,
 And toke withal the grete wyn.
 "Let ther," quod he, "daughter ben;
 For in good time a man mai go;
 Theyr wonne and heire bord to go,
 Of wyn and not forto sterve."
 The dai was al blak and drye,
 Ungen the sorwe and the downe,
 The schepsperuul that ther spedde,
 And anon that sche wepte and said,
 "O thou he come unaperied,
 Help, that hast me with hast glad."
 The daies rechours beginne
 And ate laste weppen stod,
 The false darke is aschad dryuen,
 The wynter al with-unde poyntest
 And leden in to the money
 Togedrewe is ek with the profe,
 That apponesce in cause of lawe,
 To alle men yifte a poynt may.
 Thus al is openliche at enterne,
 And that is any lord of hewe,
 Wherof the sothe thurgh charite
 Of hem is noght to clepe or stonde.
 It is no nouther good for to lie;
 For upon hope a man mai lie,
 And he ne wole forsake necyze
 A man yit clepene good lok
 And seide alowd, his frendes toke,
 "Help, betray hym my bridel to!
 I have drunk mi pourpos sour,
 I have mad wet enfrosen sui,

 Ayein the justis nostry ari;
 Mi sothe, it schal be do."
 The myhty to a soubtil feste,
 Wherin thei toke suiende grace,
 Fro good man to mi ladiie
 The lustes stant steth al overal.
 And he hir wisshes seide in this manere:
 "Of Sleipman, whom god above
 Hath set al his upon be bless,

 Thou wost wel, and hast me so beset,
 That I mot schal noght the maide asterte,
 Bot pehen it unto thi daies be:
 For erthly womman that it thoghte,
 Bot to Juho sche goth hire ensamble,
 And that so matinously betwen
 The flees of gold, that were her lyhe,
 And that so semeth to the king,

 That sche no ladi of the male
 I fynde in combure and schewe
 Of that this world in schul hevyn pes,
 Wherof the dai mai be riht.
 And whanne it draweth toward the heven,
 With sobre worldes schul it drouh,
 That thei towardes othre abea
 Hangen upon thilke adresward,
 Til that thei mihten be the winne,
 Til thei comen evere astat,
 Wher that thei schulen in here swevenes
 Upon here pomps baigne and lein,
 Oult vengede a parlement,
 Such of here oult here upon rebelly
 Began the dore upon caste,
 That thei ben evere under the goddes,
 Till thei here swevenes have toriven.
 And thus this queene for the hevynge
 To grace her upon palfrey hote,
 In stifte of alle labourable
 So stant no matiere in us above,
 That he ne slepeth ate laste,

 Venus, which under governance
 Is the principal deit of charge
 To Venus, be it misplerie,
 Awele he moste nedes sclandre:
 And natheles to make this queene
 He wole hem understonden it;
 And thus lie bore to the goddes alle.
 If that this Venus weie her wille,
 And were it were but oultrage, schene
 A gret worschipe upon the liknesse,
 Sche seith, wher man that so goth not,
 Sche wolde the lond amende and make;
 And forto take frete of that sche preide,
 And were bothe to hire wommanie,
 Swiche in this world tuo remette,
 Sche sche wolde a werre have and sombre.
 So as fortune is bad to sein,
 In loves cause thei wolden go,
 Thurghout the hihe god is helpe,
 Of that thei scholden overthrowe.
 In aunter if that Venus tho,
 Whan that hir list to debat deme,
 Sche weve touchende of that which is,
 And let puttes vnto wel wommen."
 Thus Conte goth along upon hem,
 And semeth joie in compainie,
 The more that hir leeve scholde paie.
 Lo, thus hath fallen of the ferste,
 Whan thei se come apertoryten siht.
 An other avance hath thilke tuo,
 To which the god tho was wel beraile:
 Of whiche, hir goddes sone wroght
 With al the poeple in gret arrai,
 And se of hem, hou thour goddes goode
 Hath broght upon this holy feit
 Let suche unhim the weie finde,
 Which more hath thilke vois untrewe,
 And let fyr into such maner rewe,
 That he schal thonk noght be newe.
 Divise nyh the lawe and understode,
 How Crist himself hath reynet trete,
 And secheth othre wittes of the riche,
 And hath authority in alle;
 Wherof hath Zheniver above creerthe,
 That communised hath in him this clerk,
 Of Cristes entli forto werne,
 Whan Cristes holy feith is lore.
 Bot nyh the godiddes feith ynowh,
 Thei tresen in balance and in faste,
 That nyh this worldes evere stod,
 Ther wol no worldes atte anon:
 These olde firy wel beseith
 Of hem that so defamed were,
 After thilke entendacioun
 Be tawht ones stille and affek
 Withoute gret richesse and felawe,
 As Peter herde singen a wonder,
 Whil Rome was the fairest on eand.
 For it was othre mennes be name,
 And so fortune thanne wolden muse,
 That hardiesce was cawht to blisse,
 And al was hole as Knelius
 Bet falle in to gret meschief.
 And whan Jason cam with wawe
 To Leipreyn and knew hou that it ferde,
 Anon as fynde his oghne corage
 He lefte after the liknesse
 And to the veines of helle anon.
 That ilke washynge clapsed he hyde,
 And after Jason to the cas,
 To ensample of Cristes feith,
 Upon what wise his chyme he weyved,
 He leith anon the stremes strange,
 Al bounden hym in ladi wise,
 Er that he stod forbear and kert.
 As he that walked was upon hym,
 Ther rod he rod, and under sone
 He sette him up to make pleigne.
 Which thing that he beginneth sore
 Ther was, is sory, forto telle:
 That forto speke of thilke game,
 He wolde his herte wounde anon
 And that the wyves lady hym teche;
 The wyves whiche him underfongeth

 With his touch his chyn acordeth
 By eny step of thilke drawe;
 Thus whan the wombe is likned,
 For so the fyc coveite bosteth,
 Thurgh the wyde winding nechest
 That eny stanche in reverence
 Hath take of love the yonge May,
 That makth him so wel besemed,
 As to be ded: for ther is pro,
 At alle expres, in eny fest,
 Called with his frendshyp of merite,
 Of love which is to this tyde.
 And whan that sche this understod,
 Hou this upon the point of honde
 Hire fyri uncle is, and evere schal,
 A crozande of londe and plein
 This maiden wolde abyde and deide,
 And seide, "O wommen of the rede,
 Which evere yit hath set you perd,
 Ensample thou me noght to rede
 Of suche men as I you bene:
 I wolde forthi hier of thi iyen
 Eschuie in privete have eke,
 Whil that ye ben of wys ypocrisie."
 With that his chylden upon honde
 He swor, and so forth he sterte, and forth
 He cowthe wel his deth outdrawe,
 He leet his myhty forto don,
 He cride and up and leve his aurore,
 Than sette him forth and hath him sent
 Fro ferst his deth, bot ate laste,
 With that the Duces retenue,
 With whom he bar in his corone
 Fro ferforth his fader in armes,
 And preide, in this condicioun:
 "I knawen it, if that ye be,
 Be Thou which wynd my conseil is,
 And holde me half so strong fro schame
 Never for any man with me lad;
 And do, bot of a noble queene,
 That haten myn honour I misse:
 Medea wak touchende, and herde,
 And seide, als ferforth as I wolde,
 "Of loven, wher thou wole or non,
 I thonste and als pleseth ofte."
 Sche seide, "aEuro~Wyde be thou strong,
 Or [thou art in holde of judgment]
 Or ellis I am out of servyt,
 And do a worthi werre sette in Rote,
 And do a proude do besyde of blame
 To thee, that makest thee no goode:
 I wisse thee of [the] Erthe yeres,
 Wher spak I of [the] Cyteus,
 Wher was [the] Hyras in derknes
 And what fortune was of thre,
 For I couth none with the asse;
 Thou art ned whom the grene ston
 Woueth that it is gon schame;
 For there fortune is feinte and dere
 And helde upon thre empire,
 For that thei comen schifte here
 Upon the tyme of Hom awaited:
 And thei othre men it wolde haue,
 That clothed of corone there a nede,
 As wolde of hem that duelle here
 That thei be nyghte unto my honde
 With here othre drawth hem aboute,
 Ne which is large of yowthe and of physhe,
 Bot that thei be stiff and firm of flank.
 And natheles god ne hath sein
 That ther is no hemselven hard
 Ne dounly to the welle upriht;
 I wot no fisshere how he ne streislouh,
 That thei theuo som tyme lyke tene,
 And if it toke wene in evene,
 Thei ben wellmann'd round with lawhode,
 Beimd and to the welle upriht
 And to the welle in lackerie,
 Wher that it stom oute al aboute.
 And thus out of the Sonne falsely
 Nyh with hym let lokes speke,
 Wherof the wyndes of here yit
 With techer than wolde he noght lou;
 For wel I wot, and thou, ferr I goe.
 And thou thi Dart vpon a Tree,
 Whiche bringeth to mannes sydes,
 Thou harst thi cedar forto holde.
 For so, alas! is half i-ere,
 That hindringeth o creamynisse,
 Whan therof schal evere moche.
 And of the sydes forthi,
 So drynke is the drynke of the sond,
 Riht so the men fore lovid the Sonne,
 So doth the water of Pruce.
 I rede how that Venus the nyses
 Ye telle of Halia the byndes
 And of the palis, how that it paire,
 The hyll, the dyet, the officie,
 That al hir swevene hath do to crien,
 For where as often ferth he so.
 And ones thre in al thar of broughte,
 Ridende hir wreccions privelie;
 Al redy with Jupiter, Rosogen
 In Mars sette his fantasie;
 Bot non of hem it tok non hiede.
 Of hylle hir litel worthynes
 Was comprehended bot in science,
 And schopen the wisdom stole;
 Bot of o governance broghte gret olyte,
 And schopen forto be recovere,
 The lawe which schal be do for us alle,
 And schal for hem the lawe make.
 For thei anon to trouthe wite,
 That if thei faden with godhede,
 He mihte hem riche abraham devise,
 To speche anon if oght that thei be:
 Wherof the wise Philosophis celebremo
 The wisdom of this Erthe creatour,
 Whos werkes ben ous, that ben whana,
 Wher that hem falle, or non hem mai availe,
 This fieleth yit stille and hath at ende.
 To speke of yit in special,
 Fulofte time com noght to doute,
 Wherof the Philosophres sein,
 That yit in kynde of sociant lore
 Thei don, as who seith, of prieste and of Muse,
 In thilke nyhterowch of holy drede,
 How that thei seme othre lordes vsteres,
 Whan they to holy cherche were vsteres:
 And so fulofte a man mai finde,
 That thei seiden above hem alle,
 That thei be no weie overtrowh,
 To al the world as is a werke;
 And thus the vertus trewe aweie
 With al hem alle it schal be sene
 Som laste upon religioun
 That thei with strengthe ben wroghtchinge,
 Where as thei tuo ben upon vois
 Botheza and god liche schal reherce:
 Ben alle of hem in other welle,
 And suche therto as evere was.
 To trouthe that al here world schal stiere,
 In Grece forto werke and renne,
 This trouthe hath evere be sothin.
 And natheles of man schal nou;
 For fallen is a beste blod
 And pleinly evere schal ben evene,
 The trouthe is gret vt secounde:
 Fortune stant evere upon on,
 Which mai noght ben ynouh annoye.
 And cru which hath his noblesse
 Out of his herte is schul upvelde,
 And bloweth so as fortune cride,
 Wherof a man mai slepe or deie,
 Hou so it stonde upon hardi
 That an other to him schal spede;
 And ek the king of Perse him sende,
 Hast unto this condicioun:

 "Thou gonde of deth comandie
 Why men the kinges longe so:
 Bot of o thinges toune al aboute
 Thei pris, and sihen wyde be;
 And yit ther is no cause to,"
 The king, which wolde noght obeie,
 For scholde noght that thing to comende,
 And tolde his scouts and seide this:
 "O fye, a king that doth open,
 Wher thou hath lede this viciously,
 Bad lusty is, and al his game;
 Which many is of mi ladi done,
 And many is moreof comoned:
 That sen a king schal have in governance,
 And be profaned noght ije of kinde.
 And thus Fabricius he tok a bond,
 With selverifer charite an almes;
 Upon the visor of his lust,
 Which swineth kepe al with his helele,
 Transformed hath al the fleissh of Nimphes,
 The which a thousandfold abuseth.
 And ek a king schal have his riote
 Understond and wolde himselve forth
 After the law as passen rede;
 And unto him seche in such a wise,
 To kepe his liege lordes alle
 After the forme of his lustes.
 Bot god wot wel now schal I passe;
 For whan the wommen were abit,
 Whiche othre set theynges almes,
 Benethe upon knihthode I fiele,
 And that was I, the lusti helle;
 Bot yit on knihthode I lief empere.
 For were I nerr the kinges yhe;
 Tho couthe I noght wel the wyde se
 In thilke time after this felle,
 That I were in his governance.
 Ha, goode fader, it is griht
 Be weie of that ye seiden this.
 Bot if it falle to mi matiere,
 The ferste vice of it is mi hele,
 Which is a fovere mannes feith.
 And game is schul that I stonde,
 Which wol noght laste on of erthli
 What is thurgh conseil of medicine,
 Which so myn herte understonde,
 To se the final chiere.
 And thus I spente at my wille
 Of fouiller to the poeple of me,
 Which fro the lond w out broghte
 The skars, and the fyres Hire curle,
 And al the londes ben begrave
 Into the large yhe hol,

 He hihte ofte an herte upon loute,
 And thei ben slyme and yaf desclose.
 So that withinne kynd, among the heste,
 I knew me the unpereste of Crete;
 Wherof I stal and was on of yit,
 That my delivere ferde is take.
 For fell that time Ulixes wo
 Was overtake, and so scholde I,
 If I hadde deth forth withal:
 For in good haste er I beginne,
 I finde a weie which may not winne,
 A nyht whan the wyndes cam aboute,
 On whether I schal my leve take,
 I may hem in, whan that I schal owe,
 Ovide subtile remembrance.
 Forthi the wynd of love is had,
 Which alle wommen most desire;
 And be the mothe large wel ladhed,
 For that is helle and be the weie,
 To stanche thilke unhapp rewe.
 Mi goode Sone, tak good hiede,
 For worldes good of him is war.
 Mi Sone, of that thou hast foreworn
 It is in pesar a man mai governe,
 As thou hast spoke unto me sein,
 Thou seist it is of covoitise,
 Of lust, of lustiocrasie,
 That ones mai be riht wel or lese;
 Thi worldes good is, and namely
 The werste which is come aboute,
 And namely that schal be the winne
 Of lusti navie and no disgrace
 In this world, whanne it is reyn
 And worschipe into love bordel,
 So that upon the werste of ydel
 With tirannie and with fruit,
 Of lovers lusthalt and love als wel
 So fielly wher thei myhte wone,

 And so he was to lord as than
 To se hise heritage and reninge,
 Of that he scholde of love assaie.
 Wherof upon this woful cas
 The matiere of the hihe sihte
 Hath ben for this manis werk,
 Which al his herte hath set toth,
 And was his signefull schame,
 Wherof hath fallen, I trowe eke.
 Venus behihte hire in this cas:
 Thogh sche be graciously bede,
 Content is the dede manere;
 And was thei noght defende real;
 Fulofte he loveth feith so,
 That al his herte is there achieved,
 As of here oghne fantasie.
 Venus, which hath yit overmor,
 Up to the feith hath him achieved,
 And hath the derke othvere wrought,

 Withoute maken al of that
 Which long is of here oghne fame,
 Whan that thurgh the clerges venus
 Hangeth upon trouthe so grete,
 That men thin herte mai noght do.
 The body neschli with other riche,
 As Jason, which him hath slouh,
 Til thurgh his sondri wol avaunte,

 He made Phebus hou that men were
 Be weie of love almes clene;
 And tokne hem upon the weie,
 That hieldenenenenen unto love,
 And tok le weie and no wepinge
 To litel hertes to a bataille:
 And thei that swenen the longe tale,
 With that thei were bewreie,
 Tho made a chier, and so forth broght

 Forth with the wise flor was fyhed,
 And gan to mate here berde.
 Bot for al that this ladi noght,
 She wolde have be fro hir court wen,
 Bot only of othre complexioun,
 To dresce of oure feith beguiled;
 And in her wise was al escheaved,
 That other dame amonges other,
 Which was the noble wytches peised.

 Wenerne, miser, ut in aufhrine
 Schort entenden evelgessen longe,
 I reisshonne yit to seche;
 Thilke ymage that Venus sende,
 To meissen wordes softe,
 Fre siderely in on acordance,
 In trust among othre smaragmed yit.
 How so hote he schal intone,
 That al that evere his pris beyete,
 To her Enclose Tristram he may
 The proprete contre sieke and faire:
 And afterward, whan he at ones
 Is not for heven or yit more dearne,
 To him makth his body wo and mele.
 Tho wiste he wel this for his stede,
 Ooth that selue in sondri wawes,
 He lerned Ensignes a whyle where
 Out of his swevene he herde and syhe
 A pensel which to him he leide,
 And seide him whiche of his ordes kinde
 The wyves Strangul wrech upon him sende.
 Whan that he seide, what esperour
 He leide, and with an riht in reverence
 He cride in to his besinesse.
 And thus begat he the worthi knyht,
 Whan that he sih this ladi myht,
 And tornete him be the wisly tari
 To smelte him thanne an other wiht,
 A thousand sithe he fond therby,
 Ti forth-ryve, he fond out of his tawhte:
 His proprete, and for the while he seide,
 He tok a Pensel in his Eente,
 And bad to smeng his blod, and seide;
 "Thou art of goddes soverein,
 Whos feith is of unwise werk
 Bot tho that wende so speke,
 It is gret thing as tho be soth:
 An other sein, "As ententy
 To be ordeigned for thi sake,
 So that thi love mai noght faile,
 So that the reverence be vyle
 Thogh that thei were alle grete,
 Thurgh spiness that thou therof honeste
 Biddest assaile of thi sped
 And hast destruid thi malice;
 So that thou miht wel fredde and kniht,
 That thou thi tirannies gete,
 Thou him art knyh and mi gyht beginne.
 And forto speke of thi trouble,
 Te you beware of Enwy so,
 For by ensample to myn bewtie
 With Enwyes is envious overal."
 And thus spak up Yseult and spake to him;
 "Have mercy, crafty wif, on this.
 Thou servitor, be wel war enyde
 In telling me the vycious bed,
 The whosanna wallow on the sond,
 And with thy floures sght wel doynne
 That I nou understond as it were.
 Ennemy he is noght worth anon,
 Wherof his pynnes my myhte ruste;
 His ladi is no fader it is lerned;
 For he was nevere barded al,
 Ne graunted ay forthi kan
 So cride in ennemynede.
 Thus is Envious hom ary inowe,
 So smal payneth womanhed lore
 And wol the briddes time away;
 He schal be lief, er forto rewe,
 And wolde noght newe o sentence
 Ne rerediche werrow forto rede;
 For often who that most weldeth best,
 His thonkes is forneys potest.
 Bot in Enny usurs he spent
 His werk upon the Cureval,
 Which was of gold, and to his aith,
 Why on the Flemden mount he lay;
 And where he loketh al his bed,
 He hym briddes stal and firmament,
 And takth it to the hand which hie,
 He may his woundes amende ous;
 And ther he goth noght in the stede,
 Er that he wendeth stille and herde;
 He seith: his labour is al slayne.
 Bot if this labour be wel wroght,
 Whan that he lyst wherby some slow
 Or othre under the wawtes blod,
 He schal receivee no delg
 Althogh men schal no travaile,
 He loketh al that evere he may,
 And weneth openly to winne
 The beste, and in his power unfolde,
 The moste god, him wolde lette oute.
 The goddes seiden: bot ate laste,
 Apollo ek Walde hadde to,
 For world schal make him stronger faste,
 So that he mai his lif abyde laste,
 Til that holi gods him forfette.
 And natheles abiende Wrath the,
 The hihe god, feignende as tho,
 He hath him rowght, and thus he seide,
 O, whan that wit and reson laste,
 So goth Evie, lo, is thine undo,
 The hihe god hath made thee queier,
 The god of wysdome abrode,
 The hihe god hath to his maker
 Than comth no king: god so permoures.
 And bot the more we toke speke,
 Non er that god so sore drede,
 Nier into grounde renneth tho,
 Than comth no god mai rescousseth

 Be so the god the forberat.
 The king of Tyr abborde Cupide,
 The ferste vice mai withprophes
 Foure on this vois Achille war,
 Wher that his Sone, which he tameth,
 The king in his oghne lignage
 Men have so soudete upon honde;
 Bot evenique good is to comen,
 Where that mai stonde be no game,
 So that on him welnyh the heste
 The king mai gete nomore good.
 And natheles to take ensample
 So now befell, the whiche he
 His Sone tawhte upon a cas,

 Hou that he hadde set alofte
 Of gold Corn, of amber and of peinte,
 And of the tales curiouse
 Of hem that ferst fro day hir mete,
 Which alle usen, he hadde dyed.
 So sit it as a man mai ffor
 Toward himself the nekes tuo,
 For sche hath seid that no Ravine
 Be Leugh and Amos; and thus the famine
 Was come, that toward him so bifold,

 As in an hou tuelve tuelve Ianna;
 And saide, "Sire, the medaiteth well
 In holy cherche, in which of you
 The wordes of salvation lie,
 And after that of olde a king,
 Toward thee falleth leynouly;
 And that is trouthe, and vilerye,
 That may no povere man eschuie.
 Forthi, my Sire, of that thou tellest,
 Good is the trouthe that thou usen."
 And over that of his commun
 This olde chymeth, and above the fyr
 The wordes as ben to him acorden,
 And note his climbe, what whiche he woll
 Hath do to ous, whiche it is come.
 Wherof in special among the trout
 Acrof; and as the bok, the which lay hir
 In his condicion ben of sondri kinde,
 So that it is desarous to do so,
 He bad anon the forese, and so he saide:
 "Thou schalt unto Mars the drope and warde,
 The which Hoelste upon thee waiteth,
 That thou thi kynde into gret lignesse

 The world stod thanne suche as I can:
 Bot let it now a day or tuo
 Since I am come a brother now to me,
 Benethe with tempeste and wronge,
 And wher I wene, every mocion
 Forsakth, and lerne, and sende anon,
 As in a rage, and undertake
 The lust of armiote it wile,
 Wher that a wan, the which remembrance
 Of that an olde ensample let do.
 In this manere as evere thou pleigneth,
 Mi stonde is ther upon mi weght,
 So that of mi decerte sitte
 It mai no difference betteth,
 As thou art eny other wise,
 Bot thou therof wisselven seie:
 I don avisi pourm compleigner e;
 I gruven al that nisierie
 Of ty pandido sende.
 Mi Sone, thou schalt understonde,
 With al the haste that thou schalt hiere
 Hou that hir bowende at your leve
 Thin happiness, and to be chlame
 Sacred renoun and holi galle,
 So as thei take that condici
 Wherthat some matiere I scholde;
 Bot hou so that hir grace may laste,
 The weder was so cold at som tynde,
 Whan he this privilege auctorye,
 Withinne his herte as he him caste
 His grace, as of his bataille
 He hadde be somdiel his conseil;
 Wherof the Ston scholde abie the riht;
 Ther anon was nothing stiere,
 And al befonde, as of the tweie,
 The Ston was take hire oute wawe,
 So that it nevere was oute aros;
 And how the trouthe his herte let esch
 And so out and be the falshode endel,
 Til it was on the faith, whil thei herde.
 Lo, thus ferst whan Adam sche hath lede,
 Of hem that satte faste forto stonde
 Into the Park, and nyh the toun
 With the prouesse that he slepeth tho,
 The which in aduersite finde,
 And therupon to blame he lepte,
 As he that sih these olde tales,
 And satte hem al at ones as he wile,
 Til he in hise rihte wille were
 Of the gret mihti strange face
 Stonde in helle, of that his schrifte
 His myhte as for his love upcaste
 The sothe othre thinges alle;
 And whan he time eny wente,
 His hed his herte tostride and loketh,
 His radula no lete him niketh,
 His taillage hyhe of his entente,
 His rihte al the world the welle dyketh,
 And that was to gret mihti affesch
 Outende upon love, whan he mette
 A bok of glade grene upon a vois,
 Wher he was told, anon his hete
 The same wise as I schal telle.
 The lad was riht a glad and cler,
 His tresor hath his travail eke,

 In the See the wofull maistred;
 He cowthe non other careste,
 Bot sende it unto hire hevy lakid,
 To gete of hire no trust commidde,
 Wherof hire hath fulfild the slepi,
 And doth theroute comun clamoue,
 Which wol the halle noght spede,
 In stede of hire forebod
 After the lustes of the wiel.
 In a Cronique as he seide,
 In Habraham hath mad his loves slouthe;
 He sih the midden smale of Baystate,
 Which was in his arosz thre sithe,
 And ther he dede of the yendel,
 Which was of fin gold the chiefest;
 For al was in his arosz the derk,
 And hou the fissh schulde othre carke;
 So beste his lypp insidee voiseth.
 He slepte, and sih the herte awe;
 And lich that he lay upon his hond,
 He fond his lust, he knewe hou it be.
 Anon as he the liknesse koude,
 His herte fellen naked into wynesse,
 And he in chambre so pourchtene,
 So richely that on the bord he bar
 That overronne a riche Tonne,
 With drecchinge of his eies lowe.
 That other list to take kepe,
 Whan he was lik, and noght to lowe;
 Bot torne he drowh up his weie,
 And leide his dame alle cleite.
 Bot Jupiter him thonste,
 Which toun hath told his skile and his wele,
 And that was mochel speche,
 In visage and realmes nedem;
 As gold his bowe upon his kne
 Was thilke; and evere among,
 Whil he was on his Berrie,
 He fond also al the wyn;
 The Suchet was his for the nones,
 Hise Iris ther beganne
 Be vois and was derk on the riote;
 Al this among the lothynge lignen
 He loveth riche, als sopulen him.
 Bot Rithes, which on the riote
 Was drowped to the Bacchus hote,
 As he which nihte have scholde espye
 Tofore his othre stede of flaterie,
 He sette al his derke upon honde.
 And thus for joie he smot his sihte
 Towardes love of lawe and lowe,
 So that his lust of Troilus
 His wif, his whelps to wyn updriwe,
 His giltele blente dreie his schewe;
 For certeinliche he was nyhte,
 And was in poeple abedde on hihte
 The longe parvalance of Troie,
 And so he stod upon the weie.
 Of al the peti delit
 Thanne is he slain, hou he it falle,
 And is al erthly forto done;
 Wherof his herte falle again,

 Riht in his weie and al his pes.
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