Chapter 21

Mi fader, who that hath his love Abedde naked be his syde, And wolde thanne hise yhen hyde With Slep, I not what man is he: Bot certes as touchende of me, 3280 That fell me nevere yit er this. Bot otherwhile, whan so is That I mai cacche Slep on honde Liggende al one, thanne I fonde To dreme a merie swevene er day; And if so falle that I may Mi thought with such a swevene plese, Me thenkth I am somdiel in ese, For I non other confort have. So nedeth noght that I schal crave 3290 The Sonnes Carte forto tarie, Ne yit the Mone, that sche carie Hire cours along upon the hevene, For I am noght the more in evene Towardes love in no degree: Bot in mi slep yit thanne I se Somwhat in swevene of that me liketh, Which afterward min herte entriketh, Whan that I finde it otherwise. So wot I noght of what servise 3300 That Slep to mannes ese doth.

Mi Sone, certes thou seist soth, Bot only that it helpeth kinde Somtyme, in Phisique as I finde, Whan it is take be mesure: Bot he which can no Slep mesure Upon the reule as it belongeth, Fulofte of sodein chance he fongeth Such infortune that him grieveth. Bot who these olde bokes lieveth, 3310 Of Sompnolence hou it is write, Ther may a man the sothe wite, If that he wolde ensample take, That otherwhile is good to wake: Wherof a tale in Poesie I thenke forto specefie.

Ovide telleth in his sawes, How Jupiter be olde dawes Lay be a Mayde, which Yo Was cleped, wherof that Juno 3320 His wif was wroth, and the goddesse Of Yo torneth the liknesse Into a cow, to gon theroute The large fieldes al aboute And gete hire mete upon the griene. And therupon this hyhe queene Betok hire Argus forto kepe, For he was selden wont to slepe, And yit he hadde an hundred yhen, And alle alyche wel thei syhen. 3330 Now herkne hou that he was beguiled. Mercurie, which was al affiled This Cow to stele, he cam desguised, And hadde a Pipe wel devised Upon the notes of Musiqe, Wherof he mihte hise Eres like. And over that he hadde affaited Hise lusti tales, and awaited His time; and thus into the field He cam, where Argus he behield 3340 With Yo, which beside him wente. With that his Pype on honde he hente, And gan to pipe in his manere Thing which was slepi forto hiere; And in his pipinge evere among He tolde him such a lusti song, That he the fol hath broght aslepe. Ther was non yhe mihte kepe His hed, the which Mercurie of smot, And forth withal anon fot hot 3350 He stal the Cow which Argus kepte, And al this fell for that he slepte. Ensample it was to manye mo, That mochel Slep doth ofte wo, Whan it is time forto wake: For if a man this vice take, In Sompnolence and him delite, Men scholde upon his Dore wryte His epitaphe, as on his grave; For he to spille and noght to save 3360 Is schape, as thogh he were ded.

Forthi, mi Sone, hold up thin hed, And let no Slep thin yhe englue, Bot whanne it is to resoun due.

Mi fader, as touchende of this, Riht so as I you tolde it is, That ofte abedde, whanne I scholde, I mai noght slepe, thogh I wolde; For love is evere faste byme, Which takth no hiede of due time. 3370 For whanne I schal myn yhen close, Anon min herte he wole oppose And holde his Scole in such a wise, Til it be day that I arise, That selde it is whan that I slepe. And thus fro Sompnolence I kepe Min yhe: and forthi if ther be Oght elles more in this degre, Now axeth forth.

Mi Sone, yis: For Slowthe, which as Moder is 3380 The forthdrawere and the Norrice To man of many a dredful vice, Hath yit an other laste of alle, Which many a man hath mad to falle, Wher that he mihte nevere arise; Wherof for thou thee schalt avise, Er thou so with thiself misfare, What vice it is I wol declare.

Whan Slowthe hath don al that he may To dryve forth the longe day, 3390 Til it be come to the nede, Thanne ate laste upon the dede He loketh hou his time is lore, And is so wo begon therfore, That he withinne his thoght conceiveth Tristesce, and so himself deceiveth, That he wanhope bringeth inne, Wher is no confort to beginne, Bot every joie him is deslaied: So that withinne his herte affraied 3400 A thousend time with o breth Wepende he wissheth after deth, Whan he fortune fint adverse. For thanne he wole his hap reherce, As thogh his world were al forlore, And seith, “Helas, that I was bore! Hou schal I live? hou schal I do? For nou fortune is thus mi fo, I wot wel god me wol noght helpe. What scholde I thanne of joies yelpe, 3410 Whan ther no bote is of mi care? So overcast is my welfare, That I am schapen al to strif. Helas, that I nere of this lif, Er I be fulliche overtake!” And thus he wol his sorwe make, As god him mihte noght availe: Bot yit ne wol he noght travaile To helpe himself at such a nede, Bot slowtheth under such a drede, 3420 Which is affermed in his herte, Riht as he mihte noght asterte The worldes wo which he is inne.

Also whan he is falle in Sinne, Him thenkth he is so ferr coupable, That god wol noght be merciable So gret a Sinne to foryive; And thus he leeveth to be schrive. And if a man in thilke throwe Wolde him consaile, he wol noght knowe 3430 The sothe, thogh a man it finde: For Tristesce is of such a kinde, That forto meintiene his folie, He hath with him Obstinacie, Which is withinne of such a Slouthe, That he forsaketh alle trouthe, And wole unto no reson bowe; And yit ne can he noght avowe His oghne skile bot of hed: Thus dwyneth he, til he be ded, 3440 In hindringe of his oghne astat. For where a man is obstinat, Wanhope folweth ate laste, Which mai noght after longe laste, Till Slouthe make of him an ende. Bot god wot whider he schal wende.

Mi Sone, and riht in such manere Ther be lovers of hevy chiere, That sorwen mor than it is ned, Whan thei be taried of here sped 3450 And conne noght hemselven rede, Bot lesen hope forto spede And stinten love to poursewe; And thus thei faden hyde and hewe, And lustles in here hertes waxe. Hierof it is that I wolde axe, If thou, mi Sone, art on of tho.

Ha, goode fader, it is so, Outake a point, I am beknowe; For elles I am overthrowe 3460 In al that evere ye have seid. Mi sorwe is everemore unteid, And secheth overal my veines; Bot forto conseile of mi peines, I can no bote do therto; And thus withouten hope I go, So that mi wittes ben empeired, And I, as who seith, am despeired To winne love of thilke swete, Withoute whom, I you behiete, 3470 Min herte, that is so bestad, Riht inly nevere mai be glad. For be my trouthe I schal noght lie, Of pure sorwe, which I drye For that sche seith sche wol me noght, With drecchinge of myn oghne thoght In such a wanhope I am falle, That I ne can unethes calle, As forto speke of eny grace, Mi ladi merci to pourchace. 3480 Bot yit I seie noght for this That al in mi defalte it is; For I cam nevere yit in stede, Whan time was, that I my bede Ne seide, and as I dorste tolde: Bot nevere fond I that sche wolde, For oght sche knew of min entente, To speke a goodly word assente. And natheles this dar I seie, That if a sinful wolde preie 3490 To god of his foryivenesse With half so gret a besinesse As I have do to my ladi, In lacke of askinge of merci He scholde nevere come in Helle. And thus I mai you sothli telle, Save only that I crie and bidde, I am in Tristesce al amidde And fulfild of Desesperance: And therof yif me mi penance, 3500 Min holi fader, as you liketh.

Mi Sone, of that thin herte siketh With sorwe, miht thou noght amende, Til love his grace wol thee sende, For thou thin oghne cause empeirest What time as thou thiself despeirest. I not what other thing availeth, Of hope whan the herte faileth, For such a Sor is incurable, And ek the goddes ben vengable: 3510 And that a man mai riht wel frede, These olde bokes who so rede, Of thing which hath befalle er this: Now hier of what ensample it is.

Whilom be olde daies fer Of Mese was the king Theucer, Which hadde a kniht to Sone, Iphis: Of love and he so maistred is, That he hath set al his corage, As to reguard of his lignage, 3520 Upon a Maide of lou astat. Bot thogh he were a potestat Of worldes good, he was soubgit To love, and put in such a plit, That he excedeth the mesure Of reson, that himself assure He can noght; for the more he preide, The lass love on him sche leide. He was with love unwys constreigned, And sche with resoun was restreigned: 3530 The lustes of his herte he suieth, And sche for dred schame eschuieth, And as sche scholde, tok good hiede To save and kepe hir wommanhiede. And thus the thing stod in debat Betwen his lust and hire astat: He yaf, he sende, he spak be mouthe, Bot yit for oght that evere he couthe Unto his sped he fond no weie, So that he caste his hope aweie, 3540 Withinne his herte and gan despeire Fro dai to dai, and so empeire, That he hath lost al his delit Of lust, of Slep, of Appetit, That he thurgh strengthe of love lasseth His wit, and resoun overpasseth. As he which of his lif ne rowhte, His deth upon himself he sowhte, So that be nyhte his weie he nam, Ther wiste non wher he becam; 3550 The nyht was derk, ther schon no Mone, Tofore the gates he cam sone, Wher that this yonge Maiden was And with this wofull word, “Helas!” Hise dedli pleintes he began So stille that ther was noman It herde, and thanne he seide thus: “O thou Cupide, o thou Venus, Fortuned be whos ordinaunce Of love is every mannes chaunce, 3560 Ye knowen al min hole herte, That I ne mai your hond asterte; On you is evere that I crie, And yit you deigneth noght to plie, Ne toward me youre Ere encline. Thus for I se no medicine To make an ende of mi querele, My deth schal be in stede of hele.

Ha, thou mi wofull ladi diere, Which duellest with thi fader hiere 3570 And slepest in thi bedd at ese, Thou wost nothing of my desese. Hou thou and I be now unmete. Ha lord, what swevene schalt thou mete, What dremes hast thou nou on honde? Thou slepest there, and I hier stonde. Thogh I no deth to the deserve, Hier schal I for thi love sterve, Hier schal a kinges Sone dye For love and for no felonie; 3580 Wher thou therof have joie or sorwe, Hier schalt thou se me ded tomorwe. O herte hard aboven alle, This deth, which schal to me befalle For that thou wolt noght do me grace, Yit schal be told in many a place, Hou I am ded for love and trouthe In thi defalte and in thi slouthe: Thi Daunger schal to manye mo Ensample be for everemo, 3590 Whan thei my wofull deth recorde.” And with that word he tok a Corde, With which upon the gate tre He hyng himself, that was pite.

The morwe cam, the nyht is gon, Men comen out and syhe anon Wher that this yonge lord was ded: Ther was an hous withoute red, For noman knew the cause why; Ther was wepinge and ther was cry. 3600 This Maiden, whan that sche it herde, And sih this thing hou it misferde, Anon sche wiste what it mente, And al the cause hou it wente To al the world sche tolde it oute, And preith to hem that were aboute To take of hire the vengance, For sche was cause of thilke chaunce, Why that this kinges Sone is split. Sche takth upon hirself the gilt, 3610 And is al redi to the peine Which eny man hir wole ordeigne: And bot if eny other wolde, Sche seith that sche hirselve scholde Do wreche with hire oghne hond, Thurghout the world in every lond That every lif therof schal speke, Hou sche hirself i scholde wreke. Sche wepth, sche crith, sche swouneth ofte, Sche caste hire yhen up alofte 3620 And seide among ful pitously: “A godd, thou wost wel it am I, For whom Iphis is thus besein: Ordeine so, that men mai sein A thousend wynter after this, Hou such a Maiden dede amis, And as I dede, do to me: For I ne dede no pite To him, which for mi love is lore, Do no pite to me therfore.” 3630 And with this word sche fell to grounde Aswoune, and ther sche lay a stounde. The goddes, whiche hir pleigntes herde And syhe hou wofully sche ferde, Hire lif thei toke awey anon, And schopen hire into a Ston After the forme of hire ymage Of bodi bothe and of visage. And for the merveile of this thing Unto the place cam the king 3640 And ek the queene and manye mo; And whan thei wisten it was so, As I have told it heir above, Hou that Iphis was ded for love, Of that he hadde be refused, Thei hielden alle men excused And wondren upon the vengance. And forto kepe in remembrance, This faire ymage mayden liche With compaignie noble and riche 3650 With torche and gret sollempnite. To Salamyne the Cite Thei lede, and carie forth withal The dede corps, and sein it schal Beside thilke ymage have His sepulture and be begrave: This corps and this ymage thus Into the Cite to Venus, Wher that goddesse hire temple hadde, Togedre bothe tuo thei ladde. 3660 This ilke ymage as for miracle Was set upon an hyh pinacle, That alle men it mihte knowe, And under tht thei maden lowe A tumbe riche for the nones Of marbre and ek of jaspre stones, Wherin this Iphis was beloken, That evermor it schal be spoken. And for men schal the sothe wite, Thei have here epitaphe write, 3670 As thing which scholde abide stable: The lettres graven in a table Of marbre were and seiden this: “Hier lith, which slowh himself, Iphis, For love of Araxarathen: And in ensample of tho wommen, That soffren men to deie so, Hire forme a man mai sen also, Hou it is torned fleissh and bon Into the figure of a Ston: 3680 He was to neysshe and sche to hard. Be war forthi hierafterward; Ye men and wommen bothe tuo, Ensampleth you of that was tho:

Lo thus, mi Sone, as I thee seie, It grieveth be diverse weie In desepeir a man to falle, Which is the laste branche of alle Of Slouthe, as thou hast herd devise. Wherof that thou thiself avise 3690 Good is, er that thou be deceived, Wher that the grace of hope is weyved.

Mi fader, hou so that it stonde, Now have I pleinly understonde Of Slouthes court the proprete, Wherof touchende in my degre For evere I thenke to be war. Bot overthis, so as I dar, With al min herte I you beseche, That ye me wolde enforme and teche 3700 What ther is more of youre aprise In love als wel as otherwise, So that I mai me clene schryve.

Mi Sone, whyl thou art alyve And hast also thi fulle mynde, Among the vices whiche I finde Ther is yit on such of the sevene, Which al this world hath set unevene And causeth manye thinges wronge, Where he the cause hath underfonge: 3710 Wherof hierafter thou schalt hiere The forme bothe and the matiere.

Explicit Liber Quartus.

Incipit Liber Quintus

_Obstat auaricia nature legibus, et que Largus amor poscit, striccius illa vetat. Omne quod est nimium viciosum dicitur aurum, Vellera sicut oues, seruat auarus opes. Non decet vt soli seruabitur es, set amori Debet homo solam solus habere suam._

Ferst whan the hyhe god began This world, and that the kinde of man Was falle into no gret encress, For worldes good tho was no press, Bot al was set to the comune. Thei spieken thanne of no fortune Or forto lese or forto winne, Til Avarice broghte it inne; And that was whan the world was woxe Of man, of hors, of Schep, of Oxe, 10 And that men knewen the moneie. Tho wente pes out of the weie And werre cam on every side, Which alle love leide aside And of comun his propre made, So that in stede of schovele and spade The scharpe swerd was take on honde; And in this wise it cam to londe, Wherof men maden dyches depe And hyhe walles forto kepe 20 The gold which Avarice encloseth. Bot al to lytel him supposeth, Thogh he mihte al the world pourchace; For what thing that he may embrace Of gold, of catel or of lond, He let it nevere out of his hond, Bot get him more and halt it faste, As thogh the world scholde evere laste. So is he lych unto the helle; For as these olde bokes telle, 30 What comth therinne, lasse or more, It schal departe neveremore: Thus whanne he hath his cofre loken, It schal noght after ben unstoken, Bot whanne him list to have a syhte Of gold, hou that it schyneth brihte, That he ther on mai loke and muse; For otherwise he dar noght use To take his part, or lasse or more. So is he povere, and everemore 40 Him lacketh that he hath ynowh: An Oxe draweth in the plowh, Of that himself hath no profit; A Schep riht in the same plit His wolle berth, bot on a day An other takth the flees away: Thus hath he, that he noght ne hath, For he therof his part ne tath. To seie hou such a man hath good, Who so that reson understod, 50 It is impropreliche seid, For good hath him and halt him teid, That he ne gladeth noght withal, Bot is unto his good a thral, And as soubgit thus serveth he, Wher that he scholde maister be: Such is the kinde of thaverous.

Mi Sone, as thou art amerous, Tell if thou farst of love so.

Mi fader, as it semeth, no; 60 That averous yit nevere I was, So as ye setten me the cas: For as ye tolden here above, In full possession of love Yit was I nevere hier tofore, So that me thenketh wel therfore, I mai excuse wel my dede. Bot of mi will withoute drede, If I that tresor mihte gete, It scholde nevere be foryete, 70 That I ne wolde it faste holde, Til god of love himselve wolde That deth ous scholde part atuo. For lieveth wel, I love hire so, That evene with min oghne lif, If I that swete lusti wif Mihte ones welden at my wille, For evere I wolde hire holde stille: And in this wise, taketh kepe, If I hire hadde, I wolde hire kepe, 80 And yit no friday wolde I faste, Thogh I hire kepte and hielde faste. Fy on the bagges in the kiste! I hadde ynogh, if I hire kiste. For certes, if sche were myn, I hadde hir levere than a Myn Of Gold; for al this worldesriche Ne mihte make me so riche As sche, that is so inly good. I sette noght of other good; 90 For mihte I gete such a thing, I hadde a tresor for a king; And thogh I wolde it faste holde, I were thanne wel beholde. Bot I mot pipe nou with lasse, And suffre that it overpasse, Noght with mi will, for thus I wolde Ben averous, if that I scholde. Bot, fader, I you herde seie Hou thaverous hath yit som weie, 100 Wherof he mai be glad; for he Mai whanne him list his tresor se, And grope and fiele it al aboute, Bot I fulofte am schet theroute, Ther as my worthi tresor is. So is mi lif lich unto this, That ye me tolden hier tofore, Hou that an Oxe his yock hath bore For thing that scholde him noght availe: And in this wise I me travaile; 110 For who that evere hath the welfare, I wot wel that I have the care, For I am hadd and noght ne have, And am, as who seith, loves knave. Nou demeth in youre oghne thoght, If this be Avarice or noght.

Mi Sone, I have of thee no wonder, Thogh thou to serve be put under With love, which to kinde acordeth: Bot, so as every bok recordeth, 120 It is to kinde no plesance That man above his sustienance Unto the gold schal serve and bowe, For that mai no reson avowe. Bot Avarice natheles, If he mai geten his encress Of gold, that wole he serve and kepe, For he takth of noght elles kepe, Bot forto fille hise bagges large; And al is to him bot a charge, 130 For he ne parteth noght withal, Bot kepth it, as a servant schal: And thus, thogh that he multeplie His gold, withoute tresorie He is, for man is noght amended With gold, bot if it be despended To mannes us; wherof I rede A tale, and tak therof good hiede, Of that befell be olde tyde, As telleth ous the clerk Ovide. 140