With drie lippe and eyen wete.
Lo, thus I temper my diete
And take a draught of such reles,
That all my wit is herteles
And all min herte there it fit
Is as who faith withoute wit,
So that to prove it by refon
In making of comparison
There may no difference be
Betwen a drunken man and me,
But all the werft of everychone
Is ever, that I thurft in one,
The more that my herte drinketh,
The more I may, so that me thinketh,
My thurst fhall never be acqueint.
God shielde, that I be nought dreint
Of fuch a fuperfluite.

For well I fele in my degre,

I

That all my wit is overcast,
Wherof I am the more agaft,
That in defaulte of ladyship
Perchaunce in fuch a dronkeship
may be dead, er I beware.
For certes, fader, this I dare
Beknowe and in my fhrifte telle,
But I a draught have of that welle,
In which my deth is and my
life,
My joy is torned into ftrife,
That fobre shall I never worthe,
But as a drunken man forworthe,

So that in londe, where I fare,
The luft is lore of my welfare,
As he that may no bote finde.

But this me thenketh a wonder kinde,
As I am drunke of that I drinke
Of these thoughtes that I thinke,
Of which I finde no reles,
But if I mighte netheles

Of fuche a drinke as I coveite
So as me lift have o receite,
I fhulde affobre and fare wele.
But fo fortune upon her whele
On high me deigneth nought to fette,
For evermore I finde a lette.

The boteler is nought my frend,
Which hath the keie by the bend.
I may well wish and that is waste,
For well I wot fo fresfh a tafte,
But if my grace be the more,
I fhall affaie nevermore.

Thus am I drunke of that I se,
For tafting is defended me,

And I can nought my felven ftaunche,
So that, my fader, of this braunche
I am giltif to telle trouth.

My fone, that me thenketh routh.
For lovedrunke is the mifchefe
Above all other the mofte chefe,
If he no lufty thought affay,
Which may his fory thurst allay,

Confeffor.

Hic narrat fecun

dum poetam, qua

liter in fuo cellario

habet, quorum pri

As for the time yet it leffeth
To him, which other joie miffeth.
Forthy my fone, aboven all
Think well, how fo it the befall,
And kepe thy wittes that thou hast
And let hem nought be drunke in waft.
But netheles there is no wight,
That may withstonde loves might.
But why the cause is, as I finde,
But that there is diverfe kinde
Of lovedrunke, why men pleigneth
After the court, which all ordeigneth,
I will the tellen the manere,

Now lift, my fone, and thou shalt here.
For the fortune of
every chaunce
After the goddes purveaunce

Jupiter duo dolia To man it groweth from above,
mum liquoris dul- So that the fpede of every love

ciffimi, fecundum

amariffimi plenum Is fhape there, er it befalle.

confiftit, ita quod

ille, cui fatata eft

profperitas,de dulci potabit, alter vero,

cui adverfabitur,

poculum guftabit

amarum.

For Jupiter aboven alle,
Which is of goddes foverain,
Hath in his celler, as men fain,
Two tonnes full of love drinke,
That maketh many an herte finke.
And many an herte also to flete
Or of the foure or of the swete.
That one is full of fuch piment,
Which paffeth all entendement,
Of mannes wit, if he it tafte,
And maketh a jolif herte in haste.

That other bitter as the galle,
Which maketh a mannes herte palle,
Whose dronkeship is a fikneffe
Through feling of the bitterneffe.
Cupide is boteler of bothe,

Which to the leve and to the lothe
Yiveth of the fwete and of the foure,
That some laugh, and some loure.
But for fo mochel as he blinde is
Full ofte time he goth amis

And taketh the badde for the good,
Which hindreth many a mannes food
Withoute cause and furthereth eke.
So be there fome of love seke,
Which ought of refon to ben hole,
And fome come to the dole
In happe, and as hem felven left
Drinke undeserved of the best.

And thus this blinde boteler

Yiveth of the trouble in ftede of chere
And eke the chere in ftede of trouble.
Lo, how he can the hertes trouble
And maketh men drunke al upon o
Withoute lawe of
governaunce.

chaunce

If he drawe of the fwete tonne,
Than is the forwe all overronne
· Of lovedrunke and shall nought greven
So to be drunke every even,

For all is thanne but a game.

But whan it is nought of the fame

Nota hic, qualiter po

tus aliquando ficienti

And he the better tonne draweth,
Such dronkeship an herte gnaweth
And febleth all a mannes thought,

That better him were have drunke nought
And all his brede have eten drie,

For than he left his lufty wey

With dronkeship and wot nought whider the waies ben fo flider,

To

go,

In whiche he may parcas fo falle,

That he shall breke his wittes alle.
And in this wife men be drunke

After the drinke they have drunke.
But alle drinken nought alike,

For some shall finge, and some shal fike,
So that it me nothing merveileth,

My fone, of love that the eyleth.
For wel I knowe by thy tale,

That thou haft drunken of the dwale,
Which bitter is, till god the fende
Such grace, that thou might amende.
But fone, thou shalt bid and pray
In fuch a wife, as I fhall fay,
That thou the luft well atteigne
Thy wofull thurftes to reftreigne
Of love and tafte the fweteneffe,
As Bachus did in his diftreffe,
Whan bodeliche thurst him hent
In ftraunge londes, where he went.
This Bachus fone of Jupiter

precibus adquiritur, Was hote, and as he went fer