They couthe moch, he couthe more.
They shape and cast ayein him fore
And wrought many a subtil wile,
But yet they might him nought beguile,
But of the men of his navie

They two for hope a great partie,
May none of hem withstonde her hestes,
Some part they shopen into beftes,
Some part they fhopen into foules,
To beres, tigres, apes, oules
Or elles by fome other wey,
Ther might nothing hem disobey,
Such craft they had above kinde.
But that art couthe they nought finde,
Of which Ulixes was deceived,

That he ne hath hem alle weived
And brought hem into such a rote,
That upon him they bothe affote.
And through the science of his arte
He toke of hem fo well his parte,

That he begat Circes with childe,
He kepte him fobre and made hem wilde,
He fet him felve fo above,

That with her good and with her love,
Who that therof be leve or loth,

All quite into his ship he goth.

Circes to-fwolle bothe fides

He left and waiteth on the tides

And ftraught throughout the falte fome He taketh his cours and comth him home,

Where as he found Penelope,
A better wife there may none be.
And yet there ben inough of good,
But who her goodship understood
Fro first that fhe wifehode toke,
How many loves the forfoke

And how the bare her all about,
There whiles that her lord was out,
He mighte make a great avaunt
Amonges all the remenaunt,

That she was one of all the best.
Well might he fet his herte in rest,
This king, whan he her founde in hele.
For as he couthe in wisdom dele,
So couthe she in womanhede.

And whan fhe figh withouten drede
Her lord upon his owne grounde,
That he was come fauf and founde,
In all this world ne mighte be
A gladder woman than was fhe.

The fame, which may nought be hid,
Throughout the londe is fone kid,
Her king is comen home ayein,
There may no man the fulle fain,
How that they weren alle glad,
So mochel joy of him they made,
The presents every day be newed,
He was with yiftes all befnewed,
The people was of him so glad,
That though none other man hem bad

Oracius. Omnia funt hominum te

Taillage upon hem self they sette
And as it were of pure dette
They yive her goodes to the king.
This was a glad home welcoming.

Thus hath Ulixes what he wolde,
His wife was such as she be sholde,
His people was to him subgit,

Him lacketh nothing of delite.

But fortune is of such a fleight,

nui pendencia filo. That whan a man is most on height,
She maketh him ratheft for to falle,
There wot no man what shall befalle.
The happes over mannes hede
Ben honge with a tender threde.
That proved was on Ulixes,
For whan he was most in his pees,
Fortune gan to make him werre
And fet his welthe out of herre.
Upon a day as he was mery,

As though there might him no thing dery,
Whan night was come, he goth to bedde
With flepe and both his eyen fedde.
And while he flept, he met a fweven,
Him thought he figh a statue even,
Which brighter than the sonne shone.
A man it femed was it none,

And thus betwene aungel and man
Beholden it this king began,
And fuche a luft toke of the fight,
That fain he wolde, if that he might,
The forme of that figure embrace.
And goth him forth toward that place,
Where he figh that ymage tho,
And takth it in his armes two
And it embraceth him ayein
And to the king thus gan it fain:
Ulixes, understond wel this,
The token of our acqueintaunce is
Here afterward to mochel tene
The love that is us betwene,
Of that we now fuch joie make,
That one of us the deth fhall take,
Whan time cometh of deftine,

It

may none otherwise be.

Ulixes tho began to pray,

That this figure wolde him fay,
What wight he is, that faith him fo.
This wight upon a spere tho

A penfel, which was well begone
Embrouded, fheweth him anone,
Thre fishes all of o colour
In maner as it were a toure
Upon the penfel were wrought.
Ulixes knew this token nought
And praith to wite in fome partie,
What thinge it mighte fignifie.

A figne it is, the wight answerde,
Of an empire, and forth he ferde
All fodeinly, whan he that said.
Ulixes out of flepe abraid,
And that was right ayein the day,
That lenger flepen he ne may.
Men fain, a man hath knouleching
Save of him self of alle thing.

His owne chaunce no man knoweth,
But as fortune it on him throweth.
Was never yet so wife a clerk,
Which mighte knowe all goddes werk,
Ne the fecret, which god hath sette
Ayein a man, may nought be lette.
Ulixes though that he be wife,
With all his wit in his avife

The more that he his fweven accompteth,
The laffe he wot, what it amounteth.

For all his calculation

He feeth no demonstration

As pleinly for to knowe an ende,

But netheles how fo it wende,

He drad him of his owne fone,

That maketh him well the more aftone
And shope therfore anone withall,
So that withinne caftell wall
Thelemachum his fone he shette

And

upon him strong warde he fette. The fothe further he ne knewe,

Till that fortune him overthrewe.