My thought with fuch a fweven plese,
Me thenketh I am fomdele in ese,
For I none other comfort have.
So nedeth nought, that I shall crave
The fonnes carte for to tarie
Ne yet the mone, that she carie
Her cours alonge upon the heven,
For I am nought the more in even
Towardes love in no degre,
But in my flepe yet than I se
Somwhat in fweven of that me liketh,
Whiche afterward min hert entriketh,
Whan that I finde it other wife.
So wote I nought of what service
That flepe to mannes ese doth.
My fone, certes thou faift foth.
But only that it helpeth kind
Somtime in phifique as I finde,
Whan it is take by mesure,
But he which can no slepe mesure
Upon the reule as it belongeth
Ful ofte of fodein chaunce he fongeth
Suche infortune, that him greveth.
But who these olde bokes leveth
Of fompnolence howe it is write,
There
may a man the fothe wite,
If that he wolde ensample take,
That other while is good to wake,
Wherof a tale in poesy
I thenke for to specify.
Ovide telleth in his fawes, How Jupiter by olde dawes Lay by a maide, whiche Yo Was cleped, wherof that Juno
His wife was wrothe and the goddeffe
Of Yo torneth the likeneffe
Into a cow to gon there oute
The large feldes all aboute
And gette her mete upon the
And therupon this highe quene
Betoke her Argus for to kepe,
For he was felden wont to flepe
And yet he had an hunderd eyen,
And all aliche wel they fighen.
Now herken how that he was beguiled.
Mercury, which was all affiled,
This cow to stele he came desguised
And had a pipe wel devised
Upon the notes of musique,
Wherof he might his eres like.
And over that he had affaited
His lufty tales and awaited
His time. And thus into the felde
He came, where Argus he behelde
With Yo, which beside him went,
With that his pipe anon he hent
And gan to pipe in his manere
Thing, which was flepy for to here.
And in his piping ever amonge
He tolde him fuch a lufty fonge,
That he the fool hath brought a slepe,
There was none eye that mighte kepe
His hede, which Mercury of-fmote
And forth with all anone foot hote
He stale the cow, whiche Argus kepte,
And all this fel for that he flepte.
Enfample it was to many mo,
That mochel flepe doth ofte wo,
Whan it is time for to wake.
For if a man this vice take
In fompnolence and him delite,
Men fhuld upon his dore write
His epitaphe and on his grave,
For he to spille and nought to save
Is fhape, as though he were dede.
Forthy my fone, hold up thin hede
And let no flepe thin eye englue,
But whan it is to refon due.
My fader, as touchend of this
Right fo as I you tolde it is,
That ofte a bedde, whan I sholde,
may nought slepe, though I wolde. For love is ever faste byme,
Which taketh none hede of due time,
For whan I shall min
Anone min hert he woll oppofe
And hold his scole in fuch a wife,
Till it be day that I arise,
That felde it is whan that I flepe.
And thus fro fompnolence I kepe
And forthy if there be
Ought elles more in this degre
Now axeth forth. My fone, yis.
For flouthe, whiche as moder is,
The forth drawer and the norice
To man of many a dredful vice,
Hath yet another laft of alle,
Which many a man hath made to falle,
Where that he might never arise,
Wherof for thou the fhalt avife,
Er thou fo with thy felf misfare,
What vice it is, I woll declare.
Nil fortuna juvat, ubi defperacio ledit.
Quo deficcat humor, non viridefcit humus. Magnanimus fed amor fpem ponit et inde falutem Confequitur, quod ei profpera fata favent.
Whan flouth hath don all that he may To drive forth the longe day,
Till it become to the nede,
He loketh how his time is lore,
And is fo wo begone therfore,
That he within his thought conceiveth
Trifteffe and fo him felf deceiveth,
That he wanhope bringeth inne,
Where is no comfort to beginne.
But every joy him is deslaied,
So that within his herte affraied
A thousand time with one breth
Wepend he wissheth after deth,
Hic loquitur fuper ultima fpecie accidie, que trifticia five defperacio dicitur, cuius obstinata condicio tocius confolacionis fpem deponens alicuius remedii, quo liberari poterit, fortunam fibi evenire impoffibile credit.
Whan he fortune fint adverse.
For than he woll his hope reherse,
As though his world were all forlore,
And faith: Alas, that I was bore,
How fhall I live? how fhall I do?
For now fortune is thus my fo,
I wot well god me woll nought helpe,
What shulde I than of joies yelpe,
Whan there no bote is of my care.
So overcaft is my welfare,
That I am shapen all to strife.
Helas, that I nere of this life,
Er I be fullich overtake.
And thus he woll his forwe make,
As god him mighte nought availe.
But yet ne woll he nought travaile
To helpe him felf at suche a nede,
But floutheth under fuche a drede,
Whiche is affermed in his herte
Right as he mighte nought afterte
The worldes wo, which he is inne.
Also whan he is falle in finne,
Him thenketh he is fo fer coulpable,
That god woll nought be merciable
So great a finne to foryive.
And thus he leveth to be shrive.
And if a man in thilke throwe
Wold him counfeile, he wol nought knowe
The fothe, though a man it finde.
For trifteffe is of fuche a kinde,
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