That for to mainten his foly,
He hath with him obftinacy,
Which is within of fuche a flouth,
That he forfaketh alle trouth
And woll unto no refon bowe.
And yet ne can he nought abowe
His owne skille, but of hede
Thus dwineth he, till he be dede
In hindring of his owne estate.
For where a man is obftinate,
Wanhope folweth ate laste,
Which may nought longe after lafte,
Till flouthe make of him an ende.
But god wot whider he shall wende.
My fone, and right in fuch manere,
There be lovers of hevy chere,
That forwen more than is nede,
Whan they be taried of her fpede
And conne nought hem felven rede,
But lefen hope for to fpede
And stinten love to pursue.
And thus they faden hide and hewe
And luftles in her hertes waxe.
Herof it is that I wolde axe,
If thou, my fone, arte one of tho?
Ha, gode fader, it is fo,
Outtake o point, I am beknowe.
For elles I am overthrowe
In all that ever ye have faide,
My forwe is evermore unteide
Obftinacio eft contradictio veritatis agnite.
And fecheth over all my veines.
But for to counfeile of my peines,
I can no bote do therto.
And thus withouten hope I go,
So that my wittes ben empeired
And I as who faith am dispeired
To winne love of thilke fwete,
Withoute whom, I you behete,
Min herte, that is so beftadde,
Right inly never may be gladde.
For by my trouth I shall nought lie
Of pure forwe, whiche I drie,
For that she faith fhe will me nought,
With drecchinge of min owne thought
In fuche a wanhope I am falle,
That I ne can unnethes calle
As for to fpeke of any grace
My ladies mercy to purchace.
But
yet I faie nought for this,
That all in my default it is,
That I cam never yet in stede,
Whan time was, that I my bede
Ne faide, and as I dorfte tolde.
But never found I, that fhe wolde
For ought the knewe of min entent
To fpeke a goodly worde affent.
And netheles this dare I fay,
That if a finfull wolde prey
To god of his foryiveneffe
With half fo great a befineffe,
As I have do to my lady
In lack of axing of mercy,
He fhulde never come in helle.
And thus I may you fothly telle
Sauf only that I crie and bidde,
I am in trifteffe all amidde
And fulfilled of defperaunce.
And therof yef me my penaunce,
Min holy fader, as you liketh.
My fone, of that thin herte fiketh
With forwe might thou nought amende,
Till love his grace woll the fende,
For thou thin owne cause empeirest,
What time as thou thy felf despeirest.
I not what other thinge availeth
Of hope, whan the herte faileth,
For fuche a fore is incurable,
And eke the goddes ben vengeable,
And that a man may right well frede
These olde bokes who fo rede
Of thing, which hath befalle er this,
Now here, of what enfample it is.
Whilom by olde daies fer
Of Mese was the king Theucer,
Whiche had a knight to fone Iphis.
Of love and he fo maftred is,
That he hath fet all his corage
As to reward of his lignage
Upon a maide of lowe estate.
But though he were a poteftate
Hic narrat, qualiter Iphis, regis Theucri filius, ob amorem cuiufdam puelle nomine Araxarathen, quam neque donis aut precibus vincere potuit, defperans ante patris ipfius puelle januas noctanter fe fufpendit, unde dii commoti, dictam puellam in lapidem duriffimam tranfmutarunt, quam
Of worldes good, he was fubgit
To love and put in fuche a plite,
That he excedeth the mesure
Of reson, that him self assure
He can nought. For the more he praid,
The laffe love on him she laid.
He was with love unwife constreigned,
And she with refon was reftreigned.
The luftes of his herte he fueth,
And the for drede fhame efchueth,
And as the fhulde, toke good hede
To fave and kepe her womanhede.
And thus the thing stood in debate
Betwene his luft and her estate,
He yaf, he fend, he spake by mouth,
But yet for ought that ever he couth
Unto his spede he found no wey,
So that he caft his hope awey.
Within his hert he gan defpeire
Fro day to day and fo empeire,
That he hath loft all his delite
Of luft, of slepe, of appetite,
That he through strength of love laffeth
His wit and refon overpasseth
As he, whiche of his life ne rought.
His deth upon him felf he fought,
So that by night his wey
There wiste none, where he becam.
The night was derk, there fhone no mone,
To-fore the gates he cam fone,
Where that this yonge maiden was,
And with this wofull worde, helas,
His dedly pleintes he began
So ftille, that there was no man
It herde, and than he saide thus:
O thou Cupide, O thou Venus,
Fortuned by whose ordenaunce
Of love is every mannes chaunce.
Ye knowen all min hole hert,
That I ne may your hond aftert,
On you is ever that I crie,
And you deigneth nought to plie
Ne toward me your ere encline.
Thus for I fe no medicine
To make an ende of my quarele,
My deth fhall be in ftede of hele.
Ha, thou my wofull lady dere,
Which dwelleft with thy fader here
And flepest in thy bedde at efe,
Thou woft nothing of my difefe,
How thou and I be now unmete.
Ha lord, what fweven fhalt thou mete?
What dremes haft thou now on honde?
Thou flepeft there, and I here ftonde,
Though I no deth to the deserve.
Here fhall I for thy love fterve,
Here shall I a kings fone deie
For love and for no felony,
Wheder thou therof have joy or forwe,
Here shalt thou fe me dede to morwe.
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