Incipit Liber Quintus.
Obftat avaricia nature legibus, et que Largus amor pofcit, ftrictius illa vetat. Omne, quod eft nimium, viciofum dicitur aurum, Vellera ficut oves fervat avarus opes.
Non decet, ut foli fervabitur es, fed amori Debet homo folam folus habere fuam.
Hic in quinto libro intendit confeffor tractare de avari
This worlde and that the kind cia, que omnium
Was fall into no gret encress,
For worldes good was tho no prefs,
But all was set to the comune, They speken than of no fortune Or for to lefe or for to winne,
Till avarice brought it inne.
And that was whan the world was woxe Of man, of hors, of fhepe, of oxe, And that men knewen the money, Tho wente pees out of the wey And werre came on every fide, Whiche alle love laid afide
malorum radix effe dicitur, necnon de eiufdem vicii fpeciebus, et primum ipfius avaricie naturam defcribens amanti quatenus amorem concernit
fuper hoc fpecialius opponit.
propre made, So that in stede of shovel and spade The sharpe swerd was take on honde. And in this wife it cam to londe, Wherof men maden diches depe And highe walles for to kepe The gold, which avarice encloseth. But all to litel him supposeth,
Though he might all the world purchase. For what thing, that he may embrace Of golde, of catel or of londe,
He let it never out of his honde,
get him more and halt it fast, As though the world fhuld ever last. So is he lich unto the helle,
For as these olde bokes telle, What cometh ther in lafs or more It shall departe nevermore. Thus whan he hath his cofre loken, It shall nought after ben unftoken, But whan him lift to have a fight Of gold, how that it shineth bright, That he theron may loke and muse, For otherwise he dare nought ufe To take his part or laffe or more. So is he pouer, and evermore Him lacketh, that he hath inough. An oxe draweth in the plough Of that him self hath no profite, A fhep right in the fame plite
His wolle bereth, but on a day
An other taketh the flees away.
Thus hath he, that he nought ne hath, For he therof his part ne tath,
To say how fuche a man hath good Who fo that refon understood
It is unproperliche faid,
That good hath him and halt him taid, That he ne gladdeth nought withall, But is unto his good a thrall And a fubgit thus ferveth he, Where that he fhulde maister be, Suche is the kinde of thavarous. My fone, as thou art amorous, Tell if thou fare of love fo.
My fader, as it femeth no, That avarous yet never I was, So as ye fetten me the cas. For as ye tolden here above In full poffeffion of love
Yet was I never here to-fore,
So that me thenketh well therfore, may excuse well my dede.
But of my will withoute drede If I that trefor mighte gete, It shulde never be foryete, That I ne wolde it fafte holde, Till god of love him felve wolde, That deth us shuld departe atwo. For leveth well, I love her so,
That even with min owne life, If I that fwete lufty wife Might ones welden at my wille, For ever I wold her holde ftille. And in this wife taketh kepe, If I her had, I wolde her kepe And yet no friday wolde I fast, Though I her kepte and helde fast. Fy on the bagges in the kist, I had inough, if I her kist. For certes if she were min,
I had her lever than a mine Of gold, for all this worldes riche Ne mighte make me fo riche As fhe, that is fo inly good.
I fette nought of other good, For might I gette fuch a thing, I had a trefor for a king.
And though I wolde it fafte holde, I were thanne wel beholde.
But I might pipe now with laffe And fuffre that it overpasse,
Nought with my will, for thus I wolde Ben avarous if that I fholde.
But fader, I you herde say,
How thavarous hath yet fome way, Wherof he may be glad. For he May, whan him lift, his trefor se
There as my worthy trefor is, So is my life lich unto this, That ye me tolden here to-fore,
How that an oxe his yoke hath bore For thing that shulde him nought availe. And in this wife I me travaile.
For who that ever hath the welfare
I wot wel that I have the care, For I am had and nought ne have And am as who faith loves knave. Now demeth in your owne thought, If this be avarice or nought.
My fone, I have of the no wonder, Though thou to serve be put under With love, which to kinde accordeth. But fo as every boke recordeth, It is to finde no plefaunce,
That men above his fuftenaunce
Unto the gold shall serve and bowe, For that may no refon avowe. But avarice netheles,
If he may geten his encres
Of gold, that wold he serve and kepe, For he taketh of nought elles kepe, But for to fille his bagges large, And all is to him but a charge, For he ne parteth nought withall, But kepeth it, as a fervaunt shall, And thus though that he multiply His golde, without trefory
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