His dish, his cup, his drink, his mete,
But whan he wolde or drinke or ete
Anone as it his mouth cam nigh
It was all gold, and than he figh
Of avarice the folie.
And he with that began to crie
And preide Bachus to foryive
His gilt and fuffre him for to live
And be fuch, as he was to-fore,
So that he were nought forlore.
This god which herd of this
Toke routhe upon his repentaunce
And bad him go forth redely
Unto a flood was faste by,
Which Paceole thanne hight,
In whiche als clene as ever he might
He shuld him wasfhen overall,
And faid him thanne that he shall
Recover his first estate ayein.
This king right as he herde fain
Into the flood goth fro the lond
And wish him bothe fote and hond
And fo forth all the remenaunt
As him was fet in covenaunt,
And than he figh merveiles ftraunge,
The flood his colour gan to chaunge,
The gravel with the smale stones
To gold they torne both atones,
And he was quite of that he hadde,
And thus fortune his chaunce ladde.
And whan he figh his touch awey,
He goth him home the right wey
And liveth forth as he did er
And put all avarice afer
And the richeffe of gold despiseth
And faith, that mete and cloth suffiseth.
Thus hath this king experience,
How fooles done the reverence
To gold, which of his owne kinde
Is laffe worth than is the rinde
To fuftenaunce of mannes food.
And than he made lawes good
And all his thing fet upon skille,
He bad his people for to tille
Her lond and live under the lawe,
And that they fhulde alfo forth drawe
Beftaile and feche none encrees
Of gold, whiche is the breche of
For this a man may finde write,
To-fore the time, er gold was fmite
In coigne, that men the florein knewe,
There was wel nighe no man untrewe,
Tho was there nouther shield ne spere
Ne dedly wepen for to bere,
Tho was the town withouten walle,
Which nowe is clofed over alle,
Tho was there no brocage in lond,
Which now taketh every cause on hond.
So
may men knowe, how the florein
Was moder first of malengin
And bringer in of alle werre,
Wherof this world ftant out of herre,
Through the counseil of avarice,
Whiche of his owne propre vice
Is as the helle wonderful,
For it may nevermore be full,
That what as ever cometh therinne
it never winne.
But fone min, do thou nought so,
Let all fuche avarice go
And take thy part of that thou hast,
I bidde nought that thou do wast,
But hold largeffe in his mesure.
And if thou fe a creature,
Which through pouerte is falle in nede,
Yef him fome good, for this I rede
To him that wol nought yeven here,
What peine he shal have elles where,
There is a pein amonges alle
Benethe in helle, which men calle
The wofull peine of Tantaly,
Of which I shall the redely
Devife how men therin ftonde.
In helle thou shalt understonde
There is a flood of thilke office,
Which ferveth all for avarice,
What man that ftonde fhall therinne
He ftant up even to the chinne.
Above his hede alfo there hongeth
A fruit, which to that peine longeth,
Nota de pena Tantali, cuius amara fitis dampnatos torquet avaros.
And that fruit toucheth ever in one
His overlippe, and therupon
Such thirst and hunger him affaileth,
That never his appetite ne faileth.
But whan he wolde his hunger fede,
The fruit withdraweth him at nede,
And though he heve his hede on high,
The fruit is ever aliche nigh,
So is the hunger wel the more.
And also though him thurfte fore
And to the water bowe adown,
The flood in fuch condicion
Avaleth, that his drinke arecche
He may nought. Lo now, whiche a wreche,
That mete and drinke is him so couth
And yet ther cometh none in his mouth.
Lich to the peines of this flood
Stant avarice in worldes good,
He hath inough and yet him nedeth,
For his scarceneffe it him forbedeth
And ever his hunger after more
Travaileth him aliche fore,
So is he peined overall.
Forthy thy goodes forth withal,
My fone, loke thou defpende,
Wherof thou might thy self amende
Both here and eke in other place.
And also if thou wolt purchace
To be beloved, thou must use
Largeffe, for if thou refuse
To yive for thy loves fake,
It is no refon that thou take
Of love, that thou woldest crave.
Forthy if thou wolt grace have,
Be gracious and do largeffe,
Of avarice, and the fikeneffe
Escheue above all other thinge
And take enfample of Mide the kinge
And of the flood of helle also,
Where is inough of alle wo.
And though there were no matere
But onely that we finden here,
Men oughten avarice eschue,
For what man thilke vice fue,
He
gete him felf but litel reft.
For how fo that the body reft,
The hert upon the gold travaileth,
Whom many a nightes drede affaileth.
For though he ligge a bedde naked,
His herte is evermore awaked
And dremeth, as he lith to flepe,
How befy that he is to kepe
His trefor, that no thefe it ftele.
Thus hath he but a wofull wele,
And right fo in the fame wife,
If thou thy felf wolt wel avife,
There be lovers of fuche inow,
That wolle unto refon bowe,
If fo be that they come above,
Whan they ben maisters of her love
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