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And flain, wherof she fory was. So it befelle upon this cas, Whan the delivered sholde be, Yfis by nighte in privete, Whiche of childing is the goddesse, Came for to helpe in that distresse, Till that this lady was all small And had a doughter forth with all, Which the goddesse in alle way Bad kepe, and that they sholde say, It were a sone. And thus Yphis They named him, and upon this The fader was made for to wene. And thus in chambre with the quene This Yphis was forth drawe tho And clothed and arraied so Right as a kinges sone sholde. Till after, as fortune it wolde, Whan it was of a ten yere age, Him was betake in mariage A dukes doughter for to wedde, Whiche Iante hight, and ofte abedde These children lien, she and she, Whiche of one age bothe be. -So that withinne time of yeres To-gider, as they ben play-feres Liggend abedde upon a night Nature, which doth every wight Upon her lawe for to muse, Constreigneth hem, so that they use
Thing, which to hem was all unknowe,
Wherof Cupide thilke throwe
Toke pite for the grete love
And let do sette kinde above,
So that her lawe may ben used
And they upon her lust excused.
For love hateth nothing more
Than thing, which stant ayein the lore
Of that nature in kinde hath set.
Forthy Cupide hath so beset
His grace upon this aventure
That be accordant to nature,
Whan that he sigh his time best,
That eche of hem hath other kest,
Transformeth Yphe into a man,
Wherof the kinde love he wan
Of lusty yonge Iante his wife.
And tho they ledde a merie life,
Which was to kinde none offence.
Confessor. And thus to take an evidence
It femeth love is welwillende
To hem, that ben continuende
With befy herte to pursue
Thing, which that is to love due.
Wherof, my sone, in this matere
Thou might ensample taken here,
That with thy grete befinesse
Thou might atteigne the richesse
Of love, that there be no south.
Amans. I dare well say by my trouth,
Als ferre as my wit can seche,
My fader, as for lacke of fpeche,
But so as I me shrofe to-fore,
There is none other time lore,
Wherof there mighte be obstacle
To lette love of his miracle,
Whiche I beseche day and night.
But fader, fo as it is right
In forme of Thrifte to be knowe
What thing belongeth to the slowe,
Your faderhode I wolde pray,
If there be further any way
Touchend unto this ilke vice.
My sone ye, of this office
There serveth one in special,
Which lost hath his memorial,
So that he can no wit witholde
In thing, which he to kepe his holde
Wherof full ofte him self he greveth.
And who that most upon him leveth,
Whan that his wittes ben so weived,
He may full lightly be deceived.
Mentibus oblitus alienis labitur ille,
Quem probat accidia non meminise sui.
Sic amor incautus, qui non memoratur ad horas,
Perdit et offendit, quod cuperare nequit.
To serve accidie in his office,
There is of south an other vice,
Which cleped is foryetelnesse,
That nought may in his herte impresse
Hic tractat conferfor de vicio oblivionis, quam mater eius accidia ad omnes virtutum memorias necnon
et in amoris causa Of vertue, which reson hath set,
So clene his wittes he foryete.
For in tellinge of his tale
No more his herte than his male
Hath remembraunce of thilke forme,
Wherof he sholde his wit enforme
As than, and yet 'ne wot he why.
Thus is his purpos nought forthy
Forlore of that he wolde bidde
And scarsely, if he seeth the thridde
To love of that he hadde ment.
Thus many a lover hath be shent.
Telle on therefore, hast thou ben one
Of hem, that south hath so begonne? Confessio amantis. Ye fader, ofte it hath ben so,
That whan I am my lady fro
And thenke untoward her drawe,
Than cast I many a newe lawe
And all the world torne up so down
And so recorde I my lesson
And write in my memoriall
What I to her telle shall,
Right all the mater of my tale.
But all nis worth a nutte hale.
For whan I come there she is.
I have it all foryete iwis
Of that I thoughte for to telle
I can nought than unnethes spelle,
That I wende altherbest have rad,
So sore I am of her adrad.
For as a man that sodeinly
A gost beholdeth so fare I,
So that for fere I can nought gete
My wit, but I my self foryete,
That I wot never, what I am,
Ne whider I shall, ne whenne I cam,
But muse as he, that were amased.
Lich to the boke, in whiche is rased
The letter and may nothing be rad,
So ben my wittes overlad,
That what as ever I thought have spoken,
It is out of min herte stoken
And stonde, as who faith, doumbe and defe,
That all nis worth an yvy lefe,
Of that I wende well have saide.
And ate last I make abraide,
Caft up min heed and loke aboute
Right as a man, that were in doubte
And wot not, where he shall become.
Thus am I oft all overcome
There as I wende best to stonde.
But after, whan I understonde
And am in other place alone,
I make many a wofull mone
Unto my self and speke so:
Ha fool, where was thine herte tho,
Whan thou thy worthy lady sigh,
Were thou afered of her eye?
For of her hond there is no drede,
So well I knowe her womanhede,