For I love in fo pleine a wife,
That for to speke of covetise
As for pouerte or for richeffe,
My love is nouther more ne leffe.
For in good feith I trowe this,
So covetous no man there is,
For why and he my lady sigh,
That he through loking of his
Ne fhuld have such a stroke withinne,
That for no gold he mighte winne
He fhulde nought her love afterte,
But if he lefte there his herte
Be fo it were such a man,
That couthe fkille of a woman.
For there ben men fo rude fome, Whan they among the women come, They gon under protection,
That love and his affection
Ne shal nought take hem by the sleve,
For they ben out of that beleve,
Hem lufteth of no lady chere,
But ever thenken there and here,
Where that her golde is in the cofre
And wol none other love profer.
But who fo wot what love amounteth
And by refon truliche accompteth,
Than may he knowe and taken hede,
That all the luft of womanhede,
Which may ben in a ladies face,
My lady hath and eke of
grace,
If men fhuld yiven her apprife,
They may wel fay, how she is wise
And fober and fimple of countenaunce
And all that to good governaunce
Belongeth of a worthy wight
She hath pleinly. For thilke night
That she was bore as for the nones
Nature fet in her at ones
Beaute with bounte so befein,
may well afferme and fain,
I figh yet never creature
Of comly hede and of feture
In any kinges region
Be liche her in comparison.
And therto, as I have you tolde,
Yet hath fhe more a thousand folde
Of bounte, and shortly to telle
She is pure hede and welle
And mirrour and enfample of good,
Who fo her vertues understood
Me thenketh it ought inough suffise
Withouten other covetife
To love fuche one and to serve,
Which with her chere can deferve
To be beloved better iwis,
Than fhe par cas that richest is
And hath of golde a million.
Suche hath be min opinion
And ever shall. But netheles
I fay she is nought haveles,
That the nis riche and well at efe
And hath inough, wherwith to plese
Of worldes good, whom that her list.
But o thing wold I wel ye wist,
That never for no worldes good
Min hert unto ward her stood,
But only right for pure love,
That wot the highe god above.
Now fader, what say ye therto?
My fone, I say it is wel do.
For take of this right good beleve,
What man that wol him self releve
To love, in any other wife
He shall wel finde his covetise,
Shall fore greve him ate laste,
For fuch a love may nought laste.
But now men fain in oure daies,
Men maken but a few affaies,
But if the cause be richeffe
Forthy the love is well the leffe.
And who that wold ensamples telle
By olde daies as they felle,
Than might a man wel understonde
Such love may nought longe ftonde.
Now herken, fone, and thou shalt here
A great enfample of this matere.
To trete upon the cas of love,
So as we tolden here above,
I finde write a wonder thing.
Of Puile whilom was a king,
Hic ponit exemplum contra iftos, qui non propter amorem fed propter divicias fponfalia fumunt. Et narrat de quodam regis Apulie fenef
calo, qui non folum A man of high complexion
propter pecuniam ux
orem duxit, fed eciam
pecunie commercio uxorem fibi defponfatam vendidit.
And yong, but his affection
After the nature of his
Was yet not falle in his corage
The luft of women for to knowe.
So it betid upon a throwe,
This lord fell into great fikeneffe.
Phifique hath done the befineffe
Of fondry cures many one
To make him hole and therupon
A worthy maifter, which there was,
Yaf him counfeil upon this cas,
That if he wolde have parfite hele,
He hulde with a woman dele,
A freshe, a yonge, a lufty wight
To don him compaigny a night.
For than he said him redely,
That he shal be al hole therby,
And other wife he knew no cure.
The king, which stood in aventure
Of life and deth for medicine,
Affented was and of covine
His fteward, whom he trufteth well,
He toke and told him every dele,
How that this maister hadde faid.
And therupon he hath him praid
And charged upon his legeaunce,
That he do make purveaunce
Of fuch one as be covenable
For his plesaunce and delitable
And badde him, how that ever it stood,
That he shall spare for no good,
For his will is right well to pay.
The steward faid, he wolde affay.
But now here after thou shalt wite,
As I finde in the bokes write,
What covetife in love doth.
This steward, for to telle foth,
Amonges all the men alive
A lufty lady hath to wive,
Which netheles for gold he toke
And nought for love, as faith the boke.
A riche marchaunt of the londe
Her fader was, and he her fonde
So worthely and fuch richeffe
Of worldes good and fuch largeffe
With her he yaf in mariage,
That only for thilke avauntage
Of good the steward hath her take
For lucre and nought for loves fake.
And that was afterward wel fene.
Nowe herken, what it wolde mene.
This fteward in his owne hert
Sigh, that his lord may nought aftert
His maladie, but he have
A lufty woman him to save,
And though he wolde yive inough
Of his trefor, wherof he drough
Great covetife into his minde
And fet his honour fer behinde.
|