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That in her is no more oultrage
Than in a childe of thre yere age.
Why hast thou drede of so good one,
Whom alle vertue hath begone,
That in her is no violence
But goodly hede and innocence
Withouten spot of any blame.
Ha, nice herte, fy for shame,
A cowarde herte of love unlered,
Wherof art thou so sore afered,
That thou thy tunge suffrest frese
And wolt thy gode wordes lese,
Whan thou hast founde time
How sholdest thou deserve grace,
Whan thou thy self darst axe none ?
But all thou hast foryete anone.
And thus dispute in loves lore,
But helpe ne finde I nought the more,
But stomble upon min owne treine
And make an eking of my peine.
For ever whan I thenke amonge,
Howe all is on my self alonge
I say : O fool of alle fooles
Thou farest as he betwene two stoles
That wolde fit and goth to grounde.
It was ne never shall be founde
Betwene foryetelnesse and drede,
That man shulde any cause spede.
And thus, min holy father dere,
Toward my self, as ye may here,

I pleigne of my foryetelnesse.
But elles all the businesse,
That may be take of mannes thought,
My herte taketh and is through sought
To thenken ever upon that swete
Withoute llouthe I you behete.
For what so falle or wel or wo,
That thought foryete I nevermo,
Where so I laugh, or so I loure
Nought half a minute of an houre
Ne might I lette out of my minde,
But if I thought upon that ende,
Therof me shall no southe lette,
Till deth out of this world me fette,
All though I had on suche a ring,
As Moises through his enchaunting
Sometime in Ethiope made,
Whan that he Tharbis wedded had,
Which ringe bare of oblivion
The name, and that was by reson,
That were it on a finger sate,
Anone his love he so foryate,
As though he had it never knowe.
And so it fell that ilke throwe,
Whan Tharbis had it on her honde,
No knouleching of him she fonde,
But all was clene out of memoire,
As men may rede in histoire.
And thus he wente quite away,
That never after that ilke day


She thought; that there was such a one. All was foryete and overgone. But in good feith so may nought I. For she is ever faste by So nigh, that she min herte toucheth That for no thing that southe voucheth I may foryete her lefe ne loth. For over all where as she goth, Min herte folweth her aboute. Thus may I say withouten doubte, For bet, for wers, for ought, for nought She passeth never fro my thought, But whan I am there, as she is, Min hert, as I you said er this, Somtime of her is sore adrad And sometime is overglad All out of reule and out of space. For whan I se her goodly face And thenke upon her highe pris, As though I were in paradis, I am so ravisshed of the fight, That speke unto her I ne might As for the time, though I wolde. For I ne may my witte unfolde To finde o worde of that I mene, But all it is foryete clene. And though I stonde there a mile, All is foryete for the while. A tunge I have and wordes none. And thus I stonde and thenke alone

Of thing that helpeth ofte nought.
But what I had afore thought
To speke, whan I come there,
It is foryete, as nought ne were.
And stonde amased and assoted,
That of no thing, which I have noted,
I can nought than a note singe,
But all is out of knoulechinge.
Thus what for joy and what for drede
All is foryeten ate nede,
So that, my fader, of this southe
I have you said the pleine trouthe,
Ye may it, as ye list, redresse.
For thus ftant my foryetelnesse
And eke my pufillamite.
Say now forth what ye list to me,
For I wol only do by you.

My sone, I have wel herd, how thou
Hast said, and that thou must amende.
For love his grace wol nought sende
To that man, which dare axe none.
For this we knowen everychone,
A mannes thought withoute fpeche
God wot, and yet that men beseche
His will is. For withoute bedes
He doth his grace in fewe stedes.
And what man that foryete him selve
Among a thousand be nought twelve,
That wol him take in remembraunce,
But let him falle and take his chaunce.


Forthy pull up a befy herte,
My sone, and let no thing asterte
Of love fro thy besinesse.
For touching of foryetelnesse,
Which many a love hath set behinde,
A tale of great ensample I finde,
Wherof it is pite to wite

In the maner as it is write.
Hic in amoris causa King Demephon whan he by ship
contra obliviosos por
nit confessor exem- 10 Troie wara W111

To Troie ward with felaship plum, qualiter De- Sailend goth upon his wey, mephon versus bellum Trojanum itinerando It hapneth him at Rodepey, a Phillide Rodopeie regina non tantum in As Eolus him hadde blowe hospicium, fed etiam in amorem gaudio To londe and rested for a throwe. magno susceptus est, qui poftea ab ipfà And fell that ilke time thus, Troie descendens re- T L diturum infra certum That the do tempus fideliflime le Which quene was of the contre, compromisit, sed quia huiufimodi promillio. Was sojourned in that citee nis diem ftatutum postmodum oblitus Within a castel nigh the stronde, est, Phillis oblivionem

Where Demephon cam up to londe. mis primo deplangens, tandem cordula Phillis The hight and of yong age collo suo circumli

mico. And of stature and of visage
rulo pre dolore se She had all that her best besemeth.

Of Demephon right wel her quemeth,
Whan he was come and made him chere.
And he, that was of his manere
A lusty knight, ne might asterte,
That he ne set on her his herte,
So that within a day or two
He thought, how ever that it go,

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