Wherof me thenketh, good refon wolde,
That she fomdele rewarde sholde
And yive a part, there fhe hath all,
I not what falle herafter shall.
But into now yet dare I fain,
Her lifte never yive ayein
A goodly word in such a wife,
Wherof min hope might arise
My grete love to recompense,
I not how she her confcience
Excufe wol of this ufure
By large weight and great mesure.
She hath my love and I have nought
Of that, which I have dere abought
And with min herte I have it paide,
But all this is afide laide,
And I go loveles aboute.
Her oughte ftonde in full great doubte,
Till fhe redreffe fuche a finne,
That she wol al my love winne
And yiveth me nought to live by.
Nought al fo moch as graunt mercy
Her lift to say, of which I might
Some of my grete peine alight.
But of this point, lo, thus I fare,
As he, that paieth for his chaffare
And bieth it dere and yet hath none,
So mote he nedes pouer gone.
Thus bie I dere and have no love,
That I ne may nought come above
To winne of love none encrefe,
But I me wille nethelese
Touchend usure of love aquite,
And if my lady be to wite,
I pray to god fuch grace her fende,
That the by time it mot amende.
My fone, of that thou hast answerde
Touchend ufure I have al herde,
How thou of love haft wonne fmale.
But that thou telleft in thy tale
And thy lady therof accusest,
Me thenketh tho wordes thou misuseft.
For by thin owne knouleching
Thou faift, how fhe for one loking
Thy hole hert fro the she toke,
So haft thou well thin herte folde,
Whan thou haft that is more worthe.
And eke of that thou telleft forthe,
How that her weight of love uneven
Is unto thine, under the heven
Stood never in even that balaunce,
Which ftont in loves governaunce.
Such is the ftatute of his lawe,
That though thy love more drawe
And peise in the balaunce more,
Thou might nought axe ayein therfore
Of duete, but all of grace.
For love is lorde in every place,
Hic ponit exemplum contra iftos maritos,
There may no lawe him justify
By reddour ne by compaigny,
That he ne wol after his wille,
Whom that him liketh spede or spille.
To love a man may well beginne,
But whether he fhall lefe or winne,
That wot no man, til ate last.
Forthy coveite nought to fast,
My fone, but abide thin ende,
Parcas all may to good wende.
But that thou haft me tolde and faide
Of o thing I am right well paide,
That thou by fleighte, ne by guile
Of no brocour haft otherwhile
Engined love, for suche dede
Is fore venged as I rede.
Brocours of love, that deceiven,
qui ultra id quod No wonder is though they receiven
res ad nove volupta- After the wrong, that they deserven tis incrementum alias For whom as ever that they ferven mulieres fuperflue lu
crari non verentur. And do plefaunce for a while.
no vindictam fuam in Yet ate laft her owne guile
mulierum lucris ad- Upon her owne hede defcendeth, quirendis de confilio Which god of his
mariti fui Jovis mediatrix exftiterat.
vengeaunce
As by enfample of time ago
A man may finde it hath be fo.
It fell fome time, as it was fene,
The high goddeffe and the quene
Juno tho had in compaigny
A maiden full of trechery.
For fhe was ever in accorde
With Jupiter, that was her lorde,
Το get him other loves newe
Through fuch brocage and was untrewe,
All other wife than him nedeth.
But fhe, the which no fhame dredeth,
With queinte wordes and with flie
Blent in fuch wife her ladies eye
As fhe, to whom that Juno trist,
So that therof she nothing wist.
But fo prive may be nothing,
That it ne cometh to knouleching,
Thing done
upon the derke night
Is after knowe on daies light.
So it befell, that ate last
All that this flighe maiden cast
Was overcaft and overthrowe.
For as the fothe mot be knowe,
To Juno it was done understonde,
In what manere her husbonde
With fals brocage hath take usure
Of love more than his mesure,
Whan he toke other than his wife,
Wherof this maiden was giltife,
Whiche hadde ben of his affent.
And thus was all the game fhent.
She fuffred him, as fhe mot nede,
But the brocour of his mifdede,
She, which her counfeil yaf therto,
On her is the vengeaunce do,
For Juno with her wordes hote,
This maiden, which Eccho was hote,
Reproveth and faith in this wife :
O traitereffe, of which fervice
Haft thou thin owne lady served,
Thou haft great peine well deserved,
That thou canst maken it fo queint.
Thy flighe wordes for to peint
Towardes me, that am thy quene,
Wherof thou madeft me to wene,
That my hufbonde trewe were,
Whan that he loveth elles where,
All be it fo him nedeth nought.
But upon the it shall be bought
Whiche art prive to tho doinges,
And me full ofte of thy lefinges
Deceived haft. Nowe is the day,
That I thy wile quite may,
And for thou haft to me conceled,
That my lorde hath with other deled,
I shall the fette in fuche a kinde,
That ever unto the worldes ende
All that thou hereft thou shalt telle
And clappe it out as doth a belle.
And with that word fhe was for shape,
There may no vois her mouthe escape,
What man that in the wodes crieth,
Withouten faile Eccho replieth.
And what word, that him luft to sain,
The same word she faith ayein.
|