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For every creature bore,

If thou him yive, is glad therfore,
And every gladship, as I finde,
Is comfort unto loves kinde
And causeth ofte a man to fpede.
So was he wife, that first yaf mede.
For mede kepeth love in hous,
But where the men ben coveitous
And sparen for to yive a parte,
They knowen nought Cupides arte.
For his fortune and his apprise
Difdeigneth alle covetife
And hateth alle nigardie.
And for to loke of this partie
A fothe enfample, howe it is fo,
I finde write of Babio,

Which had a love at his menage,
There was no fairer of her age,
And highte Viola by name,
Which full of youth and full of
game
Was of her felfe and large and free.
But fuch an other chinche as he
Men wisten nought in all the londe,
And had affaited to his honde
His fervant, the which Spodius
Was hote. And in this wife thus
The worldes good of suffisaunce
Was had, but liking and plefaunce
Of that belongeth to richeffe
Of love ftode in great diftreffe,

So that this yonge lufty wight

Of thing, which fell to loves right,
Was evil ferved over all,

That she was wo bego withall.
Til that Cupide and Venus eke
A medicine for the feke
Ordeine wolden in this cas,
So as fortune thanne was
Of love upon the destine
It fell right, as it shulde be.
A freshe, a free, a frendly man,
That nought of avarice can,
Which Croceus by name hight,
Toward this fwete caft his fight
And there she was cam in presence,
She figh him large of his defpenfe,
And amorous and glad of chere,
So that her liketh well to here
The goodly wordes, which he faide,
And therupon of love he praide.
Of love was all that he ment,
To love and for fhe fhulde affent,
He yaf her yiftes ever among.
But for men fain, that mede is strong,
It was well fene at thilke tide
For as it shulde of right betide,
This Viola largeffe hath take
And the nigard she hath forfake.
Of Babio she will no more,
For he was grucchend evermore,

Amans.

Confeffor.

There was with him none other fare,
But for to pinche and for to fpare,
Of worldes muck to get encres.
So goth the wrecche loveles
Bejaped for his scarsite.

And he that large was and fre
And fet his herte to defpende,

This Croceus his bowe bende,
Which Venus toke him for to holde,
And fhot as ofte as ever he wolde.

Lo, thus departeth love his lawe,
That what man woll nought be felawe
To yive and spende, as I the telle,
He is nought worthy for to dwelle
In loves court to be relieved.
Forthy my fone, if I be leved,
Thou shalt be large of thy defpense.
My fader, in my conscience
If there be any thinge amis,
I wolde amende it after this

Toward my love namely.

My fone, well and redely
Thou faist, so that well paid withall
I am, and further if I shall
Unto thy shrifte specifie
Of avarice the progenie,
What vice fueth after this,

Thou shalt have wonder how it is
Among the folke in any regne,
That such a vice mighte regne,

Whiche is comune at all affaies,
As men may finde now a daies.

Cuneta creatura, deus et qui cuncta creavit,
Damnant ingrati dictaque facta viri.
Non dolor a longe ftat, quo fibi talis amicam
Traxit, et in fine deferit effe fuam.

The vice like unto the fende,
Which never yet was mannes frende,
And cleped is unkindeship,
Of covine and of felafhip
With avarice he is witholde.

Him thenketh he fhuld nought ben holde
Unto the moder, which him bare.
Of him may never man beware,
He wol nought knowe the merite,
For that he wolde it nought aquite,
Which in this worlde is mochel used,
And fewe ben therof excused.

To tell of him is endeles,

But thus I faie netheles,

Where as this vice cometh to londe,
There taketh no man his thanke on honde,
Though he with all his mightes serve,
He shall of him no thank deserve,
He taketh what any man will yive,
But while he hath o day to live,
He wol nothing rewarde ayein,
He gruccheth for to yive o grein,
Where he hath take a berne full.
That maketh a kinde herte dull,

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Hic dicit, qualiter

beftie in fuis benefi

To fet his truft in fuch frendship,
There as he fint no kindeship.
And for to fpeke wordes pleine,
Thus here I many a man compleigne,
That howe on daies thou shalt finde
At nede fewe frendes kinde.

What thou haft done for hem to-fore,
It is foryeten, as it were lore.
The bokes fpeken of this vice
And telle how god of his justice
By way of kinde and eke nature
And every
liflich creature,

The lawe also, who that it can,
They dampnen an unkinde man.
It is all one, to say unkinde
As thing, which done is ayein kinde,
For it with kinde never stood

A man to yielden evil for good.
For who that wolde taken hede,
A befte is glad of a good dede
And loveth thilke creature
After the lawe of his nature

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Of this matere auctorite,
Full ofte time it hath befalle,
Wherof a tale amonges alle,
Which is of olde ensamplarie,
I thenke for to specifie.

To speke of an unkinde man

ciis hominem ingra. I finde, how whilome Adrian

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