Of fethers and of other thinges Hath made to flee diverfe winges For him and for his fone alfo, To whome he yaf in charge tho And bad him thenke therupon, How that his winges ben fet on With wex, and if he toke his flight To high, all fodeinlich he might Make it to melte with the fonne. And thus they have her flight begonne Out of the prison faire and softe. And whan they weren both alofte, This Icharus began to mounte And of the counfeil none acompte He fette whiche his fader taught, Til that the sonne his winges caught, Wherof it malt, and fro the hight Withouten helpe of any flight
He fell to his destruction. And lich to that condition
There fallen ofte times fele For lacke of governaunce in wele Als wel in love as other wey.
Now gode fader, I you prey, If there be more in this matere Of flouthe, that I might it here.
My fone, as for thy diligence, Whiche every mannes conscience By refon fhulde reule and kepe, If that the lift to take kepe,
I wol the tell aboven alle,
In whom no vertu may befalle, Whiche yiveth unto the vices rest And is of flouthe the flowest.
Abfque labore vagus vir inutilis ocia plectens Nefcio quid prefens vita valebit ei. Non amor in tali mifero viget, immo valoris Qui faciunt opera clamat habere fuos.
Among these other of flouthes kinde,
feffor fuper illa fpe- Whiche alle labour fet behinde, cie accidie, que oci
um dicitur, cuius And hateth alle befineffe,
tum cultura nullius There is yet one, whiche idelnesse
genciam admit- Is cleped, and is the norice
expedicionem cau- In mannes kinde of every vice, fe non attingit.
Which fecheth efes many folde.
In winter doth he nought for colde, In fomer may he nought for hete, So wether that he frefe or fwete, Or be he in, or be he oute, He woll ben idel all aboute. But if he pleie ought at dees,
For who as ever take fees
And thenketh worship to deserve,
There is no lord whome he woll ferve
As for to dwelle in his fervice.
But if it were in fuche a wife, Of that he feeth par aventure, That by lordship and by coverture He may the more ftonde stille And ufe his idelneffe at wille,
For he ne woll no travail take To ride for his ladies fake, But liveth all upon his wishes, And as a cat wold ete fishes Withoute weting of his clees, So wolde he do, but netheles He faileth ofte of that he wolde. My fone, if thou of suche a molde Art made, now tell me plein thy fhrift.
Nay fader, god I yive a yift,
That toward love, as by wit
All idel was I never yit,
Ne never fhall, while I may go. Now fone, telle me than fo, What haft thou done of befiship To love and to the ladyship Of her, which thy lady is?
My fader, ever yet er this
In every place, in every stede, What fo my lady hath me bede, With all min herte obedient, I have therto be diligent.
And if fo is that she bid nought,
What thing that than into my thought Cometh first, of that I may fuffife, I bowe and profre my fervice, Somtime in chambre, fomtime in halle Right fo as I fe the times falle, And whan she goth to here masse That time shall nought overpaffe,
That I napproche her ladyhede In aunter if I may her lede Unto the chapel and ayein,
Than is nought all my wey in vein. Somdele I may the better fare,
Whan I, that may nought fele her bare, May lede her clothed in min arme. But afterwarde it doth me harme Of pure ymagination,
For thanne this collation
I make unto my felven ofte
And fay: Ha lord, how she is softe, How she is round, how she is small, Now wolde god, I hadde her all Withoute daunger at my wille. And than I fike and fitte ftille, Of that I se my befy thought Is torned idel into nought. But for all that let I ne may, Whan I se time another day, That I ne do my befineffe Unto my ladies worthineffe. For I therto my wit affaite To fe the times and awaite What is to done, and what to leve. And fo whan time is, by her leve What thing the bit me don, I do, And where the bit me gon, I go, And whan her lift to clepe, I come. Thus hath the fulliche overcome
For as men fain, nede hath no lawe, Thus mot I nedely to her drawe, I ferve, I bowe, I loke, I loute, Min eye folweth her aboute. What fo fhe wolle fo woll I, Whan she woll fit, I knele by,
And whan fhe ftont, than woll I ftonde, And whan fhe taketh her werk on honde Of weving or of embrouderie,
Than can I nought but muse and prie Upon her fingers longe and fmale. And nowe I thenke, and nowe I tale, And nowe I finge, and nowe I fike, And thus my contenaunce I pike. And if it falle, as for a time Her liketh nought abide byme But bufien her on other thinges, Than make I other tarienges To drecche forth the longe day, For me is loth departe away. And than I am fo fimple of port, That for to feigne some desporte I pleie with her litel hound
Nowe on the bed, nowe on the ground, Now with the briddes in the cage,
For there is none fo litel page Ne yet so fimple a chamberere, That I ne make hem alle chere,
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