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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,

Amans.

Confeffor.

5.

Hic loquitur con

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,

condicio in virtu

tum cultura nullius There is yet one, whiche idelnesse

occupacionis dili

genciam admit- Is cleped, and is the norice

tens, cuiufcumque

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,

Confeffor.

Amans.

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,

Confeffor.

Confeffio amantis.

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

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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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