And wisheth after: god me fende,
That whan he weneth have an ende,
Than is he furtheft to beginne.
Thus bringeth he many a mischefe inne
Unware, till that he be mischeved
And may nought thanne be releved.
And right fo nouther more ne leffe
It stant of love and of lachesse.
Some time he floutheth on a day,
That he never after gete may.
Now fone, as of this ilke thing,
If thou have any knouleching,
That thou to love haft done er this,
Confeffio amantis. Tell on. My gode fader, yis.
As of lacheffe I am beknowe,
That I may ftonde upon his rowe,
As I that am clad of his fuite,
For whanne I thought my pursuite
To make and therto fet a day
To speke unto that swete may,
Lacheffe bad abide yit
And bare on honde it was no wit
Ne time for to speke as tho.
Thus with his tales to and fro
My time in tarieng he drough,
Whan there was time good inough,
He faid another time is better,
Thou shalt now fenden her a letter
And par cas write more plein
Than thou by mouthe durfest sain.
Thus have I lette time flide
For flouthe, and kepte nought my tide,
So that lacheffe with his vice
Full oft hath made my wit fo nice,
That what I thought to speke or do
With tarieng he held me so,
Til whan I wolde and mighte nought,
I not what thing was in my thought
Or it was drede, or it was shame.
But ever in ernest and in
I wit there is long time paffed,
But yet is nought the love laffed,
Whiche I unto my lady have,
For though my tunge is flow to crave
At alle time, as I have bede,
Min hert ftant ever in o stede
And axeth befiliche grace,
The whiche I may nought yet embrace,
And god wot that is malgre min.
For this I wot right well afin,
My grace cometh fo felde aboute,
That is the flouthe, which I doubte
More than of all the remenaunt,
Whiche is to love appartenaunt.
And thus as touchend of lacheffe,
As I have tolde, I me confeffe
To you, my fader, I befeche
That furthermore ye wol me teche,
And if there be to this matere
Some goodly tale for to here,
Hic ponit confeffor exemplum contra if
To wiffe the, my fone, and rede
Among the tales, whiche I rede,
An olde ensample therupon
Now herken, and I wol telle on.
Ayein lacheffe in loves cas
tos,qui in amoris caufa I finde, how whilom Eneas,
tardantes delinquunt. Whom Anchifes to fone hadde,
Et narrat,qualiter Di-
do regina Cartaginis With great navie, which he ladde,
Troie fugitivum, in Fro Troie arriveth at Cartage.
amorem fuum gavifa
fufcepit, qui cum pof- Wherfore a while his herbergage
tea in partes Italie a
Cartagine bellaturum He toke, and it betidde fo
fe tranftulit nimiam- With her, which was a quene tho
faciens tempus reddi- Of the citee, his acqueintaunce
ultra modum tarda. He wan, whos name in remembraunce vit, ipfa intolerabili dolore concuffa fui
cordis intima mortali gladio transfodit.
Is yet, and Dido was she hote,
Which loveth Eneas so hote
Upon the wordes, whiche he faide,
That all her hert on him she laide
And did all holy what he wolde.
But after that, as it be fholde,
Fro thenne he goth toward Itaile
By ship and there his arrivaile
Hath take and shope him for to ride.
But she, which may nought longe abide
The hote peine of loves throwe,
Anon within a litel throwe
A letter unto her knight hath write
And did him pleinly for to wite,
If he made any tarieng
To drecche of his ayein comming,
That she ne might him fele and se,
She shulde ftonde in fuch degre
As whilom stood a swan to-fore
Of that she hadde her make lore
For forwe a fether into her brain
She shof and hath her felve flain.
As king Menander in a lay
The foth hath founde, where she lay
Spraulend with her winges twey
As fhe, which fhulde thanne deie
For love of him, which was her make.
And fo fhal I do for thy fake
quene faide, wel I wote.
Lo, to Enee thus fhe wrote
With many another word of pleint.
But he, which had his thoughtes feint
Towardes love and full of flouthe,
His time let, and that was routhe.
For fhe, which loveth him to-fore,
Defireth ever more and more
And whan fhe figh him tary fo,
Her herte was fo full of wo,
That compleignend many folde
She hath her owne tale tolde
Unto her felf and thus fhe spake:
Ha, who found ever fuche a lacke
Of flouth in any worthy knight?
Now wote I well my deth is dight
Hic loquitur fuper eodem, qualiter
Through him, which shuld have be my
But for to ftinten all this ftrife
Thus whan fhe figh none other bote,
Right even unto her herte rote
A naked fwerd anone she threste
And thus fhe gat her felve refte
In remembraunce of alle flowe.
Wherof, my fone, thou might knowe,
How tarieng upon the nede
In loves caufe is for to drede.
And that hath Dido fore abought,
Whose deth fhall ever be bethought.
And evermore if I fhal feche
In this matere another speche
In a cronique I finde write
A tale, whiche is good to wite.
At Troie whan king Ylixes
Penelope Ulixem Upon the fiege among
the pres obfidione Troie di- of hem, that worthy knightes were, ucius morantem ob Abode long time ftille there, ipfius ibidem tardacionem epiftola fua redarguit.
In thilke time a man may se,
How goodly that Penelope,
Which was to him his trewe wife,
Of his lacheffe was pleintife,
Wherof to Troie fhe him fende
Her will by letter, thus fpekende:
My worthy love and lord also,
It is and hath ben ever fo,
That where a woman is alone,
It maketh a man in his persone
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