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And wissheth after : god me sende,
That whan he weneth have an ende,
Than is he furthest 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 lesse
It stant of love and of lachesse.
Some time he southeth on a day,

That he never after gete may.
Confeffor. Now fone, as of this ilke thing,

If thou have any knouleching,

That thou to love hast done er this,
Confeffio amantis. Tell on. My gode fader, yis.

As of lachesse I am beknowe,
That I may stonde upon his rowe,
As I that am clad of his suite,
For whanne I thought my pursuite
To make and therto set a day
To speke unto that swete may,
Lachefse 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 said another time is better,
Thou shalt now senden her a letter
And par cas write more plein
Than thou by mouthe dursest sain.

Thus have I lette time slide
For southe, and kepte nought my tide,
So that lachefse with his vice
Full oft hath made my wit so 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 game
I wit there is long time passed,
But yet is nought the love lassed,
Whiche I unto my lady have,
For though my tunge is slow to crave
At alle time, as I have bede,
Min hert ftant ever in o stede
And axeth besiliche 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 so selde aboute,
That is the southe, 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 beseche
That furthermore ye wol me teche,
And if there be to this matere
Some goodly tale for to here,

How I may do lachesse awey,

That ye it wolden telle, I prey.
Confessor. To wisse the, my sone, and rede

Among the tales, whiche I rede,
An olde ensample therupon

Now herken, and I wol telle on.
Hic ponit confessor Ayein lacheffe in loves cas
exemplum contra if-
tos,quiinamoriscaufa I finde, how whilom Eneas,
tardantes delinquunt.
Et narrat,qualiter Di. V nom ANCHHCS to lone nadae

: Whom Anchises to fone hadde,
do regina Cartaginis With great navie, which he ladde,
Eneam, ab incendiis
Troie fugitivum, in Fro Troie arriveth at Cartage.
amorem suum gavisa
suscepit, qui cum pof- Wherfore a while his herbergage
tea in partes Italie a
Cartagine bellaturum He toke, and it betidde so
se transtulit nimiam-
que ibidem moram With her, which was a quene tho
faciens tempus reddi- Of the citee, his acqueintaunce
tus sui ad Didonem
ultra modum tarda. He wan, whos name in remembraunce
vit, ipsa intolerabili -
dolore concuffa fui Is yet, and Dido was she hote,
cordis intima mortali
gladio transfodit. Which loveth Eneas so hote

Upon the wordes, whiche he saide,
That all her hert on him she laide
And did all holy what he wolde.
But after that, as it be sholde,
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 stonde in such 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 selve slain.
As king Menander in a lay
The foth hath founde, where she lay
Spraulend with her winges twey
As she, which shulde thanne deie
For love of him, which was her make.
And so fhal I do for thy fake
This quene faide, wel I wote.

Lo, to Enee thus she wrote
With many another word of pleint.
But he, which had his thoughtes feint
Towardes love and full of southe,
His time let, and that was routhe.
For The, which loveth him to-fore,
Desireth ever more and more
And whan she sigh him tary so,
Her herte was so full of wo,
That compleignend manyfolde
She hath her owne tale tolde
Unto her self and thus she spake :
Ha, who found ever suche a lacke
Of Nouth in any worthy knight?
Now wote I well my deth is dight

Through him, which shuld have be my life.
But for to stinten all this strife
Thus whan she sigh none other bote,
Right even unto her herte rote
A naked swerd anone she threste
And thus The gat her selve reste

In remembraunce of alle flowe.
Confessor. Wherof, my sone, thou might knowe,

How tarieng upon the nede
In loves cause is for to drede.
And that hath Dido sore abought,
Whose deth shall ever be bethought.
And evermore if I shal seche
In this matere another fpeche
In a cronique I finde write

A tale, whiche is good to wite.
Hic loquitur fuper At Troie whan king Ylixes
eodem, qualiter
Penelope Ulixem Upon the fiege among the pres
maritum suum in
obfidione Troie di- Of hem, that worthy knightes were,
ucius morantem ob Abode long time stille there,
ipfius ibidem tarda-
cionem epistola sua In thilke time a man may se,
redarguit.

How goodly that Penelope,
Which was to him his trewe wife,
Of his lachefse was pleintife,
Wherof to Troie she him sende
Her will by letter, thus fpekende :

My worthy love and lord also,
It is and hath ben ever so,
That where a woman is alone,
It maketh a man in his persone

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