And that the wot well for her fake,
That he no travail woll forfake.
My fone, of this travaile I mene
Now fhrif the, for it shall be fene,
If thou art idel in this cas.
ye, and ever was
For as me thenketh truely,
That every man doth more than I
As of this point, and if so is,
That I have ought so done er this,
It is fo litel of accompt,
As who faith it may nought amount
To winne of love his lufty yifte.
For this I telle you in fhrifte,
That me were lever her love winne
Than Kaire and all that is therinne.
And for to fleen the hethen alle
I not what good there mighte falle,
So mochel blood though ther be shad.
This finde I writen how Crift bad,
That no man other fhulde flee.
What fhulde I winne over the fee,
If I my lady loft at home?
But paffe they the falte fome,
To whom Crift bad they fhulden preche
To all the world and his feith teche.
But now they rucken in her neft
And reften as hem liketh best
In all the fweteneffe of delices.
Thus they defenden us the vices
Hic allegat amans in fui excufacio
And fit hem felven all amidde,
To fleen and fighten they us bidde
Hem whom they shuld, as the boke faith,
Converten unto Criftes feith.
But herof have I great merveile,
How they wol bidde me traveile.
A Sarazin if I flee shall,
I flee the foule forth withall,
And that was never Criftes lore.
But now ho there, I fay no more.
But I woll speke upon my fhrifte
And to Cupide I make a yifte,
That who as ever pris deserve
Of armes I wol love ferve,
As though I shuld hem bothe kepe,
Als well yet wolde I take kepe,
Whan it were time to abide
And for to travaile and for to ride,
For how as ever a man laboure,
Cupide appointed hath his houre.
For I have herde tell also,
nem, qualiter A- Achilles left his armes fo
chilles apud Trojam propter amorem Polixene arma fua per aliquod tempus dimifit.
Both of him felf and of his men
At Troie for Polixenen
Upon her love whan he felle,
That for no chaunce that befelle
Among the Grekes or up or down
He wolde nought ayein the town
Ben armed for the love of her.
And fo me thenketh, leve fir,
A man of armes may him refte
Somtime in hope for the beste,
If he may finde a werre ner,
What shulde I thanne go fo fer
In ftraunge londes many a mile
To ride and lefe at home there while
My love, it were a short beyete
To winne chaffe and lefe whete.
But if my lady bide wolde,
That I for her love fholde
Travail, me thenketh truely,
I mighte flee through out the sky
And
go through out the depe see,
For all ne fette I at a stre,
What thank that I might elles gete.
What helpeth a man have mete,
Where drinke lacketh on the borde,
What helpeth any mannes worde
To fay howe I travaile faste,
Where as me faileth ate lafte
That thing, whiche I travaile fore.
O in good time were he bore,
That might atteigne fuche a mede.
But certes if I mighte fpede
With any maner befineffe,
Of worldes travail than I geffe
There shulde me none idelship
Departen from her ladyship.
But this I fe on daies now,
The blinde god I wot nought how
Cupido, which of love is lorde,
He fet the thinges in difcorde,
That they that left to love entende
Full ofte he woll hem yive and sende
Most of his grace, and thus I finde,
That he that sholde go behinde,
Goth many a time fer to-fore.
So wote I nought right well therfore,
On whether bord that I fhall faile.
Thus can I nought my self counfeile,
But all I fet on aventure
And am, as who faith, out of cure
For ought that I can fay or do,
For evermore I finde it fo,
The more befineffe I lay,
The more that I knele and pray
With gode wordes and with softe,
The more I am refused ofte
With befineffe and may nought winne,
And in good feith that is
great finne. For I may fay of dede and thought, That idel man have I be nought,
For how as ever that I be deflaied,
Yet evermore I have affaied.
But though my befineffe lafte,
All is but idel ate laste,
For whan theffect is idelneffe,
I not what thing is befineffe.
Say what availeth all the dede,
Which nothing helpeth ate nede?
Shall of his ende bere a name.
And thus for ought is yet befalle,
An idel man I woll me calle
As after min entendement.
But upon your amendement,
Min holy fader, as you femeth
My refon and my caufe demeth.
My fone, I have herde of thy matere,
Of that thou haft the fhriven here.
And for to speke of idel fare
Me femeth that thou tharft nought care,
But only that thou might nought spede.
And therof, fone, I woll the rede,
Abide and hafte nought to fafte,
Thy dedes ben every day to caste,
Thou noft, what chaunce shall betide.
Better is to waite upon the tide
Than rowe ayein the ftremes stronge.
For though fo be the thenketh longe,
Parcas the revolucion
Of heven and thy condicion
Ne be nought yet of one accorde.
But I dare make this recorde
To Venus, whose preft that I am,
That fithen that I hider cam
To here, as she me bad, thy life,
Wherof thou elles be giltife,
Thou might herof thy confcience
Excuse and of great diligence,
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