The forme bothe and the matere,
As now fuende thou fhalt here,
Which vice stant nexte after this.
And whan thou woft, how that it is,
As thou shalt here my devife,
Thou might thy felf the better avise.
Incipit Liber Tercius.
Ira fuis paribus eft par furiis Acherontis,
Quo furor ad tempus nil pietatis habet.
Ira malencolicos animos perturbat, ut equo
Jure fui pondus nulla ftatera tenet.
Omnibus in caufis gravat ira fed inter amantes,
Illa magis facili forte gravamen agit.
Eft ubi vir difcors leviterque repugnat amori,
Sepe loco ludi fletus ad ora venit.
F thou the vices lift to knowe,
My fone, it hath nought be
Fro firft, that men their fwerdes grounde,
That there nis one upon this grounde
A vice foreine fro the lawe,
Wherof that many a good felawe
Hath be deftraught by fodein chaunce.
And yet to kinde no plefaunce
It doth, but where he most acheveth
His purpose moft to kinde he greveth
As he, whiche out of confcience
Is enemy unto pacience.
And is by name one of the feven,
Whiche oft hath fet the world uneven,
Hic in tercio libro tractat fuper quinque fpeciebus ire, quarum prima malencolia dicitur,
cuius vicium confeffor primo defcribens amanti fuper eodem confequenter opponit.
And cleped is the cruel ire, Whose herte is evermore on fire To fpeke amis and to do bothe, For his fervaunts ben ever wrothe. My gode fader, tell me this Confeffor. What thinge is ire? Sone, it is That in our english wrath is hote, Whiche hath his wordes ay fo hote, That all a mannes pacience
Is fired of the violence.
For he with him hath ever five
Servaunts, that helpen him to strive.
The firft of hem malencoly
Is cleped, whiche in compaignie
An hundred times in an houre
Woll as an angry beste loure,
And no man wot the cause why.
My fone, fhrive the now forthy,
Haft thou be malencolien ?
Ye fader, by faint Julien.
But I untrewe wordes use
may me nought therof excufe.
And all maketh love well I wote,
Of which min herte is ever hote,
So that I brenne as dothe a glede
For wrathe, that I may nought spede.
And thus full oft a day for nought
Saufe onlich of min owne thought
I am fo with my felven wroth,
That how fo that the game goth
With other men I am nought glad.
But I am well the more unglad,
For that is other mennes game
It torneth me to pure grame.
Thus am I with my self oppreffed
Of thought the whiche I have impreffed,
That all wakend I dreme and mete,
That I with her alone mete
And pray her of fome good answere.
But for she wol nought gladly fwere,
She faith me nay withouten othe.
And thus waxe I withinne wrothe
That outward I am all affraied
And so diftempred and fo efmaied.
A thousand times on a day
There founeth in min eres nay,
The which she faide me to-fore.
Thus be my wittes all forlore.
And namely whan I beginne
To reken with my felf withinne,
How many yeres ben agone,
Sith I have truely loved one
And never toke of her other hede
And ever a liche for to spede,
I am, the more I with her dele,
So that min hap and all min hele
Me thenketh is ay the lenger the ferre.
That bringeth my gladship out of erre,
Wherof my wittes ben empeired
And I, as who faith, all difpeired,
For finally whan that I muse
And thenke, how the woll me refuse,
I am with anger fo beftad,
For al this world might I be glad.
And for the while that it lasteth
All up fo down my joie it casteth,
And ay the further that I be
Whan I ne may my lady se,
The more I am redy to wrathe,
That for the touching of a lath
Or for the torning of a stre
I wode as doth the wilde fee
And am fo malencolious,
That there nis fervaunt in min house
Ne none of tho, that be aboute,
That eche of hem ne stant in doute
And wenen, that I fhulde rave
For anger, that they se me have.
And fo they wonder more and laffe,
Til that they seen it overpasse.
But fader, if it fo betide,
That I approche at any tide
The place, where my lady is,
And thanne that her like iwis
To speke a goodly word unto me,
For all the gold that is in Rome
Ne couth I after that be wroth,
But all min anger overgoth.
So glad I am of the presence
Of her, that I all offence
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