And hath of her unhappy wit
A modre with a modre quit.
Suche is of modre the vengeaunce.
Forthy my fone, in remembraunce
Of this enfample take good hede.
For who that thenketh his love fpede
With mordre, he shall with worldes shame
Him felf and eke his love shame.
My fader, of this aventure,
Whiche ye have tolde, I you affure
My herte is fory for to here,
But onely for I wolde lere
What is to done, and what to leve,
And over this now by your leve.
That ye me wolde telle I pray,
If there be leful any way
Withoute finne a man may flee.
My fone, in fondry wife
ye.
What man that is of traiterie
Of mordre or elles robberie
Atteint, the juge shal not let,
But he fhal feen of pure det
And doth great finne, if that he wonde.
For who, that lawe hath upon honde,
And spareth for to do justice
For mercy, doth nought his office,
That he his mercy fo bewareth,
Whan for o fhrewe, whiche he spareth,
A thousand gode men he greveth.
Hic queritur, qui-
bus de caufis licet
hominem occidere.
Seneca. Judex, qui parcit ulcifci, multos improbos facit.
To plefe god, he is deceived.
Or elles refon mot be weived.
The lawe stoode or we were bore, Apoftolus. Non How that a kinges swerde is bore fine caufa judex In figne, that he shall defende
His true people and make an ende
Of fuche, as wolden hem devoure.
Lo, thus my fone, to fuccour
The lawe and comun right to winne
A man may flee withoute finne
And do therof a great almeffe
So for to kepe rightwisnesse.
And over this for his contree
In time of werre a man is free
Him felf, his house and eke his londe
Defende with his owne honde
And fleen, if that he may no bet
After the lawe, whiche is fet.
Now fader, than I you befeche
Of hem, that dedly werres feche
In worldes cause and fheden blood,
If fuche an homicide is good?
My fone, upon thy question
The trouth of min opinion,
Als ferforth as my wit arecheth
And as the pleine lawe techeth,
I wol the telle in evidence
To reule with thy confcience.
Quod creat ipfe deus, necat hoc homicida creatum,
Ultor et humano fanguine fpargit humum.
Ut pecoris fic eft hominis cruor heu modo fufus,
Victa jacet pietas, et furor urget opus.
Angelus in terra pax dixit, et ultima Chrifti
Verba fonant pacem, quam modo guerra fugat.
The highe god of his justice
That ilke foul horrible vice
Of homicide he hath forbede
By Moises, as it was bede.
Whan goddes fone also was bore,
He fent his aungel down therfore,
Whom the shepherdes herden finge :
Pees to the men of welwillinge
In erthe be amonge us here.
So for to speke in this matere
After the lawe of charite,
There shall no dedly werre be.
And eke nature it hath defended
And in her lawe pees commended,
Whiche is the chefe of mannes welth,
Of mannes life, of mannes helth.
But dedly werre hath his covine
Of peftilence and of famine,
Of pouerte and of alle wo,
Wherof this world we blamen so,
Which now the werre hath under fote,
Till god him felf therof do bote.
For alle thing, which god hath wrought,
In erthe, werre it bringeth to nought.
The chirche is brent, the prest is slain,
The wife, the maide is eke forlain,
The lawe is lore and god unferved,
I not what mede he hath deserved,
Hic loquitur contra motores guerre, que non folum homicidii fed univerfi mundi defolationis mater exiftit.
Apoftolus. pendium peccati mors eft.
That fuche werres ledeth inne.
If that he do it for to winne,
First to accompte his grete cofte,
Forth with the folke that he hath lofte
As to the worldes reckeninge,
There shall he finde no winninge.
And if he do it to purchace
The heven, mede of fuche a grace
I can nought speke, and netheles
Crift hath commaunded love and pees.
And who that worcheth the revers,
I trowe his mede is full divers.
And fithen thanne that we finde,
That werres in her owne kinde
Ben toward god of no deferte
And eke they bringen in pouerte
Of worldes good, it is merveile
Among the men what it may eile,
That they a pees ne connen fette.
I trowe finne be the lette,
And every mede of finne is deth.
Sti- So wote I never howe it geth.
that ben of o beleve
Among us felf, this wolde I leve,
That better it were pees to chefe
Than fo by double weie lefe.
I not if that it now fo ftonde,
But this a man may understonde,
Who that these olde bokes redeth,
That covetife is one, which ledeth
And broughte first the werres inne.
At Grece if that I shall beginne,
There was it proved howe it stood
To Perfe, whiche was full of good.
They maden werre in speciall
And fo they didden over all,
Where great richeffe was in londe,
So that they leften nothing ftonde
Unwerred, but onliche Archade.
For there they no werres made
Because it was barein and pouer,
Wherof they mighte nought recouer
And thus pouerte was forbore.
He that nought had nought hath lore.
But yet it is a wonder thinge,
Whan that a riche worthy kinge
Or other lord, what fo he be,
Woll axe and claime properte
In thing, to whiche he hath no right,
But only of his grete might.
For this may every man well wite,
That bothe kinde and lawe write
Expreffely ftonden there ayein.
But he mot nedes fomewhat fain,
All though there be no refon inne,
Which fecheth caufe for to winne.
For wit, that is with will oppreffed,
Whan covetise him hath adressed
And alle refon put away,
He can well finde fuch a way
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