Al helpe he other with his teching;
For where they good ensaumple take,
There is he with veynglorie shake.
'But lat us leven these prechoures,
And speke of hem that in her toures
Hepe up her gold, and faste shette,
And sore theron her herte sette.
They neither love god, ne drede
They kepe more than it is nede,
And in her bagges sore it binde,
Out of the sonne, and of the winde;
They putte up more than nede ware,
Whan they seen pore folk forfare,
For hunger dye, and for cold quake;
God can wel vengeaunce therof take.
Three gret mischeves hem assailith,
And thus in gadring ay travaylith;
With moche peyne they winne richesse;
And drede hem holdith in distresse,
To kepe that they gadre faste;
With sorwe they leve it at the laste;
With sorwe they bothe dye and live,
That to richesse her hertis yive,
And in defaute of love it is,
As it shewith ful wel, y-wis.
For if these gredy, the sothe to seyn,
Loveden, and were loved ageyn,
And good love regned over-alle,
Such wikkidnesse ne shulde falle;
But he shulde yeve that most good had
To hem that weren in nede bistad,
And live withoute fals usure,
For charitee ful clene and pure.
If they hem yeve to goodnesse,
Defending hem from ydelnesse,
In al this world than pore noon
We shulde finde, I trowe, not oon.
But chaunged is this world unstable ;
For love is over-al vendable.
We see that no man loveth now
But for winning and for prow;
And love is thralled in servage
Whan it is sold for avauntage;
Yit wommen wol hir bodies selle;
Suche soules goth to the devel of helle.'
Whan Love had told hem his entente,
The baronage to councel wente;
In many sentences they fille,
And dyversly they seide hir wille:
But aftir discord they accorded,
And hir accord to Love recorded.
'Sir,' seiden they, we been at oon,
By even accord of everichoon,
Out-take Richesse al-only,
That sworen hath ful hauteynly,
That she the castel nil assaile,
Ne smyte a stroke in this bataile,
With dart, ne mace, spere, ne knyf,
For man that speketh or bereth the lyf,
And blameth your empryse, y-wis,
And from our hoost departed is,
(At leeste wey, as in this plyte,)
So hath she this man in dispyte;
For she seith he ne loved hir never,
And therfor she wol hate him ever.
For he wol gadre no tresore,
He hath hir wrath for evermore.
He agilte hir never in other caas,
Lo, here al hoolly his trespas !
She seith wel, that this other day
He asked hir leve to goon the way
That is clepid To-moche-Yeving,
And spak ful faire in his praying;
But whan he prayde hir, pore was he,
Therfore she warned him the entree.
Ne yit is he not thriven so
That he hath geten a peny or two,
That quitly is his owne in hold.
Thus hath Richesse us alle told;
And whan Richesse us this recorded,
Withouten hir we been accorded.
6 And we finde in our accordaunce,
That False-Semblant and Abstinaunce,
With alle the folk of hir bataile,
Shulle at the hinder gate assayle,
That Wikkid-Tunge hath in keping,
With his Normans, fulle of jangling.
And with hem Curtesie and Largesse,
That shulle shewe hir hardinesse
To the olde wyf that kepeth so harde
Fair-Welcoming within her warde.
Than shal Delyte and Wel-Helinge
Fonde Shame adoun to bringe;
With al hir hoost, erly and late,
They shulle assailen thilke gate.
Agaynes Drede shal Hardinesse
Assayle, and also Sikernesse,
With al the folk of hir leding,
That never wist what was fleing.
'Fraunchyse shal fighte, and eek Pitee,
With Daunger ful of crueltee.
Thus is your hoost ordeyned wel;
Doun shal the castel every del,
If everiche do his entente,
So that Venus be presente,
Your moder, ful of vassalage,
That can y-nough of such usage;
Withouten hir may no wight spede
This werk, neither for word ne dede.
Therfore is good ye for hir sende,
For thurgh hir may this werk amende.'
Amour. Lordinges, my moder, the goddesse,
That is my lady, and my maistresse,
Nis not at al at my willing,
Ne doth not al my desyring.
Yit can she som-tyme doon labour,
Whan that hir lust, in my socour,
Al my nedes for to acheve,
But now I thenke hir not to greve.
My moder is she, and of childhede
I bothe worshipe hir, and eek drede;
For who that dredeth sire ne dame
Shal it abye in body or name.
And, natheles, yit cunne we
Sende after hir, if nede be;
And were she nigh, she comen wolde,
I trowe that no-thing might hir holde.
'My moder is of greet prowesse;
She hath tan many a forteresse,
That cost hath many a pound er this,
Ther I nas not present, y-wis;
And yit men seide it was my dede;
But I come never in that stede;
Ne me ne lyketh, so mote I thee,
Such toures take withoute me.
For-why me thenketh that, in no wyse,
It may ben cleped but marchandise.
'Go bye a courser, blak or whyte,
And pay therfor; than art thou quyte.
The marchaunt oweth thee right nought,
Ne thou him, whan thou hast it bought.
I wol not selling clepe yeving,
For selling axeth no guerdoning;
Here lyth no thank, ne no meryte,
That oon goth from that other al quyte.
But this selling is not semblable;
For, whan his hors is in the stable,
He may it selle ageyn, pardee,
And winne on it, such hap may be ;
Al may the man not lese, y-wis,
For at the leest the skin is his.
Or elles, if it so bityde
That he wol kepe his hors to ryde,
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