Which thou shalt fuffre thilke tide,
Is shape all only for thy pride
Of veingloire and of the finne,
Which thou hast longe ftonden inne.
So upon this condicion
Thy sweven hath expoficion.
But er this thing befalle in dede,
Amende the, this wold I rede,
Yif and departe thin almesse,
Do mercy forth with rightwifneffe,
Befeche and praie the highe grace,
For so thou might thy pees purchace
With god and ftonde in good accorde.
But pride is loth to leve his lorde
And wol nought fuffre humilite
With him to ftonde in no degre.
And whan a fhip hath loft his ftere,
Is none fo wife, that may him stere
Ayein the wawes in a rage.
This proude king in his corage
Humilite hath fo forlore,
That for no fweven he figh to-fore
Ne yet for all that Daniel
Him hath counfeiled every dele,
He let it paffe out of his minde
Through veingloire, and as the blinde
He feth no weie, er him be wo.
And fel withinne a time so,
As he in Babiloine wente,
The vanite of pride him hente.
His hert aros of vein gloire,
So that he drough into memoire
His lordship and his regalie
With wordes of furquedrie.
And whan that he him moft avaunteth,
That lord, which veingloire daunteth,
All fodeinlich as who faith treis
Where that he stood in his paleis
He toke him fro the mennes fight.
Was none of hem so ware, that might
Set eye, where that he becom.
And thus was he from his kingdom
Into the wilde foreft drawe,
Where that the mighty goddes lawe
Through his power did him transforme
Fro man into a beftes forme.
And lich an oxe under the fote
He graseth as he nedes mote
To geten him his lives fode.
Tho thought him colde graffes goode,
That whilome ete the hote fpices,
Thus was he torned fro delices.
The wine, which he was wont to drinke,
He toke than of the welles brinke
Or of the pit or of the flough,
It thought him thanne good inough.
In stede of chambres well arraied
He was than of a busfh well paied,
The harde ground he lay upon
For other pilwes had he non,
The ftormes and the reines fall,
The windes blowe upon him all,
He was tormented day and night.
Such was the highe goddes might,
Till seven yere an ende toke.
Upon him felf tho gan he loke,
In stede of mete gras and ftreis,
In stede of handes longe cleis,
In stede of man a beftes like
He figh, and than he gan to fike
For cloth of golde and of perrie,
Which him was wont to magnifie.
When he beheld his cote of heres
He
wepte and with wofull teres
Up to the heven he caste his chere
Wepend and thought in this manere,
Though he no wordes mighte winne,
Thus faid his hert and fpake withinne:
O mighty god, that all haft wrought
And all might bring ayein to nought
Now knowe I wel but all of the
This world hath no profperite,
In thin aspect ben alle aliche
The pouer man and eke the riche,
Withoute the there may no wight,
And thou above all other might.
O mighty lord, toward my vice
Thy mercy medle with justice
And I woll make a covenaunt,
That of my life the remenaunt
I shall it by thy grace amende
And in thy lawe fo difpende,
That veingloire I shall escheue
And bowe unto thin hefte and fue
Humilite, and that I vowe.
And fo thenkend he gan down bowe,
And though him lacke vois of speche,
He
gan up with his fete areche
And wailend in his bestly steven
He made his plaint unto the heven.
He kneleth in his wife and braieth
To feche mercy and affaieth
His god, which made him nothing ftraung
Whan that he figh his pride chaunge
Anone as he was humble and tame
He found toward his god the fame,
And in a twinkeling of a loke
His mannes forme ayein he toke
And was reformed to the regne,
In whiche that he was wont to regne,
So that the pride of veingloire
Ever afterward out of memoire
He lett it paffe. And thus is fhewed
What is to ben of pride unthewed
Ayein the highe goddes lawe.
To whom no man may be felawe.
Forthy my fone, take good hede
So for to lede thy manhede,
That thou ne be nought lich a beste.
But if thy life shall ben honeste
Thou must humbleffe take on honde,
For thanne might thou fiker ftonde,
And for to fpeke it other wife
A proud man can no love affife.
For though a woman wolde him plese,
His pride can nought ben at efe.
There may no man to mochel blame
A vice, which is for to blame.
Forthy men shulden nothing hide,
That mighte fall in blame of pride,
Whiche is the worst vice of alle,
Wherof fo as it was befalle
The tale I thenke of a cronique
To telle, if that it may the like,
so that thou might humblesse sue
And eke the vice of pride efcheue,
Wherof the gloire is false and veine,
Which god him self hath in disdeine,
That though it mounte for a throwe,
t shall down falle and overthrowe.
Eft virtus humilis, per quam deus altus ad ima
Se tulit et noftre vifcera carnis habet.
Sic humilis fupereft, et amor fibi fubditur omnis,
Cuius habet nulla forte fuperbus opem.
Odit eum terra, celum dejecit et ipfum,
Sedibus inferni ftatque receptus ibi.
A king whilom was yonge and wise,
The which set of his wit great prise.
Of depe ymaginations
And ftraunge interpretations,
Hic narrat confeffor exemplum fimpliciter contra fuperbiam et dicit, quod nuper quidam rex famofe prudencie cuidam militi fuo fuper tribus quef
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