That thou manaceft to be dede.
My fader, it is fuche a quede,
That where I come, he is to-fore
And doth fo, that my cause is lore.
What is his name? It is daunger,
Whiche is my ladies counfeiler.
For I was never yet so fligh
To come in any place nigh,
Where as she was by night or day,
That daunger ne was redy ay,
With whom for speche ne for mede
Yet might I never of love spede.
For ever this finde I foth,
All that my lady faith or doth
To me daunger shall make an ende.
And that maketh al my world miswende,
And ever I axe his helpe, but he
May be wel cleped fauns pite.
For ay the more I to him bowe,
The laffe he woll my tale allowe.
He hath my lady so engleued,
She woll nought, that he be remeued.
For ever he hongeth on her faile
And is fo prive of counseile,
That ever whan I have ought bede,
I finde daunger in her stede
And min anfwere of him I have.
But for no mercy, that I crave,
Of mercy never a point I hadde.
I find his answer ay fo badde,
That worse might it never be.
And thus betwen daunger and me
Is ever werre til he deie.
But might I ben of such maistrie,
That I daunger had overcome,
With that were all my joie come.
Thus wolde I wonde for no finne
yet
for all this world to winne,
If that I might finde a fleight
To lay all min estate in weight,
I wolde him fro the court defever,
So that he come ayeinward never,
Therfore I wisshe and wolde fain,
That he were in some wise slain.
For while he ftant in thilke place
Ne gete I nought my ladies grace.
Thus hate I dedely thilke vice
And wolde he ftood in none office
In place, where my lady is.
For if he do, I wot wel this,
That outher he shall deie or I
Within a while, and nought forthy
On my lady full ofte I muse,
Now that she may her self excuse.
For if that I deie in fuche a plite
Me thenketh she might nought be quite,
That she ne were an homicide.
And if it fhulde fo betide,
As god forbede it shulde be,
By double way it is pite.
For I, which all my will and wit
Have yove and ferved ever yit,
And than I fhuld in fuche a wife
In rewarding of my service
Be dede, me thenketh it were routh.
And furthermore I telle trouth,
She that hath ever be wel named,
She were worthy than to be blamed
And of reson to ben appeled,
Whan with o word fhe might have heled
A man, and fuffreth him to deie.
Ha, who figh ever such a way?
Ha, who figh ever fuch destreffe?
Withoute pite gentileffe,
Withoute mercy womanhede,
That woll fo quite a man his mede,
Whiche ever hath be to love trewe.
My gode fader, if
ye rewe
Upon my tale, tell me now,
And I wol ftinte and herken you.
My fone, attempre thy corage
Fro wrath and let thin hert afsuage,
For who fo wol him underfonge,
He may his grace abide longe,
Or he of love be received
And eke alfo, but it be weived,
There mighte mochel thing befalle,
That fhulde make a man to falle
Fro love, that never afterwarde
Ne durft he loke thiderwarde.
In harde waies men gon fofte,
And er they climbe avife hem ofte,
And men seen all day, that rape reweth.
And who fo wicked ale breweth,
Full ofte he mot the worse drinke.
Better it is to flete than finke,
Better is upon the bridel chewe
Than if he fel and overthrewe
The hors and sticked in the mire.
To caft water in the fire
Better is than brenne up al the hous.
The man whiche is malicious
And foolhaftif, full ofte he falleth.
And felden is, whan love him calleth.
Forthy better is to fuffre a throwe
Than to be wilde and overthrowe.
Suffraunce hath ever be the best
To wishen him that fecheth rest.
And thus if thou wolt love spede,
My fone, fuffre, as I the rede.
What may the mous ayein the cat?
And for this cause I axe that,
Who may to love make a werre,
That he ne hath him self the werre?
Love axeth pees and ever fhall.
And who that fighteth most withall,
Shall left conquere of his emprise.
For this they tellen that ben wise,
Whiche is to strive and have the werfe
To haften, is nought worth a kerse.
Thinge that a man may nought acheve,
That may nought wel be done at eve,
It mot abide till the morwe.
Ne hafte nought thine owne forwe,
My fone, and take this in thy witte,
He hath nought lost that wel abitte.
Enfample, that it falleth thus,
Thou might well take of Piramus,
Whan he in hafte his swerd out drough
And on the point him selven flough
For love of Tifbe pitously,
For he her wimpel fond bloody
And wende a befte her hadde flain,
Where as him ought have be right fain,
For fhe was there al fauf befide.
But for he wolde nought abide,
This mischef fell. Forthy beware,
My fone, as I the warne dare,
Do thou no thinge in fuche a rees,
For fuffraunce is the well of pees,
Though thou to loves court pursue,
Yet fit it wel, that thou efcheue,
That thou the court nought overhaste.
For fo thou might thy time waste,
But if thin hap therto be shape,
may nought helpe for to rape.
Therfore attempre thy corage,
Foolhafte doth none avauntage,
But ofte it fet a man behinde
In cause of love, and I finde
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