To knowe how that the fothe was,
So that Horeftes in this cas
They senden after, and he come.
King Menelay the wordes nome
And axeth him of this matere.
And he, that all it mighten here,
Answerde and tolde his tale at large,
And how the goddes in his charge
Commaunded him in fuche a wife
His owne hond to do juife.
And with this tale a duke arose,
Which was a worthy knight of lose,
His name was Menesteus,
And faide unto the lordes thus:
The wreche, whiche Horeftes dede,
It was thinge of the goddes bede,
And nothinge of his cruelte.
And if there were of my degre
In all this place fuche a knight,
That wolde fain, it was no right,
I woll it with my body prove.
And therupon he caft his glove
And eke this noble duke alleide
Full many an other skill and saide,
She hadde well deferved wreche,
First for the cause of spouse breche,
And after wrought in fuche a wife,
That all the worlde it ought agrise,
Whan that she for fo foul a vice
Was of her owne lord mordrice.
They fitten alle still and herde,
But therto was no man answerde,
It thought hem all, he faide skille,
There is no man withfay it wille.
Whan they upon the refon mufen,
Horeftes alle they excufen,
So that with great folempnite
He was unto his dignite
Received and corouned kinge.
And tho befell a wonder thinge.
Egiona whan fhe it wiste,
Which was the doughter of Egiste
And fufter on the moder fide
To this Horest, at thilke tide,
Whan she herde how her brother sped,
For pure forwe, whiche her led,
That he ne hadde ben exiled,
She hath her owne life beguiled
Anone and henge her felf tho.
It hath and shall ben evermo
To mordre who that woll affente
He may nought faile to repente.
This false Egiona was one,
Which to mordre Agamenon
Yaf her accorde and her affent,
So that by goddes jugement,
Though none other man it wolde,
She toke her juise as she sholde,
And as fhe to an other wrought
Vengeaunce upon her self she fought
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 spede
With mordre, he fhall with worldes fhame
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.
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 fhal not let,
But he shal 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.
With fuch mercy who that beleveth
Hic queritur, quibus de caufis licet hominem occidere.
Seneca. Judex, qui
parcit ulcifci, multos improbos facit.
To plese god, he is deceived
Or elles refon mot be weived.
The lawe stoode or we were bore,
Apoftolus. Non How that a kinges fwerde is bore
In figne, that he shall defende
fine caufa judex gladium portat.
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 caufe 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 conscience.
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 fpeke 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 fo,
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 preft 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 universi mundi defolationis mater exiftit.
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