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componere de illo amore, a quo non folum humanum genus, fed et cuncta animancia naturaliter fubjiciuntur. Et quia nonnulli amantes ultra quam expedit defiderii paffionibus crebro ftimulantur, ma

And speake of thinge is nought fo ftrange, teria libri per totum

diffunditur.

fuper hiis fpecialiter Whiche every kinde hath upon honde And wherupon the world mote stonde And hath done fithen it began

And shall while there is any man,

And that is love, of whiche I mene
To treate, as after shall be sene,

In whiche there can no man him reule,
For loves lawe is out of reule
That of to moche or of to lite
Wellnigh is every man to wite.
And netheles there is no man
In al this world fo wise, that can
Of love temper the mesure.

But as it falleth in aventure

For wit ne ftrengthe may nought helpe
And he which elles wolde him yelpe
Is ratheft throwen under foote,
Ther can no wight therof do bote.
For yet was never fuch covine
That couth ordeine a medicine
To thing, which god in lawe of kinde
Hath fet, for there may no man finde
The righte falve for fuche a fore.
It hath and fhal be evermore
That love is maifter, where he will,
There can no life make other skill,
For where as ever him lift to fet
There is no might, which him may let,
But what shall fallen ate lafte.

The fothe can no wifedom caft,

But as it falleth upon chaunce,
For if there ever was balaunce
Whiche of fortune ftant governed,
I may well leve as I am lerned

That love hath that balaunce on honde
Whiche wol no refon understonde.

For love is blinde and may nought se,
Forthy may no certeinte

Be fette upon his jugement.

But as the whele aboute went

He yeveth his graces undeserved

And fro that man whiche hath him ferved

Ful ofte he taketh awey his fees,

As he that plaieth at the dies
And therupon what shal befall
He not, til that the chaunce fall

Where he shall lefe or he shal winne.
And thus full ofte men beginne
That if they wisten what it ment
They wol chaunge all here entent.
And for to prove it is fo
I am my felfe one of tho
Whiche to this scole am underfonge.

For it is fithe go nought longe

As for to speake of this matere

I

may you telle, if ye woll here

A wonder hap, which me befelle

That was to me bothe harde and felle,
Touchend of love and his fortune,

The which me liketh to commune

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2.

Hic declarat mate

riam dicens, quali

And pleinly for to tellen it oute,
To hem that ben lovers aboute
Fro point to pointe I wol declare
And writen of my woful care,
My woful day, my woful chaunce,
That men mow take remembraunce
Of that they shall here after rede.
For in good feith this wolde I rede,
That every man ensample take
Of wifedom, which is him betake,
And that he wote of good apprise
To teche it forth, for fuche emprise
Is for to preife, and therfore I
Wol write and fhewe all openly,
How love and I to-gider mette,
Wherof the worlde enfample fette
May after this, whan I am go,
Of thilke unfely jolif wo,
Whose reule stant out of the wey
Now glad and now gladneffe awey,
And yet it may nought be withstonde
For ought that men may understonde.

Non ego Sampfonis vires, non Herculis arma
Vinco, fum fed ut hii victus amore pari.

Ut difcant alii docet experiencia facti,

Rebus in ambiguis que fit habenda via.
Devius ordo ducis temptata pericla fequentem
Inftruit a tergo me fimul ille cadat.

Me quibus ergo Venus cafibus laqueavit amantem,
Orbis in exemplum fcribere tendo palam.

Upon the point that is befalle

terCupido quodam Of love, in which that I am falle,

I thenke telle my matere.

Nowe herken who that woll it here
Of my fortune how that it ferde

This enderday, as I forth ferde
To walke, as I telle

you

may.
And that was in the moneth of May,
Whan every brid hath chofe his make
And thenketh his merthes for to make
Of love, that he hath acheved.
But fo was I no thing releved,
For I was further fro

my love

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Nought for to finge with the briddes,
For whan I was the wood amiddes
I fonde a swote grene pleine
And there I gan my wo compleigne
Wisfhinge and wepinge all min one.
For other mirthes made I none.
So hard me was that ilke throwe,
That ofte fithes overthrowe
To grounde I was withoute brethe
And ever I wisshed after dethe,
Whan I out of my peine awoke,
And cafte up many a pitous loke
Unto the heven and faide thus:

O thou Cupide, O thou Venus

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