To fle the Cheste, as ye me bidde: For well is him, that never chidde. Now telle me forth if there be more, As touchinge unto wrathés lore."
"Of wrathe yet there is another, Whiche is to Cheste his owné brother, And is by namé clepéd Hate, That suffreth nought within his gate, That there come other love or pees, For he woll maké no relese Of no debate whiche is befalle. Now speke, if thou arte one of alle, That with this Vice hath be witholde."
"As yet for ought that ye me tolde, My fader, I not what it is."—
"In good feith, sone, I trowé yis."
"My fader, nay, but ye me lere."
"Now list, my sone, and thou shalt here.
Hate is a Wrathé nought shewend, But of long timé gaderénd, And dwelleth in the herté loken Till he se timé to be wroken. And than he showeth his tempést More sodein than the wildé beste, Which wot nothing, what mercy is. My sone, art thou knowen of this?"
"My gode fader, as I wene, Now wote I somedele what ye mene, But I dare saufly make an othe, My lady was me never lothe. I woll nought sweré nethéles, That I of Hate am giltéles. For whan I to my lady ply Fro day to day and mercy cry, And she no mercy on me laith, But shorté wordés to me saith, Though I my lady love algate, Tho wordés mote I nedés hate, And woldé they were all dispent 1 Witholde, held with.
Or so fer out of londé went That I never after shuld hem here: And yet love I my lady dere. Thus is there Hate, as ye may se, Betwene my ladies word and me. The worde I hate and her I love, I What so me shall betide of love. But furthermore I woll me shrive, That I have hated all my live These janglers, whiche of her envíe Ben ever redy for to lie.
For with her fals compássément Full often they have made me shent And hindred me full ofté timé, Whan they no causé wisten by me, But onlich of her owné thought. And thus have I full ofté bought The lye and drank nought of the wine.
I wolde her hap were such as mine. For how so that I be now shrive, To hem ne may I nought foryive, Untill I se hem at debate With Love, and thanné min estate They mighten by her owné deme And loke how wel it shuld hem queme1
To hinder a man, that loveth sore. And thus I hate hem evermore, Til Love on hem wold done his
For that I shall alway beseche Unto the mighty Cupido, That he so mochel woldé do, So as he is of Love a god,
To smite hem with the samé rod, With whiche I am of Lové smiten, So that they mighten know and witen,
How hindring is a wofull peine To him that lové wold atteigne. Thus ever on hem I wait and hope, Till I may se hem lepe a lope 2
1 Queme, be pleasing. Lepe a lope, take a leap.
And halten on the samé sore, Whiche I do now for evermore. I woldé thanné domy might So for to stonden in her light, That they ne shulden have a wey To that they wolden put awey. I wolde hem put out of the stede Fro Lové, right as they me dede With that they speke of me by mouthe,
So wolde I do, if that I couthe Of hem, and thus so God me save Is all the Haté that I have Toward these janglers every dele, I wolde all other ferdé wele. Thus have I, fader, said my wille. Say ye now forth, for I am stille."- "My sone, of that thou hast me said
I holdé me nought fully paid,' That thou wold haten any man To that accorden I ne can, Though he have hindred thee to- fore.
But this I tellé thee therfore, Thou might upon my benison Well haten the condiciön
Of tho janglers, as thou me toldest, But furthermore, of that thou woldest
Hem hinder in any other wise, Suche Hate is ever to despise. Forthý my sone, I wold thee rede, That thou drawe in by frendly hede That thou ne might nought do by
So might thou geté love algate And setté thee, my sone, in rest. For thou shalt finde it for the best, And over this so as I dare
I redé, that thou be right ware Of other mennés Hate about, Whiche every wise man shuldédout, For Hate is ever upon await.
And as the fissher on his bait Sleeth, whan he seeth the fisshes faste,
So whan he seeth time atté last That he may worche an other wo, Shall no man tornen him ther fro, That Haté nill his felonie Fulfill and feigné compaignie. Yet nethéles for fals semblaunt Is toward him of covenaunt Witholdé, so that under bothe The privé wrathé can him clothe, That he shall seme a great beleve. But ware thee well, that thou ne leve
All that thou seest to-fore thin eye, So as the Gregois whilom sigh; The boke of Troié who so rede, There may he finde ensample in dede.
"Sone, after the destructión, Whan Troy was allé beté down And slain was Priamus the king, The Gregois, which of all this thing Ben causé, tornen home ayein. There may no man his hap withsain, It hath ben sene and felt full ofte, The hardé time after the softe. By see as they forth homeward went, A rage of great tempést hem hent.1 Juno let bende her partie bow, The sky wax derke, the wind gan blow,
The firy welken gan to thonder, As though the world shuld al asonder.
From heven out of the water gates The reiny storm fell down algates, And all her tacle made unwelde, That no man might him self be- welde.
There may men heré shipmen crie That stood in aunter for to die. He that behindé sat to stere
Maynought the foré stempne1 here; The ship arose ayein the wawes, The lodésman hath lost his lawes, The see bet in on every side, They nisten what fortúne abide, But setten hem all in goddes will, Where he wolde hem save or spill. And it fell thilké timé thus, There was a kingé, which Nauplus Was hote, and he a soné hadde At Troié, which the Gregois ladde As he that was made prince of alle, Till that Fortúné let him falle. His name was Palámidés, But through an Haté nethéles Of som of hem his deth was caste And he by treson overcaste. His fader, whan he herde it telle, He swore, if ever his timé felle, He wolde him venge if that he might, And therto his avow he hight. And thus this king through privé Hate
Abode upon a waite algate,
For he was nought of suche emprise, To vengen him in open wise.
"The famé, which goth widé where,
Maketh knowe, how that the Gregois were
Homwárd with al the felaship
Fro Troy upon the see by ship. Nauplus, whan he this understood And knew the tides of the flood And sigh the wind blow to the londe, A great deceipt anone he fonde Of privé Hate, as thou shalte here, Wherof I telle all this matére.
"This king the weder gan beholde And wisté well, they moten holde Hercoursendlonge his marché right, And made upon the derké night Of greté shidés 3 and of blockes
1 Fore stempue, voice in the bows. 2 Where, whether. 3 Shides, logs.
Great fire ayeine the greaté rockes, / To shew upon the hillés high, So that the flete of Grece it sigh. I And so it fell right as he thought, This fleté, which an haven sought, The brighté firés sighe a fer, And they ben drawen ner and ner And wendé well and understood How all that fire was made for good Toshewé where men shulde arrive.1 And thiderward they hasten blive.? In semblaunt as men sain is guile, And that was provéd thilké while. The ship, which wend his helpe accroche, 3
Drof all to pieces on the roche. And so there deden ten or twelve There no man mighté helpe him selve,
For there they wenden deth escape Withouten helpe her deth was shape. Thus they that comen first to-fore Upon the rockés ben forlore. But through the noise and through the cry
The other weren ware therby, And whan the day began to rowe,5 Tho mighten they the sothé knowe, That where they wenden frendés finde,
They fondé frendship all behinde. The londé than was soné weived, Where that they hadden be deceived, And toke hem to the highé see, Therto they saiden alle ye, Fro that day forthe and ware they
Whiche half the fraudé writé can, That stant in suche a maner man. Forthy the wisé men ne demen The thingés after that they semen, But after that they knowe and finde. The mirrour sheweth in his kinde As he had all the world withinne, And is in soth nothing therinne. And so fareth Haté for a throwe,1 Till he a man hath overthrowe; Shall no man knowé by his chere, Whiche is avaunt ne whiche arere. Forthý my soné, thenke on this."
"My fader, so I woll iwis,2 And if there more of Wrathé be, Nowe axeth forth pour charité, As ye by your bokés knowe, And I the sothé shall beknowe.". "My sone, thou shalt understonde,
That yet towardé Wrathé stonde Of dedly Vices other two. And for to telle her namés so It is Contek and Homicide, That ben to drede on every side. Contek so as the bokés sain Foolhast hath to his chamberlain, By whose counseíl all unavised Is paciêncé most despised, Till Homicidé with him mete. Fro mercy they ben all unmete And thus ben they the worst of alle Of hem whiche unto Wrathé falle In dedé both and eke in thought. For they accompte her Wrath at nought
But if there be shedíng of blood. And thus liche to a besté wode They knowen nought the god of life, Be so they havé swerde or knife Her dedly wrathé for to wreke, Of pité list hem nought to speke. None other reson they ne fonge, But that they ben of mightés stronge. 1 Throwe, space of time. 2 Iwis, certainly.
But ware hem well in other place, Where every man behoveth grace; For there I trowe it shall him faile, To whom no mercy might availe, But wroughten upon tirannie, That no pité ne might hem plie. Now tell, my sone."-" My fader, what?"-
"If thou hast be coupable of that?"
"My fader, nay, Crist me forbede; I onliché speke of the dede Of which I never was coupáble Withouten causé resonable. But this is nought to my matére Of shrifté, why we sitten here. For we ben set to shrive of Love, As we beganné first above. And nethéles I am beknowe, That as touchénd of loves throwe, Whan I my wittés overwende, Min hertés Contek hath none ende, But ever stant upon debate To great disese of min estate, As for the timé that it lasteth, For whan my fortune overcasteth Her whele and is to me so straunge, And that I se she woll nought chaunge,
Than cast I all the worlde about And thenk howe I at home in dout Have all my time in vein despended And se nought how to be amended, But rather for to be empeired, As he that is well nigh despeired. For I ne may no thank deserve, And ever I love and ever I serve And ever I am a liché nere, Thus, for I stonde in suche a were, I am as who saith out of herre.1 And thus upon my self I werre, I bringe and put out allé pees, That I full ofte in such a rees 2 Am wery of min owné life,
1 Out of herre, unhinged. 2 Rees, stir of battle.
So that of Contek and of Strife I am beknowe and have answérde, As ye, my fader, now have herde. Min herte is wonderly begone With counseil, wherof wit is one, Whiche hath resón in compaignie Ayein the whiché stant partie Will, which hath Hope of his ac- corde.
And thus they bringen up discorde, Witte and Resón counseilen ofte, That I min herté shuldé softe And that I shuldé Will remue 1 And put him out of retenue Or elles holde him under fote. For as they sain, if that he mote His owné reule have upon honde, There shall no Wit ben understonde Of Hope; also they tellen this, That over all where that he is He set the herte in jeopartie With wishing and with fantasie, And is nought trewe of that he saith, So that there is on him no feith. Thus with Resón and Witte avised Is Will and Hope all day despised. Resón saith, that I shuldé leve To lové, where there is no leve To spede, and Will saith there ayein That such an herte is to vilain Which dare nought love till that he spede ;
Let Hopé serve at suché nede. He saith eke, where an herte sit All holé governed upon Wit, He hath this livés lust forlore. And thus min herte is all to-tore Of suche a Contek, as they make. But yet I may nought Will forsake That he nis maister of my thought, Or that I spede, or spedé nought."- "Thou dost, my sone, ayeinst
But Love is of so great a might, 1 Remue, remove.
His lawé may no man refuse, So might thou there the better
And nethéles thou shalt be lerned, That thy Will shuldé be governed Of Reson moré than of Kinde; Wherof a talé write I finde.
A philosophre of which men tolde
There was whilom by daiés olde, And Diogénes than he hight, So olde he was that he ne might The world travaile, and for the best He shope him for to take his rest And dwelle at home in suche a wise, That nigh his house he let devise Endlonge upon an axel tree To set a tonne in suche degree That he it mighté torne aboute; Wherof one heed was taken oute For he therinne sitte shulde And torné him selve as he wolde And také the eire and se the heven And deme of the planetés seven As he which couthé mochel what.1 And thus full ofté there he sat To muse in his philosophie Solé withouten compaignie; So that upon a morwe tide A thing which shuldé tho betide, Whan he was sette here as him list To loke upon the sonne arist, Wherof the propertie he sigh, It fellé, there cam ridend nigh King Alisaundré with a route. And as he cast his eye aboute He sigh this tonne, and what it ment He woldé wite, and thider sent A knight, by whom he might it knowe.
And he him self that ilké throwe Abode and hoveth theré stille. This knight after the kingés wille
1 Couthe mochel what, knew a good deal, much what, a formation similar to somewhat.
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