f hem, that writen us to-fore,
The bokés dwelle, and we
therfore
Ben taught of that was writen tho.1
Forthý good is, that we also
In ouré time amonge us here
Do write of newé some matere
Ensampled of the olde wise,

So that it might in suche a wise,
Whan we be dede and ellés where,
Belevé 2 to the worldés ere
In timé comend after this.
But for men sain, and sothe it is,
That who that al of wisdom writ
It dulleth ofte a mannés wit
To hem that shall it allday rede,
For thilké cause if that ye rede
I woldé go the middel wey

And write a boke betwene the twey
Somwhat of lust, somwhat of lore,
That of the lasse or of the more
Som man may like of that I write.
And for that fewé men endite
In oure englisshe, I thenké make 3
A boké for Englondés sake

The yere, sixtenthe of King Richárd,
What shall befalle here afterward
God wote, for nowe upon this side
Men seen the worlde on every side

Preiend unto the highé regne
Which causeth every king to regne
That his coroné longé stonde.

I thenke and have it understonde,
As it befell upon a tide,

As thing which shuldé tho betide,
Under the town of newé Troy,
Which toke of Brute his firsté joy,
In Themsé, whan it was flowénd,
As I by boté came rowénd
So as Fortúne her timé sette,
My legé lord perchaunce I mette.
And so befell as I came nigh
Out of my bote, whan he me sigh,
He bad me come into his barge.
And whan I was with him at large,
Amongés other thingés said
He hath this charge upon me laid
And bad me do my besinesse,
That to his highé worthynesse
Some newé thing I shuldé boke,
That he him self it mighté loke
After the forme of my writing.
And thus upon his commaunding
Min herte is well the moré glad
To writé so as he me bad.
And eke my fere is well the lasse,
That none envié shall compasse
Without a resonable wite 1
To feigne and blamé, that I write.
A gentil herte his tungé stilleth
That it malicé none distilleth
But preisé that is to be preised.
But he that hath his worde unpeised
And handleth out wrong any thing,
I pray unto the heven king
Fro suché tungés he me shilde.
And netheles this world is wilde

Of suche jangling, and what befalle.
My kingés hesté shall nought falle,
That I in hope to deserve

His thank ne shall his will observe
And ellés were I nought excused.

1 Wite, blame.

In sondry wisé so diversed,
That it wel nigh stant all reversed.
Als for to speke of time ago,
The causé why it chaungeth so
It nedeth nought to specifie,
The thing so open is at eye,
That every man it may beholde.
And nethéles by daiés olde,
Whan that the bokés weren lever,1
Writingé was belovéd ever
Of hem that weren vertuous.
For here in erthe amongés us,
If no man writé howe it stood,
The pris of hem that were good
Shulde, as who saith, a great partie,
Be lost; so for to magnifie

The worthy princes that tho were
The bokés shewen here and there
Wherof the worlde ensampled is,
And tho that diden then amis
Through tiranny and cruelté,
Right as they stonden in degre
So was the writinge of the werke.
Thus I which am a borel' clerke
Purpósé for to write a boke
After the worlde that whilom toke
Long time in oldé daiés passed.
But for men sain it is now lassed 3
In worse plight than it was tho,

For that thing may nought be refused
What that a king him selfé bit.4
Forthy the simplesse of my wit
I thenke if that I may availe
In his service to travaile,
Though I sikenesse have upon honde
And longe have had, yet woll I fonde,3
So as I made my beheste,

To make a boke after his heste
And write in such a maner wise,
Which may be wisdome to the wise
And play to hem that list to play.
But in proverbe I have herde say,
That who that wel his werk beginneth,
The rather a good end he winneth.

And thus the prologue of my boke
After the world that whilom toke,
And eke somdele 6 after the newe
I woll beginné for to newe.

1 Lever, better loved.

2 Borel, rough homespun. 3 Lassed, become smaller. Bit, prays for.

5 Fonde, try. 6 Somdele, some part.

I thenké for to touche also
The world which neweth every day,
So as I can, so as I may.

Though I sikenesse have upon honde And longe have had, yet wol I fonde1

To write and do my besinesse,
That in some part, so as I gesse,
The wise man may ben advised.
For this Prologue is so assised,
That it to Wisdome all belongeth;
That wise man that it underfongeth
He shal drawe into remémbraunce
The fortune of this worldés chaunce,
The which no man in his persone
May knowé, but the God alone.
Whan the Prológue is so dispended,
This boke shall afterward ben ended
Of Lové, which doth many a wonder
And many a wise man hath put
under;

And in this wise I thenke to treate
Towardés hem, that now be greate,
Betwene the vertue and the vice
Which longeth unto this office.
But for my wittés ben to smale
To tellen every mannés tale,
This boke, upon amendément,
To stonde at his commaundément,
With whom min herte is of accorde,
I sende unto min owné lorde
Which of Lancastre is Henry
named.

The highé god hath him proclamed
Full of knighthód and allé grace.
So wolde I now this werke embrace
With hol truste and with hol beleve:
God graunte I mote it well achevc.

If I shall drawe into my minde The timé passéd, than I finde The worldé stode in al his welthe, Tho was the life of man in helthe, Tho was plenté, tho was richésse, Tho was the fortune of prowesse, 1 Fonde, try. Tho, then.

Tho was knighthóde in pris by

name,

Wherof the wide worldés fame
Write in croniques is yet witholde.1
Justíce of lawé tho was holde,
The privelege of regalie
Was sauf, and all the baronie
Worshiped was in his estate.
The citees knewen no debate,
The people stode in obeisaúnce
Under the reule of governaúnce,
And pees, with rightwisnessé keste,
With charité tho stode in reste,
Of mannes herté the coráge
Was shewed than in the visage.
The word was liche to the conceipte
Withouté semblaunt of deceipte;
Tho was there unenvíëd love,
Tho was vertúë set above,
And vicé was put under fote.
Now stant the crope under the
rote,

The worlde is chaungéd overall,
And therof moste in speciall
That Love is falle into discorde.
And that I take into recorde
Of every lond for his partic
The comun vois, which may nought
lie,

Nought upon one, but upon alle
It is that men now clepe and calle
And sain, that regnés ben devided,
In stede of love is haté guided,
The werré 2 wol no pees purchace,
And lawe hath take her double
face,

So that justíce out of the wey
With rightwisnesse is gone awey.
And thus, to loke on every halve,"
Men sene the soré without salve,
Whiche al the worlde hath overtake.
Ther is no regne of alle out take,1

1 Witholde, held or kept with us.

For every climat hath his dele1
After the turninge of the whele
Which blindé Fortune overthrow-
eth,

Wherof the certain no man knoweth.
The heven wot what is to done.
But we that dwelle under the mone
Stonde in this worlde upon a
were,2

And namély but 3 the power
Of hem that ben the worldés guides,
With good counseil on allé sides
Ben kept upright in suche a wise,
That Haté breké nought thassisc
Of Love, whiche is all the chefe
To kepe a regne out of mischefe :
For allé reson woldé this,

That unto him, which the' heved1 is,
The membrés buxóm shall bowe,
And he shulde eke here trouth alowe
With all his hert, and make hem
chere,

For good counseil is good to here;
All though a man be wise him selve,
Yet is the wisdome more of twelve.
And if they stonden both in one,
To hope it were than anone
That God his gracé woldé sende
To make of thilké werre an ende,
Whiche every day now groweth