The werkés of entaile1 he couthe
Above all other men as tho.
And through Fortúne it felle him so
As he, whom Lové shall travaile,
He made an ymage of entaile
Lich to a woman in semblaunce
Of feture and of contenaunce,
So faire yet never was figúre.
Right as a livés creatúre
She semeth, for of yvor white
He hath it wrought of such delite,
That she was rody on the cheke
And rede on both her lippés eke,
Wherof that he him self beguileth,
For with a goodly loke she smileth;
So that through pure impressiön
Of his ymaginatiön

With all the herte of his coráge
His love upon this faire ymáge
He set, and her of lové preide.
But she no worde ayeinward said.
The longé day what thing he dede
This ymage in the samé stede 2
Was ever by, that atté mete
He wold her serve and praide herete
And put unto her mouth the cup.
And whan the bord was taken up,
He did as he would her embrace.
And ever among he axeth grace,
As though she wisté what it mente.
And thus him self he gan tormente
With such disese of lovés peine,
That no man might him moré peine.
But how it were of his penaúnce
He madé such continuaunce
Fro day to night and praid so longe,
That his praiére is underfonge,
Which Venus of her gracé herde
By night, and whan that he worst
ferde

And it lay in his naked arme,
The cold ymáge he feeleth warme
Of flesshe and bone and full of life.
Lo, thus he wanne a lusty wife,
1 Entaile, carving, sculpture. 2 Stede, place.

Whiche obeisaúnt was at his will. And if he wolde have hold him still And nothing spoke, he shuld have failed.

"By this ensample thou might

finde,

That word may worche abové kinde.

Forthý, my sone, if that thou spare
To speké, lost is all thy fare,
For Slouthé bringeth in allé wo.

"And over this to loke also,
It semeth Love is welwillénde
To hem that ben continuénde
With besy herté to pursue
Thing which that is to Lové due.
Wherof, my sone, in this matere
Thou might ensample taken here,
That with thy greté besinesse
Thou might atteigné the richesse
Of Love, that there be no Slouth."-
"But fader, so as it is right
In forme of shrifté to beknowe
What thing belongeth to
slowe,

Your faderhode I woldé pray,
If there be further any way
Touchend unto this ilké Vice.".

the

My sone, ye, of this office There serveth one in speciál, Which lost hath his memoriál, So that he can no wit witholde In thing which he to kepe is holde, Wherof full ofte him self he gre

veth.

And who that most upon him leveth, Whan that his wittés ben so weived, He may full lightly be deceived.

To serve Accidie in his offíce, There is of Slouth an other Vice, Which cleped is Foryetelnesse, That nought may in his herte im

presse

Of vertue, which resón hath set, So clene his wittés he foryete.

For in the tellinge of his tale
No more his herté than his male 1
Hath remembraúnce of thilké forme
Wherof he sholde his wit enforme
As than, and yet ne wot he why.
Thus is his purpos nought forthý
Forlore, of that he woldé bidde,
And scarsely if he saith the thridde2
To love of that he haddé ment.
Thus many a lover hath be shent,
Telle on therefore, hast thou ben

one

Of hem that Slouth hath so begonne?"

"Ye fader, ofte it hath ben so, That whan I am my lady fro And thenké me toward her drawe, Than cast I many a newé lawe And all the world torne up so down And so recorde I my lessoun And write in my memoriall What I unto her tellé shall, Right all the mater of my tale. But all nis worth a nuttéshale. For whan I comé there she is, I have it all foryete iwis Of that I thoughté for to telle ; I can nought than unnethés spelle That I wende altherbest have rad, So sore I am of her adrad. For as a man that sodeinly A gost beholdeth so fare I,

So that for fere I can nought gete My wit, but I my self foryete, That I wot never what I am,

Ne whider I shall, ne whenne I

And stonde as who saith doumbe and defe,

That all nis worth an yvy lefe
Of that I wendé well have saide.
And atté last I make abraide,1
Cast up min heed and loke aboute
Right as a man that were in doubte
And wot not where he shall become.
Thus am I oft all overcome
There as I wendé best to stonde.
But after, whan I understonde
And am in other place alone,
I make maný a wofull mone
Unto my self and speke so:

'Ha fool, where was thine herté

tho

Whan thou thy worthy lady sigh,
Were thou aferéd of her eye?
For of her hond there is no drede,
So well I knowe her womanhede,
That in her is no more oultrage
Than in a childe of thre yere age.
Why hast thou drede of so good one,
Whom allé vertue hath begone,2
That in her is no violence
But goodlyhede and innocence
Withouten spot of any blame.
Ha, nicé herté, fy for shame,
A cowarde herte of love unlered,
Wherof art thou so sore afered,
That thou thy tungé suffrest frese
And wolt thy godé wordés lese,
Whan thou hast foundé time and

For ever whan I thenke amonge,
Howe all is on my self alonge
I say: 'O fool of allé fooles
Thou farest as he betwene two stoles
That woldé sit and goth to grounde.
It was ne never shall be founde
Betwene Foryetelnesse and Drede,
That man shulde any causé spede.'
And thus, min holy father dere,
Toward my self, as ye may here,
I pleigne of my foryetelnesse.
But ellés all the businesse,
That may be take of mannés thought,
My herté taketh and is through
sought

To thenken ever upon that swete
Withouté Slouthe I you behete,
For what so falle or wel or wo,
That thought foryete I nevermo,
Where so I laugh or so I loure
Nought half a minute of an houre
Ne might I lette out of my minde
But if I thought upon that ende:
Therof me shall no Slouthé lette,
Till Deth out of this world me fette,
All though I had on suche a ring,
As Moises through his énchaunting
Sometime in Ethiopé made,
Whan that he Tharbis wedded had,
Which ringé bare of oblivión
The name, and that was by resón,
That were it on a finger sate,
Anone his Love he so foryate,
As though he had it never knowe.
And so it fell that ilké throwe,
Whan Tharbis had it on her honde,
No knouleching of him she fonde,
But all was clene out of memoire,
As men may reden in histoire.
And thus he wenté quite away,
That never after that ilké day
She thought, that there was such a

one;

All was foryete and overgone.
But in good feith so may nought I.

For she is ever fasté by
So nigh, that she min herté toucheth
That for no thing that Slouthé
voucheth

I may foryete her, lefe ne loth.
For over all where as she goth,
Min herté folweth her aboute.
Thus may I say withouten doubte,
For bet, for wers, for ought, for
nought

She passeth never fro my thought.
But whan I am there as she is,
Min hert, as I you said er this,
Sometime of her is sore adrad
And sometime it is overglad
All out of reule and out of space.
For whan I se her goodly face
And thenke upon her highé pris,
As though I were in paradis,
I am so ravisshed of the sight,
That speke unto her I ne might
As for the timé, though I wolde.
For I ne may my witte unfolde
To finde o worde of that I mene,
But all it is foryeté clene.
And though I stondé there a mile,
All is foryeté for the while;

A tunge I have and wordés none.
And thus I stonde and thenke alone
Of thing that helpeth ofte nought.
But what I had aforé thought
To speké, whan I come there,
It is foryete, as nought ne were.
And stond amaséd and assotéd,
That of no thing which I have noted
I can nought than a noté singe,
But all is out of knoulechinge.
Thus what for joy and what for drede
All is foryeten atté nede,

So that, my fader, of this Slouthe
I have you said the pleiné trouthe,
Ye may it, as ye list, redresse.
For thus stant my foryetelnesse
And eke my pusillamité.
Say now forth what ye list to me,

A letter send and praid him come
And saith how she is overcome
With strengthe of love in suche a
wise,

That she nought longé may suffise
To liven out of his presénce,
And put upon his conscience
The trouthé whiche he hath behote,
Wherof she loveth him so hote,
She saith, that if he lenger lette
Of such a day as she him sette,
She shuldé sterven in his Slouthe,
Which were a shame unto his
trouthe.

This letter is forth upon her sonde,
Wherof somdele comfórt on honde
She toke, as she that wolde abide
And waite upon that ilké tide
Which she hath in her letter write.
But now is pité for to wite,
As he did erst, so he foryate
His time eftsone and over-sate.
But she, which mighté nought do so,
The tide awaiteth evermo
And cast her eye upon the see.
Somtimé nay, somtimé ye,
Somtime he cam, somtimé nought.
Thus she disputeth in her thought
And wot nought what she thenké
may.

But fastend all the longé day
She was into the derké night;
And tho she hath do set up light
In a lanterne on high alofte
Upon a toure, where she goth ofte
In hopé that in his commínge
He shuldé se the light brennínge,
Wherof he might his weiés right
To come where she was by night.
But all for nought, she was deceived,
For Venus hath her hopé weived
And shewéd her upon the sky
How that the day was fasté by,
So that within a litel throwe
The daiés light she mighté knowe;

Tho she beheld the see at large : And whan she sigh there was no barge

Ne ship, als fer as she may kenne,
Down fro the tour she gan to renne
Into an herber all her owne,
Where many a wonder wofull mone
She madé, that no life it wist,
As she which all her joié mist,
That now she swouneth, now she
pleigneth,

And all her facé she disteigneth
With terés, whiche as of a welle
The stremés from her eyen felle.
So as she might, and ever in one,
She clepéd upon Demephon
And said: 'Alas, thou slowé wight,
Where was there ever suche a
knight,

1

That so through his ungentilesse Of Slouthe and of Foryetelnesse Ayein his trouthé brak his steven.' And tho her eye up to the heven She cast and saide: 'O thou unkinde,

Here shalt thou through thy Slouthé finde,

If that the list to come and se,
A lady dede for love of the,
So as I shall my selve spille,
Whome, if it haddé be thy wille,
Thou mightest savé well inough.
With that upon a grené bough
A ceinteofsilke, which she there had,
She knette, and so her self she lad
That she about her white swere 2
It did, and henge her selven there.
Wherof the goddés were amoved,
And Demephon was so reproved,
That of the goddés providence
Was shape suche an evidence
Ever afterward ayein the slowe,
That Phillis in the samé throwe 3