Two paftees which he let do make,
A capon in that one was bake,
And in that other for to winne
Of floreins all that may withinne
He let do put a great richeffe,
And even aliche as man may geffe
Outward they were bothe two.
This begger was commaunded tho,
He that which held him to the king,
That he first chefe upon this thing.
He figh hem, but he felt hem nought,
So that upon his owne thought
He chefe the capon and forfoke
That other, which his felaw toke.
But whan he wift, how that it ferde,
He faid aloud, that men it herde:
Now have I certainly conceived,
That he may lightly be deceived,
That trifteth unto mannes helpe.
But wel is him, that god wol helpe,
For he ftant on the fiker fide,
Whiche elles fhulde go befide.
I fe my felaw wel recouer,
And I mot dwelle ftill pouer.
Thus fpake the begger his entent,
pouer he cam, and pouer he went,
Of that he hath richeffe fought,
His infortune it wolde nought.
So may it shewe in fondry wife
Betwene fortune and covetise
The chaunce is caft upon a dee,
But yet full oft a man may fee
Inough of fuche netheles,
Which ever put hem felf in pres
To get hem good, and yet they faile.
And for to speke of this entaile
Touchend of love in thy matere,
My gode fone, as thou might here,
That right as it with tho men stood
Of infortune of worldes good,
As thou haft herd me tell above,
Right fo full ofte it ftant by love,
Though thou coveite it evermore,
Thou shalt nought have o dele the more,
But only that, which the is shape,
The remenaunt is but a jape.
And netheles inough of tho
There ben, that now coveiten fo,
That where as they a woman fe,
Ye ten or twelve though there be,
The love is now fo unavised,
That where the beaute ftant affifed,
The mannes herte anone is there
And rouneth tales in her ere
And faith, how that he loveth ftreite.
And thus he fet him to coveite,
An hundred though he figh a day,
So wolde he more than he may.
So for the grete covetife
Of foty and of fool emprise
In eche of hem he fint fomwhat,
That pleseth him, or this or that.
Some one, for fhe is white of skinne,
Some one, for she is noble of kinne,
Some one, for she hath a rody cheke,
Some one,
for that the femeth meke,
Some one, for she hath eyen grey,
Some one, for she can laugh and pley,
Some one, for she is longe and small,
Some one, for fhe is lite and tall,
Some one, for she is pale and bleche,
Some one, for she is fofte of fpeche,
Some one, for that he is camufed,
Some one, for fhe hath nought ben used,
Some one, for fhe can daunce and fing,
So that fome thing of his liking
He fint, and though no more he fele,
But that she hath a litel hele,
It is inough, that he therfore
Her love, and thus an hundred score,
While they be new, he wolde he had,
Whom he forfaketh, fhe fhall be bad..
Cecus non judicat The blinde man no colour demeth,
But all is one right as him femeth,
So hath his luft no jugement,
Whom covetife of love blent.
Him thenketh, that to his covetise,
How all the world ne may suffise,
For by his will he wolde have all,
If that it mighte fo befall.
So is he comun as the ftrete,
I fette nought of his beyete.
My fone, haft thou such covetise ?
Nay fader, fuch love I despise,
And while I live fhal don ever,
For in good feith yet had I lever
Than to coveite in suche a wey
To ben for ever till I deie
pouer as Job and loveles
Out taken one, for haveles
His thonkes is no man alive,
For that a man fhulde all unthrive,
There ought no wife man coveite,
The lawe was nought set so streite.
Forthy my felf with all to fave
Suche one there is I wolde have
And none of all this other mo.
My fone, of that thou woldeft fo,
I am nought wroth, but over this
I woll the tellen, howe it is.
For there be men, which other wife
Right only for the covetife
Of that they seen a woman riche,
There wol they all her love affiche.
Nought for the beaute of her face
Ne yet for vertu ne for grace,
Which she hath elles right inough,
But for the parke and for the plough
And other thing, which therto longeth,
For in none other wife hem longeth
To love, but they profit finde.
And if the profit be behinde,
Her love is ever leffe and leffe,
For after that she hath richesse,
Her love is of proportion.
If thou haft fuch condition,
My fone, tell right as it is.
Min holy fader, nay iwis,
Condicion fuch have I none.
For truly fader, I love one
So well, with all min hertes thought,
That certes though she hadde nought
And were as pouer as Medea,
Which was exiled for Creufa,
I wolde her nought the laffe love,
Ne though she were at her above,
As was the riche quene Candace,
Which to deserve love and grace
To Alifaundre, that was king,
Yaf many a worthy riche thing,
Or elles as Pantafilee,
Which was the quene of Feminee
And great richeffe with her nam,
Whan fhe for love of Hector cam
To Troy, in refcouffe of the town,
I am of fuch condicion,
That though my lady of her felve
Were also riche, as fuche twelve,
I couthe nought, though it were so,
No better love her, than I do.
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