Men fain, there is non evidence,
Wherof to knowe a difference
Betwene the drunken and the wode,
For they ben never nouther good,
For where that wine doth wit awey,
Wisdome hath loft the righte wey,
That he no maner vice dredeth,
No more than a blind man thredeth
His nedel by the fonnes light,
No more is reson than of might,
Whan he with dronkeship is blent.
And in this point they weren fhent
This Galba both and eke Vitelle
Upon the cause, as I fhall telle,
Wherof good is to taken hede.
For they two through her dronkenhede
Of witles excitation
Oppreffed all the nacion
Of Spaine, for all foul ufaunce,
Which done was of continuaunce
Of hem, which all day drunke were.
There was no wife ne maiden there,
What fo they were or faire or foule,
Whom they ne taken to defoule,
Wherof the lond was often wo.
And eke in other thinges mo
They wroughten many a fondry wronge.
But how so that the day be longe,
The derke night cometh ate last.
God wolde nought, they fhulden last,
And shope the lawe in fuche a wise,
That they through dome to the juise
Ben dampned for to be forlore.
But they, that hadden be to-fore
Enclined to alle drunkeneffe,
Her ende thanne bare witneffe,
For they in hope to affuage
The peine of dethe upon the rage
That they laffe fhulden fele,
Of wine let fill full a mele
And drunken till fo was befall,
That they her strengthes loften all
Withouten wit of any braine,
And thus they ben half dede flaine,
That hem ne greveth but a lite.
My fone, if thou be for to wite
In any point, which I have said,
Wherof thy wittes bene unteid,
I rede clepe hem home ayein.
I shall do, fader, as ye fain,
Als ferforth as I may suffise.
But well I wot, that in no wife
The dronkeship of love awey
I may remue by no wey,
It stant nought upon my fortune.
But if you lifte to comune
Of the feconde glotony,
Which cleped is delicacy,
Wherof ye fpeken here to-fore,
Befeche I wolde you therfore.
Hic tractat fuper
illa specie gule, que
delicacia nuncupa
My fone, as of that ilke vice,
Which of all other is the norice
And ftant upon the retenue
Of Venus, fo as it is due,
The proprete how that it fareth
The boke herafter now declareth.
Delicie cum diviciis funt jura potentum,
In quibus orta Venus excitat ora gule.
Non funt delicie tales, que corpora pascunt,
Ex quibus impletus gaudia venter agit.
Qui completus amor majori munere gaudet,
Cum data deliciis mens in amante fatur.
Of this chapitre, in which we trete,
There is yet one of such diete,
tur, cuius mollicies To which no pouer may atteigne,
perfonis precipue For all is past as paindemaine
potentibus queque
complacencia cor-
poraliter miniftrat.
And fondry wine and fondry drinke,
Wherof that he woll ete and drinke
His cokes ben for him affaited,
So that his body is awaited,
That him shall lacke no delite
Als ferforth as his appetite
Suffifeth to the metes hote.
Wherof the lufty vice is hote
Of gule the delicacy,
Which all the hole progeny
Of lufty folke hath undertake
To fede, while that he may
take
Richeffe, wherof to be founde
Of abstinence he wot no bounde,
To what profit it shulde serve.
And yet phifique of his conferve
Maketh many a reftauracion
Unto his recreacion,
Which wolde be to Venus lefe.
Thus for the point of his relefe
The coke, which fhal his mete array,
But he the better his mouth affay,
His lordes thank fhall ofte lefe,
Er he be served to the chefe.
For there may lacke nought fo lite,
That he ne fint anone a wite,
For but his luft be fully ferved,
There hath no wight his thank deserved,
And yet for mannes fuftenaunce
To kepe and holde in governaunce
To him that woll his hele gete
Is none fo good as comun mete.
For who that loketh on the bokes,
It faith, confection of cokes
A man him fhulde well avife,
How he it toke and in what wife.
For who that ufeth that he knoweth,
Full felden fikneffe on him groweth,
And who that useth metes ftraunge,
Though his nature empeire and chaunge,
It is no wonder, leve fone,
Whan that he doth ayein his wone
To take metes and drinkes newe,
For it fhulde alwey efchewe.
For in phifique this I finde,
Ufance is the feconde kinde.
And right fo chaungeth his eftate
He that of love is delicate,
For though he hadde to his honde
The beste wife of all the londe
Or the faireft love of alle,
Yet wolde his herte on other falle
And thinke hem more delicious,
Than he hath in his owne hous.
Men fain it is now ofte fo,
Avise hem well, that they fo do,
And for to fpeke in other way
Full ofte time I have herd fay,
That he, which hath no love acheved,
Him thenketh that he is nought relieved,
Though that his lady make him chere,
So as she may in good manere
Her honour and her name fave,
But he the furplus mighte have
Nothing withstanding her estate,
Of love more delicate
He fet her chere at no delite,
But he have all his appetite.
My fone, if it with the be fo,
Confeffio amantis. Tell me? Min holy fader, no.
For delicate in fuch a wife
Of love, as ye to me devise,
Ne was I never yet giltife,
For if I hadde fuche a wife,
ye fpeke of, what fhulde I more? For than I wolde never more
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