Chapter XVII: Part 17

Mi fader, certes grant merci: Ye have me tawht so redeli, That evere whil I live schal The betre I mai be war withal Of thing which ye have seid er this. Bot overmore hou that it is, 7840 Toward mi schrifte as it belongeth, To wite of othre pointz me longeth; Wherof that ye me wolden teche With al myn herte I you beseche.

Explicit Liber Quintus.

Incipit Liber Sextus

_Est gula, que nostrum maculavit prima parentem
Ex vetito pomo, quo dolet omnis homo
Hec agit, ut corpus anime contraria spirat,
Quo caro fit crassa, spiritus atque macer.
Intus et exterius si que virtutis habentur,
Potibus ebrietas conviciata ruit.
Mersa sopore labis, que Bachus inebriat hospes,
Indignata Venus oscula raro premit._

The grete Senne original, Which every man in general Upon his berthe hath envenymed, In Paradis it was mystymed: Whan Adam of thilke Appel bot, His swete morscel was to hot, Which dedly made the mankinde. And in the bokes as I finde, This vice, which so out of rule Hath sette ous alle, is cleped Gule; 10 Of which the branches ben so grete, That of hem alle I wol noght trete, Bot only as touchende of tuo I thenke speke and of no mo; Wherof the ferste is Dronkeschipe, Which berth the cuppe felaschipe. Ful many a wonder doth this vice, He can make of a wisman nyce, And of a fool, that him schal seme That he can al the lawe deme, 20 And yiven every juggement Which longeth to the firmament Bothe of the sterre and of the mone; And thus he makth a gret clerk sone Of him that is a lewed man. Ther is nothing which he ne can, Whil he hath Dronkeschipe on honde, He knowth the See, he knowth the stronde, He is a noble man of armes, And yit no strengthe is in his armes: 30 Ther he was strong ynouh tofore, With Dronkeschipe it is forlore, And al is changed his astat, And wext anon so fieble and mat, That he mai nouther go ne come, Bot al togedre him is benome The pouer bothe of hond and fot, So that algate abide he mot. And alle hise wittes he foryet, The which is to him such a let, 40 That he wot nevere what he doth, Ne which is fals, ne which is soth, Ne which is dai, ne which is nyht, And for the time he knowth no wyht, That he ne wot so moche as this, What maner thing himselven is, Or he be man, or he be beste. That holde I riht a sori feste, Whan he that reson understod So soudeinliche is woxe wod, 50 Or elles lich the dede man, Which nouther go ne speke can. Thus ofte he is to bedde broght, Bot where he lith yit wot he noght, Til he arise upon the morwe; And thanne he seith, “O, which a sorwe It is a man be drinkeles!” So that halfdrunke in such a res With dreie mouth he sterte him uppe, And seith, “Nou _baillez ça_ the cuppe.” 60 That made him lese his wit at eve Is thanne a morwe al his beleve; The cuppe is al that evere him pleseth, And also that him most deseseth; It is the cuppe whom he serveth, Which alle cares fro him kerveth And alle bales to him bringeth: In joie he wepth, in sorwe he singeth, For Dronkeschipe is so divers, It may no whyle stonde in vers. 70 He drinkth the wyn, bot ate laste The wyn drynkth him and bint him faste, And leith him drunke be the wal, As him which is his bonde thral And al in his subjeccion.

And lich to such condicion, As forto speke it other wise, It falleth that the moste wise Ben otherwhile of love adoted, And so bewhaped and assoted, 80 Of drunke men that nevere yit Was non, which half so loste his wit Of drinke, as thei of such thing do Which cleped is the jolif wo; And waxen of here oghne thoght So drunke, that thei knowe noght What reson is, or more or lesse. Such is the kinde of that sieknesse, And that is noght for lacke of brain, Bot love is of so gret a main, 90 That where he takth an herte on honde, Ther mai nothing his miht withstonde: The wise Salomon was nome, And stronge Sampson overcome, The knihtli David him ne mihte Rescoue, that he with the sihte Of Bersabee ne was bestad, Virgile also was overlad, And Aristotle was put under. Forthi, mi Sone, it is no wonder 100 If thou be drunke of love among, Which is above alle othre strong: And if so is that thou so be, Tell me thi Schrifte in privite; It is no schame of such a thew A yong man to be dronkelew. Of such Phisique I can a part, And as me semeth be that art, Thou scholdest be Phisonomie Be schapen to that maladie 110 Of lovedrunke, and that is routhe.

Ha, holi fader, al is trouthe That ye me telle: I am beknowe That I with love am so bethrowe, And al myn herte is so thurgh sunke, That I am verrailiche drunke, And yit I mai bothe speke and go. Bot I am overcome so, And torned fro miself so clene, That ofte I wot noght what I mene; 120 So that excusen I ne mai Min herte, fro the ferste day That I cam to mi ladi kiththe, I was yit sobre nevere siththe. Wher I hire se or se hire noght, With musinge of min oghne thoght, Of love, which min herte assaileth, So drunke I am, that mi wit faileth And al mi brain is overtorned, And mi manere so mistorned, 130 That I foryete al that I can And stonde lich a mased man; That ofte, whanne I scholde pleie, It makth me drawe out of the weie In soulein place be miselve, As doth a labourer to delve, Which can no gentil mannes chere; Or elles as a lewed Frere, Whan he is put to his penance, Riht so lese I mi contienance. 140 And if it nedes to betyde, That I in compainie abyde, Wher as I moste daunce and singe The hovedance and carolinge, Or forto go the newefot, I mai noght wel heve up mi fot, If that sche be noght in the weie; For thanne is al mi merthe aweie, And waxe anon of thoght so full, Wherof mi limes ben so dull, 150 I mai unethes gon the pas. For thus it is and evere was, Whanne I on suche thoghtes muse, The lust and merthe that men use, Whan I se noght mi ladi byme, Al is foryete for the time So ferforth that mi wittes changen And alle lustes fro me strangen, That thei seie alle trewely, And swere, that it am noght I. 160 For as the man which ofte drinketh, With win that in his stomac sinketh Wext drunke and witles for a throwe, Riht so mi lust is overthrowe, And of myn oghne thoght so mat I wexe, that to myn astat Ther is no lime wol me serve, Bot as a drunke man I swerve, And suffre such a Passion, That men have gret compassion, 170 And everich be himself merveilleth What thing it is that me so eilleth. Such is the manere of mi wo Which time that I am hire fro, Til eft ayein that I hire se. Bot thanne it were a nycete To telle you hou that I fare: For whanne I mai upon hire stare, Hire wommanhede, hire gentilesse, Myn herte is full of such gladnesse, 180 That overpasseth so mi wit, That I wot nevere where it sit, Bot am so drunken of that sihte, Me thenkth that for the time I mihte Riht sterte thurgh the hole wall; And thanne I mai wel, if I schal, Bothe singe and daunce and lepe aboute, And holde forth the lusti route. Bot natheles it falleth so Fulofte, that I fro hire go 190 Ne mai, bot as it were a stake, I stonde avisement to take And loke upon hire faire face; That for the while out of the place For al the world ne myhte I wende. Such lust comth thanne unto mi mende, So that withoute mete or drinke, Of lusti thoughtes whiche I thinke Me thenkth I mihte stonden evere; And so it were to me levere 200 Than such a sihte forto leve, If that sche wolde yif me leve To have so mochel of mi wille. And thus thenkende I stonde stille Withoute blenchinge of myn yhe, Riht as me thoghte that I syhe Of Paradis the moste joie: And so therwhile I me rejoie, Into myn herte a gret desir, The which is hotere than the fyr, 210 Al soudeinliche upon me renneth, That al mi thoght withinne brenneth, And am so ferforth overcome, That I not where I am become; So that among the hetes stronge In stede of drinke I underfonge A thoght so swete in mi corage, That nevere Pyment ne vernage Was half so swete forto drinke. For as I wolde, thanne I thinke 220 As thogh I were at myn above, For so thurgh drunke I am of love, That al that mi sotye demeth Is soth, as thanne it to me semeth. And whyle I mai tho thoghtes kepe, Me thenkth as thogh I were aslepe And that I were in goddes barm; Bot whanne I se myn oghne harm, And that I soudeinliche awake Out of my thought, and hiede take 230 Hou that the sothe stant in dede, Thanne is mi sekernesse in drede And joie torned into wo, So that the hete is al ago Of such sotie as I was inne. And thanne ayeinward I beginne To take of love a newe thorst, The which me grieveth altherworst, For thanne comth the blanche fievere, With chele and makth me so to chievere, 240 And so it coldeth at myn herte, That wonder is hou I asterte, In such a point that I ne deie: For certes ther was nevere keie Ne frosen ys upon the wal More inly cold that I am al. And thus soffre I the hote chele, Which passeth othre peines fele; In cold I brenne and frese in hete: And thanne I drinke a biter swete 250 With dreie lippe and yhen wete. Lo, thus I tempre mi diete, And take a drauhte of such reles, That al mi wit is herteles, And al myn herte, ther it sit, Is, as who seith, withoute wit; So that to prove it be reson In makinge of comparison Ther mai no difference be Betwen a drunke man and me. 260 Bot al the worste of everychon Is evere that I thurste in on; The more that myn herte drinketh, The more I may; so that me thinketh, My thurst schal nevere ben aqueint. God schilde that I be noght dreint Of such a superfluite: For wel I fiele in mi degre That al mi wit is overcast, Wherof I am the more agast, 270 That in defaulte of ladischipe Per chance in such a drunkeschipe I mai be ded er I be war. For certes, fader, this I dar Beknowe and in mi schrifte telle: Bot I a drauhte have of that welle, In which mi deth is and mi lif, Mi joie is torned into strif, That sobre schal I nevere worthe, Bot as a drunke man forworthe; 280 So that in londe where I fare The lust is lore of mi welfare, As he that mai no bote finde. Bot this me thenkth a wonder kinde, As I am drunke of that I drinke, So am I ek for falte of drinke; Of which I finde no reles: Bot if I myhte natheles Of such a drinke as I coveite, So as me liste, have o receite, 290 I scholde assobre and fare wel. Bot so fortune upon hire whiel On hih me deigneth noght to sette, For everemore I finde a lette: The boteler is noght mi frend, Which hath the keie be the bend; I mai wel wisshe and that is wast, For wel I wot, so freissh a tast, Bot if mi grace be the more, I schal assaie neveremore. 300 Thus am I drunke of that I se, For tastinge is defended me, And I can noght miselven stanche: So that, mi fader, of this branche I am gultif, to telle trouthe.

Mi Sone, that me thenketh routhe; For lovedrunke is the meschief Above alle othre the most chief, If he no lusti thoght assaie, Which mai his sori thurst allaie: 310 As for the time yit it lisseth To him which other joie misseth. Forthi, mi Sone, aboven alle Thenk wel, hou so it the befalle, And kep thi wittes that thou hast, And let hem noght be drunke in wast: Bot natheles ther is no wyht That mai withstonde loves miht. Bot why the cause is, as I finde, Of that ther is diverse kinde 320 Of lovedrunke, why men pleigneth After the court which al ordeigneth, I wol the tellen the manere; Nou lest, mi Sone, and thou schalt hiere.

For the fortune of every chance After the goddes pourveance To man it groweth from above, So that the sped of every love Is schape there, er it befalle. For Jupiter aboven alle, 330 Which is of goddes soverein, Hath in his celier, as men sein, Tuo tonnes fulle of love drinke, That maken many an herte sinke And many an herte also to flete, Or of the soure or of the swete. That on is full of such piment, Which passeth all entendement Of mannes witt, if he it taste, And makth a jolif herte in haste: 340 That other biter as the galle, Which makth a mannes herte palle, Whos drunkeschipe is a sieknesse Thurgh fielinge of the biternesse. Cupide is boteler of bothe, Which to the lieve and to the lothe Yifth of the swete and of the soure, That some lawhe, and some loure. Bot for so moche as he blind is, Fulofte time he goth amis 350 And takth the badde for the goode, Which hindreth many a mannes fode Withoute cause, and forthreth eke. So be ther some of love seke, Whiche oghte of reson to ben hole, And some comen to the dole In happ and as hemselve leste Drinke undeserved of the beste. And thus this blinde Boteler Yifth of the trouble in stede of cler 360 And ek the cler in stede of trouble: Lo, hou he can the hertes trouble, And makth men drunke al upon chaunce Withoute lawe of governance. If he drawe of the swete tonne, Thanne is the sorwe al overronne Of lovedrunke, and schalt noght greven So to be drunken every even, For al is thanne bot a game. Bot whanne it is noght of the same, 370 And he the biter tonne draweth, Such drunkeschipe an herte gnaweth And fiebleth al a mannes thoght, That betre him were have drunke noght And al his bred have eten dreie; For thanne he lest his lusti weie With drunkeschipe, and wot noght whider To go, the weies ben so slider, In which he mai per cas so falle, That he schal breke his wittes alle. 380 And in this wise men be drunke After the drink that thei have drunke: Bot alle drinken noght alike, For som schal singe and som schal syke, So that it me nothing merveilleth, Mi Sone, of love that thee eilleth; For wel I knowe be thi tale, That thou hast drunken of the duale, Which biter is, til god the sende Such grace that thou miht amende. 390

Bot, Sone, thou schalt bidde and preie In such a wise as I schal seie, That thou the lusti welle atteigne Thi wofull thurstes to restreigne Of love, and taste the swetnesse; As Bachus dede in his distresse, Whan bodiliche thurst him hente In strange londes where he wente. This Bachus Sone of Jupiter Was hote, and as he wente fer 400 Be his fadres assignement To make a werre in Orient, And gret pouer with him he ladde, So that the heiere hond he hadde And victoire of his enemys, And torneth homward with his pris, In such a contre which was dreie A meschief fell upon the weie. As he rod with his compainie Nyh to the strondes of Lubie, 410 Ther myhte thei no drinke finde Of water nor of other kinde, So that himself and al his host Were of defalte of drinke almost Destruid, and thanne Bachus preide To Jupiter, and thus he seide: “O hihe fader, that sest al, To whom is reson that I schal Beseche and preie in every nede, Behold, mi fader, and tak hiede 420 This wofull thurst that we ben inne To staunche, and grante ous forto winne, And sauf unto the contre fare, Wher that oure lusti loves are Waitende upon oure hom cominge.” And with the vois of his preiynge, Which herd was to the goddes hihe, He syh anon tofore his yhe A wether, which the ground hath sporned; And wher he hath it overtorned, 430 Ther sprang a welle freissh and cler, Wherof his oghne boteler After the lustes of his wille Was every man to drinke his fille. And for this ilke grete grace Bachus upon the same place A riche temple let arere, Which evere scholde stonde there To thursti men in remembrance.

Forthi, mi Sone, after this chance 440 It sit thee wel to taken hiede So forto preie upon thi nede, As Bachus preide for the welle; And thenk, as thou hast herd me telle, Hou grace he gradde and grace he hadde. He was no fol that ferst so radde, For selden get a domb man lond: Tak that proverbe, and understond That wordes ben of vertu grete. Forthi to speke thou ne lete, 450 And axe and prei erli and late Thi thurst to quenche, and thenk algate, The boteler which berth the keie Is blind, as thou hast herd me seie; And if it mihte so betyde, That he upon the blinde side Per cas the swete tonne arauhte, Than schalt thou have a lusti drauhte And waxe of lovedrunke sobre. And thus I rede thou assobre 460 Thin herte in hope of such a grace; For drunkeschipe in every place, To whether side that it torne, Doth harm and makth a man to sporne And ofte falle in such a wise, Wher he per cas mai noght arise.

And forto loke in evidence Upon the sothe experience, So as it hath befalle er this, In every mannes mouth it is 470 Hou Tristram was of love drunke With Bele Ysolde, whan thei drunke The drink which Brangwein hem betok, Er that king Marc his Eem hire tok To wyve, as it was after knowe. And ek, mi Sone, if thou wolt knowe, As it hath fallen overmore In loves cause, and what is more Of drunkeschipe forto drede, As it whilom befell in dede, 480 Wherof thou miht the betre eschuie Of drunke men that thou ne suie The compaignie in no manere, A gret ensample thou schalt hiere.

This finde I write in Poesie Of thilke faire Ipotacie, Of whos beaute ther as sche was Spak every man,—and fell per cas, That Pirotous so him spedde, That he to wyve hire scholde wedde, 490 Wherof that he gret joie made. And for he wolde his love glade, Ayein the day of mariage Be mouthe bothe and be message Hise frendes to the feste he preide, With gret worschipe and, as men seide, He hath this yonge ladi spoused. And whan that thei were alle housed, And set and served ate mete, Ther was no wyn which mai be gete, 500 That ther ne was plente ynouh: Bot Bachus thilke tonne drouh, Wherof be weie of drunkeschipe The greteste of the felaschipe Were oute of reson overtake; And Venus, which hath also take The cause most in special, Hath yove hem drinke forth withal Of thilke cuppe which exciteth The lust wherinne a man deliteth: 510 And thus be double weie drunke, Of lust that ilke fyri funke Hath mad hem, as who seith, halfwode, That thei no reson understode, Ne to non other thing thei syhen, Bot hire, which tofore here yhen Was wedded thilke same day, That freisshe wif, that lusti May, On hire it was al that thei thoghten. And so ferforth here lustes soghten, 520 That thei the whiche named were Centauri, ate feste there Of on assent, of an acord This yonge wif malgre hire lord In such a rage awei forth ladden, As thei whiche non insihte hadden Bot only to her drunke fare, Which many a man hath mad misfare In love als wel as other weie. Wherof, if I schal more seie 530 Upon the nature of the vice, Of custume and of exercice The mannes grace hou it fordoth, A tale, which was whilom soth, Of fooles that so drunken were, I schal reherce unto thine Ere.

I rede in a Cronique thus Of Galba and of Vitellus, The whiche of Spaigne bothe were The greteste of alle othre there, 540 And bothe of o condicion After the disposicion Of glotonie and drunkeschipe. That was a sori felaschipe: For this thou miht wel understonde, That man mai wel noght longe stonde Which is wyndrunke of comun us; For he hath lore the vertus, Wherof reson him scholde clothe; And that was seene upon hem bothe. 550 Men sein ther is non evidence, Wherof to knowe a difference Betwen the drunken and the wode, For thei be nevere nouther goode; For wher that wyn doth wit aweie, Wisdom hath lost the rihte weie, That he no maner vice dredeth; Nomore than a blind man thredeth His nedle be the Sonnes lyht, Nomore is reson thanne of myht, 560 Whan he with drunkeschipe is blent. And in this point thei weren schent, This Galba bothe and ek Vitelle, Upon the cause as I schal telle, Wherof good is to taken hiede. For thei tuo thurgh her drunkenhiede Of witles excitacioun Oppressede al the nacion Of Spaigne; for of fool usance, Which don was of continuance 570 Of hem, whiche alday drunken were, Ther was no wif ne maiden there, What so thei were, or faire or foule, Whom thei ne token to defoule, Wherof the lond was often wo: And ek in othre thinges mo Thei wroghten many a sondri wrong. Bot hou so that the dai be long, The derke nyht comth ate laste: God wolde noght thei scholden laste, 580 And schop the lawe in such a wise, That thei thurgh dom to the juise Be dampned forto be forlore. Bot thei, that hadden ben tofore Enclin to alle drunkenesse,— Here ende thanne bar witnesse; For thei in hope to assuage The peine of deth, upon the rage That thei the lasse scholden fiele, Of wyn let fille full a Miele, 590 And dronken til so was befalle That thei her strengthes losten alle Withouten wit of eny brain; And thus thei ben halfdede slain, That hem ne grieveth bot a lyte.

Mi Sone, if thou be forto wyte In eny point which I have seid, Wherof thi wittes ben unteid, I rede clepe hem hom ayein.

I schal do, fader, as ye sein, 600 Als ferforth as I mai suffise: Bot wel I wot that in no wise The drunkeschipe of love aweie I mai remue be no weie, It stant noght upon my fortune. Bot if you liste to comune Of the seconde Glotonie, Which cleped is Delicacie, Wherof ye spieken hier tofore, Beseche I wolde you therfore. 610

Mi Sone, as of that ilke vice, Which of alle othre is the Norrice, And stant upon the retenue Of Venus, so as it is due, The proprete hou that it fareth The bok hierafter nou declareth.

Of this chapitre in which we trete There is yit on of such diete, To which no povere mai atteigne; For al is Past of paindemeine 620 And sondri wyn and sondri drinke, Wherof that he wole ete and drinke: Hise cokes ben for him affaited, So that his body is awaited, That him schal lacke no delit, Als ferforth as his appetit Sufficeth to the metes hote. Wherof this lusti vice is hote Of Gule the Delicacie, Which al the hole progenie 630 Of lusti folk hath undertake To feede, whil that he mai take Richesses wherof to be founde: Of Abstinence he wot no bounde, To what profit it scholde serve. And yit phisique of his conserve Makth many a restauracioun Unto his recreacioun, Which wolde be to Venus lief. Thus for the point of his relief 640 The coc which schal his mete arraie, Bot he the betre his mouth assaie, His lordes thonk schal ofte lese, Er he be served to the chese: For ther mai lacke noght so lyte, That he ne fint anon a wyte; For bot his lust be fully served, Ther hath no wiht his thonk deserved. And yit for mannes sustenance, To kepe and holde in governance, 650 To him that wole his hele gete Is non so good as comun mete: For who that loketh on the bokes, It seith, confeccion of cokes, A man him scholde wel avise Hou he it toke and in what wise. For who that useth that he knoweth, Ful selden seknesse on him groweth, And who that useth metes strange, Though his nature empeire and change 660 It is no wonder, lieve Sone, Whan that he doth ayein his wone; For in Phisique this I finde, Usage is the seconde kinde.

And riht so changeth his astat He that of love is delicat: For though he hadde to his hond The beste wif of al the lond, Or the faireste love of alle, Yit wolde his herte on othre falle 670 And thenke hem mor delicious Than he hath in his oghne hous: Men sein it is nou ofte so; Avise hem wel, thei that so do. And forto speke in other weie, Fulofte time I have herd seie, That he which hath no love achieved, Him thenkth that he is noght relieved, Thogh that his ladi make him chiere, So as sche mai in good manere 680 Hir honour and hir name save, Bot he the surplus mihte have. Nothing withstondende hire astat, Of love more delicat He set hire chiere at no delit, Bot he have al his appetit.

Mi Sone, if it be with thee so, Tell me.

Myn holi fader, no: For delicat in such a wise Of love, as ye to me devise, 690 Ne was I nevere yit gultif; For if I hadde such a wif As ye speke of, what scholde I more? For thanne I wolde neveremore For lust of eny wommanhiede Myn herte upon non other fiede: And if I dede, it were a wast. Bot al withoute such repast Of lust, as ye me tolde above, Of wif, or yit of other love, 700 I faste, and mai no fode gete; So that for lacke of deinte mete, Of which an herte mai be fedd, I go fastende to my bedd. Bot myhte I geten, as ye tolde, So mochel that mi ladi wolde Me fede with hir glad semblant, Though me lacke al the remenant, Yit scholde I somdel ben abeched And for the time wel refreched. 710 Bot certes, fader, sche ne doth; For in good feith, to telle soth, I trowe, thogh I scholde sterve, Sche wolde noght hire yhe swerve, Min herte with o goodly lok To fede, and thus for such a cok I mai go fastinge everemo: Bot if so is that eny wo Mai fede a mannes herte wel, Therof I have at every meel 720 Of plente more than ynowh; Bot that is of himself so towh, Mi stomac mai it noght defie. Lo, such is the delicacie Of love, which myn herte fedeth; Thus have I lacke of that me nedeth.

Bot for al this yit natheles I seie noght I am gylteles, That I somdel am delicat: For elles were I fulli mat, 730 Bot if that I som lusti stounde Of confort and of ese founde, To take of love som repast; For thogh I with the fulle tast The lust of love mai noght fiele, Min hunger otherwise I kiele Of smale lustes whiche I pike, And for a time yit thei like; If that ye wisten what I mene.

Nou, goode Sone, schrif thee clene 740 Of suche deyntes as ben goode, Wherof thou takst thin hertes fode.

Mi fader, I you schal reherce, Hou that mi fodes ben diverse, So as thei fallen in degre. O fiedinge is of that I se, An other is of that I here, The thridde, as I schal tellen here, It groweth of min oghne thoght: And elles scholde I live noght; 750 For whom that failleth fode of herte, He mai noght wel the deth asterte.

Of sihte is al mi ferste fode, Thurgh which myn yhe of alle goode Hath that to him is acordant, A lusti fode sufficant. Whan that I go toward the place Wher I schal se my ladi face, Min yhe, which is loth to faste, Beginth to hungre anon so faste, 760 That him thenkth of on houre thre, Til I ther come and he hire se: And thanne after his appetit He takth a fode of such delit, That him non other deynte nedeth. Of sondri sihtes he him fedeth: He seth hire face of such colour, That freisshere is than eny flour, He seth hire front is large and plein Withoute fronce of eny grein, 770 He seth hire yhen lich an hevene, He seth hire nase strauht and evene, He seth hire rode upon the cheke, He seth hire rede lippes eke, Hire chyn acordeth to the face, Al that he seth is full of grace, He seth hire necke round and clene, Therinne mai no bon be sene, He seth hire handes faire and whyte; For al this thing withoute wyte 780 He mai se naked ate leste, So is it wel the more feste And wel the mor Delicacie Unto the fiedinge of myn yhe. He seth hire schapthe forth withal, Hire bodi round, hire middel smal, So wel begon with good array, Which passeth al the lust of Maii, Whan he is most with softe schoures Ful clothed in his lusti floures. 790 With suche sihtes by and by Min yhe is fed; bot finaly, Whan he the port and the manere Seth of hire wommanysshe chere, Than hath he such delice on honde, Him thenkth he mihte stille stonde, And that he hath ful sufficance Of liflode and of sustienance As to his part for everemo. And if it thoghte alle othre so, 800 Fro thenne wolde he nevere wende, Bot there unto the worldes ende He wolde abyde, if that he mihte, And fieden him upon the syhte. For thogh I mihte stonden ay Into the time of domesday And loke upon hire evere in on, Yit whanne I scholde fro hire gon, Min yhe wolde, as thogh he faste, Ben hungerstorven al so faste, 810 Til efte ayein that he hire syhe. Such is the nature of myn yhe: Ther is no lust so deintefull, Of which a man schal noght be full, Of that the stomac underfongeth, Bot evere in on myn yhe longeth: For loke hou that a goshauk tireth, Riht so doth he, whan that he pireth And toteth on hire wommanhiede; For he mai nevere fulli fiede 820 His lust, bot evere aliche sore Him hungreth, so that he the more Desireth to be fed algate: And thus myn yhe is mad the gate, Thurgh which the deyntes of my thoght Of lust ben to myn herte broght.

Riht as myn yhe with his lok Is to myn herte a lusti coc Of loves fode delicat, Riht so myn Ere in his astat, 830 Wher as myn yhe mai noght serve, Can wel myn hertes thonk deserve And fieden him fro day to day With suche deyntes as he may. For thus it is, that overal, Wher as I come in special, I mai hiere of mi ladi pris; I hiere on seith that sche is wys, An other seith that sche is good, And som men sein, of worthi blod 840 That sche is come, and is also So fair, that nawher is non so; And som men preise hire goodli chiere: Thus every thing that I mai hiere, Which souneth to mi ladi goode, Is to myn Ere a lusti foode. And ek min Ere hath over this A deynte feste, whan so is That I mai hiere hirselve speke; For thanne anon mi faste I breke 850 On suche wordes as sche seith, That full of trouthe and full of feith Thei ben, and of so good desport, That to myn Ere gret confort Thei don, as thei that ben delices. For al the metes and the spices, That eny Lombard couthe make, Ne be so lusti forto take Ne so ferforth restauratif, I seie as for myn oghne lif, 860 As ben the wordes of hire mouth: For as the wyndes of the South Ben most of alle debonaire, So whan hir list to speke faire, The vertu of hire goodly speche Is verraily myn hertes leche. And if it so befalle among, That sche carole upon a song, Whan I it hiere I am so fedd, That I am fro miself so ledd, 870 As thogh I were in paradis; For certes, as to myn avis, Whan I here of hir vois the stevene, Me thenkth it is a blisse of hevene.

And ek in other wise also Fulofte time it falleth so, Min Ere with a good pitance Is fedd of redinge of romance Of Ydoine and of Amadas, That whilom weren in mi cas, 880 And eke of othre many a score, That loveden longe er I was bore. For whan I of here loves rede, Min Ere with the tale I fede; And with the lust of here histoire Somtime I drawe into memoire Hou sorwe mai noght evere laste; And so comth hope in ate laste, Whan I non other fode knowe. And that endureth bot a throwe, 890 Riht as it were a cherie feste; Bot forto compten ate leste, As for the while yit it eseth And somdel of myn herte appeseth: For what thing to myn Ere spreedeth, Which is plesant, somdel it feedeth With wordes suche as he mai gete Mi lust, in stede of other mete.

Lo thus, mi fader, as I seie, Of lust the which myn yhe hath seie, 900 And ek of that myn Ere hath herd, Fulofte I have the betre ferd. And tho tuo bringen in the thridde, The which hath in myn herte amidde His place take, to arraie The lusti fode, which assaie I mot; and nameliche on nyhtes, Whan that me lacketh alle sihtes, And that myn heringe is aweie, Thanne is he redy in the weie 910 Mi reresouper forto make, Of which myn hertes fode I take.

This lusti cokes name is hote Thoght, which hath evere hise pottes hote Of love buillende on the fyr With fantasie and with desir, Of whiche er this fulofte he fedde Min herte, whanne I was abedde; And thanne he set upon my bord Bothe every syhte and every word 920 Of lust, which I have herd or sein. Bot yit is noght mi feste al plein, Bot al of woldes and of wisshes, Therof have I my fulle disshes, Bot as of fielinge and of tast, Yit mihte I nevere have o repast. And thus, as I have seid aforn, I licke hony on the thorn, And as who seith, upon the bridel I chiewe, so that al is ydel 930 As in effect the fode I have. Bot as a man that wolde him save, Whan he is seck, be medicine, Riht so of love the famine I fonde in al that evere I mai To fiede and dryve forth the day, Til I mai have the grete feste, Which al myn hunger myhte areste.

Lo suche ben mi lustes thre; Of that I thenke and hiere and se 940 I take of love my fiedinge Withoute tastinge or fielinge: And as the Plover doth of Eir I live, and am in good espeir That for no such delicacie I trowe I do no glotonie. And natheles to youre avis, Min holi fader, that be wis, I recomande myn astat Of that I have be delicat. 950

Mi Sone, I understonde wel That thou hast told hier everydel, And as me thenketh be thi tale, It ben delices wonder smale, Wherof thou takst thi loves fode. Bot, Sone, if that thou understode What is to ben delicious, Thou woldest noght be curious Upon the lust of thin astat To ben to sore delicat, 960 Wherof that thou reson excede: For in the bokes thou myht rede, If mannes wisdom schal be suied, It oghte wel to ben eschuied In love als wel as other weie; For, as these holi bokes seie, The bodely delices alle In every point, hou so thei falle, Unto the Soule don grievance. And forto take in remembrance, 970 A tale acordant unto this, Which of gret understondinge is To mannes soule resonable, I thenke telle, and is no fable.

Of Cristes word, who wole it rede, Hou that this vice is forto drede In thevangile it telleth plein, Which mot algate be certein, For Crist himself it berth witnesse. And thogh the clerk and the clergesse 980 In latin tunge it rede and singe, Yit for the more knoulechinge Of trouthe, which is good to wite, I schal declare as it is write In Engleissh, for thus it began.

Crist seith: “Ther was a riche man, A mihti lord of gret astat, And he was ek so delicat Of his clothing, that everyday Of pourpre and bisse he made him gay, 990 And eet and drank therto his fille After the lustes of his wille, As he which al stod in delice And tok non hiede of thilke vice. And as it scholde so betyde, A povere lazre upon a tyde Cam to the gate and axed mete: Bot there mihte he nothing gete His dedly hunger forto stanche; For he, which hadde his fulle panche 1000 Of alle lustes ate bord, Ne deigneth noght to speke a word, Onliche a Crumme forto yive, Wherof the povere myhte live Upon the yifte of his almesse. Thus lai this povere in gret destresse Acold and hungred ate gate, Fro which he mihte go no gate, So was he wofulli besein. And as these holi bokes sein, 1010 The houndes comen fro the halle, Wher that this sike man was falle, And as he lay ther forto die, The woundes of his maladie Thei licken forto don him ese. Bot he was full of such desese, That he mai noght the deth eschape; Bot as it was that time schape, The Soule fro the bodi passeth, And he whom nothing overpasseth, 1020 The hihe god, up to the hevene Him tok, wher he hath set him evene In Habrahammes barm on hyh, Wher he the hevene joie syh And hadde al that he have wolde.

And fell, as it befalle scholde, This riche man the same throwe With soudein deth was overthrowe, And forth withouten eny wente Into the helle straght he wente; 1030 The fend into the fyr him drouh, Wher that he hadde peine ynouh Of flamme which that evere brenneth. And as his yhe aboute renneth, Toward the hevene he cast his lok, Wher that he syh and hiede tok Hou Lazar set was in his Se Als ferr as evere he mihte se With Habraham; and thanne he preide Unto the Patriarch and seide: 1040 “Send Lazar doun fro thilke Sete, And do that he his finger wete In water, so that he mai droppe Upon my tunge, forto stoppe The grete hete in which I brenne.” Bot Habraham answerde thenne And seide to him in this wise: “Mi Sone, thou thee miht avise And take into thi remembrance, Hou Lazar hadde gret penance, 1050 Whyl he was in that other lif, Bot thou in al thi lust jolif The bodily delices soghtest: Forthi, so as thou thanne wroghtest, Nou schalt thou take thi reward Of dedly peine hierafterward In helle, which schal evere laste; And this Lazar nou ate laste The worldes peine is overronne, In hevene and hath his lif begonne 1060 Of joie, which is endeles. Bot that thou preidest natheles, That I schal Lazar to the sende With water on his finger ende, Thin hote tunge forto kiele, Thou schalt no such graces fiele; For to that foule place of Sinne, For evere in which thou schalt ben inne, Comth non out of this place thider, Ne non of you mai comen hider; 1070 Thus be yee parted nou atuo.”

The riche ayeinward cride tho: “O Habraham, sithe it so is, That Lazar mai noght do me this Which I have axed in this place, I wolde preie an other grace. For I have yit of brethren fyve, That with mi fader ben alyve Togedre duellende in on hous; To whom, as thou art gracious, 1080 I preie that thou woldest sende Lazar, so that he mihte wende To warne hem hou the world is went, That afterward thei be noght schent Of suche peines as I drye. Lo, this I preie and this I crie, Now I may noght miself amende.”

The Patriarch anon suiende To his preiere ansuerde nay; And seide him hou that everyday 1090 His brethren mihten knowe and hiere Of Moises on Erthe hiere And of prophetes othre mo, What hem was best. And he seith no; Bot if ther mihte a man aryse Fro deth to lyve in such a wise, To tellen hem hou that it were, He seide hou thanne of pure fere Thei scholden wel be war therby.

Quod Habraham: “Nay sikerly; 1100 For if thei nou wol noght obeie To suche as techen hem the weie, And alday preche and alday telle Hou that it stant of hevene and helle, Thei wol noght thanne taken hiede, Thogh it befelle so in dede That eny ded man were arered, To ben of him no betre lered Than of an other man alyve.”

If thou, mi Sone, canst descryve 1110 This tale, as Crist himself it tolde, Thou schalt have cause to beholde, To se so gret an evidence, Wherof the sothe experience Hath schewed openliche at ije, That bodili delicacie Of him which yeveth non almesse Schal after falle in gret destresse. And that was sene upon the riche: For he ne wolde unto his liche 1120 A Crumme yiven of his bred, Thanne afterward, whan he was ded, A drope of water him was werned. Thus mai a mannes wit be lerned Of hem that so delices taken; Whan thei with deth ben overtaken, That erst was swete is thanne sour. Bot he that is a governour Of worldes good, if he be wys, Withinne his herte he set no pris 1130 Of al the world, and yit he useth The good, that he nothing refuseth, As he which lord is of the thinges. The Nouches and the riche ringes, The cloth of gold and the Perrie He takth, and yit delicacie He leveth, thogh he were al this. The beste mete that ther is He ett, and drinkth the beste drinke; Bot hou that evere he ete or drinke, 1140 Delicacie he put aweie, As he which goth the rihte weie Noght only forto fiede and clothe His bodi, bot his soule bothe. Bot thei that taken otherwise Here lustes, ben none of the wise; And that whilom was schewed eke, If thou these olde bokes seke, Als wel be reson as be kinde, Of olde ensample as men mai finde. 1150

What man that wolde him wel avise, Delicacie is to despise, Whan kinde acordeth noght withal; Wherof ensample in special Of Nero whilom mai be told, Which ayein kinde manyfold Hise lustes tok, til ate laste That god him wolde al overcaste; Of whom the Cronique is so plein, Me list nomore of him to sein. 1160 And natheles for glotonie Of bodili Delicacie, To knowe his stomak hou it ferde, Of that noman tofore herde, Which he withinne himself bethoghte, A wonder soubtil thing he wroghte.

Thre men upon eleccioun Of age and of complexioun Lich to himself be alle weie He tok towardes him to pleie, 1170 And ete and drinke als wel as he. Therof was no diversite; For every day whan that thei eete, Tofore his oghne bord thei seete, And of such mete as he was served, Althogh thei hadde it noght deserved, Thei token service of the same. Bot afterward al thilke game Was into wofull ernest torned; For whan thei weren thus sojorned, 1180 Withinne a time at after mete Nero, which hadde noght foryete The lustes of his frele astat, As he which al was delicat, To knowe thilke experience, The men let come in his presence: And to that on the same tyde, A courser that he scholde ryde Into the feld, anon he bad; Wherof this man was wonder glad, 1190 And goth to prike and prance aboute. That other, whil that he was oute, He leide upon his bedd to slepe: The thridde, which he wolde kepe Withinne his chambre, faire and softe He goth now doun nou up fulofte, Walkende a pass, that he ne slepte, Til he which on the courser lepte Was come fro the field ayein. Nero thanne, as the bokes sein, 1200 These men doth taken alle thre And slouh hem, for he wolde se The whos stomak was best defied: And whanne he hath the sothe tryed, He fond that he which goth the pass Defyed best of alle was, Which afterward he usede ay.

And thus what thing unto his pay Was most plesant, he lefte non: With every lust he was begon, 1210 Wherof the bodi myhte glade, For he non abstinence made; Bot most above alle erthli thinges Of wommen unto the likinges Nero sette al his hole herte, For that lust scholde him noght asterte. Whan that the thurst of love him cawhte, Wher that him list he tok a drauhte, He spareth nouther wif ne maide, That such an other, as men saide, 1220 In al this world was nevere yit. He was so drunke in al his wit Thurgh sondri lustes whiche he tok, That evere, whil ther is a bok, Of Nero men schul rede and singe Unto the worldes knowlechinge, Mi goode Sone, as thou hast herd. For evere yit it hath so ferd, Delicacie in loves cas Withoute reson is and was; 1230 For wher that love his herte set, Him thenkth it myhte be no bet; And thogh it be noght fulli mete, The lust of love is evere swete.

Lo, thus togedre of felaschipe Delicacie and drunkeschipe, Wherof reson stant out of herre, Have mad full many a wisman erre In loves cause most of alle: For thanne hou so that evere it falle, 1240 Wit can no reson understonde, Bot let the governance stonde To Will, which thanne wext so wylde, That he can noght himselve schylde Fro no peril, bot out of feere The weie he secheth hiere and there, Him recheth noght upon what syde: For oftetime he goth beside, And doth such thing withoute drede, Wherof him oghte wel to drede. 1250 Bot whan that love assoteth sore, It passeth alle mennes lore; What lust it is that he ordeigneth, Ther is no mannes miht restreigneth, And of the godd takth he non hiede: Bot laweles withoute drede, His pourpos for he wolde achieve Ayeins the pointz of the believe, He tempteth hevene and erthe and helle, Hierafterward as I schall telle. 1260

Who dar do thing which love ne dar? To love is every lawe unwar, Bot to the lawes of his heste The fissch, the foul, the man, the beste Of al the worldes kinde louteth. For love is he which nothing douteth: In mannes herte where he sit, He compteth noght toward his wit The wo nomore than the wele, No mor the hete than the chele, 1270 No mor the wete than the dreie, No mor to live than to deie, So that tofore ne behinde He seth nothing, bot as the blinde Withoute insyhte of his corage He doth merveilles in his rage. To what thing that he wole him drawe, Ther is no god, ther is no lawe, Of whom that he takth eny hiede; Bot as Baiard the blinde stede, 1280 Til he falle in the dich amidde, He goth ther noman wole him bidde; He stant so ferforth out of reule, Ther is no wit that mai him reule. And thus to telle of him in soth, Ful many a wonder thing he doth, That were betre to be laft, Among the whiche is wicchecraft, That som men clepen Sorcerie, Which forto winne his druerie 1290 With many a circumstance he useth, Ther is no point which he refuseth.

The craft which that Saturnus fond, To make prickes in the Sond, That Geomance cleped is, Fulofte he useth it amis; And of the flod his Ydromance, And of the fyr the Piromance, With questions echon of tho He tempteth ofte, and ek also 1300 Aëremance in juggement To love he bringth of his assent: For these craftes, as I finde, A man mai do be weie of kinde, Be so it be to good entente. Bot he goth al an other wente; For rathere er he scholde faile, With Nigromance he wole assaile To make his incantacioun With hot subfumigacioun. 1310 Thilke art which Spatula is hote, And used is of comun rote Among Paiens, with that craft ek Of which is Auctor Thosz the Grek, He worcheth on and on be rowe: Razel is noght to him unknowe, Ne Salomones Candarie, His Ydeac, his Eutonye; The figure and the bok withal Of Balamuz, and of Ghenbal 1320 The Seal, and therupon thymage Of Thebith, for his avantage He takth, and somwhat of Gibiere, Which helplich is to this matiere. Babilla with hire Sones sevene, Which hath renonced to the hevene, With Cernes bothe square and rounde, He traceth ofte upon the grounde, Makende his invocacioun; And for full enformacioun 1330 The Scole which Honorius Wrot, he poursuieth: and lo, thus Magique he useth forto winne His love, and spareth for no Sinne. And over that of his Sotie, Riht as he secheth Sorcerie Of hem that ben Magiciens, Riht so of the Naturiens Upon the Sterres from above His weie he secheth unto love, 1340 Als fer as he hem understondeth. In many a sondry wise he fondeth: He makth ymage, he makth sculpture, He makth writinge, he makth figure, He makth his calculacions, He makth his demonstracions; His houres of Astronomie He kepeth as for that partie Which longeth to thinspeccion Of love and his affeccion; 1350 He wolde into the helle seche The devel himselve to beseche, If that he wiste forto spede, To gete of love his lusti mede: Wher that he hath his herte set, He bede nevere fare bet Ne wite of other hevene more.

Mi Sone, if thou of such a lore Hast ben er this, I red thee leve.

Min holi fader, be youre leve 1360 Of al that ye have spoken hiere Which toucheth unto this matiere, To telle soth riht as I wene, I wot noght o word what ye mene. I wol noght seie, if that I couthe, That I nolde in mi lusti youthe Benethe in helle and ek above To winne with mi ladi love Don al that evere that I mihte; For therof have I non insihte 1370 Wher afterward that I become, To that I wonne and overcome Hire love, which I most coveite.

Mi Sone, that goth wonder streite: For this I mai wel telle soth, Ther is noman the which so doth, For al the craft that he can caste, That he nabeith it ate laste. For often he that wol beguile Is guiled with the same guile, 1380 And thus the guilour is beguiled; As I finde in a bok compiled To this matiere an old histoire, The which comth nou to mi memoire, And is of gret essamplerie Ayein the vice of Sorcerie, Wherof non ende mai be good. Bot hou whilom therof it stod, A tale which is good to knowe To thee, mi Sone, I schal beknowe. 1390