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That of yelownesse ne had nevir pere;
Ye be my life, ye be my here'is stere ;
Quene of comfort and of gode companye,
Be hevy againe, or els mote I die.

Nowe purse, that art to me my lyv'is light,
And savyour, as downe in this worlde here,
Out of this townè helpe me by your might,
Sithin that you wol not be my trefoure,
For I am shave as nighe as any frere,
But I prayin unto your curtisye
Be hevy againe, or els mote I die.



Chaucer unt, the Kinge. O Conquèrour of Brut'is Albion! Whiche that by lyne and fre eleccion Ben very kinge, this unto you I sende, And

ye whiche that may al harmis amende Have minde upon my supplication.



A balade made by Chaucer, teching what is gentilnes, or

who is worthy to be caled gentil.
Tue firstè socke, fathir of gentilnes,
What man defrith gentill for to be,
Mus folowe' his trace, and all his wittis dres


Vertue to love and vicis for to fie,
For unto vertue longith dignite,
And not the revers, såfly dare I deme,
Al were he mitir, crowne, or diademe.

This firstè stocke was full of rightwisnes,
Trewe of his worde, sobir, pitous, and fre,
Clene of his goste, and lovid befinesse,
Against the vice of flouth in honefte,
And but his eyre love vertue as did he
He is not gentyl though he richè feme,
Al were he mitir, crowne, or diademe.
may wel be

eyre to olde Richesse,
But ther may no man, as men may well fe,
Byquethe his eire his vertuous noblesse,
That is appropried unto no degre
But to the first fathir in majeste,
That makith his


him that can him queme, Al were he mitir, crowne, or diademe.




A proverbe agayrli covetise and negligence.
What shal thes clothes thus manifolde
Lo, this hote fomirs daye!

hetè comith colde; No man caste his pilche awaye.

Of al this world the large compasse
Wil not in myne armes tweine,
Who fo mokil wol enbrace
Lite therof Ihall distreine.


A balade wbiche Chaucer made against women uncon

Madame, ye have for your newfanglenesse
Many a servaunt put out of your grace;
I take my leve of your unftedfastnesse,
For well I wote while ye to live have space
Ye can not love full halse yere in a place;
To new thing is your lufte is evere kene;
In ftede of blew thus may ye were al grene. 7

Ryght as a mirour that nothing may' enpresse,
But lightli as it cometh so mote it passe,
So fareih your love, your workis bereth witnes;
Ther is no faithè may youre herte enbrace,
But as a wedircock, that turneth his face
With every winde, ye fare, and that is fene;
In sted of blew thus may ye were al grene.

Ye might be Mrinid for your brotilneffe
Bettir than Dalila, Cresseide, or Candace,
For ever in chaunging itondeth your fikirneffe,
That tatche may no wight from your
If ye lose one ye can wel tweine purchace,
Al light for somar, ye’ wot wel what I mene;
in stede of blewe thus may ye were al grene.



hert arace;

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Here foloweth a balade whiche Chaucer made in the praise

or rather difpreise of women for ther doublenes.
This world is full of variaunce
In everye thinge, who takith hede,
That faithe and truste, and a!l constaunce,
Exilid ben, this is no drede,
And save only in womanhed
I can yse no sikirnes;
But for al that yet, as I rede,
Beware alwaye of doublenes.

Also that the freshe fomir flourcs,
The white and rede, the blewe and grene,
Ben fodenly with wintir fhours
Made feinte and fade, withoutin wene,
That truft is none, as ye may sene,
In no thing, nor no stedfastnes,
Except in women, thus I mene;

16 Yet aye beware of doublenes.

The crokid mone, this is no tale,
Some while ifhene and bright of hewe,
And aftir that ful derke and pale,
And every monith chaungith newe,
That who the veray sothè knew
Althinge is bilt on brotlenes,
Save that women alwaye be trewe;
Yet aye beware of doublenes,



The lasty freshè sommirs daye,
And Phæbus with his bemis clere,
Towardis night they drawe awaye,
And non lengir list to appere,
That in this prefentę life now here
Nothinge abieth in his fairenes,
Save women aye be found intere,
And devoide of alle doublenes.

The se eke with his sternè wawes
Eche daye yflowith new againe,
And by the concours of his lawes
The ebbe yflowith in certeine;
Aftir grete drought there cometh a raine;
That farewel here al stabilnes,
Save that women be whole and pleine;
Yet aye beware of doublenes,

Fortune's whele goith round aboute
A thousand timis daye and nighte,
Whose cours standith evir in doute
For to tranfmew, she is so lighte,
For whiche advertith in your sight
The' untrust of worldely fikilnes,
Save women, whiche of kindely right
Ne hath no ceche of doublenes,

What man ymay the wind restreine,
Or holdin a snake by the taile?
Who may a flippir ele consreine
That it will voide withoutin faile


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