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And fayid, Walkith forth a pace,

And tel thine advinture and cafe

That thou fhalte finde in Fam'is place.

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Nowe (quod I) while that we have space

To speke, or that I go fro the,

For the love of God tellith me

In fothe that I will of the lere,

If this ilke noise which that I here

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Be as I have herde the me tell,
Of folke that done in erthe ydwell,
And comith here in the fame wife
As I the herde or this devise,
And that here liv'is body n'is
In all that House that yondir is

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That makith al this loudè fare.

No, (answerid he) by Sainte Clare,

And al fo wiffely God rede me :

But o thinge I will warnè the,

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Of the whiche thou wilte have wondir,
Lo! to The House of Fame yondir

Thou wofte howe comith every speche,
It nedith not the efte to teche;

But understande now right wel this,

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Whan any speche ycomin is

Up to the palais, anone right

It wexith like the famè wight

Whiche that the worde in erth yfpake,
Be he clothid in red or blake,

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And hath so very his likenesse

That spake the worde, that thou wilte geffe

That it the famè body be,

Wher man or woman, he or fhe.

And is not this a wondir thinge?

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Yes, (quod I) tho by hevin kinge:
And with this worde Farewel, (quod he)
And here wil I abydin the,

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THOU, god of Science and of Light,
Apollo! thorough thy grete might
This litil last boke now thou gye,
Nowe that I will for maiftèrie
Here arte potenciall be shewde,
But for the rime is lyght and lewde
Yet make it fomwhat agreable,
Though fome verfe faile in a syllable,
And that I do no diligence

To fhewin craftè but fentence;
And if that divine virtue thou

Wilte helpin me to shewin nowe

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That in my hed ymarkid is,

Lo! that is for to menin this,

The House of Fame for to difcrive,

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Thou shalt yfe me go as blive

Unto the next laurir I fe,

And kyffe it for it is thy tre:
Nowe entre in my brest anone,

Whan I was from the egle gone
I gan beholde upon this place,
And certaine or I furthir passe
I wol you al the shape devise

Of House and cite, and al the wise
Howe I gan to this place approche,
That flode upon fo hie a roche,
Hyir yftandith none in Spaine;
But up I clambe with mochil paine,
And though to clime ygrevid me
Yet I ententife was to se,

And for to porin wondre lowe,

If I coude any wife yknowe

What manir stone this roche ywas,

For it was lyke a limid glas,
But that it fhone ful morè clere,

But of what congelid matere

It was I ne wifte redily;
But at the laste espyid I,
And founde that it was everydele
A roche of yfe and not of stele:

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Thought I, by Saint Thomas of Kent
This were a feble foundèment

To buildin on a place fo hie;

He ought hym lite to glorifie

That heron builte, God fo me fave.
Tho fawe I all the hall igrave
With famous folkis namis fele
That haddin ben in mochil wele,
And ther famis full wide iblowe,
But well unnethis might I knowe
Any lettiris for to rede
Ther namis by, for out of drede
Thei werin almofte of thawed fo
That of the lettirs one or two
Were molte awaie of every name,
So unfamous was wexe ther fame;
But men faie, What maie evir laft?

Tho gan I in myne hertè caft
That thei were molte awaie for hete,
And not awaie with ftormis bete,
For on that othir fide I fey
Of this hill, that northward yley,
How it was writin full of names

Of folke that had afore grete

fames

Of oldè tyme, and yet thei were

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As freshe as men had written 'hem there

The felf daie, or that verry houre,

That I on 'hem began to poure;

But well I wiftè what it made,
It was confervid with the fhade,
All the writyng which that I fie,
Of a caftill that stode on hie,
And ftode eke in fo cold a place
That hete ne might it not deface.
Tho gan I on this hill to gone,
And found upon the coppe a wone,
That all the men that ben on live
Ne han the connyng to difcrive
The beaute of that ilkè place,
Ne coudin castin no compace
Soche an othir for to ymake
That might of beautie be his make,
Ne one fo wondirly iwrought,
That it aftonieth yet my thought,
And makith all my witte to fwinke,
Upon this castill for to thinke,
So that the wondir grete beautie,
Cafte, craft, and curiofitie,
Ne can I not to you devife,
My witte ne maie me not suffise,
But nathèleffe all the fubftaunce

I have yet in my remembraunce;

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For why? me thoughtin, by Sain& Gile,

That all was stone of berile

Bothe the caftill and the toure,

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And eke the hall and every boure,

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