An othir huge companie
Of gode folke, and began to crie
Ladie! grauntith us now gode Fame,
And let our workis have that name,
Now in honour of gentilneffe,
And al fo God your foule ybleffe,
For we han well defervid it,
Therefore is right that we be quit.
As thrive I (quod fhe) ye fhall faile,
Gode workis fhall you not availe
To have of me gode Fame as now;
But wote ye what? I grauntin yowe
That ye shall havin a fhrewde name,
And wickid loos and worfè Fame,
Though ye gode loos have well deserved;
Now goeth your waie, for ye ben ferved.
And thou Dan Æolus, (quod fhe)
Take forthe thy trompe anone, let fe,
That is iclepid Sclaundir light,
And blowe ther loos, that every wight
Speke of 'hem harme and fhreudineffe
In ftede of gode and worthineffe,
For thou shalt trumpe all the contraire
Of that thei have doen well and faire.
Alas! thought I, what avintures
Yhavin these forie cretures,
That thei emongis al the pres
Should thus be fhamid giltiles!
Blacke, blue, and grenifhe, fwartifhe, rede,
And prayin you it might be knowe
Right as it is, and forthe yblowe.
I graunte, (quod fhe) for now me lift
That your gode workis fhall be wift,
And yet ye fhall have bettir loos,
Right in difpite of all your foos,
Then worthie is, and that anone.
Let now (quod fhe) thy trumpè gone,
Full gladly, ladie myne! he faied;
And out his trumpe of golde he braied
Anone, and set it to his mouthe,
And blewe it eft, and weft, and fouthe,
And northe, as loude as any thonder,
That every wight hath of it wonder,
So brode it ran or that it ftent;
And certis all the breth that went
Out of his trump'is mouthe yfmelde
As men a potte full of baume helde
Emong a bafkit full of roses;
This favour did he to ther lofes.
And right with this I gan espie
There came the fowirth companie,
But certaine thei were wondir fewe,
And gonne to ftandin on a rewe,
And faidin, Certis, ladie bright!
We have doen well with all our might,
But we ne kepe to havin Fame;
Hidith our workis and our name
For Godd'is love, for certis we
Have furely doen it for bounte,
And for no manir othir thyng.
I grauntin you all your askyng,
(Quod fhe;) let your workis be dedde.
With that about I tourned my hedde,
And fawe anone the fivith rout,
That to this ladie gan to lout,
And doune on knees anone to fall,
And to her tho befoughtin all
To hidin ther gode workis eke,
And fayid, thei yeve not a leke
For no Fame, ne no foche renoun,
For thei for contemplacioun
And Godd'is love had it ywrought,
Ne of Fame wouldin thei have nought.
What! (quod fhe) and be ye fo wode?
And wenin ye for to doe gode
And for to have of that no Fame?
Have ye difpite to have my
Naie, ye fhail lyin everichone.
Elowith thy trum pe, and that anone,
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