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And if ye lifte releve hym of his pain
Praie ye his best frende of his noblenesse
That to some bettir state he maie attain.




To brokin ben the statutes hie in heven
That create were eternally t'endure,
Sith that I fe the brightè goddis seven
Mowe wepe and waile and passion endurc,
As maie in yerth a mortall crcäture;
Alas! fro whenis maie this thing procede,
Of whiche errour I die almofte for drede?

By words eterne whilom was it yshape
That fro the fifth circle in no manere
Ne might of teris nothing doune escape,
But now so wepith Venus in her sphere
That with her teris she woll drench us here:
Alas, Scogan! this is for thine offence;
Thou caufill this deluge of pestilence.

Hast thou not faied in blafpheme of the goddis,
Through pride or thorough thy gret rekilnes,
Soche thinges as in the law of Love forbode is,
That for thy ladie fawe not thy diftresse
Therefore thou yave her up at Mighelmesse?
Alas, Scogan! of oldè folke ne yong
Was nevir erst Scogan blamed for his tong.

Thou drewe in scorne Cupide eke to recorde Of thilke rebell worde that thou haft spoken, For whiche he woll no lengir be thy lorde ;


And, Scogan, though his bowe be not ybroken
He woll not with his arowes be iwroken
On thee ne me, ne none of our figure;
We shall of hym have neithir hurte ne cure.

Now certis, frende, I drede of thine unhappe,
Left for thy gilte the wreche of Love procede
On all 'hem that ben hore and round of shap,
That be so likely folkè for to spede,
Then we fall of our labour have our mede;
But well I wot thou wolt answere and saie,
Lo! oldè Grifill lift to renge and plaie.

35 Naie, Scogan, saie not so, for I me' excuse, God helpe me fo, in no rime doutiles, Ne thinke I nevir of flepe wake my Muse, That rustith in my sheth ftill and in pese; While I was yong' put her forthe in prese, But al shall passin that men prose or rime, That every man his tourne as for his tyme. 42

Scogan, thou knelist at the Atrem'is hedde Of grace, of honour, and of worthineffc, In the ende of whiche I am dull as dedde, Forgotten in solitarie wildirnesse; Yet, Scogan, thinke on Tullius kindepesse, Mynd thy frendè there it maie fructifie; Farwell, and loke thou ner eft Love defie. 49


Go forthe, kyng, and rule the by fapience;
Bishoppe, be able to miniftir doctrine;
Lorde, to true counfaile yeve thou audience ;
Womanhode, to chastitie er encline;
Knight, let thy dedis worship determine ;
Be rightous, judge, in savyng of thy name;
Rich, do almose, left thou lese bliffe with shame; 7

Peple, obei your kyng and the the lawe;
Age, be rulid by gode religion;
True fervaunt, be dredfull, kepe the’ undir awe;
And thou, povir, fie on presumpcion;
Inobedience to youth is uttir deftruccion :
Remembir you how God hath set you, lo!
And doe your parte as ye be ordained to.


Chaucer to his emptie purse.

you my purse, and to none othir wight,
Complain I, for ye be my ladie dere;
I am sorie now that ye be so light,
For certis ye now make me hevie chere;
Me were as lefe be laide upon a here,
For whiche unto your mercy thus I crie,
Be hevy againe, or els mote I die.

Nowe vouchsafia this day or it be night of you the blisful sowne may here,
Or fe your colour lyke the funnè bright,

7 14

That of yelownesse ne had nevir pere;
Ye be my life, ye be my hert'is ftere;
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 tresoure,
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 stocke, fathir of gentilnes,
What man desirith gentill for to be,
Muf folowe' his trace, and all his wittis dres

Vertue to love and vicis for to file,
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 besineffe,
Against the vice of south in honeste,
And but his eyre love vertue as did he
He is not gentyl though he richè feme,
Al were he mitir, crowne, or diademe.

wel be eyre to olde Richesse,
But ther may no man, as men may well se,
Byquethe his eire his vertuous noblesse,
That is appropried unto no degre
But to the first fathir in majeste,
That makith his eyre him that can him queme,
Al were he mitir, crowne, or diademe.




A proverbe agaynfi covetise and negligence.
What Mal ches clothes thus manifolde
Lo, this hote somirs daye!
Aftir grete hetè comith colde;
No man caste his pilche awaye.

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


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