But it a fend be, as himselven is.
Ful many a man hath he begiled er this,
And wol, if that he may live any while :
And yet men gon and riden many a mile
Him for to seke, and have his acquaintance,
Not knowing of his false governance.
And if you lust to yeve me audience,
I wol it tellen here in your presence.

But, worshipful Chanons religious,
Ne demeth not that I sclander your hous,
Although that my tale of a Chanon be.
Of every order som shrew is parde:
And God forbede that all a compagnie
Shuld rewe a singuler mannes folie.
To sclander you is no thing min entent,
But to correcten that is mis I ment.
This tale was not only told for you,
But eke for other mo: ye wote wel how
That among Cristes aposteles twelve
Ther was no traitour but Judas himselve:
Than why shuld al the remenant have blame,
That giltles were? by you I say the same.
Save only this, if ye wol herken me,
If any Judas in your covent be,
Remeveth him betimes, I you rede,
If shame or los may causen any drede.
And be no thing displesed I you pray,
But in this cas herkeneth what I say.

In London was a preest, an annuellere,
That therin dwelled hadde many a yere,
Which was so plesant and so servisable
Unto the wif, ther as he was at table,
That she wold suffer him no thing to pay
For borde ne clothing, went he never so gay;
And spending silver had he right ynow:
Therof no force; I wol proceed as now,
And tellen forth my tale of the Chanon,
That broughte this preest to confusion.
This false Chanon came upon a day
Unto the preestes chambre, ther he lay,
Beseching him to lene him a certain
Of gold, and he wold quite it him again.
Lene me a marke, quod he, but dayes three,
And at my day I wol it quiten thee.
And if it so be, that thou finde me false,
Another day hang me up by the halse.

This preest him toke a marke, and that as swith,

And this Chanon him thanked often sith,
And toke his leve, and wente forth his wey :
And at the thridde day brought his money;
And to the preest he toke his gold again,
Wherof this preest was wonder glad and fain.
Certes, quod he, nothing ancieth me
To lene a man a noble, or two, or three,
Or what thing were in my possession,
Whan he so trewe is of condition,
That in no wise he breken wol his day:
To swiche a man I can never say nay.
What? quod this Chanon, shuld I be untrewe?
Nay, that were thing fallen al of the newe.
Trouth is a thing that I wol ever kepe
Unto the day in which that I shal crepe
Into my grave, and elles God forbede:
Beleveth this as siker as your crede.
God thanke I, and in good time be it sayde,
That ther n'as never man yet evil apayde
For gold ne silver that he to me lent,
Ne never falshede in min herte I ment.

And, sire, (quod he) now of my privetee, Sin ye so goodlich have ben unto me, And kithed to me so gret gentillesse, Somwhat, to quiten with your kindenesse, I wol you shewe, and if you lust to lere I wol you techen pleinly the manere, How I can werken in philosophie. Taketh good heed, ye shuln wel sen at eye, That I wol do a maistrie or I go.

Ye? quod the preest, ye, sire, and wol ye so? Mary therof I pray you hertily.

At your commandement, sire, trewely, Quod the Chanon, and elles God forbede. Lo, how this thefe coude his service bede. Ful soth it is that swiche profered service Stinketh, as witnessen thise olde wise; And that ful sone I wol it verifie In this Chanon, rote of all trecherie, That evermore delight hath and gladnesse (Swiche fendly thoughtes in his herte empresse) How Cristes peple he may to meschief bring. God kepe us from his false dissimuling. Nought wiste this preest with whom that he delt, Ne of his harme coming nothing he felt. O sely preest, o sely innocent, With covetise anon thou shalt be blent; O graceles, ful blind is thy conceite, For nothing art thou ware of the disceite, Which that this fox yshapen hath to thee; His wily wrenches thou ne mayst not flee. Wherfore to go to the conclusion That referreth to thy confusion, Unhappy man, anon I wol me hie To tellen thin unwit and thy folie, And eke the falsenesse of that other wretch, As ferforth as that my conning wol stretch.

This Chanon was my lord, ye wolden wene;
Sire hoste, in faith, and by the heven quene,
It was another Chanon, and not he,
That can an hundred part more subtiltee.
He hath betraied folkes many a time;
Of his falsenesse it dulleth me to rime.
Ever whan that I speke of his falshede
For shame of him my chekes waxen rede;
Algates they beginnen for to glowe,
For rednesse have I non, right wel I knowe,
In my visage, for fumes diverse

Of metals, which ye have herd me reherse,
Consumed han and wasted my rednesse.
Now take hede of this Chanons cursednesse.

Sire, quod the Chanon, let your yeman gon
For quiksilver, that we it had anon;
And let him bringen unces two or three ;
And whan he cometh, as faste shul ye see
A wonder thing, which ye saw never er this.
Sire, quod the preest, it shal be don ywis.
He bad his servant fetchen him this thing,
And he al redy was at his bidding,
And went him forth, and came anon again
With this quiksilver, shortly for to sain,
And toke thise unces three to the Chanoun;
And he hem laide wel and faire adoun,
And bad the servant coles for to bring,
That he anon might go to his werking.
The coles right anon weren yfet,

And this Chanon toke out a crosselet
Of his bosome, and shewed it to the preest.
This instrument, quod he, which that thou seest,
Take in thyn hond, and put thyself therin
Of this quiksilver an unce, and here begin

In the name of Crist to wex a philosophre.
Ther be ful fewe, which that I wolde profre
To shewen hem thus muche of my science :
For here shul ye see by experience,
That this quiksilver I wol mortifie,
Right in your sight anon withouten lie,
And make it as good silver and as fine,
As ther is any in your purse or mine,
Or elles wher; and make it malliable ;
And elles holdeth me false and unable
Amonges folk for ever to appere.

I have a pouder here that cost me dere,
Shal make all good, for it is cause of all
My conning, which that I you shewen shall.
Voideth your man, and let him be therout;
And shet the dore, while we ben about
Our privetee, that no man us espie,
While that we werke in this philosophie.
All, as he bade, fulfilled was in dede.
This ilke servant anon right out yede,
And his maister shette the dore anon,
And to hir labour spedily they gon.

This preest at this cursed Chanons bidding,
Upon the fire anon he set this thing,
And blew the fire, and besied him ful fast.
And this Chanon into the crosselet cast
A pouder, n'ot I never wherof it was
Ymade, other of chalk, other of glas,
Or somwhat elles, was not worth a flie,

To blinden with this preest; and bade him hie
The coles for to couchen all above

The crosselet; for in tokening I thee love
(Quod this Chanon) thine owen hondes two
Shal werken all thing which that here is do.
Grand mercy, quod the preest, and was ful glad,
And couched the coles as the Chanon bad.
And while he besy was, this fendly wretch,
This false Chanon (the foule fend him fetch)
Out of his bosom toke a bechen cole,
In which ful subtilly was made an hole,
And therin put was of silver limaile
An unce, and stopped was withouten faile
The hole with wax, to kepe the limaile in.

And understandeth, that this false gin
Was not made ther, but it was made before;
And other thinges I shal tell you more
Hereafterward, which that he with him brought;
Er he came ther, him to begile he thought,
And so he did, or that they went atwin:
Til he had torned him, coud he not blin.
It dulleth me, whan that I of him speke;
On his falshede fain wold I me awreke,
If I wist how, but he is here and ther,
He is so variaunt, he abit no wher.

But taketh hede, sires, now for Goddes love.
He toke his cole, of which I spake above,
And in his hond he bare it prively,
And whiles the preest couched besily
The coles, as I tolde you er this,
This Chanon sayde; frend, ye don amis;
This is not couched as it ought to be,
But sone I shal amenden it, quod he.
Now let me meddle therwith but a while,
For of you have I pitee by Seint Gile.
Ye ben right hot, I see wel how ye swete;
Have here a cloth and wipe away the wete.

And whiles that the preest wiped his face,
This Chanon toke his cole, with sory grace,
And laied it above on the midward

Of the crosselet, and blew wel afterward,

Til that the coles gonnen fast to bren.

Now yeve us drinke, quod this Chanon then,
As swithe all shal be wel, I undertake.
Sitte we doun, and let us mery make.
And whanne that this Chanones bechen cole
Was brent, all the limaile out of the hole
Into the crosselet anon fell adoun;
And so it muste nedes by resoun,
Sin it above so even couched was ;
But therof wist the preest nothing, alas!
He demed all the coles ylike good,
For of the sleight he nothing understood.

And whan this Alkymistre saw his time,
Riseth up, sire preest, quod he, and stondeth by me;
And for I wote wel ingot have ye non,
Goth, walketh forth, and bringeth a chalk ston;
For I wol make it of the same shap,
That is an ingot, if I may have hap.
Bring eke with you a bolle or elles a panne
Ful of water, and ye shul wel see thanne
How that our besinesse shal thrive and preve.
And yet, for ye shul have no misbeleve
No wrong conceit of me in your absence,
1 ne wol not ben out of your presence,
But go with you, and come with you again.
The chambre dore, shortly for to sain,
They opened and shet, and went hir wey,
And forth with hem they caried the key,
And camen again withouten any delay.
What shuld I tarien all the longe day!
He toke the chalk, and shope it in the wise
Of an ingot, as I shal you devise;
I say, he toke out of his owen sleve
A teine of silver (yvel mote he cheve)
Which that ne was but a just unce of weight.
And taketh heed now of his cursed sleight;
He shop his ingot, in length and in brede
Of thilke teine, withouten any drede,
So slily, that the preest it not espide;
And in his sleve again he gan it hide;
And from the fire he toke up his matere,
And in the ingot it put with mery chere :
And in the water-vessel he it cast,
Whan that him list, and bad the preest as fast,
Loke what ther is put in thin hond and grope ;
Thou shalt ther finden silver as I hope.
What, divel of helle! shuld it elles be?
Shaving of silver, silver is parde.

He put his hond in, and toke up a teine
Of silver fine, and glad in every veine
Was this preest, whan he saw that it was so.
Goddes blessing, and his mothers also,
And alle Halwes, have ye, sire Chanon,
Sayde this preest, and I hir malison,
But, and ye vouchesauf to techen me
This noble craft and this subtilitee,
I wol be your in all that ever I may.

Quod the Chanon, yet wol I make assay
The second time, that ye mow taken hede,
And ben expert of this, and in your nede
Another day assay in min absence
This discipline, and this crafty science.
Let take another unce, quod he tho,
Of quiksilver, withouten wordes mo,
And do therwith as ye have don er this
With that other, which that now silver is.

The preest him besieth all that ever he can
To don as this Chanon, this cursed man,
Commandeth him, and faste blewe the fire,
For to come to the effect of his desire.

And this Chanon right in the mene while
Al redy was this preest eft to begile,
And for a countenance in his hond bare
An holow stikke, (take kepe and beware)
In the ende of which an unce and no more
Of silver limaile put was, as before
Was in his cole, and stopped with wax wel
For to kepe in his limaile every del.
And while this preest was in his besinesse,
This Chanon with his stikke gan him dresse
To him anon, and his pouder cast in,
As he did erst, (the devil out of his skin
Him torne, I pray to God, for his falshede,
For he was ever false in thought and dede)
And with his stikke, above the crosselet,
That was ordained with that false get,
He stirreth the coles, til relenten gan
The wax again the fire, as every man,
But he a fool be, wote wel it mote nede.
And all that in the stikke was out yede,
And in the crosselet hastily it fell.

Now, goode sires, what wol ye bet than wel?
Whan that this preest was thus begiled again,
Supposing nought but trouthe, soth to sain,
He was so glad, that I can not expresse
In no manere his mirth and his gladnesse,
And to the Chanon he profered eftsone
Body and good: ye, quod the Chanon, sone,
Though poure I be, crafty thou shalt me finde:
I warne thee wel, yet is ther more behinde.
Is ther any coper here within? sayd he.
Ye, sire, quod the preest, I trow ther be.
Elles
go beie us som, and that as swithe.
Now, goode sire, go forth thy way and hie the.
He went his way, and with the coper he came,
And this Chanon it in his hondes name,
And of that coper weyed out an unce.
To simple is my tonge to pronounce,
As minister of my wit, the doublenesse
Of this Chanon, rote of all cursednesse.

He semed frendly, to hem that knew him nought,
But he was fendly, both in werk and thought.
It werieth me to tell of his falsenesse ;
And natheles yet wol I it expresse,

To that entent men may beware therby,
And for non other cause trewely.

He put this coper into the crosselet,
And on the fire as swithe he hath it set,

And cast in pouder, and made the preest to blow,
And in his werking for to stoupen low,
As he did erst, and all n'as but a jape;
Right as him list the preest he made his ape.
And afterward in the ingot he it cast,
And in the panne put it at the last
Of water, and in he put his owen hond;
And in his sleve, as ye beforen hond
Herde me tell, he had a silver teine ;
He slily toke it out, this cursed heine,
(Unweting this preest of his false craft)
And in the pannes botome he it laft.
And in the water rombleth to and fro,
And wonder prively toke up also
The coper teine, (not knowing thilke preest)
And hid it, and him hente by the brest,
And to him spake, and thus said in his game;
Stoupeth adoun; by God ye be to blame;
Helpeth me now, as I did you whilere ;

Put in your hond, and loketh what is there.
This preest toke up this silver teine anon;
And thanne said the Chanon, let us gon

With thise three teines which that we han wrought,
To som goldsmith, and wete if they ben ought:
For by my faith I n'olde for my hood
But if they weren silver fine and good,
And that as swithe wel preved shal it be.

Unto the goldsmith with thise teines three
They went anon, and put hem in assay
To fire and hammer: might no man say nay,
But that they weren as hem ought to be.

This soted preest, who was gladder than he?
Was never brid gladder agains the day,
Ne nightingale in the seson of May
Was never non, that list better to sing,
Ne lady lustier in carolling,

Or for to speke of love and womanhede,
Ne knight in armes don a hardy dede
To stonden in grace of his lady dere,
Than hadde this preest this craft for to lere;
And to the Chanon thus he spake and seid;
For the love of God, that for us alle deid,
And as I may deserve it unto you,
What shal this receit cost? telleth me now.
By our lady, quod this Chanon, it is dere.
I warne you wel, that, save I and a frere,
In Englelond ther can no man it make.

No force, quod he; now, sire, for Goddes sake, What shall I pay? telleth me, I you pray.

Ywis, quod he, it is ful dere I say.
Sire, at o word, if that you list it have,
Ye shal pay fourty pound, so God me save;
And n'ere the frendship that ye did er this
To me, ye shulden payen more ywis.

This preest the sum of fourty pound anon
Of nobles fet, and toke hem everich on
To this Chanon, for this ilke receit.

All his werking n'as but fraud and deceit.

Sire preest, he said, I kepe for to have no loos
Of my craft, for I wold it were kept cloos;
And as ye love me, kepeth it secree :
For if men knewen all my subtiltee,
By God they wolden have so gret envie
To me, because of my philosophie,

I shuld be ded, ther were non other way.
God it forbede, quod the preest, what ye say.
Yet had I lever spenden all the good
Which that I have, (and elles were I wood)
Than that ye shuld fallen in swiche meschefe.
For your good will, sire, have ye right good prefe,
Quod the Chanon, and farewel, grand mercy.
He went his way, and never the preest him sey
After that day and whan that this preest shold
Maken assay, at swiche time as he wold,
Of this receit, farewel, it n'olde not be.
Lo, thus bejaped and begiled was he :
Thus maketh he his introduction
To bringen folk to hir destruction.

Considereth, sires, how that in eche estat
Betwixen men and gold ther is debat,
So ferforth that unnethes is ther non.
This multiplying so blint many on,
That in good faith I trowe that it be
The cause gretest of swiche scarsitee.
Thise philosophres speke so mistily

In this craft, that men cannot come therby,
For any wit that men have now adayes.
They mow wel chateren, as don thise jayes,
And in hir termes set hir lust and peine,
But to hir purpos shul they never atteine.
A man may lightly lerne, if he have ought,
To multiplie, and bring his good to nought.

Lo, swiche a lucre is in this lusty game;
A mannes mirth it wol turne al to grame,
And emptien also gret and hevy purses,
And maken folk for to purchasen curses
Of hem, that han therto hir good ylent.
O, fy for shame, they that han be brent,
Alas! can they not flee the fires hete ?
Ye that it use, I rede that ye it lete,
Lest ye lese all; for bet than never is late :
Never to thriven, were to long a date.
Though ye prolle ay, ye shul it never find:
Ye ben as bold as is Bayard the blind,
That blondereth forth, and peril casteth non:
He is as bold to renne agains a ston,
As for to go besides in the way :
So faren ye that multiplien, I say.
If that your eyen cannot seen aright,
Loketh that youre mind lacke not his sight.
For though ye loke never so brode and stare,
Ye shul not win a mite on that chaffare,
But wasten all that ye may rape and renne.
Withdraw the fire, lest it to faste brenne ;
Medleth no more with that art, I mene;
For if ye don, your thrift is gon ful clene.
And right as swithe I wol you tellen here
What philosophres sain in this matere.

Lo, thus saith Arnolde of the newe toun,
As his Rosarie maketh mentioun,
He saith right thus, withouten any lie;
Ther may no man Mercurie mortifie,
But it be with his brothers knowleching.

Lo, how that he, which firste said this thing,
Of philosophres father was Hermes :
He saith, how that the dragon douteles
Ne dieth not, but if that he be slain
With his brother. And this is for to sain,
By the dragon Mercury, and non other,
He understood, and brimstone by his brother,
That out of Sol and Luna were ydrawe.
And therfore, said he, take heed to my sawe.

Let no man besie him this art to seche,
But if that he the entention and speche
Of philosophres understonden can;
And if he do, he is a lewed man.

For this science and this conning (quod he)
Is of the secree of secrees parde.

Also ther was a disciple of Plato,
That on a time said his maister to,
As his book Senior wol bere witnesse,
And this was his demand in sothfastnesse :
Telle me the name of thilke privee ston.

And Plato answerd unto him anon;
Take the ston that Titanos men name.
Which is that? quod he. Magnetia is the same,
Saide Plato. Ye, sire, and is it thus?
This is ignotum per ignotius.
What is Magnetia, good sire, I pray?
It is a water that is made, I say,
Of the elementes foure, quod Plato.

Tell me the rote, good sire, quod he tho, Of that water, if that it be your will.

Nay, nay, quod Plato, certain that I n'ill. The philosophres were sworne everich on, That they ne shuld discover it unto non, Ne in no book it write in no manere ; For unto God it is so lefe and dere, That he wol not that it discovered be, But wher it liketh to his deitee Man for to enspire, and eke for to defende Whom that him liketh; lo, this is the ende. Than thus conclude I, sin that God of heven Ne wol not that the philosophres neven, How that a man shal come unto this ston, I rede as for the best to let it gon. For who so maketh God his adversary, As for to werken any thing in contrary Of his will, certes never shal he thrive, Though that he multiply terme of his live. And ther a point; for ended is my tale. God send every good man bote of his bale.

THE MANCIPLES PROLOGUE.

WETE ye not wher stondeth a litel toun,
Which that ycleped is Bob up and doun,
Under the blee, in Canterbury way?
Ther gan our hoste to jape and to play,
And sayde; sires, what? Dun is in the mire.
Is ther no man for praiere ne for hire,
That wol awaken our felaw behind?
A thefe him might ful lightly rob and bind.
See how he nappeth, see, for cockes bones,
As he wold fallen from his hors atones.
Is that a coke of London, with meschance ?
Do him come forth, he knoweth his penance;
For he shal tell a tale by my fey,
Although it be not worth a botel hey.
Awake thou coke, quod he, God yeve thee sorwe,
What aileth thee to slepen by the morwe?

Hast thou had fleen al night, or art thou dronke! Or hast thou with som quene al night yswonke, So that thou mayst not holden up thin hed

This coke, that was ful pale and nothing red, Sayd to our hoste; so God my soule blesse, As ther is falle on me swiche hevinesse, N'ot I nat why, that me were lever to slepe, Than the best gallon wine that is in Chepe.

Wel, quod the Manciple, if it may don ese
To thee, sire Coke, and to no wight displese,
Which that here rideth in this compagnie,
And that our hoste wol of his curtesie,

I wol as now excuse thee of thy tale;
For in good faith thy visage is ful pale:
Thine eyen dasen, sothly as me thinketh,
And wel I wot, thy breth ful soure stinketh,
That sheweth wel thou art not wel disposed:
Of me certain thou shalt not ben yglosed.
See how he galpeth, lo, this dronken wight,
As though he wold us swalow anon right.

Hold close thy mouth, man, by thy father kin :
The devil of helle set his foot therin !
Thy cursed breth enfecten woll us alle :
Fy stinking swine, fy, foul mote thee befalle.
A, taketh heed, sires, of this lusty man,
Now, swete sire, wol ye just at the fan?
Therto, me thinketh, ye be wel yshape.
I trow that ye have dronken win of ape,
And that is whan men playen with a straw.
And with this speche the coke waxed all wraw,
And on the Manciple he gan nod fast

For lacke of speche; and doun his hors him cast,
Wher as he lay, til that men him up toke.
This was a faire chivachee of a coke :
Alas that he ne had hold him by his ladel!
Ard er that he agen were in the sadel,
Ther was gret shoving bothe to and fro
To lift him up, and mochel care and wo,
So unweldy was this sely palled gost:
And to the Manciple than spake our host.
Because that drinke hath domination
Upon this man, by my salvation
I trow he lewedly wol tell his tale.
For were it win, or old or moisty ale,
That he hath dronke, he speketh in his nose,
And sneseth fast, and eke he hath the pose.
He also hath to don more than ynough
To kepe him on his capel out of the slough:
And if he falle from of his capel eftsone,
Than shul we alle have ynough to done
In lifting up his hevy dronken cors.
Tell on thy tale, of him make I no force.
But yet, Manciple, in faith thou art to nice,
Thus openly to repreve him of his vice:
Another day he wol paraventure
Recleimen thee, and bring thee to the lure :
I mene, he speken wol of smale thinges,
As for to pinchen at thy rekeninges,
That were not honest, if it came to prefe.

Quod the Manciple, that were a gret meschefe :
So might he lightly bring me in the snare.
Yet had I lever payen for the mare,
Which he rit on, than he shuld with me strive.
I wol not wrathen him, so mote I thrive;
That that I spake, I sayd it in my bourd.
And wete ye what? I have here in my gourd
A draught of win, ye of a ripe grape,
And right anon ye shul seen a good jape.
This coke shal drinke therof, if that I may;
Up peine of my lif he wol not say nay.

And certainly, to tellen as it was,
Of this vessell the coke dranke fast, (alas!
What nedeth it? he dranke ynough beforne)
And whan he hadde pouped in his horne,
To the Manciple he toke the gourd again.
And of that drinke the coke was wonder fain,
And thonked him in swiche wise as he coude.
Than gan our hoste to laughen wonder loude,
And sayd; I see wel it is necessary
Wher that we gon good drinke with us to cary;
For that wol turnen rancour and disese

To accord and love, and many a wrong apese.
O Bacchus, Bacchus, blessed be thy name,
That so canst turnen ernest into game;
Worship and thonke be to thy deitee.
Of that matere ye get no more of me.
Tell on thy tale, Manciple, I thee pray.
Wel, sire, quod he, now herkeneth what I say.

THE MANCIPLES TALE.

WHAN Phebus dwelled here in erth adoun,
As olde bookes maken mentioun,
He was the moste lusty bacheler
Of all this world, and eke the best archer.
He slow Phiton the serpent, as he lay
Sleping agains the sonne upon a day;
And many another noble worthy dede
He with his bow wrought, as men mowen rede.
Playen he coude on every minstralcie,
And singen, that it was a melodie
To heren of his clere vois the soun.
Certes the king of Thebes, Amphioun,
That with his singing walled the citee,
Coud never singen half so wel as he.
Therto he was the semelieste man,
That is or was, sithen the world began ;
What nedeth it his feture to descrive ?
For in this world n'is non so faire on live.
He was therwith fulfilled of gentillesse,
Of honour, and of parfite worthinesse.

This Phebus, that was flour of bachelerie,
As wel in fredom, as in chivalrie,
For his disport, in signe eke of victorie
Of Phiton, so as telleth us the storie,
Was wont to beren in his hond a bowe.
Now had this Phebus in his hous a crowe,
Which in a cage he fostred many a day,
And taught it speken, as men teche a jay.
Whit was this crowe, as is a snow-whit swan,
And contrefete the speche of every man
He coude, whan he shulde tell a tale.
Therwith in all this world no nightingale
Ne coude by an hundred thousand del
Singen so wonder merily and wel.

Now had this Phebus in his hous a wif, Which that he loved more than his lif, And night and day did ever his diligence Hire for to plese, and don hire reverence: Save only, if that I the soth shal sain, Jelous he was, and wold have kept hire fain, For him were loth yjaped for to be; And so is every wight in swiche degree; But all for nought, for it availeth nought. A good wif, that is clene of werk and thought, Shuld not be kept in non await certain : And trewely the labour is in vain To kepe a shrewe, for it wol not be. This hold I for a veray nicetee, To spillen labour for to kepen wives; Thus writen olde clerkes in hir lives.

But now to purpos, as I first began.
This worthy Phebus doth all that he can
To plesen hire, wening thurgh swiche plesance,
And for his manhood and his governance,
That no man shulde put him from hire grace :
But God it wote, ther may no man embrace
As to destreine a thing, which that nature
Hath naturelly set in a creature.

Take any brid, and put it in a cage,
And do all thin entente, and thy corage,
To foster it tendrely with mete and drinke
Of alle deintees that thou canst bethinke,
And kepe it al so clenely as thou may;
Although the cage of gold be never so gay,
Yet had this brid, by twenty thousand fold,
Lever in a forest, that is wilde and cold,

L