To save a gentil man, enforth hir might,
In honest cause, and, namely, in his right,
Me thinketh no wight ought us herof blame,
Ne bearen us therefore an yvel name.”
And shortly of this mater for to make,
This Theseus of her hath leave ytake,
And every point was performed in dede,
As ye have in this covenaunt herde me rede,
His wepen, his clewe, his thing that I have said,
Was by the gailer in the house ylaid,
There as the Minotaure hath his dwelling,
Right fast by the dore, at his entring,
And Theseus is lad unto his dethe,
And forth unto this Minotaure he gethe,
And by the teaching of this Adriane,
He overcame this beest, and was his bane,
And out he cometh by the clewe againe
Ful prively, whan he this beest hath slaine,
Aud the gailer gotten hath a barge,
And of his wives treasure gan it charge,
And toke his wife, and eke her suster free,
And by the gailer, and with hem al three
Is stole away out of the lond by night,
And to the countre of Enupie him dight,
There as he had a frende of his knowing,

There feesten they, there daunsen they and sing,
And in his armes hath this Adriane,

That of the beest hath kept him fro his bane,
And get him there a noble barge anone,
And of his countrey folke a ful great wone,
And taketh his leave, and homeward saileth hee,
And in an yle, amidde the wilde see,
There as there dwelt creature none,
Save wild beestes, and that full many one,
He made his shippe a londe for to sette,
And in that yle halfe a day he lette,

And said, that on the londe he must him rest.
His mariners have done right as him lest,
And for to tell shortly in this caas,
Whan Ariadne his wife a slepe was,
For that her suster fayrer was than she,

He taketh her in his honde, and forth goeth he
To ship, and as a traitour stale away,
While that this Ariadne a slepe lay,
And to his countrey warde he sailed blive,
A twenty divel way the winde him drive,
And found his father drenched in the see.
Me list no more to speke of him, parde,
These false lovers, poison be hir bane.

But I wol turne againe to Adriane,
That is with slepe for werinesse ytake,
Ful sorowfully her herte may awake.

Alas, for thee mine herte hath pite, Right in the dawning awaketh she, And gropeth in the bed, and fond right nought: "Alas," quod she, "that ever I was wrought, I am betrayed," and her heere to rent, And to the stronde barefote fast she went, And cried: "Theseus, mine herte swete, Where be ye, that I may nat with you mete?" And might thus with beestes ben yslaine.

The holowe rockes answerde her againe, No man she saw, and yet shone the moone, And hie upon a rocke she went soone, And sawe his barge sayling in the see, Cold woxe her herte, and right thus said she : "Meker then ye find I the beestes wilde." Hath he nat sinne, that he her thus begilde? She cried, "O turne againe for routhe and sinne, Thy barge hath nat all his meinie in !"

Her kerchefe on a pole sticked she, Ascaunce he should it well yse,

And him remembre that she was behind,
And turne againe, and on the stronde her find.
But all for naught, his way he is gone,
And downe she fel a swowne on a stone,
And up she riste, and kissed in all her care
The steppes of his feete, there he hath fare,
And to her bed right thus she speketh tho:

"Thou bed," quod she, "that hast received two, Thou shalt answere of two, and not of one, Where is the greater parte away gone?

"Alas, wher shal I wretched wight become!
For though so be that bote none here come,
Home to my countrey dare I nat for drede,
I can my selfe in this case nat rede."

What should I tell more her complaining!
It is so long, it were an heavy thing;
In her epistle, Naso telleth all,
But shortly to the end tell I shall,
The goddes have her holpen for pite,
And in the signe of Taurus men may see
The stones of her crowne shine clere,
I will no more speake of this matere,
But thus this false lover can begile
His trew love, the divel quite him his wile.

THE LEGEND OF PHILOMENE.

THOU yever of the formes, that hast wrought
The fayre world, and bare it in thy thought
Eternally, er thou thy werke began,
Why madest thou unto the slaunder of man,
Or all be that it was not thy doing,
As for that end to make suche a thing,
Why suffredest thou that Tereus was bore,
That is in love so false and so forswore,
That fro this world up to the first Heven,
Corrumpeth, whan that folke his name neven?
And as to me, so grisly was his dede,
That whan that I this foule storie rede
Mine eyen wexen foule, and sore also,
Yet lasteth the venime of so longe ago,
That enfecteth him that wolde behold
The storie of Tereus, of which I told,
Of Trace was he lord, and kin to Marte,
The cruel god that stante with blody darte,
And wedded had he with blisfull chere
King Pandionis faire doughter dere,
That hight Progne, floure of her countre,
Though Juno list not at the feast be,
Ne Hymeneus, that god of wedding is,
But at the feast ready ben, ywis,

The furies three, with all hir mortall bronde,
The oule all night above the balkes wonde,
That prophete is of wo and of mischaunce;
This revell, full of song and full of daunce,
Last a fourtenight, or little lasse;
But shortly of this storie for to passe,
(For I am weary of him for to tell)
Five yere his wife and he togither dwell,
Till on a day she gan so sore long

To seene her suster, that she saw not long,
That for desire she n'ist what to say,
But to her husbond gan she for to pray
For Gods love, that she mote ones gone
Her suster for to seene, and come ayen anone,

Or else, but she mote to her wend,

She praied him that he would after her send :
And this was, day by day, all her prayere,
With al humblesse of wifehood, word and chere.
This Tereus let make his ships yare,
And into Grece himselfe is forth yfare,
Unto his father-in-law gan he pray,
To vouchsafe, that for a moneth or tway,
That Philomene his wives suster might
On Progne his wife but ones have a sight,
"And she shall come to you again, anon,
My selfe with her, I will both come and gon,
And as my hertes life I will her kepe."

This old Pandion, this king gan wepe
For tendernesse of herte, for to leve
His doughter gon, and for to yeve her leve;
Of all this world he loved nothing so,
But, at the last, leave hath she to go,
For Philomene, with salt teares eke,
Gan of her father grace to beseke
To seene her suster, that her longeth so,
And him embraceth with her armes two;
And there also yong and faire was she,
That whan that Tereus saw her beaute,
And of array, that there was none her liche,
And yet of beautie was she to so riche,
He cast his fierie herte upon her so,
That he woll have her, how so that it go,
And with his wiles kneled, and so praied,
Till at the last Pandion thus saied.

Full prively in prison evermore,
And kept her to his usage and to his store,
So that she ne might never more astarte.
O sely Philomene, wo is in thine herte,
Huge been thy sorowes, and wonder smart!
God wreke thee, and sende thee thy boone!
Now is time I make an end soone.

This Tereus is to his wife ycome,
And in his armes hath his wife ynome,
And pitiously he wept, and shoke his hedde,
And swore her that he found her suster dedde,
For which this selie Progne hath soch wo,
That nigh her sorowfull herte brake a two.
And thus in teares let I Progne dwell,
And of her suster forth I woll you tell.

This wofull lady ylearned had in youth,
So that she worken and enbrauden couth,
And weaven in stole the radevore,
As it of women hath be woved yore,
And sothly for to saine, she hath her fill
Of meate and drinke, of clothing at her will,
And couthe eke rede well ynough and endite,
But with a penne she could not write,
But letters can she weave to and fro,
So that by the yere was all ago,
She had woven in a flames large,

How she was brought fro Athens in a barge,
And in a cave how that she was brought,
And all the thing that Tereus wrought,
She wave it wel, and wrote the storie above,

I thee betake my yong doughter dere,

That beareth the key of all mine hertes life,
And grete well my doughter and thy wife,
And yeve her leave sometime for to pley,
That she may seen me ones, or I deie"
And sothly he hath made him riche feast,
And to his folke, the most and eke the least,
That with him came: and yave him yefts great,
And him conveieth through the master streat
Of Athenes, and to the sea him brought,
And tourneth home, no malice he ne thought.
The ores pulleth forth the vessell fast,
And into Trace arriveth at the last,
And up in to a forest he her led,
And to a cave prively he him sped,
And in this darke cave, if her lest
Or list nought, he had her for to rest,
Of which her herte agrose, and saied thus:

"Where is my suster, brother Tereus ?"
And therewithall she wept tenderly,
And quoke for feare, pale and pitiously,
Right as the lambe, that of the wolfe is bitten,
Or as the culver, that of the egle is smitten,
And is out of his clawes forth escaped,
Yet it is aferde, and awaped,
Lest it be hent eftsones: so sate she,
But utterly it may none other be,

By force hath this traitour done a deede,
That he hath reft her of her maidenhede,
Maugre her head, by strength and by his might.
Lo, here a deede of men, and that aright.
She crieth," Suster!" with full loude steven,
And, "Father dere! Helpe me God in Heven!"
All helpeth not, and yet this false thefe
Hath done this lady yet a more mischefe,
For feare lest she should his shame crie,
And done him openly a villanie,

And with his sweard her tong of kerfe he,
And in a castell made her for to be,

And to a man a ring she yave anon,
And praied him by signes for to gon
Unto the queene, and bearen her that clothe,
And by signe swore many an othe

She should him yeve what she getten might.

This man, anon, unto the queene him dight,
And toke it her, and all the maner told,
And whan that Progne hath this thing behold,
No worde she spake, for sorow and eke for rage,
But fained her to gon on pilgrimage

To Baccus temple, and in a little stound
Her dombe suster sitting hath she found
Weeping in the castell, her selfe alone;
Alas, the wo, constraint, and the mone
That Progne upon her dombe suster maketh,
In armes everich of hem other taketh,
And thus I let hem in hir sorow dwell;
The remnaunt is no charge to tell,

For this is all and some, thus was she served
That never agilte, ne deserved

Unto this cruell man, that she of wist.
Ye may beware of men, if that you list,
For all be that he woll not for shame
Doen as Tereus, to lese his name,

Ne serve you as a murtherer or a knave,
Full little while shull ye trew him have,
That wol I sain, al were he now my brother,
But it so be that he may have another.

THE LEGENDE OF PHILLIS.

By prove, as well as by auctorite,
That wicked fruite commeth of a wicked tree,
That may ye find, if that it liketh you,
But for this end, I speake this as now,
To tell you of false Demophon :
In love a falser heard I never non,

But it were his father, Theseus,
God for his grace fro soch one kepe us,
Thus these women praien, that it here,
Now to the effect tourne I of my matere.
Destroied is of Troie the citee,

This Demophon came sayling in the see
Toward Athenes, to his paleis large,
With him came many a ship and many a barge
Full of folke, of which full many one
Is wounded sore, and sicke and wo begone,
And they have at the siege long ylaine,
Behind him came a winde, and eke a raine,
That shofe so sore his saile might not stonde,
Him were lever than all the world a londe,
So hunted him the tempest to and fro,
So darke it was he could no where go,
And with a wave brusten was his stere,
His ship was rent so lowe, in such manere,
That carpenter could it not amende,
The see by night as any torche brende
For wood, and posseth him up and doun,
Till Neptune hath of him compassioun,
And Thetis, Chorus, Triton, and they all,
And maden him up a londe to fall,
Wherof that Phillis lady was and queene,
Lycurgus doughter, fairer unto seene
Than is the floure again the bright Sonne.
Unneth is Demophon to londe ywonne,
Weake and eke werie, and his folke forpined
Of werinesse, and also enfamined,
And to the death he was almost ydriven,
His wise folke consaile have him yeven,
To seken helpe and succour of the queene,
And loken what his grace might bene,
And maken in that lande some chevesaunce,
And kepen him fro wo, and fro mischaunce,
For sicke he was, and almost at the death,
Unneth might he speake, or drawe breath,
And lieth in Rhodopeia him for to rest.
Whan he may walk, him thought it was best
Unto the countrey to seeken for succour,
Men knew him wele, and did him honour,
For at Athenes duke and lord was he,
As Theseus his father hath ybe,
That in his time was great of renoun,
No man so great in all his regioun,
And like his father of face and of stature,
And false of love, it came him of nature,
As doth the foxe Renarde, the foxes sonne,
Of kinde he coulde his old father wonne
Without lore, as can a drake swimme,
Whan it is caught and carried to the brimme:
This honorable queen Phillis doth him chere,
Her liketh well his sporte and his manere,
But I am agroted here beforne,
To write of hem that in love been forsworne,
And eke to haste me in my legende,
Which to performe, God me grace sende;
Therfore, I passe shortly in this wise,
Ye have well heard of Theseus the gise,
In the betraiyng of faire Adriane,
That of her pitee kept him fro his bane ;
At short wordes, right so Demophon,

The same way, and the same pathe hath gon
That did his false father Theseus,
For unto Phillis hath he sworne thus,
To wedden her, and her his trouth plight,
And piked of her all the good he might,
Whan he was hole and sound, and had his rest,
And doth with Phillis what so that him lest,

As well I could, if that me list so, Tellen all his doing to and fro.

He sayd to his countrey mote him saile,
For there he would her wedding apparaile,
As fill to her honour, and his also,
And openly he tooke his leave tho,
And to her swore he would not sojourne,
But in a month again he would retourne,
And in that londe let make his ordinaunce,
As very lorde, and tooke the obeisaunce
Well and humbly, and his shippes dight,
And home he goeth the next way he might,
For unto Phillis yet came he nought,
And that hath she so harde and sore ybought,
Alas, as the storie doth us record,
She was her owne death with a corde,
Whan that she saw that Demophon her traied.
But first wrote she to him, and fast him praied
He would come, and deliver her of pain,
As I rehearse shall a worde or twain,
Me liste not vouchsafe on him to swinke,
Dispenden on him a penne full of ynke,
For false in love was he, right as his sire,
The Devill set hir soules both on a fire:
But of the letter of Phillis woll I write,
A worde or twain, although it be but lite.
"Thine hostesse," quod she, "O Demophon,
Thy Phillis, which that is so wo begon,
Of Rhodopeie, upon you mote complain,
Over the terme set betwixt us twain,
That ye ne holden forward, as ye sayd:
Your ancre, which ye in our haven layd,
Hight us, that ye would comen out of doubt,
Or that the Moone ones went about,
But times fower the Moone hath hid her face
Sens thilke day ye went fro this place,
And fower times light the world again,
But for all that, yet shall I sothly sain,
Yet hath the streme of Scython not brought
From Athenes the ship, yet came it nought,
And if that ye the terme reken would,
As I or other true lovers doe should,
I plain not, God wot, before my day."
But al her letter writen I ne may,
By order, for it were to me a charge,
Her letter was right long, and therto large,
But here and there, in rime, I have it layd
There as me thought that she hath wel sayd.

She sayd, "The sailes commeth not again,
Ne to the word there n'is no fey certain,
But I wot why ye come not," quod she,
"For I was of my love to you so fre,
And of the goddes that ye have swore,
That hir vengeaunce fall on you therfore,
Ye be not suffisaunt to beare the pain,
Too moche trusted I, well may I sain,
Upon your linage, and your faire tong,
And on your teares falsely out wrong,
How coud ye wepe so by craft?" quod she,
"May there suche teares fained be?

"Now, certes, if ye would have in memory,
It ought be to you but little glory,
To have a sely maide thus betrayed,

To God," quod she, "pray I, and oft have prayed,
That it be now the greatest price of all,
And most honour that ever you shall befall,
And whan thine old aunceters painted bee,
In which men may hir worthinesse see,
Than pray I God, thou painted be also,
That folke may reden, forth by as they go,

"Lo, this is he, that with his flattery
Betraied hath, and done her villany,
That was his true love, in thought and drede.'
"But sothly, of o point yet may they rede,
That ye been like your father, as in this,
For he begiled Ariadne, ywis,
With such an arte, and such subtelte,
As thou thy selven hast begiled me :

As in that poinct, although it be not feire,
Thou folowest certain, and art his heire.
But sens thus sinfully ye me begile,
My body mote ye sene, within a while,
Right in the haven of Athenes fleeting,
Withouten sepulture and burying,
Though ye been harder than is any stone."
And whan this letter was forth sent, anone,
And knew how brotell and how fals he was,
She for dispaire fordid her selfe, alas!
Such sorow hath she, for be beset her so.
Beware ye women of your subtill fo,
Sens yet this day men may ensample se,
And trusteth now in love no man but me.

THE LEGENDE OF HYPERMESTRE.

IN Grece, whilom, were brethren two
Of which that one was called Danao,
That many a son hath of his body wonne,
As such false lovers ofte conne.

Emong his sonnes all there was one,
That aldermost he loved of everychone,
And whan this child was borne, this Danao
Shope him a name, and called him Lino,
That other brother called was Egiste,
That was of love as false as ever him liste,
And many a daughter gate he in his life,
Of which he gate upon his right wife,
A doughter dere, and did her for to call,
Hypermnestra, yongest of hem all,
The which child of her nativite,
To all good thewes borne was she,
As liked to the goddes or she was borne,
That of the shefe she should be the corne.
The werdes that we clepen destine,
Hath shapen her, that she must needes be
Pitous, sad, wise, true as stele,

And to this woman it accordeth wele,
For though that Venus yave her great beaute,
With Jupiter compowned so was she,
That conscience, trouth, and drede of shame,
And of her wifehode for to kepe her name,
This thought her was felicite as here,
And reed Mars, was that time of the yere
So feble, that his malice is him raft,
Repressed hath Venus his cruell craft,
And what with Venus, and other oppression
Of houses, Mars his venime is adon,
That Hypermestre dare not handle a knife,
In malice, though she should lese her life;
But nathelesse, as Heaven gan tho turne,
Two bad aspectes hath she of Saturne,
That made her to die in prison,
And I shall after make mencion,
Of Danao and Egistes also,

And though so be that they were brethren two,
For thilke tyme n'as spared no linage,

It liked hem to maken mariage

Betwixt Hypermestre, and him Lino, And casten soch a day it shall be so, And full accorded was it utterly,

The aray is wrought, the time is fast by,
And thus Lino hath of his fathers brother,
The doughter wedded, and ech of hem hath other;
The torches brennen, and the lamps bright,
The sacrifice been full ready dight,
Th'ensence out of the fire reketh soote,
The floure, the leefe, is rent up by the roote,
To maken garlandes and erounes hie,
Full is the place of sound of minstralcie,
Of songes amourous of mariage,
As thilke tyme was the plain usage,
And this was in the paleis of Egiste,
That in his hous was lord, right as him liste:
And thus that day they driven to an end,
The frendes taken leve, and home they wend,
The night is come, the bride shall go to bed,
Egiste to his chamber fast him sped,
And prively let his doughter call,
Whan that the house voided was of hem all,
He looked on his doughter with glad chere,
And to her spake, as ye shall after here.

"My right doughter, tresour of mine herte,
Sens first that day that shapen was my shert,
Or by the fatall suster had my dome,
So nie mine herte never thing ne come,
As thou, Hypermestre, doughter dere,
Take hede what thy father sayth thee here,
And werke after thy wiser ever mo,
For alderfirst doughter I love thee so,
That all the world to me n'is halfe so lefe,
Ne n'olde rede thee to thy mischefe,
For all the good under the cold Mone,
And what I meane, it shall be said right sone,
With protestacion as sain these wise,
That but thou doe as I shall thee devise,
Thou shalt be ded, by him that all hath wrought,
At short wordes, thou ne scapest nought
Out of my paleis, or that thou be deed,
But thou consent, and werke after my
Take this to the fearfull conclusioun."
This Hypermestre cast her eyen doun,
And quoke as doth the leefe of ashe grene,
Deed wext her hew, and like ashen to sene,
And sayd: "Lord and father, all your will,
After my might, God wote, I will fulfill,
So it be to me no confusion."

reed,

"I n'ill," quod he, " have none excepcion," And out he caught a knife, as rasour kene, "Hide this," quod he, " that it be not ysene, And whan thine husbond is to bed go, While that he slepeth, cut his throte atwo, For in my dreme it is warned me, How that my nevewe shall my bane be, But which I n'ot, wherfore I woll be siker, If thou say nay, we two shall have a biker, As I have said, by him that I have sworn." This Hipermestre hath nigh her wit forlorn, And for to passen harmelesse out of that place, She graunted him, there was none other grace: And withall a costrell taketh he tho, And sayd, "Hereof a draught or two, Yeve him drinke, whan he goeth to rest, And he shal slepe as long as ever thee lest, The narcotikes and apies been so strong, And go thy way, lest that him thinke to long." Out cometh the bride, and with full sobre chere, As is of maidens oft the manere,

To chamber brought with revel and with song,
And shortly, leste this tale be to long,
This Lino and she beth brought to bed,
And every wight out at the doore him sped,
The night is wasted, and he fell aslepe,
Full tenderly beginneth she to weepe,
She rist her up, and dredfully she quaketh,
As doth the braunch that Zephirus shaketh,
And husht were all in Argone that citee,
As cold as any frost now wexeth shee,
For pite by the herte strained her so,
And drede of death doth her so moche wo,
That thrise doune she fill, in suche a were,
She riste her up, and stakereth here and there,
And on her handes fast looketh she,
"Alas, shall mine hands bloudie be?
I am a maide, and as by my nature,
And by my semblaunt, and by my vesture,
Mine hands been not shapen for a knife,
As for to reve no man fro his life.
What devill have I with the knife to do?
And shall I have my throte corve a two?
Than shall I blede, alas, and be shende,
And nedes this thing mote have an ende,
Or he or I mote nedes lese our life,
Now certes," quod she, "sens I am his wife,

And hath my faith, yet is bette for me
For to be dedde in wifely honeste,
Than be a traitour living in my shame,
Be as be may, for earnest or for game,
He shall awake, and rise and go his way
Out at this gutter er that it be day:"
And wept full tenderly upon his face,
And in her armes gan him to embrace,
And him she joggeth, and awaketh soft,
And at the window lepe he fro the loft,
Whan she hath warned him, and done him bote:
This Lino swift was and light of foote,
And from her ran a full good paas.
This sely woman is so weake, alas,
And helplesse, so that er she ferre went,
Her cruell father did her for to hent.
Alas, Lino! why art thou so unkind?
Why ne hast thou remembred in thy mind,
And taken her, and led her forth with thee!
For whan she saw that gone away was hee,
And that she might not so fast go,

Ne folowen him, she sate doune right tho,
Untill she was caught, and fettred in prison:
This tale is sayd for this conclusion.

HERE ENDETH THE LEGENDE OF GOOD WOMEN.

GLADETH ye lovers in the morowe graie, Lo, Venus risen among yon rowes rede, And floures freshe honour ye this daie,

For whan the Sun uprist than wold they sprede,
But ye lovers that lie in any drede,
Flieth, least wicked tongues you aspie,
Lo, yonde the Sun, the candell of jelousie.

With tears blew, and with a wounded herte
Taketh your leve, and, with saint John to borow,
Apeseth somewhat of your paines smert,
Time cometh eft, that cessen shall your sorrow,
The glad night is worth an heavy morow,
Saint Valentine, a foule thus heard I sing,
Upon thy day, or Sunne gan up spring.

Yet sang this foule, "I rede you all awake,
And ye that have not chosen, in humble wise,
Without repenting, cheseth your make,
Yet at the least, renoveleth your service:
And ye that have full chosen, as I devise,
Confermeth it perpetually to dure,
And paciently taketh your aventure."

And for the worship of this high feast,
Yet woll I in my birdes wise sing,
The sentence of the complaint at the least,
That wofull Mars made at the departing
Fro fresh Venus in a morowning,
Whan Phebus with his firie torches rede,
Ransaked hath every lover in his drede.

Whilome, the three Heavens lorde above,
As well by heavenlich revolucion,
As by desert, hath wonne Venus his love,
And she hath take him in subjection,
And as a maistresse taught him his lesson,
Commaunding him never in her service,
He were so bold no lover to dispise.

For she forbade him jealousie at all,
And cruelty, and boste, and tyranny,
She made him at her lust so humble and tall,
That when she dained to cast on him her eye,
He tooke in patience to live or die,
And thus she bridleth him in her maner,
With nothing but with scorning of her chere.

Who reigneth now in blisse but Venus,
That hath this worthy knight in governance!
Who singeth now but Mars, that serveth thus
The faire Venus, causer of pleasaunce!
He bint him to perpetuel obeysaunce,
And she binte her to love him for ever,
But so be that his trespace it discever.

Thus be they knit, and reignen as in Heven,
By loking most, as it fell on a tide,
That by hir both assent was set a steven
That Mars shall enter, as fast as he may glide,
In to her next palais to abide,

Walking his course till she had him ytake,
And he prayed her to hast her for his sake.