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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
CONFESSIO AMANTIS: BOOK 3, PART 2, by JOHN GOWER Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Mi sone, of that thou hast me said Last Line: Of love untrewe was deceived. | |||
Mi Sone, of that thou hast me said I holde me noght fulli paid: That thou wolt haten eny man, To that acorden I ne can, Thogh he have hindred thee tofore. Bot this I telle thee therfore, Thou miht upon my beneicoun Wel haten the condicioun Of tho janglers, as thou me toldest, Bot furthermor, of that thou woldest Hem hindre in eny other wise, Such Hate is evere to despise. Forthi, mi Sone, I wol thee rede, That thou drawe in be frendlihede That thou ne miht noght do be hate; So miht thou gete love algate And sette thee, my Sone, in reste, For thou schalt finde it for the beste. And over this, so as I dar, I rede that thou be riht war Of othre mennes hate aboute, Which every wysman scholde doute: For Hate is evere upon await, And as the fisshere on his bait Sleth, whan he seth the fisshes faste, So, whan he seth time ate laste, That he mai worche an other wo, Schal noman tornen him therfro, That Hate nyle his felonie Fulfille and feigne compaignie Yit natheles, for fals Semblant Is toward him of covenant Withholde, so that under bothe The prive wraththe can him clothe, That he schal seme of gret believe. Bot war thee wel that thou ne lieve Al that thou sest tofore thin yhe, So as the Gregois whilom syhe: The bok of Troie who so rede, Ther mai he finde ensample in dede. Sone after the destruccioun, Whan Troie was al bete doun And slain was Priamus the king, The Gregois, whiche of al this thing Ben cause, tornen hom ayein. Ther mai noman his happ withsein; It hath be sen and felt fulofte, The harde time after the softe: Be See as thei forth homward wente, A rage of gret tempeste hem hente; Juno let bende hire parti bowe, The Sky wax derk, the wynd gan blowe, The firy welkne gan to thondre, As thogh the world scholde al to sondre; Fro hevene out of the watergates The reyni Storm fell doun algates And al here takel made unwelde, That noman mihte himself bewelde. Ther mai men hiere Schipmen crie, That stode in aunter forto die: He that behinde sat to stiere Mai noght the forestempne hiere; The Schip aros ayein the wawes, The lodesman hath lost his lawes, The See bet in on every side: Thei nysten what fortune abide, Bot sette hem al in goddes wille, Wher he hem wolde save or spille. And it fell thilke time thus: Ther was a king, the which Namplus Was hote, and he a Sone hadde, At Troie which the Gregois ladde, As he that was mad Prince of alle, Til that fortune let him falle: His name was Palamades. Bot thurgh an hate natheles Of some of hem his deth was cast And he be tresoun overcast. His fader, whan he herde it telle, He swor, if evere his time felle, He wolde him venge, if that he mihte, And therto his avou behihte: And thus this king thurgh prive hate Abod upon await algate, For he was noght of such emprise To vengen him in open wise. The fame, which goth wyde where, Makth knowe how that the Gregois were Homward with al the felaschipe Fro Troie upon the See be Schipe. Namplus, whan he this understod, And knew the tydes of the flod, And sih the wynd blew to the lond, A gret deceipte anon he fond Of prive hate, as thou schalt hiere, Wherof I telle al this matiere. This king the weder gan beholde, And wiste wel thei moten holde Here cours endlong his marche riht, And made upon the derke nyht Of grete Schydes and of blockes Gret fyr ayein the grete rockes, To schewe upon the helles hihe, So that the Flete of Grece it sihe. And so it fell riht as he thoghte: This Flete, which an havene soghte, The bryghte fyres sih a ferr, And thei hem drowen nerr and nerr, And wende wel and understode How al that fyr was made for goode, To schewe wher men scholde aryve, And thiderward thei hasten blyve. In Semblant, as men sein, is guile, And that was proved thilke while; The Schip, which wende his helpe acroche, Drof al to pieces on the roche, And so ther deden ten or twelve; Ther mihte noman helpe himselve, For ther thei wenden deth ascape, Withouten help here deth was schape. Thus thei that comen ferst tofore Upon the Rockes be forlore, Bot thurgh the noise and thurgh the cri These othre were al war therby; And whan the dai began to rowe, Tho mihten thei the sothe knowe, That wher they wenden frendes finde, Thei founden frenschipe al behinde. The lond was thanne sone weyved, Wher that thei hadden be deceived, And toke hem to the hihe See; Therto thei seiden alle yee, Fro that dai forth and war thei were Of that thei hadde assaied there. Mi Sone, hierof thou miht avise How fraude stant in many wise Amonges hem that guile thenke; Ther is no Scrivein with his enke Which half the fraude wryte can That stant in such a maner man: Forthi the wise men ne demen The thinges after that thei semen, Bot after that thei knowe and finde. The Mirour scheweth in his kinde As he hadde al the world withinne, And is in soth nothing therinne; And so farth Hate for a throwe: Til he a man hath overthrowe, Schal noman knowe be his chere Which is avant, ne which arere. Forthi, mi Sone, thenke on this. Mi fader, so I wole ywiss; And if ther more of Wraththe be, Now axeth forth per charite, As ye be youre bokes knowe, And I the sothe schal beknowe. Mi Sone, thou schalt understonde That yit towardes Wraththe stonde Of dedly vices othre tuo: And forto telle here names so, It is Contek and Homicide, That ben to drede on every side. Contek, so as the bokes sein, Folhast hath to his Chamberlein, Be whos conseil al unavised Is Pacience most despised, Til Homicide with hem meete. Fro merci thei ben al unmeete, And thus ben thei the worste of alle Of hem whiche unto wraththe falle, In dede bothe and ek in thoght: For thei acompte here wraththe at noght, Bot if ther be schedinge of blod; And thus lich to a beste wod Thei knowe noght the god of lif. Be so thei have or swerd or knif Here dedly wraththe forto wreke, Of Pite list hem noght to speke; Non other reson thei ne fonge, Bot that thei ben of mihtes stronge. Bot war hem wel in other place, Where every man behoveth grace, Bot ther I trowe it schal hem faile, To whom no merci mihte availe, Bot wroghten upon tiraundie, That no pite ne mihte hem plie. Now tell, my Sone. Fader, what? If thou hast be coupable of that. Mi fader, nay, Crist me forbiede: I speke onliche as of the dede, Of which I nevere was coupable Withoute cause resonable. Bot this is noght to mi matiere Of schrifte, why we sitten hiere; For we ben sett to schryve of love, As we begunne ferst above: And natheles I am beknowe That as touchende of loves throwe, Whan I my wittes overwende, Min hertes contek hath non ende, Bot evere it stant upon debat To gret desese of myn astat As for the time that it lasteth. For whan mi fortune overcasteth Hire whiel and is to me so strange, And that I se sche wol noght change, Than caste I al the world aboute, And thenke hou I at home and oute Have al my time in vein despended, And se noght how to ben amended, Bot rathere forto be empeired, As he that is welnyh despeired: For I ne mai no thonk deserve, And evere I love and evere I serve, And evere I am aliche nerr. Thus, for I stonde in such a wer, I am, as who seith, out of herre; And thus upon miself the werre I bringe, and putte out alle pes, That I fulofte in such a res Am wery of myn oghne lif. So that of Contek and of strif I am beknowe and have ansuerd, As ye, my fader, now have herd. Min herte is wonderly begon With conseil, wherof witt is on, Which hath resoun in compaignie; Ayein the whiche stant partie Will, which hath hope of his acord, And thus thei bringen up descord. Witt and resoun conseilen ofte That I myn herte scholde softe, And that I scholde will remue And put him out of retenue, Or elles holde him under fote: For as thei sein, if that he mote His oghne rewle have upon honde, Ther schal no witt ben understonde. Of hope also thei tellen this, That overal, wher that he is, He set the herte in jeupartie With wihssinge and with fantasie, And is noght trewe of that he seith, So that in him ther is no feith: Thus with reson and wit avised Is will and hope aldai despised. Reson seith that I scholde leve To love, wher ther is no leve To spede, and will seith therayein That such an herte is to vilein, Which dar noght love and til he spede, Let hope serve at such a nede: He seith ek, where an herte sit Al hol governed upon wit, He hath this lyves lust forlore. And thus myn herte is al totore Of such a Contek as thei make: Bot yit I mai noght will forsake, That he nys Maister of my thoght, Or that I spede, or spede noght. Thou dost, my Sone, ayein the riht; Bot love is of so gret a miht, His lawe mai noman refuse, So miht thou thee the betre excuse. And natheles thou schalt be lerned That will scholde evere be governed Of reson more than of kinde, Wherof a tale write I finde. A Philosophre of which men tolde Ther was whilom be daies olde, And Diogenes thanne he hihte. So old he was that he ne mihte The world travaile, and for the beste He schop him forto take his reste, And duelte at hom in such a wise, That nyh his hous he let devise Endlong upon an Axeltre To sette a tonne in such degre, That he it mihte torne aboute; Wherof on hed was taken oute, For he therinne sitte scholde And torne himself so as he wolde, To take their and se the hevene And deme of the planetes sevene, As he which cowthe mochel what. And thus fulofte there he sat To muse in his philosophie Solein withoute compaignie: So that upon a morwetyde, As thing which scholde so betyde, Whan he was set ther as him liste To loke upon the Sonne ariste, Wherof the propretes he sih, It fell ther cam ridende nyh King Alisandre with a route; And as he caste his yhe aboute, He sih this Tonne, and what it mente He wolde wite, and thider sente A knyht, be whom he mihte it knowe, And he himself that ilke throwe Abod, and hoveth there stille. This kniht after the kinges wille With spore made his hors to gon And to the tonne he cam anon, Wher that he fond a man of Age, And he him tolde the message, Such as the king him hadde bede, And axeth why in thilke stede The Tonne stod, and what it was. And he, which understod the cas, Sat stille and spak no word ayein. The kniht bad speke and seith, "Vilein, Thou schalt me telle, er that I go; It is thi king which axeth so." "Mi king," quod he, "that were unriht." "What is he thanne?" seith the kniht, "Is he thi man?" "That seie I noght," Quod he, "bot this I am bethoght, Mi mannes man hou that he is." "Thou lyest, false cherl, ywiss," The kniht him seith, and was riht wroth, And to the king ayein he goth And tolde him how this man ansuerde. The king, whan he this tale herde, Bad that thei scholden alle abyde, For he himself wol thider ryde. And whan he cam tofore the tonne, He hath his tale thus begonne: "Alheil," he seith, "what man art thou?" Quod he, "Such on as thou sest now." The king, which hadde wordes wise, His age wolde noght despise, Bot seith, "Mi fader, I thee preie That thou me wolt the cause seie, How that I am thi mannes man." "Sire king," quod he, "and that I can, If that thou wolt." "Yis," seith the king. Quod he, "This is the sothe thing: Sith I ferst resoun understod, And knew what thing was evel and good, The will which of my bodi moeveth, Whos werkes that the god reproeveth, I have restreigned everemore, As him which stant under the lore Of reson, whos soubgit he is, So that he mai noght don amis: And thus be weie of covenant Will is my man and my servant, And evere hath ben and evere schal. And thi will is thi principal, And hath the lordschipe of thi witt, So that thou cowthest nevere yit Take o dai reste of thi labour; Bot forto ben a conquerour Of worldes good, which mai noght laste, Thou hiest evere aliche faste, Wher thou no reson hast to winne: And thus thi will is cause of Sinne, And is thi lord, to whom thou servest, Wherof thou litel thonk deservest." The king of that he thus answerde Was nothing wroth, bot whanne he herde The hihe wisdom which he seide, With goodly wordes this he preide, That he him wolde telle his name. "I am," quod he, "that ilke same, The which men Diogenes calle." Tho was the king riht glad withalle, For he hadde often herd tofore What man he was, so that therfore He seide, "O wise Diogene, Now schal thi grete witt be sene; For thou schalt of my yifte have What worldes thing that thou wolt crave." Quod he, "Thanne hove out of mi Sonne, And let it schyne into mi Tonne; For thou benymst me thilke yifte, Which lith noght in thi miht to schifte: Non other good of thee me nedeth." This king, whom every contre dredeth, Lo, thus he was enformed there: Wherof, my Sone, thou miht lere How that thi will schal noght be lieved, Where it is noght of wit relieved. And thou hast seid thiself er this How that thi will thi maister is; Thurgh which thin hertes thoght withinne Is evere of Contek to beginne, So that it is gretli to drede That it non homicide brede. For love is of a wonder kinde, And hath hise wittes ofte blinde, That thei fro mannes reson falle; Bot whan that it is so befalle That will schal the corage lede, In loves cause it is to drede: Wherof I finde ensample write, Which is behovely forto wite. I rede a tale, and telleth this: The Cite which Semiramis Enclosed hath with wall aboute, Of worthi folk with many a route Was enhabited here and there; Among the whiche tuo ther were Above alle othre noble and grete, Dwellende tho withinne a Strete So nyh togedre, as it was sene, That ther was nothing hem betwene, Bot wow to wow and wall to wall. This o lord hadde in special A Sone, a lusti Bacheler, In al the toun was non his pier: That other hadde a dowhter eke, In al the lond that forto seke Men wisten non so faire as sche. And fell so, as it scholde be, This faire dowhter nyh this Sone As thei togedre thanne wone, Cupide hath so the thinges schape, That thei ne mihte his hand ascape, That he his fyr on hem ne caste: Wherof her herte he overcaste To folwe thilke lore and suie Which nevere man yit miht eschuie; And that was love, as it is happed, Which hath here hertes so betrapped, That thei be alle weies seche How that thei mihten winne a speche, Here wofull peine forto lisse. Who loveth wel, it mai noght misse, And namely whan ther be tuo Of on acord, how so it go, Bot if that thei som weie finde; For love is evere of such a kinde And hath his folk so wel affaited, That howso that it be awaited, Ther mai noman the pourpos lette: And thus betwen hem tuo thei sette And hole upon a wall to make, Thurgh which thei have her conseil take At alle times, whan thei myhte. This faire Maiden Tisbee hihte, And he whom that sche loveth hote Was Piramus be name hote. So longe here lecoun thei recorden, Til ate laste thei acorden Be nihtes time forto wende Al one out fro the tounes ende, Wher was a welle under a Tree; And who cam ferst, or sche or he, He scholde stille there abide. So it befell the nyhtes tide This maiden, which desguised was, Al prively the softe pas Goth thurgh the large toun unknowe, Til that sche cam withinne a throwe Wher that sche liketh forto duelle, At thilke unhappi freisshe welle, Which was also the Forest nyh. Wher sche comende a Leoun syh Into the feld to take his preie, In haste and sche tho fledde aweie, So as fortune scholde falle, For feere and let hire wympel falle Nyh to the welle upon therbage. This Leoun in his wilde rage A beste, which that he fond oute, Hath slain, and with his blodi snoute, Whan he hath eten what he wolde, To drynke of thilke stremes colde Cam to the welle, where he fond The wympel, which out of hire hond Was falle, and he it hath todrawe, Bebled aboute and al forgnawe; And thanne he strawhte him forto drinke Upon the freisshe welles brinke, And after that out of the plein He torneth to the wode ayein. And Tisbee dorste noght remue, Bot as a bridd which were in Mue Withinne a buissh sche kepte hire clos So stille that sche noght aros; Unto hirself and pleigneth ay. And fell, whil that sche there lay, This Piramus cam after sone Unto the welle, and be the Mone He fond hire wimpel blodi there. Cam nevere yit to mannes Ere Tidinge, ne to mannes sihte Merveile, which so sore aflihte A mannes herte, as it tho dede To him, which in the same stede With many a wofull compleignynge Began his handes forto wringe, As he which demeth sikerly That sche be ded: and sodeinly His swerd al nakid out he breide In his folhaste, and thus he seide: "I am cause of this felonie, So it is resoun that I die, As sche is ded be cause of me." And with that word upon his kne He fell, and to the goddes alle Up to the hevene he gan to calle, And preide, sithen it was so That he may noght his love as tho Have in this world, that of her grace He miht hire have in other place, For hiere wolde he noght abide, He seith: bot as it schal betide, The Pomel of his swerd to grounde He sette, and thurgh his herte a wounde He made up to the bare hilte: And in this wise himself he spilte With his folhaste and deth he nam; For sche withinne a while cam, Wher he lai ded upon his knif. So wofull yit was nevere lif As Tisbee was, whan sche him sih: Sche mihte noght o word on hih Speke oute, for hire herte schette, That of hir lif no pris sche sette, Bot ded swounende doun sche fell. Til after, whanne it so befell That sche out of hire traunce awok, With many a wofull pitous lok Hire yhe alwei among sche caste Upon hir love, and ate laste Sche cawhte breth and seide thus: "O thou which cleped art Venus, Goddesse of love, and thou, Cupide, Which loves cause hast forto guide, I wot now wel that ye be blinde, Of thilke unhapp which I now finde Only betwen my love and me. This Piramus, which hiere I se Bledende, what hath he deserved? For he youre heste hath kept and served, And was yong and I bothe also: Helas, why do ye with ous so? Ye sette oure herte bothe afyre, And maden ous such thing desire Wherof that we no skile cowthe; Bot thus oure freisshe lusti yowthe Withoute joie is al despended, Which thing mai nevere ben amended: For as of me this wol I seie, That me is levere forto deie Than live after this sorghful day." And with this word, where as he lay, Hire love in armes sche embraseth, Hire oghne deth and so pourchaseth That now sche wepte and nou sche kiste, Til ate laste, er sche it wiste, So gret a sorwe is to hire falle, Which overgoth hire wittes alle. As sche which mihte it noght asterte, The swerdes point ayein hire herte Sche sette, and fell doun therupon, Wherof that sche was ded anon: And thus bothe on o swerd bledende Thei weren founde ded liggende. Now thou, mi Sone, hast herd this tale, Bewar that of thin oghne bale Thou be noght cause in thi folhaste, And kep that thou thi witt ne waste Upon thi thoght in aventure, Wherof thi lyves forfeture Mai falle: and if thou have so thoght Er this, tell on and hyde it noght. Mi fader, upon loves side Mi conscience I woll noght hyde, How that for love of pure wo I have ben ofte moeved so, That with my wisshes if I myhte, A thousand times, I yow plyhte, I hadde storven in a day; And therof I me schryve may, Though love fully me ne slowh, Mi will to deie was ynowh, So am I of my will coupable: And yit is sche noght merciable, Which mai me yive lif and hele. Bot that hir list noght with me dele, I wot be whos conseil it is, And him wolde I long time er this, And yit I wolde and evere schal, Slen and destruie in special. The gold of nyne kinges londes Ne scholde him save fro myn hondes, In my pouer if that he were; Bot yit him stant of me no fere For noght that evere I can manace. He is the hindrere of mi grace, Til he be ded I mai noght spede; So mot I nedes taken hiede And schape how that he were aweie, If I therto mai finde a weie. Mi Sone, tell me now forthi, Which is that mortiel enemy That thou manacest to be ded. Mi fader, it is such a qwed, That wher I come, he is tofore, And doth so, that mi cause is lore. What is his name? It is Daunger, Which is mi ladi consailer: For I was nevere yit so slyh, To come in eny place nyh Wher as sche was be nyht or day, That Danger ne was redy ay, With whom for speche ne for mede Yit mihte I nevere of love spede; For evere this I finde soth, Al that my ladi seith or doth To me, Daunger schal make an ende, And that makth al mi world miswende: And evere I axe his help, bot he Mai wel be cleped sanz pite; For ay the more I to him bowe, The lasse he wol my tale alowe. He hath mi ladi so englued, Sche wol noght that he be remued; For evere he hangeth on hire Seil, And is so prive of conseil, That evere whanne I have oght bede, I finde Danger in hire stede And myn ansuere of him I have; Bot for no merci that I crave, Of merci nevere a point I hadde. I finde his ansuere ay so badde, That werse mihte it nevere be: And thus betwen Danger and me Is evere werre til he dye. Bot mihte I ben of such maistrie, That I Danger hadde overcome, With that were al my joie come. Thus wolde I wonde for no Sinne, Ne yit for al this world to winne; If that I mihte finde a sleyhte, To leie al myn astat in weyhte, I wolde him fro the Court dissevere, So that he come ayeinward nevere. Therfore I wisshe and wolde fain That he were in som wise slain; For while he stant in thilke place, Ne gete I noght my ladi grace. Thus hate I dedly thilke vice, And wolde he stode in non office In place wher mi ladi is; For if he do, I wot wel this, That owther schal he deie or I Withinne a while; and noght forthi On my ladi fulofte I muse, How that sche mai hirself excuse, If that I deie in such a plit. Me thenkth sche mihte noght be qwyt That sche ne were an homicide: And if it scholde so betide, As god forbiede it scholde be, Be double weie it is pite. For I, which al my will and witt Have yove and served evere yit, And thanne I scholde in such a wise In rewardinge of my servise Be ded, me thenkth it were a rowthe: And furthermor, to telle trowthe, Sche, that hath evere be wel named, Were worthi thanne to be blamed And of reson to ben appeled, Whan with o word sche mihte have heled A man, and soffreth him so deie. Ha, who sawh evere such a weie? Ha, who sawh evere such destresse? Withoute pite gentilesse, Withoute mercy wommanhede, That wol so quyte a man his mede, Which evere hath be to love trewe. Mi goode fader, if ye rewe Upon mi tale, tell me now, And I wol stinte and herkne yow. Mi Sone, attempre thi corage Fro Wraththe, and let thin herte assuage: For who so wole him underfonge, He mai his grace abide longe, Er he of love be received; And ek also, bot it be weyved, Ther mihte mochel thing befalle, That scholde make a man to falle Fro love, that nevere afterward Ne durste he loke thiderward. In harde weies men gon softe, And er thei clymbe avise hem ofte: Men sen alday that rape reweth; And who so wicked Ale breweth, Fulofte he mot the werse drinke: Betre is to flete than to sincke; Betre is upon the bridel chiewe Thanne if he felle and overthrewe, The hors and stikede in the Myr: To caste water in the fyr Betre is than brenne up al the hous: The man which is malicious And folhastif, fulofte he falleth, And selden is whan love him calleth. Forthi betre is to soffre a throwe Than be to wilde and overthrowe; Suffrance hath evere be the beste To wissen him that secheth reste: And thus, if thou wolt love and spede, Mi Sone, soffre, as I the rede. What mai the Mous ayein the Cat? And for this cause I axe that, Who mai to love make a werre, That he ne hath himself the werre? Love axeth pes and evere schal, And who that fihteth most withal Schal lest conquere of his emprise: For this thei tellen that ben wise, Wicke is to stryve and have the werse; To hasten is noght worth a kerse; Thing that a man mai noght achieve, That mai noght wel be don at Eve, It mot abide til the morwe. Ne haste noght thin oghne sorwe, Mi Sone, and tak this in thi witt, He hath noght lost that wel abitt. Ensample that it falleth thus, Thou miht wel take of Piramus, Whan he in haste his swerd outdrowh And on the point himselve slowh For love of Tisbee pitously, For he hire wympel fond blody And wende a beste hire hadde slain; Wher as him oghte have be riht fain, For sche was there al sauf beside: Bot for he wolde noght abide, This meschief fell. Forthi be war, Mi Sone, as I the warne dar, Do thou nothing in such a res, For suffrance is the welle of Pes. Thogh thou to loves Court poursuie, Yit sit it wel that thou eschuie That thou the Court noght overhaste, For so miht thou thi time waste; Bot if thin happ therto be schape, It mai noght helpe forto rape. Therfore attempre thi corage; Folhaste doth non avantage, Bot ofte it set a man behinde In cause of love, and that I finde Be olde ensample, as thou schalt hiere, Touchende of love in this matiere. A Maiden whilom ther was on, Which Daphne hihte, and such was non Of beaute thanne, as it was seid. Phebus his love hath on hire leid, And therupon to hire he soghte In his folhaste, and so besoghte, That sche with him no reste hadde; For evere upon hire love he gradde, And sche seide evere unto him nay. So it befell upon a dai, Cupide, which hath every chance Of love under his governance, Syh Phebus hasten him so sore: And for he scholde him haste more, And yit noght speden ate laste, A dart thurghout his herte he caste, Which was of gold and al afyre, That made him manyfold desire Of love more thanne he dede. To Daphne ek in the same stede A dart of Led he caste and smot, Which was al cold and nothing hot. And thus Phebus in love brenneth, And in his haste aboute renneth, To loke if that he mihte winne; Bot he was evere to beginne, For evere awei fro him sche fledde, So that he nevere his love spedde. And forto make him full believe That no Folhaste mihte achieve To gete love in such degree, This Daphne into a lorer tre Was torned, which is evere grene, In tokne, as yit it mai be sene, That sche schal duelle a maiden stille, And Phebus failen of his wille. Be suche ensamples, as thei stonde, Mi Sone, thou miht understonde, To hasten love is thing in vein, Whan that fortune is therayein. To take where a man hath leve Good is, and elles he mot leve; For whan a mannes happes failen, Ther is non haste mai availen. Mi fader, grant merci of this: Bot while I se mi ladi is No tre, but halt hire oghne forme, Ther mai me noman so enforme, To whether part fortune wende, That I unto mi lyves ende Ne wol hire serven everemo. Mi Sone, sithen it is so, I seie nomor; bot in this cas Bewar how it with Phebus was. Noght only upon loves chance, Bot upon every governance Which falleth unto mannes dede, Folhaste is evere forto drede, And that a man good consail take, Er he his pourpos undertake, For consail put Folhaste aweie. Now goode fader, I you preie, That forto wisse me the more, Som good ensample upon this lore Ye wolden telle of that is write, That I the betre mihte wite How I Folhaste scholde eschuie, And the wisdom of conseil suie. Mi Sone, that thou miht enforme Thi pacience upon the forme Of old essamples, as thei felle, Now understond what I schal telle. Whan noble Troie was belein And overcome, and hom ayein The Gregois torned fro the siege, The kinges founde here oghne liege In manye places, as men seide, That hem forsoke and desobeide. Among the whiche fell this cas To Demephon and Athemas, That weren kinges bothe tuo, And bothe weren served so: Here lieges wolde hem noght receive, So that thei mote algates weyve To seche lond in other place, For there founde thei no grace. Wherof they token hem to rede, And soghten frendes ate nede, And ech of hem asseureth other To helpe as to his oghne brother, To vengen hem of thilke oultrage And winne ayein here heritage. And thus thei ryde aboute faste To gete hem help, and ate laste Thei hadden pouer sufficant, And maden thanne a covenant, That thei ne scholden no lif save, Ne prest, ne clerc, ne lord, ne knave, Ne wif, ne child, of that thei finde, Which berth visage of mannes kinde, So that no lif schal be socoured, Bot with the dedly swerd devoured: In such Folhaste here ordinance Thei schapen forto do vengance. Whan this pourpos was wist and knowe Among here host, tho was ther blowe Of wordes many a speche aboute: Of yonge men the lusti route Were of this tale glad ynowh, Ther was no care for the plowh; As thei that weren Folhastif, Thei ben acorded to the strif, And sein it mai noght be to gret To vengen hem of such forfet: Thus seith the wilde unwise tonge Of hem that there weren yonge. Bot Nestor, which was old and hor, The salve sih tofore the sor, As he that was of conseil wys: So that anon be his avis Ther was a prive conseil nome. The lordes ben togedre come; This Demephon and Athemas Here pourpos tolden, as it was; Thei sieten alle stille and herde, Was non bot Nestor hem ansuerde. He bad hem, if thei wolde winne, They scholden se, er thei beginne, Here ende, and sette here ferste entente, That thei hem after ne repente: And axeth hem this questioun, To what final conclusioun Thei wolde regne Kinges there, If that no poeple in londe were; And seith, it were a wonder wierde To sen a king become an hierde, Wher no lif is bot only beste Under the liegance of his heste; For who that is of man no king, The remenant is as no thing. He seith ek, if the pourpos holde To sle the poeple, as thei tuo wolde, Whan thei it mihte noght restore, Al Grece it scholde abegge sore, To se the wilde beste wone Wher whilom duelte a mannes Sone: And for that cause he bad hem trete, And stinte of the manaces grete. Betre is to winne be fair speche, He seith, than such vengance seche; For whanne a man is most above, Him nedeth most to gete him love. Whan Nestor hath his tale seid, Ayein him was no word withseid; It thoghte hem alle he seide wel: And thus fortune hire dedly whiel Fro werre torneth into pes. Bot forth thei wenten natheles; And whan the Contres herde sein How that here kinges be besein Of such a pouer as thei ladde, Was non so bold that hem ne dradde, And forto seche pes and grith Thei sende and preide anon forthwith, So that the kinges ben appesed, And every mannes herte is esed; Al was foryete and noght recorded. And thus thei ben togedre acorded; The kinges were ayein received, And pes was take and wraththe weived, And al thurgh conseil which was good Of him that reson understod. Be this ensample, Sone, attempre Thin herte and let no will distempre Thi wit, and do nothing be myht Which mai be do be love and riht. Folhaste is cause of mochel wo; Forthi, mi Sone, do noght so. And as touchende of Homicide Which toucheth unto loves side, Fulofte it falleth unavised Thurgh will, which is noght wel assised, Whan wit and reson ben aweie And that Folhaste is in the weie, Wherof hath falle gret vengance. Forthi tak into remembrance To love in such a maner wise That thou deserve no juise: For wel I wot, thou miht noght lette, That thou ne schalt thin herte sette To love, wher thou wolt or non; Bot if thi wit be overgon, So that it torne into malice, Ther wot noman of thilke vice, What peril that ther mai befalle: Wherof a tale amonges alle, Which is gret pite forto hiere, I thenke forto tellen hiere, That thou such moerdre miht withstonde, Whan thou the tale hast understonde. Of Troie at thilke noble toun, Whos fame stant yit of renoun And evere schal to mannes Ere, The Siege laste longe there, Er that the Greks it mihten winne, Whil Priamus was king therinne; Bot of the Greks that lyhe aboute Agamenon ladde al the route. This thing is knowen overal, Bot yit I thenke in special To my matiere therupon Telle in what wise Agamenon, Thurgh chance which mai noght be weived, Of love untrewe was deceived. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONFESSIO AMANTIS: BOOK 1, PART 2 by JOHN GOWER CONFESSIO AMANTIS: BOOK 1, PART 3 by JOHN GOWER CONFESSIO AMANTIS: BOOK 2, PART 1 by JOHN GOWER CONFESSIO AMANTIS: BOOK 2, PART 2 by JOHN GOWER CONFESSIO AMANTIS: BOOK 2, PART 3 by JOHN GOWER CONFESSIO AMANTIS: BOOK 3, PART 1 by JOHN GOWER CONFESSIO AMANTIS: BOOK 3, PART 3 by JOHN GOWER CONFESSIO AMANTIS: BOOK 4, PART 1 by JOHN GOWER CONFESSIO AMANTIS: BOOK 4, PART 2 by JOHN GOWER CONFESSIO AMANTIS: BOOK 5, PART 1 by JOHN GOWER |
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