From whense my mayster Lydgate veryfyde

The depured rethoryke in Englysh language;

To make our tongue so clerely puryfyed,

That the vyle termes should nothing arage

As like a pye to chatter in a cage,

But for to speke wyth rethoryke formally,

In the good order, wythouten vylany.

And who his bokes lyst to here or se,

In them he shall fynd elocucyon,

With as good order as any may be,

Kepyng ful close the moralyzacyon

Of the trouth of his great intencyon,

Whose name is regestred in remembraunce

For to endure by longe contynuaunce.

Nowe after this, for to make relacyon

Of famous rethoryke so in this party,

As to the fourth part, Pronouncyacyon,

I shal it shew anone ryght openly,

Wyth many braunches of it sykerly;

And how it taketh the hole effect

In every place, degre, and aspecte.

Whan the matter is founde by invencyon,

Be it mery or yet of grete sadnes,

Sette in a place by the disposycyon,

And by elocucyons famous clerenes

Exornate well and redy to expres,

Then pronouncyacyon, wyth chere and countenance,

Convenyently must make the utteraunce.

Wyth humble voyce and also moderate,

Accordynge as by hym is audyence,

And if there be a ryght hye estate,

Then under honour and obedyence

Reasonably done unto his excellence,

Pronouncyng his matter so facundious,

In all due maner to be centencyous.

For though a matter be never so good,

Yf it be tolde wyth tongue of barbary,

In rude maner wythout the discrete mode,

It is distourbance to a hole company

For to se them so rude and boystously

Demeane them selfe, utterynge the sentence

Wythout good maner or yet intellygence.

It is a thinge ryght greatly convenable

To pronounce the matter as it is convenient,

And to the herers ryght delectable,

Whan the utterer, wythout impediment,

Wyth ryght good maner, countenaunce, and entent

Dothe his tale unto them tretably,

Kepynge his maner and voyce full moderately.

This is the costome that the poetes use,

To tel theyr tale with al due circumstance,

The vylayne courage they do much refuse

That is boystous and rude of governaunce,

And evermore they do to them avaunce

Nurture, maner, and al gentylnes.

In their behavyng wyth all semelynes.

And thus the gentyl rethoricyan,

Through the labour of his ryal clergy,

The famous nurture originally began

Oppressynge our rudenes and our foly,

And for to governe us ryght prudently,

The good maner encreaseth dignitie,

And the rudenes also iniquitie.

The famous poete who so lyst to here,

To tell this tale it is solacyous,

Beholdyng hys maners and also hys chere

After the maner be it sad or joyous.

Yf it be sad, his chere is dolorus,

As in bewaylyng a woful tragedy

That worthy is to be in memory.

And if the matter be joyfull and glad,

Lyke countenaunce outwardly they make;

But moderacyon in theyr myndes is had,

So that outrage may them not overtake.

I can not wryte to muche for theyr sake,

Them to laude, for my tyme is shorte

And the matter longe which I must reporte.

And the v. parte is than memoratyfe,

The whiche the perfyte mynystracyon

Ordinately causeth to be retentyfe,

Dryving the tale to good conclusyon;

For it behoveth to have respeccyon

Unto the tale, and the veray grounde

And on what ymage he his matter found.

If to the oratour many a sundry tale,

One after other, treatably be tolde,

Than sundry ymages in his closed male

Eche for a mater he doth than well holde,

Lyke to the tale he doth than so beholde,

And inwarde a recapitulacyon,

Of eche ymage the moralazacyon.

Whiche be the tales he grounded pryvely

Upon these ymages significacyon,

And whan tyme is for him to specify

All his tales by demonstracion,

In due order, maner and reason,

Than eche ymage inwarde dyrectly

The oratour doth take full properly.

So is enprynted in his propre mynde

Every tale wyth hole resemblaunce.

By this ymage he doth his mater fynde,

Eche after other wythouten varyaunce.

Who to this arte wyl gyve attendaunce,

As therof to knowe the perfytenes,

In the poetes scole he must have intres.

Than shal he knowe, by perfyte study,

The memorial arte of rethoryke defuse,

It shal to him so wel exemplefy,

If that him lyst, the scyence to use;

Though at the fyrste it be to hym obtuse,

With exercyse he shal it well augment,

Under cloudes derke and termes eloquent.

But nowadayes the synne of avaryce

Exyleth the mynde and the hole delyght,

To coveyt connyng, which is gret prejudice,

For insacyatly so blynded is theyr syght

Wyth the sylver and the golde so bryght,

They nothing thynke on fortune varable,

Whyche al theyr ryches shal make transmutable.

The olde sawes they ryght clene abject,

Whych for our lernyng the poetes dyd wryte;

With avaryce they arose so sore infect,

They take no hede nothyng they wryte,

Whyche morally dyd so nobly endyte,

Reprovyng vyce, praysyng the vertue,

Whiche idelnes dyd evermore eschewe.

Nowe wyl I cease of lusty rethoryke;

I may not tary, for my tyme is short;

For I must procede, and shew of Arismetrik

With divers nombres which I must reporte.

Hope inwardly doth me wel comforte,

To brynge my boke unto a fynyshment,

Of al my matter and my true entent.

O thoughtful herte, tombled all aboute

Upon the se of stormy ignoraunce,

For to sayle forthe thou arte in grete doute,

Over the waves of grete encombraunce;

Wythout ony comforte, saufe of esperaunce,

Whiche the exhorteth hardely to sayle

Unto thy purpose wyth diligent travayle.

Afrycus, Auster bloweth frowardly,

Towarde the lande and habitacyon

Of thy wel faverde and moost fayre lady,

For whose sake and delectacyon

Thou hast take this occupacyon,

Principally ryght well to attayne

Her swete rewarde for thy besy payne.

O pensyfe herte, in the stormy pery

Mercury northwest thou mayst se appere,

After tempest to glad thyne emespery;

Hoyse up thy sayle, for thou must drawe nere

Towarde the ende of thy purpose so clere,

Remembre the of the trace and daunce

Of poetes olde wyth all the purveyaunce.

As morall Gower, whose sentencyous dewe

Adowne reflayreth with fayre golden bemes,

And after Chaucers all abrode doth shewe,

Our vyces to clense; his depared stremes

Kyndlynge our hertes wyth the fyry lemes

Of moral vertue, as is probable

In all hys bokes so swete and profytable.

The boke of fame, which is sentencyous,

He drewe hym selfe on hys own invencyon;

And than the tragidyes so pytous

Of the xix. ladyes, was his translacyon;

And upon hys ymaginacyon

He made also the tales of Caunterbury;

Some vertuous, and some glad and mery.

And of Troylus the pytous dolour

For his lady Cresyde, full of doublenes,

He did bewayle ful well the langoure,

Of all hys love and grete unhappines.

And many other bokes doubtles

He dyd compyle, whose godly name

In printed bokes doth remayne in fame.

And, after him, my mayster Lydgate,

The monke of Bury, dyd hym wel apply

Both to contryve and eke to translate;

And of vertue ever in especyally,

For he dyd compyle than full ryally

Of our blessed lady the conversacion,

Saint Edmunde’s life martred with treson.

Of the fall of prynces, ryght wofully

He did endyte in all piteous wyse,

Folowynge his auctoure Bocas rufully;

A ryght greate boke he did truly compryse,

A good ensample for us to dispyse

This worlde, so ful of mutabilyte,

In whiche no man can have a certente.

And thre reasons ryght greatly profytable

Under coloure he cloked craftely;

And of the chorle he made the fable

That shutte the byrde in a cage so closely,

The pamflete sheweth it expressely;

He fayned also the courte of Sapyence,

And translated wyth al his dylygence

The grete boke of the last destruccyon

Of the cyte of Troye, whylome so famous,

How for woman was the confusyon;

And betwene vertue and the lyfe vycyous

Of goddes and goddes, a boke solacyous

He did compyle, and the tyme to passe,

Of love he made the bryght temple of glasse.

Were not these thre gretly to commende,

Whyche them applyed such bokes to contryve,

Whose famous draughtes no man can amende?

The synne of slouth they dyd from them dryve,

After theyr death for to abyde on lyve

In worthy fame by many a nacyon,

Their bokes theyr actes do make relacyon.

O mayster Lydgate, the most dulcet sprynge

Of famous rethoryke, wyth balade ryall,

The chefe orygynal of my lernyng,

What vayleth it on you for to call

Me for to ayde, now in especiall;

Sythen your body is now wrapte in chest,

I pray God to gyve your soule good rest.

O what losse is it of suche a one!

It is to grete truely me for to tell;

Sythen the tyme that his lyfe was gone,

In al this realme his pere did not dwell;

Above al other he did so excell,

None sith his time in arte wolde succede,

After their death to have fame for their mede.

But many a one is ryght well experte

In this connyng, but upon auctoryte,

They fayne no fables pleasaunt and covert,

But spende theyr time in vaynful vanyte,

Makynge balades of fervent amyte.

As gestes and tryfles wythout frutefulnes;

Thus al in vayne they spende their besynes.

I, lytell or nought expert in poetry,

Of my mayster Lydgate wyll folowe the trace,

As evermore so his name to magnyfy

Wyth suche lytle bokes, by Goddes grace,

If in this worlde I may have the space;

The lytell connyng that his grace me sente

In tyme amonge in suche wyse shall be spente.

And yet nothinge upon presumpcyon

My mayster Lydgate I wyll not envy,

But all onely is mine entencyon

With suche labour my selfe to occupy;

As whyte by blacke doth shyne more clerely,

So shal theyr matters appeare more pleasaunt

Besyde my draughtes rude and ignoraunt.

Now in my boke ferder to procede;

To a chambre I went, replete wyth rychesse,

Where sat Arysmatryke in a golden wede,

Lyke a lady pure and of great worthynes.

The walles about dyd full well expres,

With golde depaynted, every perfyte nombre,

To adde, detraye, and to devyde asonder.

The rofe was paynted with golden beames,

The wyndowes cristall clerely claryfyde,

The golden rayes and depured streames

Of radyant Phebus that was puryfyde

Right in the Bull, that tyme so domysyde,

Through windowes was resplendyshaunt

About the chambre fayre and radyaunt.

I kneled downe right soone on my kne,

And to her I sayd: O lady marveylous,

I right humbly beseche your majeste

Your arte to shewe me so facundyous,

Whyche is defuse and right fallacyous;

But I shall so apply myne exercyse,

That the vary trouth I shall well devyse.

My scyence, said she, is right necessary,

And in the myddes of the scyences all

It is now sette right well and parfytely;

For unto them it is so specyall,

Nombrynge so theyr werkes in generall,

Wythout me they had no parfytenes,

I must them nombre alwayes doubteles.

Without nombre is no maner of thynge,

That in our sight we may well se;

For God made all the begynnynge

In nombre perfyte well in certaynte,

Who knewe arsmetryke in every degre,

All maner nombre in his minde were had,

Bothe to detraye and to devyde and adde.

But who wyl knowe all the experience,

It behoveth hym to have great lernynge

In many thinges, wyth true intelligence,

Or that he can have perfyte rekenynge

In every nombre by expert connynge.

To reherse in Englysshe more of this science,

It were foly and the great neclygence.

I thought full longe, till I had a syght

Of La Bell Pucell, the most fayre ladye;

My minde upon her was bothe day and nyght,

The fervent love so perst me inwardly,

Wherfore I went anone right shortly

Unto the toure swete and melodyous,

Of dame Musyke so gaye and gloryous.

Whan splendent Phebus, in his midday spere,

Was hyght in Gemine in the fresshe season

Of lusty Maye, with golden beames clere,

And derke Diane made declynacion;

Whan Flora florisshed in this nacion,

I called to mynde right inwardly

The reporte of Fame so muche ententifly

Of La Bell Pucell in the toure musycall,

And ryght anone unto the toure I went;

Where I sawe a temple made of christal,

In whiche Musyke, the lady excellent,

Played on base organs expedient,

Accordyng well unto dyopason,

Dyapenthe, and eke dyetesseron.

In this temple was great solempnyte,

And of muche people there was great prease;

I loked about whether I coude se

La Bell Pucell, my langour to cease;

I coude not se her; my payne dyd encrease,

Tyl that I spyed her above, in a vaute,

Whiche to my hert did make so sore assaute,

Wyth her beaute clere and swete countenaunce,

The stroke of love I coulde nothynge resyste:

And anone, wythout lenger cyrcumstaunce,

To her I wente, or that her person wyste;

Her thought I knewe not, she thought as she lyst;

By her I stode, with herte sore and faynte,

And dyd my selfe wyth her sone acquaynt.

The comyn wyt dyd full lytell regarde

Of dame Musyke the dulcet armony;

The eres herde not, for the mynde inwarde

Venus had rapte and taken fervently:

Imaginacion wrought full prively.

The fantasy gave perfyte jugement

Alway to her for to be obedyent.

By estymacion muche doubtfully I cast

Whether I should by long tyme and space

Atteyne her, or els to love in wast.

My herte sobbed and quaked in this case;

I stode by her ryght nere in the place,

Wyth many other fayre ladyes also,

But so fayre as she I never sawe no mo.

The feste done, dame Musyke dyd go;

She folowed after, and she wolde not tary.

Fare well, she sayde, for I must parte you fro.

Alas! thought I, that fortune doth so vary;

My sadde body my hevy hert did cary;

I coude not speke, my herte was nere broken,

But wyth my head I made her a token.

Whan she was gone, inwardly than wrought

Upon her beaute my mynde retentyfe;

Her goodly fygure I graved in my thought;

Except her selfe all were expulcyfe;

My mynde to her was so ententyfe,

That I folowed her into a temple ferre,

Replete wyth joy, as bryght as any sterre;

Where dulcet Flora her aromatyke dewe

In the fayre temple adowne dyd dystyll,

All abrode the fayre dropes dyd shewe,

Encensynge out all the vapours yll;

With suche a swetenes Flora dyd fulfyll

All the temple, that my gowne well shewed

The lycoure swete of the droppes endewed.

And so to a chambre full solacyous

Dame Musyke wente wyth La Bell Pucell;

All of jasper, wyth stones precyous,

The rofe was wrought, curyously and well;

The wyndowes glased marvaylously to tell.

With cloth of tyssue in the rychest maner

The walles were hanged hye and cyrculer.

There sat dame Musyke, with all her mynstrasy;

As tabours, trumpettes, with pipes melodious,

Sakbuttes, organs, and the recorder swetely,

Harpes, lutes, and crouddes ryght delycyous;

Cymphans, doussemers, wyth claricimbales glorious.

Rebeckes, clarycordes, eche in theyr degre,

Dyd sytte aboute theyr ladyes mageste.

Before dame Musike I dyd knele adowne,

Saying to her: O fayre lady plesaunt,

Your prudence reyneth most hye in renowne,

For you be ever ryght concordant

With perfyte reason, whiche is not variaunt;

I beseche your grace, with all my diligence,

To instructe me in your noble science.

It is, she sayde, right gretely proffitable;

For musike doth sette in all unyte

The discorde thynges whiche are variable

And devoydeth myschiefe and greate iniquite.

Where lacketh musyke there is no pleynte;

For musyke is concorde and also peace,

Nothyng without musyke may well encreace.

The vii. scyences in one monacorde,

Eche upon other do full well depende;

Musyke hath them so set in concorde,

That all in one may right well extende.

All perfite reason they do so comprehende,

That theyr waye and perfite doctryne

To the joye above, whiche is celestine.

And yet also the perfite physyke,

Which appertayneth well to the body,

Doth well resemble unto the musyke,

Whan the inwarde intrayles tourneth contrary,

That nature can not worke dyrectly;

Then doth physike the partes interiall

In ordre set to their originall.

But yet physyke can not be lyberall

As the vii. science by good auctorite,

Which ledeth the soule the way in specyall

By good doctrine to dame Eternite;

Onely of phisike it is the properte

To ayde the body in every sekenes,

That is right frayle and full of bryttilnes.

And because phisyke is appendaunt

Unto the body by helpe of medecyne,

And to the soule nothing approtenaunt,

To cause the body for to enclyne

In eternal helth so the soule to domyne,

For to the body the science seven

Doth teche to lede the soule to heven.

And musike selfe is melodious

To rejoyce the yeres and comfort the brayne,

Sharping the wittes with sounde solacious,

Devoydyng bad thoughtes whiche dyd remayne,

It gladdeth the herte also well certayne;

Lengthe the lyfe with dulcet armony,

As is good recreacion after study.

She commaunded her mynstrelles right anone to play

Mamours the swete and the gentill daunce;

With La Bell Pucell, that was fayre and gaye,

She me recommaunded, with all pleasaunce,

To daunce true mesures without varyaunce.

O Lorde God! how glad than was I,

So for to daunce with my swete lady.

By her propre hande, soft as any sylke,

With due obeysaunce I dyd her then take;

Her skynne was white as whales bone or mylke.

My thought was ravysshed, I might not aslake

My brennynge hert, she the fyre dyd make;

These daunces truely musyke hath me tought

To lute or daunce, but it avayleth nought:

For the fyre kyndled, and waxed more and more,

The dauncynge blewe it, wyth her beaute clere,

My hert sekened and began to waxe sore;

A mynute vi. houres, and vi. houres a yere

I thought it was, so hevy was my chere;

But yet for cover my great love aryght,

The outwarde countenaunce I made glad and light.

And for fere myne eyes should my hert bewray,

I toke my leve and to a temple wente,

And all alone I to my selfe dyd saye:

Alas! what fortune hath me hyther sente,

To devoyde my joye and my hert torment;

No man can tell howe great payne it is,

But yf he wyll fele it, as I do ywys.

Alas! O lady, how cruell arte thou,

Of pyteous doloure for to buylde a nest

In my true hert, as thou dost ryght nowe!

Yet of all ladyes I must love the best;

Thy beaute therto dyd me sure arest.

Alas, wyth love, whan that it doth the please,

Thou mayest cease my care and my payne sone ease.

Alas! how sore maye I nowe bewayle

The pyteous chaunce whyche did me happe;

My ladyes lokes dyd me so assayle,

That sodaynly my herte was in a trap

By Venus caught, and wyth so sore a clap,

That through the greate stroke did perse:

Alas for wo I could not reverse!

Farewel all joye and al perfyte pleasure!

Fare wel my luste and my lykynge!

For wo is comen wyth me to endure;

Now must I lede my lyfe in mornynge;

I may not lute, or yet daunce or synge!

O! La Bel Pucel, my lady glorious;

You are the cause that I am so dolorous.

Alas! fayre lady, and myne owne swete herte,

Wyth my servyce I yelde me to your wyll,

You have me fettered; I may not asterte;

At your pleasure ye may me save or kyll;

Bicause I love you, wyl you me spyl?

Alas! it were a pyteous case in dede,

That you wyth deth should rewarde my mede.

A, a! that I am ryght wo bygone,

For I of love dare not to you speke,

For feare of nay, that may encrease my mone;

A nay of you myght cause my herte to breke.

Alas! I wretche and yet unhappy peke

Into suche trouble, misery, and thought:

With sight of you I am into it brought.

And to my selfe as I made complainte,

I espyed a man ryght nere me beforne,

Whyche right anone dyd wyth me acquaynt.

Me thynke, he sayde, that ye are nere forlorne,

Wyth inwarde payne that your heart hath borne.

Be not to pensyfe; call to mynde agayne

How of one sorowe ye do now make twayne.

Myne inwarde sorowe ye begyn to double;

Go your waye, quod I, for ye can not me ayde.

Tell me, he sayde, the cause of my trouble,

And of my wo be nothynge afrayde.

Me thynke that sorowe hath you overlayde:

Dryve of no lenger, but tell me your mynde,

It may me happe a remedy to fynde.

A, a! quod I, it vayleth not your speche,

I wyll wyth you never have medlynge.

Let me alone, the most unhappy wretche

Of all the wretches that is yet lyvynge.

Suche is the chaunce of my bewaylyng;

Go on your waye, you are nothyng the better

To me to speke to make the sorowe gretur.

Forsoth, he sayd, remembre thynges thre;

The fyrst is, that ye may sorowe longe

Unto your selfe or that ye ayeded be:

And secondly, in great paynes stronge,

To muse alone it myght turne you to wronge:

The thyrde is, it myght you wel ease truely

To tel your mynde to a frende ryght trusty.

It is a jewel of a frende of trust,

As at your nede to tell your secretenes

Of all your payne and fervent lust.

His counseyle soone may helpe and redres

Your payneful wo and mortall heavynes;

Alone is nought for to thynke and muse,

Therfore, good sonne, do me not refuse.

And syth that you are plunged all in thought,

Beware the pyt of dolorus dispayre;

So to complayne it vayleth you ryght nought.

It may so fortune ye love a lady fayre,

Whych to love you wyl nothyng repayre;

Or els ye have lost great londe or substaunce,

By fatall chaunge of fortunes ordinaunce.

Tell me the cause, though that it be so,

In cause you love I knowe it by experience,

It is a payne engendryng great wo,

And hard it is for to make resystence

Agaynst suche love of fervent vyolence.

The love is dredefull, but nevertheles

There is no sore nor yet no sykenes,

But there is a salve and remedy therfore;

So for your payne and your sorowe great

Councell is medicine, which may you restore

Unto your desyre wythout any let,

Yf ye wyll tell me where your herte is set.

In the chayre of sorowe no great doubt it is

To fynde a remedy for your payne, ywys.

A physycyen, truely, can lyttel descerne

Ony maner sekenes wythout syght of uryne;

No more can I by good councell you lerne

All suche wofull trouble for to determyne.

But yf you mekely wyl to me enclyne,

To tell the cause of your great hevynesse,

Of your inwarde trouble and woful sadnes.

Than I began with all my diligence

To here him speke so grounded on reason,

And in my minde did make advertence.

Howe it was holsome, in tribulation,

To save a good and a trewe companion;

For to know my sorow and woful grefe,

It myght me comforte and ryght wel relefe.

And of him, than, I asked this question:

What was his name I prayd him to tel?

Counseyl, quod he; the which solucion

In my woful mynde whiche I like ryght wel.

And pryvely I did his lesson spel,

Sayeng to him, my chance and desteny

Of al other is the moste unhappy.

Why so? quod he; though fortune be straunge,

To you a whyle turnyng of her face,

Her louring chere she may ryght sone chaunge,

And you excepte and cal unto her grace.

Dyspayre you not, for in good tyme and space

Nothynge there is but wysdom may it wynne,

To tell your mynde I praye you to begynne.

Unto you, quod I, wyth al my hole assent

I wyl tell you trouth, and you wyl not bewray

Unto none other my mater and entent.

Nay, nay, quod he, you shall not se that day;

Your hole affyaunce and trust ye well ye may

Into me put, for I shall not vary,

But kepe your counsell as a secretary.

And than to hym, in the maner folowynge,

I did complayne, wyth syghing teres depe:

Alas! quod I, you shall have knowledgyng

Of my hevy chaunce that causeth me to wepe;

So wo I am, that I can never slepe,

But walowe and tumble in the trappe of care;

My heart was caught or that I was ware.

It happened so that in a temple olde,

By the toure of Musyke at great solemnyte,

La Bell Pucell I dyd ryght well beholde,

Whose beaute clere and great humilite

To my heart dyd cast the darte of amyte;

After whyche stroke so harde and farvent,

To her excellence I came incontinent.

Beholdyng her chere and lovely countenaunce,

Her garmentes ryche and her propre stature,

I regestered well in my remembraunce

That I never sawe so fayre a creature,

So well favoured create by nature;

That harde it is for to wryte wyth yncke

All the beaute, or any hert to thynke.

Fayrer she was than was quene Elyne,

Proserpyne, Cresyde, or yet Ypolyte,

Medea, Dydo, or yonge Polexyne,

Alcumena, or quene Menelape;

Or yet dame Rosamunde; in certaynte,

None of all these can have the premynence.

Durynge the feest I stode her nere by,

But than hir beaute encreased my payne;

I coude nothyng resyst the contrary;

She wrapt my herte in a brennyng chayne.

To the musycall toure she went than agayne;

I wente after, I roude not behynde.

The chayne she haled whych my heart dyd bynde,

Tyl that we came into a chamber gaye,

Where that Musyke, wyth all her minstralsy,

Dyvers base daunces moost swetely dyd playe,

That them to here it was great melody;

And dame Musyke commaunded curteysly

La Bell Pucell wyth me than to daunce,

Whome that I toke wyth all my pleasaunce

By her swete honde, begynnyng the trace,

And longe dyd daunce tyl that I myght not hyde

The paynfull love whyche dyd my heart embrace;

Bycause wherof I toke my leve that tyde,

And to thys temple where I do abyde

Forthe than I went, alone to bewayle

My mortall sorowe wythout any fayle.

Now have I tolde you all the veray trouthe

Of my wofull chaunce and great unhappynesse.

I praye you nothyng wyth me to be wrothe,

Whyche am drouned in carefull wrethchednesse,

By fortune plunged ful of doublenes.

A, a! said Counseyle, doubte ye never a dele,

But your disease I shal by wysdome hele.

Remember yet, that never yet was he,

That in this worlde dyd lede all his lyfe

In joye and pleasure, wythout adversyte;

No worldely thyng can be wythout stryfe,

For unto pleasure payne is affyrmatyfe.

Who wyll have pleasure he must fyrst apply

To take the payne wyth hys cure besely.

To serve the joye whych after death ensue,

Rewardyng payne for the great businesse,

No doubte your lady wyl upon you rue,

Seing you apply all your gentylnes

To do her pleasure and servyce doubtles.

Harde is the heart that no love hath felt.

Nor for to love wyl than encline and melt.

Remember ye that in olde antiquyte

Howe worthy Troylus, that mighty champion,

What paine he suffered by great extremyte

Of fervent love, by a great longe ceason,

For his lady Cresyde, by great tribulacyon.

After his sorowe had not he great joye

Of hys lady, the fayrest of all Troye?

And the famous knyght yclepped Ponthus,

Whych loved Sydoyne so muche entyerly,

What payne had he and what care dolorus

For his lady wyth love so marvaylously,

Was not her heart wounded ryght wofully?

After hys payne his ladie dyd her cure,

To do him joye, honoure, and pleasure.

Who was wyth love more wofully arayed,

Than were these twayne, and many other mo?

The power of love hath them so asayde,

That, and I lyst, I coude now reherse also

To whom true love hath wrought mykel wo,

And at the ende have had their desyre,

Of al their sorow for to quenche the fyre.

Languysshe no more, but plucke up thyne herte,

Exyle dyspayre, and live a whyle in hope;

And kepe your love all close and coverte;

It may so fortune that your lady grope

Somwhat of love for to drynke a slope;

Though outwardly she dare not let you know,

But at the last, as I beleve and trowe,

She can not kepe it so prively and close,

But that somwhat to you it shal appere,

By countenaunce, how that her love arose.

If that she love you, the love is so dere,

Whan you come to her she wyl make you chere

With countenaunce, accordyng unto love,

Full pryvely for to come to her above.

Sendyng of love the messanger before,

Which is her eyes, with lovely lokes swete,

For to beholde you than ever more and more,

After the tyme that you together mete.

With lovyng wordes she wyl you than grete.

Sorow no more, for I thynke in my mynde

That at the last she wyl be good and kynd.

Alas! quod I, she is of hye degre,

Borne to great land, treasure, and substaunce:

I fere to sore I shal disdayned be,

The whych wyl trouble al my grevaunce.

Her beaute is the cause of my penaunce:

I have no great lande, treasure, nor ryches,

To wynne the favour of her noblenes.

What thoughe? quod he, draw you not abacke,

For she hath inough in her possession

For you both; for you shal never lacke

If that ye order it by good reason;

And so, in perfite consyderacyon,

She wyll wyth love her grene flouryng age

Passe forth in joye, pleasure, and courage.

Youth is alway of the course ryght lyght,

Hote, and moyste, and full of lustines,

Moost of the ayre it is ruled by ryght,

And her complexion hath chefe intres

Upon sanguyn, the ayres holsomnes.

She is not yet in al above xviii. yere;

Of tender age, to pleasure most dere.

Golde, or sylver, in any maner of wyse,

For sanguyne youth it is al contrary;

So for to coveyte for it, doth aryse

Onely engendred upon the melancoly,

Whych is drye, colde, and also erthely,

In which the golde is truely nutryfyde,

Ferre frome the ayre so clerely purifyed.

Thus covetyse shal nothyng surmount

Your yonge ladyes herte; but onely nature

Shal in her mynde make her to account

The great losse of youth, her specyal treasure.

She knoweth she is a ryght fayre creature,

No doubte it is but ye pryvely amonge,

So hye is nature wyth his werkes stronge.