O noble worthy king, Henry the ferthe,

In whom the gladde fortune is befalle

The people to governe here upon erthe,

God hath thee chose, in comfort of us alle;

The worship of this land, which was doun falle,

Now stant upright, through grace of thy goodnesse,

Which every man is holde for to blesse.

The highe god, of his justyce alone,

The right which longeth to thy regalye

Declared hath to stande in thy persone;

And more than god may no man justifye.

Thy title is knowe upon thyn auncestrye;

The londes folk hath eek thy right affermed;

So stant thy regne, of god and man confermed.

Ther is no man may saye in other wyse

That god him-self ne hath the right declared;

Wherof the land is boun to thy servyse,

Which for defaute of helpe hath longe cared.

But now ther is no mannes herte spared

To love and serve, and worche thy plesaunce;

And al this is through goddes purveyaunce.

In alle thing which is of god begonne

Ther foloweth grace, if it be wel governed;

Thus tellen they whiche olde bokes conne,

Wherof, my lord, I wot wel thou art lerned.

Aske of thy god; so shalt thou nat be werned

Of no request [the] whiche is resonable;

For god unto the goode is favorable.

King Salomon, which hadde at his askinge

Of god, what thing him was levest to crave,

He chees wysdom unto the governinge

Of goddes folk, the whiche he wolde save;

And as he chees, it fil him for to have;

For through his wit, whyl that his regne laste,

He gat him pees and reste, unto the laste.

But Alisaundre, as telleth his historie,

Unto the god besoughte in other weye,

Of al the worlde to winne the victorie,

So that under his swerde it might[e] obeye;

In werre he hadde al that he wolde preye.

The mighty god behight[e] him that behest;

The world he wan, and hadde it of conquest.

But though it fil at thilke tyme so,

That Alisaundre his asking hath acheved,

This sinful world was al[le] payën tho;

Was noon whiche hath the highe god beleved;

No wonder was, though thilke world was greved.

Though a tyraunt his purpos mighte winne,

Al was vengeaunce, and infortune of sinne.

But now the faith of Crist is come a-place

Among the princes in this erthe here,

It sit hem wel to do pitè and grace,

But yet it mot be tempred in manere.

For as they fynden cause in the matere

Upon the poynt, what afterward betyde,

The lawe of right shal nat be layd a-syde.

So may a king of werre the viage

Ordayne and take, as he therto is holde,

To clayme and aske his rightful heritage

In alle places wher it is with-holde.

But other-wyse, if god him-selve wolde

Afferme love and pees bitween the kinges,

Pees is the beste, above alle erthly thinges.

Good is t'eschewe werre, and nathelees

A king may make werre upon his right;

For of bataile the fynal ende is pees;

Thus stant the lawe, that a worthy knight

Upon his trouthe may go to the fight.

But-if so were that he mighte chese,

Betre is the pees of which may no man lese.

To stere pees oughte every man on-lyve,

First, for to sette his liege lord in reste,

And eek these othre men, that they ne stryve;

For so this land may standen atte beste.

What king that wolde be the worthieste,

The more he mighte our deedly werre cese,

The more he shulde his worthinesse encrese.

Pees is the cheef of al the worldes welthe,

And to the heven it ledeth eek the way;

Pees is of soule and lyfe the mannes helthe

Of pestilence, and doth the werre away.

My liege lord, tak hede of that I say,

If werre may be left, tak pees on honde,

Which may nat be withoute goddes sonde.

With pees stant every crëature in reste,

Withoute pees ther may no lyf be glad;

Above al other good, pees is the beste;

Pees hath him-self, whan werre is al bestad;

The pees is sauf, the werre is ever adrad.

Pees is of al[le] charitè the keye,

Whiche hath the lyf and soule for to weye.

My liege lord, if that thee list to seche

The sothe ensamples, what the werre hath wrought,

Thou shalt wel here, of wyse mennes speche,

That deedly werre tourneth in-to nought.

For if these olde bokes be wel sought,

Ther might thou see what thing the werre hath do

Bothe of conquest and conquerour also.

For vayne honóur, or for the worldes good,

They that whylom the stronge werres made,

Wher be they now? Bethink wel, in thy mood,

The day is goon, the night is derke and fade;

Hir crueltè, which made hem thanne glade,

They sorowen now, and yet have naught the more;

The blood is shad, which no man may restore.

The werre is moder of the wronges alle;

It sleeth the preest in holy chirche at masse,

Forlyth the mayde, and doth her flour to falle.

The werre maketh the grete citee lasse,

And doth the lawe his reules overpasse.

Ther is nothing, wherof mescheef may growe

Whiche is not caused of the werre, I trowe.

The werre bringth in póverte at his heles,

Wherof the comun people is sore greved;

The werre hath set his cart on thilke wheles

Wher that fortune may not be beleved.

For whan men wene best to have acheved,

Ful ofte it is al newe to beginne;

The werre hath nothing siker, thogh he winne.

For-thy, my worthy prince, in Cristes halve,

As for a part whos fayth thou hast to gyde,

Ley to this olde sore a newe salve,

And do the werre away, what-so betyde.

Purchace pees, and sette it by thy syde,

And suffre nat thy people be devoured;

So shal thy name ever after stande honóured!

If any man be now, or ever was

Ayein the pees thy prevy counsaylour,

Let god be of thy counsayl in this cas,

And put away the cruel werreyour.

For god, whiche is of man the creatour,

He wolde not men slowe his crëature

Withoute cause of deedly forfayture.

Wher nedeth most, behoveth most to loke;

My lord, how so thy werres be withoute,

Of tyme passed who that hede toke,

Good were at home to see right wel aboute;

For evermore the worste is for to doute.

But, if thou mightest parfit pees attayne,

Ther shulde be no cause for to playne.

Aboute a king, good counsayl is to preyse

Above al othre thinges most vailable;

But yet a king within him-self shal peyse

And seen the thinges that be resonable.

And ther-upon he shal his wittes stable

Among the men to sette pees in evene,

For love of him whiche is the king of hevene.

A! wel is him that shedde never blood

But-if it were in cause of rightwysnesse!

For if a king the peril understood

What is to slee the people, thanne, I gesse,

The deedly werres and the hevinesse

Wher-of the pees distourbed is ful ofte,

Shulde at som tyme cesse and wexe softe.

O king! fulfilled of grace and of knighthode,

Remembre upon this poynt, for Cristes sake;

If pees be profred unto thy manhode,

Thyn honour sauf, let it nat be forsake!

Though thou the werres darst wel undertake,

After resoun yet temper thy corage;

For lyk to pees ther is non avauntage.

My worthy lord, thenk wel, how-so befalle

Of thilke lore, as holy bokes sayn;

Crist is the heed, and we be membres alle,

As wel the subject as the soverayn.

So sit it wel, that charitè be playn,

Whiche unto god him-selve most accordeth,

So as the lore of Cristes word recordeth.

In th'olde lawe, or Crist him-self was bore,

Among the ten comaundëments, I rede,

How that manslaughter shulde be forbore;

Such was the wil, that tyme, of the godhede.

But afterward, whan Crist took his manhede,

Pees was the firste thing he leet do crye

Ayenst the worldes rancour and envye.

And, or Crist wente out of this erthe here,

And stigh to heven, he made his testament,

Wher he bequath to his disciples there

And yaf his pees, which is the foundement

Of charitè, withouten whos assent

The worldes pees may never wel be tryed,

Ne lovë kept, ne lawë justifyed.

The Jewes with the payens hadden werre,

But they among hem-self stode ever in pees;

Why shulde than our pees stonde out of herre,

Which Crist hath chose unto his owne encrees?

For Crist is more than was Moÿses;

And Crist hath set the parfit of the lawe,

The whiche shulde in no wyse be withdrawe.

To yeve us pees was causë why Crist dyde,

Withoute pees may nothing stonde avayled;

But now a man may see on every syde

How Cristes fayth is every day assayled,

With the payens distroyed, and so batayled

That, for defaute of helpe and of defence,

Unneth hath Crist his dewe reverence.

The righte fayth to kepe of holy chirche

The firste poynt is named of knighthode;

And every man is holde for to wirche

Upon the poynt that stant to his manhode.

But now, alas! the fame is spred so brode

That every man this thing [alday] complayneth;

And yet is ther no man that help ordayneth.

The worldes cause is wayted over-al;

Ther be the werres redy, to the fulle;

But Cristes owne cause in special,

Ther ben the swerdes and the speres dulle.

And with the sentence of the popes bulle

As for to doon the folk payën obeye,

The chirche is tourned al another weye.

It is wonder, above any mannes wit,

Withoute werre how Cristes fayth was wonne;

And we that been upon this erthë yit

Ne kepe it nat as it was first begonne.

To every crëature under the sonne

Crist bad him-self, how that we shulde preche,

And to the folke his evangely teche.

More light it is to kepe than to make;

But that we founden mad to-fore the hond

We kepe nat, but lete it lightly slake;

The pees of Crist hath al to-broke his bond.

We reste our-self, and suffren every lond

To slee eche other as thing undefended;

So stant the werre, and pees is nat amended.

But though the heed of holy chirche above

Ne do nat al his hole businesse

Among the men to sette pees and love,

These kinges oughten, of hir rightwysnesse,

Hir owne cause among hem-self redresse.

Thogh Peters ship, as now, hath lost his stere,

It lyth in hem that barge for to stere.

If holy chirche after the dewetè

Of Cristes word ne be nat al avysed

To make pees, accord, and unitè

Among the kinges that be now devysed,

Yet, natheles, the lawë stant assysed

Of mannes wit, to be so resonable

Withoute that to stande hem-selve stable.

Of holy chirche we ben children alle,

And every child is holde for to bowe

Unto the moder, how that ever it falle,

Or elles he mot reson disalowe.

And, for that cause, a knight shal first avowe

The right of holy chirche to defende,

That no man shal the privilege offende.

Thus were it good to setten al in evene

The worldes princes and the prelats bothe,

For love of him whiche is the king of hevene;

And if men shulde algate wexen wrothe,

The Sarazins, whiche unto Crist ben lothe,

Let men be armed ayenst hem to fighte,

So may the knight his dede of armes righte.

Upon three poynts stant Cristes pees oppressed;

First, holy chirche is in her-self devyded;

Which oughte, of reson, first to be redressed;

But yet so high a cause is nat decyded.

And thus, whan humble pacience is pryded,

The remenaunt, which that they shulde reule,

No wonder is, though it stande out of reule.

Of that the heed is syk, the limmes aken;

These regnes, that to Cristes pees belongen,

For worldes good, these deedly werres maken,

Which helpelees, as in balaunce, hongen.

The heed above hem hath nat underfongen

To sette pees, but every man sleeth other;

And in this wyse hath charitè no brother.

The two defautes bringen in the thridde

Of miscreants, that seen how we debate;

Between the two, they fallen in a-midde

Wher now al-day they fynde an open gate.

Lo! thus the deedly werre stant al-gate.

But ever I hopë of king Henries grace,

That he it is which shal the pees embrace.

My worthy noble prince, and king anoynt,

Whom god hath, of his grace, so preserved,

Behold and see the world upon this poynt,

As for thy part, that Cristes pees be served.

So shal thy highe mede be reserved

To him, whiche al shal quyten atte laste;

For this lyf herë may no whyle laste.

See Alisandre, Hector, and Julius,

See Machabeus, David, and Josuë,

See Charlemayne, Godfray, and Arthus

Fulfild of werre and of mortalitee!

Hir fame abit, but al is vanitee;

For deth, whiche hath the werres under fote,

Hath mad an ende, of which ther is no bote.

So may a man the sothe wite and knowe,

That pees is good for every king to have;

The fortune of the werre is ever unknowe,

But wher pees is, ther ben the marches save.

That now is up, to-morwe is under grave.

The mighty god hath alle grace in honde;

Withouten him, men may nat longe stonde.

Of the tenetz to winne or lese a chace

May no lyf wite, or that the bal be ronne;

Al stant in god, what thing men shal purchace:

Th'ende is in him, or that it be begonne;

Men sayn, the wolle, whan it is wel sponne,

Doth that the cloth is strong and profitable,

And elles it may never be durable.

The worldes chaunces upon aventure

Ben ever set; but thilke chaunce of pees

Is so behovely to the crëature

That it above al other is peerlees.

But it may nat †be gete, nathelees,

Among the men to lasten any whyle,

But wher the herte is playn, withoute gyle.

The pees is as it were a sacrament

To-fore the god, and shal with wordes playne

Withouten any double entendëment

Be treted; for the trouthe can nat feyne.

But if the men within hem-self be vayne,

The substaunce of the pees may nat be trewe,

But every day it chaungeth upon newe.

But who that is of charitè parfyte,

He voydeth alle sleightes fer aweye,

And set his word upon the same plyte

Wher that his herte hath founde a siker weye;

And thus, whan conscience is trewly weye,

And that the pees be handled with the wyse,

It shal abyde and stande, in alle wyse.

Th'apostel sayth, ther may no lyf be good

Whiche is nat grounded upon charitè;

For charitè ne shedde never blood.

So hath the werre, as ther, no propertè;

For thilke vertue which is sayd 'pitè'

With charitè so ferforth is acquaynted

That in her may no fals sembla[u]nt be paynted.

Cassodore, whos wryting is authorysed

Sayth: 'wher that pitè regneth, ther is grace';

Through which the pees hath al his welthe assysed,

So that of werre he dredeth no manace.

Wher pitè dwelleth, in the same place

Ther may no deedly crueltè sojourne

Wherof that mercy shulde his wey[e] tourne.

To see what pitè, forth with mercy, doth,

The cronique is at Rome, in thilke empyre

Of Constantyn, which is a tale soth,

Whan him was lever his owne deth desyre

Than do the yonge children to martyre.

Of crueltee he lefte the quarele;

Pitè he wroughte, and pitè was his hele.

For thilke mannes pitè which he dede

God was pitous, and made him hool at al;

Silvester cam, and in the same stede

Yaf him baptyme first in special,

Which dide away the sinne original,

And al his lepre it hath so purifyed,

That his pitè for ever is magnifyed.

Pitè was cause why this emperour

Was hool in body and in soule bothe;

And Rome also was set in thilke honour

Of Cristes fayth, so that the leve, of lothe

Whiche hadden be with Crist tofore wrothe,

Receyved werë unto Cristes lore.

Thus shal pitè be praysed evermore.

My worthy liege lord, Henry by name,

Which Engëlond hast to governe and righte,

Men oughten wel thy pitè to proclame,

Which openliche, in al the worldes sighte,

Is shewed, with the helpe of god almighte,

To yeve us pees, which long hath be debated,

Wherof thy prys shal never be abated.

My lord, in whom hath ever yet be founde

Pitè, withoute spotte of violence,

Keep thilke pees alway, withinne bounde,

Which god hath planted in thy conscience.

So shal the cronique of thy pacience

Among the saynts be take in-to memórie

To the loënge of perdurable glorie.

And to thyn erthely prys, so as I can,

Whiche every man is holde to commende,

I Gower, which am al thy liege man,

This lettre unto thyn excellence I sende,

As I, whiche ever unto my lyves ende

Wol praye for the stat of thy persone,

In worshipe of thy sceptre and of thy trone.

Nat only to my king of pees I wryte,

But to these othre princes Cristen alle,

That eche of hem his owne herte endyte

And cese the werre, or more mescheef falle.

Set eek the rightful pope upon his stalle;

Keep charitè, and draw pitè to honde,

Maynteyne lawe; and so the pees shal stonde.

Electus Christi,pie rex Henrice, fuisti,

Qui bene venisti,cum propria regna petisti;

Tu mala vicisti-que bonis bona restituisti,

Et populo tristinova gaudia contribuisti.

Est mihi spes lata,quod adhuc per te renovata

Succedent fataveteri probitate beata;

Est tibi nam gratagratia sponte data.

Henrici quarti primus regni fuit annus

Quo mihi defecit visus ad acta mea.

Omnia tempus habent, finem natura ministrat,

Quem virtute sua frangere nemo potest.

Ultra posse nihil, quamvis mihi velle remansit,

Amplius ut scribam non mihi posse manet.

Dum potui, scripsi, sed nunc quia curua senectus

Turbauit sensus, scripta relinquo scolis.

Scribat qui veniet post me discretior alter,

Ammodo namque manus et mea penna silent.

Hoc tamen in fine verborum queso meorum,

Prospera quod statuat regna futura deus.

¶ Explicit.

When that hir hertes feleth no distresse,

To blinden women with hir doublenesse.

Hir wordes spoken ben so syghingly,

With so pitousë chere and contenaunce,

That every wight that meneth trewely

Demeth that they in herte have such grevaunce;

They seyn so importáble is hir penaunce

That, but hir lady lust to shewe hem grace,

They right anoon †mot sterven in the place.

'A, lady myn!' they seyn, 'I yow ensure,

As doth me grace, and I shal ever be,

Whyl that my lyf may lasten and endure,

To yow as humble and lowe in ech degree

As possible is, and kepe al thing secree

Right as your-selven liste that I do;

And elles moot myn herte breste a-two.'

Ful hard it is to knowe a mannes herte;

For outward may no man the trouthe deme;

When word out of his mouthe may noon asterte

But it by reson any wight shuld queme,

So is it seyd of herte, as hit wolde seme.

O feythful woman, ful of innocence,

Thou art deceyved by fals apparence!

By proces women, meved of pitee,

Wening that al thing were as thise men sey,

They graunte hem grace of hir benignitee

For that men shulde nat for hir sake dey;

And with good herte sette hem in the wey

Of blisful lovë—kepe it if they conne;

Thus other-whylë women beth y-wonne.

And whan this man the pot hath by the stele,

And fully is in his possessioun,

With that woman he kepeth not to dele,

After if he may fynden in the toun

Any woman, his blinde affeccioun

On to bestowë; evel mote he preve!

A man, for al his othes, is hard to leve!

And, for that every fals man hath a make,

(As un-to every wight is light to knowe),

Whan this traitour this woman hath forsake,

He faste him spedeth un-to his felowe;

Til he be there, his herte is on a lowe;

His fals deceyt ne may him not suffyse,

But of his treson telleth al the wyse.

Is this a fair avaunt? is this honour,

A man him-self accuse thus, and diffame?

Now is it good, confesse him a traitour,

And bringe a woman to a sclandrous name,

And telle how he her body hath do shame?

No worship may he thus to him conquere,

But greet esclaundre un-to him and here!

To herë? Nay, yet was it no repreef;

For al for vertu was it that she wroughte;

But he that brewed hath al this mischeef,

That spak so faire, and falsly inward thoughte,

His be the sclaundre, as it by reson oughte,

And un-to her a thank perpetuel,

That in a nede helpe can so wel!

Althogh of men, through sleyght and sotiltee,

A sely, simple, and innocent woman

Betrayed is, no wonder, sith the citee

Of Troye—as that the storie telle can—

Betrayed was, through the disceyt of man,

And set on fyre, and al doun over-throwe,

And finally destroyed, as men knowe.

Betrayen men not citees grete, and kinges?

What wight is that can shape remedye

Ageynes thise falsly purpósed thinges?

Who can the craft such craftes to espye

But man, whos wit ay redy is t'aplye

To thing that souneth in-to hy falshede?

Women, beth ware of mennes sleight, I rede!

And furthermore han thise men in usage

That, where as they not lykly been to spede,

Suche as they been with a double visage

They prócuren, for to pursewe hir nede;

He prayeth him in his causë to procede,

And largely guerdoneth he his travayle;

Smal witen wommen how men hem assayle!

Another wrecche un-to his felowe seyth:

'Thou fisshest faire! She that thee hath fyred

Is fals and inconstaunt, and hath no feyth.

She for the rode of folke is so desyred

And, as an hors, fro day to day is hyred

That, when thou twinnest fro hir companye,

Another comth, and blered is thyn eyë!

'Now prikke on fastë, and ryd thy journey

Whyl thou art there; for she, behind thy bak,

So liberal is, she wol no wight with-sey,

But smertly of another take a snak;

For thus thise wommen faren, al the pak!

Who-so hem trusteth, hanged mote he be!

Ay they desyren chaunge and noveltee!'

Wher-of procedeth this but of envye?

For he him-selve her ne winne may,

He speketh her repreef and vileinye,

As mannes blabbing tonge is wont alway.

Thus dyvers men ful often make assay

For to distourben folk in sondry wyse,

For they may not acheven hir empryse.

Ful many a man eek wolde, for no good,

(That hath in love his tyme spent and used)

Men wiste, his lady his axing withstood,

And that he were of her pleynly refused,

Or wast and veyn were al that he had mused;

Wherfore he can no better remedye

But on his lady shapeth him to lye:

'Every womman,' he seyth, 'is light to gete;

Can noon sey "nay," if she be wel y-soght.

Who-so may leyser han, with her to trete,

Of his purpós ne shal he faile noght,

But he on madding be so depe y-broght

That he shende al with open hoomlinesse;

That loven wommen nat, as that I gesse!'

To sclaundre wommen thus, what may profyte

To gentils namely, that hem armen sholde,

And in defence of wommen hem delyte

As that the ordre of gentilesse wolde?

If that a man list gentil to be holde,

He moot flee al that ther-to is contrarie;

A sclaundring tonge is his grete adversarie.

A foul vice is of tonge to be light;

For who-so michel clappeth, gabbeth ofte.

The tonge of man so swift is and so wight

That, whan it is areysed up-on lofte,

Resoun it seweth so slowly and softe,

That it him never over-take may:

Lord! so thise men ben trusty in assay!

Al-be-it that man fynde oo woman nyce,

Inconstant, rechelees, or variable,

Deynouse or proud, fulfilled of malyce,

Withouten feyth or love, and deceyvable,

Sly, queynt, and fals, in al unthrift coupable,

Wikked and feers, and ful of crueltee.

It foloweth nat that swiche al wommen be.

Whan that the high god aungels formed had,

Among hem alle whether ther werë noon

That founden was malicious and bad?

Yis! al men woot that ther was many oon

That, for hir pryde, fil from heven anoon.

Shul men therfore alle aungels proude name?

Nay! he that that susteneth is to blame.

Of twelve apostels oon a traitour was;

The remënant yit godë were and trewe.

Than, if it happe men fyndë, per cas,

Oo womman fals, swich good is for t'eschewe,

And deme nat that they ben alle untrewe.

I see wel mennes owne falsenesse

Hem causeth wommen for to trusten lesse.

O! every man oghte have an herte tendre

Unto womman, and deme her honurable,

Whether his shap be outher thikke or slendre,

Or be he bad or good; this is no fable.

Every man woot, that wit hath resonable,

That of a womman he descended is:

Than is it shame, of her to speke amis.

A wikked tree good fruit may noon forth bring,

For swich the fruit is, as that is the tree.

Tak hede of whom thou took thy biginning;

Lat thy moder be mirour unto thee.

Honoure her, if thou wolt honoured be!

Dispyse thou her nat, in no manere,

Lest that ther-by thy wikkednesse appere!

An old provérbë seyd is in English:

Men seyn, 'that brid or foul is dishonest,

What that he be, and holden ful churlish,

That useth to defoule his owne nest.'

Men, to sey wel of wommen it is best,

And nat for to despyse hem ne deprave,

If that they wole hir honour kepe and save.

Thise ladies eek compleynen hem on clerkes

That they han maad bokës of hir diffame,

In which they lakken wommen and hir werkes

And speken of hem greet repreef and shame,

And causëlees yive hem a wikked name.

Thus they despysed been on every syde,

And sclaundred, and bilowen on ful wyde.

The sory bokes maken mencioun

How they betrayden, in especial,

Adam, David, Sampsoun, and Salamoun,

And many oon mo; who may rehersen al

The treson that they havë doon, and shal?

The world hir malice may not comprehende;

As that thise clerkes seyn, it hath non ende.

Ovyde, in his boke called 'Remedye

Of Lovë,' greet repreef of wommen wryteth;

Wherin, I trowe, he dide greet folye,

And every wight that in such cas delyteth.

A clerkes custom is, whan he endyteth

Of wommen, be it prose, or ryme, or vers,

Sey they ben wikke, al knowe he the revers.

And that book scolers lerne in hir childhede,

For they of wommen be war sholde in age,

And for to love hem ever been in drede,

Sin to deceyve is set al hir corage.

They seyn, peril to caste is avantage,

And namely, suche as men han in be wrapped;

For many a man by woman hath mishapped.

No charge is, what-so that thise clerkes seyn;

Of al hir wrong wryting I do no cure;

Al hir travayle and labour is in veyn.

For, betwex me and my lady Nature,

Shal nat be suffred, whyl the world may dure,

Thise clerkes, by hir cruel tyrannye,

Thus upon wommen kythen hir maistrye.

Whylom ful many of hem were in my cheyne

Y-tyed, and now, what for unweldy age

And for unlust, may not to love atteyne,

And seyn, that love is but verray dotage.

Thus, for that they hem-self lakken corage,

They folk excyten, by hir wikked sawes,

For to rebelle agayn me and my lawes.

But, maugre hem that blamen wommen most,

Suche is the force of myn impressioun,

That sodeinly I felle can hir bost

And al hir wrong imaginacioun.

It shal not been in hir eleccioun

The foulest slutte of al a toun refuse,

If that me list, for al that they can muse;

But her in herte as brenningly desyre

As thogh she were a duchesse or a quene;

So can I folkes hertes sette on fyre,

And (as me list) hem sende joye or tene.

They that to wommen been y-whet so kene

My sharpe persing strokes, how they smyte,

Shul fele and knowe; and how they kerve and byte.

Perdee, this grete clerk, this sotil Ovyde

And many another han deceyved be

Of wommen, as it knowen is ful wyde;

Wot no man more; and that is greet deyntee,

So excellent a clerk as that was he,

And other mo that coude so wel preche

Betrapped were, for aught they coude teche.

And trusteth wel, that it is no mervayle;

For wommen knewen pleynly hir entente.

They wiste how sotilly they coude assayle

Hem, and what falshood they in herte mente;

And thise clerkes they in hir daunger hente.

With oo venym another was distroyed;

And thus thise clerkes often were anoyed.

Thise ladies ne thise gentils, nevertheles,

Were noon of tho that wroughten in this wyse;

But swiche filthes as were vertules

They quitten thus thise olde clerkes wyse.

To clerkes forthy lesse may suffyse

Than to deprave wommen generally;

For worship shul they gete noon therby.

If that thise men, that lovers hem pretende,

To wommen weren feythful, gode, and trewe,

And dredde hem to deceyven or offende,

Wommen to love hem wolde nat eschewe.

But every day hath man an herte newe;

It upon oon abyde can no whyle.

What fors is it, swich a wight to begyle?

Men beren eek thise wommen upon honde

That lightly, and withouten any peyne,

They wonne been; they can no wight withstonde

That his disese list to hem compleyne.

They been so freel, they mowe hem nat refreyne;

But who-so lyketh may hem lightly have;

So been hir hertes esy in to grave.

To maister Iohn de Meun, as I suppose,

Than it was a lewd occupacioun

In making of the Romance of the Rose;

So many a sly imaginacioun

And perils for to rollen up and doun,

So long proces, so many a sly cautele

For to deceyve a sely damosele!

Nat can I seen, ne my wit comprehende

That art and peyne and sotiltee sholde fayle

For to conquére, and sone make an ende,

Whan man a feble place shal assayle;

And sone also to venquisshe a batayle

Of which no wight dar maken resistence,

Ne herte hath noon to stonden at defence.

Than moot it folwen of necessitee,

Sin art asketh so greet engyn and peyne

A womman to disceyve, what she be,

Of constauncë they been not so bareyne

As that somme of thise sotil clerkes feyne;

But they ben as that wommen oghten be,

Sad, constant, and fulfilled of pitee.

How frendly was Medea to Jasoun

In the conquéring of the flees of gold!

How falsly quitte he her affeccioun

By whom victórie he gat, as he hath wold!

How may this man, for shame, be so bold

To falsen her, that from his dethe and shame

Him kepte, and gat him so gret prys and name?

Of Troye also the traitour Eneas,

The feythles wrecche, how hath he him forswore

To Dido, that queen of Cartágë was,

That him releved of his smertes sore!

What gentilesse might she han doon more

Than she with herte unfeyned to him kidde?

And what mischeef to her ther-of betidde!

In my Legende of Martres men may fynde

(Who-so that lyketh therin for to rede)

That ooth noon ne behest may no man bynde;

Of reprevable shame han they no drede.

In mannes herte trouthe hath no stede;

The soil is noght, ther may no trouthe growe!

To womman namely it is nat unknowe.

Clerkes seyn also: 'ther is no malyce

Unto wommannes crabbed wikkednesse!'

O woman! How shalt thou thy-self chevyce,

Sin men of thee so muchel harm witnesse?

No fors! Do forth! Takë no hevinesse!

Kepë thyn ownë, what men clappe or crake;

And somme of hem shul smerte, I undertake!

Malyce of wommen, what is it to drede?

They slee no men, distroyen no citees;

They not oppressen folk ne overlede,

Betraye empyres, remes, ne duchees,

Ne men bereve hir landes ne hir mees,

Empoyson folk, ne houses sette on fyre,

Ne false contractes maken for non hyre!

Trust, perfit love, and entere charitee,

Fervent wil, and entalented corage

To thewes gode, as it sit wel to be,

Han wommen ay, of custome and usage;

And wel they can a mannes ire aswage

With softe wordes discreet and benigne;

What they be inward, sheweth outward signe.

Wommannes herte un-to no crueltee

Enclyned is, but they ben charitable,

Pitous, devout, fulle of humilitee,

Shamfaste, debonaire, and amiable,

Dredful, and of hir wordes mesurable:

What womman thise hath not, peraventure,

Ne folweth nat the wey of her nature.

Men seyn: 'our firste moder, natheles,

Made al man-kynde lese his libertee,

And naked it of joye, douteles;

For goddes hestes disobeyed she,

Whan she presumed tasten of a tree,

Which god forbad that she nat ete of sholde;

And, nad the devel been, namore she wolde.'

Th' envýous swelling that the feend, our fo,

Had unto man in herte, for his welthe,

Sente a serpent, and made her for to go

To disceyve Eve; and thus was mannes helthe

Beraft him by the fende, right in a stelthe,

The womman noght knowing of the deceyt;

God wot, ful fer was it from her conceyt.

Wherfore I sey, this godë womman Eve

Our fader Adam ne deceyved noght.

Ther may no man for a deceyt it preve

Proprely, but-if that she, in her thoght,

Had it compassed first, er it was wroght;

And, for swich was nat her impressioun,

Men calle it may no déceyt, by resoun.

No wight deceyveth but he it purpóse;

The feend this déceyt caste, and nothing she.

Than is it wrong to demen or suppose

That she sholde of this harm the cause be.

Wyteth the feend, and his be the maugree;

And for excused have her innocence,

Sauf only that she brak obedience.

And touching this, ful fewe men ther been,

Unnethes any, dar I saufly seye—

Fro day to day, as that men mow wel seen,

But that the hest of god they disobeye.

Have this in mynde, sires, I yow preye;

If that ye be discreet and resonable,

Ye wol her holde the more excusable.

And wher men seyn, 'in man is stedfastnesse,

And woman is of her corage unstable,'

Who may of Adam bere swich witnesse?

Telleth me this:—was he nat chaungeable?

They bothe weren in a caas semblable,

Sauf willingly the feend deceyved Eve,

And so did she nat Adam, by your leve.

Yet was this sinne happy to mankynde,

The feend deceyved was, for al his sleight;

For aught he coude him in his sleightes wynde,

God, to discharge mankynde of the weight

Of his trespas, cam doun from hevenes height,

And flesh and blood he took of a virgyne,

And suffred deeth, him to deliver of pyne.

And god, to whom ther may nothing hid be,

If he in woman knowe had such malyce

As men of hem recorde in generaltee,

Of our lady, of lyf reparatryce,

Nolde han be born; but, for that she of vyce

Was voyde, and of al vertu (wel he wiste)

Endowed, of her to be bore him liste.

Her heped vertu hath swich excellence

That al to lene is mannes facultee

To déclare it, and therfor in suspence

Her duë preysing put mot nedes be.

But this we witen verrayly, that she,

Next god, the best frend is that to man longeth;

The key of mercy by her girdil hongeth.

And of mercy hath every man swich nede

That, cessing that, farwel the joye of man!

Of her power now taketh right good hede;

She mercy may, wol, and purchace can.

Displese her nat, honoureth that womman,

And other wommen alle, for her sake!

And, but ye do, your sorowe shal awake.

Thou precious gemme, O martir Margarete,

Of thy blood draddest noon effusioun!

Thy martirdom ne may I nat foryete;

Thou, constant womman in thy passioun,

Overcoom the feendes temptacioun;

And many a wight converted thy doctryne

Unto the feith of god, holy virgyne!

But understondeth, I commende hir noght

By enchesoun of hir virginitee;

Trusteth right wel, it cam not in my thoght;

For ever I werrey ayein chastitee,

And ever shal; but this, lo! meveth me,

Her loving herte and constant to her lay

Dryve out of rémembrauncë I ne may.

In any boke also wher can ye fynde,

That of the werkes or the dethe or lyf

Of Jesu speketh, or maketh any mynde,

That womman him forsook, for wo or stryf?

Wher was ther any wight so ententyf

Abouten him as wommen? Pardee, noon!

Th'apostels him forsoken, everichoon.

Womman forsook him noght; for al the feyth

Of holy chirche in womman lefte only.

This is no lees, for holy writ thus seyth;

Loke, and ye shal so fynde it, hardely.

And therfore it may preved be therby,

That in womman regneth stable constaunce

And in men is the chaunge and variaunce!

Now holdeth this for ferme and for no lye,

That this trewe and just commendacioun

Of wommen is nat told for flaterye,

Ne to cause hem pryde or elacioun,

But only, lo! for this entencioun,

To yeve hem corage of perseveraunce

In vertu, and hir honour to enhaunce.

The more vertu, the lasse is the pryde;

Vertu so digne is, and so noble in kynde

That vyce and she wol not in-fere abyde.

She putteth vyce clene out of her mynde,

She fleeth from him, she leveth him behynde.

O womman, that of vertu art hostesse,

Greet is thyn honour and thy worthinesse!

Than wol we thus concluden and diffyne:

We yow comaunde, our ministres, echoon

That redy been to our hestes enclyne,

That of thise false men, our rebel foon,

Ye do punisshëment, and that anoon!

Voide hem our court and banish hem for ever

So that ther-inne they ne come never.

Fulfilled be it, cessing al delay;

Look that ther be non excusacioun.

Writen in th'ayr, the lusty month of May,

In our paleys (wher many a millioun

Of loveres trewe han habitacioun)

The yere of grace joyful and jocounde

A thousand and foure hundred and secounde.