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And if ye lifte releve hym of his pain
Praie ye his best frende of his nobleneffe
That to fome bettir ftate he maie attain.
L'envoye.

To brokin ben the ftatutes hie in heven
That create were eternally t' endure,
Sith that I fe the brightè goddis feven
Mowe wepe and waile and paffion endure,
As maie in yerth a mortall creäture;
Alas! fro whenis maie this thing procede,
Of whiche errour I die almofte for drede?
By words eterne whilom was it yfhape
That fro the fifth circle in no manere
Ne might of teris nothing doune escape,
But now fo wepith Venus in her sphere
That with her teris fhe woll drench us here:
Alas, Scogan! this is for thine offence;
Thou caufift this deluge of peftilence.

Haft thou not faied in blafpheme of the goddis,
Through pride or thorough thy gret rekilnes,
Soche thinges as in the law of Love forbode is,
That for thy ladie fawe not thy diftreffe
Therefore thou yave her up at Mighelmeffe?
Alas, Scogan! of oldè folke ne yong
Was nevir erft Scogan blamed for his tong.

Thou drewe in fcorne Cupide eke to recorde
Of thilke rebell worde that thou haft spoken,
For whiche he woll no lengir be thy lorde;

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And, Scogan, though his bowe be not ybroken
He woll not with his arowes be iwroken
On thee ne me, ne none of our figure;
We fhall of hym have neithir hurte ne cure.

Now certis, frende, I drede of thine unhappe,
Left for thy gilte the wreche of Love procede
On all 'hem that ben hore and round of fhap,
That be fo likely folkè for to spede,
Then we fhall of our labour have our mede;
But well I wot thou wolt anfwere and faie,
Lo! oldè Grifill lift to renne and plaie.

Naie, Scogan, faie not fo, for I me' excuse,
God helpe me fo, in no rime doutiles,
Ne thinke I nevir of flepe wake my Mufe,
That ruftith in my fheth still and in pese;
While I was yong I put her forthe in prese,
But al fhall paffin that men profe or rime,
That every man his tourne as for his tyme.

Scogan, thou knelift at the ftrem'is hedde
Of grace, of honour, and of worthinesse,
In the ende of whiche I am dull as dedde,
Forgotten in folitarie wildirneffe;
Yet, Scogan, thinke on Tullius kindeneffe,
Mynd thy frendè there it maie fructifie;
Farwell, and loke thou ner eft Love defie.

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Explicit.

Go forthe, kyng, and rule the by sapience
Bishoppe, be able to ministir doctrine;
Lorde, to true counfaile yeve thou audience;
Womanhode, to chastitie er encline;

Knight, let thy dedis worship determine;
Be rightous, judge, in favyng of thy name;
Rich, do almofe, left thou lefe bliffe with fhame; 7
Peple, obei your kyng and eke the lawe;

Age, be rulid by gode religion;

True fervaunt, be dredfull, kepe the' undir awe;
And thou, povir, fie on prefumpcion;

Inobedience to youth is uttir destruccion :
Remember you how God hath fet you, lo!

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And doe your parte as ye be ordained to.

Chaucer to his emptie purse.

To you my purfe, and to none othir wight,
Complain I, for ye be my ladie dere;

I am forie now that ye be so light,
For certis ye now make me hevie chere;
Me were as lefe be laide upon a bere,
For whiche unto your mercy thus I crie,
Be hevy againe, or els mote I die.

Nowe vouchfafin this day or it be night
That I of you the blisful fowne may here,
Or fe your colour lyke the fonnè bright,

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That of yelowneffe ne had nevir pere;
Ye be my life, ye be my hert'is ftere;
Quene of comfort and of gode companye,
Be hevy againe, or els mote I die.

Nowe purse, that art to me my lyv'is light,
And favyour, as downe in this worlde here,
Out of this townè helpe me by your might,
Sithin that you wol not be my trefoure,
For I am shave as nighe as any frere,
But I prayin unto your curtifye
Be hevy againe, or els mote I die.

Explicit.

Chaucer unt, the Kinge.

O Conquèrour of Brut'is Albion!
Whiche that by lyne and fre eleccion
Ben very kinge, this unto you I fende,

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And ye whiche that

may

al harmis amende

Have minde upon my fupplication.

Explicit.

A balade made by Chaucer, teching what is gentilnes, or

who is worthy to be caled gentil.

Tue firftè ftocke, fathir of gentilnes,

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What man defirith gentill for to be,

Muft folowe' his trace, and all his wittis dres

Vertue to love and vicis for to fle,
For unto vertue longith dignite,
And not the revers, fafly dare I deme,
Al were he mitir, crowne, or diademe.

This firftè stocke was full of rightwifnes,
Trewe of his worde, fobir, pitous, and fre,
Clene of his gofte, and lovid befineffe,
Against the vice of flouth in honefte,
And but his eyre love vertue as did he
He is not gentyl though he richè feme,

Al were he mitir, crowne, or diademe.

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Vicè may wel be eyre to olde Richeffe, But ther may no man, as men may well se, Byquethe his eire his vertuous nobleffe, That is appropried unto no degre

But to the first fathir in majeste,

That makith his eyre him that can him queme,
Al were he mitir, crowne, or diademe.

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Explicit.

A proverbe agaynft covetife and negligence.

HAT fhal thes clothes thus manifolde

Lo, this hote fomirs daye !

Aftir grete hetè comith colde;

No man cafte his pilche awaye.
Of al this world the large compaffe
Wil not in myne armes tweine,
Who fo mokil wol enbrace

Lite therof fhall diftreine.

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Explicit.

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