And why? (quod he.) For I am olde.
Or ellis wolde I the have tolde
(Quod he) the sterris namis, lo!
And al the hevin's signis to,
And whiche they be. No force (quod I.)
Yes perde, (quod he;) woft thou why?
For whan thou redist poëtry,
Howe the goddis can ftellify
A birde, a fyshe, or him or her,
As of birdes the ravyn and other,
Or Ariones harpè fyne,
Or Castor, Pollux, or Delphine,
Or Atalante's doughtirs seven,
How al these are yset in heven,
For though thou have 'hem ofte in hande
Yet n'ost thou nat where that they ftande.
No force, (quod I;) it is no nede;
As wel I leve, so God me spede,
'Hem that writin of this matere
As though I knewe ther placis here,
And eke they femin here so bright
That it shulde fhendin al
To loke on ’hem. That may wel be,
(Quod he ;) and so forth bare he me
A while, and tho began to crie,
That nevir herde I thinge so hie;
Holde up thinc hed, for al is wel,
Sainte Julian, lo! bonne hostel!
Se here The House of Fame, lo!
Mayist thou not here that I do?
Here what? (quod I.) The gretè fowne
(Quod he) that romblith up and downe
In Fam'is House, ful of tidinges
Bothe of faire fpeche and of chidinges,
And of false and sothe compownid;
Herkin wel, it is not rownid.
Herist thou not the gretè swough?
Yes, perde, (quod I) well ynough.
And what sowne is it lyke? (quod he.)
Peter! lyke the' beting of the se
(Quod I) againt the rochis halowe,
Whan tempestes done ther shippis swalow,
And that a man ftande out of doute
A myle off thens and here it route;
Or ellis lyke to the humblinge
Aftir the clappe of a thundringe,
Whan Jovis hath the eyre ybete,
But it doth me for fere to swete,
Nay, drede the not therof, (quod he)
It 'is nothing that will bytin the ;
Thou shalte have no harme truily.
And with that worde both he and I
As nighe the place arivid were
Asmen might castin with a spere;
I ne wist howe, but in a strete
He fet me faire upon my fete,
And sayid, Walkith forth a pace,
And tel thine advinture and case
That thou shaltc finde in Fam'is place.
Nowe (quod I) while that we have space
To fpeke, or that I go fro the,
For the love of God tellith me
In sothe that I will of the lere,
If this ilke noise which that I here
Be as I have herde the me tell,
Of folke that done in erthe ydwell,
And comith here in the same wise
As I the herde or this devise,
And that here liv'is body n'is
In all that House that yondir is
That makith al this loudè fare.
No, (answerid he) by Sainte Clare,
And al so wissely God rede me:
But o thinge I will warnè the,
Of the whiche thou wilte have wondir.
Lo! to The House of Fame yondir
Thou wolte howe comith every speche,
It nedith not the efte to teche;
But understande now right wel this,
Whan any speche ycomin is
Up to the palais, anode right
It wexith like the same wight
Whiche that the worde in erth yspake,
Be he clothid in red or blake,
And hath so
very
his likenesse
That spake the worde, that thou wilte geffe
That it the same body be,
Wher man or woman, he or she.
And is not this a wondir thinge?
375
Yes, (quod I) tho by hevin kinge:
And with this worde Farewel, (quod he)
And here wil I abydin the,
And God of hevin fende the grace
Some gode to lernin in this place!
And I of him toke leve anone,
And gan forth to the palays gone.
Explicit liber fecundus.
Tuov, god of Science and of Light,
Apollo! thorough thy grete might
This litil last boke now thou gye,
Nowe that I will for maistèrie
Here arte potenciall be shewde,
But for the rime is lyght and lewde
Yet make it somwhat agreable,
Though some verse faile in a syllable,
And that I do no diligence
To shewin craftè but fentence;
And if that divine virtue thou
Wilte helpin me to shewin nowe
That in my hed ymarkid is,
Lo! that is for to menin this,
The House of Fame for to discrive,
Thou shalt yse me go as blive
Unto the next laurir I se,
And kysse it for it is thy tre:
Nowe entre in my brest anone,
Whan I was from the egle gone
I
upon
this place,
And certaine or I furthir passe
I wol you al the shape devise
Of House and cite, and al the wise
Howe I gan to this place approche,
That stode upon so hie a roche,
Hyir ystandith none in Spaine ;
But up I clambe with mochil paine,
And though to clime ygrevid me
Yet I ententife was to se,
And for to porin wondre lowe,
If I coude any wise yknowe
What manir stone this roche ywas,
For it was lyke a limid glas,
But that it shone ful more clere,
But of what congelid matere
It was I ne wiste redily ;
But at the laste espyid I,
And founde that it was everydele
A roche of yse and not of sele:
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