Classic Poem

O precious tresor inconparable!
O ground and roote of prosperitee!
O excellent richesse commendable
Abouen all þat in eerthe be!
Who may susteene thyn aduersitee?
What wight may him auante of worldly welthe,
But if he fully stande in grace of thee,
Eerthely god, piler of lyf, thow helthe?

Whil thy power and excellent vigour,
As was plesant vnto thy worthynesse,
Regned in me, and was my gouernour,
Than was I wel, tho felte I no duresse.
Tho farsid was I with hertes gladnesse
And now my body empty is, and bare
Of ioie and ful of seekly heuynesse,
Al poore of ese and ryche of euel fare.

If þat thy fauour twynne from a wight,
Smal is his ese and greet is his greuance
Thy loue is lyf. Thyn hate sleeth doun right
Who may conpleyne thy disseuerance
Bettre than I þat, of myn ignorance,
Vnto seeknesse am knyt, thy mortel fo?
Now can I knowe feeste fro penaunce,
And whil I was with thee, kowde I nat so
My grief and bisy smert cotidian
So me labouren and tormenten sore
that what thow art now wel remembre I can,
And what fruyt is in keepynge of thy lore
Had I thy power knowen or this yore,
As now thy fo conpellith me to knowe,
Nat sholde his lym han cleued to my gore,
For al his aart, ne han me broght thus lowe.

But I haue herd men seye longe ago,
Prosperitee is blynd and see ne may,
And verifie I can wel it is so,
For I myself put haue it in assay
Whan I was weel, kowde I considere it? Nay,
But what me longed aftir nouelrie,
As yeeres yonge yernen day by day,
And now my smert accusith my folie.

Myn vnwar yowthe kneew nat what it wroghte,
This woot I wel, whan fro thee twynned shee
But of hir ignorance hirself shee soghte,
And kneew nat þat shee dwellyng was with thee,
For to a wight wer it greet nycetee
His lord or freend wityngly for t'offende,
Lest þat the weighte of his aduersitee
The fool oppresse and make of him an ende.

From hennesfoorth wole I do reuerence
Vnto thy name, and holde of thee in cheef,
And werr make and sharp resistence
Ageyn thy fo and myn, þat cruel theef,
that vndir foote me halt in mescheef,
So thow me to thy grace reconcyle
O now thyn help, thy socour and releef,
And I for ay misreule wole exyle.

But thy mercy excede myn offense,
The keene assautes of thyn aduersarie
Me wole oppresse with hir violence
No wondir thogh thow be to me contrarie
My lustes blynde han causid thee to varie
Fro me thurgh my folie and inprudence,
Wherfore I wrecche curse may and warie
The seed and fruyt of chyldly sapience.

As for the more paart, youthe is rebel
Vnto reson, and hatith hir doctryne,
Regnynge which, it may nat stande wel
With yowthe, as fer as wit can ymagyne
O yowthe, allas, why wilt thow nat enclyne,
And vnto reuled resoun bowe thee,
Syn resoun is the verray streighte lyne
that ledith folk vnto felicitee?

Ful seelde is seen þat yowthe takith heede
Of perils þat been likly for to fall,
For, haue he take a purpos, þat moot neede
Been execut. No conseil wole he call.
His owne wit he deemeth best of all,
And foorth therwith he renneth brydillees,
As he þat nat betwixt hony and gall
Can iuge, ne the werr fro the pees.

All othir mennes wittes he despisith
They answeren nothyng to his entent
His rakil wit only to him souffysith.
His hy presumpcioun nat list consente
To doon as þat Salomon wroot and mente,
that redde men by conseil for to werke
Now, youthe, now thow sore shalt repente
Thy lightlees wittes dull, of reson derke.

My freendes seiden vnto me ful ofte
My misreule me cause wolde a fit,
And redden me in esy wyse and softe
A lyte and lyte to withdrawen it,
But þat nat mighte synke into my wit,
So was the lust yrootid in myn herte.
And now I am so rype vnto my pit
that scarsely I may it nat asterte.

Whoso cleer yen hath, and can nat see,
Ful smal, of ye, auaillith the office.
Right so, syn reson youen is to me
For to discerne a vertu from a vice,
If I nat can with reson me cheuice,
But wilfully fro reson me withdrawe,
Thogh I of hir haue no benefice,
No wondir, ne no fauour in hir lawe.

Reson me bad, and redde as for the beste,
To ete and drynke in tyme attemprely,
But wilful youthe nat obeie leste
Vnto þat reed, ne sette nat therby
I take haue of hem bothe outrageously,
And out of tyme. Nat two yeer or three,
But xxti wyntir past continuelly,
Excesse at borde hath leyd his knyf with me.

The custume of my repleet abstinence,
My greedy mowth, receite of swich outrage,
And hondes two, as woot my negligence,
Thus han me gyded and broght in seruage
Of hir þat werreieth euery age,
Seeknesse, Y meene, riotoures whippe,
Habundantly þat paieth me my wage,
So þat me neithir daunce list, ne skippe.

The outward signe of Bachus and his lure,
that at his dore hangith day by day,
Excitith folk to taaste of his moisture
So often þat men can nat wel seyn nay
For me, I seye I was enclyned ay
Withouten daunger thidir for to hye me
But if swich charge vpon my bak lay
That I moot it forber as for a tyme,
Or but I wer nakidly bystad
By force of the penylees maladie,
For thanne in herte kowde I nat be glad,
Ne lust had noon to Bachus hows to hie
Fy! Lak of coyn departith conpaignie,
And heuy purs, with herte liberal,
Qwenchith the thristy hete of hertes drie,
Wher chynchy herte hath therof but smal.

I dar nat telle how þat the fressh repeir
Of Venus femel lusty children deer
that so goodly, so shaply wer, and feir,
And so plesant of port and of maneere,
And feede cowden al a world with cheere,
And of atyr passyngly wel byseye,
At Poules Heed me maden ofte appeere,
To talke of mirthe and to disporte and pleye.

Ther was sweet wyn ynow thurghout the hous,
And wafres thikke, for this conpaignie
that I spak of been sumwhat likerous
Wheras they mowe a draght of wyn espie,
Sweete, and in wirkynge hoot for the maistrie
To warme a stommak with, therof they drank
To suffre hem paie had been no courtesie
That charge I took, to wynne loue and thank.

Of loues aart yit touchid I no deel.
I cowde nat, and eek it was no neede
Had I a kus, I was content ful weel,
Bettre than I wolde han be with the deede.
Theron can I but smal, it is no dreede
Whan þat men speke of it in my presence
For shame I wexe as reed as is the gleede.
Now wole I torne ageyn to my sentence.

Of him þat hauntith tauerne of custume,
At shorte wordes, the profyt is this:
In double wyse his bagge it shal consume
And make his tonge speke of folk amis,
For in the cuppe seelden fownden is
that any wight his neigheburgh commendith
Beholde and see what auantage is his
that God, his freend and eek himself offendith.

But oon auantage in this cas I haue:
I was so ferd with any man to fighte,
Cloos kepte I me. No man durste I depraue
But rownyngly I spak, nothyng on highte
And yit my wil was good, if þat I mighte,
For lettynge of my manly cowardyse,
that ay of strokes impressid the wighte,
So that I durste medlyn in no wyse.

Wher was a gretter maistir eek than Y,
Or bet aqweyntid at Westmynstre yate,
Among the tauerneres namely
And cookes, whan I cam eerly or late?
I pynchid nat at hem in myn acate,
But paied hem as þat they axe wolde,
Wherfore I was the welcomer algate
And for a verray gentilman yholde.

And if it happid on the someres day
that I thus at the tauerne hadde be,
Whan I departe sholde and go my way
Hoom to the Priuee Seel, so wowed me
Hete and vnlust and superfluitee
To walke vnto the brigge and take a boot
that nat durste I contrarie hem all three,
But dide as þat they stired me, God woot.

And in the wyntir, for the way was deep,
Vnto the brigge I dressid me also,
And ther the bootmen took vpon me keep,
For they my riot kneewen fern ago
With hem I was itugged to and fro,
So wel was him þat I with wolde fare,
For riot paieth largely eueremo
He styntith neuere til his purs be bare.
Othir than maistir callid was I neuere
Among this meynee, in myn audience
Methoghte I was ymaad a man for euere,
So tikelid me þat nyce reuerence
that it me made larger of despense
Than þat I thoghte han been O flaterie,
The guyse of thy traiterous diligence
Is, folk to mescheef haasten and to hie.

Albeit þat my yeeres be but yonge,
Yit haue I seen in folk of hy degree,
How þat the venym of faueles tonge
Hath mortified hir prosperitee
And broght hem in so sharp aduersitee
that it hir lyf hath also throwe adoun
And yit ther can no man in this contree
Vnnethe eschue this confusioun.

Many a seruant vnto his lord seith
that al the world spekith of him honour
Whan the contrarie of þat is sooth, in feith,
And lightly leeued is this losengeour
His hony wordes wrappid in errour
Blyndly conceyued been, the more harm is
O, thow fauele, of lesynges auctour,
Causist al day thy lord to fare amis.

Tho combreworldes clept been enchantours,
In bookes as þat I haue, or this, red,
That is to seye, sotil deceyuou[r]s,
By whom the peple is misgyed and led
And with plesance so fostred and fed
that they forgete hemself, and can nat feele
The soothe of the condicion in hem bred,
No more than hir wit wer in hir heele.

Whoso þat list in the book Of Nature
Of Beestes rede, therin he may see,
If he take heede vnto the scripture,
Wher it spekth of meermaides in the see,
How þat so inly mirie syngith shee
that the shipman therwith fallith asleepe,
And by hir aftir deuoured is he.
From al swich song is good men hem to keepe.

Right so the feyned wordes of plesance
Annoyen aftir, thogh they plese a tyme
To hem þat been vnwyse of gouernance
Lordes, beeth waar, let nat fauel yow lyme
If þat yee been enuolupid in cryme,
Yee may nat deeme men speke of yow weel,
Thogh fauel peynte hir tale in prose or ryme
Ful holsum is it truste hir nat a deel.

Holcote seith vpon the book also
Of Sapience, as it can testifie,
Whan þat Vlixes saillid to and fro
By meermaides this was his policie:
Alle eres of men of his conpaignie
With wex he stoppe leet, for þat they noght
Hir song sholde heere, lest the armonye
Hem mighte vnto swich deedly sleep han broght,

And bond himself vnto the shippes mast.
Lo, thus hem all saued his prudence.
The wys man is of peril sore agast.
O flaterie, o lurkyng pestilence!
If sum man dide his cure and diligence
To stoppe his eres fro thy poesie,
And nat wolde herkne a word of thy sentence,
Vnto his greef it wer a remedie.

A, nay Althogh thy tonge wer ago,
Yit canst thow glose in contenance and cheere
Thow supportist with lookes eueremo
Thy lordes wordes in eche mateere,
Althogh þat they a myte be to deere,
And thus thy gyse is, priuee and appert,
With word and look among our lordes heere
Preferred be, thogh ther be no dissert

But whan the sobre, treewe, and weel auysid
With sad visage his lord enfourmeth pleyn
How þat his gouernance is despysid
Among the peple, and seith him as they seyn,
As man treewe oghte vnto his souereyn,
Conseillynge him amende his gouernance,
The lordes herte swellith for desdeyn,
And bit him voide blyue with meschance.

Men setten nat by trouthe nowadayes
Men loue it nat Men wole it nat cherice
And yit is trouthe best at all assayes
When þat fals fauel, soustenour of vice,
Nat wite shal how hir to cheuyce,
Ful boldely shal trouthe hir heed vp bere.
Lordes, lest fauel yow fro wele tryce,
No lenger souffre hir nestlen in your ere.

Be as be may, no more of this as now,
But to my misreule wole I refeere,
Wheras I was at ese weel ynow,
Or excesse vnto me leef was and deere,
And, or I kneew his ernestful maneere,
My purs of coyn had resonable wone:
But now therin can ther but scant appeere.
Excesse hath ny exyled hem echone.

The feend and excesse been conuertible,
As enditith to me my fantasie
This is my skile, if it be admittible:
Excesse of mete and drynke is glotonye;
Glotonye awakith malencolie;
Malencolie engendrith werre and stryf;
Stryf causith mortel hurt thurgh hir folie
Thus may excesse reue a soule hir lyf.

No force of al this. Go we now to wacche
By nyghtirtale out of al mesure,
For, as in þat, fynde kowde I no macche
In al the Priuee Seel with me to endure,
And to the cuppe ay took I heede and cure,
For þat the drynke apall sholde noght,
But whan the pot emptid was of moisture
To wake aftirward cam nat in my thoght.

But whan the cuppe had thus my neede sped,
And sumdel more than necessitee,
With repleet spirit wente I to my bed,
And bathid ther in superfluitee
But on the morn was wight of no degree
So looth as I to twynne fro my cowche,
By aght I woot Abyde; let me see
Of two as looth I am seur kowde I towche.

I dar nat seyn Prentys and Arondel
Me countrefete, and in swich wach go ny me,
But often they hir bed louen so wel
that of the day it drawith ny the pryme
Or they ryse vp. Nat tell I can the tyme
Whan they to bedde goon, it is so late
O helthe, lord, thow seest hem in þat cryme,
And yit thee looth is with hem to debate,

And why I not It sit nat vnto me
that mirour am of riot and excesse
To knowen of a goddes pryuetee,
But thus I ymagyne and thus I gesse:
Thow meeued art, of tendre gentillesse,
Hem to forber, and wilt hem nat chastyse,
For they, in mirthe and vertuous gladnesse,
Lordes reconforten in sundry wyse.

But to my purpos. Syn þat my seeknesse,
As wel of purs as body, hath refreyned
Me fro tauerne and othir wantonnesse,
Among an heep my name is now desteyned,
My greuous hurt ful litil is conpleyned,
But they the lak conpleyne of my despense
Allas, þat euere knyt I was and cheyned
To excesse, or him dide obedience.

Despenses large enhaunce a mannes loos
Whil they endure, and whan they be forbore
His name is deed Men keepe hir mowthes cloos,
As nat a peny had he spent tofore.
My thank is qweynt, my purs his stuf hath lore,
And my carkeis repleet with heuynesse
Bewaar, Hoccleue, I rede thee therfore,
And to a mene reule thow thee dresse.

Whoso, passynge mesure, desyrith,
As þat witnessen olde clerkes wyse,
Himself encombrith oftensythe, and myrith,
And forthy let the mene thee souffyse
If swich a conceit in thyn herte ryse
As thy profyt may hyndre, or thy renoun,
If it wer execut in any wyse,
With manly resoun thriste thow it doun.

Thy rentes annuel, as thow wel woost,
To scarse been greet costes to susteene,
And in thy cofre, perdee, is cold roost,
And of thy manuel labour, as I weene,
Thy lucre is swich þat it vnnethe is seene
Ne felt Of yiftes seye I eek the same.
And stele, for the guerdoun is so keene,
Ne darst thow nat, ne begge also for shame.

Than wolde it seeme þat thow borwid haast
Mochil of þat þat thow haast thus despent
In outrage and excesse, and verray waast
Auyse thee, for what thyng þat is lent
Of verray right moot hoom ageyn be sent.
Thow therin haast no perpetuitee
Thy dettes paie, lest þat thow be shent,
And or þat thow therto conpellid be
Sum folk in this cas dreeden more offense
Of man, for wyly wrenches of the lawe,
Then he dooth eithir God or conscience,
For by hem two, he settith nat [an] hawe
If thy conceit be swich, thow it withdrawe,
I rede, and voide it clene out of thyn herte,
And first of God, and syn of man, haue awe,
Lest þat they bothe make thee to smerte.

Now lat this smert warnynge to thee be,
And if thow maist heeraftir be releeued,
Of body and purs so thow gye thee
By wit þat thow no more thus be greeued
What riot is, thow taastid haast, and preeued.
The fyr, men seyn, he dreedith þat is brent,
And if thow so do, thow art wel ymeeued
Be now no lenger fool, by myn assent.

Ey, what is me, þat to myself thus longe
Clappid haue I? I trowe þat I raue
A, nay, my poore purs and peynes stronge
Han artid me speke as I spoken haue.
Whoso him shapith mercy for to craue
His lesson moot recorde in sundry wyse,
And whil my breeth may in my body waue,
To recorde it vnnethe I may souffyse.

O God! o helthe! vnto thyn ordenance,
Weleful lord, meekly submitte I me
I am contryt and of ful repentance
that euere I swymmed in swich nycetee
As was displesaunt to thy deitee.
Now kythe on me thy mercy and thy grace.
It sit a god been of his grace free.
Foryeue, and neuere wole I eft trespace.

My body and purs been at ones seeke,
And for hem bothe, I, to thyn hy noblesse,
As h