Amonges other thinges that he wan,

Hath with him lad, for that men shuld it see.
Beforen his triumphe walketh she

With gilte chaines on hire necke honging,
Crouned she was, as after hire degree,
And ful of pierrie charged hire clothing.

Alas fortune! she that whilom was
Dredeful to kinges and to emperoures,
Now gaureth all the peple on hire, alas!
And she that helmed was in starke stoures,
And wan by force tounes stronge and toures,
Shal on hire hed now were a vitremite:
And she that bare the sceptre ful of floures,
Shal bere a distaf hire cost for to quite.

NERO.

Although that Nero were as vicious,
As any fend, that lith ful low adoun,
Yet he, as telleth us Suetonius,
This wide world had in subjectioun,
Both est and west, south and septentrioun.
Of rubies, saphires, and of perles white
Were all his clothes brouded up and doun,
For he in gemmes gretly gan delite.
More delicat, more pompous of array,
More proude, was never emperour than he;
That ilke cloth that he had wered o day,
After that time he n'olde it never see;
Nettes of gold threde had he gret plentee,
To fish in Tiber, whan him list to play;
His lustes were as law, in his degree,
For fortune as his frend wold him obay.

He Rome brente for his delicacie;
The senatours he slow upon a day,

To heren how that men wold wepe and crie ;
And slow his brother, and by his suster lay.
His moder made he in pitous array,

For he hire wombe let slitten to behold
Wher he conceived was, so wala wa!
That he so litel of his moder told.

Ne tere out of his eyen for that sight
Ne came, but sayd, a faire woman was she.
Gret wonder is, how that he coud or might
Be domesman of hire dede beautee:
The wine to bringen him commanded he,
And dranke anon, non other wo he made.
Whan might is joined unto crueltee,
Alas! to depe wol the venime wade.

In youthe a maister had this emperour
To techen him lettrure and curtesie,
For of moralitee he was the flour,

As in his time, but if bookes lie.

And while this maister had of him maistrie,
He maked him so couning and so souple,
That longe time it was, or tyrannie,
Or any vice dorst in him uncouple.

This Sencka, of which that I devise,
Because Nero had of him swiche drede,
For he fro vices wold him ay chastise
Discretly, as by word, and not by dede,
"Sire," he wold say, an emperour mote nede
Be vertuous, and haten tyrannie.”

For which he made him in a bathe to blede
On bothe his armes, till he muste die.

Which afterward him thought a gret grevaunce,
Therfore he made him dien in this wise.

But natheles this Seneka the wise
Chees in a bathe to die in this manere,
Rather than han another turmentise:
And thus hath Nero slain his maister dere.

Now fell it so, that fortune list no lenger
The highe pride of Nero to cherice:

For though that he were strong, yet was she strenger.
She thoughte thus; "By God I am to uice

To set a man, that is fulfilled of vice,

In high degree, and emperour him calle:
By God out of his sete I wol him trice,
Whan he lest weneth, sonest shal he falle."

The peple rose upon him on a night
For his defaute, and whan he it espied,
Out of his dores anon he hath him dight
Alone, and ther he wend han ben allied,
He knocked fast, and ay the more he cried,
The faster shetten they hir dores alle:
Tho wist he wel he had himself misgied,
And went his way, no lenger dorst he calle.
The peple cried and rombled up and doun,
That with his eres herd he how they sayde,
"Wher is this false tyrant, this Neroun?"
For fere almost out of his wit he brayde,
And to his goddes pitously he preide
For socour, but it mighte not betide:

For drede of this him thoughte that he deide,
And ran into a gardin him to hide.

And in this gardin fond he cherles tweye
That saten by a fire gret and red,
And to thise cherles two he gan to preye
To slen him, and to girden of his hed,
That to his body, whan that he were ded,
Were no despit ydon for his defame.
Himself he slow, he coud no better rede,
Of which fortune lough and hadde a game.

HOLOFERNES.

Was never capitaine under a king,
That regnes mo put in subjectioun,
Ne strenger was in feld of alle thing
As in his time, ne greter of renoun,
Ne more pompous in high presumptioun,
Than Holoferne, which that fortune ay kist
So likerously, and lad him up and doun,
Til that his hed was of, or that he wist.

Not only that this world had him in awe
For lesing of richesse and libertee;
But he made every man reneie his lawe.
"Nabuchodonosor was God," sayd he;
"Non other God ne shulde honoured be."
Ageins his heste ther dare no wight trespace,
Save in Bethulia, a strong citee,
Wher Eliachim a preest was of that place.

But take kepe of the deth of Holoferne:
Amid his host he dronken lay a night
Within his tente, large as is a berne;
And yet for all his pompe and all his might,
Judith, a woman, as he lay upright
Sleping, his hed of smote, and fro his tente
Ful prively she stale from every wight,
And with his hed unto hire toun she wente.

ANTIOCHUS.

What nedeth it of king Antiochus
To tell his high and real majestee,
His gret pride, and his werkes venimous ?
For swiche another was ther non as he;
Redeth what that he was in Machabe.
And redeth the proud wordes that he seid,
And why he fell from his prosperitee,
And in an hill how wretchedly he deid.

Fortune him had enhaunsed so in pride,
That veraily he wend he might attaine
Unto the sterres upon every side,
And in a balaunce weyen eche mountaine,
And all the floodes of the see restreine:
And Goddes peple had he most in hate,
Hem wold he sleen in turment and in peine,
Wening that God ne might his pride abate.

And for that Nichanor and Timothee
With Jewes were venquished mightily,
Unto the Jewes swiche an hate had he,
That he bad greithe his char ful hastily,
And swore and sayde ful despitously,
Unto Jerusalem he wold eftsone
To wreke his ire on it ful cruelly,
But of his purpos was he let ful sone.

God for his manace him so sore smote,
With invisible wound, ay incurable,
That in his guttes carfe it so and bote,
Til thatte his peines weren importable;
And certainly the wreche was resonable,
For many a mannes guttes did he peine;
But from his purpos, cursed and damnable,
For all his smerte, he n'olde him not restreine:

But bade anon apparailen his host.
And sodenly, or he was of it ware,
God daanted all his pride, and all his bost;
For he so sore fell out of his chare,
That it his limmes and his skinne to-tare,
So that he neither mighte go ne ride;
But in a chaiere men about him bare,
Alle forbrused bothe bak and side.

The wreche of God him smote so cruelly,
That thurgh his body wicked wormes crept,
And therwithal he stanke so horribly,
That nou of all his meinie that him-kept,
Whether so that he woke or elles slept,
Ne mighte not of him the stinke endure.
In this mischiefe he wailed and eke wept,
And knew God, Lord of every creature.
To all his host, and to himself also
Ful whatsom was the stinke of his careine;
No man ne mighte him beren to ne fro.
And in this stinke, and this horrible peine,
He starf ful wretchedly in a mountaine.
Thus hath this robbour, and this homicide,
That many a man made to wepe and pleine,
Swiche guerdon, as belongeth unto pride.

ALEXANDER.

The storie of Alexandre is so commune, That every wight, that hath discretioun, Hath herd somwhat or all of his fortune, This wide world, as in conclusioun,

He wan by strength, or for his high renoun They weren glad for pees unto him sende. The pride of man and bost he layd adoun, Wher so he came, unto the worldes ende.

Comparison might never yet be maked
Betwix him and another conquerour,

For al this world for drede of him hath quaked;
He was of knighthode and of fredome flour;
Fortune him maked the heir of hire honour.
Save wine and women, nothing might asswage
His high entente in armes and labour,
So was he ful of leonin corage.

What pris were it to him, though I you told
Of Darius, and an hundred thousand mo,
Of kinges, princes, dukes, erles bold,

Which he conquered, and brought hem into wo?

I say, as fer as man may ride or go

The world was his, what shuld I more devise?
For though I wrote or told you ever mo
Of his knighthode, it mighte not suffice.

Twelf yere he regned as saith Machabe;
Philippus sone of Macedoine he was,
That first was king in Grece the contree.
O worthy gentil Alexandre, alas
That ever shuld thee fallen swiche a cas!
Enpoisoned of thyn owen folke thou were;
Thy sis fortune hath turned into an as,
And yet for thee ne wept she never a tere.

Who shal me yeven teres to complaine
The deth of gentillesse, and of fraunchise,
That all this world welded in his demaine,
And yet him thought it mighte not suffice?
So ful was his corage of high emprise.
Alas! who shal me helpen to endite
False fortune, and poison to despise ?
The whiche two of all this wo I wite.

JULIUS CESAR.

By wisdome, manhode, and by gret labour,
From humblehede to real majestee
Up rose he Julius the conquerour,
That wan all the occident, by lond and see,
By strengthe of hond, or elles by tretee,
And unto Rome made hem tributarie;
And sith of Rome the emperour was he,
Til that fortune wexe his adversarie.

O mighty Cesar, that in Thessalie
Ageins Pompeius father thin in lawe,
That of the orient had all the chivalrie,
As fer as that the day beginneth dawe, [slawe,
Thou thurgh thy knighthode hast hem take and
Save fewe folk, that with Pompeius fledde,
Thurgh which thou put all the orient in awe,
Thanke fortune, that so wel thee spedde.

But now a litel while I wol bewaile
This Pompeius, this noble governour
Of Rome, which that fled at this bataille.
I say, on of his men, a false traitour,
His hed of smote, to winnen him favour
Of Julius, and him the hed he brought:
Alas, Pompeie, of the orient conquerour,
That fortune unto swiche a fin thee brought!

To Rome again repaireth Julius
With his triumphe laureat ful hie,
But on a time Brutus and Cassius,
That ever had of his high estat envie,
Ful prively had made conspiracie
Ageins this Julius in sotil wise:

And cast the place, in which he shulde die
With bodekins, as I shal you devise.
This Julius to the capitolie wente
Upon a day, as he was wont to gon,
And in the capitolie anon him hente
This false Brutus, and his other foon,
And stiked him with bodekins anon

With many a wound, and thus they let him lie:
But never gront he at no stroke but on,
Or elles at two, but if his storie lie.

So manly was this Julius of herte,
And so wel loved estatly honestee,
That though his dedly woundes sore smerte,
His mantel over his hippes caste he,
For no man shulde seen his privetee:
And as he lay of dying in a trance,
And wiste veraily that ded was he,
Of honestee yet had he remembrance.
Lucan, to thee this storie I recommende,
And to Sueton, and Valerie also,

That of this storie writen word and ende:
How that to thise gret conqueroures two
Fortune was first a frend, and sith a fo.
No man ne trust upon hire favour long,
But have hire in await for evermo;
Witnesse on all thise conqueroures strong.

CRESUS.

The riche Cresus, whilom king of Lide,
Of whiche Cresus, Cirus sore him dradde,
Yet was he caught amiddes all his pride,
And to be brent men to the fire him ladde:
But swiche a rain doun from the welken shadde,
That slow the fire, and made to him escape:
But to beware no grace yet he hadde,
Til fortune on the galwes made him gape.

Whan he escaped was, he can not stint
For to beginne a newe werre again:
He wened wel, for that fortune him sent
Swiche hap, that he escaped thurgh the rain,
That of his foos he mighte not be slain;
And eke a sweven upon a night he mette,
Of which he was so proud, and eke so fain,
That in vengeance he all his herte sette.

Upon a tree he was, as that him thought,
Ther Jupiter him weshe, both bak and side;
And Phebus eke a faire towail him brought
To drie him with, and therfore wex his pride.
And to his doughter that stood him beside,
Which that he knew in high science habound,
He bad hire tell him what it signified,
And she his dreme began right thus expound.
"The tree" (quod she)" the galwes is to mene,
And Jupiter betokeneth snow and rain,
And Phebus with his towail clere and clene,
Tho ben the Sonnes stremes, soth to sain:
Thou shalt anhanged be, fader, certain;
Rain shal thee wash, and Sonne shal thee drie."
Thus warned him ful plat and eke ful plain
His doughter, which that called was Phanie.

Anhanged was Cresus the proude king,
His real trone might him not availle:
Tragedie is non other maner thing,
Ne can in singing crien ne bewaile,
But for that fortune all day wol assaille

With unware stroke the regnes that ben proude
For whan men trusten hire, than wol she faille,
And cover hire bright face with a cloude.

PETER OF SPAINE.

O noble, o worthy Petro, glorie of Spaine,
Whom fortune held so high in majestee,
Wel oughten men thy pitous deth complaine.
Out of thy lond thy brother made thee flee,
And after at a sege by sotiltee

Thou were betraied, and lad unto his tent,
Wher as he with his owen hond slow thee,
Succeeding in thy regne and in thy rent.

The feld of snow, with th' egle of blak therin,
Caught with the limerod, coloured as the glede,
He brewed this cursednesse, and all this sinne;
The wicked neste was werker of this dede;
Not Charles Oliver, that toke ay hede
Of trouthe and honour, but of Armorike
Genilon Oliver, corrupt for mede,
Broughte this worthy king in swiche a brike.

PETRO, KING of cypre.

O worthy Petro king of Cypre also,
That Alexandrie wan by high maistrie,
Ful many an hethen wroughtest thou ful wo,
Of which thin owen lieges had envie:
And for no thing but for thy chivalrie,
They in thy bed han slain thee by the morwe;
Thus can fortune hire whele governe and gie,
And out of joye bringen men to sorwe.

BARNABO VISCOUNT.

Of Milane grete Barnabo Viscount,
God of delit, and scourge of Lumbardie,
Why shuld I not thin infortune account,
Sith in estat thou clomben were so high?
Thy brothers sone, that was thy double allie,
For he thy nevew was, and sone in lawe,
Within his prison made he thee to die,
But why, ne how, n'ot I that thou were slawe.

HUGELIN OF PISE.

Of the erl Hugelin of Pise the langour
Ther may no tonge tellen for pitee.
But litel out of Pise stant a tour,
In whiche tour in prison yput was he,
And with him ben his litel children three,
The eldest scarsely five yere was of age:
Alas! fortune, it was gret crueltee
Swiche briddes for to put in swiche a cage.

Dampned was he to die in that prison,
For Roger, which that bishop was of Pise,
Had on him made a false suggestion,
Thurgh which the peple gan upon him rise,
And put him in prison, in swiche a wise,
As ye han herd; and mete and drinke he had
So smale, that wel unnethe it may suffise,
And therwithal it was ful poure and bad.

Wel sikerer was his crowing in his loge, Than is a clok, or any abbey orloge. By nature he knew eche ascentioun Of the equinoctial in thilke toun; For whan degrees fiftene were ascended, Than crew he, that it might not ben amended. His combe was redder than the fin corall, Enbattelled, as it were a castel wall. His bill was black, and as the jet it stone; Like asure were his legges and his tone; His nailes whiter than the lilie flour, And like the burned gold was his colour. This gentil cok had in his governance Seven hennes, for to don all his plesance, Which were his susters and his paramoures, And wonder like to him, as of coloures. Of which the fairest hewed in the throte, Was cleped faire damoselle Pertelote, Curteis she was, discrete, and debonaire. And compenable, and bare hireself so faire, Sithen the day that she was sevennight old, That trewelich she hath the herte in hold Of Chaunteclere, loken in every lith: He loved hire so, that wel was him therwith. But swiche a joye it was to here hem sing, Whan that the brighte Sonne gan to spring, In swete accord: "My lefe is fare in lond." For thilke time, as I have understond, Bestes and briddes couden speke and sing. And so befell, that in a dawening, As Chaunteclere among his wives alle Sate on his perche, that was in the halle, And next him sate his faire Pertelote, This Chaunteclere gan gronen in his throte, As man that in his dreme is dretched sore. And whan that Pertelote thus herd him rore, She was agast, and saide, " Herte dere, What aileth you to grone in this manere? Ye ben a veray sleper, fy for shame."

And he answered and sayde thus; "Madame, I pray you, that ye take it not agrefe: By God me mette I was in swiche mischefe Right now, that yet min herte is sore afright. Now God" (quod he) "my sweven recche aright, And kepe my body out of foule prisoun.

"Me mette, how that I romed up and doun
Within our yerde, wher as I saw a beste,
Was like an hound, and wold han me areste
Upon my body, and han had me ded.
His colour was betwix yelwe and red;
And tipped was his tail, and both his eres
With black, unlike the remenant of his heres.
His snout was smal, with glowing eyen twey :
Yet for his loke almost for fere I dey:
This caused me my groning douteles."
"Avoy," quod she, "fy on you herteles.
Alas!" quod she, "for by that God above
Now han ye lost myn herte and all my love;
I cannot love a coward by my faith.
For certes, what so any woman saith,
We all desiren, if it mighte be,

To have an husbond, hardy, wise, and free,
And secree, and non niggard ne no fool,
Ne him that is agast of every tool,
Ne non avantour by that God above.
How dorsten ye for shame say to your love,
That any thing might maken you aferde?
Han ye no mannes herte, and han a berde?
Alas! and con ye ben agast of swevenis?
Nothing but vanitee, God wote, in sweven is.

"Swevenes engendren of repletions, And oft of fume, and of complexions, Whan humours ben to habundant in a wight. Certes this dreme, which ye ban met to-night, Cometh of the grete superfluitee

Of youre rede colera parde,

Which causeth folk to dreden in hir dremes
Of arwes, and of fire with rede lemes,
Of rede bestes, that they wol hem bite,
Of conteke, and of waspes gret and lite;
Right as the humour of melancolie
Causeth ful many a man in slepe to crie,
For fere of bolles, and of beres blake,
Or elles that blake devils wol hem take.

"Of other humours coud I telle also, That werken many a man in slepe moch wo: But I wol passe, as lightly as I can.

"Lo Caton, which that was so wise a man, Said he not thus? Ne do no force of dremes'. "Now, sire," quod she, "whan we flee for the For Goddes love, as take som laxatif : [bemes, Up peril of my soule, and of my lif,

I conseil you the best, I wol not lie,
That both of coler, and of melancolie
Ye purge you; and for ye shul not tarie,
Though in this toun be non apotecarie,
I shal myself two herbes techen you,
That shal be for your hele, and for your prow;
And in our yerde, the herbes shall I finde,
The which han of hir propretee by kinde
To purgen you benethe, and eke above.
Sire, forgete not this for Goddes love;
Ye ben ful colerike of complexion;
Ware that the Sonne in his ascention
Ne find you not replete of humours hote:
And if it do, I dare wel lay a grote,
That ye shul han a fever tertiane,
Or elles an ague, that may be your bane.
A day or two ye shul han digestives
Of wormes, or ye take your laxatives,
Of laureole, centaurie, and fumetere,
Or elles of ellebor, that groweth there,
Of catapuce, or of gaitre-beries,

Or herbe ive growing in our yerd, that mery is:
Picke hem right as they grow, and ete hem in.
Beth mery, husbond, for your fader kin;
Dredeth no dreme; I can say you no more,"
"Madame," quod he, "grand mercy of your lore.
But natheles, as touching dan Caton,
That hath of wisdome swiche a gret renoun,
Though that he bade no dremes for to drede,
By God, men moun in olde bookes rede,
Of many a man, more of authoritee
Than ever Caton was, so mote I the,
That all the revers sayn of his sentence,
And han wel founden by experience,
That dremes ben significations

As wel of joye, as tribulations,
That folk enduren in this lif present.
Ther nedeth make of this non argument;
The veray preve sheweth it indede.

"On of the gretest auctores that men rede,
Saith thus; that whilom twey felawes wente
On pilgrimage in a ful good entente;
And happed so, they came into a toun,
Wher ther was swiche a congregatioun
Of peple, and eke so streit of herbergage,
That they ne founde as moche as a cotage,
In which they both might ylogged be:
Wherfore they musten of necessitee,