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And than he let the cofres fette1
Upon the bord, and did hem sette.
He knewe the names well of tho2,
The whiche agein him grutched so,
Both of his chambre and of his halle,
Anon and sent for hem alle;

And seidè to hem in this wise.

There shall no man his hap despise :
I wot well ye have longe served,
And God wot what ye have deserved;
But if it is along on me

Of that ye unavanced be,

Or elles if it belong on yow,
The sothe shall be proved now:
To stoppe with your evil word,
Lo! here two cofres on the bord;
Chese which you list of bothè two;
And witeth well that one of tho
Is with tresor so full begon,
That if ye happè therupon
Ye shall be richè men for ever:
Now chese3, and take which you
is lever,
But be well ware ere that ye take,
For of that one I undertake
Ther is no maner good therein,
Wherof ye mighten profit winne.

4

Now goth together of one assent,
And taketh your avisement;

1 Fetched. 2 Those. 3 Choose.

4 Go.

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They knelen all, and with one vois
The king they thonken of this chois:
And after that they up arise,

And gon aside, and hem avise,
And at laste they acorde
(Wherof her tale to recorde
To what issue they be falle)
A knyght shall spekè for hem alle:
He kneleth doun unto the king,
And seith that they upon this thing,
Or for to winne, or for to lese3,

Ben all avised for to chese.

5

Tho toke this knyght a yerd on honde,

And goth there as the cofres stonde,
And with assent of everychone

He leith his yerde upon one,

And seith the king how thilke same
They chese in reguerdon3 by name,
And preith him that they might it have.
The king, which wolde his honor save,
Whan he had heard the common vois,
Hath granted hem her owne chois,

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And toke hem therupon the keie;
But for he woldè it were seie1
What good they have as they suppose,
He bad anon the cofre unclose,
Which was fulfild with straw and stones:
Thus be they served all at ones.

This king than, in the same stede,
Anon that other cofre undede,
Where as they sihen gret richesse,
Wel more than they couthen gesse.
Lo! seith the king, now may ye se
That ther is no defalte in me;
Forthy my self I wol aquite,
And bereth ye your ownè wites
Of that fortune hath you refused.
Thus was this wise king excused:
And they lefte off her evil speche,
And mercy of her king beseche.

OF THE GRATIFICATION WHICH THE LOVER'S PASSION RECEIVES FROM THE SENSE OF HEARING.

IN THE SIXTH BOOK.

RIGHT as myn eyè, with his loke,
Is to myn herte a lusty cooke
Of lovès foodè delicate;

Right so myn eare in his estate,

1 Seen.

2 Therefore. 3 Blame. 4 i. e. that which.

Wher as myn eye may nought serve,
Can wel myn hertès thonk1 deserve;
And feden him, fro day to day,
With such deynties as he may.
For thus it is that, over all
Wher as I come in speciall,
I may heare of my lady price:
I heare one say that she is wise;
Another saith that she is good;
And, some men sain, of worthy blood
That she is come; and is also

So fair that no wher is none so:

And some men praise hir goodly chere.
Thus every thing that I may heare,
Which souneth to my lady goode,
Is to myn eare a lusty foode.

And eke myn eare hath, over this,
A deyntie feste whan so is
That I may heare hirselvè speke;
For than anon my fast I breke
On suchè wordes as she saith,
That ful of trouth and ful of faith
They ben, and of so good disport,
That to myn earè great comfort
They don, as they that ben delices
For all the meates, and all the spices,
That any Lombard couthè make,
Ne be so lusty for to take,
Ne so far forth restauratif,
(I say as for myn ownè lif,)

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As ben the wordès of hir mouth.
For as the windès of the South
Ben most of allè debonaire ;
So, whan her list to spekè faire,
The vertue of hir goodly speche
Is verily myn hertès leche.

And if it so befalle among,
That she carol upon a song,
Whan I it hear, I am so fedd,
That I am fro miself so ledd
As though I were in Paradis;
For, certes, as to myn avis,
Whan I heare of her voice the steven,

Me thinketh it is a blisse of heven.

And eke in other wise also,

Full oftè time it falleth so,
Myn eare with a good pitànce
Is fedd of reding of romance
Of Ydoine and of Amadas,
That whilom weren in my cas;
And eke of other many a scorè,
That loveden' long ere I was bore2.
For whan I of her loves rede,
Myn eare with the tale I fede,
And with the lust of her histoire
Somtime I draw into memoire,
How sorrow may not ever last;
And so hope cometh in at last.

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