Search Transcribed Entries: The History of the English Language\nLUCÆ Cap. I.\nLUK, Chap. I.\n5 On ꞃoꝺꞅ ꝺaᵹum Iuꝺa cẏnıncᵹꞅ. ƿæꞅ ꞅum ꞅacꞃꝺ on naman Zachaꞃıaꞅ. oꝼ Abıan ꞇun.  hıꞅ ƿıꝼ ƿæꞅ oꝼ Aaꞃonꞅ ꝺohꞇꞃum. anꝺ hẏꞃ nama ƿæꞅ lızabꞇh჻\nIN the dayes of Eroude kyng of Judee ther was a prest Zacarye by name: of the sort of Abia, and his wyf was of the doughtris of Aaron: and hir name was Elizabeth.\n6 oðlıc hıᵹ ƿæꞃon buꞇu ꞃıhꞇƿıꞅ bꝼoꞃan oꝺ. ᵹanᵹnꝺ on allum hıꞅ bboꝺum  ꞃıhꞇƿıꞅnꞅꞅum buꞇan ƿꞃohꞇ჻\n2 An bothe weren juste bifore God: goynge in alle the maundementis and justifyingis of the Lord withouten playnt.\n7 Anꝺ hıᵹ næꝼꝺon nan baꞃn. ꝼoꞃþam ð lızabꞇh ƿæꞅ unbꞃnꝺ.  hẏ on hẏꞃa ꝺaᵹum buꞇu ꝼoꞃð-oꝺun჻\n3 And thei hadden no child, for Elizabeth was bareyn and bothe weren of greet age in her dayes.\n8 oðlıc ƿæꞅ ᵹƿoꞃꝺn þa Zachaꞃıaꞅ hẏꞅ ꞅacꞃꝺhaꝺꞅ bꞃac on hıꞅ ᵹƿꞃıxlꞅ nꝺbẏꞃꝺnꞅꞅ bꝼoꞃan oꝺ.\n4 And it bifel that whanne Zacarye schould do the office of presthod in the ordir of his course to fore God.\n9 Æꝼꞇꞃ ᵹƿunan þæꞅ ꞅacꞃꝺhaꝺꞅ hloꞇꞅ. h aꝺ  h hıꞅ oꝼꝼꞃunᵹ ꞅꞇꞇ. ða h on oꝺꞅ ꞇmpl oꝺ.\n5 Aftir the custom of the presthod, he wente forth by lot and entride into the temple to encensen.\n10 all ƿꞃoꝺ þæꞅ ꝼolcꞅ ƿæꞅ uꞇ ᵹbıꝺꝺnꝺ on þæꞃ oꝼꝼꞃunᵹ ꞇıman჻\n6 And at the multitude of the puple was without forth and preyede in the our of encensying.\n11 Ða æꞇẏƿꝺ hım Dꞃıhꞇnꞅ nᵹl ꞅꞇanꝺnꝺ on þæꞅ ƿoꝼoꝺꞅ ꞅƿıðꞃan halꝼ.\n7 and an aungel of the Lord apperide to him: and stood on the right half of the auter of encense.\n12 Ða ƿaꞃꝺ Zachaꞃıaꞅ ᵹꝺꞃꝼꝺ  ᵹꞅonꝺ.  hım ᵹ onhꞃaꞅ჻\n8 And Zacarye seynge was afrayed: and drede fel upon him.\n13 Ða cƿæð ꞅ nᵹl hım ꞇo. N onꝺꞃæꝺ þu ð Zachaꞃıaꞅ. ꝼoꞃþam þın bn ıꞅ ᵹhẏꞃꝺ.  þın ƿıꝼ lızabꞇh þ ꞅunu cnð. anꝺ þu nmꞅꞇ hẏꞅ naman Iohannꞅ.\n9 And the aungel sayde to him, Zacarye drede thou not: for thy preier is herd, and Elizabeth thi wif schal bere to thee a sone: and his name schal be clepid Jon.\n14  h bẏð þ ꞇo ᵹꝼan  ꞇo blıꞅꞅ.  manᵹa on hẏꞅ acnnꝺnꞅꞅ ᵹꝼaᵹnıað჻\n10 And joye and gladyng schal be to thee: and manye schulen have joye in his natyvyte.\n15 oðlıc h bẏð mæꞃ bꝼoꞃan Dꞃıhꞇn. anꝺ h n ꝺꞃıncð ƿın n boꞃ.  h bıð ᵹꝼẏllꝺ on halıᵹum aꞅꞇ. þonn ᵹẏꞇ oꝼ hıꞅ moꝺoꞃ ınnoð.\n11 For he schal be great bifore the Lord: and he schal not drinke wyn ne sydyr, and he schal be fulfild with the holy gost yit of his modir wombe.\n16 Anꝺ manᵹa Iꞅꞃahla baꞃna h ᵹcẏꞃð ꞇo Dꞃıhꞇn hẏꞃa oꝺ.\n12 And he schal converte manye of the children of Israel to her Lord God.\n17 Anꝺ h ᵹæð ꞇoꝼoꞃan hım on ᵹaꞅꞇ  lıaꞅ mıhꞇ.  h ꝼæꝺꞃa hoꞃꞇan ꞇo hẏꞃa baꞃnum ᵹcẏꞃꞃ.  unᵹlaꝼꝼull ꞇo ꞃıhꞇƿıꞅꞃa ᵹlaƿꞅcẏp. Dꞃıhꞇn ꝼulꝼꞃmꝺ ꝼolc ᵹᵹaꞃƿıan჻\n13 And he schal go bifore in the spiryte and vertu of Helye: and he schal turne the hertis of the fadris to the sonis, and men out of beleeve: to the prudence of just men, to make redy a perfyt puple to the Lord.\n18 Ða cwæð Zacharias to þam enʒele. Hwanun wat ic þis. ic eom nu eald. and min wif on hẏr daʒum forðeode:·\n14 And Zacarye seyde to the aungel: wherof schal Y wyte this? for Y am old: and my wyf hath gon fer in hir dayes.\n19 Ða andswarode him se enʒel. Ic eom Gabriel. ic þe stande beforan Gode. and ic eom asend wið þe sprecan. 7 þe þis bodian.\n15 And the aungel answerde and seyde to him, for Y am Gabriel that stonde nygh bifore God, and Y am sent to thee to speke and to evangelise to thee these thingis, and lo thou schalt be doumbe.\n20 And nu þu bist suwiʒende. 7 þu sprecan ne miht oð þone dæʒ þe þas þinʒ ʒewurðeð. forþam þu minum wordum ne ʒelẏfdest. þa beoð on hẏra timan ʒefẏllede:·\n16 And thou schalt not mowe speke, til into the day in which these things schulen be don. for thou hast not beleved to my wordis, whiche schulen be fulfild in her tyme.\n21 And þæt folc wæs Zachariam ʒe-anbidiʒende. and wundrodon þæt he on þam temple læt wæs:·\n17 And the puple was abidynge Zacarye: and thei wondriden that he taryede in the temple.\n22 Ða he ut-eode ne mihte he him to--sprecan. 7 hiʒ oncneowon þæt he on þam temple sume ʒesihtðe ʒeseah. 7 he wæs bicniende hẏm. 7 dumb þurhwunede:·\n18 And he gede out and myghte not speke to hem: and thei knewen that he hadde seyn a visioun in the temple, and he bekenide to hem: and he dwellide stille doumbe.\n23 Ða wæs ʒeworden þa his þenunʒa daʒas ʒefẏllede wæron. he ferde to his huse:·\n19 And it was don whanne the dayes of his office weren fulfillid: he wente into his hous.\n24 Soðlice æfter daʒum Elizabeth his wif ʒe-eacnode. and heo bediʒlude hiʒ fif monþas. 7 cwæð.\n20 And aftir these dayes Elizabeth his wif conseyvvede and hidde hir fyve monethis and seyde.\n25 Soðlice me Drihten ʒedẏde þus. on þam daʒum þe he ʒeseah minne hosp betwux mannum afẏrran:·\n21 For so the Lord dide to me in the dayes in whiche he biheld to take awey my reprof among men.\n26 Soðlice on þam sẏxtan monðe wæs asend Gabriel se enʒel fram Drihtne on Galilea ceastre. þære nama wæs Nazareth.\n22 But in the sixte monethe the aungel Gabriel was sent from God: into a cytee of Galilee whos name was Nazareth.\n27 To beweddudre fæmnan anum were. þæs nama þæs Iosep. of Dauides huse. 7 þære fæmnan nama wæs Maria:·\n23 To a maydun weddid to a man: whos name was Joseph of the hous of Dauith, and the name of the mayden was Marye.\n28 Ða cwæð se enʒel inʒanʒende. Hal wes þu mid ʒẏfe ʒefẏlled. Drihten mid þe. ðu eart ʒebletsud on wifum:·\n24 And the aungel entride to hir, and sayde, heil ful of grace the Lord be with thee: blessid be thou among wymmen.\n29 Wa wearð heo on his spræce ʒedrefed. and þohte hwæt seo ʒretinʒ wære:·\n25 And whanne sche hadde herd: sche was troublid in his word, and thoughte what manner salutacioun this was.\n30 Ða cwæð se enʒel. Ne ondræd þu ðe Maria. soðlice þu ʒẏfe mid Gode ʒemettest.\n26 And the aungel seid to hir, ne drede not thou Marye: for thou hast founden grace anentis God.\n31 Soðlice nu. þu on innode ʒe-eacnast. and sunu censt. and his naman Hælend ʒenemnest.\n27 Lo thou schalt conseyve in wombe, and schalt bere a sone: and thou schalt clepe his name Jhesus.\n32 Se bið mære. 7 þæs hehstan sunu ʒenemned. and him sẏlð Drihten God his fæder Dauides setl.\n28 This shall be gret: and he schal be clepid the sone of higheste, and the Lord God schal geve to him the seete of Dauith his fadir.\n33 And he ricsað on ecnesse on Iacobes huse. 7 his rices ende ne bið:·\n29 And he schal regne in the hous of Jacob withouten ende, and of his rewme schal be noon ende.\n34 Ða cwæð Maria to þam enʒle. hu ʒewẏrð þis. forþam ic were ne oncnawe:·\n30 And Marye seyde to the aungel, on what maner schal this thing be don? for Y knowe not man.\n35 Ða andswarode hẏre se enʒel. Se halʒa Gast on þe becẏmð. 7 þæs heahstan miht þe ofer-sceadað. and forþam þæt haliʒe þe of þe acenned bið. bið Godes sunu ʒenemned.\n31 And the aungel answerde and seyde to hir, the holy Gost schal come fro above into thee: and the vertu of the higheste schal ouer schadowe thee: and therfore that holy thing that schal be borun of thee: schal be clepide the sone of God.\n36 And nu. Elizabeth þin maʒe sunu on hẏre ẏlde ʒeacnode. and þes monað is hẏre sẏxta. seo is unberende ʒenemned.\n32 And to Elizabeth thi cosyn, and sche also hath conseyved a sone in hir eelde, and this monethe is the sixte to hir that is clepid bareyn.\n37 Forþam nis ælc word mid Gode unmihtelic:·\n33 For every word schal not be impossyble anentis God.\n38 Ða cwæð Maria. Her is Drihtnes þinen. ʒewurðe me æfter þinum worde:· And se enʒel hẏre fram-ʒewat:·\n34 And Marye seide to the hond maydun of the Lord: be it doon to me aftir thi word; and the aungel departide fro hir.\n39 Soðlice on þam daʒum aras Maria 7 ferde on muntland mid ofste. on Iudeiscre ceastre.\n35 And Marye roos up in tho dayes and wente with haste into the mountaynes into a city of Judee.\n40 7 eode into Zacharias huse. 7 ʒrette Elizabeth:·\n36 And sche entride into the hous of Zacarye and grette Elizabeth.\n41 Ða wæs ʒeworden þa Elizabeth ʒehẏrde Marian ʒretinʒe. ða ʒefaʒnude þæt cild on hẏre innoðe. and þa wearð Elizabeth haliʒum Gaste ʒefẏlled.\n37 And it was don as Elizabeth herde the salutacioun of Marye the young childe in hir wombe gladide, and Elizabeth was fulfild with the holy Gost.\n42 7 heo clẏpode mẏcelre stefne. and cwæð. Ðu eart betwux wifum ʒebletsud. and ʒebletsud is þines innoðes wæstm.\n38 And cryede with a gret voice and seyde, blessid be thou among wymmen and blessid be the fruyt of thy wombe.\n43 7 hwanun is me þis. þæt mines Drihtnes modor to me cume:·\n39 And whereof is this thing to me, that the modir of my Lord come to me?\n44 Sona swa þinre ʒretinʒe stefn on minum earum ʒeworden wæs. þa fahnude [in ʒlædnise] min cild on minum innoþe.\n45 And eadiʒ þu eart þu þe ʒelẏfdest. þæt fulfremede sẏnt þa þinʒ þe þe fram Drihtne ʒesæde sẏnd:·\n41 And blessid be thou that hast beleeved: for thilke thingis that ben seid of the Lord to thee schulen be parfytly don.\n46 Ða cwæð Maria. Min sawel mærsað Drihten.\n42 And Marye seyde, my soul magnifieth the Lord.\n47 7 min ʒast ʒeblissude on Gode minum Hælende.\n43 And my spiryt hath gladid in God myn helthe.\n48 Forþam þe he ʒeseah his þinene ead-modnesse. soðlice heonun-forð me eadiʒe secʒað ealle cneoressa.\n44 For he hath behulden the mekenesse of his hand-mayden: for lo for this alle generatiouns schulen seye that I am blessid.\n49 Forþam þe me mẏcele þinʒ dẏde se ðe mihtiʒ is. 7 his nama is haliʒ.\n45 For he that is mighti hath don to me grete thingis, and his name is holy.\n50 7 hsi mild-heortnes of cneoresse on cneoresse hine ondrædendum:·\n46 And his mersy is fro kyndrede into kyndredis to men that dreden him.\n51 He worhte mæʒne on his earme. he to-dælde þa ofer-modan on mode hẏra heortan.\n47 He made myght in his arm, he scateride proude men with the thoughte of his herte.\n52 He awearp þa rican of setle. and þa eað-modan upahof.\n48 He sette doun myghty men fro sette and enhaunside meke men.\n53 Hinʒriʒende he mid ʒodum ʒefẏlde. 7 ofer-mode idele forlet.\n49 He hath fulfillid hungry men with goodis, and he has left riche men voide.\n54 He afenʒ Israhel his cniht. 7 ʒemunde his mild-heortnesse.\n50 He havynge mynde of his mercy took up Israel his child,\n55 Swa he spræc to urum fæderum. Abrahame and his sæde on á weoruld:·\n51 As he hath spokun to oure fadris, to Abraham, and to his seed into worldis.\n56 Soðlice Maria wunude mid hẏre swẏlce þrẏ monðas. 7 ʒewende þa to hẏre huse:·\n52 And Marye dwellide with hir as it were thre monethis and turned agen into his hous.\n57 Ða wæs ʒefẏlled Elizabethe cenninʒ-tid. and heo sunu cende.\n53 But the tyme of beringe child was fulfilled to Elizabeth, and sche bar a son.\n58 7 hẏre nehcheburas 7 hẏre cuðan þæt ʒehẏrdon. þæt Drihten his mild-heortnesse mid hẏre mærsude 7 hiʒ mid hẏre blissodon:·\n54 And the neyghbouris and cosyns of hir herden that the Lord hadde magnyfied his mercy with hir, and thei thankiden him.\n59 Ða on þa ehteoðan dæʒe hiʒ comon þæt cild ẏmbsniðan. and nemdon hine his fæder naman Zachariam:·\n55 And it was doon in the eightithe day thei camen to circumside the child, and thei clepiden him Zacarye by the name of his fadir.\n60 Ða andswarode his modor. Ne se soðes. ac he bið Iohannes ʒenemned:·\n56 And his modir answeride and seide, nay; but he schal be clepid Jon.\n61 Ða cwædon hi to hẏre. Nis nan on þinre mæʒðe þẏssum naman ʒenemned:·\n57 And thei seiden to hir, for no man is in thi kynrede that is clepid this name.\n62 Ða bicnodon hi to his fæder. hwæt he wolde hẏne ʒenemnedne beon:·\n58 And thei bikenyden to his fadir, what he wolde that he were clepid.\n63 Wa wrat he ʒebedenum wex-brede. Iohannes is his nama. ða wundrodon hiʒ ealle:·\n59 And he axinge a poyntel wroot seiynge, Jon is his name, and alle men wondriden.\n64 Ða wearð sona his muð 7 his tunʒe ʒe-openod. 7 he spræc. Drihten bletsiʒende:·\n60 And annoon his mouth was openyd and his tunge, and he spak and blesside God.\n65 Ða wearð eʒe ʒeworden ofer ealle hẏra nehcheburas. and ofer ealle Iudea muntland pæron þas word ʒewidmærsode.\n61 And drede was maad on all hir neighbouris, and all the wordis weren puplischid on alle the mounteynes of Judee.\n66 7 ealle þa ðe hit ʒehẏrdon. on hẏra heortan settun 7 cwædon. Wenst ðu hwæt bẏð þes cnapa. witodlice Drihtnes hand wæs mid him:·\n62 And alle men that herden puttiden in her herte, and seiden what manner child schal this be, for the hond of the Lord was with him.\n67 And Zacharias his fæder wæs mid haleʒum Gaste ʒefẏlled. 7 he witeʒode and cwæð.\n63 And Zacarye his fadir was fulfillid with the holy Gost, and profeciede and seide.\n68 Gebletsud sẏ Drihten Israhela God. forþam þe he ʒeneosude. 7 his folces alẏsednesse dẏde.\n64 Blessid be the Lord God of Israel, for he has visitid and maad redempcioun of his puple.\n69 And he us hæle horn arærde on Dauides huse his cnihtes.\n65 And he has rered to us an horn of helthe in the hous of Dauith his child.\n70 Swa he præc þurh his haleʒra witeʒena muð. þa ðe of worldes frẏm ðe spræcon.\n66 As he spak by the mouth of hise holy prophetis that weren fro the world.\n71 7 he alẏsde us of urum feondum. and of ealra þara handa þe us hatedon.\n67 Helth fro oure enemyes, and fro the hond of alle men that hatiden us.\n72 Mild-heortnesse to wẏrcenne mid urum fæderum. 7 ʒemunan his haleʒan cẏðnesse.\n68 To do mersy with oure fadris, and to have mynde of his holy testament.\n73 Hẏne uẏ to sẏllenne þone að þe he urum fæder Abrahame swor.\n69 The grete ooth that he swoor to Abraham our fadir,\n74 Ðæt we butan eʒe. of ure feonda handa alẏsede. him þeowian\n70 To geve himself to us, that we without drede delyvered fro the hond of oure enemyes serve to him,\n75 On haliʒnesse beforan him eallum urum daʒum:·\n71 In holynesse and rightwisnesse before him, in alle our dayes.\n76 And þu cnapa bist þæs hehstan witeʒa ʒenemned. þu ʒæst beforan Drihtnes ansẏne his weʒas ʒearwian.\n72 And thou child schalt be clepid the profete of the higheste, for thou schalt go before the face of the Lord to make redy hise weyes.\n77 To sẏllene his folce hæle ʒewit on hẏre sẏnna forʒẏfnesse.\n73 To geve science of heelth to his puple into remissioun of her synnes.\n78 Ðurh innoðas ures Godes mild-heortnesse. on þam he us ʒeneosude of eastdæle up-sprinʒende.\n74 By the inwardeness of the mersy of oure God, in the which he springyng up fro on high hath visited us.\n79 Onlẏhtan þam þe on þẏstrum 7 on deaðes sceade sittað. ure fet to ʒereccenne on sibbe weʒ:·\n80 Soðlice se cnapa weox. 7 wæs on ʒaste ʒestranʒod. 7 wæs on westenum oð þone dæʒ hẏs ætẏwednessum on Israhel:·\n76 And the child wexide, and was confortid in spiryt, and was in desert placis till to the day of his schewing to Ysrael.\nHe mai him sore adreden,Ðæt he ðanne ore bidde ne muʒen,Uor þæt bilimfeð ilome.He is wis þæt bit and boteAnd bet biuoren dome.Deað com on ðis midelardÐurð ðæs defles onde,And senne and sosʒe and iswinc,On se and on londe.\nIc am elder ðanne ic wes,A wintre 7 ec a lore.Ic ealdi more ðanne ic dede,Mi wit oʒhte to bi more. Se þæt hine selue uorʒet,Uor wiue oþer uor childe.He sal comen on euele stede,Bute ʒod him bi milde. Ne hopie wif to hire were,Ne were to his wiue.Bi for him selue eurich man,Ðaer wile he bieð alíue. Eurich man mid þæt he haueð,Mai beʒʒen heueriche.Se ðe lesse 7 se ðe more,Here aider iliche. Heuene and erðe he ouersieð,His eʒhen bið fulbriht.Sunne 7 mone 7 alle sterren,Bieð ðiestre on his lihte. He wot hwet ðencheð and hwet doþ,Alle quike wihte.Nis no louerd swich is xist,Ne no kinʒ swich is drihte. Heuene 7 erðe 7 all ðat is,Biloken is on his honde.He deð al þæt his wille is,On sea and ec on londe. He is ord albuten orde,And ende albuten ende.He one is eure on eche stede,Wende wer ðu wende. He is buuen us and bineðen,Biuoren and ec bihind.Se man þæt ʒodes wille deð,Hie mai hine aihwar uinde. Eche rune he iherðAnd wot eche dede.He ðurh siʒð eches iðanc,Wai hwat sel us to rede. Se man neure nele don ʒod,Ne neure ʒod lif leden.Er deð 7 dom come to his dure,He mai him sore adreden. Hunʒer 7 ðurst hete 7 chele,Ecðe and all unhelðe.Ðurh deð com on ðis midelard,And oðer uniselðe. Ne mai non herte hit iþenche,Ne no tunʒe telle.Hu muchele winum and hu uele,Bieð inne helle. Louie God mid ure hierte.And mid all ure mihte.And ure emcristene swo us self,Swo us lereð drihte. Sume ðer habbeð lesse merʒðe,And sume ðer habbeð more.Ech efter ðan þæt he dede,Efter þæt he wanc sore. Ne sel ðer bi bred ne win,Ne oþer kennes esete.God one sel bi eches lif,And blisce and eche reste. Ne sal ðar bi scete ne scrud,Ne worldes wele none.Ac si merʒþe þæt men us bihat,All sall ben ʒod one. Ne mai no merʒþe bi swo muchel,Swo is ʒodes isihðe.Hi is soþ sune and briht,And dai bute nihte. Ðer is wele bute wane,And reste buten iswinche.Se þæt mai and nele ðeder come,Sore hit sel uorðenche. Ðer is blisce buten tweʒe,And lif buten deaðe.Ðet eure sullen wunie ðer,Bliðe hi bieþ and eaðe. Ðer is ʒeuʒeþe buten elde,And elde buten unhelþe.Nis ðer forʒe ne sor non,Ne non uniselðe. Ðer me sel drihten isen,Swo ase he is mid iwisse.He one mai and sel al bien,Enʒles and mannes blisce. To ðare blisce us brinʒ ʒod,Ðet rixeð buten ende.Ðanne he ure saula unbint,Of lichamlice bend. Crist ʒeue us lede swich lif,And habbe swichne ende.Ðet we moten ðider cumen,Ðanne we hennes wende.\nFUR in see bi west spaẏnge.Is a lond ihote cokaẏgne.Ðer nis lond under heuenriche.Of wel of godnis hit iliche.Ðoẏ paradis be miri and briẏt.Cokaẏgn is of fairir siẏt.What is þer in paradis.Bot grasse and flure and greneris.Ðoẏ þer be ioi and gret dute.Ðer nis met bote frute.Ðer nis halle bure no bench.Bot watir man is þursto quench.Beþ þer no men but two.Helẏ and enok also.Clinʒlich maẏ hi go.Whar þe woniþ men no mo.In cokaẏgne is met and drink.Wiþute care how and swink.Ðe met is trie þe drink so clere.To none russin and sopper.I sigge for soþ boute were.Ðer nis lond on erþe is pere.Under heuen nis lond i wisse.Of so mochil ioi and blisse.Ðer is mani swete siẏte.Al is dai nis þer no niẏte.Ðer nis baret noþer strif.Nis þer no deþ ac euer lif.Ðer nis lac of met no cloþ.Ðer nis no man no woman wroþ.Ðer nis serpent wolf no fox.Hors no capil. kowe no ox.Ðer nis schepe no swine no gote.No non horwẏla god it wote.Noþer harate noþer stode.Ðe land is ful of oþe gode.Nis þer flei fle no lowse.In cloþ in toune bed no house.Ðer nis dunnir slete no hawle.No non vile worme no snawile.No non storm rein no winde.Ðer nis man no woman blinde.Ok al is game ioi ant gle.Wel is him þat þer mai be.Ðer beþ rivers gret and fine.Of oile melk honi and wine.Watir seruiþ þer to noþing.Bot to siẏt and to waussing.\nOlde ant ẏonge i preit ou oure folies for to lete.Ðenchet on god þat ẏef ou wit oure sunnes to bete.Here mai tellen ou. wid wordes feire ant swete.Ðe vie of one meidan. was hoten Maregrete. Hire fader was a patriac. as ic ou tellen maẏ.In auntioge wif eches i ðe false laẏ.Deve godes ant doumbe. he served nitt ant daẏ.So deden monẏ oþere. þat singet weilaweẏ. Theodosius was is nome. on crist ne levede he noutt.He levede on þe false godes. ðat weren wid honden wroutt.Ðo þat child sculde christine ben. ic com him well in þoutt.E bed wen it were ibore. to deþe it were ibroutt. Ðe moder was an heþene wif þat hire to wẏman bere.Ðo þat child ibore was. nolde ho hit furfare.He sende it into asẏe. wid messagers ful ẏare.To a norice þat hire wiste. ant sette hire to lore. Ðe norice þat hire wiste. children aheuede seuene.Ðe eitteþe was maregrete. cristel maẏ of heuene.Tales ho ani tolde. ful feire ant ful euene.Wou ho þoleden martirdom. sein Laurence ant seinte Steuene.\nOf þe bataẏles of Denemarch, þat hii dude in þẏs londeþat worst were of alle oþere, we mote abbe an honde.Worst hii were. vor oþere adde somwanne ẏdo,As Romeẏns & Saxons, & wel wuste þat lond þerto.Ac hii ne kepte ẏt holde noʒt, bote robbẏ, and ssende,And destrue, & berne, & sle, & ne couþe abbe non ende.And bote lute ẏt nas worþ, þeẏ hii were ouercome ẏlome.Vor mẏd ssẏpes and gret poer as prest efsone hii come.Kẏng Adelwolf of þẏs lond kẏng was tuentẏ ʒer.þe Deneẏs come bẏ hẏm rẏuor þan hii dude er.Vor in þe al our vorst ʒer of ẏs kẏnedomMẏd þre & þrẏttẏ ssẏpuol men her prince hẏder come,And at Souþhamtone arẏued, an hauene bẏ Souþe.Anoþer gret ost þulke tẏme aryuede at Portesmouþe.þe kẏng nuste weþer kepe, at delde ẏs ost atuo.þe Denes adde þe maẏstre. þo al was ẏdo,And bẏ Estangle & Lẏndeseẏe hii wende vorþ atte laste,And so hamward al bẏ Kent, & slowe & barnde vaste.Aʒen wẏnter hii wende hem. anoþer ʒer est hii come.And destrude Kent al out, and Londone nome.þus al an ten ʒer þat lond hii broʒte þer doune,So þat in þe teþe ʒer of þe kẏnge's croune,Al bẏsouþe hii come alond, and þet folc of Somersete.þoru þe bẏssop Alcston and þet folc of DorseteHii come & smẏte an bataẏle, & þere, þoru Gode's grace,þe Deneẏs were al bẏneþe, & þe lond folc adde þe place,And more prowesse dude þo, þan þe kẏng mẏʒte bẏuore,þeruore gode lond men ne beþ noʒt al verlore.þe kẏnʒ was þe boldore þo, & aʒen hem þe more drou,And ẏs foure godes sones woxe vaste ẏ nou,Edelbold and Adelbryʒt, Edelred and Alfred.þẏs was a stalwarde tem, & of gret wẏsdom & red,And kẏnges were al foure, & defendede wel þẏs lond,An Deneys dude ssame ẏnou, þat me volwel vond.In syxteþe ʒere of þe kẏnge's kẏnedomIs eldeste sone Adelbold gret ost to hẏm nome,And ẏs fader also god, and oþere heye men al so,And wende aʒen þẏs Deneẏs, þat muche wo adde ẏ do.Vor myd tuo hondred ssẏpes & an alf at Temse mouþ hii come,And Londone, and Kanterburẏ, and oþer tounes nome,And so vorþ in to Soþereẏe, & slowe & barnde vaste,þere þe kyng and ẏs sone hem mette atte laste.þere was bataẏle strong ẏnou ẏsmẏte in an þrowe.þe godes kẏnʒtes leẏe adoun as gras, wan medew mowe.Heueden, (þat were of ẏsmẏte,) & oþer lẏmes also,Flete in blode al fram þe grounde, ar þe bataẏle were ẏdo.Wanne þat blod stod al abrod, vas þer gret wo ẏ nou.Nẏs ẏt reuþe vorto hure, þat me so volc slou?Ac our suete Louerd atte laste ssewede ẏs suete grace,And sende þe Cristẏne Englẏsse men þe maẏstrẏe in þe place,And þe heþene men of Denemarch bẏneþe were echon.Nou nas þer ʒut in Denemarch Cristendom non;þe kẏng her after to holẏ chẏrche ẏs herte þe more drou,And teþeʒede wel & al ẏs lond, as hii aʒte, wel ẏ nou.Seẏn Swẏthẏn at Wẏnchestre bẏssop þo was,And Alcston at Sẏrebourne, þat amendede muche þẏs cas.þe kẏng was wel þe betere man þoru her beẏre red,Tuentẏ wẏnter he was kẏng, ar he were ded.At Wẏnchestre he was ẏbured, as he ʒut lẏþ þere.Adelbold, the eldore, þe kẏnedom of Estsex,And suþþe Adelbrẏʒt, Kent and Westsex.Eẏʒte hondred ʒer ẏt was and seuene and fẏftẏ al so,After þat God anerþe com, þat þẏs dede was ẏdo.Boþe hii wuste bẏ her tẏme wel her kẏnedom,At þe vyfte ʒer Adelbold out of þẏs lyue nome.At Ssẏrebourne he was ẏbured, & ẏs broþer AdelbrẏʒtHis kẏnedom adde after hẏm, as lawe was and rẏʒt.Bẏ ẏs daye þe verde com of þe heþene men wel prout,And Hamtessyre and destrude Wẏnchestre al out.And þat lond folc of Hamtessyre her red þo nomeAnd of Barcssyre, and foʒte and þe ssrewen ouercome.Adelbrẏʒt was kẏng of Kent ʒeres folle tene,And of Westsex bote vẏue, þo he deẏde ẏch wene.\nAdelred was after hẏm kẏng ẏ mad in þe place,Eyʒte hondred & seuene & sẏxtẏ as in þe ʒer of grace.þe vorste ʒer of ẏs kẏnedom þe Deneẏs þẏcke com,And robbede and destrude, and cẏtes vaste nome.Maẏstres hii adde of her ost, as ẏt were dukes, tueẏe,Hẏnguar and Hubba, þat ssrewen were beẏe.In Est Angle hii bẏleuede, to rest hem as ẏt were,Mẏd her ost al þe wynter, of þe vorst ʒere.þe oþer ʒer hii dude hem vorþ, & ouer Homber come,And slowe to grounde & barnde, & Euerwẏk nome.þer was bataẏle strong ẏ nou, vor ẏslawe was þereOsryckẏng of Homberlond, & monẏe þat with hẏm were.þo Homberlond was þus ẏffend, hii wende & tounes nome.So þat atte laste to Estangle aʒen hẏm come.þer hii barnde & robberde, & þat folc to grounde slowe,And, as wolues among ssep, reulẏch hem to drowe.Seẏnt Edmond was þo her kẏng, & þo he seẏ þat deluol casþat me morþrede so þat folc, & non amendement nas,He ches leuere to deẏe hẏmsulf, þat such sorwe to ẏseẏ.He dude hẏm vorþ among ẏs son, nolde he noþẏg fle.Hii nome hẏm & scourged hẏm, & suþþe naked hẏm boundeTo a tre, & to hẏm ssote, & made hẏm monẏ a wounde,þat þe arewe were on hẏm þo þẏcce, þat no stede nas bẏleuede.Atte laste hii martred hẏm, & smẏte of ẏs heued.þe sẏxte ʒer of þe crounement of Aldered þe kẏngA nẏwe ost com into þẏs lond, gret þoru alle þẏng,And anon to Redẏnge robbede and slowe.þe king and Alfred ẏs broþer nome men ẏnowe,Mette hem, and a bataẏle smẏte vp Assesdoune.þer was monẏ moder chẏld, þat sone laẏ þer doune.þe bataẏle ẏlaste vorte nẏʒt, and þer were aslaweVẏf dukes of Denemarch, ar hii wolde wyþ drawe,And mony þousend of oþer men, & þo gonne hii to fle;Ac hii adde alle ẏbe assend, ʒẏs þe nẏʒt nadde ẏ be.Tueye bataẏles her after in þe sulf ʒereHii smyte, and at boþe þe heþene maẏstres were.þe kẏng Aldered sone þo þen weẏ of deþ nome,As ẏt vel, þe vẏstẏ ʒer of ẏs kẏnedom.At Wẏmbourne he was ẏbured, as God ʒef þat cas,þe gode alfred, ẏs broþer, after hẏm kẏng was.\nAlfred, þẏs noble man, as in þe ʒer of grace he nomEẏʒte hondred & sẏxtẏ & tuelue þe kẏnedom.Arst he adde at Rome ẏbe, &, vor ẏs grete wẏsdom,þe pope Leon hẏm blessede, þo he þuder com,And þe kynge's croune of hẏs lond, þat in þẏs lond ʒut ẏs:And he led hẏm to be kẏng, ar he kẏng were ẏwẏs.An he was kẏng of Engelond, of alle þat þer come,þat vorst þus ẏlad was of þe pope of Rome,An suþþe oþeer after hẏm of þe erchebẏssopes echon.So þat hẏuor hẏm pore kẏng nas þer non.In þe Souþ sẏde of Temese nẏne bataẏles he nomeAʒen þe Deneẏs þe vorst ʒer of ẏs kẏnedom.Nẏe ʒer he was þus in þẏs lond in bataẏle & in wo,An ofte sẏþe aboue was, and bẏneþe ostor mo;So longe, þat hẏm nere bẏ leuede bote þre ssẏren in ẏs hond,Hamtessyre, and Wẏltessyre, and Somersete, of al ẏs lond.A daẏ as he werẏ was, and asuoddrẏnge hẏm noneAnd ẏs men were ẏwend auẏsseþ, Seyn Cutbert to hym com,“ Ich am,” he seyde, “Cutbert, to þe ẏcham ẏwend“ To brẏnge þe gode tẏtẏnges. Fram God ẏcham ẏsend.“ Vor þat folc of þẏs lond to sẏnne her wẏlle al ʒeue,“ And ʒut nolle herto her sẏnnes bẏleue“ þoru me & oþer halewen, þat in þẏs lond were ẏbore;“ þan vor ʒou bẏddeþ God, wanne we beþ hẏm bẏuore,“ Hour Louerd mẏd ẏs eẏen of milce on þe lokeþ þeruore,“ And þẏ poer þe wole ʒẏue aʒen, þat þou ast neẏ verlore.“ And þat þou þer of soþ ẏse, þou ssalt abbe tokẏnẏnge.“ Vor þẏm men, þat beþ ago to daẏ auẏssẏnge,“ In lepes & in coufles so muche vyss hii ssolde hẏm brynge,“ þat ech man wondrẏ ssal of so gret cacchẏnge.“ And þe mor vor þe harde vorste, þat þe water ẏfrore hẏs,“ þat þe more aʒen þe kunde of vyssẏnge ẏt ẏs.“ Of serue ẏt wel aʒen God, and ẏlef me ys messager,“ And þou ssall þẏ wẏlle abẏde, as ẏcham ẏtold her.”As þẏs kẏng herof awoc, and of þẏs sẏʒte þoʒte,Hys vẏssares come to hẏm, & so gret won of fyss hẏm broʒte,þat wonder ẏt was, & namelẏche vor þe weder was so colde.þo lẏuede þe god man wel, þat Seyn Cutbert adde ẏtold.In Deuenẏssyre þer after arẏuede of Deneẏsþre and tuentẏ ssẏpuol men, all aʒen þe peẏs,þe kẏnge's broþer of Denemarch duc of ost was.Oure kẏnge's men of Engelond mette hem bẏ cas,And smẏte þer an bataẏle, and her gret duc slowe,And eyʒte hondred & fourtẏ men, & her caronẏes to drowe.þo kyng Alfred hurde þẏs, ẏs herte gladede þo,þat lond folc to hẏm come so þẏcke so ẏt mẏʒte go,Of Somersete, of Wẏlterssẏre, of Hamteslẏre þerto,Eure as he wende, and of ẏs owe folc al so.So þat he adde poer ẏnou, and atte laste hii come,And a bataẏle at Edendone aʒen þe Deneẏs nome,And slowe to grounde, & wonne þe maẏstre of the velde.þe kẏng & ẏs grete duke bẏgonne hem to ʒeldeTo þe kẏng Alfred to ẏs wẏlle, and ostages toke,Vorto wende out of ẏs lond, ʒẏf he ẏt wolde loke;And ʒut þerto, vor ẏs loue, to auonge Cristendom.Kẏng Gurmund, þe hexte kẏng, vorst þer to come.Kẏng Alfred ẏs godfader was. & ẏbaptẏsed ek þer wereþrettẏ of her hexte dukes. and muche of þat folc þereKẏng Alfred hem huld wẏþ hẏm tuelf dawes as he hende,And suþþe he ʒef hem large ʒẏftes, and let hẏm wende.Hii, þat nolde Cristyn be, of lande flowe þo,And byʒonde see in France dude wel muche wo.ʒut þe ssrewen come aʒn, and muche wo here wroʒte.Ac þe kẏng Alfred atte laste to ssame hem euere broʒte.Kẏng Alfred was þe wẏsost kẏng, þat long was bẏuore.Vor þeẏ me segge þe lawes beþ in worre tẏme vorlore,Nas ẏt noʒt so hiis daẏe. vor þeẏ he in worre were,Lawes he made rẏʒtuollore, and strengore þan er were.Clerc he was god ynou, and ʒut, as me tellþ me,He was more þan ten ʒer old, ar he couþe ẏs abece.Ac ẏs gode moder ofte smale ʒẏftes hẏm tok,Vor to byleue oþer ple, and lokẏon ẏs boke.So þat bẏ por clergẏe ẏs rẏʒt lawes he wonde,þat neuere er nere ẏ mad, to gouernẏ ẏs lond.And vor þe worre was so muche of þe luþer Deneẏs,þe men of þẏs sulue lond were of þe worse peẏs.And robbede and slowe oþere, þeruor he bẏuonde,þat þer were hondredes in eche contreẏe of ẏs lond,And in ech toune of þe hondred a teþẏnge were also,And þat ech man wyþoute gret lond in teþẏnge were ẏdo,And þat ech man knewe oþer þat in teþẏnge were,And wuste somdel of her stat, ʒẏf me þu vp hem bere.So streẏt he was, þat þeẏ me ledde amẏdde weẏes heẏeSeluer, þat non man ne dorste ẏt nẏme, þeẏ he ẏt seẏe.Abbeẏs he rerde monẏ on, and monẏ studes ẏwys.Ac Wynchestrye he rerdeon, þat nẏwe munstre ẏcluped ẏs.Hẏs lẏf eẏʒte and tuentẏ ʒer in ẏs kẏnedom ẏlaste.After ẏs deþ he was ẏbured at Wẏnchestre atte laste.\nNowe for to speke of the commune,It is to drede of that fortune,Which hath befalle in sondrye londes:But ofte for defaute of bondesAll sodeinly, er it be wist,A tunne, whan his lie aristTobreketh, and renneth all aboute,Whiche els shulde nought gone out. And eke full ofte a littell skareVpon a banke, er men be ware,Let in the streme, whiche with gret peine,If any man it shall restreine.Where lawe failleth, errour groweth.He is not wise, who that ne troweth.For it hath proued oft er this.And thus the common clamour isIn euery londe, where people dwelleth:And eche in his complainte telleth,How that the worlde is miswent,And thervpon his argumentYeueth euery man in sondrie wise:But what man wolde him selfe auiseHis conscience, and nought misuse,He maie well at the first excuseHis god, whiche euer stant in one,In him there is defaute noneSo must it stande vpon vs selue,Nought only vpon ten ne twelue,But plenarly vopon vs all.For man is cause of that shall fall.\nC H A U C E R.\nC O L V I L E.\nAlas! I wepyng am constrained to begin verse of sorowfull matter, that whilom in florishyng studie made delitable ditees. For lo! rendyng muses of Poetes enditen to me thinges to be writen, and drerie teres. At laste no drede ne might overcame tho muses, that thei ne werren fellowes, and foloweden my waie, that is to saie, when I was exiled, thei that weren of my youth whilom welfull and grene, comforten now sorowfull wierdes of me olde men: for elde is comen unwarely upon me, hasted by the harmes that I have, and sorowe hath commaunded his age to be in me. Heres hore aren shad overtimeliche upon my hed: and the slacke skinne trembleth of mine empted bodie. Thilke deth of men is welefull ,that he ne cometh not in yeres that be swete, but cometh to wretches often icleped: Alas, alas! with how dese an ere deth curell turneth awaie fro wretches, and naieth for to close wepyng eyen. While fortune unfaithfull favoured me with light godes, that sorowfull houre, that is to saie, the deth, had almoste drente myne hedde: but now for fortune cloudie hath chaunged her decevable chere to mewarde, myne unpitous life draweth along ungreable dwellynges. O ye my frendes, waht, or whereto avaunted ye me to ben welfull? For he that hath fallin, stode in no stedfast degre.\nI that in tyme of prosperite, and floryshing studye, made pleasaunte and delectable dities, or verses: alas now beyng heauy and sad ouerthrowen in aduersitie, am compelled to fele and tast heuines and greif. Beholde the muses Poeticall, taht is to saye: the pleasure that is in poetes verses, do appoynt me, and compel me to writ these verses in meter, and the sorowfull verses do wet my wretched face with very waterye teares, yssuinge out of my eyes for sorowe. Whiche muses no feare without doute could ouercome, but that they wold folow me in my iourney of exile or banishment. Sometyme the ioye of happy and lusty delctable youth dyed comfort me, and nowe the course of sorowfull olde age causeth me to reioyse. For hasty old age valoked for is come vpon me with al her incommodities and euyls, and sorrow hath commaunded and broughte me into the same old age, that is to say: that sorowe causeth me to be olde, before my time come of olde age. The hoer heares do growe vntimely vpon my heade, and my reuiled skynne trembleth my flesh, cleane consumed and wasted with sorowe. Mannes death is happy, that cometh not in youth, when a man is lustye, and in pleasure or welth: but in time of aduersitie, when it is often desyred. Alas alas howe dull and deffe be the eares of cruel death vnto men in misery that would fayne dye: and yet refusythe to come and shutte vp theyr carefull wepyng eyes. Whiles that false fortune fauoryd me with her transitorye goodes, then the howre of death had almost ouercom me. That is to say deathe was redy to oppresse me when I was in prosperitie. Nowe for by cause that fortune beynge turned, from prospertie into adaersitie (as the clere day is darkyd with cloudes) and hath chaungyd her deceyuable countenaunce: my wretched life is yet prolonged and doth continue in dolour. O my frendes why haue you so often bosted me, sayinge that I was happy when I had honor possessions riches, and authoritie whych be transitory thynges. He that hath fallen was in no stedefast degre.\nThe Prologues of the Canterbury Tales ofC H A U C E R, from the MSS.\nWhen that Aprilis with his shouris sote,The drought of March had percid to the rote,And bathid every veyn in such licour,Of which vertue engendrid is the flour.When Zephyrus eke, with his swerè brethEnspirid hath, in every holt and hethThe tender croppis; and that the yong SunnHath in the Ramm his halvè cours yrunn:And smalè foulis makin melodye,That slepin allè night with opin eye,(So prickith them nature in ther corage)Then longin folk to go on pilgrimage:And palmers for to sekin strangè strondes,To servin hallowes couth in sondry londes:And specially fro every shir'is endOf England, to Canterbury they wend,The holy bisfull martyr for to seke,That them hath holpin, whan that they were seke. Befell that in that seson on a dayIn Southwerk at the Tabberd as I lay,Redy to wendin on my pilgrimageTo Canterbury, with devote corage,At night wer come into that hosteryWele nine and twenty in a cumpanyOf sundrie folk, by aventure yfallIn felaship; and pilgirmes wer they all;That toward Canterbury wouldin ride. The chambers and the stablis werin wide,And well we werin esid at the best:And shortly whan the sunnè was to rest,So had I spokin with them everych one,That I was of ther felaship anone;And madè forward erli for to rise,To take our weye, ther as I did devise. But nathless while that I have time and space,Er' that I farther in this talè pace,Methinkith it accordaunt to reson,To tell you allè the conditionOf ech of them, so as it semid me,And which they werin, and of what degree,And eke in what array that they wer in:And at a knight then woll I first begin.\nA knight ther was, and that a worthy man,That fro the timè that he first beganTo ridin out, he lovid Chevalrie,Trouth and honour, fredome and curtesy.Full worthy was he in his lord'is werre,And thereto had he riddin nane more ferreAs well in Christendom, as in Hethness;And evyr honoured for his worthiness. At Alessandre' he was whan it was won;Full oft timis he had the bord begonAbovin allè naciouns in Pruce;In Lettow had he riddin, and in Luce,No Christen-man so oft of his degreeIn Granada; in the sege had he beOf Algezir, and ridd in Belmary;At Leyis was he, and at Sataly,Whan that they wer won; and in the grete seeAt many'a noble army had he be:At mortal battails had he ben fiftene,And foughtin for our feith at Tramesene,In listris thrys, and alwey slein his fo. This ilke worthy knight had ben alsoSometimis with the lord of Palathy,Ayens anothir hethin in Turky;And evirmore he had a sov'rane prize;And though that he was worthy, he was wise;And of his port as meke as is a maid,He nevir yet no villany ne saidIn all his life unto no manner wight:He was a very parfit gentil knight.But for to telllin you of his array,His hors wer good; but he was nothing gay,Of fustian he werid a gipon,Allè besmottrid with his haburgeon.For he was late ycome from his viage,And wentè for to do his pilgrimage.\nThe House of F A M E.The First Boke.\nNow herkin, as I have you saied,What that I mette or I abraied,Of December the tenith daie,When it was night, to slepe I laie,Right as I was wonte for to doen,And fill aslepè wondir sone,As he that was werie forgoOn pilgrimagè milis twoTo the corps of sainct Leonarde,To makin lithe that erst was harde. But as me slept me mette I wasWithin a temple' imade of glas,In whiche there werin mo imagesOf golde, standyng in sondrie stages,Sette in mo riche tabirnacles,And with perrè mo pinnacles,And mo curious portraituris,And queint manir of figurisOf golde worke, then I sawe evir. But certainly I n'ist nevirWhere that it was, but well wist IIt was of Venus redilyThis temple, for in purtreitureI sawe anone right her figureNakid yfletyng in a se,And also on her hedde pardeHer rosy garland white and redde,And her combe for to kembe her hedde,Her dovis, and Dan CupidoHer blindè sonne, and Vulcano,That in his face ywas full broune. But as I romid up and doune,I founde that one the wall there wasThus writtin on a table' of bras. I woll now syng, if that I can,The armis, and also the man,That first came through his destineFugitise fro Troye the countreInto Itaile, with full moche pine,Unto the strondis of Lavine,And tho began the storie' anone,As I shall tellin you echone. First sawe I the distruccionOf Troie, thorough the Greke Sinon,With his false untrue forswerynges,And with his chere and his lesynges,That made a horse, brought into Troye,By whiche Trojans loste all ther joye. And aftir this was graved, alas!How Ilions castill assailed was,And won, and kyng Priamus slain,And Polites his sonne certain,Dispitously of Dan Pyrrhus. And next that sawe I howe Venus,When that she sawe the castill brende,Doune from hevin she gan discende,And bade her sonne Æneas fle,And how he fled, and how that heEscapid was from all the pres,And toke his fathre', old Anchises,And bare hym on his backe awaie,Crying alas and welawaie!The whiche Anchises in his hande,Bare tho the goddis of the landeI mene thilke that unbrennid were. Then sawe I next that all in fereHow Creusa, Dan Æneas wife,Whom that he lovid all his life,And her yong sonne clepid Julo,And eke Ascanius also,Fleddin eke, with full drerie chere,That it was pite for to here,And in a forest as thei wentHow at a tournyng of a wentCreüsa was iloste, alas!That rede not I, how that it wasHow he her sought, and how her ghosteBad hym to flie the Grekis hoste,And saied he must into Itaile,As was his destinie, sauns saile,That it was pitie for to here,When that her spirite gan appere,The wordis that she to hym saied,And for to kepe her sonne hym praied. There sawe I gravin eke how heHis father eke, and his meinè,With his shippis began to saileToward the countrey of Itaile,As streight as ere thei mightin go. There sawe I eke the, cruill Juno,That art Dan Jupiter his wife,That hast ihatid all thy lifeMerciless all the Trojan blode,Rennin and crie as thou were wodeOn Æolus, the god of windes,To blowin out of allè kindesSo loudè, that he should ydrencheLorde, and ladie, and grome, and wencheOf all the Trojanis nacion,Without any' of ther savacion. There sawe I soche tempest arise,That evèry herte might agriseTo se it paintid on the wall. There sawe I eke gravin withall,Venus, how ye, my ladie dere,Ywepyng with full wofull chereYprayid Jupiter on hie,To save and kepin that navieOf that dere Trojan Æneas,Sithins that he you sonne ywas.\nFlie fro the prese and dwell with sothfastnesse, Suffise unto thy gode though it be small,For horde hath hate, and climbyng tikilnesse, Prece hath envie, and wele it brent oer all, Savour no more than the behovin shall, Rede well thy self, that othir folke canst rede, And trouthe the shall delivir it 'is no drede.Painè the not eche crokid to redresse, In trust of her that tournith as a balle,Grete rest standith in litel businesse, Beware also to spurne again a nalle, Strive not as doith a crocke with a walle, Demith thy self that demist othir's dede, And trouthe the shall deliver it 'is no drede.That the is sent receve in buxomenesse; The wrastlyng of this worlde askith a fall;Here is no home, here is but wildirnesse, Forthe pilgrim, forthe o best out of thy stall, Loke up on high, and thanke thy God of all, Weivith thy luste and let thy ghost the lede, And trouthe the shall delivir, it 'is no drede.\nThis wretchid world'is transmutacion As wele and wo, nowe pore, and now honour,Without ordir or due discrecion Govirnid is by fortun'is errour, But nathèlesse the lacke of her favour Ne maie not doe me syng though that I die, J'ay tout perdue, mon temps & mon labeur For finally fortune I doe defie.Yet is me left the sight of my resoun To knowin frende fro foe in thy mirrour,So moche hath yet thy tournyng up and doun, I taughtin me to knowin in an hour, But truily no force of thy reddour To hym that ovir hymself hath maistrie, My suffisaunce yshal be my succour, For finally fortune I do defie.O Socrates, thou stedfast champion, She ne might nevir be thy turmentour,Thou nevir dreddist her oppression, Ne in her chere foundin thou no favour, Thou knewe wele the disceipt of her colour, And that her moste worship is for to lie, I knowe her eke a false dissimulour, For finally fortune I do defie.\nNo man is wretchid but hymself it wene, He that yhath hymself hath suffisaunce,Why saiest thou then I am to the so kene, That hast thy self out of my govirnaunce? Saie thus grant mercie of thin habundaunce, That thou hast lent or this, thou shalt not strive, What wost thou yet how I the woll avaunce? And eke thou hast thy bestè frende alive.I have the taught division betwene Frende of effects, and frende of countinaunce,The nedith not the gallè of an hine, That curith eyin derke for ther penaunce, Now seest thou clere that wer in ignoraunce, Yet holt thine anker, and thou maiest arive There bountie bereth the key of my substaunce, And eke thou haste thy bestè frende alive.How many have I refused to sustene, Sith I have the fostrid in thy plesaunce?Wolt thou then make a statute on thy quene, That I shall be aie at thine ordinaunce? Thou born art in my reign of variaunce, About the whele with othir must thou drive My lore is bet, then wicke is thy grevaunce, And eke thou hast thy bestè frende alive.\nThy lore I dampne, it is adversitie, My frend maist thou not revin blind goddesse,That I thy frendis knowe I thanke it the, Take 'hem again, let 'hem go lie a presse, The nigardis in kepyng ther richesse Pronostike is thou wolt ther toure assaile, Wicke appetite cometh aie before sickenesse, In generall this rule ne maie not faile.\nThou pinchist at my mutabilitie, For I the lent a droppe of my richesse,And now me likith to withdrawin me, Why shouldist thou my roialtie oppresse? The se maie ebbe and flowin more and lesse, The welkin hath might to shine, rain, and haile, Right so must I kithin my brotilnesse, In generall this rule ne maie not faile.\nLo, the' execucion of the majestie, That all purveighith of his rightwisenesse,That samè thyng fortune yclepin ye, Ye blindè bestis full of leudèness! The heven hath propirtie of sikirness, This worldè hath evir restlesse travaile, The last daie is the ende of myne entresse, In generall this rule ne maie not faile.\nPrinces I praie you of your gentilnesse, Let not this man and me thus crie and plain,And I shall quitin you this businesse, And if ye liste releve hym of his pain,Praie ye his best frende of his nob'enesse That to some bettir state he maie attain.\nLike a pilgrime which that goeth on foote,And hath none horse to releue his trauayle,Whote, drye and wery, and may find no boteOf wel cold whan thrust doth hym assayle,Wine nor licour, that may to hym auayle,Tight so fare I which in my businesse,No succour fynde my rudenes to redresse. I meane as thus, I haue no fresh licourOut of the conduites of Calliope,Nor through Clio in rhethorike no floure,In my labour for to refresh me:Nor of the susters in noumber thrise three,Which with Cithera on Parnaso dwell,They neuer me gaue drinke once of their wel. Nor of theyr springes clere and christaline,That sprange by touchyng of the Pegase,Their fauour lacketh my making ten lumineI fynde theyr bawme of so great scarcitie,To tame their tunnes with some drop of plentieFor Poliphemus throw his great blindnes,Hath in me derked of Argus the brightnes. Our life here short of wit the great dulnesThe heuy soule troubled with trauayle,And of memorye the glasyng brotelnes,Drede and vncunning haue made a strong batailWith werines my spirite to assayle,And with their subtil creping in most queintHath made my spirit in makyng for to feint. And ouermore, the ferefull frowardnesOf my stepmother called obliuion,Hath a bastyll of foryetfulnes,To stoppe the passage, and shadow my reason,That I might haue no clere direccion,In translating of new to quicke me,Stories to write of olde antiquite. Thus was I set and stode in double werreAt the metyng of feareful wayes tweyne,The one was this, who euer list to lere,Whereas good wyll gan me constrayne,Bochas taccomplish for to doe my payne,Came ignoraunce, with a menace of drede,My penne to rest I durst not procede.\nWyse men alway,Affyrme and say, That best is for a man:Diligently,For to apply, The busines that he can,And in no wyse,To enterpryse, An other faculte,For he that wyll,And can no skyll, Is neuer lyke to the.He that hath laste,The hosiers crafte, And falleth to making shone,The smythe that shall,To payntyng fall, His thrift is well nigh done.A blacke draper,With whyte paper, To goe to writyng scole,An olde butler,Becum a cutler, I wene shall proue a fole.And an olde trot,That can I wot, Nothyng but kysse the cup,With her phisick,Wil kepe one sicke, Tyll she haue soused hym vp.A man of lawe,That neuer sawe, The wayes to bye and sell, Wenyng to ryse,By marchaundise, I wish to spede hym well.A marchaunt eke,That wyll goo seke, By all the meanes he may,To fall in sute,Tyll he dispute, His money cleane away,Pletyng the lawe,For euery strawe, Shall proue a thrifty man,With bate and strife,But by my life, I cannot tell you whan.Whan an hatterWyll go smatter, In philosophy,Or a pedlar,Ware a medlar, In theology,All that ensue,Such craftes new, They driue so farre a cast,That euermore,They do therfore, Beshrewe themselfe at last.This thing was tryedAnd verefyed, Here by a sergeaunt late,That thriftly was,Or he coulde pas, Rapped about the pate,Whyle that he wouldSee how he could, A little play the frere:Now yf you wyll,Knowe how it fyll, Take hede and ye shall here.It happed so,Not long ago, A thrifty man there dyed,An hundred pounde,Of nobles rounde, That had he layd a side:His sonne he wolde,Should haue this golde, For to beginne with all:But to suffiseHis chylde, well thrise, That money was to smal.Yet or this dayI have hard say, That many a man certesse,Hath with good cast,Be ryche at last, That hath begonne with lesse.But this yonge manne,So well beganne, His money to imploy,That certainly,His policy,To see it was a joy,For lest sum blast,Myght ouer cast, His ship, or by mischaunce,Men with sum wile,Myght hym begyle, And minish his substaunce,For to put out,All maner dout, He made a good puruay,For euery whyt,By his owne wyt, And toke an other way:First sayre and wele,Therof much dele, He dygged it in a pot,But then him thought,That way was nought, And there he left it not.So was he faine,From thence agayne, To put it in a cup,And by and by,Couetously, He supped it fayre vp,In his owne brest,He thought it best, His money to enclose,Then wist he well,What euer fell, He coulde it neuer lose.He borrowed then,Of other men, Money and marchaundise:Neuer payd it,Up he laid it, In like maner wyse.Yet on the gere,That he would were, He reight not what he spent,So it were nyce,As for the price, Could him not miscontentWith lusty sporte,And with resort, Of ioly company,In mirth and play,Full many a day, He liued merely.And men had sworne,Some man is borne, To haue a lucky howre,And so was he,For such degre, He gat and suche honour,That without dout,Whan he went out, A sergeaunt well and fayre,Was redy strayte,On him to wayte, As sone as on the mayre.But he doubtlesse,Of his mekenesse, Hated such pompe and pride,And would not go,Companied so, But drewe himself a side,To saint Katharine,Streight as a line, He gate him at a tyde,For deuocion,Or promocion, There would he nedes abyde.There spent he fast,Till all were past, And to him came there meny,To aske theyr det,But none could get, The valour of a peny.With visage stout,He bare it out, Euen vnto the harde hedge,A month or twaine,Tyll he was faine, To laye his gowne to pledge.Than was he there,In greater feare, Than ere that he came thither,And would as fayne,Depart againe, But that he wist not whither.Than after this,To a frende of his, He went and there abode,Where as he lay,So sick alway, He myght not come abrode.It happed than,A marchant man, That he ought money to,Of an officere,Than gan enquere, What him was best to do.And he answerde,Be not aferde, Take an accion therfore,I you beheste,I shall hym reste, And than care for no more.I feare quod he,It wyll not be, For he wyll not comce out.The sergeaunt said,Be not afrayd. It shall be brought about.In many a game,Lyke to the same, Haue I bene well in vre,And for your sake,Let me be bake, But yf I do this cure.Thus part they both,And foorth then goth, A pace this officere,And for a day,All his array, He chaunged with a frere.So was he dight,That no man might, Hym for a frere deny,He dopped and dooked,He spake and looked, So religiously.Yet in a glasse,Or he would passe, He toted and he peered,His harte for pryde,Lepte in his syde, To see how well he freered.Than forth a pace,Unto the place, He goeth withouten shameTo do this dede,But now take hede, For here begynneth the game.He drew hym ny,And softely, Streyght at the dore he knocked:And a damsell,That hard hym well, There came and it vnlocked.The frere sayd,Good spede fayre mayd, Here lodgeth such a man,It is told me:Well syr quod she, And yf he do what than.Quod he maystresse,No harme doutlesse: It longeth for our order,To hurt no man,But as we can, Euery wight to forder.With hym truly,Fayne speake would I. Sir quod she by my fay,He is so sike,Ye be not lyke, To speake with hym to day.Quod he fayre may,Yet I you pray, This much at my desire,Vouchesafe to do,As go hym to, And say an austen frereWould with hym speke,And matters breake, For his auayle certayn.Quod she I wyll,Stonde ye here styll, Tyll I come downe agayn.Vp is she go,And told hym so, As she was bode to say,He mistrustying,No maner thyng, Sayd mayden go thy way,And fetch him hyder,That we togyder, May talk. A downe she gothe,Vp she hym brought,No harme she thought, But it made some folke wrothe.This officere,This fayned frere, Whan he was come aloft,He dopped than,And grete this man, Religiously and oft.And he agayn,Ryght glad and fayn, Toke hym there by the hande,The frere than sayd,Ye be dismayd, With trouble I understande.In dede quode he,It hath with me, Bene better than it is.Syr quod the frere,Be of good chere, Yet shall it after this.But I would now,Comen with you, In counsayle yf you please,Or ellys natOf matters that, Shall set your heart at ease.Downe went the mayd,The marchaunt sayd, Now say on gentle frere,Of thys tydyng,That ye me bryng, I long full sore to here.Whan there was none,But they alone, The frere with euyll grace,Sayd, I rest the,Come on with me, And out he toke his mace:Thou shalt obay,Come on thy way, I have the in my clouche,Thou goest not hence,For all the pense, The mayre hath in his pouche.This marchaunt there,For wrathe and fere, He waxyng welnygh wood,Sayd horson these,With a mischefe, Who hathtaught the thy good.And with his fist,Vpon the lyst, He gaue hym such a blowThat backward downe,Almost in sowne, The frere is ouerthrow.Yet was this man,Well fearder than, Lest he the frere had slayne,Tyll with good rappes,And heuy clappes, He dawde hym vp agayne.The frere toke harte,And vp he starte, And well he layde about,And so there goth,Betwene them both, Many a lusty clout.They rent and tere,Eche others here, And claue togyder fast,Tyll with luggyng,And with tuggyng, They fell downe both at last.Than on the grounde,Togyder rounde, With many a sadde stroke,They roll and rumble,They turne and tumble, As pygges do in a poke.So long aboue,They heue and shoue, Togider that at last,The mayd and wyfe,To breake the strife, Hyed them vpward fast.And whan they spye,The captaynes lye, Both waltring on the place,The freres hood,They pulled a good, Adowne about his face.Whyle he was blynde,The wenche behynde, Lent him leyd on the flore,Many a ioule,About the noule, With a great batyldore.The wyfe came yet,And with her fete, She holpe to kepe him downe,And with her rocke,Many a knocke, She gaue hym on the crowne.They layd his mace,About his face, That was wood for payne:The fryre frappe,Gate many a swappe, Tyll he was full nygh slayne.Vp they hym lift,And with yll thrift, Hedlyng a long the stayre,Downe they hym threwe,And sayde adewe, Commende us to the mayre.The frere arose,But I suppose, Amased was his hed,He shoke his eares,And from grete feares, He thought hym well yfled.Quod he now lost,Is all this cost, We be neuer the nere.Ill mote he be,That caused me, To make my self a frere.Now masters all,Here now I shall, Ende there as I began,In any wyse,I would auyse, And counsayle euery man,His owne craft vse,All newe refuse, And lyghtly let them gone:Play not the frere,Now make good chere, And welcome euerych one.\nO Ye that put your trust and confidence,In worldly ioy and frayle prosperite,That so lyue here as ye should neuer hence,Remember death and loke here vppon me.Ensaumple I thynke there may no better be.Your selfe wotte well that in this realme was I,Your quene but late, and lo now here I lye. Was I not borne of olde worthy linage?Was not my mother queene my father kyng?Was I not a kinges fere in marriage?Had I not plenty of euery pleasaunt thyng?Mercifull god this is a straunge reckenyng:Rychesse, honour, welth, and auncestry?Hath me forsaken and lo now here I ly. If worship myght haue kept me, I had not gone.If wyt myght haue me saued, I neded not fere.If money myght haue holpe, I lacked none.But O good God what vayleth all this gere.When deth is come thy mighty messangere,Obey we must there is no remedy,Me hath he sommoned, and lo now here I ly. Yet was I late promised otherwyse,This yere to liue in welth and delice.Lo where to commeth thy blandishyng promyse,O false astrolagy and deuynatrice,Of goddes secretes makyng thy selfe so wyse.How true is for this yere thy prophecy.The yere yet lasteth, and lo nowe here I ly. O bryttill welth, as full of bitternesse,Thy single pleasure doubled is with payne.Account my sorow first and my distresse,In sondry wyse, and recken there agayne,The ioy that I haue had, and I dare fayne,For all my honour, endured yet haue I,More wo then welth, and lo now here I ly. Where are our castels, now where are our towers,Goodly Rychmonde sone art thou gone from me,At Westminster that costly worke of yours,Myne owne dere lorde now shall I neuer see.Almighty god vouchesafe to graunt that ye,For you and your children well may edefy.My palyce bylded is, and lo now here I ly. Adew myne owne dere spouse my worthy lorde,The faithfull loue, that dyd vs both combyne,In mariage and peasable concorde,Into your handes here I cleane resyne,To be bestowed vppon your children and myne.Erst wer you father, and now must ye supply.The mothers part also, for lo now here I ly. Farewell my doughter lady Margarete.God wotte full oft it greued hath my mynde,That ye should go where we should seldome mete.Now am I gone, and haue left you behynde.O mortall folke that we be very blynde.That we least feare, full of it is most nye,From you depart I fyrst, and lo now here I lye. Farewell Madame my lordes worthy mother,Comfort your sonne, and be ye of good chere.Take all a worth, for it will be no nother.Farewell my doughter Katherine late the fere,To prince Arthur myne owne chyld so dere,It booteth not for me to wepe or cry,Pray for my soule, for lo now here I ly. Adew lord Henry my louyng sonne adew.Our lorde encrease your honour and estate,Adew my doughter Mary bright of hew,God make you vertuous wyse and fortunate.Adew swete hart my litle doughter Kate,Thou shalt swete babe such is thy desteny,Thy mother neuer know, for lo now here I ly. Lady Cicyly Anne and Katheryne,Farewell my welbeloved sisters three,O lady Briget other sister myne,Lo here the ende of worldly vanitee.Now well are ye that earthly foly flee,And heuenly thynges loue and magnify,Farewell and pray for me, for lo now here I ly. A dew my lordes, a dew my ladies all,A dew my faithful seruauntes euerych one,A dew my commons whom I neuer shall,See in this world wherfore to the alone,Immortall god verely three and one,I me commende. Thy infinite mercy,Shew to thy seruant, for lo now here I ly.\nMine high estate power and auctoritie,If ye ne know, enserche and ye shall spye,That richesse, worship, welth, and dignitie,Joy, rest, and peace, and all thyng fynally,That any pleasure or profit may come by,To mannes comfort, ayde, and sustinaunce,Is all at my deuyse and ordinance. Without my fauor there is nothyng wonne.Many a matter haue I brought at last,To good conclusion, that fondly was begonne.And many a purpose, bounden sure and fastWith wise prouision, I haue ouercasat.Without good happe there may no wit suffise.Better is to be fortunate than wyse. And therefore hath there some men bene or this,My deadly foes and written many a boke,To my disprayse. And other cause there nys,But for me list not frendly on them loke.Thus lyke the fox they fare that once forsoke,The pleasant grapes, and gan for to defy them,Because he lept and yet could not come by them. But let them write theyr labour is in vayne.For well ye wote, myrth, honour, and richesse,Much better is than penury and payne.The nedy wretch that lingereth in distresse,Without myne helpe is euer comfortlesse,A wery burden odious and loth,To all the world, and eke to him selfe both. But he that by my fauour may ascende,To mighty power and excellent degree,A common wele to gouerne and defende,O in how blist condicion standeth he:Him self in honour and felicite,And ouer that, may forther and increase,A region hole in ioyfull rest and peace. Now in this poynt there is no more to say,Eche man hath of him self the gouernaunce.Let euery wight than folowe his owne way,And he that out of pouertee and mischaunce,List for to liue, and wyll him selfe enhaunce,In wealth and richesse, come forth and wayte on me.And he that wyll be a beggar, let hym be.\nThou that are prowde of honour shape or kynne,That hepest vp this wretched worldes treasure,Thy fingers shrined with gold, thy tawny skynne,With fresh apparyle garnished out of measure,And wenest to haue fortune at thy pleasure,Cast vp thyne eye, and loke how slipper chaunce,Illudeth her men with chaunge and varyaunce. Sometyme she loketh as louely fayre and bright,As goodly Uenus mother of Cupyde.She becketh and she smileth on euery wight.But this chere fayned, may not long abide.There cometh a cloude, and farewell all our pryde.Like any serpent she beginneth to swell,And looketh as fierce as any fury of hell. Yet for all that we brotle men are fayne,(So wretched is our nature and so blynde)As soone as Fortune list to laugh agayne,With fayre countenaunce and disceitfull mynde,To crouche and knele and gape after the wynde,Not one or twayne but thousandes in a rout,Lyke swarmyng bees come flickeryng her aboute. Thena s a bayte she bryngeth forthe her ware,Siluer, gold, riche perle, and precious stone:On whiche the mased people gase and stare,And gape therefore, as dogges doe for the bone.Fortune at them laugheth, and in her troneAmyd her treasure and waueryng rychesse,Prowdly she houeth as lady and empresse. Fast by her syde doth wery labour stand,Pale fere also, and sorow all bewept,Disdayn and hatred on that other hand,Eke restles watche fro slepe with trauayle kept,His eyes drowsy and lokying as he slept.Before her standeth daunger and enuy,Flattery dyscept, mischiefe and tiranny. About her commeth all the world to begge.He asketh lande, and he to pas would bryng,This toye and that, and all not worth an egge:He would in loue prosper aboue all thyng:He kneleth downe and would be made a kyng:He forceth not so he may money haue,Though all the worlde accompt hym for a knaue. Lo thus ye see diuers heddes, diuers wittes.Fortune alone as diuers as they all,Vnstable here and there among them flittes:And at auenture downe her giftes fall,Catch who so may she throweth great and smallNot to all men, as commeth sonne or dewe,But for the most part, all among a few. And yet her brotell giftes long may not last.He that she gaue them, loketh prowde and hye.She whirlth about and pluckth away as fast,And geueth them to an other by and by.And thus from man to man continually,She vseth to geue and take, and slily tosse,One man to wynnyng of an others losse. And when she robbeth one, down goth his pryde.He wepeth and wayleth and curseth her full sore.But he that receueth it, on that other syde,Is glad, and blesth her often tymes therefore.But in a whyle when she loueth hym no more,She glydeth from hym, and her giftes to.And he her curseth, as other fooles do. Alas the folysh people can not cease,Ne voyd her trayne, tyll they the harme do fele.About he alway, besely they preace.But lord how he doth thynk hym self full wele.That may set once his hande vppon her whele.He holdeth fast: but vpward as he flieth,She whippeth her whele about,a nd there he lyeth. Thus fell Julius from his mighty power.Thus fell Darius the worthy kyng of Perse.Thus fell Alexander the great conquerour.Thus many mo than I may well reherse.Thus double fortune, when she lyst reuerseHer slipper fauour fro them that in her trust,She fleeth her wey and leyeth them in the dust. She sodeinly enhaunceth them aloft.And sodeynly mischeueth all the flocke.The head that late lay easily and full soft,In stede of pylows lyeth after on the blocke.And yet alas the most cruell proude mocke:The deynty mowth that ladyes kissed haue,She bryngeth in the case to kysse a knaue. In chaungyng of her course, the chaunge sheweth this,Vp startth a knaue, and downe there falth a knight,The beggar ryche, and the ryche man pore is.Hatred is turned to loue, loue to despyght.This is her sport, thus proueth she her myght.Great boste she maketh yf one be by her power,Welthy and wretched both within an howre. Pouertee that of her giftes wyl nothing take,Wyth mery chere, looketh vppon the prece,And seeth how fortunes houshold goeth to wrake.Fast by her standeth the wyse Socrates.Arristippus, Pythagoras, and many a lese.Of olde philosophers. And eke agaynst the sonneBekyth hym poore Diogenes in his tonne. With her is Byas, whose countrey lackt defence,And whylom of their foes stode so in dout,That eche man hastely gan to cary thence,And asked hym why he nought caryed out.I bere quod he all myne with me about:Wisedom he ment, not fortunes brotle fees.For nought he counted his that he might leese. Heraclitus eke, lyst felowship to kepeWith glad pouertee, Democritus also:Of which the fyrst can neuer cease but wepe,To see how thick the blynded people go,With labour great to purchase care and wo.That other laugheth to see the foolysh apes,Howe earnestly they walk about theyr capes. Of this poore sect, it is comen vsage,Onely to take that nature may sustayne,Banishing cleane all other surplusage,They be content, and of nothyng complayne.No nygarde eke is of his good so fayne.But they more pleasure haue a thousande folde,The secrete draughtes of nature to beholde. Set fortunes servauntes by them and ye wull,That one is free, that other euer thrall,That one content, that other neuer full.That one in suretye, that other lyke to fall.Who lyst to aduise them bothe, parceyue he shall,As great difference between them as we see,Betwixte wretchednes and felicite. Nowe haue I shewed you bothe: these whiche ye lyst,Stately foturne, or humble pouertee:That is to say, nowe lyeth it in your fyst,To take here bondage, or free libertee.But in thys poynte and ye do after me,Draw you to fortune, and labour her to please,If that ye thynke your selfe to well at ease. And fyrst vppon the louely shall she smile,And frendly on the cast her wandering eyes,Embrace the in her armes, and for a whyle,Put the and kepe the in a fooles paradise:And foorth with all what so thou lyst deuise,She wyll the graunt it liberally parhappes:But for all that beware of after clappes. Recken you neuer of her fauoure sure:Ye may in clowds as easily trace an hare,Or in drye lande cause fishes to endure,And make the burnyng fyre his heate to spare,And all thys worlde in compace to forfare,As her to make by craft or engine stable,That of her nature is euer variable. Serue her day and nyght as reuerently,Vppon thy knees as any seruaunt may,And in conclusion, that thou shalt winne therebyShall not be worth thy servyce I dare say.And looke yet what she geueth the to day,With labour wonne she shall happly to morrowPluck it agayne out of thyne hande with sorow. Wherefore yf thou in suretye lyst to stande,Take pouerties parte and let prowde fortune go,Receyue nothyng that commeth from her hande.Loue maner and vertue: they be onely tho.Whiche double fortune may not take the for.Then mayst thou boldly defye her turnyng chaunce:She can the neyther hynder nor auaunce. But and thou wylt nedes medle with her treasure,Trust not therein, and spende it liberally.Beare the not proude, nor take not out of measure.Bylde not thyne house on heyth vp in the skye.None falleth farre, but he that climbeth hye,Remember nature sent the hyther bare,The gyftes of fortune count them borowed ware.\nWho so delyteth to prouen and assay,Of waveryng fortune the vncertayne lot,If that the aunswere please you not alway,Blame ye not me: for I commaunde you not,Fortune to trust, and eke full well ye wot,I haue of her no brydle in my fist,She renneth loose, and turneth where she lyst. The rollyng dyse in whome your lucke doth stande,With whose vnhappy chaunce ye be so wroth,Ye knowe your selfe came neuer in myne hande.Lo in this ponde be fyshe and frogges both.Cast in your nette: but be you liefe or lothe,Hold you content as fortune lyst assyne:For it is your owne fishyng and not myne. And though in one chaunce fortune you offend,Grudge not there at, but beare a mery face.In many an other she shall it amende.There is no manne so farre out of her grace,But he sometyme hath comfort and solace:Ne none agayne so farre foorth in her fauour,That is full satisfyed with her behauiour. Fortune is stately, solemne, prowde, and hye:And rychesse geueth, to haue seruyce therefore.The nedy begger catcheth an halfpeny:Some manne a thousande pounde, some lesse some more.But for all that she kepeth euer in store,From euery manne some parcell of his wyll,That he may pray therfore and serue her styll. Some manne hath good, but chyldren hath he none.Some man hath both, but he can get none health.Some hath al thre, but vp to honours trone,Can he not crepe, by no maner of stelth.To some she sendeth, children, ryches, welthe,Honour, woorshyp, and reuerence all hys lyfe:But yet she pyncheth hym with a shrewde wyfe. Then for asmuch as it is fortunes guyse,To graunt no manne all thyng that he wyll axe,But as her selfe lyst order and deuyse,Doth euery manne his parte diuide and tax,I counsayle you eche one trusse vp your packes,And take no thyng at all, or be content,With suche rewarde as fortune hath you sent.All thynges in this boke that ye shall rede,Doe as ye lyst, there shall no manne you bynde,Them to beleue, as surely as your crede.But notwithstandyng certes in my mynde,I durst well swere, as true ye shall them fynde,In euery poynt eche answere by and by,As are the iudgementes of astronomye.\nBut nowe to returne to the course of this hystorye, were it that the duke of Gloucester hadde of olde foreminded this conclusion, or was nowe at erste thereunto moued, and putte in hope by the occasion of the tender age of the younge princes, his nephues (as opportunitye and lykelyhoode of spede, putteth a manne in courage of that hee neuer entended) certayn is it that hee contriued theyr destruccion, with the vsurpacion of the regal dignitye vppon hymselfe. And for as muche as hee well wiste and holpe to mayntayn, a long continued grudge and hearte brennynge betwene the quenes kinred and the kinges blood eyther partye enuying others authoritye, he nowe thought that their deuision shoulde bee (as it was in dede) a fortherlye begynnynge to the pursuite of his intente, and a sure ground for the foundacion of al his building yf he might firste vnder the pretext of reuengynge of olde displeasure, abuse the anger and ygnoraunce of the tone partie, to the destruccion of the tother: and then wynne to his purpose as manye as he coulde: and those that coulde not be wonne, myght be loste ere they looked therefore. For of one thynge was hee certayne, that if his entente were perceiued, he shold soone haue made peace beetwene the bothe parties, with his owne bloude. Kynge Edwarde in his life, albeit that this discencion beetwene hys frendes sommewhat yrked hym: yet in his good health he sommewhat the lesse regarded it, because hee thought whatsoeuer busines shoulde falle betwene them, hymselfe should alwaye bee hable to rule bothe the parties. But in his last sicknesse, when hee receiued his naturall strengthe soo fore enfebled, that hee dyspayred all recouerye, then hee consyderynge the youthe of his chyldren, albeit hee nothynge lesse mistrusted then that that happened, yet well forseynge that manye harmes myghte growe by theyr debate, whyle the youth of hys children shoulde lacke discrecion of themself and good counsayle, of their frendes, of whiche either party shold counsayle for their owne commodity and rather by pleasaunte aduyse too wynne themselfe fauour, then by profitable aduertisemente to do the children good, he called some of them before him that were at variaunce, and in especyall the lorde marques Dorsette the quenes sonne by her fyrste housebande, and Richarde the lorde Hastynges, a noble man, than lorde chaumberlayne agayne whome the quene specially grudged, for that great fauoure the kyng bare hym, and also for that shee thoughte hym secretelye familyer with the kynge in wanton companye. Her kynred also bare hym sore, as well for that the kynge hadde made hym captayne of Calyce (whiche office the lorde Ryuers, brother to the quene claimed of the kinges former promyse as for diuerse other great giftes whiche hee recyued, that they loked for. When these lordes with diuerse other of bothe the parties were comme in presence, the kynge liftinge vppe himselfe and vndersette with pillowes, as it is reported on this wyse sayd vnto them, My lordes, my dere kinsmenne and allies, in what plighte I lye you see, & I feele. By whiche the lesse whyle I looke to lyue with you, the more depelye am I moued to care in what case I leaue you, for such as I leaue you, suche bee my children lyke to fynde you. Whiche if they shoulde (that Godde forbydde) fynde you at varyaunce, myght happe to fall themselfe at warre ere their discrecion woulde serue to sette you at peace. Ye se their youthe, of whiche I recken the onely suretie to reste in youre concord, For it suffiseth not that al you loue them, yf eche of you hate other, If they wer menne, your faithfulnesse happelye woulde suffise. But childehood must be maintained by mens authoritye, and slipper youth vnderpropped with elder counsayle, which neither they can haue, but ye geue it, nor ye geue it, yf ye gree not. For wher eche laboureth to breake that the other maketh, and for hated of ech of others parson, impugneth eche others counsayle, there must it nedes bee long ere anye good conclusion goe forwarde. And also while either partye laboureth to be chiefe, flattery shall haue more place then plaine and faithfull aduyse, of whyche muste needes ensue the euyll bringing vppe of the prynce, whose mynd in tender youth infect, shal redily fal to mischief and riot, and drawe down with this noble realme to ruine, but if grace turn him to wisdom: which if God send, then thei that by euill menes before pleased him best, shal after fall farthest out of fauour, so that euer at length euil driftes dreue to nought, and good plain wayes prosper. Great variaunce hath ther long bene betwene you, not alway for great causes. Sometime a thing right wel intended, our misconstruccion turneth vnto worse or a smal displeasure done vs, eyther our owne affeccion or euil tongues agreueth. But this wote I well ye neuer had so great cause of hatred, as ye haue of loue. That we be al men, that we be christen men, this shall I leaue for prechers to tel you (and yet I wote nere whither any preachers wordes ought more to moue you, then his that is by and by gooying to the place that thei all preache of.) But this shal I desire you to remember, that the one parte of you is of my bloode, the other of myne alies, and eche of yow with other, eyther of kinred or affinitie, which spirytuall kynred of affynyty, if the sacramentes of Christes churche, beare that weyghte with vs that woulde Godde thei did, shoulde no lesse moue vs to charitye, then the respecte of fleshlye consanguinitye. Oure Lorde forbydde, that you loue together the worse, for the selfe cause that you ought to loue the better. And yet that happeneth. And no where fynde wee so deadlye debate, as amonge them, whyche by nature and lawe moste oughte to agree together. Suche a pestilente serpente is ambicion and desyre of vaine glorye and soueraintye, which amonge states where he once entreth crepeth foorth so farre, tyll with deuision and variaunce hee turneth all to mischiefe. Firste longing to be nexte the best, afterwarde egall with the beste, and at laste chiefe and aboue the beste. Of which immoderate appetite of woorship, and thereby of debate and dissencion what losse, what sorowe, what trouble hathe within these fewe yeares growen in this realme, I praye Godde as well forgeate as wee well remember.\nEy flatering fortune, loke thou neuer so fayre, Or neuer so plesantly begin to smile, As though thou wouldst my ruine all repayre, During my life thou shalt me not begile. Trust shall I God, to entre in a while. Hys hauen or heauen sure and vniforme. Euer after thy calme, loke I for a storme.\nLong was I lady Lucke your seruing man, And now haue lost agayne all that I gat, Wherfore whan I thinke on you now and than, And in my mynde remember this and that, Ye may not blame me though I beschrew your cat, But in fayth I blesse you agayne a thousand times, For lending me now some laysure to make rymes.\nIn Autumpne whan the sonne in vyrgyne By radyante hete enryped hath our corne Whan Luna full of mutabylyte As Emperes the dyademe hath worne Of our pole artyke, smylynge halfe in scorne At our foly, and our vnstedfastnesse The time whan Mars to warre hym dyd dres, I callynge to mynde the greate auctoryte Of poetes olde, which full craftely Vnder as couerte termes as coulde be Can touche a trouth, and cloke subtylly With fresshe vtteraunce full sentencyously Dyuerse in style some spared not vyce to wryte Some of mortalitie nobly dyd endyte Whereby I rede, theyr renome and theyr fame Maye neuer dye, but euermore endure I was sore moued to a forse the same But ignoraunce full soone dyde me dyscure And shewed that in this arte I was not sure For to illumine she sayd I was to dulle Aduysynge me my penne awaye to pulle And not to wryte, for he so wyll atteyne Excedyng ferther than his connynge is His heed maye be harde, but feble is brayne Yet haue I knowen suche er this But of reproche surely he maye not mys That clymmeth hyer than he may fotinge haue What and he slyde downe, who shall him saue? Thus vp and downe my mynde was drawen and cast That I ne wyste what to do was beste So sore enwered that I was at the laste Enforsed to slepe, and for to take some reste And to lye downe as soone as I my dreste At Harwyche porte slumbrynge as I laye In myne hostes house called powers keye\nThe soote season that bud, and bloome fourth bringes,With grene hath cladde the hyll, and eke the vale, The Nightingall with fethers new she singes; The turtle to her mate hath told her tale: Somer is come, for every spray now springes.The hart hath hunge hys olde head on the pale,The bucke in brake his winter coate he flynges;The fishes fiete with newe repayred scale:The adder all her slough away she flynges, The swift swallow pursueth the flyes smalle, The busy bee her honey how she mynges;Winter is worne that was the floures bale.And thus I see among these pleasant thyngesEche care decayes, and yet my sorrow sprynges.\nWhen youth had led me half the race,That Cupides scourge had made me runne; I looked back to meet the place, From whence my weary course begunne: And then I saw howe my desyreMisguiding me had led the waye,Myne eyne to greedy of theyre hyre,Had made me lose a better prey. For when in sighes I spent the day,And could not cloake my grief with game; The boyling smoke dyd still bewray, The present heat of secret flame: And when salt teares do bayne my breast,Where love his pleasent traynes hath sown,Her beauty hath the fruytes opprest,Ere that the buddes were spronge and blowne. And when myne eyen dyd still pursue,The flying chase of theyre request;Theyre greedy looks dyd oft renew,The hydden wounde within my breste. When every loke these cheekes might stayne,From dedly pale to glowing red;By outward signes appeared playne,To her for helpe my hart was fled. But all to late Love learneth me,To paynt all kynd of Colours new;To blynd theyre eyes that else should seeMy speckled chekes with Cupids hew. And now the covert brest I clame,That worshipt Cupide secretely;And nourished hys sacred flame,From whence no blairing sparks do flye.\nSuch wayward wayes hath Love, that most part in discordOur willes do stand, whereby our hartes but seldom do accord:Decyte is hys delighte, and to begyle and mockeThe simple hartes which he doth strike with froward divers stroke.He causeth th' one to rage with golden burning darte,And doth alay with Leaden cold, again the others harte.Whose gleames of burning fyre and easy sparkes of flame,In balance of unequal weyght he pondereth by ameFrom easye ford where I myghte wade and pass full well,He me withdrawes and doth me drive, into a depe dark hell:And me witholdes where I am calde and offred place,And willes me that my mortal foe I do bespeke of Grace;He lettes me to pursue a conquest welnere wonneTo follow here my paynes were lost, ere that my sute begunne.So by this means I know how soon a hart may turneFrom warre to peace, from truce to stryfe, and so agayne returne.I know how to content my self in others lust,Of little stuffe unto my self to weave a webbe of trust:And how to hyde my harmes with sole dyssembling chere,Whan in my face the painted thoughtes would outwardly appeare.I know how that the bloud forsakes the face for dred,And how by shame it staynes agayne the Chekes with flamyng red:I know under the Grene, the Serpent how he lurkes:The hammer of the restless forge I wote eke how it workes.I know and con by roate the tale that I woulde tellBut ofte the woordes come fourth awrye of him that lovelth well.I know in heate and colde the Lover how he shakes,In synging how he doth complayne, in sleeping how he wakesTo languish without ache, sickelesse for to consume,A thousand thynges for to devyse, resolvynge of his fume;And though he lyste to see his Ladyes Grace full soreSuch pleasures as delyght hys Eye, do not his helthe restore.I know to seke the tracte of my desyred foe,And fere to fynde that I do seek, but chiefly this I know,That Lovers must transfourme into the thynge beloved,And live (alas! who would believe?) with sprite from Lyfe removed.I knowe in harty sighes and laughters of the spleene,At once to chaunge my state, my will, and eke my colour clene.I know how to deceyve my self wythe others helpe,And how the Lyon chastised is, by beatynge of the whelpe.In standynge nere the fyre, I know how that I frease;Farre of I burne, in bothe I waste, and so my Lyfe I leese.I know how Love doth rage upon a yeylding mynde,How smalle a nete may take and mase a harte of gentle kynde:Or else with seldom swete to season hepes of gall,Revived with a glympse of Grace old sorrowes to let fall.The hydden traynes I know, and secret snares of Love,How soone a loke will prynte a thoughte that never may remove.The slypper state I knew, the sodein turnes from weltheThe doubtfull hope, the certaine wooe, and sure despaired helthe.\nGeve place you ladies and be gone,Boast not your selves at all,For here at hande approcheth one,Whose face will stayne you all. The vertue of her lively lookesExcels the precious stone,I wishe to have none other bookesTo reade or look upon. In eche of her two christall eyes,Smyleth a naked boy;It would you all in heart suffiseTo see that lampe of joye. I think nature hath lost the moulde,Where she her shape did take;Or else I doubte if nature couldeSo fayre a creature make. She may be well compardeUnto the Phenix kinde,Whose like was never seene nor heard,That any man can fynde. In lyfe she is Diana chastIn trouth Penelopey,In woord and eke in dede stedfast;What will you more we say: If all the world were sought so farre,Who could finde such a wight,Her beauty twinkleth lyke a starreWithin the frosty night.\nMy youthfull yeres are past,My joyfull dayes are gone,My lyfe it may not last,My grave and I am one. My Myrth and joyes are fled, And I a Man in wo,Desirous to be ded,My misciefe to forgo. I burne and am a colde,I freese amyddes the fyer,I see she doth witholdeThat is my honest desyre. I see my helpe at hande,I see my lyfe also,I see where she doth standeThat is my deadly fo. I see how she doth see,And yet she wil be blynde,I see in helpyng me,She sekes and will not fynde. I see how she doth wrye,When I begynne to mone,I see when I come nye,How fayne she would be gone. I see what wil ye more,She will me gladly kill,And you shall see therforeThat she shall have her will. I cannot live with stones,It is too hard a foode,I wil be dead at onesTo do my Lady good.\nNow clattring armes, now raging broyles of warre,Gan passe the noys of dredfull trumpetts clang,Shrowded with shafts, the heaven with cloude of dartes,Covered the ayre. Against full fatted bulles.As forceth kyndled yre the lyons keene,Whose greedy gutts the gnawing hunger prickes;So Macedons against the Persians fare,Now corpses hyde the purpurde soyle with blood;Large slaughter on eche side, but Perses more,Moyst fieldes bebled, theyr heartes and numbers bate,Fainted while they gave backe, and fall to flighte.The litening Macedon by swordes, by gleaves,By bandes and troupes of footemen, with his garde,Speedes to Dary, but hym his merest kyn,Oxate preserves with horsemen on a plumpeBefore his carr, that none his charge should give.Here grunts, here groans, eche where strong youth spent:Shaking her bloudy hands, Bellone amongThe Perses soweth all kind of cruel death:With throte yent he roares, he lyeth alongHis entrailes with a launce through gryded quyte,Hym smytes the club, hym woundes farre stryking bowe,And him the sling, and him the shining sword;He dyeth, he is all dead, he pantes, he restes.Right over stoode in snowwhite armour brave,The Memphite Zoroas, a cunnyng clarke,To whom the heaven lay open as his booke;And in celestiall bodies he could tellThe moving meeting light, aspect, eclips,And influence, and constellations all;What earthly chaunces would betyde, what yere,Of plenty storde, what signe forewarned death,How winter gendreth snow, what temperatureIn the prime tyde doth season well the soyle,Why summer burnes, why autumne hath ripe grapes,Whither the circle quadrate may become,Whether our tunes heavens harmony can yeldeOf four begyns among themselves how greatProportion is; what sway the erryng lightesDoth send in course gayne that fyrst movyng heaven;What, grees one from another distant be,What starr doth lett the hurtfull fyre to rage,Or him more mylde what opposition makes,What fyre doth qualifye Mavorses fyre,What house eche one doth seeke, what plannett raignesWithin this heaven sphere, nor that small thyngesI speake, whole heaven he closeth in his brest.This sage then in the starres hath spyed the fatesThreatened him death without delay, and, sith,He saw he could not fatall order chaunge,Foreward he prest in battayle, that he mightMete with the rulers of the Macedons,Of his right hand desirous to be slain,The bouldest borne, and worthiest in the feilde;And as a wight, now wery of his lyfe,Ad seking death, in fyrst front of his rage,Comes desperately to Alexanders face,At him with dartes one after other throwes,With recklesse wordes and clamour him provokes,And sayth, Nectanaks bastard shamefull stayneOf mothers bed, why losest thou thy strokes,Cowardes among, Turn thee to me, in caseManhood there be so much left in thy heart,Come fight with me, that on my helmet weare,Apollo's laurell both for learninges laude,And eke for martiall praise, that in my shieldeThe seven fold Sophie of Minerve contein,A match more mete, Syr King, then any here.The noble prince amoved takes ruth uponThe wilfull wight, and with soft words ayen,O monstrous man (quoth he) what so thou art,I pray thee live, ne do not with thy deathThis lodge of Lore, the Muses mansion marre;That treasure house this hand shall never spoyle,My sword shall never bruise that skilfull brayne,Long gather'd heapes of science sone to spill;O how fayre fruites may you to mortall menFrom Wisdoms garden give; how many mayBy you the wiser and the better prove:What error, what mad moode, what frenzy theePerswades to be downe, sent to depe Averne,Where no artes flourish, nor no knowledge vailesFor all these sawes. When thus the sovereign said,Alighted Zoroas with sword unsheathed,The careless king there smoate above the greve,At th' opening of his quishes wounded him,So that the blood down trailed on the ground:The Macedon perceiving hurt, gan gnashe,But yet his mynde he bent in any wiseHym to forbeare, sett spurrs unto his stede,And turnde away, lest anger of his smarteShould cause revenger hand deale balefull blowes.But of the Macedonian chieftaines knights,One Meleager could not bear this sight,But ran upon the said Egyptian rude,And cutt him in both knees: he fell to ground,Wherewith a whole rout came of souldiours sterne,And all in pieces hewed the sely seg,But happely the soule fled to the starres,Where, under him, he hath full sight of all,Whereat he gazed here with reaching looke.The Persians waild such sapience to forgoe,The very fone the Macedonians wishtHe would have lived, king Alexander selfeDemde him a man unmete to dye at all;Who wonne like praise for conquest of his Yre,As for stoute men in field that day subdued,Who princes taught how to discerne a man,That in his head so rare a jewel beares,But over all those same Camenes, those same,Divine Camenes, whose honour he procurde,As tender parent doth his daughters weale,Lamented, and for thankes, all that they can,Do cherish hym deceast, and sett him free,From dark oblivion of devouring death.\nO Heartless fooles, haste here to our doctrine,Leaue off the wayes of your enormitie,Enforce you to my preceptes to encline, For here shall I shewe you good and veritie: Encline, and ye find shall great prosperitie,Ensuing the doctrine of our fathers olde,And godly lawes in valour worth great golde. Who that will followe the graces manyfoldeWhich are in vertue, shall finde auauncement:Wherfore ye fooles that in your sinne are bolde,Ensue ye wisdome, and leaue your lewde intent,Wisdome is the way of men most excellent:Therfore haue done, and shortly spede your pace,To quaynt your self and company with grace. Learne what is vertue, therin is great solace,Learne what is truth, sadnes and prudence,Let grutche be gone, and grauitie purchase,Forsake your folly and inconuenience,Cease to be fooles, and ay to sue offence,Followe ye vertue, chiefe roote of godlynes,For it and wisdome is ground of clenlynes. Wisedome and vertue two thinges are doubtles,Whiche man endueth with honour speciall,But suche heartes as slepe in foolishnesKnoweth nothing, and will nought know at all:But in this little barge in principallAll foolish mockers I purpose to repreue,Clawe he his backe that feeleth itche or greue. Mockers and scorners that are harde of beleue,With a rough combe here will I clawe and grate,To proue if they will from their vice remeue,And leaue their folly, which causeth great debate:Suche caytiues spare neyther poore man nor estate,And where their selfe are moste worthy derision,Other men to scorne is all their most condition. Yet are mo fooles of this abusion,Whiche of wise men despiseth the doctrine,With mowes, mockes, scorne, and collusion,Rewarding rebukes for their good discipline:Shewe to such wisdome, yet shall they not enclineUnto the same, but set nothing therby,But mocke thy doctrine, still or openly. So in the worlde it appeareth commonly,That who that will a foole rebuke or blame,A mocke or mowe shall he haue by and by:Thus in derision haue fooles their speciall game.Correct a wise manthat woulde eschue ill name,And fayne would lerne, and his lewde life amende,And to thy wordes he gladly shall intende. If by misfortune a rightwise man offende,He gladly suffereth a iuste correction,And him that him teacheth taketh for his frende,Him selfe putting mekely unto subiection,Folowing his preceptes and good direction:But yf that one a foole rebuke or blame,He shall his teacher hate, slaunder, and diffame. Howbeit his wordes oft turne to his own shame,And his owne dartes retourne to him agayne,And so is he sore wounded with the same,And in wo endeth, great misery and payne.It also proued full often is certayne,That they that on mockers alway their mindes cast,Shall of all other be mocked at the last. He that goeth right, stedfast, sure, and fast,May him well mocke that goeth halting and lame,And he that is white may well his scornes cast,Agaynst a man of Inde: but no man ought to blameAnothers vice, while he vseth the same.But who that of sinne is cleane in deede and thought,May him well scorne whose liuing is starke nought.The scornes of Naball full dere should haue been bought,If Abigayl his wife discrete and sage,Had not by kindnes right crafty meanes sought,The wrath of Dauid to temper and asswage.Hath not two beares in their fury and rageTwo and fortie children rent and torne,For they the prophete Helyseus did scorne. So might they curse the time that they were borne,For their mocking of this prophete diuine:So many other of this sort often mourneFor their lewde mockes, and fall into ruine.Thus is it foly for wise men to encline,To this lewde flocke of fooles, for see thou shallThem moste scorning that are most bad of all.\nYe mocking fooles that in scorne set your joy,Proudly despising Gods punition:Take ye example by Cham the sonne of Noy,Which laughed his father vnto derision,< Which him after cursed for his transgression,And made him seruaunt to all his lyne and stocke.So shall ye caytifs at the conclusion,Since ye are nought, and other scorne and mocke.\nCite this page: Johnson, Samuel. "The History of the English Language." A Dictionary of the English Language: A Digital Edition of the 1755 Classic by Samuel Johnson. Edited by Brandi Besalke. Last modified: April 15, 2014. http://johnsonsdictionaryonline.com/?page_id=42.\nThe majority of “The History of the English Language” is quoted text (93.5%, or 31118 words). Johnson wrote 2136 words.\nBrandi on March 26th, 2013 at 12:19 pm Cancel reply


Lot 30534367 is no longer available for bidding - A Better Bid®\nLot 30534367 is no longer available for bidding. The following similar vehicles are still available.\nYear from 201820172016201520142013201220112010200920082007200620052004200320022001200019991998199719961995199419931990198919881986197919731971197019691968196719661965 Year to 201820172016201520142013201220112010200920082007200620052004200320022001200019991998199719961995199419931990198919881986197919731971197019691968196719661965\nYear from 201820172016201520142013201220112010200920082007200620052004200320022001200019991998199719961995199419931990198919881986197919731971197019691968196719661965 Year from 201820172016201520142013201220112010200920082007200620052004200320022001200019991998199719961995199419931990198919881986197919731971197019691968196719661965\nMileage: 158045 miles\nMileage: 215423 miles\nMileage: 109176 miles\nMileage: 119451 miles\nMileage: 131711 miles\nMileage: 194199 miles\nMileage: 99659 miles


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ready, prompt. v. recenian\nMæg sige syllan se ðe symle byþ recon and rǽdfæst,\nWald. 108; Vald. 2, 26.\n[Cumeð her forð, and beð alle reken, And lereð wel quat he sal speken, Gen. and Ex. 3485.\nLouerd, ic (\n) am unreken of wurdes, 2817.\nMy rankor refrayne for þy reken (\nAllit. Pms. 60, 756.\n(See the glossary for other instances. See also rekenli in the same work, and in Sir Gawayne.) O. Frs, rekon (of a road which is clear) : L. Ger. reken. v. Richthofen. Cf. O. Sax. rekón to make ready, set in order.]\nswift, quick (cf. recene)\nBlác rásetteþ recen reáda líg réðe scríþeþ geond woruld\nbright and swift rushes the red flame, fierce strides through the world,\nExon. Th. 51, 2; Cri. 810. v. full-recen.\ncoming swiftly and so causing terror. (? cf. fǽr\nand its compounds)\nGod ðe on Ægyptum æðele wundur worhte and recene wundar on ðam Reádan Sǽ\nDeus qui fecit magnalia in Ægypto, terribilia in Mari Rubro,\nPs. Th. 105, 18.\nv. recene recenlíce.\nBosworth, Joseph. “recen.” In An Anglo-Saxon Dictionary Online, edited by Thomas Northcote Toller, Christ Sean, and Ondřej Tichy. Prague: Faculty of Arts, Charles University, 2014. https://bosworthtoller.com/25636.