The Minor Poems of John Lydgate :: :: University of Virginia Library

In Isopus forther to proced,
Towchynge the vyce of wnkynd[e]nesse,
In this tretes a lytyll fabill I rede
Of engratytude, ioynyd to falsenesse,
How that a wolff, of cursyd frowardnesse
Was to the crane, of malyce, as I fynde,
For a good torne falce founden and wnkynd.

109

The fable is this: when bestes everychone
Helde a feste and a solempnyte,
Ther was a wolffe strangled with a bone,
And constraynyd by grete adversyte,
Des[es]peyryd relyvyd for to be,
For remede playnly knew he none,
So depe downe enteryd was the bone.

110

Thorow all the cort surg[e]ons wer sought,
Yf eny were abydynge them a-monge;
At the last the crane was forthe brought,
Bycaws his neke was slender, sharp, & longe,
To serche his throt wher þe bone stode wronge,
For whiche perlows occupacion
The wolff behyte hym a full grete guerdon.

111

The bone out browght by subtile delygence
Of the crane, by crafft of surgery,
The court all hole being in presence,

593

Axid his rewarde & his solary,—
The wolffe frowardly his promys gan deny,
Sayd, “It suffisith,”—and gan to make stryffe,—
“Out of his mouthe that he scapid with his lyffe.”

112

The wolffe denyed that he had be-hyte,
Sowght a-gayne hym froward occacion,
Seyd, he had don hym grete wn-ryght,
And hym deseyvyd by fals colusion,
Whan he his byll putte so low a-downe
In his throt to pyke a-wey the bone;
Other reward of hym gett he none!

113

Caste on the crane a full cruell loke,
Withe opyn mouthe gan to approche nere,
“When thow,” quod he, “the sayd[e] bone toke
Out of my throt thow were in my daunger,
Thy sharpe beke, neke, eyen, and chere
Atwene my tethe, sharp[e] whet & kene,
Thy lyffe in iubardy, the truthe was welle sene.

114

“At that tyme thy power was but small,
Ageyne me to holde were or stryff,
For whiche thow art boundyn in speciall
To thanke me thow scapidest withe thy lyff,
Owt of my iawes, sharper than file or knyff,
Stode desolate in many manar wyse,
Streynyd in the bondes full narow of my fraunchyse.”

115

And semblably, makyng a fals excuse
To pay theyr dewte wnto the poraile,

594

Takynge ther service & labour to ther vse,
[Gverdounles] to make them to travayle
Yf they aught ax, tyrauntes them assayle,
And of malys constreyne them so for drede,
They not so hardy of them to ax ther mede.

116

The tyraunt hathe possescions and riches,
The poure travelythe for meate, drynke, & fode,
The ryche dothe the laborar oppresse,
For his labour denyethe hym hys lyflode,
The lambe must suffre, the wolffes bene so wode;
A playne ensample declaryd how men done,
Shewde in the crane that plukkyd away þe bone.

[Moralization.]

117

Prayer of princes is a commaundement,
The poure obayethe, they dare none othar do,
Presept of tyrantes is so vyolent,
Who-evar sey nay, nede it muste be so,
Hove they ther lust, they care for no mo;
The wolffe made holle, of very froward pryde,
Sofferyd the crane rewardles to abyde.

118

The crane was chese to be a surg[i]on,
To save the wolffe, as ye have hard beforne,
Toke out the bone, whiche no man migh[t]e sene,
Whiche thynge accomplyshyd, his labour he had lorne,
The wolffe made hym blow the bokk[e]s horne,—
As it fallythe at preffe, offt[e] sithe,
Fayr behestes makythe foles ofte-tyme blythe.

119

Isophus, the famous olde poyete,
This fable wrote for a memoryalle,

595

The accorde wher-of wnlykely & wn-mete
Atwen tyrauntes & folke that bene rurall,
The poure hathe lytell, the extorssionar hathe all,
His body, his lyffe, the laborar enpartythe,
The riche hathe all, & no-thynge he departythe.

120

The morallyte of this tale out sowght,
The crane is lyke the folke, that for drede
Travayll for tyrantes, & reseve nowght
Bwt fowll rebukes for [a] ffynalle mede;
Thus connselynge, yow that this talle dothe rede,
Whill that yowr hond is in the wolffes mowthe,
Remembre that with tyrauntes merci ys wncothe.

121

To pley withe tyraunts I holde it is no iape,
To oppres the poure they have no concience,
Fly frome daunger, yf ye may askape,
Thynke on the crane that dyd his delygence
To helpe the wolfe, but he do recompence,
His kyndenes maneshed hym, as I fynde,
This tall applyinge a-gayn folke that be wn-kynde.

finis

Iohn Lydgat, wryten by Iohn Stow.