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Now Priam persayuit all þese proude wordes,
The greme of þe Grekys, and þe gret yre,
How þai maintene þere malis with manas & pride;
Uncertain of his Sister for seyng hir euer,—
Ne redresse for þe dethe of his dere fader,—
Ne to harmys þat he hade was no hede takyn;
Soche a sorow & a sourgreme sanke in his hert,
Þat his harme, as a hote low, het hym with in
More frike to þe fight, feller of wille.
Þan he purpost plainly with a proude ost,
ffor to send of his sonnes & oþer sibbe fryndes,
The Grekes for to greve, if hom grace felle;
To wreke hym of wrathe & his wrong riche.

A PROUERBE.

But say me, sir kyng, what set in þi hede;—
What wrixlit þi wit & þi wille chaunget;
Or what happont thee so hastely with hardnes of wille,
To put þe to purpas, þat pynet þe after.
What meuyt the with malis to myn on þi harme,
And to cacche soche a connse, to combir þi rewme
With daunger and drede of a dede hate,
ffor a lure þat was light & of long tyme;
Þat wold ȝepely haue bene forȝeton in yeres a few,
And neuer menit with mowthe but þurgh mishap.
Thow se not þat sothely said ys of olde,
And oft happes to hit qwo so hede tas:—
“He þat girdis with grete yre his grem for to venge,
Ofte shapis hym to shote into shame ferre,
With hoge harmes to haue, & his hert sarre.”
Hit is siker, for sothe, and a sagh comyn,—
“He þat stalworthly stondes, stir not to swithe,
Lest he faile of his fotyng and a falle haue;”
ffor he þat set is full sad on a soile euyn,
And pight has his place on a playn ground,
Hym þar not hede to be hurt with no hegh falle,
Ne be lost þurgh his lip to þe low erthe.
But þou put þe, priam, to so proude Aunter,
ffor to heuyn on þi harme in a hegh yre;
And þi fall was so fuerse with so fele other.
Thy Cité and þi soile sesit of þi hond;
Thow dungen to dethe, and þi dere sonse;—
Thi lege men lost, and of lyue done.
Thurgh vnwarnes of wit þat þi wirdis cast,
Thow ges matir to men mony day after,
fforto speke of þi spede, & with spell herkyn
Of þi lure and þi losse for a high wille.
Now what felle þe be fortune, & þi fre pepull,
All in coursse how it come I will carpe ferre,
And turne agayne to my tale, qwill I tome haue.

Priam by purpos a perlament assignet,
And gedrit all þe grete in his grym yre:
Euyn into ylion þai entrid by dene,
There þe souerain was set in a sete rioll,
And all þe lordes of þe lond, with his lefe childur.
Then carpes the kyng and his cause tellus,
Why the metyng was made at þe mene tyme:
ffor to serche of þe sounde & to say ferre.
“Now,” quod the souerain, “as your assent was,
The man þat with message meuyt fro vs all,
By assent of my selfe, & sythen of þe lordes,—
He is comyn to þis courtte, as ye know wele;
And þe Authwart answares þat Auntrid hym þere,
Ys knowen to þis company be course of his tale.
Thai hede not the hething, ne þe harde greme,
Ne the wronges þai wroght, ne wille to amend;
But with sklaunder and skorne to skather agayn,
In þere pompe and þere pride & þere pure angur.
Our goddes with grace get vs þerfro!
Þat neuer vs happon so hard with hom to be spit.
God will noght, y wis, our wirdis enpaire,
Soche dedis to redresse & our dethe voide.
Let vs purpos a power pas into grese,—
Stir furthe with strenght, stroy of þere londes,—
Get my suster agayne, or sum grete other,
And wreke we full wele of weghes full nobill.
We are bigger in batell, haue a burghe stronge,
Wele wallit for þe werre, watris aboute,
ffew folke to defende fro a fuerse ost;
And are knightes in our cuntre kyddist in Armys,
ffell men to fight a full fuerse nowmber;—
Wele viteld, y wis, for winteris ynow,
Stuff of al maner store þat vs strenght may:
We full of defense, & no faute, haue
Help vppon yche hond highond vs to.
And now sothly it sittes vs, as semith to me,
By assent of youre selfe, & ye so wille,
ffor to purvey a pepull pruddest of werre,
And gird furthe into grese with a gret batell:
Pas into þere prouyns, pray in hor londys,
Dyng hom to deth er any dyn ryse;
Er any batell be boune, hom to bale worthe,
Þat vnwarnyt of our werkes or hom wo happon.
Thus, I say for my selfe, hit sittis vs all,
ffor to proffer our persons & our pure goodes,
To venge of our velany and our vile harme,
And our state to restore with storkes of hond.
Let not fere you the fray, ne the felle chaunse,
That the Grekes vs greuyt, & to ground broght;
ffor ofte sithe hit is sene, and in sere londes,
That a victor of a victe is vilé ouercomyn:—
So I hope hit shall here with helpe of our goddes.”

Qwen the kyng had his counsell declaret to the ende,
Hit likit all the legis þat the lorde said;
And affirmet it fast with þere fre wille,
To proue with þere persons & þaire pure goodes.
Than was priam full proude, preyset his lordes,
Þonket hom þroly, þrappit no lengur;
ffull glad of the graunt with a great joye,
More feruent to fight, fuerser in hert,
Myche comforth he caght of þaire kynd speche:—
And þus pertid þe persons & presset to þere ynnes.

Off counsell of the kinges children.

When the pepull was depertid & the presse voidet,
Saue the kyng and þe courtte with his clene childur,
Þat he wan on his wiffe, as ye wist ere,
And other sonnes vpon syde all with faire wemen.
Þan Ector was one, as aunter befelle,
ffro the parties of payeme present at home,
By comaundement of þe kyng þat was his kynd fader.
And when þe sons all somyn were the Syre vmbe,
Euyn stondyng full still, as þaire astate askyt,
Thus carpes the kyng to his clene childur,
With weping and wo, wateryng of ene,
Sobbyng and sikyng, Syling of terys.—
“Now synkes not in your sowle þe sorow of your graunser,
And the dulfull dethe of your dere fryndes,
The seruage of Exina, þat is in syn holdyn,
And hade in horedam for hethyng of vs;
And we so mighty on molde & of mayne strenght?
Hit is lure of our lyues, and we let sholde
ffor to wreke vs of wrathe for any wegh oute.
And ye þat are ȝepe knightes, & in yowthe alse,
Shuld highly take hede in hert for to venge
The slaght of þe souerayne, þat was my sure fader;
And my wille for to wirke, as ye wele aw.
Þat greuys me full gretly, & to ground bringes,
Hit shuld come you by course, as of kynd childer,
To be sory for my sake, & soner þen I;
And part-taker of my payne with prickyng in hert.
And þou my son, for sothe, sonest of other.

TO ECTOR.

Ector the eldist, and heire to my selfe,—
Antrus in armys, ablist of person,—
Boldest in batell, and best of þi hondes;—
Thou shuld hede to my harmes, herko my wille,
Pursew to my purpos, present myn astate;
To lede all my legis with likyng in werre.
Thy brether obey shall thy biddyng vnto;—
All þe Renkes of my rewme will þi red folowe,
As storest of strenght to stightill thy foose,
And soche tyrandes to tame, þat vs tene wirkes.
With hardynes of hond, & with hole might,
Ger hom bowe as a berslet & þi blithe seche.
I Aioyne thee this iorney with ioy for to take,
And the charge of þe chaunse, chef as þou may.
This burthen þou beire shall, bigger þen I,
Wightur in werre, and of wale strenght,
Lusty and likyng, and of lite yeres,
Mighty and monfull, maistris to wirke.
And I, ournand in elde with arghnes in hert,
My floures bene fallen, & my frike age,—
I graunt thee þe gouernaunse of þis gret mode,
And shake it on þi shulders, shape þe þerfore.”

THE ONSUARE AND THE COUNSELL OF ECTOR TO PRIAM HIS FFADER.

When Priam hade his prologe preched to ende,
Ector hym answarede esely and faire,
With wordys full wise vnto his wale kyng,
Vnder shadow of shame shewed in his chere.—
“Most worshipfull fader, & my fre kyng!
Hit is kendly by course & custome of men,
Þat any hardlaike has, or a hede shame,
ffor to wreke in hor wrathe of wranges before.
And if we, þat are worthy, & wight men in Armys,
Take harme, other hethyng, or hurtys vnȝoldyn,
Of any erdyng in erthe euenyng to vs,
Hit were shortly a shame & a shire greme.
ffor þe more he is mighty, þat the mysse tholis,
The more the greuaunce is grete & to gref turnys.
If we desyre no redresse of dedis before,
We may boldly vs byld with bostis out of Reason.
Now, dere fader, in faithe of all my fre brether,
Non is holdyn so highly the harme for to venge,
Of my graunsers grefe so gretly as I:
ffor I am Eldest and heire after hym belyue,
And the first of vs fyue, as falles by chaunce.
So first will I found his fos for to greue,
And couet it by course, as comys in my hert,
With my body to by, and my byg strokes.
On right hond shall hom reue þe rest of þe saule,
That my graunser with greme gird vnto dethe,
And sloghe all our Sitesyns, & our sad pepull
Brittoned to bale dethe, and þere blode shed.
But faithful fader, & our fre kyng!
I aske of you O thing,—but angurs you noght,—
Lettis mene to your mynde at þis mene tyme,
And consider to oure cause with a clene wit;
Let oure gate be so gouernet, þat no grem folow,
Ne no torfer betyde, ne no tene after.
Ouer lokes all lures to the last ende,
What wull falle of þe first furthe to þe middis;
Sue forthe to þe secund, serche it with in,
And loke to þe last end, what lure may happyn.
Hit is no counsell to encline, ne to calle wise,
Ne not holsom, I hope, þat hedis to þe first,
And for-sees not the fer end, what may falle after.
What proffet any prowes with a prowde entre,
To begyn any goode, on a ground febill,
And fortune it faile, and haue a fowle ende?
Hit is wit for to wayue soche a wilde counsell,
And put of a purpos, þat enpaire might,
Or þat wayueris in wer what shall worthe of;
Licker at þe last end in langore to bide,
And turne vnto torfer, þen any triet ioye.

A PROUERBE.

A blisfull begynnyng may boldly be said,
Þat ffolow to þe fer end and hath a faire yssue.
ffull witty to wale & worshipfull Kyng!
I Say not this, sothely, to ses of your wille,
Ne put you fro purpos, ne plainly for fere;
But to wisshe you with wit, þat worship might folow,
And eschew soche a chaunse þat cheuys to noght.
Ye wetyn þis full wele, worshipfull fader!
Þat all Auffrike & Europe are vnder þere power,—
Sittyn to hom subiecte, & mony syde londes,
Þat fild are all full of fuerse men of Armys;—
Of Knightes full kene, & cant men of wille,
And of comyns to count out of course mony,
ffull wise men of wer, and war of hor dedys.
There are not in Asia, to Ame all the pepull,
So fele fightyng folke be a fuerse nowmber,
As the Grekes may gedur & get when hom likes.
Hit semes more sertain, sothely, to me,
Yff we wackon vp werre with weghes so fele,
That are bigger in batell, boldest in Armys,
Hit may negh vs with noy, but neuer to our ioye.
Lakys to our lyving, and likyng we haue
Of pes & of prowes our prouyns aboute;
Of Riches full ryfe, of rest at our wille;
ffull stithe of astate, & stondyng at ese.
Why couet we combraunse, or cachyng of harme,
In enpayryng of our persons & pyllyng our goodes,
And to put vs fro pes payne for to thowle?
Sothely your suster sittes vs not so harde,
`To chaunge for hir choisly the cheuyst of vs here;
Or all so myght Aunter to atter for euer.
To seke þis, in certayn, hit semys not euyn;
And put vs all in perell for pyne for hir one,
Þat long sythen was laght & out of lond broght,
And mey be drepit with dethe in yeres a few;
And all the ȝomeryng for yeten in yeres A lyte.
Now hoope ye not, hynde fader, ne in hert thinke,
That I carpe thus for cowardys, & be course ferde,
Or for the sake of my selfe in sauyng alone;
But I doute it for destany, and drede at þe ende,
ffor lure and for losse of the londe hole;
Bothe of soile & of Septor, soueraynly of you;—
That we falle into forfet with our fre wille,
And chese vs a chaunse þat cheuys to noght.
While we may stithly absteyne, & stond at our ese,
Hit is leifull to leue syche lykynges in hele;
And put of a purpos of a proude sute,
Þat harmes at þe hynder ende & heuy to beire.”
When Ector hade answaret & endet his tale,
He enclynet the Kyng & closit his mowthe.

THE COUNSELL OF PARIS ALEXAUNDER.

Than parys aprochyt And put hym to say,
And come with his counsell declaret his wit.
“Now fader ful faithfull, and our fre Kyng!
Will you suffer your son to say at this tyme,
And tent to my tale, it turnys to the best?
I shall put you to purpos and plesauns at ende.
Who might faithfully be ferde, or fortune to dred?
Syne we are put in prosperite & pepull so fele,
And Riches so Rife, and Reames beside;
With a Cite full sure, and set for the werre;
With Armure, and all things abill to fight.
We might say this for certen, & suppose it in hert,
Syn we are put in prosperite, and pepull so fele,
That any care or confusion shuld come to our rewme.
Therfor, faithfull ffader, folow your wille;
Send furthe a soume All of sure knightes;
Let hom gird into Grise with a grym fare,
ffight with your foos, fonge of thaire goodes,
That vs harmyt so highly, & our hede sloghe;
Our pepull to pyne, pild all our londe.
And yff it like your Aliegiaunce, þat I, your lefe son,
Be sent from your seluon with sure men of Armys,
An aioynet to þis Jorney with iuste men & sure;
I am siker, for sothe, it shall vs wele like,
Worship to wyn, and our wille haue.
ffor my goddis me grauntid, & of grace lent,
The Grekes for to grefe, & of grem bryng;
Confound of hor cuntres, kylle of hor pepull,
And the lustist lady in hor lond wyn;
Bryng hur to þis burghe, & no bale suffer,
That be chaunget by chaunse for your choise Sister.
And yf ye wilne for to witte how hit worthe shulde,
I shall telle you the trewthe how me tyde euyn;
And all the case how yt come know yf ye lyste.

THE VISYON OF PARIS.

“Hit is not meuyt of mynde ne mony day past,
Syn I was leut in a londe, þat is lefe ynde,
Your biddyng to obey, as my blithe ffader.
In the season of somer, er the sun rose,
As it come into canser, and be course Entred,
Hit fell me on a fryday to fare vppon huntyng.
With myrthe in the mornyng & mony other pepull,
All went we to wod the wilde for to cacche;
And laburt full long, laytyng Aboute.
Till mydday and more myght we not fynde,
ffor to wyn as for waithe in þat wode brode;
Tyll hit entrid to euyn, & euynsong was past.
Then it fell me by fortune, fer on a playne,
As I beheld þurgh a holte, a hert for to se,
Þat pastured on a playn pertly hym one:
And I cast me be course to cum hym before.
ffast fro my felowes & fuersly I rode,
Euþer lede hade I lost, & left me behynde,
And swaruyt out swiftly, might no swayne folo.
So I wilt in the wod and the wilde holtis,
ffer fro my feres, and no freike herde,
Till I drogh to a derke, and the dere lost.
He þrong into þicke wodes, þester with in,
ffor thornes and tres I tynt hym belyue.
Than I sesit of my sute, & softly doun light,
Beheld to my horse, þat hote was of Rennyng,
All swoty for swyme and his swift course,
That stremys from hym straght, & stert vppon þe erthe,
And dropis as dew or a danke rayne.
All wery I wex and wyll of my gate,
And raght to my reyne, richet o lenght,
Bound vp my blonke to a bogh euyn;
And graithed me to grounde as me gode liked,
In a shadow of shene tres & of shyre floures,
Ouer hild for þe hete hengyng with leues.
My bow þat was bigge, & my bright qwyuer,
Arowes and other geire atled I anon,
Pight as a pyllow, put vnder my hede;
And sleghly on slepe I slypped be lyue.
I drow into a dreme, & dreghly me thought
That mercury the mykill God, in þe mene tyme,
Thre goddes hade gotten goyng hym bye,
That come in his company clere to beholde:—
Venus the worthy, þat wemen ay plesyn;
And Palades, with pure wit þat passes all other;
And Jono, a iustis of ioyes in erthe.
These ladis he lefte a litill besyde,
And sothely hym seluyn said me thies wordes.
‘To the, Paris, I appere with þre prise goddes
That are stad in a strife here stondyng besyde;
And haue put hom full plainly in þi pure wit,
To deme as þe dere thinke & þai in dede holde,
When treuthe is determynet & tried by the.
Thus it be fell hom by fortune, faire as I telle:—
As þai sate in hor solas samyn at a fest,
An appull of a new shap, þat neuer man hade sene,
Coyntly by crafte was cast hom amonge.
Hit was made of a mater meruell to shew,
With grete letturs of Grece grauyn þere vmbe.
To rede it by reson rankes might se,
That the fairest of þo fele shull þat fe haue:
And duly this dome haue þai done o þi selfe,
And put on þi person hor pese for to make.
The is hight for to haue highly by me,
A mede of þo mighty to mend the with All,
As in rewarde for to ricche of hir þat right has:
That ye faithfully shall falle & not faile of.
Yf þou Juge it to Jono, this ioye shall þou haue,—
To be mightiest on molde, & most of all other:—
This ho grauntis ye to gyffe of hir good wille.
And if þou put it to Palades, as for your prise lady,
Thou shalbe wisest of wit,—this wete þou for sothe,—
And know all the conyng, þat kyndly is for men.
Iff þou deme it in dede duly to Venus,
Hit shall falle the, to fortune, þe fairest of Grice
To haue and to holde, to þi hegh mede.’
When mercury hade menyt this mater to ende,
And graunt me þise gyftis hit gladit my hert.
I onswaret hym esely euyn vponon:—
‘This dome is in dowte to demyng of me,
The certayn to say, but I hom segh naked;
And waited hom wele, þo worthy togedur,
The bodies aboute with my bright Ene.
Than shuld I full sone say, as me thought,
And telle you the truthe, & tary no lengur.’
Then mercury with mowthe þus menyt agayne;—
‘Be it done euyn in dede as þi dissire is.’
Than nakuet anon full naitly were all,
And broght to me bare:—I blusshet hom on.
I waited hom witterly, as me wele thoght,
All feturs in fere of þo fre ladys.
Hit semit me for certayn, & for sothe dom,
Þat Venus the vertuus was verely the fairest,
Most excelent of other, and onest to wale:
And I duli, be dom, demyt hir the appull.
And ho fayn of þat faire, & frely me het
That the mede shuld be myne, þat mercury saide.
Þen wightly þai went. I wackonet with þat,
And grippet my gayre & my gate helde.
Now, howpe ȝe not hertely, þat þis hegh goddes
Will faithly fulfille þaire forward to ende?
I am certen and sure, be I sent forthe,
The brightiest lady to bryng of þo brode londys.
Now, meke fader and mylde! þis message to do,
Ye deme your dere son, & dresse me þerfore:
Hit shall glade you full godely agaynes your gret anger,
And fille you with faynhed, in faithe I you hete.”
When he told hade his tale tomly to the ende,
He enclinet the kyng, and Carpit no more.

THE COUNSELL OF DEFFEBUS.

Then Deffebus drogh negh, dressit hym to say,—
Com before the Kyng, & Carpit on highe:
All soberly, for sothe, & sylens he hade.
“Now, dere fader vppon dese, & our due Kynge!
Suffers your son to say at this tyme:—
And þe dome of yche dede were demyt before,
To grepe at þe begynnyng, what may grow after;
To serche it full suerly, and se to þe ende,
With due deleberacion for doutis of Angur;
Who shuld hastely on hond an heuy charge take?
And he cast be course what shuld come after,
Shuld neuer purpos vnperisshit be putto A yssu;
Ne neuer no man no note to no end bryng.
Iff tylmen toke tent what shuld tynt worth,
Of sede þat is sawen, be sesyng of briddes,
Shuld neuer corne for care be caste vppon erthe:
Ne neuer dede shuld be done but drese furth to noght.
Therfore, fader, it is fairest, þat ye a flete ordan,
With a nauy full nobill, þis note to begynne;
Puttis it to Parys, & let hym passe furthe,
As he said you hym seluyn, is sothely the best:
No pure man may pertly preue it for other.
And if it happon hym to haue any hynde lady,
Or any worthy to wyn & Away lede,
Hit may chese you, be chaunse, to chaunge hir agayne,
Your suster to sese and in sound wyn,
Þat our fame so defoules, & is in filthe holdyn.”
When Deffebus hade done, he dressit hym to sit,
By leue of the lordes, þat liket his wordes.

THE COUNSELL OF ELINUS THE BYSSHOP

Then Elinus, eftesones, (was Eldist of birthe
After Deffebus, by destyny) he drest hym to say;—
Come before the kyng, declarit his wit,
And warpet these wordes, as ye wete shall.
“A! comly kyng coronid, þat þis kith aw!
Lot no blyndnes you blenke, ne your blisse faide,
Vnwisely to wirke in your wilde yre.
I know me so konyng in the clene Artis,
Thurgh gifte of god, & your goode fyndyng,
Þat I wot all the wordys, & the wilde Angres,
Þat be course are to come, & the cause why.
Your seluyn sothely asayet haue before,
I told you neuer tale in tyme þat is past,
But ye faithfully haue found it fore as I said.
Therfore, putte of this purpos; Let Paris not go
On no wise in this world, for woo þat may happyn.
I say you for certen, & it so worthe,
That Paris be put furthe his purpos to holde,
Gird vp into Grese, & any grem wirke;
This Cite full solempne sesit be þen,
With the Grekes to ground gird vnder fote,
And we exiled for euer: this Aunter shall falle.
Abstene þen stithly, þat no stoure happon,
Þat drawghes to our dethe, vndoyng for euer.
Soche bargens are bytter, þat hafe a bare end.
Turne your entent, lest it tyde after,
Þat ye be drepit with dole, and done out of lyue;
And Ecuba, your owne wife, angur to þole;
Your sones vnsoberly slayne in the place.
All thies cases shall come, I know it full wele,
Yf Paris pas furth, as purpos is takon.
This is sothe, þat I say, sir, with your leue:
Now wirkys by wit, as you well likes.”
Then he bowet the buerne & busket to syt,
Seyit furth with sory chere, and his sete toke.
When the kyng hade consayuit of his clere wit,
And his wordys full wise, all his wille chaunget;
He was stonyt full stille & in a stody sate,
And ferd of þe felle wordes, þat þe freike saide.
All the buernes aboute abasshet þer with,
Be cause of the kyng, þere countenaunse failed:
Was no wee þat a worde warpit þat tyme,
But all stodyn full stille: astoneide þai were
ffor þe wordys of wit, þat þe wegh tolde;
And doute of his dome for destyne febill.

THE COUNSELL OF TROYLUS.

Than Troilus full tyte talkes with mowthe,—
Þat was þe yongist of yeris, & a ȝepe knight,—
Brake Sylense belyue, and abrode saide:—
“A! nobyll men of nome, what noyes your hertes?
Why are ye trowblit þis tyme, and your tung lost?
And meuyt so mykell, for a mad priste,
That neuer colde of no knighthode, but in a kirke chyde?
Hit is propurté for a preste perellis to drede,
fferd be for fight, and O fer shun it,
Melle hym with mekenes, þat hym most louys,
Delyte hym in Drynke, and oþer dere meytes,
Set hym to solas, as hym selfe likes.
Who may tell it for tru, or trust haue þerin,
Þat any gome shuld be graithe of our goddes wille,
Or haue knowyng of case for to come after?
There is no wyse man, I wene, þat will it suppose,
Þat a foole shuld be forwise soche ferlies to know.
If Elinus be argh, & ournes for ferde,
Let hym tegh to þe tempull, talke with his goddes,
Deuyne seruice to do, and fro drede kepe;
And let other men Aunter, abill þerfore,
ffor to shunt vs of shame, shend of our foos,
And venge vs of velany & of vile gremy.
Why fader, in faith, are yo so fer troublet
At his wordys of waste, & his wit febill?
Comaund, sir kyng, þat a clene nauy
Be redy to rode on þe rugh see,
All well for þe werre, with wight men ynogh:
Syne the Grekes with greme may grefe vs no more,
But it syt hom so sore, þat þai sorrow euer.”
When Troilus hade told, & his tale endit,
Hit blithet all the buernes, þat aboute stode,
Of his wit, & his wille, & wordes full bolde;
And confermyt his counsell by comyn assent.
Than comaund the kyng the courtte for to ryse;
Askit water wightly, wentton [to] meyte.
Bothe hym selfe and his sonnes, with sere lordes vmb,
Maden all mery, menyt þere speche.

THE ORDINAUNSE FOR PARIS INTO GRESE.

When etyn hade all men & at ese bene,
Bordys away borne, buernes on fote;
The kyng syttyng hym selfe, & his sete helde:
He comaund for to cum of his kynd sons.
Parys apperit, pert Deffebus alse,
Comyn to the kyng, knelit full low,
ffor to wete of his wille; & þe wegh saide:—
“I bid þat ye buske, and no bode make;
Pas into Payone þere prise knightes dwellis,
Doughty of dede, derfe men in Armys.
Assemble you soudiours, sure men & nobill,
Shapyn in shene ger, with shippis to wynde,
The Grekys to greue, & in grem brynge.”
Þan þai lacchyn hor leue,—lowton hor kyng,—
Cayren forthe to þe coste, & hor course helde.
Assemblit soudiours anon, mony sad hundrith;
And lengit while þem list, þe lond was þere owne.
The secund day, sothely, for to say ferre,
When he his sons herde, he somond his lordes
And all the knightes to come, & clene men of wit,
To appere in his presens a purpos to take.
When þe souerain was set with sere lordes vmbe,
Then carpes the kyng his knightes vntill.
“Now, lordes of my lond, & lege pepull!
The case is well knowen to your clene mynde,
How þe Grekes vs greuit, & to ground broght,
And put vs, with hor pride, to pouerte full low.
Of our souerans & sib men seruondis to be,
Ay hengis in my hert þe hethyng I thole;
Of my Suster in seruage, & in syn holdyn,
Hit meuys into mynd, & mekill me noyes;
And I sothely haue sent, as ye see all,
Antenor to aske hir, & Angur no more.
He hade not of hom but hethyng & skorne,
Grete wordis & gref, & moche grym þrete;
Þat doublis my dole, & to dethe bryngis.
Now woundys shalbe wroght, weghes to sorow,
And dyntes full dedly for þe dere sake.
I haue purpast Parys with prise men ynow,
Into Grese for to go, & hom to greme;
Kylle of hor knightes, knocke hom to dethe;
Grype of hor godes, and agayne wyn.
Hit may chefe hym by chaunce to get som choise lady,
Or sum woman to wyn, þat worthy is holdyn,
Bryng to this burghe, (& other brode godes,
Our worship to wyn & our will haue,)
That may chefe by chaunse chaunge for Exiné.
This I will þat ye wete, & your wille shewe;—
If ye deme it in dede, þus I do will;
And pursue on my purpos plainly to ende.
And if ye list it be lefte, let me wete sone,
And I will soberly sese, & sue it no ferre.
Þof þai touche me with tene, all these tore harmes,
All the comyns be course haue cause for to say;
ffor it Angurt hom all, & out of ese brought:
And as wise men witnes, & in writ shewes,
Þat at longis to lenge on a lell comyns,
Shuld propurly be a-preuyt by the pepull hole.”

THE COUNSELL OF PROTHEUS.

When tale of the trew was triet to þe ende,
And silens on yche syde sittyng full stille,
A stuerne of þo stithe were stondyng aboute,
A praty man of pure wit, protheus he hight,
Þat was sothely the son of soueran Ewsebij,
A Phylosofer fyne fele yeres past,
Þat, Ouyd in old tyme oponly tellus,
Had all the crafte & conyng in his clere wit,
Þat pictagoras the pure god possessiant was of.
This protheus pertly put hym to say,—
To the kyng in the court carpis thies wordes:—
“A! nobill kyng & nomekowthe! notes in your hert,
And suffers me to say, Symple þof I be;
Let mene to your maiesty þe mynde of my tale,
Hedys me with heryng, & in hert kepe:
I will telle myn entend vpon trew wise,
And say you in sertain þat ye mon sure fynde.
Hit is knowen to you kynd lord & your court hole,
That my fader was a philisofer, & of fele yeres,—
To the nowmber of nene skowre, & his nome kouthe,—
And fully was enformet of fortune deuyse,
What be course was to cum of care & of ioye.
Ofte he said me for sothe, & for sure tolde,
Þat if Parys with a pepull past into Grese,
In purpas to pray, or profet to gete,
An wan þere a wife & away led,
Þat grete Troye shuld be tane, & tyrnyt to ground,
And all the buyldynges brent into bare askys:
Your selfe & your sons sothely be dede,
With the Grekes in hor grefe; & þis ground lost.
Wherfore, wheme kyng! for what þat may come,
Let your lordship lystyn with a loue ere,
And wirke after wit, þat worship may folow:
Syn wordys of wise men is no wit to dispise.
And nomely in þis note, þat noise not your selfe,
Ne hurttes not your hegh Astate, ne no harme dos;
And persiueraunse of purpos may quit you to lure,
Your landys to lose, & langur for euer.
Why couet ye be course to cum out of ese,—
Your rest into Robery & to ryfe perellis,
Bothe in daunger and drede, & may dryfe of?
Absteyne you stithly, þat no stoure fall;
And endure furthe your dayes at your dere ese,
In lykyng to lyue, & your ledis all,
Withouten heuynes or harme. Hedis to þat,
And puttis of þat purpos; let paris not wend;
Let anoþer do þat note, if hit nede shall.
This is my counsell, sir kyng, carpe I no fer.”
At Protheus profesi þe pepull made noise,
Myche Rumur & rud speche at his red sonne;
His olde fader fantasi þai filet in hert,
And repugnet þo pointtes with a proude wille;
As, lord, gyffe þai leuyt hade for lure þat come after,
Hit might, by fortune, haue failet of þat foule end.
But it was desteynid by dome, & for due holdyn
Hit plesit wele the pepull at parys to wende:
Thay affermyt hit fully, & faren to þere Innes.

THE SOROW OF CASSANDRA THE KYNGYS DOUGHTER.

Hit come to Cassandra, þat was the kynges doughter,
That, be counsell of the kyng & comyns assent,
Parys was purpost with pouer to wende
Into Grese for a gay, all on grete wise.
All in sikyng & sorow, with syling of teris,
Ho brast out with a birre from hir bale hert,
And all forthly ho fore in hir fyne wittes;
Warpet out wordes wonder to here.
With a carefull crie carping ho sayde:—
“A! nobill Troye, þe noy þat neghis ye at hond!
What vnhappe & hardshïp hapnes the to!
All þi toures & tildes shalbe tyrnyt vnder;
And thy buyldyng betyn to þe bare erthe.
A! vnhappy hegh kyng, what hardship is to the!
Priam, & þi pepull, be put to þe dethe;
Vnder seruage set, & sorow for ay.
What defense has þou done to our dere goddes?
And þou qwene, þat vnqwemyt has on sum qwaint wise,
The angur thee is, Ecuba, entrond on honde!
Þat all þi sons shall þou se slayn with þin ene.
Why puttes þou not Parys his purpos to leue?
That shall be cause of suche care, þat wull come after.”
Ho ros þan full radly, & ran to þe kyng.
With teris don trickelyng of hir tore ene,
And a sembland full soure, sorow to be holde,
She prayet hym full pitously his purpos to leue.
As ho þat wise was of wit, & wist it be-fore
Thurgh craft of hir conyng & course of þe sternys,
She said hym full sadly with sorowfull wordys,
All shuld turne hym to tene, & þe towne lose.
But fortune, þat is felle, forthers his tyme;
Hastis to vnhappe, having no rewarde;
Ordans an yssew, euyn as hym lyst;
Turnys all entent, þat hym tary wold;
Caches furthe his cold wirdis with cumpas to ende.
But I may sothely say, & for sure holde,—
Hade the counsell ben kept of the knight Ector,
And the Ernyst speche Eftward of Elinus the Bysshop,
Cassandras care considret with all,
With the prophesy of Protheus put into hertys,
Troy with þi toures hade bene a toune noble,
And wond in his weile to the worldes ende.
But no man tentes to tene er þe tyme come,
Ne ferd is for fortune till it falle to.
And þof hit chaunses to chefe þat men charge litill,
To grow into gronnd harme & greuys full sore;
When the tene is be tyde, & turnys to þe werst,
Men demyn hit for destyny, & for due holdyn;
And takon yt to þat entent: & here a tale endes.