For to here hys dyrge do, and se hys pet deggyd.
'' I trow I had my damys curse, I myght have byn
better beddyd ;
For now I am but lost, the lyghtter but I be leggyd."
And up rose he then.
The devyll se the body rose ;
Then hys hart began to gryse :
" I trow we be not alle wyse,"
And he began to ryen.
His ragys and hys rattelles clen be had forgett ;
So had the yong knyght, that sowyed was in the shett.
The pryst demyd them devylles both, wyth them he
wolde not mett ;
He sparyd nother hylle, nor holte, buschc, gryne,
nor grett ;
Lord ! he was fowle scrapyd I
114 lydgate's minor poems.
The other twayen was elle aferd,
They sparyd nethe stylle ne sherd,
They had lever then raydylle erd,
Ayther from other have scapyd.
The pryst toke a by pathe, wyth them he wolde not mett;
Y[]i3t ys hed was fowle brokyn, the blod ran dowen to
ys fett ;
He ran in a fyrryd gowen, he cast of alle hys clothys,
alle his body gan reke.
To the bare breke
Because he wolde goo lyght.
He thought he harde the devylle loushe,
He start into a bryer boushe,
That al his skyen gan rowsshe
Of hys body quyt.
The knyth he ran into a wood, as fast as he myght
weend ;
He felle apon a stake, and fowle his lege gan rentt;
Therefore he toke no care, he was aferd of the fend ;
He thought yt was a longe waye to the pathes end.
But then cam alle hys care I
In at a gape as he glent
By the raedylle he was hent,
Into a tre tope he went
In a bokes snarre.
The marchaunt ran apon a laund there where growyth
no thoren,
LYDGATE's MINOR POEMS, 115
He felle apoii a bollys bake, he causte hym apon liys
hornys.
" Out ! alas !" he sayd, " that ever I was boren,
For now I goo to the devylle bycause I dyd hym scoren.
Unto the pytt of helle."
The bolle ran into a myre,
There he layed ower fayer syer.
For alle the world he durst not stere,
Tylle that he herde a belle.
On the morrow he was glad that lie was so scapyd ;
So was the pryst also, thoo he was body nakyd.
The knyght was in the tre tope, for dred fere he quaked ;
The best jowelle that he had fayne he wolde forsake,
For to com dowene.
He caught the tre by the tope,
Ye and eke the calle trope ;
He felle and brake hys fore tope
Apon the bare growend.
Thus they went from the game, begylyd and beglued ;
Nether on other wyst, hom they went be-shrewyd ;
The parsone tolde the lady on the morrow, what mys-
chyf ther was shewed,
How that he had ronne for her love, hys raerthys wer
but lewed,
He was so sore dred of dethe.
" VVhen I shuld have beryd the corse,
The devylle cam in, the body rose,
To se alle thys ray hart grese,
AlyfFe I scapyd unnethe."
I 2
116 LYDOATE'S MINOR POEMS.
" Remember," the lady saythe, " what myschyfe heron
goythe ;
Had I never lover yet that ever dyed good dethe."
" Be that lord !" sayd the pryst, " that shope bothe ale
and mette I
Thow shaltte never be wooed for me, whylyst I have
speche or brethe,
Whyle I may se or here."
Thus they to mad ther bost ;
Furthe he went wythout the corse.
Then com the knyght for hys purpos.
And told her of hys fare.
*' Now I hope to have your love, that I have servyd
youre ;
For bought I never love soo dere syth I Mas man i-bore."
" Hold thy pese !" the lady sayd, " therof speke thou
no more,
For by the newe bargen my love thou hast for-lore,
Alle thys hundrythe wynter."
She answered hym ; he went hys way.
The marchaunt cam the same day.
He told her of hys grett afray.
And of hys hyght aventure.
" Tylle the corse shulde be beryd, be the bargen I abode ;
When the body ded ryse, a grymly gost a-gleed,
Then was tyme me to stere, many a foyle I be-strood ;
There was no hegge for me to hey, nor no watter to brod,
Of you to have my wylle. '
lydgate's minor poems. 117
The lady said, " pese, fuUe blethe.
Neer,"' she said, " whylle thou art man on lyfFe ;
For I shalle shew yt to they vvyfF,
And alle the centre yt tylle.
And proclam ytte in the markyt towene, they care to
encrese,"
Therwyth he gave her xx. marke that she shold hold
her pese.
Thus the burges of the borrowe, after hys dyses,
He eudewed into the place wyth dedes of good relese,
In fee for ever more.
Thus the lady ded fre.
She kepythe her vyrgenyte,
And indevved the place wyth fFee,
And salvyd them of ther soore.
MORAL OF THE FABLE OF THE HORSE, THE
GOOSE, AND THE SHEEP.
Copies of this moral tale are common in manuscript, and it has
been printed by our early printers, Caxton and Wynkyn de Worde.
See MS. Lansd. 699 ; MS. Lamb. 306 ; MS. Rawl. Oxon. C. 86 ;
MS. Bodl. Laud. 598, Bern. 1475. I have thought it sufficient
to give the moral from MS. Harl. 2251, fol. 314-316.
THE MORALITE OF THE HORS, THE GOOSE, AND THE SHEEPE,
TRANSLATED BY DAN JOHNE LIDGATE.
Of this fable conteynethe this sentence.
At goode leyser dothe the matier see,
Whiche inportithe grete intelligence.
If ye list, take the moralitc I
118 lydgate's minor poems.
Profitable to every comunalte,
Whiche includithe in many sundry wise,
No man shuld, of highe or low degre,
For no prerogatif his neyghburghe to dispise,
Trappours of golde ordeyned were for stiedis,
Sheepe in tlieyr pasture to grace withe mekenes,
Yitte of theyr wuUis bien wonder riche wedis,
Of smothe downe made pilwes for softnes,
Fether-beddis to sleepe on whan men hem dresse,
Toward Aurora ageyn til they rise,
Rolle up this problem, thynke it dothe expresse.
For no prerogatif his neyghburghe to dispise.
The inward meanes, aforn as it is told.
The hors is taken of marcial noblesse,
Withe his bellis and boosis brode of gold,
Estate of tirauntis the poraile dothe expresse.
The wolfe iu fieldis the shepe dothe grete duresse,
Rukking in foldis for fere dar nat arise.
Ye that have power be ware in yowre highnesse,
For no prerogatif yowre subgettis to dispise.
As pronostatike clerks beren witnesse,
Be ware of Phebus that erly castithe hir light.
Of reyue, storme, or myst, or of derkenesse,
Shal after folowe long or it be nyght ; [flight,
Signe of grete wynter whan wielde gees take theyr
Nat highe nor lowe presumen of his rayght,
For no prerogatif his neyghburghe to dispise.
lydgate's minor poems. 119
Of many straunge unkowthe simylitude,
Poetis of olde fables han contryved,
Of sheepe, of hors, of gees, and bestis rude,
By whiche theyr witte was secretely approved,
Under covert terraes tirauntes eke reproved,
Theyr oppressiouns and malice to chastice,
By example of reasen goodely to be meved,
For no prerogatif the poraile to dispise.
Fortunes course diversly is dressid,
By liknes of many another tale ;
Men, beste, and fowle, and fisshes bien oppressed,
Of greie fisshes devoured bien the smale.
In theyr nature bi female or bi male ;
Whiche in nature is a ful straunge guyse,
To sen a cukkow murther a nvsrhtyngale.
An innocent bridde of hatered to dispise.
Withe this processe who that be wrothe or woode,
Thynges outrage bien founde in every kynde,
A cherol of birthe hatithe gentil bloode ;
It were a monstre geyne nature, as I fynde,
That a grete mastyfe shuld a lyoun bynde ;
A perilous clymbyng whan beggers up arise
To hye estate, marke this in yowre mynde,
By false prerogatif theyr neyghburghs to dispise.
False supplantyng, clymbyng of foolis
Unto chayers of worldly dignite,
Looke of discrecioune sette jobbardis upon stoolis,
Whiche hathe distroyed many a comunalte,
1 20 lydgate'8 minor poems.
Marchol to sitte in Salamons see,
Wliat fohvithe after no reason no justice,
Injuste promoeioune and parcialite,
By false prerogatyf theyr neyghburghs to dispise.
Atwene riche and poore, what is the difference,
Whan dethe approchithe, in every creature?
Sauf a gay tumbe fresshe of apparence,
The riche is shitte withe colours and picture.
To hide his careyne stuffid withe foule ordure,
The poore lithe lowe after the comune guyse.
To techon al prowde men of reason and nature.
For no prerogatif his neyghburghe to dispise.
Ther was a kyng whilom as I rede,
As is remembred, of not ful yoore agon,
Whiche cast awey crowne and purpur wede,
Bicause that he knew nat boon from boon ;
Of poore ne riche hym tempte they were aloon.
Refused his corowne and gan to advertise,
Princis buryed in glasse ane precious stone,
Sliuld of no pompe theyr subgettis to dispise.
This thyng was done in Alisaundre tyme,
Bothe authentique and historialle.
Bode nat til nyghte left his estate at pryme,
His purpul mantel his garnementis royalle,
To exemplifie in especial,
To emperial power that perol is to rise,
Who clymbythe hyest most dredfulle is his falle,
Eche man be ware his neyghburghe to dispise.
lydgate's minor poems. 121
Highe and lowe were made of oo nature.
Of erthe we cam to erthe we shal ageyne,
Withe theyr victories and triumphes incertayne,
In charis of gold lete hem have no disdayne,
Thoughe they eche day of newe hemselfe disguyse,
Fortune is false his sonne is meynt withe reyne.
Beware ye princis youre subgettis to dispise.
Hede and feete bien necessary bothe,
Feete bere up alle and heedis shal provide,
Hors, sheepe, and gees whi shul they be wrothe,
For theyr comodites to abrayden up pride ;
Nature theyr yiftes dothe dyversly divide ;
Whos power lastithe from Cartage unto Pise,
He hastithe wele that wisely gan abide.
For any prerogatif his neyghburghe to dispise.
To best and fowle nature hathe sette a lawe,
Ordeyned stiedis in justes for the knyght,
In cart and ploughe horsis for to draw,
Sheepe in theyr pasture to grase day and nyght.
Gees to swymme, among to take theyr flight ;
Of God and kynde taken al theyr fraunchise,
Yevynge ensample that no maner wight
For no prerogatif his neyghburghe shal dispice.
122 lydgate's minor poems.
ON THE WRETCHEDNESS OF WORLDLY
AFFAIRS.
[From MS. Harl. 2251, fol. 272-275.]
THIS WORLD IS A THURGHEFARE FUL OF WOO.
Lyft up the ieen of your advertence,
Ye that bethe blynde withe worldly vanyte,
No better myrrour than experience,
For to declare his mutabilite.
Lo ! now withe joye, now withe adversite,
To erthely pilgrymes that passen to and froo,
Fortune shewithe ay, by chaungyng hir see.
How this world is a thurghefare ful of woo.
Boys in his booke of Consolacioune,
Writethe and rehersithe fortunes variaunce,
And raakithe there a playne discripcioune,
To trust on hir ther is none assuraunce ;
For who til hir, lo ! hathe atteudaunce,
Is liche a pilgryme passyng to and froo,
To shewe to us withe sugred false plesaunce,
How this world is a thurghefare ful of woo.
In this world here is none abidyug place.
But that it is by processe reiiiuable :
For who had ever in erthe suche a grace.
To make fortune for to abide stable :
Hir double face is so variable,
Seethe by these pilgrymes that passen to and fro.
To prudent folkes an ymage acceptable,
How this worlde is a thurghefare ful of woo.
lydgate's minor poems. 123
Nis nat this world liche a pilgrymage,
Wher highe ne lowe no while may abyde ?
Liche a fayre peynture sette on a stage,
That sodainly is oft so cast aside ?
Fy on pompe, and fy on worldly pride,
Whiche bien but pilgrymes passynge to andfroo,
To shewe plainly, who that can provide,
How this world is a thurghfare ful of woo.
Oure fader Adam bygan withe sore travaile,
Whan he was flemed out of Paradice.
Lord ! what myght than gentillesse availe,
The first stokke of labour toke his price ;
Adam in the tilthe whilom was holden wyse.
And Eve in spynnyng prudent was also.
For to declere as be myn advise,
How this world is a thurghefare ful of woo.
Is nat the cart and the laborious ploughe,
Of lordes riches and of theyr haboyndaunce
Roote and grounde, if they kowde have i-nowghe,
And hold hem content withe fortunes chaunce.
But covetise oppressithe souffisaunce,
In worldly pilgrymes passyng to and froo,
To shewen alias and maken demonstraunce,
How this world is a thurghefare ful of woo.
And for to telle plainly and nat to spare,
Whiche bien the worthy surmountyng noblesse,
That han betymes passid this thurghfare,
And kowde therin fynde no surenesse.
1 24 lydgate's minor poems.
For to abyde but chaunge and doublenesse,
What was ther fyne whan that they shuld goo,
Redithe the cronycles and trouthe shal expresse,
How this world is a thurghfare ful of woo.
Who was more knyghtly than was Josue,
Whicho hyng up kynges there at Gabaon?
Or more manly than Judas Machabe,
Meker than David, wiser than Salamon ?
Or fayrer founde than was Absolon ?
Icheon but pilgrymes passyng to and froo ;
Takyng ensample also by Sampson,
How this world is a thurghfare ful of vvoo.
Hector was slayne also of Achilles,
As he hym mette unwarly in bataile,
And Julius was murthred in the prese,
Whan senatours at Rome hym dide assaile.
What myght the conquest of Alisaundre availe ?
Al ner but pilgrymes passing to and froo,
Plainly to declare to riche and to the poraile.
How this world is a thurghfare full of woo.
Remembrithe how that many a riche realme,
Hathe bien to-forn cast downe and overthrowe,
Prynces of provynces whilom Jerusalem,
Was for his synne somtyme brought ful lowe,
Seede of discorde also that was sowe.
Among the Trojans in myddes of theyr mortal woo,
Gyvithe evidence to make men to knowe,
How this world is a thurghfare ful of woo.
lydgate's minor poems. 125
Of Babyloyne the grete Balthasar,
Whan he sat hyest in his estate royal,
Ful sodainly, or he list be ware,
Had from his crowne a ful dredeful fal ;
Mane techel phares writen on the walle,
Taught hym plainly what wey he shuld go,
To us concludyng in especial,
How this world is a thurghfare ful of woo.
Betwene Pompey and Cesar Julius,
Was grounde and cause why that Rome towne
Distroyed was, crony cles tellen us ;
Cesar slayne by Brutus Cassius,
Makyng th' empire unto declyne to goo,
For to reporte plainly unto us,
How this world is a thurghfare ful of woo.
Hertis devided have caused mochel wrake :
Recorde on Fraunce and Parys the fayre citee,
Betwene Burgoynonne and hateful Arraynake,
Gynnyng and roote of grete mortalite,
Shedyng of bloode, slaughter, and adversite,
As Martis chaunce torned to and froo,
To yeve ensample if men kowde se.
How this world is a thurghfare ful of woo.
The fyft Heury, the myghti conquerour,
To sette rest atwene Inglaund and Fraunce,
Dide his peyne and dihgent labour,
As he wele kydde by knyghtly governaunce,
1 26 lydgate's minor poems.
*****
To grete hyndrj'ng of these reames twoo,
Toke hym awey, to sliewe us in substaunce,
How this world is a thurghfare ful of woo.
Clarence the Duk, ensample of gentilesse,
Of fredam callid the verray exeraplayre ;
The Duk of Excestre, ful famous of prowesse,
Thoughe he were knyghtly, he was eke debonayre ;
But for al that fortune was yit contrayre:
To bothe these Dukes, alias ! why dide she so ?
But for hir list to shewe by mortal chaunce,
How this world is a thurghfare ful of woo.
Of Salusbury the manly Montagw,
Thoughe he was preved in armys a goode knyght.
The fatal day yit might he nat eschewe,
Whan that he dyed for his kynges right,
And Parchas sustren list preve ther yvel myght,
Of his paradice, whan it come therto.
To make a myrrour how we may have a sight.
How this world is a thurghfare ful of woo.
Stabilnesse is founde in nothyng.
In worldly honour who so lokithe wele;
For dethe ne sparithe emperour ne kyng,
Thoughe they be armed in plates made of Steele :
He castithe downe princes fi'om fortunes wheele.
As hir spokes rounde about goo.
To exemplifye, who that markithe wele,
How this world is a tliurglifare ful of woo.
lydgate's minor poems. 127
God sent aforn ful oft his officers,
To dukes, erles, barouns of estate,
Sommonethe also by his mynisters
Surquidous people, pompous and elate,
Ageyns whos somons they dare make no debate.
Obey his preceptis and may nat go ther fro,
To signefie to pope and to prelate,
How this world is a thurghfare ful of woo.
Of his bedils the names to expresse,
And of his sergeauntis, as I can endite,
To somowne he sendithe langour and sikenesse,
And som withe povert hym list to visite;
To iche estate so wele he can hym qwyte,
Markyng his servauntis withe tokens where they goo,
To shewe hem plainly as I dare wele write,
How this world is a thurghfare ful of woo.
Whom that he lovithe, the Lord forgethe hym nought,
I meane the children of his heritage,
He gyvithe hem leverey of golde ne perle i-wrought;
The prente whiche he bare in his pilgremage,
Scorne and rebuke cast in his visage.
He pacient and sayde nothyng therto.
But gaf ensample to every maner of age,
How this world is a thurghfare ful of woo.
Thankithe God withe humble pacience,
W han he yow visitethe withe suche adversite,
Heven nys nat wonne with worldly influence,
Withe golde ne tresour ne grete prosperito,
1 28 lydgate's minor poems.
But withe suff'raunce and withe humylite,
For this lyf heere, take goode heede therto,
Failethe ay at nede wherby ye may se,
How this world is a thurghfare ful of woo.
Kynges, princis, most soverayne of renoune,
For al theyr power, theyr myght, theyr excellence,
Nor philosophers of every regioune.
Nor the prophetes preferred by science.
Were nat fraunchised to make resistence,
But liche pilgrymes whan it cam therto,
To shewe ensample and playn evidence,
How this world is a thurghfare ful of woo.
Reken up the realmes and the raonarchyes,
Of erthely princes, reigneng in theyr glorye.
Withe theyre sceptres and theyr regalyes,
Withe theyr tryumphes conquerid bi victorye,
Theyr marcial actes entitled by memorye,
And to remembre whan that al this is doo.
They doo but shewe a shadow transitorye,
How this world is a thurghfare ful of woo.
O, ye maysters, that cast shal yowre looke
Upon this dyte made in wordis playne,
Remembre sothely that I the refreyn tooke.
Of hym that was in makyng soverayne.
My maister Chaucier, chief poete of Bretayne,
Whiche in his tragedyes made ful yore agoo,
Declared triewly and list nat for to seyne,
How this world is a thurghefare ful of woo.
lydgate's minor roEMS. 129
BYCORNE AND CHICHEVACHE.
The legend of these two "strange beasts" was widely spread
during the fifteenth century. The names are both French,
Chichefache, or Chinchefache, which signifies literally " melan-
choly," or " sour visage," was the more famous of the two, and is
oftener introduced alone. In one of the Mysteries of Si. Gene-
vieve, edited by M. Jubinal, (Paris, 1837) a townsman is made to
say sneeringly to the Saint -.
" Gardez-vous de la Chicheface,
El vous mordra s'el vous eucontre." — vol. i. \i. 248.
In the notes at the end of that volume, M. Jubinal has printed,
from a MS. in the Royal Library of Paris, a very curious poem,
descriptive of the Chichefache. Lydgate's poem was printed by
Dodsley, in his Old Plays, vol. xii. p. 302. See the note at the
end of the present volume. My text is taken from MS. Harl.
2251, fol. 270-272.
First ther shal stonde an ymage in Poete wise, seyeng
these iij balades.
O PRUDENT folkes takithe heecle,
And remembrithe in youre lyves,
How this story dothe procede,
Of the husbandes and theyr wyfes,
Of theyr accorde and theyr stry ves,
Withe lyf or dethe whiche to derayne
Is graunted to these bestes twayne.
Than shal be portreyed two bestis, oon fatte, another Icene.
For this Bycorne of his nature
Wil nonother maner foode,
But pacient husks never in his pasture,
K
130 lydgate's minor poems.
And Chichevache etithe wymmen goode :
And bothe these bestes, by the roode 1
Be fatte or leene, it may nat faile,
Like lak or plente of theyr vitaile.
Of Chychevache and of Bycorne
Tretithe holy this matere,
Whos story hathe taught us beforn,
Howe these bestes bothe in feere
Have ther pasture, as ye shal here,
Of men and wymmen in sentence,
Thurghe sufFraunce or thurghe impacience.
Than shal he portrayed a fatte heste callid Bycorne, of the
cuntrey of Bycornoys, and seyn these thre baladis folotvyng.
Of Bycornoys I am Bycorne,
Ful fatte and rounde here as I stonde,
And in mariage bounde and sworne
To Chivache, as hir husbonde,
Whiche wil nat eete, on see nor londe,
But pacient wyfes debonayre,
Whiche to her husbondes be nat contrayre.
Ful scarce, God wote ! is hir vitaile,
Humble wyfes she fynt so fewe,
For ulweys at the countre-taile
Theyr tunge clappithe and dothe hewe ;
Suche meke wyfes I be-shrewe,
That neyther can at bedde ne boorde
Theyr husbondes nat forbere oon woorde.
lydgate's minor poems. 181
But my foode and my cherisshyuge,
To telle plainly and nat to varye,
Is of siiche folke whiche theyr livynge
Dare to theyr wyfes be nat contrarye,
Ne from theyr lustis dare nat varye,
Nor withe hem holde no champartye,
Al suche my stomack vvil defye.
Than shal be portrayed a company of men comyng towardis
this heste Bycorne, and sey these foure haladis.
Felawes, takethe heede, and ye may see
How Bycorne castilhe hym to devoure
AUe humble men, bothe yow and me,
Ther is no gayne may us socoure :
Woo be therfoi', in halle and boure.
To al these husbandes whiche theyr lives
Maken maystresses of theyr wyfes.
Who that so dothe, this is the lawe.
That this Bycorne wil hym oppresse,
And devouren in his mawe,
That of his wife makithe his maystresse ;
This wil us bryng in grete distresse,
For we, for oure humylite.
Of Bycorne shal devoured be.
We stonden plainly in suche case,
That they to us maystressis be;
We may wele syng, and seyn, alias I
K 2
132 lydoate's minor poems.
That we gaf hem the soverante ;
For we ben thralle and they be free ;
Wherfor Bycorn, this cruel beste,
Wil us devouren at the lest.
But who that can be soverayne,
And his wife teche and chastise,
That she dare nat a worde gayn-seyn.
Nor disobej-e in no manner wise ;
Of suche a man I can devise,
He stant under protectioune,
From Bycornes jurisdiccioune.
Than shal ther be a womman devoured in the moivthe of
Chichevache, cryeng to alle wyfes, and sey these halad :
O noble wyves, bethe wele ware,
Takithe ensample now by me ;
Or ellis afferme wele I dare,
Ye shal be ded, ye shal nat flee ;
Bethe crabbed, voydithe humylite,
Or Chichevache ne wil nat fade
Yow for to swolow in his entraile.
Than shal ther be portrayed a long horned beste, sklendre and
leene, with sharp tethe, and on his body nothyng
sauf skyn and boon .
Chichevache this is my name,
Hungrjs megre, sklendre, and leene,
lydgate's minor poems. 133
To shewe my body I have grete shame ;
For hunger I feele so grete teene,
On me no fatnesse wil be seene,
By cause that pasture I fynde none,
Therfor I am but skyn and boon.
For my fedyng in existence
Is of wyramen that ben meke,
And liche Gresield in pacience,
Or more theyr bounte for to eeke ;
But I ful longe may gon and seeke.
Or I can fynde a good repast,
A morwe to breke with my fast.
1 trowe ther be a deere yeere
Of pacient wyramen now these dayes ;
Who grevithe hem withe word or chere,
Lets hym be ware of suche assayes,
For it is more than thritty mayes.
That I have sought from lond to lond,
But yit oon Gresield never I fond.
I fonde but oon in al my lyve,
And she was ded ago ful yoore.
For more pasture I will nat stryve.
Nor seche for my foode no more,
Ne for vitaile me to restore ;
Wymmen bien woxen so prudent,
They wil no more be pacient.
134 lydoate's minor poeims.
Than shal he portrayed after Chivaehe, an olde man ivithe a
haston on his bake, manasynge the best for devouriny
of his wyfe.
My wife, alias 1 devoured is,
Most pacient and most pesible,
She never sayde to me aniysse,
Whom hathe nowe slayn this best horrible,
And for it is an impossible
To fynde ever suche a wyfe,
I wil live sowle duryng my lyfe.
For now of newe for theyr prow,
The wyfes of ful highe prudence
Have of assent made ther avow.
For to exile for ever pacience,
And cryed wolfes hede obedience,
To make Chichevache faile
Of hem to fyde more vitaile.
Now Chichevache may fast longe.
And dye for al hir crueltee,
Wymmen hav made hemself so stronge
For to outraye humylite.
O cely husbondes, wo been yee !
Suche as can have no pacience
Ageyns yowre wyfes violence.
If that ye suflPre, ye be but ded,
This Bycorne awaitethe yow so sore ;
lydgate's minor poems. 135
Eeke of yowre wyfes ye stand in drede,
Yif ye geyn-seyn hem any more ;
And thus ye stonde and have don yore.
Of lyfe and dethe betwixt coveyne,
Lynkelde in a double cheyne.
THE LEGEND OF ST. AUSTIN AT COMPTON.
[From MS. Had. 2255, fol. 24-32.]
OFFRE UP yOWRE DYMES.
Lyk as the Bible makith meucioun,