Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious typographical errors in punctuation have been silently corrected.

In particular, these typos were corrected:

• [Page cxxxii] - corrected respcet to respect
• [Page 477] - corrected “feminine from” to “feminine form” in note 2677.
• [Page 481] - corrected “too” to “two” in note 390.
• [Footnote 1275] - Added “margin” to linenote for line 2052

The [Corrigenda et Addenda] have been corrected in place.

All other spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.

THE COMPLETE WORKS
OF
JOHN GOWER

G. C. MACAULAY

* *
THE ENGLISH WORKS

HENRY FROWDE, M.A.

PUBLISHER TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD

LONDON, EDINBURGH, AND NEW YORK

MS. Fairfax 3, f. 125 v^o. (UPPER PORTION)

THE COMPLETE WORKS

OF

JOHN GOWER

EDITED FROM THE MANUSCRIPTS
WITH INTRODUCTIONS, NOTES, AND GLOSSARIES

BY

G. C. MACAULAY, M.A.
FORMERLY FELLOW OF TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE

* *
THE ENGLISH WORKS

(Confessio Amantis, Prol.—Lib. V. 1970)

‘O gentile Engleterre, a toi j’escrits.’

Oxford
AT THE CLARENDON PRESS
1901

Oxford
PRINTED AT THE CLARENDON PRESS
BY HORACE HART, M.A.
PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY

PREFATORY NOTE

The circumstances under which this edition was undertaken have already been stated in the Preface to the volume containing the French Works, where mention is also made of the editor’s obligations to many librarians and private owners of manuscripts.

At present it need only be said that the editor has become more and more convinced, as his work went on, of the value and authentic character of the text given by the Fairfax MS. of the Confessio Amantis, which as proceeding directly from the author, though not written by his hand, may claim the highest rank as an authority for his language.

It is hoped that the list of errata, the result chiefly of a revision made during the formation of the Glossary, may be taken to indicate not so much the carelessness of the editor, as his desire to be absolutely accurate in the reproduction of this interesting text.

The analysis of the Confessio Amantis which is printed in the Introduction, was undertaken chiefly at the suggestion of Dr. Furnivall. With reference to this it may be observed that in places where the author is following well-known sources, the summaries are intentionally briefer, and in the case of some of the Biblical stories a reference to the original has been thought sufficient.

Oxford, 1901.

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

The Confessio Amantis has been the subject both of exaggerated praise and of undue depreciation. It was the fashion of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries to set Gower side by side with Chaucer, and to represent them as the twin stars of the new English poetry, a view which, however it may be justified by consideration of their language and literary tendencies, seems to imply a very uncritical estimate of their comparative importance. Some of these references are collected below, and they serve to indicate in a general way that the author had a great literary reputation and that his book was very popular, the latter being a conclusion which is sufficiently vouched for also by the large number of manuscripts which existed, and by the three printed editions. We shall confine ourselves here to drawing attention to a few facts of special significance.

In the first place the Confessio Amantis is the earliest English book which made its way beyond the limits of its own language. There exists a Spanish translation, dating apparently from the very beginning of the fifteenth century, in which reference is made also to a Portuguese version, not known to be now in existence, on which perhaps the Castilian was based. This double translation into contemporary languages of the Continent must denote that the writer’s fame was not merely insular in his life-time.

Secondly, with regard to the position of this book in the sixteenth century, the expressions used by Berthelette seem to me to imply something more than a mere formal tribute. This printer, who is especially distinguished by his interest in language, in the preface to his edition of the Confessio Amantis most warmly sets forth his author as a model of pure English, contrasting his native simplicity with the extravagant affectations of style and language which were then in fashion. In fact, when we compare the style of Gower in writing of love with that which we find in some of the books which were at that time issuing from the press, we cannot help feeling that the recommendation was justified.

Again, nearly a century later a somewhat striking testimony to the position of Gower as a standard author is afforded by Ben Jonson’s English Grammar. The syntax contains about a hundred and thirty illustrative quotations, and of these about thirty are from Gower. Chaucer is cited twenty-five times, Lydgate and Sir Thomas More each about fourteen, the other chief authorities being Norton, Jewel, Fox, Sir John Cheke and the English Bible.

Finally, our author’s popularity and established position as a story-teller is decisively vouched for by the partly Shakesperian play of Pericles. Plots of plays were usually borrowed without acknowledgement; but here, a plot being taken from the Confessio Amantis, the opportunity is seized of bringing Gower himself on the stage to act as Prologue to four out of the five acts, speaking in the measure of his own octosyllabic couplet,

‘To sing a song that old was sung

From ashes ancient Gower is come,’ &c.

The book was so well known and the author so well established in reputation, that a play evidently gained credit by connecting itself with his name.

The following are the principal references to Gower in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. The author of The King’s Quair dedicates his poem to the memory (or rather to the poems) of his masters Gower and Chaucer. Hoccleve calls him ‘my maister Gower,’

‘Whos vertu I am insufficient

For to descrive.’

John Walton of Osney, the metrical translator of Boethius, writes,

‘To Chaucer, that is flour of rhethorique

In english tonge and excellent poete,

This wot I wel, no thing may I do like,

Though so that I of makinge entermete;

And Gower, that so craftely doth trete

As in his book of moralite,

Though I to hem in makinge am unmete,

Yit moste I schewe it forth that is in me.’

Bokenham in his Lives of the Saints repeatedly speaks of Gower, Chaucer and Lydgate, the last of whom was then still living, as the three great lights of English literature. Caxton printed the Confessio Amantis in 1483, and it seems to have been one of the most popular productions of his press.

In the sixteenth century Gower appears by the side of Chaucer in Dunbar’s Lament for the Makaris and in Lindsay’s poems. Hawes in the Pastime of Pleasure classes him with Chaucer and his beloved Lydgate, and Skelton introduces him as first in order of time among the English poets who are mentioned in the Garland of Laurel,

‘I saw Gower that first garnysshed our Englysshe rude,

And maister Chaucer,’ &c.,

a testimony which is not quite consistent with that in the Lament for Philip Sparow,

‘Gower’s Englysh is old

And of no value is told,

His mater is worth gold

And worthy to be enrold.’

Barclay in the Preface of his Mirour of Good Manners (printed 1516) states that he has been desired by his ‘Master,’ Sir Giles Alington, to abridge and amend the Confessio Amantis, but has declined the task, chiefly on moral grounds. The work he says would not be suitable to his age and order (he was a priest and monk of Ely),

‘And though many passages therin be commendable,

Some processes appeare replete with wantonnes:

....... .

For age it is a folly and jeopardie doubtlesse,

And able for to rayse bad name contagious,

To write, reade or commen of thing venerious.’

Leland had some glimmering perception of the difference between Chaucer and Gower in literary merit; but Bale suggests that our author was ‘alter Dantes ac Petrarcha’ (no less), adding the remark, taken perhaps from Berthelette’s preface, ‘sui temporis lucerna habebatur ad docte scribendum in lingua vulgari[A].’ In Bullein’s Dialogue against the Fever Pestilence (1564) Gower is represented as sitting next to the Classical poets, Homer, Hesiod, Ennius and Lucan. Puttenham in the Art of English Poesie (1589), and Sidney in the Defence of Poesie (1595), equally class Gower and Chaucer together. The latter, illustrating his thesis that the first writers of each country were the poets, says, ‘So among the Romans were Livius Andronicus and Ennius, so in the Italian language ... the poets Dante, Boccace and Petrarch, so in our English, Gower and Chaucer, after whom, encouraged and delighted with their excellent foregoing, others have followed to beautify our mother tongue, as well in the same kind as in other arts.’

In Robert Greene’s Vision, printed about 1592, Chaucer and Gower appear as the accepted representatives of the pleasant and the sententious styles in story-telling, and compete with one another in tales upon a given subject, the cure of jealousy. The introduction of Gower into the play of Pericles, Prince of Tyre has already been referred to.

The uncritical exaggeration of Gower’s literary merits, which formerly prevailed, has been of some disadvantage to him in modern times. The comparison with Chaucer, which was so repeatedly suggested, could not but be unfavourable to him; and modern critics, instead of endeavouring to appreciate fairly such merits as he has, have often felt called upon to offer him up as a sacrifice to the honour of Chaucer, who assuredly needs no such addition to his glory. The true critical procedure is rather the opposite of this. Gower’s early popularity and reputation are facts to be reckoned with, in addition to the literary merit which we in our generation may find in his work, and neither students of Middle English, nor those who aim at tracing the influences under which the English language and literature developed during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, can afford to leave Gower’s English work out of their account.

THE ENGLISH WORKS.

i. Literary Characteristics.—The reason of the success of the Confessio Amantis was naturally the fact that it supplied a popular need. After endeavouring to ‘give an account of his stewardship’ in various ways as a moralist, the author at length found his true vocation, and this time happily in his native tongue, as a teller of stories. The rest is all machinery, sometimes poetical and interesting, sometimes tiresome and clumsy, but the stories are the main thing. The perception of the popular taste may have come to him partly through the success of Chaucer in the Legend of Good Women, and the simple but excellent narrative style which he thereupon developed must have been a new revelation of his powers to himself as well as to others. It is true that he does not altogether drop the character of the moralist, but he has definitely and publicly resigned the task of setting society generally to rights,

‘It stant noght in my sufficance

So grete thinges to compasse,

......

Forthi the Stile of my writinges

Fro this day forth I thenke change

And speke of thing is noght so strange,’ &c. (i. 4 ff.)

He covers his retreat indeed by dwelling upon the all-pervading influence of Love in the world and the fact that all the evils of society may be said to spring from the want of it; but this is little more than a pretext. Love is the theme partly because it supplies a convenient framework for the design, and partly perhaps out of deference to a royal command. There is no reason to doubt the statement in the first version of the Prologue about the meeting of the author with Richard II on the river, and that he then received suggestions for a book, which the king promised to accept and read. It may easily be supposed that Richard himself suggested love as the subject, being a matter in which, as we know from Froissart, he was apt to take delight. ‘Adont me demanda le roy de quoy il traittoit. Je luy dis, “D’amours.” De ceste response fut-il tous resjouys, et regarda dedens le livre en plusieurs lieux et y lisy[B].’ It was certainly to the credit of the young king that he should have discerned literary merit in the work of the grave monitor who had so lectured him upon his duties in the Vox Clamantis, and should have had some part in encouraging him to set his hand to a more promising task; and if it be the fact that he suggested love as the subject, we cannot but admire both the sense of humour displayed by the prince and the address with which our author acquitted himself of the task proposed.

The idea of the Confession was no doubt taken from the Roman de la Rose, where the priest of Nature, whose name is Genius, hears her confession; but it must be allowed that Gower has made much better use of it. Nature occupies herself in expounding the system of the universe generally, and in confessing at great length not her own faults but those of Man, whom she repents of having made. Her tone is not at all that of a penitent, though she may be on her knees, and Genius does little or nothing for her in reply except to agree rather elaborately with her view that, if proper precautions had been taken, Mars and Venus might easily have outwitted Vulcan. Gower on the other hand has made the Confession into a framework which will conveniently hold any number of stories upon every possible subject, and at the same time he has preserved for the most part the due propriety of character and situation in the two actors. By giving the scheme an apparent limitation to the subject of love he has not in fact necessarily limited the range of narrative, for there is no impropriety in illustrating by a tale the general nature of a vice or virtue before making the special application to cases which concern lovers, and this special application, made with all due solemnity, has often a character of piquancy in which the moral tale pure and simple would be wanting. Add to this that the form adopted tends itself to a kind of quasi-religious treatment of the subject, which was fully in accordance with the taste of the day, and produces much of that impression of quaintness and charm with which we most of us associate our first acquaintance with the Confessio Amantis.

The success of the work—for a success it is in spite of its faults—is due to several merits. The first of these is the author’s unquestionable talent for story-telling. He has little of the dramatic power or the humour which distinguish Chaucer, but he tells his tales in a well-ordered and interesting manner, does not break the thread by digressions, never tires of the story before it is finished, as Chaucer does so obviously and so often, and carries his reader through with him successfully to the end in almost every case. His narrative is a clear, if shallow, stream, rippling pleasantly over the stones and unbroken either by dams or cataracts. The materials of course are not original, but Gower is by no means a slavish follower in detail of his authorities; the proportions and arrangement of the stories are usually his own and often show good judgement. Moreover he not seldom gives a fresh turn to a well-known story, as in the instances of Jephthah and Saul, or makes a pretty addition to it, as is the case in some of the tales from Ovid. Almost the only story in which the interest really flags is the longest, the tale of Apollonius of Tyre, which fills up so much of the eighth book and was taken as the basis of the plot of Pericles; and this was in its original form so loose and rambling a series of incidents, that hardly any skill could have completely redeemed it. There is no doubt that this gift of clear and interesting narrative was the merit which most appealed to the popular taste, the wholesome appetite for stories being at that time not too well catered for, and that the plainness of the style was an advantage rather than a drawback.

Tastes will differ of course as to the merits of the particular stories, but some may be selected as incontestably good. The tale of Mundus and Paulina in the first book is excellently told, and so is that of Alboin and Rosemund. The best of the second book are perhaps the False Bachelor and the legend of Constantine and Silvester, in the latter of which the author has greatly improved upon his materials. In the third book the tale of Canace is most pathetically rendered, far better than in Ovid, so that in spite of Chaucer’s denunciation his devoted follower Lydgate could not resist the temptation of borrowing it. The fourth book, which altogether is of special excellence, gives us Rosiphelee, Phyllis, and the very poetically told tale of Ceix and Alceone. The fifth has Jason and Medea, a most admirable example of sustained narrative, simple and yet effective and poetical, perhaps on the whole Gower’s best performance: also the oriental tale of Adrian and Bardus, and the well told story of Tereus and Philomela. In the seventh we shall find the Biblical story of Gideon excellently rendered, the Rape of Lucrece, and the tale of Virginia. These may be taken as specimens of Gower’s narrative power at its best, and by the degree of effectiveness which he attains in them and the manner in which he has used his materials, he may fairly be judged as a story-teller.

As regards style and poetical qualities we find much that is good in the narratives. Force and picturesqueness certainly cannot be denied to the tale of Medea, with its description of the summer sea glistening in the sun, which blazes down upon the returning hero, and from the golden fleece by his side flashes a signal of success to Medea in her watch-tower, as she prays for her chosen knight. Still less can we refuse to recognize the poetical power of the later phases of the same story, first the midnight rovings of Medea in search of enchantments,

‘The world was stille on every side;

With open hed and fot al bare,

Hir her tosprad sche gan to fare,

Upon hir clothes gert sche was,

Al specheles and on the gras

Sche glod forth as an Addre doth:

Non otherwise sche ne goth,

Til sche cam to the freisshe flod,

And there a while sche withstod.

Thries sche torned hire aboute,

And thries ek sche gan doun loute

And in the flod sche wette hir her,

And thries on the water ther

Sche gaspeth with a drecchinge onde,

And tho sche tok hir speche on honde.’ (v. 3962 ff.),

and again later, when the charms are set in action, 4059 ff., a passage of extraordinary picturesqueness, but too long to be quoted here. We do not forget the debt to Ovid, but these descriptions are far more detailed and forcible than the original.

For a picture of a different kind, also based upon Ovid, we may take the description of the tears of Lucrece for her husband, and the reviving beauty in her face when he appears,

‘With that the water in hire yhe

Aros, that sche ne myhte it stoppe,

And as men sen the dew bedroppe

The leves and the floures eke,

Riht so upon hire whyte cheke

The wofull salte teres felle.

Whan Collatin hath herd hire telle

The menynge of hire trewe herte,

Anon with that to hire he sterte,

And seide, “Lo, mi goode diere,

Nou is he come to you hiere,

That ye most loven, as ye sein.”

And sche with goodly chiere ayein

Beclipte him in hire armes smale,

And the colour, which erst was pale,

To Beaute thanne was restored,

So that it myhte noght be mored’ (vii. 4830 ff.),

a passage in which Gower, with his natural taste for simplicity, has again improved upon his classical authority, and may safely challenge comparison with Chaucer, who has followed Ovid more literally.

It is worth mention that Gower’s descriptions of storms at sea are especially vivid and true, so that we are led to suppose that he had had more than a mere literary acquaintance with such things. Such for instance is the account of the shipwreck of the Greek fleet, iii. 981 ff., and of the tempests of which Apollonius is more than once the victim, as viii. 604 ff., and in general nautical terms and metaphors, of some of which the meaning is not quite clear, seem to come readily from his pen.

Next to the simple directness of narrative style which distinguishes the stories themselves, we must acknowledge a certain attractiveness in the setting of them. The Lover decidedly engages our interest: we can understand his sorrows and his joys, his depression when his mistress will not listen to the verses which he has written for her, and his delight when he hears men speak her praises. We can excuse his frankly confessed envy, malice and hatred in all matters which concern his rivals in her love. His feelings are described in a very natural manner, the hesitation and forgetfulness in her presence, and the self-reproach afterwards, the eagerness to do her small services, to accompany her to mass, to lift her into her saddle, to ride by her carriage, the delight of being present in her chamber, of singing to her or reading her the tale of Troilus, or if no better may be, of watching her long and slender fingers at work on her weaving or embroidery. Sometimes she will not stay with him, and then he plays with the dog or with the birds in the cage, and converses with the page of her chamber—anything as an excuse to stay; and when it grows late and he must perforce depart, he goes indeed, but returns with the pretence of having forgotten something, in order that he may bid her good-night once more. He rises in the night and looks out of his window over the houses towards the chamber where she sleeps, and loses himself in imagination of the love-thefts which he would commit if by any necromancy he had the power. Yet he is not extravagantly romantic: he will go wherever his lady bids him, but he will not range the world in arms merely in order to gain renown, losing his lady perhaps in the meantime at home. We take his side when he complains of the Confessor’s want of feeling for a pain which he does not himself experience, and his readiness to prescribe for a wound of the heart as if it were a sore of the heel. Even while we smile, we compassionate the lover who is at last disqualified on account of age, and recommended to make a ‘beau retret’ while there is yet time.

But there is also another character in whom we are interested, and that is the lady herself. Gower certainly appreciated something of the delicacy and poetical refinement which ideal love requires, and this appreciation he shows also in his Balades; but here we have something more than this. The figure of the lady, which we see constantly in the background of the dialogue, is both attractive and human. We recognize in her a creature of flesh and blood, no goddess indeed, as her lover himself observes, but a charming embodiment of womanly grace and refinement. She is surrounded by lovers, but she is wise and wary. She is courteous and gentle, but at the same time firm: she will not gladly swear, and therefore says nay without an oath, but it is a decisive nay to any who are disposed to presume. She does not neglect her household duties merely because a lover insists upon hanging about her, but leaves him to amuse himself how he may, while she busies herself elsewhere. If she has leisure and can sit down to her embroidery, he may read to her if he will, but it must be some sound romance, and not his own rondels, balades, and virelays in praise of her. Custom allows him to kiss her when he takes his leave, but if he comes back on any pretext and takes his leave again, there is not often a second kiss permitted. She lets him lead her up to the offering in church, and ride by her side when she drives out, but she will take no presents from him, though with some of her younger admirers, whose passion she knows is a less serious matter, she is not so strict, but takes and gives freely. Even the description of her person is not offensive, as such descriptions almost always are. Her lover suspects that her soul may be in a perilous state, seeing that she has the power of saving a man’s life and yet suffers him to die, but he admits there is no more violence in her than in a child of three years old, and her words are as pleasant to him as the winds of the South. Usurious dealing is a vice of which he ventures to accuse her, seeing that he has given her his whole heart in return for a single glance of her eye, and she holds to the bargain and will not give heart for heart; but then, as the Confessor very justly replies, ‘she may be such that her one glance is worth thy whole heart many times over,’ and so he has sold his heart profitably, having in return much more than it is worth.

However, the literary characteristic which is perhaps most remarkable in the Confessio Amantis is connected rather with the form of expression than with the subject-matter. No justice is done to Gower unless it is acknowledged that the technical skill which he displays in his verse and the command which he has over the language for his own purposes is very remarkable. In the ease and naturalness of his movement within the fetters of the octosyllabic couplet he far surpasses his contemporaries, including Chaucer himself. Certain inversions of order and irregularities of construction he allows himself, and there are many stop-gaps of the conventional kind in the ordinary flow of his narrative; but in places where the matter requires it, his admirable management of the verse paragraph, the metrical smoothness of his lines, attained without unnatural accent or forced order of words, and the neatness with which he expresses exactly what he has to say within the precise limits which he lays down for himself, show a finished mastery of expression which is surprising in that age of half-developed English style, and in a man who had trained himself rather in French and Latin than in English composition. Such a sentence as the following, for example, seems to flow from him with perfect ease, there is no halting in the metre, no hesitation or inversion for the sake of the rhyme, it expresses just what it has to express, no more and no less:

’Til that the hihe king of kinges,

Which seth and knoweth alle thinges,

Whos yhe mai nothing asterte,—

The privetes of mannes herte

Thei speke and sounen in his Ere

As thogh thei lowde wyndes were,—

He tok vengance upon this pride.’ (i. 2803 ff.)

Or again, as an example of a more colloquial kind,

‘And if thei techen to restreigne

Mi love, it were an ydel peine

To lerne a thing which mai noght be.

For lich unto the greene tree,

If that men toke his rote aweie,

Riht so myn herte scholde deie,

If that mi love be withdrawe.’ (iv. 2677 ff.)

There is nothing remarkable about the sentiment or expression in these passages, but they are perfectly simple and natural, and run into rhyming verse without disturbance of sense or accent; but such technical skill as we have here is extremely rare among the writers of the time. Chaucer had wider aims, and being an artist of an altogether superior kind, he attains, when at his best, to a higher level of achievement in versification as in other things; but he is continually attempting more than he can perform, he often aims at the million and misses the unit. His command over his materials is evidently incomplete, and he has not troubled himself to acquire perfection of craftsmanship, knowing that other things are more important,

‘And that I do no diligence

To shewe craft but o sentence.’

The result is that the most experienced reader often hesitates in his metre and is obliged to read lines over twice or even thrice, before he can satisfy himself how the poet meant his words to be accented and what exactly was the rhythm he intended. In fact, instead of smoothing the way for his reader, he often deliberately chooses to spare himself labour by taking every advantage, fair or unfair, of those licences of accent and syllable suppression for which the unstable condition of the literary language afforded scope. The reader of Gower’s verse is never interrupted in this manner except by the fault of a copyist or an editor; and when we come to examine the means by which the smoothness is attained, we feel that we have to do with a literary craftsman who by laborious training has acquired an almost perfect mastery over his tools. The qualities of which we are speaking are especially visible in the more formal style of utterance which belongs to the speeches, letters and epitaphs in our author’s tales. The reply of Constance to her questioner (ii. 1148 ff.) is a good example of the first:

‘Quod sche, “I am

A womman wofully bestad.

I hadde a lord, and thus he bad,

That I forth with my litel Sone

Upon the wawes scholden wone,

Bot what the cause was, I not:

Bot he which alle thinges wot

Yit hath, I thonke him, of his miht

Mi child and me so kept upriht,

That we be save bothe tuo.”’

And as longer instances we may point to the reflexions of the Emperor Constantine near the end of the same book (ii. 3243 ff.), and the prayer of Cephalus (iv. 3197-3252). The letters of Canace and of Penelope are excellent, each in its own way, and the epitaphs of Iphis (iv. 3674 ff.) and of Thaise (viii. 1533 ff.) are both good examples of the simple yet finished style, e.g.

‘Hier lith, which slowh himself, Iphis,

For love of Araxarathen:

And in ensample of tho wommen,

That soffren men to deie so,

Hire forme a man mai sen also,

Hou it is torned fleissh and bon

Into the figure of a Ston:

He was to neysshe and sche to hard.

Be war forthi hierafterward;

Ye men and wommen bothe tuo,

Ensampleth you of that was tho.’ (iv. 3674 ff.)

In a word, the author’s literary sphere may be a limited one, and his conception of excellence within that sphere may fall very far short of the highest standard, but such as his ideals are, he is able very completely to realize them. The French and English elements of the language, instead of still maintaining a wilful strife, as is so often the case in Chaucer’s metre, are here combined in harmonious alliance. More especially we must recognize the fact that in Gower’s English verse we have a consistent and for the moment a successful attempt to combine the French syllabic with the English accentual system of metre, and this without sacrificing the purity of the language as regards forms of words and grammatical inflexion. We shall see in our subsequent investigations how careful and ingenious he is in providing by means of elision and otherwise for the legitimate suppression of those weak terminations which could not find a place as syllables in the verse without disturbing its accentual flow, while at the same time the sense of their existence was not to be allowed to disappear. The system was too difficult and complicated to be possible except for a specially trained hand, and Gower found no successor in his enterprise; but the fact that the attempt was made is at least worthy of note.

With considerable merits both of plan and execution the Confessio Amantis has also no doubt most serious faults. The scheme itself, with its conception of a Confessor who as priest has to expound a system of morality, while as a devotee of Venus he is concerned only with the affairs of love (i. 237-280), can hardly be called altogether a consistent or happy one. The application of morality to matters of love and of love to questions of morality is often very forced, though it may sometimes be amusing in its gravity. The Confessor is continually forgetting one or the other of his two characters, and the moralist is found justifying unlawful love or the servant of Venus singing the praises of virginity. Moreover the author did not resist the temptation to express his views on society in a Prologue which is by no means sufficiently connected with the general scheme of the poem, though it is in part a protest against division and discord, that is to say, lack of love. Still worse is the deliberate departure from the general plan which we find in the seventh book, where on pretence of affording relief and recreation to the wearied penitent, the Confessor, who says that he has little or no understanding except of love, is allowed to make a digression which embraces the whole field of human knowledge, but more especially deals with the duties of a king, a second political pamphlet in fact, in which the stories of kings ruined by lust or insolence, of Sardanapalus, Rehoboam, Tarquin, and the rest, are certainly intended to some extent as an admonition of the author’s royal patron. The petition addressed to Rehoboam by his people against excessive taxation reads exactly like one of the English parliamentary protests of the period against the extravagant demands of the crown. Again, the fifth book, which even without this would be disproportionately long, contains an absolutely unnecessary account of the various religions of the world, standing there apparently for no reason except to show the author’s learning, and reaching the highest pitch of grotesque absurdity when the Confessor occupies himself in demolishing the claim of Venus to be accounted a goddess, and that too without even the excuse of having forgotten for the moment that he is supposed to be her priest. Minor excrescences of the same kind are to be found in the third book, where the lawfulness of war is discussed, and in the fourth, where there is a dissertation on the rise of the Arts, and especially of Alchemy. All that can be said is that these digressions were very common in the books of the age—the Roman de la Rose, at least in the part written by Jean de Meun, is one of the worst offenders.

Faults of detail it would be easy enough to point out. The style is at times prosaic and the matter uninteresting, the verse is often eked out with such commonplace expressions and helps to rhyme as were used by the writers of the time, both French or English. Sometimes the sentences are unduly spun out or the words and clauses are awkwardly transposed for the sake of the uninterrupted smoothness of the verse. The attainment of this object moreover is not always an advantage, and sometimes the regularity of the metre and the inevitable recurrence of the rhyme produces a tiresome result. On the whole however the effect is not unpleasing, ‘the ease and regularity with which the verse flows breathes a peaceful contentment, which communicates itself to the reader, and produces the same effect upon the ear as the monotonous but not wearisome splashing of a fountain[C].’ Moreover, as has already been pointed out, when the writer is at his best, the rhyme is kept duly in the background, and the paragraph is constructed quite independently of the couplet, so that this form of metre proves often to be a far better vehicle for the narrative than might have been at first supposed.

ii. Date and Circumstances.—The Confessio Amantis in its earliest form bears upon the face of it the date 1390 (Prol. 331 margin)[D], and we have no reason to doubt that this was the year in which it was first completed. The author tells us that it was written at the command of King Richard II, whom he met while rowing on the Thames at London, and who invited him to come into his barge to speak with him. It is noticeable, however, that even this first edition has a dedication to Henry earl of Derby, contained in the Latin lines at the end of the poem[E], so that it is not quite accurate to say that the dedication was afterwards changed, but rather that this dedication was made more prominent and introduced into the text of the poem, while at the same time the personal reference to the king in the Prologue was suppressed. If the date referred to above had been observed by former editors, the speculations first of Pauli and then of Professor Hales, tending to throw back the completion of the first recension of the Confessio Amantis to the year 1386, or even 1383, would have been spared. Their conclusions rest, moreover, on the purest guess-work. The former argues that the preface and the epilogue[F] in their first form date from the year 1386, because from that year the king (who was then nineteen years old) ‘developed those dangerous qualities which estranged from him, amongst others, the poet’; and Professor Hales (Athenæum, Dec. 1881) contends that the references to the young king’s qualities as a ruler, ‘Justice medled with pite,’ &c. certainly point to the years immediately succeeding the Peasants’ revolt (a time when Gower did not regard him as a responsible ruler at all, but excuses him for the evil proceedings of the government on account of his tender age)[G], that the reference to Richard’s desire to establish peace (viii. 3014* ff.) must belong to the period of the negotiations with the French and the subsequent truce, 1383-84, though Professor Hales is himself quite aware that negotiations for peace were proceeding also in 1389, and finally that the mention of ‘the newe guise of Beawme’ must indicate the very year succeeding the king’s marriage to Anne of Bohemia in 1382, whereas in fact the Bohemian fashions would no doubt continue to prevail at court, and still be accounted new, throughout the queen’s lifetime. It is on such grounds as these that we are told that the Confessio Amantis in its first form cannot have been written later than the year 1385 and was probably as early as 1383.

All such conjectures are destroyed by the fact that the manuscripts of the first recension bear the date 1390 at the place cited, and though this does not absolutely exclude a later date for the completion of the book, it is decisive against an earlier one. Moreover, the fact that in the final recension this date is omitted (and deliberately omitted, as we know from the erasure in the Fairfax MS.) points to the conclusion that it is to be regarded definitely as a date of publication, and therefore was inappropriate for a later edition.

This conclusion agrees entirely with the other indications, and they are sufficiently precise, though the fact that one of these also has unluckily escaped the notice of the editors has caused it to be generally overlooked[H].

The form of epilogue which was substituted for that of the first recension, and in which the over-sanguine praise of Richard as a ruler is cancelled, bears in the margin the date of the fourteenth year of his reign (viii. 2973 margin), ‘Hic in anno quarto decimo Regis Ricardi orat pro statu regni,’ &c. Now the fourteenth year of King Richard II was from June 21, 1390, to the same day of 1391. We must therefore suppose that the change in this part of the book took place, in some copies at least, within a few months of its first completion.

Thirdly, we have an equally precise date for the alteration in the Prologue, by which all except a formal mention of Richard II is excluded, while the dedication to Henry of Lancaster is introduced into the text of the poem; and here the time indicated is the sixteenth year of King Richard (Prol. 25), a date which appears also in the margin of some copies here and at l. 97, so that we may assume that this final change of form took place in the year 1392-93, that is, not later than June 1393.

Having thus every step dated for us by the author, we may, if we think it worth while, proceed to conjecture what were the political events which suggested his action; but in such a case as this it is evidently preposterous to argue first from the political conditions, of which as they personally affected our author and his friends we can only be very imperfectly informed, and then to endeavour to force the given dates into accordance with our own conclusions[I].

It will be observed from the above dates that we are led to infer two stages of alteration, and the expectation is raised of finding the poem in some copies with the epilogue rewritten but the preface left in its original state. This expectation is fulfilled. The Bodley MS. 294 gives a text of this kind, and it is certain that there were others of the same form, for Berthelette used for his edition a manuscript of this kind, which was not identical with that which we have.

In discussing the import of the various changes introduced by the author it is of some importance to bear in mind the fact already mentioned that even the first issue of the Confessio Amantis had a kind of dedication to Henry of Lancaster in the Latin lines with which it concluded,

‘Derbeie comiti, recolunt quem laude periti,

Vade liber purus sub eo requiesce futurus.’

This seems rather to dispose of the idea that a dedication to Henry would be inconsistent with loyalty to Richard, a suggestion which would hardly have been made in the year 1390, or even 1393. No doubt those copies which contained in the preface the statement that the book was written at the command of the king and for his sake, and in the epilogue the presentation of the completed book to him (3050* ff.), if they had also appended to them the Latin lines which commend the work to the earl of Derby, may be said to have contained in a certain sense a double dedication, the compliment being divided between the king and his brilliant cousin, and very probably a copy which was intended for the court would be without the concluding lines, as we find to be the case with some manuscripts; but the suggestion that the expressions of loyalty and the praises of Richard as a ruler which we find in the first epilogue are properly to be called inconsistent with a dedication of the poem to Henry of Lancaster, his cousin and counsellor, is plausible only in the light of later events, which could not be foreseen by the poet, in the course of which Henry became definitely the opponent of Richard and finally took the lead in deposing him. It is true that the earl of Derby had been one of the lords appellant in 1387, but after the king’s favourites had been set aside, he was for the time reconciled to Richard, and he could not in any sense be regarded as the leader of an opposition party. That Gower, when he became disgusted with Richard II, should have set Henry’s name in the Prologue in place of that of the king, as representing his ideal of knighthood and statesmanship, may be regarded either as a coincidence with the future events, or as indicating that Gower had some discrimination in selecting a possible saviour of society; but it is certain that at this time the poet can have had no definite idea that his hero would become a candidate for the throne.

The political circumstances of the period during which the Confessio Amantis was written and revised are not very easy to disentangle. We may take it as probable that the plan of its composition, under the combined influence of Chaucer’s Legend of Good Women[J] and of the royal command, may have been laid about the year 1386. Before this time Richard would scarcely have been regarded by Gower as responsible for the government, and he would naturally look hopefully upon the young sovereign, then just entering upon his duties, as one who with proper admonition and due choice of advisers might turn out to be a good ruler. During the succeeding years the evil counsellors of the king were removed by the action of the lords appellant and the Parliament, and in the year 1389 a moderate and national policy seemed to have been finally adopted by the king, with William of Wykeham as Chancellor and the young earl of Derby, who had been one of the appellants but had quarrelled with his uncle Gloucester, among the king’s trusted advisers. By the light of subsequent events Gower condemned the whole behaviour of the king during this period as malicious and treacherous, but this could hardly have been his judgement of it at the time, for Richard’s dissimulation, if dissimulation it were, was deep enough to deceive all parties. Consequently, up to the year 1390 at least, he may have continued, though with some misgivings, to trust in the king’s good intentions and to regard him as a ruler who might effectually heal the divisions of the land, as he had already taken steps to restore peace to it outwardly. It is quite possible also that something may have come to his knowledge in the course of the year 1390-91 which shook his faith. It was at this time, in July 1390, just at the beginning of the fourteenth year of King Richard, that his hero the earl of Derby left the court and the kingdom to exercise his chivalry in Prussia, and for this there may have been a good reason. We know too little in detail of the events of the year to be able to say exactly what causes of jealousy may have arisen between the king and his cousin, who was nearly exactly of an age with him and seems to have attracted much more attention than Richard himself at the jousts of St. Inglevert in May of this year. Whatever feeling there may have been on the side of the earl of Derby would doubtless reflect itself in the minds of his friends and supporters, and something of this kind may have deepened into certitude the suspicions which Gower no doubt already had in his heart of the ultimate intentions of Richard II. The result was that in some copies at least of the Confessio Amantis the concluding praises of the king as a ruler were removed and lines of a more general character on the state of the kingdom and the duties of a king were substituted, but still there was no mention of the earl of Derby except as before in the final Latin lines. Two years later, 1392-93, when the earl of Derby had fairly won his spurs and at the age of twenty-five might be regarded as a model of chivalry, the mention of Richard as the suggester of the work was removed, and the name of Henry set in the text as the sole object of the dedication.

The date sixteenth year must certainly be that of this last change, but the occasion doubtless was the sending of a presentation copy to Henry, and this would hardly amount to publication. The author probably did not feel called upon publicly to affront the king by removing his name and praises, either at the beginning or the end, from the copies generally issued during his reign. Whether or not this conduct justifies the charge of time-serving timidity, which has been made against Gower, I cannot undertake to decide. He was, however, in fact rather of an opposite character, even pedantically stiff in passing judgement severely on those in high places, and not bating a syllable of what he thought proper for himself to say or for a king to hear, though while the king was young and might yet shake himself free from evil influences he was willing to take as favourable a view of his character as possible. Probably he was for some time rather in two minds about the matter, but in any case ‘timid and obsequious’ are hardly the right epithets for the author of the Vox Clamantis.

Before leaving this subject something should perhaps be said upon a matter which has attracted no little attention, namely the supposed quarrel between the author of the Confessio Amantis and Chaucer. It is well known that the first recension of our poem has a passage referring to Chaucer in terms of eulogy (viii. 2941*-57*), and that this was omitted when the epilogue was rewritten. This fact has been brought into connexion with the apparent reference to Gower in the Canterbury Tales, where the Man of Law in the preamble to his tale disclaims on Chaucer’s behalf such ‘cursed stories’ as those of Canace and Apollonius, because they treat of incest. It has been thought that this was meant for a serious attack on Gower, and that he took offence at it and erased the praise of Chaucer from the Confessio Amantis.

It is known of course that the two poets were on personally friendly terms, not only from the dedication of Troilus, but from the fact that when Chaucer was sent on a mission to the Continent in 1378, he appointed Gower one of his attorneys in his absence. It is possible that their friendship was interrupted by a misunderstanding, but it may be doubted whether there is sufficient proof of this in the facts which have been brought forward.

In the first place I question whether Chaucer’s censure is to be taken very seriously. That it refers to Gower I have little doubt, but that the attack was a humorous one is almost equally clear. Chaucer was aware that some of his own tales were open to objection on the score of morality, and when he saw a chance of scoring a point on the very ground where his friend thought himself strongest, he seized it with readiness. Some degree of seriousness there probably is, for Chaucer’s sound and healthy view of life instinctively rejected the rather morbid horrors to which he refers; but it may easily be suspected that he was chiefly amused by the opportunity of publicly lecturing the moralist, who perhaps had privately remonstrated with him[K]. As to the notion that Chaucer had been seriously offended by the occasional and very trifling resemblances of phrase in Gower’s tale of Constance with his own version of the same original, it is hardly worth discussion.

There is of course the possibility that Gower may have taken it more seriously than it was meant, and though he was not quite so devoid of a sense of humour as it has been the fashion to suppose[L], yet he may well have failed to enjoy a public attack, however humorous, upon two of his tales. It must be observed, however, that if we suppose the passage in question to have been the cause of the excision of Gower’s lines about Chaucer, we must assume that the publication of it took place precisely within this period of a few months which elapsed between the first and the second versions of Gower’s epilogue.

Before further considering the question as to what was actually our author’s motive in omitting the tribute to his brother poet, we should do well to observe that this tribute was apparently allowed to stand in some copies of the rewritten epilogue. There is one good manuscript, that in the possession of Lord Middleton, in which the verses about Chaucer not only stand in combination with the new form of epilogue, but in a text which has also the revised preface, dated two years later[M]. Hence it seems possible that the exclusion of the Chaucer verses was rather accidental than deliberate, and from this and other considerations an explanation may be derived which will probably seem too trivial, but nevertheless is perhaps the true one. We know from the Fairfax MS. of the Confessio Amantis and from several original copies of the Vox Clamantis that the author’s method of rewriting his text was usually to erase a certain portion, sometimes a whole column or page, and substitute a similar number of lines of other matter. It will be observed here that for the thirty lines 2941*-2970*, including the reference to Chaucer, are substituted thirty lines from which that reference is excluded. After this come four Latin lines replacing an equal number in the original recension, and then follow fifteen lines, 2971-2985, which are the same except a single line in the two editions. It may be that the author, wishing to mention the departure of the Confessor and the thoughts which he had upon his homeward way, sacrificed the Chaucer verses as an irrelevance, in order to find room for this matter between the Adieu of Venus and the lines beginning ‘He which withinne daies sevene,’ which he did not intend to alter, and that this proceeding, carried out upon a copy of the first recension which has not come down to us, determined the general form of the text for the copies with epilogue rewritten, though in a few instances care was taken to combine the allusion to Chaucer with the other alterations. Such an explanation as this would be in accord with the methods of the author in some other respects; for, as we shall see later on, the most probable explanation of the omission in the third recension of the additional passages in the fifth and seventh books, is that a first recension copy was used in a material sense as a basis for the third recension text, and it was therefore not convenient to introduce alterations which increased the number of lines in the body of the work.

iii. Analysis.

Prologus.

1-92. Preface. By the books of those that were before us we are instructed, and therefore it is good that we also should write something which may remain after our days. But to write of wisdom only is not good. I would rather go by the middle path and make a book of pleasure and profit both: and since few write in English, my meaning is to make a book[N] for England’s sake now in the sixteenth year of King Richard. Things have changed and books are less beloved than in former days, but without them the fame and the example of the virtuous would be lost. Thus I, simple scholar as I am, purpose to write a book touching both upon the past and the present, and though I have long been sick, yet I will endeavour as I may to provide wisdom for the wise. For this prologue belongs all to wisdom, and by it the wise may recall to their memory the fortunes of the world; but after the prologue the book shall be of Love, which does great wonders among men. Also I shall speak of the vices and virtues of rulers. But as my wit is too small to admonish every man, I submit my work for correction to my own lord Henry of Lancaster, with whom my heart is in accord, and whom God has proclaimed the model of knighthood. God grant I may well achieve the work which I have taken in hand.

93-192. Temporal Rulers. In the time past things went well: there was plenty and riches, with honour for noble deeds, and each estate kept its due place. Justice was upheld and the people obeyed their rulers. Man’s heart was then shown in his face and his thought expressed by his words, virtue was exalted and vice abased. Now all is changed, and above all discord and hatred have taken the place of love, there is no stable peace, no justice and righteousness. All kingdoms are alike in this, and heaven alone knows what is to be done. The sole remedy is that those who are the world’s guides should follow good counsel and should be obeyed by their people; and if king and council were at one, it might be hoped that the war would be brought to an end, which is so much against the peace of Christ’s religion and from which no land gets any good. May God, who is above all things, give that peace of which the lands have need.

193-498. The Church. Formerly the life of the clergy was an example to all, there was no simony, no disputes in the Church, no ambition for worldly honour. Pride was held a vice and humility a virtue. Alms were given to the poor and the clergy gave themselves to preaching and to prayer. Thus Christ’s faith was first taught, but now it is otherwise. Simony and worldly strife prevail; and if priests take part in wars, I know not who shall make the peace. But heaven is far and the world is near, and they regard nothing but vainglory and covetousness, so that the tithe goes at once to the war, as though Christ could not do them right by other ways. That which should bring salvation to the world is now the cause of evil: the prelates are such as Gregory wrote of, who desire a charge in order that they may grow rich and great, and the faith is hindered thereby. Ambition and avarice have destroyed charity; Sloth is their librarian and delicacy has put away their abstinence. Moreover Envy everywhere burns in the clergy like the fire of Etna, as we may see now [in this year of grace 1390] at Avignon. To see the Church thus fall between two stools is a cause of sorrow to us all: God grant that it may go well at last with him who has the truth. But as a fire spreads while men are slothfully drinking, so this schism causes the new sect of Lollardy to spring up, and many another heresy among the clergy themselves. It were better to dike and delve and have the true faith, than to know all that the Bible says and err as some of these do. If men had before their eyes the virtues which Christ taught, they would not thus dispute about the Papacy. Each one attends to his own profit, but none to the general cause of the Church, and thus Christ’s fold is broken and the flock is devoured. The shepherds, intent upon worldly good, wound instead of healing, and rob the sheep unjustly of their wool. Nay, they drive them among the brambles, so that they may have the wool which the thorns tear off. If the wolf comes in the way, their staff is not at hand to defend the sheep, but they are ready enough to smite the sheep with it, if they offend ever so little. There are some indeed in whom virtue dwells, whom God has called as Aaron was called, but most follow Simon at the heels, whose chariot rolls upon wheels of covetousness and pride. They teach how good it is to clothe and feed the poor, yet of their own goods they do not distribute. They say that chastity should be preserved by abstinence, but they eat daintily and lie softly, and whether they preserve their chastity thereby, I dare not say: I hear tales, but I will not understand. Yet the vice of the evil-doers is no reproof to the good, for every man shall bear his own works.

499-584. The Commons. As for the people, it is to be feared that that may happen which has already come to pass in sundry lands, that they may break the bounds and overflow in a ruinous flood. Everywhere there is lack of law and growth of error; all say that this world has gone wrong, and every one gives his judgement as to the cause; but he who looks inwards upon himself will be ready to excuse his God, in whom there is no default. The cause of evil is in ourselves. Some say it is fortune and some the planets, but in truth all depends upon man. No estate is secure, the fortune of it goes now up, now down, and all this is in consequence of man’s doings. In the Bible I find a tale which teaches that division is the chief cause why things may not endure, and that man himself is to blame for the changes which have overthrown kingdoms.

585-662. Nabugodonosor in a dream saw an image with the head and neck of gold, the breast and arms of silver, the belly and thighs of brass, the legs of steel, and the feet of mixed steel and clay. On the feet of this image fell a great stone which rolled down from a hill, and the image was destroyed. Daniel expounded this of the successive kingdoms of the world.

663-880. These were the Four Monarchies, of Babylon, of Persia, of the Greeks, and of the Romans. We are now in the last age, that of dissension and division, as shown by the state of the Empire and the Papacy. This is that which was designated by the feet of the image.

881-1088. We are near to the end of the world, as the apostle tells us. The world stands now divided like the feet of the image. Wars are general, and yet the clergy preach that charity is the foundation of all good deeds. Man is the cause of all the evil, and therefore the image bore the likeness of a man. The heavenly bodies, the air and the earth suffer change and corruption through the sin of man, who is in himself a little world. When he is disordered in himself, the elements are all at strife with him and with each other. Division is the cause of destruction. So it is with man, who has within him diverse principles which are at strife with one another, and in whom also there is a fatal division between the body and the soul, which led to the fall from a state of innocence. The confusion of tongues at the building of the tower of Babel was a further cause of division, and at last all peace and charity shall depart, and the stone shall fall. Thenceforward every man shall dwell either in heaven, where all is peace, or in hell, which is full of discord.

Would God that there were in these days any who could set peace on the earth, as Arion once by harping brought beasts and men into accord. But this is a matter which only God can direct.

Lib. I.

1-92. I cannot stretch my hand to heaven and set in order the world: so great a task is more than I am able to compass: I must let that alone and treat of other things. Therefore I think to change from this time forth the style of my writings, and to speak of a matter with which all the world has to do, and that is Love; wherein almost all are out of rule and measure, for no man is able to resist it or to find a remedy for it. If there be anything in this world which is governed blindly by fortune, it is love: this is a game in which no man knows whether he shall win or lose. I am myself one who belongs to this school, and I will tell what befel me not long since in regard to love, that others may take example thereby.

93-202. I fared forth to walk in the month of May, when every bird has chosen his mate and rejoices over the love which he has achieved; but I was further off from mine than earth is from heaven. So to the wood I went, not to sing with the birds, but to weep and lament; and after a time I fell to the ground and wished for death. Then I looked up to the heaven and prayed the god and the goddess of love to show me some grace. Anon I saw them; and he, the king of love, passed me by with angry look and cast at me a fiery lance, which pierced through my heart. But the queen remained, and asked me who I was, and bade me make known my malady. I told her that I had served her long and asked only my due wage, but she frowned and said that there were many pretenders, who in truth had done no service, and bade me tell the truth and show forth all my sickness. ‘That can I well do,’ I replied, ‘if my life may last long enough.’ Then she looked upon me and said, ‘My will is first that thou confess thyself to my priest.’ And with that she called Genius, her priest, and he came forth and sat down to hear my shrift.

203-288. This worthy priest bade me tell what I had felt for love’s sake, both the joy and the sorrow; and I fell down devoutly on my knees and prayed him to question me from point to point, lest I should forget things which concerned my shrift, for my heart was disturbed so that I could not myself direct my wits. He replied that he was there to hear my confession and to question me: but he would not only speak of love; for by his office of priest he was bound to set forth the moral vices. Yet he would show also the properties of Love, for he was retained in the service of Venus and knew little of other things. His purpose was to expound the nature of every vice, as it became a priest to do, and so to apply his teaching to the matter of love that I should plainly understand his lore.

289-574. Sins of Seeing and Hearing. I prayed him to say his will, and I would obey, and he bade me confess as touching my five senses, which are the gates through which things come into the heart, and first of the principal and most perilous, the sense of sight. Many a man has done mischief to love through seeing, and often the fiery dart of love pierces the heart through the eye. (289-332.)

Ovid tells a tale of the evils of ‘mislook,’ how Acteon when hunting came upon Diana and her nymphs bathing, and because he did not turn away his eyes, he was changed into a hart and torn to pieces by his own hounds. (333-378.)

Again, the Gorgons were three sisters, who had but one eye between them, which they passed one to another, and if any man looked upon them he was straightway turned into a stone. These were all killed by Perseus, to whom Pallas lent a shield with which he covered his face, and Mercury a sword with which he slew the monsters. (389-435.)

My priest therefore bade me beware of misusing my sight, lest I also should be turned to stone; and further he warned me to take good heed of my hearing, for many a vanity comes to man’s heart through the ears. (436-462.)

There is a serpent called Aspidis, which has a precious stone in his head, but when a man tries to overcome him by charms in order to win this stone, he refuses to hear the enchantment, laying one ear close to the earth and stopping the other with his tail. (463-480.)

Moreover, in the tale of Troy we read of Sirens, who are in the form of women above and of fishes below, and these sing so sweetly, that the sailors who pass are enchanted by it and cannot steer their ships: so they are wrecked and torn to pieces by the monsters. Uluxes, however, escaped this peril by stopping the ears of his company, and then they slew many of them. (481-529.)

From these examples (he said) I might learn how to keep the eye and the ear from folly, and if I could control these two, the rest of the senses were easy to rule. (530-549.)

I made my confession then, and said that as for my eyes I had indeed cast them upon the Gorgon Medusa, and my heart had been changed into stone, upon which my lady had graven an eternal mark of love. Moreover, I was guilty also as regards my ear; for when I heard my lady speak, my reason lost all rule, and I did not do as Uluxes did, but fell at once in the place where she was, and was torn to pieces in my thought. (550-567.)

God amend thee, my son, he said. I will ask now no more of thy senses, but of other things. (568-574.)

The Seven deadly Vices.—Pride.

575-1234. Hypocrisy. Pride, the first of the seven deadly Vices, has five ministers, of whom the first is called Hypocrisy. Hast thou been of his company, my son?

I know not, father, what hypocrisy means. I beseech you to teach me and I will confess. (575-593.)

A hypocrite is one who feigns innocence without, but is not so within. Such are many of those who belong to the religious orders, with some of those who occupy the high places of the Church, and others also who pretend to piety, while all their design is to increase their worldly wealth. (594-672.)

There are lovers also of this kind, who deceive by flattery and soft speech, and who pretend to be suffering sickness for love, but are ready always to beguile the woman who trusts them. Art thou one of these, my son?

Nay, father, for I have no need to feign: my heart is always more sick than my visage, and I am more humble towards my lady within than any outward sign can show. I will not say but that I may have been guilty towards others in my youth; but there is one towards whom my word has ever been sincere.

It is well, my son, to tell the truth always towards love; for if thou deceive and win thereby, thou wilt surely repent it afterwards, as a tale which I will tell may show. (672-760.)

Mundus and Paulina. At Rome, in the time of Tiberius, a worthy lady Pauline was deceived by Mundus, who bribed the priests of Isis and induced them to bring her to the temple at night on pretence of meeting the god Anubus. Mundus concealed himself in the temple and personated the god. Meeting her on her way home he let her understand the case, and she, overcome with grief and shame, reported the matter to her husband. The priests were put to death, Mundus was sent into exile, and the image of Isis was thrown into the Tiber. (761-1059.)

The Trojan Horse. Again, to take a case of the evil wrought by Hypocrisy in other matters, we read how, when the Greeks could not capture Troy, they made a horse of brass and secretly agreeing with Antenor and Eneas they concluded a feigned peace with the Trojans and desired to bring this horse as an offering to Minerva into the city. The gates were too small to admit it, and so the wall was broken down, and the horse being brought in was offered as an evidence of everlasting peace with Troy. The Greeks then departed to their ships, as if to set sail, but landed again in the night on a signal from Sinon. They came up through the broken gate, and slew those within, and burnt the city. (1060-1189.)

Thus often in love, when a man seems most true, he is most false, and for a time such lovers speed, but afterwards they suffer punishment. Therefore eschew Hypocrisy in love. (1190-1234.)

1235-1875. Inobedience. The second point of Pride is Inobedience, which bows before no law, whether of God or man. Art thou, my son, disobedient to love?

Nay, father, except when my lady bids me forbear to speak of my love, or again when she bids me choose a new mistress. She might as well say, ‘Go, take the Moon down from its place in heaven,’ as bid me remove her love out of my breast. Thus far I disobey, but in no other thing. (1235-1342.)

There are two attendants, my son, on this vice, called Murmur and Complaint, which grudge at all the fortune that betides, be it good or bad. And so among lovers there are those who will not faithfully submit to love, but complain of their fortune, if they fail of anything that they desire.

My father, I confess that at times I am guilty of this, when my lady frowns upon me, but I dare not say a word to her which might displease her. I murmur and am disobedient in my heart, and so far I confess that I am ‘unbuxom.’

I counsel thee, my son, to be obedient always to love’s hest, for obedience often avails where strength may do nothing; and of this I remember an example written in a chronicle. (1343-1406.)

There was a knight, nephew to the emperor, by name Florent, chivalrous and amorous, who seeking adventures was taken prisoner by enemies. He had slain the son of the captain of the castle to which he was led; and they desired to take vengeance on him, but feared the emperor. An old and cunning dame, grandmother to the slain man, proposed a condition. He should be allowed to go, on promise of returning within a certain time, and then he should suffer death unless he could answer rightly the question, ‘What do all women most desire?’ He gave his pledge, and sought everywhere an answer to the question, but without success. When the day approached, he set out; and as he passed through a forest, he saw a loathly hag sitting under a tree. She offered to save him if he would take her as his wife. He refused at first, but then seeing no other way, he accepted, on the condition that he should try all other answers first, and if they might save him he should be free. She told him that what all women most desire is to be sovereign of man’s love. He saved himself by this answer, and returned to find her, being above all things ashamed to break his troth. Foul as she was, he respected her womanhood, and set her upon his horse before him. He reached home, journeying by night and hiding himself by day, and they were wedded in the night, she in her fine clothes looking fouler than before. When they were in bed, he turned away from her, but she claimed his bond; and he turning towards her saw a young lady of matchless beauty by his side. She stayed him till he should make his choice, whether he would have her thus by night or by day; and he, despairing of an answer, left it to her to decide. By thus making her his sovereign, he had broken the charm which bound her. She was the king’s daughter of Sicily, and had been transformed by her stepmother, till she should win the love and sovereignty of a peerless knight. Thus obedience may give a man good fortune in love. (1407-1861.)

Know then, my son, that thou must ever obey thy love and follow her will.

By this example, my father, I shall the better keep my observance to love. Tell me now if there be any other point of Pride. (1862-1882.)

1883-2383. Surquidry or Presumption holds the third place in the court of Pride. He does everything by guess and often repents afterwards: he will follow no counsel but his own, depends only on his own wit, and will not even return thanks to God.

When he is a lover, he thinks himself worthy to love any queen, and he often imagines that he is loved when he is not. Tell me, what of this, my son?

I trow there is no man less guilty here than I, or who thinks himself less worthy. Love is free to all men and hides in the heart unseen, but I shall not for that imagine that I am worthy to love. I confess, however, that I have allowed myself to think that I was beloved when I was not, and thus I have been guilty. But if ye would tell me a tale against this vice, I should fare the better. (1883-1976.)

My son, the proud knight Capaneus trusted so in himself that he would not pray to the gods, and said that prayer was begotten only of cowardice. But on a day, when he assailed the city of Thebes, God took arms against his pride and smote him to dust with a thunderbolt. Thus when a man thinks himself most strong, he is nearest to destruction. (1977-2009.)

Again, when a man thinks that he can judge the faults of others and forgets his own, evil often comes to him, as in the tale which follows.

The Trump of Death. There was a king of Hungary, who went forth with his court in the month of May, and meeting two pilgrims of great age, alighted from his car and kissed their hands and feet, giving them alms also. The lords of the land were displeased that the king should thus abase his royalty, and among them chiefly the king’s brother, who said that he would rebuke the king for his deed. When they were returned, the brother spoke to the king, and said he must excuse himself to his lords. He answered courteously and they went to supper.

Now there was ordained by the law a certain trumpet of brass, which was called the Trump of Death: and when any lord should be put to death, this was sounded before his gate. The king then on that night sent the man who had this office, to blow the trumpet at his brother’s gate. Hearing the sound he knew that he must die, and called his friends together, who advised that he with his wife and his five children should go in all humility to entreat the king’s pardon. So they went lamenting through the city and came to the court. Men told the king how it was, and he coming forth blamed his brother because he had been so moved by a mere human sentence of death, which might be revoked. ‘Thou canst not now marvel,’ he said, ‘at that which I did: for I saw in the pilgrims the image of my own death, as appointed by God’s ordinance, and to this law I did obeisance; for compared to this all other laws are as nothing. Therefore, my brother, fear God with all thine heart; for all shall die and be equal in his sight.’ Thus the king admonished his brother and forgave him. (2010-2253.)

I beseech you, father, to tell me some example of this in the cause of love.

My son, in love as well as in other things this vice should be eschewed, as a tale shows which Ovid told.

There was one Narcissus, who had such pride that he thought no woman worthy of him. On a day he went to hunt in the forest, and being hot and thirsty lay down to drink from a spring. There he saw the image of his face in the water and thought it was a nymph. Love for her came upon him and he in vain entreated her to come out to him: at length in despair he smote himself against a rock till he was dead. The nymphs of the springs and of the woods in pity buried his body, and from it there sprang flowers which bloom in the winter, against the course of nature, as his folly was. (2254-2366.)

My father, I shall ever avoid this vice. I would my lady were as humble towards me as I am towards her. Ask me therefore further, if there be ought else.

God forgive thee, my son, if thou have sinned in this: but there is moreover another vice of Pride which cannot rule his tongue, and this also is an evil. (2367-2398.)

2399-2680. Avantance. This vice turns praise into blame by loud proclaiming of his own merit; and so some lovers do. Tell me then if thou hast ever received a favour in love and boasted of it afterwards.

Nay, father, for I never received any favour of which I could boast. Ask further then, for here I am not guilty.

That is well, my son, but know that love hates this vice above all others, as thou mayest learn by an example. (2399-2458.)

Alboin and Rosemund. Albinus was king of the Lombards, and he in war with the Geptes killed their king Gurmond in battle, and made a cup of his skull. Also he took Gurmond’s daughter Rosemund as his wife. When the wars were over, he made a great feast, that his queen might make acquaintance with the lords of his kingdom; and at the banquet his pride arose, and he sent for this cup, which was richly set in gold and gems, and bade his wife drink of it, saying, ‘Drink with thy father.’ She, not knowing what cup it was, took it and drank; and then the king told how he had won it by his victory, and had won also his wife’s love, who had thus drunk of the skull. She said nothing, but thought of the unkindness of her lord in thus boasting, as he sat by her side, that he had killed her father and made a cup of his skull. Then after the feast she planned vengeance with Glodeside her maid. A knight named Helmege, the king’s butler, loved Glodeside. To him the queen gave herself in place of her maid, and then making herself known, she compelled him to help her. They slew Albinus, but were themselves compelled to flee, taking refuge with the Duke of Ravenna, who afterwards caused them to be put to death by poison. (2459-2646.)

It is good therefore that a man hide his own praise, both in other things and also in love, or else he may fail of his purpose.

2681-3066. Vain Glory thinks of this world only and delights in new things. He will change his guise like a chameleon. He will make carols, balades, roundels and virelays, and if he gets any advantage in love, he rejoices over it so that he forgets all thought of death. Tell me if thou hast done so.

My father, I may not wholly excuse myself, in that I have been for love the better arrayed, and have attempted rondels, balades, virelays and carols for her whom I love, and sung them moreover, and made myself merry in chamber and in hall. But I fared none the better: my glory was in vain. She would not hear my songs, and my fine array brought me no reason to be glad. And yet I have had gladness at times in hearing how men praised her, and also when I have tidings that she is well. Tell me if I am to blame for this.

I acquit thee, my son, and on this matter I think to tell a tale how God does vengeance on this vice. Listen now to a tale that is true, though it be not of love. (2681-2784.)

There was a king of whom I spoke before, Nabugodonosor by name. None was so mighty in his days, and in his Pride he ruled the earth as a god. This king in his sleep saw a tree which overshadowed the whole earth, and all birds and beasts had lodging in it or fed beneath it. Then he heard a voice bidding to hew down the tree and destroy it; but the root (it said) should remain, and bear no man’s heart, but feed on grass like an ox, till the water of the heaven should have washed him seven times and he should be made humble to the will of God. The King could find none to interpret this dream, and sent therefore for Daniel. He said that the tree betokened the king, and that as the tree was hewn down, so his kingdom should be overthrown, and he should pasture like an ox and be rained upon and afflicted, until he acknowledged the greatness of God. The punishment was ordained, he said, for his vain glory, and if he would leave this and entreat for grace, he might perchance escape the evil.

But Pride will not suffer humility to stand with him. Neither for his dream nor yet for Daniel’s word did this king leave his vain glory, and so that which had been foretold came upon him.

Then after seven years he remembered his former state and wept; and though he might not find words, he prayed within his heart to God and vowed to leave his vain glory, reaching up his feet towards the heaven, kneeling and braying for mercy. Suddenly he was changed again into a man and received his power as before, and the pride of vain glory passed for ever from his heart. (2785-3042.)

Be not thou, my son, like a beast, but take humility in hand, for a proud man cannot win love. I think now again to tell thee a tale which may teach thee to follow Humility and eschew Pride.

3067-3425. Humility. The Three Questions. There was once a young and wise king, who delighted in propounding difficult questions, and one knight of his court was so ready in answering them that the king conceived jealousy and resolved to put him to confusion. He bade him therefore answer these three questions on pain of death: (1) What is it that has least need and yet men help it most? (2) What is worth most and yet costs least? (3) What costs most and is worth least? The knight went home to consider, but the more he beat his brains, the more he was perplexed. He had two daughters, the younger fourteen years of age, who, perceiving his grief, entreated him to tell her the cause. At length he did so, and she asked to be allowed to answer for him to the king. When the day came, they went together to the court, and the knight left the answers to the maiden, at which all wondered. She replied to the first question that it was the Earth, upon which men laboured all the year round, and yet it had no need of help, being itself the source of all life. As to the second, it was Humility, through which God sent down his Son, and chose Mary above all others; and yet this costs least to maintain, for it brings about no wars among men. The third question, she said, referred to Pride, which cost Lucifer and the rebel angels the loss of heaven, and Adam the loss of paradise, and was the cause also of so many evils in the world.

The king was satisfied, and looking on the maiden he said, ‘I like thine answer well, and thee also, and if thou wert of lineage equal to these lords, I would take thee for my wife. Ask what thou wilt of me and thou shalt have it.’ She asked an earldom for her father, and this granted, she thanked the king upon her knees, and claimed fulfilment of his former word. Whatever she may have been once, she was now an earl’s daughter, and he had promised to take her as his wife. The king, moved by love, gave his assent, and thus it was. This king ruled Spain in old days and his name was Alphonse: the knight was called Don Petro, and the daughter wise Peronelle. (3067-3402.)

Thus, my son, thou mayest know the evil of Pride, which fell from his place in heaven and in paradise; but Humility is gentle and debonnaire. Therefore leave Pride and take Humility.

My father, I will not forget: but now seek further of my shrift.

My son, I have spoken enough of Pride, and I think now to tell of Envy, which is a hellish vice, in that it does evil without any cause. (3403-3446.)

Lib. II.

1-220. Sorrow for another’s Joy. The next after Pride is Envy, who burns ever in his thought, if he sees another preferred to himself or more worthy. Hast thou, my son, in love been sick of another man’s welfare?

Yea, father, a thousand times, when I have seen another blithe of love. I am then like Etna, which burns ever within, or like a ship driven about by the winds and waves. But this is only as regards my lady, when I see lovers approach her and whisper in her ear. Not that I mistrust her wisdom, for none can keep her honour better; yet when I see her make good cheer to any man, I am full of Envy to see him glad.

My son, the hound which cannot eat chaff, will yet drive away the oxen who come to the barn; and so it is often with love. If a man is out of grace himself, he desires that another should fail. (1-96.)

Acis and Galatea. Ovid tells a tale how Poliphemus loved Galathea, and she, who loved another, rejected him. He waited then for a chance to grieve her in her love, and he saw her one day in speech with young Acis under a cliff by the sea. His heart was all afire with Envy, and he fled away like an arrow from a bow, and ran roaring as a wild beast round Etna. Then returning he pushed down a part of the cliff upon Acis and slew him. She fled to the sea, where Neptune took her in his charge, and the gods transformed Acis into a spring with fresh streams, as he had been fresh in love, and were wroth with Polipheme for his Envy. (97-200.)

Thus, my son, thou mayest understand that thou must let others be.

My father, the example is good, and I will work no evil in love for Envy. (200-220.)

221-382. Joy for another’s Grief. This vice rejoices when he sees other men sad, and thinks that he rises by another’s fall, as in other things, so also in love. Hast thou done so, my son?

Yes, father, I confess that when I see the lovers of my lady get a fall, I rejoice at it; and the more they lose, the more I think that I shall win: and if I am none the better for it, yet it is a pleasure to me to see another suffer the same pains as I. Tell me if this be wrong.

This kind of Envy, my son, can never be right. It will sometimes be willing to suffer loss, in order that another may also suffer, as a tale will show. (221-290.)

The Travellers and the Angel. Jupiter sent down an angel to report of the condition of mankind. He joined himself to two travellers, and he found by their talk that one was covetous and the other envious. On parting he told them that he came from God, and in return for their kindness he would grant them a boon: one should choose a gift and the other should have the double of what his fellow asked. The covetous man desired the other to ask, and the other, unwilling that his fellow should have more good than he, desired to be deprived of the sight of one eye, in order that his fellow might lose both. This was done, and the envious man rejoiced. (291-364.)

This is a thing contrary to nature, to seek one’s own harm in order to grieve another.

My father, I never did so but in the way that I have said: tell me if there be more.

383-1871. Detraction. There is one of the brood of Envy called Detraction. He has Malebouche in his service, who cannot praise any without finding fault. He is like the beetle which flies over the fields, and cares nothing for the spring flowers, but makes his feast of such filth as he may find. So this envious jangler makes no mention of a man’s virtue, but if he find a fault he will proclaim it openly. So also in Love’s court many envious tales are told. If thou hast made such janglery, my son, shrive thee thereof. (383-454.)

Yes, father, but not openly. When I meet my dear lady and think of those who come about her with false tales, all to deceive an innocent (though she is wary enough and can well keep herself), my heart is envious and I tell the worst I know against them; and so I would against the truest and best of men, if he loved my lady; for I cannot endure that any should win there but I. This I do only in my lady’s ear, and above all I never tell any tale which touches her good name. Tell me then what penance I shall endure for this, for I have told you the whole truth.

My son, do so no more. Thy lady, as thou sayest, is wise and wary, and there is no need to tell her these tales. Moreover she will like thee the less for being envious, and often the evil which men plan towards others falls on themselves. Listen to a tale on this matter. (454-586.)

Tale of Constance. The Roman Emperor Tiberius Constantinus had a daughter Constance, beautiful, wise, and full of faith. She converted to Christianity certain merchants of Barbary, who came to Rome to sell their wares, and they, being questioned by the Soldan when they returned, so reported of Constance that he resolved to ask for her in marriage. He sent to Rome and agreed to be converted, and Constance was sent with two cardinals and many other lords, to be his bride. But the mother of the Soldan was moved by jealousy. She invited the whole company to a feast, and there slew her own son and all who had had to do with the marriage except Constance herself, whom she ordered to be placed alone in a rudderless ship with victuals for five years, and so to be committed to the winds and waves. (587-713.)

For three years she drifted under God’s guidance, and at last came to land in Northumberland, near a castle on the bank of Humber, which was kept by one Elda for the king of that land Allee, a Saxon and a worthy knight. Elda found her in the ship and committed her to the care of Hermyngheld his wife, who loved her and was converted by her. Hermyngheld in the name of Christ restored sight to a blind man, at which all wondered, and Elda was converted to the faith. On the morrow he rode to the king, and thinking to please him, who was then unwedded, told him of Constance. The king said he would come and see her. Elda sent before him a knight whom he trusted, and this knight had loved Constance, but she had rejected him, so that his love was turned to hate. When he came to the castle he delivered the message, and they prepared to receive the king; but in the night he cut the throat of Hermyngheld and placed the bloody knife under the bed where Constance lay. Elda came the same night and found his wife lying dead and Constance sleeping by her. The false knight accused Constance and discovered the knife where he had placed it. Elda was not convinced, and the knight swore to her guilt upon a book. Suddenly the hand of heaven smote him and his eyes fell out of his head, and a voice bade him confess the truth, which he did, and thereupon died. (714-885.)

After this the king came, and desiring to wed Constance, agreed to receive baptism. So a bishop came from Bangor in Wales and christened him and many more, and married Constance to the king. She would not tell who she was, but the king perceived that she was a noble creature. God visited her and she was with child, but the king was compelled to go out on a war, and left his wife with Elda and the bishop. A son was born and baptized by the name of Moris, and letters were written to the king, and the bearer of them, who had to pass by Knaresborough, stayed there to tell the news to the king’s mother Domilde. She in the night changed the letters for others, which said, as from the keepers of the queen, that she had been delivered of a monster. The messenger carried the letters to the king, who wrote back that they should keep his wife carefully till he came again. On his return the messenger stayed again at Knaresborough, and Domilde substituted a letter bidding them on pain of death place Constance and her child in the same ship in which she had come, and commit them to the sea. They grieved bitterly, but obeyed. She prayed to heaven for help and devoted herself to the care of the child (886-1083). After the end of that year the ship came to land near a castle in Spain, where a heathen admiral was lord, who had a steward named Theloüs, a false renegade. He came to see the ship and found Constance, but he let none else see her; and at night he returned, thinking to have her at his will. He swore to kill her if she resisted him, and she bade him look out at the port to see if any man was near: then on the prayer of Constance he was thrown out of the ship and drowned. A wind arose which took her from the land, and after three years she came to a place where a great navy lay. The lord of these ships questioned her, but she told him little, giving her name as Couste. He said that he came from taking vengeance on the Saracens for their treachery, but could hear no news of Constance. He was the Senator of Rome and was married to a niece of the Emperor named Heleine. She came to Rome with her child and dwelt with his wife till twelve years were gone, and none knew what she was, but all loved her well. (1084-1225.)

In the meantime king Allee discovered the treachery and took vengeance on his mother, who was burnt to death after confession of her guilt; and all said that she had well deserved her punishment and lamented for Constance. Having finished his wars, the king resolved to go to Rome for absolution, and leaving Edwyn his heir to rule the land, he set forth with Elda. Arcennus reported to his wife and to Couste the coming of king Allee, and Couste swooned for joy. The king, after seeing the Pope and relieving his conscience, made a feast, to which he invited the Senator and others. Moris went also, and his mother bade him stand at the feast in sight of the king. The king seeing him thought him like his wife Constance, and loved him without knowing why. He asked Arcennus if the child were his son, and from him he heard his story and the name of his mother. The king smiled at the name ‘Couste,’ knowing that it was Saxon for Constance, and was eager to ascertain the truth. After the feast he besought the Senator to bring him home to see this Couste, and never man was more joyful than he was when he saw his wife. (1226-1445.)

The king remained at Rome for a time with Constance, but still she did not tell him who she was. After a while she prayed him to make an honourable feast before he left the city and to invite the Emperor, who was at a place a few miles away from the city. Moris was sent to beseech him to come and eat with them, which request he granted; and at the time appointed they all went forth to meet the Emperor. Constance, riding forward to welcome him, made herself known to him as his daughter. His heart was overcome, as if he had seen the dead come to life again, and all present shed tears. So a parliament was held and Moris was named heir to the Emperor. King Allee and Constance returned home to the great joy of their land; but soon after this the king died, and Constance came again to Rome. After a short time the Emperor also died in her arms, and she herself in the next year following. Moris was crowned Emperor and known as ‘the most Christian.’ (1446-1598.)

Thus love at last prevailed and the false tongues were silenced. Beware then thou of envious backbiting and lying, and if thou wouldest know further what mischief is done by backbiting, hear now another tale. (1599-1612.)

Demetrius and Perseus. Philip king of Macedoine had two sons, Demetrius and Perseus. Demetrius the elder was the better knight, and he was heir to the kingdom; but Perseus had envy of him and slandered him to his father behind his back, saying that he had sold them to the Romans. Demetrius was condemned on suborned evidence and by a corrupt judge, and so put to death. Perseus then grew so proud that he disdained his father and usurped his power, so that the father perceived the wrong which had been done; but the other party was so strong that he could not execute justice, and thus he died of grief.

Then Perseus took the government and made war on Rome, gathering a great host. The Romans had a Consul named Paul Emilius, who took this war in hand. His little daughter wept when she parted from him, because her little dog named Perse was dead, and this seemed to him a prognostic of success, for Perseus had spoken against his brother like a dog barking behind a man’s back. Perseus rode with his host, not foreseeing the mischief, and he lost a large part of his army by the breaking of the ice of the Danube. Paulus attacked him and conquered both him and his land, so that Perseus himself died like a dog in prison, and his heir, who was exiled from his land, gained his bread by working at a craft in Rome. (1613-1861.)

Lo, my son, what evil is done by the Envy which endeavours to hinder another.

I will avoid it, my father; but say on, if there be more.

My son, there is a fourth, as deceptive as the guiles of a juggler, and this is called False Semblant. (1862-1878.)

1879-2319. False Semblant. This is above all the spring from which deceit flows. It seems fair weather on that flood; but it is not so in truth. False Semblant is allied with Hypocrisy, and Envy steers their boat. Therefore flee this vice and let thy semblant always be true. When Envy desires to deceive, it is False Semblant who is his messenger; and as the mirror shows what was never within it, so he shows in his countenance that which is not in his heart. Dost thou follow this vice, my son?

Nay, father, for ought I know; but question me, I pray you.

Tell me then, my son, if ever thou hast gained the confidence of any man in order to tell out his secrets and hinder him in his love. Dost thou practise such devices?

For the most part I say nay; but in some measure I confess I may be reckoned with those that use false colours. I feign to my fellow at times, until I know his counsels in love, and if they concern my lady, I endeavour to overthrow them. If they have to do with others than she, I break no covenant with him nor try to hinder him in his love; but with regard to her my ears and my heart are open to hear all that any man will say,—first that I may excuse her if they speak ill of her, and secondly that I may know who her lovers are. Then I tell tales of them to my lady, to hinder their suit and further mine. And though I myself have no help from it, I can conceal nothing from her which it concerns her to know. To him who loves not my lady, let him love as many others as he will, I feign no semblant, and his tales sink no deeper than my ears. Now, father, what is your doom and what pain must I suffer? (1879-2076.)

My son, all virtue should be praised and all vice blamed: therefore put no visor on thy face. Yet many men do so nowadays, and especially I hear how False Semblant goes with those whom we call Lombards, men who are cunning to feign that which is not, and who take from us the profit of our own land, while we bear the burdens. They have a craft called Fa crere, and against this no usher can bar the door. This craft discovers everything and makes it known in foreign lands to our grievous loss. Those who read in books the examples of this vice of False Semblant, will be the more on their guard against it. (2077-2144.)

Hercules and Deianira. I will tell thee a tale of False Semblant, and how Deianira and Hercules suffered by it. Hercules had cast his heart only upon this fair Deianira, and once he desired to pass over a river with her, but he knew not the ford. There was there a giant called Nessus, who envying Hercules thought to do him harm by treachery, since he dared not fight against him openly. Therefore, pretending friendship, he offered to carry the lady across and set her safe on the other shore. Hercules was well pleased, and Nessus took her upon his shoulder; but when he was on the further side, he attempted to carry her away with him. Hercules came after them and shot him with a poisoned arrow, but before he died he gave Deianira his shirt stained with his heart’s blood, telling her that if her lord were untrue, this shirt would make his love return to her. She kept it well in coffer and said no word. The years passed, and Hercules set his heart upon Eole, the king’s daughter of Eurice, so that he dressed himself in her clothes and she was clothed in his, and no remedy could be found for his folly. Deianira knew no other help, but took this shirt and sent it to him. The shirt set his body on fire, and clove to it so that it could not be torn away. He ran to the high wood and tore down trees and made a huge fire, into which he leapt and was burnt both flesh and bones. And all this came of the False Semblant which Nessus made. Therefore, my son, beware, since so great a man was thus lost. (2145-2312.)

Father, I will no more have acquaintance with False Semblant, and I will do penance for my former feigning. Ask more now, if more there be.

My son, there is yet the fifth which is conceived of Envy, and that is Supplantation, by means of which many have lost their labour in love as in other things. (2313-2326.)

2327-3110. Supplantation. This vice has often overthrown men and deprived them of their dignities. Supplantation obtains for himself the profit of other men’s loss, and raises himself upon their fall. In the same way there are lovers who supplant others and deprive them of what is theirs by right, reaping what others have sown. If thou hast done so, my son, confess.

For ought I know, father, I am guiltless in deed, but not so in thought. If I had had the power, I would long ago have made appropriation of other men’s love. But this only as regards one, for whom I let all others go. If I could, I would turn away her heart from her other lovers and supplant them, no matter by what device: but force I dare not use for fear of scandal. If this be sin, my father, I am ready to redress my guilt. (2327-2428.)

My son, God beholds a man’s thought, and if thou knewest what it were to be a supplanter in love, thou wouldest for thine own sake take heed. At Troy Agamenon supplanted Achilles, and Diomede Troilus. Geta and Amphitrion too were friends, and Geta was the lover of Almena: but when he was absent, Amphitrion made his way to her chamber and counterfeited his voice, whereby he obtained admittance to her bed. Geta came afterwards, but she refused to let him in, thinking that her lover already lay in her arms. (2429-2500.)

The False Bachelor. There was an Emperor of Rome who ruled in peace and had no wars. His son was chivalrous and desirous of fame, so he besought leave to go forth and seek adventures, but his father refused to grant it. At length he stole away with a knight whom he trusted, and they took service with the Soldan of Persia, who had war with the Caliph of Egypt. There this prince did valiantly and gained renown; moreover, he was overtaken by love of the Soldan’s fair daughter, so that his prowess grew more and more, and none could stand against him. At length the Soldan and the Caliph drew to a battle, and the Soldan took a gold ring of his daughter and commanded her, if he should fall in the fight, to marry the man who should produce this ring. In the battle this Roman did great deeds, and Egypt fled in his presence. As they of Persia pursued, an arrow struck the Soldan and he was borne wounded to a tent. Dying he gave his daughter’s ring to this knight of Rome. After his burial a parliament was appointed, and on the night before it met, this young lord told his secret to his bachelor and showed him the ring. The bachelor feigned gladness, but when his lord was asleep, he stole the ring from his purse and put another in its stead. When the court was set, the young lady was brought forth. The bachelor drew forth the ring and claimed her hand, which was allowed him in spite of protest, and so he was crowned ruler of the empire. His lord fell sick of sorrow, caring only for the loss of his love; and before his death he called the lords to him and sent a message to his lady, and wrote also a letter to his father the Emperor. Thus he died, and the treason was known. The false bachelor was sent to Rome on demand of the Emperor, to receive punishment there, and the dead body also was taken thither for burial. (2501-2781.)

Thus thou mayest be well advised, my son, not to do so; and above all when Pride and Envy are joined together, no man can find a remedy for the evil. Of this I find a true example in a chronicle of old time, showing how Supplant worked once in Holy Church. I know not if it be so now. (2782-2802.)

Pope Boniface. At Rome Pope Nicholas died, and the cardinals met in conclave to choose another Pope. They agreed upon a holy recluse full of ghostly virtues, and he was made Pope and called Celestin. There was a cardinal, however, who had long desired the papacy, and he was seized with such envy that he thought to supplant the Pope by artifice. He caused a young priest of his family to be appointed to the Pope’s chamber, and he told this man to take a trumpet of brass and by means of it speak to the Pope at midnight through the wall, bidding him renounce his dignity. This he did thrice; and the Pope, conceiving it to be a voice from heaven, asked the cardinals in consistory whether a Pope might resign his place. All sat silent except this cardinal of whom we have spoken, and he gave his opinion that the Pope could make a decree by which this might be done. He did so, and the cardinal was elected in his stead under the name of Boniface. But such treason cannot be hid; it is like the spark of fire in the roof, which when blown by the wind blazes forth. Boniface openly boasted of his device; and such was his pride that he took quarrel with Louis, King of France, and laid his kingdom under interdict. The king was counselled by his barons, and he sent Sir William de Langharet, with a company of men-at-arms, who captured the Pope at Pontsorge near Avignon and took him into France, where he was put in bonds and died of hunger, eating off both his hands. Of him it was said that he came in like a fox, reigned like a lion, and died like a dog. By his example let all men beware of gaining office in the Church by wrongful means. God forbid that it should be of our days that the Abbot Joachim spake, when he prophesied of the shameful traffic which should dishonour the Church of God. (2803-3084.)

Envy it was that moved Joab to slay Abner treacherously; and for Envy Achitophel hanged himself when his counsel was not preferred. Seneca says that Envy is the common wench who keeps tavern for the Court, and sells liquour which makes men drunk with desire to surpass their fellows. (3085-3110.)