Cap. XIII. of Memory, the V. Part of Rethoryke

And the v. parte is than memoratyfe, The whiche the perfyte mynystracyon Ordinately causeth to be retentyfe, Dryving the tale to good conclusyon; For it behoveth to have respeccyon Unto the tale, and the veray grounde And on what ymage he his matter found.

If to the oratour many a sundry tale, One after other, treatably be tolde, Than sundry ymages in his closed male Eche for a mater he doth than well holde, Lyke to the tale he doth than so beholde, And inwarde a recapitulacyon, Of eche ymage the moralazacyon.

Whiche be the tales he grounded pryvely Upon these ymages significacyon, And whan tyme is for him to specify All his tales by demonstracion, In due order, maner and reason, Than eche ymage inwarde dyrectly The oratour doth take full properly.

So is enprynted in his propre mynde Every tale wyth hole resemblaunce. By this ymage he doth his mater fynde, Eche after other wythouten varyaunce. Who to this arte wyl gyve attendaunce, As therof to knowe the perfytenes, In the poetes scole he must have intres.

Than shal he knowe, by perfyte study, The memorial arte of rethoryke defuse, It shal to him so wel exemplefy, If that him lyst, the scyence to use; Though at the fyrste it be to hym obtuse, With exercyse he shal it well augment, Under cloudes derke and termes eloquent.

But nowadayes the synne of avaryce Exyleth the mynde and the hole delyght, To coveyt connyng, which is gret prejudice, For insacyatly so blynded is theyr syght Wyth the sylver and the golde so bryght, They nothing thynke on fortune varable, Whyche al theyr ryches shal make transmutable.

The olde sawes they ryght clene abject, Whych for our lernyng the poetes dyd wryte; With avaryce they arose so sore infect, They take no hede nothyng they wryte, Whyche morally dyd so nobly endyte, Reprovyng vyce, praysyng the vertue, Whiche idelnes dyd evermore eschewe.

Nowe wyl I cease of lusty rethoryke; I may not tary, for my tyme is short; For I must procede, and shew of Arismetrik With divers nombres which I must reporte. Hope inwardly doth me wel comforte, To brynge my boke unto a fynyshment, Of al my matter and my true entent.