Passus Undecimus

Thanne Scripture scorned me And a skile tolde, And lakked me in Latyn, And light by me she sette, And seide "Multi multa sciunt Et seipsos nesciunt."

Tho wepte I for wo And wrathe of hir speche; And in a wynkynge wrathe Weex I a-slepe. A merveillous metels Mette me thanne, That I was ravysshed right there, And Fortune me fette, And into the lond of longynge Allone she me broughte, And in a mirour that highte middel-erthe She made me to biholde. "Sone," she seide to me, "Here myghtow se wondres, And knowe that thow coveitest, And come therto, peraunter."

Thanne hadde Fortune folwynge hire Two faire damyseles;

Concupiscentia-carnis Men called the elder mayde, And Coveitise-of-eighes Y-called was that oother. Pride-of-parfit-lyvynge Pursued hem bothe, And bad me for my contenaunce Acounten Clergie lighte.

Concupiscentia-carnis Colled me aboute the nekke, And seide, "Thow art yong and yeepe, And hast yeres y-nowe For to lyve longe, And ladies to lovye; And in this mirour thow myght se Myghtes ful manye, That leden thee wole to likynge Al thi lif tyme."

The secounde seide the same, "I shal sewe thi wille; Til thow be a lord and have lond, Leten thee I nelle, That I ne shal folwe thi felawshipe, If Fortune it like." "He shal fynde me his frend," Quod Fortune therafter; "The freke that folwede my wille Failled nevere blisse."

Thanne was ther oon that highte Elde, That hevy was of chere; "Man," quod he, "if I mete with thee, By Marie of hevene! Thow shalt fynde Fortune thee faille At thi mooste nede,

And Concupiscentia-carnis Clene thee forsake. Bittrely shaltow banne thanne Bothe dayes and nyghtes Coveitise-of-eighe, That evere thow hir knewe, And Pride-of-parfit-lyvynge To muche peril thee brynge."

"Ye, recche thee nevere," quod Rechelesnesse, Stood forthe in raggede clothes, "Folwe forth that Fortune wole, Thow hast wel fer til Elde; A man may stoupe tyme y-nogh, Whan he shal tyne the crowne.

"Homo proponit quod a poete, And Plato he highte, And Deus disponit quod he, Lat God doon his wille. If Truthe wol witnesse it be wel do Fortune to folwe, Concupiscentia-carnis, Ne Coveitise-of-eighes, Ne shal noght greve thee gretly, Ne bigile, but if thow wolt thiselve."

"Ye, fare wel Phippe and Faunteltee," And forth gan me drawe, Til Concupiscentia-carnis Acorded alle my werkes.

"Alas! eighe," quod Elde And Holynesse bothe, "That wit shal torne to wrecchednesse, For wil to have his likyng."