Confessio Amantis or Tales of the Seven Deadly Sins by John Gower (books you have to read txt) 📖

the world, for bothe tuo
Largesse awaiteth as belongeth,
To neither part that he ne wrongeth;
He kepth himself, he kepth his frendes,
So stant he sauf to bothe hise endes,
That he excedeth no mesure,
So wel he can himself mesure:
Wherof, mi Sone, thou schalt wite,
So as the Philosophre hath write. 7640
Betwen the tuo extremites
Of vice stant the propretes
Of vertu, and to prove it so
Tak Avarice and tak also
The vice of Prodegalite;
Betwen hem Liberalite,
Which is the vertu of Largesse,
Stant and governeth his noblesse.
For tho tuo vices in discord
Stonde evere, as I finde of record; 7650
So that betwen here tuo debat
Largesse reuleth his astat.
For in such wise as Avarice,
As I tofore have told the vice,
Thurgh streit holdinge and thurgh skarsnesse
Stant in contraire to Largesse,
Riht so stant Prodegalite
Revers, bot noght in such degre.
For so as Avarice spareth,
And forto kepe his tresor careth, 7660
That other al his oghne and more
Ayein the wise mannes lore
Yifth and despendeth hiere and there,
So that him reccheth nevere where.
While he mai borwe, he wol despende,
Til ate laste he seith, "I wende";
Bot that is spoken al to late,
For thanne is poverte ate gate
And takth him evene be the slieve,
For erst wol he no wisdom lieve. 7670
And riht as Avarice is Sinne,
That wolde his tresor kepe and winne,
Riht so is Prodegalite:
Bot of Largesse in his degre,
Which evene stant betwen the tuo,
The hihe god and man also
The vertu ech of hem commendeth.
For he himselven ferst amendeth,
That overal his name spredeth,
And to alle othre, where it nedeth, 7680
He yifth his good in such a wise,
That he makth many a man arise,
Which elles scholde falle lowe.
Largesce mai noght ben unknowe;
For what lond that he regneth inne,
It mai noght faile forto winne
Thurgh his decerte love and grace,
Wher it schal faile in other place.
And thus betwen tomoche and lyte
Largesce, which is noght to wyte, 7690
Halt evere forth the middel weie:
Bot who that torne wole aweie
Fro that to Prodegalite,
Anon he lest the proprete
Of vertu and goth to the vice;
For in such wise as Avarice
Lest for scarsnesse his goode name,
Riht so that other is to blame,
Which thurgh his wast mesure excedeth,
For noman wot what harm that bredeth. 7700
Bot mochel joie ther betydeth,
Wher that largesse an herte guydeth:
For his mesure is so governed,
That he to bothe partz is lerned,
To god and to the world also,
He doth reson to bothe tuo.
The povere folk of his almesse
Relieved ben in the destresse
Of thurst, of hunger and of cold;
The yifte of him was nevere sold, 7710
Bot frely yive, and natheles
The myhti god of his encress
Rewardeth him of double grace;
The hevene he doth him to pourchace
And yifth him ek the worldes good:
And thus the Cote for the hod
Largesse takth, and yit no Sinne
He doth, hou so that evere he winne.
What man hath hors men yive him hors,
And who non hath of him no fors, 7720
For he mai thanne on fote go;
The world hath evere stonde so.
Bot forto loken of the tweie,
A man to go the siker weie,
Betre is to yive than to take:
With yifte a man mai frendes make,
Bot who that takth or gret or smal,
He takth a charge forth withal,
And stant noght fre til it be quit.
So forto deme in mannes wit, 7730
It helpeth more a man to have
His oghne good, than forto crave
Of othre men and make him bounde,
Wher elles he mai stonde unbounde.
Senec conseileth in this wise,
And seith, "Bot, if thi good suffise
Unto the liking of thi wille,
Withdrawh thi lust and hold the stille,
And be to thi good sufficant."
For that thing is appourtenant 7740
To trouthe and causeth to be fre
After the reule of charite,
Which ferst beginneth of himselve.
For if thou richest othre tuelve,
Wherof thou schalt thiself be povere,
I not what thonk thou miht recovere.
Whil that a man hath good to yive,
With grete routes he mai live
And hath his frendes overal,
And everich of him telle schal. 7750
Therwhile he hath his fulle packe,
Thei seie, "A good felawe is Jacke";
Bot whanne it faileth ate laste,
Anon his pris thei overcaste,
For thanne is ther non other lawe
Bot, "Jacke was a good felawe."
Whan thei him povere and nedy se,
Thei lete him passe and farwel he;
Al that he wende of compainie
Is thanne torned to folie. 7760
Bot nou to speke in other kinde
Of love, a man mai suche finde,
That wher thei come in every route
Thei caste and waste her love aboute,
Til al here time is overgon,
And thanne have thei love non:
For who that loveth overal,
It is no reson that he schal
Of love have eny proprete.
Forthi, mi Sone, avise thee 7770
If thou of love hast be to large,
For such a man is noght to charge:
And if it so be that thou hast
Despended al thi time in wast
And set thi love in sondri place,
Though thou the substance of thi grace
Lese ate laste, it is no wonder;
For he that put himselven under,
As who seith, comun overal,
He lest the love special 7780
Of eny on, if sche be wys;
For love schal noght bere his pris
Be reson, whanne it passeth on.
So have I sen ful many on,
That were of love wel at ese,
Whiche after felle in gret desese
Thurgh wast of love, that thei spente
In sondri places wher thei wente.
Riht so, mi Sone, I axe of thee
If thou with Prodegalite 7790
Hast hier and ther thi love wasted.
Mi fader, nay; bot I have tasted
In many a place as I have go,
And yit love I nevere on of tho,
Bot forto drive forth the dai.
For lieveth wel, myn herte is ay
Withoute mo for everemore
Al upon on, for I nomore
Desire bot hire love al one:
So make I many a prive mone, 7800
For wel I fiele I have despended
Mi longe love and noght amended
Mi sped, for oght I finde yit.
If this be wast to youre wit
Of love, and Prodegalite,
Nou, goode fader, demeth ye:
Bot of o thing I wol me schryve,
That I schal for no love thryve,
Bot if hirself me wol relieve.
Mi Sone, that I mai wel lieve: 7810
And natheles me semeth so,
For oght that thou hast yit misdo
Of time which thou hast despended,
It mai with grace ben amended.
For thing which mai be worth the cost
Per chaunce is nouther wast ne lost;
For what thing stant on aventure,
That can no worldes creature
Telle in certein hou it schal wende,
Til he therof mai sen an ende. 7820
So that I not as yit therfore
If thou, mi Sone, hast wonne or lore:
For ofte time, as it is sene,
Whan Somer hath lost al his grene
And is with Wynter wast and bare,
That him is left nothing to spare,
Al is recovered in a throwe;
The colde wyndes overblowe,
And still be the scharpe schoures,
And soudeinliche ayein his floures 7830
The Somer hapneth and is riche:
And so per cas thi graces liche,
Mi Sone, thogh thou be nou povere
Of love, yit thou miht recovere.
Mi fader, certes grant merci:
Ye have me tawht so redeli,
That evere whil I live schal
The betre I mai be war withal
Of thing which ye have seid er this.
Bot overmore hou that it is, 7840
Toward mi schrifte as it belongeth,
To wite of othre pointz me longeth;
Wherof that ye me wolden teche
With al myn herte I you beseche.


Explicit Liber Quintus.


Incipit Liber Sextus


Est gula, que nostrum maculavit prima parentem
Ex vetito pomo, quo dolet omnis homo
Hec agit, ut corpus anime contraria spirat,
Quo caro fit crassa, spiritus atque macer.
Intus et exterius si que virtutis habentur,
Potibus ebrietas conviciata ruit.
Mersa sopore labis, que Bachus inebriat hospes,
Indignata Venus oscula raro premit.


The grete Senne original,
Which every man in general
Upon his berthe hath envenymed,
In Paradis it was mystymed:
Whan Adam of thilke Appel bot,
His swete morscel was to hot,
Which dedly made the mankinde.
And in the bokes as I finde,
This vice, which so out of rule
Hath sette ous alle, is cleped Gule; 10
Of which the branches ben so grete,
That of hem alle I wol noght trete,
Bot only as touchende of tuo
I thenke speke and of no mo;
Wherof the ferste is Dronkeschipe,
Which berth the cuppe felaschipe.
Ful many a wonder doth this vice,
He can make of a wisman nyce,
And of a fool, that him schal seme
That he can al the lawe deme, 20
And yiven every juggement
Which longeth to the firmament
Bothe of the sterre and of the mone;
And thus he makth a gret clerk sone
Of him that is a lewed man.
Ther is nothing which he ne can,
Whil he hath Dronkeschipe on honde,
He knowth the See, he knowth the stronde,
He is a noble man of armes,
And yit no strengthe is in his armes: 30
Ther he was strong ynouh tofore,
With Dronkeschipe it is forlore,
And al is changed his astat,
And wext anon so fieble and mat,
That he mai nouther go ne come,
Bot al togedre him is benome
The pouer bothe of hond and fot,
So that algate abide he mot.
And alle hise wittes he foryet,
The which is to him such a let, 40
That he wot nevere what he doth,
Ne which is fals, ne which is soth,
Ne which is dai, ne which is nyht,
And for the time he knowth no wyht,
That he ne wot so moche as this,
What maner thing himselven is,
Or he be man, or he be beste.
That holde I riht a sori feste,
Whan he that reson understod
So soudeinliche is woxe wod, 50
Or elles lich the dede man,
Which nouther go ne speke can.
Thus ofte he is to bedde broght,
Bot where he lith yit wot he noght,
Til he arise upon the morwe;
And thanne he seith, "O, which a sorwe
It is a man be drinkeles!"
So that halfdrunke in such a res
With dreie mouth he sterte him uppe,
And seith, "Nou baillez a the cuppe." 60
That made him lese his wit at eve
Is thanne a morwe al his beleve;
The cuppe is al that evere him pleseth,
And also that him most deseseth;
It is the cuppe whom he serveth,
Which alle cares fro him kerveth
And alle bales to him bringeth:
In joie he wepth, in sorwe he singeth,
For Dronkeschipe is so divers,
It may no whyle stonde in vers. 70
He drinkth the wyn, bot ate laste
The wyn drynkth him and bint him faste,
And leith him drunke be the wal,
As him which is his bonde thral
And al in his subjeccion.
And lich to