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By preve as wel as by auctoritee,
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That wikked fruit cometh of a wikked tree,
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That may ye finde, if that it lyketh yow.
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But for this ende I speke this as now,
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To telle you of false Demophon.
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In love a falser herde I never non,
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But-if hit were his fader Theseus.
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"God, for his grace, fro swich oon kepe us!"
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Thus may thise women prayen that hit here.
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Now to theffect turne I of my matere.
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Destroyed is of Troye the citee;
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This Demophon com sailing in the see
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Toward Athenes, to his paleys large;
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With him com many a ship and many a barge
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Ful of his folk, of which ful many oon
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Is wounded sore, and seek, and wo begoon.
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And thay han at the sege longe y-lain.
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Behinde him com a wind and eek a rain
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That shoof so sore, his sail ne mighte stonde,
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Him were lever than al the world a-londe,
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So hunteth him the tempest to and fro.
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So derk hit was, he coude nowher go;
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And with a wawe brosten was his stere.
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His ship was rent so lowe, in swich manere,
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That carpenter ne coude hit nat amende.
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The see, by nighte, as any torche brende
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2420 |
For wood, and posseth him now up now doun,
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Til Neptune hath of him compassioun,
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And Thetis, Chorus, Triton, and they alle,
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And maden him upon a lond to falle,
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Wher-of that Phillis lady was and quene,
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Ligurgus doghter, fairer on to sene
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Than is the flour again the brighte sonne.
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Unnethe is Demophon to londe y-wonne,
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Wayk and eek wery, and his folk for-pyned
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Of werinesse, and also enfamyned;
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And to the deeth he almost was y-driven.
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His wyse folk to conseil han him yiven
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To seken help and socour of the queen,
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And loken what his grace mighte been,
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And maken in that lond som chevisaunce,
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To kepen him fro wo and fro mischaunce.
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For seek was he, and almost at the deeth;
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Unnethe mighte he speke or drawe his breeth,
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And lyth in Rodopeya him for to reste.
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Whan he may walke, him thoughte hit was the beste
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Unto the court to seken for socour.
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Men knewe him wel, and diden him honour;
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For at Athenes duk and lord was he,
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As Theseus his fader hadde y-be,
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That in his tyme was of greet renoun,
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No man so greet in al his regioun;
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And lyk his fader of face and of stature,
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And fals of love; hit com him of nature;
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As doth the fox Renard, the foxes sone,
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Of kinde he coude his olde faders wone
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Withoute lore, as can a drake swimme,
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Whan hit is caught and caried to the brimme.
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This honourable Phillis doth him chere,
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her lyketh wel his port and his manere.
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But for I am agroted heer-biforn
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To wryte of hem that been in love forsworn,
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And eek to haste me in my legende,
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Which to performe god me grace sende,
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Therfor I passe shortly in this wyse;
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Ye han wel herd of Theseus devyse
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In the betraising of fair Adriane,
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That of her pite kepte him from his bane.
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At shorte wordes, right so Demophon
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The same wey, the same path hath gon
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That dide his false fader Theseus.
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For unto Phillis hath he sworen thus,
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To wedden her, and her his trouthe plighte,
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And piked of her al the good he mighte,
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Whan he was hool and sound and hadde his reste;
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And doth with Phillis what so that him leste.
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And wel coude I, yif that me leste so,
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Tellen al his doing to and fro.
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He seide, unto his contree moste he saile,
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For ther he wolde her wedding apparaile
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As fil to her honour and his also.
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And openly he took his leve tho,
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And hath her sworn, he wolde nat soiorne,
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But in a month he wolde again retorne.
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And in that lond let make his ordinaunce
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As verray lord, and took the obeisaunce
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2480 |
Wel and hoomly, and let his shippe dighte,
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And hoom he goth the nexte wey be mighte;
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For unto Phillis yit ne com he noght.
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And that hath she so harde and sore aboght,
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Allas! that, as the stories us recorde,
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She was her owne deeth right with a corde,
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Whan that she saw that Demophon her trayed.
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But to him first she wroot and faste him prayed
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He wolde come, and her deliver of peyne,
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As I reherse shal a word or tweyne.
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2490 |
Me list nat vouche-sauf on him to swinke,
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Ne spende on him a penne ful of inke,
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For fals in love was he, right as his syre;
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The devil sette hir soules both a-fyre!
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But of the lettre of Phillis wol I wryte
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A word or tweyne, al-thogh hit be but lyte.
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"Thyn hostesse," quod she, "O Demophon,
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Thy Phillis, which that is so wo begon,
|
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Of Rodopeye, upon yow moot compleyne,
|
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Over the terme set betwix us tweyne,
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2500 |
That ye ne holden forward, as ye seyde;
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Your anker, which ye in our haven leyde,
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Highte us, that ye wolde comen, out of doute,
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Or that the mone ones wente aboute.
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But tymes foure the mone hath hid her face
|
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Sin thilke day ye wente fro this place,
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And foure tymes light the world again.
|
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But for al that, yif I shal soothly sain,
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Yit hath the streem of Sitho nat y-broght
|
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From Athenes the ship; yit comth hit noght.
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And, yif that ye the terme rekne wolde,
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As I or other trewe lovers sholde,
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I pleyne not, god wot, beforn my day," --
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But al her lettre wryten I ne may
|
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By ordre, for hit were to me a charge,
|
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Her lettre was right long and ther-to large;
|
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But here and there in ryme I have hit laid,
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Ther as me thoughte that she wel hath said, --
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She seide, "thy sailes comen nat again,
|
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Ne to thy word ther nis no fey certein;
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But I wot why ye come nat," quod she;
|
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"For I was of my love to you so free.
|
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And of the goddes that ye han forswore,
|
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Yif that hir vengeance falle on yow therfore,
|
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Ye be nat suffisaunt to bere the peyne.
|
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To moche trusted I, wel may I pleyne,
|
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Upon your linage and your faire tonge,
|
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And on your teres falsly out y-wronge.
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How coude ye wepe so by craft?" quod she;
|
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May ther swiche teres feyned be?
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2530 |
Now certes, yif ye wolde have in memorie,
|
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Hit oghte be to yow but litel glorie
|
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To have a sely mayde thus betrayed!
|
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To god," quod she, "preye I, and ofte have prayed,
|
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That hit be now the grettest prys of alle,
|
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And moste honour that ever yow shal befalle!
|
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And whan thyne olde auncestres peynted be,
|
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In which men may hir worthinesse see,
|
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Than, preye I god, thou peynted be also,
|
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That folk may reden, for-by as they go,
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2540 |
"Lo! this is he, that with his flaterye
|
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Betrayed hath and doon her vilanye
|
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That was his trewe love in thoghte and dede!"
|
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But sothly, of oo point yit may they rede,
|
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That ye ben lyk your fader as in this;
|
|
For he begyled Adriane, y-wis,
|
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With swiche an art and swiche sotelte
|
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As thou thy-selven hast begyled me.
|
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As in that point, al-thogh hit be nat fayr,
|
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Thou folwest him, certein, and art his eyr.
|
2550 |
But sin thus sinfully ye me begyle,
|
|
My body mote ye seen, within a whyle,
|
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Right in the haven of Athenes fletinge,
|
|
With-outen sepulture and buryinge;
|
|
Thogh ye ben harder then is any stoon."
|
|
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And, whan this lettre was forth sent anoon,
|
|
And knew how brotel and how fals he was,
|
|
She for dispeyr for-dide herself, allas!
|
|
Swich sorwe hath she, for she besette her so,
|
|
Be war, ye women, of your sotil fo,
|
2560 |
Sin yit this day men may ensample see;
|
|
And trusteth, as in love, no man but me.
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Explicit Legenda Phillis.
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