De Nerone

Although that Nero were as vicious
As any fiend that lieth ful lowe adoun,
Yit he, as tellith us Suetonius,
This wyde world had in subjeccioun,
Bothe est and west, south and septemtrioun.
Of rubies, sapphires, and of perles white,
Were alle his clothes embroidred up and doun;
For he in gemmis gretly gan delite.

More delycat, more pompus of array,
More proud was never emperour than he.
That ylke cloth that he hadde wered a day,
After that tyme he wolde it never see,
Nettis of gold thred had he gret plentee,
To fisshe in Tyber, whan him list to pleye.
His willes were as lawe in his degree,
For fortune as his frend wold him obeye.

He Rome brente for his delicacie;
The senatours he slew upon a day,
To here how men wolde wepen and wolde crye;
And slew his brother, and by his suster lay,
His modir made he in pitous array,
Her body he let slytten, to byholde
Wher he conceyved was, so waylaway!
That he so litel of his modir tolde.

No tear out of his eyen for that sighte
He wept; but sayde, a fair womman was she.
Gret wonder is how that he coude or mighte
Be domesman upon hir dede beautee.
The wyn to bringen him comaundid he,
And drank anon, non other wo he made.
Whan might is tornèd unto crueltee,
Allas! too deepe wil the venym wade.

In youthe a maister hadde this emperour,
To teche him letterature and curtesye;
For of moralitee he was the flour,
As in his tyme, but if the bokes lye.
And whil his maister had of him maistrie,
He made him be so connyng and so souple,
That longe tyme it was ere tyrranye
Or ony vice dorst on him uncouple.

This Seneca, of which that I devyse,
Bycause that Nero had of him such drede,
For he fro vices wolde the king chastise
Discretly as by word, and nought by dede.
“Sir,” wold he sayn, “an emperour mot neede
Be vertuous and hate tyrannye.”
For which he in a bath made him to bleede
On both his armes, til he moste dye.

This Nero hadde eek of a custumance
In youthe before his maister for to ryse,
Which after-ward he thought a gret grevaunce;
Therfore he made him deyen in this wise.
But nontheles this Seneca the wise
Chose in a bath to deye in this manére,
Rather than to have another tormentise;
And thus hath Nero slayn his maister deere.

Now fel it so that fortune lust no lenger
The highe pride of Nero to cherice;
For though he were strong, yit was she strenger;
She thoughte thus, “By God! I am too nyce,
To set a man that is fulfilled of vice
In high degree, and emperour him calle;
By God! out of his sete I wil him trice:
Whan he least weneth, soonest shal he falle.

The poeple rose on him upon a night
For his defaute, and whan he is aspyed,
Out of his dores anon he hath him dight
Aloone, and where he wende he was allyed,
He knokkede fast; and ay the more he cried,
The faster shutte thay the doores alle.
Than wist he wel he had nowher to hide,
And went his way, no longer durst he calle.

The peple cried, and rumbled up and doun,
That with his eres herd he how thay sayde,
“Wher is this false traitour, this Neroun?”
For fere almost out of his witte he fled,
And to his goddess piteously he prayde
For socour, but it mighte nought betyde;
For drede of this him thoughte that he dyde,
And ran into a gardyn hym to hyde.

And in this gardyn fond he cherles twaye
Down sittyng by a fyr ful greet and reed.
And to these cherles tuo he gan to pray
To slay him, and to girden off his heed,
That to his body, whan that he were deed,
Were no despyt y-don for his defame.
Himself he slew, he coude no better speed;
Of which fortúne thai laughed and hadde game.