the deede man devise;
And with an hardy hert he gan to crie
Vengeaunce and justice for this felonye.
‘My felaw murdrid is this same night,
And in this carte he lieth gapying upright.
I crye out on the ministres,’ quoth he,
‘That shulde kepe and reule this citee;
Harrow! allas! her lieth my felaw slayn!’
What shold I more unto this tale sayn?
The peple upstert, and caste the cart to grounde,
And in the myddes of the dong thay founde
The dede man, that mordred was al newe.
O blisful God, thou art ful just and trewe!
Lo, how that thow betrayest mordre alday!
Mordre wil out, certes it is no nay.
Murder so lothsome is and abhominable
To God, that is so just and resonable,
That he wil never suffer it hidden be;
Though it abyde a yeer, or tuo, or thre,
Morder wil out, is my conclusioun.
And right anon, the mynistres of that toun
Have caught the carter, and have bete him so,
And eek the hostiller y-rackèd too,
That thay have told there wikkednes anon,
And were a-hangèd by the nekke-bone.
Here may ye see that men shal dremes drede.
And certes in the same book I rede,
Right in the nexte chaptre after this,
(I gabbe nought, may I have joye and blisse),
Tuo men that wold have passèd over see
For certeyn causes into a fer contree,
If that the wynd hadde not ben contrárie,
That made them in a citee for to tarie,
That stood ful mery upon an haven syde.
But on a day, aboute the even tyde,
The wynd gan chaunge, and blew as plesed them best.
Jolyf and glad they wenten unto rest,
And them bithought ful erly for to sayle;
But to the one man fel a gret mervayle.
The one of them in slepyng as he lay,
Dreméd a wonder dreme, before the day;
He thought a man stood by his beddes syde,
And him comaunded, that he shuld abyde,
And sayd him thus, ‘If thou to morrow wende,
Thow shalt be drowned; my tale is at an ende.’
He woke, and told that other the visión,
And prayèd him to stayen in the toun;
As for that day, he prayd him to abyde.
His felaw that lay by his beddis syde,
Gan for to laugh, and scornèd him ful fast.
‘No dreem,’ quoth he, ‘may make myn herte agaste,
That I wil stayen from myn owen thinges.
I sette not a straw by thy dremýnges,
For dremes be but vanitees and japes.
Men dremen every day of owles and apes,
And eke of many a fancy therwithal;
Men dreme of thinges that never happen or shal.
But since I see that thou wilt here abyde,
And thus wilt wasten wilfully thy tyde,
God wot I sory am; and have good day.’
And thus he took his leve, and went his way.
But ere he hadde half his cours i-sayled,
I know not why nor what meschaunce it ayled,
But casuelly the shippes bottom rent,
And ship and man under the watir went
In sight of other shippes ther byside,
That with him sailèd at the same tyde.

“And therfore, faire Pertelot so deere,
By such ensamples olde mayst thou hear
That no man sholde be so rekkeless
Of dremes, for I say thee douteless,
That many a dreem ful sore is for to drede.
Lo, in the lif of seint Kenelm, I rede,
That was Kenulphus sone, that noble king
Of Mercia, how Kenilm dremed a thing.
A litil, ere he was mordred, by traisoun,
He saw his murdre in a visioún.
His norice him expounded wisely
His dreme, and bad him kepe him as he may
Fro traisoun; but he was but seven yer old,
And therfore litel tale hath he us told
Of eny dreme, so holy was his hert.
By God, I hadde rather than my shert,
That ye had red his legend, as have I.
Dame Pertelot, I say you trewely,
Macrobius, that writ the visioún
In Affrik of the worthy Cipioún,
Affermeth dremes, and saith that thay be
Warnyng of thinges that men after see.
And forthermore, I pray bithink you wel
In the olde Testament, of Daniel,
If he held dremes to be as vanytee.
Rede eek of Joseph, and ther shal ye see
Whethir som tyme dremes ben (I say not alle)
Warnyng of thinges that shal after falle.
Think of Egiptes king, Dan Pharao,
His baker and his botiler also,
Whethir thay felte no effect, pardé.
He that wil rede of many a fer countré,
May find of dremes many a wondrous thing.
Lo Cresus, which that was of Lydes king,
Dreméd he not he sat upon a tree,
Which signifiéd he shuld hangéd be?
Lo here Andromacha, Ectóres wif,
That day that Ector shulde lose his lif,
She dremèd on the same night byforn,
How that the body of Ector schuld be torn,
If on that day he wente into batáyle;
She warnéd him, but it might nought availe;
He wente forth to fighte natheles,
And he was slayn anon of Achilles.
But thilke tale is al too long to telle,
And eek it is ny day, I may not duelle.
Shortly I say, as for conclusion,
That I shal have of this my visioun
Adversitee; and I say forthermore,
That I ne set by laxatifs no store,
For thay be venemous, wel know I it;
I them defye; I love them never a whit.

“Now let us speke of mirthe, and stay al this;
Madame Pertilot, so have I blis,
Of one thing God hath me sent large grace;
For when I see the beautee of your face,
Ye be so scarlet red about your eyen,
It makith al my drede for to dyen,
For, al so sure as In principio,
Mulier est hominis confusio.
(Madame, the sentence of this Latyn is,
Womman is mannes joye and mannes blis.)
For when I fiele a-night your softe syde,
Al be it that I may not on you ryde,
For that your perche is made so narrow, allas!
I am so ful of joye and of solás,
That I defye both vision and dreme.”
And with that word he flew doun fro the beem,
For it was day, and eek his hennes alle;
And with a chuk he gan them for to calle,
For he had found a corn, lay in the