Tellith me this nowe faithfully,
Have I not provid thus fimply,
Withoutin any fubtilte

Of fpeche, or grete prolixyte
Of termis of philofophie,
Of figuris of poetrie,
Or colouris of rhetorike?
Perde it oughtin the to like,

For harde langage and harde matere
Is incombrous for the to here
At onis, wofte thou not wel this?
And I anfwerid and faid, Yes.

Ah ha! (quod he) lo! fo I can
Leudlye unto a leudè man

Yfpeke, and fhewin him foche skilles
That he maye shake 'hem by the bylles,
So palpable they fhuldin be;

But tel me this nowe praye I the,
Howe thinketh the my conclufioun ?
Parde a gode perfuafioun
(Quod I) it is, and lyke to be,
Right fo as thou hafte provid me.
By God (quod he) and as I leve
Thou fhalte have it or it be eve,
Of every worde of this fentence
A profe by thine experience,
And with thine eris herin wel
and taile, and every del,

The toppe

That every worde that spokin is
Comith into Fame's Houfe ywis

As I have faide; what wilt thou more?
And with this worde uppir to fore
He began, and saide, By sainte Jame
Nowe wyll we fpekin al of gane.

Howe fareft thou now? quod he to me.
Right wel, (quod I.) Now fe (quod he)
By thy trouthe yondir adowne,
Where that thou knowift any towne
Or house, or any othir thinge,

And whan thou haste of ought knowyngę
Tho lokith that thou warnè me,
And I anone fhal tellin the

How farre that thou arte nowe therfro,

And I adoune gan lokin tho,
And behelde the feldis and plainis,
Nowe hyllis and nowe mountainis,
Nowe valeys and nowe foreftis,
And nowe unnethis grete beftis,
Nowe riveris nowe citeis,
Nowe townis and nowe grete treis,
Nowe fhippis failinge in the fe;
But thus fone in a while he
Was flowin fro the grounde fo hye
That al the worlde, as to myne eye,
No more yfemid than a pricke,
Or ellis was the eyre fo thicke
That I ne might it not difcerne ;
With that he fpake to me fo yerne,
And said, Seift thou any token,

Or ought that in this worlde's of spoken?
I answered Naye. No wondir is,
(Quod he) for halfe fo hye as this
N'as Alexandre', of Macedon
Kynge, ne of Rome Dan Scipion,

That fawe in dreme at pointe devise
Heven and erthe, hel and paradise,
Ne eke the bold wretche Dedalus,
Ne yet his childe, nice Icarus,
That flewe fo hiè that the hete
Hys wingis molte, and he fel wete
In mydde the fe, and there he dreinte,
For whom was made a grete complainte.
Nowe tourne upwarde (quod he) thy face,
And beholde here this large place,
This eyre, but loke that thou ne be
Adrad of hem that thou fhalt fe,
For in this regioun certaine
Dwellith many a citizeine,
Of whiche yfpekith Dan Plato,
These ben the eyrishe bestis, lo!
And tho fawe I al the menye
That bothe ygone and also flye.

Lo there! (quod he) caft up thine eye,
Se yondir, lo! the Galaxie,

The whiche men clepe The Milky Way,
For it is white, and some parfay
Ycallin it han Watlynge ftrete,

That onis was brente with the hete,
Whan that the funn'is fonne the rede,
Which that hite Phaeton, wolde lede
Algate his fathir's carte and gie.

The carte horfis gan wel afpie
That he ne coude no govirnaunce,
And gonin for to lepe and praunce,
And bere him now up and nowe downe
Tyl that he fawe the Scorpiowne,
Whiche that in heven a figne is yit,
And he for fere ylofte his wit

Of that, and let the reinis gone
Of his horfis, and they anone

Sone up to mounte and downe difcende,
Tyl bothe the eyre and erthe ybrende,
Tyl Jupiter, lo! at the lafte

Hym flewe, and fro the carte ycaste.
Lo! is it not a grete mischaunce

To let a fole have govirnaunce

Of thinges that he can not demaine?

And with this worde, fothe for to faine, He gan alway uppir to fore,

And gladid me than more and more,
So faithfully to me spake he.

Tho gan I to loke undir me,
And behelde the eyrishe bestis
Cloudis, myftis, and tempiftis,
Snowis, hailis, rainis, and windes,
And the engendringe in ther kindes,
Al the way thoroughe whiche I came ;
O God! (quod I) that made Adame,
Moche is thy myght and noblenes!

And tho thought I upon Boece,
That writeth a thought may flye so hie
With fethirs of philofophie
To paffin everyche element;
And when he hath so farre ywent

Than may ben fene behinde his backe
Cloude, erthe, and al that I of fpake.

Tho gan I wexin in a were,
And faid, I wote wel I am here,

But whether in body or in goft
I n'ot ywis, but God thou woft,
For a more clere entendèment
N'as to me nevir yet yfent.
And than thought I on Marcian,
And eke of Anticlaudian,
That fothe was ther difcripcion
Of al the hevin's region,

As farre as that I fawe the preve,
And therfore I can 'hem beleve.
With that the egle gan to crie,
Let be (quod he) thy fantafie:
Wylte thou lernin of fterris ought?
Nay, certainly, (quod I) right nought.
And why? (quod he.) For I am olde.
Or ellis wolde I the have tolde
(Quod he) the starris namis, lo!
And al the hevin's fignis to,

And whiche they be. No force (quod I.)
Yes perde, (quod he;) woft thou why?
For whan thou redift poëtry,
Howe the goddis can stellify

A birde, a fyfhe, or him or her,

As of birdes the ravyn and other,
Or Ariones harpè fyne,

Or Caftor Pollux, or Delphine,
Or Atlante's doughtirs seven,
How al thefe are yfet in heven,

For though thou have 'hem ofte in hande
Yet n'oft thou nat where that they stande.
No force, (quad I;) it is no nede:
As wel I leve, fo God me fpede,
'Hem that writin of this matere
As though I knewe ther placis here,
And eke they femin here fo bright
That it fhulde fhendin al my fight
To loke on 'hem. That may wel be,
(Quod he;) and fo forth bare he me
A while, and tho began to crie,
That nevir herde I thinge fo hie;
Holde up thine hed, for al is wel
Sainte Julian, lo! bonne hoftel!
Se here The Houfe of Fame, lo!
Mayift thou not here that I do?

Here what? (quod I.) The gretè fowne
(Quod he) that romblith up and downe
In Fam'is Houfe, ful of tidinges
Bothe of faire speche and of chidinges,
And of falfe and fothe compownid;
Herkin wel, it is not rownid.

Herift thou not the gretè fwough? Yes, perde, (quod I) well ynough. And what fowne is it lyke? (quod he.) Peter lyke the' beting of the fe (Quod 1) against the rochis halowe, Whan tempeftes done ther hippis fwalow,

And that a man stande out of doute
A myle off thens and here it route;

Or ellis lyke to the humblinge
Aftir the clappe of a thundringe,
Whan Jovis hath the eyre ybete,
But it doth me for fere to fwete.

Nay, drede the not therof, (quod he)
It is nothing that will bytin the;
Thou fhalte have no harme truily.

And with that worde both he and I
As nighe the place arrivid were
As men might castin with a spere:
I ne wift howe, but in a ftrete
He fet me faire upon my fete,
And fayid, Walkith forth a pace,
And tel thine advinture and cafe
That thou fhalte finde in Fam'is place.

Nowe (quod I) while that we have space
To fpeke, or that I go fro the,
For the love of God tellith me
In fothe that I will of the lere,
If this ilke noife which that I here
Be as I have herde the me tell,
Of folke that done in erthe ydwell,
And comith here in the fame wife
As I the herde or this devife,
And that here liv'is body n'is
In all that Houfe that yondir is
That makith al this loud fare.

No, (anfwerid he) by Sainte Clare,
And al fo wiffely God rede me:
But o thinge I will warne the

Of the whiche thou wilte have wondir.
Lo to The Houfe of Fame yondir.
Thou wofte howe comith every speche,
It nedith not the efte to teche;
But understande now right wel this,
Whan any speche ycomin is
Up to the palais, anone right
It wexith like the fame wight

Whiche that the worde in erth yfpake,
Be he clothid in red or blake,

And hath so very his likenesse
That spake the worde, that thou wilte geffe
That it the fam body be,

Wher man or woman, he or fhe.

And is not this a wondir thinge? Yes, quod I) tho by hevin kinge:

And with this worde Farewel, (quod he)

And here wil I abydin the,

And God of hevin fende the grace
Some gode to lernin in this place!
And I of him toke leve anone,
And gan forth to the palays gone.

Nn iij

Trou, god of Science and of Light,
Apollo! thorough thy grete might
This fitil laft boke now thou gye,
Nowe that I will for maiftèrie
Here arte potenciall be fhewde,
But for the rime is lyght and lewde
Yet make it fomwhat agreable,
Though fome verfe faile in a fyllable,
And that I do no diligence
To fhewin craftè but fentence;
And if that divine virtue thou
Wilte helpin me to fhewin nowe
That in my hed ymarkid is,
Lo! that is for to menin this,
The Houfe of Fame for to difcrive,
Thou fhalt yfe me go as blive
Unto the next laurir 1 fe,
And kyffe it for it is thy tre
Nowe entre in my breft anone.
Whan I was froin the egle gone,
I gan beholde upon this place,
And certaine or I furthir paffe
I wol you al the fhape devife

Of House and cite, and al the wife
Howe I gan to this place approche,
That ftode upon fo hie a roche,
Hyir yandith none in Spaine;
But up I clambe with mochil paine,
And though to clíme ygrevid me
Yet I ententife was to fe,
And for to porin wondre lowe,
If I coude any wife yknowe
What manir ftone this roche ywas,
For it was lyke a limid glas,
But that it hone ful more clere,
But of what congelid matere
It was I ne wife redily;
But at the lafte clpyid I,

Ard founde that it was everydele
A roche of yfe and not of file:

Thought I, by Saint Thomas of Kent
This were a feble foundèment
To buildin on a place fo hie;
He ought hym lite to glorifie
That heron builte, God fo me fave.

Tho fawe I all the hall igrave
With famous folkis namis fele
That haddin ben in mochil wele,
And ther famis full wide iblowe,
But well unnethis might I knowe
Any lettiris for to rede

Ther namis by, for out of drede
Thei werin almofte of thawed fo
That of the lettirs one or two
Were molte awaie of every name,
So unfamous was wexe ther fame;
But men faie, What maie evir lajt?

Tho gan I in myne hertè caft
That thei were molte awaie for hete,
And not awaie with ftormis bete,
For on that othir fide I fey
Of this hill, that northward yley,
How it was writin full of names
Of folke that had afore grete fames
Of olde tyme, and yet thei were
As frefhe as men had written 'hem there
The felf daie, or that verry houre,
That I on 'hem began to poure;
But well I wife what it made,
It was confervid with the fhade,
All the writyng which that I fie,
Of a caftill that ftode on hie,
And ftode eke in fo cold a place
That hete ne might it not deface."

Tho gan I on this hill to gone,
And found upon the corpe a wone,
That all the men that ben on live
Ne han the connyng to ditcrive
The beaute of that ilke place,
Ne coudin cafin no compace

Soche an othir for to ymake
That might of beautie be his make,
Ne one fo wondirly iwrought,
That it aftonicth yet my thought,
And makith all my witte to fwinke,
Upon this caftill for to thinke,
So that the wondir grete beautic,
Cafte, craft, and curiofitie,
Ne can I not to you devife,
My witte ne maie me not fuffife,
But nathèleffe all the fubftaunce
I have yet in my remembrance;

For why? me thoughtin, by Sainct Gile,
That all was ftone of berile

Bothe the caftill and the toure,
And eke the hall and every boure,
Withoutin pecis or joynynges,
But many fubtill compaffynges,
As barbicans and pinnacles,
Imageries and tabernacles,

I fawe, and full eke of windowes,
As flakis fallin in grete fnowes,
And eke in eche of the pinacles
Ywerin fondrie habitacles,
In whiche ftodin all withoutin
Full the caftill all aboutin
Of all manir of minstralis
And jeftours, that tellin talis
Bothe of wepyng and eke of game,
And all that longith unto Fame :
There herde I playing on an harpe,
That yfounid bothe well and sharpe,
Hym Orpheus full craftily,
And on this othir fide fast by
Yfatte the harpir Orion,
And Gacides Chirion,
And othir harpirs many one,
And the Briton Glaskirion,
And fmalè harpirs with ther glees
Satte undir 'hem in divers fees,
And gone on 'hem upwarde to gape,
And counterfaited 'hem as an ape,
Or as Crafte counterfeitith Kinde.

Tho fawe I standin 'hem behinde,
Afarre from 'hem, al by 'hem felve,
Many a thousande tymis twelve,
That madin loudè minfiralfies
In cornmufe and eke in fhalmies,
And in many an othir pipe,
That craftily began to pipe
Bothe in doucid and eke in rede,
That ben at feftis with the brede,
And many' a floite and litlyng horne,
And pipis made of grenè corne,
As have thefe little herdègromes
That kepin beftis in the bromes.

There fawe I then Dan Citherus,
And of Athenes Dan Proferus,
And Mercia, that lofte her skinne
Bothe in the face, bodie, and chinne,
For that the would envyin, lo!
To pipin bette than Apollo.

There fawe I famous old and yong Pipiris of all the Duche tong,

To lernin love dauncis fpringis,
Reyis, and the ftraung thingis.

Tho fawe I in an othir place,
Yitandyng in a large space,
Of 'hem that makin blodie foun
In trump, beme, and clarioun,
For in fight and in blodefhedynges
Is ufid glad clarionynges.

There herde I trumpin Meffenus,
Of whom that fpekith Virgilius.
There herd I Joab trumpe alfo,
Theodomas, and othir mo,
And all that ufid clarion
In Cafteloigne and Aragon,
That in ther tymis famous were,
To lernin fawe I trumpin there.
There fawe I fit in othir fees,
Playing on othir fondrie glees,
Whiche that I can not now nevin,
Mo then terris ben in hevin,
Of whiche I n'ill as now not rime
For efe of you and loffe of time,
For Tyme iloft, this knowin ye,
By no waie maie recovered be.

There fawe I playing jogèlours,
Megiciens and tragètours,
And Phetoniffis, charmereffis,
And olde witchis and forcercffis,
That ufen exorfifacions

And eke fubfumigacions,
And clerkis eke which connin well
All this magike hight Naturell,
That craftily doe ther ententes
To maken in certain afcendentes
Imagis, lo! through whiche magike
To maken a man ben whole or fike.
There fawe I the Quene Medea,
And Circe and Caliophia.

There fawe I Hermes Ballenus,
Limote, and eke Symon Magus.

There fawe I, and yknewe by name, That by foche arte doen men have fame, There fawe I eke Coll Tragètour

Upon a table' of ficamour

Playin an uncouth thyng to tell;
I fawe hym cary a windemell
Undir a walnote fhale.

What should I makin lengir tale?
Of all the peple that I fey

I could not tell till dom'ifdey.

When I had all this folke beholde,
And founde me loce and not yholde,
And I amufid a longe while
Upon this wall all of berile,
That fhone lightir than any glas,
And made well more then it ywas,
As it kindely thing of Fame is,
And then right anone aftir this
I gan forthe romin till I fonde
The caftill yate on my right honde,
Whiche all fo well ycorvin was
That nevir foche an othir n'aз,
And yet it was by avinture
Iwrought by grete and fubtill cure;
N niitj

It nedith not you more to tellen,
To makin you to long to dwellen,
Of these ilke yatis flourishynges,
Ne of compacis ne karvynges,
Ne the hackyng in mafonries,
As corbettis and imageries.

But Lorde, fo faire it was to fhewe!
For it was all with golde behewe;
But in I went, and that anone :
There met I crying many one,
A larges, larges! holde up well;
God fave the ladie of this pell,
Our ownè gentill Ladie Fame,

And 'hem that willen to have a name
Of us! Thus heard I cryin all,
And faft comin out of the hall
And fhoke noblis and ftarlyngis,
And corounid were as kyngis

With crownis wrought full of lofynges,
And many ribans many fringes
Were on ther clothis truily.

Tho at the laft efpyid I
That purfevauntes and heraudis,
That cryin riche folkis laudis,
It werin all; and every man
Of 'hem, as I you tellin can,
Had on him throwin a vefture
Whiche men yclepe a cote armure,
Embroudirid wondirly riche,
As though thei werin not iliche:
But nought will I, fo mote I thrive,
Be now aboutin to difcrive
All these armis that there yweren
That thei thus on ther cotis weren,
For to me were impoffible,
Men might make of 'hem a Bible
Full twentie fote thicke as Itrowe,
For certain who fo coud it knowe
Ymight there all the armis fene
Of famous folke that er had bene
In Affrike, Europe, and Afie,
Sithins first began chivalrie.

Lo! how should I now tell all this!
Ne of the hall eke what nede is
To tellin you? that every wall
Of it, and rofe, and flore withall,
Was platid halfe a fotè thicke

Of golde, and that ne was not wicke,
But for to provin in all wife
As fine as ducket in Venife,

Of whiche to lite all in my pouche is;
And thei were fet as thicke of ouchis
Fine, of the finift ftonis faire
That men reden in the lapidaire,
Or as graffis growen in a mede;
But it were all to long to rede
The namis, and therefore I pace.
But in this luftie and riche place,
That Fam'is Hall ycallid was,
Full mochil pres of folke there n'as,
Ne crouding, for to mochil prcs;

But all on hie above a des
Satte in a fe imperiall

That made was of rubie roiall

Whiche that a carbuncle is called,
I fawe perpetually iftalled
A femine creture,

That nevir formid by Nature
Was foche an othir thyng I faie;
For althirfirfte, the fothe to faie;
Me thoughtin that fhe was fo lite
That the smale length of a cubite
Was lengir than the femid be,
But thus fone in a while fhe
Her felf tho' wondirly yftreight
That with her fete fhe th' erthe yreight,

And with her hedde fhe touchid heven,
There as fhinith the fterris feven;
And thereto yet, as to my wit,

I fawin a grete wondir yit,
Upon her eyin to beholde,
But certainly' I 'hem nevir tolde,
For as fele eyin haddin fhe
As fethirs upon foulis be,
Or werin on the beftis foure
That Godd'is trone can to honoure,
As writeth Ihon in the' Apocalyps,
Her here, that was owndie and crips,
As burnid golde it fhone to fe.

And, fothe to tellin also, she
Had alfo fele upftandyng eres,
And tongis as on best ben heres,
And on her fete woxin fawe I

Partrich'is wingis redily.

But Lorde! the perrie' and the richele
I fawe fittyng on the goddeffe,
And the hevinly melodie
Of fongis full of armonie

I herde about her trone fong,
That all the palais wall yrong!
So fonge the mightie Mufe, the
That clepid is Caliope,

And her fevin fuftirin eke,
That in ther facis femid meke,
And evirmore eternally

Thei fongin of Fame; tho heard J,
Yheried be thou and thy name,
Goddeffe of Renoun and of Fame!

Tho was I aware at the laft,
As I myne eyin gan upcast,
That this ilke grete and noble quene
Upon her fhuldirs gan fuftene
Bothe the armis and the name
Of tho that haddin large fame,
Alifander and Hercules,

That with a fherte his life did lefe;
And thus founde I fittyng this goddeffe
In noble honour and richeffe,
Of which I ftinte a while now,
Of othir thing to tellin you.

Tho fawe I ftande on th' other fide,
Streight doune unto the doris wide,
From the dees many a pillere
Of metall that fhone not full clere,
But though thei were of no richelle
Yet were thei made for grete nobleffe,
And in 'hem was there grete fentence,
And folke of hic and digne reverence,