The dede man, that mordred was al newe.
O blisful God, thou art ful just and trewe,
Lo, how thow bywreyest mordre alday.
Mordre wil out, certes it is no nay.
Morder is so wlatsom and abhominable
To God, that is so just and resonable,
That he ne wold nought suffre it hiled be;
Though it abyde a yeer, or tuo, or thre,
Morder wil out, this is my conclusioun.
And right anoon, the mynistres of that toun
Han hent the carter, and so sore him pyned,
And eek the hostiller so sore engyned,
That thay biknew her wikkednes anoon,
And were anhonged by the nekke boon.

"Here may men se that dremys ben to drede.
And certes in the same book I rede,
Right in the nexte chapitre after this,
(I gabbe nought, so have I joye or blis),
Tuo men that wolde have passed over see
For certeyn causes into fer contré,

If that the wynd ne hadde ben contrarie,
That made hem in a cité for to tarie,

That stood ful mery upon an haven syde.

But on a day, agayn the even tyde,

The wynd gan chaunge, and blew right as hem list.

Jolyf and glad they wenten unto rest,
And casten hem ful erly for to sayle;
But to that oon man fell a gret mervayle.
That oon of hem in his slepyng as he lay,
Him met a wonder drem, agayn the day;

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Him thought a man stood by his beddes syde,
And him comaunded, that he schuld abyde,
And sayd him thus, if thou to morwe wende,
Thow schalt be dreynt; my tale is at an ende.'
He wook, and told his felaw what he mette,
And prayde him his viage to lette,

As for that day, he prayd him for to abyde.
His felaw that lay by his beddis syde,

Gan for to lawgh, and scorned him ful fast.
'No dreem,' quod he, may so myn herte gaste,
That I wil lette for to do my thinges.

I sette not a straw by thy dremynges,
For swevens been but vanitees and japes.
Men dreme al day of owles and of apes,
And eke of many a mase therwithal;
Men dreme of thinges that never be schal.
But sith I see that thou wilt her abyde,
And thus forslouthe wilfully thy tyde,
God wot it reweth me, and have good day.'
And thus he took his leve, and went his way.
But er he hadde half his cours i-sayled,

Noot I nought why, ne what meschaunce it ayled,
But casuelly the schippes bothom rent,
And schip and man under the watir went
In sight of other schippes ther byside,
That with him sailed at the same tyde.

"And therfore, faire Pertelot so deere,

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By such ensamples olde maistow leere

16580-never be schal. I have not ventured to change the reading of the Harl. MS. Tyrwhitt reads, never was ne shall.

VOL. III.

E

That no man scholde be to recheles

Of dremes, for I say the douteles,
That many a dreem ful sore is for to drede.
Lo, in the lif of seint Kenelm, I rede,
That was Kenulphus sone, the noble king
Of Mercenrike, how Kenilm mette a thing.
A litil or he was mordred upon a day,
His mordre in his avysioun he say.
His norice him expouned every del

His sweven, and bad him for to kepe him wel
For traisoun; but he nas but seven yer old,
And therfore litel tale hath he told
Of eny drem, so holy was his hert.
By God, I hadde lever than my schert,
That ye had rad his legend, as have I.
Dame Pertelot, I say yow trewely,
Macrobius, that writ the avisioun

In Auffrik of the worthy Cipioun,

Affermeth dremes, and saith that thay been
Warnyng of thinges that men after seen.
And forthermore, I pray yow loketh wel
In the olde Testament, of Daniel,

If he huld dremes eny vanyté.

Rede eek of Joseph, and ther schal ye see

Whethir dremes ben som tyme (I say nought alle)

16596-Kenelm.

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Kenelm succeeded his father, Kenulph, on the throne of the Mercians, in 821, at the age of seven years, and was mur. dered by order of his aunt, Quenedreda. He was subsequently made a saint, and his legend will be found in Capgrave, or in the Golden Legend. 16610-Cipioun. The Somnium Scipionis of Macrobius was a favourite work during the middle ages.

Warnyng of thinges that schul after falle.
Lok of Egipt the king, daun Pharao,
His baker and his botiler also,

Whethir thay felte noon effect in dremis.
Who so wol seke actes of sondry remys,
May rede of dremes many a wonder thing.
Lo Cresus, which that was of Lydes king,
Mette he not that he sat upon a tre,
Which signified he schuld hanged be?
Lo hir Andromachia, Ectors wif,
That day that Ector schulde lese his lif,
Sche dremed on the same night byforn,
How that the lif of Ector schuld be lorn,

If thilke day he wente to batayle;

Sche warned him, but it might nought availe;

He wente forth to fighte natheles,

And he was slayn anoon of Achilles.

But thilke tale is al to long to telle,

And eek it is neigh day, I may not duelle.
Schortly I say, as for conclusioun,

That I schal have of this avisioun
Adversité; and I say forthermore,
That I ne telle of laxatifs no store,
For thay ben venemous, I wot it wel;
I hem defye, I love hem never a del.

Now let us speke of mirthe, and lete al this;

Madame Pertilot, so have I blis,

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16627-Lo hir Andromachia. Andromache's dream is related in the twenty-fourth chapter of Dares Phrygius: the authority for the history of the Trojan war, most popular in the middle ages.

Of o thing God hath me sent large grace;
For whan I se the beauté of your face,
Ye ben so scarlet hiew about your eyghen,
It makith al my drede for to deyghen,
For, al so siker as In principio,
Mulier est hominis confusio.

(Madame, the sentence of this Latyn is,
Womman is mannes joye and mannes blis.)
For whan I fiele a-night your softe syde,
Al be it that I may not on you ryde,

For that your perche is mad so narow, allas!
I am so ful of joye and solas,

That I defye bothe sweven and drem."

And with that word he fleigh doun fro the beem,

For it was day, and eek his hennes alle;

And with a chuk he gan hem for to calle,
For he had found a corn, lay in the yerd.
Real he was, he was nomore aferd;
He fetherid Pertelote twenty tyme,
And trad as ofte, er that it was prime.
He lokith as it were a grim lioun ;
And on his toon he rometh up and doun,
Him deyned not to set his foot to grounde.
He chukkith, whan he hath a corn i-founde,

And to him rennen than his wifes alle.

Thus real, as a prince is in his halle,
Leve I this Chaunteclere in his pasture;
And after wol I telle his aventure.

Whan that the moneth in which the world bigan,
That highte March, whan God maked first man,

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