The Tale

happened, as they went by the way Toward the placë where as he should dey, The knight came, which men weened had been dead. Then thoughtë they it was the bestë rede To lead them both unto the judge again. They saidë, ‘Lord, the knight hath not y-slain His fellow; here he standeth whole alive.’ ‘Ye shall be dead,’ quoth he, ‘so may I thrive, That is to say, both one, and two, and three.’ And to the firstë knight right thus spake he: ‘I damned thee, thou must algate be dead: And thou also must needës lose thine head, For thou the cause art why thy fellow dieth.’ And to the thirdë knight right thus he sayeth, ‘Thou hast not done that I commanded thee.’ And thus he did do slay them allë three. Irous Cambyses was eke dronkelew, And aye delighted him to be a shrew. And so befell, a lord of his meinie, That loved virtuous moralitý, Said on a day betwixt them two right thus: ‘A lord is lost, if he be vicious. [An irous man is like a frantic beast, In which there is of wisdom none arrest;] And drunkenness is eke a foul record Of any man, and namely of a lord. There is full many an eye and many an ear Awaiting on a lord, he knows not where. For Goddë’s love, drink more attemperly: Wine maketh man to losë wretchedly His mind, and eke his limbës every one.’ ‘The réverse shalt thou see,’ quoth he, ‘anon, And prove it by thine own experience, That winë doth to folk no such offence. There is no wine bereaveth me my might Of hand, nor foot, nor of mine eyen sight.’ And for despite he drankë muchë more A hundred part than he had done before, And right anon this cursed irous wretch This knightë’s sonë let before him fetch, Commanding him he should before him stand: And suddenly he took his bow in hand, And up the string he pulled to his ear, And with an arrow slew the child right there. ‘Now whether have I a sicker hand or non?’ Quoth he; ‘Is all my might and mind agone? Hath wine bereaved me mine eyen sight?’ Why should I tell the answer of the knight? His son was slain, there is no more to say. Beware therefore with lordës how ye play, Sing Placebo ; and I shall if I can, But if it be unto a poorë man: To a poor man men should his vices tell, But not t’ a lord, though he should go to hell. Lo, irous Cyrus, thilkë Persian, How he destroy’d the river of