The Works of John Dryden, now first collected in eighteen volumes. Volume 12. John Dryden

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      He n'is not gentil, be he duk or erl,

      For vilains sinful dedes make a cherl:

      For gentillesse n'is but the renomee

      Of thin auncestres for hir high bountee,

      Which is a strange thing to thy persone:

      Thy gentillesse cometh fro God alone;

      Than cometh our veray gentillesse of grace;

      It was no thing bequethed us with our place.

      Thinketh how noble, as saith Valerius,

      Was thilke Tullius Hostilius,

      That out of poverte rose to high noblesse.

      Redeth Senek, and redeth eke Boece,

      Ther shull ye seen expresse that it no dred is

      That he is gentil that doth gentil dedis:

      And therefore, leve husbond, I thus conclude,

      Al be it that min auncestres weren rude,

      Yet may the highe God, and so hope I,

      Granten me grace to liven vertuously;

      Than am I gentil whan that I beginne

      To liven vertuously and weiven sinne.

      And ther as ye of poverte me repreve,

      The highe God, on whom that we beleve,

      In wilful poverte chese to lede his lif;

      And certes every man, maiden, or wif,

      May understond that Jesus heven king

      Ne wold not chese a vicious living.

      Glad poverte is an honest thing certain,

      This wol Senek and other clerkes sain.

      Who so that halt him paid of his poverte,

      I hold him rich, al had he not a sherte.

      He that coveiteth is a poure wight,

      For he wold han that is not in his might;

      But he that nought hath, ne coveiteth to have,

      Is riche, although ye hold him but a knave.

      Veray poverte is sinne proprely.

      Juvenal saith of poverte merily,

      The poure man whan he goth by the way,

      Beforn the theves he may sing and play.

      Poverte is hateful good; and, as I gesse,

      A ful gret bringer out of besinesse;

      A gret amender eke of sapience

      To him that taketh it in patience.

      Poverte is this, although it some elenge,

      Possession that no wight wol challenge.

      Poverte ful often, whan a man is low,

      Maketh his God and eke himself to know.

      Poverte a spectakel is, as thinketh me,

      Thurgh which he may his veray frendes see.

      And therefore, Sire, sin that I you not greve,

      Of my poverte no more me repreve.

      Now, Sire, of elde that ye repreven me:

      And certes, Sire, though non auctoritee

      Were in no book, ye gentiles of honour

      Sain that men shuld an olde wight honour,

      And clepe him Fader, for your gentillesse;

      And auctours shal I finden, as I gesse.

      Now ther ye sain that I am foule and old,

      Than drede ye not to ben a cokewold;

      For filthe, and elde also, so mote I the,

      Ben grete wardeins upon chastitee.

      But natheles, sin I know your delit,

      I shal fulfill your worldly appetit.

      Chese now (quod she) on of thise thinges twey,

      To han me foule and old til that I dey,

      And be to you a trewe humble wif,

      And never you displese in all my lif;

      Or elles wol ye han me yonge and faire,

      And take your aventure of the repaire

      That shal be to your hous because of me,

      Or in some other place it may wel be?

      Now chese yourselven whether that you liketh.

      This knight aviseth him, and sore siketh,

      But at the last he said in this manere:

      My lady and my love, and wif so dere,

      I put me in your wise governance,

      Cheseth yourself which may be most plesance

      And most honour to you and me also,

      I do no force the whether of the two,

      For as you liketh, it sufficeth me.

      Than have I got the maisterie, quod she,

      Sin I may chese and governe as me lest.

      Ye certes, wif, quod he, I hold it best.

      Kisse me, quod she, we be no lenger wrothe,

      For by my trouth I wol be to you bothe,

      This to sayn, ye bothe faire and good.

      I pray to God that I mote sterven wood

      But I to you be al so good and trewe

      As ever was wif sin that the world was newe,

      And but I be to-morwe as faire to seen

      As any lady, emperice, or quene,

      That is betwix the est and eke the west,

      Doth with my lif and deth right as you lest.

      Cast up the curtein, loke how that it is.

      And whan the knight saw veraily all this,

      That she so faire was, and so yonge therto,

      For joye he hent hire in his armes two:

      His herte bathed in a bath of blisse,

      A thousand time a-row he gan hire kisse:

      And she obeyed him in every thing

      That mighte don him plesance or liking.

      And thus they live unto hir lives ende

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