Text Box: And y was left withouten helpe. So wiste I nought wher of to yelpe, Bot only that y hadde lore My time, and was sori therfore. And thus bewhapid in my thought, Whan al was turnyd into nought, I stod amasid for a while, And in myself y gan to smyle Thenkende uppon the bedis blake, And how they weren me betake, For that y schulde bidde and preie. And whanne y sigh non othre weie Bot only that y was refusid, Unto the lif which y hadde usid I thoughte nevere torne agein: And in this wise, soth to seyn, Homward a softe pas y wente, Wher that with al myn hol entente Uppon the poynt that y am schryve I thenke bidde whil y live. Text Box: Wher that the game is nought pernable; It were a thing unresonable, A man to be so overseie. Forthi tak hiede of that I seie; For in the lawe of my comune We be noght schape to comune, Thiself and I, nevere after this. Now have y seid al that ther is Of love as for thi final ende. Adieu, for y mot fro thee wende." * * * * * And with that word al sodeinly, Enclosid in a sterred sky, Venus, which is the qweene of love, Was take in to hire place above, More wist y nought wher sche becam. And thus my leve of hire y nam, And forth with al the same tide Hire prest, which wolde nought abide, Or be me lief or be me loth, Out of my sighte forth he goth,

  Venus behield me than and lowh,
And axeth, as it were in game,
What love was. And I for schame
Ne wiste what I scholde ansuere;
And natheles I gan to swere
That be my trouthe I knew him noght;
So ferr it was out of mi thoght,
Riht as it hadde nevere be.
"Mi goode sone," tho quod sche,
"Now at this time I lieve it wel,
So goth the fortune of my whiel;
Forthi mi conseil is thou leve.”

*** *** ***
Bot sche, that wolde make an ende,
As therto which I was most able,
A peire of bedes blak as sable
Sche tok and heng my necke aboute;
Upon the gaudes al withoute
Was write of gold, Por reposer.
"Lo," thus sche seide, "John Gower,
Now thou art ate laste cast,
 
From the end of Gower’s Confessio Amantis  VII.2870-2970

This have I for thin ese cast,
That thou no more of love sieche.
Bot my will is that thou besieche
And preie hierafter for the pes,

And that thou make a plein reles
To love, which takth litel hiede
Of olde men upon the nede,
Whan that the lustes ben aweie:
Forthi to thee nys bot o weie,
In which let reson be thi guide;
For he may sone himself misguide,
That seth noght the peril tofore.
Mi sone, be wel war therfore,
And kep the sentence of my lore
And tarie thou mi court no more,
Bot go ther vertu moral duelleth,
Wher ben thi bokes, as men telleth,
Whiche of long time thou hast write.
For this I do thee wel to wite,
If thou thin hele wolt pourchace,
Thou miht noght make suite and chace,