"Eche thing draueth unto his semlable,
Fysshes on the see, bestes on the stronde,
The eyere for fowllis of nature is convenable,
To a ploughe man to tille the lande,

And a chorle a mokeforke in his hande;

I lese my tyme ony more to tarye,

To telle a bowen of the lapidarye.

"That thou haddest, thou gettest never agayne;
Thi lym-twigges and panters I defye:
To lete me go thou ware foule over sayne,
To lese thi richesse only of foly.

I am now fre to syng, and to flye

Where that me lust, and he is a foole at alle,
That gothe at large and makethe hymselff thralle.

"To here a wisdom thyn eres been half deef,
Lyke an asse that listithe on an harppe,
Thou mayst go pype in an yve-leffe;

Better is to me to synge on thornes sharppe,
Than in a cage withe a chorle to carppe:
For it was saide of folkes yore a gone,
A chorles chorle is ofte wo begone."

The chorle felt his hert parte in twayne,
For verray sorowe, and a-sondire ryve;
"Allas!" quod he, "I may wele wepe and playne,
As a wreche never leke to thryve,

But for to endure in poverte al my live;

For of foly and of wilfulnesse,

I have now lost al holy my richesse.

"I was a lorde, I crye out of fortune,
And hadde gret tresoure late in my keping,
Whiche myghte have made me long to contynue,
Withe that stone to have lyved leke a kyng;
Yf that I hadde sett it in a ryng,

Borne it on me, I hadde had goode i-nowe,

And never more have neded to goon to the ploughe.”

Whan the birdde sawe the chorle thus morne,

And houghe that he was hevy of his chere,
She toke hir flighte and gayn a-gayne retorne
Towards hym, and said as ye shal here;—
"O dul chorle wysdoms for to lere!
That I the taughte, al is lefte behynde,

Raked away and clene out of mynde.

"Taughte I the not thies wisdam in sentence,
To every tale broughte to the of newe

Not hastily to yeve therto credence,
Into tyme thou knew that it were trewe;

Al is not golde that shynethe goldisshe hewe,
Nor stonys al by nature, as I fynde,
Be not saphires that shewethe colour Ynde.

In this doctryne I loste my laboure,

To teche the suche proverbis of substaunce,
Now mayst thou se thyn owne blynde errour,
For al my body peyssed in balaunce,

Weiethe not an unce; rude is thi remembraunce,
I to have more payce clos in myne entrayle,
Than al my body set for the countirvayle!

"Al my bodye weyeth not an unce,

Hough myght I than have in me a stone,
That peyssith more, as dothe a gret jagounce;
Thy brayne is dul, thy witte is almoste gone;
Of thre wisdoms thou hast forgoteneoon,
Thou shuldest not aftir my sentence,

To every tale yeve hastily credence.

"I badde also be ware bothe even and morowe,
For thing lost of soden aventure,

Thou shuld not make to mekelle sorowe,
Whan thou seest thou mayst not it recure;
Here thou faylest, which doste thi busy cure,
In thi snare to kache me agayne,

Thou art a fole, thi labour is in vayne.

In the thirdde also thou doste rave:

I badde thou shuldest, in no maner wyse,

Coveyte thing whiche thou maist not have,
In whiche thou hast forgoten myne empryse;
That I may sey playnly to devyse,

Thou hast of madnesse forgoten al thre
Notable wysdoms that I taught the.

"It ware but foly withe the more to carpe, Or to preche of wysdoms more or lasse;

I holde hym madde that bryngeth forth his harppe,

The ne to teche a rude for-dulle asse;

And ma ide is he that syngeth a fole a masse; And he is moste madde that dothe his besynesse,

To teche a chorle termys of gentilnesse.

"And semlably in Apprille and in May,
Whan gentille birddes most maketh melodie,
The cokkowe syng can than but oon lay,
In othir tymes she hathe no fantasye;
Thus every thing, as clerks specifye,
As frute and trees, and folke of every degré,
Fro whens they come thei take a tarage.

"The vintere tretethe of his holsom wynes,
Of gentille frute bostethe the gardener,
The fyssher casteth his hokes and his lynes
To kache fyssh in every fressh rever,
Of tilthe of lande tretethe the boueer,
The chorle delitethe to speke of rybaudye,
The hunter also to speke of venerye.

"Al oon to the a ffaucion and a kyghte,

As goode an howle as a popingaye,

A downghille doke as deynté as a snyghte;
Who servethe a chorle hathe many a carfull day.
Adewe! sir chorle, farwele! I flye my way.
O caste me never aftir my lyfe enduring
A-fore a chorle any more to syng."

Ye folke that shal here this fable, see or rede,
Now forged talis I counsaille you to fle,
For losse of goode takethe not to gret hede,
Bethe not malicious for noon adversité,
Coveitethe no thing that may not be;
And remembre, wherever that ye goone,
A chorles chorle is woo begone.

Unto purpos this proverd is full ryfe,

Rade and reported by olde remembraunce.
A childes birrde and a knavis wyfe

Have often siethe gret sorowe and myschaunce.
Who hathe fredom hathe al suffisaunce;
Bettir is fredom withe litelle in gladnesse,
Than to be thralle withe al worldly richesse.

Go, gentille quayer! and recommaunde me
Unto my maister with humble effection;
Beseke hym lowly, of mercy and pité,
Of this rude makyng to have compassion;
And as touching the translacioun

Oute of Frenshe, hough ever the Englisshe be,
Al thing is saide undir correctioun,
With supportacion of your benignité.

ON THE MUTABILITY OF HUMAN AFFAIRS. FROM MS. Harl. 2255, fol. 14-17. Other copies occur in MS. Harl. 2251; MS. Rawl. Oxon. C. 86; and MS. Bib. Coll. Jes. Cantab. Q. T. 8. See Madden's "Introduction to Sir Gawayne," p. 65. In MS. Harl. 7333, is the first stanza of this ballad, together with the opening verse of another of Lydgate's poems, with the following rubric: "Halsam squiere made thes ij. balades." These latter have been printed in the " Reliquiæ Antiquæ," i. 234; but there is certainly no sufficient reason to assign either one or the other to the worthy "squiere."

THE world so wyd, the hair so remevable,

The cely man so litel of stature,

The greve and the ground of clothyng so mutable, The fyr so hoot and sotil of nature,