Envie if that I schal descrive, He is noght schaply forto wyve In Erthe among the wommen hiere; For ther is in him no matiere Wherof he mihte do plesance. Ferst for his hevy continance Of that he semeth evere unglad, He is noght able to ben had; And ek he brenneth so withinne, That kinde mai no profit winne, 3120 Wherof he scholde his love plese: For thilke blod which scholde have ese To regne among the moiste veines, Is drye of thilke unkendeli peines Thurgh whiche Envie is fyred ay. And thus be reson prove I may That toward love Envie is noght; And otherwise if it be soght, Upon what side as evere it falle, It is the werste vice of alle, 3130 Which of himself hath most malice. For understond that every vice Som cause hath, wherof it groweth, Bot of Envie noman knoweth Fro whenne he cam bot out of helle. For thus the wise clerkes telle, That no spirit bot of malice Be weie of kinde upon a vice Is tempted, and be such a weie Envie hath kinde put aweie 3140 And of malice hath his steringe, Wherof he makth his bakbitinge, And is himself therof desesed. So mai ther be no kinde plesed; For ay the mor that he envieth, The more ayein himself he plieth. Thus stant Envie in good espeir To ben himself the develes heir, As he which is his nexte liche And forthest fro the heveneriche, 3150 For there mai he nevere wone. Forthi, my goode diere Sone, If thou wolt finde a siker weie To love, put Envie aweie. Min holy fader, reson wolde That I this vice eschuie scholde: Bot yit to strengthe mi corage, If that ye wolde in avantage Therof sette a recoverir, It were tome a gret desir, 3160 That I this vice mihte flee. Nou understond, my Sone, and se, Ther is phisique for the seke, And vertus for the vices eke. Who that the vices wolde eschuie, He mot be resoun thanne suie The vertus; for be thilke weie He mai the vices don aweie, For thei togedre mai noght duelle: For as the water of a welle 3170 Of fyr abateth the malice, Riht so vertu fordoth the vice. Ayein Envie is Charite, Which is the Moder of Pite, That makth a mannes herte tendre, That it mai no malice engendre In him that is enclin therto. For his corage is tempred so, That thogh he mihte himself relieve, Yit wolde he noght an other grieve, 3180 Bot rather forto do plesance He berth himselven the grevance, So fain he wolde an other ese. Wherof, mi Sone, for thin ese Now herkne a tale which I rede, And understond it wel, I rede.