Bot ofte time it hath betidd That with miselven I have chidd, That noman couthe betre chide: And that hath ben at every tide, Whanne I cam to miself al one; For thanne I made a prive mone, And every tale by and by, Which as I spak to my ladi, I thenke and peise in my balance And drawe into my remembrance; 560 And thanne, if that I finde a lak Of eny word that I mispak, Which was to moche in eny wise, Anon my wittes I despise And make a chidinge in myn herte, That eny word me scholde asterte Which as I scholde have holden inne. And so forth after I beginne And loke if ther was elles oght To speke, and I ne spak it noght: 570 And thanne, if I mai seche and finde That eny word be left behinde, Which as I scholde more have spoke, I wolde upon miself be wroke, And chyde with miselven so That al my wit is overgo. For noman mai his time lore Recovere, and thus I am therfore So overwroth in al my thoght, That I myself chide al to noght: 580 Thus for to moche or for to lite Fulofte I am miself to wyte. Bot al that mai me noght availe, With cheste thogh I me travaile: Bot Oule on Stock and Stock on Oule; The more that a man defoule, Men witen wel which hath the werse; And so to me nys worth a kerse, Bot torneth on myn oghne hed, Thogh I, til that I were ded, 590 Wolde evere chyde in such a wise Of love as I to you devise. Bot, fader, now ye have al herd In this manere how I have ferd Of Cheste and of dissencioun, Yif me youre absolucioun. Mi Sone, if that thou wistest al, What Cheste doth in special To love and to his welwillinge, Thou woldest flen his knowlechinge 600 And lerne to be debonaire. For who that most can speke faire Is most acordende unto love: Fair speche hath ofte brought above Ful many a man, as it is knowe, Which elles scholde have be riht lowe And failed mochel of his wille. Forthi hold thou thi tunge stille And let thi witt thi wille areste, So that thou falle noght in Cheste, 610 Which is the source of gret destance: And tak into thi remembrance If thou miht gete pacience, Which is the leche of alle offence, As tellen ous these olde wise: For whan noght elles mai suffise Be strengthe ne be mannes wit, Than pacience it oversit And overcomth it ate laste; Bot he mai nevere longe laste, 620 Which wol noght bowe er that he breke. Tak hiede, Sone, of that I speke. Mi fader, of your goodli speche And of the witt which ye me teche I thonke you with al myn herte: For that world schal me nevere asterte, That I ne schal your wordes holde, Of Pacience as ye me tolde, Als ferforth as myn herte thenketh; And of my wraththe it me forthenketh. 630 Bot, fader, if ye forth withal Som good ensample in special Me wolden telle of som Cronique, It scholde wel myn herte like Of pacience forto hiere, So that I mihte in mi matiere The more unto my love obeie And puten mi desese aweie.