Phebus, which makth the daies lihte, A love he hadde, which tho hihte Cornide, whom aboven alle He pleseth: bot what schal befalle Of love ther is noman knoweth, Bot as fortune hire happes throweth. So it befell upon a chaunce, A yong kniht tok hire aqueintance 790 And hadde of hire al that he wolde: Bot a fals bridd, which sche hath holde And kept in chambre of pure yowthe, Discoevereth all that evere he cowthe. This briddes name was as tho Corvus, the which was thanne also Welmore whyt than eny Swan, And he that schrewe al that he can Of his ladi to Phebus seide; And he for wraththe his swerd outbreide, 800 With which Cornide anon he slowh. Bot after him was wo ynowh, And tok a full gret repentance, Wherof in tokne and remembrance Of hem whiche usen wicke speche, Upon this bridd he tok this wreche, That ther he was snow whyt tofore, Evere afterward colblak therfore He was transformed, as it scheweth, And many a man yit him beschreweth, 810 And clepen him into this day A Raven, be whom yit men mai Take evidence, whan he crieth, That som mishapp it signefieth. Be war therfore and sei the beste, If thou wolt be thiself in reste, Mi goode Sone, as I the rede. For in an other place I rede Of thilke Nimphe which Laar hihte: For sche the privete be nyhte, 820 How Jupiter lay be Jutorne, Hath told, god made hire overtorne: Hire tunge he kutte, and into helle For evere he sende hir forto duelle, As sche that was noght worthi hiere To ben of love a Chamberere, For sche no conseil cowthe hele. And suche adaies be now fele In loves Court, as it is seid, That lete here tunges gon unteid. 830 Mi Sone, be thou non of tho, To jangle and telle tales so, And namely that thou ne chyde, For Cheste can no conseil hide, For Wraththe seide nevere wel. Mi fader, soth is everydel That ye me teche, and I wol holde The reule to which I am holde, To fle the Cheste, as ye me bidde, For wel is him that nevere chidde. 840 Now tell me forth if ther be more As touchende unto Wraththes lore. Of Wraththe yit ther is an other, Which is to Cheste his oghne brother, And is be name cleped Hate, That soffreth noght withinne his gate That ther come owther love or pes, For he wol make no reles Of no debat which is befalle. Now spek, if thou art on of alle, 850 That with this vice hast ben withholde. As yit for oght that ye me tolde, Mi fader, I not what it is. In good feith, Sone, I trowe yis. Mi fader, nay, bot ye me lere. Now lest, my Sone, and thou schalt here. Hate is a wraththe noght schewende, Bot of long time gaderende, And duelleth in the herte loken, Til he se time to be wroken; 860 And thanne he scheweth his tempeste Mor sodein than the wilde beste, Which wot nothing what merci is. Mi Sone, art thou knowende of this?