To love, wher ther is no leve 1180 To spede, and will seith therayein That such an herte is to vilein, Which dar noght love and til he spede, Let hope serve at such a nede: He seith ek, where an herte sit Al hol governed upon wit, He hath this lyves lust forlore. And thus myn herte is al totore Of such a Contek as thei make: Bot yit I mai noght will forsake, 1190 That he nys Maister of my thoght, Or that I spede, or spede noght. Thou dost, my Sone, ayein the riht; Bot love is of so gret a miht, His lawe mai noman refuse, So miht thou thee the betre excuse. And natheles thou schalt be lerned That will scholde evere be governed Of reson more than of kinde, Wherof a tale write I finde. 1200 A Philosophre of which men tolde Ther was whilom be daies olde, And Diogenes thanne he hihte. So old he was that he ne mihte The world travaile, and for the beste He schop him forto take his reste, And duelte at hom in such a wise, That nyh his hous he let devise Endlong upon an Axeltre To sette a tonne in such degre, 1210 That he it mihte torne aboute; Wherof on hed was taken oute, For he therinne sitte scholde And torne himself so as he wolde, To take their and se the hevene And deme of the planetes sevene, As he which cowthe mochel what. And thus fulofte there he sat To muse in his philosophie Solein withoute compaignie: 1220 So that upon a morwetyde, As thing which scholde so betyde, Whan he was set ther as him liste To loke upon the Sonne ariste, Wherof the propretes he sih, It fell ther cam ridende nyh King Alisandre with a route; And as he caste his yhe aboute, He sih this Tonne, and what it mente He wolde wite, and thider sente 1230 A knyht, be whom he mihte it knowe, And he himself that ilke throwe Abod, and hoveth there stille. This kniht after the kinges wille With spore made his hors to gon And to the tonne he cam anon, Wher that he fond a man of Age, And he him tolde the message, Such as the king him hadde bede, And axeth why in thilke stede 1240 The Tonne stod, and what it was. And he, which understod the cas, Sat stille and spak no word ayein. The kniht bad speke and seith, “Vilein, Thou schalt me telle, er that I go; It is thi king which axeth so.” “Mi king,” quod he, “that were unriht.” “What is he thanne?” seith the kniht, “Is he thi man?” “That seie I noght,” Quod he, “bot this I am bethoght, 1250 Mi mannes man hou that he is.” “Thou lyest, false cherl, ywiss,” The kniht him seith, and was riht wroth, And to the king ayein he goth And tolde him how this man ansuerde. The king, whan he this tale herde, Bad that thei scholden alle abyde, For he himself wol thider ryde. And whan he cam tofore the tonne, He hath his tale thus begonne: 1260 “Alheil,” he seith, “what man art thou?” Quod he, “Such on as thou sest now.” The king, which hadde wordes wise, His age wolde noght despise, Bot seith, “Mi fader, I thee preie That thou me wolt the cause seie, How that I am thi mannes man.” “Sire king,” quod he, “and that I can,