Of him whom al this Erthe dradde, Whan he the world so overladde Thurgh werre, as it fortuned is, King Alisandre, I rede this; How in a Marche, where he lay, It fell per chance upon a day A Rovere of the See was nome, Which many a man hadde overcome 2370 And slain and take here good aweie: This Pilour, as the bokes seie, A famous man in sondri stede Was of the werkes whiche he dede. This Prisoner tofor the king Was broght, and there upon this thing In audience he was accused: And he his dede hath noght excused, Bot preith the king to don him riht, And seith, “Sire, if I were of miht, 2380 I have an herte lich to thin; For if the pouer were myn, Mi will is most in special To rifle and geten overal The large worldes good aboute. Bot for I lede a povere route And am, as who seith, at meschief, The name of Pilour and of thief I bere; and thou, which routes grete Miht lede and take thi beyete, 2390 And dost riht as I wolde do, Thi name is nothing cleped so, Bot thou art named Emperour. Oure dedes ben of o colour And in effect of o decerte, Bot thi richesse and my poverte Tho ben noght taken evene liche. And natheles he that is riche This dai, tomorwe he mai be povere; And in contraire also recovere 2400 A povere man to gret richesse Men sen: forthi let rihtwisnesse Be peised evene in the balance. The king his hardi contienance Behield, and herde hise wordes wise, And seide unto him in this wise: “Thin ansuere I have understonde, Wherof my will is, that thou stonde In mi service and stille abide.” And forth withal the same tide 2410 He hath him terme of lif withholde, The mor and for he schal ben holde, He made him kniht and yaf him lond, Which afterward was of his hond And orped kniht in many a stede, And gret prouesce of armes dede, As the Croniqes it recorden. And in this wise thei acorden, The whiche of o condicioun Be set upon destruccioun: 2420 Such Capitein such retenue. Bot forto se to what issue The thing befalleth ate laste, It is gret wonder that men caste Here herte upon such wrong to winne, Wher no beyete mai ben inne, And doth desese on every side: Bot whan reson is put aside And will governeth the corage, The faucon which that fleth ramage 2430 And soeffreth nothing in the weie, Wherof that he mai take his preie, Is noght mor set upon ravine, Than thilke man which his covine Hath set in such a maner wise: For al the world ne mai suffise To will which is noght resonable.