That man scholde any cause spede.” 630 And thus, myn holi fader diere, Toward miself, as ye mai hiere, I pleigne of my foryetelnesse; Bot elles al the besinesse, That mai be take of mannes thoght, Min herte takth, and is thorghsoght To thenken evere upon that swete Withoute Slowthe, I you behete. For what so falle, or wel or wo, That thoght foryete I neveremo, 640 Wher so I lawhe or so I loure: Noght half the Minut of an houre Ne mihte I lete out of my mende, Bot if I thoghte upon that hende. Therof me schal no Slowthe lette, Til deth out of this world me fette, Althogh I hadde on such a Ring, As Moises thurgh his enchanting Som time in Ethiope made, Whan that he Tharbis weddid hade. 650 Which Ring bar of Oblivion The name, and that was be resoun That where it on a finger sat, Anon his love he so foryat, As thogh he hadde it nevere knowe: And so it fell that ilke throwe, Whan Tharbis hadde it on hire hond, No knowlechinge of him sche fond, Bot al was clene out of memoire, As men mai rede in his histoire; 660 And thus he wente quit away, That nevere after that ilke day Sche thoghte that ther was such on; Al was foryete and overgon. Bot in good feith so mai noght I: For sche is evere faste by, So nyh that sche myn herte toucheth, That for nothing that Slowthe voucheth I mai foryete hire, lief ne loth; For overal, where as sche goth, 670 Min herte folwith hire aboute. Thus mai I seie withoute doute, For bet, for wers, for oght, for noght, Sche passeth nevere fro my thoght; Bot whanne I am ther as sche is, Min herte, as I you saide er this, Som time of hire is sore adrad, And som time it is overglad, Al out of reule and out of space. For whan I se hir goodli face 680 And thenke upon hire hihe pris, As thogh I were in Paradis, I am so ravisht of the syhte, That speke unto hire I ne myhte As for the time, thogh I wolde: For I ne mai my wit unfolde To finde o word of that I mene, Bot al it is foryete clene; And thogh I stonde there a myle, Al is foryete for the while, 690 A tunge I have and wordes none. And thus I stonde and thenke al one Of thing that helpeth ofte noght; Bot what I hadde afore thoght To speke, whanne I come there, It is foryete, as noght ne were, And stonde amased and assoted, That of nothing which I have noted I can noght thanne a note singe, Bot al is out of knowlechinge: 700 Thus, what for joie and what for drede, Al is foryeten ate nede. So that, mi fader, of this Slowthe I have you said the pleine trowthe; Ye mai it as you list redresce: For thus stant my foryetelnesse And ek my pusillamite. Sey now forth what you list to me, For I wol only do be you.