Now goode fader, I you preie, If ther be more in the matiere Of Slowthe, that I mihte it hiere. Mi Sone, and for thi diligence, Which every mannes conscience Be resoun scholde reule and kepe, If that thee list to taken kepe, I wol thee telle, aboven alle In whom no vertu mai befalle, 1080 Which yifth unto the vices reste And is of slowe the sloweste. Among these othre of Slowthes kinde, Which alle labour set behinde, And hateth alle besinesse, Ther is yit on, which Ydelnesse Is cleped, and is the Norrice In mannes kinde of every vice, Which secheth eases manyfold. In Wynter doth he noght for cold, 1090 In Somer mai he noght for hete; So whether that he frese or swete, Or he be inne, or he be oute, He wol ben ydel al aboute, Bot if he pleie oght ate Dees. For who as evere take fees And thenkth worschipe to deserve, Ther is no lord whom he wol serve, As forto duelle in his servise, Bot if it were in such a wise, 1100 Of that he seth per aventure That be lordschipe and coverture He mai the more stonde stille, And use his ydelnesse at wille. For he ne wol no travail take To ryde for his ladi sake, Bot liveth al upon his wisshes; And as a cat wolde ete fisshes Withoute wetinge of his cles, So wolde he do, bot natheles 1110 He faileth ofte of that he wolde. Mi Sone, if thou of such a molde Art mad, now tell me plein thi schrifte. Nay, fader, god I yive a yifte. That toward love, as be mi wit, Al ydel was I nevere yit, Ne nevere schal, whil I mai go. Now, Sone, tell me thanne so, What hast thou don of besischipe To love and to the ladischipe 1120 Of hire which thi ladi is?