Mi fader, as touchende of this, Riht so as I you tolde it is, That ofte abedde, whanne I scholde, I mai noght slepe, thogh I wolde; For love is evere faste byme, Which takth no hiede of due time. 3370 For whanne I schal myn yhen close, Anon min herte he wole oppose And holde his Scole in such a wise, Til it be day that I arise, That selde it is whan that I slepe. And thus fro Sompnolence I kepe Min yhe: and forthi if ther be Oght elles more in this degre, Now axeth forth. Mi Sone, yis: For Slowthe, which as Moder is 3380 The forthdrawere and the Norrice To man of many a dredful vice, Hath yit an other laste of alle, Which many a man hath mad to falle, Wher that he mihte nevere arise; Wherof for thou thee schalt avise, Er thou so with thiself misfare, What vice it is I wol declare. Whan Slowthe hath don al that he may To dryve forth the longe day, 3390 Til it be come to the nede, Thanne ate laste upon the dede He loketh hou his time is lore, And is so wo begon therfore, That he withinne his thoght conceiveth Tristesce, and so himself deceiveth, That he wanhope bringeth inne, Wher is no confort to beginne, Bot every joie him is deslaied: So that withinne his herte affraied 3400 A thousend time with o breth Wepende he wissheth after deth, Whan he fortune fint adverse. For thanne he wole his hap reherce, As thogh his world were al forlore, And seith, “Helas, that I was bore! Hou schal I live? hou schal I do? For nou fortune is thus mi fo, I wot wel god me wol noght helpe. What scholde I thanne of joies yelpe, 3410 Whan ther no bote is of mi care? So overcast is my welfare, That I am schapen al to strif. Helas, that I nere of this lif, Er I be fulliche overtake!” And thus he wol his sorwe make, As god him mihte noght availe: Bot yit ne wol he noght travaile To helpe himself at such a nede, Bot slowtheth under such a drede, 3420 Which is affermed in his herte, Riht as he mihte noght asterte The worldes wo which he is inne. Also whan he is falle in Sinne, Him thenkth he is so ferr coupable, That god wol noght be merciable So gret a Sinne to foryive; And thus he leeveth to be schrive. And if a man in thilke throwe Wolde him consaile, he wol noght knowe 3430 The sothe, thogh a man it finde: For Tristesce is of such a kinde, That forto meintiene his folie, He hath with him Obstinacie, Which is withinne of such a Slouthe, That he forsaketh alle trouthe, And wole unto no reson bowe; And yit ne can he noght avowe His oghne skile bot of hed: Thus dwyneth he, til he be ded, 3440 In hindringe of his oghne astat. For where a man is obstinat, Wanhope folweth ate laste, Which mai noght after longe laste, Till Slouthe make of him an ende. Bot god wot whider he schal wende.