That he ne gladeth noght withal, Bot is unto his good a thral, And as soubgit thus serveth he, Wher that he scholde maister be: Such is the kinde of thaverous. Mi Sone, as thou art amerous, Tell if thou farst of love so. Mi fader, as it semeth, no; 60 That averous yit nevere I was, So as ye setten me the cas: For as ye tolden here above, In full possession of love Yit was I nevere hier tofore, So that me thenketh wel therfore, I mai excuse wel my dede. Bot of mi will withoute drede, If I that tresor mihte gete, It scholde nevere be foryete, 70 That I ne wolde it faste holde, Til god of love himselve wolde That deth ous scholde part atuo. For lieveth wel, I love hire so, That evene with min oghne lif, If I that swete lusti wif Mihte ones welden at my wille, For evere I wolde hire holde stille: And in this wise, taketh kepe, If I hire hadde, I wolde hire kepe, 80 And yit no friday wolde I faste, Thogh I hire kepte and hielde faste. Fy on the bagges in the kiste! I hadde ynogh, if I hire kiste. For certes, if sche were myn, I hadde hir levere than a Myn Of Gold; for al this worldesriche Ne mihte make me so riche As sche, that is so inly good. I sette noght of other good; 90 For mihte I gete such a thing, I hadde a tresor for a king; And thogh I wolde it faste holde, I were thanne wel beholde. Bot I mot pipe nou with lasse, And suffre that it overpasse, Noght with mi will, for thus I wolde Ben averous, if that I scholde. Bot, fader, I you herde seie Hou thaverous hath yit som weie, 100 Wherof he mai be glad; for he Mai whanne him list his tresor se, And grope and fiele it al aboute, Bot I fulofte am schet theroute, Ther as my worthi tresor is. So is mi lif lich unto this, That ye me tolden hier tofore, Hou that an Oxe his yock hath bore For thing that scholde him noght availe: And in this wise I me travaile; 110 For who that evere hath the welfare, I wot wel that I have the care, For I am hadd and noght ne have, And am, as who seith, loves knave. Nou demeth in youre oghne thoght, If this be Avarice or noght. Mi Sone, I have of thee no wonder, Thogh thou to serve be put under With love, which to kinde acordeth: Bot, so as every bok recordeth, 120 It is to kinde no plesance That man above his sustienance Unto the gold schal serve and bowe, For that mai no reson avowe. Bot Avarice natheles, If he mai geten his encress Of gold, that wole he serve and kepe, For he takth of noght elles kepe, Bot forto fille hise bagges large; And al is to him bot a charge, 130 For he ne parteth noght withal, Bot kepth it, as a servant schal: And thus, thogh that he multeplie His gold, withoute tresorie He is, for man is noght amended With gold, bot if it be despended To mannes us; wherof I rede A tale, and tak therof good hiede, Of that befell be olde tyde, As telleth ous the clerk Ovide. 140