Bachus, which is the god of wyn, Acordant unto his divin A Prest, the which Cillenus hihte, He hadde, and fell so that be nyhte This Prest was drunke and goth astraied, Wherof the men were evele apaied In Frigelond, where as he wente. Bot ate laste a cherl him hente With strengthe of other felaschipe, So that upon his drunkeschipe 150 Thei bounden him with chenes faste, And forth thei ladde him als so faste Unto the king, which hihte Myde. Bot he, that wolde his vice hyde, This courteis king, tok of him hiede, And bad that men him scholde lede Into a chambre forto kepe, Til he of leisir hadde slepe. And tho this Prest was sone unbounde, And up a couche fro the grounde 160 To slepe he was leid softe ynowh; And whanne he wok, the king him drowh To his presence and dede him chiere, So that this Prest in such manere, Whil that him liketh, there he duelleth: And al this he to Bachus telleth, Whan that he cam to him ayein. And whan that Bachus herde sein How Mide hath don his courtesie, Him thenkth it were a vilenie, 170 Bot he rewarde him for his dede, So as he mihte of his godhiede. Unto this king this god appiereth And clepeth, and that other hiereth: This god to Mide thonketh faire Of that he was so debonaire Toward his Prest, and bad him seie: What thing it were he wolde preie, He scholde it have, of worldes good. This king was glad, and stille stod, 180 And was of his axinge in doute, And al the world he caste aboute, What thing was best for his astat, And with himself stod in debat Upon thre pointz, the whiche I finde Ben lievest unto mannes kinde. The ferste of hem it is delit, The tuo ben worschipe and profit. And thanne he thoghte, “If that I crave Delit, thogh I delit mai have, 190 Delit schal passen in myn age: That is no siker avantage, For every joie bodily Schal ende in wo: delit forthi Wol I noght chese. And if worschipe I axe and of the world lordschipe, That is an occupacion Of proud ymaginacion, Which makth an herte vein withinne; Ther is no certain forto winne, 200 For lord and knave al is o weie, Whan thei be bore and whan thei deie. And if I profit axe wolde, I not in what manere I scholde Of worldes good have sikernesse; For every thief upon richesse Awaiteth forto robbe and stele: Such good is cause of harmes fele. And also, thogh a man at ones Of al the world withinne his wones 210 The tresor myhte have everydel, Yit hadde he bot o mannes del Toward himself, so as I thinke, Of clothinge and of mete and drinke, For more, outake vanite, Ther hath no lord in his degre.” And thus upon the pointz diverse Diverseliche he gan reherce What point him thoghte for the beste; Bot pleinly forto gete him reste 220 He can so siker weie caste. And natheles yit ate laste He fell upon the coveitise Of gold; and thanne in sondri wise He thoghte, as I have seid tofore, Hou tresor mai be sone lore, And hadde an inly gret desir Touchende of such recoverir, Hou that he mihte his cause availe To gete him gold withoute faile.