The Poete upon this matiere Of Stelthe wrot in this manere. Venus, which hath this lawe in honde Of thing which mai noght be withstonde, As sche which the tresor to warde Of love hath withinne hir warde, Phebum to love hath so constreigned, That he withoute reste is peined 6720 With al his herte to coveite A Maiden, which was warded streyte Withinne chambre and kept so clos, That selden was whan sche desclos Goth with hir moder forto pleie. Leuchotoe, so as men seie, This Maiden hihte, and Orchamus Hir fader was; and befell thus. This doughter, that was kept so deere, And hadde be fro yer to yeere 6730 Under hir moder discipline A clene Maide and a Virgine, Upon the whos nativite Of comelihiede and of beaute Nature hath set al that sche may, That lich unto the fresshe Maii, Which othre monthes of the yeer Surmonteth, so withoute pier Was of this Maiden the feture. Wherof Phebus out of mesure 6740 Hire loveth, and on every syde Awaiteth, if so mai betyde, That he thurgh eny sleihte myhte Hire lusti maidenhod unrihte, The which were al his worldes welthe. And thus lurkende upon his stelthe In his await so longe he lai, Til it befell upon a dai, That he thurghout hir chambre wall Cam in al sodeinliche, and stall 6750 That thing which was to him so lief. Bot wo the while, he was a thief! For Venus, which was enemie Of thilke loves micherie, Discovereth al the pleine cas To Clymene, which thanne was Toward Phebus his concubine. And sche to lette the covine Of thilke love, dedli wroth To pleigne upon this Maide goth, 6760 And tolde hire fader hou it stod; Wherof for sorwe welnyh wod Unto hire moder thus he saide: “Lo, what it is to kepe a Maide! To Phebus dar I nothing speke, Bot upon hire I schal be wreke, So that these Maidens after this Mow take ensample, what it is To soffre her maidenhed be stole, Wherof that sche the deth schal thole.” 6770 And bad with that do make a pet, Wherinne he hath his douhter set, As he that wol no pite have, So that sche was al quik begrave And deide anon in his presence. Bot Phebus, for the reverence Of that sche hadde be his love, Hath wroght thurgh his pouer above, That sche sprong up out of the molde Into a flour was named golde, 6780 Which stant governed of the Sonne. And thus whan love is evele wonne, Fulofte it comth to repentaile. Mi fader, that is no mervaile, Whan that the conseil is bewreid. Bot ofte time love hath pleid And stole many a prive game, Which nevere yit cam into blame, Whan that the thinges weren hidde. Bot in youre tale, as it betidde, 6790 Venus discoverede al the cas, And ek also brod dai it was, Whan Phebus such a Stelthe wroghte, Wherof the Maide in blame he broghte, That afterward sche was so lore. Bot for ye seiden nou tofore Hou stelthe of love goth be nyhte, And doth hise thinges out of syhte, Therof me liste also to hiere A tale lich to the matiere, 6800 Wherof I myhte ensample take.