Thus he, which love hadde in desdeign, Worste of all othre was besein, 2360 And as he sette his pris most hyhe, He was lest worth in loves yhe And most bejaped in his wit: Wherof the remembrance is yit, So that thou myht ensample take, And ek alle othre for his sake. Mi fader, as touchende of me, This vice I thenke forto fle, Which of his wenynge overtroweth; And nameliche of thing which groweth 2370 In loves cause or wel or wo Yit pryded I me nevere so. Bot wolde god that grace sende, That toward me my lady wende As I towardes hire wene! Mi love scholde so be sene, Ther scholde go no pride a place. Bot I am ferr fro thilke grace, As forto speke of tyme now; So mot I soffre, and preie yow 2380 That ye wole axe on other side If ther be eny point of Pride, Wherof it nedeth to be schrive. Mi Sone, godd it thee foryive, If thou have eny thing misdo Touchende of this, bot overmo Ther is an other yit of Pride, Which nevere cowthe hise wordes hide, That he ne wole himself avaunte; Ther mai nothing his tunge daunte, 2390 That he ne clappeth as a Belle: Wherof if thou wolt that I telle, It is behovely forto hiere, So that thou myht thi tunge stiere, Toward the world and stonde in grace, Which lacketh ofte in many place To him that can noght sitte stille, Which elles scholde have al his wille. The vice cleped Avantance With Pride hath take his aqueintance, 2400 So that his oghne pris he lasseth, When he such mesure overpasseth That he his oghne Herald is. That ferst was wel is thanne mis, That was thankworth is thanne blame, And thus the worschipe of his name Thurgh pride of his avantarie He torneth into vilenie. I rede how that this proude vice Hath thilke wynd in his office, 2410 Which thurgh the blastes that he bloweth The mannes fame he overthroweth Of vertu, which scholde elles springe Into the worldes knowlechinge; Bot he fordoth it alto sore. And riht of such a maner lore Ther ben lovers: forthi if thow Art on of hem, tell and sei how. Whan thou hast taken eny thing Of loves yifte, or Nouche or ring, 2420 Or tok upon thee for the cold Som goodly word that thee was told, Or frendly chiere or tokne or lettre, Wherof thin herte was the bettre, Or that sche sende the grietinge, Hast thou for Pride of thi likinge Mad thin avant wher as the liste? I wolde, fader, that ye wiste, Mi conscience lith noght hiere: Yit hadde I nevere such matiere, 2430 Wherof min herte myhte amende, Noght of so mochel that sche sende Be mowthe and seide, “Griet him wel:” And thus for that ther is no diel Wherof to make myn avant, It is to reson acordant That I mai nevere, bot I lye, Of love make avanterie. I wot noght what I scholde have do, If that I hadde encheson so, 2440 As ye have seid hier manyon; Bot I fond cause nevere non: Bot daunger, which welnyh me slowh, Therof I cowthe telle ynowh, And of non other Avantance: Thus nedeth me no repentance. Now axeth furthere of my lif, For hierof am I noght gultif.