Mi Sone, that schal wel be do: Now herkne and ley thin Ere to. Touchende as of Envious brod I wot noght on of alle good; Bot natheles, suche as thei be, Yit is ther on, and that is he Which cleped in Detraccioun. And to conferme his accioun, He hath withholde Malebouche, Whos tunge neither pyl ne crouche 390 Mai hyre, so that he pronounce A plein good word withoute frounce Awher behinde a mannes bak. For thogh he preise, he fint som lak, Which of his tale is ay the laste, That al the pris schal overcaste: And thogh ther be no cause why, Yit wole he jangle noght forthi, As he which hath the heraldie Of hem that usen forto lye. 400 For as the Netle which up renneth The freisshe rede Roses brenneth And makth hem fade and pale of hewe, Riht so this fals Envious hewe, In every place wher he duelleth, With false wordes whiche he telleth He torneth preisinge into blame And worschipe into worldes schame. Of such lesinge as he compasseth, Is non so good that he ne passeth 410 Betwen his teeth and is bacbited, And thurgh his false tunge endited: Lich to the Scharnebudes kinde, Of whos nature this I finde, That in the hoteste of the dai, Whan comen is the merie Maii, He sprat his wynge and up he fleth: And under al aboute he seth The faire lusti floures springe, Bot therof hath he no likinge; 420 Bot where he seth of eny beste The felthe, ther he makth his feste, And therupon he wole alyhte, Ther liketh him non other sihte. Riht so this janglere Envious, Thogh he a man se vertuous And full of good condicioun, Therof makth he no mencioun: Bot elles, be it noght so lyte, Wherof that he mai sette a wyte, 430 Ther renneth he with open mouth, Behinde a man and makth it couth. Bot al the vertu which he can, That wole he hide of every man, And openly the vice telle, As he which of the Scole of helle Is tawht, and fostred with Envie Of houshold and of compaignie, Wher that he hath his propre office To sette on every man a vice. 440 How so his mouth be comely, His word sit evermore awry And seith the worste that he may. And in this wise now a day In loves Court a man mai hiere Fulofte pleigne of this matiere, That many envious tale is stered, Wher that it mai noght ben ansuered; Bot yit fulofte it is believed, And many a worthi love is grieved 450 Thurgh bacbitinge of fals Envie. If thou have mad such janglerie In loves Court, mi Sone, er this, Schrif thee therof.