Wel can the wise poet of Florence, That highte Dant, speken of this sentence: Lo in swiche maner rime is Dantes tale. Ful selde up riseth by his branches smale Prowesse of man, for God of his goodnesse Wol that we claime of him our gentillesse; For of our elders may we nothing claime But temporel thing, that man may hurt and maime. Eke every wight wot this as wel as I, If gentillesse were planted naturelly Unto a certain linage doun the line, Prive and apert, than wold they never fine To don of gentillesse the faire office; They mighten do no vilanie or vice. Take fire, and bere it into the derkest hous Betwix this and the Mount of Caucasus, And let men shette the dores, and go thenne, Yet wol the fire as faire lie and brenne As twenty thousand men might it behold; His office naturel ay wol it hold, Up peril of my lif, til that it die. Here may ye see wel how that genterie Is not annexed to possession, Sith folk ne don hir operation Alway, as doth the fire, lo, in his kind: For God it wot men moun ful often find A lordes sone do shame and vilanie. And he that wol han pris of his genterie, For he was boren of a gentil hous, And had his elders noble and vertuous, And n'ill himselven do no gentil dedes, Ne folwe his gentil auncestrie that ded is, He n'is not gentil, be he duk or erl, For vilains sinful dedes make a cherl: For gentillesse n'is but the renomee Of thin auncestres for hir high bountee, Which is a strange thing to thy persone: Thy gentillesse cometh fro God alone; Than cometh our veray gentillesse of grace; It was no thing bequethed us with our place. Thinketh how noble, as saith Valerius, Was thilke Tullius Hostilius, That out of poverte rose to high noblesse. Redeth Senek, and redeth eke Boece, Ther shull ye seen expresse that it no dred is That he is gentil that doth gentil dedis: And therefore, leve husbond, I thus conclude, Al be it that min auncestres weren rude, Yet may the highe God, and so hope I, Granten me grace to liven vertuously; Than am I gentil whan that I beginne To liven vertuously and weiven sinne. And ther as ye of poverte me repreve, The highe God, on whom that we beleve, In wilful poverte chese to lede his lif; And certes every man, maiden, or wif, May understond that Jesus heven king Ne wold not chese a vicious living. Glad poverte is an honest thing certain, This wol Senek and other clerkes sain. Who so that halt him paid of his poverte, I hold him rich, al had he not a sherte. He that coveiteth is a poure wight, For he wold han that is not in his might; But he that nought hath, ne coveiteth to have, Is riche, although ye hold him but a knave. Veray poverte is sinne proprely. Juvenal saith of poverte merily,