The seven sages in English verse / edited from a manuscript in the public library of the University of Cambridge by Thomas Wright.

A TALE.

The emperesse hire tale bygane, [ 1190] And sayd, "Sire, hit was a mane, Emperour of Rome he was, And nowt lovyd no solas, Bot was about to fylle a toure Ful of golde and ryche tresour. Swylke seven clerkys hadde hee Undir hym as have ȝe. The seven clerkis that with hym were,

Alle at hom nouȝt thay were; Thorow the emperour comandement, [ 1200] The fyve were out wente, And the twa at home thay byeth, For to do that he thaym bydeth. That othir ladde myry lyf, And haddyn both childryn a[nd] wyf; Hit was a man withouten kare, And ryclych he wolde fare, What he spendid he nouȝt rought, And that hys nek sore abought. When hys catel bygan to slake, [ 1210] And he ne myght no fest make, There felle a wyel in hys thoute, And ther-thourow he wente to nowt, And bitidde a wondir kas, And ȝe schal here how hit was. He adde a sone that was heyre, A good childe and a fayre; Thay wente and breken that tour, And bare away mykyl tresoure, And mad hym myry, and spendid faste, [ 1220] Al the wylle that hit wolde laste. He that lokyd the tresour, Come a day into the tour, And over-al he keste hys syght, To loke whehir hit ferde ryght. He was freche, he was nought dronke, He saw the tresour was sonke; He lette remue the tresour anone,

And fand ware the thyf was goon. Byfore thare the hole was, [ 1230] He sette a deppe caudron of bras, A manere of glowe he dyde thare-inne, To halden all that com thare inne, And helyd thare the cawdron stode, As thare were nought bot gode. He that the tresour stale, Hadde spendid hit and wastyd alle: He sayes, 'Sone, by Goddys sore, Of the tresour we wylle have more.' He and hys sone were at on, [ 1240] And thydyr-ward thay gan goon, In the wanyng of the mone; The fadir was desavyde sone. In at the hole the fadir crepe, And in the caudron sone he lepe, And anoon he styked faste. Than was hys sone sore agaste. 'Sone,' he sayed, 'I ham hent; Fle anoon ar thow art schent.' 'A! fadir,' he sayed, 'alas! [ 1250] Certys thys hys a wondyr kas. For soth I can no rede nowe: Leve fadir, how reddyst thow?' 'Certis,' he sayd, 'hit his no rede, Bot hastilich smyt of my hede, And god laysyr when thou myght have, Byrye hit in cristyne grave.' The childe was in grete thought,

To helpe his fadir he myght nouȝt, And saw thare was non othir rede, [ 1260] Bote smote of his fadir hede, And knyt hit in hys lappe onoon, And dyde hym hastilyche to goon; And anoon has he ham came, Out of hys lape the hede he name, And in a forme he let hit fale, And dyde a wykkyd torne withalle. Thane he hadde hys fadir gode, Thane wax he hote of blode; No sorow in hert he ne hadde, [ 1270] How foul deth hys fadyr hadde. Than he had that hys fadir gate, Hys fadir deth he al for-gat. Certis, sire, thus woltu fare: Ther-fore hys al my kare. Thou schalt lese thyn honour, And thy sone be emperour, As othir have doon thou schalt als, Thorow talys of thy clerkys fals." Quod the emperour to the emperesse, [ 1280] "So I ever here mas, My sone ne schale never do me that sorowe, Certys he schal dee to-morwen." Thus hys wyf, that cursyd lyfte, Brewed the childys deth that nyght. Uppe of the morwen lange are prime, The emperour ros by tyme, And thys was hys commandement,

That the childe anoon where schent. The tormentours wer ful rade [ 1290] To do tha[t] the emperour bade; Thay ne made noon delay, Bot took the child, and went hare way, And toward the studye thay hym lede There men schulde the chylde byhede. Ryght as thay come atte the ȝate, Hys o maystir hym mette thare-atte, In hys hert was no game, Lentulus was hys name. Oppon the childe he cast hys eie, [ 1300] Hym thought for sorow he myght dee: Anoon the way he nam, And byfore the emperour cam, And sayed, "My lord, syr emperour, God the save and thyn honour!" The emperour answerde anoon, "A! tratour, thow art that oon That I bytook my sone teche, And he hase loste hys speche, And wolde have lyne by my wyf: [ 1310] He schal dee, by my lyf!" "Syre," quod maystir Lentulus, "I ne leve hit nouȝt, by my lyf, To do vylany by thy wyf; Bot yf thou brewyst thy childis bale, For hys stepmodir tale, So mote the bytyde in thy lyfe, As dyd the olde man in hys lyf."

Quod the emperour, "I the byde, Tel me how that cas bytyde." [ 1320] "Sire," quod maystir Lentulus, "I nylle, by swet Jhesus, Bot thy chylde deth by let, That he ben agayen fet, And mot lyve al this nyght Til to-morwen til day be bryght." The emperour comaunde anoon Aftyr the childe for to goon: Thorow commaundement of the emperour The childe was ladde into the tour. [ 1330] Lentulus was a glad man, And anoon hys tale bygane.