Nay, drede the not therof,' quod he,
Hyt is nothinge wille biten the,
Thou shalt non harme have truely.'

And with this word both he and Y
As nygh the place arryved were,
As men may casten with a spere.
I nyste how, but in a strete
He sette me fair upon my fete,
And seyde, Walke forth a pace,
And take thyn aventure or case,
That thou shalt fynde in Fames place.'
Now,' quod I, 'while we han space

To speke, or that I goo fro the,
For the love of God, telle me,

In sooth, that wil I of the lere,
Yf thys noyse that I here

Be, as I have herd the tellen,

Of folke that doun in erthe dwellen,
And cometh here in the same wyse,
As I the herde, or this, devyse?
And that there lives body nys
In al that hous that yonder ys,
That maketh al this loude fare?'

6

'Noo,' quod he, by seynte Clare! And also wis God rede me,

But o thinge wil Y warne the,

Of the whiche thou wolt have wonder.
Loo, to the House of Fame yonder,
Thou wost how cometh every speche,
Hyt nedeth noght efte the to teche.
But understonde now ryght wel this,
Whan any speche ycomen ys
Up to the paleys, anon ryght

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Hyt wexeth lyke the same wight,

Which that the worde in erthe spak,
Be hyt clothed rede or blak;

And so were hys lykenesse,

And spake the word, that thou wilt gesse
That it the same body be,

Man or woman, he or she.

And ys not this a wonder thynge?'
'Yis,' quod I tho, by heven kynge!'
And with this worde, Farewel,' quod he,
'And here I wol abyden the,

And God of hevene sende the grace,

Some goode to lerne in this place.'
And I of him toke leve anoon,
And gan forthe to the paleys goon.

EXPLICIT LIBER SECUNDUS.

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LIBER TERTIVS.

O GOD of science and of lyght,
Apollo, thurgh thy grete myght,
This lytel laste boke thou gye!
Nat that I wilne for maistrye
Here art poetical be shewed.
But, for the ryme ys lyght and lewed,
Yit make hyt sumwhat agreable,
Though somme vers fayle in a sillable;
And that I do no diligence,

To shewe crafte, but o sentence.
And yif devyne vertu thow,
Wilt helpe me to shewe now,

10

That in myn hede ymarked ys,
(Loo, that is for to menen this,
The Hous of Fame for to descryve)
Thou shalt tho se me go as blyve
Unto the next laurer Y see,
And kysse yt, for hyt is thy tree.
Now entreth in my brest anoon.

I

Whan I was fro thys egle goon,
gan beholde upon this place.
And certein, or I ferther pace,
I wol yow al thys shape devyse
Of hous and citee; and al the wyse
How I gan to thys place aproche,
That stood upon so hygh a roche,
Hier stant there noon in Spayne.
But I clombe with alle payne,

up

And though to clymbe grevede me,
Yit I ententyf was to see,
And for to powren wondre lowe,
Yf I koude eny weyes knowe
What maner stoon this roche was,
For hyt was lyke a thynge of glas,
But that hyt shoon ful more clere ;
But of what congeled matere
Hyt was, nyste I redely.

But at the laste espied I,

And founde that hit was everydele,
A roche of yse, and not of stele.

Thought I, By seynt Thomas of Kent,

This were a feble fundament,

To bilden on a place hye;

He ought him lytel glorifye
That heron bilte, God so me save!'

Tho sawgh I the oon halfe ygrave
With famouse folkes names fele,
That had yben in mochel wele,
And her fames wide yblowe.

But wel unnethes koude I knowe
Any lettres for to rede

Hir names be; for, oute of drede,
They were almost of thowed so,
That of the lettres oon or two
Were molte away of every name,
So unfamouse was wox hir fame;
But men seyn, 'what may ever laste?'
Thoo gan I in myn herte caste,
That they were molte awey with hete,
And not awey with stormes bete.
For on that other syde I say

Of this hille, that northewarde lay,
How hit was writen ful of names,
Of folkes that hadden grete fames
Of olde tymes, and yet they were

As fressh as men hadde writen hem here
The selfe day, ryght or that oure
That I upon hem gan to poure.
But wel I wiste what yt made;

Hyt was conserved with the shade,
Alle this wrytynge that I sigh,
Of a castel stoode on high;

And stoode eke on so colde a place,
That hete hyt myghte not deface.

Thoo gan I up the hille to goone,
And fonde upon the cop a woone,
That alle the men that ben on lyve
Ne han the kunnynge to descrive

The beauté of that ylke place,
Ne coude casten no compace
Swich another for to make,

That myght of beauté be hys make;
Ne wonderlyche so ywrought,
That hyt astonyeth yit my thought,
And maketh alle my wytte to swynke
On thilke castel to bethynke.
So that the grete beauté
The caste, the curiosité
Ne kan I not to yow devyse,
My wit ne may me not suffise.
But natheles alle the substance
I have yit in my remembrance;
For-why me thoughte, by seynte Gyle,
Alle was of stone of beryle,

Bothe castel and the toure,
And eke the halle, and every boure,
Wythouten peces or joynynges.
But many subtile compassinges,
As rabewyures and pynacles,
Ymageries and tabernacles,

I

say; and ful eke of wyndowes,
As flakes falle in grete snowes.
And eke in ech of the pynacles
Weren sondry habitacles,
In whiche stode, alle withoute,
Ful the castel alle aboute,
Of al maner of mynstralles,
And gestiours, that tellen tales
Bothe of wepinge and of game,
Of alle that longeth unto Fame.

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There herd I pleyen upon an harpe