But never groan’d he at no stroke but one,
Or else at two, but if4195 the story lie.
So manly was this Julius of heart,
And so well lov’d estately honesty,4196
That, though his deadly woundës sorë smert,4197
His mantle o’er his hippës castë he,
That no man shouldë see his privity
And as he lay a-dying in a trance,
And wistë verily that dead was he,
Of honesty yet had he remembránce.
Lucan, to thee this story I recommend,
And to Sueton’, and Valerie also,
That of this story writë word and end;4198
How that to these great conquerórës two
Fortune was first a friend, and since4199 a foe.
No mannë trust upon her favour long,
But have her in await4200 for evermo’;
Witness on all these conquerórës strong.
The richë Croesus, whilom king of Lyde—
Of which Croesus Cyrus him sorë drad—4201
Yet was he caught amiddës all his pride,
And to be burnt men to the fire him lad;4202
But such a rain down from the welkin shad,4203
That slew the fire, and made him to escape:
But to beware no gracë yet he had,
Till fortune on the gallows made him gape.
When he escaped was, he could not stint4204
For to begin a newë war again;
He weened well, for4205 that Fortúne him sent
Such hap, that he escaped through the rain,
That of his foes he mightë not be slain.
And eke a sweven4206 on a night he mette,4207
Of which he was so proud, and eke so fain,4208
That he in vengeance all his heartë set.
Upon a tree he was set, as he thought,
Where Jupiter him wash’d, both back and side,
And Phoebus eke a fair towél him brought
To dry him with; and therefore wax’d his pride.
And to his daughter that stood him beside,
Which he knew in high science to abound,
He bade her tell him what it signified;
And she his dream began right thus expound.
“The tree,” quoth she, “the gallows is to mean,
And Jupiter betokens snow and rain,
And Phoebus, with his towel clear and clean,
These be the sunnë’s streamës,4209 sooth to sayn;
Thou shalt y-hangeth be, father, certáin;
Rain shall thee wash, and sunnë shall thee dry.”
Thus warned him full plat and eke full plain
His daughter, which that called was Phaníe.
And hanged was Croesus the proudë king;
His royal thronë might him not avail.
Tragédy is none other manner thing,
Nor can in singing crien nor bewail,
But for that Fortune all day will assail
With unware stroke the regnës4210 that be proud:
For when men trustë her, then will she fail,
And cover her bright facë with a cloud.
O noble, O worthy Pedro,4211 glory of Spain,
Whom Fortune held so high in majesty,
Well oughtë men thy piteous death complain.
Out of thy land thy brother made thee flee,
And after, at a siege, by subtlety,
Thou wert betray’d, and led unto his tent,
Where as he with his owen hand slew thee,
Succeeding in thy regne and in thy rent.4212
The field of snow, with th’ eagle of black therein,
Caught with the lion, red-colour’d as the glede,4213
He brew’d this cursedness,4214 and all this sin;
The wicked nest was worker of this deed;
Not Charlës’ Oliver,4215 that took aye heed
Of truth and honour, but of Armorike
Ganilion Oliver, corrupt for meed,
Broughtë this worthy king in such a brike.4216
O worthy Petro, King of Cypre,4217 also,
That Alexandre won by high mast’ry,
Full many a heathen wroughtest thou full woe,
Of which thine owen lieges had envý;
And, for no thing but for thy chivalry,
They in thy bed have slain thee by the morrow;
Thus can Fortúne her wheel govérn and gie,4218
And out of joy bringë men into sorrow.
Of Milan greatë Barnabo Viscount,
God of delight, and scourge of Lombardy,
Why should I not thine infortúne account,4219
Since in estate thou clomben wert so high?
Thy brother’s son, that was thy double allý,
For he thy nephew was and son-in-law,
Within his prison madë thee to die,
But why, nor how, n’ot4220 I that thou were slaw.4221
Of th’ Earl Hugolin of Pise the languoúr4222
There may no tonguë tellë for pitý.
But little out of Pisa stands a tow’r,
In whichë tow’r in prison put was he,
Aud with him be his little children three;
The eldest scarcely five years was of age;
Alas! Fortúne, it was great crueltý
Such birdës for to put in such a cage.
Damned was he to die in that prisón;
For Roger, which that bishop was of Pise,
Had on him made a false suggestión,
Through which the people gan upon him rise,
And put him in prisón, in such a wise
As ye have heard; and meat and drink he had
So small, that well unneth4223 it might suffice,
And therewithal it was full poor and bad.
And on a day befell, that in that hour
When that his meatë wont was to be brought,
The jailor shut the doorës of the tow’r;
He heard it right well, but he spakë nought.
And in his heart anon there fell a thought,
That they for hunger wouldë do him dien;4224
“Alas!” quoth he, “alas that I was wrought!”4225
Therewith the tearës fellë from his eyen.
His youngest son, that three years was of age,
Unto him said, “Father, why do ye weep?
When will the jailor bringen our pottáge?
Is there no morsel bread that ye do keep?
I am so hungry, that I may not sleep.
Now wouldë God that I might sleepen ever!
Then should not hunger in my wombë creep;
There is no thing, save bread, that one were lever.”4226
Thus day by day this child begun to cry,
Till in his father’s barme4227 adown he lay,
And saidë, “Farewell, father, I must die;”
And kiss’d his father, and died the samë day.
And when the woeful father did it sey,4228
For woe his armës two he gan to bite,
And said, “Alas! Fortúne, and well-away!
To thy false wheel
