Heere beginnith the Book how Princis sholden be governid.
Musing upon the restles bisinesse
Which that this troubly world hath ay on honde,
That othir thing than fruit of bittirnesse
Ne yeldeth nought, as I can undirstonde,
At Chestre inne, right fast be the stronde,
As I lay in my bed upon a night,
Thought me bereft of sleep with force and might.

And many a day and night that wicked hine
Hadde beforn vexid my poore goost
So grevously, that of anguish and pine
No richere man was nougher in no coost;
This dar I seyn, may no wight make his boost
That he with Thought was bettir than I aqueinted,
For to the deth it wel nigh hath me feinted.

Bisily in my minde I gan revolve
The welthe onsure of everye creature,
How lightly that Fortune it can dissolve,
Whan that hir list that it no lenger dure;
And of the brotilnesse of hire nature,
My tremling hert so grete gastnesse hadde,
That my spiritis were of my life sadde.

Me fel to minde how that, not long ago,
Fortunes strok down threst estaat royal
Into mischeef; and I took heed also
Of many anothir lord that had a fall;
In mene estaat eek sikernesse at all
Ne saw I noon; but I sey atte laste,
Wher seurte, for to abide, hir caste.

In poore estaat sche pight his paviloun,
To covere hire from the stroke of descending;
For that sche kneew no lowere discencion,
Save oonly deth, fro which no wight living
Defendin him may; and thus, in my musing,
I destitut was of joye and good hope,
And to min ese no thing coude I groope.

For right as blive ran it in my thought,
Though I be poore, yet somwhat leese I may;
Than deemed I that seurete would nought
With me abide, it is nought to hir pay,
Ther to sojurne as sche descende may;
And thus unsikir of my smal lifloode,
Thought leid on me full many an hevy loode.

I thought eek, if I into povert creepe,
Than am I entred into sikirnesse;
But swich seurete might I ay waile and weepe,
For poverte breedeth nought but hevinesse.
Allas! wher is this worldis stabilnesse?
Heer up, heer down; heer honour, heer repreef;
Now hool, now seek; now bounte, now mischeef.

And whan I hadde rolled up and down
This worldes stormy wawes in my minde,
I seey weel povert was exclusion
Of all weelfare regning in mankinde;
And how in bookes thus I writen finde,
"The werste kinde of wrecchednesse is,
A man to have been weelfull or this."

"Allas!" thoghte I, "what sikirnesse is that
To live ay seur of greef and of nuisaunce?
What schal I do? best is I strive nat
Again the pais of Fortunes balaunce;
For wele I wote, that hir brotel constaunce,
A wight no while suffer can sojurne
In a plit." Thus nat wiste I how to torne.

For whan a man weneth stond most constant,
Than is he nexte to his overthrowing;
So flitting is sche, and so variant,
Ther is no trust upon hir fair laughing;
After glad looke sche schapith hir to sting;
I was adrad so of hir gerinesse,
That my lif was but a dedly gladnesse.

Thus ilke night I walwid to and fro,
Seking Reste; but certeinly sche
Apeerid noght, for Thoght, my crewel fo,
Chaced hadde hir and slepe away fro me;
And for I schulde not alone be,
Again my luste, Wach profrid his servise,
And I admittid him in hevy wise.

So long a night ne felde I never non,
As was that same to my jugement;
Whoso that thoghty is, is wo-begon;
The thoghtful wight is vessel of turment,
Ther nis no greef to him equipolent;
He graveth deppest of seekenesses alle;
Ful wo is him that in swich thoght is falle.

What wight that inly pensif is, I trowe,
His moste desire is to be solitarye;
That his is soth, in my persone I knowe,
For evere whil that fretinge adversarye
Min herte made to him tributarye,
In soukinge of the fresschest of my blod,
To sorwe soole, methoght it dide me good.

For the nature of hevinesse is this:
If it habounde gretly in a wight,
The place eschewit he wher as joye is,
For joye and he not mowe accorde aright;
As discordant as day is unto night,
And honour adversarye is unto schame,
Is hevinesse so to joye and game.

Whan to the thoghtful wight is tolde a tale,
He heerith it as thogh he thennes were;
His hevy thoghtes him so plucke and hale
Hidder and thedir, and him greve and dere,
That his eres availe him not a pere;
He understondeth no thing what men seye,
So ben his wittes fer gon hem to pleye.

The smert of thoght I by experience
Knowe as wel as any man doth livinge;
His frosty swoot and firy hote fervence,
And troubly dremes, drempt al in wakinge,
My maized heed sleepless han of conninge
And wit dispoilid, and so me bejapid,
That after deth ful often have I gapid.