The wrestling of this world asketh a fall. _tempts destruction_
Here is no home, here is but wilderness:
Forth, pilgrim, forth!--beast, out of thy stall!
Look up on high, and thanké God of[33] all.
Waivé thy lusts, and let thy ghost[34] thee lead,
And truth thee shall deliver--it is no drede.

This needs no comment. Even the remark that every line is worth
meditation may well appear superfluous. One little fact only with regard
to the rhymes, common to this and the next poem, and usual enough in
Norman verse, may be pointed out, namely, that every line in the stanza
ends with the same rhyme-sound as the corresponding line in each of the
other stanzas. A reference to either of the poems will at once show what
I mean.

The second is superior, inasmuch as it carries one thought through the
three stanzas. It is entitled _A Balade made by Chaucer, teaching what is
gentilnesse, or whom is worthy to be called gentill._

The first stock-father of gentleness-- _ancestor of the race
What man desireth gentle for to be [of the gentle._
Must follow his trace, and all his wittés dress _track, footsteps:
Virtue to love and vices for to flee; [apply._
For unto virtue longeth dignity, _belongeth._
And not the reverse falsely dare I deem,[35]
All wear he mitre, crown, or diadem. _although he wear._

The first stock was full of righteousness; _the progenitor._
True of his word, sober, piteous, and free;
Clean of his ghost, and loved busi-ness, _pure in his spirit._