Nought is more lothsome, more vycyous nor vyle Than he that is subdued to this vyce His lyfe shortynge his body he doth defyle Bereuynge his soule the ioy of Paradyse Howe many Cytees and lordes of great pryce Hath ben destroyed by dronken glotony And by his felawe, false loue, or lechery.
The sone of Thomyr had nat ben ouercome Nor slayne by Cyrus for all his worthynes. If he hym selfe had gydyd by wysdome And the vyce auoydyd of blynde dronkennes The great Alexander taken with this madnes With his swerde, whan he was dronken slewe Suche of his frendes as were to hym most trewe
I rede also howe this conquerour myghty Upon a season played at the Chesse With one of his knyghtes which wan ynally Of hym great golde treasoure and rychesse And hym ouercame, but in a furyousnes And lade with wyne, this conquerour vp brayde And to his knyght in wrath these wordes sayde
I haue subdued by strength and by wysdome All the hole worlde, whiche obeyeth to me And howe hast thou alone me thus ouercome And anone commaundyd his knyght hanged to be Than sayde the knyght by right and equyte I may apele. syns ye ar thus cruell Quod Alexander to whome wylt thou apell
Knowest thou any that is gretter than I Thou shalt be hanged thou spekest treason playne The knyght sayd sauynge your honour certaynly I am no traytoure, apele I woll certayne From dronken Alexander tyll he be sober agayne His lorde than herynge his desyre sounde to reason Differryd the iustyce as for that tyme and season
And than after whan this furour was gone His knyght he pardoned repentynge his blyndenes. And well consydered that he shulde haue mysdone If he to deth had hym done in that madnesse Thus it apereth what great unhappynes And blyndnes cometh to many a creature By wyne or ale taken without measure.
Se here the inconuenyence manyfolde Comynge of dronkennes as I wrytyn fynde. Some ar so starynge mad that none can them holde Rorynge and cryeng as men out of their mynde Some fyghtynge some chydynge, some to other kynde Nought lyuynge to them selfe: and some dotynge Johnn Beynge dronke thynketh hym as wyse as Salomon
Some sowe dronke, swaloynge mete without mesure Some mawdelayne dronke, mournynge lowdly and hye Some beynge dronke no lenger can endure Without they gyue them to bawdy rybawdry Some swereth armys nayles herte and body. Terynge our lord worse, than the Jowes hym arayed Some nought can speke, but harkenyth what is sayd.