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Give him your good advice, And scant not, nor want not, For peril nor for price. L. Quoth Skill, his senses are so sick, I know no liquor worth a leek To quench his deadly drouth: Except the Cherry help his heat, Whose quenching juices sharp and sweet, Might melt into his mouth: His melancholy to remove, And mitigate his mind: None wholesomer for his behove, Nor of more of more cooling kind. No nectar, director, Could all the gods him give, Nor send him to mend him, None better I believe. LI. Then Reason rose, with gesture grave, Conveening quickly all the leave, To hear what they would say; With silver scepter in his hand, As chieftain chosen to command. And they bound to obey. He paused long before he spake. And in a study stood, Then he began and silence broke, Come on, quoth he, conclude. What way now, we may now, Yon Cherry come to catch; Speak out sirs, about sirs, Have done, let us dispatch. LII. Quoth Courage, scourge him first that scars, Much musing memory but mars, I tell you mine intent: Quoth Wit, who will not partly pause, In peril perishes perchance,
