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Proem
God turne us every drem to goode!For hyt is wonder, be the roode,
To my wyt, what causeth swevenes
Eyther on morwes or on evenes,
And why th'effect folweth of somme,
And of somme hit shal never come;
Why that is an avision
And why this a revelacion,
Why this a drem, why that a sweven,
And noght to every man lyche even;
Why this a fantome, why these oracles,
I not; but whoso of these miracles
The causes knoweth bet then I,
Devyne he, for I certeinly
Ne kan hem noght, ne never thinke
To besily my wyt to swinke
To knowe of hir signifiaunce
The gendres, neyther the distaunce
Of tymes of hem, ne the causes,
Or why this more then that cause is
As yf folkys complexions
Make hem dreme of reflexions,
Or ellys thus, as other sayn,
For to gret feblenesse of her brayn,
By abstinence or by seknesse,
Prison-stewe or gret distresse,
Or ellys by dysordynaunce
Of naturel acustumaunce,
That som man is to curious
In studye, or melancolyous,
Or thus so inly ful of drede
That no man may hym bote bede;
Or elles that devocion
Of somme, and contemplacion
Causeth suche dremes ofte;
Or that the cruel lyf unsofte
Which these ilke lovers leden
That hopen over-muche or dreden,
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Causeth hem avisions;
Or yf that spirites have the myght
To make folk to dreme a-nyght;
Or yf the soule of propre kynde
Be so parfit, as men fynde,
That yt forwot that ys to come,
And that hyt warneth alle and some
Of everych of her aventures
Be avisions or be figures,
But that oure flessh ne hath no myght
To understonde hyt aryght,
For hyt is warned to derkly—
But why the cause is, noght wot I.
Wel worthe of this thyng grete clerkys
That trete of this and other werkes,
For I of noon opinion
Nyl as now make mensyon,
But oonly that the holy roode
Turne us every drem to goode!
For never sith that I was born,
Ne no man elles me beforn,
Mette, I trowe stedfastly,
So wonderful a drem as I
The tenthe day now of Decembre,
The which, as I kan now remembre,
I wol yow tellen everydel.
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