The complete works of Geoffrey Chaucer :: :: University of Virginia Library

So thirleth with the poynt of remembraunce,
The swerd of sorowe, y-whet with fals plesaunce,
Myn herte, bare of blis and blak of hewe,
That turned is in quaking al my daunce,
My suretee in a-whaped countenaunce;
Sith hit availeth not for to ben trewe;
For who-so trewest is, hit shal hir rewe,
That serveth love and doth hir observaunce
Alwey to oon, and chaungeth for no newe.

(Strophe.)

1

I wot my-self as wel as any wight;
For I loved oon with al my herte and might
More then my-self, an hundred thousand sythe,
And called him my hertes lyf, my knight,
And was al his, as fer as hit was right;
And whan that he was glad, than was I blythe,
And his disese was my deeth as swythe;
And he ayein his trouthe me had plight
For ever-more, his lady me to kythe.

2

Now is he fals, alas! and causeles,
And of my wo he is so routheles,
That with a worde him list not ones deyne
To bring ayein my sorowful herte in pees,
For he is caught up in a-nother lees.

374

Right as him list, he laugheth at my peyne,
And I ne can myn herte not restreyne,
That I ne love him alwey, never-the-les;
And of al this I not to whom me pleyne.

3

And shal I pleyne—alas! the harde stounde—
Un-to my foo that yaf my herte a wounde,
And yet desyreth that myn harm be more?
Nay, certes! ferther wol I never founde
Non other help, my sores for to sounde.
My desteny hath shapen it ful yore;
I wil non other medecyne ne lore;
I wil ben ay ther I was ones bounde,
That I have seid, be seid for ever-more!

4

Alas! wher is become your gentilesse!
Your wordes ful of plesaunce and humblesse?
Your observaunces in so low manere,
And your awayting and your besinesse
Upon me, that ye calden your maistresse,
Your sovereyn lady in this worlde here?
Alas! and is ther nother word ne chere
Ye vouchesauf upon myn hevinesse?
Alas! your love, I bye hit al to dere.

5

Now certes, swete, thogh that ye
Thus causeles the cause be
Of my dedly adversitee,
Your manly reson oghte it to respyte
To slee your frend, and namely me,
That never yet in no degree
Offended yow, as wisly he,
That al wot, out of wo my soule quyte!

375

But for I shewed yow, Arcite,
Al that men wolde to me wryte,
And was so besy, yow to delyte—
My honour save—meke, kinde, and free,
Therfor ye putte on me the wyte,
And of me recche not a myte,
Thogh that the swerd of sorow byte
My woful herte through your crueltee.

6

My swete foo, why do ye so, for shame?
And thenke ye that furthered be your name,
To love a newe, and been untrewe? nay!
And putte yow in sclaunder now and blame,
And do to me adversitee and grame,
That love yow most, god, wel thou wost! alway?
Yet turn ayeyn, and be al pleyn som day,
And than shal this that now is mis be game,
And al for-yive, whyl that I live may.

(Antistrophe.)

1

Lo! herte myn, al this is for to seyne,
As whether shal I preye or elles pleyne?
Whiche is the wey to doon yow to be trewe?
For either mot I have yow in my cheyne,
Or with the dethe ye mot departe us tweyne;
Ther ben non other mene weyes newe;
For god so wisly on my soule rewe,
As verily ye sleen me with the peyne;
That may ye see unfeyned of myn hewe.

376

2

For thus ferforth have I my deth [y]-soght,
My-self I mordre with my prevy thoght;
For sorow and routhe of your unkindenesse
I wepe, I wake, I faste; al helpeth noght;
I weyve Ioy that is to speke of oght,
I voyde companye, I flee gladnesse;
Who may avaunte hir bet of hevinesse
Then I? and to this plyte have ye me broght,
Withoute gilt; me nedeth no witnesse.

3

And sholde I preye, and weyve womanhede?
Nay! rather deth then do so foul a dede,
And axe mercy gilteles! what nede?
And if I pleyne what lyf that I lede,
Yow rekketh not; that know I, out of drede;
And if I unto yow myn othes bede
For myn excuse, a scorn shal be my mede;
Your chere floureth, but hit wol not sede;
Ful longe agoon I oghte have take hede.

4

For thogh I hadde yow to-morow ageyn,
I might as wel holde Averill fro reyn,
As holde yow, to make yow stedfast.
Almighty god, of trouthe sovereyn,
Wher is the trouthe of man? who hath hit sleyn?
Who that hem loveth shal hem fynde as fast
As in a tempest is a roten mast.
Is that a tame best that is ay feyn
To renne away, when he is leest agast?

377

5

Now mercy, swete, if I misseye,
Have I seyd oght amis, I preye?
I not; my wit is al aweye.
I fare as doth the song of Chaunte-pleure.
For now I pleyne, and now I pleye,
I am so mased that I deye,
Arcite hath born awey the keye
Of al my worlde, and my good aventure!

For in this worlde nis creature
Wakinge, in more discomfiture
Then I, ne more sorow endure;
And if I slepe a furlong wey or tweye,
Than thinketh me, that your figure
Before me stant, clad in asure,
To profren eft a newe assure
For to be trewe, and mercy me to preye.

6

The longe night this wonder sight I drye,
And on the day for this afray I dye,
And of al this right noght, y-wis, ye recche.
Ne never mo myn yën two be drye,
And to your routhe and to your trouthe I crye.
But welawey! to fer be they to fecche;
Thus holdeth me my destinee a wrecche.
But me to rede out of this drede or gye
Ne may my wit, so weyk is hit, not strecche.