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

So hath my herte caught in rémembraunce
Your beautè hool, and stedfast governaunce,
Your vertues allè, and your hy noblesse,
That you to serve is set al my plesaunce;
So wel my lykth your womanly contenaunce,

xxvi

Your fresshe fetures and your comlinesse,
That, whyl I live, my herte to his maistresse,
You hath ful chose, in trew perséveraunce,
Never to chaunge, for no maner distresse.

And sith I [you] shal do this observaunce
Al my lyf, withouten displesaunce,
You for to serve with al my besinesse,
[Taketh me, lady, in your obeisaunce,]
And have me somwhat in your souvenaunce.
My woful herte suffreth greet duresse;
And [loke] how humbl[el]y, with al simplesse,
My wil I cónforme to your ordenaunce,
As you best list, my peynes to redresse.

Considring eek how I hange in balaunce
In your servysè; swich, lo! is my chaunce,
Abyding grace, whan that your gentilnesse
Of my gret wo list doon allegeaunce,
And with your pitè me som wyse avaunce,
In ful rebating of my hevinesse;
And thinkth, by reson, wommanly noblesse
Shuld nat desyre for to doon outrance
Ther-as she findeth noon unbuxumnesse.

Lenvoye.

Auctour of norture, lady of plesaunce,
Soveraine of beautè, flour of wommanhede,
Take ye non hede unto myn ignoraunce,
But this receyveth of your goodlihede,
Thinking that I have caught in rémembraunce
Your beautè hool, your stedfast governaunce.

xxvii

XXV. COMPLAINT TO MY MORTAL FOE.
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Al hoolly youres, withouten otheres part!
Wherefore? y-wis, that I ne can ne may
My service chaungen; thus of al suche art
The lerninge I desyre for ever and ay.
And evermore, whyl that I live may,
In trouthe I wol your servant stille abyde,
Although my wo encresè day by day,
Til that to me be come the dethes tyde.

Seint Valentyne! to you I rénovele
My woful lyf, as I can, compleyninge;
But, as me thinketh, to you a quarele
Right greet I have, whan I, rememberinge
Bitwene, how kinde, ayeins the yeres springe,
Upon your day, doth ech foul chese his make;
And you list not in swich comfórt me bringe,
That to her grace my lady shulde me take.

xxviii

Wherfor unto you, Cupide, I beseche,
Furth with Venús, noble lusty goddesse,
Sith ye may best my sorowe lesse and eche;
And I, your man, oppressed with distresse,
Can not crye ‘help!’ but to your gentilnesse:
So voucheth sauf, sith I, your man, wol dye,
My ladies herte in pitè folde and presse,
That of my peyne I finde remedye.

To your conning, my hertes right princesse,
My mortal fo, whiche I best love and serve,
I recommaunde my boistous lewednesse.
And, for I can not altherbest deserve
Your grace, I preye, as he that wol nat swerve,
That I may fare the better for my trouthe;
Sith I am youres, til deth my herte kerve,
On me, your man, now mercy have and routhe.

xxix

XXVI. COMPLAINT TO MY LODE-STERRE.
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Of gretter cause may no wight him compleyne
Than I; for love hath set me in swich caas
That lasse Ioye and more encrees of peyne
Ne hath no man; wherfore I crye ‘allas!’
A thousand tyme, whan I have tyme and space.
For she, that is my verray sorowes grounde,
Wol with her grace no wyse my sorowes sounde.

And that, shulde be my sorowes hertes leche,
Is me ageins, and maketh me swich werre,
That shortly, [in] al maner thought and speche,
Whether it be that I be nigh or ferre,
I misse the grace of you, my lode-sterre,
Which causeth me on you thus for to crye;
And al is it for lakke of remedye.

My soverain Ioye thus is my mortal fo;
She that shulde causen al my lustinesse
List in no wyse of my sorowes saye ‘ho!’

xxx

But let me thus darraine, in hevinesse,
With woful thoughtes and my grete distresse,
The which she might right wele, [at] every tyde,
If that her liste, out of my herte gyde.

But it is so, that her list, in no wyse,
Have pitè on my woful besinesse;
And I ne can do no maner servyse
That may me torne out of my hevinesse;
So woldè god, that she now wolde impresse
Right in her herte my trouthe and eek good wille;
And let me not, for lakke of mercy, spille.

Now wele I woot why thus I smerte sore;
For couthe I wele, as othere folkes, feyne,
Than neded me to live in peyne no more,
But, whan I were from you, unteye my reyne,
And, for the tyme, drawe in another cheyne.
But woldè god that alle swich were y-knowe,
And duely punisshed of hye and lowe.

Swich lyf defye I, bothe in thoughte and worde,
For yet me were wel lever for to sterve
Than in my herte for to make an horde
Of any falshood; for, til deth to-kerve
My herte and body, shal I never swerve
From you, that best may be my fynal cure,
But, at your liste, abyde myn aventure;

And preye to you, noble seint Valentyne,
My ladies herte that ye wolde enbrace,

xxxi

And make her pitè to me more enclyne
That I may stonden in her noble grace
In hasty tyme, whyl I have lyves space:
For yit wiste I never noon, of my lyve,
So litel hony in so fayre hyve.

University of Virginia Library

ADDITIONS TO ‘THE MINOR POEMS’ IN VOL. I.

XXIV. WOMANLY NOBLESSE.

Balade that Chaucier made.

Lenvoye.

XXV. COMPLAINT TO MY MORTAL FOE.[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable.

XXVI. COMPLAINT TO MY LODE-STERRE.[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable.

XXV. COMPLAINT TO MY MORTAL FOE.
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

XXVI. COMPLAINT TO MY LODE-STERRE.
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.