The complete works of Geoffrey Chaucer Edited, from numerous manuscripts by the Rev. Walter W. Skeat |
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| XXV. | XXV. COMPLAINT TO MY MORTAL FOE. |
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 | The complete works of Geoffrey Chaucer |  |
xxvii
XXV. COMPLAINT TO MY MORTAL FOE.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
| The complete works of Geoffrey Chaucer | |