Lydgate's Reson and Sensuallyte Edited from the Fairfax MS. 16 (Bodleian) and the additional MS. 29,729 (Brit. Mus.) by Ernst Sieper |
 |
|
Here descryveth the Auctour the armys of Pallas. |
 | Lydgate's Reson and Sensuallyte |  |
Here descryveth the Auctour the armys of Pallas.
Of verray ryght, both hygh and lowe,
Yt longeth to yow for to knowe,
And to emprynte in your memorye,
That Pallas, for to han victorye,
Shal eve and morwe armed be
In novmbre with armvres thre:
First on hir hede, be gouernaunce,
A bryght helme of a-temperaunce,
Harder than Iren outher stel,
For to endure and last[e] wel,
Which maked was of swych temprure,
That pollex swerde ne noon armure
May do therto no violence.
And eke also, in hir diffence,
From al hir fon hir self to were,
In her ryght honde she had a spere,
Which named was, in sothfastnesse,
The egal launce of ryghtwysnesse,
To loke that no wrong be do.
In hir lyfte hande she had also
A myghty shelde of pacience
Ther-with to make resistence
Ageyn al vices, out of drede;
In whiche shelde, lyke as I rede,
An hed was wroght ful mervelous
Of a best[e] monstruous.
But thilke tyme, as I took hede,
Her helme was voyded from hir hede,
Castyng in myn oppinion,
She did hyt of Entencion,
That I myght in the self[e] place
Sen the beaute of hir face,
And ther-vpon be Iuge and deme.
And, truly, as me dide seme,
About hir hede envirovne
I saugh a passyng ryche corovne,
Excellyng alle, I yow ensure,
The corovne except of Dame Nature.
But of Reson I dar wel seyn,
And afferme hyt in certeyn:
The corovne of Pallas, the goddesse,
Surmountede al[le] of rychesse,
To which was noon egal nor Evene,
For of the highe god of hevene
Hyt forged was, ful yore agon,
With many a noble ryche ston,
By a maner espicial.
And with this corovne most royal
This ilke lorde, which ys most wys,
Corowned hir in paradys,
For hir beaute and high prudence,
Pallas, goddesse of sapience,
Ther-by for to signifye,
Who that truly kan espye,
That verray wysdam hath no delyt,
Ne no maner of appetyt
In worldly thing most transitorie.
Yt longeth to yow for to knowe,
And to emprynte in your memorye,
That Pallas, for to han victorye,
Shal eve and morwe armed be
In novmbre with armvres thre:
First on hir hede, be gouernaunce,
A bryght helme of a-temperaunce,
Harder than Iren outher stel,
For to endure and last[e] wel,
Which maked was of swych temprure,
That pollex swerde ne noon armure
May do therto no violence.
And eke also, in hir diffence,
From al hir fon hir self to were,
In her ryght honde she had a spere,
Which named was, in sothfastnesse,
The egal launce of ryghtwysnesse,
To loke that no wrong be do.
In hir lyfte hande she had also
A myghty shelde of pacience
Ther-with to make resistence
33
In whiche shelde, lyke as I rede,
An hed was wroght ful mervelous
Of a best[e] monstruous.
But thilke tyme, as I took hede,
Her helme was voyded from hir hede,
Castyng in myn oppinion,
She did hyt of Entencion,
That I myght in the self[e] place
Sen the beaute of hir face,
And ther-vpon be Iuge and deme.
And, truly, as me dide seme,
About hir hede envirovne
I saugh a passyng ryche corovne,
Excellyng alle, I yow ensure,
The corovne except of Dame Nature.
But of Reson I dar wel seyn,
And afferme hyt in certeyn:
The corovne of Pallas, the goddesse,
Surmountede al[le] of rychesse,
To which was noon egal nor Evene,
For of the highe god of hevene
Hyt forged was, ful yore agon,
With many a noble ryche ston,
By a maner espicial.
And with this corovne most royal
This ilke lorde, which ys most wys,
Corowned hir in paradys,
For hir beaute and high prudence,
Pallas, goddesse of sapience,
Ther-by for to signifye,
Who that truly kan espye,
That verray wysdam hath no delyt,
Ne no maner of appetyt
In worldly thing most transitorie.
And as hyt ys put in memorie,
The same Pallas, as I toke hede,
Fleyng had about her hede
Of Cynetys ful grete novmbre,
Makyng in maner of an ovmbre,
With her wynges ay flykeryng,
To don hir sport with her pleyng,
Which thing to my fantasye
Of wisdam may signyfye:
So as the Swan, this is no nay,
Syngeth to forn his fatal day,
With werbles ful of melodye,
To shewen in her armonye,
Of kynde as she is enclyned,
How the threde shal be vntwyned
Of hir lyf, bookys seyn so,
By antropos, and broke a-two:
So euery man, in caas semblable,
Which is a best[e] resonable,
Shulde aduerte, and han in mynde,
And vnclose his eyen blynde,
To sen aforn, it ys no Iape,
How he the dethe may nat eskape,
Whan Antropos the hour hath set,
And sen, sith it may be no bet,
That al our lyf, wyth-out[e] were,
Ys but a maner exile here,
Of which he ought[e] to be sad,
And ageynward lyght and glad,
And think[e], how he ys a man,
Of vertu syng[e] with the swan,
To forn the tyme in special
That called is his day fatal,
And sen, how this present lyf
Ys ful of werre and [of] strif,
That to departe with al hys myght
He sholde be both glad and lyght,
The same Pallas, as I toke hede,
Fleyng had about her hede
Of Cynetys ful grete novmbre,
Makyng in maner of an ovmbre,
34
To don hir sport with her pleyng,
Which thing to my fantasye
Of wisdam may signyfye:
So as the Swan, this is no nay,
Syngeth to forn his fatal day,
With werbles ful of melodye,
To shewen in her armonye,
Of kynde as she is enclyned,
How the threde shal be vntwyned
Of hir lyf, bookys seyn so,
By antropos, and broke a-two:
So euery man, in caas semblable,
Which is a best[e] resonable,
Shulde aduerte, and han in mynde,
And vnclose his eyen blynde,
To sen aforn, it ys no Iape,
How he the dethe may nat eskape,
Whan Antropos the hour hath set,
And sen, sith it may be no bet,
That al our lyf, wyth-out[e] were,
Ys but a maner exile here,
Of which he ought[e] to be sad,
And ageynward lyght and glad,
And think[e], how he ys a man,
Of vertu syng[e] with the swan,
To forn the tyme in special
That called is his day fatal,
And sen, how this present lyf
Ys ful of werre and [of] strif,
That to departe with al hys myght
He sholde be both glad and lyght,
| Lydgate's Reson and Sensuallyte | |