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The Compleynt of Mars
The ordre of compleynt requireth skylfully
That yf a wight shal pleyne pitously,
Ther mot be cause wherfore that men pleyne;
Or men may deme he pleyneth folily
And causeles; alas, that am not I.
Wherfore the ground and cause of al my peyne,
So as my troubled wit may hit atteyne,
I wol reherse; not for to have redresse,
But to declare my ground of hevynesse.
That yf a wight shal pleyne pitously,
Ther mot be cause wherfore that men pleyne;
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And causeles; alas, that am not I.
Wherfore the ground and cause of al my peyne,
So as my troubled wit may hit atteyne,
I wol reherse; not for to have redresse,
But to declare my ground of hevynesse.
The firste tyme, alas, that I was wroght
And for certeyn effectes hider broght
Be him that lordeth ech intelligence,
I yaf my trewe servise and my thoght
For evermore— how dere I have hit boght—
To her that is of so gret excellence
That what wight that first sheweth his presence,
When she is wroth and taketh of hym no cure,
He may not longe in joye of love endure.
And for certeyn effectes hider broght
Be him that lordeth ech intelligence,
I yaf my trewe servise and my thoght
For evermore— how dere I have hit boght—
To her that is of so gret excellence
That what wight that first sheweth his presence,
When she is wroth and taketh of hym no cure,
He may not longe in joye of love endure.
This is no feyned mater that I telle;
My lady is the verrey sours and welle
Of beaute, lust, fredom, and gentilnesse,
Of riche aray— how dere men hit selle!—
Of al disport in which men frendly duelle,
Of love and pley, and of benigne humblesse,
Of soun of instrumentes of al swetnesse;
And therto so wel fortuned and thewed
That thorogh the world her goodnesse is yshewed.
My lady is the verrey sours and welle
Of beaute, lust, fredom, and gentilnesse,
Of riche aray— how dere men hit selle!—
Of al disport in which men frendly duelle,
Of love and pley, and of benigne humblesse,
Of soun of instrumentes of al swetnesse;
And therto so wel fortuned and thewed
That thorogh the world her goodnesse is yshewed.
What wonder ys it then, thogh I besette
My servise on such on that may me knette
To wele or wo sith hit lyth in her myght?
Therfore my herte forever I to her hette,
Ne truly, for my deth, I shal not lette
To ben her truest servaunt and her knyght.
I flater noght, that may wete every wyght;
For this day in her servise shal I dye.
But grace be, I se her never wyth ye.
My servise on such on that may me knette
To wele or wo sith hit lyth in her myght?
Therfore my herte forever I to her hette,
Ne truly, for my deth, I shal not lette
To ben her truest servaunt and her knyght.
I flater noght, that may wete every wyght;
For this day in her servise shal I dye.
But grace be, I se her never wyth ye.
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