Poems not ascribed to Chaucer in the mss.
AGAINST WOMEN UNCONSTANT
Madame, for your newefangelnesse
Many a servaunt have ye put out of grace.
I take my leve of your unstedfastnesse,
For wel I wot, whyl ye have lyves space,
Ye can not love ful half yeer in a place,
To newe thing your lust is ay so kene.
In stede of blew, thus may ye were al grene.
Right as a mirour nothing may impresse,
But, lightly as it cometh, so mot it pace,
So fareth your love, your werkes beren
witnesse.
Ther is no feith that may your herte enbrace,
But as a wedercok, that turneth his face
With every wind, ye fare, and that is sene;
In stede of blew, thus may ye were al grene.
Ye might be shryned for your brotelnesse
Bet than Dalyda, Creseyde or Candace,
For ever in chaunging stant your sikernesse;
That tache may no wight fro your herte arace.
If ye lese oon, ye can wel tweyn purchace;
Al light for somer (ye woot wel what I mene),
In stede of blew, thus may ye were al grene.
Explicit.
Complaynt d'amours: An Amorous Complaint, Made at
Windsor
I, which that am the sorwefulleste man
That in this world was ever yit livinge,
And leest recoverer of himselven can,
Beginne right thus my deedly compleininge
On hir that may to lyf and deeth me bringe,
Which hath on me no mercy ne no rewthe,
That love hir best, but sleeth me for my trewthe.
Can I noght doon ne seye that may yow lyke?
Ne, certes now; allas, allas the whyle!
Your plesaunce is to laughen whan I syke,
And thus ye me from al my blisse exyle.
Ye han me cast in thilke spitous yle
Ther never man on lyve mighte asterte;
This have I, for I love you, swete herte!
Sooth is, that wel I woot, by lyklinesse,
If that it were a thing possible to do
For to acompte youre beautee and goodnesse,
I have no wonder thogh ye do me wo;
Sith I, th'unworthiest that may ryde or go,
Durste ever thinken in so hy a place.
What wonder is, thogh ye do me no grace?
Allas, thus is my lyf brought to an ende;
My deeth, I see, is my conclusioun.
I may wel singe, "In sory tyme I spende
My lyf.' That song may have confusioun.
For mercy, pitee, and deep affeccioun,
I sey for me, for al my deedly chere,
Alle thise diden, in that, me love yow dere.
And in this wyse and in dispayr I live
In love — nay, but in dispayr I dye!
But shal I thus yow my deeth foryive,
That causeles doth me this sorwe drye?
Ye, certes, I! For she of my folye
Hath nought to done although she do me sterve,
Hit is nat with hir wil that I hir serve.
Than sithen I am of my sorwe the cause
And sithen I have this withoute hir reed,
Than may I seyn right shortly in a clause,
It is no blame unto hir womanheed
Though swich a wrecche as I be for hir deed.
Yet alwey two thinges doon me dye,
That is to seyn, hir beautee and myn yë;
So that, algates, she is verray rote
Of my disese and of my deth also,
For with oon word she mighte be my bote,
If that she vouched sauf for to do so.
But than is hir gladnesse at my wo?
It is hir wone plesaunce for to take
To seen hir servaunts dyen for hir sake.
But certes, than is al my wonderinge,
Sithen she is the fayrest creature,
As to my doom, that ever was livinge,
The benignest and beste eek that Nature
Hath wrought or shal, whyl that the world may dure,
Why that she lefte Pite so behinde?
It was, ywis, a greet defaute in Kinde.
Yit is al this no lak to hir, pardee,
But God or Nature sore wolde I blame.
For though she shewe no pite unto me,
Sithen that she doth othere men the same,
I ne oughte to despyse my ladyes game;
It is hir pley to laughen whan men syketh,
And I assente al that hir list and lyketh!
Yet wolde I, as I dar, with sorwful herte
Biseche unto your meke womanhede
That I now dorste my sharpe sorwes smerte
Shewe by word, that ye wolde ones rede
The compleynte of me, which ful sore I drede
That I have seid here, through myn unkonninge,
In any word to your displesinge.
Lothest of anything that ever was loth
Were me, as wisly God my soule save,
To seyn a thing through which ye might be wroth;
And, to that day that I be leyd in grave,
A trewer servaunt shulle ye never have;
And, though that I have pleyned unto you here,
Foryiveth it me, myn owne lady dere.
Ever have I been, and shal, how-so I wende,
Outher to live or dye, your humble trewe.
Ye been to me my ginning and myn ende,
Sonne of the sterre bright and clere of hewe;
Alwey in oon to love yow freshly newe,
By God and by my trouthe, is myn entente;
To live or dye, I wol it never repente!
This compleynte on Seint Valentynes day,
Whan every foughel chesen shal his make,
To hir, whos I am hool and shal alwey,
This woful song and this compleynte I make,
That never yit wolde me to mercy take;
And yit wol I evermore her serve
And love hir best, although she do me sterve.
Explicit.
Merciles beaute: [A Triple Roundel]
Your yen two wol slee me sodenly;
I may the beautee of hem not sustene,
So woundeth hit thourghout my herte kene.
And but your word wol helen hastily
My hertes wounde while that hit is grene,
Your yen [two wol slee me sodenly;
I may the beautee of hem not sustene].
Upon my trouthe I sey you feithfully
That ye ben of my lyf and deeth the quene,
For with my deeth the trouthe shal be sene.
Your yen [two wol slee me sodenly;
I may the beautee of hem not sustene,
So woundeth it thourghout my herte kene].
So hath your beautee fro your herte chaced
Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne,
For Daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne.
Giltles my deeth thus han ye me purchaced;
I sey you sooth, me nedeth not to feyne;
So hath your beautee [fro your herte chaced
Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne].
Allas, that Nature hath in you compassed
So greet beautee, that no man may atteyne
To mercy though he sterve for the peyne.
So hath your beautee [fro your herte chaced
Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne,
For Daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne].
Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat,
I never thenk to ben in his prison lene;
Sin I am free, I counte him not a bene.
He may answere and seye this and that;
I do no fors, I speke right as I mene.
Sin I fro Love [escaped am so fat,
I never thenk to ben in his prison lene].
Love hath my name ystrike out of his sclat,
And he is strike out of my bokes clene
For evermo; [ther] is non other mene.
Sin I fro Love [escaped am so fat,
I never thenk to ben in his prison lene;
Sin I am free, I counte him not a
bene].
Explicit.
A BALADE OF COMPLAINT
Compleyne ne koude, ne might myn herte never,
My peynes halve, ne what torment I have,
Though that I sholde in your presence ben ever,
Myn hertes lady, as wisly he me save
That Bountee made, and Beautee list to grave
In your persone, and bad hem bothe in-fere
Ever t'awayte, and ay be wher ye were.
As wisly he gye alle my joyes here
As I am youres, and to yow sad and trewe,
And ye, my lyf and cause of my gode chere,
And deeth also, whan ye my peynes newe,
My worldes joye, whom I wol serve and sewe,
Myn heven hool, and al my suffisaunce,
Whom for to serve is set al my plesaunce.
Beseching yow in my most humble wyse
T'accepte in worth this litel pore dyte,
And for my trouthe my servyce not despyse,
Myn observaunce eke have not in despyte,
Ne yit to longe to suffren in this plyte;
I yow beseche, myn hertes lady, here,
Sith I yow serve, and so wil yeer by yere.
