University of Virginia Library

THE ROMAUNT OF THE ROSE

Fragment A

Many men sayn that in sweveninges
Ther nys but fables and lesynges;
But men may some sweven[es] sen
Whiche hardely that false ne ben,
But afterward ben apparaunt.
This may I drawe to warraunt
An author that hight Macrobes,
That halt nat dremes false ne lees,
But undoth us the avysioun
That whilom mette kyng Cipioun.
And whoso saith or weneth it be
A jape, or elles nycete,
To wene that dremes after falle,
Let whoso lyste a fol me calle.
For this trowe I, and say for me,
That dremes signifiaunce be
Of good and harm to many wightes
That dremen in her slep a-nyghtes
Ful many thynges covertly
That fallen after al openly.
Within my twenty yer of age,
Whan that Love taketh his cariage
Of yonge folk, I wente soone
To bedde, as I was wont to done,
And faste I slepte; and in slepyng
Me mette such a swevenyng
That lyked me wonders wel.
But in that sweven is never a del
That it nys afterward befalle,
Ryght as this drem wol tel us alle.
Now this drem wol I ryme aright
To make your hertes gaye and lyght,
For Love it prayeth, and also
Commaundeth me that it be so.
And if there any aske me,
Whether that it be he or she,
How this book, which is here,
Shal hatte, that I rede you here:
It is the Romance of the Rose,
In which al the art of love I close.
The mater fayre is of to make;
God graunt me in gree that she it take
For whom that it begonnen is!
And that is she that hath, ywis,
So mochel pris, and therto she
So worthy is biloved to be,
That she wel ought, of pris and ryght,
Be cleped Rose of every wight.
That it was May me thoughte tho —
It is fyve yer or more ago —
That it was May, thus dremed me,
In tyme of love and jolite,
That al thing gynneth waxen gay,
For ther is neither busk nor hay
In May that it nyl shrouded ben
And it with newe leves wren.
These wodes eek recoveren grene,
That drie in wynter ben to sene,
And the erthe wexith proud withalle,
For swote dewes that on it falle,
And the pore estat forget
In which that wynter had it set.
And than bycometh the ground so proud
That it wole have a newe shroud,
And makith so queynt his robe and faire
That it hath hewes an hundred payre
Of gras and flouris, ynde and pers,
And many hewes ful dyvers —
That is the robe I mene, iwys,
Through which the ground to preisen is.
The briddes that haven left her song,
While thei suffride cold so strong,
In wedres gryl and derk to sighte,
Ben in May for the sonne brighte
So glade that they shewe in syngyng
That in her hertis is sich lykyng
That they mote syngen and be light.
Than doth the nyghtyngale hir myght
To make noyse and syngen blythe,
Than is blisful many sithe
The chelaundre and papyngay,
Than yonge folk entenden ay
Forto ben gay and amorous —
The tyme is than so saverous.
Hard is the hert that loveth nought
In May whan al this mirth is wrought,
Whan he may on these braunches here
The smale briddes syngen clere
Her blisful swete song pitous.
And in this sesoun delytous,
Whan love affraieth alle thing,
Me thought a-nyght in my sleping,
Right in my bed, ful redily,
That it was by the morowe erly,
And up I roos and gan me clothe.
Anoon I wissh myn hondis bothe.
A sylvre nedle forth I drough
Out of an aguler queynt ynough,
And gan this nedle threde anon,
For out of toun me list to gon
The song of briddes forto here
That in thise buskes syngen clere.
And in [the] swete seson that leef is,
With a thred bastyng my slevis,
Alone I wente in my plaiyng,
The smale foules song harknyng.
They peyned hem, ful many peyre,
To synge on bowes blosmed feyre.
Joly and gay, ful of gladnesse,
Toward a ryver gan I me dresse
That I herd renne faste by,
For fairer plaiyng non saugh I
Than playen me by that ryver.
For from an hill that stood ther ner
Cam doun the strem ful stif and bold.
Cleer was the water, and as cold
As any welle is, soth to seyne,
And somdel lasse it was than Seyne,
But it was strayghter wel away.
And never saugh I, er that day,
The watir that so wel lyked me,
And wondirglad was I to se
That lusty place and that ryver.
And with that watir, that ran so cler,
My face I wyssh. Tho saugh I well
The botme paved everydell
With gravel, ful of stones shene.
The medewe softe, swote, and grene,
Beet right on the watir syde.
Ful cler was than the morowtyde,
And ful attempre, out of drede.
Tho gan I walke thorough the mede,
Dounward ay in my pleiyng,
The ryver syde costeiyng.
And whan I had a while goon,
I saugh a gardyn right anoon,
Ful long and brood, and everydell
Enclosed was, and walled well
With highe walles enbatailled,
Portraied without and wel entailled
With many riche portraitures.
And bothe the ymages and the peyntures
Can I biholde bysyly,
And I wole telle you redyly
Of thilk ymages the semblaunce,
As fer as I have in remembraunce.
Amydde saugh I Hate stonde,
That for hir wrathe, yre, and onde,
Semede to ben a mynoresse,
An angry wight, a chideresse;
And ful of gyle and fel corage,
By semblaunt, was that ilk ymage.
And she was nothyng wel arraied,
But lyk a wod womman afraied.
Frounced foule was hir visage,
And grennyng for dispitous rage,
Hir nose snorted up for tene.
Ful hidous was she for to sene,
Ful foul and rusty was she, this.
Hir heed writhen was, ywis,
Ful grymly with a greet towayle.
An ymage of another entayle
A lyft half was hir faste by.
Hir name above hir heed saugh I,
And she was called Felonye.
Another ymage that Vilanye
Clepid was saugh I and fond
Upon the wal on hir right hond.
Vilany was lyk somdell
That other ymage, and, trustith wel,
She semede a wikked creature.
By countenaunce in portrayture
She semed be ful dispitous,
And eek ful proud and outragious.
Wel coude he peynte, I undirtake,
That sich ymage coude make.
Ful foul and cherlyssh semed she,
And eek vylayneus for to be,
And litel coude of norture
To worshipe any creature.
And next was peynted Coveitise,
That eggith folk in many gise
To take and yeve right nought ageyn,
And gret tresouris up to leyn.
And that is she that for usure
Leneth to many a creature
The lasse for the more wynnyng,
So coveitous is her brennyng.
And that is she that penyes fele
Techith for to robbe and stele
These theves and these smale harlotes;
And that is routh, for by her throtes
Ful many oon hangith at the laste.
She makith folk compasse and caste
To taken other folkis thyng
Thorough robberie or myscounting.
And that is she that makith trechoures,
And she makith false pleadoures
That with hir termes and hir domes
Doon maydens, children, and eek gromes
Her heritage to forgo.
Ful croked were hir hondis two,
For Coveitise is evere wod
To gripen other folkis god.
Coveityse, for hir wynnyng,
Ful leef hath other mennes thing.
Another ymage set saugh I
Next Coveitise faste by,
And she was clepid Avarice.
Ful foul in peyntyng was that vice;
Ful fade and caytif was she eek,
And also grene as ony leek.
So yvel hewed was hir colour,
Hir semed to have lyved in langour.
She was lyk thyng for hungre deed,
That ladde hir lyf oonly by breed
Kneden with eisel strong and egre,
And therto she was lene and megre.
And she was clad ful porely
Al in an old torn courtepy,
As she were al with doggis torn;
And bothe bihynde and eke biforn
Clouted was she beggarly.
A mantyl heng hir faste by,
Upon a perche, weik and small;
A burnet cote heng therwithall
Furred with no menyver,
But with a furre rough of her,
Of lambe-skynnes hevy and blake.
It was ful old, I undirtake,
For Avarice to clothe hir well
Ne hastith hir never a dell.
For certeynly it were hir loth
To weren ofte that ilke cloth,
And if it were forwered, she
Wolde have ful gret necessite
Of clothyng er she bought hir newe,
Al were it bad of woll and hewe.
This Avarice hild in hir hand
A purs that heng by a band,
And that she hidde and bond so stronge,
Men must abyde wondir longe
Out of that purs er ther come ought.
For that ne cometh not in hir thought;
It was not, certein, hir entente
That fro that purs a peny wente.
And by that ymage, nygh ynough,
Was peynted Envye, that never lough
Nor never wel in hir herte ferde
But if she outher saugh or herde
Som gret myschaunce or gret disese.
Nothyng may so moch hir plese
As myschef and mysaventure,
Or whan she seeth discomfiture
Upon ony worthy man falle,
Than likith hir wel withalle.
She is ful glad in hir corage,
If she se any gret lynage
Be brought to nought in shamful wise.
And if a man in honour rise,
Or by his wit or by his prowesse,
Of that hath she gret hevynesse.
For, trustith wel, she goth nygh wod
Whan any chaunce happith god.
Envie is of such crueltee
That feith ne trouthe holdith she
To freend ne felawe, bad or good.
Ne she hath kyn noon of hir blood,
That she nys ful her enemy;
She nolde, I dar seyn hardely,
Hir owne fadir ferde well.
And sore abieth she everydell
Hir malice and hir maltalent,
For she is in so gret turment,
And hath such [wo] whan folk doth good
That nygh she meltith for pure wood.
Hir herte kervyth and so brekith
That God the puple wel awrekith.
Envie, iwis, shal nevere lette
Som blame upon the folk to sette.
I trowe that if Envie, iwis,
Knewe the beste man that is
On this side or biyonde the see,
Yit somwhat lakken hym wolde she;
And if he were so hende and wis
That she ne myght al abate his pris,
Yit wolde she blame his worthynesse
Or by hir wordis make it lesse.
I saugh Envie in that peyntyng
Hadde a wondirful lokyng,
For she ne lokide but awry
Or overthwart, all baggyngly.
And she hadde a [foul] usage:
She myght loke in no visage
Of man or womman forth-right pleyn,
But shette hir [oon] eie for disdeyn.
So for envie brenned she
Whan she myght any man se
That fair or worthi were, or wis,
Or elles stod in folkis prys.
Sorowe was peynted next Envie
Upon that wall of masonrye.
But wel was seyn in hir colour
That she hadde lyved in langour;
Hir semede to have the jaunyce.
Nought half so pale was Avarice,
Nor nothyng lyk of lenesse;
For sorowe, thought, and gret distresse,
That she hadde suffred day and nyght,
Made hir ful yelow and nothyng bright,
Ful fade, pale, and megre also.
Was never wight yit half so wo
As that hir semede for to be,
Nor so fulfilled of ire as she.
I trowe that no wight myght hir please
Nor do that thyng that myght hir ease;
Nor she ne wolde hir sorowe slake,
Nor comfort noon unto hir take,
So depe was hir wo bigonnen,
And eek hir hert in angre ronnen.
A sorowful thyng wel semed she,
Nor she hadde nothyng slowe be
For to forcracchen al hir face,
And for to rent in many place
Hir clothis, and for to tere hir swire,
As she that was fulfilled of ire.
And al totorn lay eek hir her
Aboute hir shuldris here and ther,
As she that hadde it al torent
For angre and for maltalent.
And eek I telle you certeynly
How that she wep ful tendirly.
In world nys wight so hard of herte
That hadde sen her sorowes smerte,
That nolde have had of her pyte,
So wo-begon a thyng was she.
She al todassht herself for woo
And smot togyder her hondes two.
To sorowe was she ful ententyf,
That wolful recheles caytyf.
Her roughte lytel of playing
Or of clypping or kissyng;
For whoso sorouful is in herte,
Him luste not to play ne sterte,
Ne for to dauncen, ne to synge,
Ne may his herte in temper bringe
To make joye on even or morowe,
For joy is contrarie unto sorowe.
Elde was paynted after this,
That shorter was a foot, iwys,
Than she was wont in her yonghede.
Unneth herself she mighte fede.
So feble and eke so old was she
That faded was al her beaute.
Ful salowe was waxen her colour;
Her heed, for hor, was whyt as flour.
Iwys, great qualm ne were it non,
Ne synne, although her lyf were gon.
Al woxen was her body unwelde,
And drie and dwyned al for elde.
A foul, forwelked thyng was she,
That whylom round and softe had be.
Her eeres shoken faste withalle,
As from her heed they wolde falle;
Her face frounced and forpyned,
And bothe her hondes lorne, fordwyned.
So old she was that she ne wente
A foot, but it were by potente.
The tyme that passeth nyght and day,
And resteles travayleth ay,
And steleth from us so prively
That to us semeth sykerly
That it in oon poynt dwelleth ever —
And certes, it ne resteth never,
But goth so faste, and passeth ay,
That ther nys man that thynke may
What tyme that now present is
(Asketh at these clerkes this),
For [er] men thynke it, redily
Thre tymes ben passed by —
The tyme, that may not sojourne,
But goth and may never retourne,
As watir that doun renneth ay,
But never drope retourne may;
Ther may nothing as tyme endure,
Metall nor erthely creature,
For alle thing it fret and shall;
The tyme eke that chaungith all,
And all doth waxe and fostred be,
And alle thing distroieth he;
The tyme that eldith our auncessours,
And eldith kynges and emperours,
And that us alle shal overcomen,
Er that deth us shal have nomen;
The tyme that hath al in welde
To elden folk had maad hir elde
So ynly that, to my witing,
She myghte helpe hirsilf nothing,
But turned ageyn unto childhede.
She had nothing hirsilf to lede,
Ne wit ne pithe in hir hold,
More than a child of two yeer old.
But natheles, I trowe that she
Was fair sumtyme, and fresh to se,
Whan she was in hir rightful age,
But she was past al that passage,
And was a doted thing bicomen.
A furred cope on had she nomen;
Wel had she clad hirsilf and warm,
For cold myght elles don hir harm.
These olde folk have alwey cold;
Her kynde is sich, whan they ben old.
Another thing was don there write
That semede lyk an ipocrite,
And it was clepid Poope-Holy.
That ilk is she that pryvely
Ne spareth never a wikked dede,
Whan men of hir taken noon hede,
And maketh hir outward precious,
With pale visage and pitous,
And semeth a simple creature;
But ther nys no mysaventure
That she ne thenkith in hir corage.
Ful lyk to hir was that ymage,
That makid was lyk hir semblaunce.
She was ful symple of countenaunce,
And she was clothed and eke shod
As she were, for the love of God,
Yolden to relygioun,
Sich semede hir devocioun.
A sauter held she fast in honde,
And bisily she gan to fonde
To make many a feynt praiere
To God and to his seyntis dere.
Ne she was gay, ne fresh, ne jolyf,
But semede to be ful ententyf
To gode werkis and to faire,
And therto she had on an haire.
Ne, certis, she was fatt nothing,
But semed wery for fasting;
Of colour pale and deed was she.
From hir the gate ay werned be
Of paradys, that blisful place;
For sich folk maketh lene her face,
As Crist seith in his evangile,
To gete hem prys in toun a while;
And for a litel glorie veine
They lesen God and his reigne.
And alderlast of everychon
Was peynted Povert al aloon,
That not a peny hadde in wolde,
All though she hir clothis solde,
And though she shulde anhonged be,
For nakid as a worm was she.
And if the wedir stormy were,
For cold she shulde have deyed there.
She nadde on but a streit old sak,
And many a clout on it ther stak;
This was hir cote and hir mantell.
No more was there, never a dell,
To clothe hir with, I undirtake;
Gret leyser hadde she to quake.
And she was putt, that I of talke,
Fer fro these other, up in an halke.
There lurked and there coured she,
For pover thing, whereso it be,
Is shamefast and dispised ay.
Acursed may wel be that day
That povere man conceyved is;
For, God wot, al to selde, iwys,
Is ony povere man wel fed,
Or wel araied or [wel] cled,
Or wel biloved, in sich wise
In honour that he may arise.
Alle these thingis, well avised,
As I have you er this devysed,
With gold and asure over all
Bepeynted were upon the wall.
Square was the wall, and high sumdell;
Enclosed and barred well,
In stede of hegge, was that gardyn;
Com nevere shepherde theryn.
Into that gardyn, wel wrought,
Whoso that me coude have brought,
By laddre or elles by degre,
It wolde wel have liked me.
For sich solas, sich joie and play,
I trowe that nevere man ne say,
As was in that place delytous.
The gardeyn was not daungerous
To herberwe briddes many oon.
So riche a yer[d] was never noon
Of briddes song and braunches grene;
Therynne were briddes mo, I wene,
Than ben in all the rewme of Fraunce.
Ful blisful was the accordaunce
Of swete and pitous song thei made,
For all this world it owghte glade.
And I mysilf so mery ferde,
Whan I her blisful songes herde,
That for an hundred pound nolde I
(If that the passage openly
Hadde be unto me free)
That I nolde entren for to se
Th'assemble — God kepe it fro care! —
Of briddis whiche therynne ware,
That songen thorugh her mery throtes
Daunces of love and mery notes.
Whan I thus herde foules synge,
I fel fast in a weymentynge
By which art or by what engyn
I myght come into that gardyn;
But way I couthe fynde noon
Into that gardyn for to goon.
Ne nought wist I if that ther were
Eyther hole or place [o-]where
By which I myght have entre.
Ne ther was noon to teche me,
For I was al aloone, iwys,
Ful wo and angwishus of this,
Til atte last bithought I me
That by no weye ne myght it be
That ther nas laddre or wey to passe,
Or hole, into so faire a place.
Tho gan I go a full gret pas
Envyronyng evene in compas
The closing of the square wall,
Tyl that I fond a wiket small
So shett that I ne myght in gon,
And other entre was ther noon.
Uppon this dore I gan to smyte,
That was fetys and so lite,
For other wey coude I not seke.
Ful long I shof, and knokkide eke,
And stood ful long and of[t] herknyng,
If that I herde ony wight comyng,
Til that [the] dore of thilk entre
A mayden curteys openyde me.
Hir heer was as yelowe of hewe
As ony basyn scoured newe,
Hir flesh tendre as is a chike,
With bente browis smothe and slyke.
And by mesure large were
The openyng of hir yen clere,
Hir nose of good proporcioun,
Hir yen grey as is a faucoun,
With swete breth and wel savoured,
Hir face whit and wel coloured,
With litel mouth and round to see.
A clove chynne eke hadde she.
Hir nekke was of good fasoun
In lengthe and gretnesse, by resoun,
Withoute bleyne, scabbe, or royne;
Fro Jerusalem unto Burgoyne
Ther nys a fairer nekke, iwys,
To fele how smothe and softe it is;
Hir throte, also whit of hewe
As snowe on braunche snowed newe.
Of body ful wel wrought was she;
Men neded not in no cuntre
A fairer body for to seke.
And of fyn orfrays hadde she eke
A chapelet — so semly oon
Ne werede never mayde upon —
And faire above that chapelet
A rose gerland had she sett.
She hadde [in honde] a gay mirrour,
And with a riche gold tressour
Hir heed was tressed queyntely,
Hir sleves sewid fetisly,
And for to kepe hir hondis faire
Of gloves white she had a paire.
And she hadde on a cote of grene
Of cloth of Gaunt. Withouten wene,
Wel semyde by hir apparayle
She was not wont to gret travayle,
For whan she kempt was fetisly,
And wel arayed and richely,
Thanne had she don al hir journe,
For merye and wel bigoon was she.
She ladde a lusty lyf in May:
She hadde no thought, by nyght ne day,
Of nothyng, but if it were oonly
To graythe hir wel and uncouthly.
Whan that this dore hadde opened me
This may[de] semely for to see,
I thanked hir as I best myghte,
And axide hir how that she highte,
And what she was I axide eke.
And she to me was nought unmeke,
Ne of hir answer daungerous,
But faire answerde, and seide thus:
"Lo, sir, my name is Ydelnesse;
So clepe men me, more and lesse.
Ful myghty and ful riche am I,
And that of oon thyng namely,
For I entende to nothyng
But to my joye and my pleying,
And for to kembe and tresse me.
Aqueynted am I and pryve
With Myrthe, lord of this gardyn,
That fro the land of Alexandryn
Made the trees hidre be fet
That in this gardyn ben set.
And whan the trees were woxen on highte,
This wall, that stant heere in thi sighte,
Dide Myrthe enclosen al aboute;
And these ymages, al withoute,
He dide hem bothe entaile and peynte,
That neithir ben jolyf ne queynte,
But they ben ful of sorowe and woo,
As thou hast seen a while agoo.
And ofte tyme, hym to solace,
Sir Myrthe cometh into this place,
And eke with hym cometh his meynee
That lyven in lust and jolite.
And now is Myrthe therynne to here
The briddis how they syngen clere,
The mavys and the nyghtyngale,
And other joly briddis smale.
And thus he walketh to solace
Hym and his folk, for swetter place
To pleyen ynne he may not fynde,
Although he sought oon in-tyl Ynde.
The alther-fairest folk to see
That in this world may founde be
Hath Mirthe with hym in his route,
That folowen hym always aboute."
Whan Ydelnesse had told al this,
And I hadde herkned wel, ywys,
Thanne seide I to dame Ydelnesse,
"Now, also wisly God me blesse,
Sith Myrthe, that is so faire and fre,
Is in this yerde with his meyne,
Fro thilk assemble, if I may,
Shal no man werne me to-day,
That I this nyght ne mote it see.
For wel wene I there with hym be
A fair and joly companye
Fulfilled of alle curtesie."
And forth, withoute wordis mo,
In at the wiket went I tho,
That Ydelnesse hadde opened me,
Into that gardyn fair to see.
And whan I was inne, iwys,
Myn herte was ful glad of this,
For wel wende I ful sikerly
Have ben in paradys erthly.
So fair it was that, trusteth wel,
It semede a place espirituel,
For certys, as at my devys,
Ther is no place in paradys
So good inne for to dwelle or be
As in that gardyn, thoughte me.
For there was many a bridd syngyng,
Thoroughout the yerd al thringyng;
In many places were nyghtyngales,
Alpes, fynches, and wodewales,
That in her swete song deliten
In thilke places as they habiten.
There myghte men see many flokkes
Of turtles and laverokkes.
Chalaundres fele sawe I there,
That wery, nygh forsongen were;
And thrustles, terins, and mavys,
That songen for to wynne hem prys,
And eke to sormounte in her song
That other briddes hem among.
By note made fair servyse
These briddes, that I you devise;
They songe her song as faire and wel
As angels don espirituel.
And trusteth wel, whan I hem herde,
Ful lustily and wel I ferde,
For never yitt sich melodye
Was herd of man that myghte dye.
Sich swete song was hem among
That me thought it no briddis song,
But it was wondir lyk to be
Song of mermaydens of the see,
That, for her syngyng is so clere,
Though we mermaydens clepe hem here
In English, as is oure usaunce,
Men clepe hem sereyns in Fraunce.
Ententif weren for to synge
These briddis, that nought unkunnynge
Were of her craft, and apprentys,
But of song sotil and wys.
And certis, whan I herde her song,
And saw the grene place among,
In herte I wex so wondir gay
That I was never erst, er that day,
So jolyf nor so wel bigoo,
Ne merye in herte, as I was thoo.
And than wist I and saw ful well
That Ydelnesse me served well,
That me putte in sich jolite.
Hir freend wel ought I for to be,
Sith she the dore of that gardyn
Hadde opened and me leten in.
From hennes forth hou that I wroughte,
I shal you tellen, as me thoughte.
First, whereof Myrthe served there,
And eke what folk there with hym were,
Withoute fable I wol discryve.
And of that gardyn eke as blyve
I wole you tellen aftir this
The faire fasoun all, ywys,
That wel wrought was for the nones.
I may not telle you all at ones,
But, as I may and can, I shall
By ordre tellen you it all.
Ful fair servise and eke ful swete
These briddis maden as they sete.
Layes of love, ful wel sownyng,
They songen in her jargonyng;
Summe high and summe eke lowe songe
Upon the braunches grene spronge.
The swetnesse of her melodye
Made al myn herte in reverye.
And whan that I hadde herd, I trowe,
These briddis syngyng on a rowe,
Than myght I not withholde me
That I ne wente inne for to see
Sir Myrthe, for my desiryng
Was hym to seen, over alle thyng,
His countenaunce and his manere —
That sighte was to me ful dere.
Tho wente I forth on my right hond
Doun by a lytel path I fond
Of mentes full, and fenell grene,
And faste by, without wene,
Sir Myrthe I fond, and right anoon
Unto Sir Myrthe gan I goon,
There as he was hym to solace.
And with hym in that lusty place
So fair folk and so fresh had he
That whan I saw, I wondred me
Fro whennes siche folk myght come,
So faire they weren, alle and some;
For they were lyk, as to my sighte,
To angels that ben fethered brighte.
This folk, of which I telle you soo,
Upon a karole wenten thoo.
A lady karolede hem that hyghte
Gladnesse, [the] blissful and the lighte;
Wel coude she synge and lustyly,
Noon half so wel and semely,
And make in song sich refreynynge:
It sat hir wondir wel to synge.
Hir vois ful clere was and ful swete.
She was nought rude ne unmete
But couthe ynow of sich doyng
As longeth unto karolyng,
For she was wont in every place
To syngen first, folk to solace.
For syngyng moost she gaf hir to;
No craft had she so leef to do.
Tho myghtist thou karoles sen,
And folk daunce and mery ben,
And made many a fair tournyng
Upon the grene gras springyng.
There myghtist thou see these flowtours,
Mynstrales, and eke jogelours,
That wel to synge dide her peyne.
Somme songe songes of Loreyne,
For in Loreyn her notes bee
Full swetter than in this contre.
There was many a tymbestere,
And saillouris, that I dar wel swere
Couthe her craft ful parfitly.
The tymbres up ful sotilly
They caste and hente full ofte
Upon a fynger fair and softe,
That they failide never mo.
Ful fetys damyseles two,
Ryght yonge and full of semelyhede,
In kirtles and noon other wede,
And faire tressed every tresse,
Hadde Myrthe doon, for his noblesse,
Amydde the karole for to daunce;
But herof lieth no remembraunce,
Hou that they daunced queyntely.
That oon wolde come all pryvyly
Agayn that other, and whan they were
Togidre almost, they threwe yfere
Her mouthis so that thorough her play
It semed as they kiste alway —
To dauncen well koude they the gise.
What shulde I more to you devyse?
Ne bede I never thennes go,
Whiles that I saw hem daunce so.
Upon the karoll wonder faste
I gan biholde, til atte laste
A lady gan me for to espie,
And she was cleped Curtesie,
The worshipfull, the debonaire —
I pray to God evere falle hir faire!
Ful curteisly she called me:
"What do ye there, beau ser?" quod she,
"Come and, if it lyke you
To dauncen, dauncith with us now."
And I, withoute tariyng,
Wente into the karolyng.
I was abasshed never a dell,
But it to me liked right well
That Curtesie me cleped so
And bad me on the daunce go.
For if I hadde durst, certeyn
I wolde have karoled right fayn,
As man that was to daunce right blithe.
Thanne gan I loken ofte sithe
The shap, the bodies, and the cheres,
The countenaunce and the maneres
Of all the folk that daunced there,
And I shal telle what they were.
Ful fair was Myrthe, ful long and high;
A fairer man I nevere sigh.
As round as appil was his face,
Ful rody and whit in every place.
Fetys he was and wel beseye,
With metely mouth and yen greye;
His nose by mesure wrought ful right;
Crisp was his heer, and eek ful bright;
His shuldris of a large brede,
And smalish in the girdilstede.
He semed lyk a portreiture,
So noble he was of his stature,
So fair, so joly, and so fetys,
With lymes wrought at poynt devys,
Delyver, smert, and of gret myght;
Ne sawe thou nevere man so lyght.
Of berd unnethe hadde he nothyng,
For it was in the firste spryng.
Ful yong he was, and mery of thought,
And in samet, with briddis wrought,
And with gold beten ful fetysly,
His body was clad ful richely.
Wrought was his robe in straunge gise,
And al toslytered for queyntise
In many a place, lowe and hie.
And shod he was with gret maistrie,
With shoon decoped, and with laas.
By druery and by solas
His leef a rosyn chapelet
Hadde mad, and on his heed it set.
And wite ye who was his leef?
Dame Gladnesse there was hym so leef,
That syngith so wel with glad courage,
That from she was twelve yeer of age
She of hir love graunt hym made.
Sir Mirthe hir by the fynger hadde
Daunsyng, and she hym also;
Gret love was atwixe hem two.
Bothe were they faire and bright of hewe.
She semed lyk a rose newe
Of colour, and hir flesh so tendre
That with a brere smale and slendre
Men myght it cleve, I dar wel seyn.
Hir forheed, frounceles al pleyn;
Bente were hir browis two,
Hir yen greye and glad also,
That laugheden ay in hir semblaunt
First or the mouth, by covenaunt.
I not what of hir nose descryve,
So fair hath no womman alyve.
Hir heer was yelowe and clere shynyng;
I wot no lady so likyng.
Of orfrays fresh was hir gerland;
I, which seyen have a thousand,
Saugh never, ywys, no gerlond yitt
So wel wrought of silk as it.
And in an overgilt samit
Clad she was, by gret delit,
Of which hir leef a robe werde —
The myrier she in hir herte ferde.
And next hir wente, on hir other side,
The God of Love that can devyde
Love, and as hym likith it be.
But he can cherles daunten, he,
And maken folkis pride fallen;
And he can wel these lordis thrallen,
And ladyes putt at lowe degre,
Whan he may hem to p[r]oude see.
This God of Love of his fasoun
Was lyk no knave ne quystroun;
His beaute gretly was to pryse.
But of his robe to devise
I drede encombred for to be;
For nought clad in silk was he,
But all in floures and in flourettes,
And with losenges and scochouns,
With briddes, lybardes, and lyouns,
And other beestis wrought ful well.
His garnement was everydell
Portreied and wrought with floures,
By dyvers medlyng of coloures.
Floures there were of many gise
Sett by compas in assise.
Ther lakkide no flour, to my dom,
Ne nought so mych as flour of brom,
Ne violete, ne eke pervynke,
Ne flour noon that man can on thynke;
And many a rose-leef ful long
Was entermedled theramong.
And also on his heed was set
Of roses reed a chapelett,
But nyghtyngales, a ful gret route,
That flyen over his heed aboute,
The leeves felden as they flyen.
And he was all with briddes wryen,
With popynjay, with nyghtyngale,
With chalaundre, and with wodewale,
With fynch, with lark, and with archaungell.
He semede as he were an aungell
That doun were comen fro hevene cler.
Love hadde with hym a bacheler
That he made alweyes with hym be;
Swete-Lokyng cleped was he.
This bacheler stod biholdyng
The daunce, and in his hond holdyng
Turke bowes two had he.
That oon of hem was of a tree
That bereth a fruyt of savour wykke;
Ful crokid was that foule stikke,
And knotty here and there also,
And blak as bery or ony slo.
That other bowe was of a plante
Withoute wem, I dar warante,
Ful evene and by proporcioun
Treitys and long, of ful good fasoun.
And it was peynted wel and thwyten,
And overal diapred and writen
With ladyes and with bacheleris,
Ful lyghtsom and glad of cheris.
These bowes two held Swete-Lokyng,
That semede lyk no gadelyng.
And ten brode arowis hild he there,
Of which fyve in his right hond were.
But they were shaven wel and dight,
Nokked and fethered right,
And all they were with gold bygoon,
And stronge poynted everychoon,
And sharpe for to kerven well.
But iren was ther noon ne steell,
For al was gold, men myght it see,
Out-take the fetheres and the tree.
The swiftest of these arowis fyve
Out of a bowe for to dryve,
And best fethered for to flee,
And fairest eke, was clepid Beaute.
That other arowe, that hurteth lesse,
Was clepid, as I trowe, Symplesse.
The thridde cleped was Fraunchise,
That fethred was in noble wise
With valour and with curtesye.
The fourthe was cleped Compaignye,
That hevy for to sheten ys.
But whoso shetith right, ywys,
May therwith doon gret harm and wo.
The fifte of these and laste also,
Faire-Semblaunt men that arowe calle,
The leeste grevous of hem alle,
Yit can it make a ful gret wounde.
But he may hope his soris sounde,
That hurt is with that arowe, ywys.
His wo the bet bistowed is,
For he may sonner have gladnesse —
His langour oughte be the lesse.
Five arowis were of other gise,
That ben ful foule to devyse,
For shaft and ende, soth for to telle,
Were also blak as fend in helle.
The first of hem is called Pride.
That other arowe next hym biside,
It was cleped Vylanye;
That arowe was al with felonye
Envenymed, and with spitous blame.
The thridde of hem was cleped Shame.
The fourthe Wanhope cleped is;
The fifte, the Newe-Thought, ywys.
These arowis that I speke of heere
Were alle fyve on oon maneere,
And alle were they resemblable.
To hem was wel sittyng and able
The foule croked bowe hidous,
That knotty was and al roynous.
That bowe semede wel to shete
These arowis fyve that ben unmete
And contrarye to that other fyve.
But though I telle not as blyve
Of her power ne of her myght,
Herafter shal I tellen right
The soothe and eke signyfiaunce,
As fer as I have remembraunce.
All shal be seid, I undirtake,
Er of this book an ende I make.
Now come I to my tale ageyn.
But aldirfirst I wol you seyn
The fasoun and the countenaunces
Of all the folk that on the daunce is.
The God of Love, jolyf and lyght,
Ladde on his hond a lady bright,
Of high prys and of gret degre.
This lady called was Beaute,
As an arowe, of which I tolde.
Ful wel thewed was she holde,
Ne she was derk ne broun, but bright,
And clere as the mone lyght
Ageyn whom all the sterres semen
But smale candels, as we demen.
Hir flesh was tendre as dew of flour,
Hir chere was symple as byrde in bour,
As whyt as lylye or rose in rys,
Hir face, gentyl and tretys.
Fetys she was, and smal to se;
No wyndred browis hadde she,
Ne popped hir, for it neded nought
To wyndre hir or to peynte hir ought.
Hir tresses yelowe and longe straughten,
Unto hir helys doun they raughten.
Hir nose, hir mouth, and eye, and cheke
Wel wrought, and all the remenaunt eke.
A ful gret savour and a swote
Me toucheth in myn herte rote,
As helpe me God, whan I remembre
Of the fasoun of every membre.
In world is noon so fair a wight,
For yong she was, and hewed bright,
Sore plesaunt, and fetys withall,
Gente, and in hir myddill small.
Biside Beaute yede Richesse,
An high lady of gret noblesse,
And gret of prys in every place.
But whoso durste to hir trespace,
Or til hir folk, in word or dede,
He were full hardy, out of drede,
For bothe she helpe and hyndre may.
And that is nought of yisterday
That riche folk have full gret myght
To helpe and eke to greve a wyght.
The beste and the grettest of valour
Diden Rychesse ful gret honour,
And besy weren hir to serve,
For that they wolde hir love deserve:
They cleped hir lady, gret and small.
This wide world hir dredith all;
This world is all in hir daunger.
Hir court hath many a losenger,
And many a traytour envyous,
That ben ful besy and curyous
For to dispreisen and to blame
That best deserven love and name.
Bifore the folk, hem to bigilen,
These losengeris hem preyse and smylen,
And thus the world with word anoynten;
And aftirward they prikke and poynten
The folk right to the bare boon,
Bihynde her bak whan they ben goon,
And foule abate the folkis prys.
Ful many a worthy man and wys,
An hundred, have [they] do to dye.
These losengers thorough flaterye
Have made folk ful straunge be,
There hem oughte be pryve.
Wel yvel mote they thryve and thee,
And yvel aryved mote they be,
These losengers, ful of envye!
No good man loveth her companye.
Richesse a robe of purpur on hadde —
Ne trowe not that I lye or madde,
For in this world is noon it lyche,
Ne by a thousand deell so riche,
Ne noon so fair; for it ful well
With orfrays leyd was everydeell,
And portraied in the ribanynges
Of dukes storyes, and of kynges,
And with a bend of gold tasseled,
And knoppis fyne of gold ameled.
Aboute hir nekke of gentyl entayle
Was shet the riche chevesaile
In which ther was full gret plente
Of stones clere and bright to see.
Rychesse a girdell hadde upon,
The bokel of it was of a stoon
Of vertu gret and mochel of myght,
For whoso bar the stoon so bright,
Of venym durst hym nothing doute,
While he the stoon hadde hym aboute.
That stoon was gretly for to love,
And tyl a riche mannes byhove
Worth all the gold in Rome and Frise.
The mourdaunt wrought in noble wise
Was of a stoon full precious,
That was so fyn and vertuous
That hol a man it koude make
Of palasie and toth-ake.
And yit the stoon hadde such a grace
That he was siker in every place,
All thilke day, not blynd to ben,
That fastyng myghte that stoon seen.
The barres were of gold ful fyn
Upon a tyssu of satyn,
Full hevy, gret, and nothyng lyght;
In everich was a besaunt-wight.
Upon the tresses of Richesse
Was sette a cercle, for noblesse,
Of brend gold that full lyghte shoon;
So fair, trowe I, was never noon.
But he were kunnyng, for the nonys,
That koude devyse all the stonys
That in that cercle shewen clere.
It is a wondir thing to here,
For no man koude preyse or gesse
Of hem the valewe or richesse.
Rubyes there were, saphires, jagounces,
And emeraudes, more than two ounces,
But all byfore, ful sotilly,
A fyn charboncle set saugh I.
The stoon so clere was and so bright
That, also soone as it was nyght,
Men myghte seen to go, for nede,
A myle or two in lengthe and brede.
Sich lyght sprang out of the ston
That Richesse wondir brighte shon,
Bothe hir heed and all hir face,
And eke aboute hir al the place.
Dame Richesse on hir hond gan lede
A yong man ful of semelyhede,
That she best loved of ony thing.
His lust was mych in housholding.
In clothyng was he ful fetys,
And loved well to have hors of prys.
He wende to have reproved be
Of theft or moordre if that he
Hadde in his stable ony hakeney.
And therfore he desired ay
To be aqueynted with Richesse,
For all his purpos, as I gesse,
Was forto make gret dispense,
Withoute wernyng or diffense.
And Richesse myght it wel sustene,
And hir dispence well mayntene,
And hym alwey sich plente sende
Of gold and silver for to spende
Withoute lakking or daunger,
As it were poured in a garner.
And after on the daunce wente
Largesse, that settith al hir entente
For to be honourable and free.
Of Alexandres kyn was she.
Hir most joye was, ywys,
Whan that she yaf and seide, "Have this."
Not Avarice, the foule caytyf,
Was half to gripe so ententyf,
As Largesse is to yeve and spende;
And God ynough alwey hir sende,
So that the more she yaf awey
The more, ywys, she hadde alwey.
Gret loos hath Largesse and gret pris,
For bothe [wys] folk and unwys
Were hooly to hir baundon brought,
So wel with yiftes hath she wrought.
And if she hadde an enemy,
I trowe that she coude tristily
Make hym full soone hir freend to be,
So large of yift and free was she.
Therfore she stod in love and grace
Of riche and pover in every place.
A full gret fool is he, ywys,
That bothe riche and nygard is.
A lord may have no maner vice
That greveth more than avarice,
For nygart never with strengthe of hond
May wynne gret lordship or lond,
For freendis all to fewe hath he
To doon his will perfourmed be.
And whoso wole have freendis heere,
He may not holde his tresour deere.
For by ensample I telle this:
Right as an adamaunt, iwys,
Can drawen to hym sotylly
The iren that is leid therby,
So drawith folkes hertis, ywis,
Silver and gold that yeven is.
Largesse hadde on a robe fresh
Of riche purpur Sarsynesh.
Wel fourmed was hir face and cleer,
And opened hadde she hir coler,
For she right there hadde in present
Unto a lady maad present
Of a gold broche, ful wel wrought.
And certys, it myssat hir nought,
For thorough hir smokke, wrought with silk,
The flesh was seen as whit as mylk.
Largesse, that worthy was and wys,
Hild by the hond a knyght of prys,
Was sib to Artour of Britaigne,
And that was he that bar the ensaigne
Of worship and the gounfanoun.
And yit he is of sich renoun
That men of hym seye faire thynges
Byfore barouns, erles, and kynges.
This knyght was comen all newely
Fro tourneiynge faste by;
There hadde he don gret chyvalrie
Thorough his vertu and his maistrie;
And for the love of his lemman
He caste doun many a doughty man.
And next hym daunced dame Fraunchise,
Arayed in full noble gyse.
She was not broun ne dun of hewe,
But whit as snow fallen newe.
Hir nose was wrought at poynt devys,
For it was gentyl and tretys,
With eyen gladde, and browes bente.
Hir heer doun to hir helis wente,
And she was symple as dove on tree.
Ful debonaire of herte was she.
She durst never seyn ne do
But that that hir longed to;
And if a man were in distresse,
And for hir love in hevynesse,
Hir herte wolde have full gret pite,
She was so amiable and free.
For were a man for hir bistad,
She wolde ben right sore adrad
That she dide over-gret outrage,
But she hym holpe his harm to aswage;
Hir thought it elles a vylanye.
And she hadde on a sukkenye,
That not of hempene heerdis was —
So fair was noon in all Arras.
Lord, it was ridled fetysly!
Ther nas [nat] a poynt, trewely,
That it nas in his right assise.
Full wel clothed was Fraunchise,
For ther is no cloth sittith bet
On damysell than doth roket.
A womman wel more fetys is
In roket than in cote, ywis.
The whyte roket, rydled faire,
Bitokeneth that full debonaire
And swete was she that it ber.
Bi hir daunced a bacheler.
I can not telle you what he highte,
But faire he was and of good highte,
All hadde he be, I sey no more,
The lordis sone of Wyndesore.
And next that daunced Curtesye,
That preised was of lowe and hye,
For neither proud ne fool was she.
She for to daunce called me
(I pray God yeve hir right good grace!),
Whanne I com first into the place.
She was not nyce ne outrageous,
But wys and war and vertuous,
Of fair speche and of fair answere.
Was never wight mysseid of here;
She bar rancour to no wight.
Clere broun she was, and therto bright
Of face, of body avenaunt —
I wot no lady so plesaunt.
She [were] worthy for to bene
An emperesse or crowned quene.
And by hir wente a knyght dauncyng,
That worthy was and wel spekyng,
And ful wel koude he don honour.
The knyght was fair and styf in stour,
And in armure a semely man,
And wel biloved of his lemman.
Faire Idilnesse thanne saugh I,
That alwey was me faste by.
Of hir have I, withoute fayle,
Told yow the shap and apparayle;
For (as I seide) loo, that was she
That dide to me so gret bounte
That she the gate of the gardyn
Undide and let me passen in.
And after daunced, as I gesse,
[Youthe], fulfilled of lustynesse,
That nas not yit twelve yeer of age,
With herte wylde and thought volage.
Nyce she was, but she ne mente
Noon harm ne slight in hir entente,
But oonly lust and jolyte;
For yonge folk, wel witen ye,
Have lytel thought but on her play.
Hir lemman was biside alway
In sich a gise that he hir kyste
At alle tymes that hym lyste,
That all the daunce myght it see.
They make no force of pryvete,
For who spake of hem yvel or well,
They were ashamed never a dell,
But men myght seen hem kisse there
As it two yonge dowves were.
For yong was thilke bacheler;
Of beaute wot I noon his per.
And he was right of sich an age
As Youthe his leef, and sich corage.
The lusty folk thus daunced there,
And also other that with hem were,
That weren alle of her meyne;
Ful hende folk and wys and free,
And folk of faire port, truëly,
There weren alle comunly.
Whanne I hadde seen the countenaunces
Of hem that ladden thus these daunces,
Thanne hadde I will to gon and see
The gardyn that so lyked me,
And loken on these faire loreres,
On pyntrees, cedres, and oliveris.
The daunces thanne eended were,
For many of them that daunced there
Were with her loves went awey
Undir the trees to have her pley.
A, Lord, they lyved lustyly!
A gret fool were he, sikirly,
That nolde, his thankes, such lyf lede!
For this dar I seyn, oute of drede,
That whoso myghte so wel fare,
For better lyf durst hym not care;
For ther nys so good paradys
As to have a love at his devys.
Oute of that place wente I thoo,
And in that gardyn gan I goo,
Pleyyng along full meryly.
The God of Love full hastely
Unto hym Swete-Lokyng clepte;
No lenger wolde he that he kepte
His bow of gold, that shoon so bright.
He bad hym bende [it] anoon ryght,
And he full soone [it] sette an-ende,
And at a braid he gan it bende,
And tok hym of his arowes fyve,
Full sharp and redy for to dryve.
Now God, that sittith in mageste,
Fro deedly woundes he kepe me,
If so be that he hadde me shette!
For if I with his arowe mette,
It hadde me greved sore, iwys.
But I, that nothyng wist of this,
Wente up and doun full many a wey,
And he me folwed fast alwey,
But nowhere wold I reste me,
Till I hadde in all the gardyn be.
The gardyn was, by mesuryng,
Right evene and square in compassing:
It as long was as it was large.
Of fruyt hadde every tree his charge,
But it were any hidous tree,
Of which ther were two or three.
There were, and that wot I full well,
Of pome-garnettys a full gret dell;
That is a fruyt full well to lyke,
Namely to folk whanne they ben sike.
And trees there were, gret foisoun,
That baren notes in her sesoun,
Such as men notemygges calle,
That swote of savour ben withalle.
And alemandres gret plente,
Fyges, and many a date-tree
There wexen, if men hadde nede,
Thorough the gardyn in length and brede.
Ther was eke wexyng many a spice,
As clowe-gelofre and lycorice,
Gyngevre and greyn de parys,
Canell and setewale of prys,
And many a spice delitable
To eten whan men rise fro table.
And many homly trees ther were
That peches, coynes, and apples beere,
Medlers, plowmes, perys, chesteynes,
Cherys, of which many oon fayn is,
Notes, aleys, and bolas,
That for to seen it was solas.
With many high lorer and pyn
Was renged clene all that gardyn,
With cipres and with olyveres,
Of which that nygh no plente heere is.
There were elmes grete and stronge,
Maples, assh, ok, asp, planes longe,
Fyn ew, popler, and lyndes faire,
And othere trees full many a payre.
What shulde I tel you more of it?
There were so many trees yit,
That I shulde al encombred be
Er I had rekened every tree.
These trees were set, that I devyse,
Oon from another, in assyse,
Fyve fadome or sixe, I trowe so;
But they were hye and great also,
And for to kepe out wel the sonne,
The croppes were so thicke ronne,
And every braunche in other knet
And ful of grene leves set,
That sonne myght there non discende,
Lest [it] the tender grasses shende.
There myght men does and roes se,
And of squyrels ful great plente
From bowe to bowe alway lepynge.
Conies there were also playinge,
That comyn out of her clapers,
Of sondrie colours and maners,
And maden many a tourneying
Upon the fresshe grass spryngyng.
In places saw I welles there,
In whiche there no frogges were,
And fayr in shadowe was every welle.
But I ne can the nombre telle
Of stremys smal that by devys
Myrthe had don come through condys,
Of whiche the water in rennyng
Gan make a noyse ful lykyng.
About the brinkes of these welles,
And by the stremes overal elles,
Sprang up the grass, as thicke set
And softe as any veluët,
On which men myght his lemman leye
As on a fetherbed to pleye,
For the erthe was ful softe and swete.
Through moisture of the welle wete
Sprong up the sote grene gras
As fayre, as thicke, as myster was.
But moche amended it the place
That th'erthe was of such a grace
That it of floures hath plente,
That bothe in somer and wynter be.
There sprang the vyolet al newe,
And fressh pervynke, riche of hewe,
And floures yelowe, white, and rede —
Such plente grew there never in mede.
Ful gay was al the ground, and queynt,
And poudred, as men had it peynt,
With many a fressh and sondri flour,
That casten up ful good savour.
I wol nat longe holde you in fable
Of al this garden dilectable.
I mot my tonge stynten nede,
For I ne may, withouten drede,
Naught tellen you the beaute al,
Ne half the bounte therewithal.
I went on right hond and on left
About the place; it was nat left,
Tyl I had [in] al the garden ben,
In the estres that men myghte sen.
And thus while I wente in my play,
The God of Love me folowed ay,
Right as an hunter can abyde,
The beest, tyl he seeth his tyde
To sheten at good mes to the der,
Whan that hym nedeth go no ner.
And so befyl, I rested me
Besydes a wel, under a tree,
Which tree in Fraunce men cal a pyn.
But sithe the tyme of Kyng Pepyn,
Ne grew there tree in mannes syghte
So fayr, ne so wel woxe in highte —
In al that yard so high was non.
And springyng in a marble ston
Had Nature set, the sothe to telle,
Under that pyn-tree a welle.
And on the border, al withoute,
Was written in the ston aboute,
Letters smal that sayden thus,
"Here starf the fayre Narcisus."
Narcisus was a bacheler
That Love had caught in his danger,
And in his net gan hym so strayne,
And dyd him so to wepe and playne,
That nede him must his lyf forgo.
For a fayr lady that hight Echo
Him loved over any creature,
And gan for hym such payne endure
That on a tyme she him tolde
That if he her loven nolde,
That her behoved nedes dye;
There laye non other remedye.
But natheles for his beaute
So feirs and daungerous was he
That he nolde graunten hir askyng,
For wepyng ne for fair praiyng.
And whanne she herde hym werne [her] soo,
She hadde in herte so gret woo,
And took it in so gret dispit,
That she, withoute more respit,
Was deed anoon. But er she deide,
Full pitously to God she preide
That proude-hertid Narcisus,
That was in love so daungerous,
Myght on a day ben hampred so
For love, and ben so hoot for woo,
That never he myght to joye atteyne,
And that he shulde feele in every veyne
What sorowe trewe lovers maken,
That ben so vilaynsly forsaken.
This prayer was but resonable;
Therfore God held it ferme and stable.
For Narcisus, shortly to telle,
By aventure com to that welle
To reste hym in that shadowing
A day whanne he com fro huntyng.
This Narcisus hadde suffred paynes
For rennyng alday in the playnes,
And was for thurst in gret distresse
Of heet and of his werynesse
That hadde his breth almost bynomen.
Whanne he was to that welle comen,
That shadowid was with braunches grene,
He thoughte of thilke water shene
To drynke, and fresshe hym wel withalle.
And doun on knees he gan to falle,
And forth his heed and necke he straughte
To drynken of that welle a draughte.
And in the water anoon was seene
His nose, his mouth, his yen sheene,
And he therof was all abasshed.
His owne shadowe had hym bytrasshed,
For well wende he the forme see
Of a child of gret beaute.
Well kouthe Love hym wreke thoo
Of daunger and of pride also,
That Narcisus somtyme hym beer.
He quytte hym well his guerdoun ther,
For he musede so in the welle
That, shortly all the sothe to telle,
He lovede his owne shadowe soo
That atte laste he starf for woo.
For whanne he saugh that he his wille
Myght in no maner wey fulfille,
And that he was so faste caught
That he hym kouthe comfort nought,
He loste his wit right in that place,
And diede withynne a lytel space.
And thus his warisoun he took
For the lady that he forsook.
Ladyes, I preye ensample takith,
Ye that ageyns youre love mistakith,
For if her deth be yow to wite,
God kan ful well youre while quyte.
Whanne that this lettre of which I telle
Hadde taught me that it was the welle
Of Narcisus in his beaute,
I gan anoon withdrawe me,
Whanne it fel in my remembraunce
That hym bitidde such myschaunce.
But at the laste thanne thought I
That scatheles, full sykerly,
I myght unto the welle goo.
Wherof shulde I abasshen soo?
And doun I loutede for to see
The clere water in the stoon,
And eke the gravell, which that shoon
Down in the botme as silver fyn,
For of the well this is the fyn:
In world is noon so cler of hewe.
The water is evere fresh and newe,
That welmeth up with wawis brighte
The mountance of two fynger highte.
Abouten it is gras spryngyng,
For moiste so thikke and wel likyng
That it ne may in wynter dye
No more than may the see be drye.
Down at the botme set saw I
Two cristall stonys craftely
In thilke freshe and faire welle.
But o thing sothly dar I telle,
That ye wole holde a gret mervayle
Whanne it is told, withouten fayle.
For whanne the sonne, cler in sighte,
Cast in that well his bemys brighte,
And that the heete descendid is,
Thanne taketh the cristall stoon, ywis,
Agayn the sonne an hundrid hewis,
Blew, yelow, and red, that fresh and newe is.
Yitt hath the merveilous cristall
Such strengthe that the place overall,
Bothe flour and tree and leves grene
And all the yerd in it is seene.
And for to don you to undirstonde,
To make ensample wole I fonde.
Ryght as a myrrour openly
Shewith all thing that stondith therby,
As well the colour as the figure,
Withouten ony coverture,
Right so the cristall stoon shynyng
Withouten ony disseyvyng
The estrees of the yerd accusith
To hym that in the water musith.
For evere, in which half that he be,
He may well half the gardyn se,
And if he turne, he may right well
Sen the remenaunt everydell.
For ther is noon so litil thyng
So hid, ne closid with shittyng,
That it ne is sene, as though it were
Peyntid in the cristall there.
This is the mirrour perilous
In which the proude Narcisus
Saw all his face fair and bright,
That made hym sithe to ligge upright.
For whoso loketh in that mirrour,
Ther may nothyng ben his socour
That he ne shall there sen somthyng
That shal hym lede into lovyng.
Full many worthy man hath it
Blent, for folk of grettist wit
Ben soone caught heere and awayted;
Withouten respit ben they baited.
Heere comth to folk of newe rage;
Heere chaungith many wight corage;
Heere lith no red ne wit therto;
For Venus sone, daun Cupido,
Hath sowen there of love the seed,
That help ne lith there noon, ne red,
So cerclith it the welle aboute.
His gynnes hath he sette withoute,
Ryght for to cacche in his panters
These damoysels and bachelers.
Love will noon other bridde[s] cacche,
Though he sette either net or lacche.
And for the seed that heere was sowen,
This welle is clepid, as well is knowen,
The Welle of Love, of verray right,
Of which ther hath ful many a wight
Spoken in bookis dyversely.
But they shull never so verily
Descripcioun of the welle heere,
Ne eke the sothe of this matere,
As ye shull, whanne I have undo
The craft that hir bilongith too.
Allway me liked for to dwelle
To sen the cristall in the welle
That shewide me full openly
A thousand thinges faste by.
But I may say, in sory houre
Stode I to loken or to poure,
For sithen [have] I sore siked.
That mirrour hath me now entriked,
But hadde I first knowen in my wit
The vertu and [the] strengthe of it,
I nolde not have mused there.
Me hadde bet ben elliswhere,
For in the snare I fell anoon
That hath bitrasshed many oon.
In thilke mirrour saw I tho,
Among a thousand thinges mo,
A roser chargid full of rosis,
That with an hegge aboute enclos is.
Tho had I sich lust and envie,
That for Parys ne for Pavie
Nolde I have left to goon and see
There grettist hep of roses be.
Whanne I was with this rage hent,
That caught hath many a man and shent,
Toward the roser gan I go;
And whanne I was not fer therfro,
The savour of the roses swote
Me smot right to the herte-rote,
As I hadde all enbawmed be.
And if I ne hadde endouted me
To have ben hatid or assailed,
My thankis, wolde I not have failed
To pulle a rose of all that route
To beren in myn hond aboute
And smellen to it where I wente;
But ever I dredde me to repente,
And lest it grevede or forthoughte
The lord that thilke gardyn wroughte.
Of roses ther were gret wone,
So faire waxe never in rone.
Of knoppes clos some sawe I there;
And some wel beter woxen were;
And some ther ben of other moysoun
That drowe nygh to her sesoun
And spedde hem faste for to sprede.
I love well sich roses rede,
For brode roses and open also
Ben passed in a day or two,
But knoppes wille [al] freshe be
Two dayes, atte leest, or thre.
The knoppes gretly liked me,
For fairer may ther no man se.
Whoso myght have oon of alle,
It ought hym ben full lief withalle.
Might I [a] gerlond of hem geten,
For no richesse I wolde it leten.
Among the knoppes I ches oon
So fair that of the remenaunt noon
Ne preise I half so well as it,
Whanne I avise it in my wit.
For it so well was enlumyned
With colour reed, [and] as well fyned
As nature couthe it make faire.
And it hath leves wel foure paire,
That Kynde hath sett, thorough his knowyng,
Aboute the rede roses spryngyng.
The stalke was as rishe right,
And theron stod the knoppe upright
That it ne bowide upon no side.
The swote smelle sprong so wide
That it dide all the place aboute —

Fragment B

Whanne I hadde smelled the savour swote,
No will hadde I fro thens yit goo,
Bot somdell neer it wente I thoo,
To take it, but myn hond, for drede,
Ne dorste I to the Rose bede
For thesteles sharpe, of many maneres,
Netles, thornes, and hokede breres,
For mych they distourbled me,
For sore I dradde to harmed be.
The God of Love, with bowe bent,
That all day set hadde his talent
To pursuen and to spien me,
Was stondyng by a fige-tree.
And whanne he saw hou that I
Hadde chosen so ententifly
The botoun, more unto my pay
Than ony other that I say,
He tok an arowe full sharply whet,
And in his bowe whanne it was set,
He streight up to his ere drough
The stronge bowe that was so tough,
And shet att me so wondir smerte
That thorough myn ye unto myn herte
The takel smot, and depe it wente.
And therwithall such cold me hente
That under clothes warme and softe
Sithen that day I have chevered ofte.
Whanne I was hurt thus, in [a] stounde
I felle doun plat unto the grounde.
Myn herte failed and feynted ay,
And longe tyme a-swoone I lay.
But whanne I come out of swonyng,
And hadde witt and my felyng,
I was all maat, and wende full well
Of blood have loren a full gret dell.
But certes, the arowe that in me stod
Of me ne drew no drope of blod,
For-why I found my wounde all dreie.
Thanne tok I with myn hondis tweie
The arowe, and ful fast out it plighte,
And in the pullyng sore I sighte.
So at the last the shaft of tree
I drough out with the fethers thre.
But yet the hokede heed, ywis,
The which [that] Beaute callid is,
Gan so depe in myn herte passe,
That I it myghte nought arace;
But in myn herte still it stod,
Al bledde I not a drope of blod.
I was bothe anguyssous and trouble
For the perill that I saw double:
I nyste what to seye or do,
Ne gete a leche my woundis to;
For neithir thurgh gras ne rote
Ne hadde I help of hope ne bote.
But to the botoun evermo
Myn herte drew, for all my wo;
My thought was in noon other thing,
For hadde it ben in my kepyng,
It wolde have brought my lyf agayn.
For certis evenly, I dar wel seyn,
The sight oonly and the savour
Alegged mych of my langour.
Thanne gan I for to drawe me
Toward the botoun faire to se;
And Love hadde gete hym, in a throwe,
Another arowe into his bowe,
And for to shete gan hym dresse.
The arowis name was Symplesse,
And whanne that Love gan nygh me nere,
He drow it up, withouten were,
And shet at me with all his myght,
So that this arowe anoon-right
Thourghout [myn] eigh, as it was founde,
Into myn herte hath maad a wounde.
Thanne I anoon dide al my craft
For to drawen out the shaft,
And therwithall I sighed eft.
But in myn herte the heed was left,
Which ay encreside my desir
Unto the botoun drawe ner;
And evermo that me was woo,
The more desir hadde I to goo
Unto the roser, where that grew
The freysshe botoun so bright of hew.
Betir me were to have laten be,
But it bihovede nedes me
To don right as myn herte bad,
For evere the body must be lad
Aftir the herte, in wele and woo;
Of force togidre they must goo.
But never this archer wolde feyne
To shete at me with all his peyne,
And for to make me to hym mete.
The thridde arowe he gan to shete,
Whanne best his tyme he myght espie,
The which was named Curtesie.
Into myn herte it dide avale;
A-swoone I fell bothe deed and pale.
Long tyme I lay and stired nought,
Till I abraide out of my thought,
And faste thanne I avysede me
To drawe out the shaft of tree.
But evere the heed was left bihynde,
For ought I couthe pulle or wynde,
So sore it stikid whanne I was hit,
That by no craft I myght it flit.
But anguyssous and full of thought,
I felte sich woo my wounde ay wrought,
That somonede me alway to goo
Toward the Rose that plesede me soo,
But I ne durste in no maner,
Bicause the archer was so ner.
"For evermore gladly," as I rede,
"Brent child of fir hath myche drede."
And, certis yit, for al my peyne,
Though that I sigh yit arwis reyne,
And grounde quarels sharpe of steell,
Ne for no payne that I myght feell,
Yit myght I not mysilf witholde
The faire roser to biholde,
For Love me yaf sich hardement
For to fulfille his comaundement.
Upon my fete I ros up than,
Feble as a forwoundid man,
And forth to gon [my] myght I sette,
And for the archer nolde I lette.
Toward the roser fast I drow,
But thornes sharpe mo than ynow
Ther were, and also thisteles thikke,
And breres, brymme for to prikke,
That I ne myghte gete grace
The rowe thornes for to passe,
To sen the roses fresshe of hewe.
I must abide, though it me rewe,
The hegge aboute so thikke was,
That closide the roses in compas.
But o thing lyked me right well:
I was so nygh, I myghte fel
Of the botoun the swote odour,
And also se the fresshe colour,
And that right gretly liked me,
That I so neer myghte it se.
Sich joie anoon therof hadde I
That I forgat my malady.
To sen I hadde sich delit,
Of sorwe and angre I was al quyt,
And of my woundes that I hadde thore;
For nothing liken me myght more
Than dwellen by the roser ay,
And thennes never to passe away.
But whanne a while I hadde be thar,
The God of Love, which al toshar
Myn herte with his arwis kene,
Castith hym to yeve me woundis grene.
He shet at me full hastily
An arwe named Company,
The whiche takell is full able
To make these ladies merciable.
Thanne I anoon gan chaungen hewe
For grevaunce of my wounde newe,
That I agayn fell in swonyng
And sighede sore in compleynyng.
Soore I compleyned that my sore
On me gan greven more and more.
I hadde noon hope of allegeaunce;
So nygh I drow to desperaunce,
I roughte of deth ne of lyf,
Wheder that Love wolde me dryf.
Yf me a martir wolde he make,
I myght his power nought forsake.
And while for anger thus I wok,
The God of Love an arowe tok —
Ful sharp it was and pugnaunt —
And it was callid Faire-Semblaunt,
The which in no wise wole consente
That ony lover hym repente
To serve his love with herte and alle,
For ony perill that may bifalle.
But though this arwe was kene grounde
As ony rasour that is founde,
To kutte and kerve, at the poynt
The God of Love it hadde anoynt
With a precious oynement,
Somdell to yeve aleggement
Upon the woundes that he had

To helpe her sores, and to cure,
And that they may the bet endure.
But yit this arwe, withoute more,
Made in myn herte a large sore,
That in full gret peyne I abod.
But ay the oynement wente abrod;
Thourghout my woundes large and wide
It spredde aboute in every side,
Thorough whos vertu and whos myght
Myn herte joyfull was and light.
I hadde ben deed and al toshent,
But for the precious oynement.
The shaft I drow out of the arwe,
Rokyng for wo right wondir narwe;
But the heed, which made me smerte,
Lefte bihynde in myn herte
With other foure, I dar wel say,
That never wole be take away.
But the oynement halp me wel,
And yit sich sorwe dide I fel
That al day I chaunged hewe
Of my woundes fresshe and newe,
As men myght se in my visage.
The arwis were so full of rage,
So variaunt of diversitee,
That men in everich myghte se
Bothe gret anoy and eke swetnesse,
And joie meynt with bittirnesse.
Now were they esy, now were they wod;
In hem I felte bothe harm and good;
Now sore without alleggement,
Now softenyng with oynement;
It softnede heere and prikkith there:
Thus ese and anger togidre were.
The God of Love delyverly
Com lepande to me hastily,
And seide to me in gret rape,
"Yeld thee, for thou may not escape!
May no defence availe thee heer;
Therfore I rede make no daunger.
If thou wolt yelde thee hastily,
Thou shalt rather have mercy.
He is a fool in sikernesse,
That with daunger or stoutnesse
Rebellith there that he shulde plese;
In sich folye is litel ese.
Be meke where thou must nedis bow;
To stryve ageyn is nought thi prow.
Com at oones, and have ydoo,
For I wol that it be soo.
Thanne yeld thee heere debonairly."
And I answerid ful hombly,
"Gladly, sir, at youre biddyng,
I wole me yelde in alle thyng.
To youre servyse I wol me take,
For God defende that I shulde make
Ageyn youre biddyng resistence.
I wole not don so gret offence,
For if I dide, it were no skile.
Ye may do with me what ye wile,
Save or spille, and also sloo.
Fro you in no wise may I goo.
My lyf, my deth is in youre hond;
I may not laste out of youre bond.
Pleyn at youre lyst I yelde me,
Hopyng in herte that sumtyme ye
Comfort and ese shull me sende;
Or ellis, shortly, this is the eende,
Withouten helthe I mot ay dure,
But if ye take me to youre cure.
Comfort or helthe how shuld I have,
Sith ye me hurt, but ye me save?
The helthe of love mot be founde
Where as they token first her wounde.
And if ye lyst of me to make
Youre prisoner, I wol it take
Of herte and will, fully at gree.
Hoolly and pleyn Y yelde me,
Withoute feynyng or feyntise,
To be governed by youre emprise.
Of you I here so myche pris,
I wole ben hool at youre devis
For to fulfille youre lykyng
And repente for nothyng,
Hopyng to have yit in som tide
Mercy of that I abide."
And with that covenaunt yelde I me
Anoon, down knelyng upon my kne,
Proferyng for to kisse his feet;
But for nothyng he wolde [me] let,
And seide, "I love thee bothe and preise,
Sen that thyn aunswar doth me ease,
For thou answerid so curteisly.
For now I wot wel uttirly
That thou art gentyll by thi speche.
For though a man fer wolde seche,
He shulde not fynden, in certeyn,
No sich answer of no vileyn;
For sich a word ne myghte nought
Isse out of a vilayns thought.
Thou shalt not lesen of thi speche,
For [to] thy helpyng wole I eche,
And eke encresen that I may.
But first I wole that thou obay
Fully, for thyn avauntage,
Anoon to do me heere homage.
And sithe kisse thou shalt my mouth,
Which to no vilayn was never couth
For to aproche it, ne for to touche;
For sauff of cherlis I ne vouche
That they shull never neigh it nere.
For curteis and of faire manere,
Well taught and ful of gentilnesse
He muste ben that shal me kysse,
And also of full high fraunchise,
That shal atteyne to that emprise.
And first of o thing warne I thee,
That peyne and gret adversite
He mot endure, and eke travaile,
That shal me serve, withouten faile.
But ther-ageyns thee to comforte,
And with thi servise to desporte,
Thou mayst full glad and joyfull be
So good a maister to have as me,
And lord of so high renoun.
I bere of love the gonfanoun,
Of curtesie the banere.
For I am of the silf manere,
Gentil, curteys, meke, and fre,
That whoever ententyf be
Me to honoure, doute, and serve,
And also that he hym observe
Fro trespas and fro vilanye,
And hym governe in curtesie
With will and with entencioun.
For whanne he first in my prisoun
Is caught, thanne must he uttirly
Fro thennes forth full bisily
Caste hym gentyll for to bee,
If he desire help of me."
Anoon withouten more delay,
Withouten daunger or affray,
I bicom his man anoon,
And gaf hym thankes many a oon,
And knelide doun with hondis joynt
And made it in my port full queynt.
The joye wente to myn herte rote,
Whanne I hadde kissed his mouth so swote;
I hadde sich myrthe and sich likyng,
It cured me of langwisshing.
He askide of me thanne hostages:
"I have," he seide, "taken fele homages
Of oon and other, where I have ben
Disceyved ofte, withouten wen.
These felouns, full of falsite,
Have many sithes biguyled me
And thorough falshed her lust achieved,
Wherof I repente and am agreved.
And I hem gete in my daunger,
Her falshede shull they bie full der.
But for I love thee, I seie thee pleyn,
I wol of thee be more certeyn;
For thee so sore I wole now bynde
That thou away ne shalt not wynde
For to denyen the covenaunt,
Or don that is not avenaunt.
That thou were fals it were gret reuthe,
Sith thou semest so full of treuthe."
"Sire, if thee lyst to undirstande,
I merveile the askyng this demande.
For why or wherfore shulde ye
Ostages or borwis aske of me,
Or ony other sikirnesse,
Sith ye wot, in sothfastnesse,
That ye have me susprised so,
And hol myn herte taken me fro,
That it wole do for me nothing,
But if it be at youre biddyng?
Myn herte is youres, and myn right nought,
As it bihoveth, in dede and thought,
Redy in all to worche youre will,
Whether so turne to good or ill,
So sore it lustith you to plese,
No man therof may you disseise.
Ye have theron sette sich justice,
That it is werreid in many wise;
And if ye doute it nolde obeye,
Ye may therof do make a keye,
And holde it with you for ostage."
"Now, certis, this is noon outrage,"
Quod Love, "and fully I acord.
For of the body he is full lord
That hath the herte in his tresor;
Outrage it were to asken more."
Thanne of his awmener he drough
A litell keye, fetys ynowgh,
Which was of gold polisshed clere,
And seide to me, "With this keye heere
Thyn herte to me now wole I shette.
For all my jowelles, loke and knette,
I bynde undir this litel keye,
That no wight may carie aweye.
This keye is full of gret poeste."
With which anoon he touchide me
Undir the side full softely,
That he myn herte sodeynly
Without anoy hadde spered,
That yit right nought it hath me dered.
Whanne he hadde don his will al oute,
And I hadde putte hym out of doute,
"Sire," I seide, "I have right gret wille
Youre lust and plesaunce to fulfille.
Loke ye my servise take at gree,
By thilke feith ye owe to me.
I seye nought for recreaundise,
For I nought doute of youre servise,
But the servaunt traveileth in vayne,
That for to serven doth his payne
Unto that lord, which in no wise
Kan hym no thank for his servyse."
Love seide, "Dismaie thee nought.
Syn thou for sokour hast me sought,
In thank thi servise wol I take,
And high of degre I wol thee make,
If wikkidnesse ne hyndre thee.
But, as I hope, it shal nought be;
To worshipe no wight by aventure
May come, but if he peyne endure.
Abid and suffre thy distresse;
That hurtith now, it shal be lesse.
I wot mysilf what may thee save,
What medicyne thou woldist have.
And if thi trouthe to me thou kepe,
I shal unto thy helpyng eke,
To cure thy woundes and make hem clene,
Where so they be olde or grene —
Thou shalt be holpen, at wordis fewe.
For certeynly thou shalt well shewe
Wher that thou servest with good wille
For to complysshen and fulfille
My comaundementis, day and nyght,
Whiche I to lovers yeve of right."
"A sire, for Goddis love," seide I,
"Er ye passe hens, ententyfly
Youre comaundementis to me ye say,
And I shall kepe hem, if I may;
For hem to kepen is all my thought.
And if so be I wot hem nought,
Thanne may I [erre] unwityngly.
Wherfore I pray you enterely,
With all myn herte, me to lere,
That I trespasse in no manere."
The God of Love thanne chargide me
Anoon, as ye shall here and see,
Word by word, by right emprise,
So as the Romance shall devise.
The maister lesith his tyme to lere,
Whanne that the disciple wol not here;
It is but veyn on hym to swynke
That on his lernyng wol not thinke.
Whoso luste love, lat hym entende,
For now the Romance bigynneth to amende.
Now is good to here, in fay,
If ony be that can it say,
And poynte it as the resoun is
Set; for other-gate, ywys,
It shall nought well in alle thyng
Be brought to good undirstondyng.
For a reder that poyntith ille
A good sentence may ofte spille.
The book is good at the eendyng,
Maad of newe and lusty thyng;
For whoso wol the eendyng here,
The craft of love he shall mowe lere,
If that ye wol so long abide,
Tyl I this Romance may unhide,
And undo the signifiance
Of this drem into Romance.
The sothfastnesse that now is hid,
Without coverture shall be kid
Whanne I undon have this dremyng,
Wherynne no word is of lesyng.
"Vilanye, at the bigynnyng,
I wole," sayde Love, "over alle thyng,
Thou leve if thou wolt [not] be
Fals, and trespasse ageynes me.
I curse and blame generaly
All hem that loven vilany,
For vilanye makith vilayn,
And by his dedis a cherl is seyn.
Thise vilayns arn withouten pitee,
Frendshipe, love, and all bounte.
I nyl resseyve unto my servise
Hem that ben vilayns of emprise.
But undirstonde in thyn entent
That this is not myn entendement,
To clepe no wight in noo ages
Oonly gentill for his lynages.
But whoso is vertuous,
And in his port nought outrageous,
Whanne sich oon thou seest thee biforn,
Though he be not gentill born,
Thou maist well seyn, this is in soth,
That he is gentil by cause he doth
As longeth to a gentilman;
Of hem noon other deme I can.
For certeynly, withouten drede,
A cherl is demed by his dede
Of hie or lowe, as we may see,
Or of what kynrede that he bee.
Ne say nought, for noon yvel wille,
Thyng that is to holden stille;
It is no worshipe to myssey.
Thou maist ensample take of Key,
That was somtyme, for mysseiyng,
Hated bothe of olde and ying.
As fer as Gaweyn, the worthy,
Was preised for his curtesy,
Kay was hated, for he was fell,
Of word dispitous and cruell.
Wherfore be wise and aqueyntable,
Goodly of word, and resonable
Bothe to lesse and eke to mare.
And whanne thou comest there men are,
Loke that thou have in custome ay
First to salue hem, if thou may;
And if it fall that of hem som
Salue thee first, be not domm,
But quyte hem curteisly anoon,
Without abidyng, er they goon.
"For nothyng eke thy tunge applye
To speke wordis of rebaudrye.
To vilayn speche in no degre
Lat never thi lippe unbounden be.
For I nought holde hym, in good feith,
Curteys, that foule wordis seith.
And alle wymmen serve and preise,
And to thy power her honour reise;
And if that ony myssaiere
Dispise wymmen, that thou maist here,
Blame hym, and bidde hym holde hym stille.
And [set] thy myght and all thy wille
Wymmen and ladies for to please,
And to do thyng that may hem ese,
That they ever speke good of thee,
For so thou maist best preised be.
"Loke fro pride thou kepe thee wel;
For thou maist bothe perceyve and fel
That pride is bothe foly and synne,
And he that pride hath hym withynne
Ne may his herte in no wise
Meken ne souplen to servyse.
For pride is founde in every part
Contrarie unto loves art.
And he that loveth, trewely,
Shulde hym contene jolily
Without pride in sondry wise,
And hym disgysen in queyntise.
For queynt array, without drede,
Is nothyng proud, who takith hede;
For fresh array, as men may see,
Withouten pride may ofte be.
"Mayntene thysilf aftir thi rent
Of robe and eke of garnement,
For many sithe fair clothyng
A man amendith in myche thyng.
And loke alwey that they be shape —
What garnement that thou shalt make —
Of hym that kan best do,
With all that perteyneth therto.
Poyntis and sleves be well sittand,
Right and streght on the hand.
Of shon and bootes, newe and faire,
Loke at the leest thou have a paire,
And that they sitte so fetisly
That these rude may uttirly
Merveyle, sith that they sitte so pleyn,
How they come on or off ageyn.
Were streite gloves with awmenere
Of silk; and alwey with good chere
Thou yeve, if thou have richesse;
And if thou have nought, spende the lesse.
Alwey be mery, if thou may,
But waste not thi good alway.
Have hat of floures as fresh as May,
Chapelett of roses of Whitsonday,
For sich array ne costeth but lite.
Thyn hondis wassh, thy teeth make white,
And let no filthe upon thee bee.
Thy nailes blak if thou maist see,
Voide it awey delyverly,
And kembe thyn heed right jolily.
Fard not thi visage in no wise,
For that of love is not th" emprise;
For love doth haten, as I fynde,
A beaute that cometh not of kynde.
Alwey in herte I rede thee
Glad and mery for to be,
And be as joyfull as thou can;
Love hath no joye of sorowful man.
That yvell is full of curtesie
That laughith in his maladie;
For ever of love the siknesse
Is meynd with swete and bitternesse.
The sore of love is merveilous;
For now the lover [is] joyous,
Now can he pleyne, now can he grone,
Now can he syngen, now maken mone;
To-day he pleyneth for hevynesse,
To-morowe he pleyeth for jolynesse.
The lyf of love is full contrarie,
Which stoundemele can ofte varie.
But if thou canst mirthis make,
That men in gre wole gladly take,
Do it goodly, I comaunde thee.
For men shulde, wheresoevere they be,
Do thing that hem sittyng is,
For therof cometh good loos and pris.
Whereof that thou be vertuous,
Ne be not straunge ne daungerous;
For if that thou good ridere be,
Prike gladly, that men may se.
In armes also if thou konne,
Pursue til thou a name hast wonne.
And if thi voice be faire and cler,
Thou shalt maken [no] gret daunger
Whanne to synge they goodly preye —
It is thi worship for t" obeye.
Also to you it longith ay
To harpe and gitterne, daunce and play,
For if he can wel foote and daunce,
It may hym greetly do avaunce.
Among eke, for thy lady sake,
Songes and complayntes that thou make,
For that wole meven in hir herte,
Whanne they reden of thy smerte.
Loke that no man for scarce thee holde,
For that may greve thee many folde.
Resoun wole that a lover be
In his yiftes more large and fre
Than cherles that ben not of lovyng.
For who therof can ony thyng,
He shal be leef ay for to yeve,
In Loves lore whoso wolde leve;
For he that thorough a sodeyn sight,
Or for a kyssyng, anoonright
Yaff hool his herte in will and thought,
And to hymsilf kepith right nought,
Aftir swich gift it is good resoun
He yeve his good in abandoun.
"Now wol I shortly heere reherce
Of that I have seid in verce
Al the sentence by and by,
In wordis fewe compendiously,
That thou the better mayst on hem thynke,
Whether so it be thou wake or wynke.
For the wordis litel greve
A man to kepe, whanne it is breve.
Whoso with Love wole goon or ride,
He mot be curteis, and voide of pride,
Mery, and full of jolite,
And of largesse alosed be.
"First I joyne thee, heere in penaunce,
That evere, withoute repentaunce,
Thou sette thy thought in thy lovyng
To laste withoute repentyng,
And thenke upon thi myrthis swete,
That shall folowe aftir, whan ye mete.
"And for thou trewe to love shalt be,
I wole, and comaunde thee,
That in oo place thou sette, all hool,
Thyn herte withoute halfen dool
Of trecherie and sikernesse;
For I lovede nevere doublenesse.
To many his herte that wole depart,
Everich shal have but litel part;
But of hym drede I me right nought,
That in oo place settith his thought.
Therfore in oo place it sette,
And lat it nevere thannys flette.
For if thou yevest it in lenyng,
I holde it but a wrecchid thyng;
Therfore yeve it hool and quyt,
And thou shalt have the more merit.
If it be lent, than aftir soon
The bounte and the thank is doon;
But, in love, fre yeven thing
Requyrith a gret guerdonyng.
Yeve it in yift al quyt fully,
And make thi yift debonairly,
For men that yift holde more dere
That yeven [is] with gladsom chere.
That yift nought to preisen is
That man yeveth maugre his.
Whanne thou hast yeven thyn herte, as I
Have seid thee heere openly,
Thanne aventures shull thee falle,
Which harde and hevy ben withalle.
For ofte whan thou bithenkist thee
Of thy lovyng, whereso thou be,
Fro folk thou must departe in hie,
That noon perceyve thi maladie.
But hyde thyne harm thou must alone,
And go forth sool, and make thy mone.
Thou shalt no whyle be in o stat,
But whylom cold and whilom hat,
Now reed as rose, now yelowe and fade.
Such sorowe, I trowe, thou never hade;
Cotidien ne quarteyne,
It is nat so ful of peyne.
For often tymes it shal falle
In love, among thy paynes alle,
That thou thyself al holly
Foryeten shalt so utterly
That many tymes thou shalt be
Styl as an ymage of tree,
Domm as a ston, without steryng
Of fot or hond, without spekyng.
Than, soone after al thy payn,
To memorye shalt thou come agayn,
As man abasshed wonder sore,
And after syghen more and more.
For wyt thou wel, withouten wen,
In such astat ful ofte have ben
That have the yvel of love assayd
Wherthrough thou art so dismayd.
"After, a thought shal take the so,
That thy love is to fer the fro.
Thou shalt saye, 'God! what may this be,
That I ne may my lady se?
Myn herte alone is to her go,
And I abyde al sol in wo,
Departed fro myn owne thought,
And with myne eyen se right nought.
Alas, myne eyen sende I ne may
My careful herte to convay!
Myn hertes gyde but they be,
I prayse nothyng, whatever they se.
Shul they abyde thanne? Nay;
But gon and visyten without delay
That myn herte desyreth so.
For certainly, but if they go,
A fool myself I may wel holde,
Whan I ne se what myn herte wolde.
Wherfore I wol gon her to sen,
Or eased shal I never ben,
But I have som tokenyng.'
Than gost thou forth without dwellyng;
But ofte thou faylest of thy desyr,
Er thou mayst come her any ner,
And wastest in vayn thi passage.
Thanne fallest thou in a newe rage;
For want of sight thou gynnest morne,
And homward pensyf thou dost retorne.
In greet myscheef thanne shalt thou bee,
For thanne agayn shall come to thee
Sighes and pleyntes with newe woo,
That no ycchyng prikketh soo.
Who wot it nought, he may go lere
Of hem that bien love so dere.
"Nothyng thyn herte appesen may
That ofte thou wolt goon and assay
If thou maist seen, by aventure,
Thi lyves joy, thin hertis cure;
So that, bi grace, if thou myght
Atteyne of hire to have a sight,
Thanne shalt thou don noon other dede,
But with that sight thyne eyen fede.
That faire fresh whanne thou maist see,
Thyne herte shall so ravysshed be
That nevere thou woldest, thi thankis, lete,
Ne remove for to see that swete.
The more thou seest in sothfastnesse,
The more thou coveytest of that swetnesse;
The more thin herte brenneth in fir,
The more thin herte is in desir.
For who considreth everydeell,
It may be likned wondir well,
The peyne of love, unto a fer;
For evermore thou neighest ner,
Thou, or whooso that it bee,
For verray sothe I tell it thee,
The hatter evere shall thou brenne,
As experience shall thee kenne:
Whereso [thou] comest in ony coost,
Who is next fyr, he brenneth moost.
And yitt forsothe, for all thin hete,
Though thou for love swelte and swete,
Ne for nothyng thou felen may,
Thou shalt not willen to passen away.
And though thou go, yitt must thee nede
Thenke all day on hir fairhede
Whom thou biheelde with so good will,
And holde thisilf biguyled ill
That thou ne haddest noon hardement
To shewe hir ought of thyn entent.
Thyn herte full sore thou wolt dispise,
And eke repreve of cowardise,
That thou, so dul in every thing,
Were domm for drede, withoute spekyng.
Thou shalt eke thenke thou didest folye
That thou were hir so faste bye,
And durst not auntre thee to saye
Somthyng er thou cam awaye;
For thou haddist no more wonne,
To speke of hir whanne thou bigonne.
But yitt she wolde, for thy sake,
In armes goodly thee have take —
It shulde have be more worth to thee
Than of tresour gret plente.
Thus shalt thou morne and eke compleyn,
And gete enchesoun to goon ageyn
Unto thi walk, or to thi place
Where thou biheelde hir fleshly face.
And never, for fals suspeccioun,
Thou woldest fynde occasioun
For to gon unto hire hous.
So art thou thanne desirous
A sight of hir for to have,
If thou thin honour myghtist save,
Or ony erande myghtist make
Thider for thi loves sake,
Full fayn thou woldist, but for drede
Thou gost not, lest that men take hede.
Wherfore I rede, in thi goyng,
And also in thyn ageyn-comyng,
Thou be well war that men ne wit.
Feyne thee other cause than it
To go that weye, or faste by;
To hele wel is no foly.
And if so be it happe thee
That thou thi love there maist see,
In siker wise thou hir salewe,
Wherewith thi colour wole transmewe,
And eke thy blod shal al toquake,
Thyn hewe eke chaungen for hir sake.
But word and wit, with chere full pale,
Shull wante for to tell thy tale.
And if thou maist so fer forth wynne
That thou resoun durst bigynne,
And woldist seyn thre thingis or mo,
Thou shalt full scarsly seyn the two.
Though thou bithenke thee never so well,
Thou shalt foryete yit somdell,
But if thou dele with trecherie.
For fals lovers mowe all folye
Seyn, what hem lust, withouten drede,
They be so double in her falshede;
For they in herte cunne thenke a thyng,
And seyn another in her spekyng.
And whanne thi speche is eendid all,
Ryght thus to thee it shall byfall:
If ony word thanne come to mynde
That thou to seye hast left bihynde,
Thanne thou shalt brenne in gret martir,
For thou shalt brenne as ony fir.
This is the stryf and eke the affray,
And the batell that lastith ay.
This bargeyn eende may never take,
But if that she thi pees will make.
And whanne the nyght is comen, anoon
A thousand angres shall come uppon.
To bedde as fast thou wolt thee dight,
Where thou shalt have but smal delit.
For whanne thou wenest for to slepe,
So full of peyne shalt thou crepe,
Sterte in thi bed aboute full wide,
And turne full ofte on every side,
Now dounward groff and now upright,
And walowe in woo the longe nyght.
Thine armys shalt thou sprede a-bred,
As man in werre were forwerreyd.
Thanne shall thee come a remembraunce
Of hir shap and hir semblaunce,
Whereto non other may be pere.
And wite thou wel, withoute were,
That thee shal se[me] somtyme that nyght
That thou hast hir that is so bright
Naked bitwene thyne armes there,
All sothfastnesse as though it were.
Thou shalt make castels thanne in Spayne
And dreme of joye, all but in vayne,
And thee deliten of right nought,
While thou so slombrest in that thought
That is so swete and delitable,
The which, in soth, nys but fable,
For it ne shall no while laste.
Thanne shalt thou sighe and wepe faste,
And say, 'Dere God, what thing is this?
My drem is turned all amys,
Which was full swete and apparent;
But now I wake, it is al shent!
Now yede this mery thought away!
Twenty tymes upon a day
I wolde this thought wolde come ageyn,
For it aleggith well my peyn.
It makith me full of joyfull thought;
It sleth me, that it lastith noght.
A, Lord! Why nyl ye me socoure
The joye, I trowe, that I langoure?
The deth I wolde me shulde sloo
While I lye in hir armes twoo.
Myn harm is hard, withouten wene;
My gret unese full ofte I meene.
'"But wolde Love do so I myght
Have fully joye of hir so bright,
My peyne were quyt me rychely.
Allas, to gret a thing aske I!
Hit is but foly and wrong wenyng
To aske so outrageous a thyng;
And whoso askith folily,
He mot be warned hastily.
And I ne wot what I may say,
I am so fer out of the way;
For I wolde have full gret likyng
And full gret joye of lasse thing.
For wolde she, of hir gentylness,
Without and more, me oonys kysse,
It were to me a gret guerdoun,
Relees of all my passioun.
But it is hard to come therto;
All is but folye that I do,
So high I have myn herte set,
Where I may no comfort get.
I wote not wher I seye well or nought,
But this I wot wel in my thoughte,
That it were better of hir alloone,
For to stynte my woo and moone,
A lok on hir I caste goodly,
Than for to have al utterly
Of an other all hool the pley.
A, Lord! Wher I shall byde the day
That evere she shall my lady be?
He is full cured that may hir see.
A, God! Whanne shal the dawnyng spring?
To liggen thus is an angry thyng;
I have no joye thus heere to ly,
Whanne that my love is not me by.
A man to lyen hath gret disese,
Which may not slepe ne reste in ese.
I wolde it dawed, and were now day,
And that the nyght were went away;
For were it day, I wolde uprise.
A, slowe sonne, shewe thin enprise!
Sped thee to sprede thy beemys bright,
And chace the derknesse of the nyght,
To putte away the stoundes stronge,
Whiche in me lasten all to longe.'
"The nyght shalt thou contene soo
Withoute rest, in peyne and woo.
If evere thou knewe of love distresse,
Thou shalt mowe lerne in that siknesse,
And thus enduryng shalt thou ly,
And ryse on morwe up erly
Out of thy bedde, and harneyse thee,
Er evere dawnyng thou maist see.
All pryvyly thanne shalt thou goon,
What weder it be, thisilf alloon,
For reyn or hayl, for snow, for slet,
Thider she dwellith that is so swet,
The which may fall a-slepe be,
And thenkith but lytel upon thee.
Thanne shalt thou goon, ful foule afeered,
Loke if the gate be unspered,
And waite without in woo and peyn,
Full yvel a-coold, in wynd and reyn.
Thanne shal thou go the dore bifore,
If thou maist fynde ony score,
Or hool, or reeft, whatevere it were;
Thanne shalt thou stoupe and lay to ere,
If they withynne a-slepe be —
I mene all save the lady free,
Whom wakyng if thou maist aspie,
Go putte thisilf in jupartie
To aske grace, and thee bimene,
That she may wite, without wene,
That thou [a-]nyght no rest hast had,
So sore for hir thou were bystad.
Wommen wel ought pite to take
Of hem that sorwen for her sake.
And loke, for love of that relyk,
That thou thenke noon other lyk,
For whom thou hast so gret annoy,
Shall kysse thee, er thou go away,
And holde that in full gret deynte.
And for that no man shal thee see
Bifore the hous ne in the way,
Loke thou be goon ageyn er day.
Such comyng and such goyng,
Such hevynesse and such wakyng,
Makith lovers, withouten ony wene,
Under her clothes pale and lene.
For Love leveth colour ne cleernesse;
Who loveth trewe hath no fatnesse.
Thou shalt wel by thysilf see
That thou must nedis assayed be.
For men that shape hem other wey
Falsly her ladyes for to bitray,
It is no wonder though they be fatt;
With false othes her loves they gatt.
For oft I see suche losengours
Fatter than abbatis or priours.
"Yit with o thing I thee charge,
That is to seye, that thou be large
Unto the mayde that hir doth serve,
So best hir thank thou shalt deserve.
Yeve hir yiftes, and get hir grace,
For so thou may thank purchace,
That she thee worthy holde and free,
Thi lady, and all that may thee see.
Also hir servauntes worshipe ay,
And please as mych as thou may;
Gret good thorough hem may come to thee
Bicause with hir they ben pryve.
They shal hir telle hou they thee fand
Curteis, and wys, and well doand,
And she shall preise well the mare.
Loke oute of londe thou be not fare,
And if such cause thou have that thee
Bihoveth to gon out of contree,
Leve hool thin herte in hostage,
Till thou ageyn make thi passage.
Thenk long to see the swete thyng
That hath thin herte in hir kepyng.
"Now have I told thee in what wise
A lovere shall do me servise.
Do it thanne, if thou wolt have
The meede that thou aftir crave."
Whanne Love all this hadde boden me,
I seide hym: "Sire, how may it be
That lovers may in such manere
Endure the peyne ye have seid heere?
I merveyle me wonder faste
How ony man may lyve or laste
In such peyne and such brennyng,
In sorwe and thought and such sighing,
Ay unrelesed woo to make,
Whether so it be they slepe or wake,
In such annoy contynuely —
As helpe me God, this merveile I
How man, but he were maad of stele,
Myght lyve a month, such peynes to fele."
The God of Love thanne seide me:
"Freend, by the feith I owe to thee,
May no man have good, but he it by.
A man loveth more tendirly
The thyng that he hath bought most dere.
For wite thou well, withouten were,
In thank that thyng is taken more,
For which a man hath suffred sore.
Certis, no wo ne may atteyne
Unto the sore of loves peyne;
Noon yvel therto ne may amounte,
No more than a man [may] counte
The dropes that of the water be.
For drye as well the greete see
Thou myghtist as the harmes telle
Of hem that with love dwelle
In servyse, for peyne hem sleeth.
And yet ech man wolde fle the deeth,
And trowe thei shulde nevere escape,
Nere that hope couthe hem make
Glad, as man in prisoun sett,
And may not geten for to et
But barly breed and watir pure,
And lyeth in vermyn and in ordure;
With all this yitt can he lyve,
Good hope such comfort hath hym yive,
Which maketh wene that he shall be
Delyvered, and come to liberte.
In fortune is [his] fulle trust,
Though he lye in strawe or dust;
In hoope is all his susteynyng.
And so for lovers, in her wenyng,
Whiche Love hath shit in his prisoun,
Good hope is her salvacioun.
Good hope, how sore that they smerte,
Yeveth hem bothe will and herte
To profre her body to martire;
For hope so sore doth hem desire
To suffre ech harm that men devise,
For joye that aftirward shall aryse.
"Hope in desir caccheth victorie;
In hope of love is all the glorie;
For hope is all that love may yive;
Nere hope, ther shulde no lover lyve.
Blessid be hope, which with desir
Avaunceth lovers in such maner!
Good hope is curteis for to please,
To kepe lovers from all disese.
Hope kepith his bond, and wole abide,
For ony perill that may betyde;
For hope to lovers, as most cheef,
Doth hem endure all myscheef;
Hope is her helpe whanne myster is.
"And I shall yeve thee eke, iwys,
Three other thingis that gret solas
Doth to hem that be in my las.
The firste good that may be founde
To hem that in my las be bounde
Is Swete-Thought, for to recorde
Thing wherwith thou canst accorde
Best in thyn herte, where she be —
Thenkyng in absence is good to thee.
Whanne ony lover doth compleyne,
And lyveth in distresse and in payne,
Thanne Swete-Thought shall come as blyve
Awey his angre for to dryve:
It makith lovers to have remembraunce
Of comfort and of high plesaunce
That Hope hath hight hym for to wynne.
For Thought anoon thanne shall bygynne,
As fer, God wot, as he can fynde,
To make a mirrour of his mynde;
For to biholde he wole not lette.
Hir persone he shall afore hym sette,
Hir laughing eyen, persaunt and clere,
Hir shape, hir forme, hir goodly chere,
Hir mouth, that is so gracious,
So swete and eke so saverous;
Of all hir fetures he shall take heede,
His eyen with all hir lymes fede.
"Thus Swete-Thenkyng shall aswage
The peyne of lovers and her rage.
Thi joye shall double, withoute gesse,
Whanne thou thenkist on hir semlyness,
Or of hir laughing, or of hir chere,
That to thee made thi lady dere.
This comfort wole I that thou take;
And if the next thou wolt forsake,
Which is not lesse saverous,
Thou shuldist ben to daungerous.
"The secounde shal be Swete-Speche,
That hath to many oon be leche,
To bringe hem out of woo and wer,
And holpe many a bachiler,
And many a lady sent socour,
That have loved paramour,
Thorough spekyng, whanne they myghte heere
Of her lovers to hem so dere.
To hem it voidith all her smerte,
The which is closed in her herte.
In herte it makith hem glad and light,
Speche, whanne they [ne] mowe have sight.
And therfore now it cometh to mynde,
In olde dawes, as I fynde,
That clerkis writen that hir knewe,
Ther was a lady fresh of hewe,
Which of hir love made a song
On hym for to remembre among,
In which she seyde, 'Whanne that I here
Speken of hym that is so dere,
To me it voidith all smert,
Iwys, he sittith so ner myn hert.
To speke of hym, at eve or morwe,
It cureth me of all my sorwe.
To me is noon so high plesaunce
As of his persone dalyaunce.'
She wist full well that Swete-Spekyng
Comfortith in full myche thyng.
Hir love she hadde full well assayed;
Of him she was full well apaied;
To speke of hym hir joye was sett.
Therfore I rede thee that thou gett
A felowe that can well concele,
And kepe thi counsell, and well hele,
To whom go shewe hoolly thine herte,
Bothe wele and woo, joye and smerte.
To gete comfort to hym thou goo,
And pryvyly, bitwene yow twoo,
Yee shall speke of that goodly thyng
That hath thyn herte in hir kepyng,
Of hir beaute and hir semblaunce
And of hir goodly countenaunce.
Of all thi stat thou shalt hym sey,
And aske hym counseill how thou may
Do ony thyng that may hir plese;
For it to thee shall do gret ese
That he may wite thou trust hym soo,
Bothe of thi wele and of thi woo.
And if his herte to love be sett,
His companye is myche the bett,
For resoun wole he shewe to thee
All uttirly his pryvyte;
And what she is he loveth so,
To thee pleynly he shal undo,
Withoute drede of ony shame,
Bothe tell hir renoun and hir name.
Thanne shall he forther, fer and ner,
And namely to thi lady der,
In syker wise; yee, every other
Shall helpen as his owne brother,
In trouthe withoute doublenesse,
And kepen cloos in sikernesse.
For it is noble thing, in fay,
To have a man thou darst say
Thy pryve counsell every deell;
For that wole comforte thee right well,
And thou shalt holde thee well apayed,
Whanne such a freend thou hast assayed.
"The thridde good of gret comfort,
That yeveth to lovers most disport,
Comyth of sight and of biholdyng,
That clepid is Swete-Lokyng,
The whiche may noon ese do
Whanne thou art fer thy lady fro;
Wherfore thou prese alwey to be
In place where thou maist hir see.
For it is thyng most amerous,
Most delytable and saverous,
For to aswage a mannes sorowe,
To sen his lady by the morwe.
For it is a full noble thing,
Whanne thyne eyen have metyng
With that relike precious,
Wherof they be so desirous.
But al day after, soth it is,
They have no drede to faren amys;
They dreden neither wynd ne reyn,
Ne noon other maner peyn.
For whanne thyne eyen were thus in blis,
Yit of hir curtesie, ywys,
Alloone they can not have her joye,
But to the herte they [it] convoye;
Part of her blisse to hym they sende,
Of all this harm to make an ende.
The eye is a good messanger,
Which can to the herte in such maner
Tidyngis sende that [he] hath sen,
To voide hym of his peynes clen.
Wherof the herte rejoiseth soo,
That a gret party of his woo
Is voided and put awey to flight.
Right as the derknesse of the nyght
Is chased with clernesse of the mone,
Right so is al his woo full soone
Devoided clene, whanne that the sight
Biholden may that freshe wight
That the herte desireth soo,
That al his derknesse is agoo.
For thanne the herte is all at ese,
Whanne the eyen sen that may hem plese.
"Now have I declared thee all oute
Of that thou were in drede and doute;
For I have told thee feithfully
What thee may curen utterly,
And alle lovers that wole be
Feithfull and full of stabilite.
Good-Hope alwey kep bi thi side,
And Swete-Thought make eke abide,
Swete-Lokyng and Swete-Speche —
Of all thyne harmes thei shall be leche,
Of every thou shalt have gret plesaunce.
If thou canst bide in sufferaunce,
And serve wel withoute feyntise,
Thou shalt be quyt of thyn emprise
With more guerdoun, if that thou lyve;
But at this tyme this I thee yive."
The God of Love whanne al the day
Had taught me, as ye have herd say,
And enfourmed compendiously,
He vanyshide awey all sodeynly,
And I alloone lefte, all sool,
So full of compleynt and of dool,
For I saw no man there me by.
My woundes me greved wondirly;
Me for to curen nothyng I knew,
Save the botoun bright of hew,
Wheron was sett hoolly my thought.
Of other comfort knew I nought,
But it were thorugh the God of Love;
I knew not elles to my bihove
That myght me ease or comfort gete,
But if he wolde hym entermete.
The roser was, withoute doute,
Closed with an hegge withoute,
As ye toforn have herd me seyn;
And fast I bisiede, and wolde fayn
Have passed the hay, if I myghte
Have geten ynne by ony slighte
Unto to the botoun so faire to see.
But evere I dradde blamed to be,
If men wolde have suspeccioun
That I wolde of entencioun
Have stole the roses that there were;
Therefore to entre I was in fere.
But at the last, as I bithought
Whether I shulde passe or nought,
I saw come with a glad cher
To me, a lusty bacheler,
Of good stature and of good highte,
And Bialacoil forsothe he highte.
Sone he was to Curtesy,
And he me grauntide full gladly
The passage of the outter hay,
And seide: "Sir, how that yee may
Passe, if youre wille be
The freshe roser for to see,
And yee the swete savour fele.
Youre warrant may [I be] right wele;
So thou thee kepe fro folye,
Shall no man do thee vylanye.
If I may helpe you in ought,
I shall not feyne, dredeth nought,
For I am bounde to youre servise,
Fully devoide of feyntise."
Thanne unto Bialacoil saide I,
"I thanke you, sir, full hertely,
And youre biheeste take at gre,
That ye so goodly profer me.
To you it cometh of gret fraunchise
That ye me profer youre servise."
Thanne aftir, full delyverly,
Thorough the breres anoon wente I,
Whereof encombred was the hay.
I was wel plesed, the soth to say,
To se the botoun faire and swote
So freshe spronge out of the rote.
And Bialacoil me served well,
Whanne I so nygh me myghte fel
Of the botoun the swete odour,
And so lusty hewed of colour.
But thanne a cherl (foule hym bityde!)
Biside the roses gan hym hyde,
To kepe the roses of that roser,
Of whom the name was Daunger.
This cherl was hid there in the greves,
Kovered with gras and with leves,
To spie and take whom that he fond
Unto that roser putte an hond.
He was not sool, for ther was moo,
For with hym were other twoo
Of wikkid maners and yvel fame.
That oon was clepid, by his name,
Wykked-Tonge —God yeve hym sorwe! —
For neither at eve ne at morwe,
He can of no man good speke;
On many a just man doth he wreke.
Ther was a womman eke that hight
Shame, that, who can reken right,
Trespas was hir fadir name,
Hir moder Resoun; and thus was Shame
Brought of these ilke twoo.
And yitt hadde Trespas never adoo
With Resoun, ne never ley hir by,
He was so hidous and so ugly,
I mene this that Trespas highte;
But Resoun conceyveth of a sighte
Shame, of that I spak aforn.
And whanne that Shame was thus born,
It was ordeyned that Chastite
Shulde of the roser lady be,
Which, of the botouns more and las,
With sondry folk assailed was,
That she ne wiste what to doo.
For Venus hir assailith soo,
That nyght and day from hir she stal
Botouns and roses overal.
To Resoun thanne praieth Chastite,
Whom Venus hath flemed over the see,
That she hir doughter wolde hir lene,
To kepe the roser fresh and grene.
Anoon Resoun to Chastite
Is fully assented that it be,
And grauntide hir, at hir request,
That Shame, by cause she [is] honest,
Shall keper of the roser be.
And thus to kepe it ther were three,
That noon shulde hardy be ne bold,
Were he yong or were he old,
Ageyn hir will awey to bere
Botouns ne roses that there were.
I hadde wel sped, hadde I not ben
Awayted with these three and sen.
For Bialacoil, that was so fair,
So gracious and debonair,
Quytt hym to me full curteisly,
And, me to plese, bad that I
Shulde drawe me to the botoun ner;
Prese in, to touche the roser
Which bar the roses, he yaf me leve;
This graunt ne myght but lytel greve.
And for he saw it liked me,
Ryght nygh the botoun pullede he
A leef all grene, and yaff me that,
The whiche ful nygh the botoun sat.
I made [me] of that leef full queynt,
And whanne I felte I was aqueynt
With Bialacoil, and so pryve,
I wende all at my will hadde be.
Thanne wax I hardy for to tel
To Bialacoil hou me bifel
Of Love, that tok and wounded me,
And seide, "Sir, so mote I thee,
I may no joye have in no wise,
Uppon no side, but it rise.
For sithe (if I shall not feyne)
In herte I have had so gret peyne,
So gret annoy and such affray,
That I ne wot what I shall say;
I drede youre wrath to disserve.
Lever me were that knyves kerve
My body shulde in pecys smale,
Than in any wise it shulde falle
That ye wratthed shulde ben with me."
"Sey boldely thi will," quod he,
"I nyl be wroth, if that I may,
For nought that thou shalt to me say."
Thanne seide I, "Ser, not you displease
To knowen of my gret unese,
In which oonly Love hath me brought;
For peynes gret, disese, and thought
Fro day to day he doth me drye;
Supposeth not, sir, that I lye.
In me fyve woundes dide he make,
The soore of whiche shall nevere slake,
But ye the botoun graunte me,
Which is moost passaunt of beaute,
My lyf, my deth, and my martire,
And tresour that I moost desire."
Thanne Bialacoil, affrayed all,
Seyde, "Sir, it may not fall;
That ye desire, it may not arise.
What? Wolde ye shende me in this wise?
A mochel fool thanne I were,
If I suffride you awey to bere
The fresh botoun so faire of sight.
For it were neither skile ne right,
Of the roser ye broke the rynde,
Or take the Rose aforn his kynde.
Ye are not curteys to aske it.
Late it still on the roser sitt
And growe til it amended be,
And parfytly come to beaute.
I nolde not that it pulled were
Fro the roser that it bere,
To me it is so leef and deer."
With that sterte oute anoon Daunger,
Out of the place were he was hid.
His malice in his chere was kid;
Full gret he was and blak of hewe,
Sturdy and hidous, whoso hym knewe;
Like sharp urchouns his her was growe;

His nose frounced, full kirked stood.
He com criand as he were wood,
And seide, "Bialacoil, telle me why
Thou bryngest hider so booldely
Hym that so nygh [is] the roser?
Thou worchist in a wrong maner.
He thenkith to dishonoure thee;
Thou art wel worthy to have maugree
To late hym of the roser wit.
Who serveth a feloun is yvel quit.
Thou woldist have doon gret bounte,
And he with shame wolde quyte thee.
Fle hennes, felowe! I rede thee goo!
It wanteth litel I wole thee sloo.
For Bialacoil ne knew thee nought,
Whanne thee to serve he sette his thought;
For thou wolt shame hym, if thou myght,
Bothe ageyns resoun and right.
I wole no more in thee affye,
That comest so slyghly for t"espye;
For it preveth wonder well,
Thy slight and tresoun, every deell."
I durst no more there make abod
For the cherl, he was so wod,
So gan he threte and manace,
And thurgh the haye he dide me chace.
For feer of hym I tremblyde and quok,
So cherlishly his heed it shok,
And seide, if eft he myght me take,
I shulde not from his hondis scape.
Thanne Bialacoil is fled and mat,
And I, all sool, disconsolat,
Was left aloone in peyne and thought;
For shame to deth I was nygh brought.
Thanne thought I on myn high foly,
How that my body utterly
Was yeve to peyne and to martire;
And therto hadde I so gret ire,
That I ne durst the hayes passe.
There was noon hope; there was no grace.
I trowe nevere man wiste of peyne,
But he were laced in loves cheyne;
Ne no man [wot], and sooth it is,
But if he love, what anger is.
Love holdith his heest to me right wel,
Whanne peyne he seide I shulde fel;
Noon herte may thenke, ne tunge seyn,
A quarter of my woo and peyn.
I myght not with the anger laste;
Myn herte in poynt was for to braste,
Whanne I thought on the Rose, that soo
Was thurgh Daunger cast me froo.
A long while stod I in that stat,
Til that me saugh so mad and mat
The lady of the highe ward,
Which from hir tour lokide thiderward.
Resoun men clepe that lady,
Which from hir tour delyverly
Com doun to me, withouten mor.
But she was neither yong ne hoor,
Ne high ne lowe, ne fat ne lene,
But best as it were in a mene.
Hir eyen twoo were cleer and light
As ony candell that brenneth bright;
And on hir heed she hadde a crowne.
Hir semede wel an high persoune,
For round enviroun, hir crownet
Was full of riche stonys frett.
Hir goodly semblaunt, by devys,
I trowe were maad in paradys,
For Nature hadde nevere such a grace,
To forge a werk of such compace.
For certeyn, but if the letter ly,
God hymsilf, that is so high,
Made hir aftir his ymage,
And yaff hir sith sich avauntage
That she hath myght and seignorie
To kepe men from all folye.
Whoso wole trowe hir lore,
Ne may offenden nevermore.
And while I stod thus derk and pale,
Resoun bigan to me hir tale.
She seide, "Al hayl, my swete freend!
Foly and childhood wol thee sheend,
Which the have putt in gret affray.
Thou hast bought deere the tyme of May,
That made thyn herte mery to be.
In yvell tyme thou wentist to see
The gardyn, whereof Ydilnesse
Bar the keye and was maistresse,
Whanne thou yedest in the daunce
With hir, and haddest aqueyntaunce.
Hir aqueyntaunce is perilous,
First softe, and aftir noious;
She hath [thee] trasshed, withoute wen.
The God of Love hadde the not sen,
Ne hadde Ydilnesse thee conveyed
In the verger where Myrthe hym pleyed.
If foly have supprised thee,
Do so that it recovered be,
And be wel ware to take nomore
Counsel, that greveth aftir sore.
He is wis that wol hymsilf chastise.
And though a yong man in ony wise
Trespace among, and do foly,
Late hym not tarye, but hastily
Late hym amende what so be mys.
And eke I counseile thee, iwys,
The God of Love hoolly foryet,
That hath thee in sich peyne set,
And thee in herte tourmented soo.
I can [nat] sen how thou maist goo
Other weyes to garisoun;
For Daunger, that is so feloun,
Felly purposith thee to werreye,
Which is ful cruel, the soth to seye.
"And yitt of Daunger cometh no blame,
In reward of my doughter Shame,
Which hath the roses in hir ward,
As she that may be no musard.
And Wikked-Tunge is with these two,
That suffrith no man thider goo;
For er a thing be do, he shall,
Where that he cometh, overall,
In fourty places, if it be sought,
Seye thyng that nevere was don ne wrought;
So moche tresoun is in his male
Of falsnesse, for to seyne a tale.
Thou delest with angry folk, ywis;
Wherfore to thee bettir is
From these folk awey to fare,
For they wole make thee lyve in care.
This is the yvell that love they call,
Wherynne ther is but foly al,
For love is foly everydell.
Who loveth in no wise may do well,
Ne sette his thought on no good werk.
His scole he lesith, if he be a clerk.
Of other craft eke if he be,
He shal not thryve therynne, for he
In love shal have more passioun
Than monk, hermyte, or chanoun.
The peyne is hard, out [of] mesure;
The joye may eke no while endure;
And in the possessioun
Is myche tribulacioun.
The joye it is so short lastyng,
And but in hap is the getyng;
For I see there many in travaille,
That atte laste foule fayle.
I was nothyng thi counseler,
Whanne thou were maad the omager
Of God of Love to hastily;
Ther was no wisdom, but foly.
Thyn herte was joly but not sage,
Whanne thou were brought in sich a rage
To yelde thee so redily,
And to leve of is gret maistry.
"I rede thee Love awey to dryve,
That makith thee recche not of thi lyve.
The foly more fro day to day
Shal growe, but thou it putte away.
Tak with thy teeth the bridel faste,
To daunte thyn herte, and eke thee caste,
If that thou maist, to gete thee defence
For to redresse thi first offence.
Whoso his herte alwey wol leve,
Shal fynde among that shal hym greve."
Whanne I hir herd thus me chastise,
I answerd in ful angry wise.
I prayed hir ceessen of hir speche,
Outher to chastise me or teche,
To bidde me my thought refreyne,
Which Love hath caught in his demeyne:
"What? Wene ye Love wol consent,
That me assailith with bowe bent,
To drawe myn herte out of his hond,
Which is so qwikly in his bond?
That ye counseyle may nevere be,
For whanne he first arestide me,
He took myn herte so hool hym till,
That it is nothyng at my wil.
He taught it so hym for to obeye,
That he it sparrede with a keye.
I pray yow, late me be all stille.
For ye may well, if that ye wille,
Youre wordis waste in idilnesse;
For utterly, withouten gesse,
All that ye seyn is but in veyne.
Me were lever dye in the peyne,
Than Love to me-ward shulde arette
Falsheed, or tresoun on me sette.
I wole me gete prys or blame,
And love trewe, to save my name.
Who that me chastisith, I hym hate."
With that word Resoun wente hir gate,
Whanne she saugh for no sermonynge
She myght me fro my foly brynge.
Thanne dismaied, I lefte all sool,
Forwery, forwandred as a fool,
For I ne knew no chevisaunce.
Thanne fell into my remembraunce
How Love bad me to purveye
A felowe to whom I myghte seye
My counsell and my pryvete,
For that shulde moche availe me.
With that bithought I me that I
Hadde a felowe faste by,
Trewe and siker, curteys and hend,
And he was called by name a Freend —
A trewer felowe was nowher noon.
In haste to hym I wente anoon,
And to hym all my woo I tolde;
Fro hym right nought I wold witholde.
I tolde hym all, withoute wer,
And made my compleynt on Daunger,
How for to see he was hidous,
And to me-ward contrarious,
The whiche thurgh his cruelte
Was in poynt to [have] meygned me.
With Bialacoil whanne he me sey
Withynne the gardeyn walke and pley,
Fro me he made hym for to go.
And I, bilefte aloone in woo,
I durst no lenger with hym speke,
For Daunger seide he wolde be wreke,
Whanne that he saw how I wente
The freshe botoun for to hente,
If I were hardy to come neer
Bitwene the hay and the roser.
This freend, whanne he wiste of my thought,
He discomforted me right nought,
But seide, "Felowe, be not so mad,
Ne so abaysshed nor bystad.
Mysilf I knowe full well Daunger,
And how he is feers of his cheer,
At prime temps, love to manace;
Ful ofte I have ben in his caas.
A feloun first though that he be,
Aftir thou shalt hym souple se.
Of longe passed I knew hym well;
Ungoodly first though men hym feel,
He wol meke aftir in his beryng
Been, for service and obeysshyng.
I shall thee telle what thou shalt doo.
Mekely I rede thou go hym to,
Of herte pray hym specialy
Of thy trespas to have mercy,
And hote hym wel, here to plese,
That thou shalt nevermore hym displese.
Who can best serve of flatery,
Shall please Daunger most uttirly."
Mi freend hath seid to me so wel
That he me esid hath somdell,
And eke allegged of my torment;
For thurgh hym had I hardement
Agayn to Daunger for to go,
To preve if I myght meke hym soo.
To Daunger came I all ashamed,
The which aforn me hadde blamed,
Desiryng for to pese my woo,
But over hegge durst I not goo,
For he forbed me the passage.
I fond hym cruel in his rage,
And in his hond a gret burdoun.
To hym I knelide lowe adoun,
Ful meke of port and symple of chere,
And seide, "Sir, I am comen heere
Oonly to aske of you mercy.
That greveth me full gretly
That evere my lyf I wratthed you;
But for to amenden I am come now,
With all my myght, bothe loude and stille,
To doon right at youre owne wille.
For Love made me for to doo
That I have trespassed hidirto,
Fro whom I ne may withdrawe myn hert.
Yit shall [I] never, for joy ne smert,
What so bifalle, good or ill,
Offende more ageyn youre will.
Lever I have endure disese,
Than do that you shulde displese.
"I you require and pray that ye
Of me have mercy and pitee,
To stynte your ire that greveth soo,
That I wol swere for ever mo
To be redressid at youre likyng,
If I trespasse in ony thyng.
Save that I pray thee graunte me
A thyng that may not warned be,
That I may love, all oonly;
Noon other thyng of you aske I.
I shall doon elles well, iwys,
If of youre grace ye graunte me this.
And ye may not letten me,
For wel wot ye that love is free,
And I shall loven, sithen that I will,
Who ever like it well or ill;
And yit ne wold I, for all Fraunce,
Do thyng to do you displesaunce."
Thanne Daunger fil in his entent
For to foryeve his maltalent;
But all his wratthe yit at laste
He hath relesed, I preyde so faste.
Shortly he seide, "Thy request
Is not to mochel dishonest,
Ne I wole not werne it thee,
For yit nothyng engreveth me.
For though thou love thus evermor,
To me is neither softe ne soor.
Love where that the list —what recchith me,
So [thou] fer fro my roses be?
Trust not on me, for noon assay,
If ony tyme thou passe the hay."
Thus hath he graunted my praiere.
Thanne wente I forth, withouten were,
Unto my freend, and tolde hym all,
Which was right joyful of my tall.
He seide, "Now goth wel thyn affaire.
He shall to thee be debonaire;
Though he aforn was dispitous,
He shall heere aftir be gracious.
If he were touchid on som good veyne,
He shuld yit rewen on thi peyne.
Suffre, I rede, and no boost make,
Till thou at good mes maist hym take.
By sufferaunce and wordis softe
A man may overcome ofte
Hym that aforn he hadde in drede,
In bookis sothly as I rede."
Thus hath my freend with gret comfort
Avaunced [me] with high disport,
Which wolde me good as mych as I.
And thanne anoon full sodeynly
I tok my leve, and streight I went
Unto the hay, for gret talent
I hadde to sen the fresh botoun
Wherynne lay my salvacioun;
And Daunger tok kep if that I
Kepe hym covenaunt trewely.
So sore I dradde his manasyng,
I durst not breke his biddyng;
For, lest that I were of hym shent,
I brak not his comaundement,
For to purchase his good wil.
It was [nat] for to come ther-til;
His mercy was to fer bihynde.
I wepte for I ne myght it fynde.
I compleyned and sighed sore,
And langwisshed evermore,
For I durst not over goo
Unto the Rose I loved soo.
Thurgh my demenyng outerly
Than he had knowledge certanly
That Love me ladde in sich a wise
That in me ther was no feyntise,
Falsheed, ne no trecherie.
And yit he, full of vylanye,
Of disdeyn, and cruelte,
On me ne wolde have pite,
His cruel will for to refreyne,
Though I wepe alwey, and me compleyne.
And while I was in this torment,
Were come of grace, by God sent,
Fraunchise, and with hir Pite.
Fulfild the bothen of bounte,
They go to Daunger anoon-right
To forther me with all her myght,
And helpe in worde and in dede,
For well they saugh that it was nede.
First, of hir grace, dame Fraunchise
Hath taken [word] of this emprise.
She seide, "Daunger, gret wrong ye do,
To worche this man so myche woo,
Or pynen hym so angerly;
It is to you gret villany.
I can not see why, ne how,
That he hath trespassed ageyn you,
Save that he loveth, wherfore ye shulde
The more in cherete of hym holde.
The force of love makith hym do this;
Who wolde hym blame he dide amys?
He leseth more than ye may do;
His peyne is hard, ye may see, lo!
And Love in no wise wolde consente
That he have power to repente,
For though that quyk ye wolde hym sloo,
Fro love his herte may not goo.
Now, swete sir, is it youre ese
Hym for to angre or disese?
Allas! what may it you avaunce
To don to hym so gret grevaunce?
What worship is it agayn hym take,
Or on youre man a werre make,
Sith he so lowly, every wise,
Is redy, as ye lust devise?
If Love hath caught hym in his las,
You for t"obeye in every caas,
And ben youre suget at youre will,
Shuld ye therfore willen hym ill?
Ye shulde hym spare more, all out,
Than hym that is bothe proud and stout.
Curtesie wol that ye socoure
Hem that ben meke undir youre cure.
His herte is hard that wole not meke,
Whanne men of mekenesse hym biseke."
"That is certeyn," seide Pite;
"We se ofte that humilite
Bothe ire and also felonye
Venquyssheth, and also malencolye.
To stonde forth in such duresse,
This cruelte and wikkidnesse.
Wherfore I pray you, sir Daunger,
For to mayntene no lenger heer
Such cruel werre agayn youre man,
As hoolly youres as ever he can;
Nor that ye worchen no more woo
Upon this caytif, that langwisshith soo,
Which wole no more to you trespasse,
But putte hym hoolly in youre grace.
His offense ne was but lite;
The God of Love it was to wite,
That he youre thrall so gretly is,
And if ye harme hym, ye don amys.
For he hath had full hard penaunce,
Sith that ye refte hym th"aqueyntaunce
Of Bialacoil, his moste joye,
Which alle his peynes myght acoye.
He was biforn anoyed sore,
But thanne ye doubled hym well more;
For he of blis hath ben full bare,
Sith Bialacoil was fro hym fare.
Love hath to hym do gret distresse,
He hath no nede of more duresse.
Voideth from hym youre ire, I rede;
Ye may not wynnen in this dede.
Makith Bialacoil repeire ageyn,
And haveth pite upon his peyn;
For Fraunchise wole, and I, Pite,
And sith that she and I accorde,
Have upon hym misericorde.
For I you pray and eke moneste
Nought to refusen oure requeste
For he is hard and fell of thought,
That for us twoo wole do right nought."
Daunger ne myght no more endure;
He mekede hym unto mesure.
"I wole in no wise," seith Daunger,
"Denye that ye have asked heer;
It were to gret uncurtesie.
I wole he have the companye
Of Bialacoil, as ye devise;
I wole hym lette in no wise."
To Bialacoil thanne wente in hy
Fraunchise, and seide full curteisly,
"Ye have to longe be deignous
Unto this lover, and daungerous,
Fro him to withdrawe your presence,
Which hath do to him gret offence,
That ye not wolde upon him se,
Wherefore a sorouful man is he.
Shape ye to paye him, and to please,
Of my love if ye wol have ease.
Fulfyl his wyl, sith that ye knowe
Daunger is daunted and brought lowe
Through help of me and of Pyte.
You dar no more afered be."
"I shal do right as ye wyl,"
Saith Bialacoil, "for it is skyl,
Sithe Daunger wol that it so be."
Than Fraunchise hath him sent to me.
Byalacoil at the begynnyng
Salued me in his commyng.
No straungenesse was in him sen,
No more than he ne had wrathed ben.
As fayr semblaunt than shewed he me,
And goodly, as aforn dyd he;
And by the hond, withouten doute,
Within the haye, right al aboute
He ladde me, with right good cher,
Al envyron the verger,
That Daunger hadde me chased fro.
Now have I leave overal to go;
Now am I raysed, at my devys,
Fro helle unto paradys.
Thus Bialacoil, of gentylnesse,
With al his payne and besynesse,
Hath shewed me, only of grace,
The estres of the swote place.
I saw the Rose, whan I was nygh,
Was greatter woxen and more high,
Fressh, roddy, and fayr of hewe,
Of colour ever yliche newe.
And whan I hadde it longe sen,
I saw that through the leves gren
The Rose spredde to spaunysshing;
To sene it was a goodly thyng.
But it ne was so spred on bred
That men within myght knowe the sed;
For it covert was and close,
Bothe with the leves and with the rose.
The stalke was even and grene upright,
It was theron a goodly syght;
And wel the better, withoute wene,
For the seed was nat sene.
Ful fayre it spradde (God it blesse!),
For such another, as I gesse,
Aforn ne was, ne more vermayle.
I was abawed for marveyle,
For ever the fayrer that it was,
The more I am bounden in Loves laas.
Longe I abod there, soth to saye,
Tyl Bialacoil I gan to praye,
Whan that I saw him in no wyse
To me warnen his servyse,
That he me wolde graunt a thyng,
Which to remembre is wel syttyng;
This is to sayn, that of his grace
He wolde me yeve leysar and space,
To me that was so desyrous,
To have a kyssynge precious
Of the goodly fresshe Rose,
That so swetely smelleth in my nose.
"For if it you displeased nought,
I wolde gladly, as I have sought,
Have a cos therof freely,
Of your yefte; for certainly,
I wol non have but by your leve,
So loth me were you for to greve."
He sayde, "Frend, so God me spede,
Of Chastite I have such drede;
Thou shuldest nat warned be for me,
But I dar nat for Chastyte.
Agayn her dar I nat mysdo,
For alway byddeth she me so
To yeve no lover leave to kys,
For who therto may wynnen, ywis,
He of the surplus of the pray
May lyve in hoope to get som day.
For whoso kyssynge may attayne
Of loves payne hath (soth to sayne)
The beste and most avenaunt,
And ernest of the remenaunt."
Of his answere I sighed sore;
I durst assaye him tho no more,
I hadde such drede to greve him ay.
A man shulde nat to moche assay
To chafe hys frend out of measure,
Nor putte his lyf in aventure;
For no man at the firste strok
Ne may nat felle down an ok,
Nor of the reysyns have the wyn,
Tyl grapes be rype, and wel afyn
Be sore empressid, I you ensure,
And drawen out of the pressure.
But I, forpeyned wonder stronge,
Thought that I abood right longe
Aftir the kis, in peyne and woo,
Sith I to kis desired soo;
Till that, rewyng on my distresse,
Ther to me Venus the goddesse,
Which ay werreyeth Chastite,
Cam of hir grace to socoure me,
Whos myght is knowe fer and wide,
For she is modir of Cupide,
The God of Love, blynde as stoon,
That helpith lovers many oon.
This lady brought in hir right hond
Of brennyng fyr a blasyng brond,
Wherof the flawme and hoote fir
Hath many a lady in desir
Of love brought, and sore het,
And in hir servise her hertes set.
This lady was of good entaile,
Right wondirfull of apparayle.
Bi hir atyr so bright and shen
Men myght perceyve well and sen
She was not of religioun.
Nor I nell make mencioun
Nor of robe, nor of tresour,
Of broche, neithir of hir riche attour,
Ne of hir girdill aboute hir side,
For that I nyll not longe abide.
But knowith wel that certeynly
She was araied richely.
Devoyd of pryde certeyn she was.
To Bialacoil she wente apas,
And to hym shortly, in a clause,
She seide, "Sir, what is the cause
Ye ben of port so daungerous
Unto this lover and deynous,
To graunte hym nothyng but a kis?
To werne it hym ye don amys,
Sith well ye wote how that he
Is Loves servaunt, as ye may see,
And hath beaute, wherthrough [he] is
Worthy of love to have the blis.
How he is semely, biholde and see,
How he is fair, how he is free,
How he is swoote and debonair,
Of age yong, lusty, and fair.
Ther is no lady so hawteyn,
Duchesse, ne countesse, ne chasteleyn,
That I nolde holde hir ungoodly
For to refuse hym outterly.
His breth is also good and swete,
And eke his lippis rody, and mete
Oonly to pleyen and to kisse.
Graunte hym a kis, of gentilnysse!
His teth arn also white and clene;
Me thinkith wrong, withouten wene,
If ye now werne hym, trustith me,
To graunte that a kis have he.
The lasse to helpe hym that ye haste,
The more tyme shul ye waste."
Whanne the flawme of the verry brond,
That Venus brought in hir right hond,
Hadde Bialacoil with hete smete,
Anoon he bad, withouten lette,
Graunte to me the Rose kisse.
Thanne of my peyne I gan to lysse,
And to the Rose anoon wente I,
And kisside it full feithfully.
Thar no man aske if I was blithe,
Whanne the savour soft and lythe
Strok to myn herte withoute more,
And me allegged of my sore,
So was I full of joye and blisse.
It is fair sich a flour to kisse,
It was so swoote and saverous.
I myght not be so angwisshous
That I [ne] mote glad and joly be,
Whanne that I remembre me.
Yit ever among, sothly to seyne,
I suffre noy and moche peyne.
The see may never be so stille
That with a litel wynde it nille
Overwhelme and turne also,
As it were wood in wawis goo.
Aftir the calm the trouble sone
Mot folowe and chaunge as the moone.
Right so farith Love that selde in oon
Holdith his anker, for right anoon
Whanne they in ese wene best to lyve,
They ben with tempest all fordryve.
Who serveth Love can telle of woo;
The stoundemele joie mot overgoo.
Now he hurteth, and now he cureth;
For selde in oo poynt Love endureth.
Now is it right me to procede,
How Shame gan medle and take hede
Thurgh whom fele angres I have had,
And how the stronge wall was maad,
And the castell of brede and lengthe,
That God of Love wan with his strengthe.
All this in romance will I sette,
And for nothyng ne will I lette,
So that it lykyng to hir be,
That is the flour of beaute,
For she may best my labour quyte,
That I for hir love shal endite.
Wikkid-Tunge, that the covyne
Of every lover can devyne
Worst, and addith more somdell
(For Wikkid-Tunge seith never well),
To me-ward bar he right gret hate,
Espiyng me erly and late,
Till he hath sen the grete chere
Of Bialacoil and me ifeere.
He myghte not his tunge withstond
Worse to reporte than he fond,
He was so full of cursed rage.
It sat hym well of his lynage,
For hym an Irish womman bar.
His tunge was fyled sharp and squar,
Poignaunt, and right kervyng,
And wonder bitter in spekyng.
For whanne that he me gan espie,
He swoor, affermyng sikirlye,
Bitwene Bialacoil and me
Was yvel aquayntaunce and pryve.
He spak therof so folily
That he awakide Jelousy,
Which, all afrayed in his risyng,
Whanne that he herde janglyng,
He ran anoon, as he were wood,
To Bialacoil, there that he stod,
Which hadde lever in this caas
Have ben at Reynes or Amyas;
For foot-hoot, in his felonye,
To hym thus seide Jelousie:
"Why hast thou ben so necligent
To kepen, whanne I was absent,
This verger heere left in thi ward?
To me thou haddist no reward,
To truste (to thy confusioun!)
Hym thus, to whom suspeccioun
I have right gret, for it is nede;
It is well shewed by the dede.
Gret faute in thee now have I founde.
By God, anoon thou shalt be bounde,
And faste loken in a tour,
Withoute refuyt or socour.
For Shame to longe hath be thee froo;
Over-soone she was agoo.
Whanne thou hast lost bothe drede and feere,
It semede wel she was not heere.
She was bisy in no wyse
To kepe thee and chastise,
And for to helpen Chastite
To kepe the roser, as thenkith me.
For thanne this boy-knave so booldely
Ne shulde not have be hardy,
[Ne] in this verger hadde such game,
Which now me turneth to gret shame."
Bialacoil nyste what to sey;
Full fayn he wolde have fled awey,
For feere han hid, nere that he
All sodeynly tok hym with me.
And whanne I saugh he hadde soo,
This Jelousie, take us twoo,
I was astoned, and knew no red,
But fledde awey for verrey dred.
Thanne Shame cam forth full symply
(She wende have trespaced full gretly),
Humble of hir port, and made it symple,
Weryng a vayle in stide of wymple,
As nonnys don in her abbey.
By cause hir herte was in affray,
She gan to speke withynne a throwe
To Jelousie right wonder lowe.
First of his grace she bysought,
And seide, "Sire, ne leveth nought
Wikkid-Tunge, that false espie,
Which is so glad to feyne and lye.
He hath you maad, thurgh flateryng,
On Bialacoil a fals lesyng.
His falsnesse is not now a-new;
It is to long that he hym knew.
This is not the firste day,
For Wikkid-Tunge hath custome ay
Yonge folkis to bewreye,
And false lesynges on hem leye.
"Yit nevertheles I see among,
That the loigne it is so long,
Of Bialacoil, hertis to lure,
In Loves servyse for to endure,
Drawyng suche folk hym to,
That he hath nothyng with to doo.
But in sothnesse I trowe nought
That Bialacoil hadde ever in thought
To do trespas or vylonye,
But for his modir Curtesie
Hath taught hym ever to be
Good of aqueyntaunce and pryve.
For he loveth noon hevynesse,
But mirthe and pley and all gladnesse;
He hateth alle trecherous,
Soleyn folk, and envyous;
For ye witen how that he
Wol ever glad and joyfull be
Honestly with folk to pley.
I have be negligent, in good fey,
To chastise hym; therfore now I
Of herte crye you heere mercy,
That I have been so recheles
To tamen hym, withouten lees.
Of my foly I me repente.
Now wole I hool sette myn entente
To kepe, bothe lowde and stille,
Bialacoil to do youre wille."
"Shame, Shame," seyde Jelousy,
"To be bytrasshed gret drede have I.
Leccherie hath clombe so hye
That almoost blered is myn ye;
No wonder is, if that drede have I.
Overall regnyth Lecchery,
Whos myght growith nyght and day
Bothe in cloistre and in abbey.
Chastite is werreyed overall;
Therfore I wole with siker wall
Close bothe roses and roser.
I have to longe in this maner
Left hem unclosid wilfully;
Wherfore I am right inwardly
Sorowfull, and repente me.
But now they shall no lenger be
Unclosid; and yit I drede sore,
I shall repente ferthermore,
For the game goth all amys.
Counsell I must newe, ywys.
I have to longe tristed thee,
But now it shal no lenger be,
For he may best, in every cost,
Disceyve, that men tristen most.
I see wel that I am nygh shent,
But if I sette my full entent
Remedye to purveye.
Therfore close I shall the weye
Fro hem that wole the Rose espie,
And come to wayte me vilonye,
For, in good feith and in trouthe,
I wole not lette for no slouthe
To lyve the more in sikirnesse,
To make anoon a forteresse,
T"enclose the roses of good savour.
In myddis shall I make a tour
To putte Bialacoil in prisoun,
For evere I drede me of tresoun.
I trowe I shal hym kepe soo
That he shal have no myght to goo
Aboute to make companye
To hem that thenke of vylanye;
Ne to no such as hath ben heere
Aforn, and founde in hym good chere,
Which han assailed hym to shende,
And with her trowandyse to blende.
A fool is eythe to bigyle;
But may I lyve a litel while,
He shal forthenke his fair semblaunt."
And with that word came Drede avaunt,
Which was abasshed and in gret fere,
Whanne he wiste Jelousie was there.
He was for drede in sich affray
That not a word durste he say,
But quakyng stod full still aloon,
Til Jelousie his weye was gon,
Save Shame, that him not forsok.
Bothe Drede and she ful sore quok,
That atte laste Drede abreyde,
And to his cosyn Shame seide:
"Shame," he seide, "in sothfastnesse,
To me it is gret hevynesse
That the noyse so fer is go,
And the sclaundre of us twoo.
But sithe that it is byfalle,
We may it not ageyn calle
Whanne onys sprongen is a fame.
For many a yeer withouten blame
We han ben, and many a day;
For many an Aprill and many a May
We han passed, not shamed,
Till Jelousie hath us blamed,
Of mystrust and suspecioun,
Causeles, withoute enchesoun.
Go we to Daunger hastily,
And late us shewe hym openly
That [he] hath not aright wrought,
Whanne that [he] sette nought his thought
To kepe better the purprise;
In his doyng he is not wise.
He hath to us do gret wrong
That hath suffred now so long
Bialacoil to have his wille,
All his lustes to fulfille.
He must amende it utterly,
Or ellys shall he vilaynesly
Exiled be out of this lond;
For he the werre may not withstond
Of Jelousie, nor the greef,
Sith Bialacoil is at myscheef."
To Daunger, Shame and Drede anoon
The righte weye ben goon.
The cherl thei founden hem aforn,
Liggyng undir an hawethorn;
Undir his heed no pilowe was,
But in the stede a trusse of gras.
He slombred, and a nappe he tok,
Tyll Shame pitously hym shok,
And grete manace on hym gan make.
"Why slepist thou, whanne thou shulde wake?"
Quod Shame; "Thou doist us vylanye!
Who tristith thee, he doth folye,
To kepe roses or botouns,
Whanne thei ben faire in her sesouns.
Thou art woxe to familiere,
Where thou shulde be straunge of chere,
Stout of thi port, redy to greve.
Thou doist gret folye for to leve
Bialacoil hereinne to calle
The yonder man to shenden us alle.
Though that thou slepe, we may here
Of Jelousie gret noyse heere.
Art thou now late? Ris up in hy,
And stop sone and delyverly
All the gappis of the haye.
Do no favour, I thee praye.
It fallith nothyng to thy name
To make faire semblaunt, where thou maist blame.
Yf Bialacoil be sweete and free,
Dogged and fell thou shuldist be,
Froward and outrageous, ywis;
A cherl chaungeth that curteis is.
This have I herd ofte in seiyng,
That man [ne] may, for no dauntyng,
Make a sperhauk of a bosard.
Alle men wole holde thee for musard,
That debonair have founden thee;
It sittith thee nought curteis to be.
To do men plesaunce or servise,
In thee it is recreaundise.
Let thi werkis fer and ner
Be like thi name, which is Daunger."
Thanne, all abawid in shewing,
Anoon spak Drede, right thus seiyng,
And seide, "Daunger, I drede me
That thou ne wolt bisy be
To kepe that thou hast to kepe:
Whanne thou shuldist wake, thou art aslepe.
Thou shalt be greved, certeynly,
If the aspie Jelousy,
Or if he fynde thee in blame.
He hath to-day assailed Shame,
And chased awey with gret manace
Bialacoil out of this place,
And swereth shortly that he shall
Enclose hym in a sturdy wall;
And all is for thi wikkednesse,
For that thee faileth straungenesse.
Thyn herte, I trowe, be failed all;
Thou shalt repente in speciall,
If Jelousie the soothe knewe;
Thou shalt forthenke and sore rewe."
With that the cherl his clubbe gan shake,
Frounyng his eyen gan to make,
And hidous chere; as man in rage
For ire he brente in his visage,
Whanne that [he] herd hym blamed soo.
He seide, "Out of my wit I goo!
To be discomfyt I have gret wrong.
Certis, I have now lyved to long,
Sith I may not this closer kepe.
All quyk I wolde be dolven deepe,
If ony man shal more repeire
Into this gardyn, for foule or faire.
Myn herte for ire goth a-fere,
That I let ony entre heere.
I have do folie, now I see,
But now it shall amended bee.
Who settith foot heere ony more,
Truly he shall repente it sore;
For no man moo into this place
Of me to entre shal have grace.
Lever I hadde with swerdis tweyne
Thurghoute myn herte in every veyne
Perced to be with many a wounde,
Thanne slouthe shulde in me be founde.
From hennes forth, by nyght or day,
I shall defende it, if I may,
Withouten ony excepcioun
Of ech maner condicioun.
And if I it eny man graunt,
Holdeth me for recreaunt."
Thanne Daunger on his feet gan stond,
And hente a burdoun in his bond.
Wroth in his ire, ne lefte he nought,
But thurgh the verger he hath sought.
If he myght fynde hole or trace,
Wherethurgh that me mot forth-by pace,
Or ony gappe, he dide it close,
That no man myghte touche a rose
Of the roser all aboute.
He shitteth every man withoute.
Thus day by day Daunger is wers,
More wondirfull and more dyvers,
And feller eke than evere he was.
For hym full ofte I synge "Allas!"
For I ne may nought, thurgh his ire,
Recovere that I moost desire.
Myn herte, allas, wole brest a-twoo,
For Bialacoil I wratthed soo.
For certeynly, in every membre
I quake, whanne I me remembre
Of the botoun, which I wolde
Full ofte a day sen and biholde.
And whanne I thenke upon the kiss,
And how myche joye and bliss
I hadde thurgh the savour swete,
For want of it I grone and grete.
Me thenkith I fele yit in my nose
The swete savour of the Rose.
And now I woot that I mot goo
So fer the freshe floures froo,
To me full welcome were the deth.
Absens therof, allas, me sleeth!
For whilom with this Rose —allas! —
I touched nose, mouth, and face;
But now the deth I must abide.
But Love consente another tyde
That onys I touche may and kisse,
I trowe my peyne shall never lisse;
Theron is all my coveitise,
Which brent myn herte in many wise.
Now shal repaire agayn sighinge,
Long wacche on nyghtis, and no slepinge,
Thought in wisshing, torment and woo,
With many a turnyng to and froo,
That half my peyne I can not telle.
For I am fallen into helle
From paradys, and wel the more
My turment greveth; more and more
Anoieth now the bittirnesse,
That I toforn have felt swetnesse.
And Wikkid-Tunge, thurgh his falshede,
Causeth all my woo and drede.
On me he leith a pitous charge,
Bicause his tunge was to large.
Now it is tyme, shortly, that I
Telle you som thyng of Jelousy,
That was in gret suspecioun.
Aboute hym lefte he no masoun,
That stoon coude leye, ne querrour;
He hirede hem to make a tour.
And first, the roses for to kep,
Aboute hem made he a diche deep,
Right wondir large, and also brood;
Upon the whiche also stod
Of squared stoon a sturdy wall,
Which on a cragge was founded all;
And right gret thikkenesse eke it bar.
Aboute, it was founded squar,
An hundred fademe on every sid;
It was all liche longe and wid.
Lest ony tyme it were assayled,
Ful wel aboute it was batayled,
And rounde enviroun eke were set
Ful many a riche and fair touret.
At every corner of this wall
Was set a tour full pryncipall;
And everich hadde, withoute fable,
A porte-colys defensable
To kepe of enemyes, and to greve,
That there her force wolde preve.
And eke amydde this purprise
Was maad a tour of gret maistrise;
A fairer saugh no man with sight,
Large and wid, and of gret myght.
They dredde noon assaut
Of gyn, gunne, nor skaffaut.
The temperure of the morter
Was maad of lycour wonder der,
Of quykke lym, persant and egre,
The which was tempred with vynegre.
The stoon was hard, of ademant,
Wherof they made the foundement.
The tour was round, maad in compas;
In all this world no riccher was,
Ne better ordeigned therwithall.
Aboute the tour was maad a wall,
So that bitwixt that and the tour
Rosers were sette of swete savour,
With many roses that thei bere;
And eke withynne the castell were
Spryngoldes, gunnes, bows, and archers;
And eke above, atte corners,
Men seyn over the wall stonde
Grete engynes, who were nygh honde.
And in the kernels, heere and there,
Of arblasters gret plente were;
Noon armure myght her strok withstonde;
It were foly to prece to honde.
Withoute the diche were lystes maad,
With wall batayled large and brad,
For men and hors shulde not atteyne
To neigh the dyche over the pleyne.
Thus jelousie hath enviroun
Set aboute his garnysoun
With walles rounde and diche dep,
Oonly the roser for to kep.
And Daunger, erly and late,
The keyes [kepte] of the utter gate,
The which openeth toward the eest.
And he hadde with hym atte leest
Thritty servauntes, echon by name.
That other gate kepte Shame,
Which openede, as it was couth,
Toward the partie of the south.
Sergeauntes assigned were hir to
Ful many, hir wille for to doo.
Thanne Drede hadde in hir baillie
The kepyng of the conestablerye
Toward the north, I undirstond,
That openyde upon the lyft hond;
The which for nothyng may be sure,
But if she do bisy cure,
Erly on morowe and also late,
Strongly to shette and barre the gate.
Of every thing that she may see
Drede is aferd, wherso she be;
For with a puff of litell wynd
Drede is astonyed in hir mynd.
Therfore, for stelyng of the Rose,
I rede hir nought the yate unclose.
A foulis flight wol make hir flee,
And eke a shadowe, if she it see.
Thanne Wikked-Tunge, ful of envye,
With soudiours of Normandye,
As he that causeth all the bate,
Was keper of the fourthe gate,
And also to the tother three
He wente full ofte for to see.
Whanne his lot was to wake anyght,
His instrumentis wolde he dight,
For to blowe and make sown
Ofter thanne he hath enchesoun,
And walken oft upon the wall,
Corners and wikettis overall
Full narwe serchen and espie;
Though he nought fond, yit wolde he lye.
Discordaunt ever fro armonye,
And distoned from melodie,
Controve he wolde, and foule fayle,
With hornepipes of Cornewaile.
In floytes made he discordaunce,
And in his musyk —with myschaunce! —
He wolde seyn, with notes newe,
That he fond no womman trewe,
Ne that he saugh never in his lyf
Unto hir husbonde a trewe wyf,
Ne noon so ful of honeste
That she nyl laughe and mery be
Whanne that she hereth, or may espie,
A man speken of leccherie.
Everich of hem hath som vice:
Oon is dishonest, another is nyce;
If oon be full of vylanye,
Another hath a likerous ye;
If oon be full of wantonesse,
Another is a chideresse.
Thus Wikked-Tunge —God yeve him shame! —
Can putt hem everychon in blame,
Withoute desert and causeles;
He lieth, though they ben giltles.
I have pite to sen the sorwe
That waketh bothe eve and morwe,
To innocentis doith such grevaunce.
I pray God yeve him evel chaunce,
That he ever so bisy is
Of ony womman to seyn amys!
Eke Jelousie God confound,
That hath maad a tour so round,
And made aboute a garisoun,
To sette Bealacoil in prisoun,
The which is shet there in the tour
Ful longe to holde there sojour,
There for to lyve in penaunce.
And for to do hym more grevaunce,
Ther hath ordeyned Jelousie
An olde vekke, for to espye
The maner of his governaunce;
The whiche devel in hir enfaunce
Hadde lerned of loves art,
And of his pleyes tok hir part;
She was expert in his servise.
She knew ech wrench and every gise
Of love, and every wile;
It was [the] harder hir to gile.
Of Bealacoil she tok ay hede,
That evere he lyveth in woo and drede.
He kepte hym koy and eke pryve,
Lest in hym she hadde see
Ony foly countenaunce,
For she knew all the olde daunce.
And aftir this, whanne Jelousie
Hadde Bealacoil in his baillie,
And shette hym up that was so fre,
For seur of hym he wolde be,
He trusteth sore in his castell;
The stronge werk hym liketh well.
He dradde not that no glotouns
Shulde stele his roses or botouns.
The roses weren assured all,
Defenced with the stronge wall.
Now Jelousie full well may be
Of drede devoid in liberte,
Whether that he slepe or wake,
For his roses may noon be take.
But I —allas! —now morne shall;
Bicause I was withoute the wall,
Full moche dool and moone I made.
Who hadde wist what woo I hadde,
I trowe he wolde have had pite.
Love to deere hadde soold to me
The good that of his love hadde I.
I wende a bought it all queyntly;
But now, thurgh doublyng of my peyn,
I see he wolde it selle ageyn,
And me a newe bargeyn leere,
The which all-oute the more is deere,
For the solas that I have lorn,
Thanne I hadde it never aforn.
Certayn, I am ful lik in deed
To hym that cast in erthe his seed,
And hath joie of the newe spryng,
Whanne it greneth in the gynnyng,
And is also fair and fresh of flour,
Lusty to seen, swoote of odour;
But er he it in sheves shere,
May falle a weder that shal it dere,
And make it to fade and falle,
The stalke, the greyn, and floures alle,
That to the tyler is fordon
The hope that he hadde to soon.
I drede, certeyn, that so fare I;
For hope and travaile sikerly
Ben me byraft all with a storm;
The flour nyl seeden of my corn.
For Love hath so avaunced me,
Whanne I bigan my pryvite
To Bialacoil all for to tel,
Whom I ne fond froward ne fel,
But tok a-gree all hool my play.
But Love is of so hard assay,
That al at oonys he reved me,
Whanne I wende best aboven to have be.
It is of Love, as of Fortune,
That chaungeth ofte, and nyl contune,
Which whilom wol on folk smyle,
And glowmbe on hem another while.
Now freend, now foo, [thow] shalt hir feel,
For [in] a twynklyng turneth hir wheel.
She can writhe hir heed awey;
This is the concours of hir pley.
She can areise that doth morne,
And whirle adown, and overturne
Who sittith hyest, but as hir lust.
A fool is he that wole hir trust;
For it is I that am come down
Thurgh change and revolucioun!
Sit Bealacoil mot fro me twynne,
Shet in the prisoun yond withynne,
His absence at myn herte I fele;
For all my joye and all myn hele
Was in hym and in the Rose,
That but yon wal, which hym doth close,
Opene that I may hym see,
Love nyl not that I cured be
Of the peynes that I endure,
Nor of my cruel aventure.
A, Bialacoil, myn owne deer!
Though thou be now a prisoner,
Kep atte leste thyn herte to me
And suffre not that it daunted be;
Ne lat not jelousie, in his rage,
Putten thin herte in no servage.
Although he chastice thee withoute
And make thy body unto hym loute,
Have herte as hard as dyamaunt,
Stedefast and nought pliaunt.
In prisoun though thi body be,
At large kep thyn herte free;
A trewe herte wole not plie
For no manace that it may drye.
If Jelousie doth thee payn,
Quyte hym his while thus agayn,
To venge thee, atte leest in thought,
If other way thou maist nought;
And in this wise sotilly
Worche, and wynne the maistry.
But yit I am in gret affray
Lest thou do not as I say.
I drede thou canst me gret maugre,
That thou enprisoned art for me;
But that [is] not for my trespas,
For thurgh me never discovred was
Yit thyng that oughte be secree.
Wel more anoy is in me,
Than is in thee, of this myschaunce;
For I endure more hard penaunce,
Than ony can seyn or thynke,
That for the sorwe almost I synke.
Whanne I remembre me of my woo,
Full nygh out of my witt I goo.
Inward myn herte I feele blede,
For comfortles the deth I drede.
Owe I not wel to have distresse,
Whanne false, thurgh hir wikkednesse,
And traitours, that arn envyous,
To noyen me be so corajous?
A, Bialacoil, full wel I see
That they hem shape to disceyve thee,
To make thee buxom to her lawe,
And with her corde thee to drawe
Where so hem lust, right at her will.
I drede they have thee brought thertill.
Withoute comfort, thought me sleeth;
This game wole brynge me to my deeth.
For if youre goode wille I leese,
I mot be deed, I may not chese.
And if that thou foryete me,
Myn herte shal nevere in likyng be,
Nor elleswhere fynde solas,
If I be putt out of youre gras —
As it shal never been, I hope —
Thanne shulde I falle in wanhope.
Allas, in wanhope? Nay, pardee!
For I wole never dispeired be.
If hope me faile, thanne am I
Ungracious and unworthy.
In hope I wole comforted be,
For Love, whanne he bitaught hir me,
Seide that Hope, whereso I goo,
Shulde ay be relees to my woo.
But what and she my baalis beete,
And be to me curteis and sweete?
She is in nothyng full certeyn.
Lovers she putt in full gret peyn,
And makith hem with woo to deele.
Hir faire biheeste disceyveth feele,
For she wole byhote, sikirly,
And failen aftir outrely.
A, that is a full noyous thyng!
For many a lover, in lovyng,
Hangeth upon hir, and trusteth faste,
Whiche leese her travel at the laste.
Of thyng to comen she woot right nought;
Therfore, if it be wysely sought,
Hir counseill foly is to take.
For many tymes, whanne she wole make
A full good silogisme, I dreede
That aftirward ther shal in deede
Folwe an evell conclusioun.
This put me in confusioun.
For many tymes I have it seen,
That many have bigyled been
For trust that they have set in Hope,
Which fell hem aftirward a-slope.
But nevertheles, yit gladly she wolde
That he, that wole hym with hir holde,
Hadde alle tymes his purpos cler,
Withoute deceyte or ony wer —
That she desireth sikirly.
Whanne I hir blamed, I dide foly.
But what avayleth hir good wille,
Whanne she ne may staunche my stounde ille?
That helpith litel that she may doo,
Out-take biheest unto my woo.
And heeste certeyn, in no wise,
Withoute yift, is not to prise.
Whanne heest and deede a-sundry varie,
They doon a gret contrarie.
Thus am I possed up and doun
With dool, thought, and confusioun;
Of my disese ther is no noumbre.
Daunger and Shame me encumbre,
Drede also, and Jelousie,
And Wikked-Tunge, full of envie,
Of whiche the sharpe and cruel ire
Full ofte me putte in gret martire.
They han my joye fully let,
Sith Bialacoil they have bishet
Fro me in prisoun wikkidly,
Whom I love so entierly
That it wole my bane bee
But I the sonner may hym see.
And yit moreover, wurst of alle,
Ther is set to kepe —foule hir bifalle! —
A rympled vekke, fer ronne in age,
Frownyng and yelowe in hir visage,
Which in awayt lyth day and nyght,
That noon of him may have a sight.
Now mote my sorwe enforced be.
Full soth it is that Love yaf me
Three wonder yiftes of his grace,
Whiche I have lorn now in this place,
Sith they ne may, withoute drede,
Helpen but lytel, who taketh heede.
For here availeth no Swete-Thought,
And Sweete-Speche helpith right nought.
The thridde was called Swete-Lokyng,
That now is lorn, without lesyng.
Yiftes were faire, but not forthy
They helpe me but symply,
But Bialacoil loosed be,
To gon at large and to be free.
For hym my lyf lyth all in doute,
But if he come the rather oute.
Allas, I trowe it wole not ben!
For how shuld I evermore hym sen?
He may not out, and that is wrong,
By cause the tour is so strong.
How shulde he out? By whos prowesse,
Out of so strong a forteresse?
By me, certeyn, it nyl be doo;
God woot, I have no wit thereto!
But, wel I woot, I was in rage,
Whonne I to Love dide homage.
Wo was in cause, in sothfastnesse,
But hirsilf, Dame Idelnesse,
Which me conveied, thurgh my praier,
To entre into that faire verger.
She was to blame me to leve,
The which now doth me soore greve.
A foolis word is nought to trowe,
Ne worth an appel for to lowe;
Men shulde hym snybbe bittirly,
At pryme temps of his foly.
I was a fool, and she me leeved,
Thurgh whom I am right nought releeved.
She accomplisshid all my will,
That now me greveth wondir ill.
Resoun me seide what shulde falle.
A fool mysilf I may well calle,
That love asyde I had [nat] leyd,
And trowed that Dame Resoun seid.
Resoun hadde bothe skile and ryght,
Whanne she me blamed, with all hir myght,
To medle of love that hath me shent;
But certeyn, now I wole repent.
And shulde I repente? Nay, parde!
A fals traitour thanne shulde I be.
The develes engynnes wolde me take,
If I my lord wolde forsake,
Or Bialacoil falsly bitraye.
Shulde I at myscheef hate hym? Nay,
Sith he now, for his curtesie,
Is in prisoun of Jelousie.
Curtesie certeyn dide he me,
So mych that may not yolden be,
Whanne he the hay passen me let,
To kisse the Rose, faire and swet.
Shulde I therefore cunne hym mawgre?
Nay, certeynly, it shal not be;
For Love shal nevere, yif God wille,
Here of me, thurgh word or wille,
Offence or complaynt, more or lesse,
Neither of Hope nor Idilnesse.
For certis, it were wrong that I
Hated hem for her curtesy.
Ther is not ellys but suffre and thynke,
And waken whanne I shulde wynke;
Abide in hope, til Love, thurgh chaunce,
Sende me socour or allegeaunce,
Expectant ay till I may mete
To geten mercy of that swete.
Whilom I thenke how Love to me
Seide he wolde take att gree
My servise, if unpacience
[Ne] caused me to don offence.
He seide, "In thank I shal it take,
And high maister eke thee make,
If wikkednesse ne reve it thee;
But sone, I trowe, that shall not be."
These were his wordis, by and by;
It semede he lovede me trewely.
Now is ther not but serve hym wel,
If that I thenke his thank to fel.
My good, myn harm lyth hool in me.
In Love may no defaute be,
For trewe Love ne failide never man.
Sothly the faute mot nedys than —
As God forbede! —be founde in me;
And how it cometh, I can not see.
Now late it goon as it may goo;
Whether Love wole socoure me or sloo,
He may do hool on me his will.
I am so sore bounde hym till,
From his servise I may not fleen;
For lyf and deth, withouten wen,
Is in his hand —I may not chese —
He may me doo bothe wynne and leese.
And sith so sore he doth me greve,
Yit, if my lust he wolde acheve,
To Bialacoil goodly to be,
I yeve no force what felle on me.
For though I dye, as I mot nede,
I praye Love, of his goodlyhede,
To Bialacoil do gentylnesse,
For whom I lyve in such distresse
That I mot deyen for penaunce.
But first, withoute repentaunce,
I wole me confesse in good entent,
And make in haste my testament,
As lovers doon that feelen smert:
To Bialacoil leve I myn hert
All hool, withoute departyng,
Doublenesse of repentyng. Coment Raisoun vient a L'amant.
Thus, as I made my passage
In compleynt and in cruel rage,
And I not where to fynde a leche
That couthe unto myn helpyng eche,
Sodeynly agayn comen doun
Out of hir tour I saugh Resoun,
Discret and wis and full plesaunt,
And of hir port full avenaunt.
The righte weye she took to me,
Which stod in gret perplexite,
That was posshed in every side,
That I nyst where I myght abide,
Till she, demurely sad of cher,
Seide to me, as she com ner,
"Myn owne freend, art thou yit greved?
How is this quarell yit acheved
Of Loves side? Anoon me telle.
Hast thou not yit of love thi fille?
Art thou not wery of thy servise,
That the hath [greved] in sich wise?
What joye hast thou in thy lovyng?
Is it swete or bitter thing?
Canst thou yit chese, lat me see,
What best thi socour myghte be?
"Thou servest a full noble lord,
That maketh thee thrall for thi reward,
Which ay renewith thy turment,
With foly so he hath thee blent.
Thou fell in myscheef thilke day
Whanne thou didist, the sothe to say,
Obeysaunce and eke homage.
Thou wroughtest nothyng as the sage,
Whanne thou bicam his liege man.
Thou didist a gret foly than,
Thou wistest not what fell therto,
With what lord thou haddist to do.
If thou haddist hym wel knowe,
Thou haddist nought be brought so lowe;
For if thou wistest what it wer,
Thou noldist serve hym half a yeer,
Not a weke, nor half a day,
Ne yit an hour, withoute delay,
Ne never han loved paramours,
His lordshipp is so full of shours.
Knowest hym ought?"
L'amaunt "Ye, dame, parde!"
Raisoun "Nay, nay."
L'amaunt "Yis, I."
Raisoun "Wherof? Late se."
L'amaunt "Of that he seide I shulde be
Glad to have sich lord as he,
And maister of sich seignorie."
Raisoun "Knowist hym no more?"
L'amaunt "Nay, certis, I,
Save that he yaf me rewles there,
And wente his wey, I nyste where,
And I abood, bounde in balaunce."
Raisoun "Lo, there a noble conisaunce!
But I wille that thou knowe hym now,
Gynnyng and eende, sith that thou
Art so anguisshous and mate,
Disfigured out of astate;
Ther may no wrecche have more of woo,
Ne caytyf noon enduren soo.
It were to every man sittyng
Of his lord have knowleching;
For if thou knewe hym, out of doute,
Lightly thou shulde escapen oute
Of the prisoun that marreth thee."
L'amant "Ye, dame, sith my lord is he,
And I his man, maad with myn hond,
I wolde right fayn undirstond
To knowe of what kynde he be,
If ony wolde enforme me."
Raisoun "I wolde," seide Resoun, "thee ler,
Sith thou to lerne hast sich desir,
And shewe thee, withouten fable,
A thyng that is not demonstrable.
Thou shalt [wite] withouten science,
And knowe withouten experience,
The thyng that may not knowen be,
Ne wist, ne shewid, in no degre.
Thou maist the sothe of it not witen,
Though in thee it were writen.
Thou shalt not knowe therof more,
While thou art reuled by his lore;
But unto hym that love wole flee,
The knotte may unclosed bee,
Which hath to thee, as it is founde,
So long be knet and not unbounde.
Now set wel thyn entencioun,
To here of love discripcioun.
"Love, it is an hatefull pees,
A free acquitaunce, withoute relees,
A trouthe, fret full of falsheede,
A sikernesse all set in drede.
In herte is a dispeiryng hope,
And full of hope, it is wanhope;
Wis woodnesse, and wod resoun;
A swete perell in to droun;
An hevy birthen, lyght to bere;
A wikked wawe, awey to were.
It is Karibdous perilous,
Disagreable and gracious.
It is discordaunce that can accorde,
And accordaunce to discorde.
It is kunnyng withoute science,
Wisdom withoute sapience,
Wit withoute discrecioun,
Havoir withoute possessioun.
It is sike hele and hool seknesse,
A thurst drowned in dronknesse,
And helthe full of maladie,
And charite full of envie,
And hunger full of habundaunce,
And a gredy suffisaunce;
Delit right full of hevynesse,
And drerihed full of gladnesse;
Bitter swetnesse and swete errour,
Right evell savoured good savour;
Sin that pardoun hath withynne,
And pardoun spotted withoute [with] synne.
A peyne also it is, joious,
And felonye right pitous;
Also pley that selde is stable,
And stedefast [stat], right mevable;
A strengthe, weyked to stonde upright,
And feblenesse full of myght;
Wit unavised, sage folie,
And joie full of turmentrie;
A laughter it is, weping ay;
Reste that traveyleth night and day;
Also a swete helle it is,
And a soroufull paradys;
A pleasant gayl and esy prisoun,
And, full of froste, somer sesoun;
Pryme temps full of frostes whit,
And May devoide of al delit,
With seer braunches, blossoms ungrene,
And newe fruyt, fillid with wynter tene.
It is a slowe, may not forbere
Ragges, ribaned with gold, to were;
For also wel wol love be set
Under ragges, as riche rochet;
And eke as wel be amourettes
In mournyng blak, as bright burnettes.
For noon is of so mochel pris,
Ne no man founden so wys,
Ne noon so high is of parage,
Ne no man founde of wit so sage,
No man so hardy ne so wight,
Ne no man of so mochel myght,
Noon so fulfilled of bounte,
That he with love [ne] may daunted be.
All the world holdith this wey;
Love makith all to goon myswey,
But it be they of yvel lyf,
Whom Genius cursith, man and wyf,
That wrongly werke ageyn nature.
Noon such I love, ne have no cure
Of sich as Loves servauntes hen,
And wole not by my counsel flen.
For I ne preise that lovyng
Wherthurgh men, at the laste eendyng,
Shall calle hem wrecchis full of woo,
Love greveth hem and shendith soo.
But if thou wolt wel Love eschewe,
For to escape out of his mewe,
And make al hool thi sorwe to slake,
No bettir counsel maist thou take
Than thynke to fleen wel, iwis.
May nought helpe elles, for wite thou this:
If thou fle it, it shal flee thee;
Folowe it, and folowen shal it thee."
L'amant Whanne I hadde herde all Resoun seyn,
Which hadde spilt hir speche in veyn,
"Dame," seide I, "I dar wel sey,
Of this avaunt me wel I may
That from youre scole so devyaunt
I am, that never the more avaunt
Right nought am I thurgh youre doctrine.
I dulle under youre discipline.
I wot no more than [I] wist er,
To me so contrarie and so fer
Is every thing that ye me ler,
And yit I can it all par cuer.
Myn herte foryetith therof right nought,
It is so writen in my thought;
And depe greven it is so tendir
That all by herte I can it rendre,
And rede it over comunely;
But to mysilf lewedist am I.
But sith ye love discreven so,
And lak and preise it, bothe twoo,
Defyneth it into this letter,
That I may thenke on it the better;
For I herde never diffyne it er,
And wilfully I wolde it ler."
Raisoun "If love be serched wel and sought,
It is a syknesse of the thought
Annexed and knet bitwixe tweyne,
Which male and female, with oo cheyne,
So frely byndith that they nyll twynne,
Whether so therof they leese or wynne.
The roote springith thurgh hoot brennyng
Into disordinat desiryng
For to kissen and enbrace,
And at her lust them to solace.
Of other thyng love recchith nought,
But setteth her herte and all her thought
More for delectacioun
Than ony procreacioun
Of other fruyt by engendring,
Which love to God is not plesyng;
For of her body fruyt to get
They yeve no force, they are so set
Upon delit to pley in-feere.
And somme have also this manere,
To feynen hem for love sek;
Sich love I preise not at a lek.
For paramours they do but feyne;
To love truly they disdeyne.
They falsen ladies traitoursly,
And swern hem othes utterly,
With many a lesyng and many a fable,
And all they fynden deceyvable.
And whanne they han her lust geten,
The hoote ernes they al foryeten.
Wymmen, the harm they bien full sore;
But men this thenken evermore,
That lasse harm is, so mote I the,
Deceyve them than deceyved be;
And namely, where they ne may
Fynde non other mene wey.
For I wot wel, in sothfastnesse,
[What man] doth now his bisynesse
With ony womman for to dele,
For ony lust that he may fele,
But if it he for engendrure,
He doth trespas, I you ensure.
For he shulde setten all his wil
To geten a likly thyng hym til,
And to sustene, if he myght,
And kepe forth, by Kyndes right,
His owne lyknesse and semblable;

And faile shulde successioun,
Ne were ther generacioun
Oure sectis strene for to save.
Whanne fader or moder arn in grave,
Her children shulde, whanne they ben deede,
Full diligent ben, in her steede,
To use that werk on such a wise
That oon may thurgh another rise.
Therfore sette Kynde therynne delit,
For men therynne shulde hem delit,
And of that deede be not erk,
But ofte sithes haunt that werk.
For noon wolde drawe therof a draught,
Ne were delit, which hath hym kaught.
Thus hath sotilled dame Nature;
For noon goth right, I thee ensure,
Ne hath entent hool ne parfit;
For her desir is for delyt,
The which fortened crece and eke
The pley of love for-ofte seke,
And thrall hemsilf, they be so nyce,
Unto the prince of every vice.
For of ech synne it is the rote,
Unlefull lust, though it be sote,
And of all yvell the racyne,
As Tulius can determyne,
Which in his tyme was full sage,
In a bok he made 'Of Age,'
Where that more he preyseth eelde,
Though he be croked and unweelde,
And more of commendacioun
Than youthe in his discripcioun.
For youthe set bothe man and wyf
In all perell of soule and lyf;
And perell is, but men have grace,
The tyme of youthe for to pace
Withoute ony deth or distresse,
It is so full of wyldenesse,
So ofte it doth shame or damage
To hym or to his lynage.
It ledith man now up, now doun,
In mochel dissolucioun,
And makith hym love yvell company,
And lede his lyf disrewlily,
And halt hym payed with noon estat.
Withynne hymsilf is such debat,
He chaungith purpos and entent,
And yalt [him] into som covent,
To lyven aftir her emprise,
And lesith fredom and fraunchise,
That Nature in hym hadde set,
The which ageyn he may not get,
If he there make his mansioun,
For to abide professioun.
Though for a tyme his herte absente,
It may not fayle, he shal repente,
And eke abide thilke day
To leve his abit, and gon his way,
And lesith his worshipp and his name,
And dar not come ageyn for shame;
But al his lyf he doth so mourne,
By cause he dar not hom retourn.
Fredom of kynde so lost hath he
That never may recured be,
But if that God hym graunte grace
That he may, er he hennes pace,
Conteyne undir obedience
Thurgh the vertu of pacience.
For Youthe sett man in all folye,
In unthrift and in ribaudie,
In leccherie and in outrage,
So ofte it chaungith of corage.
Youthe gynneth ofte sich bargeyn,
That may not eende withouten peyn.
In gret perell is sett youthede,
Delit so doth his bridil leede.
Delit thus hangith, dred thee nought,
Both mannys body and his thought,
Oonly thurgh Youthe, his chaumberere,
That to don yvell is customere,
And of nought elles taketh hede
But oonly folkes for to lede
Into disport and wyldenesse,
So is [she] froward from sadnesse.
"But Eelde drawith hem therfro;
Who wot it nought, he may wel goo
Demande of hem that now arn olde,
That whilom Youthe hadde in holde,
Which yit remembre of tendir age,
Hou it hem brought in many a rage,
And many a foly therynne wrought.
But now that Eelde hath hem thourgh-sought,
They repente hem of her folye,
That Youthe hem putte in jupardye,
In perell, and in myche woo,
And made hem ofte amys to do,
And suen yvell companye,
Riot and avouterie.
"But Eelde can ageyn restreyne
From sich foly, and refreyne,
And sette men by her ordinaunce
In good reule and in governaunce.
But yvell she spendith hir servise,
For no man wole hir love neither prise;
She is hated, this wot I wel.
Hir acqueyntaunce wolde no man fel,
Ne han of Elde companye;
Men hate to be of hir alye.
For no man wolde bicomen old,
Ne dye whanne he is yong and bold.
And Eelde merveilith right gretly,
Whanne thei remembre hem inwardly
Of many a perelous emprise,
Which that they wrought in sondry wise,
Houevere they myght, withoute blame,
Escape awey withoute shame,
In youthe, withoute damage
Or repreef of her lynage,
Loss of membre, shedyng of blod,
Perell of deth, or los of good.
Wost thou nought where Youthe abit,
That men so preisen in her wit?
With Delit she halt sojour,
For bothe they dwellen in oo tour.
As longe as Youthe is in sesoun,
They dwellen in oon mansioun.
Delit of Youthe wole have servise
To do what so he wole devise;
And Youthe is redy evermore
For to obey, for smert of sore,
Unto Delit, and hym to yive
Hir servise, while that she may lyve.
"Where Elde abit I wol thee telle
Shortly, and no while dwelle,
For thidir byhoveth thee to goo.
If Deth in youthe thee not sloo,
Of this journey thou maist not faile.
With hir Labour and Travaile
Logged ben, with Sorwe and Woo,
That never out of hir court goo.
Peyne and Distresse, Syknesse and Ire,
And Malencoly, that angry sire,
Ben of hir paleys senatours;
Gronyng and Grucchyng, hir herbejours.
The day and nyght, hir to turmente,
With cruell Deth they hir presente,
And tellen hir, erliche and late,
That Deth stondeth armed at hir gate.
Thanne brynge they to her remembraunce
The foly dedis of hir infaunce,
Whiche causen hir to mourne in woo
That Youthe hath hir bigiled so,
Which sodeynly awey is hasted.
She wepeth the tyme that she hath wasted,
Compleynyng of the preterit,
And the present that not abit,
And of hir olde vanite,
That, but aforn hir she may see
In the future som socour,
To leggen hir of hir dolour,
To graunte hir tyme of repentaunce,
For her synnes to do penaunce,
And at the laste so hir governe
To wynne the joy that is eterne,
Fro which go bakward Youthe hir made,
In vanite to droune and wade.
For present tyme abidith nought;
It is more swift than any thought.
So litel while it doth endure
That ther nys compte ne mesure.
But hou that evere the game go,
Who list to have joie and mirth also
Of love, be it he or she,
High or lowe, who it be,
In fruyt they shulde hem delyte;
Her part they may not elles quyte,
To save hemsilf in honeste.
And yit full many on I se
Of wymmen, sothly for to seyn,
That desire and wolde fayn
The pley of love, they be so wilde,
And not coveite to go with childe.
And if with child they be, perchaunce,
They wole it holde a gret myschaunce;
But whatsomever woo they fele,
They wole not pleyne but concele;
But if it be ony fool or nyce,
In whom that Shame hath no justice.
For to delyt echon they drawe,
That haunte this werk, bothe high and lawe,
Save sich that arn worth right nought,
That for money wole be bought.
Such love I preise in no wise,
Whanne it is goven for coveitise.
I preise no womman, though she be wood,
That yeveth hirsilf for ony good.
For litel shulde a man telle
Of hir, that wole hir body selle,
Be she mayde, be she wyf,
That quyk wole selle hir, bi hir lif.
Hou faire chere that evere she make,
He is a wrecche, I undirtake,
That loveth such on, for swete or sour,
Though she hym calle hir paramour,
And laugheth on hym, and makith hym feeste.
For certeynly no such beeste
To be loved is not worthy,
Or bere the name of druery.
Noon shulde hir please, but he were wood,
That wole dispoile hym of his good.
Yit nevertheles, I wol not sey
That she, for solas and for pley,
[Ne] may a jewel or other thyng
Take of her loves fre yevyng;
But that she aske it in no wise,
For drede of shame of coveitise.
And she of hirs may hym, certeyn,
Withoute sclaundre yeven ageyn,
And joyne her hertes togidre so
In love, and take and yeve also.
Trowe not that I wolde hem twynne,
Whanne in her love ther is no synne;
I wol that they togedre go,
And don al that they han ado,
As curteis shulde and debonaire,
And in her love heren hem faire,
Withoute vice, bothe he and she,
So that alwey, in honeste,
Fro foly love they kepe hem cler,
That brenneth hertis with his fer;
And that her love, in ony wise,
Be devoide of coveitise.
Good love shulde engendrid be
Of trewe herte, just, and secre,
And not of such as sette her thought
To have her lust and ellis nought —
So are they caught in Loves las,
Truly, for bodily solas.
Fleshly delit is so present
With thee, that sette all thyn entent
Withoute more (what shulde I glose?)
For to gete and have the Rose,
Which makith [thee] so mat and wood
That thou desirest noon other good.
But thou art not an inche the nerre,
But evere abidist in sorwe and werre,
As in thi face it is sene.
It makith thee bothe pale and lene;
Thy myght, thi vertu goth away.
A sory gest, in goode fay,
Thou herberest than in thyn inn,
The God of Love whanne thou let inn!
Wherfore I rede, thou shette hym oute,
Or he shall greve thee, out of doute;
For to thi profit it wol turne,
If he nomore with thee sojourne.
In gret myscheef and sorwe sonken
Ben hertis that of love arn dronken,
As thou peraventure knowen shall,
Whanne thou hast lost thy tyme all,
And spent thy youthe in ydilness,
In waste and wolfull lustynesse.
If thou maist lyve the tyme to se
Of love for to delyvered be,
Thy tyme thou shalt biwepe sore,
The whiche never thou maist restore;
For tyme lost, as men may see,
For nothyng may recured be.
And if thou scape yit, atte laste,
Fro Love, that hath thee so faste
Knytt and bounden in his las,
Certeyn I holde it but a gras.
For many oon, as it is seyn,
Have lost and spent also in veyn,
In his servise, withoute socour,
Body and soule, good and tresour,
Wit and strengthe, and eke richesse,
Of which they hadde never redresse."
L'amant Thus taught and preched hath
Resoun, but Love spilte hir sermoun,
That was so ymped in my thought,
That hir doctrine I sette at nought.
And yitt ne seide she never a del
That I ne undirstod it wel,
Word by word, the mater all;
But unto Love I was so thrall,
Which callith overall his pray,
He chasith so my thought alway,
And holdith myn herte undir his sel
As trust and trew as ony stel;
So that no devocioun
Ne hadde I in the sermoun
Of dame Resoun, ne of hir red.
It tok no sojour in myn hed,
For all yede out at oon ere
That in that other she dide lere.
Fully on me she lost hir lore;
Hir speche me greved wondir sore.
Than unto hir for ire I seide,
For anger, as I dide abraide:
"Dame, and is it youre wille algate
That I not love, but that I hate
Alle men, as ye me teche?
For if I do aftir youre speche,
Sith that ye seyn love is not good,
Thanne must I nedis ay with mood,
If I it leve, in hatrede ay
Lyven, and voide love away
From me, [and ben] a synfull wrecche
Hated of all [that love] that tecche.
I may not go noon other gate,
For other must I love or hate.
And if I hate men of-newe
More than love, it wol me rewe,
As by youre preching semeth me,
For Love nothing ne preisith thee.
Ye yeve good counsel, sikirly,
That prechith me alday that I
Shulde not Loves lore alowe.
He were a fool, wolde you not trowe!
In speche also ye han me taught
Another love, that knowen is naught,
Which I have herd you not repreve,
To love ech other. By youre leve,
If ye wolde diffyne it me,
I wolde gladly here, to se,
At the leest, if I may lere
Of sondry loves the manere."
Raisoun "Certis, freend, a fool art thou,
Whan that thou nothyng wolt allow
That I for thi profit say.
Yit wole I sey thee more in fay,
For I am redy, at the leste,
To accomplisshe thi requeste.
But I not where it wole avayle;
In veyn, perauntre, I shal travayle.
Love ther is in sondry wise,
As I shal thee heere devise.
For som love leful is and good —
I mene not that which makith thee wood,
And bringith thee in many a fit,
And ravysshith fro thee al thi wit,
It is so merveilous and queynt;
With such love be no more aqueynt. Comment Raisoun diffinist amiste
"Love of freendshipp also ther is,
Which makith no man don amys,
Of wille knytt bitwixe two,
That wole not brelte for wele ne woo;
Which long is likly to contune,
Whanne wille and goodis ben in comune;
Grounded by Goddis ordinaunce,
Hool, withoute discordaunce;
With hem holdyng comunte
Of all her good in charite,
That ther be noon excepcioun
Thurgh chaungyng of entencioun;
That ech helpe other at her neede,
And wisely hele bothe word and dede;
Trewe of menyng, devoide of slouthe,
For witt is nought withoute trouthe;
So that the ton dar all his thought
Seyn to his freend, and spare nought,
As to hymsilf, without dredyng
To be discovered by wreying.
For glad is that conjunccioun,
Whanne ther is noon susspecioun
[Of blame in hem], whom they wolde prove
That trewe and parfit weren in love.
For no man may be amyable,
But if he be so ferme and stable
That fortune chaunge hym not, ne blynde,
But that his freend allwey hym fynde,
Bothe pore and riche, in oo state.
For if his freend, thurgh ony gate,
Wole compleyne of his poveite,
He shulde not bide so long til he
Of his helpyng hym requere;
For good dede, don thurgh praiere,
Is sold and bought to deere, iwys,
To hert that of gret valour is.
For hert fulfilled of gentilnesse
Can yvel demene his distresse;
And man that worthy is of name
To asken often hath gret shame.
A good man brenneth in his thought
For shame, whanne he axeth ought.
He hath gret thought and dredeth ay
For his disese, whanne he shal pray
His freend, lest that he warned be,
Til that he preve his stabilte.
But whanne that he hath founden oon
That trusty is and trewe as ston,
And assaied hym at all,
And founde hym stedefast as a wall,
And of his freendshipp be certeyn,
He shal hym shewe bothe joye and peyn,
And all that [he] dar thynke or sey,
Withoute shame, as he wel may.
For how shulde he ashamed be
Of sich on as I tolde thee?
For whanne he woot his secre thought,
The thridde shal knowe therof right nought;
For tweyne of noumbre is bet than thre
In every counsell and secre.
Repreve he dredeth never a deel,
Who that bisett his wordis wel;
For every wise man, out of drede,
Can kepe his tunge til he se nede;
And fooles can not holde her tunge;
A fooles belle is soone runge.
Yit shal a trewe freend do more
To helpe his felowe of his sore,
And socoure hym, whanne he hath neede,
In all that he may don in deede,
And gladder [be] that he hym plesith,
Than his felowe that he esith.
And if he do not his requeste,
He shal as mochel hym moleste
As his felow, for that he
May not fulfille his volunte
Fully, as he hath requered.
If bothe the hertis Love hath fered,
Joy and woo they shull depart,
And take evenly ech his part.
Half his anoy he shal have ay,
And comfort [him] what that he may;
And of his blisse parte shal he,
If love wel departed be.
"And whilom of this amyte
Spak Tulius in a ditee:
'Man shulde maken his request
Unto his freend, that is honest;
And he goodly shulde it fulfille,
But it the more were out of skile,
And otherwise not graunte therto,
Except oonly in causes twoo:
If men his freend to deth wolde drive,
Lat hym he bisy to save his lyve;
Also if men wolen hym assayle,
Of his wurshipp to make hym faile,
And hyndren hym of his renoun,
Lat hym, with full entencioun,
His dever don in ech degre
That his freend ne shamed he.
In thise two caas with his myght,
Taking no kep to skile nor right,
As fer as love may hym excuse,
This oughte no man to refuse.'
This love that I have told to thee
Is nothing contrarie to me;
This wole I that thou folowe wel,
And leve the tother everydel.
This love to vertu all entendith,
The tothir fooles blent and shendith.
"Another love also there is
That is contrarie unto this,
Which desir is so constreyned
That [it] is but wille feyned.
Awey fro trouthe it doth so varie
That to good love it is contrarie;
For it maymeth, in many wise,
Sike hertis with coveitise.
All in wynnyng and in profit
Sich love settith his delit.
This love so hangeth in balaunce
That, if it lese his hope, perchaunce,
Of lucre, that he is sett upon,
It wole faile and quenche anoon;
For no man may be amerous,
Ne in his lyvyng vertuous,
But he love more, in mood,
Men for hemsilf than for her good.
For love that profit doth abide
Is fals, and bit not in no tyde.
[This] love cometh of dame Fortune,
That litel while wol contune;
For it shal chaungen wonder soone,
And take eclips, right as the moone,
Whanne she is from us lett
Thurgh erthe, that bitwixe is sett
The sonne and hir, as it may fall,
Be it in partie, or in all.
The shadowe maketh her bemys merke,
And hir hornes to shewe derke,
That part where she hath lost hir lyght
Of Phebus fully, and the sight;
Til, whanne the shadowe is overpast,
She is enlumyned ageyn as fast,
Thurgh the brightnesse of the sonne bemes,
That yeveth to hir ageyn hir lemes.
That love is right of sich nature;
Now is faire, and now obscure,
Now bright, now clipsi of manere,
And whilom dym, and whilom clere.
As soone as Poverte gynneth take,
With mantel and wedis blake
Hidith of love the light awey,
That into nyght it turneth day,
It may not see Richesse shyne
Till the blak shadowes fyne.
For, whanne Richesse shyneth bright,
Love recovereth ageyn his light;
And whanne it failith he wol flit,
And as she groweth, so groweth it.
Of this love —here what I sey!
The riche men are loved ay,
And namely tho that sparand ben,
That wole not wasshe her hertes clen
Of the filthe nor of the vice
Of gredy brennyng avarice.
The riche man full fonned is, ywys,
That weneth that he loved is.
If that his herte it undirstod,
It is not he, it is his good;
He may wel witen in his thought,
His good is loved, and he right nought.
For if he be a nygard ek,
Men wole not sette by hym a lek,
But haten hym; this is the soth.
Lo, what profit his catell doth!
Of every man that may hym see
It geteth hym nought but enmyte.
But he amende hym of that vice,
And knowe hymsilf, he is not wys.
Certys, he shulde ay freendly be,
To gete hym love also ben free,
Or ellis he is not wise ne sage
Nomore than is a goot ramage.
That he not loveth, his dede proveth,
Whan he his richesse so wel loveth
That he wole hide it ay and spare,
His pore freendis sen forfare,
To kepen ay his purpos,
Til for drede his yen clos,
And til a wikked deth hym take.
Hym hadde lever asondre shake,
And late alle his lymes asondre ryve,
Than leve his richesse in his lyve.
He thenkith parte it with no man;
Certayn, no love is in hym than.
How shulde love withynne hym be,
Whanne in his herte is no pite?
That he trespasseth, wel I wat,
For ech man knowith his estat;
For wel hym ought to be reproved
That loveth nought, ne is not loved.
"But sith we arn to Fortune comen,
And han oure sermoun of hir nomen,
A wondir will Y telle thee now,
Thou herdist never sich oon, I trow.
I not where thou me leven shall,
Though sothfastnesse it be all,
As it is writen, and is soth,
That unto men more profit doth
The froward Fortune and contraire
Than the swote and debonaire.
And if thee thynke it is doutable,
It is thurgh argument provable;
For the debonaire and softe
Falsith and bigilith ofte;
For lyche a moder she can cherish,
And mylken as doth a norys,
And of hir goode to hem deles,
And yeveth hem part of her joweles,
With gret richeses and dignite;
And hem she hoteth stabilite
In a stat that is not stable,
But chaungynge ay and variable;
And fedith hem with glorie veyn,
And worldly blisse noncerteyn.
Whanne she hem settith on hir whel,
Thanne wene they to be right wel,
And in so stable stat withalle,
That never they wene for to falle.
And whanne they sette so highe be,
They wene to have in certeynte
Of hertly freendis so gret noumbre,
That nothyng myght her stat encombre.
They trust hem so on every side,
Wenyng with hem they wolde abide
In every perell and myschaunce,
Withoute chaunge or variaunce,
Bothe of catell and of good;
And also for to spende her blood,
And all her membris for to spille,
Oonly to fulfille her wille.
They maken it hool in many wise,
And hoten hem her full servise,
How sore that it do hem smerte,
Into her naked sherte!
Hette and all so hool they yive,
For the tyme that they may lyve,
So that with her flaterie
They maken foolis glorifie
Of her wordis spekyng,
And han therof a rejoysyng,
And trowe hem as the Evangile;
And it is all falsheede and gile,
As they shal aftirward se,
Whanne they arn falle in poverte
And ben of good and catell bare;
Thanne shulde they sen who freendis ware.
For of an hundred, certeynly,
Not of a thousand full scarsly,
Ne shal they fynde unnethis oon,
Whanne poverte is comen upon.
For this Fortune that I of telle,
With men whanne hit lust to dwelle,
Makith hem to leese her conisaunce,
And norishith hem in ignoraunce.
"But froward Fortune and pervers,
Whanne high estatis she doth revers,
And maketh hem to tumble doun
Of hir whel, with sodeyn tourn,
And from her richesse doth hem fle,
And plongeth hem in poverte,
As a stepmoder envyous,
And leieth a plastre dolorous
Unto her hertis, wounded egre,
Which is not tempted with vynegre,
But with poverte and indigence,
For to shewe, by experience,
That she is Fortune verely,
In whom no man shulde affy,
Not in hir yeftis have fiaunce,
She is so full of variaunce —
Thus kan she maken high and lowe,
Whanne they from richesse arn throwe,
Fully to knowen, without were,
Freend of affect and freend of chere,
And which in love weren trewe and stable,
And whiche also weren variable,
After Fortune, her goddesse,
In poverte outher in richesse.
For all she yeveth here, out of drede,
Unhap bereveth it in dede;
For Infortune lat not oon
Of freendis, whanne Fortune is gon;
I mene tho freendis that wole fle
Anoon as entreth poverte.
And yit they wole not leve hem so,
But in ech place where they go
They calle hem 'wrecche,' scorne, and blame,
And of her myshappe hem diffame;
And namely siche as in richesse
Pretendith moost of stablenesse,
Whanne that they sawe hym sett on lofte,
And weren of hym socoured ofte,
And most yholpe in all her neede.
But now they take no maner heede,
But seyn in voice of flaterie,
That now apperith her folye,
Overall where so they fare,
And synge, 'Go, farewel, feldefare.'
All suche freendis I beshrewe,
For of trewe ther be to fewe.
But sothfast freendis, what so bitide,
In every fortune wolen abide;
Thei han her hertis in such noblesse
That they nyl love for no richesse,
Nor for that Fortune may hem sende
Thei wolen hem socoure and defende,
And chaunge for softe ne for sore;
For who is freend, loveth evermore.
Though men drawe swerd his freend to slo,
He may not hewe her love a-two.
But, in cas that I shall sey,
For pride and ire lese it he may,
And for reprove by nycete,
And discovering of privite,
With tonge woundyng, as feloun,
Thurgh venemous detraccioun.
Frend in this cas wole gon his way,
For nothyng greve hym more ne may;
And for nought ellis wole he fle,
If that he love in stabilite.
And certeyn, he is wel bigon,
Among a thousand that fyndith oon.
For ther may be no richesse
Ageyns frendshipp, of worthynesse;
For it ne may so high atteigne
As may the valour, soth to seyne,
Of hym that loveth trew and well.
Frendshipp is more than is catell.
For freend in court ay better is
Than peny in purs, certis;
And Fortune myshappyng
Whanne upon men she is fallyng,
Thurgh mysturnyng of hir chaunce,
And casteth hem out of balaunce,
She makith, thurgh hir adversite,
Men full clerly for to se
Hym that is freend in existence
From hym that is by apparence.
For Ynfortune makith anoon
To knowe thy freendis fro thy foon,
By experience, right as it is,
The which is more to preise, ywis,
Than is myche richesse and tresour.
For more doth profit and valour
Poverte and such adversite
Bifore, than doth prosperite;
For the toon yeveth conysaunce,
And the tother ignoraunce.
"And thus in poverte is in dede
Trouthe declared fro falsheede;
For feynte frendis it wole declare,
And trewe also, what wey they fare.
For whanne he was in his richesse,
These freendis, ful of doublenesse,
Offrid hym in many wise
Hert, and body, and servise.
What wolde he thanne ha yove to ha bought
To knowen openly her thought,
That he now hath so clerly seen?
The lasse bigiled he shulde have ben,
And he hadde thanne perceyved it;
But richesse nold not late hym wit.
Wel more avauntage doth hym than,
Sith that it makith hym a wise man,
The gret myscheef that he receyveth,
Than doth richesse that hym deceyveth.
Richesse riche ne makith nought
Hym that on tresour set his thought;
For richesse stont in suffisaunce
And nothyng in habundaunce;
For suffisaunce all oonly
Makith men to lyve richely.
For he that at mycches tweyne
Ne valued [is] in his demeigne,
Lyveth more at ese, and more is riche,
Than doth he that is chiche,
And in his berne hath, soth to seyn,
An hundred mowis of whete greyn,
Though he be chapman or marchaunt,
And have of gold many besaunt.
For in the getyng he hath such woo,
And in the kepyng drede also,
And set evermore his bisynesse
For to encrese, and not to lesse,
For to aument and multiply.
And though on hepis it lye hym by,
Yit never shal make his richesse
Asseth unto his gredynesse.
But the povre that recchith nought,
Save of his lyflode, in his thought,
Which that he getith with his travaile,
He dredith nought that it shall faile,
Though he have lytel worldis good,
Mete, and drynke, and esy food,
Upon his travel and lyvyng,
And also suffisaunt clothyng.
Or if in syknesse that he falle,
And lothe mete and drynke withalle,
Though he have noght his mete to by,
He shal bithynke hym hastily,
To putte hym oute of all daunger,
That he of mete hath no myster;
Or that he may with lytel ek
Be founden, while that he is sek;
Or that men shull hym beren in hast,
To lyve til his syknesse be past,
To som maysondew biside;
He cast nought what shal hym bitide.
He thenkith nought that evere he shall
Into ony syknesse fall.
"And though it falle, as it may be,
That all betyme spare shall he
As mochel as shal to hym suffice,
While he is sik in ony wise,
He doth [it] for that he wole be
Content with his poverte
Withoute nede of ony man.
So myche in litel have he can,
He is apaied with his fortune;
And for he nyl be importune
Unto no wight, ne onerous,
Nor of her goodes coveitous,
Therfore he spareth, it may wel ben,
His pore estat for to susten.
"Or if hym lust not for to spate,
But suffrith forth, as noght ne ware,
Atte last it hapneth, as it may,
Right unto his laste day,
And taketh the world as it wolde be;
For evere in herte thenkith he,
The sonner that deth hym slo,
To paradys the sonner go
He shal, there for to lyve in blisse,
Where that he shal noo good misse.
Thider he hopith God shal hym sende
Aftir his wrecchid lyves ende.
Pictigoras hymsilf reherses
In a book that 'The Golden Verses'
Is clepid, for the nobilite
Of the honourable ditee: —
'Thanne, whanne thou gost thy body fro,
Fre in the eir thou shalt up go,
And leven al humanite,
And purely lyve in deite.'
He is a fool, withouten were,
That trowith have his countre heere.
'In erthe is not oure countre,'
That may these clerkis seyn and see
In Boece of Consolacioun,
Where it is maked mencioun
Of oure contre pleyn at the ye,
By teching of Philosophie,
Where lewid men myght lere wit,
Whoso that wolde translaten it.
If he be sich that can wel lyve
Aftir his rente may hym yive,
And not desireth more to have
Than may fro poverte hym save,
A wise man seide, as we may seen,
Is no man wrecched, but he it wen,
Be he kyng, knyght, or ribaud.
And many a ribaud is mery and baud,
That swynkith, and berith, bothe day and nyght,
Many a burthen of gret myght,
The whiche doth hym lasse offense
For he suffrith in pacience.
They laugh and daunce, trippe and synge,
And ley not up for her lyvynge,
But in the taverne all dispendith
The wynnyng that God hem sendith.
Thanne goth he, fardeles for to ber
With as good chere as he dide er.
To swynke and traveile he not feynith,
For for to robben he disdeynith;
But right anoon aftir his swynk
He goth to taverne for to drynk.
All these ar riche in abundaunce
That can thus have suffisaunce
Wel more than can an usurere,
As God wel knowith, withoute were.
For an usurer, so God me se,
Shal nevere for richesse riche be,
But evermore pore and indigent,
Scarce and gredy in his entent.
"For soth it is, whom it displese,
Ther may no marchaunt lyve at ese;
His herte in sich a were is sett
That it quyk brenneth [more] to get
Ne never shal ynogh have geten,
Though he have gold in gerners yeten,
For to be nedy he dredith sore.
Wherlore to geten more and more
He set his herte and his desir;
So hote he brennyth in the fir
Of coveitise, that makith hym wood
To purchace other mennes good.
He undirfongith a gret peyne,
That undirtakith to drynke up Seyne;
For the more he drynkith, ay
The more he leveth, the soth to say.
Thus is thurst of fals getyng,
That last ever in coveityng,
And the angwisshe and distresse
With the fir of gredynesse.
She fightith with hym ay, and stryveth,
That his herte asondre ryveth;
Such gredynesse hym assaylith
That whanne he most hath, most he failith.
Phisiciens and advocates
Gon right by the same yates;
They selle her science for wynnyng,
And haunte her craft for gret getyng.
Her wynnyng is of such swetnesse
That if a man falle in siknesse,
They are full glad for her encres;
For by her wille, withoute lees,
Everich man shulde be sek,
And though they die, they sette not a lek.
After, whanne they the gold have take,
Full litel care for hem they make.
They wolde that fourty were seke at onys,
Ye, two hundred, in flesh and bonys,
And yit two thousand, as I gesse,
For to encrecen her richesse.
They wole not worchen, in no wise,
But for lucre and coveitise.
For fysic gynneth first by fy,
The physicien also sothely;
And sithen it goth fro fy to sy:
To truste on hem is foly;
For they nyl, in no maner gre,
Do right nought for charite.
"Eke in the same secte ar sett
All tho that prechen for to get
Worshipes, honour, and richesse.
Her hertis arn in gret distresse
That folk lyve not holily.
But aboven all, specialy,
Sich as prechen [for] veynglorie,
And toward God have no memorie,
But forth as ypocrites trace,
And to her soules deth purchace,
And outward shewen holynesse,
Though they be full of cursidnesse.
Not liche to the apostles twelve,
They deceyve other and hemselve.
Bigiled is the giler than,
For prechyng of a cursed man,
Though [it] to other may profite,
Hymsilf it availeth not a myte;
For ofte good predicacioun
Cometh of evel entencioun.
To hym not vailith his preching,
All helpe he other with his teching;
For where they good ensaumple take,
There is he with veynglorie shake.
"But late us leven these prechoures,
And speke of hem that in her toures
Hepe up hir gold, and faste shette,
And sore theron her herte sette.
They neither love God ne drede;
They kepe more than it is nede,
And in her bagges sore it bynde,
Out of the sonne and of the wynde.
They putte up more than nede ware,
Whanne they seen pore folk forfare,
For hunger die, and for cold quake.
God can wel vengeaunce therof take!
Three gret myscheves hem assailith,
And thus in gadring ay travaylith:
With myche peyne they wynne richesse;
And drede hem holdith in distresse
To kepe that they gadre faste;
With sorwe they leve it at the laste.
With sorwe they bothe dye and lyve,
That unto richesse her hertis yive;
And in defaute of love it is,
As it shewith ful wel, iwys.
For if thise gredy, the sothe to seyn,
Loveden and were loved ageyn,
And good love regned overall,
Such wikkidnesse ne shulde fall;
But he shulde yeve that most good had
To hem that weren in nede bistad,
And lyve withoute false usure,
For charite full clene and pure.
If they hem yeve to goodnesse,
Defendyng hem from ydelnesse,
In all this world thanne pore noon
We shulde fynde, I trowe, not oon.
But chaunged is this world unstable,
For love is overall vendable.
We se that no man loveth now,
But for wynnyng and for prow;
And love is thralled in servage,
Whanne it is sold for avauntage.
Yit wommen wole her bodyes selle;
Suche soules goth to the devel of helle!"

Fragment C

Whanne Love hadde told hem his entente,
The baronage to councel wente.
In many sentences they fille,
And dyversely they seide hir wille;
But aftir discord they accorded,
And her accord to Love recorded.
"Sir," seiden they, "we ben at on,
Bi evene accord of everichon,
Out-take Richesse al oonly,
That sworen hath ful hauteynly,
That she the castel nyl not assaile,
Ne smyte a strok in this bataile,
With darte, ne mace, spere, ne knyf,
For man that spekith or berith the lyf,
And blameth youre emprise, iwys,
And from oure hoost departed is,
Atte leste wey, as in this plyt,
So hath she this man in dispit.
For she seith he ne loved hit never,
And therfore she wole hate hym evere.
For he wole gadre no tresor,
He hath hir wrath for evermor.
He agylte hir never in other caas,
Lo, heere all hoolly his trespas!
She seith wel that this other day
He axide hir leve to gon the way
That is clepid To-Moche-Yevyng,
And spak full faire in his praiyng;
But whanne he praiede hir, pore was he,
Therfore she warned hym the entre.
Ne yit is he not thryven so
That he hath geten a peny or two
That quytly is his owne in hold.
Thus hath Richesse us alle told,
And whanne Richesse us this recorded,
Withouten hir we ben accorded.
"And we fynde in oure accordaunce
That Fals-Semblant and Abstinaunce,
With all the folk of her bataille,
Shull at the hyndre gate assayle,
That Wikkid-Tunge hath in kepyng,
With his Normans full of janglyng.
And with hem Curtesie and Largesse,
That shull shewe her hardynesse
To the olde wyf that kepte so harde
Fair-Welcomyng withynne her warde.
Thanne shal Delit and Wel-Heelynge
Fonde Shame adown to brynge;
With all her oost, erly and late,
They shull assailen that ilke gate.
Agaynes Drede shall Hardynesse
Assayle, and also Sikernesse,
With all the folk of her ledyng,
That never wist what was fleyng.
"Fraunchise shall fight, and eke Pite,
With Daunger, full of cruelte.
Thus is youre hoost ordeyned wel.
Doun shall the castell every del,
If everich do his entent,
So that Venus be present,
Youre modir, full of vasselage,
That can ynough of such usage.
Withouten hir may no wight spede
This werk, neithir for word ne deede;
Therfore is good ye for hir sende,
For thurgh hir may this werk amende."
"Lordynges, my modir, the goddesse,
That is my lady and my maistresse,
Nis not [at] all at my willyng,
Ne doth not all my desiryng.
Yit can she som tyme don labour,
Whanne that hir lust, in my socour,
Al my nedes for to acheve,
But now I thenke hir not to greve.
My modir is she, and of childhede
I bothe worshipe hir and eke drede;
For who that dredith sire ne dame,
Shal it abye in body or name.
And, natheles, yit kunne we
Sende aftir hir, if nede be;
And were she nygh, she comen wolde;
I trowe that nothyng myght hir holde.
"Mi modir is of gret prowesse;
She hath tan many a forteresse,
That cost hath many a pound, er this,
There I nas not present, ywis.
And yit men seide it was my dede;
But I com never in that stede,
Ne me ne likith, so mote I the,
That such toures ben take withoute me.
For-why me thenkith that, in no wise,
It may ben clepid but marchandise.
"Go bye a courser, blak or whit,
And pay therfore; than art thou quyt.
The marchaunt owith thee right nought,
Ne thou hym, whanne thou it bought.
I wole not sellyng clepe yevyng,
For sellyng axeth no guerdonyng:
Here lith no thank ne no merit;
That on goth from that other al quyt.
But this sellyng is not semblable;
For whanne his hors is in the stable,
He may it selle ageyn, parde,
And wynnen on it, such hap may be;
All may the man not leese, iwys,
For at the leest the skyn is his.
Or ellis, if it so bitide
That he wole kepe his hors to ride,
Yit is he lord ay of his hors.
But thilke chaffare is wel wors,
There Venus entremetith ought.
For whoso such chaffare hath bought,
He shal not worchen so wisely
That he ne shal leese al outerly
Bothe his money and his chaffare;
But the seller of the ware
The prys and profit have shall.
Certeyn, the bier shal leese all.
For he ne can so dere it bye
To have lordship and full maistrie,
Ne have power to make lettyng,
Neithir for yift ne for prechyng,
That of his chaffare, maugre his,
Another shal have as moche, iwis,
If he wol yeve as myche as he,
Of what contrey so that he be —
Or for right nought, so happe may,
If he can flater hir to hir pay.
Ben thanne siche marchauntz wise?
No, but fooles in every wise,
Whanne they bye sich thyng wilfully,
There as they leese her good fully.
But natheles, this dar I saye,
My modir is not wont to paye,
For she is neither so fool ne nyce
To entremete hir of sich vice.
But truste wel, he shal pay all,
That repent of his bargeyn shall,
Whanne poverte putte hym in distresse,
All were he scoler to Richesse,
That is for me in gret yernyng,
Whanne she assentith to my willyng.
"But [by] my modir, seint Venus,
And by hir fader Saturnus,
That hir engendride by his lyf —
But not upon his weddid wyf —
Yit wole I more unto you swer,
To make this thyng the seurere —
Now by that feith and that leaute
That I owe to all my britheren fre,
Of which ther nys wight undir heven
That kan her fadris names neven,
So dyverse and so many ther be
That with my modir have be prive!
Yit wolde I swere, for sikirnesse,
The pol of helle to my witnesse —
Now drynke I not this yeer clarre,
If that I lye or forsworn be!
(For of the goddes the usage is
That whoso hym forswereth amys
Shal that yeer drynke no clarre.)
Now have I sworn ynough, pardee,
If I forswere me, thanne am I lorn,
But I wole never be forsworn.
Syth Richesse hath me failed heere,
She shal abye that trespas ful dere,
Atte leeste wey, but [she] hir arme
With swerd, or sparth, or gysarme.
For certis, sith she loveth not me,
Fro thilke tyme that she may se
The castell and the tour toshake,
In sory tyme she shal awake.
If I may grype a riche man,
I shal so pulle hym, if I can,
That he shal in a fewe stoundes
Lese all his markis and his poundis.
I shal hym make his pens outslynge,
But they in his gerner sprynge.
Oure maydens shal eke pluk hym so
That hym shal neden fetheres mo,
And make hym selle his lond to spende,
But he the bet kunne hym defende.
"Pore men han maad her lord of me;
Although they not so myghty be
That they may fede me in delit,
I wol not have hem in despit.
No good man hateth hem, as I gesse,
For chynche and feloun is Richesse,
That so can chase hem and dispise,
And hem defoule in sondry wise.
They loven full bet, so God me spede,
Than doth the riche, chynchy gnede,
And ben, in good feith, more stable
And trewer and more serviable;
And therfore it suffisith me
Her goode herte and her leaute.
They han on me set all her thought,
And therfore I forgete hem nought.
I wol hem bringe in gret noblesse,
If that I were god of richesse,
As I am god of love sothly,
Sich routhe upon her pleynt have I.
Therfore I must his socour be,
That peyneth hym to serven me,
For if he deide for love of this,
Thanne semeth in me no love ther is."
"Sir," seide they, "soth is every deel
That ye reherce, and we wote wel
Thilk oth to holde is resonable;
For it is good and covenable
That ye on riche men han sworn.
For, sir, this wote we wel biforn:
If riche men don you homage,
That is as fooles don outrage;
But ye shull not forsworn be,
Ne lette therfore to drynke clarre,
Or pyment makid fresh and newe.
Ladies shull hem such pepir brewe,
If that they fall into her laas,
That they for woo mowe seyn 'allas!'
Ladyes shullen evere so curteis be
That they shal quyte youre oth all free.
Ne sekith never othir vicaire,
For they shal speke with hem so faire
That ye shal holde you paied full wel,
Though ye you medle never a del.
Late ladies worche with her thyngis,
They shal hem telle so fele tidynges,
And moeve hem eke so many requestis
Bi flateri, that not honest is,
And therto yeve hem such thankynges,
What with kissyng and with talkynges,
That, certis, if they trowed be,
Shal never leve hem lond ne fee
That it nyl as the moeble fare,
Of which they first delyverid are.
Now may ye telle us all youre wille,
And we youre heestes shal fulfille.
"But Fals-Semblant dar not, for drede
Of you, sir, medle hym of this dede,
For he seith that ye ben his foo;
He not if ye wole worche hym woo.
Wherfore we pray you alle, beau sire,
That ye forgyve hym now your ire,
And that he may dwelle, as your man,
With Abstinence, his dere lemman;
This oure accord and oure wille now."
"Parfay," seide Love, "I graunte it yow.
I wole wel holde hym for my man;
Now late hym come" — and he forth ran.
"Fals-Semblant," quod Love, "in this wise
I take thee heere to my servise,
That thou oure freendis helpe alway,
And hyndre hem neithir nyght ne day,
But do thy myght hem to releve,
And eke oure enemyes that thou greve.
Thyn be this myght, I graunte it thee,
My kyng of harlotes shalt thou be;
We wole that thou have such honour.
Certeyn, thou art a fals traitour,
And eke a theef; sith thou were born,
A thousand tyme thou art forsworn.
But natheles, in oure heryng,
To putte oure folk out of doutyng,
I bidde thee teche hem, wostow how,
Bi som general signe now,
In what place thou shalt founden be,
If that men had myster of thee;
And how men shal thee best espye,
For thee to knowe is gret maistrie.
Telle in what place is thyn hauntyng."
"Sir, I have fele dyvers wonyng,
That I kepe not rehersed be,
So that ye wolde respiten me.
For if that I telle you the sothe,
I may have harm and shame bothe.
If that my felowes wisten it,
My talis shulden me be quytt;
For certeyn, they wolde hate me,
If ever I knewe her cruelte.
For they wolde overall holde hem stille
Of trouthe that is ageyne her wille;
Suche tales kepen they not here.
I myght eftsoone bye it full deere,
If I seide of hem ony thing
That ought displesith to her heryng.
For what word that hem prikke or biteth,
In that word noon of hem deliteth,
Al were it gospel, the evangile,
That wolde reprove hem of her gile,
For they are cruel and hauteyn.
And this thyng wot I well, certeyn,
If I speke ought to peire her loos,
Your court shal not so well be cloos
That they ne shall wite it atte last.
Of good men am I nought agast,
For they wole taken on hem nothyng,
Whanne that they knowe al my menyng;
But he that wole it on hym take,
He wole hymsilf suspecious make,
That he his lyf let covertly
In Gile and in Ipocrisy
That me engendred and yaf fostryng."
"They made a full good engendryng,"
Quod Love, "for whoso sothly telle,
They engendred the devel of helle!
But nedely, howsoevere it be,"
Quod Love, "I wole and charge thee
To telle anoon thy wonyng places,
Heryng ech wight that in this place is;
And what lyf that thou lyvest also.
Hide it no lenger now; wherto?
Thou most discovere all thi wurchyng,
How thou servest, and of what thyng,
Though that thou shuldist for thi soth-sawe
Ben al tobeten and todrawe —
And yit art thou not wont, pardee.
But natheles, though thou beten be,
Thou shalt not be the first that so
Hath for sothsawe suffred woo."
"Sir, sith that it may liken you,
Though that I shulde be slayn right now,
I shal don youre comaundement,
For therto have I gret talent."
Withouten wordis mo, right than,
Fals-Semblant his sermon bigan,
And seide hem thus in audience:
"Barouns, take heede of my sentence!
That wight that list to have knowing
Of Fals-Semblant, full of flatering,
He must in worldly folk hym seke,
And, certes, in the cloistres eke.
I wone nowhere but in hem tweye,
But not lyk even, soth to seye.
Shortly, I wole herberwe me
There I hope best to hulstred be,
And certeynly, sikerest hidyng
Is undirnethe humblest clothing.
Religiouse folk ben full covert;
Seculer folk ben more appert.
But natheles, I wole not blame
Religious folk, ne hem diffame,
In what habit that ever they go.
Religioun umble and trewe also,
Wole I not blame ne dispise;
But I nyl love it, in no wise.
I mene of fals religious,
That stoute ben and malicious,
That wolen in an abit goo,
And setten not her herte therto.
"Religious folk ben al pitous;
Thou shalt not seen oon dispitous.
They loven no pride ne no strif,
But humbly they wole lede her lyf.
With swich folk wole I never be,
And if I dwelle, I feyne me.
I may wel in her abit go;
But me were lever my nekke a-two,
Than lete a purpos that I take,
What covenaunt that ever I make.
I dwelle with hem that proude be,
And full of wiles and subtilte,
That worship of this world coveiten,
And grete nedes kunnen espleiten,
And gon and gadren gret pitaunces,
And purchace hem the acqueyntaunces
Of men that myghty lyf may leden;
And feyne hem pore, and hemsilf feden
With gode morcels delicious,
And drinken good wyn precious,
And preche us povert and distresse,
And fisshen hemsilf gret richesse
With wily nettis that they caste.
It wole come foule out at the laste.
They ben fro clene religioun went;
They make the world an argument
That [hath] a foul conclusioun.
'I have a robe of religioun,
Thanne am I all religious.'
This argument is all roignous;
It is not worth a croked brere.
Abit ne makith neithir monk ne frere,
But clene lyf and devocioun
Makith gode men of religioun.
Natheles, ther kan noon answere,
How high that evere his heed he shere,
With resoun whetted never so kene,
That Gile in braunches kut thrittene;
Ther can no wight distincte it so,
That he dar sey a word therto.
"But what herberwe that ever I take,
Or what semblant that evere I make,
I mene but gile, and folowe that;
For right no mo than Gibbe oure cat,

Ne entende I but to bigilyng.
Ne no wight may by my clothing
Wite with what folk is my dwellyng,
Ne by my wordis yit, parde,
So softe and so plesaunt they be.
Bihold the dedis that I do;
But thou be blynd, thou oughtest so;
For, varie her wordis fro her deede,
They thenke on gile, withoute dreede,
What maner clothing that they were,
Or what estat that evere they bere,
Lered or lewde, lord or lady,
Knyght, squyer, burgeis, or bayly."
Right thus while Fals-Semblant sermoneth,
Eftsones Love hym aresoneth,
And brak his tale in his spekyng,
As though he had hym told lesyng,
And seide, "What, devel, is that I here?
What folk hast thou us nempned heere?
May men fynde religioun
In worldly habitacioun?"
"Ye, sir; it folowith not that they
Shulde lede a wikked lyf, parfey,
Ne not therfore her soules leese
That hem to worldly clothes chese;
For, certis, it were gret pitee.
Men may in seculer clothes see
Florishen hooly religioun.
Full many a seynt in feeld and toun,
With many a virgine glorious,
Devout, and full religious,
Han deied, that comun cloth ay beeren,
Yit seyntes nevere the lesse they weren.
I cowde reken you many a ten;
Ye, wel nygh [al] these hooly wymmen
That men in chirchis herie and seke,
Bothe maydens and these wyves eke
That baren full many a fair child heere,
Wered alwey clothis seculere,
And in the same dieden they
That seyntes weren, and ben alwey.
The eleven thousand maydens deere
That beren in heven hir ciergis clere,
Of whiche men rede in chirche and synge,
Were take in seculer clothinge
Whanne they resseyved martirdom,
And wonnen hevene unto her hom.
Good herte makith the goode thought;
The clothing yeveth ne reveth nought.
The goode thought and the worching,
That makith the religioun flowryng,
Ther lyth the good religioun,
Aftir the right entencioun.
"Whoso took a wethers skyn,
And wrapped a gredy wolf theryn,
For he shulde go with lambis whyte,
Wenest thou not he wolde hem bite?
Yis, neverthelasse, as he were wood,
He wolde hem wery and drinke the blood,
And wel the rather hem disceyve;
For, sith they cowde not perceyve
His treget and his cruelte,
They wolde hym folowe, al wolde he fle.
"If ther be wolves of sich hewe
Amonges these apostlis newe,
Thou hooly chirche, thou maist be wailed!
Sith that thy citee is assayled
Thourgh knyghtis of thyn owne table,
God wot thi lordship is doutable!
If thei enforce [hem] it to wynne
That shulde defende it fro withynne,
Who myght defense ayens hem make?
Withoute strok it mot be take
Of trepeget or mangonel,
Without displaiyng of pensel.
And if God nyl don it socour,
But lat [hem] renne in this colour,
Thou most thyn heestis laten be.
Thanne is ther nought but yelde thee,
Or yeve hem tribut, doutelees,
And holde it of hem to have pees,
But gretter harm bitide thee,
That they al maister of it be.
Wel konne they scorne thee withal;
By day stuffen they the wall,
And al the nyght they mynen there.
Nay, thou planten most elleswhere
Thyn ympes, if thou wolt fruyt have;
Abid not there thisilf to save.
"But now pees! Heere I turne ageyn.
I wole nomore of this thing seyn,
If I may passen me herby;
I myghte maken you wery.
But I wole heten you alway
To helpe youre freendis what I may,
So they wollen my company;
For they be shent al outerly,
But if so falle that I be
Ofte with hem, and they with me.
And eke my lemman mote they serve,
Or they shull not my love deserve.
Forsothe, I am a fals traitour;
God jugged me for a theef trichour.
Forsworn I am, but wel nygh non
Wot of my gile, til it be don.
"Thourgh me hath many oon deth resseyved,
That my treget nevere aperceyved;
And yit resseyveth, and shal resseyve,
That my falsnesse shal nevere aperceyve.
But whoso doth, if he wis be,
Hym is right good be war of me,
But so sligh is the deceyvyng

For Protheus, that cowde hym chaunge
In every shap, homly and straunge,
Cowde nevere sich gile ne tresoun
As I; for I com never in toun
There as I myghte knowen be,
Though men me bothe myght here and see.
Full wel I can my clothis chaunge,
Take oon, and make another straunge.
Now am I knyght, now chasteleyn,
Now prelat, and now chapeleyn,
Now prest, now clerk, and now forster;
Now am I maister, now scoler,
Now monk, now chanoun, now baily;
Whatever myster man am I.
Now am I prince, now am I page,
And kan by herte every langage.
Som tyme am I hor and old;
Now am I yong, stout, and bold;
Now am I Robert, now Robyn,
Now Frere Menour, now Jacobyn;
And with me folwith my loteby,
To don me solas and company,
That hight Dame Abstinence-Streyned,
In many a queynte array feyned.
Ryght as it cometh to hir lykyng,
I fulfille al hir desiryng.
Somtyme a wommans cloth take I;
Now am I a mayde, now lady.
Somtyme I am religious;
Now lyk an anker in an hous.
Somtyme am I prioresse,
And now a nonne, and now abbesse;
And go thurgh alle regiouns,
Sekyng alle religiouns.
But to what ordre that I am sworn,
I take the strawe, and lete the corn.
To gyle folk I enhabit;
I axe nomore but her abit.
What wole ye more in every wise?
Right as me lyst, I me disgise.
Wel can I wre me undir wede;
Unlyk is my word to my dede.
[I] make into my trappis falle,
Thurgh my pryveleges, alle
That ben in Cristendom alyve.
I may assoile and I may shryve,
That no prelat may lette me,
All folk, where evere thei founde be.
I not no prelat may don so,
But it the pope be, and no mo,
That made thilk establisshing.
Now is not this a propre thing?
But, were my sleightis aperceyved

As I was wont, and wostow why?
For I dide hem a tregetry.
But therof yeve I lytel tale;
I have the silver and the male.
So have I prechid, and eke shriven,
So have I take, so have me yiven,
Thurgh her foly, husbonde and wyf,
That I lede right a joly lyf,
Thurgh symplesse of the prelacye —
They knowe not al my tregettrie.
"But forasmoche as man and wyf
Shulde shewe her paroch-prest her lyf,
Onys a yeer, as seith the book,
Er ony wight his housel took,
Thanne have I pryvylegis large,
That may of myche thing discharge.
For he may seie right thus, parde:
'Sir preest, in shrift I telle it thee,
That he to whom that I am shryven
Hath me assoiled, and me yiven
Penaunce, sothly, for my synne,
Which that I fond me gilty ynne;
Ne I ne have nevere entencioun
To make double confessioun,
Ne reherce eft my shrift to thee.
O shrift is right ynough to me.
This oughte thee suffice wel;
Ne be not rebel never a del.
For certis, though thou haddist it sworn,
I wot no prest ne prelat born,
That may to shrift eft me constreyne;
And if they don, I wole me pleyne,
For I wot where to pleyne wel.
Thou shalt not streyne me a del,
Ne enforce me, ne not me trouble,
To make my confessioun double.
Ne I have non affeccioun
To have double absolucioun.
The firste is right ynough to me;
This latter assoilyng quyte I thee.
I am unbounde — what maist thou fynde
More of my synnes me to unbynde?
For he, that myght hath in his hond,
Of all my synnes me unbond.
And if thou wolt me thus constreyne
That me mot nedis on thee pleyne,
There shall no jugge imperial,
Ne bisshop, ne official,
Don jugement on me; for I
Shal gon and pleyne me openly
Unto my shrifte-fadir newe
(That hight not Frere Wolf untrewe!),
And he shal cheveys hym for me,
For I trowe he can hampre thee.
But, Lord, he wolde be wrooth withalle,
If men hym wolde Frere Wolf calle!
For he wolde have no pacience,
But don al cruel vengeaunce.
He wolde his myght don at the leeste,
Nothing spare for Goddis heeste.
And, God so wys be my socour,
But thou yeve me my Savyour
At Ester, whanne it likith me,
Withoute presyng more on thee,
I wole forth, and to hym gon,
And he shal housel me anoon.
For I am out of thi grucching;
I kepe not dele with thee nothing.'
"Thus may he shryve hym, that forsaketh
His paroch-prest, and to me taketh.
And if the prest wole hym refuse,
I am full redy hym to accuse,
And hym punysshe and hampre so
That he his chirche shal forgo.
"But whoso hath in his felyng
The consequence of such shryvyng,
Shal sen that prest may never have myght
To knowe the conscience aright
Of hym that is undir his cure.
And this ageyns holy scripture,
That biddith every heerde honest
Have verry knowing of his beest.
But pore folk that gone by strete,
That have no gold, ne sommes grete,
Hem wolde I lete to her prelates,
Or lete her prestis knowe her states,
For to me right nought yeve they.
And why? It is for they ne may.
They ben so bare, I take no kep,
But I wole have the fatte sheep;
Lat parish prestis have the lene.
I yeve not of her harm a bene!
And if that prelates grucchen it,
That oughten wroth be in her wit
To leese her fatte beestes so,
I shal yeve hem a strok or two,
That they shal leesen with force,
Ye, bothe her mytre and her croce.
Thus jape I hem, and have do longe,
My pryveleges ben so stronge."
Fals-Semblant wolde have stynted heere,
But Love ne made hym no such cheere
That he was wery of his sawe;
But for to make hym glad and fawe,
He seide, "Telle on more specialy
Hou that thou servest untrewly.
Telle forth, and shame thee never a del;
For, as thyn abit shewith wel,
Thou semest an hooly heremyte."
"Soth is, but I am an ypocrite."
"Thou gost and prechest poverte."
"Ye, sir, but richesse hath pouste."
"Thou prechest abstinence also."
"Sir, I wole fillen, so mote I go,
My paunche of good mete and wyn,
As shulde a maister of dyvyn;
For how that I me pover feyne,
Yit alle pore folk I disdeyne.
"I love bettir th"acqueyntaunce,
Ten tyme, of the kyng of Fraunce
Than of a pore man of mylde mod,
Though that his soule be also god.
For whanne I see beggers quakyng,
Naked on myxnes al stynkyng,
For hungre crie, and eke for care,
I entremete not of her fare.
They ben so pore and ful of pyne,
They myght not oonys yeve me dyne,
For they have nothing but her lyf.
What shulde he yeve that likketh his knyf?
It is but foly to entremete,
To seke in houndes nest fat mete.
Lete bere hem to the spitel anoon,
But, for me, comfort gete they noon.
But a riche sik usurer
Wolde I visite and drawe ner;
Hym wole I comforte and rehete,
For I hope of his gold to gete.
And if that wikkid deth hym have,
I wole go with hym to his grave.
And if ther ony reprove me,
Why that I lete the pore be,
Wostow how I mot ascape?
I sey, and swere hym ful rape,
That riche men han more tecches
Of synne than han pore wrecches,
And han of counsel more mister,
And therfore I wole drawe hem ner.
But as gret hurt, it may so be,
Hath a soule in right gret poverte
As soule in gret richesse, forsothe,
Al be it that they hurten bothe.
For richesse and mendicitees
Ben clepid two extremytees;
The mene is cleped suffisaunce;
Ther lyth of vertu the aboundaunce.
For Salamon, full wel I wot,
In his Parablis us wrot,
As it is knowe to many a wight,
In his thrittene chapitre right,
'God thou me kepe, for thi pouste,
Fro richesse and mendicite;
For if a riche man hym dresse
To thenke to myche on richesse,
His herte on that so fer is set
That he his creatour foryet;
And hym that begging wole ay greve,
How shulde I bi his word hym leve?
Unnethe that he nys a mycher
Forsworn, or ellis God is lyer.'
Thus seith Salamones sawes.
Ne we fynde writen in no lawis,
And namely in oure Cristen lay,
(Whoso seith 'ye,' I dar sey 'nay')
That Crist, ne his apostlis dere,
While that they walkide in erthe heere,
Were never seen her bred beggyng,
For they nolden beggen for nothing.
And right thus was men wont to teche,
And in this wise wolde it preche
The maistres of divinite
Somtyme in Parys the citee.
"And if men wolde ther-geyn appose
The nakid text, and lete the glose,
It myghte soone assoiled be;
For men may wel the sothe see,
That, parde, they myght aske a thing
Pleynly forth, without begging.
For they weren Goddis herdis deere,
And cure of soules hadden heere,
They nolde nothing begge her fode;
For aftir Crist was don on rode,
With ther propre hondis they wrought,
And with travel, and ellis nought,
They wonnen all her sustenaunce,
And lyveden forth in her penaunce,
And the remenaunt yave awey
To other pore folkis alwey.
They neither bilden tour ne halle,
But ley in houses smale withalle.
A myghty man, that can and may,
Shulde with his hond and body alway
Wynne hym his fode in laboring,
If he ne have rent or sich a thing,
Although he be religious,
And God to serven curious.
Thus mot he don, or do trespas,
But if it be in certeyn cas,
That I can reherce, if myster be,
Right wel, whanne the tyme I se.
"Sek the book of Seynt Austyn,
Be it in papir or perchemyn,
There as he writ of these worchynges,
Thou shalt seen that noon excusynges
A parfit man ne shulde seke
Bi wordis ne bi dedis eke,
Although he be religious,
And God to serven curious,
That he ne shal, so mote I go.
With propre hondis and body also,
Gete his fode in laboryng,
If he ne have proprete of thing.
Yit shulde he selle all his substaunce,
And with his swynk have sustenaunce,
If he be parfit in bounte.
Thus han tho bookes told me.
For he that wole gon ydilly,
And usith it ay besily
To haunten other mennes table,
He is a trechour, ful of fable;
Ne he ne may, by god resoun,
Excuse hym by his orisoun.
For men bihoveth, in som gise,
Somtyme leven Goddis servise
To gon and purchasen her nede.
Men mote eten, that is no drede,
And slepe, and eke do other thing;
So longe may they leve praiyng.
So may they eke her praier blynne,
While that they werke, her mete to wynne.
Seynt Austyn wole therto accorde,
In thilke book that I recorde.
Justinian eke, that made lawes,
Hath thus forboden, by olde dawes:
'No man, up peyne to be ded,
Mighty of body, to begge his bred,
If he may swynke it for to gete;
Men shulde hym rather mayme or bete,
Or don of hym apert justice,
Than suffren hym in such malice.'
They don not wel, so mote I go,
That taken such almesse so,
But if they have som pryvelege,
That of the peyne hem wole allege.
But how that is, can I not see,
But if the prince disseyved be;
Ne I ne wene not, sikerly,
That they may have it rightfully.
But I wole not determine
Of prynces power, ne defyne,
Ne by my word comprende, iwys,
If it so fer may strecche in this.
I wole not entremete a del;
But I trowe that the book seith wel,
Who that takith almessis that be
Dewe to folk that men may se
Lame, feble, wery, and bare,
Pore, or in such maner care —
That konne wynne hem never mo,
For they have no power therto —
He etith his owne dampnyng,
But if he lye, that made al thing.
And if ye such a truaunt fynde,
Chastise hym wel, if ye be kynde.
But they wolde hate you, percas,
And, if ye fillen in her laas,
They wolde eftsoonys do you scathe,
If that they myghte, late or rathe;
For they be not full pacient
That han the world thus foule blent.
And witeth wel that [ther] God bad
The good-man selle al that he had,
And folowe hym, and to pore it yive,
He wolde not therfore that he lyve
To serven hym in mendience,
For it was nevere his sentence;
But he bad wirken whanne that neede is,
And folwe hym in goode dedis.
Seynt Poul, that loved al hooly chirche,
He bad th"appostles for to wirche,
And wynnen her lyflode in that wise,
And hem defended truandise,
And seide, 'Wirketh with youre honden.'
Thus shulde the thing be undirstonden:
He nolde, iwys, have bidde hem begging,
Ne sellen gospel, ne prechyng,
Lest they berafte, with her askyng,
Folk of her catel or of her thing.
For in this world is many a man
That yeveth his good, for he ne can
Werne it for shame; or ellis he
Wolde of the asker delyvered be,
And, for he hym encombrith so,
He yeveth hym good to late hym go.
But it can hym nothyng profite;
They lese the yift and the meryte.
The goode folk, that Poul to preched,
Profred hym ofte, whan he hem teched,
Som of her good in charite.
But therof right nothing tok he;
But of his hondwerk wolde he gete
Clothes to wryen hym, and his mete."
"Telle me thanne how a man may lyven,
That al his good to pore hath yiven,
And wole but oonly bidde his bedis

May he do so?"
"Ye, sir."
"And how?"
"Sir, I wole gladly telle yow:
Seynt Austyn seith a man may be
In houses that han proprete,
As Templers and Hospitelers,
And as these Chanouns Regulers,
Or White Monkes, or these Blake —
I wole no mo ensamplis make —
And take therof his sustenyng,
For therynne lyth no begging;
But other weyes not, ywys,
Yif Austyn gabbith not of this.
And yit full many a monk laboureth,
That God in hooly chirche honoureth;
For whanne her swynkyng is agon,
They rede and synge in chirche anon.
"And for ther hath ben gret discord,
As many a wight may bere record,
Upon the estat of mendience,
I wole shortly, in youre presence,
Telle how a man may begge at nede,
That hath not wherwith hym to fede,
Maugre his felones jangelyngis,
For sothfastnesse wole none hidyngis.
And yit, percas, I may abeye
That I to yow sothly thus seye.
"Lo, heere the caas especial:
If a man be so bestial
That he of no craft hath science,
And nought desireth ignorence,
Thanne may he go a-begging yerne,
Til he som maner craft kan lerne,
Thurgh which withoute truaundyng,
He may in trouthe have his lyvyng.
Or if he may don no labour,
For elde, or syknesse, or langour,
Or for his tendre age also,
Thanne may he yit a-begging go.
Or if he have, peraventure,
Thurgh usage of his noriture,
Lyved over deliciously,
Thanne oughten good folk comunly
Han of his myscheef som pitee,
And suffren hym also that he
May gon aboute and begge his breed,
That he be not for hungur deed.
Or if he have of craft kunnyng,
And strengthe also, and desiryng
To wirken, as he hadde what,
But he fynde neithir this ne that,
Thanne may he begge til that he
Have geten his necessite.
Or if his wynnyng be so lite
That his labour wole not acquyte
Sufficiantly al his lyvyng,
Yit may he go his breed begging;
Fro dore to dore he may go trace,
Til he the remenaunt may purchace.
Or if a man wolde undirtake
Ony emprise for to make
In the rescous of oure lay,
And it defenden as he may,
Be it with armes or lettrure,
Or other covenable cure,
If it be so he pore be,
Thanne may he begge til that he
May fynde in trouthe for to swynke,
And gete hym clothes, mete, and drynke,
Swynke he with his hondis corporell,
And not with hondis espirituell.
"In al thise caas, and in semblables,
If that ther ben mo resonables,
He may begge, as I telle you heere,
And ellis nought, in no manere,
As William Seynt Amour wolde preche,
And ofte wolde dispute and teche
Of this mater all openly
At Parys full solempnely.
And, also God my soule blesse,
As he had, in this stedfastnesse,
The accord of the universite
And of the puple, as semeth me.
" no good man oughte it to refuse,
Ne ought hym therof to excuse,
Be wroth or blithe whoso be.
For I wole speke, and telle it thee,
Al shulde I dye, and be putt doun,
As was Seynt Poul, in derk prisoun;
Or be exiled in this caas
With wrong, as maister William was,
That my moder, Ypocrysie,
Banysshed for hir gret envye.
"Mi modir flemed hym Seynt Amour;
The noble dide such labour
To susteyne evere the loyalte,
That he to moche agilte me.
He made a book, and lete it write,

And wolde ich reneyed begging,
And lyved by my traveylyng,
If I ne had rent ne other good.
What? Wened he that I were wood?
For labour myght me never plese.
I have more wille to ben at ese,
And have wel lever, soth to seye,
Bifore the puple patre and preye,
And wrie me in my foxerie
Under a cope of papelardie."
Quod Love, "What devel is this that I heere?
What wordis tellest thou me heere?"
"What, sir?"
"Falsnesse, that apert is;
Thanne dredist thou not God?"
" no, certis;
For selde in gret thing shal he spede
In this world, that God wole drede.
For folk that hem to vertu yiven,
And truly on her owne lyven,
And hem in goodnesse ay contene,
On hem is lytel thrift sene.
Such folk drinken gret mysese;
That lyf may me never plese.
But se what gold han usurers,
And silver eke in garners,
Taylagiers, and these monyours,
Bailifs, bedels, provost, countours;
These lyven wel nygh by ravyne.
The smale puple hem mote enclyne,
And they as wolves wole hem eten.
Upon the pore folk they geten
Full moche of that they spende or kepe.
Nis non of hem that he nyl strepe
And wrien hemsilf wel atte fulle;
Withoute scaldyng they hem pulle.
The stronge the feble overgoth.
But I, that were my symple cloth,
Robbe bothe robbed and robbours
And gile giled and gilours.
By my treget I gadre and threste
The gret tresour into my cheste,
That lyth with me so faste bounde.
Myn highe paleys do I founde,
And my delites I fulfille
With wyn at feestes at my wille,
And tables full of entremees.
I wole no lyf but ese and pees,
And wynne gold to spende also.
For whanne the grete bagge is go,
It cometh right with my japes.
Make I not wel tumble myn apes?
To wynnen is alwey myn entente;
My purchace is bettir than my rente.
For though I shulde beten be,
Overal I entremete me.
Without me may no wight dure;
I walke soules for to cure.
Of al the world cure have I"
In brede and lengthe boldely
I wole bothe preche and eke counceilen.
With hondis wille I not traveilen,
For of the Pope I have the bulle —
I ne holde not my wittes dulle.
I wole not stynten, in my lyve,
These emperoures for to shryve,
Or kyngis, dukis, lordis grete;
But pore folk al quyte I lete.
I love no such shryvyng, parde,
But it for other cause be.
I rekke not of pore men —
Her astat is not worth an hen.
Where fyndest thou a swynker of labour
Have me unto his confessour?
But emperesses and duchesses,
Thise queenes, and eke countesses,
Thise abbessis, and eke bygyns,
These grete ladyes palasyns,
These joly knyghtis and baillyves,
Thise nonnes, and thise burgeis wyves,
That riche ben and eke plesyng,
And thise maidens welfaryng,
Wherso they clad or naked he
Uncounceiled goth ther non fro me.
And, for her soules savete,
At lord and lady, and her meyne,
I axe, whanne thei hem to me shryve,
The proprete of al her lyve,
And make hem trowe, bothe meest and leest,
Hir paroch-prest nys but a beest
Ayens me and my companye,
That shrewis ben as gret as I;
Fro whiche I wole not hide in hold
No pryvete that me is told,
That I by word or signe, ywis,
[Ne] wole make hem knowe what it is,
And they wolen also tellen me;
They hele fro me no pryvyte.
And for to make yow hem perceyven,
That usen folk thus to disceyven,
I wole you seyn, withouten drede,
What men may in the gospel rede
Of Seynt Mathew, the gospelere,
That seith, as I shal you sey heere:
'"Uppon the chaire of Moyses' —
Thus is it glosed, douteles,
That is the Olde Testament,
For therby is the chaire ment —
'Sitte Scribes and Pharisen;'
That is to seyn, the cursid men
Whiche that we ypocritis calle.
'Doth that they preche, I rede you alle,
But doth not as they don a del;
That ben not wery to seye wel,
But to do wel no will have they.
And they wolde bynde on folk alwey,
That ben to be begiled able,
Burdons that ben importable;
On folkes shuldris thinges they couchen,
That they nyl with her fyngris touchen.'"
"And why wole they not touche it?" "Why?
For hem ne lyst not, sikirly;
For sadde burdons that men taken
Make folkes shuldris aken.
And if they do ought that good be,
That is for folk it shulde se.
Her bordurs larger maken they,
And make her hemmes wide alwey,
And loven setes at the table,
The firste and most honourable;
And for to han the first chaieris
In synagogis, to hem full deere is;
And willen that folk hem loute and grete,
Whanne that they passen thurgh the strete,
And wolen be cleped 'maister' also.
But they ne shulde not willen so;
The gospel is ther-ageyns, I gesse,
That shewith wel her wikkidnesse.
"Another custome use we:
Of hem that wole ayens us be,
We hate hem deedly everichon,
And we wole werrey hem, as oon.
Hym that oon hatith, hate we alle,
And congecte hou to don hym falle.
And if we seen hym wynne honour,
Richesse, or preis, thurgh his valour,
Provende, rent, or dignyte,
Ful fast, iwys, compassen we
Bi what ladder he is clomben so;
And for to maken hym doun to go,
With traisoun we wole hym defame,
And don hym leese his goode name.
Thus from his ladder we hym take,
And thus his freendis foes we make;
But word ne wite shal he noon,
Till alle his freendis ben his foon.
For if we dide it openly,
We myght have blame redily;
For hadde he wist of oure malice,
He hadde hym kept, but he were nyce.
"Another is this, that if so falle
That ther be oon amonge us alle
That doth a good turn, out of drede,
We seyn it is oure alder deede.
Ye, sikerly, though he it feyned,
Or that hym list, or that hym deyned
A man thurgh hym avaunced be;
Therof all parseners be we,
And tellen folk, whereso we go,
That man thurgh us is sprongen so.
And for to have of men preysyng,
We purchace, thurgh oure flateryng,
Of riche men of gret pouste
Lettres to witnesse oure bounte,
So that man weneth, that may us see,
That alle vertu in us be.
And alwey pore we us feyne;
But how so that we begge or pleyne,
We ben the folk, without lesyng,
That all thing have without havyng.
Thus be we dred of the puple, iwis.
And gladly my purpos is this:
I dele with no wight, but he
Have gold and tresour gret plente.
Her acqueyntaunce wel love I;
This is moche my desir, shortly.
I entremete me of brokages,
I make pees and mariages,
I am gladly executour,
And many tymes procuratour;
I am somtyme messager,
That fallith not to my myster;
And many tymes I make enquestes —
For me that office not honest is.
To dele with other mennes thing,
That is to me a gret lykyng.
And if that ye have ought to do
In place that I repeire to,
I shal it speden, thurgh my witt,
As soone as ye have told me it.
So that ye serve me to pay,
My servyse shal be youre alway.
But whoso wole chastise me,
Anoon my love lost hath he;
For I love no man, in no gise,
That wole me repreve or chastise.
But I wolde al folk undirtake,
And of no wight no teching take;
For I, that other folk chastie,
Wole not be taught fro my folie.
"I love noon hermitage more.
All desertes and holtes hore,
And grete wodes everichon,
I lete hem to the Baptist John.
I quethe hym quyt and hym relesse
Of Egipt all the wildirnesse.
To fer were alle my mansiounes
Fro citees and goode tounes.
My paleis and myn hous make I
There men may renne ynne openly,
And sey that I the world forsake,
But al amydde I bilde and make
My hous, and swimme and pley therynne,
Bet than a fish doth with his fynne.
"Of Antecristes men am I,
Of whiche that Crist seith openly,
They have abit of hoolynesse,
And lyven in such wikkednesse.
Outward, lambren semen we,
Fulle of goodnesse and of pitee,
And inward we, withouten fable,
Ben gredy wolves ravysable.
We enviroune bothe lond and se;
With all the world werreyen we;
We wole ordeyne of alle thing,
Of folkis good, and her lyvyng.
"If ther be castel or citee,
Wherynne that ony bouger he,
Although that they of Milayn were
(For therof ben they blamed there);
Or if a wight out of mesure
Wolde lene his gold, and take usure,
For that he is so coveitous;
Or if he he to leccherous,
Or theef [or] haunte symonye,
Or provost full of trecherie,
Or prelat lyvyng jolily,
Or prest that halt his quene hym by,
Or olde horis hostilers,
Or other bawdes or bordillers,
Or elles blamed of ony vice
Of which men shulden don justice:
Bi all the seyntes that me pray,
But they defende them with lamprey,
With luce, with elys, with samons,
With tendre gees and with capons,
With tartes, or with cheses fat,
With deynte flawnes brode and flat,
With caleweis, or with pullaylle,
With conynges, or with fyn vitaille,
That we, undir our clothes wide,
Maken thourgh oure golet glide;
Or but he wole do come in haste
Roo-venysoun, bake in paste;
Whether so that he loure or groyne,
He shal have of a corde a loigne,
With whiche men shal hym bynde and lede,
To brenne hym for his synful deede,
That men shull here hym crie and rore
A myle-wey aboute, and more;
Or ellis he shal in prisoun dye,
But if he wole oure frendship bye,
Or smerten that that he hath do,
More than his gilt amounteth to.
But, and he couthe thurgh his sleight,
Do maken up a tour of height,
Nought rought I whethir of ston, or tree,
Or erthe, or turves though it be,
Though it were of no vounde ston,
Wrought with squyre and scantilon,
So that the tour were stuffed well
With alle richesse temporell,
And thanne that he wolde updresse
Engyns, bothe more and lesse,
To cast at us by every side,
To bere his goode name wide,
Such sleghtes [as] I shal yow nevene,
Barelles of wyn, by sixe or sevene,
Or gold in sakkis gret plente,
He shulde soone delyvered be.
And if [he have] noon sich pitaunces,
Late hym study in equipolences,
And late lyes and fallaces,
If that he wolde deserve oure graces;
Or we shal bere hym such witnesse
Of synne and of his wrecchidnesse,
And don his loos so wide renne,
That al quyk we shulden hym brenne;
Or ellis yeve hym such penaunce,
That is wel wors than the pitaunce.
"For thou shalt never, for nothing,
Kon knowen aright by her clothing
The traitours fulle of trecherie,
But thou her werkis can aspie.
And ne hadde the goode kepyng be
Whilom of the universite,
That kepith the key of Cristendom,

Suche ben the stynkyng prophetis;
Nys non of hem that good prophete is,
For they thurgh wikked entencioun,
The yeer of the Incarnacioun,
A thousand and two hundred yeer,
Fyve and fifty, ferther ne neer,
Broughten a book, with sory grace,
To yeven ensample in comune place,
That seide thus, though it were fable:
'This is the gospel perdurable,
That fro the Holy Goost is sent.'
Wel were it worth to ben brent!
Entitled was in such manere
This book, of which I telle heere.
Ther nas no wight in all Parys,
Biforne Oure Lady, at parvys,

To copy if hym talent tok.
There myght he se, by gret tresoun,
Full many fals comparisoun:
'As moche as, thurgh his grete myght,
Be it of hete or of lyght,
The sonne sourmounteth the mone,
That troublere is, and chaungith soone,
And the note-kernell the shelle
(I scorne not that I yow telle),
Right so, withouten ony gile,
Sourmounteth this noble evangile
The word of ony evangelist.'
And to her title they token Crist.
And many a such comparisoun,
Of which I make no mencioun,
Mighte men in that book fynde,
Whoso coude of hem have mynde.
"The universite, that tho was aslep,
Gan for to braide and taken kep;
And at the noys the heed upcaste,
Ne never sithen slept it faste,
But up it stert, and armes tok
Ayens this fals horrible bok,
Al redy bateil [for] to make,
And to the juge the book to take.
But they that broughten the bok there
Hent it anoon awey, for fere.
They nolde shewe more a del,
But thenne it kept, and kepen will,
Til such a tyme that they may see
That they so stronge woxen be
That no wyght may hem wel withstonde,
For by that book [they] durst not stonde.
Awey they gonne it for to bere,
For they ne durst not answere
By exposicioun ne glose
To that that clerkis wole appose
Ayens the cursednesse, iwys,
That in that book writen is.
Now wot I not, ne I can not see
What maner eende that there shal be
Of al this [bok] that they hyde;
But yit algate they shal abide
Til that they may it bet defende.
This, trowe I best, wol be her ende.
"Thus, Antecrist abiden we,
For we ben alle of his meyne;
And what man that wole not be so,
Right soone he shal his lyf forgo.
We wole a puple upon hym areyse,
And thurgh oure gile don hym seise,
And hym on sharpe speris ryve,
Or other weyes brynge hym fro lyve,
But if that he wole folowe, iwis,
That in oure book writen is.
"Thus mych wole oure book signifie,
That while Petre hath maistrie,
May never John shewe well his myght.
Now have I you declared right
The menyng of the bark and rynde,
That makith the entenciouns blynde;
But now at erst I wole bigynne
To expowne you the pith withynne:
And the seculers comprehende,
That Cristes lawe wole defende,
And shulde it kepen and mayntenen
Ayenes hem that all sustenen,
And falsly to the puple techen.
And John bitokeneth hem that prechen
That ther nys lawe covenable
But thilke gospel perdurable,
That fro the Holy Gost was sent
To turne folk that ben myswent.
"The strengthe of John they undirstonde
The grace, in which they seie they stonde,
That doth the synfull folk converte,
And hem to Jesus Crist reverte.
Full many another orribilite
May men in that book se,
That ben comaunded, douteles,
Ayens the lawe of Rome expres;
And all with Antecrist they holden,
As men may in the book biholden.
And thanne comaunden they to sleen
Alle tho that with Petre been;
But they shal nevere have that myght,
And, God toforn, for strif to fight,
That they ne shal ynowe fynde
That Petres lawe shal have in mynde,
And evere holde, and so mayntene,
That at the last it shal be sene
That they shal alle come therto,
For ought that they can speke or do.
And thilke lawe shal not stonde,
That they by John have undirstonde,
But, maugre hem, it shal adown,
And ben brought to confusioun.
But I wole stynt of this matere,
For it is wonder longe to here.
But hadde that ilke book endured,
Of better estat I were ensured,
And freendis have I yit, pardee,
That han me sett in gret degre.
"Of all this world is emperour
Gyle my fadir, the trechour,
And emperisse my moder is,
Maugre the Holy Gost, iwis.
Oure myghty lynage and oure rowte
Regneth in every regne aboute;
And well is worthy we maistres be,
For all this world governe we,
And can the folk so wel disceyve
That noon oure gile can perceyve.
And though they don, they dar not seye;
The sothe dar no wight bywreye.
But he in Cristis wrath hym ledith,
That more than Crist my britheren dredith.
He nys no full good champioun,
That dredith such simulacioun,
Nor that for peyne wole refusen
Us to correcte and accusen.
He wole not entremete by right,
Ne have God in his eye-sight,
And therfore God shal hym punyshe.
But me ne rekketh of no vice,
Sithen men us loven comunably,
And holden us for so worthy
That we may folk repreve echon,
And we nyl have repref of noon.
Whom shulden folk worshipen so
But us, that stynten never mo
To patren while that folk may us see,
Though it not so bihynde be?
"And where is more wod folye
Than to enhaunce chyvalrie,
And love noble men and gay,
That joly clothis weren alway?
If they be sich folk as they semen,
So clene, as men her clothis demen,
And that her wordis folowe her dede,
It is gret pite, out of drede,
For they wole be noon ypocritis!
Of hem, me thynketh, gret spite is;
I can not love hem on no side.
But beggers with these hodes wide,
With sleighe and pale faces lene,
And greye clothis not full clene,
But fretted full of tatarwagges,
And highe shoos, knopped with dagges,
That frouncen lyke a quaile pipe,
Or botis rivelyng as a gype;
To such folk as I you dyvyse
Shulde princes, and these lordis wise,
Take all her londis and her thingis,
Bothe werre and pees, in governyngis;
To such folk shulde a prince hym yive,
That wolde his lyf in honour lyve.
"And if they be not as they seme,
That serven thus the world to queme,
There wolde I dwelle, to disceyve
The folk, for they shal not perceyve.
But I ne speke in no such wise,
That men shulde humble abit dispise,
So that no pride ther-undir be.
No man shulde hate, as thynkith me,
The pore man in sich clothyng.
But God ne preisith hym nothing,
That seith he hath the world forsake,
And hath to worldly glorie hym take,
And wole of siche delices use.
Who may that begger wel excuse,
That papelard, that hym yeldith so,
And wole to worldly ese go,
And seith that he the world hath left,
And gredily it grypeth eft?
He is the hound, shame is to seyn,
That to his castyng goth ageyn.
"But unto you dar I not lye.
But myght I felen or aspie
That ye perceyved it no thyng,
Ye shulde have a stark lesyng
Right in youre honde thus, to bigynne;
I nolde it lette for no synne."
The god lough at the wondir tho,
And every wight gan laugh also,
And seide, "Lo, heere a man aright
For to be trusty to every wight!"
"Fals-Semblant," quod Love, "sey to me,
Sith I thus have avaunced thee,
That in my court is thi dwellyng,
And of ribawdis shalt be my kyng,
Wolt thou wel holden my forwardis?"
"Ye, sir, from hennes forwardis;
Hadde never youre fadir heere-biforn
Servaunt so trewe, sith he was born."
"That is ayenes all nature."
"Sir, putte you in that aventure.
For though ye borowes take of me,
The sikerer shal ye never be
For ostages, ne sikirnesse,
Or chartres, for to bere witnesse.
I take youresilf to recorde heere,
That men ne may in no manere
Teren the wolf out of his hide,
Til he be flayn, bak and side,
Though men hym bete and al defile.
What! Wene ye that I nil bigile
For I am clothed mekely?
Ther-undir is all my trechery;
Myn herte chaungith never the mo
For noon abit in which I go.
Though I have chere of symplenesse,
I am not wery of shrewidnesse.
My lemman, Streyned-Abstinaunce,
Hath myster of my purveaunce;
She hadde ful longe ago be deed,
Nere my councel and my red.
Lete hir allone, and you and me."
And Love answerde, "I truste thee
Withoute borowe, for I wole noon."
And Fals-Semblant, the theef, anoon,
Ryght in that ilke same place,
That hadde of tresoun al his face
Ryght blak withynne and whit withoute,
Thankyth hym, gan on his knees loute.
Thanne was ther nought but, "Every man
Now to assaut, that sailen can,"
Quod Love, "and that full hardyly!"
Thanne armed they hem communly
Of sich armour as to hem fel.
Whanne they were armed, fers and fel,
They wente hem forth, alle in a route,
And set the castel al aboute.
They will nought away, for no drede,
Till it so be that they ben dede,
Or til they have the castel take.
And foure batels they gan make,
And parted hem in foure anoon,
And toke her way, and forth they gon,
The foure gates for to assaile,
Of whiche the kepers wole not faile;
For they ben neithir sike ne dede,
But hardy folk, and stronge in dede.
Now wole I seyn the countynaunce
Of Fals-Semblant and Abstynaunce,
That ben to Wikkid-Tonge went.
But first they heelde her parlement,
Whether it to done were
To maken hem be knowen there,
Or elles walken forth disgised.
But at the laste they devysed
That they wolde gon in tapinage,
As it were in a pilgrimage,
Lyke good and hooly folk unfeyned.
And Dame Abstinence-Streyned
Tok on a robe of kamelyne,
And gan hir graithe as a Bygyne.
A large coverechief of thred
She wrapped all aboute hir heed,
But she forgat not hir sawter;
A peire of bedis eke she ber
Upon a las, all of whit thred,
On which that she hir bedes bed.
But she ne bought hem never a del,
For they were geven her, I wot wel,
God wot, of a full hooly frere,
That seide he was hir fadir dere,
To whom she hadde ofter went
Than ony frere of his covent.
And he visited hir also,
And many a sermoun seide hir to;
He nolde lette, for man on lyve,
That he ne wolde hir ofte shryve.
And with so great devocion
They made her confession,
That they had ofte, for the nones,
Two heedes in oon hood at ones.
Of fayre shap I devyse her the,
But pale of face somtyme was she;
That false traytouresse untrewe
Was lyk that salowe hors of hewe,
That in the Apocalips is shewed,
That signifyeth tho folk beshrewed
That ben al ful of trecherye,
And pale through hypocrisye;
For on that hors no colour is,
But only deed and pale, ywis.
Of such a colour enlangoured
Was Abstynence, iwys, coloured;
Of her estat she her repented,
As her visage represented.
She had a burdown al of Thefte,
That Gyle had yeve her of his yefte;
And a skryppe of Faynt Distresse,
That ful was of elengenesse;
And forth she walked sobrely.
And Fals-Semblant saynt, je vous die,
Had, as it were for such mister,
Don on the cope of a frer,
With chere symple and ful pytous.
Hys lokyng was not disdeynous,
Ne proud, but meke and ful pesyble.
About his necke he bar a byble,
And squierly forth gan he gon,
And, for to rest his lymmes upon,
He had of Treason a potente;
As he were feble, his way he wente.
But in his sleve he gan to thringe
A rasour sharp and wel bytynge,
That was forged in a forge,
Which that men clepen Coupe-Gorge.
So longe forth her way they nomen,
Tyl they to Wicked-Tonge comen,
That at his gate was syttyng,
And saw folk in the way passyng.
The pilgrymes saw he faste by,
That beren hem ful mekely,
And humbly they with him mette.
Dame Abstynence first him grette,
And sythe him Fals-Semblant salued,
And he hem; but he not remued,
For he ne dredde hem not a del.
For whan he saw her faces wel,
Alway in herte him thoughte so,
He shulde knowe hem bothe two,
For wel he knew Dame Abstynaunce,
But he ne knew not Constreynaunce.
He knew nat that she was constrayned,
Ne of her theves lyve fayned,
But wende she com of wyl al free,
But she com in another degree,
And if of good wyl she hegan,
That wyl was fayled her than.
And Fals-Semblant had he sayn als,
But he knew nat that he was fals.
Yet fals was he, but his falsnesse
Ne coude he nat espye nor gesse;
For Semblant was so slye wrought,
That Falsnesse he ne espyed nought.
But haddest thou knowen hym beforn,
Thou woldest on a bok have sworn,
Whan thou him saugh in thylke aray,
That he, that whilom was so gay,
And of the daunce joly Robyn,
Was tho become a Jacobyn.
But sothly, what so men hym calle,
Freres Preachours ben good men alle;
Her order wickedly they beren,
Suche mynstrelles if they weren.
So ben Augustyns and Cordyleres,
And Carmes, and eke Sacked Freeres,
And alle freres, shodde and bare
(Though some of hem ben great and square),
Ful hooly men, as I hem deme;
Everych of hem wolde good man seme.
But shalt thou never of apparence
Sen conclude good consequence
In non argument, ywis,
If existens al fayled is.
For men may fynde alway sophyme
The consequence to envenyme,
Whoso that hath the subtelte
The double sentence for to se.
Whan the pylgrymes commen were
To Wicked-Tonge, that dwelled there,
Her harneys nygh hem was algate;
By Wicked-Tonge adown they sate,
That bad hem ner him for to come,
And of tidynges telle him some,
And sayd hem, "What cas maketh you
To come into this place now?"
"Sir," sayde Strayned-Abstynaunce,
"We, for to drye our penaunce,
With hertes pytous and devoute
Are commen, as pylgrimes gon aboute.
Wel nygh on fote alwey we go;
Ful dusty ben our heeles two;
And thus bothe we ben sent
Throughout this world, that is miswent,
To yeve ensample, and preche also.
To fysshen synful men we go,
For other fysshynge ne fysshe we.
And, sir, for that charyte,
As we be wonte, herborowe we crave,
Your lyf to amende, Christ it save!
And, so it shulde you nat displese,
We wolden, if it were youre ese,
A short sermon unto you sayn."
And Wicked-Tonge answered agayn:
"The hous," quod he, "such as ye see,
Shal nat be warned you for me.
Say what you lyst, and I wol here."
"Graunt mercy, swete sire dere!"
Quod alderfirst Dame Abstynence,
And thus began she her sentence:
"Sir, the firste vertu, certayn,
The greatest and moste soverayn
That may be founde in any man,
For havynge, or for wyt he can,
That is his tonge to refrayne;
Therto ought every wight him payne.
For it is better stylle be
Than for to speken harm, parde!
And he that herkeneth it gladly,
He is no good man, sykerly.
"And, sir, aboven al other synne,
In that art thou most gylty inne.
Thou spake a jape not longe ago,
(And, sir, that was ryght yvel do)
Of a young man that here repayred,
And never yet this place apayred.
Thou saydest he awayted nothyng
But to disceyve Fayr-Welcomyng;
Ye sayde nothyng soth of that.
But, sir, ye lye, I tel you plat.
He ne cometh no more, ne goth, parde!
I trowe ye shal him never se.
Fayr-Welcomyng in prison is,
That ofte hath played with you, er this,
The fayrest games that he coude,
Withoute fylthe, stylle or loude.
Now dar he nat himself solace.
Ye han also the man do chace,
That he dar neyther come ne go.
What meveth you to hate him so,
But properly your wicked thought,
That many a fals leasyng hath thought
That meveth your foole eloquence,
That jangleth ever in audyence,
And on the folk areyseth blame,
And doth hem dishonour and shame,
For thyng that may have no prevyng,
But lyklynesse, and contryvyng?
"For I dar sayn that Reson demeth
It is nat al soth thyng that semeth,
And it is synne to controve
Thyng that is to reprove.
This wote ye wel, and sir, therfore
Ye arn to blame the more.
And nathelesse, he recketh lyte;
He yeveth nat now therof a myte.
For if he thoughte harm, parfay,
He wolde come and gon al day;
He coude himselve nat abstene.
Now cometh he nat, and that is sene,
For he ne taketh of it no cure,
But if it be through aventure,
And lasse than other folk, algate.
And thou her watchest at the gate,
With spere in thyn arest alway;
There muse, musard, al the day.
Thou wakest night and day for thought;
Iwis, thy traveyle is for nought;
And Jelousye, withouten fayle,
Shal never quyte the thy traveyle.
And skathe is that Fayr-Welcomyng,
Withouten any trespassyng,
Shal wrongfully in prison be,
There wepeth and languyssheth he.
And though thou never yet, ywis,
Agyltest man no more but this,
(Take nat a-gref) it were worthy
To putte the out of this bayly,
And afterward in prison lye,
And fettre the tyl that thou dye;
For thou shalt for this synne dwelle
Right in the devels ers of helle,
But if that thou repente thee."
"Ma fay, thou liest falsly!" quod he.
"What? Welcome with myschaunce now!
Have I therfore herbered yow,
To seye me shame, and eke reprove?
With sory hap, to youre bihove,
Am I to day youre herberger!
Go herber yow elleswhere than heer,
That han a lyer called me!
Two tregetours art thou and he,
That in myn hous do me this shame,
And for my soth-sawe ye me blame.
Is this the sermoun that ye make?
To all the develles I me take,
Or elles, God, thou me confounde,
But, er men diden this castel founde,
It passith not ten daies or twelve,
But it was told right to myselve,
And as they seide, right so tolde I,
He kyst the Rose pryvyly!
Thus seide I now, and have seid yore;
I not wher he dide ony more.
Why shulde men sey me such a thyng,
If it hadde ben gabbyng?
Ryght so seide I, and wol seye yit;
I trowe, I lied not of it.
And with my bemes I wole blowe
To alle neighboris a-rowe,
How he hath bothe comen and gon."
Tho spak Fals-Semblant right anon:
"All is not gospel, out of doute,
That men seyn in the town aboute.
Ley no deef ere to my spekyng;
I swere yow, sir, it is gabbyng!
I trowe ye wote wel, certeynly,
That no man loveth hym tenderly
That seith hym harm, if he wot it,
All he be never so pore of wit.
And soth is also, sikerly
(This knowe ye, sir, as wel as I),
That lovers gladly wole visiten
The places there her loves habiten.
This man yow loveth and eke honoureth;
This man to serve you laboureth,
And clepith you his freend so deere:
And this man makith you good chere,
And everywhere that [he] you meteth,
He yow saloweth, and he you greteth.
He preseth not so ofte that ye
Ought of his come encombred be;
Ther presen other folk on yow
Full ofter than he doth now.
And if his herte hym streyned so
Unto the Rose for to go,
Ye shulde hym sen so ofte nede,
That ye shulde take hym with the dede.
He cowde his comyng not forbere,
Though me hym thrilled with a spere;
It nere not thanne as it is now.
But trusteth wel, I swere it yow,
That it is clene out of his thought.
Sir, certis, he ne thenkith it nought;
No more ne doth Fair-Welcomyng,
That sore abieth al this thing.
And if they were of oon assent,
Full soone were the Rose hent;
The maugre youres wolde be.
And sir, of o thing herkeneth me,
Sith ye this man that loveth yow
Han seid such harm and shame now,
Witeth wel, if he gessed it,
Ye may wel demen in youre wit
He nolde nothyng love you so,
Ne callen you his freend also,
But nyght and day he wolde wake
The castell to destroie and take,
If it were soth as ye devise;
Or som man in som maner wise
Might it warne hym everydel,
Or by hymsilf perceyven wel.
For sith he myght not come and gon,
As he was whilom wont to don,
He myght it sone wite and see;
But now all other wise doth he.
Thanne have [ye], sir, al outerly,
Deserved helle, and jolyly
The deth of helle, douteles,
That thrallen folk so gilteles."
Fals-Semblant proveth so this thing
That he can noon answeryng,
And seth alwey such apparaunce
That nygh he fel in repentaunce,
And seide hym, "Sir, it may wel be.
Semblant, a good man semen ye,
And, Abstinence, full wise ye seme.
Of o talent you bothe I deme.
What counceil wole ye to me yiven?"
"Ryght heere anoon thou shalt be shryven,
And sey thy synne withoute more;
Of this shalt thou repente sore.
For I am prest and have pouste
To shryve folk of most dignyte
That ben, as wide as world may dure.
Of all this world I have the cure,
And that hadde never yit persoun,
Ne vicarie of no maner toun.
And, God wot, I have of thee
A thousand tyme more pitee
Than hath thi preest parochial,
Though he thy freend be special.
I have avauntage, in o wise,
That youre prelatis ben not so wise
Ne half so lettred as am I.
I am licenced boldely
To reden in divinite,
And longe have red . . ."