University of Virginia Library

previous section The Minor Poems of John Lydgate
next section

5. A GENTLEWOMAN'S LAMENT.

[_]

[MS. Trin. Coll. Camb. R. 3. 20, pp. 152–154.]

And here begynneþe a balade sayde by a gentilwomman whiche loued a man of gret estate.

1

Allas! I wooful creature,
Lyving betweene hope and dreed,
Howe might I þe woo endure,
In tendrenesse of wommanhede,
In langoure ay my lyff to leede,
And sette myn hert in suche a place,
Wher as I, be liklyhede,
Am euer vnlyke to stonde in grace!
419

2

Þer is so gret a difference
Tweene his manheed and my symplesse,
Þat Daunger by gret vyolence
Haþe me brought in gret distresse;
And yit in verray sikurnesse,
Þoughe my desyre I neuer atteyne,
Yit withoute doublenesse
To love him best I shal not feyne.

3

For whane we were ful tendre of yeeris,
Flouring booþe in oure chyldheed,
Wee sette to nothing oure desyres,
Sauf vn-to playe, and tooke noon heede,
And gaderd flowres in þe meede,
Of youþe þis was oure moost plesaunce,
And Love þoo gaf me for my meede
A knotte in hert of remembraunce,

4

Which þat neuer may beo vnbounde,
Hit is so stedfast and so truwe,
For alwey oone I wol beo founde
His womman, and chaunge for no nuwe!
Wolde God þe sooþe þat he knewe,
Howe offt I sighe for his saake,
And he me list not onys ruwe,
Ne yyveþe no force, what yvell I make.

5

His poorte, his cheere, and his fygure
Beon euer present in my sight,
In whos absence eeke I ensure,
I cane neuer be gladde ne light:
Fore he is my chosen knyght,
Þaughe hit to him ne beo not kouþe,
And so haþe he beon boþe day and night,
Truly fro my tendre youþe.

6

Emprynted in myn inwarde thought,
And alwey shal til þat I deye,
420

Out of myn hert he parteþe nought,
Ne neuer shal, I dare weel seye.
His loue so soore me dooþe werreye,
God graunt hit tourne for þe best!
For I shal neuer, I dare wel sey,
Withoute his love lyve in rest.

7

A trouthe in tendre aage gonne,
Of loue with longe perseueraunce,
In my persone so sore is ronne,
Þat þer may beo no varyaunce;
For al myn hertes souffysaunce
Is, wheþer þat I waake or wynk,
To haue hooly my remembraunce
On his persone, so mychil I thynk!
previous section The Minor Poems of John Lydgate
next section