University of Virginia Library

Search this document 
Lydgate's Troy Book

A.D. 1412-1420. Edited from the best manuscripts with introduction, notes, and glossary by Henry Bergen

collapse section 
collapse section 
collapse sectionI. 
  
 I. 
collapse sectionII. 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse sectionII. 
 III. 
collapse sectionIII. 
 IV. 
collapse sectionV. 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Howe quene Menone, longe aftire that she dyed, kam to þe towmbe of here husbonde, & karide away his bones.
  
  

Howe quene Menone, longe aftire that she dyed, kam to þe towmbe of here husbonde, & karide away his bones.

And to what fyn [þat] þis tale is tolde,
In þis chapitle I shal reherse anoon:
Þe noble quene of þis kyng Menon,
After þe tyme long & many day
Þat she was ded & grauen vnder clay,
At hys toumbe heuenly gan appere
Al be-set with briȝt[e] sterris clere,
Whos similitude, for to rekne al,
Was lyke a þing þat were immortal,
Þat no man myȝt outterly sustene
To beholde,—of lok she was so shene,—
Doun discendyng fro þe firmament,
Ful many man being þere present,
Clad in a mantel ful celestial,
And of hir port passingly royal,
With swet[e]nes freshe as any rose,—
Made in al haste þe toumbe to vnclose
Of hir lord, & takeþ oute þe bonys,
And in a cheste made of gold & stonys

856

She couched hem, as fast as euer she may,
Disapered, & wente anoon hir way.
And to-for þat nor after, in certeyn,
In þilke place she was neuer seyn.
Somme affermyng, as by liklynes,
She was ouþer aungel or goddes,
Þe soule or fate of þe same kyng—
I can not deme in swiche heuenly þing,
Nor þer-in holde noon oppinioun,
For it transcendeth, shortly, my resoun.
And me list nat in swiche mater diffyne,
But resort riȝt as any lyne
To Vlixes, & a while dwelle,
Of his ende þe surplus for to telle,
And how þat he myȝt[e] nat eskape
Þe parodye, þat was for hym shap;
For Parchas han his laste terme set,
And Antropos mesured oute & met
His lyues þrede, on þe rokke sponne.
Defende þi silf, Vlixes, ȝif þou konne!
Shewe þi manhod, & be nat afferde,
And be wel war of þi sonys swerde!
For I shal now, lyk as I am wont,
Sharpen my penne, boþe rude & blont,
To descryue þe fyn of þi soiour,
Vp-on þe boundis set of my labour:
For almost wery, feint & waike I-now
Be þe bestes & oxes of my plow,
Þe longe day ageyn þe hil to wende.
But almost now at þe londes ende
Of Troye boke, ficche I wil a stake,
Saue I mote spende a fewe lines blake
Þe laste chapitle shortly to translate
Of al þis werke, and ympen in þe date
Of þilke day deth sette on hym arest,
Ful execute by hym he louede best.