The complete works of Geoffrey Chaucer Edited, from numerous manuscripts by the Rev. Walter W. Skeat |
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| XXVI. | XXVI. COMPLAINT TO MY LODE-STERRE. |
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 | The complete works of Geoffrey Chaucer |  |
xxix
XXVI. COMPLAINT TO MY LODE-STERRE.
Of gretter cause may no wight him compleyne
Than I; for love hath set me in swich caas
That lasse Ioye and more encrees of peyne
Ne hath no man; wherfore I crye ‘allas!’
A thousand tyme, whan I have tyme and space.
For she, that is my verray sorowes grounde,
Wol with her grace no wyse my sorowes sounde.
Than I; for love hath set me in swich caas
That lasse Ioye and more encrees of peyne
Ne hath no man; wherfore I crye ‘allas!’
A thousand tyme, whan I have tyme and space.
For she, that is my verray sorowes grounde,
Wol with her grace no wyse my sorowes sounde.
And that, shulde be my sorowes hertes leche,
Is me ageins, and maketh me swich werre,
That shortly, [in] al maner thought and speche,
Whether it be that I be nigh or ferre,
I misse the grace of you, my lode-sterre,
Which causeth me on you thus for to crye;
And al is it for lakke of remedye.
Is me ageins, and maketh me swich werre,
That shortly, [in] al maner thought and speche,
Whether it be that I be nigh or ferre,
I misse the grace of you, my lode-sterre,
Which causeth me on you thus for to crye;
And al is it for lakke of remedye.
My soverain Ioye thus is my mortal fo;
She that shulde causen al my lustinesse
List in no wyse of my sorowes saye ‘ho!’
But let me thus darraine, in hevinesse,
With woful thoughtes and my grete distresse,
The which she might right wele, [at] every tyde,
If that her liste, out of my herte gyde.
She that shulde causen al my lustinesse
List in no wyse of my sorowes saye ‘ho!’
xxx
With woful thoughtes and my grete distresse,
The which she might right wele, [at] every tyde,
If that her liste, out of my herte gyde.
But it is so, that her list, in no wyse,
Have pitè on my woful besinesse;
And I ne can do no maner servyse
That may me torne out of my hevinesse;
So woldè god, that she now wolde impresse
Right in her herte my trouthe and eek good wille;
And let me not, for lakke of mercy, spille.
Have pitè on my woful besinesse;
And I ne can do no maner servyse
That may me torne out of my hevinesse;
So woldè god, that she now wolde impresse
Right in her herte my trouthe and eek good wille;
And let me not, for lakke of mercy, spille.
Now wele I woot why thus I smerte sore;
For couthe I wele, as othere folkes, feyne,
Than neded me to live in peyne no more,
But, whan I were from you, unteye my reyne,
And, for the tyme, drawe in another cheyne.
But woldè god that alle swich were y-knowe,
And duely punisshed of hye and lowe.
For couthe I wele, as othere folkes, feyne,
Than neded me to live in peyne no more,
But, whan I were from you, unteye my reyne,
And, for the tyme, drawe in another cheyne.
But woldè god that alle swich were y-knowe,
And duely punisshed of hye and lowe.
Swich lyf defye I, bothe in thoughte and worde,
For yet me were wel lever for to sterve
Than in my herte for to make an horde
Of any falshood; for, til deth to-kerve
My herte and body, shal I never swerve
From you, that best may be my fynal cure,
But, at your liste, abyde myn aventure;
For yet me were wel lever for to sterve
Than in my herte for to make an horde
Of any falshood; for, til deth to-kerve
My herte and body, shal I never swerve
From you, that best may be my fynal cure,
But, at your liste, abyde myn aventure;
And preye to you, noble seint Valentyne,
My ladies herte that ye wolde enbrace,
And make her pitè to me more enclyne
That I may stonden in her noble grace
In hasty tyme, whyl I have lyves space:
For yit wiste I never noon, of my lyve,
So litel hony in so fayre hyve.
My ladies herte that ye wolde enbrace,
xxxi
That I may stonden in her noble grace
In hasty tyme, whyl I have lyves space:
For yit wiste I never noon, of my lyve,
So litel hony in so fayre hyve.
| The complete works of Geoffrey Chaucer | |