University of Virginia Library

We redyn ofte and fynde ywryte,
As clerkes don us to wyte,
Þe layes þat ben of harpyng
Ben yfounde of frely þing.
Sum ben of wele, and sum of wo,
And sum of joy and merþe also,
Sum of trechery, and sum of gyle,
And sum of happes þat fallen by whyle;
Sum of bourdys, and sum of rybaudry,
And sum þer ben of þe feyre.
Off alle þing þat men may se,
Moost o love forsoþe þey be.

In Brytain þis layes arne ywryte,
Furst yfounde and forþe ygete,
Of aventures þat fillen by dayes,
Wherof Brytouns made her layes.
When þey myght owher heryn
Of aventures þat þer weryn,
Þey toke her harpys wiþ game,
Maden layes, and ȝaf it name.

Of aventures þat han befalle
Y can sum telle, but nought alle.
Herken, lordyngs þat ben trewe,
And Y wol ȝou telle of sir Orphewe.

Orfeo was a king,
In his time an heiȝe lording,
A stalworþ man and hardi bo,
Large, curteys he was also.
His fader was comen of King Pluto,
And his moder of King Juno,
Þat sum time were as godes yhold,
For aventours þat þai dede and told.

Orpheo most of ony þing
Lovede þe gle of harpyng;
Syker was every gode harpour
Of hym to have moche honour.
Hymself loved for to harpe,
And layde þereon his wittes scharpe.
He lernyd so, þer noþing was
A better harper in no plas.
In þe world was never man born
Þat ever Orpheo sat biforn,
And he myȝt of his harpyng her,
He schulde þinke þat he wer
In one of þe joys of Paradys,
Suche joy and melody in his harpyng is.

Þis king sojurnd in Traciens,
Þat was a cite of noble defens;
He hadde wiþ him a quen of priis,
Þat was ycleped Dame Heurodis—
Þe fairest levedi, for þe nones,
Þat miȝt gon on bodi and bones,
Ful of love and of godenisse,
Ac no man may telle hir fairnise.

Bifel so in þe comessing of May,
When miri and hot is þe day,
Oway beþ winter-schours,
And everi feld is ful of flours,
And blosme breme on everi bouȝ
Overal wexeþ miri anouȝ,
Þis ich quen, Dame Heurodis,
Tok to maidens of priis,
And went in an undrentide
To play bi an orchard-side,
To se þe floures sprede and spring,
And to here þe foules sing.

Þai sett hem doun al þre
Under a fair ympe-tre,
And wel sone þis fair quene
Fel on slepe opon þe grene.
Þe maidens durst hir nouȝt awake,
Bot lete hir ligge and rest take;
So sche slepe til afternone,
Þat under[n]tide was al ydone.
Ac so sone as sche gan awake,
Sche crid and loþli bere gan make:
Sche froted hir honden and hir fet,
And crached hir visage, it bled wete;
Hir riche robe sche al torett,
And was ravysed out of hir witt.
Þe two maidens hir biside
No durst wiþ hir no leng abide,
Bot ourn to þe palays ful riȝt,
And told boþe squier and kniȝt
Þat her quen awede wold,
And bad hem go and hir athold.
Kniȝtes urn, and levedis also,
Damisels sexti and mo;
In þe orchard to þe quen hye come,
And her up in her armes nome,
And brouȝt hir to bed atte last,
And held hir þere fine fast.
Ac ever sche held in o cri,
And wold up and owy.

When Orfeo herd þat tiding,
Never him nas wers for noþing;
He come up wiþ kniȝtes tene
To chaumber riȝt bifor þe quene,
And biheld, and seyd wiþ grete pite:
‘O lef liif, what is te,
Þat ever ȝete hast ben so stille,
And now gredest wonder schille?
Þi bodi, þat was so white ycore,
Wiþ þine nailes is al totore.
Alas! þi rode, þat was so red,
Is as wan as þou were ded,
And also þine fingres smale
Beþ al blodi and al pale!
Allas, þi lovesum eyȝen to
Lokeþ so man doþ on his fo!
A, dame, Ich biseche merci!
Lete ben al þis reweful cri,
And tel me what þe is and hou,
And what þing may þe help now.’

Þo lay sche stille atte last,
And gan to wepe swiþe fast,
And seyd þus þe king to:
‘Allas, mi lord, sir Orfeo!
Seþþen we first togider were,
Ones wroþ never we nere;
Bot ever Ich have yloved þe
As mi liif, and so þou me.
Ac now we mot delen ato;
Do þi best, for y mot go.’
‘Allas,’ quaþ he, ‘forlorn Ich am!
Whider wiltow go, and to wham?
Whider þou gost, Ichil wiþ þe,
And whider Y go, þou schalt wiþ me.’
‘Nay, nay, sir, þat nouȝt nis;
Ichil þe telle al hou it is:
As Ich lay þis undertide,
And slepe under our orchard-side,
Þer come to me to fair kniȝtes,
Wele y-armed al to riȝtes,
And bad me comen on heiȝing,
And speke wiþ her lord þe king.
And Ich answerd at wordes bold,
Y durst nouȝt, no Y nold.
Þai priked oȝain, as þai miȝt drive;
Þo kom her king also blive,
Wiþ an hundred kniȝtes and mo,
And damisels an hundred also,
Al on snowe-white stedes;
As white as milke were her wedes.
Y no seiȝe never ȝete bifore
So fair creatours ycore.
Þe king hadde a croun on hed;
It nas of silver, no of gold red,
Ac it was of a precious ston;
As briȝt as þe sonne it schon.
And as son as he to me cam,
Wold Ich, nold Ich, he me nam,
And made me wiþ him ride
Opon a palfray bi his side,
And brouȝt me to his palays,
Wele atird in ich ways,
And schewed me castels and tours,
Rivers, forestes, friþ wiþ flours,
And his riche stedes ichon;
And seþþen me brouȝt oȝain hom
Into our owhen orchard;
And said to me þus afterward:
“Loke, dame, to-morwe þatow be
Riȝt here under þis ympe-tre,
And þan þou schalt wiþ ous go,
And live wiþ ous evermo;
And ȝif þou makest ous ylet,
Whar þou be, þou worst yfet,
And totore þine limes al,
Þat noþing help þe no schal;
And þei þou best so totorn,
Ȝete þou worst wiþ ous yborn.”’

When king Orfeo herd þis cas,
‘Owe!’ quaþ he, ‘allas, allas!
Lever me were to lete mi liif,
Þan þus to lese þe quen mi wiif!’
He asked conseyl at ich man,
Ac no man him help no can.
Amorwe þe undertide is come,
And Orfeo haþ his armes ynome,
And wele ten hundred kniȝtes wiþ him,
Ich y-armed stout and grim;
And wiþ þe quen wenten he
Riȝt unto þat ympe-tre.
Þai made scheltrom in icha side,
And sayd þai wold þere abide,
And dye þer everichon,
Er þe quen schuld from hem gon.
Ac ȝete amiddes hem ful riȝt
Þe quen was oway ytwiȝt,
Wiþ fairi forþ ynome;
Men wist never wher sche was bicome.

Þo was þer criing, wepe, and wo;
Þe king into his chaumber is go,
And oft swoned opon þe ston,
And made swiche diol and swiche mon
Þat neiȝe his liif was yspent—
Þer was no amendement.
He cleped togider his barouns,
Erls, lordes of renouns;
And when þai al ycomen were,
‘Lordinges,’ he said, ‘bifore ȝou here
Ich ordainy min heiȝe-steward
To wite mi kingdom afterward;
In mi stede ben he schal,
To kepe mi londes over al.
For, now Ichave mi quen ylore,
Þe fairest levedi þat ever was bore,
Never eft Y nil no woman se;
Into wildernes Ichil te,
And live þer evermore
Wiþ wilde bestes in holtes hore.
And when ȝe understond þat Y be spent,
Make ȝou þan a parlement,
And chese ȝou a newe king;
Now doþ ȝour best wiþ al mi þing.’

Þo was þer wepeing in þe halle,
And grete cri among hem alle;
Unneþe miȝt old or ȝong
For wepeing speke a word wiþ tong.
Þai kneled adoun al yfere,
And praid him, ȝif his wille were,
Þat he no schuld fram hem go;
‘Do way,’ quaþ he, ‘it schal be so.’
Al his kingdom he forsoke,
Bot a sclavin on him he toke—
He ne hadde kirtel no hode,
Schert, [ne] non oþer gode.
Bot his harp he tok, algate,
And dede him barfot out atte ȝate;
No man most wiþ him go.

Oway! what þer was wepe and wo,
When he þat hadde ben king wiþ croun,
Went so poverlich out of toun!
Þurch wode and over heþ
Into þe wildernes he geþ;
Noþing he fint þat him is ays,
Bot ever he liveþ in gret malais.
He þat hadde ywed þe fowe and griis,
And on bed þe purper biis,
Now on hard heþe he liþ,
Wiþ leves and gresse he him wriþ.
He þat hadde had castels and tours,
River, forest, friþ wiþ flours,
Now, þei it comenci to snewe and frese,
Þis king mote make his bed in mese;
He þat had yhad kniȝtes of priis
Bifor him kneland, and levedis,
Now seþ he noþing þat him likeþ,
Bot wilde wormes bi him strikeþ;
He þat had yhad plente
Of mete and drink, of ich deynte,
Now may he al day digge and wrote,
Er he finde his fille of rote.
In somer he liveþ bi wild frut
And berren bot gode lut;
In winter may he noþing finde
Bot rote, grases, and þe rinde.
Al his bodi was oway dwine
For missays, and al tochine.
Lord! who may telle þe sore
Þis king sufferd ten ȝere and more?
His here of his berd, blac and rowe,
To his girdelstede was growe;
His harp, whereon was al his gle,
He hidde in an holwe tre;
And, when þe weder was clere and briȝt,
He toke his harp to him wel riȝt,
And harped at his owhen wille;
Into alle þe wode þe soun gan schille,
Þat alle þe wilde bestes þat þer beþ
For joie abouten him þai teþ,
And alle þe foules þat þer were
Come and sete on ich a brere,
To here his harping afin,
So miche melody was þerin;
And when he his harping lete wold,
No best bi him abide nold.

He miȝt se him bisides
Oft in hot undertides
Þe king o fairi, wiþ his rout,
Com to hunt him al about,
Wiþ dun, [with] cri and bloweing,
And houndes also wiþ him berking;
Ac no best þai no nome,
No never he nist whider þai bicome.
And oþer while he miȝt him se
As a gret ost bi him te—
Wele atourned ten hundred kniȝtes,
Ich y-armed to his riȝtes,
Of contenaunce stout and fers,
Wiþ mani desplaid baners,
And ich his swerd ydrawe hold,
Ac never he nist whider þai wold.

And oþer while he seiȝe oþer þing:
Kniȝtes and levedis com daunceing,
In queynt atire, gisely,
[With] queynt[e] pas and soft[e]ly;
Tabours and trumpes ȝede hem bi,
And al maner menstraci.
And on a day he seiȝe him biside
Sexti levedis on hors ride,
Gentil and jolif as brid on ris—
Nouȝt o man amonges hem þer nis;
And ich a faucoun on hond bere,
And riden on haukin[g] bi o rivere.
Of game þai founde wel gode haunt—
Maulardes, hayroun, and cormeraunt.
Þe foules of þe water ariseþ,
Þe faucouns hem wele deviseþ:
Ich faucoun his pray slouȝ.
Þat seiȝe Orfeo, and louȝ.
‘Parfay,’ quaþ he, ‘þer is fair game,
Þider Ichil, bi Godes name!
Ich was ywon swiche werk to se’;
He aros, and þider gan te.

To a levedi he was ycome,
Biheld, and haþ wele undernome,
And seþ bi al þing þat it is
His owhen quen, Dam Heurodis.
Ȝern he biheld hir, and sche him eke,
Ac noiþer to oþer a word no speke.
For messais þat sche on him seiȝe,
Þat had ben so riche and so heiȝe,
Þe teres fel out of her eiȝe.
Þe oþer levedis þis yseiȝe,
And maked hir oway to ride—
Sche most wiþ him no lenger abide.
‘Allas,’ quaþ he, ‘now me is wo!
Whi nil deþ now me slo?
Allas, wreche, þat Y no miȝt
Dye now after þis siȝt!
Allas! to long last mi liif,
When Y no dar nouȝt wiþ mi wiif,
No hye to me, o word speke.
Allas! whi nil min hert breke?
Parfay,’ quaþ he, ‘tide wat bitide,
Whider so þis levedis ride,
Þe selve way Ichil streche;
Of liif no deþ me no reche.

His sclavain he dede on, als he spac,
And henge his harp opon his bac,
And had wel gode wil to gon—
He no spard noiþer stub no ston.
In at a roche þe leuedis rideþ,
And he after, and nouȝt abideþ.
When he was in þe roche ygo
Wele þre mile oþer mo,
He com into a fair cuntray,
As briȝt so sonne on somers day,
Smoþe and plain and al grene—
Hille no dale was þer non ysene.
Amidde þe lond a castel he s[e]iȝe,
Riche and real and wonder heiȝe.
Al þe utmast wal
Was clere and schine as cristal;
An hundred tours þer were about,
Degiselich and bataild stout;
Þe butras com out of þe diche,
Of rede gold y-arched riche;
Þe bonsour was anourned al
Of ich maner divers animal;
Wiþin þer wer wide wones,
Al of precious stones;
Þe werst piler on to biholde
Was al of burnist gold.
Al þat lond was ever liȝt:
For when it schuld be þerk and niȝt,
Þe riche stones liȝt gonne,
As briȝt as doþ at none þe sonne.
No man may telle, no þenche in þouȝt,
Þe riche werk þat þer was wrouȝt;
Bi al þing him þink þat it is
Þe proude court of Paradis.

In þis castel þe levedis aliȝt;
He wold in after, ȝif he miȝt:
Orfeo knokkeþ atte gate;
Þe porter was redi þerate,
And asked what he wold have ydo.
‘Parfay,’ quaþ he, ‘Ich am a minstrel, lo!
To solas þi lord wiþ mi gle,
Ȝif his suete wille be.’
Þe porter undede þe ȝate anon,
And lete him into þe castel gon.

Þan he gan bihold about al,
And seiȝe ful liggeand wiþin þe wal
Of folk þat were þider ybrouȝt,
And þouȝt dede, and nere nouȝt.
Sum stode wiþouten hade,
And sum non armes nade,
And sum þurch þe bodi hadde wounde,
And sum lay wode, ybounde,
And sum, armed, on hors sete,
And sum astrangled as þai ete,
And sum were in water adreynt,
And sum wiþ fire al forschreynt;
Wives þer lay on childbedde,
Sum ded, and sum awedde;
And wonder fele þer lay bisides,
Riȝt as þai slepe her undertides;
Eche was þus in þis warld ynome,
Wiþ fairi þider ycome.
Þer he seiȝe his owhen wiif,
Dame Heurodis, his lef liif,
Slepe under an ympe-tre:
Bi her cloþes he knewe þat it was he.

And when he hadde bihold þis mervails alle,
He went into þe kinges halle;
Þan seiȝe he þer a semly siȝt—
A tabernacle blisseful and briȝt,
Þerin her maister king sete,
And her quen fair and swete.
Her crounes, her cloþes schine so briȝt,
Þat unneþe bihold he hem miȝt.

When he hadde biholden al þat þing,
He kneled adoun bifor þe king.
‘O lord,’ he seyd, ‘ȝif it þi wille were,
Mi menstraci þou schust yhere.’
Þe king answerd: ‘What man artow,
Þat art hider ycomen now?
Ich, no non þat is wiþ me,
No sent never after þe;
Seþþen þat Ich here regni gan,
Y no fond so folehardi man
Þat hider to ous durst wende,
Bot þat Ichim wold ofsende.’
‘Lord,’ quaþ he, ‘trowe ful wel,
Y nam bot a pover menstrel;
And, sir, it is þe maner of ous
To seche mani a lordes hous;
Þei we nouȝt welcom no be,
Ȝete we mot proferi forþ our gle.’

Bifore þe king he sat adoun,
And tok his harp so miri of soun,
And tempreþ his harp, as he wele can,
And blisseful notes he þer gan,
Þat al þat in þe palays were
Com to him for to here,
And liggeþ adoun to his fete—
Hem þenkeþ his melody so swete.
Þe king herkneþ and sitt ful stille,
To here his gle he haþ gode wille;
Gode bourde he hadde of his gle,
Þe riche quen also hadde he.

When he hadde stint his harping,
Þan seyd to him þe king:
‘Menstrel, me likeþ wele þi gle;
Now aske of me what it be,
Largelich Ichil þe pay.
Now speke, and tow miȝt asay.’
‘Sir,’ he seyd, ‘Ich biseche þe
Þatow woldest ȝive me
Þat ich levedi, briȝt on ble,
Þat slepeþ under þe ympe-tre.’
‘Nay,’ quaþ þe king, ‘þat nouȝt nere!
A sori couple of ȝou it were,
For þou art lene, rowe, and blac,
And sche is lovesum, witþouten lac;
A loþlich þing it were, forþi,
To sen hir in þi compayni.’
‘O sir,’ he seyd, ‘gentil king,
Ȝete were it a wele fouler þing
To here a lesing of þi mouþe;
So, sir, as ȝe seyd nouþe,
What I wold aski, have Y schold;
And nedes þou most þi word hold.’
Þe king seyd: ‘Seþþen it is so,
Take hir bi þe hond, and go;
Of hir Ichil þatow be bliþe.’

He knelyd adoun, and þonked him swiþe;
His wiif he tok bi þe hond,
And dede him swiþe out of þat lond,
And went him out of þat þede;
Riȝt as he come, þe way he ȝede.

So long he haþ þe way ynome,
To Traciens he is ycome,
Þat was his owhen cite;
Ac no man knewe þat it was he.
No forþer þan þe tounes ende
For knoweleche [he] ne durst wende;
Bot wiþ a begger ybilt ful narwe.
Þer he tok his herbarwe
To him and to his owhen wiif
As a minstrel of pover liif,
And asked tidings of þat lond,
And who þe kingdom held in hond.
Þe pover begger in his cote
Told him everich a grot—
How her quen was stole owy,
Ten ȝer gon, wiþ fairy;
And hou her king in exile ȝede,
Bot no man nist in wiche þede;
And hou þe steward þe lond gan hold;
And oþer mani þinges him told.
Amorwe oȝain none tide,
He maked his wiif þer abide;
Þe beggers cloþes he borwed anon,
And heng his harp his rigge opon,
And went him into þat cite,
Þat men miȝt him bihold and se.
Erls and barouns bold,
Buriays and levedis him gan bihold.
‘Lo,’ þai seyd, ‘swiche a man!
How long þe here hongeþ him opan!
Lo, hou his berd hongeþ to his kne!
He is yclongen also a tre!’
And as he ȝede in þe strete,
Wiþ his steward he gan mete,
And loude he sett on him a crie:
‘Sir steward,’ he seyd, ‘merci!
Ich am an harpour of heþenisse;
Help me now in þis destresse!’
Þe steward seyd: ‘Com wiþ me home;
Of þat Ichave, þou schalt have some.
Everich gode harpour is welcom me to,
For mi lordes love, Sir Orfeo.’

In þe castel þe steward sat atte mete,
And many lording was bi him sete;
Þer were trompour[s] and tabourers,
Harpours fele, and crouders.
Miche melody þei maked alle;
And Orfeo sat stille in þe halle,
And herkneþ. When þei ben al stille,
He toke his harp and tempred schille;
Þe blissefulest notes he harped þere
Þat ever ani man yherd wiþ ere;
Ich man liked wele his gle.

Þe steward biheld and gan yse,
And knewe þe harp also blive.
‘Menstrel,’ he seyd, ‘so mot þou þrive,
Where hadestow þis harp, and hou?
Y pray þat þou me telle now.’
‘Lord,’ quaþ he, ‘in uncouþe þede,
Þurch a wildernes as Y ȝede,
Þer Y founde, in a dale,
Wiþ lyouns a man totorn smale,
And wolves him frete wiþ teþ so scharp.
Bi him Y fond þis ich[a] harp;
Wele ten ȝere it is ygo.’
‘O,’ quaþ þe steward, ‘now me is wo!
Þat was mi lord, Sir Orfeo.
Allas, wreche, what schal Y do,
Þat have swiche a lord ylore?
Away, þat Ich was ybore!
Þat him was so hard grace yȝarked,
And so vile deþ ymarked!’
Adoun he fel aswon to grounde.
His barouns him toke up in þat stounde,
And telleþ him hou it geþ—
It is no bot of manes deþ.

King Orfeo knewe wele biþan
His steward was a trewe man;
And loved him, as he auȝt to do,
And stont up and seyð þus: ‘Lo,
Steward, herkne now þis þing:
Ȝif Ich were Orfeo þe king,
And hadde ysuffred ful ȝore
In wildernisse miche sore;
And hadde ywon mi quen owy
Out of þe lond of fairy;
And hadde ybrouȝt þe levedi hende
Riȝt here to þe tounes ende,
And wiþ a begger her in ynome;
And were miself hider ycome
Poverlich to þe, þus stille,
For to asay þi gode wille;
And ich founde þe þus trewe,
Þou no schust it never rewe:
Sikerlich, for love or ay,
Þou schust be king after mi day.
Ȝif þou of mi deþ hadest ben bliþe,
Þou schust ben voided also swiþe.’

Þo al þo þat þerein sete
Þat it was King Orfeo underȝete,
And þe steward him wele knewe.
Over and over þe bord he þrewe,
And fel adoun to his fet;
So dede everich lord þat þer sete;
And al þai seyd at o criing:
‘Ȝe beþ our lord, sir, and our king!’

Glad þai were of his live.
To chaumber þai ladde him also blive,
And baþed him, and schaved his berd,
And tired him as a king apert;
And seþþen wiþ gret processioun
Þai brouȝt þe quen into þat toun,
Wiþ al maner menstraci.
Lord, þer was grete melody!
For joie þai wepe wiþ her eiȝe,
Þat hem so sounde ycomen seiȝe.
Now king Orfeo newe coround is,
And his quen Dame Heurodis,
And lived long afterward;
And seþþen was king þe steward.

Harpours in Bretaine afterþan
Herd hou þis mervaile bigan,
And made a lay of gode likeing,
And nempned it after þe king;
Þat lay ‘Orfeo’ is yhote—
Gode is þe lay, swete is þe note.

Þus com Sir Orfeo out of his care;
God graunt ous alle wele to fare.