The Lay of The Purple Falcon A metrical romance, now first printed from the original manuscript, in the possession of the Hon. Robert Curzon [by Reginald Heber] |
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 | The Lay of The Purple Falcon |  |
Here beginneth The Lay of the Purple Faulcon.
Here beginneth the First Boke.
It is a Kynge both fine, & felle,That hyghte Syr Claudyus Pantagruelle,
The fineste, & felleste, more or lesse,
Of alle the Kynges in Heatheness,
That Syre was Soldan of Surrye,
Of Oestrich, & of Cappadocie,
Hys eme was Lorde I vnderstonde
Of all Cathaie, & of Böchman londe,
Serued him by daye, & by nighte,
Therto he made hym a lothely messe,
Euerie mornynge, more or lesse,
A manne childe of vii. yere age,
Therof he seethed hys pottage,
Euerie Knighte who went that waie
Hys nose, or eares, was fayne to paye,
Sothelie as the Romaunts telle,
For ye dinnere of Pantagruelle.
Yn all the londes of Ethiopee,
Was ne so worthie a Kynge as he.
And it befelle upon a daie
Thys Pantagruelle wente to playe,
With hys ladie that was so bryghte,
In her bowere, in alle mennes syghte,
That ladye was hyghte Cycelee,
And therto sange shee,
Alle into Grekysh as she could beste,
Lambeth, Sadek, Apocateste,
Namelye; my loue if thou wouldst wynne
Bring wyth thee a purple Faucon ynne.
Thatte laye made hym sad & soure,
And carefull came he downe the towre,
He layde hys hedde upon a stone,
For sorrowe hys lyf was well nigh gone,
He sobbed amayne & syghed sore,
Alack, Cycele for euermore.
That was ycleped Alphabette,
He donned his bootes made of the skin
Of Loup garrou, & of Gobbelin,
And his Hauberke that was soe harde,
Y-wouen welle of Spykenarde,
Uirgille hadde made that cote armure,
With maumetry, fenced & guarded sure,
Ande Hyppocras, & Aristote,
Had wouen the rynges of that cote,
He toke hys speare that wasse so stronge,
His axe was sharpe, his sworde was longe,
And this device upon hys sheelde,
A red rose yn a grene feelde,
And under in language of Syrie,
Belle rose que tu es jolye.
Here beginneth the Second Boke.
Listen Lordings to the taleOf Pantagruel & hys trauayle.
He passed through Naples & Pycardie,
Babylone, Scotlande & Italie,
And asked of alle as it befelle,
But of no aduenture heard he telle,
Tyl after manie a wearie daye
Lightlie he came to a foreste graye;
Doddered and fringed with misletoe;
Manie an Ashe of paly hue
Whispered in euerie breeze that blew.
Pantagruel hath sworn by Mahoune,
By Termagaunte, & by Abadoune,
By Uenus, that wasse soe stern and stronge,
And Apollo with the hornis longe,
And other fiends of Maumetrie,
That the ende of that foreste he would see.
Lysten Lordings, the truth I telle
Nothing was true that there befelle,
But trees that seemed to flourish free
Flourished by helpe of grammarie.
In thatte londe there nothinge grew,
But broad and dark the boughs of Yew,
And the longe grasse with poyson mixed
Adders coyled & hissed betwixt,
And there that conynge snake he found
That putteth one ear to the ground,
And in the other without faile
He sticketh the ende of his taile,
And so he heareth not the charm
That wizards shouten to his harm,
And tho he is not really deaf
He heeds not what that wizard saith.
In that foreste a man mote see,
No Harte or Hynde or humble bee,
Gaped & grinned his waye before,
And the beste who can falseley weepe,
Crocodilus, was here good chepe,
Satyr, & Leopard, & Tigris,
Bloody Camelopardilis,
And euerie make of beastes bolde,
Nestled & roared in that their holde.
Dayes & nights but onlie .IU.
And Pantagruel did ride no more.
His shoulders were by his helmette worne,
He was a wearie wight forlorne,
And his cheke that was so redde,
Colde & darke as the beaten leade,
His Courser unneath cud further passe,
Yet lothed to taste that euil grasse,
Heauie he clombe from off his stede,
Of hys lyf he stode in drede.
Alacke, Alacke, Cycilee;
Here I die for loue of thee.
And as he sat vpon a stone,
Sothelie he made a dismal mone;
Hard is this stone I sit upon,
Oh that I had a cuission,
But Cicele more hard than this,
Sweet Ladie, is thy heart I wis.
Alack, Alack, Cicele,
Here I die for loue of thee.
Good Mahoud, good Saint Abadone,
Oh good St Termagaunte I pray
Help me at my need this day.
And strait as trustie legends telle
A miracle thereof befelle,
And by the helpe of goode Mahoun,
That stone became as soft as down.
And there the good King sat at ease
Beneath the shadow of those trees.
And it is said that holi stone
Is still preserued at Babilone,
And therof can there be no doubt,
For the impression hollowed out
Of the good Kings form is seen,
And verie grete it was I ween.
Forthe through the thorny brake he paste,
Tylle he came to a poole at laste,
And by that poole of water clere,
Sat a man childe of .vii. yere;
And perchyng on his wriste so free
A purple faucon was to see.
Here beginneth the Thirde Boke.
Now ye shall heare how it befelle,To Sir Claudius Pantagruelle,
How he cried Grammercie?
To saynt Mahound of Arabie,
For I haue found a byrde at laste
And a manchilde for my breakfaste.
Soon as that man childe he spied,
Giue me thy faucon childe, he cried;
Quothe that man childe I schal not.
Schall ye not then, the gode Kinge quothe,
By Termagaunte, ye make me wrothe,
Giue it, & then I will ye eate,
And lay the byrde at Cyceles feet,
Giue me withouten more ado,
Or I will strait demolish you.
With that his lance in rest he set,
The vizor closed of Alphabet,
And merrily the rings did rattle,
Of his hauberke, as he set to battle.
Now ye schall knowe that man childe,
Was of grimme aspecte, & wilde,
Hys backe it was fenced with scales,
On his hondes, he hadde sharpe nailes,
The which were grene, and hooked,
That like the bill of Parrot looked,
They seemed right good to scratt,
To rend also, ye mote see thatte.
Now when he saw ye gode kinge
Right against him gallopinge,
His grislie armes he waued aloft,
And from his wriste the faucon tossed,
Which wheeled in airie circles rounde,
Then settled lightlie on the grounde,
But not content with his station there,
His winges again he spread in aire,
And lit at last on a bough of yew.
Then that manchilde for a lance,
A bulrush plucked, that by chance
Grew near that darkelie ponde,
And he quivered it in his honde.
Come on Syr Kinge, an ye will;
Knowe ye that I am Uirgille,
And of much grammare I wrote,
I weaued the ringis of thy cote,
What I haue made, that I can mar,
And that with lesser pains by far.
I haue been slayne in good soothe,
To restore my bodie to youthe,
And was salted, and barrelled,
Yet for all thatte, I am dead.
Haue ye not heard how all men tell,
I builded the Castle at Neapel,
On eggshellis I raised that towere,
So ye scal know, and dread, my powere.
Quothe Pantagruelle I not care,
Whether a childe, or fiende ye are,
Onlie sitte stille, & I shall see,
Thy nature, and that presentlie.
Thenne that childe gaue a bounde,
And sprang vp like a sleuthe hounde,
With the reede in his handes large,
At the good Kynge he gaue charge.
Of his spurres he had good nede,
So with his faire lance in reste,
He ran his course as he mote beste.
Then should ye hear the woodes around,
With the fierce clang of armes, resound,
Which carried by the fitful breeze,
Scared the hoarse rauen from the trees;
Crocodilus to his den
For verrie feare retreated then,
And Camelopardilis, that
Was feastinge on a dragons fat,
Left the meal for verrie fright
In which he mostlie doth delight;
I haue heard say alwayes,
How they foughten for .vii. dayes,
For .vii. dayes didde they fighte,
Both by the sun, & the moonlighte,
Thei fought with greater salvagenesse
Than anie Tygers, more or lesse,
Both with their lances first began,
And at each other stoutlie ran,
When the Kings lance thatt was soe true
Into a thousande fragments flewe,
Ande so white was each splinter,
Seemed as flakes of snawe in winter,
Or like the spanglis of hoar frost,
From a branch by the wind tossed.
With that bulrush, as I shall tell,
How by witchcraft, and glamaure,
It struck the good Kings armoure,
Soon as it touched the Hauberke,
That was fenced with conynge werke,
With such a deadlie dint it came,
That it flashed forthe a flame,
Ytinciling with mani a sparke,
As lightning, & with smoke darke;
Thenne there came oer a heauie cloude,
With mightie winde, & thondir loude,
And with a screame would make ye feared
Thatte childe of Euil disappeared;
But as he wente he lefte behinde
A uapoure thick, as ye scall finde,
Thicke as a fogge that sometime is
In London Citie founde, I wis.
Of sulphure also was a smelle,
The which vexed Pantagruelle,
In Picardie, or Fraunce, I thinke,
Was neuer smelt so foul a stinke,
In Babylone, or Scotlande,
Soe broade a stinke was not founde,
A smel so loathlie I suppose,
Did seldome enter mortall nose,
That smel it was of such deuise,
It brought the tears into his eyes,
It scall not laste so verrie longe.
But Pantagruele was deluded,
Faster, and stronger, it exuded,
Untille almoste, as it is said,
He thought to haue been poysoned.
It was the greatest stink I guess,
Was euer stonken, more or less,
Tho tired vnto wearinesse
The King was bolde and dauntelesse,
Altho he stode there half a day,
Pantagruele would not give way.
But the Kings patience went at laste,
In his good saddle sot he faste,
His nose he helde, he clenched his teeth,
And steadfastly he held his breath.
Right through that vapour did he charge,
To where upon a Yew tree large,
On a fayre branch aboue his head
The purpure faucon was perched.
Loudlie this couplete songe she,
Beau sire, que vous etes joli.
Quothe Pantagruele, I would well
That songe was chaunted by Cycell.
And in the Cappadocie tounge,
The good Kinge to the Faucon sunge,
Ah vilaine bete te rotirai,
Meaning sweet byrde come down I pray.
And straitway downwards he flew,
So turninge with a certaine twiste,
He pyrchede on the goode Kynges wriste.
When he hadde him the goode Kynge
Thereto he did a pleasaunte thinge,
That the purpure faucon solde not peck,
Nor scratch alsoe he ronge his neck,
And crammed him in a pockette,
That by his sterne was featly sette.
In that pocket it was soe deep,
Full much did Pantagruele keep,
That is of candels, & .iii. bones,
And cheese, & stringe, & certayne stones,
A cyndere, & .ii. ratte trappes,
A spone, and eke a knife, perhaps,
Some Koblyrs waxe, & moche golde,
Yette other chattels did it holde,
Whatte else was there I scall not say,
But scall tell ye all another day.
And here beginneth the Fourthe Boke.
Now fair ladies wot ye wellRight pleased was Pantagruele,
He scuylede, & he laughed stronge,
And thus he sang as he rode alonge,
A byrde in honde is better fare,
Than .ij. that on the braunches are,
And to hys castle home he wente
Right debonaire, with swete contente;
Saw ye Sunshine on his helmette,
As Pantagruelle pricked his beste,
Through the trees and glades of the forreste.
Theron, into his horne he blew,
A righte faire blaste, Tee too ra loo?
But that al men there presente,
Should know what that blaste meant,
Being a lustie man, & stout,
Maruelouslie did he shout,
Welcome, welcome, Master braue,
St Termagaunte thy worship saue;
lxx. dukes that were so wight,
Hearing the news thei grynned outright,
All that the Castle did possesse
Were sorely pleased, more or lesse,
All his Yeomen that were so harde,
Ran they down to the Castle yarde,
And the good Kynge rode thro the croud,
Greeted with acclamations loud,
So loud and joyeouse was that greeting,
Wore out an echo with repeating,
Long had it been an echo goode,
And spoke as euerie echo shoulde,
But euer since that happie day,
Neuer a word did the echo say,
Nor for the minstrel is it mete
That he should all he knew repeate,
And her true loue Pantagruel,
Featlie vpon his knee he bent,
Ladie, the Faucon, I present.
Deign to accept the homage too,
Of him who risked his life for you,
Fain would I offer you my heart,
Could I that guerdon yet impart,
But fairest Cycilee you know
Your beautie stole it long ago,
Yet oure again I pray you take,
The Heart that you must keep or break.
That ladie faire no answer made;
But in her bowere longe he stayede,
And on faire Cyceles cheek I wisse,
He planted full mani a lovinge kisse,
More than she liked I ween, for then
Tis said she gaue them back again.
Now in that Princely Castles hall
The nobles feasted great and small,
Ale, & Wine, & Meade, they quaffed,
And merrilie they sung, & laughed,
Of a man childe of .vij. years,
Each had a slice; the nose, & ears,
Of a younge Knight that were so nice,
And roasted eggs of Cocatrice,
Had the good King for his own share
Neuer was seen such daintie fare;
And as the Tankard passed around,
Firste was the heathen prouerbe hearde,
That, Uirtue is its own rewarde.
CI FINIT Li lai du Bon et digne Roi
SYR CLAUDIUS PANTAGRUELLE.
| The Lay of The Purple Falcon | |