Title:   The Book of the Duchess and other Poems

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Author:   Geoffrey Chaucer

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The Book of the Duchess and other Poems

Geoffrey Chaucer

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The Book of the Duchess....................................................................................................................................1

Geoffrey Chaucer .....................................................................................................................................1

The Book of the Duchess and other Poems

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The Book of the Duchess

Geoffrey Chaucer

The Book of the Duchess 

The Proem 

The Dream 

The House of Fame 

Book I 

Book II 

Book III 

The Parliament of Fowles 

The Proem 

The Story  

THE PROEM

             I have gret wonder, be this lighte,

             How that I live, for day ne nighte

             I may nat slepe wel nigh noght,

             I have so many an ydel thoght

             Purely for defaute of slepe

             That, by my trouthe, I take no kepe

             Of nothing, how hit cometh or goth,

             Ne me nis nothing leef nor loth.

             Al is yliche good to me 

             Ioye or sorowe, wherso hyt be 

             For I have feling in nothinge,

             But, as it were, a mased thing,

             Alway in point to falle adoun;

             For sorwful imaginacioun

             Is alway hoolly in my minde.

                  And wel ye wite, agaynes kynde

             Hit were to liven in this wyse;

             For nature wolde nat suffyse

             To noon erthely creature

             Not longe tyme to endure

             Withoute slepe, and been in sorwe;

             And I ne may, ne night ne morwe,

             Slepe; and thus melancolye

             And dreed I have for to dye,

             Defaute of slepe and hevinesse

             Hath sleyn my spirit of quiknesse,

             That I have lost al lustihede.

             Suche fantasies ben in myn hede

             So I not what is best to do.

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But men myght axe me, why soo

             I may not slepe, and what me is?

             But natheles, who aske this

             Leseth his asking trewely.

             Myselven can not telle why

             The sooth; but trewely, as I gesse,

             I holde hit be a siknesse

             That I have suffred this eight yere,

             And yet my bote is never the nere;

             For ther is phisicien but oon,

             That may me hele; but that is doon.

             Passe we over until eft;

             That wil not be, moot nede be left;

             Our first matere is good to kepe.

                  So whan I saw I might not slepe,

             Til now late, this other night,

             Upon my bedde I sat upright

             And bad oon reche me a book,

             A romaunce, and he hit me took

             To rede and dryve the night away;

             For me thoghte it better play

             Then playen either at chesse or tables.

                  And in this boke were writen fables

             That clerkes hadde, in olde tyme,

             And other poets, put in ryme

             To rede, and for to be in minde

             Whyl men loved the lawe of kinde.

             This book ne spak but of such thinges,

             Of quenes lyves, and of kinges,

             And many othere thinges smale.

             Amonge al this I fond a tale

             That me thoughte a wonder thing.

                  This was the tale: There was a king

             That hight Seys, and hadde a wyf,

             The beste that mighte bere lyf;

             And this quene hight Alcyone.

             So hit befel, therafter sone,

             This king wolde wenden over see.

             To tellen shortly, whan that he

             Was in the see, thus in this wyse,

             Soche a tempest gan to ryse

             That brak hir mast, and made it falle,

             And clefte her ship, and dreinte hem alle,

             That never was founden, as it telles,

             Bord ne man, ne nothing elles.

             Right thus this king Seys loste his lyf.

                  Now for to speken of his wife: 

             This lady, that was left at home,

             Hath wonder, that the king ne come

             Hoom, for hit was a longe terme.

             Anon her herte gan to erme;

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And for that hir thoughte evermo

             Hit was not wel he dwelte so,

             She longed so after the king

             That certes, hit were a pitous thing

             To telle hir hertely sorwful lyf

             That hadde, alas! this noble wyfe;

             For him she loved alderbest.

             Anon she sente bothe eest and west

             To seke him, but they founde nought.

                  `Alas!' quoth she, `that I was wrought!

             And wher my lord, my love, be deed?

             Certes, I nil never ete breed,

             I make avowe to my god here,

             But I mowe of my lord here!'

             Such sorwe this lady to her took

             That trewely I, which made this book,

             Had swich pite and swich rowthe

             To rede hir sorwe, that, by my trowthe,

             I ferde the worse al the morwe

             After, to thenken on her sorwe.

                  So whan she coude here no word

             That no man mighte fynde hir lord,

             Ful ofte she swouned, and saide `Alas!'

             For sorwe ful nigh wood she was,

             Ne she coude no reed but oon;

             But doun on knees she sat anoon,

             And weep, that pite was to here.

                  `A! mercy! swete lady dere!'

             Quod she to Iuno, hir goddesse;

             `Help me out of this distresse,

             And yeve me grace my lord to see

             Sone, or wite wherso he be,

             Or how he fareth, or in what wyse,

             And I shal make you sacrifyse,

             And hoolly youres become I shal

             With good wil, body, herte, and al;

             And but thou wilt this, lady swete,

             Send me grace to slepe, and mete

             In my slepe som certeyn sweven,

             Wherthrough that I may knowen even

             Whether my lord be quik or deed.'

             With that word she heng doun the heed,

             And fil aswown as cold as ston;

             Hir women caught her up anon,

             And broghten hir in bed al naked,

             And she, forweped and forwaked,

             Was wery, and thus the dede sleep

             Fil on hir, or she toke keep,

             Through Iuno, that had herd hir bone,

             That made hir to slepe sone;

             For as she prayde, so was don,

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In dede; for Iuno, right anon,

             Called thus her messagere

             To do her erande, and he com nere.

             Whan he was come, she bad him thus:

             `Go bet,' quod Iuno, `to Morpheus,

             Thou knowest hym wel, the god of sleep;

             Now understond wel, and tak keep.

             Sey thus on my halfe, that he

             Go faste into the grete see,

             And bid him that, on alle thing,

             He take up Seys body the king,

             That lyth ful pale and nothing rody.

             Bid him crepe into the body,

             Aud do it goon to Alcyone

             The quene, ther she lyth alone,

             And shewe hir shortly, hit is no nay,

             How hit was dreynt this other day;

             And do the body speke so

             Right as hit was wont to do,

             The whyles that hit was on lyve.

             Go now faste, and hy thee blyve!'

                  This messager took leve and wente

             Upon his wey, and never ne stente

             Til he com to the derke valeye

             That stant bytwene roches tweye,

             Ther never yet grew corn ne gras,

             Ne tree, ne nothing that ought was,

             Beste, ne man, ne nothing elles,

             Save ther were a fewe welles

             Came renning fro the cliffes adoun,

             That made a deedly sleping soun,

             And ronnen doun right by a cave

             That was under a rokke ygrave

             Amid the valey, wonder depe.

             Ther thise goddes laye and slepe,

             Morpheus, and Eclympasteyre,

             That was the god of slepes heyre,

             That slepe and did non other werk.

                  This cave was also as derk

             As helle pit overal aboute;

             They had good leyser for to route

             To envye, who might slepe beste;

             Some henge hir chin upon hir breste

             And slepe upright, hir heed yhed,

             And some laye naked in hir bed,

             And slepe whyles the dayes laste.

                  This messager come flying faste,

             And cryed, `O ho! awake anon!'

             Hit was for noght; ther herde him non.

             `Awak!' quod he, `who is, lyth there?'

             And blew his horn right in hir ere,

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And cryed `awaketh!' wonder hye.

             This god of slepe, with his oon ye

             Cast up, axed, `who clepeth there?'

             `Hit am I,' quod this messagere;

             `Iuno bad thou shuldest goon' 

             And tolde him what he shulde doon

             As I have told yow heretofore;

             Hit is no need reherse hit more;

             And wente his wey, whan he had sayd.

                  Anon this god of slepe abrayd

             Out of his slepe, and gan to goon,

             And did as he had bede him doon;

             Took up the dreynte body sone,

             And bar hit forth to Alcyone,

             His wif the quene, theras she lay,

             Right even a quarter before day,

             And stood right at hir beddes fete,

             And called hir, right as she hete,

             By name, and sayde, `my swete wyf,

             Awak! let be your sorwful lyf!

             For in your sorwe there lyth no reed;

             For certes, swete, I nam but deed;

             Ye shul me never on lyve ysee.

             But good swete herte, look that ye

             Bury my body, at whiche a tyde

             Ye mowe hit finde the see besyde;

             And farwel, swete, my worldes blisse!

             I praye god your sorwe lisse;

             To litel whyl our blisse lasteth!'

                  With that hir eyen up she casteth,

             And saw noght; `A!' quod she, `for sorwe!'

             And deyed within the thridde morwe.

             But what she sayde more in that swow

             I may not telle yow as now,

             Hit were to longe for to dwelle;

             My first matere I wil yow telle,

             Wherfor I have told this thing

             Of Alcione and Seys the king.

                  For thus moche dar I saye wel,

             I had be dolven everydel,

             And deed, right through defaute of sleep,

             If I nad red and taken keep

             Of this tale next before:

             And I wol telle yow wherfore:

             For I ne might, for bote ne bale,

             Slepe, or I had red this tale

             Of this dreynte Seys the king,

             And of the goddes of sleping.

             Whan I had red this tale wel

             And overloked hit everydel,

             Me thoughte wonder if hit were so;

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For I had never herd speke, or tho,

             Of no goddes that coude make

             Men for to slepe, ne for to wake;

             For I ne knew never god but oon.

             And in my game I sayde anoon 

             And yet me list right evel to pleye 

             `Rather then that I shulde deye

             Through defaute of sleping thus,

             I wolde yive thilke Morpheus,

             Or his goddesse, dame Iuno,

             Or som wight elles, I ne roghte who 

             To make me slepe and have som reste 

             I wil yive him the alderbeste

             Yift that ever he aboode his lyve,

             And here on warde, right now, as blyve;

             If he wol make me slepe a lyte,

             Of downe of pure dowves whyte

             I wil yive him a fetherbed,

             Rayed with golde, and right wel cled

             In fyn blak satin doutremere,

             And many a pilow, and every bere

             Of clothe of Reynes, to slepe softe;

             Him thar not nede to turnen ofte.

             And I wol yive him al that falles

             To a chambre; and al his halles

             I wol do peynte with pure golde,

             And tapite hem ful many folde

             Of oo sute; this shal he have,

             Yf I wiste wher were his cave,

             If he can make me slepe sone,

             As did the goddesse Alcione.

             And thus this ilke god, Morpheus,

             May winne of me mo fees thus

             Than ever he wan; and to Iuno,

             That is his goddesse, I shal so do,

             I trow that she shal holde her payd.'

                  I hadde unneth that word ysayd

             Right thus as I have told hit yow,

             That sodeynly, I niste how,

             Swich a lust anoon me took

             To slepe, that right upon my book

             I fil aslepe, and therwith even

             Me mette so inly swete a sweven,

             So wonderful, that never yit

             I trowe no man hadde the wit

             To conne wel my sweven rede;

             No, not Ioseph, withoute drede,

             Of Egipte, he that redde so

             The kinges meting Pharao,

             No more than coude the leste of us;

             Ne nat scarsly Macrobeus,

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(He that wroot al thavisioun

             That he mette, Kyng Scipioun,

             The noble man, the Affrican 

             Swiche marvayles fortuned than)

             I trowe, arede my dremes even.

             Lo, thus hit was, this was my sweven.

                  THE DREAM

             Me thoughte thus:  that hit was May,

             And in the dawning ther I lay,

             Me mette thus, in my bed al naked: 

             I loked forth, for I was waked

             With smale foules a gret hepe,

             That had affrayed me out of slepe

             Through noyse and swetnesse of hir song;

             And, as me mette, they sate among,

             Upon my chambreroof withoute,

             Upon the tyles, al aboute,

             And songen, everich in his wise,

             The moste solempne servyse

             By note, that ever man, I trowe,

             Had herd; for som of hem song lowe,

             Som hye, and al of oon acorde.

             To telle shortly, at oo worde,

             Was never yherd so swete a steven,

             But hit had be a thing of heven; 

             So mery a soun, so swete entunes,

             That certes, for the toune of Tewnes,

             I nolde but I had herd hem singe,

             For al my chambre gan to ringe

             Through singing of hir armonye.

             For instrument nor melodye

             Was nowher herd yet half so swete,

             Nor of acorde half so mete;

             For ther was noon of hem that feyned

             To singe, for ech of hem him peyned

             To finde out mery crafty notes;

             They ne spared not hir throtes.

             And, sooth to seyn, my chambre was

             Ful wel depeynted, and with glas

             Were al the windowes wel yglased,

             Ful clere, and nat an hole ycrased,

             That to beholde hit was gret Ioye.

             For hoolly al the storie of Troye

             Was in the glasing ywroght thus,

             Of Ector and of king Priamus,

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Of Achilles and king Lamedon,

             Of Medea and of Iason,

             Of Paris, Eleyne, and Lavyne.

             And alle the walles with colours fyne

             Were peynted, bothe text and glose,

             Of al the Romaunce of the Rose.

             My windowes weren shet echon,

             And through the glas the sunne shon

             Upon my bed with brighte bemes,

             With many glade gilden stremes;

             And eek the welken was so fair,

             Blew, bright, clere was the air,

             And ful atempre, for sothe, hit was;

             For nother cold nor hoot hit nas,

             Ne in al the welken was a cloude.

                  And as I lay thus, wonder loude

             Me thoughte I herde an hunte blowe

             Tassaye his horn, and for to knowe

             Whether hit were clere or hors of soune.

                  I herde goinge, up and doune,

             Men, hors, houndes, and other thing;

             And al men speken of hunting,

             How they wolde slee the hert with strengthe,

             And how the hert had, upon lengthe,

             So moche embosed,I not now what.

             Anonright, whan I herde that,

             How that they wolde on hunting goon,

             I was right glad, and up anoon;

             I took my hors, and forth I wente

             Out of my chambre; I never stente

             Til I com to the feld withoute.

             Ther overtook I a gret route

             Of huntes and eek of foresteres,

             With many relayes and lymeres,

             And hyed hem to the forest faste,

             And I with hem;  so at the laste

             I asked oon, ladde a lymere: 

             `Say, felow, who shal hunten here'

             Quod I, and he answerde ageyn,

             `Sir, themperour Octovien,'

             Quod he, `and is heer faste by.'

             `A goddes halfe, in good tyme,' quod I,

             `Go we faste!' and gan to ryde.

             Whan we came to the forestsyde,

             Every man dide, right anoon,

             As to hunting fil to doon.

             The maysterhunte anoon, fothoot,

             With a gret horne blew three moot

             At the uncoupling of his houndes.

             Within a whyl the hert yfounde is,

             Yhalowed, and rechased faste

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Longe tyme; and so at the laste,

             This hert rused and stal away

             Fro alle the houndes a prevy way.

             The houndes had overshote hem alle,

             And were on a defaute yfalle;

             Therwith the hunte wonder faste

             Blew a forloyn at the laste.

                  I was go walked fro my tree,

             And as I wente, ther cam by me

             A whelp, that fauned me as I stood,

             That hadde yfolowed, and coude no good.

             Hit com and creep to me as lowe,

             Right as hit hadde me yknowe,

             Hild doun his heed and Ioyned his eres,

             And leyde al smothe doun his heres.

             I wolde han caught hit, and anoon

             Hit fledde, and was fro me goon;

             And I him folwed, and hit forth wente

             Doun by a floury grene wente

             Ful thikke of gras, ful softe and swete,

             With floures fele, faire under fete,

             And litel used, hit seemed thus;

             For bothe Flora and Zephirus,

             They two that make floures growe,

             Had mad hir dwelling ther, I trowe;

             For hit was, on to beholde,

             As thogh the erthe envye wolde

             To be gayer than the heven,

             To have mo floures, swiche seven

             As in the welken sterres be.

             Hit had forgete the povertee

             That winter, through his colde morwes,

             Had mad hit suffren, and his sorwes;

             Al was forgeten, and that was sene.

             For al the wode was waxen grene,

             Swetnesse of dewe had mad it waxe.

                  Hit is no need eek for to axe

             Wher ther were many grene greves,

             Or thikke of trees, so ful of leves;

             And every tree stood by himselve

             Fro other wel ten foot or twelve.

             So grete trees, so huge of strengthe,

             Of fourty or fifty fadme lengthe,

             Clene withoute bough or stikke,

             With croppes brode, and eek as thikke 

             They were nat an inche asonder 

             That hit was shadwe overal under;

             And many an hert and many an hinde

             Was both before me and bihinde.

             Of founes, soures, bukkes, does

             Was ful the wode, and many roes,

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And many squirelles that sete

             Ful hye upon the trees, and ete,

             And in hir maner made festes.

             Shortly, hit was so ful of bestes,

             That thogh Argus, the noble countour,

             Sete to rekene in his countour,

             And rekened with his figures ten 

             For by tho figures mowe al ken,

             If they be crafty, rekene and noumbre,

             And telle of every thing the noumbre 

             Yet shulde he fayle to rekene even

             The wondres, me mette in my sweven.

                  But forth they romed wonder faste

             Doun the wode; so at the laste

             I was war of a man in blak,

             That sat and had yturned his bak

             To an oke, an huge tree.

             `Lord,' thoghte I, `who may that be?

             What ayleth him to sitten here?'

             Anoonright I wente nere;

             Than fond I sitte even upright

             A wonder welfaringe knight 

             By the maner me thoughte so 

             Of good mochel, and yong therto,

             Of the age of four and twenty yeer.

             Upon his berde but litel heer,

             And he was clothed al in blakke.

             I stalked even unto his bakke,

             And ther I stood as stille as ought,

             That, sooth to saye, he saw me nought,

             Forwhy he heng his heed adoune.

             And with a deedly sorwful soune

             He made of ryme ten vers or twelve

             Of a compleynt to himselve,

             The moste pite, the moste rowthe,

             That ever I herde; for, by my trowthe,

             Hit was gret wonder that nature

             Might suffren any creature

             To have swich sorwe, and be not deed.

             Ful pitous, pale, and nothing reed,

             He sayde a lay, a maner song,

             Withoute note, withoute song,

             And hit was this; for wel I can

             Reherse hit; right thus hit began. 

                  `I have of sorwe so grete woon,

             That Ioye gete I never noon,

                  Now that I see my lady bright,

                  Which I have loved with al my might,

             Is fro me dedd, and is agoon.

             And thus in sorwe lefte me alone.

                  `Allas, o deeth! what ayleth thee,

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That thou noldest have taken me,

                  `Whan that thou toke my lady swete?

             That was so fayr, so fresh, so free,

             So good, that men may wel ysee

                  `Of al goodnesse she had no mete!' 

             Whan he had mad thus his complaynte,

             His sorowful herte gan faste faynte,

             And his spirites wexen dede;

             The blood was fled, for pure drede,

             Doun to his herte, to make him warm 

             For wel hit feled the herte had harm 

             To wite eek why hit was adrad,

             By kinde, and for to make hit glad;

             For hit is membre principal

             Of the body; and that made al

             His hewe chaunge and wexe grene

             And pale, for no blood was sene

             In no maner lime of his.

                  Anoon therwith whan I saw this,

             He ferde thus evel ther he sete,

             I wente and stood right at his fete,

             And grette him, but he spak noght,

             But argued with his owne thoght,

             And in his witte disputed faste

             Why and how his lyf might laste;

             Him thoughte his sorwes were so smerte

             And lay so colde upon his herte;

             So, through his sorwe and hevy thoght,

             Made him that he ne herde me noght;

             For he had wel nigh lost his minde,

             Thogh Pan, that men clepe god of kinde,

             Were for his sorwes never so wrooth.

                  But at the laste, to sayn right sooth,

             He was war of me, how I stood

             Before him, and dide of myn hood,

             And grette him, as I best coude.

             Debonairly, and nothing loude,

             He sayde, `I prey thee, be not wrooth,

             I herde thee not, to sayn the sooth,

             Ne I saw thee not, sir, trewely.'

                  `A! goode sir, no fors,' quod I,

             `I am right sory if I have ought

             Destroubled yow out of your thought;

             Foryive me if I have mistake.'

                  `Yis, thamendes is light to make,'

             Quod he, `for ther lyth noon therto;

             Ther is nothing missayd nor do,'

                  Lo! how goodly spak this knight,

             As it had been another wight;

             He made it nouther tough ne queynte

             And I saw that, and gan me aqueynte

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With him, and fond him so tretable,

             Right wonder skilful and resonable,

             As me thoghte, for al his bale.

             Anoonright I gan finde a tale

             To him, to loke wher I might ought

             Have more knowing of his thought.

                  `Sir,' quod I, `this game is doon;

             I holde that this hert be goon;

             Thise huntes conne him nowher see.'

                  `I do no fors therof,' quod he,

             `My thought is theron never a del.'

                  `By our lord,' quod I, `I trow yow wel,

             Right so me thinketh by your chere.

             But, sir, oo thing wol ye here?

             Me thinketh, in gret sorwe I yow see;

             But certes, good sir, yif that ye

             Wolde ought discure me your wo,

             I wolde, as wis god help me so,

             Amende hit, yif I can or may;

             Ye mowe preve hit by assay.

             For, by my trouthe, to make yow hool,

             I wol do al my power hool;

             And telleth me of your sorwes smerte,

             Paraventure hit may ese your herte,

             That semeth ful seke under your syde.'

                  With that he loked on me asyde,

             As who sayth, `Nay, that wol not be.'

             `Graunt mercy, goode frend,' quod he,

             `I thanke thee that thou woldest so,

             But hit may never the rather be do,

             No man may my sorwe glade,

             That maketh my hewe to falle and fade,

             And hath myn understonding lorn,

             That me is wo that I was born!

             May noght make my sorwes slyde,

             Nought the remedies of Ovyde;

             Ne Orpheus, god of melodye,

             Ne Dedalus, with playes slye;

             Ne hele me may phisicien,

             Noght Ypocras, ne Galien;

             Me is wo that I live houres twelve;

             But who so wol assaye himselve

             Whether his herte can have pite

             Of any sorwe, lat him see me.

             I wrecche, that deeth hath mad al naked

             Of alle blisse that ever was maked,

             Yworthe worste of alle wightes,

             That hate my dayes and my nightes;

             My lyf, my lustes be me lothe,

             For al welfare and I be wrothe.

             The pure deeth is so my fo

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Page No 15

Thogh I wolde deye, hit wolde not so;

             For whan I folwe hit, hit wol flee;

             I wolde have hit, hit nil not me.

             This is my peyne withoute reed,

             Alway deinge and be not deed,

             That Sesiphus, that lyth in helle,

             May not of more sorwe telle.

             And who so wiste al, be my trouthe,

             My sorwe, but he hadde routhe

             And pite of my sorwes smerte,

             That man hath a feendly herte.

             For who so seeth me first on morwe

             May seyn, he hath ymet with sorwe;

             For I am sorwe and sorwe is I.

                  `Allas! and I wol telle the why;

             My song is turned to pleyning,

             And al my laughter to weping,

             My glade thoghtes to hevinesse,

             In travaile is myn ydelnesse

             And eek my reste; my wele is wo,

             My goode is harm, and evermo

             In wrathe is turned my pleying,

             And my delyt into sorwing.

             Myn hele is turned into seeknesse,

             In drede is al my sikernesse.

             To derke is turned al my light,

             My wit is foly, my day is night,

             My love is hate, my sleep waking,

             My mirthe and meles is fasting,

             My countenaunce is nycete,

             And al abaved wherso I be,

             My pees, in pleding and in werre;

             Allas! how mighte I fare werre?

                  `My boldnesse is turned to shame,

             For fals Fortune hath pleyd a game

             Atte ches with me, allas! the whyle!

             The trayteresse fals and ful of gyle,

             That al behoteth and nothing halt,

             She goth upryght and yet she halt,

             That baggeth foule and loketh faire,

             The dispitouse debonaire,

             That scorneth many a creature!

             An ydole of fals portraiture

             Is she, for she wil sone wryen;

             She is the monstres heed ywryen,

             As filth over ystrawed with floures;

             Hir moste worship and hir flour is

             To lyen, for that is hir nature;

             Withoute feyth, lawe, or mesure.

             She is fals; and ever laughinge

             With oon eye, and that other wepinge.

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That is broght up, she set al doun.

             I lykne hir to the scorpioun,

             That is a fals, flateringe beste;

             For with his hede he maketh feste,

             But al amid his flateringe

             With his tayle he wol stinge,

             And envenyme; and so wol she.

             She is thenvyouse charite

             That is ay fals, and seemeth wele,

             So turneth she hir false whele

             Aboute, for it is nothing stable,

             Now by the fyre, now at table;

             Ful many oon hath she thus yblent;

             She is pley of enchauntement,

             That semeth oon and is not so,

             The false theef! what hath she do,

             Trowest thou? By our lord, I wol thee seye.

             Atte ches with me she gan to pleye;

             With hir false draughtes divers

             She stal on me, and took my fers.

             And whan I saw my fers aweye,

             Alas! I couthe no lenger playe,

             But seyde, "Farewel, swete, ywis,

             And farwel al that ever ther is!"

             Therwith Fortune seyde, "Chek here!"

             And "Mate!" in mid pointe of the chekkere

             With a poune erraunt, allas!

             Ful craftier to pley she was

             Than Athalus, that made the game

             First of the ches: so was his name.

             But God wolde I had ones or twyes

             Ykoud and knowe the Ieupardyes

             That coude the Grek Pithagores!

             I shulde have pleyd the bet at ches,

             And kept my fers the bet therby;

             And thogh wherto? for trewely,

             I hold that wish nat worth a stree!

             Hit had be never the bet for me.

             For Fortune can so many a wyle,

             Ther be but fewe can hir begyle,

             And eek she is the las to blame;

             Myself I wolde have do the same,

             Before god, hadde I been as she;

             She oghte the more excused be.

             For this I say yet more therto,

             Hadde I be god and mighte have do

             My wille, whan she my fers caughte,

             I wolde have drawe the same draughte.

             For, also wis god yive me reste,

             I dar wel swere she took the beste!

                  `But through that draughte I have lorn

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Page No 17

My blisse; allas! that I was born!

             For evermore, I trowe trewly,

             For al my wil, my lust hoolly

             Is turned; but yet what to done?

             Be oure lord, hit is to deye sone;

             For nothing I ne leve it noght,

             But live and deye right in this thoght.

             There nis planete in firmament,

             Ne in air, ne in erthe, noon element,

             That they ne yive me a yift echoon

             Of weping, whan I am aloon.

             For whan that I avyse me wel,

             And bethenke me everydel,

             How that ther lyth in rekening,

             In my sorwe for nothing;

             And how ther leveth no gladnesse

             May gladde me of my distresse,

             And how I have lost suffisance,

             And therto I have no plesance,

             Than may I say, I have right noght.

             And whan al this falleth in my thoght,

             Allas! than am I overcome!

             For that is doon is not to come!

             I have more sorowe than Tantale.'

                  And whan I herde him telle this tale

             Thus pitously, as I yow telle,

             Unnethe mighte I lenger dwelle,

             Hit dide myn hert so moche wo.

                  `A! good sir!' quod I, `say not so!

             Have som pite on your nature

             That formed yow to creature,

             Remembre yow of Socrates;

             For he ne counted nat three strees

             Of noght that Fortune coude do.`

                  `No,' quod he, `I can not so.'

                  `Why so? good sir! parde!' quod I;

             `Ne say noght so, for trewely,

             Thogh ye had lost the ferses twelve,

             And ye for sorwe mordred yourselve,

             Ye sholde be dampned in this cas

             By as good right as Medea was,

             That slow hir children for Iason;

             And Phyllis als for Demophon

             Heng hirself, so weylaway!

             For he had broke his termeday

             To come to hir. Another rage

             Had Dydo, quene eek of Cartage,

             That slow hirself for Eneas

             Was fals; a whiche a fool she was!

             And Ecquo dyed for Narcisus.

             Nolde nat love hir; and right thus

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Page No 18

Hath many another foly don.

             And for Dalida died Sampson,

             That slow himself with a pilere.

             But ther is noon alyve here

             Wolde for a fers make this wo!'

                  `Why so?' quod he; `hit is nat so,

             Thou woste ful litel what thou menest;

             I have lost more than thow wenest.'

             `Lo, sir, how may that be?' quod I;

             `Good sir, tel me al hoolly

             In what wyse, how, why, and wherfore

             That ye have thus your blisse lore,'

                  `Blythly,' quod he, `com sit adoun,

             I telle thee up condicioun

             That thou hoolly, with al thy wit,

             Do thyn entent to herkene hit.'

             `Yis, sir.' `Swere thy trouthe therto.'

             `Gladly.' `Do than holde herto!'

             `I shal right blythly, so god me save,

             Hoolly, with al the witte I have,

             Here yow, as wel as I can,'

                  `A goddes half!' quod he, and began: 

             `Sir,' quod he, `sith first I couthe

             Have any maner wit fro youthe,

             Or kyndely understonding

             To comprehende, in any thing,

             What love was, in myn owne wit,

             Dredeles, I have ever yit

             Be tributary, and yiven rente

             To love hoolly with goode entente,

             And through plesaunce become his thral,

             With good wil, body, herte, and al.

             Al this I putte in his servage,

             As to my lorde, and dide homage;

             And ful devoutly prayde him to,

             He shulde besette myn herte so,

             That it plesaunce to him were,

             And worship to my lady dere.

                  `And this was longe, and many a yeer

             Or that myn herte was set owher,

             That I did thus, and niste why;

             I trowe hit cam me kindely.

             Paraunter I was therto most able

             As a whyt wal or a table;

             For hit is redy to cacche and take

             Al that men wil therin make,

             Wherso so men wol portreye or peynte,

             Be the werkes never so queynte.

                  `And thilke tyme I ferde so

             I was able to have lerned tho,

             And to have coud as wel or better,

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Paraunter, other art or letter.

             But for love cam first in my thought,

             Therfore I forgat hit nought.

             I chees love to my firste craft,

             Therfor hit is with me ylaft.

             Forwhy I took hit of so yong age,

             That malice hadde my corage

             Nat that tyme turned to nothing

             Through to mochel knowleching.

             For that tyme youthe, my maistresse,

             Governed me in ydelnesse;

             For hit was in my firste youthe,

             And tho ful litel good I couthe,

             For al my werkes were flittinge,

             And al my thoghtes varyinge;

             Al were to me yliche good,

             That I knew tho; but thus hit stood.

                  `Hit happed that I cam on a day

             Into a place, ther I say,

             Trewly, the fayrest companye

             Of ladies that ever man with ye

             Had seen togedres in oo place.

             Shal I clepe hit hap other grace

             That broght me ther? nay, but Fortune,

             That is to lyen ful comune,

             The false trayteresse, pervers,

             God wolde I coude clepe hir wers!

             For now she worcheth me ful wo,

             And I wol telle sone why so.

                  `Among thise ladies thus echoon,

             Soth to seyn, I saw ther oon

             That was lyk noon of al the route;

             For I dar swere, withoute doute,

             That as the someres sonne bright

             Is fairer, clere, and hath more light

             Than any planete, is in heven,

             The mone, or the sterres seven,

             For al the worlde so had she

             Surmounted hem alle of beaute,

             Of maner and of comlinesse,

             Of stature and wel set gladnesse,

             Of goodlihede so wel beseye 

             Shortly, what shal I more seye?

             By god, and by his halwes twelve,

             It was my swete, right al hirselve!

             She had so stedfast countenaunce,

             So noble port and meyntenaunce.

             And Love, that had herd my bone,

             Had espyed me thus sone,

             That she ful sone, in my thoght,

             As helpe me god, so was ycaught

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Page No 20

So sodenly, that I ne took

             No maner reed but at hir look

             And at myn herte; forwhy hir eyen

             So gladly, I trow, myn herte seyen,

             That purely tho myn owne thoght

             Seyde hit were bet serve hir for noght

             Than with another to be wel.

             And hit was sooth, for, everydel,

             I wil anoonright telle thee why.

                  I saw hir daunce so comlily,

             Carole and singe so swetely,

             Laughe and pleye so womanly,

             And loke so debonairly,

             So goodly speke and so frendly,

             That certes, I trow, that evermore

             Nas seyn so blisful a tresore.

             For every heer upon hir hede,

             Soth to seyn, hit was not rede,

             Ne nouther yelw, ne broun hit nas;

             Me thoghte, most lyk gold hit was.

             And whiche eyen my lady hadde!

             Debonair, goode, glade, and sadde,

             Simple, of good mochel, noght to wyde;

             Therto hir look nas not asyde,

             Ne overthwert, but beset so wel,

             Hit drew and took up, everydel,

             Alle that on hir gan beholde.

             Hir eyen semed anoon she wolde

             Have mercy; fooles wenden so;

             But hit was never the rather do.

             Hit nas no countrefeted thing,

             It was hir owne pure loking,

             That the goddesse, dame Nature,

             Had made hem opene by mesure,

             And close; for, were she never so glad,

             Hir loking was not foly sprad,

             Ne wildely, thogh that she pleyde;

             But ever, me thoght, hir eyen seyde,

             "By god, my wrathe is al foryive!"

                  `Therwith hir liste so wel to live,

             That dulnesse was of hir adrad.

             She nas to sobre ne to glad;

             In alle thinges more mesure

             Had never, I trowe, creature.

             But many oon with hir loke she herte,

             And that sat hir ful lyte at herte,

             For she knew nothing of her thoght;

             But whether she knew, or knew hit noght,

             Algate she ne roghte of hem a stree!

             To gete hir love no ner was he

             That woned at home, than he in Inde;

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Page No 21

The formest was alway behinde.

             But goode folk, over al other,

             She loved as man may do his brother;

             Of whiche love she was wonder large,

             In skilful places that bere charge.

                  `Which a visage had she therto!

             Allas! myn herte is wonder wo

             That I ne can discryven hit!

             Me lakketh bothe English and wit

             For to undo hit at the fulle;

             And eek my spirits be so dulle

             So greet a thing for to devyse.

             I have no wit that can suffyse

             To comprehenden hir beaute;

             But thus moche dar I seyn, that she

             Was rody, fresh, and lyvely hewed;

             And every day hir beaute newed.

             And negh hir face was alderbest;

             For certes, Nature had swich lest

             To make that fair, that trewly she

             Was hir cheef patron of beautee,

             And cheef ensample of al hir werke,

             And moustre; for, be hit never so derke,

             Me thinketh I see hir evermo.

             And yet moreover, thogh alle tho

             That ever lived were not alyve,

             They ne sholde have founde to discryve

             In al hir face a wikked signe;

             For hit was sad, simple, and benigne.

                  `And which a goodly, softe speche

             Had that swete, my lyves leche!

             So frendly, and so wel ygrounded,

             Up al resoun so wel yfounded,

             And so tretable to alle gode,

             That I dar swere by the rode,

             Of eloquence was never founde

             So swete a sowninge facounde,

             Ne trewer tonged, ne scorned lasse,

             Ne bet coude hele; that, by the masse,

             I durste swere, thogh the pope hit songe,

             That ther was never yet through hir tonge

             Man ne woman gretly harmed;

             As for hir, ther was al harm hid;

             Ne lasse flatering in hir worde,

             That purely, hir simple recorde

             Was founde as trewe as any bonde,

             Or trouthe of any mannes honde.

             Ne chyde she coude never a del,

             That knoweth al the world ful wel.

                  `But swich a fairnesse of a nekke

             Had that swete that boon nor brekke

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Page No 22

Nas ther non sene, that missat.

             Hit was whyt, smothe, streght, and flat,

             Withouten hole; and canelboon,

             As by seming, had she noon.

             Hir throte, as I have now memoire,

             Semed a round tour of yvoire,

             Of good gretnesse, and noght to grete.

                  `And gode faire Whyte she hete,

             That was my lady name right.

             She was bothe fair and bright,

             She hadde not hir name wrong.

             Right faire shuldres, and body long

             She hadde, and armes; every lith

             Fattish, flesshy, not greet therwith;

             Right whyte handes, and nayles rede,

             Rounde brestes; and of good brede

             Hyr hippes were, a streight flat bake.

             I knew on hir non other lak

             That al hir limmes nere sewing,

             In as fer as I had knowing.

                  `Therto she coude so wel pleye,

             Whan that hir liste, that I dar seye,

             That she was lyk to torche bright,

             That every man may take of light

             Ynogh, and hit hath never the lesse.

                  `Of maner and of comlinesse

             Right so ferde my lady dere;

             For every wight of hir manere

             Might cacche ynogh, if that he wolde,

             If he had eyen hir to beholde.

             For I dar sweren, if that she

             Had among ten thousand be,

             She wolde have be, at the leste,

             A cheef mirour of al the feste,

             Thogh they had stonden in a rowe,

             To mennes eyen coude have knowe.

             For wherso men had pleyd or waked,

             Me thoghte the felawship as naked

             Withouten hir, that saw I ones,

             As a coroune withoute stones.

             Trewly she was, to myn ye,

             The soleyn fenix of Arabye,

             For ther liveth never but oon;

             Ne swich as she ne know I noon.

                  `To speke of goodnesse; trewly she

             Had as moche debonairte

             As ever had Hester in the bible

             And more, if more were possible.

             And, soth to seyne, therwithal

             She had a wit so general,

             So hool enclyned to alle gode,

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Page No 23

That al hir wit was set, by the rode,

             Withoute malice, upon gladnesse;

             Therto I saw never yet a lesse

             Harmul, than she was in doing.

             I sey nat that she ne had knowing

             What harm was; or elles she

             Had coud no good, so thinketh me.

                  `And trewly, for to speke of trouthe,

             But she had had, hit had be routhe.

             Therof she had so moche hir del 

             And I dar seyn and swere hit wel 

             That Trouthe himself, over al and al,

             Had chose his maner principal

             In hir, that was his restingplace.

             Therto she hadde the moste grace,

             To have stedfast perseveraunce,

             And esy, atempre governaunce,

             That ever I knew or wiste yit;

             So pure suffraunt was hir wit.

             And reson gladly she understood,

             Hit folowed wel she coude good.

             She used gladly to do wel;

             These were hir maners everydel.

                  `Therwith she loved so wel right,

             She wrong do wolde to no wight;

             No wight might do hir no shame,

             She loved so wel hir owne name.

             Hir luste to holde no wight in honde;

             Ne, be thou siker, she nolde fonde

             To holde no wight in balaunce,

             By half word ne by countenaunce,

             Butif men wolde upon hir lye;

             Ne sende men into Walakye,

             To Pruyse, and into Tartarye,

             To Alisaundre, ne into Turkye,

             And bidde him faste, anoon that he

             Go hoodles to the drye see,

             And come hoom by the Carrenare;

             And seye, "Sir, be now right ware

             That I may of yow here seyn

             Worship, or that ye come ageyn!'

             She ne used no suche knakkes smale.

                  `But wherfor that I telle my tale?

             Right on this same, as I have seyd,

             Was hoolly al my love leyd;

             For certes, she was, that swete wyf,

             My suffisaunce, my lust, my lyf,

             Myn hap, myn hele, and al my blisse,

             My worldes welfare, and my lisse,

             And I hires hoolly, everydel.'

                  `By our lord,' quod I, `I trowe yow wel!

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Page No 24

Hardely, your love was wel beset,

             I not how ye mighte have do bet.'

             `Bet? ne no wight so wel!' quod he.

             `I trowe hit, sir,' quod I, `parde!'

             `Nay, leve hit wel!' `Sir, so do I;

             I leve yow wel, that trewely

             Yow thoghte, that she was the beste,

             And to beholde the alderfaireste,

             Who so had loked hir with your eyen.'

                  `With myn? Nay, alle that hir seyen

             Seyde and sworen hit was so.

             And thogh they ne hadde, I wolde tho

             Have loved best my lady fre,

             Thogh I had had al the beautee

             That ever had Alcipyades,

             And al the strengthe of Ercules,

             And therto had the worthinesse

             Of Alisaundre, and al the richesse

             That ever was in Babiloyne,

             In Cartage, or in Macedoyne,

             Or in Rome, or in Ninive;

             And therto also hardy be

             As was Ector, so have I Ioye,

             That Achilles slow at Troye 

             And therfor was he slayn also

             In a temple, for bothe two

             Were slayn, he and Antilegius,

             And so seyth Dares Frigius,

             For love of hir Polixena 

             Or ben as wys as Minerva,

             I wolde ever, withoute drede,

             Have loved hir, for I moste nede!

             "Nede!" nay, I gabbe now,

             Noght "nede", and I wol telle how,

             For of good wille myn herte hit wolde,

             And eek to love hir I was holde

             As for the fairest and the beste.

                  `She was as good, so have I reste,

             As ever was Penelope of Grece,

             Or as the noble wyf Lucrece,

             That was the beste  he telleth thus,

             The Romayn Tytus Livius 

             She was as good, and nothing lyke,

             Thogh hir stories be autentyke;

             Algate she was as trewe as she.

                  `But wherfor that I telle thee

             Whan I first my lady say?

             I was right yong, the sooth to sey,

             And ful gret need I hadde to lerne;

             Whan my herte wolde yerne

             To love, it was a greet empryse.

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But as my wit coude best suffyse,

             After my yonge childly wit,

             Withoute drede, I besette hit

             To love hir in my beste wise,

             To do hir worship and servyse

             That I tho coude, be my trouthe,

             Withoute feyning outher slouthe;

             For wonder fayn I wolde hir see.

             So mochel hit amended me,

             That, whan I saw hir first amorwe,

             I was warished of al my sorwe

             Of al day after, til hit were eve;

             Me thoghte nothing mighte me greve,

             Were my sorwes never so smerte.

             And yit she sit so in myn herte,

             That, by my trouthe, I nolde noghte,

             For al this worlde, out of my thoght

             Leve my lady; no, trewly!'

                  `Now, by my trouthe, sir,' quod I,

             `Me thinketh ye have such a chaunce

             As shrift withoute repentaunce.'

                  `Repentaunce! nay, fy,' quod he;

             `Shulde I now repente me

             To love? nay, certes, than were I wel

             Wers than was Achitofel,

             Or Anthenor, so have I Ioye,

             The traytour that betraysed Troye,

             Or the false Genelon,

             He that purchased the treson

             Of Rowland and of Olivere.

             Nay, why! I am alyve here

             I nil foryete hir nevermo.'

                  `Now, goode sir,' quod I right tho,

             `Ye han wel told me herbefore.

             It is no need reherse hit more

             How ye sawe hir first, and where;

             But wolde ye telle me the manere,

             To hir which was your firste speche 

             Therof I wolde yow beseche 

             And how she knewe first your thoght,

             Whether ye loved hir or noght,

             And telleth me eek what ye have lore;

             I herde yow telle herbefore.'

                  `Ye,' seyde he,`thow nost what thou menest;

             I have lost more than thou wenest.'

                  `What los is that, sir?' quod I tho;

             `Nil she not love yow? Is hit so?

             Or have ye oght ydoon amis,

             That she hath left yow? is hit this?

             For goddes love, telle me al.'

                  `Before god,' quod he, `and I shal.

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I saye right as I have seyd,

             On hir was al my love leyd;

             And yet she niste hit never a del

             Noght longe tyme, leve hit wel.

             For be right siker, I durste noght

             For al this worlde telle hir my thoght,

             Ne I wolde have wratthed hir, trewely.

             For wostow why? she was lady

             Of the body; she had the herte,

             And who hath that, may not asterte.

                  `But, for to kepe me fro ydelnesse,

             Trewly I did my besinesse

             To make songes, as I best coude,

             And ofte tyme I song hem loude;

             And made songes a gret del,

             Althogh I coude not make so wel

             Songes, ne knowe the art al,

             As coude Lamekes sone Tubal,

             That fond out first the art of songe;

             For, as his brothers hamers ronge

             Upon his anvelt up and doun,

             Therof he took the firste soun;

             But Grekes seyn, Pictagoras,

             That he the firste finder was

             Of the art; Aurora telleth so,

             But therof no fors, of hem two.

             Algates songes thus I made

             Of my feling, myn herte to glade;

             And lo! this was the altherfirste,

             I not wher that hit were the werst. 

                  "Lord, hit maketh myn herte light,

             Whan I thenke on that swete wight

                  That is so semely on to see;

                  And wisshe to god hit might so be,

             That she wolde holde me for hir knight,

             My lady, that is so fair and bright!" 

                  `Now have I told thee, sooth to saye,

             My firste song. Upon a daye

             I bethoghte me what wo

             And sorwe that I suffred tho

             For hir, and yet she wiste hit noght,

             Ne telle hir durste I nat my thoght.

             `Allas!' thoghte I, `I can no reed;

             And, but I telle hir, I nam but deed;

             And if I telle hir, to seye sooth,

             I am adred she wol be wrooth;

             Allas! what shal I thanne do?"

                  `In this debat I was so wo,

             Me thoghte myn herte braste atweyn!

             So atte laste, soth to sayn,

             I me bethoghte that nature

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Ne formed never in creature

             So moche beaute, trewely,

             And bounte, withouten mercy.

                  `In hope of that, my tale I tolde,

             With sorwe, as that I never sholde;

             For nedes, and, maugree my heed,

             I moste have told hir or be deed.

             I not wel how that I began,

             Ful evel rehersen hit I can;

             And eek, as helpe me god withal,

             I trowe hit was in the dismal,

             That was the ten woundes of Egipte;

             For many a word I overskipte

             In my tale, for pure fere

             Lest my wordes misset were.

             With sorweful herte, and woundes dede,

             Softe and quaking for pure drede

             And shame, and stinting in my tale

             For ferde, and myn hewe al pale,

             Ful ofte I wex bothe pale and reed;

             Bowing to hir, I heng the heed;

             I durste nat ones loke hir on,

             For wit, manere, and al was gon.

             I seyde "mercy!" and no more;

             Hit nas no game, hit sat me sore.

                  `So atte laste, sooth to seyn,

             Whan that myn herte was come ageyn,

             To telle shortly al my speche,

             With hool herte I gan hir beseche

             That she wolde be my lady swete;

             And swor, and gan hir hertely hete

             Ever to be stedfast and trewe,

             And love hir alwey freshly newe,

             And never other lady have,

             And al hir worship for to save

             As I best coude; I swor hir this 

             "For youres is al that ever ther is

             For evermore, myn herte swete!

             And never false yow, but I mete,

             I nil, as wis god helpe me so!"

                  `And whan I had my tale ydo,

             God wot, she acounted nat a stree

             Of al my tale, so thoghte me.

             To telle shortly as hit is,

             Trewly hir answere, hit was this;

             I can not now wel counterfete

             Hir wordes, but this was the grete

             Of hir answere: she sayde, "nay"

             Alouterly. Allas! that day

             The sorwe I suffred, and the wo!

             That trewly Cassandra, that so

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Bewayled the destruccioun.

             Of Troye and of Ilioun,

             Had never swich sorwe as I tho.

             I durste no more say therto

             For pure fere, but stal away;

             And thus I lived ful many a day;

             That trewely, I hadde no need

             Ferther than my beddes heed

             Never a day to seche sorwe;

             I fond hit redy every morwe,

             Forwhy I loved hir in no gere.

                  `So hit befel, another yere,

             I thoughte ones I wolde fonde

             To do hir knowe and understonde

             My wo; and she wel understood

             That I ne wilned thing but good,

             And worship, and to kepe hir name

             Over al thing, and drede hir shame,

             And was so besy hir to serve; 

             And pite were I shulde sterve,

             Sith that I wilned noon harm, ywis.

             So whan my lady knew al this,

             My lady yaf me al hoolly

             The noble yift of hir mercy,

             Saving hir worship, by al weyes;

             Dredles, I mene noon other weyes.

             And therwith she yaf me a ring;

             I trowe hit was the firste thing;

             But if myn herte was ywaxe

             Glad, that is no need to axe!

             As helpe me god, I was as blyve,

             Reysed, as fro dethe to lyve,

             Of alle happes the alderbeste,

             The gladdest and the moste at reste.

             For trewely, that swete wight,

             Whan I had wrong and she the right,

             She wolde alwey so goodely

             Foryeve me so debonairly.

             In alle my youthe, in alle chaunce,

             She took me in hir governaunce.

                  `Therwith she was alway so trewe,

             Our Ioye was ever yliche newe;

             Our hertes wern so even a payre,

             That never nas that oon contrayre

             To that other, for no wo.

             For sothe, yliche they suffred tho

             Oo blisse and eek oo sorwe bothe;

             Yliche they were bothe gladde and wrothe;

             Al was us oon, withoute were.

             And thus we lived ful many a yere

             So wel, I can nat telle how.'

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`Sir,' quod I, `where is she now?'

             `Now!' quod he, and stinte anoon.

                  Therwith he wex as deed as stoon,

             And seyde, `allas! that I was bore,

             That was the los, that herbefore

             I tolde thee, that I had lorn.

             Bethenk how I seyde herbeforn,

             "Thou wost ful litel what thou menest;

             I have lost more than thou wenest" 

             God wot, allas! right that was she!'

                  `Allas! sir, how? what may that be?'

             `She is deed!' `Nay!' `Yis, by my trouthe!'

             `Is that your los? By god, hit is routhe!'

                  And with that worde, right anoon,

             They gan to strake forth; al was doon,

             For that tyme, the herthunting.

                  With that, me thoghte, that this king

             Gan quikly hoomward for to ryde

             Unto a place ther besyde,

             Which was from us but a lyte,

             A long castel with walles whyte,

             Be seynt Iohan! on a riche hil,

             As me mette; but thus it fil.

                  Right thus me mette, as I yow telle,

             That in the castel was a belle,

             As hit had smiten houres twelve. 

                  Therwith I awook myselve,

             And fond me lying in my bed;

             And the book that I had red,

             Of Alcyone and Seys the king,

             And of the goddes of sleping,

             I fond it in myn honde ful even.

                  Thoghte I, `this is so queynt a sweven,

             That I wol, be processe of tyme,

             Fonde to putte this sweven in ryme

             As I can best'; and that anoon. 

             This was my sweven; now hit is doon.

Explicit the Boke of the Duchesse.

The House of FAME

BOOK I Incipit liber primus.

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God turne us every dreem to gode!

           For hit is wonder, be the rode,

           To my wit, what causeth swevens

           Either on morwes, or on evens;

           And why the effect folweth of somme,

           And of somme hit shal never come;

           Why that is an avisioun,

           And this a revelacioun,

           Why this a dreem, why that a sweven,

           And nat to every man liche even;

           Why this a fantom, these oracles,

           I noot; but whoso of these miracles

           The causes knoweth bet than I,

           Devyne he; for I certeinly

           Ne can hem noght, ne never thinke

           To besily my wit to swinke,

           To knowe of hir signifiaunce

           The gendres, neither the distaunce

           Of tymes of hem, ne the causes,

           Forwhy this more than that cause is;

           As if folkes complexiouns

           Make hem dreme of reflexiouns;

           Or ellis thus, as other sayn,

           For to greet feblenesse of brayn,

           By abstinence, or by seeknesse,

           Prison, stewe, or greet distresse;

           Or elles by disordinaunce

           Of naturel acustomaunce,

           That som man is to curious

           In studie, or melancolious,

           Or thus, so inly ful of drede,

           That no man may him bote bede;

           Or elles, that devocioun

           Of somme, and contemplacioun

           Causeth swiche dremes ofte;

           Or that the cruel lyf unsofte

           Which these ilke lovers leden

           That hopen over muche or dreden,

           That purely hir impressiouns

           Causeth hem avisiouns;

           Or if that spirites have the might

           To make folk to dreme anight

           Or if the soule, of propre kinde

           Be so parfit, as men finde,

           That hit forwot that is to come,

           And that hit warneth alle and somme

           Of everiche of hir aventures

           Be avisiouns, or by figures,

           But that our flesh ne hath no might

           To understonden hit aright,

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Page No 31

For hit is warned to derkly; 

           But why the cause is, noght wot I.

           Wel worthe, of this thing, grete clerkes,

           That trete of this and other werkes;

           For I of noon opinioun

           Nil as now make mensioun,

           But only that the holy rode

           Turne us every dreem to gode!

           For never, sith that I was born,

           Ne no man elles, me biforn,

           Mette, I trowe stedfastly,

           So wonderful a dreem as I

           The tenthe day dide of Decembre,

           The which, as I can now remembre,

           I wol yow tellen every del,

                  The Invocation

           But at my ginninge, trusteth wel,

           I wol make invocacioun,

           With special devocioun,

           Unto the god of slepe anoon,

           That dwelleth in a cave of stoon

           Upon a streem that cometh fro Lete,

           That is a flood of helle unswete;

           Besyde a folk men clepe Cimerie,

           Ther slepeth ay this god unmerie

           With his slepy thousand sones

           That alway for to slepe hir wone is 

           And to this god, that I of rede,

           Prey I, that he wol me spede

           My sweven for to telle aright,

           If every dreem stonde in his might.

           And he, that mover is of al

           That is and was, and ever shal,

           So yive hem Ioye that hit here

           Of alle that they dreme toyere,

           And for to stonden alle in grace

           Of hir loves, or in what place

           That hem wer levest for to stonde,

           And shelde hem fro poverte and shonde,

           And fro unhappe and eche disese,

           And sende hem al that may hem plese,

           That take hit wel, and scorne hit noght,

           Ne hit misdemen in her thoght

           Through malicious entencioun.

           And whoso, through presumpcioun,

           Or hate or scorne, or through envye,

           Dispyt, or Iape, or vilanye,

           Misdeme hit, preye I Iesus god

           That (dreme he barfoot, dreme he shod),

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Page No 32

That every harm that any man

           Hath had, sith that the world began,

           Befalle him therof, or he sterve,

           And graunte he mote hit ful deserve,

           Lo! with swich a conclusioun

           As had of his avisioun

           Cresus, that was king of Lyde,

           That high upon a gebet dyde!

           This prayer shal he have of me;

           I am no bet in charite!

                  Now herkneth, as I have you seyd,

           What that I mette or I abreyd.

                  The Dream

           Of Decembre the tenthe day,

           Whan hit was night, to slepe I lay

           Right ther as I was wont to done,

           And fil on slepe wonder sone,

           As he that wery was forgo

           On pilgrimage myles two

           To the corseynt Leonard,

           To make lythe of that was hard.

                  But as I sleep, me mette I was

           Within a temple ymad of glas;

           In whiche ther were mo images

           Of gold, stondinge in sondry stages,

           And mo riche tabernacles,

           And with perre mo pinacles,

           And mo curious portreytures,

           And queynte maner of figures

           Of olde werke, then I saw ever.

           For certeynly, I niste never

           Wher that I was, but wel wiste I,

           Hit was of Venus redely,

           The temple; for, in portreyture,

           I sawgh anoonright hir figure

           Naked fletinge in a see.

           And also on hir heed, parde,

           Hir rosegarlond whyt and reed,

           And hir comb to kembe hir heed,

           Hir dowves, and daun Cupido

           Hir blinde sone, and Vulcano,

           That in his face was ful broun.

                  But as I romed up and doun,

           I fond that on a wal ther was

           Thus writen, on a table of bras:

           `I wol now singe, if that I can,

           The armes, and also the man,

           That first cam, through his destinee,

           Fugitif of Troye contree,

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Page No 33

In Itaile, with ful moche pyne,

           Unto the strondes of Lavyne.'

           And tho began the story anoon,

           As I shal telle yow echoon.

                  First saw I the destruccioun

           Of Troye, through the Greek Sinoun,

           That with his false forsweringe,

           And his chere and his lesinge

           Made the hors broght into Troye,

           Thorgh which Troyens loste al hir Ioye.

           And after this was grave, allas!

           How Ilioun assailed was

           And wonne, and King Priam yslayn,

           And Polites his sone, certayn,

           Dispitously, of dan Pirrus.

                  And next that saw I how Venus,

           Whan that she saw the castel brende,

           Doun fro the hevene gan descende,

           And bad hir sone Eneas flee;

           And how he fledde, and how that he

           Escaped was from al the pres,

           And took his fader, Anchises,

           And bar him on his bakke away,

           Cryinge, `Allas, and welaway!'

           The whiche Anchises in his honde

           Bar the goddes of the londe,

           Thilke that unbrende were.

                  And I saw next, in alle this fere,

           How Creusa, daun Eneas wyf,

           Which that he lovede as his lyf,

           And hir yonge sone Iulo,

           And eek Ascanius also,

           Fledden eek with drery chere,

           That hit was pitee for to here;

           And in a forest, as they wente,

           At a turninge of a wente,

           How Creusa was ylost, allas!

           That deed, but noot I how, she was;

           How he hir soughte, and how hir gost

           Bad him to flee the Grekes ost,

           And seyde he most unto Itaile,

           As was his destinee, sauns faille;

           That hit was pitee for to here,

           Whan hir spirit gan appere,

           The wordes that she to him seyde,

           And for to kepe hir sone him preyde.

           Ther saw I graven eek how he,

           His fader eek, and his meynee,

           With his shippes gan to sayle

           Toward the contree of Itaile,

           As streight as that they mighte go.

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Page No 34

Ther saw I thee, cruel Iuno,

           That art daun Iupiteres wyf,

           That hast yhated, al thy lyf,

           Al the Troyanisshe blood,

           Renne and crye, as thou were wood,

           On Eolus, the god of windes,

           To blowen out, of alle kindes,

           So loude, that he shulde drenche

           Lord and lady, grome and wenche,

           Of al the Troyan nacioun,

           Withoute any savacioun.

                  Ther saw I swich tempeste aryse,

           That every herte mighte agryse,

           To see hit peynted on the walle.

                  Ther saw I graven eek withalle,

           Venus, how ye, my lady dere,

           Wepinge with ful woful chere,

           Prayen Iupiter an hye

           To save and kepe that navye

           Of the Troyan Eneas,

           Sith that he hir sone was.

                  Ther saw I Ioves Venus kisse,

           And graunted of the tempest lisse.

           Ther saw I how the tempest stente,

           And how with alle pyne he wente,

           And prevely took arrivage

           In the contree of Cartage;

           And on the morwe, how that he

           And a knight, hight Achatee,

           Metten with Venus that day,

           Goinge in a queynt array,

           As she had ben an hunteresse,

           With wind blowinge upon hir tresse;

           How Eneas gan him to pleyne,

           Whan that he knew hir, of his peyne;

           And how his shippes dreynte were,

           Or elles lost, he niste where;

           How she gan him comforte tho,

           And bad him to Cartage go,

           And ther he shulde his folk finde

           That in the see were left behinde.

                  And, shortly of this thing to pace,

           She made Eneas so in grace

           Of Dido, quene of that contree,

           That, shortly for to tellen, she

           Becam his love, and leet him do

           That that wedding longeth to.

           What shulde I speke more queynte,

           Or peyne me my wordes peynte,

           To speke of love? hit wol not be;

           I can not of that facultee.

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And eek to telle the manere

           How they aqueynteden infere,

           Hit were a long proces to telle,

           And over long for yow to dwelle.

                  Ther sawgh I grave how Eneas

           Tolde Dido every cas,

           That him was tid upon the see.

                  And after grave was, how shee

           Made of him, shortly, at oo word,

           Hir lyf, hir love, hir luste, hir lord;

           And dide him al the reverence,

           And leyde on him al the dispence,

           That any woman mighte do,

           Weninge hit had al be so,

           As he hir swoor; and herby demed

           That he was good, for he swich semed.

           Allas! what harm doth apparence,

           Whan hit is fals in existence!

           For he to hir a traitour was;

           Wherfor she slow hirself, allas!

                  Lo, how a woman doth amis,

           To love him that unknowen is!

           For, by Crist, lo! thus hit fareth;

           `Hit is not al gold, that glareth.'

           For, also brouke I wel myn heed,

           Ther may be under goodliheed

           Kevered many a shrewed vyce;

           Therfor be no wight so nyce,

           To take a love only for chere,

           For speche, or for frendly manere;

           For this shal every woman finde

           That som man, of his pure kinde,

           Wol shewen outward the faireste,

           Til he have caught that what him leste;

           And thanne wol he causes finde,

           And swere how that she is unkinde,

           Or fals, or prevy, or double was.

           Al this seye I by Eneas

           And Dido, and hir nyce lest,

           That lovede al to sone a gest;

           Therfor I wol seye a proverbe,

           That `he that fully knoweth therbe

           May saufly leye hit to his ye';

           Withoute dreed, this is no lye.

                  But let us speke of Eneas,

           How he betrayed hir, allas!

           And lefte hir ful unkindely.

           So whan she saw alutterly,

           That he wolde hir of trouthe faile,

           And wende fro hir to Itaile,

           She gan to wringe hir hondes two.

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`Allas!' quod she, `what me is wo!

           Allas! is every man thus trewe,

           That every yere wolde have a newe,

           If hit so longe tyme dure,

           Or elles three, peraventure?

           As thus: of oon he wolde have fame

           In magnifying of his name;

           Another for frendship, seith he;

           And yet ther shal the thridde be,

           That shal be taken for delyt,

           Lo, or for singular profyt.'

                  In swiche wordes gan to pleyne

           Dido of hir grete peyne,

           As me mette redely;

           Non other auctour alegge I.

           `Allas!' quod she, `my swete herte,

           Have pitee on my sorwes smerte,

           And slee me not! go noght away!

           O woful Dido, wel away!'

           Quod she to hirselve tho.

           `O Eneas! what wil ye do?

           O that your love, ne your bonde,

           That ye han sworn with your right honde,

           Ne my cruel deeth,' quod she,

           "May holde yow still heer with me!

           O, haveth of my deeth pitee!

           Ywis, my dere herte, ye

           Knowen ful wel that never yit,

           As ferforth as I hadde wit,

           Agilte I yow in thoght ne deed.

             , have ye men swich goodliheed

           In speche, and never a deel of trouthe?

           Allas, that ever hadde routhe

           Any woman on any man!

           Now see I wel, and telle can,

           We wrecched wimmen conne non art;

           For certeyn, for the more part,

           Thus we be served everichone.

           How sore that ye men conne grone,

           Anoon as we have yow receyved!

           Certeinly we ben deceyved;

           For, though your love laste a sesoun,

           Wayte upon the conclusioun,

           And eek how that ye determynen,

           And for the more part diffynen.

                  `O, welawey that I was born!

           For through yow is my name lorn,

           And alle myn actes red and songe

           Over al this lond, on every tonge.

           O wikke Fame! for ther nis

           Nothing so swift, lo, as she is!

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O, sooth is, every thing is wist,

           Though hit be kevered with the mist.

           Eek, thogh I mighte duren ever,

           That I have doon, rekever I never,

           That I ne shal be seyd, allas,

           Yshamed be through Eneas,

           And that I shal thus Iuged be 

           `Lo, right as she hath doon, now she

           Wol do eftsones, hardily;'

           Thus seyth the peple prevely.' 

           But that is doon, nis not to done;

           Al hir compleynt ne al hir mone,

           Certeyn, availeth hir not a stre.

                  And when she wiste sothly he

           Was forth unto his shippes goon,

           She in hir chambre wente anoon,

           And called on hir suster Anne,

           And gan hir to compleyne thanne;

           And seyde, that she cause was

           That she first lovede Eneas,

           And thus counseilled hir therto.

           But what! when this was seyd and do,

           She roof hirselve to the herte,

           And deyde through the wounde smerte.

           But al the maner how she deyde,

           And al the wordes that she seyde,

           Whoso to knowe hit hath purpos,

           Reed Virgile in Eneidos

           Or the Epistle of Ovyde,

           What that she wroot or that she dyde;

           And nere hit to long to endyte,

           By god, I wolde hit here wryte.

                  But, welaway! the harm, the routhe,

           That hath betid for swich untrouthe,

           As men may ofte in bokes rede,

           And al day seen hit yet in dede,

           That for to thenken hit, a tene is.

                  Lo, Demophon, duk of Athenis,

           How he forswor him ful falsly,

           And trayed Phillis wikkedly,

           That kinges doghter was of Trace,

           And falsly gan his terme pace;

           And when she wiste that he was fals,

           She heng hirself right by the hals,

           For he had do hir swich untrouthe;

           Lo! was not this a wo and routhe?

                  Eek lo! how fals and reccheles

           Was to Breseida Achilles,

           And Paris to Enone;

           And Iason to Isiphile;

           And eft Iason to Medea;

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And Ercules to Dyanira;

           For he left hir for Iole,

           That made him cacche his deeth, parde.

                  How fals eek was he, Theseus;

           That, as the story telleth us,

           How he betrayed Adriane;

           The devel be his soules bane!

           For had he laughed, had he loured,

           He moste have be al devoured,

           If Adriane ne had ybe!

           And, for she had of him pitee,

           She made him fro the dethe escape,

           And he made hir a ful fals Iape;

           For aftir this, within a whyle

           He lefte hir slepinge in an yle,

           Deserte alone, right in the see,

           And stal away, and leet hir be;

           And took hir suster Phedra tho

           With him, and gan to shippe go.

           And yet he had ysworn to here,

           On al that ever he mighte swere,

           That, so she saved him his lyf,

           He wolde have take hir to his wyf;

           For she desired nothing elles,

           In certein, as the book us telles.

                  But to excusen Eneas

           Fulliche of al his greet trespas,

           The book seyth, Mercurie, sauns faile,

           Bad him go into Itaile,

           And leve Auffrykes regioun,

           And Dido and hir faire toun.

                  Tho saw I grave, how to Itaile

           Daun Eneas is go to saile;

           And how the tempest al began,

           And how he loste his steresman,

           Which that the stere, or he took keep,

           Smot overbord, lo! as he sleep.

                  And also saw I how Sibyle

           And Eneas, besyde an yle,

           To helle wente, for to see

           His fader, Anchises the free.

           How he ther fond Palinurus,

           And Dido, and eek Deiphebus;

           And every tourment eek in helle

           Saw he, which is long to telle.

           Which whoso willeth for to knowe,

           He most rede many a rowe

           On Virgile or on Claudian,

           Or Daunte, that hit telle can.

                  Tho saw I grave al tharivaile

           That Eneas had in Itaile;

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And with King Latine his tretee,

           And alle the batailles that he

           Was at himself, and eek his knightes,

           Or he had al ywonne his rightes;

           And how he Turnus refte his lyf,

           And wan Lavyna to his wyf;

           And al the mervelous signals

           Of the goddes celestials;

           How, maugre Iuno, Eneas,

           For al hir sleighte and hir compas,

           Acheved al his aventure;

           For Iupiter took of him cure

           At the prayere of Venus;

           The whiche I preye alwey save us,

           And us ay of our sorwes lighte!

                  Whan I had seyen al this sighte

           In this noble temple thus,

           `A, Lord!' thoughte I, `that madest us,

           Yet saw I never swich noblesse

           Of images, ne swich richesse,

           As I saw graven in this chirche;

           But not woot I who dide hem wirche,

           Ne wher I am, ne in what contree.

           But now wol I go out and see,

           Right at the wiket, if I can

           See owher stering any man,

           That may me telle wher I am.'

                  When I out at the dores cam,

           I faste aboute me beheld.

           Then saw I but a large feld,

           As fer as that I mighte see,

           Withouten toun, or hous, or tree,

           Or bush, or gras, or ered lond;

           For al the feld nas but of sond

           As smal as man may see yet lye

           In the desert of Libye;

           Ne I to maner creature,

           That is yformed by nature,

           Ne saw, me for to rede or wisse.

           `O Crist,' thoughte I, `that art in blisse,

           Fro fantom and illusioun

           Me save!' and with devocioun

           Myn yen to the heven I caste.

                  Tho was I war, lo! at the laste,

           That faste be the sonne, as hye

           As kenne mighte I with myn ye,

           Me thoughte I saw an egle sore,

           But that hit semed moche more

           Then I had any egle seyn.

           But this as sooth as deeth, certeyn,

           Hit was of golde, and shoon so bright,

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That never saw men such a sighte,

           Butif the heven hadde ywonne

           Al newe of golde another sonne;

           So shoon the egles fethres brighte,

           And somwhat dounward gan hit lighte.

                  Explicit liber primus.

Book II Incipit liber secundus.

                  Proem.

                  Now herkneth, every maner man

           That English understonde can,

           And listeth of my dreem to lere;

           For now at erste shul ye here

           So selly an avisioun,

           That Isaye, ne Scipioun,

           Ne King Nabugodonosor,

           Pharo, Turnus, ne Elcanor,

           Ne mette swich a dreem as this!

           Now faire blisfull, O Cipris,

           So be my favour at this tyme!

           And ye, me to endyte and ryme

           Helpeth, that on Parnaso dwelle

           By Elicon the clere welle.

                  O Thought, that wroot al that I mette,

           And in the tresorie hit shette

           Of my brayn! now shal men see

           If any vertu in thee be,

           To tellen al my dreem aright;

           Now kythe thyn engyne and might!

                  The Dream.

                  This egle, of which I have yow told,

           That shoon with fethres as of gold,

           Which that so hye gan to sore,

           I gan beholde more and more,

           To see hir the beautee and the wonder;

           But never was ther dint of thonder,

           Ne that thing that men calle foudre,

           That smoot somtyme a tour to poudre,

           And in his swifte coming brende,

           That so swythe gan descende,

           As this foul, whan hit behelde

           That I aroume was in the felde;

           And with his grimme pawes stronge,

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Within his sharpe nayles longe,

           Me, fleinge, at a swappe he hente,

           And with his sours agayn up wente,

           Me caryinge in his clawes starke

           As lightly as I were a larke,

           How high I can not telle yow,

           For I cam up, I niste how.

           For so astonied and asweved

           Was every vertu in my heved,

           What with his sours and with my drede,

           That al my feling gan to dede;

           Forwhy hit was to greet affray.

                  Thus I longe in his clawes lay,

           Til at the laste he to me spak

           In mannes vois, and seyde, `Awak!

           And be not so agast, for shame!'

           And called me tho by my name,

           And, for I sholde the bet abreyde 

           Me mette  `Awak,' to me he seyde,

           Right in the same vois and stevene

           That useth oon I coude nevene;

           And with that vois, soth for to sayn,

           My minde cam to me agayn;

           For hit was goodly seyd to me,

           So nas hit never wont to be.

                  And herewithal I gan to stere,

           And he me in his feet to bere,

           Til that he felte that I had hete,

           And felte eek tho myn herte bete.

           And tho gan he me to disporte,

           And with wordes to comforte,

           And sayde twyes, `Seynte Marie!

           Thou art noyous for to carie,

           And nothing nedeth hit, parde!

           For also wis god helpe me

           As thou non harm shalt have of this;

           And this cas, that betid thee is,

           Is for thy lore and for thy prow; 

           Let see! darst thou yet loke now?

           Be ful assured, boldely,

           I am thy frend.' And therwith I

           Gan for to wondren in my minde.

           `O god,' thoughte I, `that madest kinde,

           Shal I non other weyes dye?

           Wher Ioves wol me stellifye,

           Or what thing may this signifye?

           I neither am Enok, ne Elye,

           Ne Romulus, ne Ganymede

           That was ybore up, as men rede,

           To hevene with dan Iupiter,

           And maad the goddes boteler.'

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Lo! this was tho my fantasye!

           But he that bar me gan espye

           That I so thoghte, and seyde this: 

           `Thou demest of thyself amis;

           For Ioves is not theraboute 

           I dar wel putte thee out of doute 

           To make of thee as yet a sterre.

           But er I bere thee moche ferre,

           I wol thee telle what I am,

           And whider thou shalt, and why I cam

           To done this, so that thou take

           Good herte, and not for fere quake.'

           `Gladly,' quod I.  `Now wel,' quod he: 

           `First I, that in my feet have thee,

           Of which thou hast a feer and wonder,

           Am dwellinge with the god of thonder,

           Which that men callen Iupiter,

           That dooth me flee ful ofte fer

           To do al his comaundement.

           And for this cause he hath me sent

           To thee: now herke, by thy trouthe!

           Certeyn, he hath of thee routhe,

           That thou so longe trewely

           Hast served so ententifly

           His blinde nevew Cupido,

           And fair Venus goddesse also,

           Withoute guerdoun ever yit,

           And nevertheles has set thy wit 

           Although that in thy hede ful lyte is 

           To make bokes, songes, dytees,

           In ryme, or elles in cadence,

           As thou best canst, in reverence

           Of Love, and of his servants eke,

           That have his servise soght, and seke;

           And peynest thee to preyse his art,

           Althogh thou haddest never part;

           Wherfor, also god me blesse,

           Ioves halt hit greet humblesse

           And vertu eek, that thou wolt make

           Anight ful ofte thyn heed to ake,

           In thy studie so thou wrytest,

           And evermo of love endytest,

           In honour of him and preysinges,

           And in his foIkes furtheringes,

           And in hir matere al devysest,

           And noght him nor his folk despysest,

           Although thou mayst go in the daunce

           Of hem that him list not avaunce.

                  `Wherfor, as I seyde, ywis,

           Iupiter considereth this,

           And also, beau sir, other thinges;

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That is, that thou hast no tydinges

           Of Loves folk, if they be glade,

           Ne of noght elles that god made;

           And noght only fro fer contree

           That ther no tyding comth to thee,

           But of thy verray neyghebores,

           That dwellen almost at thy dores,

           Thou herest neither that ne this;

           For whan thy labour doon al is,

           And hast ymaad thy rekeninges,

           In stede of reste and newe thinges,

           Thou gost hoom to thy hous anoon;

           And, also domb as any stoon,

           Thou sittest at another boke,

           Til fully daswed is thy loke,

           And livest thus as an hermyte,

           Although thyn abstinence is lyte.

                  `And therfor Ioves, through his grace,

           Wol that I bere thee to a place,

           Which that hight THE HOUS OF FAME,

           To do thee som disport and game,

           In som recompensacioun

           Of labour and devocioun

           That thou has had, lo! causeles,

           To Cupido, the reccheles!

           And thus this god, thorgh his meryte,

           Wol with som maner thing thee quyte,

           So that thou wolt be of good chere.

           For truste wel, that thou shalt here,

           When we be comen ther I seye,

           Mo wonder thinges, dar I leye:

           Of Loves folke mo tydinges,

           Both sothsawes and lesinges;

           And mo loves newe begonne,

           And longe yserved loves wonne,

           And mo loves casuelly

           That been betid, no man wot why,

           But as a blind man stert an hare;

           And more Iolytee and fare,

           Whyl that they finde love of stele,

           As thinketh hem, and overal wele;

           Mo discords, mo Ielousyes,

           Mo murmurs, and mo novelryes,

           And mo dissimulaciouns;

           And feyned reparaciouns;

           And mo berdes in two houres

           Withoute rasour or sisoures

           Ymaad, then greynes be of sondes;

           And eke mo holdinge in hondes,

           And also mo renovelaunces

           Of olde forleten aqueyntaunces;

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Mo lovedayes and acordes

           Then on instruments ben cordes;

           And eke of loves mo eschaunges

           Than ever cornes were in graunges;

           Unnethe maistow trowen this?' 

           Quod he. `No, helpe me god so wis!' 

           Quod I. `No? why?' quod he. `For hit

           Were impossible, to my wit,

           Though that Fame hadde al the pyes

           In al a realme, and al the spyes,

           How that yet she shulde here al this,

           Or they espye hit.' `O yis, yis!'

           Quod he to me, `that can I preve

           By resoun, worthy for to leve,

           So that thou yeve thyn advertence

           To understonde my sentence.

                  `First shalt thou heren wher she dwelleth,

           And so thyn owne book hit telleth;

           Hir paleys stant, as I shal seye,

           Right even in middes of the weye

           Betwixen hevene, erthe, and see;

           That, whatsoever in al these three

           Is spoken, in privee or aperte,

           The way therto is so overte,

           And stant eek in so Iuste a place,

           That every soun mot to hit pace,

           Or what so comth fro any tonge,

           Be hit rouned, red, or songe,

           Or spoke in seurtee or in drede,

           Certein, hit moste thider nede.

                  `Now herkne wel; forwhy I wille

           Tellen thee a propre skile,

           And worthy demonstracioun

           In myn imagynacioun.

                  `Geffrey, thou wost right wel this,

           That every kindly thing that is,

           Hath a kindly stede ther he

           May best in hit conserved be;

           Unto which place every thing,

           Through his kindly enclyning,

           Moveth for to come to,

           Whan that hit is awey therfro;

           As thus; lo, thou mayst al day see

           That any thing that hevy be,

           As stoon or leed, or thing of wighte,

           And ber hit never so hye on highte,

           Lat goo thyn hand, hit falleth doun.

                  `Right so seye I by fyre or soun,

           Or smoke, or other thinges lighte,

           Alwey they seke upward on highte;

           Whyl ech of hem is at his large,

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Light thing up, and dounward charge.

                  `And for this cause mayst thou see,

           That every river to the see

           Enclyned is to go, by kinde.

           And by these skilles, as I finde,

           Hath fish dwellinge in floode and see,

           And trees eek in erthe be.

           Thus every thing, by this resoun,

           Hath his propre mansioun,

           To which hit seketh to repaire,

           As ther hit shulde not apaire.

           Lo, this sentence is knowen couthe

           Of every philosophres mouthe,

           As Aristotle and dan Platon,

           And other clerkes many oon;

           And to confirme my resoun,

           Thou wost wel this, that speche is soun,

           Or elles no man mighte hit here;

           Now herkne what I wol thee lere.

                  `Soun is noght but air ybroken,

           And every speche that is spoken,

           Loud or privee, foul or fair,

           In his substaunce is but air;

           For as flaumbe is but lighted smoke,

           Right so soun is air ybroke.

           But this may be in many wyse,

           Of which I wil thee two devise,

           As soun that comth of pype or harpe.

           For whan a pype is blowen sharpe,

           The air is twist with violence,

           And rent; lo, this is my sentence;

           Eke, whan men harpestringes smyte,

           Whether hit be moche or lyte,

           Lo, with the strook the air tobreketh;

           Right so hit breketh whan men speketh.

           Thus wost thou wel what thing is speche.

                  `Now hennesforth I wol thee teche,

           How every speche, or noise, or soun,

           Through his multiplicacioun,

           Thogh hit were pyped of a mouse,

           Moot nede come to Fames House.

           I preve hit thus  tak hede now 

           Be experience; for if that thou

           Throwe on water now a stoon,

           Wel wost thou, hit wol make anoon

           A litel roundel as a cercle,

           Paraventer brood as a covercle;

           And right anoon thou shalt see weel,

           That wheel wol cause another wheel,

           And that the thridde, and so forth, brother,

           Every cercle causinge other,

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Wyder than himselve was;

           And thus, fro roundel to compas,

           Ech aboute other goinge,

           Caused of othres steringe,

           And multiplying evermo,

           Til that hit be so fer ygoo

           That hit at bothe brinkes be.

           Althogh thou mowe hit not ysee,

           Above, hit goth yet alway under,

           Although thou thenke hit a gret wonder.

           And whoso seith of trouthe I varie,

           Bid him proven the contrarie.

           And right thus every word, ywis,

           That loude or privee spoken is,

           Moveth first an air aboute,

           And of this moving, out of doute,

           Another air anoon is meved,

           As I have of the water preved,

           That every cercle causeth other.

           Right so of air, my leve brother;

           Everich air in other stereth

           More and more, and speche up bereth,

           Or vois, or noise, or word, or soun,

           Ay through multiplicacioun,

           Til hit be atte House of Fame; 

           Tak hit in ernest or in game.

                  `Now have I told, if thou have minde,

           How speche or soun, of pure kinde,

           Enclyned is upward to meve;

           This, mayst thou fele, wel I preve.

           And that the mansioun, ywis,

           That every thing enclyned to is,

           Hath his kindeliche stede:

           That sheweth hit, withouten drede,

           That kindely the mansioun

           Of every speche, of every soun,

           Be hit either foul or fair,

           Hath his kinde place in air.

           And sin that every thing, that is

           Out of his kinde place, ywis,

           Moveth thider for to go

           If hit aweye be therfro,

           As I before have preved thee,

           Hit seweth, every soun, pardee,

           Moveth kindeIy to pace

           Al up into his kindely place.

           And this place of which I telle,

           Ther as Fame list to dwelle,

           Is set amiddes of these three,

           Heven, erthe, and eek the see,

           As most conservatif the soun.

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Than is this the conclusioun,

           That every speche of every man,

           As I thee telle first began,

           Moveth up on high to pace

           Kindely to Fames place.

                  `Telle me this feithfully,

           Have I not preved thus simply,

           Withouten any subtiltee

           Of speche, or gret prolixitee

           Of termes of philosophye,

           Of figures of poetrye,

           Or colours of rethoryke?

           Pardee, hit oghte thee to lyke;

           For hard langage and hard matere

           Is encombrous for to here

           At ones; Wost thou not wel this?'

           And I answerde, and seyde,`Yis.'

                  `A ha!' quod he, `lo, so I can,

           Lewedly to a lewed man

           Speke, and shewe him swiche skiles,

           That he may shake hem by the biles,

           So palpable they shulden be.

           But tel me this, now pray I thee,

           How thinkth thee my conclusioun?'

           Quod he. `A good persuasioun,'

           Quod I, `hit is; and lyk to be

           Right so as thou hast preved me.'

           `By god,' quod he, `and as I leve,

           Thou shalt have yit, or hit be eve,

           Of every word of this sentence

           A preve, by experience;

           And with thyn eres heren wel

           Top and tail, and everydel,

           That every word that spoken is

           Comth into Fames Hous, ywis,

           As I have seyd; what wilt thou more?'

           And with this word upper to sore

           He gan, and seyde, `Be Seynt Iame!

           Now wil we speken al of game.' 

                  `How farest thou?' quod he to me,

           `Wel,' quod I. `Now see,' quod he,

           `By thy trouthe, yond adoun,

           Wher that thou knowest any toun,

           Or hous, or any other thing.

           And whan thou hast of ought knowing,

           Loke that thou warne me,

           And I anoon shal telle thee

           How fer that thou art now therfro.'

                  And I adoun gan loken tho,

           And beheld feldes and plaines,

           And now hilles, and now mountaines,

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Now valeys, and now forestes,

           And now, unethes, grete bestes;

           Now riveres, now citees,

           Now tounes, and now grete trees,

           Now shippes saillinge in the see.

                  But thus sone in a whyle he

           Was flowen fro the grounde so hye,

           That al the world, as to myn ye,

           No more semed than a prikke;

           Or elles was the air so thikke

           That I ne mighte not discerne.

           With that he spak to me as yerne,

           And seyde: `Seestow any toun

           Or ought thou knowest yonder doun?'

                  I seyde, `Nay.' `No wonder nis,'

           Quod he, `for half so high as this

           Nas Alexander Macedo;

           Ne the king, dan Scipio.

           That saw in dreme, at point devys,

           Helle and erthe, and paradys;

           Ne eek the wrecche Dedalus,

           Ne his child, nyce Icarus,

           That fleigh so highe that the hete

           His winges malt, and he fel wete

           Inmid the see, and ther he dreynte,

           For whom was maked moch compleynte.

                  `Now turn upward,' quod he, `thy face,

           And behold this large place,

           This air; but loke thou ne be

           Adrad of hem that thou shalt see;

           For in this regioun, certein,

           Dwelleth many a citezein,

           Of which that speketh dan Plato.

           These ben the eyrish bestes, lo!'

           And so saw I al that meynee

           Bothe goon and also flee.

           `Now,' quod he tho, `cast up thyn ye;

           See yonder, lo, the Galaxye,

           Which men clepeth the Milky Wey,

           For hit is whyt: and somme, parfey,

           Callen hit Watlinge Strete:

           That ones was ybrent with hete,

           Whan the sonnes sone, the rede,

           That highte Pheton, wolde lede

           Algate his fader cart, and gye.

           The carthors gonne wel espye

           That he ne coude no governaunce,

           And gonne for to lepe and launce,

           And beren him now up, now doun,

           Til that he saw the Scorpioun,

           Which that in heven a signe is yit,

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And he, for ferde, loste his wit,

           Of that, and leet the reynes goon

           Of his hors; and they anoon

           Gonne up to mounte, and doun descende

           Til bothe the eyr and erthe brende;

           Til Iupiter, lo, atte laste,

           Him slow, and fro the carte caste.

           Lo, is it not a greet mischaunce,

           To lete a fole han governaunce

           Of thing that he can not demeine?'

                  And with this word, soth for to seyne,

           He gan alway upper to sore,

           And gladded me ay more and more,

           So feithfully to me spak he.

                  Tho gan I loken under me,

           And beheld the eyrish bestes,

           Cloudes, mistes, and tempestes,

           Snowes, hailes, reines, windes,

           And thengendring in hir kindes,

           And al the wey through whiche I cam;

           `O god,' quod I, `that made Adam,

           Moche is thy might and thy noblesse!'

                  And tho thoughte I upon Boece,

           That writ, `a thought may flee so hye,

           With fetheres of Philosophye,

           To passen everich element;

           And whan he hath so fer ywent,

           Than may be seen, behind his bak,

           Cloud, and al that I of spak.'

                  Tho gan I wexen in a were,

           And seyde, `I woot wel I am here;

           But wher in body or in gost

           I noot, ywis; but god, thou wost!'

           For more cleer entendement

           Nadde he me never yit ysent.

           And than thoughte I on Marcian,

           And eek on Anleclaudian,

           That sooth was hir descripcioun

           Of al the hevenes regioun,

           As fer as that I saw the preve;

           Therfor I can hem now beleve.

                  With that this egle gan to crye:

           `Lat be,' quod he, `thy fantasye;

           Wilt thou lere of sterres aught?'

           `Nay, certeinly,' quod I, `right naught;

           `And why? for I am now to old.'

           `Elles I wolde thee have told,'

           Quod he, `the sterres names, lo,

           And al the hevenes signes to,

           And which they been.' `No fors,' quod I.

           `Yis, pardee,' quod he; `wostow why?

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For when thou redest poetrye,

           How goddes gonne stellifye

           Brid, fish, beste, or him or here,

           As the Raven, or either Bere,

           Or Ariones harpe fyn,

           Castor, Pollux, or Delphyn,

           Or Atlantes doughtres sevene,

           How alle these arn set in hevene;

           For though thou have hem ofte on honde,

           Yet nostow not wher that they stonde.'

           `No fors,' quod I, `hit is no nede;

           I leve as wel, so god me spede,

           Hem that wryte of this matere,

           As though I knew hir places here;

           And eek they shynen here so brighte,

           Hit shulde shenden al my sighte

           To loke on hem.' `That may wel be,'

           Quod he. And so forth bar he me

           A whyl, and than he gan to crye,

           That never herde I thing so hye,

           `Now up the heed; for al is wel;

           Seynt Iulyan, lo, bon hostel!

           See here the Hous of Fame, lo!

           Maistow not heren that I do?'

           `What?' quod I. `The grete soun,'

           Quod he, `that rumbleth up and doun

           In Fames Hous, full of tydinges,

           Bothe of fair speche and chydinges,

           And of fals and soth compouned.

           Herke wel; hit is not rouned.

           Herestow not the grete swogh?'

           `Yis, pardee,' quod I, `wel ynogh.'

           `And what soun is it lyk?' quod he.

           `Peter! lyk beting of the see,'

           Quod I, `again the roches holowe,

           Whan tempest doth the shippes swalowe;

           And lat a man stonde, out of doute,

           A myle thens, and here hit route;

           Or elles lyk the last humblinge

           After the clappe of oo thundringe,

           Whan Ioves hath the aire ybete;

           But hit doth me for fere swete.'

           `Nay, dred thee not thereof,' quod he,

           `Hit is nothing wil byten thee;

           Thou shalt non harme have, trewely.'

                  And with this word bothe he and I

           As nigh the place arryved were

           As men may casten with a spere.

           I niste how, but in a strete

           He sette me faire on my fete,

           And seyde, `Walke forth a pas,

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And tak thyn aventure or cas,

           That thou shalt finde in Fames place.'

                  `Now,' quod I, `whyl we han space

           To speke, or that I go fro thee,

           For the love of god, tel me,

           In sooth, that wil I of thee lere,

           If this noise that I here

           Be as I have herd thee tellen,

           Of folk that doun in erthe dwellen,

           And cometh here in the same wyse

           As I thee herde or this devyse;

           And that ther lyves body nis

           In al that hous that yonder is,

           That maketh al this loude fare?'

           `No,' quod he, `by Seynte Clare,

           And also wis god rede me!

           But o thinge I wil warne thee

           Of the which thou wolt have wonder.

           Lo, to the House of Fame yonder

           Thou wost how cometh every speche,

           Hit nedeth noght thee eft to teche.

           But understond now right wel this;

           Whan any speche ycomen is

           Up to the paleys, anonright

           Hit wexeth lyk the same wight,

           Which that the word in erthe spak,

           Be hit clothed red or blak;

           And hath so verray his lyknesse

           That spak the word, that thou wilt gesse

           That hit the same body be,

           Man or woman, he or she,

           And is not this a wonder thing?'

           `Yis,' quod I tho, `by hevene king!'

           And with this worde, `Farwel,' quod he,

           `And here I wol abyden thee;

           And god of hevene sende thee grace,

           Som good to lernen in this place,'

           And I of him took leve anoon,

           And gan forth to the paleys goon.

                  Explicit liber secundus.

Book III Incipit liber tercius.

                  Invocation.

           O god of science and of light,

           Apollo, through thy grete might,

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This litel laste book thou gye!

           Nat that I wilne, for maistrye,

           Here art poetical be shewed;

           But, for the rym is light and lewed,

           Yit make hit sumwhat agreable,

           Though som vers faile in a sillable;

           And that I do no diligence

           To shewe craft, but o sentence.

           And if, divyne vertu, thou

           Wilt helpe me to shewe now

           That in myn hede ymarked is 

           Lo, that is for to menen this,

           The Hous of Fame for to descryve 

           Thou shalt see me go, as blyve,

           Unto the nexte laure I see,

           And kisse hit, for hit is thy tree;

           Now entreth in my brest anoon!

                  The Dream.

           Whan I was fro this egle goon,

           I gan beholde upon this place.

           And certein, or I ferther pace,

           I wol yow al the shap devyse

           Of hous and site; and al the wyse

           How I gan to this place aproche

           That stood upon so high a roche,

           Hyer stant ther noon in Spaine.

           But up I clomb with alle paine,

           And though to climbe hit greved me,

           Yit I ententif was to see,

           And for to pouren wonder lowe,

           If I coude any weyes knowe

           What maner stoon this roche was;

           For hit was lyk a thing of glas,

           But that hit shoon ful more clere;

           But of what congeled matere

           Hit was, I niste redely.

                  But at the laste espyed I,

           And found that hit was, every deel,

           A roche of yse, and not of steel.

           Thoughte I, `By Seynt Thomas of Kent!

           This were a feble foundement

           To bilden on a place hye;

           He ought him litel glorifye

           That heron bilt, god so me save!'

                  Tho saw I al the half ygrave

           With famous folkes names fele,

           That had ybeen in mochel wele,

           And hir fames wyde yblowe.

           But wel unethes coude I knowe

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Any lettres for to rede

           Hir names by; for, out of drede,

           They were almost ofthowed so,

           That of the lettres oon or two

           Was molte away of every name,

           So unfamous was wexe hir fame;

           But men seyn, `What may ever laste?'

                  Tho gan I in myn herte caste,

           That they were molte awey with hete,

           And not awey with stormes bete.

           For on that other syde I sey

           Of this hille, that northward lay,

           How hit was writen ful of names

           Of folk that hadden grete fames

           Of olde tyme, and yit they were

           As fresshe as men had writen hem there

           The selve day right, or that houre

           That I upon hem gan to poure.

           But wel I wiste what hit made;

           Hit was conserved with the shade 

           Al this wrytinge that I sy 

           Of a castel, that stood on hy,

           And stood eek on so cold a place,

           That hete mighte hit not deface.

                  Tho gan I up the hille to goon,

           And fond upon the coppe a woon,

           That alle the men that ben on lyve

           Ne han the cunning to descryve

           The beautee of that ilke place,

           Ne coude casten no compace

           Swich another for to make,

           That mighte of beautee be his make

           Ne be so wonderliche ywrought;

           That hit astonieth yit my thought,

           And maketh al my wit to swinke

           On this castel to bethinke.

           So that the grete craft, beautee,

           The cast, and curiositee

           Ne can I not to yow devyse,

           My wit ne may me not suffyse.

                  But natheles al the substance

           I have yit in my remembrance;

           Forwhy me thoughte, by Seynt Gyle!

           Al was of stone of beryle,

           Bothe castel and the tour,

           And eek the halle, and every bour,

           Withouten peces or Ioininges,

           But many subtil compassinges,

           Babewinnes and pinacles,

           Imageries and tabernacles,

           I saw; and ful eek of windowes,

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As flakes falle in grete snowes.

           And eek in ech of the pinacles

           Weren sondry habitacles,

           In whiche stoden, al withoute 

           Ful the castel, al aboute 

           Of alle maner of minstrales,

           And gestiours, that tellen tales

           Bothe of weping and of game,

           Of al that longeth unto Fame.

                  Ther herde I pleyen on an harpe

           That souned bothe wel and sharpe,

           Orpheus ful craftely,

           And on his syde, faste by,

           Sat the harper Orion,

           And Eacides Chiron,

           And other harpers many oon,

           And the Bret Glascurion;

           And smale harpers with her glees

           Saten under hem in sees,

           And gunne on hem upward to gape,

           And countrefete hem as an ape,

           Or as craft countrefeteth kinde.

                  Tho saugh I stonden hem behinde,

           Afer fro hem, al by hemselve,

           Many thousand tymes twelve,

           That maden loude menstralcyes

           In cornemuse and shalmyes,

           And many other maner pype,

           That craftely begunne pype

           Bothe in doucet and in rede,

           That ben at festes with the brede;

           And many floute and liltinghorne,

           And pypes made of grene corne,

           As han thise litel herdegromes

           That kepen bestes in the bromes.

                  Ther saugh I than Atiteris,

           And of Athenes dan Pseustis,

           And Marcia that lost her skin,

           Bothe in face, body, and chin,

           For that she wolde envyen, lo!

           To pypen bet than Apollo.

           Ther saugh I famous, olde and yonge,

           Pypers of the Duche tonge,

           To lerne lovedaunces, springes,

           Reyes, and these straunge thinges.

                  Tho saugh I in another place

           Stonden in a large space,

           Of hem that maken blody soun

           In trumpe, beme, and clarioun;

           For in fight and bloodshedinge

           Is used gladly clarioninge.

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Ther herde I trumpen Messenus,

           Of whom that speketh Virgilius.

           Ther herde I Ioab trumpe also,

           Theodomas, and other mo;

           And alle that used clarion

           In Cataloigne and Aragon,

           That in hir tyme famous were

           To lerne, saugh I trumpe there.

                  Ther saugh I sitte in other sees,

           Pleyinge upon sondry glees,

           Whiche that I cannot nevene,

           Mo then sterres been in hevene,

           Of whiche I nil as now not ryme,

           For ese of yow, and losse of tyme:

           For tyme ylost, this knowen ye,

           By no way may recovered be.

                  Ther saugh I pleyen Iogelours,

           Magiciens and tregetours,

           And phitonesses, charmeresses,

           Olde wicches, sorceresses,

           That use exorsisaciouns,

           And eek thise fumigaciouns;

           And clerkes eek, which conne wel

           Al this magyke naturel,

           That craftely don hir ententes,

           To make, in certeyn ascendentes,

           Images, lo, through which magyk

           To make a man ben hool or syk.

           Ther saugh I thee queen Medea,

           And Circes eke, and Calipsa;

           Ther saugh I Hermes Ballenus,

           Lymote, and eek Simon Magus.

           Ther saugh I, and knew hem by name,

           That by such art don men han fame.

           Ther saugh I Colle tregetour

           Upon a table of sicamour

           Pleye an uncouthe thing to telle;

           I saugh him carien a windmelle

           Under a walshnote shale.

                  What shuld I make lenger tale

           Of al the peple that I say,

           Fro hennes into domesday?

                  Whan I had al this folk beholde,

           And fond me lous, and noght yholde,

           And eft ymused longe whyle

           Upon these walles of beryle,

           That shoon ful lighter than a glas,

           And made wel more than hit was

           To semen, every thing, ywis,

           As kinde thing of fames is;

           I gan forth romen til I fond

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The castelyate on my right hond,

           Which that so wel corven was

           That never swich another nas;

           And yit hit was by aventure

           Ywrought, as often as by cure.

                  Hit nedeth noght yow for to tellen,

           To make yow to longe dwellen,

           Of this yates florisshinges,

           Ne of compasses, ne of kervinges,

           Ne how they hatte in masoneries,

           As, corbetz fulle of imageries.

           But, lord! so fair hit was to shewe,

           For hit was al with gold behewe.

           But in I wente, and that anoon;

           Ther mette I crying many oon, 

           `A larges, larges, hold up wel!

           God save the lady of this pel,

           Our owne gentil lady Fame,

           And hem that wilnen to have name

           Of us!' Thus herde I cryen alle,

           And faste comen out of halle,

           And shoken nobles and sterlinges.

           And somme crouned were as kinges,

           With crounes wroght ful of losenges;

           And many riban, and many frenges

           Were on hir clothes trewely.

                  Tho atte laste aspyed I

           That pursevauntes and heraudes,

           That cryen riche folkes laudes,

           Hit weren alle; and every man

           Of hem, as I yow tellen can,

           Had on him throwen a vesture,

           Which that men clepe a cotearmure,

           Enbrowded wonderliche riche,

           Although they nere nought yliche.

           But noght nil I, so mote I thryve,

           Been aboute to discryve

           Al these armes that ther weren,

           That they thus on her cotes beren,

           For hit to me were impossible;

           Men mighte make of hem a bible

           Twenty foot thikke, as I trowe.

           For certeyn, whoso coude yknowe

           Mighte ther alle the armes seen

           Of famous folk that han ybeen

           In Auffrike, Europe, and Asye,

           Sith first began the chevalrye,

                  Lo! how shulde I now telle al this?

           Ne of the halle eek what nede is

           To tellen yow, that every wal

           Of hit, and floor, and roof and al

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Was plated half a fote thikke

           Of gold, and that nas nothing wikke,

           But, for to prove in alle wyse,

           As fyn as ducat in Venyse,

           Of whiche to lyte al in my pouche is?

           And they wer set as thikke of nouchis

           Fulle of the fynest stones faire,

           That men rede in the Lapidaire,

           As greses growen in a mede;

           But hit were al to longe to rede

           The names; and therfore I pace.

                  But in this riche lusty place,

           That Fames halle called was,

           Ful moche prees of folk ther nas,

           Ne crouding, for to mochil prees.

           But al on hye, above a dees,

           Sitte in a see imperial,

           That maad was of a rubee al,

           Which that a carbuncle is ycalled,

           I saugh, perpetually ystalled,

           A feminyne creature;

           That never formed by nature

           Nas swich another thing yseye.

           For altherfirst, soth for to seye,

           Me thoughte that she was so lyte,

           That the lengthe of a cubyte

           Was lenger than she semed be;

           But thus sone, in a whyle, she

           Hir tho so wonderliche streighte,

           That with hir feet she therthe reighte,

           And with hir heed she touched hevene,

           Ther as shynen sterres sevene.

           And therto eek, as to my wit,

           I saugh a gretter wonder yit

           Upon hir eyen to beholde;

           But certeyn I hem never tolde;

           For as fele eyen hadde she

           As fetheres upon foules be,

           Or weren on the bestes foure

           That goddes trone gunne honoure,

           As Iohn writ in th'Apocalips.

           Hir heer, that oundy was and crips,

           As burned gold hit shoon to see.

           And sooth to tellen, also she

           Had also fele upstonding eres

           And tonges, as on bestes heres;

           And on hir feet wexen saugh I

           Partriches winges redely.

                  But, lord! the perrie and the richesse

           I saugh sitting on this goddesse!

           And, lord! the hevenish melodye

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Of songes, ful of armonye,

           I herde aboute her trone ysonge,

           That al the paleyswalles ronge!

           So song the mighty Muse, she

           That cleped is Caliopee,

           And hir eighte sustren eke,

           That in hir face semen meke;

           And evermo, eternally,

           They songe of Fame, as tho herde I: 

           `Heried be thou and thy name,

           Goddesse of renoun and of fame!'

                  Tho was I war, lo, atte laste,

           As I myn eyen gan up caste,

           That this ilke noble quene

           On hir shuldres gan sustene

           Bothe tharmes and the name

           Of tho that hadde large fame;

           Alexander, and Hercules

           That with a sherte his lyf lees!

           Thus fond I sitting this goddesse,

           In nobley, honour, and richesse;

           Of which I stinte a whyle now,

           Other thing to tellen yow.

                  Tho saugh I stonde on either syde,

           Streight doun to the dores wyde,

           Fro the dees, many a pileer

           Of metal, that shoon not ful cleer;

           But though they nere of no richesse,

           Yet they were maad for greet noblesse,

           And in hem greet and hy sentence,

           And folk of digne reverence,

           Of whiche I wol yow telle fonde,

           Upon the piler saugh I stonde.

                  Alderfirst, lo, ther I sigh,

           Upon a piler stonde on high,

           That was of lede and yren fyn,

           Him of secte Saturnyn,

           The Ebrayk Iosephus, the olde,

           That of Iewes gestes tolde;

           And bar upon his shuldres hye

           The fame up of the Iewerye.

           And by him stoden other sevene,

           Wyse and worthy for to nevene,

           To helpen him bere up the charge,

           Hit was so hevy and so large.

           And for they writen of batailes,

           As wel as other olde mervailes,

           Therfor was, lo, this pileer,

           Of which that I yow telle heer,

           Of lede and yren bothe, ywis,

           For yren Martes metal is,

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Which that god is of bataille;

           And the leed, withouten faille,

           Is, lo, the metal of Saturne,

           That hath ful large wheel to turne.

           Tho stoden forth, on every rowe,

           Of hem which that I coude knowe,

           Thogh I hem noght be ordre telle,

           To make yow to long to dwelle.

                  These, of whiche I ginne rede,

           Ther saugh I stonden, out of drede:

           Upon an yren piler strong,

           That peynted was, al endelonge,

           With tygres blode in every place,

           The Tholosan that highte Stace,

           That bar of Thebes up the fame

           Upon his shuldres, and the name

           Also of cruel Achilles.

           And by him stood, withouten lees,

           Ful wonder hye on a pileer

           Of yren, he, the gret Omeer;

           And with him Dares and Tytus

           Before, and eek he Lollius,

           And Guido eek de Columpnis,

           And English Gaufride eek, ywis;

           And ech of these, as have I Ioye,

           Was besy for to bere up Troye.

           So hevy therof was the fame,

           That for to bere hit was no game.

           But yit I gan ful wel espye,

           Betwix hem was a litil envye.

           Oon seyde, Omere made lyes,

           Feyninge in his poetryes,

           And was to Grekes favorable;

           Therfor held he hit but fable.

                  Tho saugh I stonde on a pileer,

           That was of tinned yren cleer,

           That Latin poete, dan Virgyle,

           That bore hath up a longe whyle

           The fame of Pius Eneas.

                  And next him on a piler was,

           Of coper, Venus clerk, Ovyde,

           That hath ysowen wonder wyde

           The grete god of Loves name.

           And ther he bar up wel his fame,

           Upon his piler, also hye

           As I might see hit with myn ye:

           Forwhy this halle, of whiche I rede

           Was woxe on highte, lengthe and brede,

           Wel more, by a thousand del,

           Than hit was erst, that saugh I wel.

                  Tho saugh I, on a piler by,

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Of yren wroght ful sternely,

           The grete poete, daun Lucan,

           And on his shuldres bar up than,

           As highe as that I mighte see,

           The fame of Iulius and Pompee.

           And by him stoden alle these clerkes,

           That writen of Romes mighty werkes,

           That, if I wolde hir names telle,

           Al to longe most I dwelle.

                  And next him on a piler stood

           Of soulfre, lyk as he were wood,

           Dan Claudian, the soth to telle,

           That bar up al the fame of helle,

           Of Pluto, and of Proserpyne,

           That quene is of the derke pyne.

                  What shulde I more telle of this?

           The halle was al ful, ywis,

           Of hem that writen olde gestes,

           As ben on trees rokes nestes;

           But hit a ful confus matere

           Were al the gestes for to here,

           That they of write, and how they highte.

           But whyl that I beheld this sighte,

           I herde a noise aprochen blyve,

           That ferde as been don in an hyve,

           Agen her tyme of outfleyinge;

           Right swiche a maner murmuringe,

           For al the world, hit semed me.

                  Tho gan I loke aboute and see,

           That ther come entring in the halle

           A right gret company withalle,

           And that of sondry regiouns,

           Of alleskinnes condiciouns,

           That dwelle in erthe under the mone,

           Pore and ryche. And also sone

           As they were come into the halle,

           They gonne doun on knees falle

           Before this ilke noble quene,

           And seyde, `Graunte us, lady shene,

           Ech of us, of thy grace, a bone!'

           And somme of hem she graunted sone,

           And somme she werned wel and faire;

           And somme she graunted the contraire

           Of hir axing utterly,

           But thus I seye yow trewely,

           What hir cause was, I niste.

           For of this folk, ful wel I wiste,

           They hadde good fame ech deserved,

           Althogh they were diversly served;

           Right as hir suster, dame Fortune,

           Is wont to serven in comune.

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Now herkne how she gan to paye

           That gonne hir of hir grace praye;

           And yit, lo, al this companye

           Seyden sooth, and noght a lye.

           `Madame,' seyden they, `we be

           Folk that heer besechen thee,

           That thou graunte us now good fame,

           And let our werkes han that name;

           In ful recompensacioun

           Of good werk, give us good renoun.'

                  `I werne yow hit,' quod she anoon,

           `Ye gete of me good fame noon,

           By god! and therfor go your wey.'

                  `Alas,' quod they, `and welaway!

           Telle us, what may your cause be?'

                  `For me list hit noght,' quod she;

           `No wight shal speke of yow, ywis,

           Good ne harm, ne that ne this.'

           And with that word she gan to calle

           Hir messanger, that was in halle,

           And bad that he shulde faste goon,

           Up peyne to be blind anoon,

           For Eolus, the god of winde; 

           `In Trace ther ye shul him finde,

           And bid him bringe his clarioun,

           That is ful dyvers of his soun,

           And hit is cleped Clere Laude,

           With which he wont is to heraude

           Hem that me list ypreised be:

           And also bid him how that he

           Bringe his other clarioun,

           That highte Sclaundre in every toun,

           With which he wont is to diffame

           Hem that me list, and do hem shame.'

                  This messanger gan faste goon,

           And found wher, in a cave of stoon,

           In a contree that highte Trace,

           This Eolus, with harde grace,

           Held the windes in distresse,

           And gan hem under him to presse,

           That they gonne as beres rore,

           He bond and pressed hem so sore.

                  This messanger gan faste crye,

           `Rys up,' quod he, `and faste hye,

           Til that thou at my lady be;

           And tak thy clarions eek with thee,

           And speed the forth.' And he anon

           Took to a man, that hight Triton,

           His clariouns to bere tho,

           And leet a certeyn wind to go,

           That blew so hidously and hye,

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That hit ne lefte not a skye

           In al the welken longe an brood.

                  This Eolus nowher abood

           Til he was come at Fames feet,

           And eek the man that Triton heet;

           And ther he stood, as still as stoon.

           And herwithal ther com anoon

           Another huge companye

           Of gode folk, and gunne crye,

           `Lady, graunte us now good fame,

           And lat our werkes han that name

           Now, in honour of gentilesse,

           And also god your soule blesse!

           For we han wel deserved hit,

           Therfore is right that we ben quit.'

                  `As thryve I,' quod she, `ye shal faile,

           Good werkes shal yow noght availe

           To have of me good fame as now.

           But wite ye what? Y graunte yow,

           That ye shal have a shrewed fame

           And wikked loos, and worse name,

           Though ye good loos have wel deserved.

           Now go your wey, for ye be served;

           And thou, dan Eolus, let see!

           Tak forth thy trumpe anon,' quod she,

           `That is ycleped Sclaunder light,

           And blow her loos, that every wight

           Speke of hem harm and shrewednesse,

           In stede of good and worthinesse.

           For thou shalt trumpe al the contraire

           Of that they han don wel or faire.'

                  `Alas,' thoughte I, `what aventures

           Han these sory creatures!

           For they, amonges al the pres,

           Shul thus be shamed, gilteles!

           But what! hit moste nedes be.'

                  What did this Eolus, but he

           Tok out his blakke trumpe of bras,

           That fouler than the devil was,

           And gan this trumpe for to blowe,

           As al the world shulde overthrowe;

           That throughout every regioun

           Wente this foule trumpes soun,

           As swift as pelet out of gonne,

           Whan fyr is in the poudre ronne.

           And swiche a smoke gan outwende

           Out of his foule trumpes ende,

           Blak, blo, grenissh, swartish reed,

           As doth wher that men melte leed,

           Lo, al on high fro the tuel!

           And therto oo thing saugh I wel,

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That, the ferther that hit ran,

           The gretter wexen hit began,

           As doth the river from a welle,

           And hit stank as the pit of helle.

           Alas, thus was hir shame yronge,

           And giltelees, on every tonge.

                  Tho com the thridde companye,

           And gunne up to the dees to hye,

           And doun on knees they fille anon,

           And seyde, `We ben everichon

           Folk that han ful trewely

           Deserved fame rightfully,

           And pray yow, hit mot be knowe,

           Right as hit is, and forth yblowe.'

           `I graunte,' quod she, `for me list

           That now your gode werk be wist;

           And yet ye shul han better loos,

           Right in dispyt of alle your foos,

           Than worthy is; and that anoon:

           Lat now,' quod she, `thy trumpe goon,

           Thou Eolus, that is so blak;

           And out thyn other trumpe tak

           That highte Laude, and blow it so

           That through the world hir fame go

           Al esely, and not to faste,

           That hit be knowen atte laste.'

                  `Ful gladly, lady myn,' he seyde;

           And out his trumpe of golde he brayde

           Anon, and sette hit to his mouthe,

           And blew hit est, and west, and southe,

           And north, as loude as any thunder,

           That every wight hadde of hit wonder,

           So brode hit ran, or than hit stente,

           And, certes, al the breeth that wente

           Out of his trumpes mouthe smelde

           As men a potful bawme helde

           Among a basket ful of roses;

           This favour dide he til hir loses.

                  And right with this I gan aspye,

           Ther com the ferthe companye 

           But certeyn they were wonder fewe 

           And gonne stonden in a rewe,

           And seyden, `Certes, lady brighte,

           We han don wel with al our mighte;

           But we ne kepen have no fame.

           Hyd our werkes and our name,

           For goddes love! for certes we

           Han certeyn doon hit for bountee,

           And for no maner other thing.'

           `I graunte yow al your asking,'

           Quod she; `let your werk be deed.'

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With that aboute I clew myn heed,

           And saugh anoon the fifte route

           That to this lady gonne loute,

           And doun on knes anoon to falle;

           And to hir tho besoughten alle

           To hyde hit gode werkes eek,

           And seyde, they yeven noght a leek

           For fame, ne for swich renoun;

           For they, for contemplacioun

           And goddes love, hadde ywrought;

           Ne of fame wolde they nought.

                  `What?' quod she, `and be ye wood?

           And wene ye for to do good,

           And for to have of that no fame?

           Have ye dispyt to have my name?

           Nay, ye shul liven everichoon!

           Blow thy trumpe and that anoon,'

           Quod she, `thou Eolus, I hote,

           And ring this folkes werk by note,

           That al the world may of hit here.'

           And he gan blowe hir loos so clere

           In his golden clarioun

           That through the world wente the soun,

           Also kenely, and eek so softe;

           But atte laste hit was onlofte.

                  Thoo com the sexte companye,

           And gonne faste on Fame crye.

           Right verraily, in this manere

           They seyden: `Mercy, lady dere!

           To telle certein, as hit is,

           We han don neither that ne this,

           But ydel al our lif ybe.

           But, natheles, yit preye we,

           That we mowe han so good a fame,

           And greet renoun and knowen name,

           As they that han don noble gestes,

           And acheved alle hir lestes,

           As wel of love as other thing;

           Al was us never broche ne ring,

           Ne elles nought, from wimmen sent,

           Ne ones in hir herte yment

           To make us only frendly chere,

           But mighte temen us on bere;

           Yit lat us to the peple seme

           Swiche as the world may of us deme,

           That wimmen loven us for wood.

           Hit shal don us as moche good,

           And to our herte as moche availe

           To countrepeise ese and travaile,

           As we had wonne hit with labour;

           For that is dere boght honour

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At regard of our grete ese.

           And yit thou most us more plese

           Let us be holden eek, therto,

           Worthy, wyse, and gode also,

           And riche, and happy unto love.

           For goddes love, that sit above,

           Thogh we may not the body have

           Of wimmen, yet, so god yow save!

           Let men glewe on us the name;

           Suffyceth that we han the fame.'

                  `I graunte,' quod she, `by my trouthe!

           Now, Eolus, withouten slouthe.

           Tak out thy trumpe of gold, let see,

           And blow as they han axed me,

           That every man wene hem at ese,

           Though they gon in ful badde lese.'

           This Eolus gan hit so blowe

           That through the world hit was yknowe.

                  Tho come the seventh route anoon,

           And fel on knees everichoon,

           And seyde, `Lady, graunte us sone

           The same thing, the same bone,

           That ye this nexte folk han doon.'

           `Fy on yow,' quod she, `everichoon!

           Ye masty swyn, ye ydel wrecches,

           Ful of roten slowe tecches!

           What? false theves! wher ye wolde

           Be famous good, and nothing nolde

           Deserve why, ne never roughte?

           Men rather yow tohangen oughte!

           For ye be lyk the sweynte cat,

           That wolde have fish; but wostow what?

           He wolde nothing wete his clowes.

           Yvel thrift come to your Iowes,

           And eek on myn, if I hit graunte,

           Or do yow favour, yow to avaunte!

           Thou Eolus, thou king of Trace!

           Go, blow this folk a soo grace,'

           Quod she, `anoon; and wostow how?

           As I shal telle thee right now;

           Sey: "These ben they that wolde honour

           Have, and do noskinnes labour,

           Ne do no good, and yit han laude;

           And that men wende that bele Isaude

           Ne coude hem noght of lovewerne;

           And yit she that grint at a querne

           Is al to good to ese hir herte."'

                  This Eolus anon up sterte,

           And with his blakke clarioun

           He gan to blasen out a soun,

           As loude as belweth wind in helle.

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And eek therwith, the sooth to telle,

           This soun was al so ful of Iapes,

           As ever mowes were in apes.

           And that wente al the world aboute,

           That every wight gan on hem shoute,

           And for to laughe as they were wode;

           Such game fonde they in hir hode.

                  Tho com another companye,

           That had ydoon the traiterye,

           The harm, the gretest wikkednesse

           That any herte couthe gesse;

           And prayed hir to han good fame,

           And that she nolde hem doon no shame,

           But yeve hem loos and good renoun,

           And do hit blowe in clarioun.

           `Nay, wis!' quod she, `hit were a vyce;

           Al be ther in me no Iustyce

           Me listeth not to do hit now,

           Ne this nil I not graunte you.'

                  Tho come ther lepinge in a route,

           And gonne choppen al aboute

           Every man upon the croune,

           That al the halle gan to soune,

           And seyden: `Lady, lefe and dere

           We ben swich folk as ye mowe here.

           To tellen al the tale aright,

           We ben shrewes, every wight,

           And han delyt in wikkednes,

           As gode folk han in goodnes;

           And Ioye to be knowen shrewes,

           And fulle of vyce and wikked thewes;

           Wherfor we prayen yow, arowe,

           That our fame swich be knowe

           In alle thing right as hit is.'

                  `I graunte hit yow,' quod she, `ywis.

           But what art thou that seyst this tale,

           That werest on thy hose a pale,

           And on thy tipet swiche a belle!'

           `Madame,' quod he, `sooth to telle,

           I am that ilke shrewe, ywis,

           That brende the temple of Isidis

           In Athenes, lo, that citee.'

           `And wherfor didest thou so?' quod she.

           `By my thrift,' quod he, `madame,

           I wolde fayn han had a fame,

           As other folk hadde in the toun,

           Althogh they were of greet renoun

           For hir vertu and for hir thewes;

           Thoughte I, as greet a fame han shrewes,

           Thogh hit be but for shrewednesse,

           As gode folk han for goodnesse;

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And sith I may not have that oon,

           That other nil I noght forgoon.

           And for to gette of Fames hyre,

           The temple sette I al afyre.

           Now do our loos be blowen swythe,

           As wisly be thou ever blythe.'

           `Gladly,' quod she; `thou Eolus,

           Herestow not what they prayen us?'

           `Madame, yis, ful wel,' quod he,

           And I wil trumpen hit, parde!'

           And tok his blakke trumpe faste,

           And gan to puffen and to blaste,

           Til hit was at the worldes ende.

                  With that I gan aboute wende;

           For oon that stood right at my bak,

           Me thoughte goodly to me spak,

           And seyde, `Frend, what is thy name?

           Artow come hider to han fame?'

           `Nay, forsothe, frend!' quod I;

           I cam noght hider, graunt mercy!

           For no swich cause, by my heed!

           Suffyceth me, as I were deed,

           That no wight have my name in honde.

           I woot myself best how I stonde;

           For what I drye or what I thinke,

           I wol myselven al hit drinke,

           Certeyn, for the more part,

           As ferforth as I can myn art.'

           `But what dost thou here than?' quod he.

           Quod I, `that wol I tellen thee,

           The cause why I stonde here: 

           Som newe tydings for to lere: 

           Som newe thinges, I not what,

           Tydinges, other this or that,

           Of love, or swiche thinges glade.

           For certeynly, he that me made

           To comen hider seyde me,

           I shulde bothe here and see,

           In this place, wonder thinges;

           But these be no swiche tydinges

           As I mene of.' `No?' quod he,

           And I answerde, `No, pardee!

           For wel I wiste, ever yit,

           Sith that first I hadde wit,

           That som folk han desyred fame

           Dyversly, and loos, and name;

           But certeynly, I niste how

           Ne wher that Fame dwelte, er now;

           Ne eek of hir descripcioun,

           Ne also hir condicioun,

           Ne the ordre of hir dome,

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Unto the tyme I hider come.'

           `Whiche be, lo, these tydinges,

           That thou now thus hider bringes,

           That thou hast herd?' quod he to me;

           `But now, no fors; for wel I see

           What thou desyrest for to here.

           Com forth, and stond no longer here,

           And I wol thee, withouten drede,

           In swich another place lede,

           Ther thou shalt here many oon,'

                  Tho gan I forth with him to goon

           Out of the castel, soth to seye.

           Tho saugh I stonde in a valeye,

           Under the castel, faste by,

           An hous, that Domus Dedali,

           That Laborintus cleped is,

           Nas maad so wonderliche, ywis,

           Ne half so queynteliche ywrought.

           And evermo, so swift as thought,

           This queynt hous aboute wente,

           That nevermo hit stike stente.

           And therout com so greet a noise,

           That, had hit stonden upon Oise,

           Men mighte hit han herd esely

           To Rome, I trowe sikerly.

           And the noyse which that I herde,

           For al the world right so hit ferde,

           As doth the routing of the stoon

           That from thengyn is leten goon.

                  And al this hous, of whiche I rede,

           Was made of twigges, falwe, rede,

           And grene eek, and som weren whyte,

           Swiche as men to these cages thwyte,

           Or maken of these paniers,

           Or elles hottes or dossers;

           That, for the swough and for the twigges,

           This hous was also ful of gigges,

           And also ful eek a chirkinges,

           And of many other werkinges;

           And eek this hous hath of entrees

           As fele as of leves been on trees

           In somer, whan they grene been;

           And on the roof men may yit seen

           A thousand holes, and wel mo,

           To leten wel the soun out go.

                  And by day, in every tyde,

           Ben al the dores open wyde,

           And by night, echoon unshette;

           Ne porter ther is non to lette

           No maner tydings in to pace;

           Ne never reste is in that place,

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That hit nis fild ful of tydinges,

           Other loude, or of whispringes;

           And, over alle the houses angles,

           Is ful of rouninges and of Iangles

           Of werre, of pees, of mariages,

           Of reste, of labour, of viages,

           Of abood, of deeth, of lyfe,

           Of love, of hate, acorde, of stryfe,

           Of loos, of lore, and of winninges,

           Of hele, of sekenesse, of bildinges,

           Of faire windes, of tempestes,

           Of qualme of folk, and eek of bestes;

           Of dyvers transmutaciouns

           Of estats, and eek of regiouns;

           Of trust, of drede, of Ielousye,

           Of wit, of winninge, of folye;

           Of plentee, and of greet famyne,

           Of chepe, of derth, and of ruyne;

           Of good or mis governement,

           Of fyr, of dyvers accident.

                  And lo, this hous, of whiche I wryte,

           Siker be ye, hit nas not lyte;

           For hit was sixty myle of lengthe;

           Al was the timber of no strengthe,

           Yet hit is founded to endure

           Whyl that hit list to Aventure,

           That is the moder of tydinges,

           As the see of welles and springes, 

           And hit was shapen lyk a cage.

                  `Certes,' quod I, `in al myn age,

           Ne saugh I swich a hous as this.'

           And as I wondred me, ywis,

           Upon this hous, tho war was I

           How that myn egle, faste by,

           Was perched hye upon a stoon;

           And I gan streighte to him goon,

           And seyde thus: `I preye thee

           That thou a whyl abyde me

           For goddes love, and let me seen

           What wondres in this place been;

           For yit, paraventure, I may lere

           Som good theron, or sumwhat here

           That leef me were, or that I wente.'

                  `Peter! that is myn entente,'

           Quod he to me; `therfor I dwelle;

           But certein, oon thing I thee telle,

           That, but I bringe thee therinne,

           Ne shalt thou never cunne ginne

           To come into hit, out of doute,

           So faste hit whirleth, lo, aboute.

           But sith that Ioves, of his grace,

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As I have seyd, wol thee solace

           Fynally with swiche thinges,

           Uncouthe sightes and tydinges,

           To passe with thyn hevinesse;

           Suche routhe hath he of thy distresse,

           That thou suffrest debonairly 

           And wost thyselven utterly

           Disesperat of alle blis,

           Sith that Fortune hath maad amis

           The fruit of al thyn hertes reste

           Languisshe and eek in point to breste 

           That he, through his mighty meryte,

           Wol do thee ese, al be hit lyte,

           And yaf expres commaundement,

           To whiche I am obedient,

           To furthre thee with al my might,

           And wisse and teche thee aright

           Wher thou maist most tydinges here;

           Shaltow anoon heer many oon lere.'

                  With this worde he, right anoon,

           Hente me up bitwene his toon,

           And at a windowe in me broghte,

           That in this hous was, as me thoghte 

           And therwithal, me thoughte hit stente,

           And nothing hit aboute wente 

           And me sette in the flore adoun.

           But which a congregacioun

           Of folk, as I saugh rome aboute

           Some within and some withoute,

           Nas never seen, ne shal ben eft;

           That, certes, in the world nis left

           So many formed by Nature,

           Ne deed so many a creature;

           That wel unnethe, in that place,

           Hadde I oon footbrede of space;

           And every wight that I saugh there

           Rouned ech in others ere

           A newe tyding prevely,

           Or elles tolde al openly

           Right thus, and seyde: `Nost not thou

           That is betid, lo, late or now?'

                  `No,' quod the other, `tel me what;' 

           And than he tolde him this and that,

           And swoor therto that hit was sooth 

           `Thus hath he seyd,' and `Thus he dooth' 

           `Thus shal hit be,'  `Thus herde I seye' 

           `That shal he found'  `That dar I leye:' 

           That al the folk that is alyve

           Ne han the cunning to discryve

           The thinges that I herde there,

           What aloude, and what in ere.

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But al the wondermost was this: 

           Whan oon had herd a thing, ywis,

           He com forth to another wight,

           And gan him tellen, anoonright,

           The same that to him was told,

           Or hit a furlongway was old,

           But gan somwhat for to eche

           To this tyding in this speche

           More than hit ever was.

           And nat so sone departed nas

           That he fro him, that he ne mette

           With the thridde; and, or he lette

           Any stounde, he tolde him als;

           Were the tyding sooth or fals,

           Yit wolde he telle hit nathelees,

           And evermo with more encrees

           Than hit was erst. Thus north and southe

           Went every word fro mouth to mouthe,

           And that encresing evermo,

           As fyr is wont to quikke and go

           From a sparke spronge amis,

           Til al a citee brent up is.

                  And whan that was ful yspronge,

           And woxen more on every tonge

           Than ever hit was, hit wente anoon

           Up to a windowe, out to goon;

           Or, but hit mighte out ther pace,

           Hit gan out crepe at som crevace,

           And fleigh forth faste for the nones.

                  And somtyme saugh I tho, at ones,

           A lesing and a sad sothsawe,

           That gonne of aventure drawe

           Out at a windowe for to pace;

           And, when they metten in that place,

           They were achekked bothe two,

           And neither of hem moste out go;

           For other so they gonne croude,

           Til eche of hem gan cryen loude,

           `Lat me go first!'  `Nay, but let me!

           And here I wol ensuren thee

           With the nones that thou wolt do so,

           That I shal never fro thee go,

           But be thyn owne sworen brother!

           We wil medle us ech with other,

           That no man, be he never so wrothe,

           Shal han that oon of two, but bothe

           At ones, al beside his leve,

           Come we amorwe or on eve,

           Be we cryed or stille yrouned.'

           Thus saugh I fals and sooth compouned

           Togeder flee for oo tydinge.

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Thus out at holes gonne wringe

           Every tyding streight to Fame;

           And she gan yeven eche his name,

           After hir disposicioun,

           And yaf hem eek duracioun,

           Some to wexe and wane sone,

           As dooth the faire, whyte mone,

           And leet hem gon. Ther might I seen

           Wenged wondres faste fleen,

           Twenty thousand in a route,

           As Eolus hem blew aboute.

                  And, lord! this hous, in alle tymes,

           Was ful of shipmen and pilgrymes,

           With scrippes bretful of lesinges,

           Entremedled with tydinges,

           And eek alone by hemselve.

           O, many a thousand tymes twelve

           Saugh I eek of these pardoneres,

           Currours, and eek messangeres,

           With boistes crammed ful of lyes

           As ever vessel was with lyes.

           And as I altherfastest wente

           Aboute, and dide al myn entente

           Me for to pleye and for to lere,

           And eek a tyding for to here,

           That I had herd of som contree

           That shal not now be told for me; 

           For hit no nede is, redely;

           Folk can singe hit bet than I;

           For al mot out, other late or rathe,

           Alle the sheves in the lathe; 

           I herde a gret noise withalle

           In a corner of the halle,

           Ther men of love tydings tolde,

           And I gan thiderward beholde;

           For I saugh renninge every wight,

           As faste as that they hadden might;

           And everich cryed, `What thing is that?'

           And som seyde, `I not never what,'

           And whan they were alle on an hepe,

           Tho behinde gonne up lepe,

           And clamben up on othere faste,

           And up the nose and hye caste,

           And troden faste on othere heles,

           And stampe, as men don after eles.

                  Atte laste I saugh a man,

           Which that I nevene naught ne can;

           But he semed for to be

           A man of greet auctoritee...

(the work is unfinished)

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The Parliament of Fowles

Here begynyth the Parlement of Foulys 

THE PROEM

The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne,

Thassay so hard, so sharp the conquering,

The dredful Ioy, that alwey slit so yerne,

Al this mene I by love, that my feling

Astonyeth with his wonderful worching

So sore ywis, that whan I on him thinke,

Nat wot I wel wher that I wake or winke.

For al be that I knowe nat love in dede,

Ne wot how that he quyteth folk hir hyre,

Yet happeth me ful ofte in bokes rede

Of his miracles, and his cruel yre;

Ther rede I wel he wol be lord and syre,

I dar not seyn, his strokes been so sore,

But God save swich a lord! I can no more. 

Of usage, what for luste what for lore,

On bokes rede I ofte, as I yow tolde.

But wherfor that I speke al this? not yore

Agon, hit happed me for to beholde

Upon a boke, was write with lettres olde;

And therupon, a certeyn thing to lerne,

The longe day ful faste I radde and yerne.

For out of olde feldes, as men seith,

Cometh al this newe corn fro yeer to yere;

And out of olde bokes, in good feith,

Cometh al this newe science that men lere.

But now to purpos as of this matere 

To rede forth hit gan me so delyte,

That al the day me thoughte but a lyte. 

This book of which I make of mencioun,

Entitled was al thus, as I shal telle,

`Tullius of the dreme of Scipioun.';

Chapitres seven hit hadde, of hevene and helle,

And erthe, and soules that therinnr dwelle,

Of whiche, as shortly as I can hit trete,

Of his sentence I wol you seyn the grete.

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First telleth hit, whan Scipion was come

In Afrik, how he mette Massinisse,

That him for Ioye in armes hath y nome.

Than telleth hit hir speche and al the blisse

That was betwix hem, til the day gan misse;

And how his auncestre, African so dere,

Gan in his slepe that night to him appere.

Than telleth hit that, fro a sterry place,

How African hath him Cartage shewed,

And warned him before of al his grace,

And seyde him, what man, lered other lewed,

That loveth comun profit, wel ythewed,

He shal unto a blisful place wende,

Ther as Ioye is that last withouten ende.

Than asked he, if folk that heer be dede

Have lyf and dwelling in another place;

And African seyde, `ye, withoute drede,'

And that our present worldes lyves space

Nis but a maner deth, what wey we trace,

And rightful folk shal go, after they dye,

To heven; and shewed him the galaxye.

Than shewed he him the litel erthe, that heer is,

At regard of the hevenes quantite;

And after shewed he him the nyne speres,

And after that the melodye herde he

That cometh of thilke speres thryes three,

That welle is of musyk and melodye

In this world heer, and cause of armonye.

Than bad he him, sin erthe was so lyte,

And ful of torment and of harde grace,

That he ne shulde him in the world delyte.

Than tolde he him, in certeyn yeres space,

That every sterre shulde come into his place

Ther hit was first; and al shulde out of minde

That in this worlde is don of al mankinde.

Than prayde him Scipioun to telle him al

The wey to come unto that hevene blisse;

And he seyde, `know thyself first immortal,

And loke ay besily thou werke and wisse

To comun profit, and thou shalt nat misse

To comen swiftly to that place dere,

That ful of blisse is and of soules clere.

But brekers of the lawe, soth to seyne,

And lecherous folk, after that they be dede,

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Shul alwey whirle aboute therthe in peyne,

Til many a world be passed, out of drede,

And than, foryeven alle hir wikked dede,

Than shul they come unto that blisful place,

To which to comen god thee sende his grace!' 

The day gan failen, and the derke night,

That reveth bestes from her besinesse,

Berafte me my book for lakke of light,

And to my bedde I gan me for to dresse,

Fulfild of thought and besy hevinesse;

For bothe I hadde thing which that I nolde,

And eek I ne hadde that thing that I wolde.

But fynally my spirit, at the laste,

Forwery of my labour al the day,

Took rest, that made me to slepe faste,

And in my slepe I mette, as I lay,

How African, right in the selfe aray

That Scipioun him saw before that tyde,

Was comen and stood right at my bedes syde.

The wery hunter, slepinge in his bed,

To wode ayein his minde goth anoon;

The Iuge dremeth how his plees ben sped;

The carter dremeth how his cartes goon;

The riche, of gold; the knight fight with his foon;

The seke met he drinketh of the tonne;

The lover met he hath his lady wonne.

Can I nat seyn if that the cause were

For I had red of African beforn,

That made me to mete that he stood there;

But thus seyde he, `thou hast thee so wel born

In loking of myn olde book totorn,

Of which Macrobie roghte nat a lyte,

That somdel of thy labour wolde I quyte!' 

Citherea! thou blisful lady swete,

That with thy fyrbrand dauntest whom thee lest,

And madest me this sweven for to mete,

Be thou my help in this, for thou mayst best;

As wisly as I saw thee northnorthwest,

When I began my sweven for to wryte,

So yif me might to ryme and endyte!

THE STORY

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This forseid African me hente anoon,

And forth with him unto a gate broghte

Right of a parke, walled of grene stoon;

And over the gate, with lettres large ywroghte,

Ther weren vers ywriten, as me thoghte,

On eyther halfe, of ful gret difference,

Of which I shal yow sey the pleyn sentence.

`Thorgh me men goon into that blisful place

Of hertes hele and dedly woundes cure;

Thorgh me men goon unto the welle of Grace,

Ther grene and lusty May shal ever endure;

This is the wey to al good aventure;

Be glad, thou reder, and thy sorwe ofcaste,

Al open am I; passe in, and hy the faste!'

`Thorgh me men goon,' than spak that other syde,

`Unto the mortal strokes of the spere,

Of which Disdayn and Daunger is the gyde,

Ther tre shal never fruyt ne leves bere.

This streem yow ledeth to the sorwful were,

Ther as the fish in prison is al drye;

Theschewing is only the remedye.'

Thise vers of gold and blak ywriten were,

Of whiche I gan a stounde to beholde,

For with that oon encresed ay my fere,

And with that other gan myn herte bolde;

That oon me hette, that other did me colde,

No wit had I, for errour, for to chese

To entre or flee, or me to save or lese.

Right as, betwixen adamauntes two

Of even might, a pece of iren yset,

That hath no might to meve to ne fro 

For what that on may hale, that other let 

Ferde I; that niste whether me was bet,

To entre or leve, til African my gyde

Me hente, and shoof in at the gates wyde,

And seyde,`hit stondeth writen in thy face,

Thyn errour, though thou telle it not to me;

But dred the nat to come into this place,

For this wryting is nothing ment by thee,

Ne by noon, but he Loves servant be;

For thou of love hast lost thy tast, I gesse,

As seek man hath of swete and bitternesse.

But natheles, although that thou be dulle,

Yit that thou canst not do, yit mayst thou see;

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For many a man that may not stonde a pulle,

Yit lyketh him at the wrastling for to be,

And demeth yit wher he do bet or he;

And if thou haddest cunning for tendyte,

I shal thee shewen mater of to wryte.'

With that my hond in his he took anoon,

Of which I comfort caughte, and went in faste;

But, lord! so I was glad and wel begoon!

For overal, wher that I myn eyen caste,

Were trees clad with leves that ay shal laste,

Eche in his kinde, of colour fresh and grene

As emeraude, that Ioye was to sene.

The bilder ook, and eek the hardy asshe;

The piler elm, the cofre unto careyne;

The boxtree piper; holm to whippes lasshe;

The sayling firr; the cipres, deth to pleyne;

The sheter ew, the asp for shaftes pleyne;

The olyve of pees, and eek the drunken vyne,

The victor palm, the laurer to devyne.

A gardyn saw I, ful of blosmy bowes,

Upon a river, in a grene mede,

Ther as swetnesse evermore ynow is,

With floures whyte, blewe, yelowe, and rede;

And colde wellestremes, nothing dede,

That swommen ful of smale fisshes lighte,

With finnes rede and scales silverbrighte.

On every bough the briddes herde I singe,

With voys of aungel in hir armonye,

Som besyed hem hir briddes forth to bringe;

The litel conyes to hir pley gunne hye.

And further al aboute I gan espye

The dredful roo, the buk, the hert and hinde,

Squerels, and bestes smale of gentil kinde.

Of instruments of strenges in acord

Herde I so pleye a ravisshing swetnesse,

That god, that maker is of al and lord,

Ne herde never better, as I gesse;

Therwith a wind, unnethe hit might be lesse,

Made in the leves grene a noise softe

Acordaunt to the foules songe onlofte.

The air of that place so attempre was

That never was grevaunce of hoot ne cold;

Ther wex eek every holsum spyce and gras,

Ne no man may ther wexe seek ne old;

Yet was ther Ioye more a thousand fold

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Page No 78

Then man can telle; ne never wolde it nighte,

But ay cleer day to any mannes sighte.

Under a tree, besyde a welle, I say

Cupyde our lord his arwes forge and fyle;

And at his fete his bowe al redy lay,

And wel his doghter tempred al this whyle

The hedes in the welle, and with hir wyle

She couched hem after as they shulde serve,

Some for to slee, and some to wounde and kerve.

Tho was I war of Plesaunce anonright,

And of Aray, and Lust, and Curtesye,

And of the Craft that can and hath the might

To doon by force a wight to do folye 

Disfigurat was she, I nil not lye;

And by himself, under an oke, I gesse,

Saw I Delyt, that stood with Gentilnesse.

I saw Beautee, withouten any atyr,

And Youthe, ful of game and Iolyte,

Foolhardinesse, Flatery, and Desyr,

Messagerye, and Mede, and other three 

Hir names shul noght here be told for me 

And upon pilers grete of Iasper longe

I saw a temple of bras yfounded stronge.

Aboute the temple daunceden alway

Wommen ynowe, of whiche some ther were

Faire of hemself, and somme of hem were gay;

In kirtels, al disshevele, wente they there 

That was hir office alway, yeer by yere 

And on the temple, of doves whyte and faire

Saw I sittinge many a hunderede paire.

Before the templedore ful soberly

Dame Pees sat, with a curteyn in hir hond:

And hir besyde, wonder discretly,

Dame Pacience sitting ther I fond

With face pale, upon an hille of sond;

And aldernext, within and eek withoute,

Behest and Art, and of hir folke a route.

Within the temple, of syghes hote as fyr

I herde a swogh that gan aboute renne;

Which syghes were engendred with desyr,

That maden every auter for to brenne

Of newe flaume; and wel aspyed I thenne

That al the cause of sorwes that they drye

Com of the bitter goddesse Ialousye.

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The god Priapus saw I, as I wente,

Within the temple, in soverayn place stonde,

In swich aray as whan the asse him shente

With crye by night, and with ceptre in honde;

Ful besily men gunne assaye and fonde

Upon his hede to sette, of sondry hewe,

Garlondes ful of fresshe floures newe.

And in a privee corner, in disporte,

Fond I Venus and hir porter Richesse,

That was ful noble and hauteyn of hir porte;

Derk was that place, but afterward lightnesse

I saw a lyte, unnethe hit might be lesse,

And on a bed of golde she lay to reste,

Til that the hote sonne gan to weste.

Hir gilte heres with a golden threde

Ybounden were, untressed as she lay,

And naked fro the breste unto the hede

Men might hir see; and, sothly for to say,

The remenant wel kevered to my pay

Right with a subtil kerchef of Valence,

Ther was no thikker cloth of no defence.

The place yaf a thousand savours swote,

And Bachus, god of wyn, sat hir besyde,

And Ceres next, that doth of hunger bote;

And, as I seide, amiddes lay Cipryde,

To whom on knees two yonge folkes cryde

To ben hir help; but thus I leet hir lye,

And ferther in the temple I gan espye

That, in dispyte of Diane the chaste,

Ful many a bowe ybroke heng on the wal

Of maydens, suche as gunne hir tymes waste

In hir servyse; and peynted over al

Of many a story, of which I touche shal

A fewe, as of Calixte and Athalaunte,

And many a mayde, of which the name I wante;

Semyramus, Candace, and Ercules,

Biblis, Dido, Thisbe, and Piramus,

Tristram, Isoude, Paris, and Achilles,

Eleyne, Cleopatre, and Troilus,

Silla, and eek the moder of Romulus 

Alle these were peynted on that other syde,

And al hir love, and in what plyte they dyde.

Whan I was come ayen unto the place

That I of spak, that was so swote and grene,

Forth welk I tho, myselven to solace.

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Page No 80

Tho was I war wher that ther sat a quene

That, as of light the somersonne shene

Passeth the sterre, right so over mesure

She fairer was than any creature.

And in a launde, upon an hille of floures,

Was set this noble goddesse Nature;

Of braunches were hir halles and hir boures,

Ywrought after hir craft and hir mesure;

Ne ther nas foul that cometh of engendrure,

That they ne were prest in hir presence,

To take hir doom and yeve hir audience.

For this was on seynt Valentynes day,

Whan every foul cometh ther to chese his make,

Of every kinde, that men thenke may;

And that so huge a noyse gan they make,

That erthe and see, and tree, and every lake

So ful was, that unnethe was ther space

For me to stonde, so ful was al the place.

And right as Aleyn, in the Pleynt of Kinde,

Devyseth Nature of aray and face,

In swich aray men mighten hir ther finde.

This noble emperesse, ful of grace,

Bad every foul to take his owne place,

As they were wont alwey fro yeer to yere,

Seynt Valentynes day, to stonden there.

That is to sey, the foules of ravyne

Were hyest set; and than the foules smale,

That eten as hem nature wolde enclyne,

As worm or thing of whiche I telle no tale;

And waterfoul sat loweste in the dale;

But foul that liveth by seed sat on the grene,

And that so fele, that wonder was to sene.

There mighte men the royal egle finde,

That with his sharpe look perceth the sonne;

And other egles of a lower kinde,

Of which that clerkes wel devysen conne.

Ther was the tyraunt with his fethres donne

And greye, I mene the goshauk, that doth pyne

To briddes for his outrageous ravyne.

The gentil faucoun, that with his feet distreyneth

The kinges hond; the hardy sperhauk eke,

The quayles foo; the merlion that payneth

Himself ful ofte, the larke for to seke;

Ther was the douve, with hir eyen meke;

The Ialous swan, ayens his deth that singeth;

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The oule eek, that of dethe the bode bringeth;

The crane the geaunt, with his trompes soune;

The theef, the chogh; and eek the Iangling pye;

The scorning Iay; the eles foo, heroune;

The false lapwing, ful of trecherye;

The stare, that the counseyl can bewrye;

The tame ruddok; and the coward kyte;

The cok, that orloge is of thorpes lyte;

The sparow, Venus sone; the nightingale,

That clepeth forth the fresshe leves newe;

The swalow, mordrer of the flyes smale

That maken hony of floures fresshe of hewe;

The wedded turtel, with hir herte trewe;

The pecok, with his aungels fethres brighte;

The fesaunt, scorner of the cok by nighte;

The waker goos; the cukkow ever unkinde;

The popiniay, ful of delicasye;

The drake, stroyer of his owne kinde;

The stork, the wreker of avouterye;

The hote cormeraunt of glotonye;

The raven wys, the crow with vois of care;

The throstel olde; the frosty feldefare.

What shulde I seyn? of foules every kinde

That in this world han fethres and stature,

Men mighten in that place assembled finde

Before the noble goddesse Nature,

And everich of hem did his besy cure

Benignely to chese or for to take,

By hir acord, his formel or his make.

But to the poynt  Nature held on hir honde

A formel egle, of shap the gentileste

That ever she among hir werkes fonde,

The moste benigne and the goodlieste;

In hir was every vertu at his reste,

So ferforth, that Nature hirself had blisse

To loke on hir, and ofte hir bek to kisse.

Nature, the vicaire of thalmighty lorde,

That hoot, cold, hevy, light, and moist and dreye

Hath knit by even noumbre of acorde,

In esy vois began to speke and seye,

`Foules, tak hede of my sentence, I preye,

And, for your ese, in furthering of your nede,

As faste as I may speke, I wol me spede.

Ye knowe wel how, seynt Valentynes day,

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By my statut and through my governaunce,

Ye come for to chese  and flee your way 

Your makes, as I prik yow with plesaunce.

But natheles, my rightful ordenaunce

May I not lete, for al this world to winne,

That he that most is worthy shal beginne.

The tercel egle, as that ye knowen wel,

The foul royal above yow in degree,

The wyse and worthy, secree, trewe as stel,

The which I formed have, as ye may see,

In every part as hit best lyketh me,

Hit nedeth noght his shap yow to devyse,

He shal first chese and speken in his gyse.

And after him, by order shul ye chese,

After your kinde, everich as yow lyketh,

And, as your hap is, shul ye winne or lese;

But which of yow that love most entryketh,

God sende him hir that sorest for him syketh.'

And therwithal the tercel gan she calle,

And seyde, `my sone, the choys is to thee falle.

But natheles, in this condicioun

Mot be the choys of everich that is here,

That she agree to his eleccioun,

Whatso he be that shulde be hir fere;

This is our usage alwey, fro yeer to yere;

And who so may at this time have his grace,

In blisful tyme he com into this place.'

With hed enclyned and with ful humble chere

This royal tercel spak and taried nought:

`Unto my sovereyn lady, and noght my fere,

I chese, and chese with wille and herte and thought,

The formel on your hond so wel ywrought,

Whos I am al and ever wol hir serve,

Do what hir list, to do me live or sterve.

Beseching hir of mercy and of grace,

As she that is my lady sovereyne;

Or let me dye present in this place.

For certes, long may I not live in peyne;

For in myn herte is corven every veyne;

Having reward only to my trouthe,

My dere herte, have on my wo som routhe.

And if that I to hir be founde untrewe,

Disobeysaunt, or wilful negligent,

Avauntour, or in proces love a newe,

I pray to you this be my Iugement,

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That with these foules I be al torent,

That ilke day that ever she me finde

To hir untrewe, or in my gilte unkinde.

And sin that noon loveth hir so wel as I,

Al be she never of love me behette,

Than oghte she be myn thourgh hir mercy,

For other bond can I noon on hir knette.

For never, for no wo, ne shal I lette

To serven hir, how fer so that she wende;

Sey what yow list, my tale is at an ende.'

Right as the fresshe, rede rose newe

Ayen the somersonne coloured is,

Right so for shame al wexen gan the hewe

Of this formel, whan she herde al this;

She neyther answerde `Wel', ne seyde amis,

So sore abasshed was she, til that Nature

Seyde, `doghter, drede yow noght, I yow assure.'

Another tercel egle spak anoon

Of lower kinde, and seyde, `that shal nat be;

I love hir bet than ye do, by seynt Iohn,

Or atte leste I love hir as wel as ye;

And lenger have served hir, in my degree,

And if she shulde have loved for long loving,

To me allone had been the guerdoninge.

I dar eek seye, if she me finde fals,

Unkinde, Iangler, or rebel in any wyse,

Or Ialous, do me hongen by the hals!

And but I bere me in hir servyse

As wel as that my wit can me suffyse,

From poynt to poynt, hir honour for to save,

Tak she my lyf, and al the good I have.'

The thridde tercel egle answerde tho,

`Now, sirs, ye seen the litel leyser here;

For every foul cryeth out to been ago

Forth with his make, or with his lady dere;

And eek Nature hirself ne wol nought here,

For tarying here, noght half that I wolde seye;

And but I speke, I mot for sorwe deye.

Of long servyse avaunte I me nothing,

But as possible is me to dye today

For wo, as he that hath ben languisshing

Thise twenty winter, and wel happen may

A man may serven bet and more to pay

In half a yere, although hit were no more,

Than som man doth that hath served ful yore.

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I ne sey not this by me, for I ne can

Do no servyse that may my lady plese;

But I dar seyn, I am hir trewest man

As to my dome, and feynest wolde hir ese;

At shorte wordes, til that deth me sese,

I wol ben hires, whether I wake or winke,

And trewe in al that herte may bethinke.'

Of al my lyf, sin that day I was born,

So gentil plee in love or other thing

Ne herde never no man me beforn,

Whoso that hadde leyser and cunning

For to reherse hir chere and hir speking;

And from the morwe gan this speche laste

Til dounward drow the sonne wonder faste.

The noyse of foules for to ben delivered

So loude rong, `have doon and let us wende!'

That wel wende I the wode had al toshivered.

`Come of!' they cryde, `allas! ye wil us shende!

Whan shal your cursed pleding have an ende?

How shulde a Iuge eyther party leve,

For yee or nay, withouten any preve?'

The goos, the cokkow, and the doke also

So cryden, `kek, kek!' `kukkow!' `quek, quek!' hye,

That thorgh myn eres the noyse wente tho.

The goos seyde, `al this nis not worth a flye!

But I can shape hereof a remedye,

And I wol sey my verdit faire and swythe

For waterfoul, whoso be wrooth or blythe.'

`And I for wormfoul,' seyde the fool cukkow,

`For I wol, of myn owne auctorite,

For comune spede, take the charge now,

For to delivere us is gret charite.'

`Ye may abyde a whyle yet, parde!'

Seide the turtel, `if hit be your wille

A wight may speke, him were as good be stille.

I am a seedfoul, oon the unworthieste,

That wot I wel, and litel of kunninge;

But bet is that a wightes tonge reste

Than entermeten him of such doinge

Of which he neyther rede can nor singe.

And whoso doth, ful foule himself acloyeth,

For office uncommitted ofte anoyeth.'

Nature, which that alway had an ere

To murmour of the lewednes behinde,

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With facound voys seide, `hold your tonges there!

And I shal sone, I hope, a counseyl finde

You to delivere, and fro this noyse unbinde;

I Iuge, of every folk men shal oon calle

To seyn the verdit for you foules alle.'

Assented were to this conclusioun

The briddes alle; and foules of ravyne

Han chosen first, by pleyn eleccioun,

The tercelet of the faucon, to diffyne

Al hir sentence, and as him list, termyne;

And to Nature him gonnen to presente,

And she accepteth him with glad entente.

The tercelet seide than in this manere:

`Ful hard were it to preve hit by resoun

Who loveth best this gentil formel here;

For everich hath swich replicacioun,

That noon by skilles may be broght adoun;

I can not seen that argumentes avayle;

Than semeth hit ther moste be batayle.'

`Al redy!' quod these egles tercels tho.

`Nay, sirs!' quod he, `if that I dorste it seye,

Ye doon me wrong, my tale is not ydo!

For sirs, ne taketh noght agref, I preye,

It may noght gon, as ye wolde, in this weye;

Oure is the voys that han the charge in honde,

And to the Iuges dome ye moten stonde;

`And therfor, pees! I seye, as to my wit,

Me wolde thinke how that the worthieste

Of knighthode, and lengest hath used hit,

Moste of estat, of blode the gentileste,

Were sittingest for hir, if that hir leste;

And of these three she wot hirself, I trowe,

Which that he be, for hit is light to knowe.'

The waterfoules han her hedes leyd

Togeder, and of short avysement,

Whan everich had his large golee seyd,

They seyden sothly, al by oon assent,

How that `the goos, with hir facounde gent,

That so desyreth to pronounce our nede,

Shal telle our tale,' and preyde `god hir spede.'

And for these waterfoules tho began

The goos to speke, and in hir cakelinge

She seyde, `pees! now tak kepe every man,

And herkeneth which a reson I shal bringe;

My wit is sharp, I love no taryinge;

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I seye, I rede him, though he were my brother,

But she wol love him, lat him love another!'

`Lo here! a parfit reson of a goos!'

Quod the sperhauk; `never mot she thee!

Lo, swich hit is to have a tonge loos!

Now parde, fool, yet were hit bet for thee

Have holde thy pees, than shewed thy nycete!

Hit lyth not in his wit nor in his wille,

But sooth is seyd, "a fool can noght be stille."'

The laughter aroos of gentil foules alle,

And right anoon the seedfoul chosen hadde

The turtel trewe, and gunne hir to hem calle,

And preyden hir to seye the sothe sadde

Of this matere, and asked what she radde;

And she answerde, that pleynly hir entente

She wolde shewe, and sothly what she mente.

`Nay, god forbede a lover shulde chaunge!'

The turtle seyde, and wex for shame al reed;

`Thogh that his lady evermore be straunge,

Yet let him serve hir ever, til he be deed;

For sothe, I preyse noght the gooses reed;

For thogh she deyed, I wolde non other make,

I wol ben hires, til that the deth me take.'

`Wel bourded!' quod the doke, `by my hat!

That men shulde alwey loven, causeles,

Who can a reson finde or wit in that?

Daunceth he mury that is mirtheles?

Who shulde recche of that is reccheles?

Ye, quek!' yit quod the doke, ful wel and faire,

`There been mo sterres, god wot, than a paire!'

`Now fy, cherl!' quod the gentil tercelet,

`Out of the dunghil com that word ful right,

Thou canst noght see which thing is wel beset:

Thou farest by love as oules doon by light,

The day hem blent, ful wel they see by night;

Thy kind is of so lowe a wrechednesse,

That what love is, thou canst nat see ne gesse.'

Tho gan the cukkow putte him forth in prees

For foul that eteth worm, and seide blyve,

`So I,' quod he, `may have my make in pees,

I recche not how longe that ye stryve;

Lat ech of hem be soleyn al hir lyve,

This is my reed, sin they may not acorde;

This shorte lesson nedeth noght recorde.'

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`Ye! have the glotoun fild ynogh his paunche,

Than are we wel!' seyde the merlioun;

`Thou mordrer of the heysugge on the braunche

That broghte thee forth, thou rewthelees glotoun!

Live thou soleyn, wormes corrupcioun!

For no fors is of lakke of thy nature;

Go, lewed be thou, whyl the world may dure!'

`Now pees,' quod Nature, `I comaunde here;

For I have herd al your opinioun,

And in effect yet be we never the nere;

But fynally, this is my conclusioun,

That she hirself shal han the eleccioun

Of whom hir list, whoso be wrooth or blythe,

Him that she cheest, he shal hir have as swythe.

For sith hit may not here discussed be

Who loveth hir best, as seide the tercelet,

Than wol I doon hir this favour, that she

Shal have right him on whom hir herte is set,

And he hir that his herte hath on hir knet.

Thus Iuge I, Nature, for I may not lye;

To noon estat I have non other ye.

But as for counseyl for to chese a make,

If hit were reson, certes, than wolde I

Counseyle yow the royal tercel take,

As seide the tercelet ful skilfully,

As for the gentilest and most worthy,

Which I have wroght so wel to my plesaunce;

That to yow oghte been a suffisaunce.'

With dredful vois the formel hir answerde,

`My rightful lady, goddesse of Nature,

Soth is that I am ever under your yerde,

Lyk as is everiche other creature,

And moot be youres whyl that my lyf may dure;

And therfor graunteth me my firste bone,

And myn entente I wol yow sey right sone.'

`I graunte it you,' quod she; and right anoon

This formel egle spak in this degree,

`Almighty quene, unto this yeer be doon

I aske respit for to avysen me.

And after that to have my choys al free;

This al and sum, that I wolde speke and seye;

Ye gete no more, although ye do me deye.

I wol noght serven Venus ne Cupyde

For sothe as yet, by no manere wey.'

`Now sin it may non other wyse betyde,'

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Quod tho Nature, `here is no more to sey;

Than wolde I that these foules were awey

Ech with his make, for tarying lenger here' 

And seyde hem thus, as ye shul after here.

`To you speke I, ye tercelets,' quod Nature,

`Beth of good herte and serveth, alle three;

A yeer is not so longe to endure,

And ech of yow peyne him, in his degree,

For to do wel; for, god wot, quit is she

Fro yow this yeer; what after so befalle,

This entremes is dressed for you alle.'

And whan this werk al broght was to an ende,

To every foule Nature yaf his make

By even acorde, and on hir wey they wende.

A! lord! the blisse and Ioye that they make!

For ech of hem gan other in winges take,

And with hir nekkes ech gan other winde,

Thanking alwey the noble goddesse of kinde.

But first were chosen foules for to singe,

As yeer by yere was alwey hir usaunce

To singe a roundel at hir departinge,

To do to Nature honour and plesaunce.

The note, I trowe, maked was in Fraunce;

The wordes wer swich as ye may heer finde,

The nexte vers, as I now have in minde.

Qui bien aime a tard oublie.

`Now welcom somer, with thy sonne softe,

That hast this wintres weders overshake,

And driven awey the longe nightes blake!

`Saynt Valentyn, that art ful hy onlofte; 

Thus singen smale foules for thy sake 

Now welcom somer, with thy sonne softe,

That hast this wintres weders overshake.

`Wel han they cause for to gladen ofte,

Sith ech of hem recovered hath his make;

Ful blisful may they singen whan they wake;

Now welcom somer, with thy sonne softe,

That hast this wintres weders overshake,

And driven away the longe nightes blake.'

And with the showting, whan hir song was do,

That foules maden at hir flight away,

I wook, and other bokes took me to

To rede upon, and yet I rede alway;

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In hope, ywis, to rede so som day

That I shal mete som thing for to fare

The bet; and thus to rede I nil not spare.

Parliamentum avium in die Sancti Valentini tentum secundum

Galfridum Chaucer. Deo gracias.

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