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Geoffrey Chaucer - Book Of The Duchesse
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    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 him-self, over al and al,
   Had chose his maner principal
   In hir, that was his resting-place.
   Ther-to 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 every-del.
     `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,
   But-if men wolde upon hir lye;
   Ne sende men in-to Walakye,
   To Pruyse, and in-to Tartarye,
   To Alisaundre, ne in-to 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!
   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 al-so 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 no-thing 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.
   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 a-morwe,
   I was warished of al my sorwe
   Of al day after, til hit were eve;
   Me thoghte no-thing 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 a-lyve here
   I nil foryete hir never-mo.`
     `Now, goode sir,` quod I right tho,
   `Ye han wel told me her-before.
   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 be-seche —
   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 her-before.`
     `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 y-doon amis,
   That she hath left yow? is hit this?
   For goddes love, telle me al.`
     `Before god,` quod he, `and I shal.
   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,
   Al-thogh 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 alther-firste,
   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 a-dred she wol be wrooth;
   Allas! what shal I thanne do?"
     `In this debat I was so wo,
   Me thoghte myn herte braste a-tweyn!
   So atte laste, soth to sayn,
   I me bethoghte that nature
   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 with-al,
   I trowe hit was in the dismal,
   That was the ten woundes of Egipte;
   For many a word I over-skipte
   In my tale, for pure fere
   Lest my wordes mis-set 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 y-do,
   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"
   Al-outerly. Allas! that day
   The sorwe I suffred, and the wo!
   That trewly Cassandra, that so
   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,
   For-why 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, y-wis.
   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 y-waxe
   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 alder-beste,
   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
   For-yeve 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 y-liche newe;
   Our hertes wern so even a payre,
   That never nas that oon contrayre
   To that other, for no wo.
   For sothe, y-liche they suffred tho
   Oo blisse and eek oo sorwe bothe;
   Y-liche 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.`
     `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 her-before
   I tolde thee, that I had lorn.
   Bethenk how I seyde her-beforn,
   "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 hert-hunting.
     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 my-selve,
   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.
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