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Geoffrey Chaucer - Book Of The Duchesse
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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 no-thing, how hit cometh or goth,
      Ne me nis no-thing leef nor loth.
      Al is y-liche good to me —
     Ioye or sorowe, wherso hyt be —
     For I have feling in no-thinge,
     But, as it were, a mased thing,
     Alway in point to falle a-doun;
     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.
       But men myght axe me, why soo
     I may not slepe, and what me is?
     But natheles, who aske this
     Leseth his asking trewely.
     My-selven 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;
     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 a-vowe 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 wher-so 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,
    Wher-through that I may knowen even
    Whether my lord be quik or deed.`
    With that word she heng doun the heed,
    And fil a-swown 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,
    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 no-thing 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 y-grave
    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 over-al 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 y-hed,
    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,
    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 here-tofore;
    Hit is no need reherse hit more;
    And wente his wey, whan he had sayd.
      Anon this god of slepe a-brayd
    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, ther-as 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 y-see.
    But good swete herte, look that ye
    Bury my body, at whiche a tyde
    Ye mowe hit finde the see besyde;
    And far-wel, 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 over-loked hit everydel,
    Me thoughte wonder if hit were so;
    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 alder-beste
    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 fether-bed,
    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 y-sayd
    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,
    (He that wroot al thavisioun
    That he mette, Kyng Scipioun,
    The noble man, the Affrican —
    Swiche marvayles fortuned than)
    I trowe, a-rede 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 chambre-roof withoute,
    Upon the tyles, al a-boute,
    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 y-herd 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 y-glased,
    Ful clere, and nat an hole y-crased,
    That to beholde hit was gret Ioye.
    For hoolly al the storie of Troye
    Was in the glasing y-wroght thus,
    Of Ector and of king Priamus,
    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.
    Anon-right, 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 forest-syde,
    Every man dide, right anoon,
    As to hunting fil to doon.
    The mayster-hunte anoon, fot-hoot,
    With a gret horne blew three moot
    At the uncoupling of his houndes.
    Within a whyl the hert y-founde is,
    Y-halowed, and rechased faste
    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 y-falle;
    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 y-folowed, and coude no good.
    Hit com and creep to me as lowe,
    Right as hit hadde me y-knowe,
    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 him-selve
    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 a-sonder —
    That hit was shadwe over-al 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,
    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 y-turned his bak
    To an oke, an huge tree.
    `Lord,` thoghte I, `who may that be?
    What ayleth him to sitten here?`
    Anoon-right I wente nere;
    Than fond I sitte even upright
    A wonder wel-faringe 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,
    For-why he heng his heed adoune.
    And with a deedly sorwful soune
    He made of ryme ten vers or twelve
    Of a compleynt to him-selve,
    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 a-goon.
    And thus in sorwe lefte me alone.
      `Allas, o deeth! what ayleth thee,
    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 y-see
      `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 a-drad,
    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 no-thing 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;
    For-yive me if I have mis-take.`
      `Yis, thamendes is light to make,`
    Quod he, `for ther lyth noon ther-to;
    Ther is no-thing 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
    With him, and fond him so tretable,
    Right wonder skilful and resonable,
    As me thoghte, for al his bale.
    Anoon-right 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 ther-on 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 him-selve
    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,
    Y-worthe 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
    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 y-met 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 ever-mo
    In wrathe is turned my pleying,
    And my delyt in-to 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 wher-so 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 no-thing 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 y-wryen,
    As filth over y-strawed 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.
    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 no-thing stable,
    Now by the fyre, now at table;
    Ful many oon hath she thus y-blent;
    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, y-wis,
    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
    Y-koud 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;
    My-self 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
    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 no-thing 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 every-del,
    How that ther lyth in rekening,
    In my sorwe for no-thing;
    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 your-selve,
    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 hir-self, so weylaway!
    For he had broke his terme-day
    To come to hir. Another rage
    Had Dydo, quene eek of Cartage,
    That slow hir-self for Eneas
    Was fals; a whiche a fool she was!
    And Ecquo dyed for Narcisus.
    Nolde nat love hir; and right thus
    Hath many another foly don.
    And for Dalida died Sampson,
    That slow him-self with a pilere.
    But ther is noon a-lyve 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 ther-to.`
    `Gladly.` `Do than holde her-to!`
    `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 o-wher,
    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,
    Wher-so 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,
    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 y-laft.
    Forwhy I took hit of so yong age,
    That malice hadde my corage
    Nat that tyme turned to no-thing
    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 y-liche 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 hir-selve!
    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 y-caught
    So sodenly, that I ne took
    No maner reed but at hir look
    And at myn herte; for-why 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 anoon-right 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 a-syde,
    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 for-yive!"
      `Therwith hir liste so wel to live,
    That dulnesse was of hir a-drad.
    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 no-thing 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;
    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 ther-to!
    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 alder-best;
    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 ever-mo.
    And yet more-over, thogh alle tho
    That ever lived were not a-lyve,
    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 y-grounded,
    Up al resoun so wel y-founded,
    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
    Nas ther non sene, that mis-sat.
    Hit was whyt, smothe, streght, and flat,
    Withouten hole; and canel-boon,
    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 wher-so 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, therwith-al
    She had a wit so general,
    So hool enclyned to alle gode,
    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.
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