---

Geoffrey Chaucer - The House Of Fame
Work rating: Low

1 2 3 
BOOK I    Incipit liber primus.

      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 who-so 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,
     For-why 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 a-night
     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,
     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 to-yere,
     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 who-so, 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),
     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 for-go
    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 y-mad 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 anoon-right hir figure
    Naked fletinge in a see.
    And also on hir heed, parde,
    Hir rose-garlond 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 al-so the man,
    That first cam, through his destinee,
    Fugitif of Troye contree,
    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 y-slayn,
    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 y-lost, 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.
      Ther saw I thee, cruel Iuno,
    That art daun Iupiteres wyf,
    That hast y-hated, 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.
    And eek to telle the manere
    How they aqueynteden in-fere,
    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 her-by 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 hir-self, 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, al-so 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 al-utterly,
    That he wolde hir of trouthe faile,
    And wende fro hir to Itaile,
    She gan to wringe hir hondes two.
      `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 hir-selve 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!
    Y-wis, my dere herte, ye
    Knowen ful wel that never yit,
    As fer-forth as I hadde wit,
    Agilte I yow in thoght ne deed.
    0, 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!
    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,
    Y-shamed 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 hir-selve to the herte,
    And deyde through the wounde smerte.
    But al the maner how she deyde,
    And al the wordes that she seyde,
    Who-so 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 hir-self 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;
    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 y-be!
    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 y-sworn 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 over-bord, 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 who-so 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;
    And with King Latine his tretee,
    And alle the batailles that he
    Was at him-self, and eek his knightes,
    Or he had al y-wonne 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 o-wher 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 y-formed 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,
    That never saw men such a sighte,
    But-if the heven hadde y-wonne
    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 a-roume was in the felde;
    And with his grimme pawes stronge,
    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 a-sweved
    Was every vertu in my heved,
    What with his sours and with my drede,
    That al my feling gan to dede;
    For-why 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 a-gast, 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 al-so 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 y-bore up, as men rede,
    To hevene with dan Iupiter,
    And maad the goddes boteler.`
      Lo! this was tho my fantasye!
    But he that bar me gan espye
    That I so thoghte, and seyde this: —
    `Thou demest of thy-self amis;
    For Ioves is not ther-aboute —
    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, al-so god me blesse,
    Ioves halt hit greet humblesse
    And vertu eek, that thou wolt make
    A-night ful ofte thyn heed to ake,
    In thy studie so thou wrytest,
    And ever-mo 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, y-wis,
    Iupiter considereth this,
    And also, beau sir, other thinges;
    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 y-maad 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 soth-sawes and lesinges;
    And mo loves newe begonne,
    And longe y-served 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 over-al 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
    Y-maad, then greynes be of sondes;
    And eke mo holdinge in hondes,
    And also mo renovelaunces
    Of olde forleten aqueyntaunces;
    Mo love-dayes 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, what-so-ever 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; for-why 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,
    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 y-broken,
    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 y-broke.
    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 harpe-stringes smyte,
    Whether hit be moche or lyte,
    Lo, with the strook the air to-breketh;
    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,
    Wyder than himselve was;
    And thus, fro roundel to compas,
    Ech aboute other goinge,
    Caused of othres steringe,
    And multiplying ever-mo,
    Til that hit be so fer ygoo
    That hit at bothe brinkes be.
    Al-thogh thou mowe hit not y-see,
    Above, hit goth yet alway under,
    Although thou thenke hit a gret wonder.
    And who-so seith of trouthe I varie,
    Bid him proven the contrarie.
    And right thus every word, y-wis,
    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, y-wis,
    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, y-wis,
    Moveth thider for to go
    If hit a-weye 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.
    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, y-wis,
    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,
    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
    In-mid 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 y-brent with hete,
    Whan the sonnes sone, the rede,
    That highte Pheton, wolde lede
    Algate his fader cart, and gye.
    The cart-hors 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,
    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 y-went,
    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, y-wis; but god, thou wost!`
Source
The script ran 0.007 seconds.