IMPUTED TO CHAUCER. CHAUCER.
In this book is set forth the rare vertues of a certain lady. Made by John Lidgate, as some think, in the behalf of some gentlewoman in the
Feuerier, when the frosty Moone Was horned, full of Phebus fiery light, And that she gan to reyse her streams soone, Saint Valentine, upon the blisful night Of duty, whan glad is every wight, And foules chese, to void hir old sorrow, Eueriche his make vpon the next morrow.
The same time I heard a larke sing
Full lustely, again the morrow gray,
"Awake ye lovers out of your slumbring
This glad morrow, in all the haste ye may,
Some observaunce doth vnto this day,
Your choise ayen of herte to renew
In confirming for ever to be trew.
“And ye that be of chosing at your large
This lusty day, by custom of nature,
Take vpon you the blisful holy charge,
To serve loue, while your life may dure,
With herte, body, and all your busie cure,
For euermore, as Uenus and Cipride
For you disposeth, and the god Cupide.
"For joy owe we plainly to obey
Unto this lords mighty ordinaunce,
And mercilesse rather for to dey,
Than euer in you be founden variaunce,
And thogh your life be medled with greuaunce
And at your herte closet be your wound,
Bethe alway one, there as ye are bound."
That whan I had heard and listed long
With deuout herte the lusty melodie
Of this heavenly comfortable song,
So agreeable, as by ermonie,
I rose anone, and fast gan me hie
Toward a grove, and the way take,
Foules to seen, enerich choose his make.
And yet I was full thrusty in languishing,
Mine ague was so fervent in his hete,
Whan Aurora for drery complaining,
Can distill her chrystal teares wete
Upon the soyle, with silver dew so swete,
For she durst for shame not appeare
Under the light of Phebus beames clere.
And so for anguish of my paines kene,
And for constraint of my sighes sore,
I set me downe under a laurer grene
Full pitously, and alway more and more,
As I beheld into the holts hore,
I gan complain mine inward deadly smert,
That aye so sore crampish at mine herte."
And while that I in my drery paine
Sate, and beheld about on every tree,
The foules sit alway twaine and twaine,
Than thought I thus, "Alas what may this be,
That euery foule hath his liberte
Freely to chuse after his desire
Eueriche his make, thus fro yere to yere.
"The sely wren, the tytemose also,
The little redbrest have free election
To flyen yferre, and together go
Where as hem list, about enuiron,
As they of kind haue inclination,
And as Nature, empresse and guide
Of euery thing, list to prouide.
"But man alone, alas the hard stound,
Full cruelly, by kinds of ordinaunce
Constrained is, and by statute bound
And debarred from all such pleasaunce.
What meneth this, what is this purveiaunce
Of God above, againe all right of kind,
Without cause so narrow man to bind."
Thus may I seene and plaine, alas
My woful houre, and my disauenture,
That dulfully stond in the same caas,
So ferre behind from all health and cure,
My wound abideth like a sursanure,
For me fortune so felly list dispose,
My harm is hid, that I dare not disclose.
For I my herte have set in such a place,
Where I am neuer likely for to spede,
So farre I am hindred from her grace,
That saue danger, I haue none other mede:
And thus alas, I not who shall me rede,
Ne for mine helpe shape remedy,
For male bouche, and for false envy.
The which twaine aye stondeth in my wey
Maliciously, and false suspection
Is very cause also that I dey,
Ginning and root of my destruction,
So that I fele in conclusion,
With her traines that they woll me shend,
Of my labour that death mote make an end.
Yet or I die, with herte, will, and thought,
To god of loue this auow I make.
As I best can, how dere that it be bought,
Where so it be that I sleepe or wake,
While Boreas doth the leaves shake,
As I have hight, plainly till I sterue,
For wele or wo, that I shall her serve.
And for her sake now this holy time,
Saint Valentine, somewhat shall I write,
Although so be that I can nat rime,
Nor curiously by no craft endite,
Yet leuer I haue, that she put the wite
In vnconning, than in negligence,
Whatever I say of her excellence.
Whatever I say is of dutee
In soothfastnesse, and no presumption,
This I ensure to you that shall it see,
That it is all vnder correction,
What I rehearse in commendation
Of her, that I shall to you as blive,
So as I can, her vertues here discrive.
Right by example, as the summer Sunne
Passeth the sterre, with his beames shene,
And Lucifer among the skies dunne
A morrow sheweth, to void nights tene,
So verily, withouten any wene,
My lady passeth, who so taketh bede,
All tho alive, to speake of womanhede,
And as the ruby hath the soveraignty
Of rich stones, and the regaly,
And the rose of sweetnesse and beauty
Of fresh floures, without any lye,
Right so in sooth, with her goodly eye,
She passeth all in bounty and fairenesse,
Of manner eke, and of gentilnessé.
For she is both the fairest and the best,
To reken all, in very soothfastnesse,
For every vertue is in her at rest:
And furthermore, to speake of stedfastnesse,
She is the root, and of seemelinesse
The very mirrour, and of governaunce,
To all example, withouten variaunce.
Of port benigne, and wonder glad of chere,
Hauing evermore her trew advertence
Alway to reason, so that her desire
Is brideled aye by wit and providence,
Thereto of wit, and of high prudence,
She is the well, aye devoid of pride,
That vnto vertue her selven is the guide.
And over this, in her dalliaunce,
Lowly she is, discreet, and wise,
And goodly glad, by attemperaunce,
That every wight, of high and low degree,
Are glad in herte with her for to be,
So that shortly, if I shall not lye,
She named is, the Floure of Courtesie.
And there to speake of feminity,
The least mannish in comparison,
Goodly abashed, having aye pity
Of hem that ben in tribulation,
For she alone is consolation
To all that arne in mischeefe and in nede,
To comfort hem of her womanhede.
And aye in vertue is her busie charge,
Sad and demure, and but of words few,
Dredefull also of tongues that ben large,
Eschowing aye hem, that listen to hew
Above her head, her wordes for to shew,
Dishonestly to speake of any wight
She deadly hateth, of hem to have a sight.
The herte of whom so honest is and cleane,
And her entent so faithfull and entere,
That she ne may for all the world sustene,
To suffer her eares any word to here
Of friend nor foe, neither ferre ne nere,
Amisse resowning that hinder should his name,
And if she do, she wexeth red for shame.
So truly in meaning she is set
Without chaunging, or any doublenesse,
For bounty and beauty are together knet
In her person, under faithfulnesse.
For voide she is of newfanglenesse,
In herte aye one, for ever to persever
There she is set and never to dissever.
I am too rude, her vertues everychone
Cunningly to discrive and write,
For well ye wote colour have I none,
Like her discretion, craftely to endite,
For what I say, all it is too lite,
Wherefore to you, thus I me excuse,
That I acquainted am not with no muse.
By rhetoricke my stile to gouerne,
In her preise and commendation,
I am too blind so highly to discerne,
Of her goodnesse to make description
Save thus I say in conclusion,
If that I shall shortly commend,
In her is naught that nature can amend.
For good she is, like to Polixene,
And in fairenesse to the queene Helaine,
Stedfast of herte, as was Dorigene,
And wifely trouth, if I shall nat faine,
In constaunce eke and faith she may attaine
To Cleopatra, and thereto as setrone,
As was of Troy the white Antigone.
As Hester meke, like Iudith of prudence,
Kinde as Alceste, or Marcia Catoun,
And to Grisilde like in patience,
And Ariadne of discretioun,
And to Lucrece, that was of Rome toun,
She may be likened as for honeste,
And for her faith vnto Penelope,
To faire Phillis, and to Hipsiphile,
For innocence, and for womanhede,
For seemelinesse vnto Canace,
And over this, to speake of goodlyhede,
She passeth all that I can of rede,
For word and deed, that she naught ne fall,
Accord in vertue, and her werkes all.
For though that Dido, with wit sage,
Was in her time stedfast to Enee,
Of hastinesse yet she did outrage,
And so for lason did also Medee,
But my lady is so avisee,
That bounty and beauty both in her demaine,
She maketh bounty alway soveraine.
This is too meane, bounty goth afore,
Lad by prudence, and hath the soverainte,
And beauty followeth, ruled by her lore,
That she ne fende her in no degree,
So that in one, this goodly fresh free
Surmounting all, withouten any were,
Is good and faire in one persone yfere.
And though that I for very ignoraunce
Ne may discrive her vertues by and by,
Yet on this day for a remembraunce,
Onely supported under her mercy,
With quaking houd I shall full humbly
To her highnesse, my rudenesse for to quite,
A little ballade here beneath endite.
Ever as I can surprise in mine herte
Alway with feare, betwixt drede and shame,
Least out of lose any word astert
In this mytre, to make it seeme lame,
Chaucer is dead that had such a name
Of faire making, that without wene
Fairest in our tongue, as the laurer grene.
We may assay for to countrefete
His gay stile, but it woll not be,
The well is drie, with the licour swete,
Both of Clye, and of Caliope,
And first of all I woll excuse me
To her that is ground of goodlihede,
And thus I say vntill her womanhede.
WITH all my might, and my best entent,
With all the faith that mighty God of kind
Me yave; sith hee mee soule and knowing sent,
I chese, and to this bond ever I me bind
To love you best, while I have life and mind,
Thus heard I foules in the dawning,
Upon the day of saint Ualentine sing.
Yet chese I at the beginning, in this entent
To love you, though I no mercy find,
And if you list I died, I would assent,
As ever twinne I quicke of this line,
Suffiseth me to seene your feathers ynde,
Thus heard I foules in the morning Upon the day of saint Ualentine sing.
And over this, mine hertes lust to bent
In honour onely of the wood bind,
Holly I yeve, never to repent,
In joy or wo, where so that I wind,.
Tofore Cupide, with his eyen blind,
The foules all whan Titan did spring,
With devout herte me thought I heard sing.
Princesse of beauty, to you I represent
This simple dity, rude as in making,
Of herte and will, faithfull in mine entent,
Like as this day foules heard I sing.
[Here endeth the Floure of Courtesie, and hereafter followeth, how Pity is dead, and buried in a gentle herte.]
PITY that I have sought so yore ago,
With herte sore, and full of busie paine,
That in this worlde was never wight so wo
Without death, and if I shall nat faine.
My purpose was, to Pity to complaine
Upon the cruelty and tyranny
Of Love, that for my trouth doth me dye.
And that I by length of certaine yeres Had ever in one sought a time to speake, To Pity ran I, all bispreint with teares, To prayen her on Cruelty me awreake, But or I might with any word out breake, Or tell her any of my paines smert,
I found her dead, and buried in an herte.
Adowne I fell, whan I saw the herse,
Dead as a stone, while that swoone me last,
But vp I rose with colour full diverse,
And pitously on her mine eyen I cast,
And neerer the corse I gan preasen fast,
And for the soule I shope me for to pray,
I was but lorne, there was no more to say.
Thus am I slaine, sith that Pity is dead,
Alas that day that ever it should fall,
What maner man dare now hold vp his head
To whom shall now any sorrowfull herte call,
Now Cruelty bath cast to slee vs all
In idle hope, folke redelesse of paine,
Sith she is dead, to whom shal we complain.
But yet encreaseth me this wonder new,
That no wight wote that she is dead but I,
So many men as in her time her knew,
And yet she died so suddainly,
For I have sought her ever full busily,
Sith I had first wit or mind,
But she was dead, ere I coud her find.
About her herse there stooden lustely,
Withouten any mo, as thought me,
Bounty, perfitely well armed and richely,
And fresh Beaute, Lust, and lolite,
Assured Manner, Youth and Honeste,
Wisedome, Estate, Drede, and Governaunce,
Confedred both by bond and alliaunce.
A complaint had I written in my hond,
To have put to Pity, as a bill,
But I there all this company fond,
That rather would all my cause spill,
Than doe me helpe: I held my plaint still,
For to those folke withouten faile,
Without pity there may no bill availe.
Than leave all vertues, save onely Pity,
Keeping the corse, as ye have heard me saine,
Confedied by hond vntill Cruelty,
And be assented whan I shall be slaine,
And I have put my complaint vp againe,
For to my foes my bill I dare not shew
The effect, which saith thus in wordes few.
"Humblest of herte, highest of reverence,
Benigne floure, croune of vertues all,
Sheweth vnto your royall excellence
Your sernaunt, if I durst me so call,
His mortall harme, in which he is ifall
And naught all onely for his wofull fare,
But for your renome, as he shall declare.
"It standeth thus, that your contrary Crueltie Allied is ayent your regallie,
Under colour of womanly beautie,
(For men should not know her tyrannie)
With Bountie, Gentillesse, and Courtesie,
And hath depriued you of your place,
That is hie beautie, appertenaunt to your grace.
"For kindly, by your heritage right,
Ye be annexed euer vnto Bountie,
And verely ye ought to doe your might
To helpe Trouth in his aduersitie:
Ye be also the croune of beautie,
And certes, if ye want in these twaine,
The world is lore, there is no more to saine.
"Eke what auaileth manner and gentillesse
Without you, benigne creature?
Shall Crueltie be your gouernesse,
Alas, what herte may it long endure?
Wherefore but ye rather take cure
To breake that perilous alliaunce,
Ye sleen hem that been in your obeysaunce.
"And further, if ye suffer this,
Your renome is fordo in a throw,
There shall no man wete what pitie is,
Alas, that euer your renome is fall so low,
Ye be also fro your heritage ithrow
By Crueltie, that occupieth your place,
And we dispaired that seeken your grace.
"Haue mercy on me thou Herenus, queene,
That you haue sought so tenderly and sore,
Let some streame of light on me be seene,
That loue and drede you euer lenger the more,
For soothly to saine, I beare so sore,
And though I be not conning for to plaine,
For Gods loue haue mercy on my paine.
"My paine is this, that what so I desire,
That haue I not, ne nothing like thereto,
And euer setteth desire mine herte on fire,
Eke on that other side where that I go,
What maner thing that may encrease my wo,
That haue I ready vnsought euery where,
Me lacketh but my death, and than my bere.
"What needeth to shew percell of my paine,
Sith euery wo, that herte may bethinke,
I suffer, and yet I dare not to you plaine,
For well I wote, though I wake or winke,
Ye recke not whether I flete or sinke,
And nathelesse yet my trouth I shall susteine
Unto my death, and that shall well be sene.
"This is to saine, I will be yours euer,
Though ye me slea by crueltie your fo,
Algate my spirit shall neuer disceuer
Fro your seruice, fro any paine or wo,
Sith ye be yet dead, alas that it is so,
Thus for your death I maye wepe and plaine
With berte sore, and full of busie paine."
LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCIE.
M. Aleyn, secretary to the king of France, framed this dialogue between a gentleman and a gentlewoman, who finding no mercy at her hand, dieth for sorrow.
HALFE in a dreame not fully well awaked,
The golden sleep me wrapped vnder his wing,
Yet not for thy, I rose, and well nigh uaked,
All suddainly my selfe remembring
Of a matter, leauing all other thing,
Which I must doe withouten more delay
For hem, which I durst not disobay.
My charge was this, to translate by and by,
(All thing forgiue, as part of my pennance)
A book, called La bel Dame sans Mercy,
Which maister Aleine made of remembrance,
Cheefe secretarie with the king of France,
And hereupon a while I stood musing,
And in my selfe greatly imagining,
What wise I should perform the said processe,
Considering by good aduisement
My vnconning, and my great simplenesse,
And ayenward, the strait commaundement
Which that I had, and thus in mine entent
I was vexed and tourned vp and doun,
And yet at last as in conclusioun,
I cast my clothes on and went my way,
This forsaid charge hauing in remembrance,
Till I came to a lustie greene vallay
Full of floures, to see a great pleasaunce,
And so boldly, with their benigne suffraunce
Which rede this book, touching this matere,
Thus I began, if it please you to here.
Nor long agoe, riding an easie paas,
I fell in thought of joy full desperate,
With great disease and paine, so that I was
Of all louers the most vufortunate,
Sith by his dart, most cruell full of hate,
The Death hath take my lady and maistresse,
And lefte me sole thus discomfite and mate,
Sore languishing, and in waie of distresse.
|