THERE n'ys fo high comfort to my plefaunce,
Whan that I am in my hevineffe,
As for to have leyfir of remembraunce
Upon the manhode and the worthyneffe,
Upon the trouthe and on the stedfastnes,
Of him whofe I am al while I maye dure;
There ought to blamin me no creâture,
For every wight praifith his gentillesse.

In him is bounte, wifedome, govirnaunce,
Well more than any mann'is witte can geffe,
For Grace hath wolde fo ferforth him avaunce
That of knighthod he is parfite richeffe,
Honour honourith him for his noblesse,
Therto fo wel hath fourmid him Nature
That I am his for er I him enfure,
For every wight praifith his gentilleffe.

And natwithstanding all his fuffifaunce
His gentil herte is of fo gret humblesse

To me in worde, in werke, and in countenaunce,
And me to ferve is al his befineffe,

That I am fette in very fykirneffe;
Thus ought I to bliffe wel mine avintour,
Sith that him lifte me fervin and honour,
For every wight praifith his gentilleffe.

Nowe certis, Love, it is right covenable
That men ful dere abye thy noble thinges,
As wake abedde and fastin at the table,
Weping to laugh, and finge in complainynges,
And downe to caftin vifage and lokinges,
Oftin to chaunge vifage and countinaunce
Playe in lepinge, and dremin at the daunce,
Al the revers of any gladde feling.

Jeloufy he hangid by a cable,
She wolde al knowin through her efpiyng,
There dothe no wight nothing fo refonable
That al n'is harme in her ymagining;
Thus dere abought is Love in his yeving,
Whiche ofte he yevith without ordinaunce,
As forowe' ynough and litil of plefaunce,
Al the revers of any glade feling.

A litil tyme his yeft is agreable,
But ful accombèrous is the ufinge,
For fubtil Jeloufy the difcevable

Ful oftin tyme yeaufith diftourbinge;
Thus ben we evir in drede and fuffring:
In no certaine we languishen in penaunce,
And have wel ofte many an harde mifchaunce,
Al the revers of any gladde feling.

But certis, Love, I faye not in foche wife
That for to fcape out of your lace I ment,
For I fo longe have ben in your service
That for to lete of wil I ner affent,
No force though jeloufye me doe tourment;
Suffifith me to fe him whan I may,
And therfore certis to mine ending day
To love him best shal me nevir repent.

And certis, Love, whan I me wel advise
Of any' eftate that man may reprefent
Than have ye made me thorough your franchise

Chefin the beft that evir in erthe went;
Nowe love well, hert, and loke thou nevir ftent,
And lette the jelous putte it in affaye
That for no paine ne wol I not fay naye;
To love him best shall I nevir repent.

O herte! to the it ought ynoughe fuffice
That Love fo highe a grace hath to you lent
To chose the worthyist in alle wife,
And most agreable to mine entent;
Sekith no ferthir neithir way ne went,
Sith ye have fuffifaunce unto my paye:
Thus wol I ende this Complaint or this lay;
To love him best shal I nevir repent.
L'ENVOTE.

Princes, receveth this complaininge in gre,
Unto your excellent benignite
Directe aftir my litil fuffifaunce,
For elde, that in my fpirite dullith me,
Hath of enditing al the fubtilte
Welnigh beraite out of my remembraunce;
And eke to me it is a grete penaunce,
Sith rime in Englishe hath foche fcarcite,
To' folowe worde by worde the curiofite
Of Graufon, flour of 'hem that make in Fraupçe,

PLONGID in the wawe of mortall distresse,
Alas for wo! to whom fhal I complein?
Or who fhall devoide this grete hevineffe
Fro me', woful Marie, wofull Magalein!
My Lord is gon; alas! who wrought this tein?
This fodain chaunce perfith my herte fo depe
That nothing can I do but waile and wepe.
My Lorde is gone that here in grave was laied
Aftir his grete paffion and deth cruell;
Alas! who hath hym thus again betraied?
Or what man here aboutin can me tell
Where he' is become the Prince of Ifraell,
Jefus of Naz'areth, my ghoftly fuccour,
My parfite love, and hope of all honour!

What creture hath hym hennis caryid,
Or how might this fo fodainly befall?
I would I had here with him taryid,
And so should I have had my purpose all:
I bought ointmentes ful precious and roial,
Where with I hoped his corps to have anointed,
But he thus gone my minde is disapointed.
While I therefore advertise and beholde
This pitous chauncè here in my presence
Full little marvaile though my hert be colde,
Confidiryng, lo! my Lord'is absence :
Alas that I fo full of negligence
Should be foundin because I come fo late
All men maie faie I am infortunate.

Caufe of my forowe you maie undirstonde,
Quia tuler unt Dominum meum,

An othir is that I ne maie him fonde,
I wote nere ubi pofuerunt eum ;

Thus I mufte bewaile dolorem meum
With hertie wepying I can no bet deferve
Till Deth approche my hertè for to kerve.
My herte oppreft with fodain avinture
By fervent anguifhe is bewrappid fo
That long this life I ne maie not endure,
Soche is my pain, foch is my mortall wo;
Nevirthelesse to what parte fhall I go
In hope to findin myne owne turtill true,
My liv'is joye, my foverain Lorde Jefu !

Sith all my joye, that I call his prefence,
Is thus removed, now I am full of mone;
Alas the while I made no providence
For this mishap wherefore I figh and grone:
Succour to finde to what place might I gone!
Fain I would to fome man my hertè breke;
I n'ot to whom I maie complain or speke.
Alone I ftande full forie and full fad,
Which hopid to have feen my Lorde and Kyng
Small caufe have I to be merie or glad
Remembryng this bittirful departyng:
In this worlde ne is no creture livyng
That was to me fo gode and gracious,
His love alfo then golde more precious.

Full fore I figh without comfort again,
There is no cure to my falvacion,

His brenning love my hert fo doth constrain,
Alas, here is a wofull permutacion!
Wherof I finde no joye nor confolacion,
Therefore my pain all onely to confeffe
With deth I fere woll ende my hevineffe.

This wo and anguish is intollerable;
If I bide here, life can I not fuftain,
If I go hence my paines be uncurable;
Where him to finde l knowe no place certain,
And thus I ne wote of thefe thingis twain
Whiche I maie take and which I maie refuse:
My hert is wounded heron to thinke or mufe,
A while I fhall ftande in this morowning
In hope if any vifion would appere
That of my love might tell fome gode tyding,
Whiche into joy might chaunge my wepyng cher;
I traft in his grace and his mercy dere;
But at the left, though I therewith me kill,
I fhall not spare to waile and wepe my fill.
And if that I die in foche avinture

I can no more but welcome as my chaunce;
My bones fhal reft here in this fepulture;
My life, my deth, is at his ordinaunce;
It fhal be tolde in lafting remembraunce:
Thus to departin is to me no fhame,
And alfo thereof I 'am nothing to blame.

Hope against me fo hath her course itake
That there is no more, but thus fhall I die :
I fe right well my Lorde hath me forfake,
But in my conceipt caufe know I none why:
Although he be farre hence and nothing nye
Yet my wofull herte after hym doeth seke,
And caufeth teres to ren doun by my cheke.

Thinking, alas! I have loft his prefence,
Which in this worlde was all my fuftinaunce;
I crie and call with hertie diligence,
But there is no wight givith attendaunce,
Me to certifie of myne enquiraunce,
Wherefore I will to all this world bewraie
How that my Lorde is flain and born awaie.
Though that I mourne it ne is no grete wonder,
Sithe he is all my joye in fpeciall;
And nowe I thinke we be fo farre afonder
That hym to fe I fere nevir I fhall;
It helpith no more aftir hym to call,
Ne after hym to' enquire in any cofte:
Alas! how is he thus ygone and loft?

The Jewis I thinke full of miferie,
Yfet in malice by ther bufy cure
With force and might of gilefull trecherie
Hath entermined my Lord'is fepulture,
And borne awaie that precious figure,
Levyng of it nothyng; if thei' have doen fo
Marrid I am; alas, what fhall I do!

With ther vengeaunce infaciable
Now have thei hym giltlefs entretid fo
That to reporte it is to lamentable,

Thei bete his bodie from toppe to the toe,
Nevir man was yborne that felte foche woe;
Thei woundid hym, alas! with all grevaunce,
The blode doun reilid in moft habundaunce;

The blodie rowis ftremed doun ovir all,
Thei him affailid fo maliciouflie
With ther fcourgis and ftrokis beftiall;
Thei fparid not, but finote inceffauntlic;
To fatisfie ther malice thei were bufie:
Thei fpit in his face, thei fmote here and there;
He groned full fore, and fwete many a tere.

Thei crounid hym with thornis fharpe and kee
The vainis rent, the blode ran doun apace,
With blode ovircome were bothe his eyen,
And bolne with ftrokis was his bleflid face;
Thei hym entretid as men without grace,
Thei knelid to hym, and made many a fcorne;
Like helhoundis they have hym all to torne:

Upon a mightie croffe in length and brede
(These turmentours fhewid ther curfidnesse)
Thei nailid hym without pitie or drede,
His precious blode braft out in largênesse,
Theiftrained hym along as men mercileffe;
The verie jointes all to myne apparence
Rived afondir for ther grete violence.

All this I beholding with mine eyen twain
Stode there befide with rufull attendaunce,
And er me thought he beyng in that pain
Lokid on me with dedly countinaunce,
As he' had faid in his speciall remembraunce
Farwell Magdalen, depart muft I nedes hens,
My herte is tanquam cera liquefcens.

Whiche rufull fight when that I gan beholde
Out of my witte I almofte tho diftraught,
I tare my here, my handis wrang and folde,
And of the fight my hert dranke foche a draught
That many a fall fwounyng there I caught;
I brufed my bodie fallyng on the grounde,
Whereof I fele many a grevous wounde.

Then thefe wretchis, full of all frowardneffe, Gave hym to drinke eifell temprid with gali; Alas! that poifon full of bittirnesse My lov'is chere caufid them to appall, And yet thereof might he not drinke at all, But fpake thefe wordis, as him thought it beft, Fathir of hevin! confummatum eft.

Then knelid I doune in pain'is outrage, Clipping the croffe within myne armis twain, His blode diftillid doune on my visage, My clothis eke the droppis did distain; To have dyid for hym I would full fain, But what fhoulde it availe if I did fo Sith he' is fufpenfus in patibulo?

And thus my Lorde full dere was all difged With blode, and pain, and woundis many one, His veinis braft, his jointis all to rived, Partyng afondir the flefhe fro the bone; But I fawe that he hing not there alone, For cum iniquis deputatus eft,

Not like a man but like a leprous best.

A blinde knight men ycallid Longias
With a fpere aproched to my Sovèrain,
Lannfyng his fide full pitouflie, alas!
That his precious herte he clave in twain,
The purple blode eke fro the hertis vain
Doune railid right fast in mofte rufull wife,
With chriftal water brought fro Paradife.

When I behelde this wofull paffion,

I wote not how, by fodain avinture
My hert was perfed with very compaffion,
'That in me remained no life of nature,
Strokis of dethe I felt without mefure,

My deth'is wounde I caught with woe oppreid,
And brought to point as my hert fhuld ybic

The wounde, the hert, and blode, of my darling Shal never flide fro my memorial, The byttir paines alfo of tourmenting Within my foule be gravin principal; The fpere, alas! that was fo fharpe withall So thrillid my herte, as to my feling, That body and foule were at departing.

Sone as I might I releved up againe,
My brethe I coude not very wel restore,
Feling my felf drownid in so grete paine,
Both body' and foule me thought wer al to tore,
Violent fallis grevid me right fore;

I wept, I bledde, and with my felfe I fared
As one that for his life nothing had cared.
I loking up unto that rufull rode
Sawe first the vifage pale of that figure,
But fo pitous a fight fpottid with blode
Sawe nevir yet no living creäture;
So it excedid the boundes of mesure,
That mann'is minde with al his wittis five
Is nothing able that paine to difcrive.

Than gan I there min armis to unbrace,
Up lifting my handis ful mourningly
I fighid and fore sobbid in that place,

Both hevin and erthe might have herde me crie
Weping, and faid Alas! inceffauntly,
Ah, my fwete herte, my goftly paramour!
Alas, I may nat thy body focour !

O bleffid Lorde! how fierfe and how cruel
Thefe curfid wightis nowe hath the yflaine,
Kerving, alas! thy body eviridel
Wounde within wounde, full byttir is thy pain;
Nowe wolde God that I might to the attaine
To naile my body fast unto thy tre,
So that of this paine thou mightift go fre!
I can nat reporte ne make reherfaile
Of my demening with the circumftaunce,
But wel I wote the fpere with every naile
Thirlid my foule by inwarde refemblaunce,
Which nevir fhall out of my remembraunce;
During my life it woll caufe me to waile
As ofte as I remembre that bataile.

Ah, ye Jewes! worse than doggis rabiate, What moved you thus cruilly him to' aray? He nevir difplefed you, nor caused debate, Your love and true hertes he conveytid aye; He preched, he teched, he fhewid the right way, Wherfore ye lyke tyrantes wode and way-warde, Nowe have him thus yflaine for his rewarde.

Ye ought to' have remembrid one thing special, His favour, grace, and his magnificence; He was your prince borne, and lorde ovir all, Howe be it ye toke him in fmal reverence; He was ful meke in fuffring your offence, Nertheless ye devoured him with one affent, As hungry wolves doth the lambe innocent. Where was your pite, 'o peple mercileffe! Arming your felfe with falfhed and trefon, On my Lorde ye have fhewid your wodeneffe, Like no men but beftis without refon; Your malyce he fuffrid for the fefon : Your paine wol come, ne thinke it nat to flacke; Man without mercy of mercy foal lacke,

O traitours and maintainirs of madneffe! Unto your foly' I afcribe al my paine, Ye have me deprived of joye and gladneffe So deling with my Lorde and foveraine; Nothing ne fhulde I nede thus to complaine If he' had lived in pece and tranquillite Whom ye have flaine through your iniquite.

Farewel, your nobleneffe that fomtime did raine! Farewel your worship, your glory, and fame! Hereaftir to lyve in hate and difdaine Marvaile ye not; for your trespace and blame Unto fhame is tournid al your gode name: Upon you now wol wondir every nation As peple of a moft vile reputation.

These wickid wretchis, thefe houndes of hel, As I have tolde plaine here in this fentence, Were not content my dere love thus to quel, But yet they muft embefile his prefence, As I perceive; by covert violence They have him conveied to my difplefure, For here is lafte but nakid fepulture:

Wherfore of trouth and rightfull judgement, That ther malice againe maye be acquited, Aftir my verdite and avifèment,

Of falfe murdre they fhullin be endited,
Of theft alfo, which fhal not be respited,
And in al hafte they fhai be hanged and drawe;
I wol my felfe plede this cause in the lawe.
Alas! yf I with a trewe attendaunce
Had ftyl abiddin with my Lord'is corfe,
And kept it ftil with trewe perfeveraunce,
Than had nat befal this woful devorfe;
But as for my paine welcome, and no force :
This fhal be my fonge where fo er I go,
Departing is the grounde of al my wo.

I fe right wel now in my painis fmerte
There is no wounde of fo grevous dolour
As is the woundè of my careful herte;
Sithin I have loste thus my paramour
Al my fwetneffe is tournid into four;
Mirthe to my herte nothing ne maie convey
But he that bereth therof bothe locke and key.
The joye excellent of bliffed Paradife
Maye me, alas! in no wife re-comforte,
Songe of angel nothing may me fuffife,
As in min hertè nowe to make difporte;
Al I refufe but that I might reforte
Unto my love, the wel of godelihede,
For whofe longing I trowe I fhal be ded.
Of painful labour and tourment corpo'ral
I ne make therof none excepcion,
Painis of hel I wol paffe ovir al
My love to finde in myne affeccion;
So grete to him is my delectacion,
A thousande timis martrid wolde I be
His bleflid body ones if I might fe.

About this worlde, fo large in all compace,
I fhal not spare to renne my life during,
My fete alfo fhall not reft in one place
Tyl of my love I may here fome tiding,
For whofe abfence my handis nowe I wring;
To thinke on him cefe fhal nevir my minde:
O gentill Jefu! where fhal I the finde?

Jerufalem I wol ferche place fro place,
Sion, the Vale of Jofaphath alfo,
And if I finde him not in al this space
By Mount Olivet to Beth'any woll I go;
Thefe waies wol I wandir and many mo,
Nazareth, Bethleem, Mountana Jude;
No travaile fhal me paine him for to fe.
His bliffid face if I might fe and finde
Serche I wolde every coste and countrey,
The far dift parte of Egypt or hote Inde
Shulde be to me but a litil journey.
Howe is he thus gone or takin away!
If I knewe the ful trouth and certente
Yet from this care relefid might I be.

Into wildirneffe I thinke beft to go,
Sithe I can no more tidinges of him here,
There may I my lyfe ledin to and fro,
There may I dwel and to no man apere;
To towne ne village woll I not come nere;
Alone in wodes, in rockes, and in caves depe,
I may at mine owne will both waile and wepe.
Myn eyin twaine withoutin variaunce
Shal nevir cefe, I promise faithfully,
There for to wepin with gret aboundaunce
Byttir teris renning inceffauntly,
The whiche teris medlid ful petoufly
With the very blode er fhall renne allo,
Exprefling in mine hert the grevous wo.
Worldely fode and fuftenaunce I defire none,
Soche living as I finde foch wol I take,
Rotis that growin on the craggy stone
Shal me fuffife, with watir of the lake;
Than thus may I fay for my Lord'is fake,
Fuerunt misi lacrymæ meæ
In deferto panes, die ac nočke.

My body to clothe it makith no force,
A mourning mantil fhal be fufficient,
The grevous woundis of his pitous corfe
Shal be to me a ful royal garnement,
He departid thus I am best content;
His croffe with nailis and fcourgis withal
Shal be my thought and paine efpccial.

Thus wol I live, as I have here ytolde,
If I may any longè time endure,
But I fere Deth is ovir me fo bolde
That of my purpose I can not be fure;
My painis encrefin without mefure,
For of longe lyfe who can lay any refon?
Al thing is mortal, and hath but a fefon.
I figh ful fore, and it is ferre yfet;
Myne hert I fele now bledith inwardly,
The blody teres I may in no wife let;
Sithe of my paine I finde no remedye
I thank God of al if that I nowe dye;
His will perfourmid I holde me content;
My foule let him have that hath it me lert,
For lengir to' endure it 'is intollerable,
My woful herte is inflamid fo huge,
That no forow to myne is comparable,
Sithe of my minde I ne finde no refuge,
Yet I him require as a rightful juge
To devoide fro me the inwarde forowe,
Left that I live not to the nexte plorowe.

Within mine hert is impreffid ful fore
His royal forme, his shappe, his semelines,
His porte, his chere, his godenes evirmore,
His noble perfone, with al gentilnes;
He is the welle of alle parfitnes,

The very Redemir of al mankinde,
Him love I beft with herte, and foule, and minde,
In his abfence my paines ful bittir be,
Right wel I may it fele nowe inwardely,
No wondir is though they hurte or fle me,
They caufin me to crie so rufully;
Myne herte oppreffed is fo wondirfully
Onely for him, which so is bright of ble
Alas, I trowe I shal him nevir se!

My joye is tranflate full farre in exile,
My myrthe is chaungid into paynis colde;
My lyfe I think endurith but a while;
Anguishe and paine is that that I beholde,
Wherfore my handis thus I wringe and folde;
Into this grave I loke, I cal, I pray,
Deth remainith and life is borne away.

Now muft I walk and wandir here and there, God wot to what partis I shal me dresse, With quaking hert wepinge many a tere, To feke out my love and all my fwetnes; I wolde he wyft what mortal hevines About min herte renewith more and more, Than wolde he nat kepe pite long in store.

Withoutin him I may not longe endure,
His love fo fore workith within my breft,
And er I wepe before this fepulture
Sighing ful fore, as mine herte shulde ybreft;
During my lyfe I shal obtaine no reft,
But mourne and wepe where that evir I go,
Making complaint of al my mortal wo.

Fast I crie, but there is no audience,
My comming hidir was him for to plese,
My foule oppreft is here with his abfence;
Alas, he lift not fet mine herte in efe!
Wherfore to paine my felfe with al disese
I fhal not fpare tyl he take me to grace,
Or ellis I fhal fterve here in this place.

But onis if that I might with him fpeke
It were al my joy, with parfite plesaunce;
So that I might to him myne herte breke
I fhulde anone devoide al my grevaunce,
For he' is the bliffe of very recreaunce;
But now, alas! I can nothing do so,
For in ftede of joy naught have I but wo.

His noble corfe within min hert'is rote
Depe is ygravid, whiche shal nevir slake;
Nowe is he gone, to what place I ne wote,
1 mourne, I wepe, and al is for his fake :
Sithin he is paste here a vowe I make
With hertely promife, and therto me binde,
Nevir to cefe til that I may him finde.

Unto his mothir I thinke for to go,
Of her haply fome comforte may I take;
But one thinge yet me ferith and no mo,
Yf that I any mencion of him make
Of my wordis fhe wolde trimble and quake;
And who coude her blame, fhe having but one?
The fonne borne away the mothir wolmons.