<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395598" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Book Of The Duchesse</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">THE PROEM</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> I have gret wonder, be this lighte,<br> How that I live, for day ne nighte<br> I may nat slepe wel nigh noght,<br> I have so many an ydel thoght<br> Purely for defaute of slepe<br> That, by my trouthe, I take no kepe<br> Of no-thing, how hit cometh or goth,<br> Ne me nis no-thing leef nor loth.<br> Al is y-liche good to me --<br> Ioye or sorowe, wherso hyt be --<br> For I have feling in no-thinge,<br> But, as it were, a mased thing,<br> Alway in point to falle a-doun;<br> For sorwful imaginacioun<br> Is alway hoolly in my minde.<br> And wel ye wite, agaynes kynde<br> Hit were to liven in this wyse;<br> For nature wolde nat suffyse<br> To noon erthely creature<br> Not longe tyme to endure<br> Withoute slepe, and been in sorwe;<br> And I ne may, ne night ne morwe,<br> Slepe; and thus melancolye<br> And dreed I have for to dye,<br> Defaute of slepe and hevinesse<br> Hath sleyn my spirit of quiknesse,<br> That I have lost al lustihede.<br> Suche fantasies ben in myn hede<br> So I not what is best to do.<br> But men myght axe me, why soo<br> I may not slepe, and what me is?<br> But natheles, who aske this<br> Leseth his asking trewely.<br> My-selven can not telle why<br> The sooth; but trewely, as I gesse,<br> I holde hit be a siknesse<br> That I have suffred this eight yere,<br> And yet my bote is never the nere;<br> For ther is phisicien but oon,<br> That may me hele; but that is doon.<br> Passe we over until eft;<br> That wil not be, moot nede be left;<br> Our first matere is good to kepe.<br> So whan I saw I might not slepe,<br> Til now late, this other night,<br> Upon my bedde I sat upright<br> And bad oon reche me a book,<br> A romaunce, and he hit me took<br> To rede and dryve the night away;<br> For me thoghte it better play<br> Then playen either at chesse or tables.<br> And in this boke were writen fables<br> That clerkes hadde, in olde tyme,<br> And other poets, put in ryme<br> To rede, and for to be in minde<br> Whyl men loved the lawe of kinde.<br> This book ne spak but of such thinges,<br> Of quenes lyves, and of kinges,<br> And many othere thinges smale.<br> Amonge al this I fond a tale<br> That me thoughte a wonder thing.<br> This was the tale: There was a king<br> That hight Seys, and hadde a wyf,<br> The beste that mighte bere lyf;<br> And this quene hight Alcyone.<br> So hit befel, therafter sone,<br> This king wolde wenden over see.<br> To tellen shortly, whan that he<br> Was in the see, thus in this wyse,<br> Soche a tempest gan to ryse<br> That brak hir mast, and made it falle,<br> And clefte her ship, and dreinte hem alle,<br> That never was founden, as it telles,<br> Bord ne man, ne nothing elles.<br> Right thus this king Seys loste his lyf.<br> Now for to speken of his wife: --<br> This lady, that was left at home,<br> Hath wonder, that the king ne come<br> Hoom, for hit was a longe terme.<br> Anon her herte gan to erme;<br> And for that hir thoughte evermo<br> Hit was not wel he dwelte so,<br> She longed so after the king<br> That certes, hit were a pitous thing<br> To telle hir hertely sorwful lyf<br> That hadde, alas! this noble wyfe;<br> For him she loved alderbest.<br> Anon she sente bothe eest and west<br> To seke him, but they founde nought.<br> `Alas!' quoth she, `that I was wrought!<br> And wher my lord, my love, be deed?<br> Certes, I nil never ete breed,<br> I make a-vowe to my god here,<br> But I mowe of my lord here!'<br> Such sorwe this lady to her took<br> That trewely I, which made this book,<br> Had swich pite and swich rowthe<br> To rede hir sorwe, that, by my trowthe,<br> I ferde the worse al the morwe<br> After, to thenken on her sorwe.<br> So whan she coude here no word<br> That no man mighte fynde hir lord,<br> Ful ofte she swouned, and saide `Alas!'<br> For sorwe ful nigh wood she was,<br> Ne she coude no reed but oon;<br> But doun on knees she sat anoon,<br> And weep, that pite was to here.<br> `A! mercy! swete lady dere!'<br> Quod she to Iuno, hir goddesse;<br> `Help me out of this distresse,<br> And yeve me grace my lord to see<br> Sone, or wite wher-so he be,<br> Or how he fareth, or in what wyse,<br> And I shal make you sacrifyse,<br> And hoolly youres become I shal<br> With good wil, body, herte, and al;<br> And but thou wilt this, lady swete,<br> Send me grace to slepe, and mete<br> In my slepe som certeyn sweven,<br> Wher-through that I may knowen even<br> Whether my lord be quik or deed.'<br> With that word she heng doun the heed,<br> And fil a-swown as cold as ston;<br> Hir women caught her up anon,<br> And broghten hir in bed al naked,<br> And she, forweped and forwaked,<br> Was wery, and thus the dede sleep<br> Fil on hir, or she toke keep,<br> Through Iuno, that had herd hir bone,<br> That made hir to slepe sone;<br> For as she prayde, so was don,<br> In dede; for Iuno, right anon,<br> Called thus her messagere<br> To do her erande, and he com nere.<br> Whan he was come, she bad him thus:<br> `Go bet,' quod Iuno, `to Morpheus,<br> Thou knowest hym wel, the god of sleep;<br> Now understond wel, and tak keep.<br> Sey thus on my halfe, that he<br> Go faste into the grete see,<br> And bid him that, on alle thing,<br> He take up Seys body the king,<br> That lyth ful pale and no-thing rody.<br> Bid him crepe into the body,<br> Aud do it goon to Alcyone<br> The quene, ther she lyth alone,<br> And shewe hir shortly, hit is no nay,<br> How hit was dreynt this other day;<br> And do the body speke so<br> Right as hit was wont to do,<br> The whyles that hit was on lyve.<br> Go now faste, and hy thee blyve!'<br> This messager took leve and wente<br> Upon his wey, and never ne stente<br> Til he com to the derke valeye<br> That stant bytwene roches tweye,<br> Ther never yet grew corn ne gras,<br> Ne tree, ne nothing that ought was,<br> Beste, ne man, ne nothing elles,<br> Save ther were a fewe welles<br> Came renning fro the cliffes adoun,<br> That made a deedly sleping soun,<br> And ronnen doun right by a cave<br> That was under a rokke y-grave<br> Amid the valey, wonder depe.<br> Ther thise goddes laye and slepe,<br> Morpheus, and Eclympasteyre,<br> That was the god of slepes heyre,<br> That slepe and did non other werk.<br> This cave was also as derk<br> As helle pit over-al aboute;<br> They had good leyser for to route<br> To envye, who might slepe beste;<br> Some henge hir chin upon hir breste<br> And slepe upright, hir heed y-hed,<br> And some laye naked in hir bed,<br> And slepe whyles the dayes laste.<br> This messager come flying faste,<br> And cryed, `O ho! awake anon!'<br> Hit was for noght; ther herde him non.<br> `Awak!' quod he, `who is, lyth there?'<br> And blew his horn right in hir ere,<br> And cryed `awaketh!' wonder hye.<br> This god of slepe, with his oon ye<br> Cast up, axed, `who clepeth there?'<br> `Hit am I,' quod this messagere;<br> `Iuno bad thou shuldest goon' --<br> And tolde him what he shulde doon<br> As I have told yow here-tofore;<br> Hit is no need reherse hit more;<br> And wente his wey, whan he had sayd.<br> Anon this god of slepe a-brayd<br> Out of his slepe, and gan to goon,<br> And did as he had bede him doon;<br> Took up the dreynte body sone,<br> And bar hit forth to Alcyone,<br> His wif the quene, ther-as she lay,<br> Right even a quarter before day,<br> And stood right at hir beddes fete,<br> And called hir, right as she hete,<br> By name, and sayde, `my swete wyf,<br> Awak! let be your sorwful lyf!<br> For in your sorwe there lyth no reed;<br> For certes, swete, I nam but deed;<br> Ye shul me never on lyve y-see.<br> But good swete herte, look that ye<br> Bury my body, at whiche a tyde<br> Ye mowe hit finde the see besyde;<br> And far-wel, swete, my worldes blisse!<br> I praye god your sorwe lisse;<br> To litel whyl our blisse lasteth!'<br> With that hir eyen up she casteth,<br> And saw noght; `A!' quod she, `for sorwe!'<br> And deyed within the thridde morwe.<br> But what she sayde more in that swow<br> I may not telle yow as now,<br> Hit were to longe for to dwelle;<br> My first matere I wil yow telle,<br> Wherfor I have told this thing<br> Of Alcione and Seys the king.<br> For thus moche dar I saye wel,<br> I had be dolven everydel,<br> And deed, right through defaute of sleep,<br> If I nad red and taken keep<br> Of this tale next before:<br> And I wol telle yow wherfore:<br> For I ne might, for bote ne bale,<br> Slepe, or I had red this tale<br> Of this dreynte Seys the king,<br> And of the goddes of sleping.<br> Whan I had red this tale wel<br> And over-loked hit everydel,<br> Me thoughte wonder if hit were so;<br> For I had never herd speke, or tho,<br> Of no goddes that coude make<br> Men for to slepe, ne for to wake;<br> For I ne knew never god but oon.<br> And in my game I sayde anoon --<br> And yet me list right evel to pleye --<br> `Rather then that I shulde deye<br> Through defaute of sleping thus,<br> I wolde yive thilke Morpheus,<br> Or his goddesse, dame Iuno,<br> Or som wight elles, I ne roghte who --<br> To make me slepe and have som reste --<br> I wil yive him the alder-beste<br> Yift that ever he aboode his lyve,<br> And here on warde, right now, as blyve;<br> If he wol make me slepe a lyte,<br> Of downe of pure dowves whyte<br> I wil yive him a fether-bed,<br> Rayed with golde, and right wel cled<br> In fyn blak satin doutremere,<br> And many a pilow, and every bere<br> Of clothe of Reynes, to slepe softe;<br> Him thar not nede to turnen ofte.<br> And I wol yive him al that falles<br> To a chambre; and al his halles<br> I wol do peynte with pure golde,<br> And tapite hem ful many folde<br> Of oo sute; this shal he have,<br> Yf I wiste wher were his cave,<br> If he can make me slepe sone,<br> As did the goddesse Alcione.<br> And thus this ilke god, Morpheus,<br> May winne of me mo fees thus<br> Than ever he wan; and to Iuno,<br> That is his goddesse, I shal so do,<br> I trow that she shal holde her payd.'<br> I hadde unneth that word y-sayd<br> Right thus as I have told hit yow,<br> That sodeynly, I niste how,<br> Swich a lust anoon me took<br> To slepe, that right upon my book<br> I fil aslepe, and therwith even<br> Me mette so inly swete a sweven,<br> So wonderful, that never yit<br> I trowe no man hadde the wit<br> To conne wel my sweven rede;<br> No, not Ioseph, withoute drede,<br> Of Egipte, he that redde so<br> The kinges meting Pharao,<br> No more than coude the leste of us;<br> Ne nat scarsly Macrobeus,<br> (He that wroot al thavisioun<br> That he mette, Kyng Scipioun,<br> The noble man, the Affrican --<br> Swiche marvayles fortuned than)<br> I trowe, a-rede my dremes even.<br> Lo, thus hit was, this was my sweven.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> THE DREAM</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Me thoughte thus: -- that hit was May,<br> And in the dawning ther I lay,<br> Me mette thus, in my bed al naked: --<br> I loked forth, for I was waked<br> With smale foules a gret hepe,<br> That had affrayed me out of slepe<br> Through noyse and swetnesse of hir song;<br> And, as me mette, they sate among,<br> Upon my chambre-roof withoute,<br> Upon the tyles, al a-boute,<br> And songen, everich in his wise,<br> The moste solempne servyse<br> By note, that ever man, I trowe,<br> Had herd; for som of hem song lowe,<br> Som hye, and al of oon acorde.<br> To telle shortly, at oo worde,<br> Was never y-herd so swete a steven,<br> But hit had be a thing of heven; --<br> So mery a soun, so swete entunes,<br> That certes, for the toune of Tewnes,<br> I nolde but I had herd hem singe,<br> For al my chambre gan to ringe<br> Through singing of hir armonye.<br> For instrument nor melodye<br> Was nowher herd yet half so swete,<br> Nor of acorde half so mete;<br> For ther was noon of hem that feyned<br> To singe, for ech of hem him peyned<br> To finde out mery crafty notes;<br> They ne spared not hir throtes.<br> And, sooth to seyn, my chambre was<br> Ful wel depeynted, and with glas<br> Were al the windowes wel y-glased,<br> Ful clere, and nat an hole y-crased,<br> That to beholde hit was gret Ioye.<br> For hoolly al the storie of Troye<br> Was in the glasing y-wroght thus,<br> Of Ector and of king Priamus,<br> Of Achilles and king Lamedon,<br> Of Medea and of Iason,<br> Of Paris, Eleyne, and Lavyne.<br> And alle the walles with colours fyne<br> Were peynted, bothe text and glose,<br> Of al the Romaunce of the Rose.<br> My windowes weren shet echon,<br> And through the glas the sunne shon<br> Upon my bed with brighte bemes,<br> With many glade gilden stremes;<br> And eek the welken was so fair,<br> Blew, bright, clere was the air,<br> And ful atempre, for sothe, hit was;<br> For nother cold nor hoot hit nas,<br> Ne in al the welken was a cloude.<br> And as I lay thus, wonder loude<br> Me thoughte I herde an hunte blowe<br> Tassaye his horn, and for to knowe<br> Whether hit were clere or hors of soune.<br> I herde goinge, up and doune,<br> Men, hors, houndes, and other thing;<br> And al men speken of hunting,<br> How they wolde slee the hert with strengthe,<br> And how the hert had, upon lengthe,<br> So moche embosed,I not now what.<br> Anon-right, whan I herde that,<br> How that they wolde on hunting goon,<br> I was right glad, and up anoon;<br> I took my hors, and forth I wente<br> Out of my chambre; I never stente<br> Til I com to the feld withoute.<br> Ther overtook I a gret route<br> Of huntes and eek of foresteres,<br> With many relayes and lymeres,<br> And hyed hem to the forest faste,<br> And I with hem; -- so at the laste<br> I asked oon, ladde a lymere: --<br> `Say, felow, who shal hunten here'<br> Quod I, and he answerde ageyn,<br> `Sir, themperour Octovien,'<br> Quod he, `and is heer faste by.'<br> `A goddes halfe, in good tyme,' quod I,<br> `Go we faste!' and gan to ryde.<br> Whan we came to the forest-syde,<br> Every man dide, right anoon,<br> As to hunting fil to doon.<br> The mayster-hunte anoon, fot-hoot,<br> With a gret horne blew three moot<br> At the uncoupling of his houndes.<br> Within a whyl the hert y-founde is,<br> Y-halowed, and rechased faste<br> Longe tyme; and so at the laste,<br> This hert rused and stal away<br> Fro alle the houndes a prevy way.<br> The houndes had overshote hem alle,<br> And were on a defaute y-falle;<br> Therwith the hunte wonder faste<br> Blew a forloyn at the laste.<br> I was go walked fro my tree,<br> And as I wente, ther cam by me<br> A whelp, that fauned me as I stood,<br> That hadde y-folowed, and coude no good.<br> Hit com and creep to me as lowe,<br> Right as hit hadde me y-knowe,<br> Hild doun his heed and Ioyned his eres,<br> And leyde al smothe doun his heres.<br> I wolde han caught hit, and anoon<br> Hit fledde, and was fro me goon;<br> And I him folwed, and hit forth wente<br> Doun by a floury grene wente<br> Ful thikke of gras, ful softe and swete,<br> With floures fele, faire under fete,<br> And litel used, hit seemed thus;<br> For bothe Flora and Zephirus,<br> They two that make floures growe,<br> Had mad hir dwelling ther, I trowe;<br> For hit was, on to beholde,<br> As thogh the erthe envye wolde<br> To be gayer than the heven,<br> To have mo floures, swiche seven<br> As in the welken sterres be.<br> Hit had forgete the povertee<br> That winter, through his colde morwes,<br> Had mad hit suffren, and his sorwes;<br> Al was forgeten, and that was sene.<br> For al the wode was waxen grene,<br> Swetnesse of dewe had mad it waxe.<br> Hit is no need eek for to axe<br> Wher ther were many grene greves,<br> Or thikke of trees, so ful of leves;<br> And every tree stood by him-selve<br> Fro other wel ten foot or twelve.<br> So grete trees, so huge of strengthe,<br> Of fourty or fifty fadme lengthe,<br> Clene withoute bough or stikke,<br> With croppes brode, and eek as thikke --<br> They were nat an inche a-sonder --<br> That hit was shadwe over-al under;<br> And many an hert and many an hinde<br> Was both before me and bihinde.<br> Of founes, soures, bukkes, does<br> Was ful the wode, and many roes,<br> And many squirelles that sete<br> Ful hye upon the trees, and ete,<br> And in hir maner made festes.<br> Shortly, hit was so ful of bestes,<br> That thogh Argus, the noble countour,<br> Sete to rekene in his countour,<br> And rekened with his figures ten --<br> For by tho figures mowe al ken,<br> If they be crafty, rekene and noumbre,<br> And telle of every thing the noumbre --<br> Yet shulde he fayle to rekene even<br> The wondres, me mette in my sweven.<br> But forth they romed wonder faste<br> Doun the wode; so at the laste<br> I was war of a man in blak,<br> That sat and had y-turned his bak<br> To an oke, an huge tree.<br> `Lord,' thoghte I, `who may that be?<br> What ayleth him to sitten here?'<br> Anoon-right I wente nere;<br> Than fond I sitte even upright<br> A wonder wel-faringe knight --<br> By the maner me thoughte so --<br> Of good mochel, and yong therto,<br> Of the age of four and twenty yeer.<br> Upon his berde but litel heer,<br> And he was clothed al in blakke.<br> I stalked even unto his bakke,<br> And ther I stood as stille as ought,<br> That, sooth to saye, he saw me nought,<br> For-why he heng his heed adoune.<br> And with a deedly sorwful soune<br> He made of ryme ten vers or twelve<br> Of a compleynt to him-selve,<br> The moste pite, the moste rowthe,<br> That ever I herde; for, by my trowthe,<br> Hit was gret wonder that nature<br> Might suffren any creature<br> To have swich sorwe, and be not deed.<br> Ful pitous, pale, and nothing reed,<br> He sayde a lay, a maner song,<br> Withoute note, withoute song,<br> And hit was this; for wel I can<br> Reherse hit; right thus hit began. --<br> `I have of sorwe so grete woon,<br> That Ioye gete I never noon,<br> Now that I see my lady bright,<br> Which I have loved with al my might,<br> Is fro me dedd, and is a-goon.<br> And thus in sorwe lefte me alone.<br> `Allas, o deeth! what ayleth thee,<br> That thou noldest have taken me,<br> `Whan that thou toke my lady swete?<br> That was so fayr, so fresh, so free,<br> So good, that men may wel y-see<br> `Of al goodnesse she had no mete!' --<br> Whan he had mad thus his complaynte,<br> His sorowful herte gan faste faynte,<br> And his spirites wexen dede;<br> The blood was fled, for pure drede,<br> Doun to his herte, to make him warm --<br> For wel hit feled the herte had harm --<br> To wite eek why hit was a-drad,<br> By kinde, and for to make hit glad;<br> For hit is membre principal<br> Of the body; and that made al<br> His hewe chaunge and wexe grene<br> And pale, for no blood was sene<br> In no maner lime of his.<br> Anoon therwith whan I saw this,<br> He ferde thus evel ther he sete,<br> I wente and stood right at his fete,<br> And grette him, but he spak noght,<br> But argued with his owne thoght,<br> And in his witte disputed faste<br> Why and how his lyf might laste;<br> Him thoughte his sorwes were so smerte<br> And lay so colde upon his herte;<br> So, through his sorwe and hevy thoght,<br> Made him that he ne herde me noght;<br> For he had wel nigh lost his minde,<br> Thogh Pan, that men clepe god of kinde,<br> Were for his sorwes never so wrooth.<br> But at the laste, to sayn right sooth,<br> He was war of me, how I stood<br> Before him, and dide of myn hood,<br> And grette him, as I best coude.<br> Debonairly, and no-thing loude,<br> He sayde, `I prey thee, be not wrooth,<br> I herde thee not, to sayn the sooth,<br> Ne I saw thee not, sir, trewely.'<br> `A! goode sir, no fors,' quod I,<br> `I am right sory if I have ought<br> Destroubled yow out of your thought;<br> For-yive me if I have mis-take.'<br> `Yis, thamendes is light to make,'<br> Quod he, `for ther lyth noon ther-to;<br> Ther is no-thing missayd nor do,'<br> Lo! how goodly spak this knight,<br> As it had been another wight;<br> He made it nouther tough ne queynte<br> And I saw that, and gan me aqueynte<br> With him, and fond him so tretable,<br> Right wonder skilful and resonable,<br> As me thoghte, for al his bale.<br> Anoon-right I gan finde a tale<br> To him, to loke wher I might ought<br> Have more knowing of his thought.<br> `Sir,' quod I, `this game is doon;<br> I holde that this hert be goon;<br> Thise huntes conne him nowher see.'<br> `I do no fors therof,' quod he,<br> `My thought is ther-on never a del.'<br> `By our lord,' quod I, `I trow yow wel,<br> Right so me thinketh by your chere.<br> But, sir, oo thing wol ye here?<br> Me thinketh, in gret sorwe I yow see;<br> But certes, good sir, yif that ye<br> Wolde ought discure me your wo,<br> I wolde, as wis god help me so,<br> Amende hit, yif I can or may;<br> Ye mowe preve hit by assay.<br> For, by my trouthe, to make yow hool,<br> I wol do al my power hool;<br> And telleth me of your sorwes smerte,<br> Paraventure hit may ese your herte,<br> That semeth ful seke under your syde.'<br> With that he loked on me asyde,<br> As who sayth, `Nay, that wol not be.'<br> `Graunt mercy, goode frend,' quod he,<br> `I thanke thee that thou woldest so,<br> But hit may never the rather be do,<br> No man may my sorwe glade,<br> That maketh my hewe to falle and fade,<br> And hath myn understonding lorn,<br> That me is wo that I was born!<br> May noght make my sorwes slyde,<br> Nought the remedies of Ovyde;<br> Ne Orpheus, god of melodye,<br> Ne Dedalus, with playes slye;<br> Ne hele me may phisicien,<br> Noght Ypocras, ne Galien;<br> Me is wo that I live houres twelve;<br> But who so wol assaye him-selve<br> Whether his herte can have pite<br> Of any sorwe, lat him see me.<br> I wrecche, that deeth hath mad al naked<br> Of alle blisse that ever was maked,<br> Y-worthe worste of alle wightes,<br> That hate my dayes and my nightes;<br> My lyf, my lustes be me lothe,<br> For al welfare and I be wrothe.<br> The pure deeth is so my fo<br> Thogh I wolde deye, hit wolde not so;<br> For whan I folwe hit, hit wol flee;<br> I wolde have hit, hit nil not me.<br> This is my peyne withoute reed,<br> Alway deinge and be not deed,<br> That Sesiphus, that lyth in helle,<br> May not of more sorwe telle.<br> And who so wiste al, be my trouthe,<br> My sorwe, but he hadde routhe<br> And pite of my sorwes smerte,<br> That man hath a feendly herte.<br> For who so seeth me first on morwe<br> May seyn, he hath y-met with sorwe;<br> For I am sorwe and sorwe is I.<br> `Allas! and I wol telle the why;<br> My song is turned to pleyning,<br> And al my laughter to weping,<br> My glade thoghtes to hevinesse,<br> In travaile is myn ydelnesse<br> And eek my reste; my wele is wo,<br> My goode is harm, and ever-mo<br> In wrathe is turned my pleying,<br> And my delyt in-to sorwing.<br> Myn hele is turned into seeknesse,<br> In drede is al my sikernesse.<br> To derke is turned al my light,<br> My wit is foly, my day is night,<br> My love is hate, my sleep waking,<br> My mirthe and meles is fasting,<br> My countenaunce is nycete,<br> And al abaved wher-so I be,<br> My pees, in pleding and in werre;<br> Allas! how mighte I fare werre?<br> `My boldnesse is turned to shame,<br> For fals Fortune hath pleyd a game<br> Atte ches with me, allas! the whyle!<br> The trayteresse fals and ful of gyle,<br> That al behoteth and no-thing halt,<br> She goth upryght and yet she halt,<br> That baggeth foule and loketh faire,<br> The dispitouse debonaire,<br> That scorneth many a creature!<br> An ydole of fals portraiture<br> Is she, for she wil sone wryen;<br> She is the monstres heed y-wryen,<br> As filth over y-strawed with floures;<br> Hir moste worship and hir flour is<br> To lyen, for that is hir nature;<br> Withoute feyth, lawe, or mesure.<br> She is fals; and ever laughinge<br> With oon eye, and that other wepinge.<br> That is broght up, she set al doun.<br> I lykne hir to the scorpioun,<br> That is a fals, flateringe beste;<br> For with his hede he maketh feste,<br> But al amid his flateringe<br> With his tayle he wol stinge,<br> And envenyme; and so wol she.<br> She is thenvyouse charite<br> That is ay fals, and seemeth wele,<br> So turneth she hir false whele<br> Aboute, for it is no-thing stable,<br> Now by the fyre, now at table;<br> Ful many oon hath she thus y-blent;<br> She is pley of enchauntement,<br> That semeth oon and is not so,<br> The false theef! what hath she do,<br> Trowest thou? By our lord, I wol thee seye.<br> Atte ches with me she gan to pleye;<br> With hir false draughtes divers<br> She stal on me, and took my fers.<br> And whan I saw my fers aweye,<br> Alas! I couthe no lenger playe,<br> But seyde, 'Farewel, swete, y-wis,<br> And farwel al that ever ther is!'<br> Therwith Fortune seyde, 'Chek here!'<br> And 'Mate!' in mid pointe of the chekkere<br> With a poune erraunt, allas!<br> Ful craftier to pley she was<br> Than Athalus, that made the game<br> First of the ches: so was his name.<br> But God wolde I had ones or twyes<br> Y-koud and knowe the Ieupardyes<br> That coude the Grek Pithagores!<br> I shulde have pleyd the bet at ches,<br> And kept my fers the bet therby;<br> And thogh wherto? for trewely,<br> I hold that wish nat worth a stree!<br> Hit had be never the bet for me.<br> For Fortune can so many a wyle,<br> Ther be but fewe can hir begyle,<br> And eek she is the las to blame;<br> My-self I wolde have do the same,<br> Before god, hadde I been as she;<br> She oghte the more excused be.<br> For this I say yet more therto,<br> Hadde I be god and mighte have do<br> My wille, whan she my fers caughte,<br> I wolde have drawe the same draughte.<br> For, also wis god yive me reste,<br> I dar wel swere she took the beste!<br> `But through that draughte I have lorn<br> My blisse; allas! that I was born!<br> For evermore, I trowe trewly,<br> For al my wil, my lust hoolly<br> Is turned; but yet what to done?<br> Be oure lord, hit is to deye sone;<br> For no-thing I ne leve it noght,<br> But live and deye right in this thoght.<br> There nis planete in firmament,<br> Ne in air, ne in erthe, noon element,<br> That they ne yive me a yift echoon<br> Of weping, whan I am aloon.<br> For whan that I avyse me wel,<br> And bethenke me every-del,<br> How that ther lyth in rekening,<br> In my sorwe for no-thing;<br> And how ther leveth no gladnesse<br> May gladde me of my distresse,<br> And how I have lost suffisance,<br> And therto I have no plesance,<br> Than may I say, I have right noght.<br> And whan al this falleth in my thoght,<br> Allas! than am I overcome!<br> For that is doon is not to come!<br> I have more sorowe than Tantale.'<br> And whan I herde him telle this tale<br> Thus pitously, as I yow telle,<br> Unnethe mighte I lenger dwelle,<br> Hit dide myn hert so moche wo.<br> `A! good sir!' quod I, `say not so!<br> Have som pite on your nature<br> That formed yow to creature,<br> Remembre yow of Socrates;<br> For he ne counted nat three strees<br> Of noght that Fortune coude do.`<br> `No,' quod he, `I can not so.'<br> `Why so? good sir! parde!' quod I;<br> `Ne say noght so, for trewely,<br> Thogh ye had lost the ferses twelve,<br> And ye for sorwe mordred your-selve,<br> Ye sholde be dampned in this cas<br> By as good right as Medea was,<br> That slow hir children for Iason;<br> And Phyllis als for Demophon<br> Heng hir-self, so weylaway!<br> For he had broke his terme-day<br> To come to hir. Another rage<br> Had Dydo, quene eek of Cartage,<br> That slow hir-self for Eneas<br> Was fals; a whiche a fool she was!<br> And Ecquo dyed for Narcisus.<br> Nolde nat love hir; and right thus<br> Hath many another foly don.<br> And for Dalida died Sampson,<br> That slow him-self with a pilere.<br> But ther is noon a-lyve here<br> Wolde for a fers make this wo!'<br> `Why so?' quod he; `hit is nat so,<br> Thou woste ful litel what thou menest;<br> I have lost more than thow wenest.'<br> `Lo, sir, how may that be?' quod I;<br> `Good sir, tel me al hoolly<br> In what wyse, how, why, and wherfore<br> That ye have thus your blisse lore,'<br> `Blythly,' quod he, `com sit adoun,<br> I telle thee up condicioun<br> That thou hoolly, with al thy wit,<br> Do thyn entent to herkene hit.'<br> `Yis, sir.' `Swere thy trouthe ther-to.'<br> `Gladly.' `Do than holde her-to!'<br> `I shal right blythly, so god me save,<br> Hoolly, with al the witte I have,<br> Here yow, as wel as I can,'<br> `A goddes half!' quod he, and began: --<br> `Sir,' quod he, `sith first I couthe<br> Have any maner wit fro youthe,<br> Or kyndely understonding<br> To comprehende, in any thing,<br> What love was, in myn owne wit,<br> Dredeles, I have ever yit<br> Be tributary, and yiven rente<br> To love hoolly with goode entente,<br> And through plesaunce become his thral,<br> With good wil, body, herte, and al.<br> Al this I putte in his servage,<br> As to my lorde, and dide homage;<br> And ful devoutly prayde him to,<br> He shulde besette myn herte so,<br> That it plesaunce to him were,<br> And worship to my lady dere.<br> `And this was longe, and many a yeer<br> Or that myn herte was set o-wher,<br> That I did thus, and niste why;<br> I trowe hit cam me kindely.<br> Paraunter I was therto most able<br> As a whyt wal or a table;<br> For hit is redy to cacche and take<br> Al that men wil therin make,<br> Wher-so so men wol portreye or peynte,<br> Be the werkes never so queynte.<br> `And thilke tyme I ferde so<br> I was able to have lerned tho,<br> And to have coud as wel or better,<br> Paraunter, other art or letter.<br> But for love cam first in my thought,<br> Therfore I forgat hit nought.<br> I chees love to my firste craft,<br> Therfor hit is with me y-laft.<br> Forwhy I took hit of so yong age,<br> That malice hadde my corage<br> Nat that tyme turned to no-thing<br> Through to mochel knowleching.<br> For that tyme youthe, my maistresse,<br> Governed me in ydelnesse;<br> For hit was in my firste youthe,<br> And tho ful litel good I couthe,<br> For al my werkes were flittinge,<br> And al my thoghtes varyinge;<br> Al were to me y-liche good,<br> That I knew tho; but thus hit stood.<br> `Hit happed that I cam on a day<br> Into a place, ther I say,<br> Trewly, the fayrest companye<br> Of ladies that ever man with ye<br> Had seen togedres in oo place.<br> Shal I clepe hit hap other grace<br> That broght me ther? nay, but Fortune,<br> That is to lyen ful comune,<br> The false trayteresse, pervers,<br> God wolde I coude clepe hir wers!<br> For now she worcheth me ful wo,<br> And I wol telle sone why so.<br> `Among thise ladies thus echoon,<br> Soth to seyn, I saw ther oon<br> That was lyk noon of al the route;<br> For I dar swere, withoute doute,<br> That as the someres sonne bright<br> Is fairer, clere, and hath more light<br> Than any planete, is in heven,<br> The mone, or the sterres seven,<br> For al the worlde so had she<br> Surmounted hem alle of beaute,<br> Of maner and of comlinesse,<br> Of stature and wel set gladnesse,<br> Of goodlihede so wel beseye --<br> Shortly, what shal I more seye?<br> By god, and by his halwes twelve,<br> It was my swete, right al hir-selve!<br> She had so stedfast countenaunce,<br> So noble port and meyntenaunce.<br> And Love, that had herd my bone,<br> Had espyed me thus sone,<br> That she ful sone, in my thoght,<br> As helpe me god, so was y-caught<br> So sodenly, that I ne took<br> No maner reed but at hir look<br> And at myn herte; for-why hir eyen<br> So gladly, I trow, myn herte seyen,<br> That purely tho myn owne thoght<br> Seyde hit were bet serve hir for noght<br> Than with another to be wel.<br> And hit was sooth, for, everydel,<br> I wil anoon-right telle thee why.<br> I saw hir daunce so comlily,<br> Carole and singe so swetely,<br> Laughe and pleye so womanly,<br> And loke so debonairly,<br> So goodly speke and so frendly,<br> That certes, I trow, that evermore<br> Nas seyn so blisful a tresore.<br> For every heer upon hir hede,<br> Soth to seyn, hit was not rede,<br> Ne nouther yelw, ne broun hit nas;<br> Me thoghte, most lyk gold hit was.<br> And whiche eyen my lady hadde!<br> Debonair, goode, glade, and sadde,<br> Simple, of good mochel, noght to wyde;<br> Therto hir look nas not a-syde,<br> Ne overthwert, but beset so wel,<br> Hit drew and took up, everydel,<br> Alle that on hir gan beholde.<br> Hir eyen semed anoon she wolde<br> Have mercy; fooles wenden so;<br> But hit was never the rather do.<br> Hit nas no countrefeted thing,<br> It was hir owne pure loking,<br> That the goddesse, dame Nature,<br> Had made hem opene by mesure,<br> And close; for, were she never so glad,<br> Hir loking was not foly sprad,<br> Ne wildely, thogh that she pleyde;<br> But ever, me thoght, hir eyen seyde,<br> 'By god, my wrathe is al for-yive!'<br> `Therwith hir liste so wel to live,<br> That dulnesse was of hir a-drad.<br> She nas to sobre ne to glad;<br> In alle thinges more mesure<br> Had never, I trowe, creature.<br> But many oon with hir loke she herte,<br> And that sat hir ful lyte at herte,<br> For she knew no-thing of her thoght;<br> But whether she knew, or knew hit noght,<br> Algate she ne roghte of hem a stree!<br> To gete hir love no ner was he<br> That woned at home, than he in Inde;<br> The formest was alway behinde.<br> But goode folk, over al other,<br> She loved as man may do his brother;<br> Of whiche love she was wonder large,<br> In skilful places that bere charge.<br> `Which a visage had she ther-to!<br> Allas! myn herte is wonder wo<br> That I ne can discryven hit!<br> Me lakketh bothe English and wit<br> For to undo hit at the fulle;<br> And eek my spirits be so dulle<br> So greet a thing for to devyse.<br> I have no wit that can suffyse<br> To comprehenden hir beaute;<br> But thus moche dar I seyn, that she<br> Was rody, fresh, and lyvely hewed;<br> And every day hir beaute newed.<br> And negh hir face was alder-best;<br> For certes, Nature had swich lest<br> To make that fair, that trewly she<br> Was hir cheef patron of beautee,<br> And cheef ensample of al hir werke,<br> And moustre; for, be hit never so derke,<br> Me thinketh I see hir ever-mo.<br> And yet more-over, thogh alle tho<br> That ever lived were not a-lyve,<br> They ne sholde have founde to discryve<br> In al hir face a wikked signe;<br> For hit was sad, simple, and benigne.<br> `And which a goodly, softe speche<br> Had that swete, my lyves leche!<br> So frendly, and so wel y-grounded,<br> Up al resoun so wel y-founded,<br> And so tretable to alle gode,<br> That I dar swere by the rode,<br> Of eloquence was never founde<br> So swete a sowninge facounde,<br> Ne trewer tonged, ne scorned lasse,<br> Ne bet coude hele; that, by the masse,<br> I durste swere, thogh the pope hit songe,<br> That ther was never yet through hir tonge<br> Man ne woman gretly harmed;<br> As for hir, ther was al harm hid;<br> Ne lasse flatering in hir worde,<br> That purely, hir simple recorde<br> Was founde as trewe as any bonde,<br> Or trouthe of any mannes honde.<br> Ne chyde she coude never a del,<br> That knoweth al the world ful wel.<br> `But swich a fairnesse of a nekke<br> Had that swete that boon nor brekke<br> Nas ther non sene, that mis-sat.<br> Hit was whyt, smothe, streght, and flat,<br> Withouten hole; and canel-boon,<br> As by seming, had she noon.<br> Hir throte, as I have now memoire,<br> Semed a round tour of yvoire,<br> Of good gretnesse, and noght to grete.<br> `And gode faire Whyte she hete,<br> That was my lady name right.<br> She was bothe fair and bright,<br> She hadde not hir name wrong.<br> Right faire shuldres, and body long<br> She hadde, and armes; every lith<br> Fattish, flesshy, not greet therwith;<br> Right whyte handes, and nayles rede,<br> Rounde brestes; and of good brede<br> Hyr hippes were, a streight flat bake.<br> I knew on hir non other lak<br> That al hir limmes nere sewing,<br> In as fer as I had knowing.<br> `Therto she coude so wel pleye,<br> Whan that hir liste, that I dar seye,<br> That she was lyk to torche bright,<br> That every man may take of light<br> Ynogh, and hit hath never the lesse.<br> `Of maner and of comlinesse<br> Right so ferde my lady dere;<br> For every wight of hir manere<br> Might cacche ynogh, if that he wolde,<br> If he had eyen hir to beholde.<br> For I dar sweren, if that she<br> Had among ten thousand be,<br> She wolde have be, at the leste,<br> A cheef mirour of al the feste,<br> Thogh they had stonden in a rowe,<br> To mennes eyen coude have knowe.<br> For wher-so men had pleyd or waked,<br> Me thoghte the felawship as naked<br> Withouten hir, that saw I ones,<br> As a coroune withoute stones.<br> Trewly she was, to myn ye,<br> The soleyn fenix of Arabye,<br> For ther liveth never but oon;<br> Ne swich as she ne know I noon.<br> `To speke of goodnesse; trewly she<br> Had as moche debonairte<br> As ever had Hester in the bible<br> And more, if more were possible.<br> And, soth to seyne, therwith-al<br> She had a wit so general,<br> So hool enclyned to alle gode,<br> That al hir wit was set, by the rode,<br> Withoute malice, upon gladnesse;<br> Therto I saw never yet a lesse<br> Harmul, than she was in doing.<br> I sey nat that she ne had knowing<br> What harm was; or elles she<br> Had coud no good, so thinketh me.<br> `And trewly, for to speke of trouthe,<br> But she had had, hit had be routhe.<br> Therof she had so moche hir del --<br> And I dar seyn and swere hit wel --<br> That Trouthe him-self, over al and al,<br> Had chose his maner principal<br> In hir, that was his resting-place.<br> Ther-to she hadde the moste grace,<br> To have stedfast perseveraunce,<br> And esy, atempre governaunce,<br> That ever I knew or wiste yit;<br> So pure suffraunt was hir wit.<br> And reson gladly she understood,<br> Hit folowed wel she coude good.<br> She used gladly to do wel;<br> These were hir maners every-del.<br> `Therwith she loved so wel right,<br> She wrong do wolde to no wight;<br> No wight might do hir no shame,<br> She loved so wel hir owne name.<br> Hir luste to holde no wight in honde;<br> Ne, be thou siker, she nolde fonde<br> To holde no wight in balaunce,<br> By half word ne by countenaunce,<br> But-if men wolde upon hir lye;<br> Ne sende men in-to Walakye,<br> To Pruyse, and in-to Tartarye,<br> To Alisaundre, ne in-to Turkye,<br> And bidde him faste, anoon that he<br> Go hoodles to the drye see,<br> And come hoom by the Carrenare;<br> And seye, 'Sir, be now right ware<br> That I may of yow here seyn<br> Worship, or that ye come ageyn!'<br> She ne used no suche knakkes smale.<br> `But wherfor that I telle my tale?<br> Right on this same, as I have seyd,<br> Was hoolly al my love leyd;<br> For certes, she was, that swete wyf,<br> My suffisaunce, my lust, my lyf,<br> Myn hap, myn hele, and al my blisse,<br> My worldes welfare, and my lisse,<br> And I hires hoolly, everydel.'<br> `By our lord,' quod I, `I trowe yow wel!<br> Hardely, your love was wel beset,<br> I not how ye mighte have do bet.'<br> `Bet? ne no wight so wel!' quod he.<br> `I trowe hit, sir,' quod I, `parde!'<br> `Nay, leve hit wel!' `Sir, so do I;<br> I leve yow wel, that trewely<br> Yow thoghte, that she was the beste,<br> And to beholde the alderfaireste,<br> Who so had loked hir with your eyen.'<br> `With myn? Nay, alle that hir seyen<br> Seyde and sworen hit was so.<br> And thogh they ne hadde, I wolde tho<br> Have loved best my lady fre,<br> Thogh I had had al the beautee<br> That ever had Alcipyades,<br> And al the strengthe of Ercules,<br> And therto had the worthinesse<br> Of Alisaundre, and al the richesse<br> That ever was in Babiloyne,<br> In Cartage, or in Macedoyne,<br> Or in Rome, or in Ninive;<br> And therto al-so hardy be<br> As was Ector, so have I Ioye,<br> That Achilles slow at Troye --<br> And therfor was he slayn also<br> In a temple, for bothe two<br> Were slayn, he and Antilegius,<br> And so seyth Dares Frigius,<br> For love of hir Polixena --<br> Or ben as wys as Minerva,<br> I wolde ever, withoute drede,<br> Have loved hir, for I moste nede!<br> 'Nede!' nay, I gabbe now,<br> Noght 'nede', and I wol telle how,<br> For of good wille myn herte hit wolde,<br> And eek to love hir I was holde<br> As for the fairest and the beste.<br> `She was as good, so have I reste,<br> As ever was Penelope of Grece,<br> Or as the noble wyf Lucrece,<br> That was the beste -- he telleth thus,<br> The Romayn Tytus Livius --<br> She was as good, and no-thing lyke,<br> Thogh hir stories be autentyke;<br> Algate she was as trewe as she.<br> `But wherfor that I telle thee<br> Whan I first my lady say?<br> I was right yong, the sooth to sey,<br> And ful gret need I hadde to lerne;<br> Whan my herte wolde yerne<br> To love, it was a greet empryse.<br> But as my wit coude best suffyse,<br> After my yonge childly wit,<br> Withoute drede, I besette hit<br> To love hir in my beste wise,<br> To do hir worship and servyse<br> That I tho coude, be my trouthe,<br> Withoute feyning outher slouthe;<br> For wonder fayn I wolde hir see.<br> So mochel hit amended me,<br> That, whan I saw hir first a-morwe,<br> I was warished of al my sorwe<br> Of al day after, til hit were eve;<br> Me thoghte no-thing mighte me greve,<br> Were my sorwes never so smerte.<br> And yit she sit so in myn herte,<br> That, by my trouthe, I nolde noghte,<br> For al this worlde, out of my thoght<br> Leve my lady; no, trewly!'<br> `Now, by my trouthe, sir,' quod I,<br> `Me thinketh ye have such a chaunce<br> As shrift withoute repentaunce.'<br> `Repentaunce! nay, fy,' quod he;<br> `Shulde I now repente me<br> To love? nay, certes, than were I wel<br> Wers than was Achitofel,<br> Or Anthenor, so have I Ioye,<br> The traytour that betraysed Troye,<br> Or the false Genelon,<br> He that purchased the treson<br> Of Rowland and of Olivere.<br> Nay, why! I am a-lyve here<br> I nil foryete hir never-mo.'<br> `Now, goode sir,' quod I right tho,<br> `Ye han wel told me her-before.<br> It is no need reherse hit more<br> How ye sawe hir first, and where;<br> But wolde ye telle me the manere,<br> To hir which was your firste speche --<br> Therof I wolde yow be-seche --<br> And how she knewe first your thoght,<br> Whether ye loved hir or noght,<br> And telleth me eek what ye have lore;<br> I herde yow telle her-before.'<br> `Ye,' seyde he,`thow nost what thou menest;<br> I have lost more than thou wenest.'<br> `What los is that, sir?' quod I tho;<br> `Nil she not love yow? Is hit so?<br> Or have ye oght y-doon amis,<br> That she hath left yow? is hit this?<br> For goddes love, telle me al.'<br> `Before god,' quod he, `and I shal.<br> I saye right as I have seyd,<br> On hir was al my love leyd;<br> And yet she niste hit never a del<br> Noght longe tyme, leve hit wel.<br> For be right siker, I durste noght<br> For al this worlde telle hir my thoght,<br> Ne I wolde have wratthed hir, trewely.<br> For wostow why? she was lady<br> Of the body; she had the herte,<br> And who hath that, may not asterte.<br> `But, for to kepe me fro ydelnesse,<br> Trewly I did my besinesse<br> To make songes, as I best coude,<br> And ofte tyme I song hem loude;<br> And made songes a gret del,<br> Al-thogh I coude not make so wel<br> Songes, ne knowe the art al,<br> As coude Lamekes sone Tubal,<br> That fond out first the art of songe;<br> For, as his brothers hamers ronge<br> Upon his anvelt up and doun,<br> Therof he took the firste soun;<br> But Grekes seyn, Pictagoras,<br> That he the firste finder was<br> Of the art; Aurora telleth so,<br> But therof no fors, of hem two.<br> Algates songes thus I made<br> Of my feling, myn herte to glade;<br> And lo! this was the alther-firste,<br> I not wher that hit were the werst. --<br> 'Lord, hit maketh myn herte light,<br> Whan I thenke on that swete wight<br> That is so semely on to see;<br> And wisshe to god hit might so be,<br> That she wolde holde me for hir knight,<br> My lady, that is so fair and bright!' --<br> `Now have I told thee, sooth to saye,<br> My firste song. Upon a daye<br> I bethoghte me what wo<br> And sorwe that I suffred tho<br> For hir, and yet she wiste hit noght,<br> Ne telle hir durste I nat my thoght.<br> `Allas!' thoghte I, `I can no reed;<br> And, but I telle hir, I nam but deed;<br> And if I telle hir, to seye sooth,<br> I am a-dred she wol be wrooth;<br> Allas! what shal I thanne do?'<br> `In this debat I was so wo,<br> Me thoghte myn herte braste a-tweyn!<br> So atte laste, soth to sayn,<br> I me bethoghte that nature<br> Ne formed never in creature<br> So moche beaute, trewely,<br> And bounte, withouten mercy.<br> `In hope of that, my tale I tolde,<br> With sorwe, as that I never sholde;<br> For nedes, and, maugree my heed,<br> I moste have told hir or be deed.<br> I not wel how that I began,<br> Ful evel rehersen hit I can;<br> And eek, as helpe me god with-al,<br> I trowe hit was in the dismal,<br> That was the ten woundes of Egipte;<br> For many a word I over-skipte<br> In my tale, for pure fere<br> Lest my wordes mis-set were.<br> With sorweful herte, and woundes dede,<br> Softe and quaking for pure drede<br> And shame, and stinting in my tale<br> For ferde, and myn hewe al pale,<br> Ful ofte I wex bothe pale and reed;<br> Bowing to hir, I heng the heed;<br> I durste nat ones loke hir on,<br> For wit, manere, and al was gon.<br> I seyde 'mercy!' and no more;<br> Hit nas no game, hit sat me sore.<br> `So atte laste, sooth to seyn,<br> Whan that myn herte was come ageyn,<br> To telle shortly al my speche,<br> With hool herte I gan hir beseche<br> That she wolde be my lady swete;<br> And swor, and gan hir hertely hete<br> Ever to be stedfast and trewe,<br> And love hir alwey freshly newe,<br> And never other lady have,<br> And al hir worship for to save<br> As I best coude; I swor hir this --<br> 'For youres is al that ever ther is<br> For evermore, myn herte swete!<br> And never false yow, but I mete,<br> I nil, as wis god helpe me so!'<br> `And whan I had my tale y-do,<br> God wot, she acounted nat a stree<br> Of al my tale, so thoghte me.<br> To telle shortly as hit is,<br> Trewly hir answere, hit was this;<br> I can not now wel counterfete<br> Hir wordes, but this was the grete<br> Of hir answere: she sayde, 'nay'<br> Al-outerly. Allas! that day<br> The sorwe I suffred, and the wo!<br> That trewly Cassandra, that so<br> Bewayled the destruccioun.<br> Of Troye and of Ilioun,<br> Had never swich sorwe as I tho.<br> I durste no more say therto<br> For pure fere, but stal away;<br> And thus I lived ful many a day;<br> That trewely, I hadde no need<br> Ferther than my beddes heed<br> Never a day to seche sorwe;<br> I fond hit redy every morwe,<br> For-why I loved hir in no gere.<br> `So hit befel, another yere,<br> I thoughte ones I wolde fonde<br> To do hir knowe and understonde<br> My wo; and she wel understood<br> That I ne wilned thing but good,<br> And worship, and to kepe hir name<br> Over al thing, and drede hir shame,<br> And was so besy hir to serve; --<br> And pite were I shulde sterve,<br> Sith that I wilned noon harm, y-wis.<br> So whan my lady knew al this,<br> My lady yaf me al hoolly<br> The noble yift of hir mercy,<br> Saving hir worship, by al weyes;<br> Dredles, I mene noon other weyes.<br> And therwith she yaf me a ring;<br> I trowe hit was the firste thing;<br> But if myn herte was y-waxe<br> Glad, that is no need to axe!<br> As helpe me god, I was as blyve,<br> Reysed, as fro dethe to lyve,<br> Of alle happes the alder-beste,<br> The gladdest and the moste at reste.<br> For trewely, that swete wight,<br> Whan I had wrong and she the right,<br> She wolde alwey so goodely<br> For-yeve me so debonairly.<br> In alle my youthe, in alle chaunce,<br> She took me in hir governaunce.<br> `Therwith she was alway so trewe,<br> Our Ioye was ever y-liche newe;<br> Our hertes wern so even a payre,<br> That never nas that oon contrayre<br> To that other, for no wo.<br> For sothe, y-liche they suffred tho<br> Oo blisse and eek oo sorwe bothe;<br> Y-liche they were bothe gladde and wrothe;<br> Al was us oon, withoute were.<br> And thus we lived ful many a yere<br> So wel, I can nat telle how.'<br> `Sir,' quod I, `where is she now?'<br> `Now!' quod he, and stinte anoon.<br> Therwith he wex as deed as stoon,<br> And seyde, `allas! that I was bore,<br> That was the los, that her-before<br> I tolde thee, that I had lorn.<br> Bethenk how I seyde her-beforn,<br> 'Thou wost ful litel what thou menest;<br> I have lost more than thou wenest' --<br> God wot, allas! right that was she!'<br> `Allas! sir, how? what may that be?'<br> `She is deed!' `Nay!' `Yis, by my trouthe!'<br> `Is that your los? By god, hit is routhe!'<br> And with that worde, right anoon,<br> They gan to strake forth; al was doon,<br> For that tyme, the hert-hunting.<br> With that, me thoghte, that this king<br> Gan quikly hoomward for to ryde<br> Unto a place ther besyde,<br> Which was from us but a lyte,<br> A long castel with walles whyte,<br> Be seynt Iohan! on a riche hil,<br> As me mette; but thus it fil.<br> Right thus me mette, as I yow telle,<br> That in the castel was a belle,<br> As hit had smiten houres twelve. --</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Therwith I awook my-selve,<br> And fond me lying in my bed;<br> And the book that I had red,<br> Of Alcyone and Seys the king,<br> And of the goddes of sleping,<br> I fond it in myn honde ful even.<br> Thoghte I, `this is so queynt a sweven,<br> That I wol, be processe of tyme,<br> Fonde to putte this sweven in ryme<br> As I can best'; and that anoon. --<br> This was my sweven; now hit is doon.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Explicit the Boke of the Duchesse.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Geoffrey+Chaucer">Geoffrey Chaucer</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=395598" data-title="Book Of The Duchesse de Geoffrey Chaucer" data-description="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 g..."></div> </div> </div>

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