Lak of Stedfastnesse
Somtyme the world was so stedfast and stable
That mannes word was obligacioun,
And now it is so fals and deceivable
That word and deed, as in conclusioun,
Ben nothing lyk, for turned up-so-doun
Is al this world for mede and wilfulnesse,
That al is lost for lak of stedfastnesse.
What maketh this world to be so variable
But lust that folk have in dissensioun?
For among us now a man is holde unable,
But if he can by som collusioun
Don his neighbour wrong or oppressioun.
What causeth this but wilful wrecchednesse,
That al is lost for lak of stedfastnesse?
Trouthe is put doun, resoun is holden fable,
Vertu hath now no dominacioun;
Pitee exyled, no man is merciable.
Through covetyse is blent discrecioun.
The world hath mad a permutacioun
Fro right to wrong, fro trouthe to fikelnesse,
That al is lost for lak of stedfastnesse.
O prince, desyre to be honourable,
Cherish thy folk and hate extorcioun.
Suffre nothing that may be reprevable
To thyn estat don in thy regioun.
Shew forth thy swerd of castigacioun,
Dred God, do law, love trouthe and worthinesse,
And wed thy folk agein to stedfastnesse.
poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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Related quotes
A Ballad Sent to King Richard
Sometime this world was so steadfast and stable,
That man's word was held obligation;
And now it is so false and deceivable,
That word and work, as in conclusion,
Be nothing one; for turned up so down
Is all this world, through meed and wilfulness,
That all is lost for lack of steadfastness.
What makes this world to be so variable,
But lust that folk have in dissension?
For now-a-days a man is held unable
But if he can, by some collusion,
Do his neighbour wrong or oppression.
What causeth this but wilful wretchedness,
That all is lost for lack of steadfastness?
Truth is put down, reason is holden fable;
Virtue hath now no domination;
Pity exil'd, no wight is merciable;
Through covetise is blent discretion;
The worlde hath made permutation
From right to wrong, from truth to fickleness,
That all is lost for lack of steadfastness.
L'Envoy.
O Prince! desire to be honourable;
Cherish thy folk, and hate extortion;
Suffer nothing that may be reprovable
To thine estate, done in thy region;
Show forth the sword of castigation;
Dread God, do law, love thorough worthiness,
And wed thy folk again to steadfastness.
poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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Truth
Fle fro the pres, and dwelle with sothefastnesse,
Suffise thin owen thing, thei it be smal;
For hord hath hate, and clymbyng tykelnesse,
Prees hath envye, and wele blent overal.
Savour no more thanne the byhove schal;
Reule weel thiself, that other folk canst reede;
And trouthe schal delyvere, it is no drede.
Tempest the nought al croked to redresse,
In trust of hire that tourneth as a bal.
Myche wele stant in litel besynesse;
Bywar therfore to spurne ayeyns an al;
Stryve not as doth the crokke with the wal.
Daunte thiself, that dauntest otheres dede;
And trouthe shal delyvere, it is no drede.
That the is sent, receyve in buxumnesse;
The wrestlyng for the worlde axeth a fal.
Here is non home, here nys but wyldernesse.
Forth, pylgryme, forth! forth, beste, out of thi stal!
Know thi contré! loke up! thonk God of al!
Hold the heye weye, and lat thi gost the lede;
And trouthe shal delyvere, it is no drede.
[L'envoy.]
Therfore, thou Vache, leve thine olde wrechednesse;
Unto the world leve now to be thral.
Crie hym mercy, that of hys hie godnesse
Made the of nought, and in espec{.i}al
Draw unto hym, and pray in general
For the, and eke for other, hevenelyche mede;
And trouthe schal delyvere, it is no drede.
poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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Merciles Beaute
1. CAPTIVITY
YOUR eyen two wol slee me sodenly,
I may the beaute of hem not sustene,
So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene.
And but your word wol helen hastily
My hertes wounde, whyl that hit is grene,
Your eyen two wol slee me sodenly,
I may the beaute of hem not sustene.
Upon my trouthe I sey yow feithfully,
That ye ben of my lyf and deeth the quene;
For with my deeth the trouthe shal be sene.
Your eyen two wol slee me sodenly,
I may the beaute of hem not sustene,
So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene.
2. REJECTION
So hath your beaute fro your herte chaced
Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne;
For Daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne.
Giltles my deeth thus han ye me purchaced;
I sey yow sooth, me nedeth not to feyne;
So hath your beaute fro your herte chaced
Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne.
Allas! that nature hath in yow compassed
So greet beaute, that no man may atteyne
To mercy, though he sterve for the peyne.
So hath your beaute fro your herte chaced
Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne;
For Daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne.
3. ESCAPE
Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat,
I never thenk to ben in his prison lene;
Sin I am free, I counte him not a bene.
He may answere, and seye this or that;
I do no fors, I speke right as I mene.
Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat,
I never thenk to ben in his prison lene.
Love hath my name y-strike out of his sclat,
And he is strike out of my bokes clene
For ever-mo; ther is non other mene.
Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat,
I never thenk to ben in his prison lene;
Sin I am free, I counte him not a bene.
poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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Balade
HYD, Absolon, thy gilte tresses clere;
Ester, ley thou thy meknesse al a-doun;
Hyd, Jonathas, al thy frendly manere;
Penalopee, and Marcia Catoun,
Mak of your wyfhod no comparisoun;
Hyde ye your beautes, Isoude and Eleyne;
My lady cometh, that al this may disteyne.
Thy faire body, lat hit nat appere,
Lavyne; and thou, Lucresse of Rome toun,
And Polixene, that boghten love so dere,
And Cleopatre, with al thy passioun,
Hyde ye your trouthe of love and your renoun;
And thou, Tisbe, that hast of love swich peyne;
My lady cometh, that al this may disteyne.
Herro, Dido, Laudomia, alle y-fere,
And Phyllis, hanging for thy Demophoun,
And Canace, espyed by thy chere,
Ysiphile, betraysed with Jasoun,
Maketh of your trouthe neyther boost ne soun;
Nor Ypermistre or Adriane, ye tweyne;
My lady cometh, that al this may distevne.
poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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Were Lost In A World
were lost in a world were we cannit brake free
were lost in a world were there is just know me
were lost in a world were there is pain and sorrow
were lost in a world were there is know tomorrow
were lost in a world were there is know happyendings
were lost in a world were everybodys prtending
were lost in a world were heartbreak is everyday
were lost in a world were only good pray
were lost in a world thats at war
were lost in a world were nobody can take know more
poem by Jessica Rutherford
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The Complaint unto Pity
Pite, that I have sought so yore agoo
With herte soore and ful of besy peyne,
That in this world was never wight so woo
Withoute deth-- and yf I shal not feyne,
My purpos was to Pite to compleyne
Upon the crueltee and tirannye
Of Love, that for my trouthe doth me dye.
And when that I, be lengthe of certeyne yeres,
Had evere in oon a tyme sought to speke,
To Pitee ran I al bespreynt with teres
To prayen hir on Cruelte me awreke.
But er I myghte with any word outbreke
Or tellen any of my peynes smerte,
I fond hir ded, and buried in an herte.
Adoun I fel when that I saugh the herse,
Ded as a ston while that the swogh me laste;
But up I roos with colour ful dyverse
And pitously on hir myn eyen I caste,
And ner the corps I gan to presen faste,
And for the soule I shop me for to preye.
I was but lorn, ther was no more to seye.
Thus am I slayn sith that Pite is ded.
Allas, that day, that ever hyt shulde falle.
What maner man dar now hold up his hed?
To whom shal any sorwful herte calle?
Now Cruelte hath cast to slee us alle,
In ydel hope, folk redeless of peyne,
Syth she is ded, to whom shul we compleyne?
But yet encreseth me this wonder newe,
That no wight woot that she is ded, but I--
So many men as in her tyme hir knewe--
And yet she dyed not so sodeynly,
For I have sought hir ever ful besely
Sith first I hadde wit or mannes mynde,
But she was ded er that I koude hir fynde.
Aboute hir herse there stoden lustely,
Withouten any woo as thoughte me,
Bounte parfyt, wel armed and richely,
And fresshe Beaute, Lust, and Jolyte,
Assured Maner, Youthe, and Honeste,
Wisdom, Estaat, Drede, and Governaunce,
Confedred both by honde and alliaunce.
A compleynt had I, writen in myn hond,
For to have put to Pite as a bille;
But when I al this companye ther fond,
That rather wolden al my cause spille
Then do me help, I held my pleynte stille,
For to that folk, withouten any fayle,
Withoute Pitee ther may no bille availe.
Then leve I al these vertues, sauf Pite,
Kepynge the corps as ye have herd me seyn,
Confedered alle by bond of Cruelte[Riv., p. 641]
And ben assented when I shal be sleyn.
And I have put my complaynt up ageyn,
For to my foes my bille I dar not shewe,
Th'effect of which seith thus, in wordes fewe:
(The Bill of Complaint)
Humblest of herte, highest of reverence,
Benygne flour, coroune of vertues alle,
Sheweth unto youre rial excellence
Youre servaunt, yf I durste me so calle,
Hys mortal harm in which he is yfalle,
And noght al oonly for his evel fare,
But for your renoun, as he shal declare.
Hit stondeth thus: your contraire, Crueltee,
Allyed is ayenst your regalye
Under colour of womanly Beaute--
For men shulde not, lo, knowe hir tirannye--
With Bounte, Gentilesse, and Curtesye,
And hath depryved yow now of your place
That hyghte 'Beaute apertenant to Grace.'
For kyndely by youre herytage ryght
Ye ben annexed ever unto Bounte;
And verrayly ye oughte do youre myght
To helpe Trouthe in his adversyte.
Ye be also the corowne of Beaute,
And certes yf ye wanten in these tweyne,
The world is lore; ther is no more to seyne.
Eke what availeth Maner and Gentilesse
Withoute yow, benygne creature?
Shal Cruelte be your governeresse?
Allas, what herte may hyt longe endure?
Wherfore, but ye the rather take cure
To breke that perilouse alliaunce,
Ye sleen hem that ben in your obeisaunce.
And further over yf ye suffre this,
Youre renoun ys fordoo than in a throwe;
Ther shal no man wite well what Pite is.
Allas, that your renoun is falle so lowe!
Ye be than fro youre heritage ythrowe
By Cruelte that occupieth youre place,
And we despeyred that seken to your grace.
Have mercy on me, thow Herenus quene,
That yow have sought so tendirly and yore;
Let som strem of youre lyght on me be sene
That love and drede yow ever lenger the more;
For sothly for to seyne I bere the soore,
And though I be not konnynge for to pleyne,
For Goddis love have mercy on my peyne.
My peyne is this, that what so I desire
That have I not, ne nothing lyk therto;
And ever setteth Desir myn hert on fire.
Eke on that other syde where so I goo,
What maner thing that may encrese my woo,
That have I redy, unsoght, everywhere;
Me lakketh but my deth and than my here.
What nedeth to shewe parcel of my peyne?
Syth every woo that herte may bethynke
I suffre and yet I dar not to yow pleyne;
For wel I wot although I wake or wynke,
Ye rekke not whether I flete or synke.
But natheles yet my trouthe I shal sustene
Unto my deth, and that shal wel be sene.
This is to seyne I wol be youres evere,
Though ye me slee by Crueltee your foo,
Algate my spirit shal never dissevere
Fro youre servise for any peyne or woo.
Sith ye be ded-- allas that hyt is soo--
Thus for your deth I may wel wepe and pleyne
With herte sore and ful of besy peyne.
poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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I'm feeling all alone
I've always said this is a big big world
And now I'm lost in this world
Lost feeling...
Lost love...
Lost and confused,
Even broken and used.
Lost everything for love
I'm so lost
Im dying inside
When trus is lost, how can things,
move forward?
I'm feeling all alone
I'm lost in my feelings
I'm lost in everything.
I los him...
I los his heart.
Wanted to write a poem
But lost the words
I've lost everything and I don't,
Know why.
I'm lost in this world
My mind is lost
I cant seem to trust anyone
Thoughts of nothing
No dreams or goals
I'm lost in this world.
poem by Maria Luisa Taylor
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Onn Oure Ladies Chyrche
AS onn a hylle one eve sittynge,
At oure Ladie's Chyrche mouche wonderynge,
The counynge handieworke so fyne,
Han well nighe dazeled mine eyne;
Quod I; some counynge fairie hande
Yreer'd this chapelle in this lande;
Full well I wote so fine a syghte
Was ne yreer'd of mortall wighte.
Quod Trouthe; thou lackest knowlachynge;
Thou forsoth ne wotteth of the thynge.
A Rev'rend Fadre, William Canynge hight,
Yreered uppe this chapelle brighte;
And eke another in the Towne,
Where glassie bubblynge Trymme doth roun.
Quod I; ne doubte for all he's given
His sowle will certes goe to heaven.
Yea, quod Trouthe; than goe thou home,
And see thou doe as hee hath donne.
Quod I; I doubt; that can ne bee;
I have ne gotten markes three.
Quod Trouthe; as thou hast got, give almes-dedes soe;
Canynges and Gaunts culde doe ne moe.
poem by Thomas Chatterton
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Christmas in the year of the War
NEVERTHELESS this Year of Grief
The Tree of God's in leaf.
The stem, the branch quickeneth
With sap, this year of Death.
For in the time of the flowering thorn
The Babe, the Babe, is born!
Christ's folk, look up, be not dismayed,
The Lord's in the cattle shed.
He comes, a little trembling One,
To a world else lost, undone.
With His poor folk He wills to stay
In this their difficult day.
Poor war-worn world, you shall have ease!
He signs your lasting peace.
He hath given His people rest from wars,
By the cold light of stars.
The charter of their peace shall stand
Writ by His hour-old hand.
The Tree of Paradise quickeneth.
Be still,--there is no death!
poem by Katharine Tynan
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To Life's Pilgrim
FLY from the press, and dwell with soothfastness;
Suffice unto thy good, though it be small,
For hoard hath hate, and climbing tickleness ;
Preise hath envie, and weal is blent o'er all.
Savor no more than thee behoven shall,
Rede well thy self that other folk can'st rede,
And Truth thee shalt deliver 'tis no drede.
That thee is sent receive in buxomness :
The wrestling of this world, asketh a fall.
Here is no home, here is but wilderness.
Forth, pilgrim, forth on, best out of thy stall;
Look up on high, and thank the God of all!
Weivith thy lust, and let thy ghost thee lead,
And Truth thee shalt deliver 'tis no drede.
poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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Envoy To Alison
O lewde book, with thy foole rudenesse,
Sith thou hast neither beautee n'eloquence,
Who hath thee caused, or yeve thee hardinesse
For to appere in my ladyes presence?
I am ful siker, thou knowest her benivolence
Ful ágreable to alle hir obeyinge;
For of al goode she is the best livinge.
Allas! that thou ne haddest worthinesse
To shewe to her som plesaunt sentence,
Sith that she hath, thorough her gentilesse,
Accepted thee servant to her digne reverence!
O, me repenteth that I n'had science
And leyser als, to make thee more florisshinge;
For of al goode she is the best livinge.
Beseche her mekely, with al lowlinesse,
Though I be fer from her [as] in absence,
To thenke on my trouth to her and stedfastnesse,
And to abregge of my sorwe the violence,
Which caused is wherof knoweth your sapience;
She lyke among to notifye me her lykinge;
For of al goode she is the best livinge.
Lenvoy
Aurore of gladnesse, and day of lustinesse,
Lucerne a-night, with hevenly influence
Illumined, rote of beautee and goodnesse,
Suspiries which I effunde in silence,
Of grace I beseche, alegge let your wrytinge,
Now of al goode sith ye be best livinge.
Explicit
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Vayagara helpless
The count lost, you haven’t lost the world.
The volume lost, you haven’t lost the world.
The erection lost, you haven’t still lost it.
Lust for women lost, you have lost the world.
No vayagara can come to your rescue.
05.05.2006
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Lost In A World Of Lust
What's love got to do with it when you're lost in a world of lust?
where sex is forever sybliminal and fornication is a must.
when you're lost in a world of lust it is there for the duration
everybody's main objective is sustaining this temporary sensation
what's love got to do with it when all you care about is your personal satisfaction.
The societies attention fixed on a physical attraction.
What's love got to do with it when you live in a false reality
the population defined by the change in sexuality.
Blind to any other way that we can show affection.
Becoming less and less descreet 'bout how we make partner selection
It is the thing that is the topic of almost every conversation.
Every aspect of the media encouraging sexual participation.
When you're lost in a world of lust every where there is temptation
when you're lost in a world of lust desire is the infactuation.
poem by Sylvia Perry
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The Folk I Love
I do hate the folk I love-
They hurt so.
Their least word and act may be
Source of woe.
'Won't you come to tea with me?'
'Not today'
I'm so tired, I've been to church
Such folk say.
All the dreary afternoon
I must clutch
At the strength to love like them
Not too much
poem by Lesbia Harford
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Good Counsel of Chaucer
Flee from the press, and dwell with soothfastness;
Suffice thee thy good, though it be small;
For hoard hath hate, and climbing tickleness,
Press hath envy, and weal is blent o'er all,
Savour no more than thee behove shall;
Read well thyself, that other folk canst read;
And truth thee shall deliver, it is no dread.
Paine thee not each crooked to redress,
In trust of her that turneth as a ball;
Great rest standeth in little business:
Beware also to spurn against a nail;
Strive not as doth a crocke with a wall;
Deeme thyself that deemest others' deed,
And truth thee shall deliver, it is no dread.
What thee is sent, receive in buxomness;
The wrestling of this world asketh a fall;
Here is no home, here is but wilderness.
Forth, pilgrim! Forthe beast, out of thy stall!
Look up on high, and thank thy God of all!
Weive thy lust, and let thy ghost thee lead,
And truth thee shall deliver, it is no dread.
poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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Fortune
This wrecched worldes transmutacioun,
As wele or wo, now povre and now honour,
Withouten ordre or wys discrecioun
Governed is by Fortunes errour.
But natheles, the lak of hir favour
Ne may nat don me singen though I dye,
Jay tout perdu mon temps et mon labour;
For fynally, Fortune, I thee defye.
Yit is me left the light of my resoun
To knowen frend fro fo in thy mirour.
So muchel hath yit thy whirling up and doun
Ytaught me for to knowen in an hour.
But trewely, no force of thy reddour
To him that over himself hath the maystrye.
My suffisaunce shal be my socour,
For fynally Fortune, I thee defye.
O Socrates, thou stidfast champioun,
She never mighte be thy tormentour;
Thou never dreddest hir oppressioun,
Ne in hir chere founde thou no savour.
Thou knewe wel the deceit of hir colour,
And that hir moste worshipe is to lye.
I knowe hir eek a fals dissimulour,
For fynally, Fortune, I thee defye!
La respounse de Fortune au Pleintif
No man is wrecched but himself it wene,
And he that hath himself hath suffisaunce.
Why seystow thanne I am to thee so kene,
That hast thyself out of my governaunce?
Sey thus: 'Graunt mercy of thyn haboundaunce
That thou hast lent or this.' Why wolt thou stryve?
What wostow yit how I thee wol avaunce?
And eek thou hast thy beste frend alyve.
I have thee taught divisioun bitwene
Frend of effect and frend of countenaunce;
Thee nedeth nat the galle of noon hyene,
That cureth eyen derked for penaunce;
Now seestow cleer that were in ignoraunce.
Yit halt thyn ancre and yit thou mayst arryve
Ther bountee berth the keye of my substaunce,
And eek thou hast thy beste frend alyve.
How many have I refused to sustene
Sin I thee fostred have in thy plesaunce.
Woltow than make a statut on thy quene
That I shal been ay at thyn ordinaunce?
Thou born art in my regne of variaunce,
Aboute the wheel with other most thou dryve.
My lore is bet than wikke is thy grevaunce,
And eek thou hast thy beste frend alyve.
La respounse du Pleintif countre Fortune
Thy lore I dampne; it is adversitee.
My frend maystow nat reven, blind goddesse;
That I thy frendes knowe, I thanke it thee.
Tak hem agayn, lat hem go lye on presse.
The negardye in keping hir richesse
Prenostik is thou wolt hir tour assayle;
Wikke appetyt comth ay before syknesse.
In general, this reule may nat fayle.
La respounse de Fortune countre le Pleintif
Thou pinchest at my mutabilitee
For I thee lente a drope of my richesse,
And now me lyketh to withdrawe me.[Riv., p. 653]
Why sholdestow my realtee oppresse?
The see may ebbe and flowen more or lesse;
The welkne hath might to shyne, reyne, or hayle;
Right so mot I kythen my brotelnesse.
In general, this reule may nat fayle.
Lo, th'execucion of the majestee
That al purveyeth of his rightwysnesse,
That same thing 'Fortune'' clepen ye,
Ye blinde bestes ful of lewdednesse.
The hevene hath propretee of sikernesse.
This world hath ever resteles travayle;
Thy laste day is ende of myn intresse.
In general, this reule may nat fayle.
Lenvoy de Fortune
Princes, I prey you of your gentilesse
Lat nat this man on me thus crye and pleyne,
And I shal quyte you your bisinesse
At my requeste, as three of you or tweyne,
And but you list releve him of his peyne,
Preyeth his beste frend of his noblesse
That to som beter estat he may atteyne.
poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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Sweet Old World
(lucinda williams)
See what you lost when you left this world, this sweet old world
See what you lost when you left this world, this sweet old world
The breath from your own lips, the touch of fingertips
A sweet and tender kiss
The sound of a midnight train, wearing someones ring
Someone calling your name
Somebody so warm cradled in your arm
Didnt you think you were worth anything
See what you lost when you left this world, this sweet old world
See what you lost when you left this world, this sweet old world
Millions of us in love, promises made good
Your own flesh and blood
Looking for some truth, dancing with no shoes
The beat, the rhythm, the blues
The pounding of your hearts drum together with another one
Didnt you think anyone loved you
See what you lost when you left this world, this sweet old world
See what you lost when you left this world, this sweet old world
song performed by by Emmylou Harris
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I’m Lost
I am lost without my life
I am lost widthout you
I am lost in the world of fears
where i am waisting my tears.
I am lost in the world of darkness
where there is only sadness
I am lost in this unreal world
I am lost in the world, where their is no one to care.
I am lost somewhere in you
hoping thar someday u'll care.
poem by Bikramjyoti Kashyop
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We Are Lost
album: one-armed bandit$
track: 09
I wanna climb up in the sky with you
To seize the stars and put them on your head
I wanna take you down
where the sun begins
a journey on the clouds once again
I wonder if I will ever see your face again
and the rest of my opinion is of no importance
guess I have made a choice
for us
we are lost
in this world
we are lost
in this time
we are lost
we decide
we are lost
we are lost, lost in our own world
It doesn't even matter if you like it or not
we are lost, lost in our own world
It doesn't even matter if you're happy or not
We are lost, lost in are own world
It doesn't even matter if you like it or not
We are lost, lost in our own world
It doesn't even matter if you're happy or not
song performed by by Zornik
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lost in a Inhumane World
Im lost within a world
A little world of my own.
Not quite real
Or even humane.
Lost in a world of depression.
Lost in a world where
People will pick and jibe.
Lost in an inhumane world
With no exit sign.
God how do I get out?
Out from a world
That is cruel
Where people must judge me
poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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