En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Love Unfeigned

O YONGE fresshe folkes, he or she,
In which that love up groweth with your age,
Repeyreth hoom from worldly vanitee,
And of your herte up-casteth the visage
To thilke god that after his image
Yow made, and thinketh al nis but a fayre
This world, that passeth sone as floures fayre.

And loveth him, the which that right for love
Upon a cros, our soules for to beye,
First starf, and roos, and sit in hevene a-bove;
For he nil falsen no wight, dar I seye,
That wol his herte al hoolly on him leye.
And sin he best to love is, and most meke,
What nedeth feyned loves for to seke?

poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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Sonnet LXXIX

MEn call you fayre, and you doe credit it,
For that your selfe ye dayly such doe see:
but the trew fayre, that is the gentle wit,
and vertuous mind is much more praysd of me.
For all the rest, how euer fayre it be,
shall turne to nought and loose that glorious hew:
but onely that is permanent and free
from frayle corruption, that doth flesh ensew.
That is true beautie: that doth argue you
to be diuine and borne of heauenly seed:
deriu'd from that fayre Spirit, from whom al true
and perfect beauty did at first proceed.
He only fayre, and what he fayre hath made,
all other fayre lyke flowres vntymely fade.

poem by Edmund Spenser
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A Rondel of Merciless Beauty - The Original

I. 1.
Youre two eyn will sle me sodenly
I may the beaute of them not sustene,
So wendeth it thorowout my herte kene.

2.
And but your words will helen hastely
My hertis wound, while that it is grene,
Youre two eyn will sle me sodenly.

3.
Upon my trouth I sey yow feithfully,
That ye ben of my liffe and deth the quene;
For with my deth the trouth shal be sene.
Youre two eyn will sle me sodenly
I may the beaute of them not sustene,
So wendeth it thorowout my herte kene.

II. 1.
So hath youre beauty fro your herte chased
Pitee, that me n'availeth not to pleyn:
For daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne.

2.
Giltless my deth thus have ye purchased;
I sey yow soth, me nedeth not to fayn:
So hath your beaute fro your herte chased.

3.
Alas, that nature hath in yow compassed
So grete beaute, that no man may atteyn
To mercy, though he sterve for the peyn.
Youre two eyn will sle me sodenly
I may the beaute of them not sustene,
So wendeth it thorowout my herte kene.

III. 1.
Syn I fro love escaped am so fat,
I nere thinke to ben in his prison lene;
Syn I am fre, I counte hym not a bene.

2.
He may answere and sey this and that,
I do no fors, I speak ryght as I mene;
Syn I fro love escaped am so fat.

3.
Love hath my name i-strike out of his sclat,
And he is strike out of my bokes clene:
For ever mo 'ther' is non other mene,
Syn I fro love escaped am so fat.

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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Sonnet LXXXI

Fayre is my loue, when her fayre golden heares,
with the loose wynd ye wauing chance to marke:
fayre when the rose in her red cheekes appeares,
or in her eyes the fyre of loue does sparke.
Fayre when her brest lyke a rich laden barke,
with pretious merchandize she forth doth lay:
fayre whe[n] that cloud of pryde, which oft doth dark
her goodly light with smiles she driues away.
But fayrest she, when so she doth display,
the gate with pearles and rubyes richly dight:
throgh which her words so wise do make their way
to beare the message of her gentle spright,
The rest be works of natures wonderment,
but this the worke of harts astonishment.

poem by Edmund Spenser
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Natives Are Restless Tonight

(Don Tiki)
Let me tell you 'bout my neighborhood
If you're visiting tonight
You better stay out of the shadows
Stay in the bright, bright light
Don't take fright, the natives are restless tonight
They're not particularly interested in me or you
They're just looking for some meat
They can put in their stew
Don't take fright, the natives are restless tonight
And they say...
Hoom baba hoom baba hoom baba hey hey hoom baba hoom baba hoom baba hey hey
Hoom baba hoom baba hoom baba hey hey hoom baba hoom baba hoom baba hey hey
It's best to stay upstairs
With the Good Book alone
'Cause when the drums start burnin'
You better leave your sermons at home
Don't take fright, the natives are restless tonight
And they say...
Hoom baba hoom baba hoom baba hey hey hoom baba hoom baba hoom baba hey hey
Hoom baba hoom baba hoom baba hey hey hoom baba hoom baba hoom baba hey hey
You might consider yourself lucky
Just to be alive
'Cause it's a full moon tonight
And it's right for a conquering tribe.
Don't take fright, the natives are restless tonight
And they say...
Hoom baba hoom baba hoom baba hey hey hoom baba hoom baba hoom baba hey hey
Hoom baba hoom baba hoom baba hey hey hoom baba hoom baba hoom baba hey hey
Hoom baba hoom baba hoom baba hey hey hoom baba hoom baba hoom baba hey hey
Hoom baba hoom baba hoom baba hey hey hoom baba hoom baba hoom baba hey hey

song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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Against Women Unconstant

Madame, for youre newefangelnesse,
Many a servant have ye put out of grace.
I take my leve of your unstedefastnesse,
For wel I woot, whil ye have lives space,
Ye can not love ful half yeer in a place,
To newe thing youre lust is ay so keene;
In stede of blew, thus may ye were al greene.
Right as a mirour nothing may enpresse,
But, lightly as it cometh, so mote it pace,
So fareth youre love, youre werkes bereth witnesse.
Ther is no faith that may your herte enbrace;
But, as a wedercok, that turneth his face
With every wind, ye fare, and this is seene;
In stede of blew, thus may ye were al greene.

Ye might be shrined, for youre brothelnesse,
Bet that Dalida, Criseide or Candace;
For ever in chaunging stant youre sikernesse;
That tache may no wight fro yuor herte arace.
If ye lese oon, ye can wel twain purchace;
Al light for somer, ye woot wel what I mene,
In stede of blew, thus may ye were al greene.

poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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An ABC

Incipit carmen secundum ordinem litterarum alphabeti.

Almighty and al merciable queene,
To whom that al this world fleeth for socour,
To have relees of sinne, of sorwe, and teene,
Glorious virgine, of alle floures flour,
To thee I flee, confounded in errour.
Help and releeve, thou mighti debonayre,
Have mercy on my perilous langour.
Venquisshed me hath my cruel adversaire.

Bountee so fix hath in thin herte his tente
That wel I wot thou wolt my socour bee;
Thou canst not warne him that with good entente
Axeth thin helpe, thin herte is ay so free.
Thou art largesse of pleyn felicitee,
Haven of refut, of quiete, and of reste.
Loo, how that theeves sevene chasen mee.
Help, lady bright, er that my ship tobreste.[Riv., p. 638]

Comfort is noon but in yow, ladi deere;
For loo, my sinne and my confusioun,
Which oughten not in thi presence appeere,
Han take on me a greevous accioun
Of verrey right and desperacioun;
And as hi right thei mighten wel susteene
That I were wurthi my dampnacioun,
Nere merci of you, blisful hevene queene.

Dowte is ther noon, thou queen of misericorde,
That thou n'art cause of grace and merci heere;
God vouched sauf thurgh thee with us to accorde.
For certes, Crystes blisful mooder deere,
Were now the bowe bent in swich maneere
As it was first of justice and of ire,
The rightful God nolde of no mercy heere;
But thurgh thee han we grace as we desire.

Evere hath myn hope of refut been in thee,
For heer-biforn ful ofte in many a wyse
Hast thou to misericorde receyved me.
But merci, ladi, at the grete assyse
Whan we shule come bifore the hye justyse.
So litel fruit shal thanne in me be founde
That, but thou er that day correcte [vice],
Of verrey right my werk wol me confounde.

Fleeinge, I flee for socour to thi tente
Me for to hide from tempeste ful of dreede,
Biseeching yow that ye you not absente
Thouh I be wikke. O, help yit at this neede!
Al have I ben a beste in wil and deede,
Yit, ladi, thou me clothe with thi grace.
Thin enemy and myn-- ladi, tak heede--
Unto my deth in poynt is me to chace!

Glorious mayde and mooder, which that nevere
Were bitter, neither in erthe nor in see,
But ful of swetnesse and of merci evere,
Help that my Fader be not wroth with me.
Spek thou, for I ne dar not him ysee,
So have I doon in erthe, allas the while,
That certes, but if thou my socour bee,
To stink eterne he wole my gost exile.

He vouched sauf, tel him, as was his wille,
Bicome a man, to have oure alliaunce,
And with his precious blood he wrot the bille
Upon the crois as general acquitaunce
To every penitent in ful creaunce;
And therfore, ladi bright, thou for us praye.
Thanne shalt thou bothe stinte al his grevaunce,
And make oure foo to failen of his praye.

I wot it wel, thou wolt ben oure socour,
Thou art so ful of bowntee, in certeyn,
For whan a soule falleth in errour
Thi pitee goth and haleth him ayein.
Thanne makest thou his pees with his sovereyn
And bringest him out of the crooked strete.
Whoso thee loveth, he shal not love in veyn,
That shal he fynde as he the lyf shal lete.

Kalenderes enlumyned ben thei
That in this world ben lighted with thi name,
And whoso goth to yow the righte wey,
Him thar not drede in soule to be lame.
Now, queen of comfort, sith thou art that same
To whom I seeche for my medicyne,
Lat not my foo no more my wounde entame;
Myn hele into thin hand al I resygne.

Ladi, thi sorwe kan I not portreye
Under the cros, ne his greevous penaunce;
But for youre bothes peynes I yow preye,
Lat not oure alder foo make his bobaunce
That he hath in his lystes of mischaunce
Convict that ye bothe have bought so deere.
As I seide erst, thou ground of oure substaunce,
Continue on us thi pitous eyen cleere!

Moises, that saugh the bush with flawmes rede
Brenninge, of which ther never a stikke brende,
Was signe of thin unwemmed maidenhede.[Riv., p. 639]
Thou art the bush on which ther gan descende
The Holi Gost, the which that Moyses wende
Had ben a-fyr, and this was in figure.
Now, ladi, from the fyr thou us defende
Which that in helle eternalli shal dure.

Noble princesse, that nevere haddest peere,
Certes if any comfort in us bee,
That cometh of thee, thou Cristes mooder deere.
We han noon oother melodye or glee
Us to rejoyse in oure adversitee,
Ne advocat noon that wole and dar so preye
For us, and that for litel hire as yee
That helpen for an Ave-Marie or tweye.

O verrey light of eyen that ben blynde,
O verrey lust of labour and distresse,
O tresoreere of bountee to mankynde,
Thee whom God ches to mooder for humblesse!
From his ancille he made the maistresse
Of hevene and erthe, oure bille up for to beede.
This world awaiteth evere on thi goodnesse
For thou ne failest nevere wight at neede.

Purpos I have sum time for to enquere
Wherfore and whi the Holi Gost thee soughte
Whan Gabrielles vois cam to thin ere.
He not to werre us swich a wonder wroughte,
But for to save us that he sithen boughte.
Thanne needeth us no wepen us for to save,
But oonly ther we dide not, as us oughte,
Doo penitence, and merci axe and have.

Queen of comfort, yit whan I me bithinke
That I agilt have bothe him and thee,
And that my soule is worthi for to sinke,
Allas, I caityf, whider may I flee?
Who shal unto thi Sone my mene bee?
Who, but thiself, that art of pitee welle?
Thou hast more reuthe on oure adversitee
Than in this world might any tonge telle.

Redresse me, mooder, and me chastise,
For certeynly my Faderes chastisinge,
That dar I nouht abiden in no wise,
So hidous is his rightful rekenynge.
Mooder, of whom oure merci gan to springe,
Beth ye my juge and eek my soules leche;
For evere in you is pitee haboundinge
To ech that wole of pitee you biseeche.

Soth is that God ne granteth no pitee
Withoute thee; for God of his goodnesse
Foryiveth noon, but it like unto thee.
He hath thee maked vicaire and maistresse
Of al this world, and eek governouresse
Of hevene, and he represseth his justise
After thi wil; and therfore in witnesse
He hath thee corowned in so rial wise.

Temple devout, ther God hath his woninge,
Fro which these misbileeved deprived been,
To you my soule penitent I bringe.
Receyve me-- I can no ferther fleen.
With thornes venymous, O hevene queen,
For which the eerthe acursed was ful yore,
I am so wounded, as ye may wel seen,
That I am lost almost, it smert so sore.

Virgine, that art so noble of apparaile,
And ledest us into the hye tour
Of Paradys, thou me wisse and counsaile
How I may have thi grace and thi socour,
All have I ben in filthe and in errour.
Ladi, unto that court thou me ajourne
That cleped is thi bench, O freshe flour,
Ther as that merci evere shal sojourne.

Xristus, thi sone, that in this world alighte
Upon the cros to suffre his passioun,
And eek that Longius his herte pighte
And made his herte blood to renne adoun,
And al was this for my salvacioun;
And I to him am fals and eek unkynde,
And yit he wole not my dampnacioun--
This thanke I yow, socour of al mankynde!

Ysaac was figure of his deth, certeyn,
That so fer forth his fader wolde obeye
That him ne roughte nothing to be slayn;[Riv., p. 640]
Right soo thi Sone list as a lamb to deye.
Now, ladi ful of merci, I yow preye,
Sith he his merci mesured so large,
Be ye not skant, for alle we singe and seye
That ye ben from vengeaunce ay oure targe.

Zacharie yow clepeth the open welle
To wasshe sinful soule out of his gilt.
Therfore this lessoun oughte I wel to telle,
That, nere thi tender herte, we were spilt.
Now, ladi bryghte, sith thou canst and wilt
Ben to the seed of Adam merciable,
Bring us to that palais that is bilt
To penitentes that ben to merci able. Amen.

poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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Lines from Love Letters

(i)

De Amico ad Amicam

A Celuy que pluys eyme en mounde,
Of alle tho that I have founde

Carissima,

Saluz od treye amour,
With grace and joye and alle honoure,

Dulcissima.

Sachez bien, pleysant et beele,
That I am right in goode heele

Laus Christo!

Et moun amour done vous ay,
And also thine owene, night and day

In cisto.

Ma tres duce et tres ame,
Night and day for love of thee

Suspiro.

Soyez permanent et leal;
Love me so that I it fele,

Requiro.

A vou jeo suy tut done;
Mine herte is full of love to thee

Presento;

Et pur ceo jeo vou pry,
Sweting, for thin curtesy,

Memento.

Jeo vous pry par charite
The wordes that here wreten be

Tenete;

And turne thy herte me toward
O a Dieu que vous gard!

Valente!

(ii)

Responci o

A Soun tres chere et special,
Fer and ner and overal

In mundo,

Que soy ou saltz et gre
With mouth, word and herte free

Jocundo.

Jeo vous pry sans debat
That ye wolde of myn estat

Audire;

Sertfyes a vous jeo fay
I wil in time whan I may

Venire.

Pur vostre amour, allas, allas!
I am werse than I was

Per multa:

Jeo suy dolourouse en tut manere,
Woulde God in youre armes I were

Sepulta!

Vous estes ma morte et ma vye,
I preye you for your curteisie

Amate,

Cestes maundes jeo vous pry
In youre herte stedefastly

Notate.

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Poem 6

My loue is now awake out of her dreame,
and her fayre eyes like stars that dimmed were
With darksome cloud, now shew theyr goodly beams
More bright then Hesperus his head doth rere.
Come now ye damzels, daughters of delight,
Helpe quickly her to dight,
But first come ye fayre houres which were begot
In loues sweet paradice, of Day and Night,
Which doe the seasons of the yeare allot,
And al that euer in this world is fayre
Doe make and still repayre.
And ye three handmayds of the Cyprian Queene,
The which doe still adorne her beauties pride,
Helpe to addorne my beautifullest bride
And as ye her array, still throw betweene
Some graces to be seene,
And as ye vse to Venus, to her sing,
The whiles the woods shal answer & your eccho ring

poem by Edmund Spenser
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sonnet LVI

FAyre ye be sure, but cruell and vnkind,
As is a Tygre that with greedinesse
hunts after bloud, when he by chance doth find
a feeble beast, doth felly him oppresse.
Fayre be ye sure but proud and pittilesse,
as is a storme, that all things doth prostrate:
finding a tree alone all comfortlesse,
beats on it strongly it to ruinate.
Fayre be ye sure, but hard and obstinate,
as is a rocke amidst the raging floods:
gaynst which a ship of succour desolate,
doth suffer wreck both of her selfe and goods.
That ship, that tree, and that same beast am I,
whom ye doe wreck, doe ruine, and destroy.

poem by Edmund Spenser
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Floure of Curtesye

In Feverier, whan the frosty moone
Was horned, ful of Phebus firy lyght,
And that she gan to reyse her streames sone,
Saynt Valentyne, upon thy blisful nyght
Of dutie whan glad is every wight,
And foules chese, to voyde her olde sorowe,
Everyche his make, upon the next morowe,

The same tyme, I herde a larke synge
Ful lustely, agayne the morowe gray:
'Awake, ye lovers, out of your slombringe,
This glad morowe, in al the haste ye may!
Some observaunce dothe unto this day,
Your choyse agen of herte to renewe,
In confyrmyng forever to be trewe.

'And ye that be, of chosyng, at your large
This lusty day, by custome of nature,
Take upon you the blisful holy charge
To serve love, whyle your lyfe may dure,
With herte, body, and al your besy cure,
Forevermore, as Venus and Cipride
For you disposeth, and the god Cupyde.

'For joye owe we playnly to obey
Unto this lordes mighty ordynaunce,
And, mercylesse, rather forto dye,
Than ever in you be founden varyaunce;
And though your lyfe be medled with grevaunce,
And, at your herte, closed be your wounde,
Beth alway one, there as ye are bounde.'

That whan I had herde and lysted longe,
With devoute herte, the lusty melodye
Of this hevenly comfortable songe,
So agreable as by ermonye,
I rose anon, and faste gan me hye
Towarde a grove, and the way take,
Foules to sene everyche chose his make.

And yet I was ful thursty in languisshyng;
Myn ague was so fervent in his hete,
Whan Aurora, for drery complaynyng,
Can distyl her chrystal teeres wete
Upon the soyle with sylver dewe so swete;
For she durste, for shame, not apere
Under the lyght of Phebus beames clere.

And so, for anguysshe of my paynes kene,
And for constraynte of my sighes sore,
I set me downe under a laurer grene
Ful pitously; and alway more and more,
As I behelde into the holtes hore,
I gan complayne myn inwarde deedly smerte,
That aye so sore crampisshed myn herte.

And whyle that I, in my drery payne
Sate and behelde, aboute on every tre
The foules sytte, alway twayne and twayne,
Than thought I thus: 'Alas, what may this be,
That every foule hath his lyberté
Frely to chose, after his desyre,
Everyche his make thus, fro yere to yere?

'The sely wrenne, the tytemose also,
The lytel redbrest, have free election
To flyen yfere and togyther go
Where as hem lyst, aboute envyron,
As they of kynde have inclynacion,
And as Nature, empresse and gyde
Of every thyng, lyst to provyde.

But man alone, alas, the harde stounde!
Ful cruelly, by kyndes ordynaunce,
Constrayned is, and by statute bounde
And debarred, from al suche plesaunce.
What meneth this? What is this purveyaunce
Of God above, agayne al right of kynde,
Without cause, so narowe man to bynde?

'Thus may I sene, and playne, alas!
My woful houre and my disaventure,
That doulfully stonde in the same caas
So ferre behynde from al helth and cure.
My wounde abydeth lyke a sursanure;
For me fortune so felly lyste dispose,
My harme is hyd, that I dare not disclose.

'For I my herte have set in suche a place
Where I am never lykely forto spede,
So ferre I am hyndred from her grace
That, save Daunger, I have none other mede;
And thus, alas, I not who shal me rede,
Ne for myne helpe shape remedye,
For Male Bouche, and for false Envye.

'The whiche twayne aye stondeth in my wey
Malyciously, and false Suspection
Is very cause also that I dey,
Gynnyng and rote of my distruction,
So that I fele, in conclusyon,
With her traynes that they wol me shende
Of my labour, that dethe mote make an ende.

'Yet or I dye, with herte, wyl, and thought,
To God of Love this avowe I make:
As I best can, howe dere that it be bought,
Where so it be that I slepe or wake,
Whyle Boreas dothe the leaves shake,
As I have heyght plainly, tyl I sterve,
For wel or wo, that I shal her serve.

'And for her sake, nowe this holy tyme,
Saynt Valentyne, somwhat shal I write;
Although so be that I cannot ryme,
Nor curyously by no crafte endyte,
Yet lever I have that she put the wyte
In unconnyng than in neglygence,
Whatever I saye of her excellence.

'Whatever I say, it is of duté,
In sothfastnesse, and no presumpcion;
This I ensure to you that shal it se,
That it is al under correction,
What I reherce in commendacion
Of her, that I shal to you, as blyve,
So as I can, her vertues here discryve.

'Ryght by example as the somer sonne
Passeth the sterre with his beames shene,
And Lucyfer, amonge the skyes donne,
A-morowe sheweth to voyde nyghtes tene,
So verily, withouten any wene,
My lady passeth, whoso taketh hede,
Al tho alyve, to speke of womanhede.

'And as the ruby hath the soveraynté
Of ryche stones and the regalye,
And the rose of swetenesse and beauté
Of fresshe floures, without any lye,
Ryght so, in sothe, with her goodly eye,
She passeth al in bountie and fayrenesse,
Of maner eke, and of gentylnesse.

'For she is bothe the fayrest and the beste,
To reken al, in very sothfastnesse,
For every vertue is in her at reste;
And furthermore, to speke of stedfastnesse,
She is the rote, and of semelynesse
The very myrrour, and of governaunce,
To al example, withouten varyaunce.

'Of porte benygne, and wonder glad of chere,
Havyng evermore her trewe advertence
Alway to reason, so that her desyre
Is brideled aye by wytte and provydence;
Thereto of wytte and of hye prudence
She is the welle, aye devoyde of pride,
That unto vertue her selven is the gyde.

'And over this, in her dalyaunce
Lowly she is, discrete and secree,
And goodly gladde by attemperaunce,
That every wight, of hygh and lowe degré,
Are glad in herte with her forto be;
So that, shortly, if I shal not lye,
She named is The Floure of Curtesye.

'And there to speke of femynyté,
The leste mannysshe in comparyson,
Goodly abasshed, havyng aye pyté
Of hem that ben in trybulacion;
For she alone is consolacion
To al that arne in mischefe and in nede,
To comforte hem of her womanhede.

'And aye in vertue is her besy charge,
Sadde and demure, and but of wordes fewe;
Dredful also of tonges that ben large,
Eschewyng aye hem that lysten to hewe
Above her heed, her wordes for to shewe;
Dishonestly to speke of any wight -
She deedly hateth of hem to have a syght.

'The herte of whom so honest is and clene,
And her entent so faythful and entere
That she ne may, for al the worlde, sustene
To suffre her eeres any worde to here
Of frende nor foe, neyther ferre ne nere,
Amysse resowning that hynder shulde his name;1
And if she do, she wexeth reed for shame.

'So trewely in menyng she is in-sette,
Without chaungyng or any doublenesse,
For bountie and beautie are together knette
In her persone, under faythfulnesse;
For voyde she is of newfanglenesse,
In herte aye one, forever to persever
There she is sette, and never to dissever.

'I am to rude her vertues everychone
Connyngly to discryve and write;
For wel ye wote, colour have I none,
Lyke her discrecion craftely to endyte,
For what I say, al it is to lyte;
Wherfore to you thus I me excuse,
That I aqueynted am not with no muse.

'By rethorike my style to governe
In her preise and commendacion,
I am to blynde so hylye to discerne
Of her goodnesse to make discrypcion,
Save thus I say, in conclusyon,
If that I shal shortly her commende,
In her is naught that Nature can amende.

'For good she is, lyke to Polycene,
And in fayrenesse to the quene Helayne,
Stedfast of herte, as was Dorigene,
And wyfely trouthe, if I shal not fayne,
In constaunce eke and faythe, she may attayne
To Cleopatre, and therto as secree
As was of Troye the whyte Antygoné.

'As Hester meke, lyke Judith of prudence,
Kynde as Alcest or Marcia Catoun,
And to Grisylde lyke in pacience,
And Ariadné of discrecioun,
And to Lucrece, that was of Rome toun,
She may be lykened as for honesté,
And for her faythe, unto Penelopé.

'To fayre Phyllis and to Hipsyphilee,
For innocence and for womanhede,
For semelynesse unto Canacé;
And over this, to speke of goodlyhede,
She passeth al that I can of rede,
For worde and dede, that she naught ne fal,
Acorde in vertue, and her werkes al.

'For though that Dydo with wytte sage
Was in her tyme stedfast to Enee,
Of hastynesse yet she dyd outrage,
And so for Jason dyd also Medee;
But my lady is so avysee
That, bountie and beautie bothe in her demeyne,
She maketh bountie alway soverayne.

'This is to meane, bountie gothe afore,
Lad by prudence, and hath the soveraynté,
And beautie foloweth, ruled by her lore,
That she ne fende her in no degré;
So that, in one, this goodly fresshe fre,
Surmountyng al, withouten any were,
Is good and fayre in one persone yfere.

'And though that I, for very ignoraunce,
Ne may discryve her vertues by and by,
Yet on this day, for a remembraunce,
Onely supported under her mercy,
With quakyng honde, I shal ful humbly
To her hynesse, my rudenesse forto quyte,
A lytel balade here byneth endyte,

'Ever as I can supprise in myn herte,
Alway with feare, betwyxt drede and shame,
Leste out of lose any worde asterte
In this metre, to make it seme lame;
Chaucer is deed, that had suche a name
Of fayre makyng, that was, without wene,
Fayrest in our tonge, as the laurer grene.

'We may assay forto countrefete
His gay style, but it wyl not be!
The welle is drie with the lycoure swete,
Bothe of Clye and of Caliopé;
And, first of al, I wol excuse me
To her that is grounde of goodlyhede,
And thus I say untyl her womanhede:

Balade Symple

''With al my might and my best entent,
With al the faythe that mighty God of kynde
Me gave syth he me soule and knowyng sent,
I chese, and to this bonde ever I me bynde,
To love you best whyle I have lyfe and mynde.
Thus herde I foules in the daunynge
Upon the day of Saynte Valentyne synge.

''Yet chese I, at the begynnyng, in this entent,
To love you, though I no mercy fynde,
And if you lyste I dyed, I wolde assent,
As ever twynne I quicke out of this lynde;
Suffyseth me to sene your fethers ynde.
Thus herde I foules in the mornynge
Upon the daye of Saynte Valentyne synge.

''And over this, myne hertes luste to bente,
In honour onely of the wodde-bynde,
Holy I geve, never to repente
In joye or wo, where so that I wynde
Tofore Cupyde, with his eyen blynde.
The foules al, whan Tytan dyd springe,
With devoute hert, me thought I herde synge.''

Lenvoye

Princesse of beautie, to you I represent
This symple dyté, rude as in makynge,
Of herte and wyl faythful in myn entent,
Lyke as this day foules herde I synge.

Here endeth the Floure of Curtesy.

poem by John Lydgate
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Was Made To Love Her

(hey hey yes I was made to love her)
I was born in little rock
Had a childhood sweetheart
We were always hand in han-an-an-an-and
I wore high-top shoes and shirt-tails
Suzy was in pigtails
I knew I loved her even then
(hey hey yes I was made to love her)
Dont you know my papa disproved
My mama hooo-ooo-hoooed it
But I told them time and time again
(hey hey yes I was made to love her)
Dont you know I was made to love her
Built my world all around her
Hey hey hey
(hey hey yes I was made to love her)
Shes been my inspiration
Showed appreciation
For the love I gave her through the years
(hey hey yes I was made to love her)
Like a sweet magnolia tree
My love blossomed tenderly
My life grows sweeter through the years
(hey hey yes I was made to love her)
I know that my baby loves me
My baby needs me
Thats why we made it through the years
(hey hey yes I was made to love her)
I was made to love her
What has she ever done
Hey hey hey
(hey hey yes I was made to love her)
My little baby loves me
My baby needs me
And I know I aint goin nowhere
I was knee-high to a chimp
And the love bug bit me
And I have to be with her a thousand years
(hey hey yes I was made to love her)
If the mountain tumbles
If this whole world crumbles
I know Ill still be standing there
(hey hey yes I was made to love her)
cause I was made to love her
I was made to live for her
Hey hey hey
(hey hey yes I was made to love her)

song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Robyn, Jolly Robyn

A Robyn,
Jolly Robyn,
Tell me how thy leman doeth,
And thou shalt knowe of myn.

'My lady is unkynde, perde.'
Alack! why is she so?
'She loveth an other better than me;
And yet she will say no.'

I fynde no such doublenes;
I fynde women true;
My lady loveth me dowtles,
And will change for no newe.

'Thou art happy while that deeth last:
But I say, as I fynde,
That women's love is but a blast,
And torneth with the wynde.'

Suche folkes can take no harme by love,
That can abide their torn.
'But I alas can no way prove
In love, but lake and morne.'

But if thou wilt avoyde thy harme,
Lerne this lessen of me:
At others fieres thy selfe to warme,
And let them warme with the.

poem by Anonymous Olde English
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Was Made To Love Her

I was born in Lil' Rock,
Had a childhood sweetheart,
We were always hand in hand.
I was hightop shoes and shirt tails,
Suzy was in pig tails,
I know I loved her even then.
You know my papa disapproved it,
My mama boohooed it,
But I told them time and time again,
"Don't you know I was made to love her,
Built a world around her"
Yah! Hey, hey, hey.
She's been my inspiration,
Showed appreciation
For the love I gave her through the years.
Like a sweet magnolia tree
My love blossomed tenderly,
My love grew sweeter through the years.
I know that my baby loves me,
My baby needs me,
That's why we made it through the years.
I was made to love her,
Worship and adore her,
Hey, hey, hey.
All through thick and thin
Our love just won't end,
'Cause I love my baby, love my baby. Ah!
My baby loves me,
My baby needs me,
And I know I ain't going nowhere.
I was knee high to a chicken
When that love bug bit me,
I had the fever with each passing year.
Oh, even if the mountain tumbles,
If this whole world crumbles,
By her side I'll still be standing there.
'Cause I was made to love her,
I was made to live for her, yeah!
Ah, I was made to love her,
Built my world all around her,
Hey, hey, hey.
Oo baby, I was made to please her,
You know Stevie ain't gonna leave her, no,
Hey, hey, hey.
Oo wee baby, my baby loves me,
My baby needs me,
Hey, hey, hey.
Oo my baby loves me....

song performed by by Michael Mcdonald
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Love Every Little Thing About You

Though they say youre not my friend
Youve been here through thick and thin
And for that little girl I love ya
And all I want to do is talk about ya.
Im here to say
I love you more each day
And I just want to tell the world
That I love you so.
Though they put me down because
I love you as much as I do
But they dont know what youve done for me
Youve made such a happy man out of me.
And Im here to say
Love you everyday, yea
And I just want to tell the world
That I love you so.
Baby, I love, I love, I love, I love every little thing
About you baby
Oh yea, I love, I love, I love, I love every little thing
About you baby, mmm yea
Though they say that I am wrong
Cause my love is strong
Theres only one that I place above you.
Its God that I place above you.
Girl I just want to say
Love you more each day, yea
I just want to tell the world
That I love you so, yea.
Some folks say that its strange
But my whole life you have changed
Youve saved all the pain the worlds put on me
All I want to do is talk about you and Im here to say
Love you everyday, yea yea
Telling everybody that,
I love you so, yea yea
I love, I love, I love, I love every little thing about you baby, yea yea yea
I love, I love, I love, I love every little thing about you baby.
Oh yea, I love, I love, I love, I love every little thing about you baby.
You know I love, I love ever lit thing, about you babe,
I love it
I love, I love, I love, I love every little thing about you baby.
I love, I love, I love, I love every little thing about you baby.
-every damn thing about you baby
I love, I love, I love, I love every little thing about you baby. oo
Ooh, mmm, sugar, all right, cookie, puddin, oh yea
Mmm, candy, all right,
An big ol piece of cake
(your baby loves you
He loves every little thing about you.)

song performed by by Stevie Wonder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Was Made To Love Her

I was born in lil rock,
Had a childhood sweetheart,
We were always hand in hand.
I was hightop shoes and shirt tails,
Suzy was in pig tails,
I know I loved her even then.
You know my papa disapproved it,
My mama boohooed it,
But I told them time and time again,
Dont you know I was made to love her,
Built a world all around her
Yah! hey, hey, hey.
Shes been my inspiration,
Showed appreciation
For the love I gave her through the years.
Like a sweet magnolia tree
My love blossmed tenderly,
My life grew sweeter through the years.
I know that my baby loves me,
My baby needs me,
Thats why we made it through the years.
I was made to love her,
Worship and adore her,
Hey, hey, hey.
All through thick and thin
Our love just wont end,
cause I love my baby, love my baby. ah!
My baby loves me,
My baby needs me,
And I know I aint going nowhere.
I was knee high to a chicken
When that love bug bit me,
I had the fever with each passing year.
Oh, even if the mountain tumbles,
If this whole world crumbles,
By her side Ill still be standing there.
cause I was made to love her,
I was made to live for her, yeah!
Ah, I was made to love her,
Built my world all around her,
Hey, hey, hey.
Oo baby, I was made to please her,
You know stevie aint gonna leave her, no,
Hey, hey, hey.
Oo wee baby, my baby loves me,
My baby needs me,
Hey, hey, hey.
Oo my baby loves me....

song performed by by Stevie Wonder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Was Made To Love Her (feat. Stevie Wonder)

I was born in Lil' Rock,
Had a childhood sweetheart,
We were always hand in hand.
I was hightop shoes and shirt tails,
Suzy was in pig tails,
I know I loved her even then.
You know my papa disapproved it,
My mama boohooed it,
But I told them time and time again,
"Don't you know I was made to love her,
Built a worldaround her"
Yah! Hey, hey, hey.
She's been my inspiration,
Showed appreciation
For the love I gave her through the years.
Like a sweet magnolia tree
My love blossomed tenderly,
My love grew sweeter through the years.
I know that my baby loves me,
My baby needs me,
That's why we made it through the years.
I was made to love her,
Worship and adore her,
Hey, hey, hey.
All through thick and thin
Our love just won't end,
'Cause I love my baby, love my baby. Ah!
My baby loves me,
My baby needs me,
And I know I ain't going nowhere.
I was knee high to a chicken
When that love bug bit me,
I had the fever with each passing year.
Oh, even if the mountain tumbles,
If this whole world crumbles,
By her side I'll still be standing there.
'Cause I was made to love her,
I was made to live for her, yeah!
Ah, I was made to love her,
Built my world all around her,
Hey, hey, hey.
Oo baby, I was made to please her,
You know Stevie ain't gonna leave her, no,
Hey, hey, hey.
Oo wee baby, my baby loves me,
My baby needs me,
Hey, hey, hey.

song performed by by Michael Mcdonald
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On The Death Of K. Edward The First

Alle, that beoth of huerte trewe,
A stounde herkneth to my song
Of duel, that Deth hath diht us newe,
That maketh me syke, ant sorewe among;
Of a knyght, that wes so strong,
Of wham God hath don ys wille;
Me-thuncheth that deth hath don us wrong,
That he so sone shall ligge stille.

Al Englond ahte for te knowe
Of wham that song is, that y synge;
Of Edward Kyng, that lith so lowe,
Zent al this world is nome con springe:
Trewest mon of all thinge,
Ant in werre war ant wys,
For him we ahte oure honden wrynge,
Of Christendome he ber the prys.

Byfore that oure kyng was ded,
He spek ase mon that wes in care,
'Clerkes, knyhtes, barons,' he sayde,
'Y charge ou by oure sware,
That ye to Engelonde be trewe.
Y deze, y ne may lyven na more;
Helpeth mi sone, ant crouneth him newe,
For he is nest to buen y-core.

'Ich biqueth myn herte arhyt,
That hit be write at my devys,
Over the sea that Hue be diht,
With fourscore knyhtes al of prys,
In werre that buen war ant wys,
Azein the hethene for te fyhte,
To wynne the croiz that lowe lys,
Myself ycholde zef that y myhte.'

King of Fraunce, thou hevedest 'sinne',
That thou the counsail woldest fonde,
To latte the wille of 'Edward Kyng'
To wende to the Holy Londe:
That oure kynge hede take on honde
All Engelond to zeme ant wysse,
To wenden in to the Holy Londe
To wynnen us heveriche blisse.

The messager to the Pope com,
And seyde that our kynge was ded:
Ys oune hond the lettre he nom,
Ywis his herte was full gret:
The Pope him self the lettre redde,
Ant spec a word of gret honour.
'Alas!' he seid, 'is Edward ded?
Of Christendome he ber the flour.'

The Pope to his chaumbre wende,
For dol ne mihte he speke na more;
Ant after cardinals he sende,
That muche couthen of Cristes lore,
Bothe the lass, ant eke the more,
Bed hem both rede ant synge:
Gret deol me myhte se thore,
Mony mon is honde wrynge.

The Pope of Peyters stod at is masse
With ful gret solempnete,
Ther me con the soule blesse:
'Kyng Edward honoured thou be:
God love thi sone come after the,
Bringe to ende that thou hast bygonne,
The holy crois y-mad of tree,
So fain thou woldest hit hav y-wonne.

'Jerusalem, thou hast i-lore
The flour of al chivalrie
Now Kyng Edward liveth na more:
Alas! that he zet shulde deye!
He wolde ha rered up ful heyze
Oure banners, that bueth broht to grounde;
Wel! longe we mowe clepe and crie
Er we a such kyng han y-founde.'

Nou is Edward of Carnarvan
Kyng of Engelond al aplyht,
God lete him ner be worse man
Then his fader, ne lass of myht.
To holden is pore men to ryht,
And understonde good counsail,
Al Engelong for to wysse ant dyht;
Of gode knyhtes darh him nout fail.

Thah mi tonge were mad of stel,
Ant min herte yzote of bras,
The godness myht y never telle,
That with Kyng Edward was:
Kyng, as thou art cleped conquerour,
In uch bataille thou hadest prys;
God bringe thi soule to the honour
That ever wes, ant ever ys.

That lasteth ay withouten ende,
Bidde we God, ant oure Ledy to thilke blisse
Jesus we sende. Amen.

poem by Anonymous Olde English
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sonnet XLV

LEaue lady, in your glasse of christall clene,
Your goodly selfe for euermore to vew:
and in my selfe, my inward selfe I meane,
most liuely lyke behold your semblant trew.
Within my hart, though hardly it can shew,
thing so diuine to vew of earthly eye:
the fayre Idea of your celestiall hew,
and euery part remaines immortally:
And were it not that through your cruelty,
with sorrow dimmed and deformd it were:
the goodly ymage of your visnomy,
clearer then christall would therein appere.
But if your selfe in me ye playne will see,
remoue the cause by which your fayre beames darkned be.

poem by Edmund Spenser
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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