THE PARSON’S TALE.

THE PROLOGUE.

By that the Manciple his tale had ended, The sunne from the south line was descended So lowe, that it was not to my sight Degrees nine-and-twenty as in height. Four of the clock it was then, as I guess, For eleven foot, a little more or less, My shadow was at thilke time, as there, Of such feet as my lengthe parted were In six feet equal of proportion. Therewith the moone’s exaltation, rising In meane Libra, gan alway ascend, in the middle of As we were ent’ring at a thorpe’s end. village’s For which our Host, as he was wont to gie, govern As in this case, our jolly company, Said in this wise; “Lordings every one, Now lacketh us no more tales than one. Fulfill’d is my sentence and my decree; I trow that we have heard of each degree. from each class or rank Almost fulfilled is mine ordinance; in the company I pray to God so give him right good chance That telleth us this tale lustily. Sir Priest,” quoth he, “art thou a vicary? vicar Or art thou a Parson? say sooth by thy fay. faith Be what thou be, breake thou not our play; For every man, save thou, hath told his tale. Unbuckle, and shew us what is in thy mail. wallet For truely me thinketh by thy cheer Thou shouldest knit up well a great mattere. Tell us a fable anon, for cocke’s bones.”

This Parson him answered all at ones; “Thou gettest fable none y-told for me, For Paul, that writeth unto Timothy, Reproveth them that weive soothfastness, forsake truth And telle fables, and such wretchedness. Why should I sowe draff out of my fist, chaff, refuse When I may sowe wheat, if that me list? For which I say, if that you list to hear Morality and virtuous mattere, And then that ye will give me audience, I would full fain at Christe’s reverence Do you pleasance lawful, as I can. But, truste well, I am a southern man, I cannot gest, rom, ram, ruf, <1> by my letter; relate stories And, God wot, rhyme hold I but little better. And therefore if you list, I will not glose, mince matters I will you tell a little tale in prose, To knit up all this feast, and make an end. And Jesus for his grace wit me send To shewe you the way, in this voyage, Of thilke perfect glorious pilgrimage, <2> That hight Jerusalem celestial. And if ye vouchesafe, anon I shall Begin upon my tale, for which I pray Tell your advice, I can no better say. opinion But natheless this meditation I put it aye under correction Of clerkes, for I am not textuel; scholars I take but the sentence, trust me well. meaning, sense Therefore I make a protestation, That I will stande to correction.” Upon this word we have assented soon; For, as us seemed, it was for to do’n, a thing worth doing To enden in some virtuous sentence, discourse And for to give him space and audience; And bade our Host he shoulde to him say That alle we to tell his tale him pray. Our Hoste had. the wordes for us all: “Sir Priest,” quoth he, “now faire you befall; Say what you list, and we shall gladly hear.” And with that word he said in this mannere; “Telle,” quoth he, “your meditatioun, But hasten you, the sunne will adown. Be fructuous, and that in little space; fruitful; profitable And to do well God sende you his grace.”

THE TALE. <1>

[The Parson begins his “little treatise” -(which, if given at length, would extend to about thirty of these pages, and which cannot by any stretch of courtesy or fancy be said to merit the title of a “Tale”) in these words: —]

Our sweet Lord God of Heaven, that no man will perish, but will that we come all to the knowledge of him, and to the blissful life that is perdurable [everlasting], admonishes us by the prophet Jeremiah, that saith in this wise: “Stand upon the ways, and see and ask of old paths, that is to say, of old sentences, which is the good way, and walk in that way, and ye shall find refreshing for your souls,” <2> &c. Many be the spiritual ways that lead folk to our Lord Jesus Christ, and to the reign of glory; of which ways there is a full noble way, and full convenable, which may not fail to man nor to woman, that through sin hath misgone from the right way of Jerusalem celestial; and this way is called penitence. Of which men should gladly hearken and inquire with all their hearts, to wit what is penitence, and whence it is called penitence, and in what manner, and in how many manners, be the actions or workings of penitence, and how many species there be of penitences, and what things appertain and behove to penitence, and what things disturb penitence.

[Penitence is described, on the authority of Saints Ambrose, Isidore, and Gregory, as the bewailing of sin that has been wrought, with the purpose never again to do that thing, or any other thing which a man should bewail; for weeping and not ceasing to do the sin will not avail — though it is to be hoped that after every time that a man falls, be it ever so often, he may find grace to arise through penitence. And repentant folk that leave their sin ere sin leave them, are accounted by Holy Church sure of their salvation, even though the repentance be at the last hour. There are three actions of penitence; that a man be baptized after he has sinned; that he do no deadly sin after receiving baptism; and that he fall into no venial sins from day to day. “Thereof saith St Augustine, that penitence of good and humble folk is the penitence of every day.” The species of penitence are three: solemn, when a man is openly expelled from Holy Church in Lent, or is compelled by Holy Church to do open penance for an open sin openly talked of in the country; common penance, enjoined by priests in certain cases, as to go on pilgrimage naked or barefoot; and privy penance, which men do daily for private sins, of which they confess privately and receive private penance. To very perfect penitence are behoveful and necessary three things: contrition of heart, confession of mouth, and satisfaction; which are fruitful penitence against delight in thinking, reckless speech, and wicked sinful works.

Penitence may be likened to a tree, having its root in contrition, biding itself in the heart as a tree-root does in the earth; out of this root springs a stalk, that bears branches and leaves of confession, and fruit of satisfaction. Of this root also springs a seed of grace, which is mother of all security, and this seed is eager and hot; and the grace of this seed springs of God, through remembrance on the day of judgment and on the pains of hell. The heat of this seed is the love of God, and the desire of everlasting joy; and this heat draws the heart of man to God, and makes him hate his sin. Penance is the tree of life to them that receive it. In penance or contrition man shall understand four things: what is contrition; what are the causes that move a man to contrition; how he should be contrite; and what contrition availeth to the soul. Contrition is the heavy and grievous sorrow that a man receiveth in his heart for his sins, with earnest purpose to confess and do penance, and never more to sin. Six causes ought to move a man to contrition: 1. He should remember him of his sins; 2. He should reflect that sin putteth a man in great thraldom, and all the greater the higher is the estate from which he falls; 3. He should dread the day of doom and the horrible pains of hell; 4. The sorrowful remembrance of the good deeds that man hath omitted to do here on earth, and also the good that he hath lost, ought to make him have contrition; 5. So also ought the remembrance of the passion that our Lord Jesus Christ suffered for our sins; 6. And so ought the hope of three things, that is to say, forgiveness of sin, the gift of grace to do well, and the glory of heaven with which God shall reward man for his good deeds. — All these points the Parson illustrates and enforces at length; waxing especially eloquent under the third head, and plainly setting forth the sternly realistic notions regarding future punishments that were entertained in the time of Chaucer:-] <3>

Certes, all the sorrow that a man might make from the beginning of the world, is but a little thing, at retard of [in comparison with] the sorrow of hell. The cause why that Job calleth hell the land of darkness; <4> understand, that he calleth it land or earth, for it is stable and never shall fail, and dark, for he that is in hell hath default [is devoid] of light natural; for certes the dark light, that shall come out of the fire that ever shall burn, shall turn them all to pain that be in hell, for it sheweth them the horrible devils that them torment. Covered with the darkness of death; that is to say, that he that is in hell shall have default of the sight of God; for certes the sight of God is the life perdurable [everlasting]. The darkness of death, be the sins that the wretched man hath done, which that disturb [prevent] him to see the face of God, right as a dark cloud doth between us and the sun. Land of misease, because there be three manner of defaults against three things that folk of this world have in this present life; that is to say, honours, delights, and riches. Against honour have they in hell shame and confusion: for well ye wot, that men call honour the reverence that man doth to man; but in hell is no honour nor reverence; for certes no more reverence shall be done there to a king than to a knave [servant]. For which God saith by the prophet Jeremiah; “The folk that me despise shall be in despite.” Honour is also called great lordship. There shall no wight serve other, but of harm and torment. Honour is also called great dignity and highness; but in hell shall they be all fortrodden [trampled under foot] of devils. As God saith, “The horrible devils shall go and come upon the heads of damned folk;” and this is, forasmuch as the higher that they were in this present life, the more shall they be abated [abased] and defouled in hell. Against the riches of this world shall they have misease [trouble, torment] of poverty, and this poverty shall be in four things: in default [want] of treasure; of which David saith, “The rich folk that embraced and oned [united] all their heart to treasure of this world, shall sleep in the sleeping of death, and nothing shall they find in their hands of all their treasure.” And moreover, the misease of hell shall be in default of meat and drink. For God saith thus by Moses, “They shall be wasted with hunger, and the birds of hell shall devour them with bitter death, and the gall of the dragon shall be their drink, and the venom of the dragon their morsels.” And furthermore, their misease shall be in default of clothing, for they shall be naked in body, as of clothing, save the fire in which they burn, and other filths; and naked shall they be in soul, of all manner virtues, which that is the clothing of the soul. Where be then the gay robes, and the soft sheets, and the fine shirts? Lo, what saith of them the prophet Isaiah, that under them shall be strewed moths, and their covertures shall be of worms of hell. And furthermore, their misease shall be in default of friends, for he is not poor that hath good friends: but there is no friend; for neither God nor any good creature shall be friend to them, and evereach of them shall hate other with deadly hate. The Sons and the daughters shall rebel against father and mother, and kindred against kindred, and chide and despise each other, both day and night, as God saith by the prophet Micah. And the loving children, that whom loved so fleshly each other, would each of them eat the other if they might. For how should they love together in the pains of hell, when they hated each other in the prosperity of this life? For trust well, their fleshly love was deadly hate; as saith the prophet David; “Whoso loveth wickedness, he hateth his own soul:” and whoso hateth his own soul, certes he may love none other wight in no manner: and therefore in hell is no solace nor no friendship, but ever the more kindreds that be in hell, the more cursing, the more chiding, and the more deadly hate there is among them. And furtherover, they shall have default of all manner delights; for certes delights be after the appetites of the five wits [senses]; as sight, hearing, smelling, savouring [tasting], and touching. But in hell their sight shall be full of darkness and of smoke, and their eyes full of tears; and their hearing full of waimenting [lamenting] and grinting [gnashing] of teeth, as saith Jesus Christ; their nostrils shall be full of stinking; and, as saith Isaiah the prophet, their savouring [tasting] shall be full of bitter gall; and touching of all their body shall be covered with fire that never shall quench, and with worms that never shall die, as God saith by the mouth of Isaiah. And forasmuch as they shall not ween that they may die for pain, and by death flee from pain, that may they understand in the word of Job, that saith, “There is the shadow of death.” Certes a shadow hath the likeness of the thing of which it is shadowed, but the shadow is not the same thing of which it is shadowed: right so fareth the pain of hell; it is like death, for the horrible anguish; and why? for it paineth them ever as though they should die anon; but certes they shall not die. For, as saith Saint Gregory, “To wretched caitiffs shall be given death without death, and end without end, and default without failing; for their death shall always live, and their end shall evermore begin, and their default shall never fail.” And therefore saith Saint John the Evangelist, “They shall follow death, and they shall not find him, and they shall desire to die, and death shall flee from them.” And eke Job saith, that in hell is no order of rule. And albeit that God hath created all things in right order, and nothing without order, but all things be ordered and numbered, yet nevertheless they that be damned be not in order, nor hold no order. For the earth shall bear them no fruit (for, as the prophet David saith, “God shall destroy the fruit of the earth, as for them”); nor water shall give them no moisture, nor the air no refreshing, nor the fire no light. For as saith Saint Basil, “The burning of the fire of this world shall God give in hell to them that be damned, but the light and the clearness shall be given in heaven to his children; right as the good man giveth flesh to his children, and bones to his hounds.” And for they shall have no hope to escape, saith Job at last, that there shall horror and grisly dread dwell without end. Horror is always dread of harm that is to come, and this dread shall ever dwell in the hearts of them that be damned. And therefore have they lost all their hope for seven causes. First, for God that is their judge shall be without mercy to them; nor they may not please him; nor none of his hallows [saints]; nor they may give nothing for their ransom; nor they have no voice to speak to him; nor they may not flee from pain; nor they have no goodness in them that they may shew to deliver them from pain.

[Under the fourth head, of good works, the Parson says: —]

The courteous Lord Jesus Christ will that no good work be lost, for in somewhat it shall avail. But forasmuch as the good works that men do while they be in good life be all amortised [killed, deadened] by sin following, and also since all the good works that men do while they be in deadly sin be utterly dead, as for to have the life perdurable [everlasting], well may that man that no good works doth, sing that new French song, J’ai tout perdu — mon temps et mon labour <5>. For certes, sin bereaveth a man both the goodness of nature, and eke the goodness of grace. For soothly the grace of the Holy Ghost fareth like fire, that may not be idle; for fire faileth anon as it forleteth [leaveth] its working, and right so grace faileth anon as it forleteth its working. Then loseth the sinful man the goodness of glory, that only is to good men that labour and work. Well may he be sorry then, that oweth all his life to God, as long as he hath lived, and also as long as he shall live, that no goodness hath to pay with his debt to God, to whom he oweth all his life: for trust well he shall give account, as saith Saint Bernard, of all the goods that have been given him in his present life, and how he hath them dispended, insomuch that there shall not perish an hair of his head, nor a moment of an hour shall not perish of his time, that he shall not give thereof a reckoning.

[Having treated of the causes, the Parson comes to the manner, of contrition — which should be universal and total, not merely of outward deeds of sin, but also of wicked delights and thoughts and words; “for certes Almighty God is all good, and therefore either he forgiveth all, or else right naught.” Further, contrition should be “wonder sorrowful and anguishous,” and also continual, with steadfast purpose of confession and amendment. Lastly, of what contrition availeth, the Parson says, that sometimes it delivereth man from sin; that without it neither confession nor satisfaction is of any worth; that it “destroyeth the prison of hell, and maketh weak and feeble all the strengths of the devils, and restoreth the gifts of the Holy Ghost and of all good virtues, and cleanseth the soul of sin, and delivereth it from the pain of hell, and from the company of the devil, and from the servage [slavery] of sin, and restoreth it to all goods spiritual, and to the company and communion of Holy Church.” He who should set his intent to these things, would no longer be inclined to sin, but would give his heart and body to the service of Jesus Christ, and thereof do him homage. “For, certes, our Lord Jesus Christ hath spared us so benignly in our follies, that if he had not pity on man’s soul, a sorry song might we all sing.”

The Second Part of the Parson’s Tale or Treatise opens with an explanation of what is confession — which is termed “the second part of penitence, that is, sign of contrition;” whether it ought needs be done or not; and what things be convenable to true confession. Confession is true shewing of sins to the priest, without excusing, hiding, or forwrapping [disguising] of anything, and without vaunting of good works. “Also, it is necessary to understand whence that sins spring, and how they increase, and which they be.” From Adam we took original sin; “from him fleshly descended be we all, and engendered of vile and corrupt matter;” and the penalty of Adam’s transgression dwelleth with us as to temptation, which penalty is called concupiscence. “This concupiscence, when it is wrongfully disposed or ordained in a man, it maketh him covet, by covetise of flesh, fleshly sin by sight of his eyes, as to earthly things, and also covetise of highness by pride of heart.” The Parson proceeds to shew how man is tempted in his flesh to sin; how, after his natural concupiscence, comes suggestion of the devil, that is to say the devil’s bellows, with which he bloweth in man the fire of con cupiscence; and how man then bethinketh him whether he will do or no the thing to which he is tempted. If he flame up into pleasure at the thought, and give way, then is he all dead in soul; “and thus is sin accomplished, by temptation, by delight, and by consenting; and then is the sin actual.” Sin is either venial, or deadly; deadly, when a man loves any creature more than Jesus Christ our Creator, venial, if he love Jesus Christ less than he ought. Venial sins diminish man’s love to God more and more, and may in this wise skip into deadly sin; for many small make a great. “And hearken this example: A great wave of the sea cometh sometimes with so great a violence, that it drencheth [causes to sink] the ship: and the same harm do sometimes the small drops, of water that enter through a little crevice in the thurrok [hold, bilge], and in the bottom of the ship, if men be so negligent that they discharge them not betimes. And therefore, although there be difference betwixt these two causes of drenching, algates [in any case] the ship is dreint [sunk]. Right so fareth it sometimes of deadly sin,” and of venial sins when they multiply in a man so greatly as to make him love worldly things more than God. The Parson then enumerates specially a number of sins which many a man peradventure deems no sins, and confesses them not, and yet nevertheless they are truly sins: — ]

This is to say, at every time that a man eateth and drinketh more than sufficeth to the sustenance of his body, in certain he doth sin; eke when he speaketh more than it needeth, he doth sin; eke when he heareth not benignly the complaint of the poor; eke when he is in health of body, and will not fast when other folk fast, without cause reasonable; eke when he sleepeth more than needeth, or when he cometh by that occasion too late to church, or to other works of charity; eke when he useth his wife without sovereign desire of engendrure, to the honour of God, or for the intent to yield his wife his debt of his body; eke when he will not visit the sick, or the prisoner, if he may; eke if he love wife, or child, or other worldly thing, more than reason requireth; eke if he flatter or blandish more than he ought for any necessity; eke if he minish or withdraw the alms of the poor; eke if he apparail [prepare] his meat more deliciously than need is, or eat it too hastily by likerousness [gluttony]; eke if he talk vanities in the church, or at God’s service, or that he be a talker of idle words of folly or villainy, for he shall yield account of them at the day of doom; eke when he behighteth [promiseth] or assureth to do things that he may not perform; eke when that by lightness of folly he missayeth or scorneth his neighbour; eke when he hath any wicked suspicion of thing, that he wot of it no soothfastness: these things, and more without number, be sins, as saith Saint Augustine.

[No earthly man may eschew all venial sins; yet may he refrain him, by the burning love that he hath to our Lord Jesus Christ, and by prayer and confession, and other good works, so that it shall but little grieve. “Furthermore, men may also refrain and put away venial sin, by receiving worthily the precious body of Jesus Christ; by receiving eke of holy water; by alms-deed; by general confession of Confiteor at mass, and at prime, and at compline [evening service]; and by blessing of bishops and priests, and by other good works.” The Parson then proceeds to weightier matters:— ]

Now it is behovely [profitable, necessary] to tell which be deadly sins, that is to say, chieftains of sins; forasmuch as all they run in one leash, but in diverse manners. Now be they called chieftains, forasmuch as they be chief, and of them spring all other sins. The root of these sins, then, is pride, the general root of all harms. For of this root spring certain branches: as ire, envy, accidie <6> or sloth, avarice or covetousness (to common understanding), gluttony, and lechery: and each of these sins hath his branches and his twigs, as shall be declared in their chapters following. And though so be, that no man can tell utterly the number of the twigs, and of the harms that come of pride, yet will I shew a part of them, as ye shall understand. There is inobedience, vaunting, hypocrisy, despite, arrogance, impudence, swelling of hearte, insolence, elation, impatience, strife, contumacy, presumption, irreverence, pertinacity, vain- glory and many another twig that I cannot tell nor declare. . . .]

And yet [moreover] there is a privy species of pride that waiteth first to be saluted ere he will salute, all [although] be he less worthy than that other is; and eke he waiteth [expecteth] or desireth to sit or to go above him in the way, or kiss the pax, <7> or be incensed, or go to offering before his neighbour, and such semblable [like] things, against his duty peradventure, but that he hath his heart and his intent in such a proud desire to be magnified and honoured before the people. Now be there two manner of prides; the one of them is within the heart of a man, and the other is without. Of which soothly these foresaid things, and more than I have said, appertain to pride that is within the heart of a man and there be other species of pride that be without: but nevertheless, the one of these species of pride is sign of the other, right as the gay levesell [bush] at the tavern is sign of the wine that is in the cellar. And this is in many things: as in speech and countenance, and outrageous array of clothing; for certes, if there had been no sin in clothing, Christ would not so soon have noted and spoken of the clothing of that rich man in the gospel. And Saint Gregory saith, that precious clothing is culpable for the dearth [dearness] of it, and for its softness, and for its strangeness and disguising, and for the superfluity or for the inordinate scantness of it; alas! may not a man see in our days the sinful costly array of clothing, and namely [specially] in too much superfluity, or else in too disordinate scantness? As to the first sin, in superfluity of clothing, which that maketh it so dear, to the harm of the people, not only the cost of the embroidering, the disguising, indenting or barring, ounding, paling, <8> winding, or banding, and semblable [similar] waste of cloth in vanity; but there is also the costly furring [lining or edging with fur] in their gowns, so much punching of chisels to make holes, so much dagging [cutting] of shears, with the superfluity in length of the foresaid gowns, trailing in the dung and in the mire, on horse and eke on foot, as well of man as of woman, that all that trailing is verily (as in effect) wasted, consumed, threadbare, and rotten with dung, rather than it is given to the poor, to great damage of the foresaid poor folk, and that in sundry wise: this is to say, the more that cloth is wasted, the more must it cost to the poor people for the scarceness; and furthermore, if so be that they would give such punched and dagged clothing to the poor people, it is not convenient to wear for their estate, nor sufficient to boot [help, remedy] their necessity, to keep them from the distemperance [inclemency] of the firmament. Upon the other side, to speak of the horrible disordinate scantness of clothing, as be these cutted slops or hanselines [breeches] , that through their shortness cover not the shameful member of man, to wicked intent alas! some of them shew the boss and the shape of the horrible swollen members, that seem like to the malady of hernia, in the wrapping of their hosen, and eke the buttocks of them, that fare as it were the hinder part of a she-ape in the full of the moon. And more over the wretched swollen members that they shew through disguising, in departing [dividing] of their hosen in white and red, seemeth that half their shameful privy members were flain [flayed]. And if so be that they depart their hosen in other colours, as is white and blue, or white and black, or black and red, and so forth; then seemeth it, by variance of colour, that the half part of their privy members be corrupt by the fire of Saint Anthony, or by canker, or other such mischance. And of the hinder part of their buttocks it is full horrible to see, for certes, in that part of their body where they purge their stinking ordure, that foul part shew they to the people proudly in despite of honesty [decency], which honesty Jesus Christ and his friends observed to shew in his life. Now as of the outrageous array of women, God wot, that though the visages of some of them seem full chaste and debonair [gentle], yet notify they, in their array of attire, likerousness and pride. I say not that honesty [reasonable and appropriate style] in clothing of man or woman unconvenable but, certes, the superfluity or disordinate scarcity of clothing is reprovable. Also the sin of their ornament, or of apparel, as in things that appertain to riding, as in too many delicate horses, that be holden for delight, that be so fair, fat, and costly; and also in many a vicious knave, [servant] that is sustained because of them; in curious harness, as in saddles, cruppers, peytrels, [breast-plates] and bridles, covered with precious cloth and rich bars and plates of gold and silver. For which God saith by Zechariah the prophet, “I will confound the riders of such horses.” These folk take little regard of the riding of God’s Son of heaven, and of his harness, when he rode upon an ass, and had no other harness but the poor clothes of his disciples; nor we read not that ever he rode on any other beast. I speak this for the sin of superfluity, and not for reasonable honesty [seemliness], when reason it requireth. And moreover, certes, pride is greatly notified in holding of great meinie [retinue of servants], when they be of little profit or of right no profit, and namely [especially] when that meinie is felonous [violent ] and damageous [harmful] to the people by hardiness [arrogance] of high lordship, or by way of office; for certes, such lords sell then their lordship to the devil of hell, when they sustain the wickedness of their meinie. Or else, when these folk of low degree, as they that hold hostelries, sustain theft of their hostellers, and that is in many manner of deceits: that manner of folk be the flies that follow the honey, or else the hounds that follow the carrion. Such foresaid folk strangle spiritually their lordships; for which thus saith David the prophet, “Wicked death may come unto these lordships, and God give that they may descend into hell adown; for in their houses is iniquity and shrewedness, [impiety] and not God of heaven.” And certes, but if [unless] they do amendment, right as God gave his benison [blessing] to Laban by the service of Jacob, and to Pharaoh by the service of Joseph; right so God will give his malison [condemnation] to such lordships as sustain the wickedness of their servants, but [unless] they come to amendment. Pride of the table apaireth [worketh harm] eke full oft; for, certes, rich men be called to feasts, and poor folk be put away and rebuked; also in excess of divers meats and drinks, and namely [specially] such manner bake-meats and dish-meats burning of wild fire, and painted and castled with paper, and semblable [similar] waste, so that it is abuse to think. And eke in too great preciousness of vessel, [plate] and curiosity of minstrelsy, by which a man is stirred more to the delights of luxury, if so be that he set his heart the less upon our Lord Jesus Christ, certain it is a sin; and certainly the delights might be so great in this case, that a man might lightly [easily] fall by them into deadly sin.

[The sins that arise of pride advisedly and habitually are deadly; those that arise by frailty unadvised suddenly, and suddenly withdraw again, though grievous, are not deadly. Pride itself springs sometimes of the goods of nature, sometimes of the goods of fortune, sometimes of the goods of grace; but the Parson, enumerating and examining all these in turn, points out how little security they possess and how little ground for pride they furnish, and goes on to enforce the remedy against pride — which is humility or meekness, a virtue through which a man hath true knowledge of himself, and holdeth no high esteem of himself in regard of his deserts, considering ever his frailty.]

Now be there three manners [kinds] of humility; as humility in heart, and another in the mouth, and the third in works. The humility in the heart is in four manners: the one is, when a man holdeth himself as nought worth before God of heaven; the second is, when he despiseth no other man; the third is, when he recketh not though men hold him nought worth; the fourth is, when he is not sorry of his humiliation. Also the humility of mouth is in four things: in temperate speech; in humility of speech; and when he confesseth with his own mouth that he is such as he thinketh that he is in his heart; another is, when he praiseth the bounte [goodness] of another man and nothing thereof diminisheth. Humility eke in works is in four manners: the first is, when he putteth other men before him; the second is, to choose the lowest place of all; the third is, gladly to assent to good counsel; the fourth is, to stand gladly by the award [judgment] of his sovereign, or of him that is higher in degree: certain this is a great work of humility.

[The Parson proceeds to treat of the other cardinal sins, and their remedies: (2.) Envy, with its remedy, the love of God principally and of our neighbours as ourselves: (3.) Anger, with all its fruits in revenge, rancour, hate, discord, manslaughter, blasphemy, swearing, falsehood, flattery, chiding and reproving, scorning, treachery, sowing of strife, doubleness of tongue, betraying of counsel to a man’s disgrace, menacing, idle words, jangling, japery or buffoonery, &c. — and its remedy in the virtues called mansuetude, debonairte, or gentleness, and patience or sufferance: (4.) Sloth, or “Accidie,” which comes after the sin of Anger, because Envy blinds the eyes of a man, and Anger troubleth a man, and Sloth maketh him heavy, thoughtful, and peevish. It is opposed to every estate of man — as unfallen, and held to work in praising and adoring God; as sinful, and held to labour in praying for deliverance from sin; and as in the state of grace, and held to works of penitence. It resembles the heavy and sluggish condition of those in hell; it will suffer no hardness and no penance; it prevents any beginning of good works; it causes despair of God’s mercy, which is the sin against the Holy Ghost; it induces somnolency and neglect of communion in prayer with God; and it breeds negligence or recklessness, that cares for nothing, and is the nurse of all mischiefs, if ignorance is their mother. Against Sloth, and these and other branches and fruits of it, the remedy lies in the virtue of fortitude or strength, in its various species of magnanimity or great courage; faith and hope in God and his saints; surety or sickerness, when a man fears nothing that can oppose the good works he has under taken; magnificence, when he carries out great works of goodness begun; constancy or stableness of heart; and other incentives to energy and laborious service: (5.) Avarice, or Covetousness, which is the root of all harms, since its votaries are idolaters, oppressors and enslavers of men, deceivers of their equals in business, simoniacs, gamblers, liars, thieves, false swearers, blasphemers, murderers, and sacrilegious. Its remedy lies in compassion and pity largely exercised, and in reasonable liberality — for those who spend on “fool-largesse,” or ostentation of worldly estate and luxury, shall receive the malison [condemnation] that Christ shall give at the day of doom to them that shall be damned: (6.) Gluttony; — of which the Parson treats so briefly that the chapter may be given in full: — ]

After Avarice cometh Gluttony, which is express against the commandment of God. Gluttony is unmeasurable appetite to eat or to drink; or else to do in aught to the unmeasurable appetite and disordered covetousness [craving] to eat or drink. This sin corrupted all this world, as is well shewed in the sin of Adam and of Eve. Look also what saith Saint Paul of gluttony: “Many,” saith he, “go, of which I have oft said to you, and now I say it weeping, that they be enemies of the cross of Christ, of which the end is death, and of which their womb [stomach] is their God and their glory;” in confusion of them that so savour [take delight in] earthly things. He that is usant [accustomed, addicted] to this sin of gluttony, he may no sin withstand, he must be in servage [bondage] of all vices, for it is the devil’s hoard, [lair, lurking-place] where he hideth him in and resteth. This sin hath many species. The first is drunkenness, that is the horrible sepulture of man’s reason: and therefore when a man is drunken, he hath lost his reason; and this is deadly sin. But soothly, when that a man is not wont to strong drink, and peradventure knoweth not the strength of the drink, or hath feebleness in his head, or hath travailed [laboured], through which he drinketh the more, all [although] be he suddenly caught with drink, it is no deadly sin, but venial. The second species of gluttony is, that the spirit of a man waxeth all troubled for drunkenness, and bereaveth a man the discretion of his wit. The third species of gluttony is, when a man devoureth his meat, and hath no rightful manner of eating. The fourth is, when, through the great abundance of his meat, the humours of his body be distempered. The fifth is, forgetfulness by too much drinking, for which a man sometimes forgetteth by the morrow what be did at eve. In other manner be distinct the species of gluttony, after Saint Gregory. The first is, for to eat or drink before time. The second is, when a man getteth him too delicate meat or drink. The third is, when men take too much over measure [immoderately]. The fourth is curiosity [nicety] with great intent [application, pains] to make and apparel [prepare] his meat. The fifth is, for to eat too greedily. These be the five fingers of the devil’s hand, by which he draweth folk to the sin.

Against gluttony the remedy is abstinence, as saith Galen; but that I hold not meritorious, if he do it only for the health of his body. Saint Augustine will that abstinence be done for virtue, and with patience. Abstinence, saith he, is little worth, but if [unless] a man have good will thereto, and but it be enforced by patience and by charity, and that men do it for God’s sake, and in hope to have the bliss in heaven. The fellows of abstinence be temperance, that holdeth the mean in all things; also shame, that escheweth all dishonesty [indecency, impropriety], sufficiency, that seeketh no rich meats nor drinks, nor doth no force of [sets no value on] no outrageous apparelling of meat; measure [moderation] also, that restraineth by reason the unmeasurable appetite of eating; soberness also, that restraineth the outrage of drink; sparing also, that restraineth the delicate ease to sit long at meat, wherefore some folk stand of their own will to eat, because they will eat at less leisure.

[At great length the Parson then points out the many varieties of the sin of (7.) Lechery, and its remedy in chastity and continence, alike in marriage and in widowhood; also in the abstaining from all such indulgences of eating, drinking, and sleeping as inflame the passions, and from the company of all who may tempt to the sin. Minute guidance is given as to the duty of confessing fully and faithfully the circumstances that attend and may aggravate this sin; and the Treatise then passes to the consideration of the conditions that are essential to a true and profitable confession of sin in general. First, it must be in sorrowful bitterness of spirit; a condition that has five signs — shamefastness, humility in heart and outward sign, weeping with the bodily eyes or in the heart, disregard of the shame that might curtail or garble confession, and obedience to the penance enjoined. Secondly, true confession must be promptly made, for dread of death, of increase of sinfulness, of forgetfulness of what should be confessed, of Christ’s refusal to hear if it be put off to the last day of life; and this condition has four terms; that confession be well pondered beforehand, that the man confessing have comprehended in his mind the number and greatness of his sins and how long he has lain in sin, that he be contrite for and eschew his sins, and that he fear and flee the occasions for that sin to which he is inclined. — What follows under this head is of some interest for the light which it throws on the rigorous government wielded by the Romish Church in those days —]

Also thou shalt shrive thee of all thy sins to one man, and not a parcel [portion] to one man, and a parcel to another; that is to understand, in intent to depart [divide] thy confession for shame or dread; for it is but strangling of thy soul. For certes Jesus Christ is entirely all good, in him is none imperfection, and therefore either he forgiveth all perfectly, or else never a deal [not at all]. I say not that if thou be assigned to thy penitencer <9> for a certain sin, that thou art bound to shew him all the remnant of thy sins, of which thou hast been shriven of thy curate, but if it like thee [unless thou be pleased] of thy humility; this is no departing [division] of shrift. And I say not, where I speak of division of confession, that if thou have license to shrive thee to a discreet and an honest priest, and where thee liketh, and by the license of thy curate, that thou mayest not well shrive thee to him of all thy sins: but let no blot be behind, let no sin be untold as far as thou hast remembrance. And when thou shalt be shriven of thy curate, tell him eke all the sins that thou hast done since thou wert last shriven. This is no wicked intent of division of shrift. Also, very shrift [true confession] asketh certain conditions. First, that thou shrive thee by thy free will, not constrained, nor for shame of folk, nor for malady [sickness], or such things: for it is reason, that he that trespasseth by his free will, that by his free will he confess his trespass; and that no other man tell his sin but himself; nor he shall not nay nor deny his sin, nor wrath him against the priest for admonishing him to leave his sin. The second condition is, that thy shrift be lawful, that is to say, that thou that shrivest thee, and eke the priest that heareth thy confession, be verily in the faith of Holy Church, and that a man be not despaired of the mercy of Jesus Christ, as Cain and Judas were. And eke a man must accuse himself of his own trespass, and not another: but he shall blame and wite [accuse] himself of his own malice and of his sin, and none other: but nevertheless, if that another man be occasion or else enticer of his sin, or the estate of the person be such by which his sin is aggravated, or else that be may not plainly shrive him but [unless] he tell the person with which he hath sinned, then may he tell, so that his intent be not to backbite the person, but only to declare his confession. Thou shalt not eke make no leasings [falsehoods] in thy confession for humility, peradventure, to say that thou hast committed and done such sins of which that thou wert never guilty. For Saint Augustine saith, “If that thou, because of humility, makest a leasing on thyself, though thou were not in sin before, yet art thou then in sin through thy leasing.” Thou must also shew thy sin by thine own proper mouth, but [unless] thou be dumb, and not by letter; for thou that hast done the sin, thou shalt have the shame of the confession. Thou shalt not paint thy confession with fair and subtle words, to cover the more thy sin; for then beguilest thou thyself, and not the priest; thou must tell it plainly, be it never so foul nor so horrible. Thou shalt eke shrive thee to a priest that is discreet to counsel thee; and eke thou shalt not shrive thee for vain-glory, nor for hypocrisy, nor for no cause but only for the doubt [fear] of Jesus’ Christ and the health of thy soul. Thou shalt not run to the priest all suddenly, to tell him lightly thy sin, as who telleth a jape [jest] or a tale, but advisedly and with good devotion; and generally shrive thee oft; if thou oft fall, oft arise by confession. And though thou shrive thee oftener than once of sin of which thou hast been shriven, it is more merit; and, as saith Saint Augustine, thou shalt have the more lightly [easily] release and grace of God, both of sin and of pain. And certes, once a year at the least way, it is lawful to be houseled, <10> for soothly once a year all things in the earth renovelen [renew themselves].

[Here ends the Second Part of the Treatise; the Third Part, which contains the practical application of the whole, follows entire, along with the remarkable “Prayer of Chaucer,” as it stands in the Harleian Manuscript:—]

De Tertia Parte Poenitentiae. [Of the third part of penitence]

Now have I told you of very [true] confession, that is the second part of penitence: The third part of penitence is satisfaction, and that standeth generally in almsdeed and bodily pain. Now be there three manner of almsdeed: contrition of heart, where a man offereth himself to God; the second is, to have pity of the default of his neighbour; the third is, in giving of good counsel and comfort, ghostly and bodily, where men have need, and namely [specially] sustenance of man’s food. And take keep [heed] that a man hath need of these things generally; he hath need of food, of clothing, and of herberow [lodging], he hath need of charitable counsel and visiting in prison and malady, and sepulture of his dead body. And if thou mayest not visit the needful with thy person, visit them by thy message and by thy gifts. These be generally alms or works of charity of them that have temporal riches or discretion in counselling. Of these works shalt thou hear at the day of doom. This alms shouldest thou do of thine own proper things, and hastily [promptly], and privily [secretly] if thou mayest; but nevertheless, if thou mayest not do it privily, thou shalt not forbear to do alms, though men see it, so that it be not done for thank of the world, but only for thank of Jesus Christ. For, as witnesseth Saint Matthew, chap. v., “A city may not be hid that is set on a mountain, nor men light not a lantern and put it under a bushel, but men set it on a candlestick, to light the men in the house; right so shall your light lighten before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father that is in heaven.”

Now as to speak of bodily pain, it is in prayer, in wakings, [watchings] in fastings, and in virtuous teachings. Of orisons ye shall understand, that orisons or prayers is to say a piteous will of heart, that redresseth it in God, and expresseth it by word outward, to remove harms, and to have things spiritual and durable, and sometimes temporal things. Of which orisons, certes in the orison of the Pater noster hath our Lord Jesus Christ enclosed most things. Certes, it is privileged of three things in its dignity, for which it is more digne [worthy] than any other prayer: for Jesus Christ himself made it: and it is short, for [in order] it should be coude the more lightly, [be more easily conned or learned] and to withhold [retain] it the more easy in heart, and help himself the oftener with this orison; and for a man should be the less weary to say it; and for a man may not excuse him to learn it, it is so short and so easy: and for it comprehendeth in itself all good prayers. The exposition of this holy prayer, that is so excellent and so digne, I betake [commit] to these masters of theology; save thus much will I say, when thou prayest that God should forgive thee thy guilts, as thou forgivest them that they guilt to thee, be full well ware that thou be not out of charity. This holy orison aminisheth [lesseneth] eke venial sin, and therefore it appertaineth specially to penitence. This prayer must be truly said, and in very faith, and that men pray to God ordinately, discreetly, and devoutly; and always a man shall put his will to be subject to the will of God. This orison must eke be said with great humbleness and full pure, and honestly, and not to the annoyance of any man or woman. It must eke be continued with the works of charity. It availeth against the vices of the soul; for, assaith Saint Jerome, by fasting be saved the vices of the flesh, and by prayer the vices of the soul

After this thou shalt understand, that bodily pain stands in waking [watching]. For Jesus Christ saith “Wake and pray, that ye enter not into temptation.” Ye shall understand also, that fasting stands in three things: in forbearing of bodily meat and drink, and in forbearing of worldly jollity, and in forbearing of deadly sin; this is to say, that a man shall keep him from deadly sin in all that he may. And thou shalt understand eke, that God ordained fasting; and to fasting appertain four things: largeness [generosity] to poor folk; gladness of heart spiritual; not to be angry nor annoyed nor grudge [murmur] for he fasteth; and also reasonable hour for to eat by measure; that is to say, a man should not eat in untime [out of time], nor sit the longer at his meal for [because] he fasteth. Then shalt thou understand, that bodily pain standeth in discipline, or teaching, by word, or by writing, or by ensample. Also in wearing of hairs [haircloth] or of stamin [coarse hempen cloth], or of habergeons [mail-shirts] <11> on their naked flesh for Christ’s sake; but ware thee well that such manner penance of thy flesh make not thine heart bitter or angry, nor annoyed of thyself; for better is to cast away thine hair than to cast away the sweetness of our Lord Jesus Christ. And therefore saith Saint Paul, “Clothe you, as they that be chosen of God in heart, of misericorde [with compassion], debonairte [gentleness], sufferance [patience], and such manner of clothing,” of which Jesus Christ is more apaid [better pleased] than of hairs or of hauberks. Then is discipline eke in knocking of thy breast, in scourging with yards [rods], in kneelings, in tribulations, in suffering patiently wrongs that be done to him, and eke in patient sufferance of maladies, or losing of worldly catel [chattels], or of wife, or of child, or of other friends.

Then shalt thou understand which things disturb penance, and this is in four things; that is dread, shame, hope, and wanhope, that is, desperation. And for to speak first of dread, for which he weeneth that he may suffer no penance, thereagainst is remedy for to think that bodily penance is but short and little at the regard of [in comparison with] the pain of hell, that is so cruel and so long, that it lasteth without end. Now against the shame that a man hath to shrive him, and namely [specially] these hypocrites, that would be holden so perfect, that they have no need to shrive them; against that shame should a man think, that by way of reason he that hath not been ashamed to do foul things, certes he ought not to be ashamed to do fair things, and that is confession. A man should eke think, that God seeth and knoweth all thy thoughts, and all thy works; to him may nothing be hid nor covered. Men should eke remember them of the shame that is to come at the day of doom, to them that be not penitent and shriven in this present life; for all the creatures in heaven, and in earth, and in hell, shall see apertly [openly] all that he hideth in this world.

Now for to speak of them that be so negligent and slow to shrive them; that stands in two manners. The one is, that he hopeth to live long, and to purchase [acquire] much riches for his delight, and then he will shrive him: and, as he sayeth, he may, as him seemeth, timely enough come to shrift: another is, the surquedrie [presumption <12>] that he hath in Christ’s mercy. Against the first vice, he shall think that our life is in no sickerness, [security] and eke that all the riches in this world be in adventure, and pass as a shadow on the wall; and, as saith St Gregory, that it appertaineth to the great righteousness of God, that never shall the pain stint [cease] of them, that never would withdraw them from sin, their thanks [with their goodwill], but aye continue in sin; for that perpetual will to do sin shall they have perpetual pain. Wanhope [despair] is in two manners [of two kinds]. The first wanhope is, in the mercy of God: the other is, that they think they might not long persevere in goodness. The first wanhope cometh of that he deemeth that he sinned so highly and so oft, and so long hath lain in sin, that he shall not be saved. Certes against that cursed wanhope should he think, that the passion of Jesus Christ is more strong for to unbind, than sin is strong for to bind. Against the second wanhope he shall think, that as oft as he falleth, he may arise again by penitence; and though he never so long hath lain in sin, the mercy of Christ is always ready to receive him to mercy. Against the wanhope that he thinketh he should not long persevere in goodness, he shall think that the feebleness of the devil may nothing do, but [unless] men will suffer him; and eke he shall have strength of the help of God, and of all Holy Church, and of the protection of angels, if him list.

Then shall men understand, what is the fruit of penance; and after the word of Jesus Christ, it is the endless bliss of heaven, where joy hath no contrariety of woe nor of penance nor grievance; there all harms be passed of this present life; there as is the sickerness [security] from the pain of hell; there as is the blissful company, that rejoice them evermore each of the other’s joy; there as the body of man, that whilom was foul and dark, is more clear than the sun; there as the body of man that whilom was sick and frail, feeble and mortal, is immortal, and so strong and so whole, that there may nothing apair [impair, injure] it; there is neither hunger, nor thirst, nor cold, but every soul replenished with the sight of the perfect knowing of God. This blissful regne [kingdom] may men purchase by poverty spiritual, and the glory by lowliness, the plenty of joy by hunger and thirst, the rest by travail, and the life by death and mortification of sin; to which life He us bring, that bought us with his precious blood! Amen.

PRECES DE CHAUCERES <1> Prayer of Chaucer

Now pray I to you all that hear this little treatise or read it, that if there be anything in it that likes them, that thereof they thank our Lord Jesus Christ, of whom proceedeth all wit and all goodness; and if there be anything that displeaseth them, I pray them also that they arette [impute] it to the default of mine unconning [unskilfulness], and not to my will, that would fain have said better if I had had conning; for the book saith, all that is written for our doctrine is written. Wherefore I beseech you meekly for the mercy of God that ye pray for me, that God have mercy on me and forgive me my guilts, and namely [specially] my translations and of inditing in worldly vanities, which I revoke in my Retractions, as is the Book of Troilus, the Book also of Fame, the Book of Twenty-five Ladies, the Book of the Duchess, the Book of Saint Valentine’s Day and of the Parliament of Birds, the Tales of Canter bury, all those that sounen unto sin, [are sinful, tend towards sin] the Book of the Lion, and many other books, if they were in my mind or remembrance, and many a song and many a lecherous lay, of the which Christ for his great mercy forgive me the sins. But of the translation of Boece de Consolatione, and other books of consolation and of legend of lives of saints, and homilies, and moralities, and devotion, that thank I our Lord Jesus Christ, and his mother, and all the saints in heaven, beseeching them that they from henceforth unto my life’s end send me grace to bewail my guilts, and to study to the salvation of my soul, and grant me grace and space of very repentance, penitence, confession, and satisfaction, to do in this present life, through the benign grace of Him that is King of kings and Priest of all priests, that bought us with his precious blood of his heart, so that I may be one of them at the day of doom that shall be saved: Qui cum Patre et Spiritu Sancto vivis et regnas Deus per omnia secula. Amen. <2>

THE END OF THE CANTERBURY TALES

THE COURT OF LOVE.

“The Court Of Love” was probably Chaucer’s first poem of any consequence. It is believed to have been written at the age, and under the circumstances, of which it contains express mention; that is, when the poet was eighteen years old, and resided as a student at Cambridge, — about the year 1346. The composition is marked by an elegance, care, and finish very different from the bold freedom which in so great measure distinguishes the Canterbury Tales; and the fact is easily explained when we remember that, in the earlier poem, Chaucer followed a beaten path, in which he had many predecessors and competitors, all seeking to sound the praises of love with the grace, the ingenuity, and studious devotion, appropriate to the theme. The story of the poem is exceedingly simple. Under the name of Philogenet, a clerk or scholar of Cambridge, the poet relates that, summoned by Mercury to the Court of Love, he journeys to the splendid castle where the King and Queen of Love, Admetus and Alcestis, keep their state. Discovering among the courtiers a friend named Philobone, a chamberwoman to the Queen, Philogenet is led by her into a circular temple, where, in a tabernacle, sits Venus, with Cupid by her side. While he is surveying the motley crowd of suitors to the goddess, Philogenet is summoned back into the King’s presence, chidden for his tardiness in coming to Court, and commanded to swear observance to the twenty Statutes of Love — which are recited at length. Philogenet then makes his prayers and vows to Venus, desiring that he may have for his love a lady whom he has seen in a dream; and Philobone introduces him to the lady herself, named Rosial, to whom he does suit and service of love. At first the lady is obdurate to his entreaties; but, Philogenet having proved the sincerity of his passion by a fainting fit, Rosial relents, promises her favour, and orders Philobone to conduct him round the Court. The courtiers are then minutely described; but the description is broken off abruptly, and we are introduced to Rosial in the midst of a confession of her love. Finally she commands Philogenet to abide with her until the First of May, when the King of Love will hold high festival; he obeys; and the poem closes with the May Day festival service, celebrated by a choir of birds, who sing an ingenious, but what must have seemed in those days a more than slightly profane, paraphrase or parody of the matins for Trinity Sunday, to the praise of Cupid. From this outline, it will be seen at once that Chaucer’s “Court of Love” is in important particulars different from the institutions which, in the two centuries preceding his own, had so much occupied the attention of poets and gallants, and so powerfully controlled the social life of the noble and refined classes. It is a regal, not a legal, Court which the poet pictures to us; we are not introduced to a regularly constituted and authoritative tribunal in which nice questions of conduct in the relations of lovers are discussed and decided — but to the central and sovereign seat of Love’s authority, where the statutes are moulded, and the decrees are issued, upon which the inferior and special tribunals we have mentioned frame their proceedings. The “Courts of Love,” in Chaucer’s time, had lost none of the prestige and influence which had been conferred upon them by the patronage and participation of Kings, Queens, Emperors, and Popes. But the institution, in its legal or judicial character, was peculiar to France; and although the whole spirit of Chaucer’s poem, especially as regards the esteem and reverence in which women were held, is that which animated the French Courts, his treatment of the subject is broader and more general, consequently more fitted to enlist the interest of English readers. (Transcriber’s note: Modern scholars believe that Chaucer was not the author of this poem)

The poem consists of 206 stanzas of seven lines each; of which, in this edition, eighty-three are represented by a prose abridgement.

With timorous heart, and trembling hand of dread, Of cunning naked, bare of eloquence, skill Unto the flow’r of port in womanhead one who is the perfection I write, as he that none intelligence of womanly behaviour Of metres hath, <1> nor flowers of sentence, Save that me list my writing to convey, In that I can, to please her high nobley. nobleness

The blossoms fresh of Tullius’ garden swoot Cicero sweet Present they not, my matter for to born: <2> burnish, polish Poems of Virgil take here no root, Nor craft of Galfrid <3> may not here sojourn; Why n’am I cunning? O well may I mourn, am I not For lack of science, that I cannot write Unto the princess of my life aright!

No terms are dign unto her excellence, worthy So is she sprung of noble stirp and high; stock <4> A world of honour and of reverence There is in her, this will I testify. Calliope, <5> thou sister wise and sly, skilful And thou, Minerva, guide me with thy grace, That language rude my matter not deface!

Thy sugar droppes sweet of Helicon Distil in me, thou gentle Muse, I pray; And thee, Melpomene, <6> I call anon Of ignorance the mist to chase away; And give me grace so for to write and say, That she, my lady, of her worthiness, Accept in gree this little short treatess, with favour treatise

That is entitled thus, The Court of Love. And ye that be metricians, me excuse, skilled versifiers I you beseech, for Venus’ sake above; For what I mean in this ye need not muse: And if so be my lady it refuse For lack of ornate speech, I would be woe That I presume to her to write so.

But my intent, and all my busy cure, care Is for to write this treatise, as I can, Unto my lady, stable, true, and sure, Faithful and kind, since first that she began Me to accept in service as her man; To her be all the pleasure of this book, That, when her like, she may it read and look. it pleases her

When [he] was young, at eighteen year of age, Lusty and light, desirous of pleasance, Approaching full sad and ripe corage,<7> gradually attaining

Then — says the poet — did Love urge him to do him obeisance, and to go “the Court of Love to see, a lite [little] beside the Mount of Citharee.” <8> Mercury bade him, on pain of death, to appear; and he went by strange and far countries in search of the Court. Seeing at last a crowd of people, “as bees,” making their way thither, the poet asked whither they went; and “one that answer’d like a maid” said that they were bound to the Court of Love, at Citheron, where “the King of Love, and all his noble rout [company],

“Dwelleth within a castle royally.” So them apace I journey’d forth among, And as he said, so found I there truly; For I beheld the town — so high and strong, And high pinnacles, large of height and long, With plate of gold bespread on ev’ry side, And precious stones, the stone work for to hide.

No sapphire of Ind, no ruby rich of price, There lacked then, nor emerald so green, Balais, Turkeis, <9> nor thing, to my devise, in my judgement That may the castle make for to sheen; be beautiful All was as bright as stars in winter be’n; And Phoebus shone, to make his peace again, For trespass done to high estates twain, — offence

When he had found Venus in the arms of Mars, and hastened to tell Vulcan of his wife’s infidelity <10>. Now he was shining brightly on the castle, “in sign he looked after Love’s grace;” for there is no god in Heaven or in Hell “but he hath been right subject unto Love.” Continuing his description of the castle, Philogenet says that he saw never any so large and high; within and without, it was painted “with many a thousand daisies, red as rose,” and white also, in signification of whom, he knew not; unless it was the flower of Alcestis <11>, who, under Venus, was queen of the place, as Admetus was king;

To whom obey’d the ladies good nineteen <12>, With many a thousand other, bright of face. And young men fele came forth with lusty pace, many <13> And aged eke, their homage to dispose; But what they were, I could not well disclose.

Yet nere and nere forth in I gan me dress, nearer Into a hall of noble apparail, furnishings With arras <14> spread, and cloth of gold, I guess, And other silk of easier avail; less difficult, costly, to attain Under the cloth of their estate, sans fail, state canopy The King and Queen there sat, as I beheld; It passed joy of Elysee the feld. The Elysian Fields

There saintes have their coming and resort, martyrs for love To see the King so royally beseen, adorned In purple clad, and eke the Queen in sort; suitably And on their heades saw I crownes twain, With stones frett, so that it was no pain, adorned Withoute meat or drink, to stand and see The Kinge’s honour and the royalty.

To treat of state affairs, Danger <15> stood by the King, and Disdain by the Queen; who cast her eyes haughtily about, sending forth beams that seemed “shapen like a dart, sharp and piercing, and small and straight of line;” while her hair shone as gold so fine, “dishevel, crisp, down hanging at her back a yard in length.” <16> Amazed and dazzled by her beauty, Philogenet stood perplexed, till he spied a Maid, Philobone — a chamberwoman of the Queen’s — who asked how and on what errand he came thither. Learning that he had been summoned by Mercury, she told him that he ought to have come of his free will, and that he “will be shent [rebuked, disgraced]” because he did not.

“For ye that reign in youth and lustiness, Pamper’d with ease, and jealous in your age, Your duty is, as far as I can guess, To Love’s Court to dresse your voyage, direct, address As soon as Nature maketh you so sage That ye may know a woman from a swan, <17> Or when your foot is growen half a span.

“But since that ye, by wilful negligence, This eighteen year have kept yourself at large, The greater is your trespass and offence, And in your neck you must bear all the charge: For better were ye be withoute barge boat Amid the sea in tempest and in rain, Than bide here, receiving woe and pain

“That ordained is for such as them absent From Love’s Court by yeares long and fele. many I lay my life ye shall full soon repent; wager For Love will rive your colour, lust, and heal: health Eke ye must bait on many a heavy meal: feed No force, y-wis; I stirr’d you long agone no matter To draw to Court,” quoth little Philobone.

“Ye shall well see how rough and angry face The King of Love will show, when ye him see; By mine advice kneel down and ask him grace, Eschewing peril and adversity; avoiding For well I wot it will none other be; Comfort is none, nor counsel to your ease; Why will ye then the King of Love displease?”

Thereupon Philogenet professed humble repentance, and willingness to bear all hardship and chastisement for his past offence.

These wordes said, she caught me by the lap, edge of the garment And led me forth into a temple round, Both large and wide; and, as my blessed hap And good. adventure was, right soon I found A tabernacle <18> raised from the ground, Where Venus sat, and Cupid by her side; Yet half for dread I gan my visage hide.

And eft again I looked and beheld, afterwards Seeing full sundry people in the place, people of many sorts And mister folk, and some that might not weld craftsmen <19> Their limbes well, — me thought a wonder case. use The temple shone with windows all of glass, Bright as the day, with many a fair image; And there I saw the fresh queen of Carthage,

Dido, that brent her beauty for the love burnt Of false Aeneas; and the waimenting lamenting Of her, Annelide, true as turtle dove To Arcite false; <20> and there was in painting Of many a Prince, and many a doughty King, Whose martyrdom was show’d about the walls; And how that fele for love had suffer’d falls. many calamities

Philogenet was astonished at the crowd of people that he saw, doing sacrifice to the god and goddess. Philobone informed him that they came from other courts; those who knelt in blue wore the colour in sign of their changeless truth <21>; those in black, who uttered cries of grief, were the sick and dying of love. The priests, nuns, hermits, and friars, and all that sat in white, in russet and in green, “wailed of their woe;” and for all people, of every degree, the Court was open and free. While he walked about with Philobone, a messenger from the King entered, and summoned all the new-come folk to the royal presence. Trembling and pale, Philogenet approached the throne of Admetus, and was sternly asked why he came so late to Court. He pleaded that a hundred times he had been at the gate, but had been prevented from entering by failure to see any of his acquaintances, and by shamefacedness. The King pardoned him, on condition that thenceforth he should serve Love; and the poet took oath to do so, “though Death therefor me thirle [pierce] with his spear.” When the King had seen all the new-comers, he commanded an officer to take their oaths of allegiance, and show them the Statutes of the Court, which must be observed till death.

And, for that I was letter’d, there I read The statutes whole of Love’s Court and hail: The first statute that on the book was spread, Was, To be true in thought and deedes all Unto the King of Love, the lord royal; And, to the Queen, as faithful and as kind As I could think with hearte, will, and mind.

The second statute, Secretly to keep Counsel of love, not blowing ev’rywhere secrets talking All that I know, and let it sink and fleet; float It may not sound in ev’ry wighte’s ear: Exiling slander ay for dread and fear, And to my lady, which I love and serve, Be true and kind, her grace for to deserve.

The third statute was clearly writ also, Withoute change to live and die the same, None other love to take, for weal nor woe, For blind delight, for earnest nor for game: Without repent, for laughing or for grame, vexation, sorrow To bide still in full perseverance: All this was whole the Kinge’s ordinance.

The fourth statute, To purchase ever to her, promote her cause And stirre folk to love, and bete fire kindle On Venus’ altar, here about and there, And preach to them of love and hot desire, And tell how love will quite well their hire: reward This must be kept; and loth me to displease: If love be wroth, pass; for thereby is ease.

The fifth statute, Not to be dangerous, fastidious, angry If that a thought would reave me of my sleep: deprive Nor of a sight to be over squaimous; desirous And so verily this statute was to keep, To turn and wallow in my bed and weep, When that my lady, of her cruelty, Would from her heart exilen all pity.

The sixth statute, It was for me to use Alone to wander, void of company, And on my lady’s beauty for to muse, And thinken it no force to live or die; matter of indifference And eft again to think the remedy, think upon How to her grace I might anon attain, And tell my woe unto my sovereign.

The sev’nth statute was, To be patient, Whether my lady joyful were or wroth; For wordes glad or heavy, diligent, Whether that she me helde lefe or loth: in love or loathing And hereupon I put was to mine oath, Her for to serve, and lowly to obey, And show my cheer, yea, twenty times a day. countenance

The eighth statute, to my rememberance, Was, For to speak and pray my lady dear, With hourly labour and great entendance, attention Me for to love with all her heart entere, entire And me desire and make me joyful cheer, Right as she is, surmounting every fair; Of beauty well, and gentle debonair. the fountain

The ninth statute, with letters writ of gold, This was the sentence, How that I and all Should ever dread to be too overbold Her to displease; and truly so I shall; But be content for all thing that may fall, And meekly take her chastisement and yerd, rod, rule And to offend her ever be afear’d.

The tenth statute was, Equally to discern justly Between the lady and thine ability, And think thyself art never like to earn, By right, her mercy nor her equity, But of her grace and womanly pity: For, though thyself be noble in thy strene, strain, descent A thousand fold more noble is thy Queen.

Thy life’s lady and thy sovereign, That hath thine heart all whole in governance, Thou may’st no wise it take to disdain, To put thee humbly at her ordinance, And give her free the rein of her pleasance; For liberty is thing that women look, look for, desire And truly else the matter is a crook. things go wrong

Th’ eleventh statute, Thy signes for to know With eye and finger, and with smiles soft, And low to couch, and alway for to show, For dread of spies, for to winken oft: And secretly to bring a sigh aloft, But still beware of over much resort; For that peradventure spoileth all thy sport.

The twelfth statute remember to observe: For all the pain thou hast for love and woe, All is too lite her mercy to deserve, little Thou muste think, where’er thou ride or go; And mortal woundes suffer thou also, All for her sake, and think it well beset spent Upon thy love, for it may not be bet. better (spent)

The thirteenth statute, Whilom is to think What thing may best thy lady like and please, And in thine hearte’s bottom let it sink: Some thing devise, and take for it thine ease, And send it her, that may her heart appease: Some heart, or ring, or letter, or device, Or precious stone; but spare not for no price.

The fourteenth statute eke thou shalt assay Firmly to keep, the most part of thy life: Wish that thy lady in thine armes lay, And nightly dream, thou hast thy nighte’s wife Sweetly in armes, straining her as blife: eagerly <22> And, when thou seest it is but fantasy, See that thou sing not over merrily;

For too much joy hath oft a woeful end. It longeth eke this statute for to hold, it belongs to the proper To deem thy lady evermore thy friend, observance of this statute And think thyself in no wise a cuckold. In ev’ry thing she doth but as she sho’ld: Construe the best, believe no tales new, For many a lie is told, that seems full true.

But think that she, so bounteous and fair, Could not be false: imagine this algate; at all events And think that wicked tongues would her apair, defame Sland’ring her name and worshipful estate, honourable fame And lovers true to setten at debate: And though thou seest a fault right at thine eye, Excuse it blife, and glose it prettily. gloss it over

The fifteenth statute, Use to swear and stare, And counterfeit a leasing hardily, falsehood boldly To save thy lady’s honour ev’rywhere, And put thyself for her to fight boldly; Say she is good, virtuous, and ghostly, spiritual, pure Clear of intent, and heart, and thought, and will; And argue not for reason nor for skill

Against thy lady’s pleasure nor intent, For love will not be counterpled indeed: met with counterpleas Say as she saith, then shalt thou not be shent; disgraced “The crow is white;” “Yea truly, so I rede:” judge And aye what thing that she will thee forbid, Eschew all that, and give her sov’reignty, Her appetite to follow in all degree.

The sixteenth statute, keep it if thou may: <23> Sev’n times at night thy lady for to please, And sev’n at midnight, sev’n at morrow day, And drink a caudle early for thine ease. Do this, and keep thine head from all disease, And win the garland here of lovers all, That ever came in Court, or ever shall.

Full few, think I, this statute hold and keep; But truly this my reason gives me feel, enables me to perceive That some lovers should rather fall asleep, Than take on hand to please so oft and weel. well There lay none oath to this statute adele, annexed But keep who might as gave him his corage: as his heart Now get this garland, folk of lusty age! inspired him

Now win who may, ye lusty folk of youth, This garland fresh, of flowers red and white, Purple and blue, and colours full uncouth, strange And I shall crown him king of all delight! In all the Court there was not, to my sight, A lover true, that he was not adread, When he express had heard the statute read. plainly

The sev’nteenth statute, When age approacheth on, And lust is laid, and all the fire is queint, quenched As freshly then thou shalt begin to fon, behave fondly And doat in love, and all her image paint In thy remembrance, till thou gin to faint, As in the first season thine heart began: And her desire, though thou nor may nor can

Perform thy living actual and lust; Register this in thine rememberance: Eke when thou may’st not keep thy thing from rust, Yet speak and talk of pleasant dalliance; For that shall make thine heart rejoice and dance; And when thou may’st no more the game assay, The statute bids thee pray for them that may.

The eighteenth statute, wholly to commend, To please thy lady, is, That thou eschew With sluttishness thyself for to offend; Be jolly, fresh, and feat, with thinges new, dainty <24> Courtly with manner, this is all thy due, Gentle of port, and loving cleanliness; This is the thing that liketh thy mistress.

And not to wander like a dulled ass, Ragged and torn, disguised in array, Ribald in speech, or out of measure pass, Thy bound exceeding; think on this alway: For women be of tender heartes ay, And lightly set their pleasure in a place; When they misthink, they lightly let it pace. think wrongly

The nineteenth statute, Meat and drink forget: Each other day see that thou fast for love, For in the Court they live withoute meat, Save such as comes from Venus all above; They take no heed, in pain of great reprove, on pain of great Of meat and drink, for that is all in vain, reproach Only they live by sight of their sov’reign.

The twentieth statute, last of ev’ry one, Enrol it in thy hearte’s privity; To wring and wail, to turn, and sigh, and groan, When that thy lady absent is from thee; And eke renew the wordes all that she Between you twain hath said, and all the cheer That thee hath made thy life’s lady dear.

And see thy heart in quiet nor in rest Sojourn, till time thou see thy lady eft, again But whe’er she won by south, or east, or west, whether dwell With all thy force now see it be not left Be diligent, till time thy life be reft, until the time that In that thou may’st, thy lady for to see; This statute was of old antiquity.

The officer, called Rigour — who is incorruptible by partiality, favour, prayer, or gold — made them swear to keep the statutes; and, after taking the oath, Philogenet turned over other leaves of the book, containing the statutes of women. But Rigour sternly bade him forbear; for no man might know the statutes that belong to women.

“In secret wise they kepte be full close; They sound each one to liberty, my friend; tend, accord Pleasant they be, and to their own purpose; There wot no wight of them, but God and fiend, knows Nor aught shall wit, unto the worlde’s end. The queen hath giv’n me charge, in pain to die, Never to read nor see them with mine eye.

“For men shall not so near of counsel be’n With womanhead, nor knowen of their guise, Nor what they think, nor of their wit th’engine; craft I me report to Solomon the wise, <25> I refer for proof to And mighty Samson, which beguiled thrice With Delilah was; he wot that, in a throw, There may no man statute of women know.

“For it peradventure may right so befall, That they be bound by nature to deceive, And spin, and weep, and sugar strew on gall, <26> The heart of man to ravish and to reave, And whet their tongue as sharp as sword or gleve: glaive, sword It may betide this is their ordinance, So must they lowly do their observance,

“And keep the statute given them of kind, by nature Of such as Love hath giv’n them in their life. Men may not wit why turneth every wind, Nor waxe wise, nor be inquisitife To know secret of maid, widow, or wife; For they their statutes have to them reserved, And never man to know them hath deserved.”

Rigour then sent them forth to pay court to Venus, and pray her to teach them how they might serve and please their dames, or to provide with ladies those whose hearts were yet vacant. Before Venus knelt a thousand sad petitioners, entreating her to punish “the false untrue,” that had broken their vows, “barren of ruth, untrue of what they said, now that their lust and pleasure is allay’d.” But the mourners were in a minority;

Yet eft again, a thousand million, Rejoicing, love, leading their life in bliss: They said: “Venus, redress of all division, healer Goddess eternal, thy name heried is! glorified By love’s bond is knit all thing, y-wis, assuredly Beast unto beast, the earth to water wan, pale Bird unto bird, and woman unto man; <27>

“This is the life of joy that we be in, Resembling life of heav’nly paradise; Love is exiler ay of vice and sin; Love maketh heartes lusty to devise; Honour and grace have they in ev’ry wise, That be to love’s law obedient; Love maketh folk benign and diligent;

“Aye stirring them to dreade vice and shame: In their degree it makes them honourable; And sweet it is of love to bear the name, So that his love be faithful, true, and stable: Love pruneth him to seemen amiable; Love hath no fault where it is exercis’d, But sole with them that have all love despis’d:” only

And they conclude with grateful honours to the goddess — rejoicing hat they are hers in heart, and all inflamed with her grace and heavenly fear. Philogenet now entreats the goddess to remove his grief; for he also loves, and hotly, only he does not know where —

“Save only this, by God and by my troth; Troubled I was with slumber, sleep, and sloth This other night, and in a vision I saw a woman roamen up and down,

“Of mean stature, and seemly to behold, middling height Lusty and fresh, demure of countenance, Young and well shap’d, with haire sheen as gold, shining With eyne as crystal, farced with pleasance; crammed And she gan stir mine heart a lite to dance; little But suddenly she vanish gan right there: Thus I may say, I love, and wot not where.” know

If he could only know this lady, he would serve and obey her with all benignity; but if his destiny were otherwise, he would gladly love and serve his lady, whosoever she might be. He called on Venus for help to possess his queen and heart’s life, and vowed daily war with Diana: “that goddess chaste I keepen [care] in no wise to serve; a fig for all her chastity!” Then he rose and went his way, passing by a rich and beautiful shrine, which, Philobone informed him, was the sepulchre of Pity. “A tender creature,” she said,

“Is shrined there, and Pity is her name. She saw an eagle wreak him on a fly, avenge And pluck his wing, and eke him, in his game; for sport And tender heart of that hath made her die: Eke she would weep, and mourn right piteously, To see a lover suffer great distress. In all the Court was none, as I do guess,

“That could a lover half so well avail, help Nor of his woe the torment or the rage Aslake; for he was sure, withoute fail, assuage That of his grief she could the heat assuage. Instead of Pity, speedeth hot Courage The matters all of Court, now she is dead; I me report in this to womanhead. for evidence I refer to the behaviour of women themselves.

“For wail, and weep, and cry, and speak, and pray, — Women would not have pity on thy plaint; Nor by that means to ease thine heart convey, But thee receive for their own talent: inclination And say that Pity caus’d thee, in consent Of ruth, to take thy service and thy pain, compassion In that thou may’st, to please thy sovereign.”

Philobone now promised to lead Philogenet to “the fairest lady under sun that is,” the “mirror of joy and bliss,” whose name is Rosial, and “whose heart as yet is given to no wight;” suggesting that, as he also was “with love but light advanc’d,” he might set this lady in the place of her of whom he had dreamed. Entering a chamber gay, “there was Rosial, womanly to see;” and the subtle-piercing beams of her eyes wounded Philogenet to the heart. When he could speak, he threw himself on his knees, beseeching her to cool his fervent woe:

For there I took full purpose in my mind, Unto her grace my painful heart to bind.

For, if I shall all fully her descrive, describe Her head was round, by compass of nature; Her hair as gold, she passed all alive, And lily forehead had this creature, With lively browes flaw, of colour pure, yellow eyebrows <28> Between the which was mean disseverance From ev’ry brow, to show a due distance.

Her nose directed straight, even as line, With form and shape thereto convenient, In which the goddes’ milk-white path doth shine; the galaxy And eke her eyne be bright and orient As is the smaragd, unto my judgment, emerald Or yet these starres heav’nly, small, and bright; Her visage is of lovely red and white.

Her mouth is short, and shut in little space, Flaming somedeal, not over red I mean, somewhat With pregnant lips, and thick to kiss, percase as it chanced (For lippes thin, not fat, but ever lean, They serve of naught, they be not worth a bean; For if the bass be full, there is delight; kiss <29> Maximian <30> truly thus doth he write).

But to my purpose: I say, white as snow Be all her teeth, and in order they stand Of one stature; and eke her breath, I trow, Surmounteth all odours that e’er I fand found In sweetness; and her body, face, and hand Be sharply slender, so that, from the head Unto the foot, all is but womanhead. womanly perfection

I hold my peace of other thinges hid: Here shall my soul, and not my tongue, bewray; But how she was array’d, if ye me bid, That shall I well discover you and say: A bend of gold and silk, full fresh and gay, band With hair in tress, y-broidered full well, plaited in tresses Right smoothly kempt, and shining every deal. combed

About her neck a flow’r of fresh device With rubies set, that lusty were to see’n; And she in gown was, light and summer-wise, Shapen full well, the colour was of green, With aureate seint about her sides clean, golden cincture With divers stones, precious and rich: Thus was she ray’d, yet saw I ne’er her lich, arrayed like

If Jove had but seen this lady, Calisto and Alcmena had never lain in his arms, nor had he loved the fair Europa, nor Danae, nor Antiope; “for all their beauty stood in Rosial; she seemed like a thing celestial.” By and by, Philogenet presented to her his petition for love, which she heard with some haughtiness; she was not, she said, well acquainted with him, she did not know where he dwelt, nor his name and condition. He informed her that “in art of love he writes,” and makes songs that may be sung in honour of the King and Queen of Love. As for his name —

“My name? alas, my heart, why mak’st thou strange? why so cold Philogenet I call’d am far and near, or distant? Of Cambridge clerk, that never think to change From you, that with your heav’nly streames clear beams, glances Ravish my heart; and ghost, and all in fere: all together Since at the first I writ my bill for grace, petition Me thinks I see some mercy in your face;”

And again he humbly pressed his suit. But the lady disdained the idea that, “for a word of sugar’d eloquence,” she should have compassion in so little space; “there come but few who speede here so soon.” If, as he says, the beams of her eyes pierce and fret him, then let him withdraw from her presence:

“Hurt not yourself, through folly, with a look; I would be sorry so to make you sick! A woman should beware eke whom she took: Ye be a clerk: go searche well my book, If any women be so light to win: easy Nay, bide a while, though ye were all my kin.” my only kindred

He might sue and serve, and wax pale, and green, and dead, without murmuring in any wise; but whereas he desired her hastily to lean to love, he was unwise, and must cease that language. For some had been at Court for twenty years, and might not obtain their mistresses’ favour; therefore she marvelled that he was so bold as to treat of love with her. Philogenet, on this, broke into pitiful lamentation; bewailing the hour in which he was born, and assuring the unyielding lady that the frosty grave and cold must be his bed, unless she relented.

With that I fell in swoon, and dead as stone, With colour slain, and wan as ashes pale; deathlike And by the hand she caught me up anon: “Arise,” quoth she; “what? have ye drunken dwale? sleeping potion <31> Why sleepe ye? It is no nightertale.” night-time “Now mercy! sweet,” quoth I, y-wis afraid; “What thing,” quoth she, “hath made you so dismay’d?”

She said that by his hue she knew well that he was a lover; and if he were secret, courteous, and kind, he might know how all this could be allayed. She would amend all that she had missaid, and set his heart at ease; but he must faithfully keep the statutes, “and break them not for sloth nor ignorance.” The lover requests, however, that the sixteenth may be released or modified, for it “doth him great grievance;” and she complies.

And softly then her colour gan appear, As rose so red, throughout her visage all; Wherefore methinks it is according her appropriate to That she of right be called Rosial. Thus have I won, with wordes great and small, Some goodly word of her that I love best, And trust she shall yet set mine heart in rest.

Rosial now told Philobone to conduct Philogenet all over the Court, and show him what lovers and what officers dwelt there; for he was yet a stranger.

And, stalking soft with easy pace, I saw About the king standen all environ, around <32> Attendance, Diligence, and their fellaw Furtherer, Esperance, and many one; Hope Dread-to-offend there stood, and not alone; For there was eke the cruel adversair, The lover’s foe, that called is Despair;

Which unto me spake angrily and fell, cruelly And said, my lady me deceive shall: “Trow’st thou,” quoth she, “that all that she did tell Is true? Nay, nay, but under honey gall. Thy birth and hers they be no thing egal: equal Cast off thine heart, <33> for all her wordes white, For in good faith she loves thee but a lite. little

“And eke remember, thine ability May not compare with her, this well thou wot.” Yea, then came Hope and said, “My friend, let be! Believe him not: Despair he gins to doat.” “Alas,” quoth I, “here is both cold and hot: The one me biddeth love, the other nay; Thus wot I not what me is best to say.

“But well wot I, my lady granted me Truly to be my wounde’s remedy; Her gentleness may not infected be noble nature With doubleness, this trust I till I die.” duplicity So cast I t’ avoid Despair’s company, And take Hope to counsel and to friend. “Yea, keep that well,” quoth Philobone, “in mind.”

And there beside, within a bay window, Stood one in green, full large of breadth and length, His beard as black as feathers of the crow; His name was Lust, of wondrous might and strength; And with Delight to argue there he think’th, For this was alway his opinion, That love was sin: and so he hath begun

To reason fast, and ledge authority: allege authorities “Nay,” quoth Delight, “love is a virtue clear, And from the soul his progress holdeth he: Blind appetite of lust doth often steer, stir (the heart) And that is sin; for reason lacketh there: For thou dost think thy neighbour’s wife to win; Yet think it well that love may not be sin;

“For God, and saint, they love right verily, Void of all sin and vice: this know I weel, well Affection of flesh is sin truly; But very love is virtue, as I feel; true For very love may frail desire akele: cool For very love is love withoute sin.” “Now stint,” quoth Lust, “thou speak’st not worth a pin.” cease

And there I left them in their arguing, Roaming farther into the castle wide, And in a corner Liar stood talking Of leasings fast, with Flattery there beside; falsehoods He said that women ware attire of pride, wore And men were found of nature variant, And could be false and showe beau semblant. put on plausible appearances to deceive Then Flattery bespake and said, y-wis: “See, so she goes on pattens fair and feat; pretty, neat It doth right well: what pretty man is this That roameth here? now truly drink nor meat Need I not have, my heart for joy doth beat Him to behold, so is he goodly fresh: It seems for love his heart is tender and nesh.” soft <34>

This is the Court of lusty folk and glad, And well becomes their habit and array: O why be some so sorry and so sad, Complaining thus in black and white and gray? Friars they be, and monkes, in good fay: Alas, for ruth! great dole it is to see, sorrow To see them thus bewail and sorry be.

See how they cry and ring their handes white, For they so soon went to religion!, young And eke the nuns with veil and wimple plight, plaited Their thought is, they be in confusion: “Alas,” they say, “we feign perfection, <35> In clothes wide, and lack our liberty; But all the sin must on our friendes be. <36>

“For, Venus wot, we would as fain as ye, gladly That be attired here and well beseen, gaily clothed Desire man, and love in our degree,’ Firm and faithful, right as would the Queen: Our friendes wick’, in tender youth and green, Against our will made us religious; That is the cause we mourn and waile thus.”

Then said the monks and friars in the tide, at the same time “Well may we curse our abbeys and our place, Our statutes sharp to sing in copes wide, <37> Chastely to keep us out of love’s grace, And never to feel comfort nor solace; delight Yet suffer we the heat of love’s fire, And after some other haply we desire.

“O Fortune cursed, why now and wherefore Hast thou,” they said, “bereft us liberty, Since Nature gave us instrument in store, And appetite to love and lovers be? Why must we suffer such adversity, Dian’ to serve, and Venus to refuse? Full often sithe these matters do us muse. many a time

“We serve and honour, sore against our will, Of chastity the goddess and the queen; Us liefer were with Venus bide still, we would rather And have regard for love, and subject be’n Unto these women courtly, fresh, and sheen. bright, beautiful Fortune, we curse thy wheel of variance! Where we were well, thou reavest our pleasance.” takest away

Thus leave I them, with voice of plaint and care, In raging woe crying full piteously; And as I went, full naked and full bare Some I beheld, looking dispiteously, On Poverty that deadly cast their eye; And “Well-away!” they cried, and were not fain, For they might not their glad desire attain.

For lack of riches worldly and of good, They ban and curse, and weep, and say, “Alas! That povert’ hath us hent, that whilom stood seized At hearte’s ease, and free and in good case! But now we dare not show ourselves in place, Nor us embold to dwell in company, make bold, venture Where as our heart would love right faithfully.”

And yet againward shrieked ev’ry nun, The pang of love so strained them to cry: “Now woe the time,” quoth they, “that we be boun’! bound This hateful order nice will do us die! into which we foolishly We sigh and sob, and bleeden inwardly, entered Fretting ourselves with thought and hard complaint, That nigh for love we waxe wood and faint.” mad

And as I stood beholding here and there, I was ware of a sort full languishing, a class of people Savage and wild of looking and of cheer, Their mantles and their clothes aye tearing; And oft they were of Nature complaining, For they their members lacked, foot and hand, With visage wry, and blind, I understand.

They lacked shape and beauty to prefer Themselves in love: and said that God and Kind Nature Had forged them to worshippe the sterre, fashioned star Venus the bright, and leften all behind His other workes clean and out of mind: “For other have their full shape and beauty, And we,” quoth they, “be in deformity.”

And nigh to them there was a company, That have the Sisters warray’d and missaid, I mean the three of fatal destiny, <38> That be our workers: suddenly abraid, aroused Out gan they cry as they had been afraid; “We curse,” quoth they, “that ever hath Nature Y-formed us this woeful life t’endure.”

And there eke was Contrite, and gan repent, Confessing whole the wound that Cythere <39> Had with the dart of hot desire him sent, And how that he to love must subject be: Then held he all his scornes vanity, And said that lovers held a blissful life, Young men and old, and widow, maid, and wife.

“Bereave me, Goddess!” quoth he, “of thy might, My scornes all and scoffes, that I have No power for to mocken any wight That in thy service dwell: for I did rave; This know I well right now, so God me save, And I shall be the chief post of thy faith, prop, pillar And love uphold, the reverse whoso saith.”

Dissemble stood not far from him in truth, With party mantle, party hood and hose; parti-coloured And said he had upon his lady ruth, pity And thus he wound him in, and gan to glose, Of his intent full double, I suppose: In all the world he said he lov’d her weel; But ay me thought he lov’d her ne’er a deal. never a jot

Eke Shamefastness was there, as I took heed, That blushed red, and durst not be y-know She lover was, for thereof had she dread; She stood and hung her visage down alow; But such a sight it was to see, I trow, As of these roses ruddy on their stalk: There could no wight her spy to speak or talk

In love’s art, so gan she to abash, Nor durst not utter all her privity: Many a stripe and many a grievous lash She gave to them that woulde lovers be, And hinder’d sore the simple commonalty, That in no wise durst grace and mercy crave, For were not she, they need but ask and have; but for her

Where if they now approache for to speak, Then Shamefastness returneth them again: turns them back They think, “If we our secret counsel break, Our ladies will have scorn us certain, And peradventure thinke great disdain:” Thus Shamefastness may bringen in Despair; When she is dead the other will be heir.

“Come forth Avaunter! now I ring thy bell!” <40> I spied him soon; to God I make avow, confession He looked black as fiendes do in Hell: “The first,” quoth he, “that ever I did wow, woo Within a word she came, I wot not how, she was won with So that in armes was my lady free, a single word And so have been a thousand more than she.

“In England, Britain, Spain, and Picardy, Brittany Artois, and France, and up in high Holland, In Burgoyne, Naples, and in Italy, Burgundy Navarre, and Greece, and up in heathen land, Was never woman yet that would withstand To be at my commandment when I wo’ld: I lacked neither silver coin nor gold.

“And there I met with this estate and that; And her I broach’d, and her, and her, I trow: Lo! there goes one of mine; and, wot ye what? Yon fresh attired have I laid full low; And such one yonder eke right well I know; I kept the statute <41> when we lay y-fere: together And yet yon same hath made me right good cheer.” also

Thus hath Avaunter blowen ev’rywhere All that he knows, and more a thousand fold; His ancestry of kin was to Lier, Liar For first he maketh promise for to hold His lady’s counsel, and it not unfold; — Wherefore, the secret when he doth unshit, disclose Then lieth he, that all the world may wit. know

For falsing so his promise and behest, trust I wonder sore he hath such fantasy; He lacketh wit, I trow, or is a beast, That can no bet himself with reason guy better guide By mine advice, Love shall be contrary To his avail, and him eke dishonour, advantage So that in Court he shall no more sojour. sojourn, remain

“Take heed,” quoth she, this little Philobone, “Where Envy rocketh in the corner yond, yonder And sitteth dark; and ye shall see anon His lean body, fading both face and hand; Himself he fretteth, as I understand devoureth (Witness of Ovid Metamorphoseos); <42> The lover’s foe he is, I will not glose. gloss over

“For where a lover thinketh him promote, to promote himself Envy will grudge, repining at his weal; It swelleth sore about his hearte’s root, That in no wise he cannot live in heal; health And if the faithful to his lady steal, Envy will noise and ring it round about, And say much worse than done is, out of doubt.”

And Privy Thought, rejoicing of himself, — Stood not far thence in habit marvellous; “Yon is,” thought I, “some spirit or some elf, His subtile image is so curious: How is,” quoth I, “that he is shaded thus With yonder cloth, I n’ot of what color?” know not And near I went and gan to lear and pore, to ascertain and gaze curiously And frained him a question full hard. asked “What is,” quoth I, “the thing thou lovest best? Or what is boot unto thy paines hard? remedy Me thinks thou livest here in great unrest, Thou wand’rest aye from south to east and west, And east to north; as far as I can see, There is no place in Court may holde thee.

“Whom followest thou? where is thy heart y-set? But my demand assoil, I thee require.” answer my question “Me thought,” quoth he, “no creature may let hinder Me to be here, and where as I desire; For where as absence hath out the fire, My merry thought it kindleth yet again, That bodily, me thinks, with my sov’reign my lady

“I stand, and speak, and laugh, and kiss, and halse; embrace So that my thought comforteth me full oft: I think, God wot, though all the world be false, I will be true; I think also how soft My lady is in speech, and this on loft Bringeth my heart with joy and great gladness; This privy thought allays my heaviness.

“And what I think, or where, to be, no man In all this Earth can tell, y-wis, but I: And eke there is no swallow swift, nor swan So wight of wing, nor half so yern can fly; nimble eagerly For I can be, and that right suddenly, In Heav’n, in Hell, in Paradise, and here, And with my lady, when I will desire.

“I am of counsel far and wide, I wot, With lord and lady, and their privity I wot it all; but, be it cold or hot, They shall not speak without licence of me. I mean, in such as seasonable be, prudent Tho first the thing is thought within the heart, when Ere any word out from the mouth astart.” escape

And with the word Thought bade farewell and yede: went away Eke forth went I to see the Courte’s guise, And at the door came in, so God me speed, Two courtiers of age and of assise size Like high, and broad, and, as I me advise, The Golden Love and Leaden Love <43> they hight: were called The one was sad, the other glad and light.

At this point there is a hiatus in the poem, which abruptly ceases to narrate the tour of Philogenet and Philobone round the Court, and introduces us again to Rosial, who is speaking thus to her lover, apparently in continuation of a confession of love:

“Yes! draw your heart, with all your force and might, To lustiness, and be as ye have said.”

She admits that she would have given him no drop of favour, but that she saw him “wax so dead of countenance;” then Pity “out of her shrine arose from death to life,” whisperingly entreating that she would do him some pleasance. Philogenet protests his gratitude to Pity, his faithfulness to Rosial; and the lady, thanking him heartily, bids him abide with her till the season of May, when the King of Love and all his company will hold his feast fully royally and well. “And there I bode till that the season fell.”

On May Day, when the lark began to rise, To matins went the lusty nightingale, Within a temple shapen hawthorn-wise; He might not sleep in all the nightertale, night-time But “Domine” <44> gan he cry and gale, call out “My lippes open, Lord of Love, I cry, And let my mouth thy praising now bewry.” show forth

The eagle sang “Venite,” <45> bodies all, And let us joy to love that is our health.” And to the desk anon they gan to fall, And who came late he pressed in by stealth Then said the falcon, “Our own heartes’ wealth, ‘Domine Dominus noster,’ <46> I wot, Ye be the God that do us burn thus hot.” make

“Coeli enarrant,” <47> said the popinjay, parrot “Your might is told in Heav’n and firmament.” And then came in the goldfinch fresh and gay, And said this psalm with heartly glad intent, “Domini est terra;” <48> this Latin intent, means The God of Love hath earth in governance: And then the wren began to skip and dance.

“Jube Domine; <49> O Lord of Love, I pray Command me well this lesson for to read; This legend is of all that woulde dey die Martyrs for love; God yet their soules speed! And to thee, Venus, sing we, out of dread, without doubt By influence of all thy virtue great, Beseeching thee to keep us in our heat.”

The second lesson robin redbreast sang, “Hail to the God and Goddess of our lay!” law, religion And to the lectern amorously he sprang: “Hail now,” quoth be, “O fresh season of May, Our moneth glad that singen on the spray! glad month for us that Hail to the flowers, red, and white, and blue, sing upon the bough Which by their virtue maken our lust new!”

The third lesson the turtle-dove took up, And thereat laugh’d the mavis in a scorn: blackbird He said, “O God, as might I dine or sup, This foolish dove will give us all a horn! There be right here a thousand better born, To read this lesson, which as well as he, And eke as hot, can love in all degree.”

The turtle-dove said, “Welcome, welcome May, Gladsome and light to lovers that be true! I thank thee, Lord of Love, that doth purvey For me to read this lesson all of due; in due form For, in good sooth, of corage I pursue with all my heart To serve my make till death us must depart:” mate And then “Tu autem” <50> sang he all apart.

“Te Deum amoris” <51> sang the throstel cock: thrush Tubal <52> himself, the first musician, With key of harmony could not unlock So sweet a tune as that the throstel can: “The Lord of Love we praise,” quoth he than, then And so do all the fowles great and lite; little “Honour we May, in false lovers’ despite.”

“Dominus regnavit,” <53> said the peacock there, “The Lord of Love, that mighty prince, y-wis, He is received here and ev’rywhere: Now Jubilate <54> sing:” “What meaneth this?” Said then the linnet; “welcome, Lord of bliss!” Out start the owl with “Benedicite,” <55> “What meaneth all this merry fare?” quoth he. doing, fuss

“Laudate,” <56> sang the lark with voice full shrill; And eke the kite “O admirabile;” <57> This quire will through mine eares pierce and thrill; choir But what? welcome this May season,” quoth he; “And honour to the Lord of Love must be, That hath this feast so solemn and so high:” “Amen,” said all; and so said eke the pie. magpie

And forth the cuckoo gan proceed anon, With “Benedictus” <58> thanking God in haste, That in this May would visit them each one, And gladden them all while the feast shall last: And therewithal a-laughter out he brast;” in laughter burst “I thanke God that I should end the song, And all the service which hath been so long.”

Thus sang they all the service of the feast, And that was done right early, to my doom; judgment And forth went all the Court, both most and least, great and small To fetch the flowers fresh, and branch and bloom; And namely hawthorn brought both page and groom, especially With freshe garlands party blue and white, <59> parti-coloured And then rejoiced in their great delight.

Eke each at other threw the flowers bright, The primerose, the violet, and the gold; So then, as I beheld the royal sight, My lady gan me suddenly behold, And with a true love, plighted many a fold, She smote me through the very heart as blive; straightway And Venus yet I thank I am alive.

Explicit The End

50: “Tu autem:” the formula recited by the reader at the end of each lesson; “Tu autem, Domine, miserere nobis.” (“But do thou, O Lord, have pity on us!”)

THE CUCKOO AND THE NIGHTINGALE.

[THE noble vindication of true love, as an exalting, purifying, and honour-conferring power, which Chaucer has made in “The Court of Love,” is repeated in “The Cuckoo and the Nightingale.” At the same time, the close of the poem leads up to “The Assembly of Fowls;” for, on the appeal of the Nightingale, the dispute between her and the Cuckoo, on the merits and blessings of love, is referred to a parliament of birds, to be held on the morrow after Saint Valentine’s Day. True, the assembly of the feathered tribes described by Chaucer, though held on Saint Valentine’s Day, and engaged in the discussion of a controversy regarding love, is not occupied with the particular cause which in the present poem the Nightingale appeals to the parliament. But “The Cuckoo and the Nightingale” none the less serves as a link between the two poems; indicating as it does the nature of those controversies, in matters subject to the supreme control of the King and Queen of Love, which in the subsequent poem we find the courtiers, under the guise of birds, debating in full conclave and under legal forms. Exceedingly simple in conception, and written in a metre full of musical irregularity and forcible freedom, “The Cuckoo and the Nightingale” yields in vividness, delicacy, and grace to none of Chaucer’s minor poems. We are told that the poet, on the third night of May, is sleepless, and rises early in the morning, to try if he may hear the Nightingale sing. Wandering by a brook-side, he sits down on the flowery lawn, and ere long, lulled by the sweet melody of many birds and the well-according music of the stream, he falls into a kind of doze — “not all asleep, nor fully waking.” Then (an evil omen) he hears the Cuckoo sing before the Nightingale; but soon he hears the Nightingale request the Cuckoo to remove far away, and leave the place to birds that can sing. The Cuckoo enters into a defence of her song, which becomes a railing accusation against Love and a recital of the miseries which Love’s servants endure; the Nightingale vindicates Love in a lofty and tender strain, but is at last overcome with sorrow by the bitter words of the Cuckoo, and calls on the God of Love for help. On this the poet starts up, and, snatching a stone from the brook, throws it at the Cuckoo, who flies away full fast. The grateful Nightingale promises that, for this service, she will be her champion’s singer all that May; she warns him against believing the Cuckoo, the foe of Love; and then, having sung him one of her new songs, she flies away to all the other birds that are in that dale, assembles them, and demands that they should do her right upon the Cuckoo. By one assent it is agreed that a parliament shall be held, “the morrow after Saint Valentine’s Day,” under a maple before the window of Queen Philippa at Woodstock, when judgment shall be passed upon the Cuckoo; then the Nightingale flies into a hawthorn, and sings a lay of love so loud that the poet awakes. The five-line stanza, of which the first, second, and fifth lines agree in one rhyme, the third and fourth in another, is peculiar to this poem; and while the prevailing measure is the decasyllabic line used in the “Canterbury Tales,” many of the lines have one or two syllables less. The poem is given here without abridgement.] (Transcriber’s note: Modern scholars believe that Chaucer was not the author of this poem)

THE God of Love, ah! benedicite, How mighty and how great a lord is he! <1> For he can make of lowe heartes high, And of high low, and like for to die, And harde heartes he can make free.

He can make, within a little stound, moment Of sicke folke whole, and fresh, and sound, And of the whole he can make sick; He can bind, and unbinden eke, What he will have bounden or unbound.

To tell his might my wit may not suffice; For he can make of wise folk full nice, — foolish For he may do all that he will devise, — And lither folke to destroye vice, idle, vicious And proude heartes he can make agrise. tremble

Shortly, all that ever he will he may; Against him dare no wight say nay; For he can glad and grieve whom him liketh. whom he pleases And who that he will, he laugheth or siketh, sigheth And most his might he sheddeth ever in May.

For every true gentle hearte free, That with him is, or thinketh for to be, Against May now shall have some stirring, impulse Either to joy, or else to some mourning, In no season so much, as thinketh me.

For when that they may hear the birdes sing, And see the flowers and the leaves spring, That bringeth into hearte’s remembrance A manner ease, medled with grievance, mingled with sorrow And lusty thoughtes full of great longing.

And of that longing cometh heaviness, And thereof groweth greate sickeness, And <2> for the lack of that that they desire: And thus in May be heartes set on fire, So that they brennen forth in great distress. burn

I speake this of feeling truely; If I be old and unlusty, Yet I have felt the sickness thorough May Both hot and cold, an access ev’ry day, every day a hot and a How sore, y-wis, there wot no wight but I. cold fit

I am so shaken with the fevers white, Of all this May sleep I but lite; little And also it is not like unto me pleasing That any hearte shoulde sleepy be, In whom that Love his fiery dart will smite,

But as I lay this other night waking, I thought how lovers had a tokening, significance And among them it was a common tale, That it were good to hear the nightingale Rather than the lewd cuckoo sing.

And then I thought, anon it was day, whenever I would go somewhere to assay If that I might a nightingale hear; For yet had I none heard of all that year, And it was then the thirde night of May.

And anon as I the day espied, No longer would I in my bed abide; But to a wood that was fast by, I went forth alone boldely, And held the way down by a brooke’s side,

Till I came to a laund of white and green, lawn So fair a one had I never in been; The ground was green, y-powder’d with daisy, strewn with daisies The flowers and the greves like high, bushes of the same height All green and white; was nothing elles seen.

There sat I down among the faire flow’rs, And saw the birdes trip out of their bow’rs, There as they rested them alle the night; They were so joyful of the daye’s light, They began of May for to do honours.

They coud that service all by rote; knew There was many a lovely note! Some sange loud as they had plain’d, And some in other manner voice feign’d, And some all out with the full throat.

They proined them, and made them right gay, preened their feathers And danc’d and leapt upon the spray; And evermore two and two in fere, together Right so as they had chosen them to-year this year In Feverere upon Saint Valentine’s Day. February

And the river that I sat upon, beside It made such a noise as it ran, Accordant with the birde’s harmony, keeping time with Me thought it was the beste melody That might be heard of any man.

And for delight, I wote never how, I fell in such a slumber and a swow, — swoon Not all asleep, nor fully waking, — And in that swow me thought I hearde sing The sorry bird, the lewd cuckow;

And that was on a tree right faste by. But who was then evil apaid but I? dissatisfied “Now God,” quoth I, “that died on the crois, cross Give sorrow on thee, and on thy lewed voice! Full little joy have I now of thy cry.”

And as I with the cuckoo thus gan chide, I heard, in the next bush beside, A nightingale so lustily sing, That her clear voice she made ring Through all the greenwood wide.

“Ah, good Nightingale,” quoth I then, “A little hast thou been too long hen; hence, absent For here hath been the lewd cuckow, And sung songs rather than hast thou: sooner I pray to God that evil fire her bren!” burn

But now I will you tell a wondrous thing: As long as I lay in that swooning, Me thought I wist what the birds meant, And what they said, and what was their intent And of their speech I hadde good knowing.

There heard I the nightingale say: “Now, good Cuckoo, go somewhere away, And let us that can singe dwelle here; For ev’ry wight escheweth thee to hear, shuns Thy songes be so elenge, in good fay.” strange faith

“What,” quoth she, “what may thee all now It thinketh me, I sing as well as thou, For my song is both true and plain, Although I cannot crakel so in vain, sing tremulously As thou dost in thy throat, I wot ne’er how.

“And ev’ry wight may understande me, But, Nightingale, so may they not do thee, For thou hast many a nice quaint cry; foolish I have thee heard say, ‘ocy, ocy;’ <3> How might I know what that should be?”

“Ah fool,” quoth she, “wost thou not what it is? When that I say, ‘ocy, ocy,’ y-wis, Then mean I that I woulde wonder fain That all they were shamefully slain, die That meanen aught againe love amiss.

“And also I would that all those were dead, That thinke not in love their life to lead, For who so will the god of Love not serve, I dare well say he is worthy to sterve, die And for that skill, ‘ocy, ocy,’ I grede.” reason cry

“Ey!” quoth the cuckoo, “this is a quaint law, strange That every wight shall love or be to-draw! torn to pieces But I forsake alle such company; For mine intent is not for to die, Nor ever, while I live, on Love’s yoke to draw. to put on love’s yoke “For lovers be the folk that be alive, That most disease have, and most unthrive, misfortune And most endure sorrow, woe, and care, And leaste feelen of welfare: What needeth it against the truth to strive?”

“What?” quoth she, “thou art all out of thy mind! How mightest thou in thy churlishness find To speak of Love’s servants in this wise? For in this world is none so good service To ev’ry wight that gentle is of kind;

“For thereof truly cometh all gladness, All honour and all gentleness, Worship, ease, and all hearte’s lust, pleasure Perfect joy, and full assured trust, Jollity, pleasance, and freshness,

“Lowlihead, largess, and courtesy, Seemelihead, and true company, Dread of shame for to do amiss; For he that truly Love’s servant is, Were lother to be shamed than to die. more reluctant

“And that this is sooth that I say, In that belief I will live and dey; And, Cuckoo, so I rede that thou, do y-wis.” counsel “Then,” quoth he, “let me never have bliss, If ever I to that counsail obey!

“Nightingale, thou speakest wondrous fair, But, for all that, is the sooth contrair; For love is in young folk but rage, And in old folk a great dotage; Who most it useth, moste shall enpair. suffer harm

“For thereof come disease and heaviness, Sorrow and care, and many a great sickness, Despite, debate, anger, envy, Depraving, shame, untrust, and jealousy, loss of fame or character Pride, mischief, povert’, and woodness. madness

“Loving is an office of despair, And one thing is therein that is not fair; For who that gets of love a little bliss, But if he be away therewith, y-wis, He may full soon of age have his hair. see note <5>

“And, Nightingale, therefore hold thee nigh; For, ’lieve me well, for all thy quainte cry, If thou be far or longe from thy make, mate Thou shalt be as other that be forsake, And then thou shalt hoten as do I.” be called

“Fie,” quoth she, “on thy name and on thee! The god of Love let thee never the! thrive For thou art worse a thousand fold than wood, mad For many one is full worthy and full good, That had been naught, ne hadde Love y-be.

“For evermore Love his servants amendeth, And from all evile taches them defendeth, blemishes And maketh them to burn right in a fire, In truth and in worshipful desire, honourable And, when him liketh, joy enough them sendeth.”

“Thou Nightingale,” he said, “be still! For Love hath no reason but his will; For ofttime untrue folk he easeth, And true folk so bitterly displeaseth, That for default of grace he lets them spill.” favour be ruined

Then took I of the nightingale keep, How she cast a sigh out of her deep, And said, “Alas, that ever I was bore! I can for teen not say one worde more;” vexation, grief And right with that word she burst out to weep.

“Alas!” quoth she, “my hearte will to-break To heare thus this lewd bird speak Of Love, and of his worshipful service. Now, God of Love, thou help me in some wise, That I may on this cuckoo be awreak!” revenged

Methought then I start up anon, And to the brook I ran and got a stone, And at the cuckoo heartly cast; And for dread he flew away full fast, And glad was I when he was gone.

And evermore the cuckoo, as he flay, flew He saide, “Farewell, farewell, popinjay,” As though he had scorned, thought me; But ay I hunted him from the tree, Until he was far out of sight away.

And then came the nightingale to me, And said, “Friend, forsooth I thank thee That thou hast lik’d me to rescow; rescue And one avow to Love make I now, That all this May I will thy singer be.”

I thanked her, and was right well apaid: satisfied “Yea,” quoth she, “and be thou not dismay’d, Though thou have heard the cuckoo erst than me; <6> before For, if I live, it shall amended be The next May, if I be not afraid.

“And one thing I will rede thee also, Believe thou not the cuckoo, the love’s foe, For all that he hath said is strong leasing.” falsehood “Nay,” quoth I, “thereto shall nothing me bring For love, and it hath done me much woe.”

“Yea? Use,” quoth she, “this medicine, Every day this May ere thou dine: Go look upon the fresh daisy, And, though thou be for woe in point to die, That shall full greatly less thee of thy pine. sorrow

“And look alway that thou be good and true, And I will sing one of my songes new For love of thee, as loud as I may cry:” And then she began this song full high: “I shrew all them that be of love untrue.” curse

And when she had sung it to the end, “Now farewell,” quoth she, “for I must wend, go And, God of Love, that can right well and may, As much joy sende thee this day, As any lover yet he ever send!”

Thus took the nightingale her leave of me. I pray to God alway with her be, And joy of love he send her evermore, And shield us from the cuckoo and his lore; For there is not so false a bird as he.

Forth she flew, the gentle nightingale, To all the birdes that were in that dale, And got them all into a place in fere, together And besought them that they would hear Her disease, and thus began her tale. distress, grievance

“Ye witte well, it is not for to hide, know How the cuckoo and I fast have chide, quarrelled Ever since that it was daylight; I pray you all that ye do me right On that foul false unkind bride.” bird

Then spake one bird for all, by one assent: “This matter asketh good advisement; For we be fewe birdes here in fere, And sooth it is, the cuckoo is not here, And therefore we will have a parlement.

“And thereat shall the eagle be our lord, And other peers that been of record, of established authority And the cuckoo shall be after sent; summoned There shall be given the judgment, Or else we shall finally make accord. be reconciled

“And this shall be, withoute nay, contradiction The morrow after Saint Valentine’s Day, Under a maple that is fair and green, Before the chamber window of the Queen, <7> At Woodstock upon the green lay.” lawn

She thanked them, and then her leave took, And into a hawthorn by that brook, And there she sat and sang upon that tree, “Term of life love hath withhold me;” love hath me in her So loude, that I with that song awoke. service all my life

Explicit. The End

The Author to His Book.

O LEWD book! with thy foul rudeness, Since thou hast neither beauty nor eloquence, Who hath thee caus’d or giv’n the hardiness For to appear in my lady’s presence? I am full sicker thou know’st her benevolence, certain Full agreeable to all her abying, merit For of all good she is the best living.

Alas! that thou ne haddest worthiness, To show to her some pleasant sentence, Since that she hath, thorough her gentleness, Accepted thee servant to her dign reverence! O! me repenteth that I n’had science, And leisure als’, t’make thee more flourishing, For of all good she is the best living.

Beseech her meekly with all lowliness, Though I be ferre from her in absence, far To think on my truth to her and steadfastness, And to abridge of my sorrows the violence, Which caused is whereof knoweth your sapience; wisdom She like among to notify me her liking, For of all good she is the best living.

Explicit.

L’Envoy; To the Author’s Lady.

Aurore of gladness, day of lustiness, Lucern at night with heav’nly influence lamp Illumin’d, root of beauty and goodness, Suspires which I effund in silence! sighs pour forth Of grace I beseech, allege let your writing declare Now of all good, since ye be best living.

Explicit.

5.”But if he be away therewith, y-wis, He may full soon of age have his hair”: Unless he be always fortunate in love pursuits, he may full soon have gray hair, through his anxieties.

THE ASSEMBLY OF FOWLS.

[In “The Assembly of Fowls” — which Chaucer’s “Retractation” describes as “The Book of Saint Valentine’s Day, or of the Parliament of Birds” — we are presented with a picture of the mediaeval “Court of Love” far closer to the reality than we find in Chaucer’s poem which bears that express title. We have a regularly constituted conclave or tribunal, under a president whose decisions are final. A difficult question is proposed for the consideration and judgment of the Court — the disputants advancing and vindicating their claims in person. The attendants upon the Court, through specially chosen mouthpieces, deliver their opinions on the cause; and finally a decision is authoritatively pronounced by the president — which, as in many of the cases actually judged before the Courts of Love in France, places the reasonable and modest wish of a sensitive and chaste lady above all the eagerness of her lovers, all the incongruous counsels of representative courtiers. So far, therefore, as the poem reproduces the characteristic features of procedure in those romantic Middle Age halls of amatory justice, Chaucer’s “Assembly of Fowls” is his real “Court of Love;” for although, in the castle and among the courtiers of Admetus and Alcestis, we have all the personages and machinery necessary for one of those erotic contentions, in the present poem we see the personages and the machinery actually at work, upon another scene and under other guises. The allegory which makes the contention arise out of the loves, and proceed in the assembly, of the feathered race, is quite in keeping with the fanciful yet nature-loving spirit of the poetry of Chaucer’s time, in which the influence of the Troubadours was still largely present. It is quite in keeping, also, with the principles that regulated the Courts, the purpose of which was more to discuss and determine the proper conduct of love affairs, than to secure conviction or acquittal, sanction or reprobation, in particular cases — though the jurisdiction and the judgments of such assemblies often closely concerned individuals. Chaucer introduces us to his main theme through the vestibule of a fancied dream — a method which be repeatedly employs with great relish, as for instance in “The House of Fame.” He has spent the whole day over Cicero’s account of the Dream of Scipio (Africanus the Younger); and, having gone to bed, he dreams that Africanus the Elder appears to him — just as in the book he appeared to his namesake — and carries him into a beautiful park, in which is a fair garden by a river-side. Here the poet is led into a splendid temple, through a crowd of courtiers allegorically representing the various instruments, pleasures, emotions, and encouragements of Love; and in the temple Venus herself is found, sporting with her porter Richess. Returning into the garden, he sees the Goddess of Nature seated on a hill of flowers; and before her are assembled all the birds — for it is Saint Valentine’s Day, when every fowl chooses her mate. Having with a graphic touch enumerated and described the principal birds, the poet sees that on her hand Nature bears a female eagle of surpassing loveliness and virtue, for which three male eagles advance contending claims. The disputation lasts all day; and at evening the assembled birds, eager to be gone with their mates, clamour for a decision. The tercelet, the goose, the cuckoo, and the turtle — for birds of prey, water-fowl, worm-fowl, and seed-fowl respectively — pronounce their verdicts on the dispute, in speeches full of character and humour; but Nature refers the decision between the three claimants to the female eagle herself, who prays that she may have a year’s respite. Nature grants the prayer, pronounces judgment accordingly, and dismisses the assembly; and after a chosen choir has sung a roundel in honour of the Goddess, all the birds fly away, and the poet awakes. It is probable that Chaucer derived the idea of the poem from a French source; Mr Bell gives the outline of a fabliau, of which three versions existed, and in which a contention between two ladies regarding the merits of their respective lovers, a knight and a clerk, is decided by Cupid in a Court composed of birds, which assume their sides according to their different natures. Whatever the source of the idea, its management, and the whole workmanship of the poem, especially in the more humorous passages, are essentially Chaucer’s own.]

THE life so short, the craft so long to learn, Th’assay so hard, so sharp the conquering, The dreadful joy, alway that flits so yern; fleets so fast All this mean I by Love, that my feeling with reference to Astoneth with his wonderful working, amazes So sore, y-wis, that, when I on him think, Naught wit I well whether I fleet or sink, float

For all be that I know not Love indeed, albeit, although Nor wot how that he quiteth folk their hire, rewards folk for Yet happeth me full oft in books to read their service Of his miracles, and of his cruel ire; There read I well, he will be lord and sire; I dare not saye, that his strokes be sore; But God save such a lord! I can no more.

Of usage, what for lust and what for lore, On bookes read I oft, as I you told. But wherefore speak I alle this? Not yore Agone, it happed me for to behold Upon a book written with letters old; And thereupon, a certain thing to learn, The longe day full fast I read and yern. eagerly

For out of the old fieldes, as men saith, Cometh all this new corn, from year to year; And out of olde bookes, in good faith, Cometh all this new science that men lear. learn But now to purpose as of this mattere: To reade forth it gan me so delight, That all the day me thought it but a lite. little while

This book, of which I make mention, Entitled was right thus, as I shall tell; “Tullius, of the Dream of Scipion:” <1> Chapters seven it had, of heav’n, and hell, And earth, and soules that therein do dwell; Of which, as shortly as I can it treat, Of his sentence I will you say the great. important part

First telleth it, when Scipio was come To Africa, how he met Massinisse, That him for joy in armes hath y-nome. taken <2> Then telleth he their speech, and all the bliss That was between them till the day gan miss. fail And how his ancestor Africane so dear Gan in his sleep that night to him appear.

Then telleth it, that from a starry place How Africane hath him Carthage y-shew’d, And warned him before of all his grace, <3> And said him, what man, learned either lewd, ignorant That loveth common profit, well y-thew’d, the public advantage He should unto a blissful place wend, go Where as the joy is without any end.

Then asked he, if folk that here be dead i.e. the younger Scipio Have life, and dwelling, in another place? And Africane said, “Yea, withoute dread;” doubt And how our present worldly lives’ space Meant but a manner death, <4> what way we trace; And rightful folk should go, after they die, To Heav’n; and showed him the galaxy.

Then show’d he him the little earth that here is, To regard the heaven’s quantity; by comparison with And after show’d he him the nine spheres; <5> And after that the melody heard he, That cometh of those spheres thrice three, That wells of music be and melody In this world here, and cause of harmony.

Then said he him, since earthe was so lite, small And full of torment and of harde grace, evil fortune That he should not him in this world delight. Then told he him, in certain yeares’ space, That ev’ry star should come into his place, Where it was first; and all should out of mind, perish from memory That in this world is done of all mankind.

Then pray’d him Scipio, to tell him all The way to come into that Heaven’s bliss; And he said: “First know thyself immortal, And look aye busily that thou work and wiss guide affairs To common profit, and thou shalt not miss To come swiftly unto that place dear, That full of bliss is, and of soules clear. noble <6>

“And breakers of the law, the sooth to sayn, And likerous folk, after that they be dead, lecherous Shall whirl about the world always in pain, Till many a world be passed, out of dread; without doubt And then, forgiven all their wicked deed, They shalle come unto that blissful place, To which to come God thee sende grace!”

The day gan failen, and the darke night, That reaveth beastes from their business, taketh away Berefte me my book for lack of light, And to my bed I gan me for to dress, prepare Full fill’d of thought and busy heaviness; For both I hadde thing which that I n’old, would not And eke I had not that thing that I wo’ld.

But, finally, my spirit at the last, Forweary of my labour all that day, utterly wearied Took rest, that made me to sleepe fast; And in my sleep I mette, as that I say, dreamed How Africane, right in the self array same garb That Scipio him saw before that tide, time Was come, and stood right at my bedde’s side.

The weary hunter, sleeping in his bed, To wood again his mind goeth anon; The judge dreameth how his pleas be sped; The carter dreameth how his cartes go’n; The rich of gold, the knight fights with his fone; foes The sicke mette he drinketh of the tun; <7> The lover mette he hath his lady won.

I cannot say, if that the cause were, For I had read of Africane beforn, because That made me to mette that he stood there; But thus said he; “Thou hast thee so well borne In looking of mine old book all to-torn, Of which Macrobius raught not a lite, recked not a little That somedeal of thy labour would I quite.” I would reward you for some of your labour Cytherea, thou blissful Lady sweet! That with thy firebrand dauntest when thee lest, when you please That madest me this sweven for to mette, dream Be thou my help in this, for thou may’st best! As wisly as I saw the north-north-west, <8> surely When I began my sweven for to write, So give me might to rhyme it and endite. write down

This foresaid Africane me hent anon, took And forth with him unto a gate brought Right of a park, walled with greene stone; And o’er the gate, with letters large y-wrought, There were verses written, as me thought, On either half, of full great difference, Of which I shall you say the plain sentence. meaning

“Through me men go into the blissful place <9> Of hearte’s heal and deadly woundes’ cure; Through me men go unto the well of grace; Where green and lusty May shall ever dure; This is the way to all good adventure; Be glad, thou reader, and thy sorrow off cast; All open am I; pass in and speed thee fast.”

“Through me men go,” thus spake the other side, “Unto the mortal strokes of the spear, Of which disdain and danger is the guide; There never tree shall fruit nor leaves bear; This stream you leadeth to the sorrowful weir, Where as the fish in prison is all dry; <10> Th’eschewing is the only remedy.”

These verses of gold and azure written were, On which I gan astonish’d to behold; For with that one increased all my fear, And with that other gan my heart to bold; take courage That one me het, that other did me cold; heated No wit had I, for error, for to choose perplexity, confusion To enter or fly, or me to save or lose.

Right as betwixten adamantes two magnets Of even weight, a piece of iron set, Ne hath no might to move to nor fro; For what the one may hale, the other let; attract restrain So far’d I, that n’ist whether me was bet knew not whether it was T’ enter or leave, till Africane, my guide, better for me Me hent and shov’d in at the gates wide. caught

And said, “It standeth written in thy face, Thine error, though thou tell it not to me; perplexity, confusion But dread thou not to come into this place; For this writing is nothing meant by thee, does not refer to Nor by none, but he Love’s servant be; unless For thou of Love hast lost thy taste, I guess, As sick man hath of sweet and bitterness.

“But natheless, although that thou be dull, That thou canst not do, yet thou mayest see; For many a man that may not stand a pull, Yet likes it him at wrestling for to be, And deeme whether he doth bet, or he; judge better And, if thou haddest cunning to endite, skill I shall thee showe matter of to write.” to write about

With that my hand in his he took anon, Of which I comfort caught, and went in fast. took But, Lord! so I was glad and well-begone! fortunate For over all, where I my eyen cast, everywhere Were trees y-clad with leaves that ay shall last, Each in his kind, with colour fresh and green As emerald, that joy it was to see’n.

The builder oak; and eke the hardy ash; The pillar elm, the coffer unto carrain; The box, pipe tree; the holm, to whippe’s lash The sailing fir; the cypress death to plain; The shooter yew; the aspe for shaftes plain; Th’olive of peace, and eke the drunken vine; The victor palm; the laurel, too, divine. <11>

A garden saw I, full of blossom’d boughes, Upon a river, in a greene mead, Where as sweetness evermore enow is, With flowers white, blue, yellow, and red, And colde welle streames, nothing dead, fountain That swamme full of smalle fishes light, With finnes red, and scales silver bright.

On ev’ry bough the birdes heard I sing, With voice of angels in their harmony, That busied them their birdes forth to bring; The pretty conies to their play gan hie; rabbits haste And further all about I gan espy The dreadful roe, the buck, the hart, and hind, timid Squirrels, and beastes small, of gentle kind. nature

Of instruments of stringes in accord Heard I so play a ravishing sweetness, That God, that Maker is of all and Lord, Ne hearde never better, as I guess: Therewith a wind, unneth it might be less, scarcely Made in the leaves green a noise soft, Accordant the fowles’ song on loft. in keeping with above

Th’air of the place so attemper was, mild That ne’er was there grievance of hot nor cold; annoyance There was eke ev’ry wholesome spice and grass, Nor no man may there waxe sick nor old: Yet was there more joy a thousand fold moreover Than I can tell, or ever could or might; There ever is clear day, and never night.

Under a tree, beside a well, I sey saw Cupid our lord his arrows forge and file; polish And at his feet his bow all ready lay; And well his daughter temper’d, all the while, The heades in the well; and with her wile cleverness She couch’d them after, as they shoulde serve arranged in order Some for to slay, and some to wound and kerve. carve, cut

Then was I ware of Pleasance anon right, And of Array, and Lust, and Courtesy, And of the Craft, that can and hath the might To do by force a wight to do folly; make Disfigured was she, I will not lie; disguised And by himself, under an oak, I guess, Saw I Delight, that stood with Gentleness.

Then saw I Beauty, with a nice attire, And Youthe, full of game and jollity, Foolhardiness, Flattery, and Desire, Messagerie, and Meed, and other three; <12> Their names shall not here be told for me: And upon pillars great of jasper long I saw a temple of brass y-founded strong.

And [all] about the temple danc’d alway Women enough, of whiche some there were Fair of themselves, and some of them were gay In kirtles all dishevell’d went they there; tunics That was their office ever, from year to year; duty, occupation And on the temple saw I, white and fair, Of doves sitting many a thousand pair. <13>

Before the temple door, full soberly, Dame Peace sat, a curtain in her hand; And her beside, wonder discreetely, Dame Patience sitting there I fand, found With face pale, upon a hill of sand; And althernext, within and eke without, Behest, and Art, and of their folk a rout. Promise crowd

Within the temple, of sighes hot as fire I heard a swough, that gan aboute ren, murmur run Which sighes were engender’d with desire, That made every hearte for to bren burn Of newe flame; and well espied I then, That all the cause of sorrows that they dree endure Came of the bitter goddess Jealousy.

The God Priapus <14> saw I, as I went Within the temple, in sov’reign place stand, In such array, as when the ass him shent <15> ruined With cry by night, and with sceptre in hand: Full busily men gan assay and fand endeavour Upon his head to set, of sundry hue, Garlandes full of freshe flowers new.

And in a privy corner, in disport, Found I Venus and her porter Richess, That was full noble and hautain of her port; haughty <16> Dark was that place, but afterward lightness I saw a little, unneth it might be less; scarcely And on a bed of gold she lay to rest, Till that the hote sun began to west. decline towards the wesr

Her gilded haires with a golden thread Y-bounden were, untressed, as she lay; loose And naked from the breast unto the head Men might her see; and, soothly for to say, The remnant cover’d, welle to my pay, satisfaction <17> Right with a little kerchief of Valence;<18> There was no thicker clothe of defence.

The place gave a thousand savours swoot; sweet And Bacchus, god of wine, sat her beside; And Ceres next, that doth of hunger boot; <19> relieves hunger And, as I said, amiddes lay Cypride, <20> in the midst To whom on knees the younge folke cried To be their help: but thus I let her lie, And farther in the temple gan espy,

That, in despite of Diana the chaste, Full many a bowe broke hung on the wall, Of maidens, such as go their time to waste In her service: and painted over all Of many a story, of which I touche shall A few, as of Calist’, and Atalant’, And many a maid, of which the name I want. do not have

Semiramis, Canace, and Hercules, Biblis, Dido, Thisbe and Pyramus, Tristram, Isoude, Paris, and Achilles, Helena, Cleopatra, Troilus, Scylla, and eke the mother of Romulus; All these were painted on the other side, And all their love, and in what plight they died.

When I was come again into the place That I of spake, that was so sweet and green, Forth walk’d I then, myselfe to solace: Then was I ware where there sat a queen, That, as of light the summer Sunne sheen Passeth the star, right so over measure out of all proportion She fairer was than any creature.

And in a lawn, upon a hill of flowers, Was set this noble goddess of Nature; Of branches were her halles and her bowers Y-wrought, after her craft and her measure; Nor was there fowl that comes of engendrure That there ne were prest, in her presence, ready <22> To take her doom, and give her audience. receive her decision

For this was on Saint Valentine’s Day, When ev’ry fowl cometh to choose her make, mate Of every kind that men thinken may; And then so huge a noise gan they make, That earth, and sea, and tree, and ev’ry lake, So full was, that unnethes there was space scarcely For me to stand, so full was all the place.

And right as Alain, in his Plaint of Kind, <23> Deviseth Nature of such array and face; describeth In such array men mighte her there find. This noble Emperess, full of all grace, Bade ev’ry fowle take her owen place, As they were wont alway, from year to year, On Saint Valentine’s Day to stande there.

That is to say, the fowles of ravine birds of prey Were highest set, and then the fowles smale, That eaten as them Nature would incline; As worme-fowl, of which I tell no tale; But waterfowl sat lowest in the dale, And fowls that live by seed sat on the green, And that so many, that wonder was to see’n.

There mighte men the royal eagle find, That with his sharpe look pierceth the Sun; And other eagles of a lower kind, Of which that clerkes well devise con; which scholars well There was the tyrant with his feathers dun can describe And green, I mean the goshawk, that doth pine cause pain To birds, for his outrageous ravine. slaying, hunting

The gentle falcon, that with his feet distraineth grasps The kinge’s hand; <24> the hardy sperhawk eke, pert The quaile’s foe; the merlion <25> that paineth Himself full oft the larke for to seek; There was the dove, with her eyen meek; The jealous swan, against his death that singeth; in anticipation of The owl eke, that of death the bode bringeth. omen

The crane, the giant, with his trumpet soun’; The thief the chough; and eke the chatt’ring pie; The scorning jay; <26> the eel’s foe the heroun; The false lapwing, full of treachery; <27> The starling, that the counsel can betray; The tame ruddock, and the coward kite; robin-redbreast The cock, that horologe is of thorpes lite. clock little villages

The sparrow, Venus’ son; <28> the nightingale, That calleth forth the freshe leaves new; <29> The swallow, murd’rer of the bees smale, That honey make of flowers fresh of hue; The wedded turtle, with his hearte true; The peacock, with his angel feathers bright; <30> The pheasant, scorner of the cock by night; <31>

The waker goose; <32> the cuckoo ever unkind; <33> The popinjay, full of delicacy; parrot The drake, destroyer of his owen kind; <34> The stork, the wreaker of adultery; <35> avenger The hot cormorant, full of gluttony; <36> The raven and the crow, with voice of care; <37> The throstle old; and the frosty fieldfare.<38> long-lived

What should I say? Of fowls of ev’ry kind That in this world have feathers and stature, Men mighten in that place assembled find, Before that noble goddess of Nature; And each of them did all his busy cure care, pains Benignely to choose, or for to take, By her accord, his formel <39> or his make. consent mate

But to the point. Nature held on her hand A formel eagle, of shape the gentilest That ever she among her workes fand, The most benign, and eke the goodliest; In her was ev’ry virtue at its rest, highest point So farforth that Nature herself had bliss To look on her, and oft her beak to kiss.

Nature, the vicar of th’Almighty Lord, — That hot, cold, heavy, light, and moist, and dry, Hath knit, by even number of accord, — In easy voice began to speak, and say: “Fowles, take heed of my sentence,” I pray; opinion, discourse And for your ease, in furth’ring of your need, As far as I may speak, I will me speed.

“Ye know well how, on Saint Valentine’s Day, By my statute, and through my governance, Ye choose your mates, and after fly away With them, as I you pricke with pleasance; inspire with pleasure But natheless, as by rightful ordinance, May I not let, for all this world to win, hinder But he that most is worthy shall begin.

“The tercel eagle, as ye know full weel, well The fowl royal, above you all in degree, The wise and worthy, secret, true as steel, The which I formed have, as ye may see, In ev’ry part, as it best liketh me, — It needeth not his shape you to devise, — describe He shall first choose, and speaken in his guise. in his own way

“And, after him, by order shall ye choose, After your kind, evereach as you liketh; And as your hap is, shall ye win or lose; fortune But which of you that love most entriketh, entangles <40> God send him her that sorest for him siketh.” sigheth And therewithal the tercel gan she call, And said, “My son, the choice is to thee fall.

“But natheless, in this condition Must be the choice of ev’reach that is here, That she agree to his election, Whoso he be, that shoulde be her fere; companion This is our usage ay, from year to year; And whoso may at this time have this grace, In blissful time he came into this place.” in a happy hour With head inclin’d, and with full humble cheer, demeanour

This royal tercel spake, and tarried not: “Unto my sov’reign lady, and not my fere, companion I chose and choose, with will, and heart, and thought, The formel on your hand, so well y-wrought, Whose I am all, and ever will her serve, Do what her list, to do me live or sterve. die

“Beseeching her of mercy and of grace, As she that is my lady sovereign, Or let me die here present in this place, For certes long may I not live in pain; For in my heart is carven ev’ry vein: every vein in my heart is Having regard only unto my truth, wounded with love My deare heart, have on my woe some ruth. pity

“And if that I be found to her untrue, Disobeisant, or wilful negligent, disobedient Avaunter, or in process love a new, braggart in the course I pray to you, this be my judgement, of time That with these fowles I be all to-rent, torn to pieces That ilke day that she me ever find same To her untrue, or in my guilt unkind.

“And since none loveth her so well as I, Although she never of love me behet, promised Then ought she to be mine, through her mercy; For other bond can I none on her knit; I can bind her no other way For weal or for woe, never shall I let cease, fail To serve her, how far so that she wend; go Say what you list, my tale is at an end.”

Right as the freshe redde rose new Against the summer Sunne colour’d is, Right so, for shame, all waxen gan the hue Of this formel, when she had heard all this; Neither she answer’d well, nor said amiss, she answered nothing, So sore abashed was she, till Nature either well or ill Said, “Daughter, dread you not, I you assure.” confirm, support

Another tercel eagle spake anon, Of lower kind, and said that should not be; “I love her better than ye do, by Saint John! Or at the least I love her as well as ye, And longer have her serv’d in my degree; And if she should have lov’d for long loving, To me alone had been the guerdoning. reward

“I dare eke say, if she me finde false, Unkind, janglere, rebel in any wise, boastful Or jealous, do me hange by the halse; hang me by the neck And but I beare me in her service unless As well ay as my wit can me suffice, From point to point, her honour for to save, Take she my life and all the good I have.”

A thirde tercel eagle answer’d tho: then “Now, Sirs, ye see the little leisure here; For ev’ry fowl cries out to be ago Forth with his mate, or with his lady dear; And eke Nature herselfe will not hear, For tarrying her, not half that I would say; And but I speak, I must for sorrow dey. unless die

Of long service avaunt I me no thing, boast But as possible is me to die to-day, For woe, as he that hath been languishing This twenty winter; and well happen may A man may serve better, and more to pay, with more satisfaction In half a year, although it were no more. Than some man doth that served hath full yore. for a long time

“I say not this by me for that I can Do no service that may my lady please; But I dare say, I am her truest man, liegeman, servant As to my doom, and fainest would her please; in my judgement At shorte words, until that death me seize, in one word I will be hers, whether I wake or wink. And true in all that hearte may bethink.”

Of all my life, since that day I was born, So gentle plea, in love or other thing, such noble pleading Ye hearde never no man me beforn; Whoso that hadde leisure and cunning skill For to rehearse their cheer and their speaking: And from the morrow gan these speeches last, Till downward went the Sunne wonder fast.

The noise of fowles for to be deliver’d set free to depart So loude rang, “Have done and let us wend,” go That well ween’d I the wood had all to-shiver’d: been shaken to “Come off!” they cried; “alas! ye will us shend! pieces ruin When will your cursed pleading have an end? How should a judge either party believe, For yea or nay, withouten any preve?” proof

The goose, the duck, and the cuckoo also, So cried “keke, keke,” “cuckoo,” “queke queke,” high, That through mine ears the noise wente tho. then The goose said then, “All this n’is worth a fly! But I can shape hereof a remedy; And I will say my verdict, fair and swith, speedily For water-fowl, whoso be wroth or blith.” glad

“And I for worm-fowl,” said the fool cuckow; For I will, of mine own authority, For common speed, take on me the charge now; advantage For to deliver us is great charity.” “Ye may abide a while yet, pardie,” by God Quoth then the turtle; “if it be your will A wight may speak, it were as good be still.

“I am a seed-fowl, one th’unworthiest, That know I well, and the least of cunning; But better is, that a wight’s tongue rest, Than entremette him of such doing meddle with <41> Of which he neither rede can nor sing; counsel And who it doth, full foul himself accloyeth, embarrasseth For office uncommanded oft annoyeth.”

Nature, which that alway had an ear To murmur of the lewedness behind, With facond voice said, “Hold your tongues there, eloquent, fluent And I shall soon, I hope, a counsel find, You to deliver, and from this noise unbind; I charge of ev’ry flock ye shall one call, class of fowl To say the verdict of you fowles all.”

The tercelet said then in this mannere; male hawk “Full hard it were to prove it by reason, Who loveth best this gentle formel here; For ev’reach hath such replication, reply That by skilles may none be brought adown; arguments I cannot see that arguments avail; Then seemeth it that there must be battaile.”

“All ready!” quoth those eagle tercels tho; then “Nay, Sirs!” quoth he; “if that I durst it say, Ye do me wrong, my tale is not y-do, done For, Sirs, — and take it not agrief, I pray, — be not offended It may not be as ye would, in this way: Ours is the voice that have the charge in hand, And to the judges’ doom ye muste stand. ye must abide by the judges’ decision “And therefore ‘Peace!’ I say; as to my wit, Me woulde think, how that the worthiest Of knighthood, and had longest used it, Most of estate, of blood the gentilest, Were fitting most for her, if that her lest; if she pleased And, of these three she knows herself, I trow, am sure Which that he be; for it is light to know.” easy

The water-fowles have their heades laid Together, and of short advisement, after brief deliberation When evereach his verdict had y-said They saide soothly all by one assent, How that “The goose with the facond gent, refined eloquence That so desired to pronounce our need, business Shall tell our tale;” and prayed God her speed.

And for those water-fowles then began The goose to speak. and in her cackeling She saide, “Peace, now! take keep ev’ry man, heed And hearken what reason I shall forth bring; My wit is sharp, I love no tarrying; I say I rede him, though he were my brother, But she will love him, let him love another!” unless

“Lo! here a perfect reason of a goose!” Quoth the sperhawke. “Never may she the! thrive Lo such a thing ’tis t’have a tongue loose! Now, pardie: fool, yet were it bet for thee better Have held thy peace, than show’d thy nicety; foolishness It lies not in his wit, nor in his will, But sooth is said, a fool cannot be still.”

The laughter rose of gentle fowles all; And right anon the seed-fowls chosen had The turtle true, and gan her to them call, And prayed her to say the soothe sad serious truth Of this mattere, and asked what she rad; counselled And she answer’d, that plainly her intent She woulde show, and soothly what she meant.

“Nay! God forbid a lover shoulde change!” The turtle said, and wax’d for shame all red: “Though that his lady evermore be strange, disdainful Yet let him serve her ay, till he be dead; For, sooth, I praise not the goose’s rede counsel For, though she died, I would none other make; mate I will be hers till that the death me take.”

“Well bourded!” quoth the ducke, “by my hat! a pretty joke! That men should loven alway causeless, Who can a reason find, or wit, in that? Danceth he merry, that is mirtheless? Who shoulde reck of that is reckeless? care for one who has Yea! queke yet,” quoth the duck, “full well and fair! no care for him There be more starres, God wot, than a pair!” <42>

“Now fy, churl!” quoth the gentle tercelet, “Out of the dunghill came that word aright; Thou canst not see which thing is well beset; Thou far’st by love, as owles do by light,— The day them blinds, full well they see by night; Thy kind is of so low a wretchedness, That what love is, thou caust not see nor guess.”

Then gan the cuckoo put him forth in press, in the crowd For fowl that eateth worm, and said belive: quickly “So I,” quoth he, “may have my mate in peace, I recke not how longe that they strive. Let each of them be solain all their life; single <43> This is my rede, since they may not accord; counsel This shorte lesson needeth not record.”

“Yea, have the glutton fill’d enough his paunch, Then are we well!” saide the emerlon; merlin “Thou murd’rer of the heggsugg, on the branch hedge-sparrow That brought thee forth, thou most rueful glutton, <44> Live thou solain, worme’s corruption! For no force is to lack of thy nature; the loss of a bird of your Go! lewed be thou, while the world may dare!” depraved nature is no matter of regret. “Now peace,” quoth Nature, “I commande here; For I have heard all your opinion, And in effect yet be we ne’er the nere. nearer But, finally, this is my conclusion, — That she herself shall have her election Of whom her list, whoso be wroth or blith; angry or glad Him that she chooseth, he shall her have as swith. quickly

“For since it may not here discussed be Who loves her best, as said the tercelet, Then will I do this favour t’ her, that she Shall have right him on whom her heart is set, And he her, that his heart hath on her knit: This judge I, Nature, for I may not lie because To none estate; I have none other eye. can see the matter in no other light “But as for counsel for to choose a make, If I were Reason, [certes] then would I Counsaile you the royal tercel take, As saith the tercelet full skilfully, reasonably As for the gentilest, and most worthy, Which I have wrought so well to my pleasance, That to you it ought be a suffisance.” to your satisfaction

With dreadful voice the formel her answer’d: frightened “My rightful lady, goddess of Nature, Sooth is, that I am ever under your yerd, rod, or government As is every other creature, And must be yours, while that my life may dure; And therefore grante me my firste boon, favour And mine intent you will I say right soon.”

“I grant it you,” said she; and right anon This formel eagle spake in this degree: manner “Almighty queen, until this year be done I aske respite to advise me; And after that to have my choice all free; This is all and some that I would speak and say; Ye get no more, although ye do me dey. slay me

“I will not serve Venus, nor Cupide, For sooth as yet, by no manner [of] way.” “Now since it may none other ways betide,” happen Quoth Dame Nature, “there is no more to say; Then would I that these fowles were away, Each with his mate, for longer tarrying here.” And said them thus, as ye shall after hear.

“To you speak I, ye tercels,” quoth Nature; “Be of good heart, and serve her alle three; A year is not so longe to endure; And each of you pain him in his degree strive For to do well, for, God wot, quit is she From you this year, what after so befall; This entremess is dressed for you all.” dish is prepared

And when this work y-brought was to an end, To ev’ry fowle Nature gave his make, By even accord, and on their way they wend: fair agreement And, Lord! the bliss and joye that they make! For each of them gan other in his wings take, And with their neckes each gan other wind, enfold, caress Thanking alway the noble goddess of Kind.

But first were chosen fowles for to sing,— As year by year was alway their usance, — custom To sing a roundel at their departing, To do to Nature honour and pleasance; The note, I trowe, maked was in France; The wordes were such as ye may here find The nexte verse, as I have now in mind:

Qui bien aime, tard oublie. <45>

“Now welcome summer, with thy sunnes soft, That hast these winter weathers overshake dispersed, overcome Saint Valentine, thou art full high on loft, Which driv’st away the longe nightes blake; black Thus singe smalle fowles for thy sake: Well have they cause for to gladden oft, be glad, make mirth Since each of them recover’d hath his make; mate Full blissful may they sing when they awake.”

And with the shouting, when their song was do, done That the fowls maden at their flight away, I woke, and other bookes took me to, To read upon; and yet I read alway. I hope, y-wis, to reade so some day, That I shall meete something for to fare The bet; and thus to read I will not spare. better

Explicit. the end

Per me si va nella citta dolente, Per me si va nell’ eterno dolore; Per me si va tra la perduta gente.

(“Through me is the way to the city of sorrow, Through me is the way to eternal suffering; Through me is the way of the lost people”)

The famous line, “Lasciate ogni speranza, voi che entrate” — “All hope abandon, ye who enter here” — is evidently paraphrased in Chaucer’s words “Th’eschewing is the only remedy;” that is, the sole hope consists in the avoidance of that dismal gate.

THE FLOWER AND THE LEAF

[“The Flower and the Leaf” is pre-eminently one of those poems by which Chaucer may be triumphantly defended against the charge of licentious coarseness, that, founded upon his faithful representation of the manners, customs, and daily life and speech of his own time, in “The Canterbury Tales,” are sweepingly advanced against his works at large. In an allegory — rendered perhaps somewhat cumbrous by the detail of chivalric ceremonial, and the heraldic minuteness, which entered so liberally into poetry, as into the daily life of the classes for whom poetry was then written — Chaucer beautifully enforces the lasting advantages of purity, valour, and faithful love, and the fleeting and disappointing character of mere idle pleasure, of sloth and listless retirement from the battle of life. In the “season sweet” of spring, which the great singer of Middle Age England loved so well, a gentle woman is supposed to seek sleep in vain, to rise “about the springing of the gladsome day,” and, by an unfrequented path in a pleasant grove, to arrive at an arbour. Beside the arbour stands a medlar-tree, in which a Goldfinch sings passing sweetly; and the Nightingale answers from a green laurel tree, with so merry and ravishing a note, that the lady resolves to proceed no farther, but sit down on the grass to listen. Suddenly the sound of many voices singing surprises her; and she sees “a world of ladies” emerge from a grove, clad in white, and wearing garlands of laurel, of agnus castus, and woodbind. One, who wears a crown and bears a branch of agnus castus in her hand, begins a roundel, in honour of the Leaf, which all the others take up, dancing and singing in the meadow before the arbour. Soon, to the sound of thundering trumps, and attended by a splendid and warlike retinue, enter nine knights, in white, crowned like the ladies; and after they have jousted an hour and more, they alight and advance to the ladies. Each dame takes a knight by the hand; and all incline reverently to the laurel tree, which they encompass, singing of love, and dancing. Soon, preceded by a band of minstrels, out of the open field comes a lusty company of knights and ladies in green, crowned with chaplets of flowers; and they do reverence to a tuft of flowers in the middle of the meadow, while one of their number sings a bergerette in praise of the daisy. But now it is high noon; the sun waxes fervently hot; the flowers lose their beauty, and wither with the heat; the ladies in green are scorched, the knights faint for lack of shade. Then a strong wind beats down all the flowers, save such as are protected by the leaves of hedges and groves; and a mighty storm of rain and hail drenches the ladies and knights, shelterless in the now flowerless meadow. The storm overpast, the company in white, whom the laurel-tree has safely shielded from heat and storm, advance to the relief of the others; and when their clothes have been dried, and their wounds from sun and storm healed, all go together to sup with the Queen in white — on whose hand, as they pass by the arbour, the Nightingale perches, while the Goldfinch flies to the Lady of the Flower. The pageant gone, the gentlewoman quits the arbour, and meets a lady in white, who, at her request, unfolds the hidden meaning of all that she has seen; “which,” says Speght quaintly, “is this: They which honour the Flower, a thing fading with every blast, are such as look after beauty and worldly pleasure. But they that honour the Leaf, which abideth with the root, notwithstanding the frosts and winter storms, are they which follow Virtue and during qualities, without regard of worldly respects.” Mr Bell, in his edition, has properly noticed that there is no explanation of the emblematical import of the medlar-tree, the goldfinch, and the nightingale. “But,” he says, “as the fruit of the medlar, to use Chaucer’s own expression (see Prologue to the Reeve’s Tale), is rotten before it is ripe, it may be the emblem of sensual pleasure, which palls before it confers real enjoyment. The goldfinch is remarkable for the beauty of its plumage, the sprightliness of its movements, and its gay, tinkling song, and may be supposed to represent the showy and unsubstantial character of frivolous pleasures. The nightingale’s sober outward appearance and impassioned song denote greater depth of feeling.” The poem throughout is marked by the purest and loftiest moral tone; and it amply deserved Dryden’s special recommendation, “both for the invention and the moral.” It is given without abridgement.] (Transcriber’s note: Modern scholars believe that Chaucer was not the author of this poem)

WHEN that Phoebus his car of gold so high Had whirled up the starry sky aloft, And in the Bull <1> enter’d certainly; When showers sweet of rain descended soft, Causing the grounde, fele times and oft, many Up for to give many a wholesome air, And every plain was y-clothed fair

With newe green, and maketh smalle flow’rs To springe here and there in field and mead; So very good and wholesome be the show’rs, That they renewe what was old and dead In winter time; and out of ev’ry seed Springeth the herbe, so that ev’ry wight Of thilke season waxeth glad and light. this

And I, so glad of thilke season sweet, Was happed thus upon a certain night, thus circumstanced As I lay in my bed, sleep full unmeet unfit, uncompliant Was unto me; but why that I not might Rest, I not wist; for there n’as earthly wight, was not As I suppose, had more hearte’s ease Than I, for I n’had sickness nor disease. had not distress

Wherefore I marvel greatly of myself, That I so long withoute sleepe lay; And up I rose three houres after twelf, About the springing of the [gladsome] day; And on I put my gear and mine array, garments And to a pleasant grove I gan to pass, Long ere the brighte sun uprisen was;

In which were oakes great, straight as a line, Under the which the grass, so fresh of hue, Was newly sprung; and an eight foot or nine Every tree well from his fellow grew, With branches broad, laden with leaves new, That sprangen out against the sunne sheen; Some very red;<2> and some a glad light green;

Which, as me thought, was right a pleasant sight. And eke the birdes’ songes for to hear Would have rejoiced any earthly wight; And I, that could not yet, in no mannere, Heare the nightingale of all the year,<3> during Full busy hearkened with heart and ear, If I her voice perceive could anywhere.

And at the last a path of little brede breadth I found, that greatly had not used be; For it forgrowen was with grass and weed, overgrown That well unneth a wight mighte see: scarcely Thought I, “This path some whither goes, pardie!” of a surety And so I follow’d [it], till it me brought To a right pleasant arbour, well y-wrought,

That benched was, and [all] with turfes new Freshly y-turf’d, <4> whereof the greene grass, So small, so thick, so short, so fresh of hue, That most like to green wool, I wot, it was; The hedge also, that yeden in compass, went all around <5> And closed in all the greene herbere, arbour With sycamore was set and eglatere, eglantine, sweet-briar

Wreathed in fere so well and cunningly, together That ev’ry branch and leaf grew by measure, regularly Plain as a board, of a height by and by: the same height side I saw never a thing, I you ensure, by side So well y-done; for he that took the cure pains, care To maken it, I trow did all his pain To make it pass all those that men have seen.

And shapen was this arbour, roof and all, As is a pretty parlour; and also The hedge as thick was as a castle wall, That whoso list without to stand or go, Though he would all day pryen to and fro, He should not see if there were any wight Within or no; but one within well might

Perceive all those that wente there without Into the field, that was on ev’ry side Cover’d with corn and grass; that out of doubt, Though one would seeken all the worlde wide, So rich a fielde could not be espied Upon no coast, as of the quantity; for its abundance For of all goode thing there was plenty. or fertility

And I, that all this pleasant sight see, Thought suddenly I felt so sweet an air Of the eglentere, that certainly There is no heart, I deem, in such despair, Nor yet with thoughtes froward and contrair So overlaid, but it should soon have boot, remedy, relief If it had ones felt this savour swoot. sweet smell

And as I stood, and cast aside mine eye, I was ware of the fairest medlar tree That ever yet in all my life I seye, saw As full of blossoms as it mighte be; Therein a goldfinch leaping prettily From bough to bough; and as him list he eat Here and there of the buds and flowers sweet.

And to the arbour side was adjoining This fairest tree, of which I have you told; And at the last the bird began to sing (When he had eaten what he eate wo’ld) So passing sweetly, that by many fold It was more pleasant than I could devise; tell, describe And, when his song was ended in this wise,

The nightingale with so merry a note Answered him, that all the woode rung, So suddenly, that, as it were a sote, like a fool <6> I stood astound’; so was I with the song Thorough ravished, that, till late and long, for a long time I wist not in what place I was, nor where; Again, me thought, she sung e’en by mine ear.

Wherefore I waited about busily On ev’ry side, if that I might her see; And at the last I gan full well espy Where she sat in a fresh green laurel tree, On the further side, even right by me, That gave so passing a delicious smell, According to the eglantere full well. blending with

Whereof I had so inly great pleasure, That, as me thought, I surely ravish’d was Into Paradise, where [as] my desire Was for to be, and no farther to pass, As for that day; and on the sweete grass I sat me down; for, as for mine intent, to my mind The birde’s song was more convenient, appropriate to my humour

And more pleasant to me, by many fold, Than meat, or drink, or any other thing; Thereto the arbour was so fresh and cold, The wholesome savours eke so comforting, That, as I deemed, since the beginning Of the world was [there] never seen ere than before then So pleasant a ground of none earthly man.

And as I sat, the birdes heark’ning thus, Me thought that I heard voices suddenly, The most sweetest and most delicious That ever any wight, I trow truely, verily believe Heard in their life; for the harmony And sweet accord was in so good musike, That the voices to angels’ most were like.

At the last, out of a grove even by, That was right goodly, and pleasant to sight, I saw where there came, singing lustily, A world of ladies; but to tell aright Their greate beauty, lies not in my might, Nor their array; nevertheless I shall Tell you a part, though I speak not of all.

In surcoats white, of velvet well fitting, upper robes They were clad, and the seames each one, As it were a mannere [of] garnishing, Was set with emeraldes, one and one, By and by; but many a riche stone in a row Was set upon the purfles, out of doubt, embroidered edges Of collars, sleeves, and traines round about;

As greate pearles, round and orient, brilliant And diamondes fine, and rubies red, And many another stone, of which I went cannot recall The names now; and ev’reach on her head [Had] a rich fret of gold, which, without dread, band doubt Was full of stately riche stones set; valuable, noble And ev’ry lady had a chapelet

Upon her head of branches fresh and green, <7> So well y-wrought, and so marvellously, That it was a right noble sight to see’n; Some of laurel, and some full pleasantly Had chapelets of woodbine; and sadly, sedately Some of agnus castus <8> wearen also Chapelets fresh; but there were many of tho’ those

That danced and eke sung full soberly; And all they went in manner of compass; in a circle But one there went, in mid the company, Sole by herself; but all follow’d the pace That she kept, whose heavenly figur’d face So pleasant was, and her well shap’d person, That in beauty she pass’d them ev’ry one.

And more richly beseen, by many fold, She was also in ev’ry manner thing: Upon her head, full pleasant to behold, A crown of golde, rich for any king; A branch of agnus castus eke bearing In her hand, and to my sight truely She Lady was of all that company.

And she began a roundell <9> lustily, That “Suse le foyle, devers moi,” men call, “Siene et mon joly coeur est endormy;” <10> And then the company answered all, With voices sweet entuned, and so small, fine That me thought it the sweetest melody That ever I heard in my life, soothly. truly

And thus they came, dancing and singing, Into the middest of the mead each one, Before the arbour where I was sitting; And, God wot, me thought I was well-begone, fortunate For then I might advise them one by one, consider Who fairest was, who best could dance or sing, Or who most womanly was in all thing.

They had not danced but a little throw, short time When that I hearde far off, suddenly, So great a noise of thund’ring trumpets blow, As though it should departed have the sky; rent, divide And after that, within a while, I sigh, saw From the same grove, where the ladies came out, Of men of armes coming such a rout, company

As all the men on earth had been assembled as if Unto that place, well horsed for the nonce occasion Stirring so fast, that all the earthe trembled But for to speak of riches, and of stones, And men and horse, I trow the large ones i.e. jewels Of Prester John, <11> nor all his treasury, Might not unneth have bought the tenth party hardly part

Of their array: whoso list heare more, I shall rehearse so as I can a lite. little Out of the grove, that I spake of before, I saw come first, all in their cloakes white, A company, that wore, for their delight, Chapelets fresh of oake cerrial, <12> Newly y-sprung; and trumpets were they all. trumpeters

On ev’ry trump hanging a broad bannere Of fine tartarium <13> was, full richly beat; embroidered with gold Every trumpet his lord’s armes bare; About their necks, with greate pearles set, [Were] collars broad; for cost they would not let, be hindered by As it would seem, for their scutcheons each one Were set about with many a precious stone.

Their horses’ harness was all white also. And after them next, in one company, Came kinges at armes and no mo’, In cloakes of white cloth with gold richly; Chaplets of green upon their heads on high; The crownes that they on their scutcheons bare Were set with pearl, and ruby, and sapphire,

And eke great diamondes many one: But all their horse harness, and other gear, Was in a suit according, ev’ry one, As ye have heard the foresaid trumpets were; And, by seeming, they were nothing to lear, had nothing to learn And their guiding they did all mannerly. perfectly And after them came a great company

Of heraldes and pursuivantes eke, Arrayed in clothes of white velvet; And, hardily, they were no thing to seek, assuredly How they on them shoulde the harness set: And ev’ry man had on a chapelet; Scutcheones and eke harness, indeed, They had in suit of them that ’fore them yede. corresponding with went Next after them in came, in armour bright, All save their heades, seemly knightes nine, And ev’ry clasp and nail, as to my sight, Of their harness was of red golde fine; With cloth of gold, and furred with ermine, Were the trappures of their steedes strong, trappings Both wide and large, that to the grounde hung.

And ev’ry boss of bridle and paytrel horse’s breastplate That they had on, was worth, as I would ween, A thousand pound; and on their heades, well Dressed, were crownes of the laurel green, The beste made that ever I had seen; And ev’ry knight had after him riding Three henchemen upon him awaiting. pages

Of which ev’ry [first], on a short truncheon, staff His lorde’s helmet bare, so richly dight, adorned That the worst of them was worthy the ranson ransom Of any king; the second a shielde bright Bare at his back; the thirde bare upright A mighty spear, full sharp y-ground and keen; And ev’ry childe ware of leaves green page

A freshe chaplet on his haires bright; And cloakes white of fine velvet they ware Their steedes trapped and arrayed right, Without difference, as their lordes’ were; And after them, on many a fresh courser, There came of armed knightes such a rout, company, crowd That they bespread the large field about.

And all they waren, after their degrees, Chapelets newe made of laurel green, Some of the oak, and some of other trees; Some in their handes bare boughes sheen, bright Some of laurel, and some of oakes keen, Some of hawthorn, and some of the woodbind, And many more which I had not in mind.

And so they came, their horses fresh stirring With bloody soundes of their trumpets loud; There saw I many an uncouth disguising strange manoeuvring In the array of these knightes proud; And at the last, as evenly as they could, They took their place in middest of the mead, And ev’ry knight turned his horse’s head

To his fellow, and lightly laid a spear Into the rest; and so the jousts began On ev’ry part aboute, here and there; Some brake his spear, some threw down horse and man; About the field astray the steedes ran; And, to behold their rule and governance, conduct I you ensure, it was a great pleasuance.

And so the joustes last’ an hour and more; lasted But those that crowned were in laurel green Wonne the prize; their dintes were so sore, strokes That there was none against them might sustene: And the jousting was alle left off clean, And from their horse the nine alight’ anon, And so did all the remnant ev’ry one.

And forth they went together, twain and twain, That to behold it was a worthy sight, Toward the ladies on the greene plain, That sang and danced as I said now right; The ladies, as soon as they goodly might, They brake off both the song and eke the dance, And went to meet them with full glad semblance. air, aspect

And ev’ry lady took, full womanly, By th’hand a knight, and so forth right they yede went Unto a fair laurel that stood fast by, With leaves lade the boughs of greate brede; breadth And, to my doom, there never was, indeed, judgment Man that had seene half so fair a tree; For underneath it there might well have be been

A hundred persons, at their own pleasance, in perfect comfort Shadowed from the heat of Phoebus bright, So that they shoulde have felt no grievance annoyance Of rain nor haile that them hurte might. The savour eke rejoice would any wight That had been sick or melancholious, It was so very good and virtuous. full of healing virtues

And with great rev’rence they inclined low Unto the tree so sweet and fair of hue; appearance And after that, within a little throw, short time They all began to sing and dance of new, Some song of love, some plaining of untrue, complaint of Environing the tree that stood upright; unfaithfulness And ever went a lady and a knight. going round

And at the last I cast mine eye aside, And was ware of a lusty company That came roaming out of the fielde wide; [And] hand in hand a knight and a lady; The ladies all in surcoats, that richly Purfiled were with many a riche stone; trimmed at the borders And ev’ry knight of green ware mantles on,

Embroider’d well, so as the surcoats were; And ev’reach had a chaplet on her head (Which did right well upon the shining hair), Maked of goodly flowers, white and red. The knightes eke, that they in hande led, In suit of them ware chaplets ev’ry one, And them before went minstrels many one,

As harpes, pipes, lutes, and psaltry, All [clad] in green; and, on their heades bare, Of divers flowers, made full craftily All in a suit, goodly chaplets they ware; And so dancing into the mead they fare. In mid the which they found a tuft that was All overspread with flowers in compass around, in a circle

Whereunto they inclined ev’ry one, With great reverence, and that full humbly And at the last there then began anon A lady for to sing right womanly, A bargaret, <14> in praising the daisy. For, as me thought, among her notes sweet, She saide: “Si douce est la margarete.”<15>

Then alle they answered her in fere together So passingly well, and so pleasantly, That it was a [most] blissful noise to hear. But, I n’ot how, it happen’d suddenly know not As about noon the sun so fervently Wax’d hote, that the pretty tender flow’rs Had lost the beauty of their fresh colours,

Forshrunk with heat; the ladies eke to-brent, shrivelled very burnt That they knew not where they might them bestow; The knightes swelt, for lack of shade nigh shent fainted destroyed And after that, within a little throw, The wind began so sturdily to blow, That down went all the flowers ev’ry one, So that in all the mead there left not one;

Save such as succour’d were among the leaves From ev’ry storm that mighte them assail, Growing under the hedges and thick greves; groves, boughs And after that there came a storm of hail And rain in fere, so that withoute fail together The ladies nor the knights had not one thread Dry on them, so dropping was [all] their weed. clothing

And when the storm was passed clean away, Those in the white, that stood under the tree, They felt no thing of all the great affray That they in green without had in y-be: had been in To them they went for ruth, and for pity, Them to comfort after their great disease; trouble So fain they were the helpless for to ease. glad, eager

Then I was ware how one of them in green Had on a crowne, rich and well sitting; becoming Wherefore I deemed well she was a queen, And those in green on her were awaiting. in attendance The ladies then in white that were coming Toward them, and the knightes eke in fere, together Began to comfort them, and make them cheer.

The queen in white, that was of great beauty, Took by the hand the queen that was in green, And saide: “Sister, I have great pity Of your annoy, and of your troublous teen, injury, grief Wherein you and your company have been So long, alas! and if that it you please To go with me, I shall you do the ease,

“In all the pleasure that I can or may;” Whereof the other, humbly as she might, Thanked her; for in right evil array She was, with storm and heat, I you behight; assure Arid ev’ry lady then anon aright, That were in white, one of them took in green By the hand; which when that the knights had seen,

In like mannere each of them took a knight Y-clad in green, and forth with them they fare Unto a hedge, where that they anon right, To make their joustes,<16> they would not spare Boughes to hewe down, and eke trees square, Wherewith they made them stately fires great, To dry their clothes, that were wringing wet.

And after that, of herbes that there grew, They made, for blisters of the sun’s burning, Ointmentes very good, wholesome, and new, Wherewith they went the sick fast anointing; And after that they went about gath’ring Pleasant salades, which they made them eat, For to refresh their great unkindly heat.

The Lady of the Leaf then gan to pray Her of the Flower (for so, to my seeming, They should be called, as by their array), To sup with her; and eke, for anything, That she should with her all her people bring; And she again in right goodly mannere Thanked her fast of her most friendly cheer;

Saying plainely, that she would obey, With all her heart, all her commandement: And then anon, without longer delay, The Lady of the Leaf hath one y-sent To bring a palfrey, after her intent, according to her wish Arrayed well in fair harness of gold; For nothing lack’d, that to him longe sho’ld. should belong to him

And, after that, to all her company She made to purvey horse and ev’rything provide That they needed; and then full lustily, Ev’n by the arbour where I was sitting, They passed all, so merrily singing, That it would have comforted any wight. But then I saw a passing wondrous sight;

For then the nightingale, that all the day Had in the laurel sat, and did her might The whole service to sing longing to May, All suddenly began to take her flight; And to the Lady of the Leaf forthright She flew, and set her on her hand softly; Which was a thing I marvell’d at greatly.

The goldfinch eke, that from the medlar tree Was fled for heat into the bushes cold, Unto the Lady of the Flower gan flee, And on her hand he set him as he wo’ld, And pleasantly his winges gan to fold; And for to sing they pain’d them both, as sore made great exertions As they had done of all the day before. during

And so these ladies rode forth a great pace, rapidly And all the rout of knightes eke in fere; And I, that had seen all this wonder case, wondrous incident Thought that I would assay in some mannere To know fully the truth of this mattere, And what they were that rode so pleasantly; And when they were the arbour passed by,

I dress’d me forth, and happ’d to meet anon issued forth A right fair lady, I do you ensure; assure And she came riding by herself alone, All in white; [then] with semblance full demure I her saluted, and bade good adventure fortune Might her befall, as I could most humbly; And she answer’d: “My daughter, gramercy!” great thanks <17>

“Madame,” quoth I, “if that I durst enquere Of you, I would fain, of that company, Wit what they be that pass’d by this herbere? And she again answered right friendly: “My faire daughter, all that pass’d hereby In white clothing, be servants ev’ry one Unto the Leaf; and I myself am one.

“See ye not her that crowned is,” quoth she “[Clad] all in white?” — “Madame,” then quoth I, “yes:” “That is Dian’, goddess of chastity; And for because that she a maiden is, In her hande the branch she beareth this, That agnus castus <8> men call properly; And all the ladies in her company,

“Which ye see of that herbe chaplets wear, Be such as have kept alway maidenhead: And all they that of laurel chaplets bear, Be such as hardy were in manly deed, — courageous Victorious name which never may be dead! And all they were so worthy of their hand valiant in fight In their time, that no one might them withstand,

“And those that weare chaplets on their head Of fresh woodbind, be such as never were To love untrue in word, in thought, nor deed, But ay steadfast; nor for pleasance, nor fear, Though that they should their heartes all to-tear, rend in pieces Would never flit, but ever were steadfast, change Till that their lives there asunder brast.” till they died

“Now fair Madame,” quoth I, “yet would I pray Your ladyship, if that it mighte be, That I might knowe, by some manner way (Since that it hath liked your beauty, The truth of these ladies for to tell me), What that these knightes be in rich armour, And what those be in green and wear the flow’r?

“And why that some did rev’rence to that tree, And some unto the plot of flowers fair?” “With right good will, my daughter fair,” quoth she, “Since your desire is good and debonair; gentle, courteous The nine crowned be very exemplair the true examples Of all honour longing to chivalry; And those certain be call’d The Nine Worthy, <18>

“Which ye may see now riding all before, That in their time did many a noble deed, And for their worthiness full oft have bore The crown of laurel leaves upon their head, As ye may in your olde bookes read; And how that he that was a conquerour Had by laurel alway his most honour.

“And those that beare boughes in their hand Of the precious laurel so notable, Be such as were, I will ye understand, Most noble Knightes of the Rounde Table,<19> And eke the Douceperes honourable; <20> Whiche they bear in sign of victory, As witness of their deedes mightily.

“Eke there be knightes old <21> of the Garter, That in their time did right worthily; And the honour they did to the laurer laurel <22> Is for by it they have their laud wholly, because Their triumph eke, and martial glory; Which unto them is more perfect richess Than any wight imagine can, or guess.

“For one leaf given of that noble tree To any wight that hath done worthily, An’ it be done so as it ought to be, if Is more honour than any thing earthly; Witness of Rome, that founder was truly Of alle knighthood and deeds marvellous; Record I take of Titus Livius.” <23>

And as for her that crowned is in green, It is Flora, of these flowers goddess; And all that here on her awaiting be’n, It are such folk that loved idleness, And not delighted in no business, But for to hunt and hawk, and play in meads, And many other such-like idle deeds.

“And for the great delight and the pleasance They have to the flow’r, and so rev’rently They unto it do such obeisance As ye may see.” “Now, fair Madame,”quoth I, “If I durst ask, what is the cause, and why, That knightes have the ensign of honour insignia Rather by the leaf than by the flow’r?”

“Soothly, daughter,” quoth she, “this is the troth: For knights should ever be persevering, To seek honour, without feintise or sloth, dissimulation From well to better in all manner thing: In sign of which, with leaves aye lasting They be rewarded after their degree, Whose lusty green may not appaired be, impaired, decayed

“But ay keeping their beauty fresh and green; For there is no storm that may them deface, Nor hail nor snow, nor wind nor frostes keen; Wherefore they have this property and grace: And for the flow’r, within a little space, Wolle be lost, so simple of nature will They be, that they no grievance may endure; injury, hardship

“And ev’ry storm will blow them soon away, Nor they laste not but for a season; That is the cause, the very truth to say, That they may not, by no way of reason, Be put to no such occupation.” “Madame,” quoth I, “with all my whole service I thank you now, in my most humble wise;

“For now I am ascertain’d thoroughly Of ev’ry thing that I desir’d to know.” “I am right glad that I have said, soothly, Aught to your pleasure, if ye will me trow,” believe Quoth she again; “but to whom do ye owe Your service? and which wolle ye honour, will Tell me, I pray, this year, the Leaf or the Flow’r?”

“Madame,” quoth I, “though I be least worthy, Unto the Leaf I owe mine observance:” “That is,” quoth she, “right well done, certainly; And I pray God, to honour you advance, And keep you from the wicked remembrance Of Malebouche, and all his cruelty; Slander <24> And all that good and well-condition’d be.

“For here may I no longer now abide; I must follow the greate company, That ye may see yonder before you ride.” And forthwith, as I coulde, most humbly I took my leave of her, and she gan hie haste After them as fast as she ever might; And I drew homeward, for it was nigh night,

And put all that I had seen in writing, Under support of them that list it read. <25> O little book! thou art so uncunning, unskilful How dar’st thou put thyself in press, <26> for dread? It is wonder that thou waxest not red! Since that thou know’st full lite who shall behold little Thy rude language, full boistously unfold. unfolded in homely and unpolished fashion

Explicit. The End

THE HOUSE OF FAME

[Thanks partly to Pope’s brief and elegant paraphrase, in his “Temple of Fame,” and partly to the familiar force of the style and the satirical significance of the allegory, “The House of Fame” is among the best known and relished of Chaucer’s minor poems. The octosyllabic measure in which it is written — the same which the author of “Hudibras” used with such admirable effect — is excellently adapted for the vivid descriptions, the lively sallies of humour and sarcasm, with which the poem abounds; and when the poet actually does get to his subject, he treats it with a zest, and a corresponding interest on the part of the reader, which are scarcely surpassed by the best of The Canterbury Tales. The poet, however, tarries long on the way to the House of Fame; as Pope says in his advertisement, the reader who would compare his with Chaucer’s poem, “may begin with [Chaucer’s] third Book of Fame, there being nothing in the two first books that answers to their title.” The first book opens with a kind of prologue (actually so marked and called in earlier editions) in which the author speculates on the causes of dreams; avers that never any man had such a dream as he had on the tenth of December; and prays the God of Sleep to help him to interpret the dream, and the Mover of all things to reward or afflict those readers who take the dream well or ill. Then he relates that, having fallen asleep, he fancied himself within a temple of glass — the abode of Venus — the walls of which were painted with the story of Aeneas. The paintings are described at length; and then the poet tells us that, coming out of the temple, he found himself on a vast sandy plain, and saw high in heaven an eagle, that began to descend towards him. With the prologue, the first book numbers 508 lines; of which 192 only — more than are actually concerned with or directly lead towards the real subject of the poem — are given here. The second book, containing 582 lines, of which 176 will be found in this edition, is wholly devoted to the voyage from the Temple of Venus to the House of Fame, which the dreamer accomplishes in the eagle’s claws. The bird has been sent by Jove to do the poet some “solace” in reward of his labours for the cause of Love; and during the transit through the air the messenger discourses obligingly and learnedly with his human burden on the theory of sound, by which all that is spoken must needs reach the House of Fame; and on other matters suggested by their errand and their observations by the way. The third book (of 1080 lines, only a score of which, just at the outset, have been omitted) brings us to the real pith of the poem. It finds the poet close to the House of Fame, built on a rock of ice engraved with names, many of which are half-melted away. Entering the gorgeous palace, he finds all manner of minstrels and historians; harpers, pipers, and trumpeters of fame; magicians, jugglers, sorcerers, and many others. On a throne of ruby sits the goddess, seeming at one moment of but a cubit’s stature, at the next touching heaven; and at either hand, on pillars, stand the great authors who “bear up the name” of ancient nations. Crowds of people enter the hall from all regions of earth, praying the goddess to give them good or evil fame, with and without their own deserts; and they receive answers favourable, negative, or contrary, according to the caprice of Fame. Pursuing his researches further, out of the region of reputation or fame proper into that of tidings or rumours, the poet is led, by a man who has entered into conversation with him, to a vast whirling house of twigs, ever open to the arrival of tidings, ever full of murmurings, whisperings, and clatterings, coming from the vast crowds that fill it — for every rumour, every piece of news, every false report, appears there in the shape of the person who utters it, or passes it on, down in earth. Out at the windows innumerable, the tidings pass to Fame, who gives to each report its name and duration; and in the house travellers, pilgrims, pardoners, couriers, lovers, &c., make a huge clamour. But here the poet meets with a man “of great authority,” and, half afraid, awakes; skilfully — whether by intention, fatigue, or accident — leaving the reader disappointed by the nonfulfilment of what seemed to be promises of further disclosures. The poem, not least in the passages the omission of which has been dictated by the exigencies of the present volume, is full of testimony to the vast acquaintance of Chaucer with learning ancient and modern; Ovid, Virgil, Statius, are equally at his command to illustrate his narrative or to furnish the ground-work of his descriptions; while architecture, the Arabic numeration, the theory of sound, and the effects of gunpowder, are only a few among the topics of his own time of which the poet treats with the ease of proficient knowledge. Not least interesting are the vivid touches in which Chaucer sketches the routine of his laborious and almost recluse daily life; while the strength, individuality, and humour that mark the didactic portion of the poem prove that “The House of Fame” was one of the poet’s riper productions.]

GOD turn us ev’ry dream to good! For it is wonder thing, by the Rood, Cross <1> To my witte, what causeth swevens, dreams Either on morrows or on evens; And why th’effect followeth of some, And of some it shall never come; Why this is an avision And this a revelation; Why this a dream, why that a sweven, And not to ev’ry man like even; alike Why this a phantom, why these oracles, I n’ot; but whoso of these miracles The causes knoweth bet than I, Divine he; for I certainly define Ne can them not, nor ever think do not know them To busy my wit for to swink labour To know of their significance The genders, neither the distance Of times of them, nor the causes For why that this more than that cause is; Or if folke’s complexions Make them dream of reflections; Or elles thus, as others sayn, For too great feebleness of the brain By abstinence, or by sickness, By prison, strife, or great distress, Or elles by disordinance derangement Of natural accustomance; mode of life That some men be too curious In study, or melancholious, Or thus, so inly full of dread, That no man may them boote bede; afford them relief Or elles that devotion Of some, and contemplation, Causeth to them such dreames oft; Or that the cruel life unsoft Of them that unkind loves lead, That often hope much or dread, That purely their impressions Cause them to have visions; Or if that spirits have the might To make folk to dream a-night; Or if the soul, of proper kind, its own nature Be so perfect as men find, That it forewot what is to come, foreknows And that it warneth all and some Of ev’reach of their adventures, By visions, or by figures, But that our fleshe hath no might To understanden it aright, For it is warned too darkly; But why the cause is, not wot I. Well worth of this thing greate clerks, <2> That treat of this and other works; For I of none opinion Will as now make mention; But only that the holy Rood Turn us every dream to good. For never since that I was born, Nor no man elles me beforn, Mette, as I trowe steadfastly, dreamed So wonderful a dream as I, The tenthe day now of December; The which, as I can it remember, I will you tellen ev’ry deal. whit

But at my beginning, truste weel, well I will make invocation, With special devotion, Unto the god of Sleep anon, That dwelleth in a cave of stone, <3> Upon a stream that comes from Lete, That is a flood of hell unsweet, Beside a folk men call Cimmerie; There sleepeth ay this god unmerry, With his sleepy thousand sones, That alway for to sleep their won is; wont, custom And to this god, that I of read, tell of Pray I, that he will me speed My sweven for to tell aright, If ev’ry dream stands in his might. And he that Mover is of all That is, and was, and ever shall, So give them joye that it hear, Of alle that they dream to-year; this year And for to standen all in grace favour Of their loves, or in what place That them were liefest for to stand, most desired And shield them from povert’ and shand, shame And from ev’ry unhap and disease, And send them all that may them please, That take it well, and scorn it not, Nor it misdeemen in their thought, misjudge Through malicious intention; And whoso, through presumption. Or hate, or scorn, or through envy, Despite, or jape, or villainy, jesting Misdeem it, pray I Jesus God, That dream he barefoot, dream he shod, That ev’ry harm that any man Hath had since that the world began, Befall him thereof, ere he sterve, die And grant that he may it deserve, earn, obtain Lo! with such a conclusion As had of his avision Croesus, that was the king of Lyde,<4> That high upon a gibbet died; This prayer shall he have of me; I am no bet in charity. no more charitable

Now hearken, as I have you said, What that I mette ere I abraid, awoke Of December the tenthe day; When it was night to sleep I lay, Right as I was wont for to do’n, And fell asleepe wonder soon, As he that weary was for go <5> was weary from going On pilgrimage miles two To the corsaint Leonard, relics of <6> To make lithe that erst was hard. But, as I slept, me mette I was Within a temple made of glass; In which there were more images Of gold, standing in sundry stages, And more riche tabernacles, And with pierrie more pinnacles, gems And more curious portraitures, And quainte manner of figures strange kinds Of golde work, than I saw ever. But, certainly, I wiste never knew Where that it was, but well wist I It was of Venus readily, This temple; for in portraiture I saw anon right her figure Naked floating in a sea, <7> And also on her head, pardie, Her rose garland white and red, And her comb to comb her head, Her doves, and Dan Cupido, Her blinde son, and Vulcano, <8> That in his face was full brown.

As he “roamed up and down,” the dreamer saw on the wall a tablet of brass inscribed with the opening lines of the Aeneid; while the whole story of Aeneas was told in the “portraitures” and gold work. About three hundred and fifty lines are devoted to the description; but they merely embody Virgil’s account of Aeneas’ adventures from the destruction of Troy to his arrival in Italy; and the only characteristic passage is the following reflection, suggested by the death of Dido for her perfidious but fate-compelled guest:

Lo! how a woman doth amiss, To love him that unknowen is! For, by Christ, lo! thus it fareth, It is not all gold that glareth. glitters For, all so brook I well my head, There may be under goodlihead fair appearance Cover’d many a shrewed vice; cursed Therefore let no wight be so nice foolish To take a love only for cheer, looks Or speech, or for friendly mannere; For this shall ev’ry woman find, That some man, of his pure kind, by force of his nature Will showen outward the fairest, Till he have caught that which him lest; pleases And then anon will causes find, And sweare how she is unkind, Or false, or privy double was. secretly All this say I by Aeneas with reference to And Dido, and her nice lest, foolish pleasure That loved all too soon a guest; Therefore I will say a proverb, That he that fully knows the herb May safely lay it to his eye; Withoute dread, this is no lie. doubt

When the dreamer had seen all the sights in the temple, he became desirous to know who had worked all those wonders, and in what country he was; so he resolved to go out at the wicket, in search of somebody who might tell him.

When I out at the doores came, I fast aboute me beheld; Then saw I but a large feld, open country As far as that I mighte see, WIthoute town, or house, or tree, Or bush, or grass, or ered land, ploughed <9> For all the field was but of sand, As small as men may see it lie fine In the desert of Libye; Nor no manner creature That is formed by Nature, There saw I, me to rede or wiss. advise or direct “O Christ!” thought I, “that art in bliss, From phantom and illusion vain fancy and deception Me save!” and with devotion Mine eyen to the heav’n I cast. Then was I ware at the last That, faste by the sun on high, As kennen might I with mine eye, as well as I might discern Me thought I saw an eagle soar, But that it seemed muche more larger Than I had any eagle seen; This is as sooth as death, certain, It was of gold, and shone so bright, That never saw men such a sight, But if the heaven had y-won, unless All new from God, another sun; So shone the eagle’s feathers bright: And somewhat downward gan it light. descend, alight

The Second Book opens with a brief invocation of Venus and of Thought; then it proceeds:

This eagle, of which I have you told, That shone with feathers as of gold, Which that so high began to soar, I gan beholde more and more, To see her beauty and the wonder; But never was there dint of thunder, Nor that thing that men calle foudre, thunderbolt That smote sometimes a town to powder, And in his swifte coming brenn’d, burned That so swithe gan descend, rapidly As this fowl, when that it beheld That I a-roam was in the feld; And with his grim pawes strong, Within his sharpe nailes long, Me, flying, at a swap he hent, swoop seized And with his sours <10> again up went, Me carrying in his clawes stark strong As light as I had been a lark, How high, I cannot telle you, For I came up, I wist not how.

The poet faints through bewilderment and fear; but the eagle, speaking with the voice of a man, recalls him to himself, and comforts him by the assurance that what now befalls him is for his instruction and profit. Answering the poet’s unspoken inquiry whether he is not to die otherwise, or whether Jove will him stellify, the eagle says that he has been sent by Jupiter out of his “great ruth,”

“For that thou hast so truely So long served ententively with attentive zeal His blinde nephew Cupido, grandson And faire Venus also, Withoute guuerdon ever yet, And natheless hast set thy wit (Although that in thy head full lite is) little To make bookes, songs, and ditties, In rhyme or elles in cadence, As thou best canst, in reverence Of Love, and of his servants eke, That have his service sought, and seek, And pained thee to praise his art, Although thou haddest never part; <11> Wherefore, all so God me bless, Jovis holds it great humbless, And virtue eke, that thou wilt make A-night full oft thy head to ache, In thy study so thou writest, And evermore of love enditest, In honour of him and praisings, And in his folke’s furtherings, And in their matter all devisest, relates And not him nor his folk despisest, Although thou may’st go in the dance Of them that him list not advance. Wherefore, as I said now, y-wis, Jupiter well considers this; And also, beausire, other things; good sir That is, that thou hast no tidings Of Love’s folk, if they be glad, Nor of naught elles that God made; And not only from far country That no tidings come to thee, But of thy very neighebours, That dwellen almost at thy doors, Thou hearest neither that nor this. For when thy labour all done is, And hast y-made thy reckonings, <12> Instead of rest and newe things, Thou go’st home to thy house anon, And, all so dumb as any stone, Thou sittest at another book, Till fully dazed is thy look; blinded And livest thus as a hermite Although thine abstinence is lite.” <13> little

Therefore has Jove appointed the eagle to take the poet to the House of Fame, to do him some pleasure in recompense for his devotion to Cupid; and he will hear, says the bird,

“When we be come there as I say, More wondrous thinges, dare I lay, bet Of Love’s folke more tidings, Both soothe sawes and leasings; true sayings and lies And more loves new begun, And long y-served loves won, And more loves casually That be betid, no man knows why, happened by chance But as a blind man starts a hare; And more jollity and welfare, While that they finde love of steel, love true as steel As thinketh them, and over all weel; More discords, and more jealousies, More murmurs, and more novelties, And more dissimulations, And feigned reparations; And more beardes, in two hours, Withoute razor or scissours Y-made, <14> than graines be of sands; And eke more holding in hands, embracings And also more renovelances renewings Of old forleten acquaintances; broken-off acquaintanceships More love-days,<15> and more accords, agreements Than on instruments be chords; And eke of love more exchanges Than ever cornes were in granges.” barns

The poet can scarcely believe that, though Fame had all the pies [magpies] and all the spies in a kingdom, she should hear so much; but the eagle proceeds to prove that she can.

First shalt thou heare where she dwelleth; And, so as thine own booke telleth, <16> Her palace stands, as I shall say, Right ev’n in middes of the way Betweene heav’n, and earth, and sea, That whatsoe’er in all these three Is spoken, privy or apert, secretly or openly The air thereto is so overt, clear And stands eke in so just a place, suitable That ev’ry sound must to it pace, Or whatso comes from any tongue, Be it rowned, read, or sung, whispered Or spoken in surety or dread, doubt Certain it must thither need.” it must needs go thither

The eagle, in a long discourse, demonstrates that, as all natural things have a natural place towards which they move by natural inclination, and as sound is only broken air, so every sound must come to Fame’s House, “though it were piped of a mouse” — on the same principle by which every part of a mass of water is affected by the casting in of a stone. The poet is all the while borne upward, entertained with various information by the bird; which at last cries out —

“Hold up thy head, for all is well! Saint Julian, lo! bon hostel! <17> See here the House of Fame, lo May’st thou not heare that I do?” “What?” quoth I. “The greate soun’,” Quoth he, “that rumbleth up and down In Fame’s House, full of tidings, Both of fair speech and of chidings, And of false and sooth compouned; compounded, mingled Hearken well; it is not rowned. whispered Hearest thou not the greate swough?” confused sound “Yes, pardie!” quoth I, “well enough.” And what sound is it like?” quoth he “Peter! the beating of the sea,” Quoth I, “against the rockes hollow, When tempests do the shippes swallow. And let a man stand, out of doubt, A mile thence, and hear it rout. roar Or elles like the last humbling dull low distant noise After the clap of a thund’ring, When Jovis hath the air y-beat; But it doth me for feare sweat.” “Nay, dread thee not thereof,” quoth he; “It is nothing will bite thee, Thou shalt no harme have, truly.”

And with that word both he and I As nigh the place arrived were, As men might caste with a spear. I wist not how, but in a street He set me fair upon my feet, And saide: “Walke forth apace, And take thine adventure or case, thy chance of what That thou shalt find in Fame’s place.” may befall “Now,” quoth I, “while we have space To speak, ere that I go from thee, For the love of God, as telle me, In sooth, that I will of thee lear, learn If this noise that I hear Be, as I have heard thee tell, Of folk that down in earthe dwell, And cometh here in the same wise As I thee heard, ere this, devise? And that there living body n’is is not In all that house that yonder is, That maketh all this loude fare?” hubbub, ado “No,” answered he, “by Saint Clare, And all so wisly God rede me; so surely god But one thing I will warne thee, guide me Of the which thou wilt have wonder. Lo! to the House of Fame yonder, Thou know’st how cometh ev’ry speech; It needeth not thee eft to teach. again But understand now right well this; When any speech y-comen is Up to the palace, anon right It waxeth like the same wight becomes person Which that the word in earthe spake, Be he cloth’d in red or black; And so weareth his likeness, And speaks the word, that thou wilt guess fancy That it the same body be, Whether man or woman, he or she. And is not this a wondrous thing?” “Yes,” quoth I then, “by Heaven’s king!” And with this word, “Farewell,” quoth he, And here I will abide thee, wait for And God of Heaven send thee grace Some good to learen in this place.” learn And I of him took leave anon, And gan forth to the palace go’n.

At the opening of the Third Book, Chaucer briefly invokes Apollo’s guidance, and entreats him, because “the rhyme is light and lewd,” to “make it somewhat agreeable, though some verse fail in a syllable.” If the god answers the prayer, the poet promises to kiss the next laurel-tree <18> he sees; and he proceeds:

When I was from this eagle gone, I gan behold upon this place; And certain, ere I farther pace, I will you all the shape devise describe Of house and city; and all the wise How I gan to this place approach, That stood upon so high a roche, rock <19> Higher standeth none in Spain; But up I climb’d with muche pain, And though to climbe grieved me, cost me painful effort Yet I ententive was to see, attentive And for to pore wondrous low, gaze closely If I could any wise know What manner stone this rocke was, For it was like a thing of glass, But that it shone full more clear But of what congealed mattere It was, I wist not readily, But at the last espied I, And found that it was ev’ry deal entirely A rock of ice, and not of steel. Thought I, “By Saint Thomas of Kent, <20> This were a feeble fundament foundation To builden a place so high; on which to build He ought him lite to glorify little That hereon built, God so me save!”

Then saw I all the half y-grave <21> With famous folke’s names fele, many That hadde been in muche weal, good fortune And their fames wide y-blow. But well unnethes might I know scarcely Any letters for to read Their names by; for out of dread doubt They were almost off thawed so, That of the letters one or two Were molt away of ev’ry name, melted So unfamous was wox their fame; become But men say, “What may ever last?” Then gan I in my heart to cast conjecture That they were molt away for heat, And not away with stormes beat; For on the other side I sey saw Of this hill, that northward lay, How it was written full of names Of folke that had greate fames Of olde times, and yet they were As fresh as men had writ them there The selfe day, right ere that hour That I upon them gan to pore. But well I wiste what it made; meant It was conserved with the shade, All the writing which I sigh, saw Of a castle that stood on high; And stood eke on so cold a place, That heat might it not deface. injure, destroy

Then gan I on this hill to go’n, And found upon the cop a won, summit <22> house That all the men that be alive Have not the cunning to descrive skill to describe The beauty of that like place, Nor coulde caste no compass find no contrivance Such another for to make, That might of beauty be its make, match, equal Nor one so wondrously y-wrought, That it astonieth yet my thought, And maketh all my wit to swink, labour Upon this castle for to think; So that the greate beauty, Cast, craft, and curiosity, ingenuity Ne can I not to you devise; describe My witte may me not suffice. But natheless all the substance I have yet in my remembrance; For why, me thoughte, by Saint Gile, Alle was of stone of beryle, Bothe the castle and the tow’r, And eke the hall, and ev’ry bow’r, chamber Withoute pieces or joinings, But many subtile compassings, contrivances As barbicans and pinnacles, watch-towers Imageries and tabernacles, I saw; and eke full of windows, As flakes fall in greate snows. And eke in each of the pinnacles Were sundry habitacles, apartments or niches In which stooden, all without, Full the castle all about, Of all manner of minstrales And gestiours,<23> that telle tales Both of weeping and of game, mirth Of all that longeth unto Fame.

There heard I play upon a harp, That sounded bothe well and sharp, Him, Orpheus, full craftily; And on this side faste by Satte the harper Arion,<24> And eke Aeacides Chiron <25> And other harpers many a one, And the great Glasgerion; <26> And smalle harpers, with their glees, instruments Satten under them in sees, seats And gan on them upward to gape, And counterfeit them as an ape, Or as craft counterfeiteth kind. art counterfeits nature Then saw I standing them behind, Afar from them, all by themselve, Many thousand times twelve, That made loude minstrelsies In cornmuse and eke in shawmies, <27> And in many another pipe, That craftily began to pipe, Both in dulcet <28> and in reed, That be at feastes with the bride. And many a flute and lilting horn, And pipes made of greene corn, As have these little herde-grooms, shepherd-boys That keepe beastes in the brooms. There saw I then Dan Citherus, And of Athens Dan Pronomus, <29> And Marsyas <30> that lost his skin, Both in the face, body, and chin, For that he would envyen, lo! To pipe better than Apollo. There saw I famous, old and young, Pipers of alle Dutche tongue, <31> To learne love-dances and springs, Reyes, <32> and these strange things. Then saw I in another place, Standing in a large space, Of them that make bloody soun’, martial In trumpet, beam, and clarioun; horn <33> For in fight and blood-sheddings Is used gladly clarionings. There heard I trumpe Messenus. <34> Of whom speaketh Virgilius. There heard I Joab trump also, <35> Theodamas, <36> and other mo’, And all that used clarion In Catalogne and Aragon, That in their times famous were To learne, saw I trumpe there. There saw I sit in other sees, Playing upon sundry glees, Whiche that I cannot neven, name More than starres be in heaven; Of which I will not now rhyme, For ease of you, and loss of time: For time lost, this knowe ye, By no way may recover’d be.

There saw I play jongelours, jugglers <37> Magicians, and tregetours,<38> And Pythonesses, <39> charmeresses, And old witches, and sorceresses, That use exorcisations, And eke subfumigations; <40> And clerkes eke, which knowe well scholars All this magic naturel, That craftily do their intents, To make, in certain ascendents, <41> Images, lo! through which magic To make a man be whole or sick. There saw I the queen Medea, <42> And Circes <43> eke, and Calypsa.<44> There saw I Hermes Ballenus, <45> Limote, <46> and eke Simon Magus. <47> There saw I, and knew by name, That by such art do men have fame. There saw I Colle Tregetour <46> Upon a table of sycamore Play an uncouth thing to tell; strange, rare I saw him carry a windmell Under a walnut shell. Why should I make longer tale Of all the people I there say, saw From hence even to doomesday?

When I had all this folk behold, And found me loose, and not y-hold, at liberty and unrestrained And I had mused longe while Upon these walles of beryle, That shone lighter than any glass, And made well more than it was much greater To seemen ev’rything, y-wis, As kindly thing of Fame it is; <48> natural I gan forth roam until I fand found The castle-gate on my right hand, Which all so well y-carven was, That never such another n’as; was not And yet it was by Adventure chance Y-wrought, and not by subtile cure. careful art It needeth not you more to tell, To make you too longe dwell, Of these gates’ flourishings, Nor of compasses, nor carvings, devices Nor how they had in masonries, As corbets, <49> full of imageries. But, Lord! so fair it was to shew, For it was all with gold behew. coloured But in I went, and that anon; There met I crying many a one “A largess! largess! <50> hold up well! God save the Lady of this pell, palace Our owen gentle Lady Fame, And them that will to have name Of us!” Thus heard I cryen all, And fast they came out of the hall, And shooke nobles and sterlings, coins <51> And some y-crowned were as kings, With crownes wrought fall of lozenges; And many ribands, and many fringes, Were on their clothes truely Then at the last espied I That pursuivantes and herauds, heralds That cry riche folke’s lauds, praises They weren all; and ev’ry man Of them, as I you telle can, Had on him throwen a vesture Which that men call a coat-armure, <52> Embroidered wondrously rich, As though there were naught y-lich; nothing like it But naught will I, so may I thrive, Be aboute to descrive concern myself with describing All these armes that there were, That they thus on their coates bare, For it to me were impossible; Men might make of them a bible Twenty foote thick, I trow. For, certain, whoso coulde know Might there all the armes see’n Of famous folk that have been In Afric’, Europe, and Asie, Since first began the chivalry.

Lo! how should I now tell all this? Nor of the hall eke what need is To telle you that ev’ry wall Of it, and floor, and roof, and all, Was plated half a foote thick Of gold, and that was nothing wick’, counterfeit But for to prove in alle wise As fine as ducat of Venise, <53> Of which too little in my pouch is? And they were set as thick of nouches ornaments Fine, of the finest stones fair, That men read in the Lapidaire, <54> As grasses growen in a mead. But it were all too long to read declare The names; and therefore I pass. But in this rich and lusty place, That Fame’s Hall y-called was, Full muche press of folk there n’as, was not Nor crowding for too muche press. But all on high, above a dais, Set on a see imperial, <55> seat That made was of ruby all, Which that carbuncle is y-call’d, I saw perpetually install’d A feminine creature; That never formed by Nature Was such another thing y-sey. seen For altherfirst, sooth to say, first of all Me thoughte that she was so lite, little That the length of a cubite Was longer than she seem’d to be; But thus soon in a while she Herself then wonderfully stretch’d, That with her feet the earth she reach’d, And with her head she touched heaven, Where as shine the starres seven. <56> And thereto eke, as to my wit, moreover I saw a greater wonder yet, Upon her eyen to behold; But certes I them never told. For as fele eyen hadde she, as many eyes As feathers upon fowles be, Or were on the beastes four That Godde’s throne gan honour, As John writ in th’Apocalypse. <57> Her hair, that oundy was and crips, wavy <58> and crisp As burnish’d gold it shone to see; And, sooth to tellen, also she Had all so fele upstanding ears, many And tongues, as on beasts be hairs; And on her feet waxen saw I Partridges’ winges readily.<59> But, Lord! the pierrie and richess gems, jewellery I saw sitting on this goddess, And the heavenly melody Of songes full of harmony, I heard about her throne y-sung, That all the palace walles rung! (So sung the mighty Muse, she That called is Calliope, And her eight sisteren eke, sisters That in their faces seeme meek); And evermore eternally They sang of Fame as then heard I: “Heried be thou and thy name, praised Goddess of Renown and Fame!” Then was I ware, lo! at the last, As I mine eyen gan upcast, That this ilke noble queen On her shoulders gan sustene sustain Both the armes, and the name Of those that hadde large fame; Alexander, and Hercules, That with a shirt his life lese. <60> lost Thus found I sitting this goddess, In noble honour and richess; Of which I stint a while now, refrain (from speaking) Of other things to telle you.

Then saw I stand on either side, Straight down unto the doores wide, From the dais, many a pillere Of metal, that shone not full clear; But though they were of no richess, Yet were they made for great nobless, And in them greate sentence. significance And folk of digne reverence, worthy, lofty Of which I will you telle fand, I will try to tell you Upon the pillars saw I stand. Altherfirst, lo! there I sigh saw Upon a pillar stand on high, That was of lead and iron fine, Him of the secte Saturnine, <61> The Hebrew Josephus the old, That of Jewes’ gestes told; deeds of braver And he bare on his shoulders high All the fame up of Jewry. And by him stooden other seven, Full wise and worthy for to neven, name To help him bearen up the charge, burden It was so heavy and so large. And, for they writen of battailes, As well as other old marvailes, Therefore was, lo! this pillere, Of which that I you telle here, Of lead and iron both, y-wis; For iron Marte’s metal is, <62> Which that god is of battaile; And eke the lead, withoute fail, Is, lo! the metal of Saturn, That hath full large wheel to turn. orbit Then stoode forth, on either row, Of them which I coulde know, Though I them not by order tell, To make you too longe dwell. These, of the which I gin you read, There saw I standen, out of dread, Upon an iron pillar strong, That painted was all endelong from top to bottom With tiger’s blood in ev’ry place, The Tholosan that highte Stace, <63> That bare of Thebes up the name Upon his shoulders, and the fame Also of cruel Achilles. And by him stood, withoute lease, falsehood Full wondrous high on a pillere Of iron, he, the great Homere; And with him Dares and Dytus, <64> Before, and eke he, Lollius, <65> And Guido eke de Colempnis, <66> And English Gaufrid <67> eke, y-wis. And each of these, as I have joy, Was busy for to bear up Troy; So heavy thereof was the fame, That for to bear it was no game. But yet I gan full well espy, Betwixt them was a little envy. One said that Homer made lies, Feigning in his poetries, And was to the Greeks favourable; Therefore held he it but a fable. Then saw I stand on a pillere That was of tinned iron clear, Him, the Latin poet Virgile, That borne hath up a longe while The fame of pious Aeneas. And next him on a pillar was Of copper, Venus’ clerk Ovide, That hath y-sowen wondrous wide The greate god of Love’s fame. And there he bare up well his name Upon this pillar all so high, As I might see it with mine eye; For why? this hall whereof I read Was waxen in height, and length, and bread, breadth Well more by a thousand deal times Than it was erst, that saw I weel. Then saw I on a pillar by, Of iron wrought full sternely, The greate poet, Dan Lucan, That on his shoulders bare up than, As high as that I might it see, The fame of Julius and Pompey; <68> And by him stood all those clerks That write of Rome’s mighty works, That if I would their names tell, All too longe must I dwell. And next him on a pillar stood Of sulphur, like as he were wood, mad Dan Claudian, <69> the sooth to tell, That bare up all the fame of hell, Of Pluto, and of Proserpine, That queen is of the darke pine the dark realm of pain Why should I telle more of this? The hall was alle fulle, y-wis, Of them that writen olde gests, histories of great deeds As be on trees rookes’ nests; But it a full confus’d mattere Were all these gestes for to hear, That they of write, and how they hight. are called

But while that I beheld this sight, I heard a noise approache blive, quickly That far’d as bees do in a hive, went Against their time of outflying; Right such a manner murmuring, For all the world, it seem’d to me. Then gan I look about, and see That there came entering the hall A right great company withal, And that of sundry regions, Of all kinds and conditions That dwell in earth under the moon, Both poor and rich; and all so soon As they were come into the hall, They gan adown on knees to fall, Before this ilke noble queen, same And saide, “Grant us, Lady sheen, bright, lovely Each of us of thy grace a boon.” favour And some of them she granted soon, And some she warned well and fair, refused And some she granted the contrair contrary Of their asking utterly; But this I say you truely, What that her cause was, I n’ist; wist not, know not For of these folk full well I wist, They hadde good fame each deserved, Although they were diversely served. Right as her sister, Dame Fortune, Is wont to serven in commune. commonly, usually

Now hearken how she gan to pay Them that gan of her grace to pray; And right, lo! all this company Saide sooth, and not a lie. truth “Madame,” thus quoth they, “we be Folk that here beseeche thee That thou grant us now good fame, And let our workes have good name In full recompensatioun Of good work, give us good renown “I warn it you,” quoth she anon; refuse “Ye get of me good fame none, By God! and therefore go your way.” “Alas,” quoth they, “and well-away! Tell us what may your cause be.” “For that it list me not,” quoth she, pleases No wight shall speak of you, y-wis, Good nor harm, nor that nor this.”

And with that word she gan to call Her messenger, that was in hall, And bade that he should faste go’n, Upon pain to be blind anon, For Aeolus, the god of wind; “In Thrace there ye shall him find, And bid him bring his clarioun, That is full diverse of his soun’, And it is called Cleare Laud, With which he wont is to heraud proclaim Them that me list y-praised be, And also bid him how that he Bring eke his other clarioun, That hight Slander in ev’ry town, is called With which he wont is to diffame defame, disparage Them that me list, and do them shame.” This messenger gan faste go’n, And found where, in a cave of stone, In a country that highte Thrace, This Aeolus, with harde grace, Evil favour attend him! Helde the windes in distress, constraint And gan them under him to press, That they began as bears to roar, He bound and pressed them so sore. This messenger gan fast to cry, “Rise up,” quoth he, “and fast thee hie, Until thou at my Lady be, And take thy clarions eke with thee, And speed thee forth.” And he anon Took to him one that hight Triton, <70> His clarions to beare tho, then And let a certain winde go, That blew so hideously and high, That it lefte not a sky cloud <71> In all the welkin long and broad. sky This Aeolus nowhere abode delayed Till he was come to Fame’s feet, And eke the man that Triton hete, is called And there he stood as still as stone.

And therewithal there came anon Another huge company Of goode folk, and gan to cry, “Lady, grant us goode fame, And let our workes have that name, Now in honour of gentleness; And all so God your soule bless; For we have well deserved it, Therefore is right we be well quit.” requited “As thrive I,” quoth she, “ye shall fail; Good workes shall you not avail To have of me good fame as now; But, wot ye what, I grante you. That ye shall have a shrewde fame, evil, cursed And wicked los, and worse name, reputation <72> Though ye good los have well deserv’d; Now go your way, for ye be serv’d. And now, Dan Aeolus,” quoth she, “Take forth thy trump anon, let see, That is y-called Slander light, And blow their los, that ev’ry wight Speak of them harm and shrewedness, wickedness, malice Instead of good and worthiness; For thou shalt trump all the contrair Of that they have done, well and fair.” Alas! thought I, what adventures (evil) fortunes Have these sorry creatures, That they, amonges all the press, Should thus be shamed guilteless? But what! it muste needes be. What did this Aeolus, but he Took out his blacke trump of brass, That fouler than the Devil was, And gan this trumpet for to blow, As all the world ’t would overthrow. Throughout every regioun Went this foule trumpet’s soun’, As swift as pellet out of gun When fire is in the powder run. And such a smoke gan out wend, go Out of this foule trumpet’s end, Black, blue, greenish, swart, and red, black <73> As doth when that men melt lead, Lo! all on high from the tewell; chimney <74> And thereto one thing saw I well, also That the farther that it ran, The greater waxen it began, As doth the river from a well, fountain And it stank as the pit of hell. Alas! thus was their shame y-rung, And guilteless, on ev’ry tongue.

Then came the thirde company, And gan up to the dais to hie, hasten And down on knees they fell anon, And saide, “We be ev’ry one Folk that have full truely Deserved fame right fully, And pray you that it may be know Right as it is, and forth y-blow.” “I grante,” quoth she, “for me list That now your goode works be wist; known And yet ye shall have better los, In despite of all your foes, Than worthy is, and that anon. merited Let now,” quoth she, “thy trumpet go’n, Thou Aeolus, that is so black, And out thine other trumpet take, That highte Laud, and blow it so That through the world their fame may go, Easily and not too fast, That it be knowen at the last.” “Full gladly, Lady mine,” he said; And out his trump of gold he braid pulled forth Anon, and set it to his mouth, And blew it east, and west, and south, And north, as loud as any thunder, That ev’ry wight had of it wonder, So broad it ran ere that it stent. ceased And certes all the breath that went Out of his trumpet’s mouthe smell’d As men a pot of balme held as if Among a basket full of roses; This favour did he to their loses. reputations

And right with this I gan espy Where came the fourthe company. But certain they were wondrous few; And gan to standen in a rew, row And saide, “Certes, Lady bright, We have done well with all our might, But we not keep to have fame; care not Hide our workes and our name, For Godde’s love! for certes we Have surely done it for bounty, goodness, virtue And for no manner other thing.” “I grante you all your asking,” Quoth she; “let your workes be dead.”

With that I turn’d about my head, And saw anon the fifthe rout, company That to this Lady gan to lout, bow down And down on knees anon to fall; And to her then besoughten all To hide their good workes eke, And said, they gave not a leek cared For no fame, nor such renown; For they for contemplatioun And Godde’s love had y-wrought, Nor of fame would they have aught. “What!” quoth she, “and be ye wood? And weene ye for to do good, do ye imagine And for to have of that no fame? Have ye despite to have my name? do ye despise Nay, ye shall lie every one! Blow thy trump, and that anon,” Quoth she, “thou Aeolus, I hote, command And ring these folkes works by note, That all the world may of it hear.” And he gan blow their los so clear reputation Within his golden clarioun, That through the worlde went the soun’, All so kindly, and so soft, That their fame was blown aloft.

And then came the sixth company, And gunnen fast on Fame to cry; began Right verily in this mannere They saide; “Mercy, Lady dear! To telle certain as it is, We have done neither that nor this, But idle all our life hath be; been But natheless yet praye we That we may have as good a fame, And great renown, and knowen name, well-known As they that have done noble gests, feats. And have achieved all their quests, enterprises; desires As well of Love, as other thing; All was us never brooch, nor ring, although Nor elles aught from women sent, Nor ones in their hearte meant To make us only friendly cheer, But mighte teem us upon bier; might lay us on our bier Yet let us to the people seem (by their adverse demeanour) Such as the world may of us deem, judge That women loven us for wood. madly It shall us do as muche good, And to our heart as much avail, The counterpoise, ease, and travail, compensation As we had won it with labour; For that is deare bought honour, At the regard of our great ease. in comparison with And yet ye must us more please; in addition Let us be holden eke thereto Worthy, and wise, and good also, And rich, and happy unto love, For Godde’s love, that sits above; Though we may not the body have Of women, yet, so God you save, Let men glue on us the name; fasten Sufficeth that we have the fame.” “I grante,” quoth she, “by my troth; Now Aeolus, withoute sloth, Take out thy trump of gold,” quoth she, “And blow as they have asked me, That ev’ry man ween them at ease, believe Although they go in full bad leas.” sorry plight This Aeolus gan it so blow, That through the world it was y-know.

Then came the seventh rout anon, And fell on knees ev’ry one, And saide, “Lady, grant us soon The same thing, the same boon, Which this next folk you have done.” the people just before us “Fy on you,” quoth she, “ev’ry one! Ye nasty swine, ye idle wretches, Full fill’d of rotten slowe tetches! blemishes <75> What? false thieves! ere ye would Be famous good, and nothing n’ould have good fame Deserve why, nor never raught, recked, cared (to do so) Men rather you to hangen ought. For ye be like the sleepy cat, That would have fish; but, know’st thou what? He woulde no thing wet his claws. Evil thrift come to your jaws, And eke to mine, if I it grant, Or do favour you to avaunt. boast your deeds Thou Aeolus, thou King of Thrace, Go, blow this folk a sorry grace,” disgrace Quoth she, “anon; and know’st thou how? As I shall telle thee right now, Say, these be they that would honour Have, and do no kind of labour, Nor do no good, and yet have laud, And that men ween’d that Belle Isaude <76> Could them not of love wern; could not refuse them her love And yet she that grinds at the quern mill <77> Is all too good to ease their heart.” This Aeolus anon upstart, And with his blacke clarioun He gan to blazen out a soun’ As loud as bellows wind in hell; And eke therewith, the sooth to tell, This sounde was so full of japes, jests As ever were mows in apes; grimaces And that went all the world about, That ev’ry wight gan on them shout, And for to laugh as they were wood; mad Such game found they in their hood. <78> so were they ridiculed

Then came another company, That hadde done the treachery, The harm, and the great wickedness, That any hearte coulde guess; And prayed her to have good fame, And that she would do them no shame, But give them los and good renown, And do it blow in clarioun. cause it to be blown “Nay, wis!” quoth she, “it were a vice; All be there in me no justice, Me liste not to do it now, Nor this will I grant to you.”

Then came there leaping in a rout, crowd And gan to clappen all about strike, knock Every man upon the crown, That all the hall began to soun’; And saide; “Lady lefe and dear, loved We be such folk as ye may hear. To tellen all the tale aright, We be shrewes every wight, wicked, impious people And have delight in wickedness, As goode folk have in goodness, And joy to be y-knowen shrews, And full of vice and wicked thews; evil qualities Wherefore we pray you on a row, all together That our fame be such y-know In all things right as it is.” “I grant it you,” quoth she, “y-wis. But what art thou that say’st this tale, That wearest on thy hose a pale, vertical stripe And on thy tippet such a bell?” “Madame,” quoth he, “sooth to tell, I am that ilke shrew, y-wis, the same wretch That burnt the temple of Isidis, In Athenes, lo! that city.” <79> “And wherefore didst thou so?” quoth she. “By my thrift!” quoth he, “Madame, I woulde fain have had a name As other folk had in the town; Although they were of great renown For their virtue and their thews, good qualities Thought I, as great fame have shrews (Though it be naught) for shrewdeness, As good folk have for goodeness; And since I may not have the one, The other will I not forgo’n. So for to gette fame’s hire, the reward of fame The temple set I all afire. Now do our los be blowen swithe, As wisly be thou ever blithe.” see note <80> “Gladly,” quoth she; “thou Aeolus, Hear’st thou what these folk prayen us?” “Madame, I hear full well,” quoth he, “And I will trumpen it, pardie!” And took his blacke trumpet fast, And gan to puffen and to blast, Till it was at the worlde’s end.

With that I gan aboute wend, turn For one that stood right at my back Me thought full goodly to me spake, courteously, fairly And saide, “Friend, what is thy name? Art thou come hither to have fame?” “Nay, for soothe, friend!” quoth I; surely “I came not hither, grand mercy, great thanks For no such cause, by my head! Sufficeth me, as I were dead, That no wight have my name in hand. I wot myself best how I stand, For what I dree, or what I think, suffer I will myself it alle drink, Certain, for the more part, As far forth as I know mine art.” “What doest thou here, then,” quoth he. Quoth I, “That will I telle thee; The cause why I stande here, Is some new tidings for to lear, learn Some newe thing, I know not what, Tidings either this or that, Of love, or suche thinges glad. For, certainly, he that me made To come hither, said to me I shoulde bothe hear and see In this place wondrous things; But these be not such tidings As I meant of.” “No?” quoth he. And I answered, “No, pardie! For well I wot ever yet, Since that first I hadde wit, That some folk have desired fame Diversely, and los, and name; But certainly I knew not how Nor where that Fame dwelled, ere now Nor eke of her description, Nor also her condition, Nor the order of her doom, the principle of her judgments Knew I not till I hither come.” “Why, then, lo! be these tidings, That thou nowe hither brings, That thou hast heard?” quoth he to me. “But now no force, for well I see no matter What thou desirest for to lear.” Come forth, and stand no longer here. And I will thee, withoute dread, doubt Into another place lead, Where thou shalt hear many a one.”

Then gan I forth with him to go’n Out of the castle, sooth to say. Then saw I stand in a vally, Under the castle faste by, A house, that domus Daedali, That Labyrinthus <81> called is, N’as made so wondrously, y-wis, was not Nor half so quaintly was y-wrought. strangely And evermore, as swift as thought, This quainte house aboute went, strange That nevermore it stille stent; ceased to move And thereout came so great a noise, That had it stooden upon Oise, <82> Men might have heard it easily To Rome, I trowe sickerly. confidently believe And the noise which I heard, For all the world right so it far’d As doth the routing of the stone rushing noise That from the engine<83> is let go’n. And all this house of which I read tell you Was made of twigges sallow, red, willow And green eke, and some were white, Such as men to the cages twight, pull to make cages Or maken of these panniers, Or elles hutches or dossers; back-baskets That, for the swough and for the twigs, rushing noise This house was all so full of gigs, sounds of wind And all so full eke of chirkings, creakings And of many other workings; And eke this house had of entries As many as leaves be on trees, In summer when that they be green, And on the roof men may yet see’n A thousand holes, and well mo’, To let the soundes oute go. And by day in ev’ry tide continually Be all the doores open wide, And by night each one unshet; unshut, open Nor porter there is none to let hinder No manner tidings in to pace; Nor ever rest is in that place, That it n’is fill’d full of tidings, is not Either loud, or of whisperings; And ever all the house’s angles Are full of rownings and of jangles, whisperings and chatterings Of wars, of peace, of marriages, Of rests, of labour, of voyages, Of abode, of death, of life, Of love, of hate, accord, of strife, Of loss, of lore, and of winnings, Of health, of sickness, of buildings, Of faire weather and tempests, Of qualm of folkes and of beasts; sickness Of divers transmutations Of estates and of regions; Of trust, of dread, of jealousy, doubt Of wit, of cunning, of folly, Of plenty, and of great famine, Of cheap, of dearth, and of ruin; cheapness & dearness (of food) Of good or of mis-government, Of fire, and diverse accident. And lo! this house of which I write, Sicker be ye, it was not lite; be assured small For it was sixty mile of length, All was the timber of no strength; although Yet it is founded to endure, While that it list to Adventure, while fortune pleases That is the mother of tidings, As is the sea of wells and springs; And it was shapen like a cage. “Certes,” quoth I, “in all mine age, life Ne’er saw I such a house as this.”

And as I wonder’d me, y-wis, Upon this house, then ware was I How that mine eagle, faste by, Was perched high upon a stone; And I gan straighte to him go’n, And saide thus; “I praye thee That thou a while abide me, wait for For Godde’s love, and let me see What wonders in this place be; For yet parauntre I may lear peradventure learn Some good thereon, or somewhat hear, That lefe me were, ere that I went.” were pleasing to me “Peter! that is mine intent,” Quoth he to me; “therefore I dwell; tarry But, certain, one thing I thee tell, That, but I bringe thee therein, unless Thou shalt never can begin be able To come into it, out of doubt, So fast it whirleth, lo! about. But since that Jovis, of his grace, As I have said, will thee solace Finally with these ilke things, same These uncouth sightes and tidings, To pass away thy heaviness, Such ruth hath he of thy distress compassion That thou suff’rest debonairly, gently And know’st thyselven utterly Desperate of alle bliss, Since that Fortune hath made amiss The fruit of all thy hearte’s rest Languish, and eke in point to brest; on the point of breaking But he, through his mighty merite, Will do thee ease, all be it lite, little And gave express commandement, To which I am obedient, To further thee with all my might, And wiss and teache thee aright, direct Where thou may’st moste tidings hear, Shalt thou anon many one lear.”

And with this word he right anon Hent me up betwixt his tone, caught toes And at a window in me brought, That in this house was, as me thought; And therewithal me thought it stent, stopped And nothing it aboute went; And set me in the floore down. But such a congregatioun Of folk, as I saw roam about, Some within and some without, Was never seen, nor shall be eft, again, hereafter That, certes, in the world n’ is left is not So many formed by Nature, Nor dead so many a creature, That well unnethes in that place scarcely Had I a foote breadth of space; And ev’ry wight that I saw there Rown’d evereach in other’s ear whispered A newe tiding privily, Or elles told all openly Right thus, and saide, “Know’st not thou What is betid, lo! righte now?” happened “No,” quoth he; “telle me what.” And then he told him this and that, And swore thereto, that it was sooth; “Thus hath he said,” and “Thus he do’th,” And “Thus shall ’t be,” and “Thus heard I say “That shall be found, that dare I lay;” wager That all the folk that is alive Have not the cunning to descrive describe The thinges that I hearde there, What aloud, and what in th’ear. But all the wonder most was this; When one had heard a thing, y-wis, He came straight to another wight, And gan him tellen anon right The same tale that to him was told, Or it a furlong way was old, <84> And gan somewhat for to eche eke, add To this tiding in his speech, More than it ever spoken was. And not so soon departed n’as was He from him, than that he met With the third; and ere he let Any stound, he told him als’; without delaying a momen Were the tidings true or false, Yet would he tell it natheless, And evermore with more increase Than it was erst. Thus north and south at first Went ev’ry tiding from mouth to mouth, And that increasing evermo’, As fire is wont to quick and go become alive, and spread From a spark y-sprung amiss, Till all a city burnt up is. And when that it was full up-sprung, And waxen more on ev’ry tongue increased Than e’er it was, it went anon Up to a window out to go’n; Or, but it mighte thereout pass, It gan creep out at some crevass, crevice, chink And fly forth faste for the nonce. And sometimes saw I there at once A leasing, and a sad sooth saw, a falsehood and an earnest That gan of adventure draw true saying by chance Out at a window for to pace; And when they metten in that place, They were checked both the two, And neither of them might out go; For other so they gan to crowd, push, squeeze, each other Till each of them gan cryen loud, “Let me go first!” — “Nay, but let me! And here I will ensure thee, With vowes, if thou wilt do so, That I shall never from thee go, But be thine owen sworen brother! We will us medle each with other, mingle That no man, be he ne’er so wroth, Shall have one of us two, but both At ones, as beside his leave, despite his desire Come we at morning or at eve, Be we cried or still y-rowned.” quietly whispered Thus saw I false and sooth, compouned, compounded Together fly for one tiding. Then out at holes gan to wring squeeze, struggle Every tiding straight to Fame; And she gan give to each his name After her disposition, And gave them eke duration, Some to wax and wane soon, As doth the faire white moon; And let them go. There might I see Winged wonders full fast flee, Twenty thousand in a rout, company As Aeolus them blew about. And, Lord! this House in alle times Was full of shipmen and pilgrimes, <85> With scrippes bretfull of leasings, wallets brimful of falsehoods Entremedled with tidings true stories And eke alone by themselve. And many thousand times twelve Saw I eke of these pardoners,<86> Couriers, and eke messengers, With boistes crammed full of lies boxes As ever vessel was with lyes. lees of wine And as I altherfaste went with all speed About, and did all mine intent Me for to play and for to lear, to amuse and instruct myself And eke a tiding for to hear That I had heard of some country, That shall not now be told for me; — For it no need is, readily; Folk can sing it better than I. For all must out, or late or rath, soon All the sheaves in the lath; barn <87> I heard a greate noise withal In a corner of the hall, Where men of love tidings told; And I gan thitherward behold, For I saw running ev’ry wight As fast as that they hadde might, And ev’reach cried, “What thing is that?” And some said, “I know never what.” And when they were all on a heap, Those behinde gan up leap, And clomb upon each other fast, <88> climbed And up the noise on high they cast, And trodden fast on others’ heels, And stamp’d, as men do after eels.

But at the last I saw a man, Which that I not describe can; But that he seemed for to be A man of great authority. And therewith I anon abraid awoke Out of my sleepe, half afraid; Rememb’ring well what I had seen, And how high and far I had been In my ghost; and had great wonder Of what the mighty god of thunder Had let me know; and gan to write Like as ye have me heard endite. Wherefore to study and read alway I purpose to do day by day. And thus, in dreaming and in game, Endeth this little book of Fame.

Here endeth the Book of Fame

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA

[In several respects, the story of “Troilus and Cressida” may be regarded as Chaucer’s noblest poem. Larger in scale than any other of his individual works — numbering nearly half as many lines as The Canterbury Tales contain, without reckoning the two in prose — the conception of the poem is yet so closely and harmoniously worked out, that all the parts are perfectly balanced, and from first to last scarcely a single line is superfluous or misplaced. The finish and beauty of the poem as a work of art, are not more conspicuous than the knowledge of human nature displayed in the portraits of the principal characters. The result is, that the poem is more modern, in form and in spirit, than almost any other work of its author; the chaste style and sedulous polish of the stanzas admit of easy change into the forms of speech now current in England; while the analytical and subjective character of the work gives it, for the nineteenth century reader, an interest of the same kind as that inspired, say, by George Eliot’s wonderful study of character in “Romola.” Then, above all, “Troilus and Cressida” is distinguished by a purity and elevation of moral tone, that may surprise those who judge of Chaucer only by the coarse traits of his time preserved in The Canterbury Tales, or who may expect to find here the Troilus, the Cressida, and the Pandarus of Shakspeare’s play. It is to no trivial gallant, no woman of coarse mind and easy virtue, no malignantly subservient and utterly debased procurer, that Chaucer introduces us. His Troilus is a noble, sensitive, generous, pure- souled, manly, magnanimous hero, who is only confirmed and stimulated in all virtue by his love, who lives for his lady, and dies for her falsehood, in a lofty and chivalrous fashion. His Cressida is a stately, self-contained, virtuous, tender-hearted woman, who loves with all the pure strength and trustful abandonment of a generous and exalted nature, and who is driven to infidelity perhaps even less by pressure of circumstances, than by the sheer force of her love, which will go on loving — loving what it can have, when that which it would rather have is for the time unattainable. His Pandarus is a gentleman, though a gentleman with a flaw in him; a man who, in his courtier-like good-nature, places the claims of comradeship above those of honour, and plots away the virtue of his niece, that he may appease the love-sorrow of his friend; all the time conscious that he is not acting as a gentleman should, and desirous that others should give him that justification which he can get but feebly and diffidently in himself. In fact, the “Troilus and Cressida” of Chaucer is the “Troilus and Cressida” of Shakespeare transfigured; the atmosphere, the colour, the spirit, are wholly different; the older poet presents us in the chief characters to noble natures, the younger to ignoble natures in all the characters; and the poem with which we have now to do stands at this day among the noblest expositions of love’s workings in the human heart and life. It is divided into five books, containing altogether 8246 lines. The First Book (1092 lines) tells how Calchas, priest of Apollo, quitting beleaguered Troy, left there his only daughter Cressida; how Troilus, the youngest brother of Hector and son of King Priam, fell in love with her at first sight, at a festival in the temple of Pallas, and sorrowed bitterly for her love; and how his friend, Cressida’s uncle, Pandarus, comforted him by the promise of aid in his suit. The Second Book (1757 lines) relates the subtle manoeuvres of Pandarus to induce Cressida to return the love of Troilus; which he accomplishes mainly by touching at once the lady’s admiration for his heroism, and her pity for his love-sorrow on her account. The Third Book (1827 lines) opens with an account of the first interview between the lovers; ere it closes, the skilful stratagems of Pandarus have placed the pair in each other’s arms under his roof, and the lovers are happy in perfect enjoyment of each other’s love and trust. In the Fourth Book (1701 lines) the course of true love ceases to run smooth; Cressida is compelled to quit the city, in ransom for Antenor, captured in a skirmish; and she sadly departs to the camp of the Greeks, vowing that she will make her escape, and return to Troy and Troilus within ten days. The Fifth Book (1869 lines) sets out by describing the court which Diomedes, appointed to escort her, pays to Cressida on the way to the camp; it traces her gradual progress from indifference to her new suitor, to incontinence with him, and it leaves the deserted Troilus dead on the field of battle, where he has sought an eternal refuge from the new grief provoked by clear proof of his mistress’s infidelity. The polish, elegance, and power of the style, and the acuteness of insight into character, which mark the poem, seem to claim for it a date considerably later than that adopted by those who assign its composition to Chaucer’s youth: and the literary allusions and proverbial expressions with which it abounds, give ample evidence that, if Chaucer really wrote it at an early age, his youth must have been precocious beyond all actual record. Throughout the poem there are repeated references to the old authors of Trojan histories who are named in “The House of Fame”; but Chaucer especially mentions one Lollius as the author from whom he takes the groundwork of the poem. Lydgate is responsible for the assertion that Lollius meant Boccaccio; and though there is no authority for supposing that the English really meant to designate the Italian poet under that name, there is abundant internal proof that the poem was really founded on the “Filostrato” of Boccaccio. But the tone of Chaucer’s work is much higher than that of his Italian “auctour;” and while in some passages the imitation is very close, in all that is characteristic in “Troilus and Cressida,” Chaucer has fairly thrust his models out of sight. In the present edition, it has been possible to give no more than about one-fourth of the poem — 274 out of the 1178 seven-line stanzas that compose it; but pains have been taken to convey, in the connecting prose passages, a faithful idea of what is perforce omitted.]

THE FIRST BOOK.

THE double sorrow <1> of Troilus to tell, That was the King Priamus’ son of Troy, In loving how his adventures fell fortunes From woe to weal, and after out of joy, afterwards My purpose is, ere I you parte froy. from Tisiphone,<2> thou help me to indite These woeful words, that weep as I do write.

To thee I call, thou goddess of torment! Thou cruel wight, that sorrowest ever in pain; Help me, that am the sorry instrument That helpeth lovers, as I can, to plain. complain For well it sits, the soothe for to sayn, befits Unto a woeful wight a dreary fere, companion And to a sorry tale a sorry cheer. countenance

For I, that God of Love’s servants serve, Nor dare to love for mine unlikeliness, <3> unsuitableness Praye for speed, although I shoulde sterve, success die So far I am from his help in darkness; But natheless, might I do yet gladness To any lover, or any love avail, advance Have thou the thank, and mine be the travail.

But ye lovers that bathen in gladness, If any drop of pity in you be, Remember you for old past heaviness, For Godde’s love, and on adversity That others suffer; think how sometime ye Founde how Love durste you displease; Or elles ye have won it with great ease.

And pray for them that been in the case Of Troilus, as ye may after hear, That Love them bring in heaven to solace; delight, comfort And for me pray also, that God so dear May give me might to show, in some mannere, Such pain or woe as Love’s folk endure, In Troilus’ unseely adventure unhappy fortune

And pray for them that eke be despair’d In love, that never will recover’d be; And eke for them that falsely be appair’d slandered Through wicked tongues, be it he or she: Or thus bid God, for his benignity, pray To grant them soon out of this world to pace, pass, go That be despaired of their love’s grace.

And bid also for them that be at ease In love, that God them grant perseverance, And send them might their loves so to please, That it to them be worship and pleasance; honour and pleasure For so hope I my soul best to advance, To pray for them that Love’s servants be, And write their woe, and live in charity;

And for to have of them compassion, As though I were their owen brother dear. Now listen all with good entention, attention For I will now go straight to my mattere, In which ye shall the double sorrow hear Of Troilus, in loving of Cresside, And how that she forsook him ere she died.

In Troy, during the siege, dwelt “a lord of great authority, a great divine,” named Calchas; who, through the oracle of Apollo, knew that Troy should be destroyed. He stole away secretly to the Greek camp, where he was gladly received, and honoured for his skill in divining, of which the besiegers hoped to make use. Within the city there was great anger at the treason of Calchas; and the people declared that he and all his kin were worthy to be burnt. His daughter, whom he had left in the city, a widow and alone, was in great fear for her life.

Cressida was this lady’s name aright; As to my doom, in alle Troy city in my judgment So fair was none, for over ev’ry wight So angelic was her native beauty, That like a thing immortal seemed she, As sooth a perfect heav’nly creature, That down seem’d sent in scorning of Nature.

In her distress, “well nigh out of her wit for pure fear,” she appealed for protection to Hector; who, “piteous of nature,” and touched by her sorrow and her beauty, assured her of safety, so long as she pleased to dwell in Troy. The siege went on; but they of Troy did not neglect the honour and worship of their deities; most of all of “the relic hight Palladion, <4> that was their trust aboven ev’ry one.” In April, “when clothed is the mead with newe green, of jolly Ver [Spring] the prime,” the Trojans went to hold the festival of Palladion — crowding to the temple, “in all their beste guise,” lusty knights, fresh ladies, and maidens bright.

Among the which was this Cresseida, In widow’s habit black; but natheless, Right as our firste letter is now A, In beauty first so stood she makeless; matchless Her goodly looking gladded all the press; crowd Was never seen thing to be praised derre, dearer, more worthy Nor under blacke cloud so bright a sterre, star

As she was, as they saiden, ev’ry one That her behelden in her blacke weed; garment And yet she stood, full low and still, alone, Behind all other folk, in little brede, inconspicuously And nigh the door, ay under shame’s drede; for dread of shame Simple of bearing, debonair of cheer, gracious With a full sure looking and mannere. assured

Dan Troilus, as he was wont to guide His younge knightes, led them up and down In that large temple upon ev’ry side, Beholding ay the ladies of the town; Now here, now there, for no devotioun Had he to none, to reave him his rest, deprive him of But gan to praise and lacke whom him lest; praise and disparage whom he pleased And in his walk full fast he gan to wait watch, observe If knight or squier of his company Gan for to sigh, or let his eyen bait feed On any woman that he could espy; Then he would smile, and hold it a folly, And say him thus: “Ah, Lord, she sleepeth soft For love of thee, when as thou turnest oft.

“I have heard told, pardie, of your living, Ye lovers, and your lewed observance, ignorant, foolish And what a labour folk have in winning Of love, and in it keeping with doubtance; doubt And when your prey is lost, woe and penance; suffering Oh, very fooles! may ye no thing see? Can none of you aware by other be?”

But the God of Love vowed vengeance on Troilus for that despite, and, showing that his bow was not broken, “hit him at the full.”

Within the temple went he forth playing, This Troilus, with ev’ry wight about, On this lady and now on that looking, Whether she were of town, or of without; from beyond the walls And upon cas befell, that through the rout by chance crowd His eye pierced, and so deep it went, Till on Cresside it smote, and there it stent; stayed

And suddenly wax’d wonder sore astoned, amazed And gan her bet behold in busy wise: better “Oh, very god!” <5> thought he; “where hast thou woned dwelt That art so fair and goodly to devise? describe Therewith his heart began to spread and rise; And soft he sighed, lest men might him hear, And caught again his former playing cheer. jesting demeanour

She was not with the least of her stature, she was tall But all her limbes so well answering Were to womanhood, that creature Was never lesse mannish in seeming. And eke the pure wise of her moving by very the way She showed well, that men might in her guess she moved Honour, estate, and womanly nobless. dignity

Then Troilus right wonder well withal Began to like her moving and her cheer, countenance Which somedeal dainous was, for she let fall disdainful Her look a little aside, in such mannere Ascaunce “What! may I not stande here?” as if to say <6> And after that her looking gan she light, her expression became That never thought him see so good a sight. more pleasant

And of her look in him there gan to quicken So great desire, and strong affection, That in his hearte’s bottom gan to sticken Of her the fix’d and deep impression; And though he erst had pored up and down, previously looked Then was he glad his hornes in to shrink; Unnethes wist he how to look or wink. scarcely

Lo! he that held himselfe so cunning, And scorned them that Love’s paines drien, suffer Was full unware that love had his dwelling Within the subtile streames of her eyen; rays, glances That suddenly he thought he felte dien, Right with her look, the spirit in his heart; Blessed be Love, that thus can folk convert!

She thus, in black, looking to Troilus, Over all things he stoode to behold; But his desire, nor wherefore he stood thus, He neither cheere made, nor worde told; showed by his countenance But from afar, his manner for to hold, to observe due courtesy On other things sometimes his look he cast, And eft <7> on her, while that the service last. again lasted

And after this, not fully all awhaped, daunted Out of the temple all easily be went, Repenting him that ever he had japed jested Of Love’s folk, lest fully the descent Of scorn fell on himself; but what he meant, Lest it were wist on any manner side, His woe he gan dissemble and eke hide.

Returning to his palace, he begins hypocritically to smile and jest at Love’s servants and their pains; but by and by he has to dismiss his attendants, feigning “other busy needs.” Then, alone in his chamber, he begins to groan and sigh, and call up again Cressida’s form as he saw her in the temple — “making a mirror of his mind, in which he saw all wholly her figure.” He thinks no travail or sorrow too high a price for the love of such a goodly woman; and, “full unadvised of his woe coming,”

Thus took he purpose Love’s craft to sue, follow And thought that he would work all privily, First for to hide his desire all in mew in a cage, secretly From every wight y-born, all utterly, But he might aught recover’d be thereby; unless he gained by it Rememb’ring him, that love too wide y-blow too much spoken of Yields bitter fruit, although sweet seed be sow.

And, over all this, muche more he thought What thing to speak, and what to holden in; And what to arten her to love, he sought; constrain <8> And on a song anon right to begin, And gan loud on his sorrow for to win; overcome For with good hope he gan thus to assent resolve Cressida for to love, and not repent.

The Song of Troilus. <9>

“If no love is, O God! why feel I so? And if love is, what thing and which is he? If love be good, from whence cometh my woe? If it be wick’, a wonder thinketh me Whence ev’ry torment and adversity That comes of love may to me savoury think: seem acceptable to me For more I thirst the more that I drink.

“And if I at mine owen luste bren burn by my own will From whence cometh my wailing and my plaint? If maugre me,<10> whereto plain I then? to what avail do I complain? I wot ner why, unweary, that I faint. neither O quicke death! O sweete harm so quaint! strange How may I see in me such quantity, But if that I consent that so it be?

“And if that I consent, I wrongfully Complain y-wis: thus pushed to and fro, All starreless within a boat am I, Middes the sea, betwixte windes two, That in contrary standen evermo’. Alas! what wonder is this malady! — For heat of cold, for cold of heat, I die!”

Devoting himself wholly to the thought of Cressida — though he yet knew not whether she was woman or goddess — Troilus, in spite of his royal blood, became the very slave of love. He set at naught every other charge, but to gaze on her as often as he could; thinking so to appease his hot fire, which thereby only burned the hotter. He wrought marvellous feats of arms against the Greeks, that she might like him the better for his renown; then love deprived him of sleep, and made his food his foe; till he had to “borrow a title of other sickness,” that men might not know he was consumed with love. Meantime, Cressida gave no sign that she heeded his devotion, or even knew of it; and he was now consumed with a new fear — lest she loved some other man. Bewailing his sad lot — ensnared, exposed to the scorn of those whose love he had ridiculed, wishing himself arrived at the port of death, and praying ever that his lady might glad him with some kind look — Troilus is surprised in his chamber by his friend Pandarus, the uncle of Cressida. Pandarus, seeking to divert his sorrow by making him angry, jeeringly asks whether remorse of conscience, or devotion, or fear of the Greeks, has caused all this ado. Troilus pitifully beseeches his friend to leave him to die alone, for die he must, from a cause which he must keep hidden; but Pandarus argues against Troilus’ cruelty in hiding from a friend such a sorrow, and Troilus at last confesses that his malady is love. Pandarus suggests that the beloved object may be such that his counsel might advance his friend’s desires; but Troilus scouts the suggestion, saying that Pandarus could never govern himself in love.

“Yea, Troilus, hearken to me,” quoth Pandare, “Though I be nice; it happens often so, foolish That one that access doth full evil fare, in an access of fever By good counsel can keep his friend therefro’. I have my selfe seen a blind man go Where as he fell that looke could full wide; A fool may eke a wise man often guide.

“A whetstone is no carving instrument, But yet it maketh sharpe carving tooles; And, if thou know’st that I have aught miswent, erred, failed Eschew thou that, for such thing to thee school is. schooling, lesson Thus oughte wise men to beware by fooles; If so thou do, thy wit is well bewared; By its contrary is everything declared.

“For how might ever sweetness have been know To him that never tasted bitterness? And no man knows what gladness is, I trow, That never was in sorrow or distress: Eke white by black, by shame eke worthiness, Each set by other, more for other seemeth, its quality is made As men may see; and so the wise man deemeth.” more obvious by the contrast Troilus, however, still begs his friend to leave him to mourn in peace, for all his proverbs can avail nothing. But Pandarus insists on plying the lover with wise saws, arguments, reproaches; hints that, if he should die of love, his lady may impute his death to fear of the Greeks; and finally induces Troilus to admit that the well of all his woe, his sweetest foe, is called Cressida. Pandarus breaks into praises of the lady, and congratulations of his friend for so well fixing his heart; he makes Troilus utter a formal confession of his sin in jesting at lovers and bids him think well that she of whom rises all his woe, hereafter may his comfort be also.

“For thilke ground, that bears the weedes wick’ that same Bears eke the wholesome herbes, and full oft Next to the foule nettle, rough and thick, The lily waxeth, white, and smooth, and soft; grows And next the valley is the hill aloft, And next the darke night is the glad morrow, And also joy is next the fine of sorrow.” end, border

Pandarus holds out to Troilus good hope of achieving his desire; and tells him that, since he has been converted from his wicked rebellion against Love, he shall be made the best post of all Love’s law, and most grieve Love’s enemies. Troilus gives utterance to a hint of fear; but he is silenced by Pandarus with another proverb — “Thou hast full great care, lest that the carl should fall out of the moon.” Then the lovesick youth breaks into a joyous boast that some of the Greeks shall smart; he mounts his horse, and plays the lion in the field; while Pandarus retires to consider how he may best recommend to his niece the suit of Troilus.

THE SECOND BOOK.

IN the Proem to the Second Book, the poet hails the clear weather that enables him to sail out of those black waves in which his boat so laboured that he could scarcely steer — that is, “the tempestuous matter of despair, that Troilus was in; but now of hope the kalendes begin.” He invokes the aid of Clio; excuses himself to every lover for what may be found amiss in a book which he only translates; and, obviating any lover’s objection to the way in which Troilus obtained his lady’s grace - - through Pandarus’ mediation — says it seems to him no wonderful thing:

“For ev’ry wighte that to Rome went Held not one path, nor alway one mannere; Eke in some lands were all the game y-shent If that men far’d in love as men do here, As thus, in open dealing and in cheer, In visiting, in form, or saying their saws; speeches For thus men say: Each country hath its laws.

“Eke scarcely be there in this place three That have in love done or said like in all;” alike in all respects

And so that which the poem relates may not please the reader — but it actually was done, or it shall yet be done. The Book sets out with the visit of Pandarus to Cressida:—

In May, that mother is of monthes glade, glad When all the freshe flowers, green and red, Be quick again, that winter deade made, alive And full of balm is floating ev’ry mead; When Phoebus doth his brighte beames spread Right in the white Bull, so it betid happened As I shall sing, on Maye’s day the thrid, <11>

That Pandarus, for all his wise speech, Felt eke his part of Love’s shottes keen, That, could he ne’er so well of Love preach, It made yet his hue all day full green; pale So shope it, that him fell that day a teen it happened access In love, for which full woe to bed he went, And made ere it were day full many a went. turning <12>

The swallow Progne, <13> with a sorrowful lay, When morrow came, gan make her waimenting, lamenting Why she foshapen was; and ever lay transformed Pandare a-bed, half in a slumbering, Till she so nigh him made her chittering, How Tereus gan forth her sister take, That with the noise of her he did awake,

And gan to call, and dress him to arise, prepare Rememb’ring him his errand was to do’n From Troilus, and eke his great emprise; And cast, and knew in good plight was the Moon favourable aspect To do voyage, and took his way full soon Unto his niece’s palace there beside Now Janus, god of entry, thou him guide!

Pandarus finds his niece, with two other ladies, in a paved parlour, listening to a maiden who reads aloud the story of the Siege of Thebes. Greeting the company, he is welcomed by Cressida, who tells him that for three nights she has dreamed of him. After some lively talk about the book they had been reading, Pandarus asks his niece to do away her hood, to show her face bare, to lay aside the book, to rise up and dance, “and let us do to May some observance.” Cressida cries out, “God forbid!” and asks if he is mad — if that is a widow’s life, whom it better becomes to sit in a cave and read of holy saints’ lives. Pandarus intimates that he could tell her something which could make her merry; but he refuses to gratify her curiosity; and, by way of the siege and of Hector, “that was the towne’s wall, and Greekes’ yerd” or scourging-rod, the conversation is brought round to Troilus, whom Pandarus highly extols as “the wise worthy Hector the second.” She has, she says, already heard Troilus praised for his bravery “of them that her were liefest praised be” [by whom it would be most welcome to her to be praised].

“Ye say right sooth, y-wis,” quoth Pandarus; For yesterday, who so had with him been, Might have wonder’d upon Troilus; For never yet so thick a swarm of been bees Ne flew, as did of Greekes from him flee’n; And through the field, in ev’ry wighte’s ear, There was no cry but ‘Troilus is here.’

“Now here, now there, he hunted them so fast, There was but Greekes’ blood; and Troilus Now him he hurt, now him adown he cast; Ay where he went it was arrayed thus: He was their death, and shield of life for us, That as that day there durst him none withstand, While that he held his bloody sword in hand.”

Pandarus makes now a show of taking leave, but Cressida detains him, to speak of her affairs; then, the business talked over, he would again go, but first again asks his niece to arise and dance, and cast her widow’s garments to mischance, because of the glad fortune that has befallen her. More curious than ever, she seeks to find out Pandarus’ secret; but he still parries her curiosity, skilfully hinting all the time at her good fortune, and the wisdom of seizing on it when offered. In the end he tells her that the noble Troilus so loves her, that with her it lies to make him live or die — but if Troilus dies, Pandarus shall die with him; and then she will have “fished fair.” <14> He beseeches mercy for his friend:

“ Woe worth the faire gemme virtueless! <15> evil befall! Woe worth the herb also that doth no boot! has no remedial power Woe worth the beauty that is rutheless! merciless Woe worth that wight that treads each under foot! And ye that be of beauty crop and root perfection <16> If therewithal in you there be no ruth, pity Then is it harm ye live, by my truth!”

Pandarus makes only the slight request that she will show Troilus somewhat better cheer, and receive visits from him, that his life may be saved; urging that, although a man be soon going to the temple, nobody will think that he eats the images; and that “such love of friends reigneth in all this town.”

Cressida, which that heard him in this wise, Thought: “I shall feele what he means, y-wis;” test “Now, eme quoth she, “what would ye me devise? uncle What is your rede that I should do of this?” counsel, opinion “That is well said,” quoth he;” certain best it is That ye him love again for his loving, As love for love is skilful guerdoning. reasonable recompense

“Think eke how elde wasteth ev’ry hour age In each of you a part of your beauty; And therefore, ere that age do you devour, Go love, for, old, there will no wight love thee Let this proverb a lore unto you be: lesson ‘“Too late I was ware,” quoth beauty when it past; And elde daunteth danger at the last.’ old age overcomes disdain

“The kinge’s fool is wont to cry aloud, When that he thinks a woman bears her high, ‘So longe may ye liven, and all proud, Till crowes’ feet be wox under your eye! grown And send you then a mirror in to pry to look in In which ye may your face see a-morrow! in the morning I keep then wishe you no more sorrow.’” I care to wish you nothing worse Weeping, Cressida reproaches her uncle for giving her such counsel; whereupon Pandarus, starting up, threatens to kill himself, and would fain depart, but that his niece detains him, and, with much reluctance, promises to “make Troilus good cheer in honour.” Invited by Cressida to tell how first he know her lover’s woe, Pandarus then relates two soliloquies which he had accidentally overheard, and in which Troilus had poured out all the sorrow of his passion.

With this he took his leave, and home he went Ah! Lord, so was he glad and well-begone! happy Cresside arose, no longer would she stent, stay But straight into her chamber went anon, And sat her down, as still as any stone, And ev’ry word gan up and down to wind That he had said, as it came to her mind.

And wax’d somedeal astonish’d in her thought, Right for the newe case; but when that she Was full advised, then she found right naught had fully considered Of peril, why she should afeared be: For a man may love, of possibility, A woman so, that his heart may to-brest, break utterly And she not love again, but if her lest. unless it so please her

But as she sat alone, and thoughte thus, In field arose a skirmish all without; And men cried in the street then:” Troilus hath right now put to flight the Greekes’ rout.” host With that gan all the meinie for to shout: (Cressida’s) household “Ah! go we see, cast up the lattice wide, For through this street he must to palace ride;

“For other way is from the gates none, Of Dardanus,<18> where open is the chain.” <19> With that came he, and all his folk anon, An easy pace riding, in routes twain, two troops Right as his happy day was, sooth to sayn: good fortune <20> For which men say may not disturbed be What shall betiden of necessity. happen

This Troilus sat upon his bay steed All armed, save his head, full richely, And wounded was his horse, and gan to bleed, For which he rode a pace full softely But such a knightly sighte truly aspect As was on him, was not, withoute fail, To look on Mars, that god is of Battaile.

So like a man of armes, and a knight, He was to see, full fill’d of high prowess; For both he had a body, and a might To do that thing, as well as hardiness; courage And eke to see him in his gear him dress, armour So fresh, so young, so wieldy seemed he, active It was a heaven on him for to see. look

His helmet was to-hewn in twenty places, That by a tissue hung his back behind; riband His shield to-dashed was with swords and maces, In which men might many an arrow find, That thirled had both horn, and nerve, and rind; <21> pierced And ay the people cried, “Here comes our joy, And, next his brother, <22> holder up of Troy.”

For which he wax’d a little red for shame, When he so heard the people on him cryen That to behold it was a noble game, How soberly he cast adown his eyen: Cresside anon gan all his cheer espien, And let it in her heart so softly sink, That to herself she said, “Who gives me drink?”<23>

For of her owen thought she wax’d all red, Rememb’ring her right thus: “Lo! this is he Which that mine uncle swears he might be dead, But I on him have mercy and pity:” unless And with that thought for pure shame she Gan in her head to pull, and that full fast, While he and all the people forth by pass’d.

And gan to cast, and rollen up and down ponder Within her thought his excellent prowess, And his estate, and also his renown, His wit, his shape, and eke his gentleness But most her favour was, for his distress Was all for her, and thought it were ruth To slay such one, if that he meant but truth.

And, Lord! so gan she in her heart argue Of this mattere, of which I have you told And what to do best were, and what t’eschew, That plaited she full oft in many a fold.<24> Now was her hearte warm, now was it cold. And what she thought of, somewhat shall I write, As to mine author listeth to endite.

She thoughte first, that Troilus’ person She knew by sight, and eke his gentleness; And saide thus: “All were it not to do’n,’ although it were To grant him love, yet for the worthiness impossible It were honour, with play and with gladness, pleasing entertainment In honesty with such a lord to deal, For mine estate, and also for his heal. reputation health

“Eke well I wot my kinge’s son is he; know And, since he hath to see me such delight, If I would utterly his sighte flee, Parauntre he might have me in despite, peradventure Through which I mighte stand in worse plight. <25> Now were I fool, me hate to purchase obtain for myself Withoute need, where I may stand in grace, favour

“In ev’rything, I wot, there lies measure; a happy medium For though a man forbidde drunkenness, He not forbids that ev’ry creature Be drinkeless for alway, as I guess; Eke, since I know for me is his distress, I oughte not for that thing him despise, Since it is so he meaneth in good wise.

“Now set a case, that hardest is, y-wis, Men mighte deeme that he loveth me; believe What dishonour were it unto me, this? May I him let of that? Why, nay, pardie! prevent him from I know also, and alway hear and see, Men love women all this town about; Be they the worse? Why, nay, withoute doubt!

“Nor me to love a wonder is it not; For well wot I myself, so God me speed! — All would I that no man wist of this thought — although I would I am one of the fairest, without drede, doubt And goodlieste, who so taketh heed; And so men say in all the town of Troy; What wonder is, though he on me have joy?

“I am mine owen woman, well at ease, I thank it God, as after mine estate, Right young, and stand untied in lusty leas, pleasant leash Withoute jealousy, or such debate: (of love) Shall none husband say to me checkmate; For either they be full of jealousy, Or masterful, or love novelty.

“What shall I do? to what fine live I thus? end Shall I not love, in case if that me lest? What? pardie! I am not religious;<26> And though that I mine hearte set at rest And keep alway mine honour and my name, By all right I may do to me no shame.”

But right as when the sunne shineth bright In March, that changeth oftentime his face, And that a cloud is put with wind to flight, Which overspreads the sun as for a space; A cloudy thought gan through her hearte pace, pass That overspread her brighte thoughtes all, So that for fear almost she gan to fall.

The cloudy thought is of the loss of liberty and security, the stormy life, and the malice of wicked tongues, that love entails:

[But] after that her thought began to clear, And saide, “He that nothing undertakes Nothing achieveth, be him loth or dear.” unwilling or desirous And with another thought her hearte quakes; Then sleepeth hope, and after dread awakes, Now hot, now cold; but thus betwixt the tway two She rist her up, and wente forth to play. rose take recreation

Adown the stair anon right then she went Into a garden, with her nieces three, And up and down they made many a went, winding, turn <12> Flexippe and she, Tarke, Antigone, To playe, that it joy was for to see; And other of her women, a great rout, troop Her follow’d in the garden all about.

This yard was large, and railed the alleys, And shadow’d well with blossomy boughes green, And benched new, and sanded all the ways, In which she walked arm and arm between; Till at the last Antigone the sheen bright, lovely Gan on a Trojan lay to singe clear, That it a heaven was her voice to hear.

Antigone’s song is of virtuous love for a noble object; and it is singularly fitted to deepen the impression made on the mind of Cressida by the brave aspect of Troilus, and by her own cogitations. The singer, having praised the lover and rebuked the revilers of love, proceeds:

“What is the Sunne worse of his kind right, true nature Though that a man, for feebleness of eyen, May not endure to see on it for bright? <27> Or Love the worse, tho’ wretches on it cryen? No weal is worth, that may no sorrow drien; <28> happiness endure And forthy, who that hath a head of verre, therefore glass <29> From cast of stones ware him in the werre. <30>

“But I, with all my heart and all my might, As I have lov’d, will love unto my last My deare heart, and all my owen knight, In which my heart y-growen is so fast, And his in me, that it shall ever last All dread I first to love him begin, although I feared Now wot I well there is no pain therein.”

Cressida sighs, and asks Antigone whether there is such bliss among these lovers, as they can fair endite; Antigone replies confidently in the affirmative; and Cressida answers nothing, “but every worde which she heard she gan to printen in her hearte fast.” Night draws on:

The daye’s honour, and the heaven’s eye, The nighte’s foe, — all this call I the Sun, — Gan westren fast, and downward for to wry, go west <31> turn As he that had his daye’s course y-run; And white thinges gan to waxe dun For lack of light, and starres to appear; Then she and all her folk went home in fere. in company

So, when it liked her to go to rest, And voided were those that voiden ought, gone out (of the house) She saide, that to sleepe well her lest. pleased Her women soon unto her bed her brought; When all was shut, then lay she still and thought Of all these things the manner and the wise; Rehearse it needeth not, for ye be wise.

A nightingale upon a cedar green, Under the chamber wall where as she lay, Full loude sang against the moone sheen, Parauntre, in his birde’s wise, a lay perchance Of love, that made her hearte fresh and gay; Hereat hark’d she so long in good intent, listened Till at the last the deade sleep her hent. seized

And as she slept, anon right then her mette she dreamed How that an eagle, feather’d white as bone, Under her breast his longe clawes set, And out her heart he rent, and that anon, And did his heart into her breast to go’n, caused Of which no thing she was abash’d nor smert; amazed nor hurt And forth he flew, with hearte left for heart.

Leaving Cressida to sleep, the poet returns to Troilus and his zealous friend — with whose stratagems to bring the two lovers together the remainder of the Second Book is occupied. Pandarus counsels Troilus to write a letter to his mistress, telling her how he “fares amiss,” and “beseeching her of ruth;” he will bear the letter to his niece; and, if Troilus will ride past Cressida’s house, he will find his mistress and his friend sitting at a window. Saluting Pandarus, and not tarrying, his passage will give occasion for some talk of him, which may make his ears glow. With respect to the letter, Pandarus gives some shrewd hints:

“Touching thy letter, thou art wise enough, I wot thou n’ilt it dignely endite wilt not write it haughtily Or make it with these argumentes tough, Nor scrivener-like, nor craftily it write; Beblot it with thy tears also a lite; little And if thou write a goodly word all soft, Though it be good, rehearse it not too oft.

“For though the beste harper pon live alive Would on the best y-sounded jolly harp That ever was, with all his fingers five Touch ay one string, or ay one warble harp, always play one tune Were his nailes pointed ne’er so sharp, He shoulde maken ev’ry wight to dull to grow bored To hear his glee, and of his strokes full.

“Nor jompre eke no discordant thing y-fere, jumble together As thus, to use termes of physic; In love’s termes hold of thy mattere The form alway, and do that it be like; make it consistent For if a painter woulde paint a pike With ass’s feet, and head it as an ape,<32> It ’cordeth not, so were it but a jape.” is not harmonious

Troilus writes the letter, and next morning Pandarus bears it to Cressida. She refuses to receive “scrip or bill that toucheth such mattere;” but he thrusts it into her bosom, challenging her to throw it away. She retains it, takes the first opportunity of escaping to her chamber to read it, finds it wholly good, and, under her uncle’s dictation, endites a reply telling her lover that she will not make herself bound in love; “but as his sister, him to please, she would aye fain [be glad] to do his heart an ease.” Pandarus, under pretext of inquiring who is the owner of the house opposite, has gone to the window; Cressida takes her letter to him there, and tells him that she never did a thing with more pain than write the words to which he had constrained her. As they sit side by side, on a stone of jasper, on a cushion of beaten gold, Troilus rides by, in all his goodliness. Cressida waxes “as red as rose,” as she sees him salute humbly, “with dreadful cheer, and oft his hues mue [change];” she likes “all y-fere, his person, his array, his look, his cheer, his goodly manner, and his gentleness;” so that, however she may have been before, “to goode hope now hath she caught a thorn, she shall not pull it out this nexte week.” Pandarus, striking the iron when it is hot, asks his niece to grant Troilus an interview; but she strenuously declines, for fear of scandal, and because it is all too soon to allow him so great a liberty — her purpose being to love him unknown of all, “and guerdon [reward] him with nothing but with sight.” Pandarus has other intentions; and, while Troilus writes daily letters with increasing love, he contrives the means of an interview. Seeking out Deiphobus, the brother of Troilus, he tells him that Cressida is in danger of violence from Polyphete, and asks protection for her. Deiphobus gladly complies, promises the protection of Hector and Helen, and goes to invite Cressida to dinner on the morrow. Meantime Pandarus instructs Troilus to go to the house of Deiphobus, plead an access of his fever for remaining all night, and keep his chamber next day. “Lo,” says the crafty promoter of love, borrowing a phrase from the hunting-field; “Lo, hold thee at thy tristre [tryst <33>] close, and I shall well the deer unto thy bowe drive.” Unsuspicious of stratagem, Cressida comes to dinner; and at table, Helen, Pandarus, and others, praise the absent Troilus, until “her heart laughs” for very pride that she has the love of such a knight. After dinner they speak of Cressida’s business; all confirm Deiphobus’ assurances of protection and aid; and Pandarus suggests that, since Troilus is there, Cressida shall herself tell him her case. Helen and Deiphobus alone accompany Pandarus to Troilus’ chamber; there Troilus produces some documents relating to the public weal, which Hector has sent for his opinion; Helen and Deiphobus, engrossed in perusal and discussion, roam out of the chamber, by a stair, into the garden; while Pandarus goes down to the hall, and, pretending that his brother and Helen are still with Troilus, brings Cressida to her lover. The Second Book leaves Pandarus whispering in his niece’s ear counsel to be merciful and kind to her lover, that hath for her such pain; while Troilus lies “in a kankerdort,” <34> hearing the whispering without, and wondering what he shall say for this “was the first time that he should her pray of love; O! mighty God! what shall he say?”

THE THIRD BOOK.

To the Third Book is prefixed a beautiful invocation of Venus, under the character of light:

O Blissful light, of which the beames clear Adornen all the thirde heaven fair! O Sunne’s love, O Jove’s daughter dear! Pleasance of love, O goodly debonair, lovely and gracious In gentle heart ay ready to repair! always enter and abide O very cause of heal and of gladness, true welfare Y-heried be thy might and thy goodness! praised

In heav’n and hell, in earth and salte sea. Is felt thy might, if that I well discern; As man, bird, beast, fish, herb, and greene tree, They feel in times, with vapour etern, <35> God loveth, and to love he will not wern forbid And in this world no living creature Withoute love is worth, or may endure. <36>

Ye Jove first to those effectes glad, Through which that thinges alle live and be, Commended; and him amorous y-made Of mortal thing; and as ye list, ay ye pleased Gave him, in love, ease or adversity, pleasure And in a thousand formes down him sent For love in earth; and whom ye list he hent. he seized whom you wished Ye fierce Mars appeasen of his ire, And as you list ye make heartes dign <37> worthy Algates them that ye will set afire, at all events They dreade shame, and vices they resign Ye do him courteous to be, and benign; make, cause And high or low, after a wight intendeth, according as The joyes that he hath your might him sendeth.

Ye holde realm and house in unity; Ye soothfast cause of friendship be also; true Ye know all thilke cover’d quality secret power Of thinges which that folk on wonder so, When they may not construe how it may go She loveth him, or why he loveth her, As why this fish, not that, comes to the weir. <38> fish-trap

Knowing that Venus has set a law in the universe, that whoso strives with her shall have the worse, the poet prays to be taught to describe some of the joy that is felt in her service; and the Third Book opens with an account of the scene between Troilus and Cressida:

Lay all this meane while Troilus Recording his lesson in this mannere; memorizing “My fay!” thought he, “thus will I say, and thus; by my faith! Thus will I plain unto my lady dear; make my plaint That word is good; and this shall be my cheer This will I not forgetten in no wise;” God let him worken as he can devise.

And, Lord! so as his heart began to quap, quake, pant Hearing her coming, and short for to sike; make short sighs And Pandarus, that led her by the lap, skirt Came near, and gan in at the curtain pick, peep And saide: “God do boot alle sick! afford a remedy to See who is here you coming to visite; Lo! here is she that is your death to wite!” to blame for your death

Therewith it seemed as he wept almost. “Ah! ah! God help!” quoth Troilus ruefully; “Whe’er me be woe, O mighty God, thou know’st! whether Who is there? for I see not truely.” “Sir,” quoth Cresside, “it is Pandare and I; “Yea, sweete heart? alas, I may not rise To kneel and do you honour in some wise.”

And dressed him upward, and she right tho then Gan both her handes soft upon him lay. “O! for the love of God, do ye not so To me,” quoth she; “ey! what is this to say? For come I am to you for causes tway; two First you to thank, and of your lordship eke Continuance I woulde you beseek.” protection beseech

This Troilus, that heard his lady pray Him of lordship, wax’d neither quick nor dead; Nor might one word for shame to it say, <39> Although men shoulde smiten off his head. But, Lord! how he wax’d suddenly all red! And, Sir, his lesson, that he ween’d have con, thought he knew To praye her, was through his wit y-run. by heart

Cresside all this espied well enow, — For she was wise, — and lov’d him ne’er the less, All n’ere he malapert, nor made avow, Nor was so bold to sing a foole’s mass;<40> But, when his shame began somewhat to pass, His wordes, as I may my rhymes hold, I will you tell, as teache bookes old.

In changed voice, right for his very dread, Which voice eke quak’d, and also his mannere Goodly abash’d, and now his hue is red, becomingly Now pale, unto Cresside, his lady dear, With look downcast, and humble yielden cheer, submissive face Lo! altherfirste word that him astert, the first word he said Was twice: “Mercy, mercy, my dear heart!”

And stent a while; and when he might out bring, stopped speak The nexte was: “God wote, for I have, As farforthly as I have conning, as far as I am able Been youres all, God so my soule save, And shall, till that I, woeful wight, be grave; die And though I dare not, cannot, to you plain, Y-wis, I suffer not the lesse pain.

“This much as now, O womanlike wife! I may out bring, and if it you displease, speak out That shall I wreak upon mine owne life, avenge Right soon, I trow, and do your heart an ease, If with my death your heart I may appease: But, since that ye have heard somewhat say, Now reck I never how soon that I dey.” die

Therewith his manly sorrow to behold It might have made a heart of stone to rue; And Pandare wept as he to water wo’ld, <41> And saide, “Woe-begone be heartes true,” in woeful plight And procur’d his niece ever new and new, urged “For love of Godde, make of him an end, put him out of pain Or slay us both at ones, ere we wend.” go

“Ey! what?” quoth she; “by God and by my truth, I know not what ye woulde that I say;” “Ey! what?” quoth he; “that ye have on him ruth, pity For Godde’s love, and do him not to dey.” die “Now thenne thus,” quoth she, “I would him pray To telle me the fine of his intent; end of his desire Yet wist I never well what that he meant.” knew

“What that I meane, sweete hearte dear?” Quoth Troilus, “O goodly, fresh, and free! That, with the streames of your eyne so clear, beams, glances Ye woulde sometimes on me rue and see, take pity and look on me And then agreen that I may be he, take in good part Withoute branch of vice, in any wise, In truth alway to do you my service,

“As to my lady chief, and right resort, With all my wit and all my diligence; And for to have, right as you list, comfort; Under your yerd, equal to mine offence, rod, chastisement As death, if that I breake your defence; do what you And that ye deigne me so much honour, forbid <42> Me to commanden aught in any hour.

“And I to be your very humble, true, Secret, and in my paines patient, And evermore desire, freshly new, To serven, and be alike diligent, And, with good heart, all wholly your talent Receive in gree, how sore that me smart; gladness Lo, this mean I, mine owen sweete heart.”

With that she gan her eyen on him cast, <43> Pandarus Full easily and full debonairly, graciously Advising her, and hied not too fast, considering went With ne’er a word, but said him softely, “Mine honour safe, I will well truely, And in such form as ye can now devise, Receive him fully to my service; Troilus

“Beseeching him, for Godde’s love, that he Would, in honour of truth and gentleness, As I well mean, eke meane well to me; And mine honour, with wit and business, wisdom and zeal Aye keep; and if I may do him gladness, From henceforth, y-wis I will not feign: Now be all whole, no longer do ye plain.

“But, natheless, this warn I you,” quoth she, “A kinge’s son although ye be, y-wis, Ye shall no more have sovereignety Of me in love, than right in this case is; Nor will I forbear, if ye do amiss, To wrathe you, and, while that ye me serve, be angry with, chide To cherish you, right after ye deserve. as you deserve

“And shortly, deare heart, and all my knight, Be glad, and drawe you to lustiness, pleasure And I shall truely, with all my might, Your bitter turnen all to sweeteness; If I be she that may do you gladness, For ev’ry woe ye shall recover a bliss:” And him in armes took, and gan him kiss.

Pandarus, almost beside himself for joy, falls on his knees to thank Venus and Cupid, declaring that for this miracle he hears all the bells ring; then, with a warning to be ready at his call to meet at his house, he parts the lovers, and attends Cressida while she takes leave of the household — Troilus all the time groaning at the deceit practised on his brother and Helen. When he has got rid of them by feigning weariness, Pandarus returns to the chamber, and spends the night with him in converse. The zealous friend begins to speak “in a sober wise” to Troilus, reminding him of his love-pains now all at an end.

“So that through me thou standest now in way To fare well; I say it for no boast; And know’st thou why? For, shame it is to say, For thee have I begun a game to play, Which that I never shall do eft for other, again another Although he were a thousand fold my brother.

“That is to say, for thee I am become, Betwixte game and earnest, such a mean means, instrument As make women unto men to come; Thou know’st thyselfe what that woulde mean; For thee have I my niece, of vices clean, pure, devoid So fully made thy gentleness to trust, nobility of nature That all shall be right as thyselfe lust. as you please

“But God, that all wot, take I to witness, knows everything That never this for covetise I wrought, greed of gain But only to abridge thy distress, abate For which well nigh thou diedst, as me thought; But, goode brother, do now as thee ought, For Godde’s love, and keep her out of blame; Since thou art wise, so save thou her name.

“For, well thou know’st, the name yet of her, Among the people, as who saith hallow’d is; For that man is unborn, I dare well swear, That ever yet wist that she did amiss; knew But woe is me, that I, that cause all this, May thinke that she is my niece dear, And I her eme, and traitor eke y-fere. uncle <17> as well

“And were it wist that I, through mine engine, arts, contrivance Had in my niece put this fantasy fancy To do thy lust, and wholly to be thine, pleasure Why, all the people would upon it cry, And say, that I the worste treachery Did in this case, that ever was begun, And she fordone, and thou right naught y-won.” ruined

Therefore, ere going a step further, Pandarus prays Troilus to give him pledges of secrecy, and impresses on his mind the mischiefs that flow from vaunting in affairs of love. “Of kind,”[by his very nature] he says, no vaunter is to be believed:

“For a vaunter and a liar all is one; As thus: I pose a woman granteth me suppose, assume Her love, and saith that other will she none, And I am sworn to holden it secre, And, after, I go tell it two or three; Y-wis, I am a vaunter, at the least, And eke a liar, for I break my hest. <44> promise

“Now looke then, if they be not to blame, Such manner folk; what shall I call them, what? That them avaunt of women, and by name, That never yet behight them this nor that, promised (much Nor knowe them no more than mine old hat? less granted) No wonder is, so God me sende heal, prosperity Though women dreade with us men to deal!

“I say not this for no mistrust of you, Nor for no wise men, but for fooles nice; silly <45> And for the harm that in the world is now, As well for folly oft as for malice; For well wot I, that in wise folk that vice No woman dreads, if she be well advised; For wise men be by fooles’ harm chastised.” corrected, instructed

So Pandarus begs Troilus to keep silent, promises to be true all his days, and assures him that he shall have all that he will in the love of Cressida: “thou knowest what thy lady granted thee; and day is set the charters up to make.”

Who mighte telle half the joy and feast Which that the soul of Troilus then felt, Hearing th’effect of Pandarus’ behest? His olde woe, that made his hearte swelt, faint, die Gan then for joy to wasten and to melt, And all the reheating <46> of his sighes sore At ones fled, he felt of them no more.

But right so as these holtes and these hayes, woods and hedges That have in winter deade been and dry, Reveste them in greene, when that May is, When ev’ry lusty listeth best to play; pleasant (one) wishes Right in that selfe wise, sooth to say, Wax’d suddenly his hearte full of joy, That gladder was there never man in Troy.

Troilus solemnly swears that never, “for all the good that God made under sun,” will he reveal what Pandarus asks him to keep secret; offering to die a thousand times, if need were, and to follow his friend as a slave all his life, in proof of his gratitude.

“But here, with all my heart, I thee beseech, That never in me thou deeme such folly judge As I shall say; me thoughte, by thy speech, That this which thou me dost for company, friendship I shoulde ween it were a bawdery; a bawd’s action I am not wood, all if I lewed be; I am not mad, though It is not one, that wot I well, pardie! I be unlearned

“But he that goes for gold, or for richess, On such messages, call him as thee lust; what you please And this that thou dost, call it gentleness, Compassion, and fellowship, and trust; Depart it so, for widewhere is wist How that there is diversity requer’d Betwixte thinges like, as I have lear’d. <47>

“And that thou know I think it not nor ween, suppose That this service a shame be or a jape, subject for jeering I have my faire sister Polyxene, Cassandr’, Helene, or any of the frape; set <48> Be she never so fair, or well y-shape, Telle me which thou wilt of ev’ry one, To have for thine, and let me then alone.”

Then, beseeching Pandarus soon to perform out the great enterprise of crowning his love for Cressida, Troilus bade his friend good night. On the morrow Troilus burned as the fire, for hope and pleasure; yet “he not forgot his wise governance [self- control];”

But in himself with manhood gan restrain Each rakel deed, and each unbridled cheer, rash demeanour That alle those that live, sooth to sayn, Should not have wist, by word or by mannere, suspicion What that he meant, as touching this mattere; From ev’ry wight as far as is the cloud He was, so well dissimulate he could.

And all the while that I now devise describe, narrate This was his life: with all his fulle might, By day he was in Marte’s high service, That is to say, in armes as a knight; And, for the moste part, the longe night He lay, and thought how that he mighte serve His lady best, her thank for to deserve. gratitude

I will not swear, although he laye soft, That in his thought he n’as somewhat diseas’d; troubled Nor that he turned on his pillows oft, And would of that him missed have been seis’d; possessed But in such case men be not alway pleas’d, For aught I wot, no more than was he; That can I deem of possibility. judge

But certain is, to purpose for to go, That in this while, as written is in gest, the history of He saw his lady sometimes, and also these events She with him spake, when that she durst and lest; dared and pleased And, by their both advice, as was the best, consultation Appointed full warily in this need, made careful preparations So as they durst, how far they would proceed.

But it was spoken in so short a wise, so briefly, and always in such In such await alway, and in such fear, vigilance and fear of being Lest any wight divinen or devise found out by anyone Would of their speech, or to it lay an ear, That all this world them not so lefe were, they wanted more than As that Cupido would them grace send anything in the world To maken of their speeches right an end.

But thilke little that they spake or wrought, His wise ghost took ay of all such heed, spirit It seemed her he wiste what she thought Withoute word, so that it was no need To bid him aught to do, nor aught forbid; For which she thought that love, all came it late, although Of alle joy had open’d her the gate.

Troilus, by his discretion, his secrecy, and his devotion, made ever a deeper lodgment in Cressida’s heart; so that she thanked God twenty thousand times that she had met with a man who, as she felt, “was to her a wall of steel, and shield from ev’ry displeasance;” while Pandarus ever actively fanned the fire. So passed a “time sweet” of tranquil and harmonious love the only drawback being, that the lovers might not often meet, “nor leisure have, their speeches to fulfil.” At last Pandarus found an occasion for bringing them together at his house unknown to anybody, and put his plan in execution.

For he, with great deliberation, Had ev’ry thing that hereto might avail be of service Forecast, and put in execution, And neither left for cost nor for travail; effort Come if them list, them shoulde nothing fail, Nor for to be in aught espied there, That wiste he an impossible were. he knew it was impossible that they could be discovered there And dreadeless it clear was in the wind without doubt Of ev’ry pie, and every let-game; <49> Now all is well, for all this world is blind, In this mattere, bothe fremd and tame; <50> wild This timber is all ready for to frame; Us lacketh naught, but that we weete wo’ld know A certain hour in which we come sho’ld. <51>

Troilus had informed his household, that if at any time he was missing, he had gone to worship at a certain temple of Apollo, “and first to see the holy laurel quake, or that the godde spake out of the tree.” So, at the changing of the moon, when “the welkin shope him for to rain,” [when the sky was preparing to rain] Pandarus went to invite his niece to supper; solemnly assuring her that Troilus was out of the town — though all the time he was safely shut up, till midnight, in “a little stew,” whence through a hole he joyously watched the arrival of his mistress and her fair niece Antigone, with half a score of her women. After supper Pandaras did everything to amuse his niece; “he sung, he play’d, he told a tale of Wade;” <52> at last she would take her leave; but

The bente Moone with her hornes pale, Saturn, and Jove, in Cancer joined were, <53> That made such a rain from heav’n avail, descend That ev’ry manner woman that was there Had of this smoky rain <54> a very fear; At which Pandarus laugh’d, and saide then “Now were it time a lady to go hen!” hence

He therefore presses Cressida to remain all night; she complies with a good grace; and after the sleeping cup has gone round, all retire to their chambers — Cressida, that she may not be disturbed by the rain and thunder, being lodged in the “inner closet” of Pandarus, who, to lull suspicion, occupies the outer chamber, his niece’s women sleeping in the intermediate apartment. When all is quiet, Pandarus liberates Troilus, and by a secret passage brings him to the chamber of Cressida; then, going forward alone to his niece, after calming her fears of discovery, he tells her that her lover has “through a gutter, by a privy went,” [a secret passage] come to his house in all this rain, mad with grief because a friend has told him that she loves Horastes. Suddenly cold about her heart, Cressida promises that on the morrow she will reassure her lover; but Pandarus scouts the notion of delay, laughs to scorn her proposal to send her ring in pledge of her truth, and finally, by pitiable accounts of Troilus’ grief, induces her to receive him and reassure him at once with her own lips.

This Troilus full soon on knees him set, Full soberly, right by her bedde’s head, And in his beste wise his lady gret greeted But Lord! how she wax’d suddenly all red, And thought anon how that she would be dead; She coulde not one word aright out bring, So suddenly for his sudden coming.

Cressida, though thinking that her servant and her knight should not have doubted her truth, yet sought to remove his jealousy, and offered to submit to any ordeal or oath he might impose; then, weeping, she covered her face, and lay silent. “But now,” exclaims the poet —

But now help, God, to quenchen all this sorrow! So hope I that he shall, for he best may; For I have seen, of a full misty morrow, morn Followen oft a merry summer’s day, And after winter cometh greene May; Folk see all day, and eke men read in stories, That after sharpe stoures be victories. conflicts, struggles

Believing his mistress to be angry, Troilus felt the cramp of death seize on his heart, “and down he fell all suddenly in swoon.” Pandarus “into bed him cast,” and called on his niece to pull out the thorn that stuck in his heart, by promising that she would “all forgive.” She whispered in his ear the assurance that she was not wroth; and at last, under her caresses, he recovered consciousness, to find her arm laid over him, to hear the assurance of her forgiveness, and receive her frequent kisses. Fresh vows and explanations passed; and Cressida implored forgiveness of “her own sweet heart,” for the pain she had caused him. Surprised with sudden bliss, Troilus put all in God’s hand, and strained his lady fast in his arms. “What might or may the seely [innocent] larke say, when that the sperhawk [sparrowhawk] hath him in his foot?”

Cressida, which that felt her thus y-take, As write clerkes in their bookes old, Right as an aspen leaf began to quake, When she him felt her in his armes fold; But Troilus, all whole of cares cold, cured of painful sorrows <55> Gan thanke then the blissful goddes seven. <56> Thus sundry paines bringe folk to heaven.

This Troilus her gan in armes strain, And said, “O sweet, as ever may I go’n, prosper Now be ye caught, now here is but we twain, Now yielde you, for other boot is none.” remedy To that Cresside answered thus anon, “N’ had I ere now, my sweete hearte dear, Been yolden, y-wis, I were now not here!” yielded myself

O sooth is said, that healed for to be Of a fever, or other great sickness, Men muste drink, as we may often see, Full bitter drink; and for to have gladness Men drinken often pain and great distress! I mean it here, as for this adventure, That thorough pain hath founden all his cure.

And now sweetnesse seemeth far more sweet, That bitterness assayed was beforn; tasted <57> For out of woe in blisse now they fleet, float, swim None such they felte since that they were born; Now is it better than both two were lorn! <58> For love of God, take ev’ry woman heed To worke thus, if it come to the need!

Cresside, all quit from ev’ry dread and teen, pain As she that juste cause had him to trust, Made him such feast,<59> it joy was for to see’n, When she his truth and intent cleane wist; knew the purity And as about a tree, with many a twist, of his purpose Bitrent and writhen is the sweet woodbind, plaited and wreathed Gan each of them in armes other wind. embrace, encircle

And as the new abashed nightingale, newly-arrived and timid That stinteth, first when she beginneth sing, stops When that she heareth any herde’s tale, the talking of a shepherd Or in the hedges any wight stirring; And, after, sicker out her voice doth ring; confidently Right so Cressida, when her dreade stent, her doubt ceased Open’d her heart, and told him her intent. mind

And might as he that sees his death y-shapen, prepared And dien must, in aught that he may guess, for all he can tell And suddenly rescouse doth him escapen, he is rescued and escapes And from his death is brought in sickerness; to safety For all the world, in such present gladness Was Troilus, and had his lady sweet; With worse hap God let us never meet!

Her armes small, her straighte back and soft, Her sides longe, fleshly, smooth, and white, He gan to stroke; and good thrift bade full oft blessing On her snow-white throat, her breastes round and lite; small Thus in this heaven he gan him delight, And therewithal a thousand times her kist, That what to do for joy unneth he wist. he hardly knew

The lovers exchanged vows, and kisses, and embraces, and speeches of exalted love, and rings; Cressida gave to Troilus a brooch of gold and azure, “in which a ruby set was like a heart;” and the too short night passed.

“When that the cock, commune astrologer, <60> Gan on his breast to beat, and after crow, And Lucifer, the daye’s messenger, Gan for to rise, and out his beames throw; And eastward rose, to him that could it know, Fortuna Major, <61> then anon Cresseide, With hearte sore, to Troilus thus said:

“My hearte’s life, my trust, and my pleasance! That I was born, alas! that me is woe, That day of us must make disseverance! For time it is to rise, and hence to go, Or else I am but lost for evermo’. O Night! alas! why n’ilt thou o’er us hove, hover As long as when Alcmena lay by Jove? <62>

“O blacke Night! as folk in bookes read That shapen art by God, this world to hide, appointed At certain times, with thy darke weed, robe That under it men might in rest abide, Well oughte beastes plain, and folke chide, That where as Day with labour would us brest, burst, overcome There thou right flee’st, and deignest not us rest. grantest

“Thou dost, alas! so shortly thine office, duty Thou rakel Night! that God, maker of kind, rash, hasty Thee for thy haste and thine unkinde vice, So fast ay to our hemisphere bind, That never more under the ground thou wind; turn, revolve For through thy rakel hieing out of Troy hasting Have I forgone thus hastily my joy!” lost

This Troilus, that with these wordes felt, As thought him then, for piteous distress, The bloody teares from his hearte melt, As he that never yet such heaviness Assayed had out of so great gladness, Gan therewithal Cresside, his lady dear, In armes strain, and said in this mannere:

“O cruel Day! accuser of the joy That Night and Love have stol’n, and fast y-wrien! closely Accursed be thy coming into Troy! concealed For ev’ry bow’r hath one of thy bright eyen: chamber Envious Day! Why list thee to espyen? What hast thou lost? Why seekest thou this place? There God thy light so quenche, for his grace!

“Alas! what have these lovers thee aguilt? offended, sinned against Dispiteous Day, thine be the pains of hell! cruel, spiteful For many a lover hast thou slain, and wilt; Thy peering in will nowhere let them dwell: What! proff’rest thou thy light here for to sell? Go sell it them that smalle seales grave! cut devices on We will thee not, us needs no day to have.”

And eke the Sunne, Titan, gan he chide, And said, “O fool! well may men thee despise! That hast the Dawning <63> all night thee beside, And suff’rest her so soon up from thee rise, For to disease us lovers in this wise! annoy What! hold thy bed, both thou, and eke thy Morrow! keep I bidde God so give you bothe sorrow!” pray

The lovers part with many sighs and protestations of unswerving and undying love; Cressida responding to the vows of Troilus with the assurance —

“That first shall Phoebus falle from his sphere, the sun And heaven’s eagle be the dove’s fere, And ev’ry rock out of his place start, Ere Troilus out of Cressida’s heart.”

When Pandarus visits Troilus in his palace later in the day, he warns him not to mar his bliss by any fault of his own:

“For, of Fortune’s sharp adversity, The worste kind of infortune is this, A man to have been in prosperity, And it remember when it passed is.<64> Thou art wise enough; forthy, ” do not amiss; therefore Be not too rakel, though thou sitte warm; rash, over-hasty For if thou be, certain it will thee harm.

“Thou art at ease, and hold thee well therein; For, all so sure as red is ev’ry fire, As great a craft is to keep weal as win; <65> Bridle alway thy speech and thy desire, For worldly joy holds not but by a wire; That proveth well, it breaks all day so oft, Forthy need is to worke with it soft.”

Troilus sedulously observes the counsel; and the lovers have many renewals of their pleasure, and of their bitter chidings of the Day. The effects of love on Troilus are altogether refining and ennobling; as may be inferred from the song which he sung often to Pandarus:

The Second Song of Troilus.

“Love, that of Earth and Sea hath governance! Love, that his hestes hath in Heaven high! commandments Love, that with a right wholesome alliance Holds people joined, as him list them guy! guide Love, that knitteth law and company, And couples doth in virtue for to dwell, Bind this accord, that I have told, and tell!

“That the worlde, with faith which that is stable, Diverseth so, his stoundes according; according to its seasons That elementes, that be discordable, discordant Holden a bond perpetually during; That Phoebus may his rosy day forth bring; And that the Moon hath lordship o’er the night; — All this doth Love, ay heried be his might! praised

“That the sea, which that greedy is to flowen, Constraineth to a certain ende so limit His floodes, that so fiercely they not growen To drenchen earth and all for evermo’; drown And if that Love aught let his bridle go, All that now loves asunder shoulde leap, And lost were all that Love holds now to heap. together <66>

“So woulde God, that author is of kind, That with his bond Love of his virtue list To cherish heartes, and all fast to bind, That from his bond no wight the way out wist! And heartes cold, them would I that he twist, turned To make them love; and that him list ay rue have pity On heartes sore, and keep them that be true.”

But Troilus’ love had higher fruits than singing:

In alle needes for the towne’s werre war He was, and ay the first in armes dight, equipped, prepared And certainly, but if that bookes err, Save Hector, most y-dread of any wight; dreaded And this increase of hardiness and might courage Came him of love, his lady’s grace to win, That altered his spirit so within.

In time of truce, a-hawking would he ride, Or elles hunt the boare, bear, lioun; The smalle beastes let he go beside;<67> And when he came riding into the town, Full oft his lady, from her window down, As fresh as falcon coming out of mew, cage <68> Full ready was him goodly to salue. salute

And most of love and virtue was his speech, And in despite he had all wretchedness he held in scorn all And doubtless no need was him to beseech despicable actions To honour them that hadde worthiness, And ease them that weren in distress; And glad was he, if any wight well far’d, That lover was, when he it wist or heard.

For he held every man lost unless he were in Love’s service; and, so did the power of Love work within him, that he was ay [always] humble and benign, and “pride, envy, ire, and avarice, he gan to flee, and ev’ry other vice.”

THE FOURTH BOOK

A BRIEF Proem to the Fourth Book prepares us for the treachery of Fortune to Troilus; from whom she turned away her bright face, and took of him no heed, “and cast him clean out of his lady’s grace, and on her wheel she set up Diomede.” Then the narrative describes a skirmish in which the Trojans were worsted, and Antenor, with many of less note, remained in the hands of the Greeks. A truce was proclaimed for the exchange of prisoners; and as soon as Calchas heard the news, he came to the assembly of the Greeks, to “bid a boon.” Having gained audience, he reminded the besiegers how he had come from Troy to aid and encourage them in their enterprise; willing to lose all that he had in the city, except his daughter Cressida, whom he bitterly reproached himself for leaving behind. And now, with streaming tears and pitiful prayer, he besought them to exchange Antenor for Cressida; assuring them that the day was at hand when they should have both town and people. The soothsayer’s petition was granted; and the ambassadors charged to negotiate the exchange, entering the city, told their errand to King Priam and his parliament.

This Troilus was present in the place When asked was for Antenor Cresside; For which to change soon began his face, As he that with the wordes well nigh died; But natheless he no word to it seid; said Lest men should his affection espy, With manne’s heart he gan his sorrows drie; endure

And, full of anguish and of grisly dread, Abode what other lords would to it say, And if they woulde grant, — as God forbid! — Th’exchange of her, then thought he thinges tway: two First, for to save her honour; and what way He mighte best th’exchange of her withstand; This cast he then how all this mighte stand.

Love made him alle prest to do her bide, eager to make her stay And rather die than that she shoulde go; But Reason said him, on the other side, “Without th’assent of her, do thou not so, Lest for thy worke she would be thy foe; And say, that through thy meddling is y-blow divulged, blown abroad Your bothe love, where it was erst unknow.” previously unknown

For which he gan deliberate for the best, That though the lordes woulde that she went, He woulde suffer them grant what them lest, they pleased And tell his lady first what that they meant; And, when that she had told him her intent, Thereafter would he worken all so blive, speedily Though all the world against it woulde strive.

Hector, which that full well the Greekes heard, For Antenor how they would have Cresseide, Gan it withstand, and soberly answer’d; “Sirs, she is no prisoner,” he said; “I know not on you who this charge laid; But, for my part, ye may well soon him tell, We use here no women for to sell.” are accustomed

The noise of the people then upstart at once, As breme as blaze of straw y-set on fire violent, furious For Infortune woulde for the nonce Misfortune They shoulde their confusion desire “Hector,” quoth they, “what ghost may you inspire spirit This woman thus to shield, and do us lose cause us to Dan Antenor? — a wrong way now ye choose, —

“That is so wise, and eke so bold baroun; And we have need of folk, as men may see He eke is one the greatest of this town; O Hector! lette such fantasies be! O King Priam!” quoth they, “lo! thus say we, That all our will is to forego Cresseide;” And to deliver Antenor they pray’d.

Though Hector often prayed them “nay,” it was resolved that Cressida should be given up for Antenor; then the parliament dispersed. Troilus hastened home to his chamber, shut himself up alone, and threw himself on his bed.

And as in winter leaves be bereft, Each after other, till the tree be bare, So that there is but bark and branch y-left, Lay Troilus, bereft of each welfare, Y-bounden in the blacke bark of care, Disposed wood out of his wit to braid, to go out of his senses So sore him sat the changing of Cresseide. so ill did he bear

He rose him up, and ev’ry door he shet, shut And window eke; and then this sorrowful man Upon his bedde’s side adown him set, Full like a dead image, pale and wan, And in his breast the heaped woe began Out burst, and he to worken in this wise, In his woodness, as I shall you devise. madness relate

Right as the wilde bull begins to spring, Now here, now there, y-darted to the heart, pierced with a dart And of his death roareth in complaining; Right so gan he about the chamber start, Smiting his breast aye with his fistes smart; painfully, cruelly His head to the wall, his body to the ground, Full oft he swapt, himselfe to confound. struck, dashed

His eyen then, for pity of his heart, Out streameden as swifte welles tway; fountains The highe sobbes of his sorrow’s smart His speech him reft; unnethes might he say, scarcely “O Death, alas! why n’ilt thou do me dey? why will you not Accursed be that day which that Nature make me die? Shope me to be a living creature!” shaped

Bitterly reviling Fortune, and calling on Love to explain why his happiness with Cressicla should be thus repealed, Troilus declares that, while he lives, he will bewail his misfortune in solitude, and will never see it shine or rain, but will end his sorrowful life in darkness, and die in distress.

“O weary ghost, that errest to and fro! Why n’ilt thou fly out of the woefulest wilt not Body that ever might on grounde go? O soule, lurking in this woeful nest! Flee forth out of my heart, and let it brest, burst And follow alway Cresside, thy lady dear! Thy righte place is now no longer here.

“O woeful eyen two! since your disport delight Was all to see Cressida’s eyen bright, What shall ye do, but, for my discomfort, Stande for naught, and weepen out your sight, Since she is quench’d, that wont was you to light? In vain, from this forth, have I eyen tway Y-formed, since your virtue is away!

“O my Cresside! O lady sovereign Of thilke woeful soule that now cryeth! this Who shall now give comfort to thy pain? Alas! no wight; but, when my hearte dieth, My spirit, which that so unto you hieth, hasteneth Receive in gree, for that shall ay you serve; with favour Forthy no force is though the body sterve. therefore no matter die “O ye lovers, that high upon the wheel Be set of Fortune, in good adventure, God lene that ye find ay love of steel,<69> grant always And longe may your life in joy endure! But when ye come by my sepulture, sepulchre Remember that your fellow resteth there; For I lov’d eke, though I unworthy were.

“O old, unwholesome, and mislived man, Calchas I mean, alas! what ailed thee To be a Greek, since thou wert born Trojan? O Calchas! which that will my bane be, destruction In cursed time wert thou born for me! As woulde blissful Jove, for his joy, That I thee hadde where I would in Troy!”

Soon Troilus, through excess of grief, fell into a trance; in which he was found by Pandarus, who had gone almost distracted at the news that Cressida was to be exchanged for Antenor. At his friend’s arrival, Troilus “gan as the snow against the sun to melt;” the two mingled their tears a while; then Pandarus strove to comfort the woeful lover. He admitted that never had a stranger ruin than this been wrought by Fortune:

“But tell me this, why thou art now so mad To sorrow thus? Why li’st thou in this wise, Since thy desire all wholly hast thou had, So that by right it ought enough suffice? But I, that never felt in my service A friendly cheer or looking of an eye, Let me thus weep and wail until I die. <70>

“And over all this, as thou well wost thy selve, knowest This town is full of ladies all about, And, to my doom, fairer than suche twelve in my judgment As ever she was, shall I find in some rout, company Yea! one or two, withouten any doubt: Forthy be glad, mine owen deare brother! therefore If she be lost, we shall recover another.

“What! God forbid alway that each pleasance In one thing were, and in none other wight; If one can sing, another can well dance; If this be goodly, she is glad and light; And this is fair, and that can good aright; Each for his virtue holden is full dear, Both heroner, and falcon for rivere. <71>

“And eke as writ Zausis,<72> that was full wise, The newe love out chaseth oft the old, And upon new case lieth new advice; <73> Think eke thy life to save thou art hold; bound Such fire by process shall of kinde cold; shall grow cold by For, since it is but casual pleasance, process of nature Some case shall put it out of remembrance. chance

“For, all so sure as day comes after night, The newe love, labour, or other woe, Or elles seldom seeing of a wight, Do old affections all over go; overcome And for thy part, thou shalt have one of tho those T’abridge with thy bitter paine’s smart; Absence of her shall drive her out of heart.”

These wordes said he for the nones all, only for the nonce To help his friend, lest he for sorrow died; For, doubteless, to do his woe to fall, make his woe subside He raughte not what unthrift that he said; cared folly But Troilus, that nigh for sorrow died, Took little heed of all that ever he meant; One ear it heard, at th’other out it went.

But, at the last, he answer’d and said, “Friend, This leachcraft, or y-healed thus to be, Were well sitting if that I were a fiend, recked To traisen her that true is unto me: betray I pray God, let this counsel never the, thrive But do me rather sterve anon right here, die Ere I thus do, as thou me wouldest lear!” teach

Troilus protests that his lady shall have him wholly hers till death; and, debating the counsels of his friend, declares that even if he would, he could not love another. Then he points out the folly of not lamenting the loss of Cressida because she had been his in ease and felicity — while Pandarus himself, though he thought it so light to change to and fro in love, had not done busily his might to change her that wrought him all the woe of his unprosperous suit.

“If thou hast had in love ay yet mischance, And canst it not out of thine hearte drive, I that lived in lust and in pleasance delight With her, as much as creature alive, How should I that forget, and that so blive? quickly O where hast thou been so long hid in mew, <74> cage That canst so well and formally argue!”

The lover condemns the whole discourse of his friend as unworthy, and calls on Death, the ender of all sorrows, to come to him and quench his heart with his cold stroke. Then he distils anew in tears, “as liquor out of alembic;” and Pandarus is silent for a while, till he bethinks him to recommend to Troilus the carrying off of Cressida. “Art thou in Troy, and hast no hardiment [daring, boldness] to take a woman which that loveth thee?” But Troilus reminds his counsellor that all the war had come from the ravishing of a woman by might (the abduction of Helen by Paris); and that it would not beseem him to withstand his father’s grant, since the lady was to be changed for the town’s good. He has dismissed the thought of asking Cressida from his father, because that would be to injure her fair fame, to no purpose, for Priam could not overthrow the decision of “so high a place as parliament;” while most of all he fears to perturb her heart with violence, to the slander of her name — for he must hold her honour dearer than himself in every case, as lovers ought of right:

“Thus am I in desire and reason twight: twisted Desire, for to disturbe her, me redeth; counseleth And Reason will not, so my hearte dreadeth.” is in doubt

Thus weeping, that he coulde never cease He said, “Alas! how shall I, wretche, fare? For well feel I alway my love increase, And hope is less and less alway, Pandare! Increasen eke the causes of my care; So well-away! why n’ ill my hearte brest? why will not For us in love there is but little rest.” my heart break?

Pandare answered, “Friend, thou may’st for me Do as thee list; but had I it so hot, please And thine estate, she shoulde go with me! rank Though all this town cried on this thing by note, I would not set all that noise a groat; value For when men have well cried, then will they rown, whisper Eke wonder lasts but nine nights ne’er in town.

“Divine not in reason ay so deep, Nor courteously, but help thyself anon; Bet is that others than thyselfe weep; better And namely, since ye two be all one, Rise up, for, by my head, she shall not go’n! And rather be in blame a little found, Than sterve here as a gnat withoute wound! die

“It is no shame unto you, nor no vice, Her to withholde, that ye loveth most; Parauntre she might holde thee for nice, peradventure foolish To let her go thus unto the Greeks’ host; Think eke, Fortune, as well thyselfe wost, Helpeth the hardy man to his emprise, And weiveth wretches for their cowardice. forsaketh

“And though thy lady would a lite her grieve, little Thou shalt thyself thy peace thereafter make; But, as to me, certain I cannot ’lieve That she would it as now for evil take: Why shoulde then for fear thine hearte quake? Think eke how Paris hath, that is thy brother, A love; and why shalt thou not have another?

“And, Troilus, one thing I dare thee swear, That if Cressida, which that is thy lief, love Now loveth thee as well as thou dost her, God help me so, she will not take agrief amiss Though thou anon do boot in this mischief; provide a remedy And if she willeth from thee for to pass, immediately Then is she false, so love her well the lass. less

“Forthy, take heart, and think, right as a knight, therefore Through love is broken all day ev’ry law; Kithe now somewhat thy courage and thy might; show Have mercy on thyself, for any awe; in spite of any fear Let not this wretched woe thine hearte gnaw; But, manly, set the world on six and seven, <75> And, if thou die a martyr, go to heaven.”

Pandarus promises his friend all aid in the enterprise; it is agreed that Cressida shall be carried off, but only with her own consent; and Pandarus sets out for his niece’s house, to arrange an interview. Meantime Cressida has heard the news; and, caring nothing for her father, but everything for Troilus, she burns in love and fear, unable to tell what she shall do.

But, as men see in town, and all about, That women use friendes to visite, are accustomed So to Cresside of women came a rout, troop For piteous joy, and weened her delight, thought to please her And with their tales, dear enough a mite, not worth a mite These women, which that in the city dwell, They set them down, and said as I shall tell.

Quoth first that one, “I am glad, truely, Because of you, that shall your father see;” Another said, “Y-wis, so am not I, For all too little hath she with us be.” been Quoth then the third, “I hope, y-wis, that she Shall bringen us the peace on ev’ry side; Then, when she goes, Almighty God her guide!”

Those wordes, and those womanishe thinges, She heard them right as though she thennes were, thence; in some For, God it wot, her heart on other thing is; other place Although the body sat among them there, Her advertence is always elleswhere; attention For Troilus full fast her soule sought; Withoute word, on him alway she thought.

These women that thus weened her to please, Aboute naught gan all their tales spend; Such vanity ne can do her no ease, As she that all this meane while brenn’d Of other passion than that they wend; weened, supposed So that she felt almost her hearte die For woe, and weary of that company. weariness

For whiche she no longer might restrain Her teares, they began so up to well, That gave signes of her bitter pain, In which her spirit was, and muste dwell, Rememb’ring her from heav’n into which hell She fallen was, since she forwent the sight lost Of Troilus; and sorrowfully she sight. sighed

And thilke fooles, sitting her about, Weened that she had wept and siked sore, sighed Because that she should out of that rout company Depart, and never playe with them more; And they that hadde knowen her of yore Saw her so weep, and thought it kindeness, And each of them wept eke for her distress.

And busily they gonnen her comfort began Of thing, God wot, on which she little thought; And with their tales weened her disport, And to be glad they her besought; But such an ease therewith they in her wrought, Right as a man is eased for to feel, For ache of head, to claw him on his heel.

But, after all this nice vanity, silly They took their leave, and home they wenten all; Cressida, full of sorrowful pity, Into her chamber up went out of the hall, And on her bed she gan for dead to fall, In purpose never thennes for to rise; And thus she wrought, as I shall you devise. narrate

She rent her sunny hair, wrung her hands, wept, and bewailed her fate; vowing that, since, “for the cruelty,” she could handle neither sword nor dart, she would abstain from meat and drink until she died. As she lamented, Pandarus entered, making her complain a thousand times more at the thought of all the joy which he had given her with her lover; but he somewhat soothed her by the prospect of Troilus’s visit, and by the counsel to contain her grief when he should come. Then Pandarus went in search of Troilus, whom he found solitary in a temple, as one that had ceased to care for life:

For right thus was his argument alway: He said he was but lorne, well-away! lost, ruined “For all that comes, comes by necessity; Thus, to be lorn, it is my destiny. lost, ruined

“For certainly this wot I well,” he said, “That foresight of the divine purveyance providence Hath seen alway me to forgo Cresseide, lose Since God sees ev’ry thing, out of doubtance, without doubt And them disposeth, through his ordinance, In their merites soothly for to be, As they should come by predestiny.

“But natheless, alas! whom shall I ’lieve? For there be greate clerkes many one scholars That destiny through argumentes preve, prove And some say that needly there is none, necessarily But that free choice is giv’n us ev’ry one; O well-away! so sly are clerkes old, That I n’ot whose opinion I may hold. <76> know not

“For some men say, if God sees all beforn, Godde may not deceived be, pardie! Then must it fallen, though men had it sworn, befall, happen That purveyance hath seen before to be; Wherefore I say, that from etern if he eternity Hath wist before our thought eke as our deed, known We have no free choice, as these clerkes read. maintain

“For other thought, nor other deed also, Might never be, but such as purveyance, Which may not be deceived never mo’, Hath feeled before, without ignorance; perceived For if there mighte be a variance, To writhen out from Godde’s purveying, There were no prescience of thing coming,

“But it were rather an opinion Uncertain, and no steadfast foreseeing; And, certes, that were an abusion, illusion That God should have no perfect clear weeting, knowledge More than we men, that have doubtous weening; dubious opinion But such an error upon God to guess, to impute to God Were false, and foul, and wicked cursedness. impiety

“Eke this is an opinion of some That have their top full high and smooth y-shore, <77> They say right thus, that thing is not to come, For that the prescience hath seen before because That it shall come; but they say, that therefore That it shall come, therefore the purveyance Wot it before, withouten ignorance.

“And, in this manner, this necessity Returneth in his part contrary again; reacts in the opposite For needfully behoves it not to be, direction That thilke thinges fallen in certain, certainly happen That be purvey’d; but needly, as they sayn, Behoveth it that thinges, which that fall, That they in certain be purveyed all.

“I mean as though I labour’d me in this To inquire which thing cause of which thing be; As, whether that the prescience of God is The certain cause of the necessity Of thinges that to come be, pardie! Or if necessity of thing coming Be cause certain of the purveying.

“But now enforce I me not in shewing I do not lay stress How th’order of causes stands; but well wot I, That it behoveth, that the befalling Of thinges wiste before certainly, known Be necessary, all seem it not thereby, though it does not appear That prescience put falling necessair To thing to come, all fall it foul or fair.

“For, if there sit a man yond on a see, seat Then by necessity behoveth it That certes thine opinion sooth be, That weenest, or conjectest, that he sit; conjecturest And, furtherover, now againward yet, Lo! right so is it on the part contrary; As thus, — now hearken, for I will not tarry; —

“I say that if th’opinion of thee Be sooth, for that he sits, then say I this, That he must sitte by necessity; And thus necessity in either is, For in him need of sitting is, y-wis, And, in thee, need of sooth; and thus forsooth There must necessity be in you both.

“But thou may’st say he sits not therefore That thine opinion of his sitting sooth But rather, for the man sat there before, Therefore is thine opinion sooth, y-wis; And I say, though the cause of sooth of this Comes of his sitting, yet necessity Is interchanged both in him and thee.

“Thus in the same wise, out of doubtance, I may well maken, as it seemeth me, My reasoning of Godde’s purveyance, And of the thinges that to come be; By whiche reason men may well y-see That thilke thinges that in earthe fall, those happen That by necessity they comen all.

“For although that a thing should come, y-wis, Therefore it is purveyed certainly, Not that it comes for it purveyed is; Yet, natheless, behoveth needfully That thing to come be purvey’d truely; Or elles thinges that purveyed be, That they betide by necessity. happen

“And this sufficeth right enough, certain, For to destroy our free choice ev’ry deal; But now is this abusion, to sayn illusion, self-deception That falling of the thinges temporel Is cause of Godde’s prescience eternel; Now truely that is a false sentence, opinion, judgment That thing to come should cause his prescience.

“What might I ween, an’ I had such a thought, if But that God purveys thing that is to come, For that it is to come, and elles nought? So might I ween that thinges, all and some, That whilom be befall and overcome, have happened Be cause of thilke sov’reign purveyance, in times past That foreknows all, withouten ignorance.

“And over all this, yet say I more thereto, — That right as when I wot there is a thing, Y-wis, that thing must needfully be so; Eke right so, when I wot a thing coming, So must it come; and thus the befalling Of thinges that be wist before the tide, time They may not be eschew’d on any side.” avoided

While Troilus was in all this heaviness, disputing with himself in this matter, Pandarus joined him, and told him the result of the interview with Cressida; and at night the lovers met, with what sighs and tears may be imagined. Cressida swooned away, so that Troilus took her for dead; and, having tenderly laid out her limbs, as one preparing a corpse for the bier, he drew his sword to slay himself upon her body. But, as God would, just at that moment she awoke out of her swoon; and by and by the pair began to talk of their prospects. Cressida declared the opinion, supporting it at great length and with many reasons, that there was no cause for half so much woe on either part. Her surrender, decreed by the parliament, could not be resisted; it was quite easy for them soon to meet again; she would bring things about that she should be back in Troy within a week or two; she would take advantage of the constant coming and going while the truce lasted; and the issue would be, that the Trojans would have both her and Antenor; while, to facilitate her return, she had devised a stratagem by which, working on her father’s avarice, she might tempt him to desert from the Greek camp back to the city. “And truly,” says the poet, having fully reported her plausible speech,

And truely, as written well I find, That all this thing was said of good intent, sincerely And that her hearte true was and kind Towardes him, and spake right as she meant, And that she starf for woe nigh when she went, died And was in purpose ever to be true; Thus write they that of her workes knew.

This Troilus, with heart and ears y-sprad, all open Heard all this thing devised to and fro, And verily it seemed that he had The selfe wit; but yet to let her go the same opinion His hearte misforgave him evermo’; misgave But, finally, he gan his hearte wrest compel To truste her, and took it for the best.

For which the great fury of his penance suffering Was quench’d with hope, and therewith them between Began for joy the amorouse dance; And as the birdes, when the sun is sheen, bright Delighten in their song, in leaves green, Right so the wordes that they spake y-fere together Delighten them, and make their heartes cheer. glad

Yet Troilus was not so well at ease, that he did not earnestly entreat Cressida to observe her promise; for, if she came not into Troy at the set day, he should never have health, honour, or joy; and he feared that the stratagem by which she would try to lure her father back would fail, so that she might be compelled to remain among the Greeks. He would rather have them steal away together, with sufficient treasure to maintain them all their lives; and even if they went in their bare shirt, he had kin and friends elsewhere, who would welcome and honour them.

Cressida, with a sigh, right in this wise Answer’d; “Y-wis, my deare hearte true, We may well steal away, as ye devise, And finde such unthrifty wayes new; But afterward full sore it will us rue; we will regret it And help me God so at my moste need As causeless ye suffer all this dread!

“For thilke day that I for cherishing that same Or dread of father, or of other wight, Or for estate, delight, or for wedding, Be false to you, my Troilus, my knight, Saturne’s daughter Juno, through her might, As wood as Athamante <78> do me dwell mad Eternally in Styx the pit of hell!

“And this, on ev’ry god celestial I swear it you, and eke on each goddess, On ev’ry nymph, and deity infernal, On Satyrs and on Faunes more or less, That halfe goddes be of wilderness; demigods And Atropos my thread of life to-brest, break utterly If I be false! now trow me if you lest. believe please

“And thou Simois, <79> that as an arrow clear Through Troy ay runnest downward to the sea, Bear witness of this word that said is here! That thilke day that I untrue be To Troilus, mine owen hearte free, That thou returne backward to thy well, And I with body and soul sink in hell!”

Even yet Troilus was not wholly content, and urged anew his plan of secret flight; but Cressida turned upon him with the charge that he mistrusted her causelessly, and demanded of him that he should be faithful in her absence, else she must die at her return. Troilus promised faithfulness in far simpler and briefer words than Cressida had used.

“Grand mercy, good heart mine, y-wis,” quoth she; “And blissful Venus let me never sterve, die Ere I may stand of pleasance in degree in a position to reward To quite him that so well can deserve; him well with pleasure And while that God my wit will me conserve, I shall so do; so true I have you found, That ay honour to me-ward shall rebound.

“For truste well that your estate royal, rank Nor vain delight, nor only worthiness Of you in war or tourney martial, Nor pomp, array, nobley, nor eke richess, Ne made me to rue on your distress; take pity But moral virtue, grounded upon truth, That was the cause I first had on you ruth. pity

“Eke gentle heart, and manhood that ye had, And that ye had, — as me thought, — in despite Every thing that sounded unto bad, tended unto, accorded with As rudeness, and peoplish appetite, vulgar And that your reason bridled your delight; This made, aboven ev’ry creature, That I was yours, and shall while I may dure.

“And this may length of yeares not fordo, destroy, do away Nor remuable Fortune deface; unstable But Jupiter, that of his might may do The sorrowful to be glad, so give us grace, Ere nightes ten to meeten in this place, So that it may your heart and mine suffice! And fare now well, for time is that ye rise.”

The lovers took a heart-rending adieu; and Troilus, suffering unimaginable anguish, “withoute more, out of the chamber went.”

THE FIFTH BOOK.

APPROACHE gan the fatal destiny That Jovis hath in disposition, And to you angry Parcae, Sisters three, The Fates Committeth to do execution; For which Cressida must out of the town, And Troilus shall dwelle forth in pine, pain Till Lachesis his thread no longer twine. twist

The golden-tressed Phoebus, high aloft, Thries had alle, with his beames clear, thrice The snowes molt, and Zephyrus as oft melted Y-brought again the tender leaves green, Since that the son of Hecuba the queen Troilus <80> Began to love her first, for whom his sorrow Was all, that she depart should on the morrow

In the morning, Diomede was ready to escort Cressida to the Greek host; and Troilus, seeing him mount his horse, could with difficulty resist an impulse to slay him — but restrained himself, lest his lady should be also slain in the tumult. When Cressida was ready to go,

This Troilus, in guise of courtesy, With hawk on hand, and with a huge rout retinue, crowd Of knightes, rode, and did her company, Passing alle the valley far without; And farther would have ridden, out of doubt, Full fain, and woe was him to go so soon, gladly But turn he must, and it was eke to do’n.

And right with that was Antenor y-come Out of the Greekes’ host, and ev’ry wight Was of it glad, and said he was welcome; And Troilus, all n’ere his hearte light, although his heart He pained him, with all his fulle might, was not light Him to withhold from weeping at the least; And Antenor he kiss’d and made feast.

And therewithal he must his leave take, And cast his eye upon her piteously, And near he rode, his cause for to make excuse, occasion To take her by the hand all soberly; And, Lord! so she gan weepe tenderly! And he full soft and slily gan her say, “Now hold your day, and do me not to dey.” do not make me die

With that his courser turned he about, With face pale, and unto Diomede No word he spake, nor none of all his rout; Of which the son of Tydeus <81> tooke heed, As he that couthe more than the creed <82> knew In such a craft, and by the rein her hent; took And Troilus to Troye homeward went.

This Diomede, that led her by the bridle, When that he saw the folk of Troy away, Thought, “All my labour shall not be on idle, in vain If that I may, for somewhat shall I say; For, at the worst, it may yet short our way; I have heard say eke, times twice twelve, He is a fool that will forget himselve.”

But natheless, this thought he well enough, That “Certainly I am aboute naught, If that I speak of love, or make it tough; make any violent For, doubteless, if she have in her thought immediate effort Him that I guess, he may not be y-brought So soon away; but I shall find a mean, That she not wit as yet shall what I mean.” shall not yet know

So he began a general conversation, assured her of not less friendship and honour among the Greeks than she had enjoyed in Troy, and requested of her earnestly to treat him as a brother and accept his service — for, at last he said, “I am and shall be ay, while that my life may dure, your own, aboven ev’ry creature.

“Thus said I never e’er now to woman born; For, God mine heart as wisly gladden so! surely I loved never woman herebeforn, As paramours, nor ever shall no mo’; And for the love of God be not my foe, All can I not to you, my lady dear, although Complain aright, for I am yet to lear. teach

“And wonder not, mine owen lady bright, Though that I speak of love to you thus blive; soon For I have heard ere this of many a wight That loved thing he ne’er saw in his live; Eke I am not of power for to strive Against the god of Love, but him obey I will alway, and mercy I you pray.”

Cressida answered his discourses as though she scarcely heard them; yet she thanked him for his trouble and courtesy, and accepted his offered friendship — promising to trust him, as well she might. Then she alighted from her steed, and, with her heart nigh breaking, was welcomed to the embrace of her father. Meanwhile Troilus, back in Troy, was lamenting with tears the loss of his love, despairing of his or her ability to survive the ten days, and spending the night in wailing, sleepless tossing, and troublous dreams. In the morning he was visited by Pandarus, to whom he gave directions for his funeral; desiring that the powder into which his heart was burned should be kept in a golden urn, and given to Cressida. Pandarus renewed his old counsels and consolations, reminded his friend that ten days were a short time to wait, argued against his faith in evil dreams, and urged him to take advantage of the truce, and beguile the time by a visit to King Sarpedon (a Lycian Prince who had come to aid the Trojans). Sarpedon entertained them splendidly; but no feasting, no pomp, no music of instruments, no singing of fair ladies, could make up for the absence of Cressida to the desolate Troilus, who was for ever poring upon her old letters, and recalling her loved form. Thus he “drove to an end” the fourth day, and would have then returned to Troy, but for the remonstrances of Pandarus, who asked if they had visited Sarpedon only to fetch fire? At last, at the end of a week, they returned to Troy; Troilus hoping to find Cressida again in the city, Pandarus entertaining a scepticism which he concealed from his friend. The morning after their return, Troilus was impatient till he had gone to the palace of Cressida; but when he found her doors all closed, “well nigh for sorrow adown he gan to fall.”

Therewith, when he was ware, and gan behold How shut was ev’ry window of the place, As frost him thought his hearte gan to cold; began to grow cold For which, with changed deadly pale face, Withoute word, he forth began to pace; And, as God would, he gan so faste ride, That no wight of his countenance espied.

Then said he thus: “O palace desolate! O house of houses, whilom beste hight! formerly called best O palace empty and disconsolate! O thou lantern, of which quench’d is the light! O palace, whilom day, that now art night! Well oughtest thou to fall, and I to die, Since she is gone that wont was us to guy! guide, rule

“O palace, whilom crown of houses all, Illumined with sun of alle bliss! O ring, from which the ruby is out fall! O cause of woe, that cause hast been of bliss! Yet, since I may no bet, fain would I kiss Thy colde doores, durst I for this rout; And farewell shrine, of which the saint is out!”

From thence forth he rideth up and down, And ev’ry thing came him to remembrance, As he rode by the places of the town, In which he whilom had all his pleasance; “Lo! yonder saw I mine own lady dance; And in that temple, with her eyen clear, Me caughte first my righte lady dear.

“And yonder have I heard full lustily My deare hearte laugh; and yonder play: Saw I her ones eke full blissfully; And yonder ones to me gan she say, ‘Now, goode sweete! love me well, I pray;’ And yond so gladly gan she me behold, That to the death my heart is to her hold. holden, bound

“And at that corner, in the yonder house, Heard I mine allerlevest lady dear, dearest of all So womanly, with voice melodious, Singe so well, so goodly and so clear, That in my soule yet me thinks I hear The blissful sound; and in that yonder place My lady first me took unto her grace.”

Then he went to the gates, and gazed along the way by which he had attended Cressida at her departure; then he fancied that all the passers-by pitied him; and thus he drove forth a day or two more, singing a song, of few words, which he had made to lighten his heart:

“O star, of which I lost have all the light, With hearte sore well ought I to bewail, That ever dark in torment, night by night, Toward my death, with wind I steer and sail; For which, the tenthe night, if that I fail miss; be left without The guiding of thy beames bright an hour, My ship and me Charybdis will devour.”

By night he prayed the moon to run fast about her sphere; by day he reproached the tardy sun — dreading that Phaethon had come to life again, and was driving the chariot of Apollo out of its straight course. Meanwhile Cressida, among the Greeks, was bewailing the refusal of her father to let her return, the certainty that her lover would think her false, and the hopelessness of any attempt to steal away by night. Her bright face waxed pale, her limbs lean, as she stood all day looking toward Troy; thinking on her love and all her past delights, regretting that she had not followed the counsel of Troilus to steal away with him, and finally vowing that she would at all hazards return to the city. But she was fated, ere two months, to be full far from any such intention; for Diomede now brought all his skill into play, to entice Cressida into his net. On the tenth day, Diomede, “as fresh as branch in May,” came to the tent of Cressida, feigning business with Calchas.

Cresside, at shorte wordes for to tell, Welcomed him, and down by her him set, And he was eath enough to make dwell; easily persuaded to stay And after this, withoute longe let, delay The spices and the wine men forth him fet, fetched And forth they speak of this and that y-fere, together As friendes do, of which some shall ye hear.

He gan first fallen of the war in speech Between them and the folk of Troye town, And of the siege he gan eke her beseech To tell him what was her opinioun; From that demand he so descended down To aske her, if that her strange thought The Greekes’ guise, and workes that they wrought. fashion

And why her father tarried so long delayed To wedde her unto some worthy wight. Cressida, that was in her paines strong For love of Troilus, her owen knight, So farforth as she cunning had or might, ability Answer’d him then; but, as for his intent, purpose It seemed not she wiste what he meant. knew

But natheless this ilke Diomede same Gan in himself assure, and thus he said; grow confident “If I aright have taken on you heed, observed you Me thinketh thus, O lady mine Cresside, That since I first hand on your bridle laid, When ye out came of Troye by the morrow, Ne might I never see you but in sorrow.

“I cannot say what may the cause be, But if for love of some Trojan it were; The which right sore would a-thinke me which it would much That ye for any wight that dwelleth there pain me to think Should [ever] spill a quarter of a tear, shed Or piteously yourselfe so beguile; deceive For dreadeless it is not worth the while. undoubtedly

“The folk of Troy, as who saith, all and some In prison be, as ye yourselfe see; From thence shall not one alive come For all the gold betwixte sun and sea; Truste this well, and understande me; There shall not one to mercy go alive, All were he lord of worldes twice five. although

“What will ye more, lovesome lady dear? Let Troy and Trojan from your hearte pace; Drive out that bitter hope, and make good cheer, And call again the beauty of your face, That ye with salte teares so deface; For Troy is brought into such jeopardy, That it to save is now no remedy.

“And thinke well, ye shall in Greekes find A love more perfect, ere that it be night, Than any Trojan is, and more kind, And better you to serve will do his might; And, if ye vouchesafe, my lady bright, I will be he, to serve you, myselve, — Yea, lever than be a lord of Greekes twelve!” rather

And with that word he gan to waxe red, And in his speech a little while he quoke, quaked; trembled And cast aside a little with his head, And stint a while; and afterward he woke, And soberly on her he threw his look, And said, “I am, albeit to you no joy, As gentle man as any wight in Troy. high-born

“But, hearte mine! since that I am your man, leigeman, subject And [you] be the first of whom I seeke grace, (in love) To serve you as heartily as I can, And ever shall, while I to live have space, So, ere that I depart out of this place, Ye will me grante that I may, to-morrow, At better leisure, telle you my sorrow.”

Why should I tell his wordes that he said? He spake enough for one day at the mest; most It proveth well he spake so, that Cresseide Granted upon the morrow, at his request, Farther to speake with him, at the least, So that he would not speak of such mattere; And thus she said to him, as ye may hear:

As she that had her heart on Troilus So faste set, that none might it arace; uproot <83> And strangely she spake, and saide thus; distantly, unfriendlily “O Diomede! I love that ilke place Where I was born; and Jovis, for his grace, Deliver it soon of all that doth it care! afflict God, for thy might, so leave it well to fare!” grant it

She knows that the Greeks would fain wreak their wrath on Troy, if they might; but that shall never befall: she knows that there are Greeks of high condition — though as worthy men would be found in Troy: and she knows that Diomede could serve his lady well.

“But, as to speak of love, y-wis,” she said, “I had a lord, to whom I wedded was, <84> He whose mine heart was all, until he died; And other love, as help me now Pallas, There in my heart nor is, nor ever was; And that ye be of noble and high kindred, I have well heard it tellen, out of dread. doubt

“And that doth me to have so great a wonder causeth That ye will scornen any woman so; Eke, God wot, love and I be far asunder; I am disposed bet, so may I go, fare or prosper Unto my death to plain and make woe; What I shall after do I cannot say, But truely as yet me list not play. I am not disposed for sport “Mine heart is now in tribulatioun; And ye in armes busy be by day; Hereafter, when ye wonnen have the town, Parauntre then, so as it happen may, peradventure That when I see that I never ere sey, saw before Then will I work that I never ere wrought; This word to you enough sufficen ought.

“To-morrow eke will I speak with you fain, willingly So that ye touche naught of this mattere; And when you list, ye may come here again, And ere ye go, thus much I say you here: As help me Pallas, with her haires clear, If that I should of any Greek have ruth, It shoulde be yourselfe, by my truth!

“I say not therefore that I will you love; Nor say not nay; but, in conclusioun, nor say I that I meane well, by God that sits above!” I will not And therewithal she cast her eyen down, And gan to sigh, and said; “O Troye town! Yet bid I God, in quiet and in rest pray I may you see, or do my hearte brest!” cause my heart to break

But in effect, and shortly for to say, This Diomede all freshly new again Gan pressen on, and fast her mercy pray; And after this, the soothe for to sayn, Her glove he took, of which he was full fain, And finally, when it was waxen eve, And all was well, he rose and took his leave.

Cressida retired to rest:

Returning in her soul ay up and down The wordes of this sudden Diomede,<85> His great estate, the peril of the town, rank And that she was alone, and hadde need Of friendes’ help; and thus began to dread The causes why, the soothe for to tell, That she took fully the purpose for to dwell. remain (with the Greeks) The morrow came, and, ghostly for to speak, plainly This Diomede is come unto Cresseide; And shortly, lest that ye my tale break, So well he for himselfe spake and said, That all her sighes sore adown he laid; And finally, the soothe for to sayn, He refte her the great of all her pain. took away the greater part of And after this, the story telleth us That she him gave the faire baye steed The which she ones won of Troilus; And eke a brooch (and that was little need) That Troilus’ was, she gave this Diomede; And eke, the bet from sorrow him to relieve, She made him wear a pensel of her sleeve. pendant <86>

I find eke in the story elleswhere, When through the body hurt was Diomede By Troilus, she wept many a tear, When that she saw his wide woundes bleed, And that she took to keepe him good heed, tend, care for And, for to heal him of his sorrow’s smart, Men say, I n’ot, that she gave him her heart. know not

And yet, when pity had thus completed the triumph of inconstancy, she made bitter moan over her falseness to one of the noblest and worthiest men that ever was; but it was now too late to repent, and at all events she resolved that she would be true to Diomede — all the while weeping for pity of the absent Troilus, to whom she wished every happiness. The tenth day, meantime, had barely dawned, when Troilus, accompanied by Pandarus, took his stand on the walls, to watch for the return of Cressida. Till noon they stood, thinking that every corner from afar was she; then Troilus said that doubtless her old father bore the parting ill, and had detained her till after dinner; so they went to dine, and returned to their vain observation on the walls. Troilus invented all kinds of explanations for his mistress’s delay; now, her father would not let her go till eve; now, she would ride quietly into the town after nightfall, not to be observed; now, he must have mistaken the day. For five or six days he watched, still in vain, and with decreasing hope. Gradually his strength decayed, until he could walk only with a staff; answering the wondering inquiries of his friends, by saying that he had a grievous malady about his heart. One day he dreamed that in a forest he saw Cressida in the embrace of a boar; and he had no longer doubt of her falsehood. Pandarus, however, explained away the dream to mean merely that Cressida was detained by her father, who might be at the point of death; and he counselled the disconsolate lover to write a letter, by which he might perhaps get at the truth. Troilus complied, entreating from his mistress, at the least, a “letter of hope;” and the lady answered, that she could not come now, but would so soon as she might; at the same time “making him great feast,” and swearing that she loved him best — “of which he found but bottomless behest [which he found but groundless promises].” Day by day increased the woe of Troilus; he laid himself in bed, neither eating, nor drinking, nor sleeping, nor speaking, almost distracted by the thought of Cressida’s unkindness. He related his dream to his sister Cassandra, who told him that the boar betokened Diomede, and that, wheresoever his lady was, Diornede certainly had her heart, and she was his: “weep if thou wilt, or leave, for, out of doubt, this Diomede is in, and thou art out.” Troilus, enraged, refused to believe Cassandra’s interpretation; as well, he cried, might such a story be credited of Alcestis, who devoted her life for her husband; and in his wrath he started from bed, “as though all whole had him y-made a leach [physician],” resolving to find out the truth at all hazards. The death of Hector meanwhile enhanced the sorrow which he endured; but he found time to write often to Cressida, beseeching her to come again and hold her truth; till one day his false mistress, out of pity, wrote him again, in these terms:

“Cupide’s son, ensample of goodlihead, beauty, excellence O sword of knighthood, source of gentleness! How might a wight in torment and in dread, And healeless, you send as yet gladness? devoid of health I hearteless, I sick, I in distress? Since ye with me, nor I with you, may deal, You neither send I may nor heart nor heal.

“Your letters full, the paper all y-plainted, covered with Commoved have mine heart’s pitt; complainings I have eke seen with teares all depainted Your letter, and how ye require me To come again; the which yet may not be; But why, lest that this letter founden were, No mention I make now for fear.

“Grievous to me, God wot, is your unrest, Your haste, and that the goddes’ ordinance impatience It seemeth not ye take as for the best; Nor other thing is in your remembrance, As thinketh me, but only your pleasance; But be not wroth, and that I you beseech, For that I tarry is all for wicked speech. to avoid malicious gossip “For I have heard well more than I wend weened, thought Touching us two, how thinges have stood, Which I shall with dissimuling amend; And, be not wroth, I have eke understood How ye ne do but holde me on hand; <87> But now no force, I cannot in you guess no matter But alle truth and alle gentleness.

“Comen I will, but yet in such disjoint jeopardy, critical I stande now, that what year or what day position That this shall be, that can I not appoint; But in effect I pray you, as I may, For your good word and for your friendship ay; For truely, while that my life may dure, As for a friend, ye may in me assure. depend on me

“Yet pray I you, on evil ye not take do not take it ill That it is short, which that I to you write; I dare not, where I am, well letters make; Nor never yet ne could I well endite; Eke great effect men write in place lite; men write great matter Th’ intent is all, and not the letter’s space; in little space And fare now well, God have you in his grace! “La Vostre C.”

Though he found this letter “all strange,” and thought it like “a kalendes of change,” <88> Troilus could not believe his lady so cruel as to forsake him; but he was put out of all doubt, one day that, as he stood in suspicion and melancholy, he saw a “coat- armour” borne along the street, in token of victory, before Deiphobus his brother. Deiphobus had won it from Diomede in battle that day; and Troilus, examining it out of curiosity, found within the collar a brooch which he had given to Cressida on the morning she left Troy, and which she had pledged her faith to keep for ever in remembrance of his sorrow and of him. At this fatal discovery of his lady’s untruth,

Great was the sorrow and plaint of Troilus; But forth her course Fortune ay gan to hold; Cressida lov’d the son of Tydeus, And Troilus must weep in cares cold. Such is the world, whoso it can behold! In each estate is little hearte’s rest; God lend us each to take it for the best! grant

In many a cruel battle Troilus wrought havoc among the Greeks, and often he exchanged blows and bitter words with Diomede, whom he always specially sought; but it was not their lot that either should fall by the other’s hand. The poet’s purpose, however, he tells us, is to relate, not the warlike deeds of Troilus, which Dares has fully told, but his love-fortunes:

Beseeching ev’ry lady bright of hue, And ev’ry gentle woman, what she be, whatsoever she be Albeit that Cressida was untrue, That for that guilt ye be not wroth with me; Ye may her guilt in other bookes see; And gladder I would writen, if you lest, Of Penelope’s truth, and good Alceste.

Nor say I not this only all for men, But most for women that betrayed be Through false folk (God give them sorrow, Amen!) That with their greate wit and subtilty Betraye you; and this commoveth me To speak; and in effect you all I pray, Beware of men, and hearken what I say.

Go, little book, go, little tragedy! There God my maker, yet ere that I die, So send me might to make some comedy! But, little book, no making thou envy, be envious of no poetry <89> But subject be unto all poesy; And kiss the steps, where as thou seest space, Of Virgil, Ovid, Homer, Lucan, Stace.

And, for there is so great diversity In English, and in writing of our tongue, So pray I God, that none miswrite thee, Nor thee mismetre for default of tongue! And read whereso thou be, or elles sung, That thou be understanden, God I ’seech! beseech But yet to purpose of my rather speech. earlier subject <90>

The wrath, as I began you for to say, Of Troilus the Greekes boughte dear; For thousandes his handes made dey, made to die As he that was withouten any peer, Save in his time Hector, as I can hear; But, well-away! save only Godde’s will, Dispiteously him slew the fierce Achill’.

And when that he was slain in this mannere, His lighte ghost full blissfully is went spirit Up to the hollowness of the seventh sphere <91> In converse leaving ev’ry element; And there he saw, with full advisement, observation, understanding Th’ erratic starres heark’ning harmony, With soundes full of heav’nly melody.

And down from thennes fast he gan advise consider, look on This little spot of earth, that with the sea Embraced is; and fully gan despise This wretched world, and held all vanity, To respect of the plein felicity in comparison with That is in heav’n above; and, at the last, the full felicity Where he was slain his looking down he cast.

And in himself he laugh’d right at the woe Of them that wepte for his death so fast; And damned all our works, that follow so condemned The blinde lust, the which that may not last, And shoulden all our heart on heaven cast; while we should And forth he wente, shortly for to tell, Where as Mercury sorted him to dwell. allotted <92>

Such fine hath, lo! this Troilus for love! end Such fine hath all his greate worthiness! exalted royal rank Such fine hath his estate royal above! Such fine his lust, such fine hath his nobless! pleasure Such fine hath false worlde’s brittleness! fickleness, instability And thus began his loving of Cresside, As I have told; and in this wise he died.

O young and freshe folke, he or she, of either sex In which that love upgroweth with your age, Repaire home from worldly vanity, And of your heart upcaste the visage “lift up the countenance To thilke God, that after his image of your heart.” You made, and think that all is but a fair, This world that passeth soon, as flowers fair!

And love Him, the which that, right for love, Upon a cross, our soules for to bey, buy, redeem First starf, and rose, and sits in heav’n above; died For he will false no wight, dare I say, deceive, fail That will his heart all wholly on him lay; And since he best to love is, and most meek, What needeth feigned loves for to seek?

Lo! here of paynims cursed olde rites! pagans Lo! here what all their goddes may avail! Lo! here this wretched worlde’s appetites! end and reward Lo! here the fine and guerdon for travail, of labour Of Jove, Apollo, Mars, and such rascaille rabble <93> Lo! here the form of olde clerkes’ speech, In poetry, if ye their bookes seech! seek, search

L’Envoy of Chaucer.

O moral Gower! <94> this book I direct. To thee, and to the philosophical Strode, <95> To vouchesafe, where need is, to correct, Of your benignities and zeales good. And to that soothfast Christ that starf on rood died on the cross With all my heart, of mercy ever I pray, And to the Lord right thus I speak and say:

“Thou One, and Two, and Three, etern on live, eternally living That reignest ay in Three, and Two, and One, Uncircumscrib’d, and all may’st circumscrive, comprehend From visible and invisible fone foes Defend us in thy mercy ev’ry one; So make us, Jesus, for thy mercy dign, worthy of thy mercy For love of Maid and Mother thine benign!”

Explicit Liber Troili et Cresseidis. <96>

46.”Reheating” is read by preference for “richesse,” which stands in the older printed editions; though “richesse” certainly better represents the word used in the original of Boccaccio — “dovizia,” meaning abundance or wealth.

CHAUCER’S DREAM.

[This pretty allegory, or rather conceit, containing one or two passages that for vividness and for delicacy yield to nothing in the whole range of Chaucer’s poetry, had never been printed before the year 1597, when it was included in the edition of Speght. Before that date, indeed, a Dream of Chaucer had been printed; but the poem so described was in reality “The Book of the Duchess; or the Death of Blanche, Duchess of Lancaster” — which is not included in the present edition. Speght says that “This Dream, devised by Chaucer, seemeth to be a covert report of the marriage of John of Gaunt, the King’s son, with Blanche, the daughter of Henry, Duke of Lancaster; who after long love (during the time whereof the poet feigneth them to be dead) were in the end, by consent of friends, happily married; figured by a bird bringing in his bill an herb, which restored them to life again. Here also is showed Chaucer’s match with a certain gentlewoman, who, although she was a stranger, was, notwithstanding, so well liked and loved of the Lady Blanche and her Lord, as Chaucer himself also was, that gladly they concluded a marriage between them.” John of Gaunt, at the age of nineteen, and while yet Earl of Richmond, was married to the Lady Blanche at Reading in May 1359; Chaucer, then a prisoner in France, probably did not return to England till peace was concluded in the following year; so that his marriage to Philippa Roet, the sister of the Duchess Blanche’s favourite attendant Katharine Roet, could not have taken place till some time after that of the Duke. In the poem, it is represented to have immediately followed; but no consequence need be attached to that statement. Enough that it followed at no great interval of time; and that the intimate relations which Chaucer had already begun to form with John of Gaunt, might well warrant him in writing this poem on the occasion of the Duke’s marriage, and in weaving his own love-fortunes with those of the principal figures. In the necessary abridgement of the poem for the present edition, the subsidiary branch of the allegory, relating to the poet’s own love affair, has been so far as possible separated from the main branch, which shadows forth the fortunes of John and Blanche. The poem, in full, contains, with an “Envoy” arbitrarily appended, 2233 lines; of which 510 are given here.] (Transcriber’s note: modern scholars believe that Chaucer was not the author of this poem)

WHEN Flora, the queen of pleasance, Had wholly achiev’d the obeisance won the obedience Of the fresh and the new season, Thorough ev’ry region; And with her mantle whole covert wholly covered What winter had made discovert, — stripped

On a May night, the poet lay alone, thinking of his lady, and all her beauty; and, falling asleep, he dreamed that he was in an island

Where wall, and gate, was all of glass, And so was closed round about, That leaveless none came in nor out; without permission Uncouth and strange to behold; For ev’ry gate, of fine gold, A thousand fanes, ay turning, vanes, weathercocks Entuned had, and birds singing contrived so as to emit Diversely, on each fane a pair, a musical sound With open mouth, against the air; <1> And of a suit were all the tow’rs, of the same plan Subtilly carven aft flow’rs carved to represent Of uncouth colours, during ay, lasting forever That never be none seen in May, With many a small turret high; But man alive I could not sigh, see Nor creatures, save ladies play, disporting themselves Which were such of their array, That, as me thought, of goodlihead for comeliness They passed all, and womanhead. For to behold them dance and sing, It seemed like none earthly thing;

And all were of the same age, save one; who was advanced in years, though no less gay in demeanour than the rest. While he stood admiring the richness and beauty of the place, and the fairness of the ladies, which had the notable gift of enduring unimpaired till death, the poet was accosted by the old lady, to whom he had to yield himself prisoner; because the ordinance of the isle was, that no man should dwell there; and the ladies’ fear of breaking the law was enhanced by the temporary absence of their queen from the realm. Just at this moment the cry was raised that the queen came; all the ladies hastened to meet her; and soon the poet saw her approach — but in her company his mistress, wearing the same garb, and a seemly knight. All the ladies wondered greatly at this; and the queen explained:

“My sisters, how it hath befall, befallen I trow ye know it one and all, That of long time here have I been Within this isle biding as queen, Living at ease, that never wight More perfect joye have not might; And to you been of governance Such as you found in whole pleasance, <2> In every thing as ye know, After our custom and our law; Which how they firste founded were, I trow ye wot all the mannere. And who the queen is of this isle, — As I have been this longe while, — Each seven years must, of usage, Visit the heav’nly hermitage, Which on a rock so highe stands, In a strange sea, out from all lands, That for to make the pilgrimage Is call’d a perilous voyage; For if the wind be not good friend, The journey dureth to the end Of him which that it undertakes; Of twenty thousand not one scapes. Upon which rock groweth a tree, That certain years bears apples three; Which three apples whoso may have, Is from all displeasance y-save safe from all pain That in the seven years may fall; This wot you well, both one and all. For the first apple and the hext, highest <3> Which groweth unto you the next, Hath three virtues notable, And keepeth youth ay durable, Beauty, and looks, ever-in-one, continually And is the best of ev’ry one. The second apple, red and green, Only with lookes of your eyne, You nourishes in great pleasance, Better than partridge or fesaunce, pheasant And feedeth ev’ry living wight Pleasantly, only with the sight. And the third apple of the three, Which groweth lowest on the tree, Whoso it beareth may not fail miss, fail to obtain That to his pleasance may avail. that which So your pleasure and beauty rich, Your during youth ever y-lich, alike Your truth, your cunning, and your weal, knowledge Hath flower’d ay, and your good heal, Without sickness or displeasance, Or thing that to you was noyance. offence, injury So that you have as goddesses Lived above all princesses. Now is befall’n, as ye may see; To gather these said apples three, I have not fail’d, against the day, Thitherward to take the way, Weening to speed as I had oft. expecting to succeed But when I came, I found aloft My sister, which that hero stands, Having those apples in her hands, Advising them, and nothing said, regarding, gazing on But look’d as she were well apaid: satisfied And as I stood her to behold, Thinking how my joys were cold, Since I these apples have not might, might not have Even with that so came this knight, And in his arms, of me unware, Me took, and to his ship me bare, And said, though him I ne’er had seen, Yet had I long his lady been; Wherefore I shoulde with him wend, And he would, to his life’s end, My servant be; and gan to sing, As one that had won a rich thing. Then were my spirits from me gone, So suddenly every one, That in me appear’d but death, For I felt neither life nor breath, Nor good nor harme none I knew, The sudden pain me was so new, That had not the hasty grace be had it not been for the Of this lady, that from the tree prompt kindness Of her gentleness so bled, hastened Me to comforten, I had died; And of her three apples she one Into mine hand there put anon, Which brought again my mind and breath, And me recover’d from the death. Wherefore to her so am I hold, beholden, obliged That for her all things do I wo’ld, For she was leach of all my smart, physician And from great pain so quit my heart. delivered And as God wot, right as ye hear, Me to comfort with friendly cheer, She did her prowess and her might. And truly eke so did this knight, In that he could; and often said, That of my woe he was ill paid, distressed, ill-pleased And curs’d the ship that him there brought, The mast, the master that it wrought. And, as each thing must have an end, My sister here, our bother friend, <4> Gan with her words so womanly This knight entreat, and cunningly, For mine honour and hers also, And said that with her we should go Both in her ship, where she was brought, Which was so wonderfully wrought, So clean, so rich, and so array’d, That we were both content and paid; satisfied And me to comfort and to please, And my heart for to put at ease, She took great pain in little while, And thus hath brought us to this isle As ye may see; wherefore each one I pray you thank her one and one, As heartily as ye can devise, Or imagine in any wise.”

At once there then men mighte see’n, A world of ladies fall on kneen Before my lady, —

Thanking her, and placing themselves at her commandment. Then the queen sent the aged lady to the knight, to learn of him why he had done her all this woe; and when the messenger had discharged her mission, telling the knight that in the general opinion he had done amiss, he fell down suddenly as if dead for sorrow and repentance. Only with great difficulty, by the queen herself, was he restored to consciousness and comfort; but though she spoke kind and hope-inspiring words, her heart was not in her speech,

For her intent was, to his barge Him for to bring against the eve, With certain ladies, and take leave, And pray him, of his gentleness, To suffer her thenceforth in peace, let her dwell As other princes had before; And from thenceforth, for evermore, She would him worship in all wise That gentlenesse might devise; And pain her wholly to fulfil, make her utmost efforts In honour, his pleasure and will.

And during thus this knighte’s woe, — Present the queen and other mo’, (there being) present My lady and many another wight, — Ten thousand shippes at a sight I saw come o’er the wavy flood, With sail and oar; that, as I stood Them to behold, I gan marvail From whom might come so many a sail; For, since the time that I was born, Such a navy therebeforn Had I not seen, nor so array’d, That for the sight my hearte play’d Ay to and fro within my breast; For joy long was ere it would rest. For there were sailes full of flow’rs; embroidered with flowers After, castles with huge tow’rs, <5> Seeming full of armes bright, That wond’rous lusty was the sight; pleasant With large tops, and mastes long, Richly depaint’ and rear’d among. raised among them At certain times gan repair Smalle birdes down from the air, And on the shippes’ bounds about bulwarks Sat and sang, with voice full out, Ballads and lays right joyously, As they could in their harmony.

The ladies were alarmed and sorrow-stricken at sight of the ships, thinking that the knight’s companions were on board; and they went towards the walls of the isle, to shut the gates. But it was Cupid who came; and he had already landed, and marched straight to the place where the knight lay. Then he chid the queen for her unkindness to his servant; shot an arrow into her heart; and passed through the crowd, until he found the poet’s lady, whom he saluted and complimented, urging her to have pity on him that loved her. While the poet, standing apart, was revolving all this in his mind, and resolving truly to serve his lady, he saw the queen advance to Cupid, with a petition in which she besought forgiveness of past offences, and promised continual and zealous service till her death. Cupid smiled, and said that he would be king within that island, his new conquest; then, after long conference with the queen, he called a council for the morrow, of all who chose to wear his colours. In the morning, such was the press of ladies, that scarcely could standing-room be found in all the plain. Cupid presided; and one of his counsellors addressed the mighty crowd, promising that ere his departure his lord should bring to an agreement all the parties there present. Then Cupid gave to the knight and the dreamer each his lady; promised his favour to all the others in that place who would truly and busily serve in love; and at evening took his departure. Next morning, having declined the proffered sovereignty of the island, the poet’s mistress also embarked, leaving him behind; but he dashed through the waves, was drawn on board her ship from peril of death, and graciously received into his lady’s lasting favour. Here the poet awakes, finding his cheeks and body all wet with tears; and, removing into another chamber, to rest more in peace, he falls asleep anew, and continues the dream. Again he is within the island, where the knight and all the ladies are assembled on a green, and it is resolved by the assembly, not only that the knight shall be their king, but that every lady there shall be wedded also. It is determined that the knight shall depart that very day, and return, within ten days, with such a host of Benedicts, that none in the isle need lack husbands. The knight

Anon into a little barge Brought was, late against an eve, Where of all he took his leave. Which barge was, as a man thought, Aft his pleasure to him brought; according to The queen herself accustom’d ay In the same barge to play. take her sport It needed neither mast nor rother rudder (I have not heard of such another), Nor master for the governance; steering It sailed by thought and pleasance, Withoute labour, east and west; All was one, calm or tempest. <6> And I went with, at his request, And was the first pray’d to the feast. the bridal feast When he came unto his country, And passed had the wavy sea, In a haven deep and large He left his rich and noble barge, And to the court, shortly to tell, He went, where he was wont to dwell, —

And was gladly received as king by the estates of the land; for during his absence his father, “old, and wise, and hoar,” had died, commending to their fidelity his absent son. The prince related to the estates his journey, and his success in finding the princess in quest of whom he had gone seven years before; and said that he must have sixty thousand guests at his marriage feast. The lords gladly guaranteed the number within the set time; but afterwards they found that fifteen days must be spent in the necessary preparations. Between shame and sorrow, the prince, thus compelled to break his faith, took to his bed, and, in wailing and self-reproach,

— Endur’d the days fifteen, Till that the lords, on an evene, evening Him came and told they ready were, And showed in few wordes there, How and what wise they had purvey’d provided suitably For his estate, and to him said, to his rank That twenty thousand knights of name, And forty thousand without blame, Alle come of noble ligne line, lineage Together in a company Were lodged on a river’s side, Him and his pleasure there t’abide. The prince then for joy uprose, And, where they lodged were, he goes, Withoute more, that same night, And there his supper made to dight; had prepared And with them bode till it was day. abode, waited And forthwith to take his journey, Leaving the strait, holding the large, Till he came to his noble barge: And when the prince, this lusty knight, With his people in armes bright, Was come where he thought to pass, cross to the isle And knew well none abiding was Behind, but all were there present, Forthwith anon all his intent He told them there, and made his cries proclamation Thorough his hoste that day twice, Commanding ev’ry living wight There being present in his sight, To be the morrow on the rivage, shore There he begin would his voyage.

The morrow come, the cry was kept proclamation was obeyed But few were there that night that slept, But truss’d and purvey’d for the morrow; packed up and provided For fault of ships was all their sorrow; lack, shortage For, save the barge, and other two, Of shippes there I saw no mo’. Thus in their doubtes as they stood, Waxing the sea, coming the flood, Was cried “To ship go ev’ry wight!” Then was but hie that hie him might, whoever could hasten, did And to the barge, me thought, each one They went, without was left not one, Horse, nor male , truss, nor baggage, trunk, wallet Salad , spear, gardebrace, nor page, helmet<7> arm-shield<8> But was lodged and room enough; At which shipping me thought I lough, laughed And gan to marvel in my thought, How ever such a ship was wrought. constructed For what people that can increase, however the numbers increased Nor ne’er so thick might be the prease, press, crowd But alle hadde room at will; There was not one was lodged ill. For, as I trow, myself the last Was one, and lodged by the mast; And where I look’d I saw such room As all were lodged in a town. Forth went the ship, said was the creed;<9> And on their knees, for their good speed, to pray for success Down kneeled ev’ry wight a while, And prayed fast that to the isle They mighte come in safety, The prince and all the company. With worship and withoute blame, Or disclander of his name, reproach, slander Of the promise he should return Within the time he did sojourn In his lande biding his host; waiting for This was their prayer least and most: To keep the day it might not be’n, That he appointed with the queen.

Wherefore the prince slept neither day nor night, till he and his people landed on the glass-walled isle, “weening to be in heav’n that night.” But ere they had gone a little way, they met a lady all in black, with piteous countenance, who reproached the prince for his untruth, and informed him that, unable to bear the reproach to their name, caused by the lightness of their trust in strangers, the queen and all the ladies of the isle had vowed neither to eat, nor drink, nor sleep, nor speak, nor cease weeping till all were dead. The queen had died the first; and half of the other ladies had already “under the earth ta’en lodging new.” The woeful recorder of all these woes invites the prince to behold the queen’s hearse:

“Come within, come see her hearse Where ye shall see the piteous sight That ever yet was shown to knight; For ye shall see ladies stand, Each with a greate rod in hand, Clad in black, with visage white, Ready each other for to smite, If any be that will not weep; Or who makes countenance to sleep. They be so beat, that all so blue They be as cloth that dy’d is new.”

Scarcely has the lady ceased to speak, when the prince plucks forth a dagger, plunges it into his heart, and, drawing but one breath, expires.

For whiche cause the lusty host, Which [stood] in battle on the coast, At once for sorrow such a cry Gan rear, thorough the company, throughout That to the heav’n heard was the soun’, And under th’earth as far adown, And wilde beastes for the fear So suddenly affrayed were, afraid That for the doubt, while they might dure, have a chance of safety They ran as of their lives unsure, From the woodes into the plain, And from valleys the high mountain They sought, and ran as beastes blind, That clean forgotten had their kind. nature

The lords of the laggard host ask the woebegone lady what should be done; she answers that nothing can now avail, but that for remembrance they should build in their land, open to public view, “in some notable old city,” a chapel engraved with some memorial of the queen. And straightway, with a sigh, she also “pass’d her breath.”

Then said the lordes of the host, And so concluded least and most, That they would ay in houses of thack thatch Their lives lead, <10> and wear but black, And forsake all their pleasances, And turn all joy to penances; And bare the dead prince to the barge, And named them should have the charge; those who should And to the hearse where lay the queen The remnant went, and down on kneen, Holding their hands on high, gan cry, “Mercy! mercy!” evereach thry; each one thrice And curs’d the time that ever sloth Should have such masterdom of troth. And to the barge, a longe mile, They bare her forth; and, in a while, All the ladies, one and one, By companies were brought each one. And pass’d the sea, and took the land, And in new hearses, on a sand, Put and brought were all anon, Unto a city clos’d with stone, Where it had been used ay The kinges of the land to lay, After they reigned in honours; And writ was which were conquerours; In an abbey of nunnes black, Which accustom’d were to wake, And of usage rise each a-night, To pray for ev’ry living wight. And so befell, as is the guise, Ordain’d and said was the service Of the prince and eke of the queen, So devoutly as mighte be’n; And, after that, about the hearses, Many orisons and verses, Withoute note <11> full softely music Said were, and that full heartily; That all the night, till it was day, The people in the church gan pray Unto the Holy Trinity, Of those soules to have pity.

And when the nighte past and run Was, and the newe day begun, — The young morrow with rayes red, Which from the sun all o’er gan spread, Attemper’d cleare was and fair, clement, calm And made a time of wholesome air, — Befell a wondrous case and strange chance, event Among the people, and gan change Soon the word, and ev’ry woe Unto a joy, and some to two.

A bird, all feather’d blue and green, With brighte rays like gold between, As small thread over ev’ry joint, All full of colour strange and coint, quaint Uncouth and wonderful to sight, unfamiliar Upon the queene’s hearse gan light, And sung full low and softely Three songes in their harmony, Unletted of every wight; unhindered by Till at the last an aged knight, Which seem’d a man in greate thought, Like as he set all thing at nought, With visage and eyes all forwept, steeped in tears And pale, as a man long unslept, By the hearses as he stood, With hasty handling of his hood Unto a prince that by him past, Made the bird somewhat aghast. frightened Wherefore he rose and left his song, And departed from us among, And spread his winges for to pass By the place where he enter’d was. And in his haste, shortly to tell, Him hurt, that backward down he fell, From a window richly paint, With lives of many a divers saint, And beat his winges and bled fast, And of the hurt thus died and past; And lay there well an hour and more Till, at the last, of birds a score Came and assembled at the place Where the window broken was, And made such waimentatioun, lamentation That pity was to hear the soun’, And the warbles of their throats, And the complaint of their notes, Which from joy clean was reversed. And of them one the glass soon pierced, And in his beak, of colours nine, An herb he brought, flow’rless, all green, Full of smalle leaves, and plain, smooth Swart, and long, with many a vein. black And where his fellow lay thus dead, This herb he down laid by his head, And dressed it full softely, arranged And hung his head, and stood thereby. Which herb, in less than half an hour, Gan over all knit, and after flow’r bud Full out; and waxed ripe the seed; And, right as one another feed Would, in his beak he took the grain, And in his fellow’s beak certain It put, and thus within the third i.e. third hour after it Upstood and pruned him the bird, had died Which dead had been in all our sight; And both together forth their flight Took, singing, from us, and their leave; Was none disturb them would nor grieve. And, when they parted were and gone, Th’ abbess the seedes soon each one Gathered had, and in her hand The herb she took, well avisand considering <12> The leaf, the seed, the stalk, the flow’r, And said it had a good savour, And was no common herb to find, And well approv’d of uncouth kind, strange nature And more than other virtuous; Whoso might it have for to use In his need, flower, leaf, or grain, Of his heal might be certain. [She] laid it down upon the hearse Where lay the queen; and gan rehearse Each one to other what they had seen. And, taling thus, the seed wax’d green, as they gossiped And on the dry hearse gan to spring, — Which me thought was a wondrous thing, — And, after that, flow’r and new seed; Of which the people all took heed, And said it was some great miracle, Or medicine fine more than treacle; <12> And were well done there to assay If it might ease, in any way, The corpses, which with torchelight They waked had there all that night. Soon did the lordes there consent, And all the people thereto content, With easy words and little fare; ado, trouble And made the queene’s visage bare, Which showed was to all about, Wherefore in swoon fell all the rout, company, crowd And were so sorry, most and least, That long of weeping they not ceas’d; For of their lord the remembrance Unto them was such displeasance. cause of grief That for to live they called pain, So were they very true and plain. And after this the good abbess Of the grains gan choose and dress prepare Three, with her fingers clean and smale, small And in the queenes mouth, by tale, One after other, full easily She put, and eke full cunningly. skilfully Which showed some such virtue. That proved was the medicine true. For with a smiling countenance The queen uprose, and of usance custom As she was wont, to ev’ry wight She made good cheer; for whiche sight showed a gracious The people, kneeling on the stones, countenance Thought they in heav’n were, soul and bones; And to the prince, where that he lay, They went to make the same assay. trial, experiment And when the queen it understood, And how the medicine was good, She pray’d that she might have the grains, To relieve him from the pains Which she and he had both endur’d. And to him went, and so him cur’d, That, within a little space, Lusty and fresh alive he was, And in good heal, and whole of speech, And laugh’d, and said, “Gramercy, leach!” “Great thanks, For which the joy throughout the town my physician!” So great was, that the belles’ soun’ Affray’d the people a journey to the distance of About the city ev’ry way; a day’s journey And came and ask’d the cause, and why They rungen were so stately. proudly, solemnly And after that the queen, th’abbess, Made diligence, <14> ere they would cease, Such, that of ladies soon a rout company, crowd Suing the queen was all about; following And, call’d by name each one and told, numbered Was none forgotten, young nor old. There mighte men see joyes new, When the medicine, fine and true, Thus restor’d had ev’ry wight, So well the queen as the knight, Unto perfect joy and heal, That floating they were in such weal swimming in such As folk that woulden in no wise happiness Desire more perfect paradise.

On the morrow a general assembly was convoked, and it was resolved that the wedding feast should be celebrated within the island. Messengers were sent to strange realms, to invite kings, queens, duchesses, and princesses; and a special embassy was despatched, in the magic barge, to seek the poet’s mistress — who was brought back after fourteen days, to the great joy of the queen. Next day took place the wedding of the prince and all the knights to the queen and all the ladies; and a three months’ feast followed, on a large plain “under a wood, in a champaign, betwixt a river and a well, where never had abbey nor cell been, nor church, house, nor village, in time of any manne’s age.” On the day after the general wedding, all entreated the poet’s lady to consent to crown his love with marriage; she yielded; the bridal was splendidly celebrated; and to the sound of marvellous music the poet awoke, to find neither lady nor creature — but only old portraitures on the tapestry, of horsemen, hawks, and hounds, and hurt deer full of wounds. Great was his grief that he had lost all the bliss of his dream; and he concludes by praying his lady so to accept his love-service, that the dream may turn to reality.

Or elles, without more I pray, That this night, ere it be day, I may unto my dream return, And sleeping so forth ay sojourn Aboute the Isle of Pleasance, Under my lady’s obeisance, subject to my lady In her service, and in such wise, As it may please her to devise; And grace once to be accept’, Like as I dreamed when I slept, And dure a thousand year and ten In her good will: Amen, amen!

THE PROLOGUE TO THE LEGEND OF GOOD WOMEN.

[SOME difference of opinion exists as to the date at which Chaucer wrote “The Legend of Good Women.” Those who would fix that date at a period not long before the poet’s death — who would place the poem, indeed, among his closing labours — support their opinion by the fact that the Prologue recites most of Chaucer’s principal works, and glances, besides, at a long array of other productions, too many to be fully catalogued. But, on the other hand, it is objected that the “Legend” makes no mention of “The Canterbury Tales” as such; while two of those Tales — the Knight’s and the Second Nun’s — are enumerated by the titles which they bore as separate compositions, before they were incorporated in the great collection: “The Love of Palamon and Arcite,” and “The Life of Saint Cecile” (see note 1 to the Second Nun’s tale). Tyrwhitt seems perfectly justified in placing the composition of the poem immediately before that of Chaucer’s magnum opus, and after the marriage of Richard II to his first queen, Anne of Bohemia. That event took place in 1382; and since it is to Anne that the poet refers when he makes Alcestis bid him give his poem to the queen “at Eltham or at Sheen,” the “Legend” could not have been written earlier. The old editions tell us that “several ladies in the Court took offence at Chaucer’s large speeches against the untruth of women; therefore the queen enjoin’d him to compile this book in the commendation of sundry maidens and wives, who show’d themselves faithful to faithless men. This seems to have been written after The Flower and the Leaf.” Evidently it was, for distinct references to that poem are to be found in the Prologue; but more interesting is the indication which it furnishes, that “Troilus and Cressida” was the work, not of the poet’s youth, but of his maturer age. We could hardly expect the queen — whether of Love or of England — to demand seriously from Chaucer a retractation of sentiments which he had expressed a full generation before, and for which he had made atonement by the splendid praises of true love sung in “The Court of Love,” “The Cuckoo and the Nightingale,” and other poems of youth and middle life. But “Troilus and Cressida” is coupled with “The Romance of the Rose,” as one of the poems which had given offence to the servants and the God of Love; therefore we may suppose it to have more prominently engaged courtly notice at a later period of the poet’s life, than even its undoubted popularity could explain. At whatever date, or in whatever circumstances, undertaken, “The Legend of Good Women” is a fragment. There are several signs that it was designed to contain the stories of twenty-five ladies, although the number of the good women is in the poem itself set down at nineteen; but nine legends only were actually composed, or have come down to us. They are, those of Cleopatra Queen of Egypt (126 lines), Thisbe of Babylon (218), Dido Queen of Carthage (442), Hypsipyle and Medea (312), Lucrece of Rome (206), Ariadne of Athens (340), Phiomela (167), Phyllis (168), and Hypermnestra (162). Prefixed to these stories, which are translated or imitated from Ovid, is a Prologue containing 579 lines — the only part of the “Legend” given in the present edition. It is by far the most original, the strongest, and most pleasing part of the poem; the description of spring, and of his enjoyment of that season, are in Chaucer’s best manner; and the political philosophy by which Alcestis mitigates the wrath of Cupid, adds another to the abounding proofs that, for his knowledge of the world, Chaucer fairly merits the epithet of “many-sided” which Shakespeare has won by his knowledge of man.]

A THOUSAND times I have hearde tell, That there is joy in heav’n, and pain in hell; And I accord it well that it is so; grant, agree But, natheless, yet wot I well also, know That there is none dwelling in this country That either hath in heav’n or hell y-be; been Nor may of it no other wayes witten know But as he hath heard said, or found it written; For by assay there may no man it preve. practical trial prove, test But God forbid but that men should believe Well more thing than men have seen with eye! Men shall not weenen ev’ry thing a lie But if himself it seeth, or else do’th; unless For, God wot, thing is never the less sooth, true Though ev’ry wighte may it not y-see. Bernard, the Monke, saw not all, pardie! <1> Then muste we to bookes that we find (Through which that olde thinges be in mind), And to the doctrine of these olde wise, Give credence, in ev’ry skilful wise, reasonable That tellen of these old approved stories, Of holiness, of regnes, of victories, reigns, kingdoms Of love, of hate, and other sundry things Of which I may not make rehearsings; And if that olde bookes were away, Y-lorn were of all remembrance the key. Well ought we, then, to honour and believe These bookes, where we have none other preve. proof

And as for me, though that I know but lite, little On bookes for to read I me delight, And to them give I faith and good credence, And in my heart have them in reverence, So heartily, that there is game none <2> no amusement That from my bookes maketh me to go’n, But it be seldom on the holyday; Save, certainly, when that the month of May Is comen, and I hear the fowles sing, And that the flowers ginnen for to spring, Farewell my book and my devotion!

Now have I then such a condition, That, above all the flowers in the mead, Then love I most these flowers white and red, Such that men calle Day’s-eyes in our town; To them have I so great affectioun, As I said erst, when comen is the May, That in my bed there dawneth me no day That I n’am up, and walking in the mead, am not To see this flow’r against the sunne spread, When it upriseth early by the morrow; That blissful sight softeneth all my sorrow, So glad am I, when that I have presence Of it, to do it alle reverence, As she that is of alle flowers flow’r, Fulfilled of all virtue and honour, And ever alike fair, and fresh of hue; As well in winter, as in summer new, This love I ever, and shall until I die; All swear I not, of this I will not lie, although There loved no wight hotter in his life. And when that it is eve, I runne blife, quickly, eagerly As soon as ever the sun begins to west, decline westward To see this flow’r, how it will go to rest, For fear of night, so hateth she darkness! Her cheer is plainly spread in the brightness countenance Of the sunne, for there it will unclose. Alas! that I had English, rhyme or prose, Sufficient this flow’r to praise aright! But help me, ye that have cunning or might; skill or power Ye lovers, that can make of sentiment, In this case ought ye to be diligent To further me somewhat in my labour, Whether ye be with the Leaf or the Flow’r; <3> For well I wot, that ye have herebefore Of making ropen, and led away the corn; <4> reaped And I come after, gleaning here and there, And am full glad if I may find an ear Of any goodly word that you have left. And though it hap me to rehearsen eft again What ye have in your freshe songes said, Forbeare me, and be not evil apaid, displeased Since that ye see I do it in th’honour Of love, and eke in service of the flow’r Whom that I serve as I have wit or might. <5> She is the clearness, and the very light, true That in this darke world me winds and leads; turns, guides The heart within my sorrowful breast you dreads, And loves so sore, that ye be, verily, The mistress of my wit, and nothing I. My word, my works, are knit so in your bond, That, as a harp obeyeth to the hand, That makes it sound after his fingering, Right so may ye out of my hearte bring Such voice, right as you list, to laugh or plain; complain, mourn Be ye my guide, and lady sovereign. As to mine earthly god, to you I call, Both in this work, and in my sorrows all.

But wherefore that I spake to give credence To old stories, and do them reverence, And that men muste more things believe Than they may see at eye, or elles preve, prove That shall I say, when that I see my time; I may not all at ones speak in rhyme. My busy ghost, that thirsteth always new spirit To see this flow’r so young, so fresh of hue, Constrained me with so greedy desire, That in my heart I feele yet the fire, That made me to rise ere it were day, — And this was now the first morrow of May, — With dreadful heart, and glad devotion, For to be at the resurrection Of this flower, when that it should unclose Against the sun, that rose as red as rose, That in the breast was of the beast that day the sign of the Bull That Agenore’s daughter led away. <6> And down on knees anon right I me set, And as I could this freshe flow’r I gret, greeted Kneeling alway, till it unclosed was, Upon the smalle, softe, sweete grass, That was with flowers sweet embroider’d all, Of such sweetness and such odour o’er all, everywhere That, for to speak of gum, or herb, or tree, Comparison may none y-maked be; For it surmounteth plainly all odours, And for rich beauty the most gay of flow’rs. Forgotten had the earth his poor estate Of winter, that him naked made and mate, dejected, lifeless And with his sword of cold so sore grieved; Now hath th’attemper sun all that releaved temperate furnished That naked was, and clad it new again. anew with leaves The smalle fowles, of the season fain, glad That of the panter and the net be scap’d, draw-net Upon the fowler, that them made awhap’d terrified, confounded In winter, and destroyed had their brood, In his despite them thought it did them good To sing of him, and in their song despise The foule churl, that, for his covetise, greed Had them betrayed with his sophistry deceptions This was their song: “The fowler we defy, And all his craft:” and some sunge clear Layes of love, that joy it was to hear, In worshipping and praising of their make; honouring mate And for the blissful newe summer’s sake, Upon the branches full of blossoms soft, In their delight they turned them full oft, And sunge, “Blessed be Saint Valentine! <7> For on his day I chose you to be mine, Withoute repenting, my hearte sweet.” And therewithal their heals began to meet, Yielding honour, and humble obeisances, To love, and did their other observances That longen unto Love and to Nature; Construe that as you list, I do no cure. care nothing And those that hadde done unkindeness, committed offence As doth the tidife, <8> for newfangleness, against natural laws Besoughte mercy for their trespassing And humblely sange their repenting, And swore upon the blossoms to be true; So that their mates would upon them rue, take pity And at the laste made their accord. reconciliation All found they Danger for a time a lord, although disdain Yet Pity, through her stronge gentle might, Forgave, and made mercy pass aright Through Innocence, and ruled Courtesy. But I ne call not innocence folly Nor false pity, for virtue is the mean, As Ethic <9> saith, in such manner I mean. And thus these fowles, void of all malice, Accorded unto Love, and lefte vice Of hate, and sangen all of one accord, “Welcome, Summer, our governor and lord!” And Zephyrus and Flora gentilly Gave to the flowers, soft and tenderly, Their sweete breath, and made them for to spread, As god and goddess of the flow’ry mead; In which me thought I mighte, day by day, Dwellen alway, the jolly month of May, Withoute sleep, withoute meat or drink. Adown full softly I began to sink, And, leaning on mine elbow and my side The longe day I shope to abide, resolved, prepared For nothing elles, and I shall not lie But for to look upon the daisy; That men by reason well it calle may The Daye’s-eye, or else the Eye of Day, The empress and the flow’r of flowers all I pray to God that faire may she fall! And all that love flowers, for her sake: But, nathelesse, ween not that I make do not fancy that I In praising of the Flow’r against the Leaf, write this poem No more than of the corn against the sheaf; For as to me is lever none nor lother, I n’am withholden yet with neither n’other.<10> Nor I n’ot who serves Leaf, nor who the Flow’r; nor do I know Well brooke they their service or labour! may they profit by For this thing is all of another tun, <11> Of old story, ere such thing was begun.

When that the sun out of the south gan west, And that this flow’r gan close, and go to rest, For darkness of the night, the which she dread; dreaded Home to my house full swiftly I me sped, To go to rest, and early for to rise, To see this flower spread, as I devise. describe And in a little arbour that I have, That benched was of turfes fresh y-grave, <12> cut out I bade men shoulde me my couche make; For dainty of the newe summer’s sake, pleasure I bade them strowe flowers on my bed. When I was laid, and had mine eyen hid, I fell asleep; within an hour or two, Me mette how I lay in the meadow tho, dreamed then To see this flow’r that I love so and dread. And from afar came walking in the mead The God of Love, and in his hand a queen; And she was clad in royal habit green; A fret of gold she hadde next her hair, band And upon that a white corown she bare, With flowrons small, and, as I shall not lie, florets <13> For all the world right as a daisy Y-crowned is, with white leaves lite, small So were the flowrons of her crowne white. For of one pearle, fine, oriential, Her white crowne was y-maked all, For which the white crown above the green Made her like a daisy for to see’n, look upon Consider’d eke her fret of gold above. Y-clothed was this mighty God of Love In silk embroider’d, full of greene greves, boughs In which there was a fret of red rose leaves, The freshest since the world was first begun. His gilt hair was y-crowned with a sun, lnstead of gold, for heaviness and weight; to avoid Therewith me thought his face shone so bright, That well unnethes might I him behold; And in his hand me thought I saw him hold Two fiery dartes, as the gledes red; glowing coals And angel-like his winges saw I spread. And all be that men say that blind is he, although Algate me thoughte that he might well see; at all events For sternly upon me he gan behold, So that his looking did my hearte cold. made my heart And by the hand he held this noble queen, grow cold Crowned with white, and clothed all in green, So womanly, so benign, and so meek, That in this worlde, though that men would seek. Half of her beauty shoulde they not find In creature that formed is by Kind; Nature And therefore may I say, as thinketh me, This song in praising of this lady free:

“Hide, Absolon, thy gilte tresses clear; golden Esther, lay thou thy meekness all adown; Hide, Jonathan, all thy friendly mannere, Penelope, and Marcia Catoun,<14> Make of your wifehood no comparisoun; Hide ye your beauties, Isoude <15> and Helene; My lady comes, that all this may distain. outdo, obscure

“Thy faire body let it not appear, Lavine; <16> and thou, Lucrece of Rome town; And Polyxene, <17> that boughte love so dear, And Cleopatra, with all thy passioun, Hide ye your truth of love, and your renown; And thou, Thisbe, that hadst of love such pain My lady comes, that all this may distain.

“Hero, Dido, Laodamia, y-fere, together And Phyllis, hanging for Demophoon, And Canace, espied by thy cheer, Hypsipyle, betrayed by Jasoun, Make of your truthe neither boast nor soun’; Nor Hypermnestr’ nor Ariadne, ye twain; My lady comes, that all this may distain.”

This ballad may full well y-sungen be, As I have said erst, by my lady free; For, certainly, all these may not suffice T’appaire with my lady in no wise; surpass in beauty For, as the sunne will the fire distain, or honour So passeth all my lady sovereign, That is so good, so fair, so debonair, I pray to God that ever fall her fair! For n’hadde comfort been of her presence, had I not the I had been dead, without any defence, comfort of For dread of Love’s wordes, and his cheer; As, when time is, hereafter ye shall hear. Behind this God of Love, upon the green, I saw coming of Ladies nineteen, In royal habit, a full easy pace; And after them of women such a trace, train That, since that God Adam had made of earth, The thirde part of mankind, or the ferth, fourth Ne ween’d I not by possibility, I never fancied Had ever in this wide world y-be; been And true of love these women were each one. Now whether was that a wonder thing, or non, not That, right anon as that they gan espy This flow’r, which that I call the daisy, Full suddenly they stenten all at once, stopped And kneeled down, as it were for the nonce, And sange with one voice, “Heal and honour To truth of womanhead, and to this flow’r, That bears our aller prize in figuring; that in its figure bears Her white crowne bears the witnessing!” the prize from us all And with that word, a-compass enviroun all around in a ring They sette them full softely adown. First sat the God of Love, and since his queen, afterwards With the white corowne, clad in green; And sithen all the remnant by and by, then As they were of estate, full courteously; And not a word was spoken in the place, The mountance of a furlong way of space. extent <18>

I, kneeling by this flow’r, in good intent Abode, to knowe what this people meant, As still as any stone, till, at the last, The God of Love on me his eyen cast, And said, “Who kneeleth there? “and I answer’d Unto his asking, when that I it heard, And said, “It am I,” and came to him near, And salued him. Quoth he, “What dost thou here, saluted So nigh mine owen flow’r, so boldely? It were better worthy, truely, A worm to nighe near my flow’r than thou.” approach, draw nigh “And why, Sir,” quoth I, “an’ it liketh you?” “For thou,” quoth he, “art thereto nothing able, It is my relic, dign and delectable, emblem <19> worthy And thou my foe, and all my folk warrayest, molestest, censurest And of mine olde servants thou missayest, And hind’rest them, with thy translation, And lettest folk from their devotion preventest To serve me, and holdest it folly To serve Love; thou may’st it not deny; For in plain text, withoute need of glose, comment, gloss Thu hast translated the Romance of the Rose, That is a heresy against my law, And maketh wise folk from me withdraw; And of Cresside thou hast said as thee list, That maketh men to women less to trust, That be as true as e’er was any steel. Of thine answer advise thee right weel; consider right well For though that thou renied hast my lay, abjured my law As other wretches have done many a day, or religion By Sainte Venus, that my mother is, If that thou live, thou shalt repente this, So cruelly, that it shall well be seen.”

Then spake this Lady, clothed all in green, And saide, “God, right of your courtesy, Ye mighte hearken if he can reply Against all this, that ye have to him meved; advanced against him A godde shoulde not be thus aggrieved, But of his deity he shall be stable, And thereto gracious and merciable. merciful And if ye n’ere a god, that knoweth all, were not Then might it be, as I you telle shall, This man to you may falsely be accused, Whereas by right him ought to be excused; For in your court is many a losengeour, deceiver <20> And many a quaint toteler accusour, strange prating accuser <21> That tabour in your eares many a soun’, drum Right after their imaginatioun, To have your dalliance, and for envy; pleasant conversation, These be the causes, and I shall not lie, company Envy is lavender of the Court alway, laundress For she departeth neither night nor day <22> Out of the house of Caesar, thus saith Dant’; Whoso that go’th, algate she shall not want. at all events And eke, parauntre, for this man is nice, peradventure foolish He mighte do it guessing no malice; thinking For he useth thinges for to make; compose poetry Him recketh naught of what mattere he take; cares nothing for Or he was bidden make thilke tway compose those two Of some person, and durst it not withsay; by refuse, deny Or him repenteth utterly of this. He hath not done so grievously amiss, To translate what olde clerkes write, As though that he of malice would endite, write down Despite of Love, and had himself it wrought. contempt for This should a righteous lord have in his thought, And not be like tyrants of Lombardy, That have no regard but at tyranny. For he that king or lord is naturel, Him oughte not be tyrant or cruel, <23> As is a farmer, <24> to do the harm he can; He muste think, it is his liegeman, And is his treasure, and his gold in coffer; This is the sentence of the philosopher: opinion, sentiment A king to keep his lieges in justice, Withoute doubte that is his office. All will he keep his lords in their degree, — although As it is right and skilful that they be, reasonable Enhanced and honoured, and most dear, For they be halfe in this world here, — demigods Yet must he do both right to poor and rich, All be that their estate be not y-lich; alike And have of poore folk compassion. For lo! the gentle kind of the lion; For when a fly offendeth him, or biteth, He with his tail away the flye smiteth, All easily; for of his gentery nobleness Him deigneth not to wreak him on a fly, As doth a cur, or else another beast. In noble corage ought to be arrest, in a noble nature ought And weighen ev’rything by equity, to be self-restraint And ever have regard to his degree. For, Sir, it is no mastery for a lord To damn a man, without answer of word; condemn And for a lord, that is full foul to use. most infamous practice And it be so he may him not excuse, the offender But asketh mercy with a dreadful heart, fearing, timid And proffereth him, right in his bare shirt, To be right at your owen judgement, Then ought a god, by short advisement, deliberation Consider his own honour, and his trespass; For since no pow’r of death lies in this case, You ought to be the lighter merciable; Lette your ire, and be somewhat tractable! restrain This man hath served you of his cunning, ability, skill And further’d well your law in his making. composing poetry Albeit that he cannot well endite, Yet hath he made lewed folk delight ignorant To serve you, in praising of your name. He made the book that hight the House of Fame, And eke the Death of Blanche the Duchess, And the Parliament of Fowles, as I guess, And all the Love of Palamon and Arcite, <25> Of Thebes, though the story is known lite; little And many a hymne for your holydays, That highte ballads, roundels, virelays. And, for to speak of other holiness, He hath in prose translated Boece, <26> And made the Life also of Saint Cecile; He made also, gone is a greate while, Origenes upon the Magdalene. <27> Him oughte now to have the lesse pain; penalty He hath made many a lay, and many a thing. Now as ye be a god, and eke a king, I your Alcestis, <28> whilom queen of Thrace, I aske you this man, right of your grace, That ye him never hurt in all his life; And he shall sweare to you, and that blife, quickly He shall no more aguilten in this wise, offend But shall maken, as ye will him devise, Of women true in loving all their life, Whereso ye will, of maiden or of wife, And further you as much as he missaid Or in the Rose, or elles in Cresseide.” either

The God of Love answered her anon: “Madame,” quoth he, “it is so long agone That I you knew, so charitable and true, That never yet, since that the world was new, To me ne found I better none than ye; If that I woulde save my degree, I may nor will not warne your request; refuse All lies in you, do with him as you lest. I all forgive withoute longer space; delay For he who gives a gift, or doth a grace, Do it betimes, his thank is well the more; <29> And deeme ye what he shall do therefor. adjudge Go thanke now my Lady here,” quoth he. I rose, and down I set me on my knee, And saide thus; “Madame, the God above Foryielde you that ye the God of Love reward Have made me his wrathe to forgive; And grace so longe for to live, give me grace That I may knowe soothly what ye be, That have me help’d, and put in this degree! But truely I ween’d, as in this case, Naught t’ have aguilt, nor done to Love trespass; offended For why? a true man, withoute dread, offence Hath not to parte with a thieve’s deed. any share in Nor a true lover oughte me to blame, Though that I spoke a false lover some shame. They oughte rather with me for to hold, For that I of Cressida wrote or told, Or of the Rose, what so mine author meant; made a true translation Algate, God wot, it was mine intent by all ways To further truth in love, and it cherice, cherish And to beware from falseness and from vice, By such example; this was my meaning.”

And she answer’d; “Let be thine arguing, For Love will not counterpleaded be <30> In right nor wrong, and learne that of me; Thou hast thy grace, and hold thee right thereto. Now will I say what penance thou shalt do For thy trespass; and understand it here: offence Thou shalt, while that thou livest, year by year, The moste partie of thy time spend In making of a glorious Legend Of Goode Women, maidenes and wives, That were true in loving all their lives; And tell of false men that them betray, That all their life do naught but assay How many women they may do a shame; For in your world that is now held a game. considered a sport And though thou like not a lover be, <31> Speak well of love; this penance give I thee. And to the God of Love I shall so pray, That he shall charge his servants, by any way, To further thee, and well thy labour quite: requite Go now thy way, thy penance is but lite. And, when this book ye make, give it the queen On my behalf, at Eltham, or at Sheen.”

The God of Love gan smile, and then he said: “Know’st thou,” quoth he, “whether this be wife or maid, Or queen, or countess, or of what degree, That hath so little penance given thee, That hath deserved sorely for to smart? But pity runneth soon in gentle heart; <32> nobly born That may’st thou see, she kitheth what she is. showeth And I answer’d: “Nay, Sir, so have I bliss, No more but that I see well she is good.” “That is a true tale, by my hood,” Quoth Love; “and that thou knowest well, pardie! If it be so that thou advise thee. bethink Hast thou not in a book, li’th in thy chest, (that) lies The greate goodness of the queen Alceste, That turned was into a daisy She that for her husbande chose to die, And eke to go to hell rather than he; And Hercules rescued her, pardie! And brought her out of hell again to bliss?” And I answer’d again, and saide; “Yes, Now know I her; and is this good Alceste, The daisy, and mine own hearte’s rest? Now feel I well the goodness of this wife, That both after her death, and in her life, Her greate bounty doubleth her renown. virtue Well hath she quit me mine affectioun recompensed That I have to her flow’r the daisy; No wonder is though Jove her stellify, <33> As telleth Agathon, <34> for her goodness; Her white crowne bears of it witness; For all so many virtues hadde she As smalle flowrons in her crowne be. In remembrance of her, and in honour, Cybele made the daisy, and the flow’r, Y-crowned all with white, as men may see, And Mars gave her a crowne red, pardie! Instead of rubies set among the white.”

Therewith this queen wax’d red for shame a lite When she was praised so in her presence. Then saide Love: “A full great negligence Was it to thee, that ilke time thou made that same ‘Hide Absolon thy tresses,’ in ballade, That thou forgot her in thy song to set, Since that thou art so greatly in her debt, And knowest well that calendar is she guide, example To any woman that will lover be: For she taught all the craft of true loving, And namely of wifehood the living, especially And all the boundes that she ought to keep: Thy little wit was thilke time asleep. that But now I charge thee, upon thy life, That in thy Legend thou make of this wife, poetise, compose When thou hast other small y-made before; And fare now well, I charge thee no more. But ere I go, thus much I will thee tell, — Never shall no true lover come in hell. These other ladies, sitting here a-row, Be in my ballad, if thou canst them know, And in thy bookes all thou shalt them find; Have them in thy Legend now all in mind; I mean of them that be in thy knowing. For here be twenty thousand more sitting Than that thou knowest, goode women all, And true of love, for aught that may befall; Make the metres of them as thee lest; I must go home, — the sunne draweth west, — To Paradise, with all this company: And serve alway the freshe daisy. At Cleopatra I will that thou begin, And so forth, and my love so shalt thou win; For let see now what man, that lover be, Will do so strong a pain for love as she. I wot well that thou may’st not all it rhyme, That suche lovers didden in their time; It were too long to readen and to hear; Suffice me thou make in this mannere, That thou rehearse of all their life the great, substance After these old authors list for to treat; according as For whoso shall so many a story tell, Say shortly, or he shall too longe dwell.”

And with that word my bookes gan I take, And right thus on my Legend gan I make.

Thus endeth the Prologue.

CHAUCER’S A. B. C. <1> CALLED LA PRIERE DE NOSTRE DAME <2>

A.

ALMIGHTY and all-merciable Queen, all-merciful To whom all this world fleeth for succour, To have release of sin, of sorrow, of teen! affliction Glorious Virgin! of all flowers flow’r, To thee I flee, confounded in errour! Help and relieve, almighty debonair, gracious, gentle Have mercy of my perilous languour! Vanquish’d me hath my cruel adversair.

B.

Bounty so fix’d hath in thy heart his tent, goodness, charity That well I wot thou wilt my succour be; Thou canst not warne that with good intent refuse he who Asketh thy help, thy heart is ay so free! Thou art largess of plein felicity, liberal bestower full Haven and refuge of quiet and rest! Lo! how that thieves seven <3> chase me! Help, Lady bright, ere that my ship to-brest! be broken to pieces

C.

Comfort is none, but in you, Lady dear! For lo! my sin and my confusion, Which ought not in thy presence to appear, Have ta’en on me a grievous action, control Of very right and desperation! And, as by right, they mighte well sustene That I were worthy my damnation, Ne were it mercy of you, blissful Queen!

D.

Doubt is there none, Queen of misericorde, compassion That thou art cause of grace and mercy here; God vouchesaf’d, through thee, with us t’accord; to be reconciled For, certes, Christe’s blissful mother dear! Were now the bow y-bent, in such mannere As it was first, of justice and of ire, The rightful God would of no mercy hear; But through thee have we grace as we desire.

E.

Ever hath my hope of refuge in thee be’; For herebefore full oft in many a wise Unto mercy hast thou received me. But mercy, Lady! at the great assize, When we shall come before the high Justice! So little fruit shall then in me be found, That, thou ere that day correcte me, unless Of very right my work will me confound.

F.

Flying, I flee for succour to thy tent, Me for to hide from tempest full of dread; Beseeching you, that ye you not absent, Though I be wick’. O help yet at this need! All have I been a beast in wit and deed, although Yet, Lady! thou me close in with thy grace; Thine enemy and mine, — Lady, take heed! — the devil Unto my death in point is me to chase.

G.

Gracious Maid and Mother! which that never Wert bitter nor in earthe nor in sea, <4> But full of sweetness and of mercy ever, Help, that my Father be not wroth with me! Speak thou, for I ne dare Him not see; So have I done in earth, alas the while! That, certes, but if thou my succour be, To sink etern He will my ghost exile.

H.

He vouchesaf’d, tell Him, as was His will, Become a man, as for our alliance, to ally us with god And with His blood He wrote that blissful bill Upon the cross, as general acquittance To ev’ry penitent in full creance; belief And therefore, Lady bright! thou for us pray; Then shalt thou stenten alle His grievance, put an end to And make our foe to failen of his prey.

I.

I wote well thou wilt be our succour, Thou art so full of bounty in certain; For, when a soule falleth in errour, Thy pity go’th, and haleth him again; draweth Then makest thou his peace with his Sov’reign, And bringest him out of the crooked street: Whoso thee loveth shall not love in vain, That shall he find as he the life shall lete. when he leaves life K.

Kalendares illumined be they brilliant exemplars That in this world be lighted with thy name; And whoso goeth with thee the right way, Him shall not dread in soule to be lame; Now, Queen of comfort! since thou art the same To whom I seeke for my medicine, Let not my foe no more my wound entame; injure, molest My heal into thy hand all I resign.

L.

Lady, thy sorrow can I not portray Under that cross, nor his grievous penance; But, for your bothe’s pain, I you do pray, Let not our aller foe make his boastance, the foe of us all — That he hath in his listes, with mischance, Satan Convicte that ye both have bought so dear; ensnared that which As I said erst, thou ground of all substance! Continue on us thy piteous eyen clear.

M.

Moses, that saw the bush of flames red Burning, of which then never a stick brenn’d, burned Was sign of thine unwemmed maidenhead. unblemished Thou art the bush, on which there gan descend The Holy Ghost, the which that Moses wend weened, supposed Had been on fire; and this was in figure. <5> Now, Lady! from the fire us do defend, Which that in hell eternally shall dure.

N.

Noble Princess! that never haddest peer; Certes if any comfort in us be, That cometh of thee, Christe’s mother dear! We have none other melody nor glee, pleasure Us to rejoice in our adversity; Nor advocate, that will and dare so pray For us, and for as little hire as ye, That helpe for an Ave-Mary or tway.

O.

O very light of eyen that be blind! O very lust of labour and distress! relief, pleasure O treasurer of bounty to mankind! The whom God chose to mother for humbless! From his ancill <6> he made thee mistress handmaid Of heav’n and earth, our billes up to bede; offer up our petitions This world awaiteth ever on thy goodness; For thou ne failedst never wight at need.

P.

Purpose I have sometime for to enquere Wherefore and why the Holy Ghost thee sought, When Gabrielis voice came to thine ear; He not to war us such a wonder wrought, afflict But for to save us, that sithens us bought: Then needeth us no weapon us to save, But only, where we did not as we ought, Do penitence, and mercy ask and have.

Q.

Queen of comfort, right when I me bethink That I aguilt have bothe Him and thee, offended And that my soul is worthy for to sink, Alas! I, caitiff, whither shall I flee? Who shall unto thy Son my meane be? medium of approach Who, but thyself, that art of pity well? fountain Thou hast more ruth on our adversity Than in this world might any tongue tell!

R.

Redress me, Mother, and eke me chastise! For certainly my Father’s chastising I dare not abiden in no wise, So hideous is his full reckoning. Mother! of whom our joy began to spring, Be ye my judge, and eke my soule’s leach; physician For ay in you is pity abounding To each that will of pity you beseech.

S.

Sooth is it that He granteth no pity Withoute thee; for God of his goodness Forgiveth none, but it like unto thee; unless it please He hath thee made vicar and mistress thee Of all this world, and eke governess Of heaven; and represseth his justice After thy will; and therefore in witness according to He hath thee crowned in so royal wise.

T.

Temple devout! where God chose his wonning, abode From which, these misbeliev’d deprived be, To you my soule penitent I bring; Receive me, for I can no farther flee. With thornes venomous, O Heaven’s Queen! For which the earth accursed was full yore, I am so wounded, as ye may well see, That I am lost almost, it smart so sore!

V.

Virgin! that art so noble of apparail, aspect That leadest us into the highe tow’r Of Paradise, thou me wiss and counsail direct and counsel How I may have thy grace and thy succour; All have I been in filth and in errour, Lady! on that country thou me adjourn, take me to that place That called is thy bench of freshe flow’r, There as that mercy ever shall sojourn.

X.

Xpe <7> thy Son, that in this world alight, Upon a cross to suffer his passioun, And suffer’d eke that Longeus his heart pight, <8> pierced And made his hearte-blood to run adown; And all this was for my salvatioun: And I to him am false and eke unkind, And yet he wills not my damnation; This thank I you, succour of all mankind! for this I am indebted to you Y.

Ysaac was figure of His death certain, That so farforth his father would obey, That him ne raughte nothing to be slain; he cared not Right so thy Son list as a lamb to dey: die Now, Lady full of mercy! I you pray, Since he his mercy ’sured me so large, Be ye not scant, for all we sing and say, That ye be from vengeance alway our targe. shield, defence

Z.

Zachary you calleth the open well <9> That washed sinful soul out of his guilt; Therefore this lesson out I will to tell, That, n’ere thy tender hearte, we were spilt. were it not for Now, Lady brighte! since thou canst and wilt, destroyed, undone Be to the seed of Adam merciable; merciful Bring us unto that palace that is built To penitents that be to mercy able! fit to receive mercy

Explicit. The end

A GOODLY BALLAD OF CHAUCER.<1>

MOTHER of nurture, best belov’d of all, And freshe flow’r, to whom good thrift God send Your child, if it lust you me so to call, please All be I unable myself so to pretend, although I be To your discretion I recommend My heart and all, with ev’ry circumstance, All wholly to be under your governance.

Most desire I, and have and ever shall, Thinge which might your hearte’s ease amend Have me excus’d, my power is but small; Nathless, of right, ye oughte to commend My goode will, which fame would entend attend, strive To do you service; for my suffisance contentment Is wholly to be under your governance.

Mieux un in heart which never shall apall, <2> Ay fresh and new, and right glad to dispend My time in your service, what so befall, Beseeching your excellence to defend My simpleness, if ignorance offend In any wise; since that mine affiance Is wholly to be under your governance.

Daisy of light, very ground of comfort, The sunne’s daughter ye light, as I read; For when he west’reth, farewell your disport! By your nature alone, right for pure dread Of the rude night, that with his boistous weed rude garment Of darkness shadoweth our hemisphere, Then close ye, my life’s lady dear!

Dawneth the day unto his kind resort, And Phoebus your father, with his streames red, Adorns the morrow, consuming the sort crowd Of misty cloudes, that would overlade True humble heartes with their mistihead. dimness, mistiness New comfort adaws, when your eyen clear dawns, awakens Disclose and spread, my life’s lady dear.

Je voudrais — but the greate God disposeth, I would wish And maketh casual, by his Providence, Such thing as manne’s fraile wit purposeth, All for the best, if that your conscience Not grudge it, but in humble patience It receive; for God saith, withoute fable, A faithful heart ever is acceptable.

Cauteles whoso useth gladly, gloseth; cautious speeches To eschew such it is right high prudence; deceiveth What ye said ones mine heart opposeth, That my writing japes in your absence jests, coarse stories Pleased you much better than my presence: Yet can I more; ye be not excusable; A faithful heart is ever acceptable.

Quaketh my pen; my spirit supposeth That in my writing ye will find offence; Mine hearte welketh thus; anon it riseth; withers, faints Now hot, now cold, and after in fervence; That is amiss, is caus’d of negligence, And not of malice; therefore be merciable; A faithful heart is ever acceptable.

L’Envoy.

Forthe, complaint! forth, lacking eloquence; Forth little letter, of enditing lame! I have besought my lady’s sapience On thy behalfe, to accept in game Thine inability; do thou the same. Abide! have more yet! Je serve Joyesse! I serve Joy Now forth, I close thee in holy Venus’ name! Thee shall unclose my hearte’s governess.

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, deceitful That word and work, as in conclusion, Be nothing one; for turned up so down Is all this world, through meed and wilfulness, bribery That all is lost for lack of steadfastness.

What makes this world to be so variable, But lust that folk have in dissension? pleasure For now-a-days a man is held unable fit for nothing But if he can, by some collusion, unless fraud, trick 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; blinded 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 a subject of reproach To thine estate, done in thy region; kingdom Show forth the sword of castigation; Dread God, do law, love thorough worthiness, And wed thy folk again to steadfastness!

L’ENVOY OF CHAUCER TO BUKTON. <1>

My Master Bukton, when of Christ our King Was asked, What is truth or soothfastness? He not a word answer’d to that asking, As who saith, no man is all true, I guess; And therefore, though I highte to express promised The sorrow and woe that is in marriage, I dare not write of it no wickedness, Lest I myself fall eft in such dotage. again folly

I will not say how that it is the chain Of Satanas, on which he gnaweth ever; But I dare say, were he out of his pain, As by his will he would be bounden never. But thilke doated fool that eft had lever that Y-chained be, than out of prison creep, God let him never from his woe dissever, Nor no man him bewaile though he weep!

But yet, lest thou do worse, take a wife; Bet is to wed than burn in worse wise; <2> But thou shalt have sorrow on thy flesh thy life, all thy life And be thy wife’s thrall, as say these wise. And if that Holy Writ may not suffice, Experience shall thee teache, so may hap, That thee were lever to be taken in Frise, <3> Than eft to fall of wedding in the trap. again

This little writ, proverbes, or figure, I sende you; take keep of it, I read! heed “Unwise is he that can no weal endure; If thou be sicker, put thee not in dread.” in security danger The Wife of Bath I pray you that you read, Of this mattere which that we have on hand. God grante you your life freely to lead In freedom, for full hard is to be bond.

A BALLAD OF GENTLENESS.

THE firste stock-father of gentleness, <1> What man desireth gentle for to be, Must follow his trace, and all his wittes dress, apply Virtue to love, and vices for to flee; For unto virtue longeth dignity, And not the reverse, safely dare I deem, All wear he mitre, crown, or diademe. whether he wear

This firste stock was full of righteousness, True of his word, sober, pious, and free, Clean of his ghost, and loved business, pure of spirit Against the vice of sloth, in honesty; And, but his heir love virtue as did he, He is not gentle, though he riche seem, All wear he mitre, crown, or diademe.

Vice may well be heir to old richess, But there may no man, as men may well see, Bequeath his heir his virtuous nobless; That is appropried to no degree, specially reserved But to the first Father in majesty, Which makes his heire him that doth him queme, please All wear he mitre, crown, or diademe.

THE COMPLAINT OF CHAUCER TO HIS PURSE.

To you, my purse, and to none other wight, Complain I, for ye be my lady dear! I am sorry now that ye be so light, For certes ye now make me heavy cheer; Me were as lief be laid upon my bier. For which unto your mercy thus I cry, Be heavy again, or elles must I die!

Now vouchesafe this day, ere it be night, That I of you the blissful sound may hear, Or see your colour like the sunne bright, That of yellowness hadde peer. Ye be my life! Ye be my hearte’s steer! rudder Queen of comfort and of good company! Be heavy again, or elles must I die!

Now, purse! that art to me my life’s light And savour, as down in this worlde here, Out of this towne help me through your might, Since that you will not be my treasurere; For I am shave as nigh as any frere. <1> But now I pray unto your courtesy, Be heavy again, or elles must I die!

Chaucer’s Envoy to the King.

O conqueror of Brute’s Albion, <2> Which by lineage and free election Be very king, this song to you I send; And ye which may all mine harm amend, Have mind upon my supplication!

GOOD COUNSEL OF CHAUCER. <1>

FLEE from the press, and dwell with soothfastness; Suffice thee thy good, though it be small; For hoard hath hate, and climbing tickleness, instability Press hath envy, and weal is blent o’er all, prosperity is blinded Savour no more than thee behove shall; have a taste for Read well thyself, that other folk canst read; counsel And truth thee shall deliver, it is no dread. doubt

Paine thee not each crooked to redress, In trust of her that turneth as a ball; <2> Great rest standeth in little business: Beware also to spurn against a nail; <3> Strive not as doth a crocke with a wall; earthen pot Deeme thyself that deemest others’ deed, judge And truth thee shall deliver, it is no dread.

What thee is sent, receive in buxomness; submission 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, forsake thy And truth thee shall deliver, it is no dread. inclinations spirit

PROVERBS OF CHAUCER. <1>

WHAT should these clothes thus manifold, Lo! this hot summer’s day? After great heate cometh cold; No man cast his pilche away. pelisse, furred cloak Of all this world the large compass Will not in mine arms twain; Who so muche will embrace, Little thereof he shall distrain. grasp

The world so wide, the air so remuable, unstable The silly man so little of stature; The green of ground and clothing so mutable, The fire so hot and subtile of nature; The water never in one — what creature never the same That made is of these foure <2> thus flitting, May steadfast be, as here, in his living?

The more I go, the farther I am behind; The farther behind, the nearer my war’s end; The more I seek, the worse can I find; The lighter leave, the lother for to wend; <3> The better I live, the more out of mind; Is this fortune, n’ot I, or infortune; I know not misfortune Though I go loose, tied am I with a loigne. line, tether

VIRELAY. <1>

ALONE walking In thought plaining, And sore sighing; All desolate, Me rememb’ring Of my living; My death wishing Both early and late.

Infortunate Is so my fate, That, wot ye what? Out of measure My life I hate; Thus desperate, In such poor estate, Do I endure.

Of other cure Am I not sure; Thus to endure Is hard, certain; Such is my ure, destiny <2> I you ensure; What creature May have more pain?

My truth so plain Is taken in vain, And great disdain In remembrance; Yet I full fain Would me complain, Me to abstain From this penance.

But, in substance, None alleggeance alleviation Of my grievance Can I not find; Right so my chance, With displeasance, Doth me advance; And thus an end.

“SINCE I FROM LOVE.” <1>

SINCE I from Love escaped am so fat, I ne’er think to be in his prison ta’en; Since I am free, I count him not a bean.

He may answer, and saye this and that; I do no force, I speak right as I mean; care not Since I from Love escaped am so fat.

Love hath my name struck out of his slat, slate, list And he is struck out of my bookes clean, For ever more; there is none other mean; Since I from Love escaped am so fat.

CHAUCER’S WORDS TO HIS SCRIVENER.

ADAM Scrivener, if ever it thee befall Boece or Troilus for to write anew, Under thy long locks thou may’st have the scall scab But after my making thou write more true! according to my So oft a day I must thy work renew, composing It to correct, and eke to rub and scrape; And all is through thy negligence and rape. haste

CHAUCER’S PROPHECY. <1>

WHEN priestes failen in their saws, come short of their And lordes turne Godde’s laws profession Against the right; And lechery is holden as privy solace, secret delight And robbery as free purchase, Beware then of ill! Then shall the Land of Albion Turne to confusion, As sometime it befell.

Ora pro Anglia Sancta Maria, quod Thomas Cantuaria. <2>

Sweet Jesus, heaven’s King, Fair and best of all thing, You bring us out of this mourning, To come to thee at our ending!