Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE LEGEND OF GOOD WOMEN: THE PROLOGUE, by GEOFFREY CHAUCER


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THE LEGEND OF GOOD WOMEN: THE PROLOGUE, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: A thousand tymes have I herd men telle
Last Line: And right thus on my legend began I make.


A thousand tymes have I herd men telle,
That ther is joy in heven, and peyne in helle;
And I acorde wel that hit is so;
But natheles, yit wot I wel also,
That ther nis noon dwelling in this contree,
That either hath in heven or helle y-be,
Ne may of hit non other weyes witen,
But as he hath herd seyd, or founde hit writen;
For by assay ther may no man hit preve.
But god forbede but men should leve
Wel more thing then men han seen with ye!
Men shal nat wene every-thing a lye
But-if him-self hit seeth, or elles dooth;
For, god wot, thing is never the lasse sooth,
Thogh every wight ne may hit nat y-see.
Bernard the monk ne saugh nat al, parde!
Than mote we to bokes that we finde,
Through which that olde thinges been in minde.
And to the doctrine of these olde wyse,
Yeve credence, in every skilful wyse,
That tellen of these olde appreved stories,
Of holinesse, or regnes, of victories,
Of love, of hate, of other sundry thinges,
Of whiche I may not maken rehersinges.
And if that olde bokes were a-weye,
Y-loren were of remembraunce the keye.
Wel oghte us than honouren and beleve
These bokes, ther we han non other preve.
And as for me, thogh that I can but lyte,
On bokes for to rede I me delyte,
And to hem yeve I feyth and ful credence,
And in myn herte have hem in reverence
So hertely, that ther is game noon
That fro my bokes maketh me to goon ,
But hit be seldom, on the holyday;
Save, certeynly, whan that the month of May
Is comen, and that I here the foules singe,
And that the floures ginnen for to springe,
Farwel my book and my devocioun!
Now have I than swich a condicioun,
That, of alle the floures in the mede,
Than love I most these floures whyte and rede,
Swiche as men callen daysies in our toun.
To hem have I so great affeccioun,
As I seyde erst, whan comen is the May,
That in my bed ther daweth me no day
That I nam up, and walking in the mede
To seen this flour agein the sonne sprede,
Whan it upryseth erly by the mowre;
That blisful sighte softneth al my sorwe,
So glad am I whan that I have presence
Of hit, to doon al maner reverence,
As she, that is of alle floures flour,
Fulfilled of al vertu and honour,
And ever y-lyke fair, and fresh of hewe;
And I love hit, and ever y-lyke newe,
And ever shal, til that myn herte dye;
Al swete I nat, of this I wol nat lye,
Ther loved no wight hotter in his lyve.
And whan that hit is eve, I renne blyve,
As sone as ever the sonne ginneth weste,
To seen this flour, how it wol go to reste,
For fere of night, so hateth she derknesse!
Here chere is pleynly sprad in the brightnesse
Of the sonne, for ther hit wol unclose.
Allas! that I ne had English, ryme or prose,
Suffisant this flour to preyse aright!
But helpeth, ye that han conning and might,
Ye lovers, that can make of sentement;
In this cas oghte ye be diligent
To forthren me somwhat in my labour,
Whether ye ben with the leef or with the flour.
For wel I wot, that ye han her-biforn
Of making ropen, and lad awey the corn;
And I come after, glening here and there,
And am ful glad if I may finde an ere
Of any goodly word that ye han left.
And thogh it happen me rehercen eft
That ye han in your fresshe songes sayd,
For-bereth me, and beth nat evel apayd,
Sin that ye see I do hit in the honour
Of love, and eek in service of the flour,
Whom that I serve as I have wit or might.
She is the clerness and the verray light,
That in this derke worlde me wynt and ledeth,
The herte in-with my sorowful brest yow dredeth,
And loveth so sore, that ye ben verrayly
The maistresse of my wit, and nothing I.
My word, my werk, is knit so in your bonde,
That, as an harpe obeyeth to the honde
And maketh hit soune after his fingeringe,
Right so mowe ye out of myn herte bringe
Swich vois, right as yow list, to laughte or pleyne.
Be ye my gyde and lady sovereyne;
As to myn erthly god, to yow I calle,
Bothe in this werke and in my sorwes alle.
But wherfor that I spak, to give credence
To olde stories, and doon hem reverence,
And that men mosten more thing beleve
Then men may seen at eye or elles preve?
That shal I seyn , whan that I see my tyme;
I may not al at ones speke in ryme.
My besy gost, that thrusteth alwey newe
To seen this flour so yong, so fresh of hewe,
Constreyned me with so gledy desyr,
That in my herte I fele yit the fyr,
That made me to ryse er hit wer day --
And this was now the firste mowre of May --
With dredful herte and glad devocioun,
For to ben at the resureccioun
Of this flour, whan that it shuld unclose
Agayn the sonne, that roos as rede as rose,
That in the brest was of the beste that day,
That Agenores doghter ladde away.
And doun on knees anon-right I me sette,
And, as I coude, this fresshe flour I grette;
Kneling alwey, til hit unclosed was,
Upon the smale softe swote gras,
That was with floures swote enbrouded al,
Of swich swetnesse and swich odour over-al,
That, for to speke of gomme, or herbe, or tree,
Comparisoun may noon y-maked be;
For hit surmounteth pleynly alle odoures,
And eek of riche beautee alle floures.
Forgeten had the erthe his pore estat
Of winter, that him naked made and mat,
And with his swerd of cold so sore greved;
Now hath the atempre sonne al that releved
That naked was, and clad hit new agayn.
The smale foules, of the seson fayn,
That from the panter fowling net] and the net ben scaped,
Upon the fouler, that hem made a-whaped
In winter, and distroyed had here brood,
In his despyt, hem thoughte hit did hem good
To singe of him, and in here song despyse
The foule cherl that, for his covetyse,
Had hem betrayed with his sophistrye.
This was here song -- "the fouler we defye,
And al his craft!" And somme songen clere
Layes of love, and joy hit was to here,
In worshipinge and preisinge of here make.
And, for the newe blisful somers sake,
Upon the braunches ful of blosmes softe,
In here delyt, they turned hem ful ofte,
And songen, "blessed be seynt Valentyn !
For on his day I chees yow to be myn,
Withouten repenting, myn herte swete!"
And therwith-al here bekes gonnen mete,
Yelding honour and humble obeisaunces
love, and diden here other observaunces
That longeth unto love and to nature;
Construeth that as yow list, I do no cure.
And tho that hadde doon unkindenesse --
As dooth the tydif, for new-fangelnesse --
Besoghte mercy of here trespassinge,
And humblely songen here repentinge,
And sworen on the blosmes to be trewe,
So that here makes wolde upon hem rewe,
And at the laste maden here acord.
Al founde they Daunger for a tyme a lord,
Yet Pitee, through his stronge gentil might,
Forgaf, and made Mercy passen Right,
Through innocence and ruled curtesye.
But I ne clepe nat innocence folye,
Ne fals pitee, for "vertu is the mene,"
As Etik saith, in swich maner I mene.
And thus thise foules, voide of al malyce,
Acordeden to love, and laften vyce
Of hate, and songen alle of oon acord,
"Welcome, somer, our governour and lord!"
And Zephirus and Flora gentilly
Yaf to the floures, softe and tenderly,
Here swote breth, and made hem for to sprede,
As god and goddesse of the floury mede;
In which me thoghte I mighte, day by day,
Dwellen alwey, the holy month of May,
Withouten sleep, withouten mete or drinke.
A-doun ful softely I gan to sinke;
And, leninge on myn elbowe and my syde,
The longe day I shoop me for to abyde
For nothing elles, and I shal nat lye,
But for to loke upon the dayesye,
That wel by reson men hit calle may
The "dayesye" or elles the "ye of day",
The emperice and flour of floures alle.
I pray to god that faire mot she falle,
And alle that loven floures, for here sake!
But natheles, ne wene nat that I make
In preysing of the flour agayn the leef,
No more than of the corn agayn the sheef:
For, as to me, nis lever noon ne lother;
I nam with-holden yit with never nother.
Ne I not who serveth leef, ne who the flour;
Wel brouken they here service or labour;
For this thing is al of anther tonne,
Of olde story, er swich thing was be-gonne.
Whan that the sonne out of the south gan weste,
And that this flour gan close and goon to reste
For derknesse of the night, the which she dredde,
home to myn hous ful swiftly I me spedde
To goon to reste, and erly for to ryse,
To seen this flour to sprede, as I devyse.
And, in a litel herber that I have,
That benched was on turves fresshe y-grave ,
I bad men sholde me my couche make;
For deyntee of the newe someres sake,
I bad hem strawen floures on my bed.
Whan I was leyd, and had myn eyen hed,
I fel on slepe in-with an houre or two;
Me mette how I lay in the medew tho,
To seen this flour that I love so drede.
And from a-fer com walking in the mede
The god of love, and in his hande a quene;
And she was clad in real habit grene.
A fret of gold she hadde next here heer,
And upon that a whyt coroun she beer
With florouns smale, and I shal nat lye;
For al the world, ryght as a dayesye
Y-corouned is with whyte leves lyte,
So were the florouns of here coroun whyte;
For of a perle fyne, oriental,
Here whyte coroun was y-maked al;
For which the whyte coroun, above the grene,
Made here lyk a daysie for to sene,
Considered eek here feet of gold above.
Y-clothed was this mighty god of love
In silke, enbrouded ful of grene greves,
In-with a fret of rede rose-leves,
The fresshest sin the world was first bigonne.
His gilte heer was corouned with a sonne,
In-stede of gold, for hevinesse and wighte;
Therwith me thoughte his face shoon so brighte
That wel unnethes mighte I him beholde;
And in his hande me thoughte I saugh him holde
Two fyry dartes, as the gledes rede;
And aungellyke his winges suagh I sprede.
And al be that men seyn that blind is he,
Al-gate me thoughte that he mighte see;
For sternly on me he gan biholde,
So that his loking doth myn herte colde.
And by the hande he held this noble quene,
Corouned with whyte, and clothed al in grene,
So womanly, so benigne, and so meke,
That in this world, thogh that men wolde seke,
Half here beautee shulde men nat finde
In creature that formed is by kinde.
And therfor may I seyn , as thinketh me,
This song, in preysing of this lady fre.


Balade

HYD, Absolon, thy gilte tresses clere;
Ester, ley thou thy meknesse al a-doun;
Hyd, Jonathas, al thy frendly manere;
Penalopee, and Marcia Catoun,
Mak of your wyfhod no comparisoun;
Hyde ye your beautes, Isoude and Eleyne;
My lady cometh, that al this may disteyne.

Thy faire body, lat hit nat appere,
Lavyne; and thou, Lucresse of Rome toun,
And Polixene, that boghten love so dere,
And Cleopatre, with al thy passioun,
Hyde ye your trouthe of love and your renoun;
And thou, Tisbe, that hast of love swich peyne;
My lady cometh, that al this may disteyne.

Herr, Diddo, Laudomia, allye yfere,
And Phillis, hangyng for thy Demophoun,
And Canace, espied by thy chere,
Ysiphile, betrayed with Jasoun,
Maketh of your trouthe neythir boost ne soun;
Nor Ypermystre or Adriane, ye tweyne:
My lady cometh, that al this may dystene.

This balade may ful wel ysongen be,
As I have seyd erst, by my lady free;
For certeynly all thise mowe nat suffise
To apperen wyth my lady in no wyse.
For as the sonne wole the fyr disteyne,
So passeth al my lady sovereyne,
That ys so good, so faire, so debonayre,
I prey to God that ever falle hire faire!
For, nadde comfort ben of hire presence,
I hadde ben ded, withouten any defence,
For drede of Loves wordes and his chere,
As, when tyme ys, herafter ye shal here.

Behynde this god of Love, upon the grene,
I saught comyng of ladyes nyntene,
In real habit, a ful esy paas,
And after hem coome of wymen swich a traas
Thay, syn that God Adam hadde mad of erthe,
The thirdde part, of mankynde, or the ferthe,
No wende I not by possibilitee
Had ever in this wide world ybee;
And trewe of love thise women were echon.
Now wheither was that a wonder thing, or non,
That ryght anoon as that they gonne espye
Thys flour, which that I clepe the dayesie,
Ful sodeynly they stynten al attones,
And kneled doun, as it were for the nones,
And songen with o vois, "Heel and honour
To trouthe of womanhede, and to this flour
That bereth our alder pris in figurynge!
Hire white corowne bereth the witnessynge."
And with that word, a-compas enviroun,
They setten hem ful softely adoun.
First sat the god of Love, and syth his quene
With the white corowne, clad in grene,
And sithen al the remenaunt by and by,
As they were of estaat, ful curteysly;
Ne nat a word was spoken in the place
The mountaunce of a furlong wey of space.
I, knelyng by this flour, in good entente,
Abood to knowen what this peple mente,
A stille as any ston; til at the laste
This god of Love on me hys eyen caste,
And seyde, "Who kneleth there?" and I answerde
Unto his askynge, whan that I it herde,
And seyde, "Sir it am I," and com him ner,
And salwed him. Quod he, "What dostow her
So nygh myn oune floure, so boldely?
Yt were better worthy, trewely,
A worm to neghen ner my flour than thow."
"And why, sire,: quod I, "and yt lyke vow?"
"For thow," quod he, "art thereto nothing able.
Yt it is my relyke, digne and delytable,
And thow my foo, and al my folk werreyest,
And of myn olde servauntes thow mysseyest,
And hynderest hem with thy translacioun,
And lettest folk from hire devocioun
To serve me, and holdest it folye
To serve Love. Thou maist yt nat denye,
For in pleyn text, withouten nede of glose,
Thou hast translated the Roumance of the Rose,
That is an heresye ayeins my lawe,
And makest wise folk from me withdrawe;
And of Creseyde thou hast seyd as the lyste,
Thay maketh men to wommen lasse triste,
That ben as trewe as ever was any steel.
Of thyn answere avise the ryght weel;
For thogh thou reneyed hast my lay,
As other wecches han doon many a day,
By Seynt Venus, that my moder ys,
If that thou lyve, thou shalt repenten this
So cruelly that it shal wel be sene!"
Thoo spak this lady, clothed al in grene,
And seyde, "God, ryght of youre curtesye,
Ye moten herken yf he can replye
Agays al this that ye have to him meved.
A god ne sholde nat thus be agreved,
But of hys deitee he shal be stable,
And thereto gracious and merciable.
And yf ye nere a god, that knowen al,
Thanne myght ty be as I yow tellen shal:
This man to yow may falsly ben accused,
Ther as by right him oughte ben excused,
For in youre court ys many a losengeour,
And many a queynte totelere accusour,
That tabouren in youre eres many a sown,
Ryght after hire ymagynacioun,
To have youre daliance, and for envie.
Thise ben the causes, and I shal not lye,
Envie ys lavendere of the court alway,
For she ne partheth, neither nyght ne day,
Out of the hous of Cesar; thus seith Dante;
Whoso that gooth, algate she wol nat wante,
And ekem peraunted, for man ys nyce,
He mygthe doon yt, gessyng no malice,
But for he useth, thynges for to make;
Hym rekketh noght of what metere he take.
Or him was boden maken thilke tweye
Of som persone, and durste yt nat withseye;
Or him repenteth outrely of this.
He ne hath nat doon so grevously amys,
To translaten that olde clerkes writen,
As thogh that he of malice, wolde enditen
Despit of love, and had himself yt wroght.
This shoolde a ryghtwis lord have in his thoght,
And nat be lyk tirauntz of Lumbardye,
That han no reward but at tyrannye.
For he that kynge or lord ys naturel,
Hym oghte nat be tiraunt be crewel,
As is a fermour, to doon the harm he kan.
He moste thinke yt is his lige man,
And is his tresour, and his gold in cofre.
This is the sentence of the philosophre,
A kyng to kepe his liges in justice;
Withouten doute, that is his office.
Al wol he kepe his lordes hire degree,
As it ys ryght and skilful that they bee
Enhaunced and honoured, and most dere --
For they ben half-goddes in this world here --
Yit mot he doon bothe ryght, to poore and ryche,
Al be that hire estaat be nat yliche,
For loom the gentil kynde of the lyoun!
For whan a flye offendeth him or biteth,
He with his tayl awey the flye smitheth
Al esely; for, of hys genterye,
Hym denyeth not to wreke hym on a flye,
As dooth a curre, or elles another best.
In noble corage ought ben arest,
And weyen every thing by equytee,
And ever have reward to his owen degree.
For, syr, yt is no maistrye for a lord
To dampne a man without answere of word,
And, for a lord, that ful foul to use.
And if so be he may hym nat excuse,
But asketh mercy with asorweful herte,
And profereth him ryght in his bare sherte,
To ben ryght at your owen jugement,
Than oght a god, by short avysement,
Consydre his owne honour and hys trespas.
For, syth no cause of deth lyeth in this caas,
Yow oghte to ben the lyghter merciable;
Leteth youre ire,. and beth sumwhat tretable.
The man hath served yow of his kunnynge,
And futhred wel youre lawe in his makynge.
Al be hit that he kan nat wel endite,
Yet hath he maked lewed folk delyte
To serve yow, in preysinge of your name.
He made the book that hight the Hous of Fame,
And eke the Deeth of Blaunche the Duchesse,
And the Parlement of Foules, as I gesse,
And al the love of Palamon and Arcite
Of Thebes, thogh the storye ys knowen lyte;
ANd many an ympne for your halydates,
That highten balades, roundels, virelayes;
And, for to speke of other holynesse,
He hath in prose translated Boece,
And maad the lyf of Seynt Cecile.
He made also, goon ys a gret while,
Origenes upon the Maudeleyne.
Hym oughte now to have the lesse peyne;
He hath maad many a lay and many a thing.
Biw as ye be a god, and eke a kyng,
I, your Alceste, whilom quene of Trace,
Y aske yow this man, ryght of your grace,
That ye him never hurte in al his lyve;
And he shal sweren to yow, and that as blyvve,
He shal no more agilten in this wyse.
But he shal maken, as ye wol devyse,
Of wommen trewe in lovyng al hire lyve,
Whereso ye wol, of mayden or of wyve,
And fortren yow, as muche as he mysseyde
Or in the Rose or elles in Creseyde."
The god of Love answerede hire thus anoon:
"Madame," quod he, :"it is so long agoon
That I yow knew so charitable and trewe,
That never yit, syn that the world was newe,
To me ne fond y better noon than yee.
If that I wol save my degree,
I may, ne wol, dooth wyth your requeste.
Al lyeth in yow, dooth wyth hym what yow leste.
I al foryeve, withouten lenger space;
For whoso yeveth a yifte, or dooth a grace,
Do it by tyme, his thank ys wel the more.
And demeth ye what he shal doo therefore.
Goo thanke now my lady here," quod he.
I roos, and doun I sette me on my knee,
And seyde thus, :Madame, the God above
Foryelde yow, that ye the god of Love
Han maked me his wrathe to foryive,
And yeve me grace so longe for to lyve,
That I may knowe soothly what ye bee,
That han me holpe and put in this degree.
But trewly I wende, as in this cas,
Naught have agilt, ne doon to love trespas.
For-why a trewe man, withouten drede,
Hath nat to parten with a theves dede;
Ne a trewe lover oght me not to blame,
Thogh that I speke a fals lovere som shame.
They oghte rather with me for to holde,
For that I of Creseyde wroot or tolde,
Or of the Rose; what so myn auctour mente,
Algate, God woot, yt was myn entente
To forthren troute in love and yt cheryce,
And to ben war fro walsnesse and fro vice
By swich ensample; this was my menynge."
And she answerde, "Lat be thyn arguynge,
For Love ne wol nat countrepleted be
In ryght ne wrong; and lerne that at me!
Thow hast tht grace, and hold the ryght therto.
Now wol I seyn what penance thou shalt do
For thy trespas, and understonde yt here:
Thow shalt, while that thou lyvest, yer by yere,
The most partye of thy tyme spende
In makyng of a glorious legende
Of goode wymmen, maydenes and wyves,
That weren trewe in lvyng al hire lyves;
And telle of false men that hem betraien.
That al hir lyf ne do nat but assayen
How many women they may have doon a shame;
For in youre world that is now holde a game.
And thogh the lyke nat a lovere bee,
Speke wel of lovel this penance yive I thee.
And to the god of Love I shal so preye
That he shal charge his servantz, by any weye,
To forthren thee, and wel thy labour quyte.
Goo now thy wey, this penaunce ys but lyte.
And whan this book ys maad, yive it the quene,
On my behalf, at Eltram or at Sheene."
The god of Love gan smyle, and than he sayde:
"Wostow," quod he, "wher this eb wyf or mayde,
Or quene, or countesse, or of what degre,
That hath so lytel penance yiven thee,
That hast deserved sorer bfor to smerte?
But pite renneth, soone in gentil herte;
That maistow seen, she kytheth what she ys."
And I answered, "Nay, sire, so have I blys,
No moore, but that I see wel she is good."
"That is a trewe tale, by myn hood!"
Quod Love, "and that thou knowest wel, pardee,
If yt be so that thou avise the
Hastow nat in a book, lyth in thy cheste,
The grete goodnesse of the quene, Alceste,
That turned was into a dayesye;
She that for hire housbonde chees to dye,
And eke to goon to helle, rather than he,
And Ercules rescowed hire, parde,
And broght hir out of helle aganyn to blys?"
And I answerd ageyn, and saydem "Yis,
Now knowe I hire. And is this good Alceste,
The dayesie, and myn owene hertes reste?
Now fele I weel the goodnesse of this wyf,
That both aftir hir deth and in hir lyf
His grete bounte doubleth hire renoun.
Wel hath she quyt me myn affeccioun,
That I have to hire flour, the dayesye,
No wonder ys thogh Jove hire stellyfye,
As telleth Agaton, for hire goodnesse!
Hire white corowne berith of hy witnesse;
For also many vertues hadde shee
As smale florouns in hire corowne bee.
In remembraunce of hire and in honour
Cibella maade the daysye and the flour
Yecrowned al with whit, as men may see;
And Mars yaf to hire corowne reed, pardee,
In stede of rubyes, sette among the white."
Therwith this queene wex reed for shame a lyte,
Whan she was preysed so in hire presence.
Thanne seyde Love, "A ful gret necligence
Was yt to the, that ylke tyme thou made
'Hyd, Alsolon, thy tresses,' in balade,
That thou forgate hire in thi song to sette,
Syn that thou art so gretly in hire dette,
And wost so wel that wol lover bee.
For she taught al the craft of fyn lovynge,
And namely of wyfhod the levynge,
And al the boundes that she oghte kepe.
Thy litel wit was thilke tyme aslepe.
But now I charge the, upon thy lyf,
That in the legende thou make of thys wfy,
Whan thou hast other smale ymaad before;
And far now wel, I charge namore.
But er I goo, thus muche I wol the telle:
Ne shal no trewe lover come in helle.
Thise other ladies sittynge here arowe
Ben in thy balade, yf thou kanst hem knowe,
And in the bookes alle thou shalt hem fynde.
Have hem now in thy legende al in mynde'
I mene of hem that be in thy knowynge.
For here ben twenty thousand moo sittynge
Than thou knowest, goode wommen alle,
And trewe of love, for oght that may byfalle.
Make the metres of hem as the lest --
I mot goon hom (the sonne draweth west)
To paradys, with al this companyne --
And serve alwey the fresshe dayesye.
At Cleopatre, I wol that thoy begynne,
And so forth, and my love shal thou wynne.
For lat see now what man that lover be,
Wol doon so strong a peyne for love as she.
I wot wel that thou maist nat al yt ryme,
That swiche lovers diden in hire tyme;
It were to long to reden and to here.
Suffiseth me thou make in this manere,
That thou reherce of al hir lyf the grete,
After thise olde auctours lysten for to trete.
For whoso sbal so many a storyen telle,
Say shortly, or he shal to longe dwelle."
And with that word my bokes gan I take,
And ryght thus on my Lengende gan I make.

MODERNIZED VERSION

A thousand times have I heard men tell,
That there is joy in heaven, and pain in hell;
And I accord well that it is so;
But nevertheless, yet what I well also,
That no one dwelling in this country,
That either hath in heaven or hell I-be,
Not may of it non other ways written,
But as he hath heard said, or found it written;
For by assay there may no man it prove.
But god forbid but men should leave
Well more thing then men have seen with ye!
Men shall not suppose every-thing a lie
But-if him-self it see, or else do it;
For, god what, thing is nevertheless soothe,
Though every person neither may it nor-see.
Bernard the monk did not see at all!
Than mote we to books that we find,
Through which that old things been in mind.
And to the doctrine of these old wise,
Give credence, in every skillful wise,
That told of these old approved stories,
Of holiness, or reigns, of victories,
Of love, of hate, of other sundry things,
Of which I may not make rehearses.
And if that old books were away,
I lost were of remembrance the key.
Well ought us than honored and believed
These books, there we had non other proof.
And as for me, though that I can but slight,
On books for to read I me delight,
And to him give I faith and full credence,
And in mine heart have him in reverence
So heartily, that there is game none
That from my books make me to proceed,
But it be seldom, on the holiday;
Save, certainly, when that the month of May
Is coming, and that I here the fowls sing,
And that the flowers begin for to spring,
Farewell my book and my devotion!
Now have I than such a condition,
That, of all the flowers in the mix,
Than love I most these flowers white and red,
Such as men call daisies in our town.
To him have I so great affection,
As I said first, when coming is the May,
That in my bed there draws me no day
That I put up, and walking in the mix
To seen this flower again the sun spread,
When it rises early by the morning ;
That blissful sight softens all my sorrow ,
So glad am I when that I have presence
Of it, to cause all manner reverence,
As she, that is of all flowers flower,
Fulfilled of all virtue and honour,
And ever I-like fair, and fresh of hue;
And I love it, and ever I-like new,
And ever shall, till that mine heart die;
All sweet I not, of this I would not lie,
There loved no person hotter in his life.
And when that it is eve, I continue soon,
As son as ever the sun begins west,
To seen this flower, how it would go to rest,
For fear of night, so hates she darkness!
Here cheer is plainly spared in the brightness
Of the sun, for there it would unclose.
Alas! that I neither had English, rhyme or prose,
Sufficient this flower to praise aright!
But help, ye that has cunning and might,
Ye lovers, that can make of sentiment;
In this case ought ye be diligent
To further me somewhat in my labour,
Whether ye been with the leaf or with the flower.
For well I what, that ye have her-before
Of making ripe, and lead away the corn;
And I come after, gleaning here and there,
And am full glad if I may find an ere
Of any goodly word that ye have left.
And though it happen me rehearsed again
That ye have in your fresh songs said,
Forbear, and be not ill pleased,
Since ye see I do it in the honour
Of love, and also in service of the flower,
Whom that I serve as I have wit or might.
She is the clearness and the real light,
That in this dark world me rightly leads me,
The heart in-with my sorrowful breast you dread,
And love so sore, that ye been verily
The mistress of my wit, and nothing I.
My word, my work, is knit so in your bond,
That, as an harp obeys to the hand
And makes it soon after his fingering,
Right so grimace ye out of mine heart bring
Such voice, right as you list, to laugh or complain.
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 speak, to give credence
To old stories, and cause him reverence,
And that men most more thing believe
Then men may seen at eye or else prove?
That shall I seen, when that I see my time;
I may not all at ones speak in rhyme.
My busy spirit, that trusts always new
To seen this flower so young, so fresh of hue,
Constrained me with so glowing desire,
That in my heart I feel yet the fire,
That made me to rise before it were day --
And this was now the first morning of May --
With dreadful heart and glad devotion,
For to been at the resurrection
Of this flower, when that it should unclose
Again the sun, that rose as red as rose,
That in the breast was of the best that day,
That Agenor's daughter lead away.
And dun on knees anon-right I me set,
And, as I could, this fresh flower I greet;
Kneeling always, till it unclosed was,
Upon the small soft sweet grass,
That was with flowers sweet embroider all,
Of such sweetness and such odor over-all,
That, for to speak of gum, or herb, or tree,
Comparison may none I-make be;
For it surmounts plainly all odors,
And also of riche beauty all flowers.
Forgotten had the earth his pore estate
Of winter, that him naked made and mat,
And with his sword of cold so sore grieved;
Now hath the modest sun all that relieved
That naked was, and clad it new again.
The small fowls, of the season fond,
That from the fowling net and the net been escaped,
Upon the fouler, that him made a-amazed
In winter, and destroyed had here brood,
In his scorn, him thought it did him good
To sing of him, and in here song despise
The rough fellow that, for his coveting,
Had him betrayed with his sophistry.
This was here song -- "the fouler we defy,
And all his craft!" And some songs clear
Lays of love, and joy it was to here,
In worshipping and praising of here make.
And, for the new blissful summers sake,
Upon the branches full of blossoms soft,
In here delight, they turned him full oft,
And songs, "blessed be Saint Valentine!
For on his day I chose you to be mine,
Without repenting, mine heart sweet!"
And therewith-all here beaks begin mete,
Yielding honour and humble obeisances
To love, and did here other observances
That longs unto love and to nature;
Construe that as you list, I do no cure.
And though that had cause unkindness --
As does the small bird, for newfangledness --
Besought mercy of here trespassing,
And humbly songs here repenting,
And sworn on the blossoms to be true,
So that here makes would upon him sad,
And at the last made here accord.
All found they Danger for a time a lord,
Yet Pity, through his strong gentle might,
Forgave, and made Mercy pass Right,
Through innocence and ruled courteous.
But not that their innocence is folly,
False pity, for "virtue is the mean,"
As Ethics says, in such manner I mean.
And thus these fowls, void of all malice,
According to love, and leave vice
Of hate, and songs all of own accord,
"Welcome, summer, our governor and lord!"
And Zepherus and Flora gently
Give to the flowers, soft and tenderly,
Here sweet breath, and made him for to spread,
As god and goddess of the floury mix;
In which me thought I might, day by day,
Dwells always, the holy month of May,
Without sleep, without mete or drink.
A-dun full softly I began to sink;
And, leaning on mine elbow and my side,
The long day I shape me for to abide
For nothing else, and I shall not lie,
But for to look upon the daisy,
That well by reason men it call may
The "daisy" or else the "eye of day",
The empress and flower of all flowers is she;.
I pray to god that faire mot she fall,
And all that love flowers, for here sake!
But nevertheless, do not think that I make
In praising of the flower again the leaf,
No more than of the corn again the sheaf:
For, as to me, not one nor the other;
I put with neither.
Neither I not who served leaf, nor who the flower;
Well broken they here service or labour;
For this thing is all of another ton,
Of old story, before such thing was be-gone.
When that the sun out of the south began west,
And that this flower began close and proceed to rest
For darkness of the night, the which she dreaded,
home to mine house full swiftly I me speeded
To goon to rest, and early for to rise,
To seen this flower to spread, as I devise.
And, in a little garden that I have,
That benched was on turf freshly cut,
I bad men should me my place make;
For worth of the new summers sake,
I bad him strewn flowers on my bed.
When I was led, and had mine even hidden,
I fell on sleep in-with an hour or two;
Me dreamed how I lay in the meadow though,
To seen this flower that I love so dread.
And from afar comes walking in the mix
The god of love, and in his hand a queen;
And she was clad in real habit green.
A fret of gold she had next here,
And upon that a white crown she beer
With florets small, and I shall not lie;
For all the world, right as a daisy
I-crowned is with white leaves little,
So were the florets of here crown white;
For of a pearl fine, oriental,
Here white crown was I-made all;
For which the white crown, above the green,
Made here like a daisy for to see,
Considered also here feet of gold above.
I-clothed was this mighty god of love
In silk, embroidered full of green branches,
In-with a fret of red rose-leaves,
The freshest sin the world was first begun.
His gilt here was crowned with a sun,
Instead of gold, for heaviness and weight;
Therewith me thought his face shone so bright
That well hardly might I him behold;
And in his hand me thought I sought him hold
Two fiery darts, as the coals red;
And angel like his wings on each side were spread.
And all be that men seen that blind is he,
All-gate me thought that he might see;
For sternly on me he began behold,
So that his looking doth mine heart cold.
And by the hand he held this noble queen,
Crowned with white, and clothed all in green,
So womanly, so benign, and so meek,
That in this world, though that men would seek,
Half here beauty should men not find
In creature that formed is by kind.
And therefore may I seen as think me,
This song, in praising of this lady free.


Balade

HYD, Absalom, thy gilt tresses clear;
Ester, lay thou thy meekness all a-dun;
Hyd, Jonathan, all thy friendly manner;
Penelope, and Marcia Catoun,
Make of your wifely no comparison;
Hyde ye your beauties, Isolde and Helen of Troy;
My lady comes, that all this may stain.

Thy faire body, let it not appear,
Lavinia; and thou, Lucretia of Rome town,
And Polyxena, that brought love so dear,
And Cleopatra, with all thy passion,
Hyde ye your troth of love and your renown;
And thou, Thisbe, that hast of love such pain;
My lady comes, that all this may stain.

Hero, Dido, Laodamia, all I-fear,
And Phyllis, hanging for thy Demophon,
And Canace, espied by thy cheer,
Ysiphile, betrayed with Jason,
Make of your troth neither boost nor son;
Nor Hypermnestra or Ariadne, ye twain;
My lady comes, that all this may stain.

This balled may full well sung be,
As I have said first, by my lady free;
For certainly all these grimace not suffice
To appear with my lady in no wise.
For as the son will the fire bedim,
So passes all my lady sovereign,
That is so good, so faire, so debonair,
I prey to God that ever fall her faire!
For, no comfort be of her presence,
I had been dead, without any defence,
For dread of Loves words and his cheer,
As, when time is, hereafter ye shall here.

Behind this god of Love, upon the green,
I sought coming of ladies nineteen,
In real habit, a full easy pace,
And after him come of women such a trace
They, sin that God Adam had mad of earth,
The third part, of mankind, or the fourth,
No wend I not by possibility
Had ever in this wide world I be;
And true of love these women were each one.
Now whether was that a wonder thing, or non,
That right at once as that they gone espy
This flower, which that I call the daisy,
Full suddenly they stopped all atones,
And kneeled down, as it were for the nonce,
And sang with one voice, "Honour to thee,
To truth of womanhood, and to this flower
That proves always!
Her white crown bears witness."
And with that word, a-compass roundabout,
They put him full softly adown.
First sat the god of Love, and time his queen
With the white crown, clad in green,
And since all the remnant by and by,
As they were of estate, full courteously;
Not a word was spoken in the place
The amount of a furlong way of space.
I, knelling by this flower, in good entente,
About to know what this people meant,
A still as any stone; till at the last
This god of Love on me his even caste,
And said, "Who knells there?" and I answered
Unto his asking, when that I it heard,
And said, "Sir it am I," and come him near,
And approached him. Quote he, "Why are you here
So near my own flower, so boldly?
Yet were better worthy, truly,
A worm to draw near my flower ."
"And why, sire,: quote I, "and it like vow?"
"For though," quote he, "art thereto nothing able.
Yet it is my relic, worthy and pleasurable,
And though my foe, and all my folk oppose,
And of my old servants though speak amiss,
And hinders him with thy translation,
And let folk from her devotion
To serve me, and holds it folly
To serve Love. Thou may yet not deny,
For in plain text, without need of gloss,
Thou hast translated the Romance of the Rose,
That is an heresy against my law,
And makes wise folk from me withdraw;
And of Criseyde thou hast said as the devices,
They make men to women less sad,
That been as true as ever was any steel.
Of thine answer deliberate the right well;
For though thou renewed hast my lay,
As other wenches have done many a day,
By Saint Venus, that my mother is,
If that thou live, thou shalt repent this
So cruelly that it shall well be seen!"
Though spoke this lady, clothed all in green,
And said, "God, right of your courtesy,
Ye should listen if he can reply
Against all this that ye have to him moved.
A god should not thus be aggrieved,
But of his deity he shall be stable,
And thereto gracious and merciful.
And if ye never a god, that known all,
Than might thy be as I you told shall:
This man to you may falsely been accused,
There as by right him ought been excused,
For in your court is many a liar,
And many a quaint tattler accuser,
That drum in your ears many a sown,
Right after her imagination,
To have your dalliance, and for envy.
These been the causes, and I shall not lie,
Envy is laundress of the court always,
For she will not go, neither night nor day,
Out of the house of Caesar; thus says Dante;
Whoso that goes wholly she would always stay,
Also, consider: the man is not smart.
He might not have malice,
But for he uses, things for to make;
Him reckons naught of what meter he take.
Or him was told make that twain
Of some person, and would not gainsay;
Or him repenting utterly of this.
He hath not done so grievous a crime,
To translate that old clerks written,
As though he had let malice guide his pen
Despite of love, and had himself yet wrought.
This should a right minded lord have in his thought,
And not be like tyrants of Lombardy,
That have no reward but tyranny.
For he that king or lord is natural,
Him ought not be tyrant be cruel,
As is a tax collector, to do the harm he can.
He most think yet is his liege man,
And is his treasure, and his gold in coffer.
This is the sentence of the philosopher,
A king to keep his lieges in justice;
Without doubt, that is his office.
All would he keep his lords her degree,
As it is right and skillful that they be
Enhanced and honoured, and most dear --
For they been half-goddess in this world here --
Yet mot he do both right, to poor and rich,
All be that her estate be not alike,
For loom the gentle kind of the lion!
For when a fly offends him or bites,
He with his tail away the fly smites
All easily; for, of his gentility,
Him denies not to wreck him on a fly,
As does a cure, or else another beast.
In noble courage ought been arrest,
And weigh every thing by equity,
And ever have reward to his own degree.
For, sir, yet is no mastery for a lord
To dampen a man without answer of word,
And, for a lord, that full foul to use.
And if so be he may him not excuse,
But ask mercy with a sorrowful heart,
And proffered him right in his bare shirt,
To be right at your own judgment,
Than ought a god, by short advisement,
Consider his own honour and his trespass.
For, oftentimes no cause of death lies in this case,
You ought to be the lighter merciful;
Let your ire,. and be somewhat tractable.
The man hath served you of his cunning,
And furthered well your law in his making.
All be it that he can not well indict,
Yet hath he make ignorant folk delight
To serve you, in praising of your name.
He made the book that named the House of Fame,
And also the Death of Blanche the Duchess,
And the Parliament of Fowls, as I guess,
And all the love of Palamon and Arcite
Of Thebes, though the story is known little;
And many an nymph for your holy days,
That heighten ballads, roundels, virelays;
And, for to speak of other holiness,
He hath in prose translated Boece,
And made the life of Saint Cecile.
He made also, goon is a great while,
Origen upon the Magdalen.
Him ought now to have the less pain;
He hath made many a lay and many a thing.
Be as ye be a god, and also a king,
I, your Alceste, whilom queen of Trace,
I ask you this man, right of your grace,
That ye him never hurt in all his live;
And he shall swear to you, and that as soon,
He shall no more guilty in this wise.
But he shall make, as ye would devise,
Of women true in loving all her live,
Whereso ye would, of maiden or of wife,
And promote you, as much as he slanders
Or in the Rose or else in Criseyde."
The god of Love answered her thus forthwith:
"Madame," quote he, :"it is so long
That I you knew so charitable and true,
That never yet, since that the world was new,
To me I found none better you.
If that I would save my degree,
I would grant your request.
All lies in you, do with him what you least.
I all forgive, without longer space;
For whoso give a gift, or do a grace,
Do it by time, his thank is well the more.
And deem ye what he shall do therefore.
Go thank now my lady here," quote he.
I rise, and down I set me on my knee,
And said thus, :Madame, the God above
Reward you, that ye the god of Love
Had make me his wrath to forgive,
And give me grace so long for to live,
That I may know what ye be,
That have me help and put in this degree.
But truly I wend, as in this case,
Naught have guilt, nor do to love trespass.
For-why a true man, without dread,
Hath not to part with a thieves deed;
No true lover ought to blame me,
Though that I speak a false lover some shame.
They ought rather with me for to hold,
For that I of Cressid wrote or told,
Or of the Rose; what so mine author meant,
Wholly, God knows, yet was mine entente
To show truth in love and yet cherish,
And to been war from falseness and from vice
By such example; this was my meaning."
And she answered, "Let be thy arguing,
For Love neither would nor argued against be
In right nor wrong; and learn that at me!
Thou hast the grace, and hold the right thereto.
Now would I seen what penance thou shalt do
For thy trespass, and understand yet here:
Thou shalt, while that thou live, year by year,
The most part of thy time spent
In making of a glorious legend
Of good women, maidens and wives,
That were true in living all her lives;
And tell of false men that him betrayed.
That all her life are not but assayed
How many women they may have done a shame;
For in your world that is now hold a game.
And though the like not a lover be,
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 give thee, and well thy labour repay.
Go now thy way, this penance is but little.
And when this book is made, give it the queen,
On my behalf, at Eltham or at Sheen."
The god of Love began smiling, and than he said:
"Wostow," quote he, "where this be wife or maiden,
Or queen, or countess, or of what degree,
That hath so little penance given thee,
That hast deserved sorer before to smart?
But pity runs, soon in gentle heart;
That may be seen, she declared what she is."
And I answered, "Nay, sire, so have I bliss,
No more, but that I see well she is good."
"That is a true tale, by mine hood!"
Quote Love, "and that thou knows well, pardee,
If yet be so that thou advise the
Hast thou not in a book, light in thy chest,
The great goodness of the queen, Alceste,
That turned was into a dare say;
She that for her husband choose to die,
And also to goon to hell, rather than he,
And Hercules rescued her, parde,
And brought her out of hell again to bliss?"
And I answered again, and said "Yes,
Now know I her. And is this good Alceste,
The daisy, and mine own heart's rest?
Now feel I well the goodness of this wife,
That both after her death and in her life
His great bounty doubles her renown.
Well hath she quit me mine affection,
That I have to her flower, the daisy,
No wonder is though Jove her stellified,
As tells Agaton, for her goodness!
Her white crown bears of high witness;
For also many virtues had she
As small flowers in her crown be.
In remembrance of her and in honour
Cybele made the daisy and the flower
You crowned all with whit, as men may see;
And Mars given to her crown red, pardee,
Instead of rubies, set among the white."
Therewith this queen wax red for shame a little,
When she was praised so in her presence.
Than said Love, "A full great negligence
Was yet to the, that like time thou made
'Hyd, Absalom, thy tresses,' in ballad,
That thou forgot her in this song to set,
Since that thou art so greatly in her debt,
And was so well that would lover be.
For she taught all the craft of fine loving,
And namely of wifely innocence,
And all the bounds that she ought keep.
Thy little wit was that time asleep.
But now I charge the, upon thy life,
That in the legend thou make of this wife,
When thou hast other small made before;
And far now well, I charge no more.
But before I go, thus much I would the tell:
No true lover comes to hell.
These other ladies sitting here arow
Been in thy ballad, if thou can him know,
And in the books all thou shalt him find.
Have him now in thy legend all in mind'
I mean of him that be in thy knowing.
For here been twenty thousand moo sitting
Than thou knows, good women all,
And true of love, for ought that may befall.
Make the meters of him as the lest --
I mot goon home (the sun draws west)
To paradise, with all this company --
And serve always the fresh daisy.
At Cleopatra, I would that thou begin,
And so forth, and my love shall thou win.
For let see now what man that lover be,
Would do so strong a pain for love as she.
I what well that thou cannot Not all yet rhyme,
That such lovers did in her time;
It were to long to redden and to here.
Satisfied me thou make in this manner,
That thou rehearse of all her life the great,
After this old authors listen for to tread.
For whoso shall so many a story tell,
Say shortly, or he shall to long dwell."
And with that word my books began I take,
And right thus on my Legend began I make.









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