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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
CONFESSIO AMANTIS: BOOK 4, PART 2, by JOHN GOWER Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: For this a man mai finde write Last Line: The forme bothe and the matiere. | |||
For this a man mai finde write, Whan that knyhthode schal be werred, Lust mai noght thanne be preferred; The bedd mot thanne be forsake And Schield and spere on honde take, Which thing schal make hem after glade, Whan thei ben worthi knihtes made. Wherof, so as it comth to honde, A tale thou schalt understonde, Hou that a kniht schal armes suie, And for the while his ese eschuie. Upon knyhthode I rede thus, How whilom whan the king Nauplus, The fader of Palamades, Cam forto preien Ulixes With othre Gregois ek also, That he with hem to Troie go, Wher that the Siege scholde be, Anon upon Penolope His wif, whom that he loveth hote, Thenkende, wolde hem noght behote. Bot he schop thanne a wonder wyle, How that he scholde hem best beguile, So that he mihte duelle stille At home and welde his love at wille: Wherof erli the morwe day Out of his bedd, wher that he lay, Whan he was uppe, he gan to fare Into the field and loke and stare, As he which feigneth to be wod: He tok a plowh, wher that it stod, Wherinne anon in stede of Oxes He let do yoken grete foxes, And with gret salt the lond he siew. But Nauplus, which the cause kniew, Ayein the sleihte which he feigneth An other sleihte anon ordeigneth. And fell that time Ulixes hadde A chyld to Sone, and Nauplus radde How men that Sone taken scholde, And setten him upon the Molde, Wher that his fader hield the plowh, In thilke furgh which he tho drowh. For in such wise he thoghte assaie, Hou it Ulixes scholde paie, If that he were wod or non. The knihtes for this child forthgon; Thelamacus anon was fett, Tofore the plowh and evene sett, Wher that his fader scholde dryve. Bot whan he sih his child, als blyve He drof the plowh out of the weie, And Nauplus tho began to seie, And hath half in a jape cryd: "O Ulixes, thou art aspyd: What is al this thou woldest meene? For openliche it is now seene That thou hast feigned al this thing, Which is gret schame to a king, Whan that for lust of eny slowthe Thou wolt in a querele of trowthe Of armes thilke honour forsake, And duelle at hom for loves sake: For betre it were honour to winne Than love, which likinge is inne. Forthi tak worschipe upon honde, And elles thou schalt understonde These othre worthi kinges alle Of Grece, which unto thee calle, Towardes thee wol be riht wrothe, And grieve thee per chance bothe: Which schal be tothe double schame Most for the hindrynge of thi name, That thou for Slouthe of eny love Schalt so thi lustes sette above And leve of armes the knyhthode, Which is the pris of thi manhode And oghte ferst to be desired." Bot he, which hadde his herte fyred Upon his wif, whan he this herde, Noght o word therayein ansuerde, Bot torneth hom halvinge aschamed, And hath withinne himself so tamed His herte, that al the sotie Of love for chivalerie He lefte, and be him lief or loth, To Troie forth with hem he goth, That he him mihte noght excuse. Thus stant it, if a knyht refuse The lust of armes to travaile, Ther mai no worldes ese availe, Bot if worschipe be with al. And that hath schewed overal; For it sit wel in alle wise A kniht to ben of hih emprise And puten alle drede aweie; For in this wise, I have herd seie, The worthi king Protheselai On his passage wher he lai Towardes Troie thilke Siege, Sche which was al his oghne liege, Laodomie his lusti wif, Which for his love was pensif, As he which al hire herte hadde, Upon a thing wherof sche dradde A lettre, forto make him duelle Fro Troie, sende him, thus to telle, Hou sche hath axed of the wyse Touchende of him in such a wise, That thei have don hire understonde, Towardes othre hou so it stonde, The destine it hath so schape That he schal noght the deth ascape In cas that he arryve at Troie. Forthi as to hir worldes joie With al hire herte sche him preide, And many an other cause alleide, That he with hire at home abide. Bot he hath cast hir lettre aside, As he which tho no maner hiede Tok of hire wommannysshe drede; And forth he goth, as noght ne were, To Troie, and was the ferste there Which londeth, and tok arryvaile: For him was levere in the bataille, He seith, to deien as a knyht, Than forto lyve in al his myht And be reproeved of his name. Lo, thus upon the worldes fame Knyhthode hath evere yit be set, Which with no couardie is let. Of king Sal also I finde, Whan Samuel out of his kinde, Thurgh that the Phitonesse hath lered, In Samarie was arered Long time after that he was ded, The king Sal him axeth red, If that he schal go fyhte or non. And Samuel him seide anon, "The ferste day of the bataille Thou schalt be slain withoute faile And Jonathas thi Sone also." Bot hou as evere it felle so, This worthi kniht of his corage Hath undertake the viage, And wol noght his knyhthode lette For no peril he couthe sette; Wherof that bothe his Sone and he Upon the Montz of Gelboe5 Assemblen with here enemys: For thei knyhthode of such a pris Be olde daies thanne hielden, That thei non other thing behielden. And thus the fader for worschipe Forth with his Sone of felaschipe Thurgh lust of armes weren dede, As men mai in the bible rede; The whos knyhthode is yit in mende, And schal be to the worldes ende. And forto loken overmore, It hath and schal ben evermore That of knihthode the prouesse Is grounded upon hardinesse Of him that dar wel undertake. And who that wolde ensample take Upon the forme of knyhtes lawe, How that Achilles was forthdrawe With Chiro, which Centaurus hihte, Of many a wondre hiere he mihte. For it stod thilke time thus, That this Chiro, this Centaurus, Withinne a large wildernesse, Wher was Leon and Leonesse, The Lepard and the Tigre also, With Hert and Hynde, and buck and doo, Hadde his duellinge, as tho befell, Of Pileon upon the hel, Wherof was thanne mochel speche. Ther hath Chiro this Chyld to teche, What time he was of tuelve yer age; Wher forto maken his corage The more hardi be other weie, In the forest to hunte and pleie Whan that Achilles walke wolde, Centaurus bad that he ne scholde After no beste make his chace, Which wolde flen out of his place, As buck and doo and hert and hynde, With whiche he mai no werre finde; Bot tho that wolden him withstonde, Ther scholde he with his Dart on honde Upon the Tigre and the Leon Pourchace and take his veneison, As to a kniht is acordant. And therupon a covenant This Chiro with Achilles sette, That every day withoute lette He scholde such a cruel beste Or slen or wounden ate leste, So that he mihte a tokne bringe Of blod upon his hom cominge. And thus of that Chiro him tawhte Achilles such an herte cawhte, That he nomore a Leon dradde, Whan he his Dart on honde hadde, Thanne if a Leon were an asse: And that hath mad him forto passe Alle othre knihtes of his dede, Whan it cam to the grete nede, As it was afterward wel knowe. Lo, thus, my Sone, thou miht knowe That the corage of hardiesce Is of knyhthode the prouesce, Which is to love sufficant Aboven al the remenant That unto loves court poursuie. Bot who that wol no Slowthe eschuie, Upon knihthode and noght travaile, I not what love him scholde availe; Bot every labour axeth why Of som reward, wherof that I Ensamples couthe telle ynowe Of hem that toward love drowe Be olde daies, as thei scholde. Mi fader, therof hiere I wolde. Mi Sone, it is wel resonable, In place which is honorable If that a man his herte sette, That thanne he for no Slowthe lette To do what longeth to manhede. For if thou wolt the bokes rede Of Lancelot and othre mo, Ther miht thou sen hou it was tho Of armes, for thei wolde atteigne To love, which withoute peine Mai noght be gete of ydelnesse. And that I take to witnesse An old Cronique in special, The which into memorial Is write, for his loves sake Hou that a kniht schal undertake. Ther was a king, which Oe5nes Was hote, and he under his pes Hield Calidoyne in his Empire, And hadde a dowhter Deianire. Men wiste in thilke time non So fair a wiht as sche was on; And as sche was a lusti wiht, Riht so was thanne a noble kniht, To whom Mercurie fader was. This kniht the tuo pilers of bras, The whiche yit a man mai finde, Sette up in the desert of Ynde; That was the worthi Hercules, Whos name schal ben endeles For the merveilles whiche he wroghte. This Hercules the love soghte Of Deianire, and of this thing Unto hir fader, which was king, He spak touchende of Mariage. The king knowende his hih lignage, And dradde also hise mihtes sterne, To him ne dorste his dowhter werne; And natheles this he him seide, How Achelons er he ferst preide To wedden hire, and in accord Thei stode, as it was of record: Bot for al that this he him granteth, That which of hem that other daunteth In armes, him sche scholde take, And that the king hath undertake. This Achelons was a Geant, A soubtil man, a deceivant, Which thurgh magique and sorcerie Couthe al the world of tricherie: And whan that he this tale herde, Hou upon that the king ansuerde With Hercules he moste feighte, He tristeth noght upon his sleighte Al only, whan it comth to nede, Bot that which voydeth alle drede And every noble herte stereth, The love, that no lif forbereth, For his ladi, whom he desireth, With hardiesse his herte fyreth, And sende him word withoute faile That he wol take the bataille. Thei setten day, they chosen field, The knihtes coevered under Schield Togedre come at time set, And echon is with other met. It fell thei foghten bothe afote, Ther was no ston, ther was no rote, Which mihte letten hem the weie, But al was voide and take aweie. Thei smyten strokes bot a fewe, For Hercules, which wolde schewe His grete strengthe as for the nones, He sterte upon him al at ones And cawhte him in hise armes stronge. This Geant wot he mai noght longe Endure under so harde bondes, And thoghte he wolde out of hise hondes Be sleyhte in som manere ascape. And as he couthe himself forschape, In liknesse of an Eddre he slipte Out of his hond, and forth he skipte; And efte, as he that feighte wole, He torneth him into a Bole, And gan to belwe of such a soun, As thogh the world scholde al go doun: The ground he sporneth and he tranceth, Hise large hornes he avanceth And caste hem here and there aboute. Bot he, which stant of him no doute, Awaiteth wel whan that he cam, And him be bothe hornes nam And al at ones he him caste Unto the ground, and hield him faste, That he ne mihte with no sleighte Out of his hond gete upon heighte, Til he was overcome and yolde, And Hercules hath what he wolde. The king him granteth to fulfille His axinge at his oghne wille, And sche for whom he hadde served, Hire thoghte he hath hire wel deserved. And thus with gret decerte of Armes He wan him forto ligge in armes, As he which hath it dere aboght, For otherwise scholde he noght. And overthis if thou wolt hiere Upon knihthode of this matiere, Hou love and armes ben aqueinted, A man mai se bothe write and peinted So ferforth that Pantasilee, Which was the queene of Feminee, The love of Hector forto sieke And for thonour of armes eke, To Troie cam with Spere and Schield, And rod hirself into the field With Maidens armed al a route In rescouss of the toun aboute, Which with the Gregois was belein. Fro Pafagoine and as men sein, Which stant upon the worldes ende, That time it likede ek to wende To Philemenis, which was king, To Troie, and come upon this thing In helpe of thilke noble toun; And al was that for the renoun Of worschipe and of worldes fame, Of which he wolde bere a name: And so he dede, and forth withal He wan of love in special A fair tribut for everemo. For it fell thilke time so; Pirrus the Sone of Achilles This worthi queene among the press With dedli swerd soghte out and fond, And slowh hire with his oghne hond; Wherof this king of Pafagoine Pantasilee of Amazoine, Wher sche was queene, with him ladde, With suche Maidens as sche hadde Of hem that were left alyve, Forth in his Schip, til thei aryve; Wher that the body was begrave With worschipe, and the wommen save. And for the goodschipe of this dede Thei granten him a lusti mede, That every yeer as for truage To him and to his heritage Of Maidens faire he schal have thre. And in this wise spedde he, Which the fortune of armes soghte, With his travail his ese he boghte; For otherwise he scholde have failed, If that he hadde noght travailed. Eneas ek withinne Ytaile, Ne hadde he wonne the bataille And don his miht so besily Ayein king Turne his enemy, He hadde noght Lavine wonne; Bot for he hath him overronne And gete his pris, he gat hire love. Be these ensamples here above, Lo, now, mi Sone, as I have told, Thou miht wel se, who that is bold And dar travaile and undertake The cause of love, he schal be take The rathere unto loves grace; For comunliche in worthi place The wommen loven worthinesse Of manhode and of gentilesse, For the gentils ben most desired. Mi fader, bot I were enspired Thurgh lore of you, I wot no weie What gentilesce is forto seie, Wherof to telle I you beseche. The ground, Mi Sone, forto seche Upon this diffinicion, The worldes constitucion Hath set the name of gentilesse Upon the fortune of richesse Which of long time is falle in age. Thanne is a man of hih lignage After the forme, as thou miht hiere, Bot nothing after the matiere. For who that resoun understonde, Upon richesse it mai noght stonde, For that is thing which faileth ofte: For he that stant to day alofte And al the world hath in hise wones, Tomorwe he falleth al at ones Out of richesse into poverte, So that therof is no decerte, Which gentilesce makth abide. And forto loke on other side Hou that a gentil man is bore, Adam, which alle was tofore With Eve his wif, as of hem tuo, Al was aliche gentil tho; So that of generacion To make declaracion, Ther mai no gentilesce be. For to the reson if we se, Of mannes berthe the mesure, It is so comun to nature, That it yifth every man aliche, Als wel to povere as to the riche; For naked thei ben bore bothe, The lord nomore hath forto clothe As of himself that ilke throwe, Than hath the povereste of the rowe. And whan thei schulle both passe, I not of hem which hath the lasse Of worldes good, bot as of charge The lord is more forto charge, Whan god schal his accompte hiere, For he hath had hise lustes hiere. Bot of the bodi, which schal deie, Althogh ther be diverse weie To deth, yit is ther bot on ende, To which that every man schal wende, Als wel the beggere as the lord, Of o nature, of on acord: Sche which oure Eldemoder is, The Erthe, bothe that and this Receiveth and alich devoureth, That sche to nouther part favoureth. So wot I nothing after kinde Where I mai gentilesse finde. For lacke of vertu lacketh grace, Wherof richesse in many place, Whan men best wene forto stonde, Al sodeinly goth out of honde: Bot vertu set in the corage, Ther mai no world be so salvage, Which mihte it take and don aweie, Til whanne that the bodi deie; And thanne he schal be riched so, That it mai faile neveremo; So mai that wel be gentilesse, Which yifth so gret a sikernesse. For after the condicion Of resonable entencion, The which out of the Soule groweth And the vertu fro vice knoweth, Wherof a man the vice eschuieth, Withoute Slowthe and vertu suieth, That is a verrai gentil man, And nothing elles which he can, Ne which he hath, ne which he mai. Bot for al that yit nou aday, In loves court to taken hiede, The povere vertu schal noght spiede, Wher that the riche vice woweth; For sielde it is that love alloweth The gentil man withoute good, Thogh his condicion be good. Bot if a man of bothe tuo Be riche and vertuous also, Thanne is he wel the more worth: Bot yit to putte himselve forth He moste don his besinesse, For nowther good ne gentilesse Mai helpen him whiche ydel be. Bot who that wole in his degre Travaile so as it belongeth, It happeth ofte that he fongeth Worschipe and ese bothe tuo. For evere yit it hath be so, That love honeste in sondri weie Profiteth, for it doth aweie The vice, and as the bokes sein, It makth curteis of the vilein, And to the couard hardiesce It yifth, so that verrai prouesse Is caused upon loves reule To him that can manhode reule; And ek toward the wommanhiede, Who that therof wol taken hiede, For thei the betre affaited be In every thing, as men may se. For love hath evere hise lustes grene In gentil folk, as it is sene, Which thing ther mai no kinde areste: I trowe that ther is no beste, If he with love scholde aqueinte, That he ne wolde make it queinte As for the while that it laste. And thus I conclude ate laste, That thei ben ydel, as me semeth, Whiche unto thing that love demeth Forslowthen that thei scholden do. And overthis, mi Sone, also After the vertu moral eke To speke of love if I schal seke, Among the holi bokes wise I finde write in such a wise, "Who loveth noght is hier as ded"; For love above alle othre is hed, Which hath the vertus forto lede, Of al that unto mannes dede Belongeth: for of ydelschipe He hateth all the felaschipe. For Slowthe is evere to despise, Which in desdeign hath al apprise, And that acordeth noght to man: For he that wit and reson kan, It sit him wel that he travaile Upon som thing which mihte availe, For ydelschipe is noght comended, Bot every lawe it hath defended. And in ensample therupon The noble wise Salomon, Which hadde of every thing insihte, Seith, "As the briddes to the flihte Ben made, so the man is bore To labour," which is noght forbore To hem that thenken forto thryve. For we, whiche are now alyve, Of hem that besi whylom were, Als wel in Scole as elleswhere, Mowe every day ensample take, That if it were now to make Thing which that thei ferst founden oute, It scholde noght be broght aboute. Here lyves thanne were longe, Here wittes grete, here mihtes stronge, Here hertes ful of besinesse, Wherof the worldes redinesse In bodi bothe and in corage Stant evere upon his avantage. And forto drawe into memoire Here names bothe and here histoire, Upon the vertu of her dede In sondri bokes thou miht rede. Of every wisdom the parfit The hyhe god of his spirit Yaf to the men in Erthe hiere Upon the forme and the matiere Of that he wolde make hem wise: And thus cam in the ferste apprise Of bokes and of alle goode Thurgh hem that whilom understode The lore which to hem was yive, Wherof these othre, that now live, Ben every day to lerne newe. Bot er the time that men siewe, And that the labour forth it broghte, Ther was no corn, thogh men it soghte, In non of al the fieldes oute; And er the wisdom cam aboute Of hem that ferst the bokes write, This mai wel every wys man wite, Ther was gret labour ek also. Thus was non ydel of the tuo, That on the plogh hath undertake With labour which the hond hath take, That other tok to studie and muse, As he which wolde noght refuse The labour of hise wittes alle. And in this wise it is befalle, Of labour which that thei begunne We be now tawht of that we kunne: Here besinesse is yit so seene, That it stant evere alyche greene; Al be it so the bodi deie, The name of hem schal nevere aweie. In the Croniqes as I finde, Cham, whos labour is yit in minde, Was he which ferst the lettres fond And wrot in Hebreu with his hond: Of naturel Philosophie He fond ferst also the clergie. Cadmus the lettres of Gregois Ferst made upon his oghne chois. Theges of thing which schal befalle, He was the ferste Augurre of alle: And Philemon be the visage Fond to descrive the corage. Cladyns, Esdras and Sulpices, Termegis, Pandulf, Frigidilles, Menander, Ephiloquorus, Solins, Pandas and Josephus The ferste were of Enditours, Of old Cronique and ek auctours: And Heredot in his science Of metre, of rime and of cadence The ferste was of which men note. And of Musique also the note In mannes vois or softe or scharpe, That fond Jubal; and of the harpe The merie soun, which is to like, That fond Poulins forth with phisique. Zenzis fond ferst the pourtreture, And Promothes the Sculpture; After what forme that hem thoghte, The resemblance anon thei wroghte. Tubal in Iren and in Stel Fond ferst the forge and wroghte it wel: And Jadahel, as seith the bok, Ferst made Net and fisshes tok: Of huntynge ek he fond the chace, Which now is knowe in many place: A tente of cloth with corde and stake He sette up ferst and dede it make. Verconius of cokerie Ferst made the delicacie. The craft Minerve of wolle fond And made cloth hire oghne hond; And Delbora made it of lyn: Tho wommen were of great engyn. Bot thing which yifth ous mete and drinke And doth the labourer to swinke To tile lond and sette vines, Wherof the cornes and the wynes Ben sustenance to mankinde, In olde bokes as I finde, Saturnus of his oghne wit Hath founde ferst, and more yit Of Chapmanhode he fond the weie, And ek to coigne the moneie Of sondri metall, as it is, He was the ferste man of this. Bot hou that metall cam a place Thurgh mannes wit and goddes grace The route of Philosophres wise Controeveden be sondri wise, Ferst forto gete it out of Myne, And after forto trie and fyne. And also with gret diligence Thei founden thilke experience, Which cleped is Alconomie, Wherof the Selver multeplie Thei made and ek the gold also. And forto telle hou it is so, Of bodies sevene in special With foure spiritz joynt withal Stant the substance of this matiere. The bodies whiche I speke of hiere Of the Planetes ben begonne: The gold is titled to the Sonne, The mone of Selver hath his part, And Iren that stant upon Mart, The Led after Satorne groweth, And Jupiter the Bras bestoweth, The Coper set is to Venus, And to his part Mercurius Hath the quikselver, as it falleth, The which, after the bok it calleth, Is ferst of thilke fowre named Of Spiritz, whiche ben proclamed; And the spirit which is secounde In Sal Armoniak is founde: The thridde spirit Sulphur is; The ferthe suiende after this Arcennicum be name is hote. With blowinge and with fyres hote In these thinges, whiche I seie, Thei worchen be diverse weie. For as the philosophre tolde Of gold and selver, thei ben holde Tuo principal extremites, To whiche alle othre be degres Of the metalls ben acordant, And so thurgh kinde resemblant, That what man couthe aweie take The rust, of which thei waxen blake, And the savour and the hardnesse, Thei scholden take the liknesse Of gold or Selver parfitly. Bot forto worche it sikirly, Betwen the corps and the spirit, Er that the metall be parfit, In sevene formes it is set; Of alle and if that on be let, The remenant mai noght availe, Bot otherwise it mai noght faile. For thei be whom this art was founde To every point a certain bounde Ordeignen, that a man mai finde This craft is wroght be weie of kinde, So that ther is no fallas inne. Bot what man that this werk beginne, He mot awaite at every tyde, So that nothing be left aside, Ferst of the distillacion, Forth with the congelacion, Solucion, descencion, And kepe in his entencion The point of sublimacion, And forth with calcinacion Of veray approbacion Do that ther be fixacion With tempred hetes of the fyr, Til he the parfit Elixir Of thilke philosophres Ston Mai gete, of which that many on Of Philosophres whilom write. And if thou wolt the names wite Of thilke Ston with othre tuo, Whiche as the clerkes maden tho, So as the bokes it recorden, The kinde of hem I schal recorden. These olde Philosophres wyse Be weie of kinde in sondri wise Thre Stones maden thurgh clergie. The ferste, if I schal specefie, Was lapis vegetabilis, Of which the propre vertu is To mannes hele forto serve, As forto kepe and to preserve The bodi fro siknesses alle, Til deth of kinde upon him falle. The Ston seconde I thee behote Is lapis animalis hote, The whos vertu is propre and cowth For Ere and yhe and nase and mouth, Wherof a man mai hiere and se And smelle and taste in his degre, And forto fiele and forto go It helpeth man of bothe tuo: The wittes fyve he underfongeth To kepe, as it to him belongeth. The thridde Ston in special Be name is cleped Minerall, Which the metalls of every Mine Attempreth, til that thei ben fyne, And pureth hem be such a weie, That al the vice goth aweie Of rust, of stink and of hardnesse: And whan thei ben of such clennesse, This Mineral, so as I finde, Transformeth al the ferste kynde And makth hem able to conceive Thurgh his vertu, and to receive Bothe in substance and in figure Of gold and selver the nature. For thei tuo ben thextremetes, To whiche after the propretes Hath every metal his desir, With help and confort of the fyr Forth with this Ston, as it is seid, Which to the Sonne and Mone is leid; For to the rede and to the whyte This Ston hath pouer to profite. It makth mulptiplicacioun Of gold, and the fixacioun It causeth, and of his habit He doth the werk to be parfit Of thilke Elixer which men calle Alconomie, as is befalle To hem that whilom weren wise. Bot now it stant al otherwise; Thei speken faste of thilke Ston, Bot hou to make it, nou wot non After the sothe experience. And natheles gret diligence Thei setten upon thilke dede, And spille more than thei spede; For allewey thei finde a lette, Which bringeth in poverte and dette To hem that riche were afore: The lost is had, the lucre is lore, To gete a pound thei spenden fyve; I not hou such a craft schal thryve In the manere as it is used: It were betre be refused Than forto worchen upon weene In thing which stant noght as thei weene. Bot noght forthi, who that it knewe, The science of himself is trewe Upon the forme as it was founded, Wherof the names yit ben grounded Of hem that ferste it founden oute; And thus the fame goth aboute To suche as soghten besinesse Of vertu and of worthinesse. Of whom if I the names calle, Hermes was on the ferste of alle, To whom this art is most applied; Geber therof was magnefied, And Ortolan and Morien, Among the whiche is Avicen, Which fond and wrot a gret partie The practique of Alconomie; Whos bokes, pleinli as thei stonde Upon this craft, fewe understonde; Bot yit to put hem in assai Ther ben full manye now aday, That knowen litel what thei meene. It is noght on to wite and weene; In forme of wordes thei it trete, Bot yit they failen of beyete, For of tomoche or of tolyte Ther is algate founde a wyte, So that thei folwe noght the lyne Of the parfite medicine, Which grounded is upon nature. Bot thei that writen the scripture Of Grek, Arabe and of Caldee, Thei were of such Auctorite That thei ferst founden out the weie Of al that thou hast herd me seie; Wherof the Cronique of her lore Schal stonde in pris for everemore. Bot toward oure Marches hiere, Of the Latins if thou wolt hiere, Of hem that whilom vertuous Were and therto laborious, Carmente made of hire engin The ferste lettres of Latin, Of which the tunge Romein cam, Wherof that Aristarchus nam Forth with Donat and Dindimus The ferste reule of Scole, as thus, How that Latin schal be componed And in what wise it schal be soned, That every word in his degre Schal stonde upon congruite. And thilke time at Rome also Was Tullius with Cithero, That writen upon Rethorike, Hou that men schal the wordes pike After the forme of eloquence, Which is, men sein, a gret prudence: And after that out of Hebreu Jerom, which the langage kneu, The Bible, in which the lawe is closed, Into Latin he hath transposed; And many an other writere ek Out of Caldee, Arabe and Grek With gret labour the bokes wise Translateden. And otherwise The Latins of hemself also Here studie at thilke time so With gret travaile of Scole toke In sondri forme forto boke, That we mai take here evidences Upon the lore of the Sciences, Of craftes bothe and of clergie; Among the whiche in Poesie To the lovers Ovide wrot And tawhte, if love be to hot, In what manere it scholde akiele. Forthi, mi Sone, if that thou fiele That love wringe thee to sore, Behold Ovide and take his lore. My fader, if thei mihte spede Mi love, I wolde his bokes rede; And if thei techen to restreigne Mi love, it were an ydel peine To lerne a thing which mai noght be. For lich unto the greene tree, If that men toke his rote aweie, Riht so myn herte scholde deie, If that mi love be withdrawe. Wherof touchende unto this sawe There is bot only to poursuie Mi love, and ydelschipe eschuie. Mi goode Sone, soth to seie, If ther be siker eny weie To love, thou hast seid the beste: For who that wolde have al his reste And do no travail at the nede, It is no resoun that he spede In loves cause forto winne; For he which dar nothing beginne, I not what thing he scholde achieve. Bot overthis thou schalt believe, So as it sit thee wel to knowe, That ther ben othre vices slowe, Whiche unto love don gret lette, If thou thin herte upon hem sette. Toward the Slowe progenie Ther is yit on of compaignie, And he is cleped Sompnolence, Which doth to Slouthe his reverence, As he which is his Chamberlein, That many an hundrid time hath lein To slepe, whan he scholde wake. He hath with love trewes take, That wake who so wake wile, If he mai couche a doun his bile, He hath al wowed what him list; That ofte he goth to bedde unkist, And seith that for no Druerie He wol noght leve his sluggardie. For thogh noman it wole allowe, To slepe levere than to wowe Is his manere, and thus on nyhtes, Whan that he seth the lusti knyhtes Revelen, wher these wommen are, Awey he skulketh as an hare, And goth to bedde and leith him softe, And of his Slouthe he dremeth ofte Hou that he stiketh in the Myr, And hou he sitteth be the fyr And claweth on his bare schanckes, And hou he clymbeth up the banckes And falleth into Slades depe. Bot thanne who so toke kepe, Whanne he is falle in such a drem, Riht as a Schip ayein the Strem, He routeth with a slepi noise, And brustleth as a monkes froise, Whanne it is throwe into the Panne. And otherwhile sielde whanne That he mai dreme a lusti swevene, Him thenkth as thogh he were in hevene And as the world were holi his: And thanne he spekth of that and this, And makth his exposicion After the disposicion Of that he wolde, and in such wise He doth to love all his service; I not what thonk he schal deserve. Bot, Sone, if thou wolt love serve, I rede that thou do noght so. Ha, goode fader, certes no. I hadde levere be mi trowthe, Er I were set on such a slouthe And beere such a slepi snoute, Bothe yhen of myn hed were oute. For me were betre fulli die, Thanne I of such a slugardie Hadde eny name, god me schilde; For whan mi moder was with childe, And I lay in hire wombe clos, I wolde rathere Atropos, Which is goddesse of alle deth, Anon as I hadde eny breth, Me hadde fro mi Moder cast. Bot now I am nothing agast, I thonke godd; for Lachesis, Ne Cloto, which hire felawe is, Me schopen no such destine, Whan thei at mi nativite My weerdes setten as thei wolde; Bot thei me schopen that I scholde Eschuie of slep the truandise, So that I hope in such a wise To love forto ben excused, That I no Sompnolence have used. For certes, fader Genius, Yit into nou it hath be thus, At alle time if it befelle So that I mihte come and duelle In place ther my ladi were, I was noght slow ne slepi there: For thanne I dar wel undertake, That whanne hir list on nyhtes wake In chambre as to carole and daunce, Me thenkth I mai me more avaunce, If I mai gon upon hir hond, Thanne if I wonne a kinges lond. For whanne I mai hire hand beclippe, With such gladnesse I daunce and skippe, Me thenkth I touche noght the flor; The Ro, which renneth on the Mor, Is thanne noght so lyht as I: So mow ye witen wel forthi, That for the time slep I hate. And whanne it falleth othergate, So that hire like noght to daunce, Bot on the Dees to caste chaunce Or axe of love som demande, Or elles that hir list comaunde To rede and here of Troilus, Riht as sche wole or so or thus, I am al redi to consente. And if so is that I mai hente Somtime among a good leisir, So as I dar of mi desir I telle a part; bot whanne I preie, Anon sche bidt me go mi weie And seith it is ferr in the nyht; And I swere it is even liht. Bot as it falleth ate laste, Ther mai no worldes joie laste, So mot I nedes fro hire wende And of my wachche make an ende: And if sche thanne hiede toke, Hou pitousliche on hire I loke, Whan that I schal my leve take, Hire oghte of mercy forto slake Hire daunger, which seith evere nay. Bot he seith often, "Have good day," That loth is forto take his leve: Therfore, while I mai beleve, I tarie forth the nyht along, For it is noght on me along To slep that I so sone go, Til that I mot algate so; And thanne I bidde godd hire se, And so doun knelende on mi kne I take leve, and if I schal, I kisse hire, and go forth withal. And otherwhile, if that I dore, Er I come fulli to the Dore, I torne ayein and feigne a thing, As thogh I hadde lost a Ring Or somwhat elles, for I wolde Kisse hire eftsones, if I scholde, Bot selden is that I so spede. And whanne I se that I mot nede Departen, I departe, and thanne With al myn herte I curse and banne That evere slep was mad for yhe; For, as me thenkth, I mihte dryhe Withoute slep to waken evere, So that I scholde noght dissevere Fro hire, in whom is al my liht: And thanne I curse also the nyht With al the will of mi corage, And seie, "Awey, thou blake ymage, Which of thi derke cloudy face Makst al the worldes lyht deface, And causest unto slep a weie, Be which I mot nou gon aweie Out of mi ladi compaignie. O slepi nyht, I thee defie, And wolde that thou leye in presse With Proserpine the goddesse And with Pluto the helle king: For til I se the daies spring, I sette slep noght at a risshe." And with that word I sike and wisshe, And seie, "Ha, whi ne were it day? For yit mi ladi thanne I may Beholde, thogh I do nomore." And efte I thenke forthermore, To som man hou the niht doth ese, Whan he hath thing that mai him plese The longe nyhtes be his side, Where as I faile and go beside. Bot slep, I not wherof it serveth, Of which noman his thonk deserveth To gete him love in eny place, Bot is an hindrere of his grace And makth him ded as for a throwe, Riht as a Stok were overthrowe. And so, mi fader, in this wise The slepi nyhtes I despise, And evere amiddes of mi tale I thenke upon the nyhtingale, Which slepeth noght be weie of kinde For love, in bokes as I finde. Thus ate laste I go to bedde, And yit min herte lith to wedde With hire, wher as I cam fro; Thogh I departe, he wol noght so, Ther is no lock mai schette him oute, Him nedeth noght to gon aboute, That perce mai the harde wall; Thus is he with hire overall, That be hire lief, or be hire loth, Into hire bedd myn herte goth, And softly takth hire in his arm And fieleth hou that sche is warm, And wissheth that his body were To fiele that he fieleth there. And thus miselven I tormente, Til that the dede slep me hente: Bot thanne be a thousand score Welmore than I was tofore I am tormented in mi slep, Bot that I dreme is noght of schep; For I ne thenke noght on wulle, Bot I am drecched to the fulle Of love, that I have to kepe, That nou I lawhe and nou I wepe, And nou I lese and nou I winne, And nou I ende and nou beginne. And otherwhile I dreme and mete That I al one with hire mete And that Danger is left behinde; And thanne in slep such joie I finde, That I ne bede nevere awake. Bot after, whanne I hiede take, And schal arise upon the morwe, Thanne is al torned into sorwe, Noght for the cause I schal arise, Bot for I mette in such a wise, And ate laste I am bethoght That al is vein and helpeth noght: Bot yit me thenketh be my wille I wolde have leie and slepe stille, To meten evere of such a swevene, For thanne I hadde a slepi hevene. Mi Sone, and for thou tellest so, A man mai finde of time ago That many a swevene hath be certein, Al be it so, that som men sein That swevenes ben of no credence. Bot forto schewe in evidence That thei fulofte sothe thinges Betokne, I thenke in my wrytinges To telle a tale therupon, Which fell be olde daies gon. This finde I write in Poesie: Cei5x the king of Trocinie Hadde Alceone to his wif, Which as hire oghne hertes lif Him loveth; and he hadde also A brother, which was cleped tho Dedalion, and he per cas Fro kinde of man forschape was Into a Goshauk of liknesse; Wherof the king gret hevynesse Hath take, and thoghte in his corage To gon upon a pelrinage Into a strange regioun, Wher he hath his devocioun To don his sacrifice and preie, If that he mihte in eny weie Toward the goddes finde grace His brother hele to pourchace, So that he mihte be reformed Of that he hadde be transformed. To this pourpos and to this ende This king is redy forto wende, As he which wolde go be Schipe; And forto don him felaschipe His wif unto the See him broghte, With al hire herte and him besoghte, That he the time hire wolde sein, Whan that he thoghte come ayein: "Withinne," he seith, "tuo Monthe day." And thus in al the haste he may He tok his leve, and forth he seileth Wepende, and sche hirself beweileth, And torneth hom, ther sche cam fro. Bot whan the Monthes were ago, The whiche he sette of his comynge, And that sche herde no tydinge, Ther was no care forto seche: Wherof the goddes to beseche Tho sche began in many wise, And to Juno hire sacrifise Above alle othre most sche dede, And for hir lord sche hath so bede To wite and knowe hou that he ferde, That Juno the goddesse hire herde, Anon and upon this matiere Sche bad Yris hir Messagere To Slepes hous that sche schal wende, And bidde him that he make an ende Be swevene and schewen al the cas Unto this ladi, hou it was. This Yris, fro the hihe stage Which undertake hath the Message, Hire reyny Cope dede upon, The which was wonderli begon With colours of diverse hewe, An hundred mo than men it knewe; The hevene lich into a bowe Sche bende, and so she cam doun lowe, The god of Slep wher that sche fond. And that was in a strange lond, Which marcheth upon Chymerie: For ther, as seith the Poesie, The god of Slep hath mad his hous, Which of entaille is merveilous. Under an hell ther is a Cave, Which of the Sonne mai noght have, So that noman mai knowe ariht The point betwen the dai and nyht: Ther is no fyr, ther is no sparke, Ther is no dore, which mai charke, Wherof an yhe scholde unschette, So that inward ther is no lette. And forto speke of that withoute, Ther stant no gret Tree nyh aboute Wher on ther myhte crowe or pie Alihte, forto clepe or crie: Ther is no cok to crowe day, Ne beste non which noise may The hell, bot al aboute round Ther is growende upon the ground Popi, which berth the sed of slep, With othre herbes suche an hep. A stille water for the nones Rennende upon the smale stones, Which hihte of Lethes the rivere, Under that hell in such manere Ther is, which yifth gret appetit To slepe. And thus full of delit Slep hath his hous; and of his couche Withinne his chambre if I schal touche, Of hebenus that slepi Tree The bordes al aboute be, And for he scholde slepe softe, Upon a fethrebed alofte He lith with many a pilwe of doun: The chambre is strowed up and doun With swevenes many thousendfold. Thus cam Yris into this hold, And to the bedd, which is al blak, Sche goth, and ther with Slep sche spak, And in the wise as sche was bede The Message of Juno sche dede. Fulofte hir wordes sche reherceth, Er sche his slepi Eres perceth; With mochel wo bot ate laste His slombrende yhen he upcaste And seide hir that it schal be do. Wherof among a thousend tho, Withinne his hous that slepi were, In special he ches out there Thre, whiche scholden do this dede: The ferste of hem, so as I rede, Was Morphes, the whos nature Is forto take the figure Of what persone that him liketh, Wherof that he fulofte entriketh The lif which slepe schal be nyhte; And Ithecus that other hihte, Which hath the vois of every soun, The chiere and the condicioun Of every lif, what so it is: The thridde suiende after this Is Panthasas, which may transforme Of every thing the rihte forme, And change it in an other kinde. Upon hem thre, so as I finde, Of swevenes stant al thapparence, Which otherwhile is evidence And otherwhile bot a jape. Bot natheles it is so schape, That Morphes be nyht al one Appiereth until Alceone In liknesse of hir housebonde Al naked ded upon the stronde, And hou he dreynte in special These othre tuo it schewen al. The tempeste of the blake cloude, The wode See, the wyndes loude, Al this sche mette, and sih him dyen; Wherof that sche began to crien, Slepende abedde ther sche lay, And with that noise of hire affray Hir wommen sterten up aboute, Whiche of here ladi were in doute, And axen hire hou that sche ferde; And sche, riht as sche syh and herde, Hir swevene hath told hem everydel. And thei it halsen alle wel And sein it is a tokne of goode; Bot til sche wiste hou that it stode, Sche hath no confort in hire herte, Upon the morwe and up sche sterte, And to the See, wher that sche mette The bodi lay, withoute lette Sche drowh, and whan that sche cam nyh, Stark ded, hise harmes sprad, sche syh Hire lord flietende upon the wawe. Wherof hire wittes ben withdrawe, And sche, which tok of deth no kepe, Anon forth lepte into the depe And wolde have cawht him in hire arm. This infortune of double harm The goddes fro the hevene above Behielde, and for the trowthe of love, Which in this worthi ladi stod, Thei have upon the salte flod Hire dreinte lord and hire also Fro deth to lyve torned so, That thei ben schapen into briddes Swimmende upon the wawe amiddes. And whan sche sih hire lord livende In liknesse of a bridd swimmende, And sche was of the same sort, So as sche mihte do desport, Upon the joie which sche hadde Hire wynges bothe abrod sche spradde, And him, so as sche mai suffise, Beclipte and keste in such a wise, As sche was whilom wont to do: Hire wynges for hire armes tuo Sche tok, and for hire lippes softe Hire harde bile, and so fulofte Sche fondeth in hire briddes forme, If that sche mihte hirself conforme To do the plesance of a wif, As sche dede in that other lif: For thogh sche hadde hir pouer lore, Hir will stod as it was tofore, And serveth him so as sche mai. Wherof into this ilke day Togedre upon the See thei wone, Wher many a dowhter and a Sone Thei bringen forth of briddes kinde; And for men scholden take in mynde This Alceoun the trewe queene, Hire briddes yit, as it is seene, Of Alceoun the name bere. Lo thus, mi Sone, it mai thee stere Of swevenes forto take kepe, For ofte time a man aslepe Mai se what after schal betide. Forthi it helpeth at som tyde A man to slepe, as it belongeth, Bot slowthe no lif underfongeth Which is to love appourtenant. Mi fader, upon covenant I dar wel make this avou, Of all mi lif that into nou, Als fer as I can understonde, Yit tok I nevere Slep on honde, Whan it was time forto wake; For thogh myn yhe it wolde take, Min herte is evere therayein. Bot natheles to speke it plein, Al this that I have seid you hiere Of my wakinge, as ye mai hiere, It toucheth to mi lady swete; For otherwise, I you behiete, In strange place whanne I go, Me list nothing to wake so. For whan the wommen listen pleie, And I hir se noght in the weie, Of whom I scholde merthe take, Me list noght longe forto wake, Bot if it be for pure schame, Of that I wolde eschuie a name, That thei ne scholde have cause non To seie, "Ha, lo, wher goth such on, That hath forlore his contenaunce]" And thus among I singe and daunce, And feigne lust ther as non is. For ofte sithe I fiele this; Of thoght, which in mi herte falleth Whanne it is nyht, myn hed appalleth, And that is for I se hire noght, Which is the wakere of mi thoght: And thus as tymliche as I may, Fulofte whanne it is brod day, I take of all these othre leve And go my weie, and thei beleve, That sen per cas here loves there; And I go forth as noght ne were Unto mi bedd, so that al one I mai ther ligge and sighe and grone And wisshen al the longe nyht, Til that I se the daies lyht. I not if that be Sompnolence, Bot upon youre conscience, Min holi fader, demeth ye. My Sone, I am wel paid with thee, Of Slep that thou the Sluggardie Be nyhte in loves compaignie Eschuied hast, and do thi peine So that thi love thar noght pleine: For love upon his lust wakende Is evere, and wolde that non ende Were of the longe nyhtes set. Wherof that thou be war the bet, To telle a tale I am bethoght, Hou love and Slep acorden noght. For love who that list to wake Be nyhte, he mai ensample take Of Cephalus, whan that he lay With Aurora that swete may In armes all the longe nyht. Bot whanne it drogh toward the liht, That he withinne his herte sih The dai which was amorwe nyh, Anon unto the Sonne he preide For lust of love, and thus he seide: "O Phebus, which the daies liht Governest, til that it be nyht, And gladest every creature After the lawe of thi nature,- Bot natheles ther is a thing, Which onli to the knouleching Belongeth as in privete To love and to his duete, Which asketh noght to ben apert, Bot in cilence and in covert Desireth forto be beschaded: And thus whan that thi liht is faded And Vesper scheweth him alofte, And that the nyht is long and softe, Under the cloudes derke and stille Thanne hath this thing most of his wille. Forthi unto thi myhtes hyhe, As thou which art the daies yhe, Of love and myht no conseil hyde, Upon this derke nyhtes tyde With al myn herte I thee beseche That I plesance myhte seche With hire which lith in min armes. Withdrawgh the Banere of thin Armes, And let thi lyhtes ben unborn, And in the Signe of Capricorn, The hous appropred to Satorne, I preie that thou wolt sojorne, Wher ben the nihtes derke and longe: For I mi love have underfonge, Which lith hier be mi syde naked, As sche which wolde ben awaked, And me lest nothing forto slepe. So were it good to take kepe Nou at this nede of mi preiere, And that the like forto stiere Thi fyri Carte, and so ordeigne, That thou thi swifte hors restreigne Lowe under Erthe in Occident, That thei towardes Orient Be Cercle go the longe weie. And ek to thee, Diane, I preie, Which cleped art of thi noblesse The nyhtes Mone and the goddesse, That thou to me be gracious: And in Cancro thin oghne hous Ayein Phebus in opposit Stond al this time, and of delit Behold Venus with a glad yhe. For thanne upon Astronomie Of due constellacion Thou makst prolificacion, And dost that children ben begete: Which grace if that I mihte gete, With al myn herte I wolde serve Be nyhte, and thi vigile observe." Lo, thus this lusti Cephalus Preide unto Phebe and to Phebus The nyht in lengthe forto drawe, So that he mihte do the lawe In thilke point of loves heste, Which cleped is the nyhtes feste, Withoute Slep of sluggardie; Which Venus out of compaignie Hath put awey, as thilke same, Which lustles ferr from alle game In chambre doth fulofte wo Abedde, whanne it falleth so That love scholde ben awaited. But Slowthe, which is evele affaited, With Slep hath mad his retenue, That what thing is to love due, Of all his dette he paieth non: He wot noght how the nyht is gon Ne hou the day is come aboute, Bot onli forto slepe and route Til hyh midday, that he arise. Bot Cephalus dede otherwise, As thou, my Sone, hast herd above. Mi fader, who that hath his love Abedde naked be his syde, And wolde thanne hise yhen hyde With Slep, I not what man is he: Bot certes as touchende of me, That fell me nevere yit er this. Bot otherwhile, whan so is That I mai cacche Slep on honde Liggende al one, thanne I fonde To dreme a merie swevene er day; And if so falle that I may Mi thought with such a swevene plese, Me thenkth I am somdiel in ese, For I non other confort have. So nedeth noght that I schal crave The Sonnes Carte forto tarie, Ne yit the Mone, that sche carie Hire cours along upon the hevene, For I am noght the more in evene Towardes love in no degree: Bot in mi slep yit thanne I se Somwhat in swevene of that me liketh, Which afterward min herte entriketh, Whan that I finde it otherwise. So wot I noght of what servise That Slep to mannes ese doth. Mi Sone, certes thou seist soth, Bot only that it helpeth kinde Somtyme, in Phisique as I finde, Whan it is take be mesure: Bot he which can no Slep mesure Upon the reule as it belongeth, Fulofte of sodein chance he fongeth Such infortune that him grieveth. Bot who these olde bokes lieveth, Of Sompnolence hou it is write, Ther may a man the sothe wite, If that he wolde ensample take, That otherwhile is good to wake: Wherof a tale in Poesie I thenke forto specefie. Ovide telleth in his sawes, How Jupiter be olde dawes Lay be a Mayde, which Yo Was cleped, wherof that Juno His wif was wroth, and the goddesse Of Yo torneth the liknesse Into a cow, to gon theroute The large fieldes al aboute And gete hire mete upon the griene. And therupon this hyhe queene Betok hire Argus forto kepe, For he was selden wont to slepe, And yit he hadde an hundred yhen, And alle alyche wel thei syhen. Now herkne hou that he was beguiled. Mercurie, which was al affiled This Cow to stele, he cam desguised, And hadde a Pipe wel devised Upon the notes of Musiqe, Wherof he mihte hise Eres like. And over that he hadde affaited Hise lusti tales, and awaited His time; and thus into the field He cam, where Argus he behield With Yo, which beside him wente. With that his Pype on honde he hente, And gan to pipe in his manere Thing which was slepi forto hiere; And in his pipinge evere among He tolde him such a lusti song, That he the fol hath broght aslepe. Ther was non yhe mihte kepe His hed, the which Mercurie of smot, And forth withal anon fot hot He stal the Cow which Argus kepte, And al this fell for that he slepte. Ensample it was to manye mo, That mochel Slep doth ofte wo, Whan it is time forto wake: For if a man this vice take, In Sompnolence and him delite, Men scholde upon his Dore wryte His epitaphe, as on his grave; For he to spille and noght to save Is schape, as thogh he were ded. Forthi, mi Sone, hold up thin hed, And let no Slep thin yhe englue, Bot whanne it is to resoun due. Mi fader, as touchende of this, Riht so as I you tolde it is, That ofte abedde, whanne I scholde, I mai noght slepe, thogh I wolde; For love is evere faste byme, Which takth no hiede of due time. For whanne I schal myn yhen close, Anon min herte he wole oppose And holde his Scole in such a wise, Til it be day that I arise, That selde it is whan that I slepe. And thus fro Sompnolence I kepe Min yhe: and forthi if ther be Oght elles more in this degre, Now axeth forth. Mi Sone, yis: For Slowthe, which as Moder is The forthdrawere and the Norrice To man of many a dredful vice, Hath yit an other laste of alle, Which many a man hath mad to falle, Wher that he mihte nevere arise; Wherof for thou thee schalt avise, Er thou so with thiself misfare, What vice it is I wol declare. Whan Slowthe hath don al that he may To dryve forth the longe day, Til it be come to the nede, Thanne ate laste upon the dede He loketh hou his time is lore, And is so wo begon therfore, That he withinne his thoght conceiveth Tristesce, and so himself deceiveth, That he wanhope bringeth inne, Wher is no confort to beginne, Bot every joie him is deslaied: So that withinne his herte affraied A thousend time with o breth Wepende he wissheth after deth, Whan he fortune fint adverse. For thanne he wole his hap reherce, As thogh his world were al forlore, And seith, "Helas, that I was bore] Hou schal I live? hou schal I do? For nou fortune is thus mi fo, I wot wel god me wol noght helpe. What scholde I thanne of joies yelpe, Whan ther no bote is of mi care? So overcast is my welfare, That I am schapen al to strif. Helas, that I nere of this lif, Er I be fulliche overtake]" And thus he wol his sorwe make, As god him mihte noght availe: Bot yit ne wol he noght travaile To helpe himself at such a nede, Bot slowtheth under such a drede, Which is affermed in his herte, Riht as he mihte noght asterte The worldes wo which he is inne. Also whan he is falle in Sinne, Him thenkth he is so ferr coupable, That god wol noght be merciable So gret a Sinne to foryive; And thus he leeveth to be schrive. And if a man in thilke throwe Wolde him consaile, he wol noght knowe The sothe, thogh a man it finde: For Tristesce is of such a kinde, That forto meintiene his folie, He hath with him Obstinacie, Which is withinne of such a Slouthe, That he forsaketh alle trouthe, And wole unto no reson bowe; And yit ne can he noght avowe His oghne skile bot of hed: Thus dwyneth he, til he be ded, In hindringe of his oghne astat. For where a man is obstinat, Wanhope folweth ate laste, Which mai noght after longe laste, Till Slouthe make of him an ende. Bot god wot whider he schal wende. Mi Sone, and riht in such manere Ther be lovers of hevy chiere, That sorwen mor than it is ned, Whan thei be taried of here sped And conne noght hemselven rede, Bot lesen hope forto spede And stinten love to poursewe; And thus thei faden hyde and hewe, And lustles in here hertes waxe. Hierof it is that I wolde axe, If thou, mi Sone, art on of tho. Ha, goode fader, it is so, Outake a point, I am beknowe; For elles I am overthrowe In al that evere ye have seid. Mi sorwe is everemore unteid, And secheth overal my veines; Bot forto conseile of mi peines, I can no bote do therto; And thus withouten hope I go, So that mi wittes ben empeired, And I, as who seith, am despeired To winne love of thilke swete, Withoute whom, I you behiete, Min herte, that is so bestad, Riht inly nevere mai be glad. For be my trouthe I schal noght lie, Of pure sorwe, which I drye For that sche seith sche wol me noght, With drecchinge of myn oghne thoght In such a wanhope I am falle, That I ne can unethes calle, As forto speke of eny grace, Mi ladi merci to pourchace. Bot yit I seie noght for this That al in mi defalte it is; For I cam nevere yit in stede, Whan time was, that I my bede Ne seide, and as I dorste tolde: Bot nevere fond I that sche wolde, For oght sche knew of min entente, To speke a goodly word assente. And natheles this dar I seie, That if a sinful wolde preie To god of his foryivenesse With half so gret a besinesse As I have do to my ladi, In lacke of askinge of merci He scholde nevere come in Helle. And thus I mai you sothli telle, Save only that I crie and bidde, I am in Tristesce al amidde And fulfild of Desesperance: And therof yif me mi penance, Min holi fader, as you liketh. Mi Sone, of that thin herte siketh With sorwe, miht thou noght amende, Til love his grace wol thee sende, For thou thin oghne cause empeirest What time as thou thiself despeirest. I not what other thing availeth, Of hope whan the herte faileth, For such a Sor is incurable, And ek the goddes ben vengable: And that a man mai riht wel frede, These olde bokes who so rede, Of thing which hath befalle er this: Now hier of what ensample it is. Whilom be olde daies fer Of Mese was the king Theucer, Which hadde a kniht to Sone, Iphis: Of love and he so maistred is, That he hath set al his corage, As to reguard of his lignage, Upon a Maide of lou astat. Bot thogh he were a potestat Of worldes good, he was soubgit To love, and put in such a plit, That he excedeth the mesure Of reson, that himself assure He can noght; for the more he preide, The lass love on him sche leide. He was with love unwys constreigned, And sche with resoun was restreigned: The lustes of his herte he suieth, And sche for dred schame eschuieth, And as sche scholde, tok good hiede To save and kepe hir wommanhiede. And thus the thing stod in debat Betwen his lust and hire astat: He yaf, he sende, he spak be mouthe, Bot yit for oght that evere he couthe Unto his sped he fond no weie, So that he caste his hope aweie, Withinne his herte and gan despeire Fro dai to dai, and so empeire, That he hath lost al his delit Of lust, of Slep, of Appetit, That he thurgh strengthe of love lasseth His wit, and resoun overpasseth. As he which of his lif ne rowhte, His deth upon himself he sowhte, So that be nyhte his weie he nam, Ther wiste non wher he becam; The nyht was derk, ther schon no Mone, Tofore the gates he cam sone, Wher that this yonge Maiden was And with this wofull word, "Helas!" Hise dedli pleintes he began So stille that ther was noman It herde, and thanne he seide thus: "O thou Cupide, o thou Venus, Fortuned be whos ordinaunce Of love is every mannes chaunce, Ye knowen al min hole herte, That I ne mai your hond asterte; On you is evere that I crie, And yit you deigneth noght to plie, Ne toward me youre Ere encline. Thus for I se no medicine To make an ende of mi querele, My deth schal be in stede of hele. Ha, thou mi wofull ladi diere, Which duellest with thi fader hiere And slepest in thi bedd at ese, Thou wost nothing of my desese. Hou thou and I be now unmete. Ha lord, what swevene schalt thou mete, What dremes hast thou nou on honde? Thou slepest there, and I hier stonde. Thogh I no deth to the deserve, Hier schal I for thi love sterve, Hier schal a kinges Sone dye For love and for no felonie; Wher thou therof have joie or sorwe, Hier schalt thou se me ded tomorwe. O herte hard aboven alle, This deth, which schal to me befalle For that thou wolt noght do me grace, Yit schal be told in many a place, Hou I am ded for love and trouthe In thi defalte and in thi slouthe: Thi Daunger schal to manye mo Ensample be for everemo, Whan thei my wofull deth recorde." And with that word he tok a Corde, With which upon the gate tre He hyng himself, that was pite. The morwe cam, the nyht is gon, Men comen out and syhe anon Wher that this yonge lord was ded: Ther was an hous withoute red, For noman knew the cause why; Ther was wepinge and ther was cry. This Maiden, whan that sche it herde, And sih this thing hou it misferde, Anon sche wiste what it mente, And al the cause hou it wente To al the world sche tolde it oute, And preith to hem that were aboute To take of hire the vengance, For sche was cause of thilke chaunce, Why that this kinges Sone is split. Sche takth upon hirself the gilt, And is al redi to the peine Which eny man hir wole ordeigne: And bot if eny other wolde, Sche seith that sche hirselve scholde Do wreche with hire oghne hond, Thurghout the world in every lond That every lif therof schal speke, Hou sche hirself i scholde wreke. Sche wepth, sche crith, sche swouneth ofte, Sche caste hire yhen up alofte And seide among ful pitously: "A godd, thou wost wel it am I, For whom Iphis is thus besein: Ordeine so, that men mai sein A thousend wynter after this, Hou such a Maiden dede amis, And as I dede, do to me: For I ne dede no pite To him, which for mi love is lore, Do no pite to me therfore." And with this word sche fell to grounde Aswoune, and ther sche lay a stounde. The goddes, whiche hir pleigntes herde And syhe hou wofully sche ferde, Hire lif thei toke awey anon, And schopen hire into a Ston After the forme of hire ymage Of bodi bothe and of visage. And for the merveile of this thing Unto the place cam the king And ek the queene and manye mo; And whan thei wisten it was so, As I have told it heir above, Hou that Iphis was ded for love, Of that he hadde be refused, Thei hielden alle men excused And wondren upon the vengance. And forto kepe in remembrance, This faire ymage mayden liche With compaignie noble and riche With torche and gret sollempnite. To Salamyne the Cite Thei lede, and carie forth withal The dede corps, and sein it schal Beside thilke ymage have His sepulture and be begrave: This corps and this ymage thus Into the Cite to Venus, Wher that goddesse hire temple hadde, Togedre bothe tuo thei ladde. This ilke ymage as for miracle Was set upon an hyh pinacle, That alle men it mihte knowe, And under tht thei maden lowe A tumbe riche for the nones Of marbre and ek of jaspre stones, Wherin this Iphis was beloken, That evermor it schal be spoken. And for men schal the sothe wite, Thei have here epitaphe write, As thing which scholde abide stable: The lettres graven in a table Of marbre were and seiden this: "Hier lith, which slowh himself, Iphis, For love of Araxarathen: And in ensample of tho wommen, That soffren men to deie so, Hire forme a man mai sen also, Hou it is torned fleissh and bon Into the figure of a Ston: He was to neysshe and sche to hard. Be war forthi hierafterward; Ye men and wommen bothe tuo, Ensampleth you of that was tho: Lo thus, mi Sone, as I thee seie, It grieveth be diverse weie In desepeir a man to falle, Which is the laste branche of alle Of Slouthe, as thou hast herd devise. Wherof that thou thiself avise Good is, er that thou be deceived, Wher that the grace of hope is weyved. Mi fader, hou so that it stonde, Now have I pleinly understonde Of Slouthes court the proprete, Wherof touchende in my degre For evere I thenke to be war. Bot overthis, so as I dar, With al min herte I you beseche, That ye me wolde enforme and teche What ther is more of youre aprise In love als wel as otherwise, So that I mai me clene schryve. Mi Sone, whyl thou art alyve And hast also thi fulle mynde, Among the vices whiche I finde Ther is yit on such of the sevene, Which al this world hath set unevene And causeth manye thinges wronge, Where he the cause hath underfonge: Wherof hierafter thou schalt hiere The forme bothe and the matiere. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONFESSIO AMANTIS: BOOK 1, PART 2 by JOHN GOWER CONFESSIO AMANTIS: BOOK 1, PART 3 by JOHN GOWER CONFESSIO AMANTIS: BOOK 2, PART 1 by JOHN GOWER CONFESSIO AMANTIS: BOOK 2, PART 2 by JOHN GOWER CONFESSIO AMANTIS: BOOK 2, PART 3 by JOHN GOWER CONFESSIO AMANTIS: BOOK 3, PART 1 by JOHN GOWER CONFESSIO AMANTIS: BOOK 3, PART 2 by JOHN GOWER CONFESSIO AMANTIS: BOOK 3, PART 3 by JOHN GOWER CONFESSIO AMANTIS: BOOK 4, PART 1 by JOHN GOWER CONFESSIO AMANTIS: BOOK 5, PART 1 by JOHN GOWER |
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