Chaucer's Works, Volume 1 — Romaunt of the Rose; Minor Poems

Allas, in wanhope?—nay, pardee!

For I wol never dispeired be.

If Hope me faile, than am I

Ungracious and unworthy;

In Hope I wol comforted be,

For Love, whan he bitaught hir me,

Seide, that Hope, wher-so I go,

Shulde ay be relees to my wo.

But what and she my balis bete,

And be to me curteis and swete?

She is in no-thing ful certeyn.

Lovers she put in ful gret peyn,

And makith hem with wo to dele.

Hir fair biheest disceyveth fele,

For she wol bihote, sikirly,

And failen aftir outrely.

A! that is a ful noyous thing!

For many a lover, in loving,

Hangeth upon hir, and trusteth fast,

Whiche lese hir travel at the last.

Of thing to comen she woot right nought;

Therfore, if it be wysly sought,

Hir counseille, foly is to take.

For many tymes, whan she wol make

A ful good silogisme, I drede

That aftirward ther shal in dede

Folwe an evel conclusioun;

This put me in confusioun.

For many tymes I have it seen,

That many have bigyled been,

For trust that they have set in Hope,

Which fel hem aftirward a-slope.

But natheles yit, gladly she wolde,

That he, that wol him with hir holde,

Hadde alle tymes [his] purpos clere,

Withoute deceyte, or any were.

That she desireth sikirly;

Whan I hir blamed, I did foly.

But what avayleth hir good wille,

Whan she ne may staunche my stounde ille?

That helpith litel, that she may do,

Outake biheest unto my wo.

And heeste certeyn, in no wyse,

Withoute yift, is not to pryse.

Whan heest and deed a-sundir varie,

They doon [me have] a gret contrarie.

Thus am I possed up and doun

With dool, thought, and confusioun;

Of my disese ther is no noumbre.

Daunger and Shame me encumbre,

Drede also, and Ielousye,

And Wikked-Tunge, ful of envye,

Of whiche the sharpe and cruel ire

Ful oft me put in gret martire.

They han my Ioye fully let,

Sith Bialacoil they have bishet

Fro me in prisoun wikkidly,

Whom I love so entierly,

That it wol my bane be,

But I the soner may him see.

And yit moreover, wurst of alle,

Ther is set to kepe, foule hir bifalle!

A rimpled vekke, fer ronne in age,

Frowning and yelowe in hir visage,

Which in awayte lyth day and night,

That noon of hem may have a sight.

Now moot my sorwe enforced be;

Ful soth it is, that Love yaf me

Three wonder yiftes of his grace,

Which I have lorn now in this place,

Sith they ne may, withoute drede

Helpen but litel, who taketh hede.

For here availeth no Swete-Thought,

And Swete-Speche helpith right nought.

The thridde was called Swete-Loking,

That now is lorn, without lesing.

[The] yiftes were fair, but not forthy

They helpe me but simply,

But Bialacoil [may] loosed be,

To gon at large and to be free.

For him my lyf lyth al in dout,

But-if he come the rather out.

Allas! I trowe it wol not been!

For how shuld I evermore him seen?

He may not out, and that is wrong,

Bicause the tour is so strong.

How shulde he out? by whos prowesse,

Out of so strong a forteresse?

By me, certeyn, it nil be do;

God woot, I have no wit therto!

But wel I woot I was in rage,

Whan I to Love dide homage.

Who was in cause, in sothfastnesse,

But hir-silf, dame Idelnesse,

Which me conveyed, thurgh fair prayere,

To entre into that fair vergere?

She was to blame me to leve,

The which now doth me sore greve.

A foolis word is nought to trowe,

Ne worth an appel for to lowe;

Men shulde him snibbe bittirly,

At pryme temps of his foly.

I was a fool, and she me leved,

Thurgh whom I am right nought releved.

She accomplisshed al my wil,

That now me greveth wondir il.

Resoun me seide what shulde falle.

A fool my-silf I may wel calle,

That love asyde I had not leyde,

And trowed that dame Resoun seyde.

Resoun had bothe skile and right.

Whan she me blamed, with al hir might,

To medle of love, that hath me shent;

But certeyn now I wol repent.

'And shulde I repent? Nay, parde!

A fals traitour than shulde I be.

The develles engins wolde me take,

If I my [lorde] wolde forsake,

Or Bialacoil falsly bitraye.

Shulde I at mischeef hate him? nay,

Sith he now, for his curtesye,

Is in prisoun of Ielousye.

Curtesye certeyn dide he me,

So muche, it may not yolden be,

Whan he the hay passen me lete,

To kisse the rose, faire and swete;

Shulde I therfore cunne him maugree?

Nay, certeynly, it shal not be;

For Love shal never, [if god wil],

Here of me, thurgh word or wil,

Offence or complaynt, more or lesse,

Neither of Hope nor Idilnesse;

For certis, it were wrong that I

Hated hem for hir curtesye.

Ther is not ellis, but suffre and thinke,

And waken whan I shulde winke;

Abyde in hope, til Love, thurgh chaunce,

Sende me socour or allegeaunce,

Expectant ay til I may mete

To geten mercy of that swete.

'Whylom I thinke how Love to me

Seyde he wolde taken atte gree

My servise, if unpacience

Caused me to doon offence.

He seyde, "In thank I shal it take,

And high maister eek thee make,

If wikkednesse ne reve it thee;

But sone, I trowe, that shal not be."

These were his wordis by and by;

It semed he loved me trewly.

Now is ther not but serve him wele,

If that I thinke his thank to fele.

My good, myn harm, lyth hool in me;

In Love may no defaute be;

For trewe Love ne failid never man.

Sothly, the faute mot nedis than

(As God forbede!) be founde in me,

And how it cometh, I can not see.

Now lat it goon as it may go;

Whether Love wol socoure me or slo,

He may do hool on me his wil.

I am so sore bounde him til,

From his servyse I may not fleen;

For lyf and deth, withouten wene,

Is in his hand; I may not chese;

He may me do bothe winne and lese.

And sith so sore he doth me greve,

Yit, if my lust he wolde acheve

To Bialacoil goodly to be,

I yeve no force what felle on me.

For though I dye, as I mot nede,

I praye Love, of his goodlihede,

To Bialacoil do gentilnesse,

For whom I live in such distresse,

That I mote deyen for penaunce.

But first, withoute repentaunce,

I wol me confesse in good entent,

And make in haste my testament,

As lovers doon that felen smerte:—

To Bialacoil leve I myn herte

Al hool, withoute departing,

Or doublenesse of repenting.'

Coment Raisoun vient a L'amant.

Thus as I made my passage

In compleynt, and in cruel rage,

And I not wher to finde a leche

That couthe unto myn helping eche,

Sodeynly agayn comen doun

Out of hir tour I saugh Resoun,

Discrete and wys, and ful plesaunt,

And of hir porte ful avenaunt.

The righte wey she took to me,

Which stood in greet perplexite,

That was posshed in every side,

That I nist where I might abyde,

Til she, demurely sad of chere,

Seide to me as she com nere:—

'Myn owne freend, art thou yit greved?

How is this quarel yit acheved

Of Loves syde? Anoon me telle;

Hast thou not yit of love thy fille?

Art thou not wery of thy servyse

That thee hath [pyned] in sich wyse?

What Ioye hast thou in thy loving?

Is it swete or bitter thing?

Canst thou yit chese, lat me see,

What best thy socour mighte be?

'Thou servest a ful noble lord,

That maketh thee thral for thy reward,

Which ay renewith thy turment,

With foly so he hath thee blent.

Thou felle in mischeef thilke day,

Whan thou didest, the sothe to say,

Obeysaunce and eek homage;

Thou wroughtest no-thing as the sage.

Whan thou bicam his liege man,

Thou didist a gret foly than;

Thou wistest not what fel therto,

With what lord thou haddist to do.

If thou haddist him wel knowe,

Thou haddist nought be brought so lowe;

For if thou wistest what it were,

Thou noldist serve him half a yeer,

Not a weke, nor half a day,

Ne yit an hour withoute delay,

Ne never [han] loved paramours,

His lordship is so ful of shoures.

Knowest him ought?'

L'Amaunt. 'Ye, dame, parde!'

Raisoun. 'Nay, nay.'

L'Amaunt. 'Yes, I.'

Raisoun. 'Wherof, lat see?'

L'Amaunt. 'Of that he seyde I shulde be

Glad to have sich lord as he,

And maister of sich seignory.'

Raisoun. 'Knowist him no more?'

L'Amaunt. 'Nay, certis, I,

Save that he yaf me rewles there,

And wente his wey, I niste where,

And I abood bounde in balaunce.'

Raisoun. 'Lo, there a noble conisaunce!

But I wil that thou knowe him now

Ginning and ende, sith that thou

Art so anguisshous and mate,

Disfigured out of astate;

Ther may no wrecche have more of wo,

Ne caitif noon enduren so.

It were to every man sitting

Of his lord have knowleching.

For if thou knewe him, out of dout,

Lightly thou shulde escapen out

Of the prisoun that marreth thee.'

L'Amaunt. 'Ye, dame! sith my lord is he,

And I his man, maad with myn honde,

I wolde right fayn undirstonde

To knowen of what kinde he be,

If any wolde enferme me.'

Raisoun. 'I wolde,' seid Resoun, 'thee lere,

Sith thou to lerne hast sich desire,

And shewe thee, withouten fable,

A thing that is not demonstrable.

Thou shalt [here lerne] without science,

And knowe, withoute experience,

The thing that may not knowen be,

Ne wist ne shewid in no degree.

Thou mayst the sothe of it not witen,

Though in thee it were writen.

Thou shalt not knowe therof more

Whyle thou art reuled by his lore;

But unto him that love wol flee,

The knotte may unclosed be,

Which hath to thee, as it is founde,

So long be knet and not unbounde.

Now sette wel thyn entencioun,

To here of love discripcioun.

'Love, it is an hateful pees,

A free acquitaunce, without relees,

[A trouthe], fret full of falshede,

A sikernesse, al set in drede;

In herte is a dispeiring hope,

And fulle of hope, it is wanhope;

Wyse woodnesse, and wood resoun,

A swete peril, in to droune,

An hevy birthen, light to bere,

A wikked wawe awey to were.

It is Caribdis perilous,

Disagreable and gracious.

It is discordaunce that can accorde,

And accordaunce to discorde.

It is cunning withoute science,

Wisdom withoute sapience,

Wit withoute discrecioun,

Havoir, withoute possessioun.

It is sike hele and hool siknesse,

A thrust drowned [in] dronkenesse,

An helthe ful of maladye,

And charitee ful of envye,

An [hunger] ful of habundaunce,

And a gredy suffisaunce;

Delyt right ful of hevinesse,

And drerihed ful of gladnesse;

Bitter swetnesse and swete errour,

Right evel savoured good savour;

Sinne that pardoun hath withinne,

And pardoun spotted without [with] sinne;

A peyne also it is, Ioyous,

And felonye right pitous;

Also pley that selde is stable,

And stedefast [stat], right mevable;

A strengthe, weyked to stonde upright,

And feblenesse, ful of might;

Wit unavysed, sage folye,

And Ioye ful of turmentrye;

A laughter it is, weping ay,

Rest, that traveyleth night and day;

Also a swete helle it is,

And a sorowful Paradys;

A plesaunt gayl and esy prisoun,

And, ful of froste, somer sesoun;

Pryme temps, ful of frostes whyte,

And May, devoide of al delyte,

With seer braunches, blossoms ungrene;

And newe fruyt, fillid with winter tene.

It is a slowe, may not forbere

Ragges, ribaned with gold, to were;

For al-so wel wol love be set

Under ragges as riche rochet;

And eek as wel be amourettes

In mourning blak, as bright burnettes.

For noon is of so mochel prys,

Ne no man founden [is] so wys,

Ne noon so high is of parage,

Ne no man founde of wit so sage,

No man so hardy ne so wight,

Ne no man of so mochel might,

Noon so fulfilled of bounte,

[But] he with love may daunted be.

Al the world holdith this way;

Love makith alle to goon miswey,

But it be they of yvel lyf,

Whom Genius cursith, man and wyf,

That wrongly werke ageyn nature.

Noon suche I love, ne have no cure

Of suche as Loves servaunts been,

And wol not by my counsel fleen.

For I ne preyse that loving,

Wher-thurgh man, at the laste ending,

Shal calle hem wrecchis fulle of wo,

Love greveth hem and shendith so.

But if thou wolt wel Love eschewe,

For to escape out of his mewe,

And make al hool thy sorwe to slake,

No bettir counsel mayst thou take,

Than thinke to fleen wel, y-wis;

May nought helpe elles; for wite thou this:—

If thou flee it, it shal flee thee;

Folowe it, and folowen shal it thee.'

L'Amaunt. Whan I hadde herd al Resoun seyn,

Which hadde spilt hir speche in veyn:

Dame,' seyde I, 'I dar wel sey

Of this avaunt me wel I may

That from your scole so deviaunt

I am, that never the more avaunt

Right nought am I, thurgh your doctryne;

I dulle under your disciplyne;

I wot no more than [I] wist [er],

To me so contrarie and so fer

Is every thing that ye me lere;

And yit I can it al parcuere.

Myn herte foryetith therof right nought,

It is so writen in my thought;

And depe graven it is so tendir

That al by herte I can it rendre,

And rede it over comunely;

But to my-silf lewedist am I.

'But sith ye love discreven so,

And lakke and preise it, bothe two,

Defyneth it into this letter,

That I may thenke on it the better;

For I herde never [diffyne it ere],

And wilfully I wolde it lere.'

Raisoun. 'If love be serched wel and sought,

It is a sykenesse of the thought

Annexed and knet bitwixe tweyne,

[Which] male and female, with oo cheyne,

So frely byndith, that they nil twinne,

Whether so therof they lese or winne.

The roote springith, thurgh hoot brenning,

Into disordinat desiring

For to kissen and enbrace,

And at her lust them to solace.

Of other thing love recchith nought,

But setteth hir herte and al hir thought

More for delectacioun

Than any procreacioun

Of other fruyt by engendring;

Which love to god is not plesing;

For of hir body fruyt to get

They yeve no force, they are so set

Upon delyt, to pley in-fere.

And somme have also this manere,

To feynen hem for love seke;

Sich love I preise not at a leke.

For paramours they do but feyne;

To love truly they disdeyne.

They falsen ladies traitoursly,

And sweren hem othes utterly,

With many a lesing, and many a fable,

And al they finden deceyvable.

And, whan they her lust han geten,

The hoote ernes they al foryeten.

Wimmen, the harm they byen ful sore;

But men this thenken evermore,

That lasse harm is, so mote I thee,

Disceyve them, than disceyved be;

And namely, wher they ne may

Finde non other mene wey.

For I wot wel, in sothfastnesse,

That [who] doth now his bisynesse

With any womman for to dele,

For any lust that he may fele,

But-if it be for engendrure,

He doth trespasse, I you ensure.

For he shulde setten al his wil

To geten a likly thing him til,

And to sustene[n], if he might,

And kepe forth, by kindes right,

His owne lyknesse and semblable,

For bicause al is corumpable,

And faile shulde successioun,

Ne were ther generacioun

Our sectis strene for to save.

Whan fader or moder arn in grave,

Hir children shulde, whan they ben deede,

Ful diligent ben, in hir steede,

To use that werke on such a wyse,

That oon may thurgh another ryse.

Therfore set Kinde therin delyt,

For men therin shulde hem delyte,

And of that dede be not erke,

But ofte sythes haunt that werke.

For noon wolde drawe therof a draught

Ne were delyt, which hath him caught.

This hadde sotil dame Nature;

For noon goth right, I thee ensure,

Ne hath entent hool ne parfyt;

For hir desir is for delyt,

The which fortened crece and eke

The pley of love for-ofte seke,

And thralle hem-silf, they be so nyce,

Unto the prince of every vyce.

For of ech sinne it is the rote,

Unlefulle lust, though it be sote,

And of al yvel the racyne,

As Tullius can determyne,

Which in his tyme was ful sage,

In a boke he made of Age,

Wher that more he preyseth Elde,

Though he be croked and unwelde,

And more of commendacioun,

Than Youthe in his discripcioun.

For Youthe set bothe man and wyf

In al perel of soule and lyf;

And perel is, but men have grace,

The [tyme] of youthe for to pace,

Withoute any deth or distresse,

It is so ful of wildenesse;

So ofte it doth shame or damage

To him or to his linage.

It ledith man now up, now doun,

In mochel dissolucioun,

And makith him love yvel company,

And lede his lyf disrewlily,

And halt him payed with noon estate.

Within him-silf is such debate,

He chaungith purpos and entent,

And yalt [him] into som covent,

To liven aftir her empryse,

And lesith fredom and fraunchyse,

That Nature in him hadde set,

The which ageyn he may not get,

If he there make his mansioun

For to abyde professioun.

Though for a tyme his herte absente,

It may not fayle, he shal repente,

And eke abyde thilke day

To leve his abit, and goon his way,

And lesith his worship and his name,

And dar not come ageyn for shame;

But al his lyf he doth so mourne,

Bicause he dar not hoom retourne.

Fredom of kinde so lost hath he

That never may recured be,

But-if that god him graunte grace

That he may, er he hennes pace,

Conteyne undir obedience

Thurgh the vertu of pacience.

For Youthe set man in al folye,

In unthrift and in ribaudye,

In leccherye, and in outrage,

So ofte it chaungith of corage.

Youthe ginneth ofte sich bargeyn,

That may not ende withouten peyn.

In gret perel is set youth-hede,

Delyt so doth his bridil lede.

Delyt thus hangith, drede thee nought,

Bothe mannis body and his thought,

Only thurgh Youthe, his chamberere,

That to don yvel is customere,

And of nought elles taketh hede

But only folkes for to lede

Into disporte and wildenesse,

So is [she] froward from sadnesse.

'But Elde drawith hem therfro;

Who wot it nought, he may wel go

[Demand] of hem that now arn olde,

That whylom Youthe hadde in holde,

Which yit remembre of tendir age,

How it hem brought in many a rage,

And many a foly therin wrought.

But now that Elde hath hem thurghsought,

They repente hem of her folye,

That Youthe hem putte in Iupardye,

In perel and in muche wo,

And made hem ofte amis to do,

And suen yvel companye,

Riot and avouterye.

'But Elde [can] ageyn restreyne

From suche foly, and refreyne,

And set men, by hir ordinaunce,

In good reule and in governaunce.

But yvel she spendith hir servyse,

For no man wol hir love, ne pryse;

She is hated, this wot I wele.

Hir acqueyntaunce wolde no man fele,

Ne han of Elde companye,

Men hate to be of hir alye.

For no man wolde bicomen olde,

Ne dye, whan he is yong and bolde.

And Elde merveilith right gretly,

Whan they remembre hem inwardly

Of many a perelous empryse,

Whiche that they wrought in sondry wyse,

How ever they might, withoute blame,

Escape awey withoute shame,

In youthe, withoute[n] damage

Or repreef of her linage,

Losse of membre, sheding of blode,

Perel of deth, or losse of good.

'Wost thou nought where Youthe abit,

That men so preisen in her wit?

With Delyt she halt soiour,

For bothe they dwellen in oo tour.

As longe as Youthe is in sesoun,

They dwellen in oon mansioun.

Delyt of Youthe wol have servyse

To do what so he wol devyse;

And Youthe is redy evermore

For to obey, for smerte of sore,

Unto Delyt, and him to yive

Hir servise, whyl that she may live.

'Where Elde abit, I wol thee telle

Shortly, and no whyle dwelle,

For thider bihoveth thee to go.

If Deth in youthe thee not slo,

Of this journey thou maist not faile.

With hir Labour and Travaile

Logged been, with Sorwe and Wo,

That never out of hir courte go.

Peyne and Distresse, Syknesse and Ire,

And Malencoly, that angry sire,

Ben of hir paleys senatours;

Groning and Grucching, hir herbergeours,

The day and night, hir to turment,

With cruel Deth they hir present,

And tellen hir, erliche and late,

That Deth stant armed at hir gate.

Than bringe they to hir remembraunce

The foly dedis of hir infaunce,

Which causen hir to mourne in wo

That Youthe hath hir bigiled so,

Which sodeynly awey is hasted.

She wepeth the tyme that she hath wasted,

Compleyning of the preterit,

And the present, that not abit,

And of hir olde vanitee,

That, but aforn hir she may see

In the future som socour,

To leggen hir of hir dolour,

To graunt hir tyme of repentaunce,

For hir sinnes to do penaunce,

And at the laste so hir governe

To winne the Ioy that is eterne,

Fro which go bakward Youthe [hir] made,

In vanitee to droune and wade.

For present tyme abidith nought,

It is more swift than any thought;

So litel whyle it doth endure

That ther nis compte ne mesure.

'But how that ever the game go,

Who list [have] Ioye and mirth also

Of love, be it he or she,

High or lowe, who[so] it be,

In fruyt they shulde hem delyte;

Her part they may not elles quyte,

To save hem-silf in honestee.

And yit ful many oon I see

Of wimmen, sothly for to seyne,

That [ay] desire and wolde fayne

The pley of love, they be so wilde,

And not coveite to go with childe.

And if with child they be perchaunce,

They wole it holde a gret mischaunce;

But what-som-ever wo they fele,

They wol not pleyne, but concele;

But-if it be any fool or nyce,

In whom that shame hath no Iustyce.

For to delyt echon they drawe,

That haunte this werk, bothe high and lawe,

Save sich that ar[e]n worth right nought,

That for money wol be bought.

Such love I preise in no wyse,

Whan it is given for coveitise.

I preise no womman, though [she] be wood,

That yeveth hir-silf for any good.

For litel shulde a man telle

Of hir, that wol hir body selle,

Be she mayde, be she wyf,

That quik wol selle hir, by hir lyf.

How faire chere that ever she make,

He is a wrecche, I undirtake,

That loveth such one, for swete or sour,

Though she him calle hir paramour,

And laugheth on him, and makith him feeste.

For certeynly no suche [a] beeste

To be loved is not worthy,

Or bere the name of druery.

Noon shulde hir please, but he were wood,

That wol dispoile him of his good.

Yit nevertheles, I wol not sey

[But] she, for solace and for pley,

May a Iewel or other thing

Take of her loves free yeving;

But that she aske it in no wyse,

For drede of shame of coveityse.

And she of hirs may him, certeyn,

Withoute sclaundre, yeven ageyn,

And ioyne her hertes togidre so

In love, and take and yeve also.

Trowe not that I wolde hem twinne,

Whan in her love ther is no sinne;

I wol that they togedre go,

And doon al that they han ado,

As curteis shulde and debonaire,

And in her love beren hem faire,

Withoute vyce, bothe he and she;

So that alwey, in honestee,

Fro foly love [they] kepe hem clere

That brenneth hertis with his fere;

And that her love, in any wyse,

Be devoid of coveityse.

Good love shulde engendrid be

Of trewe herte, iust, and secree,

And not of such as sette her thought

To have her lust, and ellis nought,

So are they caught in Loves lace,

Truly, for bodily solace.

Fleshly delyt is so present

With thee, that sette al thyn entent,

Withoute more (what shulde I glose?)

For to gete and have the Rose;

Which makith thee so mate and wood

That thou desirest noon other good.

But thou art not an inche the nerre,

But ever abydest in sorwe and werre,

As in thy face it is sene;

It makith thee bothe pale and lene;

Thy might, thy vertu goth away.

A sory gest, in goode fay,

Thou [herberedest than] in thyn inne,

The God of Love whan thou let inne!

Wherfore I rede, thou shette him out,

Or he shal greve thee, out of doute;

For to thy profit it wol turne,

If he nomore with thee soiourne.

In gret mischeef and sorwe sonken

Ben hertis, that of love arn dronken,

As thou peraventure knowen shal,

Whan thou hast lost [thy] tyme al,

And spent [thy youthe] in ydilnesse,

In waste, and woful lustinesse;

If thou maist live the tyme to see

Of love for to delivered be,

Thy tyme thou shall biwepe sore

The whiche never thou maist restore.

(For tyme lost, as men may see,

For no-thing may recured be).

And if thou scape yit, atte laste,

Fro Love, that hath thee so faste

Knit and bounden in his lace,

Certeyn, I holde it but a grace.

For many oon, as it is seyn,

Have lost, and spent also in veyn,

In his servyse, withoute socour,

Body and soule, good, and tresour,

Wit, and strengthe, and eek richesse,

Of which they hadde never redresse.'

Thus taught and preched hath Resoun,

But Love spilte hir sermoun,

That was so imped in my thought,

That hir doctrine I sette at nought.

And yit ne seide she never a dele,

That I ne understode it wele,

Word by word, the mater al.

But unto Love I was so thral,

Which callith over-al his pray,

He chasith so my thought [alway],

And holdith myn herte undir his sele,

As trust and trew as any stele;

So that no devocioun

Ne hadde I in the sermoun

Of dame Resoun, ne of hir rede;

It toke no soiour in myn hede.

For alle yede out at oon ere

That in that other she dide lere;

Fully on me she lost hir lore,

Hir speche me greved wondir sore.

[Than] unto hir for ire I seide,

For anger, as I dide abraide:

Dame, and is it your wille algate,

That I not love, but that I hate

Alle men, as ye me teche?

For if I do aftir your speche,

Sith that ye seyn love is not good,

Than must I nedis say with mood,

If I it leve, in hatrede ay

Liven, and voide love away

From me, [and been] a sinful wrecche,

Hated of all that [love that] tecche.

I may not go noon other gate,

For either must I love or hate.

And if I hate men of-newe

More than love, it wol me rewe,

As by your preching semeth me,

For Love no-thing ne preisith thee.

Ye yeve good counseil, sikirly,

That prechith me al-day, that I

Shulde not Loves lore alowe;

He were a fool, wolde you not trowe!

In speche also ye han me taught

Another love, that knowen is naught,

Which I have herd you not repreve,

To love ech other; by your leve,

If ye wolde diffyne it me,

I wolde gladly here, to see,

At the leest, if I may lere

Of sondry loves the manere.'

Raison. 'Certis, freend, a fool art thou

Whan that thou no-thing wolt allowe

That I [thee] for thy profit say.

Yit wol I sey thee more, in fay;

For I am redy, at the leste,

To accomplisshe thy requeste,

But I not wher it wol avayle;

In veyne, perauntre, I shal travayle.

Love ther is in sondry wyse,

As I shal thee here devyse.

For som love leful is and good;

I mene not that which makith thee wood,

And bringith thee in many a fit,

And ravisshith fro thee al thy wit,

It is so merveilous and queynt;

With such love be no more aqueynt.

Comment Raisoun diffinist Amistie.

'Love of Frendshipe also ther is,

Which makith no man doon amis,

Of wille knit bitwixe two,

That wol not breke for wele ne wo;

Which long is lykly to contune,

Whan wille and goodis ben in comune;

Grounded by goddis ordinaunce,

Hool, withoute discordaunce;

With hem holding comuntee

Of al her goode in charitee,

That ther be noon excepcioun

Thurgh chaunging of entencioun;

That ech helpe other at hir neede,

And wysly hele bothe word and dede;

Trewe of mening, devoid of slouthe,

For wit is nought withoute trouthe;

So that the ton dar al his thought

Seyn to his freend, and spare nought,

As to him-silf, without dreding

To be discovered by wreying.

For glad is that coniunccioun,

Whan ther is noon suspecioun

[Ne lak in hem], whom they wolde prove

That trew and parfit weren in love.

For no man may be amiable,

But-if he be so ferme and stable,

That fortune chaunge him not, ne blinde,

But that his freend alwey him finde,

Bothe pore and riche, in oon [e]state.

For if his freend, thurgh any gate,

Wol compleyne of his povertee,

He shulde not byde so long, til he

Of his helping him requere;

For good deed, done [but] thurgh prayere,

Is sold, and bought to dere, y-wis,

To hert that of gret valour is.

For hert fulfilled of gentilnesse

Can yvel demene his distresse.

And man that worthy is of name

To asken often hath gret shame.

A good man brenneth in his thought

For shame, whan he axeth ought.

He hath gret thought, and dredith ay

For his disese, whan he shal pray

His freend, lest that he warned be,

Til that he preve his stabiltee.

But whan that he hath founden oon

That trusty is and trew as stone,

And [hath] assayed him at al,

And found him stedefast as a wal,

And of his freendship be certeyne,

He shal him shewe bothe Ioye and peyne,

And al that [he] dar thinke or sey,

Withoute shame, as he wel may.

For how shulde he ashamed be

Of sich oon as I tolde thee?

For whan he woot his secree thought,

The thridde shal knowe ther-of right nought;

For tweyn in nombre is bet than three

In every counsel and secree.

Repreve he dredeth never a del,

Who that biset his wordis wel;

For every wys man, out of drede,

Can kepe his tunge til he see nede;

And fooles can not holde hir tunge;

A fooles belle is sone runge.

Yit shal a trewe freend do more

To helpe his felowe of his sore,

And socoure him, whan he hath nede,

In al that he may doon in dede;

And gladder [be] that he him plesith

Than [is] his felowe that he esith.

And if he do not his requeste,

He shal as mochel him moleste

As his felow, for that he

May not fulfille his voluntee

[As] fully as he hath requered.

If bothe the hertis Love hath fered,

Joy and wo they shul depart,

And take evenly ech his part.

Half his anoy he shal have ay,

And comfort [him] what that he may;

And of his blisse parte shal he,

If love wol departed be.

'And whilom of this [amitee]

Spak Tullius in a ditee;

["A man] shulde maken his request

Unto his freend, that is honest;

And he goodly shulde it fulfille,

But it the more were out of skile,

And otherwise not graunt therto,

Except only in [cases] two:

If men his freend to deth wolde dryve,

Lat him be bisy to save his lyve.

Also if men wolen him assayle,

Of his wurship to make him faile,

And hindren him of his renoun,

Lat him, with ful entencioun,

His dever doon in ech degree

That his freend ne shamed be,

In this two [cases] with his might,

Taking no kepe to skile nor right,

As ferre as love may him excuse;

This oughte no man to refuse."

This love that I have told to thee

Is no-thing contrarie to me;

This wol I that thou folowe wel,

And leve the tother everydel.

This love to vertu al attendith,

The tothir fooles blent and shendith.

'Another love also there is,

That is contrarie unto this,

Which desyre is so constreyned

That [it] is but wille feyned;

Awey fro trouthe it doth so varie,

That to good love it is contrarie;

For it maymeth, in many wyse,

Syke hertis with coveityse;

Al in winning and in profyt

Sich love settith his delyt.

This love so hangeth in balaunce

That, if it lese his hope, perchaunce,

Of lucre, that he is set upon,

It wol faile, and quenche anon;

For no man may be amorous,

Ne in his living vertuous,

But-[if] he love more, in mood,

Men for hem-silf than for hir good.

For love that profit doth abyde

Is fals, and bit not in no tyde.

[This] love cometh of dame Fortune,

That litel whyle wol contune;

For it shal chaungen wonder sone,

And take eclips right as the mone,

Whan she is from us [y]-let

Thurgh erthe, that bitwixe is set

The sonne and hir, as it may falle,

Be it in party, or in alle;

The shadowe maketh her bemis merke,

And hir hornes to shewe derke,

That part where she hath lost hir lyght

Of Phebus fully, and the sight;

Til, whan the shadowe is overpast,

She is enlumined ageyn as faste,

Thurgh brightnesse of the sonne bemes

That yeveth to hir ageyn hir lemes.

That love is right of sich nature;

Now is [it] fair, and now obscure.

Now bright, now clipsy of manere,

And whylom dim, and whylom clere.

As sone as Poverte ginneth take,

With mantel and [with] wedis blake

[It] hidith of Love the light awey,

That into night it turneth day;

It may not see Richesse shyne

Til the blakke shadowes fyne.

For, whan Richesse shyneth bright,

Love recovereth ageyn his light;

And whan it failith, he wol flit,

And as she [groweth, so groweth] it.

'Of this love, here what I sey:—

The riche men are loved ay,

And namely tho that sparand bene,

That wol not wasshe hir hertes clene

Of the filthe, nor of the vyce

Of gredy brenning avaryce.

The riche man ful fond is, y-wis,

That weneth that he loved is.

If that his herte it undirstood,

It is not he, it is his good;

He may wel witen in his thought,

His good is loved, and he right nought.

For if he be a nigard eke,

Men wole not sette by him a leke,

But haten him; this is the soth.

Lo, what profit his catel doth!

Of every man that may him see,

It geteth him nought but enmitee.

But he amende him of that vyce,

And knowe him-silf, he is not wys.

'Certis, he shulde ay freendly be,

To gete him love also ben free,

Or ellis he is not wyse ne sage

No more than is a gote ramage.

That he not loveth, his dede proveth,

Whan he his richesse so wel loveth,

That he wol hyde it ay and spare,

His pore freendis seen forfare;

To kepe [it ay is] his purpose,

Til for drede his eyen close,

And til a wikked deth him take;

Him hadde lever asondre shake,

And late his limes a sondre ryve,

Than leve his richesse in his lyve.

He thenkith parte it with no man;

Certayn, no love is in him than.

How shulde love within him be,

Whan in his herte is no pite?

That he trespasseth, wel I wat,

For ech man knowith his estat;

For wel him oughte be reproved

That loveth nought, ne is not loved.

'But sith we arn to Fortune comen,

And [han] our sermoun of hir nomen,

A wondir wil I telle thee now,

Thou herdist never sich oon, I trow.

I not wher thou me leven shal,

Though sothfastnesse it be [in] al,

As it is writen, and is sooth,

That unto men more profit doth

The froward Fortune and contraire,

Than the swote and debonaire:

And if thee thinke it is doutable,

It is thurgh argument provable.

For the debonaire and softe

Falsith and bigylith ofte;

For liche a moder she can cherishe

And milken as doth a norys;

And of hir goode to hem deles,

And yeveth hem part of her loweles,

With grete richesse and dignitee;

And hem she hoteth stabilitee

In a state that is not stable,

But chaunging ay and variable;

And fedith hem with glorie veyne,

And worldly blisse noncerteyne.

Whan she hem settith on hir whele,

Than wene they to be right wele,

And in so stable state withalle,

That never they wene for to falle.

And whan they set so highe be,

They wene to have in certeintee

Of hertly frendis [so] gret noumbre,

That no-thing mighte her stat encombre;

They truste hem so on every syde,

Wening with hem they wolde abyde

In every perel and mischaunce,

Withoute chaunge or variaunce,

Bothe of catel and of good;

And also for to spende hir blood

And alle hir membris for to spille,

Only to fulfille hir wille.

They maken it hole in many wyse,

And hoten hem hir ful servyse,

How sore that it do hem smerte,

Into hir very naked sherte!

Herte and al, so hole they yeve,

For the tyme that they may live,

So that, with her flaterye,

They maken foolis glorifye

Of hir wordis [greet] speking,

And han [there]-of a reioysing,

And trowe hem as the Evangyle;

And it is al falsheed and gyle,

As they shal afterwardes see,

Whan they arn falle in povertee,

And been of good and catel bare;

Than shulde they seen who freendis ware.

For of an hundred, certeynly,

Nor of a thousand ful scarsly,

Ne shal they fynde unnethis oon,

Whan povertee is comen upon.

For [this] Fortune that I of telle,

With men whan hir lust to dwelle,

Makith hem to lese hir conisaunce,

And nourishith hem in ignoraunce.

'But froward Fortune and perverse,

Whan high estatis she doth reverse,

And maketh hem to tumble doun

Of hir whele, with sodeyn tourn,

And from hir richesse doth hem flee,

And plongeth hem in povertee,

As a stepmoder envyous,

And leyeth a plastre dolorous

Unto her hertis, wounded egre,

Which is not tempred with vinegre,

But with poverte and indigence,

For to shewe, by experience,

That she is Fortune verely

In whom no man shulde affy,

Nor in hir yeftis have fiaunce,

She is so ful of variaunce.

Thus can she maken high and lowe,

Whan they from richesse ar[e]n throwe,

Fully to knowen, withouten were,

Freend of effect, and freend of chere;

And which in love weren trew and stable,

And whiche also weren variable,

After Fortune, hir goddesse,

In poverte, outher in richesse;

For al [she] yeveth, out of drede,

Unhappe bereveth it in dede;

For Infortune lat not oon

Of freendis, whan Fortune is goon;

I mene tho freendis that wol flee

Anoon as entreth povertee.

And yit they wol not leve hem so,

But in ech place where they go

They calle hem "wrecche," scorne and blame,

And of hir mishappe hem diffame,

And, namely, siche as in richesse

Pretendith most of stablenesse,

Whan that they sawe him set onlofte,

And weren of him socoured ofte,

And most y-holpe in al hir nede:

But now they take no maner hede,

But seyn, in voice of flaterye,

That now apperith hir folye,

Over-al where-so they fare,

And singe, "Go, farewel feldefare."

Alle suche freendis I beshrewe,

For of [the] trewe ther be to fewe;

But sothfast freendis, what so bityde,

In every fortune wolen abyde;

They han hir hertis in suche noblesse

That they nil love for no richesse;

Nor, for that Fortune may hem sende,

They wolen hem socoure and defende;

And chaunge for softe ne for sore,

For who is freend, loveth evermore.

Though men drawe swerd his freend to slo,

He may not hewe hir love a-two.

But, in [the] case that I shal sey,

For pride and ire lese it he may,

And for reprove by nycetee,

And discovering of privitee,

With tonge wounding, as feloun,

Thurgh venemous detraccioun.

Frend in this case wol gon his way,

For no-thing greve him more ne may;

And for nought ellis wol he flee,

If that he love in stabilitee.

And certeyn, he is wel bigoon

Among a thousand that fyndith oon.

For ther may be no richesse,

Ageyns frendship, of worthinesse;

For it ne may so high atteigne

As may the valoure, sooth to seyne,

Of him that loveth trew and wel;

Frendship is more than is catel.

For freend in court ay better is

Than peny in [his] purs, certis;

And Fortune, mishapping,

Whan upon men she is [falling],

Thurgh misturning of hir chaunce,

And casteth hem oute of balaunce,

She makith, thurgh hir adversitee,

Men ful cleerly for to see

Him that is freend in existence

From him that is by apparence.

For Infortune makith anoon

To knowe thy freendis fro thy foon,

By experience, right as it is;

The which is more to preyse, y-wis,

Than [is] miche richesse and tresour;

For more [doth] profit and valour

Poverte, and such adversitee,

Bifore than doth prosperitee;

For the toon yeveth conisaunce,

And the tother ignoraunce.

'And thus in poverte is in dede

Trouthe declared fro falsehede;

For feynte frendis it wol declare,

And trewe also, what wey they fare.

For whan he was in his richesse,

These freendis, ful of doublenesse,

Offrid him in many wyse

Hert and body, and servyse.

What wolde he than ha [yeve] to ha bought

To knowen openly her thought,

That he now hath so clerly seen?

The lasse bigyled he sholde have been

And he hadde than perceyved it,

But richesse nold not late him wit.

Wel more avauntage doth him than,

Sith that it makith him a wys man,

The greet mischeef that he [receyveth],

Than doth richesse that him deceyveth.

Richesse riche ne makith nought

Him that on tresour set his thought;

For richesse stont in suffisaunce

And no-thing in habundaunce;

For suffisaunce al-only

Makith men to live richely.

For he that hath [but] miches tweyne,

Ne [more] value in his demeigne,

Liveth more at ese, and more is riche,

Than doth he that is [so] chiche,

And in his bern hath, soth to seyn,

An hundred [muwis] of whete greyn,

Though he be chapman or marchaunt,

And have of golde many besaunt.

For in the geting he hath such wo,

And in the keping drede also,

And set evermore his bisynesse

For to encrese, and not to lesse,

For to augment and multiply.

And though on hepis [it] lye him by,

Yit never shal make his richesse

Asseth unto his gredinesse.

But the povre that recchith nought,

Save of his lyflode, in his thought,

Which that he getith with his travaile,

He dredith nought that it shal faile,

Though he have lytel worldis good,

Mete and drinke, and esy food,

Upon his travel and living,

And also suffisaunt clothing.

Or if in syknesse that he falle,

And lothe mete and drink withalle,

Though he have nought, his mete to by,

He shal bithinke him hastely,

To putte him out of al daunger,

That he of mete hath no mister;

Or that he may with litel eke

Be founden, whyl that he is seke;

Or that men shul him bere in hast,

To live, til his syknesse be past,

To somme maysondewe bisyde;

He cast nought what shal him bityde.

He thenkith nought that ever he shal

Into any syknesse falle.

'And though it falle, as it may be,

That al betyme spare shal he

As mochel as shal to him suffyce,

Whyl he is syke in any wyse,

He doth [it], for that he wol be

Content with his povertee

Withoute nede of any man.

So miche in litel have he can,

He is apayed with his fortune;

And for he nil be importune

Unto no wight, ne onerous,

Nor of hir goodes coveitous;

Therfore he spareth, it may wel been,

His pore estat for to sustene.

'Or if him lust not for to spare,

But suffrith forth, as nought ne ware,

Atte last it hapneth, as it may,

Right unto his laste day,

And taketh the world as it wolde be;

For ever in herte thenkith he,

The soner that [the] deeth him slo,

To paradys the soner go

He shal, there for to live in blisse,

Where that he shal no good misse.

Thider he hopith god shal him sende

Aftir his wrecchid lyves ende.

Pictagoras himsilf reherses,

In a book that the Golden verses

Is clepid, for the nobilitee

Of the honourable ditee:—

"Than, whan thou gost thy body fro,

Free in the eir thou shalt up go,

And leven al humanitee,

And purely live in deitee."—

He is a fool, withouten were,

That trowith have his countre here.

"In erthe is not our countree,"

That may these clerkis seyn and see

In Boece of Consolacioun,

Where it is maked mencioun

Of our countree pleyn at the eye,

By teching of philosophye,

Where lewid men might lere wit,

Who-so that wolde translaten it.

If he be sich that can wel live

Aftir his rente may him yive,

And not desyreth more to have,

That may fro povertee him save:

A wys man seide, as we may seen,

Is no man wrecched, but he it wene,

Be he king, knight, or ribaud.

And many a ribaud is mery and baud,

That swinkith, and berith, bothe day and night,

Many a burthen of gret might,

The whiche doth him lasse offense,

For he suffrith in pacience.

They laugh and daunce, trippe and singe,

And ley not up for her living,

But in the tavern al dispendith

The winning that god hem sendith.

Than goth he, fardels for to bere,

With as good chere as he dide ere;

To swinke and traveile he not feynith,

For for to robben he disdeynith;

But right anoon, aftir his swinke,

He goth to tavern for to drinke.

Alle these ar riche in abundaunce,

That can thus have suffisaunce

Wel more than can an usurere,

As god wel knowith, withoute were.

For an usurer, so god me see,

Shal never for richesse riche bee,

But evermore pore and indigent,

Scarce, and gredy in his entent.

'For soth it is, whom it displese,

Ther may no marchaunt live at ese,

His herte in sich a were is set,

That it quik brenneth [more] to get,

Ne never shal [enough have] geten;

Though he have gold in gerners yeten,

For to be nedy he dredith sore.

Wherfore to geten more and more

He set his herte and his desire;

So hote he brennith in the fire

Of coveitise, that makith him wood

To purchase other mennes good.

He undirfongith a gret peyne,

That undirtakith to drinke up Seyne;

For the more he drinkith, ay

The more he leveth, the soth to say.

[This is the] thurst of fals geting,

That last ever in coveiting,

And the anguisshe and distresse

With the fire of gredinesse.

She fighteth with him ay, and stryveth,

That his herte asondre ryveth;

Such gredinesse him assaylith,

That whan he most hath, most he faylith.

Phisiciens and advocates

Gon right by the same yates;

They selle hir science for winning,

And haunte hir crafte for greet geting.

Hir winning is of such swetnesse,

That if a man falle in sikenesse,

They are ful glad, for hir encrese;

For by hir wille, withoute lees,

Everiche man shulde be seke,

And though they dye, they set not a leke.

After, whan they the gold have take,

Ful litel care for hem they make.

They wolde that fourty were seke at onis,

Ye, two hundred, in flesh and bonis,

And yit two thousand, as I gesse,

For to encresen her richesse.

They wol not worchen, in no wyse,

But for lucre and coveityse;

For fysyk ginneth first by fy,

The fysycien also sothely;

And sithen it goth fro fy to sy;

To truste on hem, it is foly;

For they nil, in no maner gree,

Do right nought for charitee.

'Eke in the same secte are set

Alle tho that prechen for to get

Worshipes, honour, and richesse.

Her hertis arn in greet distresse,

That folk [ne] live not holily.

But aboven al, specialy,

Sich as prechen [for] veynglorie,

And toward god have no memorie,

But forth as ypocrites trace,

And to her soules deth purchace,

And outward [shewen] holynesse,

Though they be fulle of cursidnesse.

Not liche to the apostles twelve,

They deceyve other and hem-selve;

Bigyled is the gyler than.

For preching of a cursed man,

Though [it] to other may profyte,

Himsilf availeth not a myte;

For oft good predicacioun

Cometh of evel entencioun.

To him not vailith his preching,

Al helpe he other with his teching;

For where they good ensaumple take,

There is he with veynglorie shake.

'But lat us leven these prechoures,

And speke of hem that in her toures

Hepe up her gold, and faste shette,

And sore theron her herte sette.

They neither love god, ne drede;

They kepe more than it is nede,

And in her bagges sore it binde,

Out of the sonne, and of the winde;

They putte up more than nede ware,

Whan they seen pore folk forfare,

For hunger dye, and for cold quake;

God can wel vengeaunce therof take.

[Thre] gret mischeves hem assailith,

And thus in gadring ay travaylith;

With moche peyne they winne richesse;

And drede hem holdith in distresse,

To kepe that they gadre faste;

With sorwe they leve it at the laste;

With sorwe they bothe dye and live,

That to richesse her hertis yive,

And in defaute of love it is,

As it shewith ful wel, y-wis.

For if these gredy, the sothe to seyn,

Loveden, and were loved ageyn,

And good love regned over-alle,

Such wikkidnesse ne shulde falle;

But he shulde yeve that most good had

To hem that weren in nede bistad,

And live withoute fals usure,

For charitee ful clene and pure.

If they hem yeve to goodnesse,

Defending hem from ydelnesse,

In al this world than pore noon

We shulde finde, I trowe, not oon.

But chaunged is this world unstable;

For love is over-al vendable.

We see that no man loveth now

But for winning and for prow;

And love is thralled in servage

Whan it is sold for avauntage;

Yit wommen wol hir bodies selle;

Suche soules goth to the devel of helle.'