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

I. (In seven-line stanzas.)

The longe night, whan every creature

Shulde have hir rest in somwhat, as by kinde,

Or elles ne may hir lyf nat long endure,

Hit falleth most in-to my woful minde

How I so fer have broght my-self behinde,

That, sauf the deeth, ther may no-thing me lisse,

So desespaired I am from alle blisse.

This same thoght me lasteth til the morwe,

And from the morwe forth til hit be eve;

Ther nedeth me no care for to borwe,

For bothe I have good leyser and good leve;

Ther is no wight that wol me wo bereve

To wepe y-nogh, and wailen al my fille;

The sore spark of peyne doth me spille.

II. (In Terza Rima; imperfect.)

[The sore spark of peyne doth me spille;]

This Love hath [eek] me set in swich a place

That my desyr [he] never wol fulfille;

For neither pitee, mercy, neither grace

Can I nat finde; and [fro] my sorwful herte,

For to be deed, I can hit nat arace.

The more I love, the more she doth me smerte;

Through which I see, with-oute remedye,

That from the deeth I may no wyse asterte;

[For this day in hir servise shal I dye].

III. (In Terza Rima; imperfect.)

[Thus am I slain, with sorwes ful dyverse;

Ful longe agoon I oghte have taken hede].

Now sothly, what she hight I wol reherse;

Hir name is Bountee, set in womanhede,

Sadnesse in youthe, and Beautee prydelees,

And Plesaunce, under governaunce and drede;

Hir surname eek is Faire Rewthelees,

The Wyse, y-knit un-to Good Aventure,

That, for I love hir, sleeth me giltelees.

Hir love I best, and shal, whyl I may dure,

Bet than my-self an hundred thousand deel,

Than al this worldes richesse or creature.

Now hath nat Lovë me bestowed weel

To lovë, ther I never shal have part?

Allas! right thus is turned me the wheel,

Thus am I slayn with loves fyry dart.

I can but love hir best, my swete fo;

Love hath me taught no more of his art

But serve alwey, and stinte for no wo.

IV. (In ten-line stanzas.)

[With]-in my trewe careful herte ther is

So moche wo, and [eek] so litel blis,

That wo is me that ever I was bore;

For al that thing which I desyre I mis,

And al that ever I wolde nat, I-wis,

That finde I redy to me evermore;

And of al this I not to whom me pleyne.

For she that mighte me out of this bringe

Ne reccheth nat whether I wepe or singe;

So litel rewthe hath she upon my peyne.

Allas! whan sleping-time is, than I wake,

Whan I shulde daunce, for fere than I quake;

[Yow rekketh never wher I flete or sinke;]

This hevy lyf I lede for your sake,

Thogh ye ther-of in no wyse hede take,

[For on my wo yow deyneth not to thinke.]

My hertes lady, and hool my lyves quene!

For trewly dorste I seye, as that I fele,

Me semeth that your swete herte of stele

Is whetted now ageynes me to kene.

My dere herte, and best beloved fo,

Why lyketh yow to do me al this wo,

What have I doon that greveth yow, or sayd,

But for I serve and love yow and no mo?

And whylst I live, I wol do ever so;

And therfor, swete, ne beth nat evil apayd.

For so good and so fair as [that] ye be,

Hit were [a] right gret wonder but ye hadde

Of alle servants, bothe goode and badde;

And leest worthy of alle hem, I am he.

But never-the-les, my righte lady swete,

Thogh that I be unconning and unmete

To serve as I best coude ay your hynesse.

Yit is ther fayner noon, that wolde I hete,

Than I, to do yow ese, or elles bete

What-so I wiste were to [yow distresse].

And hadde I might as good as I have wille,

Than shulde ye fele wher it wer so or noon;

For in this worlde living is ther noon

That fayner wolde your hertes wil fulfille.

For bothe I love, and eek dreed yow so sore,

And algates moot, and have doon yow, ful yore,

That bet loved is noon, ne never shal;

And yit I wolde beseche yow of no more

But leveth wel, and be nat wrooth ther-fore,

And lat me serve yow forth; lo! this is al.

For I am nat so hardy ne so wood

For to desire that ye shulde love me;

For wel I wot, allas! that may nat be;

I am so litel worthy, and ye so good.

For ye be oon the worthiest on-lyve,

And I the most unlykly for to thryve;

Yit, for al this, [now] witeth ye right wele,

That ye ne shul me from your service dryve

That I nil ay, with alle my wittes fyve,

Serve yow trewly, what wo so that I fele.

For I am set on yow in swich manere

That, thogh ye never wil upon me rewe,

I moste yow love, and ever been as trewe

As any can or may on-lyve [here].

The more that I love yow, goodly free,

The lasse fynde I that ye loven me;

Allas! whan shal that harde wit amende?

Wher is now al your wommanly pitee,

Your gentilesse and your debonairtee,

Wil ye no thing ther-of upon me spende?

And so hool, swete, as I am youres al,

And so gret wil as I have yow to serve,

Now, certes, and ye lete me thus sterve,

Yit have ye wonne ther-on but a smal.

For, at my knowing, I do no-thing why,

And this I wol beseche yow hertely,

That, ther ever ye finde, whyl ye live,

A trewer servant to yow than am I,

Leveth [me] thanne, and sleeth me hardely,

And I my deeth to you wol al forgive.

And if ye finde no trewer [man than me],

[Why] will ye suffre than that I thus spille,

And for no maner gilt but my good wille?

As good wer thanne untrewe as trewe to be.

But I, my lyf and deeth, to yow obeye,

And with right buxom herte hoolly I preye,

As [is] your moste plesure, so doth by me;

Wel lever is me lyken yow and deye

Than for to any thing or thinke or seye

That mighte yow offende in any tyme.

And therfor, swete, rewe on my peynes smerte,

And of your grace granteth me som drope;

For elles may me laste ne blis ne hope,

Ne dwellen in my trouble careful herte.

The compleynt of feire Anelida and fals Arcite.

Proem.

Thou ferse god of armes, Mars the rede,

That in the frosty country called Trace,

Within thy grisly temple ful of drede

Honoured art, as patroun of that place!

With thy Bellona, Pallas, ful of grace,

Be present, and my song continue and gye;

At my beginning thus to thee I crye.

For hit ful depe is sonken in my minde,

With pitous herte in English for tendyte

This olde storie, in Latin which I finde,

Of quene Anelida and fals Arcite,

That elde, which that al can frete and byte,

As hit hath freten mony a noble storie,

Hath nigh devoured out of our memorie.

Be favorable eek, thou Polymnia,

On Parnaso that, with thy sustres glade,

By Elicon, not fer from Cirrea,

Singest with vois memorial in the shade,

Under the laurer which that may not fade,

And do that I my ship to haven winne;

First folow I Stace, and after him Corinne.

The Story.

Iamque domos patrias, &c.; Statii Thebais, xii. 519.

Whan Theseus, with werres longe and grete,

The aspre folk of Cithe had over-come,

With laurer crouned, in his char gold-bete,

Hoom to his contre-houses is y-come;—

For which the peple blisful, al and somme,

So cryden, that unto the sterres hit wente,

And him to honouren dide al hir entente;—

Beforn this duk, in signe of hy victorie,

The trompes come, and in his baner large

The image of Mars; and, in token of glorie,

Men mighten seen of tresor many a charge,

Many a bright helm, and many a spere and targe,

Many a fresh knight, and many a blisful route,

On hors, on fote, in al the felde aboute.

Ipolita his wyf, the hardy quene

Of Cithia, that he conquered hadde,

With Emelye, hir yonge suster shene,

Faire in a char of golde he with him ladde,

That al the ground aboute hir char she spradde

With brightnesse of the beautee in hir face,

Fulfild of largesse and of alle grace.

With his triumphe and laurer crouned thus,

In al the floure of fortunes yevinge,

Lete I this noble prince Theseus

Toward Athenes in his wey rydinge,

And founde I wol in shortly for to bringe

The slye wey of that I gan to wryte,

Of quene Anelida and fals Arcite.

Mars, which that through his furious course of yre,

The olde wrath of Iuno to fulfille,

Hath set the peples hertes bothe on fyre

Of Thebes and Grece, everich other to kille

With blody speres, ne rested never stille,

But throng now her, now ther, among hem bothe,

That everich other slough, so wer they wrothe.

For whan Amphiorax and Tydeus,

Ipomedon, Parthonopee also

Were dede, and slayn [was] proud Campaneus,

And whan the wrecches Thebans, bretheren two,

Were slayn, and king Adrastus hoom a-go,

So desolat stood Thebes and so bare,

That no wight coude remedie of his care.

And whan the olde Creon gan espye

How that the blood roial was broght adoun,

He held the cite by his tirannye,

And did the gentils of that regioun

To been his frendes, and dwellen in the toun.

So what for love of him, and what for awe,

The noble folk wer to the toune y-drawe.

Among al these, Anelida the quene

Of Ermony was in that toun dwellinge,

That fairer was then is the sonne shene;

Through-out the world so gan hir name springe,

That hir to seen had every wight lykinge;

For, as of trouthe, is ther noon hir liche,

Of al the women in this worlde riche.

Yong was this quene, of twenty yeer of elde,

Of midel stature, and of swich fairnesse,

That nature had a Ioye hir to behelde;

And for to speken of hir stedfastnesse,

She passed hath Penelope and Lucresse,

And shortly, if she shal be comprehended,

In hir ne mighte no-thing been amended.

This Theban knight [Arcite] eek, sooth to seyn,

Was yong, and ther-with-al a lusty knight,

But he was double in love and no-thing pleyn,

And subtil in that crafte over any wight,

And with his cunning wan this lady bright;

For so ferforth he gan hir trouthe assure,

That she him [trust] over any creature.

What shuld I seyn? she loved Arcite so,

That, whan that he was absent any throwe,

Anon hir thoghte hir herte brast a-two;

For in hir sight to hir he bar him lowe,

So that she wende have al his herte y-knowe;

But he was fals; it nas but feyned chere,

As nedeth not to men such craft to lere.

But never-the-les ful mikel besinesse

Had he, er that he mighte his lady winne,

And swoor he wolde dyen for distresse,

Or from his wit he seyde he wolde twinne.

Alas, the whyle! for hit was routhe and sinne,

That she upon his sorowes wolde rewe,

But no-thing thenketh the fals as doth the trewe.

Hir fredom fond Arcite in swich manere,

That al was his that she hath, moche or lyte,

Ne to no creature made she chere

Ferther than that hit lyked to Arcite;

Ther was no lak with which he mighte hir wyte,

She was so ferforth yeven him to plese,

That al that lyked him, hit did hir ese.

Ther nas to hir no maner lettre y-sent

That touched love, from any maner wight,

That she ne shewed hit him, er hit was brent;

So pleyn she was, and did hir fulle might,

That she nil hyden nothing from hir knight,

Lest he of any untrouthe hir upbreyde;

Withouten bode his heste she obeyde.

And eek he made him Ielous over here,

That, what that any man had to hir seyd,

Anoon he wolde preyen hir to swere

What was that word, or make him evel apayd;

Than wende she out of hir wit have brayd;

But al this nas but sleight and flaterye,

Withouten love he feyned Ielosye.

And al this took she so debonerly,

That al his wille, hir thoghte hit skilful thing,

And ever the lenger loved him tenderly,

And did him honour as he were a king.

Hir herte was wedded to him with a ring;

So ferforth upon trouthe is hir entente,

That wher he goth, hir herte with him wente.

Whan she shal ete, on him is so hir thoght,

That wel unnethe of mete took she keep;

And whan that she was to hir reste broght,

On him she thoghte alwey til that she sleep;

Whan he was absent, prevely she weep;

Thus liveth fair Anelida the quene

For fals Arcite, that did hir al this tene.

This fals Arcite, of his new-fangelnesse,

For she to him so lowly was and trewe,

Took lesse deyntee for hir stedfastnesse,

And saw another lady, proud and newe,

And right anon he cladde him in hir hewe—

Wot I not whether in whyte, rede, or grene—

And falsed fair Anelida the quene.

But never-the-les, gret wonder was hit noon

Thogh he wer fals, for hit is kinde of man,

Sith Lamek was, that is so longe agoon,

To been in love as fals as ever he can;

He was the firste fader that began

To loven two, and was in bigamye;

And he found tentes first, but-if men lye.

This fals Arcite sumwhat moste he feyne,

Whan he wex fals, to covere his traitorye,

Right as an hors, that can both byte and pleyne;

For he bar hir on honde of trecherye,

And swoor he coude hir doublenesse espye,

And al was falsnes that she to him mente;

Thus swoor this theef, and forth his way he wente.

Alas! what herte might enduren hit,

For routhe or wo, hir sorow for to telle?

Or what man hath the cunning or the wit?

Or what man might with-in the chambre dwelle,

If I to him rehersen shal the helle,

That suffreth fair Anelida the quene

For fals Arcite, that did hir al this tene?

She wepeth, waileth, swowneth pitously,

To grounde deed she falleth as a stoon;

Al crampissheth hir limes crokedly,

She speketh as hir wit were al agoon;

Other colour then asshen hath she noon,

Noon other word she speketh moche or lyte,

But 'mercy, cruel herte myn, Arcite!'

And thus endureth, til that she was so mate

That she ne hath foot on which she may sustene;

But forth languisshing ever in this estate,

Of which Arcite hath nother routhe ne tene;

His herte was elles-where, newe and grene,

That on hir wo ne deyneth him not to thinke,

Him rekketh never wher she flete or sinke.

His newe lady holdeth him so narowe

Up by the brydel, at the staves ende,

That every word, he dradde hit as an arowe;

Hir daunger made him bothe bowe and bende,

And as hir liste, made him turne or wende;

For she ne graunted him in hir livinge

No grace, why that he hath lust to singe;

But drof him forth, unnethe liste hir knowe

That he was servaunt to hir ladyshippe,

But lest that he wer proude, she held him lowe;

Thus serveth he, withouten fee or shipe,

She sent him now to londe, now to shippe;

And for she yaf him daunger al his fille,

Therfor she had him at hir owne wille.

Ensample of this, ye thrifty wimmen alle,

Take here Anelida and fals Arcite,

That for hir liste him 'dere herte' calle,

And was so meek, therfor he loved hir lyte;

The kinde of mannes herte is to delyte

In thing that straunge is, also god me save!

For what he may not gete, that wolde he have.

Now turne we to Anelida ageyn,

That pyneth day by day in languisshing;

But whan she saw that hir ne gat no geyn,

Upon a day, ful sorowfully weping,

She caste hir for to make a compleyning,

And with hir owne honde she gan hit wryte;

And sente hit to hir Theban knight Arcite.

The compleynt of Anelida the quene upon fals Arcite.

Proem.

So thirleth with the poynt of remembraunce,

The swerd of sorowe, y-whet with fals plesaunce,

Myn herte, bare of blis and blak of hewe,

That turned is in quaking al my daunce,

My suretee in a-whaped countenaunce;

Sith hit availeth not for to ben trewe;

For who-so trewest is, hit shal hir rewe,

That serveth love and doth hir observaunce

Alwey to oon, and chaungeth for no newe.

(Strophe.)

1. I wot my-self as wel as any wight;

For I loved oon with al my herte and might

More then my-self, an hundred thousand sythe,

And called him my hertes lyf, my knight,

And was al his, as fer as hit was right;

And whan that he was glad, than was I blythe,

And his disese was my deeth as swythe;

And he ayein his trouthe me had plight

For ever-more, his lady me to kythe.

2. Now is he fals, alas! and causeles,

And of my wo he is so routheles,

That with a worde him list not ones deyne

To bring ayein my sorowful herte in pees,

For he is caught up in a-nother lees.

Right as him list, he laugheth at my peyne,

And I ne can myn herte not restreyne,

That I ne love him alwey, never-the-les;

And of al this I not to whom me pleyne.

3. And shal I pleyne—alas! the harde stounde—

Un-to my foo that yaf my herte a wounde,

And yet desyreth that myn harm be more?

Nay, certes! ferther wol I never founde

Non other help, my sores for to sounde.

My desteny hath shapen it ful yore;

I wil non other medecyne ne lore;

I wil ben ay ther I was ones bounde,

That I have seid, be seid for ever-more!

4. Alas! wher is become your gentilesse!

Your wordes ful of plesaunce and humblesse?

Your observaunces in so low manere,

And your awayting and your besinesse

Upon me, that ye calden your maistresse,

Your sovereyn lady in this worlde here?

Alas! and is ther nother word ne chere

Ye vouchesauf upon myn hevinesse?

Alas! your love, I bye hit al to dere.

5. Now certes, swete, thogh that ye

Thus causeles the cause be

Of my dedly adversitee,

Your manly reson oghte it to respyte

To slee your frend, and namely me,

That never yet in no degree

Offended yow, as wisly he,

That al wot, out of wo my soule quyte!

¶ But for I shewed yow, Arcite,

Al that men wolde to me wryte,

And was so besy, yow to delyte—

My honour save—meke, kinde, and free,

Therfor ye putte on me the wyte,

And of me recche not a myte,

Thogh that the swerd of sorow byte

My woful herte through your crueltee.

6. My swete foo,why do ye so,for shame?

And thenke yethat furthered beyour name,

To love a newe,and been untrewe?nay!

And putte yowin sclaunder nowand blame,

And do to meadversiteeand grame,

That love yow most,god, wel thou wost!alway?

Yet turn ayeyn,and be al pleynsom day,

And than shal thisthat now is misbe game,

And al for-yive,whyl that I livemay.

(Antistrophe.)

1. Lo! herte myn, al this is for to seyne,

As whether shal I preye or elles pleyne?

Whiche is the wey to doon yow to be trewe?

For either mot I have yow in my cheyne,

Or with the dethe ye mot departe us tweyne;

Ther ben non other mene weyes newe;

For god so wisly on my soule rewe,

As verily ye sleen me with the peyne;

That may ye see unfeyned of myn hewe.

2. For thus ferforth have I my deth [y]-soght,

My-self I mordre with my prevy thoght;

For sorow and routhe of your unkindenesse

I wepe, I wake, I faste; al helpeth noght;

I weyve Ioy that is to speke of oght,

I voyde companye, I flee gladnesse;

Who may avaunte hir bet of hevinesse

Then I? and to this plyte have ye me broght,

Withoute gilt; me nedeth no witnesse.

3. And sholde I preye, and weyve womanhede?

Nay! rather deth then do so foul a dede,

And axe mercy gilteles! what nede?

And if I pleyne what lyf that I lede,

Yow rekketh not; that know I, out of drede;

And if I unto yow myn othes bede

For myn excuse, a scorn shal be my mede;

Your chere floureth, but hit wol not sede;

Ful longe agoon I oghte have take hede.

4. For thogh I hadde yow to-morow ageyn,

I might as wel holde Averill fro reyn,

As holde yow, to make yow stedfast.

Almighty god, of trouthe sovereyn,

Wher is the trouthe of man? who hath hit sleyn?

Who that hem loveth shal hem fynde as fast

As in a tempest is a roten mast.

Is that a tame best that is ay feyn

To renne away, when he is leest agast?

5. Now mercy, swete, if I misseye,

Have I seyd oght amis, I preye?

I not; my wit is al aweye.

I fare as doth the song of Chaunte-pleure.

For now I pleyne, and now I pleye,

I am so mased that I deye,

Arcite hath born awey the keye

Of al my worlde, and my good aventure!

¶ For in this worlde nis creature

Wakinge, in more discomfiture

Then I, ne more sorow endure;

And if I slepe a furlong wey or tweye,

Than thinketh me, that your figure

Before me stant, clad in asure,

To profren eft a newe assure

For to be trewe, and mercy me to preye.

6. The longe nightthis wonder sightI drye,

And on the dayfor this afrayI dye,

And of al thisright noght, y-wis,ye recche.

Ne never momyn yën twobe drye,

And to your routheand to your troutheI crye.

But welawey!to fer be theyto fecche;

Thus holdeth memy destineea wrecche.

But me to redeout of this dredeor gye

Ne may my wit,so weyk is hit,not strecche.

Conclusion.

Than ende I thus, sith I may do no more,

I yeve hit up for now and ever-more;

For I shal never eft putten in balaunce

My sekernes, ne lerne of love the lore.

But as the swan, I have herd seyd ful yore,

Ayeins his deth shal singe in his penaunce,

So singe I here my destiny or chaunce,

How that Arcite Anelida so sore

Hath thirled with the poynt of remembraunce!

The story continued.

Whan that Anelida this woful quene

Hath of hir hande writen in this wyse,

With face deed, betwixe pale and grene,

She fel a-swowe; and sith she gan to ryse,

And unto Mars avoweth sacrifyse

With-in the temple, with a sorowful chere,

That shapen was as ye shal after here.

(Unfinished.)