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

Adam scriveyn, if ever it thee bifalle

Boece or Troilus to wryten newe,

Under thy lokkes thou most have the scalle,

But after my making thou wryte trewe.

So ofte a daye I mot thy werk renewe,

Hit to correcte and eek to rubbe and scrape;

And al is through thy negligence and rape.

A blisful lyf, a paisible and a swete

Ledden the peples in the former age;

They helde hem payed of fruites, that they ete,

Which that the feldes yave hem by usage;

They ne were nat forpampred with outrage;

Unknowen was the quern and eek the melle;

They eten mast, hawes, and swich pounage,

And dronken water of the colde welle.

Yit nas the ground nat wounded with the plough,

But corn up-sprong, unsowe of mannes hond,

The which they gniden, and eete nat half y-nough

No man yit knew the forwes of his lond;

No man the fyr out of the flint yit fond;

Un-korven and un-grobbed lay the vyne;

No man yit in the morter spyces grond

To clarre, ne to sause of galantyne.

No mader, welde, or wood no litestere

Ne knew; the flees was of his former hewe;

No flesh ne wiste offence of egge or spere;

No coyn ne knew man which was fals or trewe;

No ship yit karf the wawes grene and blewe;

No marchaunt yit ne fette outlandish ware;

No trompes for the werres folk ne knewe,

No toures heye, and walles rounde or square.

What sholde it han avayled to werreye?

Ther lay no profit, ther was no richesse,

But cursed was the tyme, I dar wel seye,

That men first dide hir swety bysinesse

To grobbe up metal, lurkinge in darknesse,

And in the riveres first gemmes soghte.

Allas! than sprong up al the cursednesse

Of covetyse, that first our sorwe broghte!

Thise tyraunts putte hem gladly nat in pres,

No wildnesse, ne no busshes for to winne

Ther poverte is, as seith Diogenes,

Ther as vitaile is eek so skars and thinne

That noght but mast or apples is ther-inne.

But, ther as bagges been and fat vitaile,

Ther wol they gon, and spare for no sinne

With al hir ost the cite for tassaile.

Yit were no paleis-chaumbres, ne non halles;

In caves and [in] wodes softe and swete

Slepten this blissed folk with-oute walles,

On gras or leves in parfit quiete.

No doun of fetheres, ne no bleched shete

Was kid to hem, but in seurtee they slepte;

Hir hertes were al oon, with-oute galles,

Everich of hem his feith to other kepte.

Unforged was the hauberk and the plate;

The lambish peple, voyd of alle vyce,

Hadden no fantasye to debate,

But ech of hem wolde other wel cheryce;

No pryde, non envye, non avaryce,

No lord, no taylage by no tyrannye;

Humblesse and pees, good feith, the emperice,

[Fulfilled erthe of olde curtesye.]

Yit was not Iupiter the likerous,

That first was fader of delicacye,

Come in this world; ne Nembrot, desirous

To reynen, had nat maad his toures hye.

Allas, allas! now may men wepe and crye!

For in our dayes nis but covetyse

[And] doublenesse, and tresoun and envye,

Poysoun, manslauhtre, and mordre in sondry wyse.

Finit Etas prima.Chaucers.

Balades de visage sanz peinture.

I. Le Pleintif countre Fortune.

This wrecched worldes transmutacioun,

As wele or wo, now povre and now honour,

With-outen ordre or wys discrecioun

Governed is by Fortunes errour;

But natheles, the lak of hir favour

Ne may nat don me singen, though I dye,

Iay tout perdu mon temps et mon labour:'

For fynally, Fortune, I thee defye!

Yit is me left the light of my resoun,

To knowen frend fro fo in thy mirour.

So muche hath yit thy whirling up and doun

Y-taught me for to knowen in an hour.

But trewely, no force of thy reddour

To him that over him-self hath the maystrye!

My suffisaunce shal be my socour:

For fynally, Fortune, I thee defye!

O Socrates, thou stedfast champioun,

She never mighte be thy tormentour;

Thou never dreddest hir oppressioun,

Ne in hir chere founde thou no savour.

Thou knewe wel deceit of hir colour,

And that hir moste worshipe is to lye.

I knowe hir eek a fals dissimulour:

For fynally, Fortune, I thee defye!

II. La respounse de Fortune au Pleintif.

No man is wrecched, but him-self hit wene,

And he that hath him-self hath suffisaunce.

Why seystow thanne I am to thee so kene,

That hast thy-self out of my governaunce?

Sey thus: 'Graunt mercy of thyn haboundaunce

That thou hast lent or this.' Why wolt thou stryve?

What wostow yit, how I thee wol avaunce?

And eek thou hast thy beste frend alyve!

I have thee taught divisioun bi-twene

Frend of effect, and frend of countenaunce;

Thee nedeth nat the galle of noon hyene,

That cureth eyen derke fro hir penaunce;

Now seestow cleer, that were in ignoraunce.

Yit halt thyn ancre, and yit thou mayst arryve

Ther bountee berth the keye of my substaunce:

And eek thou hast thy beste frend alyve.

How many have I refused to sustene,

Sin I thee fostred have in thy plesaunce!

Woltow than make a statut on thy quene

That I shal been ay at thyn ordinaunce?

Thou born art in my regne of variaunce,

Aboute the wheel with other most thou dryve.

My lore is bet than wikke is thy grevaunce,

And eek thou hast thy beste frend alyve.

III. La respounse du Pleintif countre Fortune.

Thy lore I dampne, hit is adversitee.

My frend maystow nat reven, blind goddesse!

That I thy frendes knowe, I thanke hit thee.

Tak hem agayn, lat hem go lye on presse!

The negardye in keping hir richesse

Prenostik is thou wolt hir tour assayle;

Wikke appetyt comth ay before seknesse:

In general, this reule may nat fayle.

La respounse de Fortune countre le Pleintif.

Thou pinchest at my mutabilitee,

For I thee lente a drope of my richesse,

And now me lyketh to with-drawe me.

Why sholdestow my realtee oppresse?

The see may ebbe and flowen more or lesse;

The welkne hath might to shyne, reyne, or hayle;

Right so mot I kythen my brotelnesse.

In general, this reule may nat fayle.

Lo, thexecucion of the magestee

That al purveyeth of his rightwisnesse,

That same thing 'Fortune' clepen ye,

Ye blinde bestes, ful of lewednesse!

The hevene hath propretee of sikernesse,

This world hath ever resteles travayle;

Thy laste day is ende of myn intresse:

In general, this reule may nat fayle.

Lenvoy de Fortune.

Princes, I prey you of your gentilesse,

Lat nat this man on me thus crye and pleyne,

And I shal quyte you your bisinesse

At my requeste, as three of you or tweyne;

And, but you list releve him of his peyne,

Preyeth his beste frend, of his noblesse,

That to som beter estat he may atteyne.

Explicit.

I. Captivity.

Your yën two wol slee me sodenly,

I may the beautè of hem not sustene,

So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene.

And but your word wol helen hastily

My hertes wounde, whyl that hit is grene,

Your yën two wol slee me sodenly,

I may the beautè of hem not sustene.

Upon my trouthe I sey yow feithfully,

That ye ben of my lyf and deeth the quene;

For with my deeth the trouthe shal be sene.

Your yën two wol slee me sodenly,

I may the beautè of hem not sustene,

So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene.

II. Rejection.

So hath your beautè fro your herte chaced

Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne;

For Daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne.

Giltles my deeth thus han ye me purchaced;

I sey yow sooth, me nedeth not to feyne;

So hath your beautè fro your herte chaced

Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne.

Allas! that nature hath in yow compassed

So greet beautè, that no man may atteyne

To mercy, though he sterve for the peyne.

So hath your beautè fro your herte chaced

Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne;

For Daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne.

III. Escape.

Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat,

I never thenk to ben in his prison lene;

Sin I am free, I counte him not a bene.

He may answere, and seye this or that;

I do no fors, I speke right as I mene.

Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat,

I never thenk to ben in his prison lene.

Love hath my name y-strike out of his sclat,

And he is strike out of my bokes clene

For ever-mo; [ther] is non other mene.

Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat,

I never thenk to ben in his prison lene;

Sin I am free, I counte him not a bene.

Explicit.

Madame, ye ben of al beautè shryne

As fer as cercled is the mappemounde;

For as the cristal glorious ye shyne,

And lyke ruby ben your chekes rounde.

Therwith ye ben so mery and so iocounde,

That at a revel whan that I see you daunce,

It is an oynement unto my wounde,

Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce.

For thogh I wepe of teres ful a tyne,

Yet may that wo myn herte nat confounde;

Your seemly voys that ye so smal out-twyne

Maketh my thoght in Ioye and blis habounde.

So curteisly I go, with lovë bounde,

That to my-self I sey, in my penaunce,

Suffyseth me to love you, Rosemounde,

Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce.

Nas never pyk walwed in galauntyne

As I in love am walwed and y-wounde;

For which ful ofte I of my-self divyne

That I am trewe Tristan the secounde.

My love may not refreyd be nor afounde;

I brenne ay in an amorous plesaunce.

Do what you list, I wil your thral be founde,

Thoghe ye to me ne do no daliaunce.

Tregentil.Chaucer.

Balade de bon conseyl.

Flee fro the prees, and dwelle with sothfastnesse,

Suffyce unto thy good, though hit be smal;

For hord hath hate, and climbing tikelnesse,

Prees hath envye, and wele blent overal;

Savour no more than thee bihove shal;

Werk wel thy-self, that other folk canst rede;

And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede.

Tempest thee noght al croked to redresse,

In trust of hir that turneth as a bal:

Gret reste stant in litel besinesse;

And eek be war to sporne ageyn an al;

Stryve noght, as doth the crokke with the wal.

Daunte thy-self, that dauntest otheres dede;

And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede.

That thee is sent, receyve in buxumnesse,

The wrastling for this worlde axeth a fal.

Her nis non hoom, her nis but wildernesse:

Forth, pilgrim, forth! Forth, beste, out of thy stal!

Know thy contree, look up, thank God of al;

Hold the hye wey, and lat thy gost thee lede:

And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede.

Envoy.

Therfore, thou vache, leve thyn old wrecchednesse

Unto the worlde; leve now to be thral;

Crye him mercy, that of his hy goodnesse

Made thee of noght, and in especial

Draw unto him, and pray in general

For thee, and eek for other, hevenlich mede;

And trouthe shal delivere, hit is no drede.

Explicit Le bon counseill de G. Chaucer.

Moral Balade of Chaucer.

The firste stok, fader of gentilesse—

What man that claymeth gentil for to be,

Must folowe his trace, and alle his wittes dresse

Vertu to sewe, and vyces for to flee.

For unto vertu longeth dignitee,

And noght the revers, saufly dar I deme,

Al were he mytre, croune, or diademe.

This firste stok was ful of rightwisnesse,

Trewe of his word, sobre, pitous, and free,

Clene of his goste, and loved besinesse,

Ageinst the vyce of slouthe, in honestee;

And, but his heir love vertu, as dide he,

He is noght gentil, thogh he riche seme,

Al were he mytre, croune, or diademe.

Vyce may wel be heir to old richesse;

But ther may no man, as men may wel see,

Bequethe his heir his vertuous noblesse;

That is appropred unto no degree,

But to the firste fader in magestee,

That maketh him his heir, that can him queme,

Al were he mytre, croune, or diademe.

Balade.

Som tyme this world was so stedfast and stable

That mannes word was obligacioun,

And now hit is so fals and deceivable,

That word and deed, as in conclusioun,

Ben no-thing lyk, for turned up so doun

Is al this world for mede and wilfulnesse,

That al is lost for lak of stedfastnesse.

What maketh this world to be so variable

But lust that folk have in dissensioun?

Among us now a man is holde unable,

But-if he can, by som collusioun,

Don his neighbour wrong or oppressioun.

What causeth this, but wilful wrecchednesse,

That al is lost, for lak of stedfastnesse?

Trouthe is put doun, resoun is holden fable;

Vertu hath now no dominacioun,

Pitee exyled, no man is merciable.

Through covetyse is blent discrecioun;

The world hath mad a permutacioun

Fro right to wrong, fro trouthe to fikelnesse,

That al is lost, for lak of stedfastnesse.

Lenvoy to King Richard.

O prince, desyre to be honourable,

Cherish thy folk and hate extorcioun!

Suffre no thing, that may be reprevable

To thyn estat, don in thy regioun.

Shew forth thy swerd of castigacioun,

Dred God, do law, love trouthe and worthinesse,

And wed thy folk agein to stedfastnesse.

Explicit.

To-broken been the statuts hye in hevene

That creat were eternally to dure,

Sith that I see the brighte goddes sevene

Mow wepe and wayle, and passioun endure,

As may in erthe a mortal creature.

Allas, fro whennes may this thing procede?

Of whiche errour I deye almost for drede.

By worde eterne whylom was hit shape

That fro the fifte cercle, in no manere,

Ne mighte a drope of teres doun escape.

But now so wepeth Venus in hir spere,

That with hir teres she wol drenche us here.

Allas, Scogan! this is for thyn offence!

Thou causest this deluge of pestilence.

Hast thou not seyd, in blaspheme of this goddes,

Through pryde, or through thy grete rakelnesse,

Swich thing as in the lawe of love forbode is?

That, for thy lady saw nat thy distresse,

Therfor thou yave hir up at Michelmesse!

Allas, Scogan! of olde folk ne yonge

Was never erst Scogan blamed for his tonge!

Thou drowe in scorn Cupyde eek to record

Of thilke rebel word that thou hast spoken,

For which he wol no lenger be thy lord.

And, Scogan, thogh his bowe be nat broken,

He wol nat with his arwes been y-wroken

On thee, ne me, ne noon of our figure;

We shul of him have neyther hurt ne cure.

Now certes, frend, I drede of thyn unhappe,

Lest for thy gilt the wreche of Love procede

On alle hem that ben hore and rounde of shape,

That ben so lykly folk in love to spede.

Than shul we for our labour han no mede;

But wel I wot, thou wilt answere and seye:

'Lo! olde Grisel list to ryme and pleye!'

Nay, Scogan, sey not so, for I mexcuse,

God help me so! in no rym, doutelees,

Ne thinke I never of slepe wak my muse,

That rusteth in my shethe stille in pees.

Whyl I was yong, I putte hir forth in prees,

But al shal passe that men prose or ryme;

Take every man his turn, as for his tyme.

Envoy.

Scogan, that knelest at the stremes heed

Of grace, of alle honour and worthinesse,

In thende of which streme I am dul as deed,

Forgete in solitarie wildernesse;

Yet, Scogan, thenke on Tullius kindenesse,

Minne thy frend, ther it may fructifye!

Far-wel, and lok thou never est Love defye!

The counseil of Chaucer touching Mariage, which

was sent to Bukton.

My maister Bukton, whan of Criste our kinge

Was axed, what is trouthe or sothfastnesse,

He nat a word answerde to that axinge,

As who saith: 'no man is al trewe,' I gesse.

And therfor, thogh I highte to expresse

The sorwe and wo that is in mariage,

I dar not wryte of hit no wikkednesse,

Lest I my-self falle eft in swich dotage.

I wol nat seyn, how that hit is the cheyne

Of Sathanas, on which he gnaweth ever,

But I dar seyn, were he out of his peyne,

As by his wille, he wolde be bounde never.

But thilke doted fool that est hath lever

Y-cheyned be than out of prisoun crepe,

God lete him never fro his wo dissever,

Ne no man him bewayle, though he wepe.

But yit, lest thou do worse, tak a wyf;

Bet is to wedde, than brenne in worse wyse.

But thou shalt have sorwe on thy flesh, thy lyf,

And been thy wyves thral, as seyn these wyse,

And if that holy writ may nat suffyse,

Experience shal thee teche, so may happe,

That thee were lever to be take in Fryse

Than eft to falle of wedding in the trappe.

Envoy.

This litel writ, proverbes, or figure

I sende you, tak kepe of hit, I rede:

Unwys is he that can no wele endure.

If thou be siker, put thee nat in drede.

The Wyf of Bathe I pray you that ye rede

Of this matere that we have on honde.

God graunte you your lyf frely to lede

In fredom; for ful hard is to be bonde.

Explicit.