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Robert Henryson (Ðîáåðò Õåíðèñîí) Orpheus and Eurydice The nobilnes and grit magnificens Of prince or lord quhai list to magnifie, His ancestre and lineall discens Suld first extoll and his genolegie So that his harte he mycht inclyne thairby The moir to vertew and to worthines Herand rehers his elderis gentilnes. It is contrair the lawis of nature A gentill man to be degenerat, Nocht following of his progenitour The worthe rewll and the lordly estait. A ryall rynk for to be rusticat Is bot a monsture in comparesoun, Had in dispyt and foule derisioun. I say this be the grit lordis of Grew Quhich set thair hairt and all thair haill curage Thair faderis steppis justly to persew Eiking the wirschep of thair he lenage. The ancient and sad wyse men of age Wer tendouris to the yung and insolent To mak thame in all vertewis excellent. Lyk as a strand of watter of a spring Haldis the sapour of the fontell well So did in Grece ilk lord and worthy king, Of forbearis thay tuk tarage and smell Amang the quhilk, of ane I think to tell. Bot first his gentill generatioun I sall rehers with your correctioun. Upone the mountane of Elicone The most famous of all Arrabea, A goddes dwelt, excellent in bewté, Gentill of blude, callit Memoria Quhilk Jupiter that god to wyfe can ta And carnaly hir knew, quhilk eftir syne Apone a day bare him fair dochteris nyne. The first in Grew wes callit Euterpe, In our language, “Gud delectacioun.” The secound maid clippit Melpomyne As “Hony sweit” in modelatioun. Thersycore is “Gud instructioun” Of everything, the thrid sister iwis Thus out of Grew in Latyne translait is. Caliope that madin mervalous The ferd sistir, “Of all musik maistres” And mother to the king ser Orpheous Quhilk throw his wyfe was efter king of Trais, Clio the fyift that now is a goddes In Latyne callit “Meditatioun” Of everything that has creatioun, The sext sister was callit Herato Quhilk “Drawis lyk to lyk” in every thing, The sevint lady was fair Polimio Quhilk cowth a “Thowsand sangis” sweitly sing, Talia syne quhilk can our saulis bring In “Profound wit and grit agilité” Till undirstand and haif capacitie, Urania the nynt and last of all In oure langage quha couth it rycht expound Is callit “Armony celestiall” Rejosing men with melody and sound. Amang thir nyne Calliope wes cround And maid a quene be michty god Phebus Of quhome he gat this prince ser Orpheous. No wondir is thocht he wes fair and wyse, Gentill and full of liberalitie, His fader god and his progenetryse A goddes, finder of all armony. Quhen he wes borne scho set him on hir kne And gart him souk of hir twa paupis quhyte The sweit lecour of all musik perfyte. Incressand sone to manhed up he drew, Of statur large and frely fair of face, His noble fame so far it sprang and grew Till at the last the michty quene of Trace Excellent fair, haboundand in riches, A message send unto this prince so ying Requyrand him to wed hir and be king. Euridices that lady had to name And quhene scho saw this prince so glorius Hir erand to propone scho thocht no schame, With wordis sweit and blenkis amorous Said, “Welcum, lord and lufe ser Orpheus, In this provynce ye salbe king and lord.” Thay kissit syne and thus thay can accord. Betwix Orpheus and fair Erudices Fra thai wer weddit, on fra day to day The low of lufe cowth kyndill and incres With mirth and blythnes, solace and with play. Of wardly joy allace, quhat sall I say, Lyk till a flour that plesandly will spring Quhilk fadis sone and endis with murnyng. I say this be Erudices the quene Quhilk walkit furth into a May mornyng Bot with a madyn in a medow grene To tak the dewe and se the flouris spring, Quhair in a schaw neirby this lady ying A busteous hird callit Arresteus Kepand his beistis lay undir a bus And quhen he saw this lady solitar Bairfut with shankis quhyter than the snaw, Preckit with lust he thocht withoutin mair Hir till oppres and till hir can he draw. Dreidand for scaith, sche fled quhen scho him saw And as scho ran all bairfute in a bus Scho strampit on a serpent vennemus. This cruwall venome was so penetrife As natur is of all mortall pusoun, In peisis small this quenis harte can rife And scho anone fell on a deidly swoun. Seand this cais, Proserpyne maid hir boun, Quhilk clepit is the goddes infernall, Ontill hir court this gentill quene can call And quhen scho vaneist was and unvisible, Hir madyn wepit with a wofull cheir, Cryand with mony schowt and voce terrible Quhill at the last king Orpheus can heir And of hir cry the caus sone cowth he speir. Scho said, “Allace, Erudices your quene Is with the phary tane befoir my ene.” This noble king inflammit all in yre And rampand as a lyoun revanus With awfull luke and ene glowand as fyre Sperid the maner and the maid said thus, “Scho strampit on a serpent venemus And fell on swoun. With that the quene of fary Clawcht hir up sone and furth with hir cowth cary.” Quhen scho had said, the king sichit full soir, His hert neir birst for verry dule and wo, Half out of mynd he maid no tary moir Bot tuk his harp and to the wod cowth go Wrinkand his handis, walkand to and fro Quhill he mycht stand, syne sat doun on a stone And till his harp thusgait he maid his mone, “O dulfull herp with mony dully string Turne all thy mirth and musik in murning And seis of all thy sutell sangis sweit. Now weip with me thy lord and cairfull king Quhilk lossit hes in erd all his lyking And all thy game thow change in gole and greit Thy goldin pynnis with mony teris weit And all my pane foll to report thow preis, Cryand with me in every steid and streit Quhair art thou gone, my luve Ewridices?” Him to rejos yit playit he a spring Quhill that the fowlis of the wid can sing And treis dansit with thair levis grene Him to devoid from his grit womenting Bot all in vane, that vailyeit him nothing, His hairt wes so upoun his lusty quene The bludy teiris sprang out of his ene, Thair wes na solace mycht his sobbing ses Bot cryit ay with cairis cauld and kene, “Quhair art thow gone, my lufe Euridices? “Fairweill my place, fairweill plesance and play And wylcum woddis wyld and wilsum way. My wicket werd in wildirnes to ware, My rob ryell and all my riche array Changit salbe in rude russet and gray, My dyademe intill a hate of hair, My bed salbe with bever, brok, and bair In buskis bene with mony busteous bes, Withowttin sang, sayand with siching sair, ‘Quhair art thow gone, my luve Euridices?’ “I thee beseik, my fair fadir Phebus, Haif pety of thy awin sone Orpheus, Wait thow nocht weill I am thy barne and chyld? Now heir my plaint panefull and peteus, Direk me fro this deid so dolorus Quhilk gois thus withouttin gilt begyld. Lat nocht thy face with cluddis be oursyld, Len me thy lycht and lat me nocht go leis To find that fair in fame that nevir was fyld, My lady quene and lufe Euridices. “O Jupiter, thow god celestiall And grantser to myself, on thee I call To mend my murning and my drery mone, Thow gif me fors that I nocht fant nor fall Till I hir fynd, for seke hir suth I sall And nowther stint nor stand for stok na stone, Throw thy godheid gyde me quhair scho is gone, Gar hir appeir and put my hairt in pes” — King Orpheus thus, with his harp, allone, Soir weipand for his wyfe Euridices. Quhen endit wer thir songis lamentable He tuk his harp and on his breist can hing, Syne passit to the hevin as sayis the fable To seik his wyfe bot that velyeid nothing. By Wedlingis Streit he went but tareing, Syne come doun throw the speir of Saturne ald Quhilk fadir is to all the stormis cald. Quhen scho wes socht outhrow that cauld region, Till Jupiter his grandsyr can he wend Quhilk rewit soir his lamentation And gart his spheir be socht fro end to end. Scho was nocht thair, and doun he can descend Till Mars the god of battell and of stryfe And socht his spheir yit gat he nocht his wyfe. Than went he doun till his fadir Phebus God of the sone with bemis brycht and cleir, Bot quhen he saw his awin son Orpheus In sic a plicht, that changit all his cheir And gart annone ga seik throw all his spheir Bot all in vane, his lady come nocht thair. He tuk his leif and to Venus can fair. Quhen he hir saw, he knelit and said thus, “Wait ye nocht weill I am your awin trew knycht, In luve nane leler than ser Orpheus And ye of luve goddes and most of micht, Of my lady help me to get a sicht.” “Forsuth,” quod scho, “Ye mone seik nedir mair.” Than fra Venus he tuk his leif but mair. Till Mercury but tary is he gone Quhilk callit is the god of eloquens, Bot of his wyfe thair knawlege gat he none. With wofull hairt he passit doun frome thens, Onto the mone he maid no residens. Thus frome the hevin he went on to the erd Yit be the way sum melody he lerd. In his passage amang the planeitis all He hard a hevinly melody and sound Passing all instrumentis musicall Causit be rollyn of the speiris round Quhilk armony throu all this mappamound, Quhill moving seis, unyt perpetuall, Quhilk of this warld Plato the saule can call. Thair leirit he tonis proportionat As duplare, triplare, and emetricus, Emolius and eik the quadruplait, Epogdeus rycht hard and curius. Of all thir sex sweit and delicious, Rycht consonant, fyfe hevinly symphonys Componyt ar, as clerkis can devyse. First diatasserone full sweit iwis And dyapasone semple and dowplait And dyapente componyt with the dys, Thir makis fyve of thre multiplicat. This mirry musik and mellefluat Compleit and full of nummeris od and evin Is causit be the moving of the hevin. Of sik musik to wryt I do bot doit, Thairfoir of this mater a stray I lay For in my lyfe I cowth nevir sing a noit, Bot I will tell how Orpheus tuk the way To seik his wyfe attour the gravis gray, Hungry and cauld our mony wilsum wone Withouttin gyd, he and his harp allone. He passit furth the space of twenty dayis Fer and ful fer and ferrer than I can tell And ay he fand streitis and reddy wayis Till at the last unto the yet of hell He come and thair he fand a porter fell With thre heidis, wes callit Serberus, A hound of hell, a monster mervellus. Than Orpheus began to be agast Quhen he beheld that ugly hellis hound. He tuk his harp and on it playit fast Till at the last throw sweitnes of the sound This dog slepit and fell doun on the ground, Than Orpheus attour his wame in stall And neddirmair he went as ye heir sall. He passit furth ontill a ryvir deip, Our it a brig and on it sisteris thre Quhilk had the entre of the brig to keip. Electo, Megera and Thesaphone Turnit a quheill wes ugly for to se And on it spred a man hecht Exione Rolland about rycht windir wobegone Than Orpheus playd a joly spring, The thre susteris full fast thay fell on sleip, The ugly quheill seisit of hir quhirling, Thus left wes none the entre for to keip, Thane Exione out of the quheill gan creip And stall away and Orpheus annone Without stopping atour the brig is gone, Nocht far frome thyne he come unto a flude Drubly and deip that rathly doun can rin Quhair Tantelus, nakit, full thristy stude And yit the wattir yeid aboif his chin. Quhen he gaipit, thair wald no drop cum in. Quhen he dowkit, the watter wald discend. Thusgat he nocht his thrist to slake no mend. Befoir his face ane naple hang also Fast at his mouth upoun a tolter threde. Quhen he gapit, it rokkit to and fro And fled as it refusit him to feid. Than Orpheus had reuth of his gret neid, He tuk his harp and fast on it can clink. The wattir stud and Tantalus gat drink. Syne our a mure with thornis thik and scherp Wepand allone a wilsum way he went And had nocht bene throw suffrage of his harp With fell pikis he had bene schorne and schent. As he blenkit besyd him on the bent He saw speldit a wonder wofull wycht Nalit full fast and Ticius he hicht And on his breist thair sat a grisly grip Quhilk with his bill his belly throw can boir, Both maw, myddret, hart, lever, and trip He ruggit out, his panis war the moir. Quhen Orpheus thus saw him suffir soir, He tuke his herp and maid sweit melody,nobr> The grip is fled and Ticius left his cry. Beyond this mure he fand a feirfull streit Myrk as the nycht, to pas rycht dengerus, For sliddrenes skant mycht he hald his feit, In quhilk thair wes a stynk rycht odius That gydit him to hiddous hellis hous Quhair Rodomantus and Proserpina Wer king and quene, and Orpheus in can ga. O dully place and grundles deip dungeoun, Furnes of fyre with stink intollerable, Pit of dispair without remissioun, Thy meit vennome, thy drink is pusonable, Thy grit panis to compt unnumerable, Quhat creature cumis to dwell in thee Is ay deand and nevirmoir may de. Thair fand he mony cairfull king and quene With croun on heid of brass full hate birnand Quhilk in thair lyfe rycht maisterfull had bene, And conquerouris of gold, riches, and land. Hectore of Troy and Priame thair he fand And Alexander for his wrang conqueist, Antiochus als for his foull incest, And Julius Cesar for his crewaltie And Herod with his brudiris wyfe he saw And Nero for his grit iniquitie And Pilot for his breking of the law, Syne undir that he lukit and cowth knaw Cresus that king, none mychtiar on mold, For cuvatyse yet full of birnand gold. Thair saw he Pharo for oppressioun Of Godis folk, on quhilk the plaigis fell, And Sawll eke for the grit abusioun Of justice to the folk of Israell, Thair saw he Acob and quene Jesabell Quhilk silly Nabot that wes a propheit trew For his wyne yaird withouttin mercy slew. Thair saw he mony paip and cardynall In haly kirk quhilk dois abusioun And archbischopis in thair pontificall Be symonie and wrang intrusioun, Abbottis and men of all religioun For evill disponyng of thair placis rent In flame of fyre wer bittirly torment. Syne neddirmair he went quhair Pluto was And Proserpyne and hiddirwart he drew Ay playand on his harp quhair he cowth pas Till at the last Erudices he knew Lene and deidlyk, peteous and paill of hew, Rycht warsche and wane and walluid as the weid, Hir lilly lyre was lyk unto the leid. Quod he, “My lady leill and my delyt, Full wo is me till se yow changit thus. Quhair is your rude as ros with cheikis quhyte, Your cristell ene with blenkis amorus, Your lippis reid to kis delicius?” Quod scho, “As now I der nocht tell perfay Bot ye sall wit the caus ane uther day.” Quod Pluto, “Ser, thocht scho be lyk ane elf, Scho hes no caus to plenye and for quhy Scho fairis alsweill daylie as dois myself Or king Herod for all his chevelry. It is langour that putis hir in sic ply. War scho at hame in hir cuntré of Trace, Scho wald refete ful sone in fax and face.” Than Orpheus befoir Pluto sat doun And in his handis quhit his herp can ta And playit mony sweit proportioun With bais tonis in ypodorica, With gemilling in yporlerica, Quhill at the last for rewth and grit petie Thay weipit soir that cowth him heir and se. Than Proserpene and Pluto bad him as His waresoun and he wald haif rycht nocht Bot licience with his wyfe away to pas To his cuntré, that he so far had soucht. Quod Proserpyne, “Sen I hir hiddir brocht We sall nocht pairte without conditioun.” Quod he, “Thairto I mak promissioun.” “Euridices than be the hand thow tak And pas thi way, bot undirneth this pane, Gife thou turnis or blenkis behind thy bak, We sall hir haif to hell forevir agane.” Thocht this was hard, yit Orpheus was fane And on thay went talkand of play and sport Till thay almost come to the outwart port. Thus Orpheus, with inwart lufe repleit, So blindit was with grit effectioun, Pensyfe in hart apone his lady sweit, Remembrit nocht his hard conditioun. Quhat will ye moir, in schort conclusioun, He blent bakwart and Pluto come annone And onto hell with hir agane is gone. Allace it was grete hartsare for to heir Of Orpheus the weping and the wo How his lady that he had bocht so deir Bot for a luk so sone wes tane him fro. Flatlingis he fell and micht no fordir go And lay a quhile in swoun and extasy. Quhen he ourcome, thus out on lufe can cry, “Quhat art thou, luve, how sall I thee defyne? Bittir and sweit, crewall and merciable, Plesand to sum, to uthir plent and pyne, Till sum constant, to uthir variable, Hard is thy law, thy bandis unbrekable, Quho servis thee, thocht thay be nevir sa trew, Perchance sumtyme thay sall haif caus to rew. “Now find I weill this proverb trew,” quod he, Hart on the hurd and handis on the soir, Quhair luve gois, on fors mone turne the e. I am expart and wo is me tharfoir. Bot for a luke my lady is forloir.” Thus chydand on with luve our burne and bent A wofull wedo hamewart is he went. Moralitas Now wirthy folk, Boece that senatour To wryt this fenyeit fable tuk in cure In his gay buke of Consolatioun For our doctrene and gud instructioun Quhilk in the self suppois it fenyeid be And hid undir the cloik of poesie, Yit maister Trivat, doctour Nicholas, Quhilk in his tyme a noble theologe was Applyis it to gud moralitie, Rycht full of fruct and seriositie. Fair Phebus is the god of sapience, Caliope his wyfe is eloquence, Thir twa mareit gat Orpheus belyfe, Quhilk callit is the pairte intellective Of manis saule and undirstanding, fre And seperat fra sensualitie. Euridices is oure effectioun Be fantesy oft movit up and doun, Quhile to ressone it castis the delyte, Quhyle to the flesche it settis the appetyte. Arestius, this herd that cowth persew Euridices, is nocht bot gud vertew That bissy is to keip our myndis clene Bot quhen we fle outthrow the medow grene Fra vertew till this warldis vane plesans, Myngit with cair and full of variance, The serpent stangis that is the deidly sin That posownis the saule without and in, And than is deid and eik oppressit doun Till wardly lust all our affectioun. Thane perfyte reson weipis wondir sair, Seand thusgait our appetyte misfair And to the hevin he passis up belyfe, Schawand to us the lyfe contemplatyfe, The perfyte will and eik the fervent luve We suld haif allway to the hevin abuve, Bot seildin thair our appetyte is fundin, It is so fast within the body bundin, Thairfoir dounwart we cast our myndis e, Blindit with lust and may nocht upwartis fle. Sould our desyre be socht up in the spheiris Quhen it is tedderit in thir warldly breiris, Quhyle on the flesch, quhyle on this warldis wrak, And to the hevin small intent we tak. Schir Orpheus, thow seikis all in vane Thy wyfe so he, tharfoir cum doun agane And pas unto the monster mervellus With thre heidis that we call Cerberus Quhilk fenyeid is to haif so mony heidis For to betakin thre maner of deidis. The first is in the tendir yong bernage, The secound deid is in the middill age, The thrid is in greit eild quhen men ar tane. Thus Cerberus to swelly sparis nane, Bot quhen our mynd is myngit with sapience And plais upoun the herp of eloquence, That is to say, makis persuasioun To draw our will and our affectioun In every eild fra syn and fowll delyte, The dog our sawll na power hes to byte. The secound monstour ar the sistiris thre, Electo, Migera, and Thesaphany. Ar nocht ellis, in bukis as we reid, Bot wicket thoucht, ill word and thrawart deid: Electo is the bolling of the harte, Mygera is the wikkit word outwert, Thesaphony is operatioun That makis fynall executioun Of deidly syn, and thir thre turnis ay The ugly quheill, quhilk is nocht ellis to say Bot warldly men sumtyme ar cassin he Upone the quheill in gret prosperitie And with a quhirle onwarly or thai wait Ar thrawin doun to pure and law estait. Of Exione that on the quheill was spred I sall yow tell sum part as I haif red. He was of lyfe brukle and lecherous And in that craft hardy and curagus That he wald luve into no lawar place Bot Juno, quene of nature and goddace, And on a day he went upon the sky And socht Juno, thinkand with hir to ly. Scho saw him cum and knew his foull entent. A rany clud doun fra the firmament Scho gart discend and kest betwix thaim two And in that clud his natur yeid him fro, Of quhilk was generat the sentowris, Half man, half hors, upoun a ferly wis. Thane for the inwart crabing and offens That Juno tuke for his grit violens, Scho send him doun unto the sistiris thre Upone a quheill ay turnyt for to be. Bot quhen ressoun and perfyte sapience Playis upone the herp of eloquens And persuadis our fleschly appetyte To leif the thocht of this warldly delyte, Than seisis of our hert the wicket will, Fra frawart language than the tong is still, Our synfull deidis fallis doun on sleip. Thane Exione out of the quheill gan creip, That is to say the grit solicitud, Quhyle up quhyle doun, to win this warldis gud Seisis furthwith and our affectioun Waxis quiet in contemplatioun. This Tantalus of quhome I spak of aire, Quhill he levit he was a gay ostlaire, And on a nycht come travilland thairby The god of riches and tuk harbery With Tantalus, and he till his supper Slew his awin sone that was hym leif and deir, And gart the god eit up his flesche ilk deill Intill a sew with spycis soddin weill. For this dispyt quhen he was deid annone Was dampnit in the flud of Acherone Till suffer hungir, thrist, nakit and cawld, Rycht wobegone as I befoir haif tould. This hungry man and thristy, Tantalus, Betaknis men gredy and covetous, The god of riches that ar ay reddy For to ressaif and tak in herbery And till him seith thair sone in pecis small, That is thair flesch and blud, with grit travell To fill the bag and nevir fynd in thair hairt Upoun thameself to spend nor tak thair pairte. Allace in erd quhair is thare mair foly Than for to want and haif haboundantly, Till haif distresse on bak, on bed and burd And spair till othir men of gold a hurd And in the nycht sleip soundly thay may nocht, To gaddir geir so gredy is thair thocht. Bot quhen that ressoun and intelligence Smytis upoun the herp of conscience, Schawand to us quhat perrell on ilk syd That thai incur quhay will trest or confyd Into this warldis vane prosperitie Quhilk hes thir sory properteis thre, That is to say, gottin with grit labour, Keipit with dreid and tynt with grit dolour. This avaris be grace quha undirstud I trow suld leif thair grit solicitude Of ythand thochtis and he besines To gaddir gold, syne leif in distres, Bot he suld eit and drink quhenevir he list Of cuvatyse to slaik the birnand thrist. This Ticius lay nalit on the bent And wyth the grip his bowellis revin and rent, Quhill he levit set his intentioun To find the craft of divinatioun And lerit it unto the spamen all To tell befoir sic thingis as wald befall, Quhat lyfe, quhat deth, quhat destany and werd Provydit ware to every man on erd. Appollo than for his abusioun, Quhilk is the god of divinatioun, For he usurpit in his facultie, Put him to hell and thair remanis he. Ilk man that heiris this conclusioun Suld dreid to sers be constillatioun Thingis to fall undir the firmament, Till “Ye” or “Na,” quhilk ar indefferent Without profixit causis and certane, Quhilk nane in erd may knaw bot God allane. Quhen Orpheus upoun his harp can play, That is our undirstanding for to say, Cryis, “O man, recleme thi folich harte! Will thow be god and tak on the his pairte, To tell thingis to cum that nevir wil be Quhilk God hes kepit in his prevetie? Thow ma no mair offend to God of micht Na with thi spaying reif fra him his richt.” This perfyte wisdome with his melody Fleyis the spreit of fenyeid profecy And drawis upwart our affectioun. . . . Fra wichcraft, spaying, and sorsery, And superstitioun of astrolegy, Saif allanerly sic maner of thingis Quhilk upoun trew and certane causis hingis, The quhilk mone cum, to thair caus indure, On verry fors and nocht throw avanture, As is the clippis and the conjunctioun Of sone and mone be calculatioun, The quhilk ar fundin in trew astronomy Be moving of the speiris in the sky. All thir to speik it may be tollerable And none udir quhilk no causis stable. This ugly way, this myrk and dully streit Is nocht ellis bot blinding of the spreit With myrk cluddis and myst of ignorance, Affetterrit in this warldis vane plesance And bissines of temporalite. To kene the self a styme it may nocht se, For stammeris on eftir effectioun. Fra ill to war ale thus to hell gois doun, That is wanhowp throw lang hanting of syn And fowll dispair that mony fallis in. Than Orpheus our ressoun is full wo And twichis on his harp and biddis “Ho,” Till our desyre and fulich appetyte Bidis leif this warldis full delyte. Than Pluto god, and quene of hellis fyre, Mone grant to ressoun on fors the desyre. Than Orpheus has wone Euridices Quhen oure desyre with ressoun makis pes And seikis up to contemplatioun, Of syn detestand the abusioun, Bot ilk man suld be wyse and warly se That he bakwart cast nocht his myndis e Gifand consent and delectatioun Of fleschly lust for the affectioun, For thane gois bakwart to the syn agane, Our appetyte as it befoir was, slane In warldly lust and vane prosperite, And makis ressoun wedow for to be. Now pray we God sen our affectioun Is allway promp and reddy to fall doun That he wald undirput his haly hand Of mantenans and gife us fors to stand In perfyte lufe as he is glorius And thus endis the taill of Orpheus. Robert Henryson's other poems:
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