Poems by Themes
The Rating of Poets The Rating of Poems
Poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
The Boke of the Duchesse
The Proem I have gret wonder, be this lighte, How that I live, for day ne nighte I may nat slepe wel nigh noght, I have so many an ydel thoght Purely for defaute of slepe That, by my trouthe, I take no kepe Of no-thing, how hit cometh or goth, Ne me nis no-thing leef nor loth. Al is y-liche good to me Ioye or sorowe, wherso hyt be For I have feling in no-thinge, But, as it were, a mased thing, Alway in point to falle a-doun; For sorwful imaginacioun Is alway hoolly in my minde. And wel ye wite, agaynes kynde Hit were to liven in this wyse; For nature wolde nat suffyse To noon erthely creature Not longe tyme to endure Withoute slepe, and been in sorwe; And I ne may, ne night ne morwe, Slepe; and thus melancolye And dreed I have for to dye, Defaute of slepe and hevinesse Hath sleyn my spirit of quiknesse, That I have lost al lustihede. Suche fantasies ben in myn hede So I not what is best to do. But men myght axe me, why soo I may not slepe, and what me is? But natheles, who aske this Leseth his asking trewely. My-selven can not telle why The sooth; but trewely, as I gesse, I holde hit be a siknesse That I have suffred this eight yere, And yet my bote is never the nere; For ther is phisicien but oon, That may me hele; but that is doon. Passe we over until eft; That wil not be, moot nede be left; Our first matere is good to kepe. So whan I saw I might not slepe, Til now late, this other night, Upon my bedde I sat upright And bad oon reche me a book, A romaunce, and he hit me took To rede and dryve the night away; For me thoghte it better play Then playen either at chesse or tables. And in this boke were writen fables That clerkes hadde, in olde tyme, And other poets, put in ryme To rede, and for to be in minde Whyl men loved the lawe of kinde. This book ne spak but of such thinges, Of quenes lyves, and of kinges, And many othere thinges smale. Amonge al this I fond a tale That me thoughte a wonder thing. This was the tale: There was a king That hight Seys, and hadde a wyf, The beste that mighte bere lyf; And this quene hight Alcyone. So hit befel, therafter sone, This king wolde wenden over see. To tellen shortly, whan that he Was in the see, thus in this wyse, Soche a tempest gan to ryse That brak hir mast, and made it falle, And clefte her ship, and dreinte hem alle, That never was founden, as it telles, Bord ne man, ne nothing elles. Right thus this king Seys loste his lyf. Now for to speken of his wife: This lady, that was left at home, Hath wonder, that the king ne come Hoom, for hit was a longe terme. Anon her herte gan to erme; And for that hir thoughte evermo Hit was not wel he dwelte so, She longed so after the king That certes, hit were a pitous thing To telle hir hertely sorwful lyf That hadde, alas! this noble wyfe; For him she loved alderbest. Anon she sente bothe eest and west To seke him, but they founde nought. `Alas!' quoth she, `that I was wrought! And wher my lord, my love, be deed? Certes, I nil never ete breed, I make a-vowe to my god here, But I mowe of my lord here!' Such sorwe this lady to her took That trewely I, which made this book, Had swich pite and swich rowthe To rede hir sorwe, that, by my trowthe, I ferde the worse al the morwe After, to thenken on her sorwe. So whan she coude here no word That no man mighte fynde hir lord, Ful ofte she swouned, and saide `Alas!' For sorwe ful nigh wood she was, Ne she coude no reed but oon; But doun on knees she sat anoon, And weep, that pite was to here. `A! mercy! swete lady dere!' Quod she to Iuno, hir goddesse; `Help me out of this distresse, And yeve me grace my lord to see Sone, or wite wher-so he be, Or how he fareth, or in what wyse, And I shal make you sacrifyse, And hoolly youres become I shal With good wil, body, herte, and al; And but thou wilt this, lady swete, Send me grace to slepe, and mete In my slepe som certeyn sweven, Wher-through that I may knowen even Whether my lord be quik or deed.' With that word she heng doun the heed, And fil a-swown as cold as ston; Hir women caught her up anon, And broghten hir in bed al naked, And she, forweped and forwaked, Was wery, and thus the dede sleep Fil on hir, or she toke keep, Through Iuno, that had herd hir bone, That made hir to slepe sone; For as she prayde, so was don, In dede; for Iuno, right anon, Called thus her messagere To do her erande, and he com nere. Whan he was come, she bad him thus: `Go bet,' quod Iuno, `to Morpheus, Thou knowest hym wel, the god of sleep; Now understond wel, and tak keep. Sey thus on my halfe, that he Go faste into the grete see, And bid him that, on alle thing, He take up Seys body the king, That lyth ful pale and no-thing rody. Bid him crepe into the body, Aud do it goon to Alcyone The quene, ther she lyth alone, And shewe hir shortly, hit is no nay, How hit was dreynt this other day; And do the body speke so Right as hit was wont to do, The whyles that hit was on lyve. Go now faste, and hy thee blyve!' This messager took leve and wente Upon his wey, and never ne stente Til he com to the derke valeye That stant bytwene roches tweye, Ther never yet grew corn ne gras, Ne tree, ne nothing that ought was, Beste, ne man, ne nothing elles, Save ther were a fewe welles Came renning fro the cliffes adoun, That made a deedly sleping soun, And ronnen doun right by a cave That was under a rokke y-grave Amid the valey, wonder depe. Ther thise goddes laye and slepe, Morpheus, and Eclympasteyre, That was the god of slepes heyre, That slepe and did non other werk. This cave was also as derk As helle pit over-al aboute; They had good leyser for to route To envye, who might slepe beste; Some henge hir chin upon hir breste And slepe upright, hir heed y-hed, And some laye naked in hir bed, And slepe whyles the dayes laste. This messager come flying faste, And cryed, `O ho! awake anon!' Hit was for noght; ther herde him non. `Awak!' quod he, `who is, lyth there?' And blew his horn right in hir ere, And cryed `awaketh!' wonder hye. This god of slepe, with his oon ye Cast up, axed, `who clepeth there?' `Hit am I,' quod this messagere; `Iuno bad thou shuldest goon' And tolde him what he shulde doon As I have told yow here-tofore; Hit is no need reherse hit more; And wente his wey, whan he had sayd. Anon this god of slepe a-brayd Out of his slepe, and gan to goon, And did as he had bede him doon; Took up the dreynte body sone, And bar hit forth to Alcyone, His wif the quene, ther-as she lay, Right even a quarter before day, And stood right at hir beddes fete, And called hir, right as she hete, By name, and sayde, `my swete wyf, Awak! let be your sorwful lyf! For in your sorwe there lyth no reed; For certes, swete, I nam but deed; Ye shul me never on lyve y-see. But good swete herte, look that ye Bury my body, at whiche a tyde Ye mowe hit finde the see besyde; And far-wel, swete, my worldes blisse! I praye god your sorwe lisse; To litel whyl our blisse lasteth!' With that hir eyen up she casteth, And saw noght; `A!' quod she, `for sorwe!' And deyed within the thridde morwe. But what she sayde more in that swow I may not telle yow as now, Hit were to longe for to dwelle; My first matere I wil yow telle, Wherfor I have told this thing Of Alcione and Seys the king. For thus moche dar I saye wel, I had be dolven everydel, And deed, right through defaute of sleep, If I nad red and taken keep Of this tale next before: And I wol telle yow wherfore: For I ne might, for bote ne bale, Slepe, or I had red this tale Of this dreynte Seys the king, And of the goddes of sleping. Whan I had red this tale wel And over-loked hit everydel, Me thoughte wonder if hit were so; For I had never herd speke, or tho, Of no goddes that coude make Men for to slepe, ne for to wake; For I ne knew never god but oon. And in my game I sayde anoon And yet me list right evel to pleye `Rather then that I shulde deye Through defaute of sleping thus, I wolde yive thilke Morpheus, Or his goddesse, dame Iuno, Or som wight elles, I ne roghte who To make me slepe and have som reste I wil yive him the alder-beste Yift that ever he aboode his lyve, And here on warde, right now, as blyve; If he wol make me slepe a lyte, Of downe of pure dowves whyte I wil yive him a fether-bed, Rayed with golde, and right wel cled In fyn blak satin doutremere, And many a pilow, and every bere Of clothe of Reynes, to slepe softe; Him thar not nede to turnen ofte. And I wol yive him al that falles To a chambre; and al his halles I wol do peynte with pure golde, And tapite hem ful many folde Of oo sute; this shal he have, Yf I wiste wher were his cave, If he can make me slepe sone, As did the goddesse Alcione. And thus this ilke god, Morpheus, May winne of me mo fees thus Than ever he wan; and to Iuno, That is his goddesse, I shal so do, I trow that she shal holde her payd.' I hadde unneth that word y-sayd Right thus as I have told hit yow, That sodeynly, I niste how, Swich a lust anoon me took To slepe, that right upon my book I fil aslepe, and therwith even Me mette so inly swete a sweven, So wonderful, that never yit I trowe no man hadde the wit To conne wel my sweven rede; No, not Ioseph, withoute drede, Of Egipte, he that redde so The kinges meting Pharao, No more than coude the leste of us; Ne nat scarsly Macrobeus, (He that wroot al thavisioun That he mette, Kyng Scipioun, The noble man, the Affrican Swiche marvayles fortuned than) I trowe, a-rede my dremes even. Lo, thus hit was, this was my sweven. The Dream Me thoughte thus: that hit was May, And in the dawning ther I lay, Me mette thus, in my bed al naked: I loked forth, for I was waked With smale foules a gret hepe, That had affrayed me out of slepe Through noyse and swetnesse of hir song; And, as me mette, they sate among, Upon my chambre-roof withoute, Upon the tyles, al a-boute, And songen, everich in his wise, The moste solempne servyse By note, that ever man, I trowe, Had herd; for som of hem song lowe, Som hye, and al of oon acorde. To telle shortly, at oo worde, Was never y-herd so swete a steven, But hit had be a thing of heven; So mery a soun, so swete entunes, That certes, for the toune of Tewnes, I nolde but I had herd hem singe, For al my chambre gan to ringe Through singing of hir armonye. For instrument nor melodye Was nowher herd yet half so swete, Nor of acorde half so mete; For ther was noon of hem that feyned To singe, for ech of hem him peyned To finde out mery crafty notes; They ne spared not hir throtes. And, sooth to seyn, my chambre was Ful wel depeynted, and with glas Were al the windowes wel y-glased, Ful clere, and nat an hole y-crased, That to beholde hit was gret Ioye. For hoolly al the storie of Troye Was in the glasing y-wroght thus, Of Ector and of king Priamus, Of Achilles and king Lamedon, Of Medea and of Iason, Of Paris, Eleyne, and Lavyne. And alle the walles with colours fyne Were peynted, bothe text and glose, Of al the Romaunce of the Rose. My windowes weren shet echon, And through the glas the sunne shon Upon my bed with brighte bemes, With many glade gilden stremes; And eek the welken was so fair, Blew, bright, clere was the air, And ful atempre, for sothe, hit was; For nother cold nor hoot hit nas, Ne in al the welken was a cloude. And as I lay thus, wonder loude Me thoughte I herde an hunte blowe Tassaye his horn, and for to knowe Whether hit were clere or hors of soune. I herde goinge, up and doune, Men, hors, houndes, and other thing; And al men speken of hunting, How they wolde slee the hert with strengthe, And how the hert had, upon lengthe, So moche embosed,I not now what. Anon-right, whan I herde that, How that they wolde on hunting goon, I was right glad, and up anoon; I took my hors, and forth I wente Out of my chambre; I never stente Til I com to the feld withoute. Ther overtook I a gret route Of huntes and eek of foresteres, With many relayes and lymeres, And hyed hem to the forest faste, And I with hem; so at the laste I asked oon, ladde a lymere: `Say, felow, who shal hunten here' Quod I, and he answerde ageyn, `Sir, themperour Octovien,' Quod he, `and is heer faste by.' `A goddes halfe, in good tyme,' quod I, `Go we faste!' and gan to ryde. Whan we came to the forest-syde, Every man dide, right anoon, As to hunting fil to doon. The mayster-hunte anoon, fot-hoot, With a gret horne blew three moot At the uncoupling of his houndes. Within a whyl the hert y-founde is, Y-halowed, and rechased faste Longe tyme; and so at the laste, This hert rused and stal away Fro alle the houndes a prevy way. The houndes had overshote hem alle, And were on a defaute y-falle; Therwith the hunte wonder faste Blew a forloyn at the laste. I was go walked fro my tree, And as I wente, ther cam by me A whelp, that fauned me as I stood, That hadde y-folowed, and coude no good. Hit com and creep to me as lowe, Right as hit hadde me y-knowe, Hild doun his heed and Ioyned his eres, And leyde al smothe doun his heres. I wolde han caught hit, and anoon Hit fledde, and was fro me goon; And I him folwed, and hit forth wente Doun by a floury grene wente Ful thikke of gras, ful softe and swete, With floures fele, faire under fete, And litel used, hit seemed thus; For bothe Flora and Zephirus, They two that make floures growe, Had mad hir dwelling ther, I trowe; For hit was, on to beholde, As thogh the erthe envye wolde To be gayer than the heven, To have mo floures, swiche seven As in the welken sterres be. Hit had forgete the povertee That winter, through his colde morwes, Had mad hit suffren, and his sorwes; Al was forgeten, and that was sene. For al the wode was waxen grene, Swetnesse of dewe had mad it waxe. Hit is no need eek for to axe Wher ther were many grene greves, Or thikke of trees, so ful of leves; And every tree stood by him-selve Fro other wel ten foot or twelve. So grete trees, so huge of strengthe, Of fourty or fifty fadme lengthe, Clene withoute bough or stikke, With croppes brode, and eek as thikke They were nat an inche a-sonder That hit was shadwe over-al under; And many an hert and many an hinde Was both before me and bihinde. Of founes, soures, bukkes, does Was ful the wode, and many roes, And many squirelles that sete Ful hye upon the trees, and ete, And in hir maner made festes. Shortly, hit was so ful of bestes, That thogh Argus, the noble countour, Sete to rekene in his countour, And rekened with his figures ten For by tho figures mowe al ken, If they be crafty, rekene and noumbre, And telle of every thing the noumbre Yet shulde he fayle to rekene even The wondres, me mette in my sweven. But forth they romed wonder faste Doun the wode; so at the laste I was war of a man in blak, That sat and had y-turned his bak To an oke, an huge tree. `Lord,' thoghte I, `who may that be? What ayleth him to sitten here?' Anoon-right I wente nere; Than fond I sitte even upright A wonder wel-faringe knight By the maner me thoughte so Of good mochel, and yong therto, Of the age of four and twenty yeer. Upon his berde but litel heer, And he was clothed al in blakke. I stalked even unto his bakke, And ther I stood as stille as ought, That, sooth to saye, he saw me nought, For-why he heng his heed adoune. And with a deedly sorwful soune He made of ryme ten vers or twelve Of a compleynt to him-selve, The moste pite, the moste rowthe, That ever I herde; for, by my trowthe, Hit was gret wonder that nature Might suffren any creature To have swich sorwe, and be not deed. Ful pitous, pale, and nothing reed, He sayde a lay, a maner song, Withoute note, withoute song, And hit was this; for wel I can Reherse hit; right thus hit began. `I have of sorwe so grete woon, That Ioye gete I never noon, Now that I see my lady bright, Which I have loved with al my might, Is fro me dedd, and is a-goon. And thus in sorwe lefte me alone. `Allas, o deeth! what ayleth thee, That thou noldest have taken me, `Whan that thou toke my lady swete? That was so fayr, so fresh, so free, So good, that men may wel y-see `Of al goodnesse she had no mete!' Whan he had mad thus his complaynte, His sorowful herte gan faste faynte, And his spirites wexen dede; The blood was fled, for pure drede, Doun to his herte, to make him warm For wel hit feled the herte had harm To wite eek why hit was a-drad, By kinde, and for to make hit glad; For hit is membre principal Of the body; and that made al His hewe chaunge and wexe grene And pale, for no blood was sene In no maner lime of his. Anoon therwith whan I saw this, He ferde thus evel ther he sete, I wente and stood right at his fete, And grette him, but he spak noght, But argued with his owne thoght, And in his witte disputed faste Why and how his lyf might laste; Him thoughte his sorwes were so smerte And lay so colde upon his herte; So, through his sorwe and hevy thoght, Made him that he ne herde me noght; For he had wel nigh lost his minde, Thogh Pan, that men clepe god of kinde, Were for his sorwes never so wrooth. But at the laste, to sayn right sooth, He was war of me, how I stood Before him, and dide of myn hood, And grette him, as I best coude. Debonairly, and no-thing loude, He sayde, `I prey thee, be not wrooth, I herde thee not, to sayn the sooth, Ne I saw thee not, sir, trewely.' `A! goode sir, no fors,' quod I, `I am right sory if I have ought Destroubled yow out of your thought; For-yive me if I have mis-take.' `Yis, thamendes is light to make,' Quod he, `for ther lyth noon ther-to; Ther is no-thing missayd nor do,' Lo! how goodly spak this knight, As it had been another wight; He made it nouther tough ne queynte And I saw that, and gan me aqueynte With him, and fond him so tretable, Right wonder skilful and resonable, As me thoghte, for al his bale. Anoon-right I gan finde a tale To him, to loke wher I might ought Have more knowing of his thought. `Sir,' quod I, `this game is doon; I holde that this hert be goon; Thise huntes conne him nowher see.' `I do no fors therof,' quod he, `My thought is ther-on never a del.' `By our lord,' quod I, `I trow yow wel, Right so me thinketh by your chere. But, sir, oo thing wol ye here? Me thinketh, in gret sorwe I yow see; But certes, good sir, yif that ye Wolde ought discure me your wo, I wolde, as wis god help me so, Amende hit, yif I can or may; Ye mowe preve hit by assay. For, by my trouthe, to make yow hool, I wol do al my power hool; And telleth me of your sorwes smerte, Paraventure hit may ese your herte, That semeth ful seke under your syde.' With that he loked on me asyde, As who sayth, `Nay, that wol not be.' `Graunt mercy, goode frend,' quod he, `I thanke thee that thou woldest so, But hit may never the rather be do, No man may my sorwe glade, That maketh my hewe to falle and fade, And hath myn understonding lorn, That me is wo that I was born! May noght make my sorwes slyde, Nought the remedies of Ovyde; Ne Orpheus, god of melodye, Ne Dedalus, with playes slye; Ne hele me may phisicien, Noght Ypocras, ne Galien; Me is wo that I live houres twelve; But who so wol assaye him-selve Whether his herte can have pite Of any sorwe, lat him see me. I wrecche, that deeth hath mad al naked Of alle blisse that ever was maked, Y-worthe worste of alle wightes, That hate my dayes and my nightes; My lyf, my lustes be me lothe, For al welfare and I be wrothe. The pure deeth is so my fo Thogh I wolde deye, hit wolde not so; For whan I folwe hit, hit wol flee; I wolde have hit, hit nil not me. This is my peyne withoute reed, Alway deinge and be not deed, That Sesiphus, that lyth in helle, May not of more sorwe telle. And who so wiste al, be my trouthe, My sorwe, but he hadde routhe And pite of my sorwes smerte, That man hath a feendly herte. For who so seeth me first on morwe May seyn, he hath y-met with sorwe; For I am sorwe and sorwe is I. `Allas! and I wol telle the why; My song is turned to pleyning, And al my laughter to weping, My glade thoghtes to hevinesse, In travaile is myn ydelnesse And eek my reste; my wele is wo, My goode is harm, and ever-mo In wrathe is turned my pleying, And my delyt in-to sorwing. Myn hele is turned into seeknesse, In drede is al my sikernesse. To derke is turned al my light, My wit is foly, my day is night, My love is hate, my sleep waking, My mirthe and meles is fasting, My countenaunce is nycete, And al abaved wher-so I be, My pees, in pleding and in werre; Allas! how mighte I fare werre? `My boldnesse is turned to shame, For fals Fortune hath pleyd a game Atte ches with me, allas! the whyle! The trayteresse fals and ful of gyle, That al behoteth and no-thing halt, She goth upryght and yet she halt, That baggeth foule and loketh faire, The dispitouse debonaire, That scorneth many a creature! An ydole of fals portraiture Is she, for she wil sone wryen; She is the monstres heed y-wryen, As filth over y-strawed with floures; Hir moste worship and hir flour is To lyen, for that is hir nature; Withoute feyth, lawe, or mesure. She is fals; and ever laughinge With oon eye, and that other wepinge. That is broght up, she set al doun. I lykne hir to the scorpioun, That is a fals, flateringe beste; For with his hede he maketh feste, But al amid his flateringe With his tayle he wol stinge, And envenyme; and so wol she. She is thenvyouse charite That is ay fals, and seemeth wele, So turneth she hir false whele Aboute, for it is no-thing stable, Now by the fyre, now at table; Ful many oon hath she thus y-blent; She is pley of enchauntement, That semeth oon and is not so, The false theef! what hath she do, Trowest thou? By our lord, I wol thee seye. Atte ches with me she gan to pleye; With hir false draughtes divers She stal on me, and took my fers. And whan I saw my fers aweye, Alas! I couthe no lenger playe, But seyde, "Farewel, swete, y-wis, And farwel al that ever ther is!" Therwith Fortune seyde, "Chek here!" And "Mate!" in mid pointe of the chekkere With a poune erraunt, allas! Ful craftier to pley she was Than Athalus, that made the game First of the ches: so was his name. But God wolde I had ones or twyes Y-koud and knowe the Ieupardyes That coude the Grek Pithagores! I shulde have pleyd the bet at ches, And kept my fers the bet therby; And thogh wherto? for trewely, I hold that wish nat worth a stree! Hit had be never the bet for me. For Fortune can so many a wyle, Ther be but fewe can hir begyle, And eek she is the las to blame; My-self I wolde have do the same, Before god, hadde I been as she; She oghte the more excused be. For this I say yet more therto, Hadde I be god and mighte have do My wille, whan she my fers caughte, I wolde have drawe the same draughte. For, also wis god yive me reste, I dar wel swere she took the beste! `But through that draughte I have lorn My blisse; allas! that I was born! For evermore, I trowe trewly, For al my wil, my lust hoolly Is turned; but yet what to done? Be oure lord, hit is to deye sone; For no-thing I ne leve it noght, But live and deye right in this thoght. There nis planete in firmament, Ne in air, ne in erthe, noon element, That they ne yive me a yift echoon Of weping, whan I am aloon. For whan that I avyse me wel, And bethenke me every-del, How that ther lyth in rekening, In my sorwe for no-thing; And how ther leveth no gladnesse May gladde me of my distresse, And how I have lost suffisance, And therto I have no plesance, Than may I say, I have right noght. And whan al this falleth in my thoght, Allas! than am I overcome! For that is doon is not to come! I have more sorowe than Tantale.' And whan I herde him telle this tale Thus pitously, as I yow telle, Unnethe mighte I lenger dwelle, Hit dide myn hert so moche wo. `A! good sir!' quod I, `say not so! Have som pite on your nature That formed yow to creature, Remembre yow of Socrates; For he ne counted nat three strees Of noght that Fortune coude do.` `No,' quod he, `I can not so.' `Why so? good sir! parde!' quod I; `Ne say noght so, for trewely, Thogh ye had lost the ferses twelve, And ye for sorwe mordred your-selve, Ye sholde be dampned in this cas By as good right as Medea was, That slow hir children for Iason; And Phyllis als for Demophon Heng hir-self, so weylaway! For he had broke his terme-day To come to hir. Another rage Had Dydo, quene eek of Cartage, That slow hir-self for Eneas Was fals; a whiche a fool she was! And Ecquo dyed for Narcisus. Nolde nat love hir; and right thus Hath many another foly don. And for Dalida died Sampson, That slow him-self with a pilere. But ther is noon a-lyve here Wolde for a fers make this wo!' `Why so?' quod he; `hit is nat so, Thou woste ful litel what thou menest; I have lost more than thow wenest.' `Lo, sir, how may that be?' quod I; `Good sir, tel me al hoolly In what wyse, how, why, and wherfore That ye have thus your blisse lore,' `Blythly,' quod he, `com sit adoun, I telle thee up condicioun That thou hoolly, with al thy wit, Do thyn entent to herkene hit.' `Yis, sir.' `Swere thy trouthe ther-to.' `Gladly.' `Do than holde her-to!' `I shal right blythly, so god me save, Hoolly, with al the witte I have, Here yow, as wel as I can,' `A goddes half!' quod he, and began: `Sir,' quod he, `sith first I couthe Have any maner wit fro youthe, Or kyndely understonding To comprehende, in any thing, What love was, in myn owne wit, Dredeles, I have ever yit Be tributary, and yiven rente To love hoolly with goode entente, And through plesaunce become his thral, With good wil, body, herte, and al. Al this I putte in his servage, As to my lorde, and dide homage; And ful devoutly prayde him to, He shulde besette myn herte so, That it plesaunce to him were, And worship to my lady dere. `And this was longe, and many a yeer Or that myn herte was set o-wher, That I did thus, and niste why; I trowe hit cam me kindely. Paraunter I was therto most able As a whyt wal or a table; For hit is redy to cacche and take Al that men wil therin make, Wher-so so men wol portreye or peynte, Be the werkes never so queynte. `And thilke tyme I ferde so I was able to have lerned tho, And to have coud as wel or better, Paraunter, other art or letter. But for love cam first in my thought, Therfore I forgat hit nought. I chees love to my firste craft, Therfor hit is with me y-laft. Forwhy I took hit of so yong age, That malice hadde my corage Nat that tyme turned to no-thing Through to mochel knowleching. For that tyme youthe, my maistresse, Governed me in ydelnesse; For hit was in my firste youthe, And tho ful litel good I couthe, For al my werkes were flittinge, And al my thoghtes varyinge; Al were to me y-liche good, That I knew tho; but thus hit stood. `Hit happed that I cam on a day Into a place, ther I say, Trewly, the fayrest companye Of ladies that ever man with ye Had seen togedres in oo place. Shal I clepe hit hap other grace That broght me ther? nay, but Fortune, That is to lyen ful comune, The false trayteresse, pervers, God wolde I coude clepe hir wers! For now she worcheth me ful wo, And I wol telle sone why so. `Among thise ladies thus echoon, Soth to seyn, I saw ther oon That was lyk noon of al the route; For I dar swere, withoute doute, That as the someres sonne bright Is fairer, clere, and hath more light Than any planete, is in heven, The mone, or the sterres seven, For al the worlde so had she Surmounted hem alle of beaute, Of maner and of comlinesse, Of stature and wel set gladnesse, Of goodlihede so wel beseye Shortly, what shal I more seye? By god, and by his halwes twelve, It was my swete, right al hir-selve! She had so stedfast countenaunce, So noble port and meyntenaunce. And Love, that had herd my bone, Had espyed me thus sone, That she ful sone, in my thoght, As helpe me god, so was y-caught So sodenly, that I ne took No maner reed but at hir look And at myn herte; for-why hir eyen So gladly, I trow, myn herte seyen, That purely tho myn owne thoght Seyde hit were bet serve hir for noght Than with another to be wel. And hit was sooth, for, everydel, I wil anoon-right telle thee why. I saw hir daunce so comlily, Carole and singe so swetely, Laughe and pleye so womanly, And loke so debonairly, So goodly speke and so frendly, That certes, I trow, that evermore Nas seyn so blisful a tresore. For every heer upon hir hede, Soth to seyn, hit was not rede, Ne nouther yelw, ne broun hit nas; Me thoghte, most lyk gold hit was. And whiche eyen my lady hadde! Debonair, goode, glade, and sadde, Simple, of good mochel, noght to wyde; Therto hir look nas not a-syde, Ne overthwert, but beset so wel, Hit drew and took up, everydel, Alle that on hir gan beholde. Hir eyen semed anoon she wolde Have mercy; fooles wenden so; But hit was never the rather do. Hit nas no countrefeted thing, It was hir owne pure loking, That the goddesse, dame Nature, Had made hem opene by mesure, And close; for, were she never so glad, Hir loking was not foly sprad, Ne wildely, thogh that she pleyde; But ever, me thoght, hir eyen seyde, "By god, my wrathe is al for-yive!" `Therwith hir liste so wel to live, That dulnesse was of hir a-drad. She nas to sobre ne to glad; In alle thinges more mesure Had never, I trowe, creature. But many oon with hir loke she herte, And that sat hir ful lyte at herte, For she knew no-thing of her thoght; But whether she knew, or knew hit noght, Algate she ne roghte of hem a stree! To gete hir love no ner was he That woned at home, than he in Inde; The formest was alway behinde. But goode folk, over al other, She loved as man may do his brother; Of whiche love she was wonder large, In skilful places that bere charge. `Which a visage had she ther-to! Allas! myn herte is wonder wo That I ne can discryven hit! Me lakketh bothe English and wit For to undo hit at the fulle; And eek my spirits be so dulle So greet a thing for to devyse. I have no wit that can suffyse To comprehenden hir beaute; But thus moche dar I seyn, that she Was rody, fresh, and lyvely hewed; And every day hir beaute newed. And negh hir face was alder-best; For certes, Nature had swich lest To make that fair, that trewly she Was hir cheef patron of beautee, And cheef ensample of al hir werke, And moustre; for, be hit never so derke, Me thinketh I see hir ever-mo. And yet more-over, thogh alle tho That ever lived were not a-lyve, They ne sholde have founde to discryve In al hir face a wikked signe; For hit was sad, simple, and benigne. `And which a goodly, softe speche Had that swete, my lyves leche! So frendly, and so wel y-grounded, Up al resoun so wel y-founded, And so tretable to alle gode, That I dar swere by the rode, Of eloquence was never founde So swete a sowninge facounde, Ne trewer tonged, ne scorned lasse, Ne bet coude hele; that, by the masse, I durste swere, thogh the pope hit songe, That ther was never yet through hir tonge Man ne woman gretly harmed; As for hir, ther was al harm hid; Ne lasse flatering in hir worde, That purely, hir simple recorde Was founde as trewe as any bonde, Or trouthe of any mannes honde. Ne chyde she coude never a del, That knoweth al the world ful wel. `But swich a fairnesse of a nekke Had that swete that boon nor brekke Nas ther non sene, that mis-sat. Hit was whyt, smothe, streght, and flat, Withouten hole; and canel-boon, As by seming, had she noon. Hir throte, as I have now memoire, Semed a round tour of yvoire, Of good gretnesse, and noght to grete. `And gode faire Whyte she hete, That was my lady name right. She was bothe fair and bright, She hadde not hir name wrong. Right faire shuldres, and body long She hadde, and armes; every lith Fattish, flesshy, not greet therwith; Right whyte handes, and nayles rede, Rounde brestes; and of good brede Hyr hippes were, a streight flat bake. I knew on hir non other lak That al hir limmes nere sewing, In as fer as I had knowing. `Therto she coude so wel pleye, Whan that hir liste, that I dar seye, That she was lyk to torche bright, That every man may take of light Ynogh, and hit hath never the lesse. `Of maner and of comlinesse Right so ferde my lady dere; For every wight of hir manere Might cacche ynogh, if that he wolde, If he had eyen hir to beholde. For I dar sweren, if that she Had among ten thousand be, She wolde have be, at the leste, A cheef mirour of al the feste, Thogh they had stonden in a rowe, To mennes eyen coude have knowe. For wher-so men had pleyd or waked, Me thoghte the felawship as naked Withouten hir, that saw I ones, As a coroune withoute stones. Trewly she was, to myn ye, The soleyn fenix of Arabye, For ther liveth never but oon; Ne swich as she ne know I noon. `To speke of goodnesse; trewly she Had as moche debonairte As ever had Hester in the bible And more, if more were possible. And, soth to seyne, therwith-al She had a wit so general, So hool enclyned to alle gode, That al hir wit was set, by the rode, Withoute malice, upon gladnesse; Therto I saw never yet a lesse Harmul, than she was in doing. I sey nat that she ne had knowing What harm was; or elles she Had coud no good, so thinketh me. `And trewly, for to speke of trouthe, But she had had, hit had be routhe. Therof she had so moche hir del And I dar seyn and swere hit wel That Trouthe him-self, over al and al, Had chose his maner principal In hir, that was his resting-place. Ther-to she hadde the moste grace, To have stedfast perseveraunce, And esy, atempre governaunce, That ever I knew or wiste yit; So pure suffraunt was hir wit. And reson gladly she understood, Hit folowed wel she coude good. She used gladly to do wel; These were hir maners every-del. `Therwith she loved so wel right, She wrong do wolde to no wight; No wight might do hir no shame, She loved so wel hir owne name. Hir luste to holde no wight in honde; Ne, be thou siker, she nolde fonde To holde no wight in balaunce, By half word ne by countenaunce, But-if men wolde upon hir lye; Ne sende men in-to Walakye, To Pruyse, and in-to Tartarye, To Alisaundre, ne in-to Turkye, And bidde him faste, anoon that he Go hoodles to the drye see, And come hoom by the Carrenare; And seye, "Sir, be now right ware That I may of yow here seyn Worship, or that ye come ageyn!' She ne used no suche knakkes smale. `But wherfor that I telle my tale? Right on this same, as I have seyd, Was hoolly al my love leyd; For certes, she was, that swete wyf, My suffisaunce, my lust, my lyf, Myn hap, myn hele, and al my blisse, My worldes welfare, and my lisse, And I hires hoolly, everydel.' `By our lord,' quod I, `I trowe yow wel! Hardely, your love was wel beset, I not how ye mighte have do bet.' `Bet? ne no wight so wel!' quod he. `I trowe hit, sir,' quod I, `parde!' `Nay, leve hit wel!' `Sir, so do I; I leve yow wel, that trewely Yow thoghte, that she was the beste, And to beholde the alderfaireste, Who so had loked hir with your eyen.' `With myn? Nay, alle that hir seyen Seyde and sworen hit was so. And thogh they ne hadde, I wolde tho Have loved best my lady fre, Thogh I had had al the beautee That ever had Alcipyades, And al the strengthe of Ercules, And therto had the worthinesse Of Alisaundre, and al the richesse That ever was in Babiloyne, In Cartage, or in Macedoyne, Or in Rome, or in Ninive; And therto al-so hardy be As was Ector, so have I Ioye, That Achilles slow at Troye And therfor was he slayn also In a temple, for bothe two Were slayn, he and Antilegius, And so seyth Dares Frigius, For love of hir Polixena Or ben as wys as Minerva, I wolde ever, withoute drede, Have loved hir, for I moste nede! "Nede!" nay, I gabbe now, Noght "nede", and I wol telle how, For of good wille myn herte hit wolde, And eek to love hir I was holde As for the fairest and the beste. `She was as good, so have I reste, As ever was Penelope of Grece, Or as the noble wyf Lucrece, That was the beste he telleth thus, The Romayn Tytus Livius She was as good, and no-thing lyke, Thogh hir stories be autentyke; Algate she was as trewe as she. `But wherfor that I telle thee Whan I first my lady say? I was right yong, the sooth to sey, And ful gret need I hadde to lerne; Whan my herte wolde yerne To love, it was a greet empryse. But as my wit coude best suffyse, After my yonge childly wit, Withoute drede, I besette hit To love hir in my beste wise, To do hir worship and servyse That I tho coude, be my trouthe, Withoute feyning outher slouthe; For wonder fayn I wolde hir see. So mochel hit amended me, That, whan I saw hir first a-morwe, I was warished of al my sorwe Of al day after, til hit were eve; Me thoghte no-thing mighte me greve, Were my sorwes never so smerte. And yit she sit so in myn herte, That, by my trouthe, I nolde noghte, For al this worlde, out of my thoght Leve my lady; no, trewly!' `Now, by my trouthe, sir,' quod I, `Me thinketh ye have such a chaunce As shrift withoute repentaunce.' `Repentaunce! nay, fy,' quod he; `Shulde I now repente me To love? nay, certes, than were I wel Wers than was Achitofel, Or Anthenor, so have I Ioye, The traytour that betraysed Troye, Or the false Genelon, He that purchased the treson Of Rowland and of Olivere. Nay, why! I am a-lyve here I nil foryete hir never-mo.' `Now, goode sir,' quod I right tho, `Ye han wel told me her-before. It is no need reherse hit more How ye sawe hir first, and where; But wolde ye telle me the manere, To hir which was your firste speche Therof I wolde yow be-seche And how she knewe first your thoght, Whether ye loved hir or noght, And telleth me eek what ye have lore; I herde yow telle her-before.' `Ye,' seyde he,`thow nost what thou menest; I have lost more than thou wenest.' `What los is that, sir?' quod I tho; `Nil she not love yow? Is hit so? Or have ye oght y-doon amis, That she hath left yow? is hit this? For goddes love, telle me al.' `Before god,' quod he, `and I shal. I saye right as I have seyd, On hir was al my love leyd; And yet she niste hit never a del Noght longe tyme, leve hit wel. For be right siker, I durste noght For al this worlde telle hir my thoght, Ne I wolde have wratthed hir, trewely. For wostow why? she was lady Of the body; she had the herte, And who hath that, may not asterte. `But, for to kepe me fro ydelnesse, Trewly I did my besinesse To make songes, as I best coude, And ofte tyme I song hem loude; And made songes a gret del, Al-thogh I coude not make so wel Songes, ne knowe the art al, As coude Lamekes sone Tubal, That fond out first the art of songe; For, as his brothers hamers ronge Upon his anvelt up and doun, Therof he took the firste soun; But Grekes seyn, Pictagoras, That he the firste finder was Of the art; Aurora telleth so, But therof no fors, of hem two. Algates songes thus I made Of my feling, myn herte to glade; And lo! this was the alther-firste, I not wher that hit were the werst. "Lord, hit maketh myn herte light, Whan I thenke on that swete wight That is so semely on to see; And wisshe to god hit might so be, That she wolde holde me for hir knight, My lady, that is so fair and bright!" `Now have I told thee, sooth to saye, My firste song. Upon a daye I bethoghte me what wo And sorwe that I suffred tho For hir, and yet she wiste hit noght, Ne telle hir durste I nat my thoght. `Allas!' thoghte I, `I can no reed; And, but I telle hir, I nam but deed; And if I telle hir, to seye sooth, I am a-dred she wol be wrooth; Allas! what shal I thanne do?" `In this debat I was so wo, Me thoghte myn herte braste a-tweyn! So atte laste, soth to sayn, I me bethoghte that nature Ne formed never in creature So moche beaute, trewely, And bounte, withouten mercy. `In hope of that, my tale I tolde, With sorwe, as that I never sholde; For nedes, and, maugree my heed, I moste have told hir or be deed. I not wel how that I began, Ful evel rehersen hit I can; And eek, as helpe me god with-al, I trowe hit was in the dismal, That was the ten woundes of Egipte; For many a word I over-skipte In my tale, for pure fere Lest my wordes mis-set were. With sorweful herte, and woundes dede, Softe and quaking for pure drede And shame, and stinting in my tale For ferde, and myn hewe al pale, Ful ofte I wex bothe pale and reed; Bowing to hir, I heng the heed; I durste nat ones loke hir on, For wit, manere, and al was gon. I seyde "mercy!" and no more; Hit nas no game, hit sat me sore. `So atte laste, sooth to seyn, Whan that myn herte was come ageyn, To telle shortly al my speche, With hool herte I gan hir beseche That she wolde be my lady swete; And swor, and gan hir hertely hete Ever to be stedfast and trewe, And love hir alwey freshly newe, And never other lady have, And al hir worship for to save As I best coude; I swor hir this "For youres is al that ever ther is For evermore, myn herte swete! And never false yow, but I mete, I nil, as wis god helpe me so!" `And whan I had my tale y-do, God wot, she acounted nat a stree Of al my tale, so thoghte me. To telle shortly as hit is, Trewly hir answere, hit was this; I can not now wel counterfete Hir wordes, but this was the grete Of hir answere: she sayde, "nay" Al-outerly. Allas! that day The sorwe I suffred, and the wo! That trewly Cassandra, that so Bewayled the destruccioun. Of Troye and of Ilioun, Had never swich sorwe as I tho. I durste no more say therto For pure fere, but stal away; And thus I lived ful many a day; That trewely, I hadde no need Ferther than my beddes heed Never a day to seche sorwe; I fond hit redy every morwe, For-why I loved hir in no gere. `So hit befel, another yere, I thoughte ones I wolde fonde To do hir knowe and understonde My wo; and she wel understood That I ne wilned thing but good, And worship, and to kepe hir name Over al thing, and drede hir shame, And was so besy hir to serve; And pite were I shulde sterve, Sith that I wilned noon harm, y-wis. So whan my lady knew al this, My lady yaf me al hoolly The noble yift of hir mercy, Saving hir worship, by al weyes; Dredles, I mene noon other weyes. And therwith she yaf me a ring; I trowe hit was the firste thing; But if myn herte was y-waxe Glad, that is no need to axe! As helpe me god, I was as blyve, Reysed, as fro dethe to lyve, Of alle happes the alder-beste, The gladdest and the moste at reste. For trewely, that swete wight, Whan I had wrong and she the right, She wolde alwey so goodely For-yeve me so debonairly. In alle my youthe, in alle chaunce, She took me in hir governaunce. `Therwith she was alway so trewe, Our Ioye was ever y-liche newe; Our hertes wern so even a payre, That never nas that oon contrayre To that other, for no wo. For sothe, y-liche they suffred tho Oo blisse and eek oo sorwe bothe; Y-liche they were bothe gladde and wrothe; Al was us oon, withoute were. And thus we lived ful many a yere So wel, I can nat telle how.' `Sir,' quod I, `where is she now?' `Now!' quod he, and stinte anoon. Therwith he wex as deed as stoon, And seyde, `allas! that I was bore, That was the los, that her-before I tolde thee, that I had lorn. Bethenk how I seyde her-beforn, "Thou wost ful litel what thou menest; I have lost more than thou wenest" God wot, allas! right that was she!' `Allas! sir, how? what may that be?' `She is deed!' `Nay!' `Yis, by my trouthe!' `Is that your los? By god, hit is routhe!' And with that worde, right anoon, They gan to strake forth; al was doon, For that tyme, the hert-hunting. With that, me thoghte, that this king Gan quikly hoomward for to ryde Unto a place ther besyde, Which was from us but a lyte, A long castel with walles whyte, Be seynt Iohan! on a riche hil, As me mette; but thus it fil. Right thus me mette, as I yow telle, That in the castel was a belle, As hit had smiten houres twelve. Therwith I awook my-selve, And fond me lying in my bed; And the book that I had red, Of Alcyone and Seys the king, And of the goddes of sleping, I fond it in myn honde ful even. Thoghte I, `this is so queynt a sweven, That I wol, be processe of tyme, Fonde to putte this sweven in ryme As I can best'; and that anoon. This was my sweven; now hit is doon. Explicit the Boke of the Duchesse.
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