I.

To you, welle of honour and worthinesse,

Our Cristen king, the heir and successour

Un-to Justinians devout tendrenesse

In the feith of Jesu, our redemptour;

And to you, lordes of the Garter, 'flour

Of chevalrye,' as men you clepe and calle;

The lord of vertu and of grace auctour

Graunte the fruit of your loos never appalle!

O lige lord, that han eek the lyknesse

Of Constantyn, th'ensaumple and the mirour

To princes alle, in love and buxumnesse

To holy chirche, O verray sustenour

And piler of our feith, and werreyour

Ageyn the heresyës bitter galle,

Do forth, do forth, continue your socour!

Hold up Cristes baner; lat it nat falle!

This yle, or this, had been but hethenesse,

Nad been of your feith the force and vigour!

And yit, this day, the feendes fikilnesse

Weneth fully to cacche a tyme and hour

To have on us, your liges, a sharp shour,

And to his servitude us knitte and thralle.

But ay we truste in you, our prótectour;

On your constaunce we awayten alle.

Commandeth that no wight have hardinesse,

O worthy king, our Cristen emperour,

Of the feith to despute more or lesse

Openly among people, wher errour

Springeth al day and engendreth rumour.

Maketh swich lawe, and for aught may befalle,

Observe it wel; ther-to be ye dettour.

Doth so, and god in glorie shal you stalle.

II.

Ye lordes eek, shyninge in noble fame,

To whiche appropred is the maintenaunce

Of Cristes cause; in honour of his name

Shove on, and putte his foos to the outrance!

God wolde so; so wolde eek your ligeaunce;

To tho two prikketh you your duëtee.

Who-so nat kepeth this double observaunce

Of merit and honour naked is he!

Your style seith that ye ben foos to shame;

Now kythe of your feith the perséveraunce,

In which an heep of us arn halte and lame.

Our Cristen king of England and of Fraunce,

And ye, my lordes, with your alliaunce,

And other feithful people that ther be

(Truste I to god) shul quenche al this nuisaunce

And this land sette in hy prosperitee.

Conquest of hy prowesse is for to tame

The wilde woodnesse of this mescreaunce;

Right to the rote repe ye that same!

Slepe nat this, but, for goddes plesaunce

And his modres, and in signifiaunce

That ye ben of seint Georges liveree,

Doth him servyce and knightly obeisaunce;

For Cristes cause is his, wel knowen ye!

Stif stande in that, and ye shul greve and grame

The fo to pees, the norice of distaunce;

That now is ernest, torne it into game;

Dampnáble fro feith werë variaunce!

Lord lige, and lordes, have in rémembraunce,

Lord of al is the blessed Trinitee,

Of whos vertu the mighty habundaunce

You herte and strengthe in feithful unitee! Amen.

Cest tout.

But certainly, the most complaynte of alle

Is for to thinke, that I have been so nyce

That I ne wolde no virtue to me calle

In al my youthe, but vyces ay cheryce.

Of whiche I aske mercy of thee, lord,

That art almighty god in majestè,

Beseking thee, to make so even accord

Betwix thee and my soule, that vanitè

Of worldly lust, ne blynd prosperitè

Have no lordship over my flesshe so frele.

Thou lord of reste and parfit unitè,

Put fro me vyce, and keep my soules hele.

And yeve me might, whyl I have lyf and space,

Me to conforme fully to thy plesaunce;

Shewe upon me th'abundaunce of thy grace,

In gode werkes graunt me perséveraunce.

Of al my youthe forget the ignoraunce;

Yeve me good wil, to serve thee ay to queme;

Set al my lyf after thyn ordinaunce,

And able me to mercy, or thou deme!

My lordes dere, why I this complaint wryte

To you, alle whom I love entierly,

Is for to warne you, as I can endyte,

That tyme y-lost in youthe folily

Greveth a wight goostly and bodily,

I mene hem that to lust and vyce entende.

Wherfore, I pray you, lordes, specially,

Your youthe in vertue shapeth to dispende.

Planteth the rote of youthe in suche a wyse

That in vertue your growing be alway;

Loke ay, goodnesse be in your exercyse,

That shal you mighty make, at eche assay,

The feend for to withstonde at eche affray.

Passeth wysly this perilous pilgrimage,

Thinke on this word, and werke it every day;

That shal you yeve a parfit floured age.

Taketh also hede, how that these noble clerkes

Write in hir bokes of gret sapience,

Saying, that fayth is deed withouten werkes;

So is estat withoute intelligence

Of vertue; and therfore, with diligence,

Shapeth of vertue so to plante the rote,

That ye therof have ful experience,

To worship of your lyfe and soules bote.

Taketh also hede, that lordship ne estat,

Withoute vertue, may not longe endure;

Thinketh eek how vyce and vertue at debat

Have been, and shal, whyles the world may dure;

And ay the vicious, by aventure,

Is overthrowe; and thinketh evermore

That god is lord of vertue and figure

Of al goodnesse; and therfore folowe his lore.

My mayster Chaucer, god his soulë have!

That in his langage was so curious,

He sayde, the fader whiche is deed and grave,

Biquath nothing his vertue with his hous

Unto his sone; therfore laborious

Ought ye to be, beseching god, of grace,

To yeve you might for to be vertuous,

Through which ye might have part of his fayr place.

Here may ye see that vertuous noblesse

Cometh not to you by way of auncestrye,

But it cometh thorugh leefful besinesse

Of honest lyfe, and not by slogardrye.

Wherfore in youthe I rede you edefye

The hous of vertue in so wys manere

That in your age it may you kepe and gye

Fro the tempest of worldly wawes here.

Thinketh how, betwixë vertue and estat

There is a parfit blessed mariage;

Vertue is cause of pees, vyce of debat

In mannes soule; for which, with ful corage,

Cherissheth vertue, vyces to outrage:

Dryveth hem away; let hem have no wonning

In your soules; leseth not the heritage

Which god hath yeve to vertuous living.

Taketh hede also, how men of povre degree

Through vertue have be set in greet honour,

And ever have lived in greet prosperitee

Through cherisshing of vertuous labour.

Thinketh also, how many a governour

Called to estat, hath oft be set ful lowe

Through misusing of right, and for errour,

Therfore I counsaile you, vertue to knowe.

Thus 'by your eldres may ye nothing clayme,'

As that my mayster Chaucer sayth expresse,

'But temporel thing, that man may hurte and mayme';

Than is god stocke of vertuous noblesse;

And sith that he is lord of blessednesse,

And made us alle, and for us alle deyde,

Folowe his vertue with ful besinesse,

And of this thing herke how my mayster seyde:—

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, though 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.

Lo here, this noble poete of Bretayne

How hyely he, in vertuous sentence,

The losse in youthe of vertue can complayne;

Wherfore I pray you, dooth your diligence,

For your estats and goddes reverence,

T'enprintë vertue fully in your mynde,

That, whan ye come in your juges presence,

Ye be not set as vertules behynde.

Ye lordes have a maner now-a-dayes,

Though oon shewe you a vertuous matere,

Your fervent youthe is of so false alayes

That of that art ye have no joy to here.

But, as a ship that is withouten stere

Dryveth up and doun, withouten governaunce,

Wening that calm wol lastë, yeer by yere,

Right so fare ye, for very ignoraunce.

For very shamë, knowe ye nat, by réson

That, after an ebbe, ther cometh a flood ful rage?

In the same wyse, whan youth passeth his séson,

Cometh croked and unweldy palled age;

Sone after comen kalends of dotage;

And if your youth no vertue have provyded,

Al men wol saye, fy on your vassalage!

Thus hath your slouth fro worship you devyded.

Boëce the clerk, as men may rede and see,

Saith, in his Boke of Consolacioun,

What man desyreth †have of vyne or tree

Plentee of fruit, in the ryping sesoun,

Must ay eschewe to doon oppressioun

Unto the rote, whyle it is yong and grene;

Ye may wel see, by this conclusioun,

That youthë vertulees doth mochel tene.

Seeth, there-ayenst, how vertuous noblesse

Roted in youthe, with good perséveraunce,

Dryveth away al vyce and wrecchednesse,

As slogardrye, ryote and distaunce!

Seeth eek how vertue causeth suffisaunce,

And suffisaunce exyleth coveityse!

And who hath vertue hath al abundaunce

Of wele, as fer as reson can devyse.

Taketh hede of Tullius Hostilius,

That cam fro povertee to hy degree;

Through vertue redeth eek of Julius

The conquerour, how povre a man was he;

Yet, through his vertue and humanitee,

Of many a countree had he governaunce.

Thus vertue bringeth unto greet degree

Eche wight that list to do him entendaunce.

Rede, here-ayenst, of Nero vertulees;

Taketh hede also of proude Balthasar;

They hated vertue, equitee, and pees.

Loke how Antiochus fil fro his char,

That he his skin and bones al to-tar!

Loke what meschauncë they had for hir vyces!

Who-so that wol not by these signes be war,

I dar wel say, infortunat or nyce is.

I can no more; but here-by may ye see

How vertue causeth parfit sikernesse,

And vyces doon exyle prosperitee;

The best is, ech to chesen, as I gesse.

Doth as you list, I me excuse expresse;

I wolde be sory, if that ye mischese.

God you conferme in vertuous noblesse,

So that through negligence ye nothing lese!

Explicit.

Or at the leste som réles of my peyne,

That me so sore halt in every veyne,

I roos anon, and thoghte I wolde goon

Into the wode, to here the briddes singe,

Whan that the misty vapour was agoon

And clere and faire was the morowning;

The dewe also, lyk silver in shyning

Upon the leves, as any baume swete,

Til fyry Tytan, with his persaunt hete,

Had dryed up the lusty licour newe

Upon the herbes in the grene mede,

And that the floures, of many dyvers hewe,

Upon hir stalkes gonne for to sprede

And for to splaye[n] out hir leves on-brede

Agayn the sonne, gold-burned in his spere,

That doun to hem caste his bemes clere.

And by a river forth I gan costey

Of water clere as berel or cristal

Til at the laste I found a litel wey

Toward a park, enclosed with a wal

In compas rounde, and by a gate smal

Who-so that wolde frely mighte goon

Into this park, walled with grene stoon.

And in I wente, to here the briddes song,

Whiche on the braunches, bothe in playn and vale,

So loude songe, that al the wode rong

Lyke as it shulde shiver in peces smale;

And, as me thoughte, that the nightingale

With so gret mighte her voys gan out-wreste

Right as her herte for love wolde breste.

The soil was playn, smothe, and wonder softe

Al oversprad with tapites that Nature

Had mad her-selve, celured eek alofte

With bowes grene, the floures for to cure,

That in hir beautè they may longe endure

From al assaut of Phebus fervent fere,

Whiche in his spere so hote shoon and clere.

The eyre attempre, and the smothe wind

Of Zepherus, among the blossomes whyte,

So hoolsom was and norisshing by kind,

That smale buddes, and rounde blomes lyte

In maner gonnen of her brethe delyte

To yeve us hope that hir fruit shal take,

Ayens autumpne, redy for to shake.

I saw ther Daphne, closed under rinde,

Grene laurer, and the hoolsom pyne;

The myrre also, that wepeth ever of kinde;

The cedres hye, upright as a lyne;

The philbert eek, that lowe doth enclyne

Her bowes grene to the erthe adoun

Unto her knight, y-called Demophoun.

Ther saw I eek the fresshe hawëthorn

In whyte motlè, that so swote doth smelle,

Ash, firre, and ook, with many a yong acorn,

And many a tree—mo than I can telle;

And, me beforn, I saw a litel welle,

That had his cours, as I gan beholde,

Under an hille, with quikke stremes colde.

The gravel gold, the water pure as glas,

The bankes rounde, the welle envyroning;

And softe as veluët the yonge gras

That therupon lustily cam springing;

The sute of trees aboute compassing

Hir shadowe caste, closing the welle rounde,

And al the herbes growing on the grounde.

The water was so hoolsom and vertuous

Through might of herbes growing there besyde,

Not lyk the welle, wher-as Narcisus

Y-slayn was, through vengeaunce of Cupyde,

Where so covertly he didë hyde

The grayn of cruel dethe upon ech brinke,

That deeth mot folowe, who that ever drinke;

Ne lyk the pittë of the Pegacè

Under Pernaso, where poetës slepte;

Nor lyk the welle of pure chastitè

Which that Dyane with her nymphes kepte,

Whan she naked into the water lepte,

That slow Acteon with his houndes felle

Only for he cam so nigh the welle!

Bút this welle, that I here reherce,

So hoolsom was, that it wolde aswage

Bollen hertes, and the venim perce

Of pensifheed, with al the cruel rage,

And evermore refresshe the visage

Of hem that were in any werinesse

Of greet labour, or fallen in distresse.

And I, that had, through daunger and disdayne,

So drye a thrust, thoughte I wolde assaye

To taste a draughte of this welle, or twayne,

My bitter langour if it mighte alaye;

And on the banke anon adoun I lay,

And with myn heed unto the welle I raughte,

And of the water drank I a good draughte;

Wherof, me thought, I was refresshed wele

Of the brenning that sat so nigh my herte,

That verily anon I gan to fele

An huge part relesed of my smerte;

And therwithallë anon up I sterte,

And thoughte I wolde walke, and see more

Forth in the parke, and in the holtes hore.

And through a laundë as I yede a-pace

And gan aboute faste to beholde,

I found anon a délitable place

That was beset with treës yonge and olde,

Whose names here for me shal not be tolde;

Amidde of whiche stood an herber grene,

That benched was, with colours newe and clene.

Thís herber was ful of floures inde,

In-to the whiche as I beholde gan,

Betwix an hulfere and a wodëbinde,

As I was war, I saw wher lay a man

In blakke and whyte colour, pale and wan,

And wonder deedly also of his hewe,

Of hurtes grene and fresshe woundes newe.

And overmore distrayned with sekenesse,

Besyde al this, he was, ful grevously;

For upon him he had an hoot accesse,

That day by day him shook ful pitously;

So that, for constreynt of his malady

And hertly wo, thus lying al alone,

It was a deeth for to here him grone.

Wherof astonied, my foot I gan withdrawe,

Greetly wondring what it mighte be

That he so lay, and hadde no felawe,

Ne that I coude no wight with him see;

Wherof I hadde routhe, and eek pitè,

And gan anon, so softely as I coude,

Among the busshes me prively to shroude;

If that I mighte in any wyse espye

What was the cause of his deedly wo,

Or why that he so pitously gan crye

On his fortune, and on his ure also;

With al my might I layde an ere to,

Every word to marke, what he seyde,

Out of his swough among as he abrayde.

But first, if I shulde make mencioun

Of his persone, and plainly him discryve,

He was in sothe, without excepcioun,

To speke of manhode, oon the best on-lyve;

Ther may no man ayen the trouthe stryve.

For of his tyme, and of his age also

He proved was, ther men shulde have ado,

For oon the beste there, of brede and lengthe

So wel y-mad by good proporcioun,

If he had be in his deliver strengthe;

But thought and seknesse were occasioun

That he thus lay, in lamentacioun,

Gruffe on the grounde, in place desolat,

Sole by him-self, awhaped and amat.

And, for me semeth that it is sitting

His wordes al to putte in remembraunce,

To me, that herdë al his complayning

And al the groundë of his woful chaunce,

If ther-withal I may you do plesaunce,

I wol to you, so as I can, anon,

Lyk as he sayde, reherce hem everichon.

But who shal helpe me now to complayne?

Or who shal now my style gye or lede?

O Niobè, let now thy teres rayne

In-to my penne; and helpe eek in this nede,

Thou woful Mirre, that felest my herte blede

Of pitous wo, and myn hand eek quake

Whan that I wryte, for this mannes sake!

For unto wo accordeth complayning

And doleful cherë unto hevinesse;

To sorowe also, syghing and weping,

And pitous mourning, unto drerinesse;

And whoso that shal wryten of distresse

In party nedeth to knowe felingly

Cause and rote of al such malady.

But I, alas! that am of witte but dulle,

And have no knowing of such matere,

For to discryve and wryten at the fulle

The woful complaynt, which that ye shal here,

But even-lyk as doth a skrivenere

That can no more what that he shal wryte,

But as his maister besyde doth endyte;

Right so fare I, that of no sentement

Saye right naught, as in conclusioun,

But as I herde, whan I was present,

This man complayne with a pitous soun;

For even-lyk, without addicioun

Or disencrees, either more or lesse,

For to reherce anon I wol me dresse.

And if that any now be in this place

That fele in love brenning or fervence,

Or hindred werë to his lady grace

With false tonges, that with pestilence

Slee trewe men that never did offence

In word nor dede, ne in hir entent—

If any suche be here now present,

Let him of routhe lay to audience,

With doleful chere and sobre countenaunce,

To here this man, by ful high sentence,

His mortal wo and his gret perturbaunce

Cómplayning, now lying in a traunce,

With lokes upcaste, and with ruful chere,

Th' effect of whiche was as ye shal here.—

Compleynt.

The thought oppressed with inward sighes sore,

The painful lyf, the body languisshing,

The woful gost, the herte rent and tore,

The pitous chere, pale in compleyning,

The deedly face, lyk ashes in shyning,

The salte teres that fro myn eyën falle,

Parcel declare grounde of my peynes alle:

Whos herte is grounde to blede in hevinesse;

The thought, resceyt of wo and of complaynt;

The brest is cheste of dole and drerinesse;

The body eek so feble and so faynt;

With hote and colde myn acces is so meynt,

That now I chiver for defaute of hete,

And, hoot as gleed, now sodainly I swete.

Now hoot as fyr, now cold as asshes dede,

Now hoot fro cold, now cold fro hete agayn;

Now cold as ys, now as coles rede

For hete I brenne; and thus, betwixe twayne,

I possed am, and al forcast in payne;

So that my hete plainly, as I fele,

Of grevous cold is causë, every-deel.

This is the cold of inward high disdayne,

Cold of dispyt, and cold of cruel hate;

This is the cold that doth his besy payne

Ayeines trouthe to fighte and to debate.

This is the cold that wolde the fyr abate

Of trewe mening; alas! the harde whyle!

This is the cold that wolde me begyle.

For ever the better that in trouthe I mente

With al my mighte faythfully to serve,

With herte and al for to be diligent,

The lesse thank, alas! I can deserve!

Thus for my trouthe Daunger doth me sterve.

For oon that shulde my deeth, of mercy, lette

Hath mad despyt newe his swerd to whette

Ayeines me, and his arowes to fyle

To take vengeaunce of wilful crueltè;

And tonges false, through hir sleightly wyle,

Han gonne a werre that wil not stinted be;

And fals Envye, Wrathe, and Enmitè,

Have conspired, ayeines al right and lawe,

Of hir malyce, that Trouthe shal be slawe.

And Male-Bouche gan first the tale telle,

To slaundre Trouthe, of indignacioun;

And Fals-Report so loude rong the belle,

That Misbeleve and Fals-Suspeccioun,

Have Trouthe brought to his dampnacioun,

So that, alas! wrongfully he dyeth,

And Falsnes now his placë occupyeth,

And entred is in-to Trouthes lond,

And hath therof the ful possessioun.

O rightful god, that first the trouthe fond,

How may thou suffre such oppressioun,

That Falshood shulde have jurisdiccioun

In Trouthes right, to slee him giltëlees?

In his fraunchyse he may not live in pees.

Falsly accused, and of his foon forjuged,

Without answere, whyl he was absent,

He dampned was, and may not ben excused,

For Crueltè sat in jugëment

Of hastinesse, withoute avysëment,

And bad Disdayn do execute anon

His jugëment, in presence of his foon.

Attourney noon ne may admitted been

T'ëxcuse Trouthë, ne a word to speke;

To fayth or ooth the juge list not seen,

There is no gayn, but he wil be wreke.

O lord of trouthe, to thee I calle and clepe;

How may thou see, thus in thy presence,

Withoute mercy, murdred innocence?

Now god, that art of trouthe soverain

And seëst how I lye for trouthe bounde,

So sore knit in loves fyry chain

Even at the deth, through-girt with many a wounde

That lykly are never for to sounde,

And for my trouthe am dampned to the deeth,

And not abyde, but drawe along the breeth:

Consider and see, in thyn eternal right,

How that myn herte professed whylom was

For to be trewe with al my fulle might

Only to oon, the whiche now, alas!

Of voluntè, withoute any trespas,

Myn accusours hath taken unto grace,

And cherissheth hem, my deth for to purchace.

What meneth this? what is this wonder ure

Of purveyauncë, if I shal it calle,

Of god of love, that false hem so assure,

And trewe, alas! doun of the whele ben falle?

And yet in sothe, this is the worst of alle,

That Falshed wrongfully of Trouthe hath name,

And Trouthe ayenward of Falshed bereth the blame.

This blinde chaunce, this stormy aventure,

In lovë hath most his experience;

For who that doth with trouthe most his cure

Shal for his mede finde most offence,

That serveth love with al his diligence;

For who can faynë, under lowliheed,

Ne fayleth not to finde grace and speed.

For I loved oon, ful longë sith agoon,

With al my herte, body, and ful might,

And, to be deed, my herte can not goon

From his hest, but holde that he hath hight;

Though I be banisshed out of her sight,

And by her mouth dampned that I shal deye,

†To my behest yet I wil ever obeye.

For ever, sithë that the world began,

Who-so list lokë, and in storie rede,

He shal ay finde that the trewe man

Was put abakke, wher-as the falshede

Y-furthered was; for Love taketh non hede

To slee the trewe, and hath of hem no charge,

Wher-as the false goth freely at hir large.

I take recorde of Palamides,

The trewe man, the noble worthy knight,

That ever loved, and of his payn no relees;

Notwithstonding his manhood and his might

Love unto him did ful greet unright;

For ay the bet he did in chevalrye,

The more he was hindred by envye.

And ay the bet he did in every place

Through his knighthood and his besy payne,

The ferther was he from his lady grace,

For to her mercy mighte he never attayne;

And to his deth he coude it not refrayne

For no daungere, but ay obey and serve

As he best coude, plainly, til he sterve.

What was the fyne also of Hercules,

For al his conquest and his worthinesse,

That was of strengthe alone pereles?

For, lyk as bokes of him list expresse,

He sette pillers, through his hy prowesse,

Away at Gades, for to signifye

That no man mighte him passe in chevalrye.

The whiche pillers ben ferre beyonde Inde

Beset of golde, for a remembraunce;

And, for al that, was he set behinde

With hem that Love liste febly avaunce;

For [he] him sette last upon a daunce,

Ageynes whom helpe may no stryf;

For al his trouthe, yit he loste his lyf.

Phebus also, for al his persaunt light,

Whan that he wente here in erthe lowe,

Unto the herte with fresh Venus sight

Y-wounded was, through Cupydes bowe,

And yet his lady liste him not to knowe.

Though for her love his herte didë blede,

She leet him go, and took of him no hede.

What shal I saye of yonge Piramus?

Of trew Tristram, for al his hye renoun?

Of Achilles, or of Antonius?

Of Arcite eke, or of him Palemoun?

What was the endë of hir passioun

But, after sorowe, deeth, and than hir grave?

Lo, here the guerdon that these lovers have!

But false Jason, with his doublenesse,

That was untrewe at Colkos to Medee,

And Theseus, rote of unkindënesse,

And with these two eek the false Enee;

Lo! thus the falsë, ay in oon degrè,

Had in love hir lust and al hir wille;

And, save falshood, ther was non other skille.

Of Thebes eek the false [knight] Arcyte,

And Demophon †also, for [al] his slouthe,

They had hir lust and al that might delyte

For al hir falshode and hir greet untrouthe.

Thus ever Love (alas! and that is routhe!)

His false leges forthereth what he may,

And sleeth the trewe ungoodly, day by day.

For trewe Adon was slayn with the bore

Amid the forest, in the grene shade;

For Venus love he feltë al the sore.

But Vulcanus with her no mercy made;

The foule chorl had many nightes glade,

Wher Mars, her worthy knight, her trewe man,

To finde mercy, comfort noon he can.

Also the yonge fresshe Ipomenes

So lusty free [was], as of his corage,

That for to serve with al his herte he chees

Athalans, so fair of hir visage;

But Love, alas! quitte him so his wage

With cruel daunger plainly, at the laste,

That, with the dethe, guerdonles he paste.

Lo! here the fyne of loveres servyse!

Lo! how that Love can his servaunts quyte!

Lo! how he can his faythful men despyse,

To slee the trewe, and false to respyte!

Lo! how he doth the swerd of sorowe byte

In hertes, suche as most his lust obeye,

To save the false, and do the trewe deye!

For fayth nor ooth, word, ne assuraunce,

Trewe mening, awayte, or besinesse,

Stille port, ne faythful attendaunce,

Manhood, ne might, in armes worthinesse,

Pursute of worship, nor no hy prowesse,

In straunge lande ryding, ne travayle,

Ful lyte or nought in lovë doth avayle.

Peril of dethe, nother in see ne lande,

Hunger ne thurst, sorowe ne sekenesse,

Ne grete empryses for to take on hande,

Sheding of blode, ne manful hardinesse,

Ne ofte woundinge at sautes by distresse,

Nor †juparting of lyf, nor deeth also—

Al is for nought, Love taketh no hede therto!

But lesings, with hir false flaterye,

Through hir falshede, and with hir doublenesse,

With tales newe and many fayned lye,

By fals semblaunt and counterfet humblesse,

Under colour depeynt with stedfastnesse,

With fraude covered under a pitous face

Accepte been now rathest unto grace,

And can hem-selve now best magnifye

With fayned port and fals presumpcioun;

They haunce hir cause with fals surquedrye

Under meninge of double entencioun,

To thenken oon in hir opinioun

And saye another; to sette hemselve alofte

And hinder trouthe, as it is seyn ful ofte.

The whiche thing I bye now al to dere,

Thanked be Venus and the god Cupyde!

As it is sene by myn oppressed chere,

And by his arowes that stiken in my syde,

That, sauf the deth, I nothing abyde

Fro day to day; alas, the harde whyle!

Whan ever his dart that him list to fyle,

My woful herte for to ryve a-two

For faute of mercy, and lak of pitè

Of her that causeth al my payne and wo

And list not ones, of grace, for to see

Unto my trouthe through her crueltee;

And, most of alle, yit I me complayne,

That she hath joy to laughen at my peyne!

And wilfully hath [she] my deeth y-sworn

Al giltëlees, and wot no cause why

Save for the trouthe that I have had aforn

To her alone to serve faithfully!

O god of lovë! unto thee I cry,

And to thy blinde double deitee

Of this gret wrongë I compleyne me,

And to thy stormy wilful variaunce

Y-meynt with chaunge and greet unstablenesse;

Now up, now doun, so renning is thy chaunce,

That thee to truste may be no sikernesse.

I wyte it nothing but thy doublenesse;

And who that is an archer and is †blent

Marketh nothing, but sheteth as he †went.

And for that he hath no discrecioun,

Withoute avys he let his arowe go;

For lakke of sight, and also of resoun,

In his shetinge, it happeth ofte so,

To hurte his frend rather than his fo;

So doth this god, [and] with his sharpe floon

The trewe sleeth, and let the false goon.

And of his wounding this is the worst of alle,

Whan he hurteth, he doth so cruel wreche

And maketh the seke for to crye and calle

Unto his fo, for to been his leche;

And hard it is, for a man to seche,

Upon the point of dethe in jupardye,

Unto his fo, to finde remedye!

Thus fareth it now even by me,

That to my fo, that yaf myn herte a wounde,

Mote aske grace, mercy, and pitè,

And namëly, ther wher non may be founde!

For now my sore my leche wil confounde,

And god of kinde so hath set myn ure,

My lyves fo to have my wounde in cure!

Alas! the whyle now that I was born!

Or that I ever saw the brighte sonne!

For now I see, that ful longe aforn,

Or I was born, my desteny was sponne

By Parcas sustren, to slee me, if they conne;

For they my deth shopen or my sherte

Only for trouthe! I may it not asterte.

The mighty goddesse also of Nature

That under god hath the governaunce

Of worldly thinges committed to her cure,

Disposed hath, through her wys purveyaunce,

To yeve my lady so moche suffisaunce

Of al vertues, and therwithal purvyde

To murdre trouthe, hath take Daunger to gyde.

For bountè, beautè, shappe, and semeliheed,

Prudence, wit, passingly fairnesse,

Benigne port, glad chere with lowliheed,

Of womanheed right plenteous largesse,

Nature did in her fully empresse,

Whan she her wroughte; and alther-last Disdayne,

To hinder trouthe, she made her chamberlayne;

Whan Mistrust also, and Fals-Suspeccioun,

With Misbeleve, she made for to be

Cheef of counsayl to this conclusioun,

For to exyle Routhe, and eek Pitè,

Out of her court to make Mercy flee,

So that Dispyt now holdeth forth her reyne,

Through hasty bileve of tales that men feyne.

And thus I am, for my trouthe, alas!

Murdred and slayn with wordes sharpe and kene,

Giltlees, god wot, of al maner trespas,

And lye and blede upon this colde grene.

Now mercy, swete! mercy, my lyves quene!

And to your grace of mercy yet I preye,

In your servyse that your man may deye!

But if so be that I shal deye algate,

And that I shal non other mercy have,

Yet of my dethe let this be the date

That by your wille I was brought to my grave;

Or hastily, if that you list me save,

My sharpe woundes, that ake so and blede,

Of mercy, charme, and also of womanhede.

For other charme, playnly, is ther non

But only mercy, to helpe in this case;

For though my woundes blede ever in oon,

My lyf, my deeth, standeth in youre grace;

And though my gilt be nothing, alas!

I aske mercy in al my beste entente,

Redy to dye, if that ye assente.

For ther-ayeines shal I never stryve

In worde ne werke; playnly, I ne may;

For lever I have than to be alyve

To dye soothly, and it be her to pay;

Ye, though it be this eche same day

Or whan that ever her liste to devyse;

Suffyceth me to dye in your servyse.

And god, that knowest the thought of every wight

Right as it is, in †al thing thou mayst see,

Yet, ere I dye, with all my fulle might

Lowly I pray, to graunte[n] unto me

That ye, goodly, fayre, fresshe, and free,

Which slee me only for defaute of routhe,

Or that I dye, ye may knowe my trouthe.

For that, in sothe, suffyseth unto me,

And she it knowe in every circumstaunce;

And after, I am wel apayd that she

If that hir list, of dethe to do vengeaunce

Untó me, that am under her legeaunce;

It sit me not her doom to disobeye,

But, at her luste, wilfully to deye.

Withoute grucching or rebellioun

In wille or worde, hoolly I assent,

Or any maner contradiccioun,

Fully to be at her commaundëment;

And, if I dyë, in my testament

My herte I sende, and my spirit also,

What-so-ever she list, with hem to do.

And alder-last unto her womanhede

And to her mercy me I recommaunde,

That lye now here, betwixe hope and drede,

Abyding playnly what she list commaunde.

For utterly, (this nis no demaunde),

Welcome to me, whyl me lasteth breeth,

Right at her choise, wher it be lyf or deeth!

In this matere more what mighte I seyn,

Sith in her hande and in her wille is al,

Both lyf and deeth, my joy and al my payn?

And fynally, my heste holde I shal,

Til my spirit, by desteny fatal,

Whan that her liste, fro my body wende;

Have here my trouthe, and thus I make an ende!'

And with that worde he gan syke as sore

Lyk as his herte ryve wolde atwayne,

And held his pees, and spak a word no more.

But, for to see his wo and mortal payne,

The teres gonne fro myn eyen rayne

Ful pitously, for very inward routhe

That I him saw so languisshing for trouthe.

And al this whyle my-self I kepte cloos

Among the bowes, and my-self gan hyde,

Til, at the laste, the woful man aroos,

And to a logge wente ther besyde,

Where, al the May, his custome was t'abyde,

Sole, to complaynen of his paynes kene,

Fro yeer to yere, under the bowes grene.

And for bicause that it drow to the night

And that the sonne his ark diurnál

Y-passed was, so that his persaunt light,

His brighte bemes and his stremes al

Were in the wawes of the water fal,

Under the bordure of our ocëan,

His char of golde his cours so swiftly ran:

And whyl the twylight and the rowes rede

Of Phebus light were dëaurat a lyte,

A penne I took, and gan me faste spede

The woful playntë of this man to wryte

Word by wordë, as he did endyte;

Lyk as I herde, and coude him tho reporte,

I have here set, your hertes to disporte.

If ought be mis, layeth the wyte on me,

For I am worthy for to bere the blame

If any thing [here] misreported be,

To make this dytè for to seme lame

Through myn unconning; but, to sayn the same,

Lyk as this man his complaynt did expresse,

I aske mercy and forgivënesse.

And, as I wroot, me thoughte I saw a-ferre,

Fer in the weste, lustely appere

Esperus, the goodly brighte sterre,

So glad, so fair, so persaunt eek of chere,

I mene Venus, with her bemes clere,

That, hevy hertes only to releve,

Is wont, of custom, for to shewe at eve.

And I, as faste, fel doun on my knee

And even thus to her gan I to preye:—

'O lady Venus! so faire upon to see,

Let not this man for his trouthe deye,

For that joy thou haddest whan thou leye

With Mars thy knight, whan Vulcanus you fond,

And with a chayne invisible you bond

Togider, bothe twayne, in the same whyle

That al the court above celestial

At youre shame gan for to laughe and smyle!

A! fairë lady! welwilly founde at al,

Comfort to careful, O goddesse immortal!

Be helping now, and do thy diligence

To let the stremes of thyn influence

Descende doun, in forthering of the trouthe,

Namely, of hem that lye in sorowe bounde;

Shew now thy might, and on hir wo have routhe

Er fals Daunger slee hem and confounde.

And specially, let thy might be founde

For to socourë, what-so that thou may,

The trewe man that in the herber lay,

And alle trewe forther, for his sake,

O gladde sterre, O lady Venus myne!

And cause his lady him to grace take.

Her herte of stele to mercy so enclyne,

Er that thy bemes go up, to declyne,

And er that thou now go fro us adoun,

Fór that love thou haddest to Adoun!'

And whan that she was gon unto her reste,

I roos anon, and hoom to bedde wente,

For verily, me thoughte it for the beste;

Prayinge thus, in al my best entente,

That alle trewe, that be with Daunger shente,

With mercy may, in reles of hir payn,

Recured be, er May come eft agayn.

And for that I ne may no lenger wake,

Farewel, ye lovers alle, that be trewe!

Praying to god; and thus my leve I take,

That, er the sonne to-morowe be risen newe,

And er he have ayein his rosen hewe,

That eche of you may have suche a grace,

His owne lady in armes to embrace.

I mene thus, that, in al honestee,

Withoute more, ye may togider speke

What so ye listë, at good libertee,

That eche may to other hir herte breke,

On Jelousyë only to be wreke,

That hath so longe, of malice and envye,

Werreyed Trouthe with his tirannye.

Lenvoy.

Princesse, plese it your benignitee

This litel dytè for to have in mynde!

Of womanhedë also for to see

Your trewe man may youre mercy finde;

And Pitè eek, that long hath be behinde,

Let him ayein be próvoked to grace;

For, by my trouthe, it is ayeines kinde,

Fals Daunger for to occupye his place!

Go, litel quayre, unto my lyves queen,

And my very hertes soverayne;

And be right glad; for she shal thee seen;

Suche is thy grace! But I, alas! in payne

Am left behinde, and not to whom to playne.

For Mercy, Routhe, Grace, and eek Pitè

Exyled be, that I may not attayne

Recure to finde of myn adversitè.

Explicit.