And, mercilesse, rather for to deye

Than ever in you be founden variaunce;

And, though your lyf be medled with grevaunce,

And, at your herte, closed be your wounde,

Beth alway one, ther-as ye are bounde!'

Thát whan I had herd, and listed longe,

With devout herte, the lusty melodye

Of this hevenly comfortable songe

So ágreable, as by harmonye,

I roos anon, and faste gan me hye

Toward a grove, and the way [gan] take

Foules to sene, everich chese his make.

And yet I was ful thursty in languisshing;

Myn ague was so fervent in his hete,

Whan Aurora, for drery complayning,

Can distille her cristal teres wete

Upon the soile, with silver dewe so swete;

For she [ne] durste, for shame, not apere

Under the light of Phebus bemes clere.

And so, for anguisshe of my paynes kene,

And for constraynte of my sighes sore,

I sette me doun under a laurer grene

Ful pitously; and alway more and more,

As I beheld into the holtes hore,

I gan complayne myn inward deedly smerte,

That ay so sore †crampisshed myn herte.

And whyl that I, in my drery payne,

Sat, and beheld aboute on every tree

The foules sitten, alway twayne and twayne,

Than thoughte I thus: 'alas! what may this be,

That every foul hath his libertee

Frely to chesen after his desyre

Everich his make thus, fro yeer to yere?

The sely wrenne, the titmose also,

The litel redbrest, have free eleccioun

To flyen y-ferë and †togider go

Wher-as hem liste, abouten enviroun,

As they of kynde have inclinacoun,

And as Nature, emperesse and gyde,

Of every thing, liste to provyde;

But man aloon, alas! the harde stounde!

Ful cruelly, by kyndes ordinaunce,

Constrayned is, and by statut bounde,

And debarred from alle such plesaunce.

What meneth this? What is this purveyaunce

Of god above, agayn al right of kynde,

Withoute cause, so narowe man to bynde?'

Thus may I [soothly] seen, and playne, alas!

My woful houre and my disaventure,

That dolefully stonde in the same cas

So fer behyndë, from al helth and cure.

My wounde abydeth lyk a sursanure;

For me Fortune so felly list dispose,

My harm is hid, that I dar not disclose.

For I my herte have set in suche a place

Wher I am never lykly for to spede;

So fer I am hindred from her grace

That, save daunger, I have non other mede.

And thus, alas! I not who shal me rede

Ne for myn helpe shape remedye,

For Male-bouche, and for false Envye:

The whiche twayne ay stondeth in my wey

Maliciously; and Fals Suspeccioun

Is very causë also that I dey,

Ginning and rote of my distruccioun;

So that I fele, [as] in conclusioun,

With hir traynes that they wol me shende,

Of my labour that deth mot make an ende!

Yet, or I dye, with herte, wil, and thought

To god of lovë this avowe I make,

(As I best can, how dere that it be bought,

Wher-so it be, that I slepe or wake,

Whyl Boreas doth the leves shake)

As I have hight, playnly, til I sterve,

For wele or wo, that I shal [ay] her serve.

And, for her sake, now this holy tyme,

Saint Valentyne! somwhat shal I wryte

Al-though so be that I can not ryme,

Nor curiously by no crafte endyte,

Yet lever I have, that she putte the wyte

In unconning than in negligence,

What-ever I sayë of her excellence.

What-ever I saye, it is of duëtee,

In sothfastnesse and no presumpcioun;

This I ensure to you that shal it see,

That it is al under correccioun;

What I reherce in commendacioun

Of herë that I shal to you, as blyve,

So as I can, her vertues here discryve.—

¶ Right by example as the somer-sonne

Passeth the sterre with his bemes shene,

And Lucifer among the skyës donne

A-morowe sheweth to voyde nightes tene,

So verily, withouten any wene,

My lady passeth (who-so taketh hede)

Al tho alyve, to speke of womanhede.

And as the ruby hath the soveraintè

Of riche stones and the regalyë;

And [as] the rose, of swetnesse and beautè,

Of fresshe floures, withouten any lyë;

Right so, in sothe, with her goodly yë,

She passeth al in bountee and fairnesse,

Of maner ekë, and of gentilnesse.

For she is bothe the fairest and the beste,

To reken al in very sothfastnesse;

For every vertue is in her at reste;

And furthermore, to speke of stedfastnesse,

She is the rotë; and of seemlinesse

The very mirrour; and of governaunce

To al example, withouten variaunce.

Of port benigne, and wonder glad of chere,

Having evermore her trewe advertence

Alway to reson; so that her desyre

Is brydeled ay by witte and providence;

Thereto, of wittë and of hy prudence

She is the wellë, ay devoide of pryde,

That unto vertue her-selven is the gyde!

And over this, in her daliaunce

Lowly she is, discret, wyse, [and secree],

And goodly gladde by attemperaunce,

That every wight, of high and low degree,

Are gladde in herte with her for to be;

Só that, shortly, if I shal not lye,

She named is 'The Flour of Curtesye.'

And there, to speke of femininitee,

The leste mannish in comparisoun,

Goodly abasshed, having ay pitee

Of hem that been in tribulacioun;

For she aloon is consolacioun

To al that arn in mischeef and in nede,

To comforte hem, of her womanhede.

And ay in vertue is her besy charge,

Sadde and demure, and but of wordes fewe;

Dredful also of tonges that ben large,

Eschewing ay hem that listen to hewe

Above hir heed, hir wordes for to shewe,

Dishonestly to speke of any wight;

She deedly hateth of hem to have a sight.

The herte of whom so honest is and clene,

And her entent so faithful and entere

That she ne may, for al the world, sustene

To suffre her eres any word to here,

Of frend nor fo, neither fer ne nere,

Amis resowning, that hinder shulde his name;

And if she do, she wexeth reed for shame.

So trewëly in mening she is set,

Without chaunging or any doublenesse;

For bountee and beautee ar togider knet

In her personë, under faithfulnesse;

For void she is of newëfangelnesse;

In herte ay oon, for ever to perséver

Ther she is set, and never to dissever.

I am to rude her vertues everichoon

Cunningly [for] to discryve and wryte;

For wel ye wot, colour[es] have I noon

Lyk her discrecioun craftely t'endyte;

For what I sayë, al it is to lyte.

Whérfor to you thus I me excuse,

That I aqueynted am not with no muse!

By rethoryke my style to governe,

In her preyse and commendacioun,

I am to blind, so hyly to discerne,

Of her goodnesse to make discripcioun,

Save thus I sayë, in conclusioun,

If that I shal shortly [her] commende,

In her is naught that Nature can amende.

For good she is, lyk to Policene,

And, in fairnesse, to the quene Helayne;

Stedfast of herte, as was Dorigene,

And wyfly trouthë, if I shal not fayne:

In constaunce eke and faith, she may attayne

To Cleopatre; and therto as †secree

As was of Troye the whyte Antigone;

As Hester meke; lyk Judith of prudence;

Kynde as Alceste or Marcia Catoun;

And to Grisilde lyk in pacience,

And Ariadne, of discrecioun;

And to Lucrece, that was of Rome toun,

She may be lykned, as for honestè;

And, for her faith, unto Penelope.

To faire Phyllis and to Hipsiphilee,

For innocencë and for womanhede;

For seemlinessë, unto Canacee;

And over this, to speke of goodlihede,

She passeth alle that I can of rede;

For worde and dede, that she naught ne falle,

Acorde in vertue, and her werkes alle.

For though that Dydo, with [her] witte sage,

Was in her tyme stedfast to Enee,

Of hastinesse yet she did outrage;

And so for Jason did also Medee.

But my lady is so avisee

That, bountee and beautee bothe in her demeyne,

She maketh bountee alway soverayne.

This is to mene, bountee goth afore,

Lad by prudence, and hath the soveraintee;

And beautee folweth, ruled by her lore,

That she †n'offendë her in no degree;

So that, in one, this goodly fresshe free

Surmounting al, withouten any were,

Is good and fair, in oon persone y-fere.

And though that I, for very ignoraunce,

Ne may discryve her vertues by and by,

Yet on this day, for a rémembraunce,

Only supported under her mercy,

With quaking hondë, I shal ful humbly

To her hynesse, my rudenes for to quyte,

A litel balade here bineth endyte,

Ever as I can suppryse in my herte,

Alway with fere, betwixe drede and shame,

Lest out of lose any word asterte

In this metre, to make it seme lame;

Chaucer is deed, that hadde suche a name

Of fair making, that [was], withoute wene,

Fairest in our tonge, as the laurer grene.

We may assaye for to counterfete

His gaye style, but it wil not be;

The welle is drye, with the licour swete,

Bothe of Clio and of Caliopè;

And first of al, I wol excuse me

To her, that is [the] ground of goodlihede;

And thus I saye until hir womanhede:—

Balade simple.

¶ 'With al my mightë, and my beste entente,

With al the faith that mighty god of kynde

Me yaf, sith he me soule and knowing sente,

I chese, and to this bonde ever I me bynde,

To love you best, whyl I have lyf and mynde':—

Thus herde I foules in the dawëninge

Upon the day of saint Valentyne singe.

'Yet chese I, at the ginning, in this entente,

To love you, though I no mercy fynde;

And if you liste I dyed, I wolde assente,

As ever twinne I quik out of this lynde!

Suffyseth me to seen your fetheres ynde':—

Thus herde I foules in the morweninge

Upon the day of saint Valentyne singe.

'And over this, myn hertes lust to-bente,

In honour only of the wodëbynde,

Hoolly I yeve, never to repente

In joye or wo, wher-so that I wynde

Tofore Cupyde, with his eyën blynde':—

The foules alle, whan Tytan did springe,

With dévout herte, me thoughte I herde singe!

Lenvoy.

¶ Princesse of beautee, to you I represente

This simple dytè, rude as in makinge,

Of herte and wil faithful in myn entente,

Lyk as, this day, [the] foules herde I singe.

Here endeth the Flour of Curtesye.

That is of pitè the welle and eek the spring!

Wherfor of her, in laude and in praysing,

So as I can, supported by her grace,

Right thus I say, kneling tofore her face:—

O sterre of sterres, with thy stremes clere,

Sterre of the see, to shipmen light and gyde,

O lusty living, most plesaunt to apere,

Whos brighte bemes the cloudes may not hyde;

O way of lyf to hem that go or ryde,

Haven from tempest, surest up to ryve,

On me have mercy, for thy joyes fyve!

O rightful rule, O rote of holinesse,

And lightsom lyne of pitè for to playne,

Original ginning of grace and al goodnesse,

Clenest conduit of vertue soverayne,

Moder of mercy, our trouble to restrayne,

Chambre and closet clenest of chastitè,

And named herberwe of the deitè!

O hoolsom garden, al voyde of wedes wikke,

Cristallin welle, of clennesse clere consigned,

Fructif olyve, of foyles faire and thikke,

And redolent cedre, most dereworthly digned,

Remembre on sinners unto thee assigned

Er wikked fendes hir wrathe upon hem wreche;

Lanterne of light, thou be hir lyves leche!

Paradyse of plesaunce, gladsom to al good,

Benigne braunchelet of the pyne-tree,

Vyneyerd vermayle, refressher of our food,

Licour ayein languor, palled that may not be,

Blisful bawme-blossom, byding in bountè,

Thy mantel of mercy on our mischef sprede,

And er wo wake, wrappe us under thy wede!

O rody rosier, flouring withouten spyne,

Fountayne filthles, as beryl currant clere,

Som drope of graceful dewe to us propyne;

Light withoute nebule, shyning in thy spere,

Medecyne to mischeves, pucelle withouten pere,

Flame doun to doleful light of thyn influence

On thy servauntes, for thy magnificence!

Of al Christen protectrice and tutele,

Retour of exyled, put in prescripcioun

To hem that erre in the pathe of hir sequele;

To wery wandred tent and pavilioun,

The feynte to fresshe, and the pausacioun;

Unto unresty bothe reste and remedye,

Fruteful to al tho that in her affye.

To hem that rennen thou art itinerárie,

O blisful bravie to knightes of thy werre;

To wery werkmen thou art diourn denárie,

Mede unto mariners that have sayled ferre;

Laureat crowne, streming as a sterre

To hem that putte hem in palestre for thy sake,

Cours of her conquest, thou whyte as any lake!

Thou mirthe of martyrs, sweter than citole,

Of confessours also richest donatyf,

Unto virgynes eternal lauriole,

Afore al women having prerogatyf;

Moder and mayde, bothe widowe and wyf,

Of al the worlde is noon but thou alone!

Now, sith thou may, be socour to my mone!

O trusty turtle, trewest of al trewe,

O curteyse columbe, replete of al mekenesse,

O nightingale with thy notes newe,

O popinjay, plumed with al clennesse,

O laverok of love, singing with swetnesse,

Phebus, awayting til in thy brest he lighte

Under thy winge at domesday us dighte!

O ruby, rubifyed in the passioun

Al of thy sone, among have us in minde,

O stedfast dyamaunt of duracioun,

That fewe feres that tyme might thou finde,

For noon to him was founden half so kinde!

O hardy herte, O loving crëature,

What was it but love that made thee so endure?

Semely saphyre, depe loupe, and blewe ewage,

Stable as the loupe, ewage of pitè,

This is to say, the fresshest of visage,

Thou lovest hem unchaunged that serven thee.

And if offence or wrything in hem be,

Thou art ay redy upon hir wo to rewe,

And hem receyvest with herte ful trewe.

O goodly gladded, whan that Gabriel

With joy thee grette that may not be nombred!

Or half the blisse who coude wryte or tel

Whan the holy goost to thee was obumbred,

Wherthrough fendes were utterly encombred?

O wemlees mayde, embelisshed in his birthe,

That man and aungel therof hadden mirthe!

Lo, here the blossom and the budde of glorie,

Of which the prophet spak so longe aforn;

Lo, here the same that was in memórie

Of Isaie, so longe or she was born;

Lo, here of David the delicious corn;

Lo, here the ground that list [him] to onbelde,

Becoming man, our raunsom for to yelde!

O glorious vyole, O vytre inviolat!

O fyry Tytan, persing with thy bemes,

Whos vertuous brightnes was in thy brest vibrat,

That al the world embelisshed with his lemes!

Conservatrice of kingdomes and remes;

Of Isaies sede O swete Sunamyte,

Mesure my mourning, myn owne Margaryte!

O sovereignest, sought out of Sion,

O punical pome ayens al pestilence;

And aureat urne, in whom was bouk and boon

The agnelet, that faught for our offence

Ayens the serpent with so high defence

That lyk a lyoun in victorie he was founde;

To him commende us, of mercy most habounde!

O precious perle, withouten any pere,

Cockle with gold dew from above berayned,

Thou busshe unbrent, fyrles set a-fere,

Flambing with fervence, not with hete payned;

Thou during daysye, with no †weder stayned;

Flees undefouled of gentil Gedeon,

And fructifying yerd thou of Aaron.

Thou misty arke, probatik piscyne,

Laughing Aurora, and of pees olyve;

Columpne and base, up bering from abyme;

Why nere I conning, thee for to discryve?

Chosen of Joseph, whom he took to wyve,

Unknowing him, childing by greet mirácle,

And of our manhode trewe tabernacle!

With feble entune, though it thyn herte perce,

Yet for thy sake this lettre I do reherce.

God wot, on musike I can not, but I gesse,

(Alas! why so?) that I might say or singe,

So love I you, myn own soverain maistresse,

And ever shal, withouten départinge.

Mirrour of beautè, for you out shuld I ringe,

In rémembraunce eke of your eyen clere,

Thus fer from you, my soverain lady dere!

So wolde god your love wold me slo,

Sith, for your sake, I singe day by day;

Herte, why nilt thou [never] breke a-two,

Sith with my lady dwellen I ne may?

Thus many a roundel and many a virelay

In fresshe Englisshe, whan I me layser finde,

I do recorde, on you to have minde!

Now, lady myn! sith I you love and drede,

And you unchaunged finde, in o degree,

Whos grace ne may flye fro your womanhede,

Disdayneth not for to remembre on me!

Myn herte bledeth, for I may nat you see;

And sith ye wot my mening désirous,

Pleurez pur moi, si vous plaist amorous!

What marveyle is, though I in payne be?

I am departed from you, my soveraine;

Fortune, alas! dont vient la destenee,

That in no wyse I can ne may attayne

To see the beautè of your eyën twayne.

Wherfore I say, for tristesse doth me grame,

Tant me fait mal departir de ma dame!

Why nere my wisshing brought to suche esploit

That I might say, for joye of your presence,

'Ore a man cuer ce quil veuilloit,

Ore a man cuer the highest excellence

That ever had wight;' and sith myn advertence

Is in you, reweth on my paynes smerte,

I am so sore wounded to the herte.

To live wel mery, two lovers were y-fere,

So may I say withouten any blame;

If any man [per cas] to wilde were,

I coude him [sonë] teche to be tame;

Let him go love, and see wher it be game!

For I am brydled unto sobernesse

For her, that is of women cheef princesse.

But ever, whan thought shulde my herte embrace,

Than unto me is beste remedye,

Whan I loke on your goodly fresshe face;

So mery a mirrour coude I never espye;

And, if I coude, I wolde it magnifye.

For never non was [here] so faire y-founde,

To reken hem al, and also Rosamounde.

And fynally, with mouthe and wil present

Of double eye, withoute repentaunce,

Myn herte I yeve you, lady, in this entent,

That ye shal hoolly therof have governaunce;

Taking my leve with hertes obeysaunce,

'Salve, regina!' singing laste of al,

To be our helpe, whan we to thee cal!

Al our lovë is but ydelnesse

Save your aloon; who might therto attayne?

Who-so wol have a name of gentillesse,

I counsayle him in love that he not fayne.

Thou swete lady! refut in every payne,

Whos [pitous] mercy most to me avayleth

To gye by grace, whan that fortune fayleth.

Nought may be told, withouten any fable,

Your high renome, your womanly beautè;

Your governaunce, to al worship able,

Putteth every herte in ese in his degree.

O violet, O flour desiree,

Sith I am for you so amorous,

Estreynez moy, [lady,] de cuer joyous!

With fervent herte my brest hath broste on fyre;

L'ardant espoir que mon cuer poynt, est mort,

D'avoir l'amour de celle que je desyre,

I mene you, swete, most plesaunt of port,

Et je sai bien que ceo n'est pas mon tort

That for you singe, so as I may, for mone

For your departing; alone I live, alone.

Though I mighte, I wolde non other chese;

In your servyce, I wolde be founden sad;

Therfore I love no labour that ye lese,

Whan, in longing, sorest ye be stad;

Loke up, ye lovers [alle], and be right glad

Ayeines sëynt Valentynes day,

For I have chose that never forsake I may!

Explicit.