THOUSAND times I have heard men tell,
That there is joy in Heaven, and pain in
And I accord it wele that it is so,
But nathelesse yet wote I wele also,
That there n'is non dwelling in this countre,
That either hath in Heaven or in Hell ybe,
Ne may of it none other waies witten,
But as he heard sayd, or found it written,
For by assay there may no man it preve.
But God forbede but men should leve
Wel more thing than they have seen with eye,
Men shall nat wenen every thing a lie
But if himself it seeth, or els it dooth,
For God wote thing is never the lesse soth,
Though every wight ne may it not ysee.
Bernarde the monke ne saugh all parde,
Than mote we to bookes that we find,
(Through which that old things ben in mind)
And to the doctrine of the old wise,
Yeve credence, in every skilful wise,
That tellen of the old appreved stories,
Of holines, of reignes, of victories,
Of love, of hate, and other sundry things,
Of which I may not make rehearsings:
And if that old bookes were away,
Ylorne were of all remembraunce the kay. Well ought us than, honouren and beleve These bookes, there we han none other preve.
And as for me, though that I can but lite,
On bookes for to rede I me delite,
And to hem yeve I faith and full credence,
And in mine herte have hem in reverence
So hertely, that there is game none,
That fro my bookes maketh me to gone,
But it be seldome on the holy daie,
Save certainly, whan that the month of May
Is comen, and that I heare the foules sing,
And that the floures ginnen for to spring,
Farwell my booke, and my devotion,
Now have I than eke this condition,
That of all the floures in the mede,
Than love I most these floures white and rede,
Soch that men callen daisies in our toun,
To hem I have so great affectioun,
As I sayd erst, whan comen is the May,
That in my bedde there daweth me no day,
That I nam up and walking in the mede,
To seen this floure ayenst the Sunne sprede,
Whan it up riseth early by the morrow,
That blisfull sight softeneth all my sorow,
So glad am I, whan that I have presence
Of it, to done it all reverence,
And she that is of all floures the floure,
Fulfilled of all vertue and honoure,
And every ylike faire, and fresh of hewe,
And ever I love it, and ever ylike newe,
And ever shall, till that mine herte die,
All sweare I not, of this I woll not lie.
There loved no wight hotter in his life,
And whan that it is eve I renne blithe,
As sone as ever the Sunne ginneth west,
To seen this floure, how it woll go
to rest,
For feare of night, so hateth she derkenesse,
Her chere is plainly spred in the brightnesse
Of the Sunne, for there it woll unclose :
Alas that I ne had English rime, or prose
Suffisaunt, this floure to praise aright,
But helpeth ye, that han conning and might,
Ye lovers, that can make of sentement,
In this case ought ye be diligent,
To forthren me somewhat in my labour,
Whether ye been with the lefe or with the flour,
For well I wote, that ye
han here beforne
Of making ropen, and had alway the corne,
And I come after, glening here and there,
And am full glad, if I may find an eare,
Of any goodly worde that ye han left,
And though it happen me to rehearsen eft,
That ye han in your freshe songes sayd,
Forbeareth me, and beth not evill apayd,
Sith that ye se, I doe it in the honour
Of love, and eke of service of the flour,
Whom that I serve, as I have wit or might,
She is the clerenesse and the very light,
That in this derke world me wint and ledeth
The herte within my sorowfull brest you dredeth,
And loveth so sore, that ye ben verily
The maistres of my wit, and nothing I,
My word, my workes, is knit so in your bonde
That as an harpe obeieth to the honde,
And make it soune after his fingering,
Right so mowe ye out of mine herte bring,
Soch voice, right as you list, to laugh or pain;
Be ye my guide, and lady soverain :
As to mine yearthly God, to you I call,
Both in this werke, and my sorowes all.
But wherefore that I spake to yeve credence
To old stories, and done hem reverence,
And that men musten more thing bileve
That men may seen at eye or els preve,
That shall I sein, whan that I see my time,
may nat all atones speake in rime;
My busie ghost, that thursteth alway new,
To seen this flour so yong, so fresh of hew,
Constrained me, with so gredy desire,
That in my herte I fele yet the fire,
That made me rise ere it were day,
And this was now the first morow of May,
With dreadfull herte, and glad devotion
For to been at the resurrection
Of this floure, whan that it should unclose
Again the Sunne, that rose as redde as rose,
That in the brest was of the beast that day,
That Angenores daughter ladde away :
And doune on knees anon right I me sette,
And as I could, this fresh floure I grette,
Kneeling alway, till it unclosed was,
Upon the small, soft, swete gras,
That was with floures swete embrouded all,
Of such swetenesse, and soch odour over all,
That for to speake of gomme, herbe, or tree,
Comparison may not ymaked be,
For it surmounteth plainly all odoures,
And of riche beaute of floures:
Forgotten had the yearth his poore estate
Of Winter, that him naked made and mate,
And with his sword of cold so sore greved;
Now hath the attempre sunne al that releved
That naked was, and clad it new again;
The small foules of the season fain,
That of the panter and the net been scaped,
Upon the fouler, that hem made awhaped
In Winter, and destroied had her brood,
In his dispite hem thought it did hem good
To sing of him, and in her song dispise
The foule chorle, that for his covetise,
Had him betraied, with his sophistrie,
This was her
66
song, The fouler we defie,
And all his craft:" and some songen clere,
Laies of love, that joy it was to here,
In worshipping and praysing of hir make,
And for the new blisfull Somers sake,
Upon the braunches full of blosmes soft,
In hir dilite, they tourned hem ful oft,
And songen," Blissed be sainct Valentine,
For on his day I chese you to be mine,
Withouten repenting mine herte swete,"
And therewithall hir bekes gonnen mete,
Yelding honour, and humble obeisaunce
To love, and didden hir other observaunce
That longeth unto love, and unto nature,
Constrewe that as you list, I do no cure:
And tho that had done unkindnesse,
As doeth the tidife, for new fanglenesse,
Besought mercy of hir trespasing,
And humbly song hir repenting,
And sworen on the blosmes to be true,
So that hir makes would upon hem rue,
And at the last maden hir acorde,
All found they Daunger for the time a lord,
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