For, sothly for to seyne, I bere the sore, And, though I be not cunning for to pleyne,
For goddes love, have mercy on my peyne!
My peyne is this, that what so I desire That have I not, ne no-thing lyk therto; And ever set Desire myn herte on fire; Eek on that other syde, wher-so I go, 102 What maner thing that may encrese wo That have I redy, unsoght, everywhere; Me [ne] lakketh but my deth, and than my bere.
Here endeth the exclamacion of the Deth of Pyte.
III. THE BOOK OF THE DUCHESSE.
I HAVE gret wonder, by 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 +kepe
Of no-thing, how hit cometh or goth,
Ne me nis no-thing leef nor loth.
Al is y-liche good to me-
Joye or sorowe, wherso hit be-
For I have feling in no-thing,
But, as it were, a mased thing,
Alway in point to falle a-doun;
For +sory imaginacioun
Is alway hoolly in my minde.
And wel ye woot, agaynes kinde Hit were to liven in this wyse ;
For nature wolde nat suffyse
To noon erthely creature
Not longe tyme to endure
This was the tale: Ther was a king That highte Seys, and hadde a wyf, The beste that mighte bere lyf; And this quene highte 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 hir 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. 75 Now for to speken of his wyf:This lady, that was left at home, Hath wonder, that the king ne come Hoom, for hit was a longe terme. Anon her herte tgan to erme; And for that hir thoughte evermo Hit was not wel the dwelte so, She longed so after the king
So whan she coude here no word That no man mighte finde hir lord, Ful oft she swouned, and seide 'alas!' For sorwe ful nigh wood she was, Ne she coude no reed but oon; But doun on knees she sat anoon, And tweep, that pite was to here. 'A! mercy! swete lady dere!' Quod she to Juno, 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 caughte her up anon, And broghten hir in bed al naked, And she, forweped and forwaked, Was wery, and thus the dede sleep Fil on her, or she toke keep, Through Juno, that had herd hir bone, That made hir [for] to slepe sone;
For as she prayde, †so was don,
To do her erande, and he com nere.
Whan he was come, she bad him thus: 135
'Go bet,' quod Juno, 'to Morpheus,
Thou knowest him wel, the god of sleep;
Now understond wel, and tak keep.
Sey thus on my halfe, that he
Go faste into the grete sec,
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,
And 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 tso
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
And bar hit forth to Alcyone,
His wyf 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 seyde, 'my swete wyf,
Awak! let be your sorwful lyf!
For in your sorwe ther 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, tat 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!'
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, 175
And some lay[e] naked in hir bed,
And slepe whyles the dayes laste.
This messager com flying faste,
And cryed, 'O ho! awak 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 yö
My first matere I wil yow telle,
Wherfor I have told this thing
Of Alcione and Seys the king.
For thus moche dar I say[e] wel,
I had be dolven everydel,
And deed, right through defaute of sleep, If I nad red and take[n] 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
246 +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, tal a-boute,
And songen, everich in his wyse,
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.
I wil yive him the alder-beste
Yift that ever he abood 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,
If 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 feës thus
Than ever he wan; and to Juno,
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
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, 310
I nolde but I had herd hem singe;
For al my chambre gan to ringe
I trowe no man hadde the wit
To conne wel my sweven rede;
No, not Joseph, withoute drede,
Of Egipte, he that redde so
265 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 joye.
For hoolly al the storie of Troye
Was in the glasing y-wroght thus,
Of Ector and +king Priamus,
Of Achilles and +Lamedon,
I fil aslepe, and therwith even
Me mette so inly swete a sweven,
So wonderful, that never yit
That he mette, king Scipioun,
The noble man, the Affrican-
Swiche mervayles fortuned than)
I trowe, a-rede my dremes even.
Lo, thus hit was, this was my sweven, 290
ME thoughte thus :-that hit was May,
And in the dawning ther I lay,
Me mette thus, in my bed al naked :—-
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
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