She hath so gret compassion of hir knight, That dwelleth in solitude til she come; 65 For hit stood so, that ilke tyme, no wight Counseyled him, ne seyde to him welcome, That nigh hir wit for wo was overcome; Wherfore she spedde hir as faste in hir weye,

Almost in oon day, as he dide in tweye. 70

The grete joye that was betwix hem two, Whan they be met, ther may no tunge telle,

Ther is no more, but unto bed they go, And thus in joye and blisse I lete hem dwelle;

This worthy Mars, that is of knighthod welle,

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Depeynted was with whyte boles grete, And by the light she knew, that shoon so shene,

That Phebus cam to brenne hem with his hete;

This sely Venus, +dreynt in teres wete, Enbraceth Mars, and seyde, "alas! I dye! The torch is come, that al this world wol wrye." 91

Up sterte Mars, him liste not to slepe, Whan he his lady herde so compleyne; But, for his nature was not for to wepe, In stede of teres, fro his eyen tweyne 95 The fyry sparkes brosten out for peyne; And hente his hauberk, that lay him besyde;

Flee wolde he not, ne mighte him-selven hyde.

He throweth on his helm of huge wighte, And girt him with his swerde; and in his honde

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Is passed halfe the stremes of thyn yên; That thou nere swift, wel mayst thou wepe and cryen.

Now fleeth Venus un-to Cylenius tour, With voide cours, for fere of Phebus light. Alas! and ther ne hath she no socour, 115 For she ne fond ne saw no maner wight; And eek as ther she had but litil might; Wher-for, hir-selven for to hyde and save, Within the gate she fledde into a cave.

Derk was this cave, and smoking as the helle,

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Not but two pas within the gate hit stood; A naturel day in derk I lete hir dwelle. Now wol I speke of Mars, furious and wood;

For sorow he wolde have seen his herte blood;

Sith that he mighte thir don no companye,

He ne roghte not a myte for to dye.

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So feble he wex, for hete and for his wo, That nigh he swelt, he mighte unnethe endure;

He passeth but oo steyre in dayes two, But ner the les, for al his hevy armure, 130 He foloweth hir that is his lyves cure ; For whos departing he took gretter yre Thanne for al his brenning in the fyre. After he walketh softely a pas, Compleyning, that hit pite was to here. 135 He seyde, "O lady bright, Venus! alas! That ever so wyde a compas is my spere! Alas! whan shal I mete yow, herte dere, This twelfte day of April I endure, Through jelous Phebus, this misaventure."

The firste tyme, alas! that I was wroght, And for certeyn effectes hider broght 165 By him that lordeth ech intelligence, I yaf my trewe servise and my thoght, For evermore-how dere I have hit boght!

To hir, that is of so gret excellence, That what wight that first sheweth his presence,

170 When she is wroth and taketh of him no cure,

He may not longe in joye of love endure.

This is no feyned mater that I telle;
My lady is the verrey sours and welle

For thogh so be that lovers be as trewe 200 As any metal that is forged newe,

In many a cas hem tydeth ofte sorowe. Somtyme hir ladies will not on hem rewe, Somtyme, yif that jelosye hit knewe, They mighten lightly leye hir heed to borowe; 205

Somtyme envyous folke with tunges horowe

Depraven hem; alas! whom may they plese?

But he be fals, no lover hath his ese.

And then hir joye, for oght I can espye, Ne lasteth not the twinkeling of an yë, And somme han never joye til they be dede.

What meneth this? what is this mistihede?

Wherto constreyneth he his folk so faste Thing to desyre, but hit shulde laste? 226 And thogh he made a lover love a thing, And maketh hit seme stedfast and during, Yet putteth he in hit such misaventure, That reste nis ther noon in his yeving. 230 And that is wonder, that so just a king

Doth such hardnesse to his creature. Thus, whether love breke or elles dure, Algates he that hath with love to done Hath ofter wo then changed is the mone. Hit semeth he hath to lovers enmite, 236 And lyk a fissher, as men alday may see, Baiteth his angle-hook with som plesaunce,

Til mony a fish is wood til that he be 239 Sesed ther-with; and then at erst hath he Al his desyr, and ther-with al mischaunce;

And thogh the lyne breke, he hath penaunce;

For with the hoke he wounded is so sore, That he his wages hath for ever-more.

The Brooch of Thebes.

The broche of Thebes was of suche a kinde, 245

So ful of rubies and of stones Inde,

And whan that hit was his, than shulde he drye

Such wo for drede, ay whyl that he hit hadde,

That welnigh for the fere he shulde madde.

And whan hit was fro his possessioun,
Than had he double wo and passioun 255
For he so fair a tresor had forgo;
But yet this broche, as in conclusioun,
Was not the cause of this confusioun ;
But he that wroghte hit enfortuned hit
So,

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That every wight that had hit shuld have wo; And therfor in the worcher was the vyce, And in the covetour that was so nyce.

So fareth hit by lovers and by me; For thogh my lady have so gret beauté. That I was mad til I had gete hir grace, 205 She was not cause of myn adversitee, But he that wroghte hir, also mot I thee,

That putte suche a beaute in hir face, That made me to covete and purchace Myn owne deth; him wyte I that I dye,

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THE lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne,
Th'assay so hard, so sharp the conquering,
The dredful joye, that alwey slit so yerne,
Al this mene I by love, that my feling 4
Astonyeth with his wonderful worching
So sore y-wis, that whan I on him thinke,
Nat wot I wel wher that I wake or winke.

For al be that I knowe not love in dede,
Ne wot how that he quyteth folk hir hyre,
Yet happeth me ful ofte in bokes rede 10
Of his miracles, and his cruel yre;
Ther rede I wel he wol be lord and syre,
I dar not seyn, his strokes been so sore,
But god save swich a lord! I can no
more.

Of usage, what for luste what for lore, 15
On bokes rede I ofte, as I yow tolde.
But wherfor that I speke al this? not yore
Agon, hit happed me for to beholde
Upon a boke, was write with lettres olde;
And ther-upon, a certeyn thing to lerne, 20
The longe day ful faste I radde and yerne.

For out of olde feldes, as men seith,
Cometh al this newe corn fro yeer to yere ;
And out of olde bokes, in good feith,
Cometh al this newe science that men
lere.

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But now to purpos as of this matere-
To rede forth hit gan me so delyte,
That al the day me thoughte but a lyte.
This book of which I make mencioun,
Entitled was al thus, as I shal telle,
'Tullius of the dreme of Scipioun ';
Chapitres seven hit hadde, of hevene and
helle,

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