THE CUCKOW AND THE NIGHTINGALE, OR THE BOKE OF CUPIDE, GOD OF LOVE.

THE god of Love, ah! benedicite,1
How myghty and how grete a lorde is he!
For he can make of lowe hertys hie,
And highe low, and like for to die,
And harde hertis he can make free.

And he can make, within a lytel stounde,
Of seke folke ful fresh, hool and sounde,
And of hoole folke he can make seke;
He can bynde, and unbynden eke,
What he wole have bounden or unbounde.

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To telle his myght my wit may not suffice, For he can make of wise folke ful nyse,2 For he may do al that he can devyse, And in lithere folke dystroye vise, And proude hertys he can make agryse.* Shortely, al that evere he wol he may, Agenst him ther dar no wight seye nay; For he can glade and greve whom him lyke," And whom that he wol, don hym laughe or

sike,

And most his myght he sheweth ever in May. For every trewe gentil herte and fre,

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1 The first two lines, says Mr. Skeat, are all that connect this with Chaucer. They are from the Canterbury Tales (ll. 1785, 1786) The style is nearer that of Chaucer than is that of any of the other attributed poems, and some lines seem to connect it with the Parle ment of Foules. 2 Ignorant. 3 Evil. Terrified. Pleaseth.

That with him is, or thinketh for to be,
Agens May now shal have somme sterynge,
Other to joy, or elles to some mornynge,1
In no sesoun so grette, as thynketh me.
For then they mowe here the briddes singe,
And see the floures and the leves springe,
That bringeth into hertes remembraunce
A maner ease, ymedled with grevaunce,
And lusty thoghtes ful of grete longynge.
And of that longynge cometh hevynesse,
And thereof groweth oft grete sekenesse,
And al for lak of that that they desyre:
And thus in May ben hertys set on fire,
And so they brenne forthe in grete distresse.
I speke al this of felyng truly;

For althogh I be olde and unlusty, ·
Yet have I felte of that sekenes in May
Bothe hote and colde, and acces2 every day,
How sore, ywis, ther wot no wight but I.

I am so shaken with the feveres white,
Of al this May yet slept I but a lyte ;
And also hit ne liketh noght to me
That eny herte shulde slepy be,

In whom that Love his firy dart wol smyte.
But as I lay this other nyght wakynge,

I thoght how lovers had a tokenynge,
And among hem hit was a comune tale,
That hit wer good to here the nyghtyngale,
Rather then the leude cukkow synge.

1 Mourning. 2 Returning attack.

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And then I thoght anoon, as hit was daye,
I wolde goo somme whedir for to assaye
Yf that I myght a nyghtyngale here;
For yet I non had herd of al this yere,
And hit was tho the thirde nyght of May.
And right anoon as I the day espiede,
No lenger wolde I in my bed abyde;
But unto a wode that was fast by,
I wente forthe allone ful prively,

And helde my way doun by a broke syde, 60
Til I come into a launde of white and grene,
So feire oon had I nevere in bene,
The grounde was grene, ypoudred with dayse,
The floures and the gras ilike al hie,

Al grene and white, was nothing elles sene.

Ther sat I doune amonge the feire floures, And saw thee briddes crepe out of her boures, Ther as they had rested hem al the nyght; They were so joyful of the dayes lyght, That they beganne of Mayes the honoures. 70 They coude that servise alle bye rote; Ther was also mony a lovely note! Somme songe loude as they hadde pleyned, And somme in other maner voys yfeyned, And somme al oute with a lowde throte.

They pruned1hem, and made hem ryght gay, And daunseden and lepten on the spray; And evermore two and two in fere,2 Ryght so as they hadde chosen hem to-yere In Feverere upon Seynt Valentynes day.

1 Made themselves trim. 2 Together. This year.

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66 THAT SORY BRIDDE."

And the ryvere that I sat upon,
Hit made suche a noyse as hit ron,
Acordaunt to the foules ermonye,1
Me thoght hit was the beste melodye
That myghte ben yherd of eny man.

And for delyte, I ne wote never how,
I fel in such a slombre and a swowe,2.
Nat al on slepe, ne fully al wakyng,
And in that swowe me thoght I herde singe
That sory bridde, the lewede cukkowe,

And that was on a tre right faste bye.

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But who was then evel apayed but I? "Now God," quod I, "that died upon the croise,

Give sorowe on the, and on thy foule voys!

For lytel joy have I now of thy crie."
And as I with the cukkow gan to chide,
I herde, in the nexte busshes beside,
A nyghtyngale so lustely singe,

That with her clere voys she made rynge
Thro out alle the grene wode wide.

"A! goode nyghtyngale," quod I thenne,
"A lytelle hast thou be to longe henne,3
For here hath ben the lewede cukkow,
And songen songes rather then hast thou :
I prey to God that evel fire her brenne!"
But now I wil yow tel a wonder thynge:
As longe as I lay in that swownynge,
Me thoght I wist al that the briddes mente,
1 Harmony. 2 Swoon. 3 Herce. 4 Sooner.

And what they seyde, and what was her entente,
And of her speche I hadde good knouynge. 110
And then herd I the nyghtyngale seye,
"Now, goode cukkow, go sommewhere thy weye
And let us that can synge dwellen here;
Fer every wight escheweth the to here,
Thy songes be so elynge,1 in gode feye."
"What," quoth she, "what may the ale now?
Hit thinketh me, I syng as wel as thow,
For my songe is bothe trewe and pleyne,
Al-thogh I cannot creke 2 hit so in veyne,
As thou dost in thy throte, I wote ner how. 120
"And every wight may understonde me,
But, nyghtyngale, so may they not don the,
For thou hast mony a feyned queint cry ;
I have herd the seye, 'ocy, ocy ;'

But who myghte wete what that shulde be?"
"O fole," quoth she, "wost thou not what
that is?

When that I sey, 'ocy, ocy,' iwisse,

Then mene I that I wolde wonder fayne,
That al tho were shamefully islayne,
That menen oght agenes love amys.

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"And also I wolde alle tho were dede, That thenke not her lyve in love to lede; For who that wol the god of Love not serve, I dar wel sey he is worthy for to sterve; And for that skille, 'ocy, ocy,' I grede." "Ey!" quoth the cukkow, "ywis this is a queynt lawe,

1 Sad. Make it tremulous. Reason. Cry.