To love a newe, and ben untrewe? Nay!
And put yow in sclaunder now and blame,
And do to me adversité and grame,
That love yow most, God wel thou wost! alway?
And come ayein, and be al pleyn somme day,
And turne al this, that hath be mys, to game;
Andal foryeve,' while that I lyve may.
'Lo, herte myn, al this is for to seyn,
As wheder shal I prey or elles pleyn ?
Whiche is the wey to doon yow to be trewe?
For either mot I have yow in my cheyn,
Or with the dethe ye mot departe us tweyn;
Ther ben non other mene weyes newe,
For God so wisly upon my soule rewe,
As verrely ye sleen me with the peyn;
That may ye se unfeyned of myn hewe.
For thus ferforthe have I my dethe soght,
My self I mourdre with my prevy thoght;
For sorowe and routhe of your unkyndnesse,
I wepe, I wake, I fast, al helpeth noght;
I weyve joy that is to speke of oght,
I voyde companye, I fle gladnesse ;
Who may avaunt hir beter of hevynesse,
Then I? and to this plyte have ye me broght, 300 Withoute gilt, me nedith no witnesse.
And shal I prey, and weyve womanhede ?
Nay! rather dethe, then do so foule a dede,
And axe mercie, an giltles what nede?
And yf I pleyn what lyfe I lede,
Yow rekketh not; that know I out of drede,
And if I to yow myn othes bede,
For myn excuse, a skorne shal be my mede,
Your chere floureth, but wol not sede,
Ful longe agoon I oght have taken hede;
For thogh I hadde yow to morowe ageyn,
I myght as wel holde Apprile fro reyn,
As holde yow to make yow be stedfast.
Almyghty God, of trouthe the sovereign!
Wher is the trouthe of man? who hath hit slayn ? Who that hem loveth, she shal hem fynde as faste, As in a tempest is a roten maste.
Is that a tame best, that is ay feyn
To renne away, when he is lest agaste?
'Now mercie, swete, yf I myssey! Have I seyde oght amys, I prey?
I not, my wit is al awey.
I fare as dothe the songe of chanteplure;
For now I pleyn, and now I pley,
I am so mased that I dey,
Arcite hath borne awey the key
Of al my worlde, and my good aventure.
For in this worlde ther is no creature,
Walkynge in more discomfiture,
Then I, ne more sorowe endure,
And yf I slepe a furlonge wey or tweye,
Then thenketh me that your figure
Before me stont clad in asure,
Efte to suere yet a newe assure,
For to be trew, and mercie me to preye.
The longe nyght, this wonder sight I drye,
And on the day for this afray I dye,
And of al this ryght noght, ywis, ye reche,
Ne neveremo myn yen two be drie,
And to your routhe, and to your trouthe I crie;
But, welawey! to fer be they to feche,
Thus holdeth me my destany a wreche,
But me to rede out of this drede or guye,
Ne may my wit, so weyke is hit, not streche.
• Then ende I thus, sith I may do no more,
I yif hit up for now and evermore ;
For I shal never efte put in balaunce
My seknernes, ne lerne of love the lore;
But as the swan, I have herd seyd ful yore,
Ayeins his dethe shal singen his penaunce,
So singe I here the destany or chaunce,
How that Arcite, Analida so sore
Hath thirled with the poynt of remembraunce.'
[Whan that Annelyda, this woful quene,
Hath of her hande written in this wyse,
With face deed, betwyxe pale and grene,
She fel a-swoune; and sythe she gan to ryse,
And unto Mars avoweth sacrifyse
Within the temple, with a sorouful chere,
That shapen was, as ye may plainly here.]
OD turne us every dreme, to goode ! For hyt is wonder, be the roode, To my wytte, what causeth swevenes Eyther on morwes, or on evenes; And why theffecte folweth of somme, And of somme hit shal never come; Why that is an avisioun,
And why this is a revelacioun;
Why this a dreme, why that a swevene,
And noght to every man i-lyche evene;
Why this a fantome, why these oracles,
I not: but who-so of these meracles
The causes knoweth bet then I,
Devyne he; for I certainly
Ne kan hem noght, ne never thinke
To besely my wytte to swinke,
To knowe of hir significaunce
The gendres, neyther the distaunce
Of tymes of hem, ne the causis,
For-why this is more then that cause is; 20
As yf folkys complexiouns,
Make hem dreme of reflexiouns;
Or ellis thus, as other sayne,
For to grete feblenesse of her brayne,
By abstinence, or by sekenesse,
Prisoun, stewe or grete distresse;
Or ellis by disordynaunce,
Or naturell acustumaunce,
That somme man is to curiouse
In studye, or melancolyouse;
Or thus, so inly ful of drede,
That no man may hym bote bede;
Or ellis that devocioun
Of somme, and contemplacioun,
Causeth suche dremes ofte;
Or that the cruelle lyfe unsofte
Whiche these ilke lovers leden,
Oft hopen over moche or dreden,
That purely here impressions
Causeth hem avisions;
Or yf that spiritis have the myght
To make folke to dreme anyght;
Or yf the soule, of propre kynde,
Be so parfit as men fynde,
That yt forwote that ys to come,
And that hyt worneth al and some
Of everyche of her aventures,
Be avisions, or be figures,
But that oure flessh ne hath no myght
To understonde hyt aryght,
For hyt is warned to derkly;
But why the cause is, noght wote I,
Wel worth of this thynge grete clerkys,
That trete of this, and other werkes;
For I of noon opinioun
Nyl as now make mensyoun;
But oonly that the holy roode
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