THE PROLOGUE OF NINE GOODE
THOUSANDE tymes I have herd telle, There ys joy in hevene, and peyne in helle,
And I acorde wel that it ys so;
But, natheles, yet wot I wel also,
That ther is noon dwellyng in this countree,
That eythir hath in hevene or helle ybe,
Ne may of hit noon other weyes witen,
But as he hath herd seyde, or founde it writen;
For by assay ther may no man it preve.
But God forbede but men shulde leve
Wel more thing then men han seen with eye!
Men shal not wenen every thing a lye
But-yf hymselfe yt seeth, or elles dooth;
For, God wot, thing is never the lasse sooth,
Thogh every wight ne may it not ysee.
Bernarde, the monke, ne saugh nat alle pardé !
Than mote we to bokes that we fynde,
(Thurgh which that olde thinges ben in mynde)
And to the doctrine of these olde wyse,
Yeve credence, in every skylful wise,
That tellen of these olde appreved stories,
Of holynesse, of regnes, of victories,
Of love, of hate, and other sondry thynges,
Of whiche I may not maken rehersynges:
And yf that olde bokes were awey,
Ylorne were of remembraunce the key.
Wel ought us, thanne, honouren and beleve
These bokes, there we han noon other preve.
And as for me, though than I konne but lyte, On bokes for to rede I me delyte,
And to hem yive I feyth and ful credence,
And in myn herte have hem in reverence
So hertely, that ther is game noon,
That fro my bokes maketh me to goon,
But yt be seldom on the holy day,
Save, certeynly, whan that the monethe of May
Is comen, and that I here the foules synge,
And that the floures gynnen for to sprynge,
Fairewel my boke, and my devocioun !
Now have I thanne suche a condicioun,
That of alle the floures in the mede,
Thanne love I most thise floures white and rede,
Suche as men callen daysyes in her toune.
To hem have I so grete affeccioun,
As I seyde erst, whanne comen is the May,
That, in my bed ther daweth me no day,
That I nam uppe and walkyng in the mede,
To seen this floure ayein the sonne sprede,
Whan it up rysith erly by the morwe;
That blisful sight softneth al my sorwe,
So glad am I, whan that I have presence
Of it, to doon it alle reverence,
As she that is of alle floures flour,
Fulfilled of al vertue and honour,
And evere ilike faire, and fressh of hewe.
And I love it, and evere ylike newe,
And ever shal, til that myn herte dye;
Al swere I nat, of this I wol nat lye,
Ther lovede no wight hotter in his lyve.
And, whan that hit ys eve, I renne blyve,
As sone as evere the sonne gynneth weste,
To seen this flour, how it wol go to reste,
For fere of nyght, so hateth she derkenesse !
Hire chere is pleynly sprad in the brightnesse
Of the sonne, for ther yt wol unclose.
Allas, that I ne had Englyssh, ryme, or prose,
Suffisant this flour to preyse aryght!
But helpeth ye that han konnyng and myght,
Ye lovers, that kan make of sentement;
In this case oghte ye be diligent,
To forthren me somwhat in my labour,
Whethir ye
ben with the leef or with the flour,
For wel I wot, that ye han herbiforne
Of makynge ropen, and lad awey the corne;
And I come after, glenyng here and there,
And am ful glad yf I may fynde an ere
Of any goodly word that ye han left.
And thogh it happen me rehercen eft
That ye han in your fresshe songes sayede,
Forbereth me, and beth not evele apayede,
Syn that ye see I do yt in the honour
Of love, and eke in service of the flour,
Whom that I serve as I have witte or myght.
She is the clerenesse and the verray lyght,
That in this derke worlde me wynt and ledyth,
The hert in-with my sorwful brest yow dredith,
And loveth so sore, that ye ben verrayly,
The maistresse of my witte, and nothing I.
My worde, my werkes, ys knyt so in youre bond
That as an harpe obeieth to the hond,
That maketh it soune after his fyngerynge,
Ryght so mowe ye oute of myn herte bringe
Swich vois, ryght as yow lyst, to laughe or pleyne ;
Be ye myn gide, and lady sovereyne.
As to my erthely God, to yowe I calle,
Bothe in this werke, and in my sorwes alle.
But wherfore that I spake to yive credence
To olde stories, and doon hem reverence,
And that men mosten more thyng beleve
Then they may seen at eighe or elles preve;
That shal I seyn, whanne that I see my tyme;
I may nat all attones speke in ryme.
My besy gost, that trusteth alwey newe,
To seen this flour so yong, so fressh of hewe,
Constreynede me with so gredy desire,
That in myn herte I feele yet the fire,
That made me to ryse er yt wer day,
And this was now the firste morwe of May,
With dredful hert, and glad devocioun
For to ben at the resurreccioun
Of this flour, whan that yt shulde unclose
Agayne the sonne, that roos as rede as rose,
That in the brest was of the beste that day,
That Agenores doghtre ladde away.
And doune on knes anoon ryght I me sette,
And as I koude, this fresshe flour I grette,
Knelyng alwey, til it unclosed was,
Upon the smale, softe, swote gras,
That was with floures swote enbrouded al,
Of swich swetnesse, and swich odour over-al,
That for to speke of gomme, or herbe, or tree,
Comparisoun may noon ymaked be;
For yt surmounteth pleynly alle odoures,
And of riche beauté of floures.
Forgeten hadde the erthe his pore estate
Of wyntir, that him naked made and mate,
And with his swerd of colde so sore greved;
Now hath thatempre sonne alle that releved
That naked was, and clad yt new agayn.
The smale foules, of the seson fayn,
That of the panter and the nette ben scaped,
Upon the foweler, that made hem awhaped
In wynter, and distroyed hadde hire broode,
In his dispite hem thoghte yt did hem goode
To synge of hym, and in hir songe dispise
The foule cherle, that for his coveytise,
Had hem betrayed with his sophistrye.
This was hire songe, The foweler we deffye,
And al his crafte.' And somme songen clere
Layes of love, that joye it was to here,
In worshippynge and in preysing of hir make;
And, for the newe blisful somers sake,
Upon the braunches ful of blosmes softe,
In hire delyt, they turned hem ful ofte,
And songen, 'Blessed be seynt Valentyne!
For on his day I chees yow to be myne,
Withouten repentyng, myn herte swete!'
And therewithalle hire bekes gonnen meete,
Yeldyng honour, and humble obeysaunces
To love, and diden hir othere observaunces
That longeth onto love, and to nature;
Construeth that as yow lyst, I do no cure.
And thoo that hadde doon unkyndenesse,
As dooth the tydif, for newfangelnesse,
Besoghte mercy of hire trespassynge,
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