In makyng of a glorious legende,

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Of goode wymmen, maydenes, and wyves,
That weren trew in lovyng al hire lyves;
And telle of false men that hem bytraien,
That al here lyf ne don nat but asayen
How many women they may doon a shame,
For in your worlde that is now holde a game.
And thogh the lyke nat a lovere bee,
Speke wel of love; this penance yive I the.
And to the God of Love I shal so preye,
That he shal charge his servauntes, by any weye,
To forthren thee, and wel thy labour quyte:
Goo now thy weye, this penaunce ys but lyte.
And whan this book ys made, yive it the quene
On my byhalfe, at Eltham, or at Sheene.'

The god of love gan smyle, and than he seyde:-
'Wostow,' quod he, 'wher this be wyf or mayde,
Or queene, or countesse, or of what degre,
That hath so lytel penance yiven thee,
That hast deserved sore for to smerte?

But pité renneth soone in gentil herte:
That maistow seen, she kytheth what she ys.'
And I answerde, 'Nay, sire, so have I blys,
No more, but that I see wel she is good.'
That is a trewe tale, by myn hood!'

Quod Love, and thou knowest wel, pardee,
If yt be so that thou avise the.

Hastow nat in a book lyth in thy cheste,
The grete goodnesse of the quene Alceste,
That turned was into a dayesye?
She that for hire housbonde chees to dye,
And eke to goon to helle, rather than he,
And Ercules rescowed hire, pardé,

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And broght hir out of helle agayne to blys?'
And I answerde ageyn, and sayde, ' Yis,
Now knowe I hire. And is this good Alceste,
The dayesie, and myn owene hertes reste?
Now fele I weel the goodnesse of this wyf,
That both after hir deth, and in hir lyf,
Hir grete bounté doubleth hir renoun.
Wel hath she quyt me myn affeccioun,
That I have to hire flour the dayesye.
No wonder ys thogh Jove hire stellyfye,
As telleth Agaton, for hire goodenesse,
Hire white corowne berith of hyt witnesse;
For also many vertues hadde shee,
As smale florouns in hire corowne bee.
In remembraunce of hire and in honoure
Cibella maade the dayesye and the floure
Ycrowned al with white, as men may see,
And Mars yaf to hire a corowne reede, pardee,
In stede of rubyes sette among the white.'
Therwith this queene wex reed for shame a lyte,
Whanne she was preysed so in hire presence.

Thanne seyde Love, A ful grete necligence

Was yt to the, that ilke tyme thou made,
'Hyd Absolon thy tresses' in balade,
That thou forgate hire in thy songe to sette,
Syn that thou art so gretly in hire dette,
And wost wel that kalender ys shee
To any woman that wol lover bee:
For she taught al the crafte of fyne lovyng,
And namely of wyfhode the lyvyng,
And alle the boundes that she oghte kepe;
Thy litel witte was thilke tyme aslepe.
But now I charge the upon thy lyfe,

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That in thy legende thou make of thys wyfe,
Whan thou hast other smale ymaade before;
And fare now wel, I charge thee na more.
But er I goo, thus muche I wole the telle,
Ne shal no trewe lover come in helle.
Thise other ladies sittynge here arowe,
Ben in thy balade, yf thou kanst hem knowe,
And in thy bookes alle thou shalt hem fynde;
Have hem in thy legende now alle in mynde,
I mene of hem that ben in thy knowyng.
For here ben twenty thousande moo sittyng
Thanne thou knowest, goode wommen alle,
And trewe of love for oght that may byfalle;
Make the metres of hem as the lest;
I mot goon home, the sonne draweth west,
To Paradys, with al thise companye;
And serve alwey the fresshe daysye.
At Cleopatre I wole that thou begynne,
And so forthe, and my love so shalthou wynne ;
For lat see now what man that lover be,
Wol doon so stronge a peyne for love as she.
I wot wel that thou maist nat al yt ryme,
That swiche lovers dide in hire tyme;
It were to long to reden and to here;
Sufficeth me thou make in this manere,
That thou reherce of al hir lyfe the grete,
After thise olde auctours lysten for to trete.
For who-so shal so many a storye telle,
Sey shortly or he shal to longe dwelle.'
And with that worde my bokes gan I take,
And ryght thus on my legende gan I make.

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INCIPIT LEGENDA CLEOPATRIE MAR

TIRIS, EGIPTI REGINE.

FTER the deth of Tholomé the kyng,
That al Egipte hadde in his governyng,
Regned hys queene Cleopataras;

Til on a tyme befel ther swich a cas,
That out of Rome was sent a senatour,
For to conqueren regnes and honour,
Unto the toune of Rome, as was usaunce,
To have the worlde at hir obeysaunce,
And sooth to seye, Antonius was his name.
So fil yt, as Fortune hym oght a shame,
Whanne he was fallen in prosperitee,
Rebel unto the toune of Rome ys hee.
And over al this, the suster of Cesar
He lafte hir falsly, er that she was war,
And wold algates han another wyf,

For which he took with Rome and Cesar strif.

Natheles, forsooth this ilke senatour,

Was a full worthy gentil werreyour,

And of his deeth it was ful gret damage.

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But Love hadde brought this man in swich a rage, 20

And him so narwe bounden in his laas,

Alle for the love of Cleopataras,

That al the worlde he sette at noo value;

Hym thoghte ther was nothing to him so due

As Cleopataras for to love and serve;
Hym roghte nat in armes for to sterve
In the defence of hir and of hir ryght.

This noble queene ek lovede so this knyght,
Thurgh his desert and for his chivalrye;
As certeynly, but-yf that bookes lye,
He was of persone, and of gentilesse,
And of discrecion, and of hardynesse,
Worthy to any wight that liven may;
And she was faire, as is the rose in May.
And to maken shortely is the beste,

She wax his wif, and hadde him as hir leste.
The weddyng and the feste to devyse,

To me that have ytake swich emprise,
Of so many a storye for to make,

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Yt were to longe, lest that I sholde slake

Of thing that beryth more effecte and charge;
For men may overlade a shippe or barge.
And forthy, to effect than wol I skyppe,
And al the remenaunt I wol let yt slyppe.
Octovyan, that woode was of this dede,
Shoop him an oost on Antony to lede,
Al outerly for his destructioun,

With stoute Romaynes, crewel as lyoun;

To shippe they wente, and thus I let hem sayle.
Antonius, that was war, and wol nat fayle
To meten with thise Romaynes, yf he may,
Took eke his rede, and booth upon a day
His wyf and he and al hys oost forthe wente
To shippe anoon, no lenger they ne stente,
And in the see hit happed hem to mete.

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Up gooth the trumpe, and for to shoute and shete,
And paynen hem to sette on with the sonne;
With grisly soune out gooth the grete gonne,
And hertely they hurtelen al attones,

And fro the toppe doune cometh the grete stones.