more?

Of other lande than of Cartage a queene,
And lyved in joy ynogh; what wolde ye
This Eneas, that hath thus depe yswore,
Ys wery of his crafte within a throwe;
The hoote erneste is al overblowe.
And prively he dooth his shippes dyghte,
And shapeth him to steele awey by nyghte.
This Dido hath suspecion of this,
And thoughte wel that hit was al amys;
For in his bedde he lythe a nyght and siketh,

She asketh him anoon what him mysliketh;

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371

My dere herte which that I love mooste?' 'Certes,' quod he, 'thys nyght my fadres gooste Hath in my slepe me so sore turmentede, And eke Mercure his message hath presentede, That nedes to the conqueste of Ytayle

My destany is soone for to sayle,

For whiche me thynketh, brosten ys myn herte.'
Therwith his false teeres oute they sterte
And taketh hir within his armes twoo.

380

'Ys that in ernest?' quod she; 'wol ye soo?
Have ye nat sworne to wife me to take?
Allas, what woman wol ye of me make?
I am a gentil woman, and a queene;
Ye wol nat fro your wyfe thus foule fleene!
That I was borne, allas! what shal Y doo?'

To telle in short, this noble queene Dido
She seketh halwes, and doothe sacrifise;
She kneleth, crieth, that routhe is to devyse;
Conjureth him, and profereth him to bee
Hys thral, hys servant, in the lest degre.
She falleth him to foote, and swowneth there,
Disshevely with hire bryghte gelte here,

390

And seith, Have mercy! let me with yow ryde;
These lordes, which that wonnen me besyde,
Wol me destroien oonly for youre sake.
And ye wole now me to wife take,

As ye han sworn, than wol I yive yow leve
To sleen me with your swerd now soone at eve,
For than shal I yet dien as youre wife.

I am with childe, and yive my childe his lyfe!
Mercy lorde, have pitee in youre thought!'
But al this thing avayleth hire ryght nought, 400
For on a nyght sleping he let hir lye,
And staal awey upon his companye,
And as a traytour forthe he gan to sayle
Towarde the large countree of Ytayle.

And thus hath he lefte Dido in woo and pyne,
And weddid there a lady highte Lavyne.
A clooth he lefte, and eke his swerde stondynge
(Whan he fro Dido staale in hire slepynge,)
Righte at hir beddes hed: so gan he hye,
Whanne that he staale awey to his navye.

410

Which clooth, whan sely Dido gan awake, She hath i-kyste ful ofte for hys sake; And seyde, 'O swete clooth, while Jupiter hit leste, Take my soule, unbynde me of this unreste, I have fulfilled of fortune al the course.' And thus, allas, withouten hys socourse, Twenty tyme yswowned hath she thanne. And whan that she unto hir suster Anne Compleyned had, of which I may not write, So grete routhe I have hit for to endite, And bad hir noryce and hir sustren goon To feche fire, and other thinges anoon, And seyde that she wolde sacrifie ;

420

And whan she myght hir tyme wel espye,

Upon the fire of sacrifice she sterte,

And with his swerde she roof hire to the herte.
But, as myn auctour seythe, yit thus she seyde,
Or she was hurte, beforne or she deide,
She wroot a letter anoon, that thus biganne.
'Ryght so,' quod she, 'as the white swanne 430
Ayenst his deeth begynneth for to synge;
Ryght so to yow I make my compleynynge,
Nat that I trowe to geten yow agayne,

For wel I woot that hit is al in vayne,

Syn that the goddys ben contrariouse to me.
But syn my name ys loste thurgh yow,' quod she,
'I may wel leese a worde on yow, or letter,
Albeit I shal be never the better.

For thilke wynde that blew your shippe away,
The same wynde hath blowe awey your fay.'
But who-so wool al this letter have in mynde,
Rede Ovyde, and in him he shal hit fynde.

EXPLICIT LEGENDA DIDONIS, MARTIRIS,
CARTAGENIS REGINE.

440

INCIPIT LEGENDA YPSIPHILE ET MEDEE, MARTIRIS.

HOU roote of false lovers, duke Jason!
Thou slye devourer, and confusyon

Of gentil women, gentil creatures!

Thou madest thy reclaymynge and thy

lures

To ladies of thy staately aparaunce,
And of thy wordes farsed with plesaunce,
And of thy feyned trouthe, and thy manere,
With thyne obeysaunce and humble chere,
And with thy countrefeted peyn and woo!
Ther other falsen oon, thou falseste twoo !
O, ofte swore thou that thou woldest deye
For love, whan thou ne felteste maladeye,
Save foule delyte, which that thou callest love!
If that I lyve, thy name shal be shove

In Englyssh, that thy sleighte shal be knowe;
Have at the. Jason! now thyn horn is blowe!
But certes, it is bothe rowth and woo,
That love with false lovers werketh soo;

10

20

For they shalle have wel better and gretter chere
Than he that hath i-bought love ful dere,
Or had in armes many a blody box.
For ever as tender a capon eteth the fox,
Though he be fals, and hath the foule betrayed,
As shal the goode man that therfor payed;
Alle thof he have to the capon skille and ryghte,
The false fox wil have his part at nyghte.
On Jason this ensample is wel yseene,
By Isiphile and Medea the queene.
In Tessalye, as Ovyde telleth us,

Ther was a knyght that highte Pelleus,
That had a brother whiche that hight Eson.
And whan for age he myghte unnethes gon,
He yaf to Pelleus the governynge

Of al his regne, and made him lorde and kynge.
Of whiche Eson this Jason geten was;

That in his tyme in al that lande ther nas
Nat suche a famouse knyghte of gentilesse,

30

Of fredome, of strengthe, and of lustynesse.
After his fader deeth he bar him soo,
That there nas noon that lyste ben his foo,
But dide him al honour and companye.
Of which this Pelleus hath grete envye,
Imagynynge that Jason myghte bee
Enhaunced so, and put in suche degree,
With love of lordes of his regioun,
That from hys regne he may be put adoun.
And in his witte a nyghte compassed he
How Jason myghte beste destroyed be,
Withoute sclaunder of his compassemente.
And at the laste he tooke avysemente,
To senden him into some fer contre,
There as this Jason may distroyed be.
This was his witte, al made he to Jasoun
Grete chere of love and of affeccioun,
For drede leste his lordes hyt espyede.

So felle hyt so as fame renneth wide,

Ther was suche tidynge overalle, and suche los,
That in an ile that called was Colcos,

Beyonde Troye estewarde in the see,
That ther was a ram that men myghte see,
That had a flees of golde, that shoon so bryghte,

That no wher was ther suche another syghte,
But hit was kept alway with a dragoun,
And many other mervels up and doun ;

And with twoo booles maked al of bras,

That spitten fire; and múche thinge ther was.
But this was eke the tale nathelees,

That who-so wolde wynne thilke flees,
He moste booth, or he hit wynne myghte,
With the booles and the dragoun fyghte;