1340

And at a braid he gan it bende,
And took him of his arowes fyve,
Ful sharpe and redy for to dryve.
Now god that sit in magestee
Fro deedly woundes kepe me,
If so be that he twol me shete;
For if I with his arowe mete,
It twol me greven sore, y-wis!
But I, that no-thing wiste of this,
Wente up and doun ful many a wey, 1345
And he me folwed faste alwey;
But no-wher wolde I reste me,
Til I hadde al the +yerde in be.

The gardin was, by mesuring,
Right even and squar in compassing; 1350
It was as long as it was large.

Five fadome or sixe, I trowe so,
But they were hye and grete also:
And for to kepe out wel the sonne,
The croppes were so thikke y-ronne,
And every braunch in other †knet,
And ful of grene leves +set,
That sonne mighte noon descende,
Lest [it] the tendre grasses shende.
Ther mighte men does and roes y-see,
And of squirels ful greet plentee,
From bough to bough alwey leping.
Conies ther were also playing,
That comen out of hir claperes
Of sondry colours and maneres,
And maden many a turneying
Upon the fresshe gras springing.
The Welles.

1395

1400

1405

Ther were,

Of pomgarnettes a ful gret del; That is a fruyt ful wel to lyke,

As clow-gelofre, and licoryce,

Gingere, and greyn de †paradys,
Canelle, and setewale of prys,

And many a spyce delitable,
To eten whan men ryse fro table.
And many hoomly trees ther were,
That peches, coynes, and apples bere,
Medlers, ploumes, peres, chesteynes, 1375
Cheryse, of whiche many on fayn is,
Notes, aleys, and bolas,

1425

On which men mighte his lemman leye,
As on a fetherbed, to pleye,
For th'erthe was ful softe and swete.
Through moisture of the welle wete
Sprang up the sote grene gras,
As fair, as thikke, as mister was.
But muche amended it the place,
That th'erthe was of swich a grace
That it of floures had plente,
That both in somer and winter be.
Ther sprang the violete al newe,
And fresshe pervinke, riche of hewe,
And floures yelowe, whyte, and rede;
Swich plentee grew ther never in mede.
Ful gay was al the ground, and queynt,

1430

1455

1460

To tshete, at good mes, to the dere,
Whan that him nedeth go no nere.
And so befil, I rested me
Besyde a welle, under a tree,
Which tree in Fraunce men call a pyn.
But, sith the tyme of king Pepyn,
Ne grew ther tree in mannes sighte
So fair, ne so wel woxe in highte;
In al that yerde so high was noon.
And springing in a marble-stoon
Had nature set, the sothe to telle,
Under that pyn-tree a welle.
And on the border, al withoute,
Was writen, in the stone aboute,
Lettres smale, that seyden thus,
'Here starf the faire Narcisus.'

Narcisus.

NARCISUS was a bachelere,

1490

Was deed anoon. But, er she deyde,
Ful pitously to god she preyde,
That proude-herted Narcisus,
That was in love so daungerous,
Mighte on a day ben hampred so
For love, and been so hoot for wo,
That never he mighte joye atteyne; 1495
Than shulde he fele in every veyne
What sorowe trewe lovers maken,
That been so +vilaynsly forsaken.

This prayer was but resonable,

Therfor god held it ferme and stable: 1500
For Narcisus, shortly to telle,

By aventure com to that welle
To reste him in that shadowing
A day, whan he com fro hunting.
This Narcisus had suffred paynes
For renning alday in the playnes,
And was for thurst in greet distresse
Of hete, and of his werinesse

1505

That hadde his breeth almost binomen.
Whan he was to that welle y-comen, 1510
That shadwed was with braunches grene,
He thoughte of thilke water shene
To drinke and fresshe him wel withalle;
And doun on knees he gan to falle,
And forth his heed and nekke out-
straughte
1515

1465

To drinken of that welle a draughte. And in the water anoon was sene His nose, his mouth, his yèn shene, And he ther-of was al abasshed;

And deyde within a litel space.
And thus his warisoun he took
For the lady that he forsook.

Ladyes, I preye ensample taketh,

Ye that ayeins your love mistaketh: 1540
For if hir deeth be yow to wyte,
God can ful wel your whyle quyte.

Whan that this lettre, of whiche I telle,
Had taught me that it was the welle
Of Narcisus in his beautee,
I gan anoon withdrawe me,

Whan it fel in my remembraunce,
That him bitidde swich mischaunce.
The Welle.

But at the laste than thoughte I,

That scatheles, ful sikerly,

1545

1550

I mighte unto THE WELLE go.

This is the mirour perilous,

In which the proude Narcisus
Saw al his face fair and bright,
That made him sith to lye upright.
For who-so loke in that mirour,
Ther may no-thing ben his socour
That he ne shal ther seen som thing
That shal him lede into floving.
Ful many a worthy man hath it
Y-blent; for folk of grettest wit
Ben sone caught here and awayted;
Withouten respyt been they bayted.
Heer comth to folk of-newe rage,
Heer chaungeth many wight corage;
Heer lyth no reed ne wit therto;
For Venus sone, daun Cupido,

1605

1610

1615

1620

Hath sowen there of love the seed,
That help ne lyth ther noon, ne reed,
So cercleth it the welle aboute.
His ginnes hath he set withoute
Right for to cacche in his panteres
These damoysels and bacheleres.
Love will noon other bridde cacche,
Though he sette either net or lacche. 1624
And for the seed that heer was sowen,
This welle is cleped, as wel is knowen,
The Welle of Love, of verray right,
Of which ther hath ful many a wight
Spoke in bokes dyversely.
But they shulle never so verily
Descripcioun of the welle here,
No eek the sothe of this matere,
As ye shulle, whan I have undo
The craft that hir bilongeth to.
Alway me lyked for to dwelle,

1630

1635

To seen the cristal in the welle,
That shewed me ful openly
A thousand thinges faste by.
But I may saye, in sory houre
Stood I to loken or to poure;
For sithen [have] I sore +syked,

That mirour hath me now entryked.
But hadde I first knowen in my wit
The vertue and [the] +strengthe of it,
I nolde not have mused there;
Me hadde bet ben elles-where;
For in the snare I fel anoon,
That hath +bitraisshed many oon.
The Roser.

In thilke mirour saw I tho,

Among a thousand thinges mo, A ROSER charged ful of roses,

That with an hegge aboute enclos is. Tho had I swich lust and envye,

And lest it greved or for-thoughte
The lord that thilke gardyn wroughte.
Of roses were ther gret woon,

So faire twexe never in roon.

1640

1645

1650

1655

That, for Parys ne for Pavye,
Nolde I have left to goon and see
Ther grettest hepe of roses be.
Whan I was with this rage hent,
That caught hath many a man and shent,
Toward the roser gan I go.
And whan I was not fer therfro,
The savour of the roses swote

But knoppes wilen fresshe be
Two dayes atte leest, or three.
The knoppes gretly lyked me,
For fairer may ther no man see.
Who-so mighte have[n] oon of alle,
It oughte him been ful leef withalle.
Mighte I [a] gerlond of hem geten,
For no richesse I wolde it leten.
The Knoppe.

Among THE KNOPPES I chees oon
So fair, that of the remenaunt noon
Ne preyse I half so wel as it,
Whan I avyse it in my wit.
For it so wel was enlumyned

1685

1690

1660

1695

Me smoot right to the herte rote,

As I hadde al embawmed +be.

With colour reed, as wel [y]-fyned As nature couthe it make faire, And it had leves wel foure paire,

1740

I was al maat, and wende ful wel
Of blood have loren a ful gret del.
But certes, the arowe that in me stood
Of me ne drew no drope of blood,
For-why I found my wounde al dreye.
Than took I with myn hondis tweye
The arowe, and ful fast out it plight, 1745
And in the pulling sore I sight.

So at the last the shaft of tree

I drough out, with the fethers three.
But yet the hoked heed, y-wis,
The whiche Beautee callid is,
Gan so depe in myn herte passe,
That I it mighte nought arace;
But in myn herte stille it stood,
Al bledde I not a drope of blood.
I was bothe anguissous and trouble
For the peril that I saw double;
I niste what to seye or do,
Ne gete a leche my woundis +to;
For neithir thurgh gras ne rote,
Ne hadde I help of hope ne bote.
But to the botoun ever-mo

Myn herte drew; for al my wo,
My thought was in non other thing.
For hadde it been in my keping,

1750

1755

1760

The fresshe botoun so bright of hewe. 1790
Betir me were have leten be;

But it bihoved nedes me
To don right as myn herte bad.
For ever the body must be lad
Aftir the herte; in wele and wo,
Of force togidre they must go.
But never this archer wolde fyne
To shete at me with all his pyne,
And for to make me to him mete.

1795

The thridde arowe he gan to shete 1800 Whan best his tyme he mighte espye, The which was named Curtesye;

Inte myn herte it dide avale.

A-swone I fel, bothe deed and pale;

Long tyme I lay, and stired nought, 1805 Til I abraid out of my thought.

And faste than I avysed me

To drawe[n] out the shafte of tree;

But ever the heed was left bihinde

For ought I couthe pulle or winde, 1810 So sore it stikid whan I was hit,