GRETTIST HEPE OF ROSES." 265
A roser1 charged full of rosis,
That with an hegge aboute enclosid is.
Tho had I sich lust and envie,
That for Parys ne for Pavie,2
Nolde I have left to goon att see
There grettist hepe of roses be.
Whanne I was with this rage hent,
That caught hath many a man and shent,
Toward the roser gan I go.
And whanne I was not fer therfro,
The savour of the roses swote
Me smote right to the herte rote,
As I hadde alle enbawmed be.
And if I ne hadde endouted me
To have ben hatid or assailed,
Me thankis, wole I not have failed
To pulle a rose of alle that route
To beren in myn honde aboute,
And smellen to it where I wente;
But ever I dredde me to repente,
And leste it grevede or forthoughte
The lord that thilke gardyn wroughte.
Of roses ther were grete wone,
So faire woxe never in Rone.
Of knoppes clos, some sawe I there,
And some wel beter woxen were.
And some ther ben of other moysoun,
That drowe nygh to her sesoun,
1 Rose-bush (Fr. rosier).
Heap. That is, in Provence. 7 Closed. 8 Harvest.
And sped hem faste for to sprede ;
I love welle sich roses rede;
For brode roses, and open also,
Ben passed in a day or two;
But knoppes wille freshe be
Two dayes atte leest, or thre.
The knoppes gretly likede me,
For fairer may ther no man se.
Who-so myghte have oon of alle,
It ought hym ben fulle lief withalle.
Might I oon gerlond of hem geten,
For no richesse I wolde it leten.
Among the knoppes I chese oon
So faire, that of the remenaunt noon
Ne preise I half so welle as it,
Whanne I avise it in my wit.
For it so welle was enlomyned
With colour reed, as welle ifyned
As nature couthe it make faire.
And it hath leves wel foure paire,
That Kynde hath sett thorgh his knowyng
Aboute the rede roses spryngyng.
The stalke was as rishe 2 right,
And theron stode the knoppe upright,
That it ne bowide upon no side.
The swote smelle spronge so wide,
That it dide alle the place aboute.
Whanne I hadde smelled the savour swote,
No wille hadde I fro thens yit goo,
1 Nature. Rush. Did [all] all the place about.
CUPID SHOOTS THE DREAMER.
But somdelle neer 1it wente I thoo
To take it; but myn hond for drede
Ne dorste I to the rose bede,2
For thesteles sharpe of many maners,
Netles, thornes, and hokede breres ;
For mychel they distourblede me,
For sore I dradde to harmed be.
The god of Love, with bowe bent,
That alle day sette hadde his talent
To pursuen and to spien me,
Was stondyng by a fige tree.
And whanne he sawe hou that I
Hadde chosen so ententifly
The botheum more unto my paie,"
Than ony other that I say,
He toke an arowe fulle sharply whette,
And in his bowe whanne it was sette,
He streight up to his ere drough
The stronge bowe, that was so tough,
And shette att me so wondir smerte,
That thorgh myn ye unto myn herte
The takel smote, and depe it wente.
And therwith alle such colde me hente,
That under clothes warme and softe,
Sithen that day I have chevered' ofte.
Whanne I was hurt thus in a stounde,
I felle doun platte unto the grounde.
Myn herte failed and feynted ay,
Offer. 8 Inclination. 4 Bud (button). Satufae
Shivered. Moment.
And longe tyme a-swoone I lay.
But whanne I come out of swonyng,
And hadde witt, and my felyng,
I was alle maate,' and wende fulle welle
Of bloode have loren a fulle gret delle.
But certes the arowe that in me stode,
Of me ne drewe no drope of blode,
For-why I founde my wounde alle drie.
Thanne toke I with myn hondis tweie
The arowe, and ful fast out it plighte,2
And in the pullyng sore I sighte.
So at the last the shaft of tree
1 drough out, with the fethers thre.
But yit the hokede heed, y-wis,
The whiche Beaute callid is,
Gan so depe in myn herte passe,
That I it myghte nought arace ;*
But in myn herte stille it stode.
Al bledde I not a drope of blode,
I was bothe anguyssous and trouble.
For the perille that I sawe double,
I nyste what to seye or to do,
Ne gete a leche my woundis to;
For neithir thurgh grasse ne rote,
Ne hadde I hope of helpe ne bote.
But to the bothum evermo
Myn herte drewe; for alle my wo,
My thought was in noon other thing.
For hadde it ben in my kepyng,
Dejected. Plucked. 3 Sighed. 4 Wrest. Bad
It wolde have brought my lyf agayn.
For certis evenly, I dar wel seyn,
The sight oonly, and the savour,
Aleggede 1 mych of my langour.
Thanne gan I for to drawe me
Toward the bothom faire to se,
And Love hadde gete hym in his throwe
Another arowe into his bowe,
And for to shete gan hym dresse ;
The arowis name was Symplesse.
And whanne that love gan nyghe 3 me nere,
He drowe it up, withouten were,*
And shette at me with alle his myght,
So that this arowe anoon right
Thurgh-outen eigh, as it was founde,
Into myn herte hath maad a wounde.
Thanne I anoon dide al my crafte
For to drawen oute the shafte,
And therwith alle I sighede efte."
But in myn herte the heed was lefte,
Which ay encreside my desire
Unto the bothom drawe nere ;
And evermo that me was woo
The more desir hadde I to goo
Unto the roser, where that grewe
The freysshe bothum so bright of hewe.
Betir me were to have leten be,
But it bihovede nedes me
To done right as myn herte badde.
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