But it were his father, Theseus,

God for his grace fro soch one kepe us,
Thus these women praien, that it here,
Now to the effect tourne I of my matere.
Destroied is of Troie the citee,
This Demophon came sayling in the see
Toward Athenes, to his paleis large,
With him came many a ship and many a barge
Full of folke, of which full many one

Is wounded sore, and sicke and wo begone,
And they have at the siege long ylaine,
Behind him came a winde, and eke a raine,
That shofe so sore his saile might not stonde,
Him were lever than all the world a londe,
So hunted him the tempest to and fro,
So darke it was he could no where go,
And with a wave brusten was his stere,
His ship was rent so lowe, in such manere,
That carpenter could it not amende,
The see by night as any torche brende
For wood, and posseth him up and doun,
Till Neptune hath of him compassioun,
And Thetis, Chorus, Triton, and they all,
And maden him up a londe to fall,
Wherof that Phillis lady was and queene,
Lycurgus doughter, fairer unto seene
Than is the floure again the bright Sonne.
Unneth is Demophon to londe ywonne,
Weake and eke werie, and his folke forpined
Of werinesse, and also enfamined,
And to the death he was almost ydriven,
His wise folke consaile have him yeven,
To seken helpe and succour of the queene,
And loken what his grace might bene,
And maken in that lande some chevesaunce,
And kepen him fro wo, and fro mischaunce,
For sicke he was, and almost at the death,
Unneth might he speake, or drawe breath,
And lieth in Rhodopeia him for to rest.
Whan he may walk, him thought it was best
Unto the countrey to seeken for succour,
Men knew him wele, and did him honour,
For at Athenes duke and lord was he,
As Theseus his father hath ybe,
That in his time was great of renoun,
No man so great in all his regioun,
And like his father of face and of stature,
And false of love, it came him of nature,
As doth the foxe Renarde, the foxes sonne,
Of kinde he coulde his old father wonne
Without lore, as can a drake swimme,
Whan it is caught and carried to the brimme:
This honorable queen Phillis doth him chere,
Her liketh well his sporte and his manere,
But I am agroted here beforne,
To write of hem that in love been forsworne,
And eke to haste me in my legende,
Which to performe, God me grace sende;
Therfore, I passe shortly in this wise,
Ye have well heard of Theseus the gise,
In the betraiyng of faire Adriane,
That of her pitee kept him fro his bane;
At short wordes, right so Demophon,

The same way, and the same pathe hath gon
That did his false father Theseus,
For unto Phillis hath he sworne thus,
To wedden her, and her his trouth plight,
And piked of her all the good he might,
Whan he was hole and sound, and had his rest,
And doth with Phillis what so that him lest,

As well I could, if that me list so, Tellen all his doing to and fro.

He sayd to his countrey mote him saile, For there he would her wedding apparaile, As fill to her honour, and his also, And openly he tooke his leave tho, And to her swore he would not sojourne, But in a month again he would retourne, And in that londe let make his ordinaunce, As very lorde, and tooke the obeisaunce Well and humbly, and his shippes dight, And home he goeth the next way he might, For unto Phillis yet came he nought, And that hath she so harde and sore ybought, Alas, as the storie doth us record, She was her owne death with a corde, Whan that she saw that Demophon her traied. But first wrote she to him, and fast him praied He would come, and deliver her of pain, As I rehearse shall a worde or twain, Me liste not vouchsafe on him to swinke, Dispenden on him a penne full of ynke, For false in love was he, right as his sire, The Devill set hir soules both on a fire: But of the letter of Phillis woll I write, A worde or twain, although it be but lite. "Thine hostesse," quod she, "O Demophon, Thy Phillis, which that is so wo begon, Of Rhodopeie, upon you mote complain, Over the terme set betwixt us twain, That ye ne holden forward, as ye sayd: Your ancre, which ye in our haven layd, Hight us, that ye would comen out of doubt, Or that the Moone ones went about, But times fower the Moone hath hid her face Sens thilke day ye went fro this place, And fower times light the world again, But for all that, yet shall I sothly sain, Yet hath the streme of Scython not brought From Athenes the ship, yet came it nought, And if that ye the terme reken would, As I or other true lovers doe should, I plain not, God wot, before my day." But al her letter writen I ne may, By order, for it were to me a charge, Her letter was right long, and therto large, But here and there, in rime, I have it layd There as me thought that she hath wel sayd.

She sayd, "The sailes commeth not again, Ne to the word there n'is no fey certain, But I wot why ye come not," quod she, "For I was of my love to you so fre, And of the goddes that ye have swore, That hir vengeaunce fall on you therfore, Ye be not suffisaunt to beare the pain, Too moche trusted I, well may I sain, Upon your linage, and your faire tong, And on your teares falsely out wrong, How coud ye wepe so by craft?" quod she,

66

May there suche teares fained be?

"Now, certes, if ye would have in memory, It ought be to you but little glory,

To have a sely maide thus betrayed,

To God," quod she, "pray I, and oft have prayed,
That it be now the greatest price of all,
And most honour that ever you shall befall,
And whan thine old aunceters painted bec,
In which men may hir worthinesse see,
Than pray I God, thou painted be also,
That folke may reden, forth by as they go,

"Lo, this is he, that with his flattery
Betraied hath, and done her villany,
That was his true love, in thought and drede.'
"But sothly, of o point yet may they rede,
That ye been like your father, as in this,
For he begiled Ariadne, ywis,
With such an arte, and such subtelte,
As thou thy selven hast begiled me:

As in that poinct, although it be not feire,
Thou folowest certain, and art his heire.
But sens thus sinfully ye me begile,
My body mote ye sene, within a while,
Right in the haven of Athenes fleeting,
Withouten sepulture and burying,
Though ye been harder than is any stone."
And whan this letter was forth sent, anone,
And knew how brotell and how fals he was,
She for dispaire fordid her selfe, alas !
Such sorow hath she, for he beset her so.
Beware ye women of your subtill fo,
Sens yet this day men may ensample se,
And trusteth now in love no man but me.

THE LEGENDE OF HYPERMESTRE.

IN Grece, whilom, were brethren two
Of which that one was called Danao,
That many a son hath of his body wonne,
As such false lovers ofte conne.

Emong his sonnes all there was one,
That aldermost he loved of everychone,
And whan this child was borne, this Danao
Shope him a name, and called him Lino,
That other brother called was Egiste,
That was of love as false as ever him liste,
And many a daughter gate he in his life,
Of which he gate upon his right wife,
A doughter dere, and did her for to call,
Hypermestra, yongest of hem all,
The which child of her nativite,
To all good thewes borne was she,
As liked to the goddes or she was borne,
That of the shefe she should be the corne.
The werdes that we clepen destine,
Hath shapen her, that she must needes be
Pitous, sad, wise, true as stele,

And to this woman it accordeth wele,
For though that Venus yave her great beaute,
With Jupiter compowned so was she,
That conscience, trouth, and drede of shame,
And of her wifehode for to kepe her name,
This thought her was felicite as here,
And reed Mars, was that time of the yere
So feble, that his malice is him raft,
Repressed hath Venus his cruell craft,
And what with Venus, and other oppression
Of houses, Mars his venime is adon,
That Hypermestre dare not handle a knife,
In malice, though she should lese her life;
But nathelesse, as Heaven gan tho turne,
Two bad aspectes hath she of Saturne,
That made her to die in prison,
And I shall after make mencion,

Of Danao and Egistes also,

And though so be that they were brethren two,
For thilke tyme n'as spared no linage,
It liked hem to maken mariage

Betwixt Hypermestre, and him Lino, And casten soch a day it shall be so, And full accorded was it utterly,

The aray is wrought, the time is fast by,
And thus Lino hath of his fathers brother,
The doughter wedded, and ech of hem hath other;
The torches brennen, and the lamps bright,
The sacrifice been full ready dight,
Th'ensence out of the fire reketh soote,
The floure, the leefe, is rent up by the roote,
To maken garlandes and crounes hie,
Full is the place of sound of minstralcie,
Of songes amourous of mariage,
As thilke tyme was the plain usage,
And this was in the paleis of Egiste,
That in his hous was lord, right as him liste :
And thus that day they driven to an end,
The frendes taken leve, and home they wend,
The night is come, the bride shall go to bed,
Egiste to his chamber fast him sped,
And prively let his doughter call,
Whan that the house voided was of hem all,
He looked on his doughter with glad chere,
And to her spake, as ye shall after here.

"My right doughter, tresour of mine herte,
Sens first that day that shapen was my shert,
Or by the fatall suster had my dome,
So nie mine herte never thing ne come,
As thou, Hypermestre, doughter dere,
Take hede what thy father sayth thee here,
And werke after thy wiser ever mo,
For alderfirst doughter I love thee so,
That all the world to me n'is halfe so lefe,
Ne n'olde rede thee to thy mischefe,
For all the good under the cold Mone,
And what I meane, it shall be said right sone,
With protestacion as sain these wise,
That but thou doe as I shall thee devise,
Thou shalt be ded, by him that all bath wrought,
At short wordes, thou ne scapest nought
Out of my paleis, or that thou be deed,
But thou consent, and werke after my reed,
Take this to the fearfull conclusioun."
This Hypermestre cast her eyen doun,
And quoke as doth the leefe of ashe grene,
Deed wext her hew, and like ashen to sene,
And sayd: "Lord and father, all your will,
After my might, God wote, I will fulfill,
So it be to me no confusion."

"I n'ill," quod he, " have none excepcion," And out he caught a knife, as rasour kene, "Hide this," quod he, "that it be not ysene, And whan thine husbond is to bed go, While that he slepeth, cut his throte atwo, For in my dreme it is warned me, How that my nevewe shall my bane be, But which I n'ot, wherfore I woll be siker, If thou say nay, we two shall have a biker, As I have said, by him that I have sworn." This Hipermestre hath nigh her wit forlorn, And for to passen harmelesse out of that place, She graunted him, there was none other grace: And withall a costrell taketh he tho, And sayd, "Hereof a draught or two, Yeve him drinke, whan he goeth to rest, And he shal slepe as long as ever thee lest, The narcotikes and apies been so strong, And go thy way, lest that him thinke to long." Out cometh the bride, and with full sobre chere, As is of maidens oft the manere,

To chamber brought with revel and with song,
And shortly, leste this tale be to long,
This Lino and she beth brought to bed,
And every wight out at the doore him sped,
The night is wasted, and he fell aslepe,
Full tenderly beginneth she to weepe,
She rist her up, and dredfully she quaketh,
As doth the braunch that Zephirus shaketh,
And husht were all in Argone that citee,
As cold as any frost now wexeth shee,
For pite by the herte strained her so,
And drede of death doth her so moche wo,
That thrise doune she fill, in suche a were,
She riste her up, and stakereth here and there,
And on her handes fast lookeťa she,
"Alas, shall mine hands bloudie be?
I am a maide, and as by my nature,
And by my semblaunt, and by my vesture,
Mine hands been not shapen for a knife,
As for to reve no man fro his life.
What devill have I with the knife to do?
And shall I have my throte corve a two?
Than shall I blede, alas, and be shende,
And nedes this thing mote have an ende,
Or he or I mote nedes lese our life,
Now certes," quod she, "sens I am his wife,

And hath my faith, yet is bette for me
For to be dedde in wifely honeste,
Than be a traitour living in my shame,
Be as be may, for earnest or for game,
He shall awake, and rise and go his way
Out at this gutter er that it be day:"
And wept full tenderly upon his face,
And in her armes gan him to embrace,
And him she joggeth, and awaketh soft,
And at the window lepe he fro the loft,
Whan she hath warned him, and done him bote
This Lino swift was and light of foote,
And from her ran a full good paas.
This sely woman is so weake, alas,
And helplesse, so that er she ferre went,
Her cruell father did her for to hent.
Alas, Lino! why art thou so unkind?
Why ne hast thou remembred in thy mind,
And taken her, and led her forth with thee?
For whan she saw that gone away was hee,
And that she might not so fast go,

Ne folowen him, she sate doune right tho,
Untill she was caught, and fettred in prison:
This tale is sayd for this conclusion.

HERE ENDETH THE LEGENDE OF GOOD WOMEN.

GLADETH ye lovers in the morowe graie,
Lo, Venus risen among yon rowes rede,
And floures freshe honour ye this daie,
For whan the Sun uprist than wold they sprede,
But ye lovers that lie in any drede,
Flieth, least wicked tongues you aspie,
Lo, yonde the Sun, the candell of jelousie.

With tears blew, and with a wounded herte
Taketh your leve, and, with saint John to borow,
Apeseth somewhat of your paines smert,
Time cometh eft, that cessen shall your sorrow,
The glad night is worth an heavy morow,
Saint Valentine, a foule thus heard I sing,
Upon thy day, or Sunne gan up spring.

Yet sang this foule, "I rede you all awake,
And ye that have not chosen, in humble wise,
Without repenting, cheseth your make,
Yet at the least, renoveleth your service :
And ye that have full chosen, as I devise,
Confermeth it perpetually to dure,
And paciently taketh your aventure."

And for the worship of this high feast,
Yet woll I in my birdes wise sing,
The sentence of the complaint at the least,
That wofull Mars made at the departing
Fro fresh Venus in a morowning,
Whan Phebus with his firie torches rede,
Ransaked hath every lover in his drede.

Whilome, the three Heavens lorde above,
As well by heavenlich revolucion,
As by desert, hath wonne Venus his love,
And she hath take him in subjection,
And as a maistresse taught him his lesson,
Commaunding him never in her service,
He were so bold no lover to dispise.

For she forbade him jealousie at all,
And cruelty, and boste, and tyranny,
She made him at her lust so humble and tall,
That when she dained to cast on him her eye,
He tooke in patience to live or die,
And thus she bridleth him in her maner,
With nothing but with scorning of her chere.

Who reigneth now in blisse but Venus,
That hath this worthy knight in governance?
Who singeth now but Mars, that serveth thus
The faire Venus, causer of pleasaunce?
He bint him to perpetuel obeysaunce,
And she binte her to love him for ever,
But so be that his trespace it discever.

Thus be they knit, and reignen as in Heven,
By loking most, as it fell on a tide,
That by hir both assent was set a steven
That Mars shall enter, as fast as he may glide,
In to her next palais to abide,

Walking his course till she had him ytake,
And he prayed her to hast her for his sake.

Than said he thus, "Mine hertes lady sweete,
Ye know well my mischief in that place,
For sikerly, till that I with you meete,
My life stant there in aventure and grace,
But whan I see the beaute of your face,
There is no drede of death may do me smert,
For all your luste is ease to mine herte."

She hath so great compassion of her knight,
That dwelleth in solitude till she come,
For it stode so, that ilke time, no wight
Counsailed him, ne said to him welcome,
That nigh her wit for sorow was overcome,
Wherefore, she spedded as fast in her way,
Almost in one day as he did in tway.

The great joy that was betwix hem two,
Whan they be mette, there may no tong tel,
There is no more but unto bedde they go,
And thus in joy and blisse I let hem dwell,
This worthy Mars, that is of knighthood well,
The floure of fairnesse happeth in his arms,
And Venus kisseth Mars, the god of arms.

Sojourned hath this Mars, of which I rede,
In chambre amidde the palais prively,
A certaine time, till him fell a drede
Through Phebus, that was commen hastely,
Within the palais yates sturdely,

With torch in hond, of which the stremes bright
On Venus chambre knockeden ful light.

The chambre there as lay this fresh queene,
Depainted was with white boles grete,
And by the light she knew that shon so shene,
That Phebus cam to bren hem with his hete;
This sely Venus, ny dreint in teares wete,
Enbraseth Mars, and said, "Alas, I die,
The torch is come that al this world wol wrie."

Up sterte Mars, him list not to sleepe,
Whan he his lady herde so complaine,
But for his nature was not for to weepe,
Instede of teares, from his eyen twaine
The firy sparcles sprongen out for paine,
And hente his hauberke that lay him beside,
Flie wold he nought, ne might himself hide.

He throweth on his helme of huge weight,
And girt him with his swerde, and in his honde
His mighty speare, as he was wont to feight,
He shaketh so, that it almost to wonde,
Full hevy was he to walken over londe,
He may not hold with Venus company,
But bad her flie least Phebus her espy.

O woful Mars, alas ! what maist thou sain,
That in the palais of thy disturbaunce
Art left behind in peril to be slain?
And yet there to is double thy penaunce,
For she that hath thine herte in governance,
Is passed halfe the stremes of thine eyen,
That thou nere swift, wel maist thou wepe and crien.

Now flieth Venus in to Ciclinius tour,
With void corse, for fear of Phebus light,
Alas, and there hath she no socour,
For she ne found ne sey no maner wight,
And eke as there she had but littel might,
Wherefore her selven for to hide and save,
Within the gate she fledde in to a cave.

Darke was this cave, and smoking as the hell,
Nat but two paas within the yate it stood;
A naturel day in darke I let her dwell;
Now wol I speake of Mars, furious and wood,
For sorow he wold have seene his herte blood,
Sith that he might have done her no company,
He ne rought not a mite for to die.

So feble he wext for hete, and for his wo,
That nigh he swelt, he might unneth endure,
He passeth but a sterre in daies two,
But nevertheles, for al his hevy armure,
He foloweth her that is his lives cure,
For whose departing he tooke greater ire,
Than for his brenning in the fire.

After he walketh softly a paas,
Complaining that it pitie was to here,
He saide, "O lady bright, Venus, alas,
That ever so wide a compas is my sphere,
Alas, whan shall I mete you herte dere?
This twelve dayes of April I endure,
Through jelous Phebus this misaventure."

Now God helpe sely Venus alone,
But, as God wold, it happed for to be,
That while the weping Venus made her mone,
Ciclinius, riding in his chivachee,

Fro Venus Valanus might this palais see,
And Venus he salveth, and maketh chere,
And her receiveth as his frende full dere.

Mars dwelleth forth in his adversite,
Complaining ever in her departing,
And what his complaint was remembreth me,
And therefore in this lusty morowning,
As I best can, I woll it saine and sing,
And after that I woll my leave take,
And God yeve every wight joy of his make.

The Complaint of Mars.

THE order of complaint requireth skilfully,
That if a wight shal plaine pitously,
There mote be cause wherfore that he him plain,
Or men may deme he plaineth folily,
And causeles : alas, that do not I.

Wherfore the ground and cause of al my pain,
So as my troubled witte may it attain,
I wol reherse, not for to have redresse,
But to declare my ground of hevinesse.

The first time, alas, that I was wrought,
And for certain effects hider brought,
By him that lorded each intelligence,
I yave my trew service and my thought,
For evermo, how dere I have it bought,
To her that is of so great excellence,
That what wight that sheweth first her offence,
Whan she is wroth and taketh of him no cure,
He may not long in joy of love endure.

This is no fained mater that I tell,
My lady is the very sours and well
Of beaute, luste, fredome, and gentilnesse,
Of rich array, how dere men it sell,
Of all disport in which men frendly dwell,
Of love and play, and of benigne humblesse,
Of sowne of instruments of al sweetnesse,
And thereto so well fortuned and thewed,
That through the world her goodnes is shewed.

What wonder is than though that I be set
My service on soch one that may me knet
To wele or wo, sith it lithe in her might,
Therfore mine herte for ever I to her hette,
Ne trewly, for my death shall I not lette
To ben her trewest servaunt and her knight,
I flatter not, that may wete every wight,
For this day in her service shall I dye,
But grace be, I see her never with eye.

To whom shall I plaine of my distresse,
Who may me help, who may my heart redresse !
Shall I complaine unto my lady free?
Nay, certes, for she hath such heavinesse,
For feare and eke for wo, that, as I gesse,
In littel time it would her bane bee,
But were she safe, it were no force of mee,
Alas, that ever lovers mote endure
For love, so many perilous aventure.

For though so be that lovers be as trewe,
As any metal that is forged newe,
In many a case him tideth oft sorowe ;
Somtime hir ladies woll nat on hem rewe
Somtime, if that jelousie it knewe,
They might lightly lay hir heed to borowe;
Somtime envious folke with tonges horowe,
Depraven hem; alas! whom may they please!
But he be false, no lover hath his ease.

But what availeth such a long sermoun
Of aventures of love up and doun ?

I wol retourne and speaken of my paine;
The point is this, of my distruction,
My right lady, my salvacioun,

Is in affray, and not to whom to plaine;
O herte swete, O lady soveraine,

For your disease I ought wel swoun and swelt,
Though I none other harme ne drede felt.

To what fine made the God that sit so hie,
Beneth him love [or] other companie,
And straineth folke to love mauger hir heed?
And than hir joy, for aught I can espie,
Ne lasteth not the twinckling of an eye,
And some have never joy till they be deed:
What meaneth this? what is this mistiheed?
Wherto constraineth he his folke so fast,
Thing to desire, but it should last?

And though he made a lover love a thing,
And maketh it seem stedfast and during,
Yet putteth he in it soch misaventure,
That rest n'is there in his yeving.
And that is wonder, that so just a king
Doth such hardnesse to his creature;
Thus, whether love break or els dure,
Algates he that hath with love to doon,
Hath ofter wo than chaunged is the Moon.

It seemeth he hath to lovers enmite,
And, like a fisher, as men may all day se,
Baited his angle hoke with some pleasance,
Til many a fish is wood, till that he be
Ceased therwith, and than at erst hath he
All his desire, and therwith all mischaunce,
And though the line breke he hath penaunce,
For with that hoke he wounded is so sore,
That he his wages hath for evermore.

The broche of Thebes was of soch kinde,
So full of rubies and of stones of Inde,
That every wight that set on it an eye,
He wende, anone, to worth out of his mind,
So sore the beaute wold his herte bind,
Till he it had, him thought he must die,
And whan that it was his, than should he drie
Soch wo for drede, aye while that he it had,
That welnigh for the feare he should [be] mad.

And whan it was fro his possession,
Than had he double wo and passion,
That he so faire a jewell hath forgo,
But yet this broche, as in conclusion,
Was not the cause of his confusion,
But he that wrought it enfortuned it so,
That every wight that had it shold have wo,
And therfore in the worcher was the vice,
And in the coveitour that was so nice.

So fareth it by lovers, and by me,
For though my lady have so great beaute,
That I was mad till I had gette her grace,
She was not cause of mine adversite,
But he that wrought her, as mote I the,
That put soch a beaute in her face,
That made me coveiten and purchase
Mine owne death, him wite I, that I die,
And mine unwit that ever I clambe so hie.

But to you, hardy knightes of renoune,
Sith that ye be of my devisioune,
Albe I not worthy to so great a name,
Yet saine these clerkes I am your patroune,
Therfore ye ought have some compassion
Of my disease, and take it nat a game,
The proudest of you may be made ful tame,
Wherfore I pray you, of your gentilesse,
That ye complaine for mine heavinesse.

And ye, my ladies, that be true and stable,
By way of kind ye ought to ben able
To have pite of folke that been in paine,
Now have ye cause to cloth you in sable,
Sith that your empresse, the honorable,
Is desolate, wel ought you to plaine,
Now should your holy teares fall and raine;
Alas, your honour and your emprise,
Nigh dead for drede, ne can her not chevise.

Complaineth eke ye lovers, all in fere,
For her that with unfained humble chere,
Was ever redy to do you socour,
Complaineth her that ever hath be you dere,
Complaineth beaute, freedome, and manere,
Complaineth her that endeth your labour,
Complaineth thilke ensample of al honour,
That never did but gentilnesse,

Kitheth therfore in her some kindnesse.

The Complaint of Venus. THERE n'is so high comfort to my pleasance, Whan that I am in any heavinesse, As to have leiser of remembraunce, Upon the manhood and the worthinesse, Upon the trouth, and on the stedfastnesse, Of him whose I am all, while I may dure, There ought to blame me no creature, For every wight praiseth his gentillesse.