THE COMPLEYNTE OF CHAUCER TO
yow my purse and to noon other wight Complayn I, for ye be my lady dere! I am so sory now that ye been lyght, For, certes, but-yf ye make me hevy chere,
Me were as leef be layde upon my bere,
For whiche unto your mercy thus I crye,
Beeth hevy ageyne, or elles mote I dye!
Now voucheth sauf this day, or hyt be nyghte,
That I of yow the blissful soune may here,
Or see your colour lyke the sunne bryghte,
That of yelownesse hadde never pere.
Ye be my lyfe! ye be myn hertys stere!
Quene of comfort and goode companye!
Beth hevy ayeyne, or elles moote I dye!
Now, purse! that ben to me my lyves lyght,
And saveour as doun in this worlde here,
Oute of this toune helpe me thurgh your myght,
Syn that ye wole nat bene my tresorere;
For I am shave as nye as is a frere.
But I pray unto your courtesye,
Bethe hevy ayeyn, or elles moote I dye!
L'ENVOY DE CHAUCER.
O conquerour of Brutes Albyoun,
Whiche that by lygne and free eleccioun,
Been verray Kynge, this song to yow I sende,
And ye that mowen alle myn harme amende,
Have mynde upon my supplicacioun.
GOOD COUNSEIL OF CHAUCER.
LE fro the pres, and duelle with sothfastnesse;
Suffice the thy good though hit be smale;
For horde hath hate, and clymbyng
tikelnesse,
Pres hath envye, and wele is blent over alle.
Savour no more then the behove shalle;
Do wel thy self that other folke canst rede,
And trouthe the shal delyver, hit ys no drede.
Peyne the not eche croked to redresse
In trust of hire that turneth as a balle,
Grete rest stant in lytil besynesse;
Bewar also to spurne ayein an nalle,
Stryve not as doth a croke with a walle;
Daunte thy selfe that dauntest otheres dede,
And trouthe the shal delyver, hit is no drede.
That the ys sent receyve in buxumnesse,
The wrasteling of this world asketh a falle;
Her is no home, her is but wyldyrnesse.
Forth pilgrime! forth best out of thy stalle!
Loke up on hye, and thonke God of alle;
Weyve thy lust, and let thy goste the lede,
And trouthe shal the delyver, hit is no drede.
IGHT as povert causith sobirnesse, And febilnesse enforcith continence, Right so prosperité and grete riches The moder is of vice and negligence; And powre also causeth insolence, And honour oftsise changith gude thewis; Thare is no more perilouse pestilence Than hie astate gevin unto schrewis.
HE firste fadir and fynder of gentilnesse,
What man desirith gentil for to be,
Moste folowe his trace, and alle his wittes
dresse,
Vertu to shew, and vicis for to flee;
For unto vertu longith dignitee,
And nought the revers, savely dare I deme,
Al were he mitre, corone or diademe.
This firste stoke was ful of rightwisnesse,
Trewe of his worde, soboure, pitous and free,
Cleene of his gooste and lovid besynesse,
Ageynste the vice of slowthe in honeste;
And but his heire love vertu as did he,
He nis not gentille thouhe him riche seme,
Al were he mytre, corone or diademe.
Vyce may welle bee heyre to olde richesse,
But there may no man, as ye may welle see,
Byquethe his sone his vertuous noblesse;
That is approperid into noo degree,
But to the firste Fadir in Magestee,
Which maye His heires deeme hem that Him queme, Al were he mytre, corone or dyademe.
L'ENVOY DE CHAUCER A SCOGAN.
O-BROKEN been the statutes hye in hevene,
That creat weren eternaly to dure,
Syth that I see the bryghte goddis sevene
Mowe wepe and wayle, and passioun endure,
As may in erthe a mortale creature:
Allas! fro whennes may thys thinge procede?
Of whiche errour I deye almost for drede.
By worde eterne whilome was yshape,
That fro the fyfte sercle in no manere,
Ne myght a drope of teeres doun eschape;
But now so wepith Venus in hir spere,
That with hir teeres she wol drenche us here.
Allas! Scogan this is for thyn offence!
Thou causest this deluge of pestilence.
Havesthow not seyd in blaspheme of this goddis, Thurgh pride, or thrugh thy grete rekelnesse, Swich thing as in the lawe of love forbode is, That for thy lady sawgh nat thy distresse,
Therfore thow yave hir up at Mighelmesse?
Allas, Scogan! of olde folke ne yonge,
Was never erst Scogan blamed for his tonge.
Thow drowe in skorne Cupide eke to recorde
Of thilke rebel worde that thow hast spoken,
For which he wol no lenger be thy lorde;
And, Scogan, thowgh his bowe be nat broken,
He wol nat with his arwes been ywroken
On the ne me, ne noon of youre figure;
We shul of him have neyther hurte nor cure,
Now certes, frend, I dreed of thyn unhappe,
Leste for thy gilte the wreche of love procede 30
On alle hem that ben hoor and rounde of shappe,
That ben so lykly folke in love to spede,
Than shal we for oure laboure have noo mede;
But wel I wot thow wolt answere and saye,
'Loo, tholde Grisel lyste to ryme and playe!
Nay, Scogan, say not soo, for I mexcuse,
God helpe me so, in no ryme dowteles;
Ne thynke I never of slepe to wake my muse,
That rusteth in my shethe stille in pees;
While I was yonge I put her forth in prees;
But alle shal passe that men prose or ryme,
Take every man hys turne as for his tyme.
Scogan, that knelest at the stremes hede
Of grace, of alle honour, and of worthynesse!
In thende of which streme I am dul as dede,
Forgete in solytarie wildernesse ;
Yet, Scogan, thenke on Tullius kyndenesse ;
Mynde thy frend there it may fructyfye,
Farewel, and loke thow never eft love dyffye.
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