L'ENVOY DE CHAUCER A BUKTON.
Y maister, Buktoun, whan of Crist our kyng,
Was axed, what ys trouthe or sothe-
fastnesse?
He nat a worde answerde to that axinge,
As who saith, noo man is al trew, I gesse;
And therfore, though I highte to expresse
The sorwe and woo that is in mariage,
I dar not writen of hit no wikkednesse,
Leste I my-self falle eft in swich dotage.
I wol nat seyn how that hyt is the cheyne
Of Sathanas, on which he gnaweth evere;
But I dar seyn, were he oute of his peyne,
As by his wille he wolde be bounde nevere.
But thilke doted foole that ofte hath levere
Ycheyned be than out of prison crepe
God lete him never fro his woo dissevere,
Ne no man him bewayle though he wepe!
But yet lest thow do worse, take a wyfe;
Bet ys
to wedde than brenne in worse wise,
But thow shalt have sorwe on thy flessh, thy lyfe,
And ben thy wyfes thral, as seyn these wise.
And yf that hooly writte may nat suffyse,
Experience shal the teche, so may happe,
That the were lever to be take in Frise,
Than eft falle of weddynge in the trappe.
This lytel written proverbes or figure
I sende yow, take kepe of hyt I rede:
Unwise is he that kan noo wele endure.
If thow be siker, put the nat in drede.
The wyfe of Bathe I pray yow that ye
Of this matere that we have on honde.
God graunte yow your lyfe frely to lede
In fredom, for ful harde is to be bonde.
BLISFUL lyfe a peseable and a swete
Leddyn the peplis in the former age;
Thei held them paied with the frutes
that they ete,
Wich that the feldes gafe them by usage,
Thei ne were for-pamprid with owtrage.
Vnknowen was the qwerne and eke the melle;
Thei etyn mast, hawys, and suche pownage,
And dronken watyr of the colde welle.
Yit was the ground not woundyd with the plowgh,
But corne upsprange onsowe of mannys hand,
The which thei knoddyd and ete not half i-now;
No man yit knew the forous of hys land;
No man yit fier owt of the flynt fand;
Vncarvyn and vngrobbyd lay the vyne;
No man in the morter yit spices grand.
To clarré ne to sause of galantine.
No madder wellyd or woode no lister,
Ne knew the flese was of hys former hewe;
Ne flesche ne wyst offence of egge or spere;
Ne coyne ne knew man whiche was fals or trewe;
No shyppe yit karfe the wawys grene and blewe;
Ne marchand yit ne fet owtlandische ware;
No batayllys trumpys for the warre folk ne knew
Ne towrys hight and wallys rownd and sqware.
What shuld it haf avaylyd to warrey?
Ther lay no profite, ther was no richesse ;
But cursyd was the tyme, I dar well say,
That men dyd first hyr swety besinesse,
To grobbe up metall lurkyng in derknesse,
And in the ryuers first gemmys sowghte;
Alas! than sprang up all owre cursidnesse,
Of couetyse that first owre sorow browghte.
Theys tirantes put hem gladly not in prese,
No place of wildnesse ne no busshys for to wynne.
There povert is, as sayth Dyogenes,
There as vitall eke is so skars and thynne,
That nowt but mast or applys is ther-in;
But ther as bagges ben and fatte vitayle
There wylle they gone and spare for no synne
With all hyr ost the cité for to asayle.
Yit were no palys chambris, ne no hallys
In cavys and wodes soft and swete;
Sleptyn thys blessyd folk withowte wallys,
On grasse or levys in parfite joy and quiete;
No downe of fedrys ne no blechyd schete
Was kyde to hem but in surté they slepte;
Hyr herte were alle oone without gallys,
Everyche of hem to odyr hys fayth kepte.
Vnforgyd was the hauberke and the plate;
The lambisshe pepyl, voyd of alle vice,
Hadden noo fantasye to debate,
But eche of hem wold oder well cheriche
No pride, none envy, none avarice,
No lord, no taylage by no tyrannye,
Humblesse, and pease, good fayth the emprise.
Yit was not Jupiter the likerous,
That first was fadyr of delicacye
Come in thys world, ne Nembroth desirous
To raygne hadde not made hys towrys hyghe.
Alas! alas! now may men wepe and crye,
For in owre days is not but covetyse,
Doublenesse, treson, and envye,
Poysonne, manslawtyr, mordre in sondri wyse.
FINIT ETAS PRIMA CHAUCER.
ARLDLY joy is onely fantasy,
Of quhich nane erdly wicht can be
Quho most has wit leste suld in it affy,
Quho traistes it most sall him repent.
Quhat valis all this richesse and this rent,
Sen no man wate quho sall his tresour haue? Presume noght gevin that God has done but lent, Within schort tyme the quhiche he thinkes to crave.
HAT shul these clothes thus manyfolde,
Loo, this hoote somers day?
After greet hete cometh colde;
No man caste his pilch away.
Of al this worlde the large compace
It wil not in myn armes tweyne;
Whoo-so mochel wol embrace,
Litel thereof he shal distreyne.
The worlde so wide, thaire so remuable,
The sely man so litel of stature ;
The grove and grounde, and clothinge so mutable,
The fire so hoote and subtil of nature,
The water never in oon- -what creature
That made is of these foure thus flyttynge,
May stedfast be, as here, in his lyvinge?
The more I goo the ferther I am behinde,
The ferther behinde the ner my wayes ende;
The more I seche the worse can I fynde;
The lighter leve, the lother for to wende;
The bet Y serve, the more al out of mynde;
Is thys fortune not I, or infortune;
Though I go lowse, tyed am I with a lune.
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