THE ROMAUNT OF THE ROSE.

ANY men sayen that in swevenynges, d
Ther nys but fables and lesynges;
But men may some swevene sene,
Whiche hardely that false ne bene,
But afterwarde ben apparaunt.

This maye I drawe to warraunt,
An authour that highte Macrobes,
That halte nat dremes false ne lees,
But undoth us the avysyoun,
That whylom mette kyng Cipioun.

And who-so sayth, or weneth it be
A jape, or elles nycetie

To wene that dremes after falle,
Lette who-so lyst a foole me calle.
For this trowe I, and saye for me,
That dremes signifiaunce be

Of good and harme to many wightes,
That dremen in her sleep a-nyghtes
Ful many thynges covertly,

That fallen after al openly.

of

age,

Within my twenty yere
Whan that love taketh his corage

Of yonge folk, I wente soon
To bed, as I was wont to doon,

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And fast I slept; and in slepyng,
Me mette suche a swevenyng,
That lykede me wonderous wele;
But in that sweven is never a dele
That it nys afterwarde befalle,
Ryght as this dreme wol tel us alle.

Now this dreme wol I ryme aryghte,
To make your hertes gaye and lyghte;
For Love it prayeth, and also
Commaundeth me that it be so.
And yf there any aske me,
Whether that it be he or she,
How this boke which is here
Shal hatte, that I rede you here;
It is the Romaunce of the Rose,

In which alle the art of love I close.
The mater fayre is of to make;
God graunt me in gre that she it take
For whom that it begonnen is!
And that is she that hath, ywys,

So mochel pris; and therto she
So worthy is biloved to be,

That she wel ought of pris and ryght
Be cleped Rose of every wight.

That it was May me thoughte tho,
It is .v. yere or more ago;
That it was May, thus dremede me,
In tyme of love and jolité,
That al thing gynneth waxen gay,
For ther is neither busk nor hay
In May, that it nyl shrouded bene,
And it with newe leves wrene.
These wodes eek recoveren grene,

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That drie in wynter ben to sene;
And the erth wexith proude withalle,
For swote dewes that on it falle;
And the pore estat forgette,

In which that wynter had it sette.

And than bycometh the ground so proude,
That it wole have a newe shroude,

And makith so queynt his robe and faire,
That it had hewes an hundred payre,
Of gras and flouris, ynde and pers,
And many hewes ful dyvers:
That is the robe I mene, iwis,

Through which the ground to preisen is.
The briddes, that haven lefte her song,
While thei han suffride cold so strong
In wedres gryl and derk to sighte,
Ben in May for the sonne brighte,
So glade, that they shewe in syngyng,
That in her hertis is sich lykyng,
That they mote syngen and be light.
Than doth the nyghtyngale hir myght,
To make noyse, and syngen blythe.
Than is blisful many sithe,
The chelaundre, and the papyngay.
Than younge folk entenden ay,
For to ben gay and amorous,

The tyme is than so faverous.

Hard is the hert that loveth nought
In May, whan al this mirth is wrought;
Whan he may on these braunches here
The smale briddes syngen clere
Her blesful swete song pitous,
And in this sesoun delytous: