Chaucerian and Other Pieces. Various

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      traveyle hath no power, myn herte so moche to fade, as shulde

      to here of a twinkling in your disese! Ah! god forbede that;

      but yet let me deye, let me sterve withouten any mesure of

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      penaunce, rather than myn hertely thinking comfort in ought

      were disesed! What may my service avayle, in absence of her

      that my service shulde accepte? Is this nat endeles sorowe to

      thinke? Yes, yes, god wot; myn herte breketh nigh a-sonder.

      How shulde the ground, without kyndly noriture, bringen forth

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      any frutes? How shulde a ship, withouten a sterne, in the grete see

      be governed? How shulde I, withouten my blisse, my herte, my

      desyre, my joye, my goodnesse, endure in this contrarious prison,

      that thinke every hour in the day an hundred winter? Wel may

      now Eve sayn to me, 'Adam, in sorowe fallen from welth, driven

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      art thou out of paradise, with swete thy sustenaunce to beswinke!'

      Depe in this pyninge pitte with wo I ligge y-stocked,

      with chaynes linked of care and of tene. It is so hye from thens

      I lye and the commune erth, there ne is cable in no lande maked,

      that might strecche to me, to drawe me in-to blisse; ne steyers

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      to steye on is none; so that, without recover, endeles here to

      endure, I wot wel, I [am] purveyed. O, where art thou now,

      frendship, that som-tyme, with laughande chere, madest bothe

      face and countenaunce to me-wardes? Truely, now art thou

      went out of towne. But ever, me thinketh, he wereth his olde

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      clothes, and that the soule in the whiche the lyfe of frendship was

      in, is drawen out from his other spirites. Now than, farewel,

      frendship! and farewel, felawes! Me thinketh, ye al han taken

      your leve; no force of you al at ones. But, lady of love, ye wote

      what I mene; yet thinke on thy servaunt that for thy love

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      spilleth; al thinges have I forsake to folowen thyn hestes;

      rewarde me with a thought, though ye do naught els. Remembraunce

      of love lyth so sore under my brest, that other thought

      cometh not in my mynde but gladnesse, to thinke on your goodnesse

      and your mery chere; †ferdnes and sorowe, to thinke on your

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      wreche and your daunger; from whiche Christ me save! My

      greet joye it is to have in meditacion the bountees, the vertues,

      the nobley in you printed; sorowe and helle comen at ones, to

      suppose that I be †weyved. Thus with care, sorowe, and tene

      am I shapt, myn ende with dethe to make. Now, good goodly,

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      thinke on this. O wrecched foole that I am, fallen in-to so lowe,

      the hete of my brenning tene hath me al defased. How shulde

      ye, lady, sette prise on so foule fylthe? My conninge is thinne,

      my wit is exiled; lyke to a foole naturel am I comparisoned.

      Trewly, lady, but your mercy the more were, I wot wel al my

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      labour were in ydel; your mercy than passeth right. God graunt

      that proposicion to be verifyed in me; so that, by truste of good

      hope, I mowe come to the haven of ese. And sith it is impossible,

      the colours of your qualitees to chaunge: and forsothe I

      wot wel, wem ne spot may not abyde there so noble vertue

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      haboundeth, so that the defasing to you is verily [un]imaginable,

      as countenaunce of goodnesse with encresinge vertue is so in you

      knit, to abyde by necessary maner: yet, if the revers mighte falle

      (which is ayenst kynde), I †wot wel myn herte ne shulde therfore

      naught flitte, by the leste poynt of gemetrye; so sadly is it

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      †souded, that away from your service in love may he not departe.

      O love, whan shal I ben plesed? O charitee, whan shal I ben

      esed? O good goodly, whan shal the dyce turne? O ful of

      vertue, do the chaunce of comfort upwarde to falle! O love,

      whan wolt thou thinke on thy servaunt? I can no more but here,

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      out-cast of al welfare, abyde the day of my dethe, or els to see the

      sight that might al my wellinge sorowes voyde, and of the flode

      make an ebbe. These diseses mowen wel, by duresse of sorowe,

      make my lyfe to unbodye, and so for to dye; but certes ye, lady,

      in a ful perfeccion of love ben so knit with my soule, that deth

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      may not thilke knotte unbynde ne departe; so that ye and my

      soule togider †in endeles blisse shulde dwelle; and there shal

      my soule at the ful ben esed, that he may have your presence, to

      shewe th'entent of his desyres. Ah, dere god! that shal be a

      greet joye! СКАЧАТЬ