Puslapio vaizdai

And good dame Mynerve unto me then sayd:
Be not adredde of your hye enterpryse;
Be bolde and hardy and nothing afrayde;
And rather deye in ony maner of wyse,
To attayne honour and the lyfe dyspyse,
Than for to lyve and remayne in shame;
For to dye with honour it is a good name.

Fare well! she sayd, and be of good chere;
I must departe, I may no lenger tary;
Ryde on your way, the weder is full clere;
Seke your adventure, and loke you not vary
Frome your hye order by ony contrary.
And therwithall forth on her way she rode,
Ryght so did I, which no longer abode,

With both my greyhoundes and my varlet,
Through the playne and into wyldernes,
And so alofte amonge the hylles greate,
Tyll it was nyght so thicke of darkenes
That of constraynt of very werynes
We lyght adowne, under an hyll syde,
Unto the day to rest us there that tyde.

And whan my page my helmet unlaced,
He layde it downe underneth my hede,
And to his legge he my stede enbraced
To grase about while on the grase he fed;
And than also his horse in lyke stede
With both our greyhoundes lyeng us nere by;
And slouthe our hedes had caught so sodaynly,

That all the nyght we slepte in good reste,
Tyll agaynst day began to nese and cry
My stede Galantyse with a roryng breste,
And eke began to stampe full marveylously;
Whose hye courage awaked us wonderly,
And ryght anone we kast up our eyes,
Beholdyng above the fayre crystall skyes.

Seynge the cloudes rayed fayre and rede.
Of Phebus rysinge in the orient,
And Aurora her golden bemes sprede
About the ayre clerely refulgent,
Withouten mysty blacke encombremente,
Up I arose and also my page,
Makyng us redy for to take our vyage.



AND SO forth we rode, tyll we sawe aferre
To us came rydyng, on a lytell nagge,
A folysshe dwarfe, nothynge for the warre,
With a hood, a bell, a foxtayle, and a bagge;
In a pyed cote he rode brygge a bragge;
And whan that he unto us drewe nye,
I behelde his body and his visnamy.

His head was greate, beteled was his browes,
Hys eyen holow, and his nose croked;
His bryes brystled truely lyke a sowes;
His chekes here, and God wote he loked
Full lyke an ape, here and there he toted
With a pyed berde and hangyng lyppes grete,
And every tothe as blacke as ony gete.

His necke shorte, his sholders stode awry,
His breste fatte and bolne in the wast;
His armes great, with fyngers crokedly;
His legges kewed; he rode to me fast,
Full lyke a patron to be shaped in hast.
Good even, he sayd, and have good day,
If that it lyke you for to ryde merely.

Welcome, I sayde; I praye the now tell
Me what thou arte and where thou dost dwell?
Sothelyche, quod he, whan Icham in Kent
At home Icham; though I be hether sente,
Icham a gentylman of much noble kynne,
Though Iche be clad in a knaves skynne.
For there was one called Peter Pratefast,
That in all hys lyfe spake no worde in waste;
He wedde a wyfe that was called Maude.
I trowe, quod I, she was a gorgious baude.
Thou lyest, quod he, she was gentyl and good,
She gave her husbande many a furde hode,
And at his melys, without any mys,

She wolde him serve in clenly wyse ywys.
God love her soule as she loved clennes,
And kepe her dysshes from al foulnes.

Whan she lacketh cloutes, without any fayle
She wyped her disshes wyth her dogges tayle.
And they had yssue Sym Sadle-gander,
That for a wyfe in all the worlde did wander,
Tyll at the last, in the wynters nyght,
By Temmes he sayled, aryved by ryght
Amonge the nunnes of the grene cote.
He wente to lande out of his prety bote,
And wedde there one that was comen anewe:
He thought her stable, and fayfthfull, and trewe.
Her name was Betres, that so clenly was,
That no fylthe by her in any wyse shoulde passe.


And betwene them bothe they did get a sonne,
Whiche was my father, that in Kente did wonne.
His name was Davy Dronken-nole,

He never dranke but in a fayre blacke boule.
He toke a wyfe that was very fayre,
And gate me on her for to be his ayre.

Her name was Alyson, she loved nought elles
But ever more to rynge her blacke belles.
Now are they deade all, so mote I well thryve,
Excepte my selfe Godfray Gobelive,

Whiche rode about a wyfe me to seke,

But I can finde none that is good and meke;
For all are shrewes in the world aboute,
I coude never mete with none other route;
For some develles wyll their husbandes bete,
And tho that can not, they wyll never let
Their tongues cease, but gyve thre wordes for one,
Fy on them all! I wyll of them have none:

Who loveth any for to make hym sadde,

I wene that he become worse than madde.
They are not stedfast nothyng in their mynde,
But alway tornyng lyke a blaste of wynde.
For let a man love them never so wele,
They will hym love agayne never a dele.
For though a man all his lyfe certayne
Unto her sue to have release of payne,
And at the last she on hym do rewe,
If by fortune there come another newe,
The first shall be clene out of her favoure.
Recorde of Creseyd and of Troylus the doloure.
They are so subtyll and so false of kynde,
There can no man wade beyonde their mynde.
Was not Aristotle for all his clergy,
For a woman rapt in love so marveylously,
That all his connyng he had sone forgotten.
This unhap love had his mynde so broken,
That evermore the salte teres downe hayled
Whan the chaunce of love he hymselfe bewayled.
Aferde he was of the true love to breke,
For sayng nay whan he therof should speke;
Tyll of constraynt of wofull hevynes,
For to have remedy of his sore sekenes,
Whan he her spyed ryght secrete alone,
Unto her he wente and made all his mone.
Alas! he sayd, the cause of my wo,
Myne only lady and maystres also,
Whose goodly beaute hath my harte enrached,
With fervent love and fyry lemes entached,
Wherfore take pyte of the paynfull sorowe
Of me your servaunt both even and morowe.
She stode ryght styll, and hearde what he sayde:
Alas! quod she, be ye no more dismayed,

« AnkstesnisTęsti »