« AnkstesnisTęsti »
Thus, sithen Nature hath you well indued
With so much beaute; and dame Grace also
Your vertuous maner hath so well renued;
Exyle Disdayne and let her from you go,
And also Straungenes, and to love the fo;
And let no covetous your true herte subdue,
But that in joye you may your youth ensue.
For of I love the goddes dame Venus,
Right well to know that in the world is none
That unto you shall be more joyous
Than Graund Amour, that loveth you alone;
Sith he so did, it is many dayes agone.
Who ever saw a fayre yong hart so harde,
Which for her sake wolde se her true love mard?
And so shall he, without ye take good hede,
If it so be ye be cause of the same,
For love with deth wyll ye reward his mede?
And if ye do ye be to muche to blame.
To love unloved ye know it is no game:
Wherfore, me thinke, ye can do no lesse
But with your love his paynes to redres.
do not, this may be his songe; Wo worth the time that ever he you met; Wo worth your hert so doing him wrong; Wo worth the houre that his true herte was set; Wo worth dysdayne that wold his purpose let; Wo worth the flour that can do no bote; Wo worth you that perst him at the route.
Wo worth my love, the cause of my sorow;
Wo worth my lady that wyll not it releace;
Wo worth fortune both even and morow;
Wo worth trouble that shall have no peace;
Wo worth cruelte that may never cease;
Wo worth youth that wyll not pitie have;
Wo worth her that wyll not her love save;
Wo worth the trust without assuraunce;
Wo worth love rewarded with hate;
Wo worth love replete with variaunce;
Wo worth love without a frendly mate;
Wo worth the herte with love at debate;
Wo worth the beaute which toke me in snare;
Wo worth the hert that wyll not cease my care;
Wo worth her maners and her goodlynes;
Wo worth her eyes so clere and amyable;
Wo worth such cause of my great sicknes;
Wo worth pite on her not tendable;
Wo worth her minde in disdayne so stable;
Wo worth her that hath me fettered fast;
And wo worth love that I do spend in wast.
Wherefore of right I pray you to remembre
All that I wryte unto you right now:
How your true love is of age but tendre,
His umble service we pray you alow:
And he him selfe evermore emprowe,
You for to please and give the soveraynte,
How can you have a more true love than he?
And fare ye well: there is no more to say;
Under our signet, in our court ryall,
Of September the two and twenty day.
She closed the letter, and to her did call
Cupyde her sonne, so dere and speciall,
Commaunding him, as fast as he myght,
To La Belle Pucell for to take his flyght.
So did Cupyde with the letter flye
Unto La Belle Pucelles dominacion,
There that he spedde full well and wonderly,
As I shall after make relacion.
But to my matter with brevyacion:
A turtle I offred for to magnefy
Dame Venus hye estate to glorify.
She me exhorted for to be right hardy,
Forth on travayle, and to drede nothing;
I toke my leve of her full humbly,
And on my way as I was riding
This Godfrey Gobelyve came rennyng,
Wyth his little nagge, and cryed: tary! tary!
For I wyll come and bere you company.
HOW GODFREY GOBELIVE WAS TAKEN OF CORRECTION,
AND for because that I was than full sadde
And by the way he made me good game;
To have his company I was somwhat gladde.
I was not proude, I toke of him no shame:
He came to me and sayd: Ye are to blame
So to ryde louring for a womans sake,
Unto the devyll I do them all betake.
They be not stedfast, but chaunge as the mone;
Whan one is gone, they love another sone.
Who that is single and wyll have a wyfe,
Right out of joy he shall be brought in stryfe.
Thus whan Godfrey did so mery make,
There did a lady us sone overtake,
And in her hand she had a knotted whyp;
At every yerte she made Godfrey to skyppe.
Alas! he sayd, that ever I was borne;
Now am I take for all my mocke and scorne!
I loked about whan that I herde hym crye,
Seing this lady on her palfray ryde hye:
Madame, I sayde, I pray you me tell
Your proper name, and where that you
My name, quod she, is called Correccion;
And the toure of Chastite is my mancyon.
This strong thefe, called False Reporte,
Wyth Vylayne Courage, and an other sorte
And vyle perlers False Conjecture,
All these I had in pryson full sure.
But this False Reporte hath broken pryson,
With his subtyl crafte and evyl treason,
And this journey prively to spede
He hath clad him in this fooles wede.
Now have I answered you your question,
And I pray you of a lyke solucion;
You seme, me thinke, for to be a knight;
I pray you first to tell me your name aryght.
My name, quod I, is La Graund Amour.
A! well, quod she, you are the perfite floure
Of al true lovers, as I do wel know;
You shall attayne La Belle Pucell, I trow.
I know right well ye are adventurous,
Onward your way to the toure peryllous;
And for as much as the night is nere,
I humbly pray you for to take the chere
That I may make you in my toure this night:
It is here by, you shall of it have a sight.
And I pray you to helpe me to bynde
This False Reporte, as you should do by kynde.
What! Godfrey, quod I, wyll you chaunge your name?
Nay, nay, quod he, it was for no shame;
But, alas! for wo, that she hath me taken!
I must obey, it can not be forsaken.
His fete were fettered underneth his nagge,
And bound his handes behinde to his bagge;
Thus Correction, with her whyp did dryve
The litle nagge wyth Godfrey Gobelyve
Tyll at the last we gan to approche
Her riall tour upon a craggy roche.
The night was come, for it was right late;