Puslapio vaizdai

And of him, than, I asked this question:
What was his name I prayd him to tel?
Counseyl, quod he; the which solucion
In my woful mynde whiche I like ryght wel.
And pryvely I did his lesson spel,
Sayeng to him, my chance and desteny
Of al other is the moste unhappy.

Why so? quod he; though fortune be straunge, To you a whyle turnyng of her face,

Her louring chere she may ryght sone chaunge, And you excepte and cal unto her grace. Dyspayre you not, for in good tyme and space Nothynge there is but wysdom may it wynne, To tell your mynde I praye you to begynne.

Unto you, quod I, wyth al my hole assent
I wyl tell you trouth, and you wyl not bewray
Unto none other my mater and entent.
Nay, nay, quod he, you shall not se that day;
Your hole affyaunce and trust ye well ye may
Into me put, for I shall not vary,
But kepe your counsell as a secretary.

And than to hym, in the maner folowynge,
I did complayne, wyth syghing teres depe:
Alas! quod I, you shall have knowledgyng
Of my hevy chaunce that causeth me to wepe;
So wo I am, that I can never slepe,
But walowe and tumble in the trappe of care;
My heart was caught or that I was ware.

It happened so that in a temple olde,
By the toure of Musyke at great solemnyte,
La Bell Pucell I dyd ryght well beholde,
Whose beaute clere and great humilite
To my heart dyd cast the darte of amyte;
After whyche stroke so harde and farvent,
To her excellence I came incontinent.

Beholdyng her chere and lovely countenaunce,
Her garmentes ryche and her propre stature,
I regestered well in my remembraunce
That I never sawe so fayre a creature,
So well favoured create by nature;
That harde it is for to wryte wyth yncke
All the beaute, or any hert to thynke.

Fayrer she was than was quene Elyne,
Proserpyne, Cresyde, or yet Ypolyte,
Medea, Dydo, or yonge Polexyne,
Alcumena, or quene Menelape;
Or yet dame Rosamunde; in certaynte,
None of all these can have the premynence.

Durynge the feest I stode her nere by,
But than hir beaute encreased my payne;
I coude nothyng resyst the contrary;
She wrapt my herte in a brennyng chayne.
To the musycall toure she went than agayne;
I wente after, I roude not behynde.

The chayne she haled whych my heart dyd bynde,

Tyl that we came into a chamber gaye,
Where that Musyke, wyth all her minstralsy,
Dyvers base daunces moost swetely dyd playe,
That them to here it was great melody;
And dame Musyke commaunded curteysly
La Bell Pucell wyth me than to daunce,
Whome that I toke wyth all my pleasaunce

By her swete honde, begynnyng the trace,
And longe dyd daunce tyl that I myght not hyde
The paynfull love whyche dyd my heart embrace;
Bycause wherof I toke my leve that tyde,
And to thys temple where I do abyde
Forthe than I went, alone to bewayle
My mortall sorowe wythout any fayle.

Now have I tolde you all the veray trouthe
Of my wofull chaunce aud great unhappynesse.
I praye you nothyng wyth me to be wrothe,
Whyche am drouned in carefull wretchednesse,
By fortune plunged ful of doublenes.

A, a! said Counseyle, doubte ye never a dele,
your disease I shal by wysdome hele.

Remember yet, that never yet was he,
That in this worlde dyd lede all his lyfe
In joye and pleasure, wythout adversyte;
No worldely thyng can be wythout stryfe,
For unto pleasure payne is affyrmatyfe.
Who wyll have pleasure he must fyrst apply
To take the payne wyth hys cure besely.

To serve the joye whych after death ensue,
Rewardyng payne for the great businesse,
No doubte your lady wyl upon you rue,
Seing you apply all your gentylnes

To do her pleasure and servyce doubtles.
Harde is the heart that no love hath felt.
Nor for to love wyl than encline and melt.

Remember ye that in olde antiquyte

Howe worthy Troylus, that mighty champion,
What paine he suffered by great extremyte
Of fervent love, by a great longe ceason,
For his lady Cresyde, by great tribulacyon.
After his sorowe had not he great joye
Of hys lady, the fayrest of all Troye?

And the famous knyght yclepped Ponthus,
Whych loved Sydoyne so muche entyerly,
What payne had he and what care dolorus
For his lady wyth love so marvaylously,
Was not her heart wounded ryght wofully?
After hys payne his ladie dyd her cure,
To do him joye, honoure, and pleasure.

Who was wyth love more wofully arayed,
Than were these twayne, and many other mo?
The power of love hath them so asayde,

That, and I lyst, I coude now reherse also
To whom true love hath wrought mykel wo,
And at the ende have had their desyre,
Of al their sorow for to quenche the fyre.

Languysshe no more, but plucke up thyne herte,
Exyle dyspayre, and live a whyle in hope;
And kepe your love all close and coverte;
It may so fortune that your lady grope
Somwhat of love for to drynke a slope;
Though outwardly she dare not let you know,
But at the last, as I beleve and trowe,

She can not kepe it so prively and close,
But that somwhat to you it shal appere,
By countenaunce, how that her love arose.
If that she love you, the love is so dere,
Whan you come to her she wyl make you chere
With countenaunce, accordyng unto love,
Full pryvely for to come to her above.

Sendyng of love the messanger before,
Which is her eyes, with lovely lokes swete,
For to beholde you than ever more and more,
After the tyme that you together mete.
With lovyng wordes she wyl you than grete.
Sorow no more, for I thynke in my mynde
That at the last she wyl be good and kynd.

Alas! quod I, she is of hye degre,
Borne to great land, treasure, and substaunce:
I fere to sore I shal disdayned be,

The whych wyl trouble al my grevaunce.
Her beaute is the cause of my penaunce:
I have no great lande, treasure, nor ryches,
To wynne the favour of her noblenes.

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