And at the gate we met the portresse,
That was right gentill, and called Curteysy,
Whych salved us wyth wordes of mekenesse,
And axed us the veraye cause and why
Of our comynge to the gardeine sothel?
Truly, saide we, for nothyng but well,
A lytel to speke with La Bell Pucell.
Truly, quod she, in the garden grene
Of many a swete and sundry floure
She maketh a garlonde that is veray shene;
Wyth true loves wrought in many a coloure,
Replete with swetenes and dulcet odoure;
And all alone, wythout company,
Amyddes an herber she sitteth plesauntly.
Nowe stande you styl for a lytle space,
I wyll let her of you have knowledgynge.
And ryght anone she went to her grace,
Tellyng her than how we were comynge,
To speke wyth her gretly desyrynge.
Truly, she sayd, I am right well content
Of theyr comyng to know the hole entent.
Then good Curteysy, wythout taryenge,
Came unto us wyth all her diligence,
Prayeng us to take our entryng
And come unto the ladies precence,
To tell your erande to her excellence.
Than in we wente to the garden gloryous,
Lyke to a place of pleasure most solacyous.
Wyth Flora paynted and wrought curyously,
In divers knottes of marvaylous gretenes;
Rampande lyons stode up wondersly,
Made all of herbes with dulcet swetenes,
Wyth many dragons of marvaylos likenes,
Of dyvers floures made ful craftely,
By Flora couloured wyth colours sundry.
Amiddes the garden so moche delectable
There was an herber fayre and quadrante,
To paradyse right well comparable,
Set all about with flours fragraunt;
And in the myddle there was resplendyshaunte
A dulcet spring and marvaylous fountaine,
Of golde and asure made all certaine.
In wonderfull and curious similitude
There stode a dragon, of fyne golde so pure,
Upon his tayle of myghty fortitude,
Wretched and skaled al wyth asure,
Havyng thre hedes divers in fygure,
Whych in a bathe of the sylver grette
Spouted the water that was so dulcette.
Besyde whiche fountayne, the moost fayre lady
La Bel Pucel was gayly syttyng;
Of many floures fayre and ryally
A goodly chaplet she was in makynge.
Her heer was downe so clerely shynynge,
Lyke to the golde late purifyed with fyre,
Her heer was bryght as the drawne wyre.
Lyke to a lady for to be moost trewe,
She ware a fayre and goodly garment,
Of most fyne velvet, al of Indy blewe,
Wyth armynes powdred bordred at the vent.
On her fayre handes, as was convenient,
A payre of gloves ryght sclender and softe.
In approchyng nere I did beholde her oft.
And whan that I came before her presence,
Unto the ground I dyd knele adowne;
Sayeng: O lady! moost fayre of excellence,
O stere so clere of vertuous renowne!
Whose beaute fayre in every realme and towne,
Indued wyth grace and also wyth goodnes,
Dame Fame the her selfe doth evermore expresse.
Please it your grace for to gyve audyence
Unto my wofull and pitous complaynte;
How fervent love, wythout resystence,
My careful herte hath made low and faynte,
And therof are the hole constraynt;
Your beauty truly hath me fettered faste,
Wythout your helpe my life is nere hand paste.
Stande up, quod she; I marvayle of this cace,
What sodayne love hath you so arayde
Wyth so great payne your heart to embrace?
And why for me ye should be so dismayde?
As of your lyfe ye nede not to be afrayde.
For
ye of me now have no greater awe,
But whan ye lyst ye may your love wythdraw.
Than stode I up, and right so did she,
Alas! I sayd than, my heart is so set,
That it is yours, it may none other be;
Your selfe hath caught it in so sure a net,
That if that I may not your
favour get,
No doubt it is, the great payne of love
May not aswage tyl death it remove.
Truely, quod she, I am obedient
Unto my frendes whych do me so guyde;
They shal me rule as is convenient,
In the snare of love I wyl nothyng slyde,
My chaunce or fortune I wyl yet abide.
I thanke you for your love right humbly,
But I your cause can nothing remedy.
Alas! madame, yf I have enterprysed
A thyng to hye truly for my degre,
All that causes whych I have commysed
Hath ben on fortunes gentyl unyte,
Trustyng truely that she wold favour me.
In this case wherfore now excuse
Your humble servaunte, and not me refuse.
Ha, ha! what vayleth all your flattery?
Your fayned wordes shall not me appese
To make myne herte to enclyne inwardly;
For I my selfe nowe do nothynge suppose
But for to prove me you flatter and glose.
You shall not dye as longe as you speke,
There is no love can cause your herte to breke.
I wolde, madame, ye hadde prerogatyve
To knowe the prevyte of my perfyte mynde,
How all in payne I lede my wofull lyfe;
Than, as I trowe, ye wolde not be unkynde,
But that some grace I myght in you fynde,
To cause myne herte, whyche you fetred sure
Wyth brenninge cheynes, suche wo to endure.
By veraye reason I may give judgement,
That it is guyse of you everychone
To fayne you sicke wyth subtyll argument,
Whan to your lady ye list to make your mone:
But of you true is there fewe or none.
For all your payne and wordes eloquent,
Wyth dame Repentaunce I will not be shent.
O swete madame! now all my desteny
Unhap and happy, upon you doth growe:
Yf that you call me unto your mercy
Of all happy the most happy, I trow,
Than shall I be, of hye degre or lowe;
And yf ye lyste so me than to forsake,
Of all unhappy none shal be my make.
Your fortune on me is not more applyed,
Than upon other, for my minde is fre;
I have your purpose oft ynoughe denyed,
You knowe your answere now certayne;
What nede your wordes of curyosyte?
Wo we here no more, for thou shalt not spede;
Go love another where ye may have mede.
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