Forthe must I sayle wythout longer delaye;
It is full see; my frendes wyll come soone;
Therfore I pray you to go hence your waye,
It draweth fast now towarde the none.
Madame, quod I, your pleasure shal be done.
Wyth wofull herte and great syghes, ofte
I kyssed her lyppes, that were swete and softe.
She unto me nor I unto her colde speke,
And as of that it was no great wondre,
Our hertes swelled as that they should breke;
The fyre of love was so sore kept under.
Whan I from her should depart asundre,
Wyth her fayre head she dyd lowe enclyne,
And in lykewyse so dyd I wyth myne.
OF THE GREAT SOROWE THAT GRAUNDE AMOUR MADE AFTER THE DEPARTYNGE AND OF THE WORDES
HER frendes and she on theyr waye they sayled
Alonge the haven, God them save, and bryng
Unto the londe! I herd whan that they hayled,
Wyth a great peale of gunnes, at theyr departyng,
The marvaylous toure of famous cunnynge;
No gunne was shotte, but my herte dyd wepe
For her departynge wyth wofull teres depe.
Councell me comforted as ever he myght,
Wyth many storyes of olde antyquyte.
Remembre, he saide, that never yet was wyght
That lyved alway in great tranquylyte,
But that him happed some adversyte;
Than after that, whan the payne was paste,
The double joye dyd comfort them at laste.
Ye nede nothynge for to make great dolour,
Fortune to you hath bene ryght favourable,
Makyng you to attayne the good favour
Of your lady so swete and amyable.
No doubte it is she is true and stable;
And demeane you so that in no wyse
No man perceyve of your love surmyse.
Be hardy, fyers, and also coragyous,
In all your batayles without feblenes,
For ye shall be ryght well vyctoryous
Of all your enemyes so full of subtylnes.
Arme you wyth wysdome for more surenes,
Let wysdome werke, for she can stedfastly
In tyme of nede resyste the contrary.
Was never man yet surely at the bayte
Wyth Sapyence, but that he dyd repent;
Who that is ruled by her higher estate,
Of hys after wytte shall never be shent;
She is to man ryght benyvolent;
Wyth walles sure she doth hym fortyfye,
Whan it is nede to resyste a contrary.
Was never place where as she did guyde
Wyth enemyes brought to destruccyon;
A remedy she can so well provyde;
To her hygh werke is no comparison,
It hath so stronge and sure foundacyon:
Nothyng there is that can it molyfy,
So sure it is agaynst a contrary.
Of her alwayes it is the parfyte guyse
To begynne nothyng of mutabylyte,
As is the warre which may sone aryse
And wyl not downe, it may so stourdy be,
The begynner oft hath the iniquite.
Whan he began, wysdome did reply,
In his grete nede to resyst the contrary.
The myghty Pryant, somtyme kynge of Troye,
Wyth all his cyte so well fortyfyed,
Lytle regarded all his welth or joye,
Wythout wysdome truely exemplyfied,
His propre death him selfe he nutrifyed;
Agaynst his warre wysdome did reply,
At his grete nede to resyst the contrary.
And where that wysdome ruleth hardynes,
Hardynes than is ever invincyble,
There may nothinge it vanquishe or oppres;
For prudence is so well intellygyble,
To her there is nothing impossible;
Her grounded werke is made so perfytely,
That it must nedes resyst the contrary.
To wofull creatures she is goodly leche,
Wyth her good syster called Pacyence,
To the toure of joye she doth them tell weche,
In the way of hope wythout resystence;
Who to her lyst to applye hys dylygence,
She wyll hym brynge to worshyppe shortly
That he shall well resyst the contrary.
Ryght so let wysdome your sorowe surrendre,
And hye you fast unto dame Geometry,
And let no thought in your herte engendre,
But after thys speke to Astronomye;
And so frome thence to the toure of Chyvalry,
Wher of the worthy kynge Melyzyus
You shall be made soone knyght adventurous.
And fare you well, for I must frome you go,
To other lovers whyche are in dyspayre,
As I dyd you, to confort them also:
It is great nede that I to them repayre,
Habundant teres theyr hertes do refleyre.
Farewell! quod I, my good frende so true,
I wolde wyth me ye might alwaye ensue!
Then agayne I went to the toure melodyous
Of good dame Musyke, my leve for to take;
And pryvely wyth these wordes dolorous
I sayd: O toure! thou mayst well aslake
Suche melody now in the more to make
The gemme is gone of all famous porte,
That was chefe cause of the great comforte.
Whylome thou was the fayre toure of lyght,
But now thou arte replete with darkenes;
She is now gone that shone in the so bryght;
Thou was some time the toure of gladnes,
Now mayst thou be the toure of hevynes,
For the chefe is gone of all thy melody,
Whose beauty clere made moost swete armony.
The fayre carbuncle, so ful of clerenes,
That in thee truely dyd moost purely shyne,
The perle of pyte replete with swetenes,
The gentyll gyllofer, the goodly columbyne,
The redolente plant of the dulcet vyne,
The dede aromatyke may no more ensence,
For she is so ferre out of thy presence.
A, a! truly in the tyme so past,
Myne erande was the often for to se;
Now for to entre I may be agast,
When thou art hens, the sterre of beaute,
For all my delyte was to beholde the!
A! toure, toure! all my joye is gone,
In the to entre comfort is there none!
So then inwardly my selfe bewaylynge,
In the toure I went, into the habytacle
Of dame Musyke, where she was syngynge
The ballades swete in her fayre tabernacle.
Alas! thought I, this is no spectacle
To fede myn eyne, whiche ar now all blynde;
She is not here that I was wonte to fynde.
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