That she of force the mannes company
Must well conveyte; for she may not resyste
Dame natures werke, which is so secretely.
Thoughe she be mayde, let her say what she lyst,
She wolde have man, though do man it wyst
To make her joye whan nature doth agre,
Her thought is hers, it is unto her fre.
Who spareth to speke he spareth to spede;
I shall provyde for you convenyent
A gentyl tyme for to attayne your mede,
That you shall go to your lady excellent;
And ryght before take good advysement
Of all the matter that ye wyl her shewe,
Upon good reason and in wordes fewe.
Thus past we tyme in communicacyon,
The after none wyth many a sentement,
And what for love was best conclusyon
We demed oft and gave judgement;
Tyll that in the even was refulgent
Fayre golden Mercury, wyth hys bemes bryght,
About the ayre castinge his pured lyght.
Then to a chambre swete and precyous,
Councell me ledde, for to take my reste.
The night was wete, and also tenebrous;
But I my selfe, with sorowe opprest,
Dyd often muse what was for me best
Unto my fayre lady for to tell or saye,
And all my drede was for fere of a naye.
Though that my bedde was easy and softe,
Yet dyd I tomble, I myght not lye styll;
On every syde I tourned me ful ofte,
Upon the love I had so set my wyll,
Longynge ryght sore my mynde to fulfyll,
I called Counseyle, and prayed hym to awake
To gyve me counseyle what were best to take.
Ha, ha! quod he, love doth you so prycke,
That yet your heart will nothynge be eased,
But evermore be feble and sycke,
Tyll that your lady hath it well appesed;
Thoughe ye thynke longe, yet ye shall be plesed.
I wolde, quod I, that it were as ye say.
Fye, fye, quod he, dryve suche dyspayre away,
And lyve in hope, whych shall do you good.
Joy cometh after, han the payne is past.
Be ye pacyent and sobre in mode;
wepe and wayle all is for you in wast: Was never payne, but it had joye at last.
In the fayre morrow, ryse and make you redy, At ix. at the clocke, the time is necessary
For us to walke unto your lady gent;
The bodyes above be than well domysyde
To helpe us forwarde without ympediment.
Loke what ye saye; loke it be deryfyde
Frome perfyt reason well exemplyfyde;
Forsake her not, thoughe that she say naye,
A womans guyse is evermore to delaye.
No castell can be of so great a strength,
If that there be a sure syege to it layde,
It must yelde up or els be wonne at length,
Though that tofore it hath bene longe delayde.
So continuance may you ryght wel ayde.
Some womans herte can not so harded be,
But besy labour may make it agre.
Labour and dylygence is full mervaylus,
Whych bryngeth a lover to his promocyon.
Nothyng to love is more desyrous
Than instant labour and delectacyon:
The harded harte it geveth occasyon
For to consider how that her servaunt
To obtayne her love is so attendaunt.
Thus al in comonyng we the nyght did passe,
Tyll in the ayre wyth clowdes fayre and red
Rysyn was Phebus, shynyng in the glasse,
In the chamber his golden rayes were spred,
And Dyane derlyng pale as any leade,
Whan the lytle byrdes swetely dyd syng
With tunes musicall in the fayre mornyng.
OF THE DOLOROUS AND LOWLY DISPUTACION BETWENE
LA BEL PUCELL AND GRAUNDAMOURE.
COUNCELL and I than rose ful quickely
And made us redy on her way to walke,
In our clenly wede apparayled properly.
What I wolde saye I dyd unto hym talke,
Tyl on his boke he began to calke
How the sonne entred was in Gemyne;
And eke Dyane, ful of mutabilite,
Entred the Crab, her propre mancyon,
Than ryght amyddes of the Dragons hed;
And Venus and she made conjuncyon.
Frome the combust way she had her so sped,
She had no let that was to be dredde,
The assured ayre was depaynted clere
With golden beames of fayre Phebus spere.
Than forth so went good Counsell and I,
At vi. a clocke, unto a garden fayre;
By Musykes toure walked most goodly,
Where La Bell Pucell used to repayre
In the swete mornyng for to take the ayre
Among the floures of aromatyke fume,
The mysty ayre to exyle and consume.
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.
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