Were not these thre gretly to commende,
Whyche them applyed such bokes to contryve,
Whose famous draughtes no man can amende?
The synne of slouth they dyd from them dryve,
After theyr death for to abyde on lyve
In worthy fame by many a nacyon,
Their bokes theyr actes do make relacyon.
O mayster Lydgate, the most dulcet sprynge
Of famous rethoryke, wyth balade ryall,
The chefe orygynal of my lernyng,
What vayleth it on you for to call
Me for to ayde, now in especiall;
Sythen your body is now wrapte in chest,
I pray God to gyve your soule good rest.
O what losse is it of suche a one!
It is to grete truely me for to tell;
Sythen the tyme that his lyfe was gone,
In al this realme his pere did not dwell;
Above al other he did so excell,
None sith his time in arte wolde succede,
After their death to have fame for their mede.
But many a one is ryght well experte
In this connyng, but upon auctoryte,
They fayne no fables pleasaunt and covert,
But spende theyr time in vaynful vanyte,
Makynge balades of fervent amyte.
As gestes and tryfles wythout frutefulnes;
Thus al in vayne they spende their besynes.
I, lytell or nought expert in poetry,
Of my mayster Lydgate wyll folowe the trace,
As evermore so his name to magnyfy
Wyth suche lytle bokes, by Goddes grace,
If in this worlde I may have the space;
The lytell connyng that his grace me sente
In tyme amonge in suche wyse shall be spente.
And yet nothinge upon presumpeyon
My mayster Lydgate I wyll not envy,
But all onely is mine entencyon
With suche labour my selfe to occupy;
As whyte by blacke doth shyne more clerely,
So shal theyr matters appeare more pleasaunt
Besyde my draughtes rude and ignoraunt.
Now in my boke ferder to procede;
To a chambre I went, replete wyth rychesse,
Where sat Arysmatryke in a golden wede,
Lyke a lady pure and of great worthynes.
The walles about dyd full well expres,
With golde depaynted, every perfyte nombre,
To adde, detraye, and to devyde asonder.
The rofe was paynted with golden beames,
The wyndowes cristall clerely claryfyde,
The golden rayes and depured streames
Of radyant Phebus that was puryfyde
Right in the Bull, that tyme so domysyde, x
Through windowes was resplendyshaunt
About the chambre fayre and radyaunt.
I kneled downe right soone on my kne,
And to her I sayd: O lady marveylous,
I right humbly beseche your majeste
Your arte to shewe me so facundyous,
Whyche is defuse and right fallacyous;
But I shall so apply myne exercyse,
That the vary trouth I shall well devyse.
My scyence, said she, is right necessary,
And in the myddes of the scyences all
It is now sette right well and parfytely;
For unto them it is so specyall,
Nombrynge so theyr werkes in generall,
Wythout me they had no parfytenes,
I must them nombre alwayes doubteles.
Without nombre is no maner of thynge,
That in our sight we may well se;
For God made all the begynnynge
In nombre perfyte well in certaynte,
Who knewe arsmetryke in every degre,
All maner nombre in his minde were had,
Bothe to detraye and to devyde and adde.
But who wyl knowe all the experience,
It behoveth hym to have great lernynge
In many thinges, wyth true intelligence,
Or that he can have perfyte rekenynge
In every nombre by expert connynge.
To reherse in Englysshe more of this science,
It were foly and the great neclygence.
I thought full longe, till I had a syght
Of La Bell Pucell, the most fayre ladye;
My minde upon her was bothe day and nyght,
The fervent love so perst me inwardly,
Wherfore I went anone right shortly
Unto the toure swete and melodyous,
Of dame Musyke so gaye and gloryous.
OF MUSIKE: MUNDAIN, HUMAYN, AND INSTRUMENTAL.
WHAN splendent Phebus, in his midday spere,
Was hyght in Gemine in the fresshe season
Of lusty Maye, with golden beames clere,
And derke Diane made declynacion;
Whan Flora florisshed in this nacion,
I called to mynde right inwardly
The reporte of Fame so muche ententifly
Of La Bell Pucell in the toure musycall,
And ryght anone unto the toure I went;
Where I sawe a temple made of christal,
In whiche Musyke, the lady excellent,
Played on base organs expedient,
Accordyng well unto dyopason,
Dyapenthe, and eke dyetesseron.
In this temple was great solempnyte,
And of muche people there was great prease;
I loked about whether I coude se
La Bell Pucell, my langour to cease;
I coude not se her; my payne dyd encrease,
Tyl that I spyed her above, in a vaute,
Whiche to my hert did make so sore assaute,
Wyth her beaute clere and swete countenaunce,
The stroke of love I coulde nothynge resyste:
And anone, wythout lenger cyrcumstaunce,
To her I wente, or that her person wyste;
Her thought I knewe not, she thought as she lyst;
By her I stode, with herte sore and faynte,
And dyd my selfe wyth her sone acquaynt.
The comyn wyt dyd full lytell regarde
Of dame Musyke the dulcet armony;
The eres herde not, for the mynde inwarde
Venus had rapte and taken fervently:
Imaginacion wrought full prively.
The fantasy gave perfyte jugement
Alway to her for to be obedyent.
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