Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Charles Brockden Brown (1771–1810). Edgar Huntley; or, Memoirs of a Sleep-Walker. 1857.

The Romaunt of the Rose

Fragment A

MANY men seyn that in sweveningesTher nis but fables and lesinges;But men may somme swevenes seen,Which hardely ne false been,But afterward ben apparaunte.This may I drawe to waraunteAn authour, that hight Macrobes,That halt not dremes false ne lees,But undoth us the avisiounThat whylom mette king Cipioun.And who-so sayth, or weneth it beA Iape, or elles [a] nyceteeTo wene that dremes after falle,Let who-so liste a fool me calle.For this trowe I, and say for me,That dremes signifiaunce beOf good and harme to many wightes,That dremen in her slepe a-nightesFul many thinges covertly,That fallen after al openly.Within my twenty yere of age,Whan that Love taketh his corageOf yonge folk, I wente soneTo bedde, as I was wont to done,And fast I sleep; and in sleping,Me mette swiche a swevening,That lykede me wonders wel;But in that sweven is never a delThat it nis afterward befalle,Right as this dreem wol telle us alle.Now this dreem wol I ryme aright,To make your hertes gaye and light;For Love it prayeth, and alsoCommaundeth me that it be so.And if ther any aske me,Whether that it be he or she,How [that] this book [the] which is hereShal hote, that I rede you here;It is the Romance of the Rose,In which al the art of love I close.The mater fair is of to make;God graunte in gree that she it takeFor whom that it begonnen is!And that is she that hath, y-wis,So mochel prys; and ther-to sheSo worthy is biloved be,That she wel oughte of prys and right,Be cleped Rose of every wight.That it was May me thoughte tho,It is fyve yere or more ago;That it was May, thus dremed me,In tyme of love and Iolitee,That al thing ginneth waxen gay,For ther is neither busk nor hayIn May, that it nil shrouded been,And it with newe leves wreen.These wodes eek recoveren grene,That drye in winter been to sene;And the erthe wexeth proud withalle,For swote dewes that on it falle,And [al] the pore estat forgetIn which that winter hadde it set,And than bicometh the ground so proudThat it wol have a newe shroud,And maketh so queynt his robe and fayrThat it hath hewes an hundred payrOf gras and floures, inde and pers,And many hewes ful dyvers:That is the robe I mene, y-wis,Through which the ground to preisen is.The briddes, that han left hir song,Whyl they han suffred cold so strongIn wedres grille, and derk to sighte,Ben in May, for the sonne brighte,So glade, that they shewe in singing,That in hir herte is swich lyking,That they mote singen and be light.Than doth the nightingale hir mightTo make noyse, and singen blythe.Than is blisful, many a sythe,The chelaundre and the papingay.Than yonge folk entenden ayFor to ben gay and amorous,The tyme is than so savorous.Hard is his herte that loveth noughtIn May, whan al this mirth is wrought;Whan he may on these braunches hereThe smale briddes singen clereHir blisful swete song pitous;And in this sesoun delytous,Whan love affrayeth alle thing,Me thoughte a-night, in my sleping,Right in my bed, ful redily,That it was by the morowe erly,And up I roos, and gan me clothe;Anoon I wissh myn hondes bothe;A sylvre nedle forth I droghOut of an aguiler queynt y-nogh,And gan this nedle threde anon;For out of toun me list to gonThe sowne of briddes for to here,That on thise busshes singen clere.And in the swete sesoun that leef is,With a threde basting my slevis,Aloon I wente in my playing,The smale foules song harkning;That peyned hem ful many a payreTo singe on bowes blosmed fayre.Iolif and gay, ful of gladnesse,Toward a river I gan me dresse,That I herde renne faste by;For fairer playing non saugh IThan playen me by that riveer,For from an hille that stood ther neer,Cam doun the streem ful stif and bold.Cleer was the water, and as coldAs any welle is, sooth to seyne;And somdel lasse it was than Seine,But it was straighter wel away.And never saugh I, er that day,The water that so wel lyked me;And wonder glad was I to seeThat lusty place, and that riveer;And with that water that ran so cleerMy face I wissh. Tho saugh I welThe botme paved everydelWith gravel, ful of stones shene.The medewe softe, swote, and grene,Beet right on the water-syde.Ful cleer was than the morow-tyde,And ful attempre, out of drede.Tho gan I walke through the mede,Dounward ay in my pleying,The river-syde costeying.And whan I had a whyle goon,I saugh a GARDIN right anoon,Ful long and brood, and everydelEnclos it was, and walled wel,With hye walles enbatailled,Portrayed without, and wel entailledWith many riche portraitures;And bothe images and peynturesGan I biholde bisily.And I wol telle you, redily,Of thilke images the semblaunce,As fer as I have remembraunce.A-midde saugh I HATE stonde,That for hir wrathe, ire, and onde,Semed to been a moveresse,An angry wight, a chideresse;And ful of gyle, and fel corage,By semblaunt was that ilke image.And she was no-thing wel arrayed,But lyk a wood womman afrayed;Y-frounced foule was hir visage,And grenning for dispitous rage;Hir nose snorted up for tene.Ful hidous was she for to sene,Ful foul and rusty was she, this.Hir heed y-writhen was, y-wis,Ful grimly with a greet towayle.An image of another entayle,A lift half, was hir faste by;Hir name above hir heed saugh I,And she was called FELONYE.Another image, that VILANYE Y-cleped was, saugh I and fondUpon the walle on hir right hond.Vilanye was lyk somdelThat other image; and, trusteth wel,She semed a wikked creature.By countenaunce, in portrayture,She semed be ful despitous,And eek ful proud and outrageous.Wel coude he peynte, I undertake,That swiche image coude make.Ful foul and cherlish semed she,And eek vilaynous for to be,And litel coude of norture,To worshipe any creature.And next was peynted COVEITYSE,That eggeth folk, in many gyse,To take and yeve right nought ageyn,And grete tresours up to leyn.And that is she that for usureLeneth to many a creatureThe lasse for the more winning,So coveitous is her brenning.And that is she, for penyes fele,That techeth for to robbe and steleThese theves, and these smale harlotes;And that is routhe, for by hir throtesFul many oon hangeth at the laste.She maketh folk compasse and casteTo taken other folkes thing,Through robberie, or miscounting.And that is she that maketh trechoures;And she [that] maketh false pledoures,That with hir termes and hir domesDoon maydens, children, and eek gromesHir heritage to forgo.Ful croked were hir hondes two;For Coveityse is ever woodTo grypen other folkes good.Coveityse, for hir winning,Ful leef hath other mennes thing.Another image set saugh INext Coveityse faste by,And she was cleped AVARICE.Ful foul in peynting was that vice;Ful sad and caytif was she eek,And al-so grene as any leek.So yvel hewed was hir colour,Hir semed have lived in langour.She was lyk thing for hungre deed,That ladde hir lyf only by breedKneden with eisel strong and egre;And therto she was lene and megre.And she was clad ful povrely,Al in an old torn courtepy,As she were al with dogges torn;And bothe bihinde and eek bifornClouted was she beggarly.A mantel heng hir faste by,Upon a perche, weyke and smalle;A burnet cote heng therwithalle,Furred with no menivere,But with a furre rough of here,Of lambe-skinnes hevy and blake;It was ful old, I undertake.For Avarice to clothe hir welNe hasteth hir, never a del;For certeynly it were hir lothTo weren ofte that ilke cloth;And if it were forwered, sheWolde have ful greet necessiteeOf clothing, er she boughte hir newe,Al were it bad of wolle and hewe.This Avarice held in hir handeA purs, that heng [doun] by a bande;And that she hidde and bond so stronge,Men must abyde wonder longeOut of that purs er ther come ought,For that ne cometh not in hir thought;It was not, certein, hir ententeThat fro that purs a peny wente.And by that image, nygh y-nough,Was peynt ENVYE, that never lough,Nor never wel in herte ferdeBut-if she outher saugh or herdeSom greet mischaunce, or greet disese.No-thing may so moch hir pleseAs mischef and misaventure;Or whan she seeth discomfitureUpon any worthy man falle,Than lyketh hir [ful] wel withalle.She is ful glad in hir corage,If she see any greet linageBe brought to nought in shamful wyse.And if a man in honour ryse,Or by his witte, or by prowesse,Of that hath she gret hevinesse;For, trusteth wel, she goth nigh woodWhan any chaunce happeth good.Envye is of swich crueltee,That feith ne trouthe holdeth sheTo freend ne felawe, bad or good.Ne she hath kin noon of hir blood,That she nis ful hir enemy;She nolde, I dar seyn hardely,Hir owne fader ferde wel.And sore abyeth she everydelHir malice, and hir maltalent:For she is in so greet turmentAnd hath such [wo], whan folk doth good,That nigh she melteth for pure wood;Hir herte kerveth and to-brekethThat god the peple wel awreketh.Envye, y-wis, shal never letteSom blame upon the folk to sette.I trowe that if Envye, y-wis,Knewe the beste man that isOn this syde or biyond the see,Yit somwhat lakken him wolde she.And if he were so hende and wys,That she ne mighte al abate his prys,Yit wolde she blame his worthinesse,Or by hir wordes make it lesse.I saugh Envye, in that peynting,Hadde a wonderful loking;For she ne loked but awry,Or overthwart, al baggingly.And she hadde [eek] a foul usage;She mighte loke in no visageOf man or womman forth-right pleyn,But shette oon yë for disdeyn;So for envye brenned sheWhan she mighte any man [y]-see,That fair, or worthy were, or wys,Or elles stood in folkes prys.SOROWE was peynted next EnvyeUpon that walle of masonrye.But wel was seen in hir colourThat she hadde lived in langour;Hir semed have the Iaunyce.Nought half so pale was Avaryce,Nor no-thing lyk, [as] of lenesse;For sorowe, thought, and greet distresse,That she hadde suffred day and nightMade hir ful yelwe, and no-thing bright,Ful fade, pale, and megre also.Was never wight yit half so woAs that hir semed for to be,Nor so fulfilled of ire as she.I trowe that no wight mighte hir plese,Nor do that thing that mighte hir ese;Nor she ne wolde hir sorowe slake,Nor comfort noon unto hir take;So depe was hir wo bigonnen,And eek hir herte in angre ronnen,A sorowful thing wel semed she.Nor she hadde no-thing slowe beFor to forcracchen al hir face,And for to rende in many placeHir clothes, and for to tere hir swire,As she that was fulfilled of ire;And al to-torn lay eek hir hereAboute hir shuldres, here and there,As she that hadde it al to-rentFor angre and for maltalent.And eek I telle you certeynlyHow that she weep ful tenderly.In world nis wight so hard of herteThat hadde seen hir sorowes smerte,That nolde have had of hir pitee,So wo-bigoon a thing was she.She al to-dasshte hir-self for wo,And smoot togider her handes two.To sorwe was she ful ententyf,That woful recchelees caityf;Hir roughte litel of pleying,Or of clipping or [of] kissing;For who-so sorweful is in herteHim liste not to pleye ne sterte,Nor for to daunsen, ne to singe,Ne may his herte in temper bringeTo make Ioye on even or morowe;For Ioye is contraire unto sorowe.ELDE was peynted after this,That shorter was a foot, ywis,Than she was wont in her yonghede.Unnethe hir-self she mighte fede;So feble and eek so old was sheThat faded was al hir beautee.Ful salowe was waxen hir colour,Hir heed for-hoor was, whyt as flour.Y-wis, gret qualm ne were it noon,Ne sinne, although hir lyf were gon.Al woxen was hir body unwelde,And drye, and dwyned al for elde.A foul forwelked thing was sheThat whylom round and softe had be.Hir eres shoken fast withalle,As from her heed they wolde falle.Hir face frounced and forpyned,And bothe hir hondes lorn, fordwyned.So old she was that she ne wenteA foot, but it were by potente.The TYME, that passeth night and day,And restelees travayleth ay,And steleth from us so prively,That to us seemeth sikerlyThat it in oon point dwelleth ever,And certes, it ne resteth never,But goth so faste, and passeth ay,That ther nis man that thinke mayWhat tyme that now present is:Asketh at these clerkes this;For [er] men thinke it redily,Three tymes been y-passed by.The tyme, that may not soiourne,But goth, and never may retourne,As water that doun renneth ay,But never drope retourne may;Ther may no-thing as tyme endure,Metal, nor erthely creature;For alle thing it fret and shal:The tyme eek, that chaungeth al,And al doth waxe and festred be,And alle thing distroyeth he:The tyme, that eldeth our auncessoursAnd eldeth kinges and emperours,And that us alle shal overcomenEr that deeth us shal have nomen:The tyme, that hath al in weldeTo elden folk, had maad hir eldeSo inly, that, to my witing,She mighte helpe hir-self no-thing,But turned ageyn unto childhede;She had no-thing hir-self to lede,Ne wit ne pith in[with] hir holdeMore than a child of two yeer olde.But natheles, I trowe that sheWas fair sumtyme, and fresh to see,Whan she was in hir rightful age:But she was past al that passageAnd was a doted thing bicomen.A furred cope on had she nomen;Wel had she clad hir-self and warm,For cold mighte elles doon hir harm.These olde folk have alwey colde,Hir kinde is swiche, whan they ben olde.Another thing was doon ther write,That semede lyk an ipocrite,And it was cleped POPE-HOLY.That ilke is she that privelyNe spareth never a wikked dede,Whan men of hir taken non hede;And maketh hir outward precious,With pale visage and pitous,And semeth a simple creature;But ther nis no misaventureThat she ne thenketh in hir corage.Ful lyk to hir was that image,That maked was lyk hir semblaunce.She was ful simple of countenaunce,And she was clothed and eek shod,As she were, for the love of god,Yolden to religioun,Swich semed hir devocioun.A sauter held she faste in honde,And bisily she gan to fondeTo make many a feynt prayereTo god, and to his seyntes dere.Ne she was gay, fresh, ne Iolyf,But semed be ful ententyfTo gode werkes, and to faireAnd therto she had on an haire.Ne certes, she was fat no-thing,But semed wery for fasting;Of colour pale and deed was she.From hir the gate [shal] werned beOf paradys, that blisful place;For swich folk maketh lene hir face,As Crist seith in his evangyle,To gete hem prys in toun a whyle;And for a litel glorie veineThey lesen god and eek his reine.And alderlast of everichoon,Was peynted POVERT al aloon,That not a peny hadde in wolde,Al-though [that] she hir clothes solde,And though she shulde anhonged be;For naked as a worm was she.And if the weder stormy were,For colde she shulde have deyed there.She nadde on but a streit old sak,And many a clout on it ther stak;This was hir cote and hir mantel,No more was there, never a del,To clothe her with; I undertake,Gret leyser hadde she to quake.And she was put, that I of talke,Fer fro these other, up in an halke;There lurked and there coured she,For povre thing, wher-so it be,Is shamfast, and despysed ay.Acursed may wel be that day,That povre man conceyved is;For god wot, al to selde, y-wis,Is any povre man wel fed,Or wel arayed or y-cled,Or wel biloved, in swich wyseIn honour that he may aryse.Alle these thinges, wel avysed,As I have you er this devysed,With gold and asure over alleDepeynted were upon the walle.Squar was the wal, and high somdel;Enclosed, and y-barred wel,In stede of hegge, was that gardin;Com never shepherde therin.Into that gardyn, wel [y-]wrought,Who-so that me coude have brought,By laddre, or elles by degree,It wolde wel have lyked me.For swich solace, swich Ioye, and play,I trowe that never man ne say,As in that place delitous.The gardin was not daungerousTo herberwe briddes many oon.So riche a yerd was never noonOf briddes songe, and braunches grene.Therin were briddes mo, I wene,Than been in alle the rewme of Fraunce.Ful blisful was the accordaunceOf swete and pitous songe they made,For al this world it oughte glade.And I my-self so mery ferde,Whan I hir blisful songes herde,That for an hundred pound nolde I,—If that the passage openlyHadde been unto me free—That I nolde entren for to seeThassemblee, god [it kepe and were!]—Of briddes, whiche therinne were,That songen, through hir mery throtes,Daunces of love, and mery notes.Whan I thus herde foules singe,I fel faste in a weymentinge,By which art, or by what engynI mighte come in that gardyn;But way I couthe finde noonInto that gardin for to goon.Ne nought wiste I if that ther wereEyther hole or place [o]-where,By which I mighte have entree;Ne ther was noon to teche me;For I was al aloon, y-wis,Ful wo and anguissous of this.Til atte laste bithoughte I me,That by no weye ne mighte it be;That ther nas laddre or wey to passe,Or hole, into so fair a place.Tho gan I go a ful gret pasEnvyroning even in compasThe closing of the square wal,Til that I fond a wiket smalSo shet, that I ne mighte in goon,And other entree was ther noon.Upon this dore I gan to smyte,That was [so] fetys and so lyte;For other wey coude I not seke.Ful long I shoof, and knokked eke,And stood ful long and of[t] herkningIf that I herde a wight coming;Til that the dore of thilke entreeA mayden curteys opened me.Hir heer was as yelowe of heweAs any basin scoured newe.Hir flesh [as] tendre as is a chike,With bente browes, smothe and slike;And by mesure large wereThe opening of hir yën clere.Hir nose of good proporcioun,Hir yën greye as a faucoun,With swete breeth and wel savoured.Hir face whyt and wel coloured,With litel mouth, and round to see;A clove chin eek hadde she.Hir nekke was of good fasounIn lengthe and gretnesse, by resoun,Withoute bleyne, scabbe, or royne.Fro Ierusalem unto BurgoyneTher nis a fairer nekke, y-wis,To fele how smothe and softe it is.Hir throte, al-so whyt of heweAs snow on braunche snowed newe.Of body ful wel wrought was sheMen neded not, in no cuntree,A fairer body for to seke.And of fyn orfrays had she ekeA chapelet: so semly oonNe wered never mayde upon;….And faire above that chapeletA rose gerland had she set.She hadde [in honde] a gay mirour,And with a riche gold tressourHir heed was tressed queyntely;Hir sleves sewed fetisly.And for to kepe hir hondes faireOf gloves whyte she hadde a paire.And she hadde on a cote of greneOf cloth of Gaunt; withouten wene,Wel semed by hir apparayleShe was not wont to greet travayle.For whan she kempt was fetisly,And wel arayed and richely,Thanne had she doon al hir Iournee;For mery and wel bigoon was she.She ladde a lusty lyf in May,She hadde no thought, by night ne day,Of no-thing, but it were oonlyTo graythe hir wel and uncouthly.Whan that this dore hadde opened meThis mayden, semely for to see,I thanked hir as I best mighte,And axede hir how that she highte,And what she was, I axede eke.And she to me was nought unmeke,Ne of hir answer daungerous,But faire answerde, and seide thus:—‘Lo, sir, my name is YDELNESSE;So clepe men me, more and lesse.Ful mighty and ful riche am I,And that of oon thing, namely;For I entende to no-thingBut to my Ioye, and my pleying,And for to kembe and tresse me.Aqueynted am I, and priveeWith Mirthe, lord of this gardyn,That fro the lande of AlexandrynMade the trees be hider fet,That in this gardin been y-set.And whan the trees were woxen on highte,This wal, that stant here in thy sighte,Dide Mirthe enclosen al aboute;And these images, al withoute,He dide hem bothe entaile and peynte,That neither ben Iolyf ne queynte,But they ben ful of sorowe and wo,As thou hast seen a whyle ago.‘And ofte tyme, him to solace,Sir Mirthe cometh into this place,And eek with him cometh his meynee,That liven in lust and Iolitee.And now is Mirthe therin, to hereThe briddes, how they singen clere,The mavis and the nightingale,And other Ioly briddes smale.And thus he walketh to solaceHim and his folk; for swetter placeTo pleyen in he may not finde,Although he soughte oon in-til Inde.The alther-fairest folk to seeThat in this world may founde beHath Mirthe with him in his route,That folowen him alwayes aboute.’When Ydelnesse had told al this,And I hadde herkned wel, y-wis,Than seide I to dame Ydelnesse,‘Now al-so wisly god me blesse,Sith Mirthe, that is so fair and free,Is in this yerde with his meynee,Fro thilke assemblee, if I may,Shal no man werne me to-day,That I this night ne mote it see.For, wel wene I, ther with him beA fair and Ioly companyeFulfilled of alle curtesye.’And forth, withoute wordes mo,In at the wiket wente I tho,That Ydelnesse hadde opened me,Into that gardin fair to see.And whan I was [ther]in, y-wis,Myn herte was ful glad of this.For wel wende I ful sikerlyHave been in paradys erth[e]ly;So fair it was, that, trusteth wel,It semed a place espirituel.For certes, as at my devys,Ther is no place in paradysSo good in for to dwelle or beAs in that GARDIN, thoughte me;For there was many a brid singing,Throughout the yerde al thringing.In many places were nightingales,Alpes, finches, and wodewales,That in her swete song delytenIn thilke place as they habyten.Ther mighte men see many flokkesOf turtles and [of] laverokkes.Chalaundres fele saw I there,That wery, nigh forsongen were.And thrustles, terins, and mavys,That songen for to winne hem prys,And eek to sormounte in hir songThese other briddes hem among.By note made fair servyseThese briddes, that I you devyse;They songe hir song as faire and welAs angels doon espirituel.And, trusteth wel, whan I hem herde,Full lustily and wel I ferde;For never yit swich melodyeWas herd of man that mighte dye.Swich swete song was hem among,That me thoughte it no briddes song,But it was wonder lyk to beSong of mermaydens of the see;That, for her singing is so clere,Though we mermaydens clepe hem hereIn English, as in our usaunce,Men clepen hem sereyns in Fraunce.Ententif weren for to singeThese briddes, that nought unkunningeWere of hir craft, and apprentys,But of [hir] song sotyl and wys.And certes, whan I herde hir song,And saw the grene place among,In herte I wex so wonder gay,That I was never erst, er that day,So Iolyf, nor so wel bigo,Ne mery in herte, as I was tho.And than wiste I, and saw ful wel,That Ydelnesse me served wel,That me putte in swich Iolitee.Hir freend wel oughte I for to be,Sith she the dore of that gardynHadde opened, and me leten in.From hennesforth how that I wroughte,I shal you tellen, as me thoughte.First, whereof Mirthe served there,And eek what folk ther with him were,Without fable I wol descryve.And of that gardin eek as blyveI wol you tellen after this.The faire fasoun al, y-wis,That wel [y-]wrought was for the nones,I may not telle you al at ones:But as I may and can, I shalBy ordre tellen you it al.Ful fair servyse and eek ful sweteThese briddes maden as they sete.Layes of love, ful wel sowningThey songen in hir Iargoning;Summe highe and summe eek lowe songeUpon the braunches grene y-spronge.The sweetnesse of hir melodyeMade al myn herte in reverdye.And whan that I hadde herd, I trowe,These briddes singing on a rowe,Than mighte I not withholde meThat I ne wente in for to seeSir Mirthe; for my desiringWas him to seen, over alle thing,His countenaunce and his manere:That sighte was to me ful dere.Tho wente I forth on my right hondDoun by a litel path I fondOf mentes ful, and fenel grene;And faste by, withoute wene,SIR MIRTHE I fond; and right anoonUnto sir Mirthe gan I goon,Ther-as he was, him to solace.And with him, in that lusty place,So fair folk and so fresh hadde he,That whan I saw, I wondred meFro whennes swich folk mighte come,So faire they weren, alle and some;For they were lyk, as to my sighte,To angels, that ben fethered brighte.This folk, of which I telle you so,Upon a carole wenten tho.A lady caroled hem, that highteGLADNES, [the] blisful and the lighte;Wel coude she singe and lustily,Non half so wel and semely,And make in song swich refreininge,It sat hir wonder wel to singe.Hir vois ful cleer was and ful swete.She was nought rude ne unmete,But couthe y-now of swich doingAs longeth unto caroling:For she was wont in every placeTo singen first, folk to solace;For singing most she gaf hir to;No craft had she so leef to do.Tho mightest thou caroles seen,And folk [ther] daunce and mery been,And make many a fair tourningUpon the grene gras springing.Ther mightest thou see these floutours,Minstrales, and eek Iogelours,That wel to singe dide hir peyne.Somme songe songes of Loreyne;For in Loreyne hir notes beFul swetter than in this contree.Ther was many a timbestere,And saylours, that I dar wel swereCouthe hir craft ful parfitly.The timbres up ful sotillyThey caste, and henten [hem] ful ofteUpon a finger faire and softe,That they [ne] fayled never-mo.Ful fetis damiselles two,Right yonge, and fulle of semlihede,In kirtles, and non other wede,And faire tressed every tresse,Hadde Mirthe doon, for his noblesse,Amidde the carole for to daunce;But her-of lyth no remembraunce,How that they daunced queyntely.That oon wolde come al privelyAgayn that other: and whan they wereTogidre almost, they threwe y-fereHir mouthes so, that through hir playIt semed as they kiste alway;To dauncen wel coude they the gyse;What shulde I more to you devyse?Ne bede I never thennes go,Whyles that I saw hem daunce so.Upon the carole wonder faste,I gan biholde; til atte lasteA lady gan me for to espye,And she was cleped CURTESYE,The worshipful, the debonaire;I pray god ever falle hir faire!Ful curteisly she called me,‘What do ye there, beau sire?’ quod she,‘Come [neer], and if it lyke yowTo dauncen, daunceth with us now.’And I, withoute tarying,Wente into the caroling.I was abasshed never a del,But it me lykede right wel,That Curtesye me cleped so,And bad me on the daunce go.For if I hadde durst, certeynI wolde have caroled right fayn,As man that was to daunce blythe.Than gan I loken ofte sytheThe shap, the bodies, and the cheres,The countenaunce and the maneresOf alle the folk that daunced there,And I shal telle what they were.Ful fair was Mirthe, ful long and high;A fairer man I never sigh.As round as appel was his face,Ful rody and whyt in every place.Fetys he was and wel beseye,With metely mouth and yën greye;His nose by mesure wrought ful right;Crisp was his heer, and eek ful bright.His shuldres of a large brede,And smalish in the girdilstede.He semed lyk a portreiture,So noble he was of his stature,So fair, so Ioly, and so fetys,With limes wrought at poynt devys,Deliver, smert, and of gret might;Ne sawe thou never man so light.Of berde unnethe hadde he no-thing,For it was in the firste spring.Ful yong he was, and mery of thought,And in samyt, with briddes wrought,And with gold beten fetisly,His body was clad ful richely.Wrought was his robe in straunge gyse,And al to-slitered for queyntyseIn many a place, lowe and hye.And shod he was with greet maistrye,With shoon decoped, and with laas.By druerye, and by solas,His leef a rosen chapeletHad maad, and on his heed it set.And wite ye who was his leef?Dame GLADNES ther was him so leef,That singeth so wel with glad corage,That from she was twelve yeer of age,She of hir love graunt him made.Sir Mirthe hir by the finger hadde[In] daunsing, and she him also;Gret love was atwixe hem two.Bothe were they faire and brighte of hewe;She semede lyk a rose neweOf colour, and hir flesh so tendre,That with a brere smale and slendreMen mighte it cleve, I dar wel sayn.Hir forheed, frounceles al playn.Bente were hir browes two,Hir yën greye, and gladde also,That laughede ay in hir semblaunt,First or the mouth, by covenaunt.I not what of hir nose descryve;So fair hath no womman alyve….Hir heer was yelowe, and cleer shyning,I wot no lady so lyking.Of orfrays fresh was hir gerland;I, whiche seen have a thousand,Saugh never, y-wis, no gerlond yit,So wel [y]-wrought of silk as it.And in an over-gilt samytClad she was, by gret delyt,Of which hir leef a robe werde,The myrier she in herte ferde.And next hir wente, on hir other syde,The god of Love, that can devydeLove, as him lyketh it [to] be.But he can cherles daunten, he,And maken folkes pryde fallen.And he can wel these lordes thrallen,And ladies putte at lowe degree,Whan he may hem to proude see.This God of Love of his fasounWas lyk no knave, ne quistroun;His beautee gretly was to pryse.But of his robe to devyseI drede encombred for to be.For nought y-clad in silk was he,But al in floures and flourettes,Y-painted al with amorettes;And with losenges and scochouns,With briddes, libardes, and lyouns,And other beestes wrought ful wel.His garnement was everydelY-portreyd and y-wrought with floures,By dyvers medling of coloures.Floures ther were of many gyseY-set by compas in assyse;Ther lakked no flour, to my dome,Ne nought so muche as flour of brome,Ne violete, ne eek pervenke,Ne flour non, that man can on thenke,And many a rose-leef ful longWas entermedled ther-among:And also on his heed was setOf roses rede a chapelet.But nightingales, a ful gret route,That flyen over his heed aboute,The leves felden as they flyen;And he was al with briddes wryen,With popiniay, with nightingale,With chalaundre, and with wodewale,With finch, with lark, and with archaungel.He semede as he were an aungelThat doun were comen fro hevene clere.Love hadde with him a bachelere,That he made alweyes with him be;SWETE-LOKING cleped was he.This bachelere stood biholdingThe daunce, and in his honde holdingTurke bowes two hadde he.That oon of hem was of a treeThat bereth a fruyt of savour wikke;Ful croked was that foule stikke,And knotty here and there also,And blak as bery, or any slo.That other bowe was of a planteWithoute wem, I dar warante,Ful even, and by proporciounTretys and long, of good fasoun.And it was peynted wel and thwiten,And over-al diapred and writenWith ladies and with bacheleres,Ful lightsom and [ful] glad of cheres.These bowes two held Swete-Loking,That semed lyk no gadeling.And ten brode arowes held he there,Of which five in his right hond were.But they were shaven wel and dight,Nokked and fethered a-right;And al they were with gold bigoon,And stronge poynted everichoon,And sharpe for to kerven weel.But iren was ther noon ne steel;For al was gold, men mighte it see,Out-take the fetheres and the tree.The swiftest of these arowes fyveOut of a bowe for to dryve,And best [y]-fethered for to flee,And fairest eek, was cleped BEAUTEE.That other arowe, that hurteth lesse,Was cleped, as I trowe, SIMPLESSE.The thridde cleped was FRAUNCHYSE,That fethered was, in noble wyse,With valour and with curtesye.The fourthe was cleped COMPANYE,That hevy for to sheten is;But who-so sheteth right, y-wis,May therwith doon gret harm and wo.The fifte of these, and laste also,FAIR-SEMBLAUNT men that arowe calle,The leeste grevous of hem alle;Yit can it make a ful gret wounde,But he may hope his sores sounde,That hurt is with that arowe, y-wis;His wo the bet bistowed is.For he may soner have gladnesse,His langour oughte be the lesse.Fyve arowes were of other gyse,That been ful foule to devyse;For shaft and ende, sooth to telle,Were al-so blak as feend in helle.The first of hem is called PRYDE;That other arowe next him bisyde,It was [y]-cleped VILANYE;That arowe was as with felonyeEnvenimed, and with spitous blame.The thridde of hem was cleped SHAME.The fourthe, WANHOPE cleped is,The fifte, the NEWE-THOUGHT, y-wis.These arowes that I speke of here,Were alle fyve of oon manere,And alle were they resemblable.To hem was wel sitting and ableThe foule croked bowe hidous,That knotty was, and al roynous.That bowe semede wel to sheteThese arowes fyve, that been unmete,Contrarie to that other fyve.But though I telle not as blyveOf hir power, ne of hir might,Her-after shal I tellen rightThe sothe, and eek signifiaunce,As fer as I have remembraunce:Al shall be seid, I undertake,Er of this boke an ende I make.Now come I to my tale ageyn.But alderfirst, I wol you seynThe fasoun and the countenauncesOf al the folk that on the daunce is.The God of Love, Iolyf and light,Ladde on his honde a lady bright,Of high prys, and of greet degree.This lady called was BEAUTEE,[As was] an arowe, of which I tolde.Ful wel [y]-thewed was she holde;Ne she was derk ne broun, but bright,And cleer as [is] the mone-light,Ageyn whom alle the sterres semenBut smale candels, as we demen.Hir flesh was tendre as dewe of flour,Hir chere was simple as byrde in bour;As whyt as lilie or rose in rys,Hir face gentil and tretys.Fetys she was, and smal to see;No windred browes hadde she,Ne popped hir, for it neded noughtTo windre hir, or to peynte hir ought.Hir tresses yelowe, and longe straughten,Unto hir heles doun they raughten:Hir nose, hir mouth, and eye and chekeWel wrought, and al the remenaunt eke.A ful gret savour and a swoteMe thinketh in myn herte rote,As helpe me god, whan I remembreOf the fasoun of every membre!In world is noon so fair a wight;For yong she was, and hewed bright,[Wys], plesaunt, and fetys withalle,Gente, and in hir middel smalle.Bisyde Beaute yede RICHESSE,An high lady of greet noblesse,And greet of prys in every place.But who-so durste to hir trespace,Or til hir folk, in worde or dede,He were ful hardy, out of drede;For bothe she helpe and hindre may:And that is nought of yisterdayThat riche folk have ful gret mightTo helpe, and eek to greve a wight.The beste and grettest of valourDiden Richesse ful gret honour,And besy weren hir to serve;For that they wolde hir love deserve,They cleped hir ‘Lady,’ grete and smalle;This wyde world hir dredeth alle;This world is al in hir daungere.Hir court hath many a losengere,And many a traytour envious,That been ful besy and curiousFor to dispreisen, and to blameThat best deserven love and name.Bifore the folk, hem to bigylen,These losengeres hem preyse, and smylen,And thus the world with word anoynten;But afterward they [prikke] and poyntenThe folk right to the bare boon,Bihinde her bak whan they ben goon,And foule abate the folkes prys.Ful many a worthy man and wys,An hundred, have [they] don to dye,These losengeres, through flaterye;And maketh folk ful straunge be,Ther-as hem oughte be prive.Wel yvel mote they thryve and thee,And yvel aryved mote they be,These losengeres, ful of envye!No good man loveth hir companye.Richesse a robe of purpre on hadde,Ne trowe not that I lye or madde;For in this world is noon it liche,Ne by a thousand deel so riche,Ne noon so fair; for it ful welWith orfrays leyd was everydel,And portrayed in the ribaningesOf dukes stories, and of kinges.And with a bend of gold tasseled,And knoppes fyne of gold ameled.Aboute hir nekke of gentil entaileWas shet the riche chevesaile,In which ther was ful gret plenteeOf stones clere and bright to see.Rychesse a girdel hadde upon,The bokel of it was of a stoonOf vertu greet, and mochel of might;For who-so bar the stoon so bright,Of venim [thurte] him no-thing doute,While he the stoon hadde him aboute.That stoon was greetly for to love,And til a riche mannes bihoveWorth al the gold in Rome and Fryse.The mourdaunt, wrought in noble wyse,Was of a stoon ful precious,That was so fyn and vertuous,That hool a man it coude makeOf palasye, and of tooth-ake.And yit the stoon hadde suche a grace,That he was siker in every place,Al thilke day, not blind to been,That fasting mighte that stoon seen.The barres were of gold ful fyne,Upon a tissu of satyne,Ful hevy, greet, and no-thing light,In everich was a besaunt-wight.Upon the tresses of RichesseWas set a cercle, for noblesse,Of brend gold, that ful lighte shoon;So fair, trowe I, was never noon.But he were cunning, for the nones,That coude devysen alle the stonesThat in that cercle shewen clere;It is a wonder thing to here.For no man coude preyse or gesseOf hem the valewe or richesse.Rubyes there were, saphyres, iagounces,And emeraudes, more than two ounces.But al bifore, ful sotilly,A fyn carboucle set saugh I.The stoon so cleer was and so bright,That, al-so sone as it was night,Men mighte seen to go, for nede,A myle or two, in lengthe and brede.Swich light [tho] sprang out of the stoon,That Richesse wonder brighte shoon,Bothe hir heed, and al hir face,And eke aboute hir al the place.Dame Richesse on hir hond gan ledeA yong man ful of semelihede,That she best loved of any thing;His lust was muche in housholding.In clothing was he ful fetys,And lovede wel have hors of prys.He wende to have reproved beOf thefte or mordre, if that heHadde in his stable an hakeney.And therfore he desyred ayTo been aqueynted with Richesse;For al his purpos, as I gesse,Was for to make greet dispense,Withoute werning or defence.And Richesse mighte it wel sustene,And hir dispenses wel mayntene,And him alwey swich plentee sendeOf gold and silver for to spendeWithoute lakking or daungere,As it were poured in a garnere.And after on the daunce wenteLARGESSE, that sette al hir ententeFor to be honourable and free;Of Alexandres kin was she;Hir moste Ioye was, y-wis,Whan that she yaf, and seide, ‘have this.’Not Avarice, the foule caytyf,Was half to grype so ententyf,As Largesse is to yeve and spende.And god y-nough alwey hir sende,So that the more she yaf awey,The more, y-wis, she hadde alwey.Gret loos hath Largesse, and gret prys;For bothe wys folk and unwysWere hoolly to hir baundon brought,So wel with yiftes hath she wrought.And if she hadde an enemy,I trowe, that she coude craftilyMake him ful sone hir freend to be,So large of yift and free was she;Therfore she stood in love and graceOf riche and povre in every place.A ful gret fool is he, y-wis,That bothe riche and nigard is.A lord may have no maner viceThat greveth more than avarice.For nigard never with strengthe of hondMay winne him greet lordship or lond.For freendes al to fewe hath heTo doon his wil perfourmed be.And who-so wol have freendes here,He may not holde his tresour dere.For by ensample I telle this,Right as an adamaunt, y-wis,Can drawen to him sotillyThe yren, that is leyd therby,So draweth folkes hertes, y-wis,Silver and gold that yeven is.Largesse hadde on a robe fressheOf riche purpur Sarsinesshe.Wel fourmed was hir face and clere,And opened had she hir colere;For she right there hadde in presentUnto a lady maad presentOf a gold broche, ful wel wrought.And certes, it missat hir nought;For through hir smokke, wrought with silk,The flesh was seen, as whyt as milk.Largesse, that worthy was and wys,Held by the honde a knight of prys,Was sib to Arthour of Bretaigne.And that was he that bar the enseigneOf worship, and the gonfanoun.And yit he is of swich renoun,That men of him seye faire thingesBifore barouns, erles, and kinges.This knight was comen al newelyFro tourneyinge faste by;Ther hadde he doon gret chivalryeThrough his vertu and his maistrye;And for the love of his lemman[Had] cast doun many a doughty man.And next him daunced dame FRAUNCHYSE,Arrayed in ful noble gyse.She was not broun ne dun of hewe,But whyt as snowe y-fallen newe.Hir nose was wrought at poynt devys,For it was gentil and tretys;With eyen gladde, and browes bente;Hir heer doun to hir heles wente.And she was simple as dowve on tree,Ful debonaire of herte was she.She durste never seyn ne doBut that [thing] that hir longed to.And if a man were in distresse,And for hir love in hevinesse,Hir herte wolde have ful greet pitee,She was so amiable and free.For were a man for hir bistad,She wolde ben right sore adradThat she dide over greet outrage,But she him holpe his harm to aswage;Hir thoughte it elles a vilanye.And she hadde on a sukkenye,That not of hempen herdes was;So fair was noon in alle Arras.Lord, it was rideled fetysly!Ther nas nat oo poynt, trewely,That it nas in his right assyse.Ful wel y-clothed was Fraunchyse;For ther is no cloth sitteth betOn damiselle, than doth roket.A womman wel more fetys isIn roket than in cote, y-wis.The whyte roket, rideled faire,Bitokened, that ful debonaireAnd swete was she that it bere.By hir daunced a bachelere;I can not telle you what he highte,But fair he was, and of good highte,Al hadde he be, I sey no more,The lordes sone of Windesore.And next that daunced CURTESYE,That preised was of lowe and hye,For neither proud ne fool was she.She for to daunce called me,(I pray god yeve hir right good grace!)Whan I com first into the place.She was not nyce, ne outrageous,But wys and war, and vertuous,Of faire speche, and faire answere;Was never wight misseid of here;She bar no rancour to no wight.Cleer broun she was, and therto brightOf face, of body avenaunt;I wot no lady so plesaunt.She were worthy for to beneAn emperesse or crouned quene.And by hir wente a knight dauncingThat worthy was and wel speking,And ful wel coude he doon honour.The knight was fair and stif in stour,And in armure a semely man,And wel biloved of his lemman.Fair YDELNESSE than saugh I,That alwey was me faste by.Of hir have I, withouten fayle,Told yow the shap and apparayle;For (as I seide) lo, that was sheThat dide me so greet bountee,That she the gate of the gardinUndide, and leet me passen in.And after daunced, as I gesse,[YOUTHE], fulfild of lustinesse,That nas not yit twelve yeer of age,With herte wilde, and thought volage;Nyce she was, but she ne menteNoon harm ne slight in hir entente,But only lust and Iolitee.For yonge folk, wel witen ye,Have litel thought but on hir play.Hir lemman was bisyde alway,In swich a gyse, that he hir kisteAt alle tymes that him liste,That al the daunce mighte it see;They make no force of privetee;For who spak of hem yvel or wel,They were ashamed never-a-del,But men mighte seen hem kisse there,As it two yonge douves were.For yong was thilke bachelere,Of beaute wot I noon his pere;And he was right of swich an ageAs Youthe his leef, and swich corage.The lusty folk thus daunced there,And also other that with hem were,That weren alle of hir meynee;Ful hende folk, and wys, and free,And folk of fair port, trewely,Ther weren alle comunly.Whan I hadde seen the countenauncesOf hem that ladden thus these daunces,Than hadde I wil to goon and seeThe gardin that so lyked me,And loken on these faire loreres,On pyn-trees, cedres, and oliveres.The daunces than y-ended were;For many of hem that daunced thereWere with hir loves went aweyUnder the trees to have hir pley.A, lord! they lived lustily!A gret fool were he, sikerly,That nolde, his thankes, swich lyf lede!For this dar I seyn, out of drede,That who-so mighte so wel fare,For better lyf [thurte] him not care;For ther nis so good paradysAs have a love at his devys.Out of that place wente I tho,And in that gardin gan I go,Pleying along ful merily.The God of Love ful hastelyUnto him Swete-Loking clepte,No lenger wolde he that he kepteHis bowe of golde, that shoon so bright.He [bad] him [bende it] anon-right;And he ful sone [it] sette on ende,And at a braid he gan it bende,And took him of his arowes fyve,Ful sharpe and redy for to dryve.Now god that sit in magesteeFro deedly woundes kepe me,If so be that he [wol] me shete;For if I with his arowe mete,It [wol me greven] sore, y-wis!But I, that no-thing wiste of this,Wente up and doun ful many a wey,And he me folwed faste alwey;But no-wher wolde I reste me,Til I hadde al the [yerde in] be.The gardin was, by mesuring,Right even and squar in compassing;It was as long as it was large.Of fruyt hadde every tree his charge,But it were any hidous treeOf which ther were two or three.Ther were, and that wot I ful wel,Of pomgarnettes a ful gret del;That is a fruyt ful wel to lyke,Namely to folk whan they ben syke.And trees ther were, greet foisoun,That baren notes in hir sesoun,Such as men notemigges calle,That swote of savour been withalle.And alemandres greet plentee,Figes, and many a date-treeTher weren, if men hadde nede,Through the gardin in length and brede.Ther was eek wexing many a spyce,As clow-gelofre, and licoryce,Gingere, and greyn de paradys,Canelle, and setewale of prys,And many a spyce delitable,To eten whan men ryse fro table.And many hoomly trees ther were,That peches, coynes, and apples bere,Medlers, ploumes, peres, chesteynes,Cheryse, of whiche many on fayn is,Notes, aleys, and bolas,That for to seen it was solas;With many high lorer and pynWas renged clene al that gardyn;With cipres, and with oliveres,Of which that nigh no plente here is.Ther were elmes grete and stronge,Maples, asshe, ook, asp, planes longe,Fyn ew, popler, and lindes faire,And othere trees ful many a payre.What sholde I telle you more of it?Ther were so many treës yit,That I sholde al encombred beEr I had rekened every tree.These trees were set, that I devyse,Oon from another, in assyse,Five fadome or sixe, I trowe so,But they were hye and grete also:And for to kepe out wel the sonne,The croppes were so thikke y-ronne,And every braunch in other knet,And ful of grene leves set,That sonne mighte noon descende,Lest [it] the tendre grasses shende.Ther mighte men does and roes y-see,And of squirels ful greet plentee,From bough to bough alwey leping.Conies ther were also playing,That comen out of hir claperesOf sondry colours and maneres,And maden many a turneyingUpon the fresshe gras springing.In places saw I WELLES there,In whiche ther no frogges were,And fair in shadwe was every welle;But I ne can the nombre telleOf stremes smale, that by devysMirthe had don come through condys,Of which the water, in renning,Gan make a noyse ful lyking.About the brinkes of thise welles,And by the stremes over-al ellesSprang up the gras, as thikke y-setAnd softe as any veluët,On which men mighte his lemman leye,As on a fetherbed, to pleye,For therthe was ful softe and swete.Through moisture of the welle weteSprang up the sote grene gras,As fair, as thikke, as mister was.But muche amended it the place,That therthe was of swich a graceThat it of floures had plente,That both in somer and winter be.Ther sprang the violete al newe,And fresshe pervinke, riche of hewe,And floures yelowe, whyte, and rede;Swich plentee grew ther never in mede.Ful gay was al the ground, and queynt,And poudred, as men had it peynt,With many a fresh and sondry flour,That casten up ful good savour.I wol not longe holde you in fableOf al this gardin delitable.I moot my tonge stinten nede,For I ne may, withouten drede,Naught tellen you the beautee al,Ne half the bountee therewithal.I wente on right honde and on leftAboute the place; it was not left,Til I hadde al the [yerde in] been,In the estres that men mighte seen.And thus whyle I wente in my pley,The God of Love me folowed ay,Right as an hunter can abydeThe beste, til he seeth his tydeTo shete, at good mes, to the dere,Whan that him nedeth go no nere.And so befil, I rested meBesyde a welle, under a tree,Which tree in Fraunce men calle a pyn.But, sith the tyme of king Pepyn,Ne grew ther tree in mannes sighteSo fair, ne so wel woxe in highte;In al that yerde so high was noon.And springing in a marble-stoonHad nature set, the sothe to telle,Under that pyn-tree a welle.And on the border, al withoute,Was writen, in the stone aboute,Lettres smale, that seyden thus,‘Here starf the faire Narcisus.’NARCISUS was a bachelere,That Love had caught in his daungere,And in his net gan him so streyne,And dide him so to wepe and pleyne,That nede him muste his lyf forgo.For a fair lady, hight Echo,Him loved over any creature,And gan for him swich peyne endure,That on a tyme she him tolde,That, if he hir loven nolde,That hir behoved nedes dye,Ther lay non other remedye.But natheles, for his beautee,So fiers and daungerous was he,That he nolde graunten hir asking,For weping, ne for fair praying.And whan she herde him werne hir so,She hadde in herte so gret wo,And took it in so gret dispyt,That she, withoute more respyt,Was deed anoon. But, er she deyde,Ful pitously to god she preyde,That proude-herted Narcisus,That was in love so daungerous,Mighte on a day ben hampred soFor love, and been so hoot for wo,That never he mighte Ioye atteyne;Than shulde he fele in every veyneWhat sorowe trewe lovers maken,That been so vilaynsly forsaken.This prayer was but resonable,Therefor god held it ferme and stable:For Narcisus, shortly to telle,By aventure com to that welleTo reste him in that shadowingA day, whan he com fro hunting.This Narcisus had suffred paynesFor renning alday in the playnes,And was for thurst in greet distresseOf hete, and of his werinesseThat hadde his breeth almost binomen.Whan he was to that welle y-comen,That shadwed was with braunches grene,He thoughte of thilke water sheneTo drinke and fresshe him wel withalle;And doun on knees he gan to falle,And forth his heed and nekke out-straughteTo drinken of that welle a draughte.And in the water anoon was seneHis nose, his mouth, his yën shene,And he ther-of was al abasshed;His owne shadowe had him bitrasshed.For wel wende he the forme seeOf a child of greet beautee.Wel couthe Love him wreke thoOf daunger and of pryde also,That Narcisus somtyme him bere.He quitte him wel his guerdon there;For he so musede in the welle,That, shortly al the sothe to telle,He lovede his owne shadowe so,That atte laste he starf for wo.For whan he saugh that he his willeMighte in no maner wey fulfille,And that he was so faste caughtThat he him couthe comfort naught,He loste his wit right in that place,And deyde within a litel space.And thus his warisoun he tookFor the lady that he forsook.Ladyes, I preye ensample taketh,Ye that ayeins your love mistaketh:For if hir deeth be yow to wyte,God can ful wel your whyle quyte.Whan that this lettre, of whiche I telle,Had taught me that it was the welleOf Narcisus in his beautee,I gan anoon withdrawe me,Whan it fel in my remembraunce,That him bitidde swich mischaunce.But at the laste than thoughte I,That scatheles, ful sikerly,I mighte unto THE WELLE go.Wherof shulde I abasshen so?Unto the welle than wente I me,And doun I louted for to seeThe clere water in the stoon,And eek the gravel, which that shoonDown in the botme, as silver fyn;For of the welle, this is the fyn,In world is noon so cleer of hewe.The water is ever fresh and neweThat welmeth up with wawes brighteThe mountance of two finger highte.Abouten it is gras springing,For moiste so thikke and wel lyking,That it ne may in winter dye,No more than may the see be drye.Down at the botme set saw ITwo cristal stones craftelyIn thilke fresshe and faire welle.But o thing soothly dar I telle,That ye wol holde a greet mervayleWhan it is told, withouten fayle.For whan the sonne, cleer in sighte,Cast in that welle his bemes brighte,And that the heet descended is,Than taketh the cristal stoon, y-wis,Agayn the sonne an hundred hewes,Blewe, yelowe, and rede, that fresh and newe is.Yit hath the merveilous cristalSwich strengthe, that the place overal,Bothe fowl and tree, and leves grene,And al the yerd in it is sene.And for to doon you understonde,To make ensample wol I fonde;Right as a mirour openlySheweth al thing that stant therby,As wel the colour as the figure,Withouten any coverture;Right so the cristal stoon, shyning,Withouten any disceyving,The estres of the yerde accusethTo him that in the water museth;For ever, in which half that he be,He may wel half the gardin see;And if he turne, he may right welSeen the remenaunt everydel.For ther is noon so litel thingSo hid, ne closed with shitting,That it ne is sene, as though it werePeynted in the cristal there.This is the mirour perilous,In which the proude NarcisusSaw al his face fair and bright,That made him sith to lye upright.For who-so loke in that mirour,Ther may no-thing ben his socourThat he ne shal ther seen som thingThat shal him lede into [loving].Ful many a worthy man hath itY-blent; for folk of grettest witBen sone caught here and awayted;Withouten respyt been they bayted.Heer comth to folk of-newe rage,Heer chaungeth many wight corage;Heer lyth no reed ne wit therto;For Venus sone, daun Cupido,Hath sowen there of love the seed,That help ne lyth ther noon, ne reed,So cercleth it the welle aboute.His ginnes hath he set withouteRight for to cacche in his panteresThese damoysels and bacheleres.Love wil noon other bridde cacche,Though he sette either net or lacche.And for the seed that heer was sowen,This welle is cleped, as wel is knowen,The Welle of Love, of verray right,Of which ther hath ful many a wightSpoke in bokes dyversely.But they shulle never so verilyDescripcioun of the welle here,Ne eek the sothe of this matere,As ye shulle, whan I have undoThe craft that hir bilongeth to.Alway me lyked for to dwelle,To seen the cristal in the welle,That shewed me ful openlyA thousand thinges faste by.But I may saye, in sory houreStood I to loken or to poure;For sithen [have] I sore syked,That mirour hath me now entryked.But hadde I first knowen in my witThe vertue and [the] strengthe of it,I nolde not have mused there;Me hadde bet ben elles-where;For in the snare I fel anoon,That hath bitraisshed many oon.In thilke mirour saw I tho,Among a thousand thinges mo,A ROSER charged ful of roses,That with an hegge aboute enclos is.Tho had I swich lust and envye,That, for Parys ne for Pavye,Nolde I have left to goon and seeTher grettest hepe of roses be.Whan I was with this rage hent,That caught hath many a man and shent,Toward the roser gan I go.And whan I was not fer therfro,The savour of the roses swoteMe smoot right to the herte rote,As I hadde al embawmed [be.]And if I ne hadde endouted meTo have ben hated or assailed,My thankes, wolde I not have failedTo pulle a rose of al that routeTo beren in myn honde aboute,And smellen to it wher I wente;But ever I dredde me to repente,And lest it greved or for-thoughteThe lord that thilke gardyn wroughte.Of roses were ther gret woon,So faire wexe never in roon.Of knoppes clos, some saw I there,And some wel beter woxen were;And some ther been of other moysoun,That drowe nigh to hir sesoun,And spedde hem faste for to sprede;I love wel swiche roses rede;For brode roses, and open also,Ben passed in a day or two;But knoppes wilen fresshe beTwo dayes atte leest, or three.The knoppes gretly lyked me,For fairer may ther no man see.Who-so mighte haven oon of alle,It oughte him been ful leef withalle.Mighte I [a] gerlond of hem geten,For no richesse I wolde it leten.Among THE KNOPPES I chees oonSo fair, that of the remenaunt noonNe preyse I half so wel as it,Whan I avyse it in my wit.For it so wel was enlumynedWith colour reed, as wel [y]-fynedAs nature couthe it make faire.And it had leves wel foure paire,That Kinde had set through his knowingAboute the rede rose springing.The stalke was as risshe right,And theron stood the knoppe upright,That it ne bowed upon no syde.The swote smelle sprong so wydeThat it dide al the place aboute—