Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

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

The Legend of Good Women

II. Thisbe of Babylon

AT Babiloine whylom fil it thus,The whiche toun the queen SemiramusLeet dichen al about, and walles makeFul hye, of harde tyles wel y-bake.Ther weren dwellinge in this noble tounTwo lordes, which that were of greet renoun,And woneden so nigh, upon a grene,That ther nas but a stoon-wal hem bitwene,As ofte in grete tounes is the wone.And sooth to seyn, that o man hadde a sone,Of al that londe oon of the lustieste.That other hadde a doghter, the faireste,That estward in the world was tho dwellinge.The name of everich gan to other springeBy wommen, that were neighebores aboute.For in that contree yit, withouten doute,Maidens been y-kept, for Ielosye,Ful streite, lest they diden som folye.This yonge man was cleped Piramus,And Tisbe hight the maid, Naso seith thus;And thus by report was hir name y-shoveThat, as they wexe in age, wex hir love;And certein, as by reson of hir age,Ther mighte have been bitwix hem mariage,But that hir fadres nolde hit nat assente;And bothe in love y-lyke sore they brente,That noon of alle hir frendes mighte hit letteBut prively somtyme yit they metteBy sleighte, and speken som of hir desyr;As, wry the gleed, and hotter is the fyr;Forbede a love, and it is ten so wood.This wal, which that bitwix hem bothe stood,Was cloven a-two, right fro the toppe adoun,Of olde tyme of his fundacioun;But yit this clifte was so narwe and lyte,It as nat sene, dere y-nogh a myte.But what is that, that love can nat espye?Ye lovers two, if that I shal nat lye,Ye founden first this litel narwe clifte;And, with a soun as softe as any shrifte,They lete hir wordes through the clifte pace,And tolden, whyl that they stode in the place,Al hir compleynt of love, and al hir wo,At every tyme whan they dorste so.Upon that o syde of the wal stood he,And on that other syde stood Tisbe,The swote soun of other to receyve,And thus hir wardeins wolde they deceyve.And every day this wal they wolde threte,And wisshe to god, that it were doun y-bete.Thus wolde they seyn—‘allas! thou wikked wal,Through thyn envye thou us lettest al!Why nilt thou cleve, or fallen al a-two?Or, at the leste, but thou woldest so,Yit woldestow but ones lete us mete,Or ones that we mighte kissen swete,Than were we covered of our cares colde.But natheles, yit be we to thee holdeIn as muche as thou suffrest for to goonOur wordes through thy lyme and eek thy stoon.Yit oghte we with thee ben wel apayd.’And whan thise ydel wordes weren sayd,The colde wal they wolden kisse of stoon,And take hir leve, and forth they wolden goon.And this was gladly in the even-tydeOr wonder erly, lest men hit espyde;And longe tyme they wroghte in this manereTil on a day, whan Phebus gan to clere,Aurora with the stremes of hir heteHad dryed up the dew of herbes wete;Unto this clifte, as it was wont to be,Com Pyramus, and after com Tisbe,And plighten trouthe fully in hir feyThat ilke same night to stele awey,And to begyle hir wardeins everichoon,And forth out of the citee for to goon;And, for the feldes been so brode and wyde,For to mete in o place at o tyde,They sette mark hir meting sholde beTher king Ninus was graven, under a tree;For olde payens that ydoles heriedUseden tho in feldes to ben beried;And faste by this grave was a welle.And, shortly of this tale for to telle,This covenant was affermed wonder faste;And longe hem thoughte that the sonne laste,That hit nere goon under the see adoun.This Tisbe hath so greet affecciounAnd so greet lyking Piramus to see,That, whan she seigh her tyme mighte be,At night she stal awey ful privelyWith her face y-wimpled subtilly;For alle her frendes—for to save her trouthe—She hath for-sake; allas! and that is routheThat ever woman wolde be so treweTo trusten man, but she the bet him knewe!And to the tree she goth a ful good pas,For love made her so hardy in this cas;And by the welle adoun she gan her dresse.Allas! than comth a wilde leonesseOut of the wode, withouten more areste,With blody mouthe, of strangling of a beste,To drinken of the welle, ther as she sat;And, whan that Tisbe had espyed that,She rist her up, with a ful drery herte,And in a cave with dredful foot she sterte,For by the mone she seigh hit wel with-alle.And, as she ran, her wimpel leet she falle,And took noon heed, so sore she was a-whaped.And eek so glad of that she was escaped;And thus she sit, and darketh wonder stille.Whan that this leonesse hath dronke her fille,Aboute the welle gan she for to winde,And right anoon the wimpel gan she finde,And with her blody mouth hit al to-rente.Whan this was doon, no lenger she ne stente,But to the wode her wey than hath she nome.And, at the laste, this Piramus is come,But al to longe, allas! at hoom was he.The mone shoon, men mighte wel y-see,And in his weye, as that he com ful faste,His eyen to the grounde adoun he caste,And in the sonde, as he beheld adoun,He seigh the steppes brode of a leoun,And in his herte he sodeinly agroos,And pale he wex, therwith his heer aroos,And neer he com, and fond the wimpel torn.‘Allas!’ quod he, ‘the day that I was born!This o night wol us lovers bothe slee!How sholde I axen mercy of TisbeWhan I am he that have yow slain, allas!My bidding hath yow slain, as in this cas.Allas! to bidde a woman goon by nighteIn place ther as peril fallen mighte,And I so slow! allas, I ne hadde beHere in this place a furlong-wey or ye!Now what leoun that be in this foreste,My body mote he renden, or what besteThat wilde is, gnawen mote he now myn herte!’And with that worde he to the wimpel sterte,And kiste hit ofte, and weep on hit ful sore,And seide, ‘wimpel, allas! ther nis no moreBut thou shalt fele as wel the blood of meAs thou hast felt the bleding of Tisbe!’And with that worde he smoot him to the herte.The blood out of the wounde as brode sterteAs water, whan the conduit broken is.Now Tisbe, which that wiste nat of this,But sitting in her drede, she thoghte thus,‘If hit so falle that my PiramusBe comen hider, and may me nat y-finde,He may me holden fals and eek unkinde.’And out she comth, and after him gan espyenBothe with her herte and with her yën,And thoghte, ‘I wol him tellen of my dredeBothe of the leonesse and al my dede.’And at the laste her love than hath she foundeBeting with his heles on the grounde,Al blody, and therwith-al a-bak she sterte,And lyke the wawes quappe gan her herte,And pale as box she wex, and in a throweAvysed her, and gan him wel to knowe,That hit was Piramus, her herte dere.Who coude wryte whiche a deedly chereHath Tisbe now, and how her heer she rente,And how she gan her-selve to turmente,And how she lyth and swowneth on the grounde,And how she weep of teres ful his wounde,How medeleth she his blood with her compleynte,And with his blood her-selven gan she peynte;How clippeth she the dede cors, allas?How doth this woful Tisbe in this cas!How kisseth she his frosty mouth so cold!‘Who hath doon this, and who hath been so boldTo sleen my leef? O spek, my Piramus!I am thy Tisbe, that thee calleth thus!’And therwith-al she lifteth up his heed.This woful man, that was nat fully deed,Whan that he herde the name of Tisbe cryen,On her he caste his hevy deedly yënAnd doun again, and yeldeth up the gost.Tisbe rist up, withouten noise or bost,And seigh her wimpel and his empty shethe,And eek his swerd, that him hath doon to dethe;Than spak she thus: ‘My woful hand,’ quod she,‘Is strong y-nogh in swiche a werk to me;For love shal yive me strengthe and hardinesseTo make my wounde large y-nogh, I gesse.I wol thee folwen deed, and I wol beFelawe and cause eek of thy deeth,’ quod she.‘And thogh that nothing save the deeth onlyMighte thee fro me departe trewely,Thou shalt no more departe now fro meThan fro the deeth, for I wol go with thee!‘And now, ye wrecched Ielous fadres oure,We, that weren whylom children youre,We prayen yow, withouten more envye,That in o grave y-fere we moten lye,Sin love hath brought us to this pitous ende!And rightwis god to every lover sende,That loveth trewely, more prosperiteeThan ever hadde Piramus and Tisbe!And lat no gentil woman her assureTo putten her in swiche an aventure.But god forbede but a woman canBeen as trewe and loving as a man!And, for my part, I shal anoon it kythe!’And, with that worde, his swerd she took as swythe,That warm was of her loves blood and hoot,And to the herte she her-selven smoot.And thus ar Tisbe and Piramus ago.Of trewe men I finde but fewe moIn alle my bokes, save this Piramus,And therfor have I spoken of him thus.For hit is deyntee to us men to findeA man that can in love be trewe and kinde.Heer may ye seen, what lover so he be,A woman dar and can as wel as he.