Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

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

The Minor Poems

VI. A Compleint to his Lady

THE LONGE night, whan every creatureShulde have hir rest in somwhat, as by kinde,Or elles ne may hir lyf nat long endure,Hit falleth most in-to my woful mindeHow I so fer have broght my-self behinde,That, sauf the deeth, ther may no-thing me lisse,So desespaired I am from alle blisse.This same thoght me lasteth til the morwe,And from the morwe forth til hit be eve;Ther nedeth me no care for to borwe,For bothe I have good leyser and good leve;Ther is no wight that wol me wo bereveTo wepe y-nogh, and wailen al my fille;The sore spark of peyne doth me spille.
[The sore spark of peyne doth me spille;]This Love hath [eek] me set in swich a placeThat my desyr [he] never wol fulfille;For neither pitee, mercy, neither graceCan I nat finde; and [fro] my sorwful herte,For to be deed, I can hit nat arace.The more I love, the more she doth me smerte;Through which I see, with-oute remedye,That from the deeth I may no wyse asterte;[For this day in hir servise shal I dye].
[Thus am I slain, with sorwes ful dyverse;Ful longe agoon I oghte have taken hede].Now sothly, what she hight I wol reherse;Hir name is Bountee, set in womanhede,Sadnesse in youthe, and Beautee prydelees,And Plesaunce, under governaunce and drede;Hir surname eek is Faire Rewthelees,The Wyse, y-knit un-to Good Aventure,That, for I love hir, sleeth me giltelees.Hir love I best, and shal, whyl I may dure,Bet than my-self an hundred thousand deel,Than al this worldes richesse or creature.Now hath nat Lovë me bestowed weelTo lovë, ther I never shal have part?Allas! right thus is turned me the wheel,Thus am I slayn with loves fyry dart.I can but love hir best, my swete fo;Love hath me taught no more of his artBut serve alwey, and stinte for no wo.
[With]-in my trewe careful herte ther isSo moche wo, and [eek] so litel blis,That wo is me that ever I was bore;For al that thing which I desyre I mis,And al that ever I wolde nat, I-wis,That finde I redy to me evermore;And of al this I not to whom me pleyne.For she that mighte me out of this bringeNe reccheth nat whether I wepe or singe;So litel rewthe hath she upon my peyne.Allas! whan sleping-time is, than I wake,Whan I shulde daunce, for fere than I quake;[Yow rekketh never wher I flete or sinke;]This hevy lyf I lede for your sake,Thogh ye ther-of in no wyse hede take,[For on my wo yow deyneth not to thinke.]My hertes lady, and hool my lyves quene!For trewly dorste I seye, as that I fele,Me semeth that your swete herte of steleIs whetted now ageynes me to kene.My dere herte, and best beloved fo,Why lyketh yow to do me al this wo,What have I doon that greveth yow, or sayd,But for I serve and love yow and no mo?And whylst I live, I wol do ever so;And therfor, swete, ne beth nat evil apayd.For so good and so fair as [that] ye be,Hit were [a] right gret wonder but ye haddeOf alle servants, bothe goode and badde;And leest worthy of alle hem, I am he.But never-the-les, my righte lady swete,Thogh that I be unconning and unmeteTo serve as I best coude ay your hynesse.Yit is ther fayner noon, that wolde I hete,Than I, to do yow ese, or elles beteWhat-so I wiste were to [yow distresse].And hadde I might as good as I have wille,Than shulde ye fele wher it wer so or noon;For in this worlde living is ther noonThat fayner wolde your hertes wil fulfille.For bothe I love, and eek dreed yow so sore,And algates moot, and have doon yow, ful yore,That bet loved is noon, ne never shal;And yit I wolde beseche yow of no moreBut leveth wel, and be nat wrooth ther-fore,And lat me serve yow forth; lo! this is al.For I am nat so hardy ne so woodFor to desire that ye shulde love me;For wel I wot, allas! that may nat be;I am so litel worthy, and ye so good.For ye be oon the worthiest on-lyve,And I the most unlykly for to thryve;Yit, for al this, [now] witeth ye right wele,That ye ne shul me from your service dryveThat I nil ay, with alle my wittes fyve,Serve yow trewly, what wo so that I fele.For I am set on yow in swich manereThat, thogh ye never wil upon me rewe,I moste yow love, and ever been as treweAs any can or may on-lyve [here].The more that I love yow, goodly free,The lasse fynde I that ye loven me;Allas! whan shal that harde wit amende?Wher is now al your wommanly pitee,Your gentilesse and your debonairtee,Wil ye no thing ther-of upon me spende?And so hool, swete, as I am youres al,And so gret wil as I have yow to serve,Now, certes, and ye lete me thus sterve,Yit have ye wonne ther-on but a smal.For, at my knowing, I do no-thing why,And this I wol beseche yow hertely,That, ther ever ye finde, whyl ye live,A trewer servant to yow than am I,Leveth [me] thanne, and sleeth me hardely,And I my deeth to you wol al forgive.And if ye finde no trewer [man than me],[Why] will ye suffre than that I thus spille,And for no maner gilt but my good wille?As good wer thanne untrewe as trewe to be.But I, my lyf and deeth, to yow obeye,And with right buxom herte hoolly I preye,As [is] your moste plesure, so doth by me;Wel lever is me lyken yow and deyeThan for to any thing or thinke or seyeThat mighte yow offende in any tyme.And therfor, swete, rewe on my peynes smerte,And of your grace granteth me som drope;For elles may me laste ne blis ne hope,Ne dwellen in my trouble careful herte.