Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

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

The Minor Poems

XXII. An Amorous Compleint

I, WHICH that am the sorwefulleste manThat in this world was ever yit livinge,And leest recoverer of him-selven can,Beginne thus my deedly compleiningeOn hir, that may to lyf and deeth me bringe,Which hath on me no mercy ne no rewtheThat love hir best, but sleeth me for my trewthe.Can I noght doon ne seye that may yow lyke,[For] certes, now, allas! allas! the whyle!Your plesaunce is to laughen whan I syke,And thus ye me from al my blisse exyle.Ye han me cast in thilke spitous yleTher never man on lyve mighte asterte;This have I for I lovë you, swete herte!Sooth is, that wel I woot, by lyklinesse,If that it were thing possible to doTacompte youre beutee and goodnesse,I have no wonder thogh ye do me wo;Sith I, thunworthiest that may ryde or go,Durste ever thinken in so hy a place,What wonder is, thogh ye do me no grace?Allas! thus is my lyf brought to an ende,My deeth, I see, is my conclusioun;I may wel singe, ‘in sory tyme I spendeMy lyf;’ that song may have confusioun!For mercy, pitee, and deep affeccioun,I sey for me, for al my deedly chere,Alle thise diden, in that, me love yow dere.And in this wyse and in dispayre I liveIn lovë; nay, but in dispayre I dye!But shal I thus [to] yow my deeth for-give,That causeles doth me this sorow drye?Ye, certes, I! For she of my folyeHath nought to done, although she do me sterve;Hit is nat with hir wil that I hir serve!Than sith I am of my sorowe the causeAnd sith that I have this, withoute hir reed,Than may I seyn, right shortly in a clause,It is no blame unto hir womanheedThough swich a wrecche as I be for hir deed;[And] yet alwey two thinges doon me dyë,That is to seyn, hir beutee and myn yë.So that, algates, she is the verray roteOf my disese, and of my dethe also;For with oon word she mighte be my bote,If that she vouched sauf for to do so.But [why] than is hir gladnesse at my wo?It is hir wone plesaunce for to take,To seen hir servaunts dyen for hir sake!But certes, than is al my wonderinge,Sithen she is the fayrest creatureAs to my dome, that ever was livinge,The benignest and beste eek that natureHath wrought or shal, whyl that the world may dure,Why that she lefte pite so behinde?It was, y-wis, a greet defaute in kinde.Yit is al this no lak to hir, pardee,But god or nature sore wolde I blame;For, though she shewe no pite unto me,Sithen that she doth othere men the same,I ne oughte to despyse my ladies game;It is hir pley to laughen whan men syketh,And I assente, al that hir list and lyketh!Yit wolde I, as I dar, with sorweful herteBiseche un-to your meke womanhedeThat I now dorste my sharpe sorwes smerteShewe by worde, that ye wolde ones redeThe pleynte of me, the which ful sore dredeThat I have seid here, through myn unconninge,In any worde to your displesinge.Lothest of anything that ever was lothWere me, as wisly god my soule save!To seyn a thing through which ye might be wroth;And, to that day that I be leyd in grave,A trewer servaunt shulle ye never have;And, though that I on yow have pleyned here,Forgiveth it me, myn owne lady dere!Ever have I been, and shal, how-so I wende,Outher to live or dye, your humble trewe;Ye been to me my ginning and myn ende,Sonne of the sterre bright and clere of hewe,Alwey in oon to love yow freshly newe,By god and by my trouthe, is myn entente;To live or dye, I wol it never repente!This compleynt on seint Valentynes day,Whan every foul [ther] chesen shal his make,To hir, whos I am hool, and shal alwey,This woful song and this compleynt I make,That never yit wolde me to mercy take;And yit wol I [for] evermore her serveAnd love hir best, although she do me sterve.