Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. I. Early Poetry: Chaucer to Donne
King James I of Scotland (1394–1437)Extract from The King’s Quair
B
Despeired of all joye and remedye,
For-tiret of my thought and wo-begone,
And to the wyndow gan I walk in hye,
To see the warld and folk that went forbye,
As for the tyme though I of mirthis fude
Mycht have no more, to luke it did me gude.
A gardyn faire, and in the corneris set
Ane herbere grene, with wandis long and small
Railit about, and so with treis set
Was all the place, and hawthorn hegis knet,
That lyf was non walkyng there forbye,
That mycht within scarce any wight aspy.
Beschadit all the allyes that there were,
And myddis every herbere mycht be sene
The scharpë grenë suetë jenepere,
Growing so fair with branchis here and there,
That, as it semyt to a lyf without,
The bewis spred the herbere all about.
The lytil suetë nyghtingale, and song
So loud and clere, the ympnis consecrat
Of luvis use, now soft now lowd among,
That all the gardynis and the wallis rong
Ryght of thaire song, and on the copill next
Of thaire suete armony, and lo the text:—
For of your bliss the kalendis are begonne,
And sing with us, away winter, away,
Come somer, come, the suete seson and sonne,
Awake, for schame! that have your hevynis wonne,
And amourously lift up your hedis all,
Thank Lufe that list you to his merci call.’
Thai stent a quhile, and therewith unafraid,
As I beheld, and kest myn eyen a-lawe,
From beugh to beugh thay hippit and thai plaid,
And freschly in thair birdis kynd araid
Thaire fatheris new, and fret thame in the sonne,
And thankit Lufe, that had thair makis wonne.
And therewithall unto myself I thought,
Quhat lufe is this, that makis birdis dote?
Quhat may this be, how cummyth it of ought?
Quhat nedith it to be so dere ybought?
It is nothing, trowe I, bot feynit chere,
And that one list to counterfeten chere.
That Lufe is of so noble mycht and kynde,
Lufing his folk, and suich prosperitee
Is it of him, as we in bukis fynd,
May he oure hertis setten and unbynd:
Hath he upon our hertis suich maistrye?
Or all this is bot feynit fantasye?
That he of every wight hath cure and charge,
Quhat have I gilt to him, or doon offense
That I am thrall, and birdis gone at large?
Sen him to serve he mycht set my corage,
And, gif he be not so, than may I seyne
Quhat makis folk to jangill of him in veyne?
Be lord, and, as a god, may lyve and regne,
To bynd, and louse, and maken thrallis free,
Than wold I pray his blissful grace benigne
To hable me unto his service digne,
And evermore for to be one of tho
Him trewly for to serve in wele and wo.
Quhare as I saw walkyng under the Toure,
Full secretely, new cumyn hir to pleyne,
The fairest or the freschest youngë floure
That ever I sawe, methought, before that houre,
For quhich sodayne abate, anon astert
The blude of all my body to my hert.
No wonder was; for quhy? my wittis all
Were so ouercome with plesance and delyte,
Only through latting of myn eyen fall,
That sudaynly my hert become hir thrall,
For ever of free wyll, for of manace
There was no takyn in her suetë face.
And eft sonës I lent it out ageyne,
And saw hir walk that verray womanly,
With no wight mo, bot only women tueyne,
Than gan I studye in myself and seyne,
Ah! suete, are ye a warldly creature,
Or hevinly thing in likeness of nature?
And cumyn are to louse me out of band,
Or are ye veray Nature the goddesse,
That have depayntit with your hevinly hand
This gardyn full of flouris, as they stand?
Quhat sall I think, allace! quhat reverence
Sall I minister to your excellence.
To do me payne, I may it not astert;
Giff ye be warldly wight, that dooth me sike,
Quhy lest God mak you so, my derest hert,
To do a sely prisoner thus smert,
That lufis you all, and wote of nought but wo?
And, therefore, merci, suete! sen it is so.
Bewailing myn infortune and my chance,
Unknawin how or quhat was best to done,
So ferre I fallyng into lufis dance,
That sodeynly my wit, my contenance,
My hert, my will, my nature, and my mynd,
Was changit clene rycht in ane other kind.
In hir was youth, beautee, with humble aport,
Bountee, richesse, and womanly faiture,
God better wote than my pen can report;
Wisdome, largesse, estate, and conyng sure
In every point, so guydit hir mesure,
In word, in dede, in schap, in contenance,
That nature mycht no more hir childe auance.
Wele that sche was a wardly creature,
On quhom to rest myn eyë, so much gude
It did my wofull hert, I yow assure
That it was to me joye without mesure,
And, at the last, my luke unto the hevin
I threwe forthwith, and said thir versis sevin:
To quhom I yelde homage and sacrifise,
Fro this day forth your grace be magnifyit,
That me ressauit have in such [a] wise,
To lyve under your law and your seruise;
Now help me furth, and for your merci lede
My hert to rest, that deis nere for drede.
Thus endit had, I stynt a lytill stound,
And eft myn eye full pitously adoun
I kest, behalding unto hir lytill hound,
That with his bellis playit on the ground,
Than wold I say, and sigh therewith a lyte,
Ah! wele were him that now were in thy plyte!
That sat upon the twiggis, wold I chide,
And say rycht thus, Quhare are thy notis smale,
That thou of love has song this morowe tyde?
Seis thou not hir that sittis thé besyde?
For Venus’ sake, the blisfull goddesse clere,
Sing on agane, and make my Lady chere.