Up-on that other syde Damian

Bicomen is the sorwefulleste man

That ever was; for neither night ne day

Ne mighte he speke a word to fresshe May,

As to his purpos, of no swich matere,

But-if that Ianuarie moste it here,

That hadde an hand up-on hir evermo.

But nathelees, by wryting to and fro

And privee signes, wiste he what she mente;

And she knew eek the fyn of his entente.

O Ianuarie, what mighte it thee availle,

Thou mightest see as fer as shippes saille?

For also good is blind deceyved be,

As be deceyved whan a man may se.

Lo, Argus, which that hadde an hondred yën,

For al that ever he coude poure or pryen,

Yet was he blent; and, god wot, so ben mo,

That wenen wisly that it be nat so.

Passe over is an ese, I sey na-more.

This fresshe May, that I spak of so yore,

In warme wex hath emprented the cliket,

That Ianuarie bar of the smale wiket,

By which in-to his gardin ofte he wente.

And Damian, that knew al hir entente,

The cliket countrefeted prively;

Ther nis na-more to seye, but hastily

Som wonder by this cliket shal bityde,

Which ye shul heren, if ye wole abyde.

O noble Ovyde, ful sooth seystou, god woot!

What sleighte is it, thogh it be long and hoot,

That he nil finde it out in som manere?

By Piramus and Tesbee may men lere;

Thogh they were kept ful longe streite overal,

They been accorded, rouninge thurgh a wal,

Ther no wight coude han founde out swich a sleighte.

But now to purpos; er that dayes eighte

Were passed, er the monthe of Iuil, bifil

That Ianuarie hath caught so greet a wil,

Thurgh egging of his wyf, him for to pleye

In his gardin, and no wight but they tweye,

That in a morwe un-to this May seith he:

‘Rys up, my wyf, my love, my lady free;

The turtles vois is herd, my douve swete;

The winter is goon, with alle his reynes wete;

Com forth now, with thyn eyën columbyn!

How fairer been thy brestes than is wyn!

The gardin is enclosed al aboute;

Com forth, my whyte spouse; out of doute,

Thou hast me wounded in myn herte, o wyf!

No spot of thee ne knew I al my lyf.

Com forth, and lat us taken our disport;

I chees thee for my wyf and my confort.’

Swiche olde lewed wordes used he;

On Damian a signe made she,

That he sholde go biforen with his cliket:

This Damian thanne hath opened the wiket,

And in he stirte, and that in swich manere,

That no wight mighte it see neither y-here;

And stille he sit under a bush anoon.

This Ianuarie, as blind as is a stoon,

With Maius in his hand, and no wight mo,

In-to his fresshe gardin is ago,

And clapte to the wiket sodeynly.

‘Now, wyf,’ quod he, ‘heer nis but thou and I,

That art the creature that I best love.

For, by that lord that sit in heven above,

Lever ich hadde dyen on a knyf,

Than thee offende, trewe dere wyf!

For goddes sake, thenk how I thee chees,

Noght for no coveityse, doutelees,

But only for the love I had to thee.

And though that I be old, and may nat see,

Beth to me trewe, and I shal telle yow why.

Three thinges, certes, shul ye winne ther-by;

First, love of Crist, and to your-self honour,

And al myn heritage, toun and tour;

I yeve it yow, maketh chartres as yow leste;

This shal be doon to-morwe er sonne reste.

So wisly god my soule bringe in blisse,

I prey yow first, in covenant ye me kisse.

And thogh that I be Ialous, wyte me noght.

Ye been so depe enprented in my thoght,

That, whan that I considere your beautee,

And ther-with-al the unlykly elde of me,

I may nat, certes, thogh I sholde dye,

Forbere to been out of your companye

For verray love; this is with-outen doute.

Now kis me, wyf, and lat us rome aboute.’

This fresshe May, whan she thise wordes herde,

Benignely to Ianuarie answerde,

But first and forward she bigan to wepe,

‘I have,’ quod she, ‘a soule for to kepe

As wel as ye, and also myn honour,

And of my wyfhod thilke tendre flour,

Which that I have assured in your hond,

Whan that the preest to yow my body bond;

Wherfore I wole answere in this manere

By the leve of yow, my lord so dere:

I prey to god, that never dawe the day

That I ne sterve, as foule as womman may,

If ever I do un-to my kin that shame,

Or elles I empeyre so my name,

That I be fals; and if I do that lakke,

Do strepe me and put me in a sakke,

And in the nexte river do me drenche.

I am a gentil womman and no wenche.

Why speke ye thus? but men ben ever untrewe,

And wommen have repreve of yow ay newe.

Ye han non other contenance, I leve,

But speke to us of untrust and repreve.’

And with that word she saugh wher Damian

Sat in the bush, and coughen she bigan,

And with hir finger signes made she,

That Damian sholde climbe up-on a tree,

That charged was with fruit, and up he wente;

For verraily he knew al hir entente,

And every signe that she coude make

Wel bet than Ianuarie, hir owene make.

For in a lettre she had told him al

Of this matere, how he werchen shal.

And thus I lete him sitte up-on the pyrie,

And Ianuarie and May rominge myrie.

Bright was the day, and blew the firmament,

Phebus of gold his stremes doun hath sent,

To gladen every flour with his warmnesse.

He was that tyme in Geminis, as I gesse,

But litel fro his declinacioun

Of Cancer, Iovis exaltacioun.

And so bifel, that brighte morwe-tyde,

That in that gardin, in the ferther syde,

Pluto, that is the king of fayërye,

And many a lady in his companye,

Folwinge his wyf, the quene Proserpyne,

Ech after other, right as any lyne—

Whil that she gadered floures in the mede,

In Claudian ye may the story rede,

How in his grisly carte he hir fette:—

This king of fairye thanne adoun him sette

Up-on a bench of turves, fresh and grene,

And right anon thus seyde he to his quene.

‘My wyf,’ quod he, ‘ther may no wight sey nay;

Thexperience so preveth every day

The treson whiche that wommen doon to man.

Ten hondred thousand [stories] telle I can

Notable of your untrouthe and brotilnesse.

O Salomon, wys, richest of richesse,

Fulfild of sapience and of worldly glorie,

Ful worthy been thy wordes to memorie

To every wight that wit and reson can.

Thus preiseth he yet the bountee of man:

“Amonges a thousand men yet fond I oon,

But of wommen alle fond I noon.”

Thus seith the king that knoweth your wikkednesse;

And Iesus filius Syrak, as I gesse,

Ne speketh of yow but selde reverence.

A wilde fyr and corrupt pestilence

So falle up-on your bodies yet to-night!

Ne see ye nat this honurable knight,

By-cause, allas! that he is blind and old,

His owene man shal make him cokewold;

Lo heer he sit, the lechour, in the tree.

Now wol I graunten, of my magestee,

Un-to this olde blinde worthy knight

That he shal have ayeyn his eyen sight,

Whan that his wyf wold doon him vileinye;

Than shal he knowen al hir harlotrye

Both in repreve of hir and othere mo.’

‘Ye shal,’ quod Proserpyne, ‘wol ye so;

Now, by my modres sires soule I swere,

That I shal yeven hir suffisant answere,

And alle wommen after, for hir sake;

That, though they be in any gilt y-take,

With face bold they shulle hem-self excuse,

And bere hem doun that wolden hem accuse.

For lakke of answer, noon of hem shal dyen.

Al hadde man seyn a thing with bothe his yën,

Yit shul we wommen visage it hardily,

And wepe, and swere, and chyde subtilly,

So that ye men shul been as lewed as gees.

What rekketh me of your auctoritees?

I woot wel that this Iew, this Salomon,

Fond of us wommen foles many oon.

But though that he ne fond no good womman,

Yet hath ther founde many another man

Wommen ful trewe, ful gode, and vertuous.

Witnesse on hem that dwelle in Cristes hous,

With martirdom they preved hir constance.

The Romayn gestes maken remembrance

Of many a verray trewe wyf also.

But sire, ne be nat wrooth, al-be-it so,

Though that he seyde he fond no good womman,

I prey yow take the sentence of the man;

He mente thus, that in sovereyn bontee

Nis noon but god, that sit in Trinitee.

Ey! for verray god, that nis but oon,

What make ye so muche of Salomon?

What though he made a temple, goddes hous?

What though he were riche and glorious?

So made he eek a temple of false goddis,

How mighte he do a thing that more forbode is?

Pardee, as faire as ye his name emplastre,

He was a lechour and an ydolastre;

And in his elde he verray god forsook.

And if that god ne hadde, as seith the book,

Y-spared him for his fadres sake, he sholde

Have lost his regne rather than he wolde.

I sette noght of al the vileinye,

That ye of wommen wryte, a boterflye.

I am a womman, nedes moot I speke,

Or elles swelle til myn herte breke.

For sithen he seyde that we ben Iangleresses,

As ever hool I mote brouke my tresses,

I shal nat spare, for no curteisye,

To speke him harm that wolde us vileinye.’

‘Dame,’ quod this Pluto, ‘be no lenger wrooth;

I yeve it up; but sith I swoor myn ooth

That I wolde graunten him his sighte ageyn,

My word shal stonde, I warne yow, certeyn.

I am a king, it sit me noght to lye.’

‘And I,’ quod she, ‘a queene of fayërye.

Hir answere shal she have, I undertake;

Lat us na-more wordes heer-of make.

For sothe, I wol no lenger yow contrarie.’

Now lat us turne agayn to Ianuarie,

That in the gardin with his faire May

Singeth, ful merier than the papeiay,

‘Yow love I best, and shal, and other noon.’

So longe aboute the aleyes is he goon,

Til he was come agaynes thilke pyrie,

Wher-as this Damian sitteth fill myrie

An heigh, among the fresshe leves grene.

This fresshe May, that is so bright and shene,

Gan for to syke, and seyde, ‘allas, my syde!

Now sir,’ quod she, ‘for aught that may bityde,

I moste han of the peres that I see,

Or I mot dye, so sore longeth me

To eten of the smale peres grene.

Help, for hir love that is of hevene quene!

I telle yow wel, a womman in my plyt

May han to fruit so greet an appetyt,

That she may dyen, but she of it have.’

‘Allas!’ quod he, ‘that I ne had heer a knave

That coude climbe; allas! allas!’ quod he,

‘That I am blind.’ ‘Ye, sir, no fors,’ quod she:

‘But wolde ye vouche-sauf, for goddes sake,

The pyrie inwith your armes for to take,

(For wel I woot that ye mistruste me)

Thanne sholde I climbe wel y-nogh,’ quod she,

‘So I my foot mighte sette upon your bak.’

‘Certes,’ quod he, ‘ther-on shal be no lak,

Mighte I yow helpen with myn herte blood.’

He stoupeth doun, and on his bak she stood,

And caughte hir by a twiste, and up she gooth.

Ladies, I prey yow that ye be nat wrooth;

I can nat glose, I am a rude man.

And sodeynly anon this Damian

Gan pullen up the smok, and in he throng.

And whan that Pluto saugh this grete wrong,

To Ianuarie he gaf agayn his sighte,

And made him see, as wel as ever he mighte.

And whan that he hadde caught his sighte agayn,

Ne was ther never man of thing so fayn.

But on his wyf his thoght was evermo;

Up to the tree he caste his eyen two,

And saugh that Damian his wyf had dressed

In swich manere, it may nat ben expressed

But if I wolde speke uncurteisly:

And up he yaf a roring and a cry

As doth the moder whan the child shal dye:

‘Out! help! allas! harrow!’ he gan to crye,

‘O stronge lady store, what dostow?’

And she answerde, ‘sir, what eyleth yow?

Have pacience, and reson in your minde,

I have yow holpe on bothe your eyen blinde.

Up peril of my soule, I shal nat lyen,

As me was taught, to hele with your yën,

Was no-thing bet to make yow to see

Than strugle with a man up-on a tree.

God woot, I dide it in ful good entente.’

‘Strugle!’ quod he, ‘ye, algate in it wente!

God yeve yow bothe on shames deeth to dyen!

He swyved thee, I saugh it with myne yën,

And elles be I hanged by the hals!’

‘Thanne is,’ quod she, ‘my medicyne al fals;

For certeinly, if that ye mighte see,

Ye wolde nat seyn thise wordes un-to me;

Ye han som glimsing and no parfit sighte.’

‘I see,’ quod he, ‘as wel as ever I mighte,

Thonked be god! with bothe myne eyen two,

And by my trouthe, me thoughte he dide thee so.’

‘Ye maze, maze, gode sire,’ quod she,

‘This thank have I for I have maad yow see;

Allas!’ quod she, ‘that ever I was so kinde!’

‘Now, dame,’ quod he, ‘lat al passe out of minde.

Com doun, my lief, and if I have missayd,

God help me so, as I am yvel apayd.

But, by my fader soule, I wende han seyn,

How that this Damian had by thee leyn,

And that thy smok had leyn up-on his brest.’

‘Ye, sire,’ quod she, ‘ye may wene as yow lest;

But, sire, a man that waketh out of his sleep,

He may nat sodeynly wel taken keep

Up-on a thing, ne seen it parfitly,

Til that he be adawed verraily;

Right so a man, that longe hath blind y-be,

Ne may nat sodeynly so wel y-see,

First whan his sighte is newe come ageyn,

As he that hath a day or two y-seyn.

Til that your sighte y-satled be a whyle,

Ther may ful many a sighte yow bigyle.

Beth war, I prey yow; for, by hevene king,

Ful many a man weneth to seen a thing,

And it is al another than it semeth.

He that misconceyveth, he misdemeth.’

And with that word she leep doun fro the tree.

This Ianuarie, who is glad but he?

He kisseth hir, and clippeth hir ful ofte,

And on hir wombe he stroketh hir ful softe,

And to his palays hoom he hath hir lad.

Now, gode men, I pray yow to be glad.

Thus endeth heer my tale of Ianuarie;

God bless us and his moder Seinte Marie!

Here is ended the Marchantes Tale of Ianuarie.

‘Ey! goddes mercy!’ seyde our Hoste tho,

‘Now swich a wyf I pray god kepe me fro!

Lo, whiche sleightes and subtilitees

In wommen been! for ay as bisy as bees

Ben they, us sely men for to deceyve,

And from a sothe ever wol they weyve;

By this Marchauntes Tale it preveth weel.

But doutelees, as trewe as any steel

I have a wyf, though that she povre be;

But of hir tonge a labbing shrewe is she,

And yet she hath an heep of vyces mo;

Ther-of no fors, lat alle swiche thinges go.

But, wite ye what? in conseil be it seyd,

Me reweth sore I am un-to hir teyd.

For, and I sholde rekenen every vyce

Which that she hath, y-wis, I were to nyce,

And cause why; it sholde reported be

And told to hir of somme of this meynee;

Of whom, it nedeth nat for to declare,

Sin wommen connen outen swich chaffare;

And eek my wit suffyseth nat ther-to

To tellen al; wherfor my tale is do.’

[The Squire’s Prologue.]

‘Squier, com neer, if it your wille be,

And sey somwhat of love; for, certes, ye

Connen ther-on as muche as any man.’

‘Nay, sir,’ quod he, ‘but I wol seye as I can

With hertly wille; for I wol nat rebelle

Agayn your lust; a tale wol I telle.

Have me excused if I speke amis,

My wil is good; and lo, my tale is this.

Here biginneth the Squieres Tale.

At Sarray, in the land of Tartarye,

Ther dwelte a king, that werreyed Russye,

Thurgh which ther deyde many a doughty man.

This noble king was cleped Cambinskan,

Which in his tyme was of so greet renoun

That ther nas no-wher in no regioun

So excellent a lord in alle thing;

Him lakked noght that longeth to a king.

As of the secte of which that he was born

He kepte his lay, to which that he was sworn;

And ther-to be was hardy, wys, and riche,

Pitous and Iust, and ever-more y-liche

Sooth of his word, benigne and honurable,

Of his corage as any centre stable;

Yong, fresh, and strong, in armes desirous

As any bacheler of al his hous.

A fair persone he was and fortunat,

And kepte alwey so wel royal estat,

That ther was nowher swich another man.

This noble king, this Tartre Cambinskan

Hadde two sones on Elpheta his wyf,

Of whiche the eldeste highte Algarsyf,

That other sone was cleped Cambalo.

A doghter hadde this worthy king also,

That yongest was, and highte Canacee.

But for to telle yow al hir beautee,

It lyth nat in my tonge, nin my conning;

I dar nat undertake so heigh a thing.

Myn English eek is insufficient;

It moste been a rethor excellent,

That coude his colours longing for that art,

If he sholde hir discryven every part.

I am non swich, I moot speke as I can.

And so bifel that, whan this Cambinskan

Hath twenty winter born his diademe,

As he was wont fro yeer to yeer, I deme,

He leet the feste of his nativitee

Don cryen thurghout Sarray his citee,

The last Idus of March, after the yeer.

Phebus the sonne ful Iory was and cleer;

For he was neigh his exaltacioun

In Martes face, and in his mansioun

In Aries, the colerik hote signe.

Ful lusty was the weder and benigne,

For which the foules, agayn the sonne shene,

What for the seson and the yonge grene,

Ful loude songen hir affecciouns;

Him semed han geten hem protecciouns

Agayn the swerd of winter kene and cold.

This Cambinskan, of which I have yow told,

In royal vestiment sit on his deys,

With diademe, ful heighe in his paleys,

And halt his feste, so solempne and so riche

That in this world ne was ther noon it liche.

Of which if I shal tellen al tharray,

Than wolde it occupye a someres day;

And eek it nedeth nat for to devyse

At every cours the ordre of hir servyse.

I wol nat tellen of hir strange sewes,

Ne of hir swannes, ne of hir heronsewes.

Eek in that lond, as tellen knightes olde,

Ther is som mete that is ful deyntee holde,

That in this lond men recche of it but smal;

Ther nis no man that may reporten al.

I wol nat tarien yow, for it is pryme,

And for it is no fruit but los of tyme;

Un-to my firste I wol have my recours.

And so bifel that, after the thridde cours,

Whyl that this king sit thus in his nobleye,

Herkninge his minstralles hir thinges pleye

Biforn him at the bord deliciously,

In at the halle-dore al sodeynly

Ther cam a knight up-on a stede of bras,

And in his hand a brood mirour of glas.

Upon his thombe he hadde of gold a ring,

And by his syde a naked swerd hanging;

And up he rydeth to the heighe bord.

In al the halle ne was ther spoke a word

For merveille of this knight; him to biholde

Ful bisily ther wayten yonge and olde.

This strange knight, that cam thus sodeynly,

Al armed save his heed ful richely,

Saluëth king and queen, and lordes alle,

By ordre, as they seten in the halle,

With so heigh reverence and obeisaunce

As wel in speche as in contenaunce,

That Gawain, with his olde curteisye,

Though he were come ageyn out of Fairye,

Ne coude him nat amende with a word.

And after this, biforn the heighe bord,

He with a manly voys seith his message,

After the forme used in his langage,

With-outen vyce of sillable or of lettre;

And, for his tale sholde seme the bettre,

Accordant to his wordes was his chere,

As techeth art of speche hem that it lere;

Al-be-it that I can nat soune his style,

Ne can nat climben over so heigh a style,

Yet seye I this, as to commune entente,

Thus muche amounteth al that ever he mente,

If it so be that I have it in minde.

He seyde, ‘the king of Arabie and of Inde,

My lige lord, on this solempne day

Saluëth yow as he best can and may,

And sendeth yow, in honour of your feste,

By me, that am al redy at your heste,

This stede of bras, that esily and wel

Can, in the space of o day naturel,

This is to seyn, in foure and twenty houres,

Wher-so yow list, in droghte or elles shoures,

Beren your body in-to every place

To which your herte wilneth for to pace

With-outen wem of yow, thurgh foul or fair;

Or, if yow list to fleen as hye in the air

As doth an egle, whan him list to sore,

This same stede shal bere yow ever-more

With-outen harm, til ye be ther yow leste,

Though that ye slepen on his bak or reste;

And turne ayeyn, with wrything of a pin.

He that it wroghte coude ful many a gin;

He wayted many a constellacioun

Er he had doon this operacioun;

And knew ful many a seel and many a bond.

This mirour eek, that I have in myn hond,

Hath swich a might, that men may in it see

Whan ther shal fallen any adversitee

Un-to your regne or to your-self also;

And openly who is your freend or foo.

And over al this, if any lady bright

Hath set hir herte on any maner wight,

If he be fals, she shal his treson see,

His newe love and al his subtiltee

So openly, that ther shal no-thing hyde.

Wherfor, ageyn this lusty someres tyde,

This mirour and this ring, that ye may see,

He hath sent to my lady Canacee,

Your excellente doghter that is here.

The vertu of the ring, if ye wol here,

Is this; that, if hir lust it for to were

Up-on hir thombe, or in hir purs it bere,

Ther is no foul that fleeth under the hevene

That she ne shal wel understonde his stevene,

And knowe his mening openly and pleyn,

And answere him in his langage ageyn.

And every gras that groweth up-on rote

She shal eek knowe, and whom it wol do bote,

Al be his woundes never so depe and wyde.

This naked swerd, that hangeth by my syde,

Swich vertu hath, that what man so ye smyte,

Thurgh-out his armure it wol kerve and byte,

Were it as thikke as is a branched ook;

And what man that is wounded with the strook

Shal never be hool til that yow list, of grace,

To stroke him with the platte in thilke place

Ther he is hurt: this is as muche to seyn,

Ye mote with the platte swerd ageyn

Stroke him in the wounde, and it wol close;

This is a verray sooth, with-outen glose,

It failleth nat whyl it is in your hold.’

And whan this knight hath thus his tale told,

He rydeth out of halle, and doun he lighte.

His stede, which that shoon as sonne brighte,

Stant in the court, as stille as any stoon.

This knight is to his chambre lad anon,

And is unarmed and to mete y-set.

The presentes ben ful royally y-fet,

This is to seyn, the swerd and the mirour,

And born anon in-to the heighe tour

With certeine officers ordeyned therfore;

And un-to Canacee this ring was bore

Solempnely, ther she sit at the table.

But sikerly, with-outen any fable,

The hors of bras, that may nat be remewed,

It stant as it were to the ground y-glewed.

Ther may no man out of the place it dryve

For noon engyn of windas or polyve;

And cause why, for they can nat the craft.

And therefore in the place they han it laft

Til that the knight hath taught hem the manere

To voyden him, as ye shal after here.

Greet was the prees, that swarmeth to and fro,

To gauren on this hors that stondeth so;

For it so heigh was, and so brood and long,

So wel proporcioned for to ben strong,

Right as it were a stede of Lumbardye;

Ther-with so horsly, and so quik of yë

As it a gentil Poileys courser were.

For certes, fro his tayl un-to his ere,

Nature ne art ne coude him nat amende

In no degree, as al the peple wende.

But evermore hir moste wonder was,

How that it coude goon, and was of bras;

It was of Fairye, as the peple semed.

Diverse folk diversely they demed;

As many hedes, as many wittes ther been.

They murmureden as dooth a swarm of been,

And maden skiles after hir fantasyes,

Rehersinge of thise olde poetryes,

And seyden, it was lyk the Pegasee,

The hors that hadde winges for to flee;

Or elles it was the Grekes hors Synon,

That broghte Troye to destruccion,

As men may in thise olde gestes rede,

‘Myn herte,’ quod oon, ‘is evermore in drede;

I trowe som men of armes been ther-inne,

That shapen hem this citee for to winne.

It were right good that al swich thing were knowe.’

Another rowned to his felawe lowe,

And seyde, ‘he lyeth, it is rather lyk

An apparence y-maad by som magyk,

As Iogelours pleyen at thise festes grete.’

Of sondry doutes thus they Iangle and trete,

As lewed peple demeth comunly

Of thinges that ben maad more subtilly

Than they can in her lewednes comprehende;

They demen gladly to the badder ende.

And somme of hem wondred on the mirour,

That born was up in-to the maister-tour,

How men mighte in it swiche thinges see.

Another answerde, and seyde it mighte wel be

Naturelly, by composiciouns

Of angles and of slye reflexiouns,

And seyden, that in Rome was swich oon.

They speken of Alocen and Vitulon,

And Aristotle, that writen in hir lyves

Of queynte mirours and of prospectyves,

As knowen they that han hir bokes herd.

And othere folk han wondred on the swerd

That wolde percen thurgh-out every-thing;

And fille in speche of Thelophus the king,

And of Achilles with his queynte spere,

For he coude with it bothe hele and dere,

Right in swich wyse as men may with the swerd

Of which right now ye han your-selven herd.

They speken of sondry harding of metal,

And speke of medicynes ther-with-al,

And how, and whanne, it sholde y-harded be;

Which is unknowe algates unto me.

Tho speke they of Canaceës ring,

And seyden alle, that swich a wonder thing

Of craft of ringes herde they never non,

Save that he, Moyses, and king Salomon

Hadde a name of konning in swich art.

Thus seyn the peple, and drawen hem apart.

But nathelees, somme seyden that it was

Wonder to maken of fern-asshen glas,

And yet nis glas nat lyk asshen of fern;

But for they han y-knowen it so fern,

Therfore cesseth her Iangling and her wonder.

As sore wondren somme on cause of thonder,

On ebbe, on flood, on gossomer, and on mist,

And alle thing, til that the cause is wist.

Thus Iangle they and demen and devyse,

Til that the king gan fro the bord aryse.

Phebus hath laft the angle meridional,

And yet ascending was the beest royal,

The gentil Leon, with his Aldiran,

Whan that this Tartre king, this Cambynskan,

Roos fro his bord, ther that he sat ful hye.

Toforn him gooth the loude minstralcye,

Til he cam to his chambre of parements,

Ther as they sownen diverse instruments,

That it is lyk an heven for to here.

Now dauncen lusty Venus children dere,

For in the Fish hir lady sat ful hye,

And loketh on hem with a freendly yë.