This noble king is set up in his trone.

This strange knight is fet to him ful sone,

And on the daunce he gooth with Canacee.

Heer is the revel and the Iolitee

That is nat able a dul man to devyse.

He moste han knowen love and his servyse,

And been a festlich man as fresh as May,

That sholde yow devysen swich array.

Who coude telle yow the forme of daunces,

So uncouthe and so fresshe contenaunces,

Swich subtil loking and dissimulinges

For drede of Ialouse mennes aperceyvinges?

No man but Launcelot, and he is deed.

Therefor I passe of al this lustiheed;

I seye na-more, but in this Iolynesse

I lete hem, til men to the soper dresse.

The styward bit the spyces for to hye,

And eek the wyn, in al this melodye.

The usshers and the squyers ben y-goon;

The spyces and the wyn is come anoon.

They ete and drinke; and whan this hadde an ende,

Un-to the temple, as reson was, they wende.

The service doon, they soupen al by day.

What nedeth yow rehercen hir array?

Ech man wot wel, that at a kinges feeste

Hath plentee, to the moste and to the leeste,

And deyntees mo than been in my knowing.

At-after soper gooth this noble king

To seen this hors of bras, with al the route

Of lordes and of ladyes him aboute.

Swich wondring was ther on this hors of bras

That, sin the grete sege of Troye was,

Ther-as men wondreden on an hors also,

Ne was ther swich a wondring as was tho.

But fynally the king axeth this knight

The vertu of this courser and the might,

And preyede him to telle his governaunce.

This hors anoon bigan to trippe and daunce,

Whan that this knight leyde hand up-on his reyne,

And seyde, ‘sir, ther is na-more to seyne,

But, whan yow list to ryden any-where,

Ye moten trille a pin, stant in his ere,

Which I shall telle yow bitwix vs two.

Ye mote nempne him to what place also

Or to what contree that yow list to ryde.

And whan ye come ther as yow list abyde,

Bidde him descende, and trille another pin,

For ther-in lyth the effect of al the gin,

And he wol doun descende and doon your wille;

And in that place he wol abyde stille,

Though al the world the contrarie hadde y-swore;

He shal nat thennes ben y-drawe ne y-bore.

Or, if yow liste bidde him thennes goon,

Trille this pin, and he wol vanishe anoon

Out of the sighte of every maner wight,

And come agayn, be it by day or night,

When that yow list to clepen him ageyn

In swich a gyse as I shal to yow seyn

Bitwixe yow and me, and that ful sone.

Ryde whan yow list, ther is na-more to done.’

Enformed whan the king was of that knight,

And hath conceyved in his wit aright

The maner and the forme of al this thing,

Thus glad and blythe, this noble doughty king

Repeireth to his revel as biforn.

The brydel is un-to the tour y-born,

And kept among his Iewels leve and dere.

The hors vanisshed, I noot in what manere,

Out of hir sighte; ye gete na-more of me.

But thus I lete in lust and Iolitee

This Cambynskan his lordes festeyinge,

Til wel ny the day bigan to springe.

Explicit prima pars. Sequitur pars secunda.

The norice of digestioun, the slepe,

Gan on hem winke, and bad hem taken kepe,

That muchel drink and labour wolde han reste;

And with a galping mouth hem alle he keste,

And seyde, ‘it was tyme to lye adoun,

For blood was in his dominacioun;

Cherissheth blood, natures freend,’ quod he.

They thanken him galpinge, by two, by three,

And every wight gan drawe him to his reste,

As slepe hem bad; they toke it for the beste.

Hir dremes shul nat been y-told for me;

Ful were hir hedes of fumositee,

That causeth dreem, of which ther nis no charge.

They slepen til that it was pryme large,

The moste part, but it were Canacee;

She was ful mesurable, as wommen be.

For of hir fader hadde she take leve

To gon to reste, sone after it was eve;

Hir liste nat appalled for to be,

Nor on the morwe unfestlich for to see;

And slepte hir firste sleep, and thanne awook.

For swich a Ioye she in hir herte took

Both of hir queynte ring and hir mirour,

That twenty tyme she changed hir colour;

And in hir slepe, right for impressioun

Of hir mirour, she hadde a visioun.

Wherfore, er that the sonne gan up glyde,

She cleped on hir maistresse hir bisyde,

And seyde, that hir liste for to ryse.

Thise olde wommen that been gladly wyse,

As is hir maistresse, answerde hir anoon,

And seyde, ‘madame, whider wil ye goon

Thus erly? for the folk ben alle on reste.’

‘I wol,’ quod she, ‘aryse, for me leste

No lenger for to slepe, and walke aboute.’

Hir maistresse clepeth wommen a gret route,

And up they rysen, wel a ten or twelve;

Up ryseth fresshe Canacee hir-selve,

As rody and bright as dooth the yonge sonne,

That in the Ram is four degrees up-ronne;

Noon hyer was he, whan she redy was;

And forth she walketh esily a pas,

Arrayed after the lusty seson sote

Lightly, for to pleye and walke on fote;

Nat but with fyve or six of hir meynee;

And in a trench, forth in the park, goth she.

The vapour, which that fro the erthe glood,

Made the sonne to seme rody and brood;

But nathelees, it was so fair a sighte

That it made alle hir hertes for to lighte,

What for the seson and the morweninge,

And for the foules that she herde singe;

For right anon she wiste what they mente

Right by hir song, and knew al hir entente.

The knotte, why that every tale is told,

If it be taried til that lust be cold

Of hem that han it after herkned yore,

The savour passeth ever lenger the more,

For fulsomnesse of his prolixitee.

And by the same reson thinketh me,

I sholde to the knotte condescende,

And maken of hir walking sone an ende.

Amidde a tree fordrye, as whyt as chalk,

As Canacee was pleying in hir walk,

Ther sat a faucon over hir heed ful hye,

That with a pitous voys so gan to crye

That all the wode resouned of hir cry.

Y-beten hath she hir-self so pitously

With bothe hir winges, til the rede blood

Ran endelong the tree ther-as she stood.

And ever in oon she cryde alwey and shrighte,

And with hir beek hir-selven so she prighte,

That ther nis tygre, ne noon so cruel beste,

That dwelleth either in wode or in foreste

That nolde han wept, if that he wepe coude,

For sorwe of hir, she shrighte alwey so loude.

For ther nas never yet no man on lyve—

If that I coude a faucon wel discryve—

That herde of swich another of fairnesse,

As wel of plumage as of gentillesse

Of shap, and al that mighte y-rekened be.

A faucon peregryn than semed she

Of fremde land; and evermore, as she stood,

She swowneth now and now for lakke of blood,

Til wel neigh is she fallen fro the tree.

This faire kinges doghter, Canacee,

That on hir finger bar the queynte ring,

Thurgh which she understood wel every thing

That any foul may in his ledene seyn,

And coude answere him in his ledene ageyn,

Hath understonde what this faucon seyde,

And wel neigh for the rewthe almost she deyde.

And to the tree she gooth ful hastily,

And on this faucon loketh pitously,

And heeld hir lappe abrood, for wel she wiste

The faucon moste fallen fro the twiste,

When that it swowned next, for lakke of blood.

A longe while to wayten hir she stood

Till atte laste she spak in this manere

Un-to the hauk, as ye shul after here.

‘What is the cause, if it be for to telle,

That ye be in this furial pyne of helle?’

Quod Canacee un-to this hauk above.

‘Is this for sorwe of deeth or los of love?

For, as I trowe, thise ben causes two

That causen moost a gentil herte wo;

Of other harm it nedeth nat to speke.

For ye your-self upon your-self yow wreke,

Which proveth wel, that either love or drede

Mot been encheson of your cruel dede,

Sin that I see non other wight yow chace.

For love of god, as dooth your-selven grace

Or what may ben your help; for west nor eest

Ne sey I never er now no brid ne beest

That ferde with him-self so pitously.

Ye sle me with your sorwe, verraily;

I have of yow so gret compassioun.

For goddes love, com fro the tree adoun;

And, as I am a kinges doghter trewe,

If that I verraily the cause knewe

Of your disese, if it lay in my might,

I wolde amende it, er that it were night,

As wisly helpe me gret god of kinde!

And herbes shal I right y-nowe y-finde

To hele with your hurtes hastily.’

Tho shrighte this faucon more pitously

Than ever she dide, and fil to grounde anoon,

And lyth aswowne, deed, and lyk a stoon,

Til Canacee hath in hir lappe hir take

Un-to the tyme she gan of swough awake.

And, after that she of hir swough gan breyde,

Right in hir haukes ledene thus she seyde:—

‘That pitee renneth sone in gentil herte,

Feling his similitude in peynes smerte,

Is preved al-day, as men may it see,

As wel by werk as by auctoritee;

For gentil herte kytheth gentillesse.

I see wel, that ye han of my distresse

Compassioun, my faire Canacee,

Of verray wommanly benignitee

That nature in your principles hath set.

But for non hope for to fare the bet,

But for to obeye un-to your herte free,

And for to maken other be war by me,

As by the whelp chasted is the leoun,

Right for that cause and that conclusioun,

Whyl that I have a leyser and a space,

Myn harm I wol confessen, er I pace.’

And ever, whyl that oon hir sorwe tolde,

That other weep, as she to water wolde,

Til that the faucon bad hir to be stille;

And, with a syk, right thus she seyde hir wille.

‘Ther I was bred (allas! that harde day!)

And fostred in a roche of marbul gray

So tendrely, that nothing eyled me,

I niste nat what was adversitee,

Til I coude flee ful hye under the sky.

Tho dwelte a tercelet me faste by,

That semed welle of alle gentillesse;

Al were he ful of treson and falsnesse,

It was so wrapped under humble chere,

And under hewe of trouthe in swich manere,

Under plesance, and under bisy peyne,

That no wight coude han wend he coude feyne,

So depe in greyn he dyed his coloures.

Right as a serpent hit him under floures

Til he may seen his tyme for to byte,

Right so this god of love, this ypocryte,

Doth so his cerimonies and obeisaunces,

And kepeth in semblant alle his observances

That sowneth in-to gentillesse of love.

As in a toumbe is al the faire above,

And under is the corps, swich as ye woot,

Swich was this ypocryte, bothe cold and hoot,

And in this wyse he served his entente,

That (save the feend) non wiste what he mente.

Til he so longe had wopen and compleyned,

And many a yeer his service to me feyned,

Til that myn herte, to pitous and to nyce,

Al innocent of his crouned malice,

For-fered of his deeth, as thoughte me,

Upon his othes and his seuretee,

Graunted him love, on this condicioun,

That evermore myn honour and renoun

Were saved, bothe privee and apert;

This is to seyn, that, after his desert,

I yaf him al myn herte and al my thoght—

God woot and he, that otherwyse noght—

And took his herte in chaunge for myn for ay.

But sooth is seyd, gon sithen many a day,

“A trew wight and a theef thenken nat oon.”

And, whan he saugh the thing so fer y-goon,

That I had graunted him fully my love,

In swich a gyse as I have seyd above,

And yeven him my trewe herte, as free

As he swoor he his herte yaf to me;

Anon this tygre, ful of doublenesse,

Fil on his knees with so devout humblesse,

With so heigh reverence, and, as by his chere,

So lyk a gentil lovere of manere,

So ravisshed, as it semed, for the Ioye,

That never Iason, ne Parys of Troye,

Iason? certes, ne non other man,

Sin Lameth was, that alderfirst bigan

To loven two, as writen folk biforn,

Ne never, sin the firste man was born,

Ne coude man, by twenty thousand part,

Countrefete the sophimes of his art;

Ne were worthy unbokele his galoche,

Ther doublenesse or feyning sholde approche,

Ne so coude thanke a wight as he did me!

His maner was an heven for to see

Til any womman, were she never so wys;

So peynted he and kembde at point-devys

As wel his wordes as his contenaunce.

And I so lovede him for his obeisaunce,

And for the trouthe I demed in his herte,

That, if so were that any thing him smerte,

Al were it never so lyte, and I it wiste,

Me thoughte, I felte deeth myn herte twiste.

And shortly, so ferforth this thing is went,

That my wil was his willes instrument;

This is to seyn, my wil obeyed his wil

In alle thing, as fer as reson fil,

Keping the boundes of my worship ever.

Ne never hadde I thing so leef, ne lever,

As him, god woot! ne never shal na-mo.

This lasteth lenger than a yeer or two,

That I supposed of him noght but good.

But fynally, thus atte laste it stood,

That fortune wolde that he moste twinne

Out of that place which that I was inne.

Wher me was wo, that is no questioun;

I can nat make of it discripcioun;

For o thing dar I tellen boldely,

I knowe what is the peyne of deth ther-by;

Swich harm I felte for he ne mighte bileve.

So on a day of me he took his leve,

So sorwefully eek, that I wende verraily

That he had felt as muche harm as I,

Whan that I herde him speke, and saugh his hewe.

But nathelees, I thoughte he was so trewe,

And eek that he repaire sholde ageyn

With-inne a litel whyle, sooth to seyn;

And reson wolde eek that he moste go

For his honour, as ofte it happeth so,

That I made vertu of necessitee,

And took it wel, sin that it moste be.

As I best mighte, I hidde fro him my sorwe,

And took him by the hond, seint Iohn to borwe,

And seyde him thus: “lo, I am youres al;

Beth swich as I to yow have been, and shal.”

What he answerde, it nedeth noght reherce,

Who can sey bet than he, who can do werse?

Whan he hath al wel seyd, thanne hath he doon.

“Therfor bihoveth him a ful long spoon

That shal ete with a feend,” thus herde I seye.

So atte laste he moste forth his weye,

And forth he fleeth, til he cam ther him leste.

Whan it cam him to purpos for to reste,

I trowe he hadde thilke text in minde,

That “alle thing, repairing to his kinde,

Gladeth him-self”; thus seyn men, as I gesse;

Men loven of propre kinde newfangelnesse,

As briddes doon that men in cages fede.

For though thou night and day take of hem hede,

And strawe hir cage faire and softe as silk,

And yeve hem sugre, hony, breed and milk,

Yet right anon, as that his dore is uppe,

He with his feet wol spurne adoun his cuppe,

And to the wode he wol and wormes ete;

So newefangel been they of hir mete,

And loven novelryes of propre kinde;

No gentillesse of blood [ne] may hem binde.

So ferde this tercelet, allas the day!

Though he were gentil born, and fresh and gay,

And goodly for to seen, and humble and free,

He saugh up-on a tyme a kyte flee,

And sodeynly he loved this kyte so,

That al his love is clene fro me ago,

And hath his trouthe falsed in this wyse;

Thus hath the kyte my love in hir servyse,

And I am lorn with-outen remedye!’

And with that word this faucon gan to crye,

And swowned eft in Canaceës barme.

Greet was the sorwe, for the haukes harme,

That Canacee and alle hir wommen made;

They niste how they mighte the faucon glade.

But Canacee hom bereth hir in hir lappe,

And softely in plastres gan hir wrappe,

Ther as she with hir beek had hurt hir-selve.

Now can nat Canacee but herbes delve

Out of the grounde, and make salves newe

Of herbes precious, and fyne of hewe,

To helen with this hauk; fro day to night

She dooth hir bisinesse and al hir might.

And by hir beddes heed she made a mewe,

And covered it with veluëttes blewe,

In signe of trouthe that is in wommen sene.

And al with-oute, the mewe is peynted grene,

In which were peynted alle thise false foules,

As beth thise tidifs, tercelets, and oules,

Right for despyt were peynted hem bisyde,

And pyes, on hem for to crye and chyde.

Thus lete I Canacee hir hauk keping;

I wol na-more as now speke of hir ring,

Til it come eft to purpos for to seyn

How that this faucon gat hir love ageyn

Repentant, as the storie telleth us,

By mediacioun of Cambalus,

The kinges sone, of whiche I yow tolde.

But hennes-forth I wol my proces holde

To speke of aventures and of batailles,

That never yet was herd so grete mervailles.

First wol I telle yow of Cambynskan,

That in his tyme many a citee wan;

And after wol I speke of Algarsyf,

How that he wan Theodora to his wyf,

For whom ful ofte in greet peril he was,

Ne hadde he ben holpen by the stede of bras;

And after wol I speke of Cambalo,

That faught in listes with the bretheren two

For Canacee, er that he mighte hir winne.

And ther I lefte I wol ageyn biginne.

Explicit secunda pars. Incipit pars tercia.

Appollo whirleth up his char so hye,

Til that the god Mercurius hous the slye—

      .       .       .       .       .       .

Here folwen the wordes of the Frankelin to the Squier,
and the wordes of the Host to the Frankelin.

‘In feith, Squier, thou hast thee wel y-quit,

And gentilly I preise wel thy wit,’

Quod the Frankeleyn, ‘considering thy youthe,

So feelingly thou spekest, sir, I allow the!

As to my doom, there is non that is here

Of eloquence that shal be thy pere,

If that thou live; god yeve thee good chaunce,

And in vertu sende thee continuaunce!

For of thy speche I have greet deyntee.

I have a sone, and, by the Trinitee,

I hadde lever than twenty pound worth lond,

Though it right now were fallen in myn hond,

He were a man of swich discrecioun

As that ye been! fy on possessioun

But-if a man be vertuous with-al.

I have my sone snibbed, and yet shal,

For he to vertu listeth nat entende;

But for to pleye at dees, and to despende,

And lese al that he hath, is his usage.

And he hath lever talken with a page

Than to comune with any gentil wight

Ther he mighte lerne gentillesse aright.’—

‘Straw for your gentillesse,’ quod our host;

‘What, frankeleyn? pardee, sir, wel thou wost

That eche of yow mot tellen atte leste

A tale or two, or breken his biheste.’

‘That knowe I wel, sir,’ quod the frankeleyn;

‘I prey yow, haveth me nat in desdeyn

Though to this man I speke a word or two.’

‘Telle on thy tale with-outen wordes mo.’

‘Gladly, sir host,’ quod he, ‘I wol obeye

Un-to your wil; now herkneth what I seye.

I wol yow nat contrarien in no wyse

As fer as that my wittes wol suffyse;

I prey to god that it may plesen yow,

Than woot I wel that it is good y-now.’

[The Frankleyn’s Prologue follows immediately; see p. 482.]

The Prologe of the Frankeleyns Tale.

[This Prologue follows immediately after the Words on p. 481.]

Thise olde gentil Britons in hir dayes

Of diverse aventures maden layes,

Rymeyed in hir firste Briton tonge;

Which layes with hir instruments they songe,

Or elles redden hem for hir plesaunce;

And oon of hem have I in remembraunce,

Which I shal seyn with good wil as I can.

But, sires, by-cause I am a burel man,

At my biginning first I yow biseche

Have me excused of my rude speche;

I lerned never rethoryk certeyn;

Thing that I speke, it moot be bare and pleyn.

I sleep never on the mount of Pernaso,

Ne lerned Marcus Tullius Cithero.

Colours ne knowe I none, with-outen drede,

But swiche colours as growen in the mede,

Or elles swiche as men dye or peynte.

Colours of rethoryk ben me to queynte;

My spirit feleth noght of swich matere.

But if yow list, my tale shul ye here.

Here biginneth the Frankeleyns Tale.

In Armorik, that called is Britayne,

Ther was a knight that loved and dide his payne

To serve a lady in his beste wyse;

And many a labour, many a greet empryse

He for his lady wroghte, er she were wonne.

For she was oon, the faireste under sonne,

And eek therto come of so heigh kinrede,

That wel unnethes dorste this knight, for drede,

Telle hir his wo, his peyne, and his distresse.

But atte laste, she, for his worthinesse,

And namely for his meke obeysaunce,

Hath swich a pitee caught of his penaunce,

That prively she fil of his accord

To take him for hir housbonde and hir lord,

Of swich lordshipe as men han over hir wyves;

And for to lede the more in blisse hir lyves,

Of his free wil he swoor hir as a knight,

That never in al his lyf he, day ne night,

Ne sholde up-on him take no maistrye

Agayn hir wil, ne kythe hir Ialousye,

But hir obeye, and folwe hir wil in al

As any lovere to his lady shal;

Save that the name of soveraynetee,

That wolde he have for shame of his degree.

She thanked him, and with ful greet humblesse

She seyde, ‘sire, sith of your gentillesse

Ye profre me to have so large a reyne,

Ne wolde never god bitwixe us tweyne,

As in my gilt, were outher werre or stryf.

Sir, I wol be your humble trewe wyf,

Have heer my trouthe, til that myn herte breste.’

Thus been they bothe in quiete and in reste.

For o thing, sires, saufly dar I seye,

That frendes everich other moot obeye,

If they wol longe holden companye.

Love wol nat ben constreyned by maistrye;

Whan maistrie comth, the god of love anon

Beteth hise winges, and farewel! he is gon!

Love is a thing as any spirit free;

Wommen of kinde desiren libertee,

And nat to ben constreyned as a thral;

And so don men, if I soth seyen shal.

Loke who that is most pacient in love,

He is at his avantage al above.

Pacience is an heigh vertu certeyn;

For it venquisseth, as thise clerkes seyn,

Thinges that rigour sholde never atteyne.

For every word men may nat chyde or pleyne.

Lerneth to suffre, or elles, so moot I goon,

Ye shul it lerne, wher-so ye wole or noon.

For in this world, certein, ther no wight is,

That he ne dooth or seith som-tyme amis.

Ire, siknesse, or constellacioun,

Wyn, wo, or chaunginge of complexioun

Causeth ful ofte to doon amis or speken.

On every wrong a man may nat be wreken;

After the tyme, moste be temperaunce

To every wight that can on governaunce.

And therfore hath this wyse worthy knight,

To live in ese, suffrance hir bihight,

And she to him ful wisly gan to swere

That never sholde ther be defaute in here.

Heer may men seen an humble wys accord;

Thus hath she take hir servant and hir lord,

Servant in love, and lord in mariage;

Than was he bothe in lordship and servage;

Servage? nay, but in lordshipe above,

Sith he hath bothe his lady and his love;

His lady, certes, and his wyf also,

The which that lawe of love acordeth to.

And whan he was in this prosperitee,

Hoom with his wyf he gooth to his contree,

Nat fer fro Penmark, ther his dwelling was,

Wher-as he liveth in blisse and in solas.

Who coude telle, but he had wedded be,

The Ioye, the ese, and the prosperitee

That is bitwixe an housbonde and his wyf?

A yeer and more lasted this blisful lyf,

Til that the knight of which I speke of thus,

That of Kayrrud was cleped Arveragus,

Shoop him to goon, and dwelle a yeer or tweyne

In Engelond, that cleped was eek Briteyne,

To seke in armes worship and honour;

For al his lust he sette in swich labour;

And dwelled ther two yeer, the book seith thus.

Now wol I stinte of this Arveragus,

And speken I wole of Dorigene his wyf,

That loveth hir housbonde as hir hertes lyf.

For his absence wepeth she and syketh,

As doon thise noble wyves whan hem lyketh.

She moorneth, waketh, wayleth, fasteth, pleyneth;

Desyr of his presence hir so distreyneth,

That al this wyde world she sette at noght.

Hir frendes, whiche that knewe hir hevy thoght,

Conforten hir in al that ever they may;

They prechen hir, they telle hir night and day,

That causelees she sleeth hir-self, allas!

And every confort possible in this cas

They doon to hir with al hir bisinesse,

Al for to make hir leve hir hevinesse.

By proces, as ye knowen everichoon,

Men may so longe graven in a stoon,

Til som figure ther-inne emprented be.

So longe han they conforted hir, til she

Receyved hath, by hope and by resoun,

The emprenting of hir consolacioun,

Thurgh which hir grete sorwe gan aswage;

She may nat alwey duren in swich rage.

And eek Arveragus, in al this care,

Hath sent hir lettres hoom of his welfare,

And that he wol come hastily agayn;

Or elles hadde this sorwe hir herte slayn.

Hir freendes sawe hir sorwe gan to slake,

And preyede hir on knees, for goddes sake,

To come and romen hir in companye,

Awey to dryve hir derke fantasye.

And finally, she graunted that requeste;

For wel she saugh that it was for the beste.

Now stood hir castel faste by the see,

And often with hir freendes walketh she

Hir to disporte up-on the bank an heigh,

Wher-as she many a ship and barge seigh

Seilinge hir cours, wher-as hem liste go;

But than was that a parcel of hir wo.

For to hir-self ful ofte ‘allas!’ seith she,

‘Is ther no ship, of so manye as I see,

Wol bringen hom my lord? than were myn herte

Al warisshed of his bittre peynes smerte.’

Another tyme ther wolde she sitte and thinke,

And caste hir eyen dounward fro the brinke.

But whan she saugh the grisly rokkes blake,

For verray fere so wolde hir herte quake,

That on hir feet she mighte hir noght sustene.

Than wolde she sitte adoun upon the grene,

And pitously in-to the see biholde,

And seyn right thus, with sorweful sykes colde:

‘Eterne god, that thurgh thy purveyaunce

Ledest the world by certein governaunce,

In ydel, as men seyn, ye no-thing make;

But, lord, thise grisly feendly rokkes blake,

That semen rather a foul confusioun

Of werk than any fair creacioun

Of swich a parfit wys god and a stable,

Why han ye wroght this werk unresonable?

For by this werk, south, north, ne west, ne eest,

Ther nis y-fostred man, ne brid, ne beest;

It dooth no good, to my wit, but anoyeth.

See ye nat, lord, how mankinde it destroyeth?

An hundred thousand bodies of mankinde

Han rokkes slayn, al be they nat in minde,

Which mankinde is so fair part of thy werk

That thou it madest lyk to thyn owene merk.

Than semed it ye hadde a greet chiertee

Toward mankinde; but how than may it be

That ye swiche menes make it to destroyen,

Whiche menes do no good, but ever anoyen?

I wool wel clerkes wol seyn, as hem leste,

By arguments, that al is for the beste,

Though I ne can the causes nat y-knowe.

But thilke god, that made wind to blowe,

As kepe my lord! this my conclusioun;

To clerkes lete I al disputisoun.

But wolde god that alle thise rokkes blake

Were sonken in-to helle for his sake!

Thise rokkes sleen myn herte for the fere.’

Thus wolde she seyn, with many a pitous tere.

Hir freendes sawe that it was no disport

To romen by the see, but disconfort;

And shopen for to pleyen somwher elles.

They leden hir by riveres and by welles,

And eek in othere places delitables;

They dauncen, and they pleyen at ches and tables.

So on a day, right in the morwe-tyde,

Un-to a gardin that was ther bisyde,

In which that they had maad hir ordinaunce

Of vitaille and of other purveyaunce,

They goon and pleye hem al the longe day.

And this was on the sixte morwe of May,

Which May had peynted with his softe shoures

This gardin ful of leves and of floures;

And craft of mannes hand so curiously

Arrayed hadde this gardin, trewely,

That never was ther gardin of swich prys,

But-if it were the verray paradys.

The odour of floures and the fresshe sighte

Wolde han maad any herte for to lighte

That ever was born, but-if to gret siknesse,

Or to gret sorwe helde it in distresse;

So ful it was of beautee with plesaunce.

At-after diner gonne they to daunce,

And singe also, save Dorigen allone,

Which made alwey hir compleint and hir mone;

For she ne saugh him on the daunce go,

That was hir housbonde and hir love also.

But nathelees she moste a tyme abyde,

And with good hope lete hir sorwe slyde.