by Paul Keegan
Lucrece, which he naked fond:
Wherof sche swounede in his hond,
35
And, as who seith, lay ded oppressed.
And he, which al him hadde adresced
To lust, tok thanne what him liste,
And goth his wey, that non it wiste,
Into his oghne chambre ayein,
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And clepede up his chamberlein,
And made him redi forto ryde.
And thus this lecherouse pride
To horse lepte and forth he rod;
And sche, which in hire bed abod,
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Whan that sche wiste he was agon,
Sche clepede after liht anon
And up aros long er the day,
And caste awey hire freissh aray,
As sche which hath the world forsake,
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And tok upon the clothes blake:
And evere upon continuinge,
Right as men sen a welle springe,
With yhen fulle of wofull teres,
Hire her hangende aboute hire Eres,
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Sche wepte, and noman wiste why.
(1483)
THOMAS HOCCLEVE from The Complaint of Hoccleve 1430
Aftir that hervest inned had hise sheves
And that the broun sesoun of Mihelmesse
Was come, and gan the trees robbe of her leves
That grene had ben and in lusty freisshenesse,
5
And hem into colour of yelownesse
Had died and doun throwen undir foote-,
That chaunge sanke into myn herte roote,
For freisshly broughte it to my remembraunce
That stablenesse in this worlde is ther noon:
10
Ther is nothing but chaunge and variaunce.
Howe welthi a man be or wel-begoon,
Endure it shal not, he shal it forgoon.
Deeth undir foote shal him thriste adoun:
That is every wightes conclucioun,
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Whiche for to weyve is in no mannes myght,
Howe riche he be, stronge, lusty, freissh and gay.
And in the ende of Novembre uppon a night,
Sighynge sore as I in my bed lay,
For this and othir thoughtis wiche many a day
20
Byforne I tooke, sleep cam noon in myn ye,
So vexid me the thoughtful maladie.
I sy wel sithin I with siknesse last
Was scourgid, cloudy hath bene the favour
That shoon on me ful bright in times past.
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The sunne abated and the dirke shour
Hilded doun right on me and in langour
Me made swymme, so that my spirite
To lyve no lust had ne no delite.
(…)
Men seiden I loked as a wilde steer,
30
And so my looke aboute I gan to throwe.
Min heed to hie, anothir seide, I beer:
‘Ful bukkissh is his brayn, wel may I trowe.’
And seide the thridde – and apt is in the rowe
To site of hem that a resounles reed
35
Can yeve – ‘No sadnesse is in his heed.’
Chaunged had I my pas, somme seiden eke,
For here and there forthe stirte I as a roo,
Noon abood, noon areest, but al brain-seke.
Another spake and of me seide also,
40
My feet weren ay wavynge to and fro
Whanne that I stonde shulde and with men talke,
And that myn yen soughten every halke.
I leide an eere ay to as I by wente
And herde al, and thus in myn herte I caste:
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‘Of longe abidinge here I may me repente;
Lest that of hastinesse I at the laste
Answere amys, beste is hens hie faste,
For if I in this prees amys me gye,
To harme wole it me turne and to folie.’
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And this I demed wel and knewe wel eke:
What-so that evere I shulde answere or seie
They wolden not han holde it worth a leke.
Forwhy, as I had lost my tunges keie,
Kepte I me cloos and trussid me my weie
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Droupinge and hevy and al woo-bistaad.
Smal cause hadde I, me thoughte, to be glad.
My spirites labouriden evere ful bisily
To peinte countenaunce, chere and look,
For that men spake of me so wondringly,
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And for the verry shame and feer I qwook.
Though myn herte hadde be dippid in the brook
It weet and moist was ynow of my swoot,
Wiche was nowe frosty colde, nowe firy hoot.
And in my chaumbre at home whanne that I was
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Mysilfe aloone, I in this wise wrought:
I streite unto my mirrour and my glas
To loke howe that me of my chere thought,
If any othir were it than it ought,
For fain wolde I, if it had not bene right,
70
Amendid it to my kunnynge and myght.
Many a saute made I to this mirrour,
Thinking, ‘If that I looke in this manere
Amonge folke as I nowe do, noon errour
Of suspecte look may in my face appere.
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This countinaunce, I am sure, and this chere,
If I it forthe use, is nothing reprevable
To hem that han conceitis resonable.’
And therwithal I thoughte thus anoon:
‘Men in her owne cas bene blinde alday,
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As I have herde seie manie a day agoon,
And in that same plite I stonde may.
Howe shal I do? Wiche is the beste way
My troublid spirit for to bringe in rest?
If I wiste howe, fain wolde I do the best.’
85
Sithen I recovered was, have I ful ofte
Cause had of anger and impacience,
Where I borne have it esily and softe,
Suffringe wronge be done to me and offence
And not answerid ayen but kepte scilence,
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Leste that men of me deme wolde and sein,
‘Se howe this man is fallen in ayein.’
As that I oones fro Westminstir cam,
Vexid ful grevously with thoughtful hete,
Thus thoughte I: ‘A greet fool I am
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This pavyment a-daies thus to bete
And in and oute laboure faste and swete,
Wondringe and hevinesse to purchace,
Sithen I stonde out of al favour and grace.’
And thane thoughte I on that othir side:
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‘If that I not be sen amonge the prees,
Men deme wole that I myn heed hide
And am werse than I am, it is no lees.’
O Lorde, so my spirit was restelees!
I soughte reste and I not it fonde,
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But ay was trouble redy at myn honde.
(1892)
1440CHARLES OF ORLEANS [Ballade]
In the forest of Noyous Hevynes
As I went wandryng in the moneth of May,
I mette of Love the myghti gret goddes,
Which axid me whithir I was away.
5
I hir answerid, ‘As Fortune doth convey
As oon exylid from joy, al be me loth,
That passyng well all folke me clepyn may
The man forlost that wot not where he goth.’
Half in a smyle, ayen of hir humblesse
10
She seide, ‘My frend, if so I wist, ma fay,
Wherfore that thou art brought in such distresse,
To shape thyn ese I wolde mysi
lf assay,
For here-tofore I sett thyn hert in way
Of gret plesere – I not who made thee wroth.
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Hit grevith me thee see in suche aray,
The man forlost that wot not where he goth.’
‘Allas!’ I seide, ‘most sovereyne good princesse,
Ye knowe my case: what nedith to yow say?
Hit is thorugh Deth, that shewith to all rudesse,
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Hath fro me tane that I most lovyd ay,
In whom that all myn hope and comfort lay.
So passyng frendship was bitwene us both
That I was not, to fals Deth did hir day,
The man forlost that wot not where he goth.
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‘Thus am I blynd, allas and welaway!
Al fer myswent, with my staf grapsyng wey,
That nothyng axe but me a grave to cloth;
For pite is that I lyve thus a day,
The man forlost that wot not where he goth.’
CHARLES OF ORLEANS [Roundel]
Take, take this cosse, atonys, atonys, my hert!
That thee presentid is of thi maystres –
The goodly fayre so full of lustynes –
Only of grace to lessen with thi smert.
5
But to myn honoure loke thou well avert
That Daunger not parseyve my sotilnes.
Take, take this cosse, atonys, atonys, my hert!
That thee presentid is of thi maystres.
Daunger wacchith al nyght in his shert
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To spye me, in a gery currisshenes;
So to have doon attones let se thee dresse
While in a slepe his eyen ben covert.
Take, take this cosse, atonys, atonys, my hert!
That thee presentid is of thi maystres.
CHARLES OF ORLEANS [Roundel]
Go forth myn hert wyth my lady,
Loke that ye spar no besynes
To serve hyr wyth seche lowlynes
That ye get hyr grace and mercy.
5
Pray hyr oftymes pryvely
That sche quippe trewly hyr promes.
Go forth myn hert wyth my lady
Loke that ye spar no besynes.
I most as a hertles body
10
Abyde alone in hevynes
And ye schal dowel wyth your maistres
In plesans glad and mery.
Go forth myn hert wyth my lady
Loke that ye spar no besynes.
(1827)
1450 [Sloane Lyrics]
ANONYMOUS
Adam lay y-bownden bownden in a bond,
Fower thousand wynter thought he not to long,
And al was for an appil an appil that he took,
As clerkës fynden writen in herë book.
5
Ne hadde the appil takë ben the appil takë ben,
Ne haddë never our lady have ben hevenë quen.
Blessed be the tymë that appil take was,
Therefore we mown singen ‘Deo gratias!’
ANONYMOUS
I syng of a mayden that is makëles,
King of allë kingës to here sone she ches.
He cam also styllë ther his moder was,
As dew in Aprylle that fallëth on the gras.
5
He cam also styllë to his moderës bowr
As dew in Aprille that fallëth on the flour.
He cam also stillë ther his moder lay,
As dew in Aprille that fallëth on the spray.
Moder and mayden was never non but she –
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Wel may swych a lady Godës moder be!
(1856)
ANONYMOUS
The merthe of alle this londe
Maketh the gode husbonde
With erynge of his plowe;
Iblessyd be Cristes sonde
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That hath us sent in honde
Merthe and j oye ynowe.
The plowe goth mony a gate
Both erly and eke late
In wynter in the clay
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Aboute barly and whete,
That maketh men to swete,
God spede the plowe al day!
Browne, Morel and Gore
Drawen the plowe ful sore
15
Al in the morwenynge;
Rewarde hem therfore
With a shefe or more
Al in the evenynge.
Whan men bygynne to sowe
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Ful wel here corne they knowe
In the monnthe of May.
Howe ever Janyver blowe,
Whether hye or lowe,
God spede the plowe allway!
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Whan men bygynneth to wede
The thystle fro the sede,
In somer whan they may,
God lete hem wel to spede;
And longe gode lyfe to lede
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All that for plowemen pray.
ANONYMOUS [Christ Triumphant]
I have laborede sore and suffered deyyth,
And now I rest and draw my breyth;
But I schall come and call ryght sone
Hevene and erth and hell to dome;
And thane schall know both devyll and mane,
What I was and what I ame.
(1939)
ANONYMOUS [Holly against Ivy]
Nay, Ivy, nay, hyt shal not be, iwys;
Let Holy hafe the maystry, as the maner ys.
Holy stond in the hall, fayre to behold;
Ivy stond without the dore; she ys ful sore a-cold.
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Holy and hys mery men, they dawnsyn and they syng;
Ivy and hur maydenys, they wepyn and they wryng.
Ivy hath a kybe; she kaght yt with the colde;
So mot they all haf ae that with Ivy hold.
Holy hat berys as rede as any rose;
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The foster, the hunters kepe hem fro the doos.
Ivy hath berys as blake as any slo;
Ther com the oule and ete hym as she goo.
Holy hath byrdys, a ful fayre flok,
The nyghtyngale, the poppynguy, the gayntyl lavyrok.
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Gode Ivy, what byrdys ast thou?
Non but the howlat, that kreye, ‘How, how!’
ANONYMOUS
