Of pyteous doloure for to buylde a nest
In my true hert, as thou dost ryght nowe!
Yet of all ladyes I must love the best;
Thy beaute therto dyd me sure arest.
Alas, wyth love, whan that it doth the please,
Thou mayest cease my care and my payne sone ease.
Alas! how sore maye I nowe bewayle
The pyteous chaunce whyche did me happe;
My ladyes lokes dyd me so assayle,
That sodaynly my herte was in a trap
By Venus caught, and wyth so sore a clap,
That through the greate stroke did perse:
Alas for wo I could not reverse!
Farewel all joye and al perfyte pleasure!
Fare wel my luste and my lykynge!
For wo is comen wyth me to endure;
Now must I lede my lyfe in mornynge;
I may not lute, or yet daunce or synge!
O! La Bel Pucel, my lady glorious;
You are the cause that I am so dolorous.
Alas! fayre lady, and myne owne swete herte,
Wyth my servyce I yelde me to your wyll,
You have me fettered; I may not asterte;
At your pleasure ye may me save or kyll;
Bicause I love you, wyl you me spyl?
Alas! it were a pyteous case in dede,
That you wyth deth should rewarde my mede.
A, a! that I am ryght wo bygone,
For I of love dare not to you speke,
For feare of nay, that may encrease my mone;
A nay of you myght cause my herte to breke.
Alas! I wretche and yet unhappy peke
Into suche trouble, misery, and thought:
With sight of you I am into it brought.
And to my selfe as I made complainte,
I espyed a man ryght nere me beforne,
Whyche right anone dyd wyth me acquaynt.
Me thynke, he sayde, that ye are nere forlorne,
Wyth inwarde payne that your heart hath borne.
Be not to pensyfe; call to mynde agayne
How of one sorowe ye do now make twayne.
Myne inwarde sorowe ye begyn to double;
Go your waye, quod I, for ye can not me ayde.
Tell me, he sayde, the cause of my trouble,
And of my wo be nothynge afrayde.
Me thynke that sorowe hath you overlayde:
Dryve of no lenger, but tell me your mynde,
It may me happe a remedy to fynde.
A, a! quod I, it vayleth not your speche,
I wyll wyth you never have medlynge.
Let me alone, the most unhappy wretche
Of all the wretches that is yet lyvynge.
Suche is the chaunce of my bewaylyng;
Go on your waye, you are nothyng the better
To me to speke to make the sorowe gretur.
Forsoth, he sayd, remembre thynges thre;
The fyrst is, that ye may sorowe longe
Unto your selfe or that ye ayeded be:
And secondly, in great paynes stronge,
To muse alone it myght turne you to wronge:
The thyrde is, it myght you wel ease truely
To tel your mynde to a frende ryght trusty.
It is a jewel of a frende of trust,
As at your nede to tell your secretenes
Of all your payne and fervent lust.
His counseyle soone may helpe and redres
Your payneful wo and mortall heavynes;
Alone is nought for to thynke and muse,
Therfore, good sonne, do me not refuse.
And syth that you are plunged all in thought,
Beware the pyt of dolorus dispayre;
So to complayne it vayleth you ryght nought.
It may so fortune ye love a lady fayre,
Whych to love you wyl nothyng repayre;
Or els ye have lost great londe or substaunce,
By fatall chaunge of fortunes ordinaunce.
Tell me the cause, though that it be so,
In cause you love I knowe it by experience,
It is a payne engendryng great wo,
And hard it is for to make resystence
Agaynst suche love of fervent vyolence.
The love is dredefull, but nevertheles
There is no sore nor yet no sykenes,
But there is a salve and remedy therfore;
So for your payne and your sorowe great
Councell is medicine, which may you restore
Unto your desyre wythout any let,
Yf ye wyll tell me where your herte is set.
In the chayre of sorowe no great doubt it is
To fynde a remedy for your payne, ywys.
A physycyen, truely, can lyttel descerne
Ony maner sekenes wythout syght of uryne;
No more can I by good councell you lerne
All suche wofull trouble for to determyne.
But yf you mekely wyl to me enclyne,
To tell the cause of your great hevynesse,
Of your inwarde trouble and woful sadnes.
Than I began with all my diligence
To here him speke so grounded on reason,
And in my minde did make advertence.
Howe it was holsome, in tribulation,
To save a good and a trewe companion;
For to know my sorow and woful grefe,
It myght me comforte and ryght wel relefe.
And of him, than, I asked this question:
What was his name I prayd him to tel?
Counseyl, quod he; the which solucion
In my woful mynde whiche I like ryght wel.
And pryvely I did his lesson spel,
Sayeng to him, my chance and desteny
Of al other is the moste unhappy.
Why so? quod he; though fortune be straunge,
To you a whyle turnyng of her face,
Her louring chere she may ryght sone chaunge,
And you excepte and cal unto her grace.
Dyspayre you not, for in good tyme and space
Nothynge there is but wysdom may it wynne,
To tell your mynde I praye you to begynne.
Unto you, quod I, wyth al my hole assent
I wyl tell you trouth, and you wyl not bewray
Unto none other my mater and entent.
Nay, nay, quod he, you shall not se that day;
Your hole affyaunce and trust ye well ye may
Into me put, for I shall not vary,
But kepe your counsell as a secretary.
And than to hym, in the maner folowynge,
I did complayne, wyth syghing teres depe:
Alas! quod I, you shall have knowledgyng
Of my hevy chaunce that causeth me to wepe;
So wo I am, that I can never slepe,
But walowe and tumble in the trappe of care;
My heart was caught or that I was ware.
It happened so that in a temple olde,
By the toure of Musyke at great solemnyte,
La Bell Pucell I dyd ryght well beholde,
Whose beaute clere and great humilite
To my heart dyd cast the darte of amyte;
After whyche stroke so harde and farvent,
To her excellence I came incontinent.
Beholdyng her chere and lovely countenaunce,
Her garmentes ryche and her propre stature,
I regestered well in my remembraunce
That I never sawe so fayre a creature,
So well favoured create by nature;
That harde it is for to wryte wyth yncke
All the beaute, or any hert to thynke.
Fayrer she was than was quene Elyne,
Proserpyne, Cresyde, or yet Ypolyte,
Medea, Dydo, or yonge Polexyne,
Alcumena, or quene Menelape;
Or yet dame Rosamunde; in certaynte,
None of all these can have the premynence.
Durynge the feest I stode her nere by,
But than hir beaute encreased my payne;
I coude nothyng resyst the contrary;
She wrapt my herte in a brennyng chayne.
To the musycall toure she went than agayne;
I wente after, I roude not behynde.
The chayne she haled whych my heart dyd bynde,
Tyl that we came into a chamber gaye,
Where that Musyke, wyth all her minstralsy,
Dyvers base daunces moost swetely dyd playe,
That them to here it was great melody;
And dame Musyke commaunded curteysly
La Bell Pucell wyth me than to daunce,
Whome that I toke wyth all my pleasaunce
By her swete honde, begynnyng the trace,
And longe dyd daunce tyl that I myght not hyde
The paynfull love whyche dyd my heart embrace;
Bycause wherof I toke my leve that tyde,
And to thys temple where I do abyde
Forthe than I went, alone to bewayle
My mortall sorowe wythout any fayle.
Now have I tolde you all the veray trouthe
Of my wofull chaunce and great unhappynesse.
I praye you nothyng wyth me to be wrothe,
Whyche am drouned in carefull wrethchednesse,
By fortune plunged ful of doublenes.
A, a! said Counseyle, doubte ye never a dele,
But your disease I shal by wysdome hele.
Remember yet, that never yet was he,
That in this worlde dyd lede all his lyfe
In joye and pleasure, wythout adversyte;
No worldely thyng can be wythout stryfe,
For unto pleasure payne is affyrmatyfe.
Who wyll have pleasure he must fyrst apply
To take the payne wyth hys cure besely.
To serve the joye whych after death ensue,
Rewardyng payne for the great businesse,
No doubte your lady wyl upon you rue,
Seing you apply all your gentylnes
To do her pleasure and servyce doubtles.
Harde is the heart that no love hath felt.
Nor for to love wyl than encline and melt.
Remember ye that in olde antiquyte
Howe worthy Troylus, that mighty champion,
What paine he suffered by great extremyte
Of fervent love, by a great longe ceason,
For his lady Cresyde, by great tribulacyon.
After his sorowe had not he great joye
Of hys lady, the fayrest of all Troye?
And the famous knyght yclepped Ponthus,
Whych loved Sydoyne so muche entyerly,
What payne had he and what care dolorus
For his lady wyth love so marvaylously,
Was not her heart wounded ryght wofully?
After hys payne his ladie dyd her cure,
To do him joye, honoure, and pleasure.
Who was wyth love more wofully arayed,
Than were these twayne, and many other mo?
The power of love hath them so asayde,
That, and I lyst, I coude now reherse also
To whom true love hath wrought mykel wo,
And at the ende have had their desyre,
Of al their sorow for to quenche the fyre.
Languysshe no more, but plucke up thyne herte,
Exyle dyspayre, and live a whyle in hope;
And kepe your love all close and coverte;
It may so fortune that your lady grope
Somwhat of love for to drynke a slope;
Though outwardly she dare not let you know,
But at the last, as I beleve and trowe,
She can not kepe it so prively and close,
But that somwhat to you it shal appere,
By countenaunce, how that her love arose.
If that she love you, the love is so dere,
Whan you come to her she wyl make you chere
With countenaunce, accordyng unto love,
Full pryvely for to come to her above.
Sendyng of love the messanger before,
Which is her eyes, with lovely lokes swete,
For to beholde you than ever more and more,
After the tyme that you together mete.
With lovyng wordes she wyl you than grete.
Sorow no more, for I thynke in my mynde
That at the last she wyl be good and kynd.
Alas! quod I, she is of hye degre,
Borne to great land, treasure, and substaunce:
I fere to sore I shal disdayned be,
The whych wyl trouble al my grevaunce.
Her beaute is the cause of my penaunce:
I have no great lande, treasure, nor ryches,
To wynne the favour of her noblenes.
What thoughe? quod he, draw you not abacke,
For she hath inough in her possession
For you both; for you shal never lacke
If that ye order it by good reason;
And so, in perfite consyderacyon,
She wyll wyth love her grene flouryng age
Passe forth in joye, pleasure, and courage.
Youth is alway of the course ryght lyght,
Hote, and moyste, and full of lustines,
Moost of the ayre it is ruled by ryght,
And her complexion hath chefe intres
Upon sanguyn, the ayres holsomnes.
She is not yet in al above xviii. yere;
Of tender age, to pleasure most dere.
Golde, or sylver, in any maner of wyse,
For sanguyne youth it is al contrary;
So for to coveyte for it, doth aryse
Onely engendred upon the melancoly,
Whych is drye, colde, and also erthely,
In which the golde is truely nutryfyde,
Ferre frome the ayre so clerely purifyed.
Thus covetyse shal nothyng surmount
Your yonge ladyes herte; but onely nature
Shal in her mynde make her to account
The great losse of youth, her specyal treasure.
She knoweth she is a ryght fayre creature,
No doubte it is but ye pryvely amonge,
So hye is nature wyth his werkes stronge.
That she of force the mannes company
Must well conveyte; for she may not resyste
Dame natures werke, which is so secretely.
Thoughe she be mayde, let her say what she lyst,
She wolde have man, though do man it wyst
To make her joye whan nature doth agre,
Her thought is hers, it is unto her fre.
Who spareth to speke he spareth to spede;
I shall provyde for you convenyent
A gentyl tyme for to attayne your mede,
That you shall go to your lady excellent;
And ryght before take good advysement
Of all the matter that ye wyl her shewe,
Upon good reason and in wordes fewe.
Thus past we tyme in communicacyon,
The after none wyth many a sentement,
And what for love was best conclusyon
We demed oft and gave judgement;
Tyll that in the even was refulgent
Fayre golden Mercury, wyth hys bemes bryght,
About the ayre castinge his pured lyght.
Then to a chambre swete and precyous,
Councell me ledde, for to take my reste.
The night was wete, and also tenebrous;
But I my selfe, with sorowe opprest,
Dyd often muse what was for me best
Unto my fayre lady for to tell or saye,
And all my drede was for fere of a naye.
Though that my bedde was easy and softe,
Yet dyd I tomble, I myght not lye styll;
On every syde I tourned me ful ofte,
Upon the love I had so set my wyll,
Longynge ryght sore my mynde to fulfyll,
I called Counseyle, and prayed hym to awake
To gyve me counseyle what were best to take.
Ha, ha! quod he, love doth you so prycke,
That yet your heart will nothynge be eased,
But evermore be feble and sycke,
Tyll that your lady hath it well appesed;
Thoughe ye thynke longe, yet ye shall be plesed.
I wolde, quod I, that it were as ye say.
Fye, fye, quod he, dryve suche dyspayre away,
And lyve in hope, whych shall do you good.
Joy cometh after, whan the payne is past.
Be ye pacyent and sobre in mode;
To wepe and wayle all is for you in wast:
Was never payne, but it had joye at last.
In the fayre morrow, ryse and make you redy,
At ix. at the clocke, the time is necessary
For us to walke unto your lady gent;
The bodyes above be than well domysyde
To helpe us forwarde without ympediment.
Loke what ye saye; loke it be deryfyde
Frome perfyt reason well exemplyfyde;
Forsake her not, thoughe that she say naye,
A womans guyse is evermore to delaye.
No castell can be of so great a strength,
If that there be a sure syege to it layde,
It must yelde up or els be wonne at length,
Though that tofore it hath bene longe delayde.
So continuance may you ryght wel ayde.
Some womans herte can not so harded be,
But besy labour may make it agre.
Labour and dylygence is full mervaylus,
Whych bryngeth a lover to his promocyon.
Nothyng to love, is more desyrous
Than instant labour and delectacyon:
The harded harte it geveth occasyon
For to consider how that her servaunt
To obtayne her love is so attendaunt.
Thus al in comonyng we the nyght did passe,
Tyll in the ayre wyth clowdes fayre and red
Rysyn was Phebus, shynyng in the glasse,
In the chamber his golden rayes were spred,
And Dyane derlyng pale as any leade,
Whan the lytle byrdes swetely dyd syng
With tunes musicall in the fayre mornyng.
CAP. XVIII.
OF THE DOLOROUS AND LOWLY DISPUTACION BETWENE LA BEL PUCELL AND
GRAUNDAMOURE.
Councell and I than rose ful quickely
And made us redy on her way to walke,
In our clenly wede apparayled properly.
What I wolde saye I dyd unto hym talke,
Tyl on his boke he began to calke
How the sonne entred was in Gemyne;
And eke Dyane, ful of mutabilite,
Entred the Crab, her propre mancyon,
Than ryght amyddes of the Dragons hed;
And Venus and she made conjuncyon.
Frome the combust way she had her so sped,
She had no let that was to be dredde,
The assured ayre was depaynted clere
With golden beames of fayre Phebus spere.
Than forth so went good Counsell and I,
At vi. a clocke, unto a garden fayre;
By Musykes toure walked most goodly,
Where La Bell Pucell used to repayre
In the swete mornyng for to take the ayre
Among the floures of aromatyke fume,
The mysty ayre to exyle and consume.
And at the gate we met the portresse,
That was right gentill, and called Curteysy,
Whych salved us wyth wordes of mekenesse,
And axed us the veraye cause and why
Of our comynge to the gardeine sothel?
Truly, saide we, for nothyng but well,
A lytel to speke with La Bell Pucell.
Truly, quod she, in the garden grene
Of many a swete and sundry floure
She maketh a garlonde that is veray shene;
Wyth true loves wrought in many a coloure,
Replete with swetenes and dulcet odoure;
And all alone, wythout company,
Amyddes an herber she sitteth plesauntly.
Nowe stande you styl for a lytle space,
I wyll let her of you have knowledgynge.
And ryght anone she went to her grace,
Tellyng her than how we were comynge,
To speke wyth her gretly desyrynge.
Truly, she sayd, I am right well content
Of theyr comyng to know the hole entent.
Then good Curteysy, wythout taryenge,
Came unto us wyth all her diligence,
Prayeng us to take our entryng
And come unto the ladies precence,
To tell your erande to her excellence.
Than in we wente to the garden gloryous,
Lyke to a place of pleasure most solacyous.
Wyth Flora paynted and wrought curyously,
In divers knottes of marvaylous gretenes;
Rampande lyons stode up wondersly,
Made all of herbes with dulcet swetenes,
Wyth many dragons of marvaylos likenes,
Of dyvers floures made ful craftely,
By Flora couloured wyth colours sundry.
Amiddes the garden so moche delectable
There was an herber fayre and quadrante,
To paradyse right well comparable,
Set all about with flours fragraunt;
And in the myddle there was resplendyshaunte
A dulcet spring and marvaylous fountaine,
Of golde and asure made all certaine.
In wonderfull and curious similitude
There stode a dragon, of fyne golde so pure,
Upon his tayle of myghty fortitude,
Wretched and skaled al wyth asure,
Havyng thre hedes divers in fygure,
Whych in a bathe of the sylver grette
Spouted the water that was so dulcette.
Besyde whiche fountayne, the moost fayre lady
La Bel Pucel was gayly syttyng;
Of many floures fayre and ryally
A goodly chaplet she was in makynge.
Her heer was downe so clerely shynynge,
Lyke to the golde late purifyed with fyre,
Her heer was bryght as the drawne wyre.
Lyke to a lady for to be moost trewe,
She ware a fayre and goodly garment,
Of most fyne velvet, al of Indy blewe,
Wyth armynes powdred bordred at the vent.
On her fayre handes, as was convenient,
A payre of gloves ryght sclender and softe.
In approchyng nere I did beholde her oft.
And whan that I came before her presence,
Unto the ground I dyd knele adowne;
Sayeng: O lady! moost fayre of excellence,
O stere so clere of vertuous renowne!
Whose beaute fayre in every realme and towne,
Indued wyth grace and also wyth goodnes,
Dame Fame the her selfe doth evermore expresse.
Amoure.
Please it your grace for to gyve audyence
Unto my wofull and pitous complaynte;
How fervent love, wythout resystence,
My careful herte hath made low and faynte,
And you therof are the hole constraynt;
Your beauty truly hath me fettered faste,
Wythout your helpe my life is nere hand paste.
Pucell.
Stande up, quod she; I marvayle of this cace,
What sodayne love hath you so arayde
Wyth so great payne your heart to embrace?
And why for me ye should be so dismayde?
As of your lyfe ye nede not to be afrayde.
For ye of me now have no greater awe,
But whan ye lyst ye may your love wythdraw.
Amoure.
Than stode I up, and right so did she,
Alas! I sayd than, my heart is so set,
That it is yours, it may none other be;
Your selfe hath caught it in so sure a net,
That if that I may not your favour get,
No doubt it is, the great payne of love
May not aswage tyl death it remove.
Pucell.
Truely, quod she, I am obedient
Unto my frendes whych do me so guyde;
They shal me rule as is convenient,
In the snare of love I wyl nothyng slyde,
My chaunce or fortune I wyl yet abide.
I thanke you for your love right humbly,
But I your cause can nothing remedy.
Amoure.
Alas! madame, yf I have enterprysed
A thyng to hye truly for my degre,
All that causes whych I have commysed
Hath ben on fortunes gentyl unyte,
Trustyng truely that she wold favour me.
In this case wherfore now excuse
Your humble servaunte, and not me refuse.
Pucell.
Ha, ha! what vayleth all your flattery?
Your fayned wordes shall not me appese
To make myne herte to enclyne inwardly;
For I my selfe nowe do nothynge suppose
But for to prove me you flatter and glose.
You shall not dye as longe as you speke,
There is no love can cause your herte to breke.
Amoure.
I wolde, madame, ye hadde prerogatyve
To knowe the prevyte of my perfyte mynde,
How all in payne I lede my wofull lyfe;
Than, as I trowe, ye wolde not be unkynde,
But that some grace I myght in you fynde,
To cause myne herte, whyche you fetred sure
Wyth brenninge cheynes, suche wo to endure.
Pucell.
By veraye reason I may give judgement,
That it is guyse of you everychone
To fayne you sicke wyth subtyll argument,
Whan to your lady ye list to make your mone:
But of you true is there fewe or none.
For all your payne and wordes eloquent,
Wyth dame Repentaunce I will not be shent.
Amoure.
O swete madame! now all my desteny
Unhap and happy, upon you doth growe:
Yf that you call me unto your mercy
Of all happy the most happy, I trow,
Than shall I be, of hye degre or lowe;
And yf ye lyste so me than to forsake,
Of all unhappy none shal be my make.
Pucell.
Your fortune on me is not more applyed,
Than upon other, for my minde is fre;
I have your purpose oft ynoughe denyed,
You knowe your answere now certayne;
What nede your wordes of curyosyte?
Wo we here no more, for thou shalt not spede;
Go love another where ye may have mede.
Amoure.
That shall I not; though that I contynewe
All my lyfe in payne and hevynes,
I shall not chaunge you for none other new;
You are my lady, you are my masteres,
Whome I shall serve with all my gentylnes.
Exyle him never from your hert so dere,
Whyche unto hys hath sette you most nere.
Pucell.
The minde of men chaungeth as the mone.
If you mete one whyche is fayre and bryght,
Ye love her best tyll ye se, right soone,
An other fayrer unto your owne syght.
Unto her than your minde is tourned ryght,
Truely your love, though ye make it straunge,
I knowe full well ye wyl often chaunge.
Amoure.
Alas! madame, nowe the bright lodes sterre
Of my true herte, where ever I go or ryde,
Thoughe that my body be from you aferre,
Yet my herte onely shall wyth you abyde,
Whan than you lyst ye may for me provyde.
Pucell.
Nay, truly, it can nothyng be myne,
For I therof take no possessyon;
Your heart is your by substancyall lyne,
It is not in my domynacyon.
Love where ye list; at every season
Your heart is fre, I do not it accept:
It is your owne, I have it never kept.
Amoure.
Alas! madame, ye may say as ye liste,
With your beaute ye toke mine hert in snare;
Your lovely lokes I coude not resyst,
Your vertuous maner encreaseth my care,
That of all joye I am devoyde and bare.
I se you ryght often when I am aslepe,
And whan I wake do sygh with teres depe.
Pucell.
So great deceyt amonge men there is,
That harde it is to finde one full stable;
Ye are so subtil and so false, ywis:
Your great deceyte is nothing commendable.
In storyes olde it is well provable
How many ladyes hath bene right falsely
Wyth men deceyved yll and subtylly.
Amoure.
O goodd madame! though that they abused
Them to theyr ladyes in theyr great deceyte,
Yet am I true; let me not be refused:
Ye have me taken wyth so fayre a bayte,
That ye shall never out of my conceyte.
I can not wrynche by no wyle nor croke,
My heart is fast upon so sure a hoke.
Pucell.
Ye, so sayd they, tyll that they had their wyll;
Theyr wyll accomplysshed, they dyd fle at large;
For men say wel, but they thinke full yll.
Though outwarde swetenes your tonge doth enlarge,
Yet of your heart I never can have charge;
For men do love, as I am right sure,
Nowe one, now other, after theyr pleasure.
Amoure.
All that, madame, I knew ryght perfetly,
Some men there be of that condicyon;
That them delyte often in novelty,
And many also love perfeccyon.
I cast all suche noveltes in objection;
My love is set upon a perfet grounde,
No falshed in me truly shal be founde.
Pucell.
Ye saye full well, yf ye meane the same;
But I in you can have no confydence;
I thinke right well that it is no game
To love unloved wyth percynge influence.
You shall in me fynde no suche neclygence
To grante you love, for ye are unthryfty,
As two or thre to me doth specify.
Amoure.
Was never lover without enemies thre,
As Envy, Malyce, and Perturbaunce?
Theyr tongues are poyson unto amyte;
What man on live can use suche governaunce
To attayne the favoure withouten varyaunce
Of every persone, but right pryvely
Behinde his backe some sayth unhappely?
Pucell.
Trouthe it is; but yet, in this cace,
Your love and myne is full ferre asunder:
But thoughe that I do your herte so race
Yf I drede you it is therof no wonder;
Wyth my frendes I am so sore kepte under,
I dare not love but as they accorde,
They thynke to wedde me to a myghty lorde.
Amoure.
I knowe, madame, that your frendes all
Unto me sure wyll be contraryous;
But what for that? your selfe in speciall
Remembre there is no love so joyous
As is your owne to you most precyous;
Wyll you gyve your youthe and your flourynge aege
To them agaynst your mynde in maryage?
Pucell.
Agaynst my mynde, of that were I lothe,
To wed for fere, as them to obey;
Yet had I lever they were somwhat wrothe,
For I my selfe do here the locke and kaye
Yet of my mynde, and wyll do many a daye.
Myne owne I am, what that I lyste to do
I stand untyed, there is no joye therto.
Amoure.