BALLAD

Thou, O Love, the traitor art!

Tender once as any may,

Then the wielder of the dart

That is pointed but to slay.

Thee with reason, by my fay,

Double-visaged we declare:

One is as the ashes grey,

But one is as an angel fair.

Loth am I to find my part

In the night without a ray,

Yet desire hath stung my heart

And I sigh in sorrow's sway.

Gentle hope will never stay

In the mansions of despair:

One to death would point the way,

But one is as an angel fair.

Hope might in my spirit start,

Death thy servant bids her nay:

While beneath thy scourge I smart,

Doleful still must be my lay,

Since to set my steps astray,

Thou at once art wheat and tare:

One is like a devil, yea,

But one is as an angel fair.

Love, thou teachest me to say

Double tribute is to pay

For thy servants everywhere:

One is grievous, well-a-day!

But one is as an angel fair.

Much did this ballad charm my cousin, but greatly was he distressed at

my grief, and in this manner did I, who never wearied of, or ceased

from, weeping, make an end to my discourse. And thereby my distemper was

diminished, but my cousin was forthwith angered when he saw me thus

discomforted. And he spake thus to me: "Alack-a-day! Right well do I

perceive that you possess little discretion and courage. What reason

have you, fair Sir, to demean you thus? Certes, you should be happy,

methinks, since your lady, by her messenger, makes promise to you of

solace at a fitting time. You are foolish when you relinquish the hope

which gives you comfort, for be assured that your lady is mindful of

your love, and that she longs to give you pleasure. How can such grief

enter your foolish thoughts, so as to allow you to be thus cast down and

to die of despair? Many a lover, without any hope of being loved by his

mistress, has longwhiles served in great anguish without any solace

either of soul or body, and not a single glance from her has he

received, nor has he dared to approach her for fear of slander. If you

have patience, and believe what I say, certes, you have but to make

plaint as I have done, and you will soon be able to attain your desire.

Since your lady takes pleasure in your doings, you may be assured that

no fear will be strong enough to restrain her. But however grievous it

may be, it may lead to your undoing that you have allowed so long time

to pass by without making her acquainted with your state. Very certain

is it that never will she importune you, and I know not wherefore you

were so foolish that, when you had opportunity, and were unhindered, you

spake not to her of all the love with the which you loved her, instead

of giving yourself up longwhiles to dreams!"

Then I forthwith made answer, "Alas, Cousin! I dared not, even if I had

fitting opportunity, for I was afraid, and so much did I fear her, that

I dared not tell her of it, even if I died because of this. For this

reason I faltered, and greatly do I repent me of it, but never had I the

courage to do it, for in her presence I was greatly disquieted, although

when I was alone I thought to myself that I would speak to her. And it

ofttimes happened to me thus, but, certes, I persevered not when I was

in her presence. The delight of her loving glance, the which was so

sweet to me, filled me with such great ecstasy, that it seemed to me

that she would perceive my distress of mind without my saying aught."

Then my cousin made answer, "Foolish is the lover who hides from a lady

the love he bears her, for, on my soul, the delay may do him sore hurt.

But since you dared not speak to her because of the fear which possessed

you, as you know well how to write, wherefore do you not send her a

letter or missive? And I am still more surprised at your folly that,

when you received her messenger, you sent not back word to her of your

state since the time when you parted from her. And wherefore did you

delay? His coming was indeed timely had not your folly held you back,

and in this I without doubt speak the truth, for, since she so desired

to give you gratification that she took thought to hear news of your

doings, you can perceive that your love was in her thoughts. She must

indeed regard you as a novice since you sent not to her! Never a day let

fall from your lips a single word in anywise touching upon sadness, but

rather be cheerful, and leave all to me, and so well shall I know how to

deceive every one, that I am willing to become a monk if there is any

one on this earth who will be able to hinder you from seeing the fair

one without this ever being noised abroad, if she so wills it, and you

desire it. So grieve no more, but make glad countenance, for, without

preaching longer to you, I make promise and swear to you that ere the

week is passed, more than once shall you see your lady. And if God

guides me in this, verily shall I find out the way to accomplish this."

Then, even as the light illumines the darkness, and the exceeding

brightness of the sun banishes the gloom, so was the cruel torment of my

suffering subdued and ended by this one, who so truly comforted me that

he filled me with joy and gladness, and stayed my grief, so that I had

naught left of the which to make complaint.

And in nowise did he make default, but when that an hour and a half was

gone by, he set forth to my lady. To be brief, he spoke prudently to the

fair one, and right gladly did he plead on my behalf, and of his own

free will he told unto her all the truth concerning my sad trouble, and

how that he had found me nigh unto death, and knew not whether I could

recover from the sickness the which constrained me not to stir from my

bed, and he told her all, and, in a word, that he could not comfort me.

Then he counselled her that, for God's sake, she should not suffer one

so young to be placed in peril of death by reason of too great love of

her, and that she would be to blame if she were the cause of my death.

In such manner did he, by his gentle and wise speech, entreat my lady to

feel pity for the sickness from the which I was languishing on account

of her, since never did I waver in the desire the which brought misery

unto me and made me long to see her. And he told me that when he had

ended his discourse, he saw that the fair one, who was very silent, was

pale as death, and of very sad countenance, and he well perceived from

her demeanour that my sickness grieved her, and aroused her compassion,

but she ne'ertheless desired it to appear quite otherwise. And she spake

in this wise: "This is a strange thing that you tell unto me, fair Sir,

that my cousin and yours is in this state. By the Apostle Paul, scarce

can I believe that he could ever have thought on this! Good God, that

this should have entered his thoughts! But if this be so, doubtless it

is naught but youthfulness and great lack of prudence which plunges him

into sadness, and, with God's help, in a little while this will pass

away. Turn him from this if you can, and counsel him that he put an end

to it, and turn his thoughts elsewhere, for never could he come near me

without great ill coming of it if that he were seen. I wot not how it

came to the knowledge of that spy (God curse him), by reason of whom I

have not the courage to speak to any living man, and if he were within,

I should not dare to hold converse thus with you. Since he discovered

that this young man had the daring to love me, he has filled my lord

with bitter anger, and has aroused such jealousy of me, that in nowise

do I dare speak to any one alone, and wheresoe'er I am, there the varlet

must be, and I have him ever at my heels, for he is set to keep watch on

me. And I fear me that all this is only because of suspicion of your

cousin, for he pays close attention to that which is said to me, and

ofttimes goes to the gate to see who enters here. And by God I swear to

you that, if it were not for qualms of conscience, I would have him so

well beaten by my kinsfolk that, unless he were very foolhardy, never

would he dare return to keep watch on me. And so that this espial, the

which is so irksome to me, might come to an end, I sent word to your

cousin, and urged him much that for awhile he would refrain from coming

hither, so that this spy might not see him, and that when this

watchfulness was somewhat abated, he could come to see us, and more he

could not look for. It indeed seems to me certain that it will come to

an end by degrees, and thus I believe that doubtless my lord will no

longer give thought to jealousy, so that he will soon be able to come

here, but sincerely do I believe that, if he has a care for me, it will

be better that he keep away, and come not here. Of a truth, as every one

bears witness, the love which dwells only in the imagination, fades

away."

Thus strangely did she make answer, and not a word more did she utter

for my comfort. And he forthwith made answer in this wise: "You are so

full of compassion, my Lady, that, whatever you may say, I tell you

truly I believe not that you will leave him, who is wholly yours, to

perish both in body and soul. You have said that I can turn him from it.

Yea, truly, by rending his soul from his body! No other way do I know.

Certes, I have made every endeavour to divert him from it, but I tell

you, forsooth, that he will die if he is left without hope, and naught

will you have profited if his days are cut off through losing you.

Worthy Lady, give me your answer, for I care not a whit for the jealous

one, and never will his spies make use of such cunning that I shall not

altogether deceive them. But, since I perceive you pity him, grant him

this favour. I speak thus much of him to you so that you may be willing

that he come here with me, and I will apparel him duly and fittingly,

and will so much concern me with this, that he shall be recognised of

none provided you tell me how you would that he should deport himself in

order to see you. So hesitate no longer, for the matter moves too slowly

for him."

And she said: "In nowise believe that I am so much his enemy that his

grief and his sorrow do not cause me much discomfiture, for you may know

of a truth that right well do I love him, and he is right in guarding

mine honour, and without delay I shall do all that should content him,

but I am not willing to say more now concerning this matter save that he

demean himself with prudence, and come not here as yet, but _you_ may

come ofttimes provided you hold but little discourse with me before this

spy. Let me know of your doings by one who is prudent, who shall go to

you. This messenger is loyal, I give you my faith, and if you and he

trust not one another, I shall be uneasy, for none other dare approach

me. And now we have discoursed together long enough, and we know not

whether we are being watched. So tell your friend that he may be joyous

and happy, and that you have so prevailed with me that, if violence does

not intervene, he will not fail in that which he asks for. Thus you will

commend me to him, and cheer him, saying that ere a week is gone by he

will be able to see much of me. And let us hold counsel together no

longer now, and do you trouble yourself no more about the matter. We

have indeed been fortunate in that we have not been disturbed whiles

that we have so long time discoursed together at our ease. Await,

however, my lord, who, as I well know, has not for long time had such

pleasure as he will have when he knows of your coming. Meanwhiles, we

will play at chess. We may amuse ourselves in this manner for a while."

And then, without more ado, they forthwith commenced to play at a side

table. And at the end of the game the master and lord entered the

chamber. Then my cousin went towards him, and when the latter met him,

he gave him hearty welcome, and said that his coming was very pleasing,

and that he was welcome. In a word, without detaining you longer, he

treated him with great deference, and said that all that was his was at

his command, and that whensoe'er he stayed in those parts, nowhere else

must he lodge, but he must come there. This would give him happiness

above all things, but otherwise he would be displeased. And the latter

gave him much thanks for this. And on the morrow, after meat, he took

his leave and departed thence, and he hasted his return, for he knew how

I was longing for this and that it would bring me very great delight.

And when he was returned, he related unto me all that had happened to

him on his journey, and that he believed that my affairs would prosper

right well provided it were pursued yonder quickly and with skill,

wherefore, as he had made promise to my lady, he would have all things,

both great and small, under his ordering, since he had so agreed with

her. Thus did he tell and recount all to me.

Then much joy had I in my heart, the which had erewhile been in sorrow

which harassed it. But in order the sooner to advance my affair, he

advised me that in the first place I should write a letter, in the which

I should wholly set forth my condition, and how that love of her weighed

heavily upon me, and that she should hearken to the plaint of her slave

who besought her love and asked naught beside, and that I should put all

suchlike things in a sealed letter, and he would be the bearer of it for

to assuage my grief. And I trusted in him, and so I wrote a letter in

the which I set forth how it fared with me by reason of love of her, and

all that grieved me. And I enclosed two ballads with the letter, the

which I sealed, to the rehearsal of which give heed all you who incline

unto love.

_Sealed Letter_

_To her who surpasses all, and whom my heart fears and

worships_

Lady, the flower of all of high degree, very renowned and

revered princess, the desire of my heart, and the joy of my

eyes, who art exalted above the consideration of the lowly, my

much loved and coveted lady, deign, for pity's sake, to hearken

unto and to accept the sad plaint of your servant, who, since he

is under restraint, is like to one who is nigh unto death, and

who takes perilous remedies in order that he may either end his

days or live. To you, very sweet Lady, who, by your refusal, can

slay me, or, by the tender solace of your consent, can give me

life, I come to entreat either swift death, or a speedy cure.

Most beautiful one, I know well that you have such discernment

that you have been able to perceive how that, because of you,

love has longwhiles held me, and still holds me, in its toils,

and how that the fear and dread with the which great love has

filled my heart, has robbed me of the courage to tell you of it,

sweet lady. And I know that you are so gracious, that if you had

perceived and known all the pain and the torment which I have

since suffered, and still endure, through desire for your tender

love, then, albeit I have not yet performed enough deeds of

valour, and have not enough of worth, to have deserved the love

of even one of less noble birth than yourself, the gentle pity

of your kindly heart would not have suffered me to endure such

disquiet. Ah, Lady, if you have regard to your worth and your

great renown for that, by reason of my youth, I have not yet

been counted valiant, it will be my death! But, my honoured

Lady, know that you can so strengthen me as to give me heart and

courage to undertake and to achieve, according to my ability,

all honourable things that the mind of a lover dare think on or

do for love of lady. And, sweet Lady, and my goddess on earth,

since you can, with much ease, greatly gladden him who loves and

worships you as his most coveted possession, deign to recognise

how that, by your tender solace, he may be saved from death, and

life may be restored to him. And if you would ask or would know

what has brought him to this, I tell you that it is your very

sweet, pleasing, beautiful, laughing, and loving eyes. Ah, Lady,

since it is by them that this cruel wound has been inflicted, it

seems to me but just that it should be soothed and healed by the

delight of your compassion. Therefore may it please you, very

winsome and honoured Lady, to make me acquainted with your good

pleasure, and whether you would that I die or recover. By no

means would I weary you with a long letter, and be assured that

I know not how to tell or to write fully how matters stand with

me, but you will indeed come to know this, whether I win your

love or not, for, if I fail in this, you will see me die, but if

by good fortune I win it, the result will be seen in willing

service. So I send you these two ballads here enclosed, the

which may it please you to receive kindly. Very beautiful and

fair one, whose praise I am not able duly to set forth, I pray

God that He will vouchsafe to you as many favours and delights

as the tears the which I have shed for love of you.--Written

with a fervent and longing heart,

Your very humble and obedient slave.