Thin enemy and myn, Ladi, tak heede
Un-to my deth in poynt is me to chace!
Glorious mayde and mooder which that nevere
Were bitter, neither in eerth nor in see,
But ful of sweetnesse and of merci evere,
Help, that my Fader be not wroth with me!
Spek thou, for I ne dar not him ysee,
So have I doon, in eerthe, allas the while!
That certes, but if thou my socour bee
To stynk eterne he wole my gost exile!
He vouched saaf, tel him, as was his wille
Bicomen a man to have oure alliaunce,
And with his precious blood he wrot the bille
Up-on the crois as general acquitaunce

To every penitent in ful creaunce.

And therfore, Ladi bryght, thou for us praye!
Thanne shalt thou bothe stinte al his grevaunce,
And make oure foo to failen of his praye.
I wot it wel thou wolt ben oure socour,
Thou art so ful of bountee in certeyn;
For whan a soule falleth in errour

Thi pitee goth and haleth him agein;

Thanne makest thou his pees with his sovereyn,
And bringest him out of the crooked strete.
Who-so thee loveth he shal not love in veyn,
That shal he fynde as he the lyf shal lete.
Kalendeeres enlumined ben thei

That in this world ben lighted with thi name,

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And who-so goth to yow the rihte wey,

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Him thar not drede in soule to be lame.

Now, Queen of comfort! sithe thou art that same

To whom I seeche for my medicyne,

Lat not my foo no more my wounde entame,
Myn hele in-to thin hand al I resyne.

Ladi, thi sorwe kan I not portreye
Under the cros, ne his greevous penaunce,
But for youre bothes peynes I yow preye,
Lat not oure alder foo make his bobaunce,

That he hath in hise lystes of mischaunce
Convict that ye bothe have bouht so deere.

As I seide erst, thou ground of oure substaunce
Continue on us thi pitous eyen cleeve.

Moises that saugh the bush with flawmes rede
Brenninge, of which ther never a stikke brende,
Was signe of thin unwemmed maidenhede;
Thou art the bush on which ther gan descende
The Holi Goost, the which that Moyses wende
Had ben a fyr, and this was in figure.

Now, Lady, from the fyir thou us defende
Which that in helle eternally shal dure.

CLEOPATRA, THE MARTYR QUEEN OF EGYPT.

(From the Legende of Goode Women.)

After the deth of Tholome the kyng,
That al Egipte hadde in his governyng,
Regned hys queene Cleopataras;

Til on a tyme befel ther swich a cas,
That out of Rome was sent a senatour,
For to conqueren regnes and honour
Unto the toune of Rome, as was usance,
To have the worlde at hir obeysaunce,
And sooth to seye, Antonius was his name.
So fil yt, as Fortune hym oght a shame,
Whanne he was fallen in prosperitee,
Rebel unto the toune of Rome ys hee.
And over al this, the suster of Cesar
He lafte hir falsly, er that she was war,

And wold algates han another wyf;

For which he took with Rome and Cesar strif.
Natheles, forsooth this ilke senatour

Was a full worthy gentil werreyour,
And of his deeth it was ful gret damage.

But Love had brought this man in swich a rage,
And him so narwe bounded in his laas,
Alle for the love of Cleopataras,

That al the worlde he sette at noo value;

Hym thoghte ther was nothing to him so due
As Cleopataras for to love and serve;
Hym roghte nat in armies for to sterve
In the defence of hir and of hir ryght.

This noble queene ek lovede so this knyght,
Thurgh his desert and for his chivalrye;
As certeynly, but—yf that bookes lye,
He was of persone, and of gentilesse,
And of discrecion, and of hardynesse,
Worthy to any wight that liven may;
And she was faire as is the rose in May.
And -to maken shortely is the beste

She wax his wif, and hadde him as hir leste.
The weddyng and the feste to devyse,
To me that have ytake swich emprise,
Of so many a storye for to make,

Yt were to longe, lest that I sholde slake

Of thing that beryth more effecte and charge;
For men may overlode a shippe or barge.
And forthy, to effect than wol I skyppe,
And al the remenaunt I wol let yt slyppe.

Octavyan, that woode was of this dede,
Shoop him an oost on Antony to lede,
Al outerly for his destructioun,

With stoute Romaynes, crewel as lyoun;
To shippe they wente, and thus I let hem sayle.
Antonius, that was war, and wol not fayle
To meeten with these Romaynes, yf he may,
Took eke his rede, and booth upon a day
His wyf and he and al hys oost forthe wente
To shippe anoon, no lenger they ne stente,

And in the see hit happed hem to mete.

Up gooth the trumpe, and for to shoute and shete,
And paynen hem to sette on with the sonne⚫

With grisly soune out gooth the grete gonne,
And hertely they hurtelen al attones,

And fro the toppe doune cometh the grete stones.
In gooth the grapenel so ful of crokes,
Amonge the ropes, and the sheryng hokes ;
In with the polax preseth he and he;
Behynde the maste begynneth he to fle,
And out agayn, and dryveth hym over borde;
He styngeth hym` upon his speres orde;
He rent the sayle with hokes lyke a sithe;

He bryngeth the cuppe, and biddeth hem be blithe;
He poureth pesen upon the hacches slidre,
With pottes ful of lyme, they goon togidre.
And thus the longe day in fight they spende
Til at the last, as every thing hath ende,
Antony is shent, and put hym to the flyghte,
And al hys folke to-goo, that best goo myghte.

Fleeth ek the queene with al hir purpre sayle,
For strokes which that wente as thick as hayle;
No wonder was she myght it nat endure.
And whan that Antony saugh that aventure,
"Allas," quod he, "the day that I was borne!
My worshippe in this day thus have I lorne!"
And for dispeyre out of hys wytte he sterte,
And roof hymself anoon thurghout the herte,
Er that he ferther went out of the place.
Hys wyf, that koude of Cesar have no grace,
To Egipte is fled, for drede and for distresse.
But herkeneth ye that speken of kyndenesse.

Ye men that falsly sweren many an oothe,
That ye wol dye yf that your love be wroothe,
Here may ye seen of women which a trouthe.
This woful Cleopatre hath made swich routhe,
That ther nys tonge noon that may yt telle.
But on the morowe she wol no lenger dwelle,
But made hir subtil werkmen make a shryne
Of al the rubees and the stones fyne
In al Egipte that she koude espye;
And put ful the shryne of spicerye,

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And let the corps embawme; and forth she fette
This dede corps, and in the shryne yt shette.
And next the shryne a pitte than dooth she grave,
And alle the serpentes that she myght have,
She put hem in that grave, and thus she seyde:
"Now, love, to whom my sorweful hert obeyde,
So ferforthely that fro that blysful houre
That I yow swor to ben al frely youre,-
I mene yow, Antonius, my knyght,-
That never wakyng in the day or nyght
Ye nere out of myn hertes remembraunce,
For wele or woo, for carole, or for daunce;
And in my self this covenaunt made I thoo,
That ryght swich as ye felten wele or woo,
As ferforth as yt in my powere lay,
Unreprovable unto my wifhood ay,

The same wolde I felen, life or deethe;

And thilke covenaunt while me lasteth breethe

I wol fulfille; and that shal wel be seene,

Was never unto hir love a trewer queene.'

And wyth that worde, naked, with ful good herte,
Amonge the serpents in the pit she sterte.
And there she chees to hav hir buryinge.
Anoon the neddres gonne hir for to stynge,
And she hir deeth receveth with good chere,
For love of Antony that was hir so dere.
And this is storial, sooth it ys no fable.

Now er I fynde a man thus trewe and stable,
And wolde for love his deeth so frely take,
I prey God lat oure hedes nevere ake!

THE CANTERBURY TALES.

THE GENERAL PROLOGUE.

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour

Of which vertu engendred is the flour;