1

Ye! quek! yet,' quod the dukë, 'wel and faire !
There ben moo sterrës, God woot, than a paire.'

'Now fy, cherl!' quod the gentil tercëlet,-
'Out of the dunghil com that word ful ryght;
Thou kanst noght see which thing is wel beset;
Thou farest be love as owlës doon by lyght,-
The day hem blent, ful wel they see by nyght;
Thy kynde ys of so lowe a wrechednesse,
That what love is thou kanst not see ne gesse.'

1

Thoo gan the cukkow put hym forth in pres
For foule that eteth worm, and seydë blyve2:—
'So I,' quod he, 'may have my make in pes,
I rechë not how longë that ye strive.

Lat ech of hem be soleyn al her lyve,
This ys my reed, syne they may not acorde;
This shortë lessoun nedeth noght recorde.'

'Yee, have the glotoun fild ynogh hys paunche,
Thanne are we wel!' seyde the merlyoun :-
'Thou mordrere of the haysogge1 on the braunche
That broghtë the forth! thou rewful glotoun!
Lyve thou soleyn, wormës corrupcioun !

For no fors ys of lak of thy nature5;

Goo, lewëd be thou while the world may dure!'

'Now pes,' quod Nature, 'I commaundë here,

For I have herd al your opynioun,

And in effect yet be we never the nere;

But fynally, this ys my conclusioun,—

That she hir self shal have the eleccioun

Of whom hir lyst, who-so be wrooth or blythe;

Hym that she cheest, he shal han hir as swithe".

2

among the crowd. quickly. 3 the merlin.

* failure of thy whole species would not matter.

THE HOUS OF FAME.

[Chaucer dreams that he is carried up by an eagle to the House of Fame, midway between heaven, earth, and sea. The eagle thus explains why Jove does him this honour.]

'But er I bere thee mochë ferre',

I wol thee tellë what I am,

And whider thou shalt, and why I cam
To do thys, so that thou [thee] take
Good herte, and not for ferë quake.'
'Gladly,' quod I. 'Now wel,' quod he:
'First, I, that in my feet have thee,
Of which thou hast a fere and wonder,
Am dwellyng with the god of thonder,
Whiche that men callen Jupiter,
That dooth me flee ful oftë fer

To do al hys comaundëment.

And for this cause he hath me sent

To thee now herkë, be thy trouthe!

Certeyn he hath of thee routhe,
That thou so longë trewëly

Hast served so ententyfly2

Hys blyndë nevew Cupido,
And fairë Venus also,
Withoutë guerdoun ever yit,

And nevertheles hast set thy wit,
(Although [that] in thy hede ful lyt is)
To make songës, bokes, and dytees,
In ryme, or ellës in cadence,
As thou best conne, in reverence
Of Love, and of hys servantes eke,
That have hys servyse soght, and seke;

1 further.

2 attentively.

And peynest the to preyse hys art,
Although thou haddest never part;
Wherfore, al-so God me blesse,

1

Jovës halt hyt gret humblesse,
And vertu eke, that thou wolt make
A nyght ful ofte thyn hede to ake,
In thy studyë so thou writest,
And evermo of love enditest,
In honour of hym and preysynges,
And in his folkës furtherynges,
And in hir matere al devisest,
And noght hym nor his folk dispisest,
Although thou maist goo in the daunce
Of hem that hym lyst not avaunce.
Wherfore, as I seyde, ywys,
Jupiter considereth this;

And also, beausir, other thynges;
That is, that thou hast no tydynges
Of Lovës folke, yf they be glade,
Ne of noght ellës that God made;
And noght oonly fro fer contree,
That ther no tydyng cometh to thee,
Not of thy verray neyghëbores,
That dwellen almost at thy dores,
Thou herest neyther that nor this,
For when thy labour doon al ys,
And hast made al thy rekënynges,
Instede of reste and newë thynges,
Thou goost home to thy house anoon,
And, also2 domb as any stoon,
Thou sittest at another booke,
Tyl fully dasewyd ys thy looke,
And lyvest thus as an heremyte,
Although thyn abstynence ys lyte.
And therfore Jovës, through hys grace,
Wol that I bere thee to a place,
Which that hight the Hous of Fame,
To do thee som disport and game,

1 holds, deems.

3

In som recompensacioun

Of labour and devocioun

That thou hast had, loo! causëles,

To Cupido the rechchëles.

PROLOGUE TO THE LEGENDE OF GOODE WOMEN.

[The poet loves books, but loves the daisy more.]

And as for me, though than I kon but lyte',
On bokës for to rede I me delyte,
And to hem yive I feyth and ful credence,
And in myn herte have hem in reverence
So hertely, that ther is gamë noon
That fro my bokës maketh me to goon,
But yt be seldom on the holy day,

Save, certeynly, when that the moneth of May
Is comen, and that I here the foulës synge,
And that the flourës gynnen for to sprynge,
Farewel my boke, and my devocioun !

Now have I than suche a condicioun,

That of alle the flourës in the mede,

Than love I most thise flourës white and rede,
Suche as men callen daysyes in her toun.
To hem have I so gret affeccioun,

As I seyde erst, whan comen is the May,
That, in my bed ther daweth 2 me no day,
That I nam up and walkyng in the mede,
To seen this floure ayein the sonnë sprede,
Whan it up ryseth erly by the morwe;
That blisful sight softeneth al my sorwe,
So glad am I, whan that I have presence
Of it, to doon it allë reverence,

As she that is of allë flourës flour,
Fulfilled of al vertue and honour,

1 little.

2 dawneth.

And ever ilike1 faire, and fressh of hewe.
And I love it, and ever ylike newe,

And ever shal, til that myn hertë dye;
Al swere I nat, of this I wol nat lye,
Ther lovede no wight hotter in his lyve.
And, whan that hit ys eve, I rennë blyve2,
As sone as ever the sonnë gynneth weste,
To seen this flour, how it wol go to reste,
For fere of nyght, so hateth she derknesse!
Hire chere is pleynly sprad in the brightnesse
Of the sonnë, for ther yt wol unclose.
Allas, that I ne had Englyssh, ryme, or prose,
Suffisant this flour to preyse aryght!

But helpeth, ye that han konnyng and myght,
Ye lovers, that kan make of sentëment;
In this case oghten ye be diligent,

To forthren me somwhat in my labour,

Whethir ye ben with the leef or with the flour,
For wel I wot, that ye han herbiforn

Of makynge ropen, and lad awey the corn;
And I come after, glenyng here and there,
And am ful glad yf I may fynde an ere
Of any goodly word that ye han left.
And thogh it happen me rehercen eft
That ye han in your fresshë songës sayd,
Forbereth me, and beth not evil apayd3,
Syn that ye see I do yt in the honour
Of love, and eke in service of the flour,
Whom that I serve as I have wit or myght.
She is the clerenesse and the verray lyght,

That in this derke worlde me wynt and ledyth,
The hert in-with my sorwful brest yow dredith,

And loveth so sore, that ye ben verrayly

The maistresse of my wit, and nothing I.

My word, my werkes, ys knyt so in your bond
That, as an harpe obeieth to the hond

1 alike.

2 run quickly.

6 winds, turns.

* See the introduction to the poem of that name, p. 84.

4

reaped the fruit of poetry. 5 be not ill pleased.