Thine obeisaunce, as she were there withalle; 3130
Faining in love is breeding of a falle

From the grace of her, whose lookes softe
May give the blisse that thou desirest ofte.

Ye that this ballade reade shalle,
I pray you keepe you from the falle.

B

THE BOKE OF THE DUCHESSE;

OR, THE DETHE OF BLANCHE.

HAVE grete wonder, be this lyghte,
How that I lyve; for day ne nyghte
I may nat slepe welnygh noght,
I have so many an ydel thoght,

Purely for defaulte of slepe,

That, by my trouthe I take no kepe
Of noothinge, how hyt commeth or gooth.
Ne me nys nothynge leve nor looth;
Al is ylyche goode to me,
Joye or sorowe, wher so hyt be.
For I have felynge in nothynge,
But, as yt were a mased thynge,
Alway in poynt to falle adoun;
For sorwful ymagynacioun
Ys alway hooly in my mynde.
And wel ye woote, agaynes kynde
Hyt were to lyven in thys wyse;
For nature wolde nat suffyse,
To noon erthely creature,
Nat longe tyme to endure
Withoute slepe, and be in sorwe.
And I ne may, ne nyght ne morwe,

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Slepe; and thys melancolye
And drede I have for to dye,
Defaulte of slepe and hevynesse,
Hath sleyn my spirite of quyknesse,
That I have loste al lustyhede;
Suche fantasies ben in myn hede,
So I not what is best too doo.
But men myght axe me, why soo
I may not sleepe, and what me is.
But natheles, who axeth this,
Leseth his axing trewely;

My selven cannot telle why
The soothe; but trewely as I gesse,
I hold it to be a sicknes

That I have suffred this eight yere,

And yet my boote is never the nere.
For there is phisicien but one,
That may me heale, but that is done ;
Passe we over untille efte;
That wil not be, mote nedes be lefte;
Our firste matere is good to kepe.

So whan I sawe I mighte not slepe,
Til now late this other night
Upon my bedde I sate upright,
And bade one reche me a booke,
A romaunce, and it me toke

To rede, and drive the night awaye:
For me it thoughte beter playe,

Then either atte chesse or tables.

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And in this boke were written fables,

That clerkes had in olde time,
And other poets, put in rime,

To rede, and for to be in minde,

While men lovede the lawe in Kinde.

This boke ne speake but of suche thinges,
Of quenes lives, and of kinges,
And many other thinges smale.
Amonge al this I fonde a tale

That thoughte me a wonder thing.

This was the tale :-There was a king
That hight Seyes; and had a wife,
The beste that mighte beare lyfe,
And this quene hight Alcyone.
So it befil, therafter sone,
This king wol wenden over se.
To tellen schortly, whan that he
Was in the see, thus in this wise,
Soche a tempest tho gan to rise,

That brake her maste, and made it falle,

And cleft here schippe, and dreint hem alle,
That never was founde, as it telles,

Bord, ne man, ne nothing elles.

Right thus this king Seys loste his life.

:

Now for to speake of Alcyone his wife :-
This lady that was left at home,
Hath wonder that the king ne come
Home, for it was a longe terme.
Anone her herte began to yerne ;
And for that, her thought evermo
It was not wele; her thoughte so.
She longede so after the king,
That certes it were a pitous thing
To tel her hertely sorowful life,
That she hadde, this noble wife.
For him, alas! she loved alderbeste,
Anone sche sente both este and weste

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To seke him, but they founde him nought.

'Alas,' quoth she, 'that I was wrought! And where my lord, my love, be dede ? Certes I nil never eate brede,

I make avowe to my God here,
But I mowe of my lord here.'

Soche sorowe this lady to her toke,
That trewely I, which made this boke,
Hadde suche pittee and suche routhe
To rede hir sorwe, that by my trowthe
I ferde the worse al the morwe

And after, to thenken on hir sorwe.

So whanne this lady koude here noo worde, That no man myghte fynde hir lord,

Ful ofte she swouned, and sayde, ́ Alas!'
For sorwe ful nygh woode she was;

Ne she koude no rede but oon,
But doune on knees she sate anoon,
And wepte, that pittee was to here.
'A! mercy, swete lady dere!'
Quod she, to Juno hir goddesse,
'Helpe me out of thys distresse,
And yeve me grace my lord to se
Soone, or wete wher so he be,
Or how he fareth, or in what wise;
And I shal make yowe sacrifise,
And hooly youres become I shal,
With gode wille, body, hert, and al.
And, but thow wilte this, lady swete,
Sende me grace to slepe and mete
In my slepe somme certeyn sweven,
Wher thorgh that I may knowe even
Whethir my lorde be quyke or ded.'

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