Reysed, as fro dethe to lyve,
Of alle happes the alderbeste,
The gladdest and the moste at reste.
For trewely that swete wyght,
Whan I hadde wrong, and she the ryght,
She wolde alway so goodely
Foryeve me so debonairely,
In al my yowthe, in alle chaunce,
She tooke me in hir governaunce.
Therwyth she was alway so trewe,
Our joye was ever ylyche newe;
Our hertys werne so evene a payre,
That never nas that oon contrayre
To that other, for noo woo:
For sothe ylyche they suffrede thoo
Oo blisse and eke oo sorwe bothe;
Ylyche they were bothe glade and wrothe,
Al was us oon, withoute were.
And thus we lyvede ful many a yere,
So wel I kan nat telle how.'
'Sir!' quod I, where is she now?' 'Now?' quod he, and stynte anoon; Therewith he waxe as dede as stoon, And seyde, Allas, that I was bore! That was the losse ! and herebefore I tolde thee that I hadde lorne, Bethenke how I seyde here beforne, Thow wost ful lytel what thow menyst, I have lost more than thow wenyst. God wote, allas! ryght that was she.' 'Allas! sir, how? what may that be?' 'She ys ded:'-' Nay ?'-' Yis, be my trouthe!' Is that youre losse ? be God, hyt ys routhe!'
And with that worde, ryght anoon,
They ganne to strake forth; al was doon,
For that tyme, the herte huntynge.
With that me thoghte that this kynge,
Gan homewarde for to ryde,
Unto a place was ther besyde,
Which was from us but a lyte,
A longe castel with wallys white,
Be seynt Johan, on a ryche hille,
As me mette; but thus hyt fille.
Ryght thus me mette, as I yow telle,
That in the castell ther was a belle,
As hyt hadde smyte oures twelve ;
Therewyth I awooke my selve,
And fonde me lyinge in my bedde;
And the booke that I hadde redde,
Of Aleyione and Seys the kynge,
And of the goddys of slepynge,
I fond hyt in myn honde ful evene.
Thoght I, thys ys so queynt a swevene,
That I wol, be processe of tyme,
Founde to put this swevene in ryme,
As I kan best, and that anoon;
This was my swevene; now hit ys doon!
EXPLICIT THE BOKE OF THE DUCHESSE.
OF QUENE ANELYDA AND FALSE
HOU ferse God of armes, Mars the rede,
That in thy frosty contré called Trace,
Within thy grisly temples ful of drede,
Honoured art as patroun of that place!
With thee, Bellona, Pallas, ful of grace!
Be presente, and my songe contynew and guye;
At my begynnyng thus I to the crye.
For hit ful depe is sonken in my mynde,
With pitous hert, in Englyssh to endyte
This olde storie, in Latyn which I fynde,
Of quene Analida and fals Arcite,
That elde, which al can frete and bite,
(As hit hath freten mony a noble storie)
Hath nygh devoured out of oure memorie.
'Be favorable eke thou Polymnya
On Parnaso that hathe thy sustres glade,
By Elycon, not fer from Cirrea,
Syngest with vois memorial in the shade,
Under the laurer, which that may not fade,
OF QUENE ANELYDA AND ARCYTE.
And do that I my shippe to haven wynne,
First folow I Stace, and after him Corynne.
Jamque domos patrias Cithiee post aspera gentis,
Prelia laurigero subeuntem Thesea curru,
Letifici plausus missusque ad sidera vulgi, &c.
When Theseus, with werres longe and grete,
The
folke of Cithe had overcome,
Tho, laurer crouned, in his chare, gold bete,
Home to his contré houses is he come;
For whiche the peple blisful al and somme,
So criden, that to the sterres hit wente,
And him to honouren dide al her entente.
Beforne this duke, in signe of victorie,
The trompes come, and in his baner large,
The ymage of Mars; and in token of glorie,
Men myghte sene of tresoure mony a charge,
Mony a bright helme, and mony a spere
and targe,
Mony a fresh knyght, and mony a blysful route,
On hors, on fote, in al the felde aboute.
Ipolita his wife, the hardy quene
Of Cithea, that he conquered hadde,
With Emelye her yonge suster shene,
Faire in a chare of golde he with hym ladde,
That al the grounde about her char she spradde
With brightnesse of beauté in her face,
Fulfilled of largesse and of alle grace.
With his tryumphe, and laurer crouned thus,
In al the floure of fortunes yevyng,
Let I this noble prince, this Theseus,
Towarde Athenes in his wey ryding,
And founde I wol inne shortly to bringe,
The sleye wey of that I gan to write,
Of quene Anelida and fals Arcite.
Mars, whiche that thro his furiouse course of ire, The olde wrethe of Juno to fulfille,
Hath set the peples hertis bothe on fire
Of Thebes and Grece, and everiche other to kille With blody speres, restede never stille,
But throng now her, now ther, amonge hem bothe, That everyche other slough, so were they wrothe.
For when Amphiorax and Tydeus,
Ipomedon and Prothonolope also
Wer ded, and slayn proude Campaneus,
And when the wrecches Thebans bretheren two
Were slayn, and kyng Adrastus home ago,
So desolat stode Thebes and so bare,
That no wight coude remedie of his care.
And when the olde Creon gan espye,
How that the blood roial was broght adoun,
He helde the cité by his tyrannye,
And dyde the gentils of that regioun
To ben his frendes, and duellen in the toune.
So what for love of him, and what for awe,
The noble folke wer to the toune idrawe.
Among alle these, Anelida the quene
Of Ermony was in that toune duellyng,
That fairer was then is the sunne shene,
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