OD turne us every dreme, to goode !
For hyt is wonder, be the roode,
To my wytte, what causeth swevenes
Eyther on morwes, or on evenes;
And why theffecte folweth of somme,
And of somme hit shal never come;
Why that is an avisioun,
And why this is a revelacioun ;
Why this a dreme, why that a swevene,
And noght to every man i-lyche evene ;
Why this a fantome, why these oracles,
I not but who-so of these meracles
The causes knoweth bet then I,
Devyne he; for I certainly
Ne kan hem noght, ne never thinke
To besely my wytte to swinke,
To knowe of hir significaunce
The gendres, neyther the distaunce
Of tymes of hem, ne the causis,
For-why this is more then that cause is; 20 As yf folkys complexiouns,
Make hem dreme of reflexiouns
Or ellis thus, as other sayne,
For to grete feblenesse of her brayne,
By abstinence, or by sekenesse,
Prisoun, stewe or grete distresse;
Or ellis by disordynaunce,
Or naturell acustumaunce,
That somme man is to curiouse
In studye, or melancolyouse;
Or thus, so inly ful of drede,
That no man may hym bote bede;
Or ellis that devocioun
Of somme, and contemplacioun,
Causeth suche dremes ofte;
Or that the cruelle lyfe unsofte
Whiche these ilke lovers leden,
Oft hopen over moche or dreden,
That purely here impressions
Causeth hem avisions;
Or yf that spiritis have the myght
To make folke to dreme anyght;
Or yf the soule, of propre kynde,
Be so parfit as men fynde,
That yt forwote that ys to come,
And that hyt worneth al and some
Of everyche of her aventures,
Be avisions, or be figures,
But that oure flessh ne hath no myght
To understonde hyt aryght,
For hyt is warned to derkly;
But why the cause is, noght wote I,
Wel worth of this thynge grete clerkys,
That trete of this, and other werkes;
For I of noon opinioun
Nyl as now make mensyoun;
But oonly that the holy roode
Turne us every dreme to goode;
For never sith that I was borne,
Ne no man elles me beforne,
Mette, I trowe stedfastly,
So wonderful a dreme as I,
The tenthe day now of Decembre ;
The which, as I kan yow remembre,
I wol yow telle everydele.
But at my begynnynge, trusteth wele,
I wol make invocacioun,
With special devocioun
Unto the god of slepe anoon,
That dwelleth in a cave of stoon,
Upon a streme that cometh fro Lete,
That is a floode of helle unswete,
Besyde a folke men clepeth Cymerie;
There slepeth ay this god unmerie,
With his slepy thousande sones,
That alwey for to slepe hir wone is;
That to this god that I of rede,
Prey I, that he wolde me spede,
My swevene for to telle aryght,
Yf every
dreme stonde in his myght
And he that mover ys of alle
That is and was, and ever shalle,
So yive hem joye that hyt here,
Of alle that they dreme to-yere ;
And for to stonden al in grace
Of her loves, or in what place
That hem were levest for to stonde,
And shelde hem fro poverte and shonde,
And fro unhappe and eche disese,
And send hem alle that may hem plese,
That take hit wele and skorne hit noghte,
Ne hyt mysdeme in her thoght,
Thorgh maliciouse entencioun.
And who-so, thorgh presumpcioun,
Or hate, or skorne, or thorgh envye,
Dispite, or jape, or vilanye,
Mysdeme hyt, pray I Jhesus God,
That dreme he barefote, dreme he shod,
That every harme, that any man
Hath had sythen the worlde began,
Befalle him thereof, or he sterve,
And graunt he mote hit ful deserve,
Loo, with suche a conclusioun,
As had of his avisioun
Cresus, that was kynge of Lyde,
That high upon a gebet dide.
This prayer shal he have of me;
Now herkeneth, as I have yow seyde,
What that I met or I abreyde.
Of Decembre the tenthe day,
Whan hit was nyght, to slepe I lay,
Ryght ther as I was wonte to done,
And fille on slepe wonder sone,
As he that wery was for-goo
On pilgrymage myles two
To the corseynt Leonarde,
To make lythe of that was harde.
But as I slepte, me mette I was
Withyn a temple ymade of glas;
In whiche ther were moo ymages
Of golde, stondynge in sondry stages,
And moo ryche tabernacles,
And with perré moo pynacles,
And moo curiouse portreytures,
And queynt maner of figures
Of golde werke, then I sawgh ever.
But certeynly I nyste never
Wher that I was, but wel wyste I,
Hyt was of Venus redely,
This temple; for in portreyture,
I sawgh anoon ryght hir figure
Naked fletynge in a see.
And also on hir hede, pardé,
Hir rose garlonde white and rede,
And hir combe to kembe hyr hede,
Hir dowves, and daun Cupido,
Hir blynde sone, and Vulcano,
That in his face was ful broune.
But as I romed up and doune,
I fonde that on a walle ther was
Thus writen on a table of bras:'I wol now say yif I kan,
The armes, and also the man,
That first came, thorgh his destanee,
Fugityfe of Troy countree,
In Itayle, with ful moche pyne,
Unto the strondes of Lavyne.'
And tho began the story anoon,
As I shal telle yow echoon.
First sawgh I the destruccioun
Of Troy, thorgh the Greke Synoun,
With his false forswerynge,
And his chere and his lesynge
Made the hors broght into Troye,
Thorgh which Troyens lost al her joye
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