And in hymself he lough right at the wo
Of hem that wepten for his deth so faste,
And dampned al our werk that folweth so
The blynde luste, the which that may not laste,
And sholden al our herte on hevene caste;
And forth he wente, shortly for to telle,
Ther as Mercurie sorted hym to dwelle.
Swich fin hath, lo! this Troilus for love!
Swich fyn hath al his grete worthynesse !
Swich fyn hath his estat real above!
Swich fyn his luste, swich fyn hath his noblesse !
Swich fyn hath false worldes brotelnesse!
And thus bigan his lovynge of Cryseyde,
As I have tolde, and in this wise he deyde.
fresshe folkes, he or she,
In which that love up groweth with youre age, 1850
Repeireth hom fro worldly vanyté,
And of youre herte up casteth the visage
To thilke God, that after his ymage
Yow made, and thynketh al nys but a faire,
This worlde that passeth soon, as floures faire.
And loveth hym the which that right for love,
Upon a crois, oure soules for to beye,
First starfe and roos, and sitt in heven above,
For he nyl falsen no wight, dar I seye,
That wol his herte alle holly on hym leye;
And syn he best to love is, and most meke,
What nedeth feyned loves for to seke?
Lo! here of payens corsed olde rites!
Lo! here what alle hire goddes may availle !
Lo! here this wreched worldes appetites!
Lo! here the fyn and guerdon for travaille,
Of Jove, Apollo, of Mars, and swich rescaille!
Lo! here the forme of olde clerkes speche
In poetrie, if ye hire bokes seche.
O MORAL Gower, this boke I directe
To the, and to the philosophical Strode,
To vouchen-sauf, ther nede is, to correcte,
Of youre benignites and zeles goode.
And to that sothfast Criste that sterf on roode,
With al myn herte, of mercy evere I preye,
And to the Lord right thus I speke and seye :-
Thow Oon, and Two, and Thre, eterne on lyve,
That regnest ay in Thre, and Two, and Oon,
Uncircumscript, and al maist circumscrive!
Us from visible and invisible foon
Defende, and to thi mercy everichon,
So mak us, Jesu, for thy mercy digne,
For love of Maide and Moder thyn benigne!
EXPLICIT LIBER TROILI ET CRISEYDIS.
LA PRIERE DE NOSTRE DAME.
LMYGHTY and alle mercyable Quene,
To whom al this worlde fleeth for socoure
To have relees of synne, of sorowe, of
teene!
Gloriouse Virgyne, of alle floures flour,
To the I flee confounded in errour!
Help, and releve, thow mighty debonayre,
Have mercy of my perilouse langour!
Venquysshed hath me my cruel adversayre.
Bountee so fix hath in thine hert his tent
That wel I wote thow wolte my socour be;
Thow kanst not werne hym that, with good entent,
Axeth thyn helpe, thyn herte is ay so free!
Thow art largesse of pleyn felicitee,
Havene and refute of quyete and of reste!
Loo how that theves seven chacen me!
Helpe, Lady bryght, er that my shippe to-breste!
Comfort ys noon, but in yow, Lady dere!
For loo my synne and my confusioun,
Which oughte not in thy presence for to appere,
Han take on me a grevouse accioun,
Of verray ryght and disperacioun !
And, as by ryght, they myghten wel sustene,
That I were worthy my damnacioun,
of yow, blysful hevenes quene!
Doute is there noon, Quene of misericorde,
That thou narte cause of grace and mercye here;
God vouchedsaufe thurgh the with us tacorde:
For certes, Cristes blysful moder dere!
Were now the bowe ybent in swiche manere,
As hyt was first, of justice and of ire,
The rightful God nolde of no mercye here;
But thurgh thee han wee grace as we desire.
Evere hath myn hope of refute in the be
For here before ful often in many a wyse,
Unto mercy hastow receyved me.
But mercy, Lady! at the grete assise,
Whan we shal come before the hye justise!
So litel good shal then in me be founde,
That, but thou er that day correcte me,
Of verray ryght my werke wol me confounde.
Fleyng, I flee for socour to thy tent,
Me for to hide fro tempest ful of drede,
ye yow nat absente, Though I be wikke. O help yet at this nede! Alle have I ben a best in wytte and dede, Yet, Lady! thow me clothe with thyn grace, Thyne enemy and myn, Lady, take hede! Unto my dethe in poynte ys me to chace.
Gloriouse mayde and moder! whiche that never Were bitter nor in erthe nor in see,
But ful of swetnesse and of mercye ever,
Help, that my fader be nat wrothe with me!
Speke thow, for I ne dar nat him yse;
So have I doon in erthe, allas the while!
That certes, but that thow my socour be,
To synke eterne he wol my goost exile.
He vouchedesauf, telle hym, as was hys wylle, Become a man as for oure alliaunce,
And with his bloode he wroote that blysful bille Upon the crois, as general acquytaunce
To every penytent, in ful creaunce:
And therfore, Lady bryght! thow for us pray, Than shalt thou bothe stynte alle grevaunce, And maken our foo to faylen of hys pray.
I wote hyt wel thow wolt ben oure socour,
That art so ful of bountee in certeyne;
For, whan a soule falleth in errour,
Thy pitee gooth and haleth hym ageyne,
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