[Chaucer dreams that he is carried up by an midway between heaven, earth, and sea. Jove does him this honour.]
eagle to the House of Fame, The eagle thus explains why
'But er I bere thee mochë ferre1,
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 faire 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;
And peynest the to preyse hys art,
Although thou haddest never part;
Wherfore, al-so God me blesse,
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, also 2 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,
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 allë 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 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,
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!
Bút 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 flour3,
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
* See the introduction to the poem of that name, p. 84. 4 reaped the fruit of poetry. 5 be not ill pleased.
That maketh it soune after his fyngerynge,
Ryght so mowe1 ye oute of myn hertë bringe
Swich vois, ryght as yow lyst, to laughe or pleyne;
Be ye myn gide, and lady sovereyne.
As to my erthely God, to yow I calle,
Bothe in this werke, and in my sorwes alle.
[He falls asleep, and dreams that he sees the God of Love leading in Queen Alcestis, clad like the daisy.]
Whan that the sonne out of the south gan weste,
And that this flour gan close, and goon to reste,
For derknesse of the nyght, the which she dredde,
Home to myn house ful swiftly I me spedde
To goon to reste, and erly for to ryse,
To seen this flour sprede, as I devyse.
And in a litel herber that I have,
That benched was on turvës fresshe ygrave,
I bad men sholdë me my couchë make;
For deyntee of the newë someres sake2,
I bad hem strawen flourës on my bed.
Whan I was leyd, and had myn eyen hed3,
I fel on slepe, in-with an houre or twoo,
Me mette how I lay in the medewe thoo",
To seen this flour that I love so and drede;
And from a-fer come walkyng in the mede
The God of Love, and in his hande a quene,
And she was clad in reäl habit grene;
A fret of gold she hadde next her heer,
And upon that a whit coroune she beer,
With flourouns smale, and [that] I shal nat lye,
For al the world ryght as a dayësye
Ycorouned ys with whitë levës lyte',
So were the flowrouns of hire coroune white;
For of oo perlë, fyne, oriental,
Hire white corounë was imaked al,
2 for the sake of the rarity of the new summer.
+ I dreamed.
6 royal.
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