Chapter IV: Part 4

_My very revered Lady_,--In the first place I send you my very
humble respects, and may it please you to know that I have
received your very loving and tender letter, for the which, with
all my unworthy heart, I thank you, and in the which you do me
so great honour as to have in remembrance the trivial services,
in nowise worthy of your honoured and noble self, which I
rendered you in the past, and thus I am beholden to you more
than I can ever deserve. As concerns my going to you at this
present, I very humbly beseech you, my very dear Lady, to hold
me excused, for, on my faith, my daughter is so grievously sick
that on no account can I leave her, and God knows how I am
troubled because of her sickness. But since, my very revered
Lady, I cannot hold speech with you as soon as I would, and I am
bound to counsel you as to your conduct, as one who has been
under my guidance from childhood until now, however unworthy I
have been of this, methinks I should be wrong if I kept silence
touching that which I knew might bring any trouble upon you if I
failed to make it known to you. Wherefore, dear Lady, I write
what follows, for the which I very humbly entreat of you in no
way to bear me ill-will, for you may be assured that very great
love, and the desire that your great renown and honour may ever
increase, moves me to this. My Lady, I have heard certain
rumours touching your conduct which grieve me from the bottom of
my heart because of the fear I have of the ruin of your good
name, to the which, as it seems to me, they tend, for it is
right and fitting for every princess and high-born lady, since
she is exalted in honour and estate above others, to exceed all
others in goodness, wisdom, manners, disposition, and behaviour,
to the end that she may be an ensample by the which other dames,
and even all womankind, should regulate their conduct. And thus
it is meet that she be devout toward God, and have a tranquil,
gentle, and calm demeanour, and in her diversions be restrained
and without excess, that she laugh with moderation and not
without cause, and have a stately carriage, modest look, and
dignified bearing, with a kindly response and a courteous word
for every one, her dress and attire rich but not too affected,
gracious in her welcome of strangers, in speech restrained and
not too familiar, not hasty in judgment or fickle, never
appearing harsh, capricious, or ill-humoured, or too difficult
to serve, humane and kind to her waiting-women and servants, not
too haughty, in giving bountiful within reason, knowing how to
recognise those who are the most worthy in goodness and
prudence, and her best servants, and to draw all these to her,
and recompense them according to their deserts, not trusting or
putting faith in flatterers, but recognising them, and driving
them from her, not lightly believing gossip, not given to the
habit of whispering either to stranger or to intimate friend in
any secret or solitary place, and in particular not to any of
her retainers or serving-women, so that none may be able to
think that he knows more than another of her private affairs,
never saying in jest to any one whomsoever, in the presence of
others, aught which may not be understood of all, so that those
hearing it may not imagine there to be some foolish secret
between them, and keeping herself neither too much confined to
her chamber, or to herself, nor too much in the sight of other
folk, but sometimes retiring, and at other times appearing
before others. And although the foregoing conditions, and all
other usages befitting a noble princess, were aforetime observed
by you, you now act quite otherwise, it is said, for you amuse
yourself much more, and have become more communicative and
mirthful than was your wont, and it is when the outward signs
are changed, that one usually judges the disposition to be
altered, and now you desire to be alone, and withdrawn from
others save one or two of your waiting-women, and some of your
dependants, with whom, even in the presence of others, you
consult privately, and titter, and talk secretly, as if you well
understood one another, and naught but the company of such
pleases you, and the others can in nowise serve you to your
liking, the which things and doings arouse envy in your other
servants, and cause them to think that your heart is enamoured
of some one. Ah, my very sweet Lady, for God's sake remember who
you are, and the high position to which God has raised you, and
consent not, for the sake of any foolish pleasure, to be
forgetful of your soul and your honour, and do not put trust in
the vain fancy which many young women have, who permit
themselves to believe that there is no wrong in loving with
tender passion provided this is not accompanied by any wrongful
act (and I am convinced that you would prefer death to this),
and that it makes life more pleasurable, and that one thus makes
a man gallant and renowned for aye. Ah, my dear Lady, it is
quite the reverse, and for God's sake do not deceive yourself,
or let yourself be deceived as to this, and take warning from
such noble ladies as you have seen in your time (and such there
are), who, through being merely suspected of such love, have,
without the truth ever becoming known, on this account lost both
honour and life. And yet on my soul I am satisfied that they had
neither sinned nor done aught that was wrong. Ne'ertheless their
children have seen them reproached and thought lightly of. And
however dishonourable such foolish love is in any woman, be she
rich or poor, it is still much more unbecoming and harmful in a
princess or a high-born lady, and the more so the more exalted
she is, and the reason of this is just, for the fame of a
princess extends everywhere, and hence, if there is any stain on
her good name, it is more known of in foreign lands than in the
case of simple folk, and, moreover, gives rise to doubts
concerning their offspring, who are destined to be rulers in the
land, and the princes of other folk. And it is a great
misfortune when there is any suspicion that they are not the
rightful heirs, and much trouble may come of it, for even if
there has been no wrong-doing, this will in nowise be believed
by those who have but heard it reported, "This lady is in love."
And because of a few tender glances, perchance given
thoughtlessly and without evil intent, malicious tongues will
pass judgment, and will add things about it the which were never
done or thought of, and thus the story, the which is never
diminished, but is ever being added to, passes from mouth to
mouth. And thus it is the more necessary for a noble lady than
for other women to pay great attention to all her words and ways
and demeanour, and the reason of this is, that, in the presence
of a noble lady, every one pays attention to her, both to hear
what she will say, and also to attentively take note of all her
doings. And thus the lady cannot look, speak, laugh, or jest,
without all being put together, discussed, and borne in mind of
many, and then reported broadcast. Bethink you, therefore, my
very dear Lady, that it may have a very bad appearance when a
high-born lady, and indeed any woman, becomes gay and mirthful,
and willing to listen to amorous discourse, more than is her
wont, and then, when for any reason she changes her mind, of a
sudden becomes discontented, ungracious, and on her defence, and
no one can serve her to her satisfaction, and she takes no
trouble about her dress or apparel. Certes, folk then say that
she must have been in love, but is so no longer. My Lady, this
is in nowise demeanour becoming to a lady, for, whate'er may be
her intentions, she should alway have a care so to demean and
conduct herself, that such judgments cannot be passed on her,
and although it may well be that, in a matter of love, it is
difficult to maintain such moderation, the most sure way to this
end is to wholly eschew and shun it. Thus you may know, dear
Lady, that every noble lady, and every other woman likewise,
should be far more desirous to acquire a fair name than any
other treasure, for this reflects honour on her, and ever dures
to her and her children. Revered Lady, as I have erewhile
observed, I wholly realise and bear in mind that the influence
which can dispose a young woman to incline to such love, is that
youth, and ease, and indolence cause her to say to herself, "You
are young, you must enjoy yourself, you can well love without
wrong-doing, and this is in nowise evil when it is without sin,
you will make a man valiant, no one will know of it, you will
live more merrily because of it, and you will have won a true
servant and a loyal friend, and, therefore, all your desire."
Ah, my Lady, for God's sake have a care that you be not deceived
by such foolish fancies; for, as far as concerns happiness, be
assured that in love affairs there is an hundred thousand times
more of grief, of care, and of perilous risk, especially for the
ladies, than there is of happiness. Moreover, whiles that love
of itself brings in its train many divers troubles, the fear of
the loss of honour, and that this may become known (the which
makes such pleasure dearly bought), continually haunts the mind.
And as to saying, "There can be no harm in this, since it will
not result in sin," alas, my Lady, no one can by any means be so
sure of herself as to be certain that, however good her
resolution may be, she will alway keep herself in restraint in
the matter of love made in this wise, or that it will not be
discovered, as I have said before. Of a truth, this is not
possible, for never is there fire without smoke, but there is
often smoke without fire. And to say, "I shall make a man
valiant," certes, I declare that it is very great folly to ruin
oneself in order to advance another, even if he be made brave
thereby, and surely does she bring ruin upon herself who
degrades herself for the sake of exalting another. And as to
saying, "I shall have gained a true friend and servant," good
God! in what manner could such a friend or servant advantage a
lady? For if she were in any trouble, he would not dare concern
himself in anywise on her behalf, for fear of her dishonour.
Therefore how could such a servant, who would not risk himself
in her service, be of profit to her? And though there are some
who say they serve their ladies when that they achieve great
things, either in arms or in other ways, I say that they serve
themselves, since the honour and the profit of it remains to
them, and in nowise to the lady. And yet again, my Lady, if you
or any other would make excuse by saying, "Mine is a sad lot,
the which allows me but little freedom and happiness, and
because of this I can, without wrong-doing, have pleasure in
another in order to dispel melancholy and to pass the time,"
assuredly never, with submission to your honoured self and all
others who speak thus, does such excuse avail aught, for very
foolish is he who sets fire to his own house in order to burn
that of his neighbour, but she who bears with such a husband
patiently, and without discrediting herself, so much the more
increases the good renown of herself and of her honour. And as
to having pleasure, certes a noble lady, and indeed every woman,
can, if she will, find, without such love as this, enough of
lawful and fitting pleasures to the which to give herself up,
and with the which to pass the time without melancholy. For
those who have children, what more agreeable or delightful
pleasure can be desired than to see them oft, and to have a care
that they are well nourished and instructed as befits their
noble birth and estate, and to train the daughters in suchwise
that from childhood they may, from the example of good company,
form the habit of living in a proper and seemly manner? But if
the mother is not prudent in all ways, what sort of an ensample
is she, alas, to the daughters? And for those who have no
children, certes it is not unworthy of any noble lady, after she
has had care for her household, to betake her to some work, in
order to avoid idleness, either working fine linen or silken
apparel with rare broidery, or other things of the which she can
make fitting use, and such occupations are wise, and prevent
idle thoughts. But in nowise do I say that a young and noble
lady may not rightly divert herself, and laugh, and play, at
seasonable times, even in the presence of lords and gentlemen,
or that she may not, so far as is befitting to her position, do
honour to strangers, to each one according to his rank, but this
should be done so soberly, and in such modest fashion, that
there be not a single glance, or laugh, or word, the which is
not under due restraint, and within proper bounds, and she
should ever be on her guard that it may not be possible to
discover in her aught that is unworthy or unseemly, either in
word, look, or behaviour. Ah, God! If every noble lady, and in
truth every woman, rightly knew how such virtuous demeanour
becomes her, the more would she be at pains to possess this
adornment rather than any other whatsoever, for no precious
jewel is there which can adorn her so well. And further, my very
dear Lady, it remains to speak of the perils and difficulties
which accompany such love, the which are without number. The
first and greatest is that it angers God, and then if the
husband or kinsfolk discover it, the woman is ruined, or falls
under reproach, and never after has she any happiness. And
again, even if this does not come to pass, let us consider the
disposition of lovers, for though all were loyal, secret, and
truthful (the which they by no means are, since it is well known
that they are generally faithless, and, in order to deceive the
ladies, say that which they neither think on nor would do),
ne'ertheless of a surety it is true that the ardour of such love
does not dure for long, even with the most loyal. Ah, dear Lady!
be warned that truly you cannot conceive the troublous thought
which dwells in her breast when it comes to pass that this love
is at an end, and the lady, who has been blinded by the
environment of foolish delight, grievously repents her when she
perceives and meditates on the distractions and the divers
perils the which she has ofttimes encountered, and how much she
would, whatever it had cost her, that this had never chanced to
her, and that she could not be thus reproached. And, moreover,
you and every lady can see what folly it is to put one's person
and one's honour at the mercy of the tongues, and in the power,
of such servants, for they call themselves servants, although,
for the most part, the ending of the service is such that,
although they have made promise unto you, and have sworn, to
keep the secret, they in no wise hold their peace concerning it,
and in the end the ladies are ofttimes left with the reproach of
such love, and the gossip of folk concerning it, or, at the very
least, with the fear and dread in their hearts that those very
ones in whom they have put their trust, talk of it, and make
boast of it, to any one else who knows of the affair, and thus
they are delivered over from freedom to bondage, and behold the
end of such love! Do you not perceive, my Lady, that it seems to
these servants to be greatly to their credit to say, and to make
boast, that they are, or have been, loved of a very noble
mistress, or a woman of high rank, and how that they suppress
the truth concerning it? But God knows how they lie, and may He
grant that, as regards you, my Lady, you may know it well, for
you will have need to bear it in mind. And since, my Lady, you
love ballads and ditties, I send you one touching on this
subject, written by a clever master, if you will do me the
favour to take notice of it. And the servants, too, who know
your secret, and whom it behoves you to trust, think you, i'
faith, that they keep silence concerning this, albeit you have
made them swear to do so? Certes, the greater number of them are
such that they would be very much vexed if it were not noised
abroad that they have much greater intimacy and authority with
you than have the others, and if they do not openly proclaim
your secrets, they hint at them by means of divers covert signs,
the which they think are duly observed. Good God, what a slave
is the lady, and any other woman in the like case, who dares not
reprove or blame her serving men or women, even if she sees that
they behave them very ill, for that she perceives herself to be
in their power, and that they have risen up against her in such
arrogance that she dares not utter a word, and is thus
constrained to endure at their hands that which she would not
endure from any other! And what, think you, do those say who see
and pay heed to this? These only pay attention to that which
they see, and be sure that they ofttimes whisper it abroad, and
if it chances that the lady is angered, or sends away her
servant, God knows that all will be revealed, and made known
everywhere. And yet it ofttimes happens that they are, and have
been, the means and the cause of bringing into being this love,
the which they have encouraged with zeal and great diligence, in
order to gain for themselves either gifts, or offices, or other
emoluments. Very honoured Lady, what shall I say concerning
this? Be assured that as soon as one sifts the matter to the
bottom, one discovers all the mischievous perils which this
amorous life entails; and do not doubt this, for so it is. And
because of this, very dear Lady, do not cast yourself into such
peril, and if you have any thought of it, for God's sake
withdraw from it before greater evil to you comes of it, for
better is it to do this betimes than late, and late than never,
and already you can see what will be said about it if that you
persevere in your unwonted ways, when even now they are
perceived, and in consequence of this are talked of in many
places. Thus I know not what further to write to you, save that,
to the utmost of my power, I humbly entreat of you not to take
this from me in bad part, but may it please you to be assured of
the good intent which constrains me to say it, and very much
rather would I do my duty by loyally admonishing you, and
causing you to be an-angered, than either counsel you to your
ruin, or keep silence concerning it in order to have your
goodwill. My Lady, be pleased to pay heed to my ballad, the
which I enclose herewith. Very honoured Princess, and my dear
Lady, I pray God to give you a happy and long life, and
paradise.--Written at La Tour, this 18th day of January

Your very humble servant,

_Sebille de Monthault_, Lady of La Tour.

BALLAD

Most noble ladies, cherish your fair fame,
And for God's love the contrary eschew
Of good report, lest thus you come to blame:
Nor make your choice of all acquaintance new.
For some might tell (such evil tongues have they),
How wanton manners in your life they see,
Though never yet in any fault you lay:
And from such faithless rascals keep you free.

For little would it serve to bear the name
Of one whom many love, yet find for due
Nought but dishonour that from slanderers came
Telling abroad how in your works they knew
Your wantonness: so well it is alway
To hold aloof, ere any trial be,
From ill that follows after foolish play,
And from such faithless rascals keep you free.

Nay, be ye rather armed against the same
With perfect wit, so tirelessly they sue
To stain your honour, whence full often shame
Comes without cause, yet they to pleasure you
Feign courtesy: my warning may not stay,
So oft I hear how those ye hold in fee
Blame you no less: withdraw from these, I pray,
And from such faithless rascals keep you free.

Most noble ladies! be not wroth to-day
That I have ever counselled you to flee
These traitors: trust me, though no more I say,
And from such faithless rascals keep you free.

In such wise did the Lady of La Tour, who made me very sad by the letter the which she wrote, make answer to my Lady, who was sore dismayed by it albeit she was not displeased with her on account of it, but said forthwith, "Ah! if it had pleased our lord that she had been alway with me, she would have exhorted me wisely, and thus I should not have been beguiled by evil counsel, but ne'ertheless I shall abandon this, and abide me by her counsel, for I well perceive the grievous peril which pertains to a life of love, but it is meet that he who is oft in my thoughts should abandon it likewise." Then she wrote a letter to me, even as is here set forth.

_Sealed Letter_

_My good Friend_,--It is indeed true that foolish love, the
which deceives many, and the sincere pity which I had for your
plaint, have led me much to forget that which I ought ever to
have had in remembrance, the which is, to preserve my soul and
mine honour. And I have fully come to see how that I have
already exposed myself to many great dangers and perils in order
to fulfil your youthful wishes and mine own. Thank God, however,
that there has been no evil in it, nor ever will be as long as I
live! Yet the world would in nowise believe this if any ill
chance befell me, from the which may God preserve me! And I well
perceive that whosoe'er pursues foolish love, is in nowise
master of himself or of his demeanour, so that it comes to pass
that he may be discovered, as you can see by the long letter
which the good and prudent woman, the Lady of La Tour, has
written to me, the which I send you in order that you may
perceive the reason which constrains me to withdraw from it.
For, when I gave myself up to this love, I took no thought for
the perils into the which I rushed, but this wise lady has
opened mine eyes to examine and consider my doings, and if I do
this not, I shall be defamed and ruined, and this, dear friend,
you could in nowise desire. And because of this, I beseech you
to withdraw from it, and know that I ask this of you in spite of
my love, and with my eyes full of tears, for none could be more
loved than I love you. Therefore in nowise believe that this
comes to pass through want of love, for I swear to you on my
portion in Paradise, and make promise to you by every oath that
can be made, that, as long as I live, you shall be my only
friend, and you alone will I love alway, if this will content
you, neither do I withdraw my love from you, for you have in
nowise deserved this, nor could my heart, which loves you,
consent to it, but it at least behoves you to cease from seeing
me, because of the harm which might come to me through it, the
which, I well know, will be very grievous to you, and full of
sorrow, but whiles that your heart may be sad about it, in
nowise will mine be happy. And I know not what more to say to
you, nor can I write more, for my desolate heart, my eyes, and
my face are suffused with tears, and I bid you farewell, my
sweet Love.

Your sorrowing Lady.

And when that I had read this sad letter, my pulse and my colour failed me, and I became like unto one dead, and it was long ere I came to myself again, for I swooned because of the grief which I felt to hear that it was needful for me to keep away from my lady. Never had such a sorrow chanced to me, and so sorely did I weep because of this, that my heart was well nigh broken. And I read the long letter the which had set this thing agoing, and God knows how, when I read it, I cursed the old lady who had sent it. I would have drowned her but that this was not possible. And when I had longwhiles borne this grievous sorrow without that it was diminished, I wrote this letter, moistening it with my tears.

_To the most noble of ladies_.

Alas, my sweet and honoured Lady, my peerless love whom I serve,
fear, obey, and worship! Where can I find words sufficing to
declare unto you, and to make you wholly to know, my grievous
sorrow? Tears and weeping so dull my mind and my memory, that I
know not where I am, or what I do. Ah, my Lady! you have indeed
discomforted me by your cruel letter, the which tells me that it
behoves me to keep away from you! Certes it is indeed true,
whatsoe'er the Lady of La Tour says of Lovers, that I am more to
you than aught that you have in the world beside, and that I
have made promise unto you (the which I will keep truly all my
life), that, as far as in me lies, I will obey you in all
things, without doing aught that is contrary to your wishes. But
when your wish is that I withdraw me from this, I cannot obey,
for I have abandoned my life to it. Thus it is not in my power
to give it up, even if I die for this. And, dear Lady, as to
obeying your command that I see you no more, if it is your
pleasure that it be alway thus, it is meet that I resist this
with all my might, since if you bid me do that which would kill
me or drive me mad, I know of a truth that in this I cannot
obey. And so that you may perceive that I desire your honour
more than does she who has written so much to you concerning it,
and to prevent any suspicion that you are the cause of my death,
I shall go beyond the seas to end my days, and nevermore shall I
return from thence, and I pledge you my faith that you will find
this to be so. Alas! where has this one, in order to compass my
ruin, discovered that already there is rumour and talk of our
love? Truly she must have imagined it. Saving her reverence, it
is not possible, for naught was ever conducted more prudently or
secretly than, up to this present, our sweet love has been, and
alway will be if God wills. For God knows that I would rather
suffer death than do aught that would cause you dishonour. Ah,
my Lady, my Lady! Shall I never see you again? If this must be
so, God grant that I may lose my sight, and that I may never
again look on anything, for naught beside could delight me. How
could my heart dure and remain alive when it no longer has the
joy the which it receives when it is nigh unto yours? Ah, woe is
me! This thought, alas, is a lance which pierces right through
my sorrowful heart. It cannot be that I must thus lose, and
without cause, the tender comfort, the amorous delights, the
pleasing glances, and the winsome words, the which I receive
from you, and of which the sweet remembrance, which remained in
my thoughts with the hope of their renewal, made me more
gladsome and contented than aught beside. And, my very sweet
Lady, since I must needs die without deserving it, one favour
only do I beg of you, for the sake of all the love your tender
and noble heart erewhiles had for me, and do not be so cruel to
your poor servant as to deny it to him, the which is that, ere I
take leave of you for ever, I may for once have speech with you,
so that I may bid you farewell, and say adieu to all the
delights the which you have so lovingly bestowed on me, for
never, on my soul, have I thought on that which is evil, or
contrary to your desires. Alas, my Lady! Well do I know how you
do wrong to those desires, and unjustly cause them to endure
misfortune, for boldly do I declare that this farewell is in
nowise in accordance with their assent or wish. May this favour
be vouchsafed to me, dear Lady. And I know not what more to say
to you, but be assured that I shall obey you unto death. May it
please you to make known to me forthwith what you would have me
to do, and whether you would that I go beyond the seas as I have
said, or what is your pleasure. And be pleased to pardon me that
this letter is blotted with my tears, for, on my soul, it has
not been possible for me to restrain them whiles that I have
been writing it. Honoured Lady, I commend me to you more than I
know how to say, and I pray God to grant you all good things
that are to be desired.--Written in great grief, with tears and
weeping.

Your poor lover, the most unhappy of men.

And I sent this letter to my lady, and wept sorely whilst delivering it. And I remained cast down, sad, and silent, making plaint unto myself. And I said in my grief--

BALLAD

Ah, Death, Death, Death, to thee I make my prayer!
Come, rend me from this dolorous world apart!
Life lures no longer: since my lady fair
Would have me shun her, let my hapless heart
Be very prey to pain and sorrow's sword.
Gladness I leave and all delight for aye,
And thee alone, O Death, have I implored
Because my lady hath bidden me good-bye.

Alas, alas, what doleful news is there!
Never to knight assailed with glaive or dart
Came heavier trouble than the woes I share,
I, who have gathered up in shame and smart
An evil greater than I may record:
Since now my love from all adventure high
Must needs withdraw, and death be my reward
Because my lady hath bidden me good-bye.

Ah, lady of mine, can'st thou such hardness dare
And suffer me in anguish to depart
For love of thee? Yet Love must witness bear
Who knoweth no age can show, nor any art,
Servant more faithful both in deed and word
Among all lovers that he might espy:
But my mishaps a worser end afford
Because my lady hath bidden me good-bye.

Ah, God of love, why sufferest thou, fair lord,
That thus in sorrow undeserved I die?
All things I leave, of all to be abhorred,
Because my lady hath bidden me good-bye.

In such manner as I have told you did I write in answer to my Lady. And when that she had opened my letter, and saw it so covered and defaced and blurred with tears, certes it was told unto me that she was much discomforted, and that as she read it, she wept so much, that the tears ran down her face. And then, of her grace, she wrote back to me in great haste, and charged the messenger that he lose no time in conveying the letter duly. And he pledged him not to tarry by the way until he had brought it to me. And the messenger hasted him all the night, and stayed him not until that he was come at daybreak to the gate of the Castle. Then he brought me the letter, the which calmed my grievous distress, and banished my sorrow. And great need had I of this, for certes I was like to die or to lose my reason. So listen now to the purport of the letter which she sent, and of the which my heart had great joy.

_To the noblest and best of all_,
_My true and loyal friend_.

_My true, loyal, very kind and dear Friend_,--It is the fact
that, although I was fearful of losing mine honour, the which I
ought to dread above all things, as is counselled, as you have
been able to see, in the letter of the Lady of La Tour, to whom
I am much beholden for it (for certes I know that she has said
this for my well-being), it was against my wish that I wrote to
you, in my last letter, that which I made known to you therein,
for, my kind and gracious friend, I well perceive that Love
cannot suffer us to part from one another, and I repent me much
that I declared this unto you, for I know that you have had, and
still have, much sorrow because of this. Wherefore I pray you to
forgive me, and I beseech your pardon for it. And it much
grieves me that our good friend, your cousin, is not beside you
to cheer you. And I regret me that he is gone on so long a
journey. So by all the influence I may have over you, and by the
love you bear me, I entreat you in all things to possess your
mind in peace as aforetime, for greatly do I fear me that you
have become so sad, that I may not be in time to comfort you,
and that some sickness (from the which may God preserve you),
may overtake you. Therefore I shall have no ease until I have
news of you. So I write to you in great haste, beseeching you to
be cheerful and happy, for I have very good news to tell you,
and this is that our good friend, in whom we trust, will be here
within four days. So you shall come to see me, and I will keep
you advised concerning this, and we will welcome one another
heartily as heretofore. For, so help me God, even if it be my
ruin, I cannot part from you, and I have hope that, by God's
aid, our doings may be well hid, and also that you will alway
guard mine honour well, for on this I rely. My sweet and dear
Love, I pray God to give you perfect joy. Written in haste.

Your true and loyal friend.

And when I received this letter, I was wholly freed from my grief, and no longer did I weep, but instead I praised God for this very good news. And I answered the letter, and gave much thanks to my sweet lady, and I further besought of her that I might see her right soon, so that I might tell unto her the sorrow the which the letter I had received had caused me. And I know not wherefore I should rehearse more of this matter, for it is time for me to end. You have heard how that I had, without dishonour, such joy of love as I desired, and I gainsay him who would avouch that there was ever any wrong-doing or evil whatsoever in our love, or that there was aught in it by the which honour was violated, wherefore our love should be the more esteemed. Moreover I have told unto you the pain and the grief which I endured aforetime, and how that I persevered until my lady had pity on me. And now it is time this story were ended, for if I rehearsed all the adventures, some pleasing, and others painful, the which chanced to me in this love, and the evil and the good which came to me of it, perchance I should become wearisome, for I should have much to tell, and it would be a matter without end. But, to sum up briefly, I tell you that I ofttimes afterward with great delight saw the fair one in whom I put my trust, and joyously did I receive from her, in large measure, loving comfort the which still dwells in my memory. And for full two years did this dure, for she would not let me depart from out her country, and right well did this please me, for so ardent was I, that I cared for naught save to be near her. Thus I bethink me that I resorted thither more than was fitting, so that anger, stirred up by evil speaking, burst forth on account of our doings, and because of this, I was troubled and ill-at-ease, for I could not stay it, and thus I was no longer able to see my lady as was my wont, the which grieved me sorely. Moreover I was blamed by friends, and called recreant, in that I remained so much in retirement, and only frequented jousts and tourneys and feasts which were held near by, and not those at a distance. This, indeed, did not become one of noble birth, and thus I should be quite the most despicable of my lineage if that I remained there longer, and pursued not arms in many lands for to win praise and renown. So spake my kinsfolk, and I felt assured that they descanted to me thus for my good, but I feared me that it might be displeasing to my lady to do this without her consent, and my heart was exceeding sad.

And I besought of her that she would so contrive, that I might have speech with her, since, chiefly for the sake of her good name, it was needful that I should depart thence for awhile, and assuredly might she believe that never for a single day should I forget her, and thus I would go into Spain, whatever might come of it, and it was better to do this before worse happened to her. And moreover she should have in remembrance that I had made promise unto her that, for love of her, I would achieve so much, that in the end I should be known as a brave man.

And so much did I talk, that she scarce uttered a word, and for very short whiles did she remain, for at great risk was she come to a place where I was.

And there was much weeping and great dole and sad countenance at our parting, and scarce would she consent that I should go to the wars. And wetting her face and neck with tears, and kissing her in haste, I very fervently commended her to God, and thus I commended me to her a thousand times, and submitted myself to her will. And I made promise unto her that wheresoe'er I went, I would send tidings unto her, and thus she could send back word to me how it fared with her.

And thus I departed, weeping and in sad case at leaving my beloved one. And I joined a Spanish force, and was absent, and far from the fair one, for the space of a year, and then I came back, being moved thereto by a longing to see her. And when she heard of my return, she so contrived, that I had speech with her without this being known of others. And joyously was I received, and verily did we welcome one another heartily, and rejoice over our reunion.

Thus from time to time I went to meet her, but there was risk in my having speech with her, and so she came stealthily, in fear and trembling, for fear of being observed, by reason of which she was quite cast down. Therefore when I saw her so distraught, much of my joy was taken away, because of the peril to the which I perceived that she, for my sake, exposed her honour, and in the which she placed herself. And because of this, I undertook many journeys, and sailed beyond the seas for fear of evil-speaking. And in the manner did I spend ten years, and ofttimes did I go to and fro. And at times, when it was opportune, it chanced that I saw my dear lady.

And in suchwise did I explore many lands. And in a severe encounter I was made a prisoner of war, at the which my lady was disquieted. Thus I endured many misfortunes ere the ten years passed by. Even love brought many upon me, and saved me not from them, for albeit I never, on my soul, saw aught in my lady the which should have caused me to mistrust her, jealousy, which is like unto madness, brewed for me such a potion, that I became like unto one mad, for once, on my return from afar, I bethought me, as soon as I saw her, that her heart was changed toward me, and that, as it seemed to me, she had wholly cast me off, the which filled my heart with such grief, that I was mad with rage. Thus all my happiness was gone, and for longwhiles I could not calm or appease my heart, the which was sorely troubled, and my lady was so displeased with me on account of this, that for awhile I somewhat lost her favour. Moreover, if I may venture to say so, I once saw her a little jealous, the which distressed me much, for I knew not the reason of it, for God knows that neither in thought nor in demeanour was I ever false to her, nor did I so much as raise mine eyes to notice any other lady. But I well perceived that he whose heart is wholly possessed of the passion of love much needs become a prey to jealousy, for he who bears within him a great and perfect love, can scarce restrain him from it.

And many songs were written touching our affair, some sad, and some joyous; and for divers occasions I devised ballads, and lays, and plaints, and other conceits, of the which there was one that was joyous amongst ten which were sad, for such is the wont of the foolish heart which dissembles love; and my lady sent some to me in her turn when that she was able. And our ditties eased our troubles when that we were far from one another, for in such manner did we divert us in the hope of coming by something better, however long this might be in the coming.

And I have made known everything, from first to last, touching the love from the which, for full ten years, I had very sad and painful thoughts, but our love is in nowise ended, nor will it pass away until that our bodies perish. But slanderers (whom may God confound, for there are too many of them in the world) have forced me to abandon the fellowship of her to whom I had made promise of my whole love. And in this she shall not find me to fail. But I perceived that dishonour came to her because of me; wherefore I hated my life which dured so long, for every one gossiped about her. And in order to preserve her honour and her peace of mind, I shrank from seeing her whom I loved above all, but ne'ertheless, sorrowful and sad, I long made lament for that she was so blamed on my account. But notwithstanding, my body, my goods, and all that I have to bestow, are hers, and if it were needful, I would die for her, and this is no fable. So I pray Almighty God to give her peace, and honour, and a happy life, and perfect joy without end. And now my story is ended.

The Book called "The Duke of True Lovers" is set forth.

----

Printed by _Ballantyne, Hanson & Co._
Edinburgh & London

THE MEDIEVAL LIBRARY

UNDER THE GENERAL EDITORSHIP OF
SIR ISRAEL GOLLANCZ
Litt.D., F.B.A.

Presenting a selection of the choicest literary productions of
the Middle Ages in Europe--romances, religious works, poetry and
manners--and including many masterpieces recently rescued from
obscurity.

Post 8vo, Brown Boards, 5s. net, unless otherwise stated.

----

1. THE BOOK OF THE DUKE OF TRUE LOVERS

By _Christine de Pisan_; a French romance of the 15th century.
Translated into prose and verse with an introduction by _Alice
Kemp-Welch_, _Laurence Binyon_ and _E. R. D. Maclagan_. With 6
photogravure plates after illuminations in the original MS.

2. THE TUMBLER OF OUR LADY & OTHER MIRACLES

Mainly from a collection made by _Gautier de Coinci_, a monk of
St. Medard near Soissons; French, 13th century. Translated in
prose with an introduction by _Alice Kemp-Welch_. With 7
photogravure plates after contemporary MSS.

3. THE CHATELAINE OF VERGI

_Anonymous_; a French love-poem of the 13th century. Translated
into prose by _Alice Kemp-Welch_. With an introduction by Prof.
_L. Brandin_ and the original text in an Appendix. With 5
photogravure plates after an ivory casket of the 14th century
now in the British Museum.

4. THE BABEES' BOOK: MEDIEVAL MANNERS for the YOUNG.

From the Old English texts of Dr. Furnivall; 14th and 15th
centuries. Done into modern prose and verse with an introduction
and notes by _Edith Rickert_. With 6 photogravure plates after
illuminations in contemporary MSS.

5. THE DIVINE CONSOLATION of the BLESSED ANGELA da FOLIGNO.

By the _Same_; Italian, 14th century. Translated in prose by _M.
G. Steegman_ and with an introduction by _Algar Thorold_. With
photo. front, after Pierantonio Mezzastris and 4 woodcuts after
the original edition of 1536.

6. THE LEGEND OF THE HOLY FINA, VIRGIN of S. GEMIGNANO.

By _Fra Giovanni di Coppo_; Italian, 14th century. Translated in
prose with an introduction and notes by _M. Mansfield_. With the
original text and 5 photogravures after Benozzo Gozzoli,
Ghirlandaio, etc.

7. EARLY ENGLISH ROMANCES OF LOVE

_Anonymous_; 13th, 14th and 15th centuries. Containing: 'Floris
and Blancheflour,' 'Sir Degrevant,' 'The Squire of Low Degree,'
etc. Done into modern prose with introduction and notes by
_Edith Rickert_. With 5 photogravures after contemporary MSS.

8. EARLY ENGLISH ROMANCES OF FRIENDSHIP

_Anonymous_; 13th, 14th and 15th centuries. Containing: 'Amis
and Amiloun,' 'Sir Amadis,' 'The Tale of Gamelyn,' etc. Done
into modern prose with introduction and notes by _Edith
Rickert_. With 6 photogravure plates after contemporary MSS.

9. THE CELL OF SELF-KNOWLEDGE

By _Richard of St. Victor_, _Walter Hilton_, _Margery Kempe_,
etc.; 7 English mystical treatises of the 14th cent. Edited with
introduction and notes by _Edmund G. Gardner_, M.A. With
coloured collotype frontispiece.

10. ANCIENT ENGLISH CHRISTMAS CAROLS

_Traditional_; 1400-1700. Collected and arranged by _Edith
Rickert_ with intro., notes and glossary. With 8 photogravure
plates after missals of the 15th and 16th cents. _Price_ 7_s._
6_d._ net.

11. EIGHT TROBADOR POETS

Containing _Bertran de Born_, _Bernart de Ventadorn_, _Guiraut
De Bornelh_, _Arnaut Daniel_, etc.; Provencal, 11th-13th
centuries. Selected and translated in prose with intros. and
notes by _Barbara Smythe_. With a coloured frontispiece and
decorative initials.

12. CLIGES

By _Chretien de Troyes_; a French romance of the 13th century.
Translated in prose by _L. J. Gardiner, M.A._ With photo. front.

13. PEARL

An English poem of the 14th century. Translated and edited by
_Sir Israel Gollancz_, Litt.D., F.B.A. With textual and
explanatory notes, glossary, photogravure frontispiece after
_Holman Hunt_ and 6 illustrations after the original MS. With
the _Olympia_ of _Boccaccio_ in an Appendix. _Price_ 7_s._ 6_d._
net.

14. EARLY LIVES OF CHARLEMAGNE

By _Eginhard_ and _The Monk of St. Gall._; German, 9th century.
Translated from the Latin and edited with introduction and notes
by Prof. _A. J. Grant_. With photogravure frontispiece.

15. THE CHRONICLE OF JOCELIN OF BRAKELOND

By the _Same_; a picture of English social and monastic life in
the 12th century. Translated from the Latin and edited with
notes by _L. C. Jane_, M.A. With an introduction by _Cardinal
Gasquet_ and a photogravure frontispiece.

16. THE VISION OF PIERS THE PLOWMAN

By _William Langland_; English, 14th century. Done into modern
metrical English with introduction and notes by Prof. _W. W.
Skeat_. With frontispiece after contemporary MS.

_Published by_
CHATTO & WINDUS: 97 & 99
ST. MARTIN'S LANE
LONDON, W.C. 2

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