Chapter II: Part 2

To understandyng these iiii. accident:
Doctryne, perceyveraunce, and exercyse,
And also therto is equypolent
Evermore the perfyt practyse,
For fyrst doctryne in all goodly wyse
The perceyveraunt trowthe in hys bote of wyll
In understandyng for to knowe good from yll.

So famous poetes did us endoctrine
Of the ryght way for to be intellectyfe;
Theyr fables they dyd ryght so ymagyne,
That by example we may voyde the stryfe,
And wythout myschefe for to lede our lyfe,
By the advertence of theyr storyes olde,
The fruit wherof we may full well beholde

Depaynted on aras, how in antiquitie,
Dystroyed was the grete citie of Troye,
For a lytell cause, grounded on vanitie,
To mortall ruyn they tourned theyr joye.
Theyr understandyng they dyd than occupy,
Nothyng prepensyng how they dyd prepare
To scourge them selfe and bryng them in a snare.

Who is opprest with a lytell wrong,
Revengyng it he may it soone encrease;
For better it is for to suffer among
An injury, as for to keepe the peace,
Than to begyne whych he shall never cease.
Warre ones begon, it is hard to know
Who shall abyde and who shall overthrowe.

The hygh power, honour, and noblenes,
Of the myghty Romaynes, to whose excellence
All the wyde worlde so muche of gretenes
Unto theyr empyre was in obedience,
Suche was theyr famous porte and preemynence,
Tyll within themselfe there was a contraversy
Makyng them lese theyr worthy sygneoury.

It is ever the grounde of sapience,
Before that thou accomplysh outwardly,
For to revolve understandyng and prepence
All in thy selfe full often inwardly,
The begynnyng and the myddle certaynly
Wyth the ende, or thou put it in ure,
And werke wyth councell that thou mayst be sure.

And who that so doth shall never repent,
For his dede is founded on a perfyt grounde,
And for to fall it hath none impediment,
Wyth surenes it is so hygh-walled rounde.
In welth and ryches it must needes habound,
On every syde it hath suche ordinaunce
That nothynge can do it anoyaunce.

Thus the poetes conclude full closely
Their fruitfull problemes for reformacion,
To make us lerne to lyve directly,
Theyr good entent and true construccion,
Shewyng to us the whole affeccion
Of the way of vertue, welth, and stablenes,
And to shut the gate of myschevous entres.

And evermore they are ymaginatyfe,
Tales newe from daye to daye to fayne,
The erryng people, that are retractif,
As to the ryght way to bryng them agayne:
And who that lyst their sentence retayne,
It shall hym prouffyt yf he wyll apply
To doo therafter ful conveniently.

Carbuncles in the most derke nyght
Dothe shyne fayre wyth clere radiant beames,
Exylyng derkenes wyth his rayes lyght;
And so these poetes, with theyr golden streames,
Devoyde our rudenes wyth grete fyry lemes;
Theyr centencious verses are refulgent
Encensyng out the odour redolent.

And is theyr worke also extynguyshible?
Nay, truely, for it doth shyne ryght cleere
Thrugh cloudes derke unto the odyble,
To whom truely it may nothyng appeere
Where connyng fayleth, the scyence so deere
Ignoraunce hateth wyth fervent envy,
And unto connyng is mortall ennemy.

O ygnoraunce, wyth slouth so opprest,
Open thy curtayne, so ryght dymme and derke,
And evermore remembre the behest
Of thy labour to understande thy werke,
Of many a noble and ryght famous clerke.
Fy upon slouth, the nourysher of vyce,
Whych unto youth doth often prejudice.

Who in youth lyst nothyng to lerne,
He wyl repent hym often in hys age,
That he the connynge can nothynge decerne;
Therfore now youth, with lusty courage,
Rule thy fleshe and thy slouth aswage,
And in thy youth the scyence engender
That in thyne age it may the worship render.

Connyng is lyght and also pleasaunt,
A gentyll burden wythout grevousnes,
Unto hym that is ryght well applyaunt
For to bere it wyth al his besenes;
He shal attaste the well of frutefulnes,
Which Vyrgyl claryfied, and also Tullyus,
Wyth Latyn pure, swete, and delicyous.

From whense my mayster Lydgate veryfyde
The depured rethoryke in Englysh language;
To make our tongue so clerely puryfyed,
That the vyle termes should nothing arage
As like a pye to chatter in a cage,
But for to speke wyth rethoryke formally,
In the good order, wythouten vylany.

And who his bokes lyst to here or se,
In them he shall fynd elocucyon,
With as good order as any may be,
Kepyng ful close the moralyzacyon
Of the trouth of his great intencyon,
Whose name is regestred in remembraunce
For to endure by longe contynuaunce.

Nowe after this, for to make relacyon
Of famous rethoryke so in this party,
As to the fourth part, Pronouncyacyon,
I shal it shew anone ryght openly,
Wyth many braunches of it sykerly;
And how it taketh the hole effect
In every place, degre, and aspecte.

CAP. XII.
OF PRONUNCIATION, THE IV. PART OF RETHORIKE.

Whan the matter is founde by invencyon,
Be it mery or yet of grete sadnes,
Sette in a place by the disposycyon,
And by elocucyons famous clerenes
Exornate well and redy to expres,
Then pronouncyacyon, wyth chere and countenance,
Convenyently must make the utteraunce.

Wyth humble voyce and also moderate,
Accordynge as by hym is audyence,
And if there be a ryght hye estate,
Then under honour and obedyence
Reasonably done unto his excellence,
Pronouncyng his matter so facundious,
In all due maner to be centencyous.

For though a matter be never so good,
Yf it be tolde wyth tongue of barbary,
In rude maner wythout the discrete mode,
It is distourbance to a hole company
For to se them so rude and boystously
Demeane them selfe, utterynge the sentence
Wythout good maner or yet intellygence.

It is a thinge ryght greatly convenable
To pronounce the matter as it is convenient,
And to the herers ryght delectable,
Whan the utterer, wythout impediment,
Wyth ryght good maner, countenaunce, and entent
Dothe his tale unto them tretably,
Kepynge his maner and voyce full moderately.

This is the costome that the poetes use,
To tel theyr tale with al due circumstance,
The vylayne courage they do much refuse
That is boystous and rude of governaunce,
And evermore they do to them avaunce
Nurture, maner, and al gentylnes.
In their behavyng wyth all semelynes.

And thus the gentyl rethoricyan,
Through the labour of his ryal clergy,
The famous nurture originally began
Oppressynge our rudenes and our foly,
And for to governe us ryght prudently,
The good maner encreaseth dignitie,
And the rudenes also iniquitie.

The famous poete who so lyst to here,
To tell this tale it is solacyous,
Beholdyng hys maners and also hys chere
After the maner be it sad or joyous.
Yf it be sad, his chere is dolorus,
As in bewaylyng a woful tragedy
That worthy is to be in memory.

And if the matter be joyfull and glad,
Lyke countenaunce outwardly they make;
But moderacyon in theyr myndes is had,
So that outrage may them not overtake.
I can not wryte to muche for theyr sake,
Them to laude, for my tyme is shorte
And the matter longe which I must reporte.

CAP. XIII.
OF MEMORY, THE V. PART OF RETHORYKE.

And the v. parte is than memoratyfe,
The whiche the perfyte mynystracyon
Ordinately causeth to be retentyfe,
Dryving the tale to good conclusyon;
For it behoveth to have respeccyon
Unto the tale, and the veray grounde
And on what ymage he his matter found.

If to the oratour many a sundry tale,
One after other, treatably be tolde,
Than sundry ymages in his closed male
Eche for a mater he doth than well holde,
Lyke to the tale he doth than so beholde,
And inwarde a recapitulacyon,
Of eche ymage the moralazacyon.

Whiche be the tales he grounded pryvely
Upon these ymages significacyon,
And whan tyme is for him to specify
All his tales by demonstracion,
In due order, maner and reason,
Than eche ymage inwarde dyrectly
The oratour doth take full properly.

So is enprynted in his propre mynde
Every tale wyth hole resemblaunce.
By this ymage he doth his mater fynde,
Eche after other wythouten varyaunce.
Who to this arte wyl gyve attendaunce,
As therof to knowe the perfytenes,
In the poetes scole he must have intres.

Than shal he knowe, by perfyte study,
The memorial arte of rethoryke defuse,
It shal to him so wel exemplefy,
If that him lyst, the scyence to use;
Though at the fyrste it be to hym obtuse,
With exercyse he shal it well augment,
Under cloudes derke and termes eloquent.

But nowadayes the synne of avaryce
Exyleth the mynde and the hole delyght,
To coveyt connyng, which is gret prejudice,
For insacyatly so blynded is theyr syght
Wyth the sylver and the golde so bryght,
They nothing thynke on fortune varable,
Whyche al theyr ryches shal make transmutable.

The olde sawes they ryght clene abject,
Whych for our lernyng the poetes dyd wryte;
With avaryce they arose so sore infect,
They take no hede nothyng they wryte,
Whyche morally dyd so nobly endyte,
Reprovyng vyce, praysyng the vertue,
Whiche idelnes dyd evermore eschewe.

Nowe wyl I cease of lusty rethoryke;
I may not tary, for my tyme is short;
For I must procede, and shew of Arismetrik
With divers nombres which I must reporte.
Hope inwardly doth me wel comforte,
To brynge my boke unto a fynyshment,
Of al my matter and my true entent.

CAP. XIV.
A COMMENDATION OF GOWER, CHAUCER, AND LYDGATE.

O thoughtful herte, tombled all aboute
Upon the se of stormy ignoraunce,
For to sayle forthe thou arte in grete doute,
Over the waves of grete encombraunce;
Wythout ony comforte, saufe of esperaunce,
Whiche the exhorteth hardely to sayle
Unto thy purpose wyth diligent travayle.

Afrycus, Auster bloweth frowardly,
Towarde the lande and habitacyon
Of thy wel faverde and moost fayre lady,
For whose sake and delectacyon
Thou hast take this occupacyon,
Principally ryght well to attayne
Her swete rewarde for thy besy payne.

O pensyfe herte, in the stormy pery
Mercury northwest thou mayst se appere,
After tempest to glad thyne emespery;
Hoyse up thy sayle, for thou must drawe nere
Towarde the ende of thy purpose so clere,
Remembre the of the trace and daunce
Of poetes olde wyth all the purveyaunce.

As morall Gower, whose sentencyous dewe
Adowne reflayreth with fayre golden bemes,
And after Chaucers all abrode doth shewe,
Our vyces to clense; his depared stremes
Kyndlynge our hertes wyth the fyry lemes
Of moral vertue, as is probable
In all hys bokes so swete and profytable.

The boke of fame, which is sentencyous,
He drewe hym selfe on hys own invencyon;
And than the tragidyes so pytous
Of the xix. ladyes, was his translacyon;
And upon hys ymaginacyon
He made also the tales of Caunterbury;
Some vertuous, and some glad and mery.

And of Troylus the pytous dolour
For his lady Cresyde, full of doublenes,
He did bewayle ful well the langoure,
Of all hys love and grete unhappines.
And many other bokes doubtles
He dyd compyle, whose godly name
In printed bokes doth remayne in fame.

And, after him, my mayster Lydgate,
The monke of Bury, dyd hym wel apply
Both to contryve and eke to translate;
And of vertue ever in especyally,
For he dyd compyle than full ryally
Of our blessed lady the conversacion,
Saint Edmunde's life martred with treson.

Of the fall of prynces, ryght wofully
He did endyte in all piteous wyse,
Folowynge his auctoure Bocas rufully;
A ryght greate boke he did truly compryse,
A good ensample for us to dispyse
This worlde, so ful of mutabilyte,
In whiche no man can have a certente.

And thre reasons ryght greatly profytable
Under coloure he cloked craftely;
And of the chorle he made the fable
That shutte the byrde in a cage so closely,
The pamflete sheweth it expressely;
He fayned also the courte of Sapyence,
And translated wyth al his dylygence

The grete boke of the last destruccyon
Of the cyte of Troye, whylome so famous,
How for woman was the confusyon;
And betwene vertue and the lyfe vycyous
Of goddes and goddes, a boke solacyous
He did compyle, and the tyme to passe,
Of love he made the bryght temple of glasse.

Were not these thre gretly to commende,
Whyche them applyed such bokes to contryve,
Whose famous draughtes no man can amende?
The synne of slouth they dyd from them dryve,
After theyr death for to abyde on lyve
In worthy fame by many a nacyon,
Their bokes theyr actes do make relacyon.

O mayster Lydgate, the most dulcet sprynge
Of famous rethoryke, wyth balade ryall,
The chefe orygynal of my lernyng,
What vayleth it on you for to call
Me for to ayde, now in especiall;
Sythen your body is now wrapte in chest,
I pray God to gyve your soule good rest.

O what losse is it of suche a one!
It is to grete truely me for to tell;
Sythen the tyme that his lyfe was gone,
In al this realme his pere did not dwell;
Above al other he did so excell,
None sith his time in arte wolde succede,
After their death to have fame for their mede.

But many a one is ryght well experte
In this connyng, but upon auctoryte,
They fayne no fables pleasaunt and covert,
But spende theyr time in vaynful vanyte,
Makynge balades of fervent amyte.
As gestes and tryfles wythout frutefulnes;
Thus al in vayne they spende their besynes.

I, lytell or nought expert in poetry,
Of my mayster Lydgate wyll folowe the trace,
As evermore so his name to magnyfy
Wyth suche lytle bokes, by Goddes grace,
If in this worlde I may have the space;
The lytell connyng that his grace me sente
In tyme amonge in suche wyse shall be spente.

And yet nothinge upon presumpcyon
My mayster Lydgate I wyll not envy,
But all onely is mine entencyon
With suche labour my selfe to occupy;
As whyte by blacke doth shyne more clerely,
So shal theyr matters appeare more pleasaunt
Besyde my draughtes rude and ignoraunt.

CAP. XV.
OF ARSMETRIKE.

Now in my boke ferder to procede;
To a chambre I went, replete wyth rychesse,
Where sat Arysmatryke in a golden wede,
Lyke a lady pure and of great worthynes.
The walles about dyd full well expres,
With golde depaynted, every perfyte nombre,
To adde, detraye, and to devyde asonder.

The rofe was paynted with golden beames,
The wyndowes cristall clerely claryfyde,
The golden rayes and depured streames
Of radyant Phebus that was puryfyde
Right in the Bull, that tyme so domysyde,
Through windowes was resplendyshaunt
About the chambre fayre and radyaunt.

I kneled downe right soone on my kne,
And to her I sayd: O lady marveylous,
I right humbly beseche your majeste
Your arte to shewe me so facundyous,
Whyche is defuse and right fallacyous;
But I shall so apply myne exercyse,
That the vary trouth I shall well devyse.

My scyence, said she, is right necessary,
And in the myddes of the scyences all
It is now sette right well and parfytely;
For unto them it is so specyall,
Nombrynge so theyr werkes in generall,
Wythout me they had no parfytenes,
I must them nombre alwayes doubteles.

Without nombre is no maner of thynge,
That in our sight we may well se;
For God made all the begynnynge
In nombre perfyte well in certaynte,
Who knewe arsmetryke in every degre,
All maner nombre in his minde were had,
Bothe to detraye and to devyde and adde.

But who wyl knowe all the experience,
It behoveth hym to have great lernynge
In many thinges, wyth true intelligence,
Or that he can have perfyte rekenynge
In every nombre by expert connynge.
To reherse in Englysshe more of this science,
It were foly and the great neclygence.

I thought full longe, till I had a syght
Of La Bell Pucell, the most fayre ladye;
My minde upon her was bothe day and nyght,
The fervent love so perst me inwardly,
Wherfore I went anone right shortly
Unto the toure swete and melodyous,
Of dame Musyke so gaye and gloryous.

CAP. XVI.
OF MUSIKE: MUNDAIN, HUMAYN, AND INSTRUMENTAL.

Whan splendent Phebus, in his midday spere,
Was hyght in Gemine in the fresshe season
Of lusty Maye, with golden beames clere,
And derke Diane made declynacion;
Whan Flora florisshed in this nacion,
I called to mynde right inwardly
The reporte of Fame so muche ententifly

Of La Bell Pucell in the toure musycall,
And ryght anone unto the toure I went;
Where I sawe a temple made of christal,
In whiche Musyke, the lady excellent,
Played on base organs expedient,
Accordyng well unto dyopason,
Dyapenthe, and eke dyetesseron.

In this temple was great solempnyte,
And of muche people there was great prease;
I loked about whether I coude se
La Bell Pucell, my langour to cease;
I coude not se her; my payne dyd encrease,
Tyl that I spyed her above, in a vaute,
Whiche to my hert did make so sore assaute,

Wyth her beaute clere and swete countenaunce,
The stroke of love I coulde nothynge resyste:
And anone, wythout lenger cyrcumstaunce,
To her I wente, or that her person wyste;
Her thought I knewe not, she thought as she lyst;
By her I stode, with herte sore and faynte,
And dyd my selfe wyth her sone acquaynt.

The comyn wyt dyd full lytell regarde
Of dame Musyke the dulcet armony;
The eres herde not, for the mynde inwarde
Venus had rapte and taken fervently:
Imaginacion wrought full prively.
The fantasy gave perfyte jugement
Alway to her for to be obedyent.

By estymacion muche doubtfully I cast
Whether I should by long tyme and space
Atteyne her, or els to love in wast.
My herte sobbed and quaked in this case;
I stode by her ryght nere in the place,
Wyth many other fayre ladyes also,
But so fayre as she I never sawe no mo.

The feste done, dame Musyke dyd go;
She folowed after, and she wolde not tary.
Fare well, she sayde, for I must parte you fro.
Alas! thought I, that fortune doth so vary;
My sadde body my hevy hert did cary;
I coude not speke, my herte was nere broken,
But wyth my head I made her a token.

Whan she was gone, inwardly than wrought
Upon her beaute my mynde retentyfe;
Her goodly fygure I graved in my thought;
Except her selfe all were expulcyfe;
My mynde to her was so ententyfe,
That I folowed her into a temple ferre,
Replete wyth joy, as bryght as any sterre;

Where dulcet Flora her aromatyke dewe
In the fayre temple adowne dyd dystyll,
All abrode the fayre dropes dyd shewe,
Encensynge out all the vapours yll;
With suche a swetenes Flora dyd fulfyll
All the temple, that my gowne well shewed
The lycoure swete of the droppes endewed.

And so to a chambre full solacyous
Dame Musyke wente wyth La Bell Pucell;
All of jasper, wyth stones precyous,
The rofe was wrought, curyously and well;
The wyndowes glased marvaylously to tell.
With cloth of tyssue in the rychest maner
The walles were hanged hye and cyrculer.

There sat dame Musyke, with all her mynstrasy;
As tabours, trumpettes, with pipes melodious,
Sakbuttes, organs, and the recorder swetely,
Harpes, lutes, and crouddes ryght delycyous;
Cymphans, doussemers, wyth claricimbales glorious.
Rebeckes, clarycordes, eche in theyr degre,
Dyd sytte aboute theyr ladyes mageste.

Before dame Musike I dyd knele adowne,
Saying to her: O fayre lady plesaunt,
Your prudence reyneth most hye in renowne,
For you be ever ryght concordant
With perfyte reason, whiche is not variaunt;
I beseche your grace, with all my diligence,
To instructe me in your noble science.

It is, she sayde, right gretely proffitable;
For musike doth sette in all unyte
The discorde thynges whiche are variable
And devoydeth myschiefe and greate iniquite.
Where lacketh musyke there is no pleynte;
For musyke is concorde and also peace,
Nothyng without musyke may well encreace.

The vii. scyences in one monacorde,
Eche upon other do full well depende;
Musyke hath them so set in concorde,
That all in one may right well extende.
All perfite reason they do so comprehende,
That theyr waye and perfite doctryne
To the joye above, whiche is celestine.

And yet also the perfite physyke,
Which appertayneth well to the body,
Doth well resemble unto the musyke,
Whan the inwarde intrayles tourneth contrary,
That nature can not worke dyrectly;
Then doth physike the partes interiall
In ordre set to their originall.

But yet physyke can not be lyberall
As the vii. science by good auctorite,
Which ledeth the soule the way in specyall
By good doctrine to dame Eternite;
Onely of phisike it is the properte
To ayde the body in every sekenes,
That is right frayle and full of bryttilnes.

And because phisyke is appendaunt
Unto the body by helpe of medecyne,
And to the soule nothing approtenaunt,
To cause the body for to enclyne
In eternal helth so the soule to domyne,
For to the body the science seven
Doth teche to lede the soule to heven.

And musike selfe is melodious
To rejoyce the yeres and comfort the brayne,
Sharping the wittes with sounde solacious,
Devoydyng bad thoughtes whiche dyd remayne,
It gladdeth the herte also well certayne;
Lengthe the lyfe with dulcet armony,
As is good recreacion after study.

She commaunded her mynstrelles right anone to play
Mamours the swete and the gentill daunce;
With La Bell Pucell, that was fayre and gaye,
She me recommaunded, with all pleasaunce,
To daunce true mesures without varyaunce.
O Lorde God! how glad than was I,
So for to daunce with my swete lady.

By her propre hande, soft as any sylke,
With due obeysaunce I dyd her then take;
Her skynne was white as whales bone or mylke.
My thought was ravysshed, I might not aslake
My brennynge hert, she the fyre dyd make;
These daunces truely musyke hath me tought
To lute or daunce, but it avayleth nought:

For the fyre kyndled, and waxed more and more,
The dauncynge blewe it, wyth her beaute clere,
My hert sekened and began to waxe sore;
A mynute vi. houres, and vi. houres a yere
I thought it was, so hevy was my chere;
But yet for cover my great love aryght,
The outwarde countenaunce I made glad and light.

CAP. XVII.
HOWE GRAUNDE AMOURE WAS ENAMOURED OF LA BELL PUCELL IN THE TOWER OF
MUSIKE, AND MET WITH COUNSAYLE IN A TEMPLE

And for fere myne eyes should my hert bewray,
I toke my leve and to a temple wente,
And all alone I to my selfe dyd saye:
Alas! what fortune hath me hyther sente,
To devoyde my joye and my hert torment;
No man can tell howe great payne it is,
But yf he wyll fele it, as I do ywys.

Alas! O lady, how cruell arte thou,
Of pyteous doloure for to buylde a nest
In my true hert, as thou dost ryght nowe!
Yet of all ladyes I must love the best;
Thy beaute therto dyd me sure arest.
Alas, wyth love, whan that it doth the please,
Thou mayest cease my care and my payne sone ease.

Alas! how sore maye I nowe bewayle
The pyteous chaunce whyche did me happe;
My ladyes lokes dyd me so assayle,
That sodaynly my herte was in a trap
By Venus caught, and wyth so sore a clap,
That through the greate stroke did perse:
Alas for wo I could not reverse!

Farewel all joye and al perfyte pleasure!
Fare wel my luste and my lykynge!
For wo is comen wyth me to endure;
Now must I lede my lyfe in mornynge;
I may not lute, or yet daunce or synge!
O! La Bel Pucel, my lady glorious;
You are the cause that I am so dolorous.

Alas! fayre lady, and myne owne swete herte,
Wyth my servyce I yelde me to your wyll,
You have me fettered; I may not asterte;
At your pleasure ye may me save or kyll;
Bicause I love you, wyl you me spyl?
Alas! it were a pyteous case in dede,
That you wyth deth should rewarde my mede.

A, a! that I am ryght wo bygone,
For I of love dare not to you speke,
For feare of nay, that may encrease my mone;
A nay of you myght cause my herte to breke.
Alas! I wretche and yet unhappy peke
Into suche trouble, misery, and thought:
With sight of you I am into it brought.

And to my selfe as I made complainte,
I espyed a man ryght nere me beforne,
Whyche right anone dyd wyth me acquaynt.
Me thynke, he sayde, that ye are nere forlorne,
Wyth inwarde payne that your heart hath borne.
Be not to pensyfe; call to mynde agayne
How of one sorowe ye do now make twayne.

Myne inwarde sorowe ye begyn to double;
Go your waye, quod I, for ye can not me ayde.
Tell me, he sayde, the cause of my trouble,
And of my wo be nothynge afrayde.
Me thynke that sorowe hath you overlayde:
Dryve of no lenger, but tell me your mynde,
It may me happe a remedy to fynde.

A, a! quod I, it vayleth not your speche,
I wyll wyth you never have medlynge.
Let me alone, the most unhappy wretche
Of all the wretches that is yet lyvynge.
Suche is the chaunce of my bewaylyng;
Go on your waye, you are nothyng the better
To me to speke to make the sorowe gretur.

Forsoth, he sayd, remembre thynges thre;
The fyrst is, that ye may sorowe longe
Unto your selfe or that ye ayeded be:
And secondly, in great paynes stronge,
To muse alone it myght turne you to wronge:
The thyrde is, it myght you wel ease truely
To tel your mynde to a frende ryght trusty.

It is a jewel of a frende of trust,
As at your nede to tell your secretenes
Of all your payne and fervent lust.
His counseyle soone may helpe and redres
Your payneful wo and mortall heavynes;
Alone is nought for to thynke and muse,
Therfore, good sonne, do me not refuse.

And syth that you are plunged all in thought,
Beware the pyt of dolorus dispayre;
So to complayne it vayleth you ryght nought.
It may so fortune ye love a lady fayre,
Whych to love you wyl nothyng repayre;
Or els ye have lost great londe or substaunce,
By fatall chaunge of fortunes ordinaunce.

Tell me the cause, though that it be so,
In cause you love I knowe it by experience,
It is a payne engendryng great wo,
And hard it is for to make resystence
Agaynst suche love of fervent vyolence.
The love is dredefull, but nevertheles
There is no sore nor yet no sykenes,

But there is a salve and remedy therfore;
So for your payne and your sorowe great
Councell is medicine, which may you restore
Unto your desyre wythout any let,
Yf ye wyll tell me where your herte is set.
In the chayre of sorowe no great doubt it is
To fynde a remedy for your payne, ywys.

A physycyen, truely, can lyttel descerne
Ony maner sekenes wythout syght of uryne;
No more can I by good councell you lerne
All suche wofull trouble for to determyne.
But yf you mekely wyl to me enclyne,
To tell the cause of your great hevynesse,
Of your inwarde trouble and woful sadnes.

Than I began with all my diligence
To here him speke so grounded on reason,
And in my minde did make advertence.
Howe it was holsome, in tribulation,
To save a good and a trewe companion;
For to know my sorow and woful grefe,
It myght me comforte and ryght wel relefe.

And of him, than, I asked this question:
What was his name I prayd him to tel?
Counseyl, quod he; the which solucion
In my woful mynde whiche I like ryght wel.
And pryvely I did his lesson spel,
Sayeng to him, my chance and desteny
Of al other is the moste unhappy.

Why so? quod he; though fortune be straunge,
To you a whyle turnyng of her face,
Her louring chere she may ryght sone chaunge,
And you excepte and cal unto her grace.
Dyspayre you not, for in good tyme and space
Nothynge there is but wysdom may it wynne,
To tell your mynde I praye you to begynne.

Unto you, quod I, wyth al my hole assent
I wyl tell you trouth, and you wyl not bewray
Unto none other my mater and entent.
Nay, nay, quod he, you shall not se that day;
Your hole affyaunce and trust ye well ye may
Into me put, for I shall not vary,
But kepe your counsell as a secretary.

And than to hym, in the maner folowynge,
I did complayne, wyth syghing teres depe:
Alas! quod I, you shall have knowledgyng
Of my hevy chaunce that causeth me to wepe;
So wo I am, that I can never slepe,
But walowe and tumble in the trappe of care;
My heart was caught or that I was ware.

It happened so that in a temple olde,
By the toure of Musyke at great solemnyte,
La Bell Pucell I dyd ryght well beholde,
Whose beaute clere and great humilite
To my heart dyd cast the darte of amyte;
After whyche stroke so harde and farvent,
To her excellence I came incontinent.

Beholdyng her chere and lovely countenaunce,
Her garmentes ryche and her propre stature,
I regestered well in my remembraunce
That I never sawe so fayre a creature,
So well favoured create by nature;
That harde it is for to wryte wyth yncke
All the beaute, or any hert to thynke.

Fayrer she was than was quene Elyne,
Proserpyne, Cresyde, or yet Ypolyte,
Medea, Dydo, or yonge Polexyne,
Alcumena, or quene Menelape;
Or yet dame Rosamunde; in certaynte,
None of all these can have the premynence.

Durynge the feest I stode her nere by,
But than hir beaute encreased my payne;
I coude nothyng resyst the contrary;
She wrapt my herte in a brennyng chayne.
To the musycall toure she went than agayne;
I wente after, I roude not behynde.
The chayne she haled whych my heart dyd bynde,

Tyl that we came into a chamber gaye,
Where that Musyke, wyth all her minstralsy,
Dyvers base daunces moost swetely dyd playe,
That them to here it was great melody;
And dame Musyke commaunded curteysly
La Bell Pucell wyth me than to daunce,
Whome that I toke wyth all my pleasaunce

By her swete honde, begynnyng the trace,
And longe dyd daunce tyl that I myght not hyde
The paynfull love whyche dyd my heart embrace;
Bycause wherof I toke my leve that tyde,
And to thys temple where I do abyde
Forthe than I went, alone to bewayle
My mortall sorowe wythout any fayle.

Now have I tolde you all the veray trouthe
Of my wofull chaunce and great unhappynesse.
I praye you nothyng wyth me to be wrothe,
Whyche am drouned in carefull wrethchednesse,
By fortune plunged ful of doublenes.
A, a! said Counseyle, doubte ye never a dele,
But your disease I shal by wysdome hele.

Remember yet, that never yet was he,
That in this worlde dyd lede all his lyfe
In joye and pleasure, wythout adversyte;
No worldely thyng can be wythout stryfe,
For unto pleasure payne is affyrmatyfe.
Who wyll have pleasure he must fyrst apply
To take the payne wyth hys cure besely.

To serve the joye whych after death ensue,
Rewardyng payne for the great businesse,
No doubte your lady wyl upon you rue,
Seing you apply all your gentylnes
To do her pleasure and servyce doubtles.
Harde is the heart that no love hath felt.
Nor for to love wyl than encline and melt.

Remember ye that in olde antiquyte
Howe worthy Troylus, that mighty champion,
What paine he suffered by great extremyte
Of fervent love, by a great longe ceason,
For his lady Cresyde, by great tribulacyon.
After his sorowe had not he great joye
Of hys lady, the fayrest of all Troye?

And the famous knyght yclepped Ponthus,
Whych loved Sydoyne so muche entyerly,
What payne had he and what care dolorus
For his lady wyth love so marvaylously,
Was not her heart wounded ryght wofully?
After hys payne his ladie dyd her cure,
To do him joye, honoure, and pleasure.

Who was wyth love more wofully arayed,
Than were these twayne, and many other mo?
The power of love hath them so asayde,
That, and I lyst, I coude now reherse also
To whom true love hath wrought mykel wo,
And at the ende have had their desyre,
Of al their sorow for to quenche the fyre.

Languysshe no more, but plucke up thyne herte,
Exyle dyspayre, and live a whyle in hope;
And kepe your love all close and coverte;
It may so fortune that your lady grope
Somwhat of love for to drynke a slope;
Though outwardly she dare not let you know,
But at the last, as I beleve and trowe,

She can not kepe it so prively and close,
But that somwhat to you it shal appere,
By countenaunce, how that her love arose.
If that she love you, the love is so dere,
Whan you come to her she wyl make you chere
With countenaunce, accordyng unto love,
Full pryvely for to come to her above.

Sendyng of love the messanger before,
Which is her eyes, with lovely lokes swete,
For to beholde you than ever more and more,
After the tyme that you together mete.
With lovyng wordes she wyl you than grete.
Sorow no more, for I thynke in my mynde
That at the last she wyl be good and kynd.

Alas! quod I, she is of hye degre,
Borne to great land, treasure, and substaunce:
I fere to sore I shal disdayned be,
The whych wyl trouble al my grevaunce.
Her beaute is the cause of my penaunce:
I have no great lande, treasure, nor ryches,
To wynne the favour of her noblenes.

What thoughe? quod he, draw you not abacke,
For she hath inough in her possession
For you both; for you shal never lacke
If that ye order it by good reason;
And so, in perfite consyderacyon,
She wyll wyth love her grene flouryng age
Passe forth in joye, pleasure, and courage.

Youth is alway of the course ryght lyght,
Hote, and moyste, and full of lustines,
Moost of the ayre it is ruled by ryght,
And her complexion hath chefe intres
Upon sanguyn, the ayres holsomnes.
She is not yet in al above xviii. yere;
Of tender age, to pleasure most dere.

Golde, or sylver, in any maner of wyse,
For sanguyne youth it is al contrary;
So for to coveyte for it, doth aryse
Onely engendred upon the melancoly,
Whych is drye, colde, and also erthely,
In which the golde is truely nutryfyde,
Ferre frome the ayre so clerely purifyed.

Thus covetyse shal nothyng surmount
Your yonge ladyes herte; but onely nature
Shal in her mynde make her to account
The great losse of youth, her specyal treasure.
She knoweth she is a ryght fayre creature,
No doubte it is but ye pryvely amonge,
So hye is nature wyth his werkes stronge.

That she of force the mannes company
Must well conveyte; for she may not resyste
Dame natures werke, which is so secretely.
Thoughe she be mayde, let her say what she lyst,
She wolde have man, though do man it wyst
To make her joye whan nature doth agre,
Her thought is hers, it is unto her fre.

Who spareth to speke he spareth to spede;
I shall provyde for you convenyent
A gentyl tyme for to attayne your mede,
That you shall go to your lady excellent;
And ryght before take good advysement
Of all the matter that ye wyl her shewe,
Upon good reason and in wordes fewe.

Thus past we tyme in communicacyon,
The after none wyth many a sentement,
And what for love was best conclusyon
We demed oft and gave judgement;
Tyll that in the even was refulgent
Fayre golden Mercury, wyth hys bemes bryght,
About the ayre castinge his pured lyght.

Then to a chambre swete and precyous,
Councell me ledde, for to take my reste.
The night was wete, and also tenebrous;
But I my selfe, with sorowe opprest,
Dyd often muse what was for me best
Unto my fayre lady for to tell or saye,
And all my drede was for fere of a naye.

Though that my bedde was easy and softe,
Yet dyd I tomble, I myght not lye styll;
On every syde I tourned me ful ofte,
Upon the love I had so set my wyll,
Longynge ryght sore my mynde to fulfyll,
I called Counseyle, and prayed hym to awake
To gyve me counseyle what were best to take.

Ha, ha! quod he, love doth you so prycke,
That yet your heart will nothynge be eased,
But evermore be feble and sycke,
Tyll that your lady hath it well appesed;
Thoughe ye thynke longe, yet ye shall be plesed.
I wolde, quod I, that it were as ye say.
Fye, fye, quod he, dryve suche dyspayre away,

And lyve in hope, whych shall do you good.
Joy cometh after, whan the payne is past.
Be ye pacyent and sobre in mode;
To wepe and wayle all is for you in wast:
Was never payne, but it had joye at last.
In the fayre morrow, ryse and make you redy,
At ix. at the clocke, the time is necessary

For us to walke unto your lady gent;
The bodyes above be than well domysyde
To helpe us forwarde without ympediment.
Loke what ye saye; loke it be deryfyde
Frome perfyt reason well exemplyfyde;
Forsake her not, thoughe that she say naye,
A womans guyse is evermore to delaye.

No castell can be of so great a strength,
If that there be a sure syege to it layde,
It must yelde up or els be wonne at length,
Though that tofore it hath bene longe delayde.
So continuance may you ryght wel ayde.
Some womans herte can not so harded be,
But besy labour may make it agre.

Labour and dylygence is full mervaylus,
Whych bryngeth a lover to his promocyon.
Nothyng to love, is more desyrous
Than instant labour and delectacyon:
The harded harte it geveth occasyon
For to consider how that her servaunt
To obtayne her love is so attendaunt.

Thus al in comonyng we the nyght did passe,
Tyll in the ayre wyth clowdes fayre and red
Rysyn was Phebus, shynyng in the glasse,
In the chamber his golden rayes were spred,
And Dyane derlyng pale as any leade,
Whan the lytle byrdes swetely dyd syng
With tunes musicall in the fayre mornyng.

CAP. XVIII.
OF THE DOLOROUS AND LOWLY DISPUTACION BETWENE LA BEL PUCELL AND
GRAUNDAMOURE.

Councell and I than rose ful quickely
And made us redy on her way to walke,
In our clenly wede apparayled properly.
What I wolde saye I dyd unto hym talke,
Tyl on his boke he began to calke
How the sonne entred was in Gemyne;
And eke Dyane, ful of mutabilite,

Entred the Crab, her propre mancyon,
Than ryght amyddes of the Dragons hed;
And Venus and she made conjuncyon.
Frome the combust way she had her so sped,
She had no let that was to be dredde,
The assured ayre was depaynted clere
With golden beames of fayre Phebus spere.

Than forth so went good Counsell and I,
At vi. a clocke, unto a garden fayre;
By Musykes toure walked most goodly,
Where La Bell Pucell used to repayre
In the swete mornyng for to take the ayre
Among the floures of aromatyke fume,
The mysty ayre to exyle and consume.

And at the gate we met the portresse,
That was right gentill, and called Curteysy,
Whych salved us wyth wordes of mekenesse,
And axed us the veraye cause and why
Of our comynge to the gardeine sothel?
Truly, saide we, for nothyng but well,
A lytel to speke with La Bell Pucell.

Truly, quod she, in the garden grene
Of many a swete and sundry floure
She maketh a garlonde that is veray shene;
Wyth true loves wrought in many a coloure,
Replete with swetenes and dulcet odoure;
And all alone, wythout company,
Amyddes an herber she sitteth plesauntly.

Nowe stande you styl for a lytle space,
I wyll let her of you have knowledgynge.
And ryght anone she went to her grace,
Tellyng her than how we were comynge,
To speke wyth her gretly desyrynge.
Truly, she sayd, I am right well content
Of theyr comyng to know the hole entent.

Then good Curteysy, wythout taryenge,
Came unto us wyth all her diligence,
Prayeng us to take our entryng
And come unto the ladies precence,
To tell your erande to her excellence.
Than in we wente to the garden gloryous,
Lyke to a place of pleasure most solacyous.

Wyth Flora paynted and wrought curyously,
In divers knottes of marvaylous gretenes;
Rampande lyons stode up wondersly,
Made all of herbes with dulcet swetenes,
Wyth many dragons of marvaylos likenes,
Of dyvers floures made ful craftely,
By Flora couloured wyth colours sundry.

Amiddes the garden so moche delectable
There was an herber fayre and quadrante,
To paradyse right well comparable,
Set all about with flours fragraunt;
And in the myddle there was resplendyshaunte
A dulcet spring and marvaylous fountaine,
Of golde and asure made all certaine.

In wonderfull and curious similitude
There stode a dragon, of fyne golde so pure,
Upon his tayle of myghty fortitude,
Wretched and skaled al wyth asure,
Havyng thre hedes divers in fygure,
Whych in a bathe of the sylver grette
Spouted the water that was so dulcette.

Besyde whiche fountayne, the moost fayre lady
La Bel Pucel was gayly syttyng;
Of many floures fayre and ryally
A goodly chaplet she was in makynge.
Her heer was downe so clerely shynynge,
Lyke to the golde late purifyed with fyre,
Her heer was bryght as the drawne wyre.

Lyke to a lady for to be moost trewe,
She ware a fayre and goodly garment,
Of most fyne velvet, al of Indy blewe,
Wyth armynes powdred bordred at the vent.
On her fayre handes, as was convenient,
A payre of gloves ryght sclender and softe.
In approchyng nere I did beholde her oft.

And whan that I came before her presence,
Unto the ground I dyd knele adowne;
Sayeng: O lady! moost fayre of excellence,
O stere so clere of vertuous renowne!
Whose beaute fayre in every realme and towne,
Indued wyth grace and also wyth goodnes,
Dame Fame the her selfe doth evermore expresse.

Amoure.

Please it your grace for to gyve audyence
Unto my wofull and pitous complaynte;
How fervent love, wythout resystence,
My careful herte hath made low and faynte,
And you therof are the hole constraynt;
Your beauty truly hath me fettered faste,
Wythout your helpe my life is nere hand paste.

Pucell.

Stande up, quod she; I marvayle of this cace,
What sodayne love hath you so arayde
Wyth so great payne your heart to embrace?
And why for me ye should be so dismayde?
As of your lyfe ye nede not to be afrayde.
For ye of me now have no greater awe,
But whan ye lyst ye may your love wythdraw.

Amoure.

Than stode I up, and right so did she,
Alas! I sayd than, my heart is so set,
That it is yours, it may none other be;
Your selfe hath caught it in so sure a net,
That if that I may not your favour get,
No doubt it is, the great payne of love
May not aswage tyl death it remove.

Pucell.

Truely, quod she, I am obedient
Unto my frendes whych do me so guyde;
They shal me rule as is convenient,
In the snare of love I wyl nothyng slyde,
My chaunce or fortune I wyl yet abide.
I thanke you for your love right humbly,
But I your cause can nothing remedy.

Amoure.

Alas! madame, yf I have enterprysed
A thyng to hye truly for my degre,
All that causes whych I have commysed
Hath ben on fortunes gentyl unyte,
Trustyng truely that she wold favour me.
In this case wherfore now excuse
Your humble servaunte, and not me refuse.

Pucell.

Ha, ha! what vayleth all your flattery?
Your fayned wordes shall not me appese
To make myne herte to enclyne inwardly;
For I my selfe nowe do nothynge suppose
But for to prove me you flatter and glose.
You shall not dye as longe as you speke,
There is no love can cause your herte to breke.

Amoure.

I wolde, madame, ye hadde prerogatyve
To knowe the prevyte of my perfyte mynde,
How all in payne I lede my wofull lyfe;
Than, as I trowe, ye wolde not be unkynde,
But that some grace I myght in you fynde,
To cause myne herte, whyche you fetred sure
Wyth brenninge cheynes, suche wo to endure.

Pucell.

By veraye reason I may give judgement,
That it is guyse of you everychone
To fayne you sicke wyth subtyll argument,
Whan to your lady ye list to make your mone:
But of you true is there fewe or none.
For all your payne and wordes eloquent,
Wyth dame Repentaunce I will not be shent.

Amoure.

O swete madame! now all my desteny
Unhap and happy, upon you doth growe:
Yf that you call me unto your mercy
Of all happy the most happy, I trow,
Than shall I be, of hye degre or lowe;
And yf ye lyste so me than to forsake,
Of all unhappy none shal be my make.

Pucell.

Your fortune on me is not more applyed,
Than upon other, for my minde is fre;
I have your purpose oft ynoughe denyed,
You knowe your answere now certayne;
What nede your wordes of curyosyte?
Wo we here no more, for thou shalt not spede;
Go love another where ye may have mede.

Amoure.

That shall I not; though that I contynewe
All my lyfe in payne and hevynes,
I shall not chaunge you for none other new;
You are my lady, you are my masteres,
Whome I shall serve with all my gentylnes.
Exyle him never from your hert so dere,
Whyche unto hys hath sette you most nere.

Pucell.

The minde of men chaungeth as the mone.
If you mete one whyche is fayre and bryght,
Ye love her best tyll ye se, right soone,
An other fayrer unto your owne syght.
Unto her than your minde is tourned ryght,
Truely your love, though ye make it straunge,
I knowe full well ye wyl often chaunge.

Amoure.

Alas! madame, nowe the bright lodes sterre
Of my true herte, where ever I go or ryde,
Thoughe that my body be from you aferre,
Yet my herte onely shall wyth you abyde,
Whan than you lyst ye may for me provyde.

Pucell.

Nay, truly, it can nothyng be myne,
For I therof take no possessyon;
Your heart is your by substancyall lyne,
It is not in my domynacyon.
Love where ye list; at every season
Your heart is fre, I do not it accept:
It is your owne, I have it never kept.

Amoure.

Alas! madame, ye may say as ye liste,
With your beaute ye toke mine hert in snare;
Your lovely lokes I coude not resyst,
Your vertuous maner encreaseth my care,
That of all joye I am devoyde and bare.
I se you ryght often when I am aslepe,
And whan I wake do sygh with teres depe.

Pucell.

So great deceyt amonge men there is,
That harde it is to finde one full stable;
Ye are so subtil and so false, ywis:
Your great deceyte is nothing commendable.
In storyes olde it is well provable
How many ladyes hath bene right falsely
Wyth men deceyved yll and subtylly.

Amoure.

O goodd madame! though that they abused
Them to theyr ladyes in theyr great deceyte,
Yet am I true; let me not be refused:
Ye have me taken wyth so fayre a bayte,
That ye shall never out of my conceyte.
I can not wrynche by no wyle nor croke,
My heart is fast upon so sure a hoke.

Pucell.

Ye, so sayd they, tyll that they had their wyll;
Theyr wyll accomplysshed, they dyd fle at large;
For men say wel, but they thinke full yll.
Though outwarde swetenes your tonge doth enlarge,
Yet of your heart I never can have charge;
For men do love, as I am right sure,
Nowe one, now other, after theyr pleasure.

Amoure.

All that, madame, I knew ryght perfetly,
Some men there be of that condicyon;
That them delyte often in novelty,
And many also love perfeccyon.
I cast all suche noveltes in objection;
My love is set upon a perfet grounde,
No falshed in me truly shal be founde.

Pucell.

Ye saye full well, yf ye meane the same;
But I in you can have no confydence;
I thinke right well that it is no game
To love unloved wyth percynge influence.
You shall in me fynde no suche neclygence
To grante you love, for ye are unthryfty,
As two or thre to me doth specify.

Amoure.

Was never lover without enemies thre,
As Envy, Malyce, and Perturbaunce?
Theyr tongues are poyson unto amyte;
What man on live can use suche governaunce
To attayne the favoure withouten varyaunce
Of every persone, but right pryvely
Behinde his backe some sayth unhappely?

Pucell.

Trouthe it is; but yet, in this cace,
Your love and myne is full ferre asunder:
But thoughe that I do your herte so race
Yf I drede you it is therof no wonder;
Wyth my frendes I am so sore kepte under,
I dare not love but as they accorde,
They thynke to wedde me to a myghty lorde.

Amoure.

I knowe, madame, that your frendes all
Unto me sure wyll be contraryous;
But what for that? your selfe in speciall
Remembre there is no love so joyous
As is your owne to you most precyous;
Wyll you gyve your youthe and your flourynge aege
To them agaynst your mynde in maryage?

Pucell.

Agaynst my mynde, of that were I lothe,
To wed for fere, as them to obey;
Yet had I lever they were somwhat wrothe,
For I my selfe do here the locke and kaye
Yet of my mynde, and wyll do many a daye.
Myne owne I am, what that I lyste to do
I stand untyed, there is no joye therto.

Amoure.

O swete lady! the good perfyte sterre
Of my true herte, take ye now pyte;
Thynke on my payne whiche am tofore you here,
Wyth your swete eyes beholde you and se,
How thought and wo, by great extremyte,
Hath chaunged my hue into pale and wanne:
It was not so whan I to love began.

Pucell.

So, me thynke, it doth right well appere
By your coloure that love hath done you wo;
Your hevy countenaunce and your dolefull chere;
Hath love suche myght for to aray you so
In so short a space? I marvayle moche also
That ye wolde love me so sure in certayne,
Before ye knewe that I wolde love agayne?

Amoure.

My good dere herte! it is no mervayle why;
Your beaute cleare and lovely lokes swete
My herte dyde perce with love so sodaynly
At the fyrste tyme that I dyde you mete;
In the olde temple whan I dyde you grete,
Your beaute my herte so surely assayde,
That syth that tyme it hath to you obayde.

CAP. XIX.
HOW LA BELL PUCELL GRAUNTED GRAUND AMOURE LOVE, AND OF HER
DISPITEOUS DEPARTAGE.

Your wo and payne, and all your languishynge
Continually ye shall not spende in vayne,
Sythen I am cause of your great mornynge,
Nothynge exyle you shall I by dysdayne;
Youre hert and myne shall never parte in twayne:
Though at the fyrste I wolde not condescende,
It was for fere ye dyde some yll entende.

Amoure.

With thought of yll my mynde was never myxte,
To you, madame, but alway clene and pure,
Bothe daye and nyght upon you hole perfyxte.
But I my mynde yet durst nothynge discure,
How for your sake I dyd suche wo endure,
Tyll now this houre with dredfull hert so faynt
To you, swete herte, I have made my complaynt.

Pucell.

I demed ofte you loved me before,
By your demenour I dyde it aspye,
And in my mynde I juged evermore
That at the laste ye wolde full secretly
Tell me your mynde of love right gentilly;
As ye have done, so my mercy to crave,
In all worshyppe you shal my true love have.

Amoure.

O Lorde God than! how joyfull was I!
She loked on me wyth lovely countenaunce;
I kyst her ones or twise right swetely;
Her depured vysage, replete with pleasaunce,
Rejoyced my heart with amerous purveaunce.
O lady clere! that perste me at the rote,
O floure of comforte, all my hele and bote!

O gemme of vertue, and lady excellent!
Above all other in beauteous goodlynesse!
O eyen bright as sterre refulgent,
O profounde cause of all my sekenesse,
Now all my joye and all my gladnes,
Wolde God that we were joyned in one,
In maryage, before this day were gone.

Pucell.