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Under smiling she was dissimulate,
Provocative with blinkes amorous,
And sodainly chaunged and alterate,
Angry, as any serpent venomous:
Right pungitive with wordes odious,
Thus variaunt she was who liste take kepe,
With one eie laugh, and with the other wepe:

In tokening that all fleshly paramour,
Which Uenus hath in rule and governaunce,
Is somtime swete, somtime bitter and sour,
Right vnstable and ful of variaunce,
Minged with careful joy and false pleasaunce,
Now hote, now cold, now blith, now ful of wo,
Now grene as lefe, now widred and

ago.

With boke in hand, than coine Mercurious
Right eloquent and ful of rethorie,
With polite termes and delicious,
With penne and inké to report al redie,
Setting songes, and singing merely,

His hode was reed hecled attour his croun,
Like til a poete of the old fasioun.

Boxes he bare with fine electuares,
And sugred siropes for digestion,
Spices belonging to the potiquares,
With many holsome swete confection:
Doctor in phisike cledde in a scarlet goun,
And furred well as such one ought to be,
Honest and good, and nat a worde couth lie.
Next after him come lady Sinthia,
The last of all, and swiftest in her sphere,
Of colour blake, busked with hornes twa,
And in the night she listeth best tapere,
Hawe as the leed, of colour nothing clere,
For al the light she boroweth at her brother
Titan, for of her self she hath none other.

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Her gite was gray and ful of spottes blake,
And on her brest a chorle painted full even,
Bearing a bushe of thornes on his bake,
Which for his theft might clime no ner the Heven:
Thus whan they gadred were the goddes seven,
Mercurius they chosed with one assent,
To be forespeker in the parliment.

Who had ben there and liking for to here
His faconde tonge and termes exquisite,
Of rethorike the practike he might lere,
In brefe sermon, a preignant sentence write:
Before Cupide valing bis cappe a lite,
Sper is the cause of that vocacioun,
And he anon shewde his entencioun.

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"And sithe ye are al seven deficate, Perticipant of divine sapience,

This great injury don to our hie estate,

Me think with pain we should make recompense;
Was never to goddes done such violence,

As wel for you as for my selfe I say,
Therfore go helpe to revenge I you pray."

Mercurius to Cupide gave answere

And said, "Sir king, my counsaile is that ye
Referre you to the blest planet here,
And take to him the lowest of degree,
The paine of Creseide for to modifie,
As god Saturne with him take Sinthia,"

"I am content," (quod he) "to take they twa.??
Than thus proceded Saturne and the Mone,
Whan they the mater ripely had degest,
For the dispite to Cupide that she had done,
And to Uenus open and manifest,

In all her lyfe with payne to be oprest,
And turment sore, with sickenesse incurable,
And to all lovers be abhominable.

This doleful sentence Saturn toke in hand,
And passed doun where careful Creseide lay,
And on her heed he laide a frosty wande,
Than lawfully on this wise gan he say,
"Thy great fairenesse, and al thy beauty gay,
Thy wanton blood, and eke thy golden heere,
Here I exclude fro thee for evermeere.

"I chaunge thy mirthe into melancoly,
Which is the mother of all pensivenesse,
Thy moyster and thy hete, into colde and dry,
Thine insolence, thy play, and thy wantonnesse,
To great disease, thy pompe and thy richesse,
Into mortall nede and great penurie,
Thou suffre shalt, and as a begger die."

O cruel Saturne, froward and angry,
Harde is thy dome, and too malicious,
Of faire Creseide why hast thou no mercy,
Which was so swete, gentill and amorous?
Withdraw thy sentence and be gracious,
As thou were never, so sheweth through thy dede,
A wrekeful sentence given on Creseide..

Than Sinthia, whan Saturne past away,
Out of her seate discended doun blive,
And reed a bill on Creseide where she lay,
Containing this sentence diffiinitive:
"Fro heale of body here I thee deprive,
And to thy sicknesse shal be no recure,
But in dolour thy dayes to endure.

"Thy christal iyen menged with blood I make,
Thy voice so clere, vnpleasant heer and bace,
Thy lusty lere overspred with spotes blake,
And lumpes hawe appering in thy face,
Where thou comest eche man shall flie the place,
Thus shalt thou go begging fro hous to hous
With cuppe and clapper like a Lazarous.”

This doolie dreame, this vgly visioun
Brought till an end, Creseide fro it awoke,
And all that court and convocation,
Uanished away: than rose she vp and toke
A polished glasse, and her shadow couth loke,
And whan she saw her visage so deformate,
If she in herte were wo, I ne wite God wate.

Weping full sore, "Lo what it is, (quod she)
With froward langage to move and stere
Our crabbed goddes, and so is seen on me;
My blaspheming now have I bought ful dere,
All yearthly joy and mirthe I set arere,
Alas this day, alas this wofull tide,
Whan I began with my goddes to chide."

Be this was sayd, a child came fro the hall
To warne Creseide the supper was redie,
First knocked at the doore, and eft couth cal,
"Madame, your father biddeth you cum in hie;
He hath marveile so long on grofe ye lie,
And saith your beades bethe to long somdele,
The goddes wote all your entent full wele."

(Quod she) "Faire child, go to my father dere And pray him come to speake with me anon," And so he did, and sayd "Daughter, what chere?" "Alas," (quod she)" father, my mirth is gon," "How so?" (quod he) and she can all expon, As I have told, the vengeaunce, and the wrake, For her trespas, Cupide on her couth take.

He looked on her vgly lepers face,
The which before was white as lely floure,
Wringing his hands, oft times sayd alace
That he had lived to see that wofull houre:
For he knew well that there was no socour
To her sicknesse, and that doubled his pain:
Thus was ther care inow betwixt hem twain.

Whan they togider mourned had ful lang,
(Quod Creseide) " Father, I would nat be kend,
Therfore in secrete wise ye let me gang'
To yon hospitall at the tounes end:

And thider some meate for charite me send,
To live vpon, for all mirthe in this yearth
Is fro me gone, such is my wicked wearth."

Whan in a mantill, and a bever hat,
With cuppe and clapper, wonder prively,
He opened a secrete gate and out thereat
Conveied her, that no man should espie,
There to a village halfe a mile thereby,
Delivered her in at the spittell hous,
And daily sent her part of his almous.

Sum knew her well, and sum had no knowlege
Of her, bicause she was so deformate,
With biles blake overspred in her visage,
And her fayre colour faded and alterate:
Yet they presumed for her hie regrate,
And stil mourning, she was of noble kin,
With bitter will there they tooke her in.

The day passed, and Phebus went to rest,
The cloudes blake overwheled all the skie,
God wote if Creseide were a sorrowful gest,
Seing that vncouth fare and herborie:
But meate or drinke, she dressed her to lie
In a darke corner of the hous alone,

And on this wise weping she made her mone.

THE COMPLAINT OF CRESEIDE.

"O SOPPE of sorrowe sonken into care,
O caitife Creseide now and evermare,
Gon is thy joy and all thy mirth in yearth,
Of all blithnesse now art thou blake and bare
There is no salve may helpe thy sare,
Fell is thy fortune, wicked is thy werth,
Thy blisse is vanished and thy bale vnherde,
Under the great God if I graven ware,
Where men of Grece ne yet of Troie might herd.

"Where is thy chamber wantonly beseen,
With burly bedde and bankers brouded been,
Spices and wine to thy colatioun,
The cuppes all of gold and silver shene,
Thy swete meates served in plates clene,
With savery sauce of a good fashioun,
Thy gay garments with many goodiy goun,
Thy plesaunt laune pinned with golden pene?
All is arere thy great royall renoun.

"Where is thy gardein with thy greces gay
And freshe floures, which the quene Floray
Had painted pleasauntly in every way,
Where thou were wont full merily in May
To walke, and take the dewe by it was day,
And heare the Merle and Mavise many one,
With ladies faire in carrolling to gone,
And see the royall renkes in their ray?

"This leper loge take for thy goodly boure,
And for thy bed, take now a bounche of stro,
For wailed wine and meates thou had tho,
Take mouled bread, pirate, and sider soure,
But cuppe and clapper is all now ago.

"My clere voice and my courtly carrolling,
Is ranke as roke, full hidous heer and hace
Deformed is the figure of my face,
To loke on it no people hath liking,
So sped in sight, I say with sore sighing
Lying emong the leper folke alas.

"O ladies faire of Troy and Grece, attend
My freile fortune, mine infelicite,
My great mischief, which no man can amend,
And in your mind a mirrour make of me:
As I am now paraventure that ye,

For all your might may come to the same end,
Or else worse, if any worse may be,
Beware therefore approches nere your end.

"Nought is your fairnesse but a fading floure,
Nought is your famous laude and hie honour,
But winde inflate in other mennes cares,
Your rosing redde to rotting shall retoure,
Exemple make of me in your memore:
Which of such thinges wofull witnes beares,
Al welth in yearth, as wind away it weares,
Beware therfore approches uere your hour."

Thus chiding with her drery disteny,
Weping, she woke the night fro end to end,
But all in vaine her dole, her carefull cry
Might not remedy, ne yet her mourning mend:
A leper lady rose, and to her wend,
And sayd, "Why spurnes thou again the wall,
To slea thy selfe, and mende nothing at all?

"Sith that thy weping but doubleth thy wo,
I counsaile thee make vertue of a nede,
Go learne to clappe thy clapper to and fro,
And learne after the lawe of lepers lede."
There was no bote, but forthwith than she yede
Fro place to place, while cold and hunger sore
Compelled her to be a ranke beggore.

That same time of Troy the garnisoun,
Which had the chieftain worthy Troilus
Through jeopardy of warre had striken doun,
Knightes of Grece in nomber marvellous,
With great triumph, and laude victorious,
Again to Troy right royally they rode,
The way where Creseide with the leper stode.

Seing that company come, al with o stevin
They gave a cry, and shoke cupps, "God spede,
Worthy lordes, for Goddes love of hevin,
To us leper, part of your almose dede :"
Than to hir cry noble Troilus toke hede,
Having pite, nere by the place gan pas,
Wher Creseide sat, nat weting what she was.

Than vpon him she kest vp both her iyen,
And with a blinke it come in til his thought,
That he sometime her face before had şein,
But she was in soch plite he knew her nought,
Yet than her loke into his minde he brought,
The swete visage, and amorous blenking,
Of faire Creseid, sometime his owne derling.

No wonder was, suppose in mind that he
Toke her figure so sone, and lo now why,
The idol of a thing in case may be
So depe enprinted in the fantasie,
That it deludeth the wittes outwardly,
And so apereth in forme and like estate,
Within the minde, as it was figurate.

A spark of love than til his hertecouth spring,
And kindeled his body in a fire,
With hote feuer, in swette, and trembling
Him tooke, while he was readie to exspire,
To beare his shield his brest began to tire,
Within a while he chaunged many a hewe,
And nevertheles nat one an other knew.

For knightly pite and memoriell

Of faire Creseide, a girdel gan he take,
A purse of gold and many a gaie iewell,
And in the skirt of Creseide doun gan shake:
Than rode away, and nat a word he spake,
Pensife in herte while he came to the toune,
And for great care oft sith almost fell doune.
The lepre folke to Creseide than couth draw,
To see the equall distributioun

Of the almose, but whan the gold they saw,
Ech one to other priuely gan roun,
And saied, "Yon lord hath more affectioun,
How ever it be, vnto yon Lazarous
Than to vs al, we know by his almous."

"What lord is yon," (quod she) "have ye no fele,
That doeth to vs so great humanite?"
"Yes," (quod a lepre man) "I know him wele
Sir Troilus it is, a knight gentle and free."
Whan Creseide vnderstood that it was hee,
Stiffer than stele there sterte a bitter stound
Throughout her herte, and fill doun to the ground.

Whan she, overcome with sighing sore and sad, With many a carefull crie and cold atone, "Now is my brest with stormy stoundes stad, Wrapped in wo, wretchfull will of one," Than fell in swoun ful oft or she would fone, And ever in her swouning cried she thus, "O false Creseide, and true knight Troilus.

"Thy love, thy laude, and all thy gentlenesse, I counted small in my prosperite,

So effated I was in wantonnesse,

And clambe vpon the fickell whele so hie,
All faith and love I promitted to thee,
Was in thy selfe fekell and furious,

O false Creseide, and true knight Troilus.
"For love of me thou kept countenaunce,
Honest and chast in conuersacion,
Of all women protectour and defence
Thou were, and helped their opinion:
My minde and fleshly foule affection
Was enclined to lustes lecherous,
Fie false Creseide, O true knight Troilus.

"Lovers, beware, and take good hede about
Whom that ye love, for whan ye suffre pain,
I let you wit there is right few throughout,
Whom ye may trust to have true love again,
Proue whan ye woll your labour is in vain,
Therefore I rede ye take them as ye find,
For they are sad as wedercocke in wind.

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"Bicause I know the great vnstablenesse,
Brittle as glasse, vnto my self I say,
Trusting in other as great brutelnesse,
As inconstaunt, and as vntrue of fay:
Though some be true, I wot right few ar they;
Who findeth truth, let him his lady ruse,
None but my self as now I woll accuse."

Whan this was said, with paper she sat doun
And in this maner made her testament:
"Here I bequethe my corse and carioun,
With wormes and with toodes to be rent,'
My cuppe, my clapper, and mine ornament,
And all my gold, these lepre folke shall have,
Whan I am dedde, to bury me in grave.

"This roiall ring set with this rubie redde,
Which Troilus in dowrie to me send,
To him again I leaue it whan I am dedde,
To make my careful death vnto him kend:
Thus I conclude shortly and make an end,
My spirit I leave to Diane where she dwels,
To walke with her in wast wodes and welles.

"O Diomede, thou hast both broche and belt, Which Troilus gaue me, in tokening

Of his true love," and with thas worde she swelt,
And soone a leaper man toke off the ring,
Than buried her withouten tarying:
To Troilus forthwith the ring he bare,
And of Crescide the death he gan dcclare.

Whan he had heard her great infirmite,
Her legacie, and lamentacioun,
And how she ended in such poverte,
He swelt for wo and fell doune in a swoun,
For sorow his herte to brast was boun,
Sighing full sadly sayd, "I can no more,
She was vntrue, and wo is me therefore."

Some saith he made a tombe of marble gray,
And wrote her name and superscripcioun,
And layd it on her grane whereas she lay,
In golden letters, conteining this reasoun :
"Lo, faire ladies, Creseide of Troie toun,
Somtime counted the floure of womanhed,
Under this stone, late leper lieth dedde."

Now worthy women in this balade short,
Made for your worship and instruction,
Of charite I monish and exhort,
Minge nat your love with false disception :
Beare in your mind this sore conclusion
Of faire Creseide, as I have sayd before,
Sith she is dedde, I speake of her no more.

THE

LEGEND OF GOOD WOMEN.

For that some ladies in the court took offence at Chaucers large speeches against the untruth of women, the queen enjoyned him to compile this book in the commendation of sundry maidens and wives, who shewed themselves faithful to faithless men.

A THOUSAND times I have heard men tell,
That there is joy in Heaven, and pain in Hell,
And I accord it wele that it is so,
But nathelesse yet wote I wele also,
That there nis non dwelling in this countre,
That either hath in Heaven or in Hell ibe,
Ne may of it none other waies witten,
But as he heard sayed, or found it written,
For by assay there may no man it preve.

But God forbede but men should leve
Wel more thing than they have seen with iye,
Men shall nat wenen every thing a lie
But if himself it seeth, or els it dooth,
For God wote thing is never the lesse soth,
Though every wight ne may it not isee.
Bernarde the monke ne saugh all parde,
Than mote we to bookes that we find,
(Through which that old things ben in mind)
And to the doctrine of the old wise,
Yeve credence, in every skilful wise,
That tellen of the old appreued stories,
Of holines, of reignes, of victories,

Of love, of hate, and other sundry things,
Of which I may not make rehearsings :
And if that old bookes were away,
Ilorne were of all remembraunce the kay.

Well ought vs than, honouren and beleve
These bookes, there we han none other preve.
And as for me, though that I can but lite,
On bookes for to rede I me delite,
And to hem yeve I faith and full credence,
And in mine herte have hem in reverence
So bertely, that there is game none,
That fro my bookes maketh me to gone,
But it be seldome on the holy daie,
Save certainly, whan that the month of May
Is comen, and that I heare the foules sing,
And that the floures ginnen for to spring,
Farwell my booke, and my deuocion,

Now have I than eke this condicion,

That of all the floures in the mede,
Than love I most these floures white and rede,
Soch that men callen daisies in our toun,
To hem I have so great affectioun,
As I sayd erst, whan comen is the Maie,
That in my bedde there daweth me no daie,
That I nam vp and walking in the mede,
To seen this floure ayenst the Sunne sprede,
Whan it vp riseth early by the morrow,
That blisfull sight softeneth all my sorow,
So glad am I, whan that I have presence
Of it, to done it all reverence,

As she that is of all floures the floure,
Fulfilled of all vertue and honoure,
And every ilike faire, and fresh of hewe,
And ever I love it, and ever ilike newe,
And ever shall, till that mine herte die,
All sweare I not, of this I woll not lie.

There loved no wight hotter in his life,
And whan that it is eve I renne blithe,
As sone as ever the Sunne ginneth west,
To seen this floure, how it woll go to rest,
For feare of night, so hateth she derkenesse,
Her chere is plainly spred in the brightnesse
Of the Sunne, for there it woll vnclose:
Alas that I ne had English rime, or prose
Suffisaunt, this floure to praise aright,
But helpeth ye, that han conning and might,
Ye lovers, that can make of sentement,
In this case ought ye be diligent,

To forthren me somewhat in my labour,
Whether ye been with the lefe or with the flour,
For well I wote, that ye han here beforne
Of making ropen, and had alway the corne,
And I come after, glening here and there,
And am full glad, if I may find an eare,
Of any goodly worde that ye han left,
And though it happen me to rehearsen eft,
That ye han in your freshe songes sayd,
Forbeareth me, and beth not euill apayd,
Sith that ye se, I doe it in the honour
Of love, and eke of service of the flour,
Whom that I serve, as I have wit or might,
She is the clerenesse and the very light,
That in this derke world me wint and ledeth
The herte within my sorowfull brest you dredeth,
And loveth so sore, that ye ben verily
The maistres of my wit, and nothing I,

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My word, my workes, is knit so in your bonde
That as an harpe obeieth to the honde,
And make it soune after his fingering,
Right so mowe ye out of mine herte bring,
Soch voice, right as you list, to laugh or pain;
Be ye my guide, and lady souerain:
As to mine yearthly God, to you I call,
Both in this werke, and my sorowes all.
But wherefore that I spake to yeve credence
To old stories, and done hem reverence,
And that men musten more thing bileve
That men may seen at iye or els preve,
That shall I sein, whan that I see my time,
I may nat all atones speake in rime;
My busie ghost, that thursteth alway new,
To seen this flour so yong, so fresh of hew,
Constrained me, with so gredy desire,
That in my herte I fele yet the fire,
That made me rise ere it were day,
And this was now the first morow of Maie,
With dreadfull herte, and glad deuocion
For to been at the resurrection

Of this floure, whan that it should vnclose
Again the Sunne, that rose as redde as rose,
That in the brest was of the beast that day,
That Angenores doughter ladde away:
And doune on knees anon right I me sette,
And as I could, this fresh floure I grette,
Kneeling alway, till it vnclosed was,
Upon the small, soft, swete gras,

That was with floures swete embrouded all,
Of such swetenesse, and soch odour over all,
That for to speake of gomme, herbe, or tree,
Comparison may not imaked be,
For it surmounteth plainly all odoures,
And of riche beaute of floures:
Forgotten had the yearth his poore estate
Of Winter, that him naked made and mate,
And with his sword of cold so sore greved;
Now hath the attempre sunne al that releved
That naked was, and clad it new again;
The small foules of the season fain,
That of the panter and the net been scaped,
Upon the fouler, that hem made awhaped
In Winter, and destroied had her brood,
In his dispite hem thought it did hem good
To sing of him, and in her song dispise
The foule chorle, that for his couetise,
Had him betraied, with his sophistrie,
This was her song, "The fouler we defie,
And all his craft:" and some songen clere,
Laies of love, that joy it was to here,
In worshipping and praysing of hir make,
And for the new blisfull Somers sake,
Upon the braunches full of blosmes soft,
In hir dilite, they tourned hem ful oft,
And songen,
"Blissed be sainct Ualentine,
For on his day I chese you to be mine,
Withouten repenting mine herte swete,"
And therewithall hir bekes gonnen mete,
Yelding honour, and humble obeisaunce
To love, and didden hir other observaunce
That longeth vnto love, and vnto nature,
Constrewe that as you list, I do no cure:
And tho that had done vnkindnesse,
As doeth the tidife, for new fanglenesse,
Besought mercy of hir trespasing,
And humbly song hir repenting,
And sworen on the blosmes to be true,
So that hir makes would vpon hem rue,

And at the last maden bir acorde,
All found they Daunger for the time a lord,
Yet Pite, through his strong gentill might,
Foryave, and made Mercy passen right
Through Innocence, and ruled Curtesie:
But I ne cleape it nat innocence folie,
Ne false pite, for vertue is the meane,
As eticke sayth, in soch maner I meane.
And thus these foule, voide of all malice,
Acordeden to love, and laften vice

Of hate, and song all of one acorde,
"Welcome Sommer, our governour and lorde."
And Zephirus, and Flora gentelly,
Yave to the floures soft and tenderly,
Hir swote breth, and made hem for to sprede,
As god and goddesse of the flourie Mede,
In which me thoughte I might day by daie,
Dwellen alway, the joly month of Maie,
Withouten slepe, withouten meat or drinke?
Adowne full softly I gan to sinke,
And leaning on my elbow and my side,
The long day I shope me for to abide,
For nothing els, and I shall nat lie,
But for to looke vpon the daisie,
That well by reason men it call may
The daisie, or cls the iye of the day,
The emprise, and floure of floures all,
I pray to God that faire mote she fall,
And all that loven floures, for her sake:
But nathelesse, ne wene nat that I make
In praising of the floure againe the lefe,
No more than of the corne againe the shefe:
For as to me nis lever none ne lother,
I nam withholden yet with never nother,
Ne I not who serveth lefe, ne who the floure,
Well brouken they hir service or laboure,
For this thing is all of another tonne,
Of old storie, er soch thing was begonne
Whan that the Sunne out the south gan west,
And that this floure gan close, and gan to rest,
For derknes of the night, the which she dred,
Home to mine house full swiftly I me sped
To gone to rest, and earely for to rise,
To seene this floure to sprede, as I devise,
And in a little herber that I have,
That benched was on turves fresh igrave,
I bad men shoulde me my couche make,
For deintie of the newe Sommers sake,
I bad hem strawen floures on my bedde;
Whan I was laid, and had mine iyen hedde,
I fell a slepe, and slept an houre or two,
Me met how I lay in the medow tho,
To seen this floure, that I love so and drede,
And from a ferre came walking in the Mede
The god of love, and in his hand a queene,
And she was clad in royall habite grene,
A fret of golde she had next her heere,
And vpon that a white croune she beare,
With flourouns small, and I shall not lie,
For all the world right as a daisie
Icrouned is, with white leaves lite,
So were the florouns of her croune white,
For of o perle fine orientall,
Her white croune was imaked all,
For which the white croune above the grene
Made her like a daisie for to seme,
Considred eke her fret of gold above:
Iclothed was this mighty god of love
In silke embroided, full of grene greves,
In which a fret of redde rose leves,

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