Ipolita his wife, and hardy queene
Of Cithia, that he conquered had,
With Emely ber young suster shene,
Faire in a chaire of gold he with him lad,
That all the ground about her chair she sprad
With brightness of beauty in her face,
Fulfilled of largesse and of grace.

With his triumph and laurer crowned thus,
In all the floure of fortunes yeuing,
Let I this noble prince Theseus,
Toward Athenes in his way riding,
And fonde I woll in shortly to bring,
The slye way of that I gan to write,
Of queene Annelida and false Arcite.

Mars that through his furious course of ire,
The old wrath of Juno to fulfill,

Hath set the peoples hertes both on fire

Of Thebes and Grece, and euerich other to kill With bloody speres, rested never still,

But throng now here now there among hem both,
That euerich other slue, so were they wroth.

For whan Amphiorar and Tideus,
Ipomedon and Partinope also

Were dedde, and slain proud Campaneus,
And whan the wretched Thebans brethren two
Were slain, and king Adrastus home ago,
So desolate stood Thebes and so bare,
That no wight could remedy his care.

And whan the old Creon gan espy,

How that the blood royal was brought adown,
He held the citee by his tyranny,
And did the gentils of that regioun
To been his friends, and dwell in the toun,
So what for loue of him, and what for awe,
The noble folke were to the towne ydrawe.

Among all these, Annelida the queene
Of Ermony was in that towne dwelling,
That fairer was than the Sonne sheene,
Throughout the world so gan her name spring,
That her to see had every wight liking,
For as of trouth is there none her liche,
Of all the women in this world riche.

Yong was this queene, of twenty yere old,
Of middle stature, and of soch fairnesse,
That Nature had a ioy her to behold,
And for to speaken of her stedfastnesse,
She passed hath Penelope and Lucresse,
And shortly if she may ben comprehended,
In her might nothing been amended.

This Theban knight eke sothe to sain,
Was yong, and thereto withall a lusty knight,
But he was double in love, and nothing plain,
And subtill in that craft ouer any wight,
And with his conning wan this lady bright:
For so ferforth he gan her trouth assure,
That she him trusteth ouer any creature.
What should I sain, she loueth Arcite so
That whan that he was absent any throw,
Anone her thought her herte brast atwo,
For in her sight to her he bare him low,
So that she wende have all his herte yknow,
But he was false, it nas but fayned chere,
As nedeth not soche crafte meu to lere.

But neuerthelesse full mikell businesse
Had he, er that he might his lady winne,
And swore he would dien for distresse,
Or from his witte he said he would twinne:
Alas the while, for it was routh and sinne,
That she upon his sorrowes would rue,

But nothing thinketh the false as doth the true.

Her fredome found Arcite in soch manere,
That all was his, that she hath, moch or lite,
Ne to no creature made she cheer,
Further than it liked to Arcite,

There was no lack, with which he might her wite,
She was so ferforth yeuen him to please,

That all that liked him did her ease.

There nas to her no maner letter sent, That touched loue, from any maner wight, That she ne shewed him, or it was brent, So plain she was, and did her full might, That she nyl hide nothing from her knight, Lest he of any vntrouth her vpbreyde, Without bode his herte she obeyd.

And eke he made him ialous ouer her,
That what that any man had to her sayd,
Anon he would praien her to swere
What was that word, or make him yuell apaid,
Than wende she out of her wit have braid,
But all was but sleight and flatterie,
Without love he fained jelousie.

And all this tooke she so debonairly,
That all his will, her thought it skilful thing
And ever the lenger she loved him tenderly,
And did him honour as he were a king,
Her herte was to him wedded with a ring,
For so ferforth vpon trouth is her entent,
That where he goth, her herte with bim went.

Whan she shal eat, on him is so her thought,
That well vnueth of meate toke she keepe,
And whan she was to her rest brought,
On him she thought alway till that she slepc,
Whan he was absent, priuely doth she wepe,
Thus liueth faire Annelida the queeue,
For false Arcite, that did her all this tene,

This false Arcite, of his newfanglenesse,
For she to him so lowly was and trewe,
Tooke lesse deintee for her stedfastnesse,
And saw another lady proude and newe,
And right anon he clad him in her hewe,
Wote I not whether in white, reed, or grene,
And falsed faire Annelida the queene.

But neverthelesse, great wonder was it none
Though he were false, for it is the kind of man,
Sith Lamech was, that is so long agone,
To be in love as false as euer he can,
He was the first father that began
To loven two, and was in bigamye.
And he found tents first, but if men lye.

This false Arcite, somewhat must he faine,
Whan he was false, to coueren his tratoury,
Right as an horse, that can both bite and plaine,
For he bare her in honde of treachery,
And swore he coude her doublenesse espye,
And all was falsenesse that she to him ment,
Thus swore this thefe, and forth his way he went.

That loue you most, God thou wost alway,
Yet turne ayen, and yet be playne some day,
And than shall this that now is mis, ben game,
And all foryeue, while I lyue may.

"Lo herte myne, al this is for to saine,
As whether shall I pray or els playne,
Which is the way to done you to be trew,
For eyther mote I haue you in my chayne,
Or with the deth ye mote depart vs twayne,
There bethe none other meane wayes new,
For God so wisely on my soule rewe,
As verely ye slaine me with the payne,
That mowe ye see vnfained on mine hewe.

"For thus ferforth haue I my deth sought,
My selfe I murder with my priuie thought,
For sorow and routh of your vnkindnesse,
I wepe, I wayle, I fast, all helpeth naught,
I voide joy that is to speake of aught,
I voide company, I flie gladnesse,
Who may auaunt her better of heuinesse,
Than I and to this plite haue ye me brought,
Without gilte, me needeth no witnesse.

"And should I pray, and weiuen womanhede,
Nay rather death, than do so foule a dede,
And aske mercy and giltlesse, what nede,
And if I plaine what lyfe I lede,

You recketh not, that know I out of drede,
And if I vnto you mine othes bede,

For mine excuse, a scorne shall be my mede,
Your chere floureth, but it woll not sede,
Full long agon I might haue taken hede.

"For though I had you to morow agayne,
I might as well hold Aprill from rayne,
As holde you to maken stedfast,
Almighty God, of trouth the souerayn,
Where is that trouth of man, who hath it slayn,
She that hem loueth, shall hem find as fast,

As in a tempest is a rotten mast,

Is that a tame beest, that is aye fayne

To renne away, whan he is lest agast.

"Now mercy sweete, if I missay,
Haue I aught sayd out of the way,
I not, my witte is all away,

I fare as doth the songe of chantepleure,
For now I plaine, and now I pley,
I am so mased that I dey,
Arcite hath borne away the key

Of all my world, and my good auenture.
"For in this world there is no creature,
Walking in more discomfiture,
Than I, ne more sorowe endure,
For if I sleepe a furlonge way or twey,
Than thinketh me that your figure
Before me stante clad in asure,
Efte to profre a newe assure,

For to ben trewe, and mercy me to prey.
"The long night, this wonder sight ydrie,
That on the day for such affray I die,
And of all this right naught ywis ye retche,
Ne neuermore mine eyen to ben drye,
And to your routh, and to your trouth I crye,
But well away, to ferre been they to fetch,
Thus holdeth me my desteny a wretch,
But me to rede out of this drede or gye,
Ne may my wit (so weake is it) not stretch.

"Than end I thus, sith I may do no more,
I yeue it vp for now and euermore,
For I shall neuer efte putten in balaunce
My sikernesse, ne lerne of loue the lore,
But as the swan, I haue herde say full yore,
Ayenst his deth woll sing in his penaunce,
So sing I here the destinie and chaunce,
How that Arcite, Annelida so sore
Hath thrilled with the point of remembraunce."

Whan that Annelida this wofull queene,
Hath of her hand written in this wise,
With face deed, betwixt pale and greene,
She fell a swoune, and sithe she gan to rise,
And vnto Mars avoweth sacrifise
Within the temple, with a sorowful chere,
That shapen was, as ye may plainly here.

COMPLAINT OF THE BLACK KNIGHT.

The heavy complaint of a knight, for that he cannot win his ladies grace.

In May, whan Flora the fresh lusty quene,
The soyle hath cladde in grene, red, and whight,
And Phebus gan to shede his stremes shene,
Amidde the Bulle, with all the beames bright,
And Lucifer, to chace away the night,
Ayen the morow our orizont hath take,
To bid all lovers out of hir slepe awake.

And hertes heavy for to recomfort,
From drerihed of heavy night sorow,
Nature bad hem rise, and hem disport,
Ayen the goodly glad grey morow,

And hope also, with sainct Johan to borow,
Bad in dispite of daunger and dispaire,
For to take the holsome lusty ayre.

And with a sigh I gan for to abreide
Out of my slumber, and sodainly vp starte,
As he (alas) that nigh for sorow deide,
My sicknesse sate aye so nye my herte,
But for to finde soccour of my smart,
Or at the least some release of my peine,
That me so sore halte in every veine.

I rose anone, and thought I would gone
Into the wodde, to heare the birdes sing,
Whan that the misty vapour was agone,
And cleare and faire was the morning,
The dewe also like silver in shining
Upon the leaves, as any baume swete,
Till firy Titan with his persant hete

Had dryed vp the lusty licour new,
Upon the herbes in the grene mede,
And that the floures of many divers hew,
Upon hir stalkes gon for to sprede,
And for to splay out hir leves in brede
Againe the Sunne, gold burned in his spere,
That doune to hem cast his beams clere.

And by a river forth I gan costey,
Of water clere, as birell or cristall,
Till at the last I found a little wey,
Toward a parke, enclosed with a wall,
In compace rounde, and by a gate small,
Who so that would, frely might gone
Into this parke, walled with grene stone.

And in I went to heare the birdes song,
Which on the branches, both in plaine and vale,
So loud sang, that all the wood rong,
Like as it should shiver in peeces smale,
And as me thought, that the nightingale
With so great might, her voice gan out wrest
Right as her herte for love would brest.

The soile was plaine, smoth, and wonder soft,
All oversprad with tapettes that Nature
Had made her selfe: covered eke aloft
With bowes greene, the floures for to cure,
That in hir beauty they may long endure
From all assaut of Phebus fervent fere,
Which in his sphere so hote shone and clere.

The ayre attempre, and the smothe wind
Of Zepherus, among the blosomes white,
So holsome was, and so nourishing by kind,
That smale buddes, and round blosomes lite,
In maner gan of hir brethe delite,
To yeve vs hope there fruite shall take
Ayenst autumpne redy for to shake.

I saw the Daphene closed vnder rinde,
Greene laurer, and the holsome pine,
The mirre also that wepeth ever of kinde,
The cedres hye, vpright as a line,
The filbert eke, that lowe doth encline
Her bowes grene, to the yearth adoun,
Unto her knight called Demophoun.

There sawe I eke the fresh hauthorne
In white motley, that so swote doth smell,
Ashe, firre, and oke, with many a yong acorn,
And many a tree mo than I can tell,
And me be forne I sawe a little well,
That had his course, as I gan beholde,
Under an hill, with quicke stremes colde.

The gravel gold, the water pure as glasse,
The bankes round, the well environyng,
And soft as velvet the yong grasse
That therevpon lustely came springyng,
The sute of trees about compassyng,
Hir shadow cast, closing the well round,
And all the herbes growing on the ground.

The water was holsome, and so vertuous,
Through might of herbes growyng beside,
Not like the welle where as Narcissus
Islaine was, through vengeaunce of Cupide,
Where so covertly he did hide

The graine of death vpon eche brinke,
That death mote folow, who that ever drinke.

Ne like the pitte of the Pegace,
Under Pernaso, where poetes slept,
Nor like the welle of pure chastite,
Which that Diane with her nimphes kept,
Whan she naked into the water lepte,
That slowe Acteon with her hondes fell,
Onely for he came so nigh the well.

But this welle that I here of rehearse,
So holsome was, that it would aswage,
Bollen hertes, and the venim pearce,
Of pensifehed, with all the cruell rage,
And over more refresh the visage
Of hem that were in any werinesse,
Of great labour, or fallen in distresse.

And I that had through daunger and disdain
So drye a thrust, thought I would assay
To taste a draught of this welle or twain,
My bitter langour if it might alay,
And on the banke anone doune I lay,
And with mine hed vnto the welle I raught,
And of the water dranke I a good draught.

Wherof me thought I was refreshed wele,
Of the brennyng that sate so nigh my herte,
That verely anone I gan to fele
An huge parte released of my smart,
And therewithall anone vp I start,
And thought I would walke and see more,
Forth in the parke, and in the holtes hore.

And through a laund as I yede a pace,
And gan about fast to behold,

I found anone a delectable place,
That was beset with trees young and old,
Whose names here for me shall not be told,
Amidde of which stood an herber greene,

That benched was, with colours new and clene.

This herber was full of floures gende,
Into the which, as I beholde gan,
Betwixt an hulfeere and a woodbende,
As I was ware, I saw where lay a man
In blacke, and white colour pale and wan,
And wonder deadly also of bis hewe,
Of hurtes grene, and fresh woundes new.

And overmore distrayned with sicknesse
Beside all this he was full grevously,
For vpon him he had an hote accesse,
That day by day him shooke full pitously,
So that for constrayning of his malady,
And hertely wo, thus lying all alone,
It was a death for to hear him grone.

Wherof astonied, my fote I gan withdraw,
Greatly wondring what it might be,
That he so lay and had no felaw,
Ne that I could no wight with him see,
Wherof I had routhe, and eke pite,
And gan anone, so softly as I coude,
Among the bushes prively me to shroude.

If that I might in any wise aspy,
What was the cause of his deedly wo,
Or why that he so pitously gan cry
On his fortune, and on ure also,
With all my might I layd an eare to,
Every word to marke what he said,
Out of his swough amonge as he abraid.

But first, if I should make mencion
Of his person, and plainely him discrive,
He was in sothe, without excepcion,
To speake of manhood, one the best on live,
There may no man ayen trouth strive,
For of his tyme, and of his age also,
He proved was, there men shuld have ado.

For one of the best therto of bread and length

So well ymade by good proporcion,
If he had be in his deliver strength,
But thought and sicknesse were occasion
That he thus lay in lamentacion,
Gruffe on the ground, in place desolate,
Sole by himselfe, awhaped and amate.

And for me seemeth that it is fitting
His wordes all to put in remembraunce,
To me that heard all his complayning,
And all the ground of his wofull chaunce,
If there withall I may you do pleasaunce,
I woll to you so as I can anone,
Lyke as he sayd, rehearce everichone.

But who shall helpe me now to complain,
Or who shall now my stile gy or lede,
O Niobe, let now thy teeres rain
In to my penne, and helpe eke in nede,
Thou wofull Myrre that felest my herte blede
Of pitous wo, and mine hand eke quake,
Whan that I write, for this mannes sake,

For vnto wo accordeth complayning,
And dolefull chere vnto heavinesse,
To sorow also, sighing and weping,
And pitous mourning vnto drerinesse,
And who that shall write of distresse,
In party needeth to know feelingly,
Cause and roote of all soch malady.

But I alas, that am of witte but dull,
And have no knowing of soch matere,
For to discrive, and write at the full

The wofull complaint, which that ye shall here,
But even like as doth a skriuenere,

That can no more what that he shall write,
But as his maister beside doth endite.

Right so fare I, that of no sentement,
Say right naught in conclusion,
But as I herde whan I was present,
This man complaine, with a pitous soun,
For even like without addicioun,
Or disencrease, eyther more or lesse,
For to reherse anone I woll me dresse.

And if that any now be in this place,
That fele in love brenning of fervence,
Or hindred were to his ladies grace,
With false tonges, that with pestilence
Slea trewe men, that neuer did offence
In worde nor deed, ne in hir entent,
If any soch be here now present,

Let bim of routh lay to audience,

With doleful chere, and sobre conntenaunce,
To here this man, by full hye sentence,
His mortall wo, and his perturbaunce,
Complayning, now lying in a traunce,
With lookes vpcast, and rufull chere,
Theffect of which was as ye shall here.

"The thought oppressed with inward sighs sore,
The painful life, the body languishing,
The woful gost, the herte rent and tore,
The pitous chere pale in complayning,
The deedly face, like ashes in shining,
The salte teares that from mine eyen fall,
Percel declare ground of my paynes all.

"Whose herte is ground to blede in heuinesse,
The thought receit of wo, and of complaint,
The brest is chest of dole and drerinesse,
The body eke so feeble and so faint,
With hote and colde mine axes is so maint,
That now I chiuer, for defaut of heat,
And hote as glede, now sodainly I sweat.

"Now hote as fire, now colde as ashes deed,
Now hote for cold, now cold for heat againe,
Now cold as yse, now as coles reed,
For heate I brenne, and thus betwixe twaine,
I possed am, and all forecast in paine,
So that my heate plainly as I fele,

Of

greeuous colde is cause euery dele.

"This is the colde of inward hie disdayn,
Colde of dispite, and colde of cruell hate,
This is the colde that euer doth his besie payn,
Ayenst trouth to fight and debate,

This is the colde that the fire abate

Of trewe meaning, alas the harde while,
This is the colde that woll me begile.

"For euer the better that in trouth I ment,
With all my might faithfully to serue,
With herte and all to be diligent,
The lesse thanke, alas I can deserue :
Thus for my trouth danger doth me sterue,
For one that should my death of mercy let,
Hath made dispite new his swerde to whet

"Against me, and his arowes to file,
To take vengeaunce of wilfull cruelte,
And tonges false through hir sleightly wile,
Han gon a werre that will not stinted be,
And false enuie, wrath and enuite,
Haue conspired against all right and law,
Of hir malice, that trouth shall be flaw.

"And male bouch, gan first the tale tell,
To sclaunder trouth of indignacion,
And false reporte so loude range the bell,
That misbeleefe and false suspection
Hane trouth brought to his dampnacion,
So that alas, wrongfully he dieth,
And falsenesse now his place occupieth.

"And entred is in to trouthes londe,
And hath thereof the full possession,

O rightfull God that first the trouth fonde,
How may thou suffre soch oppression,
That falsheed should haue jurisdiction
In trouthes right to flee him gyltles,
In his fraunchise he may not lyue in pees.

"Falsly accused, and of his fone forjudged,
Without answere, while he was absent,
He damned was, and may not be excused,
For cruelte sate in judgement,
Of hastinesse without aduisement,
And badde disdaine do execute anone,
His judgement in presence of his fone.

"Attourney may none admitted been
To excuse trouth, ne a worde to speke,
To faith or othe the judge list not seen,
There is no game, but he will be wreke:
O Lord of trouth to thee I call and clepe,
How may thou see thus in thy presence,
Without mercy murdred innocence.