Alas! that nature hath in you compassed
So great beauty, that no man may attain
To mercy, though he stervë for the pain!
So hath your beauty from your hertë chased
Pity, that me ne availeth not to plain;
For Daunger halt your mercy in his chain.
Since I from Love escaped am so fat,
I never think to ben in his prison lean;
Since I am free, I count him not a bean.
He may answer, and sayë this or that;
I do no force, I speak right as I mean:
Since I from Love escaped am so fat,
I never think to ben in his prison lean.
Love hath my name y-strike out of his sclat,
And he is strike out of my bookës clean
For evermore; there is none other mean.
Since I from Love escaped am so fat,
I never think to ben in his prison lean;
Since I am free, I count him not a bean!
Geoffrey Chaucer.
DUNBAR'S LAMENT WHEN HE WAS SICK
I THAT in health was and gladness,
Am troubled now with great sickness,
And feebled with infirmity :-
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Our plesance here is all vain glory,
This false world is but transitóry,
The flesh is brukle, the Fiend is slee :—
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
The state of man does change and vary,
Now sound, now sick, now blithe, now sary,
Now dansand merry, now like to dee :-
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
No state in earth here standës sickir;
As with the wind waves the wickir,
So waves this world's vanity:
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Unto the dead goes all Estates,
Princes, Prelates, and Potestates,
Both rich and poor of all degree :-
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He takes the knights in to the field,
Enarmèd under helm and shield;
Victor he is at all mellee :-
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
That strong unmerciful tyrand
Takes, on the mother's breast sowkand,
The babe full of benignity :-
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
In medicine the most practicians,
Leeches, surrigians, and physicians,
Themselves from death may not supplee:~.
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
I see that makars among the lave
Plays here their pageant, syne goes to grave; Sparéd is not their faculty :
Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He has done petuously devour
The noble Chaucer, of makars flower,
The Monk of Bury, and Gower, all three :—
Timor Mortis conturbat me. . .
When that the night does lenthin hours,
With wind, with hail, and heavy showers,
My dule spreit does lurk for schoir;
My heart for languor does forloir
For lack of Summer with his flowers.
I walk, I turn, sleep may I not;
I vexèd am with heavy thought;
This world all o'er I cast about,
And ay the mair I am in doubt,
The mair that I remeid have sought.
I am assailed on every side.
Despair says ay:-'In time provide,
And get some thing whereon to leif,
Or with great trouble and mischeif
Thou shall in to this court abide.'
Then Patience says:- Be not aghast :
Hold Hope and Truth within thee fast;
And let Fortúne work forth her rage,
When that no reason may assuage,
Till that her glass be run and past.'
And Prudence in my ear says ay :-
'Why would thou hold that will away?
Or crave that thou may have no space,
Thou tending to another place,
A journey going every day?'
And then says Age:- My friend, come near,
And be not strange, I thee requeir!
Come, brother, by the hand me take:
Remember thou has compt to make
Of all thy time thou spended here.'
Syne Death casts up his yettis wide,
Saying:-These opens shall ye abide !
Albeit that thou were never so stout,
Under this lintel shall thou lowt;
There is none other way beside.'
For fear of this all day I drowp;
No gold in kist, nor wine in cowp,
No lady's beauty, nor luif's bliss
May let me to remember this,
How glad that ever I dine or sowp.
Yet, when the night begins to short,
It does my spreit some part comfort,
Of thought oppressed with the showers.
Come, lusty Summer! with thy flowers,
That I may live in some disport!
O WRETCH, beware! This world will wend thee fro, Which has beguiléd many great estate.
Turn to thy friend, believe not in thy foe;
Since thou must go, be graithing to thy gait ;
Remeid in time, and rue not all-too late; Provide thy place, for thou away must pass Out of this vale of trouble and dissait : Vanitas Vanitatum, et omnia Vanitas!
Walk forth, pilgramë, while thou has day's light;
Dress from desert, draw to thy dwelling-place;
Speed home, for why? Anone comes the night
Which does thee follow with ane ythand chace!
Bend up thy sail, and win thy port of grace;
For and the death o'ertake thee in trespass,
Then may thou say these wordïs with allace!
Vanitas Vanitatum, et omnia Vanitas!
Here naught abides, here standës no thing stabill,
For this false world ay flittës to and fro;
Now day up bright, now night all black as sabill,
Now ebb, now flood, now friend, now cruel foe;
Now glad, now sad, now well, now into woe;
Now clad in gold, dissolvit now in ass;
So does this world transitory go:
Vanitas Vanitatum, et omnia Vanitas!
IN PRAISE OF JOHANNA SCROOPE
How shall I report
All the goodly sort
Of her features clere,
That hath no earthly pere?
Her favour of her face
Ennewéd all with grace,
Comfort, pleasure, and solace,
Mine heart doth so embrace,
And so hath ravished me
Her to behold and see,
That in words plain
I cannot me refrain
To look on her again :
Alas! what should I feign?
It were a pleasant pain
With her ay to remain.
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