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Now, ladie mine! fith t you love and drede,
And you'unchaunged evit finde in o degre,
Whose grace ne maie flie fro your womanhede,
Disdainith not for to remembre' on me,
Myne herte bledith for I maie not you se;
And fith ye wotte' my menyng defirous
Pleures pour moy s'il vous plaift amoreux. .
What marveile is though I in pain ybe?
L'am departid from you my lovèrain;
Fortune alas! dont vient la deftenie,
That in no wife I can ne maie attain
To se the beaucie of your eyin twain,
Wherefore I saie, for tristesse doeth me grame,
Tant ne fait mal departir de ma dame."
189 Why n'ere my wiffing brought to foche esploit That I might faie for joye of your presence Or amon caur ce qui voulluit Or amon cæur? the highilt excellence That er had wight, and fith mine advertence ? Is in you rewith on my painis finerte, I am so fore ywoundid to the herre.
196 To'live'well merie two lovirs were ifere, So maie I saie withoutin any blame, And if that any man to wilde were I coud hym techin for to be full tame, Let hym go love and se where it be game, For I am bridlid unto fobirnesse For her that is of women chief princesse. 203
But evir when thought my hert fuld enbrace,
Then unto me it is best remedie,
When I loke on your godely freshè face,
So merie a mirrour coud I ner espie,
And if I coud I would it magnifie,
: For nevir none ywas so faire yfounde, To reken 'hem all, and also Rosamounde.
And finally, with mouthe and will present,
Of double eye withoutin repentaunce,
Mine hert I yeve you, ladie', in this entent,
shall therof have the govirnaunce, Takyng my leve with hert'is obeisaunce, (Salve Regina) synging last of all To be our helpe when that we to the call. 217
All our love is nought els but idlenesse,
Save your love alone, who might therto' attain ;
Who fo woll have a name of gentillesse
I counsaile hym in love that he not fain;
Thou swete ladie! refute in every pain,
Whose mercie mofte unto me availith,
To gie by grace when that Fortune failith.
Nought maie be told, withoutin any fable,
Your high renome, you womanly beaute,
Your govirnaunce, to all worship able,
Futteth every herte in ese in his degre;
O violet ! o flowir desirè!
Sithin I am for you so amerous
Eftreignes moy de cæur joyeux.
With fervent hert my brest hath brost on fire,
L'ardant espoer en mon caur point eft mort,
D'avoir l'amour de celle que je defire,
J menè you swete mofte plesaunt of porte;'
Et je fcay bien que ce n'est pas mon tort,
That for you fyng so as I maie for mone,
For your deparcyng alone I live alone.
Though that I might I would none othir chese,
In your service I would ben foundin fadde,
Therefore I love no labour that ye lese,
When that in longyng forist ye be stadde ;
Loke up you loviris and be right gladde,
Now ayenis Sainct Valentin’is daie,
For I have chese that ner forsake ( inaie. 245
Balade de bon confail. Ir it befall that God the lift visite With any tourment or adverfite Thanke firfte the Lorde, and tho thy felfe to quite Upon suffèraunce and humilite Founde thou thy quaril, what er that it be, Make thy defence, and thou shalt have no loffe, The remembraunce of Christ and of his crosse.
SOMTIME the worlde fo stedfaft was and flables
That manne's worde was an obligacioun,
And now it is so false and discevable,
That worde and dede, as in conclufioun,
Is nothyng like, for tourned is up fo doun,
All the worlde, thorough mede and fikilnefse,
That all is lofte for lacke of stedfastnefle.
What maketh the worlde to be fo variable
But lust that men have in difcenfion?
For emong us a man is holde unable
But if he can by fome collusion
Doe his neighbour wrong and oppreffion:
Whai caufith this but wilfull wretchidnefie?
That all is loke for lacke of stedfastneffe, 14
Trouthe is put douné, reson is holde fable,
Vertue hath now no dominacion,
Pitie 'is exiled, no man is merciable,
Through covetise is blente discrecion;
The worlde hath made a permutacion
Fro right to wrong, fro trouthe to fikilneffe,
That all is lofte for lacke of stedfastnesse.
Prince, aye desire to be honourable,
Cherishe thy folke, and hate extorcion;
Suffre nothyng that maie be reprovable
To thine estate doen in thy region;
Shewe forthe the yerde of castigacion;
Drede God, do law, love treuth and worthines,
And wedde thy folke ayen to stedfastnesse.
Balade of the village without paintyng.
Plaintife to Fortune.
This wretchid world'is transmutacion,
As wele and wo, nowe pore and now honour,
Without ordir or due discrecion,
Govirnid is by Fortun'is errour,
Bue nathèlese che lacke of her favour
Ne maie not doe me fyng though that I die,
Way tout perdu mon temps et mon labeur,
For finally Fortune I doe defie.
Yet is me left the fight of my resoun
To knowin frende fro foe in thy mirrour,
So moche hath yet thy tournyng up and doun
Itaughtin me to knowin in an hour,
But truly no force of thy reddour
To hym that ovir hymself hath maistrie;
My sufifaunce yshal be may succour,
For finally Fortune I do defie.
O Socrates! thou stedfast champion,
She ne might nevir he thy turmentour,
Thou nevir dreddist her oppression,
Nein her chere foundin thou no favour;
Thou knewe wele the disceipt of her colour,
And that her mosle worship is for to lie;
I knowe her cke a false diffimulour,
For finally Fortune I do defie.