Various Authors
The Oxford Book of English Verse
Anthology of English Poetry (1250-1900)
EAN 8596547732518
Table of Contents
Preface
Anonymous
Robert Mannyng of Brunne
John Barbour
Geoffrey Chaucer
Thomas Hoccleve
John Lydgate
King James I of Scotland
Robert Henryson
William Dunbar
Anonymous
John Skelton
Stephen Hawes
Sir Thomas Wyatt
Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey
Nicholas Grimald
Alexander Scott
Robert Wever
Richard Edwardes
George Gascoigne
Alexander Montgomerie
William Stevenson
Anonymous (Scottish)
Nicholas Breton
Nicholas Breton?
Sir Walter Raleigh
Edmund Spenser
John Lyly
Anthony Munday
Sir Philip Sidney
Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke
Thomas Lodge
George Peele
Robert Greene
Alexander Hume
George Chapman
Robert Southwell
Henry Constable
Samuel Daniel
Mark Alexander Boyd
Joshua Sylvester
Michael Drayton
Christopher Marlowe
William Shakespeare
Richard Rowlands
Thomas Nashe
Thomas Campion
John Reynolds
Sir Henry Wotton
Sir John Davies
Sir Robert Ayton
Ben Jonson
John Donne
Richard Barnefield
Thomas Dekker
Thomas Heywood
John Fletcher
John Webster
William Alexander, Earl of Stirling
Phineas Fletcher
Sir John Beaumont
William Drummond, of Hawthornden
Giles Fletcher
Francis Beaumont
John Ford
George Wither
William Browne, of Tavistock
Robert Herrick
Francis Quarles
Henry King, Bishop of Chichester
George Herbert
James Shirley
Thomas Carew
Jasper Mayne
William Habington
Thomas Randolph
Sir William Davenant
Edmund Waller
John Milton
Sir John Suckling
Sir Richard Fanshawe
William Cartwright
James Graham, Marquis of Montrose
Thomas Jordan
Richard Crashaw
Richard Lovelace
Abraham Cowley
Alexander Brome
Andrew Marvell
Henry Vaughan
John Bunyan
Ballads and Songs by Unknown Authors
William Strode
Thomas Stanley
Thomas D’Urfey
Charles Cotton
Katherine Philips (‘Orinda’)
John Dryden
Charles Webbe
Sir George Etherege
Thomas Traherne
Thomas Flatman
Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset
Sir Charles Sedley
Aphra Behn
John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester
John Sheffield, Duke of Buckinghamshire
Thomas Otway
John Oldham
John Cutts, Lord Cutts
Matthew Prior
William Walsh
Lady Grisel Baillie
William Congreve
Joseph Addison
Isaac Watts
Thomas Parnell
Allan Ramsay
William Oldys
John Gay
Alexander Pope
George Bubb Dodington, Lord Melcombe
Henry Carey
William Broome
James Thomson
George Lyttelton, Lord Lyttelton
Samuel Johnson
Richard Jago
Thomas Gray
William Collins
Mark Akenside
Tobias George Smollett
Christopher Smart
Jane Elliot
Oliver Goldsmith
Robert Cunninghame-Graham of Gartmore
William Cowper
James Beattie
Isobel Pagan
Anna Lætitia Barbauld
Fanny Greville
John Logan
Lady Anne Lindsay
Sir William Jones
Thomas Chatterton
George Crabbe
William Blake
Robert Burns
Henry Rowe
William Lisle Bowles
Joanna Baillie
Mary Lamb
Carolina, Lady Nairne
James Hogg
William Wordsworth
Sir Walter Scott
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Robert Southey
Walter Savage Landor
Charles Lamb
Thomas Campbell
Thomas Moore
Edward Thurlow, Lord Thurlow
Ebenezer Elliott
Allan Cunningham
Leigh Hunt
Thomas Love Peacock
Caroline Southey
George Gordon Byron, Lord Byron
Sir Aubrey de Vere
Charles Wolfe
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Hew Ainslie
John Keble
John Clare
Felicia Dorothea Hemans
John Keats
Jeremiah Joseph Callanan
William Sidney Walker
George Darley
Hartley Coleridge
Thomas Hood
William Thom
Sir Henry Taylor
Thomas Babington Macaulay, Lord Macaulay
William Barnes
Winthrop Mackworth Praed
Sara Coleridge
Gerald Griffin
James Clarence Mangan
Thomas Lovell Beddoes
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Richard Henry Horne
Robert Stephen Hawker
Thomas Wade
Francis Mahony
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Frederick Tennyson
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
John Greenleaf Whittier
Helen Selina, Lady Dufferin
Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
Charles Tennyson Turner
Edgar Allan Poe
Edward Fitzgerald
Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson
Richard Monckton Milnes, Lord Houghton
Henry Alford
Sir Samuel Ferguson
Robert Browning
William Bell Scott
Aubrey de Vere
George Fox
Emily Brontë
Charles Kingsley
Arthur Hugh Clough
Walt Whitman
John Ruskin
Ebenezer Jones
Frederick Locker-Lampson
Matthew Arnold
William Brighty Rands
William Philpot
William (Johnson) Cory
Coventry Patmore
Sydney Dobell
William Allingham
George Mac Donald
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
George Meredith
Alexander Smith
Christina Georgina Rossetti
Thomas Edward Brown
Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton, Earl of Lytton
James Thomson
William Morris
Roden Berkeley Wriothesley Noel
Thomas Ashe
Theodore Watts-Dunton
Algernon Charles Swinburne
William Dean Howells
Bret Harte
John Todhunter
Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Henry Austin Dobson
Henry Clarence Kendall
Arthur William Edgar O’Shaughnessy
John Boyle O’Reilly
Robert Bridges
Andrew Lang
William Ernest Henley
Edmund Gosse
Robert Louis Stevenson
T. W. Rolleston
John Davidson
William Watson
Henry Charles Beeching
Bliss Carman
Douglas Hyde
Arthur Christopher Benson
Henry Newbolt
Gilbert Parker
William Butler Yeats
Rudyard Kipling
Richard Le Gallienne
Laurence Binyon
George William Russell (‘A. E.’)
T. Sturge Moore
Francis Thompson
Henry Cust
Katharine Tynan Hinkson
Frances Bannerman
Alice Meynell
Dora Sigerson
Margaret L. Woods
R. D. Blackmore
TO
THE PRESIDENT
FELLOWS AND SCHOLARS
OF
TRINITY COLLEGE OXFORD
A HOUSE OF LEARNING
ANCIENT LIBERAL HUMANE
PREFACE
Table of Contents
For this Anthology I have tried to range over the whole field of English Verse from the beginning, or from the Thirteenth Century to this closing year of the Nineteenth, and to choose the best. Nor have I sought in these Islands only, but wheresoever the Muse has followed the tongue which among living tongues she most delights to honour. To bring home and render so great a spoil compendiously has been my capital difficulty. It is for the reader to judge if I have so managed it as to serve those who already love poetry and to implant that love in some young minds not yet initiated.
My scheme is simple. I have arranged the poets as nearly as possible in order of birth, with such groupings of anonymous pieces as seemed convenient. For convenience, too, as well as to avoid a dispute-royal, I have gathered the most of the Ballads into the middle of the Seventeenth Century; where they fill a languid interval between two winds of inspiration—the Italian dying down with Milton and the French following at the heels of the restored Royalists. For convenience, again, I have set myself certain rules of spelling. In the very earliest poems inflection and spelling are structural, and to modernize is to destroy. But as old inflections fade into modern the old spelling becomes less and less vital, and has been brought (not, I hope, too abruptly) into line with that sanctioned by use and familiar. To do this seemed wiser than to discourage many readers for the sake of diverting others by a scent of antiquity which—to be essential—should breathe of something rarer than an odd arrangement of type. But there are scholars whom I cannot expect to agree with me; and to conciliate them I have excepted Spenser and Milton from the rule.
Glosses of archaic and otherwise difficult words are given at the foot of the page: but the text has not been disfigured with reference-marks. And rather than make the book unwieldy I have eschewed notes—reluctantly when some obscure passage or allusion seemed to ask for a timely word; with more equanimity when the temptation was to criticize or ‘appreciate.’ For the function of the anthologist includes criticizing in silence.
Care has been taken with the texts. But I have sometimes thought it consistent with the aim of the book to prefer the more beautiful to the better attested reading. I have often excised weak or superfluous stanzas when sure that excision would improve; and have not hesitated to extract a few stanzas from a long poem when persuaded that they could stand alone as a lyric. The apology for such experiments can only lie in their success: but the risk is one which, in my judgement, the anthologist ought to take. A few small corrections have been made, but only when they were quite obvious.
The numbers chosen are either lyrical or epigrammatic. Indeed I am mistaken if a single epigram included fails to preserve at least some faint thrill of the emotion through which it had to pass before the Muse’s lips let it fall, with however exquisite deliberation. But the lyrical spirit is volatile and notoriously hard to bind with definitions; and seems to grow wilder with the years. With the anthologist—as with the fisherman who knows the fish at the end of his sea-line—the gift, if he have it, comes by sense, improved by practice. The definition, if he be clever enough to frame one, comes by after-thought. I don’t know that it helps, and am sure that it may easily mislead.
Having set my heart on choosing the best, I resolved not to be dissuaded by common objections against anthologies—that they repeat one another until the proverb δὶς ἢ τρὶς τὰ καλά loses all application—or perturbed if my judgement should often agree with that of good critics. The best is the best, though a hundred judges have declared it so; nor had it been any feat to search out and insert the second-rate merely because it happened to be recondite. To be sure, a man must come to such a task as mine haunted by his youth and the favourites he loved in days when he had much enthusiasm but little reading.
A DEEPER importLurks in the legend told my infant yearsThan lies upon that truth we live to learn.
Few of my contemporaries can erase—or would wish to erase—the dye their minds took from the late Mr. Palgrave’s Golden Treasury: and he who has returned to it again and again with an affection born of companionship on many journeys must remember not only what the Golden Treasury includes, but the moment when this or that poem appealed to him, and even how it lies on the page. To Mr. Bullen’s Lyrics from the Elizabethan Song Books and his other treasuries I own a more advised debt. Nor am I free of obligation to anthologies even more recent—to Archbishop Trench’s Household Book of Poetry, Mr. Locker-Lampson’s Lyra Elegantiarum, Mr. Miles’ Poets and Poetry of the Century, Mr. Beeching’s Paradise of English Poetry, Mr. Henley’s English Lyrics, Mrs. Sharp’s Lyra Celtica, Mr. Yeats’ Book of Irish Verse, and Mr. Churton Collins’ Treasury of Minor British Poetry: though my rule has been to consult these after making my own choice. Yet I can claim that the help derived from them—though gratefully owned—bears but a trifling proportion to the labour, special and desultory, which has gone to the making of my book.
For the anthologist’s is not quite the dilettante business for which it is too often and ignorantly derided. I say this, and immediately repent; since my wish is that the reader should in his own pleasure quite forget the editor’s labour, which too has been pleasant: that, standing aside, I may believe this book has made the Muses’ access easier when, in the right hour, they come to him to uplift or to console—
ἄκλητος μὲν ἔγωγε μὲνοιμί κεν ἐς δὲ καλεύντωνθαρσήσας Μοίσαισι σὺν ἁμετέραισιν ἱκοίμαν
My thanks are here tendered to those who have helped me with permission to include recent poems: to Mr. A. C. Benson, Mr. Laurence Binyon, Mr. Wilfrid Blunt, Mr. Robert Bridges, Mr. John Davidson, Mr. Austin Dobson, Mr. Aubrey de Vere, Mr. Edmund Gosse, Mr. Bret Harte, Mr. W. E. Henley, Mrs. Katharine Tynan Hinkson, Mr. W. D. Howells, Dr. Douglas Hyde, Mr. Rudyard Kipling, Mr. Andrew Lang, Mr. Richard Le Gallienne, Mr. George Meredith, Mrs. Meynell, Mr. T. Sturge Moore, Mr. Henry Newbolt, Mr. Gilbert Parker, Mr. T. W. Rolleston, Mr. George Russell (‘A. E.’), Mrs. Clement Shorter (Dora Sigerson), Mr. Swinburne, Mr. Francis Thompson, Dr. Todhunter, Mr. William Watson, Mr. Watts-Dunton, Mrs. Woods, and Mr. W. B. Yeats; to the Earl of Crewe for a poem by the late Lord Houghton; to Lady Ferguson, Mrs. Allingham, Mrs. A. H. Clough, Mrs. Locker-Lampson, Mrs. Coventry Patmore; to the Lady Betty Balfour and the Lady Victoria Buxton for poems by the late Earl of Lytton and the Hon. Roden Noel; to the executors of Messrs. Frederic Tennyson (Captain Tennyson and Mr. W. C. A. Ker), Charles Tennyson Turner (Sir Franklin Lushington), Edward FitzGerald (Mr. Aldis Wright), William Bell Scott (Mrs. Sydney Morse and Miss Boyd of Penkill Castle, who has added to her kindness by allowing me to include an unpublished ‘Sonet’ by her sixteenth-century ancestor, Mark Alexander Boyd), William Philpot (Mr. Hamlet S. Philpot), William Morris (Mr. S. C. Cockerell), William Barnes, and R. L. Stevenson; to the Rev. H. C. Beeching for two poems from his own works, and leave to use his redaction of Quia Amore Langueo; to Messrs. Macmillan for confirming permission for the extracts from FitzGerald, Christina Rossetti, and T. E. Brown, and particularly for allowing me to insert the latest emendations in Lord Tennyson’s non-copyright poems; to the proprietors of Mr. and Mrs. Browning’s copyrights and to Messrs. Smith, Elder & Co. for a similar favour, also for a copyright poem by Mrs. Browning; to Mr. George Allen for extracts from Ruskin and the author of Ionica; to Messrs. G. Bell & Sons for poems by Thomas Ashe; to Messrs. Chatto & Windus for poems by Arthur O’Shaughnessy and Dr. George MacDonald, and for confirming Mr. Bret Harte’s permission; to Mr. Elkin Mathews for a poem by Mr. Bliss Carman; to Mr. John Lane for two poems by William Brighty Rands; to the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge for two extracts from Christina Rossetti’s Verses; and to Mr. Bertram Dobell, who allows me not only to select from James Thomson but to use a poem of Traherne’s, a seventeenth-century singer rediscovered by him. To mention all who in other ways have furthered me is not possible in this short Preface; which, however, must not conclude without a word of special thanks to Dr. W. Robertson Nicoll for many suggestions and some pains kindly bestowed, and to Professor F. York Powell, whose help and wise counsel have been as generously given as they were eagerly sought, adding me to the number of those many who have found his learning to be his friends’ good fortune.
A.T.Q.C.
October 1900
1. Cuckoo Song
c. 1250
SUMER is icumen in,Lhude sing cuccu!Groweth sed, and bloweth med,And springth the wude nu—Sing cuccu!
Awe bleteth after lomb,Lhouth after calve cu;Bulluc sterteth, bucke verteth,Murie sing cuccu!
Cuccu, cuccu, well singes thu, cuccu:Ne swike thu naver nu;Sing cuccu, nu, sing cuccu,Sing cuccu, sing cuccu, nu!
lhude] loud. awe] ewe. lhouth] loweth. sterteth] leaps. swike] cease.
ANONYMOUS
Table of Contents
2. Alison
c. 1300
BYTUENE Mershe ant AverilWhen spray biginneth to spring,The lutel foul hath hire wylOn hyre kid to synge:Ich libbe in love-longingeFor semlokest of alle thynge,He may me blisse bringe,Icham in hire bandoun.An hendy hap ichabbe y-hent,Ichot from hevene it is me sent,From alle wymmen my love is lentAnt lyht on Alisoun.
On heu hire her is fayr ynoh,Hire browe broune, hire eye blake;With lossum chere he on me loh;With middel smal ant wel y-make;Bote he me wolle to hire takeFor to buen hire owen make,Long to lyven ichulle forsakeAnt feye fallen adoun.An hendy hap, etc.
Nihtes when I wende and wake,For-thi myn wonges waxeth won;
LEVEDI, al for thine sakeLonginge is y-lent me on.In world his non so wyter monThat al hire bountè telle con;Hire swyre is whittore than the swon,Ant feyrest may in toune.An hendy hap, etc.
Icham for wowyng al for-wake,Wery so water in wore;Lest eny reve me my makeIchabbe y-yerned yore.Betere is tholien whyle soreThen mournen evermore.Geynest under gore,Herkne to my roun—An hendy hap, etc.
on hyre lud] in her language. ich libbe] I live. semlokest] seemliest. he] she. bandoun] thraldom. hendy] gracious. y hent] seized, enjoyed. ichot] I wot. lyht] alighted. hire her] her hair. lossum] lovesome. loh] laughed. bote he] unless she. buen] be. make] mate. feye] like to die. nihtes] at night. wende] turn. for-thi] on that account. wonges waxeth won] cheeks grow wan.
2. levedi] lady. y-lent me on] arrived to me. so wyter mon] so wise a man. swyre] neck. may] maid. for-wake] worn out with vigils. so water in wore] as water in a weir. reve] rob. y-yerned yore] long been distressed. tholien] to endure. geynest under gore] comeliest under woman’s apparel. roun] tale, lay.
3. Spring-tide
c. 1300
LENTEN ys come with love to toune,With blosmen ant with briddes roune,That al this blisse bryngeth;Dayes-eyes in this dales,Notes suete of nyhtegales,Vch foul song singeth;
THE threstlecoc him threteth oo,Away is huere wynter wo,When woderove springeth;This foules singeth ferly fele,Ant wlyteth on huere winter wele,That al the wode ryngeth.
The rose rayleth hire rode,The leves on the lyhte wodeWaxen al with wille;The mone mandeth hire bleo,The lilie is lossom to seo,The fenyl ant the fille;Wowes this wilde drakes,Miles murgeth huere makes;Ase strem that striketh stille,Mody meneth; so doth mo(Ichot ycham on of tho)For loue that likes ille.
The mone mandeth hire lyht,So doth the semly sonne bryht.When briddes singeth breme;Deowes donketh the dounes,Deores with huere derne rounesDomes forte deme;
WORMES woweth under cloude,Wymmen waxeth wounder proude,So wel hit wol hem seme,Yef me shal wonte wille of on,This wunne weole y wole forgonAnt wyht in wode be fleme.
3. to toune] in its turn.
him threteth oo] is aye chiding them. huere] their. woderove] woodruff. ferly fele] marvellous many. wlyteth] whistle, or look. rayleth hire rode] clothes herself in red. mandeth hire bleo] sends forth her light. lossom to seo] lovesome to see. fille] thyme. wowes] woo. miles] males. murgeth] make merry. makes] mates. striketh] flows, trickles. mody meneth] the moody man makes moan. so doth mo] so do many. on of tho] one of them. breme] lustily. deowes] dews. donketh] make dank. deores] dears, lovers. huere derne rounes] their secret tales. domes forte deme] for to give (decide) their decisions.
3. cloude] clod. wunne weole] wealth of joy. y wole forgon] I will forgo. wyht] wight. fleme] banished.
4. Blow, Northern Wind
c. 1300
ICHOT a burde in boure bryht,That fully semly is on syht,Menskful maiden of myht;Feir ant fre to fonde;In al this wurhliche wonA burde of blod ant of bonNever yete y nuste nonLussomore in londe.Blou northerne wynd!Send thou me my suetyng!Blou northerne wynd! blou, blou, blou!
With lokkes lefliche ant longe,With frount ant face feir to fonge,With murthes monie mote heo monge,That brid so breme in boure.
WITH lossom eye grete ant gode,With browen blysfol under hode,He that reste him on the Rode,That leflych lyf honoure.Blou northerne wynd, etc.
Hire lure lumes liht,Ase a launterne a nyht,Hire bleo blykyeth so bryht,So feyr heo is ant fyn.A suetly swyre heo hath to holde.With armes shuldre ase mon wolde,Ant fingres feyre forte folde,God wolde hue were myn!Blou northerne wynd, etc.
Heo is coral of godnesse,Heo is rubie of ryhtfulnesse,Heo is cristal of clannesse,Ant baner of bealtè.Heo is lilie of largesse,Heo is parvenke of prouesse,Heo is solsecle of suetnesse,Ant lady of lealtè.
For hire love y carke ant care,For hire love y droupne ant dare,For hire love my blisse is bareAnt al ich waxe won,
FOR hire love in slep y slake,For hire love al nyht ich wake,For hire love mournynge y makeMore then eny mon.Blou northerne wynd!Send thou me my suetyng!Blou northerne wynd! blou, blou, blou!
4. Ichot] I know. burde] maiden. menskful] worshipful. feir] fair. fonde] take, prove. wurhliche] noble. won] multitude. y nuste] I knew not. lussomore in londe] lovelier on earth. suetyng] sweetheart. lefliche] lovely. fonge] take between hands. murthes] mirths, joys. mote heo monge] may she mingle. brid] bird. breme] full of life.
Rode] the Cross. lure] face. lumes] beams. bleo] colour. suetly swyre] darling neck. forte] for to. hue, heo] she. clannesse] cleanness, purity. parvenke] periwinkle. solsecle] sunflower. won] wan.
5. This World’s Joy
c. 1300
WYNTER wakeneth al my care,Nou this leves waxeth bare;Ofte I sike ant mourne sareWhen hit cometh in my thohtOf this worldes joie, hou hit goth al to noht.
Nou hit is, and nou hit nys,Al so hit ner nere, ywys;That moni mon seith, soth hit ys:Al goth bote Godes wille:Alle we shule deye, thah us like ylle.
Al that gren me graueth grene,Nou hit faleweth albydene:Jesu, help that hit be seneAnt shild us from helle!For y not whider y shal, ne hou longe her duelle.
5. this leves] these leaves. sike] sigh. nys] is not. also hit ner nere] as though it had never been. soth] sooth. bote] but, except. thah] though. faleweth] fadeth. albydene] altogether. y not whider] I know not whither. her duelle] here dwell.
6. A Hymn to the Virgin
c. 1300
OF on that is so fayr and brightVelut maris stella,Brighter than the day is light,Parens et puella:Ic crie to the, thou see to me,Levedy, preye thi Sone for me,Tam pia,That ic mote come to theeMaria.
Al this world was for-loreEva peccatrice,Tyl our Lord was y-boreDe te genetrice.With ave it went awayThuster nyth and comz the daySalutis;The welle springeth ut of the,Virtutis.
Levedy, flour of alle thing,Rosa sine spina,Thu bere Jhesu, hevene king,Gratia divina:Of alle thu ber’st the pris,Levedy, quene of paradysElecta:Mayde milde, moder esEffecta.
on] one. levedy] lady. thuster] dark. pris] prize.
7. Of a rose, a lovely rose,
Of a rose is al myn song.
c. 1350
LESTENYT, lordynges, both elde and yinge,How this rose began to sprynge;Swych a rose to myn lykyngeIn al this word ne knowe I non.
The Aungil came fro hevene tour,To grete Marye with gret honour,And seyde sche xuld bere the flourThat xulde breke the fyndes bond.
The flour sprong in heye Bedlem,That is bothe bryht and schen:The rose is Mary hevene qwyn,Out of here bosum the blosme sprong.
The ferste braunche is ful of myht,That sprang on Cyrstemesse nyht,The sterre schon over Bedlem bryhtThat is bothe brod and long.
The secunde braunche sprong to helle,The fendys power doun to felle:Therein myht non sowle dwelle;Blyssid be the time the rose sprong!
The thredde braunche is good and swote,It sprang to hevene crop and rote,Therein to dwellyn and ben our bote;Every day it schewit in prystes hond.
PREY we to here with gret honour,Che that bar the blyssid flowr,Che be our helpe and our socourAnd schyd us fro the fyndes bond.
lestenyt] listen. word] world. xuld] should. schen] beautiful. hevene qwyn] heaven’s queen. bote] salvation.
ROBERT MANNYNG OF BRUNNE
Table of Contents
1260-1340
8. Praise of Women
NO thyng ys to man so dereAs wommanys love in gode manere.A gode womman is mannys blys,There her love right and stedfast ys.There ys no solas under heveneOf alle that a man may neveneThat shulde a man so moche glewAs a gode womman that loveth true.Ne derer is none in Goddis hurdeThan a chaste womman with lovely worde.
8. nevene] name. glew] gladden. hurde] flock.
JOHN BARBOUR
Table of Contents
d. 1395
9. Freedom
A! Fredome is a noble thing!Fredome mays man to haiff liking;Fredome all solace to man giffis,He levys at ese that frely levys!A noble hart may haiff nane ese,Na ellys nocht that may him plese,
GYFF fredome fail; for fre likingIs yarnyt our all othir thing.Na he that ay has levyt freMay nocht knaw weill the propyrtè,The angyr, na the wretchyt domeThat is couplyt to foule thyrldome.Bot gyff he had assayit it,Than all perquer he suld it wyt;And suld think fredome mar to priseThan all the gold in warld that is.Thus contrar thingis evirmarDiscoweryngis off the tothir ar.
9. liking] liberty. na ellys nocht] nor aught else.
9. yarnyt] yearned for. perquer] thoroughly, by heart.
GEOFFREY CHAUCER
Table of Contents
1340?-1400
10. The Love Unfeigned
O yonge fresshe folkes, he or she,In which that love up groweth with your age,Repeyreth hoom from worldly vanitee,And of your herte up-casteth the visageTo thilke god that after his imageYow made, and thinketh al nis but a fayreThis world, that passeth sone as floures fayre.
And loveth him, the which that right for loveUpon a cros, our soules for to beye,First starf, and roos, and sit in hevene a-bove;For he nil falsen no wight, dar I seye,That wol his herte al hoolly on him leye.And sin he best to love is, and most meke,What nedeth feyned loves for to seke?
10. repeyreth] repair ye. starf] died.
11. Balade
HYD, Absolon, thy gilte tresses clere;Ester, ley thou thy meknesse al a-doun;Hyd, Jonathas, al thy frendly manere;Penalopee, and Marcia Catoun,Mak of your wyfhod no comparisoun;Hyde ye your beautes, Isoude and Eleyne;My lady cometh, that al this may disteyne.
Thy faire body, lat hit nat appere,Lavyne; and thou, Lucresse of Rome toun,And Polixene, that boghten love so dere,And Cleopatre, with al thy passioun,Hyde ye your trouthe of love and your renoun;And thou, Tisbe, that hast of love swich peyne;My lady cometh, that al this may disteyne.
Herro, Dido, Laudomia, alle y-fere,And Phyllis, hanging for thy Demophoun,And Canace, espyed by thy chere,Ysiphile, betraysed with Jasoun,Maketh of your trouthe neyther boost ne soun;Nor Ypermistre or Adriane, ye tweyne;My lady cometh, that al this may distevne.
11. disteyne] bedim. y-fere] together.
12. Merciles BeauteA Triple Roundel
1. CAPTIVITY
YOUR eyen two wol slee me sodenly,I may the beautè of hem not sustene,So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene.
And but your word wol helen hastilyMy hertes wounde, whyl that hit is grene,Your eyen two wol slee me sodenly,I may the beautè of hem not sustene.
Upon my trouthe I sey yow feithfully,That ye ben of my lyf and deeth the quene;For with my deeth the trouthe shal be sene.Your eyen two wol slee me sodenly,I may the beautè of hem not sustene,So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene.
2. REJECTION
SO hath your beautè fro your herte chacedPitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne;For Daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne.
Giltles my deeth thus han ye me purchaced;I sey yow sooth, me nedeth not to feyne;So hath your beautè fro your herte chacedPitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne.
Allas! that nature hath in yow compassedSo greet beautè, that no man may atteyneTo mercy, though he sterve for the peyne.So hath your beautè fro your herte chacedPitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne;For Daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne.
3. ESCAPE
SIN I fro Love escaped am so fat,I never thenk to ben in his prison lene;Sin I am free, I counte him not a bene.
HE may answere, and seye this or that;I do no fors, I speke right as I mene.Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat,I never thenk to ben in his prison lene.
Love hath my name y-strike out of his sclat,And he is strike out of my bokes cleneFor ever-mo; ther is non other mene.Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat,I never thenk to ben in his prison lene;Sin I am free, I counte him not a bene.
THOMAS HOCCLEVE
Table of Contents
1368-9?-1450?
13. Lament for Chaucer
ALLAS! my worthi maister honorable,This landes verray tresor and richesse!Deth by thy deth hath harme irreparableUnto us doon: hir vengeable duresseDespoiled hath this land of the swetnesseOf rethorik; for unto TulliusWas never man so lyk amonges us.
Also who was hier in philosophieTo Aristotle in our tonge but thou?The steppes of Virgile in poesieThou folwedist eeke, men wot wel ynow.That combre-worlde that the my maister slow—Wolde I slayn were!—Deth, was to hastyfTo renne on thee and reve the thi lyf ...
SHE myghte han taried hir vengeance a whileTil that sum man had egal to the be;Nay, lat be that! sche knew wel that this yleMay never man forth brynge lyk to the,And hir office needes do mot she:God bad hir so, I truste as for the beste;O maister, maister, God thi soule reste!
13. hier] heir. combre-worlde] encumberer of earth. slow] slew.
JOHN LYDGATE
Table of Contents
1370?-1450?
14. Vox ultima Crucis
TARYE no lenger; toward thyn heritageHast on thy weye, and be of ryght good chere.Go eche day onward on thy pylgrymage;Thynke howe short tyme thou hast abyden here.Thy place is bygged above the sterres clere,Noon erthly palys wrought in so statly wyse.Come on, my frend, my brother most entere!For the I offered my blood in sacryfice.
14. bygged] built. palys] palace.
KING JAMES I OF SCOTLAND
Table of Contents
1394-1437
15. Spring Song of the Birds
WORSCHIPPE ye that loveris bene this May,For of your blisse the Kalendis are begonne,And sing with us, Away, Winter, away!Cum, Somer, cum, the suete sesoùn and sonne!Awake for schame! that have your hevynnis wonne,And amorously lift up your hedis all,Thank Lufe that list you to his merci call!
15. suete] sweet. Lufe] Love.
ROBERT HENRYSON
Table of Contents
1425-1500
16. Robin and Makyne
ROBIN sat on gude green hill,Kepand a flock of fe:Mirry Makyne said him till‘Robin, thou rew on me:I haif thee luvit, loud and still,Thir yeiris twa or thre;My dule in dern bot gif thou dill,Doutless but dreid I de.’
Robin answerit ‘By the RudeNa thing of luve I knaw,But keipis my scheip undir yon wud:Lo, quhair they raik on raw.Quhat has marrit thee in thy mude,Makyne, to me thou shaw;Or quhat is luve, or to be lude?Fain wad I leir that law.’
‘At luvis lair gif thou will leirTak thair ane A B C;Be heynd, courtass, and fair of feir,Wyse, hardy, and free:So that no danger do thee deirQuhat dule in dern thou dre;Preiss thee with pain at all poweirBe patient and previe.’
ROBIN answerit hir agane,‘I wat nocht quhat is lufe;But I haif mervel in certaineQuhat makis thee this wanrufe:The weddir is fair, and I am fain;My scheip gois haill aboif;And we wald pley us in this plane,They wald us baith reproif.’
‘Robin, tak tent unto my tale,And wirk all as I reid,And thou sall haif my heart all haill,Eik and my maiden-heid:Sen God sendis bute for baill,And for murnyng remeid,In dern with thee bot gif I daillDowtles I am bot deid.’
‘Makyne, to-morn this ilka tydeAnd ye will meit me heir,Peraventure my scheip may gang besyde,Quhyle we haif liggit full neir;But mawgre haif I, and I byde,Fra they begin to steir;Quhat lyis on heart I will nocht hyd;Makyn, then mak gude cheir.’
‘Robin, thou reivis me roiff and rest;I luve bot thee allane.’‘Makyne, adieu! the sone gois west,The day is neir-hand gane.’
‘ROBIN, in dule I am so drestThat luve will be my bane.’‘Ga luve, Makyne, quhair-evir thow list,For lemman I luve nane.’
‘Robin, I stand in sic a styll,I sicht and that full sair.’‘Makyne, I haif been here this quhyle;At hame God gif I wair.’‘My huny, Robin, talk ane quhyll,Gif thow will do na mair.’‘Makyn, sum uthir man begyle,For hamewart I will fair.’
Robin on his wayis wentAs light as leif of tre;Makyne murnit in hir intent,And trowd him nevir to se.Robin brayd attour the bent:Then Makyne cryit on hie,‘Now may thow sing, for I am schent!Quhat alis lufe at me?’
Makyne went hame withowttin fail,Full wery eftir cowth weip;Then Robin in a ful fair daillAssemblit all his scheip.Be that sum part of Makynis aillOut-throw his hairt cowd creip;He fallowit hir fast thair till assaill,And till her tuke gude keip.
‘ABYD, abyd, thow fair Makyne,A word for ony thing;For all my luve, it sall be thyne,Withowttin departing.All haill thy hairt for till haif myneIs all my cuvating;My scheip to-morn, quhyle houris nyne,Will neid of no keping.’
‘Robin, thow hes hard soung and say,In gestis and storeis auld,The man that will nocht quhen he maySall haif nocht quhen he wald.I pray to Jesu every day,Mot eik thair cairis cauldThat first preissis with thee to playBe firth, forrest, or fauld.’
‘Makyne, the nicht is soft and dry,The weddir is warme and fair,And the grene woid rycht neir us byTo walk attour all quhair:Thair ma na janglour us espy,That is to lufe contrair;Thairin, Makyne, baith ye and I,Unsene we ma repair.’
‘Robin, that warld is all away,And quyt brocht till ane end:And nevir agane thereto, perfay,Sall it be as thow wend;
FOR of my pane thow maid it play;And all in vane I spend:As thow hes done, sa sall I say,“Murne on, I think to mend.”’
‘Makyne, the howp of all my heill,My hairt on thee is sett;And evirmair to thee be leillQuhill I may leif but lett;Never to faill as utheris feill,Quhat grace that evir I gett.’‘Robin, with thee I will nocht deill;Adieu! for thus we mett.’
Makyne went hame blyth anneucheAttour the holttis hair;Robin murnit, and Makyne leuche;Scho sang, he sichit sair:And so left him baith wo and wreuch,In dolour and in cair,Kepand his hird under a hucheAmangis the holttis hair.
kepand] keeping. fe] sheep, cattle. him till] to him. dule in dern] sorrow in secret. dill] soothe. but dreid] without dread, i. e. there is no fear or doubt. raik on raw] range in row. lude] loved. leir] learn. lair] lore. heynd] gentle. feir] demeanour. deir] daunt. dre] endure. preiss] endeavour.
wanrufe] unrest. haill] healthy, whole. aboif] above, up yonder. and] if. tak tent] give heed. reid] advise. bute for baill] remedy for hurt. bot gif] but if, unless. daill] deal. mawgre haif I] I am uneasy. reivis] robbest. roiff] quiet.
drest] beset. lemman] mistress. sicht] sigh. in hir intent] in her inward thought. brayd] strode. bent] coarse grass. schent] destroyed. alis] ails. be that] by the time that. till] to. tuke keip] paid attention.
hard] heard. gestis] romances. mot eik] may add to. be] by. janglour] talebearer. wend] weened.
16. howp] hope. but lett] without hindrance. anneuche] enough. holttis hair] grey woodlands. leuche] laughed. wreuch] peevish. huche] heuch, cliff.
17. The Bludy Serk
THIS hinder yeir I hard be taldThair was a worthy King;Dukis, Erlis, and Barronis bald,He had at his bidding.
THE Lord was ancean and ald,And sexty yeiris cowth ring;He had a dochter fair to fald,A lusty Lady ying.
Off all fairheid scho bur the flour,And eik hir faderis air;Off lusty laitis and he honour,Meik bot and debonair:Scho wynnit in a bigly bour,On fold wes nane so fair,Princis luvit hir paramourIn cuntreis our allquhair.
Thair dwelt a lyt besyde the KingA foull Gyand of ane;Stollin he has the Lady ying,Away with hir is gane,And kest her in his dungeringQuhair licht scho micht se nane;Hungir and cauld and grit thristingScho fand into hir waine.
He wes the laithliest on to lukThat on the grund mycht gang:His nailis wes lyk ane hellis cruk,Thairwith fyve quarteris lang;
THAIR wes nane that he ourtuk,In rycht or yit in wrang,Bot all in schondir he thame schuk,The Gyand wes so strang.
He held the Lady day and nychtWithin his deip dungeoun,He wald nocht gif of hir a sichtFor gold nor yit ransoun—Bot gif the King mycht get a knycht,To fecht with his persoun,To fecht with him beth day and nycht,Quhill ane wer dungin doun.
The King gart seik baith fer and neir,Beth be se and land,Off ony knycht gif he mycht heirWald fecht with that Gyand:A worthy Prince, that had no peir,Hes tane the deid on handFor the luve of the Lady cleir,And held full trew cunnand.
That Prince come prowdly to the tounOf that Gyand to heir,And fawcht with him, his awin persoun,And tuke him presoneir,And kest him in his awin dungeounAllane withouten feir,With hungir, cauld, and confusioun,As full weill worthy weir.
SYNE brak the bour, had hame the brichtUnto her fadir fre.Sa evill wondit wes the KnychtThat he behuvit to de;Unlusum was his likame dicht,His sark was all bludy;In all the world was thair a wichtSo peteouss for to se?
The Lady murnyt and maid grit mane,With all her mekill mycht—‘I luvit nevir lufe bot ane,That dulfully now is dicht;God sen my lyfe were fra me taneOr I had seen yone sicht,Or ellis in begging evir to ganeFurth with yone curtass knycht.’
He said ‘Fair lady, now mone IDe, trestly ye me trow;Take ye my serk that is bludy,And hing it forrow yow;First think on it, and syne on me,Quhen men cumis yow to wow.’The Lady said ‘Be Mary fre,Thairto I mak a vow.’
Quhen that scho lukit to the sarkScho thocht on the persoun,And prayit for him with all hir hartThat lowsit hir of bandoun,
QUHAIR scho was wont to sit full merkInto that deip dungeoun;And evir quhill scho wes in quert,That was hir a lessoun.
Sa weill the Lady luvit the KnychtThat no man wald scho tak:Sa suld we do our God of michtThat did all for us mak;Quhilk fullily to deid was dicht,For sinfull manis sak,Sa suld we do beth day and nycht,With prayaris to him mak.
This King is lyk the Trinitie,Baith in hevin and heir;The manis saule to the Lady,The Gyand to Lucefeir,The Knycht to Chryst, that deit on treAnd coft our synnis deir;The pit to Hele with panis fell,The Syn to the woweir.
The Lady was wowd, but scho said nayWith men that wald hir wed;Sa suld we wryth all sin awayThat in our breist is bred.I pray to Jesu Chryst verray,For ws his blud that bled,To be our help on domisdayQuhair lawis ar straitly led.
THE saule is Godis dochtir deir,And eik his handewerk,That was betrayit with Lucefeir,Quha sittis in hell full merk:Borrowit with Chrystis angell cleir,Hend men, will ye nocht herk?And for his lufe that bocht us deirThink on the Bludy Serk!
17. hinder yeir] last year.
ring] reign. fald] enfold. ying] young. fairheid] beauty. air] heir. laitis] manners. bot and] and also. scho wynnit] she dwelt. bigly] well-built. fold] earth. paramour] lovingly. our allquhair] all the world over. a lyt besyde] a little, (i. e. close) beside. of ane] as any. kest] cast. dungering] dungeon. into hir waine] in her lodging. hellis cruk] hell-claw.
quhill] until. dungin doun] beaten down. his awin persoun] himself. withouten feir] without companion.
the bricht] the fair one. likame] body. lowsit hir of. bandoun] loosed her from thraldom.
quert] prison. coft] bought. straitly led] strictly carried out.
WILLIAM DUNBAR
Table of Contents
1465-1520?
18. To a Lady
SWEET rois of vertew and of gentilness,Delytsum lily of everie lustynes,Richest in bontie and in bewtie clear,And everie vertew that is wenit dear,Except onlie that ye are mercyless.
Into your garth this day I did persew;There saw I flowris that fresche were of hew;Baith quhyte and reid most lusty were to seyne,And halesome herbis upon stalkis greene;Yet leaf nor flowr find could I nane of rew.
I doubt that Merche, with his cauld blastis keyne,Has slain this gentil herb, that I of mene;Quhois piteous death dois to my heart sic paineThat I would make to plant his root againe,—So confortand his levis unto me bene.
18. rois] rose. wenit] weened, esteemed. garth] garden-close. to seyne] to see. that I of mene] that I complain of, mourn for.
19. In Honour of the City of London
LONDON, thou art of townes A per se.Soveraign of cities, seemliest in sight,Of high renoun, riches and royaltie;Of lordis, barons, and many a goodly knyght;Of most delectable lusty ladies bright;Of famous prelatis, in habitis clericall;Of merchauntis full of substaunce and of myght:London, thou art the flour of Cities all.
Gladdith anon, thou lusty Troynovaunt,Citie that some tyme cleped was New Troy;In all the erth, imperiall as thou stant,Pryncesse of townes, of pleasure and of joy,A richer restith under no Christen roy;For manly power, with craftis naturall,Fourmeth none fairer sith the flode of Noy:London, thou art the flour of Cities all.
Gemme of all joy, jasper of jocunditie,Most myghty carbuncle of vertue and valour;Strong Troy in vigour and in strenuytie;Of royall cities rose and geraflour;Empress of townes, exalt in honour;In beawtie beryng the crone imperiall;Swete paradise precelling in pleasure;London, thou art the flour of Cities all.
Above all ryvers thy Ryver hath renowne,Whose beryall stremys, pleasaunt and preclare,Under thy lusty wallys renneth down,Where many a swan doth swymme with wyngis fair;
WHERE many a barge doth saile and row with are;Where many a ship doth rest with top-royall.O, towne of townes! patrone and not compare,London, thou art the flour of Cities all.
Upon thy lusty Brigge of pylers whiteBeen merchauntis full royall to behold;Upon thy stretis goeth many a semely knyghtIn velvet gownes and in cheynes of gold.By Julyus Cesar thy Tour founded of oldMay be the hous of Mars victoryall,Whose artillary with tonge may not be told:London, thou art the flour of Cities all.
Strong be thy wallis that about thee standis;Wise be the people that within thee dwellis;Fresh is thy ryver with his lusty strandis;Blith be thy chirches, wele sownyng be thy bellis;Rich be thy merchauntis in substaunce that excellis;Fair be their wives, right lovesom, white and small;Clere be thy virgyns, lusty under kellis:London, thou art the flour of Cities all.
Thy famous Maire, by pryncely governaunce,With sword of justice thee ruleth prudently.No Lord of Parys, Venyce, or FloraunceIn dignitye or honour goeth to hym nigh.He is exampler, loode-ster, and guye;Principall patrone and rose orygynalle,Above all Maires as maister most worthy:London, thou art the flour of Cities all.
gladdith] rejoice. Troynovaunt] Troja nova or Trinovantum. fourmeth] appeareth. geraflour] gillyflower.
are] oar. small] slender. kellis] hoods, head-dresses. guye] guide.
20. On the Nativity of Christ
Rorate coeli desuper!Hevins, distil your balmy schouris!For now is risen the bricht day-ster,Fro the rose Mary, flour of flouris:The cleir Sone, quhom no cloud devouris,Surmounting Phebus in the Est,Is cumin of his hevinly touris:Et nobis Puer natus est.
Archangellis, angellis, and dompnationis,Tronis, potestatis, and marteiris seir,And all ye hevinly operationis,Ster, planeit, firmament, and spheir,Fire, erd, air, and water cleir,To Him gife loving, most and lest,That come in to so meik maneir;Et nobis Puer natus est.
Synnaris be glad, and penance do,And thank your Maker hairtfully;For he that ye micht nocht come toTo you is cumin full humblyYour soulis with his blood to buyAnd loose you of the fiendis arrest—And only of his own mercy;Pro nobis Puer natus est.
All clergy do to him inclyne,And bow unto that bairn benyng,And do your observance divyneTo him that is of kingis King:
ENCENSE his altar, read and singIn holy kirk, with mind degest,Him honouring attour all thingQui nobis Puer natus est.
Celestial foulis in the air,Sing with your nottis upon hicht,In firthis and in forrestis fairBe myrthful now at all your mycht;For passit is your dully nicht,Aurora has the cloudis perst,The Sone is risen with glaidsum licht,Et nobis Puer natus est.
Now spring up flouris fra the rute,Revert you upward naturaly,In honour of the blissit fruteThat raiss up fro the rose Mary;Lay out your levis lustily,Fro deid take life now at the lestIn wirschip of that Prince worthyQui nobis Puer natus est.
Sing, hevin imperial, most of hicht!Regions of air mak armony!All fish in flud and fowl of flichtBe mirthful and mak melody!All Gloria in excelsis cry!Heaven, erd, se, man, bird, and best,—He that is crownit abone the skyPro nobis Puer natus est!
schouris] showers. cumin] come, entered. seir] various. erd] earth. lest] least. synnaris] sinners. benyng] benign.
attour] over, above. perst] pierced. raiss] rose. best] beast.
21. Lament for the Makers
I THAT in heill was and gladnèssAm trublit now with great sicknessAnd feblit with infirmitie:—Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Our plesance here is all vain glory,This fals world is but transitory,The flesh is bruckle, the Feynd is slee:—Timor Mortis conturbat me.
The state of man does change and vary,Now sound, now sick, now blyth, now sary,Now dansand mirry, now like to die:—Timor Mortis conturbat me.
No state in Erd here standis sicker;As with the wynd wavis the wickerSo wannis this world’s vanitie:—Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Unto the Death gois all Estatis,Princis, Prelatis, and Potestatis,Baith rich and poor of all degree:—Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He takis the knichtis in to the fieldEnarmit under helm and scheild;Victor he is at all mellie:—Timor Mortis conturbat me.
THAT strong unmerciful tyrandTakis, on the motheris breast sowkand,The babe full of benignitie:—Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He takis the campion in the stour,The captain closit in the tour,The lady in bour full of bewtie:—Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He spairis no lord for his piscence,Na clerk for his intelligence;His awful straik may no man flee:—Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Art-magicianis and astrologgis,Rethoris, logicianis, and theologgis,Them helpis no conclusionis slee:—Timor Mortis conturbat me.
In medecine the most practicianis,Leechis, surrigianis, and physicianis,Themself from Death may not supplee:—Timor Mortis conturbat me.
I see that makaris amang the lavePlayis here their padyanis, syne gois to grave;Sparit is nocht their facultie:—Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He has done petuously devourThe noble Chaucer, of makaris flour,The Monk of Bury, and Gower, all three:—Timor Mortis conturbat me.
THE good Sir Hew of Eglintoun,Ettrick, Heriot, and Wintoun,He has tane out of this cuntrie:—Timor Mortis conturbat me.
That scorpion fell has done infeckMaister John Clerk, and James Afflek,Fra ballat-making and tragedie:—Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Holland and Barbour he has berevit;Alas! that he not with us levitSir Mungo Lockart of the Lee:—Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Clerk of Tranent eke he has tane,That made the anteris of Gawaine;Sir Gilbert Hay endit has he:—Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He has Blind Harry and Sandy TraillSlain with his schour of mortal hail,Quhilk Patrick Johnstoun might nought flee:—Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He has reft Merseir his endite,That did in luve so lively write,So short, so quick, of sentence hie:—Timor Mortis conturbat me.
He has tane Rowll of Aberdene,And gentill Rowll of Corstorphine;Two better fallowis did no man see:—Timor Mortis conturbat me.
IN Dunfermline he has tane BrounWith Maister Robert Henrysoun;Sir John the Ross enbrast has he:—Timor Mortis conturbat me.
And he has now tane, last of a,Good gentil Stobo and Quintin Shaw,Of quhom all wichtis hes pitie:—Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Good Maister Walter KennedyIn point of Death lies verily;Great ruth it were that so suld be:—Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Sen he has all my brether tane,He will naught let me live alane;Of force I man his next prey be:—Timor Mortis conturbat me.
Since for the Death remeid is none,Best is that we for Death dispone,After our death that live may we:—Timor Mortis conturbat me.
heill] health. bruckle] brittle, feeble. slee] sly. dansand] dancing. sicker] sure. wicker] willow. wannis] wanes. mellie] mellay.
sowkand] sucking. campion] champion. stour] fight. piscence] puissance. straik] stroke. supplee] save. makaris] poets. the lave] the leave, the rest. padyanis] pageants.
anteris] adventures. schour] shower. endite] inditing. fallowis] fellows.
21. wichtis] wights, persons. man] must. dispone] make disposition.
ANONYMOUS
Table of Contents
15th Cent.
22. May in the Green-Wood
In somer when the shawes be sheyne,
And leves be large and long,
Hit is full merry in feyre foreste
To here the foulys song.
TO se the dere draw to the daleAnd leve the hilles hee,And shadow him in the leves greneUnder the green-wode tree.
Hit befell on WhitsontideEarly in a May mornyng,The Sonne up faire can shyne,And the briddis mery can syng.
‘This is a mery mornyng,’ said Litulle Johne,‘Be Hym that dyed on tre;A more mery man than I am oneLyves not in Christiantè.
‘Pluk up thi hert, my dere mayster,’Litulle Johne can say,‘And thynk hit is a fulle fayre tymeIn a mornynge of May.’
23. Carol
15th Cent.
I SING of a maidenThat is makeles;King of all kingsTo her son she ches.
He came al so stillThere his mother was,As dew in AprilThat falleth on the grass.
HE came al so stillTo his mother’s bour,As dew in AprilThat falleth on the flour.
He came al so stillThere his mother lay,As dew in AprilThat falleth on the spray.
Mother and maidenWas never none but she;Well may such a ladyGoddes mother be.
23. makeles] matchless. ches] chose.
24. Quia Amore Langueo
15th Cent. (?)
IN a valley of this restles mindI sought in mountain and in mead,Trusting a true love for to find.Upon an hill then took I heed;A voice I heard (and near I yede)In great dolour complaining tho:See, dear soul, how my sides bleedQuia amore langueo.
Upon this hill I found a tree,Under a tree a man sitting;From head to foot wounded was he;His hearte blood I saw bleeding:A seemly man to be a king,A gracious face to look unto.I askèd why he had paining;[He said,] Quia amore langueo.
I AM true love that false was never;My sister, man’s soul, I loved her thus.Because we would in no wise disseverI left my kingdom glorious.I purveyed her a palace full precious;She fled, I followed, I loved her soThat I suffered this pain piteousQuia amore langueo.
My fair love and my spouse bright!I saved her from beating, and she hath me bet;I clothed her in grace and heavenly light;This bloody shirt she hath on me set;For longing of love yet would I not let;Sweete strokes are these: lo!I have loved her ever as I her hetQuia amore langueo.
I crowned her with bliss and she me with thorn;I led her to chamber and she me to die;I brought her to worship and she me to scorn;I did her reverence and she me villany.To love that loveth is no maistry;Her hate made never my love her foe:Ask me then no question why—Quia amore langueo.
Look unto mine handes, man!These gloves were given me when I her sought;They be not white, but red and wan;Embroidered with blood my spouse them brought.They will not off; I loose hem nought:
I WOO her with hem wherever she go.These hands for her so friendly foughtQuia amore langueo.
Marvel not, man, though I sit still.See, love hath shod me wonder strait:Buckled my feet, as was her will,With sharpe nails (well thou may’st wait!)In my love was never desait;All my membres I have opened her to;My body I made her herte’s baitQuia amore langueo.
In my side I have made her nest;Look in, how weet a wound is here!This is her chamber, here shall she rest,That she and I may sleep in fere.Here may she wash, if any filth were;Here is seat for all her woe;Come when she will, she shall have cheerQuia amore langueo.
I will abide till she be ready,I will her sue if she say nay;If she be retchless I will be greedy,If she be dangerous I will her pray;If she weep, then bide I ne may:Mine arms ben spread to clip her me to.Cry once, I come: now, soul, assayQuia amore langueo.
Fair love, let us go play:Apples ben ripe in my gardayne.
I SHALL thee clothe in a new array,Thy meat shall be milk, honey and wine.Fair love, let us go dine:Thy sustenance is in my crippe, lo!Tarry thou not, my fair spouse mine,Quia amore langueo.
If thou be foul, I shall thee make clean;If thou be sick, I shall thee heal;If thou mourn ought, I shall thee mene;Why wilt thou not, fair love, with me deal?Foundest thou ever love so leal?What wilt thou, soul, that I shall do?I may not unkindly thee appealQuia amore langueo.
What shall I do now with my spouseBut abide her of my gentleness,Till that she look out of her houseOf fleshly affection? love mine she is;Her bed is made, her bolster is bliss,Her chamber is chosen; is there none mo.Look out on me at the window of kindenessQuia amore langueo.
My love is in her chamber: hold your peace!Make ye no noise, but let her sleep.My babe I would not were in disease,I may not hear my dear child weep.With my pap I shall her keep;Ne marvel ye not though I tend her to:This wound in my side had ne’er be so deepBut Quia amore langueo.
LONG thou for love never so high,My love is more than thine may be.Thou weepest, thou gladdest, I sit thee by:Yet wouldst thou once, love, look unto me!Should I always feede theeWith children meat? Nay, love, not so!I will prove thy love with adversitèQuia amore langueo.
Wax not weary, mine own wife!What mede is aye to live in comfort?In tribulation I reign more rifeOfter times than in disport.In weal and in woe I am aye to support:Mine own wife, go not me fro!Thy mede is marked, when thou art mort:Quia amore langueo.
bait] resting-place. weet] wet. in fere] together.
crippe] scrip. mene] care for.
25. The Nut-Brown Maid
15th Cent.
He.Be it right or wrong, these men amongOn women do complain;Affirming this, how that it isA labour spent in vainTo love them wele; for never a deleThey love a man again:For let a man do what he canTheir favour to attain,Yet if a new to them pursue,Their first true lover thanLaboureth for naught; for from her thoughtHe is a banished man.
She.I say not nay, but that all dayIt is both written and saidThat woman’s faith is, as who saith,All utterly decayd:But nevertheless, right good witnèssIn this case might be laidThat they love true and continue:Record the Nut-brown Maid,Which, when her love came her to prove,To her to make his moan,Would not depart; for in her heartShe loved but him alone.
He.Then between us let us discussWhat was all the manereBetween them two: we will alsoTell all the pain in fereThat she was in. Now I begin,So that ye me answere:Wherefore all ye that present be,I pray you, give an ear.I am the Knight. I come by night,As secret as I can,Saying, Alas! thus standeth the case,I am a banished man.
She.And I your will for to fulfilIn this will not refuse;Trusting to show, in wordes few,That men have an ill use—To their own shame—women to blame,And causeless them accuse.
Therefore to you I answer now,All women to excuse—Mine own heart dear, with you what cheer?I pray you, tell anone;For, in my mind, of all mankindI love but you alone.
He. It standeth so: a deed is doWhereof great harm shall grow:My destiny is for to dieA shameful death, I trow;Or else to flee. The t’ one must be.None other way I knowBut to withdraw as an outlàw,And take me to my bow.Wherefore adieu, mine own heart true!None other rede I can:For I must to the green-wood go,Alone, a banished man.
She. O Lord, what is this worldis bliss,That changeth as the moon!My summer’s day in lusty MayIs darked before the noon.I hear you say, farewell: Nay, nay,We dèpart not so soon.Why say ye so? whither will ye go?Alas! what have ye done?All my welfàre to sorrow and careShould change, if ye were gone:For, in my mind, of all mankindI love but you alone.
He. I can believe it shall you grieve,And somewhat you distrain;But afterward, your paines hardWithin a day or twainShall soon aslake; and ye shall takeComfort to you again.Why should ye ought? for, to make thought,Your labour were in vain.And thus I do; and pray you to,As hartely as I can:For I must to the green-wood go,Alone, a banished man.
She. Now, sith that ye have showed to meThe secret of your mind,I shall be plain to you again,Like as ye shall me find.Sith it is so that ye will go,I will not live behind.Shall never be said the Nut-brown MaidWas to her love unkind.Make you readý, for so am I,Although it were anone:
