No More Learning

40
The mater fair is of to make;
God graunte in gree that she it take
For whom that it begonnen is!
And that is she that hath, y-wis,
So mochel prys; and ther-to she 45
So worthy is biloved be,
That she wel oughte of prys and right,
Be cleped Rose of every wight.
That it was May me thoughte tho,
It is fyve yere or more ago; 50
That it was May, thus dremed me,
In tyme of love and Iolitee,
That al thing ginneth waxen gay,
For ther is neither busk nor hay
In May, that it nil shrouded been, 55
And it with newe leves wreen.
These wodes eek recoveren grene,
That drye in winter been to sene;
And the erthe wexeth proud withalle,
For swote dewes that on it falle, 60
And [al] the pore estat forget
In which that winter hadde it set,

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Ce est li Rommanz de la Rose,
Ou l'art d'Amors est tote enclose.
La matire en est bone et noeve:
Or doint Diez qu'en gre le recoeve 40
Cele por qui ge l'ai empris.
C'est cele qui tant a de pris,
Et tant est digne d'estre amee,
Qu'el doit estre Rose clamee.
Avis m'iere qu'il estoit mains,
Il a ja bien cincq ans, au mains,
En Mai estoie, ce songoie,
El tems amoreus plain de joie,
El tens ou tote riens s'esgaie,
Que l'en ne voit boisson ne haie 50
Qui en Mai parer ne se voille,
Et covrir de novele foille;
Li bois recovrent lor verdure,
Qui sunt sec tant cum yver dure,
La terre meisme s'orgoille
Por la rousee qui la moille,
Et oblie la poverte
Ou ele a tot l'yver este.

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And than bicometh the ground so proud
That it wol have a newe shroud,
And maketh so queynt his robe and fayr 65
That it hath hewes an hundred payr
Of gras and floures, inde and pers,
And many hewes ful dyvers:
That is the robe I mene, y-wis,
Through which the ground to preisen is. 70
The briddes, that han left hir song,
Whyl they han suffred cold so strong
In wedres grille, and derk to sighte,
Ben in May, for the sonne brighte,
So glade, that they shewe in singing, 75
That in hir herte is swich lyking,
That they mote singen and be light.
Than doth the nightingale hir might
To make noyse, and singen blythe.
Than is blisful, many a sythe, 80
The chelaundre and the papingay.
Than yonge folk entenden ay
For to ben gay and amorous,
The tyme is than so savorous.
Hard is his herte that loveth nought 85
In May, whan al this mirth is wrought;

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Lors devient la terre si gobe,
Qu'ele volt avoir novele robe; 60
Si scet si cointe robe faire,
Que de colors i a cent paire,
D'erbes, de flors indes et perses,
Et de maintes colors diverses.
C'est la robe que ge devise,
Por quoi la terre miex se prise.
Li oisel, qui se sunt teu
Tant cum il ont le froit eu,
Et le tens divers et frarin,
Sunt en Mai, por le tens serin, 70
Si lie qu'il monstrent en chantant
Qu'en lor cuer a de joie tant,
Qu'il lor estuet chanter par force.
Li rossignos lores s'efforce
De chanter et de faire noise;
Lors s'esvertue, et lors s'envoise
Li papegaus et la kalandre:
Lors estuet jones gens entendre
A estre gais et amoreus
Por le tens bel et doucereus. 80
Moult a dur cuer qui en Mai n'aime,

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Whan he may on these braunches here
The smale briddes singen clere
Hir blisful swete song pitous;
And in this sesoun delytous, 90
Whan love affrayeth alle thing,
Me thoughte a-night, in my sleping,
Right in my bed, ful redily,
That it was by the morowe erly,
And up I roos, and gan me clothe; 95
Anoon I wissh myn hondes bothe;
A sylvre nedle forth I drogh
Out of an aguiler queynt y-nogh,
And gan this nedle threde anon;
For out of toun me list to gon 100
The sowne of briddes for to here,
That on thise busshes singen clere.
And in the swete sesoun that leef is,
With a threde basting my slevis,
Aloon I wente in my playing, 105
The smale foules song harkning;
That peyned hem ful many a payre
To singe on bowes blosmed fayre.
Iolif and gay, ful of gladnesse,

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Quant il ot chanter sus la raime
As oisiaus les dous chans piteus.
En iceli tens deliteus,
Que tote riens d'amer s'effroie,
Sonjai une nuit que j'estoie,
Ce m'iert avis en mon dormant,
Qu'il estoit matin durement;
De mon lit tantost me levai,
Chaucai moi et mes mains lavai. 90
Lors trais une aguille d'argent
D'un aguiller mignot et gent,
Si pris l'aguille a enfiler.
Hors de vile oi talent d'aler,
Por oir des oisiaus les sons
Qui chantoient par ces boissons.
En icele saison novele,
Cousant mes manches a videle,
M'en alai tot seus esbatant,
Et les oiseles escoutant, 100
Qui de chanter moult s'engoissoient
Par ces vergiers qui florissoient.
Jolis, gais et plains de leesce,

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Toward a river I gan me dresse, 110
That I herde renne faste by;
For fairer playing non saugh I
Than playen me by that riveer,
For from an hille that stood ther neer,
Cam doun the streem ful stif and bold. 115
Cleer was the water, and as cold
As any welle is, sooth to seyne;
And somdel lasse it was than Seine,
But it was straighter wel away.
And never saugh I, er that day, 120
The water that so wel lyked me;
And wonder glad was I to see
That lusty place, and that riveer;
And with that water that ran so cleer
My face I wissh. Tho saugh I wel 125
The botme paved everydel
With gravel, ful of stones shene.
The medewe softe, swote, and grene,
Beet right on the water-syde.
Ful cleer was than the morow-tyde, 130
And ful attempre, out of drede.
Tho gan I walke through the mede,
Dounward ay in my pleying,

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Vers une riviere m'adresce.
Que j'oi pres d'ilecques bruire;
Car ne me soi aillors deduire
Plus bel que sus cele riviere.