No More Learning

She wepeth, waileth, swowneth pitously,
To grounde deed she falleth as a stoon; 170
Al crampissheth hir limes crokedly,
She speketh as hir wit were al agoon;
Other colour then asshen hath she noon,
Noon other word she speketh moche or lyte,
But 'mercy, cruel herte myn, Arcite! ' 175

And thus endureth, til that she was so mate
That she ne hath foot on which she may sustene;
But forth languisshing ever in this estate,
Of which Arcite hath nother routhe ne tene;
His herte was elles-where, newe and grene, 180
That on hir wo ne deyneth him not to thinke,
Him rekketh never wher she flete or sinke.

His newe lady holdeth him so narowe
Up by the brydel, at the staves ende,
That every word, he dradde hit as an arowe; 185
Hir daunger made him bothe bowe and bende,
And as hir liste, made him turne or wende;
For she ne graunted him in hir livinge
No grace, why that he hath lust to singe;

But drof him forth, unnethe liste hir knowe 190
That he was servaunt to hir ladyshippe,
But lest that he wer proude, she held him lowe;
Thus serveth he, withouten fee or shipe,
She sent him now to londe, now to shippe;
And for she yaf him daunger al his fille, 195
Therfor she had him at hir owne wille.

Ensample of this, ye thrifty wimmen alle,
Take here Anelida and fals Arcite,
That for hir liste him 'dere herte' calle,
And was so meek, therfor he loved hir lyte; 200
The kinde of mannes herte is to delyte
In thing that straunge is, also god me save!
For what he may not gete, that wolde he have.

Now turne we to Anelida ageyn,
That pyneth day by day in languisshing; 205
But whan she saw that hir ne gat no geyn,
Upon a day, ful sorowfully weping,
She caste hir for to make a compleyning,
And with hir owne honde she gan hit wryte;
And sente hit to hir Theban knight Arcite. 210

THE COMPLEYNT OF ANELIDA THE QUENE UPON FALS ARCITE.

_Proem. _

So thirleth with the poynt of remembraunce,
The swerd of sorowe, y-whet with fals plesaunce,
Myn herte, bare of blis and blak of hewe,
That turned is in quaking al my daunce,
My suretee in a-whaped countenaunce; 215
Sith hit availeth not for to ben trewe;
For who-so trewest is, hit shal hir rewe,
That serveth love and doth hir observaunce
Alwey to oon, and chaungeth for no newe.

(_Strophe. _)

1. I wot my-self as wel as any wight; 220
For I loved oon with al my herte and might
More then my-self, an hundred thousand sythe,
And called him my hertes lyf, my knight,
And was al his, as fer as hit was right;
And whan that he was glad, than was I blythe, 225
And his disese was my deeth as swythe;
And he ayein his trouthe me had plight
For ever-more, his lady me to kythe.

2. Now is he fals, alas! and causeles,
And of my wo he is so routheles, 230
That with a worde him list not ones deyne
To bring ayein my sorowful herte in pees,
For he is caught up in a-nother lees.
Right as him list, he laugheth at my peyne,
And I ne can myn herte not restreyne, 235
That I ne love him alwey, never-the-les;
And of al this I not to whom me pleyne.

3. And shal I pleyne--alas! the harde stounde--
Un-to my foo that yaf my herte a wounde,
And yet desyreth that myn harm be more? 240
Nay, certes! ferther wol I never founde
Non other help, my sores for to sounde.
My desteny hath shapen it ful yore;
I wil non other medecyne ne lore;
I wil ben ay ther I was ones bounde, 245
That I have seid, be seid for ever-more!

4. Alas! wher is become your gentilesse!
Your wordes ful of plesaunce and humblesse?
Your observaunces in so low manere,
And your awayting and your besinesse 250
Upon me, that ye calden your maistresse,
Your sovereyn lady in this worlde here?
Alas! and is ther nother word ne chere
Ye vouchesauf upon myn hevinesse?
Alas! your love, I bye hit al to dere.