And sholde I preye, and weyve
womanhede?
Chaucer - Romuant of the Rose
And thenke ye that furthered be your name,
To love a newe, and been untrewe? nay!
And putte yow in sclaunder now and blame, 275
And do to me adversitee and grame,
That love yow most, god, wel thou wost! alway?
Yet turn ayeyn, and be al pleyn som day,
And than shal this that now is mis be game,
And al for-yive, whyl that I live may. 280
(_Antistrophe. _)
1. Lo! herte myn, al this is for to seyne,
As whether shal I preye or elles pleyne?
Whiche is the wey to doon yow to be trewe?
For either mot I have yow in my cheyne,
Or with the dethe ye mot departe us tweyne; 285
Ther ben non other mene weyes newe;
For god so wisly on my soule rewe,
As verily ye sleen me with the peyne;
That may ye see unfeyned of myn hewe.
2. For thus ferforth have I my deth [y]-soght, 290
My-self I mordre with my prevy thoght;
For sorow and routhe of your unkindenesse
I wepe, I wake, I faste; al helpeth noght;
I weyve Ioy that is to speke of oght,
I voyde companye, I flee gladnesse; 295
Who may avaunte hir bet of hevinesse
Then I? and to this plyte have ye me broght,
Withoute gilt; me nedeth no witnesse.
3.
And sholde I preye, and weyve womanhede?
Nay! rather deth then do so foul a dede, 300
And axe mercy gilteles! what nede?
And if I pleyne what lyf that I lede,
Yow rekketh not; that know I, out of drede;
And if I unto yow myn othes bede
For myn excuse, a scorn shal be my mede; 305
Your chere floureth, but hit wol not sede;
Ful longe agoon I oghte have take hede.
4. For thogh I hadde yow to-morow ageyn,
I might as wel holde Averill fro reyn,
As holde yow, to make yow stedfast. 310
Almighty god, of trouthe sovereyn,
Wher is the trouthe of man? who hath hit sleyn?
Who that hem loveth shal hem fynde as fast
As in a tempest is a roten mast.
Is that a tame best that is ay feyn 315
To renne away, when he is leest agast?
5. Now mercy, swete, if I misseye,
Have I seyd oght amis, I preye?
I not; my wit is al aweye.
I fare as doth the song of _Chaunte-pleure_. 320
For now I pleyne, and now I pleye,
I am so mased that I deye,
Arcite hath born awey the keye
Of al my worlde, and my good aventure!
