O herte swete, O lady
sovereyne!
Chaucer - Romuant of the Rose
_
? To whom shal I than pleyne of my distresse?
Who may me helpe, who may my harm redresse?
Shal I compleyne unto my lady free?
Nay, certes! for she hath such hevinesse,
For fere and eek for wo, that, as I gesse, 195
In litil tyme hit wol hir bane be.
But were she sauf, hit wer no fors of me.
Alas! that ever lovers mote endure,
For love, so many a perilous aventure!
For thogh so be that lovers be as trewe 200
As any metal that is forged newe,
In many a cas hem tydeth ofte sorowe.
Somtyme hir ladies will not on hem rewe,
Somtyme, yif that Ielosye hit knewe,
They mighten lightly leye hir heed to borowe; 205
Somtyme envyous folke with tunges horowe
Depraven hem; alas! whom may they plese?
But he be fals, no lover hath his ese.
But what availeth suche a long sermoun
Of aventures of love, up and doun? 210
I wol returne and speken of my peyne;
The point is this of my destruccioun,
My righte lady, my salvacioun,
Is in affray, and not to whom to pleyne.
O herte swete, O lady sovereyne! 215
For your disese, wel oghte I swoune and swelte,
Thogh I non other harm ne drede felte.
_Instability of Happiness. _
? To what fyn made the god that sit so hye,
Benethen him, love other companye,
And streyneth folk to love, malgre hir hede? 220
And then hir Ioye, for oght I can espye,
Ne lasteth not the twinkeling of an ye,
And somme han never Ioye til they be dede.
What meneth this? what is this mistihede?
Wherto constreyneth he his folk so faste 225
Thing to desyre, but hit shulde laste?
And thogh he made a lover love a thing,
And maketh hit seme stedfast and during,
Yet putteth he in hit such misaventure,
That reste nis ther noon in his yeving. 230
And that is wonder, that so Iust a king
Doth such hardnesse to his creature.
Thus, whether love breke or elles dure,
Algates he that hath with love to done
Hath ofter wo then changed is the mone. 235
Hit semeth he hath to lovers enmite,
And lyk a fissher, as men alday may see,
Baiteth his angle-hook with som plesaunce,
Til mony a fish is wood til that he be
Sesed ther-with; and then at erst hath he 240
Al his desyr, and ther-with al mischaunce;
And thogh the lyne breke, he hath penaunce;
For with the hoke he wounded is so sore,
That he his wages hath for ever-more.
_The Brooch of Thebes. _
? The broche of Thebes was of suche a kinde, 245
So ful of rubies and of stones Inde,
That every wight, that sette on hit an ye,
He wende anon to worthe out of his minde;
So sore the beaute wolde his herte binde,
Til he hit hadde, him thoghte he moste dye; 250
And whan that hit was his, than shulde he drye
Such wo for drede, ay whyl that he hit hadde,
That welnigh for the fere he shulde madde.
? To whom shal I than pleyne of my distresse?
Who may me helpe, who may my harm redresse?
Shal I compleyne unto my lady free?
Nay, certes! for she hath such hevinesse,
For fere and eek for wo, that, as I gesse, 195
In litil tyme hit wol hir bane be.
But were she sauf, hit wer no fors of me.
Alas! that ever lovers mote endure,
For love, so many a perilous aventure!
For thogh so be that lovers be as trewe 200
As any metal that is forged newe,
In many a cas hem tydeth ofte sorowe.
Somtyme hir ladies will not on hem rewe,
Somtyme, yif that Ielosye hit knewe,
They mighten lightly leye hir heed to borowe; 205
Somtyme envyous folke with tunges horowe
Depraven hem; alas! whom may they plese?
But he be fals, no lover hath his ese.
But what availeth suche a long sermoun
Of aventures of love, up and doun? 210
I wol returne and speken of my peyne;
The point is this of my destruccioun,
My righte lady, my salvacioun,
Is in affray, and not to whom to pleyne.
O herte swete, O lady sovereyne! 215
For your disese, wel oghte I swoune and swelte,
Thogh I non other harm ne drede felte.
_Instability of Happiness. _
? To what fyn made the god that sit so hye,
Benethen him, love other companye,
And streyneth folk to love, malgre hir hede? 220
And then hir Ioye, for oght I can espye,
Ne lasteth not the twinkeling of an ye,
And somme han never Ioye til they be dede.
What meneth this? what is this mistihede?
Wherto constreyneth he his folk so faste 225
Thing to desyre, but hit shulde laste?
And thogh he made a lover love a thing,
And maketh hit seme stedfast and during,
Yet putteth he in hit such misaventure,
That reste nis ther noon in his yeving. 230
And that is wonder, that so Iust a king
Doth such hardnesse to his creature.
Thus, whether love breke or elles dure,
Algates he that hath with love to done
Hath ofter wo then changed is the mone. 235
Hit semeth he hath to lovers enmite,
And lyk a fissher, as men alday may see,
Baiteth his angle-hook with som plesaunce,
Til mony a fish is wood til that he be
Sesed ther-with; and then at erst hath he 240
Al his desyr, and ther-with al mischaunce;
And thogh the lyne breke, he hath penaunce;
For with the hoke he wounded is so sore,
That he his wages hath for ever-more.
_The Brooch of Thebes. _
? The broche of Thebes was of suche a kinde, 245
So ful of rubies and of stones Inde,
That every wight, that sette on hit an ye,
He wende anon to worthe out of his minde;
So sore the beaute wolde his herte binde,
Til he hit hadde, him thoghte he moste dye; 250
And whan that hit was his, than shulde he drye
Such wo for drede, ay whyl that he hit hadde,
That welnigh for the fere he shulde madde.
