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I stalked even unto his bakke,
And ther I stood as stille as ought,
That, sooth to saye, he saw me nought, 460
For-why he heng his heed adoune.
And with a deedly sorwful soune
He made of ryme ten vers or twelve,
Of a compleynt to him-selve,
The moste pite, the moste rowthe, 465
That ever I herde; for, by my trowthe,
Hit was gret wonder that nature
Might suffren any creature
To have swich sorwe, and be not deed.
Ful pitous, pale, and nothing reed, 470
He sayde a lay, a maner song,
Withoute note, withoute song,
And hit was this; for wel I can
Reherse hit; right thus hit began. --
? 'I have of sorwe so gret woon, 475
That Ioye gete I never noon,
Now that I see my lady bright,
Which I have loved with al my might,
Is fro me deed, and is a-goon. 479
? Allas, [o] deeth! what ayleth thee, 481
That thou noldest have taken me,
Whan that thou toke my lady swete?
That was so fayr, so fresh, so free,
So good, that men may wel [y]-see 485
Of al goodnesse she had no mete! '--
Whan he had mad thus his complaynte,
His sorowful herte gan faste faynte,
And his spirites wexen dede;
The blood was fled, for pure drede, 490
Doun to his herte, to make him warm--
For wel hit feled the herte had harm--
To wite eek why hit was a-drad
By kinde, and for to make hit glad;
For hit is membre principal 495
Of the body; and that made al
His hewe chaunge and wexe grene
And pale, for no blood [was] sene
In no maner lime of his.
Anoon therwith whan I saw this, 500
He ferde thus evel ther he sete,
I wente and stood right at his fete,
And grette him, but he spak noght,
But argued with his owne thoght,
And in his witte disputed faste 505
Why and how his lyf might laste;
Him thoughte his sorwes were so smerte
And lay so colde upon his herte;
So, through his sorwe and hevy thoght,
Made him that he ne herde me noght; 510
For he had wel nigh lost his minde,
Thogh Pan, that men clepe god of kinde,
Were for his sorwes never so wrooth.
But at the laste, to sayn right sooth,
He was war of me, how I stood 515
Before him, and dide of myn hood,
And [grette] him, as I best coude.
Debonairly, and no-thing loude,
He sayde, 'I prey thee, be not wrooth,
I herde thee not, to sayn the sooth, 520
Ne I saw thee not, sir, trewely. '
'A! goode sir, no fors,' quod I,
I am right sory if I have ought
Destroubled yow out of your thought;
For-yive me if I have mis-take.
' 525
'Yis, thamendes is light to make,'
Quod he, 'for ther lyth noon ther-to;
Ther is no-thing missayd nor do. '
Lo! how goodly spak this knight,
As it had been another wight; 530
He made it nouther tough ne queynte
And I saw that, and gan me aqueynte
With him, and fond him so tretable,
Right wonder skilful and resonable,
As me thoghte, for al his bale. 535
Anoon-right I gan finde a tale
To him, to loke wher I might ought
Have more knowing of his thought.
'Sir,' quod I, 'this game is doon;
I holde that this hert be goon; 540
Thise huntes conne him nowher see. '
'I do no fors therof,' quod he,
My thought is ther-on never a del. '
'By our lord,' quod I, 'I trow yow wel,
Right so me thinketh by your chere. 545
But, sir, oo thing wol ye here?
Me thinketh, in gret sorwe I yow see;
But certes, [good] sir, yif that ye
Wolde ought discure me your wo,
I wolde, as wis god helpe me so, 550
Amende hit, yif I can or may;
Ye mowe preve hit by assay.
For, by my trouthe, to make yow hool,
I wol do al my power hool;
And telleth me of your sorwes smerte, 555
Paraventure hit may ese your herte,
That semeth ful seke under your syde. '
With that he loked on me asyde,
As who sayth, 'nay, that wol not be. '
'Graunt mercy, goode frend,' quod he, 560
I thanke thee that thou woldest so,
But hit may never the rather be do.
No man may my sorwe glade,
That maketh my hewe to falle and fade,
And hath myn understonding lorn, 565
That me is wo that I was born!
May noght make my sorwes slyde,
Nought the remedies of Ovyde;
Ne Orpheus, god of melodye,
Ne Dedalus, with playes slye; 570
Ne hele me may phisicien,
Noght Ypocras, ne Galien;
Me is wo that I live houres twelve;
But who so wol assaye him-selve
Whether his herte can have pite 575
Of any sorwe, lat him see me.
I wrecche, that deeth hath mad al naked
Of alle blisse that was ever maked,
Y-worthe worste of alle wightes,
That hate my dayes and my nightes; 580
My lyf, my lustes be me lothe,
For al welfare and I be wrothe.
The pure deeth is so my fo,
[Thogh] I wolde deye, hit wolde not so;
For whan I folwe hit, hit wol flee; 585
I wolde have [hit], hit nil not me.