that ever lovers mote endure,
For love, so many a perilous aventure!
For love, so many a perilous aventure!
Chaucer - Romuant of the Rose
--
To hir, that is of so gret excellence,
That what wight that first sheweth his presence, 170
When she is wroth and taketh of him no cure,
He may not longe in Ioye of love endure.
This is no feyned mater that I telle;
My lady is the verrey sours and welle
Of beaute, lust, fredom, and gentilnesse, 175
Of riche aray--how dere men hit selle! --
Of al disport in which men frendly dwelle,
Of love and pley, and of benigne humblesse,
Of soune of instruments of al swetnesse;
And therto so wel fortuned and thewed, 180
That through the world hir goodnesse is y-shewed.
What wonder is then, thogh that I besette
My servise on suche oon, that may me knette
To wele or wo, sith hit lyth in hir might?
Therfor my herte for ever I to hir hette; 185
Ne trewly, for my dethe, I shal not lette
To ben hir trewest servaunt and hir knight.
I flater noght, that may wite every wight;
For this day in hir servise shal I dye;
But grace be, I see hir never with ye. 190
_A Lady in fear and woe. _
? 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?
To hir, that is of so gret excellence,
That what wight that first sheweth his presence, 170
When she is wroth and taketh of him no cure,
He may not longe in Ioye of love endure.
This is no feyned mater that I telle;
My lady is the verrey sours and welle
Of beaute, lust, fredom, and gentilnesse, 175
Of riche aray--how dere men hit selle! --
Of al disport in which men frendly dwelle,
Of love and pley, and of benigne humblesse,
Of soune of instruments of al swetnesse;
And therto so wel fortuned and thewed, 180
That through the world hir goodnesse is y-shewed.
What wonder is then, thogh that I besette
My servise on suche oon, that may me knette
To wele or wo, sith hit lyth in hir might?
Therfor my herte for ever I to hir hette; 185
Ne trewly, for my dethe, I shal not lette
To ben hir trewest servaunt and hir knight.
I flater noght, that may wite every wight;
For this day in hir servise shal I dye;
But grace be, I see hir never with ye. 190
_A Lady in fear and woe. _
? 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?
