No More Learning

Ye, quek! ' yit quod the doke, ful wel and faire,
'There been mo sterres, god wot, than a paire! ' 595

Now fy, cherl! ' quod the gentil tercelet,
Out of the dunghil com that word ful right,
Thou canst noght see which thing is wel be-set:
Thou farest by love as oules doon by light,
The day hem blent, ful wel they see by night; 600
Thy kind is of so lowe a wrechednesse,
That what love is, thou canst nat see ne gesse. '

Tho gan the cukkow putte him forth in prees
For foul that eteth worm, and seide blyve,
'So I,' quod he, 'may have my make in pees, 605
I recche not how longe that ye stryve;
Lat ech of hem be soleyn al hir lyve,
This is my reed, sin they may not acorde;
This shorte lesson nedeth noght recorde. '

'Ye! have the glotoun fild ynogh his paunche, 610
Than are we wel! ' seyde the merlioun;
Thou mordrer of the heysugge on the braunche
That broghte thee forth, thou [rewthelees] glotoun!
Live thou soleyn, wormes corrupcioun!
For no fors is of lakke of thy nature; 615
Go, lewed be thou, whyl the world may dure! '

Now pees,' quod Nature, 'I comaunde here;
For I have herd al your opinioun,
And in effect yet be we never the nere;
But fynally, this is my conclusioun, 620
That she hir-self shal han the eleccioun
Of whom hir list, who-so be wrooth or blythe,
Him that she cheest, he shal hir have as swythe.

For sith hit may not here discussed be
Who loveth hir best, as seide the tercelet, 625
Than wol I doon hir this favour, that she
Shal have right him on whom hir herte is set,
And he hir that his herte hath on hir knet.
This Iuge I, Nature, for I may not lye;
To noon estat I have non other ye. 630

But as for counseyl for to chese a make,
If hit were reson, certes, than wolde I
Counseyle yow the royal tercel take,
As seide the tercelet ful skilfully,
As for the gentilest and most worthy, 635
Which I have wroght so wel to my plesaunce;
That to yow oghte been a suffisaunce. '

With dredful vois the formel hir answerde,
My rightful lady, goddesse of Nature,
Soth is that I am ever under your yerde, 640
Lyk as is everiche other creature,
And moot be youres whyl my lyf may dure;
And therfor graunteth me my firste bone,
And myn entente I wol yow sey right sone.
'

'I graunte it you,' quod she; and right anoon 645
This formel egle spak in this degree,
Almighty quene, unto this yeer be doon
I aske respit for to avysen me.
And after that to have my choys al free;
This al and som, that I wolde speke and seye; 650
Ye gete no more, al-though ye do me deye.

I wol noght serven Venus ne Cupyde
For sothe as yet, by no manere wey. '
Now sin it may non other wyse betyde,'
Quod tho Nature, 'here is no more to sey; 655
Than wolde I that these foules were a-wey
Ech with his make, for tarying lenger here'--
And seyde hem thus, as ye shul after here.

To you speke I, ye tercelets,' quod Nature,
'Beth of good herte and serveth, alle three; 660
A yeer is not so longe to endure,
And ech of yow peyne him, in his degree,
For to do wel; for, god wot, quit is she
Fro yow this yeer; what after so befalle,
This entremes is dressed for you alle. ' 665

And whan this werk al broght was to an ende,
To every foule Nature yaf his make
By even acorde, and on hir wey they wende.
A! lord! the blisse and Ioye that they make!
For ech of hem gan other in winges take, 670
And with hir nekkes ech gan other winde,
Thanking alwey the noble goddesse of kinde.

But first were chosen foules for to singe,
As yeer by yere was alwey hir usaunce
To singe a roundel at hir departinge, 675
To do Nature honour and plesaunce.
The note, I trowe, maked was in Fraunce;
The wordes wer swich as ye may heer finde,
The nexte vers, as I now have in minde.

_Qui bien aime a tard oublie. _

'Now welcom somer, with thy sonne softe, 680
That hast this wintres weders over-shake,
And driven awey the longe nightes blake!

Seynt Valentyn, that art ful hy on-lofte;--
Thus singen smale foules for thy sake--
_Now welcom somer, with thy sonne softe,_ 685
_That hast this wintres weders over-shake. _

Wel han they cause for to gladen ofte,
Sith ech of hem recovered hath his make;
Ful blisful may they singen whan they wake;
_Now welcom somer, with thy sonne softe,_ 690
_That hast this wintres weders over-shake,_
_And driven awey the longe nightes blake_.