No More Learning

'
'Repentaunce! nay fy,' quod he; 1115
Shulde I now repente me
To love? nay, certes, than were I wel
Wers than was Achitofel,
Or Anthenor, so have I Ioye,
The traytour that betraysed Troye, 1120
Or the false Genelon,
He that purchased the treson
Of Rowland and of Olivere.
Nay, whyl I am a-lyve here
I nil foryete hir never-mo. ' 1125
'Now, goode sir,' quod I [right] tho,
Ye han wel told me her-before.
It is no need reherse hit more
How ye sawe hir first, and where;
But wolde ye telle me the manere, 1130
To hir which was your firste speche--
Therof I wolde yow be-seche--
And how she knewe first your thoght,
Whether ye loved hir or noght,
And telleth me eek what ye have lore; 1135
I herde yow telle her-before. '
'Ye,' seyde he, 'thou nost what thou menest;
I have lost more than thou wenest. '
'What los is that, [sir]? ' quod I tho;
'Nil she not love yow? is hit so? 1140
Or have ye oght [y-]doon amis,
That she hath left yow? is hit this?
For goddes love, tel me al. '
'Before god,' quod he, 'and I shal.
I saye right as I have seyd, 1145
On hir was al my love leyd;
And yet she niste hit never a del
Noght longe tyme, leve hit wel.
For be right siker, I durste noght
For al this worlde telle hir my thoght, 1150
Ne I wolde have wratthed hir, trewly.
For wostow why? she was lady
Of the body; she had the herte,
And who hath that, may not asterte.
'But, for to kepe me fro ydelnesse, 1155
Trewly I did my besinesse
To make songes, as I best coude,
And ofte tyme I song hem loude;
And made songes a gret del,
Al-thogh I coude not make so wel 1160
Songes, ne knowe the art al,
As coude Lamekes sone Tubal,
That fond out first the art of songe;
For, as his brothers hamers ronge
Upon his anvelt up and doun, 1165
Therof he took the firste soun;
But Grekes seyn, Pictagoras,
That he the firste finder was
Of the art; Aurora telleth so,
But therof no fors, of hem two. 1170
Algates songes thus I made
Of my feling, myn herte to glade;
And lo! this was [the] alther-firste,
I not wher [that] hit were the werste. --
? "Lord, hit maketh myn herte light, 1175
Whan I thenke on that swete wight
That is so semely on to see;
And wisshe to god hit might so be,
That she wolde holde me for hir knight,
My lady, that is so fair and bright! "-- 1180
'Now have I told thee, sooth to saye,
My firste song. Upon a daye
I bethoghte me what wo
And sorwe that I suffred tho
For hir, and yet she wiste hit noght, 1185
Ne telle hir durste I nat my thoght.
"Allas! " thoghte I, "I can no reed;
And, but I telle hir, I nam but deed;
And if I telle hir, to seye sooth,
I am a-dred she wol be wrooth; 1190
Allas! what shal I thanne do? "
'In this debat I was so wo,
Me thoghte myn herte braste a-tweyn!
So atte laste, soth to seyn,
I me bethoghte that nature 1195
Ne formed never in creature
So moche beaute, trewely,
And bounte, withouten mercy.
'In hope of that, my tale I tolde
With sorwe, as that I never sholde, 1200
For nedes; and, maugree my heed,
I moste have told hir or be deed.