Your wordes ful of plesaunce and
humblesse?
Chaucer - Romuant of the Rose
_)
1. I wot my-self as wel as any wight; 220
For I loved oon with al my herte and might
More then my-self, an hundred thousand sythe,
And called him my hertes lyf, my knight,
And was al his, as fer as hit was right;
And whan that he was glad, than was I blythe, 225
And his disese was my deeth as swythe;
And he ayein his trouthe me had plight
For ever-more, his lady me to kythe.
2. Now is he fals, alas! and causeles,
And of my wo he is so routheles, 230
That with a worde him list not ones deyne
To bring ayein my sorowful herte in pees,
For he is caught up in a-nother lees.
Right as him list, he laugheth at my peyne,
And I ne can myn herte not restreyne, 235
That I ne love him alwey, never-the-les;
And of al this I not to whom me pleyne.
3. And shal I pleyne--alas! the harde stounde--
Un-to my foo that yaf my herte a wounde,
And yet desyreth that myn harm be more? 240
Nay, certes! ferther wol I never founde
Non other help, my sores for to sounde.
My desteny hath shapen it ful yore;
I wil non other medecyne ne lore;
I wil ben ay ther I was ones bounde, 245
That I have seid, be seid for ever-more!
4. Alas! wher is become your gentilesse!
Your wordes ful of plesaunce and humblesse?
Your observaunces in so low manere,
And your awayting and your besinesse 250
Upon me, that ye calden your maistresse,
Your sovereyn lady in this worlde here?
Alas! and is ther nother word ne chere
Ye vouchesauf upon myn hevinesse?
Alas! your love, I bye hit al to dere. 255
5. Now certes, swete, thogh that ye
Thus causeles the cause be
Of my dedly adversitee,
Your manly reson oghte it to respyte
To slee your frend, and namely me, 260
That never yet in no degree
Offended yow, as wisly he,
That al wot, out of wo my soule quyte!
? But for I shewed yow, Arcite,
Al that men wolde to me wryte, 265
And was so besy, yow to delyte--
My honour save--meke, kinde, and free,
Therfor ye putte on me the wyte,
And of me recche not a myte,
Thogh that the swerd of sorow byte 270
My woful herte through your crueltee.
6. My swete foo, why do ye so, for shame?
And thenke ye that furthered be your name,
To love a newe, and been untrewe? nay!
And putte yow in sclaunder now and blame, 275
And do to me adversitee and grame,
That love yow most, god, wel thou wost! alway?
1. I wot my-self as wel as any wight; 220
For I loved oon with al my herte and might
More then my-self, an hundred thousand sythe,
And called him my hertes lyf, my knight,
And was al his, as fer as hit was right;
And whan that he was glad, than was I blythe, 225
And his disese was my deeth as swythe;
And he ayein his trouthe me had plight
For ever-more, his lady me to kythe.
2. Now is he fals, alas! and causeles,
And of my wo he is so routheles, 230
That with a worde him list not ones deyne
To bring ayein my sorowful herte in pees,
For he is caught up in a-nother lees.
Right as him list, he laugheth at my peyne,
And I ne can myn herte not restreyne, 235
That I ne love him alwey, never-the-les;
And of al this I not to whom me pleyne.
3. And shal I pleyne--alas! the harde stounde--
Un-to my foo that yaf my herte a wounde,
And yet desyreth that myn harm be more? 240
Nay, certes! ferther wol I never founde
Non other help, my sores for to sounde.
My desteny hath shapen it ful yore;
I wil non other medecyne ne lore;
I wil ben ay ther I was ones bounde, 245
That I have seid, be seid for ever-more!
4. Alas! wher is become your gentilesse!
Your wordes ful of plesaunce and humblesse?
Your observaunces in so low manere,
And your awayting and your besinesse 250
Upon me, that ye calden your maistresse,
Your sovereyn lady in this worlde here?
Alas! and is ther nother word ne chere
Ye vouchesauf upon myn hevinesse?
Alas! your love, I bye hit al to dere. 255
5. Now certes, swete, thogh that ye
Thus causeles the cause be
Of my dedly adversitee,
Your manly reson oghte it to respyte
To slee your frend, and namely me, 260
That never yet in no degree
Offended yow, as wisly he,
That al wot, out of wo my soule quyte!
? But for I shewed yow, Arcite,
Al that men wolde to me wryte, 265
And was so besy, yow to delyte--
My honour save--meke, kinde, and free,
Therfor ye putte on me the wyte,
And of me recche not a myte,
Thogh that the swerd of sorow byte 270
My woful herte through your crueltee.
6. My swete foo, why do ye so, for shame?
And thenke ye that furthered be your name,
To love a newe, and been untrewe? nay!
And putte yow in sclaunder now and blame, 275
And do to me adversitee and grame,
That love yow most, god, wel thou wost! alway?
